Summary: So – yeah, obviously it's an excuse. [Flommy PWP]

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Do not own Arrow/characters/situations/basically anything.

Author's Notes: So, hmmm. This was written initially as a frustration exercise because writing so much angsty tension for Fixer Upper was slowly killing me. This started life as a scene I intended to slot into FU later on… and then just grew into this monster. Gratitude and wild flailing must go to Abbie (absentlyabbie) and Sal (sarcademia/girlthursdayy) who have put up with all of my ranting and complaining and tagging for the last few weeks. (They both write Flommy too – highly, HIGHLY recommend checking out their blogs)

Anyway, first time posting smut, and I am super embarrassed right now, so I'm just going to run away…

It's just an excuse, he knows that. He's never previously insisted on helping her bring down the bowl on the top shelf, or the good wine glasses in the highest cupboard. Felicity can reach, even if she has to plant one knee on the counter to do it. It's her apartment, after all; she can obviously cope by herself, and he's pretty sure she'd object – loudly – if he suggested otherwise.

So – yeah, obviously it's an excuse.

She's on tiptoes reaching for the bowl for the popcorn, little soft grunts escaping her as she levers herself a little further with one hand on the counter. He can't say he's never thought about doing this before, but today he swallows his hesitation and just goes for it.

"Here," he says, almost directly into her ear as his chest presses against her back. "Let me."

She stills almost immediately, her arm frozen in position. His fingers brush the back of her hand as he reaches past her limit and grasps the edge of the bowl. He recognises the opportunity to stop here – to put the bowl down and let some space rush in between them.

But he doesn't. He dumps the bowl unceremoniously and slides a little closer, his hand braced on the cold marble in front of her. He can see little wisps of her hair moving with every exhale; he can feel the heat trapped between his chest and her shoulder blades. "There," he says, and he hardly recognises his own rough voice. "Anything else I can do for you?"

She's still on tiptoes, so the curve of her ass is a little higher against his pelvis than it would normally be. He wouldn't have noticed, except she obviously can't stay on tiptoes forever, and when she lowers her heels back to the floor it means that she brushes certain parts of him – hmm, no, that's not right, because a brush he could probably ignore. Yet it isn't grinding, either, because this would probably be over right now if it were. God, is he really overanalysing this now?

He grits his teeth, tries to get his mind back on track. Without really thinking, he rests his other hand against her hip, the edge of his index finger just nudging underneath the thin fabric of her t-shirt. Her gulp is audible, and he almost laughs, except nothing about this is funny. He lifts his hand from the counter, reaching past her for the bag of popcorn and pressing himself more tightly against her as he does. "You want me to get this started?"

Wow, unintentional innuendo. That's usually more her style. Maybe she shares this thought, because she laughs shortly, tilting her head back to look at him over her shoulder. "Are you messing with me right now, Tommy?"

Well, there it is. A way out, if he's looking for it. Wouldn't it be easy to laugh in reply – to hold his hands up and shrug, a sheepish 'how could I resist?' smile on his face as he backs off?

No, he realises. No, it wouldn't be easy at all. She's everything he wants, and more, and he doesn't have a clue what he's doing but he'll be damned if he doesn't at least put himself out there and try, even if he crashes and burns spectacularly.

So he doesn't smile, or laugh, as he looks down at her. "No," he replies with a small shake of the head. "No, I'm not."

He slips his hand a little further inside her t-shirt, two fingers now resting against her warm skin. His other hand, now cold from prolonged contact with the marble countertop, moves up to sweep the loose hairs not contained by her ponytail away from the side of her neck; his chilly fingertips meet her neck, and she jerks suddenly against him. "Sorry," he murmurs into her ear.

And then, before he can talk himself out of it, he presses a warm, wet kiss to the cold spot. With his nose nuzzled this close to her skin, he inhales deeply, drinking in the scent of her perfume and the lingering smell of the coffee she was drinking before she came in here.

The muscles of her neck are rigid underneath his lips, and even as he slides his mouth along to the dip of her collarbone, he wonders if he's about to fuck everything up – if she doesn't want this at all, and she just doesn't know how to say it.

Then his teeth scrape her skin, and she shudders in his arms, her shaky gasp barely audible.

He lifts his head to see her staring at him with dark eyes and parted lips.

And the dam breaks.

She's reaching for him and he's reaching for her, and their mouths clash awkwardly at first – teeth and tongue and lips all completely uncoordinated until he slides his hands into her hair, lifting her face just a little to find the perfect fit of her bottom lip between his, sucking and dragging it until he wonders if he's wearing more of her lipstick than she is.

Her hands are sliding up and down his chest as if she doesn't know what else to do with them. He wants to feel her hands on his bare skin, but he's very aware of the fact that this could so easily come crashing down around him, and he really, really doesn't want it to, not when pure pleasure is zipping up and down his spine with every hot, wet slide of her tongue against his, and not when every time her palms brush his nipples he feels a little more blood rush south.

He presses her against the counter, suddenly desperate for more; his hands grip her waist tightly and lift her up, and she was obviously anticipating this because almost instantly she's locking her heels behind his back and dragging him as close to her as she can get. He can't resist the urge to skim his palms around underneath her skirt to the curve of her ass, squeezing and kneading her soft flesh through the fabric of her panties, pulling her hips towards the marble's cold edge. He rubs his hands back and forth, letting his thumbs press deeper into the V of her thighs until they skim just below her pubic bone and she gasps into his mouth.

He leaves her panting, his tongue gliding along her jawline and down the column of her throat even as his hands seek higher ground, slipping under her t-shirt to frame her ribcage.

For just a moment, he feels her hands in his hair, her nails scraping his scalp, and he shivers bodily against her; then her quick fingers are skimming his back, reaching for the edge of his t-shirt and pulling up sharply. He doesn't even remember his lips breaking contact with her skin, but somehow his shirt is gone, and his wish to have her hands on him is satisfied – she slides one arm around his torso, fingertips drawing maddening circles between his shoulder blades even as her other hand splays against his abdomen, distracting him briefly from his mission to find just the right spot on her neck to –

She jumps suddenly, and he grins against her skin, opening his mouth to draw his teeth together just enough to nip lightly. She pulls back abruptly, and for a second he thinks it's over – that any second now she'll shove him away with horror on her face. Panic rises uncontrollably in his chest. "Felicity-" he chokes out, fingers gripping her waist even as he steps back to give her some room. "I –"

But she isn't trying to escape.

She scowls at him and reaches down for the hem of her t-shirt. "Do I have to do everything myself?" she mutters, her smile quickly hidden as she yanks the fabric over her head. "There, much bet – oof."

Yes, much better, Tommy thinks as he buries his face between her breasts. He drops hot, wet kisses along her breastbone, nuzzling his nose over the edge of one lace cup with clear intent. "I'm not helping you out with this one, Merlyn," she murmurs, kissing the top of his head. He feels the words rumble through her chest, and for a moment he thinks he could just stay here in her embrace for a lifetime. Then she adds, teasing, "You need a tutorial for the clasp? I'll give you a hint – it's towards the back – ooh…"

He waggles deft fingers at her as the fabric loosens, and it's so easy to make a joke of it even as he's tugging the straps down her slender arms, but the moment he tosses her bra over his shoulder and stares at her – bare and beautiful, her hair in disarray around her flushed face – he realises how much he can't stand the thought of fucking this up.

He kisses her again, slowly and deeply, pulling her close for the thrill of feeling her skin against his. He reaches around to tug the elastic from her hair, carding his fingers through soft, silky strands and briefly massaging her scalp to ease the ache. She moans into his mouth, tilting her head back a little. "That feels good," she mumbles against his lips. "Just keep doing that."

"Oh?" he says, amused. "Just this? You want a cup of warm milk and a lullaby too?"

Without opening her eyes, she reaches out and pinches his side lightly. "Don't get cute with me." Her mouth drops open as he increases the pressure of his fingertips, drawing long strokes upwards through her hair. "God, Tommy…"

He's pretty good at multitasking, so he leaves his fingers to their work and slides his mouth along the line of her jaw to her earlobe, gently drawing it between his teeth. She shivers, her hands gripping his hips to pull him as close as she can. Momentarily distracted by the welcoming heat at the apex of her thighs, he exhales sharply through his nose – directly into her ear. This time she jumps, a noise of surprise catching in her throat, and before he can second-guess himself, Tommy opens his mouth and swipes his tongue into the deep hollow of her ear.

She chokes on a curse, her fingernails digging into his skin. "Fuck, Tommy –"

Spurred on, he licks her again, and deliberately opens his mouth wide to take in as much of the pale shell as he dares, breathing hot air over her wet skin and grinning when she swears again.

He feels her fingers move on his hips, and suddenly his breath is seizing in his chest as she reaches around to thrust her hands below the waistband of his jeans, grasping his ass and yanking him forward. "Tommy," she grits out, voice hoarse and pupils blown wide, "if you don't touch me soon, I'm going to explode and we will both die horribly."

She's only half-joking, he recognises. They're both shaky with desperation – he needs to get his act together and stop worrying that she's going to change her mind at any second. As if to make good on his silent promise, he drops his hands to her hips to hold her steady, and grinds his pelvis against hers.

Her head falls forward, forehead resting on her shoulder as she shudders. "I said touch me," she whispers. He almost doesn't feel the soft, pleading kiss she presses to his throat.

He ignores the way his heart drums against his ribcage as he slips a hand under her skirt, fingers sliding against the scrap of lace, almost soaked through with her arousal. He pushes the fabric aside and rubs her gently at first, knowing she'll be highly sensitised by this point. When she starts to rock her hips, her breath coming in short pants, he slides a finger into her wet heat.

"Fuck," she whimpers as he strokes her. Her breasts brush against his chest each time she rolls her hips; much as he wants to lavish them with attention, she's almost completely slumped against him now, her head buried in his neck as her orgasm builds. He slips another finger inside and picks up the pace with quick, determined strokes. Her arms wrap around him; she opens her mouth over his pulse point and stifles her moans with his skin. He wants to tell her she doesn't need to – that he doesn't care how loud she is, and she shouldn't either. But that's a conversation for another time.

A little pressure on her clit with the heel of his palm, and she shatters, squirming and sobbing as he works her relentlessly through the last spasms. She bites him gently as she's coming down, and he swallows the urge to tell her to do it harder; the idea of being in some way marked by her sends heat racing through his veins.

His jeans feel uncomfortably tight, and every time she moves against him he finds himself momentarily freezing, the sensation almost painful despite how much he wants it. He's holding her tightly when it happens again, and he's so focused on keeping a grip on Felicity – still perched precariously on the edge of the counter – that it takes a while for him to realise that she's doing this. Her hands fumble with the button, working it open on the third try, and she yanks at his zipper so quickly that she loses her grip on it, her knuckles brushing the straining fabric and dragging a strangled noise from his throat.

His pulse is pounding, electric desire racing through his veins. God, this is actually happening. Felicity Smoak just reached orgasm literally in the palm of his hand, but he wonders if she has any idea that his heart is and forever will be in the palm of hers.

The thought should scare him. Afterwards, it will.

But right now he needs to be sure that this is real – that he isn't going to wake up in thirty seconds with sunlight in his eyes and an immediate need to shower.

So he slides his fingers between hers and deals with the zipper, shoving his pants and boxers down to his ankles. She takes him in her grasp immediately and he groans loudly, pressing his forehead to hers, their hot breath mingling. Every sweep of her hand feeds his nerves with pleasure; his cock jerks, and far too quickly he feels the beginning of a pulling sensation in his abdomen.

"Hey," he breathes against her lips, "you want to move into the bedroom?"

She shakes her head, her hair brushing his chest. "I want you now – right here. Is that okay?"

"God, yes."

She shimmies right to the edge of the counter, wrapping her thighs around his waist, her ankles locking at the small of his back. Her hand still around his cock, she guides him slowly into her, her head tipping back as she gasps.

She feels fucking amazing, hot and tight and wet. He almost doesn't want to move, but she wraps an arm around his neck and murmurs, "Please, Tommy."

He starts slow and gentle, taking the time to enjoy the way she squeezes him each time he buries himself fully, and the way her heels rub the top of his ass as they rock together. At this angle, he can dip his head to nuzzle her breasts, catching the tip of one rosy peak between his teeth and drawing it into his mouth. He thrusts a little more firmly at the same time he sucks hard on her nipple, and she lets out a ragged groan, her quiet "yes, fuck, yes" almost hidden somewhere within. He doesn't know which of the two she liked most, so he does both again, driving into her harder and faster until he feels her tightening around him.

Her wet breast falls from his mouth as he uses what remains of his concentration to reach between them, pressing his thumb against her clit. One, two, three circles, and she's falling apart, her walls fluttering and clenching erratically as she cries out incoherently, her legs squeezing him tightly.

She hasn't even finished when he feels himself starting to shudder, his imminent release making his thrusts jerky and uncoordinated. He holds onto her tightly, his lips seeking hers as he spills himself inside her; she kisses him deeply, her tongue sliding against his, her hands stroking and soothing him as he comes down.

They stay like this for a while – embracing, lips pressing soft kisses to salty skin. Eventually, though, the stickiness between them and the fact that he's still inside her means that they have to move. He pulls out gently, sliding an arm around her waist to help her down to stand on unsteady legs.

She looks up at him, cheeks flushed. "You should stay," she tells him. "Have a shower and… sleep over."

The smile that spreads across his face is almost involuntary. His pulse picks up a little, this time with relief, and he winks at her. "We're showering together, right?"

She laughs loudly, the sound sending a thrill through his bones. "In your dreams," she teases. "Besides, there's no way you could bounce back that quick."

They both glance down at his flaccid cock at the same time, and he snorts. "Well, not if you put the poor guy under pressure like that." He meets and holds her gaze. "Then again, in your hands… who knows what might happen?"

She rolls her eyes, folding her arms across her naked chest. "Come on. Kick your pants off and follow me."

He does as she says, leaving his clothes in a crumpled heap on her kitchen floor and walking naked through her apartment, trailing her to the bedroom. He watches from the doorway as she shimmies out of her skirt and useless panties, dropping them in the laundry basket and turning to her dresser to rifle through the drawers for – he guesses – pyjamas.

She tosses a t-shirt – his own, he recognises, from the last time she stayed over at his place – and a pair of brand new boxers onto the bed. "Forget the shower," she says, turning around and halting briefly as she takes in the sight of him. "Uh, what was I…? Oh, yeah – uh, I was thinking that a bath might be nicer. And we can share, if you want. Not for bath sex, I mean, just for – you know, getting clean."

"Sure," he says, grinning. "Bath sex optional, message received."

She scowls half-heartedly. "Oh, shut up."

She's walking away from him, her perfect ass swaying with every step, and he feels almost overwhelmed with a rush of something warm and heady and astonishingly wonderful. This is everything I want, he thinks. There will never be anything I'll want more than this.

He speaks without thinking. "Felicity?"

"Yeah?" she turns back, head tilted expectantly.

He opens his mouth, and his breath halts in his throat. He has no idea how to put into words what he so desperately wants to say. How can he possibly find some way to say 'thank you' and 'you're beyond amazing' and 'I love you' and 'I didn't realise how much I love you until this exact moment' without sounding like an idiot?

Maybe his eyes do the talking, though, because her gaze softens, and he sees something else in her eyes – something deeper than the usual fondness she aims at him (especially when she thinks he isn't looking). "It's okay," she says affectionately. "Everything's okay, Tommy, I promise you. We have all the time in the world."

Something releases in his chest, and he's crossing the distance between them before he can even think about it, wrapping her in his arms. "You're the best," he says fiercely. "Please, please, Felicity – help me not screw this up."

She gathers him close, her breath hot on his skin. "We'll help each other," she promises. "We can have this – we can have each other – if you want it."

She's all he'll ever want again, he thinks.

He shows her again twice that night.

Author's Notes: Um, so we took a quick trip to fluff country at the end there? IDK, I just couldn't have him leave. Or not love her. (Or, apparently, get them to move to the bedroom for any of this.) Please let me know what you thought! If anybody wants to drop some random Flommy response smut in the comments/reviews, please go for it.

Fixer Upper – hopefully will have Chapter 3 up soon. Not this weekend, probably, but maybe middle of next week, I hope.