Fic: Mortal Coil
Title: Mortal Coil
Author: thinlizzy2
Word Count: 6107
Pairing: Castiel/Meg, brief Meg/others
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Spoilers/Warnings: Spoilers up to 6.12, fuck-or-die situation, graphic sex, blasphemy.
Additional Notes: Written for ninkasa for the spn het exchange.
Beta(s): Many thanks to jaune_chat. You were a lifesaver with this one!
Summary: The kiss between Castiel and Meg has unexpected consequences.
It all starts innocently enough.
Or innocently for her, at any rate, which is nowhere near actually innocent.
Meg is celebrating that smug asshole Crowley getting exactly what he had coming to him with tequila shots, a driving beat and several pretty boys to choose from. When one of them - a particular beauty with dark, messy hair - slides his hands onto her ass on the dance floor, she feels a fierce warmth spreading through her belly, a deep hunger that humans hardly ever inspire in her. She's had loads to drink and she's genuinely happy for a change. So she lets him manhandle her into the back alley and push her against the wall, helps him to get her panties off and work his prick inside her. He's more than enthusiastic enough, thrusting hard with his mouth wet and sloppy against her neck and his fingers digging into her ass.
But no matter how hard she wriggles against him or how she squirms around to try to fix the angle, Meg can't come. It's frustrating; she's wet and hot and feels like she's on the verge more than once. But every time her orgasm approaches, her body just seems to be unable to finish the job.
Like far too many human men, the guy either doesn't notice or doesn't care, since after a very frustrating twenty minutes he pulls out with a nauseating groan, strokes himself a couple of times and comes on her belly, beaming at her like he's done something extremely clever that Meg should congratulate him for.
It's disappointing, but this is a celebration so she doesn't bother roughing him up for being such a wet squib. She just rolls her eyes as he sheepishly tucks his limp dick back into his pants and heads back inside to rebuild her buzz.
***
When she can't get herself off, that's when she begins to worry. Although she knows it's not something most people would brag about, Meg has always been a highly skilled masturbater, and it's an art that improves with practice. So what the fuck?
It's not like she's not horny. She's actually unusually up for it; the sight of a guy waiting for a bus in the rain, his trenchcoat pulled securely around himself as protection from the elements, is enough to get her juices flowing. She clenches her thighs together all the way back to the dump she calls home these days; as soon as the door closes behind her she's yanking off her clothes. But no matter how hard she rubs at her swollen clit or how many fingers she shoves into herself, orgasm just won't come. By the time she gives up, she's rubbed raw and practically sobbing with frustration.
Maybe it's the body, she reflects, after she's gulped a few shots of rotgut to calm herself down. This one's been through a lot, and that bit of knife-play over at Crowley's monster jail might have damaged it in ways she didn't realize at the time. But she's oddly hesitant to give it up. Maybe she's a bit of a magpie and she's gotten attached to the pretty little thing. Whatever the reason, the thought of leaving this body makes her feel weirdly sentimental.
In the end, she decides to just wait on it for the time being.
***
She knows she's in trouble when the dreams start.
Meg has dreamt before, when Lucifer was with her and she believed she'd be ruling Heaven by his side before long. But those were pale, blurry-edged things, images of fluttering wings and cool white light. They weren't even really her own dreams; she realizes now. They were Lucifer's memories of Heaven making their way into her head, and even though that makes them precious to her they were nothing like the dreams she has now.
In her sleep, she feels every whorl in the fingerprints of the hand that strokes her throat. Her tongue maps out the rough ridges of her partner's teeth, strokes the contrasting smoothness of the inside of his cheeks. Heat pours of the body that presses against hers. The blue of those eyes are more vivid than any color she's ever seen while awake.
She tries to rationalize the first dream. First Lucifer and now this one - so angels make her dream; that's good to know. Shit, maybe that dream wasn't hers either; maybe it was Castiel's fantasy projecting itself into her sleeping mind. She even laughs a bit at the thought of that, the Winchesters' pet angel having naughty little jerk-off thoughts about her. She'll fuck him the next time they meet up, she decides. That'll either get it out of both of their systems or give him something a lot more interesting to think about.
But they keep coming. Every night, she tastes the slightly sour flavor of his mouth and runs her hands through his short, tousled hair. She feels the insistent press of his erection against her belly and the responding warm wetness between her own legs. In her dreams, she ruts shamelessly against him, chasing desperately after release. It always seems just a moment away.
But every morning she wakes up unsatisfied, and nothing she can do to herself can even take the edge off.
***
Meg decides she needs help. That's not an easy thing for her to admit, but enough is enough and this needs to be finished.
She puts the word out that she's looking for Bennett. The other demon isn't a friend per se; Meg doesn't have friends and if she did Bennett wouldn't be one of them. But they've worked together on a couple of occasions, and she does trust him not to kill her unless he's got a bit of motivation to do so. More importantly, he's a sensational fuck, and that's so very much what she needs right now.
It doesn't take long to find him; he's got fond memories as well. He's picked up a new meatsuit since last time they met, and it's gorgeous: fantastically muscled torso and limbs, shaved head, cheekbones high and sharp enough to cut glass. Meg admires it as she sits astride him, straddling his bare thighs. His impressive new cock jabs into her denim-covered ass and she knows very well just how good that will feel inside her.
If only she could manage to want it.
It's ridiculous, really. Her body's there, in the moment, ready and more than willing, but her brain won't comply. Every time she tries to unbutton her blouse or unzip her jeans, a voice shrieks in her head, NO! WRONG!
It's as if she's somehow picked up a conscience, and it's fucking annoying.
Bennett thinks she's playing coy, which proves how little he knows about her. Meg has a number of tricks, but the reluctant-virgin shtick isn't among them. Still, she's feeling a panic bubbling up in her chest that she hasn't felt since it was actually her chest and she reminds herself desperately that this is what she wants.
Except it clearly isn't.
In the end, she convinces him to jerk off for her while she sits on her heels and watches. The part of her brain that's dedicated to sex is pretty well-trained; it can do the lip licking and the breathy little that's-so-nice, you're-so-big moans without much conscious effort while the rest of her finally begins to give over to panic.
***
Throwing herself into work is about as much of a dead-end as it's possible to be.
Sure, there's lots to do. Crowley's long-overdue crisping like the pig he was left a gap in power just begging to be filled, and Meg is a top contender for the job. She tries to muster support for a while and the usual suspects come out of the woodwork to lick her boots. She says all the right words, reminding people that she was Lucifer's go-to girl and perhaps taking a bit more credit than is strictly accurate for the roasting of the previous top-dog.
That might be where she goes wrong. It's impossible to talk about Crowley's death without picturing how it really happened: Castiel setting that bag of bones on fire, his face hardened with anger and his eyes gleaming with... something. Meg isn't sure what, because he wasn't looking at her, not even thinking about her, at the time.
Nor was she thinking about him. Her head had been caught up in freedom and escape, and pretty-boy angels had taken the back-seat they deserved.
So why, now, can she not get him out of her thoughts? All anyone has to do is even mention Crowley, and her brain dutifully hop-skip-jumps over to Castiel while her body kicks into gear like a well-honed machine. She stammers and flushes and does all the annoying teenager stuff she hadn't even done back when she actually was a teenager. She can't even think straight, her head all filled up with angel, and it shows. Before long, her supporters drift off towards candidates that can keep their heads together despite someone mentioning Heaven or angels and word begins to spread that Meg is losing her mind.
She's worried that might just be accurate.
***
So she'll find him. She'll find Castiel and she'll screw his fucking holy brains out. And if that doesn't work, she'll slide the blade she took off him into that smooth skin she can't stop thinking about. Either way, it'll be over then.
But he's nowhere to be found. Meg checks in on the Winchesters, but they're doing their chummy-brother duet again and Castiel isn't with them. Nor is he in any of the various angel-faction camps that have started springing up all over the place like heavenly fungus. She looks everywhere she can think to look, and when she finally gives it up as a lost cause, she has to admit to herself that she's more than just bone-tired.
She's sick.
It should be impossible, but there's nothing else it could be. And as weeks pass, it only gets worse. Her body literally aches with desire, and since she can't sate it, it's breaking down. She's freezing and sweating all at once and her stomach constantly churns with a sensation that she dimly remembers as nausea. She's getting dizzy a lot now; just standing up is enough to make the room spin around her. Most frightening of all, her chest aches constantly with something that feels like hunger. She's knows exactly what it's starving for as well, which only makes things worse.
It's long past time to get rid of this meatsuit. It doesn't matter that she doesn't have a new body picked out yet; she'll find something on the fly and if it doesn't suit she'll find something better later. Meg ignores the whimpering in the back of her head that he likes this body he touched it he kissed it in favor of the fact that whatever it is that's happening to her just need to fucking STOP.
She can't do it. It's like being back in Crowley's psycho chop-shop all over again; she's anchored to this sweating, retching hunk of flesh with an unbreakable tether. And it's very possible that it's dying and she'll go with it; worst all is that she's just too exhausted and sick to care.
It's a pathetic way for the consummate survivor to go out, but Meg's finally all out of fight and she knows it. She wraps herself in a blanket in a wasted attempt to stop the shaking and curls up at the foot of the bed, waiting for it to end.
She's still there when Dean Winchester kicks down the door, gathers her up like a sack of dirty laundry and tosses her into his car.
***
The room he drops her off in stinks of sour sweat, but Meg doesn't care in the least - not when the crumpled heap in the corner springs up at the sight of her, unfolding into a length of creased nails, damp hair and feral blue eyes. Meg's seen Castiel trapped before; she's seen him in danger. But this - the pure primal panic coming off him in waves - is something new, and she only has a moment to register that she fucking loves it before he's on her.
"What did you do to me?" he snarls as he pushes her down. "How did you do this?"
His hands tear holes in her clothes to slide inside and his mouth on hers invigorates her like a drink of cold, clear water to a woman dying of thirst. Her strength returns in a sudden burst, and she rolls them over until he's lying on his back on the gritty motel carpet and she can bite and suck at his neck like a famished vampire. Castiel growls; his body surges under hers and the next thing she knows she's up against a wall, her legs wrapping around his waist as they claw at each other like battling lions. They scrabble out of instinct, out of countless years of knowing that when angels and demons touch it needs to be a thing of violence and pain. But an entirely different sort of instinct takes over once they finally manage to rip each other's clothes away enough for him to thrust inside of her.
"You did it." Meg hisses back, drawing blood as she scratches at his back. "It was you."
He doesn't know anything about the pattern of sex, Meg realizes. There's no slow build, nothing soft and light at the beginning to gather momentum. Instead, they roll around on that filthy floor, humping frantically at each other. It should be humiliating, demeaning. For her, the best part of sex with enemies has always been being wanted, making so-called good and righteous men throw away all their vaunted principles for a few minutes of demon pussy. But she needs this just as much as he does, and when he comes inside her she can't keep from weeping with sickening gratitude as her own orgasm finally crashes over her.
***
"Do you think you might be pregnant?" Castiel asks, after the fourth or fifth or possibly seventh time. They know now that they will only have a few minutes to talk after each coupling before the need takes over again. It's not conducive to figuring out just what the hell happened to them.
Meg hasn't had to worry about birth control for a long time but that old panic comes rushing back as if it had never left. She'd love to say it was impossible, but this is uncharted territory and could possibly be where freakish hybrid babies dwell. "I don't know. Wouldn’t you feel it if I was?"
"Maybe not." Castiel sounds preternaturally calm and damn that’s irritating. "A baby of ours would be half demon and half angel. There's never been a soul like that before. I might not be able to sense it."
Well that's not very fucking comforting.
"There has to be a reason for this." His hand wanders between her legs and she keens as he rubs at the overstimulated flesh. He's already hard again; she can feel it against her hip. "It's possible we triggered something when we kissed that first time, some sort of innate mating instinct."
"Do you think that's what this is? Like we've gone into heat?" The very idea makes her body tighten again; it won't be long now.
Such a harmless little kiss - it had just been her way of one-upping the angel. But now that she thinks about it, he's right; she did feel strange afterward, unsettled in a way she never had after kissing any other man.
What did they unleash with that kiss? Where will it end?
He slides two fingers into her body and a red haze drops over her eyes. The next time he speaks it sounds like he's very far away. "Maybe I shouldn't ejaculate into you anymore. It might be dangerous."
She digs her heels into the backs of his thighs and growls. It’s a sensible idea, but sense has nothing to with this, and she needs as much of him within her as she can get. “It’s probably too late to worry about that now.”
He nods with relief as he pushes inside of her again.
***
Most of the next few hours are a blur.
Meg is aware of coming hard, over and over again, as if a switch somewhere has been flipped and all the pleasure that refused to come before is rushing into her now. There are times when she straddles Castiel, bouncing shamelessly on top of him like a junkie chasing a high; other times she lies flat on her back with her knees flush against her shoulders as he pounds into her. They fuck on the cheap, dented motel desk and on the chipped-tile floor of the bathroom. Meg realizes, belatedly, that a session that began with them up against the wall moved halfway through to the window; she can still see the prints her ass made against the glass.
She points it out to Castiel. He shrugs and reminds her that with the way they've been screaming, it's unlikely that any passer-bys would be in doubt about what they've been doing anyway.
It's those hiatuses, the snatches of time when they manage to stop and rest, that stand out most.
Meg learns that, contrary to accepted lore, angels do drink alcohol. Over the course of the night, the two of them imbibe their way through most of the motel minibar. Meg gets a bit of a kick out of wondering if the Winchesters are the ones who'll be stuck for the bill. It turns out angels can eat as well. Castiel says something about not needing food, but he gamely samples a few choice pieces from the bag of luxury mixed nuts - the most expensive of the minibar snacks - that Meg devours.
She learns she can be hurt by him - physically hurt, the way one human might be by another. His teeth leave marks on her skin; she bleeds where he scratches her. He's surprisingly considerate about that, healing her up as soon as he notices the damage. The flesh that he fixes feels odd - somehow cleaner than the rest of her - but she doesn’t ask him to stop. Instead, she savors the feeling of his tongue against that new skin. She wonders if she's causing him similar injuries that he might just be repairing before she can see them. She almost asks, a couple of times, but then his hand will go from healing to caressing and she loses track of the words.
There's a lot he doesn't know, considering how old he is. He's got a fairly good grasp of the basics - insert tab A into slot B and repeat as needed - but he gasps in shock when she sucks his balls into her mouth and when she tries to give him head he responds with so much enthusiasm that he nearly chokes her.
That settles it in her mind; all those rumors about him and Dean Winchester can't be true. Dean would have taught him how to get his cock sucked ages ago.
So, just to make this whole situation a bit more messed up, Meg ends up playing sex-ed teacher to an angel.
Luckily he's a fast learner, or at least God's little soldiers know how to follow orders well; he manages to get through a blow job without asphyxiating her. Even more gratifying, he just might be a prodigy in the fine art of eating pussy.
His tongue is doing some very impressive gymnastics along her labia when Sam Winchester knocks hesitantly on the door.
"Cas... Cas, it's been a while. Are you okay in there?"
She can tell by the tone of his voice that he very much does not want to be dealing with this; he probably lost some kind of coin-toss with his brother over who would go check on the supernatural creatures in heat. Still, she has no sympathy at all for him when Castiel lifts his head to answer.
"I believe we are getting better Sam, but will we require more time." He glances up at Meg and his mouth quirks a bit when she nods emphatically in agreement.
"Right." Meg can practically hear the hunter blushing. "So... I'll pay for another night then?"
"Make it two", Meg calls out, and the angel's mouth moves again.
Holy shit, she's actually making him smile. Why does that feel so good?
"If you can afford it, I think that would be best," Castiel concurs. "Is it possible, Sam?"
Sam hesitates for a moment. "Sure... sure. No problem. But you're sure you're all right?"
Meg snarls in exasperation. It's not enough they've pretty much vowed to kill her someday; the Winchesters need to cock-block her as well? "Look, either get in here and join the party or get lost. We're kind of in the middle of something."
Rapid footfalls tell her that Sam has chosen the latter option.
Castiel rests his head on her stomach. "That was unkind."
"I'm unkind." She arches her pelvis to redirect him back to what really matters, but he ignores the hint.
"He was worried about me. I frightened them a great deal when I came here. They aren't used to seeing me like that."
She can't help but laugh picturing what the Winchesters' faces must have looked like when confronted with a disheveled and agitated angel who insisted that he needed to get into Meg's pants or die. She reaches down and plays with his hair. "They must have thought I did it to you on purpose."
"Probably." He kisses her belly softly. "I did too, for a while."
"You must have hated me."
He rises up on his elbows to regard her seriously for a moment. "You are an abomination. I've always hated you."
The only possible responses to that are all likely to end in bloodshed, but fortunately he chooses that moment to return his tongue to its delightful teasing and the things she was about to say get lost in the screaming.
***
Their recovery time is getting longer, but neither of them bring it up. They have other things to discuss.
"I didn't know it would be like this," Meg remarks, after she's ridden him in the bathtub. The bathroom is trashed now, and she wonders if the Winchesters can afford the repair bill.
"What do you mean?" They're pressed against each other in what's left of the lukewarm water, her back to his front. The words are a wet, ticklish murmur against her ear.
Holy shit - they're cuddling.
"Sex with angels. I would have figured you guys were the missionary position across the altar, doing it through a slit in the robes types."
Castiel laughs - a full-on laugh, the first she's gotten from him. "I wouldn't know. It doesn't sound very pleasant when you put it like that, not compared to..."
"Well, I'm the best", she informs him. "Don't go judging future fucks by me; you'll be constantly disappointed.
He laughs again, and damn she could get to like that sound.
An idea occurs to her. "Hey, do you realize we might be the first angel and demon to fuck across the species barrier. Think that'll get us into the next edition of the Bible? 'And lo, he spankus her ass till she biddith him do me.' I might have actually paid attention in Sunday school back in the day if it had been like that."
His next question surprises her.
"So you and Lucifer never had sex?"
She half-laughs half-chokes. "Lucifer? No, I never fucked Lucifer. Of course not!"
He regards her quizzically. "The idea shocks you. I didn't think anything about sex would have that effect."
"Not usually, but Lucifer's like... he's like God." The water is starting to get chilly. She climbs out of the bath and reaches for a towel.
Castiel narrows his eyes. "He is not."
Something in his tone gets her back up. He's angry, she realizes. He's angry because she dared to compare his precious absentee daddy-dearest to her guide and leader, the one who hadn't fucked off on extended spring break but who was genuinely trapped and unable to get to his devotees.
"Maybe not to you, but to us - look, he created me. He was going to take me to Heaven; he would have if you and your pals didn't sucker-punch him back into the cage."
"He created Crowley as well, but he didn't share your devotion."
"I'm not Crowley, remember? See, tits. Pussy. Not currently awash in a river made of the souls of unbaptized babies. Lots of differences."
Castiel follows her out of the bath so Meg moves back to the main room. Even annoyed as she is, the sight of his wet naked body affects her, and she doesn't want to give him that satisfaction now.
He is close behind her. "I've upset you."
"You think?"
"Why?"
She stares at him in disbelief. He honestly doesn't know.
"Tell me, did you ever fuck God? Get on your knees in front of that big golden throne or whatever he's perched on up there in heaven? How about his son; did you ever take it up the butt for Christ?"
She has more filth and blasphemy to throw out him, especially when she sees that she's hitting her target; his shoulders go tense and his eyes darken in instinctive anger. But the mental pictures she's painted are just too vivid, and she can feel the wave of arousal making its long-overdue return. She grits her teeth. For once, she doesn't want to fuck; she wants to make him see. But already his face is changing; he's affected too. She gives it up, climbs onto the bed on all fours and pushes her ass into the air. "Let's not talk, all right?"
***
Castiel wakes her at dawn; the sun is beginning to tint the sky red and she can hear the earliest birds chirping.
She had been having her first dreamless sleep in ages.
She expects sex, even opens her arms and legs for him.
"Lucifer would have happily thrown away your life to suit his means. He sacrificed many demons before he was returned to the cage and you would have been no different to him. He is not your savior; it's vital that you understand that."
"How do you know that?" Meg snarls at him. It's nothing she hasn't heard before; Crowley spread the same vicious bullshit about Lucifer for months. But for some reason it's got more weight coming from the mouth of an angel.
"He's my brother; I know him." He looks genuinely sorry to have to tell her this. "Demons were never to Lucifer what humans were to God. It's better you know."
"You can't know that."
"I've seen him do it, Meg. I've seen him use demons as cannon fodder-"
"You're a liar."
"When have I ever lied to you?"
Her eyes burn in the darkened room but she will not cry now. Not in front of him, with his kinship to Lucifer and his regretful tone and his hateful truth-heavy words.
She still wants to kiss him, she realizes. She wants to hit him and she wants to stop him and she wants to kiss him. But instead, she seizes on the most effective way of making him hurt.
"Did he at least think of us the way God thinks of angels? You know, first-borns, semi-successful dry-runs, decent practice? Were we at least useful little foot soldiers that could kill each other off fighting a war he was too chickenshit to stick his neck out for? Or wait, he wasn't too scared. He was there. I'm thinking of your guy again."
The heat of his anger is as real and tangible as the thrust of his cock was hours before. "You shouldn't talk about God like that."
She's scored a direct hit and she knows it. "What's that saying about glass houses and stones?"
"I don't know yet if it applies. I haven't found God yet. He could be just as trapped as Lucifer."
She's impressed he's able to keep looking her in the eyes. That's some quality self-delusion.
Then again, it’s possible he’s thinking the same thing about her.
They both get off easy; the knocking at the door cuts off anything he was going to say.
"Cas, it's Dean now. Listen, this is either working or it's not. If you're not getting any better, we need to call Bobby or something; you can't just stay in there."
Has it been two days already? It must have been.
Castiel regards her for a long moment before he answers. "Thank you, Dean. I don't think it will necessary to involve Bobby. This seems to have run its course."
Meg blinks in surprise, because is that a fact? Thanks so much for checking with her, asshole. Then she realizes he's right; it's been at least six hours since they've last had sex and yet they've been awake and talking for fifteen minutes without needing to touch each other.
Just wanting to touch apparently doesn't count.
***
She finds her tattered jeans and sweater while Castiel just miracles his suit back on. It’s odd to be wearing clothes again after all this time; she feels strangely constricted.
"I recommend you don't use the door. Dean and Sam will be waiting for you, and they're still quite angry about the deaths of the Harvelle women. It would be better to leave discreetly."
"Yeah, I'd figured that out, thanks. You wouldn't jump in between us and rescue me?"
He regards her with something that might be affection. "I don't believe you need my protection."
She can't help but grin at that. "You've got that much right at least. Tell me, Clarence, am I ever going to see you again?"
It takes him a while to answer. "If you have a baby, or believe you will have one, and you can't find me, go to Bobby Singer in South Dakota. He knows how to reach me in an emergency, and I'll ask him to do whatever he can to keep you and the child safe until then."
She'd almost forgotten that was a possibility. "And if I don't?"
"Are you suggesting this might be a cyclical event, that we might need to continually mate in order to keep the illness from returning?" He frowns. "It's possible, but I think unlikely. There was one stimulus; it makes sense for there to be one response."
"We can't know that."
"If you do find yourself getting sick again, I think the best thing to do again is get to Bobby. I'll join you there as quickly as possible."
"Great. All set then." Meg doesn't want to look at him anymore; those eyes of his are fucking unnerving. She stalks over to the window, finds her earrings on the sill. She can see the Winchesters over by that shit-heap of a car, kicking stones around and conferring in whispers. Probably arguing about which one of them is going to have to rescue their buddy from the whore and her coochie of doom if he doesn't get out there soon.
"Meg?"
She whirls around and finds herself face to face with the angel again. Lucifer was always sneaking up on her too. It's unbelievably creepy how they do that. "Warn a girl, will you? If I ever get another shot at ruling Heaven, I'm putting bells on all of you."
He’s so close she can smell their mingled sweat on his skin. "This is the best way. I'm fighting a war; this would be a devastating liability."
It's true and she knows it; that doesn’t mean she gives a shit. "You know the difference between you and me?
His brow furrows. “There are many.”
She shakes her head. “I know I’ve got nothing. That’s all it is.”
He does touch her then, despite not needing to. Two of his fingers gently brush along her hairline. “I wish I had not needed to be the one to tell you about Lucifer.”
She can’t help leaning into the contact. “Come on, what does it matter to you?” Her voice comes out steady; she’s impressed with herself. “Abomination, remember? You don’t have to care.”
“I have learned that a person being an abomination actually doesn’t stop me from caring about them. It continues to be a surprising revelation.”
Meg isn’t a person, but she’s not especially eager for him to remember that. Instead, she changes the subject, tries for a bit control. “I can't get a reputation for cozying up to angels either. Lucifer was one thing, but no one's going to be lined up on my side if I'm linked to you."
"Probably not."
His fingers keep stroking her face. In a split second, she decides.
She grabs that hand and pulls it off her, keeps it clutched in her own as she closes the few inches between them and kisses him hard.
Yes, there it is. She knows that feeling unfurling in her chest now, that bit of pure, white-hot desire that will grow and grow until it consumes the both of them. She wants to crow in triumph, even more so when his arms tighten around her and, once again, he kisses her back like it's impossible not to do so.
"But fuck your war," she whispers against his lips.
His fingers slip down her back and slide under her waistband. "Fuck your allegiances."
She bites down on his neck, just one more tiny taste to tide her over. "I'll catch you soon, then."
She lingers just long enough to see a glimpse of his smile.
Author: thinlizzy2
Word Count: 6107
Pairing: Castiel/Meg, brief Meg/others
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Spoilers/Warnings: Spoilers up to 6.12, fuck-or-die situation, graphic sex, blasphemy.
Additional Notes: Written for ninkasa for the spn het exchange.
Beta(s): Many thanks to jaune_chat. You were a lifesaver with this one!
Summary: The kiss between Castiel and Meg has unexpected consequences.
It all starts innocently enough.
Or innocently for her, at any rate, which is nowhere near actually innocent.
Meg is celebrating that smug asshole Crowley getting exactly what he had coming to him with tequila shots, a driving beat and several pretty boys to choose from. When one of them - a particular beauty with dark, messy hair - slides his hands onto her ass on the dance floor, she feels a fierce warmth spreading through her belly, a deep hunger that humans hardly ever inspire in her. She's had loads to drink and she's genuinely happy for a change. So she lets him manhandle her into the back alley and push her against the wall, helps him to get her panties off and work his prick inside her. He's more than enthusiastic enough, thrusting hard with his mouth wet and sloppy against her neck and his fingers digging into her ass.
But no matter how hard she wriggles against him or how she squirms around to try to fix the angle, Meg can't come. It's frustrating; she's wet and hot and feels like she's on the verge more than once. But every time her orgasm approaches, her body just seems to be unable to finish the job.
Like far too many human men, the guy either doesn't notice or doesn't care, since after a very frustrating twenty minutes he pulls out with a nauseating groan, strokes himself a couple of times and comes on her belly, beaming at her like he's done something extremely clever that Meg should congratulate him for.
It's disappointing, but this is a celebration so she doesn't bother roughing him up for being such a wet squib. She just rolls her eyes as he sheepishly tucks his limp dick back into his pants and heads back inside to rebuild her buzz.
***
When she can't get herself off, that's when she begins to worry. Although she knows it's not something most people would brag about, Meg has always been a highly skilled masturbater, and it's an art that improves with practice. So what the fuck?
It's not like she's not horny. She's actually unusually up for it; the sight of a guy waiting for a bus in the rain, his trenchcoat pulled securely around himself as protection from the elements, is enough to get her juices flowing. She clenches her thighs together all the way back to the dump she calls home these days; as soon as the door closes behind her she's yanking off her clothes. But no matter how hard she rubs at her swollen clit or how many fingers she shoves into herself, orgasm just won't come. By the time she gives up, she's rubbed raw and practically sobbing with frustration.
Maybe it's the body, she reflects, after she's gulped a few shots of rotgut to calm herself down. This one's been through a lot, and that bit of knife-play over at Crowley's monster jail might have damaged it in ways she didn't realize at the time. But she's oddly hesitant to give it up. Maybe she's a bit of a magpie and she's gotten attached to the pretty little thing. Whatever the reason, the thought of leaving this body makes her feel weirdly sentimental.
In the end, she decides to just wait on it for the time being.
***
She knows she's in trouble when the dreams start.
Meg has dreamt before, when Lucifer was with her and she believed she'd be ruling Heaven by his side before long. But those were pale, blurry-edged things, images of fluttering wings and cool white light. They weren't even really her own dreams; she realizes now. They were Lucifer's memories of Heaven making their way into her head, and even though that makes them precious to her they were nothing like the dreams she has now.
In her sleep, she feels every whorl in the fingerprints of the hand that strokes her throat. Her tongue maps out the rough ridges of her partner's teeth, strokes the contrasting smoothness of the inside of his cheeks. Heat pours of the body that presses against hers. The blue of those eyes are more vivid than any color she's ever seen while awake.
She tries to rationalize the first dream. First Lucifer and now this one - so angels make her dream; that's good to know. Shit, maybe that dream wasn't hers either; maybe it was Castiel's fantasy projecting itself into her sleeping mind. She even laughs a bit at the thought of that, the Winchesters' pet angel having naughty little jerk-off thoughts about her. She'll fuck him the next time they meet up, she decides. That'll either get it out of both of their systems or give him something a lot more interesting to think about.
But they keep coming. Every night, she tastes the slightly sour flavor of his mouth and runs her hands through his short, tousled hair. She feels the insistent press of his erection against her belly and the responding warm wetness between her own legs. In her dreams, she ruts shamelessly against him, chasing desperately after release. It always seems just a moment away.
But every morning she wakes up unsatisfied, and nothing she can do to herself can even take the edge off.
***
Meg decides she needs help. That's not an easy thing for her to admit, but enough is enough and this needs to be finished.
She puts the word out that she's looking for Bennett. The other demon isn't a friend per se; Meg doesn't have friends and if she did Bennett wouldn't be one of them. But they've worked together on a couple of occasions, and she does trust him not to kill her unless he's got a bit of motivation to do so. More importantly, he's a sensational fuck, and that's so very much what she needs right now.
It doesn't take long to find him; he's got fond memories as well. He's picked up a new meatsuit since last time they met, and it's gorgeous: fantastically muscled torso and limbs, shaved head, cheekbones high and sharp enough to cut glass. Meg admires it as she sits astride him, straddling his bare thighs. His impressive new cock jabs into her denim-covered ass and she knows very well just how good that will feel inside her.
If only she could manage to want it.
It's ridiculous, really. Her body's there, in the moment, ready and more than willing, but her brain won't comply. Every time she tries to unbutton her blouse or unzip her jeans, a voice shrieks in her head, NO! WRONG!
It's as if she's somehow picked up a conscience, and it's fucking annoying.
Bennett thinks she's playing coy, which proves how little he knows about her. Meg has a number of tricks, but the reluctant-virgin shtick isn't among them. Still, she's feeling a panic bubbling up in her chest that she hasn't felt since it was actually her chest and she reminds herself desperately that this is what she wants.
Except it clearly isn't.
In the end, she convinces him to jerk off for her while she sits on her heels and watches. The part of her brain that's dedicated to sex is pretty well-trained; it can do the lip licking and the breathy little that's-so-nice, you're-so-big moans without much conscious effort while the rest of her finally begins to give over to panic.
***
Throwing herself into work is about as much of a dead-end as it's possible to be.
Sure, there's lots to do. Crowley's long-overdue crisping like the pig he was left a gap in power just begging to be filled, and Meg is a top contender for the job. She tries to muster support for a while and the usual suspects come out of the woodwork to lick her boots. She says all the right words, reminding people that she was Lucifer's go-to girl and perhaps taking a bit more credit than is strictly accurate for the roasting of the previous top-dog.
That might be where she goes wrong. It's impossible to talk about Crowley's death without picturing how it really happened: Castiel setting that bag of bones on fire, his face hardened with anger and his eyes gleaming with... something. Meg isn't sure what, because he wasn't looking at her, not even thinking about her, at the time.
Nor was she thinking about him. Her head had been caught up in freedom and escape, and pretty-boy angels had taken the back-seat they deserved.
So why, now, can she not get him out of her thoughts? All anyone has to do is even mention Crowley, and her brain dutifully hop-skip-jumps over to Castiel while her body kicks into gear like a well-honed machine. She stammers and flushes and does all the annoying teenager stuff she hadn't even done back when she actually was a teenager. She can't even think straight, her head all filled up with angel, and it shows. Before long, her supporters drift off towards candidates that can keep their heads together despite someone mentioning Heaven or angels and word begins to spread that Meg is losing her mind.
She's worried that might just be accurate.
***
So she'll find him. She'll find Castiel and she'll screw his fucking holy brains out. And if that doesn't work, she'll slide the blade she took off him into that smooth skin she can't stop thinking about. Either way, it'll be over then.
But he's nowhere to be found. Meg checks in on the Winchesters, but they're doing their chummy-brother duet again and Castiel isn't with them. Nor is he in any of the various angel-faction camps that have started springing up all over the place like heavenly fungus. She looks everywhere she can think to look, and when she finally gives it up as a lost cause, she has to admit to herself that she's more than just bone-tired.
She's sick.
It should be impossible, but there's nothing else it could be. And as weeks pass, it only gets worse. Her body literally aches with desire, and since she can't sate it, it's breaking down. She's freezing and sweating all at once and her stomach constantly churns with a sensation that she dimly remembers as nausea. She's getting dizzy a lot now; just standing up is enough to make the room spin around her. Most frightening of all, her chest aches constantly with something that feels like hunger. She's knows exactly what it's starving for as well, which only makes things worse.
It's long past time to get rid of this meatsuit. It doesn't matter that she doesn't have a new body picked out yet; she'll find something on the fly and if it doesn't suit she'll find something better later. Meg ignores the whimpering in the back of her head that he likes this body he touched it he kissed it in favor of the fact that whatever it is that's happening to her just need to fucking STOP.
She can't do it. It's like being back in Crowley's psycho chop-shop all over again; she's anchored to this sweating, retching hunk of flesh with an unbreakable tether. And it's very possible that it's dying and she'll go with it; worst all is that she's just too exhausted and sick to care.
It's a pathetic way for the consummate survivor to go out, but Meg's finally all out of fight and she knows it. She wraps herself in a blanket in a wasted attempt to stop the shaking and curls up at the foot of the bed, waiting for it to end.
She's still there when Dean Winchester kicks down the door, gathers her up like a sack of dirty laundry and tosses her into his car.
***
The room he drops her off in stinks of sour sweat, but Meg doesn't care in the least - not when the crumpled heap in the corner springs up at the sight of her, unfolding into a length of creased nails, damp hair and feral blue eyes. Meg's seen Castiel trapped before; she's seen him in danger. But this - the pure primal panic coming off him in waves - is something new, and she only has a moment to register that she fucking loves it before he's on her.
"What did you do to me?" he snarls as he pushes her down. "How did you do this?"
His hands tear holes in her clothes to slide inside and his mouth on hers invigorates her like a drink of cold, clear water to a woman dying of thirst. Her strength returns in a sudden burst, and she rolls them over until he's lying on his back on the gritty motel carpet and she can bite and suck at his neck like a famished vampire. Castiel growls; his body surges under hers and the next thing she knows she's up against a wall, her legs wrapping around his waist as they claw at each other like battling lions. They scrabble out of instinct, out of countless years of knowing that when angels and demons touch it needs to be a thing of violence and pain. But an entirely different sort of instinct takes over once they finally manage to rip each other's clothes away enough for him to thrust inside of her.
"You did it." Meg hisses back, drawing blood as she scratches at his back. "It was you."
He doesn't know anything about the pattern of sex, Meg realizes. There's no slow build, nothing soft and light at the beginning to gather momentum. Instead, they roll around on that filthy floor, humping frantically at each other. It should be humiliating, demeaning. For her, the best part of sex with enemies has always been being wanted, making so-called good and righteous men throw away all their vaunted principles for a few minutes of demon pussy. But she needs this just as much as he does, and when he comes inside her she can't keep from weeping with sickening gratitude as her own orgasm finally crashes over her.
***
"Do you think you might be pregnant?" Castiel asks, after the fourth or fifth or possibly seventh time. They know now that they will only have a few minutes to talk after each coupling before the need takes over again. It's not conducive to figuring out just what the hell happened to them.
Meg hasn't had to worry about birth control for a long time but that old panic comes rushing back as if it had never left. She'd love to say it was impossible, but this is uncharted territory and could possibly be where freakish hybrid babies dwell. "I don't know. Wouldn’t you feel it if I was?"
"Maybe not." Castiel sounds preternaturally calm and damn that’s irritating. "A baby of ours would be half demon and half angel. There's never been a soul like that before. I might not be able to sense it."
Well that's not very fucking comforting.
"There has to be a reason for this." His hand wanders between her legs and she keens as he rubs at the overstimulated flesh. He's already hard again; she can feel it against her hip. "It's possible we triggered something when we kissed that first time, some sort of innate mating instinct."
"Do you think that's what this is? Like we've gone into heat?" The very idea makes her body tighten again; it won't be long now.
Such a harmless little kiss - it had just been her way of one-upping the angel. But now that she thinks about it, he's right; she did feel strange afterward, unsettled in a way she never had after kissing any other man.
What did they unleash with that kiss? Where will it end?
He slides two fingers into her body and a red haze drops over her eyes. The next time he speaks it sounds like he's very far away. "Maybe I shouldn't ejaculate into you anymore. It might be dangerous."
She digs her heels into the backs of his thighs and growls. It’s a sensible idea, but sense has nothing to with this, and she needs as much of him within her as she can get. “It’s probably too late to worry about that now.”
He nods with relief as he pushes inside of her again.
***
Most of the next few hours are a blur.
Meg is aware of coming hard, over and over again, as if a switch somewhere has been flipped and all the pleasure that refused to come before is rushing into her now. There are times when she straddles Castiel, bouncing shamelessly on top of him like a junkie chasing a high; other times she lies flat on her back with her knees flush against her shoulders as he pounds into her. They fuck on the cheap, dented motel desk and on the chipped-tile floor of the bathroom. Meg realizes, belatedly, that a session that began with them up against the wall moved halfway through to the window; she can still see the prints her ass made against the glass.
She points it out to Castiel. He shrugs and reminds her that with the way they've been screaming, it's unlikely that any passer-bys would be in doubt about what they've been doing anyway.
It's those hiatuses, the snatches of time when they manage to stop and rest, that stand out most.
Meg learns that, contrary to accepted lore, angels do drink alcohol. Over the course of the night, the two of them imbibe their way through most of the motel minibar. Meg gets a bit of a kick out of wondering if the Winchesters are the ones who'll be stuck for the bill. It turns out angels can eat as well. Castiel says something about not needing food, but he gamely samples a few choice pieces from the bag of luxury mixed nuts - the most expensive of the minibar snacks - that Meg devours.
She learns she can be hurt by him - physically hurt, the way one human might be by another. His teeth leave marks on her skin; she bleeds where he scratches her. He's surprisingly considerate about that, healing her up as soon as he notices the damage. The flesh that he fixes feels odd - somehow cleaner than the rest of her - but she doesn’t ask him to stop. Instead, she savors the feeling of his tongue against that new skin. She wonders if she's causing him similar injuries that he might just be repairing before she can see them. She almost asks, a couple of times, but then his hand will go from healing to caressing and she loses track of the words.
There's a lot he doesn't know, considering how old he is. He's got a fairly good grasp of the basics - insert tab A into slot B and repeat as needed - but he gasps in shock when she sucks his balls into her mouth and when she tries to give him head he responds with so much enthusiasm that he nearly chokes her.
That settles it in her mind; all those rumors about him and Dean Winchester can't be true. Dean would have taught him how to get his cock sucked ages ago.
So, just to make this whole situation a bit more messed up, Meg ends up playing sex-ed teacher to an angel.
Luckily he's a fast learner, or at least God's little soldiers know how to follow orders well; he manages to get through a blow job without asphyxiating her. Even more gratifying, he just might be a prodigy in the fine art of eating pussy.
His tongue is doing some very impressive gymnastics along her labia when Sam Winchester knocks hesitantly on the door.
"Cas... Cas, it's been a while. Are you okay in there?"
She can tell by the tone of his voice that he very much does not want to be dealing with this; he probably lost some kind of coin-toss with his brother over who would go check on the supernatural creatures in heat. Still, she has no sympathy at all for him when Castiel lifts his head to answer.
"I believe we are getting better Sam, but will we require more time." He glances up at Meg and his mouth quirks a bit when she nods emphatically in agreement.
"Right." Meg can practically hear the hunter blushing. "So... I'll pay for another night then?"
"Make it two", Meg calls out, and the angel's mouth moves again.
Holy shit, she's actually making him smile. Why does that feel so good?
"If you can afford it, I think that would be best," Castiel concurs. "Is it possible, Sam?"
Sam hesitates for a moment. "Sure... sure. No problem. But you're sure you're all right?"
Meg snarls in exasperation. It's not enough they've pretty much vowed to kill her someday; the Winchesters need to cock-block her as well? "Look, either get in here and join the party or get lost. We're kind of in the middle of something."
Rapid footfalls tell her that Sam has chosen the latter option.
Castiel rests his head on her stomach. "That was unkind."
"I'm unkind." She arches her pelvis to redirect him back to what really matters, but he ignores the hint.
"He was worried about me. I frightened them a great deal when I came here. They aren't used to seeing me like that."
She can't help but laugh picturing what the Winchesters' faces must have looked like when confronted with a disheveled and agitated angel who insisted that he needed to get into Meg's pants or die. She reaches down and plays with his hair. "They must have thought I did it to you on purpose."
"Probably." He kisses her belly softly. "I did too, for a while."
"You must have hated me."
He rises up on his elbows to regard her seriously for a moment. "You are an abomination. I've always hated you."
The only possible responses to that are all likely to end in bloodshed, but fortunately he chooses that moment to return his tongue to its delightful teasing and the things she was about to say get lost in the screaming.
***
Their recovery time is getting longer, but neither of them bring it up. They have other things to discuss.
"I didn't know it would be like this," Meg remarks, after she's ridden him in the bathtub. The bathroom is trashed now, and she wonders if the Winchesters can afford the repair bill.
"What do you mean?" They're pressed against each other in what's left of the lukewarm water, her back to his front. The words are a wet, ticklish murmur against her ear.
Holy shit - they're cuddling.
"Sex with angels. I would have figured you guys were the missionary position across the altar, doing it through a slit in the robes types."
Castiel laughs - a full-on laugh, the first she's gotten from him. "I wouldn't know. It doesn't sound very pleasant when you put it like that, not compared to..."
"Well, I'm the best", she informs him. "Don't go judging future fucks by me; you'll be constantly disappointed.
He laughs again, and damn she could get to like that sound.
An idea occurs to her. "Hey, do you realize we might be the first angel and demon to fuck across the species barrier. Think that'll get us into the next edition of the Bible? 'And lo, he spankus her ass till she biddith him do me.' I might have actually paid attention in Sunday school back in the day if it had been like that."
His next question surprises her.
"So you and Lucifer never had sex?"
She half-laughs half-chokes. "Lucifer? No, I never fucked Lucifer. Of course not!"
He regards her quizzically. "The idea shocks you. I didn't think anything about sex would have that effect."
"Not usually, but Lucifer's like... he's like God." The water is starting to get chilly. She climbs out of the bath and reaches for a towel.
Castiel narrows his eyes. "He is not."
Something in his tone gets her back up. He's angry, she realizes. He's angry because she dared to compare his precious absentee daddy-dearest to her guide and leader, the one who hadn't fucked off on extended spring break but who was genuinely trapped and unable to get to his devotees.
"Maybe not to you, but to us - look, he created me. He was going to take me to Heaven; he would have if you and your pals didn't sucker-punch him back into the cage."
"He created Crowley as well, but he didn't share your devotion."
"I'm not Crowley, remember? See, tits. Pussy. Not currently awash in a river made of the souls of unbaptized babies. Lots of differences."
Castiel follows her out of the bath so Meg moves back to the main room. Even annoyed as she is, the sight of his wet naked body affects her, and she doesn't want to give him that satisfaction now.
He is close behind her. "I've upset you."
"You think?"
"Why?"
She stares at him in disbelief. He honestly doesn't know.
"Tell me, did you ever fuck God? Get on your knees in front of that big golden throne or whatever he's perched on up there in heaven? How about his son; did you ever take it up the butt for Christ?"
She has more filth and blasphemy to throw out him, especially when she sees that she's hitting her target; his shoulders go tense and his eyes darken in instinctive anger. But the mental pictures she's painted are just too vivid, and she can feel the wave of arousal making its long-overdue return. She grits her teeth. For once, she doesn't want to fuck; she wants to make him see. But already his face is changing; he's affected too. She gives it up, climbs onto the bed on all fours and pushes her ass into the air. "Let's not talk, all right?"
***
Castiel wakes her at dawn; the sun is beginning to tint the sky red and she can hear the earliest birds chirping.
She had been having her first dreamless sleep in ages.
She expects sex, even opens her arms and legs for him.
"Lucifer would have happily thrown away your life to suit his means. He sacrificed many demons before he was returned to the cage and you would have been no different to him. He is not your savior; it's vital that you understand that."
"How do you know that?" Meg snarls at him. It's nothing she hasn't heard before; Crowley spread the same vicious bullshit about Lucifer for months. But for some reason it's got more weight coming from the mouth of an angel.
"He's my brother; I know him." He looks genuinely sorry to have to tell her this. "Demons were never to Lucifer what humans were to God. It's better you know."
"You can't know that."
"I've seen him do it, Meg. I've seen him use demons as cannon fodder-"
"You're a liar."
"When have I ever lied to you?"
Her eyes burn in the darkened room but she will not cry now. Not in front of him, with his kinship to Lucifer and his regretful tone and his hateful truth-heavy words.
She still wants to kiss him, she realizes. She wants to hit him and she wants to stop him and she wants to kiss him. But instead, she seizes on the most effective way of making him hurt.
"Did he at least think of us the way God thinks of angels? You know, first-borns, semi-successful dry-runs, decent practice? Were we at least useful little foot soldiers that could kill each other off fighting a war he was too chickenshit to stick his neck out for? Or wait, he wasn't too scared. He was there. I'm thinking of your guy again."
The heat of his anger is as real and tangible as the thrust of his cock was hours before. "You shouldn't talk about God like that."
She's scored a direct hit and she knows it. "What's that saying about glass houses and stones?"
"I don't know yet if it applies. I haven't found God yet. He could be just as trapped as Lucifer."
She's impressed he's able to keep looking her in the eyes. That's some quality self-delusion.
Then again, it’s possible he’s thinking the same thing about her.
They both get off easy; the knocking at the door cuts off anything he was going to say.
"Cas, it's Dean now. Listen, this is either working or it's not. If you're not getting any better, we need to call Bobby or something; you can't just stay in there."
Has it been two days already? It must have been.
Castiel regards her for a long moment before he answers. "Thank you, Dean. I don't think it will necessary to involve Bobby. This seems to have run its course."
Meg blinks in surprise, because is that a fact? Thanks so much for checking with her, asshole. Then she realizes he's right; it's been at least six hours since they've last had sex and yet they've been awake and talking for fifteen minutes without needing to touch each other.
Just wanting to touch apparently doesn't count.
***
She finds her tattered jeans and sweater while Castiel just miracles his suit back on. It’s odd to be wearing clothes again after all this time; she feels strangely constricted.
"I recommend you don't use the door. Dean and Sam will be waiting for you, and they're still quite angry about the deaths of the Harvelle women. It would be better to leave discreetly."
"Yeah, I'd figured that out, thanks. You wouldn't jump in between us and rescue me?"
He regards her with something that might be affection. "I don't believe you need my protection."
She can't help but grin at that. "You've got that much right at least. Tell me, Clarence, am I ever going to see you again?"
It takes him a while to answer. "If you have a baby, or believe you will have one, and you can't find me, go to Bobby Singer in South Dakota. He knows how to reach me in an emergency, and I'll ask him to do whatever he can to keep you and the child safe until then."
She'd almost forgotten that was a possibility. "And if I don't?"
"Are you suggesting this might be a cyclical event, that we might need to continually mate in order to keep the illness from returning?" He frowns. "It's possible, but I think unlikely. There was one stimulus; it makes sense for there to be one response."
"We can't know that."
"If you do find yourself getting sick again, I think the best thing to do again is get to Bobby. I'll join you there as quickly as possible."
"Great. All set then." Meg doesn't want to look at him anymore; those eyes of his are fucking unnerving. She stalks over to the window, finds her earrings on the sill. She can see the Winchesters over by that shit-heap of a car, kicking stones around and conferring in whispers. Probably arguing about which one of them is going to have to rescue their buddy from the whore and her coochie of doom if he doesn't get out there soon.
"Meg?"
She whirls around and finds herself face to face with the angel again. Lucifer was always sneaking up on her too. It's unbelievably creepy how they do that. "Warn a girl, will you? If I ever get another shot at ruling Heaven, I'm putting bells on all of you."
He’s so close she can smell their mingled sweat on his skin. "This is the best way. I'm fighting a war; this would be a devastating liability."
It's true and she knows it; that doesn’t mean she gives a shit. "You know the difference between you and me?
His brow furrows. “There are many.”
She shakes her head. “I know I’ve got nothing. That’s all it is.”
He does touch her then, despite not needing to. Two of his fingers gently brush along her hairline. “I wish I had not needed to be the one to tell you about Lucifer.”
She can’t help leaning into the contact. “Come on, what does it matter to you?” Her voice comes out steady; she’s impressed with herself. “Abomination, remember? You don’t have to care.”
“I have learned that a person being an abomination actually doesn’t stop me from caring about them. It continues to be a surprising revelation.”
Meg isn’t a person, but she’s not especially eager for him to remember that. Instead, she changes the subject, tries for a bit control. “I can't get a reputation for cozying up to angels either. Lucifer was one thing, but no one's going to be lined up on my side if I'm linked to you."
"Probably not."
His fingers keep stroking her face. In a split second, she decides.
She grabs that hand and pulls it off her, keeps it clutched in her own as she closes the few inches between them and kisses him hard.
Yes, there it is. She knows that feeling unfurling in her chest now, that bit of pure, white-hot desire that will grow and grow until it consumes the both of them. She wants to crow in triumph, even more so when his arms tighten around her and, once again, he kisses her back like it's impossible not to do so.
"But fuck your war," she whispers against his lips.
His fingers slip down her back and slide under her waistband. "Fuck your allegiances."
She bites down on his neck, just one more tiny taste to tide her over. "I'll catch you soon, then."
She lingers just long enough to see a glimpse of his smile.