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Oh, no. Oh, no no no. This was bad. This was really bad. This was, coincidentally, also just one example of why she was not fond of needles, because staring at the syringe hanging off her thigh like a floppy appendage was just. Not. Cool. She might barf now. Any minute now.
"Um." Felicity forced her throat to swallow. "Guys?"
A muffled grunt--Roy's, she guessed, by the slight difference in timbre--amidst the shuffling of punches, kicks, and other noises transmitted over the comms in her ear. She sighed. "Guys?"
"I'm clear," Roy's voice announced a second later, followed by Diggle's voice, "Shipment's secure."
Felicity waited for the final check in, eventually realizing she was worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. She stopped.
"Um… Arrow?" She side-eyed the syringe. "Are you done yet?"
A beat. "It's done." He sounded clipped.
Roy made a noise that could have been either a laugh or scoff, probably both, and said, "Someone sounds impatient."
"Yes, well," she said and paused. She eyed the syringe still stuck in her and suddenly, she knew how it was going to play out. Oliver charging in. Roy and Diggle following closely. A guaranteed hell of a night that would only be made a thousand times worse if they knew. If she told them.
Aw, crap. Crap, crap, crap.
"Felicity?" Oliver's voice almost made her waver. She shut her eyes, felt blindly for the cylinder, and… yanked. Ow.
She made a face that no one would see and shook her head. The empty syringe went into her coat pocket and she drew a deep breath.
"Yeah, okay, I've got all the files from the lab. It looks like there should be enough for Laurel to make sure this operation never starts up again."
She stood, kicking at the wreckage at her feet. "Time to go."
**
She made it home in record time-- her efforts earning another jibe from Roy that she could have countered on a better night--but it took a single-minded focus to get back to the lair before anyone, to upload her files, and finally to beg off for the evening as the others arrived.
The effects hadn't taken long to make themselves known; unsurprising since the drug was injected directly into her blood stream. Victims had reported a hazy descent into arousal-- just from the drug's aerosolized form. For Felicity, it felt as if she was dropped off a cliff. Free falling.
The moment she locked her door, she yanked at her shirt, popping a button as she pulled the material off her shoulders, off her skin, desperately fanning cool air through her clothes. A fevered restlessness crawled over her, and she felt tight and tensed and so very, very warm.
She half-stumbled, half-stripped through her living room, into her bedroom, pushed her way into the bathroom, and all but jumped into the shower under the coldest setting.
The shock lasted a blessed two minutes-- a time span during which she could finally think, could remind herself of the folly of her decision, and yet-- her quiet laughter sounded a tinged hysterical-- she was screwed either way, wasn't she?
Her body acclimated quickly to the cold -- the sting dulling and the clarity of her thoughts slowly dissipating—and she grabbed the shower head off its mount on the wall. Her eyes drifted closed as she directed the stream against her neck, the rush of water cutting a path down her body from clavicle to sternum to belly. Rivulets formed their own tiny pathways around her hips, her thighs, and between her legs.
A hum reverberated at the back of her throat.
Though the cold was no longer effective in shocking her body out of the drug's grip, it had slowed the burn beneath her skin. A deep, increasing buzz of arousal took its place.
She drew a hand over her stomach and up to her chest, cupping a breast, and stroked her fingers over one swell to the other and back. Her touch slid over water and skin. Electric tingles ran across her skin after her fingers, echoes of the stronger currents that ran further down, deeper, faster, coiling around her center.
Her other hand brought the shower head lower, over her chest, past her stomach, lower, lower, closer—
She gasped, squeezing her already closed eyes tighter, and spread her legs a little wider until the steady stream of vibrations and tremors hit her sex, and oh, God, the stimulation shot her past the gradual build, and back into a desperation that was quickly growing sharp.
She rotated her wrist, changing the angle, and hissed out a breath of pleasure. Her free hand pulled at the peak of one breast and then the other, and she allowed her head to loll to one side at the mounting pressure below her belly, certain she would tip over soon, needing to tip over soon, desperate to, had to, Godplease-- but her body only seemed to pull inward tighter, and harder, and quicker--
It wasn't enough. Her own damn stimulation wasn't enough, and a strangled cry wrenched from her as she sagged. Her shoulder hit the shower wall. The drug was turning all her senses into insatiable visceral needs, and she needed more. She needed-- needed, needed--
Oliver.
Her eyes flew open into a wide-eyed sightless stare.
In her mind she imagined him moving behind her: the width of his body easily encompassing her, the heat of his presence matching the hot flush on her skin, and his arms reaching around to bind her to him. One large calloused hand splayed on her stomach, the other stroking up the side of her torso, palming her chest, and she shuddered under the firmness of his touch, certain and determined.
Her head fell forward, and she imagined the stubble of his jaw rasping along her shoulder, his lips grazing the column of her neck, and his hands—his hands moved over all of her, touching her, feeling her. He directed her against him, gripping her hips, and the length of his erection pressed hard against her ass.
Dimly, in the shower, she knew her back arched, her head rocked to the side, her hands stroked-- but the other Felicity-- the Felicity in her mind that was ultimately connected to her real body--that Felicity-- bent forward from the waist, shoving her hips back. He palmed the curve of her ass roughly, clutching at her pelvis, easily bruising her, effortlessly steadying her; the inner sides of his thighs pressed to hers, and he jerked, thrusting himself into her, the angle almost painful, sharp, and the length of him forced her inner walls apart, a low keen rippling through her.
Her legs shook, and in her mind, Oliver's legs pistoned behind her, slamming himself into her in a rapid, endless staccato of pain and pleasure, and she was careening. His hand --no, hers--his-- swept down her front, dove between her legs, and found her clit. Flicked.
She screamed.
**
The white starbursts behind her eyelids eventually began to fade, and she heard the wet thunk of the shower head hitting the floor, water spraying at her feet. Her locked knees trembled once and gave way, and she crumpled, falling, collapsing--
Strong arms scooped her up in mid-fall.
A warm body pressed to her side--wait, no, that's not right--and her brain struggled to cut through the haze. Failing. Her feet swept off the ground-- oh, being carried,her brain mumbled at her. Carried, carried… who?
"Oliver." She breathed his name.
Through slitted eyes, she caught glimpses of him: his large form as he bent over to settle her on her bed, the length of his arm crossing her vision as he toweled her off gently and covered her, and his face--his face looking down at hers, so dark and intense; and though there was absolutely no reason for it, she laughed softly.
"Did I fantasize you into being?" Her body still felt so languid, the words seemed to slur out of her.
"Felicity."
But at the mere tone of her name in his voice, somewhere deep in her body, something stirred.
"Why didn't you tell us?" His whisper sent a tremor down her back, and she dropped her head, closing her eyes. She shifted on the bed, curving both away and toward the sensation.
"Couldn't. Wouldn't." She sighed, a sound that was more moan than sigh, and her head tilted to the side, angling her face--her eyes still closed-- toward him.
She heard his sharp intake of breath, and she opened her eyes, seeing him stare at her.
It took her a moment to realize the towel had slid off one shoulder, baring her right breast… and the ministrations of her own hand slowly teasing herself. She felt her face flush-- and yet she continued. Her fingers rolled over a nipple, a tendril of pleasure unfurling from her fingertips. Even though she couldn't see his eyes clearly, his jaw tensed visibly, and it was not entirely all humiliation she felt, but excitement, too.
That scared her.
"Oliver, I can't--I can't stop."
His gaze shot to her face, and the conflict of emotions mirrored back at her, tethering him to her.
The arousal came in sharp, erratic pulses this time, each hit more intense, more amplified, with no transition, no shift--just more, and more, and-- Her eyes glazed over, her breath hitched, and her hands wrenched downward.
Oliver moved, a fluid blur in her vision, and suddenly he was sitting between her and the headboard, his arms wrapping around her, pulling her to him, onto his lap, her back pressed to his chest, and somehow he was cradling her against him on the bed, folding her into an embrace that held so many similarities to the fantasy she'd had just minutes ago--and yet was so different.
Her body raced off the precipice, writhed in desperation, but she was surrounded by his strength and presence, his embrace of her complete and total, and the tiny part of her mind that was still hers-- that was still only Felicity-- felt protected and safe and almost lov --
Oh.
And Oliver held her as she shattered in his arms.
**
Her body felt non-corporeal.
Reforming only in the aftershocks of her orgasm.
A shudder of pleasure and she could register her legs curling over his thighs.
Another tremor and her shoulders bumped into his chest in beats.
Eventually she came back to the space where he held her… and kept her from falling.
Felicity drifted in semi-awareness, gradually feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest, and listening to the pattern of his breathing. It was measured and deliberate, and unconsciously or consciously, the rhythm of her body began to align with his, slowly putting itself back together in the aftermath.
His chin tucked against her head, stroking her hair in a tiny movement. A few seconds later he did it again, slower—gentler. The barest of a nuzzle. And, somehow, comprehension came to her. It’s going to be okay. You’re not alone. I’m here.
The reassurance washed over her, and she grabbed at it, clung to it. Needed to hold on to it. Had to hold on to it.
Because…
The base of her spine pulled ever so slightly.
She shut her eyes… but there was no denying it had begun again. So soon. Too damned soon.
She whimpered. One of her hands was still wedged between her legs, but she could barely shift her fingers, much less move her whole hand.
It wasn't enough. Oh, God, it wasn't enough--
Oliver's arms tightened around her and she realized she was whimpering the words aloud, repeating them over and over again.
"Felicity, let me--" He broke off, dragging in a ragged breath. "Will you--will you let me help?"
Her head jerked and she stared up at him, his face so close to hers she could see his eyes. He met her gaze, unflinching for all she stared, and she saw that same something she'd never been able to able to name or identify from the night she'd first decided to actually trust him--to reach out to him and… trust him.
She couldn't say the words--she wasn't sure what words she should say -- so all she did was jerk her chin down in a nod. She felt him search her expression and saw his eyes darken even further as he understood. And gently, almost tenderly, he pressed his lips to the side of her forehead.
The tightness in her chest felt hers just then -- not the drug's, hers -- but she was losing capacity to think again, to understand beyond her body's senses, so she twisted toward him and he caught her movement with another kiss. A sigh of his lips on her cheek. His hands slid up her back as she turned fully and he finally captured her mouth-- or she, his --and pleasure flooded her.
She moaned her approval.
Oliver's hands braced her back--and he was moving again, his body shifting out from under her, and she landed on her mattress, and he on top of her. His body pinned her to the cool sheets, and she squirmed--or tried to. Sensations flared throughout her body, reaching for the very tips of her limbs, racing for the end, shooting in a million directions, and she couldn’t tell—she doesn’t know—she can’t—
A sharp rush cut through thought and feeling, and honed all of it to a single, concentrated spot on her neck: Oliver sucking hard over a pulse point.
"O-Oliver, please--I can't--" Her jaw slackened in shock.
He swept down from neck to chest with his lips, a path branded by the tip of his tongue, and without pause or mercy, he latched to a breast-- taking the near-throbbing peak between his teeth.
He wielded her body’s arousal, summoning the heat that threatened to consume her to converge on what he did and where he chose and how he wanted.
His fingers teased the underside of her other breast before he moved over it his mouth, and he lavished another kiss, another lick, an almost gentle caress of his tongue.
His hands dragged down her sides--anchoring on her waist--and he followed in the next beat, the loss of his attention on her breasts close to jarring, before a warm breath skirted over her stomach. A soft kiss. Lower. Another kiss. Closer. She gritted her teeth and her hand shot down, fingers grasping the short hairs of his scalp--
From outer hip moving inward, his tongue traced the line where thigh met body, and his hand gripped against the spasm of her lower body. She jerked her chin down to see him raise his head and meet her gaze. Not once did he break eye contact as he shifted to her other hip, and lowered his mouth back on to her. She tried desperately to keep her eyes from shuttering, to watch him as he suckled and licked a slow, torturous advance to where she needed him most, and her legs tried to pull from underneath him--to stretch out, to spread--
Abruptly, his hands slid down her legs, grabbed her ankles, and yanked them up. As a reflex, her knees folded on to her chest, her feet suspended in the air--and his hands shifted again, an arm banding around her thighs, securing them together.
"Oliver, what--"
His lips kissed the underside of her thigh, and she gaped. He started near the back of her knee, and marked another path down toward her ass, only to stop and repeat the same treatment on the other leg. She couldn't see what he was doing, couldn't process his actions, and every little unexpected, unanticipated move short-circuited both her mind and body, almost brutally interrupting the intense climb of her arousal, only to suspend it, capture it, and push it even higher, farther--
Oh, God. How much farther could he push her?
Almost as if he heard her, his mouth covered her sex. The contact whipped through her, her body bending off the sheets, her shoulders digging into the bed--and still, it wasn't a climax, and still, she was on the edge, higher, farther--She wasn't done. He wasn't done. She nearly sobbed.
The position he held her in pushed the intimate folds of her sex together, and his mouth, his tongue, his lips only covered her. The steel grip in his hands held her in place, trapping her at his mercy, not allowing her to reach for more, ignoring her cries.
A hot slide of his tongue. A lazy, languorous taste of her essence. Over and over, like a man with all the time in the world--
"God, Felicity."
Her eyes flew open, staring up at the ceiling.
His voice.
Desperate.
Wanting.
Lusting.
And that was the only warning she had when his mouth fell on her again. His lips pressed hard into her folds, prying her open with his mouth, his tongue plunging into the seam, tasting her, sucking her, devouring her, and he licked upward-- dragging the intense need from her core and sent it crashing over her clit; his tongue built upon that primal desire with a new burst of pleasure each time he swirled around the small sensitive nub—again and again.
She was dying. She had to be dying; her body was writhing in a death throe as her voice begged.
"Please, Oliver, please, please, pleasepleaseplease--"
His mouth stopped, lips hovering--justtouching-- over her clit. She couldn't breathe.
"DamnitOliver--"
Fingers plunged into her and she cried-- screamed. He stretchedher with dual fingers— fingers that drew his bow string as certainly as he pulled her where he wanted -- and he withdrew them just as quickly, her body jerking and clenching violently at the sudden emptiness, only for him to slide them back inside her as his mouth fell upon her clit and sucked; he flicked and swirled the tip of his tongue around her, and dove deep into her sex with a low deep groan in his throat--the vibrations shooting into her body. His fingers pumped once, twice, and curled upward in mid-stroke--
And the world went supernova as she fucking flew apart.
**
It felt forever before she started to come back to him… He hadn't stopped. His touch was gentler, slower, and he'd moved off the most sensitive parts of her--with a nuzzle of her inner thigh, a tender lick of her outer folds -- but still, in her descent off her climax, she shuddered and trembled at least twice more before it was apparent she was finally, finally spent.
He slowly lowered her legs back together and moved over her. Her eyelids felt heavy, but she tried to drag them open when she felt him kiss her lips oh-so-gently. She tasted herself on his lips.
She made a soft noise, not entirely sure what she wanted to convey.
"Rest," he murmured. "I have you."
Blissful slumber beckoned her, and she drifted, hovering on the edge of sleep. It wasn't until she felt him settle beside her though, and tuck her into his side -- her body burying into him -- that she let herself fall asleep.
**
The drug in her body woke her up an hour later, and subsequently, four more times that night. Each time, Oliver was with her.
The second time she woke, he had already stripped down to his pants. She pulled them off, greedily taking him into her mouth, eagerly exploring all of him. In retaliation, he teased and fondled her, and kept her on the edge until he'd grown hard again, and he slid into her.
Once, she woke with him already moving inside her--her body craving him even as she was asleep. And her initial fantasy made real proved to be a thousand times more satisfying.
Each time her body was finally exhausted to the point that it could no longer register the effects of the drug-- and she curled into him, and he welcomed her, drawing her to him as if he needed her as much as she did him, and it was that thought that really lulled her to sleep.
**
She woke with the sunlight hitting her eyes, and she threw an arm over her face to block the intrusion.
Memories assaulted her almost immediately. The shower. His lips upon her sex. Hers on his. The pounding of his body into hers--
She gasped and a rush of arousal curled at the bottom of her belly--but it lacked the detachment of the drug, where the drug-induced arousal almost always felt as if her body was moving forward apart from her. This time… this time it felt like a natural response. To her own thoughts. Her own memories. Her own feelings.
Felicity lowered her arm, blinking. She turned her head toward Oliver--
And found only the expanse of her bed; crumpled sheets and comforter. She stared blankly at the space, not quite sure what she was seeing--or not seeing.
Slowly, she got up. "…Oliver?" There was no answer.
A mild flush ran over her as she realized she was still naked. Her body ached with delicious satisfaction as she padded over to the bathroom to grab her bathrobe, but her mind felt sluggish and confused.
He couldn't have left, could he? He--
She stopped mid-thought, noticing the echo of trickling water.
She followed the sound to its source…and ended up staring at the shower head still on the tiled floor, running water wasting away. Surely, she would have... He would have… they would have…
Numbly, she turned the knob, cutting the water off.
It couldn't have been…
Could it?
She stared at her feet, watching the last bit of water swirl down the drain. She'd almost fallen. Right here. No, she would have fallen, if not…
Her knees ached just a little. She took a halting step out of the shower stall, shaking her head. But the bruising could easily have happened when they…
Focus, Felicity, focus.
Almost in a daze, she wandered through her home. Her clothes lay where she'd discarded them. Her front door was still locked. She stared at the bed, the sheets pulled off at one corner, a pillow lay on the floor, and the comforter crumbled in a heap where she'd slept.
Felicity sank down on the edge of mattress, uncertain what she was feeling. It felt almost like an urge to laugh… and cry. Relief. And loss. Doubt. Her eyes clenched closed, but that only triggered the montage of memories--or hallucinations?--from the night before.
Fuck.
She opened her eyes.
"Well. That word just got a whole new level of meaning, didn't it."