[ just for you. that's the minimal warning he gets before the pictures download and he's left staring at felicity in an over-sized white dress shirt ( probably another man's — thanks for that, brain ) and a lacy black bra. at least he's alone this time. he suspects, after wynonna's message and the way they left things that this message isn't actually intended for him. why would it be — because from her timeline, the two of them are married? funny how that works, logic. it doesn't really stop him from wanting it to be true. ]
[the shirt is borrowed, the lace is hers, the photos are for him. taken before their disastrous dinner and put on hold since then, she's unaware that he's received them.]
In general? I'm severely lacking caffeine and from the sound of it, so are you.
[ none of that's actually smoothing any of this over. she posed in her underwear for him, no matter how he looks at when he was supposed to receive them. ( if he was supposed to. ) after what? ]
You sent them to me. They came from your username. They had to have come from your device. [ she's the expert with tech, isn't she? ] How else would I receive them?
I am not drunk texting you my lingerie selfies, Oliver. If I want to text you inappropriate things, I will. I don't need an excuse.
[It's probably not actually appropriate, in their current status as married-but-not-together to send him a shot of her in her current state, which is in bed, in only a dark green t-shirt (the color is incidental, really) with the hem of said shirt barely reaching her thighs. The sheet is thrown back specifically for this photo.]
[ forget every complaint he ever made about the island. this is hell. he should turn his phone off, flip it over, ignore any vibrations that tell him there's another message. he should leave. does he? no, he's leaning back against the wall in his presently single-occupied room and trying to picture her in bed — which is no. no! he's not going there right now. he can hold out. they're just thighs. really smooth-looking thighs that he's not thinking about wrapped around him.
because that's also a no. a big no. ]
You're barely wearing anything at this moment.
[ and whatever part of him that isn't supposed to encourage her pretty much vacated the premises the second he chose to respond. ]
So which is it? You meant to send me inappropriate pictures or you didn't?
[he should forget the vibrations and turn his phone to silent if he wants to ignore the texts coming his way. it's the agreement that she's not wearing much that brings to her attention that she really just sent him a photo of her bare legs - though it could have been so much worse - and she decides in that moment that it can. it can get so much worse.
in for a penny...]
I didn't mean to send the first, but I definitely meant to send the second.
[this time, the shirt is hiked high on her hip so he can see the edge of her panties and the skin above... nothing too racy. a little bit of her side, a bit of her stomach. that's it, really. hell, maybe the shirt slipped. but the photo is deliberate and so is the fact that she's sending it in 3... 2... 1.]
[ she shuts down his skepticism with one sentence.
he rubs his hand over his face, takes a breath and stares down at the screen for too long. apparently, giving felicity enough time to tug at the hem of her shirt and draw it up the side of her body. nothing blatantly filthy but suggestive enough that oliver sits straight up in bed, one leg over the side as his foot hits the floor. there's a zoom function he's completely disregarding as he holds the screen closer. she tells him she could ditch the shirt. as if that little flash of skin, a hint of her stomach, the top of her panties isn't enough to get the wheels turning. ]
Keep the shirt on. [ not just because it's green. ] Lose the underwear. That's what I'd hook my thumbs in if I were there to take them off of you.
[ ...in for a pound. he'd feel bad, if literally EVERYTHING didn't turn him on lately. everything. ]
[for a moment, she's not sure she should. they're not in a good place, this is a bad idea, this could have terrible repercussions...
... all of it goes through her mind and she disregards it just as quickly. she misses him, she misses the way he feels, and she misses this. the way he talks to her when he wants her and she knows he wants her. so it takes a minute before she gathers the courage to send the photo she's taken of herself sans underwear; this one is over the shoulder so he can see the shirt up over her bare ass, blonde hair barely making the frame.
she's definitely naked under the photo. if she turns over, he's getting an eyeful.]
[ someone recently told him people know what they're getting into, taken out of context but still true. he shares each one of those concerns with her. they shouldn't do this. they won't work. not here, not at home. their friendship could disintegrate into worse shape or into nothing.
but the next photo appears on his screen and he can’t reason with what he feels. pleasant surprise that she’s sent another ( he hadn’t expected anything else ), appreciation for how beautiful felicity is. god, she’s sexy like this. oliver’s been attracted to her from day one, but this? she’s right that he wants her. he doesn’t have an illusion that he can feign otherwise. he yanks his shirt over his head, figuring he can give her something to look at since she's exposing herself to him. she's seen his scars, the tattoos, every part of him — he assumes, anyway. this is the most of her that he's laid eyes on.
when she receives a photograph of him, it's him shirtless on his bed with his pants unbuttoned, zipper halfway down. nothing over the top. he doesn't know where the limits are. palming himself unsolicited seems a bit much. ] And if I was? What else would you wish for? My hands? My mouth?
Tell me about what you think about with your hand between your thighs. [ it's not an instruction to touch herself so much as it is a walk me through this part of our lives, but there's no pass or fail here. ]
[with the photo he sends, they're apparently all in and felicity doesn't see the harm in going all the way. answering questions and really letting him see the side of her he hasn't before. not this oliver, the one who has no idea what he's missed. what he hasn't experienced yet? either way, shirtless oliver does it for her in all ways and she'll never, ever get tired of the view.
it prompts a soft smile from her as she shifts on the bed to her back, feeling her face flush a little as the rest of her body softens at his questions. if only he knew.
answering him first seems prudent:]
I like it when you either kneel on the floor between my legs or I straddle your face on the bed.
[it's bold, but he's asked, and maybe she doesn't need to be graphic with her words like so, but she wants him, too. text is safer than actions and she'll have this, if nothing else. And since he's mentioned it, she sends another one: the shirt's tugged down and her hand covers most anything obscene, but it's clear she's got her hand between her thighs, fingers teasing parts this oliver's never touched. one leg is bent at the knee to give her easier access and the photo is almost tasteful. almost.]
[so maybe it's not an instruction, but she's gotten good at this over the last few months and she wants him to see it.]
[ if there had been any last reservations about proceeding, about getting out before they’re in too deep, they’re gone now. he doesn’t know what he thought opinionated, decisive, cut-the-crap felicity would say in response. something abstract and enticing? who does he think he’s kidding here? he can picture her clear as day, standing in front of him, shedding a red coat with nothing else beneath it. ( and it would be red, wouldn’t it? ) her words send a flare of heat through him as quickly as if she were actually here in person, climbing up his body.
is it possible to be jealous of yourself? only oliver queen himself would find a way. ]
You would like me down on my knees. [ it's not a sight that many people have seen and lived to talk about. ] I like that. [ since they're pointing fingers. ] Picturing you in a power position with your hands in my hair and my tongue inside you. I'm not opposed to your knees above my shoulders and your thighs squeezing my face either.
[ whether or not she needs to hear that he could do that all night ( if she wanted him to ), he's distracted. he veers away from the visual hard and he's pretty glad that they're not discussing this over a direct video feed because the little groan he makes is embarrassing on basically all levels. and then he stops being relieved about that because seeing her ( it's enough, it is ) has nothing on hearing felicity talk to him this way. ]
Yeah? How do your fingers measure up? Do they feel good?
Mine do. [ and that's—it's weird, okay? describing something to her that she already knows intimately. ] Thinking about you touching yourself because of me helps.
[so yes, this was a huge mistake and not for the reasons he might be thinking of. the problem that she has now, is that he's mentioning things that are only possibilities to him, but is a very real past for her and because she's now so turned on that it aches between her thighs. she feels the orgasm that's waiting to be had and she wants him to be the one to give it to her. no offense to ray palmer and his incredibly giving, boyscout-type sex abilities, but oliver queen is on another level and she knows that level intimately.
hell yes, she wants him down there all night.
i was wrong. i want you to fuck me until i can't walk - probably the very wrong thing to text him when she's this worked up. the rejection isn't something she can handle right now and teasing herself with her fingers is just going to have to do. again.]
You can put your mouth anywhere you want as long as I get to return the favor. You've never objected to me on my knees, either.
[she licks her lips at the memory of sucking him off, swearing to herself that she can taste him now. a video would be so helpful and so awful all at the same time. again, tempting, but she resists.]
Your fingers feel so much better than mine do. You're an expert at making me come apart. [His do? is he stroking himself? with her eyes closed, she can picture it like it's happening in the bed next to her.] How good do they feel?
Not as good as I imagine your mouth feels. [ make no mistake because he is thinking about her lips wrapped around him, the slickness of her tongue. she doesn’t belong down on her knees for him — she doesn’t belong near someone like him, never has — but he can’t help himself, can’t stop roping her into his orbit. can’t release the tether that somewhere out there, at some time, they have this. ( the grit and the blood, and the bodies. they have that too. ) ] But I know what I like. I can draw this out for as long as I want with the slide of my fingers and the right press of my thumb.
[ does he? does he want to keep this going? like felicity, he can feel the impending orgasm. in the sense that if he keeps going, eventually he's going to hit that peak. he can take a shortcut and get there quickly or he can keep texting her. it's wrong in all the right ways. this is on the line of what they can and can't get away with. he can feel himself veering into the wrong lane at incoming traffic but if he hit something, made it real, he'd pull over in a heartbeat. she's right to avoid inviting him over. as much as he wants felicity, it isn't strong enough to compete with what he won't let himself have.
not yet. ]
I'd rather be using them on you. [ but that's breaking the fantasy here, isn't it? ] Learning you by the sounds you make. I can picture it, you know. You and I, in your bedroom. Your legs parted, me between them. You trembling on my fingers, riding my hand.
[ his confidence stems from lust, from knowing for some crazy reason that felicity is one-hundred percent into him. if his palm isn't cutting it, he can guess that her fingers aren't living up to expectations. ]
[she supposes she could invest in some, possibly use them in her very shallow sex life. She's just never really needed them before and she doesn't need them now. instead, she's thinking again about a video and what she'd do with toys if she had them. what she'd show him. how she'd bring him into the conversation even further if she had something that even slightly resembled his fingers or his cock.
but he's right about one thing - she is truly one-hundred percent into him and reading his texts is bad enough.]
Do you want to hear me moan for you? Whimper your name as I beg to come? I do, just so you know. Can you picture that? [she can't resist telling him everything.] When you're inside me and we're on the edge and you tell me to come for you, I know just how to sigh your name so you come with me.
[she remembers all of it and while she's this close to that orgasm, she wants to deny herself as long as she can. the need to come out on top of whatever sexual game of chicken they're playing is strong; she wants him to know she's heard him and felt him in that moment. she knows how he sounds, too, and she bites her lip before deciding the hell with it and doing the unthinkable.
filming herself through her orgasm from the waist down, moaning his name as she comes, breathlessly telling him to come with her, she waits. contemplating the repercussions, she hits send and the video arrives two minutes after her last text, probably about the time he's composing his next one.
[ jesus. the ‘not yet’ by itself has him envisioning what might happen later, after this conversation. he doesn’t believe felicity’s the type to bolt out the door immediately, though she might pick one up for the hell of it when she passes a shop as opposed to walking right on by the store. she guarantees that this is going to haunt him like a presence over his shoulder that he can’t shake off. an insistent fantasy, clawing at the corners of his mind. when he shuts his eyes, he can see her hair hanging loosely at her shoulders, her thighs spread, the soft little pants for air.
yes comes the reactive thought, narrowly restrained. he doesn’t only want to hear her moan, he wants to see it. see her head tossed back, the expanse of her throat, feel her pressed against him, around him. ]
I'm visualizing it now. [ she’s said his voice in a hundred different tones over the years. begging him? that’s. it’s everything oliver wants to discard, purge from his memory. he closes his hand around his phone, grips it tighter, smacks his head back into the wall above his bed. it stings but his pain threshold's too high for that to deter him. ] I bet you're wet, and hot, and perfect. Thinking about you sinking down on me, let alone coming for me, is easily the sexiest gift I've ever received.
[ he's wrong. he's ten thousand kinds of wrong and he realizes it the second her video appears in their message window. ]
Do you want to watch me?
[ he waits for an answer before he sends it off, though if she says yes, she's getting as much of an eyeful as he did. his jeans have been shucked off ( who knows when ) and his black boxers have been shoved down unceremoniously to his thighs, giving him the space to stroke his dick without any fabric hindering him. oliver starts off slow to give her something to watch and builds up to a faster pace, swipes his thumb over the crown of his dick, before dragging it back down with his index finger. he doesn't drag it out with felicity moaning his name ringing in his ears. he could but he also wants to do as she's asked because this is an order he can get behind. he focuses on the head of his dick with steady, shallow pumps. she can't see beyond his lap but the rapidness of his breathing, the flush on his throat, how he groans — he's about to come.
something like oh, felicity tumbles out and his orgasm hits hard.
( which means it's over and he definitely just made porn and sent it to her. )
but. yknow. his cheek's pressed to his shoulder and his phone's next to him and he's boneless in a good way, not ( yet ) paralyzed with the shit, that just happened vibes. ]
[what he sends her is not new, exactly. he's put on that kind of show for her before, but this? this is so intensely private given the obstacles they've been presented that felicity feels almost unworthy of what she's being shown. it doesn't stop her from watching it from start to finish, the sound of her name falling from his lips arousing as always. she rewinds it enough to watch the end again, the visual of his orgasm spilling over his hand as he comes something that hits her hard and she waits a moment before composing herself and a response.]
sorry I wasn't there to ride it out of you.
[which is a lot different than, hey, thanks. that was awesome. she's not deleting it any time soon, not unless he specifically asks.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
( 𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞: 𝐨.𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐞𝐧 )
Felicity, what's going on?
no subject
In general? I'm severely lacking caffeine and from the sound of it, so are you.
no subject
[ getting specific is So Awkward. ]
I mean: what's going on with the photos?
no subject
[Her sent history shows... oh dear.]
You weren't supposed to get those.
I mean, you WERE. Just not yet. I was saving them for after.
Later. I meant later.
How DID you get those? I didn't send those.
no subject
You sent them to me. They came from your username. They had to have come from your device. [ she's the expert with tech, isn't she? ] How else would I receive them?
no subject
no subject
I am not drunk texting you my lingerie selfies, Oliver. If I want to text you inappropriate things, I will. I don't need an excuse.
[It's probably not actually appropriate, in their current status as married-but-not-together to send him a shot of her in her current state, which is in bed, in only a dark green t-shirt (the color is incidental, really) with the hem of said shirt barely reaching her thighs. The sheet is thrown back specifically for this photo.]
I'm not even wearing lingerie at this moment.
no subject
because that's also a no. a big no. ]
You're barely wearing anything at this moment.
[ and whatever part of him that isn't supposed to encourage her pretty much vacated the premises the second he chose to respond. ]
So which is it? You meant to send me inappropriate pictures or you didn't?
no subject
in for a penny...]
I didn't mean to send the first, but I definitely meant to send the second.
[this time, the shirt is hiked high on her hip so he can see the edge of her panties and the skin above... nothing too racy. a little bit of her side, a bit of her stomach. that's it, really. hell, maybe the shirt slipped. but the photo is deliberate and so is the fact that she's sending it in 3... 2... 1.]
I could be wearing less if I lost the shirt.
no subject
he rubs his hand over his face, takes a breath and stares down at the screen for too long. apparently, giving felicity enough time to tug at the hem of her shirt and draw it up the side of her body. nothing blatantly filthy but suggestive enough that oliver sits straight up in bed, one leg over the side as his foot hits the floor. there's a zoom function he's completely disregarding as he holds the screen closer. she tells him she could ditch the shirt. as if that little flash of skin, a hint of her stomach, the top of her panties isn't enough to get the wheels turning. ]
Keep the shirt on. [ not just because it's green. ] Lose the underwear. That's what I'd hook my thumbs in if I were there to take them off of you.
[ ...in for a pound. he'd feel bad, if literally EVERYTHING didn't turn him on lately. everything. ]
no subject
... all of it goes through her mind and she disregards it just as quickly. she misses him, she misses the way he feels, and she misses this. the way he talks to her when he wants her and she knows he wants her. so it takes a minute before she gathers the courage to send the photo she's taken of herself sans underwear; this one is over the shoulder so he can see the shirt up over her bare ass, blonde hair barely making the frame.
she's definitely naked under the photo. if she turns over, he's getting an eyeful.]
Wish you'd been here to do it for me.
no subject
but the next photo appears on his screen and he can’t reason with what he feels. pleasant surprise that she’s sent another ( he hadn’t expected anything else ), appreciation for how beautiful felicity is. god, she’s sexy like this. oliver’s been attracted to her from day one, but this? she’s right that he wants her. he doesn’t have an illusion that he can feign otherwise. he yanks his shirt over his head, figuring he can give her something to look at since she's exposing herself to him. she's seen his scars, the tattoos, every part of him — he assumes, anyway. this is the most of her that he's laid eyes on.
when she receives a photograph of him, it's him shirtless on his bed with his pants unbuttoned, zipper halfway down. nothing over the top. he doesn't know where the limits are. palming himself unsolicited seems a bit much. ] And if I was? What else would you wish for? My hands? My mouth?
Tell me about what you think about with your hand between your thighs. [ it's not an instruction to touch herself so much as it is a walk me through this part of our lives, but there's no pass or fail here. ]
no subject
it prompts a soft smile from her as she shifts on the bed to her back, feeling her face flush a little as the rest of her body softens at his questions. if only he knew.
answering him first seems prudent:]
I like it when you either kneel on the floor between my legs or I straddle your face on the bed.
[it's bold, but he's asked, and maybe she doesn't need to be graphic with her words like so, but she wants him, too. text is safer than actions and she'll have this, if nothing else. And since he's mentioned it, she sends another one: the shirt's tugged down and her hand covers most anything obscene, but it's clear she's got her hand between her thighs, fingers teasing parts this oliver's never touched. one leg is bent at the knee to give her easier access and the photo is almost tasteful. almost.]
[so maybe it's not an instruction, but she's gotten good at this over the last few months and she wants him to see it.]
I think about how you feel inside me. Right here.
oh right, hella nsfw.
is it possible to be jealous of yourself? only oliver queen himself would find a way. ]
You would like me down on my knees. [ it's not a sight that many people have seen and lived to talk about. ] I like that. [ since they're pointing fingers. ] Picturing you in a power position with your hands in my hair and my tongue inside you. I'm not opposed to your knees above my shoulders and your thighs squeezing my face either.
[ whether or not she needs to hear that he could do that all night ( if she wanted him to ), he's distracted. he veers away from the visual hard and he's pretty glad that they're not discussing this over a direct video feed because the little groan he makes is embarrassing on basically all levels. and then he stops being relieved about that because seeing her ( it's enough, it is ) has nothing on hearing felicity talk to him this way. ]
Yeah? How do your fingers measure up? Do they feel good?
Mine do. [ and that's—it's weird, okay? describing something to her that she already knows intimately. ] Thinking about you touching yourself because of me helps.
no subject
hell yes, she wants him down there all night.
i was wrong. i want you to fuck me until i can't walk - probably the very wrong thing to text him when she's this worked up. the rejection isn't something she can handle right now and teasing herself with her fingers is just going to have to do. again.]
You can put your mouth anywhere you want as long as I get to return the favor. You've never objected to me on my knees, either.
[she licks her lips at the memory of sucking him off, swearing to herself that she can taste him now. a video would be so helpful and so awful all at the same time. again, tempting, but she resists.]
Your fingers feel so much better than mine do. You're an expert at making me come apart. [His do? is he stroking himself? with her eyes closed, she can picture it like it's happening in the bed next to her.] How good do they feel?
no subject
[ does he? does he want to keep this going? like felicity, he can feel the impending orgasm. in the sense that if he keeps going, eventually he's going to hit that peak. he can take a shortcut and get there quickly or he can keep texting her. it's wrong in all the right ways. this is on the line of what they can and can't get away with. he can feel himself veering into the wrong lane at incoming traffic but if he hit something, made it real, he'd pull over in a heartbeat. she's right to avoid inviting him over. as much as he wants felicity, it isn't strong enough to compete with what he won't let himself have.
not yet. ]
I'd rather be using them on you. [ but that's breaking the fantasy here, isn't it? ] Learning you by the sounds you make. I can picture it, you know. You and I, in your bedroom. Your legs parted, me between them. You trembling on my fingers, riding my hand.
[ his confidence stems from lust, from knowing for some crazy reason that felicity is one-hundred percent into him. if his palm isn't cutting it, he can guess that her fingers aren't living up to expectations. ]
Do you have any toys?
no subject
[she supposes she could invest in some, possibly use them in her very shallow sex life. She's just never really needed them before and she doesn't need them now. instead, she's thinking again about a video and what she'd do with toys if she had them. what she'd show him. how she'd bring him into the conversation even further if she had something that even slightly resembled his fingers or his cock.
but he's right about one thing - she is truly one-hundred percent into him and reading his texts is bad enough.]
Do you want to hear me moan for you? Whimper your name as I beg to come? I do, just so you know. Can you picture that? [she can't resist telling him everything.] When you're inside me and we're on the edge and you tell me to come for you, I know just how to sigh your name so you come with me.
[she remembers all of it and while she's this close to that orgasm, she wants to deny herself as long as she can. the need to come out on top of whatever sexual game of chicken they're playing is strong; she wants him to know she's heard him and felt him in that moment. she knows how he sounds, too, and she bites her lip before deciding the hell with it and doing the unthinkable.
filming herself through her orgasm from the waist down, moaning his name as she comes, breathlessly telling him to come with her, she waits. contemplating the repercussions, she hits send and the video arrives two minutes after her last text, probably about the time he's composing his next one.
she doesn't need toys.]
no subject
yes comes the reactive thought, narrowly restrained. he doesn’t only want to hear her moan, he wants to see it. see her head tossed back, the expanse of her throat, feel her pressed against him, around him. ]
I'm visualizing it now. [ she’s said his voice in a hundred different tones over the years. begging him? that’s. it’s everything oliver wants to discard, purge from his memory. he closes his hand around his phone, grips it tighter, smacks his head back into the wall above his bed. it stings but his pain threshold's too high for that to deter him. ] I bet you're wet, and hot, and perfect. Thinking about you sinking down on me, let alone coming for me, is easily the sexiest gift I've ever received.
[ he's wrong. he's ten thousand kinds of wrong and he realizes it the second her video appears in their message window. ]
Do you want to watch me?
[ he waits for an answer before he sends it off, though if she says yes, she's getting as much of an eyeful as he did. his jeans have been shucked off ( who knows when ) and his black boxers have been shoved down unceremoniously to his thighs, giving him the space to stroke his dick without any fabric hindering him. oliver starts off slow to give her something to watch and builds up to a faster pace, swipes his thumb over the crown of his dick, before dragging it back down with his index finger. he doesn't drag it out with felicity moaning his name ringing in his ears. he could but he also wants to do as she's asked because this is an order he can get behind. he focuses on the head of his dick with steady, shallow pumps. she can't see beyond his lap but the rapidness of his breathing, the flush on his throat, how he groans — he's about to come.
something like oh, felicity tumbles out and his orgasm hits hard.
( which means it's over and he definitely just made porn and sent it to her. )
but. yknow. his cheek's pressed to his shoulder and his phone's next to him and he's boneless in a good way, not ( yet ) paralyzed with the shit, that just happened vibes. ]
no subject
sorry I wasn't there to ride it out of you.
[which is a lot different than, hey, thanks. that was awesome. she's not deleting it any time soon, not unless he specifically asks.]
Maybe next time.