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'Ashes, Ashes' - SPN - Claire!Castiel/Dean
I wrote a couple of fills at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
blindfold_spn, and here is the tamer of the two. idk. The last time I wrote porn was a year and a half ago, and my reentry into NC17 is with something that gets you arrested in most states. Motherfucking kink meme rassa frassa. idek. Someone take the internet away from me.
Ashes, Ashes
Supernatural. Claire!Castiel/Dean. NC17. WARNINGS: underage (her age is never specified, but she is pretty clearly a teenager, so, y'know), vessel noncon
5x04verse. Written for the prompt "This vessel is growing up and coming of age, and sometimes Castiel gives in to the urges." ~1300 words
Dean is a light sleeper who sleeps only in short bursts, so Cas doesn't think anything of it when she steps through his doorway and he's already in bed. The floorboards creak under her feet, and the outline of his tense shoulders is a passive refusal.
"Whaddya want," Dean mumbles when she climbs onto his cot.
"Can't sleep," she says, and it's a good answer as any, because who can, these days?
He's sleeping on his side, facing away from her, one arm under the pillow. He doesn't move when Cas fits herself against his bare back, her cheek pressed between his shoulders and her arm around his waist. Dean is taciturn around her these days, which perhaps makes sense; terse and avoidant, but Cas doesn't mind so much. She is patient. It's the end of the world and everyone has run out of time anyway.
She shifts her head so that her lips brush his skin, and she closes her eyes, breathing warmly against his back. Her fingers curl, just the slightest, just a light touch scraping his belly, and Dean asks, "What, you gonna keep me up all night, too?"
"You never really sleep anymore anyway," Cas replies, and Dean covers her hand with his, stilling it.
"Go to sleep," he says, but it's just gonna go like how it goes the other nights, the both of them awake, the both of them aware. Maybe Dean would slip up and roll over unthinking to gather her in his arms, and once you're there, you're there. He'd pretend she isn't pressing half-kisses against his collarbone, pretend her fingers aren't trailing shivers down his spine. His breaths would be shallow, but steady, and she would strive for purchase at every point of contact, and neither of them would say a word.
+
What an inconvenience this body was. Long ago, she had discussed with Uriel the merits of taking the daughter versus the father for a vessel. In the end, time was of the essence and it had been quicker to wrangle a yes out of a child who didn't know any better.
There had just been another croat massacre, and Cas was in her cabin washing herself in front of the mirror, wondering at her vessel, how it had changed over the years. Limbs grown coltish and face gone thin. Hormones wreaking havoc now, and all that clinical information about humans a messy reality, distressingly tangible, and perhaps, perhaps, she should've taken the father instead. Yes, an older, sturdier vessel with none of these adolescent tripwires, less restlessness, less distraction, and none of these contracted feelings in the heart that ache without pain. To inhabit a body unused to controlling its desires is a cumbersome thing, and Cas didn't have the mojo to simply suppress it anymore.
She straightened before the mirror and reached into a corner of her mind, unfolding something small and bright.
Claire. Claire, wake up.
And Claire Novak bubbled to the surface, disoriented and young. No time had passed for her since she said yes, and the girl blinked her eyes and looked around.
Look in the mirror, said Cas. Look how you've grown.
So Claire looked in the mirror, and frowned, lifting a hand to touch her face, her tangled hair. "Wow," she breathed. She inspected herself from one side, then the other, then over her shoulder. "This is weird, Castiel," she said, then she frowned at her shirt. "Is this blood?"
Yes, but not from anyone you care about.
Claire made a face, and said, "Ick."
The shirt on the chair is clean.
After making sure no one else was in the room, Claire whipped off her shirt and was about to grab the clean one when someone came knocking.
"Cas?" said Dean's voice.
Claire said, "Who--" and Cas clamped down on her. She wrenched Claire away and pulled her back into the recesses of her mind, covering her and covering her, wrapping her in haphazard shreds of thoughts, quickly now, hurry.
"What?" said Cas, which Dean took as an invitation to come in, and then he just froze, deer in headlights in the doorway, and Cas in just her cutoff jeans, her defiant blush, and waiting for him to speak first.
+
But sometimes, sometimes on nights like these, Dean slips up even more and groans when Cas's touch drifts too low, or when she makes that swallowed sighing noise at the back of her throat. And if he says, "Cas," in that hoarse voice, sounding betrayed like he did just now, that is already half the battle.
She wastes no time.
Cas slides on top of him, and he groans with the weight of her as she licks up the side of his neck, as ready to taste him as he is hesitant to touch her. How light his touch is on her back, and how afraid to hold on. Sour taste of sweat and grime. Dean turns his head, cheek brushing against hers, and that is her cue to kiss him, because otherwise he never will. Between kisses, he's mumbling, "Fuck," he's mumbling her name, sounding trapped and angry, and she arches her back as he kisses her throat, grinds against his crotch and Dean groans. That's when he gives in. That's when he wraps his arms around Cas and flips them over, and she gasps with the impact. He bites her neck hard, and she whimpers, tangling her fingers in his hair and arching against him, wordless plea for more.
"Dean--" she gasps, and then another kiss. He gets his hand under her shirt and over her smooth belly, slipping around and down her shorts, cupping her ass. Dean pulls her shorts down, and then he watches her he slides his hands up her legs. His face is in shadow; Cas can't see his eyes. She feels the warmth of his hands, steady with intention, and her heart is pounding in her ears, heat pooling in her stomach and between her legs as Dean's hands slide up and part them.
So different now, from the first time. Dean so reluctant, full of excuses, then guilt when the excuses failed. "Look, you're a kid," he had said, and Cas said, "No, I'm not," but she isn't sure if that's true anymore.
Dean slips a finger inside, then two, and Cas lifts her hips and bites her lip, stifles a moan when his thumb strokes her clit. He hovers over her body and nips at her nipple through her tank top, tugging gently with his teeth, and again, and again, and Cas gasps, "I'm gonna--" and "Dean--" and Dean growls, "Turn around."
Cas says no.
She has him take off his pants and lie back, and she kneels over him, his hips between her knees, his hands on her thighs. His chest rising and falling, jaw clenched, his silence closed-off and waiting for the guillotine.
"Hey," Cas whispers, jacking him slow. "It's okay."
"It is," Dean says, "fucking far from okay."
And Cas sinks down on him, taking him in, and he swallows his moan but clutches her hips hard enough to bruise. She breathes shallowly, halfway between relief and pain. The groan hitches in her throat, and she leans forward, palms flat on Dean's chest.
"Oh my fucking god," Dean breathes. "Oh, my fucking god."
And all Cas says is, "Dean." She says, "Dean," in this crumpled voice, and she closes her eyes. She pulls back her hips and thrusts, and Dean swears again. Cas digs her fingernails into his chest, and she thrusts, and she thrusts, and she thrusts.
Maybe function follows form. Before the first time they fucked, Dean had asked, "Is Claire still in there?"
Cas said no.
Trapped in a girl and subject to selfish desire. Nothing makes Cas an angel but memory.
(She lifts her hips, and Dean tugs her back down, a sharp movement that feels like a fight, the kind you expect to lose.)
Nothing makes her human but everything else.
blindfold_spn, and here is the tamer of the two. idk. The last time I wrote porn was a year and a half ago, and my reentry into NC17 is with something that gets you arrested in most states. Motherfucking kink meme rassa frassa. idek. Someone take the internet away from me. Ashes, Ashes
Supernatural. Claire!Castiel/Dean. NC17. WARNINGS: underage (her age is never specified, but she is pretty clearly a teenager, so, y'know), vessel noncon
5x04verse. Written for the prompt "This vessel is growing up and coming of age, and sometimes Castiel gives in to the urges." ~1300 words
Dean is a light sleeper who sleeps only in short bursts, so Cas doesn't think anything of it when she steps through his doorway and he's already in bed. The floorboards creak under her feet, and the outline of his tense shoulders is a passive refusal.
"Whaddya want," Dean mumbles when she climbs onto his cot.
"Can't sleep," she says, and it's a good answer as any, because who can, these days?
He's sleeping on his side, facing away from her, one arm under the pillow. He doesn't move when Cas fits herself against his bare back, her cheek pressed between his shoulders and her arm around his waist. Dean is taciturn around her these days, which perhaps makes sense; terse and avoidant, but Cas doesn't mind so much. She is patient. It's the end of the world and everyone has run out of time anyway.
She shifts her head so that her lips brush his skin, and she closes her eyes, breathing warmly against his back. Her fingers curl, just the slightest, just a light touch scraping his belly, and Dean asks, "What, you gonna keep me up all night, too?"
"You never really sleep anymore anyway," Cas replies, and Dean covers her hand with his, stilling it.
"Go to sleep," he says, but it's just gonna go like how it goes the other nights, the both of them awake, the both of them aware. Maybe Dean would slip up and roll over unthinking to gather her in his arms, and once you're there, you're there. He'd pretend she isn't pressing half-kisses against his collarbone, pretend her fingers aren't trailing shivers down his spine. His breaths would be shallow, but steady, and she would strive for purchase at every point of contact, and neither of them would say a word.
+
What an inconvenience this body was. Long ago, she had discussed with Uriel the merits of taking the daughter versus the father for a vessel. In the end, time was of the essence and it had been quicker to wrangle a yes out of a child who didn't know any better.
There had just been another croat massacre, and Cas was in her cabin washing herself in front of the mirror, wondering at her vessel, how it had changed over the years. Limbs grown coltish and face gone thin. Hormones wreaking havoc now, and all that clinical information about humans a messy reality, distressingly tangible, and perhaps, perhaps, she should've taken the father instead. Yes, an older, sturdier vessel with none of these adolescent tripwires, less restlessness, less distraction, and none of these contracted feelings in the heart that ache without pain. To inhabit a body unused to controlling its desires is a cumbersome thing, and Cas didn't have the mojo to simply suppress it anymore.
She straightened before the mirror and reached into a corner of her mind, unfolding something small and bright.
Claire. Claire, wake up.
And Claire Novak bubbled to the surface, disoriented and young. No time had passed for her since she said yes, and the girl blinked her eyes and looked around.
Look in the mirror, said Cas. Look how you've grown.
So Claire looked in the mirror, and frowned, lifting a hand to touch her face, her tangled hair. "Wow," she breathed. She inspected herself from one side, then the other, then over her shoulder. "This is weird, Castiel," she said, then she frowned at her shirt. "Is this blood?"
Yes, but not from anyone you care about.
Claire made a face, and said, "Ick."
The shirt on the chair is clean.
After making sure no one else was in the room, Claire whipped off her shirt and was about to grab the clean one when someone came knocking.
"Cas?" said Dean's voice.
Claire said, "Who--" and Cas clamped down on her. She wrenched Claire away and pulled her back into the recesses of her mind, covering her and covering her, wrapping her in haphazard shreds of thoughts, quickly now, hurry.
"What?" said Cas, which Dean took as an invitation to come in, and then he just froze, deer in headlights in the doorway, and Cas in just her cutoff jeans, her defiant blush, and waiting for him to speak first.
+
But sometimes, sometimes on nights like these, Dean slips up even more and groans when Cas's touch drifts too low, or when she makes that swallowed sighing noise at the back of her throat. And if he says, "Cas," in that hoarse voice, sounding betrayed like he did just now, that is already half the battle.
She wastes no time.
Cas slides on top of him, and he groans with the weight of her as she licks up the side of his neck, as ready to taste him as he is hesitant to touch her. How light his touch is on her back, and how afraid to hold on. Sour taste of sweat and grime. Dean turns his head, cheek brushing against hers, and that is her cue to kiss him, because otherwise he never will. Between kisses, he's mumbling, "Fuck," he's mumbling her name, sounding trapped and angry, and she arches her back as he kisses her throat, grinds against his crotch and Dean groans. That's when he gives in. That's when he wraps his arms around Cas and flips them over, and she gasps with the impact. He bites her neck hard, and she whimpers, tangling her fingers in his hair and arching against him, wordless plea for more.
"Dean--" she gasps, and then another kiss. He gets his hand under her shirt and over her smooth belly, slipping around and down her shorts, cupping her ass. Dean pulls her shorts down, and then he watches her he slides his hands up her legs. His face is in shadow; Cas can't see his eyes. She feels the warmth of his hands, steady with intention, and her heart is pounding in her ears, heat pooling in her stomach and between her legs as Dean's hands slide up and part them.
So different now, from the first time. Dean so reluctant, full of excuses, then guilt when the excuses failed. "Look, you're a kid," he had said, and Cas said, "No, I'm not," but she isn't sure if that's true anymore.
Dean slips a finger inside, then two, and Cas lifts her hips and bites her lip, stifles a moan when his thumb strokes her clit. He hovers over her body and nips at her nipple through her tank top, tugging gently with his teeth, and again, and again, and Cas gasps, "I'm gonna--" and "Dean--" and Dean growls, "Turn around."
Cas says no.
She has him take off his pants and lie back, and she kneels over him, his hips between her knees, his hands on her thighs. His chest rising and falling, jaw clenched, his silence closed-off and waiting for the guillotine.
"Hey," Cas whispers, jacking him slow. "It's okay."
"It is," Dean says, "fucking far from okay."
And Cas sinks down on him, taking him in, and he swallows his moan but clutches her hips hard enough to bruise. She breathes shallowly, halfway between relief and pain. The groan hitches in her throat, and she leans forward, palms flat on Dean's chest.
"Oh my fucking god," Dean breathes. "Oh, my fucking god."
And all Cas says is, "Dean." She says, "Dean," in this crumpled voice, and she closes her eyes. She pulls back her hips and thrusts, and Dean swears again. Cas digs her fingernails into his chest, and she thrusts, and she thrusts, and she thrusts.
Maybe function follows form. Before the first time they fucked, Dean had asked, "Is Claire still in there?"
Cas said no.
Trapped in a girl and subject to selfish desire. Nothing makes Cas an angel but memory.
(She lifts her hips, and Dean tugs her back down, a sharp movement that feels like a fight, the kind you expect to lose.)
Nothing makes her human but everything else.