Fic: Arrow - Oliver/Diggle, Graceland - Briggs/Mike
Fandom: Arrow
Pairing: Oliver/Diggle
Summary: When Oliver is naked and lying before him, Diggle likes to think that money doesn't matter. Also includes what Diggle thinks about broader economic problems in Starling City. Written for Kink Bingo for the class fantasies square.
They’re in the sub-basement of the building that Oliver bought. They sweep a thousand-dollar bow and a dozen arrows off the table as they climb on top of it, pulling each other’s clothes off. Oliver turns off his phone so they won’t be bothered by a call from his mother, who signs each and every one of Diggle’s paychecks.
Oliver smiles up at him, waiting for Diggle to make his move like he can’t imagine anyone would want to say no.
At the moment, Diggle can’t imagine why anyone would either.
Oliver is lying naked on a concrete table, his body tensing with anticipation as Diggle’s hand rests softly on his chest. He is stripped, his scars are bared, and he is thinking of nothing but getting Diggle’s body closer to his.
In these moments, Diggle likes to pretend that money doesn’t matter.
~~
In some ways, being Oliver’s bodyguard was nothing like what he expected.
In other ways, it was exactly what he expected. He knew from the moment he was hired that he was going to be looking after a young man who has been told his entire life that he was destined to be a master of his universe, and that those who cried foul simply didn’t understand the realities of how the world works.
Diggle believed in Oliver. He believed in the mission that Oliver has chosen to share with him. But sometimes he wondered if growing up around buildings stamped “Queen Industries” had given Oliver the sense that this city really did belong to him. Oliver had no question about the fact that he could single-handedly shape a city’s destiny, that his power and his benevolence were hands of righteousness, scrubbing evil from the land.
The army had made Diggle feel the same thing once. For a while at least, though not through his whole tour.
So it’s not that Diggle judged him, not really. And at least Oliver had a little self-awareness. He knew that their project was morally gray at best. He just didn’t know what else to do. And doing nothing wasn’t an option.
This was something else that he and Oliver had in common. And they really did have a lot in common.
There were a few things, however, that would always be different. The way that Oliver never worried if a car or motorcycle got trashed. The way that Oliver would walk into the most exclusive areas of Starling City dressed like a bum and still get treated like a prince. The way that a state of the art, lightweight, wearable shielding, worth tens of thousands of dollars, appeared in their workspace. Actually, Oliver bought 10 of them. (When Diggle enlisted, he wasn’t given body armor, so he had to buy his own. His family helped pay for it, and the armor was heavy as hell.)
And he knew that Oliver’s work was important. He went after the drug dealers but also the corporate titans who were secretly dealing arms or using violence to get their way. He went after the people threatening the lives of the lawyers and small business owners and community workers and activists who were fighting to make the city better. People like that - people whose strength was building things anew - couldn’t get anywhere with thugs running the city. So they needed people like Oliver. And people like Diggle. To clear the way.
But Diggle also knew that the reason the Glades became the Glades wasn’t just the criminals. The criminals came because they knew that there was a huge swath of land full of people whose voice didn’t count. The corrupt landlords came for that reason too, and the loan sharks, the payday advance places, the repossessors and everyone else who added to the tax on being poor. It was why the grocery stores and libraries left, and why the city said it was helping everyone by closing half the schools.
There are people - really good people - who are working to change all of that. But they’re just going to get killed or scared or too damn burnt out to keep working unless someone cuts off the neverending supply of violence and greed, two beasts that always look after their own interests.
Diggle knew that he and Oliver weren’t exactly do-gooders. But they were the ones standing between the do-gooders and the bullets aimed at all of them.
Sometimes, Diggle wondered if Oliver felt the same way about why the city is the way it is. If he understood at all why Diggle snarked about Oliver’s contributions to gentrification, or why Diggle always mentioned the defense contractors who made a fortune off of his work. Or even why Diggle insisted on paying for coffee exactly half of the time.
He never brought it up, though. Honestly, it didn’t matter.
If he and Oliver were trying to rebuild the city together, they might have needed to hash it out. Agree on what’s really tearing the city down -- the evil pieces of shit in Oliver’s book or the whole entire history that basically handed over the city to those evil pieces of shit.
But they’re not in the business of making something new. They’re in the business of cleaning out the old.
And that much they can agree on.
~~
Diggle likes to tell himself that money doesn’t matter.
Not all of the time.
Only in moments like this, when their bodies are moving against each other in a half-dark room. Clothes strewn on the floor, the smell of sweat permeating the air. The feel of Oliver’s scars beneath his fingertips, their raised roughness, reminding Diggle that Oliver is his brother in arms, that Oliver has things he needs to forget even more than Diggle does.
In these moments, nothing matters. Not money. Not how they were raised, not any of their other differences. Not the hardness of the table beneath them, bruising them with every move. Not the fact that their mission would probably get them both killed someday.
When they are done, Diggle moves his hand so he can lean down to Oliver’s lips, to kiss him slow and hungry and rough. His hand scrapes against the edge of the table, and Diggle tells himself that he doesn’t care.
---------------------
Fandom: Graceland
Pairing: Briggs/Mike
Summary: Mike asks Briggs to break him down and put him back together again. Dom!Briggs/Sub!Mike. Written for Kink Bingo for the emotion play square.
They talked about it beforehand.
Apparently this was the one area in his life where Briggs didn’t like to scare you half to death before revealing that he could be trusted after all.
Mike was relieved, truth be told. If there were going to do a scene together, Mike wanted to make sure they were both on the same page ahead of time.
It had started out with little winks and jokes about how Mike would get a spanking if he made another mistake. Typical Briggs bullshit where you didn’t know if he was flirting with you or just fucking with your head.
Eventually, Mike managed to hear enough gossip about Briggs to figure out that Briggs was at least as into dominance and submission as Mike was. At least. He even managed to get a look at Briggs’ browser history to confirm.
So then Mike figured out how to get what he wanted.
He responded happily instead of warily when Briggs flirted, or just even when he gave off a dominant vibe, which was fairly often. He even threw out a few flirtatious comments of his own, so that Briggs could wonder about him for a change. Finally, he let Briggs overhear him ask a woman at the bar if she knew of a good place where a submissive guy could have some safe fun.
Mike knew that there was no way Briggs would want someone in their house to get tied up alone by some stranger. Even if he weren’t into pretty much the same stuff that Mike was - which he was, Mike had found out - Mike knew that Briggs’ protective streak would come out.
It did.
A couple of awkward conversations later, Mike was naked and on his knees, trying not to cry against Briggs’ thigh.
Well worth the effort.
~~~~~~~~~~
“Tell me what you want,” Briggs had said.
“What do you want?” Mike responded.
“I want you to answer my question as honestly and completely as possible,” he said, making it clear he was already giving orders (not that him giving Mike orders was anything new).
“Are you a service top?” Mike asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes. And you are so very obviously a bossy bottom, so this is going to work out great.” He gave Mike a smile that was far too charming for his own good.
“‘Bossy bottom’ is an offensive term,” he joked.
“Stop stalling. Tell me what you like.”
Mike swallowed, nervous suddenly. But he told him. Mike had been in relationships like this before, had had this conversation before. So he pushed forward.
Mike needed emotional play. Something purely physical wouldn’t do much for him. Humiliation was good - certain kinds only - and he liked being punished and forgiven.
He didn’t like roleplay, not in the traditional sense. He wanted Briggs to be Briggs and himself to be himself. If Briggs yelled at him for being worthless, it had to be believable - he should talk about Mike’s real failings and flaws. If he said that Mike was a coward, he should berate him for his actual fears.
“That could get a little dicey, Mike,” Briggs had said.
“I know. But… it works for me. Better than practically anything. And I can’t exactly… I mean do you know how hard it is find that when I can’t even tell anyone who I am?” Mike didn’t bother to hide the desperation in his voice. Briggs already knew exactly how much Mike needed him.
Briggs looked at him, though, trying to make a decision.
“Look, not going to lie. The shit I’ve seen this week, I really need this. And I trust you, Briggs,” Mike said. “You can make it work.”
“And what if I make it work so well that it breaks you?” he answered, worry in his voice.
Mike paused. Finally, nervously, he said, “What’s the point of doing a scene if you’re not going to break me?”
It was a cliché, Mike knew: hurt me until I break, then put me back together. Make me utterly, terrifyingly dependent on you. The essence of a scene, really.
But that’s what Mike needed right now. That’s what would work for him.
Finally, Briggs nodded. He said he wanted to be whatever Mike needed, and he meant it.
~~~~~~~~~~
They try it.
Mike isn’t surprised that Briggs is good. Really good.
He is surprised that he goes from emotional highs to lows, physical pain to pleasure and then back again, and the whole time he feels completely safe.
It’s nothing like being on the job with Briggs.
Briggs goes slow, tells Mike what he’s doing every step of the way. A gentle hand on the back of Mike’s neck, or gripping his hip to move him around. A blindfold, ice cubes. Ropes.
Words. Not yelling. Briggs whispering in his ear, telling him he is too soft, too green, telling him he hasn’t earned the trust that everyone else in the house has. Saying that he’s not sure Mike won’t do something stupid and get his head blown off one of these days, saying they’d all be better off if they locked Mike in his little room and left them there. Promises that he’ll always be there to take care of him, that he’s worthless, that he’s precious, that he’s filthy, that he’s beautiful, that he’s weak, that he’s strong.
Briggs manipulating his insecurities as if they were skin or lips or hair. Physical, emotional, pleasure, pain, back and forth until Mike is a quivering mess on the floor, begging Briggs for things he never even knew he wanted.
When they are done, when Mike is calm again, they curl up in Briggs’ bed, the heat of Briggs’ body surrounding him. Gentle strokes along his back until he is breathing normally.
After a while, Briggs asks if he’s okay.
“This was perfect,” Mike says, his face nestled in Briggs’ neck. “Perfect.”
It was, for Mike. Better than any other scene he’s ever done.
That much was the truth. Whatever else he lied about, that was the truth.
~~~~~~~~~~
(Five weeks earlier)
“Briggs has narcissistic tendencies, but unlike many narcissists has great empathy for others,” the psychological consultant said.
“I don’t think appealing to his ego will work,” Mike said. He wasn’t sure why getting help from a profiler on how to approach Briggs was necessary. He was doing a decent job.
“He would see right through flattery,” the psychologist answered. “What he needs is to feel like other people need and trust him. Manage to do that, and he’ll put personal affection above his own need for secrecy and self-protection.”
“I’m pretty sure he doesn’t like needy.”
“Be reluctant to admit how much you need him.”
“Well, I should have that covered,” Mike said, rather grumpily, “He keeps saving my ass in the field, but I always go in thinking I don’t need him.”
“He’s a charismatic leader type, he thinks that everyone around him should be one of his followers. He thinks all of Graceland belongs to him. And it seems that many of his friends and coworkers seem happy to keep him up on this pedestal as well.”
“That sounds true enough,” Mike admitted, even if he did think it sounded a bit uncharitable.
“Convince him that you’re one of his. That you don’t know what you would do without him. He needs to feel like you’re willing to show weakness around him that you would never show to others. Then, he’ll trust you with everything. That’s the kind of man he is.”
“How exactly do I convince him of all that?” Mike asked.
“Whatever it takes,” the consultant said. “And Washington agrees.”
Mike nodded. He would just have to figure something out.
Pairing: Oliver/Diggle
Summary: When Oliver is naked and lying before him, Diggle likes to think that money doesn't matter. Also includes what Diggle thinks about broader economic problems in Starling City. Written for Kink Bingo for the class fantasies square.
They’re in the sub-basement of the building that Oliver bought. They sweep a thousand-dollar bow and a dozen arrows off the table as they climb on top of it, pulling each other’s clothes off. Oliver turns off his phone so they won’t be bothered by a call from his mother, who signs each and every one of Diggle’s paychecks.
Oliver smiles up at him, waiting for Diggle to make his move like he can’t imagine anyone would want to say no.
At the moment, Diggle can’t imagine why anyone would either.
Oliver is lying naked on a concrete table, his body tensing with anticipation as Diggle’s hand rests softly on his chest. He is stripped, his scars are bared, and he is thinking of nothing but getting Diggle’s body closer to his.
In these moments, Diggle likes to pretend that money doesn’t matter.
~~
In some ways, being Oliver’s bodyguard was nothing like what he expected.
In other ways, it was exactly what he expected. He knew from the moment he was hired that he was going to be looking after a young man who has been told his entire life that he was destined to be a master of his universe, and that those who cried foul simply didn’t understand the realities of how the world works.
Diggle believed in Oliver. He believed in the mission that Oliver has chosen to share with him. But sometimes he wondered if growing up around buildings stamped “Queen Industries” had given Oliver the sense that this city really did belong to him. Oliver had no question about the fact that he could single-handedly shape a city’s destiny, that his power and his benevolence were hands of righteousness, scrubbing evil from the land.
The army had made Diggle feel the same thing once. For a while at least, though not through his whole tour.
So it’s not that Diggle judged him, not really. And at least Oliver had a little self-awareness. He knew that their project was morally gray at best. He just didn’t know what else to do. And doing nothing wasn’t an option.
This was something else that he and Oliver had in common. And they really did have a lot in common.
There were a few things, however, that would always be different. The way that Oliver never worried if a car or motorcycle got trashed. The way that Oliver would walk into the most exclusive areas of Starling City dressed like a bum and still get treated like a prince. The way that a state of the art, lightweight, wearable shielding, worth tens of thousands of dollars, appeared in their workspace. Actually, Oliver bought 10 of them. (When Diggle enlisted, he wasn’t given body armor, so he had to buy his own. His family helped pay for it, and the armor was heavy as hell.)
And he knew that Oliver’s work was important. He went after the drug dealers but also the corporate titans who were secretly dealing arms or using violence to get their way. He went after the people threatening the lives of the lawyers and small business owners and community workers and activists who were fighting to make the city better. People like that - people whose strength was building things anew - couldn’t get anywhere with thugs running the city. So they needed people like Oliver. And people like Diggle. To clear the way.
But Diggle also knew that the reason the Glades became the Glades wasn’t just the criminals. The criminals came because they knew that there was a huge swath of land full of people whose voice didn’t count. The corrupt landlords came for that reason too, and the loan sharks, the payday advance places, the repossessors and everyone else who added to the tax on being poor. It was why the grocery stores and libraries left, and why the city said it was helping everyone by closing half the schools.
There are people - really good people - who are working to change all of that. But they’re just going to get killed or scared or too damn burnt out to keep working unless someone cuts off the neverending supply of violence and greed, two beasts that always look after their own interests.
Diggle knew that he and Oliver weren’t exactly do-gooders. But they were the ones standing between the do-gooders and the bullets aimed at all of them.
Sometimes, Diggle wondered if Oliver felt the same way about why the city is the way it is. If he understood at all why Diggle snarked about Oliver’s contributions to gentrification, or why Diggle always mentioned the defense contractors who made a fortune off of his work. Or even why Diggle insisted on paying for coffee exactly half of the time.
He never brought it up, though. Honestly, it didn’t matter.
If he and Oliver were trying to rebuild the city together, they might have needed to hash it out. Agree on what’s really tearing the city down -- the evil pieces of shit in Oliver’s book or the whole entire history that basically handed over the city to those evil pieces of shit.
But they’re not in the business of making something new. They’re in the business of cleaning out the old.
And that much they can agree on.
~~
Diggle likes to tell himself that money doesn’t matter.
Not all of the time.
Only in moments like this, when their bodies are moving against each other in a half-dark room. Clothes strewn on the floor, the smell of sweat permeating the air. The feel of Oliver’s scars beneath his fingertips, their raised roughness, reminding Diggle that Oliver is his brother in arms, that Oliver has things he needs to forget even more than Diggle does.
In these moments, nothing matters. Not money. Not how they were raised, not any of their other differences. Not the hardness of the table beneath them, bruising them with every move. Not the fact that their mission would probably get them both killed someday.
When they are done, Diggle moves his hand so he can lean down to Oliver’s lips, to kiss him slow and hungry and rough. His hand scrapes against the edge of the table, and Diggle tells himself that he doesn’t care.
---------------------
Fandom: Graceland
Pairing: Briggs/Mike
Summary: Mike asks Briggs to break him down and put him back together again. Dom!Briggs/Sub!Mike. Written for Kink Bingo for the emotion play square.
They talked about it beforehand.
Apparently this was the one area in his life where Briggs didn’t like to scare you half to death before revealing that he could be trusted after all.
Mike was relieved, truth be told. If there were going to do a scene together, Mike wanted to make sure they were both on the same page ahead of time.
It had started out with little winks and jokes about how Mike would get a spanking if he made another mistake. Typical Briggs bullshit where you didn’t know if he was flirting with you or just fucking with your head.
Eventually, Mike managed to hear enough gossip about Briggs to figure out that Briggs was at least as into dominance and submission as Mike was. At least. He even managed to get a look at Briggs’ browser history to confirm.
So then Mike figured out how to get what he wanted.
He responded happily instead of warily when Briggs flirted, or just even when he gave off a dominant vibe, which was fairly often. He even threw out a few flirtatious comments of his own, so that Briggs could wonder about him for a change. Finally, he let Briggs overhear him ask a woman at the bar if she knew of a good place where a submissive guy could have some safe fun.
Mike knew that there was no way Briggs would want someone in their house to get tied up alone by some stranger. Even if he weren’t into pretty much the same stuff that Mike was - which he was, Mike had found out - Mike knew that Briggs’ protective streak would come out.
It did.
A couple of awkward conversations later, Mike was naked and on his knees, trying not to cry against Briggs’ thigh.
Well worth the effort.
~~~~~~~~~~
“Tell me what you want,” Briggs had said.
“What do you want?” Mike responded.
“I want you to answer my question as honestly and completely as possible,” he said, making it clear he was already giving orders (not that him giving Mike orders was anything new).
“Are you a service top?” Mike asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes. And you are so very obviously a bossy bottom, so this is going to work out great.” He gave Mike a smile that was far too charming for his own good.
“‘Bossy bottom’ is an offensive term,” he joked.
“Stop stalling. Tell me what you like.”
Mike swallowed, nervous suddenly. But he told him. Mike had been in relationships like this before, had had this conversation before. So he pushed forward.
Mike needed emotional play. Something purely physical wouldn’t do much for him. Humiliation was good - certain kinds only - and he liked being punished and forgiven.
He didn’t like roleplay, not in the traditional sense. He wanted Briggs to be Briggs and himself to be himself. If Briggs yelled at him for being worthless, it had to be believable - he should talk about Mike’s real failings and flaws. If he said that Mike was a coward, he should berate him for his actual fears.
“That could get a little dicey, Mike,” Briggs had said.
“I know. But… it works for me. Better than practically anything. And I can’t exactly… I mean do you know how hard it is find that when I can’t even tell anyone who I am?” Mike didn’t bother to hide the desperation in his voice. Briggs already knew exactly how much Mike needed him.
Briggs looked at him, though, trying to make a decision.
“Look, not going to lie. The shit I’ve seen this week, I really need this. And I trust you, Briggs,” Mike said. “You can make it work.”
“And what if I make it work so well that it breaks you?” he answered, worry in his voice.
Mike paused. Finally, nervously, he said, “What’s the point of doing a scene if you’re not going to break me?”
It was a cliché, Mike knew: hurt me until I break, then put me back together. Make me utterly, terrifyingly dependent on you. The essence of a scene, really.
But that’s what Mike needed right now. That’s what would work for him.
Finally, Briggs nodded. He said he wanted to be whatever Mike needed, and he meant it.
~~~~~~~~~~
They try it.
Mike isn’t surprised that Briggs is good. Really good.
He is surprised that he goes from emotional highs to lows, physical pain to pleasure and then back again, and the whole time he feels completely safe.
It’s nothing like being on the job with Briggs.
Briggs goes slow, tells Mike what he’s doing every step of the way. A gentle hand on the back of Mike’s neck, or gripping his hip to move him around. A blindfold, ice cubes. Ropes.
Words. Not yelling. Briggs whispering in his ear, telling him he is too soft, too green, telling him he hasn’t earned the trust that everyone else in the house has. Saying that he’s not sure Mike won’t do something stupid and get his head blown off one of these days, saying they’d all be better off if they locked Mike in his little room and left them there. Promises that he’ll always be there to take care of him, that he’s worthless, that he’s precious, that he’s filthy, that he’s beautiful, that he’s weak, that he’s strong.
Briggs manipulating his insecurities as if they were skin or lips or hair. Physical, emotional, pleasure, pain, back and forth until Mike is a quivering mess on the floor, begging Briggs for things he never even knew he wanted.
When they are done, when Mike is calm again, they curl up in Briggs’ bed, the heat of Briggs’ body surrounding him. Gentle strokes along his back until he is breathing normally.
After a while, Briggs asks if he’s okay.
“This was perfect,” Mike says, his face nestled in Briggs’ neck. “Perfect.”
It was, for Mike. Better than any other scene he’s ever done.
That much was the truth. Whatever else he lied about, that was the truth.
~~~~~~~~~~
(Five weeks earlier)
“Briggs has narcissistic tendencies, but unlike many narcissists has great empathy for others,” the psychological consultant said.
“I don’t think appealing to his ego will work,” Mike said. He wasn’t sure why getting help from a profiler on how to approach Briggs was necessary. He was doing a decent job.
“He would see right through flattery,” the psychologist answered. “What he needs is to feel like other people need and trust him. Manage to do that, and he’ll put personal affection above his own need for secrecy and self-protection.”
“I’m pretty sure he doesn’t like needy.”
“Be reluctant to admit how much you need him.”
“Well, I should have that covered,” Mike said, rather grumpily, “He keeps saving my ass in the field, but I always go in thinking I don’t need him.”
“He’s a charismatic leader type, he thinks that everyone around him should be one of his followers. He thinks all of Graceland belongs to him. And it seems that many of his friends and coworkers seem happy to keep him up on this pedestal as well.”
“That sounds true enough,” Mike admitted, even if he did think it sounded a bit uncharitable.
“Convince him that you’re one of his. That you don’t know what you would do without him. He needs to feel like you’re willing to show weakness around him that you would never show to others. Then, he’ll trust you with everything. That’s the kind of man he is.”
“How exactly do I convince him of all that?” Mike asked.
“Whatever it takes,” the consultant said. “And Washington agrees.”
Mike nodded. He would just have to figure something out.