You might want to cover your eyes or skip at a certain point in this chapter. You'll know when. Really, really.


Firsts

Felicity put out her hand to stop Diggle from answering for her, because it was — it was her choice. Even though Oliver finding out hadn't been part of the plan, ruminating on that detail was now an excessive waste of time. "Dig's teaching me how to shoot," she said, not proud, not scornful, but the truth.

Oliver looked from Diggle to her, and their eyes met with a shiver when he did. They weren't blazing with anger, or cold with disappointment, they were just…just

Flat. It was the expression Oliver had when he was concealing what he really felt, when he was trying not to say, or do something he'd regret.

"I can't believe…" he began, and jerked his head like he'd had to curb some destructive impulse. It was a short, furious battle for control, and when Oliver spoke again, his voice had dropped to a level barely above a whisper. He looked right at Diggle, and Felicity thought she'd caught a flicker of hurt. "I didn't think that you of all people would be okay with this."

"Hey," Felicity snapped, because even to her it seemed like a low blow, but Diggle only folded his arms and stepped forward, until he was almost shoulder-to-shoulder with Oliver.

"I understand what you're feeling, man," he said, in a quiet voice. His head was turned towards Oliver, and he was speaking to him in confidence, with understanding. "But don't. Don't pretend that you don't get why I agreed to help her, after Andy."

Oliver stared at Diggle, and he stared right back. Years of camaraderie and shared secrets meant that nothing else needed to be said, and in that long, not-quite-awful silence, Felicity felt the strength of a friendship being tested.

Oliver was the one who yielded.

"John," he said, "could I have a minute alone with Felicity, please?"

His politeness made her warier still, but she nodded when Diggle raised his eyebrows at her. "Thank you, John," she added. "For the lesson."

The I'm-okay smile slid off her face like water as soon as Diggle turned his back. The door creaked open, but it never closed.

"Last time I checked," Diggle said to him, "she makes her own choices, man."

Then he was gone.

The heavy door shut with a jarring crank, a sound that made Felicity dig her fingers into the wooden table for support. Oliver's hand still rested on the black iron handle, and she saw him close his eyes — another brief, furious battle for control — before opening them again.

Felicity felt her back straighten, and the irrepressible tremor in her hands from the adrenaline rising in her blood again.

They were going to fight, and Felicity knew it.

Oliver finally faced her, and Felicity lifted her chin, defiantly standing her ground.

"What are you doing?" he asked, and it was like the starting pistol had fired.


What are you doing?

If — and it was a big if — Felicity still had her sense of humor, she would have found it funny, being asked the exact same question for the second time that day. First by Barry, now by Oliver. Before that single, awful moment of Oliver walking into the room, Felicity had imagined telling him the story at the end of the day, how Barry — adorkable, in every sense of the word — had been sweet enough to be jealous for him. She'd imagined them lying together in bed, Oliver's arm around her shoulders, a comfortable solid weight, holding her reassuringly close to him as they whispered under the cover of night — exchanging secrets about the day they'd just had.

She would have laughed at his stories and he would have laughed at hers, alternating between words and kisses until sleep carried them away, leaving them safe in each others' arms until the morning.

Unfortunately, humor was in short supply when every muscle in her body was drawn as tight as piano wire, and all thoughts of laughing with Oliver evaporated as soon as she saw his face.

Felicity looked at Oliver like she couldn't imagine what there was left to say, under the heading of what-am-I-doing.

But it was soon apparent from the silence, and Oliver's unwavering gaze, that he actually wanted her to answer. So she did.

"Evidently, something you think you can tell me not to do," she said.

Humor — while in short supply — had been displaced by a (probably) destructive level of snark, frequent appearer in her regular life, during super villain confrontations, and pointed conversations with disagreeing fiancés.

Oliver gave her a sharp look, as if playing the you-can't-order-me-around card was a low blow, because he wasn't that person with her — even though he'd certainly tried, before they were a something, before he'd found out that she was completely and utterly capable of throwing it back in his face.

Felicity was sticking by that gun, figuratively speaking, and he knew it.

"I'm not telling you to do, or not do, anything," Oliver said, again in that carefully controlled voice. "I'm just…surprised that you of all people think walking up to Darhk with a loaded gun is a smart move."

"It's not a move," Felicity said, stepping forward without meaning to. She pushed off of the table edge and found herself reaching for Oliver, to calm him instinctively with her touch.

"Oliver, learning to defend myself — like you and Diggle and Roy know how to — is something I want to do."

The door rattled behind Oliver's shoulder, emphasizing the fact that he'd taken a step back — away from her, just about as far as he could go. Felicity stopped short, stung by his reluctance.

"Oliver," she said, but he shook his head. No.

"That's not it, Felicity, and you know it," he said, in a low voice. "This is about Darhk. This is about your father, and how afraid you are that he's going to hurt the people you love. That's why you want a gun in your hand, and you didn't tell me about it because you knew I'd see right through you."

"And what's so wrong with that?" Felicity responded. "You know what it means to fight for love — you, of all people, know what it means to be fearless because you're fighting to protect the people who matter. How does that make my actions any less justified than yours?"

Oliver started to speak, broke off with a sound of frustration, and Felicity watched him pass a hand over his eyes before he spoke again.

"I know how you feel about your father," he said. "But if you have your finger on the trigger then you're not thinking straight. You're not seeing any other way — except killing him. You promised me you'd think about it."

"I did," Felicity said, and she wasn't lying.

A pause, during which Oliver's gaze swept across the room, taking in the handguns laid out on the table in front of Felicity, the straw dummies lying haphazardly along the wall, and the bullet holes marking her improved aim.

"This doesn't look like weighing your options," he said, and it had the cadence of an accusation.

Felicity felt her temper flare.

"I've weighed, and I've thought, and I've struggled." The bones in her hand cricked in the tight fists she'd balled them into, and her throat felt tight, like she wanted to scream. "I'm tired of standing still," she said, letting the weariness creep into her words. "I'm tired of turning in circles, of having the same arguments repeated, over and over again — I've chosen. I'm going to fight as hard as I can, and that's all there is. I want to protect you, to protect everybody."

"I don't need protecting," Oliver said, without hesitation.

"He shot you in the arm."

"And I'm dealing with that."

"How?" She threw up her arms. "How is that any different from what I'm doing — dealing with it?"

"Because he's your father, Felicity!" Oliver shouted, and she nearly — very nearly — flinched, because she couldn't remember the last time he had raised his voice at her. "You can't just — kill — him without repercussions. You may think it's the right thing to do, that it's the only thing to do. But you're not thinking about yourself, about what taking a life does — what it's going to do — to your soul!"

Felicity caught her breath at the word — at the admission of what he really thought about her decision. That it was a reflection on her soul, and that he'd judge her for it.

"It's not that simple," she said, feeling the blood drain from her face as she formed the words. "You know that about us, Oliver — nothing's ever that simple."

"No, Felicity, if anything was ever simple — it's this," Oliver insisted. "You're trying to kill your father because you think it's the only way he's left you with, but you know — you have to know — that killing him…it'll change you."

The harsh lines in Oliver's face softened, and she could tell that his outburst had startled him too. It was as close to an apology as she'd get — right then. "I'm trying to protect you," he said.

Felicity only looked at him, hearing the words — his words — ringing in her head. "Like you said…I don't need protecting, and you can't keep me from learning how to shoot."

Oliver jerked his head in warning. His hands were curled tight by his sides, his throat working in visible frustration to restrain himself from saying something he'd — they'd — regret.

Then — he did.

"You are not going anywhere near Darhk with a gun."

Felicity laughed, a furious HA in response to what felt like a desperate Hail Mary on his part. "And what makes you think you can stop me?" she demanded.

Oliver crossed his arms in front of his chest, reminding her that he could be as stubborn as she was. "You're untrained," he reminded her.

"Not that untrained, and I'm in charge of the mission plan," she reminded him.

"You're my partner."

"On equal footing — what's your point?"

"You're my wife."

Felicity raised her eyes to the ceiling. "Also on equal footing — hello, twenty-first century — and not yet."

"Whose fault is that?" Oliver snapped, and the resentment in it — however impulsive — rang of truth.

Felicity tossed her hair back from her face and fixed a glare on him from her end of the room. She knew — God, she knew — that Oliver was frustrated, and so was she. But he didn't get to say that. "Screw you," she said, in a furious whisper. "You don't get to play that card. I wanted City Hall as much as you did. I still do."

"Do you still trust me?" Oliver asked, and the question took her aback. "Because it doesn't feel like you do — not anymore."

Oh. For. The. Love. Of —

"You think I don't trust you just because I'm trying to protect you?" Felicity was shouting now, because what — the — frack. "How many times? How many times have you kept one of your plans from me — because you wanted to protect me? How many times have you pulled that trick, and how many times have I trusted you — even though you kept me out of the loop?"

Oliver jerked his head. "Felicity —"

"How," she said, "many."

"Every time," he growled. "But this is different."

It was Felicity's turn to shake her head. If he was going to tell her the harsh truths, so would she. "It's different because I'm the one keeping you out of it," she said, steadily. "I've been there, and it doesn't feel good. But I would never hold that against you. I'm sorry, Oliver, I didn't tell you from the beginning, but don't — don't — blame me because I chose the option you happen to like the least."

Oliver didn't say anything for the longest time. Then again, neither did she. This wasn't anything like their old fights, as partners on the same team. Back then, it had been a quiet apology and an acceptance, which was less — infinitely less — than what they had at stake now, being together, planning a marriage and expecting a life with each other. They'd shared fears and confidences and old wounds. With that kind of intimacy came an instinctive — and all too easy — knowledge of where the other hurt, and how to make them hurt.

They'd opened wounds in each other already, and now their stalemate held, the echoes of their raised voices long gone but too vivid to forget, two halves of a broken whole on their respective sides of the line.

Felicity felt a stray ache in her chest, as if it was a real, physical pain to be at odds over something as fundamental as this. She backed away first, if only to keep the figurative line from becoming an unbridgeable rift between them.

"I'm going back to our room," she said, intent on getting out through the door behind him. "If I hit you with a stony silence when you get in — assume it means I don't want to talk."

Felicity had the handle now, and she waited for Oliver to move aside.

Still he didn't, not a muscle, and it forced a quick, frustrated sound from between her teeth. She yanked on the door, but it only budged an inch before Oliver's weight shoved it back closed again.

Felicity had always known Oliver was strong, but not looking at him, trying to open the door again, she was reminded of the fact — and she wasn't sure how she felt about it.

Scratch that, she knew exactly how she felt.

His strength made her feel small by contrast, something it had never used to do, and she didn't like it. But with this realization came the quicksilver flashes of memory, the stirrings of tamped-down instinct, about how Oliver's strength had always made her feel safe. It reminded her of how easily he'd lifted her the night before, and countless nights before that. It reminded her of how light she'd always felt in his arms, of the easy trust in having them bear her weight, and the surprising freedom of having them pressed on either sides of her, a cage formed by his arms as he made love to her in their bed.

It was an endless, excruciating confusion, and even though Felicity knew the absolute last constructive thing to do was that, she wasn't sure her body completely agreed.

"Let me out," she ordered, resolutely avoiding his eyes.

Oliver didn't move. "No," he answered. "Not until we talk about this."

Felicity laughed, again without humor. "You mean until I sing your tune," she said, impatiently cutting through the subtext. "But we both know that's never going to happen, so let me out."

"No."

She rounded on him, the words tumbling out of her in a defensive rush. "You're just like him," she snarled. "You both think you know who I am. He thinks I'm Felicity Darhk, and you think I'm Felicity Queen. Well, screw you both, because you don't, you really don't. Now get out of my way, Oliver Queen, or so help me God —"

Felicity broke off when she sensed Oliver's movement in the corner of her eye. But nothing could have prepared her for the abrupt press of his fingertips on her chin, the pull of them turning her towards him, and the single unbroken movement in which he'd bent his head and kissed her mid-sentence, hard.


Felicity had expected her mind to go blank, wiped clean by surprise.

It didn't.

Her instincts were literally no help at all. Part of her wanted to curl her arms behind Oliver's neck and kiss him back, while the other — while similarly fixated on his neck — was plumping pretty heavily for the throttling option.

It all led back to the hard press of Oliver's mouth on hers. It was demanding and tasted sharply of frustrated emotions, the kind that surpassed any words either of them could bring to mind, the same frustration that made her want to part her lips and welcome this momentary invasion.

Oliver had never kissed her like this before. Their intimacy had never been this confusing, this startling, and it had never followed a fight like the one they'd just had, because that (funnily enough) was just as much a first as the way Oliver was kissing her.

Anger welled up again — at his stubbornness, their unfinished fight, the things they'd said…and the things they'd hadn't.

I'm sorry, but I wanted to protect you.

I love you and I trust you.

One was more important than the other, but somehow the lesser of the two had been a weapon thrown in the other's face. So was this, in its own way. Kissing her to end the fight, like he was expecting her to melt — to yield, just like that.

Instead of a torrent of icy water, all Felicity felt was a surge of anger when she tore her mouth from Oliver's with a gasp and slapped him across the face.

It was rapidly becoming a day of firsts. They'd never fought like this before, he'd never kissed her like that before, and she'd never — ever — hit him like she just did. It was a blow with the flat of her hand, not meant to be hard — Felicity wasn't nearly venomous enough for that — but she could tell that it had surprised him from the way his head snapped backward. The shock was the real force behind his reaction, and Felicity — her chest heaving from the breaths stolen by the sudden kiss — drew her hand back, completely on instinct, to slap him again.

Because she was so, goddamn ready to rip his throat out. Or tear his clothes off. Just — something.

Oliver caught her by the wrist before she could follow through with the swing and yanked, making Felicity stumble forward — into him — as the side of her forearm thudded against his shirt, pinned by his grip.

Felicity felt his breath in her ear and the heat from his body and the racing pulse of his heart in his chest. He'd been training with Nyssa — she could smell the fresh air on him, and the tang of male sweat on his skin, along with something a little more ineffable, one that brought on a rush of responsiveness somewhere in her belly. Even though her face was still stubbornly downturned, she didn't need to look Oliver in the eye for one unguarded moment of truth to reveal the want blazing white-hot between them. With everything that had just been said and done, they couldn't be this close without tearing each other's clothes off, without having their hands on each other, without this furious, insane, need.

Case in point — she wanted to rip his head off, but she also wanted him inside her. She wanted to push him against the door he wouldn't let her leave by and kiss his smooth, muscled chest. She wanted not to think, not to talk, and just have him — completely.

Felicity very nearly couldn't breathe when she finally lifted her eyes to Oliver's face, and saw him looking at her like he'd realized the exact same thing, just about five minutes earlier.

"Kiss me," she said, and he completely — one hundred percent — did.


Oliver wasn't entirely certain why he'd done it. He'd acted so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that even he hadn't had time to reach a conclusion. One moment, Felicity had been glaring at the door behind his shoulder, doggedly avoiding his eye, and the next, her mouth had been warm and open under his.

The only sound Felicity managed to make was an inarticulate murmur of surprise. He heard it in his ears still — among other things. The creak of the wood panels behind Felicity's back, the grinding of the door's iron hinges every time his thrusting into her shuddered the frame, the small, silky sound their bodies made against each other at the single point of joining.

A bead of sweat traced a path down the side of Felicity's neck and slid between her breasts. Oliver put his mouth to it — tasting salt and something sweet — and felt her spine go rigid, instantaneous as a jolt of electricity.

Her hands groped blindly for either side of the protruding frame, fingernails scratching the wood varnish every time their movements threw her off balance again. Oliver gathered her wrists and pinned them over her head with one hand, pulling her leg higher with the other to spread her wide.

Felicity moaned and her head dipped back to knock against the door. Oliver bent to her exposed throat without missing a beat, claiming the already-flushed skin of her neck with his lips. It made her squirm, and he bit her — not hard, but not gently, either — just below the ear as a reminder to keep still.

This was new to Oliver. He'd always been gentle, even in urgency, and so had she. A part of him had always touched Felicity with reverence instead of possession, still in disbelief that he'd been so lucky — to have someone like her love him, accept him, and want him.

He'd never pinned her like this, he'd never used his strength the way he did now, and he'd never inched this close to the indistinct separation between pain and pleasure. It was sudden, it was heady, and it surprised him how much she seemed not to mind — if anything, how furiously she seemed to take from him.

Because every time he slowed, Felicity clenched her knees tighter still behind his back and wordlessly brought him closer, deeper. She twisted at the waist and met him thrust for thrust, writhing with feverish gasps instead of the sighs he was used to hearing in his ear.

Even though their bodies seemed to fit together with wordless confidence, their kisses were insatiable with frustration and silent fury. Their foreheads mashed and their burning cheeks grazed, all between heated breaths and irrepressible groans, between kisses hard enough to leave bruised mouths and tender skin in the morning.

The root of it was their frustration with each other. It charged this — whatever it was — with fight rather than reconciliation, fierce with the knowledge that they still wanted each other with a passion, despite an utter refusal to back down on both sides. Oliver was being deliberately rough because Felicity had broken a promise she'd made, putting a gun in her hand like it was somehow going to make her choices clear, instead of considering the real consequences her choice with Darhk might have on her soul.

Oliver knew what it felt like to have a gun in his hand. Souls — much less his own — were unlikely to be a concern when he had his finger on the trigger and the source of the threat at his feet. It would be Felicity's first kill, and if she made that choice, he wanted her to be very sure — because the first was always the one that lingered, the one that would shape the hand holding the gun.

For all the complexities that had led them to this moment, there were moments of remarkable simplicity. Oliver didn't know how to make Felicity listen, so he took her furiously against the door, because after the secret she hadn't wanted to tell him, maybe he needed to feel something honest between them again.

This — the way she opened to him, the way she fought to get closer — wasn't a lie, however angry they still were with each other.

Emboldened by the realization, Oliver relinquished his grip on Felicity's wrists and slid his hands low to cup her. She made a noise low in her throat and arched against him, hard enough to push them off the wall altogether.

Carrying her, he nearly lost his balance over their discarded clothes and bumped carelessly into a rack of weapons, grabbing another for support. It toppled with a blinding crash, and a sharp edge nicked his back, another his leg — but he didn't care. Felicity's kisses were languorously deep, blinding him to anything but the insistent claim of her mouth on his.

A whisper of silk, a rattle of wood…their hips bumped against a hard edge — a table — and Oliver swept his arm across to clear the surface before he lowered her onto it. Felicity made a faint noise of dissent when they came apart, her fingers curling around his head as if to tug him back towards her.

Oliver shook his head once, determinedly following a path down Felicity's stomach and belly with his mouth. She twisted her hips and he gripped her, stilling her with his open palms before kneeling between her parted legs.

A moment of stillness. Oliver lifted his head and met Felicity's heated gaze. Neither of them said a word, and the ferocity of their common stubbornness seared whatever space left between them with a wordless challenge.

Slow and deliberate, Oliver drew his cheek along the inside of her thigh, feeling both the frantic rhythm of her pulse beneath her silky skin and the helpless shudder it teased out in her, this reminder that he was between her legs.

Felicity bit her lip and let her head drop back, her arms flung out above her head in a gesture of utter abandon as Oliver bent to her.


Felicity didn't remember exactly when she'd lost her clothes, when she'd stopped feeling self-conscious about the sounds she was making, or even when she'd ever learned to lie still.

Every dart and flicker of Oliver's tongue sent a delicious shudder up her spine, a flash of pure heat behind her eyes that almost — almost — sent her to pieces. Felicity's hands scraped varnished wood in her clumsy search for handholds, brushing instead a watery cascade of silk.

There was something she should have remembered about it. A row of silks. Weapons room. Nanda Parbat.

The table creaked, and her hands twisted tight into the silk when he teased the delicate center, the source of the unstoppable tremors between her legs. Her arms were shot with trembling, her joints traitorously yielding from the remembered passion of her encounters with Oliver.

Felicity wasn't going to beg. She absolutely was not going to make a sound — ah

Her head thudded against wood and she bucked, her hips struggling against his hands to rise off the table surface, an instinctive response — the only response — to what was going on. Oliver kept her pinned down, with a single-minded possessiveness that was startling because of its novelty, and because of how much she responded to it.

The rack of silks creaked ominously, the lengths of whispering fabric following a steady rhythm of swell and dip every time Felicity moved with Oliver, oblivious to everything except the feeling of his body on hers.

No, they weren't short on passion today, not by a long shot, but for the record, she was still freaking pissed at him. So she was learning to shoot a gun. So she was learning to defend herself, in case she did get a chance. So she hadn't strictly speaking told him.

So. Freaking. What.

Felicity felt the rebelliousness blaze bright inside her as she pushed her legs closed, forcing him to come to her. She heard his grunt of frustration and the insistent pull of his hands on her thighs, but she gripped his shoulders — careless, too careless in light of their recent injuries — and dragged him into her arms.

The insides of her thighs were already slippery, and a single thrust of her hips brought them together again. They groaned in unison, and Felicity reared up from the table, clashing her mouth to Oliver's before either of them could catch their breath. She tasted blood — whether his lip or hers, she didn't care — as they tumbled limb over limb in a mindless struggle, one that ended with her pinning Oliver to the table while she rode him without stopping.

The table's wooden limbs squeaked and cricked under the strain of their savage movements, very nearly drowning out the muffled slap of flesh on flesh and the involuntary sounds made when the human body drew close to its limit. Each harsh gasp and moan from him was a small victory, a push for her to go further, harder — despite knowing that it might shatter her completely.

Felicity had given up on holding Oliver down, because in their current state of preoccupation, anything less than a world-ending earthquake was unlikely to tear them apart, and maybe not even then. His broad palms burned into her hips, along the furrow of her spine, curling last into her hair and tugging with each shared movement, as if to say mine, all mine. She twisted against him, grinding their hips together as if she was daring him to do his worst.

Felicity's hands skidded numbly across the table surface, slipping on the crumpled trails of silk left over from before, and she curled her fingertips into the fabric without thought as they entered the final — and all too brief — territory between frustration and release.

They were moving together still, but with the riot of sensations dominating her body, Felicity wasn't sure if either of them were capable of thinking anymore. In those breathless, desperate moments, it seemed like they were being driven by a shared instinct to be with each other, rightness, pure and simple — in spite of it all.

Oliver came first, in a series of rapid thrusts that took him deeper still, until she could feel the shudders too, in the depths of her belly and between her legs, like they — for the briefest moment — shared the same body. He was heavy-headed and obedient when Felicity turned his face away from her neck and tilted his chin up so she could kiss him, moving all the while. She tasted the salt of her sweat on his tongue and the stirrings of sweeter, older memories resurfacing in the midst of a fading storm.

It was those memories she held firmly in her mind, at the end.

The moment itself was a savage implosion behind her eyes and Felicity cried out, yanking on the cloth so hard that the rack crashed heavily into the table, engulfing them both in a slippery rush of silk.

Felicity's body somehow felt both weightless and lead-heavy, a sensation easy to overcome only in theory. She used the last of her energy to roll off of Oliver, who seemed just about as inert as she was about to be.

Lying flat on the table, the tips of her toes just brushed the floor and the side of her arm pressed lightly against Oliver's. Felicity pulled a length of crumpled silk away from her eyes, her damp skin feeling unbearably hot in comparison to the slippery fabric.

Sleeping in the same bed as someone for the better part of a year meant that she knew what Oliver asleep sounded like, and she could tell immediately from the sound of his breathing that he was just as awake as she was.

It was a silence uninterrupted by the slow recovery of their breath, laid out side by side with sweat cooling on their bodies, the scent and static heat of what they'd done lingering in the air.

Felicity stared at the tiny cracks in the ceiling, trying to decide if there was a real chance that the not-talking was due to a fascination with the architecture.

One of the cracks looked a little bit like a badger, but otherwise, unlikely.

Straightening her arm, she let the backs of their hands graze, brushing her skin across the small bumps of Oliver's knuckles, sensing the almost-alignment of their finger joints, and the telltale twitch of his fingertips that meant he could feel it too…

One of them had to make the first move, after all.

"Feel better?" she asked, her hand against his. Together and apart.

Oliver exhaled, slow and deep. "Not really," he answered, his eyes on the ceiling.

In spite of everything, Felicity found it just a little bit funny. "Good," she said.


Weeeell, on that note, I'm actually surprised that I made her slap him. Eh, what can I say - felt like she wanted to. Now that I think about it, I'm slapping a lot of people in these updates. P.S.: Gutter buddies, you really need to stop encouraging me.
Spain's beautiful, I have tan lines now (yayyyy) and with the number of cathedrals I've visited it's a wonder that chapter 52 exists at all. Then again, I've had a decent amount of sangria and cava, so...
You're probably going to despise me, but I'm heading to Cape Cod to visit a friend after this, which means the two chapters per two weeks might actually be a thing for a bit (sorry, sorry, so sorry). I swear I'm not drunk when I say I love you guys, whether you get super irritated with me or not. Your comments are always lovely and funny and so much more thoughtful than this fic deserves. It's a thrill to hear how much you love Oliver and Felicity and Team Arrow. Based on the comments alone, a lot of you should be turning ideas into fics or scripting for the show. Sinceriously, you guys are the absolute best. You spoil me with your thoughts, and I can't thank you enough.
But I'm certainly going to try :)
- Chronicolicity