Notes: SO. I completely changed my idea about this fanfic. This is the original, with the angsty ending and another follow up chapter. Then I decided to end it on a happy note because I wasn't sure if I was going to continue with it. Then I got a review that made me think ah the hell with it. I can finish this one. So here it is, the half changed fanfic. I'm still considering whether to turn this into a multi chapter or just leave it as it is (woe is me). I think this one is more in character too. I apologise for any confusion and I hope you still like this version better.

This is unbeta-ed so any mitakes are mine. Feel free to point out any errors so I can correct them!

Title from The Pierces' We Are Stars

We are oceans
Being controlled by the pull of one another

xxxx

"Watch your shoulders, you're telegraphing."

Felicity frowns at him, relaxes the hand she was about to close in a fist and takes a step back away from him. She's supposed to train with Diggle, she thinks and the voice in her head sounds too much like a petulant child. Oliver is rough, violent and his demands are more than she's used to. She thinks back to when Diggle warned her not to accept Oliver's offer and chastises herself for thinking that if she trained with Oliver she'd learn more. He doesn't hold back, Diggle had said. He doesn't go soft; he doesn't remember you're inexperienced.

If only she had listened.

"This isn't fun at all." Her voice comes out in a complaint and she takes a deep breath to hold back her frustration and pretends she hasn't lost count of how many times her face has been acquainted with the mat. "I don't know how to fight. I've never been into any fights! I'm a geek! I rewire things, I write computer codes. I don't hit people! Your psycho ex-girlfriend had no efforts into-" she interrupts herself when her brain registers the words she's just said and Felicity's eyes go wide as her mouth shuts in a tight line. Crap. "Sorry."

Oliver seems to consider her words, but his face doesn't tighten and his eyes don't turn hard and she takes it as a good sign; something pass over them, though, an emotion she can't capture quickly enough, maybe a memory that flashes in his eyes but are gone too fast. "You have to stop thinking about what you're going to do and just do it," he says instead of harsh words about things not being any of her business and she relaxes. "The longer you spend considering your options, the easier it is for me to read you." Oliver takes a fake long stride towards her, causing Felicity to jump back and glare at him.

"How am I supposed to hit you if I don't think about it?" How is she supposed to even concentrate on how she should hit him when he's shirtless and sweaty and his pants are riding so low around his waist that she has to force her eyes up on his face instead of his naked torso and exposed hipbones and all the things her body screams at her to do to him?

"Use your instincts." Her instincts constantly tell her she should remove any remaining piece of clothing from his body, but she isn't about to obey to that. This time Oliver takes a quick step in her direction, reaching out his right hand to grab her arm, but Felicity moves around the mat avoiding his move. "Don't let me crowd you. Don't let me get close enough unless you're ready."

His words hit a familiar chord and she tries not to think how they mean something else to her. How she's been trying so hard to ignore her increasing need to be close to him, to pull the long hours and often sleepless nights, endure moods and crises just to be around. It isn't all that bad though, because she's noticed she can make him smile, that while fighting a war they have become the only people they can really count on and when he isn't brooding and shifting the heavy weight on his shoulders he's charming and funny and happy.

"Circle through my outside," he says interrupting her thoughts and she copies his movements, keeping her eyes on him and watching for every change in his position. She manages to dodge his attack, jumping to her right but as she readies herself for her own attack against him he anticipates her move, grabbing her arm and twisting it around her body, his other arm locking her neck in a stranglehold.

"Umpf!" She loses her breath when he pulls her body against his with more violence than is strictly needed and his chest against her back and his arms around her body keep her from losing balance and meeting the mat again. He's warm and solid and she can feel him through her thin training tank top, his heartbeat against her ribs and his breathing against her ear. It sends a shiver through her body and she prays he doesn't notice the slight increase of her own heartbeat and the soft trembling of her body.

"You're too easy," he says but there's a hint of humor in his voice and Felicity feels a bubble of anger filling her chest. Her brain ignores the way he feels pressed against her, letting the frustration and annoyance take control and while he's distracted thinking he has her defeated again, Felicity twists her arm to free of his hold, turning around and kicking his legs from under him.

She can see the surprise flash in his eyes when she uses her weight to throw him down with her own body, swiftly straddling him and forcing her right arm against his neck until she can feel his windpipe being pressed down. "Gotcha!" The victorious smile that stretches across her face feels too sweet and she does nothing to hide her excitement. She took Oliver Queen down!

"Nice." He nods, tilting his head in acknowledgment and smiles back at her. He's proud, she can tell, and the look on his face fills her chest with something she refuses to admit. It's not like she needs his approval, but doing something that render Oliver surprised makes her feel accomplished, accepted. Noticed.

"I totally got you by surprise."

"You're always surprising me."

It's not the response she expects because she thought he'd refuse to admit to defeat. He'd make an excuse, tell her he let her win, or the very least flip her over as easily as if she's as weak and fragile as autumn leaves. He stays there, trapped under her body, his hands somehow resting against her hips without her even noticing he had moved them there, and telling her things that he has to know make her melt.

You're remarkable.

Happy Hanukah.

This bottle of wine is yours.

You can tell me about your day.

She knows he's just being friendly, trying to show he cares, but she can't help the way her heart leaps at every look and word directed at her, at every moment of attention he gives, every brush of his fingers against her or every smile throw in her direction. She stares down at him, at a loss of words, thinking once again she should have listened to Diggle. Training with him is easy, safe; he's handsome and well-built but her body doesn't respond to him the same way it does to Oliver, and neither does her heart.

Her arm leaves his neck and she splays her palms over his chest, fingers brushing against scars and marks he never talks about and feels his fingers tighten on her hips. Suddenly the air around them changes, it becomes heavier with electricity and she can almost hear it cackles; suddenly the heat between them is almost too hot to bear.

Then she feels something poke between her legs and realizes just where she's straddling him. Her cheeks are suddenly alight with fire and she can barely breathe, wishing the ground would open up and swallow her whole, cursing herself for being so pale and so stupid and so awkward. In the split second it takes her to realize what's happening, she considers her options, wondering if she'd be able to move off him and pretend nothing happened without feeling like dying every time she sees him.

Her brain screams at her to move away, move away, move away! But her body does something else without her permission. She doesn't mean to do it, she really doesn't, but she presses down against him, fingers curling around his shoulders, cheeks in flames, but the pressure between her legs feels so good and his body under her feels so solid and real and God, she's wanted to touch him for so long.

She expects him to pull her up and off him, to brush this incident as hazards of two very healthy and straight male and female partners training together, to try and ease the situation to not make her more embarrassed than she will make herself. She doesn't expect him to bring a hand to the back of her neck and pull her down, to clash their lips together and kiss her as if he's been yearning to do it for years.

He kisses her with the fervor of a hero leaving for war without the reassurance of coming back alive. Biting and sucking and grasping and groaning, giving himself fully when there's nothing to lose. He doesn't ask for permission to kiss her, lips and tongue meeting hers in anger and she feels the need coming off him in waves. His tongue is warm and his lips firm and damn he knows what he's doing, sweeping her mouth expertly, fingers pulling her hairband off and burying into her wild hair and his other arm sneaking around her waist, pulling her down to him.

Her hand rests against his left cheek in a softer, more restrained touch, feeling his stubble scratch against her palm and she discovers she loves the feeling of his five o'clock shadow against her skin. When he rocks his hips against her she moans into his mouth, losing her train of thought for a second, pulling away to look at him. Desire is pooling in her stomach and his eyes are dark with lust, heavy breathing, swollen lips and pink cheeks. He's something she'd call adorable on most days but right now she's so sexually aware that all she can think about is sex.

She sees the moment he makes a decision, accepting her silence and bewildered expression as the okay for him to go on. He grabs her hips and flips them over, pressing her down on the mat and claiming her mouth again. His hands slide up her legs, pulling them around his hips as he rocks against her again, fingers sneaking under her tank top and she shivers in anticipation, her body eager to feel him go further, to touch places she's been dreaming about being touched by him for longer than she allows herself to admit.

She locks her legs around his hips, adding more friction between them and she feels a jolt of electricity every time his hardness rubs between her legs. She needs their clothes to come off now but her thoughts are interrupted when his hand finds one of her breasts and squeezes it, pinching a nipple between his fingers. She moans again, she can't help it, and her brain goes into sensory overload. She has a half-naked Oliver above her, touching her body in ways she has only dreamed of, rough hands against her skin and his mouth making a trail of kisses and nipping down her neck.

He pulls back with some effort because she doesn't want to let go, but only long enough to remove her tank top leaving only her training bra. It's the direct skin to skin contact and the sudden absence of her clothing that makes her brain click.

What the hell is she doing?

"Oliver, stop." She finds that pushing him back isn't so easy because he's kissing every skin of her exposed chest and her body is so relaxed from pleasure she can't find the strength to actually push him away. "Oliver!" She says his name in a loud, authoritative tone, hoping it will be enough to bring his attention back.

"You want me to stop now?" He's almost in disbelief and she uses the opportunity to shove him off her and stand before she can change her mind.

"Oh God, I'm so stupid." She spots her top and picks it up, pulling it over her head. "So, so stupid."

"Felicity-"

"I don't know what came over me. This was stupid. I shouldn't – we shouldn't. This is why I should always train with Diggle. This is what my brain warned me about. I'm an idiot and you are an idiot. Oh God." She's almost in tears, looking for her headband before she realizes she doesn't care. Her face's probably flushed, swollen lips and wide eyes and sweaty skin, a wild disheveled hair is the least of her problems.

She never meant for it to happen like this: needy hands and desperate touches, fingertips sinking against scarred skin, printing themselves against marks and wounds, a mind so lost in the heat of urgent kisses she forgets why she can't.

This is Oliver Queen. He's way out of her league. Her boss. The Hood. The last person she should be attracted to. The person Diggle would warn her about for days. The person that would never look at her the way she wants him to, that would see this for what it is: sex and nothing else.

She can't do this, this casual thing. The no strings attached. To wave it off as one great night and keep on working next to him day after day and pretend nothing happened. She wants Oliver for who he is, his moods and his scars and his revenge, his desire to turn this city better, his intelligence and sense of honor, the person he is now and the person he can be.

She wants him and she can't deal, will never be able to deal with his look after everything's done, after the adrenaline has worn off and she has to face reality. A reality in which he doesn't see the two of them together.

"Felicity." He touches her arm, gentle fingers around her wrist and it still makes her jump. "Are you okay?"

"I'm sorry. I need to go. This was a very bad idea."

"Don't do this," he says and she turns to him, already halfway across the room. "Don't run away."

Yes, she's running away, she's good at that. That's why she prefers computers to people, to complicated people leading to complicated relationships because computers don't take you by surprise, they can't hurt you and disappoint you and turn your life upside down until you're about to puke. If they give you problems you can just recode them and be done with it.

She's scared, terrified of jumping and not having him to catch her. Of being put second to the vigilant and the city and waking up one day to see he got bored. She knows it isn't fair to him, but he isn't in a place where a relationship with her of all people is something he even considers. She isn't his kind of girl. Laurel and McKenna and Helena are proof of that. She knows she's selling herself short, but that's okay because she's always sold herself short.

"This was a mistake. I really need to go. Good night."

She grabs her bag from the desk and doesn't bother to change, almost runs up the stairs, making a quick exit before Oliver has time to follow her. She still catches his face as she's pulling the door close, a hurt expression in his eyes and she feels horrible for leaving him.

You're doing the right thing, she tells herself. For yourself and for him.