i'm complete and utter trash. like what happened? and yes this was inspired by a gifset dedicated to amell's scruff. and it was written in five minutes flat. so there's that. i'm sorry i guess?


Felicity loves lots of things about Oliver. She loves his bravery, his strength, his loves how much he loves her. She loves his scars, and his muscles, she loves his arms, especially when they're wrapped around her. She loves his shoulders, and the weight they can bear, both physical and emotional. She loves his smile, and his lips in general. She loves his eyes and the depths she can find within them, she loves his hands and the way they feel against her skin. She loves that huff of laughter that seems to surprise him every time he does it. She loves his heart and his mind, and if she believed in such things, she'd say she loved his soul.

But right now, she's not thinking about any of that. Because right now, with the sun filtering through the half drawn curtains of her bedroom window, all she can think about is the feel of his stubble scratching against her skin.

Sometimes when she wakes up like this, warm and protected, with a man in her bed who she loves more than she knows what to do with, a man who loves her back just as much, she wonders if she's dreaming. Not because she can't believe he's there, she can, she believes in his love for her more than she believes in anything else really. But because she can't she can't quite believe that after everything they've been through, separately and together, all the pain and all the loss, all the miles traveled, all the people met, they somehow managed to find each other. Heal each other. Love each other. It seems so inexplicable, how easily they could have missed out on this, passed each other by likes ships in the night and never known what could have been.

He brushes his lips against her neck and she shivers at the sensation, letting her head fall to the side to give him more room. He takes advantage of the opportunity, lazily leaving soft kisses down the column of her throat, along the ridge of her collarbone. He rolls closer, until he's above her, legs tangled together, half of his weight supported on his forearm while half presses her down into the sheets. He never rests his whole weight against her, even when she tells him she welcomes the feel of him surrounding her, pressed against every inch of her body.

He still carries that fear of hurting her, a fear she originally thought was limited to emotional pain, or being the reason others brought her harm, but which she quickly learnt ran deeper. He worries about waking up from a nightmare and lashing out at her, he worries about forgetting his own strength and leaving bruises on her skin. And there was that one awful night when he woke up screaming, voice hoarse from tears and horror, convinced he'd killed her, convinced she was lying dead beside him in bed. He hadn't touched her for nearly a week after that, and to this day he claims it's the worst nightmare he's ever suffered through.

But today there's no fear or anger or sorrow resting between them. Today it's just the feel of his beard against her skin, and the warmth of the early morning sun on her closed eyes. Today it's just calloused fingers entwined with her smaller ones, the size difference still making her stomach swoop, however many times she's seen it, felt it. Today it's whispered words into tangled hair, and soft laughter that makes her heart skip a beat. Today it's whisker burn on her chest and thighs that she knows she'll feel for the rest of the day. Reminding her of this moment, this feeling, every time her skirt brushes against her sensitive skin.

She loves a lot of things about Oliver. And today, she really, really loves the fact that he keeps forgetting to shave.