(Under his fingertips, he can feel her thighs' gentle spasms as they're looping the pleasure through their synapses. Her legs are going to be so sore later, not to mention that her knees are going to be alarmingly weak once she has to walk but this time, she's not going to bitch about it. She really can't, her entire brain has melted, and her body is struggling to bring her back to some form of stability — she can certify that she, too, is dying.
Her forehead does not rest against his shoulder to hide from his view, but so she can rest for a second as she at least manages to get the air in her lungs more consistently, and she'll do him the solid of syncing it perfectly to his so they can calm the fuck down for a second. All the effort in the world is then put in moving so he can slide out of her, hands squeezing his shoulders for support, and he could use the opportunity to bring his pants back up if his brain considers it. Other than that, this is the most she can do at this precise moment.
It's only when he quips that Sophie finds some strength to distance, a weak laugh accompanied by the brightest beam, even if she looks, well, very messy. She's not even going to bother running her hands through her hair to smooth it out, she's just got different priorities right now, which are whatever her puddled, dopamine-filled, sparkling, elated brain wants out of her.)
Right? I knew the shirt thing would end up growing on you.
[His brain does consider the pants, and he reluctantly pulls them back up with shaky hands. Fuck, every cell in his body is burning and overly sensitive, and he's still working on bringing his systems back to normalcy.
Quentin registers her return quip almost in slow motion, but he wheezes a soft laugh in response.]
You still can't keep them.
[He's still rebooting, which means they're in that window where affection is allowable, where it doesn't ruin everything and eat him from the inside like a cancer. So Quentin wraps his arms around her shoulders and pulls her against his chest, leaning back in his chair with a yawn. She'll get up soon, probably, but while they're both fuzzy and squishy from dopamine and oxytocin he's going to hold her close. Also? Means he doesn't have to think about whatever the fuck worm crawled into his brain for the past few minutes. Not yet, at least. And that's plenty good enough for now.]
Guess I'm gonna have to come up with a pretty sick game to follow that. Kinda screwed myself with that one, didn't I?
(These moments are the closest thing they have to a couple's normalcy; they're almost like a bubble that separates them from all the sarcasm, acidity, and irreverence that they share. Not that she doesn't like that too, that's exactly what moves her to this point, but, well. It's an unspoken agreement for sweetness they don't allow each other to have, and that's why she doesn't fight the snorted giggle that comes out of her with his response.
Probably sounded pretty damn stupid, but whatever. Another great part of it? She doesn't register the embarrassment that he heard it in the first place. When he pulls these things out of her outside of their established mushy moment, she yearns for her grave, horrified and distressed, but with hormones calming her down? Being brought to his chest is the most pleasant thing, and she places a lingering kiss on it, one of her hands resting against it with a thumb caress while the other wraps around him in a lazy hug as she nuzzles a bit.
And then he says that, and it brings out yet another one.)
Oh, yeah, game of the year should be incoming, but lucky for you, you put me in an awfully good mood. I'll be generous.
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Her forehead does not rest against his shoulder to hide from his view, but so she can rest for a second as she at least manages to get the air in her lungs more consistently, and she'll do him the solid of syncing it perfectly to his so they can calm the fuck down for a second. All the effort in the world is then put in moving so he can slide out of her, hands squeezing his shoulders for support, and he could use the opportunity to bring his pants back up if his brain considers it. Other than that, this is the most she can do at this precise moment.
It's only when he quips that Sophie finds some strength to distance, a weak laugh accompanied by the brightest beam, even if she looks, well, very messy. She's not even going to bother running her hands through her hair to smooth it out, she's just got different priorities right now, which are whatever her puddled, dopamine-filled, sparkling, elated brain wants out of her.)
Right? I knew the shirt thing would end up growing on you.
no subject
Quentin registers her return quip almost in slow motion, but he wheezes a soft laugh in response.]
You still can't keep them.
[He's still rebooting, which means they're in that window where affection is allowable, where it doesn't ruin everything and eat him from the inside like a cancer. So Quentin wraps his arms around her shoulders and pulls her against his chest, leaning back in his chair with a yawn. She'll get up soon, probably, but while they're both fuzzy and squishy from dopamine and oxytocin he's going to hold her close. Also? Means he doesn't have to think about whatever the fuck worm crawled into his brain for the past few minutes. Not yet, at least. And that's plenty good enough for now.]
Guess I'm gonna have to come up with a pretty sick game to follow that. Kinda screwed myself with that one, didn't I?
no subject
Probably sounded pretty damn stupid, but whatever. Another great part of it? She doesn't register the embarrassment that he heard it in the first place. When he pulls these things out of her outside of their established mushy moment, she yearns for her grave, horrified and distressed, but with hormones calming her down? Being brought to his chest is the most pleasant thing, and she places a lingering kiss on it, one of her hands resting against it with a thumb caress while the other wraps around him in a lazy hug as she nuzzles a bit.
And then he says that, and it brings out yet another one.)
Oh, yeah, game of the year should be incoming, but lucky for you, you put me in an awfully good mood. I'll be generous.