[fic] coronation
coronation
meg/castiel, nc-17, ~2000 words; contains mentions of blood and violence
Notes: An anon on Tumblr asked me for some Cas/Meg victory!sex, which is more or less what this is. If you want to place it, it's intended to be set sometime in the not-too-distant future, but it's pretty much just porn. Also available on AO3 here.
She can taste the blood that still clings to his skin, ferrous and sharp when she scrapes her teeth across the ridge of his jaw, his throat, his collarbone. This shitfuck motel is a long way from Crowley’s HQ, but she can still feel it in her bones: the adrenaline, the creeping fear, the sick, delicious thrill when that slimy bastard hit the ground and didn’t get back up again.
I win, motherfucker.
Castiel cages her against the wall, trapping the small body of her host - empty now, save for the demon rattling in its veins - between the solid mortar at her back and the solid six feet of angel plastered to her front. She can still see his wings unfurling when she closes her eyes, the image burned into her retinas: immense shadows stretching out across the grimy backdrop of Crowley’s torture chamber, magnificent and wrathful. Part of her recoils, even as she presses closer, because they weren’t built for this, because their fathers decided at the beginning of the story that they were meant to destroy each other - and yet here they are, rutting like animals, riding the high of shared victory against their common nemesis.
She’s not scared of him; maybe she should be, but tonight she thinks she could take him. Tonight, she’s fucking invincible.
Besides, it’s not like it’s her first time at this rodeo: she lost count of how often the angel would come to her when he was embroiled in his petty war, filled up with misery and self-loathing and looking for a warm body to share it with. She’d indulged him; mostly because life on the run was boring and Castiel self-destructed oh so prettily, but also because she knows how it is to be rudderless, alone in the world and fighting a losing battle against your own kind. She’s a soldier too, in her way.
She’d find it disturbing, if she ever stopped to think about it, that this - his body against hers, the feel of him under her hands - has become something familiar, one of the few constants left in her aeons-long existence.
His shirt is drenched scarlet, and the cotton feels damp and heavy, draping over her wrists when she shoves her hands underneath to rake her nails down the soft, warm flesh of his sides. He hisses into her mouth, bites down hard on her lip - hard enough to draw blood, and she wonders absently what demon blood will do an angel, if it’ll corrupt him the way Ruby’s blood poisoned Sam. She can feel his cock pressing hard and insistent against her belly, and she grinds against the thigh that’s pushed between her legs, seeking relief from the ache that’s already starting to build in the pit of her stomach.
They don’t undress so much as rip the clothes from each other’s bodies, but Meg’s damned if she’s going to care about that right now. She can always treat herself to a new wardrobe. And then it’s all just heat and skin, nothing in between them as she pushes Castiel into the mattress and pins his arms above his head. The illusion of power only adds to the weird thrill she’s tripping on right now, even though she knows he could break her hold without even touching her if he really wanted. He doesn’t bother though; just lies back and watches her with an affected look of bored amusement, like he’s got better things to be doing but he’s vaguely interested despite himself to see what happens next.
Any other time it would irritate her, but she’s giddy enough right now that everything is fucking gold, and she relinquishes her hold only for the sake of moving up the long line of his body so she can position herself with knees on either side of his head, straddling his face and hoping it’s pointed enough for him to catch a fucking clue.
“Fuck,” she gasps in spite of herself, the first slow drag of his tongue against her swollen cunt rocking her spine like electricity. Cas has always been a fast learner, and he’s gotten damn good at this under her careful tutelage; he’s as ruthless in his approach to sex as he is in everything else he does, single-mindedly forging ahead to meet his goal. It’s something Meg can appreciate.
He seals his lips around her clit and sucks, and Meg bucks into it, clenching her hands hard enough that her fingernails punch holes through the pillowcase. She rocks down hard, fucking his face, and Castiel only responds with ever more enthusiasm, clamping his hands around her thighs because angels don’t need to breathe. He worships her with that clever mouth until she’s hovering right on the edge - and then he lifts her away as easily as if she weighed nothing, sitting upright against the headboard and pulling her down into his lap, and it’s like he’s determined to ruin her good mood.
She can’t stay mad at him for too long though, because his face is all slick and wet and shiny and it’s kind of the hottest fucking thing she’s ever seen, and she just has to lean forward and run her tongue over his lips. The taste of her lingers there, sharp and real, and she licks deep into his mouth to see just how far back it goes, smirking into the kiss when he groans and tangles his fingers in her hair, his hips jerking up, desperate for friction.
Meg pulls back, rises up and sinks onto his cock in one smooth motion, the ache of being filled almost as sweet as when she’d sunk her knife into Crowley’s gut, watched the blood spill from his host’s lips as the former King was snuffed out in a flare of gold. They both moan out loud when Castiel slides all the way home, and his hands encircle her waist to hold her still as he rolls his hips once, painfully slow, smirking all over his fucking face as she arches and writhes against him, fingernails clawing at his back. And yeah, now she’s irritated.
“Harder, fuck. I’m not made of china.”
“You might as well be,” Castiel muses absently, rolls a thumb over her nipple just to watch her squirm. “I could snap you like a toothpick.”
She scowls, smacks his hand away. “You should watch your mouth. I am the Queen of Hell, you know.”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” he drawls, and his voice is dripping with sarcasm, but she couldn’t care less because it’s fucking true, she won. He’s picking up the pace now anyway, lifting her up and slamming her back down, fucking her on his cock. And that’s… actually kind of hot, but Meg’s not about to relinquish control completely so she shoves back as good as she gets, one hand braced against the mattress behind her while the other digs through his hair, meeting his thrusts until the room is filled with obscene sound of flesh slapping against flesh and the rapid panting for breath that neither of them needs, the creaking of bedsprings and the percussion of the headboard banging against the wall.
Meg imagines that the entire motel is listening in and it gives her a perverse pleasure, because the reigning queen of the underworld is fucking a fallen angel in this one-star dive and she wants the whole goddamn world to know about it. It’s dark enough outside that she can see her reflection in the window: her body rising and falling in time with their rhythm, her hair in chaotic disarray, her eyes gleaming solid black. She looks like a reigning champion, a conqueror, the undefeated gladiator returning home from battle. She is all of these things.
She can feel herself winding up to a crescendo, that familiar tight shiver of anticipation starting to spread throughout the lower half of her body, and she brings a hand between them to finish herself off, skirting her fingers briefly around the place where Castiel’s cock disappears inside her before drawing them up to rub at her clit. Her orgasm punches her square in the gut, stomach clenching, dampness slicking her thighs, and she sinks her teeth into the curve of Castiel’s shoulder as she rides out the waves. He growls out something unintelligible in response, tangling a hand in her hair and pulling, yanking her back at an almost forty-five degree angle to suck bruises into her throat, circle his tongue over a nipple. He fucks into her maybe a dozen more times before he’s coming with a low groan, his body seizing up and then going pliant as he spills hot inside her.
Meg’s not quite sure how it happens, but somehow once they’ve disentangled themselves she winds up lying on her back with Castiel’s forehead pressed against her stomach, his fingers tracing abstract patterns over the her ribs. They don’t normally do this - this post-coital whatever - but Meg’s feeling indulgent and too fucked-out to move so she tolerates it, fixes her eyes on a suspicious-looking stain on the ceiling and ignores the feel of Castiel’s warm breath against her skin.
“Not bad, Clarence,” she teases once she’s got her breath back. “A plus for effort, but I’m afraid it’s a B minus for execution.”
He bites the ridge of her hip by way of a reply, and she squirms at the feeling of his teeth grazing her oversensitive flesh, propping herself up on her elbows to look down at him. She watches as he laces his fingers together over her belly, rests his chin on his interlocked hands and studies her with an expression she can’t quite work out.
“What are you going to do now?” he asks. His tone is perfectly neutral, but Meg picks up on the note of suspicion underneath, and she’s suddenly all too aware of the need to tread with caution. Whatever this thing is between them, she’s smart enough to know that Castiel’s loyalty lies with the Winchesters first and foremost, and he certainly won’t have any qualms about killing her if he suspects she’s up to anything apocalyptic.
Then again, Castiel understands better than anyone the need for political stability; Hell needs a leader, or it’s in danger of sliding into the same state of anarchy currently rampaging through Heaven. Besides which, Meg has no immediate plans to spring Lucifer from the cage. It would practically be an impossibility anyway, now that Lilith’s dead - but even beyond that, she’s done with being the underdog, the second in command. She took the throne for herself, and she intends to have her turn at sitting on it. And in a century or two, when the Winchesters have long been rotting in their graves, maybe she’ll even persuade Castiel to join her. He’s condemned for his sins anyway, so he might as well enjoy eternal damnation from the best seats in the house.
Instead of answering, she grins and stretches luxuriously, watches the way Castiel’s eyes go dark as he tracks the lazy sprawl of her body, and wonders absently if they could get it up for round two.
Probably, they could.
Castiel moves up, rising above her and looking every inch like the angel he is, despite his general state of debauchery. Meg hooks an arm around his neck and drags him back down to her level, kissing him fierce and wet and filthy. A single thread of saliva stretches between their lips when they separate, a glistening point of connection that breaks when Meg leans up further to put her mouth to Castiel’s ear.
“Don’t worry your pretty head about it,” she murmurs, tugging his earlobe between her teeth. “I’ve got plans.”
meg/castiel, nc-17, ~2000 words; contains mentions of blood and violence
Notes: An anon on Tumblr asked me for some Cas/Meg victory!sex, which is more or less what this is. If you want to place it, it's intended to be set sometime in the not-too-distant future, but it's pretty much just porn. Also available on AO3 here.
She can taste the blood that still clings to his skin, ferrous and sharp when she scrapes her teeth across the ridge of his jaw, his throat, his collarbone. This shitfuck motel is a long way from Crowley’s HQ, but she can still feel it in her bones: the adrenaline, the creeping fear, the sick, delicious thrill when that slimy bastard hit the ground and didn’t get back up again.
I win, motherfucker.
Castiel cages her against the wall, trapping the small body of her host - empty now, save for the demon rattling in its veins - between the solid mortar at her back and the solid six feet of angel plastered to her front. She can still see his wings unfurling when she closes her eyes, the image burned into her retinas: immense shadows stretching out across the grimy backdrop of Crowley’s torture chamber, magnificent and wrathful. Part of her recoils, even as she presses closer, because they weren’t built for this, because their fathers decided at the beginning of the story that they were meant to destroy each other - and yet here they are, rutting like animals, riding the high of shared victory against their common nemesis.
She’s not scared of him; maybe she should be, but tonight she thinks she could take him. Tonight, she’s fucking invincible.
Besides, it’s not like it’s her first time at this rodeo: she lost count of how often the angel would come to her when he was embroiled in his petty war, filled up with misery and self-loathing and looking for a warm body to share it with. She’d indulged him; mostly because life on the run was boring and Castiel self-destructed oh so prettily, but also because she knows how it is to be rudderless, alone in the world and fighting a losing battle against your own kind. She’s a soldier too, in her way.
She’d find it disturbing, if she ever stopped to think about it, that this - his body against hers, the feel of him under her hands - has become something familiar, one of the few constants left in her aeons-long existence.
His shirt is drenched scarlet, and the cotton feels damp and heavy, draping over her wrists when she shoves her hands underneath to rake her nails down the soft, warm flesh of his sides. He hisses into her mouth, bites down hard on her lip - hard enough to draw blood, and she wonders absently what demon blood will do an angel, if it’ll corrupt him the way Ruby’s blood poisoned Sam. She can feel his cock pressing hard and insistent against her belly, and she grinds against the thigh that’s pushed between her legs, seeking relief from the ache that’s already starting to build in the pit of her stomach.
They don’t undress so much as rip the clothes from each other’s bodies, but Meg’s damned if she’s going to care about that right now. She can always treat herself to a new wardrobe. And then it’s all just heat and skin, nothing in between them as she pushes Castiel into the mattress and pins his arms above his head. The illusion of power only adds to the weird thrill she’s tripping on right now, even though she knows he could break her hold without even touching her if he really wanted. He doesn’t bother though; just lies back and watches her with an affected look of bored amusement, like he’s got better things to be doing but he’s vaguely interested despite himself to see what happens next.
Any other time it would irritate her, but she’s giddy enough right now that everything is fucking gold, and she relinquishes her hold only for the sake of moving up the long line of his body so she can position herself with knees on either side of his head, straddling his face and hoping it’s pointed enough for him to catch a fucking clue.
“Fuck,” she gasps in spite of herself, the first slow drag of his tongue against her swollen cunt rocking her spine like electricity. Cas has always been a fast learner, and he’s gotten damn good at this under her careful tutelage; he’s as ruthless in his approach to sex as he is in everything else he does, single-mindedly forging ahead to meet his goal. It’s something Meg can appreciate.
He seals his lips around her clit and sucks, and Meg bucks into it, clenching her hands hard enough that her fingernails punch holes through the pillowcase. She rocks down hard, fucking his face, and Castiel only responds with ever more enthusiasm, clamping his hands around her thighs because angels don’t need to breathe. He worships her with that clever mouth until she’s hovering right on the edge - and then he lifts her away as easily as if she weighed nothing, sitting upright against the headboard and pulling her down into his lap, and it’s like he’s determined to ruin her good mood.
She can’t stay mad at him for too long though, because his face is all slick and wet and shiny and it’s kind of the hottest fucking thing she’s ever seen, and she just has to lean forward and run her tongue over his lips. The taste of her lingers there, sharp and real, and she licks deep into his mouth to see just how far back it goes, smirking into the kiss when he groans and tangles his fingers in her hair, his hips jerking up, desperate for friction.
Meg pulls back, rises up and sinks onto his cock in one smooth motion, the ache of being filled almost as sweet as when she’d sunk her knife into Crowley’s gut, watched the blood spill from his host’s lips as the former King was snuffed out in a flare of gold. They both moan out loud when Castiel slides all the way home, and his hands encircle her waist to hold her still as he rolls his hips once, painfully slow, smirking all over his fucking face as she arches and writhes against him, fingernails clawing at his back. And yeah, now she’s irritated.
“Harder, fuck. I’m not made of china.”
“You might as well be,” Castiel muses absently, rolls a thumb over her nipple just to watch her squirm. “I could snap you like a toothpick.”
She scowls, smacks his hand away. “You should watch your mouth. I am the Queen of Hell, you know.”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” he drawls, and his voice is dripping with sarcasm, but she couldn’t care less because it’s fucking true, she won. He’s picking up the pace now anyway, lifting her up and slamming her back down, fucking her on his cock. And that’s… actually kind of hot, but Meg’s not about to relinquish control completely so she shoves back as good as she gets, one hand braced against the mattress behind her while the other digs through his hair, meeting his thrusts until the room is filled with obscene sound of flesh slapping against flesh and the rapid panting for breath that neither of them needs, the creaking of bedsprings and the percussion of the headboard banging against the wall.
Meg imagines that the entire motel is listening in and it gives her a perverse pleasure, because the reigning queen of the underworld is fucking a fallen angel in this one-star dive and she wants the whole goddamn world to know about it. It’s dark enough outside that she can see her reflection in the window: her body rising and falling in time with their rhythm, her hair in chaotic disarray, her eyes gleaming solid black. She looks like a reigning champion, a conqueror, the undefeated gladiator returning home from battle. She is all of these things.
She can feel herself winding up to a crescendo, that familiar tight shiver of anticipation starting to spread throughout the lower half of her body, and she brings a hand between them to finish herself off, skirting her fingers briefly around the place where Castiel’s cock disappears inside her before drawing them up to rub at her clit. Her orgasm punches her square in the gut, stomach clenching, dampness slicking her thighs, and she sinks her teeth into the curve of Castiel’s shoulder as she rides out the waves. He growls out something unintelligible in response, tangling a hand in her hair and pulling, yanking her back at an almost forty-five degree angle to suck bruises into her throat, circle his tongue over a nipple. He fucks into her maybe a dozen more times before he’s coming with a low groan, his body seizing up and then going pliant as he spills hot inside her.
Meg’s not quite sure how it happens, but somehow once they’ve disentangled themselves she winds up lying on her back with Castiel’s forehead pressed against her stomach, his fingers tracing abstract patterns over the her ribs. They don’t normally do this - this post-coital whatever - but Meg’s feeling indulgent and too fucked-out to move so she tolerates it, fixes her eyes on a suspicious-looking stain on the ceiling and ignores the feel of Castiel’s warm breath against her skin.
“Not bad, Clarence,” she teases once she’s got her breath back. “A plus for effort, but I’m afraid it’s a B minus for execution.”
He bites the ridge of her hip by way of a reply, and she squirms at the feeling of his teeth grazing her oversensitive flesh, propping herself up on her elbows to look down at him. She watches as he laces his fingers together over her belly, rests his chin on his interlocked hands and studies her with an expression she can’t quite work out.
“What are you going to do now?” he asks. His tone is perfectly neutral, but Meg picks up on the note of suspicion underneath, and she’s suddenly all too aware of the need to tread with caution. Whatever this thing is between them, she’s smart enough to know that Castiel’s loyalty lies with the Winchesters first and foremost, and he certainly won’t have any qualms about killing her if he suspects she’s up to anything apocalyptic.
Then again, Castiel understands better than anyone the need for political stability; Hell needs a leader, or it’s in danger of sliding into the same state of anarchy currently rampaging through Heaven. Besides which, Meg has no immediate plans to spring Lucifer from the cage. It would practically be an impossibility anyway, now that Lilith’s dead - but even beyond that, she’s done with being the underdog, the second in command. She took the throne for herself, and she intends to have her turn at sitting on it. And in a century or two, when the Winchesters have long been rotting in their graves, maybe she’ll even persuade Castiel to join her. He’s condemned for his sins anyway, so he might as well enjoy eternal damnation from the best seats in the house.
Instead of answering, she grins and stretches luxuriously, watches the way Castiel’s eyes go dark as he tracks the lazy sprawl of her body, and wonders absently if they could get it up for round two.
Probably, they could.
Castiel moves up, rising above her and looking every inch like the angel he is, despite his general state of debauchery. Meg hooks an arm around his neck and drags him back down to her level, kissing him fierce and wet and filthy. A single thread of saliva stretches between their lips when they separate, a glistening point of connection that breaks when Meg leans up further to put her mouth to Castiel’s ear.
“Don’t worry your pretty head about it,” she murmurs, tugging his earlobe between her teeth. “I’ve got plans.”