Taking Tea with the Lonely God

Only Angels Have Wings - Gabe backstory - SPN

badplanmobile — Wed, 28 Mar 2012 09:49:12 GMT

Title: Only Angels Have Wings
Characters/pairings: Gabriel; mentions of Michael, Lucifer, and Raphael; slight Loki/Odin
Word count: 384
Summary: When Gabriel fled Heaven, he had to hide his wings.

Loki doesn’t have wings.

Gabriel never thought all that much of his wings. Sure, in flight, he was a show-off, and he had reason. He was built perfectly for rapid take-off and hair-pin turns, and he was the only one of his brothers with a knack for hovering, but his wings were still nothing to theirs.

Michael’s feathers were a sleek, midnight black, and his wings were long and slender, tapering to points as sharp as razors. He was made for straight speed and decisive plunges. His wings were as beautiful and severe as he was.

Lucifer’s were a perfect, iridescent white. Raphael’s shone gold. Their wings were massive, with deep slots between each strong, elegant primary; designed to soar.

Gabriel’s were short, rounded things, and his primaries always looked a bit scruffy, however well he groomed. They were mottled tawny and auburn and grey, and they were freckled. He had actual freckles scattered over his feathers, and his brothers never quite teasing him about them.

They were still his wings.

When Gabriel first ran away, when he first built himself a body, he tucked his wings away good and deep. Any trace of them would be a dead giveaway to anyone else, and a painful reminder to him. He hid them away and forgot about them.

In Jötunheimr, once Fárbauti and Laufey had taken him as their own, he thought about them again. He learned to change the shape of the body he’d made, and he flew again, but he didn’t do it on his own wings. It was still too risky, so he made new wings, better wings, and different each time.

Jötunn don’t have wings.

When he met Odin, and they mixed their blood together and bound it with magic, Gabriel almost got his wings out. When he could taste the godliness flowing into him, that Odin shared, and it tasted so foreign and so much like Heaven, he almost couldn’t hold them in. He wanted to share that with Odin. He owed that much, at least, in return.

He pulled them back down deep, instead, and kept his secret. That was the beginning of the end for them, as soon as they had begun.

But the Æsir don’t have wings.

Only Angels have wings, and Loki is not an Angel.

Falls The Shadow - Part I: Death's Other Kingdom - SPN Season Seven AU

badplanmobile — Fri, 23 Mar 2012 06:20:43 GMT

Title: Deaths Other Kingdom
Pairing: eventual Destiel
Rating: PG? For dark themes and your typical levels of violence.
Word count: 4427
Warnings: Angst. And a fair amount of it.
Summary: Castiel dies, but death is not the end.
Author's Note: This is some sort of revamp of my previously published Death's Other Kingdom fics. I believe it is much improved. Thanks to iblamebroadway for listening to me and looking over my writing. All remaining mistakes are my own.

“Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.”
- The Hollow Men, T.S. Eliot

~

The Angel Castiel prepares himself for death.

He has strayed so far from what the Winchesters called “the reservation”, has done such great wrong, and what he can sense coming to him is only what he deserves. He cannot even feel sorrow or fear at the prospect, though death should provoke such a response in an Angel--should be too alien to be considered. Cas does not care anymore. The only thing that matters, this close to his end, is Dean’s forgiveness.

He reaches out for it as best he can, and even that small mercy is denied him.

At least, he thinks, Dean’s voice is no longer so far away, clouded by the constant babble of so many souls. At least the turbulence and fury of the monsters he drunk from Purgatory is quieted now, though he knows they have grown weak only in the growing acidic burn of the Leviathan, working it’s way out of him. At least, in his last moments, he can listen to Dean without that muddle, even if it is only to hear his hate.

He is so sorry he did not pause to listen sooner.

They begin the ritual. Dean scrawls the sigils in virgin’s blood, which Castiel is so disgusted to have gathered by his own hand, across the dank walls. Castiel is bodily dragged to his feet, which, embarassingly, he is to weak to keep. Then Bobby chants the incantation, his accent grating on Castiel’s sensitive ears, but it is close enough. He turns and offers one last, desperate apology.

The portal opens and the souls are ripped from his vessel so violently, so painfully, that he cannot even scream. His voice is lost, both his vessel’s, and his own True Voice. It goes on and on until finally, blessedly, he falls.

And somehow, he is still alive.

Dean is shouting at him, the hate gone from his voice, and he feels his face scrunch into a frown, bewildered. He mutters something slightly inane, and then they pull him upright, once again. Dean’s and Bobby’s rough hands on him, too real even through the trenchcoat, are the most welcome thing he has ever felt. Somehow, miraculously, he begins to gets his bearings, and he meets Dean’s eyes.

“I’m alive,” he mutters, peering around, and he doesn’t care how it sounds.

“Looks like,” Bobby agrees.

For a brief moment, with Dean’s perfect face swimming in and out of his clouded vision, he thinks it will be alright. He admits, sheepishly, his own surprise, and watches as Dean’s eyes try to figure out where the want to look, first. He wonders at that, briefly, and then he feels it.

He feels them, still inside, talons and tentacles and other unspeakable appendages latched into every part of him, and he knows he has not escaped his fate.

So, he forces a semblance of normalcy into his voice as he says, “I am ashamed. I really overreached.”

“Ya think?” Dean asks, and Cas could almost smile, if bitterly.

“I will find some way to redeem myself to you.”

Dean is mumbling something, mostly meaningless, but Cas is not listening. All he can do is rake his eyes over every inch of that face and try to fight back the monsters swelling inside him.

“I mean it, Dean,” he manages, though he can see Dean still failing to grasp it.

And then it is too much, all too much, and he throws the two men away from him with the little strength he can find.

“You need to run, now!” He implores. “I- I can’t hold them back.”

“Hold who back?” Dean asks, and Cas could sob at his blindness, if he only had the effort to spare.

“They held on inside me. Dean. They’re so strong!”

Bobby questions, too, and he can only just grit out, “Leviathan!”, and then they are tearing through him, clawing their way to the surface, and he can’t even reach his own voice to cry out with as he is pulled under and tossed into the black.

-

Dean isn’t a hundred percent on what’s got Cas this panicked, but he does know it’s bad, maybe worse than anything they’re seen before. And when you consider the fact they’ve gone up against the Devil himself, that’s pretty fucking bad. Cas shoves him away, but Dean’s never been one to take a hint.

“Cas?”

And then when Cas lifts his head, Dean can tell it’s something else in there looking at him, even before the thing stretches Cas’ face into a manic grin and throws him and Bobby across the room like they’re rag dolls.

“Cas is, uh, he’s dead,” the thing laughs, “We run the show now. This is gonna be so. Much. Fun.”

The thing wearing Cas’ meatsuit stalks across the room, peering at them like a caged animal. Only, now, the animal’s loose.

Dean goes with bravado. It’s always worked for him before; he won’t give it up now.

“How many of you ass-clowns are in there? A hundred? More?” It gives him a look that tells him he doesn’t want to know the answer, but he blunders on, “Your vessel’s gonna explode, ain’t it? Wouldn’t do anything to strenuous. In fact, I’d call it a day, head on home, huh?”

It smiles at him in the most sickening way he’s ever seen, but it does turn to leave. It- Leviathan- promises to come back and have at them, and it walks Cas’ body out into the lake.

At least Sam’s too out of it to notice him folding the Angel’s dirty trenchcoat up like a veteran’s flag.

-

Crowley gets with the program pretty quickly once he’s caught on. He is the King of Hell: he has eyes everywhere. The problem is just sorting the fact out from the fiction.

Lately, with the little Angel that could and his brand new God complex running the show, Pandemonium’s rumor mill has been working overtime. The lesser demons see Castiel in every shadow, and their paranoia leaks all the way to the top.

Apparently, omens have been popping up that foretell a second Flood. An army of Nephilim in trenchcoats are waging guerrilla warfare on everything that goes bump in the night. Castiel and Crowley himself are - wait for it- lovers in league against Satan. And the very next day, Crowley hears he and the rest of Hell’s High Command have, in fact, been replaced with angelic dopplegangers.

It’s amazing what an active deity can do to the atmosphere of the Pit given only a few short months.

The last few days, Crowley has heard whispers of some ancient and unspeakable evil, something bigger and badder than Hell itself, stretching it’s legs somewhere Topside. Some are hoping for an new ally against the new God. Others are belong more to the “better the devil you know” camp, as it were. On either side, though, one name has come up more and more: Leviathan.

Frankly, it’s the most farfetched theory Crowley’s heard yet.

When something rearranges the movement of celestial bodies to suit it’s whim, though, Crowley knows something is going down. There’s only one player left on the board with that kind of pull, and it doesn’t take much to guess what an extra eclipse might be needed for.

-

Leviathan swims free, for the first time in unnumbered aeons, fearless and giddy. They swarm through every hose, every faucet, flood through every drain. They take new, beautiful bodies, and take them out to play.

Once, they walked in their own flesh, schooled in the earliest oceans. Earth now is different from Earth then. The Leviathan’s true forms are no longer compatible with this reality, and barely compatible with the hosts they take. They are so many. They are still pouring from their vessels. Still, Leviathan learns fast.

-

Castiel hits the endless empty of Purgatory hard enough to break bone. His nonexistent knees shatter on impact and he is left staring blankly at the blankness of Purgatory’s floor, gasping the pain of his insubstantial wounds. Beneath his seeming human hands, beneath Jimmy Novak’s hands, he can see nothing but a depthless expanse of dusty grey.

Still, it is so much more than he had expected to see, after his death.

And then he sees Raphael, quite suddenly, standing over him.

He feels the crackle of furious energy Raphael summons to smite him, completely unlike the power he held on Earth or in Heaven, but vastly more than Castiel has to his name, nonetheless. Still, Cas does not look up. He waits to suffer at his brother’s hand, and he welcomes it.

There is a deafeningly silent crash, completely unlike the sound he expected, and nothing whatsoever strikes him down. Weakly, he turns his face upwards, or what passes for upwards in this directionless place. He finds now it is Eve looming over him. He sees her in the body of the young virgin sacrificed to free her, sees her wearing the face of Mary Winchester, sees her as she was when first she walked the Earth, each laid over the other. He quivers, and bows his head.

“Oh, come on, now,’ she says, with all her voices, “don’t give me that. You’ve gone much too far to get all meek, now. What would even be the point?”

Still, Castiel does not meet her eyes. Any of them.

“Perhaps to salvage what remains of my grace, in death, if not life,” he rasps, “Whatever punishment you have in store for me, I will not fight it.”

She laughs at that, a bright sound that echoes discordantly across the vacuum of Purgatory. “Oh, yes, punishment! You do deserve punishment, Castiel. But I just don’t care to spend the effort.”

At that, he does look up, confused.

“I know you are the one who ordered my release,” she circles him now, slow, like the ancient predator she is, “I also know you helped your precious Winchesters to kill me. And that you delivered the corpse of my vessel to Crowley. And that you ate the souls of my children to power your little war machine.”

She stops on her heel, ever so precisely, spins and kneels, bowing her head near to Castiel’s, almost cheek to cheek.

Her evanescent lips brushing his ear, she whispers, “And I know you released the Leviathan upon the Earth.”

Castiel trembles, and presses his head to the ground that isn’t there.

She lays a hand over the nape of his neck, not unkindly.

“But, I also know you have some purpose left to serve.”

He tries to look up, to meet her eyes and see if there is any explanation to be found there, if there is any reason not to quash the sudden hope he feels beginning to rise. She holds him down, her hand tight and strong at his neck, and brushes a taunting kiss to his ear. He trembles and still struggles futilely against her grip.

Then she is gone, leaving Castiel alone in the vast nothingness of Purgatory, surrounded by all the souls he had captured or killed, all the souls he had swallowed. When they were inside of him, they had whispered sweet, taunting words, had taught him to thirst for power and to hate Dean Winchester, the hunter, the betrayer, with all he had. Now he hears them just as clearly, and now they are whispering death threats against him.

-

The morning after the eclipse, Crowley is up poking around the lab where the ritual was performed. Sure enough, there’s plenty of blood on the wall. And the floor. And trails of it down the hallway. The Almighty isn’t about, though, nor are the Winchesters, and whoever it was knocking on Purgatory’s door this time hasn’t had the good grace to leave him any other clues.

Crowley is strolling the grounds of the reservoir in desperation when he finally spots something. A body lies face down, washed up on the shore, just some man in a cheap suit. Crowley approaches with due caution; he hasn’t lived this long by lacking in that respect. The man makes no move, though, and Crowley carefully nudges him over with the toe of one expensive shoe.

It’s Castiel.

Or, at least, his vessel. His face is streaked with grime and thick, black ooze. Crowley thinks he recognizes that ooze; something old, something deadly. He also thinks, against all odds, the man is still breathing.

He makes an anonymous call to the Sioux Falls emergency medical hotline, and he disappears.

-

Sam had hoped, halfheartedly, at least, that Lucifer wouldn’t be sticking around.

Sam is getting tired of being wrong.

“You know he’s not real, right?” Dean asks.

“He says the same thing about you.”

-

A school of Leviathan catch hold of a new vessel. They like this one; she’s pretty. All plush lips and soft, mocha skin, wild hair and a hard jawline. They fit into her veins, just barely, but she’s warm and wonderful inside.

They take her out on the town.

-

For an unknowable, interminable length of time, Castiel waits in Purgatory, staring at his imagined knees and watching them slowly knit back together. He can feel the restless souls of Purgatory, those he had consumed, shifting and seething, just beyond his perception. He can taste their intent, but they do not approach him. He almost wants them to break this stillness, to emerge and break him to pieces, but they never do.

He supposes the Mother may be keeping them at bay, protecting him for his supposed later purpose. He supposes, eventually, she may make that purpose known to him.

At some point, Gabriel turns up.

He is wearing the same vessel he built himself for life as the Trickster, a little older and more tired, and his wings are out. They waft in and out of translucency, but they are still the six powerful wings of an Archangel, and the decorum of Heaven is still deeply enough ingrained in Castiel that he averts his eyes.
His own wings are weak in comparison, blackened and ragged, and he folds them as tightly as he can.

“You’ve got a lot of people mad at you down here, baby brother,” Gabriel says, by way of announcing his presence. He pats Cas on the shoulder companionably and plops down next to him.

Castiel blinks up at him, tilts his head to the side curiously at the implication he hears there.. “Are you not among them?”

“Eh,” Gabriel shrugs, smirks a little, “What’s a few more dead hypocrites and a shaken up Heavenly Host?”

“I will assume,” Castiel intones solemnly, “that was a rhetorical question.”

Gabriel snorts, a most unangelic sound. “What do you know, those two knuckleheads did teach you a sense of humor.”

“That is hardly all I have done,” Castiel sighs. “I’ve loosed Leviathan on the Earth.”

“Well, it was fun while it lasted. Guess there’s no point trying to keep your spirits up, eh, kiddo?” Gabriel shakes his head, “Alright, so there’s no denying you really dropped the ball on this one, but what’s done is done. Dad knows we’ve all had our fair share of screwups. This one’s definitely up there, but how are you gonna fix it if you’re too busy moping?”

“I am not moping,” Castiel mutters weakly, then frowns suspiciously, “I don’t know of any way to ‘fix it’, unless you have a suggestion.”

“I might, actually,” Gabriel begins to disappear again, seeming to fade into the distance without any motion, “But I gotta see a guy about a thing, first. I’ll get back to you.”

Abruptly, he is gone again, leaving Castiel alone with his now healed legs and his impotent need to repair the world. With no other options, he listens to the distance noise of Purgatory and wanders.

He cannot tell for how long he trudges through the vacuum, as there is no sense of time or of distance in this place.

However long he walks, he does not come across another soul or Grace. He suspects this is through concerted effort on the part of the Mother, especially as, occasionally, the growling seems, briefly, to grow closer.

Once, he can almost feel hot breath on the back of his neck, and as he whirls around to face it, there is a sound like a yelp cut off too soon. When he turns, there is nothing but empty space, the same as he has seen for his entire stay.

Dimly, he wonders how long it will take for the emptiness to drive him mad.

And then, abruptly, Gabriel is standing before him..

“Alright, so I think I’ve got the old gang back together, or something along those lines. I mean, Balthazar is still refusing to speak to you, and I had to tell Zach and Uriel all kinds of lies, but what’re ya gonna do? Anyway, we’ve got a plan and it’s getting set it motion, even as we speak,” Gabriel grins expectantly, as pleased with himself as ever.

Castiel only stares, hesitant even to reach for his voice after so long spent alone.

“Oookay, now you’re supposed to ask me what the plan is,” Gabe beckons.

Castiel capitulates.

“Why, I’m so glad you asked, Castiel,” and Gabriel does seem genuinely pleased, “Now, you see, there was one good thing meant to come out of the End Times, and that was the complete and total abolishment of Purgatory. This place, actually, was never meant as a permanent fix, just a sort of place holder. Apocalypse comes, Purgatory gets blown wide open.”

That catches Castiel’s attention. “What do you mean? How do you know this?”

Gabriel chuckles at that. “You guys all seem to forget I was in the upper echelon, way back when. I mean once the world ends, all the souls in Purgatory get shipped on to Heaven or Hell, whichever they’re ultimately meant to be.”

Castiel absorbs this for a time. He feels that traitorously persistent hope stir again, and he tries to hold it at bay.

“So how does this help us?” he asks, carefully maintaining his skepticism.

“Oh, don’t play dumb, Cas,” Gabriel cuffs him lightly, amiably, across the head, “We can kick-start the whole thing, no Apocalypse necessary. We’ve got enough juice down here, between all the Angels and Demons and pagan Gods, now. We just might pull it off.”

Castiel lifts his head. He flexes his wings experimentally, weighing what strength he has left, and meets his brother’s eyes.

“What do you need me to do?”

-

Honestly, they’d all expected these Leviathan things to be a bit showy, start another apocalypse straight away, or something. They weren’t expecting this.

There’s no sign of them, not really. Crime rates are up, but by a fraction; no more than spells everyday, ordinary human badness. No leads. Bobby can’t find much lore. The missing person’s cases Sam and Dean investigate are mostly dead ends. There is nothing definitive, nothing consistent enough to track.
The Leviathans are out there. It’s just no one knows how to find them.

“It makes sense,” Sam points out, ignoring Dean and Lucifer’s glares, “No, listen, if they haven’t been on Earth since before humans-”

“Then nobody’s seen enough to know how to track ‘em,” Bobby finishes, “Well, that’s just fan-fuckin’-tastic.”

-

As it happens, very little is needed of Castiel. So many of his brothers and sister have died, and too many to count at his own hands. Almost all of them are more powerful than he, and the brunt of the work falls to them. He has little to offer in assistance, even if a single denizen of Purgatory were willing to speak to him.

A single denizen aside from Gabriel, of course, who spontaneously materializes from time to time, seemingly only to bother him.

Once, he is certain he glimpses Balthazar, from the corner of his eye, but when he turns, there is only nothingness again.

He does not expect a chance to make amends. But he does long for it.

At the time, he was so blinded by purpose, by the empty desperation of his mission, he could not understand. Balthazar’s betrayal had cut him so deeply and he had lashed out with little thought, certain of his own goals, his own righteousness. It is much easier, now, to see that he was the betrayer, not Balthazar. That his old friend was only trying to save him, before it was to late.

He might, even, have succeeded, if Castiel had not been so rash, so ruthless.

Sometimes he reaches out, searches for Balthazar in the endlessness, aching with longing to say these simple words. Though he can feel, sometimes, his friend there in the distance, it is like battering himself again a wall. Balthazar is unreceptive to his tentative offerings.

-

Leviathan takes and kills and eats, and leaves no evidence anyone alive can comprehend. It’s easy.

The Leviathan in the dark, soft, young body meets up with more. The others call them Crumpet, one of the many pet names they’ve long had among themselves. These are in an obscenely tall, golden-pale man, with sad eyes and a wicked smile. Crumpet compliments them on their new host, greets them as Liar.

They break into a liquor store, together. They eat the owner and drink the whole place down. Liar insists on saving a bottle for a molotov cocktail. They light it off of Crumpet’s cigar.

-

Finally, the spell is ready. They are working with makeshift blood magic, twisted to compensate for the insubstantial reality of Purgatory. Angels and demons exist in more than one plane to begin with, so properties found in their blood are still present without the physical form, available to draw power from.

It is, however, significantly more draining to squeeze the necessary fuel directly from their essence than it is to simply bloodlet.

Castiel has so little to offer, but he pours it out, anyway.

They wrap a massive network of sigils around the border of Purgatory, symbols as ancient and powerful as any creature in this place can recall, stretching back to the Garden, or further. Castiel drains all that he can spare into the frothing currents, the trenches they have dug into the fabric of this reality and filled with the power offered by Angels, Demons, pagan Gods, and every monster ever to walk the night.

The mixture sizzles and steams where Angelic and Demonic essences brush against each other but do not mix, like oil and water.

Briefly, the Mother returns to examine Castiel with an unreadable gaze. She circles him, lifts his chin with a finger and peers into his eyes, and then throws him backward, to the ground.

“I cannot fathom what you see in these humans,” she hisses.

“You were their mother, once,” he murmurs, head bowed respectfully, “Don’t you care at all for their fate?”

She laughs, loud and bright and without humor, head thrown back. “Yes, I was, and I know better than most what humans do to that which loves them. They are not my children any more. There is a reason I turned from them and made these,” she gestures broadly, grandly, incompassing all of Purgatory, “my true children.”

And then she leans in close, lifts his face to brush a kiss against his forehead. “And they have never betrayed me.”

When he risks a glance up, she is gone.

He hears the first round of incantations begin to rise in the distance, and he lends his voice. Once the first few voices have begun, it quickly erupts into a cacophony of Latin, Aratuscan, Enochian, and under it, snatches of Altlantean, the Black Speech, and all the tongues of the Earth. Even with Angelic hearing, Castiel can only make out a fraction of the words.

He knows his part, though, and he affixes all his energy to it.

“Odo lap unal Toltorgi ts Merifri ts Coronzoni, vorgs-allar g pugo ds trian. Zacar unal Merifri ts Toltorgi ts Coronzoni cro-od-zi. Tol abramig, cocasb i niis. Zacar unal Coronzoni ts Merifri ts Tortorgi tol.” 1

The first stage of the spell is designed to twist the edges of Purgatory off into two corners; narrow funnels aimed at the only two available destinations. It is taxing to perform, requiring the cooperation of every soul and grace available.

Either someone is an excellent negotiator, or Heaven and Hell have finally found something to agree on.

Eve’s voice suddenly sounds out over all the others, shrill and deafening, chanting intonations in Adamic, and the very reality of Purgatory begins to tremble. The immaterial ground begins to violently rearrange itself under them. This is the most powerful magic Castiel has ever worked, on earth, or anywhere else. The repercussions are suitably climactic.

Gabriel visits him before they begin the second wave, and when he appears, Castiel catches the briefest glimpse of Balthazar, again, hovering in Gabriel’s wake.

“Hey,” Gabriel says, uncharacteristically somber, “You did good, there, kiddo.”

Castiel sighs, “I did all I could. Others did far more.”

“Cas, I’m trying to be supportive and shit, here. Try and play along.”

“Apologies,” Castiel mutters, almost smiling.

“What I’m trying to say is,” Gabriel pauses, swallows, looks away, “I’m rooting for you. This next part is gonna be rough, on all of us. Just hang in there. You’ll be fine.”

“I will not.” Castiel mutters, with absolute certainty, with a clarity his has not known in so long.

“Oh, come on, Boy Wonder. Keep it together, now.”

“No,” Castiel meets his older brother’s eyes, “I have killed so many, I have dealt with devils, and I have loosed the Leviathan. I know where I will be going when we complete this spell.”

For once, Gabriel seems at a loss for words. He leans in toward Castiel, brushes his shoulder hesitantly, forces a weak laugh. "If it's any consolation, Cas, I'm sure you're not the only one."

Castiel cannot share in this show of good humor.

"Balthazar," he murmurs, a hint of desperation coloring his voice, wetting his eyes, "Tell me Balthazar will not share in my punishment."

Gabriel does laugh at that, genuine, if bitter. "Yeah, not really who I was worried about, bro."

Castiel's face softens and he leans against the archangel. He has nothing to offer to that.

The two lost and dead angels separate, and then every lost and dead thing in Purgatory bands together once more to finish the spell.

~
1: Open for these creatures-with-Her and Angels and Demons, release (lit. ends bind) us unto that which shall be. Send these Angels and creatures-with-Her and Demons onward (lit. second beginning). All are prepared, the time is come. Send these Demons and Angels and creatures with Her on.

I'm losing this battle, but the carnage is delicious.

badplanmobile — Wed, 21 Mar 2012 03:11:49 GMT

Title: The Secrets In Your Skin
Pairing: Destiel(+Jimmy)
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 3307
Warnings/Kinks/Whatever: First time, not-exactly-wing!kink, intercrural sex.
Summary: Castiel's back is very sensitive. Dean figures out why. But it takes awhile.
Author's Note: Lots of thanks to treia24 and iblamebroadway for the beta, and to all my consorts for the hands-on experience.

The first time, Dean isn’t really sure whose fault it is.

He’s the one who goes to pat Cas on the back, in a totally manly way, of course, after a particularly rough exorcism. And then just sort of leaves his hand there, resting between an angel’s shoulder blades. So maybe it’s him.

But Cas is the one who freezes mid-step and practically rocks back into his touch, so there’s probably blame enough to go around.

There’s a very long, very pregnant pause, and then.

“You can’t,” Cas swallows, “You can’t see my wings, can you, Dean?”

It isn’t quite a question, but Dean thinks he’s meant to answer it, anyway. “I mean, I saw them once, right? In the barn, the first time?”

For some reason, he still hasn’t pulled his hand back. He’s just standing there staring at the back of Castiel’s head like a mentally handicapped creep, palm flat against the coarse fabric of Jimmy Novak’s trenchcoat.

Castiel sighs, almost inaudibly. Dean’s learning how to translate Cas-speak, and he thinks this is the sigh that means ‘I expected exactly that, but I find myself disappointed and sad anyway.’ It’s one of Dean’s least favorite Cas sounds.

“That was only shadow. An… approximation,” Dean flexes his hand, involuntarily or experimentally, who knows, and Cas drags in a shuddering gasp.

“It was… very difficult, Dean, to show you that.”

The Angel turns a hooded stare over his shoulder, pupils blown wide and the blue of his eyes verging toward black. His voice carries a ragged edge Dean’s not sure he understands, or wants to.

“The control it took to make myself visible to you, but only that much, only… no more than you could take. You cannot imagine.”

Dean’s fingers curl, almost scratch, against Castiel’s back, and the angel’s eyes fall shut.

“Dean Winchester,” he murmurs, almost a whisper, “You do tax my control.”

“Uh, guys?” Sam’s ducked his head back into the warehouse, facial expression stuck at it’s favoured middleground between concern and skepticism.

Dean yanks his hand back.

“So, are we gonna go, or you want to just stand around in abandoned buildings some more?”

Dean forces a bit of a laugh, and it almost covers the sound of wings beating the stale air as Castiel vanishes.

-

The second time, it is more or less completely Dean’s fault. He’s man enough to admit that much.

They’ve just finished hunting a keelut, and not doing a very good job of it, to be honest. Their luck turned around once Cas swooped in to save the day, but Dean’s still not done grumbling about vanishing paw prints and what was it doing this far south anyway.

Despite the generally sour attitude, Cas still finds Dean charming enough that he lets himself be dragged along to a shitty little diner after they’ve put the thing down. Even though Cas doesn’t really need to eat, and mostly finds the whole thing way too confusing and human, Dean convinces him to try a bacon cheeseburger and a bite or two of pumpkin pie, so he’s not counting the job a total loss.

Then, when they’re finally meandering out of the dive, Dean lets Sam lope off ahead of them with his long, stupid legs, and steals an extra moment with Cas.

“Hey, thanks for saving our asses today,” He says, casual as you like, “Damn mutt was still one step ahead of us until you turned up.”

And then he full-on strokes a hand down the center of the Angel’s back. Very. Deliberately.

Castiel nearly falls over, and then he’s gone in the time it takes Dean to blink.

-

The third time is an accident. Really.

Castiel alerted them to a sudden spike of paranormal activity in an already badly haunted house in the already infamous city of Savannah, Georgia. Somehow, in the chaos of investigating a half dozen different ghosts in the same building, and a pack of demons who’d taken up with them to boot, Dean and Castiel had gotten stuck hiding in a closet.

Dean’s not even touching the symbolism there.

They caught a whiff of tell-tale sulfur and ozone on the air before the spirits manifested, and they could already hear a pair of footsteps coming their way, so there was just enough time to dash for the nearest hiding place and yank the door shut behind them. It really wasn’t anyone’s fault that Dean wound up pressed flush to Castiel’s back while the two tried desperately to stay quiet.

The footsteps turned out to be two of the demons they’d run into earlier, and it seemed they were here to try and commune with the ghosts, so it was a damn good thing they’d hidden.

Dean was trying to eavesdrop on them, really, but every time he shifted his weight, Cas let out these little desperate noises that sounding like he was killing himself trying to stifle, and it’s really, really hard to concentrate when something like that is happening scant centimeters away.

There’s still really no excuse for it.

Dean leans right in, bows his head, and presses his open mouth between Castiel’s shoulder blades.

Cas damn near shoves his own fist into his mouth trying to stay quiet.

They stay there for awhile like that, Dean molesting Cas’ back and Cas doing everything he can to keep silent. He does an admirable job, all things considered. No ghosts or demons come barging in.

Sam does, though.

In his defense, Cas sticks around this time. Even after Sam starts in with the closet jokes.

Apparently, the demons, and the ghosts, had taken off a good while before Sam crept in and discovered them. Dean is absolutely not blushing when he stumbles back into the room. Castiel’s whole face is turning red, but he keeps his usual stoic mask firmly in-place, otherwise.

-

The fourth time isn’t anyone’s fault. Or it’s both their faults. However you want to read it.

Cas has been hesitant and extra awkward ever since Savannah any time he’s answered Dean’s prayers. It’s been weeks since Dean could scrounge up a moment alone with Cas, so once he gets it he’s not letting it go to waste.

He practically lunges at Castiel’s back the second he’s got the Angel to himself. He just likes pulling a reaction out of the man, that’s all.

Cas freezes, and then gives a full-body shudder, and then he reaches back at an impossible angle and grasps Dean’s wrist with inhuman strength. Which is about when Dean starts to wonder if he’s in over his head.

Cas takes a few slow, steadying breaths and asks, without turning around, “What is it you’re trying to get from me, Dean?”

And then he spins Dean around and tosses him onto the motel bed.

“Uh,” Dean says, intelligently, and that’s all he gets out before Cas is crawling over him. Looming, even.

Dean’s hands have found their way back to the Angel’s shoulder blades before he really know what he’s doing. As he arches and moans, something occurs to Dean.

“What does this do for you?” He asks, “I mean, what does it feel like?”

“It’s,” Castiel rasps, “It’s not comparable to anything you would have felt.”

Dean claws down his back, and Cas stutter-thrusts, like he’s looking for more but he’s not sure it’s allowed.

“I can only assume it’s the proximity to my wings, where my true form is closest,” a hitching gasp, “closest to the surface of my vessel, that allows this sensitivity.”

That gives Dean pause.

“Your vessel.”

“Yes.”

“Jimmy.”

“Yes,” Cas prompts, more impatiently.

“I just, I mean, I forgot,” Dean swallows, pulls his hands back, “That he’s in there. He’s still in there?”

“Yes, of course. Only under very rare cirumstances can an Angel inhabit a vessel without a living soul,” Cas cocks his head at Dean, that look that unmistakably says he doesn’t get it. “Why?”

Dean laughs, without much humor, “Well, I don’t know where you thought this was going, but what I was expecting? I figure that needs consent from all parties.”
And then, of course, Dean has to consider that he was taking sex-with-a-man-shaped-Angel as a given, at this point. Not that now’s the time for that particular crisis.

“I have Jimmy’s consent, Dean,” Castiel murmurs, frowning, “Actually, Jimmy has wanted this for almost as long as I have.”

“Oh,” Dean breathes, and then “Oh!”

Any other man would need to take a moment and consider after having that sort of thing sprung on him, but Dean Winchester isn’t any other man. In fact, he’s always prided himself on that. So he recovers quickly.

“Right, then,” he croons, “Your wings are real sensitive, huh?”

He follows up with a firm stroke down Cas’ back, and he gets a truly spectacular moan for his efforts. With that kind of response, Dean’s content to spend some time with Cas just lying over him, petting the Angel, both fully clothed. Cas, on the other hand, has had enough of teasing.

Cas growls and tears Dean’s shirt open, finding Dean’s nipples with his lips straight away. He closes teeth around one sharp, perky nub straight away and suckles. So, yeah, Dean just falls back and keens.

Castiel grabs his hands and slaps them back onto his own back, the command obvious. Dean splays his hands over that strong plain and holds on for dear life and Cas explores his whole body, inch by inch. Dean’s shaking apart and Cas is still above the belt. He’s that thorough.

He’s stroking firm, rhythmic ellipses over Dean’s hipbones, teasing, when Dean breaks.

“Please, Cas,” he gasps, “Please, you can’t just tease like that, man.”

Cas chuckles, hot and deep.

“Now you know how I feel,” he whispers.

“Cas, c’mon, I need,” Dean groans, “I just need...”

Castiel relents, drawing back enough to shrug of his trenchcoat and suit jacket, and let Dean undo the buttons on his shirt. He peels Dean’s jeans off his hips and down his legs with agonizing slowness, revealing his hard and purpling cock. Then he backs off further, slips out of his own slacks, and looms back over Dean. Dean slides his hands over all the skin he can reach, so grateful, before he notices.

“Wait,” he says, “Wait, Cas, you’re not-”
He slides a hand between Castiel’s thighs, where he’s still soft, to demonstrate his point.

Cas seems undetered, leans in to press his cheek to Dean’s.

“A human response,” he murmurs, “These things can be difficult. But don’t doubt my interest.”

Cas turns his head just so and presses his lips to Dean’s, not forcing the issue, but presenting himself. Dean can’t resist. He surges upward and captures the Angel’s mouth with his own. He rolls them so he’s straddling Castiel’s hips, and yeah, he knows he can only do that because Cas let’s him. Actually, that makes it hotter.

He pries his lips away and he gasps, “Okay. So, if Angel’s are just different, how do I make this good for you?”

Cas gazes up at him with something approaching worry, and that’s the last thing Dean was looking for.

“Dean-” he says hesitantly.

“Cas,” Dean whispers, leaning in close, “I want you to enjoy this as much as I am. So, tell me, what do I need to do?”

Cas still just stares up at him with that rising panic, the look Dean’s seen only once or twice before. The one that means Cas has no idea.

“Okay,” he rocks back on his heals, gives Cas room to move, “I want you to turn over. Can you do that for me?”

Castiel barely gets a nod in before he’s already complying, turning his back up to Dean. For his part, Dean leans back in nice and slow, before he places an open-mouthed kiss to Cas’ right shoulder.

The sound that gets him says his bet’s payed off.

He strokes over the other shoulder blade with his hand as he suckles his way up and down Castiel’s back. He makes sure he’s thorough, as thorough as Cas was with him. Then he tries gliding his teeth over the ridge of bone, and Cas actually whimpers.

Dean turns his mouth to the left side and bites.

The sound Cas lets out is positively inhuman. It doesn’t make Dean’s ears bleed, but it feels close, it feels like the very edge. Cas screams, but it’s quiet, almost beyond hearing, and deafening, all the same. Dean figures that’s a good sign, and he presses on.
As Dean laves all his attention over Castiel’s back, the Angel’s voice slowly gurgles and stutters down to a less unimaginable place. It’s still strangely loud, still too high and too low all at once, but it sounds like something Dean can make sense of. It gets closer to his frame of reference.

He knows, instinctively, that’s Cas reining himself in for Dean’s benefit. He’s at once grateful and disappointed.

He’s also hard as diamond, at this point. He can’t stop petting and licking at Cas’ back, but he needs something, needs relief. He starts thrusting, almost subconsciously, where his hips straddle Castiel’s ass, and then his cock slides into the groove of his cheeks, and it’s perfect.

Cas lets out a groan like he agrees.

For a good long time, that’s all they need. Dean pleasures and tortures the wings inside Castiel’s - Jimmy’s - flawless back, and he ruts against the Angel’s ass. His pre-come slicks up the path, and he fucks into that smooth slide again and again, digging his teeth into Castiel’s shoulder blades. It’s so, so good, with Cas gasping and pleading under him, Cas’ hips starting to stutter-thrust against the cheap motel sheets, but then it’s suddenly not quite enough.

“Cas,” Dean groans out, “Cas, hang on a sec. Can you spread your legs? Just a bit?”

Cas nods, shakily, and he does, and Dean leans over and gropes at his duffel, clumsy and too eager. Finally, he comes back with a tube of lube.

Cas has turned his head, now. He’s eyeing the little packet warily.

“Dean-” he starts.

“No, we’re not doing that,” Dean tells him, “Not tonight, at least. If you want to, some other time, oh, baby, I am so down with that. But not tonight, okay?”

Cas murmurs his assent, sounding relieved he’s not required to speak much more. Dean can feel all his muscles start to relax, and Cas arches back against him. He squeezes just a bit of the lube onto his fingers, and he starts to stroke them along Cas’ inner thighs, tentatively, at first, and then more firmly, when he’s met with deep, throaty moans. He pets over Castiel’s perinium and the thin, soft skin of his balls, slicking him up thoroughly. He keeps lapping at Cas’ back all the while.

“Okay,” he murmurs, at last, “‘Kay, Cas, I need you to pull your legs together for me. Can you do that? Nice and tight.”

Cas glances over his shoulder, looks Dean right in the eye, and there’s something there, something Dean isn’t quite ready to believe yet.
And then the Angel pulls his thighs together, the muscles visibly flexing, and Dean groans appreciatively.

“Thanks, Cas,” he whispers, before he presses his cockhead right against the crease between Castiel’s thighs.

He fastens his mouth onto Castiel’s left shoulder blade, and he guides his cock slowly between those taught thighs. It’s warm and strong and glorious in there, and he sets up a steady rhythm as best he can, coordinating his strokes between Cas’ legs and the strokes of his tongue on the Angel’s back. It certainly works for him, and if the steadily less human sounds Cas is making are anything to go by, it’s working for him, too.

It doesn’t take long, not when they’ve been working up to this for weeks and weeks. Dean’s orgasm sneaks up on him, just a bit, and he’s loosing his rhythm and coming into the space between Castiel’s legs before he knows it.

And then he’s lying over Cas, gasping against his back, gingerly thrusting through the impossible slickness between his thighs. Cas is still meeting him, thrust for thrust, but he’s quiet, now.

Dean says, when he finds his voice again, “Don’t worry, babe, we’re not through yet.”

Cas hums happily at him, and Dean pulls back so he can turn Cas over. The Angel goes like nothing, so pliable in his arms it’s like he’s boneless. Dean’s never had as big an ego-boost.

He looks at the vivid red erection bobbing at the crest of Castiel’s thighs, and licks his lips.

“Hey, Jimmy?” he says, looking them right in the eye, “This is for you, too, okay?”

And then he swallows Cas down in one, more-or-less smooth motion.

Dean’s no expert at blowjobs. He’s given a few, here and there, and he’s had a lot more, but that doesn’t make him an expert. Apparently, Cas doesn’t mind. He figures that implies Jimmy’s satisfaction, too.

Dean laves his tongue over the underside of Cas’ cock. He circles it around the delicate edge of the head, dips just barely into the slit. He rocks his head up and down on Cas’ cock, riding him, smooth as he can, and when Cas starts to thrust, involuntarily, up into that wet heat, he grips tight to the Angel’s hipbones and hopes he takes the hint.

Cas reels himself back in, and Dean has never been so grateful for the man’s Angelic self restraint. He rewards it with as much attention to detail as he can muster.

He learns just which slight bump in the perfect skin of Cas’ cock has him gasping the hardest when Dean presses his tongue just there. He wonders, vaguely, how much difference there might be between what Cas likes and what Jimmy likes, but he figures he’s doing something right by them both, and he increases suction.

He finds out that Cas bucks into his mouth almost harder than he can take when he hums around the Angel’s cock, and he keeps at it. He likes it a little rough, and he knows he can take it. He can feel Cas pulsing hard, throbbing, where his tongue presses along the underside of Castiel’s cock, and he wants it. He wants it so bad, his own cock twitching valiantly, however soon it is since he came, and he can only imagine how bad Cas must be wanting it. How bad Jimmy must want it, after all this time.

Dean wraps his hand around the base of Cas’ cock, stroking firmly, and focuses his attentions on the sensitive cockhead. He presses his tongue firm against the slit and rubs, rolls his lips over every inch his hand won’t take.

On impulse, he worms his free hand under Cas, scratches down his spine, and Cas whines out a sound like nothing Dean’s heard.

He comes in startled, hot bursts over Dean’s tongue. His hips twitch and jerk, his shoulders hunch forward, and his face contorts into something even Dean might call beatific. It’s spectacular to behold, and Dean pulls back too soon, just for a better view, and catches the last bit of Castiel’s come on his chin.

And how debauched must he look, gaping up at Cas, jizz dripping through his stubble, his hand still wrapped loosely around Castiel’s softening cock.

It’s certainly one of the more exotic chapters in Dean’s sexual experience, and even more certainly, one of the best.

Cas looks lost and dizzy, peering down at him.

“Was,” he slurs, “Was that what you wanted, Dean?”

Dean stretches his tongue down to lap the come off his own chin.

“No,” He grins, “It was way better.”

-

The fifth time is Dean’s fault, no question.

I contributed to the delinquency of a small bird!

badplanmobile — Sun, 15 Jan 2012 08:06:16 GMT

Title: Death's Other Kingdom (7/?)
Characters: Gabriel, OC
Rating: PG

Gabriel opens his eyes and is more than a little confused to find himself in Heaven.

It doesn't look quite how he remembers it, but, he supposes, that's only to be expected. He hasn't seen Heaven in aeons, and he's never seen it through the eyes of the dead. They've rearranged, and the angle is all wrong from where he's sprawled.

Weirdly, this bit of it, his bit, presumably, looks alarmingly like a college campus. In fact, a specific college campus in Springfield, Ohio.

Probably something to be read into that, but Gabe decides to ignore it.

More interesting in an immediate sense is the young angel peering down at him with freakishly enormous eyes. Ze's a tiny thing, practically a baby, with only one small set of wings, gossamer and iridescent blue. He doesn't recognize hir, which means ze must be one of the post-War kids, from after his time.

"Uh, hi," he says, cleverly.

"Hello Gabriel, ” ze says, blinking as rapidly as ze speaks, “I am Tubiel. I wish to welcome you into Heaven once again and after so long."

Gabriel levers himself upright and sets out for a stroll.

"Alright, kid, to what do I owe the pleasure, Tubiel?" He asks, looking a bit askance at the little angel.

Ze hops up from where ze has perched hirself on the steps of Crawford Hall and flits after him. "I heard it said that you had emerged from Purgatory and been returned to Heaven and I felt compelled to preside over your homecoming. You must be returned to Earth, Gabriel."

Gabriel stops in his circumambulation of the university and peers back at hir incredulously.

“Wait, what? Walk me through that one more time.”

Ze cocks hir head at such an extreme angle Gabe has to resist the urge to tilt his whole body along with hir to compensate.

“I apologize but I am unsure what you mean. Walking is a human behavior, correct?” Ze blinks. “Walking is what you have been doing to move yourself around this Heaven, is it not? Why?”

“Oh, boy,” Gabe sighs, “You are going to be difficult, aren’t you?”

After a lengthy and mind-numbingly pedantic explanation of human colloquiallisms, he finally brings Tubiel back around to the subject of what in Heaven, literally, ze was talking about in the first place.

It turns out that by “preside over your homecoming”, ze meant “get your ass back down to Earth” and not “get you situated in Heaven”, which doesn’t actually clear a lot up.

“Ooookay, but why do you wanna get me back on the ground? Not that I object to the idea, mind you, but that’s not the usual line I get from you Host folks.”

Tubiel gives him this look like he is being deliberately slow and ze cannot fathom why. “Because it falls under the dominion of my sacred duty imparted unto me by our Father.”

“Right. Which is what, exactly?”

“I preside over small birds.” Ze intones seriously.

At that, Gabe’s not really sure whether he should get indignant or cackle like a loon.

“Small birds,” he settles for.

“Yes. I am made to guard the travels of small birds and to ensure the safety of their return home. Gabriel,” ze implores, “You are become as a small bird who has lost his way.”

“But I’m not a bird at all!” He pauses. “And I’m not small, I’m an archangel!”

The little thing giggles at him, a sound like tiny bells and birdsong. Ze actually giggles at him.

I am an Angel of the Lord! I will not be thwarted by the magic box!

badplanmobile — Sat, 14 Jan 2012 04:53:06 GMT

Title: Death's Other Kingdom (6/?)
Pairing: eventual Destiel, slight Crowliel
Warnings: original-ish character, wing!torture, angst, dark
Rating: PG-13 for Hell and stuff?

Time measured on Earth is, of course, completely unlike time in Hell. It is not, as it appears to many, that Hell's time takes longer to pass, that what would be a single month viewed from Earth becomes an entire decade when spent in Hell. A month is a month, but where Heaven exists almost without time, Hell has an excess. It is packed claustrophobically tight inside the labyrinth of hallways, battering against The Gates with tidal force.

Hell's time is layered so thick that Castiel feels as if he is breathing mud and ash.

Crowley had promised to put his best man on the job, but that has not made things better for Castiel.

It has made them far worse.

After a chaste kiss that tasted of sulfur, Crowley had taken him by the hand, uncharacteristically quiet, and led Castiel away. The hallway he took them down was, briefly, identical to all of the rest, but it rapidly grew darker and dustier and far too narrow, until it opened into the dank caverns of the Hell Castiel remembered.

Endlessly waiting in a line to nowhere, it seemed, would not cut it for an Angel.

Crowley's best man turns out to be a sharp-eyed, spindly thing who calls herself Lugosi. Castiel can clearly see the remains of a young woman called Bela Talbot wrapped inside the taint of Lugosi's soul. Sometimes, when he blinks up at her through the fresh blood dripping into his eyes and the drunken haze of Grace-deep pain, there is a flash of the girl Abigail Kelley to be found, the child who sold her soul.

Lugosi's skin, her true skin beneath the one she manifests, is knurled with a complex map of scars, no inch left unmarred. He remembered, of course, how Hell looks swathed thick over a soul, how it looked on Dean before Castiel bathed it from him. Still, over the dense time of his own stay in Hell, he has come to see it more clearly in others as it begins to coat his own Grace.

Lugosi is brutal and thorough with him. Castiel cannot help but be grateful to her for it, though the thicker the damage grows on him, the bitterer it tastes. When he glimpses the child still buried inside her now, he cannot resist the urge to snarl.

Lugosi rewards his gnashing of teeth with a swift evisceration.

The line between pain and pleasure is beginning to blur.

Sometimes, when his mind clears, he is more afraid of himself than he has ever been.

Crowley visits periodically, his face taught and grim. He says very little, but sometimes he touches Castiel's face with hands that are much too soft. There comes a day that he catches sight of the scarred wreckage of Crowley's true face beneath that of the long dead literary agent he wears, and he cannot unsee it.

Somehow, it is not even repellent. In fact, it makes the demon all the more compelling, and that is when Castiel knows how far gone he is.

There comes a day that Lugosi is particularly cruel, clumsily violent where she is usually scalpel precise, as though Castiel's torture has reached as deeply in her as it has in him. She rips him apart and rebuilds him over and over until they both collapse, gasping for air, and she clutches him to her, thick and jagged skin pressed to his bloodied feathers.

When he can finally lift his head to see her, her face is wet with tears, smooth as a child's. He can feel Abigail Kelley humming close to Lugosi's surface, and he cannot bear it.

Castiel is not sure where he finds the strength or the weapons with which to lash out, but he does. There is an horrifying, exalted moment when Lugosi is sprawled on the cold ground and Castiel's teeth are buried in her throat before she overpowers him again.

As she shreds his wings, Castiel can only think it is merciful, and he is overcome with resentment.

He drifts back to wakefulness to find Lugosi still straddling his back, assuring him that they are almost finished, and he believes her because he can smell it on himself.

When Crowley appears to drag him back to the surface, Castiel thinks, for a moment, he glimpses the stumps of wings sprouting from the demon's back.

If you die of feels, can I have your car?

badplanmobile — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 23:45:05 GMT

Title: Death's Other Kingdom (5/?)
Pairing: eventual Destiel, implied Crowliel if you squint
Rating: PG

“Fancy seeing you here,” Crowley says, and backhands Castiel hard enough that he tastes the burnt ozone of spent Grace on his tongue like blood.

Castiel finds himself sprawled on the floor of one of Hell’s tidy hallways, rather abruptly, the King of Hell peering down at him with a snarl that could shatter glass twisting his face. Crowley is not looking his best; the manifestation of his vessel wears a layer of stubble and dark circles under his eyes, and his true self, underneath, is worn far too thin. Even so far removed from his angelic nature, Castiel can see this.

He can also see that even such a weakened Crowley holds infinitely more power than he does, here.

"That," Crowley roars, "was for reneging on our contract!"

And then, miraculously, instead of flaying Castiel, the demon visibly composes himself.

“Walk with me,” he says, offhandedly, with all the surety of an order.

And so Castiel does.

“It's the damnedest thing, but I've recently come into a surplus of angels. Up to my eyes in them. If I'm being honest, which I almost always am, more or less, I haven’t got the room to keep all of them.” The King of Hell casts a significant look across to the angel, strolling through the tidy corridors of his revised Hell. "And the feathers do tend to get everywhere, you know. Terrible hassle."

Castiel is, as ever, not sure he understands Crowley’s prattling. He can hear the hidden agenda woven through it, but an angel, even one dead and damned, cannot know the mind of a demon.

“What is it you’re getting at?”

Crowley sighs, “Still not much for subtleties, are we? Tsk, tsk.”

“It was a simple question,” Castiel growls, as if he still has any power to back himself up.

Crowley, quite diplomatically, chooses to very deliberately ignore Castiel's misstep, “I suppose I'll have to spell it out for you, as usual. What I’m getting at is this: I’ve always had a bit of a soft spot for you, angel. Or, rather, a hard spot,” he offers the slightest waggle of his eyebrows and a completely unsubtle lear, “And I'm not overfond of these Leviathans. Particularly Dick. He does live up to the name.”

"I don't understand that reference," Castiel intones, frowning.

Crowley sighs witheringly. "Of course you don't. Point is, I want rid of the Leviathans much as anyone, and you've got a habit of making the impossible possible, you and your two favorite morons. I'm offering you a trip topside."

Castiel stops mid-stride, his expression torn between distrust and a sudden flash of hope.

"How?"

Crowley's tone is almost sympathetic. "Unfortunately, I only know the one way to get a corpse out of the Pit, baring Angelic intervention, so unless your got any friends left up there, which I'm doubting, there's only one way to go. I'm sure you'll make quite the black eyed beauty, darling, once we're through with you."

Castiel sucks in a harsh breath, and Crowley takes it as indication to plow on.

"I can put you on the fast track, at least, but it isn't going to be pleasant. And that's saying something, coming from me."

"How long?"

Crowley looks him over appraisingly. "Haven't the faintest. I can't say anyone's tried converting straight from Angel to demon before. If I put my best man on it, though, which I will, I'd say weeks, months. That's Earth time, of course. We have a deal?"

Castiel forces a smile, the way he has learned from Dean. "Just don't tell me we have to seal it with a kiss."

I don't want to be that aroused at a playground.

badplanmobile — Thu, 05 Jan 2012 02:51:54 GMT

oh no you guys what have i done
oh no
i will tell you
i have written a godstiel song
that is what i have done

I'd do anything for you
Perhaps I've done too much
You didn't think I could come through
But I can take all I can touch

Pray for me, my darling
Ask and I will give
Pray to me, my lover
Beg that I let you live

I'd go anywhere for you
Perhaps I went too far
You didn't think I'd come unglued
Still you I made and you I'll mar

So pray for me, my darling
Ask and I will give
Pray to me, my lover
Beg that I let you live

'Cause I don't love you anymore
The souls I swallowed told me so
I am much stronger than you called for
You're so far away, so long ago

But pray for me, my darling
Ask and I will give
Pray to me, my lover
And I may let you live

"Calm yo tits". It's a synonym for "slow yo roll".

badplanmobile — Sat, 24 Dec 2011 07:00:04 GMT

Title: Death's Other Kingdom (4/?)
Pairing: eventual Destiel, implied Calthazar if you squint
Rating: PG

As it happens, very little is needed of Castiel. So many of his brothers and sister have died, almost all more powerful than he, and the brunt of the work falls to them. He has little to offer in assistance, even if a single denizen of purgatory were willing to speak to him.

Aside from Gabriel, of course, who spontaneously materializes from time to time, seemingly only to bother him.

Once, he is certain he glimpses Balthazar, from the corner of his eye, but when he turns, there is only the nothingness of Purgatory again.

He does not expect a chance to make amends. But he does wish for it.

Finally, the spell is ready. They are working with makeshift blood magic, twisted around somewhat to compensate for the insubstantial reality of Purgatory. Angels and demons exist in more than one plane to begin with, though. The properties found in their blood are still present without the physical form.

It is, however, significantly more draining to squeeze the necessary fuel directly from their essence than it is to simply bloodlet.

Castiel has so little to offer, but he pours it out, anyway.

They wrap a massive network of sigils around the border of Purgatory, symbols as ancient and powerful as any creature in this place can recall. Castiel drains all that he can spare into the frothing currents, the trenches they have dug into the fabric of this reality and filled with the power offered by angels, demons, pagan Gods, and every monster ever to walk the night.

They activate the spell in stages. The first stage twists the edges of Purgatory off into two corners; narrow funnels aimed at the only two available destinations. It is taxing to perform, requiring the cooperation of every soul and grace available.

Either someone is an excellent negotiator, or Heaven and Hell have finally found something to agree on.

It is immediately apparent that the spell has worked, as the immaterial grounds they stand on are violently rearranged. This is the most powerful magic Castiel has ever worked, on earth, or anywhere else. The repercussions are suitably climactic.

Gabriel visits him before they begin the second wave, and when he appears, Castiel catches the briefest glimpse of Balthazar, hovering in Gabriel’s wake.

“Hey,” Gabriel says, uncharacteristically somber, “You did good, there, kiddo.”

Castiel sighs, “I did all I could. Others did far more.”

“Cas, I’m trying to be supportive and shit, here. Try and play along.”

“Apologies,” Castiel mutters, almost smiling.

“What I’m trying to say is,” Gabriel pauses, swallows, looks away, “I’m rooting for you. This next part is gonna be rough, on all of us. Just hang in there. You’ll be fine.”

“I will not.” Castiel tells him, certain.

“Oh, come on, Boy Wonder. Keep it together, now.”

“No,” Castiel meets his older brother’s eyes, “I have killed so many, I have dealt with devils, and I have loosed the Leviathan. I know where I will be going when we complete this spell.”

For once, Gabriel seems at a loss for words. He leans in toward Castiel, brushes his shoulder hesitantly, forces a weak laugh. "If it's any consolation, Cas, I'm sure you're not the only one."

Castiel cannot share in this show of good humor.

"Balthazar," he murmurs, a hint of desperation coloring his voice, wetting his eyes, "Tell me Balthazar will not share in my punishment."

Gabriel does laugh at that, genuine, if bitter. "Yeah, not really who I was worried about, bro."

Castiel's face softens and he leans against the archangel. He has nothing to offer to that.

The two lost and dead angels separate, and then they finish the spell.

Please tell me you don't know someone whose Fallopian Tubes caught fire.

badplanmobile — Tue, 06 Dec 2011 06:24:08 GMT

Recent news finally got me motivated again! Here's part three!

Title: Death's Other Kingdom (3/?)
Pairing: eventual Destiel
Rating: PG
Warnings: I think you get the idea. It's angst.
Summary: Gabriel has a plan.

Castiel wanders.

He cannot tell for how long, as there is no sense of time or of distance in this place.

However long he walks, he does not come across another soul. He suspects this is through concerted effort on the part of the Mother.

And then, suddenly, there is Gabriel.

“Alright, I think I’ve got the old gang back together, or something along those lines. I mean, Balthazar refuses to speak to you, and I had to straight up lie to Zachariah, but we’ve got a plan and it’s getting set it motion!”

Gabriel seems to be waiting for an exultation of some sort, but Castiel just stares.

“Okay, now you’re supposed to ask me what the plan is?”

Castiel capitulates.

“Why, I’m so glad you asked, Castiel.” Gabriel seems pleased at the opportunity for showmanship. “You see, the one good thing meant to come out of the End Times was the abolishment of Purgatory. This was never meant as a permanent fix, it’s just a place holder.”

That catches Castiel’s attention. “What do you mean? How do you know this?”

Gabriel chuckles at that. “You guys all seem to forget I was in the upper echelon, way back when. I mean once the world ends, all the souls in Purgatory get shipped on to Heaven or Hell, whichever they’re meant to be.”

Castiel absorbs this for a time. He dares to hope.

“So how does this help us?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb, Cas,” Gabriel cuffs him lightly, “We can kick-start the whole thing. We’ve got enough juice down here, between all the angels and demons and pagan Gods, we just might make it.”

"Then why have you not done it before?"

"Here I thought you were supposed to be smart, brother mine," Gabriel rolls his eyes, without actually having eyes to roll, "Because we've had Leviathan breathing down our necks this whole time. They've been the boss of this place since it was set up, but thanks to your spectacularly bad plan, we've got free reign down here now."

Castiel lifts his head. He flexes his wings and meets his brother’s eye.

“What do you need me to do?”

Next Part

A measure of manifest death wish is a common human trait. Hence things like wars. And motorcycles.

badplanmobile — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 00:13:12 GMT

oh god what am i doing. when did this be my life. i've committed fanmix. with plot. au fanmix. au supernatural threesome fanmix. so yeah. yeah. here we go then.

Holy Water like Cheap Whiskey
a deanpire/godstiel/crowley mix
{zip}

Standing Room In Heaven//That Handsome Devil

I want my poison to taste like poison
Up there the drinks are watered-down
And the doorman he won't let my boys in
So my friends are not around

There's no more seats in Heaven
So get your tickets in advance
It's only standing room in Heaven
And Hell is where we go to dance

Kingdom of Welcome Addiction//IAMX

"I want to help you help me help ourselves. ... I want to discuss a simple business transaction, that's all."

Do you remember your coming down
Forced to take sides?
Your taunted charm and your broken smile
Touched me unexpectedly

So long
So long you've waited in line
Desire is a gift in life
So long
So long you've left and arrived
It's time for you to stay awhile

Vampires Will Never Hurt You//My Chemical Romance

"I’m a monster. This is not a problem that you spitball. We gotta deal with this before I hurt somebody.”"

And if they get me and the sun goes down into the ground
And if they get me take this spike to my heart and
And if they get me and the sun goes down
And if they get me take this spike and
You put the spike in my heart

I'm Going To Heaven With or Without You//The Paper Chase

"Dean, I have been charged to protect you. I will hold to that oath, always."

I'll keep a horseshoe on my step, I'll keep a cross around my neck
While draping garlic above our bed
All good luck, amulets, and aids will dab your forehead, keep you safe
From the forest fire rage
Our fine crystal will cling, we'll drink to anything
If it keeps the highways moving, keeps commuting smooth for you
I'm drawing a bloodbath, with or without you

The Devil's Ball//The World/Inferno Friendship Society

"What we don’t do is we don’t go out and make another deal with the Devil.”

Convenience is the devil's tongueHonesty, it's the devil's foreplayCircus folk you say, time to slip awayIt seems I've played this scene before you know and
Anything could happen

Me And Jesus Don't Talk Anymore//Beulah

Can you get me there, friend?
Without a soul to sell along the way
The devil rides with me again
He always says everything's okay

Maybe I'm losing sleep over nothing
Maybe I'll be just fine
He tears me away from all those little things
That seemed so important when I knew you

And though we are falling stars
We feel just fine
And though it seems we're not far
We need more time

A Walk In The Dark//David Byrne

"I'm hardly the worst boss you could have. Won't fire you for showing your drinking. Booze or blood."

Oh silent night
Oh holy night
Sometimes you see me
Sometimes you don't

You'll get to know me better
After a walk in the dark
The monster in the mirror
We'll take a walk in the dark
Woah - we'll take a walk in the dark
Woah - we'll take a walk in the dark

Something Diabolical//The Bloodhound Gang

Heaven may be running on empty yet the devil rides
Heaven may be running on empty yet the devil rides
Heaven may be running on empty yet the devil rides
Hell burns, my angel turns her pillow to the cooler side

Something diabolical

Funny Olde World//Ego Likeness

"So, looking for purgatory, huh?"

And you don't tempt us
We forge our own paths, our own ways
And you can't possibly hurt us
Worse than the way we hurt ourselves each day

Hey there, demon
Now the end is growing near
So squeeze me tight in your mortal coil
And nuke away my fear

It's Not A Fashion Statement, It's A Deathwish//My Chemical Romance

"Why are you still here, Cas?"
"Why do you refuse to believe you're worth saving?"

Hip hip hooray for me
You talk to me
But would you kill me in my sleep
Lay still like the dead
From the razor to the rosary
We could lose ourselves
And paint these walls in pitchfork red

I will avenge my ghost with every breath I take
I'm coming back from the dead
And I'll take you home with me
I'm taking back the life you stole

If I Was Your Vampire//Marilyn Manson

"The stench of that Impala's all over your trenchcoat, angel.”

Digging your smile apart
With my spade-tongue
The hole is where the heart is
We built this tomb together
And I won't fill it alone
Beyond the pale
Everything is black
No turning back

If I was your vampire
Certain as the moon,
Instead of killing time
We'll have each other
Until the sun

Your Joy Is My Low//IAMX

"Guess we can come up with some kindof arrangement."

He takes your face and positions it to take your mouth
You bite, you bite to excite yourself
He wants the colour of you to wear and feel alive
And you bite, and I'm awake and I'm the slave tonight

You and Me and The Devil Makes Three//Marilyn Manson

If you get in bed someone will fall in love
You and me and the devil makes three
There's not a word for what I want to do to you
There's not a word for what I want to do to you
There's not a word for what I want to do to you
There's not a word for what I want to do to you

War In Heaven//The Raveonettes

"Us three and ten thousand monster souls against the host of heaven? Sounds good."

Wait, a war in heaven
Wait, a war in heaven
I hate it when they forget
To let people live

Demolition Lovers//My Chemical Romance

I'm trying, I'm trying
To let you know just how much you mean to me
And after all the things we put each other through and

I would drive on to the end with you
A liquor store or two keeps the gas tank full
And I feel like there's nothing left to do
But prove myself to you and we'll keep it running

Don't take your feelings to Cambodia, Sam!

badplanmobile — Wed, 16 Nov 2011 07:25:35 GMT

Title: Death's Other Kingdom (2/?)
Pairing: eventual Destiel
Rating: PG
Warnings: Just for a change of pace, some more angst.
Summary: Castiel is not alone in Purgatory.

Somewhere in the distance, at the edge of his perception, Castiel can feel the restless souls of Purgatory, those he had consumed, shifting and seething. He can taste their intent, but they do not approach him. He supposes the Mother may be keeping them at bay.

So he is left alone for an unknowable stretch of time, staring at his imagined knees, watching them knit back together.

At some point, Gabriel makes his presence known.

“You’ve got a lot of people mad at you down here, baby brother.”

Castiel blinks up at him. “Are you not among them?”

“Eh,” Gabriel plops himself down next to his brother, “What’s a few more dead hypocrites and a shaken up Heavenly Host?”

“I will assume,” Castiel intones solemnly, “that was a rhetorical question.”

Gabriel snorts, a most unangelic sound. “What do you know, those two knuckleheads did teach you a sense of humor.”

Castiel sighs. “I have loosed Leviathan on the Earth.”

“And then the humor was gone,” Gabriel shakes his head, “Well, there’s no denying you really dropped the ball on this one, but what's done is done, and on the bright side, at least you got them out of my hair. Dad knows we’ve all had our fair share of screwups, and you're not gonna fix it while you’re too busy moping.”

“I am not moping,” Castiel mutters weakly, “But I do not know of a way to fix it, unless you have any suggestions.”

“I might, actually,” Gabriel begins to disappear again, “But first I gotta see a guy about a thing.”

And Castiel is alone.

Next Chapter

I get clingy about celestial objects, okay?

badplanmobile — Tue, 15 Nov 2011 05:59:42 GMT

I have committed Supernatural fic. Multi-chapter Supernatural fic. Destiel fixit fic. Although, this being the first (itty bitty) chapter, there is not much Destiel or fixit yet. But still. This is a thing that is happening.

Title: Death's Other Kingdom (1/?)
Pairing: eventual Destiel
Rating: PG
Warnings: Angst? I mean, I think that's a given in this fandom.
Summary: When an Angel dies, where does he go?

Castiel hits the endless empty of Purgatory hard enough to break bone. His nonexistent knees shatter on impact and he is left staring blankly at the blankness of Purgatory’s floor, gasping the pain of his insubstantial wounds. Beneath his hands, Jimmy Novak’s hands, he sees nothing but a depthless expanse of dusty grey.

It is far more than he had expected to see, after he died.

And then Raphael is standing over him.

He feels the crackle of energy Raphael summons to smite him, completely unlike the power he held on Earth or in Heaven, but far more than Castiel has to his name, nonetheless. Castiel does not look up. He waits to suffer at his older brother’s hand, and he welcomes it.

Instead, there is a deafening crash, and nothing strikes him. Weakly, he turns his upwards, or what passes for upwards in a place with no direction. Now it is Eve looming over him. He sees her in the body of the young virgin sacrificed to free her, sees her wearing the face of Mary Winchester, sees her as she was when first she walked the Earth, each laid over the other. He quivers, and bows his head.

“Oh, come on, now,’ she says, with all her voices, “don’t give me that. You’ve gone much to far to get all meek, now. What would even be the point?”

Still, Castiel does not meet her eyes. Any of them.

“Perhaps to salvage what remains of my grace, in death, if not life,” he rasps, “Whatever punishment you have in store for me, I will not fight it.”

She laughs at that, a bright sound that echoes discordantly across the vacuum of Purgatory. “Oh, yes, punishment! You do deserve punishment, Castiel. But I just don’t care to spend the effort.”

He looks up at that, confused.

“I know you are the one who ordered my release,” she circles him now, slow, like the ancient predator she is, “I also know you helped your precious Winchesters to kill me. And that you delivered the corpse of my vessel to Crowley. And that you ate the souls of my children to power your little war machine.”

She stops on her heel, ever so precisely, spins and kneels, bowing her head near to Castiel’s.

Lowering her mouth to his ear, she whispers, “And I know you released the Leviathan upon the Earth.”

Castiel trembles, and presses his head to the ground that isn’t there.

She lays a hand over the nape of his neck, not unkindly.

“And I also know you have some purpose left to serve.”

Then she is gone, leaving Castiel alone in the vast nothingness of Purgatory, surrounded by souls he had once captured or killed.

Chapter 2

The shark has dibs on the fish. The shark ALWAYS has dibs.

badplanmobile — Thu, 08 Sep 2011 20:56:06 GMT

Trying to get back into actually livejournaling and ficcing and stuff, so here's a meme. Because I'm a needy bitch. As you know.

If I made Cinderella, the audience would immediately be looking for a body in the coach.
— Alfred Hitchcock

When I write a story, what do you immediately look for?

I got electrocuted AND I got to pet horses! Win-win!

badplanmobile — Fri, 26 Aug 2011 07:30:01 GMT

Behold, I have crawled forth from my man cave to yield up an angsty, fucked up song! Put these lyrics into your brain at own risk.

If I seem fine, well, I must be The door was open, sure, you had a key
It’s a weakness, I know, but I won’t show you my underbelly

I know if I don’t cry, I don’t feel it like you
And I know if I’ve lied, then none of it’s true

It’s a shallow wound, so you can lick it yourself

You’re quite right, of course
I’m the beating, you’re a long dead horse
I’m on hands and knees, but words like please, not my vocabulary

I know if I don’t cry, I don’t feel it like you
And I know if I’ve lied, then none of it’s true

It’s a shallow grave, so you can dig it yourself

And if my sweet teeth taste like aspartame
So if my shaking hands can’t shake the scent of betadine
If I dream of you in shades of blue and overtones of shame
Dream of brake failure and bullet wounds and brine
Well, then we both know who to blame

I know that I don’t cry these days,
Except for the occasional wolf
And I know that time’s the one who stays,
And that you’re the one who took

So if you lent a hand to rake my name
If I see you in the tires slashed and in the broken glass
If it’s thanks to you, merci beacoup, I have to say good game
And if we could kindly settle this impasse
Well, I’ve been practicing my aim

Et tu, Vodka?

badplanmobile — Mon, 15 Aug 2011 04:45:07 GMT

I have written a political poem! Also my first poem in fucking ever! This is weird!

Odds

It is a shock to the system,
an awful, awing epiphany,
to realize my body,
this body They insist on naming Woman
on treating as
object, idol, toy,
& which They now prepare to call
abhorrent, unnatural, mistaken,
but which I alone know,
in which I must reside;
this my body is here
& intact
only through the realization of improbable calculations,
a single metaphysical slip past unlikely odds,
the incalculable, incomparable roll of the die of my life,
cast through each unrealized reality
to land
where it has,
this time,
within this time & place & set of circumstances,
fearfully fortuitous;
the presiding factors weighed inside
the vast and calloused hands of Time
& He saw fit to set me here;
not 50 years earlier
anywhere within the Reich’s walls around continental Europe,
where who I am or who I love or how I think
would have been cause
to starve or shoot or poison or burn me,
any one of them alone;
nor born in the horn of Africa,
where my mother may well
have held me down
while an unsterilized blade scraped away
the soft skin of my cunt;
& I did not come from her womb
with my clitoris a fraction of a centimeter oversized,
overgrown, in want of pruning;
& when I grew enough that the cracks inside my mind
could be seen from the outside,
she did not tie me tightly into my child safety seat
and slide the family van into a lake
on the illformed, unfounded notion
she had something to save me from,
& could;
& I have never lain prone beneath an EMT
who tore through my trousers
or the bindings on my breasts
with a pair of trauma sheers
& discovered something he did not expect
or deign to salvage;
not any of these,
&, instead, here,
where still, i have suffered,
have been instilled with the fear of it,
but have risked so very little,
comparatively,
in landing in this single place & time,
allowed to be,
incredibly,
alive
& whole
by the blessing of
unjust chance
& unearned privilege;
the blessing of birth inside
the safety of whiteness,
of the Western world,
of the ultimate realization of
the infamous American Dream:
that most perfect of classes,
the upper middle;
because I was coercively assigned
to the more attractive sex
but chose to become
the more respected;
because I can pretend sanity,
can imitate an appropriate sexuality,
& can keep it to myself
that know enough
to recognize this
for the rarity
it is.

There is raw rage oozing from my body. It has a viscous consistency and no discernible smell.

badplanmobile — Thu, 12 May 2011 21:30:37 GMT

There is drama happening. I feel not like discussing it, but have a resulting song.

Why do you have to kiss me
When I try to have a beer
Why do you have to hold me
When I want to disappear

I’ve never been the boy you think I am
The split lip could’ve helped you tell
And I’ll never be in love with any man
So don’t you start in with that hard sell

My skin is growing ragged
In the places where we touch
You’re getting heavy handed
You’re wanting me too much

I’ve never been the boy you think I am
The cracked hips might have tipped you off
And I’ll never be in love with any man
Whatever words you think you heard me cough

Why do you want inside me
There’s nothing there but dirt
What do you want inside me
There’s nothing there but hurt

I’ve never been the boy you think I am
The broken wrists should’ve been a clue
And I’ll never be in love with any man
If I could I still doubt it’d be you

Thought I told you
Thought I told you
Guess you couldn’t hear me around your cock
Sure I told you
Sure I told you
Still you’ve shoved your crowbar against my lock

Sad inanimate objects are the saddest.

badplanmobile — Tue, 29 Mar 2011 09:20:17 GMT

It has just occurred to me that while, for awhile there, I was endeavoring to post updates about my life in this journal, alongside my fannish works, I have since lost track of that. I post a bit about my life on Alack! Cerebrophiliac!, of course, but that blog is intended to be more about examining various subjects, often via my experience, and not a journal. This is a journal, and the best way to keep those friends of mine who read it apprised on the events in my life. So, I'm going to try to split this journal more evenly between Ian's Life Updates and Fandom Things. To begin with, here's my life at the moment.

I've been having something of an emotional crisis, which you can track through this series of posts, if you care to. It wasn't really triggered by anything, just a general build-up of stress, as happens. It was exacerbated by finding out my parents are pulling my funding at the end of April, but not as much as you might think. I'm working on the loss of funds thing, of course. There's a possibility I can convince my parents to put me through a May Term course, and continue paying my rent while I take it. There's also a possibility I could snag a job somewhere in town and be able to pay rent on my own. It's also possible I won't be able to avoid getting dragged back to Hamilton, but I'll figure out how to survive that, as well, if it comes to it.

What's a much bigger deal, albeit less time sensitive, is the revelation those four posts (and some help from Alexander) were leading up to.

I am codependent.

This is the main problem in my life. It's all wrapped up in my social anxiety, my abandonment issues, my series of toxic relationships. It is the cause of all of my, frankly soul crushing, stress. And, as it's the result of years of conditioning, it will take years to reprogram out of me.

I could really use all the support I can get in my recovery, but I've got to do this, with or without any. I don't know how, but I'm going to figure that out.

I need you to stop talking about how big things are!

badplanmobile — Sun, 27 Mar 2011 09:33:07 GMT

Title: Sour and Ringing and Lost to the World
Pairing: Scorpius/Braca
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Dubcon! Dubcon all up in this bitch!
Summary: Grazya gets Braca all hot and bothered. Braca seeks release elsewhere.
Author's Note: Written for the prompt "I'm drunk". I want to say this is defenestratorrr 's fault, but I honestly don't know whose idea it was. We have so many fucked up thoughts between us, I can't keep track of which to credit to whom.

Captain Braca flees his new superior’s quarters with all the control he can dredge up. He does not run, nor does he stumble, but he cannot deny it is a near thing. The moment her doors slide shut behind him, he collapses against the wall, eyes squeezed shut against the inescapable fog in his head and desperately gasping. The world spin and swings in his bloodshot eyes. His skin crawls and itches and aches. His mouth waters and his throat closes. His fingers twitch and spasm and claw at his thighs, swarming with the need to clutch at Grayza’s vile flesh.

He is hard.

Braca shoves himself off from the wall and presses blindly through the mercifully empty corridors, hardly able to think through the cloud of pheromones and the violent disgust trying to tear his untenable lust to pieces. He stumbles over steps and leans against walls as he must, until he finds himself, finally, exactly where he had intended not to be.

Scorpius lies semiconscious on the floor of his cell, and Braca knows his intentions will do him no good.

He unlocks the door.

Scorpius’ eyes struggle to focus on him as he crosses to kneel beside the prone form. It is a horror and a sick thrill to see those sharp eyes robbed of their lucidity, to see this bizarre and brilliant man reduced to delirium, albeit not as complete as Grayza would guess.

It is a struggle, but those eyes do find their focus. Recognition flashes, for a moment as bright as ever, and Scorpius latches onto Braca like a drowning man. Braca supposes he is.

Unfortunately for Scorpius, he is not the only one.

Clumsy and unbalanced, Braca cups a hand under Scorpius’ cranium, fingers sliding over materials almost as complex as what they encase, and he lifts. His lips crash against Scorpius’ with drunken fervor and are met with little more than an automatic response. Still, he cannot stop himself now. Scorpius weakly tries to press himself up in the kiss, tries to coordinate his tongue and slide it against Braca’s. He lifts a hand to caress Braca’s cheek and collapses back to the floor without it’s support, but Braca follows him, straddles him and runs his own hands feverishly over Scorpius’ armoured chest and shoulders.

He pulls back, not for air, but because he knows the gnashing of his teeth and the grasping of his hands is becoming to spastic to safely maintain. He presses his forehead and Scorpius and he breaths.

Scorpius relaxes beneath him. He sighs into the space between them and stretches his tongue up to lap at Braca’s lip, eliciting a sudden shudder and a gasp. Braca’s arms tremble pitifully, holding him suspended, as still as he can, over the other man.

“I can’t–” He whispers, “Please, Sir– Scorpius– Sir. I need–”

Smiling weakly up at him, Scorpius strokes shaking fingers across his lips to silence him.

Braca knows, somewhere inside the desperate, mindless lust muddling his thoughts, that he has not made himself clear, and that the press of fingers to his mouth and a smile do not constitute consent, even if Scorpius were equipped to give it, dangling just over the edge of heat delirium and recovering from torture. Braca knows this.

He simply finds he does not care.

His mouth falls open in a horrified, relieved sigh and he draws those gloved fingers into his mouth gratefully. He gives a hard suck and Scorpius’ head tilts back with a pleased hiss, hips rolling against his own.

At even that slight stimulation, his brain shorts out completely. Braca jerks back, gasping, struggling helplessly to clear his head. He finds the task impossible, and made even more challenging by Scorpius’ insistent hands stroking his back, his thighs.

He gives up trying, and kneels up to open his zip.

Scorpius’ pupils are blown wide and he is smiling ferally. Braca does not know if he can trust it, but he’s far past the point of contemplating that. His cock is throbbing painfully as he releases it from his pants, and he almost comes on the spot when Scorpius licks his lips.

It is a small comfort to know this won’t take long.

Scorpius pushes himself up to meet Braca, who cants his hips just so, and his cockhead meets those thin, black lips. His drops his head and whimpers hopelessly, and Scorpius suckles at his glans, runs his clever tongue around the sensitive ridge just behind it. Braca cannot stop the desperate pumping of his hips, but Scorpius meets him thrust for thrust, swallowing around him as eagerly as ever.

Braca runs a trembling hand over Scorpius’ head, clutches and strokes at the base of his skull. His other hand finds its way to Scorpius’ ridged, hallowed cheek, petting feverishly, feeling his cock thrusting in and out. Scorpius leans into his touch, moaning around his cock, and it’s more than enough. Braca comes, fast and violent, his legs spasming and his shoulders hunching forward, collapsing in on himself.

When his vision clears, he shoves himself away from Scorpius, staggering to his feet. He finds he cannot look at the man. He tucks himself away and flees.

Sikozu built this in a CAVE! With a box of SCRAPS!

badplanmobile — Fri, 11 Mar 2011 07:48:26 GMT

Title: No Signs Of Pain
Pairing: Scorpius/Braca
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Second person POV, angst, Scorpius.
Summary: Scorpius hurts. Braca provides distraction.
Author's Note: Written for the prompt "This cancels out the hurt." I took it literally.

Your earliest memory is one of pain; deep somatic pain, radiating through every muscle and bone in your body, drilling into the soft tissue of your brain. In layman’s terms, you were born with a fire behind your eyes, beating against the inside of your skull, burning through your veins. It was eight years before you taught yourself to hear over the roaring of your own body and the Scarrans bothered sending Tauza to break you of your Sebastian weakness. It was many torturous lessons after that you garnered the ability to distinguish words in her harsh tongue through the heat delirium.

Then beautiful, duplicitous Natira took you in, providing you the credits to implant the complex cooling system you had devised. When the Diagnosan laid you out bare on his table, you were shuddering with anticipation.

Under the thick armor of your cooling suit, the Solanterum rods hold the fire at bay. The pain is dulled beneath the soothing chill of a fresh rods, but not eliminated. It rises in slow waves, creeping back to the piercing burn of critical levels, while you steal yourself against it, holding out for the longest possible duration, until the heat is too much and you must let your attendant stand by and observe the grinding ache as your head opens up.

It is always there. Under the strictly disciplined shell you present, under the science and the schemes, you can never quiet that heat.

But the first time you pin a naked Lieutenant Braca to the bed beneath you, the incessant grey noise begins to fade. When you lean down to teeth ever so cautiously at his lower lip, cool, numb silence washes over you. He moans, high and pleading, and you swallow it down. You pull back to watch his face as you tease a gloved hand along the inside of his left thigh, and your proprioception falls away completely for the duration of his soft, hissing gasp.

It becomes an experiment: testing Braca’s limits, testing your own body’s responses. It is hardly academic. The results are subjective, and you aren’t recording them, beyond committing them to your remarkably precise memory, but it is easily the most satisfying experiment you have ever conducted.

As your draw him closer and closer to orgasm, following him all the way yourself, all sensation in your body dwindles to the solitary fixed point of the man underneath you: his thighs shuddering and twitching under your palms, his cock pulsing against your tongue, his lips stretching taut as he cries out.

You swallow everything he gives and your own pleasure coalesces into a blinding flare behind your eyes and thrusts the cooling apparatus from your skull. As the rush of cold air hits exposed nerves and Braca scrambles to replace the spent rod, you hardly feel a thing.

I can hear Obama chastising you.

badplanmobile — Fri, 25 Feb 2011 08:17:23 GMT

Officially taking up iambic5 's resolution to write something every day. In the interest of that, I'm also finally making a claim over at un_love_you! I've been wanting to write some un_love_you for literally years, but I've never found the right pairing or time. Well, the wait is over, for Lo, there came Farscape, and then there came my unhealthy attraction to a certain wormhole-obsessed, fetish-gear-clad hybrid! And the Lord did say Shit, this shows no signs of stopping, and Lo, I did Giggle Mightily, and it was Good.

So, here's the table. You'll want to keep an eye on this.

01.	You were right about me.	02.	I was wrong about you.	03.	This cancels out the hurt.
04.	I need to want you.	05.	You can be like me.	06.	I want to need you.
07.	Prove it.	08.	I'm cruel.	09.	Always wondered what this'd be like.
10.	I'm broken.	11.	Thought I needed this.	12.	I'm Drunk
13.	I want to hurt you.	14.	I'm awake and you're breathing.	15.	This is my desperation in action.
16.	I want to break you.	17.	Wish I didn't love you.	18.	I pity you.
19.	This isn't about you at all.	20.	I hate you, you bitch.	21.	You'll do.
22.	I hate myself.	23.	You remind me of me.	24.	I want you to hate me.
25.	You remind me of someone.	26.	I can be like you.	27.	Author's Choice.
28.	Author's Choice.	29.	Author's Choice.	30.	Author's Choice.

Augh, it got bigger! ...pffft, that's what she said.

badplanmobile — Thu, 24 Feb 2011 03:50:37 GMT

This song got silly halfway through. I don't even know. Anyway, have some lyrics:

Lover, I’ve gotta wander what you get up to
On the road with your gentleman courter
The flat gets so empty when you aren’t in it
I’ve been living on my boyfriend’s couch
Getting my thoughts all out of order

But that’s how I live
With my head in the clouds
And my foot out the door
And that’s how I love
I throw you away
Then I beg you for more

So I’m grateful for the room
You leave me to keep you in
And I’m thankful for the stories
You’ll bring home from where you’ve been
I’m indebted to your head
And how you keep it through this din
And I’m beholden to the way
You fail to stay out of my skin

Lover, I sorta stumbled in on your girlfriend
While she was working at the health food store
We stood out on the street and shared a cigarette
She’d been waiting for her man to come
He took us home and we shared more

And that’s how I live
With my head in the clouds
And my foot out the door
And that’s how I love
I throw you away
Then I beg you for more

So I’m grateful for the room
You leave me to keep you in
And I’m thankful for the stories
You’ll bring home from where you’ve been
I’m indebted to your head
And how you keep it through this din
And I’m beholden to the way
You fail to stay out of my skin

Lover, I kinda tumbled into bed with a bottle
And that man we know from up to street
It’s hardly news but still wanna talk about it
He’s still not gonna suck my dick
But it turns out he has a thing for feet

So that’s how I live
With my head in the clouds
And my foot out the door
And that’s how I love
I throw you away
Then I beg you for more

So I’m grateful for the room
You leave me to keep you in
And I’m thankful for the stories
You’ll bring home from where you’ve been
I’m indebted to your head
And how you keep it through this din
And I’m beholden to the way
You fail to stay out of my skin

Lover, I might’ve run out of things to tell you
So could you come home soon?
P.S.
Bring milk

I was five minutes late because of the decapitation, but I came with pizza.

badplanmobile — Tue, 22 Feb 2011 21:52:48 GMT

Title: Brains and Bondage, Or Better Sex Through Science
Pairing: Megamind/Metro Man, mentions of Megamind/Roxanne
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Bondage, alien anatomy, not-so-alien anatomy, random fits of roleplay, D/s conventions getting thrown out the window, sexy talk, not-so-sexy talk, italics abuse. Oh ghod, the italics abuse.
Summary: Metro Man can't have rough sex. He confides in his bestie. Megamind throws science at it. Orgasms are had by all.
Beta'd: with much love and facepalming by the flamboyantly brillaint iambic5 and the excellently mad defenestratorrr .
Author's Note: This took for fucking ever to write. The boys would not stop talking! Plus, my narrative style was spastic enough before Megs got his dirty little fingers in it. Anyway, I'm blamming iambic5 and deleriumsdlight. None of this is my fault. None.

Apparently, part of this villain-turned-hero, best-buds-with-your-not-actually-slain-nemesis thing involves hanging out with Metro Man-cum-Music Man-cum-you know what, just call me Wayne in his Secret Bachelor Hideout Pad. Or, at least, in Megamind’s case it does. Which may really be the only case of this rather unique situation, thereby setting the standard for all ex-enemy etiquette in the future, or maybe it doesn’t actually matter and he should really just focus on what Metro Man, or, theoretically, Wayne, is asking him about his relationship with Roxanne.

More specifically, about his physical relationship with her. Which might be a normal thing to ask your Platonic Male Friend over a cold beer, and, in Megamind’s case, a grape soda, because it’s two in the afternoon and also with his metabolism, he is no longer allowed to imbibe. According to Roxanne. After that one time. But right now he’s conversing with his bro.

“Well, um, it exists. We’ve got one of those. Which is Exciting. Uh. I don’t actually have much of a frame of reference.”

Metro- uh, Wayne gives one of his Heroic chuckles and takes a swig of his beer. “You know, honestly, that doesn’t surprise me. Good to hear it’s going well for you two, though. Man, no offense, but Roxie is pretty fine.”

“Mmm, yes, that she is. Wait, why would I take offense at that? Roxanne is gorgeous! I mean, she has that spunky haircut which complements her facial structure and her eyes are Huge and Blue and there’s the ratio of her waist to her hips which is most pleasing and I understand that she is sometimes self-conscious over her butt, but she should not be because it is Splendid and you are giving me a Look.” Megamind trails off, somewhat puzzled by the way Wayne’s eyes have crinkled all up and he appears to be holding back laughter, which is really very un-Metro Man of him.

“Sorry, Little Buddy. No, it’s just, most guys can get a bit touchy when someone else talks about their girl.”

Megamind blinks. “But why?”

To be fair, Wayne looks a little confused himself. His eyebrows come together and makes that little crease in between them, the way they used to when he was Concerned for the Citizens whom Megamind’s Villainous Scheme was Currently Endangering.

“Well, I guess because if another man has something to say about the girl you’re with, it means he’s been looking, himself.” Megamind nods intently. “And if he’s been looking, he might want to do, you know, more than look.”

Megamind furrows his brow in thought. “I don’t get it.” He concludes.

Wayne laughs. “Well, most guys get jealous, Little Buddy. They want their girl all to themselves.”

“Hmm. Well, I suppose I can understand that, but we should be able to talk about Roxanne! Because Roxanne is Wonderful and Friends should talk about Wonderful things! Right?”

Wayne makes what Megamind has come to think of as his Indulgently Amused face. “Yes. I believe so.”

“Good! Because I’ve never had anyone to talk to about, well, girls, or, really, for that matter, any girls to talk about. Actually, before Roxanne, I was never all that interested. Getting the girl just didn’t fit into my life, you know, be the villain, plan the plans, get thoroughly foiled by the hero, rinse and repeat. But wow was I wrong! Being the bad guy was fun, but actually, I think it’s overrated, because after the hero wins, which is a quite a novelty in itself, he gets to get jumped by the girl of his dreams and then they have wild, violent Sex that leaves bruises! Which actually, afterward, Roxanne asked if I was alright, which made me wonder if there was a reason why I wouldn’t be alright. And, uh, am I… oversharing?”

Wayne isn’t really looking at Megamind anymore, and, worse, he’s rubbing the back of his neck the way he had when he told them about his decision to give up Hero-ing.

“No, no, Little Buddy, it’s just- I mean, that sounds great, you know. I just… with the super strength…and things… you know.” He gives Megamind a sheepish grin.

“Oh. Oh!” Megamind frowns. “Ooh.”

There is a long and potentially awkward pause, which Megamind doesn’t really take notice of, distracted by the rapid whirring of the metaphorical cogs in his exceptionally large brain. Finally, his eyes refocuse on Wayne, who is looking a bit bemused, with the same light of inspiration which usually indicates some new doomsday device is soon to be deployed.

“I have a Plan.” Megamind informs his former nemesis, in a tone which is Not Comforting.

-

“Roxanne!” Megamind bursts into the lair with a flourish and proceeds to dash madly about in search of the woman in question.

“Roxaaaanne!” He skids to a sudden and impressively dramatic halt when he spots her, apparently playing Go Fish with Minion at one of the desks. He keeps many scattered throughout the lair, seeming rather forlorn and almost naked without their previous covering of death ray schematics and detailed notes on upcoming Diabolical Plans. It warms the heart to see one getting any kind of use, as heroism seems to involve a great deal less planning and much more speedy reacting, so the desks and drafting tables have been rather neglected lately, but, seriously?

“Wait, are you two playing- nevermind. Roxanne!”

She offers his favorite indulgent smile. “Yes, dear, I can hear you.”

“Right! Roxanne, I have a Plan.”

“Oh?” She asks calmly and probably not with much trace of alarm.

“Um, well, yes. Er, Minion, could you-”

Minion gives an exaggerated sigh and stands to leave. “Yes, yes, I’ve got brain bots to repair.”

“Thank you! So, Roxanne. Am I allowed to tie Metro Man up and have sex with him?”

At that, Roxanne looks rather surprised, and then her eyes go out of focus and she stays that way for several moments. Megamind finds himself somewhat concerned, as he’s never seen her react in such a way, or, at least, hardly ever. Excluding, of course, certain occasions which he understands ought not be mentioned in polite company, but this isn’t really one of those-
Oh! Oh.

“Roxanne?” He ventures, hopeful and not remotely ludicrous grin still in place.

“Oh! Yes, sorry.” She giggles. “I needed a minute alone with that image.”

His grin quickly finds itself accompany but a deep blush at the Suggestiveness of That Tone. “So, uh, is that a yes?”

“You know, I think it is.” She replies thoughtfully, “Although you’d better tell me all about it afterwards or you may find the tables turned on you.”

“Oh, is that a promise, Miss Ritchie?”

-

Naturally, part of the Plan involves the precise application of Mad Science, which is how Roxanne comes to find Megamind standing in the middle of one of the labs with a hand clamped over his mouth and a far away look on his face. She pries the hand away and gently places a mug of hot coffee in it. Then she pulls up a seat to sip her own coffee and make sure he doesn’t burn himself. She truly is the perfect girlfriend.

“Maybe,” he mumbles, “maybe I could weave rope out of copper wiring.”

“Uh, you remember that copper was never actually his weakness, right?”

He blinks. “Yes, yes, of course. That was. A test. Because, copper rope, that’s just ridiculous!”

She snorts at that in a way which is probably not very ladylike and rather unflattering, but nonetheless, his heart manages to do a happy little flip in response. The traitor. He is trying to be grumpy and also to do Science.

“In fact, we’ve pretty much established he hasn’t got any weaknesses, haven’t we? I mean, you would have found it by now if he did.” Well, even he can’t escape the logic in that statement.

“I’ve set yet another impossible task before myself, haven’t I?” he cries miserably. While his intellect may be unsurpassed upon this planet, there are some problems unsolvable even by his genius. And if he’s proven a talent for anything, it’s finding those really very few! but often particularly Exciting problems.

“Well, technically, you’ve set the same impossible task before yourself again. For the third time.” Roxanne smirks all together too calmly. Damnable woman.

“This is hopeless!” He throws his arms up in despair, inadvertently and completely unforeseeably flinging Very Hot Coffee across the room in the process.

-

Finally, after Megamind feels he’s given his nemesis, or former nemesis, even, enough time to properly stew in trepidation over his possible fate, and also just managed to jerry-rig something which might be Clever enough to satisfy the requirements of his Plan, the Incredibly Handsome Master of Being Good Now Really journeys to the retired hero’s hideaway.

“Haha!” He announces, bursting into Wayne’s living room with a Grand and Sweeping Gesture and a handful of helpful brainbots in tow. “I have brought rope! And now, we shall have sex!”

Wayne is sprawled out on the couch, an unfathomably thick sandwich suspended halfway to his open mouth. Megamind holds his pose for almost a minute, awaiting a response, which he is growing somewhat concerned he may not get. He has very rarely seen Metro Man stunned into silence. Unimpressed into silence, perhaps, which he was man enough to admit, thank you, but not stunned.

“Let’s try this again.” He enunciates, letting his arms drop. “I have brought rope. Let us commence with the sex.”

The repetition gets a response, at the least, if not the desired one.

“Wait, what?” Wayne shouts, “That’s your plan? How does that freakishly enlarged brain of yours even work?”

Fortunately, Megamind is accustomed to his Plans encountering some obstacles.

“Very well, thank you! And it’s a fantastic Plan! See, the ropes are braided from graphite iron reinforced silk steel and a microcarbon offset alloy, bound together with a tachyon neutron web. Hence the brainbots, because that stuff is heavy!” He explains smugly. “One of my Most Criminally Magnificent Creations to date, if I do say so myself.”

Despite the considerable aplomb and also genius, all the reaction that garners is Wayne’s continued incredulous stare. Megamind deflates somewhat. “Well, really, you can probably still break them, but. Don’t?”

“What? Even? Regardless of how sturdy the ropes are, where did you get the idea that, that propositioning me is something you get to just barge in and, and! Do!”

“Well, actually, I was more mandating the kinky sexings than simply proposing, but. Uh. I don’t know?”

“That is not a reason! That’s not just a bad reason, it’s no reason! And seriously, with the semantics, too, when you just declared we’re gonna have gay bondage sex! Like you own the place! Or. Things.”

He has at least dropped, or, actually, thrown the sandwich aside at this point and progressed to flailing around the room, but Megamind is not really certain that can be seen as a move in his favor. The brainbots have taken to awkwardly milling about and pretending their enhanced visual and auditory sensors can somehow fail to notice the scene before them.

“What makes you think I want to have, you know, any kind of sex with you?”

“Oh,” Megamind murmurs, “I actually don’t know that either.”

Wayne at least has the courtesy to stop waving his enormous arms and look somewhat abashed as he takes in Megamind’s disheartened slump and downturned eyes.

“I just,” he presses, “We always had so much chemistry, back when you were foiling me all the time. The banter was so good. I guess I thought, now we’re on the same side, I don’t know, we could. Something.”

Apparently, Wayne ins’t sure how to respond to that declaration. With a look of Steely Resolve Megamind is all too familiar with, he turns and strides directly for the minibar. He drops a few cubes of ice into a glass and very deliberately fills it with scotch before returning to the couch.

He takes a long swig before returning Megamind’s gaze. “I. Never knew that.”

“Really? I thought it went without saying. I mean, all the other villains I’ve talked to, well. It’s rather common.”

“Wait, what? No, nevermind. I do not need to know that.” He raises his scotch back to his lips. “Oh, hey, do you want any?”

“Oh, no! I mean, wait, what time is it?”

“About six?”

“Okay, you know what, yeah. Give me one of those al-kayall-ic beverages!”

Wayne snickers and rises to pour Megamind a drink of his own. “Alright, then. It’s about time we got shitfaced together.”

-

“So, wait, wait, let me get my head around-”

“Your tiny head!”

“Lemme get my tiny head- hey, wait, my head is perfectly normal!”

“But it’s so little!”

“No, it’s not, it’s-”

“All kinda cute-”

“It’s a good head size. It’s sized like a, like a good head. Wait, my head’s cute?”

“Yeah, like, at the top, where your forehead’s all short and stuff? But then your jaw is like, I don’t even know, it’s just enormous and it’s all, um, um, how’s that called?”

“Manly?” Even drunk, Wayne can throw around a patented All-American Smile. “Heroic?”

“Butch!” Megamind announces triumphantly.

“What, seriously? You really are gay, aren’t you?”

“What? No! I’m dating Roxanne Ritchie, aren’t I? Who is decidedly of the female persuasion! Like, very. Very. Decidedly.”

“Fair enough. Wait, Roxie!”

“Yeah?”

“You’re dating Roxie!”

A lazy smile spreads across Megamind’s face. “Yes, I am.”

“No, Buddy, I mean you can’t fuck me, I mean, even theoretically! Cause! Roxie!”

“Oh, no, I already asked. Project Bondage Sex With Metro Man has Roxanne’s seal of approval. We are a go.”

“Wait, you asked her? You told her you were gonna tie me up and, I dunno, have your wicked way with me? Not that you’re gonna!”

“Well, of course, I told her! She’s my girlfriend. Wait, why not?”

“Um. Because.”

“Heeeeey, that’s not a reason at all. And plus, weren’t you saying something?”

“I guess. When?”

“Before. About your head.”

“Right! I was gonna ask you-”

“How to insert something into your head? I’m not trying to do that anymore.”

“No, not even a little. Why would you think that?”

“I’m a lot more interested by the idea of inserting something elsewhere.”

“Oh! My God! Okay.” Wayne takes several deep breaths. “As I was saying. So, you were saying, that you’ve, well, since grade school?”

“Well, no, I haven’t wanted to, as they say, ‘tap that’ since shool, because, we were, like, really young, but yes, I knew we were intended to have a Glorious Destiny together. Since then.”

“Wow. I. Need another drink.”

“Ooh, as do I!”

-

Suddenly, Megamind finds a pair of very warm, very forceful lips meeting his. Metro Man is kissing him. He is making out with the Defender of Metrocity, admittedly now former, but still, and he isn’t even sure how they got to this point. Excepting the obvious fact that he had come here specifically to instigate this kind of activity, of course, but literally, one minute they had been reminiscing about old times and the next. Well, now he’s pinned to the couch and gasping for breath.

The stubble burn is unexpected and surprisingly Exciting.

While there is nothing about this situation Megamind finds objectionable, strictly speaking, he’s pretty sure that’s meant to be the other way around.

When Metro Man finally breaks away to gasp for air and stare at him in surprise, which is a little odd since he’s the one who started this, he tells him as much, and is gifted with a giddily nervous laugh from the man atop him, which vibrates through where their hips are pressed against each other, which is really, really nice.

“Right. Well.” Wayne throws on his classic bravado. “Who am I to stand in the way of Megamind, Defender of Metrocity?”

“Ee! You said the thing that I say!”

Wayne rolls his eyes. “Yeah, thanks for explaining, Buddy. I was trying to set a mood or something.”

“Oooh, I’ll show you how to set a mood.” Megamind croons.

And then he’s miraculously twisted out from beneath Wayne’s not-at-all-inconsiderable and super-humanly-muscled bulk to reappear looming over him with a Villainous Eyebrow and his slender fingers folded menacingly on the arm of the couch, inches away from Wayne’s kiss-swollen lips.

“Well, Nemesis Mine, it seems I have you in my clutches at last.”

Pause to chuckle darkly and to enjoy Wayne’s stunned, gaping silence.

“Brainbots!” He cries with a flourish, before adopting a lower, more sinister tone. “Bring me the rope.”

A flurry of brainbots dart in from where they’d tactfully secluded themselves down the hall, lugging an enormous coil of shining metallic rope, and swarm behind their master in precisely the most dramatic way conceivable to his profound intellect. That had been one of the most complex bits of coding.

“Oh, okay, this is really happening.” Wayne says, scrambling backwards into a kneeling position. It still brings him taller than Megamind, but hey, he’s not going to count a gift horse’s teeth before it’s hatched when he has Metro Man shirtless, which, when did that happen? And on his knees.

“Yes, dear, that’s the general idea.”

“No, yeah, I know that. I just.” Wayne makes his Awkward Face, which Megamind has fortunately seen little of over the years and still finds rather unnerving. “I don’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“Kinky sex with my former enemy!” He exclaims, as if that should have been clear. “I mean, my costume is white. Like vanilla.”

“Inconsequential! Onto the bed with you, before I put you there myself.” It’s a thoroughly empty threat, of course, but he’s gambling that Wayne will play along.

There’s a tense moment where Wayne simply stares at him, probably having one of those Dramatic Inner Battles heroes seem rather prone to. Megamind does his best not to show weakness, and it pays off. He follows Wayne over to the bed in silence.
It’s an enormous, blessedly four-post wonder, laid out in creamy white and gold, like everything else in the lair. Wayne blends in effortlessly against the endless plane of white, but Megamind, all black and blue and leather and spikes, looks decidedly foreign, if not outright garish. It works for him.

Wayne flops backward onto the mattress and pulls Megamind along with him, kissing over his neck and jaw until he finds his way back to those soft, blue lips. This time it’s a leisurely exploration, and Megamind just melts into the kiss for a long time, until he remembers that he has a mission here.

He yanks himself upright and out of Wayne’s grip, thanks primarily to the benefit of surprise.

“Your attempts to distract me from my Ultimate Goal will not succeed, however tantalizing they may be!” He allows a Decidedly Wicked Smirk to spread across his lips. “Now, hands. Above. Your head. If you please.”

Metro Man is practically panting, and he complies wordlessly, stretching his massive arms towards the bed’s posts in a frighteningly convincing image of helplessness. Megamind feels momentarily lost before Metro Man picks the act back up.

“You’ll never get away with this, Megamind!” He snarls.

“Oh, really?” He waves the brainbots forward and they begin to secure the hero’s wrists. “We’ll see about that.”

Megamind kneels up on the bed, positioning himself between Wayne’s casually spread thighs. “Okay, now shoo!” He tells the swarm of bots. “And wipe your short term memory banks!”

He turns back to see Wayne flexing against his bonds gingerly. “These are pretty strong. I’m impressed, Buddy.”

Megamind endeavors not to look too concerned, and mostly fails. “Please don’t break them,” he pleads.

“Wasn’t planning to,” he replies dubiously, “But I can’t make any promises.”

Megamind chokes off a whimper and determinedly remains In Character.

“That,” he intones, looming over Metro Man, “is simply unacceptable.”

And he dives in for a kiss before his foe has a chance to retort. He takes the kiss deep, using his superior leverage to control it, and pulls slowly, tantalizingly away when he feels Metro Man rise up to meet him, trailing wet kisses down his thick throat and across his clavicle.

He gives a sharp nip before kneeling up to gaze imperially down upon his conquest. Wayne appears suitably dazed; his pupils blown and his broad chest all but heaving. Everything going according to plan, then. Megamind smirks and brings one gloved hand to his own mouth. He takes the tip of a finger into his mouth, gently teething the fabric away. He has found this trick can get a very pleasant response from Roxanne.

As he peels the latex back from his slender hands, Wayne’s eyes make a valiant attempt to come back into full focus, avidly fixed on the long, blue fingers being unsheathed.

Promising.

When Megamind has finally completed the painstaking process of slipping his gloves off, he tosses them over his shoulder with a flourish and presses his open hands flat on the vast expanse of firmly muscled pectorals before him with great relish. Metro Man’s chest is hot and impossibly solid beneath his sensitive palms, and his thick, wiry hair scratches and clutches as he drags his fingers across his skin.

When Wayne seems to have fully relaxed into the caress, Megamind ducks his head to lap at one small, pink nipple. He feels a sudden ripple of tension run through the body beneath him and can just picture Metro Man’s eyes flying open, caught between scandalized and intrigued. He hums smugly around the hardening nub in his mouth and enjoys the sigh it elicits.

Tentatively, he brings his teeth to bear. He nips gently, more for fear of chipping a tooth than hurting his nemesis. Metro Man gives a sort of roll upwards, like a gentle wave rocking him upwards into Megamind. While Very Pleasant, it also jostles him loose, and he takes the opportunity to relocate his voice.

“So, for the record. Any pointers or, uh, feedback would not go amiss.”

Wayne chuckles, all limp limbed and mellow. “You’re doing pretty well so far, Buddy.”

Megamind attempts to viciously twist a nipple in response, but gets only a pleased, throaty moan for his efforts. Which, you know, is nice, but he was trying to demonstrate who’s in charge here.

“No, seriously. I am a scientist,” he admonished. “Without the ability to accurately catalogue results, experimentation is meaningless.”

Metro Man gives a lazy, full body wriggle and gifts him with a lazy, lopsided smile. “So, this is all an experiment to you.”

“Naturally.”

“Of course.”

“And I will get results.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it.”

“Hmm.” He smiles, sly and reptilian. “I think I’ll take that as a challenge.”

He slides smoothly down the bed, curling his fingers under the waist of Wayne’s flannel pants and tugging them clean off. Immediately, Metro Man’s cock bobs up, resting against his taut stomach.

It is as thick as the rest of him and flushed quite pink. He gives it an experimental stroke, and discovers a thin furl of skin at the tip. He draws it back to fully reveal the flaring of the head. A single bead glistens at the tip and, glancing up to see Metro Man craning his neck to watch, he lowers his mouth to close over it.

He tastes warm and salty sour and not a thing like Roxanne, and his flesh is marble solid and unyielding under Megamind’s curious tongue, like every other part of him. He presses his dexterous tongue along first the slit and then the rim of the wide head, filing away texture and sensitivity. He slurps back off the head and tongues his way down the apparently very responsive underside down to the root, and then suckling his way back up along the thick cord.

He pauses to pull in a deep breath and catch Metro Man’s eye before swallowing him as far as he can. His lips pull taut around Metro Man’s girth, stretching the muscles of his jaw. Cautiously, he begins to bob his head, noting the slide of the skin under his tongue and the minute, aborted jerks of Metro Man’s hips beneath his hands. He hums happily around the cock in his mouth and receives a sudden, uncontrolled thrust for his trouble. He is rocked back onto his heels and he stares down at the miraculous site of Metro Man wide eyed and rock hard, worrying his lip between his teeth.

It is so, so good to be bad.

“I want,” he exhales, barely vocalized, “to fuck you.”

Shockingly, fantastically, Metro Man sounds as winded as he does. “Yeah. Uh, yeah, okay. Aren’t we? You know, doing that?”
Megamind laughs breathlessly, shaky with adrenaline. “Yes. Yes, we are. But I mean. Fuck you.”

He slinks backward off the bed, finding enough room to for the complicated contortions required to unzip his suit by himself. It’s slow work, stripping the skin tight leather and latex from his slender frame without looking like a Completely Spaztastic Derp, but he’s been practicing. And for as many odd angles he has to coerce his joints into while still projecting his Suave Persona, it is absolutely worth it to watch Wayne determinedly remaining positioned as Megamind left him while trying to lean forward as far as he can.

When he reveals his narrow, hairless chest, Megamind can’t help but feel a twinge of self-consciousness, next to Metro Man’s inescapable Broad Hairy Manliness, but the look he’s getting from his ex-enemy quickly clears any such concerns from his mind. When he slips the costume off his narrow hips and lets it fall to the floor, he’s gleaned enough of an ego boost off that to keep fronting.

With a confident leer pasted firmly across his face, he crawls back up the bed and situates himself between Wayne’s muscular thighs, ignoring his Confusey Face. He trails a hand down his flat belly to the tender seam at the crest of his groin and teases the opening with his thumb. At this point, it doesn’t take much to coax his cock out of hiding. It emerges with a faint, slick noise and slaps wetly against Metro Man’s.

That elicits a long, whining moan and a “Hooooly shit. That. Was unexpected.”

Megamind’s smile is equal parts relief and oh-crab-nuggets-aroused-out-of-my-Very-Impressive-Mind as he frots leisurely against his counterpart and leans down for a slow, shallow kiss. “So,” he murmurs against Metro Man’s gasping, open mouth, “How about the fucking?”

“Ooh,” Wayne moans, “I mean, uh. Yeah. Yeah, I think I want that.”

“Really!?” Megamind can’t contain the broad grin that splits his face as he lunges for his belt. “Awesome!”

“Wait, wait, you keep lube in your utility belt!?”

“Uh, not usually,” he protests as he spreads said lube over his fingertips, “It was Roxanne’s suggestion.”

“Oh my God,” Wayne groans, “Please, just kill me now.”

“No!” Megamind insists, somewhat more firmly than strictly necessary, “Byyy which I mean. You know she thinks this is totally hot, right?”

“Uh, no, Little Buddy, I actually don’t. I haven’t had the chance to discuss it with her ye- Oh there are fingers that are cold!”

“Sorry!” Megamind quickly withdraws the offending digits and works the admittedly quite chilly lube between his fingers for a little warmth before stroking his way back along Metro Man’s crack. “Better?”

“Uh, yes?”

“Alright, your answer is not supposed to be a question.”

“Okay, yes, that is. Not cold.”

Megamind teases the tip of one narrow finger past the tight ring of muscle. “Is that all?” He pries.

“Uh, no, no, I guess. That’s. Actually pretty nice.”

“Just “pretty nice”?” He asks innocently, working a second finger into him and reaching for the prostate-equivalent he knows must be in there. When he finds a smooth little ridge and gets a startled gasp of a moan out of Wayne, he’s pretty sure he’s succeeded.

“Alright, it’s really,” he presses his hips back against the pair of slender fingers with a rattling groan, “Really good.”

Megamind twists his fingers in and out, easing a third in and thanking Evil Heaven for how rapidly Metro Man adapts. “How much do you want this?”

“What!?”

“Please, Metro Man, I’ve got my fingers up your ass, don’t pretend to be scandalized now,” He croons, “I asked how much you want this.”

“You fiend,” he gasps, “I will not be reduced to begging.”

“Actually,” Megamind chuckles as he draws his fingers out, “I suspect you will.”

That particular trick is rewarded with a heartfelt growl, but, true to his word, Metro Man wreaks no abuse upon the ropes. Megamind repositions his hips, slowly rocking his cock between Metro Man’s cheeks, dragging it agonizingly across his hole on each stroke.

“We both know,” he murmurs into Metro Man’s ear, “you want me. And you will not get what you want until you ask.”

He runs his tongue along the shell of that ear, “Nicely.”

“Megamind,” Metro Man growls, and oh, how he has missed that tone, “You. You’ve already won, alright. Just. Please.”

“Yes, Sir,” Megamind whispers, and presses gradually inside.

And then has to hold very, very still for a bit and allow himself, far more than Wayne, time to adjust, because tight and hot as a furnace with his superhuman metabolism. Plus, honestly, Metro Man’s broad chest heaving in short, aborted gasps under his bare hands is not something Megamind ever really expected to have.

Megamind sucks in a shaky breath and bends so he’s laying flush against his Beloved Nemesis, course chest hair scratching against his nipples, hot cock trapped against his flat stomach. He curls a hand at the base of Metro Man’s small, alien skull and yanks, and then still has to crane his own neck forward and stretch, but he gets their lips to meet. Then gently rolls his hips.
“Ooooh.” Someone says into the kiss, and really, it could be either of them.

Which is all the encouragement Megamind needs to just let go and take the man, like the spoils of his Long Awaited Victory.
Metro Man wraps his thick, powerful legs around Megamind’s narrow hips and levers himself back onto Megamind’s cock, rolling his hips in time to the sharp thrusts and digging his heels into the small of Megamind’s back. Between the two of them, it doesn’t take much to start rattling the bed on it’s frames.

Megamind slips a slender hand between them, resting his weight on the other. He tweaks Metro Man’s nipples and slides lower, petting the trembling muscles of his belly before taking a sharp turn and teasing along the crease of one straining thigh. And then repeats the entire excersize It takes all of two cycles of this treatment before Metro Man lets out a very un-heroic whining keen.

“Fucking tease,” he accuses on a broken gasp.

Megamind rears back to look him in the eye, all innocence. “Pardon me?”

Metro Man grumbles something that probably contains a few you fiends and ends with a mile long please. Megamind decides it is his New Favorite Sound.

Megamind kneels up and rolls his hips leisurely between Metro Man’s legs, chuckling.

“Please what?”

Metro Man’s eyes are blown wide and he’s panting in a surprisingly incredulous way.

“Please sir?” He hazards.

Megamind giggles delightedly. “No, Metro Man,” he leers, trailing slender fingers across his chest, “What are you asking for?”

“Gah huh?”

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“Buuuuuddy!” He whines, “Touch. Me.”

Megamind’s grin stretches wider and wider, out of control. It’s actually starting to hurt.

“I’m already touching you quite a lot. You’ll have to be more specific.”

That earns a remarkable string of expletives and random consonants. Metro Man’s fists are curled white knuckles tight on the rope over his head, massive arms trembling with the effort to stay where they are. If it isn’t the Most Extraordinarily Satisfying, Not To Mention Sexy, Thing Megamind has ever seen, it definitely makes the Top Five.

“I need.” Metro Man grits out, voice choking on restraint. “Your. Hand. On my cock. Please.”

By now, Megamind is practically vibrating with delight, and he is all too happy to comply. Vigourously.

Metro Man hyperventilates when he finally comes, back arching violently and spasming so hard Megamind is clinging to him for dear life when he follows him over the edge with giddy laugh.

They lie there for an indeterminate, but probably very long, stretch of time, just breathing. Megamind pulls out gently, hissing as his limp cock slides back into it’s sheath, and collapses with his face buried against Metro Man’s neck, taking in the staggeringly beautiful sound of his gasps and petting his shaking arms.

“You,” Wayne murmurs, “Are so evil.”

Megamind snickers, nuzzling closer to his throat. “You know it.”

When he thinks his legs will hold him, Megamind crawls up the bed to untie his partner. Wayne uncurls his fists from the metal with noticeable effort and Megamind gasps. The rope is frayed and stretched to it’s limit where Metro Man’s throes had pulled, but, wear and tear withstanding, they held.

“Holy shit.” He breathes.

“Wait, what!?” Wayne tenses up, and then frowns. “You can swear?”

“What? Of course I can swear! And also that is beside the point. Look!”

Megamind manages to pull the rope out of it’s knots and they tumble to the floor under their own weight. The two scramble to the end of the bed and peer over, Megamind pointing frantically.

“My rope totally works!” He exclaims triumphantly, “Behold the brilliance of me!”

Wayne flops back onto the bed, burying his face in his hands. “As if you need any encouragement.”

“Oh, come on,” Megamind whines, crawling back onto him, “You liked it.”

“Yes, I did,” Wayne mumbles from behind his wide palms, “I, uh. I really did.”

Megamind wriggles happily. “Now I get to tell Roxanne all about how much you liked it.”

Wayne moans miserably and rolls over, sending Megamind tumbling off the bed.

“Or!” He springs to his feet. “You could tell her yourself.”

“Oh, Little Buddy,” Wayne mumbles, “I really hate you.”

“Liar! That is a pookah lie! Come on, let’s go see Roxanne.”

“This is going to come back to bite me in the ass, isn’t it?”

“Well, if you’re into that kind of thi-”

“No! No, what’s wrong with you!?”

-

Megamind’s voice echoes through the lair. “Honeeey! I’m hoooome!”

She smiles softly and shakes her head. “How’d it go?” She called.

“Well,” he says, bounding into the room, “I brought company.”

Roxanne turns to see a very sheepish looking Wayne, in civilian clothes that weren’t his robe and pajamas, shuffling in after an especially pleased looking Megamind.

“I take it the experiment was a success, then?”

All their blushing is answer enough.

It's a SEX CHAIR! Scorpius is in a SEX CHAIR!

badplanmobile — Wed, 09 Feb 2011 04:39:07 GMT

I HAVE COMMITTED FANART! BEHOLD, BITCHES!
I am stupidly proud of this. There is foreshortening and a very different body type than I am accustomed to and I colored it! Seriously, average Caucasian skin tone is a bitch. Anyway, here's the art. I'm gonna go with Scorpius now.

It's nutricious AND alcoholic! My favorite!

badplanmobile — Mon, 24 Jan 2011 04:31:05 GMT

Sooo instead of writing any of those fics I'm really working on I swear, iambic5 and I collaborated on some Megamind filk. I'm not sure how that happened, but I am excited about it! Also, I am a huge dork. Aaaand, it's a duet.

M: Baby, you look great in bondage.
By which I mean how'd your eyes get so damn blue.
I mean, really, it's you what's got me hostage.
Your man may be super but he sure doesn't deserve you.

R: Baby, you've got to give up someday.
And maybe when the game is over, I'll throw in, too.
I mean, really, this only ever ends one way.
I don't need a hero, and I probably don't need you.

CHORUS, which is both:
Hey, but we do this all the time.
Same shit, different day.
Somehow we always come out fine.
We pull our hits, we meet halfway.

M: What if I've really won this round?
If I've got him beat, what do you think you'll do?
Now that our standing's changed, can we find common ground?
The plot may be over, but the characters are new.

R: What if I've got the wrong idea?
What good is normal if it isn't even true?
Now that you're on this side, do you think you can be a
Hero, or a good guy? What do you think you'll do?

CHORUS:
Hey, but we've not done this before.
Same day, different shit.
Somehow we still come back for more.
We call foul play, we take our hits.

Bridge!
R: You may be the genius here, but one of us has got to be smart.
M: You never liked me for my head, so maybe I could have a heart.
R: Maybe we could save the day, isn't that what heroes do?
M: It isn't in my repertoire. I'm just following your cue.
Both: We'll sort it out if we get through.

Chorus:
Hey, but we're still getting used to this.
Same story, different end.
It's not your average movie kiss.
Stolen glory, start again.

Stop doublepenetrating me, it tickles!

badplanmobile — Thu, 20 Jan 2011 00:35:00 GMT

So, memery! Because apparently that's something I do? Anyway, I actually have Time this semester, so I'm going to write things! Fan things and original things and probably lots of songs and stuff. That is the plan. To facilitate this, therefore, I shall attempt to participate in that song fic meme thing. Here be the rules:

1. Put your player on shuffle and take the first 25 songs it gives you.
2. Link to the youtube videos.
3. Let people choose a song and assign character(s) to write a drabble to.
4. Any titles not striked through are open for choice.
5. People may assign up to 5 fics.
6. Chosen Verses: Megamind, Reanimator, Doctor Who, TDK, Inglourious Basterds, PotC, Star Trek, maybe Sherlock? I dunno, what the fuck do I write?
7. After all songs are used, repeat step one.

1. You Were Right//Badly Drawn Boy
2. Eyes In The Back Of My Head//The Cliks
3. Tomorrow//SR-71
4. The Escapist//Coldplay
5. One Foot Wrong//P!nk
6. Memo To Human Resources//They Might Be Giants
7. Cold Milk Bottle//The Mountain Goats
8. I'll Follow The Sun//The Beatles
9. You Got Yr Cherry Bomb//Spoon
10. One Of Us Must Know (Sooner or Later)//Bob Dylan
11. Outside//Staind
12. Everybody Must Get Stoned//Bob Dylan
13. Van Helsing Boombox//Man Man
14. Dark Dark Eyes//Marian Call
15. I Can't Hear The Music//James Blunt
16. The Missing Frame//AFI
17. Raspberry Swirl//Tori Amos
18. Funny Olde World//Ego Likeness
19. Alpha Beta Parking Lot//Cake
20. Wake Up Little Sparrow//Lizz Wright
21. Working Undercover for the Man//They Might Be Giants
22. Trump Style//Kimya Dawson
23. Hurricane//Bob Dylan
24. Heaven Forbid//The Fray
25. On The Steps of the Palace from Into The Woods