A/N: Yep, I went there. (And statistics back me up in that this isn't as far-fetched as even I thought until I did a little research.) Also, if you watched the two videos Stephen and Robbie posted after Walker-Stalker, then you'll recognize a pop culture nod in this piece. Finally, sorry for how long this took me to post. I actually wrote it exactly two months ago, and then I kind of forgot about it/procrastinated posting it. But it's here now, and I hope everyone enjoys. There will be at least one more piece, if not two, to this series... eventually. Thanks!


Give the Devil His Due
Part Three of The Devil Series
An Olicity One Shot

So, new Murphy's Law: if Felicity Smoak was ever to find herself in an orgy, of course she'd be the cream between two Queen cookies. And, whoa!, that wasn't inappropriate... at all. But she was talking about not a one, or a two, or a threesome; currently, there were four people in her bed. Well, it wasn't her bed. Yet. But it potentially could eventually become her bed. At this rate (i.e. the orgy part of the situation), no one else was ever going to want it. Not that they weren't all completely dressed... Well, she was at least. She didn't know what Oliver had on underneath his suit (because he still wasn't giving her the sex, but this time it sort of, kind of, maybe was her fault), but she hoped he wasn't going commando. That was so very... teenage frat boy forgot to do his laundry and not sexy. At all. Besides, his suit pants were too fancy (expensive) to risk such... exposure. As for the other two current members of her relationship square, Felicity wasn't going there; she wasn't think about their underwear... or the possibility of there not being any.

But, yeah, four little monkeys lying in a bed... She sighed, keeping her eyes closed because, for some reason, that seemed to help keep her mouth closed as well, and nobody needed to hear the thoughts zigging through her brain that afternoon. Quite honestly, Felicity didn't even want subjected to them, but that was the price she paid for being awesome. With great computer skills came greatly inappropriate word vomit. It was a tradeoff – the yin to her hacking yang. (Or was that the yang to her hacking yin? She'd have to look into that later.)

But, anyway, back to her little (four was considered little for an orgy, right?) situation... It figured. Not that she ever wanted to participate in an orgy or anything, but, if she did, of course she'd be literally trapped between two siblings, fourthed by a fool. (Yeah, Roy was there.) If nothing else, however (and she always tried to look on the bright side of things – like, hey, the glass is always full-full, because, you know, air counts, too), at least the day was confirming two very important truths, truths that Felicity had known for years.

Incest was not best.

And, when it came to sex, she was a simple girl. She didn't want or need toys, especially when the things that were the most fun to play with came naturally included, and there was no way in Helsinki that she was sharing. Extra partners – an orgy included – did not make sex provocative; it made it less intimate, and the sexiest thing that could happen between two partners in a relationship was intimacy – true, authentic, knee quavering and heart quivering intimacy. After all, intimacy meant vulnerability, and there was nothing riskier – hence, there was nothing with a bigger payoff – than that.

Now, that didn't mean that Felicity was a missionary only kind of girl either. She, just like everyone else, had her own style of kink. And, remember, she was 'wrestle, wrestle, twist 'em like a pretzel' flexible. Oh, the places one could go (to have sex) and the positions one could try... but first came a bed, then came the sex safaris, and then came...

"So, what happened? Did you two have so much sex that you broke her bed, Ollie?"

"Felicity's... redecorating."

Behind her closed lids, she rolled her eyes. At least he didn't say that she spilled a latte on it. But, really, Oliver was still as crap with cover stories as ever. It made her want to give him hickies in the most awkward and hard to explain places. With that realization, Felicity nearly choked on her own tongue. As it was, she only managed to not die in bed with three other people by coughing, eliciting a giggle from Thea (who obviously took the near-death moment as confirmation of her brother's inability to lie); a concerned glance (yes, she was now looking) from Oliver; and, if she wasn't mistaken, someone tried to pat her on the back, too... by reaching inside of her right front pants pocket. (Thankfully, she had seen awkwardness ensuing when she realized she needed to go bed shopping; she just hadn't seen how much, so she had dressed appropriately.) And, by someone, she meant Roy, because, apparently, he thought phone snatching was as easy as purse grabbing. So, evidently, he was still an idiot. When everybody returned to their own thoughts, though, Felicity let the pat down and snatch go... for the moment. It wasn't like Roy was going to get through her security, anyway.

As for the real reason why they were making like Goldilocks and her three bears (honestly, Felicity only wanted one, but things rarely went her way) in Starling City's finest furniture store... Well, Felicity knew why she and Oliver were there, but she had no idea why Thea and Roy were there as well. Actually, scratch that. She did know why. The younger couple was there, because, after their little tete-a-tete at her lady-bits doctor's office, Roy had taken to following her, and he wasn't entirely incompetent (when she allowed him to be). However, what she didn't know was why Thea thought she and Roy were furniture shopping. But keeping track of her own motivations and trying to decipher Oliver's was challenging enough; she didn't need to add two more voices... well, one and a half – Roy, here's looking at you, kid... to the equation.

Simply put, she and Oliver were there, because Felicity had spent the entire previous day wiping off Oliver's balls.

Err... his golf balls.

Did she forget to mention that part...?

Anyway, there had been some yuppie charity golf event. The good news? Felicity looked amazeballs in golf clothes. What could she say? She rocked the argyle like nobody's business. The bad news? As Oliver's executive assistant, she wasn't invited to the scramble to look cute; she was invited to wipe off his balls.

His golf balls!

Consequently, they had spent the whole day together... which wasn't unusual. However, usually they co-existed in the spacious executive offices of Queen Consolidated or in the even more spacious basement below Verdant; co-existing in a teeny-weeny, yellow polka-dot (hold the yellow polka-dot) golf cart together? Well, that was a horse of a whole different color. With a horn. So, it was a unicorn. And, now, here they were.

Because Oliver was big... bigger than Felicity and much bigger than all the other men that she had dated in the past. Not that she and Oliver were dating. They weren't even sleeping together. Yet. But they were going to... for the plan. To protect their secret. To take one (it sure as hell better be more than once) for the team. To finally relieve all that sexual tension that Felicity was fairly sure was making her brain bubble out of her ears. And it was going to be light's out... like, for shizzle her nizzle, because she was holding out hope that Oliver would be her ticket to le petit mort. Choo-choo! However, that wouldn't be possible if he couldn't fit into her bed or fell out of it halfway through their train ride. And, sure, their first time could be on her floor, but, remember, shenanigans were only supposed to come after the bed was broken in.

Hence, the shopping.

Besides, it was time to upgrade anyway. After graduating from college and getting her first real job, Felicity had bought the smallest and cheapest mattress she could reasonably say an adult would be caught dead owning. So, currently, she had just a full when she really wanted to be sleeping on top of a Queen with a Queen inside of her and a queen underneath him. (And, for clarity's sake, both the on and inside Queens were the same person. She wasn't reneging on her two scoops limit.) All of this meant that he had to give the devil (aka Oliver) what he had coming to him: a big ol' bed for having vast amounts of the tremendous sex. With her. Sure, it was a temporary, unforeseen delay (on top of a not-as-temporary, totally foreseen delay), but Felicity felt it was a justified and necessary postponement.

"So... are we going to try any other beds, or are you guys going with this one," Thea asked, once more the one to break into their (safe) silence.

"We, Speedy?"

"Please," the younger Queen scoffed at her brother's not-so-subtle hint to hit the road. "You two need me. Not only am I an excellent shopper..."

"You've had enough practice," Roy grumbled off to the side.

"Hey, no comments from the pigeon gallery," Thea sniped back.

"It's peanut, actually" her boyfriend corrected her.

"Yeah, well, maybe I'd prefer not to refer to you as something that's also used to relate size... if you know what I'm saying."

"Thea," Oliver complained, only to be cut off as though he had never voiced an objection.

"Anyway, as I was saying... Not only am I good at shopping, I've also never broken a bed, so, apparently, I'm better at sex, too."

"Or not." That was Roy again. The dunce really just did not get it – women, his girlfriend, life.

Felicity nearly giggled when she detected a note of whining to Oliver's voice. "Please, Thea, at least try to let me think that you're still innocent... and that I don't have to kill Roy."

"Yes, please," the man in question agreed.

"Ugh... were you two not present on our double date just last week at my gynecologist's office?"

Constructively, Felicity added, "don't forget that she's an obstetrician, too."

Roy complained, "not helping, Buffy."

"Buffy," Thea question.

"Yeah... you know: blonde, cheerleader, likes to fight crime."

The younger Queen only responded with, "huh?"

In contrast, Felicity complimented, "at least your references are improving. I'll see your Buffy and raise you a Jesse. You're totally a Jesse."

"Jesse died in the first episode," Roy cried. Felicity snickered. Oliver turned over so that his back was to them. Thea smacked the bed with her fists, apparently annoyed with their bantering and that her mad squat jumping in the cucumber patch skills were being ignored.

"Anyway...," Thea refocused them. "What kind of mattress are you looking for? Hard? Soft? Half-mast?"

"Oh, you've gotta be kidding me," Oliver growled.

His sister paid him absolutely no mind. "What kind of bed are you looking for... perhaps one fit for a Queen? And, no, Ollie, I'm not talking about you... no matter how much you groom and preen."

Tehe. Manscaping.

"What the hell is manscaping," Roy asked, bewildered.

Shit. Shoot. She meant shoot. Or, you know, whoops.

Apparently, that slipped out.

Slamming her eyes shut once more – because her lips were supposed to be and her legs definitely were, pants or no pants, Felicity was wishin', and hopin', and thinkin', and prayin', plannin', and dreamin' that she'd remain quiet for the rest of the unfortunate excursion.

"Don't worry, Roy, it's just something you were never taught, but maybe my brother can give you some lessons."

"Seriously, Speedy!" And, with that, Oliver flopped back over, glaring at his sister over top of Felicity.

Really, the man had no business getting angry while in bed with her... and two other people, because he should know how attractive she found his 'Grrr!' face, and it ain't fittin' – it jus' ain't fittin' – to do that to a girl when she couldn't do anything about it. Well, she could, but the last thing they needed was to add Detective Lance to the equation (you know, when he came to the store to arrest her), making their square orgy into a pentagon. And, oh, wow. Felicity shuddered. That was an unpleasant and downright cruel direction for her mind to take.

"So, let's see... There are the classics: a canopy bed, a four poster, a sleigh bed..."

As Thea listed all the various kinds of beds known to interior designers (and rich trust fund kids who fancied themselves amateur interior designers), Felicity zoned out, because, whether or not she knew all the fancy names, she did know how to best use the various kinds of beds there were... or, at least, she would know how once she and Oliver started having the sex. A headboard with some cushion had its obvious advantages, but then so, too, did having something to hold onto. Then there was the whole footboard/no footboard debate. Did she want two somethings to hold onto, or would it be better to have three sides open for... kneeling? What she really needed was a Queen sized mansion with many queen sized beds, so that she could have the best of all the worlds to play duck, duck, goose with... only goosing would have a whole different meaning now.

"I'm more concerned with the size," she blurted out – both in an attempt to distract Thea (who was still naming styles) and to distract herself (who was still thinking about goosing). (And, for real, what was wrong with her?! This problem she had went well beyond being dropped on her head as a child.)

"Aren't we all," the Queen heiress snickered. Felicity could feel Oliver vibrating beside her (and not in a good way) like a tuning fork. Forget frustrated; his patience was fried. "But, as you well know, we don't have to worry about that where my brother is concerned."

Quirking one eye open to glance at the woman beside her, Felicity mused, "you know, you're quite comfortable with discussing your brother's sex life? I know I'm an only child, so this isn't really something I know anything about, but that seems weird to me."

"And me, too," Roy piped in for good measure.

He was thoroughly ignored.

Thea sat up, shifting so that she was facing Felicity, legs crossed beneath her. "Well, Ollie's an exhibitionist."

"Am not!"

He so totally was.

"You so totally are," Thea argued. "I mean, I've seen you naked."

"Have not!"

"Have, too!"

"Have not!"

"Have, too!"

"Have not, Thea!"

This would have gone on all afternoon, Felicity had a feeling, if she wouldn't have decided to cut into the siblings' bickering, back and forth, toddler moment.


"Have when," she asked Thea. Tossing Oliver a look which begged for his cooperation, she expanded upon her question. "I want a date, details."

"Well, back in '95..."

"You weren't even born yet in 1995, Speedy!"

Thea sniggered. "Oliver," Felicity tried to pacify him, noticing that the sales associates were starting to look suspiciously in their direction. Apparently, the Queen's money was enough for them to overlook an orgy happening in their store, but start raising your voice while in bed, and, suddenly, the stool gets real. "It's just a reference to a new show."

Insistently, he responded with, "I don't care what it is. She's never seen me naked."

"Alright, fine," the younger Queen agreed, holding up her hands in a placating manner. "We'll just agree to disagree; we'll move on." Then, Thea smiled mischievously, and Felicity knew whatever left the other woman's mouth next was not going to go over well with Oliver. "Foreskin ahead, Ollie!" She even saluted him to boot.

Roy lost it. Between loud barks of laughter, he asked, "are you telling me that your brother isn't circumcised?"

When Thea answered, she used a high pitched voice meant to reflect immaturity – the way that adults spoke to young children. "Our mommy couldn't have that mean old doctor cutting her beautiful, baby boy." Returning to her normal tone, the younger woman added, "it's my theory that, ever since, Oliver has been trying to shed the extra flap of skin. That's why he's had so much sex with so many different women." Before Oliver could object, his sister kept talking. "But now – and this is where it gets priceless – he's dating (and shagging) a Jewish girl... meaning, if he'd ever man up and propose, adult circumcision. I don't care how wrong this is, if that ever happens, I want video coverage... not of, you know, it but of Ollie's facial expressions. I want to see him cry and pass out like a girl. And then I want to tweet it."

Never before had Felicity been so thankful that her parents had only had sex once. (And she was totally sticking to that story, too.) "Whoa, hold up there, Nelly," she spoke before anyone else could react to Thea's little soliloquy.

"First of all, how do you know that I'm Jewish?"

"Duh. Roy and I have been spying on you for, like, a week now. He thinks you know who The Arrow is. Plus, I've been stalking your social media accounts since my brother introduced you all those months ago in Walter's hospital room."

Apparently, total lack of respect for personal boundaries was contagious in the Queen household. "Secondly, there will be no circumcision, because we're not getting married, and we're not getting married, because we're not even dating. We're just having sex." Eventually. (Though Felicity was grateful towards Thea for the warning about what to expect when that happened.)

"Yeah. Right." The heiress was quite adept at the scorn. "Keep telling yourself that. Keep pulling the wool over your own... oh my god."

"What," Felicity asked.

"Oh. My. God."


And then Thea laughed so hard, she grabbed her ribs and toppled over the side of the bed. From the store's floor, she explained through huffing bursts of merriment, "they thought... Ollie... was... 'The Hood.' Maybe it's not green... and maybe he doesn't go around shooting arrows into people, but, as Roy is now aware, my brother does wear a hood, and he's shooting something into Felicity enough so that they're here to buy her a new bed."

At that point, Oliver just stood and walked away. She jumped up and followed him, still hearing Thea's laughter behind her. "Wait," she called after his retreating form. He slowed down enough so that she could catch up. "Where are you going? We still have to..."

"I'm buying a bed – any bed," Oliver answered, "so we can get out of here."

She paused to open her wristlet, digging through the small purse to find her credit card. "Here, just let me get..." But, before she could locate it, he had already stalked off, apparently set upon paying for it himself... which she was oddly okay with.

It was his fault, after all, that she needed a new bed in the first place. If he wasn't so pretty, then she wouldn't find him attractive. If she wasn't attracted to him, then she wouldn't have babbled during their very first meeting. If she wouldn't have babbled during their very first meeting, he might not have felt comfortable enough around her to ask (lie, badly) for her help a second time. And a third. And a fourth. And a millionth. If he wasn't comfortable enough to ask for her help, then he never would have bled like a stuck pig in the backseat of her Mini. If he hadn't bled like a stuck pig in the backseat of her Mini, then she wouldn't have hung around for so long, looking for him to finally reimburse her for that absurdly expensive reupholstering bill. And, if she wouldn't have hung around for so long, then she never would have had reason to tell Roy that they were sleeping together.

That was Felicity's story, and she was sticking to it.

The stupid, pretty, stupidly pretty man.

Zipping up her wristlet, Felicity pivoted on her heels and made her way towards the village idiot and his keeper. Thea was gone, however – legitimately off looking at furniture, and Roy had his back turned.

Yeah, like that was going to prevent her from knowing exactly what he was doing.

Cheekily, she sang, "never gonna get it, w-whoa whoa whoa," making Roy jump as though caught with his hand in the cookie jar... and by cookie jar she meant trying to break into her phone.


Someone who actually knew what they were doing would have foregone the timely process of manually cracking a password and, instead, designed some tech or code that would have performed the task for them. But, then again, this was the same guy who thought a red hoodie was inconspicuous. Hercule Poirot, he was not. In fact, saying that alone was insult to the great Poirot and his little gray cells. She flinched in silent apology.

Holding out her hand, she waited for Roy to hand over the cell... which he did without comment. At least, he was learning... even if it was at a remedial pace.

A hand – a very familiar hand, though it usually touched her arm or shoulder (hence, why she wore so many sleeveless dresses) – slid against the small of her back. If Felicity didn't know better, she would have said the gesture felt possessive. But this was Oliver, and the only things he felt possessive towards (if it didn't rhyme with 'look at that sorrel prance') were shiny and pointy... and she wasn't talking about her shoes, either (though they were worthy of being coveted). But then that hand was being used to tug her into his side, and she was rethinking her stance on the host city (bed versus floor) of their 2014 winter sexcapades.

"Roy," Oliver spoke congenially... which meant that he was about to rain down the pain. "If you don't stop following Felicity, I'll send Mr. Diggle after you."

"Your driver?"

Deciding to paint a very grisly, painful picture for the imbecile, Felicity explained, "he's ex-special forces. His arms are the size of tree trunks. Redwoods."

Roy smirked. "What, are you sleeping with him, too?"

Beside her, Oliver growled. Really, the kid was just asking for a beat down. One of these nights, he was going to meet his idol again... by the Arrow dragging him from his bed, taking him outside, and curb stomping him. Repeatedly. "Actually, Thea told me."

When Roy stalked off, his face matched what she was starting to believe was his only shirt. Usually, she'd feel bad for mocking a poor kid, but everything and anything about her former attacker was fair game.

"You really shouldn't antagonize him," Oliver chastised her as he directed them both towards the exit. "We really don't know what he's capable of."

In return, she wanted to suggest that maybe he should just let Roy in on his secret so as to better monitor and help the younger man, but that would mean their whole sex for the sake of veracity deal would be null and void, and she had invested way too much time, money, and pain (hello, two Brazilians... and counting) to turn back now. Sure, Felicity was a little nervous herself, and Oliver, at that point, should have just changed his name to The Marathon Man, for he was making quite the study at running away from their plan, but she still believed that this was her best chance to show Oliver that he could be with someone he cared about, that he was ready to be with someone he cared about, and that that someone could be her. Besides, despite Oliver's threats of 'Death by Diggle,' Roy wasn't going to stop following her, and doing so seemed to be helping to distract and keep him occupied (out of trouble). So, call her selfish, but Roy and his Mirakuru issues would just have to wait a few more days.

Speaking of which... Felicity spun around on the balls of her feet and made to walk back into the store. "I need to see if they offer expedited shipping and delivery," she explained, not sparing Oliver a glance.

But then he snagged her arm (see, he was definitely an arm man!), pulling her back towards him. "I already took care of it. It'll be at home – at your apartment, waiting for you by the time you get off of work later this afternoon."


Well, that was awesome.

Guess it paid to be Oliver Queen's executive assistant and secretary sometimes.

She grinned up at him in thanks. In return, Oliver smiled smugly. Her grin dropped.

Because that wasn't suspicious.

He was up to something, and, once more, it certainly wasn't the task at hand.

If it meant another Brazilian before they finally had the sex, she was going to kill him.

And then have her way with him.

Oh my god, she was turning into Emily Grierson.

And she thought Roy had problems.

Blindly following behind Oliver as he tugged her towards an awaiting Digg and the Bentley, Felicity found herself stewing over and admiring his actions all at the same time. While she didn't know what exactly he was up to, there was something alright. She had already given him a new bed (to have sex with her on), but now she also had to give him his due as well. When it came to avoidance, Oliver Queen knew what he was doing. Too bad Felicity Smoak was even better than him at... well, everything.

It was time to bust out her A game.

(And, no, that wasn't a reference to using her boobs to distract Oliver. She was happily, naturally, a B-cup, thank you very much.)

It meant, if Oliver wanted to play dirty, then she'd call in the clean-up team. Did somebody say... reinforcements?