#lucyyh

She eyes it for a moment, then scrunches up her little nose and wanders away, decidedly focusing on something else, anything else.

“My sister brought it over. She complained about it when she stayed over, and fixed it.”

“Huh,” she mutters, and the barest of tension she had left in her body slips aways. She’d thought it was someone else’s.

“Well, I’m thankful. Smelling like you would’ve been too distracting today.”

“Good distracting or–”

She eyes him across the room, a raised eyebrow and side smile saying both; just like she is for him. 

Holding her gaze and softening his voice, he says “Why don’t you stay then?”

“And lose myself further in Oliver-land?” Her fingers untangle themselves from his curtain then, eyes wandering around as she walks closer. “As great as that sounds, I have things to do. That I actually should’ve been doing yesterday, and last night, and–”

“–right now?”

And damn if the smirk on her lips doesn’t look as great now as it was neatly covered in bright pink lipstick the day before.

“Yes. Though now I have brunch time. With other people, outside of Oliver-land.”

He honest to god groans, eliciting a chuckle as she grows nearer still, the softness of her everything not dimming her mirth.

“You’re greedy.”

“I am.” He’s unashamed to admit to her. He shouldn’t want this, let alone have it, but has grown pliant and weak to how being together feels like.

And with the pull of her eyes, he stands up at last, the sheet falling forgotten to the bed as he lunges to her –uninhibited, fearless even, unguarded as he’s getting used to be with and for her–.

An arm circles her waist, bringing her forward to him; the other angles her face to silence her ‘oh’ of surprise with his mouth.

She hums against him, her body reacting to his willingly, closing the distance, pulling and pressing until there’s no air between them. He could kiss her forever.

Eighteen hours or not, Felicity Smoak has such a hold on him, that once relinquished, his want can’t be quenched. He hasn’t known this feeling before; of being this lost on another person, and enjoying it.

And so he gives in, taking a step backwards and taking her with him, until the back of his knees feel the mattress. Letting go of her waist he sits back, opening his eyes to her breathtakingly ravaged appearance.

Still glowing and soft, her lips tender and reddened, she fingers her hair away from her face once more. It’s perfection. 

She’s everything to make him feel, and long, and want. In the flicker of her eyes as they look down at him, patiently holding on yet urging her with his stare. In the hand she then lowers to her chest, barely pulling her robe apart over her chest, softly caressing the skin he so cherished last night. And the tip of her tongue testing the rawness around her mouth, from the day-old stubble she’s raved about at three am as he worked happily between her thighs. 

“Fuck,” she mumbles as her eyes glaze over, his hand just barely tugging hers before she’s walking herself back to him.

At first she stands, barely needing to bend down to capture his lips with hers. She tugs, lightly bitting down and taking him by surprise, as it’s become their habit. Then smooths it down with her tongue, her hands working her way through his hair back to the nape of his neck, pricking his skin in her wake.

Before long he’s so lost in her touch, in her tenderness and strength all in one –something she so perfectly embodies– that he forgets how to breathe. A good deep intake and he pulls her back in, relentless and unforgiving of her rush.

He hums in false agreement to her breathy “I really should go,” once they part for another moment. Then proceeds to lower his hands around her waist again, pressing her closer, closer still, until an unintelligible ‘fuck it’ leaves her lips and she gives up completely.

She lowers herself the last stretch needed onto his lap, her knees landing next to his hips on the bed. The hands on his neck now pulling and bringing him as close as possible, her lips devouring his with abandon. His hold on her hips tightens as she’s nudged against him, over and over until she moans against his mouth.

Tearing her lips away she breathes deeply and tries to clear her head, Oliver taking the in and lowering his lips down the column of her neck, nipping and kissing his way to the top of her breasts. The robe has loosened further with their efforts, so he easily nudges it away, mouthing his affection over tender skin as her hands rake over his hair again.

“Oliver,” she breathes, panting, holding him tightly, the gentle sway of her hips beckoning him closer still. Her knees slide forward, her shape perfectly molding to this.

By now the robe is but a tangle of cloth between them, just a sleeve hanging on, as the purpose of their initial goodbye lays forgotten.

His hands have barely reached her ass when a shrill breaks the tension, tearing the moment from them.

“Felicity–” he begins to object, face pressed against her collarbone, breathing her in, when her hand reaches out behind them, blindly grabbing her cellphone on the nightstand and plunging them into silence again.

“Ugh. I need to go.”

“Seriously?” He shamelessly sounds utterly desperate, his hands cocooning her to him. She laughs, that gentle, vibrant sound that helps him breathe a little easier most days. Then lays her head over his, where he remains softly worshiping her neck. Her hands now cradling his head, fingers soothing with their touch instead of gripping with passion. 

“Yes, grumpy-pants. You need to share.”

He’s smiling against her skin now, alight with her playfulness that has grown to be his own with time, and relents his touch. Effortlessly, she stands back, wonderfully disheveled once again yet emoting such tranquility and ease.

And so the babbling picks up too, as the robe unceremoniously falls to the ground, leaving the inches of still covered skin perfectly free. She goes around the room once more, less hesitant than before –he notices happily– picking her stuff up from last night. 

He smiles at the fact it’s all scattered around, even in the hallway, recalling how they’d teared at each other’s clothes last night, desperately wanting, needing to be a them. After so long of refraining themselves, the frenzy of their lust still reigned their encounters more often than not. 

It isn’t until she’s pulling on her jeans that his minds catches up to what exactly she’s talking about now, and her nerves around it. “Your mom? She’s in town?”

“Yes,” she breathes almost exasperated. Confusion fills him, for as much as they’ve shared about themselves, her mother still remains a very vague subject. “Which is why I can’t skip brunch. I love her, she’s my mom. She’s just intense and a bit too much on a normal day.”

“You’ll be okay. She’s your mom,” he reassures her, because he can’t fathom something Felicity can’t conquer, let alone someone that is probably as wrapped around her finger as he is. 

She huffs a half-hearted ‘yeah’ as she claps her bra on –a fitted white lacey thing he’d barely got to appreciate last night.

“Yes, and…” he starts, his hand sneakily circling her wrist and leading her back to him. Her pout morphs into a smile as she follows through, her knees once again edging his where he remains seated. “If you need an out,” Oliver offers softly, warm palms reaching her hipbones, thumbs reverently caressing inwards. She smoothly follows his lead and slides down back to his lap, her worn-out jeans doing little to ease the thrill. And, edging closer and closer still, he breathes out a “give me a call” that sets them off again.

His lips work over hers vigorously, the warmth that is them reigniting from the embers that rarely ever really die down completely. His hands explore the slopes of her back, taking in every part of her as if it were still the very first day. He doesn’t see that changing anytime soon.

And, as much as she’s falling into him too, raking and pressing and swivelling down again, the rush of words doesn’t take long to come through. First it’s a messy jumble of sounds into his mouth, until she leans back and with a raspy voice whispers “my mother would love that,” effectively turning the heat between them into a chuckling embrace.

“Seriously, she’d squeal me deaf,” she jokes –he thinks–, between kisses to his jaw and patting down his hair to a next to normal look.

“You really have to go then,” Oliver breathes, but with a smile now upon his lips. For he’s got an armful of half-dressed Felicity on his lap, wild unruly hair damp against his shoulder, her careful touch whispering of a tomorrow, and many more shared moments like this.

“I do,” she mumbles against his skin, her tone betraying how reluctant she is to leave, in spite of her need to live outside this them too.

So, as he’s grown to love to be with her, he smiles for tomorrow, and offers a “rain-check?” that makes her head stick out from the crook where his shoulder meets his neck and grin softly at him. A sweet kiss to tender lips followed by a melodious “yes” warms something deep in his chest that lately beats solely for her.

And so she lifts from his hold at last, her hands gracing his face to the very last moment possible, their eyes speaking of what’s to come –in every possible way, making him that much happier–.

He’s back lost in thought about a them he didn’t think he could be a part of when, in between pulling her shirt fully on, she wonders aloud:

“Oliver?”

“Yes?” His voice is tender, as warm as the air that prevailed in this room together is.

“Your sister didn’t happen to bring a hairdryer too?”

His laughter bubbles up again and echoes around a place that hardly ever filled with true joy before her. And she joins him once more, breathing life into such a void, he can’t help but marble at what his life’s become. And whatever will come next.