Felicity's ass was cold. That sounded weird in her head. Fine, so she didn't generally call it her ass. Did she call it her butt? Though she'd never spent any length of time thinking about what to call her posterior (sure, she always talked like a Jane Austen character), 'butt' was about right. On the other hand, that sounded too childish for the situation she was in, though ass was too much, like a Nicki Minaj song that hadn't been made radio-friendly.

What was she doing? Why was her brain babbling on about useless crap, instead of making her get up and give up on this ridiculous idea she'd had? She couldn't even remember how she ended up here, like this. 'Here' being on the metal examining table in the basement of Verdant, and like 'this' – well. Naked. No clothes. Nada.

Ergo, the ice-cold ass, and the frozen rest of her. The cops hadn't released their so-called crime scene yet, but what with Verdant being closed until Thea recovered, she'd been able to sneak in past the crime scene tape (thanks, Captain Lance) and make her preparations. She was barefoot, and wondered if she should have kept her shoes on, but that would have been too high on the porn-meter, even for her special plan.

Felicity didn't want to involve anyone on the team (which had been rapidly shrinking anyway) and she only needed practical help from Nyssa of all people, who'd reluctantly handed over a phone number, like it was the Ark of the Covenant or something. Even so, Nyssa said it might work to contact any high-ranking League member currently in the U.S. And she couldn't resist a parting shot, delivered from on high: nothing would distract Al Sahim from the task given by his master.

Felicity remembered rolling her eyes at that, though she was careful to do it when Nyssa had turned away. His master. Yeah, right. It was just some kind of brain-washing, right? Oliver wasn't really gone, was he? Oliver and Diggle had managed to get through to Maseo, and he'd been in the League for years. And Maseo had never told Oliver he loved him, so she should manage, what with the temptation of her naked body, offered on a plate . . . a really cold plate, which was causing her skin to pebble up in a not very attractive way – dammit! Maybe she should have chosen a better venue.

She rubbed her arms, trying to warm up, and forced herself to focus. The plan, come on. It would all be worth it, if this worked. Let's recap, she thought. She was sitting, in the basement of Verdant, stark naked, waiting for Oliver. There. She'd said it. Though not aloud, that would be crazy, right? The plan alone was crazy enough. Her plan. It had sounded straightforward (to her) when she'd first thought of it, though in retrospect, the idea of getting their Oliver back through the power of sex was kind of insulting, to both of them. The fact that it had been her idea didn't make it any less like she was pimping herself out, and treating Oliver like some pussy-obsessed fool. Had she just used the word 'pussy'? Thank god she hadn't said it out loud. And her train of thought had derailed, again. Get a grip, Felicity, she told herself, trying to replicate Oliver's angry tone whenever he thought her head wasn't in the game. No game, huh? She'd show him.

She'd used a voice changer to give him the simple message: Nyssa Al Ghul was in the foundry, waiting for him, if he thought he could handle her on his own. Oliver's icy answer was pure Al Sahim.

"No loyalty from Starling City folk? Why am I not surprised? Still, why should the Daughter of the Demon be in such an obvious location?"

Her answer, and it was as contemptuous as she could make it, through the voice changer, simply pointed out that hiding in plain sight used to be known as a good strategy.

"Your choice. Take it or leave it. Come alone, unless you need help to subdue one woman."

And she'd hung up on him, not giving him any more chances to point out the flaws in her (really very stupid) plan. Was he buying it? She couldn't tell, not with this guy. That thought brought her up short. If she really thought Al Sahim was a stranger to her, what the hell was she doing, planning to bang his brains out? What a mess. Though there was a prickle of . . . something else, at the back of her mind. Curiosity, that was all. She was intrigued by this, supposedly different man, who wore the face and body of the man she loved. She certainly wasn't turned on by the idea. Nope. No way.

She'd tried to create an atmosphere, with a few strategically placed candles. That was the light situation dealt with, as there wasn't any power in the basement since the police raid. But that meant she couldn't heat, either, something that hadn't occurred to her before now. Even though she knew her skin looked good by candlelight, when she wasn't covered in goose bumps, that is, she suddenly wished for some super-bright neon tubes. She was alone, naked, and waiting for a killer. What had she been thinking? What if a whole bunch of killers turned up? Had Oliver taken the bait? Or had this been the worst idea ever? Signs point to yes, she thought.

Except . . . there was that one shadow, just visible out of the corner of her eye, which looked darker than the others. Yes, there. One of the studs on his cowl caught the light of a candle and glowed, briefly. He was here.

Oliver Queen. The Arrow. Al Sahim, now. He stepped forward, arrow nocked and pointed at her chest. Her naked chest. A quick thought came to her: he has to look to aim, right? She took a deep breath, wondering if he would react. When she was a kid she used to read romances full of low cut dresses and heaving chests, and always wondered what it was about boobs that could get guys going so fast. Would it work on Oliver? She would have shrugged if she'd thought she could get away with it, but maybe a deep, deep breath would be enough. Did it work? Wait for it, wait for it – yup. That was definitely a tiny tremor in the arrow pointed at her. And his eyes flicked downward. Yes! He looked! Oh, yeah, she had him. Now to reel him in.

"Where is Nyssa Al Ghul?"

The voice was . . . different. It wasn't the electronic Arrow voice (which had always made her giggle ever since Cisco, visiting from Central City, had used the voice changer to spend a whole hour saying "Because I'm Batman!", so it didn't scare her at all and oh god her mind was babbling again, focus, Felicity!), but it wasn't Oliver's normal tone, either. It was cold. Indifferent. It matched his face, at least, what she could see of it, over the mask which covered his nose and mouth. At least she could see his eyes, she thought.

"She might be here, somewhere. Why don't you come closer and find out?"

Felicity wasn't trying for a seductive tone – she had never seduced anyone in her life, and wouldn't know where to start. So she leaned back slightly onto the table, pushing her chest forward, and was gratified to see a flicker of candlelight catch the bead of sweat rolling down Oliver's forehead. Aha, Al Sahim! Not so indifferent, right? She felt a sudden, physical ache inside her at his reaction, and realised that in spite of her sadness, her freezing ass, and her terror, she was incredibly horny. She'd never felt like this, with anyone. She wanted nothing more than to spread her legs for him, as wide as she could. She flushed deeply at the thought of how depraved that sounded in her head, and what it would look like, and the arrow pointed at her shook again. Just come closer, my Sahim, she thought, and had to suppress her shock. She really wanted him, whatever he called himself.

"Where are your clothes?"

The voice wasn't that steady anymore, and he lowered the arrow, pushing it into the quiver at his back with a convulsive movement. Felicity was just glad that thing wasn't pointed at her any longer, and then she had to suppress a nervous giggle. Trust her babbling brain to come up with innuendo just when she need to keep her wits about her.

"Oh, they're around here . . . somewhere . . ."

She waved her hands vaguely in the direction of the darkened corners of the foundry, noting how his eyes followed every movement, and then went right back to her boobs. This was the one case in which she wasn't going to tell him that her eyes were up here (forgive me Gloria Steinem). She wondered if it was too much to say something like, miscreants had made off with her clothing. Probably too much. Just because the whole League of Assassins set-up looked like it should be taking place in an Allan Quatermain story, didn't mean she had to talk that way.

He'd moved closer, brought forward, it seemed, by her leaning back, and seemed surprised to find himself close enough to touch her. The bow was strapped to his back, now, and she wondered when he'd done that, then mentally shook herself, again. The plan, Felicity! She needed to focus. She opened her legs a bit, to get him to move even closer, and immediately blushed. She could smell herself. And so could he, as shown by yet another bead of sweat trickling down his face.

"Get dressed."

He was trying hard to sound unaffected, she could tell. But it wasn't working. And, just then, he was close enough. It was time. Her hand shot out as she took advantage of his distraction, slipping inside his pants and grabbing his dick. Which was heavy, and warm, and really, really hard. He moved to push her away, except there was no part of her which wasn't warm, naked flesh. His gloved hand landed on her breast and froze there.

She laughed, aloud this time, and tightened her grip around his cock. He tried to pull away, but stopped as she just came with him, following his movement, not letting go, as her thumb stroked the damp head gently. She breathed deeply, again, her breasts bobbed up and down, again, and he closed his eyes, and groaned. Gotcha!

Here goes nothing, thought Felicity, and started jacking him, building up a good rhythm, as his breathing sped up and his eyes flew open.

"Stop that," he mumbled.

"That didn't sound very forceful," she answered happily. "Try again."

She didn't stop working his cock as she spoke, and it was getting nicely wet now. When she'd pictured this (and she had, a couple of times), she'd thought of it as being something she'd be doing to him, and for him. She hadn't realised she'd be so turned on by it, too. She tried to fix this moment in her head (for later, her perverse mind added) – when they'd had sex in Nanda Parbat, she never really had a chance to look at him. Not that she did now, but her hand was giving her a good idea. It was so strange, though – her hand was on the hottest part of him, her face was burning up, too, and the rest of her was ice-cold, except for her pussy, which was burning up and soaking wet.

She wondered how she looked to him, bare-ass naked, jerking him off, while he was fully dressed, with one hand on her boob which he really wasn't doing anything with. Ah, there it was – his thumb flicked over her hard nipple, and he was looking at it like it had just developed sentience. His thumb, not her nipple.

"You shouldn't . . . we can't . . . "

She was speeding up now, and his gasping breaths were coming faster. She didn't want to point out that his hand on her boob wasn't letting up with the flicking, and she had a desperate urge to squeeze her legs together to get some relief. At some point his mask had come off, and she could feel his huffing breaths on her face. He was still looking past her though, like he couldn't meet her eyes, and she couldn't help it, she spread her legs wider as though she could pull him inside her through force of will. Oliver looked at her face, finally, meeting her eyes as her rich scent wafted up between them, heady like sweet wine. He closed them again, as if his senses were overloaded and he couldn't take anymore, and groaned as he came, and came. Her hand was soaked with him, and she wondered if it would be too much if she brought it up to her face and licked it off.

Yeah, definitely too much. Especially as she'd never done something like that before, and would probably burst out laughing. Bad time for laughter, Felicity, she thought. She wiped her hand on his underwear, instead (so assassins wear underwear, who knew, right), and smiled sunnily at him.

"So. That was nice!"

Oliver stared at her, stunned. He seemed to be reaching for the blank assassin look, but it wasn't working for him yet.

He was having trouble controlling his breathing, and reached out for her, but she evaded him with ease. Always leave'em wanting more, she thought, as she slipped off the table. She was careful not to look back at him as she padded to the corner where she'd stashed her bag, and was thankful she'd brought a dress she could just slip over her shoulders, and slip-on ballerinas. The dress was red, of course and short and flirty – all the better to make an impressive exit with, she'd thought. When she turned back he had straightened and put his mask back on. Literally, as well as figuratively.

"What makes you think you can just walk out of here?"

He didn't sound very convinced. Or convincing. Felicity crowed inwardly – oh yeah, I'm the one with the power, baby! Baby? Did her mind voice just call Oliver 'baby'? Shut up, mind voice.

"Just try and stop me. Or maybe you'd like to put your hands all over my body again, like you just did."

Felicity didn't wait for him to react, or to point out that it was technically one hand (the other had been clenching and unclenching at his side as she brought him ever closer to the best orgasm he'd ever had, she bet).

She turned on her heel and swung past him, hoping he was staring at her ass (yes, ass) as she walked away. She had a moment of fear as she thought she might get an arrow in her back before she got to the stairs, but nothing happened.

She half-walked, half ran out of the club, but didn't give herself permission to react until she'd driven three blocks, when she pulled over and started shaking. What had she done? Who was that person? She wanted to cover her face with her hands, but her hand smelled . . . it smelled of him, and of sex, and the whole interior of the car stank with it, until she had to get the windows open before she suffocated in it. The cold night air brought her to her senses. The plan had worked, kind of. But she still needed to know.

She got out her tablet, and, piggybacking on a neighborhood Wi-Fi signal, managed to log on to the wireless webcams she'd installed in the foundry after the police raid.

Oliver was still standing as she'd left him. Or was it Al Sahim? He was motionless, as though he'd been turned to stone. Had she broken him, already? She was just about to do the victory dance of Felicity Smoak, I.T. genius and Sex Goddess extraordinaire, when something changed.

There was no sound on the cameras, so she didn't hear his yell of anger, or was it frustration, as he overturned the steel table she'd been sitting on. He started walking away, then spun around, and nocked an arrow in a movement so sudden it was almost a blur. Just as suddenly, all the cameras she'd installed went to static, and she smiled, shaking her head in – admiration? Perhaps. Points to Al Sahim, for not being entirely fazed by a hand-job.

On the other hand – oh, Oliver. Didn't he know he'd just made her raise the stakes? Round one was a tie. Round two – not a chance.