That night Oliver and Felicity go back to Thea’s loft. They’re just there to make sure Thea gets back okay – then Oliver’s going to pack some stuff and they’re going to go to Felicity’s and she’ll pack and they’re just going to go. That’s what Oliver wants to do. No more wasting time. They should go. Now.
Except that he’s past the point of sleep deprivation and working on a cracked rib, and Felicity yawns every other breath or so and Thea looks at them both like they’re idiots and tells them to just go to bed, god.
So they do.
Felicity stands in Oliver’s bedroom, shrugging off her jacket, her pants and socks and hoodie – Oliver stares at her doing it, revels in how this is possible, now. This is something that happens between them – she can undress, and he can watch.
Then he remembers his manners and offers her one of his t-shirts to sleep in. Felicity discards her underwear and pulls his t-shirt on over her head and crawls into his bed and Oliver could cry with how grateful he is for this moment, for her safe and comfortable and really with him right now, when they came so close to losing everything tonight.
“Stop staring at me and get in here,” Felicity mumbles, around another yawn, and Oliver does as he’s told.
He puts on pyjama pants, doesn’t bother with a shirt because his chest is scratched up and bruised, and joins her under the sheets. Felicity folds herself into his side with a sigh and Oliver wraps his arms around her, tucks her head beneath his chin, slips one hand beneath her t-shirt to feel her warm, bare skin, and decides he never needs to move again. This, right here, is going to be his whole damn life.
She burrows her face into his shoulder – he can feel her breath, her eyelashes, the faint moist touch of her mouth – and he hooks one leg over her thighs, wraps himself as thoroughly around her as he can, like he’s scared someone might try to take her away from him (again).
“I love you,” he whispers to her, fervently, and he can feel her smile. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too,” she finds his hand under the covers, laces her fingers through his, “now go to sleep.”
It’s 5AM and nearly dawn and the light in the room is muggy and grey. There’s the faint sound of Starling stuttering as the night life drains out of it, a new day considering coming into being. Oliver doesn’t think he’ll sleep, until he closes his eyes and slips into something dark and warm and empty.
When he opens his eyes again the room is awash with daylight and Felicity is a bundle in the bedclothes next to him, her face crushed to the pillows, her breath even and shallow, sleeping almost in a fetal position with her knees drawn up to her chest and digging into his side.
Oliver stares at her.
She’s just – she’s so. She’s Felicity. Asleep next to him, unguarded and unconscious, with her hair all over the place and one hand fisted in the sheets, the other flung out toward him, and not in a million years did he ever once dare to hope that he might actually experience the reality of this some day.
It’s nearly midday, which would be the longest he’s slept in months. He’s fairly sure he can hear Thea singing in the shower across the loft.
Reflexively, Oliver checks his phone for – any suggestion of anything amiss. There’s a text from Laurel telling him and Felicity to ‘stay safe out there’, another from Barry suggesting that the ‘field trip’ was a lot of fun but maybe next time they try for somewhere with less of a BDSM dungeon aesthetic; nothing from Digg. But that’s not a surprise. And no news alerts, nothing local in desperate need of intervention, no looming crisis, nothing.
Oliver drops the phone back on the pillow and concentrates on breathing evenly for a moment. He can feel his cracked rib pretty clearly right now and a number of other muscles loudly protesting his attempts at movement, but nothing more significant than that.
He’s alive, and in his own bed, with his sister safe and singing in the shower, whilst Felicity stirs and blinks awake at his side.
Her smile is slow and drowsy and she uncurls herself and stretches like a cat before reaching blindly to pull him closer.
Oliver lets himself be reached, gladly, and they come together across the bed like tide and shore, waves drawn over sand. “Good morning.”
God she’s warm and sleep-soft and Oliver could just cuddle up to her like this for the rest of his damn life – yeah, fuck it, forget travelling, they should definitely just stay in bed, right here, like this, forever, this is absolutely fucking glorious.
He buries his face in her hair for a moment, breathing her in. Her breasts are pressed against him under the t-shirt she’s wearing, and he runs his hands over them, and down to her hips and her soft, round thighs and gently curls his fingers under one of them, kneading the flesh there because he can and because Felicity responds with a low sigh of pleasure.
“Mm,” she lays a hand on his jaw and cranes her neck for a kiss, which Oliver leans down into, lingering in the strange, luxurious intimacy of the moment – just a tentative brush of her mouth to his, although it sends a brilliant bolt of need through his core and straight to somewhere less romantic.
Then Felicity sits up, squinting in the sunlight coming in through his curtains, brushing her hair out of her eyes, looking lovely and rumpled and out of focus, the day not quite touching her yet.
“Breakfast?” She asks, after a moment, fumbling at one eye with a fist, her voice a little thick.
“Mm – later,” Oliver shakes his head, reaching out to tug at her – his – t-shirt, lifting the edge of it a little, just enough to make his intentions clear.
And she smiles at him, slow and languid. “Okay.”
Oh, fuck yes.
She kisses him again, leaning over him, cupping his jaw in her hands, enveloping him. She smells like last night’s sweat and day-old deodorant and Oliver doesn’t care. He kisses her back, bruising and slow, and she has to shift for a moment to get comfortable, climbing on top of him, careful of his bruises. Oliver trails his fingers up her thighs and under the t-shirt as she rocks her hips against him, all warm enthusiasm, and that’s all Oliver needs – god – he’s hard already –
She can feel him – he can tell because she’s giggling into his neck, and he pushes impatiently at her t-shirt.
“Felicity – ”
“Okay, okay, it’s coming off,” she sits up, grinning at him, and Oliver props himself up on his elbows as she flips his t-shirt off (that t-shirt has never looked so good as it does sliding off her body in the bright morning sunlight), and her nipples are hard and pinker than he remembers them being in Nanda Parbat – the light is clearer here, he supposes. “Pants, mister.”
He’s already trying to struggle out of them without dislodging her, which turns out to be easier in theory than in practice.
Felicity’s laughter is warm and breathy in his ear and he’s distracted by her breasts and the heat of her skin. She clambers off him to help and in his enthusiasm he kicks back the sheets, his pants tangling round his ankles until he’s swearing in frustration and Felicity’s calling him a child. She drags them the rest of the way off his feet and then throws her arms around his neck, straight back on top of him, kissing him, which Oliver has no problem with at all.
“Hi,” he tells her, conversationally, adjusting her weight on top of him, examining her in the hazy sunlight. Naked and face to face and chest to chest and wrapped up in each other with her straddling his lap is just exactly what he wants right now.
He slips one hand between them to touch her and she inhales, sharply, biting her lip and avoiding his gaze, her face flushing – and he can’t decide what he finds more appealing, her sudden bashfulness or the wet heat against his fingers.
“Do you have – are we using – ” Felicity rocks her hips a little and – fuck – brushes up against his cock just enough to make it clear exactly how ready she is.
Oliver considers, for one glorious moment, tipping her off him and laying her back, burying his head between her thighs to taste her – they never got to that in Nanda Parbat and he would really, desperately like to try – though there’s time, now. He can savour this, save some things. He thinks about going down on her some place special – like on the hood of the Porsche he’s planning on buying – and decides he can wait.
Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes glittering – Oliver thinks about how much he likes being able to see these details about her now, the way arousal makes her look, the way it makes her stutter and sigh. Her skin’s more sensitive, there are freckles that show up under the heat rushing to the surface of her skin that aren’t there all the time – he leans down to kiss the ones blooming on her shoulders and she exhales softly, still moving against him.
“Oliver,” she mumbles, into his hair, “Oliver – ”
“Condoms,” she manages, “are we – do you have – ”
Oliver tries to think through the smog of his throbbing hard-on, “oh – right – uh – ”
They hadn’t used one in Nanda Parbat. He hadn’t exactly gone out there equipped and Felicity had stuttered something about an implant and birth control and not caring and in that moment they’d both been so frantically melting into each other it had gotten lost as a concern.
Now, though, they have time to be sensible adults about this.
“I…” fuck, does he have condoms? There was a time in his life where that wouldn’t even have been in question – but before Nanda Parbat he’d not gotten anywhere near a girl in a sexual capacity in going on a year and he’s reasonably sure he hasn’t bought condoms since moving in with Thea and –
“Forget it,” Felicity shakes her head, adjusting her grip on him, “we can go without, it’s fine – ”
“Are you sure?” Not that Oliver especially wants to delay matters any more than absolutely necessary, but he’s also not a complete prick and he can’t remember the last time he had an STD test (not exactly high on his list of priorities, ever). God the most recent one was probably in amongst the battery of tests during that initial hospital stay when he first got back from Lian Yu and how many women has he slept with since then?
He’s been very, very careful about protection, actually, because fuck knows an accidental pregnancy in the middle of all this Arrow crap would be a nightmare, but could he swear to having himself completely covered every single time?
Felicity seems determined and steady, her thumbs stroking his jaw.
“Yeah just for now,” she swallows, “I’m – I have – ” She taps her arm, efficiently. “I had it put in last year so I just wouldn’t have to – you know – deal with – because it turns out being on my period whilst also coping with Slade Wilson invading Starling was a whole other level of suck and I’m not sure why you needed to know that – ”
Oliver grins, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close so that she slides up his thighs, pressing to his chest, his erection trapped between them (god it feels fucking awesome pressed against her belly). “Felicity.”
“Should I stop talking now?”
“I’d like for us to have sex,” he tells her, with as straight a face as he can muster, “but I don’t have any condoms. Are you okay with that? Because we can do other stuff.”
“I’m okay,” she promises, “we can be sensible later but – you’re alive and I’m alive and –“
She’s already pushing herself up on her knees, making room for him to guide himself to her entrance.
“God, Oliver, I just want – ”
Oliver knows the fucking feeling.
He pushes himself up against where she’s open and soaking wet, hot, inviting, and makes himself linger there for just a moment, savouring her.
Fuck that’s the best those words have ever sounded, ever – he’s convinced – in the history of the entire universe –
He lets go of his cock and leans back, and Felicity sinks down onto him in a single, steady movement and his world goes white and gold.
He remembers the heat-slick sense of her in Nanda Parbat, easing home into her for the first time with his head full of everything that this was and meant, singular in his purpose, knowing this could only be the last time as much as it was the first. He remembers her voice in his ear as he bottomed out – breathless and trembling –
“Oh – god – ”
“Are you okay?” He’d managed, cradling her shoulders, feeling himself twitch and throb inside her thinking fuck, fuck, this is it, this is everything –
“Yeah, yes, yes – don’t stop.”
He’d grabbed her thigh, drawing it up to give himself some leverage, pulling out a little to drive back in harder and she’d whimpered against his throat, clinging to him and that – that had been how they’d done it, in Nanda Parbat. In whispers and whimpers and gasps, in shadows, clinging to each other, rocking and cradling and drawing it out. Soothing each other, comforting and desperate in about equal measure.
They don’t have to do that here.
Felicity leans into him with a sigh, eyes heavy lidded, her arms wresting on his shoulders, her gaze clear as the daylight. Oliver catches at her mouth with his own and then draws away again, teasing her, brushing his nose to hers and pulling away, doing it again until she giggles, breathlessly.
“Mm.” He allows himself a smile, small and smug, at the way the blood has risen under her skin, the little furrow in her brow as she concentrates on riding him, lifting and falling just a little – half an inch or so – her lips parted, her eyelashes fluttering, chest heaving.
“I wanna kiss you, hold still.” She puts a hand on his jaw and he grins at her. She’s petulant and insistent and adorable and he’s inside her and it feels so.fucking.good.
She rides him slow and leisurely like that, kissing him, her arms wrapped around his shoulders, knees pressed either side of his hips. Oliver holds her tight and gazes up at her and tries to stay in the reality of the moment, of the fact that he’s here with her and can have this – he won’t wake up, not this time. He presses his face to her neck, inhaling the scent of her sweat, tasting her skin, gently dragging his teeth there until she groans, shuddering.
She really likes when he pays attention to her neck – she liked it in Nanda Parbat, too. She’s raking her hands through his hair and her pace is speeding up, appreciatively, and Oliver mumbles against her throat and sucks, hard –
“Oh.” Her fingers sink into his scalp.
“Do you like that?” Oliver murmurs, into her ear, “am I biting too hard or – ”
“No, no, it’s good,” she replies, holding him tight, “keep going – ”
Oliver allows himself a grin before he does it again, feeling Felicity squirm in his arms. He’s going to do a lot of this – learning her – exploring her – he’s going to work out every one of her kinks and turn-ons and make himself the best lay she’s ever had. He’s going to take pride in it – he’s going to be the best fuck Felicity has ever known; he’s going to make her come in every bed they share for the rest of their lives. Including this one.
He reaches between them, giving her his knuckles to grind against, which she does, enthusiastically.
“Oh – yes – good,” she drags her fingernails across his back which, he’s gotta admit, is kinda doing it for him.
“Harder,” he whispers, bucking his hips, “come on, ride me – ”
“Fuck,” the word comes out of her in a breath, high and sharp – nothing like he’s ever heard her say it before and wow it sounds good in this context. The rhythm they’ve found is harsh, a swift little staccato as he moves with her, cresting against her.
“Faster,” he instructs, gritting his teeth to stop himself completely unravelling, “god, yes, there you go – show me – yes – ”
She does, circling and shifting her hips in a way that is turning the edges of Oliver’s vision blurry. He goes back to biting at her neck and Felicity clutches at the back of his head, scratches his shoulders, her breath shuddering. He tries to remember from Nanda Parbat what she was like when she – is she close?
“This feels good,” Felicity whispers against him, the words tumbling but clear (yeah, yup, she’s totally close), “this feels good – this feels – go back to my neck – there – yes – like that – ”
“I swear to god,” Oliver pushes up into her, hard, feels her tense up and shudder, “I am going to make you come – every morning – for the rest of the year – ”
“You really know just what to say to a girl, huh?” Felicity’s laughter is breathless and warm.
“I mean it,” Oliver does it again, with a grin, “I owe you, you deserve – ”
“Oh – God,” Felicity throws her head back.
“ – you deserve this, you deserve every moment – every inch – I love you so much – ”
“Don’t stop – ”
“I love you, I love you, I love – ”
Felicity abruptly goes rigid with a single, sharp gasp. Oliver feels her shake as she finishes, her mouth dropping open, her eyes crushed shut – unguarded and uncaring, not a second of artifice or performance about it – it’s the sexiest thing he’s ever seen – the way she arches and shivers and –
Fuck that’s all he needs. His orgasm shakes through him as he holds her tight, Felicity’s breathing still erratic, pressed down on him, grinding her hips as she chases the last, receding ripple of sensation.
They fall apart on the bed. Oliver lets himself topple sideways, narrowly avoiding landing on top of her, feeling utterly boneless and the literal best he can remember feeling in – months. Years, maybe.
Felicity opens one eye and smiles at him, rolling onto her side with a soft, satisfied breath. Oliver reaches for her, pulls her close. He wants to melt into her, into this, forget anything and everything else but the sensation of her skin under his fingers and the warm, quiet aftermath. She lays one of her thighs over his, fittings herself to him.
Felicity smiles, sleepily cupping his jaw with her hands. “We should really do that more often.”
“I told you,” Oliver replies, folding his arms around her, “I’m going to make you come every morning for the rest of the fucking year.”
She giggles. “That was your sex brain talking. That’s probably still your sex brain talking.”
“I would never make a promise to you that I wasn’t going to keep,” he tells her, seriously, “especially not about orgasms.”
“Good to know.”
She kisses him, softly – any further stimulation after that and Oliver’s pretty sure he’d just fall out of his own skin – and bumps her nose to his. Oliver closes his eyes, tries to make himself aware of every part of her, the sound of her breath and her pulse and the feel of her eyelashes and the smell of her sweat – all of it, Christ, all of her.
Felicity exhales, long and slow. “We should get up at some point, right?”
“Yeah.” Oliver doesn’t open his eyes, “but not yet.”
They stay in a sated, sleepy pile of slack limbs and soft skin until Thea comes and knocks on their door, demanding her brother stop being gross with his girlfriend and come make her pancakes before he leaves.