FYI - THIS IS NOT THE SCENE I WAS TALKING ABOUT ON MY TUMBLR. Like I predicted, it wasn't going to fit in this update so I didn't add it in. Which may or may not be a good thing, depending on how gutter-minded you are (i.e. klarolicityswan, ruwithmeguys, smoakd - the usual offenders :D)


On Your Own Terms

The door swung shut behind Felicity with a loud crank, startling her from her thought-spiral. She blinked, realizing that A) they were inside, and B) from the impractically large bed staring her in the face, that it was a bedroom.

Their bedroom.

Because she'd been expecting Oliver to lead her to the kitchens. Seriously — keeping secrets from Oliver was neck in neck with lying, as far as things she weren't good at were concerned.

Oliver's hand was still in the small of her back. "Are you all right?" he asked, looking worried.

Felicity nodded, a little too quickly. "Mm-hm. Just…jittery, I think. Adrenaline — or maybe my body's learned to manufacture its own caffeine, which would be great, believe me. If I had an accountant, she'd be very worried about how much I spend on caffeinated drinks, seriously —"

Oliver felt her forehead. His palm was warm, compared to her skin, which felt unattractively clammy, if she was being honest. "You're not running a fever," he said, shifting his hand so it rested against her cheek. "But you need to sleep."

Felicity made a non-committal noise and slipped away from him. Her stomach was in knots, and she knew why. But she pretended it was Nanda Parbat, being in a place neither of them were particularly fond of.

The room was distracting enough. Not in a stab-you-in-the-eyes way (there was actually a surprising lack of weapons hanging on the walls), since the walls, the carpet, and even the bed were in warm shades of red and brown. If it weren't for the view of snow-capped mountains and night mist through the open window, it could have been a themed bedroom at some fancy country hotel, what with the decor and the warm candlelight flickering along the walls.

Then again, she highly doubted Nanda Parbat did room service.

Felicity pinched a fold of red silk between her fingers, tracing the hangings all the way up to the canopy draping the bed. "I don't think I ever saw your room back when you were in the League," she said, "but Nyssa must like you more than her father did."

She winced at the silence. "Sorry. Bad joke. Fancy makes me nervous, and nervous makes me…" She made a vague twisty gesture with her hand.

Felicity was still facing the bed and wondering which verbal landmine to set off next when Oliver's arms slipped around her waist. In spite of her nerves, she made a faint sound of relief and leaned back against him, swaying lightly in his arms as he held her.

She closed her eyes when he kissed her ear. "You don't have to be," he said, his lips tickling her cheek. "Nanda Parbat's different now."

"So are we," she said, turning her head slightly to the side so that she could see him. "You — mostly. A few more scars, here and there…"

Oliver chuckled and started to kiss her neck while Felicity laughed to herself, directing her words at the carved ceiling. "A laugh-line or two…a more collaborating attitude…a ring on your finger…"

Oliver stopped her words with a kiss, and it didn't taste of guilt, not to her, at least. It was easy, and surprisingly sweet — made that way by the happy memories standing out from all the fears they associated with Nanda Parbat.

Felicity shifted in his arms so that she could kiss him back, winding her free arm around his neck as he lifted her up. Her hand blindly spanned the circumference of a carved bedpost, and she pushed lightly off it, silently guiding them towards the bed itself. The silk covers rustled against her back when Oliver laid her down, cool air dancing across her bare stomach as he teased the hem of her shirt higher and higher with the kind of ease that only came from experience, and knowing that she wanted him too.

She did, she really did.

"Oliver," she said, trying (and nearly failing) not to groan. "You're hurt."

As it so often was, his mouth was preoccupied doing something other than speaking.

"What if you tear your stitches?"

Oliver didn't answer, and Felicity felt him undo her sling — toss it halfway across the room before returning to the business of getting her shirt off. She was about to return the favor when she saw the dried stain of blood underneath his sleeve, and it was like a slap of water in the face.

"Oliver," Felicity said, yanking her shirt firmly down with both hands. "Pause."

He did, leaning back on his hands with a quizzical expression — even as his chest rose and fell from his rapid breathing.

Felicity waited a few seconds for her breath to return before struggling up on her elbows. "We are both covered in blood and other unspeakable things seriously non-conducive to romance," she said, firmly. "There is a bathroom somewhere in this…harem suite and we are going to find it, because I am not sleeping with you until we've both had a shower."


"The room has a hot tub?" Felicity said, looking around his shoulder at the stone basin.

Oliver remembered the hot pools in the underground city, shivering with volcanic heat. This was more of a spring, one of the many places where water collected inside the mountain. He sat on the edge of the basin and skimmed his hand lightly across the water, spreading a deep ripple across the glassy clear surface.

The basin holding the water came just about to his waist, and the water itself bubbled from a lion's head mouth in the wall, keeping the room constantly humid with steam. Already Oliver could feel his clothes sticking to his body, but Felicity leaned over the pool, oblivious that her clothes were in a similar state.

"Nyssa must really like you," Felicity said, stirring the water with her fingertip and watching her reflection dissipate. "This is like…really nice — what — what? Do I have something on me?"

Oliver realized he'd been staring at the curve of her waist. He shook his head, which did nothing to disperse the mental image of him peeling the clothes from Felicity's body and kissing her all over until she made that noise deep in her throat — the one that meant she couldn't wait anymore.

"No," he said, and hastily stood up to go. "I'll — I'll be outside."

He was halfway to the door when Felicity stopped him by wrapping her arms around his middle. "Oliver," she said, pressing her chin lightly against his chest as she looked him carefully in the eye. "When did you hear me say I wanted to be alone?"

It easily wasn't the first time Felicity had thought this about Oliver, but her fiancé was a very, very beautiful man. His bare chest was such a distraction that Felicity forgot she was holding his discarded shirt and stared for a long half minute, wondering how fast she could speed through the washing bit until she got to the more fun parts.

So to speak.

"Felicity?" Oliver looked up, in the middle of peeling away the sterile bandage covering his arm. "What are you doing?"

"Um…" Admiring the view was the truthful answer, but Felicity felt it would undermine her previous decision to put a momentary kibosh on their bedroom activities in favor of a shower (bath, as it was rapidly turning out to be).

So she reached out and touched the flushed mark on Oliver's face. "I don't have to be Caitlin to tell you that's going to bruise," she said, and turned her attention to the bullet wound in his arm.

It was held closed by stitches, and reassuringly looked worse only because of the dried blood around his arm, but experience — and common sense — told her that it was going to be another mark left on his body. The thought made her frown, and Oliver stroked the hair off her forehead, gently rubbing the spot between her eyebrows like he meant to erase the crease there.

It tickled, and she laughed, which made him laugh too. "It's not the first time," he said, sweeping a trailing lock of hair behind her ear. His hand lingered, and she turned her head to press a kiss into his palm. A lot of bullets and knife wounds…and he still used a bow.

Reassuring.

"I'm just worried that you'll run out of space one day," she said, trying to be light about his scars, and the dangers he'd faced that had got him those marks. "Even masterpieces get overcrowded, and you, my almost-husband, are getting dangerously close to being distracting."

Oliver was quiet for a moment, and Felicity watched his eyes soften. "Say it again," he murmured, and she clasped his hand in hers, lifting it so that she could press her lips to the ring on his hand.

"Husband," she whispered, and they both laughed at the lightness of it, the promise.

But it was another promise on their list, still achingly unfulfilled. "I guess we missed our shot," she said, ruefully tucking his hand under her chin. "We should have eloped — gone to Vegas. Orange nachos and warm beer for a wedding dinner sounds pretty good right about now."

Oliver made the skin of her palm tingle as he traced the natural creases in her skin. "We'll think of something," he answered. "I told you — I love you, and I'm going to marry you, Felicity."

A part of her wanted to tease him, to ask — jokingly — when?

But it wasn't a question either of them could really answer, on the run from the danger that had shattered their shared world. It was a dark thought, and Felicity wanted to keep it at bay, at least for a while longer.

"So," she said, reaching for a washcloth. "Hot water setting — lobster, or magma?"

Oliver laughed under his breath and leaned his head against the wall, looking at her like he was utterly content to be there. "You choose," he said.

Felicity flicked water at him. "Good answer."


Kisses and damp skin. Felicity opened her eyes and saw her reflection ripple under the droplets of water free-falling from her wet hair. Her mouth was open in an uncontrollable moan, her arms stretched out in front of her and grasping blindly at the edges of the pool — wild, disheveled, unrecognizable.

A face appeared over her shoulder, as wild and uncontrolled as her own, before a wave of water swallowed their reflections and sloshed over the edge of the pool. Felicity threw her hair back, baring herself for Oliver to mark her neck and shoulder with kisses. They were hard and soft and between gasps as he moved behind her, his hands traveling down from cupping her breasts to caressing her belly and finally between her thighs — spreading her wider, wider still…

To think this had all started with an inadvertent brush of his thigh. As soon as certain natural impulses became too obvious to hide, the pretense of bathing went swiftly the way of their clothes.

The thought made Felicity smile and arch her back, pushing against Oliver to take him harder, deeper. He groaned into her neck, and they rocked together, careless of the water lapping around their hips. The volcanic spring had started out too warm against her skin, but now — it was perfect.

Felicity lifted one shaking hand and grasped Oliver's face, turning it towards her own so their mouths fed hungrily on each other, harsh, gasping breaths that somehow left her more desperate for air than before. Oliver's fingers dug into her thighs and his thrusts became more rapid, flesh striking flesh in the same deep place that sent irrepressible shivers up the length of her spine. Felicity felt herself curl at the waist in an attempt to control the spasms in her body, her eyes squeezed shut so she missed his hand slipping between her legs.

Her head jerked up in surprise when she felt his fingers rub her sensitive flesh. A sweet, nearly unbearable torture.

"Oliver—!" she said, hoarsely.

"What?" he whispered, the words almost lost against her lips. "What, Felicity?"

Oh, he was touching her, driving her…and she didn't want him to stop. Felicity released her grip on the edges of the pool and surrendered herself to him completely. If she fell — as if he would let her fall — it had to be worth it. "Don't stop," she said, not caring how it sounded, not when they were like this. "Don't you dare stop."

Oliver buried a smile in her neck and continued to thrust deep. Something had changed in their rhythm, something small but oh-so-important, like a last piece had fallen into place and two were suddenly moving as one. Felicity felt herself build, each time almost — almost — brushing her limit, until one final push sent her over the edge. She came without warning, a sharp gasp caught in her throat and an overpowering few seconds of mindless bliss.

Felicity's insides were still warm and throbbing when she moved with Oliver to his release. He lasted only a few seconds more, and she knew he was coming when his hips jerked in the same mindless pleasure that pulled her apart only moments before. His hands were tight around her waist and he kept up a hard — inexorable pace — until she felt him shake around her, inside her. With one final push, Oliver pressed his forehead into her hair with a gasp and she heard her name rushed from his lips.

Felicity felt her insides tingle in welcome aftershocks, and she let her head dip in relief, the ends of her hair fanning out beneath the water surface. The darkness behind her eyes was gentle and throbbed pleasantly to the beat of her heart — it was a dreamy feeling that nearly carried her away. She was brought back by the sensation of Oliver kissing her neck, once — twice — again, before they carefully slipped apart. Felicity tasted the steamy air on the tip of her tongue as she groped for the edge of the pool, loose-limbed and clumsy. Oliver had to help her out, and she stood in the middle of the tiled floor, swaying and trying not to laugh as they took turns toweling each other dry.

Felicity lifted her arms for him to wind a towel around her body and waited until he was done before she grudgingly wrapped one around his middle, tucking it in at the waist. He covered her head with a towel and laughed with her as he rubbed her hair dry. Felicity had to stand on her tiptoes to return the favor, but he ducked his head obediently until she'd finished.

They smiled at each other through the swirling steam, all flushed skin and bright eyes, as bashful as teenagers after a clandestine meet-up, as dreamy as lovers who'd lost track of everything except themselves.

"Oliver?" Felicity said, looking up at him.

Oliver took her face in his hands, tipping it gently up to his. "Felicity," he answered.

"I love you."

Even though her eyes were closed, she could feel the upturned curve of his mouth when he kissed her. "I love you," he whispered back.


Oliver felt the gun press cold against his forehead, heard the roar in his ears when it fired, and knew the metallic taste of fear on his tongue. He dreamed that he was fighting a dozen faceless assassins with a sword that cut his hands open every time he tried to manipulate it. He fought them until he was covered all over with weeping gashes and he realized that his attackers all had Malcolm Merlyn's face.

You'll have to do better than that, they sneered, and when Oliver tried to fight back, he felt a blade pierce his chest — a length of black iron, curved like a crescent moon — with enough force to make his whole body arch back.

It was Ra's al Ghul's sword.

Suddenly he was falling…falling through the formless shadows and the foul whispers, until his back broke on a ground made up of jagged rocks and the crows swarmed overhead to engulf him in darkness again.

"Oliver?"

He woke with a start, feeling the shallow remnants of his panic shiver his skin, keep the pace of his heart at a rapid thud-thud. Bad dreams, just bad dreams. Oliver's hands were flat and open by his sides, but he could tell from the silken creases beneath his fingertips that he'd been clutching at them like a lifeline as he dreamed.

Oliver knew what he would have done, more than a year ago. He would have slipped out of bed and started his day. He would have trained in the Foundry, chased down a lead in whatever case they were working…anything, anything except staying still.

But not anymore. The sheets rustled when Oliver turned on his side, knowing even before he saw her that he wouldn't have to look far for comfort.

Felicity was asleep beside him, lying on her stomach with her face turned towards him, her hand — and the ring on her finger — resting on the pillow by her head. Seeing her, peaceful and at rest…that was the only comfort he needed.

She shifted in her sleep. A crease formed between her eyebrows and she made a little huff of displeasure, turning this way and that on the pillow like she was looking for something. Oliver watched her, wondering what she was dreaming about, until her hand grasped open and shut like a child searching for comfort.

It was just a guess, but he slipped his hand into hers and quietly held it to his chest as he gathered her close to him again. She sighed and nuzzled at his chest before settling around him, her limbs entwining themselves with his own as if they'd fallen asleep like that to begin with.

It was a surprise to Oliver, how peaceful it was in Nanda Parbat — the last place he imagined he'd be at rest — and how far removed from their troubles it all seemed. He watched the strip of morning sun falling across the bed, smelled the high, clear air of the mountains, felt the quiet intimacy of their shared bed, pillows and sheets rumpled and warm with the imprint of their bodies. He traced little patterns in Felicity's bare spine as she slept, slipping in and out of a comfortable doze.

He'd just started to drift off when he felt Felicity press her forehead suddenly against his chest, sharp and sudden enough to alert him. She made a low noise in her throat, like the choked beginnings of a word. Her grip on his hand was now painfully tight, and he listened — to what she was trying to say.

It sounded like…just one word. Felicity groaned it once, but it was too soft to hear, and he went still, listening for it again.

Then —

"Oliver."

She was having a nightmare, and it was about him.


"Felicity." Oliver touched her cheek, cupping it with his hand. "It's just a dream."

Nothing happened. Felicity was shaking her head now, her eyes still screwed shut. "No," she said, through her teeth. "Not him. Leave him alone. Not…not him. No…no."

Oliver sat up and started to shake her. She was thrashing on her back, her hair nearly blinding him every time she jerked her head.

"No!" she screamed, as hoarse as though her heart was breaking.

"Felicity —"

Felicity clawed blindly at the air — fighting whatever it was that tormented her in the nightmare, and Oliver felt the bruise on his face sting abruptly from the scrape of her nails. It worked like a dash of icy water, and he held her firmly down by her wrists. "Felicity — Felicity!" he shouted. "Come back!"

It worked. She woke with a hoarse gasp, her eyes flying open, wide with panic and barely registering his presence until he bent close. "Felicity?"

"Oliver. Sorry," she gasped. "I was just — just dreaming."

Oliver felt her racing pulse beneath his hand. "You were having a nightmare," he said, carefully. "I heard my name."

Felicity didn't say anything at first, but avoided his eyes while she pulled the sheet up to cover her body and her bare, white shoulders, the material bunched in the front from her tightly clenched fists.

"It was about your father," Oliver guessed. "You saw him kill me."

Felicity's startled gaze flickered up to his, and the recalled fear in them was enough to confirm his suspicions. "I told you already," she said, surreptitiously passing the back of her hand across her eyes, as if he wouldn't notice that it came away shiny with tears. "We know how that conversation turns out. I tell you that I'm afraid my dad will actually get a gun to your head and shoot, and you tell me that it's not worth it — taking him out before he can hurt you. Then I say it's your life against his, and you say it's not worth my soul…" Felicity sniffed, and gave a little shake of her head. "Trust me, I know the don't-do-this dance, and I'd really prefer not to start the morning with a fight."

"Felicity." Oliver cautiously sat closer, until they were nearly knee-to-knee and he picked up her hands, balancing them in his lap. "I know that I don't have the right to tell you what to do — not after everything I've done. I know that you want to protect me, and the others, and I love you for wanting to."

"But?" she said, running her thumb back and forth across the smooth band of his wedding ring.

"But…" Oliver answered, "it feels like something Damien Darhk might do. Killing — as the only way out. That's what he's done, that's what he's always done, and if you kill him — you're fighting on his terms, not yours."

Oliver remembered, so clearly, the steeliness in Felicity's eyes when she'd led the meeting the day before. The fierce blaze of her heart, worn prominently on her sleeve, and her resolve to fight back. It was the ineffable quality — the light — that everyone would follow, a light that he didn't want to see her lose.

He brushed his lips across her knuckles, and looked her in the eye. "You are the smartest person I know, and if Darhk is going to fight you — Felicity Smoak — declare your own terms. Fight him — in your own way. Make him fight the war on those terms, and those terms alone."

Do you understand?

Felicity bit her lip, searching his face in silence. Something shifted minutely in her expression, and Oliver closed his eyes when her hand came up to caress the back of his neck. The sheets whispered as she leaned forward, simultaneously guiding him towards her until their lips met. The kiss was vaguely reconciliatory, but without promises made, and it left him wondering.

Oliver opened his eyes. Felicity was leaning on her hands, her hair spilling around her bare shoulders in a bright tangle of gold, the red sheet slipping unnoticed from her body.

"What does that mean?" he asked, as the few inches of space between them stirred with tantalizing memories of the night before.

Felicity tipped her head to the side, her face thoughtful. "It means…I love you. That…is the one term completely beyond negotiation, regardless of how mad you make me sometimes."

Oliver smiled at the lightness in her voice, and teased the loose folds of the sheet further down her naked back. "Mad," he repeated. "Is that all?"

Felicity nudged his forehead with hers, biting her lip to suppress a smile. "Some other things too."

"Mm," Oliver cast a pointed look in the direction of the bathroom, and her mouth fell open with indignation, even as a rosy flush crept its way into her cheeks.

"Oliver Queen, don't you dare —"

Oliver interrupted her mid-sentence by pulling her down onto the bed, and began to track scratchy kisses from hip to collarbone while she squirmed beneath him, shaking with laughter.

Felicity's laugh was one of his favorite sounds, and Oliver relished every moment of it, until a steady hammering on the bedroom door stopped them both short.

"Oliver!" Roy's voice came from the other side. "Training. We're already late."

"You have got to be kidding me," Felicity groaned, covering her face with her hands. "They do wakeup calls in the remote assassin palace? Really?"

Oliver exhaled, no less frustrated than she was. But he knew from experience that Nyssa was implacable when it came to training discipline, and even though repeating what he and Felicity did in the hot springs the night before was an endlessly appealing idea, he didn't put it past Nyssa to break right through the door if she didn't see him at the sparring session.

"I have to go," he said, and slid off the bed in search of his clothes. "I have to train if I'm going to be at full strength when I face Malcolm."

Felicity made a face. "Urgh. Too early for bottom-barrel human specimens. Use a pseudonym."

Oliver pulled a fresh shirt over his head. "Sorry," he said, and he completely meant it.

"You'd better be," Felicity said, and primly drew the loose sheet around her body. "I am literally wearing nothing right now, and you're ditching me — your very naked fiancée — to go whack some assassins with a bamboo stick."

Oliver had to laugh at her mock-serious expression, and he climbed back onto the bed — full dressed now — to kiss her quickly on the forehead. "I'll see you tonight."

Felicity made a grudging noise in her throat. "Fine, I'll go…set up a lab, or something," she said, with a dismissive wave. "Might distract me from being left hanging by the love of my life, my almost-sorta-husband, rejected — first thing in the morning, oh, how will I live with the —"

Oliver, who'd been listening amusedly up until that point, took Felicity's face in his hands and kissed her full on the mouth.

"— shame," she breathed, when they eventually pulled apart.

Oliver smiled. "I know," he said, because it was a shame to leave her like this, and winked at her on his way out.


Felicity barely caught a glimpse of Roy's raised eyebrows before the door shut cleanly behind Oliver and left her alone in the room.

And with her thoughts.

The sunlight cut bright yellow swathes across the air, catching dust motes in their lazy rotations, buoyed by an unseen wind. Alone, her smile faded, and Felicity rested her chin on her knees, hugging them close to her chest like she could keep Oliver's warmth pressed to her body.

Without him, the nightmare came back to her in full, vivid detail, and reminded her of what she'd decided, what she was keeping from him with Diggle.

She hadn't really lied to him, not really. She loved him, more than anyone else in the world, and that would never change.

Declare your own terms, he'd said.

A game of chess, with her moving the pieces.

An all-knowing mind, waiting for her command.

A gun in her hand, and Damien at her feet.

Felicity wasn't sure what terms she wanted to play on. Her hand opened and shut around empty air as she turned the questions, her doubts, over and over in her head. Unnoticed, her fingers curled themselves around an invisible grip, almost as if she was holding a gun.

Killer — or Oracle.

Fighter — or hacker.

Innocent — or sinner.

Piece — or player.

What would she choose?


What, indeed? :D

Hopefully the content of these chapters makes up for the lateness of the update. If not, whoops.

Now, it's super late, so if you excuse me, I'm going to watch some Downton Abbey. Dan Stevens, you beautiful English bastard. Oo, and Hannibal.