#Left profile of a woman with almond shaped eyes | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

constancelaufeydottir · 2 years

Text

Devilish

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Warnings: explicit language, smut, p in v penetration, oral sex(m receiving), murder, mentions of blood, major character death, cheating, MINORS DNI

Summary: Bucky met a woman who bear the name and face of his past lover, and he swore to never let her go again.

Word count: 5687

a/n: This is my entry for @boxofbonesfic Spooktacular Smutfest and I hope it’s not too late 😬 This had been in my drafts for some time and it’s not perfect but I still love it.

P/s: Did I mention this was heavily inspired by Junji Ito’s Tomie? I was tempted to include a snippets of the manga(the one where tomie was dismembered) but then it’s not for everyone so if you’re interested, do check it out!

Not beta’d, all mistakes are my own.

How was this possible?

You shouldn’t be alive, yet he was staring at this picture of you.

A picture of an enticing and beautiful woman stared back at him. She had fox-like features, her eyes were almond shaped with a small mole below her left eye, her lips curled upwards as she smiled like an inviting devil. She was the kind of woman who would steal your heart away with a mere glance.

But you couldn't be alive, because he watched you die.

The vivid image of you dying in his arms was etched in his head even after all these years, haunting him in his dreams every midnight, at 3 oclock sharp—like clockwork.

He remembered the sky was grey that day, and the way your skin resembled the gloomy weather due to the extreme blood loss. He remembered his hands stained red, and your lifeless eyes staring widely into the distance. Everything was either grey or red that day, including his life. And he wasn’t the same man after that day.

Bucky’s thumb hovered on the screen, and swiped right on the tinder profile whose picture was the woman he swore to protect with his life. The woman he had loved with every piece of his heart, and still loved till this day.

Even if there was a slim chance that it could be you, he’d take it. He couldn’t ever forget how happy you made him. Even if you were a selfish, manipulative, and narcissistic woman; even if you cheated on him several times; even if you’d made him commit crimes for you, he’d still do it over and over again if it meant that he was yours and you were his.

It was a match and Bucky initiated the conversation. Yet the woman who looked a little too much like you never replied and it took him some time to convince himself that it was fine, that she perhaps was just busy.

And it wasn’t until a few days later that he saw her on the streets. The woman who wore the face of his deceased lover from decades ago. She was walking alone, head held high as men and women who walked past her threw curious and jealous glances at her. She was very much like you, who used to garner tons of attention when you were in public.

Men wanted to court you, make you theirs, and craved for your attention like they were deprived of love for centuries; women were jealous of your beauty, wanting to be like you so their partner would stop gawking at the sight you or a handful of them wanted to be with you.

You had this mysterious aura where you attract and seduce people so easily that it became a problem in your relationship with Bucky. He’d lost count of the times where he’d come home to a sight of you on top of another man; the times he lost his temper and accidentally killed those who touched you; and also the times where you’d bat your eyelash at him and swear that he was the only one you love.

And Bucky would forgive you every single time because to him, you were his sweet angel and he’d defy even god, even if his pristine wings were tainted with black and he was falling from grace into the dark abyss.

He was in the line, waiting to order his coffee when she walked into the shop. She stood behind him waiting for her turn not knowing the man in front of her had thousands of questions he wanted to ask her. Deciding he should make a move, he turned his head to her. In this close proximity, Bucky experienced the butterflies in his stomach much like when he first met you. He almost forgot how beautiful and enchanting you were, almost.

“Hi, are you perhaps Tomie?” He watched as her eyebrows furrowed in annoyance, “I’m James, we matched on Tinder.”

There was a slight flicker in her eyes as she recalled who he was. “Oh, you. Nice to meet you, James.”

“My friends call me Bucky,” he watched as she eyed him up and down, as if contemplating if he was worth her time. Finally she deemed him worthy and threw him a flirtatious smile. What a little minx.

“My real name is y/n,” his eyes widened at the name, cold sweat forming at his forehead while chills ran down his spine.

“I’m sorry, your name is y/n?” He had to confirm.

Was it really you? How did you come back from the dead? How were you still alive? Far too many questions were flooding his head and the quick beating of his heart was not helping at all.

“Yes. Is there something wrong with that?” her head tilted.

His hands gripped on her shoulder tightly and she winced at the pain. He was a lovesick man searching for answers only she could provide, and there was this determination and madness in his eyes. “Don’t you remember me? I’m James!”

“Should I?” She snickered in annoyance, “Can you let go of me? You’re hurting me.”

Bucky’s shoulder slumped in dejectance. Of course she couldn’t be you, after all it’s been more than 80 years. After all, he watched you die in his arms.

“I’m sorry, you just looked like someone I used to know, someone I loved very dearly.”

“Is she prettier than me?” she raised her eyebrows—a smirk on her face waiting to be praised—as she twirled a strand of her curls between her fingers.

He looked at her, the same face as yours except this one was so much livelier, and with a mole under her eye. Also more beautiful, more charming. He felt like he was sucked deep into this whirlpool as he stared at her.

“O-of course not. You’re so much prettier.” He wanted to get on her good side, wanted to make her his, wanted to be the one she loved.

Her signature flirtatious smile never left her lips, “I know.”

She trailed her fingers teasingly from Bucky’s hand then up to his arm, caressing the metal arm of his which he was no longer afraid to show in the public. Though he couldn’t really feel her touch, he yearned for her to touch him more.

“James, what do you say we go to your place and … have some fun?” She leaned closer towards him, her body pressed against his as she whispered in a low tone in his ears, the sultry and suggestive voice of hers sending a tinge of pleasure down his crotch.

That was how Bucky found himself buried deep in her, on the clean white sheets of his bed. His face contorted in pleasure as he plunged himself deep into her while she lifted her hips to meet with his, sweet moans spilling from her lips.

She was the epitome of perfection. A devilishly beautiful face, smooth skin as if made of the finest silk, her soft body he could knead and touch. Her sweet voice, oh so enticing when she moaned out his name.

As the waves of pleasure hit her, her fingers latched around Bucky’s throat, constricting his air supply; her face inching closer towards his with a mischievous smirk on her face. “Now tell me, am I pretty?” Her voice was laced with a sweet charm, reverberating in his head.

“Fuck, yes!” With that, he let out a strangled cry, the pleasure blinding as he emptied himself in her. Vision clouded by his own high, he watched as black tendrils twisted to form a face on top of her head when she came, it was like a projection of her but with white pupils and an even evil smile. The face smiled at him while fear washed over him, his grip on her hips tightened. He shut his eyes, trying to shake the image away. He slumped on top of her still breathing heavily, chest heaving from post-orgasm, and fear.

Bucky wrapped an arm around her, trying not to think of the haunting black face that resembled yours and hers. He pulled the blanket to cover them both but she was quick to sit up, a disgusted look on her face.

“What are you doing?!” she was shrieking now, pushing his hand that was gripping on the sheets of white. He had an utterly confused look on his face.

“I figured you might be cold since it’s a little chilly in here,” she crossed her arms around her chest, sneering at his ignorance.

“You think I’d cover my body with this cheap cloth?” she poked at Bucky’s chest, “Change them into silk ones, tomorrow.”

“Of course, sorry.” Bucky was quick to apologize. She was as demanding and materialistic as you but he was deeply in love, he saw no flaws in her. “Does this mean you’re going to come here often?”

“Hmm, I don’t know ...” She looked at her perfectly manicured nails, a smile on her face.

Bucky’s eyebrows knitted in worry, he couldn’t let you get away again.

“I’ll do anything! I’ll buy you anything you want, I’ll do whatever you say. Just please don’t leave me, again.” Bucky was desperate, desperate to make her stay.

“Anything?” she smirked devilishly as she cupped his face, eyes wandering across his face, thumb tracing his pouty lips.

“Anything for you, my love.”

The smell of iron permeated the whole space. Bucky looked down at his blood stained hands and realized he was numb to the feeling of killing. It used to scare him, guilt him, made him feel like he was going to get caught and thrown to jail when he first murdered someone. Being brainwashed and ordered to carry out missions killing people is a thing; being conscious and murder people then proceed to wipe out the evidence is another.

He removed all the evidence and traces he left, then forged fake traces so the police wouldn’t be able to track him down. He used to be sloppy, leaving trails of crumbs everywhere, but hey that was in the 40s and he was an amateur back then. Now it felt like something so natural that he’d become somewhat of a professional in this area, he could do this with his eyes closed.

Bucky opened the door to his house to reveal her waiting on the couch, the new couch he just bought because she complained and whined about how disgusting and scratchy his old couch was.

She walked towards him; hips swaying seductively, lips curled into the cruel smile he was used to.

“How did it go? Did you get rid of him?” she asked. No, it must be you. She must be you, because no one would ever ask him to do such things. Only you, only you would be this cruel to demand him to kill someone. Only you would use him like this and completely disregard his feelings.

He looked down at her face, and at this moment her face overlapped with the one of yours in his memory. She was the exact replica of you; having the same sick personality, the narcissism, the mysterious charm, the bad habit of cheating. She was literally you, except the mole below her left eye.

Bucky thought this must be some kind of a sick joke, you must be playing games with his mind to punish him for what he had done. Yet he couldn’t escape this trap you had set for him, and he wouldn’t want to do so too.

This woman, standing in front of him eyeing him suggestively, she must be you. Because no one would be so cruel to toy with his heart like that, and no one could make him fall in love like that.

“Yes, I did.” He watched as you snake your hands on his abs and then his chest.

“Good boy.” Your hands were now at his shoulders, your breasts pressing against his chest, that big doe eyes of yours filled with lust.

The term definitely jogged a long forgotten memory hidden deep in his brain.

His second last kill before you died.

“Good boy.” Your eyes lit up when you heard that he killed that bastard you cheated with on Bucky. He was useless and wasn’t worth your time anyways. No matter how many men you slept with, at the end of the day you’d run back to Bucky’s arms because he was the almost perfect man who’d listen to everything you say and would obey your every order.

“Good boy gets rewarded,” you beckoned him with your finger, to the couch.

He sat obediently—like a dog, your dog—as you knelt on your knees in between his legs while smoothing your hands along his thighs, intending to tease and play with him until he gave in. You looked up at him with those innocent eyes, eyelashes fluttering in excitement. He’d always thought you looked like an angel, yet what you did was not the actions of one. You were a devil disguised as an angel with intentions—far lethal than a devil—whose sole purpose was to lure men in with your innocent looks then set them in their own ruins later, while you snickered at their fall, laughing at how gullible they all were.

Bucky didn’t even realize you had undid the buttons of his pants until he felt your tongue on his cock. You wrapped a hand around his girth as you licked around the head, lapping up the pre-cum leaking and humming at the taste. As you put the tip of your tongue in the slit, teasing the sensitive part, Bucky swore he could feel your smirk. The wet appendage swirled around the crown, more sticky substance dribbled from the tip along with a throaty groan from Bucky. You licked a stripe along the veins of his thick length; his eyelashes fluttered as you continued tracing the veins with the tip of your tongue.

He threw his head back the next second as you took the head in your mouth, gently suckling at it. If he wasn’t watching, he’d thought it was your pussy sucking his cock in; damn you and your sinful mouth. He watched as you took more of him in your mouth, lips stretching around his cock with your lipstick staining the flesh hints of red. He suddenly felt no remorse for killing those bastards. Those filthy men—who you’d welcomed into your embrace—worth no more than another line in his notebook.

You slowly took in every inch of him, the bulbous head hitting the back of your throat, his cock heavy on your tongue. His thighs tensed up, fist balling up tightly when you bobbed your head slightly, cheeks hollowing to create a suction. You kept working on his cock, your hand found his balls and fondled with them as he groaned at the sensation. Rubbing your own thighs together, you felt yourself getting wet and snaked a hand down to your clothed mound, sliding your hands in your pants as you stroke along your folds. His cock hit the back of your throat once again, and this time you took it further down as much as you could until your nose reached his abdomen while guttural moans escaped his lips.

It was torturous, how painfully slow you were going and Bucky was fighting the urge to grab a fistful of your hair and thrust his own way into your mouth, because one wrong move and you would not hesitate to deny him of pleasure for a week. He desperately wanted to make you gag on his cock making those obscene noises but if he wanted to cum, he’d have to be a good boy for now.

When you got faster, bobbing your head on his cock, Bucky knew he wouldn’t be able to hold on any longer. Fingers slithering up his toned abs, you felt his muscles tensed up. He brought his own fist to his mouth, biting down on his hand to relieve some of the pressure building up. You knew his tell whenever he was close and being the devil you were, you took his cock out of your mouth, a string of saliva connecting his cock to your lips. Glancing at his frustrated and unsatisfied face, you flattened your tongue, licking him up from the base to the head as your lips curled into a smile; doe eyes staring at his pained expression.

Bucky saw you taking your hand out of your pants, fingers glistening with your own juices as you crawled into his lap, prodding his lips with the slick-coated fingers. He took your fingers in his mouth, tasting your sweet arousal as you intently watched. “Does my good boy wanna cum?” He nodded at your words desperately with your fingers still sitting on his tongue and you giggled at his eagerness. “Show me how badly you want it then.”

A sharp pain lashed across his cheek, bringing him back to this reality. His head whipped to the side while your hand which had slapped him still hovered in the air. He looked at you with shock, and fear; fear because he thought he’d done something wrong and you’d leave him any second now.

“Thinking of another bitch, Bucky?” You crossed your arms across your chest, heart fuming with envy.

“There’s no one in my mind, love. Only you.” He gulped, knees weak as he tried to hold himself up.

Your anger dissipated a little, then gestured to him to follow you into the bedroom and he did, not knowing what was going to happen next.

Next thing he knew, Bucky was handcuffed to the bedpost naked with you on top of him. You were straddling him, your exposed cunt rubbing against his leaking cock, pre-cum sticky on his stomach. He let out a low grunt as you rocked your hips, your folds sliding on his length as your hands played with your own breasts. His gaze followed your nimble fingers as they tweaked against the pebbled nipples, plucking and teasing yourself but mainly him. How desperate he wanted to put his hands and his mouth on you, taking those beautiful tits in his mouth as he rolled the hardened buds with his tongue and between his calloused fingers. How sensitive and responsive you were every time he sucked on them, your fingers running through his hair as you arched your body; how easy it was to draw out moans from you with just his skilled fingers and mouth.

Now, however, he couldn’t be having his way with you. With his strength, he could easily break off these bounds but if he did so, there would be consequences and he didn’t want that. He watched as you made small noises of satisfaction when the head of his cock brushed against your swollen nub, your eyes closed drowning in your own bliss.

His breath hitched in excitement when he saw you hovered your hips over his length, your legs on both sides of his body. “Only good boys deserve rewards,” you leaned forwards; palms on each side of his head, face inches away from his with your lips merely touching his, “are you a good boy?”

“Yes, yes! Please,” a degrading smirk painted your face as you witnessed him lost his composure, begging desperately to fuck you, “Please ah—”

He let out a gasp when you grasped his cock and aligned them to your pussy, teasing him again when you dragged the head through your weeping folds, slathering the sticky substance leaking from his cock on your slit. You enjoyed watching him whimper, head thrown back in pain and frustration but couldn’t do anything about it.

You finally decided to end his torture and sank down on his cock all the way, his length buried in your cunt deliciously and you sighed in contentment. Throwing your head back in pleasure, you started circling your hips, hissing as you tried to adjust to the stretch.

The other reason you would always run back into Bucky’s arms was because of how well endowed he was; his cock always stretched your walls to the brim despite him having just fingered you with three of his thick fingers.

“S-shit, so tight,” he grunted, eyes shut tight. Everything was torturing him; your velvety soft walls clamping down on his cock, his own pleasure, the cuffs. His wrists strained within the metal cuffs; rings of red adorned his skin as he restrained himself from exerting too much pressure, otherwise the ‘fragile’ metal would break off. Your long fingernails made little crescent moons on his chest and abdomen as you bounced yourself on his cock, getting yourself off like he wasn’t there; merely a toy for your own pleasure. Your breasts bounces along with the rhythm of your hips, moans and cries occasionally slipping out of your lips.

Leaning backwards, you displayed your glistened thigh to him. You let your hand roamed through your body; his eyes followed your fingers as they found their way down, where you and him connected. Rubbing your fingers on your swollen clit, you didn’t stop slamming hips down on his length.

“Look at you, baby boy. All tied up and flustered.”

He was breathing hard with the pleasure overwhelming, his chest heaving and his eyes shut tight.

He felt you bouncing harder on his length, bracing your hands against his chest; your head drooped, face contorted in intensifying pleasure with your teeth biting down on your lips.

Every inch of him was hitting you in the right spot; your ass cheeks slapping on his pubic bone every time you slammed your hips down, gravity pulling you towards him.

Quick fingers reached down to flick at your clit; you felt yourself getting closer and closer.

With a high-pitched moan, you came; your body convulsing, overwhelmed with waves and waves of climax.

Bucky’s gaze was fixated on you the whole time; you looked like a goddess bathed in euphoria and he, your worshipper, kneeling at the bottom of the altar, ready to tend to any of your needs. He blinked for a millisecond; your body still arched, lips still curled into a smirk but your eyes, they were black. No, not just the pupil, every inch and corner of it was pure darkness, ready to consume him.

He cried out; his muscles tightened as he pumped his seed deep inside you, chasing his own climax. He cried out, in dread; not knowing whether the woman he was still balls deep in was a human, or an entirely different being.

Bucky convinced himself that it was only a hallucination, that his mind was playing tricks with him. Drenched in cold sweat, he laid there hands freed from the restraints, his brain working hard to comprehend what just happened.

You lifted yourself off him, wincing a little as your mixed fluids seeped out of your cunt. You sat on his stomach, the ridges of his toned abs grazing your clit and you let yourself grind on him again.

Bending forwards, you darted out your tongue, licking on the thin layer of perspiration on his pecs. A trail of wetness was left on his chest up to his neck, his exposed skin peppered with the bruising kisses you left earlier.

“Think you can go another round, baby boy?” You nibbled at his earlobe, voice alluring. He said nothing, only moving his hands to grip on your hips as if enchanted.

It happened all too quickly; his trained body couldn’t prevent it from happening, and he questioned if he wanted to let it happen. The huge gash on your face was the evidence of the traumatizing incident earlier.

Your fingers latched onto Bucky’s arm as you strutted along the streets, looking forward to adding another luxury bag or a necklace to your collection.

“You bitch!” A shrill shouting voice came from behind. A woman emerged from the crowd, running towards you hurling degrading terms at you. “You bitch! Fuckin’ stole my man,”

You raised your eyebrows as you eyed the crazy woman with a disgusted face, body turning to Bucky for protection. “Who you callin’ a bitch? And for the record, I did not steal your man,” you giggled as you saw the woman’s face twisted, “he came to me himself, like a dog.”

You pouted, lips jutting out as you mocked her, enjoying her being riled up a little too much. Your perfectly manicured fingers covered your mouth as your snickered, clearly unempathetic. Bucky always knew you weren’t a good person, hell you weren’t even a decent enough person. Manipulating and using men were your forte and you were damn good at it; men followed after you like swarms of bees, yet they all died in Bucky’s hands after you were done playing with them.

“You know what I’m seeing here?” You tilted your head throwing pitying glances at the woman, “I see a woman who wasn’t capable of keeping her own man,” Another mocking chuckle left your poisonous lips. “Tsk, tsk. Pathetic.”

The woman upon hearing your mockery widened her eyes in rage, her face twisting in jealousy. “I’m gonna kill you!” She hurled herself towards you, the knife hiding in her pocket now in her grasp.

Bucky stood there watching her slashed the blade on your face, every slash filled with anger and resentment as she took her revenge on your perfect face.

You shrieked in pain; screams so high pitched that Bucky winced at the brief pain in his ears. Blood gushed from the deep gashes on your face onto the floor; the woman had unconsciously made a huge ‘X’ on the left side of your face, the wound so deep you could see hints of the cheekbones peeking out.

A few people had to help restrain the mad lady from inflicting more pain on you. You cradled your wounded face as hatred clouded your eyes and you shot a piercing glance at the woman. Your sharp glare soon morphed into a sinister smile and you chuckled at her despite your pain—rejoicing when you saw her shiver in terror.

Bucky knew what he had to do later, he knew what the woman’s fate would be soon. But now, he must tend to you first.

“Let’s get you to the hospital,” he wrapped an arm around your shoulder while you inclined towards him.

“No hospital,” you blurted out weakly, having lost a lot of blood; your face and sundress painted red, yet he thought you still looked heavenly, “just get me home.”

He obliged, never one to question your decision and orders.

“Are you sure we don’t need to go to the hospital? The wound is deep, maybe we sh-”

Bucky knew how much your face, your beauty meant to you. That deep gash certainly was going to leave a large scar on your face and it wouldn’t be pretty. But as you reached home, the cut on your face was no longer dripping with blood, your hand that was shielding the wound was removed from your face and you took a cloth to wipe away the dark red blood.

His words died in his mouth as the part where you had a deep laceration was now smooth and clean as before. There was not a single evidence left other than the blood stains to let him know what happened before with the woman was not a dream.

Lips curled into an innocent smile, you looked over at him still holding up the pristine cloth tainted with your blood on your face.

“Is there something wrong?”

He shook his head frantically, fearing that you’d be able to see through his tough facade. And if you could, you’d see a fragile and scared man underneath the mask wanting to be released from this nightmare.

He gave you a strained smile, “Just thinking how beautiful you are.”

You gripped at his chin, your nails digging into the soft skin of his throat. “Such a good boy, always knows what to say.” Smiling eyes staring into his intimidated ones, he swallowed a glob of saliva as your smile deepened into a lustful smirk.

Bucky wouldn’t say he was a man who gets jealous easily (though his body count would beg to differ) yet the green seeping with poisonous jealousy consumed him little by little over the years before you died.

Today, the colour was exceptionally darker, as his heart sank to the bottom of his gut when he had to watch the flirty conversation exchanged between Steve and you. Bucky had wanted to introduce you to Steve for quite some time; wanting the two most important people in his life to meet each other and be on good terms. What he didn’t expect was Steve reciprocating your blatant flirts and sexual innuendos you tossed at him.

You flaunted your mysterious and minx-like charms at him the moment he arrived; the playful touches of your fingers, the fatal smile, that overly friendly giggle. Poor Stevie was completely charmed; a warm and shy smile plastered on his face, his starry eyes dazed.

His tongue poked at the inside of his cheeks as his gaze went back and forth between the two of you who seemingly forgot the brunette soldier.

He wasn’t surprised when he saw Steve and you naked on the couch one night. Your fingers were caressing his face tenderly like a lover’s delicate touch and all Bucky saw was red.

You were a cruel, vicious woman who made his hands drenched with the blood of countless people. And now adding to the already thick coats of sins was the fresh blood of his best friend—the only person who truly accepted him for who he was.

When the knife in his hands plunged into your chest, Bucky genuinely expected pitch black blood like the colour of your heart to seep out of the skin. But to his surprise, it was as red as his blue eyed best friend’s. Each drive of the blade dragged piercing screams from your venomous lips until one particular hard thrust and your voice was abruptly stilled.

An incredule laugh left his mouth as his knees weakened, your limp and bloodied body in his arms, your beauty undeniably astonishing even after death found you. Everything seemed so familiar; the way your melodious voice turned into this shrill screech, your lifeless eyes staring into the distance. And when he looked out the window, the sky was grey, much like decades ago when he first killed you, how ironic. Everything came back in a circle, he couldn’t seem to escape you and this gloomy life.

It must’ve been a punishment, you were meant to come back and torture him, grounding him to make him suffer in this loop of unescapable misery.

He was extremely tired; his muscles were sore after hours of cutting and sawing. Bucky never knew it was this exhausting to dismember someone, let alone two bodies now lying on the floor of his living room. Wiping the droplets of sweat adorning his forehead, he slid down the wall as his eyes trailed over to pieces of limbs scattered. All of this mess he had to clean on his own, if only he didn’t let jealousy consume him and plunge that knife into Steve’s stomach.

Bucky didn’t even have time to mourn for you or Steve; his eyelids grew heavier as he was making continuous sawing motion. He let himself rest against the wall for a while, his eyes threatening to close. The long duration of staring at the colour red got him a little dizzy and desensitized to which he finally closed his eyes, allowing himself a short nap.

“Bucky,” your voice woke him up from a sweet dream consisting of you and him in a little cottage in the woods; and in that dream your limbs were still intact, your cheeks flushed and your lips still warm with colour. “Poor Bucky.”

His eyelashes fluttered as he stirred awake, the state of being called awake had him in a brief moment of dissociation from reality.

“Bucky, look at me,” the voice of the devil who was once tempting and laced with honey.

When he opened his eyes, the gruesome and sickly sight of your mutilated body welcomed him.

Fear consumed him, cold shivers ran down his spine, goosebumps crawling on his skin. From the clean cut of your limbs grew faces identical to yours, each and every passing second the cells regenerate and grow into the very nightmare he was desperate to escape from. Horror washed over him as the realization of who you were dawned upon him; a monster hidden under the shell of a human, a creature who took the form of the woman he loved dearly and whom he killed with his bare hands. Soon, these limbs would grow into a whole new but identical woman as you and they would continue your legacy, manipulating those they seduce into their slaves to be used as they like.

“Are you scared?” your honeyed voice echoed in his head.

“Yes,” he replied shakily as he watched a tiny body slowly growing from your severed head; that signature devilish smile of yours painted your blood covered lips as if mocking his fruitless attempt to get rid of you.

“Good, you should be.” With that you laughed, your newly grown body vibrating with joy.

Bucky felt so tired, hungry, and parched but he couldn’t muster up the energy to even get up from the floor. What was waiting for him was his inevitable death surrounded by the pungent smell of blood, the mocking voices of his lover and the guilt of having murdered his own best friend.

Death came little by little; pain consumed his fatigued body, his weary eyes could only stare at the pile of your limbs regenerating and spitting out mocking words at him. And at last when he felt the last bit of energy leaving his body, he heard you saying, “I shall find you in your next life too, my love.”

#SpooktacularSmutfest21 #bucky barnes #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #bucky x female reader #bucky x reader

61 notes · View notes

dark-n-dreary · 3 years

Text

Esme & Dalia for @classicdecadence

The lavish white walls, high security, and constant movement of maids and servants, impressed Dalia little. Despite her high profile ‘lover’ all she cared about was having him in her pocket. Having him beg and whimper for her so she could ask for little things in return... money, access to certain people and places, his dying loyalty. The sorts of things any self-respecting mistresses asked for. He was willing to give it, after all both of them were married-- unhappily. Dalia had entered her marriage knowing full well she did not love her husband though she never knew how her lover and his wife fell out of favor. Come to think of it she had hardly even seen his wife. Only from across the room at parties or across a garden. She was beautiful and held herself like a queen, which did make Dalia wonder why they weren’t sleeping together.

Dalia walked through the house, holding her black heels in her hand as she strutted about barefoot. She hummed to herself as if she were walking through her own home. At his point it practically was, no one raising a brow when she left the bedroom of her lover or when she came by late at night with an overnight bag filled with goodies for her lover. No, at this point she was more the lady of the house than his actual wife-- who she found looking at her from the end of the hallway. Dalia stopped for a brief moment, caught off guard by her presence at this hour. But Dalia smiled to herself and continued to walk with confidence down the hallway. What would the wife do? Grab her hair? Scream and yell? It wouldn’t be the first time she found herself in a scene out of a TV drama.

“I didn’t know you were ever awake at this hour,” Dalia sang to Esme as if they were good friends. “I always figured you needed your beauty sleep.” It was far from a cutting comment, seeing as Esme had almond shaped eyes, full pink lips, and a perfect jaw. It was easy to say she had work done but Dalia didn’t really believe that. Something about her composition was too natural, perfectly fitting together like a puzzle. “I should be going,” Dalia said nonchalantly as she was about to pass Esme, but found it hard to leave the taller woman’s gaze.

#dalia thread #lets go gays lets go

22 notes · View notes

buck-nialled · 3 years

Text

Undertow - S. Mendes (VII)

Chapter 1 // Chapter 2 // Chapter 3 // Chapter 4 // Chapter 5 // Chapter 6 // Undertow Character Quiz

CH VII: Not So Casual Confessions

Wesley’s voice was barely heard as Shawn finally bellowed a plea.

“B-because I love her, okay? I love Y/N!” Every person stood in the cove stilled for an uncertain amount of time. “The day I met her was the same day I was basically banned from the sea for who knows how long and she saved my life. Maybe that was the universe’s way of bringing the ocean to me so I wouldn’t go insane, I don’t know.” Shawn lets an unamused laugh escape, as does Y/N. Hers goes unnoticed by Merlin and Ripley--especially Ripley--as they become captivated by his response.

“But...she made me realize I couldn’t care less if my life was on land or in water, just as long as she is in it. So, you can leave me dead here for all I care. Do whatever you’re gonna do to try and get answers, but don’t expect me to give you anything.” His eyes flicker down to Sandy, still in the viscous grip of his owner. Slowly, Ripley loosens his tight fist around the slimy tube of its body before the eel is flopping to the ground and slithering back into the waters.

“You...love her? A human loves an Atlantean?”

“Yes,” Shawn groans as a painful tremor sweeps through his abdomen. “Why is that so hard to believe?”

Ripley’s body resembled a beached animal from how eagerly he surged onto the sandy beaches of Hawaii. After reviewing Atlantean history today at Abyssington High and discovering the original plans to venture to the surface and make relationships with Homo sapiens, the urge he had attempted to fight for eighteen months finally motivated Ripley’s legs to carry himself onto land. Of course, he grew up knowing this type of action was forbidden amongst all sea folk and considered treason. If caught venturing to shore by anybody under the surface, he could be charged and sentenced to a life behind bars in the most shameful location and under the highest security--the King’s dungeon.

How Ripley discovered interest in land walker culture? Well, the story isn’t quite a nail-biter. One day while swimming towards the shallower ends of the sea, a sinking brick caught his eye. After swimming towards it and examining the material, he concluded it was not those plastic rings most turtles get tied around their fins, nor the transparent shrapnel he had been warned to keep away from in fear of being sliced to bits. It was a tough piece of plank with thinly sliced papers in between, each holding various names and places. After skimming through each page with lit eyes and enamor for his new discovery, Ripley flipped back to the plank at the front to read the large word staring back at him.

“Encyclopedia.”

It was the only treasure of his that he decided to sneak up to the surface with. The book was far too heavy for him to add anything else to the load. After surging himself to the surface, he finds the famous, red landmark staring back at him. It was one which he had meticulously mapped and been swimming to for weeks. A sight which he could never grow tired of. Even it’s picture, filed under the letter ’G’ made his heart lurch for a change of scenery whenever he perused it. Staring before the real thing in front of him and knowing at one point he could be standing on it looking down at the home he had left made his heart start matching the beat of an erratic kick drum.

When he marched onto land for the first time, feeling his feet sink into dirt which was dry, Ripley was appalled at the fact that this was still the same planet. He continued in one direction, not exactly sure what to do now or where his unmarked destination would be. Finally, he shoved his way through trees and stumbled onto a square of cement. Seconds later, his entire body was vulnerable lying atop it.

“Oh my god! I’m so sorry!” Ripley’s eyes fluttered open and he brought a hand to his forming concussion. A young woman, no older than him and adorning a vibrant tracksuit halter her jogging on the pavement and leaned down to inspect him for any superficial injuries. Her eyes were shaped like almonds and held the most gorgeous jade color. It’s hue was incomparable to the coral reefs he had been witness to for the last eighteen years. And he thinks it’s his new favorite sight above the Golden Gate Bridge.

“Are you alright?” With the guidance of her soft hand, Ripley shimmied himself into a sitting position and brought up his arm, which was suffering a light stinging sensation. “I’m leaking ...red.”

The girl before him snorts out a laugh, “you’re bleeding. And you’re soaking wet. Where did you come from?” Blinking at her a couple of times, Ripley fully stands up and turns to study the progress he has made on his journey so far. Lazily, he points to the red, steel ladders native to those in San Francisco and she inhales a sharp breath through the nose.

“You jumped?”

“No.” He looks at her. “I swam.”

Furrowing her brows, she nearly scoffs in disbelief at the story of this man slowly unraveling before her. Nevertheless, she remained intrigued and asks, “what’s your name?”

“Ripley.”

“Well, Ripley, I happen to live a few blocks down and own a dryer and some bandages if you’d like to come with.”

“Okay.” He nods, cueing the two to begin their walk back to her home. “What’s a dryer?” He asks, turning to her. And though she should have been concerned for how hard of a fall the man had taken, she elicits a string of giggles without further thought.

“You have a lot of explaining to do when we get back.”

And when they did get back, Ripley did not know what to say. Though it was nice leaving his home to discover a new one named San Francisco, a part of him still remained allegiant to his loved one’s below the surface.

“I can’t really remember much.” Is the excuse he gave. He hoped the questions would end there, but to his dismay, Stephanie continued her interrogation.

“What’s with the book.” She arched an eyebrow, pointing a finger down at the encyclopedia still in his grip. He opened it up, being careful when flipping each wilted page before coming across the landmark he was basking in the sight of not too long ago.

“I wanted to come here. And see it.” Humming, Stephanie nods and reaches a hand toward the book.

“May I?” Ripley nods, relinquishing the book over to her hold and letting her flip through the pages as she pleased.

“One day, when I become a marine biologist and get rich...this is where I’m going.” She turned the book towards Ripley, allowing his eyes to scan the picture in all of its beauty. The setting sun highlighting the sand and bouncing off of people’s glowing skin. The palm trees casting the perfect shade and shaking in the breeze made Ripley want to take Stephanie and swim with her straight there.

“Where is this?” His finger darted out to trace over the photo, as Stephanie read the title of the section.

“Hawaii.” The word sounded like a symphony when it bounced off of her tongue. It felt like Ripley’s insides were rolling down a hill of lush green grass and never wanted to stop.

“Let’s go.”

“Ripley, you can’t just up and leave like that. I mean, you probably have a life and family here…” she begins objecting.

“I wanna go wherever you go.” She turns from the hypnotizing photo of Hawaii’s sunset to his aqua blue eyes, just as mesmerizing. A smile creeps onto her lips, and suddenly, the word “no” seems displeasing to say. So instead she answers with an optimistic,

“Okay.”

“It’s not,” Ripley says, but is startled as another voice joins him in sync. This cues the man to turn, along with Merlin and come face to face with the wanted runaway.

“You were right, Rip.” Merlin elicits a string of menacing chuckles and administers a clap of his hand against his friend’s back. “She swam right after him.” But Ripley’s eyes were already transfixed elsewhere. Specifically, on his stunned child.

“Wesley...I--”

“Dad, what the hell are you doing?” The young man bustled past both of the knights to find his past competitor twitching and curling into himself against the stone floor.

“I...I don’t know, son. It was never meant to go this far--”

“You nearly killed him, dad! God, and for what? What were you going to get out of this?” Wesley ripped mercilessly at the seaweed keeping Shawn’s hands captive.

Ripley repeated his son’s question over and over to himself. No logical answer came up other than saving himself and his family.

“I was trying to protect you--”

“Protect me?” he scoffs. “By kidnapping and beating one of my friends? If you really cared about protecting me, you would actually tell me why you’re always leaving and where you’re going to. You would stay behind and actually ask me how me and mom have been since you’ve left us for some job we don’t even know anything about! More importantly, you would have told me about this!” Wesley retrieves his phone from his pocket, turning the screen towards his father.

Silence passed among the group for a few seconds, before Merlin took the initiative to lean towards Ripley and whisper to him, “You see a black screen too, right?”

“Uh . . . Wesley . . .” Y/N says, glowering her eyes at the boy. Humming, he turns the phone around for himself and gasps. Droplets of water were the only evidence as to what caused the unresponsive device.

“Huh? Oh no, no…” He pats the electronic against his hand, persistently pressing the power button in hopes of some illumination on the screen. His endeavor was fruitless, however, and left the boy sighing in despair. “I knew I should have gotten the warranty.”

“It was a map of the kingdom,” Y/N grumbles beside Ripley. “Not that it really matters anymore.”

“So what are you gonna do now? Take me in?” she asks, turning her stare from Ripley to Merlin. She tries to ignore Shawn’s eyes burning into her profile with dread for what was to come. She just hopes to have one last moment of staring into the hazel rings of his and maybe having her choke her--or kiss her, she is still confused on which was supposed to occur--before she is sentenced to life beneath the water forever.

“Yep.” Merlin smiles proudly to himself.

“No,” says Ripley, earning a hawk from everybody in the room.

“What?” His fellow knight stands beside him, baffled.

“What? I mean—“ Y/N clears her throat. “That’s right you’re not. Now, let Shawn free and we’ll all return back to land,” she commands in an authoritative voice, setting her hands against her hips Shawn’s hands could not wait to squeeze when he finally got the chance to hug her.

“Rip…” Merlin stops him with a hand against his forearm. “What are you doing?”

But Ripley ignores it, absorbing the sight before him. His son finished unraveling all of the seaweed that restrained Shawn’s hands earlier. Y/N approached him cautiously, and bent down to her knees to study the inflictions left on the boy’s skin from Sandy. Shawn tries not to concentrate on his new wounds, and rather, begins rattling compliments toward the woman in front of him.

“That-that dress looks nice on you,” he gulps.

A grin climbs onto her face upon the sight of Shawn’s red cheeks. “I think you already told me that earlier.”

“Well, I’m still right,” he claims through shaky chuckles.

“Eh,” She shrugs, staring down at the floral-patterned fabric. “I think I prefer your hoodie.” A snort comes from Shawn.

He retorts, “I think I’d prefer that thing in the garbage. It probably smelled awful when I gave it to you. And it’s covered in stains and...blegh.” He stiffens when Y/N’s warm hand is pressed against one of his cheeks, which now feels as though it is burning.

“I think I’d prefer you...and your brown eyes...and more of those…”

“Moments?” Shawn offers with a quirk of his eyebrow.

“Yeah, definitely more of those.” She grins, before the unfortunate moment the two shared earlier came to mind. “I’m sorry about what I said...you were right. Getting anywhere close to the water was a mistake.”

“No, I’m sorry. I mean, this is your home for crying out loud. I couldn’t ask you to just abandon it overnight...especially when you make a damn good lifeguard.” His hand reaches to guide a wet tendril behind Y/N’s ear.

“This isn’t my home, Shawn. My home is here, in Hawaii, with cheeseballs and shopping trips with Aaliyah and seafood nights...and you.”

“And Connor.” Shawn adds, earning a chuckle from the girl before him.

“And Connor.” She repeats.

“And Wesley.” The boy straggling behind them coughs, before turning to admire the stone surrounding them.

“And Wesley...but mostly you.” Watching the two lovesick strangers from afar was like staring into a portal from his past. The sight brought proud tears to Ripley’s eyes, despite his attempts to keep his emotions at bay.

“You know that it’s our lives on the line if you let her go,” Merlin states bitterly through his teeth. Ripley’s eyes shine with pride at the scene of Wesley now surveying the cove for the first time, with the two love struck young adults exploring one another’s eyes only a few feet away.

“I know.”

“I’m gonna make sure no one else is coming,” Merlin says. Ripley merely hums, too lost in the moment to be bothered by the knight’s complaints. Merlin glances at Shawn and Y/N, remembering his mission. He slowly walks to the edge of the cove, keeping his eyes on Wesley, who crouched down on a rock and staring at the distant shoreline. With one last breath he slipped into the water, swimming back to Atlantis a fast as he could.

Wesley ran his hand across the top of the water, paying attention to nothing but the ripples he was creating. He felt oddly calm considering how chaotic the past hour had been.

“You know,” Y/N said as she came up behind him. “this is where Shawn and I first met.”

“Really?” Wesley asked. “Was it a ‘meet cute?’”

“I don’t know what that means, but sure,” Y/N chuckled.

“Either way, he definitely likes you.”

“Gee, I wonder where you got that idea from.”

“Just in case you weren’t 100 percent sure.” He turned his head to look at her, offering a small smile.

“Okay, well the fate of humanity depends on us getting to work so I need to explain the plan and get going so you guys can get back to shore.” She nudged his hip and nodded back to Ripley and Shawn, who seemed to take no shame in maintaining their distance.

Wesley grunted as he stood up. “What do you mean ‘you go down and we go back to shore?’”

“We saved Shawn but we didn’t stop the tsunami,” Y/N stated matter of factly. “I have to go down there to finish this.”

“You can’t go down there alone.”

“Why not? That’s the plan.” She turned back towards Shawn and Ripley, feeling like the area was emptier than it was when she first showed up.

“No, the plan was for us to all go down there and finish this off together,” Wesley snapped, drawing Y/N’s attention back to him.

“It’s way too dangerous for you and Shawn to go. You don’t have a map and you didn’t memorize it earlier so there’s no chance I’m letting you come with me.”

“I don’t want you going down there alone.”

“You’re not my father. You don’t get to make that choice for me!” The raise of her voice caught Shawn’s attention. He furrowed his eyebrows at what he was witnessing, still not sure as to what was going on and why he was in the cove again.

“But I’m your friend, Y/N! And as your friend, I care about you and I don’t want you shoving yourself into dagner just ‘cause!”

“I don’t think you understand the gravity of this situation, Wesley.”

“What is going on over here?” Shawn asked as he approached the two, a cautious arm slung over the front of his abdomen while he attempted steady footsteps. RIpley, still feeling a weight of guilt sunken like an anchor in the pit of his stomach from his earlier actions, maintains distance but is still in earshot.

“Y/N’s throwing herself into the face of danger like it’s nothing and we’re not allowed to come with her.” Wesley threw his arm out in frustration, letting it fall to his side with a smack.

“Y/N?” Shawn said her name with hesitance. “Is that true?”

“This tsunami isn’t going to stop itself and you guys won’t make it out alive if you come with me.”

“What do you mean ‘go down there’? What in the world is going on right now?”

“Oh my gosh, how many times do I have to explain this?” Y/N groaned with a roll of her eyes.

“It’s only been one time so far,” Wesley muttered, earning a shove and glare from Shawn.

“There’s a tsunami. It was a distraction so they could kidnap you. I have to go to Atlantis to stop it. You guys are gonna go back to shore. End of story.”

“That is definitely not the end of the story.”

“Wesley, I swear I am going to feed you to the dolphins if you don’t shut up.” Before Wesley could even protest, a few disapproving cries came from Douglas and his pod.

“Oh, you’ve eaten worse.” Y/N turns her head, sharpening her glare at the bottle noses.

“No, wait...say that again,” Ripley directs, now with wide eyes. He walks closer to the group of dolphins, still bobbing in the waters leading onto the rocky platform of the cove. As instructed, Douglas and the others repeat the same series of chirps. Simultaneously, Y/N and Ripley bothe elicit petrified gasps.

Wesley and Shawn stood beside another, watching the scene unfold before them with a feeling of trepidation blossoming inside of both of them. “Do you understand what’s happening?” Wesley whispers into Shawn’s ear.

“Not a clue,” Shawn replies in a similar, hushed tone.

“Merlin went to the king to share our location, that’s what’s happening. We need to leave, now,” she says to Ripley, who confirms her order with a nod. “Douglas, get Shawn and Wesley back to shore.”

“What? No. Did you not just hear me say ‘this is not the end of the story’?” Wesley cries, before a loud clap of a crashing wave makes the group collectively flinch. Slowly, the tide began rising higher and higher, ultimately beginning to fill the cove to the top of its coarse walls.

“I think somebody heard you,” Shawn remarks--but his voice is nearly drowned by another harsh wave against the cove’s exterior. He is now fretful as his feet, once planted to the platform, are now hovering over it as he tried to keep his head above water. The dolphins began overlapping in their clicks and squeals.

“It’s the king,” Ripley begins. “He’s gonna fill this cave up to the brim.” He and Y/N, too began bobbing up and down as the water began a drastic rise.

“Well, you two can breathe underwater so what’s the big...ohhh…” Wesley shares a sheepish look with the three.

“Maybe if we swim out he’ll stop,” Y/N suggests.

“What? No, you two are not going out there. Do you know what he’ll do to you?” Shawn asks.

“Do you not realize what he’s doing to you two right now? You’re both forty seconds away from holding your breath for who knows how long—“

“Seven minutes,” Wesley interjects.

“It doesn’t matter,” Ripley and Y/N reply in sync.

“Seven minutes? Dude that’s impressive,” says Shawn, slightly envious. He looks back to Y/N and Ripley, both giving him a look of disdain.

Shawn clears his throat, “Sorry.”

“You’ll still both be dead in minutes. This current is too strong for you two to push through, remember? There’s no other option…” Once again, she turns back to Douglas, who is already awaiting for further instruction.

“Douglas, take them back to shore, please.” Douglas alerts the others of his clan,. Swiftly, the rubbery grey bodies are seen swooping Shawn and Wesley out of the cove as fast as their fins could carry them, not even leaving time for the two boys to protest.

“Are you ready?” She shares what may be a final look with her ex-nemesis, and is somewhat grateful for him now being an ally.

“You kidding? I’ve been waiting for twenty-three years.” The rising water finally fulfills its duty in submerging the two Atlanteans in the deep blue. Their eyes bore deep into one another’s, illuminating a near identical aqua.

“Let’s do this.”

The two surge out into the deep, barely feeling the coral and other bottom-dwellers graze their feet as they journey a reasonable distance from the cove. Precocious, the two scan their surroundings for any threat which could be headed their way. Alas, they were met with relatively clear waters, other than a few finned friends swimming past them without care.

“I don’t understand, where’s the--” before she could finish her question, Y/N’s temple was met with a brutal force that knocked her to the sea floor. Groaning, her eyelids fluttered open and she endured a throbbing feeling on the side of her skull while witnessing the sight of Ripley, already put under beside her. A looming shadow draws her stare up, and she elicits another groan at the sight of its gaping mouth and filtering gils, swimming in circles above her.

“Hammerheads.” She murmurs in distaste, before her new head trauma lulls her into unconsciousness.

LOOK OUT FOR THE NEXT PART OF UNDERTOW COMING 4/2/21!

Join the taglist to see what happens next!

current taglist: @fallinallincurls @ilumxna @lonelyreputation @purely-imagines-and-fantasies @shawnmxndxs @learning-howto-be-myselfx3 @sillyquirkymendessupporter @itsalwaysbeen305 @friendlyneighborhood-mendes @marissje @princessmia1705 @rosetoronto @itrocksmysocks @organicpurplepants @truthfulteenager @bluebellwoods

20 notes · View notes

baby-grayson · 4 years

Text

Sweet Enigma: Part 2

Word Count: 2918

Tag List: @wheezeatmedolans @styles-dolan @prettyboydolan @evergreendolan @baby-turtles @dolanstacoma @not-gbd @graysavant @someonetogray @dolansficsandpics @ batgirl099 @voguekristens

Grayson’s eyes shifted from his seat in Kate’s car to his front door. His mouth folded into a tight ball, while he huffed out of his nose. His weak sinus responded by triggering a cough that filled the space of Kate’s car.

She winced and gave him a sideways glance from the driver’s side, “You sure you’re going to be okay?”

Grayson nodded and cleared his throat. He ran a hand through his hair and looked down, thankful to see that he was no longer wet—although he was highly disheveled. He pushed the passenger side door open and convinced his legs to walk toward his front door.

For a moment, he second guessed whether his key would open his own front door. Something about his house made it seem like foreign territory, like it belonged to another version of Grayson with much different priorities than the one that walked over that threshold.

Almost immediately, Grayson was faced with the tall, looming, svelte figure of Calvin Maddox.

Calvin Maddox was a slim shouldered, lengthy man with perfectly kept white hair: who walked with all the power, elegance, and traditionalism that came with having old money. Maddox had inherited a fortune from his bloodline: he maintained his money via his status as a Real Estate Tycoon in the deep South. Up until the night before, Calvin had liked Grayson. He had looked forward to being his father-in-law one day. Calvin would have never uttered this out loud in front of his family, but he even favored Grayson over his current son-in-law, Sherry’s sister Coral’s husband, Jackson White.

In that moment, Calvin’s steely blue eyes were forged with hatred and detest while he looked down his nose at Grayson while he made his way through the front door. Calvin’s figure reminded Grayson of a wolf, as the older man prowled his way across the living room and silently stepped in front of Grayson’s path. For a second, Grayson could have sworn he saw the man snarl at him.

“You’ve got some nerve,” Calvin’s Southern accent was thick and slathered with a calm anger, “Walking through that door, like nothing ever happened.” Grayson’s pupils trembled in his eyes as Calvin crossed his arms.

“I-uh,” Grayson stammered, “I just wanted to get a few things. I’m uh—I’m sorry—I am but—I’m not looking for a problem.” Grayson held out his palms in from of him, taking in a few shaky breaths. Calvin stepped toward Grayson, keeping his arms crossed. “You know my daughter wasn’t looking for a problem when she agreed to be your wife. But now I’m wondering if that’s really the case, son.” In the past year, Calvin had started calling Grayson ‘son’, in act of Southern hospitality. Usually, Grayson found it comforting; on that day, the word was charged with antagonistic energy.

Grayson gulped down, feeling his heart pound from deep within his chest. He opened his mouth to say something but found his entire mouth was dry, with his tongue hanging heavy against his palette.

“Now,” Calvin took another step toward Grayson. He narrowed his eyes at Grayson before continuing, “You want to tell me what happened last night Grayson.” Calvin took another step toward Grayson, leaving only a few inches of space between them, “Or are we going to have a problem?”

Grayson went blank, staring up at the older man with wide eyes and shallow breaths. His tongue flopped inside of his mouth, failing to create anything that could become coherent words. His bottom lip trembled as he tried to find a response that could face the moment.

From inside the house, behind the pair, a few footsteps came sauntering through the hallway.

“Hey,” Ethan’s voice was low and calm, “What’s going on out here?”

Grayson’s eyes immediately found Ethan’s: a pair of unsure, nervous eyes meeting an identical pair laced with assurance and relief.

Calvin did not shift from his position in front of Grayson. “Nothing Ethan,” he looked over his shoulder to find Ethan standing in an identical position: crossed arms and steely eyes. Calvin dropped his hands at his sides and stepped back from Grayson’s personal space, “Just asking your brother if he could explain why he decided to break my baby girl’s heart last night.” Grayson gulped again. He saw an accomplished look wash through Calvin’s eyes for a moment.

Calvin looked down, surprised to see Ethan place a hand on his shoulder, “I think my brother will talk, when he’s ready to talk.”

Grayson’s mouth fell into a tight line and he pushed his shoulders back: trying to feign confidence. Ethan patted Calvin’s shoulder chummily, nearly mocking the tension of the moment, “C’mon Calvin, I think you should eat something.” Grayson was extremely grateful to see Ethan lead the man away coolly. Finally alone in the room, Grayson breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn’t aware of it at the time, but Ethan had made excuses for Grayson’s disappearance the night before. In the weeks prior, Ethan had noticed his brother’s confidence slowly fade into a squirrelfish demeaner: he knew it was just a matter of time until Grayson’s façade broke. Ethan was shocked that Grayson chose his own engagement party to accept his inner qualms. Ethan wrote it off as another example of Grayson being the dumber twin.

From the car, Kate pulled down the sun visor in her car to inspect herself in the mirror. While Grayson mentally sparred with Calvin Maddox in the house, Kate discovered a few stress pimples forming between her temple and her left eye. She sighed and bored holes into the front door with her eyes, silently begging Grayson to come back as quickly as possible. She looked back in the mirror to recognize the under-eye bags and frizzy, unkept hair that came as a consolation prize with being a third-year doctoral student.

Grayson’s steps were hurried and frantic as he raced to his own bedroom: barely recognizing it under the hoards of overturned drawers and bags laying out the room. In a manic fit, Sherry had scoured and destroyed everything she could get her hands on, in a mad effort to understand where Grayson had gone and why he would want to leave her. Grayson’s heart stopped for a second, but his mind emphasized the importance of haste.

Moving quickly, he grabbed his orange, leather, Louis Vuitton duffel bag from the top shelf of his closet. He shuffled through piles of clothing to find the few pieces he though he would need in the coming days. He didn’t pay attention to the shoes he grabbed from his closet, putting whatever he found first in the bag. He was looking down at the bag, taking an inventory of what he had packed when the door to his on-suite bathroom slowly opened with a painful screech on its hinges.

In the door frame, was the image of Grayson’s exhausted, angry, and frenzied fiancé.

Sherry Kerrigan Maddox was drawn into the world with womanly curves and a Cheshire Cat smile. She knew nothing except for the high-class, debutante life of a Southern heiress. She grew up trailing her mother and sister at high-profile events: wearing big hats, drinking sweet iced tea, and laughing politely at the jokes of the country’s richest southern dynasties.

Sherry spent most of her teenage life away from her mother and father, attending a private boarding school with her older sister, Coral. Unlike Coral, Sherry never did particularly well in school. The only subject she was ever mildly interested in was French, which she learned to speak with superb proficiency, something that came in handy with her future modeling career. Once, Sherry had cried when she was handed a math test. Her teacher, who had just graduated from college, excused Sherry from taking the test in an act of kindness, not wanting to subject a young girl to public emotional strife. When the board of Sherry’s private school found out, they threated Sherry with suspension on the order of disobedience and violating the academic validity code. A cool word and hot money from Calvin Maddox promised that the teacher would be let go from the school, while his daughter could continue to happily doodle in her notebooks and forget about Algebra.

She was, objectively, beautiful. Her round face was complimented with full cheeks and a soft jawline. Her blue eyes were wide but almond shaped: inherently sensual. She wore a strong, arched brow: the brunette color of which exposed her as a fake blonde. But her hair was a gorgeous golden hue, always sitting exactly perfectly on her head. Sherry Maddox knew, quite well, that lipstick lasted longer, but always preferred to wear gloss, because it was more fun.

Her voice was choked with waves of torment, “What do you think you’re doing?”

Every muscle in Grayson’s body stiffened. In a deep place, he knew this conversation was coming he just didn’t expect it to happen so soon. He swallowed hard, meeting his lips together in a flat pout. He let out a hard breath as Sherry spoke again, “What are you doing here?” Grayson didn’t turn to face her, “Sherry-I-“ “NO!” Her usual Southern elegance was gone from her presence, replaced with the unhinged pain of a woman with a broken heart, “You don’t get to say my name! You don’t get to just,” she motioned her arms in the air, “waltz in here!”

Grayson stammered and turned to find Sherry with tears in her eyes, shaking a pointed finger at him. He closed his mouth.

“So?” Her voice held a sharp edge, “You don’t have anything to say for yourself?” She gritted her teeth, “You leave me there. Alone. In front of everyone. And you can’t even apologize.”

Grayson exhaled; his jaw shook in the attempt at finding something to say. He signed, “I’m sorry. I—I don’t know—I” Sherry interrupted him, “You? You embarrassed me? You humiliated me? You left me to explain to TMZ and Page6 why you weren’t there? You left me there to listen to Ethan’s pathetic excuses for you?” She sneered at him, “You must think I’m really stupid.”

Grayson reached an arm behind him, placing it on his duffel bag. He silently wished that he could run away, and leave this moment frozen for a more prepared Grayson to handle. “I don’t think that Sherry. I just –I need time.” His eyes pleaded with her; his heart felt like it was being plucked at by a thousand angry, clawed birds.

Sherry laughed: a cold laugh without an ounce of humor in her face. “You need time?” Her voice was vicious. “You need? Wow. We’re talking about what you need. What about what I need? What about the fact that I needed you last night? Thought didn’t cross your mind did it?”

Grayson’s face folded into a pained position, “I’m sorry Sherry. I really am. I—We—I can’t do this anymore.” In one swift motion, Grayson picked up his duffel bag and headed for the door. He tried to block out the sounds of Sherry’s cries and screams.

Making his way to Kate’s car, Grayson’s internal structure was panged with guilt. His mind tremored with the realization of the gravity of his actions.

Grayson landed in Kate’s passenger seat in a hectic, distressed position. Kate silently wished she had suggested that Grayson call Ethan to collect his things. Grayson turned to face her; a distraught form of inner terror palpable in his eyes.

His voice was low, “We’re really doing this.”

She gave him a sideways glance, “You’re really doing this.”

Grayson’s mouth flatlined. His jaw locked with tension and guilt. He thought back to Sherry, peering at the front door through the car window, he turned to face Kate.

The wounds in his heart burned when she said, “I’m not the one who needs a second chance because I treated you right the first time.”

The car ride to Kate’s apartment was silent except for the gentle buzz of her engine. She parked on the street and didn’t say a word to Grayson as she exited the car.

With her keys dangling in her hand, she quickly marched up the stairs and through her front door. Her energy was fluxed by the sight of Wesley in her living room. “Hey,” his voice was heavy with concern, “I texted you. I thought we were going for breakfast this morning?” His big brown eyes were weighed down with his care for her.

Kate’s mouth went dry as he tongues floundered for a moment, “Sorry—I must have forgotten. You know how things have been lately, I’ve been working more than I’ve been breathing.” Her words mushed together, making her sentence sound like one over-extended syllable.

Wesley stood up and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, “You doing alright Katie? I’ve been worried about you but this—this isn’t like you.” He gently thumbed her clavicle, “Maybe you should put work down for a little bit.”

Kate shook her head quickly, “No-I mean yes. Yes. That’s exactly what I am going to do. I was going to call you. I’m leaving. For now. To go to..Philly! I’m going to spend time with my mom in Philly.” She nodded enthusiastically, trying to fake a smile.

Wesley seemed satisfied with this answer, as his eyes lost some of their murk, “Good. I’m happy for you. When are you leaving?” “Today!” Kate’s answer came a bit too fast and too loud.

Wesley furrowed his brow, “And when are you getting back? Maybe we can take a weekend together before you go back to work?”

“I’m not sure,” Kate gave a weak shrug, “I didn’t book my return ticket yet.” She sucked in her top lip, “I was going to wait—for the weather. Wouldn’t want to book a ticket during a snowstorm.” Wesley placed a gentle kiss on her head, “Say hi to your mom for me. And remember, I’m a phone call away.” Kate’s own heart betrayed her as her pulse quickened under Wesley’s lips, “Will do.” She sighed in relief when she stepped away and headed for the door, “Enjoy your trip. Love you Katie.” “Love y-“ Wesley shut the front door and she did not finish.

Kate was emotionally uncomfortable. Not from lying to Wesley because this was not the first time she had lied to him. She was uncomfortable with how nearly comfortable she was in this dialogue.

She shifted her emotions to a distant place in her mind, deciding to struggle with them later. She worked methodically to pack a backpack with the clothes and toiletries she would need for the trip. At the bottom of her closet, she pulled out a shoebox with the two t-shirts and one pair of sweatpants she was left with after breaking up with Grayson. She included the pieces in her backpack, figuring this was as good a chance as any to give them back to him.

Hustling out of her door, she looked down to see her school bag thrown against the floor. She picked it up, her research in the back of her mind. With two backpacks and a jacket slung over her shoulder, she made her way to Grayson in her car outside.

Kate shoved her things in the back seat, next to Grayson’s duffel bag. With a huff, she dropped herself in the driver’s seat and turned to face Grayson.

He started first, “I’m sorry.” He spoke quickly, “I’m so sorry. I know I’m dragging you into this when you don’t deserve to be here. I should have never assumed that you would even be remotely interested in trying to—” Kate held up a finger to his lips. “This is my decision too.” Her voice was steady, the opposite of his frenzied tone. Grayson shook his head, his mouth felt sparks under her slender finger. “You’re not responsible for sorting through my emotions.” She looked at him, a serene balance in her eyes. She spoke with a confidence, “If I didn’t want to help you, I wouldn’t be here.”

#im proud of how i wrote this #i usually think i am a shit writer #so this is a new feeling for me #i really hope you like it #grayson dolan #fanfic #grayson x oc #dolan twins #ethan #ethan dolan #grayson #youtuber #long fic #series #blurb #concept #romance #angst

74 notes · View notes

crazyyanderefangirlfan · 3 years

Text

MHA OC

Meet my MHA oc, I made her at 2019. I uploaded her profile in quotev in my books of ocs.

“My alone time is sometimes for your safety.”

Name: Kimi Yūrei-mura

Nicknames: Kim, Kimbab, Psycho, Psychopath, One woman army, The queen of yokai, The yokai queen.

Hero Name: Okiku

Title/Alias: The "Yokai' hero

Gender: Female

Age: 16

Nationality: Japanese

Ranking: Novice

Occupation: Student

Affiliation/Organization: U.A, Class 1-A

Appearance: Kimi has a beautiful diamond shaped face with jet black hair that reaches below her thighs with choppy ends, almond shaped eyes with black sclera and white iris and long lashes and deathly pale skin with a tinge of gray. She has a slender and supple figure.

Costume: Kimi wears a long sleeve dark purple kimono like dress that exposes her let shoulder and bottom left of the dress is shorter. The bottom hems, cuffs and neckline are cerulean blue. Around her waist is a two way matching blue belt that secured in the front and back. A viridian green bow that covers up the fastener, another bow is tied on the back. She wears a pair of dark purple boots and around her head is a rose pink bead circlet topped by a rose red pin cushion like flower with two glass pins sticking on it and two sashes, in the same blue coloring.

Personality: Kimi is sarcastic, snarky and brutally honest, she never sugar coats her words and say it how she sees it. Kimi has no problem coolly putting people in their place or using intimidation. She dislikes social interaction and would rather stay at home and watch anime; she never care on what others think and would rather do her own thing. Kimi is somewhat a sadist and enjoys scaring people for fun.

She's observant of her surroundings, analytical, and attentive to details making her quite intelligent and recognize the ill-intentions of others. Surprisingly, once she's truly angry, she's more volatile and unstable in expressing in expressing her emotions than her brother. She's possessive when it comes to her boyfriends and willing to fight for him at any cost.

Kimi is incredibly diligent, she always puts her heart into something and won't until it's complete. Such as school and hero work or video games, but sometimes she take it to a perfectionist level. She may not seem like it, Kimi is a kind and thoughtful person but doesn't show it very well. She values the people who managed to break down her walls and will fiercely protect them and support them. She also loves to tease them.

But if one breaks her trust she turns ruthless, extremely vindictive and will do anything to get back at them from serving them disgusting food to placing needles in it. She'll be absolutely callous towards the person to the point she denies theirs existence and could care less if they died. However, if they are truly sorry she’ll hear them out and stay away form them for a while until she’s ready to forgive them.

Since her quirk turns her into a ghost like being, Kimi is rather fascinated about death and macabre things. But she does show empathy to those who died.

History: Kimi and her twin brother were born to a pro hero and a chef, both developed their quirks in a few weeks of their birth. Kimi had a rather lonely childhood, none of the children approach her due to her appearance and quirk, her brother and cousin were her only friends. However that all change when she saw a a boy her age alone and crying on the swing, they both became fast friends and their bond grew stronger as they grow up.

However, she and her family moved to London for her father was offered a special position within the British heroes, and like before many were afraid to approach but few brave souls managed befriend her and one managed to capture her heart. Kimi was happily in love for a few months but discovered his true colors when she caught him kissing another girl in the broom closet. After that experience she turned vengeful and somewhat bitter, things took a turn a turn for the worse when their parents died in the middle of their date due to a villain attack, which lead to her and brother's immediate return to Japan.

Fortunately, her cousin welcomed them to her family with opened arms, and decided that they all moved into an apartment. Kimi and her brother decided to be in separate schools for better growth as individuals, Kimi decided to U.A upon recommendation by her cousin, she agreed and was glad. Kimi once again met her childhood friend their, Shoto Todoroki

Quirk: Onryo

Character Strengths: She has the abilities of standard an onryo, such as elastic jaws and prehensile hair. Her hair is stronger than steel and can regrow in in small amount of time once it's cut off. She can teleport through electronic media devices such phone and televisions. Kimi also has standard ghost abilities such telekinesis and intangibility and can contort her body into gruesome angles.

Character Weaknesses: Like normal onryo, she can be stopped by holy items, such as talismans with the written name of a god and people with who can control the dead. Her hair is weak against fire.

Super moves:

All Out Possession: Kimi can possess multiple living beings such as humans, and inanimate objects at once.

Haunted Grounds: Kimi phases through the ground and manipulates the area.

Already Dead: Kimi becomes completely intangible as uses her hair to knock out several opponents.

Hair Spikes: She can manipulate her and turning them into ten foot tall spikes.

Vengeful Wraith: She can turn herself into a horrific ghost.

Stats

Power: 5/5 A

Speed: 4/5 B

Technique: 5/5 A

Intelligence: 4/5 B

Cooperativeness: 3/5 C

Otaku nerd: 7/5 A

Other:

Kimi means upright, righteous and Yūrei-mura means ghost village.

Kimi can cook for 50 people due to her brother's appetite.

Kimi smells like cinnamon and blackberries.

Her favorite food is Trifle.

Her favorite activity is watching anime, and drawing comics.

Kimi was born in Aug 24.

Kimi secretly wants to be a manga artist.

She has a pet Britsh shorthaired named Pancake

Her parents signed her up for badminton to socialize, she liked the game and still plays it.

#my hero academia #kimi nakano #my hero academia oc #mha

11 notes · View notes

girlsculturetechnology · 3 months

Text

CHEI’S PROFILE

PERSONAL PROFILE

BIRTH NAME: Xie Jing Fei (TC: 謝靜飛, SC: 谢静飞)

KOREAN NAME: Shin Jeong-hee (신정희)

ENGLISH NAME: Roxanne Xie

NICKNAMES:

DATE OF BIRTH: June 8, 1999

PLACE OF BIRTH: Wuxi, Jiangsu, People’s Republic of China

HOMETOWN: Wuxi, Jiangsu, People’s Republic of China

SEX AND GENDER: female woman

PRONOUNS: she/her

ETHNICITY: Chinese

NATIONALITY: Chinese

CITIZENSHIP: Chinese

SOCIAL CLASS: middle class

BLOOD TYPE: B

CHINESE ZODIAC SIGN: Rabbit (兔)

STAR SIGN: Gemini

MBTI: ESFP

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION

EYE COLOR: very dark brown

HAIR COLOR: black

HEIGHT: 164cm (5’4”)

WEIGHT: 51kg (112lbs)

BODY BUILD: hourglass figure; wide hips, small ribcage, long legs, good posture, small feet

SKIN TONE: light-medium; warm undertone

SKIN TYPE: normal

FACE SHAPE: heart; high cheekbones, v-shaped jawline

EYE SHAPE: almond

NOSE SHAPE: high nose bridge, flat nose tip, flat nose wings

LIP SHAPE: bow-shaped; lower lip bigger than the upper, upturned mouth corners

OTHER NOTICEABLE FEATURES: high arch brow, straight eyebrows

PROCEDURES: skin whitening, rhinoplasty, lip fillers, botox

DOMINANT HAND: right

BODY MODIFICATIONS: piercings (left ear - 1, right ear - 1)

LOOKALIKES:

VOICE CLAIM: Yoohyeon (Dreamcatcher)

CAREER PROFILE

OCCUPATION: K-Pop Idol / C-Pop Idol

STAGE NAME: Chei

NICKNAMES: #1 Bella Lover

FANDOM NAME: WayZenNi /

LABEL: SM Entertainment (2016–), Label V (2019–)

GROUP: NCT (2019–)

SUB-UNITS: WayV (2019–), NCT U (2020–)

POSITIONS: lead vocalist (WayV), sub rapper (WayV), visual (WayV)

REPRESENTATIVE COLOR: black

REPRESENTATIVE EMOJI: 🐺

ROLE MODEL(S): Seulgi (Red Velvet)

BEST KNOWN FOR:

her personality

entertainment skills

stage presence

view full information

BACKSTORY

Jingfei was born on June 8, 1999, in Wuxi, China, to her mother Zhou Liling and her father Xie Qiang. She is an only child from a middle-class family. Both of her parents were office workers.

In elementary school, Jingfei learned how to play violin and trumpet. She fell in love with music because of those two instruments and since then wanted to become a musician.

In 2008, her parents died in a car crash. Since then, her grandmother was the one raising her.

In January 2016, Jingfei went to Shanghai to participate in SM's 2016 Global Audition. Despite not having any singing or dancing skills, she passed the audition and joined SM Entertainment summer of 2016.

On April 24, 2017, she was introduced as a member of SM Rookies, a pre-debut team of trainees under SM Entertainment.

On December 31, 2018, SM Entertainment announced the debut of NCT's Chinese subunit WayV which Jingfei, now with the stage name 'Chei', would be a part of.

She officially debuted with WayV on January 17, 2019, with the group's first digital EP "The Vision".

In 2020, her grandmother died because of covid.

She debuted in NCT on October 12, 2020, with the group's second full album "NCT RESONANCE Pt.1".

FACTS / TRIVIA

She speaks Chinese, Korean, English, and a little bit of Japanese.

She is a Reveluv.

She is afraid of heights.

Favorite color: pink

Favorite season: summer

@alixnsuperstxr

4 notes · View notes

lotus0kid · 3 years

Text

OUaT: Finding Fate

((For the 2020 Rumbelle Secret Santa, using @dorkone's prompt "castle flirting vs. storybrooke flirting”. Hope you like it!))

Regina racks up enemies like it’s the latest fashion. At least she doesn’t task Rumpelstiltskin with conjuring her wardrobe as well as resolving her current vendetta. Someday he’ll enjoy making her understand that she was never more than a means to an end for him. Until then, he sits at his wheel and ponders how to make things difficult for a certain mermaid.

He nearly jumps off his stool when the doors to the hall fly open and a voice that has no business sounding so cheerful within the gloom of the Dark Castle rings out, “I did it!” Belle strides straight for him, a broad smile on her face and a silver platter balanced on her palm. “I knew I’d get it eventually. I wasn’t sifting the flour enough. Thank the gods I figured it out- this batch is the last of the almond stuff!”

As she circles around to stand at his side Rumpelstiltskin catches the scent of something baked and… minty? He stops the wheel and inquires, “What strange act have you committed in the kitchens now?”

Belle rolls her eyes at him, “If you wanted a cook you should’ve dealt for one. But you got me, and I’ve just made a breakthrough in my culinary practice. Here, try one.”

The platter swings toward him, revealing a number of bite-sized macarons tinted an alarming green shade. The smell isn’t actually bad, now that he’s a had a minute to get used to it, but he curls a lip anyway. “No thank you, dearie. I have no need for… whatever this is.”

“‘Whatever this is’ is a delicacy from my village. We made them every midwinter. I thought I’d never get to have them again, but with a little experimentation and perseverance, you can hardly even taste the difference!”

Rumpelstiltskin blinks up at her, then returns his attention to the wheel. “Right, well, congratulations then.”

Belle lets out a soft snort of indignation before saying, “Won’t you try one? Here, I’ll go first.” She picks up one of her creations and pops the whole thing in her mouth. The instant her pink lips close on it her eyes slip shut and she moans in pleasure.

Rumpelstiltskin locks his gaze on the wood grain of his wheel, the only thing that might save him from the in all ways unwelcome heat rushing through his body. This is made more difficult when something green bobs into the lower right corner of his vision.

“O-pen u-up…” Belle sing-songs as he resists the urge to lean into the fresh, bright scent of the treat. When did I summon mint oil to the cupboard? “You know food tastes better when it’s shared, just try one.”

In this second, he snatches for his seer’s sight in hopes of some guidance, receiving silence in response. His own imagination offers the possibility of slapping her hand away- perhaps throw her totally off balance and send the lovely tray of treats clattering to the floor. The thought of the cold glare she would cast on his back sends a chill through him. Perhaps not. So, he could go the other way. Do as told, and open up, let her set the macaron on his tongue. He could even close his lips quickly enough to catch her fingertips, and taste her skin along with the delicate crunch and zing of mint.

Rumpelstiltskin shakes his head to clear these imaginings- one far too cold, the other far too hot. Belle’s hand retreats. “All right, never mind then,” she begins, but he reaches out and cups his palm under hers, taking the macaron with his other hand and bringing it to his mouth.

He grinds through it with brisk efficiency. “A triumph, dearie,” he announces after swallowing, “Well done.”

She smiles, nods. “Thank you. It’s good to know I can feed you something. I don’t care what you say about being sustained by magic, it’s just not healthy to not eat.”

The briefest accidental glance in Belle’s direction reveals a look of warm concern beaming down on him and in that instant a thick, heavy sob swells up in Rumpelstiltskin’s chest, tightens his throat, and makes his eyes burn. She’s right. He lets the magic feed him, and it feeds on him in turn. Sometimes he must call up a gallery of memories of Bae in order to keep the darkness from consuming him. Once or twice, he’s had trouble recalling the exact shape of his son’s face, which causes frigid fear to blast through him.

Remembering that fear, joined with the horrific likelihood that he might start blubbering in front of Belle, drives him to his feet, and he utters pardons a second before whisking himself off to his tower.

Belle is of course the problem, he decides while pacing stolidly and aimlessly and sighing away the ache in his chest. He swore an oath to love no one as long as Bae is lost to him. But she’s here, and she is… That’s not to say he actually… It’s his old spinner’s heart, the foolish thing. It still hasn’t learned- the people he loves, they leave. He needs to show it what comes of entertaining silly little hopes. He must look ahead, and see how Belle will free herself from him. He’ll be calm then.

This is easier said than done. As proven moments ago in the hall, the seer’s sight is finnicky at best, coming and going as it pleases. And when he can grab hold of it, it sometimes rattles through more possibilities than Rumpelstiltskin’s mostly human mind can comprehend. But perhaps he can channel it, focus it in one direction. Indeed, his focus is clear- it’s Belle’s future he seeks.

He shuts his eyes and extends his awareness to find her walking back to the kitchens, and so takes the opportunity to transport himself into her room and pluck a strand of hair from her pillow. This he carries back to his tower, then flicks through a dense tome of spells on a desk until he comes to a powerful divination spell. With his eyes screwed shut as he mutters the words that will drag his seer’s sight to heel, he does not notice a hair from his own head come loose and drift down to join Belle’s in his palm. But as unremarkable days of caretaker duties unspool within his mind, a mysterious golden haze drifts through, and he feels time speed up to a blur.

He tries to haul back on imaginary reins- he has no interest in zooming all the way to Belle’s eventual death. Slowly his awareness settles on one point in the future.

The first surprise is that he isn’t a ghostly spectator in this random moment to come. He feels himself present in the space. Looking down, he finds himself wearing, not his usual silk and leather, but rather loose-fitting wool trousers matched with a jacket and a shirt fastened by a simple row of buttons. His only silk is a thin strip tied around his neck, discretely folded under the shirt collar.

His second surprise are his hands. They appear as those of an ordinary man, a state which is anything but ordinary. His right wraps comfortably around a gold-handled cane- in this peculiar vision he’s aware of his maimed ankle as a distant stiffness. His left hand holds the bow and neck of a violin. He doesn’t have much time to study the instrument before the sounds of an opening door and a ringing bell come from beyond a curtain hanging in the doorway of the room he occupies, which appears to be the storage space of a small shop of curiosities.

After a moment, the curtain is pulled back to admit his third and biggest surprise- Belle, carrying what appears to be a sack made of paper and wearing a skirt far shorter than anything Rumpelstiltskin’s ever seen on a woman of her station. She doesn’t seem at all bothered by this, smiling wide as her eyes fall to the violin. “Unearth something interesting?” she asks before setting down the sack on a small table nearby. “You might want to wait until after lunch to tell me about it. Ruby said Madame Mayor was snapping at everyone when she got coffee this morning, so we may not have long to eat.”

None of that makes sense to Rumpelstiltskin- or, at least, the Rumpelstiltskin of the present. The Rumpelstiltskin to come replies with ease while his past counterpart observes from within, “If she requires another lesson in patience, I’m happy to provide it. Come have a look at this.”

She comes to stand before him as he holds out the violin. Its body is decorated with wood inlays depicting two people in profile with their arms outstretched. Magic curls away from their hands, meeting at the strings. “Lovely. And powerful, I suppose?” she inquires with a raised brow.

“Versatile, more than anything. Play a certain tune, achieve a certain magical effect, assuming you play well. Shall I?” Rumpelstiltskin lets the cane fall against his hip and transfers the bow to his right hand, setting it on the strings but pausing there with his gaze on Belle.

She nibbles at her lower lip, but soon says with a sparkle of mischief in her eyes, “Why not?”

“Very well,” Rumpelstiltskin says with a grin of his own. He closes his eyes and searches the enchantments laid upon the violin, and finds something that might actually be familiar. An old tune his Aunt Iph used to play for Aunt Im. The melody slowly emerges as he draws the bow along the strings.

It’s not long before he hears a soft gasp and then a bright giggle. Belle’s hands fall on his shoulders and he opens his eyes to take her in as she floats about an arm’s length off the floor. Light shining through a nearby window gleams every part of her it touches. He maintains the tempo and volume of the song, which keeps her from drifting any higher. After a moment’s uncertainty, she lifts her hands, swaying and bobbing slightly to the beat, turning a slow circle in the air. Rumpelstiltskin can’t say when he’s seen anything more beautiful, and his heart melts with love.

When she faces him again her hands return to his shoulders. Beaming down on him, she murmurs, “That’s the tragedy of musicians- they don’t get to dance.”

Her brow furrows slightly and her hold on him tightens, and he actually feels the magic he’s emitting flow through her back into him, settling in his feet as a lightness that almost tickles. Then he’s rising, rising up to meet her. Belle’s arms slide around his neck as the distance continues to close between them. Her lips brush his and in that instant there’s a blinding flash of gold light behind his eyes and the vision snaps out of existence and Rumpelstiltskin drops hard against the desk, knocking the tome of spells into a mess of fluttering pages on the floor.

He grips the edge of the desk, feet and lips still tingling, trying to understand what just happened. Because it can’t be the future, what he saw. It’s not possible. Him and Belle, together, really quite unmistakably in love. True love. No, it cannot be. Anyway, in that world it didn’t seem instantly apparent where Bae was, and therefore it was no world Rumpelstiltskin wants to live in. Not at all.

He crouches down to pick up and turn the tome over and check for damage. The spell on the page it falls open to is something to do with happy dreams. Ah, clearly he misread earlier and cast this instead of a divination spell. Of course. He should try again. Ensure he’s on the right page, and figure out what fate of Belle’s will take her away.

He definitely means to. It’s just that a half-finished project catches his attention, and he forgets all about it. And when it crosses his mind again, the hint of an old tune he only just remembered wanders through his mind, and he decides he doesn’t need to know. Not yet.

#dorkone #rumbelle secret santa #rumbelle #rumbelle fic #once upon a time #fanfiction

24 notes · View notes

akielonsummer · 3 years

Text

Mortal Errors

This is only loosely based on the Blade Runner universe and can be treated as a generic sci-fi AU. If you’re not familiar with Blade Runner, you only need to know that: Replicants = Bioengineered androids that look exactly like humans, but sometimes certain qualities can be enhanced to serve different purposes. Blade runners = Bounty hunters whose job is to track down and kill (retire) rogue replicants. Technically belong to the police department.

Give this a chance please? :* (I’ve also posted it on AO3 if you prefer to read it there)

--------------------------------------------------------

By 9pm, Damen was positive he got stood up by his informer who was supposed to rendezvous with him in this night club an hour ago. It was pouring outside, and he was overworked and exhausted, stuck in this raucous and filthy place without a lead or an umbrella.

If he would be completely honest with himself, like he usually was, he would acknowledge that there was another reason for still sitting here other than reluctance to get soaked in the rain on the way back.

The blond man sitting across from him at the large oval-shaped bar had just politely refused the second drink a bulky male stranger was trying to buy him. From afar he could see that the blond wore a high-neck black top that was possibly an effort to keep a low profile, but only served to highlight the slim lines of his shoulders and chest even more. Damen could see why the other man was willing to try so hard. The moment Damen had noticed him, he had been sure he’d been looking at the prettiest face in the entire club tonight.

The big guy was persistent, shameless enough to linger around, still trying to chat up his target. Damen unselfconsciously began studying the blond man’s demeanor, the way he eluded the other person’s gaze and carefully positioned his body. All of Damen’s detective instincts were telling him that the blond was utterly annoyed by the other man’s presence, but would prefer to keep things civil. He was waiting for a specific person in that spot, and therefore could not easily retreat to a less noticeable corner to escape all the attention he was attracting. You would have to be very unobservant not to notice that several other pairs of eyes nearby were preying on him likewise, impatiently waiting for the next chance.

Damen made himself look away, drank some of his beer, and reminded himself of his purpose of coming here.

“Sorry, I’m late,” Damen heard himself say casually as he appeared on the vacant side of the blond man. Inwardly, he cursed himself for giving in to his own curiosity.

And vanity. This had always been his favorite part on a night out.

Getting the beautiful, but difficult ones, while others watch.

“Hey,” the blond looked up, and quietly eyed him once before he continued, “I was beginning to worry that you might have been blown away by the thunderstorm.”

“Looks like you took the underground streets,” he raised a hand to feel Damen’s curls, which were dry. If he was surprised by Damen’s sudden approach, he didn’t let his reactions give away any of it.

Up close, Damen saw that he wore a small dangling earring in a starburst shape, the gold just a shade deeper than his hair. This place had an awful diffused pale purple lighting that made almost everyone at least a bit sickly, and he looked absolutely gorgeous.

He turned his face to the other side to send off the big guy with a final “Excuse us”, then turned back to stare at Damen. The corners of his mouth lifted to form a conspiratorial smile that disappeared too quickly, but at least he didn’t look like he wanted Damen to be gone immediately.

“That was smooth,” he waited until the man was out of earshot to say, “I’m Laurent.”

“Damen,” Damen replied as he felt the deep blue gaze from those almond-shaped eyes do funny things to his stomach. Something deep inside him whispered danger. He promptly dismissed the alert, and went on, “Why didn’t you just tell him to get lost?”

“I didn’t want to start anything. I’m waiting for somebody,” said Laurent, then after a brief pause, “—was waiting.”

Laurent shrugged and gave a wry smile. Damen was pleased with this answer because it both validated his earlier theory and broadened the range of possible things that could happen tonight.

“That makes two of us,” and so he advanced.

“Let me guess,” said Laurent, humming as he sucked on the olive of his martini, then licked the drops of alcohol trickling down his fingers, “it’s a woman.”

“Someone who was supposed to bring me good news tonight.”

“That’s frustrating. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Apparently I’ve found something better to do here,” said Damen. He started to wave the bartender over to buy both of them drinks as a man in a terrible, flashy silver jacket got close to Laurent from behind. It was hard to tell at that moment whether he was too drunk to see Damen or simply audacious—it could be both, because he was bold enough to place his hand on the side of Laurent’s waist and was beginning to lean in to mumble some drunken nonsense in his ear.

It was happening fast, but Damen’s reaction was faster. He slapped off the stranger’s hand and as the man tardily became aware of the situation and glowered at him, warned with a low but clear “No”. The man took two seconds to evaluate the physical difference between himself and Damen, and wandered off grudgingly.

Laurent considered him briefly and let out a poorly stifled snicker.

“What,” Damen snapped, not entirely in an unamused fashion. He was aware that his hand had replaced the other man’s to linger around the smalls of Laurent’s back, and decided to keep it there.

“When I first saw you over there earlier, I thought there’s no way you’d be into men,” Laurent said with a slightly bashful expression, lowering his gaze on the bar table. Damen felt a surge of satisfaction upon hearing his honest confession. He was ready to respond with something nice and clever until Laurent looked up again and finished, “or you should at least prefer real boys.”

Laurent kept his meek, picture-perfect smile as he waited for the meaning of his words to sink in.

“You’re a replicant,” attempted Damen, a part of him still reluctantly trying to make sense of the now-conspicuous truth.

“And you, a blade runner,” Laurent enunciated each syllable as he held Damen’s gaze unwaveringly. In that instant, Damen could see from an angle a flash of a curious reflection at the center of his blue eyes. A sharp, contrasting color. Of warning, and of blood. Laurent blinked once, and it was gone.

“How—” Damen began, and was immediately interrupted by the huge noise of a brawl that had just broken out behind them at one of the VIP tables.

“Just before you came over, I was telling big guy that the people I knew at that table had some extra pills they’d gotten as samples from a supplier, and that they were happy to share,” said Laurent matter-of-factly as he got up from the bar stool and began putting on his black leather jacket.

Damen turned to look, and saw that the first man he had warded off from Laurent was now deep in a fist fight with two of the men in black suits from that table.

“You don’t know any of those guys,” said Damen, a bit awestruck by now.

“No,” answered Laurent. He popped one last piece of peanut in his mouth and started for the exit. “We should go now.”

Thirty minutes later, they were both sitting in the couch in Damen’s living room, sipping whisky from heavy-bottomed glasses with a rain-drenched towel draped around the neck.

“You’ve been laughing for the past fifteen minutes. Get over it,” Damen said sourly when he saw that Laurent was still smirking around the rim of his glass.

Their escape had not been completely free of obstacles. They had intended to sneak out through the less noticeable side exit of the club, until they had realized there’d been simply no way not to get noticed when you were moving with someone of Damen’s stature. With the brawling in the VIP area escalating in the background, the bouncers had become more vigilant with people getting in and out of the place.

It’d appeared that Laurent had gotten through the control at the exit without a hint of effort but just by being himself—a seemingly harmless young man with the face of an angel—while Damen was inevitably stopped, by not one, but two of the most intimidating-looking bouncers guarding the exit. They had padded him down scrupulously and proceeded to ask questions to make sure he’d had nothing to do with the rows in the club. Perhaps more out of curiosity than necessity, before they had let him go, one of them had asked what he’d been doing for a living.

“‘Same as you. I work at a club uptown.’” Laurent repeated his response in a way that was more a derisive reenactment than an honest impression, then added for accuracy, “‘a small one.’”

Damen rolled his eyes in disapproval and sought to detach himself from this conversation by refilling his glass with the bronze-colored liquid.

“And now, to answer the question you’ve been waiting to ask,” said Laurent, gradually dropping the amusement in his tone and replacing it with his default placid composure, “I knew you’re a blade runner because I know someone who wears a device like that too.”

He pointed at the black wristband on Damen’s left wrist.

It was a location tracker that would have been concealed more carefully with clothing when he was on an active assignment. Anybody who shared his job title would get one on the first day they reported for duty so that their superiors could track their locations real-time, to make rescue or body retrieval easier. Unsurprisingly, hunting down rogue androids meant putting yourself on a knife edge too, quite literally.

“You’ve chosen a tough job,” Laurent continued when Damen said nothing. “Someone’s got to do it, I guess.”

He sounded like he was talking about the work of a butcher or an undertaker, which was not that far from the truth.

Despite their dramatic encounter with each other, Laurent didn’t seem like he had anything against Damen’s kind. In fact, he had just mentioned that he personally knew another blade runner. He must be a registered new model if he was able to roam the city freely, perhaps the vocational type, even. It was not uncommon to see new generation replicants that were indifferent to the nature of a blade runner’s job. After all, they only retired the obsolete rogue models who posed potential threats to society, and most of these fugitive replicants lived in underground communities that were completely segregated from the legal models.

“I didn’t,” said Damen, at last.

Laurent gave an inquisitive glance.

“I didn’t choose it.”

And that was all he was willing to say about why he had fallen to the current point of his career. Realizing he had brought the conversation to a cul-de-sac, he tried for a different direction of the topic, “it’s neither pleasant nor glorious, indeed. But I try my best to make it quick, at least.”

“Quick and painless. They won’t even feel a thing,” Laurent mused. There was a subtle edge in his voice that disturbed the relative ease of Damen.

“We use a special type of taser,” said Damen, because he felt that the word “gun” might just sound a little too strong. “It takes less than a second.” If you aimed at the right place, and if your target didn’t struggle.

“Has it ever crossed your mind that,” said Laurent, leaning back into his corner of the couch so that he could look right into Damen’s eyes, “you could be one of us, you just didn’t know all along?”

“They run tests on us every day, at work,” answered Damen, finding the question a bit absurd. “I know what I am. I know what I’m doing.”

“Oh, so do we,” Laurent huffed, staring at the remaining content in his glass as he whirled it. Damen didn’t miss his choice of pronoun and that familiar edge in his voice that came and went.

“For better or worse, your job is certainly much more exciting than mine,” Laurent began again as he adjusted his position, crossing his legs. For two seconds Damen’s attention was stuck on the smooth fair skin showing through the ripped parts of his grey jeans so he didn’t registered that Laurent had shifted closer in his direction. “I work in a biotech lab.”

“As a technician,” he then added, probably for fear of confusion.

The lack of immediate response betrayed Damen as much as his briefly widened eyes did.

“I… had different assumptions about your occupation,” admitted Damen.

“You thought I was a pleasure model,” said Laurent, surprisingly seeming more amused than offended by Damen’s presumption. His eyes were the color of fine blue topaz in this lighting, his dampened hair ready to drip liquid gold.

“You’re way too attractive to be anything else,” Damen tried his best to make it sound like a compliment but not derogation, as it was supposed to be.

Laurent hummed as if plotting something in his head. He lowered his gaze to look at his own hands, which long and delicate fingers he was now slowly flexing. When he blinked, his dense lashes brushed against the highest points of his cheekbones, flapping and trembling like wings of birds.

“They say I’m a customized model,” he lifted his wrists slightly to examine the inner side of them, like they were some novel objects instead of parts of his own body. Blue veins ran under the finest skin there—replicants were bioengineered to look exactly the same as humans, but it still shocked Damen sometimes how much they resembled the real thing.

“Who knows where they had gathered the parts to build me?” said Laurent, it came out like a question that was not demanding an answer.

“Where, I don’t know. I just know the person who commissioned them to make you must be filthy rich.”

To that, Laurent didn’t answer. He picked up his glass from the coffee table, tilted his head back and downed all the alcohol in it.

“I might just have too much to drink,” he said, leaning his upper body forward to put the glass back on the table, suddenly looking like he might topple over. The towel fell from Laurent’s shoulders. Damen grabbed on his arms in time and pulled him back in place.

“I thought alcohol didn’t affect you,” Damen said as he still kept both hands wrapped around Laurent’s arms from behind, but they went from just supporting them to a soothing, sweeping motion against the now half-dried black fabric. He felt the lean muscles underneath tense and relax in his palms.

“The effect, like most other things in us, is also customizable,” Laurent pointed out as he briefly luxuriated in Damen’s massaging hands like he was genuinely enjoying it. Then, in their awkward position of Damen half-embracing Laurent from behind, he tilted his head to one side so that he could turn his face to look at Damen, “I’m only doing this so that you could take me to bed.”

Damen’s hands stopped abruptly. But then Laurent began to snuggle up to Damen’s chest, fitting himself perfectly in the space there, looking up at him with his marble glass eyes with intent.

Damen knew his own weakness, knew that once he was caught in a situation like this he would have no means to back away from it if he ever found out it was a trap, as it had happened once in the past.

“We don’t have to,” he tried to resist, and it sounded too much like pleading.

“I think we both know why I’m here,” Laurent cooed as he gently pressed the side of his face onto Damen’s shoulder, then, in a voice that was not completely free of self-disdain, “a stray android, clinging to the arms of its executioner.”

The sudden realization of how this was a much more precarious situation for Laurent than for himself, coupled with the intense urge to feel the fine strands of gold now rubbing on his sweater, was all it took to dismantle Damen’s feeble defense.

“Only if you want,” Damen yielded, lifting one hand to smooth the soft hair around Laurent’s face.

“To let you take me apart and examine me everywhere?”

There was a change in the quality of Laurent’s voice that Damen couldn’t exactly fathom. He looked down, and saw that the smile on Laurent’s face was devious, saccharine and sad, at once.

Simulated fire crackling from the atmosphere panel in Damen’s bedroom masked the distant sounds of incessant rain and thunder outside. The advanced thermostatic system kept his living unit at an optimal temperature at all times, but it was Laurent’s human-like body heat that was keeping him warm tonight.

Damen slid his hands over Laurent’s still-clothed thighs, which were now aptly straddling his own atop his queen size bed, delighting in the soft sounds Laurent made between deep kisses as his thumbs drew small circles on his inner thighs. Laurent smelled like rain mixed with expensive perfume, and tasted like honeyed wine. It kept Damen wanting more, how Laurent’s kisses were alternately hesitant and unrelenting, a liquor that was sweet on the tongue but burned the back of his throat.

“Have you ever,” Laurent managed, in a charmingly breathy voice, as they broke off once.

“With a replicant?” Damen took over seamlessly, Laurent’s question communicated in means other than words somehow. “Not knowingly.”

Flashbacks filled his mind momentarily against his will, as the ambiguity of his answer hung in the air. He mentally shook himself out of it. Turning back at Laurent’s pale hair and blue eyes, he suddenly saw the irony in it, plain as day. Then, when Laurent didn’t push further but accepted his partial truth with only a raised brow and curious eyes, he corrected himself. Laurent possessed beauty that was comparable to that of hers, but they were evidently two entirely different things.

“And you, have you ever?” Damen whispered as he leaned back in to kiss the spot behind Laurent’s ear, nuzzling the silky golden hair there. His hands had since taken on an exploration of Laurent’s body, albeit still hindered by a layer of fabric, around his taut waistline, up his back, down the flanks and then up again. He surveyed Laurent’s reactions to his different touch, logged them, and imagined doing it all over again. Later, on bare skin.

“He thinks he’s the first,” said Laurent as he visibly fought back the gasps elicited by Damen’s nibbling along the underside of his jaw. The sentence uttered with summoned scorn, complemented with the reddening at the tips of his ears and the glint in his dark eyes, had a heady effect on Damen. He could feel himself rousing—in more ways than one—but more than anything his body ached with a deep, growling desire uncaged.

“He just thinks,” Damen cooed, soft and low, “that he’s very, very lucky.”

He dragged a trail of kisses across Laurent’s left cheek. He paused when he reached the corner of his lips, waited for the first sign of hesitation from Laurent, then took over his mouth as his hand found its way to Laurent’s nape to pull him in. This time, he kissed him like he hoped to deliver all the praises that would sound excessive in words, in the form of long, hot and deep exploitation of Laurent’s mouth.

When he finally pulled away, it was to check if he could find a hint of annoyance on Laurent’s face at the interruption. Convinced that he did, he tugged at the hem of the top Laurent was wearing to signify that the break would only be brief but was necessary. He pecked on his cheek in compensation, and asked softly, “Can I see more?”

He would have spent more time to consider the momentary disbelief on Laurent’s face upon hearing that, if he hadn’t been so stunned by what he saw when Laurent swiftly lost his top.

It was at that particular moment that Damen had the strange epiphany that Laurent, despite everything, was indeed man-made. If God existed, he did not make this. He thought as his eyes savored the fine alabaster skin now fully on display, a stark contrast to the dark veil that had covered it and was now discarded on the floor. He tried to recall art terminology he had heard of: golden ratio, perfect balance; but none of these could even begin to describe the way lines were placed on Laurent’s body. The hollows and protrusions around the shoulders and collarbones were shaped like grips of luxurious handcrafted bows, elegant to look at and perfect to touch. When he breathed, the lines that cut in all the right places over his chest and abs deepened and faded. God made men the way he liked them to be, and men did the same with things. Damen continued to muse as his admiration went on. God did not make this. A man did. This was made according to men’s liking, not God’s.

“I bet it turns you on to know you could do virtually anything you want to a body like this without any real consequences,” said Laurent, in a tone that could be either seductive or provocative, or both. There was a cruel degree of truth to what he just said. Yes, there were laws which prohibit abuse of replicants, but according to them, anything that could be fixed with money and some tweaking of programs was never considered to be out of line.

“When I see a body like yours,” Damen began to disagree. The prettiest, finest thing I’ve ever seen in my life, he added only mentally. “I only want to do everything you want.”

At that, Laurent again gave a subtle scowl with distrust, but was quick to turn his face away as Damen finally smoothed his hands on his bare waist, where the skin was soft as cream. Damen was not sure why Laurent should get offended by his saying a thing like this or asking for permission, but he was currently too fascinated by the way Laurent was responding to his hands gliding all over his body to be truly concerned.

“It suits you,” Damen praised as he passed an index finger over the navel piercing on Laurent. It was small and simple, adorned with a tiny blue gem. “Are there more?”

“You’re insatiable, you know?” The look Laurent gave him as he said this was supposed to be chastising, but only served to send a thumping pulse down Damen’s lower abdomen.

“I once heard,” Damen said, as his hands went up to Laurent’s chest to roll his nipples between his fingers. They were small and hard like summer berries; Damen’s mouth thirsted for a taste of them. Laurent’s body gave a jerk that was frankly overreaction to such a minor stimulation, which he tried to conceal with a quick kiss on Damen’s lips as Damen leaned closer. He finished his sentence against Laurent’s lips, “That certain parts of the pleasure models’ bodies were specifically designed.”

He adjusted his tone so that it fit the topic he was discussing. His tone was lewd. One of his hands left Laurent’s front and traveled to his back to cup his buttock, still clad in jeans but soft and full all the same, as if he feared he had not made his meaning clear. Damen was aware he was taking liberties both with his words and his body, but he couldn’t wait any longer to show Laurent what he wanted Laurent to see and feel, what no one else could give him. He wanted, to see his sophisticatedly engineered mind to be able to process nothing else, and to hear his wonderful mouth sigh only his name.

A wicked smile appeared on Laurent’s innocent face, informing Damen in his own unique way that his invitation to this night-long venture had been accepted. He rolled his hips once, twice against the burning core of Damen, which was hard as rock, then began to walk his palms onto Damen’s chest to push him down onto the bed. Damen’s head landed on the pillows as he heard Laurent’s clever mouth say one last thing,

“I guess there’s only one way to find out.”

Laurent got back to his neighborhood by his motorbike when the sky was a ghostly white. “Neighborhood” was a nice way to put it, while it really was just the gutter where everything that fell through the brighter parts of the city gathered. Drizzle wetted his outfit which hadn’t been fully dry since he had left that night club last night. He took off his helmet and habitually shook his head twice once he reached close enough to the building. A homeless man lay at the open entrance of the building, next to which black letters “SKINJOB RIGHTS” were sprayed on the cement wall. There was not enough information to tell whether the man was just asleep or dead.

Over the past two years, Laurent realized that there were a lot of similarities between the life here and playing a new game. There were a lot of rules to learn. Many things that were forbidden in other parts of the city were allowed here, such as off limits drugs, contract killing, trafficking and prostitution involving underaged replicants; and vice versa, like how you should never fly a hovercar around here although they were everywhere in other areas, because they would attract too much attention from the cops. Then, like in games, there were things you could practice to get better at. Like getting yourself out of trouble, or looking for it intentionally then getting out of it. Good thing Laurent was a fast learner, because the biggest difference between his life now and a game was that if he slipped up, what awaited him could be worse than death.

Laurent opened the door to his unit and was relieved to see no one in the living room. He proceeded to his own room with footfalls as light as a cat.

As the familiar smell of the air of his own space filled him, he realized suddenly he needed a moment to collect himself. He lay down on his bed and started breathing deeply in a rhythm, imagining the fatigue from the escapade at the club fading with each exhalation. To his frustration, the more he tried, the more he felt a different kind of soreness take shape instead. Soreness resulted from other uses of his body last night. He allowed himself to stay like this for two minutes.

The monitor on his desk, switched on automatically when he entered the room, was showing widgets of information such as sightings of police in the area and job requests from the black market repair shop Laurent worked at. At the top left corner was a gallery displaying photos, taken from times when wanting to remember specific moments of his life was still a normal thing to Laurent.

On the screen was a photo of Laurent in polo uniform, posing next to a stocky white pony. He had been eleven years old. That same year, he had been given the truth about what being a son to Aleron and Hennike Arles of the Arles Corporation had really meant. He learnt that his resemblance to his mother was not a result of the wonder of inheritance, only state-of-the-art engineering. He also learnt that human boys didn’t receive a new body and have their memory and operating system transferred to it each year. It was shocking to him, because between homeschooling and only playing with a carefully selected group of girls and boys of his own kind growing up, he had never once doubted his realness.

For countless times, they reassured Laurent that not a thing in his life was ever going to change due to his nature, that the very reason he had been created was because there had been love and wealth with no place to go. Yet, in the end, what really brought him peace was knowing that Auguste, his golden shining star of an elder brother, was also a replicant. At eleven, Laurent had thought, how could that possibly be bad, if it meant being just like Auguste?

Another photo popped up. In the picture, Laurent’s ski goggles were pushed up to show his cold-pinked cheeks; Auguste was next to him, laughing and wearing a beanie covered in chunks of snow which had been Laurent’s doing. Laurent looked at himself on the screen—he was smiling just like an ordinary teenager having the time of his life—and felt an urge to look away.

Everything had changed after that trip. They had come home to the news of their parents’ fatal private jet accident, and the subsequent board decision for their uncle to take over the Arles Corporation. Several months later, the company had announced a list of older replicant model numbers manufactured by the Corp that had been found to be seriously fault-prone, together with Auguste’s removal from the board. Auguste had been one of the original models pioneered by the Corp.

Laurent lifted both hands to cover his eyes with his palms. He remembered that night like yesterday. Auguste had appeared in the doorway of Laurent’s room, still in his business suit and carrying a duffel bag. He’d wrapped his arms tightly around Laurent’s shoulders and kissed the top of his head wordlessly. He had only come to say goodbye, but Laurent had been taught to make his own decisions his whole life. A life without Auguste or a lifetime of side-stepping, dodging and running away. It had been the easiest decision he had ever had to make.

Hot water from the shower warmed Laurent’s body, washing away the rain that had soaked every inch of him last night.

The only tricky part had been building the connections he’d needed to get the name of the blade runner assigned to hunt his brother. That had taken time, money and effort. Everything after that had been easy.

Damianos had been easy.

Most of the information Laurent had successfully obtained about Damianos turned out to be accurate. The excessively powerful physique. The imprudent, egotistic demeanor. The lack of discretion and self-preservation. The strong tendency to give in to physical attraction—it was almost ludicrous, how simple it had been to seduce this man. Perhaps even the unverified rumors he had come across about Damianos were indeed true. How he had slumped from deputy chief to a bottom-ranked, scavenging blade runner, all just for covering up some data breach committed by the mistress of his chief of police half-brother. It sounded like cheap soap TV, but after meeting Damianos in person, Laurent’s doubt about the authenticity of this story had now shrunk significantly.

The only discrepancy Laurent hadn’t expected was how Damianos had behaved in bed. Laurent examined the marks scattered all over his body in the mirror as he toweled himself down. They looked like crimson scars of various sizes, burned there by Damianos’ mouth. Laurent’s mind wandered off as he discovered more and more of them, in places he didn’t remember had been touched.

Tell me how you like it. Damianos had whispered near his face, as his palms had slid down Laurent’s thighs, spreading them. Rough. Eyes closed, Laurent had responded, because that way it would be over sooner and more tolerable than this. Then you don’t know what you like. Damianos had said with an infuriating smile in his voice before he had begun to put Laurent through rounds of slow, torturous, dragged-out pleasure.

It had been nothing like Laurent had rehearsed mentally with the theoretical knowledge he’d possessed, especially with Damianos. He recalled the sounds he had made when Damianos had pushed him to the edge, repeatedly, and felt heat creep up his cheeks.

None of that mattered anymore. He demanded himself to shut last night out of his mind as he pulled on a sweatshirt he’d borrowed from Auguste and returned to his room. This had been planned to be a one-off, and his plan had worked out.

He keyed in the pin to the lock on his drawer and picked up the mobile device stowed in there. A few taps and swipes and a map of the city was pulled up on the screen. There used to be only one moving dot on it, but now there were two, thanks to the codes Laurent had loaded onto Damianos’ tracker wristband while he had gone in the shower after they’d been done. Laurent had been extremely lucky he hadn’t even had to consider using any of his backup plans.

He watched the dot that was Damianos hovering around the downtown police station as his other hand reached deeper into the corner of his drawer. He knew it was there, but he needed to feel it. His fingers slipped along the cold metallic barrel, then to the curve of the back of the grip. He lifted it slightly, sensing the grounded weight and the finality it carried.

Withdrawing his hand, he took one last look at the screen and saw the other dot approaching his own current location. He put the device back, shut the drawer and heard the lock click.

Outside, there was the sound of the main door opening.

“Laurent, I’m home,” said his brother, coming home from a night of strenuous, exploitative labor, the only type of work he was able to sustain without proper documentation.

His brother should not have to live like this, but even living itself was quickly becoming a thing he had to fight for. Fury was a hissing snake perched in Laurent’s artificial heart.

His plan was simple, and only one more step remained: One day, the dot on the map that was Damianos would finally get too close to the one that was Auguste, and that would be the day when Laurent would pull the trigger on Damianos.

There was nothing Laurent would not do to save Auguste’s life. And he knew Auguste felt the same way for him, too.

So he ran his fingers through his damp hair once, pretending he had just freshened himself up with a morning shower after a good, undisturbed night’s sleep, and opened his bedroom’s door.

“Morning, Auguste.”

-------------------------------------------------------- This is a completely self-indulgent fic and I enjoyed writing every word of it so that was noice. That being said, writing in a second language will never not be nerve-wracking and there were times I simply had no idea what I was doing. Please pretend you don’t see bad grammar and weird phrases because I know they must exist. I apologize if Damen sounds like a complete douchebag at times. It’s entirely intentional. I tried to downplay the potential Auguste/Laurent in this but no matter what I did it’s just kind of there LOL they’re also not REAL brothers when you think of it so

#captive prince #lamen #laurent of vere #damianos of akielos #my fic #auguste of vere

22 notes · View notes

luminescencefics · 3 years

Note

Can we get a sneak peek of the next chapter!!??.👀❤

Hi yes of course!! Here’s a little sneak peek, I’ve got a few more editing things to do, but part six will be posted on Thursday. Here we are:

***

Ryan’s hair is a mess of waves falling down her back, and she doesn’t even realize that she’s been wearing her glasses for most of the week, far too lazy to put contacts in. With her mobile in one hand and her mailbox key in the other, Ryan heads out into the hallway, her brain already thinking about the next four things on her to-do list.

The sight in front of her makes her slipper-clad feet stop abruptly on the carpeted flooring.

Outside of Harry’s front door stands a beautiful blonde-haired woman, her hair much shorter than the long curly mane in the photographs around his flat. Instead of falling down her back, her hair is straighter now, clipped right above the tops of her shoulder blades. She’s donned in an impressive pantsuit with an expensive-looking briefcase resting on the wall near Harry’s door. From her side profile, Ryan can make out her perfectly constructed jawline, her exquisite button nose, and the edges of her almond-shaped eyes.

Ryan immediately identifies the woman as Rachel, Jackson’s mum and Harry’s ex.

When Ryan looks a bit closer, she can see that Rachel’s pouty lips are in a straight line, and her eyes are downcast as if she were angry. Her hands are moving aggressively as she speaks, and when Ryan chances a look at Harry standing in his doorway, she can tell by his body language that he’s equally as mad. His arms are crossed over his chest and his mouth is shaped into a frown and his eyebrows are furrowed, and suddenly Ryan feels as if she’s intruding on an intimate family moment she no longer is privy to.

The Ryan before would retreat back into her flat without being noticed, but the Ryan after, the Ryan who understands that she and Harry have nothing left besides a tattered friendship, the Ryan who built her walls back up, the Ryan who promises herself to remain unfazed by whatever sight is occurring in front of her—that Ryan takes a deep breath and steps forward, heading for the mailroom because her job is more important than her missed opportunity with Harry.

She makes sure not to make eye contact when she walks by Harry and Rachel, choosing instead to stare at the lock screen of her mobile as if the picture she took on the shores of Devon this past summer were infinitely more interesting than the arguing couple to her left. And just when she thinks she’s in the clear, a few meters away from the lift, she hears her name fall from the chipper mouth of a four-year-old. She looks over her shoulder, noticing Jackson’s curly head poking out from behind Harry’s legs, and suddenly he’s hobbling over towards her without a care in the world.

#fic: home #preview #anonymous

7 notes · View notes

spn-safeandsound · 4 years

Text

09. Hurt Feelings

Safe and Sound

Dean Winchester x Original Character

Episode: 1x13; Route 666

Word Count: 10,028

Warning(s): Mature language, canon violence and gore, arguing

Author’s Note: New chapter alert! Sam and Julia finally talk about her feelings for Dean? Hope you enjoy! Reblog and like!

Masterlist in Profile Description!

Julia paced up and down the candy aisle at some gas station that she hadn't bothered to learn the name of. Her sweet tooth was out of control so she wanted to stock up on sweets before they continued on their journey to Pennsylvania. She already had some chocolate bars, goldfish crackers, and a couple of mini pies for Dean in the basket she was carrying around but now she needed fruity candies.

She reached forward, picking out a bag of Air Heads and then hesitated, eyeing the Skittles and Starbursts. After a couple of seconds, she grabbed a bag of each and threw them in the basket with the other snacks. As she moved on to the drink coolers, she grabbed a bag of jerky for Sam.

Sam found her by the Gatorade, searching for her favorite blue flavor.

"Are you almost ready?" he asked as he searched the basket, clicking his tongue in disapproval when he saw all the sweets. "Dean wants to get going."

"Well, Dean can wait," Julia stated. "I need a drink."

Sam sighed and opened the cooler door, reaching above her head to grab the lighter of the blue Gatorades. "There you go, Glacier Freeze."

"Thanks!"

"You should get some water, too," Sam advised as he grabbed a couple water bottles from the cooler. "You're gonna need it if you're eating all that sugar."

"Sam, hasn't anyone told you never to comment on a girl's eating habits?" Julia pursed her lips at him; Sam sent her an apologetic smile. "Okay, so, did you find a way around that construction?"

"Oh, I forgot to tell you," they walked through the aisles and to the counter. "We're not going to Pennsylvania anymore."

She smiled at the worker as they put their things on the counter so they could pay. "What? Why not?"

"An old friend of Dean's called. Her name's Cassie," Sam informed her as she slid her card through the machine. "I guess she needs our help."

Julia wrinkled her nose, trying to figure out Cassie was familiar to her. "Wait, Cassie Robinson?"

"I guess so. Why?"

Julia took the plastic bag from the worker. "Thanks so much," she said before she and Sam started walking out of the gas station. "Dean called me, like, two years ago drunk out of his mind and—"

"What?" Sam interrupted her. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"That was after you two stopped talking, Sam," she reminded him; he nodded in realization. "Anyway, he was drunk and for some reason he called me."

"About Cassie," Sam assumed.

"Yep," Julia slowed down as they exited the building, her eyes on the Impala where Dean was waiting for them. "Did he say anything about her to you?"

Sam shook his head. "Not much. Just her name and that her father was killed in a car accident."

Julia hummed. When Dean had called her about Cassie, he was upset that she had dumped him. He had given her the ghosts-are-real-and-I-hunt-them speech and she had bolted, breaking up with him and calling him crazy. He had been in love with the girl, too. It was one of the only times that Dean had ever been truly honest with Julia about how he was feeling—though she was pretty sure it was because he was wasted.

Julia never mentioned it again and she didn't even know if Dean remembered calling her. She was just a little apprehensive about them going to see Cassie; she was protective of her boys and she didn't like when anyone hurt them.

"There you are," Dean sighed in aggravation as Julia and Sam slid into their respective seats, shutting their doors in unison. "What'd you need? A stockpile?"

"Well, I guess I can go return the pie I got..."

Dean eagerly turned around, an enthusiastic smile on my face. "Apple?"

"And cherry."

"Ooh, baby, you're so good to me," Dean playfully winked at her as she passed up two of the pies. Her cheeks flushed a dark pink as he turned back around and, when Sam gave her a small smirk, she practically threw his bag of jerky at him.

As Dean pulled out onto the road, a bite of pie already in his mouth, Julia spoke up, "Sam told me about Cassie," Dean paused mid-chew but he eventually he nodded. "Where does she live?"

"Cape Girardeau, Missouri."

Julia nodded and tore open the Almond Joy bar, ripping the almond off the top and throwing it into the garbage bag they kept so the Impala wouldn't get dirty. She stuffed the coconut and milk chocolate in her mouth, enjoying the sweetness on her tongue.

"So, this Cassie..." Sam looked over at his brother with a curious smile. "By old friend, do you mean...?"

"A friend that's not new."

"Wow, thanks for that," Sam rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean, Dean."

"Fine," Dean grunted in annoyance. "we went out."

"You mean you dated someone?" Sam seemed surprised. "For more than one night?"

"Am I speaking a language you're not getting here?" Dean snipped. "Dad and I were working a job in Athens, Ohio, she was finishing up college. We went out for a couple of weeks."

And fell in love, Julia supplied mentally, and then broke up because she thought you were crazy.

"And...?"

Dean shrugged in avoidance.

"Okay," Julia sighed and rested her chin on the back of their seat. "not to be negative here, because it's really sad that she lost her dad, but it sounds like a normal car wreck. I'm not seeing a connection to what we do."

"Which, by the way, how does she know what we do?" Sam added, both of them looking at the oldest Winchester for answers.

Dean licked his lips, like he was about to say something, but then pressed his mouth shut, thinking better of it. He avoided their eyes by keeping his right on the road, which was unusual for him. Julia was pretty sure that Dean was one of the most distracted drivers she had ever seen in her life but somehow he was still one of the best drivers.

Sam could connect the dots about Dean's awkward behavior. "You told her. You told her the secret," he proclaimed, voice completely shocked but a little angry, too. "Our big family rule number one: we do what we do and we shut up about it."

Dean sighed but Sam wasn't finished.

"For a year and a half, I do nothing but lie to Jessica and you go out with this chick in Ohio for a couple of weeks and you tell her everything?" he asked in disbelief. When Dean didn't answer, he raised his voice. "Dean!"

"Yeah," Dean finally spoke. "Looks like."

Sam gave his brother a bitch face but Dean pointedly ignored it.

"I know this isn't the best time but...Sam, why did you sound more upset about the fact they were Ohio than anything else?"

Sam gave Julia the bitch face, too.

The newspaper that Cassie worked for was squished into a small brick building in downtown Cape Girardeau. It was actually kind of cute, with small clusters of desks put together so that all of the workers were grouped with their own—the reporters with the reporters, the photographers with the photographers, the editors with the editors.

Julia, Sam, and Dean had been pointed in the direction of where Cassie would be by the receptionist. They made their way over to a gathering of three people conversing in the back corner of the office. Two of them were men and the woman had to be Cassie.

Cassie was beautiful with light brown skin and dark curls that seemed to lay perfectly. And, despite losing her father only days before, she looked well put together. It took Julia two weeks to even leave the house after Naomi died, so she knew Cassie had to be a strong woman. Dean wouldn't have fallen for her if she wasn't.

The man on Cassie's left was confronting the other man when the three of them walked over. "Two black people were killed on the same stretch of road in the same way in two weeks."

"Jimmy, you're too close for this. Those guys were friends of yours," the man tried to placate him before turning to Cassie. "Again, Cassie, I'm very sorry for your loss."

The second man turned and walked away and after a few seconds, so did Jimmy. Cassie was left alone but her eyes quickly fell upon Dean who was watching her with a small, if not awkward smile.

He nodded at her when her eyes widened.

"Dean," she sighed in relief, walking toward them. Her eyes were only for Dean, though. She hadn't even noticed Julia or Sam.

"Hey, Cassie."

Sam and Julia exchanged a small but amused smile when Dean and Cassie continued to silently stare at each other for around twenty seconds.

Finally, Dean cleared his throat. "This is my brother, Sam," he nodded at Sam and then at Julia. "and his friend, Julia."

Julia gave Cassie a quick smile in greeting but then it promptly fell. Why had he introduced her like that? First of all, she was Sam's best friend—as in, he was her brother and she was a sister to him. Second of all, she considered Dean to be her friend so did he not consider her as one?

"Sorry about your dad," Dean continued.

"Yeah," Cassie agreed sadly. "Me, too."

A half-hour later, Julia, Sam, and Dean were squished into a small couch with each other at Cassie's house. Cassie had made Julia and Sam some tea, with Dean declining the offer, and then sat on the seat across from them.

"My mother's in pretty bad shape," Cassie told them sadly. "I've been staying with her. I wish she wouldn't go off by herself, she's been so nervous and frightened. She was worried about Dad."

"Why?" Dean wondered as Julia and Sam sipped at their tea.

"He was scared," Cassie answered. "He was seeing things."

"Like what?"

"He swore he saw an awful-looking black truck following him. "

"A truck," Sam repeated, setting his teacup back on its saucer. "Who was the driver?"

"He didn't talk about a driver, just the truck," Cassie told him. "He said it would appear and disappear. In the accident, Dad's car was dented, like it had been slammed into by something big."

"Now, are you sure that this dent wasn't there before?"

Cassie shook her head. "He sold cars. Always drove a new one. There wasn't a scratch on that thing," she stated. "It was raining that night, there was mud everywhere. There was a distinct set of muddy tracks leading from Dad's car leading right..." her voice broke; Julia could feel her sadness and grief. "leading right to the edge, where he went over. One set of tracks—his."

"And the first victim was a friend of your father's?" Julia asked, taking another sip of her tea.

"Best friend. Clayton Soames," Cassie confirmed; at least she knew the difference between a friend and a best friend. "They owned the car dealership together."

Julia pressed her lips together thoughtfully. "The same thing?"

Cassie nodded. "Dent, no tracks, and the cops said exactly what they said about Dad. He lost control of his car."

Dean gave Sam a pointed look and then asked her, "Can you think of any reason why your father and his partner might be targets?"

"No."

"And you think this vanishing truck ran them off the road?"

Cassie laughed slightly at Sam's question, though it sounded bitter. "When you say it aloud like that..." she shook her head. "Listen, I'm a little skeptical about this...ghost stuff or whatever it is you guys are into."

Dean scoffed. "Skeptical," he repeated angrily. "If I remember, I think you said I was nuts."

Cassie pursed her lips. "That was then," Dean hummed sarcastically. "I just know that I can't explain what happened up there so I called you."

The front door opened and a woman walked in—well, stumbled in. Cassie jumped to her feet to rush over to her, while Julia, Sam, and Dean stood politely.

"Mom, where have you been?" Cassie steadied Mrs. Robinson. "I was so worried about you."

Mrs. Robinson waved her off, eyeing Julia, Dean, and Sam. "I had no idea you'd invited friends over."

"Mom, this is Dean, a..." Cassie hesitated before continuing. "friend of mine from college. This is his brother, Sam, and his friend, Julia."

Julia waved slightly, hiding her bitterness with a sympathetic smile.

She didn't even know why she was so bitter that Dean didn't consider her a friend. If he didn't, that was fine. They had only known each other for twenty years and spent almost everyday of the last seven months together in close corridors.

"Well, I, uh, I won't interrupt you," Mrs. Robinson went to walk out of the room but stopped when Dean spoke.

"Mrs. Robinson, we're sorry for your loss," he apologized. "We'd like to talk to you for a minute, if you don't mind?"

Mrs. Robinson looked at him wide, angry eyes. "I'm really not up for that right now."

As she walked out of the room, Cassie turned to them apologetically. "Sorry, she's having a rough time."

"It's no problem," Julia assured her. Grief effected everyone differently; Julia was rather avoidant and distant, herself, when she grieved. "It's late, we should get going..."

Dean nodded and stared at Cassie for a few seconds; she stared back, neither of them saying anything. It was incredibly awkward—for Julia, at least; Sam looked very amused at the situation Dean was in.

Julia was angry about something. Sam knew it from the moment he woke up to her shoving clothes back into her bag with quiet huffs that seemed to boom across the room. Dean was still dead to the world when she went to get ready for the day but now Sam was fully awake. He quickly got dressed and was pulling his toothbrush from the toiletry bag they shared when she came back out in spandex leggings and her Stanford crewneck, her hair pulled up into a high ponytail.

"I'm gonna go for a run," she informed him and it was only the second or third time in their life-long friendship that he heard her grumpy first thing in the morning. "Then I'm stopping at the diner for breakfast. Do you want me to bring you something?"

Sam shrugged. "I could eat."

"Then you will," Julia grabbed her debit card and license from her wallet and zipped them into the small pocket on her thigh. "See you in a bit."

"Be careful."

As Sam brushed his teeth and made sure his hair was neat, he wondered what Julia was angry about. The only thing he could think of is the fact that they were here on a case for Cassie. He wasn't sure if she knew about her feelings for Dean but he sure did.

His brother and Julia were both oblivious, though. It was concerning for both sides because Dean usually knew when women were attracted to him and Julia was pretty smart. How they couldn't see the feelings they had for each other was so frustrating, especially since Sam actually wanted it to happen so bad.

Dean was awake when Sam left the bathroom, his hair pointing in all directions like a hedgehog.

"Morning," he greeted his brother as he sat at the table to log into his laptop.

"Morning," Dean grumbled back, his eyes scanning the room. "Where's Jules?"

Sam hid his smile behind his laptop. "She went for a run. She's bringing back breakfast."

"Oh, good, I'm starving."

Twenty minutes later, Julia showed back up with breakfast. Sam watched his brother check her out—just like he knew he would because she was wearing those spandex leggings Dean loved—as she set the plastic bag and two coffees on the table.

"I got you a cheese and ham omelet," Julia said as she pulled a styrofoam container from the bag. "and toast with no butter."

Sam grinned as he took the coffee and food from her. "Thanks, J."

"No problem, Sam, that's what friends do."

"What'd you get me?" Dean bounded over to the table with a look of anticipation.

"Oh," she said flatly. "I didn't know you wanted anything."

Okay, this wasn't good. There were three different channels Julia would take when she was angry. There were the tears—which was her most usual one—the silent treatment—when she was so angry she didn't want to say anything to make it worse—and when she was petty, it meant that she was hurt and angry.

Not getting Dean food in the morning and then claiming she didn't know he wanted some was petty. Julia knew full well that Dean was hungry from the second he got up, sometimes even sooner. There had been numerous occasions the past few months the three of them spent together that Julia would pick up food early just so Dean could eat as soon as he got up.

So, she's hurt, too, Sam assumed to himself.

Dean gave her a horrified look. "You got Sam food."

"We're best friends."

"We're friends!" Dean exclaimed.

"Are we?" Julia's voice was dead calm and a lightbulb went off above Sam's head. "I hadn't known."

Julia was mad that Dean introduced her to Cassie as only Sam's friend and not their friend. Her friendships were important to her—Sam was pretty sure it stemmed from the fact that she didn't have many friends while growing up because she was from a prestigious family and she skipped a couple of grades, which freaked her classmates out. She was possessive and protective of her friendships and when Dean hadn't called her a friend, her feelings had been hurt.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Dean raised his eyebrows at her. "Of course we are. I've known you your whole life!"

Julia pressed her lips together in an even line and hummed before walking over to her bag and pulling out normal day clothes. She told them she was taking a shower before walking out of the room and slamming the door shut behind her.

Dean waited until he heard the water start before he looked over at Sam for answers.

"I think you hurt her feelings," Sam said quietly as he opened up his food container; Dean eyed it enviously.

"What'd I do?"

"You introduced her to Cassie as my friend."

"She is your friend."

"No, you made it sound like she was only my friend and not yours, too," Sam explained patiently; Dean wasn't the best with emotions.

Dean raised his eyebrows incredulously. "I didn't mean it like that," he defended himself. "That's really what she's hurt about?"

Sam nodded. "Well, and angry."

Dean huffed, pressing his lips together. "How'd you know that?"

"She didn't bring you breakfast," Sam pointed out and Dean frowned at the reminder. "She's being petty."

"Petty?"

"Yep," Sam confirmed and went on to explain as if he was a Julia-whisperer. "See, Dean, there are three channels of anger Julia takes. Tears, silent treatment, and pettiness. You've seen the first two before and now you're seeing the pettiness."

"So, when she's petty, she's angry and hurt?" Dean's voice was flat, like he couldn't believe that Julia could react that way. It was surprising to Sam since Dean could be pretty petty himself.

"Yeah."

"Well, she's a grown ass woman, it's not my fault her feelings were hurt," Dean huffed and reached for the second coffee Julia brought. His eyes softened when he saw his own name on it. "Damn it."

Sam's lips quirked at the look of regret on Dean's face.

It was quiet until Julia came out of the bathroom dressed in skinny jeans, a gray sleeveless blouse, and a black cardigan. "I need to do laundry tonight," she informed them, shoving her running clothes into her laundry bag. "What about you, Sam?"

"Yeah," Sam said thoughtfully. "I could."

"Good, I saw a laundry mat a block or so from the diner," Julia slipped on her gray ankle boots. "We'll hit it after dinner."

Sam nodded and Dean took the chance to try to get her attention. "Shortcake—"

"I also need more shampoo and conditioner," Julia interrupted like she hadn't heard him say her name. "I saw a Target in town, so maybe we can go there."

"Okay," Sam agreed.

"We can get you guys some more undershirts and things while we're there, too," Julia went on. "And I'm pretty sure you guys need shaving cream."

"Yeah, I think we're out."

Julia nodded and grabbed the notepad that the motel provided from the nightstand. She sat at the table and wrote down a list of things they needed; Sam smiled when he saw her include cooling and windshield wiper fluid for the Impala.

Dean finally had enough of her ignoring him. Maybe he realized just how much the two of them usually interacted compared to the silence she was giving him now.

"Julia, I'm sorry for telling Cassie you were only Sam's friend," he apologized quickly.

Both Sam and Dean looked at her expectantly. Julia just waved a hand at him. "It's fine."

Dean looked to Sam, perplexed, but Sam just shook his head. It wasn't fine.

And now Dean was getting mad. Sam could see the stormy look growing in his eyes. He knew he was in for a day of tense silence and angry looks. He was just grateful it wasn't as bad as their last argument; Dean probably wouldn't let their anger get that far again, though, since he still felt guilty about her getting injured while he was supposed to be her backup.

Two hours later, after getting a call from Cassie to tell them about her another death, they headed to the scene of the accident. Her boss, Jimmy, had crashed on the same stretch of road that Mr. Robinson and his business partner had died on.

When they arrived, Cassie was already talking with the man they saw her and Jimmy with the day before.

"Jimmy meant something to this town," the man said solemnly. "He was one of our best. We won't be the same without him."

"Our best seem to be dropping like flies," Cassie retorted angrily. "Clayton, my father, Jimmy..."

The man gave her an exasperated look. "What is it exactly you want me to do?"

"How about closing this section of road, for starters?"

"Close the main road," the man scoffed. "The only road in and out of town? Accidents do happen, Cassie, and that's what they are—accidents."

Dean stepped in then, probably sensing that Cassie was about to blow a gasket. "Did the cops check for additional denting on Jimmy's car to see if it was pushed?"

The man looked to Cassie. "Who is this?"

"I'm Dean Potter, private investigator," Dean informed him before Cassie could answer. "This is my partner, Sam Granger—" he gestured to Sam and then Julia. "and our assistant, Julia Weasley."

"They're family friends," Cassie added to the man, before introducing him. "This is Mayor Harold Todd."

"There was one set of tire tracks," Mayor Todd said matter-of-factly. "One. That doesn't point to foul play."

"Mayor, the police and town officials take their cues from you. If you're indifferent about—"

Mayor Todd cut her off indignantly. "Indifferent!"

"Would you close the road if the victims were white?" Cassie demanded.

Julia, Sam, and Dean's eyes all went to the mayor, waiting for an answer.

The mayor looked at her in shock. "You're suggesting I'm racist, Cassie?" he asked her and went on without an answer. "I'm the last person you should talk to like that."

Cassie pursed her lips. "And why is that?"

"Why don't you ask your mother?"

The mayor walked away without a word, leaving Cassie severely frustrated and confused.

"Uh, Jules and I are gonna go talk to some people, see if we can find out some more information," Dean said awkwardly; Julia pursed her lips, unhappy that she was paired up with the brother she was fighting with. "Sam, you stay with Cassie."

Sam nodded and stepped closer to Cassie as Dean and Julia walked away to question some of the police.

"So," Cassie started; Sam turned to her to see that she was looking over at Dean and Julia, who seemed to be arguing more than trying to find a person they could talk to. "How'd you and Dean meet Julia?"

"She's family friend, my best friend," Sam told her. "We've known her almost all our lives."

Cassie hummed and crossed her arms over her chest. Her gaze was still on the pair and he looked to see that Julia was playfully pushing Dean, a suddenly amused look on her face. He must have told her a corny joke or something because Dean was laughing too.

That was how a lot of their arguments ended. Dean would tell a joke that wasn't really funny—Julia was a huge fan of dad jokes—and she would get distracted. They laughed together and then they'd get over whatever they were squabbling about. Sam much preferred those arguments than the ones that ended with Dean storming out of the room to cool off or Julia bursting into tears and hiding in the bathroom only for Dean to lure her out with a candy bar or cookies a half-hour later.

"He looks happy with her," Cassie commented softly. Her tone wasn't jealous or even bitter. It was simple and to the point like she was stating a universal truth.

Sam smiled softly as he continued watching his brother and best friend. Julia had gestured over to one of the coroner's employees and, when Dean nodded, she started toward the woman. Dean's eyes followed her for a few seconds before walking after her.

"Yeah, he does."

Sam walked out of the bathroom, shrugging on his suit jacket as he went. Julia was already dressed in a casual work-dress and black heels as she stood in front of Dean, reaching up to straighten his tie for him.

"Well," he spoke up, earning a brief glance from Julia. "Cassie sure is fearless."

"Mmhm," Dean hummed, keeping his eyes on Julia's face.

"I bet she kicked your ass a couple of times."

Dean finally turned away from Julia as she finished with his tie and gave Sam an annoyed look.

"What I think is interesting is the fact that you two never look at each other at the same time," Julia spoke up as she went to sit at the foot of Dean's bed, crossing her leg over the over; Dean's eyes followed the movement. "You look at her when she's not looking and she looks at you when you look away."

"That's true," Sam agreed. He had noticed that as well but he also noticed that the same thing applied to Adrian and Julia, too.

Dean gave them both annoyed looks now. "You think we might have more pressing issues here?"

"Ooh, Sam, I think we hit a nerve," Julia cooed teasingly.

Dean pressed his lips together. "Oh," he complained, turning away from them to leave the room. "Let's go."

Julia smiled and raised her eyebrows at Sam, earning an amused grin in return.

The three of them went down to the docks by the river, looking for friends of Jimmy's that were both his next of kin. They were posing as insurance agents who needed to investigate the matter of Jimmy's death. Sam and a reluctant Dean let Julia take the lead on the questioning since she had a better track of getting old men to answer her questions.

"Excuse me," Julia walked over to a table where two men who matched the description of who they were looking for sat. "Are you Ron Stubbins and Clarence Thomas?"

Both men nodded.

"And you were friends with Jimmy Anderson?"

"Yeah," Ron confirmed when Julia smiled charmingly. "Whatcha need, girly?"

"Me and my partners, here, are from Mr. Anderson's insurance company, All National Mutual," Julia informed the men. "We just need to ask you a few questions to make sure our report is correct. Is that okay?"

"Sure thing, sweetheart."

Sam saw Julia flinch only slightly—a left over response from her run-in with the shapeshifter—and then cover it up with a smile. "We were just wondering, had Mr. Anderson mentioned any unusual recent experiences?"

Ron furrowed his eyebrows. "What do you mean, unusual?"

"Well, visions, hallucinations," Sam listed helpfully.

Ron and Clarence gave him a weird look.

"It's part of the medical report, Mr. Stubbins and Mr. Thomas," Julia assured them kindly. "It's just standard questioning with car accidents."

"Right," Ron nodded. "Well, no, he wasn't."

"Had he mentioned seeing a big black truck?" she continued to dazzle them. "We've got some local reports so wewant to make sure there's no correlation to Mr. Anderson's accident."

"He didn't say anything to me," Ron denied.

"Was this truck a big scary monster-looking thing?" Clarence asked.

"Yes, sir."

Dean and Sam gave each other impressed looks. Julia was crushing this.

"I've heard of a truck like that," Clarence said. "but it's been years."

Julia raised her eyebrows curiously. "Years?"

Clarence nodded. "Back in the sixties, there was a string of deaths—black men," he informed them. "Story goes, they'd disappeared in a big, nasty, black truck."

"Did they ever catch the person who did it?"

"Never found him," Clarence shook his head and scoffed. "Hell, I'm not sure they even really looked. See, there was a time this town wasn't too friendly too all of its citizens."

Julia gave him a sympathetic smile and reached out to shake both of their hands. "Well, thank you for answering our questions, gentlemen," she said sweetly. "You two enjoy the rest of your day."

"You too, honey," Clarence grinned at her while Ron smiled gratefully.

Sam and Dean each shook Ron and Clarence's hands before they left the dock.

"The truck," Dean spoke up when they were far enough away from the dock so they weren't overheard.

Sam nodded. "Keeps coming up, doesn't it?"

Dean hummed. "You know, I was thinking...you ever heard of the Flying Dutchman?"

"Yeah," Sam nodded. "a ghost ship infused with the captain's evil spirit. It was basically a part of him."

"Yeah, so, what if we're dealing with the same thing?" Dean theorized. "You know, a phantom truck, an extension of some bastard's ghost, reenacting past crimes."

"The victims have all been black men," Julia said thoughtfully. "but they're also connected to Cassie's family in some way."

"I was thinking the same thing," Dean agreed with her.

"All right," Sam nodded. "Dean, you work the Cassie angle and go talk to her."

"Yeah, I will."

"Oh, and you might also want to mention that other thing," Sam suggested.

Dean gave him a confused look as they approached the Impala. "What other thing?"

"The serious unfinished business," Sam reminded him. "Dean, what is going on between you two?"

"All right, so maybe we were a little bit more involved than I said," Dean admitted.

Sam nodded skeptically. "Oh, okay."

"Okay, a lot more, maybe," Dean sighed. "And I told her our secret, about what we do, and I shouldn't have."

"Look, man, everybody's gotta open up to someone sometime," Sam told his brother, his eyes darting to behind Dean, where Julia was leaning against the Impala and staring at the river with an impassive glare.

"Yeah, I don't," Dean stated as if he didn't already know that. "It was stupid to get that close. I mean, look how it ended."

Sam smiled at him.

"Would you stop?" Dean gave him an uncomfortable look. "Blink or something!"

"Dean," it was Julia who spoke this time, getting both brothers' attention. "you loved her."

"Oh, God," Dean groaned in disgust.

Sam raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You loved her but you dumped her?"

"No, she dumped him," Julia corrected him absentmindedly.

"She dumped you?"

Dean shot her an annoyed look. "Julia, what the hell?"

Julia gave him an innocent smile but it didn't seem to work.

Dean huffed and opened his door. "Get in the car," he ordered, sliding into his seat. When neither Sam nor Julia moved, he repeated himself, "Get in the fucking car!"

Julia and Sam exchanged another amused look before getting in their respective seats.

"Got any fours?"

"Nope," Sam replied. Julia sighed and leaned forward, picking a new card up out of the deck.

The twenty-four-hour laundry mat was empty except for them, though it was because it was close to midnight. The air was cold and Sam was chilled but Julia sat on the counter in just pajama shorts and a tank-top, unbothered by the temperature. The girl had fire in her veins, she was never cold.

They broke out the deck of cards as they washed all the dirty clothes they had, taking up four of the washers and dryers. Luckily, they were almost done. They had one last load of Julia's clothes in the dryer that had to finish and then be folded, but other than that, they were pretty much finished.

They'd gone through two games of rummy, one game of war, and one game of slapjack by the time they settled on go-fish. It was child's play but it was better than doing nothing. Julia's iPod was turned on and they were able to listen to music that didn't have an insane drumbeat.

"Do you have any nines?" Sam asked as Yellow by Coldplay started playing.

Look at the stars, look how they shine for you...

Julia pouted and pulled a nine from her hand, passing it over to him. "Why are you so good at this?"

Sam chuckled. "It's just luck, J."

In truth, it was because he could see her cards. She wasn't the best at hiding them but he didn't say anything because it amused him. It was like with Dean when he only picked scissors when they did rock-paper-scissors.

And everything you do. Yeah, they were all yellow...

Julia hummed doubtfully. "Okay, go again."

"Um, two?"

Julia's face lit up. "Ha! Go fish!"

Sam made a show of rolling his eyes while he grabbed a new card.

"Do you have an eight?"

Sam silently handed over the card to her, making her pump her fist excitedly as the chorus of the song played.

"Okay, what about a five?"

"Go fish."

"No!" Julia sighed dramatically, picking up a card. "Your turn, S."

"Ones?"

"Go fish."

"Tens?"

"Go fish."

"Fives?"

Julia gaped at him in disbelief. "You said you didn't have any fives, Samuel!"

"And then I picked one up," Sam defended himself with a slight smirk. "So, do you have a five?"

"I hate you!" Julia threw the card at him.

"No, you don't," Sam put down his pair. "Okay, ones?"

"Go fish."

I swam across, I jumped across for you. Oh, what a thing to have done and it was all yellow...

"This is a good song," Sam commented as he grabbed a card from the deck.

Julia nodded. "Yeah, it reminds me of someone."

Oh, really? He thought to himself. Someone, whose name rhymes with Wean Dinchester?

He decided to just bite the bullet. "Someone like Dean?"

Julia's eyes immediately darted up to his. "What?" she shook her head in denial. "No, of course not."

"Right," he nodded in agreement. "Of course, not."

And you know, for you I'd bleed myself dry...

As the guitar solo started, Julia blurted, "Yes, it's someone like Dean."

"I knew it!" Sam grinned. "I knew you liked him."

Julia rolled her eyes. "God, I never thought I'd be having girl-talk with you, S."

"Yeah, well, how many times did you listen to me yearn over Jess?"

Julia chuckled. "For about a year," she grinned fondly. "and then, when I got back to the dorm, she'd talk about you."

Sam changed the subject before the grief could start in. "You should tell Dean."

Julia raised her eyebrows in disbelief. "You're kidding, right?"

"...No."

"Sam, Dean isn't the love type of guy," she reminded him. "He doesn't do relationships."

"He loved Cassie and he dated her a couple of weeks."

"Yeah, well, obviously, that's different."

"Yeah, you have more history and chemistry with him," Sam pointed out. "You've known him your whole life."

"Exactly!" she pointed at him. "He still sees me as a kid—do you have a two?"

"Go fish," Sam answered. "and trust me, J, he doesn't see you as a kid."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I mean that he'd be in jail if he looked at a kid like he looked at you."

Julia scoffed and reached forward, slapping his thigh. "Samuel William!"

"What, it's true!" Sam rubbed the spot where she hit him. "You should see the looks he gives you. You look at him like that, too."

"I don't leer at him!"

"I didn't say anything about leering, you said that on your own. Do you have a one?"

"I don't have any ones, Sam, God!"

"It's the only card I have left."

"Well, now you have another one."

Sam reached for a card from the deck. It was a one. He chuckled and set down his last pair, grinning triumphantly at Julia's disappointed pout.

"Why do you have to win every game?"

"Because I'm awesome," Sam said quickly. "Now, back to Dean..."

"Okay, first of all, you're way too excited about this," Julia jumped off the counter as Sam started picking up the deck. "Secondly, Dean and I aren't gonna happen."

Sam closed the deck and slipped it back into Julia's purse. "You don't know that."

"Why hasn't he called us yet?" Julia asked pointedly. "He never goes over an hour to check in if we're by ourselves. It's been six hours since he went to Cassie's and there's been no word."

"So?"

"So, obviously something is going on over there and I don't think it's because he's in danger."

"Okay," Sam had to admit that she was probably right. "but that doesn't mean they're together. Dean's had one-night-stands before."

"Not with someone he loved."

Sam sighed. "Look, Dean may have had feelings for Cassie but I doubt it was love."

"Oh?"

"When Dean loves someone he fights for them," Sam declared and Julia's lips twisted thoughtfully. "He fought to find our dad. He's fought for me so many damn times that I've lost count. So, if he really loved Cassie as much as you think he did, he would have stayed and changed her mind."

The Coldplay song ended and one by Britney Spears started up. The last dryer beeped, signaling that Julia's clothes were done.

"I don't want to talk about this anymore, Sam," Julia sighed as she brought the laundry cart over to the dryer to take out her clothes. "It just gets my hopes up and I don't want to deal with the fallout when Dean inevitably rejects me."

"Julia..."

"Seriously, Sam."

"Okay, fine," Sam gave in and walked over to the table where the rest of their clothes were, already folded. He picked up one of her t-shirts and folded it, putting it in her pile. "You know, we should go see a movie soon."

"Yeah?" Julia raised an eyebrow at him, approving of the subject change. "Which one?"

"I saw that Stick It is getting good reviews."

"We'll go for your birthday," Julia promised. "The lucky twenty-three. God, you're so old."

"Shut up."

Julia acted like the conversation she and Sam had the night before hadn't happened. Sam didn't bring it up, either, especially since Dean never came back to the motel room. She seemed okay, though, she didn't seem jealous or bitter like other twenty-year-old women might have been when the guy they had feelings for met up with an old flame and spent the night with them. There were moments where Julia could be a little brat—like most younger sisters—but the older she got the more mature she was getting.

And, when they got a call about the mayor's death, she was the one to call Dean to tell him about it.

It was way too cold for mid-April, so Sam and Julia were bundled up in their warmest jackets—which, really, was just Sam's usual canvas jacket and one of Julia's crewnecks—as they went to see what had happened to the mayor. They questioned the police, using the same private investigator alias that Dean brought up the day before, and waited for Dean to meet up with them.

Just as they were finishing up with one of the police officers, the man's eyes flickered behind them. Julia and Sam turned slightly and noticed that Dean was approaching them.

"He's with us," Sam informed the police officer. The man walked away and Sam expectantly turned to Dean. "Where were you last night? You didn't make it back to the hotel."

Dean turned away from Sam and Julia, watching the mayor's body bag being carted by. "Nope."

"I'm guessing you guys worked things out?"

"We'll be working things out while we're ninety," Dean grumbled. "So, what happened?"

"Every bone in the mayor's body was crushed," Julia spoke up, curling her hand into the sleeves of her sweatshirt. "Internal bleeding all over the place...none of the cops know what happened."

"It was like something ran him over," Sam finished.

"Something like a truck?"

"Yep."

"Tracks?"

"What was the mayor doing here, anyway?" Dean wondered.

"He owned the property," Julia informed him. "Bought it a few weeks ago."

"Yeah, but he's white," Dean pointed out. "He doesn't fit the pattern."

"And the killing didn't happen up on the road, so that doesn't fit, either," Sam stated.

"Okay," Dean sighed, running a hand down his face. "I'll go see if Cassie can help me get access to whatever happened in the sixties. You two go to the courthouse to see what you can find out about the mayor and why the truck came to this place."

The three of them split up again, Julia and Sam teaming up once more to form their dynamic duo. With two of them being able to research without Dean distracting Julia—who was already prone to being distracted—they easily found the property records that the mayor just purchased.

They called Dean when they got back to the motel with lunch.

"Yeah?" Dean answered.

"Okay, the courthouse records show that Mr. and Mrs. Mayor bought an abandoned property," Sam informed his brother while Julia munched on her lunch of grilled cheese and fries. "The previous owner was the Dorian family, for, like a hundred and fifty years."

"Dorian?"

"Yeah."

"Didn't you say that Dorian family used to own this paper?" they heard Dean ask Cassie.

"Yeah," Cassie confirmed. "Along with everything else around here. Real pillars of the town."

"Right, right," Dean hummed; Julia and Sam heard the light clicks of a computer mouse. "That's interesting."

"What?" Julia wondered, popping a fry in her mouth.

"This Cyrus Dorian, he vanished in April of sixty-three," Dean told them. "The case was investigated but never solved. It was right around the time the string of murders going on back then."

"Well, we pulled a bunch of papers up on the Dorian place," Julia sighed. "It must have been in bad shape when the mayor bought it."

"Why's that?"

"The first thing he did was bulldoze the house."

"Mayor Todd knocked down the Dorian place?" Dean asked Cassie.

"It was a big deal," Cassie told him. "One of the oldest houses left. He made the front page."

Dean clicked his tongue. "You got a date, shortcake?"

"The third of last month."

There was more clicking on the other line. "Mayor Todd bulldozed the Dorian family home on the third," Dean declared. "The first killing was the very next day."

Julia passed the cup of tea to Cassie with a small smile, making sure she wouldn't burn herself.

Cassie sighed heavily. "Maybe you could throw a couple of shots in that."

Julia just gave her another smile and sat down on the couch next to her. Cassie had called Dean an hour after they had eaten dinner, frantically telling him that she had seen the scary black truck that had been killing people. The three of them rushed over to her house to keep her safe and comfort her.

"You didn't see who was driving the truck?" Dean asked from Cassie's other side.

Cassie shook her head. "It seemed to be no one. Everything was moving so fast and then it was just gone," she gave him a frightened look. "Why didn't it kill us?"

"Whoever was controlling the truck wants you afraid first," Dean told her.

Sam, who was sitting in one of the chairs across from the couch, turned to Mrs. Robinson, who was sitting next to him. "Mrs. Robinson, Cassie said that your husband saw the truck before he died."

Mrs. Robinson stared at him, the teacup in her hands shaking.

"Mom?" Cassie prompted.

"Oh, Martin was under a lot of stress," Mrs. Robinson said. "You can't be sure about what he was seeing."

"Well, after tonight, I think we can be reasonably sure he was seeing a truck," Dean bristled, his voice growing firm. "What happened tonight, you and Cassie are marked, okay? Your daughter could die so if you know something, now would be a really good time to tell us about it."

Cassie gave him a warning look. "Dean."

Dean didn't back down, staring at Mrs. Robinson expectantly.

"Yes," Mrs. Robinson answered. "Yes, he said he saw a truck."

"Did he know who it belonged to?" Julia asked.

"He thought he did."

"Who was that?"

"Cyrus," Mrs. Robinson answered Dean, her lips pressed together emotionally. "A man named Cyrus."

Julia turned to Dean and Sam with raised eyebrows, getting similar looks back from both of them. She pulled the newspaper article that Dean had printed about Cyrus Dorian from her purse and showed it to Mrs. Robinson.

"Is this Cyrus?"

Tears filled Mrs. Robinson's eyes. "Cyrus Dorian died more than forty years ago."

"How do you know he died, Mrs. Robinson? The paper said he went missing," Dean asked, his face falling in realization. "How do you know he died?"

"We were all very young," Mrs. Robinson started to explain, her voice trembling. "I dated Cyrus for a while and I was also seeing Martin—in secret, of course. Inter-racial couples didn't go over too well back then. When I broke it off with Cyrus and he found out about Martin..." she paused and shook her head before quietly continuing. "I don't know, he changed. His hatred—his hatred was frightening."

"The string of murders," Sam assumed.

"There were rumors, people of color disappearing into some kind of truck," Mrs. Robinson confirmed. "Nothing was ever done."

Julia frowned, angry that the people who were killed by Cyrus didn't get justice for what happened to them.

"Martin and...Martin and I, we were gonna be married in that little church near here but last minute we decided to elope because we didn't want the attention," Mrs. Robinson went on, sniffing back tears.

"And Cyrus?"

Mrs. Robinson's face contorted as a sob escaped her throat. "The day we set for the wedding was the day someone set fire to the church," she cried; Julia inhaled sharply, her own tears filling her eyes. "There was a children's choir practicing in there. They all died."

"Did the attacks stop after that?" Julia whispered shakily.

"No, there was one more," Mrs. Robinson told them through her sobs. "One night that truck came for Martin. Cyrus beat him something terrible but Martin, you see, Martin got loose...and he started hitting Cyrus and he just kept hitting him and hitting him."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Why didn't you call the cops?"

Julia gave Dean a pointed look; he knew damn well why they didn't call the cops. She didn't blame them; Cyrus deserved what he got.

"This was forty years ago," Mrs. Robinson cried. "He called on his friend, Clayton Soames and Jimmy Anderson, and they put Cyrus' body in the truck and they rolled it into the swamp at the end of his land. All three of them kept that secret all of these years."

"And now all three are gone," Sam said quietly. "and so is Mayor Todd."

"He said that you, of all people, would know he is not a racist," Dean looked to Mrs. Robinson. "Why would he say that?"

"He was a good man," Mrs. Robinson's cries calmed as she placed her hands on her neck. "He was a young deputy back then, investigating Cyrus' disappearance. Once he figured out what Martin and the other had done, he...he did nothing...because he also knew what Cyrus had done."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Cassie asked her mother, her voice breaking.

"I thought I was protecting them," Mrs. Robinson's sobs started up again. "and now there's no one to protect."

That's not true, Julia thought to herself. She has Cassie.

Dean had the same idea. "Yes, there is," he told her before looking over at Cassie. Mrs. Robinson did, too, her face falling in realization.

Julia, Sam, and Dean reconvened out by the Impala to discuss what they found out.

"Ah, my life was so simple," Sam sighed playfully as he and Julia leaned against the car and Dean paced back and forth in front of them. "Just school, exams, papers on polycentric cultural norms..."

"Translating old Hebrew proverbs, comparing and contrasting Islam and Christianity, trying to tell the difference between classical Latin and archaic Latin..." Julia added wistfully.

"Well, I guess I saved you two from a boring existence," Dean stopped pacing to lean against the car, too.

"Ah, occasionally I miss boring," Sam sighed heavily.

"So, this killer truck—"

"I miss conversations that didn't start with this killer truck," Sam added, more playfully.

Dean chuckled a little. "Well, this Cyrus guy. Evil on a level that infected even his truck," he stated. "When he died, the swamp became his tomb and his spirit was dormant for forty years."

"So what woke it up?" Julia asked,

"The construction on his house," Dean told her. "or the destruction."

"Right," Sam nodded. "Demolition or re-modeling can awaken spirits, make them restless. Like that theatre in Illinois, you know?"

"And the guy that tore down the family homestead, Harold Todd, is the same guy that kept Cyrus' murder quiet and unsolved."

"So, now his spirit is awakened and out for blood."

"Yeah, I guess," Dean shrugged. "Who knows what ghosts are thinking, anyway?"

"You know we're going to have to dredge that body up from the swamp, right?" Sam pointed out.

Dean smirked at him, causing Sam to let out a groan. "What?" Dean asked innocently. "You said it."

"Yeah."

Dean shook his head and looked toward the house, straightening up when he saw Cassie walking toward them. "Hey."

"Hey," Cassie smiled at him. "She's asleep. Now what?"

"Well, you should stay put and look after her," Dean told her. "and we'll be back. Don't leave the house."

"Don't go getting all authoritative on me," Cassie shook her head with a small smile. "I hate it."

Julia wrinkled her nose as they flirted, looking over at Sam to see that he was already smiling at her. She smoothed out her face and tried not to react as Dean apologized to Cassie and they started making out right in of them.

This is so incredibly awkward, she mused.

Sam cleared his throat and Dean reached behind his back to give him the finger.

When Dean pulled away from the kiss, he told Cassie, "Julia's gonna stay with you, all right?"

"What?" Julia spoke up, unpleased. "I'm going with you and Sam."

"No, you're staying with Cassie," Dean's tone was authoritative and it made her bristle. "I don't need to babysit you while this is going on."

"Dean."

Sam winced as Julia's eyes started to water. "Babysit me?" she scoffed. "How many times have I saved your ass since I started hunting with you?"

"Don't change the subject," Dean almost barked. "Do what I said and stay by Cassie's side."

Julia angrily pressed her lips together and grabbed her laptop from the backseat of the Impala. "You're a dick," she spat at Dean as she stormed past him, Sam, and Cassie back up to the house. "Don't come crying to me when you need my help!"

It was awkward and quiet when Cassie came back into the house and sat with her in the living room. Julia had already booted up her computer to work on an upcoming essay in her Hebrew class when Cassie spoke up.

"I'm sorry you had to stay with me," she apologized.

"It's not that I have to stay with you," Julia assured her with an apologetic smile. "It's that Dean treats me like I'm a kid and I can't make my own choices."

Cassie hummed knowingly. "I know what that feels like," she shared. "If it makes you feel any better, though, I think he's doing it to look out for you."

No, Julia thought, he wanted me to look after you.

She just gave Cassie a small smile, deciding that if Dean wanted her to be with Cassie, it was because he trusted her. Either way, she was still irritated. She didn't like being bossed around; if he just asked her to stay instead of commanding it like she was his assistant, it would have been fine.

It was another hour later that Sam called Julia, asking for information about the church so they could get rid of the spirit truck which was now following Dean around the back roads. Cassie gave Julia the information and she called Dean right away.

"What?" Dean snapped, the engine revving in the background. "This better be good."

"Where are you?" Julia asked as she looked down at the map Cassie had pulled out for her.

"In the middle of fucking nowhere with a killer truck on my ass!" he shouted, causing her to wince from the volume. "It's like it knows I put the torch to Cyrus."

"Listen to me, this is important so I have to know exactly where you are."

"Decatur Road, about two miles off the highway."

Julia scanned the map, easily finding the road. "Okay. Are you headed east?"

"Yes!" there was a loud crash of metal and then, "You son of a fucking bitch!"

"Okay, turn right," Julia said hurriedly. "Up ahead, turn right."

The squeal of tires met Julia's ears. "Did you turn?"

"Yeah, I made the turn!" Dean shouted. "You're gonna need to move this thing along a little faster."

"Do you see a road up ahead?" Julia consulted the map, biting her lib anxiously.

"No—wait, yes, I see it."

"Okay, turn left."

"Okay, now what?"

"You need to go exactly seven-tenths of a mile and then stop," she advised him.

"Stop?" Dean asked in disbelief.

"Exactly seven-tenths, Dean."

"Seven-tenths, seven-tenths..."

More tire squealing and then just the engine of the Impala as it idled.

"Dean, are you still there?"

"Yeah."

"What's going on?"

"It's just staring at me," Dean reported. "What do I do?"

"Just keep doing what you're doing. Stay still and bring it to you."

"Wha—?" Dean stammered. "Come on, come on, come on..."

There was a loud roar of an engine, much different than the Impala's, and then it disappeared. Julia looked up at Cassie, who was looking at the phone with an anxious expression.

"Dean, are you okay?" Julia called, knowing that he was probably okay. There would have been a loud crash, otherwise.

"Where'd it go?"

"Dean, you're where the church was."

"What church?"

"The place that Cyrus burned down and killed all those kids," Julia informed him. "Even if it's not still standing, it's hallowed ground. Evil spirits cross over hallowed ground and sometimes they get destroyed. Sam figured it out and I had to find the location."

"Well, what if it hadn't of worked?" Dean almost yelled.

Julia frowned. Even when she and Sam saved his ass, he was still a dick. "Hey, I was just following orders," she snapped at him. "I guess that's all I'm good for."

She snapped the phone shut and threw it in her laptop case. "The spirit's gone," she told Cassie, a little snippily. "If you want to talk to Dean, you'll have to call him from your phone."

"Yeah, no problem," Cassie nodded. "Thanks for your help, Julia."

"I didn't do much of anything," Julia sighed and gave her an apologetic smile. "I'm really sorry about your dad, Cassie."

Cassie smiled sadly. "Me too."

It was silent in the motel room that night. Dean had gone to town as soon as he dropped Julia and Sam off at the room and, an hour and a half later, he still wasn't back. Sam had started reading a book that Julia told him about and she watched America's Next Top Model re-runs next to him on the bed.

Sam looked away from his book every so often, seeing that Julia's nose was still wrinkled in displeasure. From what Sam understood, it was because Dean had yelled at her on the phone after the two of them saved his ass

"You okay?" he asked her, slipping his bookmark into the book where he left off.

Julia turned her head away from the television. "Yeah, I'm fine. Why?"

"I dunno," he shrugged. "You just seem sad."

"Oh..."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Julia's eyes stung as she practically lunged at him, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Sam, you are the bestest friend ever. I don't deserve you. Seriously, I love you so much. You know that, right?"

"Yeah," Sam chuckled into her hair. "You tell me every day, J."

"You deserve to hear it every day, S," Julia declared as tears leaked from her eyes. "You're a good man."

Sam felt her body shake with her cries. "Why are you crying?"

"Cause I'm just happy to have you in my life."

"I'm happy to have you in my life, too," Sam forcefully unwrapped her arms from him and gave her an amused smile as she pulled back. "but you were choking me."

Julia frowned and gave him an apologetic look. "Sorry."

"It's okay."

The motel door opened and Dean walked into the room, carrying a couple of plastic bags. One of them was from a local Chinese restaurant, while the other two were from stores in the mall.

"Hey," Sam greeted him as he got off the bed. "Where'd you go."

"I got a peace offering," Dean proclaimed, walking over to Julia's side of the bed. "Junior, I'm sorry for everything, okay? You are my friend and you did save my ass tonight. I'm sorry I wasn't more appreciative."

Julia's lips quirked a hint.

"So," Dean pulled a Converse box from the larger of the bags in his hand. "I got you these to replace the ones that were ruined at Roy's place."

"Thanks, Dean," Julia whispered, opening the box to see the low-top white Converse. They were the exact ones she had been looking at recently. "These are great."

"And," Dean gave her the other bag, which was smaller. "This is because you've been kicking ass lately."

Julia gave him a curious look as she pulled out a small rectangle box. She gasped when she opened it to reveal her own switchblade with a design on the handle and 'Shortcake' engraved on the blade.

"Dean!" she squeaked, tears coming to her eyes again. "Thank you so much, oh my God!"

Sam grinned as Julia jumped up and pulled Dean into a tight hug, crying into his shoulder. It was already a cute situation but damn it if Sam's heart didn't melt when Dean kissed her on the forehead in return.

(Gif is not mine)

#supernatural rewrite #dean winchester x oc #dean winchester x reader #supernatural #dean winchester #Sam Winchester #dean winchester fanfiction #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester x original character

16 notes · View notes