Hmmm. ( a soft hum of agreement; she takes advantage of that brief moment of genuine sweetness, presses a fleeting kiss to the line of his jaw, little more than a featherlight brush of lips, before relaxing into his chest once more. soon they will call her back to work. into hair, makeup, wardrobe. setup number...3? 4? she stopped paying attention long ago. this brief and unconventional --HA!-- little interlude has been the most interesting thing to happen all day.) You have really good hands too.
( an understatement, possibly. fingers long, the rough not that of a guitar player, but a sailor. someone who knows what it's like to put in a long day's work, weathered the elements. god knows she's gotten more than her share of enjoyment out of them. feels those fingers now, his free hand, dancing along the hem of her skirt like he's just waiting for her to give the nod. permission to do exactly what they both want him to. instead she squirms slightly on his lap, crossing one leg over the other, a move elicits a barely audible gasp, the effect her little game has had on him suddenly very obvious.
tsking under her breath, she tries to adopt a mask of stern reproach. a task made all but impossible by the proud little smirk that works it's way onto scarlet painted lips. ) You didn't want to be a part of the shoot, remember? You don't get to touch. (unless i let you. the truth meaning of her words all too clear and just underneath the surface. --control is, and always has been essential to her comfort. it's why quinn throws herself so wholly into every single aspect of their careers. surprises, being caught off guard, are recipes for disaster now. there's no place for it in her life. but with her inability to delineate her private and public lives, the constant desire for control has bled into every part of her life.-- if his hands are on her, it's because she's allowed it. ) But maybe I'll let him this time. It'd make a hell of a picture, right?
( somewhere her name is being called --thought technically screamed might be the more accurate definition. wasting time, her own and everyone else's, to flirt with her bandmate isn't exactly professional, something she ordinarily prides herself on, and yet it takes a tremendous effort to disentangle herself from his arms, to stand to leave when all she wants to do his haul him into the dressing room, a closet, a dark corner somewhere. let him put those fingers to use. instead she starts to head back towards the makeup table, waves apologetically before turning back. as if she's simply forgotten something. leans until her mouth is beside his ear, testing the limits of the flimsy excuse for a top they've put her in, body shielding the movement of her hand when she presses the heel of her palm against the crotch of his jeans. ) Make sure you stick around. I think these shots are going to be really great.
( and then she's the very picture of professionalism once again, if professionalism looks like a slutty cheerleader who has apparently repeated a few years, as she dives back into the fray. a new and far too cheerful bounce in her step. )
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( an understatement, possibly. fingers long, the rough not that of a guitar player, but a sailor. someone who knows what it's like to put in a long day's work, weathered the elements. god knows she's gotten more than her share of enjoyment out of them. feels those fingers now, his free hand, dancing along the hem of her skirt like he's just waiting for her to give the nod. permission to do exactly what they both want him to. instead she squirms slightly on his lap, crossing one leg over the other, a move elicits a barely audible gasp, the effect her little game has had on him suddenly very obvious.
tsking under her breath, she tries to adopt a mask of stern reproach. a task made all but impossible by the proud little smirk that works it's way onto scarlet painted lips. ) You didn't want to be a part of the shoot, remember? You don't get to touch. ( unless i let you. the truth meaning of her words all too clear and just underneath the surface. --control is, and always has been essential to her comfort. it's why quinn throws herself so wholly into every single aspect of their careers. surprises, being caught off guard, are recipes for disaster now. there's no place for it in her life. but with her inability to delineate her private and public lives, the constant desire for control has bled into every part of her life.-- if his hands are on her, it's because she's allowed it. ) But maybe I'll let him this time. It'd make a hell of a picture, right?
( somewhere her name is being called --thought technically screamed might be the more accurate definition. wasting time, her own and everyone else's, to flirt with her bandmate isn't exactly professional, something she ordinarily prides herself on, and yet it takes a tremendous effort to disentangle herself from his arms, to stand to leave when all she wants to do his haul him into the dressing room, a closet, a dark corner somewhere. let him put those fingers to use. instead she starts to head back towards the makeup table, waves apologetically before turning back. as if she's simply forgotten something. leans until her mouth is beside his ear, testing the limits of the flimsy excuse for a top they've put her in, body shielding the movement of her hand when she presses the heel of her palm against the crotch of his jeans. ) Make sure you stick around. I think these shots are going to be really great.
( and then she's the very picture of professionalism once again, if professionalism looks like a slutty cheerleader who has apparently repeated a few years, as she dives back into the fray. a new and far too cheerful bounce in her step. )