Author's Note: This is not how I planned for things to go, but here it is, nonetheless.
He is not her Oliver.
She is naked.
There is little to remember about how she came to be without clothing, but she is here now, with a man that had crawled out of the black for only her touch. At first, he hadn't said a word, this man, but he'd stared at her for a long moment, deciding, weighing, before reaching out to claim her lips.
It was then that he had hesitated, a second only, a second in which she could have stripped him of the power he lords over her now. He had shown the last ounce of gentleman remaining in him, gripped her at arm's length, shook with some emotion she couldn't fathom and forced her to make a decision based on nothing but need. Lust.
Hunger.
She hadn't said no.
They are in her kitchen. The room is dark, shadows pooling around them as though following him from the night, black shades brought into her bright world by a man she no longer knows. Trivial decorations, mail from the morning had been scattered without thought as he'd hauled her from her feet, sliding her onto the counter before roughly shifting apart her thighs, stepping between them as leather met flushed skin.
He hasn't removed the costume.
This is not her Oliver anymore.
He doesn't ask permission, he doesn't wait for her to meet him. He takes, suddenly, takes her mouth with his and she can't breathe from the feeling of him, the force of his lips and his tongue dancing over hers and oh God, she is drowning. She fights back, teeth finding his lower lip, and she is shocked again by the callous reaction he gives her.
Gloved fingers sink into her wild mane, snapping back her head, forcing her to steady herself on the granite surface, while others wandered and pulled and bruised her chest, her hips, her thighs. His lips are pulled from hers in a rush, bringing an inhale to a breath she didn't know she'd been holding, and they descend to her feverish skin, tongue tracing the lines of her neck, teeth grazing the sensitive flesh in the hollow of her throat.
This is not her Oliver.
This is a man fighting to forget the darkness that surrounds him. His hands are hungry for something other than a bow, his lips tired of issuing threats of death. He is grasping at her in greed, taking from her what he craves, fighting back the feeling of hollowness with her flesh. With her moans.
He will have her.
She reaches out to his face, to his hated green hood, and with a snatch of her hand, he forces her back flat against the counter, lording over her and pinning her with a covetous stare. Once more, his lips find hers, no less harsh, no gentle touch as they fight for dominance with hers, hers that are suddenly just as greedy, just as hungry.
Her legs wrap around his waist.
She feels his want between her thighs.
Her hips raise, sliding wet over him, and the act elicits an dangerous growl that shakes her to her core. He is terrifying, but she cannot stop. Will not stop. This is his release. For this moment, she is his. And she will see that he finds the oblivion he desperately desires.
Without warning, she is hauled upright once more, and he allows her hands to unlace the leather restraining what they both want. He is kissing her again, arms wrapped behind her as he pulls her close, until he feels the pressure lessened from her deft fingers.
He jerks her off the counter.
He doesn't allow her toes to touch the cold tile before he has her bent forwards against the granite.
There is no warning. He is inside her, strong and Christ so hard and all she can think about is how much more she wants to take. She had been ready for him, but nothing, nothing readied her for this feeling. He is taking her, there is no question about it, and she is letting him. He is trying to fuck the demons from himself, to fall into a state that requires nothing more than to feel, and if that oblivion, the one between animal and sanity, is what he is seeking, then she will let him take it from her.
He is a darkness fucking the light, seeking shelter from pain.
His black-gloved hands are gripping her hips hard enough to hurt, but the touch grounds her in the now, in the moment, and she cannot choke back the oh God that escapes her lips as they whisper over the counter surface. She cannot understand why this act, this senseless, animalistic, shameless scene of pure sex is causing her body to tighten at his every thrust, for that low something in her body to well up with expectant excitement, and for her thoughts to run utterly mindless.
A hand is in her hair again, threading though before snatching her head up, even as his length slides into her in a quickened pace. Her toes curl at the feeling, and that low thing, the thing that she's never felt so keenly, is telling her it wants more. He is touching her core, and as his body shakes and his thrusts end, she cannot help a traitorous word that whispers from her lips.
Oliver.
And then he is gone from behind her, the lack of his presence felt keenly, and as she turns, she sees the man that lives in the world of the dark things, the man whose hands are stained red. He is standing serenely still, as though a statue in a kitchen that smells of sex, and they aren't saying a word.
She knows the Hood will leave.
She knows he will return.