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blue_bells» Title: Before It Even Begins
» Fandom: Supernatural
» Warnings: Dub-con, gore, possible spoilers to 5x16 (depending on your interpretation of dialogue)
» Pairing(s)/Characters: demon!Meg/Jo Harvelle
» Summary: She doesn’t always start with the cleaver.
» A/N: Originally written here for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ravenspear in ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
comment_fic.
The torn, bloodied form on the rack bends and arches away from the climbing flames.
Meg’s mouth waters as Jo rents the air with a wet, gurgling scream.
For vanity, Meg’s maintained the illusion of her aboveground vessel and her boots click on the heated stone. She leans down through the fire against the metal frame and looks into the remains of Jo’s face, shredded in agony. There’s bone visible from her jaw, whole chunks of missing flesh. Her skin is all but seared away.
Meg snaps her fingers.
In an instant the flames settle back and Jo pants with soft sobs, whole and healed once more. Her bright, blonde hair fans around her when she sags against the rack and Meg hums appreciatively, tucking it behind her ear.
This is how she likes Jo best: skin still glimmering and unblemished. Before Meg leaves her mark. She doesn’t always start with the cleaver.
Meg brushes the tear from Jo’s cheek when she opens her eyes, breaths shaking.
“Can’t I change your mind?” Meg gently pushes Jo’s hair back from her face and feels the upward tug at the corner of her mouth.
She waits for the glare that Jo always manages, delicious flicker of rebellion just for her.
Jo trembles with rage and shuts her eyes when Meg nuzzles her ear for encouragement. Jo’s shoulders roll when she tries to push herself up, wrists bound, and Meg follows the flinch. Kisses her temple triumphantly.
“Jo,” Meg whispers, but Jo still won’t open her eyes, as though Meg would disappear if Jo wished for it hard enough. She's been wishing for ten years. Meg runs a thumb over her dark brows, down beneath one eye. “One word, honey, and all of this stops.”
The corded muscles in Jo’s neck stand when she swallows. Meg trails black-lacquered fingernails from Jo’s cheek, down her jaw and burns a stripe from Jo’s clavicle down between her breasts.
Jo’s noise of pain chokes above her when Meg runs her tongue over the wound, tasting salt and copper. It heals with a hiss of steam.
Meg can feel her confusion as she runs light circles over Jo’s stomach with her nails. She rests her ear on Jo’s chest and listens to her heart race.
“It doesn’t have to hurt.”
Jo’s eyes are open when Meg climbs onto the rack to kneel above her. She looks exhausted. Meg can hear the rasp in her breaths. There’s a flicker of a frown, then anger as Meg leans down and presses her grin to Jo’s pale lips.
Jo’s mouth is clamped shut and there it is: the narrow of her eyes, but nothing else. Meg thinks it was more fun when Jo fought and bit back, even attempting to head butt in the beginning. It shows, at least, that now Jo was learning.
Meg skims hands down Jo’s sides and channels the muted hellfire to her palms, her fingertips. It’s not enough to burn and the reaction is immediate as Jo stiffens, then sighs, almost groaning.
Meg’s been learning, too.
She presses her hands behind Jo’s hips and feels the tension melt with a tremble in her lower back. When Jo’s body pushes back against the fingers digging into her skin, it’s like victory.
Jo’s eyes have slid shut again by the time Meg’s hand closes around her neck. She massages the cords in Jo’s neck, other hand trailing up Jo’s inner thigh and she almost laughs when Jo draws her own leg up, bent at the knee. They’ve gotten to know each other over the past decade and Meg honestly looks forward to another ten where Jo actually participates.
She hopes Jo keeps saying ‘no’.
Meg lets the heat flare from her palm as it curls between Jo’s legs, just to watch the involuntary wince as Jo rides the full-body shudder. Her arms pull against their binds on the rack and Meg can already see the circles of rust against her skin.
“It’s not going to hurt,” Meg promises, but the look in Jo’s eyes, her slickness against Meg’s palm, tells that Jo already knows.
Jo knows this is Meg’s favourite segment: shuddering her apart with shame and lust after restoring her in whole. It will start all over again the next morning.
“Never does,” Jo spits and Meg grins like that’s a challenge.
Jo’s mouth slides open with a hitched groan the next time Meg kisses her, pushing her fingers in.
» Fandom: Supernatural
» Warnings: Dub-con, gore, possible spoilers to 5x16 (depending on your interpretation of dialogue)
» Pairing(s)/Characters: demon!Meg/Jo Harvelle
» Summary: She doesn’t always start with the cleaver.
» A/N: Originally written here for
ravenspear in comment_fic.The torn, bloodied form on the rack bends and arches away from the climbing flames.
Meg’s mouth waters as Jo rents the air with a wet, gurgling scream.
For vanity, Meg’s maintained the illusion of her aboveground vessel and her boots click on the heated stone. She leans down through the fire against the metal frame and looks into the remains of Jo’s face, shredded in agony. There’s bone visible from her jaw, whole chunks of missing flesh. Her skin is all but seared away.
Meg snaps her fingers.
In an instant the flames settle back and Jo pants with soft sobs, whole and healed once more. Her bright, blonde hair fans around her when she sags against the rack and Meg hums appreciatively, tucking it behind her ear.
This is how she likes Jo best: skin still glimmering and unblemished. Before Meg leaves her mark. She doesn’t always start with the cleaver.
Meg brushes the tear from Jo’s cheek when she opens her eyes, breaths shaking.
“Can’t I change your mind?” Meg gently pushes Jo’s hair back from her face and feels the upward tug at the corner of her mouth.
She waits for the glare that Jo always manages, delicious flicker of rebellion just for her.
Jo trembles with rage and shuts her eyes when Meg nuzzles her ear for encouragement. Jo’s shoulders roll when she tries to push herself up, wrists bound, and Meg follows the flinch. Kisses her temple triumphantly.
“Jo,” Meg whispers, but Jo still won’t open her eyes, as though Meg would disappear if Jo wished for it hard enough. She's been wishing for ten years. Meg runs a thumb over her dark brows, down beneath one eye. “One word, honey, and all of this stops.”
The corded muscles in Jo’s neck stand when she swallows. Meg trails black-lacquered fingernails from Jo’s cheek, down her jaw and burns a stripe from Jo’s clavicle down between her breasts.
Jo’s noise of pain chokes above her when Meg runs her tongue over the wound, tasting salt and copper. It heals with a hiss of steam.
Meg can feel her confusion as she runs light circles over Jo’s stomach with her nails. She rests her ear on Jo’s chest and listens to her heart race.
“It doesn’t have to hurt.”
Jo’s eyes are open when Meg climbs onto the rack to kneel above her. She looks exhausted. Meg can hear the rasp in her breaths. There’s a flicker of a frown, then anger as Meg leans down and presses her grin to Jo’s pale lips.
Jo’s mouth is clamped shut and there it is: the narrow of her eyes, but nothing else. Meg thinks it was more fun when Jo fought and bit back, even attempting to head butt in the beginning. It shows, at least, that now Jo was learning.
Meg skims hands down Jo’s sides and channels the muted hellfire to her palms, her fingertips. It’s not enough to burn and the reaction is immediate as Jo stiffens, then sighs, almost groaning.
Meg’s been learning, too.
She presses her hands behind Jo’s hips and feels the tension melt with a tremble in her lower back. When Jo’s body pushes back against the fingers digging into her skin, it’s like victory.
Jo’s eyes have slid shut again by the time Meg’s hand closes around her neck. She massages the cords in Jo’s neck, other hand trailing up Jo’s inner thigh and she almost laughs when Jo draws her own leg up, bent at the knee. They’ve gotten to know each other over the past decade and Meg honestly looks forward to another ten where Jo actually participates.
She hopes Jo keeps saying ‘no’.
Meg lets the heat flare from her palm as it curls between Jo’s legs, just to watch the involuntary wince as Jo rides the full-body shudder. Her arms pull against their binds on the rack and Meg can already see the circles of rust against her skin.
“It’s not going to hurt,” Meg promises, but the look in Jo’s eyes, her slickness against Meg’s palm, tells that Jo already knows.
Jo knows this is Meg’s favourite segment: shuddering her apart with shame and lust after restoring her in whole. It will start all over again the next morning.
“Never does,” Jo spits and Meg grins like that’s a challenge.
Jo’s mouth slides open with a hitched groan the next time Meg kisses her, pushing her fingers in.
