As of 28th June, this chapter is slightly different - but I promise I'll stop fiddling now!

"You want me to what?"

John Diggle's voice rose an octave. Felicity winced. If only Oliver was lighter, or she was stronger, she wouldn't need Diggle's help with phase two of what she was starting to call THE PLAN. It loomed in her brain like a monolith in some scifi movie, affecting her every waking moment, making her feel a sense of urgency, even though it had only been a week since the . . . Handjob of Destiny? Come on, Felicity. Focus!

Diggle was giving her some serious side eye at this point.

"Look, I can't explain. I just please, please, please need your help. Please? I promise it's for Oliver. You know we need to get him back."

Diggle sighed. Finally, a good sign. That usually showed that Diggle was preparing to give in.

"I don't know how drugging him and carrying his unconscious ass to an abandoned warehouse is going to get him back. We've all tried to talk to him – nothing worked."

Felicity wanted to stamp her feet in frustration, except only spoiled little girls in children's books from the thirties did that. She didn't want to tell Diggle everything she'd got planned for Oliver – then she'd have to tell him about the first part, which she still couldn't think about without blushing. And, yeah. Other stuff too.

"The warehouse isn't abandoned – it was hidden away in Queen Consolidated's old holdings. And once Ray took over, I managed to lose it with other properties that were sold off, in case we needed it someday," she pleaded. Oh, and I'm not planning on doing much talking once I get Oliver there, she added, silently.

"Ok! Ok. Fine, I'll do it. Is there any way you'll let me in on this plan?"

"No! I mean, um, think of Lyla, and the baby. You go be with your family, Dig."

Diggle raised his eyebrows as she spluttered through her explanation, almost tongue-tied at the thought of Diggle finding out what her strategy was going to be.

She'd kept some of that strange drug they'd used on Thea (and Oliver, ironically) in Nanda Parbat. Once she handed it over to Diggle, he looked at it for a long time, before pocketing the vial and staring at her quizzically.

"Felicity, I don't want you to get hurt. Or worse."

Did he know, or guess what she had planned?

"I don't want to get hurt either. I just want Oliver back."

Her voice broke once she said his name, and she couldn't hold back the tears. Stupid, crying like a baby. Grow up, Felicity. She tried to knuckle the tears away hurriedly, only to jump as a heavy hand fell on her shoulder, in a clumsy attempt at comfort. She looked up to see Diggle's horrified face.

"It'll be ok, Felicity. We'll try it your way."

She nodded, drying her eyes and blowing her nose. How come when women cry in the movies they're all beautiful and don't turn into snot monsters? And, was that it? Crying in front of Diggle, that's all it took to convince him. He was already halfway up the stairs to Verdant (probably thinking some variant of 'women, right?'), where the music was as loud and crappy as it had always been. Thea was trying to lose herself in her work as a distraction from losing her beloved brother and her boyfriend in a matter of days. She'd confided in Felicity that she'd have traded her asshole father for both of them in a heartbeat.

Felicity trudged up the stairs at a much slower pace, and then had to fight her way through the annoying party people to get to the door, which didn't help improve her mood any. All she could do now was wait. And the more time passed, the less confidence she had in her plan. Turns out that post-sex (kind of) euphoria wore off after a few days, and then she started nit-picking the whole encounter.

However, it turned out that she didn't have to wait for very long. Only a few days later, she got the call. When she arrived at the warehouse, it was all as she'd pictured it. Oliver was slumped in a chair in a deserted office, asleep, still dressed in full assassin gear – cowl, mask, and tunic. Diggle was still there, looking pensive. He opened his mouth as soon as she came in, and she knew she had to stop him before he managed to talk her out of it.

"I'll take it from here, John. Really, I'll be fine."

She was glad that he'd actually listened to her instructions – the chair was metal, and the legs were bolted to the floor. She had a sports bag full of supplies with her, and she put it on the floor, waiting for Diggle to leave, so she could get everything ready. Get Oliver ready, actually.

He finally left, not before extracting a promise from her that she'd call him in the next 12 hours, and if she didn't he'd descend on the League of Assassins like the wrath of God. He had friends in ARGUS, and in the Suicide Squad, and she shuddered at the thought of those three forces clashing. The city would never be the same.

Felicity looked at Oliver, again. She hoped he was really asleep, because she had work to do.

Half an hour later, she looked at her handiwork, and nodded. Yeah, she was ready for Oliver to wake up now. She'd stripped him to the waist, and zip-tied his hands behind his back. Then she had used more zip-ties to fasten his legs to the securely bolted chair-legs. She'd never forgotten what he'd told her about being tied to a chair - specifically, how not to stay tied to a chair. One of the tricks involved falling on your side, accidentally on purpose, and either breaking the chair or using it as a weapon. She'd got a small rug with her, and spread it on the floor in front of the chair. Part of her plan involved her knees, and that floor was filthy. No way was she getting down there without something between her body and all that dirt.

She walked around the chair, trying his bonds. Her heels clicked loudly in the empty office, and for a moment the atmosphere seemed eerie. It was late afternoon, the shadows were growing deeper, and she didn't have candles with her this time, not having planned to spend a whole night on this. Maybe she should have dressed more practically, but she wanted to go all out this time – a ruby-red dress, again, but this time skin-tight, and with a plunging neckline, designed to leave enough to the imagination to whet the appetite. Matching red lipstick, bright and glossy, was key. Her heels weren't high enough to be impractical, but enough to be sexy.

She walked around him again, and this time she couldn't resist trailing her hands over his tattoos, his scars. Would he lose all that the first time he tried the Lazarus Pit? She couldn't resist stroking his chest, either (not a lot of resistance when it came to shirtless Oliver, laid out before her), and his nipples hardened. How am I going to wake you up, she thought. Should she sit in his lap, or would that just make it easy for him to head-butt her? He seemed secure enough. If still fast asleep. Or was he? She realised that at some point in the last few minutes his breathing had changed, becoming shallow and quick.

Ok, we're back in the game. Showtime.

She'd made sure there was a desk opposite the chair, and leaned back against it now, folding her arms in a way she knew pushed her boobs up. Hey, remember these, Oliver? Come on, stop faking.

"I know you're awake."

No reply.

"God, you're stubborn."

Nothing changed, except maybe his breaths slowed down a little, the better to fake me out with, she thought. Except in this fairy tale, Little Red Riding Hood was calling the shots, and the wolf was tied to a chair.

"Hey!" She kicked at his boot, but if anything, his breathing slowed down even more, and he tried a tentative snore to throw her off.

Oh, so we're playing that game, are we? Well, I can play too, she thought. She settled on her knees in front of him, though she hadn't anticipated how vulnerable it would make her feel. She shook off the feeling, and went back to the plan, unbuttoning his pants (no zippers for the League of Assassins), and pulling down his underwear so that he was practically naked, his heavy cock resting on his thigh, and she stroked it gently. Circumcised, huh. That was unexpected. Was there a hitch in his breathing just now? Let's make sure, she thought, and blew on the crown. That was a gasp, right?

She pretended she hadn't heard it, and blew again. This time there was no sound, so she went to the next phase, and licked a long stripe all the way along the shaft, which stiffened with an almost comical speed.

The groan above her head couldn't have been suppressed, and she looked up into Oliver's furious face. No, not Oliver. Al Sahim was in charge again.

"What are you doing?" The last word was hissed at her.

"What does it look like?"

"Forsake this foolishness, woman!"

Forsake? Foolishness? Did the league include a dictionary and thesaurus in their brainwashing sessions? She smiled at him, and decided to provide some visual reinforcement, licking along the shaft again, and over the head, which was getting wet with pre-come. She wasn't a big fan of the taste, but needs must when the devil drives, as her dear old grandma used to say, and she couldn't stop her brain from taking the side route of wondering why the devil needed to drive anywhere, and where did he even get his licence, anyway. And why was she thinking about her grandmother at a time like this? Sometimes she wished she could mute her brain.

"I have a name, Oliver."

"I am Al Sahim, Heir to the Demon. Oliver Queen is dead."

She ignored that (that's what he would say, right) and licked his cock again, and now it was fully hard, rising up against his belly, deep purple and twitching. She looked up at his face, which was a similar deep colour – even his chest was flushed, rising and falling with his heaving breaths.

"You look pretty alive to me."

"You are mistaken. Don't confuse a purely physical reaction with any emotional response."

Trying something she'd seen online, she pursed her lips over the head and was gratified to hear him sucking the air in through his teeth. Purely physical, huh? Fine by me.

"At this point, I'll take whatever I can get, thanks."

His face grew even angrier, if that was possible. What scared her was that while she was used to 'angry Oliver', this was something different. Someone else. A stranger.

"You debase yourself with this display, acting no better than a common wh-"

In one swift movement, she got up and grabbed his face in mid-sentence.

"Do not finish that word, mister! You know what, I think we've heard enough out of you today."

She fumbled through her bag, trying hard to see its contents through the red mist that obscured her vision. Who the hell did he think he was, calling her that? She was a strong, independent, sexual woman, and he would shut up, or she'd make him. Got it, she crowed inwardly, as she pulled out the roll of duct tape and waved it in his face. She quickly taped up his mouth, just as he was opening it, no doubt to ask why she carried a serial killer's kit with her. And I don't care how much stubble you rip out when you pull it off, she thought. Maybe the League of Assassins should have a shaving class.

Felicity looked at him again, noting that his expression was more sheepish than angry, and he wasn't meeting her eyes. He should be ashamed. Like he deserved the high ground, him and his League of Murderers. She didn't know she wanted to continue, now. She was finding it hard to reconcile the man she loved, the one she wanted back, with the stranger wearing his face, and who'd just called her a whore. Or tried to.

She looked down in his lap and noticed that he was flagging a little, and that instantly changed her mind. She wasn't going to let him win. It was a matter of pride, now. She was going to blow his mind.

"Hmm, what to do . . ."

She kept her tone deliberately light and casual, just to keep him guessing what she'd do next.

Felicity stood behind him and trailed her hand over his shoulder, down to his nipple, flicked it carelessly, and back up again. She nuzzled the back of his neck and couldn't resist dropping a few kisses on his dragon tattoo. Then she leaned over him, making sure she swung her hair in his face, and nibbled on his ear.

"You know the outfit looks ridiculous, right? Wait, was that a growl?"

It hit her like a ton of bricks – she could say anything, anything at all, and he just had to sit there and listen. He couldn't stalk away in a snit, he couldn't yell at her, he just had to sit and take it. This was heaven. Hmm, maybe she'd had an ulterior ulterior motive when planning this scenario. On the other hand, she would have given anything to hear him roar out her name right now. Back to work, Felicity – any minute now your multiple personalities are going to start arguing with each other, and then where will you be?

A casual glance in his lap confirmed that he was good to go, and she settled back in front of him. His pants were in the way, though, and she was tired of getting the button fly in her face.

"Hey, scoot up a little. I need to get your pants right down."

He didn't move, and a glance upwards confirmed that he was staring into space, his jaw working.

"I said, move your heavy ass, Sahim."

She punctuated each word with a flick of her fingernails at his balls, only hinting at the damage she could do there if she really wanted to, and he hurriedly lifted up slightly, enough for her to pull his pants and underwear over his knees. She looked up again, feeling insulted at his expression of mild surprise.

"What, you didn't think I knew 'Al' is an article? I did go to MIT, you know."

And that's it, Felicity decided. No more small-talk, no more distractions. She was going blow him until he no longer remembered his own name, whatever he was going by. She started licking the crown gently, little licks along the ridge, punctuated by quick nuzzles of the shaft. The breaths above her head turned into quick puffs as he fought for air, and she was gratified by that. A few more long licks along the shaft, her right hand at the base with a finger resting on his balls, and she went to town, swallowing his cock in a swift motion and giving it a hard suck. Oliver cried out through the duct tape, and she tightened her grip around the base to stop him from coming, and started to suck for real, bobbing her head up and down for the full effect. She'd never tried to deep-throat, and wasn't about to now, but sucked him in as deep as she could, and his grunts suggested that she was successful.

She paused.

"Look at me."

No reaction. His eyes, what she could see of them, were tightly closed, the muscles were jumping in his jaw and standing out on his arms, which were straining against the zip ties. She nuzzled his thigh, higher and higher until she reached his groin muscles, and then she bit him. Not hard, just a friendly reminder of how close her teeth were to his cock. Though all it did was make his cock twitch and drool, making her giggle again.

"Wow, Oliver likes it rough. Oh, so sorry, I mean, Al Sahim likes it rough."

She licked the place she had bitten, flicking the tip of her tongue over the muscle, just to see it flutter. He glanced down at her then, and was it her imagination or did his eyes look . . . different? She didn't see rage in them, just that slightly pained expression that was Oliver's pissed off vibe. No, Felicity. No. She wasn't going to give in to wishful thinking. Maybe the League had an acting class, along with the sword-fighting and extra vocabulary.

"Look at me and I'll let you come. I promise."

He looked down, and once again she seemed to see something there, but it was time to go to work, and finish him off. She slid her lips over his cock slowly, almost all the way down, and up again. Down and up, first slow then fast then slow again, using her hand on the shaft and balls, making obscene slurping noises which sounded really loud in the silent room. He was groaning and gasping continuously now, but she ignored the sound and kept going, faster and faster until her jaw ached and she started to sweat, until finally, finally she could feel the tension in his balls increase until he came, spurting in her mouth, and she swallowed.

She let his cock slip from her lips and hung over his lap for a few more seconds, trying to get her breath back, which wasn't easy with the smell and taste of him surrounding her. She was soaking wet – once again, doing things to him had turned her on so much she could hardly wait to go somewhere private and, um, take herself in hand, so to speak. Though it was past time Oliver did something about that.

She leaned back, fairly sure that her expression wasn't too wrecked (though her hair and lips were probably another story) and saw that Oliver was really undone this time. He was snorting like a prize bull, and gasping, and at first she wasn't sure if he could breathe properly through his gag. As she watched, he managed to calm down, and, wow. The league had really taught him something about self control. And the art of the poker face. She used to be able to tell what he was thinking – not any more. Was this her Oliver, or still Sahim? Was he trying to form her name behind the duct tape? Could she risk untying him?

While she was debating the issue, he suddenly lunged at her, stopped short by the zip ties, and that made her mind up. Geez, Oliver, you sure know how to make things difficult for yourself. So, time to leave, and this time, she wasn't even sure what, if anything, she'd gained. She wasn't going to try and free him herself, but she didn't want to leave him there without an exit strategy either. Luckily, when she was undressing him she'd found a really sharp knife in his boot. She got it out, and Oliver froze, darting looks at the knife and at her face.

Felicity rolled her eyes once she realised he thought she was going to stab him in the dick or something. She was tired of arguing though, so she wordlessly put the knife on his thigh.

"Great assassin like you should be able to cut through the ties in no time," she said, making sure that her words dripped contempt. She was feeling frustrated and irritable, there was a weird taste in her mouth, and her throat hurt. Plus, she was sure her hair had that specific JBF look and smell, and she never even got F'd.

She grabbed the bag and stalked out, not even looking back, not wanting him to see the tears that were prickling at her eyes. She didn't know why she was crying – whether it was the way he'd looked at her before, like she was a bug under his feet, or the fact that it wasn't working. It wasn't working! Her inner voice turned into a wail of protest, and she wanted nothing more than to get under the shower and wash off the day. What the fuck was she doing, anyway? This was a waste of time. Oliver was gone.

The address had been known to him, from before. He circled around the house a few times, before he satisfied himself that there was no alarm to trip, and picked the lock to the front door, closing it noiselessly behind him. He managed to walk to the bedroom without making a sound, conscious of the items casually strewn all over the floor – a heavy sports bag, spilling zip ties and duct tape, high-heeled shoes which looked as if they had been kicked off, and a tablet computer with a shattered screen.

She lay sprawled out on the bed, fully dressed, and snoring slightly. He looked closer in the dim moonlight. Her face was tear-stained, and there was a crumpled up tissue clutched in her hand. Her glasses had fallen under the bed, and he picked them up and put them on her dressing table. She was still wearing the dress from the warehouse, and it had ridden up to show her inner thighs. He had to squeeze his eyes shut and clench his fists to control himself when he thought of the warehouse, and all she was prepared to do to get him back. He desperately wanted to touch her, to wake her up and tell her that he was himself again, but mostly to touch her skin again, to nuzzle her warm flesh and kiss her until she gasped for breath.

She shifted in her sleep, and sighed, and he pulled back, hurriedly. But she was still asleep, and he relaxed, wondering why he'd even come here (he knew why, deep down). Nothing had really changed. Sure, he knew his own name now, and no longer saw everything through the haze which had blurred his vision for the last few weeks. But the plan Malcolm and ARGUS had hatched still had to go ahead - the safety of Starling City depended on it. And R'as still thought of him as his heir, and would still hurt everyone he loved if he tried to get away. Wasn't it better to let her think she'd failed? She'd get over him, eventually, and maybe after all this was over they could . . . talk. Oh, who was he kidding. The chances of him surviving this shitshow were getting worse by the minute. Maybe Felicity should just forget about him altogether. If there hadn't been a planned extermination of Starling City, if Malcolm hadn't gotten in touch with him and told him of a way out - if, if, if. Maybe he could have just asked to be brainwashed again. Not that would have made any difference to his feelings for Felicity. He'd still dreamt about her, even after the brainwashing, though by the time he was awake, he'd managed to convince himself that just driving away with her was a ridiculous dream, a fragment of his past life. Those dreams had changed in tenor and frequency after the foundry - so many fantasies in which he'd turned the tables on her and- well. It was a good thing his status as Heir to the Demon gave him a private room. He was pretty sure that Heirs to the Demon didn't usually spend their private meditation time jerking off. And then the warehouse happened, and he was lost. He wasn't sure when he'd finally stopped being Sahim, but he was pretty certain it was after she'd duct-taped his mouth. He'd been sitting there, feeling all self-righteous about the corruption of the city (and when had he forgotten how to get out of zip ties, anyway?), and she'd licked her way up his cock, and then stopped him coming. It was like a wall in his brain crumbled, and he, Oliver, was sitting there, practically naked while Felicity- her mouth- oh, Jesus. He'd felt ashamed of what he'd called her, and at the same time, like his skin was on fire, and his head was going to explode. He didn't want to look at her, because he felt she'd read everything in his eyes, and he couldn't put her in any more danger. She had to believe he was still R'as al Ghul's puppet, even though everything inside him wanted to to tell her the truth, and beg her forgiveness. And so, ignoring the inner voice which was screaming at him to stay, he backed out of the door, leaving as quietly as he'd come. He wished he could tell her that he loved her, that he wanted her, that he was sorry. He put on his mask and cowl, and became Al Sahim once more, at least on the outside. It would have to be enough.