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.
(It's the same for her — it doesn't matter her heart goes wild when he makes that smug face at her, or how much he can make her laugh, not even how much she wants to hold his hand for a while. How he brightens up her day. As is? Not in the cards, not something she wants — it's not personally linked to him, either. Sophie, in mundane terms, is a survivor (although often not) of the most abusive, toxic relationship in history, linked to it by the very axons of her neurons. Willing participant. Blind. Forgiving.
Sophie learned, or better, was programmed to live a certain way. Suppressing her own thoughts and feelings to meet expectations, the latter of which put her on a pedestal, and she was despised for it all the same. An uncanny version of isolation from the external world that was more than normal for Sophie, not only because she didn't breathe long enough to have a chance to branch out, but because she's literally never alone, even when she appeared to be. Identity? Her own? Laughable concept. It's even in the way she deals with others. Her feelings never mattered, so she's always had to dig her heels in and articulate that she was doing it nonetheless when she felt firmly enough about something. Individual thoughts on general themes, it doesn't matter how revolted she is, the Five-in-One prevail. Is it really that unanticipated that Sophie feels like she has to shout to be heard? Seen, even when she is?
Don't get her wrong. He's lovely, she's come to find, but she doesn't want to heal for someone else. Doesn't want her newfound freedom tethered to someone's expectations of how she should be, how she should feel, her identity too closely tied to a word. Thankfully, she's not someone who looks for the future; it's been robbed out of her way too many times for her to make any plans. She's still getting used to the concept that she is not going to get stabbed in the back and senselessly murdered for no good reason as long as she's here, sounds pretty novel. She cares about the now, and now? Fuck, if she isn't his, even in the loose sense, if she doesn't think anything else would compare —
And, if he's wondering why she doesn't care for praise, it's called 'privilege made her immune'. She gets much more responsive to his possession and care than to his words of encouragement. She hasn't stopped trembling, mind him, and her voice is echoing through her room with how her physical body feels way too sensitive to the touch and she's as loud as she can get in it. Fuck, she her muscles are all spasming around him when he enters her.
In the astral plane, though? She's giving him that smile he gets, the one that probably competes with the lights in the room, even if she can make it stay on her lips before they want to shift to say his name again.)
Fuck, I — want you so fucking much, Quentin. It's — fuck, just — please. Please.
[There isn't one specific thing that pushes him over the edge. No trigger. It's just a buildup of amazing shit until it eventually overflows, simultaneously sudden and inevitable.
Saying she's his verbally is redundant at this point, so he says it with both versions of his body. In the astral plane he claims her mouth and presses her harder against the wall. In the physical he pants her name hoarsely in her ear and glues her body to his, their hips flush and her back solidly against his chest. Would be nice if he could kiss her there, too, but he needs to hear her cries and his name spilling out of her mouth in one of these two places. He wants to hear that echoing in his skull as he comes, fully inside her in both planes as per usual. No, not just usual, as necessary. They're both equally as obsessed with her taking all of him.
The mindscape room shakes, walls cracking around them, as he hits his peak, and he knows there's no sensory sharing needed for her to follow him over the edge.]
(If he could bleed in the astral plane from her nails grazing his skin, he would be. Sophie is not, by any definition, a shitty telepath, and while she can't, nor would do damage, the strength that she's able to assert here should be noticed with how she's holding him against her, legs hooked and pressed on his back to get him as deep as she possibly can aid him. She just — maybe obsessed is the right word, yeah. He comes, and that's a trigger for her immediately, and after all the denial, all the shit they've done? With his breath on her ear calling her name? His mouth on hers, and her clinging to him with all she has? It's not just one that comes to them, considering she reaches her climax on both planes, and they happen to connect. The first one as groundshaking as possible, she might have completely broken the structure of this place with how the ground shakes, and the second one divided into little sparks of pleasure that diminish in intensity, but make her body quiver to each and everyone of them, muscles tensing including the ones that embrace him.
She's not sure if he still bothers to shield them, she hasn't thought to check in a minute, but she calls his name so loudly that it might bleed into the hallway. Embarrassing? Probably. She said what she said, though.)
[Quentin does still shield them by default, because despite the first kinky scenario he concocted when they came to the astral plane, he is not in fact interested in the entire house knowing every time he's railing Sophie. She's very loud, see, and while he could just ask her to be quieter, well. Have you considered that he doesn't want to? He's worked really hard to get her this loud, okay. He likes it. A lot.
He actually has to strain a little to keep the mindscape from shattering into pieces. It's not as easy as it looks to maintain an entire cityscape and split his attention between two planes of reality and share a seemingly neverending feedback loop of insanely intense climaxes with another telepath who—though not Omega level—is no slouch. Fuck, she just keeps coming, which means so does he, and while in the astral plane any releasing he's doing in her is entirely invented by his imagination, in the physical world his fragile human body gives up well before she does, his hips twitching pitifully against her ass because despite what biology may decree the pleasure echoing in his brain is saying something different. God damn. To avoid as much uncomfortable overstimulation as possible he switches most of his awareness to the astral plane for the time being. Here at least he can better keep up with her. You know, keep spilling inside her more every time she clenches and flutters around him. Though knowing her that probably won't help with calming down. Whoops.
When the pleasure finally fades, he eases both of their consciousnesses back to the physical plane, his head dropping in exhaustion to her shoulder.]
(He sure did. Remember he had to ask her to let go for a moment and be louder? Feels like a billion years ago. He did work very hard to get where they are today, she can give him that. Every wall she put up, he bulldozed through — although he knows exactly how much to push and when to back off. That's what makes her trust him so wholly.
Earned. Deserved.
Holy fuck, she's dying. Everything she feels so turned up to a thousand, her hand in the physical plane on his hip, gripped and demanding, keeping him buried deep inside her, pushing his climax further. Shit, she's starting to feel the exhaustion. She'd definitely not be calm about this if she hadn't just came a billion times in little waves of pleasure, and felt him coming with her.
Holy fuck. Once her eyes open, she feels the weight of his head on her shoulder and his voice near her ear and she... Chuckles, her face immediately turning to a smile before she presses a kiss to his temple.)
[Remember when they did a round or two in missionary and thought it was kinky because they were using telepathy? How quaint. Hindsight is so funny sometimes. Also god, they're freaks. Not that he means that in a bad way. Quite the contrary.
But still. Holy shit, fuck, zoinks, other expletives, etc.
It takes him a moment to register what she said, process it, and remember oh yeah, that's how this all started, isn't it? Oh, past Quire, you had no idea what you were getting into with that little comment, did you? And now it's... well, hm. Is she...? He picks his answer to test if what she's saying is what he thinks she's saying as he lazily moves his hands off her and scoots away just a smidge. Not fully leaving persay, but creating a bit more distance.]
Yeah, moving is impossible for her. She's pretty sure that some of her nanotech has gone into maintenance mode, considering how much she overworked them. She's exhausted; her body feels too heavy to inch forward or back. Her TK is still undertrained, so she's going to telepathically ask him to pull the couch cushion forward so they have more space to perish.)
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no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.)
no subject
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.
no subject
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./
no subject
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.
no subject
Date: 2025-11-15 05:58 pm (UTC)Sophie learned, or better, was programmed to live a certain way. Suppressing her own thoughts and feelings to meet expectations, the latter of which put her on a pedestal, and she was despised for it all the same. An uncanny version of isolation from the external world that was more than normal for Sophie, not only because she didn't breathe long enough to have a chance to branch out, but because she's literally never alone, even when she appeared to be. Identity? Her own? Laughable concept. It's even in the way she deals with others. Her feelings never mattered, so she's always had to dig her heels in and articulate that she was doing it nonetheless when she felt firmly enough about something. Individual thoughts on general themes, it doesn't matter how revolted she is, the Five-in-One prevail. Is it really that unanticipated that Sophie feels like she has to shout to be heard? Seen, even when she is?
Don't get her wrong. He's lovely, she's come to find, but she doesn't want to heal for someone else. Doesn't want her newfound freedom tethered to someone's expectations of how she should be, how she should feel, her identity too closely tied to a word. Thankfully, she's not someone who looks for the future; it's been robbed out of her way too many times for her to make any plans. She's still getting used to the concept that she is not going to get stabbed in the back and senselessly murdered for no good reason as long as she's here, sounds pretty novel. She cares about the now, and now? Fuck, if she isn't his, even in the loose sense, if she doesn't think anything else would compare —
And, if he's wondering why she doesn't care for praise, it's called 'privilege made her immune'. She gets much more responsive to his possession and care than to his words of encouragement. She hasn't stopped trembling, mind him, and her voice is echoing through her room with how her physical body feels way too sensitive to the touch and she's as loud as she can get in it. Fuck, she her muscles are all spasming around him when he enters her.
In the astral plane, though? She's giving him that smile he gets, the one that probably competes with the lights in the room, even if she can make it stay on her lips before they want to shift to say his name again.)
Fuck, I — want you so fucking much, Quentin. It's — fuck, just — please. Please.
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Date: 2025-11-15 07:46 pm (UTC)Saying she's his verbally is redundant at this point, so he says it with both versions of his body. In the astral plane he claims her mouth and presses her harder against the wall. In the physical he pants her name hoarsely in her ear and glues her body to his, their hips flush and her back solidly against his chest. Would be nice if he could kiss her there, too, but he needs to hear her cries and his name spilling out of her mouth in one of these two places. He wants to hear that echoing in his skull as he comes, fully inside her in both planes as per usual. No, not just usual, as necessary. They're both equally as obsessed with her taking all of him.
The mindscape room shakes, walls cracking around them, as he hits his peak, and he knows there's no sensory sharing needed for her to follow him over the edge.]
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Date: 2025-11-15 08:34 pm (UTC)She's not sure if he still bothers to shield them, she hasn't thought to check in a minute, but she calls his name so loudly that it might bleed into the hallway. Embarrassing? Probably. She said what she said, though.)
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Date: 2025-11-16 12:32 pm (UTC)He actually has to strain a little to keep the mindscape from shattering into pieces. It's not as easy as it looks to maintain an entire cityscape and split his attention between two planes of reality and share a seemingly neverending feedback loop of insanely intense climaxes with another telepath who—though not Omega level—is no slouch. Fuck, she just keeps coming, which means so does he, and while in the astral plane any releasing he's doing in her is entirely invented by his imagination, in the physical world his fragile human body gives up well before she does, his hips twitching pitifully against her ass because despite what biology may decree the pleasure echoing in his brain is saying something different. God damn. To avoid as much uncomfortable overstimulation as possible he switches most of his awareness to the astral plane for the time being. Here at least he can better keep up with her. You know, keep spilling inside her more every time she clenches and flutters around him. Though knowing her that probably won't help with calming down. Whoops.
When the pleasure finally fades, he eases both of their consciousnesses back to the physical plane, his head dropping in exhaustion to her shoulder.]
Holy shit.
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Date: 2025-11-16 01:16 pm (UTC)Earned. Deserved.
Holy fuck, she's dying. Everything she feels so turned up to a thousand, her hand in the physical plane on his hip, gripped and demanding, keeping him buried deep inside her, pushing his climax further. Shit, she's starting to feel the exhaustion. She'd definitely not be calm about this if she hadn't just came a billion times in little waves of pleasure, and felt him coming with her.
Holy fuck. Once her eyes open, she feels the weight of his head on her shoulder and his voice near her ear and she... Chuckles, her face immediately turning to a smile before she presses a kiss to his temple.)
Get bored more often, Quentin.
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Date: 2025-11-17 11:30 pm (UTC)But still. Holy shit, fuck, zoinks, other expletives, etc.
It takes him a moment to register what she said, process it, and remember oh yeah, that's how this all started, isn't it? Oh, past Quire, you had no idea what you were getting into with that little comment, did you? And now it's... well, hm. Is she...? He picks his answer to test if what she's saying is what he thinks she's saying as he lazily moves his hands off her and scoots away just a smidge. Not fully leaving persay, but creating a bit more distance.]
Ugh... You can get bored too, you know.
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Date: 2025-11-17 11:40 pm (UTC)Yeah, moving is impossible for her. She's pretty sure that some of her nanotech has gone into maintenance mode, considering how much she overworked them. She's exhausted; her body feels too heavy to inch forward or back. Her TK is still undertrained, so she's going to telepathically ask him to pull the couch cushion forward so they have more space to perish.)
Noted. Ugh, I'm dead. I'm passing out here.
(Bed far. He can do what he wants.)