#my masterlist is on shuffle and lots of thoughts are circulating in my brain so. ofc these two aligned

[dilemmaed]

btw don't think about lumax while listening to a pearl by mitski that was a mistake I think.

[hoe-doroki]

I just read your Iida fic with the reader having a breakdown and I love your writing! You portrayed him really well! Are your requests open to do another fic with Iida and some fluff? Anything is fine!

Hey there, nonnie! Thanks so much for the request. Sorry it took a few days to get out--vague requests really stump me sometimes. I had to do a lot of brainstorming to come up with...this? Look, this idea is basically crack and I don’t know what to tell you. Hope someone enjoys it!

pairing: Iida x reader

genre: fluff, mild comfort

word count: 1.8k

edit: I no longer write x reader but here’s my old masterlist - mobile | desktop

There was something musical about the sound of glass breaking. When it was a clean break, rather than the crushing of a bottle underfoot or a baseball hitting a window, it made a delicate tinkle, like the hit of a glockenspiel. Nice. Pretty.

Job one was cleaning the mess. You used your quirk to hover out of the room, relieved to find that the damage hadn’t made it past your closed bedroom door. All the other lights and windows in the house were in one piece, and thankfully the kitchen had been untouched. You found a dustpan and began trying to erase the evidence.

Not that there was any real chance of that. Two hours into your endeavor, you heard the front door open and cringed. But there was nothing to hide—it wasn’t like any lie in the world could make up for the fact that all of Iida’s glasses were now prescriptionless.

“I’m home!” Iida called as you stood up, trying to regain some of your dignity and circulation in your knees before you came face to face with your boyfriend.

“In the bedroom,” you called. “I suggest you keep your shoes on.”

“Why in the world would I—”

You saw Iida step into the doorway, your teeth gritted nervously as you eyed his reaction. His shoes were already off and his now-singular set of glasses were pointed at the ground, his jaw dropped.

“Honey?” Iida asked when he was done looking at your dustpan and trash bin filled with glass and the many sparkling bits still left on the floor. “What happened? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” you said, holding up gloved hands to show that you had no cuts to worry about. “Just put on shoes, babe.”

“Right,” Iida said, furrowing his eyebrows. “Right.”

You heard him shuffling back to the door to find a pair of shoes to put on. You’d done the same earlier and, though you were sure Iida felt just as strange about wearing shoes in the house as you did, it was certainly a necessity in this scenario.

“Okay,” Iida said, now shoed and back into the doorway. He had a tense hand pointed at either you or the mess, you weren’t sure. “So what happened here?”

“Well,” you began awkwardly. “I was working on my quirk a little bit. You know how I’ve been trying to hit a high C? Well…I finally did. And, um, it turns out that it breaks glass.”

“That’s a myth,” Iida stated. “High C’s only break glass under very specific circumstances. It would be nearly impossible for your singing to create…to cause all this.”

“No, I know that,” you said, smiling against the hellish backdrop. “My quirk, Iida. We finally know what happens when I sing a high C.”

Iida’s mouth fell open again, smaller this time. “Oh. Oh.”

Your quirk was a…peculiar one. Every note you sang, when sustained for more than a few seconds, caused a different effect. A B flat 4 allowed you to breathe out smoke. A D4 gave you a slight gravitational pull, but you never really used that one, since it only tended to attract pollen and leaves your way. G3 was a little low for you, but allowed you to levitate a couple inches off the ground which, usually, you found to be pretty useless. However, it was sure helpful right now, as you tried to navigate between rare spots of glassless floor.

When most people heard about your quirk, they thought it was really cool. Unlike most, you technically had dozens of quirks. However, most of them were almost entirely useless, and very hard to train, since they all only worked when you were sustaining a note. So you couldn’t use any quirk for more than twenty or thirty seconds at a time. You couldn’t strengthen any of them with those restraints. The best you could do was increase your lung capacity, work on your pitch, and try and stretch your range to see if any notes at the far ends of your register would reveal something more useful or interesting.

And this one was interesting. You could appreciate the irony. You weren’t sure you liked it, though.

“I’m so sorry, babe,” you said before lightly singing a G3 and hovering over to him. “I broke all of your glasses.”

He looked over at the thin shelves that now held nothing but the thin frames of dozens of glasses and unusable, cracked lenses. His face crumbled—it appeared he hadn’t noticed before, his eyes too focused on the shrapnel on the floor.

Iida swallowed and nodded, the corners of his mouth tense. “It’s okay, honey. I’m not mad.”

You put a hand on his cheek, but he was still looking at his ruined collection instead of at you, and your heart clenched a little. “It would be okay if you were mad,” you said. “Those were expensive and you had them for a reason…I’m really sorry.”

“No,” Iida said, shaking his head before making eye contact with you, his face placid. “The reason I had them was in case a pair broke in battle. This wasn’t battle, but it was your quirk training which is of equal importance. So they served their purpose.”

“But my quirk is useless,” you said. “If you’re saying that your glasses’ divine cause was my quirk training then they died in vain, because I’m never going to sing that note again.”

“Hey, there’s no need to say that,” Iida said, rubbing a big hand over your shoulder before pulling you in. “This quirk could be very valuable in a number of situations. What if you need a quick escape out a window but you can’t break through it? Or it could make for a useful surprise attack against a villain.”

“I love your big hero brain, Iida,” you said, rubbing your thumb over his strong cheekbone. “But that’s not exactly useful for a civilian.”

“Right, of course,” Iida said, brows furrowing as he thought more. “Well, it makes for a good party trick? So long as there isn’t anything extraneous that’s broken.”

You giggled at Iida’s sad attempt to comfort you. You weren’t sure that breaking glass to show off would come up at the kind of parties that you and Iida attended. They were mostly benefits that pro heroes had to attend for appearances. But, then again, anything was possible.

Your smile spread to Iida, whose face warmed as he looked at you and soon you were in his arms, wrapped in a big bear hug. You had yet to encounter another person who gave hugs that were quite as good, with his broad chest and thick arms wrapping fully around you so you felt safe and content.

“We can order you some new glasses tonight,” you mumbled into his chest, still feeling a bit guilty about the whole ordeal. It wasn’t a disaster, truly. So long as Iida could keep his glasses in one piece for a few days—which he usually could, despite what his dozens of backups implied—then all that really needed to be done was clean the room, screw in a new light bulb, and find a tarp to put over the window until you could call a window fitting service.

“Actually, I…” Iida pulled away, his gaze back on the shelves. He was scratching his nose and hiding what looked to be a slight blush from you. You cocked your head to the side. “I kind of want to mourn these ones for a minute before we order their replacements. If that’s okay.”

It was all you could do to keep from laughing.

“Oh, honey,” you cooed, and you were back in his arms, this time providing the squeeze yourself. “Whatever you need.”

You tried to keep Iida from helping with the cleanup—it was your mess, after all—but he would hear nothing of it. Even when you argued that you were the one with a quirk that could help even a little bit. Actually, your slight gravitational pull helped draw the smallest shards of glass out of the crannies in the wood floor, though Iida made you put on protective gear beforehand. The gear was a raincoat, wellies, jeans, and a ski mask, but they did the job.

At the end of it, Iida was holding one of the frames that both lenses had fallen clean out of, examining it. They were in perfect shape, like the lenseless glasses that internet influences wore when they were trying to look nerdy.

“You think we could send these back in so that all we need is new lenses instead of a whole new pair?” Iida asked.

“Aw, like an organ donor?” you said with a grin. “Making sure its sacrifice wasn’t wasted?”

“I’m serious,” Iida said—as though he ever wasn’t. “That’s something we can do, right?”

“Of course, honey,” you said, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “We can look into it tomorrow.”

Iida nodded, looking wistful as he set the glasses back in their particular spot, where hopefully they’d soon be able to return whole once more. “Honey?”

“Hmm?”

You were wrapped around one of his arms, hugging it as you leaned into his body, warm from having crawled around the room with you all evening.

“I should have said before, and I’m sorry that I didn’t, that I’m proud of you.”

You nearly scoffed. “For what?”

“You made a big step with your quirk today,” Iida said, smiling at you. “That’s a big deal.”

“It’s really not,” you said. “Like I said, it’s not anything worthwhile.”

“Of course it is,” Iida said, quick to correct you. “I got my quirk from my parents, and it’s the same as my brother’s, and that’s its greatest value. Not its strength. Your quirk is a part of you. And that’s its inherent value.”

“You’re just biased because you like the package,” you argued.

“I do,” Iida said with a nod. “But my bias doesn’t matter here. I’m simply stating fact.”

“Iida,” you said, avoiding his gaze for a moment. “You’re too sweet.”

“No sweeter than you deserve,” Iida said confidently. “And that’s my final word on the matter.”

“Mm, I love you,” you said. “And that’s my final word on the matter.”

Iida frowned at you, caught between wanting to repeat the sentiment back and not wanting to go back on what he’d declared as his final word.

“You know what my stance is on that,” he said carefully. You eyed him, a brow arched in challenge. You saw him waver, and a moment later he was leaning down to kiss you, all soft and warm. “But I’ll happily remind you.”

[mundieoriley]

Into the Wild | Aragorn x Oc  One

Summary: Imagine yourself sitting in you backyard beneath an oak tree that has been there long before you were ever born. Now imagine yourself suddenly disappearing from that spot, whisked away to another place entirely. Cheyanne found herself in precisely that unbelievable situation, dumped into a strange and unfamiliar world filled with monsters and magic and Rangers from the North. Why was she plucked up from her backyard and placed in such a world? And how is she ever going to get home?

Preface: Just putting it out there that I plan on tweaking the canon and mixing events from the movies and the books to suit my purposes; also in my Oc's universe, the Lord of the Rings does not exist for simplicity's sake. Updates Fridays.

Masterlist is linked on my profile page.

Author's Note: Hey everyone! I can't tell you how excited I am to finally be putting this story out there! It has been in the back of my mind for a really long time and it has even gone through several hand written renditions(Although never to completion) Thanks so much for checking this out! But you better buckle up, baby. This is going to be a real adventure.

With lots of love

Mundie

In a burst of blinding and multicolored light, Cheyanne falls flat on her face with a muffled thump, the force of her landing knocking the air from her lungs. She lays there on the ground for several moments, waiting for the vertigo and dizziness to fade as she attempts to catch her breath without inhaling any unwanted objects. When she can finally breathe again and the ground beneath her stops spinning, she slowly raises her head, squinting as her eyes adjust to the dim light filtering down through the.... trees? With a groan, Cheyanne pushes herself stiffly into a sitting position, brushes away the leaves and dirt that stuck to her face, and takes in her new and unfamiliar surroundings with wide eyes.

She sits among the remains of some sort of ancient and crumbling village overrun with dark ivy and large and tangled tree roots; it gives her a sense of familiarity, like the feeling you get when you go someplace that looks like something you've seen in a photo before. The canopy overhead is dark and densely interwoven, only allowing weak rays of watery sunlight through their boughs. The air is chilly and ominously still, like the forest creeping up on the collapsing structures is holding its breath. The stillness causes an uneasy shiver to travel down her spine and she feels as if she is being watched.

Cheyanne shakily stands to her feet and crosses her arms over her chest, the thin fabric of her worn t-shirt doing very little to keep out the chill. However, the temperature is the last thing on her mind. All she can think about is wondering how in God's green Earth she ended up in the middle of a dark and completely unfamiliar forest. Shaking her head and grunting to herself, she decides the only thing to be done is to walk and see if she can't find a way out of this forest. So, brushing a loose strand of dark hair away from her face, she does, leaving the dilapidated and somehow oddly familiar ruins behind.

Or at least she tries to.

The gigantic moss covered tree roots and the lack of any clear path makes it extremely hard to get anywhere but nowhere fast. Why do there have to be trees with roots whole feet taller than Cheyanne and a forest that seems out to get anyone that happens to stumble, or in her case, fall on her face in? She's lost count of how many times she's had to double back thanks to the roots looming up in the dimness. It feels like she's been wandering in circles for hours, but in actuality, only one has probably passed. To make things worse, the chilly air has sunken into her very bones and she desperately wishes she had thought to wear a sweater before settling down with a book in her backyard.

Just as the thought of home crosses her mind, Cheyanne stumbles through a thin layer of underbrush and finds herself tripping right back into the place she started.

Stepping into the center of the clearing, she does a quick circle and throws up her hands. "Oh, you have got to be kidding me!"

But in mid-motion, she freezes, her breath catching in her throat.

There, several yards to her right down a critter-trail she didn't notice before, are three.... Things.

The only word that comes to mind when she looks at them is monstrous. Their skin is a sickly blue and splotched with black, like hideous bruises. Their eyes are bulbous and yellow, set in misshapen skulls. Behind cruelly curled lips are jagged rock like teeth, broken and discolored. Their gaits are uneven and staccato, and their spines crooked, causing them to be half bent over like they carry an invisible weight on their backs.

Suddenly, the three of them stop in their tracks, hideous eyes bent on Cheyanne.

Her feet are moving before she even realizes it and she's sprinting in the opposite direction as fast as she can. Branches whip her face and arms and open up small, stinging cuts, but she barely feels it thanks to adrenaline pumping through her veins. Never in her whole life has she felt this terrified or run this fast. And the sound of those hideous things pursuing her, cackling and whooping, spurs her on like a cracking whip. They sound as if they are drawing closer with every step and Cheyanne forces her legs to go even faster, ignoring her protesting muscles and the increasing heaviness of her panicked breaths.

A huge root looms up in front of her and she screeches to a halt, leaves scattering beneath her heels. She only pauses a second before cutting to the left and forcing her way through the underbrush. Cheyanne hears those things behind her making an even bigger racket than she is, the sound of blade parting branches following their voices as they call after her. Cheyanne shoves interwoven limbs aside and struggles her way through bushes, ignoring the plants digging into her legs through her jeans and the stinging in her hands. After about thirty seconds of desperate struggling, Cheyanne breaks through the underbrush and low hanging tree limbs.

However, thanks to her forward momentum, she loses her balance and careens halfway into the small clearing, arms pinwheeling as she stumbles. Cheyanne's feet slip on the damp leaves strewn about and go right out from under her like she was trying run on ice. She lands on her hands and knees, stinging pain shooting up her limbs. Cheyanne scrambles back to her feet, her head whipping from side to side as she looks for a speedy way to get out of this situation. There are no clear paths, only the broken trail she made on her way in. She spins back around as the sound of her pursuers draws much, much closer. The underbrush before her waves wildly and the voices reach their peak before those monsters burst from the foliage.

Cheyanne freezes, eyes as wide as dinner plates as the monsters, blades gleaming dully in the weak light, shuffle closer to her.

"Well, well, well, what have we here?" The first monster's mouth twists into a cruel parody of a smile.

Cheyanne shrinks away as the three hideous creatures step closer to her, slowly fanning out like predators stalking their prey. Her throat constricts, trapping her voice in the form of a hard lump.

The creature on her right sizes her up, yellow eyes running down her body. "Interesting choice of apparel, missy. Seen nothing like that before." It gestures at her jeans with a twisted hand.

Cheyanne shrinks further under the creature's threatening tone of voice and scrutinization. She takes a step back, breathing heavy, heart pounding so hard in her chest, it's a wonder no one else can hear it.

This has to be a dream, some sick, demented dream.

The one farthest to her left lets out a strange clucking growl as it shifts its weight. "Do ya think she's the one?"

The first monster inches forward, head tilting this way and that, reminding Cheyanne of a bird of prey. "No sense in leaving her here." The monster's cruel smile returns. "Can't let the lost little bird fend for herself."

Broken and guttural laughter circulates between the three of them and, to Cheyanne's rapidly mounting horror, they slowly begin to converge. Cheyanne casts around wildly for anything, anything at all to defend herself with. She steps back from every step forward the monsters take, her panic mounting and mounting the tighter into a corner she becomes. Her brain races, desperate to think of a way out of this that doesn't end with her becoming a kebab. When Cheyanne's back presses against a large tree trunk and her fate nearly becomes sealed, her foot knocks into something solid. She looks down, realizing it's a good sized and thick tree branch. Without thinking, Cheyanne scoops it up and brandishes it.

"Back off!" Her knuckles are white around the branch, the bark digging into her skin. The sting helps ground her a little. "I mean it- stay away!"

The three of them stop just short of their blades touching Cheyanne's branch, but the leader directly in front of her begins to laugh, a hideous, twisted laugh. The other two follow suit and the longer they laugh at her, the more her terror rises. Her body decides she's had enough and her fight or flight instincts kick into overdrive. With a yell, she strikes out at the leader's head as hard as she can. The creature flinches away just enough to where the blow only glances off. Taking the opportunity, Cheyanne strikes again, this time hitting the arm of the monster on her right, causing its blade to thump to the leaf-strewn ground.

But before she can even think to run again, a grotesque arm curls around her midsection and presses her firmly against an armored body. She struggles for several seconds, crying out and flailing with the branch but the kiss of a cool blade against the side of her face makes her freeze immediately.

"Drop the branch, you stupid wench." The blade presses more and Cheyanne obediently allows the piece of wood to slip from her fingers.

The first monster she hit regains its bearings and bends a glare on her, it's lip curling away from its yellowed teeth. "Idiotic girl." The monster approaches her, blade raised in a threatening manner.

The remaining monster scoops up its weapon and spits on the ground at her feet. "Go on, cut up that pretty face! Teach her a lesson!"

The creature's arm tightens around her waist and its disgusting hot breath ghosts over her ear and the side of her face. "Didn't say nothing about unharmed, did he?"

Those demented smiles appear on their faces again and Cheyanne's stomach drops with dread. Time feels as if it slows down when the knife digs deeper into her skin, deep enough to begin parting flesh. Cheyanne cries out and begins to struggle, kicking her legs and flailing her arms wildly. The monster growls and draws the blade down, tearing open the soft flesh of Cheyanne's cheek.

Please, wake up, wake up!

Just as she makes her silent plea, a sharp whistling permeates the air, followed by a sickening thunk just beside Cheyanne's ear. The monster's arm around her slackens and the knife falls away from her face. She drops to her knees and twists around, eyes widening as she beholds the creature lying dead behind her.

The shaft of an arrow protrudes from its skull.

Cheyanne's head whips back around fast enough to nearly cause whiplash when another whistling sound cuts through the air. She watches in shock as this second arrow embeds deeply in the head of the next monster, causing it to drop dead to the ground. The remaining creature tries to run, but the third arrow is too fast. This one, too, falls to the ground, dead.

There are several moments of dead silence as Cheyanne's wheeling mind catches up with what just happened.

The blank eyes of the dead monsters stare into her soul and her stomach knots painfully when she notices black blood, as thick as syrup, leaks from around the arrows and onto the ground. The rancid smell reaches her nostrils, sharp and disgusting. The scent and sight twist her stomach sharply and Cheyanne turns to the side and vomits up the contents of her lunch.

When her stomach stops convulsing, Cheyanne draws the back of her hand across her mouth as she turns away from the mess. She looks numbly down at her hand when it comes away wet, red smeared across her knuckles.

Blood.

The stinging in her face kicks up ten notches when it occurs to her that she's bleeding. Cheyanne presses a hand to her face and looks around again, her heart rate picking up with a jolt. Someone shot those monsters and Cheyanne doesn't want to be kneeling completely defenseless on the ground when that person decides to show themselves. They've probably been watching her this whole time she's spent on the ground. With this thought in mind, Cheyanne stands shakily to her feet, avoiding looking at the prone bodies lying around her. She steadies herself on the tree behind her for a second before she picks up the discarded branch.

Clutching it in one hand and keeping the other pressed to her bleeding face, Cheyanne calls out in as strong a voice as she can manage. "Who's there?"

She immediately wants to slap herself. Who's there? Really? Way to be the stereotypical character that dies in the first five minutes of an episode of Supernatural.

There are several moments of silence and during that time Cheyanne is sure another arrow is going to fly through the air and end her life as swiftly as those creatures' lives. But instead, the foliage shrouding the way she came in moves softly and someone, with barely more than a whisper of leaves, steps out into the clearing.

[jilliancares]

All is Fair: Chapter 5

Word Count: 3k

TW: internalized homophobia

ao3 ; wattpad

masterlist ; next chapter

CHAPTER FIVE:

“It smells weird,” Emma whispered. Dan elbowed her in the side to make her shut up.

On second thought, maybe hitchhiking hadn’t been the best idea. It’d taken them a couple hours to make it through the forest and to a road, and another hour of sticking up their thumbs and shaking their fists at every car that approached, few and far in between, to finally catch a ride. In that time the nectar had worked its way through Dan’s body and he’d stopped having to shuffle and wince with every step.

They’d thought that snagging a ride with a random, well-meaning road-traveller wouldn’t be a big deal at all. After all, they were demigods: they fought monsters in their free time and hung out with gods on special occasions—what harm could hitchhiking do?

Apparently, a lot.

Firstly, they weren’t even traveling in the right direction. The trucker (Wallis, he’d said his name was) had asked them where they were going. They’d said west and he’d said great and that had been that.

However, it was now apparent that they were actually traveling south. And had been for the last three hours. They hadn’t noticed at first, content to just sit in the back politely and get as far west as they could until Wallis had to go some other way. That’d been before they’d noticed the sun setting—to the right of them, instead of directly in front of them. And then Phil had found a banged up but working compass on the floor by their feet, and sure enough—south.

Really, they’d only managed to sit in here for two hours after realizing they were going the wrong way out of awkwardness. It wasn’t really polite, was it, to tell the man who was letting you hitch-hike that he was taking you the wrong way. And so they didn’t. They just sat there, tense, anxious, wondering if Wallis was actually some kind of monster who’d yet to reveal his inner horrors. In which case, yeah, they should probably get the fuck out of there, huh?

Music was playing on the stereo up front and Wallis was singing along pretty joyfully. They’d exchanged a few words with him throughout the trip, but mostly they’d just been silent, aware of the fact that they were invaders in his truck. And later, aware of the fact that he was taking them in the wrong direction and that saying anything about it might, like, cause him to crash the truck out of spite.

“It really does smell weird,” Phil said, leaning closer to Dan and saying it out of the corner of his mouth. Emma nodded fervently and Dan elbowed them both.

“Shut up!” he hissed.

“Draw me a map that leads me back to you…” Wallis was singing.

“Maybe it’s dead bodies,” Emma murmured. Dan glared a warning at her. “He churned them up and shoved them under the seats!”

“Eurgh…” Phil intoned, and Dan huffed in annoyance. At this rate Wallis was just going to tune into their conversation, realize they were onto him, and drive them all into a ditch.

Finally, Dan decided to just speak up. Wasn’t it possible the man had just made an honest mistake? Or had misheard them?

“So do you have an end destination in mind, Wallis?” Dan asked, speaking up to be heard over the radio. Wallis immediately reached forward to turn down the music, looking at Dan in the rearview mirror.

“West, right?” he said.

“Uh?”

“You’re going to West, Texas? It’s only about another hour’s drive. Dinky little city but home’s home, I suppose.”

“Oh!” Dan exclaimed, nodding. “Yes I just—I didn’t realize you’d be taking us all the way there, thank you,” he lied.

Now, it didn’t really make sense that they were anywhere near Texas. After all, they’d traveled from New York in Camp Half-Bloods bus, and a little further on a public bus, and then wandered through a forest for what felt like much too long but surely wasn’t long enough to get them close to Texas. Even knowing this, Dan decided not to question it. The thing about being the son of a Greek goddess meant that sometimes it was just easier to accept things for what they were. Maybe that bus had been magical, had transported them five times as fast as it should’ve when it landed them in that forest. Or perhaps it’d been the forest itself that was magical. There were places—like the underworld—where time and distance didn’t work quite the same way as they did in the real world, and maybe that forest had been the same. Maybe they’d walked through it for an hour but had actually traveled a thousand miles in reality.

Plus, even though Dan had never heard of West, Texas, before, it seemed like a pretty good idea to go. They were supposed to be traveling from sun to set, which, technically, was impossible. The sun didn’t ever truly set, and if they were fast enough, they could actually chase it forever, never letting it set. If they really wanted to think of it so literally, they could chase down Apollo, force him to land his flying chariot that was the sun, and claim that they’d gone from sun to set (which, thinking about it now, Dan was considering doing if this city in Texas didn’t work out).

“You’re letting him take us there?” Emma demanded, after Wallis had turned the radio back up, shaking his head to the beat.

“It seems like a good enough lead to me,” Dan said with a shrug. “‘Three will travel from sun to set’. We said that meant west, but maybe it actually means West, Texas,” he said. “It can’t hurt to check it out.”

Phil leaned in. “Who the fuck names a city West?”

“It’s named after the first postmaster in the city,” Wallis piped up, apparently having been listening. “Funny thing is, it’s not even on the west side of Texas. Closer to the east, really.”

“That’s just ridiculous,” Emma commented, crossing her arms and leaning back against her seat, now seeming perfectly at ease. “And confusing.”

“That it is!” Wallis agreed. “My grandparents grew up there, funnily enough. Otherwise I don’t think I’d even know about it!”

Dan wondered if this was another little nudge from the gods. They ended up hitchhiking with possibly the only person who even knew about West—surely that couldn’t be a coincidence? Or he could just be reading too much into this, running them in circles, but he liked to think that everything would work itself out in the end. It wasn’t worth it, worrying about every little detail along the way and scrutinizing their prophecy to see if it fit. It was much easier to simply believe that everything would go right.

Still, Dan was hoping this last hour on the way to West would go by quickly. He’d been smushed in between Emma and Phil for hours now, and it was starting to get to him. While it was no big deal with Emma, his best friend and the person he’d always felt most comfortable with, it was entirely different being pressed up against Phil. He felt like his arm and thigh were burning against Phil’s. It didn’t help that Phil sat with his legs kind of spread out, taking up enough room that Dan moving his leg away from him simply wasn’t a choice.

Not to mention that a while back Phil had stretched an arm out behind Dan on the top of the seats. He wasn’t making a move, obviously, having just apologized for coming onto Dan earlier in the day, but it was still enough to make Dan feel a little uncomfortable. Not only because their West escort might glance in the rearview mirror, think they were in a relationship or something, and kick them out (which, come on, could totally happen. This was the south they were now in, and Dan wasn’t unfamiliar with people like that—he lived with one, after all) but also because he could feel the heat of Phil’s arm behind his neck. It radiated against him, almost making Dan want to lean back into it, maybe lean into Phil’s side. He could imagine how nice it would be to close his eyes and just melt into him, not that he ever would. It was probably due to the cramped space and recycled air that he’d managed to even think like that anyway.

It was also probably because of the cramped space and recycled air that his thoughts managed to circulate back to the time he and Phil had been alone by the fire. It didn’t make any sense—it certainly wasn’t a memory he wanted to dwell on, and yet he found himself reviewing it with excruciating detail.

He remembered Phil being so close to him (too close to him). He remembered Phil’s hand, hot on his face, and his voice whispering, “Are you sure?” He remembered the hitch in his breath, how tight his stomach had felt. He remembered Phil’s thumb brushing over his lower lip, pulling it down—remembered thinking, just for a moment, what it would be like to kiss somebody. He’d never done it before, something which was viewed as pretty odd for a son of Aphrodite, but he’d never cared. He’d never even wanted it, really—not until that moment, with Phil’s thumb hot on his lip, his face so close, close enough to kiss…

And then his entire insides had jolted, scrambled, and he’d been shooting to his feet to yell and escape. Except his knees had felt weak, his head foggy. His head had been so foggy, in fact, that he’d walked right into a chimera’s trap, resulting in the getting poisoned and almost dying fiasco. It was starting to seem like him almost dying was entirely Phil’s fault. Because… his head must’ve been screwed up with with surprise, from Phil touching him like that. He certainly hadn’t liked it. And even if he had, it would’ve been because he’d never experienced that kind of touch from anyone else before, his brain having to pay extra close attention to it for, like, learning purposes or some shit. So he could do it again but better to some girl in the future.

Because he was straight. He’d always been straight! It’d never even crossed his mind to question that, and it still wouldn’t. He was very aware of the fact that he liked girls, with their… hair and boobs and shit.

And he was glad he was straight, because he wouldn’t possibly know what to do with himself if he wasn’t. His uncle would’ve killed him by now, probably. And he didn’t even know what his mom would think, goddess of love and all that, knowing her son was loving… incorrectly. No, it was a good thing Dan was the way he was.

“You okay?” Phil said, peering at Dan with a worried look..

“What? No, I’m fine. Why?”

“You just… had this kind of weird look on your face.”

“I’m fine,” Dan said firmly, before looking away from Phil, his face heating. Thank gods no one could read his thoughts. He swallowed uncomfortably, shoving his hands under his thighs, and tried to convince himself that everything was going to turn out all right, tried to convince himself that he was normal.

—

"You go," Emma said, nudging him with her shoulder and tipping her head towards the front desk. Dan bit his lip.

"You go," he said to Phil, nudging him with his shoulder and nodding his head towards the front desk.

With a huff, Phil grabbed Dan's elbow and dragged him towards the desk; Dan snatched Emma's hand to pull her after them. They stood shoulder to shoulder in front of the glass window, waiting for he woman behind it to look up. She continued typing on the keyboard before her, the keys clacking loudly.

Phil cleared his throat.

The woman—Doris, her name-tag read—looked at them out of the corner of her eye and kept typing. Finally, she pressed the enter button decisively and pushed the keyboard away from her, turning to face them. She folded one hand over the other and raised an eyebrow in question.

"Yes?" she said.

"Um," Phil said, starting strongly. "We were just, um. We wanted to know how much a room costs for a night?”

"Sixty," she answered, reaching up with a single finger to push her glasses up her nose. Dan winced, thinking of their empty pockets and long since missing bags.

“Know anywhere we can make sixty bucks in a night?” Dan asked, smiling sheepishly. Doris rolled her eyes, looking at them all a bit more seriously.

“What are you doing out here anyway?” she asked. She gestured towards the windows beside them, outside of which was the almost barren wasteland Wallis had dropped them off in. “No one comes to West,” she elaborated, although it wasn’t really needed.

Dan debated what to say. For some reason, he just didn’t think ‘we’re on a quest for my mom, Aphrodite’ would cut it.

“Honestly, we’ve just gotten a bit lost,” Emma took over, forcing Dan to budge up a bit as she sidled in front of Doris. “Our bags were stolen and we were hoping a single night’s stay at this hotel could help us get ourselves sorted out.”

For some reason, this made Doris’s eyes soften in sympathy. Emma had always been the best at sweet-talking people, though Dan had no idea how. Plus, that probably should’ve been his talent, being the son of Aphrodite and all, but he’d always been more likely to trip and stumble over his words rather than persuade anyone to do anything. He was certain even flirting would be a disaster for him, though he’d never even tried to attempt it before.

“You know what?” Doris said suddenly, shaking her head as she reached over to a drawer, pulling out a keycard. “Why don’t you three stay here the night? It’s not like we’re getting much business anyway. You can pay by helping the cleaning staff strip the rooms in the morning.”

“That would be so, so wonderful,” Emma said, smiling hugely. “We can’t thank you enough!”

And with that, Doris gave her the keycard and the three of them were turning away to stand in front of the elevator. The moment it was open, Phil turned to her, his mouth gaping.

“How the hell did you do that?” he demanded, still seeming in disbelief that they were actually going upstairs to a room right now. Emma shrugged, now using the corner of the card to clean out her nails.

“I guess people just like me,” she said easily. The door dinged and they all stepped out, peering at the numbers by the doors and making their way down the hallway to room 103.

“Here,” Dan said, stopping in front of it. Emma slid the card and the door beeped. They all stepped inside and took off their shoes immediately.

“I call first shower!” Emma burst out, before barricading herself in the bathroom, the sound of the shower starting up immediately after.

Dan ended up being the last one to shower. They all realized, after having scrubbed themselves clean and emerged to stare forlornly at the dirty clothes they’d already been wearing for too long, that they didn’t want to wear their dirty clothes. And much like Phil and Emma had already done, Dan chose one article of clothing to put back on (his underwear) and the rest he scrubbed in the shower with soap before hanging them up to dry.

It was impossible to miss the way Phil’s eyes clung to Dan’s bare skin as he emerged from the bathroom but he ignored it, turning his eyes on Emma instead. Emma was lying under the covers on one bed, idly flipping through the channels on the TV with the remote. Phil was on the other bed. Dan was immediately aware of his predicament.

It’d be rude to climb into Emma’s bed, right? Phil had already apologized for his untowardly actions. If Dan decided to sleep with Emma it might seem like he didn’t trust Phil or was grossed out by him or something, which really wasn’t the case. Emma probably wouldn’t find it too weird if he slept with her—they’d shared beds before on secret sleepovers during camp, but it’d been more than a year since they’d last done that.

With a sigh, Dan resigned himself to climbing into the bed with Phil. It was probably pretty weird for him to sleep in the same bed as a girl at this age anyway.

So Dan walked towards Phil’s bed, avoiding eye contact as he lifted up the covers and shimmied under them. He laid there stiffly, feeling awkward, though Phil seemed completely at ease.

Suddenly, irrationally, Dan wondered if Phil and Emma had talked while he was in the shower. And if so, what about. They wouldn’t talk about him, would they?

Dan forced his thoughts aside, knowing he was most likely being paranoid, and tried to concentrate on the show about sharks happening on the screen. The narrater had a deep and soothing voice, even as he talked about sharks and deadly attacks with haunting music accompanying it in the background.

It was so comforting, in fact, that Dan slipped right into sleep. He didn’t even have time to tell Phil to make sure he stayed on his side of the bed.

~~

next chapter

[webcricket]

Nudge Theory

Characters: CastielXReader, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester

Word Count:  3936 (Act III)

A/N: A five act mini-series. The reader and Castiel must work together to solve the curious case of the missing Winchesters. Fluff, smut, and a plot for kicks. Be warned - this act contains written erotica content. After all, the third act is nothing without a climax [or two].

Completed Series Masterlist:

webcricket.tumblr.com/post/162181272535/nudge-theory-masterlist

Nudge [verb] –

·       “Coax or gently encourage someone to do something.”

“How the hell did I miss this?” Vintage yellow photo thrust ahead at arm’s length, you squinted contemptuously between it and the modern angled shining building sitting on a rolling hill previously occupied by the notorious Clifton Springs Sanatorium - everything gleamed new right down to the freshly lain vibrant green sod.

Mapping uncharted recesses of thought at an overly decorous distance to your person, coat flapping in the grass-scented breeze, Castiel thumbed through the news clippings in John Winchester’s journal, comparing them to the small local newspaper he held announcing the grand opening of the Clifton Springs Senior Center – finally complete after five arduous years of construction setbacks. Holding a fluttering piece of paper to his nose, inhaling the smudged ink, his sky blues milled in confusion, “These clippings Sam collected about the sanatorium, they’re all very old. Ten, maybe eleven years.”

“Maybe even twelve or thirteen?” You peeped sidelong at the angel, jamming the old photo and your hands into your pockets, closing the distance to his side in a few short strides, “Maybe Sam decided to take up scrapbooking. Practical hobby for a hunter really, and certainly safer on his liver in the long run than Dean’s chosen one.”

“None of this makes sense,” Cas disregarded your sarcastic snipe at the Winchesters, refiling the paper in the journal, dark curls tickling his forehead in an errant gust of wind.

The more the angel ignored your efforts at teasing and prodding him out of his shell the more you felt inclined, obligated even, hell-bent one might say, to persist in re-establishing the flirtatious rapport you somehow lost in a random cornfield on the side of the highway at mile marker 156. You scratched your head thoughtfully, “You know, you’re absolutely right. Now that I think about it, he’s probably more of a paper mache guy.”

Cas squinted apathetically at you, unaware you interpreted this silence as a formal declaration of war.

Deciding it best to fall back for the moment and formulate a new line of attack, you shifted your concentration back to the case. “I hate small towns,” sighing, shrugging, lips thrumming as you exhaled, “news travels like lightening inside them, and at a snail’s pace out. But just because the sanatorium is history, doesn’t mean the curse, haunting, or whatever is scheduled to start killing people around here tomorrow is gone too.”

“Dear, why don’t you ask this sweet young couple for help,” a meek voice quivered behind your backs.

You and the angel turned around to find the source, discovering a deeply-lined frail woman in a wheelchair wringing her hands over and over and a hunchback pink-faced man panting and clutching knobby fingers at the handles of the chair.

“Hate to bother you,” the man wheezed, gesturing up toward the senior center, “but I’m afraid this incline has got the better of me. Old legs, old lungs, you know.”

“Oh, we’re not a…” You ceased your protest when Cas abruptly tossed the journal in your direction.

“Of course, allow me,” the angel smiled politely, assuming the elderly man’s place behind the wheelchair to relieve his burden, maneuvering up the walkway toward the center entrance.

“Thanks son,” the man waved him off, fissured countenance beaming when he faced you, “fine young man you have there.”

You accepted the man’s chivalrously proffered elbow, crooking your arm through his and shuffling forward up the hill. Your attention settled on the angel’s square shoulders as he walked several paces ahead, “And how can you tell?”

“Former army man I reckon,” the fellow spoke with an air of authority on the matter, “I can always spot a soldier. Ready to leap into action. Yes, indeed, fine young man you have.”

“You’re quite the keen observer,” you gave his arm a gentle squeeze, “mister?”

“Mr. Kinlay, Al,” he filled in the blank, pointing ahead, “my wife Marge. Sixty-two years we’ve been married.”

“Well it’s very nice to meet you both. I’m Y/N, and that fine young man you’ve so astutely identified is Castiel,” you couldn’t help but savor the feel of the angel’s name on your tongue.

“And how long have you two been together?” Mr. Kinlay innocently inquired.

The subtle rigidity hitching the angel’s gait informed you he could hear every word you exchanged with the old man - you decided to toy with him by revealing the thinly veiled truth. “Oh, it seems like we met only yesterday,” you chuckled, “I just knew he was an angel the moment I laid eyes on him.”

“Ah, young love, young love!” Mr. Kinlay bobbed his head, a nostalgic grin cracking his mouth. The center doors whined open on automatic hinges upon your approach. Mr. Kinlay excused himself from your side with a thankful pat on your hand, resuming his position behind his wife’s wheelchair, “Thank you, son. Much obliged.”

Mrs. Kinlay peered up between you and Cas, eyes twinkling beneath crepey skin as she looked the angel up and down approvingly, “He’s a dreamy one isn’t he? I remember when you were a strapping young lad like that, Al dear. And such a beautiful girl by his side.”

A rush of heat erupted across your chest, neck, and cheeks - the disremembered recollection of the erotic dream you had in the car on the drive here featuring the angel freed from seeming oblivion by the elderly woman’s words. Suddenly the whole waking up in an abandoned vehicle to find the angel in a field scenario made complete sense - he must know about the dream.

Mr. Kinlay wheeled his wife away with a parting wink, “I may not be a strapping young lad anymore, but Marge dear, you’re still the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“Y/N?”

You weren’t exactly a quiet dreamer according to past roommates - no wonder Cas balked when you touched him and went all business of the case. Your cheeks flushed impossibly redder.

“Y/N?” When you failed to respond to your name a second time, Cas’ fingers inquiringly touched your arm, “Is something wrong? You appear, unwell.”

You jumped, startled at the contact, heart and mind racing, somehow both losing as you barely suppressed the urge to flee, “No, uh.” Groping clumsily in your jacket pockets you produced an EMF reader, “Just thinking I should check for spirits as long as we’re here.” You bolted through the doors, mumbling, “Maybe you could ask around, see if anyone has felt cold spots, heard strange sounds, whatever. Meet back at the car in 15.”

Five minutes spent in the bathroom running cold water over your feverish face, and ten more wandering the halls fruitlessly searching for EMF spikes were enough to calm your nerves, at least the visible ones – or so you hoped. “I got nothing,” you huffed, approaching the car, striving to appear as casual as humanly possible while avoiding looking directly at the angel.

Cas leaned against the hood, arms folded across his chest, blankly staring across the parking lot. “Taking into account the poor circulation of the aged and infirmed and the tendency for hearing aids to malfunction,” he grumbled, “I got the same.”

You fished the phone from your pocket, scowling at the screen, “Nothing from Sam or Dean either.” On a whim, you scrolled through your contacts list and smashed your thumb on Dean’s smirking mug.

A nearby trash bin began to ring.

You exchanged a wide-eyed glance with the angel, immediately disconnecting and trying again.

The trash can rang ominously.

Cas strode over to the bin and wrenched off the top. Digging around, he produced a pair of discarded cell phones.

“I guess that explains why they aren’t answering,” you kicked the bin, groaning a combination of frustration and pain - the bin having been securely bolted to the cement walkway. For the moment, the pain gave you welcome distraction from your blundering sexual interest in the angel.

“It also tells us we’re on the right track,” Cas slipped the phones into his coat pocket for safekeeping.

“Right, silver lining,” your mind again wandered, wondering what else the angel had hidden in those bottomless pockets, and for that matter, under all those unnecessary layers of clothing. You mentally swatted the thought asunder, forcefully redirecting your brain to focus on the missing brothers, “Why the hell would they dump their phones?”

He narrowed his eyes, angling to read a tiny block print sign on the side of the bin, “I don’t know, but according to this town ordinance, these receptacles are required to be emptied every afternoon by 3PM.” He straightened up, gazing over at you, “That means Sam and Dean were here sometime during the past 24 hours.”

“It’s a small town, and those boys are nothing if not predictable,” a hopeful smile blossomed on your lips, “what do you say, angel? Do we check in to the kitschiest motel we can find, or grab burgers and pie at an all-night diner first?”

His nose crinkled, jaw slackening askance, uncertain if you were proposing tracking down the Winchesters based upon their well-known habits which somehow had not yet gotten them killed, or not so subtly propositioning him.

“Nevermind, let’s just go,” realizing the ambiguity of your phrasing in light of your apparent inability to control your oversexed brain, you spun on your heel, retreating to the car.

Twelve diners (in what you surmised must be a per capita ratio of 1 diner per 10 residents), one police station (the word station being quite generous for what amounted to a room smaller than most closets), and six motels (for some inexplicable reason all UFO themed) later, you found yourself sprawled face down on a bed in the last motel you’d canvased. You mumbled unintelligibly into the scratchy comforter, “I don’t understand how no one saw them. Sam is like 8 feet tall and they drive a freaking billboard advertisement for muscle cars.”

Cas sat on the opposite bed, slouched over, elbows resting on his knees, chin perched on folded hands, angelic ears managing to translate the intent of your mumbling, “Perhaps something prevented them from staying in town. Their father wasn’t exactly known for his tact and from the journal entry we know he has history here.”

You rolled over to glare at the ceiling, running your hands over your face and knotting them into your hair, “Maybe, maybe that’s why they needed backup. I don’t know Cas, it’s all so vague. All I know is we have to stay in town. If the kill cycle starts again tomorrow in spite of the sanatorium’s destruction, someone needs to be here to stop it and we’re on deck.”

“Agreed,” the angel pressed his hands to his knees and stood. Rummaging through his pockets he crossed the room to place the brothers’ phones and John Winchester’s journal on the dresser.

“I’m going to grab a quick shower,” you flopped from the creaky bed, shedding your jacket and toeing off your boots and socks before disappearing into the bathroom. Force of habit fostered as a lone hunter meant you didn’t bother to close the door; it simply didn’t occur to you as something to be done.

Cas began to tack up case notes and organize the spotty information you had collected regarding the 13 year cyclic deaths.

You drifted out of the bathroom after a few minutes, trailed by a cloud of steam, rivulets of water dripping from your hair and clad only in a loosely wrapped flimsy white towel which left nothing to the imagination, to search through your duffle whilst cursing under your breath about sub-par motel toiletries.

Eyes glossing over the old clippings and police reports, the angel caught sight of you in his periphery. He swallowed a low growl, unable to repress the involuntary reaction of his vessel to your exposed skin.

“Find something?” You glanced over, curious, alerted by the strange sound, triumphantly clutching lavender body wash to your bosom.

“No, um, it’s just very frustrating,” he stammered, fidgeting with a file folder and sheepishly looking everywhere but in your direction.

Quirking a bemused eyebrow, you shrugged off his odd behavior, returning to your shower.

The angel courageously endeavored not to allow his thoughts to dwell on you – naked, wet, attractive, and quite possibly thinking of him this very instant as you lathered your body. He resisted the urge to eavesdrop on your thoughts, instead valiantly reading and re-reading the gruesome autopsy details of victims, trying to dampen his arousal. The contented moaning noises you made as the hot water soothed your tense muscles making it increasingly difficult for him to do so. Overwhelmed to the point where he required retreat or relief, he dropped the case file to the dresser and made for the door.

“Where are you going?”

Your voice arrested his escape, mid-turn of the doorknob, “I, um, for a walk. To think, uh, about the case.”

“Wait up, let me get dressed. We can brainstorm,” you bent to grab clean clothes from your bag. When you glanced over at the angel to determine his response to your suggestion, he awkwardly stood sideways, fist still poised on the doorknob, shoulders rigid, staring at the dingy carpet between his feet as though he hoped it might open and swallow him whole. Eyes landing on the evident erection straining through his pants, you comprehended why he so urgently needed fresh air. Heart pounding in your throat, the change of clothes slipped forgotten from your fingers - the proverbial elephant in the room shattering any and all inhibitions you held. Drawing in a sharp breath, you embraced the route of boldness. Crossing the room, you reached out, laying a palm on his arm, speaking deliberately, “Castiel, you can go for that walk alone, or you can stay here and I can help you with your, predicament.”

He gulped hard, lust-blown pupils flitting to nervously regard you.

Edging nearer, fingers descending to suggestively tug at his belt buckle, you purred, “I think you already know what I’d prefer, angel.”

His expression darkened - seizing your waist, he pivoted and pinned your body to the door with a guttural growl, smashing chapped lips to yours.

Parting your lips, you submitted to the wanton dominance of his mouth with a moan, relishing the taste of late summer honey on his tongue. Shoving the trench coat and suit jacket over his shoulders, your fingers scrambled for purchase across the rippling muscles of his back.

His hands skimmed the curve of your hips to roughly knead your ass, lips breaking from yours to nuzzle and suck your neck, voice vibrating against your skin, “Is this what you want, human? Rough, like in your dream?” Stubble prickling delicate skin, he nipped and bruised the sensitive flesh of your pulse point.

Simpering, feigning shock, you rammed his chest with both palms, herding him backward with a dark glare until the backs of his knees hit the bed and he collapsed onto it, “Did you spy on me, angel?”

Shrinking into himself, his demeanor tempered apologetically, “I thought you were having a nightmare. I didn’t mean…”

“Shh, it’s alright,” you cooed, balancing your hands on his shoulders, straddling his thighs, settling into his lap and kissing the tip of his nose. He truly was a walking contradiction if you ever met one and you had no idea what to make of him - one moment he was a dominant, confident, virile seraph, and in the blink of an eye the uncertain, cautious, anxious, kind of pitiable, fallen angel re-emerged. You hooked a finger under his chin, lifting hooded eyes to meet yours, “Tell me, angel, did my dream excite you? Is that why you ran away?”

“Yes,” apprehension assuaged, his fingers nudged under your towel, thumbs rubbing small circles into your thighs, “and yes.”

You rocked your hips into his clothed arousal, eliciting a rumbling groan from his throat - the sinful noise inciting a rush of heat to your core.

“Y/N, wait…I,” he stuttered, higher reasoning battling carnal desire to regain composure. He firmly gripped your hips, thwarting the glorious friction you desperately sought, anxiety returning to trace his countenance.

“What’s wrong?” You studied the angel’s furrowed aspect, fingers tangling into the curls at his nape.

The line of his brow deepened, furtively meeting your questioning gaze, “I, uh, isn’t it customary for me to, um, buy you dinner first?”

An amused smile twisted up the side of your mouth, “Castiel, I don’t care what’s customary. I’ve wanted you since the moment we met. I trust what feels organic, do you understand?” Smile fading, you acknowledged the distinct possibility he didn’t feel the same, “If you don’t want this, just tell me.”

“I understand,” he relaxed his grip on your hips. Snaking warm hands up and around your back, he dislodged the towel from your torso with a small smile, “I do want this - want you. Very much.” His lips fell to pepper your collarbone with open-mouthed kisses, growling into your shower damp lavender-scented skin, he chided, “You never answered my question.”

“Hmm,” you tousled his hair, melting under his ministrations, shallowly undulating your hips as he bucked to meet your movements, “what question was that?”

“About your dream,” he lightly marked your collarbone with a nip, “how you want me to be.”

“Castiel,” hands falling to cup his cheeks, you pulled him up to your lips for a long tender kiss. Parting for air, softly gasping as you sucked and released his lower lip, your breath ghosted humid in his ear, whispering, “I want you to be you, angel.”

Your simple sentiment, a testament to the beauty contained within your soul, charged electrically through his celestial being. He grinned against your shoulder, in a fluid motion flipping you to your back and lying beside your languid figure. Gazing affectionately into your eyes, he swept a stray wisp of hair behind your ear. Pliant lips touched yours, unhurried, kissing you deep and slow and worshipfully. Burrowing his nose into your neck, he began to draw a meandering path down the center of your body, diverting to explore every divot and curve, attentively noting the locations which made you squirm with ticklish delight and those which caused you to writhe in pleasure, allowing his grace to linger tantalizingly at the latter spots as his fingers continued their keen exploration.

Eagerly anticipating his target as he inched below your navel, clenching and unclenching your thighs, you clutched at his hand, humming, “Cas, please, angel-” You encouraged him to move lower, “I need more.”

His mouth captured yours, again sweetly passionate. You shivered, moaning, as he cupped your aching sex, praising you, “Such a stunning creation, the purest soul housed within a most exquisite vessel, but so impatient.” Leaning over to lavish your breast with his tongue, swirling and sucking the hardened bud, he mercifully eased a finger into your throbbing center. Every flick of his tongue across your sensitive nipple mirrored the come hither curl of his finger - first one, and then another, and another dipping to stretch and fill you completely, igniting a fire in your abdomen. He worked your body slowly, thoroughly, until every nerve ending blazed with pleasure.

“Cas, mmm-close,” you mewled, walls tensing around his long fingers as he stoked your g-spot again and again. The tingling heat of his grace licked and engulfed your clit, setting you fully aflame, the burn of release sucking the very oxygen from your lungs, leaving you dizzied and panting.

“So beautiful when you come undone,” the angel kissed your sweat sheened temple, gradually withdrawing his grace, now cooling and comforting in its wake.

Dazed senses returning to a semblance of normalcy, you snuggled to the angel’s chest, pressing arousal swollen lips lovingly to his, shaky fingers fumbling to unbutton the crisp white dress shirt still separating you from his bare skin, “Castiel, I need you, all of you.” Buttons conquered, your fingers swiftly sank to unfasten his belt, simultaneously delving your tongue to explore his intoxicatingly honeyed mouth.

He groaned low, breath hitching when you palmed his rock hard arousal through the thin material of his boxers, wantonly grinding against your hand. Fingers needful, digging into your waist, he pushed you back to the bed, crawling to hover over your body, aspect wrecked with desire.

Gazing steadily into nearly black pupils, your thumbs looped to slip the boxers and pants down his hips in one motion, freeing his thick perfectly curved cock.

Weight collapsing onto your body, caging you within his arms, he rutted rhythmically against your dripping folds. Quietly praying, tone melodious, he kissed the salty skin of your neck - the words those of an ancient tongue, yet somehow familiar.

Untangling your arms, trailing fingers down his back, you reached between your bodies, stroking his cock and lining the tip to your entrance.

With a final choked chant, he sank into you, grunting, frame shuddering with the restraint required to still himself, allowing you to adjust to his girth.

Bending your knees to your chest to take him even deeper, you raked your nails up his back, breathlessly clutching his torso, “Angel, move.”

Every powerful thrust sent pleasure coursing through your quaking frame, surging down your thighs, curling your toes. Crossing your ankles, your heels pressed into his buttocks, altering the angle of his thrusts to hit your sweet spot. Increasingly ragged breathing, grunts, moans, and the obscenely wet slap of skin on skin echoed in the room. “Castiel,” you panted, teetering on the edge of orgasm, his name carrying the weight of your desire. “Cas-,” name catching in your throat, gripping his sweat-slick shoulders, head lolling to the bed as he dropped his head to your neck. “Cas!” Sharply gasping, urgent, tide breaking, pleasure flooded your senses, your walls pulsating around him.

Pace faltering, muscles trembling, he cried out your name. Plunging deep, cock twitching, he spilled his warm release. Rolling to his back, he cuddled you close to his chest.

Stretching an arm across his waist, a pleasure drunk grin painted your face, “Cas, that, you, you’re amazing.”

He combed his fingers lazily through your shower wet hair, a soft chuckle convulsing his chest, calmly confessing, “I’m relieved to hear you say so. The only other woman I’ve been intimate with turned out to be a reaper maliciously seeking information she wrongly thought I possessed.”

You propped up on an elbow to stare at him in disbelief, “Hold on, you’re telling me you’ve only had sex once before?”

“Well, we had intercourse multiple times that night,” he offered earnestly, “she killed me in the morning. Did you know praying mantis females kill their mates after copulating?”

“I didn’t, and Cas, I’m sorry that happened to you,” you pecked his cheek, nestling back into the crook of his arm, “guess it’s a good thing I’m not a reaper, or an insect.”

Happily sighing, Cas turned into you, winding his arms securely about you, placing a kiss on your forehead which bloomed into a blanket of warmth spreading thoughout your entire body.

Sated, sleepy, and soothed by angelic grace, you slipped into a deep slumber.

Hours later, the buzzing of a phone roused you. Or maybe it was the absence of Cas’ touch. Either way, the harsh light of a phone screen stung your dark-adjusted vision when your eyes popped open in alarm. Blinking, you could make out the slumped figure of the angel illuminated at the edge of the bed, “Cas, who is it?”

“Dean?!” The angel’s deeply concerned tenor was a contained thunder clap which sent you bolting upright.

Continue Reading Act IV - Part I:

webcricket.tumblr.com/post/161489044610/nudge-theory