Must be heartburn. He's too young for that, though. No more caffeine after 8PM. ]
It's not so bad.
[ It's possible that half a minute later, a picture is sent of Connor sitting in the dimly lit front room of Keating's home/office amalgamation. The signature smirk is on his lips and bedroom eyes in full effect. He might be tired and tired of reading through casefiles, but he's not going to look like it. ]
[ As he opens the picture, his heart leaps and crash lands a moment later, unsure if it's a help or a hurt. Sometimes he feels like a puppy chasing a flashlight; just when he thinks he's got it, it darts away again out of reach. Either way, it's undeniably a relief to see Connor wasn't lying.
So, Oliver smiles, half-hidden by his fist. ]
You make working late look good.
[ Connor is also undeniably hot, and if Oliver stares a little longer than necessary at the picture it's between him and his conscience. ]
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.
[ 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.
[ 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.
[ 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.
[ 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?
[ 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). ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[ Not entirely a lie! ]
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Right. [ Not quite. ] I don't know how you do it. I'd probably lose my mind if she were my boss.
[ Nailed it. ]
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Must be heartburn. He's too young for that, though. No more caffeine after 8PM. ]
It's not so bad.
[ It's possible that half a minute later, a picture is sent of Connor sitting in the dimly lit front room of Keating's home/office amalgamation. The signature smirk is on his lips and bedroom eyes in full effect. He might be tired and tired of reading through casefiles, but he's not going to look like it. ]
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So, Oliver smiles, half-hidden by his fist. ]
You make working late look good.
[ Connor is also undeniably hot, and if Oliver stares a little longer than necessary at the picture it's between him and his conscience. ]
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What are you doing right now?
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Not working late. Enjoying the fact I have a normal job. [ Missing Connor. Feeling like an idiot for doing so. ] Why?
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Oh. ]
Seriously?
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He doesn't think he can do this. ]
OK. We'd [ ... ] probably be making-out.
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Scandalous. You're making me blush, Oliver.
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Where would you want us to be? Here? In your boss's office?
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[ 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.
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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? ]
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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.
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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?
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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?
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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). ]
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