Oliver/Nyssa (On their wedding night? Assuming they don't have to consummate their marriage ritually and publicly)
{ ask | meme }
They’ve made it to the bed, although it does not mean they have touched since leaving the company of the League. There are guards outside the doors, the windows. Nyssa knows there is no escape without a fight.
She is tense, curled in on herself as far from Al Sah-him–from Oliver–as she can get while remain on the bed.
Oliver has not made a move yet, but Nyssa does not trust him. He allowed her Beloved’s killer to remain free, will continue to do so should he truly take over her father’s position. How is she to know that he will not do as her father wishes?
Nyssa will not cry–she is an assassin, she was the Heir to the Demon–but she cannot help the urge as it grips her and refuses to let go until she is safe. Perhaps until she is dead, given her new position.
Oliver reaches a hand towards her and she flinches. Immediately, he curls his fingers in, brings his hand back to his own lap. “Do you…well…I mean…I could give you a massage?”
Nyssa’s gaze darts to him, appalled at such an obvious suggestion. He has asked for permission to touch her and she knows where it will lead. “No,” she replies, drawing herself in further.
Oliver steels himself. He holds up his hands. “Nyssa–” His jaw tightens. “I know you have no reason to trust me. Not here. Not after all”–he gestures towards the door–“that.” He looks at her from beneath his lashes, his head bowed in the hopes of his sincerity coming across. “I promise I won’t…do anything. You just look tense.”
Nyssa scoffs at him, but her posture relaxes slightly. “You promise?” she asks incredulously. “And what did you promise Sara before you–”
“Hey.” Oliver’s brows are furrowed, his frown looking as if it’s been chiseled eternally into his face. “I can’t bring her back,” he whispers.
Breathing in, Nyssa collects herself. “I am well aware.”
Oliver shifts. “Okay.”
Silence falls between them and Nyssa sees, not for the first time, a kindred spirit in Oliver Queen. Carefully, she turns, offering her shoulders.
Oliver understands, does not speak as his thumbs rub small circles on either side of her spine.
