thou art revenged.

oliver isn't shamefaced by any means, not one to reel when prompted into explorations of sexuality. desire comes instinctual to him, knee-jerk, and sourced from the pit of his stomach — but the sharing, the performative intimacy that comes with romancing veronica is a decisive one. it thrills her, he's learned, and as he's willed himself once to stain the coat of his lungs for the sake of unwavering eye contact, the invitations for a twosome turned three, turned four — appeared to oliver, necessary. he gets off on it because she does, delights because veronica's hungering eyes feed him like a touch of her own. in an ideal situation, the inevitable euphoria built into the blush of her cheeks would be only oliver's to covet, only oliver's to watch, to gaze upon in their shared privacy. this is mostly the case at present, so he preens, works himself with a pivoting wrist, echoes like he enjoys the polyamory in passing. " — yeah? want to watch — and feel me, your hand flat against her stomach — fuck her nice and hard? good and wet for your fingers?" the arousal builds either way, half-present memories — though blurry with overlapping experiences — still erotic enough to prompt quickened pumps. none of it is as satisfying as having her, no fantasy, no distant vision, no promise rivals the hug of her body around his cock — but each dragging fist wrenches him closer and closer to a sloppy end.

i want to lock him in my basement [gets scared about the optics ] with his permission,

change is inevitable, he thinks. it's a necessary evil when the source of ones desire lay unwinnable without it. if there's any similarity between them (and frankly, oliver doubts this) their paths would never cross; both lives parallel, perhaps asymptotic at best. he meets her because he goes out of his way to, stands across her listening, because he'd prompted it from her. there would be no annette and oliver if not for intent, if not for decisive change. so he shrugs, thoughtful amidst assumption. he could thank her for the compliments seeded in, but there are larger caverns to close, and he cocks his head just slightly, eyelids lowered in focus. "would your impression change if i'd come with you in mind?" oliver clarifies with a habitual drag of tongue. "if i made these choices as an excuse to visit you, would you still think of me highly? — intelligent, and well-read?" his expression, bland and flat, gives little away.

she astounds him with minimal movement. the fluster is expected, the nervous tremors like clockwork — but it is with the angling of her head and the brush of her mouth that oliver latches onto, hurried and needy. heel to skimming lips, the stretch of his fingers curl, trace along the bridge of her nose and the angle of her jaw. from touch alone, he can picture annette's expression in his head. he can see it fine, awed with the blue of his eyes — but it's a stunning sensation to recognize her through the run of his hand. there isn't anything to be verbalized. he communicates similarly, in gesture, in contact, and whilst her face turns into the curve of his palm, oliver leans into the blush of her cheek, the shell of her ear. he kisses her there, runs the seam of a smile against the soft lobe, then lower still to where her neck extends. nose to pulse, and a guiding arm bending around the bend of her waist. he's almost feeding her into himself, pressing her flush against his person, though the intimacy continues arguably slow. sweetness to modest skin, romance in the cup of her face.

"you don't have to be sorry about anything. just take it as uh... a lesson, or something." he shrugs his shoulders, smile still there. it is not exactly easy to talk about, but after all the time that's passed, it's a lot easier. it's just a part of his life, now. "i was only fifteen at the time." then, it's austin's turn. "can i ask why you're so interested? i'm not offended. just curious."

he tries to picture it in his head, the snap of bone and sinew, the presumed shattering of skin, the terror of it suddenly blown outward from pinprick to flooding hurt. oliver's injuries, though strange in their own right — are less cinematic in description, and he's only wary of the insistent pressing when austin addresses it. "sorry," he repeats, brows lifting in habitual apology. "i'm overtly curious. a troubling habit is all." true to a point, though oliver's intrigue lies more heavily upon austin as a whole than it does his misery. there's something to be celebrated either way; that he's privy to such a pitiful event and welcomed to ask about it — proof of their slow and steady entanglement. then, shaking his head with a rerouting, oliver proposes: "we don't have to talk about it any further if it's uncomfortable. i don't mean to pry."

it isn't hurt, not really — not just. in-between the gnawing, the gums, the grinding pressure and inevitable crunch of cartilage, severing of nerves and punctured skin, sits salivating laps, tenderness, lust and unhurried romance. there is more to enjoy than a private wounding, and oliver murmurs this, needlessly desperate: "you won't." though their bodies have come into heavy contact, there is much to learn. in the same way he arrives new to maren's tendency, she sidles in foreign to his desires. she may assume him plainly masochistic; a halfway suicidal thing deranged and needy for the clamp of her teeth, the burn of her stomach. he suggests otherwise, "i'll stop you before you do — or I'll punish you if you try." and morbidly, oliver communicates it like romantic gesture, thumbstrokes running like rivulets across her knuckles. "i won't let it get too far. i only ask you to try. to open up for me, spread like i sense you hope to." she wills the sentiment from him with the doe of her eyes. sensuality made all the more enticing when her façade is wet and wide, her sweetness like cherry garnish for a repressed brutality. he's entirely smitten, drawn like a man obsessed. it's early, but oliver doesn't doubt the tingle. he's friend to it, companion to the thrum that ripples through him layer by layer. he must have her, is the point. "i'm resilient." (hardy, malleable, and naive as it is to think; oliver thinks himself even invincible at this point, heart hammering too quick to catch hesitation. struck too accurately to consider anything but the tending to his desire.) he corrals her instead, scoops her palm by palm along maren's waist, then snaking further to the low of her spine. his eyes are almost frightfully blue, nails digging like measuring pins through the soft folds of her clothes. "...i am," oliver murmurs, reassuring then when the distance between them shrinks into inevitable intimacy. he moves to woo her, evidently — left hand abandoning its possessive grip to cradle maren by flustered cheek.

the description put forth is sound, though oliver frets temporarily in the jabbing of shallowness. it's once upon a time definition often mixed in with figures who prioritize beauty above all else. in oneself and in others, presumably. oliver wouldn't consider himself exactly that but there is a stringed connection there between bubbling appreciation for the handsome, for the stunning and attractive — and the impulsive habit he'd borne from falling in love through first impression alone. he believes in the latter somehow, thinks it a fine reflex when his reverence has yet to lead him astray. vathos is as beautiful as he is kind after all, as handsome as he is patient, and charismatic. he clung often to immediate judgment, lapped his lips in the distant awe — though there became more to it in time. they are friends now, is the thing. scrambling for 'debate', oliver counters: "is it shallow if my type is based on feelings that can't be placed?" he's honest too, surprisingly — then with a nervous build up, he continues, "sparks. raw attraction. — love at first meeting, i guess." attachment and obsession and addiction and devotion and possession too.

he doesn't intend to be 'evil' nor is he particularly warmed by it, but nadine's near instant affection for it has oliver halfway beaming. the approval tastes sweet and salty under his tongue, the purse of their lips an approving brand. " — well." and he warms, considerate when coasting comments about the understated manipulation of baby blues sits at the tail end of their exchange. that nadine seems aware of it, seems independently bemused by it's glaring existence, is worrying. albeit, they don't seem wholly put off by it, if anything. his fingers brush the pecked cheek. "i doubt batted lashes will do me any good in their company — but i'll try not to appear deceitful, at best." a canned chuckle, but a chuckle nevertheless. and when his hands return low to his sides again, oliver continues with the clearing of his throat, "what's um — our budget?"