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[personal profile] callmeonetrack
Title: Helpless
Fandom: Arrow
Pairing: Felicity/Oliver
Rating: R
Length: 1680 words
Setting: Post-2x11
Summary: Felicity hates feeling so helpless.

She spends a lot of time touching him.

Really, like, a lot.

Her hands on his skin, taping and swabbing and patching bruised flesh and fractured bones. Sweat-slick, corded muscles shifting beneath her fingertips. Old scars and new ones bumping roughly against the tender skin of her palms.

Not that Felicity thinks about that. Usually. She tries not to anyway, because she’s not as smart about this—about him—as she’d like to be, but she’s still smart enough to know that way madness lies.

But she’s so tired.

It’s nearly three am and this is the sixth night in a row he’s raged against the dying light, prowling Starling City’s streets for the lurking evil, the guy behind the guy, and that’s nothing new. It’s what they do.

Yet something’s different this time.  This mirakuru business has him on edge, almost desperate. He’s come back later and later each time, more banged up and bloodied, as if sheer force could get one of the skullface’s goons to give up who’s behind the mask.

Which, to be fair, usually does work for him.

Not this time, though. They’re running into brick walls, or he is anyway, and every night she sits and waits and watches the monitors and wonders if tonight’s the night that he won’t come back.

And she’s so tired of waiting and watching and wondering.

She does it all day with Barry, and then she takes the train back here at night for more of the same. Sort of. Not exactly the same of course, because Oliver’s not in a—sleeping, he’s not sleeping. He’s fine.

Fine except for bruised ribs, and a gaping stab wound, but even though it’s the worst he’s ever been injured, Oliver won’t go to the hospital. And that’s how she wound up with her hands on his skin again, wiping the blood away, sewing his skin together with the evenest stitches she can manage, even though Home Ec was the only class she ever failed a test in because of those stupid circular throw pillows and her hands are trembling with the effort and if she screws this up, if she does it wrong, if she adds another scar to his body, if he can bleed like this, if he can break, then it means—

Oliver Queen is not a god. He’s just a man.

Felicity knows this. She knows this better than anyone, yet still the thought arrests her, the needle pausing in her trembling hands long enough to prompt his querulous inquiry as he half-twists on the table.


“Done! I’m- I’m done.” She finishes the last stitch, knotting and—carefully carefully—slicing the thread and turns to drop the scissors and needle on the tray, but her hands—her traitorous hands are still shaking. The tray slides, clattering to the floor with a metallic crash, but she doesn’t move, doesn’t bend to pick it up because the tremors are coursing through her whole body now, and she folds her arms around herself and bows her head, willing them to stop before he notices.

“Felicity.” Her name is not a question this time, and then he’s on his feet, and his hand is on her shoulder, turning her gently. “Hey, hey. It’s okay.”

She wants to believe him, so very much. So much that she leans in, lets him pull her into the warm, solid breadth of his chest. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry it’s just, I- this week has been…I don’t…” She doesn’t have words but she’s muttering them into his sternum anyway, and she takes a deep breath, inhaling the warm, spicy scent of his skin and her eyes close and the shuddering stops, and maybe this is just what she needed.

But then his hand’s cupping her jaw, lifting her face so he can see into her eyes. His gaze is scrutinizing, and his voice is low and urgent, when he whispers, “Are you alright, Felicity?”

This is where she’s supposed to say—where she would usually say—that she was fine. But she’s not. And she’s too tired to lie anymore to him. Or herself.

So she closes her eyes and leans in and presses her mouth to his.

His lips are firm, unyielding against hers, and the stubble around his mouth scrapes her skin a little, but she persists. Felicity rests her hands on his shoulders, hooking her fingers over the curve of his tight muscles and letting her thumbs trace the edges of his collarbone. She pulls back, eyes still closed, and tilts her head a little, then kisses him again, softer, more coaxing than insistent now.

And finally she feels it, the iron-clad control he has slipping away as he pulls her in, wrapping his arms tightly around her and then his mouth opens against hers and everything catches fire.

Hot, wet, sinuous kisses have set her nerve endings ablaze, and her nails are scoring his back now, as he slides her glasses up and off her head. They land with a soft clink on the counter, and then Oliver’s arms are tightening around her, and he lifts her and turns, settling her on the table too. Then he lets out a soft shuddering sound and his grasp slackens.

Felicity’s eyes open and he’s wincing, one hand rubbing at the stitches at his side.

“Oh. You’re hurt.” she gasps, her brain only able to form simple sentences. “Should we st-“

“No,” he interrupts her, practically growling the word as he reaches out and grasps her hips, wedging his own between her knees.

The urgency of it sends a thrill through her, even though it shouldn’t. She knows his desperation probably has more to do with him being something of a manwhore than any pent-up longing for her specifically. But tonight, she doesn’t care.

Felicity thinks it’s a good thing his shirt’s already off, and skims her palms down his body, saying a mental thank you to herself for having the genius to preserve the salmon ladder during the renovations a few months back. Her touch lightly traces sculpted abs, as his lips linger on the skin of her neck. He’s tracing patterns on her flesh with his tongue, which is really quite delightful and almost too distracting as she fumbles with the snaps on his uniform.

Oliver hums open-mouthed against her throat when she finally gets it open and slides a hand down that smooth plane of taut skin beneath his navel. It shouldn’t surprise her that he goes commando given how tight the leather pants are, but somehow it does. He goes as still as a statue when she wraps her hand around him, and when she starts to stroke, her fist jerking awkwardly due to the angle of their bodies, the only concessions to moving he’ll make are his hands clenching on her hips, fingertips digging into her ass.

She stops briefly, wondering if he doesn’t like it, if she’s doing it wrong (she hasn’t done this since high school, that one time with Joey Gannon behind the bleachers when-) but then he makes this noise that Felicity might even call a whimper if it were coming from anyone but Oliver Queen.

Intrigued, she squeezes him hard, once, and his shaft twitches in her hand.  Then she lets him go and just traces the tip of her fingernail up the pulsing vein on the underside of his hard length. Oliver shudders, his breath going hot and ragged against her neck before he grits out her name. “’Licity.” Even partially muffled by her skin, his voice is guttural, carrying a warning and a promise at once.

A furtive delight uncoils within her. Oliver Queen is a man of restraint and carefully bridled control. That she can take it from him like this— that he will simply stand here and let her—is more exciting than it should be. Felicity wriggles forward, her thighs splaying wider around his hips and Oliver, thankfully, is a quick study. His hands slide down under the floaty hem of her skirt and shoves it up till the material bunches at her hips, and together they wriggle, their hands scrabbling to shuck off her underwear. Then he’s pulling her towards him and up, lifting her clean off the table. The simple strength of it takes her breath away, but only for a moment, then she twists her legs around his hips and lowers herself, sliding onto him as he fills her.

They just stand there, him holding her locked around him, filling her, for a moment that stretches infinitely within the space of just a few seconds. Felicity gasps for breath, and squeezes her thighs around his hips, a keening sound slipping from her, and then he moves, edging her back onto the table and bending over her, his lips and stubbled jaw scraping her chest as he shifts, pistoning into her, slowly at first and then faster, more forcefully.

It doesn’t take much. Weeks, months, of foreplay has her arching and quivering, commands she never thought she’d get to make to him tumbling from her lips: harder, faster, there, right there, oh, Oh God, yes, yessss.

Thankfully, he proves to be as capable at following as he is at leading.

She comes first, which means she gets to watch as his face changes, his tense brow smoothes and his coiled muscles relax as his thrusts get shorter and shorter until finally his whole body tightens, then he just lets go with a harsh cry. He sinks into her, boneless and breathing heavy, and Felicity smiles.

She didn’t expect this, not now, not this way, but beneath everything, the weight of their tangled bodies and the satisfaction of knowing, there is a singular sort of… is it pride? Yes, pride.  For once, she hasn’t stood by helplessly helping, waiting and wanting and watching.

Oliver’s heartbeat thumps against her chest, and he stirs, nuzzling the crook of her neck, running his hands down her body again and again.

He spends a lot of time touching her.
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January 2015

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