Title: Mercy
Rating: NSFW, For mature readers only!
Warning: Mildly Dubious Consent; Explicit Language, Sexual Content; OTP Feels
Song Inspiration: Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again from The Phantom of the Opera by Andrew Lloyd Weber
Summary: It has been a year to the day since Felicity left Oliver in Nanda Parbat – and she was missing him. She had cried herself to sleep so many times, but tonight, she felt a deeper sorrow than ever before, because this time, she promised herself, would be the last time she would be crying for Oliver Queen.
Author's Note: I took this on following a challenge to write smut. But I've never really been good at writing it without feelings so this is what came out. And I think I've overloaded myself with a pretty bad case of the feels, having written this after a rewatch of Arrow 3x20 and The Phantom of the Opera. So, anyway, I hope you don't disown me after reading this. As usual, don't hesitate to drop your comments and reviews below! XOXO
It has been a year to the day since Felicity left Oliver in Nanda Parbat – and she was missing him. She had cried herself to sleep so many times, but tonight, she felt a deeper sorrow than ever before, because this time, she promised herself, would be the last time she would be crying for Oliver Queen.
As she laid on her bed, spent but wanting, she tried so very hard to fight against the creeping blackness of sleep, to hold on to the final flickering memories in the arms of her noble avenger, her Oliver. But the yawning void in her soul had left her weary. The fading moments of consciousness found her invoking one last sweet dream of her fallen prince.
Her dream was unlike the others before it – it seemed so real. She could sense him, a wall of warmth against the skin of her back, the feathering brush of his lips on her neck. He was whispering her name, parsing the syllables as only he could, while her heart trebled to the rhythm of his name on her lips. Oliver.
She felt the murmur of the cold night air on her body as she was released from the tangle of her clothes and her soft sheets. She felt a warm calloused hand on the cool skin of her belly, roaming her waist, while the other, she felt against her breast, teasing the supple flesh. She felt the telling tingles as her skin began to flush at his touch. She felt her core beg for the same heat. Please.
The warmth that had surrounded her shifted and took her yielding body with it. She was on her knees now, her arms listless, her spine held firmly against a bracket of caged heat. She felt a rough palm on her chest, flush against her trembling heart, while questing fingers forged a winding path from the curve of her hips to the apex of her thighs. His fingers found that hooded nub of nerves and stroked it. She bucked against him. More.
He sat back on his heels and drew her with him, splitting her legs open with his and bringing the heat of his maleness against her wet warmth. She started to rub against him to create that delicious friction she had sorely missed but he stilled her efforts by digging the palm of his hand deep into her belly. She was trapped and she didn't like it. But before she could do anything about it, his fingers resumed those maddening circles against her clit, as he ground his hips in shallow thrusts against hers, dragging the crown of his dick deliberately against the soaking length of her slit. She gasped. Again.
He repeated the movement and continued to tease her just like that, contrasting the slow, hot licks of his cock against her wet folds with the frantic, relentless pressure of his fingers against her beaded nub. It wasn't long before he had her panting, before he had her leaning back against him – helpless against his continuous assault on her fraying senses. She felt her stomach tighten against his palm and her pussy clench against his penis. She was close. And then he began rolling her nipple between his rough fingers – and she was lost.
Her foggy mind was still swimming in the heady delight of her waning pleasure, thanking whichever deity granted her most fervent wish, when she felt the more insistent demand of his hips. Not wanting to wake from this lucid dream or flee from his ardent embrace, she angled herself back towards him, allowing him to finally breach her. It was only when he had surged into her, sheathing himself completely in her fevered flesh, that she believed everything was real. Feeling her stiffen in his arms at the realization, he leaned his head into the side of hers, and gently nuzzled the lobe of her ear in a silent plea to let him hold her, to let him love her. She relented, falling forward with a relieved sigh. Yes.
She caught herself on her hands as he caged her hips in his strong grip. He pulled out almost to the tip before stroking back into her in a sure thrust, which he followed with languid strokes, and punctuated only once in every while with a teasing circle of his hips. Her senses thrummed with his steady rhythm, and it wasn't long until she was matching him with a roll of her hips. It was then that he stilled her yet again, with a firm hand on the small of her back. She huffed in frustration as he lifted her slightly and slipped a pillow underneath her. With her hips safely cushioned, he tipped her torso toward the bed with a gentle press of his hand on her shoulder. She fought against him by bracing herself firmly on her elbows – she wasn't happy with him. She heard him sigh before she felt the apologetic rasp of his lingering kisses peppering the base of her spine in a straight line to the back of her head. Now fully distracted from her growing ire at having him thwart her, she felt herself giving into his weight and lowering herself to the bed. He straightened then and resumed his former rhythm before ratcheting up his pace in powerful but measured strokes, seeking absolution in her body, increasing her satisfaction – assuring it, dissolving her into a writhing, quivering mess as she crested into the peak of her ecstasy – and all this, while stubbornly refusing his.
Lost in her bliss, it took a few moments for her to realize that he was holding back, depriving himself of any action of hers that would increase his pleasure, thinking to serve his penance for the misery he'd caused. She loved him all the more for that but she would have none of it. He has punished himself for too long. He has suffered through so much. Enough.
She will give him this.
Left with the only measure he could not curb, she allowed herself to recover, allowed him to continue his rhythm for a few beats, before she countered his every outward stroke with a defiant tightening of her sheath. And she kept at it until he fell forward against her, his arms braced at her sides. He was starting to thrust into her roughly, almost wild on the edge of his control. She shook with the force in which he took her and marveled at the almost unbearable heat of their joining. She kept one hand firmly gripping the sheets as she reached the other to hold onto his wrist. He held her imprisoned with his weight as he kept ramming into her, solidly and relentlessly – the pain of unmet need and the pleasure of burgeoning desire making her scream. Oliver.
His thrusts became faster - careless, erratic - bringing her to the brink as her breaths came in broken moans. The telling frissons of her orgasm began streaking through her body as he began hitting spots inside her that sent bolts of pleasure through her entire being. As her toes began to curl and her resolve began to shatter, she urgently twined her fingers with his and squeezed. Surrender.
He felt her resistance break. Her hips bucked as her silken muscles tightened, clutching at him, tripping his own release. He grunted now, desperate in his desire to prolong it for her but the need to give into their shared bliss was stronger. So he plunged into her once more, then twice, and the power of his orgasm overtook him as he sank into the wanton embrace of her welcoming depths.
Oliver Queen has been walking the fate of a man condemned for far too long, to ever imagine a world where he deserved any respite against the onslaught of his doomed life. He had learned to despise himself with a virulence that festered and chipped away at his soul. He spoiled everything he touched. He was unworthy, undeserving. He cannot be saved.
But faced with this love that would not be denied, he allowed himself a measure of forgiveness. And so he did what he had never really allowed himself to do in all his time away from home, away from his family. He cried. He cried as he spilled into her. He cried for the loss of his innocence, for the grief he's caused, for the bonds he'd broken and for the blood he'd spilled in the name of a cruel life that had sought to take everything from him. But mostly, mostly he cried in relief, grateful for the salvation he found in this woman's arms, in his angel of mercy, his Felicity.
She came to her senses, roused by the warmth of his weight upon her back and the tight grip of his fingers on her own. But her heart seized when she felt the telling wetness of his shuddering sobs against her shoulder. Bound by his cocooning strength and unable to push comforting words past the answering lump in her throat, she did the only thing she could. She cupped the back of his head with her free hand and carded her fingers through his damp hair to soothe him. It's okay. You're safe. I'm here.
It was then, only then that he turned and sought her lips to kiss her, kiss her with all the longing, the desire and the regret that had consumed them in the year that passed. And she held him to her tightly, and kissed him with all the solace, the pleasure and the promise of having him back.
Tomorrow they would talk. Tomorrow they would face the looming uncertainty of the future. But tonight, just for tonight, they would lay here, the two of them, just Oliver and Felicity, together.
Still breathing? Let me know what you think by leaving comments and reviews below. Thanks a ton for reading! Kisses!