nothing but you (no substitution will do): smutty olicity fic
title: nothing but you (no substitution will do)
rating: pg-13 (smut, dubious consent warning)
pairing: oliver queen/felicity smoak, oliver queen/original character
summary: She looked back over her shoulder, fuchsia lips curved upwards. "You're more than fine, handsome. Now come with me," she murmured, guiding him towards the elevators.
"Come home," he heard, tightening his fingers round hers. He followed.
---
His suit jacket no longer fit.
Tugging on his necktie, Oliver shifted in his seat at the bar, the silk too close to his neck. He’d adapted, these last few months, to a life without wealth or the constant race for survival, to a life just shy of normal (as normal as nights shooting arrows at criminals could be) – and living in between had ripped away any last attachments to the trappings of wealth.
Ripped them away just in time to dress him up and send him off to The Regis, gift-wrapped special for the newest target of the Arrow and his team (Team Arrow, Felicity’s voice interjected. He still scowled when someone brought it up, but in private, he could admit to the comfort it brought. He had a team – that meant something. And despite everything he’d done, all the ways he’d pushed them away, they – she – had never left him.
Plus, of all the thoughts he’d had recently of her, her voice echoing inside him, at least her commentary ranked among the more innocent ones).
“Oliver?” her voice crackled in his ear. “Any site of the target?”
He shook his head, using the gesture to skim the inhabitants of the room, forcing their prying eyes away from his. Sons of billionaires, shakers of society, models and socialites and all those who’d once considered themselves peers to the Queen family, butterflies now drawn to the shine of his name and newfound wealth. All, of course, had been suspiciously absent during his mother’s trial, after her death and his loss of Queen Consolidated, their sympathies best appreciated from afar.
No woman in green, though.
He ran his eyes over the room again, sipping – without actually downing – his wine. Blackberries and cardamom teased his tongue, but it may well have been water.
Felicity would have appreciated the wine though. His throat closing, he swallowed the thought, and all the others it hinted at. The last time he’d bought Felicity wine, it had stained her dress (blood staining her face), and he had painted the town red in exchange.
She hadn’t wanted him to buy her another bottle after that. (that’s not love, Oliver – that’s – that’s something else
Now would be an excellent time to stop hearing her voice inside his head).
"Oliver," Felicity called, bringing him back to himself, "incoming on your left. Maybe. I think. She’s definitely gunning for you, though. Not gunning like with a gun, just with that, uh, woman on the prowl sort of thing? Not that she looks like a cat either. I never really got that description – who wants flirting to be a plan of attack? Anyways, what I mean is she matches Lance’s description, what he told us, at least."
Well, Oliver wants to reply, the dead didn't really give Lance much to work with. Six poor little rich boys, all dead, all deprived of their cash and bank accounts (and their clothes to boot).
The coroner couldn't even give Lance – or them – a solid cause of death.
The only reason they’d even lucked on a suspect was because the last victim – Ryan Cisneros – had left behind his briefcase when absconding with their mystery woman. He only had the Good Samaritan who'd wanted to return it to thank for his life. And they only had him to thank for their best lead yet: a beautiful woman dressed in green, the bar at The Regis (where two other victims had stayed), martinis, and a haze over the rest of the evening.
Lucky for him (Team Arrow, he conceded), Oliver newly fit the rich boy profile to a tee. Unfortunately for their temptress, there was only one woman he wanted to see dressed in green. As for whatever drug she planned on slipping him, well, she was used to trust fund brats, not the Arrow in action.
Oliver shifted in his seat, relaxing his shoulders and swiveling his hips out, an invitation for company. Time to slip on the mask.
"Martini, please," a voice murmured to his left, its owner slipping into the seat beside him. "And a different wine for my friend, please. I don't think he particularly likes this one."
"Got her!" Felicity hummed on the comms, their voices overlapping. He imagined her fist pump, his lips twitching. "Running facial recognition now."
Oliver turned to his companion, smoothing his smile into a smirk. "Thanks for the for the drink." He took her in, tracing her figure as expected: Ollie Queen, forever playing the field (He’d never really played, though, not really. Just looked and looked for enough adoration to fill that hollow pit inside, bleeding everyone around him dry). He wished, for once, Felicity's eyes weren't watching from every camera.
Their mystery woman was beautiful, he noted. Auburn hair, full, crimson lips, a curvy figure. Ollie would have relished in her attention, the knowledge that he’d drawn and caught this woman’s eye. Now, the appreciation – the adoration – in her gaze didn’t fill him. She simply wasn’t…
"Was I that obvious?" he teased, pushing away his wine for the new glass, pushing away thoughts better left unsaid (unthought no longer really on the table).
His companion laughed, placing a hand over his. "Only a little.” Her thumb stroked the flat of his palm, the action oddly soothing; he leaned into her touch, tilting his head.
“I’ll trust your choice, then,” he replied, toasting her with the new glass. This wine – a pinot noir as opposed to his syrah – slipped past his lips, coffee and peppermint teasing his tongue.
– Felicity’s lips slanted against his, his tongue slipping past to taste her, his teeth scraping against her bottom lip –
He choked, the wine sliding down his throat; his companion palmed his neck, her nails stroking the skin. “Breath, Mr. Queen, take a deep breath; it’s okay.”
“Oliver? Are you okay?”
Sucking in air through his nose, he timed its release to the beat he wanted for his heart. “Thank you.” She had shifted closer, one hand on his bicep, the other on his shoulder. The report hadn’t mentioned the clear, crystal blue of her eyes, but this close they were impossible to ignore. A wave of sympathy for her other victims crashed into him. “Better luck next time?”
“Oh, I think you’ve had enough wine, Mr. Queen…” Her thumb stroked his chin, brushing back the bristles of his beard. “There are other ways we can spend our night.”
He leaned into her touch, tracing circles into her elbow with his thumb. Citrus and honeysuckle drifted past his nose, an old thought chasing after.
“And I love spending my nights with you.” He did, too. He loved every night with her.
"Tell me, Mr. Queen,” she murmured, “What would you prefer?"
He wet his lips, his tongue heavy, the right answer a weight in his mouth. Ollie would know what to say (Ollie, Ollie, buried, dead, and gone; he’d never wanted Felicity to meet him, regretted every time he’d shown her Ollie’s face and she’d flinched or frowned). “Choosing’s not my strong suit,” he would say.
"You," he answered instead, dropping his eyes to her lips, a bright, bold fuchsia, "miss...?"
She leaned forward, drawing his eyes back up, blonde hair falling to frame her face. Peppermint and coffee wafted across his face. "Whoever you want me to be."
"Oliver," Felicity called, her voice distant and gaining speed, a boat pulling away from harbor and home. "Oliver, we were wrong; she used to work at Star Lab; she was in the same accident as Barry. Oliver, I don’t think she’s using drugs – is she doing anything to you? Oliver!"
"Felicity," he sighed, her name rolling over his tongue. She laughed – again – he loved her laugh, and tugged him upwards, away from the bar.
“Oliver? Oliver!”
Why was she worried about him? She never should worry about him (even if, each time her voice cracked on his name, he thought she had told him the truth; she did care, as much as he did; he wouldn't lose her too. He just wouldn't have her either.) "Felicity,” he breathed, “I'm fine."
She looked back over her shoulder, fuchsia lips curved upwards. "You're more than fine, handsome. Now come with me," she murmured, guiding him towards the elevators.
"Come home," he heard, tightening his fingers round hers. He followed.
---
“Felicity,” he sighed, dropping kisses along her neck, nibbling at her shoulder. “Felicity.”
“Oliver! Oliver, get out of there, listen to me!”
He grappled with the floor panel, pressing his fingers across the buttons, tightening his other hand around her waist. Wherever she wanted to go; whatever she wanted. Nipping her clavicle, he hitched her onto his waist, spraying his hands across her bare back.
He was never letting her go, not again. Not now that she wanted him as much as he wanted her.
“She must be quite lovely,” she hummed, arching her breasts against his face. Her nails dug into his shoulders – were they green today too, like her dress? “Your Felicity.”
“Oliver, she’s dangerous; it’s a trap; get out of there!”
A shiver ran down his spine; Felicity’s voice drifting closer. Why did she sound so far, so distant, when she stood – straddling him, grinding against him – so close?
“Oliver!”
“Oliver,” she purred, capturing his lips, her tongue darting against his, then retreating; he followed, their old, familiar game. Pulling back, she breathed into his mouth, coffee and peppermint and a trace of vanilla from her lipstick, “is there somebody else? Someone you’d choose instead of me?”
He crushed his lips to hers, spinning her into the mirrored wall, his erection pressing into her stomach, his hand digging into her hair. “No choice to make,” he murmured, tearing at the tie of her halter, yanking it down, “just you, Felicity, Felicity, Felicity…”
He kissed her out of her dress, whispering her name as he went; she hooked his pant loops with her feet, wriggling them down, her heels rubbing down his thighs, then calves.
“Oliver!” Felicity shouted, voice cracking on his name, “Oliver, come on!”
“Make me come, Oliver,” she smirked, grabbing his tie and leading him back up to her. Anything, he’d do anything for her; she knew that. “Make sure I know how much you love me.”
“I love you,” he choked. He’d made her doubt him, doubt them, but he’d make it better, make it right, be a hero and a man; she was here, she wanted him – wanted them to have a chance. “I love you,” he kissed into her jaw. “I love you,” he nipped down her neck. “I love you,” he breathed onto his favorite spot on her shoulder, his safe spot and space, suckling the skin as his, only his, always his. “I love you, Felicity, I love you, I love you so damn much.”
He clenched her ass in his hands, sliding her onto his length, thrusting and holding so their bodies never parted.
“Oliver! It’s not me! Oliver!”
“Oliver!” she cried, cradling his face, bringing his eyes to hers. Clear, crystal blue shined at him; he drowned in them, her voice crashing through him. “Tell me, Oliver, tell me! Make me feel it!”
He thrust harder, his climax building, his fingers digging into her skin. “Felicity,” he pushed, gasping for breath, “I love you –” her heels dug into his thighs, pain spiking down his bad knee – “I love you –” he pressed hot, sloppy kisses to her mouth, searching for coffee and peppermint and her, just her – “Please, please, I’m not running, I want you, I’m here, I’m here –”
Stars bloomed behind his eyes, flaring, flaring ever brighter; she kissed –
The door to the elevator pinged. The stars rushed back.
"Oliver?" Her voice cracked on his name, an echo across the sea. “Oliver!”
A shot rang out.
“Oliver!”
"Felicity," he breathed, slumping down, his knees knocking against the ground. His hand grappled for hers, but she twisted up, up and away, another shot exploding overhead.
His arm collapsed, fingers spraying across the floor.
Finally, he was here. Hadn’t she heard? Had he told her enough? "Felicity," he called, her name weightless on his tongue. "I love you, Felicity, I love you."
He was here. Here, home, with her.
"I'm coming, Oliver, I'm coming; you're not alone, John's with you; I'm coming."
"Felicity..."
He sank against the wall, remembered sinking into her. A hand shook his shoulder, fingers pressing into his neck, but they were too large, too wide, not the lifeboat meant for him.
"Felicity..." he breathed, longing filling his lungs.
"Oliver! Hold on!"
"Felicity..." he breathed; she, only she, called for him as he drowned.
After learning that her son knows her secret and after he cuts his relationship with her, Moira knows that this could have only been Felicity's doing and confronts her again. Little does she know that Oliver heard the entire thing. OLICITY!!
"Diggle had mentioned that maybe you were feeling a little let out" Diggle brings up his concerns about Felicity as they travel to Starling City National to protect their girl. Hints at Olicity
I figured here was as good a place as any to post some arrow fics :)
Enjoy!
