I do not own the characters, settings or storylines of "Arrow". No copyright infringement is intended and no monetary gain is sought from this work of creative license. This story is rated M for strong sexual content. You've been warned. Also, this story is, obviously, non-canon.


In the darkness he is ruthless. He identifies a target and stalks it until the climatic ending. It has been that way since the island, since he returned, since she first came to understand what it was he did here in his man-made cave.

He's come in from the night dripping rainwater onto the cold concrete floor. There's a cut above his eye, again. She rises to grab the first aid kit, but his glare and Diggle's actions send her back into her chair. The older man tosses the bandages and salves to the hooded figure and stalks out without even wishing her a good night. She knows, then, that they have argued and neither one is satisfied with the outcome.

He marches around throwing off clothing and weapons. For all of that, for all of his rage, though, he is quiet. She would have been muttering, gesticulating with hands as words tumbled from her lips. All of his tortured dialogue remains locked in his head.

Her chair squeaks when she shifts her weight. His head snaps around. Blue eyes drill into hers, daring her to comment. She does not.

"Come here," he growls in the voice of the night. This is the voice the dark ones hear, the one they fear.

A smart woman would, should, run. She does not. She crosses the floor to him, her heels echoing in regular rhythm. It's good, she thinks, that her shoes are so loud, it covers the pounding bass beat of her heart. When she reaches him, before he can snap at her, or order her away, or do anything at all, she reaches up and gently strokes a finger over the bandaged cut.

His breath hisses out. He sucks in another, making his bare chest expand perilously close to her pink sweater clad form. He needs to send her away. He should send her away. He is dangerous. The world is dark and deadly and no place for a bright little butterfly. No, she's not quite that ephemeral. She's a humming bird, quick, bright, sturdier than first assumed. A creature of sunshine too long ensconced in his private hell. He moves a hand to pull hers away but his fingers get inexplicably distracted. They brush against her cheek, over her many-ringed ear.

And then he is lost and she with him. Both hands rise up and tangle in her lose hair. His hands are rough and scarred, but he tries to be gentle when he holds her head still.

She isn't afraid. She blinks up at him and smiles ever so softly, further sealing both their fates. When his hungry lips crash down onto hers, she doesn't flinch. She moans. She pulls on his shoulders, trying to bring him closer.

In the darkness there are no more thoughts of the world beyond the moment.

He feels her back arch as she presses against him and he stops thinking about right and wrong, morality, and much of anything else. His needs are primal, now. He needs her; he wants her; he has her. There's no bothering to ask if she's sure because there's no chivalry left in him. One muscled arm binds her around the waist as the other pulls her sweater from her body and over her head. He tosses it somewhere. He doesn't much care where it lands. She's kissing him frantically now, fingernails scoring over his already marked shoulders.

The bright pink sweater hid a pale turquoise bra. The contrast of her pale skin and the colorful fabric makes him nearly frantic. He growls her name, kisses her until she's panting for air, and moves his lips down her throat. He sucks lightly on her delicate collarbones but doesn't waste any time on his trek down her body. Deft fingers release the bra catch. He yanks it off, noticing her amused, faintly critical, look. He doesn't like that look. She's thinking and he wants her as incoherent as he is.

When he lifts her straight up off the floor she makes a very un-sexy squeak. He cannot hear it, though, because he's fastened his lips on her breasts that are now level with his mouth. She spares a thought to wonder how long he can hold her like this, but then quickly loses interest in the answer.

He turns, still holding her aloft and walks to a table. Its uncluttered surface is an anomaly in his lair, but he's grateful for it. As soon as her backside his the tabletop his fingers are sliding down her legs, past her skirt to her ridiculously colorful shoes. They fall to the floor. Her skirt is short—too short for other men to be seeing her in, his mind growls—so it will be no impediment. He watches her watch him as he works his way out of his tight pants. They are perfect for his work as the savior of Starling City, but are taking him far too many seconds to remove.

She wriggles on the tabletop. His hands shoot out to fasten on her hips, dragging her forward and nearly off the edge. The floaty black skirt billows around his hands as he yanks her underwear from her body. They are flung aside to join the rest of the clothing. She is wearing only her skirt, rucked around her waist. He is nude. Neither of them notices the cold.

Her fingers dance over his scars and caress the tattooed skin. He slides one palm behind her head and the other beneath her body. The one holds her in place for his kiss, the other lifts her. Her back arches again, she jerks her head from his grasp and shudders from the tip of her blonde head to the dainty toes that are curling even as her legs clasp his waist. He grunts in irritation. He was enjoying that kiss. He wants it back. He makes do with watching her skin flush as she moves with him.

His hands flex, pulling her higher against his body so that he can drive deeper. Her teeth mar the skin above his collarbone

She's quivering, her soft cries echoing in the basement rooms. He reclaims her mouth, quieting her. He moves quicker now, driving them both toward a seemingly elusive break in the clouds.

In the end they are wrapped around each other, gasping for breath. Her head rests on his shoulder; his rests against hers. Their breath mingles. They are together.

In the darkness there is no idle chatter, only guttural commands and whimpered pleas.

In the darkness there are only frenzied kisses and grasping touches.

In the darkness they are physical beings, needing, wanting, taking.

She is a tiny spark of light in the cold black.