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Author's Note: Set during "Warrior" and contains excerpts from the teleplay written by Bryan Q. Miller. Beta'd by the fabulous Misty, Queen of a Lost Art, and Life on Queen.
Oliver Queen releases the arrow just as the double doors of the Watchtower open and Chloe Sullivan comes striding through. She jumps at the sound of the arrow hitting the target, first yellow ring. Still not centre.
"Slow night?" she asks as she unfastens her coat.
"Figured I'd squeeze in some target practice... and a single malt." He indicates the bottle with a tilt of his head.
"Did you bring enough for the rest of the class?" He can't help but notice the colour of her blouse as she folds her coat over her arm. She's been wearing a lot of green lately. He's not exactly complaining.
"Hey, help yourself, Professor." He raises the bow, eyes on the target instead of her back as she takes the bottle and glass. "You're running a little low on allegory tonight. Bumpy day?"
Second yellow circle. Closer. Get your head in the game, Ollie.
"Not the smoothest. Someone asked me when the last time I had a good time was..."
He hears her shoes hit the floor, followed by the sound of liquor splashing against the side of a cut-crystal glass.
The glasses had been a wedding present—one of the few to have survived the wedding. He wished he'd gone for a blender, instead.
"...and I didn't have an answer."
There's something about the sad self-deprecating resignation in her voice that makes him pause in the act of nocking an arrow to the bowstring.
He turns, forcing a smile as he watches her as she lifts the glass to her lips.
"I don't think anyone can fault you for being on the edge, Chloe." He turns back to the target before his expression can give him away. "Hell, if anyone can relate it's me. I get it."
She chuckles. "Yeah, you can."
He takes a deep breath as he draws the bowstring back to his jaw, trying to make what he says next sound breezy, casual, not at all like he's actually taking a chance.
"You know... sometimes you got to take your fun—" Breathe out. Let Go. First yellow circle. Not centre. Dammit, Queen. "—where you can get it."
He reaches for another shaft, and his hands are steady, not even the slightest tremor. But his heart is slamming in his chest like he's run a marathon.
"And sometimes... it's right in front of your face." He risks looking back at her. "You just have to want to see it."
She smiles, and it's a real smile, no longer a sad self-mocking smile that is her permanent expression these days. She raises the glass to her mouth once more, takes another swallow of 12-year-old Glenlivet, then sets it on the coffee table. The sound of it hitting the wood like finality, his eyes linger on the glass just that second too long.
She pads over on bare feet, and he holds out the bow, an arrow still nocked to the bowstring.
He lifts and repositions her elbow as an excuse to touch her. Fingers slide along her skin, still chilled from being outside, and he presses himself against her back. Without her heels, the top of her head barely comes to his shoulder.
His hand over hers, he lends her his strength as she draws the bow, her arm trembling with the strain. Even though it's a compound, the draw weight might be nothing to him but it's something to her. Her arm will ache in the morning, if they continue.
"How do I know when to let go?" she asks.
"It's all about your heart." He covers her fingers with his, his breath stirring her hair. "Just listen—right there in between the beats."
She turns her head in slow motion, like she's underwater, watching his hand where it rests lightly on hers. He wonders if she can feel his pulse hammering against her wrist.
"That's when you let go," he says, and they both know they're not talking about paper targets and arrows anymore.
She swallows, as if her throat is dry. He feels it all the way to his toes.
He keeps his right hand curled around her wrist, holding up the bow, and drops the hand which had been stroking her fingers as if it had a mind of its own. Staying pressing against her back, his free hand slides down to grip her hip.
He tells himself it's so she won't strike the inside of her forearm with the bowstring.
The arrow hits the second blue concentric circle of the target with a dull thud. Not the centre. Not on her first try. That only happens in movies.
There's no second try. She turns in his arms, satin blouse sliding against his skin and he's kissing her almost before his registers the fact that this is what he'd intended from the second he cocked his head and said "C'mon".
She tastes of whisky and lip gloss. Her mouth is moving against his and the bow is still in her hands. It's awkward, and they break apart, their breathing slow and careful.
She tilts her head back, watching him as he takes the bow from her unresisting fingers, laying it across the table next to his still half-full glass. Her pupils are blown, darkness rimmed by a halo of green.
He keeps expecting her to say "Stop", "Wait", or "We shouldn't be doing this."
His every move is calculated to give her a chance to stop him. Her belt hits the floor, the metal buckle making a sharp sound like a bell. Then her round, firm breasts press up against his chest as she gets up on her tiptoes and wraps her arms around his neck.
She nips at his lower lip with her teeth, playful at first, until her mouth is hot and hungry against his. Her tongue strokes into his mouth, her short nails digging into the nape of his neck as she backs them toward the low sofa, leaving all the chances to pretend this isn't happening in their wake.
His fingers find the zipper of her pencil skirt, slide it down so she can step out of the circle of cloth on the floor next to her discarded shoes. She peels the black tee-shirt away from his skin, and he tosses it over her shoulder, aiming for the ottoman where the green leather of his uniform is half-hidden by his jacket.
He misses. She laughs, and suddenly he can breathe again.
He catches her around the waist and she falls with him, scattering embroidered cushions as they go. The hem of her blouse skims creamy white thighs firm with muscle, and he catches a glimpse of her red panties as she straddles his hips, knees settling on either side of him. He slides his hands up her sides, taking the olive green blouse with them. He feels her shiver as his callused fingertips trace her ribs, and she raises her arms so he can lift the blouse over her head. She shakes tousled blonde curls out of her eyes and drapes her arms around his neck.
"Something wrong?" She quirks an eyebrow.
"Just admiring the view," he says, and means it. He'd always taken her for a no-frills, all-support kind of girl, so the red lace cupping possibly the most perfect breasts he's ever seen surprises him. As does the hand she slips between them to undo his belt and fly while he's gawking.
He really should stop letting Chloe Sullivan take him by surprise, he thinks but doesn't say because his mouth is full, tonguing the a nipple through the thin barrier of lace.
"You're not so bad yourself," she says, a tremor in her voice as he tugs the lace aside to swirl his tongue around the puckered nub. He pinches its mate between two fingers in a way that makes her back arch.
She reaches behind her for the clasp, and he moves just far enough away that the straps can slide down her arms. There's some giggling as she struggles out of the bra, and one strap ends up around her wrist until she flings it away to land God knows where. He's too busy trying to see if he can make her come just from playing with her breasts, and from the low keening sounds she makes, he might be well on his way.
"One of us is wearing too many clothes," she gasps out, tugging on his short blond hair until he comes up for air.
"Always focussed on logistics, you just can't go with the flow," he jokes, amazed he can still speak as she writhes against him.
He tips his head back, body following until he is pressed against the sofa cushions, one hand splayed across her lower back. She chases his mouth, letting him kiss the smiling corner of her mouth. She wiggles against him, and then squeals as he lifts his hips so he can push his jeans down over his thighs.
The warm weight of her shifts, and he groans at the lack of contact until she turns to lay down on the sofa, head pillowed on her crumpled jacket. He toes off his shoes, peeling off his socks one by one, and shucks his jeans.
"Why am I not surprised you go commando?" she says, hitching herself up on her elbows. He grabs two of the cushions off the sofa, tossing them to her. She tucks one behind her head, and lets the other fall to the floor.
"You gotta be ready for action at a moment's notice." He cringes at how that sounds. "Except, I um... didn't exactly follow the Boy Scout motto tonight."
"What, no emergency condom in your wallet?" she asks, teasing, and he blushes like a kid. Any other woman, he'd have planned this far ahead. Not her. This is Chloe. This is Watchtower. They aren't like that. Except now they are, and he's not exactly complaining.
"I came here for target practice, remember?" he reminds her, and is rewarded with a snort of laughter. "What? That would be like the world's worst porno." He drops his voice to a gravely baritone, "Hey baby, wanna see the size of my utility belt?"
She wraps one small hand around his half-hard cock, which twitches in her grasp. "I'm on the pill, and I know you're clean. I have all the team's medical data on file, remember?"
He shook his head. "You know, any other time I'd probably be mildly creeped out by that, but right now, I just find it incredibly sexy."
She pumps him twice and runs her thumb over the head, her small pink tongue darting out to moisten her lips.
"Uh-uh." He grasps her wrist, and she raises a brow. Oliver Queen, turning down head. Another sign of the End Times.
"This is going to be over way too quickly if you have your way." He leans down, mouth right next to her ear. "And I want to have my way with you for a change."
He licks the curve of her ear, grasping the lobe between his teeth, and a shudder runs through her.
"Oh really?" she asks, running her foot up his leg. "How long have you been planning this, Mr Queen?"
"Since you walked through that door and demanded I share my booze," he replies truthfully, silencing whatever she might have said next with a long, wet kiss.
He thanks whatever God exists in the heavens that the sofa is deep enough that he can straddle her without toppling over the edge. He pins her wrists to the arm of the sofa with one hand, and she retaliates by hooking one leg around his waist. He feels her hot and damp against his thigh and makes a strangled sound low in his throat as she rocks against him.
Releasing her wrists, he presses another kiss to her mouth, her tongue darting out to trace his lips, but he's on the move. He is a man with a mission and cannot be stopped. He nips at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, while one hand curves around a breast the other kneads her hip with steady pressure. She gasps as he slides down her body, trailing kisses between her breasts and down her sternum, tongue dipping into her navel. She arches her back, reaching for him blindly, one hand gripping his shoulder. He catches her other hand with his, threading his fingers through them.
"You don't—" she starts to say, and he knows the rest of that sentence is headed so he raises his head just long enough to look into her eyes.
"Oh, yes I do. God, you have no idea," he murmurs against her skin before reaching up to hook his thumbs beneath the flimsy fabric of her panties which, he notes with amusement, match her bra. She shivers, gooseflesh along her arms and thighs as he draws the silk down her legs, and he knows it's not from the chill of the Watchtower.
He just drinks in the sight of her, counts the scattering of tiny moles on the inside of her thigh like a constellation. Watches the way her breasts rise and fall with each breath, the red mark on her shoulder from one of her bra straps standing out against her pale skin. She's beautiful in a way he's unused to, with lines of muscle beneath rounded curves. The flare of her hips and breadth of her shoulders are voluptuous compared to some of the women's he's been with, but her tiny frame makes him feel like she's delicate. Fragile. But the way she presses her thighs against him forcibly reminds him she's not made of glass and she's anything but fragile.
The sounds she makes as he spreads her with his fingers almost makes this whole encounter embarrassingly brief. She bucks against him with a strangled gasp as he gets that first taste, sliding the point of his tongue between her folds, flicking her clit with his tongue. He doesn't think he's ever been so hard, but he's pretty sure that it's been a long time for her. Running his fingers through the damp dark blonde curls he finds her wet but, as he slips a finger inside her, so tight. Too tight. And he thinks he knows the best way to relax her.
He reaches up to grip her calf, caressing the muscles with one hand before draping her leg over his shoulder. She jams the other foot into the space between the cushions and his thigh, bracing herself so she still has a tiny bit of leverage. With a wicked grin, he grabs that ankle and pulls it up high before sliding his hand down to rest against her inner thigh, pushing her open wider and completely at his mercy. She makes a tiny sound of annoyance that descends into a moan as he slides the flat of his tongue all the way from the knuckle of his finger still buried inside her to her clit, feeling her clench around him.
She shouts a curse and then his name, and it only spurs him on. Working a second finger inside her, Oliver pumps them in and out in time to his tongue on her clit. The sounds she's making tell him exactly what she likes, how hard, how fast, and he does his best to comply. But he likes pushing her buttons, and purposely goes that little bit too far, that little bit too fast, just to feel her trembling against him. He glances up to see her head thrown back, eyes squeezed tightly shut and mouth open as she draws in gasping breaths. He sucks on her clit, teasing it with the tip of his tongue. She makes a strangled sound like a sob.
Lifting his mouth, he breathes "C'mon, Chloe. C'mon," against her as he curls his fingers inside her, and then slides them in and out harder, faster. Her hips jerk in time to the rhythm he's setting, her breasts bobbing, and he swears to God it's one of the hottest thing he's ever seen. And that includes those two Cirque du Soleil acrobats in Vegas that one time.
"I—I—" she stutters, a deep flush staining her chest and neck pink. "I'm going to—"
"It's okay, come on, baby. Come for me." He repeats the same words in different patterns as his wrist starts to cramp, but he keeps going until she shakes apart beneath his fingers. There are tears clinging to her lashes, which hits him like a fist to the gut.
He sucks his fingers clean, and then traces her swollen bottom lip with the pads of his fingertips. She opens her eyes, locks on his and then grips his wrist, taking both fingers in her mouth and sucking on them. Hard. Whatever blood left in his brain goes straight to his cock.
He grips the arm of the sofa above her head with one hand, and uses the other to guide himself into her slowly. She gasps, nails digging so hard into his shoulders he won't be able to go without a shirt for weeks unless he wants people to see the marks. He's starting to think he might.
"Are you okay?" he asks, mouth inches from hers.
She nods, and he slides all the way in and stops, letting her get used to the size and feel of him. She breathes through her nose, quick breaths that tell him she's isn't okay—not quite. He's about to repeat the question when she lifts her hips, grinding against him.
"God, don't stop. Please, Oliver. Please." Her voice is rough with desperation, and that's all he needs to pull halfway out and thrust back inside.
She wraps her legs around him, pushing back against his thrusts and he slams into her, the wet sound of flesh and against flesh almost drowned out by their combined moans and gasps. He lifts her hips, adjusting the angle, and she's making little hiccuping sounds with each thrust.
He wants to make it last forever but he was too close before, and now that he's inside her, he's lost. The best he can manage is to reach between them and keep working her clit as he comes, "God, Chloe," the only coherent words he can form as he rests his forehead against the arm of the couch, sweat dripping off him and sports dancing before his eyes.
He gathers her up in his arms, rolling them over on their sides so they're lying like spoons in a drawer. He pulls her against his chest with an arm locked around her waist and his hand drifts down her stomach to finish what he'd started.
Her second orgasm isn't as hard or loud as the first—a series of shocks that travel through her until she's glassy eyed and boneless. She tucks her head beneath his chin like she's done it a thousand times, and strokes the base of his thumb with hers. His throat is suddenly raw, and he drops a kiss to her shoulder.
"So... this is new," he says and her laugh is almost silent, but he can feel it in the way her stomach muscles clench beneath his hand. "Where do we go from here?"
"I don't know about you, but I'm thinking pancakes."
Oliver rolls his eyes. "Gee, don't go all serious on me, Sidekick."
She turns in his arms, pillowing her head on his bicep, and traces the curve of his cheek in the dim light. He brushes damp curls back from her forehead, and she leans up to kiss him.
"You're not taking advantage of the grieving widow, Oliver," she assures him, eyes heavy with sleep. "I wanted it as much as you did. I needed this."
Her voice breaks a little on need and he wants to say so do I.
He kisses her instead, and reaches for her half-finished whisky.
ljc's smallville fan fiction