Fic: "Inumbrare" [SPN: Meg/Cas, NC-17]
Title: Inumbrare
Author: Shane
Pairing/Fandom: Meg/Castiel, Supernatural
Rating: NC-17 [not that graphic, but I thought I'd be on the safe side for thematic stuff]
Spoilers: 7x17, "The Born-Again Identity"
Summary: (highlight for spoilers) Meg pervs on Castiel in the mental hospital.
Notes/Warnings: Het, may be construed as dubious consent. This fic was hastily scrawled, inspired by a prompt on the spn-kinkmeme two rounds ago, I think. The prompt was something to do with Meg and Castiel and Cas' hands. Anyway. This is what came out. Unbeta'ed.
She’s somewhere between offended and relieved when the angel doesn’t even react to what she’s doing. He just lays there, head turned to the side, eyes staring blankly out the window, not that there’s much to see. It’s midnight. Meg grins. The witching hour. Her fingers slide his hospital scrubs even further down, baring slender hipbones and a tantalizing trail of dark hair.
His hands are limp at his sides, and Meg watches them for signs of life. Often, they’re the first thing that will show it -- some weird thing about how angels interact with their human vessels. She hasn’t quite figured it out - after all, she doesn’t even have the slightest idea what good ol’ Clarence actually looks like - but she does know that when his slim, tapered fingers twitch, her mouth goes a little dry.
Not so other parts of her.
She’s breathing a little hard as she leans forward and takes in his scent, her face millimeters from his hip, inhaling the musk of human male that just barely covers his other scent - a wild electricity that sends shivers up her spine. She lets her pointed tongue taste, and the hand twitches. Something squeezes deep in Meg’s belly.
He could destroy her. Instantly, effortlessly, even as he is now. His vessel might not be an impressive physical specimen, but that doesn’t matter. Hands that look like they probably belong to an accountant, a writer, a bank teller - slim and uncalloused, fingers tapered and unscarred, nails short and clean - are capable of dishing out the power of a nuclear blast, frying her where she stands. He could snap her in two. Tear her limbs off. Meg’s only seen the action once, but a righteous angel is a terror to behold.
He groans deep in his throat, and Meg’s stolen heart thunders against her stolen ribs. Lips still settled on the warm pulsing vein in his hip, she stretches a hand out to touch his. Slowly, she lets her painted fingertips slide up his fingers, thumb pressing the triangle of muscle between his thumb and forefinger, now dormant, but buzzing with the potential of his power. She lets her palm crest over his knuckles, the long tendons of the back of his hand, until her fingers stroke his slender wrist. He looks delicate, here in the white room on the white bed in his white hospital scrubs. Meg smirks. Angelic.
If only people really knew what they meant when they said that word. Beneath her, Castiel stirs, his fingers gripping the sheets, his arm going from lax and supple to iron-hard and burning hot in an instant. Luckily, Meg can take the heat. She props her pointed chin on his belly and looks at him as he wakes, craning his head to glare down at her.
“Hiya, handsome.”
“Meg,” he growls - customary Cas greeting, making someone’s name sound like either a curse word or a prayer, depending on the person. She grins.
“Thought you might be having a bad dream.” She gives him a little pout and he frowns, but the scowl has lost some of its punch. His moments of lucidity these days aren’t what you’d call long-lasting. He glances down at her hand, still touching his wrist. She doesn’t move, and the vein cuddled up to his slim bone pulses brutally, as though filling with more blood than a human vein can hold. She gives it a little rub with her thumb, slowly, soothingly. The electricity in the air begins to build and Meg feels her heart rate speed up till it’s almost painful.
“Come on, baby,” she purrs, sounding far more smooth and confident than her shaking insides, the shivering clutch between her legs, actually feels. He shifts, his spine arching suddenly and sharply, his hand fisting on the sheets enough to punch fingertip-sized holes in the mattress. It makes that rush of heat between her legs throb even more heavily; she knows he’s just moving restlessly, much as a human patient would, but the angel inside the body is such a powerful absolute that sometimes even his most casual motions seem brutal. He’s staring at the ceiling now, ribs rising and falling in short, agitated breaths. She mouths his bared stomach, fingers still caressing his forearm. He’s off on some strange trip, harried by Lucifer.
Lucky for the whole northern half of the state, Meg is here to help. She hums against his skin, some kind of softening sound that seems to distract him a little as the strange vibrations echo through his vessel’s skin. Little Clarence has spent so much time in this body that he’s starting to synch with it, able to pair up the sensations it feels to whatever the hell they correspond to in his angelic form. So Meg dips her tongue into his navel and slips her fingers between his.
His grip tightens and she gasps, eyes watering at the pain. Bones grind together and nerves are crushed. “Fuck!” She gasps, and bites him, her free hand darting into the front of her own scrubs and inside her already-soaked thong. “Little fucker.” She breathes hot on his groin, mouthing his vessel’s cock through his trousers. It twitches a little - she hasn’t gotten a full rise out of him yet, but there’s time - and she climbs up onto the bed, knees on either side of his hips. She’s shaking as she lowers herself against him, thighs burning, and just the contact of her clit against that half-hard angel meat is almost enough to send her over the edge. She bites her lip till there’s blood and grins down at him.
He’s not looking at her. It’s fine - he never does. In fact, he’s probably mostly checked out right now, wandering through whatever weird angelic halls of thought he’s taken to exploring while ducking and running from Lucifer, but she knows that he knows what she’s doing. His hand lets go of hers and she winces a little. His fingers instead dig into her thigh. A warning. Don’t push too far. She sucks in a hissing breath, feeling flesh singe under that hand. She grabs his wrist, brings his fingers to her mouth. Slowly, she traces her tongue around the lax pointer finger, his wrist now limp in her grasp, hand arched in delicate artistry as though he were one of those angel paintings, all upturned eyes and impossibly soft, never-quite-touching fingers.
She sucks the finger into her mouth, starting to grind herself against him, slowly. Her ribs shudder with her breaths. His skin always tastes like nothing, like she’s licking a statue, except he’s undeniably warm and living. She moans around his finger, laving the skin of his knuckles with her tongue, and bucks her hips. He twitches a little, and furrows his brows, looking almost annoyed, but doesn’t fling her across the room. It’s a good sign. He’s paying attention, whether it looks like it or not, to what she’s doing, but he’s also accepting it, for the time being. For an angel, it’s practically like throwing his legs open and yelling “take me.”
Meg rocks herself against his cock, feeling him go all malleable, flesh burning but muscles lazily submitting to her force. She puts a second of his fingers into her mouth and feels them curl slightly. She knows it’s like sucking on the barrel of a loaded, sentient, and unpredictable gun. She arches her back as the next touch of her clit against his cock sends ecstatic waves gushing through her, muscles clenching as she makes muffled moans around his fingers.
He presses down on her tongue. Meg gags a little, surprised and jolted with another stab of wet lust. She seals her lips around the two fingers and opens her throat, sliding her mouth forward until she can feel their tips nearly touching the back of her throat, then moans loudly. The vibration translates into a shiver that goes down his arm and makes him turn his head. Suddenly, those blue eyes are looking straight at her, watching the intersection of his fingers and her lips with that scary angel intensity. He thrusts his hips upward a little and Meg yelps around the fingers in her mouth, an electric shock going straight up her pelvic bone. Her legs squeeze his hips hard enough to hurt if he’d been human, and she starts bucking against him in earnest now.
Sweat drips down her back. He’s like fire, and he isn’t taking his eyes off her. He’s intrigued at what she’s doing, but she knows this isn’t sex to him, and the thought nearly makes her come again. He slides his fingers in and out of her mouth slowly, and Meg lets go his wrist, now grabbing him by the hipbones and fucking against him for all she’s worth, sucking and laving his fingers, nipping and swallowing them as far down as she can. She’s keening and growling with her mouth full, eyes squeezing shut, tasting that building charge, imagining the raw power radiating from the center of him, down his arm and straight into her mouth. Her cunt clenches like a fist and she utters a high helpless sound, orgasm rocketing through her.
He rolls his hips, and her eyes roll back in her head. Her mouth goes slack and his fingers, slimy with her spit, trace the shape of it, poking at her face in a way that would be ridiculously unsexy if she weren’t in the middle of the most intense string of climaxes of her demonic life. “Fuck you, Clarence!” she breathes, fingertips digging brutally into the soft flesh of his sides. He doesn’t even twitch, even though she’s pretty sure she’s drawing blood as she writhes and rocks and swears, turning her head to sink her teeth into the flesh of his palm, supernovas exploding behind her eyes. A shock like touching an electric fence snaps her head back, she tastes blood, and she blacks out.
Meg comes to, can’t be much more than a couple of seconds later, with her face in Castiel’s warm but impassive shoulder, still sitting on his lap, her panties and hospital scrubs drenched. She groans and pushes herself up, glaring at him. He’s staring out the window again, looking helplessly scruffy and innocent, but she still feels the sizzling beneath his skin, the weird high hum of getting too close to him, and slowly, ferally, she grins.
Author: Shane
Pairing/Fandom: Meg/Castiel, Supernatural
Rating: NC-17 [not that graphic, but I thought I'd be on the safe side for thematic stuff]
Spoilers: 7x17, "The Born-Again Identity"
Summary: (highlight for spoilers) Meg pervs on Castiel in the mental hospital.
Notes/Warnings: Het, may be construed as dubious consent. This fic was hastily scrawled, inspired by a prompt on the spn-kinkmeme two rounds ago, I think. The prompt was something to do with Meg and Castiel and Cas' hands. Anyway. This is what came out. Unbeta'ed.
She’s somewhere between offended and relieved when the angel doesn’t even react to what she’s doing. He just lays there, head turned to the side, eyes staring blankly out the window, not that there’s much to see. It’s midnight. Meg grins. The witching hour. Her fingers slide his hospital scrubs even further down, baring slender hipbones and a tantalizing trail of dark hair.
His hands are limp at his sides, and Meg watches them for signs of life. Often, they’re the first thing that will show it -- some weird thing about how angels interact with their human vessels. She hasn’t quite figured it out - after all, she doesn’t even have the slightest idea what good ol’ Clarence actually looks like - but she does know that when his slim, tapered fingers twitch, her mouth goes a little dry.
Not so other parts of her.
She’s breathing a little hard as she leans forward and takes in his scent, her face millimeters from his hip, inhaling the musk of human male that just barely covers his other scent - a wild electricity that sends shivers up her spine. She lets her pointed tongue taste, and the hand twitches. Something squeezes deep in Meg’s belly.
He could destroy her. Instantly, effortlessly, even as he is now. His vessel might not be an impressive physical specimen, but that doesn’t matter. Hands that look like they probably belong to an accountant, a writer, a bank teller - slim and uncalloused, fingers tapered and unscarred, nails short and clean - are capable of dishing out the power of a nuclear blast, frying her where she stands. He could snap her in two. Tear her limbs off. Meg’s only seen the action once, but a righteous angel is a terror to behold.
He groans deep in his throat, and Meg’s stolen heart thunders against her stolen ribs. Lips still settled on the warm pulsing vein in his hip, she stretches a hand out to touch his. Slowly, she lets her painted fingertips slide up his fingers, thumb pressing the triangle of muscle between his thumb and forefinger, now dormant, but buzzing with the potential of his power. She lets her palm crest over his knuckles, the long tendons of the back of his hand, until her fingers stroke his slender wrist. He looks delicate, here in the white room on the white bed in his white hospital scrubs. Meg smirks. Angelic.
If only people really knew what they meant when they said that word. Beneath her, Castiel stirs, his fingers gripping the sheets, his arm going from lax and supple to iron-hard and burning hot in an instant. Luckily, Meg can take the heat. She props her pointed chin on his belly and looks at him as he wakes, craning his head to glare down at her.
“Hiya, handsome.”
“Meg,” he growls - customary Cas greeting, making someone’s name sound like either a curse word or a prayer, depending on the person. She grins.
“Thought you might be having a bad dream.” She gives him a little pout and he frowns, but the scowl has lost some of its punch. His moments of lucidity these days aren’t what you’d call long-lasting. He glances down at her hand, still touching his wrist. She doesn’t move, and the vein cuddled up to his slim bone pulses brutally, as though filling with more blood than a human vein can hold. She gives it a little rub with her thumb, slowly, soothingly. The electricity in the air begins to build and Meg feels her heart rate speed up till it’s almost painful.
“Come on, baby,” she purrs, sounding far more smooth and confident than her shaking insides, the shivering clutch between her legs, actually feels. He shifts, his spine arching suddenly and sharply, his hand fisting on the sheets enough to punch fingertip-sized holes in the mattress. It makes that rush of heat between her legs throb even more heavily; she knows he’s just moving restlessly, much as a human patient would, but the angel inside the body is such a powerful absolute that sometimes even his most casual motions seem brutal. He’s staring at the ceiling now, ribs rising and falling in short, agitated breaths. She mouths his bared stomach, fingers still caressing his forearm. He’s off on some strange trip, harried by Lucifer.
Lucky for the whole northern half of the state, Meg is here to help. She hums against his skin, some kind of softening sound that seems to distract him a little as the strange vibrations echo through his vessel’s skin. Little Clarence has spent so much time in this body that he’s starting to synch with it, able to pair up the sensations it feels to whatever the hell they correspond to in his angelic form. So Meg dips her tongue into his navel and slips her fingers between his.
His grip tightens and she gasps, eyes watering at the pain. Bones grind together and nerves are crushed. “Fuck!” She gasps, and bites him, her free hand darting into the front of her own scrubs and inside her already-soaked thong. “Little fucker.” She breathes hot on his groin, mouthing his vessel’s cock through his trousers. It twitches a little - she hasn’t gotten a full rise out of him yet, but there’s time - and she climbs up onto the bed, knees on either side of his hips. She’s shaking as she lowers herself against him, thighs burning, and just the contact of her clit against that half-hard angel meat is almost enough to send her over the edge. She bites her lip till there’s blood and grins down at him.
He’s not looking at her. It’s fine - he never does. In fact, he’s probably mostly checked out right now, wandering through whatever weird angelic halls of thought he’s taken to exploring while ducking and running from Lucifer, but she knows that he knows what she’s doing. His hand lets go of hers and she winces a little. His fingers instead dig into her thigh. A warning. Don’t push too far. She sucks in a hissing breath, feeling flesh singe under that hand. She grabs his wrist, brings his fingers to her mouth. Slowly, she traces her tongue around the lax pointer finger, his wrist now limp in her grasp, hand arched in delicate artistry as though he were one of those angel paintings, all upturned eyes and impossibly soft, never-quite-touching fingers.
She sucks the finger into her mouth, starting to grind herself against him, slowly. Her ribs shudder with her breaths. His skin always tastes like nothing, like she’s licking a statue, except he’s undeniably warm and living. She moans around his finger, laving the skin of his knuckles with her tongue, and bucks her hips. He twitches a little, and furrows his brows, looking almost annoyed, but doesn’t fling her across the room. It’s a good sign. He’s paying attention, whether it looks like it or not, to what she’s doing, but he’s also accepting it, for the time being. For an angel, it’s practically like throwing his legs open and yelling “take me.”
Meg rocks herself against his cock, feeling him go all malleable, flesh burning but muscles lazily submitting to her force. She puts a second of his fingers into her mouth and feels them curl slightly. She knows it’s like sucking on the barrel of a loaded, sentient, and unpredictable gun. She arches her back as the next touch of her clit against his cock sends ecstatic waves gushing through her, muscles clenching as she makes muffled moans around his fingers.
He presses down on her tongue. Meg gags a little, surprised and jolted with another stab of wet lust. She seals her lips around the two fingers and opens her throat, sliding her mouth forward until she can feel their tips nearly touching the back of her throat, then moans loudly. The vibration translates into a shiver that goes down his arm and makes him turn his head. Suddenly, those blue eyes are looking straight at her, watching the intersection of his fingers and her lips with that scary angel intensity. He thrusts his hips upward a little and Meg yelps around the fingers in her mouth, an electric shock going straight up her pelvic bone. Her legs squeeze his hips hard enough to hurt if he’d been human, and she starts bucking against him in earnest now.
Sweat drips down her back. He’s like fire, and he isn’t taking his eyes off her. He’s intrigued at what she’s doing, but she knows this isn’t sex to him, and the thought nearly makes her come again. He slides his fingers in and out of her mouth slowly, and Meg lets go his wrist, now grabbing him by the hipbones and fucking against him for all she’s worth, sucking and laving his fingers, nipping and swallowing them as far down as she can. She’s keening and growling with her mouth full, eyes squeezing shut, tasting that building charge, imagining the raw power radiating from the center of him, down his arm and straight into her mouth. Her cunt clenches like a fist and she utters a high helpless sound, orgasm rocketing through her.
He rolls his hips, and her eyes roll back in her head. Her mouth goes slack and his fingers, slimy with her spit, trace the shape of it, poking at her face in a way that would be ridiculously unsexy if she weren’t in the middle of the most intense string of climaxes of her demonic life. “Fuck you, Clarence!” she breathes, fingertips digging brutally into the soft flesh of his sides. He doesn’t even twitch, even though she’s pretty sure she’s drawing blood as she writhes and rocks and swears, turning her head to sink her teeth into the flesh of his palm, supernovas exploding behind her eyes. A shock like touching an electric fence snaps her head back, she tastes blood, and she blacks out.
Meg comes to, can’t be much more than a couple of seconds later, with her face in Castiel’s warm but impassive shoulder, still sitting on his lap, her panties and hospital scrubs drenched. She groans and pushes herself up, glaring at him. He’s staring out the window again, looking helplessly scruffy and innocent, but she still feels the sizzling beneath his skin, the weird high hum of getting too close to him, and slowly, ferally, she grins.