i. once is happenstance
There was a meticulous way Oliver gripped her shoulders, as if every finger took its time to make its way around the counter of her neck and then fanned out around her shoulders. There was a deep sensation, burning hotter than the sun, which flared in her when the pads of his fingertips tightened against her skin, each indent making its own mark on her body.
Her breath always hitched every time he did it, as if he wasn’t aware of the burn that built up inside her every time he gripped her like she was his last lifeline.
But why should he?
There was nothing more platonic than shoulder touching, if she was honest with herself. And she liked to be honest with herself; it was a healthy way of living.
Except it didn’t help at night, when she could imagine the ghost of those fingers digging deeper into her skin, letting them drag down the plane of her body while his hips pinned her against the bed, his thumbs flickering against her breasts and his mouth against her neck.
There was nothing platonic about that at all. And she didn’t know how to stop thinking about it.
ii. twice is coincidence
But then the touch evolved from just basic shoulder touching and it didn’t help her nighttime fantasies at all thank you very much.
The first time they hugged she hadn’t been aware of planes of his body despite the green leather of his Arrow suit; she had been too busy being relieved at him being alive.
The second time they hugged was during Slade’s takeover of Starling City and she had been too busy being exhausted and worried and trying to make sure Oliver didn’t give up on this city, didn’t give up on his mission, didn’t give up on being a hero.
But the third time they hugged?
Well… It helped that he wasn’t in his Arrow suit. Actually he wasn’t wearing much at all, except for a flimsy hospital gown and despite the relief she felt at him being alive and safe and unhurt, she could easily feel the contours of his abs and his pectoral muscles and she had to resist the urge to press herself against him because oh gosh she should have more control than this.
(That night she could only dream of him, of his body pressing her against a wall and his lips on hers and the biting.)
iii. three is a pattern
Okay so for the record, this was probably the least innocent touch between them so she had the excuse of letting her brain jump into a lot more not innocent thoughts because his fingers were brushing against the undersides of her breasts was that even allowed.
Granted, they were at a neighboring club and she had dolled herself up for the occasion and even changed the color of her hair (no that was not her natural hair color Oliver stop trying to guess what it would be). Her job was to pretend to be some random party girl (her idea); flirt with the club manager while Oliver snuck in and figured out where the recent smuggling of drugs was going on while Diggle and Roy distracted the guards (also her idea); get grabbed by Oliver when the club manager’s hand was inching up her leg and she couldn’t stop him (not her idea but she sure as hell wasn’t going to protest being taken from Creepy McCreeper).
But then the finger brushing under her breasts evolved to his hands slowly cupping her shoulders and pulling his hands along her arms, slowly as if memorizing the shape of her body second by second. His hands released her arms then, but then placed themselves on her hips where his thumb started brushing itself against her hipbone.
His head was tucked into the crook of her neck where she could feel his hot breath against her ear, but suddenly he left and looked at her with smoldering eyes and she gulped, not sure of what she could say. Her throat was dry and she knew if she opened her mouth she’d say the wrong thing.
He grinned then, and stepped forward to lightly press his hips against hers, almost teasing, but the remembrance of this action only reminded her of how often her brain liked to put her in this position every night but without the teasing because if this were her dreams he would have been in her by now.
She was screwed. (And not literally, unfortunately.)
iv. four is luck
This just wasn’t fair.
They were supposed to be in a nice fancy party with air conditioning and snacks and wine, not some broken down wooden shack where she could feel nails digging into her back as she leaned against the wall, twigs and leaves in her hair and her bloody left leg shamelessly displayed out of her (ripped) red dress and in Oliver’s lap because life was not fair at all.
His fingers were gently taking out any debris stuck in the cuts on her legs. Her ankle had twisted while they were running through the trees behind the forest (in heels, mind you) and she had fallen to the ground. Her left leg seemed to have taken most of the damage, and right now she was just nursing a bruised ego.
This is why she loved flats. Flats were safe, they were pretty and comfortable and had pandas on them and oh my God—
Oliver was apparently done with her foot and was slowly trailing up her leg, from what she could feel. His fingers were almost dancing on her skin, and she could feel the flush of her skin as her cheeks and chest grew warm. It was dark in the shack; there was just a small sliver of moonlight through a tiny broken window above and it was enough light for Oliver to see.
Except he apparently didn’t need light to do this, which… okay granted, a lot of people had sex in the dark, but this wasn’t actually sex. This was… well, she didn’t know what he was doing but she was sure it was supposedly inappropriate for two partners and coworkers, but then her brain told her to shut up because since when was she appropriate?
His fingers, burning hot patches on her skin wherever they stopped, kept trailing up her leg. He was past her knee now and had no intention of stopping, apparently, because now he was inching closer to her hip and maybe she should say something?
She didn’t have to (sadly, okay no not sadly stupid brain, thankfully was the word) because Diggle came rushing in and Oliver’s fingers left her leg.
That night (week) she had imagined that Diggle never came in and Oliver’s fingers never stopped moving
v. five is an excuse
Times like these made it happy she wasn’t a guy, because at least she could pretend that her panties weren’t soaked to the bone after Oliver pulled her away from another creepy target at some big fancy gala, but then he had continued to drag her away into a deserted hallway and pressed her into a wall, letting her back face him while she was utterly confused at why her forehead was pressed against ugly wallpaper.
But then she heard more footsteps from down the hall and suddenly Oliver’s large hands were on her waist, his hands slowly pulling down her sides, and his leg was between hers and she flushed again as he pressed his lips against her neck.
“Sorry”, he whispered against her ear before his teeth dragged down her neck and slowly bit down. She would have jumped if it weren’t for the hands on her hips pressing her down.
“You don’t sound sorry!” she accused, except she’d be a total hypocrite to pretend that she wasn’t enjoying this as much as he was, if the bulge in his pants were anything to go by.
He chuckled, his knee pushing up against her and his body pressing harder against her, pushing her into the wall.
“You’re right”, he said, slowly leaning away from her when a security guard interrupted them and told them they couldn’t be in this hall. “I’m not.
+ 1. and forever is forever
Ironically, she was the first one to actually make the move after they had stopped a serial killer who was drowning young blonde girls who reminded him of his ex-wife, and they were both tired and exhausted and in Oliver’s case, sore, but she had almost lost him tonight and she knew that every girl who died reminded him of Sara drowning over and over again and she didn’t want that to be the last thought in his mind.
(She knew Oliver hated the way that Felicity herself had almost died tonight and still smelt like chloroform, and maybe she didn’t want this to be the last thought in their minds either.)
Oliver insisted on taking her home, and when they were both in her living room she put her hands on his chest and slowly moved up to his shoulders, where she pulled him down so his face was closer to hers.
“Is this okay?” she whispered, stepping closer to him the way he always did but it never went anywhere, never did before tonight and while tonight could end like the other nights could have, she had a feeling it was going to move on tonight.
She was right.
He nodded and placed one hand on her waist, the other hand cupping the back of her head, and before she knew it her mouth was moving against his, his hand pressing her head closer to his while her teeth bit his lower lip and opened his mouth.
It was better than her dreams could have ever imagined.