Four days after Oliver Queen almost got himself and John Diggle killed in the underbelly of Starling City, Felicity Smoak was interrupted from her work in the bunker. She was trying to find the man who'd almost blown up the tunnel she hadn't been able to warn John and Oliver about, and her keyboard was taking the beating she almost wished she could give Oliver.

"Felicity, what the hell is this?"

John was holding up the magazine, held open at a certain page. Felicity just barely held back a laugh. The picture had printed even better than she expected.

"You recognized that?"

John's glare was not amused. "He strips in front of me every day. Every single day, Felicity. I would have to be blind to not recognize that chest, even without the scars and tattoos. I hate that you've made me admit that."

True. At this point, they'd probably memorized his abs. She definitely had, but that was mostly just because she had an awesome memory. And she somewhat cared. "I did good on the Photoshop though, didn't I? Let me tell you, the Bratva tattoo was a pain. I can't imagine how long it actually took to get the tattoo."

"What about my tattoo?" Oliver asked, appearing from his corner of the bunker. She tried to remember when he'd disappeared back there to do… whatever he did, but she really couldn't recall. Maybe he was becoming one with the shadows.

"We were just wondering how much ink and time it took to make it so dark," she said nonchalantly. John had folded the magazine back up and shoved it under some papers on her desk.

Oliver snorted, crossing his arms. "I don't remember, honestly. So much alcohol."

"What a vacation that island must have been," John muttered.

"That was Russia, John. Russia gave me the alcohol tolerance I have today."

"Not college?"

He shook his head, pulling his shirt off and heading for the salmon ladder. John stepped toward the sticks, mouthing every single day at her. She grinned and settled back into her comfy chair to enjoy the view as Oliver explained the difference between a Russian mob and the average college fraternity

There didn't seem to be too many differences.

A few hours later, they'd tied up a few petty thieves for Quentin, Oliver had disappeared to do Queen Consolidated stuff, and it was just her and John in the bunker again. Finally she pulled the magazine out from under her pile of notes.

Honestly, it was really hard to tell that it was Oliver, and she, like John, saw his chest almost every day. It was just a few inches of his chest and stomach, just enough to give the readers what they paid for. She'd added just enough shadow to her edited picture that it looked like it had been taken with a flip phone in a dark alley.

The article beneath was priceless, an enthused and jealous reporter showing a picture of the note that she'd sent with the image (I met the Arrow last night and caught a fun picture in the bubbliest handwriting she could muster) and wishing oh so desperately and not subtly that she could claim to have taken the picture. But alas, the reporter lamented, that would be a lie. So she described every detail of the abs and offered a few new guesses on the Arrow's identity.

The guesses were all improbable celebrities. The reporter had no imagination. Felicity would have at least attempted random local people instead of the Scottish men the reporter was offering.

John leaned against her desk, resting his hand on the bandage on his arm from the ambush four days ago. "What did he do that made you send the picture in?"

"He was annoying me. And they gave me 300 dollars."

"Three-hundred? Give me half next time you do that."

And she'd just really wanted to see what would happen, like how he'd react: she really had no idea. And there were only so many times she was going to put up with him diving into a situation that she couldn't describe for him, and it was terrifying to listen to, and this time he'd barely missed actually dying and taking John with him.

So this was her little way of venting when the man wouldn't listen. It was the weirdest rebellion she'd ever done against the guy she loved, and it promised to be at least a little hilarious. So far, he hadn't decided to go grocery shopping and flip through the tabloids.

Two days later, Oliver finally found the magazine.

It turned out that he reacted by growling about it for all of five minutes (when she pointed out with false innocence that there were very few if any who could possibly recognize the picture aside from the three of them, he stopped complaining and started glowering).

Then he trained shirtless for five hours straight, staring at her every time he took a break.

As she broke eye contact and pretended to be absorbed in her computer, Felicity decided that it was only a little bit of a punishment.

a/n: second chapter brought to you by a comment on ao3. this was not meant to have a second chapter.