Title: Of Violent Delights and Violent Ends
Word Count: 8154
Prompts:
Trick: "What's behind you in these pictures...?"
Treat: Hugged/kissed the wrong person in a costume like my friend's
Notes: Before you get your hopes up too much from the summary, I didn't use both prompts. I'll let you figure out which one I used.
I have no idea what any of this is. If you figure it out, let me know. All I have to say to you before you begin is this: godspeed, friends. Reviews are awesome, and so are you. If you survive to the end, I take that as a compliment to your endurance. ;) Thanks!
Also, big thanks to Kim for spearheading this idea. I had a lot of fun with it! :)
Blood red lips turn down as she studies the dance floor below, watching bodies writhe against each other in the low light. From the balcony above, it's nearly impossible to discern their individual costumes, but it's clear enough that they are celebrating the dark holiday with great style and little clothing. Not that the masses of the twenty-first century need an excuse to get wasted. It seems to be their preferred pastime—or perhaps she's jaded as the owner of the nightclub Bloodlust. Despite that, Felicity Smoak can't help but a pang of sadness in her cold, undead heart for the way they treat her precious All Hallow's Eve.
With a sigh, she internally chides herself for her antiquated foul humor. Sometimes she can't separate the world of her birth from the one she must navigate today. In those days, opium was the drug of choice and a woman was scandalized for showing her ankles in public. Despite being two hundred years removed from that time, part of it sticks with her, she realizes with a glance down at her costume for the evening. Even now she finds herself wearing a steel-boned waist corset emblazoned with three red dragons, over her black blouse. Its flowing sleeves hang about her elbows, trimmed with red satin. Her skirt is black with red laces ending just below her backside, flowing out from there.
She might have left the era of her birth, but it has yet to leave her.
Dismissing the thought, she turns her attentions back to the chaos below, sweeping her curled, blonde hair over one shoulder. New faces enter the club, sober enough to glance upward, squinting in hopes to see her figure on the balcony. Felicity's blood red lips twist up in a dark smile. It's part of the lure to her club in the heart of the Glades: everyone wants to see the vampire empresaria who lurks in the shadows of the upper floor.
The popularity strange in some ways; once, humans wrote of her species as creatures of nightmare, but now they flock to see vampires in the cold flesh. When the media found her name on the liquor and donor licenses, it became a front page story. Despite the unwanted publicity, it has helped her business considerably. Everyone wants a look at the sole legally-recognized vampire in Starling City.
Though vampires have been declared a recognized sentient species in the world for the last four decades or so, only in the last five years have they had the right to be citizens listed as their true race. Some of her kind still hesitate to change their status for fear of retaliation by radical human groups. Felicity figured she had little to lose. Absently, her fingers run across the side of her left thigh, flattening atop the marred mess of flesh beneath her skirt. It isn't as if they hadn't tried to burn her at the stake before.
But Felicity is a survivor.
She smells the new presence a moment before she hears the soft shuffle of footsteps. Their relative silence to her heightened senses mean it could only be one person. He speaks just after his heartbeat comes into her hearing range. "Looks like a good turnout tonight, Felicity."
She turns to face him, the smile on her face genuine for a change. "We always have a good turnout, Mr. Diggle," she corrects while adjusting her red, cameo pendant with a raven's skull over the top. "It seems everyone wants to mingle with vampires." She frowns down at the party raging below. "Or get a Kiss."
One of the most fascinating things about humanity is their desire to lose their senses for a while. Once vampires became common knowledge, humans discovered that, when bitten by a vampire, they're left with a sense of blissful euphoria, not dissimilar from a drug-induced high. Effects last longer when feeding durations increase, and it quickly became known as the Vampire's Kiss. Due to the lack of complications—no overdoses, no unwanted side-effects, and vampires remain in control during feeding—it also became a legal drug, provided businesses have a donor license.
Despite her disdain for humans and their desire to lose themselves in alcohol and drugs, Felicity has to admit it serves a purpose: her kind can feed at will and without repercussion. Donors have to sign a form, but feeders are anonymous, leading to a nice deal for everyone.
Mr. Diggle's eyes appraise her as he raises an eyebrow. With a nod toward the dance floor, he asks, "Not going to partake?"
She grimaces at her floor manager. Though she finds herself fond of the man, every once in a while she's reminded how human he is. "I prefer my donors a little more sober," she replies in a wry tone. "I appreciate blood the way some appreciate wine. Alcohol-infused blood is like the boxed stuff you buy when you're going to a college frat party." He snorts at that, and she smiles wide enough to expose her inch-long fangs. "And I prefer a vintage red that doesn't taste like cardboard."
Unlike most humans, Mr. Diggle doesn't mind her talk of blood, nor does he seem to mind her quirks—such as her knee-jerk reaction to call him Mr. Diggle instead of John or Digg. "Looks like you're out of luck tonight, then," he answers. "There are no sober faces in this crowd." He glances at his watch. "It's nearly one, if you'd like to make the rounds."
She wouldn't, but it's part of her job. From the moment she descends the stairs, all eyes will be on her, watching her as one might watch a fish in an aquarium. Sighing, she adjusts her top hat—complete with goggles for a steampunk airship pilot look—before taking Mr. Diggle's offered arm, a gesture that always makes her smile. While she's never required the support of man, it serves to find her that chivalry isn't quite dead.
Once they descend the stairs, he retreats, following behind at a short distance in case any need for him might arise. While he has a level head and an analytical mind that serve him well in business, as an army veteran he also has the ability to remove any rowdy patrons from her nightclub. Either way, it makes a good scene for their guests to see the owner and manager together on the floor.
For the most part, her guests are polite, in awe, or too inebriated to care about her presence. Few dare to speak to her, most choosing to gape from afar. Some regard her with fear, glaring at her general existence. Felicity shakes her head at their natural instincts to fear what they do not understand. Despite that, she does feel a tad sorry for them; for millennia, they've been safe from natural predators, but now they're facing the creatures of their nightmares.
And begging said creatures to do exactly what nature intended.
She strides to the bar for a quick tally of the night's totals, but her intentions are interrupted when one of her patrons stumbles into her. "There you are, honey," he slurs, dressed in a pirate costume. She can barely discern his unique scent under the stench of alcohol. He moves to kiss her, and she turns her head just in time for him to catch her cheek. His drunken, incoherent mutterings are lost as he tries to wrap his arm over her shoulder. Instead, he smacks her shoulder, throwing her balance off and causing her to stumble.
Before she can collide with the ground, a glass shatters and then large, warm hands are just below her ribcage to steady her. Felicity glances upward into the bluest eyes she's ever seen. "Are you all right?" he asks, in smooth, low tones.
He's close enough now to know what she is—no doubt he can feel the chill of her hand on his wrist—but he doesn't recoil. He simply regards her the same way a human might another human—except perhaps with the rarity of kindness underneath. Her mouth opens to answer, but she can't seem to find words. Her rescuer seems immune to that problem. "I hope you're in better condition than the glass I just dropped, at least."
He releases her with that, and Felicity adjusts her clothing. "Yes, fine, thank you," she replies, turning to level a glare on the man who harassed her. He has better things to do than note her ire, however; Mr. Diggle has him by the collar.
"It's okay, Digg," her rescuer says. "He's with me. Tommy's just drunk." Surprisingly, Mr. Diggle releases Tommy, as if the man's word has weight. He turns back to Felicity with a polished smile. "I'm sorry. My friend is drunk and probably thought you were his girlfriend." He motions to her clothing. "She's dressed as a Victorian detective."
"I don't see that you should be the one to apologize, Mr.…?" She trails off in search of a name, regarding the man for the first time. There remains no question about his humanity, but the darkness in his eyes suggests he knows the more sinister side of mankind. While kind to her—kinder than most—his rigid posture and the faint scar running into his hairline indicate that perhaps his kindness is selective. But more importantly, his stubbled jaw and buzzed hair promise danger and the most delightful kind of wickedness.
He offers a hand instantly, though he falters halfway through the gesture. "Oliver Queen," he finishes for her. The name resonates in the back of her mind, but so do many; living for so long makes it difficult to remember which names are relevant. He nods toward his partner in crime. "And that's Tommy Merlyn."
Felicity takes the offered hand, but not for a second more than she has to. Humans have a funny way of realizing things a moment too late for their own good. But Mr. Queen doesn't seem to mind. "A pleasure, Mr. Queen."
"Oliver," he corrects instantly, his smile fading a tinge. "Mr. Queen was my father." The thought softens his expression, and Felicity realizes where she placed the name: Oliver Queen, son of billionaire Robert Queen. Presumed dead for five years, only to be found off a deserted island.
And spending Halloween in her club looking like sin in a suit, apparently.
"I doubt anyone mistake you for him," Felicity hears herself say. She winces at the unintended insult; two hundred years on this earth and she has yet to control the flow of thoughts from her mouth. "I mean, he died," she tries again. Her eyes widen at the end of the phrase, just as the corner of his mouth twitch. "I simply meant to say he drowned and—" She closes her eyes. "Three... two... one. I beg your forgiveness, Mr. Queen. I have a penchant for putting my foot in mouth."
When she opens her eyes again, it's to a smile on his lips, so wide he flashes his blunt, human canines. It's a better response than she dared to hope. "I could forgive you for a name," he replies with a teasing lilt.
"Felicity Smoak," she answers, brushing her hair over her shoulder.
It's his turn to place the name, eyes alight with recognition. She waits for him to recoil at the idea of speaking to a vampire, but it never comes. "Are you all right, Felicity?" he asks instead. His face softens. "Tommy didn't hurt you by accident, did he?"
Felicity motions to the shattered tumbler on the floor. "I think the only damage was to your drink." Her ankle is a little sore, but she manages the few steps to the bar. "Mr. Diggle," she calls to her friend, "if you could please escort Mr. Merlyn to find his girlfriend." He nods once before weaving into the crowd with Tommy in tow. At the same time, she waves a hand to flag the bartender, smiling when she sees one of her favorites is on duty tonight. "Mr. Harper, if you would be so kind." She motions to Oliver. "And if you could refill the gentleman's drink on the house, please."
"Anything you need, boss," is the teenager's quick reply.
"You didn't need to do that," Oliver states, taking his seat on a stool. She slides herself upon one as well. His bro furrows as though her kindness is foreign. As the soft light catches another scar on the top of his hand, she decides that perhaps it is.
"I like to repay my debts," is her simple reply.
He shakes his head though a smile plays at his lips. "A kindness isn't a debt, Felicity."
"Nonetheless, it would make me feel better," she retorts just as Roy returns with a glass of clear liquid on ice—vodka, she'd suppose—for him and a glass of cabernet for her. "Thank you, Mr. Harper." The bartender simply salutes in response, offering a cheeky wink. Turning her attentions back to Oliver, she only offers, "Enjoy your vodka."
He chuckles, but at the same time his brow furrows. "This isn't vodka," he assures her, "but how did you know what I prefer to drink?"
She lifts a shoulder and an eyebrow. "I do take some pride in knowing exactly what a man wants," she answers, only to end in a groan. It only draws Oliver's smile out further. "I didn't mean that as lewd as it sounded. When I started this club, I tended the bar myself. In the process, I earned a penchant for guessing patrons' drink orders." She points toward him. "And you, Mr. Queen, are a vodka on the rocks." She regards him a moment longer. "Or perhaps a scotch—neat. But the question is: what are you drinking tonight?"
In a clear challenge, Oliver responds by pushing the glass closer to her. Whether or not that challenge is aimed at her or himself, Felicity doesn't know. "See for yourself," he suggests. His tone suggests far more than that.
Though she's slipping into dangerous territory, she rises to the bait. Her black fingernails wrap around the glass, locking eyes with him as she presses her lips to his glass. The flavor there only serves to lure her in further. "Club soda?" she asks.
"I prefer to drink in private," he responds, answering her true question. He doesn't look at her, as though the confession has made him vulnerable somehow. While it leads her to more questions and few answers, Felicity appreciates the power of a good secret. Oliver faces her suddenly. "Well, I do now. The guy I was five years ago wouldn't have cared." The statement must cut too close to home because he changes the subject without giving her a chance to answer, a flick of his hand toward her glass. "I see you like your wine the same way you like your blood." The casual reference to her nature throws her for a moment; most humans don't even like to acknowledge her literal thirst for blood. Words fail her, and he motions to the donor rooms toward the side of the club. "I would have thought your drinks came from there."
Felicity dismisses the thought with the wave of a hand. "I prefer my donors to be sober. And female."
His eyes light with a flash of intuition, and his mouth turns down slightly in what might be disappointment. But disappointment at what, she doesn't— Oh. The implications of her words strike her a moment too late. "Not in the sapphic sense," she backpedals quickly. "I'm straight. Female donors are easier for my body due to similar hormone content in the blood. And should the donor's lust go beyond blood, it's far easier to explain my disinterest." He doesn't speak for a moment, and she assumes he finds her antiquated customs maddening. "You think me old-fashioned." She winces. "And that probably didn't help."
"I think you remarkable," Oliver retorts with a partial grin. There's something comfortable about it, as though he's dropping his guard. "And I like the way you talk—from 'sapphic' to 'straight' in a few words. The way you talk is comfortable to you. It's honest."
With a laugh, she says before thinking, "Thank you for this, Oliver."
He seems as surprised as she feels. "For what?"
Though the question is innocent enough, the answer would reveal far more about herself that she wishes to share with a stranger. A charming stranger, but a stranger nonetheless. Despite that, something makes Felicity want to trust him—perhaps the same sense that made her reach out to John Diggle four years ago when the idea of the nightclub started to take shape. As before, she elects to trust it. "For reminding me what it is to be human."
As if sensing the fragility of the moment, he only offers a soft, sincere smile. "You're welcome, Felicity."
Though she doesn't understand it, she knows that some sort of understanding has passed between them. Perhaps they've crossed the threshold from acquaintances to friends. Whatever the reason, the moment lingering between them is charged, and only then does she realize the way she's leaning toward him, engaged in their discussions.
More interesting is the fact that he, too, seems to be leaning toward her. His eyes flick downward and back to hers, and again several times, as if he's at war with himself. As she opens her mouth to speak, his warm fingers graze against the back of her hand. Her eyes flicker toward it, and, as if taking her expression for permission, his index finger curls around with hers. Then a second finger joins it, and a third, until his fingers are laced through hers.
Oliver is slow and methodical, taking his time. He doesn't overwhelm her with idle flattery or false compliments, but instead lets his hand linger over her arm, lazily trailing up to her shoulder, following a line up her neck to her jaw. Oliver cups her face, leaning in.
A shatter of glass breaks through the overly loud music, punctuated by a series of screams.
Felicity turns immediately, and the borrowed blood in her veins goes cold, a chill rushing up her spine. Blue flames lick at the walls near broken window. "Holy fire," she breathes, naming the source of her disturbance. A creation of modern science, holy fire is harmless to humans while devastating to architecture.
And lethal to vampires.
That thought brings her to action immediately, pulling off her Victorian-style boots with mechanical spike heels, gathering them in one hand and her skirts in the other. She breaks into a run toward the donor rooms, weaving through the chaos of a crowd. Pulling open the door to the first chamber, she screams to a young woman kneeling over a blissful man's bleeding arm, "There's a holy fire—get out now!"
She moves through the next three of the five rooms in turn. After ushering a brunette out of the room, Felicity turns just in time to collide with a hard wall of warm muscle. The strong smell of leather fills her nose as gloved hands steady her by the shoulders. She looks up to find a face obscured by a mask and a hood, both emerald green.
Before she can gape at the fact she's inches away from Starling's favorite vigilante, he twists her to face the opposite direction. "I'll take care of the last one," he tells her in an artificial voice, sinister despite his benevolent purpose. A flame licks at his arm harmlessly. "Go before you get trapped."
As if to punctuate his thought, a light fixture drops from above. Sparks catch on spilled alcohol, and orange flames mix with blue. While equally as dangerous to her, the natural fire endangers her human guests now, too. "But—" she starts to protest.
The Arrow barrels on over the top of her. "There isn't time to argue, Felicity!" he growls. "Get out of here!"
Though she doesn't argue, neither does he win; she can't allow anyone to come to harm her nightclub. When the Arrow warns the last donor room, Felicity pushes the vampire and human through a path in the flames, standing to the side to allow them passage through the small space. She turns just in time to watch a spark dance and hit the skin of her arm.
The reaction is instant. Agony burns through her arm, her skin blazing as though someone has thrown gasoline on her. The smell of burning flesh hits her nostrils and she screams against the pain as she searches for water.
Something soft presses hard against her arm, and Felicity looks up to find the vigilante's veiled eyes upon her. In his gloved hands, he holds a swath of flame-retardant fabric cut from the tapestries on the wall. "This is why I told you to go," he growls at her, patting out the fire before lifting the cloth to inspect it. Her arm oozes with blood and there's a glint of something too pale to be skin, but at least she's no longer ablaze. He rewraps her arm and takes her shoes from her before placing her other hand atop the makeshift bandage to hold it in place. "Now get out of here before you're a pile of ash."
Felicity glances back to her exit, only to find it blocked now. Sighing, the Arrow pulls her against him with an arm around her waist, pushing her in another direction, toward the windows on the west side of the building. There isn't an exit that way, and she opens her mouth to tell him so, but he drops her boots long enough to fire an arrow with a strange cylinder at the window.
Before she can ask what it is, he removes her top hat and pulls her against him, as if to shield her. Felicity's face presses against his collarbone, and his natural human scent calls to her through the scents of smoke and leather. She relaxes instantly. She'd be remiss if she didn't recognize Oliver Queen's unique scent, and she already knows he isn't dangerous.
Well, perhaps he is, but at least not to her safety.
There's an explosion of some sort, and Oliver grunts before releasing her. When he turns, the window is shattered and two large shards of glass are stuck in his back. He places her top hat back on her head before giving her a push forward at the middle of her shoulder blades. Felicity needs no further instruction, gritting her teeth against the pain of her arm. Oliver follows quickly behind, wincing at the actions. All the while, he presses against his ear while saying, "I need a first aid kit. Felicity has a holy fire burn and I have a few cuts." He drops her shoes at her feet. She hadn't even realized he had picked them up again.
Safely on the other side of the fire, Felicity leans against the wall of the building next door, cradling her injured arm against her chest as she reaches for him with her good one. Other than the glass, she now notices that his leather pants are seared to his leg in one place. "You're hurt."
"I don't need to be told that, Felicity," he snarks, twisting out of her grasp.
"I don't need your attitude, Oliver," she retorts without thinking.
He blinks twice, taking a step back from her. Felicity gapes at her own remark; if only he weren't the most maddening man on the planet, she would have kept that secret. He deserves his own mysteries—despite how much she wishes to solve them—and she had intended to keep that one for him.
Tapping her nose with a black fingernail, she explains in a dry tone, "You have a unique aroma. To my nose, at least. It's easy to recognize because I just sat across from you twenty minutes ago." She motions toward him. "And I'll take your secret to my grave."
He motions to his leg, balancing on his good one as he sinks to the ground beside her. "At this rate, I think I'll take it to my grave first," he decides, in a tone that one might use to discuss the weather. Felicity winces as he pulls a shard of glass out of his shoulder, but he doesn't even tense. "How is your arm?" After removing his gloves, Oliver reaches for her wrist.
She pulls back from him. "Painful," she answers honestly, attempting to out her shoes back on with one hand. It works well enough. Even now her injury feels as though it's still aflame. "I think your concern would be put to better use on your own wounds." The motion she makes between them is vague, but she hopes to convey their differing natures. "I can heal mine easily. It just looks—"
Oliver finishes the sentence for her, his mouth twisting into the ghost of a smile. "'Rather ghastly'?" he teases, reminding Felicity of her sometimes antiquated speech patterns.
"Actually, I was going to remark that it looks like hell, but that will suffice." For the first time, she hears him laugh—a soft sound, partially startled as tho he surprised himself—and already she knows she wishes to hear it again. Rising to her feet, she motions for him to follow.
Oliver does so without hesitation, but the both of them pull up short at the sight of John Diggle with a duffle bag. He stops, too, at the sight of his employer. "Are you going to fire me for aiding and abetting a criminal?" he asks with a wry smile.
"What you do outside working hours is your business, Mr. Diggle," is her answer, smiling as well. "And I'm not inclined to fire you when said 'criminal'"—she makes air quotes with her good hand—"just saved my life." She motions to a door sunk into the wall. "With me, gentlemen. I keep an apartment below the club that happens to be fireproof. We can freshen up down there."
The two follow in silence, and Felicity attempts to ignore the increasing tension in her shoulders. This is her private retreat, her insurance policy should the vampire-human tensions rise to a level that make her fear for her safety. She had no intentions of ever telling any human of its existence—it isn't even on the city plans—and yet now she's inviting two of them to enter.
The place is more opulent than utilitarian; Felicity prefers her spaces to be comfortable and this is no exception. As she twists the dial to let soft light into the room, it illuminates a plush purple couch draped with throws and the door leading to her private room and bathroom. A refrigerator is in the corner and a few utility tables left over from the bar above are strewn about the room as well. She places her top hat on one of them before motioning to the room. "Please, make yourselves comfortable."
"I will as soon as I check your arm," is Oliver's answer. Felicity's mouth purses. He might be used to calling the shots, but she can heal her own wounds with a single trip to a blood bank, whereas his take more time.
"You have injuries of your own to look after," she reminds him. His mouth opens in defiance, but she halts his words with a finger to his lips. "And I mean to pay another debt." She nods toward Mr. Diggle, who watches them with a flicker of amusement in his eyes and pressed-together lips. "Mr. Diggle, if you could please assist Oliver with removing the debris from his wounds." He nods, albeit with a glance to his partner first. "I can take care of the rest myself." Before either of them can begin to inquire as to things she'd rather not discuss, she reaches into the duffle for the first aid kit, pulling bandaging material from it. "I'm going to change clothes and redress my own wounds."
"Felicity—" Oliver means to protest.
Mr. Diggle is the one to stop him. "Just let her go, man," he advises in a low voice. Even after Felicity shuts her door, her heightened senses can still make sense of his words. "Felicity is probably the only person on the planet more stubborn than you are."
"I heard that, Mr. Diggle," she calls out in a lilting sing-song.
Both men chuckle in response, before slipping into quiet conversation. Felicity chooses to tune it out, unwrapping the cloth around her arm. There's no blood or wetness to it, but there wouldn't be; no doubt the heat cauterized her wound. As she pulls back the final layer, she cringes before remembering Oliver suggested ghastly as a probable descriptor earlier. Ghastly, indeed. The burn—if it can be called that at this point—takes up most of the length of her forearm, so deep in the center that she can see blackened edges of bone.
Her stomach immediately protests the sight, so much so that she has to scurry to her en suite bathroom to retch a few times, to no avail. After she finishes, she runs cold water over the wound to clean it and dries it with a fluffy towel before rewrapping it in gauze. Satisfied with her handiwork, she exits the bathroom, disrobing and allowing her costume wear to fall to the floor in a heap.
Because it's rare she decides to wear pajamas, her selection is severely limited to sleep shorts and tank tops. After pulling on a pair, she stops to examine the scar that weaves up the side of her left leg, from ankle to mid thigh, frowning at it. Such a mark would lead to questions she has no intention of answering tonight, so she covers herself with her kimono-style robe that hangs to the floor, a deep blue satin the shade of midnight embroidered with cherry blossoms and bamboo shoots.
When she steps out of the room, it's to find Oliver leaning over the back of one of her chairs. He's now wearing a pair of jeans, but his torso is bare, a sight that Felicity's eyes lap up hungrily. His Arrow gear is neatly folded on the table beside him. He doesn't even flinch as Diggle removes the last of the glass shards from his back, though he does turn at her approach. His eyes slowly travel from her feet to meet her, offering a shy smile in greeting. Felicity returns it, just as tentative for reasons she may never understand.
"Good timing," Diggle comments, breaking their wordless conversation. "This is the last one." He drops it into the trashcan he's pulled over from the corner. Placing his tweezers on the counter, he asks, "Now do you want to tell us why you wanted to stitch him up yourself?"
"No stitching required, Mr. Diggle," she corrects, twisting her index finger at Oliver to suggest he turn around. "Which is fortunate, as my needlepoint was somewhat lacking." Oliver snorts and Diggle heaves a silent laugh. "I have other means." She kneels in front of the injured vigilante, motioning to his leg. "May I?"
He waves a hand in permission, and Felicity steels herself with a deep breath before wrapping her palm around his injured calf. He sucks in a breath, but she ignores it in concentration, reaching for those tendrils of energy at the back of her mind that have gone unused for so long. A few whispered words in a long forgotten language, and then…
When she pulls back her hand, the injury is gone.
"What the hell?" Diggle mutters, but Felicity can't answer him because her world is spinning. She was warned of this; it's been too long since she's used her gifts, and she's most certainly paying the price.
Oliver reaches down, holding her straight when she lists to the side. He seems to be at less of a loss for words. "You're a witch," he breathes out. When she arches an eyebrow in question, he shrugs, suddenly finding interest in his bare feet. While she does, too, it's for entirely other reasons. "When I was on the island, I saw some things that just… defied explanation. I met a witch once." His head tilts to the side. "I just didn't know vampires could be witches."
"Magic runs in bloodlines," she answers. "My mother is a witch, and so am I." With a wave of a hand, she dismisses it. "And so it happens that vampirism and magic aren't mutually exclusive." Her head stops swimming, and she quickly rises to her feet. It starts a new wave of dizziness, but Oliver catches her arm to steady her. When it subsides, she motions to herself, eyes flickering between both men. "I didn't want this. Most vampires are born into this life because they're dying, or because they choose it. I was in good health and I wasn't offered a choice."
"I thought magic was a myth," Diggle says, shaking his head.
Felicity offers him a dark smile, exposing her long canines. "So are vampires."
She motions for Oliver to turn around, so she can heal the wounds on his back. "I'm afraid these will still scar, but at least it will save you the trouble of modern medicine." Following the line of each cut down his back, she heals them one by one. "That should do," she declares finally.
"Thank you, Felicity," is his response as he moves to shrug on a gray sweater.
"So no one is going to address Felicity's vampire voodoo?" Diggle inquires.
She barks a laugh, but Oliver turns a glare on his partner. "Maybe you could take my friends home," he suggests, darkness entering his eyes as he throws his friend a set of keys. "Tommy and Laurel will be looking for me—tell them I've been detained because of the fire and I'll be home tomorrow."
There's a brief staring contest between the two gentlemen. Felicity can only watch, mouth pulling up. Perhaps humans aren't as removed from the animal kingdom as they wish to think; it's as if they're two wolves challenging for alpha status. Oliver's eyes flick to her for a brief moment, and it's only then that Mr. Diggle capitulates with a stony glare. Whatever partnership they have must not be new, with a communication so efficient.
He leaves, muttering curses under his breath that bring another smile to her lips.
As soon as the door closes behind him, Oliver turns to her, hands sinking into the pockets of his jeans. "I owe you for your help tonight," he declares. The corner of his mouth turns up, his smile shy. "And I like to repay my debts."
It takes her a moment to recognize the words as her own. "A debt isn't a kindness, Oliver," she returns with a wave of her hand, using his words like weapons against him. Her delivery is off, however; it's hard to say such things without a wide smile on her lips.
"Nonetheless, it would make me feel better," he retorts, returning her grin. He takes her right wrist, fingers feather-light over her bandage. "Blood could heal this, right?" The smile slips off her face as she realizes the question is a harbinger of another request. "I could donate, if you'd let me."
"I..." she starts, trailing off as she realizes she has no reason to protest. Oliver wouldn't risk drinking in public with such a secret to keep, nor would he seek the blissful high of a Vampire's Kiss. His offer is made for her benefit, and hers alone. There is one reason that tugs at her more than the others. "You won't be unaffected by it, Oliver. Those who receive a Kiss can experience euphoria and ecstasy. It's likely that you won't be yourself until morning." She glances toward her room. "But you're more than welcome to stay here for the evening, of course."
He sits on the edge of one of her couch cushions, sliding back and offering his arm in silent permission. "I've never been a donor before," he confesses to her. "You'll have to tell me what I need to do."
"I won't be using your arm," she blurts, instead of a more reassuring answer. He lifts a brow in question. "All I require of you is your blood. As a donor, I mean. That came out a bit terse. What I meant to say is that I'll simply need your blood. There's nothing for you to do, apart from staying still."
As she sits on the cushion, partially turning toward him, Oliver opens his mouth to speak. He stops, his eyes flicking downward, and she follows his gaze only to grimace. The edge of her robe has ridden up, exposing the trail of porcelain skin gnarled with a sanguine scar. Felicity moves to cover it, though the damage has already been done. "Tonight is not the first time someone tried to rid the world of me, Oliver," she offers in a gentle tone. "I doubt it will be the last."
Something in his expression hardens. There—that's the homicidal vigilante that Starling City fears worse than any vampire. "And you're okay with that?" he asks, though it's more statement than inquiry. His voice is darker than a moonless sky.
She lifts a shoulder. "All throughout history, humans have acted with violence out of fear and ignorance," she answers in an even tone, studying the hem of her robe. "I cannot fault them for doing what it is in their nature to do." Finally her eyes meet his. "Nor should they fault me for mine."
Of all the responses Felicity expects from him, the last of them is the smile she earns. He shakes his head before meeting her eyes with a soft smile. Its nature changes into something less innocent as he asks, "If you don't want my arm, where do you plan on biting?" A challenge lurks beneath his tone, and his eyes darken.
The sudden playfulness throws her, though it isn't unwelcome. Felicity has never minded a light round of harmless flirtation. When she was human, she even took some pride in her skill at the art. "I don't want to take your arm," she answers, running her fingers over his exposed forearm, "because it will bruise and may give you difficulty with your bow. I could heal it, but a new scar on your forearm might raise questions with your loved ones."
A smirk twists her lips in anticipation, and now more than ever, she feels like the predator her kind is supposed to be. "There are two other places I prefer." She runs her thumb along the line of his jugular, hand cupping his neck. "There's the throat and…" Her hand trails along his shoulder before dropping down his torso, following a line down his thigh. Felicity allows her fingers to linger along the inside, toward his knee. "…the inside of the leg, here." She taps it once. "I could heal any scars here afterward, but it does have its flaws. Any arousal you might experience would lead to a very… unsatisfying end."
Judging by the size of his pupils, Oliver understands that flaw, too. "I think you're taunting me," he says in a throaty voice and a smile that promises nothing but trouble—a trouble into which she wouldn't mind getting. Something tells her that similar thoughts might be playing in his mind, too.
Felicity is unrepentant. "I said I was old-fashioned, Oliver," she replies with a coquettish smile. "It would have been your mistaken assumption if you presumed that meant I'm also prudish or demure." The very idea makes her bite back a laugh; being raised by her mother—a strong-minded woman in a time where women weren't allowed to be such—it would have been impossible to be puritanical.
Oliver exposes his throat in answer, and, taking that as permission, Felicity rises to her knees on the couch, throwing her right leg between both of his. He shifts beneath her, throwing her off-balance, but a strong arm wraps around her waist to steady her. Using her fingers, she searches for his jugular vein, pinning it beneath her thumb. Doubt strikes her as she meets Oliver's eyes. "Do you need something to bite down on?" she asks. "And I don't have any alcohol to sterilize—"
A finger lands on her lips. "I'll be fine, Felicity," he assures her with a soft smile.
Tempering her resolve to match his own, she nods once. "Then take a deep breath and hold it until I'm in," she warns. Her head moves to the place she marked with her thumb, taking a deep breath through her nose to catch his scent. She's certain her bite will be divine now; the aroma is heavenly. Her other hand goes to his jaw to hold it in place. Drawing her lips back, she presses her sharp canines to the skin for several of his quiet heartbeats.
With a push, she's in.
She withdraws her fangs almost immediately, lapping at the wound to prevent coagulation. He exhales shortly thereafter, and she sucks on the two small pinpricks left in his throat. A rich flavor coats her tongue, causing her to sigh against her throat. Her donor, however, remains quiet, head still and eyes closed, leaving her to wonder what images play in his head. But that is a privacy she cannot breach, so she leaves him to his own devices as she takes the blood she needs to sustain her injury. It makes her bandaging tighten around the newly developing tissue, and she pulls her hand away from his jaw, shaking it in an attempt to get the feeling back in her fingers.
As if hearing her thoughts, he reaches for her wrapped arm between them. Felicity releases a feral growl in warning—a natural instinct to warn off other vampires after her prey. She feels more than hears him chuckle under his breath, still taking her arm. Slowly he pulls the bandaging away, running his hand along the new skin there. Her fingers stop tingling, and, even though her burn will scar in at this rate, she's taken far too much from him already.
As she pulls her mouth away, Felicity locks her hand over the two punctures she made. Though she can't heal them completely, she does hit them hard enough to prevent more bleeding. "That's likely going to bruise," she warns, pulling away. When his eyes meet hers, they're fully dilated, and he seems to be taking a deep breath to steady himself. "I'll… get you some ice to take down the swelling." Her motives are selfish, however; she needs to create some distance between the two of them. "How are you feeling?"
"Fine," he answers as she digs through her freezer. She can hear him rise to his feet, though he manages to be quieter than most humans. "I… don't seem to have any side-effects. My neck doesn't even hurt." When she turns to hand him the pack, it's to find him just a few steps away. He places it to his neck, though the cold seems to bother him more than the damage she did. "It's hard to believe people pay for that experience."
"Well, your pupils are the size of dinner plates," Felicity argues. In the short time she's known Oliver, she knows he's exactly the type of man who would lie to allay her guilt. "Some humans experience a delay between feeding and effect. Others have a higher tolerance than others. It affects everyone differently. But thank you, all the same. My arm feels much better now." She starts to smile, but covers her mouth, realizing her teeth might still hold evidence of her feed. "And I beg your pardon—my teeth are probably covered in your blood."
"You're clean," he assures her with a smile. Nevertheless, she opens a bottle of water to rinse out the taste and the evidence. "I should probably thank you for the Kiss, since everyone seems to think they're so special."
The word makes her grimace; coming from his mouth, calling it a Vampire's Kiss sounds wrong. "I've always hated that term, you know," Felicity admits. "As if humans think the only affection we're capable of is tainted with our need for survival." She gestures between them. "That was not a vampire's kiss." She stands on her toes to place her lips to his. "This is a vampire's kiss." Unease washes over her. "I suppose that might have been a bit forward, but you take my point."
She means to flee, turning toward her bedroom as a means of escape from her own lack of thought, but a hand catches her wrist at the last moment. She's turned to face him again with a flick of his wrist.
There's no question of his intentions, nor any mistaking his desire. Whether a flaring effect of the Kiss or residual energy from their earlier flirtations in the night, she'll never know. He releases her arm, giving her the opportunity to retreat. Yet she elects to linger, fascinated by the way he elects to kiss her wrist first, blue eyes trained to hers all the while. Felicity can only stare, helpless; he's equal parts temptation and seduction, and she's caught in his snare.
Next he pulls at the collar of her robe, sliding it toward her shoulder. She tenses, prepared for him to take this too far, but he only presses his lips to the junction between her neck and shoulder, causing her skin to turn to gooseflesh beneath his touches. Then—and only then—does he dare draw close, looming over her so close she can feel his breath on her skin. He pauses, knowing the power of anticipation, lingering both too close and too far.
"This probably isn't a good idea," he warns her.
Felicity only laughs as it brings to mind one of her favorite warnings. "'These violent delights have violent ends,'" she quotes in a whisper as he circles her waist with an arm. Hers go to his the back of his neck. "'And in their triumph die, like fire and powder…'" The rest she murmurs against his lips: "'Which, as they kiss, consume.'"
He descends as she pulls him down.
And, like fire and powder, they combust. He meets her lips with a raw hunger, one she returns with equal vigor. She stumbles in the midst of their passion, and gasps into his mouth when she finds herself pressed against the nearest wall. He uses that opportunity to deepen the kiss, and she coaxes a moan from his throat when she draws his bottom lip under her fangs. Oliver's hand at her waist begins to wander, and Felicity encourages it to linger under the thigh she drapes over his hip.
Soon her legs are locked at the ankles behind him and she's throwing his sweater behind them. Perhaps it's too much too fast, but as he moves her toward the bedroom, she can't find it in her to be concerned. When they're forced to break apart to breathe, her mouth immediately goes to his bare shoulder, sinking her teeth into him—this time not to slake her thirst. The noise it sends through him is positively delicious and wicked.
Then his teeth graze her earlobe and she's the one making sinful noises low in her throat.
He lowers her onto the bed while kissing her twice more, reaching to twist her ankles apart behind him. While she expects him to descend on her again like a bird of prey, he withdraws with heavy breaths.
Felicity rises on her elbows to arch an eyebrow at him in question. "I don't want this violent delight to meet a violent end," he states between breaths. Something shines in his expression as he studies her in a way that no one ever has. The lust is still present in his eyes, but the something other overrules it. "You're worth more than that." She opens her mouth, yet no words seem to escape. "Goodnight, Felicity."
With that, he closes her door, leaving her to gape after him. Never before has she felt so completely ravished; yet at the same time, she's left with a profound disappointment and desperate need. Part of her wants nothing more than to exit the room and finish what he started, but the more rational part knows she's right. If she does that, then they will end as two ships passing in the night. Something tells her that would be a more powerful loss than a night's pleasure. Still, she sinks back into her pillows with a frustrated growl.
Apparently Mr. Queen is not the only one reaching an unsatisfying end tonight.