Felicity Hardy is a very (luckygirl) wrote in repose, @ 2016-08-13 16:10:00 |
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Entry tags: | *log, felicity hardy, gwen riley |
Gwen + Felicity
Who: Gwen & Felicity
What: Dancing & drinking
When: Recent-fuzzy, post-bonfire
Warnings: TBC
The tiny apartment was clean underneath practically a tide of clothing. Gold-sparkles was caught over the back of the charcoal couch, a spread of hot pink, dark red and black over the frilly counterpane of the bed. Digging out the wardrobe from the city that she had stashed under the bed was like taking a veritable roll through memory, if memory smelled like faded Chanel perfume and had the occasional lipstick stain. She had put out a selection of the less-daring end of the spectrum: less tits and ass, more emphasis on either, because Felicity was willing to bet big, no additional luck needed that Gwen wasn't used to showing off a whole lot. Nor did she need to, if Flash's little hands-on moment lake-side said anything at all.
She wore burnished copper, the kind of dress that clung like water, all slink and stopped somewhere mid-thigh, and her mouth was matte red. She greeted Gwen with the kind of hug that was warm No.5 over something that smelled like dirty vanilla, and grinned as she leaned back.
"Tits, or ass? Pick one." And maybe this little trip wasn't likely to be sanctioned by her new co-worker but she wasn't planning on making Gwen do anything other than dance. What harm was a little light fun, somewhere it didn't feel like the air was so full of young-people tension Felicity could barely breathe? Harry wasn't invited, so trouble wasn't coming along for the ride. She was jonesing for the city hard, for a sexy beat and a drink and for a few hours playing hooky from the good-girl routine.
"My closet is your closet." Spread arms, and literal, even if 'closet' in this scenario meant 'apartment'.