671. There Are Different Types of Love....
(Taken shamelessly from mememaker's 126. I can love you in so many different ways. Because I looooove mememaker and this was one of my favorite memes.)
This meme deals with three types of love, angsty, sweet, and twisted! Please note that there are triggers abound!
- Post your characters and include preferences (if any!)
- Others reply.
- Go to RNG and enter numbers 1-3 ( Read more... )
This meme deals with three types of love, angsty, sweet, and twisted! Please note that there are triggers abound!
- Post your characters and include preferences (if any!)
- Others reply.
- Go to RNG and enter numbers 1-3 ( Read more... )
There's a soft breath of appreciation as Cas lifts his arms, lets Sterling pull the shirt off over his head. He likes the way that Cas murmurs against his ear, wordless. Sterling doesn't need words, isn't sure there are any words to say, at least for now. Maybe soon there can be words about exactly what sexual position they're going for and oh yes, more, but for the moment, those are the only sort of words he really wants. At least enough to melt this away, to distract him from thoughts and wants and every craving except for the one straddling his lap. His fingers of one hand going to Cas' pants, unfastening and tugging off his hips as best he can with their bodies wedged tight. But he doesn't want to give up proximity any more than he wants to stop. He does pause briefly, sliding his suit coat to the ground in atypical carelessness.
His hands palming over Cas' chest, warm touches, needy in a way that Sterling would never betray to anyone else. He needs Cas. He'd known it since before he asked that awkward question, but in the end it's as much a certainty that he'd need somewhere to turn to as much as wanting to be there for Cas, wanting whatever nameless thing it was over bottles and flirtation to be different. He nibbles against the side of his neck, sucks marks into skin, because he likes that, likes leaving marks. He likes the way pink and red color pale skin and eventually fade into purple. Cas hasn't asked him to stop yet, so he doesn't.
Sterling is heedless of all those broken, careful lines; his fingers curling around Cas' length with a low hum of breath. He needs to feel this, something to push away everything else, blinding and intense and pleasure. In the realm of being drunk enough for pathetic excuses, he likes to think that whatever this is is different enough he won't get lost in the wash of bodies and another convenient bed warmer.]
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He's further distracted by the scrape of teeth along the side of his neck, lips parted in a sigh as he feels the marks being sucked into his skin, that sensation that's just the right amount of pain to make him shiver; he should really be the one doing the distracting right now, but if this is how Sterling wants to be distracted, he'll find no complaints whatsoever from Cas. What he will find is hands moving over his body, tugging him closer, settling at the sides of his neck and gripping at the collar of his shirt.
Cas has had just enough to drink that he's almost moving on autopilot, body shifting into what feels good unconsciously; right now what feels good is Sterling, his mouth and hands and the feel of his body... He tips his head down as fingers curl around his length, nuzzling against Sterling's cheek and breathing out a hot sigh against the side of his neck. He shifts closer, pressing against the other man's lap and wondering why on earth they haven't done this before. His hands slip down to work at the buttons of that expensive dress shirt before whatever the reason had been comes to him.]
You're overdressed.
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He shivers when fingers settle against the sides of his neck, grip at that neatly buttoned collar and that expensive tie. It catches his breath in his throat, makes his eyes flutter through dark lashes as he pulls back from skin. He's looking into blue eyes as fingers lightly stroke against that erection, the stubble of Cas' jaw rough against Sterling's face, hot breath tickling against his neck. He gasps as Cas presses into his lap, as those hands work free the buttons of his shirt. At that complaint, Sterling smiles lightly, a lift of an eyebrow.]
Then fix it.
[Those lines so neatly drawn before so clearly disregarded, Sterling encouraging exactly what he'd always struggled against. He can't help it. He needs this, needs Cas, needs touch and skin and everything he's been carefully denying himself since he got here. Control finally coming loose, shredding around the edges because it hurts too much not to.]
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But, Sterling had the whole mess with convincing Dean not to kill his daughter to deal with. And, because neither of them could just come out and say something, Sterling picked a fight, they argued, and admittance was instead yelled as the bombshell answer to since when do you care about people, anyway. The dust settled, the air cleared, and Dean looked dark-faced as he said they needed a better plan.
And Sterling very cautiously gave him one. As suicidal as Cas might have chalked it up as, it was at least within Dean's range of acceptably-suicidal. Not to mention that conning people had been a good part of the Hunter job description, so he was perhaps more open to the possibility. Sterling, Cas, Dean and Risa were the ones chalked up to go. Cas and Sterling going as members of Interpol, which somehow seemed to have left Sterling with the task of getting their love guru out of his hemp and linen and into a suit.
He'd managed to pull together pieces that he thought would fit the man -- he was going out on a limb and assuming Cas didn't just have something tucked away somewhere. Black suit, white shirt, a blue on blue patterned tie Sterling had stolen from his own collection, and a pair of not-too-shabby black shoes in Cas' size he'd found in the back of a storage closet. He cautiously slipped through the bead curtain, a bit more of a spring to his step despite the dangerous situation they were about to go waltzing into. Maybe because of.]
Cas. How do you feel about suits?
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Not, however, nice enough to soften the blow of being expected to wear another suit.
He scowls at the garments presented to him, more than a little bit familiar and enough to dredge up memories best left forgotten, rotting in his cabin with that overcoat and always-backwards tie.]
I feel like I'd rather go naked.
[He takes the clothes anyway, though, because he understands why they're necessary; this cockamamie plan is really all they have, just a hair less suicidal than marching in with guns blazing, and so as much as the prospect of having to put those clothes on again really makes him want to curl up and die somewhere, he'll do it.
Sterling's daughter's life depends on it, and that's important enough that he's willing to suck it up.]
What's the plan, again?
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[He's smirking, but there is a faint note of sympathy as he hands over the clothes. Sterling doesn't bother to point out that he happens to think that Cas would look absolutely edible in a suit, even if it wasn't as well-tailored as the ones that he himself wears. He's trying to stay focused, but that image is particularly tempting. It's not that he's ever unaware of the peril that Olivia's in, he's simply aware that things are already moving along as best as they can. A few fantasies about Cas dressed up nice isn't going to change anything except maybe his mood. Sterling has been around camp for quite a while now, but not quite long enough to know of the other man's hangups with suits and trenchcoats; he mostly just chalks it up to the whole love guru thing.]
The short version is that we're waltzing into an army base, more or less lying to their face, and convincing them to move the line they're holding so we can save a camp of barely-surviving.
[And my daughter. But Sterling doesn't reiterate that part, he knows they're both aware of that underlying point. That thing that changes everything, makes Sterling actually give a damn outside of the tactical aspect of survival numbers. Depending on how many they come back with, it will fill in some of the people they've lost in the recent weeks. It's not just that certainty that verges on Pride that keeps him from really considering failure this time, it's equally as much that the price of failure is too high to contemplate.]
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I guess I'd rather wear a suit than a hail of gunfire.
[It's a close thing, though.
He frowns at the suit again before acknowledging defeat, stripping down to his boxers and tugging on the suit pants with a sour expression on his face. He buttoning them when he stops, frown deepening, and peers at Sterling skeptically.]
I hope there's more to this plan than just me in a suit.
[As dashing as he will certainly be, he doubts how effective that's going to be.]
Dean and Risa, what're they gonna be doing?
[Frankly, he can't believe that Dean had agreed to this, much less agreed to be a part of it. Risa, well... He hadn't really pegged her as the maternal type so much as the kick-your-balls-into-your-tonsils type... He has to wonder what's in it for her. Survivors are a selfish bunch, and rightfully so... Credit where it's due: Sterling must be good at what he does if he'd been able to convince two of the hardest people in the camp to help him.]
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Yes, it does have more components than dressing you up as very dashing eye candy, I promise.
[Sterling picked up the white dress shirt and held it out expectantly, though his lips were still curled in clear enjoyment of the situation. He didn't think Cas would have believed any attempts at seeming as if he didn't like this anyway.]
Dean and Risa are our military escorts. We requisitioned a couple uniforms. Turns out the scrawny red-haired hunter is good with these out-dated electronics we're left with these days. Managed to patch our radio onto the military's frequency so we could clear our little visit.
[There was a curve to his lips that hinted that he'd been well-aware of that particular talent. Sterling didn't bother getting to know people for the most part, but he did keep track of usable skills and personality traits he bcould use to manipulate them. It meant that when trying to pull off something like this, he knew who to use.]
Usually, for something like this, we'd have mics or the like, but, lacking that, we're mostly working this in pairs; you're with me, and Risa's working with Dean. I really would have preferred one of the other girls, but, Risa's the most likely to be able to function with a gun to her head.
Dean's the one on their side, Risa's the pretty girl, and we play the outsiders; apply pressure without getting ourselves shot.
[Sterling tried to explain the idea behind the con in a way that someone unfamiliar would understand.]
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[He likes the way Sterling can't seem to keep away, not least because it allows him to stall for just a few seconds more... He really isn't happy about the suit. Too many memories attached that he'd rather not deal with... Cas grabs the shirt that's offered to him and slips into it as quickly as possible; it's like ripping off a bandage- best to just get it over with
It's looking like he isn't getting a choice, though, and so he's just going to have to suck it up. It'll be worth it if they get Sterling's daughter back, and if they don't, well, he won't be alive to complain about it.
He listens, nodding in appropriate places as Sterling gives him a general overview of the plan. It seems... Crazy, completely crazy, if he's honest, but the confidence in Sterling's voice is at least somewhat reassuring.]
When you say 'apply pressure'... We're going to waltz in there and threaten the military?
[Very, very crazy. Exceptionally crazy. Waltzing in there period? Totally insane. But waltzing in there and applying pressure to get them to pick up and go somewhere else? There aren't words.
And he'll do it, of course he will, suicidal though it may be. He wonders not for the first time how he always manages to involve himself with people who seem intent on getting him killed...]
What's our cover story?
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No, love, we're not going to threaten the military. I am.
[At that declaration, Sterling looked a little bit chilly, deadly and a little bit less nice than the one that at least didn't screw over the other survivors. He shook his head, dragging fingers along Cas' jaw, through the stubble. He rather liked the scruffy look; he wasn't actually looking forward to Cas shaving it, even if they did need to play into images, preconceptions, and that meant neatly shaved. But, it wasn't like it wouldn't grow back. Sterling was going to carry on acting as if this was iron-clad and they couldn't fail.]
As much as I like you, darling, I just don't think you're quite enough of an utter bastard to pull it off.
[It was a monicker that Sterling had always carried with a certain amount of pride, after all. Because they were working with amateurs, and because truth made the lies easier to swallow. It was also why Sterling was going to be the lynch pin of this whole thing; the more that he was a right bastard the less anyone would wonder about his assistant or their escort. And Sterling was enough of a jerk, and his invitation to join Interpol public and widely televised to where there were few people that disk know him well enough to hate him. Which worked in their favor.]
We're keeping it simple. A delegation from Interpol, military escort to show departmental co-operation and that rubbish under the revised code for crimes against humanity. You're playing my assistant, and I get to be myself. Pick a name -- just not based on rock stars or science fiction characters.
[It was more from dealing with Hardison; he'd had a system flag on names like Tom Baker. And the last thing they needed was some former-geek or music nut raising eyebrows.]
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He raises his eyebrows at Sterling's declaration, though he has to admit that the change in tone, the change in his entire demeanor, stirs a creeping kind of lust inside of him-- he likes dangerous people, which is probably how he always winds up in these messes he finds himself in.]
So I am just there to look pretty.
[...Fuck. That probably means he's going to have to shave... Never a pleasant experience, but he supposes that's the least of his worries.
And Sterling's right, he isn't enough of a bastard to pull it off. The type of conning he's familiar with is different, comes from somewhere different than a desire to actually pull one over on people; his function at the camp is to distribute rose-coloured glasses to anyone that wants them, nothing more. People come to him because they want to be fooled, there's nothing forcing them to do it, and that's a huge part of why he's good at what he does- they've already done half of his work for him.]
A name? Hmm...
[His brow furrows as he tries to come up with something suitable. His default, of course, would be to use Jimmy's, but he thinks that might be a bit too ridiculous. Jim 'n Jim from Interpol, at your service... No, that won't work.... He's silent for a few more seconds before it comes to him:]
Sam. Samuel Novak.
[It just... Fits. It flows well. He just hopes it doesn't flow Dean's fist into his face. He thinks Sam would have approved, given the nature of the mission.
And it sounds classy. That's important, right?]
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You're pretty regardless, darling. But, yes. And an entourage always helps sell the story.
[Sterling was a different breed of person. Honestly, he couldn't have done what Cas does. He could lie and scam people blind (all carefully within the law, of course), but he couldn't give people something to believe in. He manipulated people through their desires, but it was rare that he actually gave it to them. He had no illusions of being Robin Hood, of doing the right thing; he relished at being the bad guy. The Apocalypse had milded Sterling out a little -- that realization that survival meant keeping other people alive, too.]
Sam Novak. I like it. Classy.
[He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss against Cas' lips; he couldn't help himself.]
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His lips curl into a grin as Sterling's fingers trail down his chest, just barely moving into his open fly before pulling away and reaching for that infernal suit jacket. He rather obediently moves his arms into position to facilitate the process, honestly wanting nothing more than to get this whole thing over with.]
I guess it's more authentic, who would travel alone now?
[Crazy people, probably. Not that they don't fit horribly into that category themselves. He really should stop reminding himself of how insane this is, because the more he lets himself think about it, the more ways he can think of for him to fuck it up and get them all killed. He truly isn't cut out for this sort of thing; it's not exactly cowardice, more the fact that he knows his own strengths and they certainly don't lie in things like this.
Sterling leans in, presses a kiss to his lips, and Cas picks his hands up to rest them at the other man's hips, pulling him just a bit closer and murmuring into the kiss. It's quick, but when they pull apart a bit he grins against Sterling's lips.]
I'm a classy guy.
[The classiest, really. He does up his pants, and alright, he supposes they're not so bad. Not as uncomfortable as he remembers them being, perhaps because they're maybe a size or two bigger and sit lower on his hips.]
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Sterling pulled back a few steps, reluctance easily discernible in his body language. It was as much to remove himself from the immediate temptation, as it was to survey his handiwork. And fuck but Cas looked lovely. As much as his hippy shirts suited him, the lines of the dark fabric, the crisp white dress shirt and that blue tie at his throat made Sterling want to forget they were leaving soon. He was seriously pondering the idea of trying to get him back in those clothes later, when they weren't about to run off on a do-or-die errand and would have the time to properly enjoy the occasion.]
I was right, that tie really brings out your eyes.
[Sterling smiled, his dark eyes still bright with want, though he was doing his best to ignore it. It wasn't working in the at least, but he was managing to not do anything about it. He leaned in again, smoothed out the lapels of the coat and then nodded to himself. As tempting as it was to stay, maybe just jerk him off or some other small sexual dalliance he could justify the time for, he should really go check in on Dean and Risa, check with That Hunter and make sure there hadn't been any unusual radio chatter on the military's frequency.]
You have to shave. And then put the shoes on; we should be heading out soon.
[He kissed him again, this time it was slower, hotter, his hands lingering at his hips and transmitting all that pent up desire that really wanted to be taking that nice suit off. His hands caressing through fabric that had likely been expensive back when things like that still mattered.]
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His lips quirk downward in what may be a small pout as Sterling steps back and takes his roaming hands with him, though it's quickly replaced with a roll of eyes that apparently match the tie. He can think of a number of uses for a tie, none of which involve actually wearing them, regardless of what they do for his eyes... But then Sterling's hands are back, smoothing over his lapels and he supposes it's not really so bad.
...Not until he mentions the need for a shave. Dammit, he'd known it was coming, but that doesn't do much to soften the blow. He hates shaving, almost as much as he hates the suit. It doesn't suit him anymore, Jimmy Novak's five 'o clock shadow, because he isn't Jimmy Novak. Fuck, he's not looking forward to this.]
Yeah, yeah, I'll get right on that.
[And he will. Just as soon as Sterling's moved away, taken his mouth and hands and tongue to somewhere less distracting and more conducive to readying himself for this suicide mission. He supposes it'd make sense, leaving this body in the same condition he found it in, give or take a few scars here and there...
His hands clutch at the sides of Sterling's suit briefly before he pulls away, moving to locate that godforsaken razor.]
Shouldn't take too long. Provided I don't nick myself and bleed out, of course.
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[There's an unsaid implication that it would be slow and very painful. Of course, Sterling isn't entirely certain how he'd actually manage the resurrection bit, but it's mostly a joke. Mostly. Irony a cool wrapping over the fact that losing Cas isn't something he plans on having to deal with for a while yet. He takes one last look at Cas, a smirk curving his lips, before Sterling slips off to check on other things. Everything is in order, impossibly. He does note that Dean looks surprisingly good in military uniform. He grabs his trenchcoat, given that the weather's starting to turn colder, and the black coat over his suit earns him an undefined look from Dean that Sterling doesn't bother thinking about too much.
As it turns out, the name Sam Novak doesn't flow Dean's fist into Cas' face, though there is a bad-tempered quip about his missing trenchcoat. The four of them load up into the jeep, Chuck offers them an expectedly pessimistic send-off, and they head off for the military base. Sterling vaguely gets the feeling that there's something about Cas and suits and trenchcoats that he isn't aware of. He makes a mental note to ask him the next night that they're both too drunk for tact to be worried about. Which will probably either be very soon or not at all, he figures grimly.
As it turns out, the military doesn't shoot them on sight, so it seems the first part of their plan worked, at the least. In Sterling's opinion, the most important part: you can't con people that aren't interested in letting you get close enough to hear what you have to say. When Sterling hopped off the jeep, his demeanor was entirely different. His smile was sharp and humorless, his eyes intense and judgement, meeting the gaze of the man that came down to greet them as if he was somehow left wanting. He held himself in a way that said he was aware the military had more guns and it wasn't in his job description to care.]
James Sterling, Interpol.
[His voice was smug, but with an edge of something dangerous. He flashed his badge in a way that was languid, a lift of his eyebrow as if he'd been expecting something more. The man in uniform bristled, clearly disliked Sterling from the moment he'd said his name, but, that was part of the plan. Which was a good thing, considering that he tended to rub people the wrong way so well it was pretty much a skill.]
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