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The last place I'd want to be is here, so we'd be at your place. It's been a long week and we haven't seen each other in a while.
[ Nevermind that he knows how many days—exactly—it's been since he's last seen Oliver. He shouldn't know that or care about it, but he does. ]
So, when I saw you, I'd fist my hand in that ugly threadbare white shirt you sleep in and pull you against me. And I'd kiss you, hard, on your mouth until I couldn't taste this shitty coffee Laurel made anymore and all I could taste was you. I'd keep going until you couldn't breathe and you had to push me away.
[ Nevermind that he knows how many days—exactly—it's been since he's last seen Oliver. He shouldn't know that or care about it, but he does. ]
So, when I saw you, I'd fist my hand in that ugly threadbare white shirt you sleep in and pull you against me. And I'd kiss you, hard, on your mouth until I couldn't taste this shitty coffee Laurel made anymore and all I could taste was you. I'd keep going until you couldn't breathe and you had to push me away.
[ He waits a small eternity for that last message, wondering what the hell Connor could be writing, but when he finally receives it his heart almost stops.
Jesus.
He is so out of his league. ]
I didn't know you were such a poet. [ His eyes wander down the message again and drift closed as he imagines it. Something closes around his heart, making it harder to breathe.
When he opens them again, his fingers are already typing. ]
I wouldn't push you away for long. Just long enough to lock the door. Then I'd bring you further inside and [ he swallows ] take off your shirt.
[ Better? ]
Jesus.
He is so out of his league. ]
I didn't know you were such a poet. [ His eyes wander down the message again and drift closed as he imagines it. Something closes around his heart, making it harder to breathe.
When he opens them again, his fingers are already typing. ]
I wouldn't push you away for long. Just long enough to lock the door. Then I'd bring you further inside and [ he swallows ] take off your shirt.
[ Better? ]
Edited 2014-12-03 17:28 (UTC)
[ It's true, he is out of his league. But so is Connor. In fact, he's in so much trouble and in over his head. But, he also can't find it in himself to stop.
Because he likes Oliver.
Actually. ]
Better. Sort of.
[ Not much, but... it's a slight improvement. So, he'll still take control. ]
I'd take yours off, too. And I wouldn't be able to keep my hands off you. Your skin is always so warm. Soft. I'd bury my face in the crook of your neck and start sucking at your skin, biting it, all while walking you backwards toward the bedroom.
Because he likes Oliver.
Actually. ]
Better. Sort of.
[ Not much, but... it's a slight improvement. So, he'll still take control. ]
I'd take yours off, too. And I wouldn't be able to keep my hands off you. Your skin is always so warm. Soft. I'd bury my face in the crook of your neck and start sucking at your skin, biting it, all while walking you backwards toward the bedroom.
[ Actually. What a dick. Why does Oliver even like him again?
Oh, right.
Because apparently he's as good at sexting as he is at sex. Oliver can almost feel Connor's mouth on his skin, the scrape of his teeth, the scratch of his beard against his jaw and neck. Heat rushes to his face. It's ridiculous how he knows at least a dozen programming languages but right now he's struggling with simple English. ]
It drives me crazy when you do that. You know my coworkers make comments about the hickeys [ he smiles to himself ] and the beard burn. But it's worth it.
What would we do once we got to the bedroom?
Oh, right.
Because apparently he's as good at sexting as he is at sex. Oliver can almost feel Connor's mouth on his skin, the scrape of his teeth, the scratch of his beard against his jaw and neck. Heat rushes to his face. It's ridiculous how he knows at least a dozen programming languages but right now he's struggling with simple English. ]
It drives me crazy when you do that. You know my coworkers make comments about the hickeys [ he smiles to himself ] and the beard burn. But it's worth it.
What would we do once we got to the bedroom?
[ Connor has no idea why Oliver likes him. (Except for the confident part of himself that knows it's because of his looks and his attitude.)
Also the sex. He's very good at that.
Oliver is, too. And sometimes, maybe, Connor wonders if it's because he does like him. But, again, that's self-reflection he's really not interested in.
He can't help but smirk a little bit to himself—or, at the phone, rather—at that admission. And he may or may not be making a mental note to really go hard at Oliver's neck next time. ]
I don't know, Oliver, what would we be doing by the time we got to the bedroom?
Also the sex. He's very good at that.
Oliver is, too. And sometimes, maybe, Connor wonders if it's because he does like him. But, again, that's self-reflection he's really not interested in.
He can't help but smirk a little bit to himself—or, at the phone, rather—at that admission. And he may or may not be making a mental note to really go hard at Oliver's neck next time. ]
I don't know, Oliver, what would we be doing by the time we got to the bedroom?
[ The confidence and the attitude are part of it. Oliver would have to be insentient not to find it attractive. But there's a little more to it than that, otherwise his stomach wouldn't be full of butterflies right now.
This is so ridiculous. But, as with most things Connor-related, he can't help but get into it. ]
We'd still be making-out. And I'd [ he stops, his mouth dry and his heart beating like a drum roll; you can do this, Oliver ] bite your lip as I reach down between us and open your fly so I could get my hand in your pants.
[ His skin is hot under his (ugly threadbare white) t-shirt, and the heat seems to travel downwards and pool in the pit of his stomach as he imagines the black boxer-briefs Connor confessed to wearing before (Oliver's not sure he owns any other color). ]
This is so ridiculous. But, as with most things Connor-related, he can't help but get into it. ]
We'd still be making-out. And I'd [ he stops, his mouth dry and his heart beating like a drum roll; you can do this, Oliver ] bite your lip as I reach down between us and open your fly so I could get my hand in your pants.
[ His skin is hot under his (ugly threadbare white) t-shirt, and the heat seems to travel downwards and pool in the pit of his stomach as he imagines the black boxer-briefs Connor confessed to wearing before (Oliver's not sure he owns any other color). ]
[ As a matter of fact, Connor does own more than just black boxer-briefs. there's a variety of colors that usually don't get to see the light of day except for when he's alone in his apartment getting dressed or undressed. Sometimes someone might get lucky enough to see a patterned or brightly colored pair.
And if Oliver plays his cards right, he might be one of them. ]
I like when you bite.
[ Understatement. ]
And, I hope that means your hand will be around my cock. Tell me more.
And if Oliver plays his cards right, he might be one of them. ]
I like when you bite.
[ Understatement. ]
And, I hope that means your hand will be around my cock. Tell me more.
[ Is there such a thing as playing your cards right with Connor? Sometimes it feels like they're not even playing the same game. He'd be thrilled to see something other than black, though—not that the black isn't perfectly flattering.
It is, really flattering. And distracting.
Oliver's mouth twitches into a smile and heat fills his cheeks again. He's making his own mental notes, in particular about the biting. Maybe he should do that more. ]
Well, yeah. Where else would it be?
[ God, what does he say? ]
Your dick is fantastic. I love having my hands on it. I love the sounds you make when I stroke it. But [ he bites his lip ] I wouldn't do that yet. First I'd rub you through your underwear until you begged me to touch you. Really touch you.
It is, really flattering. And distracting.
Oliver's mouth twitches into a smile and heat fills his cheeks again. He's making his own mental notes, in particular about the biting. Maybe he should do that more. ]
Well, yeah. Where else would it be?
[ God, what does he say? ]
Your dick is fantastic. I love having my hands on it. I love the sounds you make when I stroke it. But [ he bites his lip ] I wouldn't do that yet. First I'd rub you through your underwear until you begged me to touch you. Really touch you.
[ So.
Okay.
It's really not his finest hour. Or his finest anything. In fact, it's openly and obviously pathetic. But, whatever, it doesn't matter. Sort of. A little. Okay, it does matter, but right now it doesn't.
See, it's barely been a handful of days since he tried to reconnect with Oliver and instead ran into some dark horse. At first Connor had just told himself that it was a friend—guy from work, maybe?? but what IT guy is that ripped??—or even a neighbor. It didn't mean anything. But, it began to fester. The very thought dug and dug and dug in his mind, crowding out everything else even when he tried to stop it from happening.
Oliver is a first for him. Simply put: he doesn't do boyfriends, but he'd somehow found himself connected to this tech geek. By a tender, fragile thread, but it was still there. And Oliver had no way of knowing just how much he'd gotten under Connor's skin. Oh, Connor had tried, but even he knows it was a shitty attempt and he just expected to be given what he wanted like he'd always gotten.
It's not often Connor lets himself feel like a jackass, but he does right now. Especially the deeper into his cups that he gets. Unable to sit at home with his annoying thoughts, he'd gone out. To a bar, not a club, he hadn't wanted to deal with the heavy music or the sweaty guys grinding all over him. So, he takes up shop at one end and sits. And drinks. And wallows. And Connor Walsh is not inclined to wallowing, but he totally is.
After sitting at the bar for a few hours, he begins scrolling through his phone. Somehow ("somehow") he winds up on Oliver's name, but thankfully does nothing. Yet. He's not that drunk. Another hour of sharing his woes with the bartender and a patron or two seated nearby, he calls it a night. He can drink at home. Except, as soon as he steps outside into the cold night air, his fingers are tapping the screen and he's calling Oliver.
Oh he'd tricked himself into believing he was going to contact Uber for a ride home, but he never quite made it to the app. Instead, he pushes that green call button and presses his phone to his ear, waiting. ]
Okay.
It's really not his finest hour. Or his finest anything. In fact, it's openly and obviously pathetic. But, whatever, it doesn't matter. Sort of. A little. Okay, it does matter, but right now it doesn't.
See, it's barely been a handful of days since he tried to reconnect with Oliver and instead ran into some dark horse. At first Connor had just told himself that it was a friend—guy from work, maybe?? but what IT guy is that ripped??—or even a neighbor. It didn't mean anything. But, it began to fester. The very thought dug and dug and dug in his mind, crowding out everything else even when he tried to stop it from happening.
Oliver is a first for him. Simply put: he doesn't do boyfriends, but he'd somehow found himself connected to this tech geek. By a tender, fragile thread, but it was still there. And Oliver had no way of knowing just how much he'd gotten under Connor's skin. Oh, Connor had tried, but even he knows it was a shitty attempt and he just expected to be given what he wanted like he'd always gotten.
It's not often Connor lets himself feel like a jackass, but he does right now. Especially the deeper into his cups that he gets. Unable to sit at home with his annoying thoughts, he'd gone out. To a bar, not a club, he hadn't wanted to deal with the heavy music or the sweaty guys grinding all over him. So, he takes up shop at one end and sits. And drinks. And wallows. And Connor Walsh is not inclined to wallowing, but he totally is.
After sitting at the bar for a few hours, he begins scrolling through his phone. Somehow ("somehow") he winds up on Oliver's name, but thankfully does nothing. Yet. He's not that drunk. Another hour of sharing his woes with the bartender and a patron or two seated nearby, he calls it a night. He can drink at home. Except, as soon as he steps outside into the cold night air, his fingers are tapping the screen and he's calling Oliver.
Oh he'd tricked himself into believing he was going to contact Uber for a ride home, but he never quite made it to the app. Instead, he pushes that green call button and presses his phone to his ear, waiting. ]
[ Kicking Connor out of his apartment that night hadn't been easy. It was actually probably one of the hardest things he'd ever done. But the hurt, anger, and humiliation had carried him through it. For about a minute after the door closed, he thought multiple times about opening it again and calling Connor back if he hadn't gone far. But each time he considered it, he remembered the recording and how often Connor had played him and it ripped him open all over again. It was all he could do to drag himself back to the bedroom. The sheets still smelled like Connor and it kept him awake (that, and the fact he kept crying on and off) until he eventually relocated to the couch.
Some stupid part of his brain kept expecting Connor to call him or at least text him in the days that followed, but another part of him was relieved when he didn't. He should've known better than to ever get involved with Connor in the first place, and the sooner he moved on, the better.
He's gotten to a point where he can think about Connor without wanting to hit something or cry, resigned to the fact Connor is the way he is and Oliver was the idiot for ever hoping for more, when his phone lights up with Connor's name and his stupid attractive face.
(He should've deleted the number. He almost had a few times, but something always stopped him.)
It's late and he'd just managed to fall asleep when the phone jars him awake after a couple rings. Groggy and bleary-eyed, he gropes around his nightstand for his phone. After squinting at the screen, he debates not answering it, declining it or just letting it go to the voicemail. But then he wonders if something's wrong, the way people wonder whenever they get an out-of-the-blue call at an odd hour of the night or day, and he manages to press the answer button before the final ring. ]
What?
[ His voice is sleep-rough and carries a note of irritation. ]
Some stupid part of his brain kept expecting Connor to call him or at least text him in the days that followed, but another part of him was relieved when he didn't. He should've known better than to ever get involved with Connor in the first place, and the sooner he moved on, the better.
He's gotten to a point where he can think about Connor without wanting to hit something or cry, resigned to the fact Connor is the way he is and Oliver was the idiot for ever hoping for more, when his phone lights up with Connor's name and his stupid attractive face.
(He should've deleted the number. He almost had a few times, but something always stopped him.)
It's late and he'd just managed to fall asleep when the phone jars him awake after a couple rings. Groggy and bleary-eyed, he gropes around his nightstand for his phone. After squinting at the screen, he debates not answering it, declining it or just letting it go to the voicemail. But then he wonders if something's wrong, the way people wonder whenever they get an out-of-the-blue call at an odd hour of the night or day, and he manages to press the answer button before the final ring. ]
What?
[ His voice is sleep-rough and carries a note of irritation. ]
[ It shouldn't make him happy to hear Oliver's voice. It really, really shouldn't. Especially considering even in his drunken state, he picks up on that thread of irritation. Could be because it's kind of late (but not really late... he doesn't think...). Though, it's possible and entirely far more likely that he sounds that way because it's Connor. Just because it's Connor.
But, he's not going to let that stop him.
Probably.
There is, however, a longer than normal pause after Oliver answers as Connor's mind tries to supply his mouth with something not stupid or lame to say. That, of course, doesn't really happen. ]
Didn't think you were going to answer. [ His voice is quiet, words slurring together in an admission he didn't want to voice. Shameful display already and he can't seem to stop himself.
Inside his chest, his heart is fluttering like crazy and he tells himself it's just because of the alcohol. No other reason. Nothing out of the ordinary is going on here. He wets his lips and puts one foot in front of the other, walking slowly, haphazardly down the sidewalk toward home.
Probably. ]
Hey. [ A small sigh escapes his lips; the smile becomes evident as he proceeds. ] Heyyyyy. Oli. Ver. [ His heart hammers harder against his ribs saying his name. Even if it was a little stilted and said as two words instead of one. And then softer, strangely warm even for Connor. ] Hi.
But, he's not going to let that stop him.
Probably.
There is, however, a longer than normal pause after Oliver answers as Connor's mind tries to supply his mouth with something not stupid or lame to say. That, of course, doesn't really happen. ]
Didn't think you were going to answer. [ His voice is quiet, words slurring together in an admission he didn't want to voice. Shameful display already and he can't seem to stop himself.
Inside his chest, his heart is fluttering like crazy and he tells himself it's just because of the alcohol. No other reason. Nothing out of the ordinary is going on here. He wets his lips and puts one foot in front of the other, walking slowly, haphazardly down the sidewalk toward home.
Probably. ]
Hey. [ A small sigh escapes his lips; the smile becomes evident as he proceeds. ] Heyyyyy. Oli. Ver. [ His heart hammers harder against his ribs saying his name. Even if it was a little stilted and said as two words instead of one. And then softer, strangely warm even for Connor. ] Hi.
[ When at first he doesn't get a response, he starts to think it was a misdial and his stomach sinks.
But just as he's about to say something and probably hang up, Connor speaks. His voice wraps around Oliver's heart and squeezes until it hurts. He thinks I almost didn't answer, but stops just short of saying it out loud. Probably because his attention snags on the way Connor's words run together, and for a moment that's all he can focus on. A frown knits his brow as he gets a sneaking suspicion.
Connor confirms that suspicion himself as he continues to speak.
Of course.
Oliver's chest falls with a heavy sigh, and he rolls onto his back, his free arm stretched to the side across the space that used to be Connor's when he came over. ]
God. [ It all makes sense now. ] You're drunk. [ It's not a question. He doesn't sound overly impressed. He pulls his phone away from his ear so he can check the time at the top of the screen (almost one AM), and his frown deepens. ] Do you even know what time it is?
But just as he's about to say something and probably hang up, Connor speaks. His voice wraps around Oliver's heart and squeezes until it hurts. He thinks I almost didn't answer, but stops just short of saying it out loud. Probably because his attention snags on the way Connor's words run together, and for a moment that's all he can focus on. A frown knits his brow as he gets a sneaking suspicion.
Connor confirms that suspicion himself as he continues to speak.
Of course.
Oliver's chest falls with a heavy sigh, and he rolls onto his back, his free arm stretched to the side across the space that used to be Connor's when he came over. ]
God. [ It all makes sense now. ] You're drunk. [ It's not a question. He doesn't sound overly impressed. He pulls his phone away from his ear so he can check the time at the top of the screen (almost one AM), and his frown deepens. ] Do you even know what time it is?
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