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Better Than Anything

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Felicity always loses her words when she’s close. She’s not much of a talker in the mornings anyway (any other time of the day and she talks through sex, like she talks through everything), and as Oliver gently – gently – pushes his tongue inside her, what little coherency she had trails off into a deep, shuddering sigh.

Like this, Oliver can suck on her and touch inside her just enough to finish her – she needs both, the inside and the out, at slightly different pressures – too much on either and she gets numb and overstimulated, too little and she can’t get close at all. She’s fiddly, complicated, time consuming, an infinitely satisfying physiological puzzle. They’ve been working on how to get to this spot for weeks – he got her close with his mouth, really, truly, squirming, whispering, begging close, for the first time last night, but she hadn’t quite been able to come, had had to ask him to stop, take a break, and then she’d finished herself off against his leg instead.

This morning is going to be different. She’s more relaxed in the mornings, drowsy and warm. And Oliver knows how to do this now – he can get her there – he’s going to take pride in getting her there. God he loves fucking her, but he might like going down on her more.

He glances up, just enough to catch her eyes tightly shut, her mouth half-open as she pants, her neck tipped back, shoulders arching, bare skin slick with sweat, knuckles whitening, one arm thrown up over her head to grasp artlessly at the pillows, the other reaching blindly down for him.

These moments between them feel sacred. Witnessing Felicity like this, knowing her in these few seconds – teetering on the brink of orgasm, so close it’s almost painful, the last steps at the top of a mountain, the effort concentrated and hard and yet inexorable – these moments taste religious, worshipful, as physical as they are emotional, as tender as they are obscene.

Oliver pushes, and pushes, and Felicity gasps and quakes beneath him like a mountainside giving way, a tiny avalanche beneath her skin, a whole world shaking –

And then someone’s pounding on the door of their motel room.


Felicity laughs, breathlessly, from the pillows, as Oliver groans against her thigh.


Oliver resists the urge to curse, loudly, pushing himself up on his elbows as Felicity blinks down at him, her face flushed, her eyes glassy. “We’re not done,” he tells her, planting a kiss on her hip.

She tongue flicks up against her upper lip which… is not making him less hard, damn – her breath still stuttering in her chest.


“No thank you!” Oliver yells back, at the door, eliciting another sleepy, disorientated giggle from Felicity. “We put the thing on the door – ”

A pause then, “oh – sorry, sir it – it fell off, it’s on the ground – I’ll put it back – ”

“Yeah, thank you!” Oliver rolls his eyes and Felicity puts her hands up over her face, rolling onto her side with a snort.

Oliver shakes his head, crawls up the bed to nuzzle at Felicity’s neck until she turns back to him, opens her mouth for a deep, wet, messy sort of kiss – tasting herself, tasting his heat and frustration. She grasps at his jaw, her fingers brushing over his ears, the back of his neck, keeping him close even when he breaks the kiss.

“You okay?” he mumbles, running his hands over her, gentle and warm.

Yes,” her sigh is easy, content, “just – go back to – please – ”

“You want me to keep going? You don’t need a break?” He’s only teasing her a little, letting his mouth turn up as he goes back to kissing her neck, nudging her thighs apart with one of his own till he can feel how wet she is.

Her voice is drowsy but amused, “if that’s not gonna be too much trouble…”

“No – no trouble…” he’s already trailing down her body, tasting her sweat, taking a moment to press his face to her breasts, her abdomen, nipping gently at her hip bone, inhaling deeply as she squirms – god she smells like him and like her own arousal and just… as sacred as she is obscene.

“Ohh,” her fingers are in his hair now, pushing him as he runs the flat of his tongue up against her clit, slow and gentle but firm. “Ohh, Oliver – that feels – nice –”

The word trails off into a hiss, almost pained. He’ll have to work her up again, and he’ll have to be even more careful not to over-stimulate or rush her – she’s so aroused already she’ll be getting hyper-sensitive, he knows what that looks like on her, the little twitches and whimpers as she squirms away from him, getting comfortable again. He eases off then on her with his tongue, off then on, letting her tolerance build back up.

He’s had to learn to be patient. The temptation to just devour, touch and taste her as deeply as he can, as quickly as he can, because he can and she lets him, is one he’s had to get good at repressing. Felicity likes it as much as he does – especially when they’re doing more penetrative stuff – likes him inside her, likes going fast, likes the fun and the passion of good and hard and fuck. Makes the best sounds he’s ever heard her make when he thrusts into her when she’s really ready and wanting (“God – fuck – yes – ” through gritted teeth, clawing at his back, arching her hips, “that’s it – yes – fuck – that feels so good – harder – ” it’s the ‘harder’ that gets him every time, the wantonness of her asking him to fuck her, Christ).

But she can’t really come like that. When they go hard he always comes first, and she finishes herself off after him, whilst he watches, gasping in his own afterglow as she uses her fingers, her temple pressed to his shoulder, sometimes grinding against his thigh (which is it’s own special kind of hot, he’s gotta admit). Still, being able to get her off is sort of a matter of pride, for him. He wants to be able to do it.

She’d explained her difficulty to him as if it had been something to apologise for, not quite meeting his eye, tucked up against his chest in bed, a few days into their road trip.

“I kinda get over excited sometimes,” she bites her lip, “it’s not that I’m not enjoying it – I am – I – that’s sort of the problem. I like it so much, it’s like my clit short circuits.”

Oliver snorts.

“I’m serious! I get to a point and then I – can’t.”

“No, I know, I believe you,” he’s stroking her hair, affectionately. “It’s okay, Felicity. However you want to get there, I’ll get you there. We’ll work on it.”

“I just… I didn’t want you to think you were – disappointing me or that it’s you – I love everything we do – I want everything we do. I’ve had a lot of guys kinda… not get that.”

Oliver smooths her hair and thinks about finding every guy who’s ever been selfish with her in bed and kicking all their asses, thoroughly.

“I’ve just ended up faking it a lot,” Felicity sighs, (no, really, he’s going to kick all their asses). “It’s easier – it spares the guy’s feelings. But I didn’t… I didn’t want anything between us to be like that.”

“It’s not going to be,” he promises, and she smiles, small and amused but relaxing at last. “You can show me how to do it and I’ll learn.”

“We’ll just have to practice a lot, I guess.”

“That sounds like a plan,” he agrees, jovially, and her smile grows.

They know that she can come with him inside her if they go much slower, so that she can control the rhythm of his thrusts and touch herself – it seems to nix the whole short-circuit thing if they allow for more build up. So that seems a natural way to start trying.

The first time he manages to get her to come through his touch alone, without her needing to use her fingers, she’s on her side and he slides into her, very gently, from behind, holding her back to his chest, cradling the underside of one of her thighs with one hand, lifting just enough to give him room. They’d already had the rough and ready kind of sex that evening, so this is slower, steadier. Oliver’s feeling tender, full of love and heat, nuzzling at her neck, nipping at her ear, murmuring to her that she’s so hot and so sexy and he could just do this to her, with her, all day every day and never get enough – that this is all he wants, that she feels so good – so good

And after a while, on instinct, as he watches her fingers drift down, rubbing then stopping, then rubbing again, he shifts her hand out of the way, and presses the heel of his palm to her, and lets her grind against it, pushing back so that there’s firm, consistent friction, in time to his thrusts. He doesn’t rub, he doesn’t move his hand all that much at all – he just… provides some pressure. She makes an appreciative noise so he presses harder, rocking them both as he tries to move in time with her body. 

“Good?” He asks, as she moves her hips.

“Yeah,” she sighs, “yes – so good - oh god – I think I’m – ” and then she loses her words.

Later she buys him coffee.

“What’s this for?” he looks at the cardboard mug she has set down in front of him.

She shrugs, something bright in her eyes, then leans across the table to kiss him.

They get better at that, with practice (lots and lots of practice. Very necessary practice. For science.) Oliver has made it his mission to read who Felicity is in bed, catch her reactions and sensitivities, and that kind of orgasm gradually becomes something he can give her every time she wants one.  

But he’s never got her off by going down on her before and that immediately becomes his next project – it’s too much fun to not try, and putting his mouth to her has become his favourite thing since that first night in Nanda Parbat when, even if he hadn’t quite gotten her finished, he’d certainly gotten her toes to curl.

It takes time and it takes concentration but it’s – fuck – just…. There’s nothing else Oliver wants to do.

In a world where he has known the cold thrust of metal through his chest and the burn of a brand on his back, when he knows what pain is, what misery is, what wretched fucking suffering is out there – here in the quiet heat between Felicity’s thighs he can find a kind of mercy. He can know peace here, he can feel tenderness and pleasure of a sort he hasn’t felt entitled to in a very, very long time. He can make Felicity lose her words and shake down to her bones as he finds new ways to apologise, over and over, for what he’s put her through. He can give himself to her and to something good, something fundamentally better than anything he has ever surrendered himself to before.

So in a cheap motel room lost somewhere on the edges of a middle American town, with the early morning sunlight painting the room cool blue and gold, Felicity finally stutter stops against Oliver’s tongue.

He feels something rush through her like a tide, and he presses hard, harder, driving her through the sensation until she lets out a single, strangled cry and then pushes him away, her chest heaving, her head turned to one side as she sinks down somewhere deep inside herself, submerged, shuddering, spent.

Oliver pushes himself up onto his knees, watching her for a moment, still tasting her, thinking well, fuck.

She looks small and vulnerable in the bed, with the sheets rumpled against her bare skin, goosebumps creeping up her arms, the flush still fresh across her chest. Oliver gathers her up, carefully, laying down beside her and pulling her to his chest, rubbing circles in her back, warming her.

She sighs, not opening her eyes, huddling closer.

These moments, too, feel sacred – feel like grace, undeserved, unasked for, however desperately they are wanted (and god he wanted this, for so long). Holding Felicity like this, letting the silence pool as she comes back to herself and to him – it’s a sort of reverence he didn’t know he could feel. He watches her settle and stir for a minute or so.

“Don’t look smug.”

“I’m not smug.”

“You’re so smug, I don’t even have to look, you’re like – breathing it,” Felicity’s smile is sleepy, her voice muffled against his shoulder.

Oliver laughs.

“See? Smug.”

“I went down on you,” he points out, evenly.

“You did.”

“And you came.”

“I did. And now you’re smug.”

“…only a little.”

She giggles and opens her eyes, her gaze a little hazy as she watches his face, curls her fingers against his jaw. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me, Felicity.”

“I know,” she taps him on the nose, then yawns, widely. “I’m gonna fall back asleep… you wore me out.”

“You sleep, then,” he murmurs, kissing her forehead.

“You don’t want me to, um…” she can feel that he’s still semi-hard, her fingers tracing gentle patterns on one of his thighs as she fits one of her legs between his, her mouth quirking.

“Later,” he shrugs, folds her into himself, tucking her head beneath his chin. “You warm enough? You want a blanket?”

“Mm.” She nods, and he grabs for the comforter, drawing it up around them both until they’re cocooned, safe, warm, huddled together. “For the record – this was the best way to wake up, ever. And it might also be the best way to fall asleep.”

Oliver smiles, “I’m not getting any less smug, here.”

“We’ll work on that when I wake up.” She plants a little kiss on his neck, exhales contentedly. Oliver tightens his grip on her appreciatively, listens to her breathing begin to even out as she drifts into unconsciousness –

Then someone is pounding on the door. Again. “Housekeeping!”

No!” Oliver sits up, “the thing is on the door – ”

“Oh – uh – sorry, sir – ”

Felicity is giggling, burrowing down under the comforter. Oliver hisses once, narrows his eyes at the door to their room, and then follows Felicity, pulling the blankets up over both their heads. “I hate this place. We’re checking out today. And we’re going somewhere self-catering.”

“Okay,” Felicity smiles at him, dosily, “nap first, though.”

Oliver wraps his arms around her, tight. “Whatever you want.”