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A Parting Memory	By : Skyknight12 Category: 1 through F > Arrow Views: 4981 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
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Chapter List
- 1-Nyssa
- 1
Tommy…dead.
The punching bag shudders under the impact of a left hook.
Sara…dead.
The chains holding the bag rattle as a powerful right cross hits the bag dead center.
That bastard, Merlyn…still alive.
Laurel glares at the punching bag, raises her boxing gloves in the attack position, and lets loose a flurry of blows that cause the punching bag to swing crazily.
"Whoa there lady, you look like you've got issues," a voice drawls from behind her.
Laurel bites back a growl and continues throwing punches. The guy has been hitting on her since the moment she first set foot inside the gym, because god forbid that she be allowed to do something so simple as sign up for a self-defense class without complications and of course, that douchebag was going to show up tonight of all nights, the one night when she really needs to be left alone to blow off some steam. So she does what she always does; she ignores him and keeps pounding. But either he's feeling braver tonight for some reason, or her wordless rejection hasn't been clear enough. Laurel really doesn't know just what she has to do to convince him that she is just plain not interested. But either way he comes around and stands next to her, checking her out with poorly disguised subtlety.
"Y'know, there are other ways of dealing with stuff," he drawls, leaning against a nearby weight machine in a pose that is obviously meant to show off his abs and make her swoon.
She doesn't.
His face falls slightly when it becomes clear that his preening is not having the effect that he seems to think it should. "More fun ways," he elaborates, worried perhaps that his attempts at a pickup line have been too subtle. He gives her what he obviously thinks is a seductive smile, but comes of more like a lecherous grin. "Whaddaya say we…" Laurel stops punching and turns around give him the full force of her glare. "…or not." She continues glaring at him until he raises his hands in a gesture of surrender and backs away.
"Don't worry, babe, I'll wear you down," he calls over her shoulder as she turns back to the punching bag. She can practically feel the weight of his gaze on her, checking out her ass, but she refuses to turn around and give him the satisfaction of knowing that he had managed to get under her skin. He would only take it as a positive sign. And she refuses to let him make her leave. She can't stop him from looking, but the second that creep tries anything…
She spots movement heading in her direction out of the corner of her eyes and turns around to see a familiar figure weaving her way towards her.
"I thought you were going back to your father," she says shortly, reaching out to stop the swinging bag. If Nyssa is here she has no illusions why that is. And she is in no mood to have another fight with her dead sister's girlfriend.
Nyssa takes in Laurel's visage. She looks exhausted and irritable, apparently finishing an emotionally draining day with a physically draining workout. She is breathing heavily, a light sheen of sweat covering her skin, a still healing cut on her lip and a bruise on her left temple.
In other words, she looks magnificent.
Nor is she the only one to notice. Twenty feet behind her there is a man doing crunches, his eyes fixed on Laurel's back. Or rather at a point just below her back. Next to the water cooler behind her, a woman is checking her out with frank interest. And then there is the eleven year old boy who is sneaking looks at Laurel as if he finds her fascinating but can't figure out why.
All these people only see Laurel for her raw sex appeal. They do not see her as Nyssa does. For her fierce drive and untapped potential, for her flaws and rough edges, for the scars that she bears, for the way she wears her heart on her sleeve, for the blazing fire within her that threatens to consume her and yet the difficulty and determination with which she seeks to harness it and channel it in a direction of her choosing.
She reminds Nyssa of Sara in that regard.
Nyssa rolls her eyes and turns back to her. "My flight leaves in the morning," she says crisply. "I felt that I owed you a goodbye." She pauses. "I intend to make good on my promise to Sara." In a softer voice, she adds, "And to you."
"It kills me that he is still out there," Laurel says in a low voice. "Merlyn…someone…" her eyes shift away. "Kills me."
"It pains me as well," Nyssa says softly. Her eyes shift to the punching bag. "I see you've been training. And wearing the jacket."
Laurel's eyes narrow. "If you're going to stand there and tell me that I'm not strong enough or tough enough, please…don't." She resumes punching the bag with a vengeance.
Nyssa takes a step closer. "Back at the cemetery I would have," Laurel pauses in the act of throwing a punch. "But since, you've reminded me that the strongest metal is forged in the hottest fire."
Laurel's eyes narrow slightly. "And what's that supposed to mean?"
Nyssa gives her a slight smile. "Don't forget to turn your hips. It's where the power comes from." She turns and starts to walk away.
"Wait."
Nyssa turns around. Laurel seems to be wrestling with an internal struggle.
"Do you want to get a drink? I'd like to know more about Sara," she says at last.
Nyssa doubts if her idea of a drink is the same as Laurel's. Alcohol consumption isn't her idea of unwinding, and not just because she was raised as a strict Muslim like most in the League. The League of Assassins has its own, markedly different, interpretation of the Scripture. The real reason that alcohol is forbidden to the Assassins is the simplest, most obvious one. A drink sodden warrior that has had her mind dulled and body slowed down by alcohol is of no use to anyone. She opens her mouth to tell Laurel so and then closes it again. When in Rome…
"Sure," she says, "One drink." Her flight doesn't leave until late morning. She has time to kill.
Laurel looks fractionally relieved. "Wait here, I'll be right back."
She heads off in the direction of the showers. When she comes back out she looks different, softer somehow. She has let her hair out of its braid and it falls in waves around her shoulders. Her dress fits her like a glove, outlining her firm breasts and curving enticingly around her rear, seemingly designed to emphasize her figure and draw attention to her bare legs and six inch heels. Nyssa herself would never wear anything so constricting, or eyecatching. She prefers loose trousers and flats for their mobility when she is not in uniform.
"Follow me, I know a place," Laurel says as she turns away. Nyssa moves to follow her. In one of the large wall mirrors, she catches sight of the man in the corner sitting up and watching Laurel walk away with a strange expression. A voice that sounds suspiciously like Sara's whispers something in her ear. She smirks to herself and lets her hand swing deliberately just behind Laurel's backside and holds it there for just a second, twitching her fingers as she does. Laurel wouldn't notice anything and from the direction that they were facing, no one else would either. But from where the man is sitting, it would look like she had groped Laurel in full view of the entire gym. She steals a glance at him as they leave.
The look on his face is priceless.
"…and the second the creep turned around, Sara made off with his wallet, dumped the cards and gave the cash to the first homeless guy we came across," Laurel finishes.
Nyssa smiles as she fingers her coke bottle. "Yes, that sounds like Sara." She can certainly imagine Sara doing something like that. Even during her training, she had maintained a streak of independence, of rebelliousness, that her instructors had never fully been able to rid her of. Traits like those would have limited Sara's usefulness to the League in the long run, but Nyssa hadn't minded. Sara had been like a breath of fresh air in her life, a streak of color in an otherwise drab environment, her sweet voice like a trill of music in the silent stillness of the monastery.
Laurel had invited Nyssa for drinks wanting to know more about Sara, but has wound up doing most of the talking. Nyssa doesn't have much to contribute. What little isn't covered by League secrecy is the kind of stuff that Laurel would probably not want to know about, most of it involving hunting people down and killing them. But she does have a few tidbits here and there.
"Sara, took a new name when she passed her initiation," Nyssa says. "It is a custom for initiates, when they become full members of the League, to be given a new name. It marks the moment when they leave their old life and old identity behind and give themselves up to the service of the League." She stops to take a sip of the coke before continuing. "Hers was Ta-er al-Sahfer. It translates to yellow bird."
Yellow like her hair, like the light of a dawning sunrise that the two of them would watch together every day, Sara's body nestled against hers, safe in the circle of her arms.
She stops, lost in memories for a moment. "I chose that name for her. But she was always Sara to me when we were alone."
She tells Laurel about one of Sara's earliest missions. The Assassins had been approached by a representative of a coalition of self-styled 'warriors of God' who demanded that the Assassins assist them in their righteous crusade to take the war to the homeland of the Great Satan and usher a new age for the rightful inheritors of the world.
The actual message had been a bit more long winded and pompous. Ra's al-Ghul had listened politely and sent the emissary back with a cordial but firm refusal.
Then a second emissary arrived with another demand, louder, more insistent, more pompous and more long winded. This time Ra's, not a man to mince words, sent Sara to deliver his reply.
Sara with her blond hair and blue eyes, Sara with her fair skin and her pointedly American features, Sara who wore men's clothes and carried her weapons openly, Sara who traveled unafraid and unescorted, Sara who spoke fluent Arabic and gave an Arabic name that rubbed her Western origin in their faces, Sara, a Westerner, an infidel, and to top it all off a woman, who carried the sigil of the League of Assassins and spoke on behalf of the Demon himself.
It was a pointed message and a thinly veiled insult. Ra's couldn't have made the message clearer if he had drawn them a picture. Your ways are not our ways. Your goals are not our goals. Your enemies are not our enemies. Your wars are not our wars. Your causes are not our causes. There will be no alliance.
Or in other words, Ra's' words, which Sara spelled out to them, not interested.
The meeting ended as it could hardly fail to end, with half a dozen incensed, heavily armed, trigger happy fanatics facing off against a lone and badly outnumbered Assassin armed with little more than her knives and a small palm sized gadget. When the dust settled, the Assassin walked out of the tent and the encampment, wiping the blood off of her blades, while the formerly incensed fanatics lay dead in a rapidly expanding pool of their own blood. All but one. Ra's had specified that she leave one alive to pass on the message to the rest of the coalition. He had not specified what condition the survivor needed to be in. Only that he be alive and fit to talk. The lone survivor left in the tent would never handle a gun again.
He would never walk again either.
Laurel listens with rapt attention as Nyssa finishes. Or with whatever attention she can manage through a haze of alcohol. "Did she do that a lot?" she asks.
"Do what?" Nyssa replies draining the last of her coke.
"You know…kill people. That kind of stuff."
Nyssa shrug. "I don't doubt that Oliver Queen has far more kills to his name than she ever did."
Laurel ponders this information as Nyssa puts down her bottle and rises to her feet. "Come on," she says, tugging on Laurel's arm. "I don't know how much whiskey it takes to get a person drunk but you've clearly had enough."
Laurel looks down at her almost empty glass and makes a face. "Yeah, you're probably right." She wobbles precariously as she gets to her feet. Nyssa grabs her waist before she can fall over, all the while wondering over the Western fascination with alcohol. She had tried some in her youth, a single swallow of strong liquor. It had burned her mouth on its way down, made her cough and gasp for air, caused her eyes to tear up and given her a splitting headache on top of it. She hadn't tried it again. Why someone would purposely consume enough quantities to pass out and leave themselves open to be taken advantage of by any watching predators is something she will never understand. She doesn't see the lure. But, to each their own. Nyssa is not here to judge.
Now to get Laurel home.
"Okay, the light switch should be somewhere around here," Laurel mumbles, swiping at the wall. The heel of her shoe chooses that moment to break, making her stumble and pulling Nyssa along with her, causing her back to be pressed flat against the wall and Nyssa pressed against her front. She giggles. It feels funny for some reason. The worst of the alcohol haze has passed and her head is starting to clear. Just enough for her to notice Nyssa's eyes darken. She opens her mouth to speak but before she can get a word out, Nyssa gathers her hair away from her shoulder and presses her lips to Laurel's neck.
"What are you doing?" Laurel whispers. The hand at Laurel's waist comes up to tangle in her hair. The other one slides around her waist and settles on her ass.
"Saying goodbye," Nyssa murmurs.
Laurel starts to protest and then stops. Of course Nyssa wasn't saying goodbye to her.
"I'm not her," Laurel whispers as Nyssa kisses her jaw.
"I know."
"I'm not her," Laurel whispers as Nyssa kisses her jaw, her hand tracing the curve of Laurel's backside through the fabric of her skirt.
"I know," Nyssa murmurs, nipping her earlobe. She is only too painfully aware of the fact. There is no one like Sara. Sara was bright and wonderful and unique and gone and there is no replacing her.
Nyssa can almost feel the hollowness in her chest, the part of her life that Sara used to fill. Empty now, with her gone. It is almost a physical sensation. It is not pain, this sensation. She had conquered pain at an early age. Pain she can handle. Pain holds no power over her. This, on the other hand, is something far worse. It is the polar opposite of pain, of all sensation. It's emptiness. A gaping absence that makes itself felt by what isn't there, a memory of what was and now isn't.
"You're not her." She moves to Laurel's other ear. Laurel shifts her neck, almost unconsciously, to give her easier access. "But you look somewhat similar." She traces the shell of Laurel's ear with her tongue. "Your smell." She nips at Laurel's throat. "The taste of your skin." She gently tugs at Laurel's lower lip with her teeth. "You remind me of her. So I suppose you'll have to do."
Nyssa wants Sara back. She wants Sara more than anything in the world; more than air, more than life itself.
Laurel is a poor substitute for Sara. But if Nyssa can't have Sara, she will have the next best thing.
Laurel is not exactly sure what is going on. Other than the fact that her sister's hot girlfriend is making out with her. And yeah, that is definitely Nyssa's hand on her ass.
Laurel has had her fair share of sexual experiences. She is after all an attractive single accomplished woman and she has had her share of male admirers, though certainly not on the scale Sara did.
She had at one time slept with Starling city's most high profile playboy, then his best friend the second most high profile playboy, and then with an egomaniac who had made a deal with the devil to hand over the city to a bunch of bloodthirsty lunatics in order to fuel his own rise to power. And that is not counting the affair she had had with one of her professors in law school.
The last is something she has never confided in anyone. She isn't proud of it, of what she had done, and the circumstances in which it had taken place.
It happened during her second year of law school, although she thinks that it may have been building up for weeks, possibly months. She was still reeling from losing Sara and Oliver, still hurting at their betrayal and facing her parents' impending divorce. One of the professors had made overtures at her, recognizing perhaps, her emotional vulnerability. He had known all the right things to say, all the right gestures to make, all the right ways to touch her. And she had responded by flinging herself at him.
The resulting affair was brief and intense. She had been desperate to feel something, anything other than the agonizing numbness inside her and he had only been too eager to respond. It went on for several months until Laurel's roommate staged an intervention and prompted her to break it off.
He had taken advantage of her, she knows that now. He had seen her vulnerability, recognized it for what it was and exploited it. She had never reported the affair. To do so would have destroyed her career along with his. In addition, he had been married at the time and she hadn't wanted to be the other woman, the one responsible for breaking up a marriage, richly though he might deserve it.
So she kept it to herself, buried deep down. It's not something she likes to dwell upon, or even think about, if she can help it. But it is the curse of memory that the things one wants to forget the most are often the ones they remember the best. And she remembers it all too well. She remembers the touch of his hands as he undressed her, the feel of his mouth on her breast as he explored the curves and planes of her body.
And now, years later, she is doing it again.
It's probably safe to say that Laurel has a type.
Also safe to say that Nyssa al Ghul does not fit her type. Rather she would totally fit her type if she didn't have the wrong parts.
All of Laurel's past sexual experiences have been limited to men. Rich men, older men, married men, dangerous men, but men all the same. She has never had a crush on any of her female friends, never fantasized about being with a woman. She has never experimented to that extent. That was more Sara's forte. Sara, with her angelic smile and the devilish glint in her eyes. Sara with her childlike face and a lush woman's body. Sara, who could jump in a car with boys within minutes of meeting them. Sara, who danced a little too close with boys who were with other girls, in dresses that were a little too short. Sara, who was as likely to steal a girl from her boyfriend as she was to steal a boy from his girlfriend, sometimes stealing them both, sometimes separately, sometimes at the same time. Sara, who made it a point to add as much variety to her sexual escapades as she could; people she had just met and friends that she had known for years, nervous virgins and older experienced people, geeky nerds and hot cheerleaders, boys who thought they were gay and girls who didn't know that they were lesbians.
Sara was all that and more. Laurel prides herself on being the exact opposite. She is the prim and proper one; the one who slaved throughout school to get good grades, the one who thinks things through, the one who wants lasting relationships, the one who has her whole life mapped out.
And yet, somehow, an intense make out session with her dead sister's lover, who had also poisoned her mother and held her hostage is something that she hadn't factored in when planning her future.
So much for having her whole life mapped out.
Up until that point in her life she would have classified herself as firmly heterosexual. However the touch of Nyssa's lips on her bare skin does not feel weird or uncomfortable. For some strange reason, the hand coming up to knead her breast feels almost cleansing.
She feels Nyssa's lips leave her neck and moans in protest, attempting to follow them. Nyssa however braces one hand against her shoulder and sweeps her off her feet and carried her to the bedroom
She tosses Laurel on the bed and straddles her, her eyes full of dark amusement, before lowering her head to capture Laurel's lips with her own. She tastes of cherries and something else. A vague undefinable taste that reminds her of Sara.
Laurel remains passive, neither returning the kiss nor pulling away, but Nyssa doesn't seem to be concerned. She takes Laurel's lack of response for consent, or maybe she isn't looking for it.
It pisses Laurel off. She isn't helpless. She is not a child. She is not a victim. She is not a demure virgin. She is not a shrinking violet and she will not be treated as such in her own apartment, in her own damn bed.
She wraps her hands around Nyssa's neck and returned her kiss with an intense fervor bordering on frenzy. Nyssa simply chuckles and presses her lips down harder.
"There you are," she murmurs.
Laurel has no idea what she is talking about. Doesn't care. Not while Nyssa is doing such wonderful things to her with her mouth.
Nyssa pulls away from Laurel, looking amused at the put upon look on Laurel's face. Her hands drift almost casually down from Laurel's shoulders, roving over her breasts before coming to a stop on her chest. Laurel looks down to see Nyssa's fingers curling around the neckline of her dress and realizes what she is about to do an instant before she grips the front of Laurel's dress and rips hard. Buttons go flying in every direction as Laurel looks wide eyed at Nyssa, her throat dry at the look of intense desire that swirls in Nyssa's eyes. She lets out a whimper at the feel of Nyssa's hands skimming over her breasts, thumb brushing over her nipple, as her fingers trace the edge of Laurel's black satin bra.
Nyssa gives a sigh as she bends down and presses a row of kissed along her shoulder, turning to nuzzle in her neck. Laurel wraps her arms around her, one hand slipping under her shirt to caress the silky smooth skin of her back, the other tangled in her hair, urging her down. Nyssa is only too glad to oblige. Laurel squeezes her eyes shut and throws her head back as Nyssa's moves lower, kissing her way down the cleavage of Laurel's breasts.
A sudden cold touch on her thigh makes her eyes fly open. She looks down to see a small knife in Nyssa's hand; watches wide eyed as Nyssa turns the blade and starts slitting the hem of Laurel's dress.
"That dress cost eighty bucks," she says breathlessly, her words a jarring break in the wordless silence of the room. Nyssa just shrugs unconcernedly. Apparently Laurel's clothing budget is not high on her list of priorities.
"It's in my way," she says simply. Laurel's hard breathing and the sound of the ripping fabric are the only other sounds in the room. The knife jerks as it reaches the double fabric at the shoulder strap. Laurel can feel the cool air prickling her skin as Nyssa works to slit the straps and rid her of the garment completely.
Laurel feels the graze of Nyssa's fingertips against the skin of her waist. With the gentlest of motions, Nyssa pushes the remains of her dress aside to expose her torso.
Goosebumps erupt on Laurel's skin as Nyssa lowers her head to trace invisible patterns across her stomach, circling around her navel with tongue, nipping at her waist, before moving up to kiss her breasts. She ponders briefly if Nyssa is motivated by grief or by bitterness, if she resents Sara for dying, for leaving her, and is taking her revenge by fucking her sister. She wonders whether her own motivations are somewhat similar, wonders if there isn't a tiny part of her that blames Sara for having the audacity to die on her after everything that she put their family through, if she is trying to hurt Sara back for coming between her and Oliver.
If so, it is a wasted effort, she knows. Sara is beyond caring, or hurting, and it's just Laurel left behind to pick up the pieces in Sara's wake. Again.
The cold touch of the knife slipping along her skin between her breasts jerks her abruptly out of her musings. Nyssa had slipped the knife beneath her bra, the flat of the blade against her chest. Laurel watches with wide eyes as she turns the knife so that the blade lifts the strip of fabric slightly. Nyssa pauses for a moment to take a breath, and then with a sharp tug breaks through the cotton with the knife. The straps follow suit as Nyssa quickly cuts them away and pushes what is left of the undergarment away to completely expose her.
Laurel's breath catches in her chest as Nyssa leans over her once again, her hands shooting up along the skin of her stomach to firmly cup her breasts. Laurel can't see her expression very well through the dim light of the nightstand and the remnants of her alcohol haze, but Nyssa looks like the cat that got the canary.
Nyssa's head lowers onto her shoulder, kissing and licking her way down Laurel's body. Her hand gently kneads Laurel's breast causing her to give a low moan. It's been a long time, too damned long really, since she has had a proper mindless fuck with no strings attached. It feels nice, almost liberating. Even if the woman currently tracing spiral patterns on her breast with her tongue is her dead sister's lover and an assassin on top of that. If Nyssa had killed anyone in Starling City that Laurel knew of, it would have been her job to bring Nyssa in. Hell, if Nyssa had killed Merlyn, it still would have been her job to bring her in. Of course the law, being an ass, would fail to take into account that there is not a prison on the planet that can hold Malcolm Merlyn for long, and that outlaw justice is the only kind he will ever face.
It is as Nyssa swipes her tongue over a nipple that Laurel officially decides that she doesn't give a fuck. She has her own matters to deal with. The rest of the world will sort itself out.
Nyssa lowers her head until her mouth is hovering tantalizing just above Laurel's breast, her soft breath sending shivers up Laurel's spine. Laurel's breath hitches as she arches her back, pushing her breasts towards Nyssa's waiting mouth. Nyssa chuckles and slides one hand under Laurel's back to hold her in place as she closes the remaining distance, kissing, licking and nipping at Laurel's nipple, before finally closing her lips around Laurel's breast.
Laurel whimpers as Nyssa's tongue swirls around her nipple, her teeth grazing lightly over Laurel's suddenly hypersensitive skin. Nyssa seems content to take her time with Laurel's breasts, kissing, nipping and sucking at them, switching between them at intervals, pulling Laurel closer to the edge, her body growing increasingly taut as a stretched wire.
Just as Laurel is about to tip over, Nyssa pulls back, chuckling at Laurel's groan of protest, before bringing her mouth back to Laurel's body, kissing and nipping a trail down her stomach. She pauses at Laurel's navel, swirling around it with her tongue and dipping inside. She nips at it before continuing down to the waistband of Laurel's underwear before bringing the knife back into play and cutting away her underwear. Laurel's breathing grows harder as Nyssa cuts away the last of her clothing and pulls it off, leaving her completely naked and open to Nyssa's gaze.
Nyssa pauses to pull off her own clothes and moves her mouth down to Laurel's hips kissing a trail down her shapely leg. Laurel's breath hitches as she cradles Laurel's foot in her hands and presses her lips down on it, all the while keeping her eyes locked with Laurel's. Laurel's moans, sighs and gasps are the only sounds in the room apart from the soft rustling of sheets, and the sound of Nyssa's mouth moving over Laurel's skin.
Nyssa switches to the other leg and starts kissing her way back up Laurel's body. She pauses before Laurel's hips and gently presses her mouth at the junction of her legs. Laurel nearly arches off the bed. Nyssa settles between Laurel's legs, slinging them over her shoulder before resuming, taking advantage of the new wider position to thrust her tongue inside Laurel, her tongue brushing against her clit on every stroke.
Jesus, if this is what she was giving Sara, no wonder she went back to her, Laurel thinks crazily. Her hands are fisted into the bedsheets on either side. The entire world has narrowed down to the feel of Nyssa's tongue on her. She can feel herself getting closer and closer and closer and…just before Laurel goes over the edge, Nyssa pulls away. Again.
"Oh, come on, really?" Laurel groans with a huff of protest. Nyssa pays no attention, kissing and nipping her way back over Laurel's stomach and going back to work on her breasts. The air rushes out of Laurel's lungs as Nyssa closes her lips over a nipple, scraping it with her teeth, and thrusts a finger inside, and then a second, moving with agonizing slowness.
Nyssa adds a third finger and a low throaty cry escapes Laurel as she comes. Hard.
"Sing for me, my sweet canary," Nyssa murmurs against her breasts as Laurel shudders and shakes under her.
Nyssa makes her sing four more times that night until Laurel drifts off utterly spent, physically and emotionally.
The first thing Laurel notices as she stirs towards wakefulness is the very familiar, very pounding headache.
The second thing she notices is that she is naked. As in, not wearing any clothes naked. As in, post sex naked. As in post intense fuck-your-brains-out sex naked.
Well, been a long time since that happened.
The third thing she notices is that the sheets next to her are still warm. And there is movement next to the bed.
She rolls over blearily and the events of the previous night come crashing down and the pounding in her head seems to double. Well, she will be paying for that later.
Nyssa is standing next to the bed, adjusting her clothes and paying no attention to Laurel. She starts to get up and makes a grab for the sheets when they threaten to fall off her chest.
Nyssa smirks.
Laurel's eyes narrow. She, very deliberately, lets the sheets drop, swings her long legs out of bed and walks around to stand naked in front of Nyssa. She pretends not to notice, as Nyssa's heated gaze slowly travels up her bare legs and stomach, pausing to linger on her naked breasts, as if taking in and memorizing every inch of her body. She does not fidget, or blush, or act self-conscious. She makes no effort to cover herself. It's nothing Nyssa hasn't already seen. She simply stands unselfconscious with one hand on her hip, waiting for Nyssa to look her fill.
"I'm still holding you to the promise you made," she says steadily when Nyssa's gaze finally reaches her face. There is a hint of something like approval in Nyssa's eyes as she nods curtly, and abruptly reaches out to tug Laurel closer. Her hands snake around Laurel's naked body, one hand shooting up her back to tangle in her hair, the other sliding down to cup her ass. Nyssa's hand tightens its grip on her hair, pulling her head back and baring her neck. Laurel moans as Nyssa leaves a warm, wet, blazing trail down her throat, and over her breasts, kissing and sucking on one, then the other, before moving back up to her lips.
Nyssa licks Laurel's lips, nips her lower lip and sucks at her upper one, before pressing her open mouth to Laurel's, holding her head in place with one hand and kneading her ass with the other. The kiss is hard and passionate and it says many things. It says goodbye and thank you and I promise and I'm sorry about Sara. It says a great many things that words seem inadequate to convey.
Laurel wraps her arms around Nyssa's neck and kisses her back, soft and tender.
I know.
Laurel stands alone in her apartment as the implications of the previous night slowly begin to seep in. It almost seems like a bizarre dream. Except, the ripped remains of her clothes and the marks that Nyssa had branded on her skin with her teeth would say different.
She wonders what this would sound like at her next AA meeting. Hi, my name is Laurel and I'm an alcoholic. My sister, who had been missing and officially presumed dead for six years, just died in front of my eyes a few days ago. This time for real. First we thought that she was killed by Malcolm Merlyn, the same guy who is the reason why half of you are here, and who, contrary to public opinion, isn't dead. But it turns out that it may not have been him and my ex-boyfriend, the Arrow, was forced to let him go because there is no jail in the world that will hold him, so we might as well not try. So now I have no idea what the fuck I'm supposed to be doing and whose side I'm supposed to be on. And on a side note, I slept with my dead sister's hot assassin girlfriend and it was some of the best sex of my life. So…yeah. That's my life.
Yeah, that'll go over real big with the crowd. Particularly if her father happens to be sitting among them.
Laurel slowly shakes her head, sighs, and heads off to the shower.
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A Parting Memory