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Felicity woke up, head pounding, in a bed that definitely wasn’t her own, (she knew her own pink flowery bedsheets by now), and her arse pulsing, for some odd reason. This was one of the strangest things she had ever found herself saying, and that was saying something.
She didn’t want to get up and face the day, as every hungover person said, but she had to. Her job wasn’t going to wait for her to get over her hangover.
She went into the kitchen, downed two Advil, before turning on the shower and hugging her now bare shoulders until the goose-bumps were gone.
The throbbing on her arse would not go away. That was a sentence she had never dreamed of saying, but here she was, saying it. She peered around, as best she could, and even though it was super uncomfortable, she could make out the now soggy bandage and a hint of black script.
She had gotten a tattoo. And judging by the pounding in her head, she had gotten it when she was totally and utterly drunk out of her mind, which would make it even better.
The next thing she would have to do made it to number one of the most embarrassing moments of her life, because it involved a lot of bending and three handheld mirrors in an elaborate setup that allowed her to see the words that were now imprinted forever on her arse.
It’s going to be something stupid, like Princess Leia or some tribal thing, she tried to reason, don’t panic. It’s highly unlikely that even the worst case scenario would be there.
And her brain was right. It wasn’t the worst case scenario, which would have been someone naked. It was something totally and utterly worse.
Oliver Queen, the neat little words read. That was the name of her boss, a man who had once given her energy drinks in a syringe and told her that he had spilt a latte on a laptop that was very obviously riddled with bullet holes.
His name was now forever tattooed onto her arse, and, if her reasoning was right, her name would be tattooed onto his.
There were flashes of last night, flashes that revealed more than they needed to, revealing to her the nature of her relationship with Oliver Queen, containing a handful of meetings and a very recent one night stand. She was well and truly, royally fucked.
On the other side of Starling City, Oliver Queen was also aware of the tattoo that was now prominent on his arse, and he was also coming to the conclusion that he was royally fucked.
He wasn’t going to escape from Felicity, no, considering that she worked for him. This would become a major scandal, if it wasn’t already, and he most definitely could not endanger her in what he did for a living, which was becoming less about running a successful business and more about stuffing criminals full of arrows.
And now, he was going to have this woman, who, admittedly, he had been lusting after for quite a while, come into his life, possibly demand compensation from him for rape or something else that she could create a scandal with.
This was the worst case scenario, besides being stranded on an island for five years, and his mother was most definitely going to kill him.
But he would deal with that later. First of all, he would try to settle this with just her and him, so that his mother would never have to find out that he got totally and utterly pissed and got a tattoo on his arse, because that would be the most embarrassing thing of his life.
When he got into work that day, he was confronted by the girl whose name was now on his arse, who was standing by his desk, holding a stack of files.
And god, she was stunning. She had the hangover air around her, the one with the bags under her eyes and the fact she was shying away from any form of light, but that didn’t make her any less beautiful in his eyes. Red, he noted, was a good colour on her.
“Mr Queen, may I have a word please?” she said when she noticed his presence in the doorway. He complied, walking into one of the meeting rooms with her.
“Two things,” she began the moment they were alone, suddenly a lot more forward now that they were alone. “One, I have your name tattooed on my arse. Two, I think you have my name tattooed on your arse. Three, yes three, I know I said two, what the fuck happened last night?
“I honestly have no clue other than the fact we might have had a one night stand that ended up with my name on your arse and your name on my arse,” Oliver replied blatantly, making Felicity’s lip twitch with the hint of a smile.
“Wait a second, make this one four, do you even have a hangover?” The hint of a smile was gone now, replaced with that sarcastic hate, something he was used to.
“I don’t get them much anymore, due to my ‘activities’ when I was younger,” he said, putting quotation marks around the word activity.
“Jesus Christ I hate you so much right now.”
“Have you tried drinking water?” he suggested.
“Yes, have you tried drinking water when you are absolutely pissed out of your mind?” She retorted.
“Good point,” he conceded.
“So where do we go from here?” She asked, watching Oliver’s face carefully. It was obvious what he would be expected to do, but honestly, she would be happy to go along with anything he came up with, because it meant for once that he was doing what he wanted to be doing instead of following on from someone else.
“Do you want to use this to create a scandal and blackmail money out of me?” He asked, which took her by complete surprise.
“Why would I want to do that?” She queried, confusion, worry and sadness mixed into her voice. She couldn’t even imagine living that life, where a single one night stand could impact the rest of your life, where there is scandal and photographers everywhere, and where a considerable amount of money is drained instantly from your bank, all because you slept with someone.
“That’s just what all of my other one night stands have done,” he said simply, and her heart dropped. He may be a tough billionaire, but somewhere inside those layers was a heart of gold, and Felicity wondered how people could be so selfish to take advantage of that.
“I’m going to say no, because I like my job,” she replied, wanting to take him off guard. Judging by the look on his face, she had definitely succeeded.
“That was the first time I have ever heard someone decline millions of dollars so they could keep working,” he said, trying to make light of the situation.
“Well, not all of us are cut out for the multibillion dollar corporate life, Mr Queen. If that is all…” She said, trying to excuse herself. After getting only a nod from Oliver, she made her way out to the door.
Oliver stood there for what seemed like a few eternities, though in the real world it was about three seconds, debating what he should do. He wanted to run after her, talk to her for longer, get to know her, but he couldn’t afford to get close to her, not with the life he lead. But there she was, just walking away from him and…
“Felicity wait!”
She stopped, turned around, her head cocked at an angle that made her seem even cuter, if that was even possible.
“Do you want to get a coffee with me? For the hangover of course,” he rushed to insist, making her smile.
“It would be my pleasure Mr Queen,” she replied cordially, grinning from ear to ear.
“Call me Oliver,” he added.
“I’d say call me Felicity, but I think you already are,” she grinned, making Oliver look down at the floor in mild embarrassment.
“Starbucks or Gloria Jeans?” He asked, not wanting to offend her by taking her to his favourite place, Gloria Jeans.
“Do you even have to ask? Starbucks all the way! Oh, I should not have been that enthusiastic,” she said, cradling her head in her hands as they walked.
He laughed properly for the first time in years.
Later, he’d realise that that tattoo was the best thing that had ever happened to him, which made him laugh again. He had just laughed more in one day than in the last five years. She just happened to have that impact on him.