My rumblings and musings, as well as fan-girl appreciation, for all things pop culture.
Olicity au: blind date
Pink Drinks and Pick-Up Lines, rated PG-13 for sexiness and some swearing. No warnings. Felicity notices a guy brooding at a bar. Things get fun.
((A person often meets his destiny on the road he took to avoid it. — Jean de La Fontaine))
By her estimation, it took her half of a pink martini (her first, since math seemed important whenever alcohol was involved) to notice Broody Guy. How she missed him before that was a little bit of a mystery because he was only two stools away and he was kind of a big guy. Big in an “I work out” way, not in a “I eat nachos for every meal not-that-there’s-anything-wrong-with-that” way. He leaned forward with his elbows on the bar, hands clasped together in front of a whiskey, and she entertained the thought that his face would look so much more handsome without the frown.
She didn’t say that aloud because while it was annoying, at least her habit of splashing everything in the vicinity with far too many words had some sense of self-preservation. Instead, she finished the pink martini and wondered what he was brooding about.
He didn’t touch the whiskey, not once. He didn’t look up or check his watch or play with his phone, so he either wasn’t waiting for somebody to arrive or he was just one of those incredibly rare patient people. Felicity was not one of those people. She also hated mysteries and by the middle of her second pink martini, Broody Guy was becoming a little bit too big of an enigma.
So she turned to him and said the first thing that came to mind: “I’m sorry, sir, you’re going to have to leave.”
"Please tell me you were a cruise ship singer in a past life."
(I’m sorry, I simply had to go with ohemgeeitscoley's Flommy roadtrip AU)
Tommy stopped short as he exited the motel bathroom ahead of a cloud of steam, his sweatpants slung low on his hips and his tee shirt draped over his shoulder as he toweled his damp hair.
Felicity lay on her stomach on the bed nearest the bathroom, bare feet in the air and crossed at the ankles, her arms folded in front of her breasts—creating an attractive decolletage above the scoop neckline of her tanktop that Tommy was definitely not noticing—elbows propping her up as she grinned at him, her fraying braid over her shoulder.
Tommy blinked, eyebrows coming together as a crooked, confused smile spread over his face. “I’m sorry, what?”
She grinned wider, tossing her head in the direction of the bathroom. “I heard you in there. Was that Sinatra? Seriously, Tommy? All this time you’ve had this amazing voice. You’ve been holding out on me.”
Tommy felt his ears pinken—though he couldn’t be certain if this was because she’d heard him, her compliment, or the way her eyes slid down his damp chest and lower before quickly darting back up to rest on his face—and tucked his lips in as he smiled at her. “You enjoyed that, huh?”
Felicity’s eyebrows shot up incredulously. “Are you surprised? Tommy, if that bathroom were a stage, I would feel obligated to throw my panties at you. You are really good.”
Tommy snapped his fingers exaggeratedly, shaking his head. “Ah, for want of a stage!” She rolled her eyes, and he chuckled. “I’m not formally trained or anything. Well, not really. Not since I was a kid.”
He moved to sit on the corner of the bed opposite hers, smile broadening in amusement as she shuffled along the scratchy bedspread to stay facing him. She propped her chin on her fists, smiling and brows up, clearly encouraging him to continue.
His smile softened, eyes going a little distant as he rubbed at his hair absently with the tiny motel towel. “My mother was professionally trained. Huge fan of music, loved Ella Fitzgerald, Nina Simone, all of that stuff. When I was a little kid, we’d sing together, she’d coach me.” His smile dimmed, eyes on the tacky, stained, low-pile beige carpet. “After she died, I didn’t sing at all for like two years. Then, on the third anniversary of her death, I shut myself up in her closet and played her records and sang and sang until my voice went out. Then I’d sing in the shower. Or in the car, or just whenever I was thinking about her.
"I didn’t do it to be good at it; I did it because I loved, because she loved it and we loved it together. I taught myself to get better at it to sort of, I don’t know, honor her, I guess." He smiled, sad and fond, and lifted his gaze back to Felicity’s face; she watched him raptly, in quiet, solemn attentiveness. "I don’t do it much, around people. Oliver and Laurel, some. I used to sing to Thea a little, when she was really small. It’s just… it’s private."
He watched Felicity flush and his brows drew in as she bit her lip, dropping her gaze like she was ashamed. “I’m—I’m sorry, Tommy, I didn’t mean to listen in, or—or make you uncomfortable. I shouldn’t have teased. I didn’t realize. It’s just that you sing so beautifully, and it was surprising, but really wonderful, and… I’m sorry.”
He shook his head, reaching across the short distance between them to lay his hand atop hers where her fingers nervously plucked at each other. “Hey. Why are you sorry?”
She looked up and he was startled to see her eyes damp, a truly miserable expression pulling on her features. “You said it was private, and it’s obviously really personal to you, and I didn’t mean to intrude. It’s something special you only share with—with people like Oliver, and Laurel, and I shouldn’t have said anything.”
Tommy frowned, squeezing her hands. “Felicity, stop. It is private. I only sing around people I’m really comfortable with. I wouldn’t have done it where you might overhear if I wasn’t comfortable with you.” She frowned at him uncertainly, and he sucked in a breath, struck not for the first time by how unbelievable it was, the way she consistently undervalued herself and pushed herself to the side—before anyone else could do it to her, he’d guess. “I mean it, Felicity. We share a car most hours of the day, and a single motel room more nights than not. We lumped our whole unknown futures in together on this little road trip, and you think you don’t count as—as close enough to me to share something like this with?”
She looked down, unable to hold his gaze, and shrugged a little. He slipped his fingers into her palms, encompassing both of her hands in his grip and rubbing his thumb along the knuckles of her left hand. “Felicity, you matter. That’s not something you’re ever gonna have to doubt again, okay?”
Felicity said nothing and he sighed, content enough in the victory that she didn’t argue with him or brush his words aside—for now. Determined to ease the mood, he pulled his hand from hers and slipped into his tee shirt. Head popping free of the collar, he scrubbed his fingers through his damp hair, watching her lips tug at the way it spiked up wildly all over, and he grinned at her. “So, cruise ship singer?”
Her smile expanded, a little bashfully. “What, would you prefer Vegas casino lounge singer?”
To be answered and completed with grace and understanding on both sides of opinions expressed: Let your opinions pour out, but you don’t have to be a dick about it now do you? And you may severely disagree with someone but are you really going to unfollow or bug them about it? That said, answer and read at your own discretion.
1. A selection of television programs you do not care for.
2. A selection of musical artists you do not care for.
3. A selection of celebrities you couldn’t care less about.
4. A hobby you “don’t get”.
5. A habit you find disgusting.
6. Something in school you really liked doing that everyone else bitched over.
7. Your favorite household chore.
8. Popular video games that make you go “meh”.
9. PC or MAC?
10. A sport you don’t like, for whatever reason.
11. A sport you really like, for whatever reason.
12. Television programs you love but have gotten shit for liking.
13. Musical artists you love but have gotten shit for liking.
14. A hobby you have/find interesting that other people bother you over/make fun of.
15. A habit you have that other people bug you over.
16. Something in school you hating doing and it felt like everyone else loved.
17. The household chore that makes you want to shoot your own face off.
18. A selection of video games that you enjoy that perhaps you really shouldn’t.
19. A celebrity crush that maybe even you don’t understand.
20. Free rant on whatever grinds your gears at the moment.
Happy: Happy - Leona Lewis
Love: Accidentally In Love - Counting Crows
Hate: Hate (I Really Don’t Like You) - Plain White T’s
Light: All Of The Lights - Kanye West
Dark: Called Out In The Dark - Snow Patrol
Good: All Good Things - Mandy Moore
Bad: Bad - The Cab
Smile: Smile - Lily Allen
Cry: Cry - Mandy Moore
Girl: Girl - Jim Sturgess
Boy: American Boy - Estelle feat. Kanye West
casino AU in which felicity is a mysterious woman oliver sees every night and they catch each other's eyes and smile and eventually they talk and flirt and laugh but he still doesn't know her name; and eventually they have this tremendous sex but she leaves while he's sleeping and then they see each other again after two months and he's still madly in love w this woman whose name he doesn't know because well oliver queen is a gambling man and clearly so is felicity
Oliver’s not sure exactly what he’d expected from this meeting, but outright hostility probably wasn’t it. Possibly he’s missing something important. Possibly he’s been an asshole without meaning to. It wouldn’t exactly be the first time.
"So, do you kidnap and detain all the women you sleep with, or am I just lucky?" Felicity waves away the water he offers, folding her arms protectively across her chest. Her dress is blue tonight, with black lace sleeves, and this little hat thing perched on the back of her head. She looks like an extra in a Stevie Nicks video from 1985, the whole effect is ridiculously charming.
"Very lucky," Oliver says, neglecting her glass to pour himself some water instead. He’s definitely going to need it. "Seven grand lucky, tonight alone. Quite the take."
"I’m good at blackjack."
"Incredibly good," he agrees. "Over a hundred total, in the past four months. That’s incredibly, amazingly good."
Felicity shifts in her seat slightly, her first sign of a flinch. “Uh huh.”
“Counting cards good, one might even say.”
"Oh." She blinks once, twice, scraping her teeth across her bottom lip. Oliver tries not to stare. "So this actually isn’t about—um—"
"How you slept with me, then snuck out of my room before I woke up and disappeared for three weeks?" Oliver shrugs. "Not technically."
Felicity sniffs disapprovingly. “If you’re about to make some gross blackmail offer thing, I’m gonna stop you right here, buddy—”
"I only meant that I’ve been cutting you a lot of slack," he said pointedly. "Anyone else would’ve been arrested weeks ago."
"Arrested, right," Felicity says flippantly. "That’s why you keep interrogation rooms below the casino floor? Anyone else would’ve been dumped out the back door with a broken nose by now, more like."
"This is a file room,” Oliver says, sort of offended. “The table’s for my security guys, they play cards down here when they’re on break. This isn’t Ocean’s Eleven, for fuck’s sake.”
Felicity blinks again. “Oh.”
"The bouncers are real, though." Oliver shrugs. "Can’t be a real casino without some wise guy types."
Felicity taps one fingernail against her arm, eyeing the door. “Right.”
"And I didn’t kidnap you."
"I beg to differ!"
"It was a very—light kidnapping,” he insists. “Look—that’s not the point, my point is—stop stealing from me, Felicity. If we’re not going to flirt anymore then it just looks bad.”
"Who said—I mean." Felicity looks a little flustered, the first time he’s seen it since that night, clutching at the lapel of his suit and jabbering nervously about nothing. “You knew all along?”
"Of course I did." Oliver sighs, taking a long drink of water. The room feels somewhat oppressive, especially with the table so small, he can feel the hem of her dress brush against his leg when she moves. Maybe she has a point about the interrogation room thing. "I rather thought you did too. I thought it was part of…" he gestures helplessly, unable to come up with a suitable phrase to describe the…whatever the hell it is that they’ve been doing for the past four months.
(Digg’s term for it had been “fucked up rich white people flirting.” Oliver thinks that’s about as close to accurate as it gets.)
"Oh. No." She bites her lip again, looking distinctly nervous now. "No, I was just stealing from you."
"Yeah." She fidgets a little. Oliver really wishes he didn’t find it that cute. "I mean—if it makes it better, it’s for my mom? She’s sick. I needed—there’s this treatment that could help her, but it’s sort of experimental and insurance won’t cover it. I was kind of desperate."
"She’s sick?" Of course she is. "What does she have?"
"Huntington disease." Felicity pauses. "Look, I’ll—I’d give the money back, but I already used most of it for the hospital bills. I can do something else, though, I’ll…work it off or something, but please don’t send me to jail, okay, if I’m not around they’ll put her in a home or something, and—"
"I’m not going to send you to jail," Oliver says irritably, definitely offended now. "And I’m not going to make you work it off, either, at least not…the way you’re apparently thinking, Jesus.”
"Well, I don’t know," Felicity says, flustered, "I just—"
"Watch too many movies?" Oliver scowls. "Obviously."
"I’m sorry," she replies, kind of small and ashamed. Something in Oliver’s chest flinches. "I really am. I didn’t—I didn’t know what else to do."
Oliver sighs, taking a moment to rub his forehead tiredly. His mother is never going to let him hear the end of this one. “Okay. Okay, how much do you still need?” Felicity snaps her head up and gapes at him. “Your mother’s treatment—do you still owe money for it?”
"I—yes," she stammers, "there’s about thirteen grand left, not counting the seven I won tonight. What—"
Oliver pulls out his phone, tapping out a message to McKenna. “Smoak is your mom’s name as well, I assume?”
"Yes—no, wait, are you seriously just going to give me the money?" Felicity asks, aghast. "You can’t!"
"Well, you need it. I have it."
"I can’t accept that from you," she says emphatically. "No. That’s way too much, no."
"So you were okay with…cheating me for it,” Oliver says slowly, one eyebrow raised, “but just accepting it as an outright gift—that’s going too far?”
"Well, I was—earning it, sort of," Felicity says weakly. "It’s—you’re just doing this because we slept together."
"I’m doing this because we’re friends," Oliver stresses, "sort of. Friends who…slept together."
"I barely know you."
"But we did sleep together.”
Felicity huffs in frustration. “Why are you being so nice? This is ridiculous.”
"Why are you being so difficult?” Oliver shoots back. “Look—I consider you a friend, whether the reverse is true or not. I let you keep taking home all that money because I liked you, and it wasn’t enough to affect my bottom line, so it didn’t matter. And I don’t know what’s different about this situation now, other than the fact that we’re both finally on the same page, so…”
Felicity looks up at the ceiling, muttering something under her breath, too quiet for Oliver to catch. “I can’t,” she says haltingly, “I can’t let you just—it’s not—”
Oliver lets her stumble into silence, watching the struggle on her face. He sighs. “How about a compromise, then,” he offers. “You’re studying computer science at UNLV, correct?”
"How did you…" Felicity makes a face. "Oh. Right. Yes."
"So my Lead Cyber Security Engineer just quit. Come work for me, and consider the money an advance on your first month’s salary."
“Month’s," Felicity repeats incredulously. "Are you—you’re serious. You just happen to have a job opening in the exact field that I’m studying. Right at this moment.”
Quit, about to be fired, whatever. The guy’s been getting on McKenna’s nerves for months now; she’ll probably throw a party when he tells her. If he lets her do the firing himself, she might even cry. “Yes.” He smiles innocently. “Why, does that seem odd?”
"I…" Felicity shakes her head, pressing her fingertips to her chin. "I can’t believe this is actually happening."
Oliver takes another drink of water in an attempt to hide his nerves. This is, if even possible, worse than waking up to an empty bed, that gradual, sinking feeling of rejection that only kept intensifying every night that she didn’t show up, a flash of blonde hair and bright color out of the corner of his eye. He wants to ask why she’d left, but the answer seems plainly obvious now—it wasn’t about him. It was never about him.
He’s not exactly used to rejection, being a wealthy, handsome man, to say the least. But then again, he’s not used to liking someone this much, either. Firsts come in groups, apparently.
"It is a real job," she asks cautiously, "like you’re not just—making up some bullcrap title to get me to take the money?"
"It is absolutely a real job," Oliver says. "Full benefits, two weeks of paid vacation a year, the whole nine yards. We’ll work around your school schedule, if you need to. We’ve got excellent health insurance, too, for your mother. If you need it."
"How do you know I’m good enough?" she asks. "What, did you look up my grades when you ran your rich casino boss background check on me?"
Yes, actually. That’s one of those things that she’s probably better off not knowing, though. “You were counting cards from memory,” he says, “and I don’t know how many times you’ve gone off on tangents about this or that in conversation with me. I may not be a computer genius, but I know enough to recognize one when I see her.”
"Okay," Felicity says, "that’s—okay."
"It’s a deal?"
Felicity reaches out and shakes his hand. “I guess,” she says, still sounding somewhat incredulous. “I’m not taking the advance though. I’ll wait for the paycheck.”
"Sure," he says indulgently, "whatever you say."
"And here I thought I was gonna get my kneecaps broken," she jokes. "Now I’m a high-paid professional in the gambling industry. How about that."
Oliver winces internally. Literally nobody is going to let him hear the end of this. Digg’s probably laughing at him already. “Right.”
"Thank you." She smiles, this big, hopeful thing that makes her look younger than he knows she is. There’s a smudge of lipstick on her teeth that Oliver can’t stop looking at; it’s incredibly endearing, the way she’s always so almost-flawlessly put together. “I—I really do appreciate it. And—I’m sorry again. For…you know, cheating you out of a bunch of money and then thinking you were going to break my kneecaps.”
"I like your kneecaps," Oliver says, unable to help himself. "I wouldn’t break them, if I had them."
Felicity blushes a little. “Um. Right.”
"Besides," Oliver says, determinedly pushing past the tense silence that threatens to fall, "my father always said that if I ever found someone who managed to cheat the system and get away with it, I should hire them on the spot."
"I thought you said you knew all along?"
"Not the first time," Oliver replies, a little wistfully. "That first night—you won."
She grins. It’s probably his favorite look on her, yet.