a preference of pants (chloe/oliver, r)
um, if nothing better comes along (and i'm hoping something does, 'cause i've got some ideas), vinylroad, this is for you.
title: a preference of pants
pairing: chloe/oliver
rating: r (the words, they are dirty)
notes: once upon a time: this was longer and pornier...and now it's neither. sorry.
Oliver stands in the doorway, hands in his pockets, watching.
He’s used to Chloe in various states of undress: bare thighs and naked tits with the feel of her small hands tightly wrapped around his cock. He’s used to her cotton sheets with their girlie and flowery prints and how everything in her place is stained with the smell of coffee because of the shop downstairs. He’s used to her leaving dirty messages on his voicemail while he’s stuck in shareholder meetings in Gotham City, her sweet and clear voice telling him how she’s going to make him come so fucking hard, trust me, baby.
But he’s not quite used to Chloe in his apartment, walking around his kitchen, dressed in one of his old t-shirts from SCU (he was on the track team for about a minute) and a pair of panties, with those small hands pulling out dishes and silverware from his cupboards and cabinets like they're her own.
And he’s not used to it, but he thinks that he kind of likes it.
She fixes herself a bowl of ice cream and when she’s reaching up to shove the carton back into the freezer, he notices her borrowed shirt stretching tight over her growing stomach. Her showing is a pretty recent thing. A few weeks ago, Ollie could almost cover the small round of her belly with just one hand.
Chloe licks chocolate from the start of her wrist, and then the scoop, where small bits of rocky road have melted down to the handle, before tossing it into the sink.
“That breakfast?” he asks.
She looks up, a sort of questioning smirk on the corner of her mouth saying, how long you been standing there? and he lifts a hand to show four fingers, quickly amending it to five when she raises her brow.
“So, breakfast?” he asks again.
“Hmm, maybe. Haven’t really decided.”
She smiles at him, pushing up on her tiptoes to kiss his mouth. Her lips are sticky-sweet from the ice cream, and he slides an arm around her shoulders, hand coming up to cup the back of her head, pushing and pulling her closer until their middles touch (awkward, because she’s bigger now) and their toes bump together. Chloe laughs, happy, and rubs her nose to his chin.
“You need to stop by your apartment to get pants?” he asks. He slips one finger, and then two, into the elastic of her underwear, bending and flexing his knuckles to fit neatly against the notch of her hip, all soft and pliant instead of the sharpness that he’s used to. “Or is this deliberate? Can never keep up with what the kids wear these days.”
He thinks that he hears her snort softly, ignores it, and starts to rub his fingers over the crease of her thigh. She shifts her hips towards him, but keeps her eyes down into her bowl of ice cream, trying to get a scoop with both mini-marshmallows and peanuts.
“Pants don’t fit anymore,” she says, shrugging, the metal spoon clicking against her front teeth. “Need to buy new ones.”
“You know, I’ve always been of the opinion that pants are incredibly overrated.”
Chloe agrees with an almost endearing nod of her head, but says, half-accusatory and half-amused, “You just like that there’s one less barrier between your hands and my panties.”
“Well, yeah,” he says, because how can he argue with that? He takes the bowl from her hands and sets it down on the counter, the spoon clattering against the sides. “That too.”
Oliver smiles, easy and playful, and bends to kiss her again, teasingly peels her underwear down her legs and slowly pushing up her shirt, first over her belly and then her breasts.
And there she is: all bare thighs and naked tits.
title: a preference of pants
pairing: chloe/oliver
rating: r (the words, they are dirty)
notes: once upon a time: this was longer and pornier...and now it's neither. sorry.
Oliver stands in the doorway, hands in his pockets, watching.
He’s used to Chloe in various states of undress: bare thighs and naked tits with the feel of her small hands tightly wrapped around his cock. He’s used to her cotton sheets with their girlie and flowery prints and how everything in her place is stained with the smell of coffee because of the shop downstairs. He’s used to her leaving dirty messages on his voicemail while he’s stuck in shareholder meetings in Gotham City, her sweet and clear voice telling him how she’s going to make him come so fucking hard, trust me, baby.
But he’s not quite used to Chloe in his apartment, walking around his kitchen, dressed in one of his old t-shirts from SCU (he was on the track team for about a minute) and a pair of panties, with those small hands pulling out dishes and silverware from his cupboards and cabinets like they're her own.
And he’s not used to it, but he thinks that he kind of likes it.
She fixes herself a bowl of ice cream and when she’s reaching up to shove the carton back into the freezer, he notices her borrowed shirt stretching tight over her growing stomach. Her showing is a pretty recent thing. A few weeks ago, Ollie could almost cover the small round of her belly with just one hand.
Chloe licks chocolate from the start of her wrist, and then the scoop, where small bits of rocky road have melted down to the handle, before tossing it into the sink.
“That breakfast?” he asks.
She looks up, a sort of questioning smirk on the corner of her mouth saying, how long you been standing there? and he lifts a hand to show four fingers, quickly amending it to five when she raises her brow.
“So, breakfast?” he asks again.
“Hmm, maybe. Haven’t really decided.”
She smiles at him, pushing up on her tiptoes to kiss his mouth. Her lips are sticky-sweet from the ice cream, and he slides an arm around her shoulders, hand coming up to cup the back of her head, pushing and pulling her closer until their middles touch (awkward, because she’s bigger now) and their toes bump together. Chloe laughs, happy, and rubs her nose to his chin.
“You need to stop by your apartment to get pants?” he asks. He slips one finger, and then two, into the elastic of her underwear, bending and flexing his knuckles to fit neatly against the notch of her hip, all soft and pliant instead of the sharpness that he’s used to. “Or is this deliberate? Can never keep up with what the kids wear these days.”
He thinks that he hears her snort softly, ignores it, and starts to rub his fingers over the crease of her thigh. She shifts her hips towards him, but keeps her eyes down into her bowl of ice cream, trying to get a scoop with both mini-marshmallows and peanuts.
“Pants don’t fit anymore,” she says, shrugging, the metal spoon clicking against her front teeth. “Need to buy new ones.”
“You know, I’ve always been of the opinion that pants are incredibly overrated.”
Chloe agrees with an almost endearing nod of her head, but says, half-accusatory and half-amused, “You just like that there’s one less barrier between your hands and my panties.”
“Well, yeah,” he says, because how can he argue with that? He takes the bowl from her hands and sets it down on the counter, the spoon clattering against the sides. “That too.”
Oliver smiles, easy and playful, and bends to kiss her again, teasingly peels her underwear down her legs and slowly pushing up her shirt, first over her belly and then her breasts.
And there she is: all bare thighs and naked tits.