(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.]
(Mess is subjective. Sophie definitely didn't mean to ruin his Omega-level constellations and whatnot; it just happened as an effect of the twelve-natural-disaster-strength climax that she lost a little control there for a second. She can be forgiven, she assumes, considering the seven months of Good Behavior medal that she carries. It's lovely, though — cerulean and atomic magenta in varnish, blending and specking with white and neon tones.
She's lost in it for a second there. The pleasure is still rushing through her very skin, she can feel the spasms on her legs, her core, teeny pins and needles relaxing her as she breathes in — not that she has to, but even breathing feels incredible right now, so why the fuck not? The moment is really short-lived, because now that she's nearly coming down, she can go back to mourning the fact that she has no idea how he looked, what expression she pulled, or even how he sounded. Ugh, dumbass, she's never gonna manage to see that again. Where are your priorities, Cuckoo?
She was about to see if they could find a replay, because really, she might not be able to sleep tonight over that, so she's absolutely taken by surprise. Quentin snapping so quickly is unexpected in itself, and she hardly has a reaction time before she's gasping, long legs almost instantly wrapping around him as a reflex. Wow. Fuck, she likes this. The human spirit is truly unbreakable; when she's still gently returning to her senses, they spike and explode in all lustful directions just from that. Is she that easy, that sensitive, or it's just what happens here, not important, moving on.
Fuck giving him an answer, though. She's kissing him stupid instead.)
[There's almost certainly a replay he can pull out from the depths of his mind somewhere. This is happening in his head, after all. Probably any angle she wants, too. Quentin's extra like that.
But that's not important right now. What's important is that he's releasing her arm so he can grab under her knees, push them up much higher and wider than would ever be comfortable in meatspace, and thrust all the way back inside her in a single motion. And sure, he was literally inside her like two seconds ago. Does he still groan like it's the first time? Yes. Look, it's not like she's any better. She just climaxed so hard she broke some of his mindscape stars, and she's still immediately so horny for him she didn't even bother answering his question. Fuck, she feels good. And it also feels amazing to not be on his back anymore. That was a lovely little vacation from the norm, but he's ready to get back to what they're more used to. There's comfort in routine, you know. Good for the soul. Especially when the routine is him fucking the living daylights out of her.
Speaking of. Best get to that, shall we? He bears down on her, gripping her legs and keeping her firmly in the position he wants, and kisses her in that same devouring way she was a short while ago. Great. Good. And after a moment of letting them both enjoy the feeling of all of him inside her, he starts moving. It's a classic: slowly drawing out almost all the way and then a sharp motion back in. One of his favorite paces, honestly, at least until they get so wild with lust their hips start going at lightspeed. Gives him that nice feeling of teasing her with emptiness before swiftly and assertively claiming her as his. It's a classic for a reason, you know? And since they're going back to basics this round after a little intermission of weird shit, this seems like a good start. Once she starts making those really, really nice noises, he'll figure out what's next.]
(No, she isn't any better, because she's resting her calves on his shoulder, with the loudest moan she can produce right into his mouth. While that is achievable for her and her model legs, it's not sustainable for long enough to be worth the cramps, therefore, he will forever remain completely unaware that if she actually stretches more, she might be able to do this for real in a few months. Shh, secrets. She is already handling fighting, fencing; she does not need to add pilates to her schedule.
If it's not broke, there's no need to fix it, but see, she's actually giving him a little bit of a fight, even if that pace always fucking works to make her delirious — the craving for him to fill her again, and the strength in which he pulls in, giving her what she wanted pointedly after taking it away with such a deliberate pace. The fight is in the kiss, in the way that she squeezes him on his way out, so he wants to return faster.
She might not have a lot in her after this, to be honest, but if that's the last one of the day, she doesn't want their grand tour through forbidden lands that shall never be spoken of again with something that they'll probably do in two days from now. It's obviously the most comforting thing for both of them at this point, and that's exactly why she's going to end it being bold.
A little bit of her awareness returns to the physical plane, he's definitely capable of feeling her leave, and the invitation for him to do the same. Fuck, is she... A little spoon? Oh, dear fuck, okay, no, we're screaming about this later, away from him, none of his business. She's not giving them any second to think about it anyway, not before she moves to fit way too alluring on his hips, moving the easiest hand across the curves of her breasts, which he now should understand why it makes her breath hitch in her lungs, the shape of her waist, and to her hips. Ball's in his court.)
[Oh? So she's trying to split her attention, is she? Not that he has a problem with that on principle. But still, a little rude when he's trying to work on something here. See, she was all upset about missing his climax, and he had a whole plan. You know, to make sure she didn't miss the next one. It's only courteous. But noooo, Sophie just has to get impatient. Well, fine. He can be impatient too. In the physical plane, he wraps his arm around her body and presses her firmly to his chest. She can wiggle against his hips if she wants to warm him up, but he's not making any additional moves—yet. But good fucking luck to her concentrating on that, because back in the astral plane he's breaking the kiss to lean over her.]
Damn, am I really boring you that much? Guess I oughta step up my game.
[He bends forward again, pressing her thighs to her chest, and grabs her hands to pull them roughly just above her head. Restrained, just like he was when their positions were switched. Good.]
Or maybe you just need a reminder—
[And it's at this point that he speeds up his pace, driving into her over and over, hard enough to jostle her body. She's squeezing him like she doesn't want to let him go, so he makes sure to almost leave her every time before he fills her completely again. God, that's good. Perfect. And now that he's got that rhythm going, he can finish that sentence, punctuating every word with a vicious thrust.]
(Don't you know your girl by now, Quentin? Impatience could have been her middle name, but funnily enough, this time, it wasn't even that which brought her actions to this point. Variety is the spice — nope, not that either. Look, they're experimenting; she might as well, right? Isn't that crazy that the person she slept with the most in her life, and will continue to do so, happens to be Quentin Quire, and they still have so much to discover and attempt? Isn't it insane that she finds herself in his arms more often than not? Whatever voodoo magic he has put on her, it is concretely in place, she just — wants to feel some more. Different things, if he's with her there, and obviously he is.
He's so warm. Her physical body slots, and she slowly grinds for just one second before her divided focus is completely shatters because he sure knows that pinning her, while delightful, is a bit of torture for someone whose brain doesn't understand self-soothing as one. Working progress to get that to work, that's for sure, and she lets out a very thundering swear, the lights once more flickering from the startled pleasure that runs through her.
Boring? Hardly. Quentin Quire does not have that capacity. That goes into the list of reasons why she's into him, if he ever wondered, but she has no chance to reply with the cry that begs him not to leave before he is back inside her, possessive, deep, just like she urges. Fuck, this is going to get loud outside the astral plane, too. Good thing she's practically alone on this side of the mansion.)
You — fuck, keep — keep fucking me like that. Please. Fuck—
[Damn right Quentin Quire does not have the capacity to be boring. But you know what he does have the capacity for? Being petty. Sophie is just lucky that he's found an outlet for said pettiness that is mutually beneficial for once. Maybe that's why he snapped. Being so compliant for her left him with an excess of pettiness. It's a theory, in any case.
Not that he's in any hurry to explain it. Especially when she's already begging for him. Oh, Sophie, you're too easy. She may notice that the grinding of her physical body against his is indeed getting a reaction, but. Well, he would be shocked if she noticed anything after what he's going to do next. And what is that, pray tell? Glad you asked.
First, he shoves her hands firmly into the cushions and then lets go, leaning down to very briefly meet her lips before growling in the most dangerous tone he can manage with his particular nasally, higher register intonation.]
Stay. And don't you dare fucking move them.
[There. Torture #1 completed. Satisfied, he leans back a little to shift into an almost kneeling position and uses his freed hands to grab her knees and spread them wider. Why? Because of Torture #2, obviously. See, her pelvis is tilted slightly more forward like this, the place where their bodies meet unobscured by his own.]
Look. Look how well you take me. Fuck—every. Inch. And you're gripping me—so tight—because you know you're mine.
[He gets a particularly deep thrust, and his eyes rolls back in pleasure. That little detour of Sophie sucking him off and riding him was great, but cripes it's good to be fucking her like this again.]
You missed it last time—right? Fuck, Sophie—beg me—to come inside you.
(Why are they like this is beyond her. In fact, she's given up trying to find any reason or rhyme to their behavior, or an answer to the question 'what exactly is wrong with us'. At this point, why fight anything? Whatever isn't right with them matches almost perfectly, either as perfect opposites, or as complementary — ridiculously alluring, she'd dare say 'addictive'. What other reason is there for her to get fucked to oblivion today and end up at his door two days later?
Two can be petty, but right now, he's winning. She wants him to, there's literally not a single cell in her body that isn't in absolute delight that he is. Interesting, getting dommed after the little revelations about herself that she just had. She's easy, correct, but fuck, if he doesn't earn it, if she isn't so damn easy for a reason. He probably hasn't thought of it, has he? He'd easily figure out that she's like this for him only, which could either make him overthink it into another plane of existence, or he'd be really fucking insufferable, which she finds nearly impossible for him to be any more of that. Her astral body complies, but her physical one is acting on instict alone, without Sophie's real input — both of them know she's rather handsy, so his hair, so easy to grab, gets a pull from how much she's challenged not to jump him. Is that a win for him, again? Maybe. Who's counting.
He is, probaby. Asshole. Whatever his voice being nasal, it's the tone that gets her. Fuck, she wants to ask 'or what' so badly, but she's nothing if not fascinated by what he has going on, and it's not like she has a whole lot of brain for these dumb disputes right now, when it's nearly frying.
And she looks, because of course she does. That is unbelievably alluring, and she's pulling his point of view to her so she can actually watch from a better standpoint. She does, doesn't she? And, well, she knows. She is. There's no way she can even fucking deny it, and he's definitely going to be feeling her pull on pink strands as confirmation, because talking is, once more, impossible.
Her voice is in his head again, it's literally the best she can do.)
Quentin, please? Just? Let me see you come. I want to feel it./
[He can feel her physical body tugging on his hair and hisses in both of the planes he's currently occupying. Shit, he's gonna have to get a move on if he wants to enact the little scheme that's been cooking in his head before the grand finale. There's crap he wants to do here, okay. He's got plans.
Okay, okay. No. He's got this. Focus. Pay no attention to the fact that his real body is starting to get worked up from all her wriggling and handsy bullshit. He's got a mission and by god he's going to fucking accomplish it.
Quentin feels her tapping into his optic feedback back in the astral plane, and he uses that as a focal point, moving his eyes down so she can see exactly what he sees. And hey, what the hell. While he's at it he also shares the feeling of how perfect she feels around him, tight yet oh-so-welcoming. That's enough to get him to the edge, at which point he pushes her back into her own sensory input. She wanted to watch him, right? To feel him? Well, lucky her, because if she wants a show she's getting it. His head tilts back in bliss, hips speeding up even more.]
Fuck—yes—Sophie—so fucking good for me, so fucking—perfect—shit—
[And then his eyes slip closed with a gasp and his body spasms as he releases inside her, hips as flush to hers as is physically possible. The sky above them lights up even brighter, and the fire pit spurts out a few larger blazes like it's receiving bursts of extra fuel.
... All of which Sophie will get to see in vivid detail because oh yeah? You know how they usually come together? She gets off on his climax? Yeah, he's blocking her from actually hitting that peak with him. Because she said she wanted to watch, obviously. Be careful what you wish for, Sophie.]
(She's not even looking into his plans! Promise! It's actually not her fault that he wants her so damn much, okay, she's not doing this shit on purpose! Well, at least there's a little victory in there to be had, even if she's not putting any of today's in her little shelf of wins.
But she did want to watch, and the effort that it's taking for her to should sincerely be acknowledged, he's not helping at all with keeping her focus on him. There's too much pleasure involved for someone whose brain is still so deeply affected by the last turn, and Sophie's fighting a war to focus because — from her point of view, is there something more delicious than the sight of someone who makes her heart erratic get lost inside her? Reach a level of pleasure that might transcend all reason? That's exactly why she wanted to see what he looked like when she probably had the most intense climax she has ever had, and who knows if she will get another like that again. Or more. Did she cap? Reach her limitations? Fuck, she can't miss him again.
Perfect is a funny way to describe it to miss little Perfection-Is-Everything, but it doesn't... Come with any negatives of pressure, or enoughness — she feels it too, she gets this feeling with him every fucking time, and he might be giving the word a whole new definition on his own. Restructuring her vocabulary and her brain. Get yourself a man who can do both. She can agree with it, the line for her to come is so close, the entire mindspace flickers into complete darkness a few times, utterly dark until he's about to reach it when he does come, it comes alive. If that's not some metaphorical bullshit right there, paired with how he looks, she doesn't know what would be.
She can't look away. Compared to all the torture that he did to her, not coming with him might be the biggest one. Is it telepathic bullshit at this point that triggers her? Not at all, but the trigger is desperately trying to be pushed, and her brain might be up in smoke, opening all files and closing them in a repeated loop. She's broke, and she keeps her hands where he asked, but her real body might as well be trying to skin his shoulder.
He looks gorgeous like that. Her brain is broken. He's going to bitch at her over his stinging pains tomorrow. Fuck all this, though. He looks fantastic, and damn, she wants to come for him so bad.)
That's a word he feels floating along the psychic airways as he starts coming down from the high of a climax that, while not the most intense, is nonetheless very, very satisfying.
Hm. Gorgeous.
He turns the word over in his head, tasting it mentally, trying to decide if he likes it. Well, okay, it's a compliment, so obviously he does. But does it fit? It's certainly not an adjective anyone's ever used to describe him before. Hmmmm... Unsure. He needs more data. Quentin slumps over her, hands leaving her legs to grip her wrists and lightly hold them in place. It's not necessary, of course. She obediently kept them where he put them just like he asked, something that makes the possessive little creature in his brain practically purr in delight. He doesn't make any such noise, naturally. Because that's weird. And furry shit. Which, no shade, isn't the vibe right now.]
Think that again. What I looked like.
[Is it grossly unfair of him to ask that of someone who is teetering on the edge of an orgasm while unable to do so? Especially since he's now languishing on top of her, deep inside her but not thrusting, just lazily grinding? Yes. Is he doing it because it's unfair and because he knows how excruciating it probably is going to be to go from so much stimulation to so little? Also yes. Look, she's carving chunks out of his goddamn shoulder out where it actually will leave marks. He's allowed to be petty. Nevermind the fact that she's only clawing at him because of said pettiness. Mind your business. So what if trying to control his physical reactions out in the real world is getting increasingly more difficult, and he's using excessive amounts of sexily spiteful torture to distract himself. Anyway, he's going to slide his hands up to interlock with her fingers and gently kiss her neck now. For reasons.]
God, you're so fucking tight. You think you could make me come just by clenching like that?
[No word on her coming. Maybe he'll be nice! Spoilers: he won't.]
(Sophie knows his self-esteem is in the gutter. She's also been a reason why—a regret she has in no short supply. She doesn't lie to him, and on the occasion she does, it's more of a group activity, both of them deceived, so she compliments him when he earns it. There weren't expectations of him being so attuned that he was paying attention enough to hear that side of her innermost thoughts, so color her surprised when he gets stuck on the word.
They might see it in different ways, to no one's shock. Sophie is used to having positive adjectives attached to her appearance — she's objectively lovely. Long legs, hourglass figure, even if she's not overly voluptuous, silky hair, ocean blue eyes, etc, etc. Telling her she's stunning, gorgeous, or any synonym of the sort does nothing for her, same weight as saying 'grass is green', or 'the sky is blue'. The word loses meaning coming from outside in, but when it's from her? She looks at the things that make him, well, him, and those are the sources of beauty in her eyes. Not some superficial crap like, wow, who would have thought, the Emma Frost clone is hot. Sky's blue. Grass is green.
So, he wants to see what she saw? That's fine by her. He's definitely going to sweep it under a rug and claim lunacy on her end, anyway. Points still don't matter. She's pulling her memory and looping to his, the way his neck tilted and the shape of his Adam's apple — the shadow from the firepit erupting made it look almost too charming, the spots where she likes kissing the most still marked on his skin. Pretty. His expression? Lost in pleasure, just — for that moment, nothing else really makes it there, does it? It's just... Him, enjoying himself to the fullest for a fucking damn moment, and he just... Looks so beautiful to her like that. Him. Not to mention the kinky part, but that one? He probably knows by heart, it makes her possessive brain circuit when he comes inside her. To see someone want her and come undone from it, because of what she did, how she's doing it. Wonderfully lustful. No news there.
She's not going to think it. She's going to say it to his face, choosing to use her words, because, well, some of us are not cowards, as previously stated.
Narcissistic on his part, but also?)
Gorgeous.
(At least now she can talk, her orgasm is still hanging by a thread, a moving goalpost that does it the closer she gets, and while sorely maddening, they're not going at a pace that kills her entire speech, not that her sounds are any less present. Instead, he's being... Gentle? Interesting. If someone wasn't gripping at her pleasure in total petulance, she could definitely come from how those kisses feel against her neck, and she tilts her head to give him the entire access with no barriers. Her fingers follow his, and fuck, her legs are right back around him and she didn't even realize when did that happen.
Just from that? Probably, but is he going to block her from seeing it again? He's moved. Fuck, what is going on in that mad scientist's mind? It's not even anxiety, she's learned to trust him entirely, but — curious? ... Thrilled? ... Nervously excited? Why try to name a feeling she hasn't processed yet. Fuck, she can deal with the torture a little longer, especially now that she stops clawing at him in the physical plane to kiss at his jawline.
So, no perception shifting. She knows exactly how tight she is. She knows how much tighter she can be, and she knows she could certainly do that harder here — so, as hard as she can, she clenches. Fuck, she can feel every single part of him like that, and she has to squeeze his hand as she leaves out a swear.)
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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.)
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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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Date: 2025-11-11 11:51 pm (UTC)She's lost in it for a second there. The pleasure is still rushing through her very skin, she can feel the spasms on her legs, her core, teeny pins and needles relaxing her as she breathes in — not that she has to, but even breathing feels incredible right now, so why the fuck not? The moment is really short-lived, because now that she's nearly coming down, she can go back to mourning the fact that she has no idea how he looked, what expression she pulled, or even how he sounded. Ugh, dumbass, she's never gonna manage to see that again. Where are your priorities, Cuckoo?
She was about to see if they could find a replay, because really, she might not be able to sleep tonight over that, so she's absolutely taken by surprise. Quentin snapping so quickly is unexpected in itself, and she hardly has a reaction time before she's gasping, long legs almost instantly wrapping around him as a reflex. Wow. Fuck, she likes this. The human spirit is truly unbreakable; when she's still gently returning to her senses, they spike and explode in all lustful directions just from that. Is she that easy, that sensitive, or it's just what happens here, not important, moving on.
Fuck giving him an answer, though. She's kissing him stupid instead.)
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Date: 2025-11-12 12:22 am (UTC)But that's not important right now. What's important is that he's releasing her arm so he can grab under her knees, push them up much higher and wider than would ever be comfortable in meatspace, and thrust all the way back inside her in a single motion. And sure, he was literally inside her like two seconds ago. Does he still groan like it's the first time? Yes. Look, it's not like she's any better. She just climaxed so hard she broke some of his mindscape stars, and she's still immediately so horny for him she didn't even bother answering his question. Fuck, she feels good. And it also feels amazing to not be on his back anymore. That was a lovely little vacation from the norm, but he's ready to get back to what they're more used to. There's comfort in routine, you know. Good for the soul. Especially when the routine is him fucking the living daylights out of her.
Speaking of. Best get to that, shall we? He bears down on her, gripping her legs and keeping her firmly in the position he wants, and kisses her in that same devouring way she was a short while ago. Great. Good. And after a moment of letting them both enjoy the feeling of all of him inside her, he starts moving. It's a classic: slowly drawing out almost all the way and then a sharp motion back in. One of his favorite paces, honestly, at least until they get so wild with lust their hips start going at lightspeed. Gives him that nice feeling of teasing her with emptiness before swiftly and assertively claiming her as his. It's a classic for a reason, you know? And since they're going back to basics this round after a little intermission of weird shit, this seems like a good start. Once she starts making those really, really nice noises, he'll figure out what's next.]
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Date: 2025-11-12 01:18 am (UTC)If it's not broke, there's no need to fix it, but see, she's actually giving him a little bit of a fight, even if that pace always fucking works to make her delirious — the craving for him to fill her again, and the strength in which he pulls in, giving her what she wanted pointedly after taking it away with such a deliberate pace. The fight is in the kiss, in the way that she squeezes him on his way out, so he wants to return faster.
She might not have a lot in her after this, to be honest, but if that's the last one of the day, she doesn't want their grand tour through forbidden lands that shall never be spoken of again with something that they'll probably do in two days from now. It's obviously the most comforting thing for both of them at this point, and that's exactly why she's going to end it being bold.
A little bit of her awareness returns to the physical plane, he's definitely capable of feeling her leave, and the invitation for him to do the same. Fuck, is she... A little spoon? Oh, dear fuck, okay, no, we're screaming about this later, away from him, none of his business. She's not giving them any second to think about it anyway, not before she moves to fit way too alluring on his hips, moving the easiest hand across the curves of her breasts, which he now should understand why it makes her breath hitch in her lungs, the shape of her waist, and to her hips. Ball's in his court.)
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Date: 2025-11-12 02:15 am (UTC)Damn, am I really boring you that much? Guess I oughta step up my game.
[He bends forward again, pressing her thighs to her chest, and grabs her hands to pull them roughly just above her head. Restrained, just like he was when their positions were switched. Good.]
Or maybe you just need a reminder—
[And it's at this point that he speeds up his pace, driving into her over and over, hard enough to jostle her body. She's squeezing him like she doesn't want to let him go, so he makes sure to almost leave her every time before he fills her completely again. God, that's good. Perfect. And now that he's got that rhythm going, he can finish that sentence, punctuating every word with a vicious thrust.]
—of who. You. Belong to.
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Date: 2025-11-12 09:57 am (UTC)He's so warm. Her physical body slots, and she slowly grinds for just one second before her divided focus is completely shatters because he sure knows that pinning her, while delightful, is a bit of torture for someone whose brain doesn't understand self-soothing as one. Working progress to get that to work, that's for sure, and she lets out a very thundering swear, the lights once more flickering from the startled pleasure that runs through her.
Boring? Hardly. Quentin Quire does not have that capacity. That goes into the list of reasons why she's into him, if he ever wondered, but she has no chance to reply with the cry that begs him not to leave before he is back inside her, possessive, deep, just like she urges. Fuck, this is going to get loud outside the astral plane, too. Good thing she's practically alone on this side of the mansion.)
You — fuck, keep — keep fucking me like that. Please. Fuck—
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Date: 2025-11-12 11:29 am (UTC)Not that he's in any hurry to explain it. Especially when she's already begging for him. Oh, Sophie, you're too easy. She may notice that the grinding of her physical body against his is indeed getting a reaction, but. Well, he would be shocked if she noticed anything after what he's going to do next. And what is that, pray tell? Glad you asked.
First, he shoves her hands firmly into the cushions and then lets go, leaning down to very briefly meet her lips before growling in the most dangerous tone he can manage with his particular
nasally, higher registerintonation.]Stay. And don't you dare fucking move them.
[There. Torture #1 completed. Satisfied, he leans back a little to shift into an almost kneeling position and uses his freed hands to grab her knees and spread them wider. Why? Because of Torture #2, obviously. See, her pelvis is tilted slightly more forward like this, the place where their bodies meet unobscured by his own.]
Look. Look how well you take me. Fuck—every. Inch. And you're gripping me—so tight—because you know you're mine.
[He gets a particularly deep thrust, and his eyes rolls back in pleasure. That little detour of Sophie sucking him off and riding him was great, but cripes it's good to be fucking her like this again.]
You missed it last time—right? Fuck, Sophie—beg me—to come inside you.
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Date: 2025-11-13 12:21 am (UTC)Two can be petty, but right now, he's winning. She wants him to, there's literally not a single cell in her body that isn't in absolute delight that he is. Interesting, getting dommed after the little revelations about herself that she just had. She's easy, correct, but fuck, if he doesn't earn it, if she isn't so damn easy for a reason. He probably hasn't thought of it, has he? He'd easily figure out that she's like this for him only, which could either make him overthink it into another plane of existence, or he'd be really fucking insufferable, which she finds nearly impossible for him to be any more of that. Her astral body complies, but her physical one is acting on instict alone, without Sophie's real input — both of them know she's rather handsy, so his hair, so easy to grab, gets a pull from how much she's challenged not to jump him. Is that a win for him, again? Maybe. Who's counting.
He is, probaby. Asshole. Whatever his voice being nasal, it's the tone that gets her. Fuck, she wants to ask 'or what' so badly, but she's nothing if not fascinated by what he has going on, and it's not like she has a whole lot of brain for these dumb disputes right now, when it's nearly frying.
And she looks, because of course she does. That is unbelievably alluring, and she's pulling his point of view to her so she can actually watch from a better standpoint. She does, doesn't she? And, well, she knows. She is. There's no way she can even fucking deny it, and he's definitely going to be feeling her pull on pink strands as confirmation, because talking is, once more, impossible.
Her voice is in his head again, it's literally the best she can do.)
Quentin, please? Just? Let me see you come. I want to feel it./
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Date: 2025-11-13 01:01 am (UTC)Okay, okay. No. He's got this. Focus. Pay no attention to the fact that his real body is starting to get worked up from all her wriggling and handsy bullshit. He's got a mission and by god he's going to fucking accomplish it.
Quentin feels her tapping into his optic feedback back in the astral plane, and he uses that as a focal point, moving his eyes down so she can see exactly what he sees. And hey, what the hell. While he's at it he also shares the feeling of how perfect she feels around him, tight yet oh-so-welcoming. That's enough to get him to the edge, at which point he pushes her back into her own sensory input. She wanted to watch him, right? To feel him? Well, lucky her, because if she wants a show she's getting it. His head tilts back in bliss, hips speeding up even more.]
Fuck—yes—Sophie—so fucking good for me, so fucking—perfect—shit—
[And then his eyes slip closed with a gasp and his body spasms as he releases inside her, hips as flush to hers as is physically possible. The sky above them lights up even brighter, and the fire pit spurts out a few larger blazes like it's receiving bursts of extra fuel.
... All of which Sophie will get to see in vivid detail because oh yeah? You know how they usually come together? She gets off on his climax? Yeah, he's blocking her from actually hitting that peak with him. Because she said she wanted to watch, obviously. Be careful what you wish for, Sophie.]
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Date: 2025-11-13 01:40 am (UTC)But she did want to watch, and the effort that it's taking for her to should sincerely be acknowledged, he's not helping at all with keeping her focus on him. There's too much pleasure involved for someone whose brain is still so deeply affected by the last turn, and Sophie's fighting a war to focus because — from her point of view, is there something more delicious than the sight of someone who makes her heart erratic get lost inside her? Reach a level of pleasure that might transcend all reason? That's exactly why she wanted to see what he looked like when she probably had the most intense climax she has ever had, and who knows if she will get another like that again. Or more. Did she cap? Reach her limitations? Fuck, she can't miss him again.
Perfect is a funny way to describe it to miss little Perfection-Is-Everything, but it doesn't... Come with any negatives of pressure, or enoughness — she feels it too, she gets this feeling with him every fucking time, and he might be giving the word a whole new definition on his own. Restructuring her vocabulary and her brain. Get yourself a man who can do both. She can agree with it, the line for her to come is so close, the entire mindspace flickers into complete darkness a few times, utterly dark until he's about to reach it when he does come, it comes alive. If that's not some metaphorical bullshit right there, paired with how he looks, she doesn't know what would be.
She can't look away. Compared to all the torture that he did to her, not coming with him might be the biggest one. Is it telepathic bullshit at this point that triggers her? Not at all, but the trigger is desperately trying to be pushed, and her brain might be up in smoke, opening all files and closing them in a repeated loop. She's broke, and she keeps her hands where he asked, but her real body might as well be trying to skin his shoulder.
He looks gorgeous like that. Her brain is broken. He's going to bitch at her over his stinging pains tomorrow. Fuck all this, though. He looks fantastic, and damn, she wants to come for him so bad.)
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Date: 2025-11-13 02:08 am (UTC)That's a word he feels floating along the psychic airways as he starts coming down from the high of a climax that, while not the most intense, is nonetheless very, very satisfying.
Hm. Gorgeous.
He turns the word over in his head, tasting it mentally, trying to decide if he likes it. Well, okay, it's a compliment, so obviously he does. But does it fit? It's certainly not an adjective anyone's ever used to describe him before. Hmmmm... Unsure. He needs more data. Quentin slumps over her, hands leaving her legs to grip her wrists and lightly hold them in place. It's not necessary, of course. She obediently kept them where he put them just like he asked, something that makes the possessive little creature in his brain practically purr in delight. He doesn't make any such noise, naturally. Because that's weird. And furry shit. Which, no shade, isn't the vibe right now.]
Think that again. What I looked like.
[Is it grossly unfair of him to ask that of someone who is teetering on the edge of an orgasm while unable to do so? Especially since he's now languishing on top of her, deep inside her but not thrusting, just lazily grinding? Yes. Is he doing it because it's unfair and because he knows how excruciating it probably is going to be to go from so much stimulation to so little? Also yes. Look, she's carving chunks out of his goddamn shoulder out where it actually will leave marks. He's allowed to be petty. Nevermind the fact that she's only clawing at him because of said pettiness. Mind your business. So what if trying to control his physical reactions out in the real world is getting increasingly more difficult, and he's using excessive amounts of sexily spiteful torture to distract himself. Anyway, he's going to slide his hands up to interlock with her fingers and gently kiss her neck now. For reasons.]
God, you're so fucking tight. You think you could make me come just by clenching like that?
[No word on her coming. Maybe he'll be nice!
Spoilers: he won't.]no subject
Date: 2025-11-14 12:24 am (UTC)They might see it in different ways, to no one's shock. Sophie is used to having positive adjectives attached to her appearance — she's objectively lovely. Long legs, hourglass figure, even if she's not overly voluptuous, silky hair, ocean blue eyes, etc, etc. Telling her she's stunning, gorgeous, or any synonym of the sort does nothing for her, same weight as saying 'grass is green', or 'the sky is blue'. The word loses meaning coming from outside in, but when it's from her? She looks at the things that make him, well, him, and those are the sources of beauty in her eyes. Not some superficial crap like, wow, who would have thought, the Emma Frost clone is hot. Sky's blue. Grass is green.
So, he wants to see what she saw? That's fine by her. He's definitely going to sweep it under a rug and claim lunacy on her end, anyway. Points still don't matter. She's pulling her memory and looping to his, the way his neck tilted and the shape of his Adam's apple — the shadow from the firepit erupting made it look almost too charming, the spots where she likes kissing the most still marked on his skin. Pretty. His expression? Lost in pleasure, just — for that moment, nothing else really makes it there, does it? It's just... Him, enjoying himself to the fullest for a fucking damn moment, and he just... Looks so beautiful to her like that. Him. Not to mention the kinky part, but that one? He probably knows by heart, it makes her possessive brain circuit when he comes inside her. To see someone want her and come undone from it, because of what she did, how she's doing it. Wonderfully lustful. No news there.
She's not going to think it. She's going to say it to his face, choosing to use her words, because, well, some of us are not cowards, as previously stated.
Narcissistic on his part, but also?)
Gorgeous.
(At least now she can talk, her orgasm is still hanging by a thread, a moving goalpost that does it the closer she gets, and while sorely maddening, they're not going at a pace that kills her entire speech, not that her sounds are any less present. Instead, he's being... Gentle? Interesting. If someone wasn't gripping at her pleasure in total petulance, she could definitely come from how those kisses feel against her neck, and she tilts her head to give him the entire access with no barriers. Her fingers follow his, and fuck, her legs are right back around him and she didn't even realize when did that happen.
Just from that? Probably, but is he going to block her from seeing it again? He's moved. Fuck, what is going on in that mad scientist's mind? It's not even anxiety, she's learned to trust him entirely, but — curious? ... Thrilled? ... Nervously excited? Why try to name a feeling she hasn't processed yet. Fuck, she can deal with the torture a little longer, especially now that she stops clawing at him in the physical plane to kiss at his jawline.
So, no perception shifting. She knows exactly how tight she is. She knows how much tighter she can be, and she knows she could certainly do that harder here — so, as hard as she can, she clenches. Fuck, she can feel every single part of him like that, and she has to squeeze his hand as she leaves out a swear.)
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