The first time Oliver sees Felicity's bare ass he loses his mind. Which is interesting, because he is sure he lost it ten minutes ago when she kissed him.

It had been another late night, Arrow business as usual, him coming into the Foundry dirty and scraped but no worse for wear than usual. She waited patiently for him to change out of the hood, and then simply said, "Take me home, please. I'm tired."

So he did.

It wasn't like he planned it. At all. But when she walked through her door and looked at him, the way she always does, like she can see through every secret and lie he could ever throw at her, he lost his mind and kissed her. Not hard, not rough, but a plea, a poor man's offer.

Forgive me. Love me. Give me a second chance.

She pulled away. "Oliver..."

There was no way in hell he was going to listen to another version of her 'I can't be a woman you love speech.' So he kissed her again, before she could start babbling, and this time she didn't pull away.

He poured himself into the kiss, giving her every regret, every wish, every unrealized fantasy. She drank him up, mumbling into his mouth as they stumbled through her apartment.

Now he has her in her bedroom. He's stripped down to black boxers briefs and she's in a pale blue bra and a grey pencil skirt, with a zipper that is not fucking working.

"Just rip it off," Felicity begs, and bites down hard on his bottom lip.

Oliver growls and with deft fingers he yanks, and rips her skirt down the seam and throws it on an armchair.

Then he sees her ass. He's been admiring it for two years, watching it surreptitiously when he thinks she doesn't see. He's seen it stuffed into pencil skirts and draped in expensive satin and squeezed into tight denim.

But Felicity's ass, naked, framed in a lacy blue thong makes his brain straight up eject from his skull. It's round, and plump and delicious. Ten depraved thoughts fill his head all at once, things he would never tell her he wants to do to her, and Oliver settles for pinning her against the wall so he's right behind her, his erecting pressed into the small of her back.

Felicity groans and arches back, and he curses, trying to control himself, pushing away the urge to tear her apart and devour her whole. Because she's Felicity, and she deserves so much more than a mindless fuck. She deserves roses and candlelight and soft loving hands making her fall apart over and over again.

And then she whimpers, "Oliver, please," and he decides fuck being a gentleman, fuck the candles and the roses. He's here, and he's somehow, miraculously alive, and she's naked.

They've waited long enough.

And suddenly the reality of it sets in, that he has a naked Felicity Smoak in his hands, and if he doesn't want to utterly fuck things up permanently between them he had better get his head straight.

Oliver slides one hand around to sit low on her belly and she exhales, low and throaty. He kisses her neck, her shoulder, trailing kisses across her back while he unhooks her bra with one hand and pushes it down around her shoulders.

He slips the hand on her stomach between her legs and he groans. "You're wet."

"Whose fault is that?" she snaps, and he chuckles, walking his fingers under the barrier of lace.

"Oh god," Felicity moans, as his fingers part velvety folds and slide up to her clit. "Oliver!"

He breathes, forces himself not to thrust against her like a horny fifteen-year old year old (which is exactly how she makes him feel).

Oliver takes his time. He traces circles around her, slow and fast, soft and hard and soft again, feeling his fingers grow slick. He works her patiently, until she's panting frantically, writhing in his arms.

"I need, I need," Felicity gasps, "please Oliver, please, oh god..."

His chest swells with pride, that he can do this to her, make her hot with pleasure. Make her beg for him.

"You're so gorgeous like this," he whispers, and slips two fingers inside her. "You're going to come for me, aren't you?"

"Holy fuck," Felicity cries, her hips rolling, grinding into his hand.

He pumps his fingers and presses down hard on the base of her clit with his thumb, and that's all it takes. Felicity screams, clenching hard around his fingers, and it's all he can do not to come all over her ass.


Oliver slaps it once, when she's bent over his desk, fulfilling what turns out to be a mutual fantasy of theirs. Felicity pouts her lips vapidly and calls him Mr. Queen. It's so wrong, but it's hot, and he takes her right there in his office, skirt hiked up around her hips and her forearms resting on the desk.

He palms one cheek in his hand, and it's all soft skin under firm muscle. Without even thinking he slaps it lightly, just because he can, because he loves the sound of his hand on her flesh.

Felicity yelps, and he feels instantly disgusted with himself (out of control, this is what she does to him. She makes him lose his goddamn mind). A string of apologies leave his mouth but she's reaching around, a hand coming up to stroke his neck.

"It's okay," she murmurs. "You just surprised me."

Later Oliver kisses the red mark over and over, and she giggles. "It didn't hurt that much," she says.

He looks up at her with serious eyes. "I don't want to hurt you, ever."

"You didn't," she promises. "Really."

"It won't happen again," he vows.

Felicity arches a brow. "What if I want it to happen again?"

She laughs and he shakes his head, because he's already hard again, just for her. Because naked Felicity, happy, safe, laughing, is the sexiest thing he's ever seen.


She's so unlike the other women he's loved. Not at all like tall willowy Laurel, with legs for days. Laurel with her sharp angles and lines (sharp like her mind, and her personality) somehow inexplicably always leaving him wanting.

Sara was like him, all taught muscle and scars. Hard. No softness; the island beat it out of her. In some ways being with her was like making love to himself. Two scarred damaged people clinging to each other in the dark.

Felicity is not hard or sharp. She's tiny and soft and her light shines so bright he can feel the darkness retreat when he's with her. She's like some exotic fruit, ripe and fragrant and bright. He wants to peel her skin with his teeth, suck up her juices, lave at her flesh with his tongue over and over and over.

Sometimes he does. She tastes delicious. When he tells her that she melts, pulls him up to taste herself on his lips.


They're on her bed and Felicity is lying on her stomach, doing some search on her tablet. He's not doing anything, just lying there with his head pillowed on her ass, when she turns over one shoulder and asks, "Do you think my butt's getting too big?"

He actually feels his jaw drop. "You're joking, right? That was a joke."

"I don't know," she says defensively. "You try hanging out with a bunch of people who have like, six percent body fat every night and see how you feel! You being me in this scenario, obviously, because have you seen you? You're ridiculous."

"We're guys," he says, trying to understand why in the world she would compare herself to him, or Dig, or Roy.


"Oh no," he cuts her off. "Don't even go there."

"Oliver," she whines. "It's not my fault. The superheroes are giving me a complex. And have you seen the way she looks in leather?"

"Put your tablet down," he tells her.



She sighs but she listens, putting the tablet down and rolling over, so she's flat on her back with his head on her stomach.

"Just listen to me, okay?" he asks her, and she nods, pouting a little.

"You're perfect. Every part of you."

"Nobody's perfect," she argues.

"Quiet, I'm talking now. You are perfect and that's all there is to it. So no, your butt is not getting to big, which is a ridiculous question, and besides, I love your ass, okay? And I really, honestly don't care how Laurel looks in leather, because all I do is stare at your ass anyway."

Felicity raises an eyebrow. "So you love my ass, huh?"

"Admire, worship, revere, take your pick."

"Strong words," she comments softly.

Oliver plants kisses on her belly, her breasts, the place where her collarbones meet. "Strong words for strong feelings."

He doesn't say 'I love you' because the last time he said it he left her, and they seem to have an unsaid agreement to never bring that up.

She knows he loves her, anyway. He makes sure of that.


He wakes up screaming. Ever since they've gotten together he's had this nightmare: Felicity dead, her body cold and rigid in his arms. Over and over and over.


He's woken her up; she's pressed against the headboard looking terrified. She reaches out to him but he flinches, pulling away. He's afraid her touch will be cold and dead like his dream.

His head drops to his knees and his fingers curl in the sheets. His breaths come in short painful gasps and he knows he's hyperventilating but he can't stop. His eyes close and he sees her, bloody and limp and he snaps his eyes open again.

"Oliver." Soft fingers brush his shoulder in a featherlight touch.

"Come on, Oliver." She's pulling him, guiding his head down to her stomach, and he's afraid and panicked so he lets her.

Felicity is topless and her body is warm and pliant and alive. Oliver presses his face into her skin and tears leak out of the corners of his eyes and fall on her.

She doesn't say anything, just cards her fingers through his hair and makes soothing sounds. It's good but it's not enough. He needs to feel her, her wet heat surrounding him, hear her scream his name.

He shifts his weight, crawling over Felicity until he's hovering over her. She's calm, serene, his tears all over her and it doesn't even bother her.

"Hey," she whispers, reaching up to cup his cheek. "What do you need?"

Oliver shakes his head. He doesn't want to be like this, taking and taking from her (he can hear Laurel's voice muttering in his head, selfish, selfish Ollie) and he drops his face to her neck, breathes her in.

"It's okay," Felicity says, so soft. "I understand."

She reaches down and wraps her hand around him. He's instantly hard, because there's something about his dick in her small hand that's so arousing, even now.

She guides him into her, slowly, slowly, and she's hot and wet and perfect.

Oliver sighs, the feeling of being sheathed in her chasing away the fear. He moves languidly, no rush, resting his head on her breast as he pushes into her.

"Better?" Felicity murmurs.

He nods and grips the backs of her thighs, spreading her legs further apart, listening for the catch in her throat.


"Hmm?" Her voice is higher than normal. Good, he's not the only one enjoying this. He knows this is for him, but he doesn't want it that way. Her first, always her first.

"You have powers too," he says, his voice strained.

"" She grunts softly and rolls her hips.

"You make it better." Oliver pushes her knees up towards her chest, changing the angle so he can grind down hard on her.

"Ah! Yeah?"

She's flushed, a sheen of sweat breaking out across her chest.

"You make it go away."

Felicity moans, hips pushing against his. "What?"

The dark. You make it go away." He can't believe he's telling her this, but it's true, and it feels right, and if there's one person he can always confess to, it's her.


"You're like magic," he whispers, because that's true.

"Jesus," Felicity groans, and she pulls him down to kiss him, hard. "Come on," she urges him. "Let go, come on. Wanna feel you come."

Fuck. He pounds into her, her body yielding to his assault, and then suddenly she's shrieking, and he falls over the edge in a burst of white light.

Oliver collapses next to her and she turns, curling into him so he's spooning her. She finds his hand in the dark, bring it to her lips. Plants kisses on his palm.

"I love you," Felicity whispers. "I'm sorry I didn't say it before."

"It's okay," he whispers, because it is. "I know."