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slowd1ving · 8 months ago

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INAMORATA . *࿐ SUNDAY, MOZE NSFW

“Think of what it could have been, Think of all the suffering, Nights of crying, wondering, Tell me what awe you’re in?” Deception comes second-nature to incubi; twisting serpents lay dormant in their flesh. This is truth. It is also true that for a wayward incubus, it is particularly hard to disguise one's demonic nature in the presence of an angel and an irritatingly sharp human. You don't recommend it at all, actually. I MADE IT BEFORE MIDNIGHT!! halloween babyyy!!! anyways I promised to deliver a halloween fic and I did :3 this idea lowkey came to me in a dream and I think it's singlehandedly the freakiest shit i've ever written edit: see I knew I was rushing to post when I forgot art creds Moze drawing by @ma_mori74 and sunday is by @nai_pizx pairings: angel sunday, human moze + incubus m reader (+ some foxian jiaoqiu) warnings: nsfw, male reader, voyeurism, lowkey stalkerish moze, mentions of death/hell etc, religious imagery wc: 16.1k

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

. *࿐

Tinny music crackles in your earphones that knot haphazardly at your chest, almost in sync with the subdued spark from your lighter. The song isn’t particularly good (neither is the weather: a drizzle that always seems to drip from a perpetually ultramarine sky), but any shitty song would do to liven up the ambience of the smoking area in this particularly bleak corner of the campus.

It’s blue, you note boredly. The smoke, that is, mingling with the vapour wisps of condensed breathing. There’s a certain meaning to be found in standing outside in subzero temperatures, finding peak entertainment in the clouds produced from your mouth as if you were some child. You just haven’t quite found it. Meaning, that is.

You’re sure there’s one or two bad songs about it, if you scroll through the playlist enough.

Inhale. Bitter menthol washes over your tongue–you’ve long gotten used to the flavour. Of course, the glaringly red car that slows down on the road in front of you also helps in forgetting to appreciate any new notes of the stick between your lips, but you digress.

A window rolls down. The street-lamp glowing a frigid lazuline flickers precariously. You exhale, watching the smoke trace shapes over the bloody car—some boxy shape that could totally be used as a muscle car. These things happen simultaneously. These things also wash the murky taints of calculus from your mind and instil some form of amusement into your week.

If you don’t count maintaining your cover at a human university as being thrilling enough to regale anyone with.

Brusquely, a hand sticks out into the drizzle to wave at you—self-consciously, you wave back with a question clouding your mind. Though, it is almost immediately answered when street-lamp strains a bit more and you finally see the outline of an acquaintance you met while hauling boxes into your new dorm room at the beginning of the semester.

A tentative alliance, more like, with the both of you sniffing something off about the other.

“Yo, Jiaoqiu,” you greet back after he beckons you closer. His glasses are slipping off his face, and your hand itches to push them back up.

Of course, it perhaps doesn’t hurt in establishing closeness by being guts deep in him just a week ago.

“You’ll be there for the Film Fair, right?” he murmurs. You can’t possibly miss how his eyes flick to your lips briefly: how his pretty throat is wrapped tight with a scarf tonight to protect from both the boreal chill and prying eyes, how his glasses can’t seem to hide his incandescent gaze on the marks on your body, barely hidden by the loose shirt draped over you today.

He was on the culinary course, he’d told you a week ago, but you could’ve figured out that much from the exquisite breakfast he’d cooked for you in the morning: one you didn’t need to eat. Instead, the sanguine flesh of berries had ended up being smeared on his skin alongside the mellow cream—you could’ve surmised his degree from the divine taste of his body, easily. That, in your opinion, had been your best meal for a good while yet.

“You want me there?” You take another drag of your cigarette, watching him watch you. In his eagerness, your keen eyes pick up on the glamour disguising his fluffy ears starting to wane; and unbidden, a memory rises to mind of a night much like this. Those same ears, pressed flat to his head, with that lilt of his voice sounding far less confident.

A friendship is forged with a good fuck, you wisely conclude.

“Yeah, duh,” he breathes, and the vapour coming out of his mouth mingles with the smoke pouring from your own.

Or two.

“Send me the details,” you smile, a slanted one that mirrors your lax attitude. “You still have my number, right?”

Of course he does.

“Yeah, I do,” he clears his throat, almost shaking himself out of a stupor that he never noticed he was in. There’s a tense dance occurring between both of you constantly, and unfortunately for him, he can never quite outpace you. It’s present in the regretful line of his mouth as he glances at the time on his phone, the lingering gaze that traces your being, and the downturned mirage of his ears—as if he forgets that you can see through his glamour. “I’ll see you.”

“See you,” you return, savouring the rich scent of energy that exudes from him—one he can never mask, for he cannot himself tell that it even exists.

As the cherry-red Mustang—or whatever car it is—rolls away, you stroll back to the smoking area to appreciate the remnants of your cigarette: something you hadn’t been able to due to all the distractions, as you’d like to put it.

But all is not well.

Instead, you resume your road-and-cigarette-smoke watching only to discover another pair of eyes meeting your own from the shadows cast by the lamplight across the street. With the prussic overcast to the sky, you once more don’t recognise the figure afore you initially; until a car drives past and its glaring headlights reveal him for all but three seconds.

Moze.

You think you’ve seen him around Jiaoqiu several times—perhaps enough to rationalise that they are indeed friends, forged with something a bit more innocuous than a one-night stand.

But regardless of how you stand tangentially with your mutual buddy (or fuck-buddy in your case), the common threads that bind you also included that as of this year, he is your roommate. And classmate, too, in perhaps one of the most obscure classes to ever be known to man. If you had less of a spine, you might’ve waved—but as it stands, the wintry chill between the two of you suits you just fine. If anything, the fact that he hasn’t beaten you up for sleeping with his friend leaves a positively amicable aftertaste in your mouth.

Absent-mindedly, you stub the cigarette into the already-bleak wall, leaving a rather abstract trail of ash behind. His nose wrinkles in distaste, but you ignore it.

Is it a sin for an incubus to be any more addicted to human creation? Wow. You really should’ve been a philosopher.

Well, any more than it is being an abomination, you muse one final time, almost ruefully.

Almost.

. *࿐

This ill-fated relationship begins as it does ordinarily—by the two of you both taking an elective nobody else takes.

Well, more accurately, it begins the morning you see a poster for the strangest night class you’d ever seen.

Humans and their machinations.

This is truly a special version of hell.

Fragile wisps of breath condense in the autumn chill as you carefully read the poster pasted on the bulletin—formal black and white typeset, so painfully tasteless amongst the vibrant leaflets nestled around it. Though, the size eight lettering and bland format soon becomes the least of your irritations as your eyes wander down.

“What a joke,” you scoff incredulously, a bit too invested in your human persona to truly grasp that you’re losing the plot. Just a bit.

Really? ‘Identifying and Apprehending Olde Monsters in Our Midst’ was granted approval to be introduced as a new class, whereas the Cryptology course had been defunded and subsequently discontinued? The thought burns your mind, your soul, your very being.

“How stupid,” you mutter, swiping open your phone.

The irritation surges, until it gnaws and bites at the cartilage of your sternum in a desperate attempt to free itself from the confines of your chest.

“Really, are they crazy?” you shake your head, typing your name right onto the form that finally materialises.

You may be loyal to your Cryptology elective, but it’s not like it ultimately makes a difference.

A class is a class, and your tenure in the human world relies on your ability to assimilate into this stupid place.

. *࿐

You lied earlier, by the way. The piddling number of students in ‘Identifying and Apprehending Olde Monsters in Our Midst’ is not two, but three. Your moody roommate (whom you barely saw yesterday), you (who, as an incubus, really shouldn’t be here) and the distinguished Sunday (who is also weirdly out of place but in the opposite way). Honestly, he probably knows this too—glancing at the way your clothes are never weather-appropriate and always tousled as though you were wrestling in bed for a nap (given your nature, you probably were doing some form of wrestling), whereas his own shirts and slacks are always immaculately pressed and ironed. He’s even got a damn overcoat for every day of the week, for fuck’s sake. Honestly, you’re half convinced the guy’s running some cult.

Regardless of how mismatched the Professor’s three students are, the bigger problem is how awkward the lecture hall is when the damn chairs outnumber the students. You can barely concentrate on Professor Hopkins’ droning on selkie characteristics when you, Sunday and Moze are arranged artfully in an equidistant triangle from one another. Any more civil person would perhaps sit next to one of them to make the air a tad bit warmer, but you’re not even a person.

You’re a demon.

You think you can afford to be uncivil.

Or at least, it’s the very bare minimum of rudeness you should maintain. You’ve suffered enough askance looks from both of them (which they never seem to level at each other) to comfortably assume that they have some sort of problem with you that they’ve formed a business partnership over. Shaking hands, all for the pursuit of disliking you more efficiently.

During the next lecture on kelpies, it’s the same story. Even the damned coordinates of the triangle are the same, thus when you stride in a minute before the Professor, you make the creative decision to shift one chair to the left to ruin whatever coordination they’ve got going on. It doesn’t deign a glare, but you can feel the air grow even frostier. Amused, you stop paying attention to the information you could probably recite in your sleep, and instead decide to just people-watch the three sad individuals before you.

There’s Professor Hopkins—perhaps one of the most insane people you’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting. He’s human through and through: reeking of such a scent that would put most madmen to shame. Alas, this madman is perhaps one of the most unrecognised in the realm of mortality—considering only three people are taking his class, and a solid third is the very thing he is lecturing the dangers of. You’ve met your fair share of people who believe in monsters, but you’re amazed every time you walk into the elective: both by his zealousness and by the fact this class even got approved.

What a strange world the human world is.

There’s Moze. Over to your far left, and one row up—the perfect place to observe the whole hall, but also the perfect place to look like a weirdo considering there are only three students and one stout little teacher yelling his wee lungs out at the front. You don’t actually know why he’s taking this class, considering his other class is something on forensics. Or something. You’re not exactly on amicable enough terms to interact with him, but you’d hoped that you had a somewhat sane roommate.

It’s somewhat hard to hold onto that hope when he shoots you that look whenever Hopkins starts speaking. Actually, you can’t exactly see the look considering he’s behind you, but you can feel the white-hot stare pierce your back: rolling energy tainted with suspicion.

Perhaps it was stupid to disguise yourself in an institute of higher learning where one would hope its students had an ounce of critical thinking.

But you’re choosing to ignore his glare to protect your own peace. The only person who’d ever believe his deductions would be the madman lecturing now. Or not even him, since you’ve been such a model student—already knowing so much about these creatures of the night.

Then there’s Sunday. You’ve perhaps had half an interaction with the man, earning a polite, utterly distant ‘thank you’ as you arrived before him for once and held the door open behind you. Impeccable manners, straight-A student, and perhaps the most confounding. Your suspicions of him running a cult are only confirmed when you overhear he also studies Theology.

He’s polite. Very polite. A bit too polite, so much that it honestly creeps you out more than any eldritch stuck in hell does. Because, why be that courteous to someone if you’re not planning on sacrificing them? However, you’re half convinced that behind those eyes, he’s planning some elaborate exorcism that nobody apart from himself knows about. And maybe you now.

It’s unnerving.

Up close, the flow of his energy is human—too perfectly so. There’s never any malice, or anger, or even boredom that taints the low thrum running through his vessels. Yes, the base is undoubtedly mortal, but with none of the complexities that make up the average human experience.

He regards you with a similar look to Moze’s—fixing you with a stare that appears to be figuring you out and picking you apart. A scrutiny that should fall under its very own brand of suspicion, one that makes the heat under flesh and sinew only increase—for you don’t think you’ll be able to predict his next move, not if you can’t ever read how he truly feels.

Or maybe that is how he feels—and you don’t know if that’s more terrifying.

Unfortunately, these three profiles suggest your lunastic of a professor is the safest to be around, since the ebb and flow of zealousness pretty much remains consistent for each lecture (seriously, they approved this guy?). He poses a far lesser danger to you (the one who took this elective for fun) than the two other students (who took this elective for nefarious purposes, you’re sure). And he actually likes you; despite him conservatively eyeing the attire you wear in subzero temperatures, you’re a pro at his essays!

Alas, your propensity for avoiding your classmates has not worked out for you, you miserably conclude.

. *࿐

You should’ve stuck with your regular dinner of passively absorbing peoples’ horny thoughts like some weird fucking sponge.

You really should’ve, and now you’re cursing yourself as you morosely shovel what appears to be some inscrutable form of soggy college food past your stony lips. The food isn’t the problem, though any self-respecting college student would probably be wincing and picking at it rather than dispassionately taking bite after bite like you are. It’s a bit disheartening to know your cover could be blown from how you seem to truly appreciate the cooking, but in another life you’d argue your soullessness befits the statistics analysis you’re half-reading, half-doom scrolling past.

But the differential equations aren’t the fucking problem either.

The problem is the man sitting across from you. Or more accurately, across and one seat to the left, because apparently he’s gracious like that.

You thought nothing of the flash of soft, dove-grey that you saw from your peripherals at first—nor the fluttering scarf that brushed ever so slightly by your bare shoulder. You were, after all, too preoccupied with clicking and unclicking your pen in irritation at the thick stack of paper by your tray. A bit too preoccupied, but you look up and suddenly you’ve got a cult member all up in your face with way too many slices of raspberry cheesecake on his plate.

That’s what you notice at first, then you look up and it’s fucking Sunday of all people, resembling a word problem a bit too much with how many pieces are on his plate.

You disguise your shock. You hope it’s successful, but judging by his soft cough of surprise, you don’t think you are. Mind racing, you turn back to your own plate and equations, connecting some dots far better than others (judging by the mindless scribbles on the sheet). Just to check, you observe his energy fluctuations a little longer—they’re still as incomprehensible as ever.

Inordinate amount of food. Emotions you can’t read. A penchant for ignoring the finer points of human assimilation, such as staring at others a bit too fucking much.

“Do you need something?”

Quit staring.

Of course, you keep the quiet part quiet.

You’re sitting opposite an angel, after all.

Well, opposite and a seat away.

When you finally look back up, his usually cold gaze is even colder—you wish you never said anything, even if it’s making your concentration in statistics flounder. With bated breath, you pray it’s simply because he doesn’t like you, not because he’s about to possibly exsanguinate you—then you laugh at yourself because you’re a demon, therefore no god will listen to your prayers. No matter how earnestly you try, nobody will hear your plea.

No demon would knowingly provoke an angel like this, or at least you hope they wouldn’t. But you’re not most demons—you don’t actually want to be sent back down to hell.

You hope that small fact erases whatever suspicions he has.

“No,” he finally replies. His voice is strangely soothing, but you know that angels are never depicted as the temptation your kind are painted as. And as your eyes flick to your surroundings, you notice that some of the people sitting nearby are glaring daggers at you for even breathing in his presence. You half wonder if he’s recruited them into his cult already. “Professor Hopkins told me to notify you that we’ll have a group project briefing for the next lecture.”

“Right.” And he couldn’t send an email? And this was important enough to break your silence for? And this merits your staring? The words, though poignant, die down on your tongue, but you’re sure he can feel the vexation contributing to global warming, just a little. Angels are unable to discern the rich nuance of lust and love, but even a plant would wilt from the shockwaves bursting from your tension headache. “Message duly noted.”

He does not leave like you’d hoped. His fork instead cuts deep into the raspberry cheesecake, and you watch it bleed out on his plate.

He’s no longer staring at you, but you know he is just as keenly aware of you as you are of him.

. *࿐

It’s not like you can avoid your damn roommate either, because that would probably raise more questions than you’re comfortable answering.

You’re thankful Moze’s quiet, though that gratitude is somewhat abated by him in general. He’s too quiet, and in contrast anything you say will be far more incriminating. And while he stays in his room most of the time, you can’t help but notice he seems to hang around on the living room couch a little too often whenever you stumble home late at night: reeking of a perfume not your own with kiss-bitten lips and a satisfied smile on your face. Like some fat cat licking its chops after a particularly gratifying meal.

Except you’re avaricious, and you come to the dorm often enough to recognise the pattern.

Not tonight though. Devil forbid you whore yourself out on a respectable Sunday evening (it’s totally not because the angel named thusly will know somehow, spotting the faint shimmer of tattoos, horns and a tail materialising in a brief mirage). Somehow.

On Sunday you rest. Or more accurately, you study from home—glasses carefully perched on your nose, pen substituting a cigarette as you teeth at it with canines a little too sharp to be comfortable. You can’t be expected to be biblical about it—for good measure, you crack open a bottle of red wine with it, drinking straight from the bottle as you stare down the thick pack of proofs that are due tomorrow morning.

It’s not hard to imagine why so many humans in hell become overseers, rather than good, hard-working demons.

Humans can simply be more evil and still convince themselves that this is for the better.

It may be foolish to display your vices sprawled in the living room armchair, but you blame both the wine, the record player you brought, and the sensuous ambience you’ve carefully curated in the space. Is it a sin to do work in an environment that makes your heart pump just a beat faster?

Well, the seriousness of your crime is weighed against the salient fact of the matter: that you’re trying to avoid your roommate, not maximise your chances of encountering him.

What a pickle.

You, like the hard-working demon you are, would prefer to not fail your degree and thus decide prudently to remain where you can wallow in both languor and academia. With cherry wine staining your lips, and the flicker of a warm cedarwood candle perched on the coffee table, it’s no wonder you’ve settled into a strange rhythm. Or maybe it’s something in the air, like the doleful sounds of old records you’ve collected throughout the years—ones you’ll always regretfully dismiss as replicas, but who knows?

What a pickle indeed.

Tonight, the roles have switched. At around ten, you hear the almost-silent glide of keys in your lock, and you brace yourself for the maelstrom that Moze’s presence will inevitably bring. Like clockwork, you scrutinise the flow of energy that you can dimly feel—only to be completely blindsided when you feel a distinctly familiar one beside it. Two presences that are much too observant, but one that’s withdrawn and almost curling in on itself, whereas the other flows with ease.

Brusquely, the door is shouldered open. You lock eyes with the Moze who prowls in, the Moze who is uncharacteristically gazing right back at you, the Moze who still for the life of him can’t soften that guarded expression that casts deep shadows onto his eyes. Then, despite yourself, your focus shifts to the one behind him—Jiaoqiu.

The waves radiating from the Foxian seem to expand on seeing you, and almost immediately the taste feels warmer as you absorb it—a perfect consistency you know he’s feeling as an embarrassed prickle beneath his skin. Even if you weren’t an incubus, you could put two and two together from his slightly parted lips, the peony gently brushing over his features like watercolour, and his tentative steps into the dorm.

He murmurs your name in surprise, and perhaps that’s the most conversation these walls have ever heard since you and Moze became roommates.

“I didn’t know you and Moze were rooming together,” he begins with that soft cadence of his. Subconsciously, you sit a little straighter—keenly aware of him, after learning the signs of his body so well.

But before you can reply, Moze answers for you—the most you’ve ever heard him speak.

“Didn’t get round to telling you.” Each word is heavier than you can comprehend, tainted with a bluntness that suits him. It makes your gaze snap back to his face, and you swear the corner of his lip twitches upwards before he turns to you to talk. “Hope you don’t mind me having him over for a bit.”

“It’s fine. I like him,” you shrug, and the corner resumes its neutrality once more. Not like you see it—you’ve turned back to your work as if there isn’t a gnawing hunger slowly uncoiling under fragile dermis, as if you can’t smell every speck of desire and bashfulness slowly undulating within Jiaoqiu. You do like him, and not just as a meal. His tongue cuts sharp, beneath his fumbling, clumsy touches that seem so graceful when not encumbered by sheets.

You just hope you won’t die of starvation before you wrap up the calculus. That would be an embarrassment for the ages.

Alas, you don’t actually end up finishing your work. The sanguine liquid pooling into your mouth may not be enough to intoxicate you, but you can feel a pleasant warmth buzz through your veins. Of course, there’s warmth from that and warmth coming from sitting close to two heated bodies in a tipsy screening of some horror movie you’ve never seen.

Calculus can wait another day. When Jiaoqiu stumbled from Moze’s room with a sweetness on his breath and a tight grip around your wrist, you gladly let yourself be rescued by the surprisingly strong Foxian. He led you right back in, and you were practically floored at how easily you just… stepped into the space, with Moze simply eyeing you rather than that cautious glare he so often wore.

The Foxian pushed you into soft carpet, and you could feel Moze’s body tense up as your side collided with his own—the floor space was just about large enough for three guys to sit, but he made no move to move, thus you attributed it to the buzz he felt.

It’s dark.

It’s dark, and you’ve got your reticent classmate on one side of you, and the acquaintance-or-not on your other, practically curled up into your body with how he’s draped himself.

Naturally, you don’t end up paying attention to any of the movie—some flick you think you saw a century ago. Sure, the screams are totally realistic, but who can blame you for being distracted? You’ve got the object of your avoidance on one side, and then someone you think is deliberately pushing himself into your ‘hungry’ radar.

You would be quite partial to imploding, but unfortunately that is not a power you possess.

But despite all your gripes, this is nice in its own, painfully ironic sort of way.

. *࿐.

Of course you don’t end up stealing a kiss outside the building—Moze taking the opportunity to clean the bathroom obsessively while buzzing from the liquor, while you walk Jiaoqiu out.

Of course you don’t mean to, but you’re drunkenly complaining of the professor for your statistics module, and he’s merely gazing. When the sun’s long gone to its slumber—and the only light available is the halo around your head from the flickering streetlamp—who can blame him for the way his eyes drink your pout in, the way he’s getting lost in the way you smell? Menthol cigarettes and something sweeter, something his nose picks up that could be caramel but could also thrum deep in your veins to intoxicate others.

He cuts you off when it gets too much for him, right when you push your glasses up to continue to ramble comfortably.

“—every lecture, I swear—mmph—”

You swear up-and-down you weren’t planning this; you’re taken completely aback as he surges, pressing you up against the rough brick of the building. He’s warm, you think deliriously—with his hand cradling your cheek and his other nestled in the back of the loose pullover you’re wearing, you’re warmer than you’ve been in weeks.

It’s not desperate, but you can feel the build-up of emotion behind it: taste the cherry on your breath, the tequila on his. Alcohol may have prompted this, but even a fool could savour the heavy yearning on his tongue.

“Jiaoqiu,” you mumble, but he merely tilts your head, nipping at your slicked lips with an eagerness he only seems to display when it’s the witching hours. He’s shorter than you, yet tonight he’s the one caging you in an inescapable lock—so hungry, so avaricious and naturally, you oblige, raking your hands in his pink hair.

You taste blood. You taste life as you feel his steady pulse against your body, lust as he groans and melts into your touch, desperation as he entwines his arms around you with the sole goal of pressing himself into you even further.

You are equally insatiable, gradually feeling the vivid colours flow from his tongue onto your own.

You are equally gluttonous, but your work isn’t going to finish itself and you’re quite a good demon, if you do say so yourself.

You are equally voracious, and perhaps completely degenerate, yet still you wistfully and regretfully ease your lips from his—though your hands remain white-hot on his body.

It’s enough energy to get through the rest of this day and then some. It’ll do. It has to do.

“I’ll see you at the Film Festival,” he murmurs, but the two of you know the encounter between you both will be sooner—a clandestine encounter between sheets, in fact.

He’s walking home, so you watch him disappear into the night—and when his small figure is swallowed up in the void space between street lamps, you watch a little while longer.

Unbeknownst to you, someone else has been watching this entire time too.

*࿐.

Film - demons, seduction, succubi and incubi, you scrawl in your notebook, already feeling a healthy dose of apprehension, amusement and mild horror at Professor Hopkins’ chosen group project.

“...due a week from now. Since there are only three of you, why don’t you boys work together?” Clearly, he is impervious to the chill that still lingers between you and your fellow classmates—the triangle is still at its maximum area, and you don’t envision it changing any time soon. Horror upon horrors, he then adds something that makes you shiver in your seat. “I’ll play it as our department’s submission for the Film Festival.”

Once more, you wonder how the department was approved in the first place.

Then, the thought slips your mind as you first lock eyes with Sunday, then Moze only a minute later. I’m screwed. You don’t think you’ve ever been on such a tightrope before: wildly cartwheeling your arms back-and-forth while dangling over a fatal precipice. You will not survive this—not the research on incubi, nor the actual group project.

You can only pray your two intelligent classmates do not put two and two together for once. After all, you’re the mathematician out of this mismatched trio. Any semblance of hope you had at making it through the year is slowly dissipating.

*࿐.

“…edit it documentary style. It’s professional, organised, and will suit the Professor’s tastes.” Sunday’s mellifluous voice washes over you as you sit in the campus library with your classmates, desperately trying to look engaged.

It does not work.

Sunday’s fountain pen wavers in the air and turns on you, and your heart jolts and skips past a few beats—it looks far too close to a weapon for your liking, and you would not trust an angel with a dagger for the life of you. Or without the dagger. He does not inch it closer, but it’s rather an unconscious mirroring of his thinking that betrays that he’s about to scold you for falling asleep. You’re thankful for the table that separates the two of you, but you fear wood can only do so much to counter flames of divine punishment.

But before he can lecture you, Moze beats him to it. And for the record, you don’t know how he ended up sitting right next to you, and you’d like to complain.

Leaning across his chair, he gets unnecessarily close to talk to you, and it’s not like whatever he’s saying is important.

“Do you have anything to add—” and here his leg ghosts up against yours, but you don’t flinch. At least, you don’t think you do. “—or did you not get enough sleep last night?”

His voice is low—enough that there’s an undercurrent of tension without him even trying. You choose not to reply directly to him; instead, you look at Sunday once more, and you swear you feel a spike of irritation from the angel. But, surely not, right?

Mulling your words over, you carefully select a sequence that won’t land you a one-way ticket back to hell. There’s a certain trick to this, you see—and that’s crossing your fingers and thinking of an escape plan in the event you fail, or the shameless cowardly demon approach. It may not land you a spot among the Lieutenants, but it sure is better than being skewered by some angel.

Especially one named Sunday. You disguise your grimace.

“Uhh,” you wrack your brains, before settling on the first thing your mind falls upon—yesterday night, all cozied up with Jiaoqiu. Fuck. “A horror movie.”

You can feel Moze’s stare burn into dermis, sizzle a bit, then singe your very bones.

“That’s an— unconventional idea,” Sunday coughs, and you remind yourself that angels are way meaner than you’d expect.

“If you think it’s ill-founded, then I would like to remind you our professor’s maturity doesn’t necessarily mean he’ll enjoy an orthodox style,” you argue, suddenly remembering that angels are also ill-suited for debates and ‘gotchas’, and also that incubi can honey their tongue to saccharine degree.

Fuck. You’ve really spent too much time in the human realm.

Before Sunday can get a word in, you keep talking, desperate to look enthusiastic to discuss incubi and possibly give yourself away. “If it’s being entered into the Film Festival, a mockumentary or a horror film could be both informative and entertaining. Or even a silent film.”

“It’s succubi and incubi,” Moze mutters. “If there were more people I’d bet there’d be one group submitting porn.”

You stifle a cough, but you don’t think you did it well.

“What, with Hopkins as the intended audience?” you glance at him, and see the traces of laughter on his mouth, and suddenly your own feels somewhat dry. Just a little.

“Yeah, imagine,” he matches your airy tone—and the proximity forces your heart to lapse. Just a little.

Sunday’s glare bores into both of you. “Can the two of you take this seriously? We are absolutely not doing that.”

If you ever forgot he was an angel, this is a poignant reminder. Should you squint, you think you can see a faint halo around his head, but that could also honestly just be the library light causing the incandescence.

“Yes, which is why we should do horror or a mockumentary,” you interrupt. This is the only fight you’d ever attempt with an angel, and boy do you deserve a medal for it like the humans do. “The topic isn’t particularly… uh… safe for work, so horror would convey the right message that we investigate in each class, while still having space for detail. Think something like found footage horror films or something.”

“You raise a good point,” Sunday deliberates—if there was anything good to say about angels, it would be that they are gracious with their concessions. Some concessions. “Fine.”

Fine.

With glee, you save the moment to brag about when you next visit downstairs. I got an angel to agree with me.

But simultaneously, you compose your face, knowing the next item on the agenda will inevitably be the very topic of the proposal.

Suddenly, you no longer feel the glee of just a minute ago.

Oh shit.

*࿐.

The most abject misfortune in your long life, it should be duly noted, does not in fact occur that particular night.

It occurs the next night. Perhaps it was too much to ask for when you pleaded for just this year: uninterrupted, normal, uninterrupted. It might’ve stemmed from you spamming omg on social media too much, but it’s not like you could realistically use any other alternative without getting flagged as suspicious. Call it a habit caused by humans, or whatever.

Disregarding the blasphemy, the day starts normally, and gives you hope (ill-founded, you know). Like all mornings, you begin with breakfast, a coffee and a cigarette outside—and a quick dose of Moze’s early-morning glare. As with all days, you ignore it—but there seems to be something underlying beneath its surface. Something deeper, as if he’s trying to figure you out; as though his eyes are meticulously stripping away your dermis with forensic precision, paring away sinew from your bones and finding the interweaved remnants of your blackened soul.

It’s a Friday, with exactly one morning lecture on probability—then a project research session with Hostile and Hostiler in the comically empty lecture hall.

Or Hostile and Slightly Less Hostile.

Or even Awkward and then Tentative Teamwork.

The bowl of cereal from this morning does nothing to suppress the ravenous feeling that’s slowly taking over your mind. It would be fine if you didn’t have a morning class, but alas nobody ever seems to hear your prayers as you sit through two hours of quite possibly the most onerous yammering you’ve ever heard—and you’ve heard the Avatar of Pride yap.

Every day your hypothesis seems to be proved right—humans would do a fine job running hell.

But no one will ever listen to the humble incubus, you muse as you sling your books onto your bed and pick up the folder you’ve compiled on incubi, succubi and demons of seduction. It’s detailed, but everything is neatly cited and completely untraceable to your brains specifically. If you rang up your friends and falsified a few sources along the way, who could possibly be able to tell?

Strewn within the sheets is some inaccurate information. If they correct you on it, it’s all well and good, but perhaps even better if they gain some misconceptions along the way.

You don’t mind cheating a little in academia, if the subject is idiotic enough.

And if your perfectly perfect human life stays intact because of it, you don’t mind being a little unethical with your information practices.

Just a little.

Irregardless of your questionable academic ethics, you’re beginning to feel light-headed by the early afternoon. Some would say it’s karma for defiling the sanctity of this fine learning establishment, but you know full well it was the measly kiss you’ve had as a proper meal—something insubstantial and far too light to count as a true dinner. Jiaoqiu was more of a snack, and already you’re reminiscing over the flavour of his lips.

Really, you should be a gourmet.

…It’s also becoming increasingly clear that your thoughts are veering substantially off-track, though who can blame you when your head is beginning to throb and your mouth is becoming more parched by the minute.

You don’t think it’s ever been this bad before, but then again you’re one of the oldest of your species—your full maturation is only moons away. Or more. Or less. It’s hard to conceptualise the time of the underworld when you’re on the surface.

Tonight, your skin will likely burn like molten rock, reshaping and rekindling you into a form better than yesterday’s. Hunger will only intensify the process, making it far more painful. And you are hungry, with a body practically screaming at you to absorb some emotion. Anger. Hatred. Misery. All of these are copious in this highly pressurised environment, but these are fleeting on your tongue—bitter and grainy and not worth the effort of satiating yourself with.

The clock is only ticking forward. You can’t not make it to your project meeting—that would for sure rouse the angel’s suspicion, and you cannot afford that. Not tonight. Not any night, actually, if you can help it.

You don’t want your time here to end.

With each step towards the door, your ribcage feels like it’s about to swallow you whole—so insatiable it might’ve been easier for you to be labelled as an Avatar of Gluttony instead. Not a lot of sand remains in your hourglass, though you’re not stupid.

There are contingencies for times like these.

Jiaoqiu has class, you wrack your brains. If there’s anyone…

It would probably be the Avatar of Lust who’d be able to help you—you think you’ve seen her several times around before, feeling the familiar ‘fingerprint’ of demons amidst a crowd of human energy.

The walls are far too grey as you roam the halls. At some point, you think you start seeing the people you pass morph into a singular identity, filled with the same struggles, crises and misery as everyone else.

It’s barely enough to sate the throbbing that beats in tandem with the seconds—a dull ache that only grows more poignant with time. If you tried, you could probably manually take your mind and crack it like a pomegranate to quell the pain, but alas you haven’t quite figured that one out yet.

There.

“Wow, you look a mess.” Bleary-eyed, you watch as the colours coalesce into a faint figure, but it may just be delirium. Her cold hands brush across your face and tilt it from side to side, and you hear her whistle lowly at the heat from your skin.

You think you’re delirious.

“Most definitely are,” the woman shrouded in purple replies. Can she read minds? “Poor little incubus, babbling his little heart out. So, what will it be? I can bring you the finest strains of human joy and wreckage, or I can send you straight back from whence you came for your metamorphosis. Pretty boy, I could even get you set up for the night with a few humans.”

Her words merge and plume into smoke in your brain.

“Got a meeting for a group project right now,” you slur. Your sluggish register of your surroundings makes it impossible to sense the faint, familiar energy so far off in the distance. It’s a soft dove-grey, and utterly neutral—so removed from the filth of the human realm that you’d stop and admire it any other day. “Could you make this go away for a bit? I’m screwed if I don’t.”

“Oh?” Lust bursts out in a too-loud peal of laughter, slamming her hand on the wall behind her to stabilise herself. You wish someone would do the same to your head. “I see. I’ve heard the rumours, but I didn’t think you’d be this deprived.”

She doesn’t make any sense, you note wonderingly, but strangely her giggles make you slightly more reassured.

“I make all the sense,” Lust informs you. “What a rude little demon you are. But don’t worry—”

Her nails dig into your skin, and you feel the air grow slightly colder, as if some equilibrium has finally been disrupted. Or maybe you’re stupid, and you’re finally succumbing to whatever this process will require.

But she glances behind you, and brings your face closer to hers a brief second later. “—I just found somebody very interesting to help you out, and I barely need to do anything to help you.”

“What?” you mumble. The strange feeling you’re getting from the distance is growing stronger. Just a bit, but you don’t really think it matters.

What truly matters is that your group project meeting is only twenty minutes away, and you’re barely holding on to the wisps of your sanity that still linger.

“You haven’t been very helpful,” you add, but then her eyes roll exasperatedly and Lust kisses you with all the weight of a butterfly. You don’t think you’ve ever kissed anyone this casually, as though it’s the absent-minded brush of powder across one’s nose, or the faint tap of blotting lipstick. She tastes like the rich last bite of cake, and she pulls away with the speed it typically gets eaten with.

“Uh, thanks?” you mutter perplexedly, for the emotion of other demons simply doesn’t satiate incubi the same way other species�� do, but it is appreciated nonetheless. At least, it temporarily soothes the faint pounding of hands against your cranium like an Ibuprofen does a head-splitting migraine. She’s still close to your face, and you can see a self-satisfied smirk slowly unfolding under that maraschino gloss—all pink and conniving.

Lust. What a strange woman she is.

“I think you’ll be fine,” she whispers one last time, before traces of bergamot and vanilla seep into the candy-tinged air. She really doesn’t make any sense, you drowsily reaffirm, but before you can ask her to elaborate on her cryptic message, something vice-like tightens around your wrist and wrenches you from Lust’s clutches.

You’re being dragged, practically, by something attached to a soft pearl-hued glove. A hand. No, a person. No, an angel whom you were so careful to not touch—who is now gripping onto your arm as if you could possibly run away.

It takes you precious few sand grains to realise the true gravity of the situation.

Shit. Shit shit shit. To make matters worse, your lucid thoughts are limited to only one section of your brain—the rest are all struggling to keep up with his fast pace.

“What’s wrong?” you ask the wall of grey before you, and for a brief moment you think you see the flash of a halo in the dim hallway. You think you can feel the impenetrably icy wall of his composure crack, just a little.

But that’s impossible.

Angels aren’t subjected to the sorrows of human experience.

“Sunday.” You say his name for the first time, tainting the angel’s identity with a tongue that has been coated by filth and sweetened with the most saccharic honey. “Sunday.”

He casts a long look over his shoulder, one that reflects his usual disapproving stare. Without looking, he easily fits the key into the ‘Identifying and Apprehending Olde Monsters in Our Midst’ lecture theatre, and you must remind yourself once more that this is the most simple of child’s play to a being like him.

“It is time to work on our project, is it not?”

Can he feel your fever? Can he feel the tense energy that you’re struggling to control?

Your eyes slip past him onto the clock, which still indicates a good ten minutes remain until the pencilled slot. “Almost. Moze’s not here, either.”

His grip tightens, minutely. “He’ll join us later. I’ve asked him to purchase some film and get a better camera from the Media department.”

Then, he lets you go abruptly as though burnt—you’re left clutching your folder and with a profoundly confused expression on your face.

“Right,” you mention awkwardly, rubbing at your wrist and wincing at the painful feverish heat you’ve been emitting. There’s still that awful dry feeling in your mouth, but you’d rather keel over and die rather than give yourself away in front of an angel. “No time like the present, am I right?”

“That truly is the principle we should strive to embody.” Sunday’s voice grows muffled as he carefully rummages around in the cupboard at the front of the auditorium—you take the opportunity to both pat your back for diffusing the tension, and place your folder neatly on the large table that also loiters at the front. You’d normally take your seat at the back of the lecture hall, but tonight the eve grows dark and the only light is the harsh fluorescent one that shines from above and casts only the table in a clinical ambience.

“We can start slightly earlier,” he murmurs, closer than you anticipated, standing right behind you as you sink into the swivel chair by your research. You fight back a scream at his sudden appearance—the unexpected pop-up of an angel never bodes well, after all.

“That’s… not a problem,” you smile, ignoring the pounding headache that seems to have decided to make itself known once more. “Do you want to compare research first to make sure we’re on the same page?”

“Naturally.” His voice is slightly lower than it normally is, and you attribute it to the lull of the lecture hall and its secluded location within the building. Even on the most busy of days, you never actually see anyone walk past the glass windows that panel a strip in the door—you swallow nervously at the thought of being sequestered here with an angel. “Is it alright if I record the behind-the-scenes process of our progress?”

“Like to bolster the found footage feeling, or using it to bolster the mockumentary?” you probe, trying to conceptualise his earlier ramblings of sending Moze off for a better camera. He appears to notice the puzzling expression you sport.

“There was a rather grainy camera in the cupboard here. We should record with both to compare the texture,” he explains, and you accept it with relative ease.

After all, angels can’t lie. “Alright.”

He murmurs something under his breath, a low ‘perfect’ before he’s setting the camera up to capture both of you.

Perfect.

The word lingers in your mind. You don’t quite know why.

*࿐.

“....incubi are thought to feed on the life force and emotions of their victims, and may also cause sleep paralysis. They are male demons who seduce their victims, particularly women, and have sexual intercourse with them,” Sunday pauses. You’re acutely aware of his knee brushed up against yours, how he monitors your face and notes between reading out whatever he’s written in neat, looping handwriting.

He’s warm. He’s warm, but you’re scalding to the touch: feverish and more than somewhat delirious. Sunday’s words fade in and out like the two of you are underwater; you can only curse at Lust for misleading you, as help is nowhere in fucking sight. Instead, she’s doomed you to be stuck with an angel scrutinising every move you make.

“That’s what I got too,” you mumble, shuffling your sheets to find the relevant information. Your glasses slip down your nose, but before you can push them up, a pale glove gently slides them up your face—and you startle. “Ah, thanks.”

“No problem,” he smiles, yet it doesn’t reach his pale eyes. “Did you get any more information?”

“Not that I can think of…” you trail off, mind going blank at the most critical time. “Sorry, I’m a bit under the weather tonight.”

“Don’t worry,” he chuckles, but there’s something that’s sharper than usual in the cloud of energy surrounding him. Something off in the angel masquerading as human, in the computer designed by the creator. “I’ve already got some ideas on how to portray these ideas in the film.”

There’s a slight sheen on your face—half nerves, half the fever that’s consuming mind and body at a ferocious pace. With glazed eyes, you can only nod.

“Poor thing,” he hums, sympathetically distant in the way only angels can be.

Something’s wrong.

The cold back of a gloved hand touches your forehead tenderly, like if he were cradling the divine metal of his weapon.

“Didn’t get enough emotions lately?” he asks condescendingly, and you freeze.

“What?” you squint up at him through the lenses, still trying to play it off—but really, you’re attempting to process what he said.

“I’m joking,” he smiles once more, but there’s something awfully false in the curl of his lips—something wrong and twisted in how his hand shifts to cradling your face in his palm. Still so gentle, but now with a terrifying sort of control that was not there a mere second ago.

“Right,” you mumble, peering up at him with wide, hazy eyes. It’s no longer the fluorescent lighting that’s hurting your eyes—but rather the emergence of a halo behind his head that you force yourself not to react to. That would be a dead giveaway.

You can barely breathe. No longer does oxygen circulate through your vessels—there is only the thick undercurrent of tension you swallow, only the suffocating grasp he has on you, both physically and mentally.

Too close. He’s still smiling like nothing’s wrong, as though you aren’t a filthy demon and can still be forgiven if you merely clasp your hands like the humans do and confess your sins.

Hell is filled with humans like these.

“It must be so hard…” he breathes. A soft, gloved thumb strokes your cheek, feather light, but you barely feel it over the hummingbird thrum of your heart and mind beating in sync. Like trapped prey, you’re honed in to each and every move; and like trapped prey, you’re wondering why the executioner chooses to trace the path of the arrow over your body.

Your tongue is leaden.

There is nothing you can say to save yourself.

“It must be so hard being a demon,” he purrs with that quiet, lenient tone of his.

A feather brushes past your cheek; the angel’s wings have now unfurled.

An Archangel.

You pray your end is quick.

His hand moves up, and with demulcent grace, he thumbs the ridged edge of the horns that spiral from your head, ones that you didn’t even notice had appeared.

Your mouth opens and closes, but embarrassingly the honeyed tongue you so valued has failed you with your neck on the line.

“Now, now, you didn’t think you’d get away with it, did you?” he soothes, and you feel each and every ministration the Archangel delivers to the manifestations of your otherness on your head.

This only feels more cruel—a disturbing mercy to grant a prisoner about to be executed.

“I…” the sinner closes his mouth, already knowing it’s futile.

“You,” Sunday repeats, tilting his head. The halo tilts with him—large, unblinking eyes interspersed with smaller ones, all honed in on you. They’ve all got the same psychedelic quality, and in any other life you may have been fascinated with how they gaze so earnestly at somebody’s soul. But not tonight.

Tonight, they’re the eyes that will see through you and judge the very mettle intertwined with sinew and flesh and blood.

“Please kill me quickly,” you murmur. Perhaps the Archangel will grant you a final mercy that’s never afforded to even the most pious of humans. The uncertainty of death is infinitely long—grain upon grain upon grain of sand. If your soul burns up in those divine flames angels so like to use on your kind, you’re not sure you’ll even regenerate back in hell.

His hand pauses—it’s settled on top of your head now, brushing past the hair and merely resting upon it. He’s not looked away from you all this time: watching how your eyes grew wide with denial, with fear, and now how your eyelids lower with the weight of resignation. What a heavy burden, he may be thinking, but you wouldn’t know for it’s impossible to guess what an angel thinks, and an Archangel specifically.

Your breath catches in your throat.

Slowly, experimentally, his gloved hand bows your head far enough that you’re forced off the chair and onto the ground with your knees scraping the frigid linoleum. Like this, you’re a sculpture of repentance: hands desperately clutching each other, lips open in what appears to be grief, and perhaps the anguish of the unknown that resides deeply in each pupil. Of course, if you were human that would be one thing, but on your head lie two jagged horns, sweeping the ground is a long tail, and inked across your arms and lower back are constant reminders of your sin.

You are an abomination masquerading as human, gazing up at the being who holds your lengthy life in his hands.

There’s a painful sort of irony in this situation.

You can’t even beg for your life.

“Poor little lamb,” he repeats, with an empty sort of pity in his eyes. Empty, for what you’re finally feeling rolling off him in waves isn’t pity, nor sympathy, but something that makes you believe you’re truly hallucinating. Maybe the shock made you go mad.

He leans down to examine you, and the wings that flutter—nestled in dove-grey hair—brush carefully over your face, with softness you still remain puzzled by,

Bitterly, you smile at him—a wretched thing, tasting acerbic and of your birth on caustic brimstone.

“There’s no point in dragging this out,” you mutter, too tired from the pain of your growth and the exhaustion of fear to prolong this any longer.

There’s a sudden jolt of irritation in the tranquil waves emanating from the angel, and you’re starting to think that maybe that first emotion you felt from him wasn’t a hallucination.

You glance up finally, and the expression on Sunday’s face is mired by shadow with a faint flush beneath it: like he’s the one besieged by a fever and not you.

“I could help you, you know,” he breathes, and it’s then you’re able to finally put a name to the feeling clouding whatever the hell was going on with his energy waves.

Lust.

There’s also something so painfully ironic about this—the emotions you’re absorbing from an Archangel are enough to snap you out of your trance. In fact, their purity and abundance are hastening your transformation—he’s aiding you, and the very fact makes you quiet.

“You won’t survive even if I don’t kill you, demon.” His gaze is cold, but he’s entrancing.

You focus your attention on his legs spread in the chair—the pressed and meticulously ironed grey slacks he wears in particular. They’re soft, wool-blend, worth several thousand easily. Imbued within each strand is the intrinsic scent of him: the bergamot, the vanilla, the faint vestiges of cake. But beneath that is a clean scent—not quite the fragrance of fresh laundry, but one that seems to perfume the air with sunlight.

He’s an Archangel, you remind yourself.

“Go on,” he goads, voice all breathy. An Archangel far too used to authority, who’s currently cradling your life in glove-covered hands.

“Sunday,” you murmur, trailing a finger along the neat crease in his slacks. While he stares down at you stonily, there are monumental cracks in his composure that you detect—the tensing of his thighs, and the sudden spike in vitality from your readings. “You really wanna make a mess of these?”

His face flushes a more delicate pink, yet to his credit the angel doesn’t waver at the implication.

“They can be cleaned, can they not?” He’s pristine. Without a doubt, you ruining the almost sacrosanct cleanliness of Archangel Sunday signals a shift far too corrupted.

You swallow, resting your hands right where each thigh is plush with muscle. He’s watching: every move carefully documented, every sin filed away, every blasphemy to be recited at the confessional. The first wrinkle in his clothes by your fingers marks the irreversible transgression you’re about to commit. The camera, too, silently records this clandestine affair.

(“Will your creator see this?” you want to ask.)

(More importantly: will he forgive you, Archangel Sunday?)

You wet your lips, tasting the residual cherry gloss that lingers on the flesh. He keeps vigil: taking in how your tongue darts out, how you lower your head until your cheek is a mere breath away from his thigh.

He feels it, the hot air slowly being blown onto the muscle—as evidenced by the further hues decorating his energy. A twinge of impatience now taints the otherwise unsoiled intensity; it causes far more marvel in you than you would’ve thought.

Every minute shift of hands against fabric is distinctly felt. You know this—you see it in his slacks growing a little tighter, in how his chest briefly stops its rise and fall.

Sunday is no better at playing an angel than he is at playing man.

Pointedly, you peer upwards as you let your mouth finally osculate the fabric. Once soft, grey and perfect, they are now stained and mired—an ever-tangible reminder of the decision of two non-humans in this lecture theatre. You hope the camera captures the small, strangled noise Sunday lets out—something halfway betwixt cough and splutter, approximating to a gasp.

Kiss after kiss you press to his thighs, inching closer and closer to his half-hard dick: so agonisingly slowly you can hear his teeth grind in frustration.

“Incubus,” he breathes in a horrified sort of fascination. “You’re doing this on purpose—ah—”

You easily cut him off, letting the heat from your mouth linger on his hardon as you gradually unzip his slacks: tooth by tooth, until the poor man practically shivers in his seat. No, you forget. Archangel. There’s an Archangel whom you’re scraping your knees for—whose undiluted energy is allowing for you to safely undergo your maturation. This situation is ludicrous—only spotted in the most sordid of underworld printings, and even then you’d be hard-pressed to find something as blasphemous as this.

His fingers wrap tightly around your horn, and you suppress a groan at the frigid sensation. Maybe if you were a better man, you’d keep your composure and remain sluggish for him to get used to every new sensation.

But you are neither better nor man, so you ignore the thought. Instead, you increase your pace, just as he so desperately wanted. Hooking his briefs down, you take a moment to appreciate his hiss as the cold air hits him, followed only by how pretty his dick looks in the fluorescent light: flushed the same delicate pink cast across his features, trimmed neatly and already a drop of pre is pressed against the very tip like pearls.

“You’re evil,” he gasps as you experimentally twist your hand, and the length of flesh twitches. You smile.

“You think?” You finally speak, gently circling the flushed head with your thumb.

His amber eyes glare down at you like two suns, and that is perhaps the warmest you’ve ever seen him. Those boreal fingers practically fracture your horn as he squeezes, and you glare back.

“Taking advantage of a defenceless demon,” you chide; every syllable is accompanied by the motion of your hand as it begins moving up, then back down again. Sunday bites down on his lip, clearly attempting to stifle the sounds that would no doubt emerge when you speed up. “How shameful, Archangel.”

“Mmh–” Sunday shuts his mouth, and the camera takes it all in: how you lower your mouth to the head, licking the salt from his skin and the pre, and how he squeezes those slacks around your shoulders—fuck. There’s heat crawling all under your skin like millions of fire ants.

You move deeper, rocking yourself against the floor to quell the ache in your lower stomach: sucking and using your hands at the base to elicit more of those sounds from him. He tastes like rays of light on a cold winter morning: a clean energy you can’t help but swallow eagerly, ravenous for this stupid, misguided angel. Your hands roam his thighs, the smooth curve of his waist, and finally settle right where it begins curving into his plush ass: gripping the fat tightly as you continue taking him down your throat.

“You were born for this, weren’t you,” he mutters, and you can hear his wings flutter and rustle at your ministrations. His low voice forces your eyes shut, but it’s not just that. Gazing at the long strings of precum that are leaking down is beginning to stir unbearable warmth in your chest, while your breathing is slowly becoming more laboured as you choke on his girth. If anything, you’re the one getting off on this: tightening the muscles in your thighs to keep feeling that dull ache in your gut.

He notices.

Of course he does; those hawkish eyes that shine from his face and from his halo are attuned to every little move you make, every little sigh that leaves your nose.

“How shameful,” he mocks, echoing your previous words. Adjusting his leg, he presses a polished shoe against your bulge, and you moan around his dick.

Fuck.

He rocks the sole onto you, hard; you can’t help but grind up into the impeccable leather, already feeling a damp patch growing on the front of your pants. Each sensation is only exacerbated by the lack of airflow caused by his fat cock in your mouth—amplifying your senses to a dizzying, heady state.

You’re gazing with teary eyes right up at him, and you swear he throbs in your mouth; but the thought leaves just as quickly when his hand comes to cradle the side of your face, wiping the salty liquid away with a gentle thumb and bringing it to his own lips to taste.

“You want to get off too, huh?” he coos sympathetically: a pink tongue darting out to lick his thumb clean. In tandem, his foot presses even further down, and you can feel the frigid linoleum press up against you.

“Ah,” you choke around his dick. No words dribble from your lips, but Sunday feels the plea regardless. Those gloved hands of his pull you off his length with a pop and retract just as quickly. He grabs your arms as if he were handling a ragdoll—sitting you up on the desk in front of him as though you only weighed that much—and you need to remind yourself that he is not human, he is something far superior in strength and agility.

It’s also aptly demonstrated in how he handles the buckles of your pants: deftly and expertly opening each clasp with monstrous speed, before tugging on them until they pool on the auditorium floor.

You shiver.

“Go on,” he encourages. “Since you so clearly can’t focus, why not entertain me?”

Why not entertain me?

“What?” you mumble, but he levels you with a stare that feels far more sadistic than anything you’ve faced before. You’re not faced with a human, nor the warmth of your fellow demons—but rather a damn Archangel that’s making you feel more exposed than ever.

“What?” He’s the picture of innocence, though he’s got his dick in his own hand now—keeping his hand slowly moving as he speaks, and your eyes hone in on the motion. You can’t help but focus on it, how it looks against the pearl-white glove, how it tasted in your mouth. “You’re desperate, aren’t you?”

His words and the crude tone behind them stir a coiling tension in your stomach; you can only stare at the sudden change.

Angels, too, can be deceptive.

“Go on,” he repeats, tilting his head. “Here’s your opportunity.”

Damn it.

Hesitantly, you pull down your boxers: exposing your cock that’s slowly been dribbling precum in your pants, exposing everything to the angel. Heat rises to your face, but his eyes on you also make the heat pool at your gut; you can’t help but slip a hand down your body to wrap around your dick, so desperate to be attended to.

The effect is immediate. With a hand already slicked wet, the tight grip you have on yourself, and the voyeur who’s watching each and every one of your moves with his pairs of eyes, it’s apparent you won’t last long. You gaze at him, embarrassed, with a face sheened with sweat and eyes clouded with lust on your own.

“Sunday,” you bite out—the fist he’s making clenches ever so slightly, and you think his breath hitches.

He reaches over for the camera, tilting it towards you and capturing each and every expression, every single moan you let out as you succumb to the soothing rhythm of getting yourself off.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, and you feel your abdomen tighten. “But you can hold on a little longer, right?”

Your eyes snap wide open as a slick, gloved finger trails the curve of your ass and around your hole; Sunday’s expression is of utmost concentration as he records each minute detail.

“What—ngh,” you whine as he probes just the fingertip in; the glove has been dampened by his precum already, but still feels so powdery and dry as it slowly enters deeper. He’s cold, and his fingers are downright glacial; the sudden change in temperature has you tightening around the digit as your hand flies to steady yourself on his shirt.

So close.

You can feel his breathing fan across your face; it’s shallow and reeks of lust, the kind that’s always the most dangerous.

“Keep going,” he hums, gradually pumping the finger in and out until it’s almost completely covered with the wet precum leaking from your tip and down your cock. The burn in your abdomen is indescribable—you can barely focus on the simple, mindless motion of up and down, when he’s so close like this, when he’s pressing another finger right in and stretching you out with ease that belies his inexperience.

In. Out. In. Out. You can barely breathe with the pace that he’s setting, seeming to deliberately miss that particular spot inside you that would end this oh-so-quickly.

The camera captures it all: the oozing, non-human precum that trails and coats his gloves, the careful scissoring motions he’s doing to ease you open, and the desperate heaves of your stomach as you fight off the tightening of your abdomen.

“Sunday, please,” you moan, and you jolt as his fingers pull out and the same damp hand wraps around your tail to bring it to where he was just mere moments ago. Sluggishly, you barely register what’s going on until he opens his mouth—and his proximity makes his words reverberate and coalesce in your sternum, tightening your very chest.

“I won’t do it all for you,” he croons, but he’s setting the camera on the desk next to you and adjusting his gloves once more. Your scaly tail is further pushed in, and the strange sensation forces your eyes back into your skull. What the fuck? The Archangel uses your own tail to get you off, and the conflicting sensation between your legs and inside you is hurtling you towards an orgasm you don’t think you’ll ever forget.

But he’s not done.

His wet hands trace up your sides, bundling the shirt you’re wearing until it’s at your neck. “Open wide.”

Blearily, you do as you’re told; fabric is shoved into your mouth as he uses you to hold your own shirt up, while he appreciatively hums at the metal pierced through your nipples. Cold, slick hands massage your tits, and even with the thick wad of material in your mouth you can’t help but moan loudly.

“So sensitive,” he mutters condescendingly. His thumbs brush rough circles against the pierced nipples, and involuntarily you feel your legs tighten around his waist. He’s callous with his motions; it’s slowly growing overwhelming for you, what with the tail stuck inside you, your hand still moving, and now his hands stimulating the tender skin around your chest.

It’s not until you look down that you see his dick rubbing up against your own, and the sight almost makes you let go right there and then.

“Mmph–” you groan as he lowers his head to your chest, rubbing one areola affectionately while his tongue swirls around the other.

With the hand now freed up in place of his mouth, he presses both your dicks together tightly, just barely moving his hand for the minimal amount of friction.

You think that makes it worse.

Tears leak from your eyes uncontrollably, and the tautness in your stomach feels as though it’ll claw out by itself if you don’t let go.

You move your tail just a whisper—it’s growing unbearable, just how overwhelming the rush of stimuli is. Sunday’s teeth graze your tit in such a way you desperately grit down on your shirt to not cum right there and then, but it’s growing impossibly hard when the motions of both his hands speed up: stroking you both in such a way that rubs precum everywhere and feels like fucking heaven.

You mewl as he bites down on the flesh, hard, leaving a throbbing mark as he laves his tongue right over it.

“Please,” you babble incomprehensibly through the fabric. “Sunday.”

His gaze meets your despairing one.

“Poor little thing,” he whispers, which only blows air over the saliva-slicked area and forces even more tears from your eyes. “Go on.”

He wrenches his hand particularly tightly, and you wail—a choked, garbled thing that comes right from the chest. Your back arches as your orgasm washes over you and blinds you for a brief moment: mind completely blank with only the purest form of pleasure hazing it, scalding robes of white staining your shirt, his shirt, and ending up on your face.

“What a mess,” he murmurs, rocking his hand as the waves hit you with full force.

“Ah—” you sob out as he continues through the waning ebb and flow: your legs twitch around him, and you’re sure he can feel the shallow, heaving breaths you’re taking to desperately cope with his continued movements. Your tail slips out from between your legs, and the sudden exit is followed by even more white dripping down your legs and onto the desk.

“There, there,” he coos. “That wasn’t so hard, was it now?”

He peels off the ruined gloves and tosses them to the side, tenderly wiping away the tears that streak your face—you’re still reeling, still feeling the aftershocks of intense, mind-ruining pleasure.

What the fuck?

He handles you like a proper lover—an absurd scene between lowly incubus and overmighty Archangel—settling his hands on your waist in something that could almost resemble an embrace. Some bastardised, corrupted version of one, anyway.

He’s not your lover.

He’s not even his own person.

You meet those deceptive eyes: as old as you, yet far more lonely.

“Is it my turn now?” he asks, a smile curving on his face like it truly was nothing that you witnessed in his amber gaze.

The Archangel, true to his inquiry, lulls in his movements: body freezing in both motion and temperature, while he tilts his head in a silent question. Do you want to continue?

The nature of an incubus is simple. Every act of consuming energy inevitably makes the incubus far more alluring, while it naturally replenishes whatever fatigue the demon has.

In the case of consuming an Archangel’s energy…

Well.

Suffice to say, it only fuels your libido.

In response to his question, you wrap a scorching hand around his dick; now a furiously flushed red, with a desperately leaking tip that’s practically begging for attention.

“Not like that,” he says lowly, and it’s not until he’s lifting you with strong arms and sitting you on his spread thighs that you vaguely realise what he’s doing. “You’re nice and stretched out now, right?”

Those long fingers of his trace the slope and dip of your waist, rubbing small circles in wait of your response.

This can’t be Sunday’s first time, you instead wonder; those piercing amber eyes of his make you feel the blushing violet instead. His heavy gaze burns where it lands: taunting and prickling your skin with a nervous fire that further kindles the one that revived in your stomach mere moments ago.

“Need something?” He tilts his head, and the taunting smile stretching on his face brings up the words you spoke all those days ago.

You scowl. “Shut up.”

“I think—” he trails off, lifting you partially out of your straddle with ease. Even as your mind goes blank, you feel each and every sensation that fires within your neurons. “—you have a problem with being honest with yourself.”

“Stick to your theology degree, angel,” you bite out, looping your arms around his neck to stabilise yourself and your racing heart. You quit breathing, momentarily. There’s something hard pressed onto the bottom of your thigh, imprinting stiffly and hotly into the flesh like some brand; naturally, you squeeze your eyes shut. Waiting. Anticipating Sunday’s movements, just as he anticipates yours.

“Which psychology is studied in,” he returns, goading you. He’s got his hand underneath you now, adjusting himself but still not pushing the engorged head in. Your frown deepens. “What, no please?”

“You can’t seriously be lecturing me about manners right—ah—”

Your sharp nails dig into the muscle of his trapezius as he cuts you off by stuffing the tip right in; he groans low in his throat at how damn tight you are, but also the feeling of poignant pain that’s beginning to sting across his shoulders.

You think you can smell the faint coppery scent of blood, but you only half-feel bad.

“You have a damn problem in not listening—hng–to others,” you pant. He’s tightened his grip on your ass, kneading and squeezing so tightly as he struggles to control his own breathing. The two of you linger in the lull for precious few moments; it seems time has capriciously stopped for the pair washed in fluorescent light, so desperately entwined yet ever at odds with each other.

“And you think you’re any better?” he counters. If you were more lucid, you’d be able to properly understand the tension in his arms and how he leans fully back on the chair, letting those wings brush past your body and practically engulf the two of you.

You shiver.

“Yes,” you hiss indignantly. “I actually—fuck—

You paw uselessly at his chest as he slams you down, and your sore throat lets out a choked out wail at the sudden sensation of being filled to the hilt—stuffed so full you almost feel him in your throat.

Each vein, each stupid ridge is vividly felt with every motion—his chest urgently rising and falling, your own spiralling into a sweat-slicked display of ecstasy, and his face. It contorts into the basest expression you’ve seen yet: flushed, mouth half-open, with a burning gaze honed right onto your own.

He looks like sin itself.

Sunday’s losing his composure, fast (you are too).

“Fuck—oh, shit, Sunday.” Imprecations cascade from your lips like waterfalls as the angel begins his movements, building up from a slow roll of his hips to accustom both of you to the sensation.

Like this, with his face mere inches away, you can’t help but stare a little at his face—honed in on his soft lips that wobble despite his struggle to keep his composure.

You wonder what they taste like.

Tea? Raspberries? Salt, like your own?

His lust-stricken gaze darkens somewhat as he appears to look over your shoulder briefly, but you’re too lost in the way he’s rocking himself into you to notice. But you do notice when his soft hand slides up your spine and cradles your nape. You do notice when he pulls you down so his breath mingles with yours–as he searches your eyes for any signs of discomfort and finds none.

“The fuck are you planning?” you murmur, and this time he actually lets you finish speaking before he cuts you off. Except, this time, it differs from his usual modus operandi. One moment, you’re staring intently at the angel beneath you; the next, he’s capturing your open mouth with his, and the effect is instantaneous. You moan into his mouth upon tasting him: not quite placing the saccharic flavour, but he’s fucking divine.

He’s languorous with his motions—to any outsider, it would look like he’s done this a thousand times and still wishes to savour the rest, pulling you so you’re finally flush with his chest.

You’ve never kissed an angel before.

You may not even be alive right now.

It’s only natural, then, that your eyes flutter shut and your head tilts to kiss him more deeply to relish in this final mercy. He’s biting at your lips, and the iron tang of blood combined with your dick rubbing against the soft material of his shirt begins the slow spiral into maddening pleasure.

You cannot see. Your eyes are shut, thus the only semblance you have of the visual situation is the light shining through the blood vessels in your lids; not the way Sunday isn’t looking at you, but glaring at the door far behind you.

Practically on cue, it opens, and you hear the clatter of wood against wood—someone stumbles in, then abruptly freezes in place.

Eyes blown wide open, you attempt to pull away from Sunday, only to have his hand keep pressing firmly against your neck to keep you in place while his mouth begins exploring lower down your neck.

The person behind you doesn’t leave like you expected.

“Ignore him,” Sunday breathes against your neck, and it’s then you look to your left and see your roommate shrouded in the shadow not reached by the clinical lighting. He’s holding a camera and film, and clearly fell into the room—judging by his hand steadying himself on the desk, and from what you can see, the dishevelled look on his face.

What you miss, concealed by the darkness, is the deep red flush that mires his face, and the straining hard-on against his pants.

“What the fuck?” you attempt to sit up, but Sunday’s next words make you freeze in place just like Moze. “Moze?”

“Did you enjoy the show?”

The question is quiet, but Sunday’s soft voice makes it carry across the auditorium regardless—and despite its polite form, the cadence beneath it hides a frightening sort of irritation. No surprise like you might’ve thought, but exasperation.

“What are you talking about?” you mutter, but it’s hard to concentrate on your roommate when Sunday’s busy thumbing your slit.

“He’s been watching for the past few minutes. I was wondering when he’d reveal himself,” he sighs, less bothered than you would’ve thought—what with the horns coming from your head, and the wings and halo sprouting from his own body.

Moze is human.

He’s human, so you finally turn your eye to him and watch him make his way closer, until you can easily identify the most prominent emotion that radiates from his body.

Lust.

You swallow. Despite the new information, you’re not a mind reader. You can’t tell exactly what Moze is thinking as he sits just a few seats away, irritably tapping a finger against the camera he’s holding.

“You’re early,” Sunday comments, making sure to sit up so Moze has a full view of how well you’re taking him—and the angel doesn’t miss how you tighten around him.

“Did you plan this?” Moze’s voice enters the hall for the first time this evening, and Sunday definitely doesn’t miss how the low reverberations make you practically flutter against him.

“So what if I did?” the angel replies boredly. “It’s not like you haven’t figured out who I am. And it’s not like you weren’t eagerly lapping up what was going here when you were watching us through the door.”

Moze stays silent, but you swear you can hear your roommate’s teeth grind as he shifts in place—and this time, his bulge is prominent in the blinding lights. The sight, though Moze doesn’t hear, makes you whimper quietly in Sunday’s ear; the angel’s eyes turn to you, each and every pair.

“What a slut,” he murmurs, and you shiver at his tone: so crude, so mocking. “You just can’t stop, can you?”

You moan as he tightens his grip around your weeping cock and slowly begins circling a stiff nipple with his other hand. On your back, you can feel a burning stare, and the knowledge that Moze is getting off on this only makes you feel it deeper in your gut.

“You’re lucky he’s all hard at the thought of someone watching,” Sunday coos, and through your hazy thoughts you barely work out if he’s talking to you or Moze. His thumbnail presses right onto the side of the head—which makes you almost fucking writhe—before you flop onto his shoulder in a daze.

Sunday goes quiet as he focuses on moving; it seems he’s said all he’s needed to say to the man, and you really don’t mind having an extra energy source to draw such salient waves of lust from. With that being said, you take the opportunity to sit back up and gaze at Moze while Sunday’s moving his pelvis beneath you—only to find that he’s already staring at you.

He’s pretty like this, you realise, dazed. His pupils are almost completely blown out as he takes in every inch of you; there’s hardly any hints of opalescence left in those eyes. Deep cerise coats his cheeks, and he’s almost trembling as he keeps vigil of the scene afore him—with hands that desperately crack the arm rests, intensely avoiding his lower body.

His breathing is in tandem with your own. Shallow. Fucked-out.

Those pretty eyes of his flick up to meet your stare directly, and you tighten around Sunday; he’s hissing and digging his nails into your waist once more as he manoeuvres you. As if to distract you, he slams himself deeply in—and you fucking buckle as you sob out a moan, blearily watching while the man at your side picks up the camera he came late because of and looks through the viewfinder.

“Perfect,” he breathes.

The coil in your stomach tightens with each flash.

“Fuck,” you sob; the harsh tug of Sunday is gradually overwhelming you, and the quiet snap of each photo numbs your mind. You know Moze’s getting each shot in detail; his meticulous nature comes through in the way he murmurs ‘just like that’ and ‘beautiful’—syllables that only contribute to the heat you feel in your body, spreading effortlessly throughout your face.

Any train of thought is cut off when the angel’s lips brush against the junction of your shoulder, and he bites. Sharp pain will undoubtedly be followed by a deeper bruise, but in that moment the ache makes the wave of pleasure increase twofold.

“Sunday—ah,” you groan, knotting your hands in his grey locks. “Please.”

You don’t quite know, in the end, why you’re begging.

You don’t, but when Sunday pulls back with his soft mouth stained red and a hazed look in his eyes, you think you’ve got it figured out.

Snap.

Blinding white goes off behind your eyelids as you slam your lips desperately into the Archangel’s. He tastes of iron, of an intrinsic saccharine flavour that nobody else could possibly replicate.

Snap.

With each roll of his hips against yours, you feel him lazily pressing up against that spot inside you—inch by inch, building up on slow pleasure that trickles viscously through you like honey.

Snap.

You lock eyes with Moze, and the intense look he wears while he gazes at you feels like he’s parsing through the layers of dermis, sifting through the nerves and sinew, and finally exhuming your bones and tendons. It’s quickly driving you past the brink, everything about him is. His laboured breathing, the way his eyes remain honed on you despite the faint agony tainting his deep lust.

Snap.

“Right— there,” you choke out. Moze’s still staring, absorbing each minute detail: the sheen of sweat on your body, the way your torso and legs tremble as you attempt to keep it together, and perhaps most poignantly the expression on your face as you stare at him.

Snap.

“Perfect,” he repeats, and it’s this particular version that finally pushes you over that precipice.

You sob out as your vision blurs, pawing uselessly at Sunday’s chest. His hands are firmly back on your hips, letting you rock the waves out—uncaring of the white ropes that ruin his shirt, or perhaps savouring them instead. Or perhaps he’s not paying attention. After all, you hear him swear for the first time since meeting him, and a mere moment later you feel spurts of heat leaking into you.

He shudders. By the god you don’t pray to, this angel groans so sweetly as he comes—that fact alone has you twitching around him.

More.

He still hasn’t softened, but that isn’t enough.

By chance, or maybe the best timing of your life, your eyes land on your roommate again—his eyes, too, meet yours through the screen on the camera.

Snap.

“Moze,” you whine, and the camera ceases in its photo-taking and filming. Well, except for an image of you looking so sweetly at him as you call his name out.

“What?” your laconic roommate murmurs, standing and casting his shadow over the two of you.

What a joke this is: a human watching an entangled demon and angel, and being completely captivated by it. There’s a buzz in his veins tonight—some from an awe-ful sort of fear at having his conjectures confirmed—but most of it is from the object of his desire finally within his grasp. An insufferable idiot, he may add, but one he cannot help but be captivated by.

Maybe he’s the fool, reaching for the moon, but tonight he no longer feels so foolish.

Your clawed hand fists his shirt, and he swallows: stone-still, watching with bated breath for your next move.

What will you do?

He gets his answer when you drag him down: tasting of blood and that inexplicable caramel sensation you always seem to carry. Your tongue is hot against his—impatient enough to keep your mouth open, but he is too. His hands, cold from the biting wind and the frigid irritation he’s been building within, fly to cradle your face.

Moze has enough sense to memorise this feeling of your lips on his, moaning and twining a lazy hand around his neck.

He thinks he feels a particular angel glaring at him, but it's none of his business, really.

“He’s not enough?” he mocks when you pull back, poignantly aware of the front of his pants ever-so-slightly brushing against you—how he fucking bites down on any sound attempting to escape his mouth.

“Don’t you want me to help you out?” you slur your words, clearly dazed from getting fucked by his stupid classmate. Yes, he wants to say, but he feels like some damned second place prize. Your hand brushes his crotch, and he bites his lip—hard—until the skin breaks and warm blood runs down his lips.

“Shit,” he hisses. Moze’s self-control is normally iron-hard, but it’s been so incessantly worn down today by two certain idiots that he can’t help but let the damned thing snap. Within moments, his hand is deep in your hair, tugging as he nips at the flush of your lips—letting copper entangle you two together in something he hopes can twist your fates together forever, even if he ends up in hell for it.

“Ah—Moze,” you groan, and it really doesn’t help his situation: dick pressed against your side, painfully hard due to a combination of factors that all have you (in bold, capital letters) written all over them.

He can’t help it. He really can’t.

He can’t help it when you pump him from base to shaft with hands far warmer than his—he can’t help stealing your lips away from the angel you’re still fucking riding. He can’t help it, either, when you gaze at him like that—he just has to press his tip against your ass. You’ve been complaining about it not being enough, haven’t you? What’s the problem?

There’s a mutual agreement between human and heavens for just this night. That being, to make you spiral into a mess.

Thus, Moze doesn’t baulk at the thought of sharing this night—not when you’re sinking down on both of them, not when the added tightness makes his head black out for a moment. Fuck.

That’s all his brain is clinging to.

How fucking good you feel—how warm your back feels pressed to his chest. He’s desperately trying not to bust, doing so by biting over the mark in the juncture that damned angel left. If you ever think of the man in front of you, you need to think of him too.

This is far better than any stupid porno—astronomically so than fisting his cock and imagining you in his hand’s place.

Moze buries his face in your shoulder, letting his hands roam around your body—supple skin that yields beneath his greedy fingers. His hands find your nipples, rolling and twisting the peaks to hear you let out sounds far louder than what he’s heard so far. That little fact makes him smile despite himself.

On the other side, Sunday’s grown accustomed to how your breath hitches when his finger scrapes past a particular vein on your weeping cock, how your pupils dilate just a little more when he squeezes particularly tightly. No, he’s grown accustomed to you—all the small tells of your body. It’s why he endures the arrogant human across from him, for all humans deserve grace.

They do not know better.

It’s just for tonight, he rationalises. If he wants to successfully remain undercover to achieve the goal of his operative, he must not do anything to draw attention. That’s why he’s helped you out, nothing else.

Angels cannot lie to others.

It doesn’t mean they cannot lie to themselves.

Despite Sunday’s heart that skips a beat whenever you look his way and all you see is him, he doesn’t acknowledge the racing thrum of the organ. In fact, as he’s sucking and licking marks into your skin as a reminder of this—of your sin—he reminds himself that he’s doing you a favour.

He’s doing the rest of the pitiful humans a favour as well. The more he takes up your attention, the less time you have to seduce them.

Actually, this is probably the most rational solution for getting one of the oldest incubi under control.

Good job, Sunday.

A plethora of broken imprecations are forced out of your mouth as they slam into you—when one slips out half-way, the other nails your prostate, over and over and over. You don’t think you’ve ever felt so full—not by any other demon, and certainly not by any human.

This counts for your mind too—stretched tight by what seems to be an eternity of satiation, and perhaps on the verge of breaking. You’ve forgotten the name of your project, the class you’re in, and why you’re here in the first place; and these broken trains of thought are interspersed with the quiet flash of the camera as it captures your fucked-out state.

“Please.”

It seems to be a permanent fixture on your lips, though you still don’t know what you’re asking for. No, you do know—more.

More, as streaks of white stain your thighs and drip onto the cold linoleum floor. More, as your lips bleed from the number of times you’ve been kissed, and kissed them yourself. More, as you wind up on the outskirts between consciousness and unconsciousness.

You’re barely lucid—having gone through a metamorphosis safely—but they seem to be more insatiable than you are. The energy store that pulses behind your heart has never experienced such satiation; in your drowsy state all you can focus on is the drunk high you’re getting off this.

It’s well into the night now, and perhaps the only thing that fully snaps you back into consciousness is the feeling of something wet laving away the mess between your legs—Moze. His tongue is warm as he clears the salt and white globs from your thighs, and when he sees those eyes of yours finally focus on him, he leaves a chaste kiss pressed against the side of your leg: continuing while you drowsily stroke the strands from his sweat-slicked forehead.

Only then are you aware of the warmth at your back: the angel behind you holds you fast to his chest with wings that envelope the two of you in a damn cocoon.

And finally, beside you and displayed on the laptop on the desk, is a video file paused with the name across the title bar:

The Catching of the Incubus.

*********

There has long existed a pact between a certain human boy and a pink-haired Foxian. Well, it’s not truly a pact, but more like a casual agreement that’s never been broken: the exchange of emergency keys, for the two trust the other will have his back.

It’s used today, when Jiaoqiu’s looking for the culinary textbook he left the last time he came around, a mere week ago. He may have been frustrated with himself for it, but there’s something about coming to Moze’s dorm that he looks forward to each time—and if he said the incubus that lives in the room opposite the reticent man’s, he wouldn’t be lying.

In any case, nobody’s home.

Jiaoqiu quietly slips his shoes off, checking first the living room. Nothing. Your room? Also nothing, though he lingers a little longer and takes in the burnt caramel scent that pervades the space—one that’s only gotten stronger, it seems.

Moze’s room it is.

The first thing he sees is the thick book, neatly aligned on Moze’s dresser with a meticulous pile of forensic texts. The next is two cameras, tucked away on the shelf behind it. They’re just sitting there innocuously, but Jiaoqiu’s curiosity is piqued. The man seemingly never takes interest in things other than crime scenes and keeping everything tidy, so the Foxian carefully picks up one and turns it on.

These Succubi Suck, the file reads, and he’s immediately hit in the face with unedited footage of what appears to be the most slapdash mockumentary he’s ever seen—clips and retakes and bloopers in a long reel that he skips through amusedly, gazing at your face a little too long when you’re speaking.

This is their film submission? He whistles lowly, impressed by the quality despite only having three people in your class.

He’s about to turn it off, when he spots the only other file that remains in the camera, something something incubus.

Just like before, he presses the fast forward button—

The Foxian’s face suddenly heats up, and he presses a hand to the lower half of his face.

Oh.

*࿐.

432 notes · View notes

silentcryracha · 10 months ago

Text

1k special love week: 1. Bang chan

Pairing: bang chan x reader

Context: part one of eight for my Special Love Week in celebration of 1k followers (🤍). Drabble based on 3 prompts which are 'loves when + kink + sex position'.

Warnings: 18+ only, very minimum buildup, it's 99% smut, one shot, see prompts, fingering (f receiving), intercourse p in v, non protected (but they're married), talk of cum & its consequences (breeding kink hello?), pet names (baby, my love) , a couple uses of the word daddy

Word count: 2.4k

Prompts: Bang Chan loves when you get needy + Dom/sub & Breeding Kink + missionary (+variations)

ps: There could be grammar errors. Do NOT repost on other socials. Leave feedback if you feel like it, otherwise enjoy! ♡︎

Masterlist

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Chan loves it when you're needy. Anytime, really. It may be sexual but it also can not be. Being needed is a love language to him. He loves to help, to be the person you go to when you need something. May be something silly like moving a piece of furniture (strenght kink hello?), something more serious like an advice.

Of course he's into it because he cares about you and he loves you, but let's be honest here, it also does feed his ego in some way. That especially comes into play when this neediness is paired with horniness. Then it's over, for both you and him.

You know he likes to be more dominant most of the times, but even then, at the end of the day, it's really you who has him wrapped around your finger.

"Channie are you busy?" you ask, maybe even with a slightly exaggerated whiny voice.

He turns his head a bit to look at you from his seat at the living room table where he'd been working on his laptop for hours.

"Kind of, why baby?" he answered back, promptly welcoming you with one arm as you walked up to him.

"I was wondering if you could give me a massage?" he smirked , squeezing the flesh of your waist sightly.

"Just out of the blue?"

"Actually I think I strained by back a bit from cleaning today" you chuckled, but his smiled dropped so fast it was almost comical. A mixture of worry and annoyance taking its place.

"Did you move the couch by yourself again?" he scolded, standing up and quickly closing the laptop's screen simultaneously. "You hurt yourself last time too. I told you to call me if you needed help"

His tone was becoming a bit intimidating, but you knew he just wanted to help, and especially for you not to get hurt.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, putting your doe eyes on to try and sweet talk yourself out of it.

"I didn't 'hurt' myself! I just got tired, alright? It happens" you shrugged, but you could tell he wasn't happy.

"It happens but if you did as i told you and asked me for help, it wouldn't have" he responded, then added "Now go lay down, I'm gonna get some aloe."

That's when dom/sub dynamic jumps out. When Chan gets annoyed, fake or to play, you automatically obey. It would be a lie to say that you didn't know where this whole situation was gonna go the second you started it.

"Yes" you tried your best to suppress a smile as you walked in your shared bedroom, turning on the warm colored night light.

Then you laid on the bed on your belly, arms hugging the pillow on which your head rested.

A couple of minutes later Chan walked in the room. You didn't quite see him, as your face was turned the opposite way, but you felt him climbing on the bed, straddling your legs.

"Take the sweater off, or it's gonna get sticky" he says. You get up enough to comply, placing it on your breasts, then laying back down.

"Warm it up a bit, please" you asked softly, knowing that the aloe was going to be super cool against your warm skin. It was the chilly autumn season, after all.

"Yeah" he reassured. You heard the sound of the bottle popping open and close, then being discarded to the side.

"I'll try my best" he spoke again, rubbing his palms together to warm up the gel, "But you didn't listen and hurt yourself, so you gotta handle a bit of cold. It'll feel better." His tone was pretty neutral, but the scolding was clear.

"You're not gonna let this go, are you?"

"Do you want the massage or not?" He stopped his movements. You sighed.

"Sorry"

"That's more like it" it was subtle, but you knew him well enough to know he had a stupid smirk on his face. Unfortunately, you were so down bad, that it turned you on even more.

Suddenly his hands touched the skin of your shoulder blades, making you gasp a bit.

"Are they too cold, still?"

"No, it's good. I was just surprised" you chuckled. At that point he started the actual massage, skillfully using his thumbs and other fingers to put pressure.

"Relax, alright? Just tell me if it hurts" you nodded at the best of your abilities due to your position, without replying.

Chan kept working, starting from your upper back, then going back and forth between places. You were in fact so relaxed, your eyelids were almost falling shut. Until he got to your shoulders, which got you instantly back to earth, hissing.

"Tough spot?" He asked. You hummed in agreement, making the pressure of his fingers slightly less forceful but still going.

"I can tell" he paused, "How about here?" he moved his thumbs up, at the nape of your neck.

"Mmh, yes. Feels really good" you answered, feeling almost floaty. So much that you involuntarily started sighing softly.

"Does my baby feel better?" His buttery voice, just a tad bit condescending, sparked something in your stomach.

"Uh uh" he chuckled, now using his palms to caress you, all up and down your back, waist, sides.

"Good. 'Cause the gel is completely dry." And despite that, his movements didn't stop. They just changed the intention.

He lightly traced the tip of his fingers around, giving your goosebumps and sometimes eliciting a small giggle because of tickling.

"Are you sleepy?" He asked sweetly. You shook your head no, looking back at him. He was smiling, but his gaze sharpened as he looked at your face.

"Yes, you are" he teased. You tried to hide a cheeky smile, shaking your head again. You were just trying to be childish, shaking your whole body along with your head.

But your cute butt shaking like that right in front of his eyes and dangerously close to his crotch, kind of sealed the deal. He looked down, then back up at you.

Then, suddenly, slap!

You yelped in surprise as both of his hands came down to slap your ass. He laughed.

"No? Show me, then." He challenged. You didn't need to be told twice.

You managed to roll over on your back, with him still hovering over you. His eyes immediately went to your bare tits, but you didn't let him enjoy the view as you pulled him down towards you by his hoodie.

You started kissing, quite passionately right from the get go. But as much as Chan liked to make out, he wanted to get comfortable.

So he paused, taking off his hoodie quickly, as well as his tracksuit pants and boxers, all in one go. In the meantime, you also discarded your sweater, then taking off your own pants and panties.

When finally you were both naked, you immediately went back to kissing. Chan wrapped one arm around your torso, pulling you towards him, as he worked to get the sheets over you two.

You gave him a questioning look at first, not immediately understanding what he was doing.

"You got goosebumps all over" he explained, also getting between your legs.

"Thank you baby" you mumbled, kissing him again sweetly.

You spent several minutes humping each other and making out, with a little biting and sucking, both probably more tired than you cared to admit.

You properly started to lose it when Chan grabbed himself and slid the head of dick around your drenched pussy, including your sensitive clit.

"C-channie please" your finger pads pressed into his shoulders hard as you whined.

"Please, what?" He replied, voice low, eyes glassy and fixated on yours. Lips plump and slightly agape.

A few strands of his hair had started to get damp and stick to his forehead from the head of your bodies, the adrenaline, and probably also because of the heavy duvet.

He looked so fucking good, enough to make you go stupid.

"Please get inside me" you chocked out, "I need it so bad, please baby" desperation dripping from your words.

"Where does my baby need me? Here?" Two of his fingers slid right in your pussy, no resistance whatsoever by how completely wet you were all over.

You whined a bit, trying to get him closer with your arms.

"N-not enough" you sobbed, "I need your cock, please baby, please"

"Since my love asks so nicely..." He leaned down, placing his plush lips on yours in a sweet kiss, distracting you from the moment in which he actually did enter you.

You both sighed and moaned, in ecstasy. You both liked to get freaky, even a bit rough. But missionary, and all its variations to be honest, were your favorites.

In that position he was dominant, in charge of the work. And you were laying there, needy and desperate, like he wanted you. Not to mention the easy accessibility to your tits, waist, legs, ass.

But let's be real, the actual reason why you both loved that position so much it's because it's intense. Romantic, passionate, creates a close connection, and you have each other's faces right there to kiss. What's better than that?

Maybe the fact that he can go deep...like really deep. Especially when he gets into it and puts your legs over his shoulders, or just keeps them spread at his sides.

Not to mention...that the position itself adds greatly to Chan's whole (and obvious) breeding kink. Just the thought of him spilling his seed inside you, and possibly keeping it there as long as possible, just gets him gone.

Chan was keeping his hands on the side of your face as he went back and forth, inside you, at a fast and rough pace.

His mouth alternated in between giving you kisses and spurring you on with his dirty talk.

"How do you feel, my love?" He panted, "Does your Channie's cock make you feel good?" His voice was so erotic and full of tease, it drove you crazy.

"Mmh- y-yes...'so good daddy" you were so out of it you barely realized the word that slipped from your lips. It wasn't the first time, but it wasn't usual.

He chuckled faintly, still going hard on your abused pussy. He leaned down again, starting to kiss and lick the side of your neck, near your ear.

"Your daddy, uh?" He teased, whispering, "That's right. Daddy 'll take care of you"

All that teasing was getting your even more flushed and lightheaded than you already were, your pussy clenching in involuntarily agreement. Chan groaned at that, chuckling wickedly because he knew what he was doing.

"I..." You whined.

"Ssh, I know, it's alright. You close baby?" You nodded, nuzzling his shoulder with your face.

"Good, good girl" he kissed your head, "Come for me"

Didn't take anything more than that for you to reach your high, your hole clenching around his length, and you shivering from the aftermath and intensity.

Chan slowed down but didn't stop, allowing you to gently get off, except that you started grinding on his crotch.

"You wanna come again?" He smirked, short of breath. You nodded, but it wasn't enough for Chan.

"Say it" he ordered, "I wanna hear my little cum slut say that she wants to cum again"

"Ffuuck yes, I-i'm a little cum slut that wants to cum a-again" you exclaimed, suddenly reinvigorated by the new chase to your second orgasm, to which you were already so close.

"Whose?"

"Yours! Your cum slut, your baby, your everything" you responded, desperately. Chan groaned at that, his pace getting faster.

"Yeah, that's fucking right, my love, my whole world" he mumbled, kissing your lips.

"Can I come with you, mmh? Can I, baby?" You nodded frantically, cupping his face in your hands.

"Yes, please come with me, I wan' it" you slur, "Want your cum inside me, fuck" you gasped as he hit a particularly good spot, just above your cervix.

"Fuck yes" he moans, "Want my cum? Wanna make me a real daddy? So everyone knows who you belong to?"

Your legs clenched around his waist, your heels pushing his butt further into you, if that was even possible.

"Yes" you answer, "Wanna be filled up, carry you around with me everywhere"

That was the last drop for you both to orgasm. Him for the first time, and you for your second. Chan groaned deeply, stilling inside you as his seed sprayed your warm walls. While your own pussy pulsated, wet and sticky.

You remained hugged for a good while, him softening inside you. His breath became so quiet and regular that for a moment you thought he had fallen asleep.

"Channie?" You whispered sweetly. He hummed back, making you smile. Your fingers started to lightly scratch his scalp and caress in between his short hair.

"Now, I'm sleepy" he mumbled, hugging your body tighter.

"You can rest, love" you reply.

"Gotta clean you up" he replied back. So at that point you moved delicately, hinting at him to get off of you. You got up, on slightly wobbly legs and almost jumped for how cold the floor was against your hot feet.

You went into your shared bathroom and grabbed a towel, wetting it a bit. You then came back, finding Chan laying on his side, his hand resting on where you should be, waiting.

"Get the covers back a bit, baby" you say, and he complies. You delicately clean his lower area, including his abs which were full off little droplets. Did you squirt a bit? You didn't even realize.

When you were done you went back in the bathroom, and cleaned some droplets of both your juices that had trickled down your thighs. Then discarded the towel, and peed before coming back into the bedroom.

You picked up all the clothes, putting back on the panties and the sweatshirt.

"Baby do you-?" You were asking if he wanted to get redressed, but his eyes were closed and his mouth pouty. He fell asleep. You smiled warmly, just picking up the boxers and putting away the rest of the clothes.

Then you climbed up on the bed, putting one foot then the other in each hole of the boxers, then trying your best to slide them up. Chan did wake up for a slight second, realizing what was happening, and promptly arched his hips to allow you to pull the fabric up all the way.

After that, you reached your arm to turn off the bed light, and then finally you were back hugging your husband, falling asleep quickly as well.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

759 notes · View notes

glasvera · 3 months ago

Text

Cold Brew

Adam Warlock x Fem!Reader

Description: (Part 3 of this series, sequel to Dream and Sugar!) Adam's been gone for quite some time, and your coworker is tired of you moping about. Clearly, the answer is going on a date with the guy your coworker introduced you to. What could go wrong?

Warnings/Disclaimers: Angst. Date guy is a serious dick, name calling, shoving, etc. Adam causes property damage. Angst turns into fluff at the end though, I promise!

A/N: This one took a while (over a month??? damn my bad) because I'm actually developing a... *gasp*... plot! Also because I rewrote the cafe bit at least half a dozen times. But yes, things were getting so teeth-rottingly sweet in here that I had to throw in some conflict and angst to balance it all out. We will return to your regularly scheduled fluff in the next installment.

Word Count: 3.9k

When Peter Quill was greeted by the familiar albeit irritatingly perfect golden visage of Adam Warlock, he assumed it was for a lecture on his recklessness in their last little voyage. Adam doesn’t seem to visit him for much else. Not that he was antisocial, of course. The golden man was simply straight and to the point in almost everything he did.

That’s why it’s such a surprise when Adam mentions you.

“Wait, wait… sorry. I just gotta take this in,” he laughs jovially while spinning about in the cockpit seat. “The being made to be humanity’s best--no, beyond humanity’s best--is asking me for love advice?”

“Do not make me regret this,” Adam groans and pinches the bridge of his nose betwixt his fingers. “I do not know if such a thing exists for me. I only know that I… when I am with her, I feel… lighter? And yet there is an indescribable heaviness all the same. It is simultaneously the most wonderful thing I have ever felt and the most uncomfortable sensation I have ever experienced.”

Star-Lord digs his heel into the ground, bringing his spinning chair to a halt and slapping his hands on his knees. He quirks a brow at the perfect man. “You’re totally in love with her.”

“I have only met her twice,” he admits bashfully. “Is it not wrong to feel so strongly after so short a time?”

Star-Lord sighs, swiveling to the side and propping his feet up on the console. His eyes trail absentmindedly up to the ceiling and his lips purse to one side.

“Adam,” he starts, drawing the man’s milky white eyes to attention. There’s an undeniable seriousness in Quill’s voice. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned working with you, it’s that when you feel, you feel deeply. It’s kind of scary sometimes.”

“Scary…?” he echoes with trepidation.

“Not scary scary. Just… a lot, I guess. But if you’re really into this girl, and she’s into you, I mean…” He shrugs with his hands up in the air. “Might as well see what happens, right?”

“See… what happens…” he echoes, chewing pensively on his lower lip and staring down at his own shoes.

“Buddy, I'm pretty sure you could have anyone in the palm of your hand if you wanted. So, worst case scenario, there's bound to be someone else out there.”

Quill's reassurances do little to assuage Adam’s tumultuous thoughts.

“I… I do not want someone else,” he admits quietly. “I desire only her.”

-----

It had been weeks since you'd seen him last. Of course, you had gone months without seeing that perfect golden face of his before, but now, things were different. At first it felt like little more than chance, but after the conversation you shared last time, there was undeniably something more between you.

You felt even more ridiculous, being strung along by a guy who's visited you twice. If this was his idea of courting you, he was really going to have to step up his game… assuming he was courting you at all, of course. It was all so vague and new, and he was a superhero who traveled across galaxies to save people. You desperately wanted to believe what he said.

It just gets more and more difficult to cling to that hope with every day that passes by.

You were working the closing shift today, moping a bit while lazily wiping down the countertop. It was stupid to be acting like this and you knew it, but sometimes you just needed to be upset about it for a little while so it didn't bottle up inside you. Goodness knows you've done that before.

…The ensuing waterworks were never pretty.

“Did he ghost you again?” Your nosy coworker pipes up, nodding at your morose state. “Seriously… I mean, look at you. You've been wiping the same spot for the last five minutes.”

“I--well, I wouldn’t say he's ghosting me, but--”

He's not having any of it. “Girl, I couldn't get you to shut up about him for days after he showed up last time. He tells you he's into you and then goes radio silent?” He tuts. “That's like, the literal definition of ghosting.”

“He's…” You want to argue it. He's different? Busy? Familiar with spacecraft technology but apparently incapable of communicating digitally? Your shoulders slump, and you feel your eyes start to water. No, stop that. This isn't the time or place for a pity party.

“Yeah, that's what I thought. Girl, we have got to get you a hobby. Or another man. Maybe both while we're at it.”

You give him a snort, trying desperately to mask the budding tears even as you wipe your nose on the back of your arm. “You know I work too much for that. And I'm perfectly content being single.”

He claps his hands together. Pulling out his phone, he starts scrolling through his camera roll.

“There’s this guy I was seeing for a little bit--”

“Oh boy, sloppy seconds,” you interrupt sarcastically.

He rolls his eyes before giving you a pointed glare. “Babes, do you want my help or not?”

Truthfully, you're not sure if you do. It's not like anything would really change if Adam disappeared from your life for good. Though, when you roll your lips between your teeth and allow him to continue, he cocks his head with a bit of attitude and mistakes your silence for acquiescence.

“That’s what I thought. Anyway, he's bi, smokin’ hot, smart, loves kittens and puppies, the whole package…”

You admire the pictures he shows you, but something wasn’t adding up. Your eyes narrow. “What’s the catch? Why did you two split?”

“Because,” he says, putting a firm hand down on the counter you'd been continuously polishing, “he was practically married to his work. Smart college man wants to go big in the world of science. It wasn’t going to work.” He lifts his hand and points at you. “But you? You're basically the same, working all the time. It’s perfect.”

“So we'd be perfect because we'd never have time for each other…?” you challenge, resting a hand on your hip.

“Oh, he has time. It just wasn't enough for me. I'm very high maintenance.”

You snort at his self-dig, but finally you relent. “Fine. Set us up. I'll at least give him a chance.”

-----

Unsurprisingly, it was a bit difficult finding a time that worked well for the both of you. Surprisingly, this guy, Nate, seemed into you right from the first selfie. Not that you looked bad, of course, but you weren’t expecting the eagerness with which he responded. You got a lot of scientist jokes from him about being “the perfect specimen”. At least… you're pretty sure those are jokes.

It helps that he's hot.

In a sense, it worked out better for you, since it meant you had a few extra weeks to at least text each other before meeting. You had a few things in common that you were able to talk about, and he seemed responsive enough when you asked him questions about his work.

Your coworker wasn’t kidding, though. This guy really was attached to his work.

So much so, in fact, that the only way you found time to meet up with him was by offering to bring takeout to his apartment-turned-lab extension. Not the greatest of impressions, but you could admire his dedication at least. Love your job and you never work a day of your life, right? Wish you could say the same about being a barista.

Standing in front of the door to his apartment with a paper bag of your favorite local Chinese food, you hesitate with your fist prepared to knock on the paint-chipped wood. Something about this feels off. Well, no. A lot of things feel off, if you’re being honest. Maybe you’re just scared of new things. Maybe a part of you still wants to cling to the hope that Adam Warlock will show up again. Maybe this guy is secretly a serial killer, and you’re about to walk into your own demise--

Click!

The door opens before you and you jolt upright. Nate is greeted by your bug-eyed stare and your fist still held up in the air in front of you.

“Hello…?” he greets you with a chuckle. The deep timbre of his voice is quite lovely, but you can’t help but compare it to Adam’s and find it wanting. Come on now, really? Now? “Y/N, right? I saw you on the camera, so--”

“Sorry!” You interrupt him suddenly, eyeing your hand before quickly withdrawing it to your side. “I get nervous with these things. Hardly ever do dates. Never been good at them.” It’s only half of a lie, but it’s the quickest thing you can think of to excuse your awkwardness.

He chortles, a low, rumbling sound in his chest, and gestures around to his own apartment. “I’m not either, clearly. Most people actually leave their house.” A kind smile spreads across his face before he nods for you to come in. “Well, shall we?”

It’s about what you expected from a workaholic scientist. A little messy, with some papers strewn about, but the streaks through the thin layers of dust around the place tell a story of a much messier abode up until recently. The kitchen was barely a kitchen anymore with much of the counter space occupied by various containers and implements.

“I tried to clean up around here before you came over, I swear,” he says in jest as he leads you in. “I get to working and completely lose track of time.” He rubs the back of his neck and gives you a shy yet charming smile.

“No, no, I totally get that,” you reply, setting the bag down on one of the few unoccupied spots of the coffee table. When a moment of awkward silence follows, you decide to bait the conversation with something you know he'll have no trouble talking about. “Working on anything in particular before I got here?”

Hook, line, and sinker, his eyes brighten in an instant. “Yes! I've been studying light waves more intensely as of late.” He plops down onto the couch with a grunt as the cushion bounces him with the sudden weight. “Specifically reflections. What if there was a way to make light tangible?” With his hands on either side of his head, he makes explosion motions with his fingers. Cute. “Of course we have lasers. We have light that can be felt. But if there was a way to take light and turn it into something solid, we could go beyond holograms and--”

He goes on passionately for quite some time. With a tight-lipped yet polite smile, you nod and do your best to keep up. His enthusiasm is something you can appreciate at least. The way he leans familiarly towards you though? Not so much.

Seated next to him and idly nibbling on an egg roll, you were trying so hard not to zone out and focus on what he was saying that the sudden buzz and chime of your phone startles you firmly back into reality. It's not a long text at all. You're easily able to read it discreetly when the screen lights up. Wait… Why the hell was your coworker texting you now…?

<<Goldie inbound 😬 Sorry!!!>>

Goldie…? What on earth is he talking about?

Before you get the chance to grab your phone and respond properly, you're both surprised to hear a firm knocking against the door. Nate laughs nervously and cocks his head to the side. Clearly, he wasn't expecting an interruption. And judging by the way he presses his mouth into a flat line before chewing on the inside of his lip, he isn't happy about it either.

“Ha… wonder who that could be?” Nate speaks up while feigning a pleasant attitude. You reply with little more than a sympathetic smile and a shrug of your shoulders.

The knocking grows more insistent with his delay. The vein on Nate’s temple bulges. Quite frankly, the longer you remained in this situation, the more you felt the adrenaline building in your veins. Seems like your gut was right after all, albeit in a bit of a roundabout way.

“I have heard you speak. I know that this abode is occupied.”

Your eyes widen. Goldie, of course. That muffled voice is still recognizable. You'd know it anywhere. A strange mixture of frustration and hope bubbles within your chest. Still, this is what you’ve spent all this time waiting for, is it not?

Nate peers through the peephole and grimaces at what he sees. “Congratulations! You have ears! Now fuck off,” he spits back through the door. The sudden hostility from him is unexpected, and you find yourself reflexively flinching away.

“I cannot fulfill such a request,” the even-toned voice through the door responds.

“Wait!” you pipe in, nearly dropping your food and rushing to the door. “Adam, is that you?” Nate, ever the sharp one, seems to pick up on the almost expectant lilt in your voice. His frown deepens.

“Ah, Y/N… so you remember me still,” the golden man replies coldly, though there is an unmistakable melancholy in his voice. It stings to your core, and you feel your stomach drop. Another part of you begins to prickle with indignance. “Would my entrance be acceptable?”

“No,” Nate bites back. “I don't know who you are, but I certainly didn't invite you over.”

Panic washes over you. You can’t let Adam slip away from you again.

“Just--” you step in, holding your hands up in front of you. “Let me talk to him. I owe him that much.”

Oh, that was clearly the wrong answer. There's a nearly imperceptible twitch of his eye as he forces a smile. “You don't owe him shit. I'm not opening the door.”

Something about that makes you bristle even more than Adam’s earlier response. You square your shoulders and try to push past him.

“What do you know about what I do or don't owe him? I'm going out there.” Your voice is firm and you stand your ground, your irritated gaze boring into your date.

“Wow. I can’t believe this,” he scoffs, shaking his head. “You came over here to see me, but the second another man shows up, you wanna talk to him instead? And here I thought you were different.”

“Y/N!?” Adam's voice sounds through the door again, but this time the concern is evident.

Oh, that is it. The tip of your forefinger stabs into his chest. Your lip curls. “Fuck. Off.”

“Ooh, scary. Fucking whore,” he replies with a snarl. He pushes you off of him and you stumble backwards into the wall with a thud.

“Y/N!” The golden man's voice bellows, and it's the only warning you both have before the door cracks in protest and flies open, the deadbolt little more than a memory as it clatters to the ground along with splinters of the frame. The door swings violently on its hinges before slamming into the wall just inches away from you and you yelp and scramble away.

And there he is, standing in all his golden glory. Except this is a side of him you've never seen before. Brows that scrunch at the bridge of his nose, perfect white teeth bared, hands balled up into fists. He lurches forward and grabs the collar of Nate's shirt before hoisting him up.

“How dare you touch her,” he growls between his teeth. Nate tries to scratch and grip Adam's forearm, but he seems completely unfazed. White-gold eyes turn into white-hot embers that threaten to burn through Nate's very soul.

“You fucking psycho!” he ekes out, gritting his teeth as the toes of his shoes scrape and scramble to find purchase on the floor. “What the hell is your problem!?”

“It would seem you are my problem,” he replies flatly despite the fiery anger that still blazes furiously in his gaze.

Your panicked stare flickers back and forth between Adam and Nate. Even if you’re pretty sure you’ll never willingly talk to Nate again (and you’ll be having some choice words with your coworker about his taste in men), you don’t want Adam getting into serious trouble on your account. And, judging by the way Adam’s grip tightens, you know you need to step in before someone gets hurt. Your shaking fingers curl gently around Adam’s bicep.

“Adam… please.”

Even that simple touch softens him instantly. His facial muscles relax and he regards you instead with an expression of perplexion. That you would even consider such sympathy for a man prepared to physically assault you is not something he can understand. Still, Nate’s shirt falls from his grasp and he falls to the ground, gasping and clutching at where the collar had been digging into his neck.

“I will see you to safety before I leave,” he mutters. The way he keeps his emotional distance from you leaves an aching feeling in your throat. His gaze drifts away from you. “We should go.”

“I’ll… I’ll call the police!” Nate wheezes out from where he kneels. “I know people! You’ll regret that!”

Adam turns as he moves to leave the apartment and stares daggers into him. “You remain unharmed because she wills it.” There is pity in his gaze, the sort of look one gives to a creature so far beneath it that it cannot comprehend how powerless it is in comparison. “If I come to regret this decision, I will not be the one who suffers for it.”

In a miraculous moment of clarity, Nate makes what is perhaps the smartest decision of his entire life and lets his head droop. He balls his fists against the splinter laden carpet and grits his teeth, but he stays his words.

A warm hand rests between your shoulder blades. Warmth like the sun. Warmth that soothes the chill that has lingered in his absence. He guides you out of the apartment and the two of you walk beneath the ochre twilight.

Silence hangs heavy between you.

Once, twice, three times, you glance towards his golden face. His expression remains stoic and unflinching. You can’t bring yourself to speak. These moments are too fragile, fleeting, and one misstep might make him disappear again. Hell, you feel as though you’ve already screwed things up by going on a date with someone else. A deep, resounding ache tugs at your heart in your own disappointment with yourself.

The two of you find yourselves in that same park, though it’s remarkably greener than the last time. Trees bud with the beginnings of blossoms. Verdant blades of grass peek through thawing soil. The somber glow of the setting sun paints it all with an empty warmth.

“This should be far enough,” he finally speaks. He finds it difficult to look at you.

You can’t bear it any longer.

“Adam…” you begin, reaching a tentative hand towards him. You hesitate. Here he is, the man of your dreams, the one you’ve waited so long to see, and yet you fear he might disappear if you were to touch him.

“I ask you to be more careful in the future. That I was able to intervene this day is nothing short of a miracle.” The corner of his mouth twitches with a frown.

Still he refuses to look at you.

“Adam,” you repeat, urgency in your voice as you throw caution to the wind. The palm of your hand finds his cheek. “Look at me. Please.”

You see him flinch, not in response to your touch, but instead your words. Bronze lips part and pout softly.

But those white gold eyes do find yours. That pearlescent gaze swirls with a deep sadness, a longing. A shuddered breath tickles your wrist.

“It hurts,” he breathes. “Why does it hurt?”

You don’t have to ask to know what he means. Nor do you have an answer you feel would satisfy him. Words never feel like enough. Instead, your brow furrows, and the pad of your thumb draws a path along his cheekbone.

“You are safe, and that brings me joy,” he whispers. Tears bead at the corners of his eyes. “Yet when I learned why you were there, I felt only anger. Betrayal.” Misty eyes blink away the tears. “But now… I do not know what I feel.”

Your hand falls from his face, and you swear for a moment he seemed to chase the warmth of it. But he’s right. Even if today’s date was a begrudging one, you had done so knowing the feelings you had shared with the man before you now.

“I’m sorry.” You nearly choke on your own words as you force them past the lump in your throat. “I didn’t--” Gritting your teeth, you look away. Excuses are worth nothing. Still, frustration burns within your chest. “I thought you weren’t coming back.”

You’d think you hit him physically with the way he recoils from your words. Of course he was coming back.

“Did our conversation before mean nothing to you?” he asks, his milky eyes going cold. “Do I mean nothing to you?” His words are reckless indulgence, and he knows it, but he can’t bring himself to stop them.

And you can’t stop the rage that burns within you.

“It meant everything to me!” you exclaim. Adam’s eyes widen at your outburst. “You… you left me! Without a word! For weeks!” Tears sting at your eyes. Your fingers curl into a fist as you beat it weakly against his chest. “You… you…”

Your words fade as you choke out a sob. Everything comes flooding back to you all at once, and the waterworks are unstoppable. Your stomach is in knots.

The anger washes away from him leaving only guilt behind. There was no protocol for this, no metaphorical manual for him to follow. Yet at the same time, how could he blame you for feeling abandoned?

“Y/N…”

“Just go,” you snap, pushing him away from you softly. More accurately, you push yourself off of him as he doesn’t budge.

You didn’t mean it. Not really. But you were angry, scared from your ordeal, and quite frankly overwhelmed by it all. It was easier to let your emotions win right now.

Frankly, Adam was of a similar mind in that matter.

For what else save emotions can explain why he takes you by the shoulders and leans in close? What rational thought might bring him to press soft, metallic lips to your own?

You squeak softly in surprise when he kisses you. Your lips are salty, wet with your tears, but it doesn’t seem to matter. He has to make you understand. You feel as much with the raw emotion he seems to emanate. When he pulls away you’re dazed, leaving a muddled fog over the anger that had just been boiling within you.

Worry knits at his brow as he looks down at you. The last thing he wants to do is overstep, and here he is kissing you without even asking first. “If you still want me to go, I--”

You don’t allow him to finish his sentence, shaking your head at him as you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him down to kiss you again. A gasp of pleasant surprise whispers against your lips before his mouth slants over yours. It’s all so sudden, maybe even a bit crazy, but the warmth of him fills you with such brilliance that no other place than his side feels right.

Needless to say, you weren’t letting him go anywhere any time soon.

#marvel rivals x reader #marvel rivals #adam warlock #adam warlock x reader #marvel rivals adam warlock #marvel rivals fanfic #fanfic #glasvera writes #if adam warlock has 0 fans i am dead

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knavesflames · 7 months ago

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heyyy el

requesting politely reader ... tending to ... arlecchino with her mouth and going from starting timid to taking a bit more control to arles surprise

lots of care and love just like in the one you just posted :3

mhm ty

Hi anon<33 I hope you are doing well and having a nice night (it’s night for me). I liked this idea >:) sorry lol it took me a while to come up with a concept but I hope this suffices 😁😁😁 (hi guys the dirty words are slowly making a reappearance)

Word count: 2.2k

Contents: soft dom!reader (kind of yes), bottom Arlecchino, cunnilingus (funny word), fingering at the end, orgasm denial (ONCE GUYS OKAY ONCE), also praise (guys I’m cooked)

Songs I listened to (for fun): fantastic- king princess (is this one obvious or not), disease- lady gaga, shhh!- viviz, pivot- HEYOON, boyfriend- dove Cameron, impurities- le sserafim

There’s more but I forgot

Nsft utc<3

Arlecchino is not a receiver. She gives and takes nothing, it’s how she’s always liked it, whatever the reason may be. She has not explained, and you doubt she will. Arlecchino is very secretive, you’ve come to learn. She divulges what she must, and keeps the rest hidden. Even you, who seems to know more about her than anyone ever has, is kept in the dark about a lot of things– what exactly triggers her nightmares? What truly happened with that ‘Mother’ of hers? There are rumours, of course. Arlecchino is mad and cursed, she killed her Mother ruthlessly without reason, she killed her best friend for nothing other than a simple quarrel. You know them to be false, now you know her better, but what you can’t seem to understand is why she lets the lies fester, why allows herself to be portrayed as a cruel monster. She can’t seem to answer you.

Arlecchino also refuses to tell you why she pushes herself so hard, or why she has such strict rules for herself. You beg her to take that damn suit off constantly (for.. Multiple reasons, both you and her know that well enough– she only obliges when it ends in you as a quivering mess on the bed). “What happened to regular clothing? I know you dislike dresses, but you don’t have to force your body into that silly suit all the time.” is a phrase often uttered. Silence is the only answer given.

Silence seems to be an answer you get from her often. In different contexts, of course. Sometimes, she is silent when she is comfortable, when she is thinking, when she is angry.. You realised long ago that she is a woman of few words– and even fewer sounds. During the rare occasions you get to make her feel good (whether that’s simultaneous to your own pleasure, or before), the only sounds you really hear are the soft breaths and the slight grunts whenever you do something she particularly likes. You have made it your mission to coax more sounds out of her, even if it’s the last thing you do. You experiment with different things each time you get to make her feel good, anything remotely sexual she’s done to you, you try with her. Degradation doesn’t work, her only response is a cock of her eyebrow and a scoff. Praise is a little bit better, earning a soft kiss on whatever part of your skin she can reach. Tying her up is out of the question– she has made it abundantly clear multiple times she only enjoys the act of bondage, however small, when you are on the receiving end. It’s the case for a lot of things, and it almost irritates you. Almost. it turns out the answer is something much simpler than anything you’ve ever tried, and you mentally curse yourself for taking so long to figure it out (for Arlecchino, that was the point. She likes the game, even if she truly is trying to keep her weakness hidden).

The answer was something she had done to you almost every time you had engaged in some form of intimate act with her. There aren’t many acts more intimate than your partner giving up the ability to speak because their tongue seems to be.. Busy. You just hadn’t realised that Arlecchino would ever be on the receiving end. So, after much pleading (and begging to the point it almost seems you’re begging her to fuck you instead of the other way around), she seemed to relent. Barely.

“Let me try,” comes the soft whisper from your lips, hitting the side of her neck as you gently place kisses there. There’s no reaction, but you could swear you felt a shiver. Moving away from the milky, unmarred skin of her neck (one of the only places that isn’t marked with either her curse or an array of scars), you almost expertly push the blazer off her shoulders before slowly sinking to your knees. The carpet is fuzzy, but it doesn’t do much to soften the hard wood underneath. You can’t find yourself caring. The blazer lands on the back of the desk chair. Excited, desperate fingers tug at the buttons of those godforsaken trousers until they finally do what you want them to do. You’ve done what you can, you can’t push her hips up so you can continue to take them off, she’s stronger than you’ll ever be (you like that). “Don’t you think it would feel nice? You know it feels nice. Do you not think you deserve it?”

“I do not deserve the pleasure you give me,” she murmurs, a rare show of her inner thoughts. The woman criticises herself too much, you think. You wish she wouldn’t be so strict with herself.

“Irrelevant,” She shivers at the slight sternness of your voice. It mirrors her own. “Do you want it?”

Arlecchino doesn’t respond for a while. Her hand moves to your head, and she caresses your hair, gently stroking and tugging at the strands before she eventually speaks, a whisper, a subconscious attempt to hide the fact she’s about to chase something she never allows herself to. “Put a pillow under your knees, at least.”

You grin, so pleased with yourself. You stand again, only to sprint and find a pillow. It happens to be the pillow you sleep on, it doesn’t matter. You return to your position only to find her trousers messily on the ground, and the top four buttons of her dress shirt undone. The look in her eyes is one you’ve rarely seen– want. “Beg.” you whisper, the grin still on your face. Arlecchino’s own face twists into a frown.

“I will die before I beg for anything.” Her tone is resolute, and you sit there nonetheless, unmoving apart from the finger tracing up and down her toned thigh. You both stay like that for an agonising two minutes before she barely mumbles. “Please.”

You are incredibly aware that you won’t get more than that, so, even though you know it doesn’t do much, you mutter “good girl”. It does do something, though. You barely hear it, but her breath shakes. You take it as an initiative to start, so you let your lips find her thigh, planting wet, open mouthed kisses up towards her inner thigh. You continue, and– she’s soaked already. You’ve done exactly nothing and she’s as wetter than you’ve ever seen her. Your eyes move up to hers, a raise of your eyebrow as you open your mouth to speak, but she cuts you off before you can speak.

“Do not. I am aware of the.. situation.”

“But you’re all wet and it’s all for my tongue. Isn’t that sweet?” You’ve never been this cocky at all, and Arlecchino would be a liar if she said she didn’t like it. She tries to find words, something to refute the claim, but her words are ripped from her lips when she feels your own lips graze her clit. It’s a tiny movement, really, but one she isn’t entirely used to. The only reaction she makes, however, is a slightly sharper exhale. Until your eyes stare straight into hers and you do it again, though for longer. Then again, though this time your tongue presses flat against it. Your tongue doesn’t move, much to Arlecchino’s dismay. The hand that rested in your hair gently tugs.

“Continue.” She speaks breathily, and her words shake. You can practically hear her gulp as she tries (and fails) to calm herself, and you know she’s probably telling herself to show no emotion. Though, when you finally start moving your tongue in slow, languid motions, you hear her shaky sigh and feel her hand in your hair tighten even more. You try to find a rhythm that affects her the most, alternating between soft licks and harder presses— you find that swirling your tongue around her clit, occasionally moving down to dip your tongue into her aching cunt. Your eyes dart up to her every few seconds to catch her mouth falling open and her head tilting back. When her mouth isn’t open, she’s stifling any noise she could possibly make, gritting her teeth so hard you’re almost certain they’re going to crack. The next time you tear your eyes away from her skin and move them to her face, her eyes are squeezed shut, and only then does a quiet groan escape her.

Something seems to change in your mind, because your hands move to grip her thighs, holding them apart despite them trembling. She’s sensitive, after all, it isn’t often she gets taken care of, is it? The blackened hand not pulling greedily at the strands on your head moves in an attempt to push your hands away, but your voice vibrates against her (which of course, causes another quiet sound to slip from her). “Keep your hands on the chair.”

Arlecchino’s eyes shoot open, a gasp practically ripping through her lungs. “You cannot expect me t—“

“Do it or I stop. Let me finish making you feel good.” She scolds herself internally for letting you get too comfortable with her own tricks. Either way, it feels good and she doesn’t want you to stop, though she’d rather cut off her own arm than admit it. She doesn’t need to say a word, though, the small groans (and whimpers) tell you everything. Especially when they grow louder, and her chest begins heaving, and her voice breaks with every utterance of your name. It’s the most pleasure she’s ever outwardly expressed.

“Why did you stop?” Her exasperated, breathless voice echoes the room. You stopped just as her orgasm was reaching the peak, causing it to ebb away quickly, a sense of disappointment growing in Arlecchino’s stomach. Her eyes, now piercing into you with that familiar irritated stare, meet yours, your own full of amusement. Wiping your chin (when you’re eating pussy like it’s the last meal you’ll ever eat, it tends to get messy, doesn’t it?), you chuckle and respond in your own teasing lilt.

“You taste so good, and your pussy is so damn pretty, Arlecchino. I don’t particularly want to stop right now. You can take it, can’t you? Keep your hands still.” Her face twists into some odd mix of mortified and aroused, but your tongue meets her clit again, and the only sound she can make is something so uncharacteristic, a whine. You continue exactly what you were doing before, though this time you decide to slide a finger into her— the reaction she gave was definitely a pleasant one, her back arching off of the chair, her hands squeezing the seat of it in an attempt to keep them still. Arlecchino reaches the peak quicker this time, and despite your bossy orders, she finds herself melting into you completely, her hips grinding herself onto your tongue as much as she possibly can. It’s completely different to how she was at the beginning, her plan to remain unbothered and stoic foiled.

“Can I— please don’t stop this time.” When there comes no response from you other than a curl of your finger, she moans your name in a useless attempt to get you to answer her. You’re being mean, she thinks, and you’re using everything she does against her. “Answer me. Tell me I can cum.”

How is she still demanding things from you even in this position? She lost all control a long time ago. You find your eyes opening though, and while adding a second finger, your voice softens and you speak, voice full of affection. “Be good and cum for me, then. Now, before I change my mind. Let yourself feel good, yeah?”

Arlecchino doesn’t need to be told twice, because her hips lose whatever rhythm they had when your tongue presses flat against her, letting her choose the pace and the rhythm she knows will get her there quickest (it doesn’t take long, the woman is so sexually pent up it’s laughable). Within a minute, she’s crying out, her hands flying up to her face to cover the obscene expression she knows is there. You pay no attention, only watching every movement with a sense of satisfaction and a smile in your eyes. You keep your finger curling and your tongue still until her body stops rocking, and her hands leave her face. When her face, the one you find so beautiful, emerges from behind her hands, mascara slightly smudged, you can’t help but snicker as you pull out and away from her.

“Better?” You ask, wiping your chin once more with the back of your hand. You somehow look so smug and the look on your face pisses Arlecchino off, just a little. How you’re so calm and collected and she’s a fucked out mess sat in her desk chair.

“Yes,” she says, her voice sharper than she intends it to be really, but she continues in the same tone. “I do hope you don’t think we’re finished, hm?” Your head tilts in slight confusion, but the smile remains on your face. After a while, Arlecchino’s own lips twitch upwards, barely noticeable, but you notice nonetheless. “How could I leave you without feeling good, too? Go to the bedroom, please.”

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prlssprfctn · 3 months ago

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Imagine Bat & Co get hit by some magic user where they get to explore their past memories. There's a mix of the mundane and the more impactful events as they get sent to memory after memory.

They end up an innocuous night where Robin!Jason is sick, so Bruce decides to take the night off from being Batman. It's sweet and they are all enjoying it after the more unsavory moments they've seen, but Jason says, "Oh, we just making stuff up now. Out of memories worth showing". Only for Bruce to counter saying that it did happen.

The others don't really know how to trust. If they trust Bruce, who doesn't have a reason to lie about something quite small, they ruin the fragile relationship with Jason they've cultivated. But can they trust Jason, his Robin era is shrouded in mystery, who is to say he's remembers it himself.

They are all standing there, the tension thick, before being swept to another memory, an easy out. But Jason isn't arguing with Bruce just thinking. He's racking his brain for a reason for this disparity then he remembers his encounter with S'aru. He had to give up his most precious memory and never took it back like Kori and Roy.

Then that begs the question, why would this be his most precious memory? Is it because Bruce is choosing Jason over his crusade? He is choosing to be a dad and not be Batman. That can't be right. He wouldn't do that now. Why would he do that then? Sure, others can say that it is real and from all the other memories they've seen have actually happened. But he's watching it as a spectator and not in the moment. And how is it his reality when it seems so much closer to his dreams.

Of course, their travels couldn't end without the gang watching the encounter with S'aru. Another piece in the puzzle. But why would Jason not want it back? He considers it his most precious memory, so why leave it. Does he want to move on from those years that are literally a lifetime ago? Or is it simply because it's Bruce? His very existence defines the memory but also taints it for all that he does in the future.

Context: Red Hood & the Outlaws (New52) #3

- 🐳

(Finally decided on an emoji and remembered to sign off my ask)

hi, dear!

YOUR BRAIN, OUCH, OUCH— let me chime in with this addition:

i imagine both Bruce and Jason being restless after this event for nights, ultimately for the different reasons — Jason is wondering if it would change anything at all, if he got it back (no, it won't; if anything, it would hurt more) and Bruce keeps asking himself why Jason did what he did, with the memory.

the bump into each other one of these sleepless nights. stare each other for a while. and then, when they gather their courage, the same question leaves their mouth, at the same time, addressed to each other:

"do you regret it?"

Jason asks if Bruce regrets what had happened between them because of all of that, that memory, let alone, was supposed to mean something for Bruce — Jason used to mean something. so does he regret the bad blood between them? does he?

and Bruce obviously wants to know if Jason regrets their lost connection, their shared warmth. if he wants to take it back now. if their past still means something for him, if Bruce is not lost in his son's eyes.

but maybe they don't realise what this question truly means to each other.

maybe Jason thinks Bruce is asking if he regrets losing that memory (he does and doesn't at the same time — it hurt nevertheless). and Bruce assumes that Jason wonders if he regrets that day, the day of the memory — if he regrets loving Jason so dearly and choosing him over the mission with a new knowledge of what kind of person his son is going to become in the future.

so they stare, stare, stare, and answer simultaneously again:

"no."

and then they leave, bristling at each other, both hurt and arrogant, having no idea that they meant completely different things.

not finding out how loved they are by each other.

#— lie answering #miscommunication final bosses lol #jason todd #red hood #batman #dcu #dcu comics #dc universe #batfamily #bruce wayne #batfam

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love-marimo · 1 year ago

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Hiii Lili <3 could I request one piece character (idk for who you write, so u can choose!) reaction to a reader who is very normal looking girl (doesn't stand out from the crowd to say soo) but in battle/confrontational situation becomes a complete, very violent and dangerous, destruction machine?

The circumstances or if she is friend or foe, you can choose, whatever let's you more inspired. ✨ If you don't like or feel very inspired by the prompt it's okay, I just really liked your writing style ♥️

There is More Than What Meets the Eye (Monster Trio x Fem!Reader)

Lolita's Note: hello!! thanks for the ask. this is actually such a fun idea. i went a little overboard with this one lololololol. and i decided to go with the monster trio ♡ hope u like it :3 if you/anyone wants to read sth about other characters,pls lmk! i currently write for jjk, genshin and of course, one piece ★

ー as always, requests and commissions are open! ♡ (im bored pls give me something to do :'3)

cw: mentions of weapons, violence, and battles

Luffy

he's not someone who likes to expect things from anything, let alone anyone.

but he gets really amused easily.

(luffy is a big yolo person, and it shows)

he is naturally protective of his crew though, and that includes you.

but at the same time, he trusts that everyone is capable of fighting and surviving on their own, so he doesn't think much of your capabilities. he just knows that you're strong.

you had just recently joined the crew and you're figuring out how you can help.

you help with franky and usopp with the ship's repairs.

then you tend to the plants with robin.

then you help sanji cook lots of meals (because luffy eats like a monster)

and then you asked nami if you can clean the study room for her so she can make maps comfortably.

and after all that, you joined zoro to workout with him.

for a normal person, doing all these things would exhaust one at the end of the day, but in your case, you seem to never run out of energy.

the crew is thankful for your help, but what they didn't realize is that you never run out of stamina to just do things.

until luffy points out how restless you are.

"hey, don't you ever get tired?"

you were about to answer him when you noticed the presence of a few marine ships at your tail.

the crew panicked and prepared to change course.

when they fired cannonballs, you immediately caught each and every one of them and threw them back at the ships, causing a simultaneous explosion.

there was one cannonball that you almost missed, so you were quick to grab it.

imagine luffy's surprise when you crushed it with your bare hand before it exploded.

everyone pretty much had their jaws on the floor.

luffy practically had sparkling eyes asking you how you did it.

"wow, i never knew you could do that!"

"what other things can you break with one hand?"

"here, can you break this huge weight?"

you were confused, but you obliged, breaking the weight in half.

"so cool!!"

since then he would start attacking you out of nowhere, trying to catch you off guard.

well that never happened, so one day he'll mope about it.

"hey, seriously, what's your secret?" he asks, poking your cheek.

"there is no secret." you laugh. "i just like to train my body."

"well, that's boring." he complains.

after a while though, he smiles at you.

"i honestly thought you look weak. but you're strong, so keep it up!" he said, pointing his thumbs up.

you didn't know whether to laugh or feel offended, but you took it as a compliment.

it feels good to feel needed by your friends.

Sanji

sanji thinks you're the most vulnerable person in the crew.

he doesn't mean to be condescending or anything.

but you just seem so… bland.

and it's not that he thinks you're so weak to the point that you can't defend yourself. part of him just assumes that you're average when it comes to strength and the other wants to protect you because you're a girl and you're pretty.

one day though, you're docked at an island to stock up on supplies and you forgot to tell the crew that you're going shopping by yourself.

sanji panics. what if something bad will happen to you?

something did happen to you.

you almost got robbed.

and sanji saw you manhandle the robber in a flash, and the next thing he knew, you were pointing a dagger to the robber's eyes.

it was so close and he can feel you wanting to gouge them out.

sanji hid himself for a moment, observing how you fight against the enemies.

you were practically raging, beating them up even if though they're already helpless.

one would try to beg for your mercy but you're pissed off. so you punched them hard in the face, knocking them unconscious.

sanji quietly had a nosebleed.

you were just so?? hot??

i mean you already are beautiful in his eyes but something about you being this strong turns him on surprised the shit out of him.

after you're done, you turned towards sanji, going back to your normal self.

"sanji! i didn't notice you were there."

"oh, i love it when you're violent and sadistic y/n-swann!"

he'll practically throw himself at you, showering you with compliments and following you around like a dog.

"forgive me for saying this, but i didn't realize you were that strong." he'll say.

"well, now you know!" you smiled at him.

instantly had heart eyes

"you are my beloved strong woman! woof!"

ever since then, he'll be even more batshit crazy about you.

every time you display your strength in front of him and the crew, it will take every bit of his will power not to pass out.

Zoro

this man…

he doesn't look like it, but he's very good at reading people

he got it after years of travelling on his own as a pirate bounty hunter

he may not have a good sense of direction, but what he's good at is sensing the strength of his opponents.

given that he's in a fight with one.

it's something he honed over time, so that he can create his own strategies when in battle.

like luffy, he knows that you're strong, and you work well in a team or on your own.

what he doesn't know (or at least he isn't aware of) is the lengths your strength can reach.

he has a gut feeling that you never went all out in your time as a member of the strawhat crew. (he's right)

so his competitive ass decides to test you through a spar.

you get fired up by the idea, since you've been wanting to train with zoro for a while now.

"ready? i won't go easy."

what a cocky bastard tbh.

you're very focused on him.

you're literally the definition of "lock on" every time you fight.

after you took weapon of your choice, you began to spar.

since you're on the deck of the sunny, you were both careful not to use complicated techniques to avoid destroying the ship. but you both still gave your all, unwilling to show any blind spots to one another.

chopper admired both of you on the sidelines, and the clashing of your weapons were heard by everyone on the ship.

"hey, moss head! what do you think you're doing-" sanji tries to interrupt.

then you landed a blow to make zoro lose his grip on his swords.

you ended up on top of him, and you pointed the back of your weapon on his chest.

he expected this so he wasn't surprised.

he found it amusing even.

"knew you were hiding something." he chuckled, uncharacteristically admitting defeat.

"but i'm not! i guess i got a little ahead of myself. sorry." you say, looking away from him, a little flustered.

"what are you sorry for? your strength? you know that's a pretty useless thing to apologize for." he replied.

since that day, he respected you more, and you would train together.

heck, when you're on an island, you'll find spacious and uninhabited places where you can spar with him to go all out.

it almost always ends in a draw.

zoro would go easy on you on the ship because you both know that it's not ideal to fully use your powers.

so the times where you can both give your all, you both make the most of it.

he teaches you how to use swords, and if you already know how, he'll teach you some of his techniques.

much to your happiness.

"you're pretty good, honestly. you can easily catch your enemies off guard with how you look." he admits to you one time.

"that's kind of offensive. but i'll take it!" you laugh.

ー Lolita

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nicolejones412 · 2 months ago

Text

Out of Sync Part 2

Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Summary: You've found yourself with the 107th fighting Hydra, where you meet a handsome Sergeant. But something just isn't right.

A/N: It honestly feels so good to be back, and actually feel confident enough in being back that I can set up a bit of mystery for you...

Read Part 1 here.

FIC:

"So, what's your name?"

"My name?" You turned your drink in your hands.

"Well I'm assuming Grace is your last name and now that we're on first name basis-"

"Buchannan is your middle name."

"Touche buuuut it is what I go by, so my point still stands."

"It's Charlotte."

"Charlotte Grace?"

"Yeah I know, two first names."

"No, no I like it. Sounds like a movie star's name."

You chuckled. "It does not."

"It does, and you got the looks for it too. I mean it. You could on the silver screen."

You shook your head and took a sip of your drink.

"So, at risk of derailing this whole thing, I ask my first question again. What's a beautiful woman like you doing out here?"

You thought for a moment. You'd been asked that a lot of times, but never so sincerely. For the first time you felt the urge to give an honest answer.

"I don't know. I...I just wanted to make a difference. I impressed Dr. Erskine enough to get a seat at the table, so the SSR felt like the best option I had."

"Erskine...the guy who made the...the..."

"The serum?"

"Yeah the serum that made Steve...." He motioned with is hands as he looked over at the captain.

"A specimen?"

"Yeah a - wait." He turned back to you, and you almost spit out your drink at the look on his face. He shook his head.

"I mean am I wrong?"

"No, no you're not. It's just-" He shook his head.

"I still look for Steve. Like how he always was. It'll definitely take some getting used to that's for sure."

You nodded. "That only makes sense. Change can be...scary. Off-putting."

"He is still Steve though, that's for sure."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, only Steve Rogers would be stupid enough to run into that Hydra base alone without a true exit strategy."

"And he said you were taking all the stupid with you."

Bucky laughed. "I know right! Did he tell you that story?"

You laughed along, thinking. When had you heard that story? "He must have, I guess. The past few months have been a blur."

"Ain't that the truth."

You both paused for a moment, simultaneously reflecting on the past and thinking about the future.

"So, Charlie..."

"Charlie?"

"Charlotte is a bit of a mouthful alright?"

"It's the same number of syllables."

"Still, Charlie." He looked at you pointedly to see if you would object. You just rolled your eyes and tried to hide your smile as you took a drink.

"How about we make a habit of this?"

"Of what?" Your heart pounded in your chest. You couldn't shake the feeling that something was about to happen. Maybe something bad.

Or maybe something good.

He shrugged. "Of spending time together? As friends-colleagues, of course."

"Oh yes we wouldn't want to get that confused."

"Yeah, no need for anything complicated, just, I don't know I've had a great time tonight and you would've been just sitting at your desk being boring if I hadn't-hey!" He half-heartedly protested as you shoved him.

"Alright then, Bucky. Let's be friends."

What could possibly go wrong?

You fell into a comfortable routine. With the SSR sticking with Captain America's Howling Commandos, you saw each other more days than not. You and Steve became good friends as well.

You were still at war though, and every time they went on a mission, you worried. You tried to tell yourself it was normal, but you knew it wasn't.

But you never felt relief when they inevitably rolled back into camp. Almost like, as much as you worried, you knew they would be back. Like it had been foolish to worry.

Weeks turned to months, until one day as they left the worry was greater than normal. You just couldn't shake that something was wrong, so you poured over every briefing and map you could get your hands on. It clicked not even 3 hours after they'd left.

"It's a trap."

"Pardon?" Peggy looked up, yawning.

You looked up at her, and before you knew what you were doing, your feet carried you to your tent to gear up before finding a vehicle.

"Charlotte! What is going on?" Peggy asked as she followed you into your shared tent.

"I have to warn them. It's a trap."

"Slow down." You weren't even looking at her, just packing everything like it was muscle memory.

"How do you know it's a trap? And why does it have to be you?"

"I don't have time to explain, and...I don't know. I can move quicker and quieter on my own and hopefully catch up to them."

When she didn't reply, you finally looked up at her. She had a knowing look on her face.

"You can't stop me."

"Oh I know. And I'll try to cover for you as best as I can. Just...don't die, alright?"

You began tucking your hair up into a tight braided bun. "You're really not gonna try to talk me out of this insane plan?"

"It would be a waste of breath. Just know I expect an invitation to the wedding."

You quickly turned back to her. "Wedding? What do you-?"

"Listen I won't argue this plan with you but don't argue the clear facts with me. I see how you look at him."

The fact that you didn't even have to question who she was talking told both of you all you needed to know.

You finished getting dressed and packing before hugging Peggy.

"Stay safe," she urged.

"I'll do my best."

Ok, maybe safe wasn't the right word.

You tore through the woods, not able to waste any time. You knew the exact route they were supposed to be taking, and frankly it would take a miracle for you to catch up in time, but you had to try.

You were beating yourself up the whole way. You'd known something was wrong, but they all assured you this should be a simple grab and go to catch a couple Hydra scientists.

It was too good to be true.

You found their vehicle exactly where it should be, without any of them in it.

You jumped off your bike. You knew the basic plan from here, and you just hoped they hadn't had to change it much.

You took off running for where you knew Bucky was supposed to be, trying to balance speed and stealth.

You silently thanked whoever was listening that it didn't look like the trap had been sprung yet as you arrived at the site.

Before you reached anyone else, you ran into Falsworth.

"What are you doing here?" he whispered.

"It's a trap. The scientists aren't even here. We've got to get out of here."

Thankfully, he didn't argue much. He pointed you in the direction Bucky had gone.

You crept up to Bucky's position, finally seeing the back of his head.

Just in time to watch a bullet go through it.

And as shouting and explosions rang out, your heart was pounding.

I was too late.

Too late.

You felt a tug in your chest as you shook your head and closed your eyes, and suddenly the chaos stopped. You opened your eyes.

You were standing ten feet back from where you had been, and you could see Bucky where he'd been sitting before, you watched his head move.

You froze, before looking around you wildly for the gunman.

Your eyes found him as he raised his weapon, trained on Bucky.

Too bad for him you were quicker.

This shot was much quieter than the enemy's would have been. A suppressor does tend to help with that. But Bucky knew that sound, as well as the sound of a body hitting the ground.

He shot up, turning both his eyes and weapon to you.

"Charlie?" he whispered as his eyes widened.

"It's a trap," you blurted out, face white as a sheet. "He was going to shoot you as the signal to spring it. We don't have much time."

"How did you-?"

"No time for questions. Need to signal them and find an escape route. Now."

Bucky nodded before turning back to look through his sites. You pulled out a pair of binoculars.

Your eyes found Steve.

Get out. Get out. It's a trap. Retreat.

Steve looked around like he'd heard something, then his eyes landed on something.

That's it. Come on, it's time to go.

He shook his head, then made eye contact with someone and made a signal with his hands.

"Steve must agree with you." You turned to him.

"He just signaled a retreat."

Read Part 3 here.

A/N: Why is your name Charlotte? Is it Charlotte? Are you lying? If your name is actually Charlotte pretend I wrote Sharon and he calls you Sherry ok I don't know what else to tell you.

#thunderbolts #bucky barnes #mcu #bucky barnes x reader #marvel #imagine #captain america #xmen #avengers #new avengers #the first avenger #captain america civil war #multiverse saga #the winter soldier

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anticipayosbot · 3 months ago

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And they were neighbours! Chapter 1

Dr Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x f!plus size reader

Okay y'all, here goes nothing. This is my first fic and of course it has to be with Dr Robby. My work is intended to be inclusive, if you are a WOC and feel like my writing is not inclusive, please let me know so I can change it :)

DO NOT UPLOAD MY WORK TO ANY AI ENGINES, IF YOU DO SO I WILL FIND YOU AND GIVE YOU HELL

This is just pure fluff but my work is 18+ MDNI, AGELESS BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED

Dr Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x f!plus size reader

Tags: fluff, robby being a self deprecating prick, reader being horny for that old man on main

word count: 0,8 k, it is a short one buttttttttt they will be longer!!!!

Feedback and reblogs are greatly appreciated :)

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You had made many mistakes in your life, but allowing yourself to fantasize about your much older, very much not interested in you and emotionally unavailable neighbour might be the worst of them. Michael Robinavitch was a good neighbour, he helped you mount your new tv, gave you your mail when they delivered it to his door for the thousandth time and he even lent you a cup of sugar when you needed it; you weren’t a bad acquaintance yourself, never listened to loud music after 10 pm, always kept your apartment door tidy and you even gifted Michael an odd batch of cookies that one time. These were all facts, facts that you told yourself when the guilt of wanting your neighbour to fuck you through the mattress ate at you. Today was such a day when you knew you were going to bump into Michael, either on the elevator or the hallway, so you repeated your good deeds to yourself as a mantra while simultaneously willing your face to not break into the dopiest smile known to man when you inevitably saw the physician. Maybe God had answered your prayers and this time you would look at him and feel nothing, or you would suddenly develop a stronger moral compass and feel disgusted by the idea of dating a man almost 20 plus years your senior or… fuck.

“Hi kid, you going up?” Michael asked you softly with a sweet smile

“Hi” you answered shyly, refusing to meet his eye “Yup, and you?” yeah, this whole not-making-a-fool-of-yourself situation was not going to happen today.“Oh god” you felt shame begin to creep up your spine, thankfully, Robby just chuckled and pressed the button for the 7th floor.

These were the longest 30 seconds of your life, why did you have to make everything so fucking weird? You acted normal towards him before, so surely he must notice your little schoolgirl crush attitude now, right? With a sigh, you tucked your hair behind your ear and looked at Michael from the corner of your eye, only to find him looking at you. Just when you were about to ask him about his day, the elevator doors opened and he was gesturing for you to exit first. This was the moment, you just had to do what your friend Ana told you and be brave for 30 seconds. You turned to him and smiled coyly.

“Um, I was wondering if you ever wanted to grab a cup of coffee?” Michael looked at you like you had grown a second head, but you were being brave for those 30 fucking seconds even if it took all of your dignity “Maybe at the new coffee shop down the street? They make great coo-”

“Look, sweetheart, I am very flattered but you shouldn’t waste your time on an old man like me. Why don’t you ask John from 3 B? He’s about your age”

At that exact moment, all of your shyness and awkwardness disappeared

“Michael, I am a grown woman, I can decide who I wanna waste my time on by myself” Yes, maybe your words had a bite to them, but who was he to tell you what to do with your life? Oh… never in one of your many scenarios did you stop to think that maybe your neighbour was into someone thinner, shame and anger flooded your bones and with it came the impulsivity “Is it because I’m fat? Because if it is then I am kind of disappointed in you, in fact, I expected more from a man as kind as your-” Michael put a hand in your arm and that made you look up to him, his gaze was soft yet disappointed? You couldn’t quite work out what he was trying to convey with his eyes

“Sweetheart, you are a very beautiful woman and you are right, you are grown and can decide with whom you want to spend your time…” He ruffled his hair, a nervous tick of his as you had learned “But I am much older than you, I could be your father”

“But you aren’t” you said while looking up at him defiantly.

Michael sighed and let out a dry chuckle “Kid, I have a lot of baggage, I sleep like shit, I’m married to the job and… I don’t think I can give you the softness you deserve”

“But-”

“End of discussion”

He gave you one of those looks, the ones that made you feel like a petulant child being scolded for asking for yet another toy. You sighed and ran your hands through your face, so much for those 30 seconds of boldness, just as you were about to turn around and open your apartment door; you looked up at him with a soft smile

“You know, Michael, you deserve softness too. Have a good night”

You turned around and entered your apartment without looking back, when you closed the door, you felt your lips curl into a smile; maybe it would take more than 30 seconds of boldness to get Michael to give you an honest answer.

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TAGLIST: @yeyinde

If you want to be added to the taglist lmk!!!!! Love you :)

#michael robby robinavitch #dr robby x reader #dr michael robinavitch #the pitt fanfiction #doctor robby #plus size female reader

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dianawinchester03 · 4 months ago

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Season 3, Episode 6 - Red Sky At Morning

Series Masterlist

Third Person POV

The Impala sped down the interstate, the road desolate and dark as Dean’s foot went heavy on the gas, a lingering question bearing on his mind towards his brother and girlfriend. Y/N sat besides Dean, texting Jo the meet up point they were meant to pick her up on the border of Massachusetts with a cigarette tucked between her index finger and middle in her free hand.

Sam lounged in the back, his long body spread out in a slightly uncomfortable position across the leather seat. His face was blank but deep thought was written all over his features as he thought of the events from a few nights ago.

“So I’ve been waiting since Maple Springs. You two got something to tell me?” Dean’s deep voice broke the two younger hunters out of their thoughts. Both of them stayed silent, refusing to meet the elder hunter’s intense gaze as Dean’s eyes flicked to the road to the mirrors and back. “It’s not your birthday” Y/N piped up, feigning confusion, making eye contact with Sam as she took a drag, telling him ‘keep your piehole shut’ with her eyes. Sam simply nodded and looked away out the window.

She turned her eyes back to her phone screen, but she could see Dean’s jaw clenching in the corner of her eyes. “No” Dean narrowed his eyes out the windscreen as he spoke. “Happy Purim?” Sam played dumb, faking a joking tone as Y/N snorted in amusement. “Babe, we have no idea what you’re talking about” Y/N chuckled, stuffing her phone into her jeans pocket before passing the cigarette to her boyfriend.

“There’s a bullet missing from the Colt” Dean stated coldly, accepting the cigarette with a glare directed towards Sam and Y/N before reverting his eyes back to the road. The two fell silent once again, Sam pushed himself up to sit properly in the back as Y/N’s gaze dropped to her hands. “Wanna tell me how that happened?” Dean asked calmly, allowing the steam to flow through his nose.

Sam stayed silent, looking out the window at nothing but the darkness of the night as Y/N’s fingernails picked at the thread of her ripped jeans. They shook their heads simultaneously, dreading the lecture they were about to get from Dean. A deep sigh left the elder Winchester’s lips as he continued to focus on the road but his eyes flicked to the rear-view mirror, trying to catch his brother’s gaze as he flicked the cigarette out the window with one last pull.

“I know it wasn’t me, so unless you two were shooting at some incredibly evil cans-“ Dean grumbled sarcastically, “Dean..” Sam sighed, “You guys went after her, didn’t you?” He snapped, glaring at Y/N from the side of his eye and at Sam from the rearview mirror. Their heads sulked as he went on, “The Crossroads Demon, after I told you two not to!”

“We had to try” Sam said with a quiet, even tone, glancing at Y/N’s lowered head. “Yeah” She mumbled, still avoiding eye contact with Dean who grunted in disapproval. “You could’ve gotten killed!” Dean exclaimed, “Well we didn’t!” Sam shot back, “And you shot her?” Dean huffed, “I shot her and she was a smart-ass! She had it comin” Y/N whined, rolling her eyes as she crossed her arms over her chest.

Dean opened his mouth to argue further but snapped his mouth shut, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel as silence fell over the three of them again. “So, what, does that mean I’m out of my deal?” Dean asked, breaking the silence once more. Y/N’s face twisted to a sarcastic smile, “Don’t you think we might have mentioned that little fact, charming?”

It was now Dean’s turn to roll his eyes at his girlfriend’s attitude, “No. Someone else holds the contract” Sam answered for her, his voice dropping. “Who?” Dean asked, gruffly. Sam and Y/N sighed, “She wouldn’t say” Y/N’s tone dropped as she fiddled with her charm bracelet. Dean’s jaw clenched as he glanced over to Y/N and then to Sam, anger clear on his face. “Well, we should find out who. Course’, our best lead would be the Crossroads Demon….” He glanced up, turning to y/n with a hard glare, “…oh wait a minute”

“That’s not funny” Y/N snapped, catching the look Dean had fixed her with, “we fucked up, I get it!” She huffed, exasperated. “No, it’s not funny and you’re damn right you fucked up. It’s a stupid fucking risk and you shouldn’t have done it!” Dean lectured, fixing her with another annoyed look. “We shouldn’t have done it?!” Sam snapped, now glaring at his brother.

“You’re my brother, Dean. Y/N loves you. And no matter what you do, we’re gonna try and save you” He lost his patience, “And we’re sure as hell not gonna fuckin apologize for it, alright?!” Dean went silent, his jaw grinding tightly as he listened to Sam ranting. The tension between the three was thick in the air, making it difficult to breathe, “You don’t have to get yourself killed on my account” Dean snapped back, annoyed. “You’re saying you don’t wanna be saved?” Sam replied.

“No. I don’t” The elder Winchster responded firmly. “Just let me go to Hell, I accepted it. Hell, I’m good!” Y/N clenched her jaw, her grip on her locket tightening so hard it almost broke. His words right now did not contrast well with his words back in the motel when he admitted to her that he was scared. His macho man bravado pissed her off.

Why did he have to bottle up everything? Why couldn’t he just admit to Sam that he didn’t want to go to hell? Why didn’t he just accept their help?

Did he not think they were resourceful? Did he care so little about himself? …that question answers itself. But why was he so willing to just hang up the coat and die? Did he not realize how much it would’ve destroyed her? How much it would’ve destroyed Sam? How much hell could destroy him? Did Dean Winchester not realize the little family he had, whether it be blood or not, they loved him relentlessly. Did he not realize that?

The questions swirled in the psychic’s mind as she tried to keep herself from becoming choked up. She refused to let herself cry now. She wasn’t about to be weak at this very moment.

Dean could almost feel the daggers being thrown at him from Y/N‘s side of the car. He kept his eyes on the road, refusing to look at her. But he could feel himself cracking. He knew his words had stung her. He knew he was being a dick. What he didn’t realize was how much he was hurting her. He just wished they’d realize just how serious this was.

That he didn’t deserve to be saved. That he was as good as dead. Dean Winchester truly believed that they could lead happy lives without him. Sammy could finally settle down with Jo, have a couple of rugrats and a white picket fence. Y/N/N could finally move on and find someone who was actually worth her time and love.

Now that thought tore him inside and outside, imagining Y/N with someone else made Dean feel as though he could take an early trip to the pit and save the hellhounds from getting their claws bloody.

But it was a thought he had to get used to.

And then maybe, just maybe, they would let him rot in Hell.

____________________________________________

Massachusetts

The next day, after picking up Jo on the border of Massachusetts. The quartet were now impersonating officers of the law to interview a witness at her home. The witness, Gertrude Case, was an elegant, well-groomed and approximately 70 year old woman, held a framed photograph of the shower-drowning victim, her niece, Shelia. “But I don’t understand, I already went over all this with the other detectives” Gertrude said exasperatedly while eyeing Sam.

“Right ma’am, yes, but, uh, see, We’re with the Sheriff’s Department. Not the police department. They’re different departments” Jo lied fluidly on the spot as Sam, Dean and Y/N nodded along in agreement. “So, Mrs. Case-” Sam began as he took out a notepad from his blazer but Gertrude cut him off. “Please…Ms. Case” Gertrude corrected him with a coy smile, her face creasing with the wrinkles as her eyes roamed the younger Winchester’s form.

Jo raised a brow at the elder woman flirting with her boyfriend, blinking rapidly as Dean and Y/N tried to mask their amusement. Sam looked visibly uncomfortable but tried to maintain professionalism, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Okay. Um, Ms. Case, um... you were the one who found your niece, correct?” Gertrude nodded, looking down sadly. “I came home, she was in the shower.” She confirmed. “Drowned?” Dean and Y/N asked in unison.

“So the coroner says. Now, you tell me, how can someone drown in the shower?” Gertrude scoffed, confused and bewildered by the fact. “How would you describe Sheila's behavior in the days before her death? I mean, did she seem frightened? Maybe she said something out of the ordinary, or ...?” Jo asked as she stuffed her hands into her pant suit pockets, Gertrude tilted her head in recognition towards the youngest hunter.

“Wait a minute. You're working with Alex, aren't you?” The four shared a look at Gertrude’s question, all silently deciding to go along with it. “Yep. Absolutely. That's- Alex and us, we're like this.” Dean chuckled as he crossed his fingers. Sam, Jo and Y/N smiled nodding along with him as Gertrude laughed, “Why didn't you say so? Alex has been such a comfort.” Gertrude took a seat on the couch beside her, resting the picture of her niece on the coffee table. “But I’m sorry. I thought the case was solved.”

“Uh... Well, no. No, not yet.” Sam shook his head, the hunters internally panicked before Sam came to their rescue. “I see,” Gertrude sighed, “So, anyways, we were talking about your niece.” Y/N chimed in, Gertrude nodded in return. “Well, yes. Sheila mentioned something quite strange before she died. She said she saw a boat.” Gertrude informed them, “A boat?” Sam and Dean asked in unison, causing Y/N and Jo to flinch back slightly.

Them talking at the same time still freaked those two out to this day. They sounded so damn similar, even though Dean had a more raspy and deeper voice, he and Sam sounded so insync when they spoke at the same time. It scared the heebie jeebies out of those two women.

“Yes. One minute it was there, then it was gone. It just disappeared right before her eyes.” Gertrude said with utter certainty. “You think it could be a ... ghost ship?” They were all taken back by her words, sharing a panicked look. “Alex thinks it could be a ghost ship.” She stared at Sam intently, the latter thrown off by her intense regard.

Sam huffed a bit comfortably as Jo began slightly glaring at the older woman, but her eyes held a bit of amusement as her boyfriend huffed. Finding his discomfort funny, “Well, um ... Could be.” Sam nodded shakily. “Well. You let me know if there's anything else I can do for you.” She lifted her hand to trace a finger slowly along Sam’s hand, “Anything at all” She said sultry, slowly taking her hand off of Sam’s.

Jo fought to keep her face neutral, trying her best not to make any facial expressions but a hint of jealousy was in her eyes as she watched Gertrude’s hand linger on the younger Winchester’s hand. She felt something in her chest as she watched the older woman hit on the love of her life and she was not a fan of it. Fighting to urge to pry Gertrude’s wrinkly hand off of her boyfriend’s.

“Oh. Uh. No, ma'am, that will be all.” Sam sputtered, quickly retracting his hand away from Gertrude wrinkly hand residing on top of his own. Gertrude smiled before giving a courteous nod, “Alright then.” She stood, “Please let me know if you need anything. At all.” Y/N barely held in her laugh, hiding her face against the back of her hand. Dean snickered and Sam shot them both a nasty glare.

The four were now walking along the loading docks next to their respective partners. The water was crowded with pristine, moderately sized boats. “What a crazy old broad.” Dean commented with amusement, causing Y/N to burst into hysterics. “Dean, be nice.” Y/N laughed, nudging the elder Winchester who wore a sly smirk on his face. “Oh c’mon, it was a little funny. She was all over Sammy here” Dean chuckled, his smirk growing.

“You only think she’s crazy because she believes in ghosts” Sam scoffed, rolling his eyes. Jo laughed dryly in return, “Look at you, sticking up for your girlfriend. You cougar hound.” She attempted to keep the jealousy in her tone under wraps but it wasn’t doing her any justice. “Jealousy’s cute on you, angel,” Sam teased, throwing an arm around her waist and pulling her close. “Am not.” She muttered stubbornly, her gaze fixed on the boats.

She glanced back over to Sam who wore a smile that said, ‘You’re a terrible liar’. Jo’s face broke out into a guilty cheeky smile, causing Sam to chuckle. Dean cackled, “Awww poor little blondie’s jealous of a ninety year old hitting on Sammy.” he teased, reaching over to ruffle Jo’s hair. Jo smacked his hand away before reeling her fist back to punch Dean in the back of his shoulder. “Can it, prick”

“Ow!” Dean yelped overdramatically as he pretended to rub the spot on his back where Jo had punched him. “Damn, Shorty’s got an arm” He muttered, rubbing his back. “Alright, alright. That’s enough you two” Y/N rolled her eyes as she switched spots with Dean, “That’s what you get when you can’t shut your trap” Y/N snickered, taking Dean’s hand to intertwine their fingers.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever” Dean grumbled, bringing their intertwined hands up to his lips to press a chaste kiss on the back of her hand. Y/N’s cheeks burned as she smiled, the urge to melt at the gesture tempted her to jump his bones in the middle of the docks. “So, who’s this Alex? We got another player in town?” She questioned out loud, resting her free arm against Dean’s bicep as they walked hand in hand.

“Maybe, maybe not. Doesn't change our job.” Sam answered as Jo leaned into his touch. “And what looked like a ghost ship, right?” Dean asked, eyeing the dock area. “Yeah. It's not the first one sighted around here, either.” Jo answered, “Really?” Y/N sounded surprised by the revelation, Sam nodded in confirmation. “Yeah. Every 37 years, like clockwork, reports of a vanishing three-mast clipper ship out in the bay. And every 37 years, a rash of weirdo, dry-land drownings.” He replied before pressing a kiss to Jo’s head.

“So, whatever's happening is just getting started.” Dean suggested, “Yeah.” Jo nodded, smiling up at Sam. “What's the lore?” Y/N questioned, “Well, there are apparitions of old wrecks sighted all over the world. The S.S. Violet, the Griffin, the Flying Dutchman, almost all of them are death omens.” Jo responded as Y/N nodded in recognition, “Ain’t that the captain from SpongeBob?” He tilted her head, earning unimpressed looks from Sam and Jo while Dean chuckled to himself.

Y/N grinned widely at the couple behind her, “So, what happens? You see the ship and then a few hours later, you pucker up and kiss your ass goodbye?” Dean asked between chuckles, “Sounds like it” Y/N shrugged before turning back to Sam and Jo, “What's the next step?” She queried, speaking to them over her shoulder. “We gotta I.D. the boat” Sam responded, “That shouldn't be too hard. I mean, how many three-mast clipper ships have wrecked off the coast?” Dean mused, causing them all to chuckle in amusement.

“I checked that too, actually. Over one hundred and fifty.” Sam placed a finger up as he informed them, Y/N raised her brow in astonishment, Dean doing the same as Jo smiled proudly at her boyfriend. “Wow.” Dean gasped, “Yeah.” Jo scoffed, “Shit” Dean muttered again, “Mmhmm” Sam nodded, “Nerd” Y/N snorted, receiving a middle finger from Sam and a laugh from Jo.

After walking up the dock, they finally reached the space Dean supposedly parked his car. But instead, the space was just empty. He took his hand out of Y/N’s quickly, rushing over to the spot. He glanced around confused, “This is where we parked the car, right?” He asked, his brow furrowed as he gestured to the empty space. “I thought so.” Sam looked equally confused as he unwrapped his hand from a curious Jo’s waist. “Where's my car?”

“Did you feed the meter?” Jo asked calmly, pointing to the meter. “Yes, I fed the meter! Sam, Y/N, where's my car? Somebody stole my CAR!” Dean’s voice began to rise with panic, pacing the small area. “Dean, calm down.” Y/N said reassuringly, approaching him and grabbing him by the shoulders to try and stop him from pacing back and forth. Y/N gave his shoulders a squeeze, trying to provide some comfort.

“Hey, hey, hey! Calm down. Dea-” Sam tried to reassure him also but Dean exploded, roughly flicking Y/N’s hand off of his shoulders, pacing away from her, “I am calmed down! Somebody stole my ca-“ He began hyperventilating, bending over to clutch his knees. Y/N immediately rushed back over to him along with Jo, “Sammy!” Y/N called out for the younger Winchester who was busy looking around. His heart raced when he heard his brother gasping for air.

He rushed over and gripped Dean by his shoulder, pulling him back up with Y/N’s help and she rubbed his back gently. “Whoa. Hey, hey, hey. Take it easy, sweetie” she placed her hands at the sides of his jaw, rubbing her thumb on his cheek soothingly as he puffed his cheeks up, trying to get some air. “The '67 Impala? Was that yours?” A familiar voice said mockingly, Bela came sauntering up towards the four.

Jo’s eyes instantly narrowed at the stunning woman, “Bela” Jo growled with disgust, attempting to lunge at the woman. Sam quickly caught on and pulled her back by her wrist as Y/N stepped in front of Dean, gritting her teeth at Bela. “I'm sorry. I had that car towed.” Bela feigned a frown, “You what?!” Dean exclaimed, “Well, it was in a tow-away zone.” Bela stated as if it was obvious, “No, it wasn't! “ Y/N frailed her arms around in frustration.

“It was when I finished with it.” Bela smirked. Right now, Dean was willing to go against his morals and hit a woman for his Baby, especially when it came to Bela Talbot. “What the hell are you even doing here?” Dean snapped, “A little yachting.” Bela shrugged, flippantly as Sam narrowed his eyes at her suspiciously along with Jo. “You're Alex. You're working with that old lady.” Sam called her out on her bullshit. “Gert's a dear old friend.” Bela smirked.

“Yeah, right. What's your angle, bitch” Jo snapped, glaring at Bela. "I'm hurt. You don't think I'm here to help?" Bela fake-pouted at the young hunter. It only made Jo want to jump her more. Y/N and Sam were holding her back as Dean stood by Y/N's side. He wrapped arm around her waist, trying to calm his growing anger. “There’s no angle here. There’s a lot of lovely old women like Gert up and down the eastern seaboard. I sell them charms, perform séances so they can commune with their dead cats.”

Y/N scoffed at this in disgust, “You’re not even psychic, you can’t do any of that stuff. So let me guess, it's all a con, none of it's real.” Y/N called her out, “The comfort I provide them is very real.” Bela began walking away, a saucy look on her face. The quartet looked at her with pure judgement, “How do you sleep at night?” Sam scoffed, Bela turned to him again with a sultry smirk, “On silk sheets, rolling naked in money.”

Dean looked visibly disgusted by the visualization, grimacing to himself as Y/N rolled her eyes, her nostrils flaring and Jo clenched her fists. “Really, Sam and Jo. I'd expect the attitude from him, but you two?” Bela feigned a hurt look as Jo’s face twisted with anger again, “You shot my boyfriend and my sister!” Jo stated as if it was obvious, Y/N smirked lightly to herself as Jo referred to her as her ‘sister’ feeling a sense of pride at the fact of Jo holding her so highly in regard.

“I barely grazed them” Bela scoffed, while Dean shrugged in mute acknowledgement of her point. Dean received a smack to the back of his head from his girlfriend for agreeing with Bela, mumbling a small, “Sorry, baby” in return, huffing to himself as he gripped his head. “Cute. But a bit of a drama queen, yeah?” Jo crossed her arms over her chest at Bela’s words, rolling her tongue at the top of her teeth, “You do know what's going on around here. This ghost-ship thing, it is real.” Dean pointed out.

“I’m aware” Bela nodded in acknowledgement. “Thanks for telling Gert the case wasn't solved, by the way.” She quipped sarcastically. “It isn't.” Dean furrowed his brows, “She didn't know that. Now the old bag's stopped payment and she's demanding some real answers.” Bela said. Dean glanced over at Y/N, the two sharing an exasperated look. “Look... just stay out of my way before you cause any more trouble.” Bela warned them.

Y/N raised a brow at her, challenging her. She was amused by the fact that Bela of all people would try to warn them. “I'd get to that car if I were you... before they find the arsenal in the trunk.” Bela smirked. Everyone began to internally panic, fixing her with harsh and hard looks as she turned around, “Ciao” She quipped as she walked off.

“Can I shoot her?” Y/N asked Jo with a growl, glaring daggers at the woman’s head. “Not in public” Jo sighed, clenching and unclenching her fists. Sam swallowed a harsh lump in his throat, “Well I say shoot the bitch” Dean spat, matching Y/N’s threat. "No you can't," Sam snapped, shooting his brother a warning look as Y/N sighed, crossing her arms over her chest.

“You can't just go around shooting anyone you don't like." Y/N’s head snapped over to Sam, appalled by his statement, “And she can shoot us?!” She exclaimed exasperatedly.

______________________________________________

The next morning, they got an update on a new drowning victim…in his own home. So the quartet threw on their suits once more, now stepping out of the Impala. The house of the victim swarmed with cops. Y/N cracked her neck, a sickening sound leaving her body as she stretched, peeling forward her fingers to crack her knuckles. She let out a groan in satisfaction as Sam cringed at the cracking noise, finding it more disturbing than satisfying. "Ugh, Y/N/N, do you have to do that every time?" He asked, scrunching his face up in disgust.

"Hey, it's therapeutic." Y/N shrugged, grinning. "You sound like a glowstick" Dean quipped at his girlfriend as he made his way around the car, earning a dirty look to which he winked in response. "Hey, I think it's adorable" Jo chimed in, smirking playfully at her friend as she stepped out of the Impala with Sam holding the door open for her. "Of course you do, you two have the same psychotic tendencies" Sam shook his head, shutting the door and adjusting his suit.

Before Jo could respond cheekily, her eyes landed on Bela, who was interviewing the drowning victim’s brother, Peter Warren. "Dammit" Jo cursed under her breath, clenching her jaw and glaring at the con artist who was holding a recorder to Peter’s mouth, posing as a journalist. Y/N and the Winchesters shared the same feeling of disgust and anger upon noticing Bela, watching the woman with pure malice.

They made their way towards her as she said to the mourning man in a faux-American accent, “I am so sorry for your loss, Mr. Warren. Now if you could just tell me one more time about the ship your brother saw.” She smiled charmingly. “Ma’am, I think this man’s been through quite enough. You should go.” Dean interrupted firmly, reaching into his jacket to flash them his fake badge. Y/N did the same as Jo glared harshly at Bela.

"But I just have a few more questions," Bela replied, feigning innocence as she eyed the quartet, noticing Y/N’s and Dean’s badges. “No, you don’t.” Sam dismissed her dryly as a proud smirk settled on Jo’s lips. "Now, get out of here before I arrest you for impeding an ongoing investigation” Jo threatened, giving Bela a harsh sharp look. Bela rolled her eyes at the blonde but put her recorder away, sighing softly.

“Thank you for your time.” Bela said to Peter, giving them all a mocking smile before striding away. “Sorry you had to deal with that” Y/N said to Peter politely, “They’re like ROACHES” she said the last part loud enough for Bela to hear. Dean and Jo snickered lightly at this in amusement. Bela kept walking, but her ears perked up upon hearing the subtle jab from Y/N.

God I hate her. Bela thought to herself, her hands curling into fists in her coat pockets as shot Y/N a sharp look. Y/N winked smugly in response at the con-artist who was supposedly leaving.

“So, we heard you say your brother saw a ship.” Sam began, placing a hand on Peter’s shoulder to lead him away from the scene and into the parking lot. “Yeah, that's right.” Peter nodded, wiping his watery eyes. “Did he tell you what it looked like?” Jo asked gently, offering the grieving man a napkin from her suit jacket. Peter accepted gratefully, nodding and sniffling as he wiped his nose with the paper towel.

“It was, uh... like the old Yankee clippers. A smuggling vessel. The rakish topsail, a barkentine rigging. Angel figurehead on the bow.” He explained in perfect detail. This slightly alarmed them all. Y/N furrowed her brows. “That's a lot of detail for a ship your brother saw.” She commented, “My brother and I were night diving. I saw the ship, too.” Peter informed her. The four shared a look, nodding as Sam’s eyes drifted over to the other side of the parking lot.

Bela was pointing in their direction and talking to the real uniformed officers, it seemed as though she was ratting on them. Sam instinctively cleared his throat, nudging his brother and girlfriend simultaneously. Dean and Jo’s head snapped over to the direction, slight panic on their faces. Y/N noticed this and quickly dismissed the conversations as she reached into her jacket for one of her fake business cards with one of her many numbers on there.

She stuffed the card into Peter’s hand and wrapped it up with, “All right. Well, we'll be in touch.” She said quickly as Sam patted Peter on his shoulder. “Thank you, sir” Jo smiled as they all got the hell out of dodge. Peter looked back at them with confusion and slight suspicion due to their sudden dismissal, his brows knotted together, his hands residing on his hips.

They speed walked back towards the Impala, heads kept low as they tried to blend in with bystanders. They could hear the officers shouting behind them, "Stop!". The group picked up their pace in an attempt to evade the uniformed men. Once they reached the car, they leaped into the vehicle, doors slamming shut simultaneously.

"Go, go, go!" Y/N exclaimed, her eyes wide as she heard the officers drawing closer. Dean didn't need to be told twice, so he ignited the engine and pressed down on the gas pedal.

Now back to where they originally stashed the car in the woods after Bela had it towed, away from any police. Sam, Dean and Jo were loading shotguns by the trunk of the Impala as Y/N smoked a cigarette off to the side. Their backs were turned so they didn’t notice when Bela approached. “I see you got your car back” Bela quipped. Y/N raised a brow, flicking her cigarette to the side as she clenched her jaw. Sam and Jo’s nostrils flared as Dean said over his shoulder. “You really want to come near me when I got a loaded gun in my hands?”

“Now, now. Mind your blood pressure.” Bela mused. Dean rolled his eyes as Jo scoffed bitterly and Sam blatantly ignored her. “Why are you even still here? You have enough to I.D. the boat.” Bela questioned. "None of your fucking business, that’s why” Y/N retorted, glaring at the con-artist, a scowl on her face. Bela shrugged nonchalantly, “I’m curious as to what exactly is happening in this small town?”

Dean, Y/N, Jo and Sam all exchanged looks. “That guy back there saw the ship.” Sam finally answered as he, Jo and Dean cocked their guns, tossing them back into the trunk and closing the lid. They turned to face Bela simultaneously, the con-artist wearing a bored expression. “Yeah? And?” She deadpanned again. “And, he's going to die, so we have to save him.” Jo stated.

A nasty grin stretched across Bela’s face. “How sweet.” She mocked. Sam and Jo rolled their eyes as Y/N scoffed, “You think this is funny?” Dean said as he shot her a faux-smile. “He's cannon fodder. He can't be saved in time, and you know it.” Bela called them out. The four grew uneasy, sharing a look before making their way to their doors. “Yeah, well, see, we have souls, so ... we're gonna try.” Dean said firmly as he paced to the driver side door as Y/N walked around to the passenger side.

“Yeah, well, I'm actually going to find the ship and put an end to this. But you have fun.” Bela mocked again, they all paused, fed up with her attitude. Sam clenched his jaw, shooting daggers at Bela as Jo and Dean looked at Bela with pure disgust. Y/N licked her bottom lip, losing her patience. She let go of the door handle and began walking back up to Bela. “Hey, Bela, how'd you get like this, huh? What, did Daddy not give you enough hugs or something?”

Bela's snarky expression fell from her face, replaced now with a bitter look. "I don't know. Your daddy give you enough?" Bela said harshly, a dark look in her eyes. Y/N shrugged nonchalantly, a smug yet bitter smile on her lips. “Don't you dare look down your nose at me. You're not better than I am.” Bela warned. Dean and Sam shared a nervous look as Y/N smiled bitterly, the latter slightly gulping.

“Yeah? We actually help people” Dean stepped in, walking over to Y/N’s side. Bela scoffed at Dean’s claim. “Come on. You do this out of vengeance and obsession. You're a stone's throw from being a serial killer.” Bela sneered, looking at them smugly. Y/N scoffed arrogantly as she continued. “And making no money by the looks of it.” The four shared an amused look again by her jab. But they had to admit, what she said hit them like a fucking truck.

“Whereas I, on the other hand, get paid to do a job and I do it. So, you tell me…which is healthier?” They all fell silent after Bela’s last question, finding themselves without a snappy response. Dean and Y/N clenched their fists to control their anger with Bela’s words. Y/N’s nails dug into her palms, trying her best not to clock her one. Bingo. Bela thought, a smirk growing on her face.

“Hey bitch, why don't you just leave? We've got work to do.” Jo snapped, attempting to storm over there but Sam quickly caught her wrist, shaking his head in a way to say, ‘She’s not worth it, angel.’ Jo sighed, taking a deep breath as she calmed herself down. Bela chuckled at this, shaking her head. “Yeah. You're 0 for 2. Bang-up job so far.” she retorted, her gaze challenging Y/N’s harsh one.

Y/N’s cheeks reddened with anger at Bela’s comment, her fingers turning the slightest bit blue. Y/N clenched her jaw, letting her powers surge throughout her body, making her eyes turn white. Dean quickly noticed her eyes change, his eyes going wide as he turned to face her. “Princess, no,” he warned, gripping her wrist. Y/N ignored Dean, narrowing her eyes and looking at Bela again, “Yeah, princess, no” Bela mocked, tilting her head at the psychic.

Now that made her snap like a glow stick.

Y/N yanked her wrist out of Dean’s grip, ignoring his protests and lunged at Bela. Unfortunately, Dean was faster and grabbed Y/N by the waist, hauling her back before she got to Bela, who was now walking away, laughing almost maniacally. “Sammy! Little help here!” He exclaimed as he held her back.

Sam, who was already rushing over, immediately took his place in front of them holding her back. He placed his hands on her shoulders, shaking Y/N violently but she continued to thrash around in his and his brother's arms, screaming obscenities at Bela. “Y/N/N, calm down!” Sam pleaded as he shook her.

Jo placed a hand on her forehead, shaking it as she sighed before pacing over to the three. Dean and Sam were struggling to hold Y/N back, her thrashing only getting more aggressive. Every time they tried to talk her down, it seemed as though their words fell on deaf ears. Jo arrived at their sides, watching as the boys struggled to control a furious and powerful Y/N. She swiftly raised her hand and slapped the psychic straight across her cheek.

The impact of the smack echoed in the otherwise silenced forest air. Y/N, feeling the sting on her cheek, halted her thrashing. Dean was quick to let her go, stepping back slightly as Sam followed suit. Her mind slowly came to the surface as the white around her eyes began to fade along with her blue veins. The Winchesters were stunned to say the least. Sam with a curled fist to his mouth, biting on his index finger as Dean face paled.

“What the fuck, man?!” He bellowed at Jo instantly but Y/N quickly placed a hand up, indicating she’s alright so he paused in his tracks. When she was finally back to herself, she opened her (e/c) eyes, her hand instinctively going to her reddened cheek. She couldn't believe that Jo had just slapped her and honestly, she could see why. She had completely lost her cool and was about to go all Carrie White on Bela, had Dean and Sam not intervened.

Jo looked slightly guilty about slapping Y/N, but knew it was necessary. "I'm sorry" she began, her voice soft and apologetic, “but you were about to kill her.” Y/N winced slightly, “Yeah, well, she deserved it...” She grumbled, rubbing her now sore cheek. “But thanks” she sighed, her hand dropping to her side.

“Come mere” Jo opened her arms in response with a small smile, Y/N scoffed a chuckle and the two shared a hug before looking back at the brothers, whose jaws were dropped open in utter shock. “What the fuck just happened?” Dean muttered as he gawked in disbelief. Sam let out a nervous chuckle, he felt relieved, and a bit impressed, that Jo had managed to snap Y/N out of her rage so quickly with a single smack.

It was now nightfall and the quartet was stalking the house of Steve Warren, the victim. Peter was near the window, packing up his deceased brother’s belongings as they were in the Impala, reviewing their research. Y/N sat in the front seat with Dean, a lit cigarette tucked between her fingers while Sam sat in the back with Jo, the couple shuffling papers together.

“Anything good?” Dean asked his brother as he sighed, gesturing for Y/N to pass him the cigarette. Y/N leaned over to pass the cigarette to her boyfriend, letting her gaze wander over to Jo and Sam, who had both of their faces buried in separate piles of research, skimming for the most useful information.

Sam shrugged, “No, not really. I mean, both brothers are Duke University grads. No criminal record.” He replied, skimming over the papers again before passing a record over to Jo, who began reading it. “There’s a few speeding tickets. They inherited their father's real estate fortune six years ago.” Jo told them, placing the paper on her lap. “How much?” Dean asked, taking a drag on the cigarette before passing it to Y/N again.

She smiled softly, placing it between her lips, the tip glowing red as she inhaled the smoke. “$112 million.” Sam responded with a snort, Y/N nearly coughed but instead whistled lowly in astonishment, smoke escaping through her lips and nostrils. “Nice life” Dean commented. “You’re telling me,” Jo added with a light scoff. Y/N nodded in agreement, her gaze returning to Peter Warren now who was still packing his brother's belongings in boxes.

She let out an annoyed sigh, tapping the cigarette on the car's ashtray. “You know, all the victims were rich.” She pointed out, her eyes still trained on Peter. “Yeah. I mean, nice, clean, aboveboard.” Jo agreed. “So why did they see the ship? Why Sheila, too? What do they all have in common?” Sam questioned. “Maybe nothing.” Dean suggested, turning to face them again.

“No. There's always something.” Y/N muttered, shaking her head as she exhaled smoke again, her head lolling back to rest on the seat. As if on cue, Peter came marching out of the house, having spotted them. He stopped at his gate and yelled, “Hey, you!” Pointing at them angrily.

The four of them froze. “I think we've been made.” Dean muttered under his breath, “Ya think?” Y/N bit back simultaneously, crushing the cigarette butt on the ashtray as the group hopped out simultaneously, making their way over to the 5 foot gate. “What are you guys doing?! You watching me?” Peter exclaimed, his hands residing on his hips. They finally stopped in front of the gate, with Sam trying to deescalate the situation. “Sir, calm down. Please.”

“You guys aren't cops! Not dressed like that. Not- not in that crappy car.” Peter brutally insulted them, causing Dean to raise his hands in surrender and Y/N to cross her arms over her chest. “Whoa, hey. No need to get nasty.” Dean mused, “We are cops, okay? We're undercover. We're here because we think you're in danger.” Jo tried to lie their way out but Peter wasn’t buying what she was trying to sell, “From who?!”

“If you just settle down, we'll talk about it.” Sam chimed back on, calmly. “Look, you guys just stay away from me!” Peter barked, before running to his own car and starting to drive it toward the back gate. “Wait!” Sam and Jo called out pleadingly, “Hey, you moron! We're trying to help you!” Y/N shouted frustrated as she spread her arms out, Dean shook his head in equal frustration.

They watched with furrowed brows as the car barely made it to the back gate, the vehicle stopping with a heavy sputter and cluck before dying. Y/N suddenly felt a heavy weight on her chest, her lungs feeling as though she was fighting for air. It was the feeling she got when there was a certain type of spirit around. A vengeful spirit. “That can't be good.” Dean commented as Y/N clutched her chest, the pressure growing increasingly stronger, like an elephant was perched atop her.

“Ya think?” Y/N rasped, beads of sweat forming on her forehead. Dean’s eyes snapped over to her upon her sudden gasp, immediately realizing that something was off. “Babe?” He gently touched her shoulder, concern etched all over his face. “I’m fine. You two, get the salt guns.” She assured him, quickly instructing Dean and Jo as she yanked Sam to jump the gate.

Dean and Jo shared a worried look while Sam nodded obediently and started to climb the gate. Sam reached the other side and sprinted toward Peter who was still in the car as Y/N’s feet finally hit the ground, now sprinting towards Sam and the car. “Peter!” Sam shouted, banging on the window of the locked door but Peter didn’t respond, slumped on the steering wheel with water pouring out of his mouth.

Their eyes widened when both hunters saw a spirit dressed in old seaman's clothes and a navy coat, his long hair dripping into his eyes in the passenger seat, “No!” Y/N cried out, banging her fist against the window, a small crack forming in the screen as the spirit made direct eye contact with the two. The glare from the spirit sent chills down Y/N’s spine, making her swallow harshly. Dean and Jo finally emerged on the passenger side with the salt guns, “Sam! Y/N!” They yelled for them to cover before shooting through the glass.

Sam snatched Y/N by her wrist, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and shielding her with his body, the shots from both guns going through the passenger side, the spirit and drivers side window. The spirit was immediately knocked back, his form disappearing into the air. Y/N peeled herself out of Sam’s arms immediately after hearing the door unlock. She swiftly opened the door and pulled Peter’s head back to rest on the head of the driver's seat while Sam kept watch in case the spirit returned.

She placed her fingers to the man’s wet neck, feeling for his pulse point. Dean and Jo looked at her expectantly as thunder clapped above them, Y/N let out a heavy solemn breath when she didn’t feel the man’s pulse. She swallowed harshly again, gnawing at her bottom lip before shaking her head in confirmation that he was dead.

Dean clenched his jaw tightly, his hands balling into fists as he tried to calm himself down but he kicked the door in frustration, the rain now pouring heavily around them. Sam sighed, his shoulders slumped at their failure. Jo bit down on her bottom lip, a mix of sadness and sympathy washing over her face as she surveyed the area.

Y/N, on the other hand, was feeling guilty, “I knew there was a spirit around, but I couldn’t do anything,” She mumbled, her eyes glued to the ground. Dean noticed her self-blame, his expression softening immediately. He walked over to her side, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder, “Hey,” He reached out, cupping her cheek gently.

Y/N avoided his gaze, the rain now plastering loose strands of hair to her skin. “Baby, don’t do that.” He spoke softly as he swiped his thumb over her cheek, “This isn’t your fault. None of this is.” He tried to reassure her with a soft tone that only she could hear despite the rain.

The four still in their wet clothes, all with towels around their necks, driving off themselves as Dean drove the Impala. An eerie and unspoken silence waved between them as the radio spoke, “When what started out as a mild….severe weather front headed in from the Northwest. Expect heavy lightning and thunder, with sudden rainfall-” It said before Dean shut off the radio, “Do you guys wanna say it or should I?” He suddenly said.

Y/N and Sam looked at each other, an understanding look in their eyes, they gave a silent shrug. Jo remained looking out the window, before speaking her mind. “I’ll say it. You can't save everybody,” She replied lowly, causing Dean to glance at her through the rear-view mirror. Y/N scoffed, glancing back to look at Jo. “Yeah, right, so- so what, you guys feel better now or what?” Y/N said dryly, fixing the two with hard looks.

“No, not really.” Dean sighed, shaking his head. “Me neither.” Sam chimed in, threading his fingers through his damp hair. “You gotta understa-” Dean tried to assure his brother but he interrupted him. “It’s just lately, I feel like I can't save anybody.” Sam remarked, shaking his head, his eyes plastered to the window as he wiped the corner of his eye. Forcing himself to swallow back the tears and the lump in his throat.

Y/N felt her heart sink at the words that escaped Sam’s mouth. Seeing the look on Sam’s face made it all the more painful. “I get it.” She said quietly, trying to keep her composure together. Dean let out another heavy sigh, his grip on the steering wheel becoming stronger as Jo fell silent. Her eyes shifting over to her boyfriend, Jo placed a hand over Sam’s large one, which was resting on his thigh.

Giving him a bit of comfort as Y/N scrambled through the Impala’s glove compartment for her pack of cigarettes. When taking out the pack from the compartment, her hand accidentally knocked out what seemed like an old red velvet box. Y/N tilted her head at the soft thud of the box hitting the floor. She furrowed her brows in curiosity as she gently picked up the red case, her fingers tracing over the soft fabric as she tried to rack her brain to find an explanation for the box.

She glanced down at the object, a mixture of emotions flooding through her mind. Jo and Sam remained oblivious to the item in the front seat as Y/N slowly opened the box, her breath hitching in her throat. Inside the box, white gold princess-cut ring sat on a small cushion. The diamond was small but dazzling. The band was thin but sturdy. Y/N's eyes widened, her heart beating rapidly against her chest. “Uh, charming…what’s thi-”

Dean immediately snatched the box out of her hand before she could finish her sentence, his face flushed a deep scarlet as he chucked it back into the glove compartment, slamming the plastic shut. His mouth suddenly felt as dry as the Sahara. His heart was beating in his ears now as he desperately tried to think of some kind of explanation for this, going with the first lie to come out of his mouth, praying she believed it.

“It’s from a case.” He blurted out, his hands tightly gripping the steering wheel. Sam and Jo’s eyes darted over to the couple immediately, now interested in what case required a ring, but they stayed quietly, continuing to watch the exchange between the two. Y/N plucked a cigarette from the box, raising a brow at her boyfriend as she cupped her hand around the butt.

She flicked the lighter on, allowing the flame to burn the tobacco as she took a drag, not in the mood to press on the matter. “Okay” she sighed, dismissively yet unconvinced. Dean felt his shoulders physically relax at her nonchalant reaction, though he knew she didn’t fully buy the lie he could tell she wasn’t in the mood to press him further but he was sorta thankful.

He couldn’t blame her, the previous hour had left them all feeling a little beaten down. “Yeah,” he forced a chuckle, giving her a quick strained smile before returning his attention to the road. Jo and Sam exchanged a puzzled look, sensing something was up between the two. Their gazes now burnt into the back of Dean’s head. He just wanted this drive to be over so he could avoid the inevitable conversation with Y/N that would surely come.

His heart was still racing against his chest, silently praying a meteor would hit the car and end the awkwardness hanging in the air as they drove back to the house they were squatting in.

_____________________________________________

The next morning in the house, Sam and Y/N were reading books on Shipwrecks on the kitchen table while Jo was sprawled out on the couch, having not gotten a comfortable sleep on the old lumpy bed. Y/N rubbed the back of her aching neck, also not getting a comfortable sleep as Dean lounged next to her, his feet kicked up on the table with one of her Playboy magazines resting on his face.

Dean shifted under the thin magazine resting above his face, the low sounds of his girlfriend and his brother chattering over their research about shipwrecks. He could barely make out their conversation as he tried to ignore the slight snoring coming from Jo on the couch. He moved the magazine off his face, letting it fall on to his chest, as his gaze settled on the two.

Dean noticed Y/N rubbing the back of her neck and retracted his feet from the table. “You okay, sweetheart?” He asked, pulling his chair closer to hers. Y/N turned to look at him, her eyes tired but still filled with affection. “Yeah, just a little sore,” she replied with a weary chuckle, her mind still on that damn ring.

She chose to shove it to the back of her mind, however. After being in two unsuccessful relationships where she thought she had a future and now in one where the future is uncertain, though she’s desperate to make it last after fighting with herself for years with her feelings building up for Dean.

She allowed her main focus to be loving Dean and getting him out of his deal, everything else comes after. Sure she hoped for a future with him, but in their line of work, nothing ‘normal’ was ever possible. And that’s just the way it is…right?

Dean’s face softened at her response, he reached out and gently kneaded her neck with his fingers, trying to soothe the tension that had settled there. “You’re as tight as a drum back here.” He quipped, using a low teasing tone. Despite everything, he found that he couldn’t resist the urge to find a moment of lightheartedness when it comes to his family, even with the uncertainty looming over them like a dark cloud.

Sam groaned in disgust, “Guys”. Y/N chuckled warmly, leaning into Dean’s touch while Sam rolled his eyes, unamused by their display of affection. “Shut it, Sammy” Dean retorted, his attention still focused on tending to her stiff muscles. Suddenly, a knock sounded through the house at the front door, alerting the three. Jo leapt out of sleep on the couch, mid-snore.

With a heavy sigh, Sam quickly shut the book he was reading as Dean stood up and headed towards the front door, with his gun in his hand of course. Y/N took out her own revolver from her thigh holster as Jo clutched her knife under her pillow, sitting up, her messy hair sticking up in various directions.

Dean's face immediately darkened, though no surprise crossed his features from the woman he’s still pissed about. His eyes darted over to the three who were confused, sharing a long look with Y/N, silently warning her to behave before he unlocked the door, opening it halfway as he leaned against the frame, a scowl painted on his face. His free hand gripping his gun as he stared down at her.

“Dear God…are you actually squatting? How nice“ Bela gasped mockingly as she entered the house. Y/N was glaring at Bela. Her hand wrapping around her gun in a deathly grip. Y/N’s jaw clenched tightly as Bela strolled in as if she owned the damn place. Jo scoffed, her hand itching to toss the knife at Bela’s neck and slit her throat on the spot but she recollected herself while Sam sighed in disgust, running a hand over his face.

“What do you want, Bela?” Sam interrupted, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned into his chair, tired and annoyed. “How'd things go last night with Peter?” Bela asked knowingly, to which nobody responded. Sam and Jo’s eyes dropped to the floor, all refusing to make eye contact with the con artist. “That well, huh?” Bela chimed again as Dean’s scowl deepened, his eyes narrowing at her.

“If you say 'I told you so', I swear to God I ain’t holding Y/N back from filleting you this time” Dean threatened as he shoved his gun into the back of his pants. “Look, I think the three of us should have a heart-to-heart.”

Bela retorted, her smirk never faltering. It took everything in Y/N not to grab the nearest blunt object and bludgeon that condescending smirk right off of her damn face. “That's assuming that you have a heart.” Jo snapped as she pushed herself up from the couch and slammed her knife onto the table.

Dean sat back next to Y/N and Jo settled on top of Sam’s lap, with her arm wrapped around his shoulders. Sam wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her closer to him as Bela rolled her eyes in annoyance at the two so she simply sighed at the comment, her gaze drifting over to meet Jo’s. She cocked her head to the side, “Jo, please…” She sighed before turning to Y/N. “Look…I'm sorry about what I said before, okay? I come bearing gifts.”

Y/N’s eyes glanced up at Bela’s with a tinge of surprise, but she didn’t allow her stoic expression to falter. She chose to to reply, reverting her gaze to the floor as Dean’s eyes bore into the side of Bela’s head. “Such as?” Sam asked, his voice dripping with skepticism as Bela smiled sweetly at him, “I've ID'd the ship.” She began unzipping the portfolio in her hands.

A short while later, Bela spread out her findings on the table, handing a picture of the ship to Dean. “It's the Espírito Santo, a merchant sailing vessel, quite a colorful history.” She began. “In 1859 a sailor was accused of treason. He was tried aboard ship in a kangaroo court and hanged. He was 37.” She explained the ship’s history as Dean passed the picture to Y/N, which she passed over to Sam after viewing it.

“Which would explain the 37 year cycle.” Sam pointed out, “Aren't you a sharp tack?” Bela smirked, earning a glare from Jo as she scuffled the papers together. “There's a photo of him somewhere…” she found the paper and handed it to Y/N, “..here” the psychic accepted, her jaw dropping as her mouth felt dry. Dean peered beside her, “Isn't that the customer we saw last night?” He asked as Y/N nodded shakily, handing the picture to Sam. He accepted nodding his head along with Jo. “You saw him?” Bela asked surprised.

“Yeah, that's him, except he was missing a hand.” Jo responded. “His right hand?” Bela asked, all their eyes snapped up towards her in surprise. “How'd you know?” Sam asked. “The sailor's body was cremated, but not before they cut off his hand to make a hand of glory.” Bela informed them. “A hand of glory?” Dean piped up, Y/N placed her hand on her forehead, already knowing where he was going with this. “I think I got one of those at the end of my massage last night” He nudged his knee against hers.

Y/N rolled her eyes, her annoyance and anger fading slightly as his stupid joke made a slight smile form on her mouth, which she fought back and Jo stifled a laugh. Bela let out an amused scoff, but Sam simply shook his head. Sam sighed, leaning against the back of his chair. “Dean, the right hand of a hanged man is a serious occult object. It's very powerful.”

“So they say.” Bela added, “And officially counts as remains.” Y/N chimed in, “But still, none of this explains why the ghost is choosing these victims.” Jo pointed out. “I'll tell you why. Who cares? Find the hand, burn it, and stop the bloody thing.” Bela butted in, intriguing them all. “I don't get it. Why are you telling us all of this?” Dean asked, tilting his head. “Because I know exactly where the hand is.” Bela quipped.

“Where?” Y/N demanded, “At the Sea Pines Museum. It's a macabre bit of maritime history. But I need help.” Bela’s words now made Jo speak, “What kind of help?” The youngest hunter asked skeptically, to which Bela smiled wickedly in return.

Evening approached and Y/N was in the living room, which was filled with candles, waiting for Dean to finish getting ready. With the sun lowering in the sky, the room was illuminated with candlelight, casting a soft glow and flickering shadows across the walls. Y/N, dressed in a long, slinky, black evening gown that hugged her body in all the right places. The dress cut to a modest length, revealing her legs as she perched on the edge of the coffee table, preparing herself.

One foot was propped up on the coffee table as she secured her inner thigh holster, fitting her gun and knife into their assigned sheaths as she exclaimed up the stairs. “What is taking so long? Sam's already halfway there... with his date.” She said the last part with a bit of amusement, remembering Sam and Jo’s faces when they suggested Sam ‘coerce’ Gertrude into getting them into the museum.

To which Gertrude’s ultimatum was for Sam to be her gentleman for the evening, the younger Winchester reluctantly escorted the elder woman to the gala.

“So not okay with this!!” Dean shouted back from up the stairs. “Quit acting like such a chick and get down here!” Y/N almost berated him between laughs. Dean finally stepped out onto the landing at the top of the stairs, dressed in his all-black tux, the bow tie fitted properly around his neck. A disapproving look on his face as he turned to look at Y/N, who was sighing slowly in appreciation upon seeing Dean’s attire.

“Damn“ she muttered under her breath, her gaze roaming up and down the length of his body, trying to fight the smirk that was threatening to form on her lips. “All right, get it out. I look ridiculous.” Dean scoffed, expecting her to hate the outfit but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t want to bend her over in that tight little black dress of hers. “Not exactly the word I’d use” She grinned sultry, her three in heels clanking against the floorboards as she made her way over to him.

Dean sputtered, face lit up with surprise lightly as she approached, her sexy voice sending a shiver down his spine. He met her halfway, his hands gravitating towards her hips. “You look.. wow.” He managed to say, his fingers lightly tracing a path across her hip, the silk of her dress feeling smooth beneath his touch. His gaze lingered, trailing down the length of her dress once again.

“You know, when this is over, we should have really hot sex in Baby” She whispered suggestively, wrapping her arms around the back of his neck to run her fingers through his hair. Dean let out a dark chuckle, his grip on her hip tightening as her fingers threaded through his hair. His mind instantly went to the image of bending her over the back seat of his car. He cleared his throat trying to form a response.

“Don’t objectify me” He joked, his voice raspy. Y/N chuckled, her hands wandering up his shoulders to adjust his bow tie, a sly smile creeping onto her lips. “Oh please, you objectify me all the time” She teased, her breath hitting his neck lightly. Her fingers curled lightly, tugging at his locks causing him to let out a soft hiss. He responded by pulling her flush up against him, his hands roaming down to cup her ass.

“We gotta go, princess.” He growled in frustration, just as ready for this to be done with as she was. But instead, she attached her lips to his. A soft moan escaped his lips as her lips connected with his own. One hand quickly snaked their way up to her face, cupping it between his hands as he immediately deepened the kiss, his own need overriding the urgency to go.

His thumb brushed over her cheek as his tongue slipped past her lips, a soft grunt leaving his mouth as it twined with hers. Dean's body pressed against hers, her back hitting the wall as his hands traveled down to her thighs, scooping her up and pinning her between the wall and his body as his kiss began to grow more frenzied. She tilted her head, granting him a better angle as the kiss became more heated, both of them growing more impatient by the second.

Jo, who was waiting outside in the Impala, dressed in her own formal wear already pushed the front door in. “He’s still not ready- Dammit guys!”. Dean and Y/N broke apart, both panting against each other as Y/N dropped her face into the crook of Dean's neck. Jo's eyes widened before quickly rolling them in annoyance, realizing she'd be waiting a lot longer.

"You two better hurry up, we're going to be late." Jo scolded, before grumbling. “Before grandma lures my boyfriend with the promise of hard candy” With that, she straightened out her light blue gown before stepping back outside. Y/N and Dean both laughed softly as she lightly at the spot behind Dean's ear, causing him to let out another low groan from the back of his throat.

Dean placed his hands on either side of Y/N, his body still pinning her against the wall. He leaned in, his lips brushing against her earlobe. “You continue doing that, and we won’t be leaving at all tonight” He warned, his voice low and gruff. “Quickie?” she suggested, smiling widely at him.

Dean looked like he was about to give into her suggestion, but the sound of a car horn honking interrupted them.

______________________________________________

Sea Pines, Maritime Museum

The three pull into the Sea Pines Museum parking lot in the Impala. Dean and Y/N walked up the steps, hand in hand, both chewing bubble gum as Jo walked behind them, slightly fixing her neatly pinned back hair. As soon as they entered, Y/N handed the doorman her invitation before greeting him kindly and was instantly spotted by Bela, who wore a disapproving glare.

“Are you chewing gum?” She whispered to them sharply. They stopped mid chew as Dean shot Bela wicked grin, his gum cracking obnoxiously between his teeth. Her glare at them deepened as Jo snickered. “Try to behave as if you've lived this life before, yeah?” Bela berated them. Y/N scowled at her before blowing up a bubble and popping it in her face.

Bela flinched back at the sound of the pop as Dean looked around. He gestured for Y/N to hand him her gum, which she did. Before he took out his own gum, balled them together and stuck it under the flowing champagne fountain near them. Jo wanted to laugh her ass of at the way Bela looked as if she was ready to blow a gasket, absolutely appalled.

Y/N and Dean shot Bela thumbs up before walking in through the main entrance, hand in hand, taking in the elegant surroundings, black lacquer walls, white marble floors, with antique brass lights casting a soft glow across the room.

Waiters in black and white uniforms walked around the party carrying trays filled with champagne and hors d’oeuvres, and guests dressed in their finest clothes mingling over glasses of liquor and expensive wine.

Soon after they found themselves at the bar, patiently waiting to see Sam and Gertrude. The ‘couple’ came in some time after them, with Gertrude handing her invitation to the doorman. Her hair was down, and she walked over to Sam, who was also decked out in a tux, lacing her arm through his. “This'll get their tongues wagging, eh, my Adonis?” The older woman giggled suggestively. “Just remember, we're on business.” Sam sighed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

“Ooooh, but sometimes business can be pleasure, hmm?” Gertrude slid her hand up his chest seductively. “Right” Sam deadpanned as they walked arm-and-arm into the room. Gertrude ran her hand over the younger Winchester’s back possessively, causing him to chuckle nervously.

Sam's gaze drifted over to his brother and Y/N, who were snickering at the bar, while Bela stood nearby, shaking her head. His eyes narrowed slightly at the two of them, watching them intently as they acted like high schoolers. Dean caught his gaze, shooting him a smug smirk while Y/N raised her glass, gesturing a toast in greeting.

Jo was stuffing her face with pig in a blankets to ease the tension that was on her chest from seeing the older woman wrapped up around Sam. He then turned to Gertrude, “You know, uh, could you excuse me for a moment?” Sam politely excused himself, “Of course” She smiled as she made a sort of coochie-coo expression at Sam. He patted her hand gently in return before making his way over to the four.

“Exactly how long do you expect me to entertain my date?” He grunted at Bela, “As long as it takes.” Bela smirked in return. Sam groaned, his irritation visible. Y/N, however, found amusement in the situation, chuckling into her drink. She looked him up and down, taking in his appearance. “Looking sharp, Sammy” she teased, earning a glare in response. Sam flipped her the bird in response before turning to his beautiful girlfriend, whose face was messed up with ketchup.

Sam grabbed a napkin and dabbed at her face, trying his best to wipe it off without laughing. “You look beautiful, angel” He complimented genuinely as he pressed a kiss to her forehead. Jo blushed lightly, waving her hand in dismissal. Dean, however, didn’t stop himself from making a crude gesture and a teasing joke, “Keep it in your pants, Sammy” which earned him a light swat from Y/N.

Sam rolled his eyes, shaking his head in amusement. While Bela shook her head with an air of disgust. “You know, you three do realize this is a formal event, don’t you?” She scoffed, “Shut up” The four hunters barked lowly at her, making her raise her arms in surrender. “Not like I told you everything” She said sarcastically before rolling her eyes again. “Look, there's security all over this place, all right. This is an uncrashable party without Gert's invitation, so…” Y/N told Sam.

“We can crash anything, Y/N” Sam replied dryly, wrapping an arm around Jo while keeping his eye out for Gertrude in case she saw them. “Yeah, I know, but this is easier and it's a lot more entertaining.” Dean smirked, earning a scowl from Sam and Jo. “You know there are limits to what I'll do, right?” Sam bit back. “Yeah, prick, there's a limit” Jo chimed in. “Ah, he's playing hard to get and Barbie’s jealous, that's cute.” Dean mused as Y/N snickered.

It was now Jo’s turn to flip Y/N the bird, to which Y/N blew her a kiss in response while Sam smiled tightly. “Come on, sweetie” Y/N gestured for her and Dean to get up and survey the museum. Dean nodded, picking up her hand held purse and tucking it under his left arm before he picked up two freshly filled champagne glasses. Y/N picked up another and handed it to Bela, gesturing for her to follow behind them. Dean handed Y/N a champagne glass.

“Thank you” she smiled at him sweetly as she accepted it and they walked away. Bela, still slightly annoyed, accepted her glass without comment as she fell into step behind them. They wandered through the extravagant display, feigning interest in the artwork and antiques, while discreetly scouting the security around the museum.

Sam and Jo remained near the bar as she adjusted his suit and bow tie but the younger Winchester wore a deep scowl towards Dean and Y/N, Jo leaned up to press a kiss to his lips before spotting Gert. Sam followed her gaze, sighing as he realized that it was time to dive into character. "And that's my cue." He muttered, plastering on a suave smile.

He made her way towards Gert, reverting her attention back onto him as two glasses of champagne appeared before him, followed by Gert’s hand, offering him a glass and a toast. “To us.” Sam looked at the champagne reluctantly, his eyes glancing back over to Jo. Her back turned to them as she now sipped a whiskey she ordered from the bar. He took a deep breath before swigging the whole glass in one gulp, leaving Gert visibly excited by his enthusiasm.

Dean, Y/N and Bela are now walking through a less crowded room, the couple speaking in undertones towards each other. Dean, being Dean, leaned into Y/N's ear and murmured, “You think we'll find a dark corner somewhere and make out like teenagers?” She shot him a look, both amused and slightly exasperated. “Get your head out of the gutter,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. "We’re here to do a job. Behave yourself."

She tried to sound stern, but the corners of her mouth twitched, almost revealing a smirk. Dean simply chuckled as they placed their champagne glasses down on a corner table along with Bela. “Private security?” Bela chimed in softly, referring to the security around. “I don't think so. Look at the way they're standing. They're pros. Probably state troopers moonlighting.” Dean responded, shifting back to the hunt. “And they’re posted to every door, too.” Y/N sighed, eyeing the security.

“Yeah, I don't think we're just going to be able to waltz upstairs.” Dean commented, “What do you suggest?” Bela asked the two who shrugged, “I'm thinking.” Y/N mumbled, smiling tightly. “Don't strain yourself.” Bela quipped, making Y/N’s eyes snap back over to her. “Interesting how the legend is so much more than the

man. Or in this case, man and woman.” They scoffed at her words. “You got any bright ideas, I'm all ears.” Dean shot back, clenching his jaw.

“Okay” Bela grinned before wrapping her arm around Y/N’s shoulder, groaning and falling into her arms toward the floor. Dean’s eyes widened, instantly helding Y/N hold up Bela’s weight as they held her, kneeling down next to her. “Kelly? Kelly, are you all right?” Y/N said urgently through gritted teeth in a faux-concern tone, slapping the sides of Bela’s face harshly on purpose.

“Waiter!” Dean called out for the waiter, thinking of the quickest lie on spot. The waiter rushed over to him, bending down to speak to the Hunter with his tray in his. “Hi. Uh, my sister has a severe shellfish allergy. Th-ere's no crab in that? Is there?” Dean asked urgently. “No, sir.” The waiter responded, shaking his head. “No?” Dean and Y/N said in unison, sharing a look before taking an appetizer from the silver tray and shoving it in their mouths simultaneously.

“Oh they're excellent, by the way.” Dean smiled, speaking with his mouth full as Y/N nodded. A guard approached them three, Bela still ‘fainted’ away in their arms. “What seems to be the trouble?” The guard asked them as the waiter walked away. “Ah...champagne! My sister-in-law, she's a lightweight when it comes to the sauce” Y/N chuckled, using the first lie she could come up with. “Dear old Kelly is a floozy” Dean chuckled, “Is there somewhere I can lay her down till she gets her sea legs back?” He asked, hopefully.

The guard looked around and then towards the step before nodding, “Follow me” he instructed them. “Right.” Y/N nodded, handing the guard her and Bela’s purses, helping Dean lift her weight carrying her. “Thank you” Dean thanked the kind guard who nodded in return. Once the guard had his back to them, they wrapped each of Bela’s arms around their shoulders, sharing an annoyed look at the con-artist.

Moments later, the two lay Bela down unceremoniously on a red leather couch as the guard stood by the door. “You think she's a pain in the ass now, try growing up with her.” Dean said stiffly as they made their way to the door, the guard nodded going back outside with Bela’s eyes popping open on the couch. “Thank you very much.” Y/N thanked him once again as she shut the door. Once it was closed, the couple turned to Bela, who was now sitting up on the couch with a smug look.

“Hey maybe next time give me a little heads up with your plan?” Dean snapped as Y/N tossed Bela her black bag, which she caught with ease. “I didn't want you thinking. You're not very good at that.” Bela smirked as she leaned into the couch on her side. Dean and Y/N were left speechless, exhaling simultaneously in frustration. “Oh, look at you. Searching for a witty rejoinder.” She quipped at Dean. “Fuck you” Y/N spat, warningly.

“Very Oscar Wilde.” Bela shot back with a smirk again. Making y/n clench fists into balls. Dean snatched Y/N by her wrist, pulling her to the door. “Room 235. It's in a locked glass case wired for alarm, I'm sure that won't be a problem.” Bela suddenly said, causing the two to fall short in their steps. “I'm sure that won't be a problem.” Y/N mumbled mockingly, putting on a high pitched British accent.

Dean opened the door for her, laughing to himself as they both exited it, leaving Bela on the couch looking smug.

Downstairs, Gert and Sam are on the dancefloor swaying to ballroom music. The older woman with a sultry smile looking up at Sam, “Where's Alex and your friends? They're missing a great party.” Gertrude asked, curiously. “Umm, ah, I'm sure Dean and Y/N are entertaining themselves.” Sam smiled tightly. “Oooh, naughty. Then I guess we'll just have to entertain ourselves as well.” Gertrude moaned, hand sliding down Sam’s back and goosing his ass. He jumped in response.

Jo slapped a hand over her mouth as she watched from the bar. She was over her jealousy and now almost in full blown hysterics. She and Sam had a signal between them to ensure when Sam was fully uncomfortable, for her to intervene and pull Sam away from Gertrude.

“Whoa, uh …” Sam cleared his throat as Gert giggled. “Ha, y-you know, Mrs. Case, I-” Sam stuttered. “Ooh, ooh, ooh” Gert corrected him. “I'm sorry, Ms. Case ... I don't wanna give you the wrong idea.” She interrupted again. “Call me Gert.” She insisted. “Okay. Um…Gert- I have a girlfriend. And she’s right over-” he tried to explain awkwardly as Gert laid her head on his shoulder, not seeming to care.

“You remind me of my late husband... He was shy too ... till we got below deck.” She reminisced before squeezing his ass once more. “Whoa-oa! Unh....” Sam exclaimed, making the signal to Jo to intervene. She was more than happy to do so, finishing her drink in one swig. Marching over to Gert and Sam, the older woman moaning and saying, “Mmmm, you're just firm all over, ooh, mmm.”

Jo, doing a good job acting cool, was now standing right next to Sam and slinging her arm around his waist, leaning into him. “There you are, honey.” She said with a smile, making Sam sigh out of immediate relief. “Mrs. Case? What are you doing here?” Jo reigned a smile as Gert peeled back from Sam with a look of shock.

“Enjoying the party,” Gertrude replied dryly, eyeing the young woman’s arm wrapped around Sam’s waist. Jo placed her arm in his chest, fiddling with his bow tie. “You don’t mind if I steal him away for one dance, do you?” Jo asked with feigned politeness. Gertrude forced a tight-lipped smile. “No, of course not.” she said, very much displeased. Sam, seizing the chance to escape, quickly moved to join Jo.

As the couple stepped further onto the dance floor and Gert made her way to the bar, Jo wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him close. "Thank you." Sam mumbled, feeling the tension drain away from his body. Jo chuckled softly, "You're lucky I didn't walk over here and start throwing punches. You looked about ready to have a heart attack."

Sam chuckled as well, placing a hand on her cheek, tracing her jaw with his thumb. "You wouldn’t punch a little old lady” Sam snorted. “I don't know how many times I told her I had a girlfriend, but she kept coming on strong." Jo smirked, leaning in to place a quick kiss on his jaw. “Well, that’s because you’re young and handsome.” she stated with a shrug. “I mean, have you seen yourself in the mirror lately?”

“Are you seriously trying to pillow talk me in the middle of a hunt?” Sam snickered into her hair as he placed a kiss to the crown of her head. She giggled into his chest, pulling him down to bury her face into the crook of his neck, “Is it working?” She asked, her breath ghosting over his skin as he pulled her even closer.

“Maybe..” Sam huskily replied, his hand slipping down to the bare skin of her lower back, fingers tracing delicate circles into the exposed flesh. Jo pulled her head back, eyes peering up at him beneath batted eyelashes. Her gaze was full of desire and affection, which only served to fuel his growing want.

Upstairs, Dean and Y/N are in a different room, doing a high-tech burglary and retrieving the hand of glory. The hand was placed in a glass case with motion sensors around it. “I don’t trust leaving her alone” Y/N suddenly said. “She'll be fine.” Dean replied, waving a hand dismissively while setting up Y/N’s laptop to begin the encryption to break through the motion sensors.

Y/N scoffed, leaning against the wall with their arms crossed over their chest. “Oh yeah, because she hasn’t proved on numerous occasions that she only looks out for herself.” Dean nodded in agreement before turning to look at his girlfriend, “Alright. Go make sure she’s in the room. I’ve got this” He assured her, gesturing to the laptop and the Hand of Glory.

Y/N’s face lit up with surprise. She couldn’t shake the feeling of distrust that Bela gave her. “Really? Thank you, be safe” Y/N said gratefully before padding over to him and pressing a kiss to his lips. “Ditto” Dean shot before he returned the kiss, pulling her into his body and holding her for a brief moment. Just as she was pulling away, he leaned back in to place a kiss just below her earlobe and in her hair before reluctantly letting her go.

“I love you” He said, to which she smirked. “Ditto” she quipped in response. Then she quietly opened the door and slipped out of the room, shutting the door silently behind her. Dean turned back to the laptop, shaking his head with a smirk.

Meanwhile, Bela is in the room they left her in, she maneuvered herself around a desk, she picked up a ship in a bottle. Looking at it intently. She didn’t hear when Y/N entered the room, the psychic noticed Bela getting chummy with the antique so she shut the door loudly. “What’re you doing with that?” She snapped as she crossed her arms over her chest.

Bela jumped slightly, looking over at Y/N, slightly panicked, “Relax, I was just looking at it.” Bela said, her fingers tracing the edges of the glass bottle. Y/N approached, eyes narrowed. “Yeah, well don’t. Don’t touch anything.” she said sternly, reaching for the ship. Bela pulled it back. “Oh, come on, what are you going to do? Tell on me?” She mocked.

Before Y/N could respond, a knock at the door startled them both. “Sir? Ma'am? Everything all right?” The guard's voice boomed through the door. Bela quickly placed the ship on the desk, looking to the door. Y/N’s eyes widened, also panicked. She quickly ushered Bela below the desk, telling her silently with a sharp look to stay put and not to make a sound. Y/N thought quickly on her feet, shuffling around a few items while undoing the side of her dress and smudging up her lipstick.

“Just a sec!” she called out to the guard. Just as she finished, she swiftly opened the door. Peering only her head through. The guard, standing there, immediately checked her out. She looked like a mess, hair disheveled and her chest almost spilling out of the top of her dress. “Hi…Sorry...” Y/N apologized, blushing slightly in an attempt to seem embarrassed. “Uh…is your sister-in-law feeling better?” He asked, referring to Bela.

“Yeah, so much better. Thanks to you, she’s downstairs drinking again." she smiled, biting at the corner of her lip. The guard gave a nod and a small smile at that, “So, if you're done with the room...?” The guard trailed off, clearing his throat. “Well... not exactly. Could we have a few more minutes?” Y/N smiled sheepishly. The guard raised an eyebrow, leaning to the side and glancing past Y/N into the room. "Uh.... Yes ma'am." he said with a hint of skepticism.

Y/N flashed him a charming smile, closing the door behind her as she stepped back inside. She began giggling loudly, “Stop it. That tickles!” She exclaimed, rummaging a few items as she fixed her dress. Bela stood up from behind the desk. She would hate to admit it right about now, but she was impressed by Y/N. The guard shook his head to himself, smiling as he made his way around the corner. To his surprise, he bumped straight into Dean, who was coming from downstairs.

“Whoa. Sorry! It's, uh ... nature called.” Dean lied fluidly. “Uh huh.” The guard mumbled in shock, his brows furrowed. Now wondering if Dean was out here, then who was in the room with Y/N….it couldn’t be… “Thanks for looking after my sister.” Dean said gratefully. “Oh, she's ... being looked after, all right.” The guard chuckled as he wheeled around and walked off with a smile at Dean’s expense. Dean was puzzled at this but chose to ignore it, opening the door to Bela’s room to see Y/N fixing her dress.

Bela was standing by the desk, arms crossed over her chest. “Any trouble?” Dean asked, looking between Y/N and Bela with evident confusion. “Nothing I couldn't handle.” His girlfriend smirked in return, glancing back at Bela. She saw that the ship was no longer on the table and Bela had her hand behind her back. “The hand?” Bela asked casually. “Drop it” Y/N demanded.

Bela rolled her eyes, extending her hand forward, ship dangling from her fingers. "Here it is," She said with a smile, tossing it to Y/N. She glared at Bela before tossing the glass bottle onto the couch. “The hand?” Bela asked once more. Dean then pulled a wizened human hand out of his jacket pocket. Bela approached them with an intrigued look and held out her own hand. “May I?” She asked politely as Dean snatched it back, shaking his head.

“No” he said firmly as he took out his handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around the hand. “It might be more inconspicuous in my purse.” Bela suggested, “Nice try, I’ve got a purse too” Y/N snapped back as Dean handed her the…hand. “Just trying to be helpful,” Bela deadpanned. “Well, sweetie. We don’t need your kind of help” Y/N smirked, stuffing the hand into her purse gently before zipping it shut.

The interruption from Jo didn’t last long, so now Sam was back to dancing with Gert for ‘one last song’. The drunken old woman leaned against his chest, clutching a champagne glass in her hand behind him. “Man, this is one long song.” Sam commented dryly. “I hope it never ends.” Gert slurred, breathing deeply as a pain look took over Sam’s face. His eyes drifted over to Jo who was back near the snack table when Gert asked, “How's the investigation going?”

“These things take time.” Sam responded tightly. “You know, people are talking about the Warren brothers’ deaths. Hmmm…Strange….. Do you think it’s connected to Shelia's?” Gert asked hopefully as she glanced up at him. Sam nodded, “Yeah. Yeah, we think so.” He replied, his eyes darting everywhere but Gert. “I think they had it coming, you know. In a Biblical sort of way.” Gert commented, sinking her face back into Sam’s chest.

He was now confused by her words, “What do you mean?” He asked, confused. “You know about their father?” Gert stated, as if he was supposed to know. “No” Sam shook his head, “Come here, I'll whisper it to you.” She said sultry, “Uhh-!” Sam didn’t get a chance to respond before Gert pulled his head down, his ear brushing against her lips. “People say that the old man didn't die of natural causes.” Sam grimaced as she spoke, “Then how?” He asked, swallowing the lump of vomit in his throat.

Gert caressed him as she blew into his ear, “Rumor is the boys did it. Nothing was ever proved, but, uh, people still whisper.” She attempted to kiss his ear but Sam instantly pulled away, wincing. “Okay, okay, okay.” She fixed his bow tie as he asked, “Um, um, so did, did, did Sheila have any connection to them?” Gert shook her head, “Well, none that I know of.”

The wheels turned in the younger Winchester’s head, “Did Sheila have any kind of tragedy in her life?” He asked suddenly, Gert was surprised by this. “Yes. As a matter of fact there was a ... car accident when she was a teenager.” She informed him. “What happened?” Sam asked, “Uh…Her car flipped over. She was okay but her, uh, cousin Brian was killed….Why is that important?”

“Uh…” Sam trailed off as Dean, Y/N and Bela approached them. “Well! Having a nice time?” Bela mused. As soon as Jo spotted Bela near them, she found herself back to them. “He's delightful!” Gert giggled as she moved over to Bela, she pressed a kiss to the con-artist’s cheek before whispering. “He wants me” and then glaring lightly at Jo. Bela smiled sweetly at the woman, “Oh, I can see why.” she replied as she wrapped her arm around Gert.

Dean had a look of surprise on his face while Sam looked abashed, smiling sheepishly at his girlfriend who was glaring daggers at the back of Gert’s head. “I'm going to get Gert into a cold shower.” Bela whispered to them. “Great idea.” Jo scoffed. “See you at the cemetery.” Bela said to the four, winking at Y/N, the psychic furrowing her brows. Dean then turned to his brother with an amused look, “You stink like sex.” To which Sam flipped him the bird in return.

The quartet were now in the parking lot, all jumping into the Impala. Sam jumped into the back with Jo as Dean and Y/N got into their respective seats. “You got it, right? Tell me I didn’t watch my boyfriend didn't get groped all night by Mrs. Havisham for nothing” Jo asked Dean and Y/N stiffly as she helped Sam undo his bow tie. Y/N nodded her head as Dean said, “We got it... Mrs. Who?”

Sam and Jo rolled their eyes, “Never mind. Just let me see it.” Sam scoffed, Y/N nodded quickly and began unzipping her purse to see. She pulled out the white cloth inside and began unwrapping it. Only to find the glass bottle with the ship inside, instead of the hand. Dean and Y/N became stiff with anger as Sam and Jo looked confused, “What?” They asked in unison. “I'm gonna kill her.” Dean muttered, his chest heaving with fury.

“Correction. We’re gonna kill her” Y/N grunted, clenching her jaw before tossing the glass bottle into the back for Jo to catch.

______________________________________________

A purse was tossed onto the seat near the glove compartment of a lavish car. Bela shut the door, and began looking in the purse at several packets of bills with $10,000 wrappers on them. She then pulled one out and flipped through it with a satisfied expression on her face, then stared out into space for a moment. In the direction of the ocean. A look of consternation passes over her features. “Oh, no.” She gasped. A creaking sound filling her ears.

Bela hopped out of her car to look more closely at the ghost ship, which she then realized approaching with thunder and lightning. It was the ship that was haunting the people before turning them into drowning victims.

Back in the house they were squatting in, it was still lit with the candles. Dean has the glass bottle with the shop near a candle, examining it as he brooded with anger. “You know what? You guys are right, we’re not gonna kill her” Dean suddenly said, looking up at Sam and Jo. Y/N, who was standing next to Dean, went to protest before he said, “I think slow torture's the way to go.” He growled as Jo rolled her eyes, shutting her book.

Y/N nodded in agreement, cracking her knuckles as Sam sighed. “Dean, Y/N, look, you gotta relax.” Sam pleaded, fed up with the two. “Relax! Oh yeah, yeah, I'll relax.” Dean huffed sarcastically as he paced. “I can't believe she got another one over on us!” Y/N seethed, feeling the urge to punch the wall. Sam and Jo looked up, both sharing a sideways look. “You two,” Jo suddenly said. Dean and Y/N turned to face them, the elder Winchester stopping in his tracks as Y/N placed her hands on her hips.

“What?” Dean asked surprised, his brows creasing. “I...I mean, she got ... one over ... on you two, ... not us.” Sam said as if it was obvious. Dean and Y/N paused, their eyes swimming with fury. “Thank you! Sam. Very helpful.” Y/N bellowed sarcastically. Suddenly, the front door had a loud bang on it, someone knocking rapidly on it. “Hello? Could you open up?” Bela’s panicked and fear filled voice boomed through the door.

Dean and Y/N froze as they were caught off guard. Sam and Jo looked at each other, a look of surprise on their faces as well. Dean shared a pissed look with them, before marching up to the door. The three younger hunters followed behind him as he opened it and came face to face with a panicked Bela.

Her chest was heaving, eyes wide as her cheeks were pale. Her hands were shaking as she gripped her designer purse. Dean’s lips were pursed as they all looked her up and down in agitation. “Just let me explain,” She pleaded.

A short while later. Bela was sitting with Dean and Y/N leaning over her, looking like, ‘I knew it!’ when she admitted, “I sold it. I had a buyer lined up as soon as I knew it existed.” Sam and Jo were leaning against the mantel, with serious bitchfaces. Dean, furious as ever, walked around her and made a shooting motion with his fingers and Y/N gritted her teeth, her nostrils flaring.

“So the whole reason for us going to the charity ball was...?” Jo trailed off as she asked. “I needed a cover. You were convenient.” Bela shrugged as Sam and Jo nodded. “Look, you sold it to a buyer. Just go buy it back.” Sam huffed. “It's halfway across the ocean. I can't get it back in time.” Bela frowned. “In time for what?” Y/N scoffed. This time, Bela looked down and didn’t bother to answer.

Sam and Y/N shared a confused look as Jo tilted her head. “What's going on with you, Bela? You look like you've seen a ghost.” Sam asked, rolling his eyes. Bela said deeply, “I saw the ship” she told them, her tone low. “You what?” Dean gaped, as Sam’s eyes widened with surprise. Y/N had a look on her face that said, ‘Vengeance!’ as Jo tried not to grin.

The Winchesters glanced at each other as Y/N chuckled darkly, “Wow, you know, I…I knew you were an immoral thieving con artist bitch, but just when I thought my opinion of you couldn't get any lower-” She said joyfully as she sat on the table in front of Bela, crossing her arms. “What are you talking about?” Bela asked, confused. “We figured out the spirit’s motive.” Sam stated as Jo walked up to the book on the table besides Y/N.

She opened it and began rifling through it, taking out a picture to hand it to Bela. “This is the captain of our ship. The one who hung our ghost boy.” Jo told her, “So?” Bela asked, her brows furrowed. “So they were brothers.” Sam revealed as Jo dropped the picture on the table. It fell to the table with a menacingly plop, the con-artist looking down at it with horror.

“Very Cain and Abel. So now our spirit, he's going after a very specific kind of target…people who've spilled their own family’s blood.” Sam explained as Dean smirked, biting his lip. Bela looked absolutely stunned as Jo took over speaking, “See first there was Sheila who killed her cousin in the car accident, and the Warren brothers, who murdered their father for the inheritance.” Jo leaned down, pressing her palms to the table, looking Bela directing in her face. “And now you.”

“Oh my God” Bela gasped. Dean leaned down, pressing his palms to the back of Bela’s chair and the table, “So who was it, Bela? Hmm? Who'd you kill? Was it Daddy? Your little sis, maybe?” He asked tauntingly. Bela gulped, reminiscing on the horrid memories of her childhood. About the deal she made nearly ten years ago. She looked as though she wanted to be swallowed up by the earth, like a child backed into a corner.

Y/N and Jo, being women, picked up on her change of demeanor almost immediately. The once stone cold and selfish con-artist, showing a glimpse of trauma etched on her face. But she quickly regained her footing. “It's none of your business.” Bela stated. “No? Riight. Well, have a nice life..you know, whatever’s left of it.” Dean scoffed before walking over to the coat rack. “Let’s go, guys” He told the three, picking up his jacket and Y/N’s.

“You're just going to leave me?!” Bela exclaimed in total shock. “Yep. Pretty much” Y/N said sweetly, placing her hand on her shoulder as she accepted the black leather jacket Dean. Bela’s eyes darted to hers, her eyes wide. “You can't just leave me here.” Dean cut her off, “Watch us” He rolled his eyes, shoving his arms into the sleeves of the jacket.

Part of Y/N’s mind was telling her to help Bela, maybe there was more to her than a stone cold bitch. There had to be a reason why Bela Talbot is the way she is, evil isn’t born. But she didn’t trust the woman one bit, this could all just be an act once again. “Please.” Bela pleaded with Sam and Jo, they both looked down, moved and hesitant. “I need your help.”

“Our help? Now how could a couple of serial killers possibly help you?” Y/N said bitterly, walking over to Sam and Jo along with Dean, “Okay, that was a bit harsh, I admit it, but it doesn't warrant a death sentence.” Bela admitted, desperate. “That's not why you’re gonna die.” Jo said lowly, Bela’s eyes connected with hers as she asked. “What'd you do, Bela?” Bela seemed hesitant to answer. “You wouldn't understand. No one did.”

The four held a slightly pity filled gaze towards her, contemplating actually helping her. “Never mind. I'll just do what I've always done, I'll deal with it myself.” She scoffed stubbornly, shaking her head as she turned to leave. “You do realize you just sold the one thing that could save your life.” Dean told her, the con artist turned to face him. Her face flushed with solemn, “I’m aware”

“Well…” Jo sighed, turning to look at her boyfriend. “Maybe not the only thing” She said, urging Sam with her eyes. He nodded in return, sharing a look with Y/N. The psychic was still hesitant, but she went with her gut. Agreeing with them non-verbally as Dean looked at them, confused.

The full moon was at its apex as Sam and Y/N set up a kind of ritual circle. Five candles, a pentagram, a bowl into which Y/N poured a jar of red liquid. Another jar is on the opposite side of the circle, with what appear to be herbs in it. Sam places something else into the center of the circle. Dean and Jo leaned against some tombstones next to each other, their rocksalt guns propped on their shoulders as Bela stood in the middle of them, huddling into her jacket.

“Do you really think this is going to work?” She queried, looking around nervously. Sam and Y/N stepped back from the circle, the younger Winchester holding his deceased father’s journal firm in his hands. “Almost definitely not” Dean said bluntly as Thunder crashed, wind whistled and rain started pouring. Sam zipped up his jacket, pulling up his hood. Y/N did the same, thankfully, not wearing her leather jacket.

Dean and Jo fully stood up, looking around cautiously. “Sammy! Y/N/N! You better start reading.” Jo shouted over the thunder. The two nodded, the younger Winchester opening his dad’s journal. Y/N extended her hand for Sam to grasp. He did just that, taking her hand in his and taking a deep breath. Y/N squeezed her eyes tightly shut before reopening them, her eyes swimming with its ball of white as her veins lit up blue.

As Sam clutched Y/N's hand, their fingers intertwined in a vice-like grip, a surge of power coursively ran through him. His whole body felt like a livewire, electrified, his entire being buzzing with the energy emanating from his best friend’s form and into himself. “Aziel, Castiel, Lamisniel, Rabam. Ehrley, et balam, ego vos conuro, per deum verum, per deum vivum-” They chanted in unison, pausing when they saw the candles suddenly blow out.

The wind increased, howling like a crazed wolf. A lightning bolt struck the earth, making a thunderous boom. “-cuivos cuiaves eos supermontes et per eum, qui adam, et avum formovit. Et per eum” Bela’s heart was racing as the weather conditions increased rapidly, her soaking hair clinging to her face. “Stay close!” Dean ordered her since she was moving away, gripping her by her arm.

Bela’s jaw dropped when the phantom appeared behind Dean and Jo, “Behind you!!” She warned them but they didn’t turn around in time. The spirit threw both hunters through the air. Both hitting large tombstones simultaneously on opposite sides with a painful thud. A shot rang out from Dean’s gun as he slumped to the ground.

Sam and Y/N looked up nervously but focused on the task in hand, chanting in Latin relentlessly. The phantom reached out to Bela and placed his hand on her face. Bela’s breath hitched before she began coughing up water, falling to her knees. The spirit watched with sick pleasure as Dean and Jo pushed themselves to their feet and rushed over to her. “Sammy, Y/N/N, read faster!” Dean shouted, both him and Jo wrapping their arms around her.

Bela continued to cough horridly as the two increased their chanting. At the end of their incantation, suddenly, the rain died down. Bela’s coughing subsided just a bit and their ears were filled with a creaking sound that sounded familiar to Bela. The spirit's head slowly turns toward the source of the noise to see his brother. “You... hanged me!” He growled at his brother. “I’m sorry” The sailors brother apologized sincerely.

“Your own brother!” The sailor bellowed. “I’m so sorry” His brother sobbed, “You killed your wife!” The sailor accused his brother. They were all surprised by this revelation since nothing was mentioned about the sailor’s brother’s wife in the history book. “She’s at peace” His brother assured him. The ghost charges his brother’s spirit, and the two dissolve into screams, and a splash of water.

The wind picked up once again but instead of a raging storm, it simply blew with an abrupt chill. The spirit was gone, and Dean and Jo both helped Bela back onto her feet. The girl’s hair was soaked, and her makeup smeared. She looked completely ruined as she stood there with her head down, her gaze fixed at the ground.

The next day, the quartet were packing up, getting ready to leave their squatted residency. Dean and Y/N on the couch as Sam and Jo stood by the table. The door suddenly opened, revealing a very much alive and well Bela. “You lot should learn to lock your doors. Anyone could just barge in.” Bela mused with a smirk. “Anyone just did.” Jo retorted with a roll of her eyes as Dean and Y/N pushed themselves up from the couch.

“Did you come to say goodbye or thank you?” Sam asked. “I've come to settle affairs.” Bela answered as she reached into her purse, taking out four packets of money. “Giving the spirit what he really wanted, his own brother. very clever, Sam. So here.” She complimented before tossing them each a packet. The four caught them easily, all turning them over to see the $5000 on each one. “It’s twenty thousand, that should cover it” the four looked surprised, staring at the money.

“Seriously?” Y/N questioned, raising a brow. “Don’t get used to it, darling. I don’t like being in anyone’s debt.” Bela smirked at her. “So ponying up twenty grand is easier for you than a simple ‘thank you?’” Bela smiled faintly at Dean’s words, the elder Winchester looking down at the money as he shook his head. “You’re so damaged” Y/N commented with a dry chuckle. Bela’s smile broadened at her. “Takes one to know one.” She quipped, winking at Dean and Y/N.

“Y/N, I got to ask. Where’d you find that gorgeous dagger of yours?” Bela asked curiously, referring to Maverick’s Dagger. Y/N’s eyes narrowed at Bela, “None of your business. It’s gone. Burnt.” she stated firmly. Bela raised a brow, pursing her lips as she nodded. “Goodbye lads and lasses” She turned, now making her leave. Sam shook his head as Jo remained stunned. “She’s got style, I’ll give her that” Jo admitted, twirling the money in her fingers.

“I suppose.” Y/N shrugged, “You know, guys, we don't know where this money's been.” Sam said, holding up his stack. “No,” Dean glanced up, snatching Sam’s out of his hand. ��But I know where it's going... A-HA HA!” He exclaimed excitedly.

It was now nighttime, all in the Impala driving down a desolate road once again. “Seriously? Atlantic City?” Sam scoffed from the passenger seat, looking at the road map. “Hell yeah! Play some roulette. Always bet on black.” Dean smirked, glancing over at his brother and his girlfriend in the back seat. Jo’s head was resting on Y/N’s shoulder, halfway asleep as the psychic read from her favorite novel.

“Dean, this is a terrible idea” Sam protested, watching the endless road ahead of him. “Sammy, that's because you have no taste, no class, and a crappy sense of fun” Dean retorted defiantly, shaking his head. “I prefer hunting evil son-of-a-bitches to gambling away my hard-earned money” Sam argued as Y/N giggled. “Oh, and gambling’s beneath us?” Y/N said mock-haughtily, looking up from her novel.

“You hate gambling!” Sam shot back at Y/N. “Hate is a strong word” Y/N countered, taking her eyes off the book to look into the back seat. “I prefer the term ‘highly discourage’” She smirked, her fingers tracing circles on Jo’s arm resting lazily over her stomach. Sam rolled his eyes, turning back to the road as the air grew silent in the car. Dean gulped, wiping his mouth as he glanced at his brother and girlfriend before beginning.

“Hey listen, I've been doing some thinking. Um ... I want you to know I understand why you two did it. I understand why you went after the crossroads demon.” Sam and Y/N sighed deeply simultaneously when Dean said this, not wanting to have this conversation. “You know, the situation was reversed, I guess I'd've done the same thing.” Dean said before pausing. Sam and Y/N shared an exasperated look.

“I mean I'm not blind, I see what you guys are going through with this whole deal, me going away and all that. But you're gonna be okay.” Dean assured them. Sam looked at his brother, exhaling harshly, “You think so” He said tonelessly as Y/N began biting at her nails to stop herself from saying anything she’ll regret. Dean nodded, “Yeah, you guys’ll keep hunting, y'know, you live your lives. You’re stronger than me. You are” He continued.

There was a beat of silence as Dean looked in his rearview mirror to see Y/N looking up, tears swimming in her eyes, her chin trembling. Sam cleared his throat to stop himself from getting choked up. “You’ll…you’ll get over it. But I want y’all to know I'm sorry, I’m sorry for... putting you through all this, I am.” Dean said sincerely and that caused Y/N to snap.

“You know what, Dean? Go fuck yourself” She huffed, now sitting up, causing Jo to wake up, looking around groggily in confusion. Dean’s eyes widened as he looked in the mirror, taken back by Y/N’s harsh words. “What?” He gaped. “We don't want an apology from you! And by the way, we’re not kids anymore. We can take care of ourselves” She rambled, her nostrils flaring. “Oh, well, excuse me.” Dean scoffed.

Y/N’s eyes narrowed into a glare as Dean gripped the steering wheel tightly, trying to bite his tongue. “Honestly, Dean.” Sam rebutted. “Would you please quit worrying about us? I mean that's the whole problem in the first place. We don't want you to worry about us, Dean, we want you to worry about you! We want you to give a crap that you’re dying!” Sam raged.

Dean said nothing in return, smirking annoyingly to himself as his brother and girlfriend called him out on his shit. “So that’s it? Nothing else to say from you?!” Sam exclaimed. “I think maybe I’ll play craps.” Dean replied curtly, shaking his head. Completely ignoring Sam and Y/N’s point. Y/N hated how nonchalant Dean tried to act with Sam, he refused to tell his little brother the truth. The truth that he’s scared.

That he doesn’t wanna go. Y/N and Sam were at a loss, anger and hurt bubbling inside them as they struggled to respond. They were completely outraged as they shook their heads in exasperation. “Y’know what, whatever…have a good time then” Y/N muttered, looking away and out the window, crossing her arms. Sam huffed, sinking into his seat and shaking his head as an awkward silence filled the air.

Y/N glanced down at Jo, who was now fully awake. The youngest hunter’s eyes filled with sympathy towards Sam and Y/N. Jo reached her hand over to Y/N’s knee, rubbing it softly as the psychic continued to look out the window. Sam turned to the front, sighing deeply as he shut his eyes tightly. Y/N sniffed, trying to hold back the tears and bit her lips tightly to stop herself from screaming and letting her emotions out fully.

They remained in an uncomfortable silence for the rest of the ride.

______________________________________________

Author’s Note: Helllooo my loves! I hope everyone enjoyed this one, I’m very excited for the next few coming episodes and I can’t waittt to share what I have planned though writers block has been KICKING my ass lately😭

Be sure to let me know what you hated and what you loved!❤️❤️❤️

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