[Ah, he sees the vision now. He'll miss the direct eye contact, which is a bit of a shame, but seeing her take him at a different angle and having more access to her body is a decent tradeoff. Alright, Sophie, case effectively made. Quentin also realizes he'll need his hands shortly and repositions a cushion to prop himself up so he can still see her well.
It's weird. He hasn't been under her on his back since that first time. There have been reasons, of course. Good ones. Reasons that somehow seem to have faded over time, oddly enough. Same thing with this sudden inexplicable desire to have her mouth on him. Actually asking for it, nay, demanding it. He's known she likes it since the first time she went down on him in her room. That's what convinced him to allow it. The second time too, what feels like a lifetime ago. It was never that it didn't feel good—practically everything they do feels amazing—it was his fear of it feeling too good. Or something.
Whatever, her hand is on him and making him gasp, so he no longer cares about inner monologue bullshit. This feels good, and she likes doing it. End of story. He overcomplicated it before, big fucking shocker. He'd very much like her to shut down the section of his brain controlled by his junk right now. One hand goes to her hair, not tugging at all (yet?), and the other rests on her shoulder.]
(Funny he should ask, because she is fully eager, for fucking once. The aforementioned smile? The one that's his to see? It comes to her lips in full force, blends of joyful yellow lifting the atmosphere and the lights from some rooms blinking in the background.)
Don't worry. You won't be able to forget it.
(She wants it carved in his brain, proudly and clear. With one of her arms supporting her weight, her back bends in quite a nice arc, and finally, she reaches the spot he asked her to bite. She isn't going to at this time, leaving a kiss there before she gives no time, indication, or warning — she's replacing the hand with her mouth, same pace, except, well. She gets to suck him like a powerhouse every time she ascends, her tongue guaranteed to follow her movement as she goes down. This would certainly make her choke in her stupid flesh and bones, but here? Ah, here, she doesn't even have to breathe; there's no tension in her jaw or in her shoulders, so she can go as fast and as hard as she wants.)
[If she wants to carve it into his brain, she's doing a hell of a job. Giving it a good college try. A for effort.]
Fuck!
[Both of his hands go to her head, tangling in her hair but not pushing, just clinging, and his head falls back. Sweet baby Jesus that's good. And he doesn't even restrain himself from jerking sharply up into her mouth like he normally would need to avoid choking her. Shit, can they make this a primarily astral plane activity from now on? No offense to Sophie's real body—it's brought him no small amount of pleasure to be sure—but this is just. Wow. On a whole other fucking level.
He forces himself to look down so he can appreciate the view she's giving him—she put a lot of effort into it, so it's only polite—which means she'll get to enjoy him watching her intently. Of course, she may not be in much of a state to be looking at him. She's a little busy at the moment. Far be it for him to distract her. So instead he pushes into her mind the sharp, almost wild elation he feels every time she takes all of him and then rises up only to eagerly devour him again. Not to mention the facts that she's sucking him like she intends to pull his soul out of his body, and her tongue is caressing him like she can't get enough of his taste. Heh. "Like" she wants those things. He can feel in her mind how much she does, and he gobbles up her desire like he needs it to live, hips bucking up erratically into her mouth.]
Shit, fuck, Sophie, I'm not gonna—fuck, don't stop.
(No worries. She's about to push it to A+, just him wait.
She'd have no quarrels about only doing it in here, because fuck, he can thrust into her mouth without hurting her. When she can go as hard as he's demanding, no odd power dynamic shift, no pain, no choking, nothing negative that this can possibly bring is present in the astral plane, she's devoid of restrains, and she can taste craving and desire on her mouth. Funnily enough, she feels the same as him. Today is definitely ramping up for the best sex they have ever had, and that's a powerful statement considering they've probably fucked over a hundred times at this point, and she is counting the couch. She's so ruined, so so fucking ruined.
The feelings he is pushing to her brain are all accurate, that's exactly what's going through her mind, thank you very much for noticing, and she loops exactly what she feels right at him — that he keeps calling her name, and shit, that is doing some fucked up shit to her. Makes her want to carve that in her own mind, the way he's claiming, calling, and well, Sophie's plan was to join in the pleasure when she felt him close to coming again, but she's not managing any arrangements she's making well today, so, she's not stopping, but repositioning so she can be on her side and look at him as much as he's looking at her. She wants it known that she's here with him, fully, but not only that — that this is driving her to insanity without being touched, too, so? She's doing just that, shoving her physical sensations along with her hunger into his mind right back.)
[Ruined? Yes. But she's in good company, because he's well on his way there too, if indeed he's not already. He could be, honestly, considering he's about to come in what is probably a new record time. Fuck, he's close. It would probably be a little embarrassing if they hadn't already done a hundred way fucking freakier things today. And also if he had the wherewithal to give a shit right now. He cared enough about his pride to tell her not to stop, because not to be dramatic but he'd have to cut off his own head Sabretooth-style if the best blowjob of his life lasted only like a few seconds because he only lasted like a few seconds. She owes him the chance to redeem himself, okay.
When she moves so she can meet his eyes, that just about breaks him. But it's the thought she presses into his mind that finishes the job. How she's that turned on from sucking him off. That much closer to her own climax. That she might even come from this, completely untouched. He lets go of her hair and grips the sofa, still thrusting into her mouth but giving her complete freedom to deal with his impending orgasm however she chooses. Not out of courtesy, of course. She's in no danger of discomfort whatsoever. He's just interested in her preference. Or, well, he would be if his concentration wasn't occupied fully by the aforementioned climax. His back arches, head slinging back, and he releases into her mouth with a strangled cry.]
(It's not the last blowjob she's ever going to give him. He knows to ask now, and if that's not the hottest she's ever seen him, so taken and drowning in her, she doesn't even know what hot is anymore. She could watch him like that every day, if she's being honest here, her poor heart is beating out of her chest, and it's so hard to peel her sight away from him as he finally reaches it. She's right with him, stealing just a little bit to send her over the edge again, the moan she gives out without releasing him probably could overwhelm him a little, but apparently, that's a thing he's into, so she doesn't even try to peel away for his sake. Her entire head is spinning, she can assure that, her hand moving to grip on his thigh for stability. Is it just her or is this shit getting irrationally better the more they come today? It feels like her brain is drowning in endorphins, and they just don't stop releasing.
The first time, she swallowed because there was no other option available at the time, but she's doing it again before letting him go, just so he feels that on him too. She knows exactly what his climax tastes like on her lips, and she'll press them to his in a gentle peck to finish this off as a reminder. Now she can breathe, fuck, she feels like she's on every drug on Earth, and no bad trips.)
[It is getting irrationally better, or at least that's what his brain is insisting as he feels her climax with him without any stimulation of her own. That, of course, just prolongs his orgasm, and he knows she knows it does because she's the one swallowing when she doesn't actually need to and oh, man, that's so hot. He doesn't remotely mind the taste when she pecks him on the lips, and he's grinning with an exhaustion that'll be gone in seconds thanks to the wonders of the astral plane.]
Holy shit.
[Yeah, let him just. Catch the breath he doesn't actually need to take.]
We are doing that every time we go here. It's like. Required now. Right?
[His hands go back to her waist and nudge her to straddle him. Should they try another heretofore forbidden activity while they're at it? Perhaps. Hmmm.]
Hey. You wanna ride me before I roll us over and fuck you? I still haven't hit bingo yet.
(Of course he doesn't mind, he's a narcissistic fuck with a possessive streak with her, is there anything in that combination that wouldn't like reminding where he came? No offense, due to the fact she too happens to be a narcissistic fuck. They're both at home here.
Her eyes are closed for a second as she calms herself down, recentering, moving her pleasure around so it can be more of a gentle lasting buzz while she travels through the last if the waves. She's smiling so much that her cheeks would be hurting, hand on his chest as she breathes in and he speaks again.
Fuck, she likes him so much. She's past the point of wondering why the fuck, but she does it anyway as she bursts into laughter, her nose wrinkling in both fondness and distaste as she tries to kill it so she can comply. She's struggling, give her a second.)
Shit, pffft, bingo? Really? What else is in your card? — pfft, Quentin, shush— actually, no, don't shush. I actually do like you talking.
(But the most pressing answer is clear when she does settle her thighs on his side, arching her back before she can press a kiss to his jaw with a chuckle.)
[Objectively untrue, but is she going to correct him? No. And even if she does, they both know it's bullshit. She'll do that little nose crinkle and tell him to shut up and then proceed to the next round of fucking each other stupid.]
Anyway, I can't tell you what's on my bingo card. That defeats the point.
[Doesn't that also apply to his previous suggestion? Sure. If he gave a fuck about being consistent. Which he doesn't. And neither does she. She especially won't once he slides his hands down to her thighs and spreads his fingers with a hint of possessiveness that is guaranteed to get a whole lot less subtle white soon.
They've never done this position. For, as always, reasons. The closest was that first time where she rode him but facing away. But that didn't even last that long before he was on top of her the way he'd end up being 99% of the times after that for the next few months. They've only just started experimenting with fucking her from behind, which has quickly become one of their new favorites. But other than that, eh. Occasionally she sits in his lap in a chair, but that's really the only time she's on top. Today, though? Today's a weird day, and he's trying new shit. And apparently that includes the image currently replaying itself on loop in his brain: him on his back and looking up at her as she sits upright, back arched and moans of his name spilling out of her mouth as she fucks herself on him. He's always imagined it making him feel less in control, but Sophie's unbridled desire for him has dampened those concerns. What the hell is "less in control" about a woman writhing desperately while he's buried inside her and she gives him a front row view of her taking him over and over? Nothing, it's hot as fuck ]
(Oh, so untrue. Even Sophie, who somehow shares his horrible sense of humor, would like him to shut the fuck up, and then not at all. He's fatuously comical in her eyes. Does it say something about her that she actually likes what he says? Quentin fucking Quire? Doubtlessly. Does she care? Eh, not really. She likes that he drags out oceans of chuckles of sounds foreign to her, including the ones she'd love to kill with fire, and then more fire for good measure. It's fine.)
Point taken.
(Although he's gonna have to tell her, because otherwise, said bingo will not come to fruition, so, point irrelevant.
She knows exactly why she's never on top like this. It's rule number one, and unfortunately, she knows way more than she wishes she knew about Phoebe and Quentin. Half of her end of this was to rub it on Sophie's face, after all, so — banned, obviously. She never wanted to be Phoebe. She wanted something for herself, to be herself, and everything that they built until now ensured that they never overlapped. On one hand, she was satisfied with it — it prevented her from ever fusing again, keeping her sole and free of risk. On the other hand, to say it didn't get under her skin would be a lie. All that worrying about being not-Phoebe rather than just Sophie, the nagging idea that he didn't want to look at her because he couldn't see her, not to mention the fact that she's still healing from the betrayal itself. Today, though? He's proved her undeniably wrong, and while points don't matter, well. She can't, in good conscience, ever think that shit again without the evidence slapping her in the face.
He doesn't like looking at her? He couldn't keep his eyes away, and now she can recall all the times he couldn't, either, she's the one who shoves him away to keep him from the sight. He's been with her because she's a Cuckoo? Truly untrue. She can finally see that the last seven months were comprised of him running a tank on the wall that separates who she is from who she is programmed to be, and dragging Sophie out of it, no matter how tall or short she lay down the bricks. Is she her own worst enemy? How did she not see this? Wasn't she supposed to be great at this shit? He's been communicating to her all she's been craving to hear over, and over, and over, and she ignored it every time until she couldn't anymore. Well, shit, okay then.
So, yeah. She, too, once worried about this position, which tends to serve two purposes: spoiling and teasing. Hell, that first time in that chair? She told him as much. That she needed him to guide her, she didn't know any different, and she didn't want to do either with him. After all this time, though? It's something that can be hers, too, because she doesn't, can't do it as they would anymore. The image he sends her brain just reinforces all the points, he's watching her, and she's genuinely crying in pleasure for both their sakes. Her smile doesn't get bigger than it is, and she dives to kiss him as she slides down on him, her hands taking his to send to her hips so he can pull her down.
Lips on his are short-lived, he reaches her most sensitive points so easy like that, and she gasps, holding onto his waist for dear life.)
Thrust up... I want to feel all of you again. Fuck, I just — want all of you all the time. That's —
(Fucked up, but that also means she's already moving even before she finishes that sentence, each bounce taking longer on the descend, pulling almost all of him out on the ascend, so she can make sure she's getting what she wants. He's way more outwardly possessive than she is, but this is what she her own possessiveness urges her to do all the fucking time.
[Something clicks in her head. He can feel it. What exactly? Dunno, don't care. They're allowed to have secrets, even when they're balls deep in each other's heads, he's balls deep in her, and they're literally in a section of his mind. It's... healthy? Okay, that's probably a stretch. There's no way it's normal to like any of this shit. Look, he regularly gets off on knowing what it's like to be fucked by himself while he's also the one doing the fucking. That's definitely weird.
Oh, well. He hasn't apologized to the world for being "weird" in years, and he sure as hell isn't going to start now. Especially not when weird feels so damn good. He groans when she sinks down onto him again, hands going to her hips as directed, and he thrusts up obligingly a few times to try to find a good rhythm.
And then she says that. "Mine." Unprompted this time. Mine. And suddenly he wants to hear her say it more. Not because he wants to be hers—he was Phoebe's and the part of him that wants to be topped hard by a hot blonde woman left with her. No, no, he wants it because it's another crack in that damn wall she keeps futilely putting up. He says she's his because it makes his head spin, because it makes him feel positively feral with desire. Maybe if he pushes in just the right places, he can make her do that too.
So this time? He doesn't do exactly what she said. Doesn't go along with instructions like they've been doing this whole time. This will potentially reintroduce the whole banter/back-and-forth thing they do, and it's been really nice to have a break from that. But... Well, the chances are much slimmer that he'll get her to break the way he wants by being nice. And he really, really wants her to break. So he stops thrusting, gripping her waist hard enough that it would certainly leave bruises in the real world, and offers her a challenge.]
(She's glad she gets to keep some of her shit close to her heart. Boundaries took her a moment to get, but she's diligent in maintaining them, and if she's doing it, she has no reason to believe Quentin isn't, either. Secret? Hardly so, but it is her own to have. It took her so fucking long, she feels slightly unintelligent now that she does, but whatever. Past waters, like so many things with them end up being. She's totally done with ever thinking about it or doubting him, totally moved to a whole new box that she doesn't have to ever think about.
She's really not his, he's really not hers, and because they aren't, he gets all of her, which is a really weird fucking rollercoaster of contradictions. For someone who would insist she's by far the easiest one to deal with out of the two... Delusion, perhaps? Not that he allows her to have a lot of those. When she thought she didn't have to think about it anymore, he holds her so strongly, right where his hand fits, that even her physical body produced a moan against his chest.)
Fuck, Quentin —
(That wasn't the plan. She hardly ever rides him, and most of the time? He's doing as much, if not most of the work with her. This is dangerously into spoiling territory, but... It's also not? She's not doing it as a reward for good behavior, like he's some boy toy she picked up to play with. Fuck, error, error. She doesn't want to hide, definitely not, but she looks exactly like that for a second before her cheeks sting with the embarrassment of vulnerability.
And she smiles, before she runs her hands through her hair to keep it from her red face, which in turn, only makes her stomach drop further, her cheeks burn harder, and her poor heart to pick up a pace she didn't even know it could beat at. Fuck, okay. Okay. So much so for never having to think of it. Fuck you, Quentin.)
Still not convinced?
(Remember that pace she had with her mouth? With her entire body, it's so much easier to replicate, even harder considering the positioning, and she gets almost there. Fuck, she wants to kiss him until there isn't a single thought in her head, but her voice echoing wouldn't allow it, so instead of gripping on his waist, she rests her hands on his chest, so she doesn't ground.)
[This isn't spoiling. Not in the slightest. At least, not if he has his way. This is about finding a brand new way to break her apart, because ultimately? It's what's under the Cuckoo shell that he likes. It's not even attraction, not the way he's experienced that emotion before. It's fascination. The thrill of discovery, like being the first to find an ancient tomb full of wondrous treasures. Or paving new paths in an untouched wilderness. What's out there to be discovered? He's pretty sure she doesn't even know. She's still figuring that out. And while Quentin washes hands of most of her little journey of self-discovery, this? Sex bullshit? That's his chosen territory. And he's taking a goddamn machete to this jungle.
Not to say he's unaffected or displeased by what he's uncovered thus far. The pace she's setting is brutal in the best, and when she starts bracing her hands on his chest to ride him harder? Chef's kiss. His head falls back, eyes clenching shut for a moment as he groans. It feels like heaven, honestly.
But is he convinced? That he's hers? Has she succeeded in claiming him for her own? That's a different question. That's a question that, along with that brief expression of embarrassment, shows no, he's not done breaking her yet. He looks up at her, utterly wrecked but also so, so smug. Asshole.]
(There's definitely a lot more to be broken, certainly, a lot that she hasn't even realized existed, or that will exist once they break her more. What she has isn't exactly hers, and finding out who she is has been a confusing rollercoaster of emotions. She just realized that Quentin's with her, for her, and surprisingly, groundbreaking news is that she's not been allowing him all this time, even if that's literally all she wanted. That means she has to figure out how not to block him out, and that, that's the biggest challenge she has had with him thus far.
Not grounding doesn't feel horrible, but it's a match for Sophie with her own brain not to sink claws to break his skin and try to distract from the flood of pleasure she feels. Not that she's on her own, because she's connecting him exactly to her nerve endings to feel the sparkle she is every time the spot hits. It is probably what heaven feels like, debatable whether either of them is even gonna get anywhere close to the real thing, anyway, so, she has no reason other than to bask in the pleasure and try to keep her instinct to hide from it at bay. It means he gets quite a gorgeous view, because she's losing it on top of him, her hair an absolute mess, and since when was she barefaced? Unimportant.
And then he speaks, and she nearly falls off of him for a second, finally gripping for some stability because.
Mother Fucker
Seriously??? For real?? He had the??? Audacity?? Seriously, this man has climaxed more today than he did last week in its entirety????? She's never been more baffled in her entire life, including but not limited to the last 7 months in which that feeling has popped up nearly every day. She's... Wow, is that anger? Is she angry?? Is she disproportionately turned on because she's mad? Holy fuck, she's spiraling a little bit, until her eyes fall to that smug smile of a soon-to-be-dead man.
... Fuck, she likes him, her heart skips a little, and she curses in her head. Fuck. Fuck him so much. Her brain could definitely stop shooting a billion emotions of anger, fondness, lust, affection, depravity, rage, warmth, and then more irritation. It'd be great if she could think for a second... And then she decides to say 'fuck it'. He wanted her mad at him? He's got it, and without warning, the way her nails dig into skin would scar in real life, and she's back to moving, except instead of sitting, she comes to lie down to claim his mouth. She's kissed him with all her passion before, that's not particularly hard to achieve, especially since a certain someone spent a month without kissing her, the asshole. This is not passion, this is her devouring him with every movement of her lips and tongue, fingers intertwining to his curls sos he can pull for easier access to his mouth.
She's back to moving after that near fall, but fuck, if she was doing it with gusto before? She's doing it so there's not a single brain cell that dares to contest her, which feels like a virtually miraculous, new type of pleasure. She usually doesn't manage to kiss him when her sounds come out untethered like that, but today, she's gonna make sure he can taste each and every one of them.)
[He sees the moment she hears what he said. And then the entire face-plus-emotional journey she has in response. And he just looks more and more smug the longer her indecision lasts.
Another reason they've never done this position aside from the obvious ones: Sophie hides. She holds back. Which is fine by him most of the time. She lets him take out all of his most greedy lustful urges on her. Welcomes it. When she lets go, it's because he's fucking her so good she can't possibly keep it together. In other words, she lets go when she has an excuse. When she's on top and he's flat on his back? She has to rely on him to grip her, thrust up into her, manhandle her. Which, again, he likes. He fucking loves it, in fact. It makes him feel powerful, in control of his own wretched life for once. Desirable and desired. Worth something.
Maybe that's the feeling he wants her to experience. Maybe he enjoys pushing people's buttons. Maybe he just likes dismantling things for no other reason than his brain is fucked up. Whatever the reason, what she gives him after that moment of disbelief and hesitation is exactly what he wanted.
He moans into her mouth, giving her just enough resistance to her hand yanking his hair that she can maintain that fury. His hips are bucking up into hers entirely out of instinct, but it's virtually redundant with the way she's moving on him. Yes, fuck yes, this is her letting go. Claiming him. Devouring him not because she's a man-eating femme fatale seductress, not to make him crazy with pleasure. It's pure selfish need. Her need. It's perfect, and just to make sure she doesn't start getting distracted, he quiets his side of their sensory sharing. Not blocked, not at all. Just making sure her needs, her pleasure are at the forefront of her mind as they race towards the next climax.]
(It's not that she doesn't care about her own needs, that's not it. If anything, Sophie yearns to have her needs and wants acknowledged as something important and valid, even if not necessarily met, and it's not like he has ever left her wanting for anything. All they do is mind-blowing, she's more than well taken care of, and that should be clear by the fact that she sleeps on his bed way too often for that to be contested. She would never be there otherwise.
But it's never been her priority, either. He's not incorrect; she hides, more often than not, and while there was too much dread and unease about being seen, which collected the vast majority of the reasons why she did, perhaps there is something in there to still be visited. She put that fifty-fifty rule in place so that they shared power, not have it grossly unbalanced as it has historically been with Quentin and anyone that shares the last name 'Cuckoo', and she's extremely strict about it. All she does is meet him halfway, should he take half a step towards her. Sexually, emotionally, physically, and it's... Comfortable, like that. Safe. She never truly asks anything out of him either; if he wants to do something for her, he has to make that clear. Caring for both equally keeps her pleasantly shielded from him and from herself, the latter being the most important of all.
She's never been a coward. In fact, that's the one characteristic she can say, with all her heart, that is hers solely, her own thing, separate, hated for. The brave one, the leader, the hero. That fucking pressure to be not that, and then to be so, to conform, and the times she got stabbed in the back for it might have temporarily broken her a little. Why the fuck does she keep getting stuck in this never-ending loop of torment with him? She still doesn't know how she feels, her brain is too overtaken by the rage and the affection and the overwhelming pleasure to pay attention to it, but something switches almost audibly in her mind.
He wanted Sophie. He's getting Sophie without an ounce of fear, as hard as he is ever going to get her. While he feels in control, she's finally letting go of it, at least for fucking once, and she's taking. Redundant to say that she's overwhelmed, but that's exactly what she wants, to be delirious and yet, like there's too much of him and not enough of him, and both of them?
Hers.
The resistance only makes her pull a little harder so it forces him to tilt his head, her lips making her own trail of places she likes to kiss down his neck, and if he doesn't see stars from how hard she's sucking on skin to keep her marks on him, then there's something very wrong with him.)
[There's no shortage of things that are "very wrong" with Quentin Quire, but this? This ain't one of them. He's seeing stars—literally, considering he's on his back looking up at a sky made by his own mind that's currently sparkling far, far brighter than it should be in a city with this much artificial light. Damn, he really put some detail into this place, didn't he? Put constellations up there and shit. Are there actually stars way out there? Like flaming balls of gas billions of miles away that he created with his mind?
Fuck, now he's getting distracted. Focus up, Quire. You've got better places to be than some-fucking-where in the stratosphere right now. Better places like, for example, back in the mental approximation of your body that is currently getting ravished by Sophie who has finally, finally let go.
Anyway. Holy shit, has this been hiding in her this whole time? Because goddamn, if that's the case they've both been missing out. There's a part of him that wants to respond to her aggression in kind. Roll them both over, sling his arms under her knees, and claim her as fiercely as she's doing now. But he doesn't. Because this? This is her turn. It's her turn to take, to be greedy, to use him for her own pleasure and scratch some itch deep down inside her that she's been ignoring. He worked hard enough to get her to this point. He's sure as hell not going to squander it now. So he keeps up that teasing bit of resistance, arching against her mouth so she'll have to work a little to continue marking him where she wants.]
Fuck—Sophie—
[He's pulling her down by her hips and thrusting up, ever so slightly—but very intentionally—out of sync with her, as if saying look, see? There's still remnants of audacity left in him. Isn't she going to fix that? It's what he would do, if he was the one doing the taking here. It's what he has done. Multiple times, in fact. If he can do it, so can she. Come on, he just needs a little more convincing. Just a tad.]
(There's plenty that is wrong with him, but at least it's consistent! Great for him, actually, because even if she had any lucidity to look into his brain, which she really, really doesn't, it wouldn't surprise her. Actually, it'd be surprising that he didn't take a moment to go 'damn, yes, I am truly an Omega-level telepath, look at me, very Omega, yes, even though I have the mental subtlety of a thousand herds of elephants, yes, I make city, my brain is amazing, I'm very hot and incredible'. Which, fine, she agrees — wow, breaking news, who would have even thought: the girl who accidentally turned out to really like him thinks he's amazing, groundbreaking revelations over here, but also it is strictly none of his fucking business. Good thing she's not producing any of these thoughts. Insufferable man.
Her head is in something else. If it helps, she was not just hiding just from him, this one wasn't particularly personal. Being Sophie Cuckoo has been... Tough. It has inspired, even if she was never given a true chance to comprehend and fix, way too much pain and betrayal from the very people who were supposed to be her sanctuary. She couldn't even have recognition in her death, so reducing herself to blend perfectly was safe — emotionally, that's a huge stretch, they can thank Phoebe and Esmé for that, or how everything that has ever disturbed or wounded her being swept under the rug. Physically, though? She's not dead again. Sophie breathes air, she kisses, dances, and she laughs so hard that there's not enough oxygen in the room to support it. She has forgiven, time and time again, traded herself and her feelings for comfort and a thin sense of safety, and it never sat well with her. She's just never really felt... Enough, and she has always felt rattled, even if she fell into line. The Cuckoos celebrated her great work. Manny, that asshole, did too, and through the cheers of joy, clinking of glasses, music, food, and triumph, and all she felt while she was sitting on her own, far from chaos was... Nothing. Couldn't get herself to even fake it, and God knows this girl could fake just about anything.
Less purposefully concealing herself, much more about shutting herself down so she didn't have to suffer the consequences of existing for a while. Even if she did. She's not okay, but at least she's alive, right? Should be worth for something. Someone. Whatever the fuck. Kinda isn't if she didn't know anyone else. Look, his life sucks, her life sucks, if they were good in the head, it wouldn't be them.
The itch she's scratching is being herself for fucking once, after so long, and it feels wonderful. Unrepenting, merciless, stubborn, and decisive Sophie. Choosing this not because she's scared, or because she isn't. Choosing this because she wants to, and fuck, she wants him so fucking much right now. He's had her show him repeatedly, asked her, and she did give him what she had. Well, apparently, that was the in-line Cuckoo version of her who gave him anything. 100% of that Sophie is still 100% — he's getting 100% of the one she's killed off for a while. Merciless in how she moves, and she's not changing his perception of how it feels to be inside her — she's clenching that hard around him.
Moving against her is a little pointless at this point. She just shifts her head so she can reach him easier, slotted in a way that resistance is impossible by him tilting his head, and fuck, she just fits here so perfectly that it's not stable for her brain, it just makes her want to bite him and lick him in the spot her lips find harder, delighted by the positioning — until he speaks. Until he does that. Fuck —? The whine she makes with the difference of rhythms is so fucking loud that it would be embarrassing if she still cared. Good thing she doesn't.
His hands were on his hips. He had uncomplicatedness of movement. With his wrists now pinned on either side of his head and her thighs now squeezing him, clinging in a way that moving is possible, however difficult? Good luck, because if there were any way of going harder, she's finding it now.)
Fuck —, Quentin, you drive me — fucking insane.
(Pretty much out of every emotion in the book, not that she's going to give him a shot at talking back with a famished kiss.)
Okay, first of all, obviously he drives her fucking insane. Duh. That's the point. Even if it wasn't just the average Quentin Quire Modus Operandi, he is very specifically right at this moment actively trying to drive her more fucking insane than he potentially ever has. And god damn it, he's succeeding because holy shit, he's never seen her snap this hard. He can't guarantee this whole thing will get folded into their routine any time soon—honestly he's just way, way too fond of when their positions are reversed—but as a special little treat to mix it up here and there? Hell yeah. Feral Sophie is hot.
Speaking of, uh?? Pinning his hands??? He lets out a choked gasp because he was not expecting that and yet he is so turned on it's not even funny. And look. It's not like he doesn't appreciate getting hella topped. He sure as shit does. But honest to god, hand to his chest, that was not the primary point of this. It's just a fortunate side effect. A very, very fortunate side effect. Love that for him.
But no, seriously, the point here was the pseudo-struggle he's been giving her. Victory tastes sweeter when you earn it, and by golly she's earning that shit. Not just by restraining his hands, but with the way she's squeezing the bejeezus out of him both inside and with her thighs and the absolutely ferocious kiss. Victory tastes sweetest when you earn it, but that also requires victory to actually be achieved. So that's what he gives her. He stops fighting her hold on his wrists, shallowly bucks his hips as much as he can and in perfect sync with her utterly ruthless pace, and moans needily into her mouth. His mind is still partially muffled, but he does make sure she hears his surrender loud and clear. Congrats, Sophie, you have conquered your foe. Captured your prey. Now what are you going to do with him?]
(Their current dynamic is lovely for reasons beyond herself. Like previously stated, for someone so strong, so unabashed and insolent, his spine is made of jelly. She despises that, resents it. When he steps up to her, especially now that she remembers a little more that, wow, that's insanely wild on their part, good for them, it does all sorts of things to her brain, and it certainly moves her opinion of him around. They'll certainly be different from now on, not because anything they've done really matters, but because she's choosing to bring out the little nugget of herself out of his brain and take her with. How different? No idea. She's not there yet, and unlike him, she's not particularly an overthinker. That defeats the purpose of finding out. That said, she's probably going to enjoy it so, so much more.
She can feel him giving in, and taste acceptance in his kiss in which she moans in, and fuck, that nearly brings her over the edge. There shouldn't be a reason why she should hold herself, but she is — and she's holding him captive, too. He's edged her so many times, it's her turn, and while he's the strongest psychic? She has no doubts she's scrambled his brain enough that he is hardly thinking straight anyway.
She just has to do something first, which is to break the kiss. It's almost impossible for her to speak, and she's not competing with the moans for a place for it. Instead, when she can? She'll stare straight into his face, hands pushing him harder on the cushion.)
[Joke's on her, because he was already edging himself. Why wouldn't he? You think he's going to come without permission after making her work so hard to claim him? Hell no. What kind of amateur do you think he is? Quentin Quire goes full ham on topping. Obviously he would be just as committed to bottoming, and if she doesn't think so she doesn't know anything about him. Then again, it's not she's thinking all that clearly right now—by design—so whatever, she's forgiven for the lapse in judgement. This time.]
Yours.
[The word comes out breathless but without hesitation as soon as his mouth is free, his eyes meeting hers directly and with equal intensity. It feels... weird saying it, like it should mean more than it does. But not that much weirder than it felt to call her his the first time. And besides, that's the prize he offered her for this particular game, and he's a man of his word. Sometimes, at least. In this case he is.
He briefly considers begging, even opens his mouth to do so, but he ends up just gasping when she clenches around him especially tight. No. If she wants him to beg she can tell him. She didn't pin him down and poke around in his brain trying to prevent his climax because she wants him getting any funny ideas about having "agency" in this little scenario. And he doesn't want her shifting her focus away from the greedy, unrelenting desire that's consuming her.
He's not even flinching. Not the slightest hesitation? She tends to not win these things, it's an eternal back and forth, until both win or lose, even where there is no losing. That just makes this so much more satisfying, and fuck, she doesn't want to break the eye contact. This would be just about when her entire nervous system would start ringing alarms of danger, begging her to stop, that this is a bad thing. Too vulnerable, all those things they know goes through her mind every time she is sligthly real, imagine now that she's got no walls to separate them.
She can feel the little intrusive thought, but she just finds that angle again and moves, hard, and it quiets. Can't think when he's drowning in her, and fuck, she just wants to drown in him, too.
Begging, though, not her thing. That's easy to achieve for her, if he ever stopped to think why she doesn't particularly have that same relationship with praise. Nepochild, spoiled, pretty, charming, there are privileges she's always been able to tap in, and this is one of them. No. What she wants is to give him what he makes her beg for — because it's what she wants to do. Because she's not worried it's gonna going to go to shit. Because she's not scared, like she has been for the past seven months.
So, she won't ask him to beg. It's not her thing. She's gonna ask him to accept being wanted as he is. Talking is a motherfucker, though, and she's reached the point where it's impossible to, so her mind reaches.)
/Come for me —/
(Simple request. She comes when he does. She's ordering him to so she will.)
[Oh. Oh, this is a weird thing he didn't anticipate. See, he always has his hands on her somehow when they do this, and he can do that thing he likes when he grabs her and buries himself in her before he comes. Or just thrusts extra hard into her. You know. Shit that is not available to him at this time. But like. Obviously, he's going to climax when her voice in his head orders him to. That's a no brainer. Literally. But the lack of his usual triggers makes it more... unexpected? Which means oh, yeah, his brain short-circuits a little more than usual.
He fights to maintain the eye contact and to stop himself from struggling against her grip on his wrists as his body spasms through an orgasm that hits him almost against his will. Oh, sure, they're in his mindscape. He's the stronger psychic. He could change any part of this with a single thought and is in no way truly helpless here. But the feeling of helplessness is still perfect and sharp on his tongue, hurting just as much as it burns his mind with pleasure. It doesn't need to be real—and honestly, based on past experiences, would be utterly terrible if it was—it needs to feel real. And this? This is just the right blend of fantasy and reality. So he pants and gasps out pathetic half-noises as he comes inside her and eagerly awaits her go over the edge with him.]
(Holy shit. This is probably one of the most intense encounters they have ever had. She for sure would have all sorts of pain and soreness, even if it were possible to achieve even half of this marathon outside the astral plane. Whatever they've done, it worked wonders for her, because her climax is enough to bring what is already a nebula northen light sky into a whole flash of light without her willing it too. Fuck, she's a little blinded, and even if she doesn't need to breathe through the blows of pleasure that probably did circuit her tech, she definitely is trying to. Even her dumb meatsack of a body is squeezing him as tight as her twig arms can again, because holy shit, it doesn't end. The second wave, a calmer one, is connected to him, and fuck, she's definitely missing watching him let go under her.
Fucking unfair, body and mind. If she were in her best mind, she'd be able to calm down, let him enjoy being in her for a little longer and kiss him gently on the lips — she's not, though. She's sinking nails because this is fucking ridiculous, and trying to navigate through the swarm of ecstasy she feels, moving next to him but keeping on hand on his arm for stability.
Her smile is more than present, even if she's struggling to speak.)
Fuck, I missed — Cripes, I think I just had an aneurysm, or somehow experienced every drug in existence, holy fuck — ugh, I missed you coming. So not fair. I — really like it. Give me a second, and fix that — holy shit.
["Holy shit" is right. Jesus Christ, he's dimly aware that she's clutching him even in her real body, and at this rate his real body is gonna start having a reaction too. And sure, that wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. Not like they haven't fucked in both planes of existence at the same time before. But Quentin's really enjoying this whole marathon thing they've got going, and syncing his physical body too much to his astral form runs the risk of, uh. Messing with his equilibrium. Or something. Look, it's not like they taught "How to Defeat Refractory Periods by Escaping to the Astral Plane Post-Nut" in the Telepathy 101 classes that he definitely skipped.
Well. That's a bridge they'll cross if they get to it. Right now his brain is buzzing with pleasure, every nerve ending electrified by the remnants of one of the most intense climaxes of his life. Fuck, he feels like he's been skinned alive and dunked in salt. But like. In a good way. Shit.
He makes a noise of protest when she rolls off him. Aneurysm or every drug in existence, she says. Not an inaccurate description. Damn, the sky's still a mess, too. But... eh, it looks fine. And he's too lazy to fix it. So that's how it'll stay. And he almost, almost starts coming down from the high... until he processes the rest of what she said.
"Fix that."
There is literally no reason he can identify for why that makes something in him snap. It's not like that was a challenge or anything. Maybe his brain is just still stuck in that intense mode, and all of the shit he was intentionally repressing for the sake of letting her have her way with him is suddenly bursting out of him. Who knows. All he knows is that one impulse he had earlier of reversing their positions? He's doing it. Now. He abruptly shifts to land on top of her, taking that arm she had holding onto his and pinning it above her head.]
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Date: 2025-11-08 05:06 pm (UTC)It's weird. He hasn't been under her on his back since that first time. There have been reasons, of course. Good ones. Reasons that somehow seem to have faded over time, oddly enough. Same thing with this sudden inexplicable desire to have her mouth on him. Actually asking for it, nay, demanding it. He's known she likes it since the first time she went down on him in her room. That's what convinced him to allow it. The second time too, what feels like a lifetime ago. It was never that it didn't feel good—practically everything they do feels amazing—it was his fear of it feeling too good. Or something.
Whatever, her hand is on him and making him gasp, so he no longer cares about inner monologue bullshit. This feels good, and she likes doing it. End of story. He overcomplicated it before, big fucking shocker. He'd very much like her to shut down the section of his brain controlled by his junk right now. One hand goes to her hair, not tugging at all (yet?), and the other rests on her shoulder.]
Fuck, Sophie, show me—how much you want me.
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Date: 2025-11-08 05:32 pm (UTC)Don't worry. You won't be able to forget it.
(She wants it carved in his brain, proudly and clear. With one of her arms supporting her weight, her back bends in quite a nice arc, and finally, she reaches the spot he asked her to bite. She isn't going to at this time, leaving a kiss there before she gives no time, indication, or warning — she's replacing the hand with her mouth, same pace, except, well. She gets to suck him like a powerhouse every time she ascends, her tongue guaranteed to follow her movement as she goes down. This would certainly make her choke in her stupid flesh and bones, but here? Ah, here, she doesn't even have to breathe; there's no tension in her jaw or in her shoulders, so she can go as fast and as hard as she wants.)
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Date: 2025-11-08 07:16 pm (UTC)Fuck!
[Both of his hands go to her head, tangling in her hair but not pushing, just clinging, and his head falls back. Sweet baby Jesus that's good. And he doesn't even restrain himself from jerking sharply up into her mouth like he normally would need to avoid choking her. Shit, can they make this a primarily astral plane activity from now on? No offense to Sophie's real body—it's brought him no small amount of pleasure to be sure—but this is just. Wow. On a whole other fucking level.
He forces himself to look down so he can appreciate the view she's giving him—she put a lot of effort into it, so it's only polite—which means she'll get to enjoy him watching her intently. Of course, she may not be in much of a state to be looking at him. She's a little busy at the moment. Far be it for him to distract her. So instead he pushes into her mind the sharp, almost wild elation he feels every time she takes all of him and then rises up only to eagerly devour him again. Not to mention the facts that she's sucking him like she intends to pull his soul out of his body, and her tongue is caressing him like she can't get enough of his taste. Heh. "Like" she wants those things. He can feel in her mind how much she does, and he gobbles up her desire like he needs it to live, hips bucking up erratically into her mouth.]
Shit, fuck, Sophie, I'm not gonna—fuck, don't stop.
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Date: 2025-11-08 09:04 pm (UTC)She'd have no quarrels about only doing it in here, because fuck, he can thrust into her mouth without hurting her. When she can go as hard as he's demanding, no odd power dynamic shift, no pain, no choking, nothing negative that this can possibly bring is present in the astral plane, she's devoid of restrains, and she can taste craving and desire on her mouth. Funnily enough, she feels the same as him. Today is definitely ramping up for the best sex they have ever had, and that's a powerful statement considering they've probably fucked over a hundred times at this point, and she is counting the couch. She's so ruined, so so fucking ruined.
The feelings he is pushing to her brain are all accurate, that's exactly what's going through her mind, thank you very much for noticing, and she loops exactly what she feels right at him — that he keeps calling her name, and shit, that is doing some fucked up shit to her. Makes her want to carve that in her own mind, the way he's claiming, calling, and well, Sophie's plan was to join in the pleasure when she felt him close to coming again, but she's not managing any arrangements she's making well today, so, she's not stopping, but repositioning so she can be on her side and look at him as much as he's looking at her. She wants it known that she's here with him, fully, but not only that — that this is driving her to insanity without being touched, too, so? She's doing just that, shoving her physical sensations along with her hunger into his mind right back.)
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Date: 2025-11-09 03:32 am (UTC)When she moves so she can meet his eyes, that just about breaks him. But it's the thought she presses into his mind that finishes the job. How she's that turned on from sucking him off. That much closer to her own climax. That she might even come from this, completely untouched. He lets go of her hair and grips the sofa, still thrusting into her mouth but giving her complete freedom to deal with his impending orgasm however she chooses. Not out of courtesy, of course. She's in no danger of discomfort whatsoever. He's just interested in her preference. Or, well, he would be if his concentration wasn't occupied fully by the aforementioned climax. His back arches, head slinging back, and he releases into her mouth with a strangled cry.]
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Date: 2025-11-09 03:57 am (UTC)The first time, she swallowed because there was no other option available at the time, but she's doing it again before letting him go, just so he feels that on him too. She knows exactly what his climax tastes like on her lips, and she'll press them to his in a gentle peck to finish this off as a reminder. Now she can breathe, fuck, she feels like she's on every drug on Earth, and no bad trips.)
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Date: 2025-11-09 04:53 am (UTC)Holy shit.
[Yeah, let him just. Catch the breath he doesn't actually need to take.]
We are doing that every time we go here. It's like. Required now. Right?
[His hands go back to her waist and nudge her to straddle him. Should they try another heretofore forbidden activity while they're at it? Perhaps. Hmmm.]
Hey. You wanna ride me before I roll us over and fuck you? I still haven't hit bingo yet.
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Date: 2025-11-09 05:32 am (UTC)(Of course he doesn't mind, he's a narcissistic fuck with a possessive streak with her, is there anything in that combination that wouldn't like reminding where he came? No offense, due to the fact she too happens to be a narcissistic fuck. They're both at home here.
Her eyes are closed for a second as she calms herself down, recentering, moving her pleasure around so it can be more of a gentle lasting buzz while she travels through the last if the waves. She's smiling so much that her cheeks would be hurting, hand on his chest as she breathes in and he speaks again.
Fuck, she likes him so much. She's past the point of wondering why the fuck, but she does it anyway as she bursts into laughter, her nose wrinkling in both fondness and distaste as she tries to kill it so she can comply. She's struggling, give her a second.)
Shit, pffft, bingo? Really? What else is in your card? — pfft, Quentin, shush— actually, no, don't shush. I actually do like you talking.
(But the most pressing answer is clear when she does settle her thighs on his side, arching her back before she can press a kiss to his jaw with a chuckle.)
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Date: 2025-11-09 07:32 am (UTC)[Objectively untrue, but is she going to correct him? No. And even if she does, they both know it's bullshit. She'll do that little nose crinkle and tell him to shut up and then proceed to the next round of fucking each other stupid.]
Anyway, I can't tell you what's on my bingo card. That defeats the point.
[Doesn't that also apply to his previous suggestion? Sure. If he gave a fuck about being consistent. Which he doesn't. And neither does she. She especially won't once he slides his hands down to her thighs and spreads his fingers with a hint of possessiveness that is guaranteed to get a whole lot less subtle white soon.
They've never done this position. For, as always, reasons. The closest was that first time where she rode him but facing away. But that didn't even last that long before he was on top of her the way he'd end up being 99% of the times after that for the next few months. They've only just started experimenting with fucking her from behind, which has quickly become one of their new favorites. But other than that, eh. Occasionally she sits in his lap in a chair, but that's really the only time she's on top. Today, though? Today's a weird day, and he's trying new shit. And apparently that includes the image currently replaying itself on loop in his brain: him on his back and looking up at her as she sits upright, back arched and moans of his name spilling out of her mouth as she fucks herself on him. He's always imagined it making him feel less in control, but Sophie's unbridled desire for him has dampened those concerns. What the hell is "less in control" about a woman writhing desperately while he's buried inside her and she gives him a front row view of her taking him over and over? Nothing, it's hot as fuck ]
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Date: 2025-11-09 02:01 pm (UTC)Point taken.
(Although he's gonna have to tell her, because otherwise, said bingo will not come to fruition, so, point irrelevant.
She knows exactly why she's never on top like this. It's rule number one, and unfortunately, she knows way more than she wishes she knew about Phoebe and Quentin. Half of her end of this was to rub it on Sophie's face, after all, so — banned, obviously. She never wanted to be Phoebe. She wanted something for herself, to be herself, and everything that they built until now ensured that they never overlapped. On one hand, she was satisfied with it — it prevented her from ever fusing again, keeping her sole and free of risk. On the other hand, to say it didn't get under her skin would be a lie. All that worrying about being not-Phoebe rather than just Sophie, the nagging idea that he didn't want to look at her because he couldn't see her, not to mention the fact that she's still healing from the betrayal itself. Today, though? He's proved her undeniably wrong, and while points don't matter, well. She can't, in good conscience, ever think that shit again without the evidence slapping her in the face.
He doesn't like looking at her? He couldn't keep his eyes away, and now she can recall all the times he couldn't, either, she's the one who shoves him away to keep him from the sight. He's been with her because she's a Cuckoo? Truly untrue. She can finally see that the last seven months were comprised of him running a tank on the wall that separates who she is from who she is programmed to be, and dragging Sophie out of it, no matter how tall or short she lay down the bricks. Is she her own worst enemy? How did she not see this? Wasn't she supposed to be great at this shit? He's been communicating to her all she's been craving to hear over, and over, and over, and she ignored it every time until she couldn't anymore. Well, shit, okay then.
So, yeah. She, too, once worried about this position, which tends to serve two purposes: spoiling and teasing. Hell, that first time in that chair? She told him as much. That she needed him to guide her, she didn't know any different, and she didn't want to do either with him. After all this time, though? It's something that can be hers, too, because she doesn't, can't do it as they would anymore. The image he sends her brain just reinforces all the points, he's watching her, and she's genuinely crying in pleasure for both their sakes. Her smile doesn't get bigger than it is, and she dives to kiss him as she slides down on him, her hands taking his to send to her hips so he can pull her down.
Lips on his are short-lived, he reaches her most sensitive points so easy like that, and she gasps, holding onto his waist for dear life.)
Thrust up... I want to feel all of you again. Fuck, I just — want all of you all the time. That's —
(Fucked up, but that also means she's already moving even before she finishes that sentence, each bounce taking longer on the descend, pulling almost all of him out on the ascend, so she can make sure she's getting what she wants. He's way more outwardly possessive than she is, but this is what she her own possessiveness urges her to do all the fucking time.
Look, she's even going to say it.)
Mine.
no subject
Date: 2025-11-09 03:38 pm (UTC)Oh, well. He hasn't apologized to the world for being "weird" in years, and he sure as hell isn't going to start now. Especially not when weird feels so damn good. He groans when she sinks down onto him again, hands going to her hips as directed, and he thrusts up obligingly a few times to try to find a good rhythm.
And then she says that. "Mine." Unprompted this time. Mine. And suddenly he wants to hear her say it more. Not because he wants to be hers—he was Phoebe's and the part of him that wants to be topped hard by a hot blonde woman left with her. No, no, he wants it because it's another crack in that damn wall she keeps futilely putting up. He says she's his because it makes his head spin, because it makes him feel positively feral with desire. Maybe if he pushes in just the right places, he can make her do that too.
So this time? He doesn't do exactly what she said. Doesn't go along with instructions like they've been doing this whole time. This will potentially reintroduce the whole banter/back-and-forth thing they do, and it's been really nice to have a break from that. But... Well, the chances are much slimmer that he'll get her to break the way he wants by being nice. And he really, really wants her to break. So he stops thrusting, gripping her waist hard enough that it would certainly leave bruises in the real world, and offers her a challenge.]
Prove it.
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Date: 2025-11-09 05:49 pm (UTC)She's really not his, he's really not hers, and because they aren't, he gets all of her, which is a really weird fucking rollercoaster of contradictions. For someone who would insist she's by far the easiest one to deal with out of the two... Delusion, perhaps? Not that he allows her to have a lot of those. When she thought she didn't have to think about it anymore, he holds her so strongly, right where his hand fits, that even her physical body produced a moan against his chest.)
Fuck, Quentin —
(That wasn't the plan. She hardly ever rides him, and most of the time? He's doing as much, if not most of the work with her. This is dangerously into spoiling territory, but... It's also not? She's not doing it as a reward for good behavior, like he's some boy toy she picked up to play with. Fuck, error, error. She doesn't want to hide, definitely not, but she looks exactly like that for a second before her cheeks sting with the embarrassment of vulnerability.
And she smiles, before she runs her hands through her hair to keep it from her red face, which in turn, only makes her stomach drop further, her cheeks burn harder, and her poor heart to pick up a pace she didn't even know it could beat at. Fuck, okay. Okay. So much so for never having to think of it. Fuck you, Quentin.)
Still not convinced?
(Remember that pace she had with her mouth? With her entire body, it's so much easier to replicate, even harder considering the positioning, and she gets almost there. Fuck, she wants to kiss him until there isn't a single thought in her head, but her voice echoing wouldn't allow it, so instead of gripping on his waist, she rests her hands on his chest, so she doesn't ground.)
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Date: 2025-11-09 06:30 pm (UTC)Not to say he's unaffected or displeased by what he's uncovered thus far. The pace she's setting is brutal in the best, and when she starts bracing her hands on his chest to ride him harder? Chef's kiss. His head falls back, eyes clenching shut for a moment as he groans. It feels like heaven, honestly.
But is he convinced? That he's hers? Has she succeeded in claiming him for her own? That's a different question. That's a question that, along with that brief expression of embarrassment, shows no, he's not done breaking her yet. He looks up at her, utterly wrecked but also so, so smug. Asshole.]
If you have to ask—you're not doing it right.
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Date: 2025-11-09 07:29 pm (UTC)Not grounding doesn't feel horrible, but it's a match for Sophie with her own brain not to sink claws to break his skin and try to distract from the flood of pleasure she feels. Not that she's on her own, because she's connecting him exactly to her nerve endings to feel the sparkle she is every time the spot hits. It is probably what heaven feels like, debatable whether either of them is even gonna get anywhere close to the real thing, anyway, so, she has no reason other than to bask in the pleasure and try to keep her instinct to hide from it at bay. It means he gets quite a gorgeous view, because she's losing it on top of him, her hair an absolute mess, and since when was she barefaced? Unimportant.
And then he speaks, and she nearly falls off of him for a second, finally gripping for some stability because.
Mother
Fucker
Seriously??? For real?? He had the??? Audacity?? Seriously, this man has climaxed more today than he did last week in its entirety????? She's never been more baffled in her entire life, including but not limited to the last 7 months in which that feeling has popped up nearly every day. She's... Wow, is that anger? Is she angry?? Is she disproportionately turned on because she's mad? Holy fuck, she's spiraling a little bit, until her eyes fall to that smug smile of a soon-to-be-dead man.
... Fuck, she likes him, her heart skips a little, and she curses in her head. Fuck. Fuck him so much. Her brain could definitely stop shooting a billion emotions of anger, fondness, lust, affection, depravity, rage, warmth, and then more irritation. It'd be great if she could think for a second... And then she decides to say 'fuck it'. He wanted her mad at him? He's got it, and without warning, the way her nails dig into skin would scar in real life, and she's back to moving, except instead of sitting, she comes to lie down to claim his mouth. She's kissed him with all her passion before, that's not particularly hard to achieve, especially since a certain someone spent a month without kissing her, the asshole. This is not passion, this is her devouring him with every movement of her lips and tongue, fingers intertwining to his curls sos he can pull for easier access to his mouth.
She's back to moving after that near fall, but fuck, if she was doing it with gusto before? She's doing it so there's not a single brain cell that dares to contest her, which feels like a virtually miraculous, new type of pleasure. She usually doesn't manage to kiss him when her sounds come out untethered like that, but today, she's gonna make sure he can taste each and every one of them.)
no subject
Date: 2025-11-09 08:10 pm (UTC)Another reason they've never done this position aside from the obvious ones: Sophie hides. She holds back. Which is fine by him most of the time. She lets him take out all of his most greedy lustful urges on her. Welcomes it. When she lets go, it's because he's fucking her so good she can't possibly keep it together. In other words, she lets go when she has an excuse. When she's on top and he's flat on his back? She has to rely on him to grip her, thrust up into her, manhandle her. Which, again, he likes. He fucking loves it, in fact. It makes him feel powerful, in control of his own wretched life for once. Desirable and desired. Worth something.
Maybe that's the feeling he wants her to experience. Maybe he enjoys pushing people's buttons. Maybe he just likes dismantling things for no other reason than his brain is fucked up. Whatever the reason, what she gives him after that moment of disbelief and hesitation is exactly what he wanted.
He moans into her mouth, giving her just enough resistance to her hand yanking his hair that she can maintain that fury. His hips are bucking up into hers entirely out of instinct, but it's virtually redundant with the way she's moving on him. Yes, fuck yes, this is her letting go. Claiming him. Devouring him not because she's a man-eating femme fatale seductress, not to make him crazy with pleasure. It's pure selfish need. Her need. It's perfect, and just to make sure she doesn't start getting distracted, he quiets his side of their sensory sharing. Not blocked, not at all. Just making sure her needs, her pleasure are at the forefront of her mind as they race towards the next climax.]
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Date: 2025-11-09 09:24 pm (UTC)But it's never been her priority, either. He's not incorrect; she hides, more often than not, and while there was too much dread and unease about being seen, which collected the vast majority of the reasons why she did, perhaps there is something in there to still be visited. She put that fifty-fifty rule in place so that they shared power, not have it grossly unbalanced as it has historically been with Quentin and anyone that shares the last name 'Cuckoo', and she's extremely strict about it. All she does is meet him halfway, should he take half a step towards her. Sexually, emotionally, physically, and it's... Comfortable, like that. Safe. She never truly asks anything out of him either; if he wants to do something for her, he has to make that clear. Caring for both equally keeps her pleasantly shielded from him and from herself, the latter being the most important of all.
She's never been a coward. In fact, that's the one characteristic she can say, with all her heart, that is hers solely, her own thing, separate, hated for. The brave one, the leader, the hero. That fucking pressure to be not that, and then to be so, to conform, and the times she got stabbed in the back for it might have temporarily broken her a little. Why the fuck does she keep getting stuck in this never-ending loop of torment with him? She still doesn't know how she feels, her brain is too overtaken by the rage and the affection and the overwhelming pleasure to pay attention to it, but something switches almost audibly in her mind.
He wanted Sophie. He's getting Sophie without an ounce of fear, as hard as he is ever going to get her. While he feels in control, she's finally letting go of it, at least for fucking once, and she's taking. Redundant to say that she's overwhelmed, but that's exactly what she wants, to be delirious and yet, like there's too much of him and not enough of him, and both of them?
Hers.
The resistance only makes her pull a little harder so it forces him to tilt his head, her lips making her own trail of places she likes to kiss down his neck, and if he doesn't see stars from how hard she's sucking on skin to keep her marks on him, then there's something very wrong with him.)
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Date: 2025-11-10 12:33 am (UTC)Fuck, now he's getting distracted. Focus up, Quire. You've got better places to be than some-fucking-where in the stratosphere right now. Better places like, for example, back in the mental approximation of your body that is currently getting ravished by Sophie who has finally, finally let go.
Anyway. Holy shit, has this been hiding in her this whole time? Because goddamn, if that's the case they've both been missing out. There's a part of him that wants to respond to her aggression in kind. Roll them both over, sling his arms under her knees, and claim her as fiercely as she's doing now. But he doesn't. Because this? This is her turn. It's her turn to take, to be greedy, to use him for her own pleasure and scratch some itch deep down inside her that she's been ignoring. He worked hard enough to get her to this point. He's sure as hell not going to squander it now. So he keeps up that teasing bit of resistance, arching against her mouth so she'll have to work a little to continue marking him where she wants.]
Fuck—Sophie—
[He's pulling her down by her hips and thrusting up, ever so slightly—but very intentionally—out of sync with her, as if saying look, see? There's still remnants of audacity left in him. Isn't she going to fix that? It's what he would do, if he was the one doing the taking here. It's what he has done. Multiple times, in fact. If he can do it, so can she. Come on, he just needs a little more convincing. Just a tad.]
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Date: 2025-11-11 01:11 am (UTC)Her head is in something else. If it helps, she was not just hiding just from him, this one wasn't particularly personal. Being Sophie Cuckoo has been... Tough. It has inspired, even if she was never given a true chance to comprehend and fix, way too much pain and betrayal from the very people who were supposed to be her sanctuary. She couldn't even have recognition in her death, so reducing herself to blend perfectly was safe — emotionally, that's a huge stretch, they can thank Phoebe and Esmé for that, or how everything that has ever disturbed or wounded her being swept under the rug. Physically, though? She's not dead again. Sophie breathes air, she kisses, dances, and she laughs so hard that there's not enough oxygen in the room to support it. She has forgiven, time and time again, traded herself and her feelings for comfort and a thin sense of safety, and it never sat well with her. She's just never really felt... Enough, and she has always felt rattled, even if she fell into line. The Cuckoos celebrated her great work. Manny, that asshole, did too, and through the cheers of joy, clinking of glasses, music, food, and triumph, and all she felt while she was sitting on her own, far from chaos was... Nothing. Couldn't get herself to even fake it, and God knows this girl could fake just about anything.
Less purposefully concealing herself, much more about shutting herself down so she didn't have to suffer the consequences of existing for a while. Even if she did. She's not okay, but at least she's alive, right? Should be worth for something. Someone. Whatever the fuck. Kinda isn't if she didn't know anyone else. Look, his life sucks, her life sucks, if they were good in the head, it wouldn't be them.
The itch she's scratching is being herself for fucking once, after so long, and it feels wonderful. Unrepenting, merciless, stubborn, and decisive Sophie. Choosing this not because she's scared, or because she isn't. Choosing this because she wants to, and fuck, she wants him so fucking much right now. He's had her show him repeatedly, asked her, and she did give him what she had. Well, apparently, that was the in-line Cuckoo version of her who gave him anything. 100% of that Sophie is still 100% — he's getting 100% of the one she's killed off for a while. Merciless in how she moves, and she's not changing his perception of how it feels to be inside her — she's clenching that hard around him.
Moving against her is a little pointless at this point. She just shifts her head so she can reach him easier, slotted in a way that resistance is impossible by him tilting his head, and fuck, she just fits here so perfectly that it's not stable for her brain, it just makes her want to bite him and lick him in the spot her lips find harder, delighted by the positioning — until he speaks. Until he does that. Fuck —? The whine she makes with the difference of rhythms is so fucking loud that it would be embarrassing if she still cared. Good thing she doesn't.
His hands were on his hips. He had uncomplicatedness of movement. With his wrists now pinned on either side of his head and her thighs now squeezing him, clinging in a way that moving is possible, however difficult? Good luck, because if there were any way of going harder, she's finding it now.)
Fuck —, Quentin, you drive me — fucking insane.
(Pretty much out of every emotion in the book, not that she's going to give him a shot at talking back with a famished kiss.)
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Date: 2025-11-11 06:06 am (UTC)Okay, first of all, obviously he drives her fucking insane. Duh. That's the point. Even if it wasn't just the average Quentin Quire Modus Operandi, he is very specifically right at this moment actively trying to drive her more fucking insane than he potentially ever has. And god damn it, he's succeeding because holy shit, he's never seen her snap this hard. He can't guarantee this whole thing will get folded into their routine any time soon—honestly he's just way, way too fond of when their positions are reversed—but as a special little treat to mix it up here and there? Hell yeah. Feral Sophie is hot.
Speaking of, uh?? Pinning his hands??? He lets out a choked gasp because he was not expecting that and yet he is so turned on it's not even funny. And look. It's not like he doesn't appreciate getting hella topped. He sure as shit does. But honest to god, hand to his chest, that was not the primary point of this. It's just a fortunate side effect. A very, very fortunate side effect. Love that for him.
But no, seriously, the point here was the pseudo-struggle he's been giving her. Victory tastes sweeter when you earn it, and by golly she's earning that shit. Not just by restraining his hands, but with the way she's squeezing the bejeezus out of him both inside and with her thighs and the absolutely ferocious kiss. Victory tastes sweetest when you earn it, but that also requires victory to actually be achieved. So that's what he gives her. He stops fighting her hold on his wrists, shallowly bucks his hips as much as he can and in perfect sync with her utterly ruthless pace, and moans needily into her mouth. His mind is still partially muffled, but he does make sure she hears his surrender loud and clear. Congrats, Sophie, you have conquered your foe. Captured your prey. Now what are you going to do with him?]
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Date: 2025-11-11 10:51 am (UTC)She can feel him giving in, and taste acceptance in his kiss in which she moans in, and fuck, that nearly brings her over the edge. There shouldn't be a reason why she should hold herself, but she is — and she's holding him captive, too. He's edged her so many times, it's her turn, and while he's the strongest psychic? She has no doubts she's scrambled his brain enough that he is hardly thinking straight anyway.
She just has to do something first, which is to break the kiss. It's almost impossible for her to speak, and she's not competing with the moans for a place for it. Instead, when she can? She'll stare straight into his face, hands pushing him harder on the cushion.)
Say it.
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Date: 2025-11-11 04:26 pm (UTC)Yours.
[The word comes out breathless but without hesitation as soon as his mouth is free, his eyes meeting hers directly and with equal intensity. It feels... weird saying it, like it should mean more than it does. But not that much weirder than it felt to call her his the first time. And besides, that's the prize he offered her for this particular game, and he's a man of his word. Sometimes, at least. In this case he is.
He briefly considers begging, even opens his mouth to do so, but he ends up just gasping when she clenches around him especially tight. No. If she wants him to beg she can tell him. She didn't pin him down and poke around in his brain trying to prevent his climax because she wants him getting any funny ideas about having "agency" in this little scenario. And he doesn't want her shifting her focus away from the greedy, unrelenting desire that's consuming her.
What's next, Sophie?]
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Date: 2025-11-11 04:58 pm (UTC)He's not even flinching. Not the slightest hesitation? She tends to not win these things, it's an eternal back and forth, until both win or lose, even where there is no losing. That just makes this so much more satisfying, and fuck, she doesn't want to break the eye contact. This would be just about when her entire nervous system would start ringing alarms of danger, begging her to stop, that this is a bad thing. Too vulnerable, all those things they know goes through her mind every time she is sligthly real, imagine now that she's got no walls to separate them.
She can feel the little intrusive thought, but she just finds that angle again and moves, hard, and it quiets. Can't think when he's drowning in her, and fuck, she just wants to drown in him, too.
Begging, though, not her thing. That's easy to achieve for her, if he ever stopped to think why she doesn't particularly have that same relationship with praise. Nepochild, spoiled, pretty, charming, there are privileges she's always been able to tap in, and this is one of them. No. What she wants is to give him what he makes her beg for — because it's what she wants to do. Because she's not worried it's gonna going to go to shit. Because she's not scared, like she has been for the past seven months.
So, she won't ask him to beg. It's not her thing. She's gonna ask him to accept being wanted as he is. Talking is a motherfucker, though, and she's reached the point where it's impossible to, so her mind reaches.)
/Come for me —/
(Simple request. She comes when he does. She's ordering him to so she will.)
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Date: 2025-11-11 07:02 pm (UTC)He fights to maintain the eye contact and to stop himself from struggling against her grip on his wrists as his body spasms through an orgasm that hits him almost against his will. Oh, sure, they're in his mindscape. He's the stronger psychic. He could change any part of this with a single thought and is in no way truly helpless here. But the feeling of helplessness is still perfect and sharp on his tongue, hurting just as much as it burns his mind with pleasure. It doesn't need to be real—and honestly, based on past experiences, would be utterly terrible if it was—it needs to feel real. And this? This is just the right blend of fantasy and reality. So he pants and gasps out pathetic half-noises as he comes inside her and eagerly awaits her go over the edge with him.]
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Date: 2025-11-11 07:27 pm (UTC)Fucking unfair, body and mind. If she were in her best mind, she'd be able to calm down, let him enjoy being in her for a little longer and kiss him gently on the lips — she's not, though. She's sinking nails because this is fucking ridiculous, and trying to navigate through the swarm of ecstasy she feels, moving next to him but keeping on hand on his arm for stability.
Her smile is more than present, even if she's struggling to speak.)
Fuck, I missed — Cripes, I think I just had an aneurysm, or somehow experienced every drug in existence, holy fuck — ugh, I missed you coming. So not fair. I — really like it. Give me a second, and fix that — holy shit.
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Date: 2025-11-11 11:01 pm (UTC)Well. That's a bridge they'll cross if they get to it. Right now his brain is buzzing with pleasure, every nerve ending electrified by the remnants of one of the most intense climaxes of his life. Fuck, he feels like he's been skinned alive and dunked in salt. But like. In a good way. Shit.
He makes a noise of protest when she rolls off him. Aneurysm or every drug in existence, she says. Not an inaccurate description. Damn, the sky's still a mess, too. But... eh, it looks fine. And he's too lazy to fix it. So that's how it'll stay. And he almost, almost starts coming down from the high... until he processes the rest of what she said.
"Fix that."
There is literally no reason he can identify for why that makes something in him snap. It's not like that was a challenge or anything. Maybe his brain is just still stuck in that intense mode, and all of the shit he was intentionally repressing for the sake of letting her have her way with him is suddenly bursting out of him. Who knows. All he knows is that one impulse he had earlier of reversing their positions? He's doing it. Now. He abruptly shifts to land on top of her, taking that arm she had holding onto his and pinning it above her head.]
Need another second? Or you good?
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