[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.)
[He receives her memory, and... hm. Regards it curiously. And look, it's not like he has any issue with watching himself. If he could fuck himself, he would in a heartbeat, no questions asked. No matter what self-esteem or self-image or whatever bullshit issues lurk under the surface of his fucked up brain, he does agree that he's a good fuck. If nothing else, he's got that. Lucky Sophie.
The word choice though? He's still undecided on that. It feels good, but... eh, he's not fully vibing with it. Couldn't tell you why.
Whatever. He's got better things to do right now than dissect that. Like edging her some more by he selfishly takes all the pleasure he wants from her, because for some reason she gets off on that. Or well. Doesn't get off on it. Hence the edging. It turns her on like crazy, is what he's saying. Fine by him.
Any concerns she had about not being able to see him are dismissed when he leaves her neck and raises himself up, supporting his weight on straight arms with his hands still keeping hers pinned. She likes when he's selfish, she likes looking at him, she likes pleasing him and feeling him lose himself in her, so that's what he's going to do. She clenches around him, and he squeezes his eyes closed with a grunt.]
Shit, yeah—just like that.
[He grinds demandingly against her, the motion of thrusting without ever pulling out. This is the last round he's gonna get before he won't be able to ignore how his physical body is reacting, so it'll probably need to be quick. Which of course is why he chose an entirely untried, inherently slower paced, extremely sensual method of getting himself off. Hm. Maybe not his smartest choice. But that can't be right. He's a genius. A visionary. He just needs to lock in and—
You know what? Fuck it. He lets out a mildly frustrated, mildly defeated sigh and starts muttering under his breath between rocking against her.]
Fuck—impatient—getting me all worked up. Okay. Next time. We're doing this next time. I just gotta—I'm gonna mix it up now, okay? You'll still get to watch me. Just—little more of a time crunch than I anticipated.
(That one is not her problem, how wonderful is that? He fished a thought from her end, and it's her opinion from how she sees him when he comes, so it wasn't for him to begin with. Ah, to not have to have a whole conversation about it when she's in no way expected to care about that part in the first place. Love liking a man with no strings attached, it's the best.
Not that this line of thought sticks to any walls, it goes right over her head and barely forms. It's taking so fucking long for him to let her go; he's never kept her on the cliff like that before, hanging — shit, this is actually akin to torture, the loop doesn't end, and she just clings to him on both planes with all her strength. It physically isn't that pressing; it just means she glues herself to him harder, hands going to the arms that embrace her to grip on. Astrally, though? Good thing he's stronger than her, because her legs are taking it out on his waist just how much she's craving to come for him, thumb pressing on the back of his hand while she tries to breath.
Not to mention the fact that she cannot possibly clench any more than she is, so she's taking that out on him there, too. He's hardly moving out of her, and that? Why is that so appealing, too? Fuck, just let her—
Is he complaining she's??? Fucking him too good?? Hold the fuck up, she almost tries to smile and laugh at his blaming before it comes out as a gasp. She has no idea what his plan is, so, it's not like she's following him entirely.
[Great. Good. They're on the same page. Fuck. Okay. He's just gonna get off one more time and then the grand finale where he fucks her in both planes, which is going to be so hot and sexy and awesome and her brain's gonna melt out of her ears with pleasure. That's the plan. Why is that second time coming without her so necessary that he has to complain about it and change up what they're doing because he picked a position that was conducive to it?
Um. Because reasons. Rule of threes? Look, he just wants to, okay. Don't question his genius.
Alright. How to come fast but still allow her to see him and still keep it Extra because what's the point of doing it on the astral plane if they're not disobeying at least ten rules of biology and/or physics. Against the wall he wants to save for the last round since he can't guarantee she'll be able to see him. So what else have they not done?
He blinks, and they're suddenly teleported to what appears to be the room where the nonspecific party once was earlier, now revealed (or imagined?) to be a penthouse, lavish yet ultra-modern in decor and style. Not that Sophie will get much chance to take in the surroundings before she's facedown on a table with Quentin standing behind her. The room is mercifully empty, though the large windows on the side of the room still show a lovely view of the city outside. But again, she may not notice that. What she'll have no choice but to notice, however, is the gigantic mirror situated in front of them. Why doesn't she have a choice? Because he's leaning over her, curling fingers in her hair, and lightly but firmly tugging her head back so it's in front of her face. And Quentin? He looks about as smug as anyone could expect, looming behind her.]
There. Told ya you'd be able to see me.
[And then he straightens up, grabs her waist just how she likes it, and thrusts all the way into her, also just how she likes it. The pace he sets is immediately rough and possessive, keeping that same trick of hardly pulling out in favor of just rocking her against the table so hard it creaks. Oh, yeah. He'll be able to finish himself off in no time like this, and he closes his eyes again just to feel.]
(Where is he getting all this strength, she isn't sure. Is his brain that much faster he can just take all of this in and not die? Her brain is pretty fast. She's dying. He has managed to fill her brain with this annoying feeling of insufficient climax funds, to the point it's starting to normalize — she suspects that's hardly what he wants, he wants her to die, most likely.
Before he complains she's impatient and too good at this that he's getting worked up again, this is a billion percent on him, just putting that on writing. She isn't really noticing anything that isn't spelled out, mind him — she's too busy inner fighting the inner demons who want to murder him for this, and they're winning, would go to war if they weren't swimming in too much dopamine to act. Her brain is completely scrambled, which he probably knows — absolutely no rhyme, no reason, or any logic in there.
Previously, he's put her face out there. At least now, that she finally got what he means, it doesn't freak her out at all. She looks absolutely messy, but well, good. She lifts her head with the nudge from his hand, and her eyes settle on herself for a second before they go to him. Shit, knowing how he likes that position, she's probably going to have the time of her life watching him, hands moving to find a place to support their weight as she too moves against him with all her strength. Hers, his, they know the gist, but he's doing the thing she likes watching.
[Quentin usually likes watching her. He keeps his brain tuned into his, skimming her mind for the sweetest pleasure and making it his. It's the best way to overload the section of his extensive brain power that he allocates for this. Right now, though? Right now he's not paying much attention to her.
She wants to watch him lose himself. She thinks it's "gorgeous". So that's what he's doing. Getting lost. He's upright, the only contact between them the place where their hips are permanently fused and his grip on her waist, and his eyes are closed. No talking this time—a goddamn miracle for Quentin Quire—but that's because he's narrowing a large portion of his focus to his pleasure only. The hot, wet clenching around him. The perfect amount of tightness. The noises she's making, the squeaking of the table, the tingling in his lower back. He's never used her so selfishly, using her to get himself off as quickly and efficiently as possible, and fuck, Sophie had better be grateful, because he's going completely out of his way to make sure this is one of the most unfiltered orgasms he's had the whole time they've been doing this.
It doesn't take long, as intended. He drops his head and moans, the room around them flickers for half a second into his usual mindscape library before returning to the penthouse, and he breathlessly gasps "mine" as he fills her. This time he lets her have the echo of his climax, enough to make her spasm under and around him but not nearly enough to satisfy. You're welcome, Sophie.]
(Which is actually pretty nice. Not for some bullshit reason, like literally every other time, in which she wanted to divert his attention from her for some smidge of comfort. It's not like she doesn't like the attention either — she does. For all the insane shit they do, Quentin is always tuned in. He always makes sure she's comfortable, compliant, willing, and pleased. He's gentle between the lines, and that, she really does like. But — look, right now is pulling her attention like nothing else, she couldn't take her eyes away from him even if she tried with all her might.
She knows Quentin. He... What is the word, exactly? Overcares? Mhm. Not exactly that, in this context. Perhaps the best way to describe it is that, as one, he fuses with another. She's seen him with Phoebe. She's even seen that with herself — the riot and all. He's not his own priority. That's noble, admirable, until a certain point. Until it starts to drown him and whoever is nearby, willing or otherwise. Loses himself, his agency, in the benefit of another, and thus, the puddling and spineless actions begin. This is as further to it as she has ever seen, and fuck, she's so delighted, so ridiculously turned on and she hasn't even processed the reasoning why other than the fact that he's... Well, him. Just being him, and letting her see it, inviting and, for lack of a better word, forcing — not that he would if she weren't asking for that exactly.
She could fucking frame it. It's wonderful, if he asked her. Not an ounce of bleeding through anything, unfiltered, raw, just... Ugh, it's himself, and that's driving her absolutely insane, the smile on her face too damn large for someone who's been in orgasm denial for so long. He even lost control for a little bit there, and she gasped at the surprise, arms reaching to hold his wrists for stability. Which, well, another thing they haven't done, but why not. They made it this far.
Speaking of which, she's taking that echo, because that's some relief from the edging hell she's currently living in. He's even got her real voice ringing in her room, a whole unconscious level begging him to let her.
[Hoo boy. Quentin takes a second or two to come back to himself, because that one? That one did a number on him. Which is saying something, considering the day they've had. But it's not over yet, and she's begging him to let her come. Which means he still has a job to do. And it's a job that he takes very, very seriously.
First, he's going to use the break in astral plane shenanigans to finally pay attention to their real bodies. He grinds against her ass and starts finally exploring her body with his hand, all the places she tried to guide him to earlier. She's sensitive probably fucking everywhere at this point, but now that he's paying attention to her again, he wants to hear her noises. He'll slide himself inside her again shortly, of course. That much is obvious. But, well. He's mean. So.
In the astral plane, meanwhile, he's eyeing her hands on his wrists. How that makes her arch so nicely. Hm. That's an idea.
Well, it's the last round, and she's been edged to oblivion. He'll be gracious and let her choose.]
Here? Or wall?
[Or, you know. A third option. But he's not sure she's in much state to make too many complex decisions right now.]
(See? Pretty fucking gorgeous. Not that she's ever calling him that outside of his mind anyway, nor explaining why she thinks it. He can think about it on his own, if he wants, but if he doesn't? Sophie's the one who's trying to figure him out on her own; he's free to do whatever the fuck he wants with the information she supplies him.
However, if she isn't feeling even more static than she's felt all day, which, holy shit, she doesn't know what static means. He looked way too irresistible for her not to gasp as she grips at the edges of her mind for her climax — that does not come. It should have come from that, fuck, it would have. Fucking asshole — but at least that means she can still look at his expression, a little wrecked, riding through what felt like an earthquake in the distance for her.
Her entire body in the physical plane squirms under his touch, nearly spasms. She's so wet that if he grinds in angle, he might accidentally slip — no complaints from her, because her instinctual self has basically no shame. She's literally asking him to, and it's hard for her to unscramble her brain to answer.
So, big delay, because she has to take a moment there to find some semblance of focus.)
Pin me on a wall.
(However he wants to do that, if he wants to hold her legs around him, from behind, she barely cares at this point.)
[And then they're elsewhere, her back pinned to the wall with her legs around his waist and his hands gripping her ass. He can't pick her up out in the physical world, so now's the perfect time. Plus, a nice little callback to their shared favorite day when he would have done this exact thing if he'd been able to. They ended up having to fuck on his table that day, but here they don't. The mirror is also still there, on the opposite wall so she can get an excellent view of his back and her clinging to him if she's so inclined. And this time he's already inside her when they relocate, because quite frankly he's teased her enough. See? He can be merciful sometimes. Speaking of, he leans in, lips against hers but not kissing her just yet.]
Feel free to come whenever you want. And as many times as you want.
[Yep, he's lifting that edging block, just in time for him to slip inside her from behind on the couch and kiss her demandingly here in the astral plane. He thinks she's earned a reward for good behavior.]
(Hopefully he doesn't think she minds that he can't do it, because she really, really doesn't. That said, variety is excellent, and if they're in the astral plane, all things they can't do both metaphorically or physically are conveniently an option, so why not? Besides, the reason she chose this was so she could see him from up close.
Also, further bullshit that her legs also feel like they belong to his waist just as much as his hands to her own. Hopefully, she remembers to add that to the list of things she screams at Miss Karma later. She's dangerously busy at the moment; anyway, complaining is going to have to wait. See, he tortured the shit out of her, and the fact that she's into it is currently not relevant. See, over time, things get noticed. Quentin feeds off of her wanting him, doesn't he? Loves to overwhelm her to the point that she is, where not a single thought forms, doesn't he? One comes. Well, that part of her brain that's completely fried from all the dopamine and anticipation, she's shoving into his, raw, unfiltered, and even the parts she's running through her bones to manage the overload. The other half of what she's doing is giving him her unrestricted thought process of how hot he looked finally getting lost in his own pleasure. That was the hardest she thought she needed to climax, and he gets to receive all that immensurable lust she had in that very moment.
Because fuck him, that's why. She's going to come, yes, but not before being just as demanding as he is with her own kiss. Her possessiveness shows in the way her kiss has a bite to it, and God, she wants to feel it right back at her. She's not even replying to him, in neither plane. Her physical body is moving in a slow pace, akin to the one he uses to calm himself down, her hand buried in his hair to gently pull. Just contrasting, not that she's all thinking all that about it.)
Her lust hits him like a ton of bricks, and her back hits the wall equally as hard because fuck, did he think he was calming down? That this might be a slow round to tie things up for the day? Joke's on him, because they're obviously way too horny for that shit. Oh, sure, they're still moving slow-ish in the physical world, but that's mostly because they're on a couch with limited mobility and he has to have her pressed as closely as possible to his chest. But any chance of slow in the astral plane? Out the goddamn window.
Quentin practically snarls into the kiss and bites down on her lower lip, hard enough to definitely get her attention but not draw blood—assuming that would even be possible here.]
/Mine./
[He repeats the word in the real world, hissed in her ear as he tightens his hold on her with one arm and slides the other hand down to rub between her legs. Not remotely necessary, but something about touching her reinforces his ownership in his monkey brain. Like he controls her pleasure, and if he wants to bring her even more? Who is she to stop him?
In the astral plane is where he lets loose. Her body is pinned between the wall and his, her legs around his waist. She has no leverage to move, no ability to do anything but take what he gives her. And he's giving her everything, thrusting hard and deep into her. Where the fuck does she get off trying to rile him up? Challenge him? He moves one hand off her ass—she's wedged so tightly against the wall there's no chance of her falling—and grabs a handful of her hair and tugs it to the side, latching his mouth into her neck and sucking a mark.]
(Good. He didn't think he was going to torture her and get out unscathed from any telepathic bullshit on her side, did he? She wishes she had enough logical thinking in her to do something more intricate or creative, but alas. It's not like he really complains when she's a hurricane of a person, anyway, so a ton of bricks works — although next time she might aim for tons of tons. Just a little thing she's going to have to plan it, so he doesn't completely disassemble her brain prior to her coming up with something. He's quite good at that, she's gotta hand it to him.
Interestingly enough, she's not competing with him, at least from her point of view. She's meeting him where he's at, two forces of passion and lust — he's possessive, she's possessive, even if he's winning on mobility. It's that simple to her as it is right now, so he bites her lip and she moans, her hands moving to his face to hold him so she can consume him with her pair. She's not disputing facts, either.)
/All — yours./
(Real world Sophie is way less dominant than this, with her awareness fractured. That one is holding onto him for dear life, pulling every time the angle is met, which, wow, it's a new way to hit it, and before she knows it, a sound she's never made before leaves her mouth. Touching her as worked up as she is is hardly necessary, she's about to come way sooner than she'd like, but she's spreading her legs to hook one around his, giving him all the access he could want.
The sound she made comes to the astral plane, too, into his mouth no less, before he moves away to grab her. She can't move, but she can hold him with her every muscle, grasp around his body and length. Not even purposefully for him or anything. It's really just how she feels, her body fluttering and trembling with the mark he's leaving her.
Fuck. She's going to climax. There's no fucking way.)
Come — fuck, I can't hold anymore, seriously — come with me.
[See, he's already feeling spicy from her dumping all her horniness into his brain. But when she doesn't immediately obey and come like he explicitly told her to? That's just not acceptable.]
No.
[He yanks her hands off his face and pins her wrists to the wall, leaving only her legs around his waist supporting her. And thanks to gravity, she sinks further onto him. Convenient! Not like that's going to change the roughness of his thrusts, though. Just because he can't possibly get deeper inside her doesn't mean he's not going to absolutely rail her.]
You're going to come for me. And I'm going to keep fucking you.
[In the physical world, he rubs her more insistently, his free hand moving up to her breast to hungrily grope her. Is it a bit dangerous to let this "no rules" possessiveness leak out into the real world? Probably. But all he can think about right now is inflicting so much pleasure on her that she becomes compliant and mewling the way he likes.]
You'll come for me—and scream my name—until I decide to fill you up.
(Remember this is all in good fun, no winners, she wasn't competing, genuinely? All that considered, fine, he wins. He wins by a hundred points. She's thought several times before she couldn't possibly get more attracted to him, which is so fucked up, mind everyone, and today, right now? She's surprised at herself. Wasn't she supposed to be this ice wall of unfeeling harshness? What the fuck.
Her hands taken means she digs her heel into the small of his back, a request for him not to change his mind — does he think she's complaining, she's not at all. Fuck, she loves dominant Quentin. Loves being told to her face what he wants, so her head tilts back as she finally lets go from... Sophie wasn't fighting, but from whatever was keeping her from just fucking enjoying it. Feral. She's already proven he's hers, undeniably and with no room for context.
So, he's proving it, too. She's his. Perhaps as hard as he could possibly declare, which is making her hands in the real world tap around for the first thing she can close her fist around and drown her lust in with her nails. If it happens to be him, let the record show it wasn't purposefully.
She's finally, as ironic as it is, puddled. His name comes out like it's the only thing her voice knows how to pronouce. Real Sophie comes, too — fingers holding to his hip so he stays as deep as he can while she rides it. If the ground shakes and the mirror cracks, that's definitely a coincidence, not because her brain just erupted in chemicals or anything.)
[Who would have predicted they'd end up here when they started this months ago? Not Quentin, that's who. He's never, ever been like this with any partners, sexual or not. It's crude, barbaric, embarrassingly chauvinistic.
And it lights both of their brains on fire like nothing else.
Like... Fuck, the sense of triumph he feels when she finally submits. The satisfaction when she fall apart, cries out his name so beautifully, flutters around him and clings and all the other eight thousand delicious things she's doing. As much as Sophie loves dominant Quentin, submissive Sophie really does something for him.
He growls in satisfaction as she comes for him and makes the entire mindscape rumble with the force of her climax. Yes. Good. That's what he wanted. In the real world he rubs her through the waves of pleasure and doesn't let up even as they start ebbing. He told her he was going to keep fucking her, after all. If she thinks she's getting a chance to come down from the overstimulation, well, sad to say she's got a big storm coming. Literally.]
Good. Now that you're behaving—I'll give you want you need.
[She's earned a little reward. By which he means she gets her hands back—she'll need them—because he's hooking his arms under both of her knees. See, she isn't quite at his mercy yet. Somehow. And the grinding thing of never pulling out of her isn't doing it for him at the moment. Especially since he can't really get good leverage on the couch. But with her legs hiked up, he can thrust or bounce her on him to his heart's content. Fuck, it's nice to not have to be reminded of the limitations of his puny twig arms. Here he can lift her effortlessly and just go to town, making sure she's stuck in an endless loop of pleasure until she's eternally ruined.]
Fuck, you're so thirsty for it. Nothing gets you off like me—fuck—coming inside you—does it? So fucking greedy for me.
[He's got no clue where any of this is coming from. Where did he learn to talk like this? Well, aside from the obvious answer. All he knows is he doesn't care right now. He drops his forehead to her shoulder and keeps spewing the filthy things his brain continually spawns.]
Don't worry. I'll fill you up. Make sure you take every drop. In both realities. My good girl. Mine.
As a person, Sophie has a presence, one that exudes power with every comment and clack of her heels as she strides. With Quentin, she had too much power for far too long, and it never culminated in anything productive. Her fault? His fault? Their fault? Unimportant in the face of the consequences. For the past few months, all she's done is to think, and she thinks, and she tries, and tries, and tries to understand, for herself first and foremost, but to a small degree for him, too. He, uh, might deserve a partner who sees him and values him, especially when said partner humiliated him every given opportunity she has ever had, no guilt until recently, her former view of him a warped atrocity of unjust conventions and half-truths.
It's a lot of work. It's work she's doing on her own, out of her own volition — wouldn't it be shitty to bring those to his door? 'Hello, I'm trying to figure you out, even if I never tried to before and treated you like shit at home, here's work for you to help me'. Needless to say, she's not at all regretting this decision, but she does get emotionally fatigued. That's not even accounting for her resentment towards his own submission, previously documented, but a simple concept nonetheless — he wants her? He can come get her. Fucking do something.
And get her Quentin does. She gets to disconnect her brain, allow him to rule, disclose her what he wants from her, be taken and relished, shaken till any doubt or concern gets smothered by disheveling delectation. Quentin, and Quentin alone, can have her like this. He worked for it, she worked for it, and she finally manages to submit and have exactly what she wanted. Assertive, dominant, audacious Quentin.
He doesn't have to worry on the 'eternally ruined' part, at least. She probably already is, most things will pale in contrast to them after all this, but overstimulated as she is? She might not recover from this, he might get her pulling him to his mindscape more often. This is dangerously addictive. Fuck, he is dangerously addictive, and she doesn't mind it. Her hands are on him again, not coming down from the orgasm as she doesn't have a chance to, and his back is going to get that memo with the scratches she's leaving with no gentleness or concern. Not even for grounding purposes this time, more on the sense that she wants him to feel how much he's wanted on his skin.
Fuck, he's back to talking. Her lips can't say a word that isn't his name, it's coming out of her every breath, so replying has to be telepathy, she is struggling here.)
[Fuck, the pain from her clawing at his back is almost as good as the shit she's saying. Almost. He doesn't think anything will ever match how it feels to hear her say she's his. God, he can't get enough. Yeah, sure, it doesn't "matter," not in reality, but he's not doing this expecting anything real.
Commitment isn't the goal here, no matter how many times he says he wants her ruined for anyone else, how perfectly she fits him, how she submits for him and only him. A relationship, a real one, the kind he truly wants to have some day, isn't in the cards for them. Never had been. Just like with Phoebe. That's fine. He doesn't want that with Sophie, and he thinks now he's realizing he never did. All he ever wanted from Sophie was to be noticed, and she's sure as shit noticing him now. Hell, he's doing his best to fuck every single other thought that isn't about him out of her head, and she's letting him. Sophie Cuckoo, in one dimension pinned to a wall and so wet he bottoms out on every rough, dominating thrust, calling his name over and over as she begs for his come, and in another clinging to him, just as wet and needy, while he slow-fucks her from behind on her couch. That sure wasn't on his bingo card for this year.]
Fuck, I'm so close.
[She never seems to respond to his praise the way his brain says she should. That's okay. Not everyone has a praise kink like he does. But if he doesn't talk right now, he's going to spontaneously combust on the spot, and that would probably be a bit of a mood killer. So he frantically searches his mind for other words, things that will make her flutter around him more than she already is.]
God, it's so hot how much you want me. Fucking love how I fit inside you. How wet you get. When you say my name—fuck, don't stop. I'm gonna fill you up—shit, I want to so bad. Just—a little more.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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.)
no subject
Date: 2025-11-14 01:15 am (UTC)The word choice though? He's still undecided on that. It feels good, but... eh, he's not fully vibing with it. Couldn't tell you why.
Whatever. He's got better things to do right now than dissect that. Like edging her some more by he selfishly takes all the pleasure he wants from her, because for some reason she gets off on that. Or well. Doesn't get off on it. Hence the edging. It turns her on like crazy, is what he's saying. Fine by him.
Any concerns she had about not being able to see him are dismissed when he leaves her neck and raises himself up, supporting his weight on straight arms with his hands still keeping hers pinned. She likes when he's selfish, she likes looking at him, she likes pleasing him and feeling him lose himself in her, so that's what he's going to do. She clenches around him, and he squeezes his eyes closed with a grunt.]
Shit, yeah—just like that.
[He grinds demandingly against her, the motion of thrusting without ever pulling out. This is the last round he's gonna get before he won't be able to ignore how his physical body is reacting, so it'll probably need to be quick. Which of course is why he chose an entirely untried, inherently slower paced, extremely sensual method of getting himself off. Hm. Maybe not his smartest choice. But that can't be right. He's a genius. A visionary. He just needs to lock in and—
You know what? Fuck it. He lets out a mildly frustrated, mildly defeated sigh and starts muttering under his breath between rocking against her.]
Fuck—impatient—getting me all worked up. Okay. Next time. We're doing this next time. I just gotta—I'm gonna mix it up now, okay? You'll still get to watch me. Just—little more of a time crunch than I anticipated.
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Date: 2025-11-14 02:03 am (UTC)Not that this line of thought sticks to any walls, it goes right over her head and barely forms. It's taking so fucking long for him to let her go; he's never kept her on the cliff like that before, hanging — shit, this is actually akin to torture, the loop doesn't end, and she just clings to him on both planes with all her strength. It physically isn't that pressing; it just means she glues herself to him harder, hands going to the arms that embrace her to grip on. Astrally, though? Good thing he's stronger than her, because her legs are taking it out on his waist just how much she's craving to come for him, thumb pressing on the back of his hand while she tries to breath.
Not to mention the fact that she cannot possibly clench any more than she is, so she's taking that out on him there, too. He's hardly moving out of her, and that? Why is that so appealing, too? Fuck, just let her—
Is he complaining she's??? Fucking him too good?? Hold the fuck up, she almost tries to smile and laugh at his blaming before it comes out as a gasp. She has no idea what his plan is, so, it's not like she's following him entirely.
It's fine, she's giving him a mental nod.)
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Date: 2025-11-14 02:39 am (UTC)Um. Because reasons. Rule of threes? Look, he just wants to, okay. Don't question his genius.
Alright. How to come fast but still allow her to see him and still keep it Extra because what's the point of doing it on the astral plane if they're not disobeying at least ten rules of biology and/or physics. Against the wall he wants to save for the last round since he can't guarantee she'll be able to see him. So what else have they not done?
He blinks, and they're suddenly teleported to what appears to be the room where the nonspecific party once was earlier, now revealed (or imagined?) to be a penthouse, lavish yet ultra-modern in decor and style. Not that Sophie will get much chance to take in the surroundings before she's facedown on a table with Quentin standing behind her. The room is mercifully empty, though the large windows on the side of the room still show a lovely view of the city outside. But again, she may not notice that. What she'll have no choice but to notice, however, is the gigantic mirror situated in front of them. Why doesn't she have a choice? Because he's leaning over her, curling fingers in her hair, and lightly but firmly tugging her head back so it's in front of her face. And Quentin? He looks about as smug as anyone could expect, looming behind her.]
There. Told ya you'd be able to see me.
[And then he straightens up, grabs her waist just how she likes it, and thrusts all the way into her, also just how she likes it. The pace he sets is immediately rough and possessive, keeping that same trick of hardly pulling out in favor of just rocking her against the table so hard it creaks. Oh, yeah. He'll be able to finish himself off in no time like this, and he closes his eyes again just to feel.]
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Date: 2025-11-14 11:52 am (UTC)Before he complains she's impatient and too good at this that he's getting worked up again, this is a billion percent on him, just putting that on writing. She isn't really noticing anything that isn't spelled out, mind him — she's too busy inner fighting the inner demons who want to murder him for this, and they're winning, would go to war if they weren't swimming in too much dopamine to act. Her brain is completely scrambled, which he probably knows — absolutely no rhyme, no reason, or any logic in there.
Previously, he's put her face out there. At least now, that she finally got what he means, it doesn't freak her out at all. She looks absolutely messy, but well, good. She lifts her head with the nudge from his hand, and her eyes settle on herself for a second before they go to him. Shit, knowing how he likes that position, she's probably going to have the time of her life watching him, hands moving to find a place to support their weight as she too moves against him with all her strength. Hers, his, they know the gist, but he's doing the thing she likes watching.
He's just feeling.
He looks nice.)
no subject
Date: 2025-11-14 04:18 pm (UTC)She wants to watch him lose himself. She thinks it's "gorgeous". So that's what he's doing. Getting lost. He's upright, the only contact between them the place where their hips are permanently fused and his grip on her waist, and his eyes are closed. No talking this time—a goddamn miracle for Quentin Quire—but that's because he's narrowing a large portion of his focus to his pleasure only. The hot, wet clenching around him. The perfect amount of tightness. The noises she's making, the squeaking of the table, the tingling in his lower back. He's never used her so selfishly, using her to get himself off as quickly and efficiently as possible, and fuck, Sophie had better be grateful, because he's going completely out of his way to make sure this is one of the most unfiltered orgasms he's had the whole time they've been doing this.
It doesn't take long, as intended. He drops his head and moans, the room around them flickers for half a second into his usual mindscape library before returning to the penthouse, and he breathlessly gasps "mine" as he fills her. This time he lets her have the echo of his climax, enough to make her spasm under and around him but not nearly enough to satisfy. You're welcome, Sophie.]
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Date: 2025-11-14 09:34 pm (UTC)She knows Quentin. He... What is the word, exactly? Overcares? Mhm. Not exactly that, in this context. Perhaps the best way to describe it is that, as one, he fuses with another. She's seen him with Phoebe. She's even seen that with herself — the riot and all. He's not his own priority. That's noble, admirable, until a certain point. Until it starts to drown him and whoever is nearby, willing or otherwise. Loses himself, his agency, in the benefit of another, and thus, the puddling and spineless actions begin. This is as further to it as she has ever seen, and fuck, she's so delighted, so ridiculously turned on and she hasn't even processed the reasoning why other than the fact that he's... Well, him. Just being him, and letting her see it, inviting and, for lack of a better word, forcing — not that he would if she weren't asking for that exactly.
She could fucking frame it. It's wonderful, if he asked her. Not an ounce of bleeding through anything, unfiltered, raw, just... Ugh, it's himself, and that's driving her absolutely insane, the smile on her face too damn large for someone who's been in orgasm denial for so long. He even lost control for a little bit there, and she gasped at the surprise, arms reaching to hold his wrists for stability. Which, well, another thing they haven't done, but why not. They made it this far.
Speaking of which, she's taking that echo, because that's some relief from the edging hell she's currently living in. He's even got her real voice ringing in her room, a whole unconscious level begging him to let her.
Straight to his ear, mind him.)
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Date: 2025-11-14 11:24 pm (UTC)First, he's going to use the break in astral plane shenanigans to finally pay attention to their real bodies. He grinds against her ass and starts finally exploring her body with his hand, all the places she tried to guide him to earlier. She's sensitive probably fucking everywhere at this point, but now that he's paying attention to her again, he wants to hear her noises. He'll slide himself inside her again shortly, of course. That much is obvious. But, well. He's mean. So.
In the astral plane, meanwhile, he's eyeing her hands on his wrists. How that makes her arch so nicely. Hm. That's an idea.
Well, it's the last round, and she's been edged to oblivion. He'll be gracious and let her choose.]
Here? Or wall?
[Or, you know. A third option. But he's not sure she's in much state to make too many complex decisions right now.]
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Date: 2025-11-14 11:52 pm (UTC)However, if she isn't feeling even more static than she's felt all day, which, holy shit, she doesn't know what static means. He looked way too irresistible for her not to gasp as she grips at the edges of her mind for her climax — that does not come. It should have come from that, fuck, it would have. Fucking asshole — but at least that means she can still look at his expression, a little wrecked, riding through what felt like an earthquake in the distance for her.
Her entire body in the physical plane squirms under his touch, nearly spasms. She's so wet that if he grinds in angle, he might accidentally slip — no complaints from her, because her instinctual self has basically no shame. She's literally asking him to, and it's hard for her to unscramble her brain to answer.
So, big delay, because she has to take a moment there to find some semblance of focus.)
Pin me on a wall.
(However he wants to do that, if he wants to hold her legs around him, from behind, she barely cares at this point.)
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Date: 2025-11-15 12:18 am (UTC)Good choice.
[And then they're elsewhere, her back pinned to the wall with her legs around his waist and his hands gripping her ass. He can't pick her up out in the physical world, so now's the perfect time. Plus, a nice little callback to their shared favorite day when he would have done this exact thing if he'd been able to. They ended up having to fuck on his table that day, but here they don't. The mirror is also still there, on the opposite wall so she can get an excellent view of his back and her clinging to him if she's so inclined. And this time he's already inside her when they relocate, because quite frankly he's teased her enough. See? He can be merciful sometimes. Speaking of, he leans in, lips against hers but not kissing her just yet.]
Feel free to come whenever you want. And as many times as you want.
[Yep, he's lifting that edging block, just in time for him to slip inside her from behind on the couch and kiss her demandingly here in the astral plane. He thinks she's earned a reward for good behavior.]
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Date: 2025-11-15 12:55 am (UTC)Also, further bullshit that her legs also feel like they belong to his waist just as much as his hands to her own. Hopefully, she remembers to add that to the list of things she screams at Miss Karma later. She's dangerously busy at the moment; anyway, complaining is going to have to wait. See, he tortured the shit out of her, and the fact that she's into it is currently not relevant. See, over time, things get noticed. Quentin feeds off of her wanting him, doesn't he? Loves to overwhelm her to the point that she is, where not a single thought forms, doesn't he? One comes. Well, that part of her brain that's completely fried from all the dopamine and anticipation, she's shoving into his, raw, unfiltered, and even the parts she's running through her bones to manage the overload. The other half of what she's doing is giving him her unrestricted thought process of how hot he looked finally getting lost in his own pleasure. That was the hardest she thought she needed to climax, and he gets to receive all that immensurable lust she had in that very moment.
Because fuck him, that's why. She's going to come, yes, but not before being just as demanding as he is with her own kiss. Her possessiveness shows in the way her kiss has a bite to it, and God, she wants to feel it right back at her. She's not even replying to him, in neither plane. Her physical body is moving in a slow pace, akin to the one he uses to calm himself down, her hand buried in his hair to gently pull. Just contrasting, not that she's all thinking all that about it.)
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Date: 2025-11-15 01:44 am (UTC)Her lust hits him like a ton of bricks, and her back hits the wall equally as hard because fuck, did he think he was calming down? That this might be a slow round to tie things up for the day? Joke's on him, because they're obviously way too horny for that shit. Oh, sure, they're still moving slow-ish in the physical world, but that's mostly because they're on a couch with limited mobility and he has to have her pressed as closely as possible to his chest. But any chance of slow in the astral plane? Out the goddamn window.
Quentin practically snarls into the kiss and bites down on her lower lip, hard enough to definitely get her attention but not draw blood—assuming that would even be possible here.]
/Mine./
[He repeats the word in the real world, hissed in her ear as he tightens his hold on her with one arm and slides the other hand down to rub between her legs. Not remotely necessary, but something about touching her reinforces his ownership in his monkey brain. Like he controls her pleasure, and if he wants to bring her even more? Who is she to stop him?
In the astral plane is where he lets loose. Her body is pinned between the wall and his, her legs around his waist. She has no leverage to move, no ability to do anything but take what he gives her. And he's giving her everything, thrusting hard and deep into her. Where the fuck does she get off trying to rile him up? Challenge him? He moves one hand off her ass—she's wedged so tightly against the wall there's no chance of her falling—and grabs a handful of her hair and tugs it to the side, latching his mouth into her neck and sucking a mark.]
If I say you come, you come.
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Date: 2025-11-15 02:09 am (UTC)Interestingly enough, she's not competing with him, at least from her point of view. She's meeting him where he's at, two forces of passion and lust — he's possessive, she's possessive, even if he's winning on mobility. It's that simple to her as it is right now, so he bites her lip and she moans, her hands moving to his face to hold him so she can consume him with her pair. She's not disputing facts, either.)
/All — yours./
(Real world Sophie is way less dominant than this, with her awareness fractured. That one is holding onto him for dear life, pulling every time the angle is met, which, wow, it's a new way to hit it, and before she knows it, a sound she's never made before leaves her mouth. Touching her as worked up as she is is hardly necessary, she's about to come way sooner than she'd like, but she's spreading her legs to hook one around his, giving him all the access he could want.
The sound she made comes to the astral plane, too, into his mouth no less, before he moves away to grab her. She can't move, but she can hold him with her every muscle, grasp around his body and length. Not even purposefully for him or anything. It's really just how she feels, her body fluttering and trembling with the mark he's leaving her.
Fuck. She's going to climax. There's no fucking way.)
Come — fuck, I can't hold anymore, seriously — come with me.
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Date: 2025-11-15 03:24 am (UTC)No.
[He yanks her hands off his face and pins her wrists to the wall, leaving only her legs around his waist supporting her. And thanks to gravity, she sinks further onto him. Convenient! Not like that's going to change the roughness of his thrusts, though. Just because he can't possibly get deeper inside her doesn't mean he's not going to absolutely rail her.]
You're going to come for me. And I'm going to keep fucking you.
[In the physical world, he rubs her more insistently, his free hand moving up to her breast to hungrily grope her. Is it a bit dangerous to let this "no rules" possessiveness leak out into the real world? Probably. But all he can think about right now is inflicting so much pleasure on her that she becomes compliant and mewling the way he likes.]
You'll come for me—and scream my name—until I decide to fill you up.
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Date: 2025-11-15 03:46 am (UTC)Her hands taken means she digs her heel into the small of his back, a request for him not to change his mind — does he think she's complaining, she's not at all. Fuck, she loves dominant Quentin. Loves being told to her face what he wants, so her head tilts back as she finally lets go from... Sophie wasn't fighting, but from whatever was keeping her from just fucking enjoying it. Feral. She's already proven he's hers, undeniably and with no room for context.
So, he's proving it, too. She's his. Perhaps as hard as he could possibly declare, which is making her hands in the real world tap around for the first thing she can close her fist around and drown her lust in with her nails. If it happens to be him, let the record show it wasn't purposefully.
She's finally, as ironic as it is, puddled. His name comes out like it's the only thing her voice knows how to pronouce. Real Sophie comes, too — fingers holding to his hip so he stays as deep as he can while she rides it. If the ground shakes and the mirror cracks, that's definitely a coincidence, not because her brain just erupted in chemicals or anything.)
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Date: 2025-11-15 05:21 am (UTC)And it lights both of their brains on fire like nothing else.
Like... Fuck, the sense of triumph he feels when she finally submits. The satisfaction when she fall apart, cries out his name so beautifully, flutters around him and clings and all the other eight thousand delicious things she's doing. As much as Sophie loves dominant Quentin, submissive Sophie really does something for him.
He growls in satisfaction as she comes for him and makes the entire mindscape rumble with the force of her climax. Yes. Good. That's what he wanted. In the real world he rubs her through the waves of pleasure and doesn't let up even as they start ebbing. He told her he was going to keep fucking her, after all. If she thinks she's getting a chance to come down from the overstimulation, well, sad to say she's got a big storm coming. Literally.]
Good. Now that you're behaving—I'll give you want you need.
[She's earned a little reward. By which he means she gets her hands back—she'll need them—because he's hooking his arms under both of her knees. See, she isn't quite at his mercy yet. Somehow. And the grinding thing of never pulling out of her isn't doing it for him at the moment. Especially since he can't really get good leverage on the couch. But with her legs hiked up, he can thrust or bounce her on him to his heart's content. Fuck, it's nice to not have to be reminded of the limitations of his puny twig arms. Here he can lift her effortlessly and just go to town, making sure she's stuck in an endless loop of pleasure until she's eternally ruined.]
Fuck, you're so thirsty for it. Nothing gets you off like me—fuck—coming inside you—does it? So fucking greedy for me.
[He's got no clue where any of this is coming from. Where did he learn to talk like this? Well, aside from the obvious answer. All he knows is he doesn't care right now. He drops his forehead to her shoulder and keeps spewing the filthy things his brain continually spawns.]
Don't worry. I'll fill you up. Make sure you take every drop. In both realities. My good girl. Mine.
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Date: 2025-11-15 02:34 pm (UTC)As a person, Sophie has a presence, one that exudes power with every comment and clack of her heels as she strides. With Quentin, she had too much power for far too long, and it never culminated in anything productive. Her fault? His fault? Their fault? Unimportant in the face of the consequences. For the past few months, all she's done is to think, and she thinks, and she tries, and tries, and tries to understand, for herself first and foremost, but to a small degree for him, too. He, uh, might deserve a partner who sees him and values him, especially when said partner humiliated him every given opportunity she has ever had, no guilt until recently, her former view of him a warped atrocity of unjust conventions and half-truths.
It's a lot of work. It's work she's doing on her own, out of her own volition — wouldn't it be shitty to bring those to his door? 'Hello, I'm trying to figure you out, even if I never tried to before and treated you like shit at home, here's work for you to help me'. Needless to say, she's not at all regretting this decision, but she does get emotionally fatigued. That's not even accounting for her resentment towards his own submission, previously documented, but a simple concept nonetheless — he wants her? He can come get her. Fucking do something.
And get her Quentin does. She gets to disconnect her brain, allow him to rule, disclose her what he wants from her, be taken and relished, shaken till any doubt or concern gets smothered by disheveling delectation. Quentin, and Quentin alone, can have her like this. He worked for it, she worked for it, and she finally manages to submit and have exactly what she wanted. Assertive, dominant, audacious Quentin.
He doesn't have to worry on the 'eternally ruined' part, at least. She probably already is, most things will pale in contrast to them after all this, but overstimulated as she is? She might not recover from this, he might get her pulling him to his mindscape more often. This is dangerously addictive. Fuck, he is dangerously addictive, and she doesn't mind it. Her hands are on him again, not coming down from the orgasm as she doesn't have a chance to, and his back is going to get that memo with the scratches she's leaving with no gentleness or concern. Not even for grounding purposes this time, more on the sense that she wants him to feel how much he's wanted on his skin.
Fuck, he's back to talking. Her lips can't say a word that isn't his name, it's coming out of her every breath, so replying has to be telepathy, she is struggling here.)
/It's — my favorite thing./
(Really is, mind him. Ultimate claiming.)
/Only yours./
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Date: 2025-11-15 04:39 pm (UTC)Commitment isn't the goal here, no matter how many times he says he wants her ruined for anyone else, how perfectly she fits him, how she submits for him and only him. A relationship, a real one, the kind he truly wants to have some day, isn't in the cards for them. Never had been. Just like with Phoebe. That's fine. He doesn't want that with Sophie, and he thinks now he's realizing he never did. All he ever wanted from Sophie was to be noticed, and she's sure as shit noticing him now. Hell, he's doing his best to fuck every single other thought that isn't about him out of her head, and she's letting him. Sophie Cuckoo, in one dimension pinned to a wall and so wet he bottoms out on every rough, dominating thrust, calling his name over and over as she begs for his come, and in another clinging to him, just as wet and needy, while he slow-fucks her from behind on her couch. That sure wasn't on his bingo card for this year.]
Fuck, I'm so close.
[She never seems to respond to his praise the way his brain says she should. That's okay. Not everyone has a praise kink
like he does. But if he doesn't talk right now, he's going to spontaneously combust on the spot, and that would probably be a bit of a mood killer. So he frantically searches his mind for other words, things that will make her flutter around him more than she already is.]God, it's so hot how much you want me. Fucking love how I fit inside you. How wet you get. When you say my name—fuck, don't stop. I'm gonna fill you up—shit, I want to so bad. Just—a little more.
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