Author's Notes: Out of the 400+ fics I've ever written, I've never included a straight-up make-out, so I ask for your kindness and patience as I get my footing with the, for lack of a better word, genre. Enjoy! Set sometime around Season 1.
"Enjoying the party?"
Felicity goes still, all at once, breath catching in her chest. She knows that voice. She saw the man it belonged to laughing on the street corner earlier that night, shaking hands because hugs were too innocent, everything-here-is-underneath-the-table bleeding from his ten-thousand-dollar suit. He's almost mythical; he's that elusive.
When she turns on her heel, it's not a hallucination. Oliver Queen is standing less than three feet away.
Holy shit. "Of course," she says with as much dignity as she can muster. He's huge, but not in an exact sense: more like his personality looms. He rests on the balls of his feet, like he would climb to the rafters if she dared him to. It would be no easy feat – they're fifty feet high – but she knows he could do it. "Are you?" she redirects.
He smiles easily, four-shots-into-tequila, and replies in a low voice, "Always room for improvement." His tone invites her closer, but his grin shows teeth that say, Be careful. She's pretty sure his smile is wanted in six states and knows she could dig his record out before he finished straightening his tie if she wanted to, but he reaches for no concealed weapons and she leaves her phone in her pocket. The message is clear: we're both armed. His smile doesn't waver.
Maybe that's why he's here, she thinks, a little deliriously, the heat and pulse of music subduing her senses. Everybody loves a little danger. "There are – a lot of ways to improve," she tells him. "Lots of girls. Or guys. If you're into that." His eyebrows arch, his smile acquiring a slightly lopsided edge. "Not that you need an improvement," she adds, because she hasn't stuck her foot in her mouth yet and she must. "You're Oliver Queen."
He sashays closer a step to accommodate a passerby at his back, putting him in arm's reach. "You know my name."
"Everyone knows your name," she reminds him, frowning and reaching up impulsively to push her glasses up her nose. They're not there – she went with contacts, way less likely to get fogged up – but it makes her blush when his gaze follows the movement. "You're the richest man in Starling City."
"My father's the richest man in Starling City," he corrects, daring to lounge in her airspace, slouching with panther casualness near her left side. He's all smooth gestures and friendly intimacy, let's-be-together, and now she really can't breathe. This close, she can't help but notice that his suit isn't black at all but an exquisitely deep shade of blue; her own azure dress works surprisingly well with it. Of course, he'd look good on anyone's arm. Anyone's. Because he's Oliver Queen.
"That's what every rich kid says," she manages.
His breath is warm against her shoulder when he huffs, a soft, inaudible laugh. "I haven't seen you before," he muses, flagging down a server and snagging a pair of glasses. He passes her one and clinks his own against it. "Enjoy the party," he tells her, disappearing without a trace into the crowd.
Dizzied, she exhales deeply and sways back a step, drink untouched.
Before she's spotted him in the crowd, he's standing on a table, declaring in a ringing Canadian shout, "Thank you all for coming! Now, my club manager and I—" he toasts Tommy Merlyn, heir to his own fortune at Merlyn Global and possessor of a wolfish smile, before continuing, "we have a problem. There's too much booze. There's too much!" he insists over scattered laughter, spreading his arms wide, inviting it, a showman at heart. "I mean, we're splitting kegs over here, but we'd really appreciate it if you'd help us out here. So, please – for the next hour, it's on the house!"
A veritable roar from the crowd carries him off his improvised pedestal; the music kicks up to fill the vacuum after his speech. He vanishes into a swarm of adoring fans without glancing back at her, and she doesn't know how she feels about it, having shared his space so immediately and so briefly. Analyzing it, she watches him sway and shimmy and shake hands, passing drinks off to guests and inviting easy conversation. As far as she can see, he doesn't have any ulterior motives, keeping his hands but not his charm to himself. Boyish, but not overbearing. He scribbles his name on the tab without leaving a phone number, the implicit try-and-find-me challenge written in the broad cut of his back, visible but vanishing in the crowd.
He's noticeable, wants to be noticed, and she thinks about leaving the party, get-out-while-you're-ahead, and finds herself drifting instead, drawn to his gravity.
Lacking Oliver's subtlety, Tommy, a far more accessible target, shouts, "Ollie, Ollie, Ollie!" and claps him hard on the back when he's close enough. Navigating the periphery of the room, Felicity watches them interact, never in one space for too long but scarcely taking her eyes from either of them.
It's clear that Oliver is in charge, but Tommy's the front-man, the salesman, the forerunner; he opens doors and Oliver keeps them that way. Leaning in, Tommy speaks slowly but indecipherably, something important in the next hour but irrelevant tomorrow. Oliver nods repeatedly, flashing a smile before smacking him on the shoulder in a go-get-'em-tiger gesture. Given Oliver's blessing, Tommy sweeps over to a gorgeous girl in a modest red dress and disappears with her, seemingly on the spot.
Oliver shakes his head fondly before turning to talk with a man she doesn't recognize. Bodyguard, she surmises from his stiff-backed stance, gaze alert but indifferent to the party around them. He's a big guy and she almost pities the idiot who gets on his bad side. His arms are the size of bowling balls; he could do some damage.
His gaze meets her for a moment and she averts her own, cheeks turning pink. Before she can be accused of causing trouble, she sifts through the fringe and immerses herself back in the main crowd.
Flashing lights, a throbbing beat, and enough humans to throng without tipping critical mass into mob territory – it's intoxicating. The dense pack of people holds her captive in the immediate present, aware of bodies and body heat only. She doesn't dance, not really, but she doesn't have to; it's enough to just be there, to interact without committing.
She can see why Oliver throws these parties every weekend: it's a drug.
"I never caught your name," he tells her, a ghost, a smiling hat-tipping ghost that seems to emerge from the crowd kinetically, summoned by the heat.
"I never gave it to you," she tells him. Instead of putting him off, it makes his smile grow.
"Yeah," he agrees, holding out a hand, and impulsively she takes it. He leads her through the crowd, reaching the edge of the main floor. His bodyguard eyes her up for a moment, checking perfunctorily for weapons, and she flashes a nervous smile before they disappear around a corner, tucked behind a wall, and suddenly Oliver Queen is a hundred people condensed into one: the charisma of a crowd, the intimacy of a heated breath near hers, the curious contact of a hand that settles on her waist. She's never been a one-date kind of girl, but she lets it rest there.
Why? She doesn't know, but instead of pushing it aside she just rests her own hand on top of his and he holds it there. He doesn't move, steady but soft, like he wants her to push him away, pull him closer, make-a-move. She reaches up for his collar instead, reflexively straightening it, subconsciously smoothing it down, checking for – what, bugs? No, she thinks, fingertips gliding over it. Integrity. It's a beautiful suit. And it's strong, too. She doesn't need to see a price tag to know that it's not just pretty – it's lean and mean and ready to fight.
"You're something else," she tells him, happy to blame the alcohol, the atmosphere, and the ulterior motive of his pounding heart just inches from her fingers for the openness. He doesn't respond, but he also doesn't stop her when she draws her hands slowly down his stubbly throat, resting a palm against his chest. If she was a world class assassin she could have killed him in thirty different ways, this-vulnerable, but she's not and she doesn't, and he just lets her decide her next play.
Worth your time? his eyebrows ask.
She slides her hands back up the sides of his neck, cradling his head. His pupils are huge. Her heart beats so fast she's amazed she isn't shaking apart. She brushes her thumbs experimentally across his jawline and resists the urge to put him in front of a crowd just to see what he does. To see how he laughs, how he smiles, how he debates and how he wins and how he hits his knees, never losing his cool but never giving up easily, either. He wouldn't back down from a bar fight, but he wouldn't initiate it, either. He's dangerous, but he's in control.
She says, "My name is Felicity Smoak."
His breath comes shallowly, but his voice is rich when he replies, "Felicity." Then, leaning down, almost close enough to kiss, he murmurs, "You're a remarkable woman."
She flusters a little, tempted to push him back, give her space, but she just leans up on her tiptoe, close enough, and says, "Thank you for remarking on it."
Leaning forward, tantalizingly close, he leans down and nuzzles her throat. Her hands slide to his hair and tighten, firm but not painful. He tells her in a timbre she feels in her own chest: "You graduated top of your class at MIT."
Her fingers tighten in surprise before she relaxes, smoothing them. Smoothing his hair. It's a little sharp, just like him, but it's softer than his smile, and she likes running her fingers over it. He seems to like it, too, dipping his head a little more, making it easier.
"I'm not a stalker," he promises, in a deeply unconvincing tone, accompanied by the way he presses her, gently but also firmly, back against the wall. "You were the top of our list for the IT department. Palmer Tech got you first."
Felicity's breath is very shallow, but her chest still brushes against his on the next inhale. "Are you seducing me?" she asks, keeping her voice as smooth as she can. Her cool will shatter under the right pressure, but she doesn't intend to grant him that privilege.
His laughter bubbles against her as he straightens, looking her right in the eye. "No," he says, and she believes him, even though he's a wolf in wolf's clothing, all shiny silver teeth and no denial. The confidence works for her. "I would never be so coarse. Curtis Holt has been a stellar substitute."
"Did you tell him he's the substitute?" Felicity's hands glide down his back when he straightens a little, appraising. They rest at the middle of his back and stay there.
Oliver looks at her, considers, and settles on what she suspects can only be the truth: "Your talent is well-known. He's not oblivious. He has a generous position," he adds to mitigate the coarseness of the analysis, daring to reel her into his chest a little. She lets him, and wow, he is hot – physically. Aesthetically. Strictly in principle. Whatever interpretation will bring the blush in her cheeks down to a less burning shade of red.
"He surmised," he murmurs. "I didn't deny it." She rests both hands at the edge of his jacket, aware that two relatively thin layers of clothing separate her from Oliver Queen. And if she's this close she might really need to stop thinking of him as Oliver Queen and more as Oliver.
"Palmer Tech made a handsome offer," she says, brushing her thumbs just above his hips, above-the-shirt-for-now. She lets the trailing edge of the sentence lead him on until he shuffles closer, hanging onto her words, and finishes, "Yours is compelling."
He smirks and presses it against her shoulder. He still hasn't kissed her, even though his lips rest against her bare skin, and she can't decide if she wants him to or not.
Don't, the rational, stay-at-home side of her urges, because she knows what happens when you fall for playboys: at best you disappear into obscurity after a night of decidedly less-than-mythical fun, or you're the tabloid's favorite scandal for a week. There's little in-between – maybe the occasional tragic death in an unrelated incident, or just the halting tension between adversaries who know too much about each other to let it go.
She doesn't particularly desire any of the above, but when he leans back patiently she doesn't let him get far, taking his face in her hands and kissing him. The tiniest startled noise from his chest is a world of satisfaction, a warm burn of surprise that melts into aching tenderness when he rests his hands on either side of her. God, they're barely out of sightline, his bodyguard can probably see the whole thing – should, she reminds herself, should, that's his job, guard the principal – but she can't stop.
Because he kisses better than he talks and she really wants to hear what he has to say.
. o .
They can still hear the music downstairs, a distant party beat that makes the crowd noisy, but she barely notices as he takes the lead upstairs. When they pause at the door, she can't help but kiss him, and he's loud, shamelessly enjoying himself. He pulls away first, a surprise, and then he fumbles the door open and it's her hesitating after him. Steeling herself against the nerd-IT-girl meets gorgeous billionaire playboy anxiety, she follows him inside, shutting and locking the door behind herself.
He relaxes, kicking off his shoes, and she has to pause to take off her own heels. It could be awkward, a break in the action, but she looks up and sees that the intermission only makes his slightly ruffled hair and obvious grin a little more boyish, anticipatory, this is awesome clear in every line of his body as he sways to the music they can't understand. Unimpeded and rolling with the momentum, she straightens and kisses him.
He holds her close and groans, breaking away to kiss along her jaw, murmuring her name, Felicity and Felicity Smoak, alternately, like she's the famous one here. She has to laugh when he picks her up and puts her against a wall and still sounds like she's the miracle.
He's really strong, which is distracting, and he's also really good at kissing, which is even more distracting, and somehow fully clothed he is more attractive than every guy she's ever slept with.
His arms barely tremble, but he knows his limits, pulling away after God-knows-how-many-minutes to set her on the center of the bed, and it hits her, and she can't stop a breathless, "Wait" from escaping her. He pauses, hands unpresumptuously at her waistline. When she doesn't continue, he sits back on his heels, watching her, nonplussed.
"This is – this is really good," she tells him, because honesty has always been the best policy, running her hands absentmindedly down his sides to hide their tremble. She's relieved that he's shaking, too, endorphins and adrenaline and alcohol fuzzing the space between control and nerves.
"Yeah," he agrees, letting some of his weight against her. He's sturdy, heavy enough to crush her if he didn't have his elbows up and supporting himself, but she isn't scared, knows she could get him off in a second, and she has to close her eyes for thirty seconds because that is not what she needs right now.
He seems fine waiting, but he's also kinetic, leaning forward again and nuzzling along her jaw, pressing the occasional kiss there. "Felicity?" he tries at last.
"You're really good at this," she tells him, eyes still closed, hands stroking the back of his neck, and he presses a satisfied smile against her collarbone before leaning up to kiss her again.
It's a kiss that lasts, her hands coaxing his own to get the jacket off, it is way too hot in here, and he obligingly strips off a suit worth a drop-dead sum of money just so he can be closer to him. He rests his weight against her, a little too much, and then he rolls them, all-at-once, and she blinks down at him in surprise. She's straddling Oliver Queen. Oliver Queen. He doesn't seem at all aware, just running his hands up and down her sides warmly. "What?" he asks, when she just looks down at him.
Shaking her head, she says, "You seemed like you'd be more into …" Holding up her hands in an imitation of claws, she snarls. "Machismo."
He laughs, and she really likes how it feels when he laughs under her. "Sorry," he apologizes without remorse, rubbing a thumb against her hip. "I like the view."
She rolls her eyes – he's a nerd, oh my God – and leans down to kiss him again. It's a different angle – she's never actually been on top before, because most of the dudes she dates have complexes and find pink a castrating color – but she likes it. It's nice to lean her entire weight against him, too, because she trusts those could-climb-the-rafter arms and the firmness of his musculature. Seriously – what's this guy's deal? He's built like an Olympian.
"You're really fit," she tells him, and it's a dignified statement in her mind and a ridiculous one out loud, but he's a little drunk and a lot bubbly, laughing easily.
"Yeah, I do a lot of push-ups," he admits. "Not everybody likes us billionaire playboys."
She flattens against him, effectively hugging him. "Mm. I find that hard to believe."
"We have very sultry pasts," he tells her gravely, reaching up to smooth back her hair. She closes her eyes, smiles a little in spite of herself, because—
"I'm gonna be honest, this is not how I thought my night was going to go."
He scratches the back of her neck lightly. Turns out, that's the human formula for kryptonite. "Why's that?"
It takes everything in her to put together a coherent thought. "I broke in," she finally manages.
"Felicity Smoak." His hand slides down her back, haul her a little closer, grinding a little, and she hums happily, yes-yes-yes. Then he tells her, "You're on my three list."
She asks his shoulder, "What's a three list?"
He rubs his fingers thoughtfully against the small of her back and doesn't answer. She growls playfully in remonstrance when he grinds up again, don't-avoid-the-question, but she tilts her head to kiss him and matches him on the down-grind and forgets the argument entirely.
. o .
He's sweaty. It's gross on most people, which naturally means it's unfairly attractive on Oliver Queen. Because Oliver Queen could be covered in dirt, beaten by a bull, and reeking of a horse corral, and still be one of the drop-dead sexiest people on the planet. She's certain of this. She's certain that even if he crushed her, she'd be totally happy.
But it's nice to not be crushed, lying next to and partially on top of him, a sheet thrown modestly over their bare legs. Please-tell-me-your-bodyguard-doesn't-have-you-on-a-timer followed by a tired huff of laughter from Oliver because Felicity, please. Exhausted and sated, she almost defies the man to burst through the doors, ready to defend his client, only to find Felicity Smoak holding his naked protectee captive.
Brushing her thumb back and forth over a scar on his left pectoral, she asks, "What happened?"
He hums, drawing her head gently closer to kiss her temple. "I was shipwrecked for five years. Stuff happened."
"I'm sorry."
"Mm." Shifting comfortably, he draws her into the fold of his arms. "My prospects have been looking up ever since. I think of it like a low point."
"Most people would," she contends.
He smiles. She doesn't see it, but she feels it, the way his muscles relax, full body. "Yeah." Resting a hand between her shoulders, he asks, "What am I going to do with you?"
Cuddling closer – cuddling Oliver – Felicity replies, "I could ask you the same thing."
His laugh is soft and sweet and echoes her feelings perfectly.
No idea.
But keep doing it.
. o .
Turns out, Oliver Queen is more than a billionaire playboy.
A lot more, and only one of those titles belongs to the masked-crusader-defending-Starling-City ("I prefer 'Green Arrow'"), but mostly he's more genuine than she expects, sometimes heartbreakingly so, pushing her away and pulling her in. He makes an irresistible offer to her to join Team Arrow, and she only makes him dangle for a week before accepting it. He's there the day she becomes CEO of Palmer – henceforth Smoak – Technologies.
Wherever she drifts, however far from herself she becomes, he's back home waiting for her, a familiar warm smile and a presence standing in a corner with eyes only for her.
"What's a three list?" she asks one day, twirling in her chair, and Diggle, who's in the cave with them, laughs.
Oliver shrugs, shelving his bow. "Three people I'm allowed to ditch Diggle to spend the night with," he lies, and it's only the day after he proposes that he admits the truth:
Three people I would have sex with on the spot.
She doesn't know who the other two are, doesn't care, because when he looks up at her, she knows she's the only one he would spend the night with.