Chapter Text
"When you told me," Oliver says out of the blue one evening when they're watching old movies on her couch, "about that guy at your office and how he was looking at you, I wanted to kill him."
"I know," she says. She's leaning with her back against his chest so she can't see his face but he has an arm wrapped around her like he won't ever let her go and she likes that. "It was kinda obvious. I couldn't quite figure out why you had such a strong reaction at the time. It didn't fit."
"All your fault," he says as he idly runs his fingertips up and down her arm. "You told me how you were crawling around under his desk and then he looked at you and you knew what he was thinking. And all I could picture was you on your knees under a desk. My desk."
"Oliver!" She twists to look at him, somewhat scandalised. He smiles wistfully.
"Do you even," he goes on, ignoring her outburst, "remember what you were wearing that day?"
She shakes her head, amused that this one moment appears to be so seared in his memory.
"It was this cardigan and skirt," he says, "and these little boots. It was nothing that I hadn't seen you wearing before but for a week after you told me about it you were in my head every night in that outfit."
"Really?"
"Yes," he admits, "in like the worst kind of Penthouse Letter type scenarios. I kept thinking you would look at me like you talked about looking at your creepy colleague and just know," he sighs, "it was killing me. Seriously."
She laughs, delighted. She leans in to peck a kiss to his nose.
"I never knew," she says. "I thought that you saw me like Thea, all elder brotherly and protective."
"I have always wanted to protect you," he admits, "but it was never brotherly."
Felicity feels her cheeks flush, but then who wouldn't blush when Oliver Queen is looking at them like that? His eyes are dark, the pupils large. She knows enough about basic physiology to know what that means.
He runs a hand up her arm, along her shoulder to the back of her neck, then tugs her in close for a kiss. She likes that he does this, despite the change in their relationship she's still somewhat flustered around him and these moments where he takes charge cut through her nervousness.
She groans and lets him pull her into his lap. It's a little awkward as a seating arrangement with her legs sprawled across the sofa but right now she's more concerned about not breaking away from this kiss. His kiss.
She brings one hand up to stroke his cheek, her fingernails catching in his ever-present stubble. He gasps against her lips and she grins.
"Like that?"
"Do it again" he says.
She lifts both her hands to run her nails through his cropped short hair, her thumbs tickling the stubble on his cheeks. He reacts like a cat; eyes closing, neck arching. She would swear he's about to purr.
She takes advantage of his bared neck, leaning in to lick and suck just below his jaw.
"Felicity."
She grins against his skin, moving her mouth up to his ear to nip at the lobe.
"I love it when you say my name like that," she whispers.
"Felicity," he says immediately, "Felicity, Felicity, Felicity."
She drops her right hand down, letting it run down to the hem of his shirt. Then she slips in, under the material, her fingertips stroking his abs. The muscles twitch under her touch, and he groans.
She feels suddenly incredibly confident. Confident enough to have some fun with him.
"So what was I doing," she asks softly, "in your head?"
He groans again.
"You can tell me," she says, "I won't be mad."
His eyes open long enough to fix her with a look.
"Seriously," she says, letting the coquettish tone drop out of her voice. "You thought about me? Well I thought about you. A lot. I'll swap you a fantasy for a fantasy."
"Alright," he says.
"But you're going first," she adds quickly. She's not sure how long this new take-charge mood will last and she doesn't want to blow it by pushing herself too far too fast.
His eyes twinkle and she loves how pleased he seems to be with her suggestion. Oliver Queen was a fantastical figure to her long before he walked into her office. Always in the news, on the gossip sites, living the kind of life normal people can only aspire to. She likes this real Oliver a lot more than the one she read about as a teenager, but she can't admit she's not intimidated by his past sometimes.
The funny thing is, it's not the five years on the island that give her pause now - more the fact that there are verified photos of him kissing supermodels on Google image search. She has to step up her game if she's going to compete with that.
"Okay," he says. His hands grasp her by the hips and he lifts her up oh so easily, giving her the space to rearrange her legs so she's straddling him. She's not wearing a skirt tonight, which she kind of now regrets. Sweat pants and a tank top don't have the same aesthetic appeal.
But Oliver doesn't seem to mind.
He keeps his hands on her hips, his right thumb having slipped under the material of her tank top to rub lazy circles on her skin. Her hands rest on his shoulders. Impulsively she slips one up to scratch him behind the ear.
He reacts just as she expected.
"You're such a cat," she smiles.
"Do you want to hear this or not?"
"I do," she says, nodding. "I really do."
"Okay," he says, "we'll we'd be in the club basement, just the two of us, Diggle is off somewhere."
"Okay," she nods, "I can see that."
"You're working at your desk."
"I'm glad you've finally acknowledged that it's my desk."
"Shush," he says, raising one hand to press a finger against her lips. Felicity subsides, but he doesn't remove the finger and keeps his eyes fixed on hers. She feels a little on display, can't help but squirm a little. "Stop that," he orders, and she does. Immediately.
"Ah," he says, smugly, "is that one of your fantasies then? Me telling you what to do?"
Felicity doesn't say anything, but she bites her lip and his expression says he doesn't really need her to answer.
"Interesting."
Felicity drops her gaze, looking down at his chest, a little embarrassed at being so easy to read.
"No," he says, and his hand moves to her chin, tipping her head up, making her look at him. "This is your idea. If you want to hear it, I want to see you listen."
She feels her cheeks flush, but she nods.
"Something goes wrong," he says, "with the computer. And you have to go down under the desk to fix it. But you also need to know what's on the screen so you call me over to sit in the chair and tell you what it says."
She stares into his eyes, his words spinning into images inside her head. Her under the desk, him in the chair. Forced proximity to each other. If this had ever happened in real life, she would have been entirely unable to keep her cool.
Kind of like now actually. He's not even touching her, not really, but she can feel her heart rate speeding up, her breathing grow more ragged.
"Details get a bit fuzzy there," he says, "generally there's not much blood going spare to power my imagination." His hand on her hip pushes at her, and she takes the hint and grinds herself against his lap, against the hardness she can feel even through the layers of his jeans and her sweat pants.
"But either, something goes right," he says, watching as she bites down on her lip, her hips still moving, rubbing herself against him. "Or something goes wrong, and you try and come back up, but I'm in the way, in the chair, and you end up pressed against me.
"And you look up at me," he says, "with those big eyes of yours and you smile and you start to unbutton my pants."
"I make the first move?" she says, surprised.
"It's my fantasy," he points out, "and I think, now, you owe me something for not staying quiet." He pauses, considering. "Take your shirt off."
She blinks at him, quizzically and he grins. "Take it off Felicity, that's an order."
A luxurious shiver runs through her, and she keeps her eyes fixed on his and she drops both hands to the hem of her tank top and lifts it off over her head.
"Beautiful," he says, gazing up at her and her bra. "You really are so beautiful."
Felicity is not used to compliments like this, moments like this. She's a grown women but suddenly she's a nervous teenager again. Almost involuntarily, her heads move towards her chest, intending to cover herself.
"No," Oliver says, his hands coming up to capture her wrists. He sits up higher and presses his lips to hers. "You are beautiful," he repeats. "I want to see you."
He smiles at her and after a second's pause she nods.
"Now," he says, "take off my shirt."
Felicity raises an eyebrow but as she never has any objection to seeing Oliver without a shirt she moves swiftly to obey. She grabs the thick material of his two shirts - and why does he alway wear two, its warm enough in here for her to wear barely anything? - and pulls both of them up over his head before he can tell her she was only meant to remove one.
He shifts himself forward so the material doesn't get caught between his back and the couch cushions, and takes advantage of the fact that her arms are up in the air holding the removed shirt high, to wrap his arms around her torso and bury his face in her chest.
He squeezes her tight for a few seconds, then moves his mouth to kiss along the curve of her breast, one hand coming up to rub at her nipple through the lace cup of her bra. He keeps the other hand flat on her back, using it to hold her in place.
"Oliver?" She queries. The way he's wrapped around her now means she can't really drop her arms. She holds onto his removed shirt(s), caught between the awkwardness of how she's sitting and the delicious sensations of his mouth on her skin.
"Drop the shirt," he orders, "but keep your hands up. I'll tell you when you can bring them down."
She does as she's told, enjoying the pleasurable shivers that his voice sends through her body. She's never really done this before - she's had sex, obviously. And there have been boyfriends and one night stands, and experimental moments - but there's something about Oliver that brings all of her most hidden fantasies out if her. It's not like she's got a submissive personality, had never fantasised about being told what to do until she met him.
It's just one more part of the Oliver Queen mystery.
She twines her hands together in the air, stretching up. His fingers are spread wide on the skin of her back, as if he's trying to touch as much of her as he can with only one hand. His mouth moves along her skin, kissing the flesh of her left breast, then dropping down to suck at the nipple. She moans and he sucks harder.
She tries to grind herself against him, but the twin holds of his hand on her back and his mouth on her chest keep her still. Exactly where he wants her.
"Stay still," he whispers, his breath tickling her skin.
She can't see his face from here, but she's pretty sure he's grinning. No doubt delighted at the effect he has on her. His mouth feels smug against her skin, especially when he bites down softly on her nipple and she groans.
He leans back to look at her, and yes, she was right, he's wearing his smuggest grin.
He quirks an eyebrow, then leans even further back, resting against the couch cushions.
She wonders what she looks like, straddling him, breathless and aroused, her arms stretched over her head as if she's tied that way.
A pleasurable throb goes through her body at that thought, but that's something for another night.
"Where was I?" He says, grinning up at her. "In the story, where was I?"
"Oh," she says, and has to cast her mind back, "you were, er, I mean, I was unbuttoning your pants."
"Yes," he agrees, "I was sitting at the desk, you were on your knees and you didn't say anything, just unbuttoned my pants and took me in your mouth."
Yet again his voice has just as much of an effect on her as his touch does. She shivers, then says:
"Would you like me to do that? Now I mean?"
"I'd like you to take your bra off," he says, "and ask me properly."
She drops her hands down and undoes the fastening of her bra, letting the lacy material fall away from her. He picks it up and tosses it to a side.
"Do you want me," she says, trying to figure out what 'properly' is in this context, "want me on my knees? Do you want...my mouth on your cock?"
"Yes," he says, "but not yet."
"Oh." She's confused and it must show in her face.
"Stand up," he says, and she does so, scrambling backwards off of him a little awkwardly. "Stay still," he orders, shifting himself forward so he's sitting on the very edge of the couch.
She stays still and his hands come up to her hips and push the sweat pants and panties down her legs, so she's standing there naked in front of him.
"You're beautiful Felicity," he says, his voice tense, "you're amazing. Now. Stay still."
He slips off of the couch, going to his knees in front of her and presses his mouth to the curve of her belly, kissing and nipping at the soft flesh there. His hands run up the outside of her legs, brushing over her skin. She gasps, and wobbles, his mouth on her skin is already upsetting her balance.
He looks up at her, meets her eyes and grins.
"Put your hands on my shoulders," he says, "I won't let you fall."
She does so, wondering how it is she knew this was a suggestion, an offer, not an order. But she doesn't have much time to think about it because Oliver pushes her legs apart with his hands and presses his mouth to her clit.
Her head falls back and her hands spasm on his shoulders, fingers digging in to the muscles there. He chuckles and she feels the vibration of it across the most intimate parts of her. She moans and he laughs.
"I love that I have this effect on you," he says, one of his hands moving from her hips to slip between her legs. Her thigh muscles spasm pleasurably, but his hands are stronger and he's slips two fingers inside her, forcing her to ride his hand as he licks and sucks at her clit.
Her legs are weak, but Oliver won't let her fall. He promised.
She forgets where she is, who she is, why she is - her entire world comes down to his mouth and fingers, moving inside her. Pleasure soars through her body and pressure builds.
He adds another finger, pushing at her and she's moaning, groaning, panting.
"Oliver," she begs, "please."
She doesn't know how much more of this she can take. The strength in her legs is nearly gone and she must be leaving nail marks in his shoulders from her grip.
"Please Oliver," she repeats, "I want, I need -"
He pulls back, looking up at her. Her body mourns the loss of his mouth even as she feels even closer to the edge at the look in his eye.
"Say it," he says, "ask me. Beg me."
And the words tumble out of her.
"Oliver! Please make me come, please, I need you, I want you to make me come, please!"
"Happy to," he says, and his mouth comes down hard on her clit as his fingers thrust up into her, and she sees stars.
She sags, her knees going out, but he catches her, lowers her down gently.
It takes her a few minutes to come back to herself and when she does she finds she's lying on the couch, sprawled among the cushions. He's kissing her stomach, idly, one arm thrown out around her possessively.
She blinks and he grins at her.
"That was..."
"Amazing?" He suggests, "mind-blowing? Remarkable."
"All of the above," she agrees. "Was that your fantasy or mine?"
"A bit of both," he smiles, "I think you're my fantasy. Just you."
She lifts herself up on her elbows and he moves up her body to kiss her, the weight of him pressing her back into the cushions.
She kisses him, tasting herself on his lips and suddenly she remembers that they're not done yet.
"In the basement," she says, "in your fantasy, what am I wearing?"
"It's not important," he says, running his hands over her skin.
"It's not?" She teases, "but you said you thought about it every night for a week. You must remember."
"Your pink cardigan," he says immediately, "those little brown boots of yours. The blue skirt and a white tank."
"Good memory."
"Every night for a week," he groans, "remember?"
"What happens after?" She asks. "After I unbutton your jeans and start to suck your cock?" She's not generally one for dirty talk, or at least she never has been before this evening, but she can tell he has a thing for it. "What happens after you come in my mouth?" His hands tighten on her skin at the words but she won't be distracted.
"Felicity," Oliver groans, "why does it matter?"
He drops his head to her neck and starts to kiss her. She pulls his head back up with her hands, wanting to looks him in the eye.
"Because you didn't get your fantasy."
"I've got you."
"Just tell me," she says, "I told you."
"You didn't actually," he points out.
"Whatever," she says, "tell me."
He looks at her, licks his lips. He seems almost embarrassed.
"Fine," he says, "in the fantasy you don't say anything, you just go down on me, at the desk, make me come then go back to fixing the computer. I'm left there, blown away and you go on with your day like its something you do all the time."
"Okay," she says, and pushes at his shoulder.
He sits back obediently, but his expression is confused, maybe even a little hurt.
"Wait here," she says, "I have to do something."
She's off the couch before he can say anything, though a plaintive "Felicity?" follows her as she walks to her bedroom. It doesn't take her long to find what she is looking for, the outfit he described is one of her favorites - his too apparently. She likes the idea that every time he'll see her in it in the future he'll think of this.
She takes a moment to run a brush through her hair, tidy up her ponytail from home-lounging-on-the-couch standards to the neat version she wears at work. She applies a coat of the lipstick she tends to wear with this outfit, then checks herself in the mirror.
Something's missing.
What else does she usually carry with her when she spends time in the basement?
Her tablet.
She retrieves the Surface from a nearby tabletop, amused by the fact that she's about to use it as a prop in a sex game. She bets that's something the QC IT suppliers never thought about when they bought them in in bulk. Still it's not like her current tablet has anything other than a superficial resemblance to the one handed to her by work. She stripped it down and rewrote the OS for her own purposes long ago.
"Felicity?" Oliver calls from the living room. He sounds worried. "It's only a silly fantasy, I'm sorry if it upset you."
"Not at all," she says walking back in, dressed in the exact outfit that he described, pretending to read her tablet. "Now which computer was it you were having trouble with?"
He stares at her as she crosses to the couch, drops her tablet on a nearby table and goes to her knees in front of him.
"Felicity," he says, sounding absolutely stunned.
"Okay Oliver," she says, trying to keep her voice professional and not show how turned on she is. She reaches for the buttons of his jeans, keeping her eyes locked on his. "Tell me when the screen says 100%."
And she lowers her mouth to his crotch.