#{ And he carries all this bitterness with him because of everything he's gone through. }

[chronosbled]

RATING YOUR MUSE'S TRAITS:

Compassion:ㅤㅤ 8 / 10

Bitterness: ㅤㅤ10 / 10

Anger: ㅤㅤ10 / 10

Happiness:ㅤㅤ 3 / 10

Politeness:ㅤㅤ 9 / 10

Chivalry:ㅤㅤ 10 / 10

Pride:ㅤㅤ 10 / 10ㅤㅤ

Honesty:ㅤㅤ 8 / 10

Bravery:ㅤㅤ 10 / 10

Recklessness: ㅤㅤ10 / 10

Ambition:ㅤㅤ 10 / 10

Loyalty:ㅤㅤ 10 / 10ㅤ

Love Obsession:ㅤㅤ 10 / 10

Sense of family:ㅤㅤ 10 / 10

Attractiveness:ㅤㅤ 10 / 10 ( he was made to be charming to anyone he encounters )ㅤ

Agility:ㅤㅤ 9 / 10

Sex drive:ㅤㅤ 3 / 10 ( doesn't care much for it but can be worked up to it )

Tagged by: @florspinae

Tagging: @lovedlace, @batbrides, and anyone else who wants to do this, just steal it and tag me.

[wolvietxt]

💭 thinking about…

𝗅𝗈𝗀𝖺𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗐𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗍 𝖺𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗋𝗀𝗎𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍!

pairing : logan howlett x fem!reader warnings : argument, logan shouts at reader over something insignificant, hurt / comfort, ANGST, fluff, happy ending  word count : 2.4k

logan had been on edge for weeks now. everything seemed to be going wrong, one thing after another. his mission plan was falling apart, charles was breathing down his neck, and it felt like no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t catch a break. the stress was eating at him, wearing him down little by little until it felt like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

you’d noticed the change in him - how he seemed quieter, more distant, his temper flaring up over the smallest things. you tried to help where you could, offering him a shoulder to lean on, giving him space when he needed it, but nothing seemed to work. logan was like a tightly wound spring, ready to snap at any moment.

today had been the worst of all. logan’s day started with a series of frustrating conversations that left him feeling like he was running in circles. every task seemed to come with a new problem, and by the time he left work, he was fuming. his hands clenched into fists as he drove home, his mind racing with everything that had gone wrong. all he wanted was to come home, find some peace, and forget about the day. but even that was too much to ask.

when he walked through the door, he immediately noticed that the kitchen was spotless - so spotless, in fact, that his papers, the ones he’d left scattered across the table, were missing. he felt a surge of irritation. you had been on a cleaning spree, trying to make the house more comfortable for him, but in doing so, you’d moved around some of his blueprints. the ones he needed. the ones he hadn’t had time to organise properly.

“where are my papers?�� logan’s voice was tight as he scanned the kitchen, looking for the documents that were now nowhere to be seen.

you looked up from where you were organising the bookshelf, smiling a little at him. “oh, i moved them to the study so you’d have more space. i thought - ”

“you thought?” logan cut you off, his voice rising. “why would you move my stuff without asking me?”

you blinked, caught off guard by the sharpness in his tone. “i just wanted to help. i know you’ve been stressed, and i thought having a clean space might - ”

“a clean space?” logan’s laugh was harsh, bitter. “i don’t need a clean space, i need my work to not be messed with! do you have any idea how much shit i’ve been dealing with lately? and now this - this is the last thing i need!”

he was shouting now, the frustration of the past few weeks boiling over. every little thing that had gone wrong, every setback, every sleepless night - it all came out in a torrent of anger directed at you. 

“logan, i didn’t mean to make things worse…” you tried to explain, but he wasn’t listening. he was too far gone, too wrapped up in his own frustration to hear the hurt in your voice.

“you never think, do you? you just do whatever you want, and now i’m the one who has to deal with the consequences! i’m sick of this! i’m sick of everything always going wrong, and now you’re just adding to it!”

his words cut through you like a knife. you hadn’t meant to make things worse, you 

were just trying to help, but the way he was yelling at you, the anger in his voice - it was too much. your chest tightened, and you could feel the tears welling up in your eyes, but you tried to hold them back. 

“logan, please… i’m sorry, i just wanted to make things easier for you,” you said, your voice trembling.

“easier? easier for me?” he snapped, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “well, congratulations, because you’ve done the exact opposite! now i have to waste even more time finding everything you moved, and i’m already drowning here!”

the tears you’d been trying so hard to hold back finally spilled over. you tried to wipe them away quickly, but logan was still shouting, too caught up in his own anger to notice.

“why can’t you just leave things the way they are? why do you always have to interfere? it’s like you don’t even care how much pressure i’m under! do you even care about anything besides what you want?”

his words were like a punch to the gut, and you couldn’t hold it in any longer. a sob escaped your lips, loud and broken, and it stopped logan in his tracks. the sound cut through his anger like a knife, and suddenly, the room was silent. 

he stared at you, his chest heaving as he tried to process what was happening. you were crying - no, you were sobbing, and it hit him like a ton of bricks. all the anger, all the frustration that had been driving him just moments ago, drained away, leaving him feeling hollow and ashamed.

“y/n…” he started, his voice shaky now, all the sharp edges gone. “shit, i didn’t mean…”

but you couldn’t stop crying, the weight of his words crashing down on you all at once. you hadn’t realised just how much stress he’d been under, how deeply it had been affecting him, and now it felt like you’d only made everything worse.

logan stepped closer, his hands reaching out, but he hesitated. he didn’t know how to fix this - how to take back the things he’d said, the hurt he’d caused. “hey, hey… please don’t cry. i’m sorry, i didn’t… i didn’t mean any of that.”

his hands were trembling as he finally pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly against his chest. he could feel your sobs wracking your body, and it broke something inside him. how could he have been so blind? so stupid? 

“i’m so fucking sorry,” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. “i’m an idiot, and i let all this shit get to me, and i took it out on you. you didn’t deserve any of that.”

you clung to him, your fingers digging into his shirt as you tried to calm down. his arms were strong around you, holding you like you were the only thing anchoring him to reality. and maybe, in that moment, you were.

logan pressed his lips to the top of your head, murmuring apologies over and over, his voice thick with regret. “i’m sorry… i’m so fucking sorry… please, y/n, don’t cry. i hate seeing you like this.”

you wanted to tell him that it was okay, that you understood, but the words were stuck in your throat. instead, you just held onto him, letting him hold you, letting his presence calm the storm inside you.

it took a while for your sobs to finally subside, and when they did, you felt exhausted, like all the fight had been drained out of you. but logan didn’t let go - he just held you tighter, like he was afraid that if he let go, you’d slip away.

“i’ve been such a fucking mess lately,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “everything’s been going wrong, and i didn’t know how to deal with it. i’ve been pushing you away, taking it out on you, and that’s not fair. it’s not fair to you, and it’s not fair to us.”

you nodded against his chest, your fingers still gripping his shirt. “i just wanted to help… i hate seeing you like this. it feels like you’re slipping away from me, and i don’t know how to bring you back.”

logan’s heart clenched at your words. he hadn’t realised how much his behaviour had been affecting you, how much you’d been carrying on your own. he felt a fresh wave of guilt wash over him, and he held you even tighter.

“y’re not losing me,” he said firmly, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. his thumb gently brushed away the tears on your cheeks, his touch soft, careful. “i promise you, you’re not losing me. i’ve just been so caught up in my own shit that i forgot what really matters.”

you searched his eyes, looking for the truth in his words, and you found it there - clear and unwavering. he was still here, still the man you loved, even if he’d lost his way for a while.

“i’m not going anywhere,” he continued, his voice steady now, a promise in every word. “we’re going to get through this. together.”

you nodded, a small, shaky smile forming on your lips. “yeah.”

logan leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “i love you,” he whispered, his voice filled with all the emotion he’d been holding back for weeks. “i love you so much. and i’m going to do better, i can fuckin’ promise you that, bub.”

you closed your eyes, letting his words wash over you, feeling the truth in them. you knew it wouldn’t be easy - logan was stubborn, and he had a lot to work through - but you also knew that he meant every word. he loved you, and that was enough.

“i love you too,” you whispered back, your voice soft but steady. 

logan’s lips found yours in a gentle, lingering kiss, one that spoke of apologies and promises of love and commitment. when he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours again, his eyes closed as he took a deep breath. logan smiled - a real, genuine smile that you hadn’t seen in what felt like forever. 

the two of you stayed like that for a while longer, just holding each other, finding comfort in the closeness. the argument, the hurt, the tears - they were all still there, but they didn’t feel as overwhelming now. you both knew there was work to be done, but for the first time in weeks, it felt like you were on the same page, like you could actually do this.

when logan finally pulled away, he took your hand and led you to the couch, where the two of you sat down together. his arm wrapped around your shoulders, pulling you close to his side, and you leaned into him, resting your head on his chest.

“tell me what’s been going on,” you said softly, wanting to understand what had been eating at him for so long. “i want to help, logan. i don’t want you to go through this alone.”

logan let out a long sigh, running a hand through his hair as he tried to find the right words. “it’s just been one thing after another. work’s been a nightmare. nothing’s going right, and scott is on my case constantly. every day, it feels like i’m just… barely keeping my head above water. and then i come home, and i don’t want to burden you with all of this, but it’s just… it’s been too much.”

you listened quietly, letting him talk, letting him get it all out. you could hear the exhaustion in his voice, the frustration, the weight he’d been carrying for so long. it broke your heart to know he’d been dealing with all of this on his own, and you hadn’t even realised how bad it had gotten.

“logan,” you said softly when he finished, your voice filled with compassion. “you don’t have to carry this by yourself. i’m here, and i want to help. we’re a team, remember?”

logan nodded, his eyes closing as he rested his head back against the couch. “i know. i just… i didn’t want to unload all of this on you. i didn’t want to worry you.”

“but i was already worried,” you pointed out gently. “because i could see that something was wrong, and you weren’t talking to me about it. that’s what scared me the most - not knowing what was going on in your head.”

logan’s grip on your hand tightened, and he turned to look at you, his eyes filled with regret. “i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to shut you out. i just… didn’t know how to talk about it. i didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“logan, you don’t have to be perfect,” you said, your voice firm but loving. “i love you for who you are, flaws and all. and if you’re struggling, i want to know. i want to be there for you, just like you’ve always been there for me.”

logan’s expression softened, and he leaned in to press a kiss to your forehead. “i don’t deserve you,” he murmured against your skin. “but i’m so fucking grateful that you’re here.”

you smiled, wrapping your arms around him and holding him close. “you deserve all the love in the world, logan. and i’m not going anywhere. we’ll figure this out, one step at a time.”

logan nodded, his heart swelling with emotion. he knew he was lucky to have you, and he was determined to do better - to be better. for you, and for himself.

the two of you spent the rest of the evening talking, really talking, about everything that had been weighing on logan’s mind. it wasn’t easy, but it was necessary, and by the end of the night, you both felt a sense of relief that had been missing for far too long.

logan knew he still had a lot to work through, but he also knew that he wasn’t alone. you were by his side, ready to face whatever challenges came your way. and for the first time in weeks, he felt like he could finally breathe again.

as you both drifted off to sleep that night, wrapped up in each other’s arms, logan made a silent promise to himself: he would never take you for granted again. you were his rock, his safe haven, and he was going to do everything in his power to make sure you knew just how much you meant to him.

because at the end of the day, no matter how tough things got, you were the one thing in his life that he couldn’t afford to lose. and he would do whatever it took to keep you by his side, now and always.

[peachesofteal]

Dad!John Price/female reader This has been living in my head

“Beautiful out, isn’t it?” 

The old woman on the docks hitches her shoulder bag higher, eyes fixed on nothing in the distance. John hums an agreement, low pitch slow to rise from his chest. It’s not a dismissal, but not conversation. Non-committal. About as much as you’ll get from him, on a day like today. 

He keeps his focus on the expanse of the bay. A metamorphic magma layered coastal cradle holding entire populations of people, and animals, those that live on land… and at sea. 

He’s waiting for a fleck of dust on the horizon, a small speck that will slowly turn into ferry, one that carries some passengers, a few packages, bundles of mail by the heap. It is beautiful today; he doesn’t disagree. But it’s not because of the weather.  It’s because the ferry is carrying more than just a few passengers home. It’s carrying his worst nightmare. The final nail in a coffin. His own personal hell.

And… 

His brightest light. His favorite part of everyday. His everything. The reason his heart still beats.

Both on the same boat. 

The sun shines through the tips of the trees, bright on his face, casting an amber yellow glow over the harbor, and he basks in it, even with the brittle cold. 

The warmth of the light is foreign this time year, a time year when creeks all run underneath a quickly thickening layer of ice, morning frost lingers beneath cloud cover, and bears sleep.  

The town will be full of life today. The bar at the top of the hill, the only one in town, will be burning the midnight oil, everyone appearing at some point throughout the night, eager to have one last rousing round with neighbors and friends before the true cold of winter sets in. 

Of course, they don’t hate the cold. They wouldn’t live here if they did. 

Life is different in the winter. Year round. Life here revolves more around the weather and the seasons than anywhere else he’s ever been, or lived, and everything from the kelp to the whales, the deer and sea lions, the people, and the wolves, depend on the promise of perpetual change. 

The tide washes through little pebbles of ancient volcanic rock like a lullaby, one so familiar he swears he can hear it when he’s working, when he’s worlds away in his mind. It’s peaceful, full of memories, nostalgia beating in his blood for something long gone, long past. 

His heart aches, for a moment. Long enough that his brow furrows, and his hands find his pocket, anxiously feeling for the chain. 

The ferry shatters his memories, blaring across the beach, and the old woman gives him a smile. 

“Early today.” This time, John does respond. 

“Good.” 

“You must be John.” She offers her hand, face half hidden beneath a large hood and knit muff, black pants and coat nearly matching his. 

He hesitates, fingers flexing, and she doesn’t miss a beat, moving on to step around him, speaking briefly to the ferry captain, an old grizzled man who stared at John the entire trip, blatant curiosity wrinkling his frown lines. 

The wind cuts through his jacket, snaking beneath his layers, forcing his muscles tense. 

Bloody freezing. He's been cold, plenty, but this bitterness has bite.

She squints and jerks her head towards the end of the dock, sunlight glittering in her eyes. They’re beautiful, a rich shade of coffee and hazel, golden spotted and drusy, a cluster of crystals inside dark pupils. They’re a color he could drown in. The kind of eyes he could see in his dreams for the rest of his life.

The kind of eyes capable of disarming him, before he's even drawn a weapon.

“C’mon. Truck’s got heat.” 

“Mari says you’ve never been a Ranger before.” She tries to make casual conversation with him, patting the steering wheel as the truck sputters to life. Gears grind, they churn, and she smiles, glancing at the road before putting it in gear. It’s old, rusted in a quaint way, the kind that makes him think of old industrial parks and aging tanks, a rugged red chipped away above the passenger wheel well, rubbed raw by salt air. 

“I have… relative experience.” He’s careful with his words, hesitant about over divulging, and she shrugs. 

“With people? Or wildlife?” He points his face out the window. With people, sure. With bears and wolves and whatever else lurks in these woods, less so. 

The truck climbs a windy road, pushing up above the cove, narrow pitted pavement flanked by forest so black he can hardly see a meter inside the tree line. The shadow that lingers inside the tree line is primordial, alive, and he blinks when he thinks he sees something moving, deep in the dark. Douglas fir, silver fir, white pine flash by, occasional road signs with pictures of animals and speed limits dotting the way. “Logging is big industry out here. Forestry feeds a lot of families in this area, but it can be a point of contention.” She motions past him to another cove, one tucked just around the bend from where the ferry came in, its surface covered in shaved logs, all nearly uniform in size, floating together in rows upon rows, waiting for their next voyage. 

“That what you do? Er… logging?” Her hands are rough, skin cracked, nails trimmed short, and the coat is utility. Built for labor. For weather. It’s a natural conclusion. 

“No. I run the nature center in the late spring and summer. No tourism in fall or winter though, so I find other things to do. Work for the park. Tag trees. Winter trail maintenance. Wildlife management.” The truck rattles into a left turn, and she waves at someone in an oncoming car. “Guess I kinda work for you now.” Her chuckle is light, sweet, and his cheeks feel warm. “What brought you all the way up here?” 

Bloody hell. 

“Needed a change of pace.” 

“Long way to come for a change.” She muses, and he agrees. It is very, very far. Three planes, two ferries, this truck. Hours of travel, temperature dropping in ten degree increments every time he stepped outside. He doesn’t know how to answer that, how to tell her, what he’s doing here, how to say he had to leave things behind. 

The island changes, geology shifting, granite turning to mud and grass, darkness fading as the truck putters into its final descent.

He instinctively taps the tags in his pocket, a nervous tic that’s develops over the last few months since he took them off for the last time and clears his throat. 

“Yes. It is.” 

The ferry sidles up the wooden dock, rocking in the waves, captain giving the small, older woman next to him a friendly wave. At his side, a woman stands, straight backed and proud, eyes sharp against the setting sun. 

Is that…

You catch his gaze, glancing at the Ranger badge on his coat, and then nodding, hand lifting in acknowledgement. 

His breath freezes in his chest. You’re stunning. Beautiful, like the land, like the strait, and for a second, he forgets himself. 

Igneous rock hardens in his stomach, in his heart.

He's lost at sea. Lost in the swell. An eddy line of devastation sweeps him out, past the lighthouse on the rocks, past the pod of resident orcas, past the point of no return.

He's drowning.

Only to be brought back by one of his favorite sounds in the entire world. 

“Dad!”

[ajokeformur-ray]

My thoughts on Joker: Folie à Deux

Now that I'm done sobbing and it's been a few hours since I left the cinema with my roommate, I've put the first Joker on for comfort while I write this.

Spoilers below the cut for anyone who hasn't seen it.

We all know that I was one of those "I don't want a sequel" girlies and in a way, I still am. I maintain that Joker didn't need a sequel, it was a perfect standalone. But, surprisingly, I enjoyed this film as it was.

It was very dark, gritty, the things we didn't get to see because they were only implied were things which stuck with me long after leaving the cinema, it was ambitious with Lee but didn't quite go as far as I would have liked with her; she had so much more potential and I thought we were gonna get that when she smashed the shop window to get a small TV with which to see her Joker on with a very sweetly spoken "excuse me" and then walked away without a fuss. It was gorgeously arranged, the songs were perfectly selected and I adore that That's Life played during the start and end; it brought our beloved Arthur to a full circle. And, most importantly, it was faithful to our Arthur. That's what I and so many others were afraid of, that this sequel would butcher our boy, but it didn't. It was faithful to him to the bitter, tragic end.

Joker was gorgeous. He was... so realistic, so raw and real and in pain, he was everything I always wanted this universe's Joker to be. I've always said in my fics and posts that Arthur didn't want to be Joker, it was something which the general public put onto him and he never wanted it, he just wanted to be seen, heard, accepted and loved for who he was, and even when he exposed his pain on national TV, he wasn't given that. He was ignored, spoken for rather than listened to, and then in this new film that carried on happening until yet again he stood up for himself and took what he knew to be right. He's the best advocate for himself and it's a lesson I need to learn from him a bit more than I have done before. But I digress... Joker was so perfect. And his little comedy moments did have me giggling, even through my tears at various points in the film.

I enjoyed the difference between how Joker and Arthur were considered, though we all know that the lawyer's initial defense, as well meaning as it was, was not it. Arthur was never gonna walk out of there without consequences and we all knew it. The constant switches between his delusions as Joker and the way he was stood still in Arkham or the courtroom were so well done, and I liked how murder was used against himself while he was waging between doing what people were telling him to do, and what he wanted to do for himself.

I was begging for Arthur to do the right thing the whole way through the trial, even though I knew what it would mean for him, and in the end he chose himself just like he did in the first film, and it was the bravest thing he could have done. It was utterly devastating, but in the end I think the way he chose to go down was the right way. He could have either continued being Joker and gone down being known for someone he wasn't and someone he had never been, or he could stand up, admit to who he is and display emotional maturity and speak for himself.

He chose the latter and I'm, in a very bittersweet way, grateful. I sobbed through most of the film but in the end, Arthur was himself, and it was so brave and so heartbreaking. This film was, at the end of it all, as true to Arthur as Arthur ended up being to himself (and I think it was because Gary's testimony and tearful "why are you doing this to me?" that was the catalyst behind Arthur making this fateful decision), and it was... it was so hard to watch, very difficult to stomach, but also I am proud of myself for going. I really didn't want to, I didn't, but Arthur would have gone to see us if the situation was reversed, and not going to see this film would have felt like abandonment of our boy... I didn't want to do that. I'm glad I went, but I'll probably take a long time before I'm able to watch it again, if I ever can.

The last scene especially shattered me, but I think that from a narrative point of view, it makes sense. Arthur was a tragedy, through and through. Though, he's an unreliable narrator, so who knows if we saw what we all think we saw? It was the perfect end for Arthur, as horrific, cruel, and brutal as it was, but the inmate was wrong... it wasn't at all what he deserved.

Our Arthur deserved sunshine, cuddles for days, kisses in the rain, dancing, singing, he deserved comedy nights and a dancing partner, he deserved so much more than what he got.

And the irony is that the people complaining that this Joker wasn't the Joker they wanted are literally proving the core message of the film; Arthur isn't Joker. He was never Joker, and that's why he was abandoned by so many in the film; by Lee, by those dressed like Joker, by everyone who wanted him to be someone he wasn't... he was given that title by people who didn't know him, people who didn't want to know him, Gothamites who used him and his crimes to justify and further their own political agenda, and, in the real world, by those complaining that this Joker isn't the Joker they wanted.

Arthur is Arthur Fleck, he's always been Arthur Fleck. He was willing to die to make that point, so in the end he died for himself, and it was so brave and courageous and heartbreaking.

I walked out of the cinema sobbing the hardest I've cried for a long time, but so much more in love with Arthur Fleck than I was before. I just want to tell him how sorry I am, and how loved he is by all of us. That's what he deserves.

❤️💚💙🤍

[tonkatsubowl]

Can I request something like Yan!Sunday with an innocent/naive reader? Maybe something that includes brainwashing/mindcontrol bc i swear sunday is not normal

(only if you want to do this req ofc!)

you decided to visit the shopping center of penacony to buy a few things for your significant other. you had a few dinner ideas in mind, and because of the stress that piles up from yandere sunday, he sometimes never has time to take you out to a nice place to eat, or even cook you something. you didn't mind that at all, considering you were understanding of his situation.

besides, you didn't know that sunday practically had his eye on you no matter what. every move, every breath you take—he tracked.

as you went through the shopping area, you had a small little basket you carried that already had a few items in it. from vegetables to small ingredients to make dessert... you were humming one of robin's music to yourself as you wandered about, putting things in your little basket.

as you continued to shop, you were approached by a stranger. a man in particular, who seemed to have caught his eye when wandering about, too.

"hey there!" he enthusiastically said, beaming brightly, "how are you doing?"

"oh! hello!" you say with a smile, "i'm doing well. i'm just shopping for dinner right now."

"ah, dinner?" he tilted his head, looking at the items in your basket, "making something for yourself?"

"oh, it's not just for me," you shook your head, "it's for my boyfriend too."

there was a bit of bitterness in the man's eyes, but you didn't seem to notice.

"boyfriend, huh? how about you make me something too?"

you blinked, before sheepishly smiling, shaking your head, "ah, i'm sorry. i could get you a small snack or something... what would you like?"

you were incredibly naïve, and the stranger found it admirable. he approached you a bit closer. "well, you can definitely get me a snack, alright. your boyfriend won't know about it."

you blinked again, head tilted to the side. you weren't sure what he meant but you decided to brush his comment off. "well, um... what would you like? there's chips, and—"

"there you are, my dove."

sunday's voice occurred behind you, his arm gracefully wrapped around your hip. the stranger seemed to have recognized sunday, seeing his face with robin all over the streets of penacony. this man... this man was your significant other?

"oh, sunday!" you smiled innocently.

"what's going on here?" asked-he, looking towards the stranger with darkness apparent in his gaze.

"oh, he was just asking me if i could get a snack for him. since you're here," you looked to the stranger, "my boyfriend knows now!"

sunday didn't have to know the context behind what happened, because he already knew everything. he smiled at the stranger but there was an aura of murderous intent.

the stranger began to sweat, before bowing apologetically. "i-i'm sorry. i'll leave now."

he left in a hurry, leaving you and sunday alone. you blinked out of confusion, before looking to sunday.

"huh? i thought i was gonna buy him some chips or-"

"(y/n)." he says in a low voice. "please, do not do that again."

"do what?" your head tilts.

he slowly reaches up, brushing his hand against the side of your face. digits gently brush against your skin, tracing down across your jawline.

"you see, people here are dangerous in penacony. they approach you for needs, or even something worse... a trap, even." his grip tightens around your face, but you didn't move. he wasn't hurting you.

"i suggest that you stay indoors while i am gone."

you blinked again, confusion evident upon your visage, "stay indoors? at your home?"

sunday nodded. "correct. for your safety, i much prefer that you don't leave at all. that is... if you are okay with it."

there was something about his words that made you feel reluctant, but you understood, thinking that he was just looking out for you. you were lost in his eyes for a moment, as though something within was calling out to him... listening to his words.

"... okay!" you beamed. "when would i get to leave?"

"whenever i think it's safe for you, my dear. whenever i tell you it's okay to leave home, then you'll be able to leave, but only for a short period of time. or when i am with you."

you nodded, "alright, but... short period of time? what do you mean by that?"

sunday gave a low, dangerous chuckle, "you can't be out for too long. i worry for your safety."

"i-i see. alright. i understand, so you don't have to worry about that."

sunday nods, "of course. i'll be right here with you."

for the rest of the hour, you finished your shopping and went home with sunday. however, the moment you entered the vicinity, you didn't realize sunday had locked the doors from the inside. you weren't allowed to leave. no matter what. not until what your boyfriend tells you.

"so, what did you buy?" questioned the halovian.

"i bought some ingredients for dinner! i figured i would make something for the both of us, since you're busy with work and i know how stressful it can get."

sunday's gaze softened as he approached you, pressing his lips against the side of your head. "thank you, love. you didn't have to do all of that."

you laugh, nuzzled into his affection as you placed the ingredients on the counter. "will you be leaving soon? i mean, how did you know i was there?"

"ah, i just had a feeling." a lie. he was watching you. "and i figured i'd come by to grab a small beverage or two on my break, then i saw you."

"oh! perfect timing then."

"now, i should get going. remember what i said, (y/n). you are not to leave."

you nodded, smiling brightly at him. "i won't!"

a look of satisfaction appears on the man's face before he disappears into the hallway, the doors closing behind him, ultimately leaving you alone.

[livdomtruther]

THREE LITTLE WORLDS, 3.

Dominik spent two agonizing weeks living a lie, forced to pretend that he despised Liv every time he was around Rhea. It was a torment unlike anything he’d ever known. Each encounter with Rhea demanded an act—a coldness that felt alien, like a second skin he couldn’t peel off. Inside, though, Dominik was crumbling. Every forced word, every bitter glance directed at Liv’s memory, gnawed at him like a relentless beast.

Liv hadn’t appeared on any of the recent Raw shows. It was as if she had vanished, leaving nothing but a hollow void where she used to be. Dominik’s eyes searched every screen, every corner of the arena, hoping for even a fleeting glimpse of her, but she remained elusive. The one time they played her video package on the screen, it felt like a dagger straight to his heart. Her smile, her voice—it all flooded back, a tidal wave of memories and emotions he had been trying to suppress. In that moment, something snapped within him. The wall he had so carefully built to contain his feelings began to crack.

He longed for her with an intensity that scared him. It wasn’t just desire; it was a deep, aching need. He missed everything about her—the way she laughed, the way she looked at him like he was the only person in the world. But more than that, he missed what they had once shared before everything went wrong. And he knew, deep down, that he was the reason for her pain. He was the one who had broken her, and the guilt of it was a constant, suffocating presence.

Dominik hated himself for it. He hated that he had to keep up this cruel charade, hated that he couldn’t just reach out to her, hold her, and tell her how much he still cared. All he wanted was to love her, to make things right, but it seemed like every time he tried to hold onto someone, they slipped through his fingers like sand. It was as if the universe was conspiring against him, punishing him for sins he couldn’t atone for.

The days dragged on, each one heavier than the last. Dominik felt trapped in a nightmare of his own making, one where his heart and mind were at war. He knew he had to keep up the facade for now, but with each passing day, the weight of it became harder to bear. And in the quiet moments, when he was alone with his thoughts, all he could think about was Liv—how much he wanted her, how much he needed her, and how much it was killing him to pretend otherwise.

Dominik found solace in Finn’s presence almost daily, a fragile comfort amidst the turmoil that raged within him. Finn could see the pain etched in every line of Dominik’s face, the way his shoulders slumped as if carrying an invisible weight. It tore at Finn’s heart because he knew—he knew this was his doing. The guilt was like a shadow that followed him everywhere, a constant reminder that the plan he had devised with such confidence had gone terribly wrong.

Finn had crafted the plan with meticulous care, believing it to be flawless. In his mind, it was supposed to bring them all closer to their goals, to achieve something greater. But he hadn’t foreseen the emotional wreckage it would leave behind. He hadn’t anticipated that Dominik’s heart would be caught in the crossfire, or that the fallout would be so devastating. Now, every time he saw the haunted look in Dominik’s eyes, Finn felt another piece of his own resolve crumble.

There were moments when Finn’s guilt became almost unbearable. The urge to pick up the phone and call Liv would surge within him, a powerful, almost instinctual drive to set things right. He wanted to tell her everything—that Dominik’s coldness was nothing but a front, that behind the mask, he was still deeply in love with her. Finn wanted to confess it all, to break the silence that was causing his best friend so much pain.

But he couldn’t. The plan was simple, or at least it had been on paper. They both had to stick to it. Any deviation, any moment of weakness, and everything they were working towards would unravel. Finn knew this, and yet, the knowledge didn’t make it any easier. Every time he looked at Dominik, he was reminded of the cost of his decisions—the cost of loyalty, of strategy, of trying to outmaneuver their opponents.

So instead, Finn did the only thing he could: he stayed by Dominik’s side, offering what little comfort he could. He’d place a reassuring hand on Dominik’s shoulder, listen to him vent his frustrations, and try to lift his spirits, even though he knew it was like trying to mend a shattered mirror with tape. Finn didn’t have the answers, and he couldn’t undo the damage, but he could be there.

And yet, as much as Finn wanted to be strong for Dominik, there were nights when he lay awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if there was another way—if there was a path where no one had to suffer. But those thoughts were fleeting. Reality was harsh, and the stakes were too high. They had made their choices, and now, they had to see them through, no matter how much it hurt.

Tonight was the night the truth would be laid bare, and the anticipation was thick with tension backstage. Finn and Dominik stood in the locker room, the atmosphere charged with the weight of what was to come. Dominik’s anxiety was palpable, his hands trembling slightly as he fidgeted with the edge of his jacket. His gaze remained fixed on a distant point, his mind clearly racing through worst-case scenarios.

Finn watched his friend with a mixture of concern and guilt. He couldn’t ignore the gnawing remorse that had settled deep within him. He had orchestrated the plan, believing it to be the best course of action, but now, standing here, he saw the very real cost of his decisions etched on Dominik’s face. The sight of his friend so visibly shaken was a dagger to Finn’s heart.

Approaching Dominik, Finn placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, trying to offer comfort despite the turmoil churning inside him. “It’s going to be alright, okay?” he said, his voice steady but laced with its own undercurrent of worry.

Dominik sighed deeply, the sound escaping him like a puff of air from a balloon. He shook his head, eyes still distant, as he voiced his deepest fear. “What if she... doesn’t believe me? What if, when I try to tell her everything, she just thinks I’m lying? She said she couldn’t believe me tonight.”

The tremor in Dominik’s voice was a clear sign of the emotional strain he was under. Finn’s heart sank further at the confession, his face darkening with a frown of self-reproach. He had hoped that by now, the plan would have made everything clear, but the prospect of Liv doubting Dominik's sincerity was a painful reminder of how high the stakes were.

“She’ll believe you, Dom,” Finn said, trying to infuse his voice with the confidence he wanted to project. “She needed time after everything that happened, and that’s okay. People need time to heal.”

Finn took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts before continuing. “Look, I know she loves you a lot, Dom. Liv talked about you all the time. She cares for you deeply. That’s not going to change overnight, but it will change.”

He offered Dominik a small, reassuring smile, hoping it conveyed some of the conviction he felt. “Trust me, she’ll understand. You’ve got this.”

“Thanks, Finn,” Dominik said softly, his voice almost a whisper. The heaviness in his heart remained, but he clung to Finn’s words as a fragile hope. He attempted to find some solace in the reassurance, even as his mind continued to cloud with worries about Liv and the guilt that weighed on him.

Before Finn could offer any further words of encouragement, Rhea burst into the locker room. Her presence was commanding, her eyes locking onto Dominik with a determined focus that didn’t waver. Finn, once again, was left in the background, his presence unnoticed as Rhea took charge.

“Dom, we have to get going!” Rhea’s tone was brisk, her urgency palpable. Dominik gave Finn a final, albeit troubled, glance. “Alright, talk to you later, Finn,” he said, his voice betraying a hint of the internal struggle he was feeling.

As Rhea approached, Dominik felt the familiar mask of pretense sliding back into place. He forced a smile, one that was meant to be warm but felt hollow. Rhea immediately wrapped her arms around his shoulders, guiding him towards the entrance with a firm but affectionate grip. Dominik followed, his movements mechanical, as his thoughts remained tangled in images of Liv and the gnawing guilt of his actions.

The journey to the entrance seemed interminable, each step dragging as time stretched unbearably slow. Dominik’s mind was a storm of conflicting emotions—he was present, yet miles away in his thoughts, lost in the ache of longing and regret.

Suddenly, the staff rushed them along, signaling that it was almost time. Rhea’s theme music hit, reverberating through the corridors and drawing an enthusiastic roar from the crowd. The excitement was palpable, a stark contrast to the turmoil inside Dominik.

As they stepped onto the ramp, the bright lights and deafening cheers swallowed them. The crowd’s energy surged around them, a stark reminder of the spectacle that awaited. Dominik walked beside Rhea, his smile fixed and unyielding, even as his heart remained heavy with unresolved emotions.

Dominik watched as Rhea performed her entrance with practiced ease, her confidence evident in every step and movement. She was a force of nature, commanding the crowd’s attention and drawing their adoration. Dominik, however, was a contrast in turmoil. As Rhea’s entrance came to a close, she turned to him, her smirk widening. She pulled him close and pressed a kiss against his cheek. The gesture was intended to be affectionate, but for Dominik, it felt like a weight pressing down on his chest.

He bit the inside of his cheek, fighting the urge to recoil, to push her away. The pretense of their relationship was a painful farce, and the kiss was a stark reminder of the charade he was trapped in. His heart pounded with a relentless rhythm, a drumbeat that echoed the chaos in his mind.

Then, the unmistakable strains of Liv’s theme song blared through the arena, cutting through the roar of crowd noise. Dominik’s world seemed to narrow to the ramp where Liv appeared. He froze, his breath catching in his throat as he watched her step into view. She was stunning—her presence, her grace, the way the light caught her features—all of it intensified the ache in his heart. The image of her, looking so beautiful, felt like a bittersweet dagger.

Liv moved with a purpose, her eyes focused straight ahead. She didn’t glance toward Dominik, and Dominik could see the strain in her expression, the effort she was putting into keeping her emotions in check. The sight of her made his heart ache even more, a visceral reminder of everything he had lost and could not easily reclaim.

As Liv made her way to the ring, she seemed to be in a world of her own, a protective bubble that shielded her from the emotional turmoil that might ensue if she were to meet Dominik’s gaze. The distance between them felt like an abyss, one filled with unspoken words and unresolved feelings. Dominik’s eyes stayed locked on her, his heart breaking with each step she took closer to the ring, knowing that tonight would be the moment where the truth was finally laid bare, but the pain of it all was already palpable.

Not once did Dominik’s eyes leave Liv. There was something mesmerizing about her; she seemed almost ethereal, drawing him in with an irresistible allure. The intensity of his gaze reflected a deep, aching admiration. The loud ringing of the bell jolted him from his trance, his focus snapping back to the present moment with a surge of anxiety.

His eyes were fixed on Liv with a worried intensity. The thought of her getting hurt, especially tonight, was almost unbearable. No matter the strain in their relationship or the complications between them, Dominik felt an unwavering protectiveness. He couldn’t bear the idea of seeing her harmed—he would rather take the pain upon himself than watch her suffer. For him, her safety was paramount, and he would do anything to ensure that she remained unharmed, no matter the cost.

As the bell rang, Liv swiftly rolled out of the ring, narrowly avoiding Ripley’s initial charge. Frustrated, Ripley pursued her with determined strides, but Liv was agile and evasive, maintaining a strategic distance from the powerhouse. When Ripley finally caught up, she executed a powerful suplex, demonstrating her dominance early in the match. The raw force of Ripley’s attack was undeniable as she followed up with a brutal Riptide from the top turnbuckle, leaving Liv crumpled on the mat.

Rather than going for a pin, Ripley’s overconfidence led her to seek further torment. She seemed intent on extending Liv’s suffering, but liv seized the opportunity to escape, sending Ripley crashing shoulder-first into the turnbuckle. The shift in momentum was slight but significant, as Liv began to focus on Ripley’s injured shoulder, aiming to exploit the vulnerability and weaken her opponent.

Dominik’s anxiety surged, his heart pounding with a frantic rhythm as he watched the unfolding chaos. His instinct was to run to Liv, to pull her into his arms and whisk her away from the danger that loomed. He bit his lip, struggling to contain his fear and helplessness as he witnessed Liv endure the grueling pain. The match’s brutal reality was a sharp reminder of how much he cared, and every second felt like an eternity as he hoped for her safety and well-being.

The entirety of the match was a whirlwind of emotions, a relentless torrent that tested the limits of everyone involved. Liv had to maintain a tight grip on her emotions throughout, each fleeting glance towards Dominik causing her heart to ache with a deep, unfulfilled longing. The brief, painful connection between them, fleeting as it was, made the match even more excruciating.

Rhea, on the other hand, was consumed by resentment and a fierce determination to reclaim her title. The intensity of her need to win was palpable, driving her every move and amplifying her aggression. For Dominik, the constant undercurrent of fear for Liv’s safety was a relentless burden. Each time Rhea aimed to inflict harm on Liv, Dominik’s heart twisted in anguish. He was tormented by the desire to rush to her side, but he remained rooted, struggling to contain his impulse to intervene.

In a critical moment, Rhea’s focus wavered, offering Liv a precious opportunity. With a sudden burst of resolve, Liv seized Rhea and hurled her into the corner of the ring. The impact was severe, and Rhea’s injured shoulder, still recovering from previous damage, bore the brunt of the collision. An agonized scream escaped Rhea’s lips as she clutched her shoulder, the pain evident in her expression.

Liv rose to continue her assault on Rhea, her determination unwavering, but the referee intervened, halting her progress. Liv let out an exasperated sigh, her eyes flicking toward Dominik as he moved closer to the ring. She quickly turned away, unable to bear the sight of the man she loved—the man who had hurt her—showing concern for the woman who had betrayed her long ago.

Dominik’s silence spoke volumes; his gaze, fixed intently on Rhea, seemed to silently plead with the referee to let the match continue. His frustration was palpable, even though he remained largely passive.

Liv, seizing the moment, taunted Rhea with a mocking “Awww” as she approached, her grip tightening on Rhea’s hair. But before Liv could press her advantage, Rhea retaliated, kicking her off with force. Rhea then rolled out of the ring, attempting to regroup and escape further punishment.

Dominik stood at ringside, momentarily dumbfounded by the turn of events. His eyes briefly met Liv’s, and in that fleeting glance, he checked to ensure she was alright. The brief connection between them was charged with unspoken emotions, a reminder of the complicated web of feelings that enveloped their lives.

Rhea, seething with frustration and agony, let out a pained expletive, “Fuck!” Her distress was evident as she clutched her injured shoulder. Dominik, trying to offer some comfort, gently placed his hand on her uninjured shoulder. “It’s okay, it’s okay…” he murmured soothingly, his voice strained with concern. Rhea, overwhelmed by the pain, clung to him for support.

Liv saw Rhea’s vulnerability as an opportunity and wasted no time. Sliding out from the bottom rope, she approached with a determined stride. Dominik’s heart raced with anxiety as he recognized Liv’s movements, and he instinctively stepped back, giving her space.

Liv seized the moment, delivering a sharp kick to Rhea’s injured shoulder. The force of the kick sent Rhea crashing against the steel stairs with a harsh clang. Liv then leaned against the ring, visibly tired but sporting a smug smirk. The sight of her was jarring to Dominik; this fierce, ruthless side of Liv was something he hadn’t witnessed before.

Liv's grip on Rhea’s hair was unforgiving as she yanked her opponent’s head back, her actions punctuated by a series of sharp, unrelenting blows. The aggression in Liv’s eyes was unmistakable as she turned to face Dominik, her expression a mix of anger and bitter defiance. “This is your girl! This is who you chose!” she spat out, her voice edged with contempt. With a final, vicious strike, she made her point before stepping back, leaving Rhea reeling from the assault.

Dominik could only watch in anguish, his heart heavy with the weight of his conflicted emotions. He shook his head, the gesture an almost physical manifestation of his internal struggle. Silently, he told himself, “You’re the one I want,” as he witnessed the brutal side of Liv he had never seen before.

The match resumed with Liv focusing her relentless attack on Rhea’s already injured shoulder. Rhea was soon outside the ring again, her pain evident as she clutched her shoulder, struggling to cope with the agony. Dominik moved quickly to her side, trying to offer what comfort he could, his concern for her clearly written across his face.

However, his attention was abruptly drawn back to Liv as she barreled toward them with a fierce determination. Dominik’s heart raced with panic as he realized the imminent danger Liv posed. Knowing that if he didn’t act, she might inadvertently hurt herself, Dominik made a rapid decision. He pushed Rhea aside with a decisive shove, then stepped into Liv’s path just as she leaped over the top rope.

In a desperate bid to protect her, Dominik caught Liv mid-air, the force of their collision sending both of them crashing down onto the mat. The impact was jarring, and Dominik felt a surge of pain course through him, the sharp sting of the landing intensifying with every second. Despite the discomfort, a wave of relief washed over him. Liv was unharmed, and in that moment, Dominik’s resolve was reinforced. His promise to protect her, no matter the cost, was fulfilled once again, even as he endured the pain himself.

The match had reached a fever pitch, with every fan in the arena hanging on every moment, captivated by the intensity of the confrontation. Dominik, though, was grappling with his own turmoil. He knew it was time to act, and with a quiet resolve, he slid a steel chair from beneath the ring, its cold metal glinting under the arena lights. He pushed the chair into the ring, his actions concealed by the chaos of the ongoing battle. His plan was to aid Liv, though neither she nor Rhea was aware of his true intentions.

In the heat of the moment, Rhea’s anger flared uncontrollably. She grabbed the steel chair, raising it high above her head, ready to bring it crashing down on Liv. The chair shimmered ominously in the arena’s lights, a symbol of Rhea’s unrestrained fury. Dominik’s heart raced as he saw the scene unfolding; this wasn’t how he had envisioned things.

He muttered a frustrated curse under his breath, realizing that the match was veering off course. With a burst of determination, he leaped onto the ring apron. His movements were quick and deliberate as he reached for the chair, yanking it out of Rhea’s hands with a sudden, forceful pull. Rhea’s eyes widened with a mix of surprise and fury as she spun around to face him.

"You can’t win like this! You know you can’t use the chair or else you’re not winning!" Dominik’s voice was sharp and authoritative, his words cutting through the clamor of the crowd and the chaos of the match. His tone was a mix of urgency and deceit, masking his true intention to protect Liv.

Rhea’s face contorted with frustration, the anger in her eyes palpable as she stared at Dominik. She was visibly irate, her breath coming in short, angry bursts. Despite her frustration, she begrudgingly acknowledged the truth in Dominik’s words. "Okay! Fine!" she snapped, her voice laced with resentment. Her anger was evident in the way she slammed her fists by her sides, though she reluctantly accepted that Dominik’s point was valid.

Suddenly, Liv launched a fierce kick, propelling Rhea against the ropes with brutal force. The impact was so intense that Dominik lost his balance and toppled off the ring apron, crashing onto the floor below. For a moment, he was stunned and disoriented, but his focus quickly shifted. He knew that with Liv now holding the upper hand, victory was within reach for her.

Liv, driven by frustration and determination, let out an exasperated scream. She raced towards Rhea, who was still caught in the ropes, and launched into her finisher—the Oblivion. The arena seemed to hold its breath as Liv executed the move with precision and force. Dominik watched from the outside, trying to contain a smirk of satisfaction. He was almost certain that Liv’s powerful maneuver would secure her win.

The referee’s hand slapped the mat—“1... 2...” But in a stunning twist, Rhea’s shoulder lifted off the mat, breaking the count. Dominik’s eyes widened in shock and disbelief. He felt a surge of frustration as the realization hit him—Rhea had somehow managed to kick out of the Oblivion, a feat no one had achieved before. Dominik's mind raced, grappling with the unexpected turn. “How the fuck did she kick out?” he wondered aloud, the frustration evident in his voice.

Liv’s reaction was one of raw exasperation. She let out another anguished scream, her face contorted in disbelief as she stared at Rhea, who was now showing signs of resilience despite the assault.

Liv's heart pounded wildly in her chest as she struggled to comprehend what had just happened. The disbelief and mounting frustration caused her hands to clench into tight fists. Every second of the match seemed to stretch into an eternity as doubt and anger churned within her.

Dominik, watching from ringside, was deeply troubled. This wasn’t the outcome he and Finn had planned, and he was determined to ensure Liv didn’t lose. His mind raced as he devised a plan to intervene without drawing attention. The steel chair he had previously taken from Rhea was his tool. With calculated precision, he slid the chair back into the ring, placing it strategically in front of Rhea, who was struggling to regain her footing.

Rhea, disoriented but resilient, began to rise, unaware of the trap being set. Liv, poised and ready, watched Rhea like a predator tracking her prey. Dominik seized the moment, sprinting to the opposite side of the apron to distract the referee. His eyes remained locked on Liv, every muscle in his body tense with anticipation.

As Dominik created a diversion, Liv took advantage of the opportunity. With Rhea’s back turned, Liv adjusted the chair slightly, setting the stage for her finisher. As she prepared for the Oblivion, the tension in the arena was palpable. Liv launched into her move with determined precision, slamming Rhea onto the steel chair with a forceful crash.

Dominik’s face split into a smirk of satisfaction as he saw the result of his interference. The chair was now clearly a part of Liv’s strategy, and he watched eagerly as she moved to push it out of sight. With the chair removed, Dominik quickly jumped off the apron, stepping back to allow the referee to resume their count.

As the referee’s hand came down for the count—“1... 2... 3...” — As the referee’s hand slapped the mat for the third count, Dominik's smirk widened into a full-fledged grin of pride. Liv had triumphed, successfully defending her title, and the sight filled him with an immense sense of satisfaction. His eyes sparkled with joy as he observed Liv's tears of happiness welling up, her emotions barely contained.

Exhausted but elated, Liv lay sprawled on the ring mat. Her chest heaved with every breath, the sheer exhaustion of the match taking its toll. Dominik watched her with a soft, admiring gaze, unable to hide his smile. The contrast between Liv’s fatigue and the ecstatic crowd created a poignant moment. The arena was alive with cheers, the roar of the fans echoing around the arena as they celebrated her hard-fought victory.

Respecting the gravity of Liv's moment, Dominik took a deliberate step away from the ring. He gave her the space to enjoy her well-earned achievement. Liv, her face awash with a mixture of disbelief and joy, slid out of the ring, clutching her championship belt close to her chest. The title, a symbol of her relentless effort and determination, seemed almost to radiate with the sweat and emotion of the battle she had just fought.

Overcome with fatigue, Liv finally sank to the floor outside the ring, unable to muster the strength to stand. She lay there, the championship belt resting beside her like a precious, hard-won trophy. Her eyes were still brimming with tears of joy as she looked up at the cheering crowd, a mix of relief and elation etched across her face. The crowd’s roar continued unabated, a fitting backdrop to her moment of victory.

Dominik watched from a distance, his heart swelling with pride and a complex mix of emotions. Despite the strategic maneuvering and the intricate plans that had guided the night, the sight of Liv's genuine happiness and the fulfillment of her hard work made everything worthwhile.

Dominik’s emotions surged uncontrollably, the weight of the moment finally overwhelming him. His heart ached with a desperate longing to hold Liv and rectify every mistake he had made. He knew that deviating from the plan and facing Finn’s anger was a risk, but the thought of Liv misinterpreting his actions any longer drove him to act.

With a determined stride, Dominik moved toward Liv, who remained oblivious to his approach, her back turned as she rested on the mat. His steps were resolute, fueled by a need to bridge the gap that had formed between them. As he drew closer, Liv suddenly felt the familiar warmth of his arms encircling her, lifting her gently off the ground. Confusion clouded her face as she looked up to see Dominik’s concerned eyes meeting hers. He helped her to her feet with a tenderness that seemed at odds with the intensity of the moment.

Liv, too exhausted and disoriented to resist, could only stare at him in bewilderment. Dominik’s gaze shifted to Rhea, a smirk forming on his lips as he looked back at Liv. His hands cupped her face with a gentle, reassuring touch, his thumb lightly brushing her cheek. Liv’s confusion deepened, her heart racing as their eyes locked, the unspoken emotions between them palpable.

In a soft, fervent whisper, Dominik said, "I love you." The words were barely audible, but they carried a weight that made Liv’s heart pound even harder. She blinked, trying to process his confession. “What?” she managed to mutter, her voice trembling with a mix of confusion and anticipation.

Before she could react further, Dominik closed the distance between them, his lips capturing hers in a passionate kiss. The contact was sudden and intense, a mixture of all the emotions and unspoken words that had built up between them. Liv’s mind raced as the kiss deepened, the heat of the moment enveloping them both. For Dominik, it was a chance to convey his feelings, his remorse, and his unwavering affection in one powerful gesture.

As Dominik’s lips met Liv’s, she instinctively dropped her title, its metallic clatter barely registering amidst the overwhelming emotions. The kiss sparked a flurry of butterflies in her stomach, a sensation that dissolved all the pain and anger she had been holding onto. In that moment, Dominik’s presence eclipsed everything else, including her championship. Her heart was completely devoted to him, and she felt an unwavering readiness to do anything for him.

Liv’s smaller hands instinctively cupped Dominik’s cheeks, her touch tender and reassuring. The kiss, passionate and intense, was not just a declaration of love but a profound affirmation of their connection. Rhea, watching from the sidelines, was paralyzed by disbelief and seething with a mix of betrayal and anger. The scene was a stark contrast to her own turmoil, leaving her heart churning with resentment.

But for Dominik, the presence of Rhea and the world’s judgment was irrelevant. His focus was solely on Liv. He was resolute in his desire to make his feelings known, regardless of the consequences. After their lips parted, they remained close, their foreheads resting against each other, their breaths mingling as they steadied themselves. Their noses brushed lightly, a symbol of their deep, intimate bond.

Liv’s voice, soft yet clear, broke the heavy silence. “I love you too,” she said, a smile tugging at her lips, her eyes shining with unspoken emotions. Dominik felt his cheeks flush with warmth at her words. Overwhelmed by a surge of affection and relief, he pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her. Together, they began to walk away, their connection palpable and unbreakable. They moved past Rhea without sparing her a glance, fully immersed in their shared moment of reconciliation and love.

Dominik carefully took the championship title that was on the floor and placed it gently on Liv's shoulder, his touch tender and deliberate. Liv’s eyes sparkled with disbelief and joy as she cradled the title, a symbol of her hard-fought victory. He wanted her to understand that she didn’t have to choose between her achievements and their love—she could cherish both.

As they walked away, their arms entwined, they remained oblivious to the discontent surrounding them. Dominik offered a nonchalant shoulder shrug towards Rhea, who stood on the edge of the ring, her face contorted in betrayal and anger. "Cry about it, bitch!" Liv exclaimed, her grin wide.

Dominik, still reveling in the moment, raised his middle finger in defiance towards those who were upset. The gesture was both rebellious and playful, reflecting his disregard for the negativity directed at them.

For Liv, the significance of Dominik’s actions was clear. In that moment, she realized that what had seemed like a strategic façade was actually a profound declaration of his love. It wasn’t just part of the plan—it was the truth. Dominik’s feelings were genuine, and his affection was deeply felt.

Feeling a surge of fulfillment, Dominik embraced the sense of possession and pride he felt. Liv was his, and he wanted the world to know. His hands gently patted her hair, his touch affectionate as she giggled with happiness. "Mi princesa," he murmured softly, his voice filled with adoration. The term of endearment, spoken with a tone brimming with love, encapsulated the deep bond they shared. In that intimate moment, Dominik felt complete, and Liv knew she was cherished.

After all they had endured, those three little words—"I love you"—held a profound significance, crystallizing their experiences into a moment of pure, genuine joy. They had weathered pain, deception, and heartache, but those words had become their anchor, a constant reminder of the depth of their connection. In the embrace of each other’s arms, their hearts beat in unison, the weight of their struggles melting.

Those words were not just spoken—they were lived, and they formed the very essence of their happiness as they stood together, stronger and more united than ever.

[angelstate]

"Shattering Touch"

Selfish!Soap x Victim!Reader

he was never the enemy, you know it. He was just another man who isn’t aware of the daggers he carries on his hands, too stupid to realize he is stabbing you with every gentle touch.

it doesn’t take the fault from him and it doesn’t change anything about the pain, the blood or the unfading scars on your body. You wish it did but wishing doesn’t grant anything more than hopes too ephemeral to hold onto them.

You know better than to wait around for an apology, for him to show he cares when you know he doesn’t, and it’s comical in some degree. How blissfully unaware he is of it all, how the blood on the sheets doesn’t face him as he strokes your hair while pretending the tears aren’t falling from your eyes.

If it was any other man you would’ve been out the door a long time ago, but there’s something about the way his fingers run (stab) through your hair strands, how he whispers words you don’t care to pay attention to, a sense of quietness in the unmistakable loudness his voice carries even when he is pretending like he’s revealing his secrets to you.

like he is filling the table with every possible bad thing he’s done and waiting for you to whisper back that he did it for a reason, that his good intentions behind every horrible action don’t get past you, but they do, you couldn’t see an ounce of goodness in the man lying beside you.

Maybe if you were drunk or high, stupid or naive, bitter or evil, maybe then you would've seen things from his demented perspective, maybe then everything bad he's done would seem good, like an angel mistaken for a demon. 

maybe his bruising grip would seem to be a favor rather than a punishment, but God, you are nothing but undeniably aware of his true colors, of the dark pigment his heart is made out of, what really goes through his head as he has you close to him, drawing stars with his fingers as if he hadn’t caused the wounds himself.

Part of you tries to force you to remember you entered his apartment willingly, that the discomfort only began once you realized you weren’t prepared, but if he was far too gone then what would you be able to do? Are you that strong to push him off of you?

Clearly you weren’t, and the word No never surfaced to your mouth, it didn’t spill from your lips, so who is really at fault, him for pleasuring you? or you for never telling him you didn’t want it?

Communication was never your strong point, always backtracking, stuttering over your words or never speaking at all, swallowing the discomfort until you choked on it, unable to keep to yourself because otherwise you would die.

“What’s on your mind, bonnie?” Johnny speaks after what seems an eternity of silence, breaking the little piece in your surroundings with a question you do not want to answer, he wasn’t at fault after all, still a bit of anger saturated your brain, tears falling from your eyes and wetting the pillow but no sobs fall from your lips, they are sealed shut as the two of you make eye contact.

He doesn’t speak another word, doesn’t make questions about your tears and the lack of any emotion on your face, expressionless as you study his features, remembering the scars, the dimples, the small freckles littered on his nose.

And he’s beautiful, undeniably so, but a lack of ugliness on the outside does nothing to get rid of the ugliness on the inside, you know that very well, if only you could make your way into his mind, read every little thought, see what he thinks of you. Get to know if you're just another woman on the long list of women he’s been with.

Just a vessel to get rid of his stress and then discard without a second thought, not caring to see if he broke something. You don’t know if he’s that type of man, if he can fall that low into the worst category of men roaming the earth but you don’t take your chances, trying to look into his soul even if he doesn’t give you access to it.

“Nothing” you whisper, voice strained and almost inaudible for him to understand the one word answer you so graciously gave him after what seemed to be years of silence spent in a matter of only two minutes.

Johnny doesn’t respond with words, just humming softly, as if studying your words the same way you’re studying everything about him, and it’s an intimate moment, though you can’t decide if that makes the situation better or worse. maybe it’s both, it doesn’t really matter, you can’t escape either way.

He isn’t one to keep silent, to let the awkwardness drag you two around for too long before he begins another topic of conversation even when he notices your lack of response, eager to spend time, eager to share and fascinate you with the knowledge he has, you guess that this time he wasn’t his usual self because he could sense something out of place.

A functioning clock with a sudden delay, not a drastic difference but noticeable if it’s been a regular company that only tonight seems to be out of order, and Johnny isn’t one to dwell into small changes and fuss over them, adjusting and continuing living as years in the military have taught him.

But tonight is you who seemed to have changed, and if it had been someone he didn't love then he would’ve let it pass, but is you, pretty soft spoken you, who is too afraid to use her voice to speak out about what bothers you. And because it’s you he can’t help but bring himself to care about your state, not knowing how to approach you to help you.

Like trying to aid a wounded wild animal, dangerous and unpredictable but he is wholeheartedly dedicated to be the rescue he knows you need, unaware that he is one who harmed you in the first place.

“Does it hurt?” He asks yet another question, voice a little bit more warm and gentle, one he doesn’t necessarily use, but you are always deserving of the most gentle touch, even if the most gentle he can be still causes bruises that you can’t seem to heal.

And of course it hurts, and aches deep into your bones that makes every limb feel like it’s shattered and beyond repair, but so hurts your mind, and there is no remedy for that either. you don’t blame him right now, can’t bring yourself to, maybe in the morning you will, but the sun is gone and therefore any sort of rage is gone too.

“A bit, yeah” you respond, body curling on itself till your almost in a fetal position, burying your face in the pillow as more tears fall from your eyes, and you don't feel used nor dirty, just stupid and submerged in a type of pain that aches but isn’t big enough to manifest in bruises, so you can only guess that is all in your mind.

that your brain is making you feel the pain in your limbs so as to not drive your mind into madness, but if it’s a means to survive then you’re doing it very poorly as you always do. 

Johnny places a hand on your cheek ,the warmth of his palm seeping into your cold skin, a shuttered breath passing through your lips, your eyes closing tightly as if that would stop the tears from flowing so desperately out of them, like everything is trying to escape from inside, if only you could escape from yourself too.

“Mind telling me how to help you Bonnie? i don’ like seeing you like this” is stupidly sweet of him, so out of character yet a perfect demonstration of who he is behind closed doors, and you would follow him everywhere if he spoke this softly to you always, if he was this gentle and caring.

You shouldn’t make the sweet moment bitter with past memories of when he forgets kindness exists and harms you out of selfishness, but it is as if your brain can help but bring everything out all at once, trying to create a disorientated perception as to how everything is developing right now. You hate yourself at times because of this.

“i don’t want help” you say, voice so infuriatingly soft and gentle at this moment even though you’re dying on the inside, because even when you refuse to be helped by him you can’t stop but be apologetic when you deny him of something as simple as coddling you, when it’s rare the instances he actually brings himself to think of you in a way that isn’t centered around himself.

“I didn't ask that, did i? asked yae how can i help yae, not if yae wanted help bonnie” he replies to your words with an almost mocking tone, and if it wasn’t for the gentleness his eyes held you could have sworn he was angry at you for not relying on him to calm down.

and you didn’t need his help nor did you want it, your only wish to be out the door, wanting to run away from him, to never face your problems and to be left alone forever. But with him it is not possible, holding you hostage as he wants to do something good against your will.

and at some point you feel witless in his hands as he begins to mold you into what he wants you to be, to make you take and give everything he demands, if it had been in another instance you would've bent over backwards to accommodate him, but not tonight.

because you're naked in a bed that isn’t yours, covering your body with blankets that do nothing to keep you warm and it’s humiliating to be in this position with someone who claims to love you more than he loves himself, you would call bullshit if you had the energy to do so.

The truth is that this always ends with you admitting that even with every bad thing he does, you forgive him regardless.

He’s Johnny, the man who does things wrong before getting them right, who is apologetic in the end even if it takes time for him to get there. He is a good man when he wants to be. You force yourself to remember that.

He doesn’t want to fight you or see you leave tonight, there’s a loneliness that comes with not having you by his side that leaves him empty and breathless in ways that doesn’t let him sleep at night, you’re a sort of drug that he needs to consume often as to not lose his sanity.

“there’s no way for you to help me” It’s a dry response, you know it is, but you’ve never been good with delivering the truth to someone who would rather not hear it even if they need to. Johnny is the type of person who prefers to live in his delusions than to see the bigger picture. Especially when it comes to you.

If he means any good right now he makes sure to not make it noticeable, a frown on his eyebrows as he looks at you like you had denied him water after spending hours under the sun on a hot summer day.

Tonight is cold and humid thankfully, you’re not depriving him of nothing he needs, just of his wants. 

You don't resent him from demanding, knowing he means well in his own selfish way, but this isn’t about him and that is reason enough to shut him off, to try and fix something he didn’t even realize he broke. It is too late to make him care either way.

For the rest of the week he doesn’t know anything about you, you vanished like a cloud of smoke does with the wind, almost like your sole existence had been a fidget of his imagination, a delusion that got too real.

He's determined to find you again, to make something out of the lack of your presence while he collects the broken pieces he finds along the way of meeting you again, and he knows he’s done something wrong to cause you this much recoil after being by his side.

There must be a reason as to why you left and refuse to let him in again despite his words of worry, you must have a particular motive to shut him down so harshly because he is beginning to doubt you ever existed in his life in the first place, like an imaginary friend his mind suddenly vanished.

“Cap, do you know anything about the lass?” Johnny finally brings himself to ask about you to other people, swallowing his pride and accepting that if he wanted to recover the contact he didn’t know why he lost with you then he must ask the right people, like Captain Price.

“Why the question?” Price doesn’t give him the satisfaction of a straight answer, and Johnny knows he doesn’t exactly deserve it, you're not one to desert people without a reason but still, being denied an explanation makes him bitter.

Soap doesn’t and bring himself to answer him because truth to be told, he doesn’t want to speak about being ignored by the only person that brought any sense of innocence into his life, he doesn’’t want to say out loud he had been the reason of your sudden dissappearance although he doesn’t know which exact part of him fuck everything up.

he swallows the bitterness that threatens to spill from his mouth, he is a bad man but he isn’t a bad soldier or so he tries to remember that at this moment, he knows to be a behaved dog, that it won't do any good to bite, bark will have to do.

In his mind it isn’t fair how you get to hide and pretend he doesn’t exist like nothing has ever happened, and maybe he’s being selfish, maybe he’s surrounded himself too much with Ghost that now morals seem to strip off of him no matter how much a small part of him whispers he’s done something wrong.

“Lass hadn’t been doing alright the last I saw her, that’s why” Soap lies through his teeth, making a point in being vague and cleaning himself off of any fault, if you hadn’t told Price about whatever made you run away then Soap wasn’t going to be giving off any signal he had something to do with it. Evil or not, he cared for what his Captain thought of him.

Price seems to be deep in thought for a moment, taking a puff from his cigar and holding the smoke into his lungs before exhaling, a cloud forming around him and dispersing, the smell of tobacco lingering all around the room.

“I haven't seen her” the captain finally speaks, his voice gruff and with a glint of something else, something Soap can’t identify but makes his back feel like it’s on fire. furthermore, he feels as if he's being lied to, price must know where you are, after all you don't just lose your pet and not go looking for it, right?

“Is there a reason she could've come into my office, Sargent?” Price presses into the matter and although he's a straightforward man, there's something deep into his chest that makes him act differently this time, taking precaution around the ticking bomb that Johnny was.

Soap exhales through his nose and his hands form into tight fists and then releases his grasp, breathing in all the oxygen he can steal from between the clouds of smoke and nicotine in the room.

“Lass has been acting skittish, s’all. wouldn't want her…hurt” He replies tilting his head a little too much to the side to be seen as a natural movement and even less so a comfortable position for his neck to uphold, all the blood pooling to one side of his brain, concerning because of how much sanity he already seems to lack.

He returns to his normal stance of confidence, arrogance. It seems he slipped the mask back on after a moment of weakness, hiding the ugliness he knows nobody should see.

The words Captain Price thought of speaking get lost in the smoke filling the room the more he listens to Soap talk, he'd never been one to judge but is his job to notice change, to pinpoint the rotten apple among the other fruit.

It worries him that Soap, no, Johnny appears to be rotting, decaying like an aching tooth from too much sugar. It makes Price wonder about you and if by any chance your sweetness is the one rotting away his Sargent.

(hiii~ im thinking about turning this into a small series so i force myself to write again)

[georgiapeach30513]

A Snowflake Melts, Part 2

Summary: a blizzard is coming

Pairings: Steve Rogers X Reader

Rating: mild

Warnings:  mild language, just one bed, stalking, 18+ ONLY

Word Count: 3.5K

Previous

Series Masterlist

A scent. It wasn’t much. But Jack has gone off less than that before. It was getting a bit close to Christmas, but he had already made early rounds. Who cares if winter is longer than usual? He had bigger problems; finding you. You are what’s important. Your family even said so. They are growing suspicious of him, which means you are talking to someone, but spreading lies about his relationship, and what actually happened.

He never got a chance to explain. Winter relied on him. And you, just like a coward left. He growls, sitting down on the tree branch as he looks at the beauty he created. Once you told him that he made things look magical. That you loved winter, and would always stay in winter. You promised on your stupid cat that you couldn’t live where there wasn’t snow…

He jumps onto the crystallized snow, his feet leaving large craters in the icy white, and he just walks. He smelled you. Marshmallows. The best thing he’s ever smelt. You are close. He knows it. Blowing out a long breath a large gust of wind stirs up more snow. He cracks his neck as he starts to trudge through what you called the most beautiful thing on earth. Fresh fallen snow. Purity. A new start.

He would find you. And you would be his.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you get on to your Mistletoe who perches on the counter beside you. Her judging green eyes watch you as you look out your kitchen window. Winter is getting worse. You thought you had chosen a place that snowed a lot, but this is different.

“I know what this means,” you are out here all alone. And with winter like this, you shouldn’t go outside and care for the animals. The very ones that were keeping you alive. “Missy, they’ll starve if I don’t.”

She snarls and hisses at you, looking out towards Steve’s cabin. “I can’t…we barely know him.”

Meow.

“I can’t go out in the snow even if I wanted to. Jack will find us. And judging by this storm that wasn’t on the radar…Missy, he’s close.”

Meow.

Mistletoe jumps down from the counter, and lifts her paw to scratch at the door. This cat is too smart for her own good. She wants to collect Steve. And you’re sure he doesn’t understand her way of communicating. You aren’t even sure you did, or if it’s because of your seclusion.

“What are you going to do, tell him to get his butt down here with Sugar Cookie, and we live in the cabin for the rest of the winter and make him sleep on the couch?” Missy stares at you, pawing at the door again.

You couldn’t stop looking up the road, waiting for him to come back down here to you. It is ridiculous how everyday you would hope for a visit from him. You enjoyed his company. He made you not feel so alone, while also it was nice to look at him. And he was funny. He was kind. He was everything you had always wanted.

His eyes. My goodness he had the sweetest eyes. His dog is very cute as well. And…

Mistletoe scratches at the air and lets out an angry hiss towards you. “You know I can’t go out in the snow, and I don’t know how to get in touch with Steve. He just shows up at the right time.”

She growls at you again, and you exhale loudly. “Fine,” walking over to the door, you give it a tug, letting her shimmy out. Her toned legs carry her directly towards Steve’s house. With a bit of a struggle, you close and lock the door immediately. Dropping the curtain.

Jack would want your Christmas to be miserable. Bitter and cold. Sighing, you start to close all the curtains around the house. If he couldn’t see you, he couldn’t find you. If you didn’t invite him in, he couldn’t get to you. There is enough stuff in the basement to keep you well fed. Steve had even stacked up firewood beside your heater, even more on the porch.

You didn’t talk about Jack. He just knew you were afraid of winter. And they were the same thing.

—

Steve jolts in his chair when he hears the tiny scratches, and even Sugar Cookie wiggles her entire body as she moves for the door waiting on her owner to open up. Mistletoe dashes in, meowing up at Steve. “Well, hello, you little bully. What can I do for you today?”

Circling Steve’s feet, she walks over to the door, looking back to the man, and Sugar Cookie joins in to look at him. “She’s not in trouble is she?” Mistletoe huffs, looking up at Steve. “So…is your mom just wanting me to visit? Clearly we need to exchange phone numbers. I don’t turn my phone off. Okay, okay,” he grins, grabbing for his phone and coat. Opening up the door to let both animals out, but Mistletoe stops.

Her ears twitch around, and her eyes look all around before she dashes down the road. “Sugar, let’s go, sweetheart. That cat never gets in a hurry.”

His feet slams into the snow as the wind whips around the odd trio. Beating the animals to the porch, he knocks quickly on the door, and it isn’t until Mistletoe lets out a blood curdling meow that you look up from the middle of the floor, “Missy?”

Walking to the door, you press your head against it. Fear courses through your veins after that sound, “Baby, are you alone?”

“Holly, it’s me.”

“Steve? She brought you? I’m being so rude,” you get an eerie feeling when you open the door. Inhaling deeply, just to be sure. No peppermint. You are safe, for now, “Thanks for tapping the snow off,” even if you hadn't known him long he always seems to remember your needs.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” You couldn’t deny your splotchy face and red rimmed eyes. But you don’t want to talk about it either. Steve would think you’re crazy. No one would ever understand your family dynamic. Instead you just shake your head, wiping away the stray tears on your face.

“I don’t want to force you, but you gotta give me something. Missy kinda scared me.”

“There’s a storm going on, and…it wasn’t on the radar, and I don’t want to be alone,” unannounced storms always meant Jack’s anger. He still hadn’t forgotten. He is still looking for you.

“Okay, you gotta couch,” even though his fingers are ice cold from outside, when he touches your arm, and pulls your body into his, it’s pure warmth. A coziness that feels like hot chocolate running down into your tummy. “I’ll leave the animals here. Let me get some more firewood loaded up, and clothes, and some extra food because I eat a lot. We’ll have a freeze-in, okay?”

“Did it smell like peppermint out there?” You hate that scent. It always meant Jack was near. He doesn’t laugh or look at you like you’re crazy. His smile softens as he hugs you again.

“No, let me get all that ready. The way this snow is coming down, I don’t have much time. I’m sure it’ll be piled all the way up to the windows. You stay here. Keep the doors locked, and breathe. When I come back, I’ll let you make some of your amazing soup while you tell me what’s really going on. I’ll even make brownies.”

You don’t want him to leave, and still understand why he needs to. Biting at your lip, you nod your head. “Don’t start cutting any vegetables until I get back, okay?”

“Okay,” he bundles himself up before heading towards the door again, “Steve, be careful, okay?”

“I will. You stay right here. Wood, more food, and clothes.”

“Toothbrush.”

“That, too. Stay warm,” he playfully demands before swiftly squeezing through the door.

“So, you gonna tell more about it?” You take a sip of your hot chocolate, your eyes staring blankly at Sugar Cookie and Mistletoe snuggling together by the door. Mistletoe always stayed close to the door in winter. Sometimes she’d hop into the bed with you, but she stood her guard by the main entrance. She is a smart kitty after all.

It had been so long since you fully got to snuggle with someone during your favorite time of year. You should be joyful, and instead you let your photography stop, you quit calling your parents, hell you left the most magical place in the world all because of Jack.

You now lived in so much isolation, you lost a bit of yourself. You turn your head away from Steve as you gaze at the curtains covering the big window in the living room. You loved snow. Loved to watch the tiny little snowflakes drift to the earth. You would have never had the curtains closed. You couldn’t even remember if Jack watched the snow with you.

So much of the good times were forgotten as his forever cold heart couldn’t take your glowing warmth. A joy that burned brightly in your soul like embers in a fire.

“You love and fear the winter,” he isn’t even asking. He hasn’t known you long, but he can see it. You nod your head, still keeping your head turned away from him. Having to wipe away a tear that didn’t want to stay put. “You don’t have to talk about it, Holly. I’m just trying to understand. We got a few days of being trapped in here.”

“You’re right,” sniffling, you turn to look back at the girls, as Steve sweetly calls them. They’re comfortable. Missy actually looks like she’s resting. “It’s hard being alone, and scared of winter, and still, I can’t leave.”

“An ex?” Of course Steve could sense that you were running and hiding from someone.

“Yeah,” you sigh, turning to fully look at Steve. “He wasn’t always bad. He’s different. Very powerful, and thrives this time of year. He became cold and unkind, and then possessive and obsessive, and…Steve, he wasn’t nice,” Steve looks away for a few seconds, his jaw clenching tight, and his knuckles turning white from how hard he’s gripping the couch.

“Did…did he,” he takes a deep breath, finally looking at you. “Did he hurt you?”

“It’s complicated,” his hand moves towards you, and you have to look at Missy, and her lazy self is snoring with Sugar Cookie. She was comfortable with Steve. She never had this sense of comfort with Jack. “No, it is complicated. He just…he’s always trying to compete with my dad, and…”

“Did he hurt you?” .

“He’s out of my life though.”

“And you’re still hiding, and afraid to touch something that you love,” even though you can feel his anger, you don’t fear him like you did with Jack. Steve’s anger is protective, and it gives you this strange feeling of importance. He wanted to keep you safe.

“He’s very powerful. You don’t understand.”

There’s a moment drifting between you and Steve, and only the girls’ snores and the crackling of the fireplace can be heard. You aren’t even sure if you’re breathing anymore, just waiting on what he has to say. This is going to be awkward starting off with an argument.

“I want to understand, and I’ll listen whenever you want to explain it to me. For now, why don’t you tell me about your family. Your dad is still alive?” You love talking about your family. They are the best family, and you hate that you’re having to be away from them in any capacity. “What’s his name?”

“Kris. My mom’s name is Carol.”

“There’s that smile. The one you were too shy to share with me. Why do you love winter so much?”

Your body relaxes into the couch again. Finally a topic you didn’t mind talking about a bit more. You can’t say too much, some things you just have to ease into, and him knowing about your family is one of them. Maybe one day things could be different.

“People dread winter, but there’s so much beauty in it. We get Christmas, and the world freezes for a moment. It stops and slows down, and everyone with it. We learn to appreciate the more simple things in life. The world just rests, and we do, too. And if you’re lucky to get snow, it’s beautiful. It looks like glitter. Do you not like winter?” You ask, biting at your lip.

Steve hadn’t stopped smiling at you. With every word you said, you just lit up. You had a calmness about you as you spoke about why you loved your favorite season, instead of hating it. You are absolutely stunning. Breathtaking even.

“Steve, stop staring at me like that,” Missy peeks open her eyes, and then settles herself right on top of Sugar Cookie. Neither you or Steve notice anything outside this bubble you had created.

You fear that if you say anything else that the warmth inside the bubble would dissipate. You wanted to keep it forever. What is it about Steve that makes you want him closer to your body? So you scoot a tiny bit closer. Close enough that your knees brush against each other, and you feel his warmth.

“W-what is it that your father does?” He hiccups, still not breaking the gaze he has on you.

“He’s a delivery man of sorts.”

“Amazing,” he whispers out. His finger brushes back some of your baby hairs, and they tickle along the shell of your ear. “The hot chocolate. It’s…it’s amazing. And your life sounds incredible,” he didn’t even know the half of it.

“Thanks. I used to put peppermint in it. The smell makes me sick to my stomach now. What about your family?”

“They passed a long time ago. I don’t really like to talk about it. So explain to me, you love your home and your family, and you came here to hide from your ex?” Saying it out loud sounds silly. You’re sure your parents could help you out. In some ways, your dad was Jack’s boss. But did you want them to? Did you want them to know how Jack really was?

“What did you do?” Steve really wanted to change the subject away from his family. Hopefully one day you hope he will open up to you. Even though you had secrets concerning your family, you’re telling him enough for now.

“I take pictures. My social media did well. I focused on Christmas. Traveled to different places to see how they celebrated, and what they ate. What their traditions were. I love every aspect of Christmas. It’s in my blood. Like…kinda like it’s in my blood,” you correct quickly. Steve had that same dopey look on his face as before, and you aren’t sure what to make of it. But it makes you feel fuzzy, “What?”

“I love to hear you talk about your passions. So if you’re not on your social media, who is seeing your work?”

“No one.”

“Can I see?”

You hadn’t logged in for so long. It was a creative outlet for you. Everyone always admired your parents, never even realizing who you are. What you could do. You enjoyed it. “You don’t have to show me.”

It was time that you stopped being so scared. You could turn off locations on your phone, Jack could find you in other ways. Why did you allow him to control so much of your life? It was time. Especially now that you were no longer alone.

Sighing, you stand to go get your phone, feeling Steve’s eyes watching your back until you return. The lazy Missy didn’t even stir. Her comfort relaxes you even more. She trusts Steve. She trusts no one outside of your family.

Turning your phone on, you click on the app, and hand it over to him. Letting him browse through your photos and reels. Each second his smile gets larger. Spreading wide across his face, “The spirit of Christmas, huh?”

“It’s what my dad always called me. Said that my enthusiasm towards the holiday is what made everything so holly and jolly,” you giggle thinking about how winters held so much warmth when you were home.

“So,” he says, putting down your phone. “What are our holiday traditions going to be this year? You don’t even have a tree up,” why and how is this man so adorable? Saying all the right words. “I’m just saying, it is very close to Christmas. What about these cookies? Triple chocolate oatmeal cookies, we should make some for Santa.”

“They’re my dad’s favorite,” you haven’t smiled like this in so long. Even though a blizzard is happening outside, the cabin is so warm and cozy, and it has nothing to do with the fireplace. You didn’t feel so alone. And then his hand naturally lands on your thigh, and you lean into his touch. It feels like flurries stir around in your belly, but you don’t want to pull away.

There doesn’t seem to be this veil of awkwardness looming over the two of you, it just is, and it is so amazing. “Okay, so it is late. Tomorrow we put up a tree of sorts.”

“I have a fake one under my bed. I don’t like walking in the snow.”

“I could pick us one out, but it’s not the same if we’re not together. I think the fake one will be perfect this time. Maybe next year, you’ll be more comfortable venturing out into the snow?” You nod your head with a smile. You already feel more confident about winter. “So the cookies?”

“I always have the ingredients for those cookies,” you look over to your bedroom. You can’t even believer you’re thinking this, much less ready to say it out loud. Steve is such a large man, and this couch was kind of small. What kind of host would you be? You needed him and basically invited him into your home. He is keeping you safe, and you can’t make him think you don’t want to extend some hospitality, “I feel bad that there’s only one bed.”

“You have a comfy couch,” huffing out a laugh, you look towards the girls, and Missy and Sugar Cookie have their heads lifted up, staring at you. If you were a crazy person, you’d think they were encouraging you to invite him into your bed. But you’re not that crazy.

“I have a big bed, too. I mean, lots of blankets, and there could still be enough space between us, and,” both the cat and the dog lay their heads back down, pretending to sleep. Now you worry that you are going crazy, “You don’t have to stay on the couch.”

“I won’t sleep in your bed if you’re not comfortable.”

“I wouldn't have asked if I wasn’t comfortable. But before bed, maybe we can watch a movie or something, and you decide how you feel? It doesn’t have to feel weird. And if you want to sleep on the couch you can, and if you change your mind in the middle of the night, you can.”

“I think that sounds amazing. Only if Missy will let me sleep in the bed with you,” she doesn’t look when Steve says her name, just stretches out a bit more on Sugar Cookie. “Here’s to new traditions,” Steve says proudly with his mug held high.

“To new traditions, and new friendships,” friendship. Even if you wish it could be so much more. “Wait! A new picture for my grid!” You snap a photo of the two half-drunk mugs. Editing the photo in a way that you can’t see nothing but the wooden coffee table and mugs. Your parents will be shocked to see two.

To new traditions, and new friendships.

And you hope to forgetting your ex.

Jack’s hand shakes with fury, and he cracks his neck, screaming up into the frosty air as he slings his phone onto the ground. “Little bitch!” He screams. You are playing games with him. Friendships. Traditions. Traditions weren’t new. They were what you did every year.

He just can’t believe you would come back to social media with a stupid post like that. You were supposed to spend Christmas with him! Winter with him.

Jingle bells.

Why the hell could he hear jingle bells as his snowflakes float to the ground. There is a warm smell in the air…marshmallows mixed with cinnamon. Oh, he’s angry. Furious. You are spending time with someone that is not him. If you want to spend your time elsewhere, he’ll make sure that they can’t get to you ever again.

Wherever you are, you’ll be trapped all alone. And with your scent becoming more powerful, he is close. And he will find you. And you’ll be all snowed in. Just the way you belonged.

Next

Masterlist

Taglist: @tis-thedamn-season @marveloustaylortot @pono-pura-vida @peaches1958 @seitmai @smile1318 @andydrysdalerogers @cjand10 @midnightramyeoncravings @kmc1989 @floral-recs @pandaxnienke

[epiphany-of-a-madwoman]

The Great War | Regulus Black

▹ Pairing: Regulus Black x Reader

▹ Genre: Angst and Fluff

▹ Words: ~ 5K

▹ Summary: You'd swore not to cry anymore if you and Regulus managed to survive the great war.

▹ Notes: I'd like to personally thank the Anon that reminded me nearly a year ago about Sirius Black dying without knowing his brother wasn't like their parents. To alleviate the sadness of that fact, I wrote this fic :)

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

Your memories were plagued by cold winter nights and eyes as bright and bitter as a snow storm. 

Regulus' hands in yours, interlocked with a grip so tight it kept you from floating away. Stolen stares and clandestine meetings in the middle of the night at the top of the Astronomy tower became sacred, only for him to never look your way in the light of day. 

You knew every constellation, both in the sky and in his eyes. When snow fell, Regulus would carefully brush away the melted snow droplets on your cheeks. The air was biting and the wind unrelenting, a concoction that made for the perfect excuse to nuzzle into Regulus' side. You'd pretend it was for warmth when really you craved his touch. His lips would tilt into a half-smirk as you spoke, seeing through your flimsy excuse. Yet his arm would wrap around you all the same, pulling you impossibly close. 

The moments had been brief, gone within the blink of an eye. Reality would creep in, dampening the dreamy optimism you clung to in moments of doubt. No one could know; Regulus Black was consorting with a muggleborn, how scandalous. His family would eat him alive, a notion that made him keep you in the shadows, a place you happily stayed. You'd draw stars in the air with your fingertips, placating your fears with delusions that it wouldn't be forever. Each whispered word was an oath that you would carry to your grave. 

You'd never doubted that Regulus Black loved you; you could hear it in the easy silence and see it in the soft expression reserved just for you. Understanding and calm, he clung to the tranquility you brought to his turbulent life. So certain that everything would turn out fine, you never dared to ask for more. 

Then, it all turned into something bitter.

He slipped from your grasp like water, his feather light touches and sardonic smile only felt and seen in your dreams. The haze brought by the security of Hogwarts was muddied, reality much too bright to look at head-on. War gripped the wizarding world; Voldemort and his Death Eaters were the cause of the strife. Thrown into the trenches, you struggled to stay above water. With each mission and spell cast, any trace of innocence and youth that remained was ripped from you. All the bloodshed, death, and terror stained you dark red. Even if you survived, you'd never be the same.

You hadn't seen Regulus since the war started; even in your dreams, his face was a vague blur of what he used to be. You couldn't recall when the severing had happened; the letters came less frequently until they stopped coming at all. He used to drop by your apartment unannounced, a shy grin and flowers in hand. Regulus must've lost his way because he never made his way back. The love shared between the two of you turned bitter, and in the haze of it all, the betrayal stung harsher than any spell could. 

You damned him each time the phantom scent of his cologne lingered in your apartment. And you cried each time flashes of your best moments came back in the depth of night. Sucker punching walls and screaming into the sky never alleviated the pain; you cursed him while sleep talking. It was cognitive dissonance; you claimed to hate him all while wishing he would just come back and explain why.

"You good for this?" Sirius Black's voice echoed in the depths of your mind, breaking you from the reverie. Twin gray eyes, reflecting similar to his brother's. It was nearly enough to send you into a spiral. A simple nod was the only reply you gave him, but it was all he needed. 

Another mission, another attempt at stopping what was starting to feel inevitable. You didn't want to be so hopeless and desolate, but it couldn't be helped. The walls were closing in; you were losing the war.

"We all remember the plan, right?" A member of the order said. You couldn't remember their name, but you didn't care to. They may be dead in a week. There's no sense in getting to know them now. 

"Was there even much of a plan? We go in and minimize as much damage as we can, that's it," James Potter's voice stood out amongst the chatter. The rest of the members assigned to the mission solemnly nod, calling out various agreements. 

Numbness flooded your body, completely apathetic to the chaos you were charging headfirst into. This part used to be daunting, stabbing tiny needles in your body, but you'd desensitized yourself to it. Dissociated so far away that you weren't even sure anything was real. Healthy? No, but it was necessary; you couldn't afford to freeze up.

The people around you began to apparate and you followed suit. It felt as if you were being pulled apart and put back together. A thought flickered in your mind; perhaps if you were spliced, you wouldn't have to deal with the emotional turmoil that's been weighing you down. But all too soon, the feeling stopped; a wave of nausea hit and then vanished. 

You were there. 

It all became a blur; the exact moment the fight broke out was hard to pinpoint. All you could remember were the screams and the people pushing and pulling you like the tide. In the confusion of it all, masked figures around every corner, it was easy to forget you were fighting real people. They were skeletal visages you created, not living, breathing people. Bodies began to drop on both sides, curses and spells falling from the lips of everyone around. 

“Petrificus Totalus.” You flicked your wand, petrifying the Death Eater closest to you. With a thump, their body fell to the ground, and you were on to the next, adrenaline keeping your body upright. You turn the incantation to another spell on the tip of your lips. But your words fell short, your body locking up as you stared at the person in front of you. It was as if you'd been cursed, except you hadn't.

They wore a mask like all the other Death Eaters, but the icy gray eyes peering at you were hard to forget. 

Regulus. 

You froze, unable to move even as your mind screamed at you to act. The noise of the room was muffled, a sharp ringing nearly making your ears bleed. Regulus was a--

You'd suspected as much, what with his family's allegiance to the Dark Lord and all he stood for. Yet until now, there has been no confirmation that your worst nightmares have come to fruition. But as Regulus stood there in the garb of your enemy, it would seem war found you on different ends of the same battlefield. 

A bitter, smokey taste filled your mouth as everything the two of you shared turned to ash. He was here; there was no more denying what he'd done. Regulus was a Death Eater. Your stomach turned to knots as it threatened to empty its contents right then and there. Fighting for the blood purists, you guess he never really loved you then.

Regulus tore off his mask, allowing it to drop to the ground with a thud that wasn't heard over the noise. His dark hair was messy and tangled, the ends of it curling from the sweat on the nape of his neck. Heavy dark circles lined his eyes, worse than they'd ever been, skin pallid and sickly. Eyes that previously shone like a bright star were dim and threatening to burn out. Dry skin clung to his lips, and you could see the damage his teeth had caused to his bottom lip. 

He looked terrible. 

Regulus had talked in length about the stifling expectations his family had placed upon him. He both hated and feared his family, witnessing the abuse Sirius suffered before he ran away. It was never something spoken, but you knew the resentment he harbored for Sirius, both for leaving Regulus behind and having the courage to go against the grain. You did your best, encouraging him to leave as well, to make the hard choice of not getting swept into the current. Even when Regulus disappeared from your life, you hoped he would take the hard road. Yet he took the easy way out.

Pity turned your numb body cold, and the fury it caused turned you hot. How dare he? After everything he'd done, to have such a tight grip on you still. To make you feel sorry for him as if he'd been forced down this path. He'd made his decision; he decided to follow the road that led to this exact moment. Why should you weep for him? 

Even then, with all your turmoil and rage, you still couldn't lift your wand at him. Time seemed slow, the chaos melting away the longer you looked into his eyes. Five seconds extended to five years.

But Regulus didn't share your hesitation or paralysis. He lifted his wand, a spell falling from his lips as his wrist flicked. You didn't have time to react, magical energy pooling at the tip of his wand before it shot towards you. Your eyes widened, and your heart stopped, unable to do anything other than watch your own death. 

But the impact never came. Instead, the green light flew past your shoulder, grazing your hair. Square in the chest, it hit a Death Eater that had crept up behind you. A gasp left your mouth, the only sound you'd made since the battle started. 

Their body hit the ground, unmoving. Only then did you turn to face Regulus. His expression remained unchanged, yet yours portrayed all the confusion and surprise in your head. At the speed of light, your heartbeat rattling against your chest, the barest hints of hope tinged your pessimistic thoughts. Was there a chance? His gaze softened, and his wand hand hanging slack at his side. You didn't want to fight anymore. All your steeled nerves and empty declarations of no longer caring about him were voided in an instant. You took a step towards him, hand reaching for him, but he took a stiff step back. 

"Regulus--"

He was gone, apparating from the battle. 

Sharply, you inhaled, holding it for a few heartbeats, then let it out. Regulus was no longer in sight. You returned to the battle. You rushed forward, trampling over the Death Eater mask he'd left behind. The porcelain it'd been made from cracked under the weight of you as the dirt on your shoes muddied its intricate designs.

You hardly thought twice about it, flinging another spell at a Death Eater. 

Another mission completed; more casualties piling up. 

---

"I saw you, you know," Sirius Black said. You'd all returned from the mission about two hours ago and just finished debriefing what happened. You stayed silent, your mind too preoccupied to come up with a singular thought.

"Saw me what? Fighting Death Eaters? Yeah, I saw you too." You were deflecting; he knew that, and you knew that he knew. The glint in his eye was not at all as careless as it had once been. Yet you feigned ignorance all the same.

"Yeah. I also saw you and Regulus." 

Your movements stilled as your body turned rigid. You didn't meet his eyes, didn't even blink. What could you say? Nothing would stop him from going to Moody or Dumbledore; at best, you'd be kicked from the Order; at worst, thrown in Azkaban and branded a traitor. 

"I don't know what you mean." It was a weak defense, but it was all you had. 

"Oh, shove off. I'm not stupid. I saw the way you reacted when you saw him, but I also saw him kill that Death Eater." 

You turned to meet his eyes. There was a question hidden in his statement. His gray eyes, so similar to Regulus's, were pleading, a part of him begging that maybe his brother wasn't completely lost. That he wasn't exactly what their parents were. 

"I don't know why he did that." Confirmation that Regulus was a Death Eater should've cemented so many things. The world should be black and white; he was a Death Eater; therefore, he didn't love you anymore, if he ever even did. How could he claim to love a muggleborn while doing his best to ensure you were eradicated? But now you weren't so sure. He was a Death Eater, yes, but he'd also saved your life. 

The migraine you'd had since you met him on the battlefield threatened to explode. 

"Do you--" he hesitated, his words quiet and soft. So unlike the barking confidence he usually possessed. The armor he'd shielded himself with was cracking. "Do you think there's a chance for him?" 

You pursed your lips. 

"I don't know." 

Without another word, you stood from the chair and muttered a quick "goodbye" before returning home. Your apartment had been just as you'd left it as you stood in front of the door, illuminated by the dim light on the steps. Except when you went to unlock the door, you found it already slightly ajar. 

The hair on your body stood up, cold fear briefly washing over you. The Death Eaters were getting bolder with their attacks. Would you be the next victim? Would it be your name and picture covering the cover page of every newspaper? For a moment, you considered leaving or at least getting help, yet you did neither. Instead, you pushed open your door, the wand held tightly in your hand. 

The room was dark, the sun having long since set. The pale blue light of your wand cast shadows in every corner of the room. It only made your nerves worse, jumping at every corner and shadow. The entryway was empty, as was the living room, but as you turned into the dining area and kitchen, you noticed a figure sitting at your table. They were still as a statue as they sat at your table, jacket neatly folded and placed in front of them.

Regulus. 

His eyes were on you, arms slack at his sides, and he was wearing a grim expression. The dark circles you'd seen earlier that day seemed worse, so blackened they looked like bruises. You took a step back, the grip on your wand tightening as you held it up in a threatening manner.

"So this is it. You came here to kill me?" Your voice was like stone, cold and hard. There was a lump in your throat flecks of fear in your shining eyes, but you hardened your face. You wouldn't show any sign of weakness. If he would let the love you shared sink beneath the waves, then you'd drown the entire fucking world the two of you created. 

He took a step forward, dark, stormy eyes pleading. “No, Y/N, that’s not--”

Regulus fell silent as you moved your wand from his chest towards his face, eyes narrowed. There was a tremble to your body; lips pressed so tight as to stifle the sobs that came up your throat. 

"Stay back."

Regulus complied, raising his hands as a show of good faith. He wore that same disarming puppy dog face, like an abandoned dog alone in a shelter. Previously, you would've melted, running back to his embrace. But so many things were different, and it showed in the vacancy that made your eyes hollow.

"I would never hurt you." He asserted, hoping the sincerity of his words could penetrate the steel-enforced walls you'd encased yourself with. His placations had the opposite effect, the pain twisting into cold rage. 

"And I'm just supposed to take your word for it? You're a Death Eater, Regulus. That means you and all your other purist friends want people like me dead." The death grip you held your wand with seemed to tighten. All circulation in your hand has been cut off, but it was all you could do to stop the tears from falling from your eyes. 

"That is not true. I don't want you dead." 

A choked laughter fell from your lips. 

"Then I think you joined up with the wrong organization." Your words were sarcastic but not at all joking or light. 

"It wasn't my choice." There was no change in his expression, eyes holding your gaze captive.

"No, you had a choice," you snapped back, silencing whatever pathetic excuse he used to convince himself he was justified in his actions. "And you made the wrong one."

Regulus fell silent, chewing on his bottom lip and shifting nervously. Your breath came out in angry puffs, reminiscent of a dragon. The tears made everything unclear and watery, but you refused to move a single muscle, even if it was just to wipe away the tears. 

"I did what I had to do."

You felt your hand loosen, grip slackening enough that your wand almost fell from your fingertips. Thickly, you swallowed, cheeks damp from the tears that steadily fell from your eyes. This was it; your chance to finally tell Regulus everything you'd been screaming into your walls since he walked out of your life.

"You didn't have to do anything." Your voice was raw as you said the words you'd rehearsed time and time again. "Least of all, join the wrong side of the war. We had graduated; you could run away from all of that, and there was nothing your parents could've done." 

"It's not that simple--"

"But it is, or at least it was," you exclaimed, cutting him off, voice cracking with the desperation you've locked away all this time. "You could've run and never looked back after our last day--"

"It was too late then."

You narrowed your eyes, a silent cue for him to explain when it had been too late.

"The summer between 5th and 6th year. After everything that happened with Sirius, they wanted to ensure I would be the perfect son they wanted."

"You never said anything."

"I didn't want you to look at me differently. My fate had already been sealed, and it was selfish of me to keep it from you, but I--"

He fell silent, eyes meeting the floor as his tongue became tied.

"You what?"

In a crazy, fucked up way, you were hoping he'd say everything you dreamed of. That he would reassure you he loved you and he never meant to hurt you. You wanted him to scorn his family and all their expectations of him. For once, you wanted him to make the right choice and not take the easy way out. You'd never fight with him anymore if he'd just asked to stay. 

People always said love wasn't always enough, but you'd be willing to let Regulus ruin you time and time again. 

"It doesn't matter now." 

Disappointment was a feeling you were accustomed to by now, but that didn't make the bitter rejection sting any less. The tears on your cheeks were like acid, and you roughly wiped them away.

"I suppose it doesn't; you made your choice, and so have I."

Maybe now it would sink in. Your whirlwind romance with Regulus ended the moment you left Hogwarts for good. It wouldn't be some grand love like the books you'd read. He wouldn't push through any obstacle that stood between you and him. 

Regulus wasn't a passionate man; he was pragmatic and calculated. Any risk he'd taken was never a risk after analyzing every angle and way it may go wrong. It was how he'd ended up trapped in the cycle of his family, and Sirius was able to break free. They were two sides of the same coin, yet they couldn't have turned out any more differently. 

It was a hard pill to swallow; the man you loved was nothing like you imagined him to be. 

"Why are you even here?" Your tone was sharp and pointed.

One last opportunity for him to mend what he had ripped to shreds. Why did you keep giving him so many chances?

"I'm not sure."

You slowly nodded, hands lowering to rest at your side. He'd never say the words you needed to hear; Regulus Black could never be the man you wanted him to be. 

"I've missed you."

Maybe without realizing it, Regulus continued to twist the dagger he embedded in you. 

You should tell him to leave, but the words won't form. 

"I missed you too."

He seemed to hesitate for a moment, fighting a battle within his own mind. You stayed silent, watching with wide eyes as he stepped towards you. 

Your eyes stayed on him, afraid that if you even breathed, he'd change his mind. His hands were cold as he gently grabbed ahold of your face. The grip he held you with was careful and delicate, afraid to break you. 

As if no time had passed, you leaned into his touch, eyes fluttering shut and relishing in his presence. He still smelled of bergamot and smoke. 

You opened your eyes, meeting his unwavering gaze. A thousand words were said in the silence, both of you trying to convey what you were too cowardly to verbalize. 

A sharp breath, the flutter of your lashes as your eyes closed. The Regulus' lips were on yours. His kiss was nearly too light to feel, and it made all reason disappear. 

Your lips parted as you combed your hands through his hair, working through the tangles at the nape of his neck. His grip tightened as he kissed you like a man starved. 

Regulus pulled back first, his expression blank and unsure. Did he regret what he'd started? Hurt began to blossom, weighing down the high he gave you. It took so little effort to fade back into him. The reminder was like a sharp jab to the gut. 

His eyes wouldn't meet yours, yet his feet stayed planted in the ground. So close together, you could feel the heave of each intake of breathe and hurt radiating from his body.

This was dangerous territory to be in. Regulus was a Death Eater; you couldn't do this all over again.

Whatever love there was between the two of you had to die. You had to light the match and turn it to ash, even if that meant you went out in flames too.

"I think it's best if you go."

Regulus slowly nodded his head, his eyes moving from the floor to meet yours. Years of abuse and "discipline" led to him mastering the art of dissociation, to not let an ounce of emotion show on his face.

Despite the self soothing thoughts that reassured you it was the right choice, your bruised ego was desperate for a sign that your love affair had maimed him even an ounce as much as it did you.

Maybe in an alternate universe, the two of you were happy, but war was war, and its very nature was to take, take, take until there was nothing left in the aftermath.

Regulus didn't argue or fight, he simply dipped his head in a single, firm nod, mouth set in a thin line, nothing more spoken than a quiet "I see." In the blink of an eye, he disappeared, leaving you alone in your dark, depressing apartment.

A shuddered breath left your body shaking. That night, you didn't make it to your bed; that felt entirely too big and too lonely. You collapsed on the couch, allowing the weight of the world to fall off as you slipped into unconsciousness. And in your dreams, you saw nothing but the endless nothing that threatened to swallow you whole.

---

“I now go to my death with the hopes you’ll forgive me for all the pain I’ve inflicted upon you. I never intended to hurt you, but now I realize it was all I’ve ever done. I don’t expect forgiveness, I understand I’m no longer worthy of it, if I ever was. I love you, don’t forget that.”

- Yours truly,

Regulus

Your eyes were trained on the letter held by shaky hands, stained with tears that fell from your cheeks. It had arrived two days ago, the letter accompanied with a small bag holding a locket. The writing on the letter was illegible, but you’d memorized every crease and fold on the paper. Why was it when you’d finally begin to forget about him, something would always bring him back. Part of it was your fault, you’d always welcomed him with open arms, but you’d hoped this time you’d end a cycle that never seemed to end.

Stood on the cliff sides, the winter air biting at your skin. What could he have done to be so certain of his death? Regulus was too insignificant for the Order to focus entirely on, so maybe he’d done something to spurn his Dark Lord. You hoped that was the case.

Inhaling the frosty air, you tucked the note into your pocket and turned to return to your house. Hands shoved in your pocket, the snow crunched under the weight of your feet. Lost in thought, you hardly noticed the sun had begun to set. Before long, the old brick building you’d made your home came into view. Crunching snow was replaced with footsteps on wood stairs and you pushed open your front door. You shook the snow off your jacket, setting it on the coat hanger by the door. The fireplace was already crackling, casting a warm glow in the room. 

You moved towards the kitchen to put a kettle on before moving back towards your room to get ready for bed. The heavy winter clothes were replaced by fleece pajamas that were soft like a rabbit. You sat at your vanity table and began combing through your hair. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the small box on your side table. Within the iron enforced lead box was the locket Regulus had mailed with his letter. It seemed insignificant at first glance, but the longer you looked at it, the darker its aura felt. Regulus had written explicit instructions for you to hide the locket, both from yourself and the world. There hadn’t been time to think of a secure location, so before then, it would remain in the box, its magic suppressed for a time. 

You’d question Regulus on it at some point, but for now you would go against every instinct telling you to ignore his letter and send back the locket. For as many times Regulus disappointed yourself, you’d let yourself down tenfold for continuing to give him the chance to do so. 

The whistle of the kettle had you stand from your vanity and pad back into the kitchen. But as you moved into the kitchen, the wall opened so that you could see into the living room, you were no longer alone. Standing in the middle of the room was Regulus. He looked worse off than his last visit, his clothes wrinkled and hair greasy. 

He didn’t speak and neither did you;’ your eyes focused on one another. The air was awkward, all the questions you’d had for him melting away from the softness in the gray eyes. You were the first to break the impromptu staring contest, grabbing two mugs instead of one. Wordlessly you began to prepare cups of tea, making it in just the way you knew Regulus liked it. 

The wood floors creaked as Regulus moved to the couch in front of the fireplace, his jacket hanging beside yours. After a moment, you joined him, passing the warm mug to his open hand. Not a single word shared between the two of you. The only sound in the house was the crackle of the fire and the slurping of the two of you drinking from your mugs. 

“Is it over now?” You finally spoke, unable to look towards Regulus. 

A moment passed; you blew on your tea, steam flooding your face as you lowered your head. 

“Yes.” 

You leaned forward to set your mug on the table, the glass clinking as you did. You turned, finally looking at Regulus since taking a seat. His eyes were focused on you; broken and blue with the face of a man haunted by war. Yet beyond that was warm relief. War was finally over. 

The Dark Lord and his followers were still afoot, and they’d need to be dealt with. But the Great War that plagued you and Regulus was finally over. The worst had ended.

Tomorrow you'd have questions about the locket and it's evil aura, you'd want to know what exactly he did that made him believe his death was certain. There was also the matter of how they'd proceed in the war. Regulus could be a turn coat, to give insight on the Death Eaters. So many things to consider, it made you feel dizzy. But those were semantics better dealt with at a later time.

For now, you just wanted to be a girl, sitting with a boy who you've loved since you were fourteen.

Droplets of tears stained your couch dark, your cheeks dampened. It was like a weight had been lifted and for a moment you thought you might disappear.

One of your hands dropped from the mug, laying on the couch near Regulus' limp hand. The grim line his lips had been pressed into warped into a soft smile. He placed his hand over yours, intertwining his fingers with you.

Not much was spoken the rest of the night. The two of you sat in comfortable silence, occasionally making chatter here and there. Your drinks were drained and when your eyes were too heavy to keep open, you’d led Regulus back into your room and onto your bed. His arms tangled around your body and your head on his chest you fell into a peaceful slumber you’d been robbed of since leaving Hogwarts behind.

[alpydk]

Gone with the Weave

Took a few days off to think. Seriously considered deleting everything, Tumblr, all of it. Realised I'd become a little lost in my writing, getting jealous over other people, insecure about my own abilities, forgot who I was writing for and why. So today I sat down and actually wrote for me again and you know what? It's helped. And because I'm hypocritical I'm going to share it with all of you.

So, here we have post-Epilogue short. Hurt/Little comfort. Gale/Tav - Tav & Astarion - Word count : 2398 -

CW - PPD / Grief / Death / Dad!Gale / Scenes of child death (Hallucinations)

It was like tar. It pulled her down and filled her lungs, thick and black. Tav tried to fight against it, tried to find the light that she knew shone above it, but her limbs were weighted down by fatigue and longing. A part of her wanted to be dragged down by it, to be lost to the depths of her depression, to disappear and no longer have the responsibility that had been thrusted upon her. To sleep and never wake; to be with him.

To everyone around her, she was a natural mother, tending to her baby’s needs, a confident smile at the life she had brought into the world. Tav was proud, strong, had been through the hells and back, figuratively and literally, and survived unscathed. But as with most, her pride was becoming her downfall. She didn’t need help, didn’t want it because weakness was not the sign of a good mother. As the days passed, as sleep turned to hallucination, still she clung onto the mask of what they all wanted to see, the last remnant of a life before life.

The child cried, but she did not react instantly, a quiet hope that someone else would come and tend to its needs whilst she pretended to sleep. But she didn’t sleep. For so long, the gods of dream and nightmare alike had ignored her pleas, and she had lain there awake, watching as the infant took all from her, leaving her with nothing but guilt and misery.

She wished he was there to help her, that his weave touched fingers that brought calm to her soul could calm the one that lay in the crib. He should have been there for this, she told herself, his strong forearms cradling the baby, a soft poem uttered under starlight bringing it to soothe. If only she had known before the final decision was made; if only things had ended differently and he had stayed, then maybe there would be fewer tears shed.

Still it cried, and no one came, the silence broken by the shrieks she had come to despise. It would be so easy to just leave, to walk out and never return, but then they would all know what she was truly like. The tar that had filled her lungs and surrounded her heart, leaving her bitter and tainted, would be exposed and they would know the truth. They would hate her as she hated the innocent child in front of her. But what if…? The thought was fleeting, cruel and unspeakable, a horror even in her own twisted mind. As night turned to the day, as cries turned to coos, she watched the baby, always watching and waiting for something to change.

---

Evening had set in and though the stars shone brightly as he had promised her, the night brought Tav little comfort knowing the long, drawn-out hours that were to come. She carried the baby to the small tub, her body weary and mind wandering, and she placed it in the water, watching as the bubbles rose quickly from its soft lips, as the arms tensed and held out towards her, as the deep brown eyes she had once loved lost their light again.

A knock at the door brought her around to her senses as she sat in front of the empty tub, the baby cooing peacefully from its bassinet. This had not been the first time she had seen such sights in the weeks since the birth. At first, it had been minor things, a shadow in the room that she had mistaken for a friend, the child crying whilst it actually slept. Soon the images became darker, the newborn lifeless in her arms when she awoke suddenly during the night, a slight misstep causing her to drop it to the floor, its body like that of a rag doll as it hit the wooden floorboards. Nothing scared her more though than herself, her lack of reaction, the quiet pleasure she saw in the freedom being granted to her. Would murder or suicide be the more publicly acceptable option? Would they forgive her? Could he forgive her, should she make that choice?

Tav rose from the floor, the image shaken away, and the mask put back in place. A deep breath was released before the door was answered with a smile and the face of Astarion greeted her. She was thankful it was him and not one of the more caring of the group; it would mean fewer questions asked, less concern over her wellbeing, and a chance that the walls would remain intact for another night.

He entered without invitation, many nights like this in the last six months that had thankfully grown less frequent since the birth. “You look like shit, darling.”

She smirked at his words, fully aware that the lack of sunlight was making her as pale as him, that the deep bags hung under her eyes. “Well, we can’t all match up to you, can we?”

Astarion made himself at home. Wine was grabbed from the cupboard and his feet put up on the coffee table. He noticed the baby but chose to ignore it, instead watching as Tav quickly sorted her hair in an attempt to look less haggard. “Resident do-gooder Wyll has asked me to come and check in on you.”

“And since when do you take orders from others?” She sat near him on the sofa, the faint stirring of the child drawing her attention. All she wanted was a moment like the old times, of two friends chatting about something that wasn’t related to birth or parenting, of wine and shameless flirting that meant nothing.

He watched her, her eyes allowing him to see the cracks that lay so visibly. “Since, 1 – it’s my turn, and 2 – it’s been a year.”

Tav scoffed. “Taking turns? Is that what you all do?” She ignored his second remark, a year since the Netherbrain, since that day when everything was supposed to change for the better.

“Quite frankly, yes. It’s one thing to be holed up alone with seven thousand spawn, it’s another to be holed up alone with that…” Astarion gestured his hand dismissively to the infant.

She knew he was right, life would be better without it, she wouldn’t be alone here, needing to be checked up on as if she there were something wrong with her. “You know you don’t have to. We’re fine.” The lie slipped out as easily as it ever did, the painted-on smile meeting her dead eyes. The small cry made her bristle, made the lie falter, and she hoped it was nothing but that one whimper.

He sipped his wine, the quickening of her heart rate deceptive as it cut through the heavy silence. “Still, we should at least share in a drink, shouldn’t we? A remembrance of sorts.”

“No, that’s not needed.” Tav was quick to cut off this suggestion. It was one thing for the wall to crumble in front of him that she was tired of sleepless nights, another for the actual truth to be pushed upon her and the dam to break.

The cry could be heard again, now with little pause between breaths. She wanted to ignore it, wanted it to die down, wanted anyone else to deal with it. But no one else would come. He would not come. She could see Astarion tensing with the building noise, and she had to react to save face. She stood, approaching the bassinet, a brief flash of annoyance in her eyes as she glanced down and picked up the baby. It was as if it knew, was manipulating her and drawing her towards ruin, as if the gods were not satisfied enough with the sacrifices she had already made.

“Aww, you just want to see uncle Astarion, don’t you?” This was what people wanted, fawning over the infant, exaggerated displays of affection that she loathed to give. She carried the baby over, its cries stopping, and she gritted her teeth, knowing the moment she put it down, the noise would commence again.

“Oh, no, darling. It’s quite alright.” He pulled his legs off the table, a clear discomfort, and with it knocked over the bottle of wine.

The scarlet liquid spread across the wood, dripping quickly onto the floor, a lazy flow as it crept between the floorboards. Tav couldn’t take her eyes from it, the baby lying amongst it, the rag doll limbs amongst its own blood, lifeless brown eyes that stared back at her. Her heart didn’t beat, she stood not in panic, only a numbness lay in her mind at the sight.

Astarion grabbed a cloth and began to clear the wine, Tav seemingly frozen with the child in her arms, her mind a million realms away, a feeling he knew too well himself. “You know, they say white wine can clear out red…”

Her heart took a beat, a recollection of where she was, of the company present, and she hoped the vision she had seen had been instantaneous so as not to draw attention. The baby was thankfully silent, and she cursed herself for not feeling upset at the sights she was seeing. Murder or suicide…It would be so easy.

She sat with the baby in her arms, Astarion cupping the glass of wine as he leaned away from her on the sofa. She could see how uncomfortable he was becoming, as if looking for a conversation that was casual enough to fulfil his objective for checking in on her.

“So, Gale-“

“Is gone.” She interrupted him off before he could even start. This was not the topic she needed. He should be there with her, holding her through sleepless nights, soothing their child as it cried through the darkened hours. He should be sharing in her tears, her smiles, consoling her as she struggled with her doubts. The baby began to stir again, as if picking up on her emotions.

“Tav, it’s been a year and you’ve not spoken with anyone about what happened.”

She ignored him, his voice and the quiet cries already beginning to overwhelm her senses. There was nothing to talk about; there was only this lonely guilt filled existence. Days and nights of tar, of emptiness, of decisions she couldn’t bring herself to make. Hoping her mask wouldn’t slip, she rocked the baby in an attempt to calm it. She was a proud, strong mother. She was a good mother.

He sighed, not knowing if he should bother to help or not, but after all Tav had done for him in the past, he knew he had to do something. “Pass it here.”

She lifted her head, a defensive hold on the baby in her arms. Was it maternal love or the pride that prevented her from handing it over so freely? “No, I can handle this.”

Astarion reached over tentatively. The baby smelt odd, like spices he could not pinpoint, and his stomach turned slightly, but he would not accept what she was saying. He gently took it into his arms, Tav’s resistance minimal, as if her body was mutinying against her mind. The child grew quiet again, a small coo as its hand reached for his shirt and small pink fingers hooked around the cotton.  

Tears built up instantly in Tav’s eyes, a guilt that she hadn’t been good enough to do this one simple thing, that she had failed in being a mother. She wanted to hide it all, wanted to run away, but she also wanted to fall apart so that people knew how deep she had fallen into the darkness and could come and save her, save her just as he had done so long ago. She wiped at her eyes, but it made little difference, the sight of her friend holding her baby, a light in his own eyes she had never seen before, a moment of innocence on the face of a seasoned killer. Why could she not feel that way? What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she love…?

Her words were quiet. Astarion wouldn't care, and she knew it wouldn’t faze him. He wouldn’t coddle her like the others would. He was what she needed now that all was lost. “I can’t handle this…”

---

The night passed in a blur. He listened as she spoke of all that had happened in the last few months, of the things she had seen, things she believed she wanted, of pride and guilt that filled her heart to bursting. She spoke of the loneliness that consumed her and the child she could not connect to, of how it reminded her of the past she wished to forget, a past she longed for desperately. One life had ended, and another had begun and all she had been left with was shadows.

The baby slept through for the first time in months, Astarion having settled it in its crib as she had managed an hour of sleep. She’d waited ages in silence, listening for the sudden interruption that never came. It was as if it knew of her confession, and she hated and loved it for what it had done.

In the early hours her friend left, the rising sun announcing his need to depart, and with it she saw the light between the grey clouds, a new day ready to start again. The child stirred, and she stepped towards the crib with hesitation. She saw the purple robes that had been draped lightly at the base where it slept, the subtle scent of the library lying amongst spices bringing calm to the bedroom, and she heard the sound of the waves on docks, brushed up with the morning gale. Picking up her baby gathered with the robes, she held them both closely, the tears building, the relief, the love for her child breaking through the walls she had built.

The guilt flowed, but it was not met with a resignation; it was met with the promise to do better, to be the mother she should’ve been, to be the woman he had once loved. The child gazed at her, bright eyed, and she saw Gale once again; for a brief moment he was with her. She was not alone. She would never be alone.

[mykoreanlove]

disconnected.

Minho turned away, wearied by the repetitive conversations. Your frustration boiled over, hands trembling as you faced a pivotal choice. This, you vowed, would be the final breakdown. Desperation fueled a decisive grab for Minho's hand, a silent plea in the spin that followed. Eyes locked, the air hung heavy with the hope that, this time, he'd truly listen.

Your voice trembled with unspoken pain as you poured your heart out to him. The room suffocated in silence after your desperate plea.

"Can't you see that I need you?" Heavy with ache, your frustration accused Minho of prioritizing others, leaving you discarded and invisible.

"All you care about are others. What about me?" The question echoed, a plea for recognition of the neglect you felt.

"You've pushed me aside; it's like you don't want me anymore." Your voice held palpable pain, attempting to bridge the distance.

"Can't you see, Min? I'm dying inside while you chase love from others." The desperation peaked, a final cry for the connection you craved, the air heavy with an unspoken plea for understanding.

Defensive, Minho clenched his cheek muscles, restraining words on the tip of his tongue. His once-loving eyes now portrayed indifference, leaving you longing for the warmth that had faded.

"Where did I go wrong? Why can't you commit to me? What is it that I'm missing? I can give you everything you need if you'd just let me." Tears streamed down your cheeks, your entire being collapsing onto the floor. Despite the raw emotion in your plea, he remained distant, an impassive observer, withholding the comfort your heart so desperately craved.

"I need you. More than ever, Min. Can you please stop chasing and just come home?" Your voice quivered with a mix of desperation and longing, each word carrying the weight of unspoken emotions.

But Minho scoffed, his eyes ablaze with a storm of unresolved rage. His silence, more profound than any uttered words, cut through the air like a knife. The room became a battleground of emotions, the air heavy with the unspoken turmoil that lingered between you.

In that charged moment, the echoes of your plea lingered, a testament to the depth of your need. The emotional tension crackled, the yearning for connection palpable. Yet, his stoic silence spoke volumes, leaving you to navigate the storm of emotions that threatened to consume the both of you.

"I hate what you're doing to me. You question why I'm sabotaging your life? Why I'm making it so hard on you? Because you've disowned me. I'm nothing to you anymore. We used to be on the same team, remember those times? But now, it's like it's me against you." The bitterness in your words hung in the air, a painful reminder of the fractured bond that once united you.

You laid bare your soul, vulnerable and exposed, pouring your heart out to him. But he was already emotionally distant, long gone. On your knees, you begged him not to leave, grappling with the reality of the fractured connection.

As Minho turned towards the door, the harshness of reality hit you. This was it. But, clinging to the last shreds of hope, you spoke once more, your words desperate and pleading.

"Is that what you truly want? Am I that insignificant to you? Minho? Can't you just stop this and love me again? Do you still know how to love me?"

Your voice cracked under the weight of emotion; the plea too heavy for you to bear. Tension gripped the muscles in his back as he fought to contain it all. And just like that, he opened the door and vanished, leaving you to grapple with the finality of his departure.

[heartofwritiing]

and you just can’t say goodbye.

paring: (zombur) William Godwinson x fem!reader

summary: Wil gets bitten, and angst ensues.

authors note: HUGE thanks to @ax-y10 for the help because originally this fic was gonna end a lot more agnsty but then they gave me an idea that was more on the happy side! I've never written a zombie apocalypse setting before so please excuse anything I get wrong. I've only watched other people play The Last of Us and I've briefly seen one episode of The Walking Dead so you can see how this will probably go. lol. The Sorry Boys zombie video is brain-rotting in my head rn I've watched it about four times now. yes. I love Zombur, so here's a drive-by of me throwing this fic at you and then skirting off with smoke from my tires. enjoy the brainrot :p (I'm so sorry this took me so long to get out, I've been procrastinating finishing it because I'm having some self-doubt at the minute but I hope you guys like this anyway even though it's a mess lol)

warnings: zombie apocalypse au, angst, death, violence, swearing, lots of kissing, characters use guns, the writer doesn't know anything about how guns work lmao, sort of happy end? super unedited!

"shit! I'm out of ammo!"

You pulled the trigger on the handgun once more, but nothing. It was luck that you had even found one. Even so early on in an apocalypse. A month had gone by since the first day of the outbreak. Though it was likely that you should've died on the first day, you don't know why you've survived this long. you should be dead.

At first, you thought staying in your apartment was the best chance you had of surviving. Big mistake. That strategy turned south when your front door was barged in after four days of no disturbance from any outsiders. Your boyfriend Wil had grabbed everything you could carry, and you hadn't stopped moving ever since.

Now, you and Wil found yourselves trapped in an alley with no escape. A pack of infected had cornered you, slowly closing in while making menacing noises. Wil bravely stood between you and the horde, fighting them off to protect you.

"Climb up the fire escape!" he shouted back at you.

You looked around until you spotted a ladder conveniently placed on the side of the building within reach. Infected were dropping like flies as Wil's shots echoed through the air. The ladder shook as you climbed, heart pounding in your ears. You glimpsed down to check and see if Wil was following, to find he was surrounded on all sides by infected. Your heart dropped when you saw one of their mouths was too close to his wrist. By the time you called out his name, it was already too late.

'Fuck!' Wil screamed as the infected bit through his skin and charred his flesh. Blood gushed down his arm and around the infected's mouth. You cry his name as he reeled back his fist and punched the infected repeatedly until it staggered off of him, but it was too late. Your eyes were fixed on him as he quickly climbed up the ladder, gasping for breath as he did so. He seemed in immense pain as he pulled his body up the ladder, slightly struggling.

Upon reaching the roof, you found a roof access leading to a floor with multiple doors, revealing it to be an apartment complex. Wil was already feeling the effects of the infection. His skin was sticky with sweat, the bitter taste left in his mouth tasting the blood rising in his throat, and the sudden vertigo he got just by rushing down the stairs was enough to make him nauseous.

You came to the floor with all the apartment units and quickly kicked in the door of the closest one. It took a few attempts to kick the door, and then bam! The sound of splitting wood and the door bouncing off the wall made a delirious Wil jump.

You entered the small room, helping Wil through the doorway, and setting him down gently before closing the door. You searched around for something to barricade the door with. Just in case of any infected find you. The only thing that looked heavy enough was the dresser tucked into the corner. Using all your muscles, you pushed the object across the room with the bottom of the dresser scraping against the wood, grimacing at the loud noise.

Letting out a sigh of relief, you knew you were safe for now. You dusted your hands off and turned back to Wil who was slumped against the wall on the floor, clutching his bitten arm. Wincing and squirming from the heat burning through his skin spreading throughout his veins.

The room was dim, and you noticed the sweat beading down his forehead. You quickly took your backpack off your shoulders and strode over to him. Taking out the first-aid kit you had for emergencies, you pulled out the tiny bottle of anti-septic cleaning solution and the roll of bandages.

You gazed down at his wrist, which was curled against his chest, shrouding you from looking at it. The ring of teeth marks oozing out the color of maroon as black vines protruded around the area, extending over his skin. His head lulled to the side as he let out a moan of pain.

"No, baby, keep your eyes open," you tried to lure him back to consciousness. Take his hand and position it palm up in your lap. He whines like a wounded animal in response.

Unscrewing the cap, you quickly prep the cotton pads. Then you quickly realize you should've put on gloves beforehand. Muttering curses under your breath you shake your head at the thought, There was no time.

"What are you doing?" Wil's voice slurs. He sounds groggy, like something is trying to creep up his throat to escape, not him. It scares you. You refuse to look at him.

"I have to clean the wound before it gets infected," you say nonchalantly.

With the little strength he has left, Will reaches out his unbitten hand to catch yours. You stop your movements in disbelief of his actions, tears brimming in your eyes as you try to save his life, but he stops you again. You both know what's inevitable, you just can't accept it.

"Wil-" you try to pull out of his grasp. You reach out to touch his wrist again this time, he is the one who pulls away.

"Look at me," he pleads. You can't bring yourself to shift your eyes to his, knowing this was inevitable. You had to try. He had to let you try.

"just stop."

Wil tries to grab the items from your hands, but you move too quickly for his shrinking reflexes to keep up. Moving beginning to be too strenuous.

"I can't- Wil-" You struggle to fight against him, too scared to hurt him. Though he's already dying.

"Stop, honey..." he quivers.

"Just let me save you!" you cry. It echoes through the room. The air is tense, and you finally meet his eyes. His skin is sickly pale, eyes bright with red veins and glossy. Purple hues outline under his soft doe eyes as they peer into yours. He fists the hem of your shirt, inviting you closer. Your breaths mix together as he presses his forehead to yours.

The words hang between you, but you bite your tongue. You want to tell him how much you want him to stay and not give up. Deep down, you already know it's not enough.

"It's too late for me darling, leave me here.”

“I'm not leaving you,” you say sternly, shaking your head.

You were determined to stay with him, no matter how difficult things got, you were unwilling to abandon him.

“Please, I don’t want you to see me turn into a monster.” his voice wavered. Your heart sank. No matter what, he would always be your Wil. Sweet, caring, and lovable Wil. Whom you adored with every fiber of your being.

You reach up to cup his face with your hands, but they feel cool against your clammy skin. His cheekbones are slowly becoming more prominent. You stare into his eyes, but the urge to tell him to be quiet becomes harder as anger festers in your chest. However, it's not anger towards him, but rather frustration towards the universe.

Instead, you snuggle up next to him to demonstrate your lack of fear and your trust in him. You want to be by his side and provide comfort. You understand that it's unrealistic to expect him to recover from this infection given his history of being sick and having a weakened immune system. It's best to accept the inevitable outcome.

It's unclear how much time has passed while the two of you remain in that position. His arm securely around your shoulder holding you close, with your arm laid across his lap where your fingers provided soft circles against his hip bone. The room grows darker as the sun sets. The air feels eerie yet comforting all at once with Wil by your side. Nothing but the sounds of his raspy breathing and occasional coughing fit to surround you. He whispers through the dark against the crown of your head with horse words. Sweet nothings, promises that make you curl into him further so he can't see the single tear you shed.

He lifts his hand to gently cup your cheek, tilting your head to meet his gaze. Selfishly, he leans in for a soft kiss. You whine at the metallic taste in his mouth when he groans to part his lips so his tongue finds yours. It makes your head spin like a top how this man makes you feel. His lips are chapped, rough, and fast as he indulges in you for maybe the last time. You gasp and reach up to tangle your fingers in his locks to reel him closer to you. His hand finds the underside of your thigh, digging into your flesh. The mere touch of his hand sets your body ablaze and sends shivers down your spine.

It's frantic and passionate, your love for him shown physically. When you disconnect, suddenly remember you need to breathe. his eyes are hazy and his pupils are blown. You are sure you look like a flustered mess.

"I love you," he says sincerely, and you believe him.

It stings in your chest, you can't stand it.

"I love you more," you reply.

You tuck yourself into his neck, breathing in the scent of sweat and outdoors, and it's calming. Wil rests his head on the crown of your head. You neglect how his breathing has slowed as you drift off to sleep.

-

The next time you open your eyes, the sun peeks through the window, casting a golden glow over the bedroom. Your bones crack when you sit up to stretch from sleeping in the same position all night. You knew you'd regret it later when you had back pain for days. You turn to Wil, who doesn't stir when you move. Your heart dropped when you noticed something different about him.

Around his eyes were a darker color than the previous night. His cheekbones were completely sunken in where you could almost see the bone. his lips were a blueish color and his chest was rising and falling.

This was your fault. You should have stayed awake.

Tears streamed down your face as you called out his name, gently shaking his body, but he didn't respond.

"Wil!" you wailed, begging for him to come back.

You slumped forward, cradling him against your chest, pressing kisses to his temple, and muttering apologies against his cold skin. You felt your heart break as you realized he was gone, and tears rolled down your face as you held him close to you. You felt a deep emptiness settle in your heart. You knew you would never fill the void his death had left. You sobbed, gripping him tighter, and whispered your final goodbye. You held him close, cherishing holding home one last time. Knowing that you would never be the same again.

You're too distraught to move. You don't want to leave him here, but you don't have any other choice. The urge to keep on and survive was slowly fading now that you had no one left in this cruel world.

Wil felt heavy in your arms to the point where your arms were falling asleep, but you refused to let go. If you were to leave now, you may be tempted to never return to the person you once were. Allow your sorrow to consume you. The one good thing left in your life was gone.

You suddenly felt hands grab your lower back, causing you to yelp in surprise. Fingers gripe harshly at your skin through your clothes. Wil's chilled breath glides up your spine as he lets out a deep groan against your collarbone. He was alive? How?

His lips ghosted across your collarbone, pressing his nose directly into your pulse point. His hot breath fans across your exposed skin, causing goosebumps to rise along your body. Then, you feel his teeth nipping at your skin, and your eyes widen realizing his intentions.

You jerk away and shove him off you roughly. Crawling backward, quickly shuffling away from him, your heart pounding, until your back hits the opposite wall with a thump. You wince in pain from the impact and notice Wil gradually beginning to crawl toward you. A fixed gaze over his sheer white eyes, almost glowing like moonbeams. Chills ran down your spine as you gazed at your former lover, unrecognizable.

You froze as he approached, shrinking in on yourself. His body lazily dragged itself across the wooden floor, scrapping and groaning with every floorboard. Once he was close enough, his hand unexpectedly reached to grasp your ankle, and you screamed in fear. Nails harshly dig into your skin and create recent moon shapes that make you cry out.

He yanked you with a surprising strength until you were laid beneath him, overbearing you. You are powerless as Wil, or not Wil's body leaned over you and cadged you with his arms. Tears flow from the corners of your eyes and into your ears as his face inches towards you.

"Please," you whisper. Again, he tilts his head in curiosity at you.

"William?" Your eyes bore into his, trying to find some trace of life left in them. You observe his eyes returning to their natural color and a look of terror crossing his face as he regains consciousness. He staggers back and moves away from you frantically, clutching his chest and struggling to breathe.

You both sit on opposite sides of the room against the wall, he stares into the floor burning holes into the wood, avoiding your eyes. You just blink blankly at him in shock, knees tucked against your chest again.

Wil cradled his skull, clutching fist fulls of his hair, squeezing his eyes shut, and heaving breaths of panic puffed out his mouth. Mumbles of "I'm sorry," repeated like a mantra over, and over out shakily.

You let out an unsteady breath, His eyes quickly flicked over to you and fear flooded your senses once again.

"Darling?" he tries, his voice hoarse. He moves towards the center of the room, positioning himself a safe distance from you. “I'm sorry... I don't know what came over me..." his voice trails off.

He noticed your tense reaction upon watching him inch closer to you, and it broke his heart to see you trembling in fear due to his prior actions. He could never forgive himself for causing you such distress.

"is it really you?" you asked.

"I don't know," he says honestly. "I don't feel like myself, It's like I'm trying to grab hold of a stearing wheel and fight for control right now."

Your heart sank at his words. You let them maul over in your head for a moment. It sounded like your Wil, but you hesitated in reaching out to him. So, was he alive? He didn't look it, his skin was still deathly pale and almost decayed. Nose now dripping with dried blood that ran down his lips.

His head hangs low as he silently sobs. He didn’t want this. Now he was dead and was leaving you to defend yourself. He swore he would always protect you and he’s failed. He knows its selfish to ask you to stay with him, you should just leave him here to rot. Still, he begs you.

“Please, darling dont leave me,” You shake your head and crawl towards him. He might be an undead zombie now, but you still loved him more than anything else is this life. You would do anything for him. You take his face in your hands to tilt his head up but he avoids your eyes. “look at me,” his eyes shift to yours.

“I wanna help you baby, and im sure as hell not gonna leave you, not now, not ever.” you proclaim. “So don’t you dare ever try and push me away, because im staying. No matter how complicated things get.”

You bring yourself to kiss his forehead, your warm lips making him sigh out from the touch. He holds you for what feels like hours. Eventually you both know you’ll have to leave this abandoned apartment, whether you run out of food or more zombies show up. move on, then figure things out. Whatever it takes you would stay together, no matter what.

taglist: @trashcanduck @merakiwi @addxms @ax-y10 @scenefaez @starsyoubreaklikesugardust @drop-of-void

[redahlia-writes]

practical magic. | javier peña x ofc

Abstract: Can love travel back in time and heal a broken heart?

There were some things, after all, that Helena Goode knew for certain:

Always throw spilled salt over your left shoulder. Add pepper to your mashed potatoes. Keep rosemary by your garden gate. Plant lavender for luck. Fall in love whenever you can.

Words: 12k

Content: original female character (helena goode); alternative universe, magic, death, ghosts, cursing, mentions of drugs, mentions of an abusive relationship, mildly suggestive language, inspo both from the movie and the book

A/N: it's still halloween, right? i'm sorry for the late late posting but, alas, shit happens. i hope you all enjoy this nevertheless <3

reblogs and feedback are always greatly appreciated. you can send it here, too

also on AO3  - masterlist

He will hear my call a mile away. He will whistle my favorite song. He can ride a pony backwards. He can flip pancakes in the air. He'll be marvellously kind. And his favorite shape will be a star. And he’ll have eyes like chocolate, worthy of honesty.

Helena Goode often thought about the petals blowing in the air after her Amas Veritas, her true love. Years had gone by since then—she’d been just a kid, wishing on her true love, her perfect love. Thinking it could not exist—for how could it, when all those women came crying in her aunts’ kitchen in the middle of the night? She’d wished for what she thought could never come to her.

And then there had been Frankie—her love, definitely not perfect, but good, so good. And gone, gone forever, because she had loved him so much. Or so she had thought—maybe that hadn’t been real, maybe there was no such thing as real love, contrary to what her sister said. After all her aunts had played a part in her marriage, and for so long after Frankie’s death she’d tried to believe none of it had been real, so that it would hurt less. So that she would not die of a broken heart.

But, in spite of everything, in spite of her bitterness, in spite of her pain, in spite of the loss, she knew some things had been real. Like the coffee he made her in the morning before leaving for work, like the dinners she fixed before he came back, like the colour they picked to paint the walls of their house; like all the times she’d listened for his whistling as he came back from work; like his kisses, and like their two beautiful daughters; like the laughter during the day and the nights spent awake; like the normal life they’d began living, and the shop they’d dreamed of opening together that now belonged to her only.

Like the State Investigator who stood in front of her at the front door, asking after her sister’s boyfriend. A boyfriend she knew to be dead and buried right there in the backyard. Fuck, she kept thinking, looking at the man in front of her—his eyebrows arched, lips parted under a neatly trimmed moustache, eyes dark as chocolate, and—

“I’m sorry?” she asked, clearing her throat. Dry throat. Sweaty palms. Tongue-tied.

“Is your sister home?” She knew he’d asked that already, and he was being mighty patient about it. “I’d like to speak with her, ma’am,” and then, because she had not moved an inch, “nothing to worry about, really. Just routine questions.”

“Sure,” again Helena cleared her throat, and willed her legs to move. She stepped back, opening the door fully so that she could let him through. “Come on in, I’ll go get her.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck, over and over as the man nodded and stepped in, walking past her into the entrance—he smelled of coffee and tobacco, of the desert he came from. Helena closed the door and wiped her hands down the front of her shirt, which she suddenly realised belonged to one of her daughters, with rhinestones adorning the front. Fuck.

“Kitchen is just on your left, I’ll be right back.”

Phoebe Goode was trying her best. Each night she dreamed about James—his eyes, old and clear, staring at her—and each morning she tried to stop carrying him with her, to forget he ever existed, even though she could still see him on her face, in the bruises around her eye, in the split lip on the point of healing—thanks to her sister salve, the one that smelled of roses. She was trying her best, ignoring the awful fact she felt him still, knowing that the deepest relationship with a man of her whole life was with a dead man.

So she wore blue for protection, and had asked Emma, her niece, to lock her cigarettes away, and tried to sit in silence to meditate and push him away, out of her mind, out of her life for good. She was even back at the house, where she’d sworn she would never go back, because it was safer, because of her sister.

Her sister, running up the stairs, out of breath, in a shirt that did not belong to her and a skirt that must’ve been older than her, so dishevelled-looking Phoebe felt her heart drop for a moment, figured the next words out of her mouth would be James, and honestly anything after that could be awful, because he was. Had been.

“There’s a cop. Agent. Someone,” Helena was gasping, her voice an alarmed whisper. “He’s looking for you. And James—but he asked for you.”

“That’s fine, we can manage,” perhaps the meditation was working, because even after hearing his name she could still think without panic closing her throat. “I’ll tell him I haven’t seen him in days, and I came here because we’re done. And if he asks, you’ll just say—” she stopped, frowning at her sister as she shook her head. “What? You’ll just say you’ve never seen him.”

“Here’s the thing,” Helena reached for her chest, still shaking her head, still out of breath. Her head was spinning, and her heart—God, her heart—felt like it was about to explode. “I don’t think I can lie to him.”

“Of course you can,” Phoebe scoffed—but her sister was still having a hard time breathing, her eyes so wide she looked like a deer spooked half to death. “Get over yourself, Lena. It’s fine. You’re just having a panic attack.”

“I don’t think it’s that. I just—the way he looks at you,” she inhaled sharply, a strangled noise scratching her throat and making her sound like a wounded animal, then exhaled, breath stuttering. “I can’t sit there and just lie to him. I know I can’t.”

“You have to, Lena,” but her sister’s eyes darted around the attic, where Phoebe was staying in. She snapped her fingers in front of her face, making her recoil. “Listen to me, you have to. We know nothing, nothing happened.”

Helena and Phoebe had grown up knowing that something was real because they believed in it. That was what gave things power—magic, words, talismans. But what happened when two people believed two different things? How did the universe cope with that? Was James dead and buried in their backyard, under lilacs that were growing wildly out of season (girls in the neighbourhood had begun to whisper that if you kissed the boy you loved beneath the Goode’s lilacs he’d be yours forever, whether he wanted to be or not), or was he back in Laredo, or off somewhere else, left behind by his girlfriend?

Javier Peña was wondering the same as he stood in the odd kitchen of an odd house, there on Magnolia Street.

There were no clocks and no mirrors, in that house, and the floors creaked anywhere but where he stepped; light came pouring in from big, wide windows, showing an even bigger garden with lilacs out of season and more flowers and plants that he could recognise or count—rosemary and lavender, roses and daisies, carrots and an apple tree that reminded him strangely of home, but all seemed like a dream through the thick glass. Each piece of furniture inside seemed dusty, but when he ran his fingertip across the dark wooden surface of this table or that cabinet, no dust came away—no need for polishing anything in there. It smelled of cherrywood. It smelled familiar.

It was a familiarity Javier had not been ready to face—he touched the pocket of his jacket, felt the paper tucked in there crinkle at the touch, and a moment later, as if summoned by thought alone, Helena Goode came back down the stairs, slightly more dishevelled looking than before.

Helena had clearly been in the kitchen when he first knocked. He knew because he could almost see it, like a ghost moving around the stove, stirring a pot that had since been turned off, its content left forgotten on the back burden. He knew because she’d called Hold on at the third rattle of his knuckles across the door, matter-of-factly, as if she’d been expecting him. The mere sound of her voice had thrown him for a loop, the patio under his feet shifting unsteadily, and he could’ve followed the sound there with his eyes closed.

He thought then he could be in trouble—and when she’d opened the door, he’d known he would. Because he’d looked into crystal clear pools of grey and begun drowning, down and down without anything he could do about it. His father had once told him that witches caught you like that: with a look. If you ever meet a woman like that, you run the other way, no matter what, for your own good. There’s no cowardice in safety. But Javier had no intention of running—he’d rather drown, over and over, if it meant she looked at him like that a little longer.

She stood at the end of the stairs, perfectly still, with that ridiculous shirt with rhinestones across her chest and her dark hair down past her shoulder, brushing the sliver of uncovered skin at her waist. She was beautiful, Javier thought, so ridiculously beautiful he got a lump in his throat just looking at her. For a moment, before her Can I help you? at the door, he’d almost forgotten the reason he was there. He almost forgot it again when he saw her shake her head at the end of the stairs, and had to touch the letter tucked next to his heart again.

“Can I get you anything?” her voice sounded different as she strode into the kitchen. “My sister will be right down. Coffee?” she wasn’t looking at him, and Javier wished she’d just stop and turn to face him, if only to forget himself again in her eyes.

But Helena wouldn’t turn. She wouldn’t look at him. She woldn’t look at his face, and his neatly trimmed moustache, and his lovely dark eyes. She wouldn’t look at the lines on his face he was way too young to have, and the loneliness embedded in each of them she knew could be found in the silver strands of her hair, too. Helena figured he was not a man who hid things, just like he was not hiding the fact he was looking at her—she could feel his eyes burning on the back of her head, and she couldn’t believe the way he was staring at her. Looking at her like that.

It was how dark his eyes were, the problem. The way he could make someone—her—feel seen from the inside out.

“Coffee’s fine,” he said, forcing his gaze away. He looked outside, where in the distance, still filtered like a dream, he could see clouds gathering, a distant storm that seemed to have followed him there. Javier’s father had taught him to predict exactly when a storm would hit just by the location of lightning, so that he could prepare the ranch in time to brace for it.

He’d never been very good at it. He thought that lightning, like love, was never ruled by logic. Accidents happened, and they always would.

He looked at Helena again, her back still to him—she was watching the coffee brew, her arms crossed, fingers tapping nervously against her elbow. Javier looked at her and thought she was familiar to him—he’d thought that ever since getting her letter, the one tucked next to his heart, but to see her there in front of him, flesh and bones and long hair and clear eyes, really settled it for him.

He’d heard about it happening to other men—his friend Steve being one of them. Going about their business one minute and suddenly they found themselves without hope. They fell in love so hard they never got up off their knees again.

He’d never thought it would happen to him. Javier was all business—he always had been. It was his need to figure out the why of things, of people. Money, love, fury—those were the motivations he found usually, in his line of work. James Hawkins fell in the money category, of that he was sure, with perhaps a sprinkle of fury in the shape of his ring marked on the bodies.

Javier had been looking for that ring at Hawkins’ place—he’d seen it in pictures, read it in descriptions, remembered it from the few times his path had trailed along Hawkins’, because Laredo wasn’t that big of a place, and faces grew familiar over time—when the letter had arrived.

Crumpled and torn in one corner, the flap already opened, Javier had looked at it and thought he should’ve taken it directly to the office. But an open letter was hard to resist, even for someone like Javier, who had resisted a whole lot in his life. But that letter was something else, something tempting, and he gave into it.

He never regretted it.

He had just sat there, on the patio of the house of the man he was looking for, and read the letter Helena Goode had written to her sister. When he was done, he’d read it again. And again. And twice more midair, and then while he had his lunch, and once more when he’d settled in his hotel room. Even when the letter was folded back into its envelope and stored in the pocket of his jacket, the words came back to haunt him—whole sentences written by Helena forming in his mind.

Javier had been close to people, and while he didn’t have that many friends he was content—he’d even almost gotten married after high school, although that’s a topic no one ever brought up, not even himself. But he’d never once felt like he’d known anyone the way he felt he knew the woman who had written that letter. It felt like someone had ripped a piece of his soul out of him and formed into words. Words he was so taken by he wouldn’t have heard, seen, or felt a thing as long as he was reading them.

I have this dream of being whole. Of not going to sleep each night, wanting. But still, sometimes, when the wind is warm, or the crickets sing, I dream of a love that even time will lie down and be still for. I just want someone to love me. I want to be seen.

Javier wanted to tell her that he saw her. Right there in front of him, and even when she was not there, when he had not the faintest clue what she looked like, he saw her. He saw her standing, moving the coffee pot from the fire. He saw her pouring the coffee in three mismatched cups. He saw her hands shaking as she did so.

“Are you okay?” he asked, and she recoiled as if startled by his voice.

“I think I’m going to sit down,” Helena said, casually, as if she didn’t seem about to collapse.

Still she brought two of the cups over, almost spilling the contents of one, and collapsed onto the chair opposite Javi with a shuddering sigh, her cheeks flushed, her chest fluttering. She wondered if drinking coffee would be a good idea at that moment, still feeling as if her heart might explode, but needed something to keep herself busy, so she brought the cup to her mouth and gulped down the scalding drink, burning the roof of her mouth and her lips.

“Why are you here?” she asked then, bitterness coating her tongue. She was used to sugar in her coffee, most times a dash of milk. “I mean, I understood what you told me—about Phoebe’s boyfriend—but why here?”

She saw the man hesitate—he did not strike her as someone who hesitated in anything, but he was pondering her words and how to best respond to her, his lips shifting to draw in a breath, and then exhale. He reached for his jacket—he still hadn’t taken that off, and with the movement it hugged his shoulders tight, seams pulling uncomfortably—and, from one of the inner pockets, took a piece of paper that he handed to her.

“I mailed that to my sister ages ago,” Helena recognised it immediately—that letter she was so grateful had never reached Phoebe, but also wished it had a little earlier, so she wouldn’t be in that mess. There’s a halo around the moon tonight. I think trouble is coming. I wish you’d get out of there. Come back home. Alone. “You opened it,” she added then, a little baffled.

He hadn’t just opened it. He’d read it. The paper consumed from being folded over and over again, each line marked deeper where it bent, words slightly smudged as if someone had run their fingers over each and every of it.

“It was opened already,” he retorted, justifying. “It must have gotten lost at the post office.”

“But you read it,” the cup was burning her palm, the letter her other hand, her face was burning too under his gaze.

“Maybe a thousand times,” Javier admitted, his voice dropping.

“It was a very personal letter,” she whispered too, feeling the tightness inside her throat and belly and chest grow, and grow, and grow until it was choking her. That had to be what a heart attack felt like. Perhaps she was about to end up on the floor unconscious.

“I know,” the man said, and at last she looked at him.

He saw her but, Javier knew, she saw him too. She could’ve seen how Javier wasn’t sure how far he’d go to cover for someone—he’d never been in that position before, and he despised the way it felt. But he was there, sitting in her kitchen, drinking her coffee, a total stranger on a humid day, wondering if he was going to look the other way because of her. She could see all that—or at least, she hoped.

And then Phoebe came down. Noisy steps down the stairs, announcing her presence to the entire world—she always had that about her, always managed to bring the attention to her, with her lovely strawberry-blonde hair and her long lashes and full lips. Even with the bruises, even with the wounds, even with her fear embedded so deeply into her skin it was painful, Phoebe was beautiful.

Still, Javier focused on Helena, and it wasn’t until her sister stood at her side that he caught a glimpse of her. Night and day, that’s what the aunts called them. He didn’t know, but he would’ve agreed—so starkly different, yet seemingly in tune with each other.

“As I’ve said your sister, I won’t take up much of your time,” Javier cleared his throat, offered his hand to Phoebe as he stood. He missed the feeling of his letter against his body, but Helena was clutching it tight, pressing it against her stomach. “It’s just a couple of questions, routine checks.”

“Of course—agent, is it?” Phoebe’s voice was soft where Helena’s was strong. She took up space just by standing, her arms folded in front of her as she held the third cup that had been on the counter.

“Yes, ma’am—Agent Peña.” Only then did she take his hand, a delicate shake before turning his palm up towards her face, peering down with an interested hum.

“You’ve come a long way just for a couple of routine questions, Agent Peña.” Her thumb ran along one of the lines on his palm, tracing it with a feather-like touch. Her brows knitted for a moment, confusion locking on her features (eyes darting towards her sister) before she shook herself. “I see here it’ll be worth the trip,” she mused, tapping his palm.

“Right.” Again he cleared his throat, and pulled his hand back. “When was the last time you saw James Hawkins?”

“Ah, a man of action,” Phoebe scoffed lightly, then shrugged. “Couple of weeks, just before I came here. It just wasn’t working anymore.”

“Is he responsible for that?” he asked, gesturing towards her face, the bruises.

“As I’ve said, it wasn’t working anymore,” she tipped her chin up, leaned with her hip against Helena’s chair. “I have no idea where he might be. If a man hits me, he only does it once,” Helena’s breath hitched, her grip on both the cup and letter tightening.

“What about the car? The one with the Texas plate—it’s registered in his name,” Javier thought he might as well reveal all his cards from the beginning. Neither sister was stupid, but still Phoebe was lying—he knew she was. He had seen that look before, countless times: people who are guilty of something think they can hide it by not looking at you. Or looking at you too much.

Helena wasn’t looking at him anymore—again. Phoebe was staring him down. But Helena wasn’t looking at him, because she knew, she was certain, that could not lie to the man. She feared her eyes would betray her too, like her heart was doing, like she imagined her words would if she were to say anything more.

“I took it when I ran,” Phoebe said, sighing. “And I know that’s wrong, so you may take it right away—I just needed a way out. That was the fastest.”

She was good, Javier managed to think in that haze-like feeling he’d found himself in since he’d walked into the house. Since he’d seen Helena. Her eyes.

“And you have not heard from him since?” Phoebe shook her head, sipping on her coffee and grimacing—too bitter, too strong. But it helped keep her mind away from the times she had heard from James—in her dreams, nightmares, really; or when she was distracted, and his voice crept into her head; or when she looked in the mirror and his reflection stared back.

“I have not,” she smacked her lips, the taste of the coffee lingering on the tip of her tongue.

“Alright, well,” Javier picked his cup and drank most of the coffee that remained—he liked it that way, black and strong, it reminded him of his father—then went to the sink to rinse the cup. Helena watched him while his back was turned, and almost smiled at the way he let the water slosh from side to side enough to get any residue off before settling it upside down. “If anything comes to mind, I’ll be around a couple of days longer—I’m staying at the Hide-A-Way Motel.”

“Really?” was the first thing Helena said in what felt like ages. Javier turned around—he was just stalling then. He wanted to remain there, with her. He wanted to keep on looking into Helena’s eyes and drown, drown, drown for days. He saw nothing else but her eyes.

“Lady at the car rental desk suggested it—it isn’t half bad,” he shrugged, and smoothed his jacket down. He felt the absence of the letter when he ran his hand across his chest, and the paper did not crinkle under his touch. Helena curled her fingers around her words. “Nice area.”

“It is,” she should know—her shop was one street away from the motel. She’d picked the area with Frankie because of how nice it was, close enough to the park it gave the impression of being around nature, but not so far from town that nobody would walk by the shop.

Phoebe watched the agent and her sister look at each other and frowned—for a moment, what she’d seen on Peña’s palm flashed before her eyes again. A new beginning, a line cut through by something, someone he could not escape. It had been written on his skin since the beginning. Some fates were just guaranteed.

“If I happen to remember anything else, I’ll come around,” Phoebe said, cutting through the crackle of energy that passed from one to the other. It was as if she’d woken them up from a dream, a dream made of only looks and silence. “You can have the car taken away.”

“Great,” he cleared his throat, and forced himself to back away. He knew that if he lingered any longer, he’d never want to leave. It was hard enough already. “Thanks.”

Helena felt like she was losing her mind.

The night before, a ring had appeared around the moon. A halo around the moon was always a sign of disruption—but it was a double ring, all tangled up, anything could happen. Helena didn’t like the thought, and she hadn’t been able to sleep all night.

The sparrow that used to fly each midsummer’s eve into the house on Magnolia Street had come back, out of season, round and round the dining room—her daughters had counted each circle: three. Three meant trouble, it always had. She’d chased it out with her sister, both of them on edge.

And it rained. All night and through the morning, one of her daughters standing by the window looking at the lilacs being hit by drop after drop, tapping her fingers nervously. Emma was looking at the man in their backyard, who stared back at them like from a vision, a nightmare rather than a dream. She was hoping he would go away, but the bad weather did not bother him—he seemed to relish in the black skies and the wild wind, and the rain passed through him. Emma thought—she knew—it was his fault that things were going amiss in the house, even though she didn’t know the extent of it: pipes rusting and the tile floor of the basement turning to dust, nothing in the refrigerator would stay fresh.

Both sets of sisters fought, loud and mean and just like he wanted them to. Emma would’ve liked them all to stop. Helena thought of chopping the lilacs all night long, but had to go to work.

And then there was Javier. Agent Peña, who walked around town and talked to everyone and was always there when she turned around from the counter. Javier, with a cigarette hanging from his lips at every street corner. Always there, always there, always there.

“Fuck!” Helena exclaimed, when the jar she was trying to place on the shelf fell and shattered on the ground, shards of glass flying around her ankles and the contents—curled dried leaves—spilling across the clean floor. “God, give me a break.”

“Are you okay, Lena?” a voice called from the other side of the shop. Helena didn’t have many friends—it came with the Goode name, being shunned away. But Crystal was one of the few who did not shy away, besides being a good employee. “Let me help you.”

“It’s alright, I just haven’t been sleeping well,” she went to gather the glass and leaves, both crunching as she moved the broom across them. “But could you put the kettle on? Maybe some tea will do me good,” even though she craved coffee desperately.

She’d craved coffee ever since she’d met with the agent. Black and bitter. She could smell it in the air around her, no matter which room she walked in, or which street—along with tobacco and more. She’d never smoked a cigarette in her life but now felt her fingers itch as if reaching for one.

Crystal obliged without question—she’d learned early on that many things around Helena Goode just did not make sense, and there was no point in prying. It had been that way since they were children. Her mother liked the Goode aunts, said that it was not their fault for more than two hundred years their family had been blamed for everything that went wrong in town.

Some people are just different. Most people are just stupid to be afraid of it.

She remembered their classmates being terrified of the day a bunch of cats followed Helena to school—witchery, they called it. A witch and her familiars. Nasty, nasty creatures, the whole lot of them. But Crystal remembered Helena being kind and poised, she remembered her balanced lunches, and the way she always looked out for her sister. She still did. Why people would think Helena and Phoebe had any evil in them escaped her.

Goode women ignored convention; they were headstrong and willful, and meant to be that way.

“Thank you, Crystal,” Helena said from the kitchenette, throwing away the spoiled merchandise..

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go home? I can look after the shop,” but even as she asked, Helena was shaking her head, lips trembling with her deep inhale. “Lena, did something happen?”

“It’s not—” a bell. The shop’s bell. Helena looked up from her mug, the smell of lavender easing her headache a little, and then turned. “I’ll get it.”

He was everywhere, always there, always there, in her shop, too. Helena stood frozen next to the counter and looked at the agent who was looking around—a feeble attempt at not immediately turning towards her, not falling into her eyes right away.

“Yes?” she managed to ask, her throat dry once again. Just by his mere presence.

“I’m afraid I forgot to bring enough toothpaste,” Javier lied. He’d thrown an almost full tube in the bin just that morning—still wasn’t sure why. Maybe because so many people had told him about Helena’s shop, just around the corner. How the woman was the way she was, but her products were amazing.

“You could’ve gone to the market,” she said, but placed her mug down and moved to the shelf anyway. Once she wasn’t looking at him, she managed to exhale again, but still his eyes burned on the back of her head, and she suddenly felt conscious of the fact she probably had forgotten to brush her hair in the morning.

“Yes,” he retorted, and didn’t add anything else. He knew he could’ve, but he didn’t want to. And he could’ve told her it was because so many people had recommended her stuff, or because the shop was closer to his motel. But he didn’t.

“Any allergies?” she asked, moving the stool closer to the shelf.

“No, ma’am.” She paused, one foot up the step as she bit her tongue—just a moment, then she climbed and grabbed a jar, the label scribbled so hurriedly it was unreadable, the dark paste inside a stark contrast with the white paper.

“Charcoal—whitens the teeth,” she moved back down, the counter between them as she handed the product to him—her eyes flickered towards the cigarette that he’d tucked over his ear, shaking her head lightly. “Nasty habit,” she muttered, lowering her gaze.

“I’m aware,” Javier chuckled—as he took the jar, he grazed her fingers. Helena pulled back as if she’d been burned, fingertips curling into her palm and pressing harshly. “Does this stuff actually work?” he cleared his throat, turning it in his palm to glance at the label again.

He knew her handwriting. He could read it like the back of his hand. I have this dream of being whole.

“It does,” Crystal called as she walked in from the kitchenette, and Helena leaned over the counter and reached for her mug—anything to keep her hands busy. “See for yourself. On the house.”

“He can’t accept it on the house, Crystal,” she said, moving back. “There’s an investigation ongoing—isn’t that right?” it looked as if she might turn to him while she addressed him, but didn’t. Again.

“That’s right,” Javier cleared his throat, shuffling a little. He was so close to the counter he could feel the edge of it dig into his stomach, and forced himself to look at the other woman. “But are you giving me your word? That it works.”

He was a charmer. Helena knew already—Crystal was just finding out. She wanted to ask what investigation Helena was talking about, what was happening at the house on Magnolia Street that she desperately did not want to go back, and what was happening with the agent so desperately trying to meet her eyes.

“Cross my heart,” she said instead, because she knew this would be another inexplicable moment. She’d made her peace with it. “Swear to God, this woman is a magician. Let me ring you up.”

Helena hid her face with the mug, the dwindling steam turning her cheeks a soft shade of red. At the same time, Javier scoffed lightly.

“Right,” he muttered, reaching for his wallet. “Heard that one before. Thanks.”

It took a moment for Helena to register his words—she was trying so hard to not hear him, to not focus on him, that she didn’t understand what he was saying until he was out of the door, an echo of the bell ringing in her mind.

“Wait, what?” she placed the mug down, looking up at his back behind the glass. “Hold on.”

She shouldn’t have gone after him. She should’ve known better. Helena spent her whole life being vigilant, she spent her whole life relying on logic and common sense, she’d taken care of everything from the moment her parents had died, and then again when Frankie had died—she thought about everything.

She had to, because otherwise how would her kids have made it to fourteen and fifteen?

She had to, because if she stopped thinking about everything, what exactly was she left with? Her thoughts and worries are the only reason she continued to exist, of that she was certain.

Never look back, never change direction, that’s what she had to tell herself. Don’t think about being alone in the dark, or storms or lightning and thunder, or the true love you won’t ever have. Life, she knew, was brushing her teeth and making breakfast for her kids and not letting her mind wander.

But that was a lie—from the beginning Helena had been lying to herself, telling herself she could handle anything: her parents dying, her sister relying on her, her aunts’ reputation, Frankie, Frankie’s death, the spell, the year where everything went grey, her children, and now this. She’d grown tired—she didn’t want to lie anymore. One more lie and she’d be lost. One more lie and she’d never find her way back through the woods.

And it’s all because of him.

“What did you mean?” she stopped abruptly when he did, taking a step back when he turned to look at her. She tugged her cardigan close, the wind whipping the ends around along with her hair, and tipped her chin up with her arms crossed, finally, finally looking back at him. “Heard that one before?” she echoed. “Is that why you were at my shop?”

“No,” he shook his head. “It’s because I needed toothpaste, and I’m just around the corner,” she scoffed lightly, shuffling her feet. “But actually, yes, I heard a bunch of stuff that doesn’t make sense at all, so I’d like to understand.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s my job,” he retorted. “Because, seriously, I have heard it all. A family of witches, a curse, your own husband—”

“Don’t,” she snapped, and for a moment Javier recoiled, saw the truth in the words of all the people who had warned him off Helena Goode. With her hair dancing in the wind, and her cheeks still red, and her eyes oh-so-clear, like a storm incoming, he understood. “Do not bring Frankie into this.”

“Hard not to, when it’s everything this town talks about,” he took a step forward, her whole body seizing up. “Do you have any idea how strange this all sounds to me? People tell me you’re here cooking up placenta bars, that you’re into devil worship.”

“You think I don’t know that?” her voice was lower, and pulled him closer. “All my life, this town—I know what they say about me, I know what everybody thinks.” She wanted to move away—she wanted to lean in. She remained still. “All my life I wanted nothing more than to be seen as normal, but that’s just not the way it is. I don’t have a ranch house or a white picket fence, I don’t have a husband that’s alive anymore, I don’t have—” she cut herself off, unsure as to why she was so ready to pour her heart out to a stranger in the middle of the street. “I don’t see how that’s my fault.”

“I never said it was,” Javier spoke softly, a gentleness that felt foreign on his tongue but rolled off easily when he looked at her.

“Then why are you here?” her chin was still up, but she was looking down at her nose, careful to avoid his gaze—it made him believe that she, too, felt that tug in the pit of her stomach. She was just better at controlling it.

Your letter, he almost said. You.

“James Hawkins,” he replied instead. “A guy like that doesn’t simply vanish.”

“And would that be such a big loss?” she scoffed, tightening her arms around herself. “A guy like that—wouldn’t it be so much better if he did just vanish?”

“Maybe,” he shrugged, and felt his hands move before he could control himself. “But I made a vow, and I have a job—” his fingertips grazed her arm, and at that she pulled back.

“As do I,” one hand moved to the point he’d brushed, holding the spot as if it hurt, tight against her chest. “So unless you have something you want to ask me, Agent Peña, I’d rather get back to it.”

“Are you or your sister hiding James Hawkins?”

“He’s not here, no.”

“Did you or your sister kill James Hawkins?” he asked, and her eyebrows arched.

“Oh, yeah. Couple of times,” Javier sighed, and forced himself back, his hand now itching for his cigarette. “Is that all?” he put it between his lips, ignoring the frown forming on her brow.

“Yeah, sure,” he didn’t light it up just yet, but reached for the lighter nevertheless—he missed the letter in his pocket whenever he touched it. “Bye, Helena.”

He watched her go back inside the shop with her shoulders pulled back tight, steps unsteady, and only when the door was closed, the echo of the bell ringing in his ears, did he light up the cigarette.

She watched him go away from inside the shop, with his steps matching the thundering of her heart.

“What is wrong with you?” Phoebe watched her sister kneel on the ground, pruning shears in hand and purple flowers all around her, on her. “What are you doing?”

“I’m tired of seeing these every time I look out of the window,” her breath was short—the flowers seemed endless, she cut and cut and cut and still they were there. “And the smell—I hate it. I can’t do it anymore.”

“Lena—Lena! It’s just flowers!” although Phoebe knew it was not entirely true. Mostly, she ignored the lilacs, and everything that was underneath it. Especially what was underneath it. “Stop it, before you hurt yourself.”

“Oh, now you’re thinking about that?” Helena dropped the shears and stood, the soil on her jeans already a stain she wouldn’t manage to remove. “Now that there’s a cop after us? Now you think I might hurt myself?”

“So what? We stick to our story. No body, no crime,” she gestured towards the lilacs. “There is not a single reason why he should think we’ve done something, unless you give him one.”

“But we did, Phoebe. You understand that, don’t you?” she hissed, walking up to her sister. “We fucked up, and somehow I’m still the one who’s cleaning up your messes,” Phoebe’s eyes widened, mouth set in a thin line. “I’m sick of this.”

“I never asked you to, I never—”

“Enough lies, Pheebs. Aren’t you tired?” Helena smelled like the lilacs, and her headache was back, stronger and stronger as the storm approached from the horizon. “I know I am. I’m so tired of lying.”

“What are you talking about?” Phoebe had lowered her voice, and was looking at her sister as if she could not recognise her. “Lena—you can’t do that,” even as she said it, Helena walked past her, brushing her hands down the front of her jeans. “You can’t go to him,” she said, following her. “We’ll both be sitting in jail if you do. What about the girls? Why are you even thinking about it now?”

Helena wasn’t sure why. She knew she’d woken up smelling cigarettes and coffee again, and the lilacs, and the nightmare still clinging to her eyelids, making her feel unrested as she had for the past days. Weeks. She wasn’t sure anymore. All she knew is that her throat hurt from all the lies she’d told Javier, and she wanted to come clean, to tell all—she wanted someone to listen to what she had to say and really hear her, the way no one ever had before. So she’d gone to work, and back home to cut the flowers, and as sundown approached she would go out for Javier.

“Don’t tell me about the girls now, when I spent half my life thinking only about them,” she said loudly, marching in and out of room after room of the house, grabbing things she wasn’t even sure she needed. “And you? You only ever thought about yourself. You left me here. You lived your life. And you dragged me back in just to save your ass.”

“Oh, that’s it, isn’t it?” Phoebe screamed too, from the middle of the house, following the noises of her sister as she stomped around. “I lived my life and you hate me for it!”

“I don’t hate you, Phoebe.”

“No, no, sure—you’re unbelievable. You spent all your life trying to be normal and fit in, but you never will! You know we’re different, and so are your girls,” Helena stopped abruptly to look at her.

“That’s twice now—you leave them out of this,” she said with a scowl so similar to that of their mother’s, if only either of them could remember her.

“All my life I’ve wished I had half your talent—you’re wasting yourself, Lena,” Phoebe cried, and for a moment she sounded just like the little girl who had just gotten to the aunts’ house. “And now you—what? You’re gonna turn yourself in? Or get down on your knees and beg for mercy?”

“If I’ll have to, yes,” Helena said without a second thought, fixing her sister with a look. “I’m done.”

They both measured themselves harshly, always had, as if they had never been anything but those two plain little girls, waiting at the airport for someone to claim them.

If you go against what you believe in, you’re nothing. That was another thing his father liked to say—and Javier knew he was right. So he was going to stick to his plan: fly back home and give up the case to the poor bastard who was supposed to get it from the beginning, had it not been for the letter. He was going to go back to work as usual, forget about the whole ordeal, forget about grey eyes and dark hair and his own heart.

Heart, heart, heart beating to the sound of the knocking on his door, that for a moment he’d thought to be rain pattering on the ground and the roof, such the strength of the storm was. But he heard it, and when he opened the door, Helena was there, shivering and looking up at him.

“You want a confession?”

In his line of work, Javier had been trained to notice things, but he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. Part of the reason was that he’d been imagining Helena everywhere he went. So maybe it was just an illusion, a desire of his heart turned into a vision.

“What?” he stepped aside and, water falling from her hair, Helena walked in, trailing mud behind.

“You want a confession, don’t you? It’s why you’re still here,” she was shaking, arms crossed over her chest with wet clothes clinging to her. “We killed James. Technically, I killed James. I used belladonna.”

“I know,” Helena frowned, moved the hair out of her face with trembling hands.

“You know?” she sniffled, part from the cold part from the smell attacking her nostrils—coffee and tobacco and, surprisingly, food.

“I found some in the car—saw the same thing in your shop and had it analyzed,” he closed the door, careful to not turn the lock, leaving her a way out as he moved back towards the kitchenette. “His ring was in there, too. There was blood on it. Have you had any dinner?”

“I—what is this, some sort of joke?” she asked, slightly out of breath, and stepped in his direction. Javier scoffed, his back to her as he shook his head a little.

“Far from it,” he muttered, turning the stove off. Still, he didn’t move to look at her—if he did, he wouldn’t be able to say what he had to. He could feel her shiver, just a few steps from him, and it took everything in him to not reach over and grab her and hold her close. “But I have no idea what to do from here. I can’t say that I’m sorry Hawkins is gone, and I can’t—”

“Javier—” he exhaled—it was the first time she said his name, and he gripped the counter with both hands as he closed his eyes. Through the rain, and the soil, and the smoke in his room, he could smell lilacs and that same scent that had clung to the letter, which had bled onto his fingers each time he reread it.

“I was gonna turn over the case,” she held her breath at his words—he heard the light hiccup as her lips sealed, and slowly turned, though his gaze remained lowered. “I can’t say I’m impartial anymore—I can pretend, but I’m not. I no longer can tell what’s right and what’s wrong and you—you came here, and what did you think would happen?”

“I don’t know,” her voice was small, and Javier knew she was looking at him—the roles had switched, he could feel her gaze burning across his skin. “That’s the thing, I don’t know. I’m tired—of lying, of hiding, of those fucking flowers,” she sniffled, and from the corner of his eyes he could see her rubbing her arms. “The thing is, I’m pretty sure it’s because of you, and I can’t stand it—because I know I’ll get hurt, and my sister will get hurt, and my children, too.”

“Then why,” his voice had dropped slightly, and he took one more step forward, looking up at last—they were standing so close now, heat radiating off of him and clinging to her chilling bones, “are you here, Helena?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered, her hands seeking him before she could even realise. “Maybe this,” her letter was almost destroyed, wet and crumpled as she held it between them.

Fear or loneliness—she wasn’t sure she could distinguish them anymore. When the deathwatch beetle had started ticking for Frankie, then she’d been afraid. When she’d stopped speaking and seeing colours for a year, and her children had been by themselves, then she’d been afraid. When she was young, and she sneaked down the stairs with her sister to see what the aunts where up to, then she’d been afraid. In that moment, she was terrified.

And lonely. She’d never felt more alone or lonely before in her life. She wished she could’ve believed in love’s salvation, but truth was desire had been ruined for her. She wished she’d never spied on the aunts’ and seen their customers crying and begging and making fools of themselves. She’d become love-resistant because of that and, with her sister, sitting on the roof of the house, they’d wished to look up at the stars and not be afraid of it.

But, just like trouble, love came in unannounced and took over before she’d had a chance to reconsider or even think about it—Frankie first, and now—

Amas Veritas—she thought about it again, looking into Javier’s dark eyes. He will hear my call a mile away—she’d been just a child, so stupid, thinking that love was a toy, something easy and sweet, to play with. But real love, she’d learned, she was learning, was dangerous, it got you from inside and held on tight, and if you didn’t let go fast enough you might be willing to do anything for its sake.

She’d learned that with Frankie, and now—

“Oh, don’t,” she whispered when Javier’s hand brushed along her arms, foregoing the letter—and moved closer to him, pulled by gravity, by forces she couldn’t begin to control. “Javi—”

He believed he was going to cry—because she was saying his name again, soft and gentle and like she’d known it all her life, and his hands were tracing a path up her arms like he knew exactly the shape of her, and trying to learn it by memory all over again.

He wasn’t even sure that was not the case. Perhaps a part of him knew her already, always had.

He had stumbled into love, of that he was certain, and was stuck there. Javier was used to not getting what he wanted, he’d learned to deal with it, but with Helena in front of him he couldn’t help but wonder if that had only been because he’d never wanted anything too badly. He did now.

“I just do this,” he said, voice sad and deep and causing the hair at the nape of her neck to stand on edge as he leaned closer, towards the hand she was offering to him like in prayer, and she brushed his cheek as he sighed. “Pay no attention,” he said, but she did. How could she not?

He was there, and she shifted toward him as if to brush her hand along his face, but instead ended up with her arms looped around his neck, his own wrapped around her, holding her closer.

And Helena was terrified, because suddenly she wanted whatever he was promising her, with his lips so close and words so soft she told herself don’t listen, but she couldn’t, because whispers of I’ve been looking for you forever inched their way underneath her skin, warmed by his hands. She wanted to get lost—she, who couldn’t function without directions, needed it. Him.

Everything she did those days was so unlike her usual self that when she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window behind Javier’s shoulder, she couldn’t recognise herself. Looking back at her was a woman who could’ve fallen in love if she’d let herself, a woman who didn’t stop, not even when Javier moved her hair from her neck, the wet locks sending a shiver down her spine that only intensified as the man bowed his head a pressed his mouth to the hollow of her throat.

What good would it do her to get involved with someone like him? She wondered—because the last time she did, she loved so much she got hurt to the point a part of her had forever vanished. Or so she had thought, because with Javier’s lips brushing her skin, the light tickle from his moustache making her eyelids droop, she could’ve believed something had come back alive behind her ribs. She suddenly felt like she had to press a hand down against her chest to make sure her heart wouldn’t escape her body.

“Helena—” he whispered, his arms tight around her—the droplets of rain clung to his lips, the taste of her flooding his senses, overpowering everything else. She sighed again, a shudder running down her spine, unsure if it was from his voice or the cold settling in her bones.

Although, if she were to be honest with herself, she’d say she wasn’t cold. She was burning, really, Javier’s body so close she could memorise it by touch alone.

“Maybe I’m letting you do this so you’ll stop the investigation, even with my confession,” she said, his head straightening—his nose brushed along her jaw, her cheek, and her eyes remained closed. “Have you thought about that? Maybe I’m so desperate I’d fuck anyone, including you.”

There was a sour taste in her mouth with each cruel word, but she didn’t care—she forced herself to open her eyes, she knew she needed to see the wounded look on his face with each bitter word. She needed to stop it—whatever it was—before she no longer had the option to. Before the freedom she had longed for forever slipped through her fingers, and she was trapped again in pain, just like the women who used to come at the aunts’ back door.

“Helena,” Javier said again, mournful, and she could almost taste her own name falling from his lips. The tobacco, too. Her mouth parted on instinct, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw down towards her chin, brushing her bottom lip. “You’re not like that.”

“Really?” she scoffed lightly, the noise remaining trapped in her throat when she lifted her gaze to his eyes. “You don’t know me. You just think you do.”

“That’s right,” he nodded, and the tip of his nose brushed hers—one tilt of his chin, one tip of her head, and the agony would be over for both of them. But for the moment they were just suspended in time. “I think I do. I do.”

“Let go,” she told Javier, and it sounded almost like a plea. “Let go of me.”

He did. He would’ve done anything she asked of him. Let go, hold tighter, kneel, jump into a fire. All of it. So he let go of her, even if it hurt, both of them taking one step back—her arms immediately wrapped around her middle (an attempt to trap his warmth close to her skin), his hands tingling with the loss of her.

“Helena—” he said once more, her name more and more familiar on his tongue.

“You have your confession, and you have your proof,” each word felt like shreds of glass in her throat, while she looked away forcefully—in the window, her reflection was almost familiar again, still a little wild, but recognisable. “It’s up to you. You know where to find me, once you make a decision.”

“I do,” he repeated, somewhat stunned, his mind reeling. She took one step to the side, heading for the door. “It’s still pouring outside.”

“I know,” she only said, and went nevertheless.

For hours her perfume remained in the room, clinging to him for so long he didn’t even notice the smell of his burned dinner. So long the letter had dried on the floor where it had slipped, enough for him to reread it, again and again until he’d managed to fall asleep.

Helena couldn’t stop thinking about Javier. From the moment she’d walked out of the motel room, he had been all she could think about—on the drive home through the storm, in the warm bath to wash the cold away, doing the dishes, in bed, unable to sleep, dreaming about him while wide awake and in the few hours she’d managed to close her eyes, too. Haunted, just like her sister.

She dreamed of the desert, an apple tree in a yard that wasn’t hers and bloomed without water, and horses that ate apples from that tree and ran faster than all the others, and a man who was taking a bite from a pie she’d made, bound to be hers for life. She’d woken up smelling apple pie and cinnamon, coffee and tobacco.

So it was no surprise when Javier showed up that same morning. She almost heard him coming. Yet she couldn’t face him right away, so she hid inside, behind her sister, still skittish, behind her daughters, still confused, behind the pretence of making breakfast.

“He’s staying!” Sophia, the eldest of her daughters, announced, running from the garden to somewhere past the living room—Helena sighed, eyes closing. “Aunt Pheebs! He says he’s staying!”

Helena wondered if, without the feeling of Javier’s hands still on her, she would’ve wondered why Phoebe would care whether or not the man investigating them was staying at their place for breakfast. She wasn’t even sure whether she was glad he was staying or just nauseated.

“Can I help?” Emma, much quieter than her sister, stepped at her mother’s side and pointed at the stove, a half-burned pancake smoking on the pan. Helena threw the failed attempt away and nodded, forcing a smile onto her face—she knew the man was in the room with them, she could feel him watching the two of them from the entrance, could see him in her mind as he leaned against the doorway.

“Be careful,” she murmured, taking one step aside, then another, and more, her own steps echoed by Javier’s. They met halfway across the kitchen, her still not looking at him while his eyes never once left her.

“’Morning,” he hummed, shoulders brushing—Helena moved aside, ignoring the sharp pain in her hip when she bumped into the table.

“Good morning,” she cleared her throat, brushing her hands down the front of her shirt—and then lowered her voice. “Why are you here?”

“You told me I knew where to find you once I’d made my decision,” he replied, matching her tone.

“And have you?” her hands began going numb as she clenched them in fists at her sides. She could still feel Javier looking at her.

“I’m going back to Laredo,” her gaze snapped in his direction, so fast the whole room spun as she inhaled sharply, holding her breath. “I thought you should have this. After all, it belongs to you.”

It took her a moment to manage to focus on the paper he was handing her—her letter, now ruined, a half-destroyed piece of paper she’d poured her heart over, more than once. When she picked it up, their fingers brushed just like the first time, and Helena almost cried out in pain.

“Now, something smells like it’s burning,” she could see the strain in his neck as he turned away from her, looking at Emma. One more moment and then he walked ahead. “Need a hand?”

“I was trying to flip it,” Emma mumbled, a pout forming on her lips that made her look more like her mother. Javier chuckled, settling at her side. “Do you know how?” she asked suddenly, a hopeful note in her voice Helena hadn’t heard in a while. Her chest constricted, watching the man smirk and roll up his sleeves.

“I absolutely know how to,” he nodded with a theatrical gesture. “Step aside and observe.”

Amas Veritas, dancing in Helena’s head as she watched Javier, fitting so well in her kitchen, flip pancakes in the air and making the young girl laugh. It had been a while since Emma had laughed like that, and for a moment she was her soft-voiced and shy 14-year-old again, who liked to look at the stars and sleep with her head on Helena’s lap.

But then her shoulders tensed, her whole position shifting, taking one step away from Javier to turn towards her mother, even though her eyes went past her. Helena knew, without having to turn right away, that something was terribly wrong.

“Mom,” Sophia came running in, breathless, and immediately clung to her arm, tugging harshly. “Something’s wrong, mom,” the panic in her voice settled in Helena’s bones, mixing with her own, and she was quick to push her daughter behind her back, stepping away from the door. “It’s aunt Pheebs, she—”

“It’s not her,” Emma’s voice was grave, so unfitting for a young woman, and she inched closer to her mother, too. Which left Javier at the stove, looking at the three of them with confusion and alarm. “It’s him, it’s the man of the lilacs.”

“What?” perplexed, Javier took a step forward, only to be stopped by Helena’s extended arm, while she pushed all three of them behind her just as Phoebe walked into the kitchen. Accompanied. “What the hell—” Javier exhaled, reaching for his belt.

“Agent Peña!” James exclaimed, translucent as he came into the light. Javier’s head started spinning as he stared at him, then at Phoebe Goode, her arm trapped in his vice grip made of fingers of smoke, then back at him. “Long time no see. How’s Laredo? I think I’m starting to feel homesick.”

As James spoke, Helena had started stepping backwards, her gaze never leaving Phoebe—the two sisters were looking at each other, guilt and fear and resolution in their gazes that no one but the younger girls could notice, the familiarity an ache on the palms of their hands as they held each others’, keeping close, keeping behind their mother.

“Helena,” Javier called, his gaze unwavering as he took hold of his gun. “You said he was dead.”

“Yes,” she nodded, and for a split second, Phoebe’s eyes showed surprise.

“Doesn’t look like it,” he retorted, and James scoffed.

“You’ve all spent weeks pretending I’m not here—well, almost all,” he tilted his head, gaze settling onto Emma, and smiled. Helena pushed her daughter into her back, the girl hiding her face against her shoulder, clinging tighter onto her sister’s hand—Sophia held her chin high, squeezing back. “It’s gotten boring.”

“Then leave,” in Phoebe’s voice there was all the rage of the Goode women before her. But then James turned, his grip tighter on her arm, and Helena watched her sister’s legs tremble. “Just leave us alone,” she pleaded, eyes widening.

“No,” James chuckled, pulling her closer—Javier could see the strain in the woman’s shoulder, her face contorting in pain, and could not wrap his head around it. James Hawkins did not look real, or at least not real enough to hurt them. Still, he felt uneasy, even more so when he spoke again, his head lowered next to Phoebe’s. “I’m feeling very into sisters right now,” his gaze flickered towards Helena, too, a grin taking over his pale face.

Javier wasn’t looking at her, but he felt Helena straighten her back, look at him, and then turn. He heard her whisper to her daughters, possibly holding them closer, to run into their aunts’ room and be mindful of the salt. He heard two sets of steps backtrack, and watched James’ face shift into disappointment.

“Oh, Lena, Lena, Lena—you really do take the fun out of anything, don’t you?” he took one step forward, dragging Phoebe with him—the woman cried weakly, trying and failing to escape his hold.

“Hey,” only now that the kids weren’t in the room did Javier lift his gun—although he was sure it would do nothing to stop the man, and his widened grin only confirmed it. “Let go of her.”

“And you,” James groaned, even as Javier placed himself between him and Helena, “you never, ever learned when to just give up,” the two men looked at each other—Javier’s gun lifting, James’ hand reaching out for him. “You should let the adults—”

Before the sentence was over, James screamed, letting go of Phoebe. Helena ignored Javier’s surprised gasp in favour of her sister tumbling to the side, quick to reach her before she could even touch the floor.

The same floor where a star shimmered, catching the sunlight. Javier carried it with him everywhere he went, in remembrance of his father, the star-shaped badge he’d lived by for ages before retiring. Javier did not believe in luck, good or bad that it was, but he did believe in reminders: of doing the right thing, always. Of never losing sight of who he was.

He picked it up right as James straightened, a hole in his near-invisible hand that echoed its shape. Without thinking, without considering, Javier held it up right as the other man—or whatever was left of him—screamed in his direction, unintelligible words that probably would’ve resounded like threats, had Javier been able to hear a single one.

Instead, he stared as the figure vanished, with one longer scream and a curse, the air darkening in front of his eyes and then dissipated into nothing, leaving him to look at the corridor that brought to the stairs, a ringing in his ears.

“It’s okay, Pheebs,” Helena’s voice slowly brought him back, words repeated soothingly as she still held her sister. “It’s okay, it’s alright,” reassuring, in spite of her trembling voice. “I need you to call the aunts, Phoebe. I need you to tell them what happened. Can you do that?”

“I’m sorry,” Phoebe was still saying, her eyes unfocused though she looked up to Helena.

“I know, I know—but can you?” Javier could almost see it—nights spent with Helena reassuring her sister, hidden under thick blankets or on the rooftop of the house beneath a sky full of stars. “Please, I need to go to the girls.”

“Oh, the girls,” Phoebe exhaled, and released the grip on her arm. “Of course. Of course. I’m sorry.”

Helena didn’t wait, though she lingered enough to rest a kiss to Phoebe’s temple, before standing and walking out of the kitchen. It took Javier a moment to come to his senses, and then he went straight after her.

“What the hell was that?” he asked, his mind still reeling, forgetting for a moment the effect he had on her. “Was that him? Did I kill him?”

“Yes, and no—technically,” Helena didn’t stop, heading for the stairs she used to sit on when she was a kid to spy on the aunts. “It was his spirit, which you banished. But I told you, I killed him. And you can do whatever with this information after, but right now—”

“Hold on just a goddamn second, all right?” Javier grabbed her arm, pulling her right back against him. A split second in which they looked each other in the eyes, and all that had happened the night before came back, all that had been left unsaid before hit them square in the chest, and in that split second, they could’ve almost forgotten all else. “What are you talking about? His spirit? I came here to bring in the bad guy—generally, that’s what I do, and now you’re telling me about spirits?”

“Is that why you came here, Javier?” she stood her ground, her arm still in his hold. “Be honest.”

“Honesty,” he scoffed. “I thought I did—and then you were here, and your letter—maybe that’s what brought me here. Maybe it was you. And I’m all mixed-up about that.”

Helena was looking at him with that storm still brewing in her eyes, and Javier felt his knees threaten to give out underneath him. His hand fell from her upper arm, down her elbow and wrist, brushing the palm of her hand. She took a slow breath in, lips trembling.

“The reason you’re here and you don’t know why is because I sent for you,” she said, quietly.

“I know why—”

“You don’t,” she interrupted him. “When I was a little girl, I worked a spell so I would never fall in love. I asked for qualities in a man that I knew couldn’t possibly exist,” she shook her head, while his fingers wrapped around her limp hand. “But you do.”

“So,” he scoffed, “you’re saying that what I’m feeling is just one of your spells?”

“Yes, it’s not real,” it sounded like it pained her to say, even though Javier knew she was telling the truth. Or at least thought she was. “And if you stay, I wouldn’t know if it was because of the spell, and you wouldn’t know if it was because I don’t want to go to prison.”

“All relationships have problems,” he muttered, and she gave a small, unamused laugh.

“I thought I loved Frankie, but that was another spell too,” for a split second, she held his hand back, squeezing her fingers around his to the point it hurt. “Still, you don’t want to know what happens if you stay. We’re all cursed. You saw that,” and just like that, she let go of him.

“Curses only have power when you believe in them, Helena, and I don’t,” clenching his fists, Javier stepped back from her. “You know what? I wished for you too.”

Helena knew. He’d told her the night before, his lips etching each word onto her skin.

But she watched him go nevertheless, glad he managed to take the steps she couldn’t.

Helena was tired. She had been tired since lying on the floor next to her sister, watching as she was being consumed from inside. But all of that was over. She’d stared at the letter from Laredo for days after that, keeping it stored with the other one written in her own hand that carried the mark of both her touch and his.

She did her best to not think of him. It was near impossible.

James Hawkins’ cause of death was accidental, read the letter. His body was identified by jewellery in the ashes of a body found in Laredo, right by his property. The same ring he’d told her was in his car, the car she’d driven, the car she’d spilt belladonna in.

Sincerely, Javier Peña, special investigator.

“I don’t think you’ll find him there, Lena,” Phoebe said softly, when she caught her reading the letter once more. “But somewhere else, perhaps.”

For days, she let the words linger. Days turned into weeks turned into months, his absence like an emptiness into her chest. She’d almost convinced herself it would pass. That, with time, that too would pass—just another pain, just another absence. She could deal with it. She could.

And then Javier was there, in her backyard, or at least that was what she thought she was seeing, because it couldn’t be. How could he be there, when he was in her dreams just that night?

“What would you do, Pheebs?” she whispered, her heart beating so loud she wouldn’t be surprised if everybody else could hear.

“What wouldn’t I do, for the right man?” Phoebe whispered in return, gently pushing her forward with a wide smile. “This is not the aunts’, this is the two of you.”

All the while, Javier looked at them, standing perfectly still like a deer in headlights, unsure of what to do, one of his hands half-raised as if in greeting but without waving, the other buried deep within his pocket. He looked at them, and watched Phoebe quickly lead the girls away even when they tried to run to him, and then Helena walk in his direction.

“A love that even time will lie down and be still for,” he said as a way of greeting, once they were standing one in front of the other. “Ever since I went back, time hasn’t felt real, because you weren’t there. And maybe you still believe it’s for a spell you did as a child, or your aunts’ fault—”

“How do you know about the aunts?” it was hard not to smile when he fidgeted like that.

“Your sister told me,” he returned, softly. “Your sister called.”

“And you’re here,” she said, a half-step forward in his direction.

“I’m here,” he nodded, moving the hand out of his pocket and reaching for her tentatively. “I’m here because I know this is real. No gimmick, just—”

“Love?” she suggested, and the glint in her eyes reminded him of the moon itself.

“Love,” he repeated, their fingers interlocking. “Helena, I mean all of it. I’ll even quit smokin’ if—”

She kissed him, plain and simple. Pulled his hands so that he was stumbling forward and caught his lips with hers, gentle, slow. She kissed him, and as Javier held her, he felt like he’d finally gone home. She kissed him, and felt that empty space in her chest filling with the taste of coffee and tobacco.

Can love travel back in time and heal a broken heart?

There were some things, after all, that Helena Goode knew for certain:

Always throw spilled salt over your left shoulder. Add pepper to your mashed potatoes. Keep rosemary by your garden gate. Plant lavender for luck. Fall in love whenever you can.

[xreaderbooks]

Paradise on Earth (19)

Chapter: 19. Trapped

Pair: JJ Maybank x Routledge! Reader

Summary: The hunt for the cross continues as it's stolen from the pogues, y/n and her friends go on a chase to save it, and now Sarah.

Warnings: language, violence, car accidents, kidnapping, not fully proofread

Word Count: 2.5k

Links: Wattpad - AO3 - Playlist

Chapter 18 - Series Masterlist - Navigation - Chapter 20

The next few hours were a blur, everything happened so fast, you couldn’t process it through the tears and anxiety. Pope had fallen, and the cross came soon after- you all successfully dodged it, but as you were figuring out what to do with the cross and how to carry the heavy-ass pure gold cross, Pope had an allergic reaction to the wasps that stung him.

JJ’s cousin Ricky came in clutch giving him a pediatric dose of epinephrine, it had everyone freaking out for a couple half an hour on whether or not he was going to make it. Thankfully he was revived but unfortunately because of how hyped up he was due to the side effects, he insisted and driving and crashing Kie’s dad's truck straight into an oak tree.

So much for him ripping the ears off of everyone inside of the car. 

After everyone safely exited the car John B tried stopping him from getting run over by a semi, you noticed the person driving the truck and the person in the passenger seat as Rafe and Renfield who were driving from the direction of the church.

It was gone.

Pope was pissed as hell but coming back to the church and not seeing that cross there had lit a fire of determination in him. You all went straight to the Chateau for the Twinkie and drove back to the road where the accident happened.

“Oh shit!” Kie groaned. “They found the truck.”

Several police cars blocked off the road where it was, John B had no other choice but to stop as Shoupe approached the van.

“Good evening, Officer,” John B squinted as the cop pointed the flashlight into the car.

“Sheriff,” He corrected.

“Speed kills, huh,” John B joked about the scene of the totaled truck.

“I pulled the tags and I know whose truck that is,” Shoupe pointed the flashlight through the driver's seat window and to the back of the truck where Kie was sitting behind the passenger seat in a ball, hiding from view. “Hey, Kie! You drop your weed pen back there?”

“Found it,” Kie gave Shoupe a thumbs up with a weak smile.

Pope who was behind John B’s seat, spoke up between the headrest and the door, “Sheriff, I just wanna say that this is all my fault. She had nothing to do with this, I take a hundred percent full responsibility.”

“Nothing to do with it, huh?” Shoupe scoffed, “You wanna try that again? Your parents reported the truck missing four hours ago and the keys were missing from the house, I’m taking you home or I can pull you all in for leaving the scene of an accident.”

You exhaled stressfully and rubbed your temples, not one day, not one day without a break.

“I gotta deal,” Kie gave you a ‘save me’ look. You sent her a pitiful smile knowing that it wasn't going to go down well for her. “Hit me up later and make sure I’m still alive.”

The rest of you would have to retrieve the cross without her.

The truck that carried the cross had just pulled up to the Cameron house as the five of you did.

“How much you wanna bet Rafe has the cross inside that truck right now?” Pope comments as you all peer over the concrete wall to get a better look at what was going on.

“There’s only one way to find out,” Sarah walks in the direction of the front gate. John B goes after her and catches her before she’s gone.

“Jesus Christ,” You facepalm and lean your head against the wall. You hear Pope and JJ make their own comments in protest of wasting time for declarations of love.

Pope whispers to him as John B limps back to you, JJ, and Pope with a dopey smile, “Do you want me to perform your vows while you’re at it?”

“Did you say ‘be safe’?” JJ asks.

“Could you take any longer?” You drawl out sarcastically. Part of you was actually bitter about your own love life and part of you was concerned about the time frame for whatever Sarah had planned, “What is she doing?”

You could make out her figure sneaking around the truck and shrugging, you could see barely hear her whisper something about keys. You whisper shout for her to come back but she points to the inside. All of you try signaling for her not to but she goes in anyway.

“I told her not to go inside,” John B says.

“Do the birdcall,” Pope tells him, though you're not sure that would help since she was already through the glass doors.

John B cups his hands around his mouth to make Coo-Coo sound but with his hesitation, it sounded nothing like it was supposed to.

“That is not what a bird sounds like,” You judge.

“You try doing something better then.”

“Too late, dipshit, she’s already inside. Maybe next time I’ll do a detailed demonstration for you.”

“Whatever, I’m going over,” John B uses the strength from his arms to push himself up from the top of the wall but a horn was honking from the street. You turn and see the headlights from a golf cart roll up.

“Uh, excuse me, can I help you?” An old white man with a shotgun stops where the four of you were caught in the act of going halfway up the wall. He cocked the gun and chuckles, “I got double-aught bucks in this thing, so, I can’t miss.”

He steps out of the slow vehicle and warns you all to get off the wall, you slip down it with your hands in the air, anxiety creeping in. What if he called the cops? What if he made you all confront Rafe? What if he shot you?

“Sir, It’s not what it seems,” JJ speaks up beside you.

“You all are on the wrong side of the island.” He keeps the long gun pointed at you as he tells you all to get on your knees, “I think I’m gonna call the police.”

“You don’t have to do that, sir,” JJ pleads calmly.

“I’ll decide for myself what I need to do.”

“Sir, Can I just talk to you for a minute?” You stutter a little nervously, there was a chance he would believe a girl more than he would the boys, so you would have to fabricate a story. “Just to explain.”

You get up from your knees slowly, John B tugged at your flannel but you ignored him. “I know what this looks like, but I promise this is all a misunderstanding. We look like some derelict kids from the cut but we weren’t that to Mr. Cameron, he gave me and my brother a job, I did some housework for him and his wife, and my brother did some yard work along with my boyfriend, and our friend. See I’m just going along with their plan to get an associate of theirs, s-some row flowers for his memorial.”

He lets his gun falter, “Now why are you three boys letting this poor girl do all the talking?”

JJ struggles to get himself up from the kneeling position as you back up into his place, “Sorry, sir, you’re right. She’s right, we’ve just had such a hard time dealing with his death-”

You tune out the story he tells the old man who let his guard down with every lie that slipped out of his mouth. In the time JJ came up with a ridiculous tale about where the flowers you were all going to ‘plant for Mr. Cameron’ came from and why it was relevant, Sarah had still not come back. You were getting antsy but you couldn’t let it show in front of the man that was eating up JJ’s lie.

“You smell that right?” JJ asks the man.

He sniffs, “What is that, night-blooming jasmine?”

“No, that’s more like,” JJ thinks about it for a second, he knows nothing about flowers or plants. “Natural Viagra.”

Your eyes widen, “Okay!”

The boys beside you try to get JJ to stop now but the old guy seemed genuinely interested which concerned you more.

“One sniff and bam!” JJ claps his hands, “It’s hammer time you know what I’m saying. Isn’t that right, baby?”

Your jaw drops, one of his arms goes around your shoulders pulling you closer and the other leads the man to his golf cart, like a couple walking out the last guest from a dinner party. John B grabs your wrist and pulls you from under JJ.

“We’ll be quiet, alright, and we’ll finish up here. I’m so sorry to bother you.”

“See that you do,” He seats himself back into the cart and drives off muttering to himself. “I gotta get myself some of that.”

Once he was out of view, JJ hops over the wall, “Let’s go.”

“What the fuck,” You whisper to yourself.

“What the fuck was that for real,” John B helps you climb over before going himself. The four of you hide behind the bushes trying to get a peek or a sign of Sarah anywhere. Rafe comes out of the same doors Sarah once went in.

John B surges forward only to be pulled back by Pope and JJ. “What do we do then?”

“He might have the gun so what’s in our favor?” JJ snaps his fingers to think, “The element of surprise, that’s what’s in our favor right now.”

“He’s leaving, there's not much you can do there,” You tell them. Pope whispers something and seconds later he’s running after the truck and jumping onto whatever he can grab on. “Has everyone lost their minds?”

“We got the house now that Rafes gone, let's storm the fort.”

Noise from the front door caught your attention, Rose and Wheezie had Sarah’s arms around their shoulders. If Sarah wasn’t moving they must have done something to her to knock her out.

“Let’s go!” John B shouts at you and JJ, running after Rose’s car.

“This is so fucked,” You run to the Twinkie to follow after them because there was no way they were going to get Sarah out. John B and JJ were running back as you slowed down for them to get in.

~~~

The sun rose for the next day as John B tailed Rose’s car to where they loaded up ships with cargo. You parked in a semi-discrete area and snuck behind the slow-moving semi that stopped for a security check.

While the guard was busy talking to Rafe, you, JJ, and John B snuck through the metal gate and weaved through large materials meant to fix or be put on the ships. You hide behind some large rusted metal thing that you couldn’t name, watching Rafe proudly talk to the other guys around him.

“God, I hate that guy,” JJ exhaled.

You shifted your attention to where Rose’s car was parked, Sarah was being brought out of the car.

“JJ, we gotta come up with a plan,” John B anxiously stares at the boy. Once again, it was you three alone, probably the worst trio combined. JJ with his plans, John B with the follow-through, and you with the backup in case anyone (meaning either of them) needed it.

“I know, I’m working on it. If we get over to that barge, we go over, we’ll have to get into the water though.”

“That’s fine,” John B replied.

“Then we’re gonna be sitting ducks.”

“It’s like you say you’re thinking but then what comes out of your mouth has no thought behind it at all.”

“Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t have time to get it approved by you first, princess.”

“Apology not accepted, you’re plan sucks, and Sarah’s gonna die,” You clutch your head. “How about-”

“Howdy,” A feminine voice comes up randomly behind you and you almost jump out of your skin.

“Holy shit, girl I almost bitch slapped you to yesterday!” Your hands that were clutching your head were now on your chest. You hug Kie in relief at seeing her alive and present despite the shit her parents gave her.

She chuckled, “Had you scared shitless.”

“How’d you guys find us?” You saw Pope come from the same place she did.

“Geo-located your phone.”

“Smart.”

Observing the state of Pope, John B asked what happened.

“Rafe, Round 3.”

“You freaking kidding me?” JJ grabs Pope to face him but he moves out of his hold.

“This was a tie, is that the cross?”

“Yep, they’re holding Sarah hostage,” John B informs Pope and Kie of the new development.

“We gotta get on that boat, but first we gotta get past the goon squad.”

“Okay, come on,” John B waves over for everyone to follow him but there was no plan. Pope doesn’t move from his spot.

“I have an idea, just trust me.”

John B tries to stop him but Pope reassures him that he’ll meet up with the group after. You just hoped he didn’t get caught in whatever he was planning but then again Pope was smart, he wouldn’t do anything to create attention to himself.

Not a second after you thought about how calculated he was, there was an explosion in the direction where he went. All the crew members bolted to the explosion sight.

“What the hell was that?” You ask Pope who panted from his running.

“That container’s going on the ship, we can get in that way,” He pointed. Thanks to his huge distraction, the path where he was directing you all, was free.

“Poopy, you badass!” You pat him on the shoulder, hyping yourself up to make a run for the said container.

At the entrance of the metal box, JJ pauses, “Did we think this through?”

Pope nods assuredly, “Yes, this is the plan.”

“That’s a trap right there, you see that right?” He points to the container that Pope already climbed on, “We can’t get out once we get in.”

Now that JJ was mentioning it, he was right. This container was going on a ship, God knows where, if you got caught it could be jail time or whatever the punishment was for sneaking onto a ship illegally. Not to mention if Rafe or Rose found you, that would be an execution itself.

“You guys don’t have to come,” John B has a hand on JJ’s shoulder and a hand on yours.

“Right, this is our fight,” Pope agreed.

Doubt clouded your loyalty, but you shook it away. Your friend was on the ship, your brother was going, and Pope needed the support to get the cross. It wouldn’t be fair to leave them now after all you had been through together.

JJ looks to Kie, “Nothing to lose?”

“Nothing to lose.”

John B climbs into the container, Pope helps Kie in.

“All in?” JJ climbed into where Pope once was and reached out a hand for you to take. You slipped your hand into his, letting him pull you up.

Your bodies almost colliding from the momentum of you coming up, your faces inches apart in a second your eyes flicker to his lips, “All in.”

“Y/n, JJ, let’s go!” John B shouts. The sound of heavy footsteps that were no doubt the crew member returning to their posts. You and your friends hide at the very end of the container, behind the dozens of stacked crates.

You saw the sunlight fade as the worker closes the container shut.

~~~

One more chapter to go til season 2 is complete!!

Chapter 20

Taglist:

@jbassettjmaybank - @deanwherescas - @thtbwltts - @nerdypartytrashpsychic - @random-girl-army - @wisegirlies - @instabull - @sexyfoxlady - @bubs-world - @sdawn03 - @mendesclines - @obx-pogues-4-life - @mentalforfics - @p-prettybitch - @namacissi - @dczedhee - @inkandpen22 - @royalavenger - @ayeitsjustmee - @80strashbag - @onlyangel-444 - @freds-slut - @poppet05 - @itsjuststaticnoises - @ahnneyong - @lovepizza567 - @jasminfelling - @rana03 - @loki-loveer - @rana030 - @lostinatimeline - @boldlypessimistic - @clinelyn - @a-j-stuffs - @yunhobug - @syd223sworld - @strawberry--fawn - @mysticalavenuecheesecake - @itsmytimetoodream - @natashtessabeth12 - @thatsthewaythechrissycrumbles

(If your name is crossed that means tumblr wont let me tag you)

[vilentia]

okay i have another request. you know that one scene where daryl and beth are in the house with the moonshine? i was thinking something where the reader left the prison with them because she wouldn’t leave daryl and when there’re playing never have i ever. the reader is sitting next to daryl and when he gets annoyed with the thing beth said and flipped out reader tries to calm him down. then when they go outside and he starts screaming at both of them about never seeing their friends again, that’s when daryl starts crying then reader hugs him saying stuff like “it’s not your fault” and “i’m sorry” he he’s holding on to her for dear life and beth backs away to give them some space.

sorry it’s so long 😅 make any changes you need if you’re not comfortable with something 😌

Solace Amidst Chaos

Daryl Dixon x reader

I finally got around to writing something about this. I've wanted to do this for so long, but every time I started, I had writer's block. I hope you like it.

You find yourself sitting next to Daryl in the dimly lit house, its walls whispering stories of a life once lived. The faint scent of dampness lingers in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of the moonshine they had discovered. Outside, the night is shrouded in darkness, a constant reminder of the world overrun by relentless walkers. Despite the eerie ambiance, you couldn't bear to leave Daryl's side, even in the midst of the chaos they've been through.

As the game of "Never Have I Ever" unfolds, the tension between Daryl and Beth gradually rises like an approaching storm. Each statement carries an underlying weight, an unspoken reminder of the losses they've endured. You watch as their gazes lock, filled with unspoken emotions and the weight of shared trauma. It's in that moment you sense Daryl's rising anger, like a fire building within him.

Beth looks at Daryl, her eyes filled with hurt, her voice trembling slightly. "Never have I ever lost two boyfriends and not shed a tear."

Daryl's face contorts with annoyance, his brow furrowing as he tries to keep his emotions in check. The harsh words slip past his lips, tinged with bitterness and pain. "Too close, huh? You know all about that. You lost two boyfriends, you can't even shed a tear. Your whole family's gone, all you can do is just go out looking for hooch like some dumb college bitch."

Beth's expression shifts from hurt to anger, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She clenches her fists, her voice trembling with indignation. "Screw you. You don't get it."

The room falls into a heavy silence as the weight of their losses hangs in the air, suffocating the space around them. Daryl's frustration becomes palpable, his voice growing louder with each word.

"No, you don't get it! Everyone we know is dead!" Daryl's voice echoes through the house, his anger reverberating in the emptiness around them.

Feeling the tension escalating, you instinctively reach out, your touch grounding and steady as you place a firm but gentle hand on Daryl's arm. The warmth of your presence radiates, a lifeline in the midst of the emotional maelstrom. "Daryl, calm down," you say firmly, your voice filled with determination. "I understand you're angry and hurt, but this won't help anyone."

Daryl's gaze shifts, his eyes meeting yours, searching for solace and understanding amidst the turmoil within him. His frustration gives way to a mix of vulnerability and exhaustion. "You don't understand," he mutters, his voice strained. "I can't stand the thought of never seeing our friends again. Maybe if I had done something different..."

Your heart breaks for Daryl as you step closer, enveloping him in a comforting embrace. The weight of his anguish is palpable, and you offer him a safe haven, a sanctuary amidst the chaos. "Daryl, listen to me," you say, your voice filled with empathy. "You did everything you could. None of this is your fault. We're all grappling with loss, and it's natural to feel angry and guilty. But we can't let it consume us. We have to keep fighting, for ourselves and for those we've lost."

Daryl's body initially tenses, his grip tight on your shoulders, but gradually, you feel him begin to relax, his anger subsiding. He leans into your embrace, allowing himself to be vulnerable, finding solace in your presence. You run your fingers through his hair, gently soothing him, and he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice filled with a mix of sorrow and exhaustion.

You hold him tighter, offering him reassurance and comfort. "It's not your fault, Daryl," you assure him, your voice a soft balm against his pain. "You're strong, and we'll get through this together. Lean on me when you need to. I'm here for you."

Daryl's grip on you tightens, as if he's holding on for dear life. Tears stream down his cheeks, and you gently wipe them away with your thumb, offering a tender and understanding gaze. "You don't have to face this alone," you whisper, your voice filled with love and compassion. "I'm right here with you, and I'll always be."

Beth, sensing the depth of the moment, takes a step back, giving you and Daryl the space you need. She understands the significance of your connection and respects the intimacy of the moment. The three of you may be bound by survival, but in this moment, it's just you and Daryl, finding solace and comfort in each other's arms.

In the tearful embrace, you offer Daryl a haven amidst the turmoil, assuring him that he's not alone. Together, you'll navigate the trials of this harsh world, finding strength in each other and cherishing the moments of vulnerability that deepen your bond.

[iridescentpull]

Day five of Hideduo/FitPac Kiss Week – Desperate/Dramatic Kiss & 2b2t/Fuga AU

[ ao3 link here ] [ fic below cut! ]

Pac would say he's lived through pretty unusual things.

But this has got to be the craziest.

One minute he's in the middle of the sea, escaping from a maximum security prison with Mike and Guaxinim, one leg less and with a stab in his shoulder. The next, he's falling from the boat and into the deep, blue sea, and everything goes black.

And now, he's here, in the land he's learned is called 2b2t. A world full of anarchy, and where only the strong can survive.

Pac is a survivor. He's survived the streets, he's survived prison, he's survived criminals and a cannibal. But this? This is something different.

He doesn't know how to get out. If he even can get out.

Until he comes across a man with an arm less and with a distrust of others. And with him, maybe, just maybe, he can make it out alive. 

That was a month ago, and Pac would like to say he's gotten to know Fit quite well. At least, as well as you can get to know a guy with trust issues and who always carries around an axe and is ready to kill. But Pac is an optimist by nature, and he'll take any chance of survival that he can get.

Even if the guy seems to be a bit of an asshole.

Fit and him have been wandering around the land for the past weeks. The older was traveling to one of his bases hundreds of thousands of blocks away, and Pac didn't want to be alone so he decided to tag along. He has to admit, it has been... fun, traveling with Fit. They've gone to war, they've fought for their lives, and they've had their fair share of laughs. Pac is actually looking forward to arriving at their destination.

And if he caught a few feelings toward Fit? Well, that's his own business, isn't it?

"I think we'll stop here." The American says, inspecting the cave he's found. It's a bit small, and the roof is low, but there's no spawners and there's an entrance facing the ocean, which would make it easier to fish. Pac likes it.

They place their belongings on the floor, and they both go about their separate businesses. Pac prepares the sleeping bags while Fit hunts for some fish. It's nice, it's quiet, it's domestic.

Hours pass by and the pair are sitting inside the cave, a fireplace between them. Fit has a journal in his hand, documenting the day's journey while Pac is busy cooking the fish filets. It's not his best meal, but he can't really complain.

"Hey Fit?" The Brazilian asks, quickly giving a glance to the other. Once the older hums, Pac continues. "Do you have any dreams?"

Fit looks at him. "Dreams?"

Pac nods. "Yeah. Like, you know, dreams you want to accomplish." He says, flipping the fish on its side. "What you might want to do once you leave this place."

"Leave this place?" The other says, and there's a tone Pac doesn't know how to decipher. Fit chuckles, but there's no humor in his voice. "You think there's a way to leave this place? You're crazy."

The Brazilian hums. "There's got to be, right?" Pac says, and he's trying to be optimistic but the words come out a bit more bitter than intended. He sighs, running a hand over his hair. "I mean, if I ended up here, then it means there has to be a way to leave."

"Pac, there is no exit." Fit says, and his voice is tired, resigned. Pac knows Fit's lived here for longer than he has, but the younger doesn't want to give up. He can't. "Trust me. There's no way to leave."

And Pac rolls his eyes, because he is getting tired of this. "And how do you know?"

"I've tried to find a way to leave." The American says, putting the journal down. His voice is steady, but the way his hands shake is the only thing that gives his emotions away. "There is no way. You better start getting used to the idea of being here forever."

The male groans. "That's all you say!" He exclaims, and his tone is loud, angry. "Why don't you stop being so fucking pessimistic for once and just hope? You can't keep being a coward and not doing anything."

"Oh, I'm a coward?" Fit scoffs, and he puts the journal away, his attention now fully on Pac. "Tell me, you've lived in this world for a month. And I've lived here for years. I've seen people die and never come back. I've seen the cruelty of man and I've seen the evilness in humans."

"And yeah, maybe I'm a coward." The American continues, and his voice is hard, his eyes cold. Pac can't look away. "But at least I'm alive. And I won't let some newbie tell me what I should and shouldn't do."

Pac is speechless. The younger can't find the words, and he can't form any coherent sentences. His mouth keeps opening and closing, and there's a lump in his throat that won't go away.

He is mad. At Fit, at 2b2t, at this situation. He is so angry, he feels his blood boiling under his skin and he's about to burst. He wants to yell, scream, break things and curse this stupid server.

He wants to go home.

"Fuck you." He spits, and his words are poison, his voice is venom. His face is twisted with anger, and Pac is sure his eyes are red. He wants to hurt Fit, wants him to understand how Pac is feeling, how he wants to get out of this place, how he can't be stuck here for the rest of his life.

How he is afraid.

"You're a coward, a fucking coward." Pac is screaming now, his face is red. "There HAS to be a way back, why won't you believe me, caralho ?!"

He's pacing the cave, running his hand through his hair. Pac's heart is beating fast, and he is breathing harshly. He feels like a caged animal. He feels like a stranger in his own skin.

Fit snarls. "Shut the fuck up, do you want us to get found?!"

"Oh, I don't give a shit!" Pac screams, his voice hoarse. He turns to the other, his face red with fury and his eyes shiny with tears. "You've given up, you're just a coward. I will find a way to leave this shithole." He says, and his voice is broken. "I'm not staying here."

Fit stares at him, and his eyes are full of hurt, his face twisted with pain. "Fine." He spits out. "Be my fucking guest. Get yourself killed for all I care." 

And Pac wants to scream, wants to yell, but the words are stuck in his throat and his mind is a mess and his chest is aching. "Fine." He repeats, and his voice is a whisper, a shadow. He doesn't have the strength to scream. "I will."

Pac packs his belongings and leaves the cave. He doesn't look back. He wanders through the beach for a few hours, before settling down in a crevice on the side of a hill. His stomach grumbled, but he ignores it. He doesn't have the motivation to cook anything. He doesn't have the motivation for anything.

The Brazilian falls asleep to the sound of the waves and the cold night wind. His last thoughts are of Fit, and how he wishes things could have gone differently.

He wakes up to the sound of fighting outside the crevice. There's a sword, and an axe, and the sound of wood being destroyed and rocks breaking. Pac feels his heart beat faster as he looks around, his hands searching for his weapons. He picks his sword, before slowly peeking over the edge of the crevice. 

And then, he sees him. Fit is standing there, and his short hair is wild and his face is full of dirt. There's blood splattered over his shirt, and his axe is dripping with it. The American is panting, standing over a body, and there's a wild look in his eyes, and for a moment Pac is enthralled.

Then, Fit spots him, and the male is climbing up the crevice, and Pac can see the relief in his eyes and the way his shoulders slump. "You're okay." He says, relieved. Fit's voice is soft, and it makes Pac's heart clench.

"Of course I'm okay." He says, and there's still a hint of anger in his voice. The American sighs, and Pac can feel the exhaustion rolling off of him.

The male starts walking towards him. "Pac, I-"

"Fit!" The Brazilian tries to warn, but it's too late. “Watch out!”

The sound of a slash is heard, and the other is falling down, and his eyes are wide and his face is pale. There is a person behind him, holding a diamond axe and his eyes are gleaming with murder. He is about to give the killing blow when Pac pushes him, sending him tumbling to the floor.

"Fit!" He yells again, watching as the person who's been his only friend for a while, his one constant, starts to slowly close their eyes. " Fit! Fit, no!"

The Brazilian turned to the person in front of him, who's slowly approaching him with their diamond axe held up high. He could see their grin through the holes of their mask, and he felt so angry. It felt like he was reaching his breaking point, all the bad luck from the past few days coming together to finally ruin him.

"Filho da puta!" He yelled, crouching as the other figure swung their axe. The diamond sword in his hands felt heavy, but he didn't have time to think about that. He had a fight to win. "I’m going to kill you! I'm going to kill you!"

With every word, he swung his sword, hoping that he would manage to at least do some damage to the person who ruined everything. They blocked all his hits, however, and before he knew it, they'd knocked the diamond sword out of his hands and had him pinned against the wall of the building he was standing in front of.

He struggled as the other person watched, and Pac could see amusement on their face. He glared at them, his fists clenched as he tried to find a way to escape.

"Let me go!" He yelled, struggling harder against their grip. "Let me go, resto de aborto! "

The person huffed, and Pac wanted nothing more than to punch them in the face. "Not gonna happen, mate."

He continued struggling, and it seemed like the person was starting to get tired of it. Pac's eyes flickered to the axe that was still being held by his neck, and he swallowed as he felt the sharp edge of it prick at his skin.

"Now, now, calm down, or I might end up hurting you." The person said, and their voice sent shivers down Pac's spine. Their tone was very amused, almost like they were enjoying his pain. "Wouldn't want that, now would we?"

Pac glared at them, before grinning. "You wouldn't want to mess with me." He said, trying to keep his voice steady.

The other person snorted. "Sure, whatever you say, mate." They said, and Pac could hear the sarcasm in their voice. 

"I mean, I did escape prison, didn't I?" He continued, trying to keep their attention off the fact that he'd managed to wiggle his left hand out of their grip. He could see the person's eyebrows raise. "And I don't think you'd want to mess with me, I know how to use a sword, you know?"

"So?" The other person asked, raising an eyebrow. "What are you gonna do, stab me with it? I don't think you'd manage, I'm stronger than you."

Pac hummed. "Maybe." He said, before kicking the person with his prosthetic leg. He saw their eyes widen as they flew backwards, and he took that chance to grab the axe out of their hands. "But I'm smarter."

"You son of a-" They cut themselves off, glaring at him. "Fine, if it's a fight you want, it's a fight you'll get."

Grinning, Pac rolled his arm. "Come at me."

The two started running at each other, their hands stretched out. Just as they were about to meet in the middle, Pac turned and grabbed Fit's diamond sword from the ground, and swung it. The person, however, wasn't as lucky, and Pac ended up stabbing them in the shoulder. They let out a cry of pain, and Pac grinned, pulling the sword out.

"How about that?" He asked, and the person growled.

"I'll kill you!" They yelled, running at him again.

This time, though, Pac was prepared. He swung his sword, cutting the person across their torso. They staggered back, their face twisted in anger.

"You little bitch." They snarled, and Pac rolled his eyes.

"Whatever you say." He said, watching as the person stood back up and ran towards him. He was able to dodge their attack, and they let out a frustrated noise as they ran past him. Pac swung the axe and hit the person across their stomach, making them cry out in pain and collapse against the ground.

Pac walked towards them. "A tip for you: always tie your victims first." He raised the axe, before slamming it down, killing the person immediatly.

Breathing heavily, he let go of the handle. His heart felt like it was beating out of his chest, and his head was pounding. His heart clenched at the realization.

"Fit!" He yelled, rushing to where the body of the veteran laid on the floor. He dropped to his knees, and pulled him into his arms. He placed a hand over the gaping wound on his chest, trying his best to stop the bleeding. "Fit, Fitch - I need you to wake up."

The man groaned, and Pac's heart skipped a beat. He pulled the male closer to him, trying to ignore the blood that was staining his clothes. His hand went to the bag the other was wearing, pulling out one of the healing potions Fit had inside.

"Hey, Fit." He whispered, uncorking the potion. "Come on, open your mouth, you need to drink this."

Fit's eyes opened, and the man looked at him blearily. "Pac?"

"Yeah, yeah, it's me." He replied, putting the potion to the other's lips. "Come on, Fit, you gotta drink this."

The veteran opened his mouth, and Pac helped him drink the potion. Once the other had finished, he threw the empty bottle to the side, and wrapped his arms around the male, pulling him close. He ignored the blood, and focused on the sound of the male breathing.

"Hey, Fit," he whispered, closing his eyes as he let his beating heart calm down. "Don't ever do that again, okay? Not here, not now, not ever."

Fit chuckled. "I'll do my best." He said, and Pac's heart ached. "I'm... I'm sorry for earlier. For saying those things to you, it was..."

"Hey, it's alright," Pac replied, looking down at the other. "I was being an ass, too."

Fit cackled. "That you were, that you were." He sighed, and Pac pulled him closer. "I guess, you're right. About being a bit of a coward, that is."

"Me? Right? Who would've thought you'd admit I was right." The Brazilian teased.

The other smacked his arm, and Pac laughed. "Shut up, you idiot." He sighed, his eyes fluttering shut. "I have a lot of things I regret, but I don't want to regret one more thing."

"Like what?" Pac asked, running a hand through the other's hair.

"This."

And suddenly, their lips were touching.

The kiss was messy, and awkward, and Pac felt like his entire body was burning, but he loved it. The kiss was everything he'd dreamed of, and more. When they pulled away, Fit had the dopiest smile on his face, and Pac felt himself mirroring the expression.

"Woah." Fit said, hazel eyes wide.

Pac laughed. "Yeah, woah." He agreed.