[ The muffled sound of trailing pleasure sends a jolt through his balls, reminds him to put that shit away– tucked in and zipped up snug until the next time he's feeling peckish. In the absence of his little honeyed treat the return of his smile is obvious, just as sweet as what was hanging there and maybe just as artificial. Maybe. Quentin's been growing on him, he even regards the one-finger salute with a bit of fondness. Cute. Fuck you too, man.
When alone he assesses himself, palming the sweat from his brow. Mood? Much better; endorphins and shit. Aromatics? He pinches at the collar of his t-shirt, huffs the hole. The scent's a bit tinged with exertion, but those smears of fresh ocean surf Speed Stick are doing their job well enough. It's passable. And finally, he tends to his hydration by finishing off that forty just in time to chase it with some kush. Nice.
The tidy joint gets poked between his lips as he stands to his feet with an exaggerated old man grunt. ]
Mmm... floors keep ya humble. And the quads...[ A finger trails up the worn denim laid across his thigh. ] limber...
[ The demonstration is cut short by sudden recognition, it's like his eyes absorb all the light in the room. After one long pull he passes the joint back. His song's on. Fuck the couch. A head bob becomes a frenzied shake, eyes squeezed shut for those perfectly timed mid-air rim shots. Things get a little wonky when he tries to add in some hip. Won't stop him, though. The man is dancing. ]
[ The man is...dancing. Dancing, and while Quentin isn't exactly a rumba king himself, that wibbly hip move makes him nervous in this small of a space. If there was anything valuable in here, he'd be worried about it breaking. As it stands, Finn just has a good chance of tripping or slipping on some wayward pile of books or clothes or miscellany.
[ His fingers wire around that hip from behind, dart under Finn's navel to clap him back to Quentin sharp and easy. Dank, hot smoke blows into his dreads from just behind his ear, Quentin's forearm squeezes around what little softness there is to Finn just around his belly. ]
In like a lion, out like a lamb, huh? How long're you staying, Mac? [ Not meanly! Just wondering as Quentin falls into sway with him. An adjustment so it's a little less accusatory: ] How long do you need?
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When alone he assesses himself, palming the sweat from his brow. Mood? Much better; endorphins and shit. Aromatics? He pinches at the collar of his t-shirt, huffs the hole. The scent's a bit tinged with exertion, but those smears of fresh ocean surf Speed Stick are doing their job well enough. It's passable. And finally, he tends to his hydration by finishing off that forty just in time to chase it with some kush. Nice.
The tidy joint gets poked between his lips as he stands to his feet with an exaggerated old man grunt. ]
Mmm... floors keep ya humble. And the quads...[ A finger trails up the worn denim laid across his thigh. ] limber...
[ The demonstration is cut short by sudden recognition, it's like his eyes absorb all the light in the room. After one long pull he passes the joint back. His song's on. Fuck the couch. A head bob becomes a frenzied shake, eyes squeezed shut for those perfectly timed mid-air rim shots. Things get a little wonky when he tries to add in some hip. Won't stop him, though. The man is dancing. ]
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[ His fingers wire around that hip from behind, dart under Finn's navel to clap him back to Quentin sharp and easy. Dank, hot smoke blows into his dreads from just behind his ear, Quentin's forearm squeezes around what little softness there is to Finn just around his belly. ]
In like a lion, out like a lamb, huh? How long're you staying, Mac? [ Not meanly! Just wondering as Quentin falls into sway with him. An adjustment so it's a little less accusatory: ] How long do you need?