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redahlia-writes · 2 years ago

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sweet one. | oberyn martell x reader x ellaria sand

sequel to little prince

Abstract: “What I mean to say is you’ve learned, as have I - I don’t care what they say about me,” her fingers wrapped gently around your throat, giving it just a single squeeze that made your lips part with a sigh. “Besides, you were mine before you were his, sweet one.”

Words: 6.2k

Content: this is straight up smut, pwp, threesome (f/f/m with an initial focus on the sapphic relationship), oral (f receiving), fingering, piv, slightly sub/dom dynamic (sub!oberyn), oberyn being oberyn, pet names, mentions of bruises/lovebites, cursing, reader is described as having long hair, unedited

A/N: after months of talking about this we did it lads. thank you to all those who waited patiently (and i’m sorry). i wrote this over the course of multiple months (and it is the first time i write a threesome) so there might be a little inconstancy but also it's literally all smut. cheers

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

also on AO3 - masterlist

“I truly cannot begin to express how much I admire your patience, my lady.”

How you wished you’d had the presence of mind to run the moment those words left the woman’s lips. What good could possibly come out of such a sentence? And uttered in such a manner, her chin raised and neck flushed, the look of superiority you had despised seeing and that Dorne had allowed you to be away from. Still, every now and then, social gatherings would happen, and some part of your upbringing still deeply embedded in you made it so that you’d attend them against your better judgement.

“Of course, I’d imagine the prince is worth it,” she went on, clearly not put off by your silence. “He looks rather smitten, everybody says so - yet he keeps that Sand around. When he could have a way better match. A proper one. Couldn’t he?” she batted her eyelashes, leaning towards you a little with a mock polite smile. “I mean, you two seem to have such a good relationship. The way you two look at each other,” she made a soft squeaking noise that made you flinch.

It was true - you hadn’t been subtle, not after the first encounter in your rooms. And the second in his. And the quick rendezvous in the library, the gardens, the stairs - a please whispered through your hair and Oberyn’s hands were gripping your thighs, your back against a wall, warm and desperate kisses as you clung to each other. And then there was Ellaria, the flash of a grin, a teasing brush to the Red Viper’s marks, lips caressing your skin as she asked and asked and asked.

“Yet he keeps her with him. Is it for the daughters? I don’t -” she cut herself off as Ellaria walked up to you, a smile bending her soft lips. The woman scoffed with indignation and turned up her nose as she saw the dark-haired woman sit on your lap, your arms wrapping around her with a relieved sigh, her mere presence soothing.

“Hello, sweet one,” Ellaria murmured and leaned in - her kiss was gentle, almost chaste, a brush of lips that was nothing like the ones you’d exchanged when it was just the two of you. Just a show for the woman at your side, whose eyes seemed to be about to pop out of her skull when Ellaria glanced at her, leaning furthermore into you.

“Hi,” you whispered, kissing her shoulder in return before resting your cheek against her warm skin, turning your head to look at the woman again. “Apologies, my lady, I must’ve gotten distracted - what is it you were saying?” you wondered, feigning curiosity.

She got up with another scoff, face burning bright as she strode off - you couldn’t help your laughter as Ellaria waved in her direction, tucking herself closer to you, your eyes fluttering close at the comfort of her weight on you.

“It seemed like you were in dire need of rescuing,” she chuckled, hand brushing over your hair with slow, soothing movements. “And my ears were ringing. Of course I had to intervene.”

“Of course,” you retorted, looking up at her, slowly caressing her side from above her warm golden dress, fabric rustling underneath your palms, gaze lowered. The hand she was not brushing your hair with moved underneath your chin, a gentle tap to make your head tip back so that you were meeting her eyes.

“What is it?” she wondered softly, thumb ghosting your bottom lip. You exhaled, a small pout taking over your face - you couldn’t even care anymore that you were in public, that there was a court of strangers most likely looking at the two of you. It was the latest gossip after all, wasn’t it? The women of the prince. His paramour and the lover that had captured his attention, kept him wrapped around his finger.

“Doesn’t it bother you?” you asked softly, thumb still rubbing her side. “That everyone seems to be talking about this? That they would favour me over you? It makes me go mad,” you huffed, and Ellaria’s smile melted with softness. She cupped your cheek, shaking her head.

“I don’t care what they think,” she leaned in a little, the tip of her nose brushing yours. “I know Oberyn, I know you, I know my heart,” with a little smile, you dropped your head forward, her lips now bent in a smile resting against your forehead as she lowered her voice. “And I like it when you try to make it up to me.”

You laughed then, her grin mischievous against your skin as she pressed herself into your lap, hand fisting around the locks twisted at the nape of your neck. It felt ironic, how much being with Oberyn had actually freed you, how you’d allowed yourself to want - and it was always them. Only them. You couldn’t help wondering how the voices might change, should they know how deep the affection the three of you had for each other ran. How it wasn’t Oberyn in the middle of it all. How you couldn’t have one if it meant not having the other - how they couldn’t have each other if it meant not having you.

So when you looked up and saw Oberyn on the other side of the room, his eyes glued on the pair of you, your body burned ablaze as the picture formed itself in your mind - three of you. Together at last. He had his head cocked to the side, sitting back on his chair with his legs spread, tracing the rim of his cup with the tip of his finger - somebody was talking to him, and he seemed to be replying, but his gaze had been locked on you for a while now.

“Do you?” you asked then, hand slowly coming up around Ellaria’s side, tip of your fingers brushing the underside of her chest. She sighed, shifting on you a little. “Because I don’t think I want to be here any longer,” you murmured, tilting your head to drop a kiss to her shoulder again, nosing at the curve of her neck. “I believe I’d much rather go lie down.”

Ellaria wasted no time in standing up, her hands quickly reaching for your hands to pull you to your feet, a wide smile grazing her lips as she began pulling you towards the exit door, mindless of the eyes turning to follow you. It was easier to forget about everyone else when she held your hands - it was easier to feel free when you could stop thinking about what was once expected of you. When the only gaze you could feel burning on your skin was Oberyn’s.

Her lips found yours while you still walked the corridors, hungry and feverish, hands wandering between the folds of your dress as you stumbled one after the other, unable to keep yourselves from laughing against each other’s mouths. Your room was the closest, and before you managed to open the door you pressed her against the wood, parting from her lips to kiss down her jaw and neck, tongue darting out to taste her skin with a soft hum.

She sighed and stepped inside, dragging you with her, one hand gathering your skirt up as you all but kicked the door closed. It was easy, falling into rhythm with Ellaria - she knew exactly how to touch you, how to ask where and when to be touched in return. Your name fell like a praise from her lips as you dragged her dress down her shoulders, chest, stomach, letting it fall from her hips after a moment of pulling at it gently.

“Sweet one,” Ellaria called as soon as the dress pooled around her ankles, two of her fingers coming to rest underneath your chin to stop you from kissing a path down her sternum. Your gaze flickered down her uncovered body, your own skin flushed and breath short, then looked up towards her. “They’re always going to talk. It’s inevitable.”

“I don’t like them talking about you,” you retorted, hands finding purchase on her hips. Ellaria grinned at your words, slowly moving back towards the bed and pulling you with her.

“I remember you were so worried when you first came here - about what people might think or say about you. How you kept yourself hidden from us,” she murmured, her fingertips drawing small circles across the exposed skin of your neck. “How tense you were when you slept next to me for the first time.”

“Ellaria,” you warned softly, rubbing the soft flesh at her sides. Her grin just widened.

“What I mean to say is you’ve learned, as have I - I don’t care what they say about me,” her fingers wrapped gently around your throat, giving it just a single squeeze that made your lips part with a sigh. “Besides, you were mine before you were his, sweet one.”

She pulled you to her then, her grip on your jaw harsher until the moment your lips met - then it melted into a soft caress, fingertips dragging down your neck, your collarbones, the neckline of your dress, pulling it down ever so slowly as the kiss deepened, her tongue brushing the roof of your mouth as you swallowed each sigh, each hum.

“I believed this was about me making it up to you,” you whispered, warm breaths hitting her face when you parted panting, her hand just grazing the top of your breasts. Wide eyes shimmering with amusement, Ellaria nodded, licking her lips as you forced her to take the last step back before the back of her knees hit the bed. “Lie down, then.”

She sat on the bed, head tipped back to keep looking at you as her hands slid down your front, the fabric of your own dress singing and rustling under her palms before she moved back along the mattress, never breaking eye contact as she leaned back - first on her elbows, head tilted so that her hair would fall down one shoulder, then on her back once you kneeled by her ankles, dragging your fingertips up her calves, knees, thighs.

Ellaria’s skin was soft and warm, terribly inviting as her legs parted to accommodate you as you leaned forward, supporting yourself with one hand by her side, letting your gaze wander along your free hand down across her body - responsive to your touch as ever, she arched into you, biting down on her bottom lip with a half-smile.

“What do you want?” you asked, husky-voiced.

“Your mouth,” she half whispered, half pleaded.

It was nearly impossible to resist her.

Ellaria was never shy, never coy, her legs slowly parting for you as you sunk lower on the mattress, one last kiss to her lips before peppering her skin in the wake of your touch - neck, collarbones, sternum, nipping the soft flesh of one breast and then the other to make her chuckle, before moving further down, across her stomach and navel. She arched her back as you kissed her mound, knees falling at each side of you.

“Do you enjoy what you’re seeing, little prince?” you turned your head to kiss Ellaria’s thigh, meeting Oberyn’s gaze on the other side of the room, his hand still gripping the door’s handle. His eyes had been burning your skin for minutes now, his breath catching as you addressed him.

“I see the two of you having fun without me,” he retorted, voice low and husky. “But don’t stop on my account,” he added then, striding forward, his steps slow and calculated.

“I wasn’t planning to,” you said, hands slipping underneath Ellaria’s thighs, gently pulling her towards you. She sighed when you kissed her core, smile tugging at her lips as her eyes fluttered shut.

“I believe he’s been enjoying it for a while now,” Ellaria hummed, her hand reaching down for you - she brushed her fingers through your hair, pushing back some strands that had come loose from the braided bun at the nape of your neck. “Has been watching you all night long, sweet one,” her voice broke into a soft moan at the drag of your tongue through her folds.

Oberyn, standing at the side of the bed, leaned in to kiss Ellaria, capturing the noise from her lips as you repeated the motion, slower, coating your tongue in her. When the prince pulled back, she threw her head back with a keening gasp, hand tightening around your hair. At the same time, Oberyn’s hand caressed down her body as he sat on the edge of the bed, tilting his head and letting his gaze wander downwards, too, until it met your eyes. When he reached for your face, you wrapped one hand around his wrist, parting from Ellaria’s core much to her dismay.

“If you enjoyed it so much then just watch,” you murmured, his thumb skimming across your bottom lip. “What do you think? Can you keep your hands to yourself, little prince?” you tilted your head a little, cheek pressed to Ellaria’s thigh, eyelashes fluttering in mock innocence. A low rumble stuck in Oberyn’s throat as he pulled your lip down a little, pupils dilating as his jaw tightened - it brought a smirk to your mouth, grip tightening around his wrist to pry his touch away from both you and the other woman.

“Minx,” he replied, causing Ellaria to laugh loudly, the hand she’d held over your hair coming down to caress your cheek instead, gaze flickering between you and the prince.

I’d like it more if someone taught him some manners. It’s something I’d really like to see.

With one last coy smile, you lowered your mouth to Ellaria’s centre again, all too aware of his eyes on you as he rested back against the pillows, robe hanging open over his chest, thigh close to Ellaria’s head but not touching her.

The woman sighed and grinded against your mouth, hand coming back down to your hair to guide your movements as your tongue prodded at her entrance, slick gathering into your mouth - it made you hum in appreciation, unable to help yourself as your eyes fluttered shut for a moment at the taste of her. The vibration made her moan, and at her side Oberyn shifted, covers rustling underneath him.

His gaze burned you as you dragged your tongue upwards, flicking her clit before wrapping your lips around it - Ellaria’s nails scraped your scalp gently, her thighs trembling at the sides of your head as her back arched slightly. When you started pushing one finger inside of her, she moaned again, turning her head to the side - in doing so, her forehead rested against Oberyn’s thigh, his hands twitching at his sides.

“Like that,” she encouraged, rocking her hips into you as you began pumping your finger into her, and then slowly added a second one. “Just like that, my love. Just -” she cried out when you crooked your fingers, her walls fluttering with your name falling from her lips, over and over again as you rolled the tip of your tongue over her clit.

Ellaria lost herself in her pleasure fully, turning blind and deaf to all else around her - at her side, Oberyn’s chest began to heave, his hand sliding down to palm himself from above his clothes, groans trapped at the back of his throat. His hands itched to reach for either of you, his gaze unwavering: the Red Viper, once again looking like an apex predator.

As she came, she tugged gently on your hair to pull you away wordlessly, a gasp escaping your own lips as you exhaled, her walls still clenching around your fingers as she rocked into her orgasm, shaky thighs pressed over your shoulders almost pinning you fully down. She whined at the loss of your hand, grip faltering on you as you shifted forward a little, her legs falling at each side of you.

“Oberyn,” your voice was hoarse, snapping him out of it as you beckoned him forward. He kept his mouth shut as he leaned over, thighs spread and trousers straining at his hardened length - when you lifted your fingers to his mouth in offering, his shoulders sagged with a sigh, lips parting and tongue darting out.

His eyes fluttered shut as he wrapped his lips around your fingers, a low groan coming from his throat as he shifted further forward, one hand wrapping around your wrist. He lapped at your fingers eagerly, cheeks hollowing as his free hand brushed up Ellaria’s thigh and then up your shoulder, neck, brushing your jaw before tangling in your hair.

Ellaria moved her legs aside and freed you fully, pushing herself in a seated position and leaning in to kiss Oberyn’s shoulder, his neck, his jaw as it twitched with you fingers still trapped between his lips - at the same time, she brought one hand up to you, warm fingers caressing the heated skin of your arms, slowly hooking underneath the strap of your dress.

You tapped your thumb to the corner of Oberyn’s mouth and his lips parted again, releasing you with a heavy sigh - when he looked back at you, and Ellaria getting closer, his eyes were dark, pupils blown with lust and desire as he fisted his hand into your messed-up braid. Ellaria watched him, his gaze flickering from your face to hers to where her hand was, the sleeve of your shirt dragged down slowly, inch by uncovered inch of skin. She leaned in then, her lips brushing your now bare shoulder, the curve of your neck, up and up and -

“I want to watch,” she whispered, voice thick as honey and just as sweet, teeth grazing the ends of your earring before she kissed the juncture where your jaw met your ear. “Let me see him make you feel good, sweet one.”

Oberyn was uncharacteristically quiet, but at Ellaria’s words his fingers pushed lightly at the nape of your neck, breath itching. Your lips parted - not a protest, but a isn’t this supposed to be about you? bubbling in your throat - but before you could say anything her mouth was on yours. She could taste herself on your lips and whined softly, tugging the fabric of your dress without actually undressing you.

The prince moved closer, and as Ellaria kept kissing you, her tongue caressing the roof of your mouth to drink down herself from your lips, he began disentangling your hair - he always liked it more when it was loose down your back, when he could wrap his hands around the locks and pull your head back to expose your neck, then run his fingertips through the length of it, or watch it spill around both of you as you laid down in the aftermath.

Ellaria’s lips left yours only to drag down, back towards your neck, lingering for a moment as she nipped your jaw. With a sigh you opened your eyes again, vision blurred for a moment before you glanced in Oberyn’s direction. With your fingers still hooked around his chin, you guided him forward - he folded with no resistance, his mouth seeking yours right away.

Oberyn was never slow with his kisses - he tried to devour you, open-mouthed and heated, the hand through your hair keeping you from slipping from his hold. You felt him shift forward, just as you felt Ellaria’s mouth latch onto your collar, leaving her mark on you as she pulled your dress down at last.

The room spun around you, dizzy from both their kisses, from Ellaria’s hands mapping your front with feather-like touches until she reached your mound and Oberyn’s hands holding onto your neck - one on the nape, one at the side, where he could feel your pulse jumping, and the vibrations of your moan when Ellaria’s fingers pushed between your thighs, a not-enough touch that had your hips twitch forward.

“Want to see you fall apart on him,” she hummed, words like silk across your skin, while she kissed her way down your now exposed chest, licking and teasing between the valley of your breasts as she pushed her hand forward, the heel of it catching the apex of your core even through the folds of the dress, a whine falling from your lips directly into Oberyn’s mouth - he drank the sound greedily, responding to it with a groan of his own.

“Can I see you, sweet one?” Oberyn’s voice was low, hoarse, pulling back to meet your eyes with a darkened gaze as his hands wandered down your shoulders, across your collarbones. “Or should I undress first?”

“Manners,” Ellaria chuckled, shifting closer to you both - she cupped your mound again, fingers curling between your legs still above the dress, pulling a soft, unsatisfied cry from you. “I like it,” she said, leaning in to kiss him instead.

Still brushing your hip with one hand, he wrapped the other arm around her, pulling her to him as their lips parted, welcoming each other kisses with greed - the first time you’d seen them kiss, your whole body had gone hot, strangled desire as to what you thought you could never have. Him, her, you still weren’t sure at the time. In that moment, they were both there - touching you as they got lost in each other, pulling you closer and closer to them, tethering your very being to their existence together.

Magneting to watch, you tilted your head ever so slightly as Oberyn’s eyes found you even though the kiss, your own tongue darting between your lips as if tasting the heating air, hungry for it, for them. You nodded just once, gently pulling the tie of his robe to set it loose, and the Dornish prince lost no more time, ruefully breaking apart from you both to all but tear off his clothes.

“You truly do have him wrapped around your finger,” Ellaria laughed again, shifting closer and then back, her naked form pressed against you from behind - she wrapped an arm around your middle, her thumb stroking the underside of your breast, the soft, sensitive skin there that had you sigh and lean into her. Meanwhile, she pushed your hair to the side, exposing the side of your neck to brush her lips there once more. “How does it feel, knowing we’re both at your mercy like this?”

“So fucking good,” murmured with a gasp as her fingertips pushed past the edge of your wrinkled dress, pushing the fabric down and down your thighs. “You’re both so good to me, so -” words cut off by a moan when she pushed a finger inside you, the heel of her hand pressing against your clit.

“I told you she’d like it,” Oberyn was in front of you again, his body caging you between the two of them as his hands brushed up your sides, a delicate touch that had you shudder and clench around Ellaria’s finger, eyes opening to meet his gaze. “The power. The control,” she hummed, the sound reverberating across your back as she added a second finger.

“Do you know,” each of her words punctuated by her fingers curling and pumping inside of you, “he wanted you in our bed since the first time he laid eyes on you?” open-mouthed kisses tracing the column of your throat, the curve of your jaw. “How jealous he was when I got you first,” she added in a breathy chuckle, making the prince scoff softly.

“Should I make amends?” his hard length pressed against your lower stomach, Oberyn kept his gaze on your parted lips at each breathless word, Ellaria’s unrelenting pace bringing you closer to the edge, thighs threatening to clasp shut if not for her own legs keeping you open to her. You rested your hands on his chest, heaving and warm as he pushed his fingers into your hips, as if guiding your movements. “Should I fuck the jealousy out of you? Show how much I’ve wanted you both since the beginning?”

With a low noise choked back in his throat, he leaned forward, angling his head to chase your lips - he let it out when your hand shifted up to his neck, giving a gentle squeeze to the sides of his throat while keeping him back, just mere inches from your parted lips, each shaky breath Ellaria drew out of you hitting him on the mouth. His gaze flickered up and down, somewhat unfocused, lips to eyes to wrist to Ellaria - smirking against your skin.

“Answer me,” you let your touch move up to his chin, wrapped underneath his jaw to keep him in place, drawing a strangled yes out of him. You managed to hold his gaze a little longer with a small grin, before Ellaria curled her fingers again, hitting a spot that drew a loud moan out of you while shattering in her grasp, head lolling back against her shoulder and eyes fluttering shut. “Fuck, El -”

“I told you - mine before his,” she nipped at your jaw, your neck again, moving her fingers until you were trembling against her and then, only then, pulling her hand back, leaving you to clench around nothing. “And you have never been this compliant with me,” she teased, her gaze turned to Oberyn.

He was gripping your hips a little tighter, twitching against your lower stomach as your hand fell back down to his shoulder for balance. Letting go of you on one side, he grabbed Ellaria’s wrist to pull her hand up to his face, her fingers glistening with your release.

“You’ve never minded before,” he retorted, leaning closer - their weights on each side of you rooting as you regained your breath, one each of their hands brushing along your body as he kissed her fingertips, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

“Perhaps I do now,” pressing her fingers to his mouth, she waited until he parted it to slip them inside, Oberyn’s eyelids fluttering as his free hand wrapped tighter around her wrist - like before with her, he was tasting you, getting lost in the feeling of you. “Or perhaps I just like knowing how much you want her. What you’re willing to do to get her.”

Soft laughter escaped you, still slightly breathless, a shudder of anticipation running down your spine in response to their light banter - you turned your head to place a kiss against Ellaria’s neck, skin warm and soft as she tilted her neck to the side, granting you more space. Oberyn released her fingers with a wet pop, his gaze burning the side of your face as you let your arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him closer while straightening again.

“Let me show her just how much, sweet one,” he got closer, the tip of his nose brushing yours, Ellaria’s hand brushing across his cheek - she was looking at you both, her gaze attentive and curious. “Please,” he added in a half whisper.

A delighted squeal left her as you chuckled softly, one hand tangling in his hair to pull him closer, crashing your lips onto his. Oberyn sighed in the kiss, leaning all the way forward and then back, a rocking motion that moved all three of you. His hands rested on your hips, kneading the flesh to coax you closer and closer as he leaned back until he was lying down.

Straddling his stomach, you let your back arch underneath Ellaria’s touch across your spine, her hips pressed against the curve of your ass as she settled behind you, her gaze never wandering from Oberyn and you, his hungry, open-mouthed kisses that let out low groans as you lowered yourself against him.

“Do you feel that, little prince?” his teeth showed at the name, eyes flashing as you rocked your hips, the tip of his cock nudging your entrance before you moved further down, coating him with your wetness. “How good she made me feel?” you straightened your back and leaned into Ellaria again, still rolling your hips slowly. Their hands locked over your hips, fingers intertwined to guide your motions. “How she got me ready for you?”

“Tease,” he muttered, causing Ellaria to chuckle, her chin resting over your shoulder a moment longer.

“You’re so beautiful like this, my love,” she spoke sweetly, kissing your neck instead of him - that, and the rocking motion they guided you through, pulled low cries from you, eyelids drooping as the pleasure built again. Still, you looked at him through your lashes, his neck tensing and the ever-growing pressure underneath you. “So wanting.”

He did look beautiful - lips plump and glistening, slightly parted to his heaving breath, a flush that spread across his chest and neck and cheek, warm under your touch, with his eyes dark never leaving you.

“Perhaps next time you’ll be the one watching,” husky-voiced, he bucked his hips, rocking you with the movement. A gasp left you with the drag of his cock through your folds, just teasing your entrance. “Of course I want - I’ve always wanted you both,” he added, his fingers curling into your flesh.

“Next time, huh?” you mocked, breathless yourself, still sensitive from Ellaria’s touch and feeling the pressure that burned hot in your lower stomach again, building with each shift of your hips. Oberyn bared his teeth, a half-grin, half-grimace.

“Next time,” for a moment, he wasn’t just Oberyn anymore - he was the prince of Dorne, who always got what he wanted, how he wanted it. But he’d never done that to you, he’d always known better, and as he looked up at you, you knew he wouldn’t now either.

So you lowered yourself against him, chest against chest to catch his lips in a kiss that he deepened without hesitation, one hand moving from your hip to your face, cupping your cheek as he licked into your mouth - behind you, Ellaria pressed herself closer, their hands still joined over just one of your sides as her other one slid between your bodies, her eyes following each and every movement, each and every swipe of tongue, shuddering herself.

“Is that a yes?” Oberyn asked, a whisper meant for just the two of you followed by a gasp - looking down, you saw Ellaria’s fingers wrap around his length, guiding you slightly up to make space and align him with your entrance.

“Yes,” you nodded, the tip of your nose brushing his and gasping softly when she began guiding you down. “Fuck - oh, fuck, yes,” you straightened your back, pressing yourself against Ellaria’s front as she kept directing your movements.

Her breath fanned across the skin of your neck as she made you sunk down slowly - almost agonisingly so - down Oberyn’s length, the hand she’d used to guide the prince, too, now resting onto your lower stomach, feeling him shift there. She gasped softly with your moan, her chin hooked over your shoulder as you threw your head back, grasping at Oberyn’s chest to find your balance.

He canted his hips upwards as he grabbed one of your hands with his free one, while Ellaria kept guiding you lower and lower, splitting you open. The pleasure and pressure were almost enough to blind you, everything else suddenly heightened - the feeling of Ellaria’s skin against yours, her breathing, her hands, Oberyn’s hands, his soft grunts, the muscles of his stomach shifting under your touch, their whispered praises until he bottomed out.

“I bet you feel so good, sweet one,” Ellaria murmured, pressing her hand against the swell of your lower stomach - Oberyn groaned too, his length twitching deep inside you as your walls clamped around him. “Doesn’t she, my love?”

“She does,” his eyelids fluttered heavily when Ellaria pushed her hips into yours, forcing you into a rocking motion that had you gasping - but he didn’t dare looking away, gaze flickering from your blissed-out expression to Ellaria’s, the coy smile curling her full lips. “Like she was made for us.”

You looked at him through lowered lashes, unable to quieten your moans at both their words and the motions Ellaria kept leading you through, a quickening pace that made your thighs tremble, a blissful ache that made the fire in your stomach burn brighter.

With a soft cry, you turned your head towards Ellaria, searching for a sloppy kiss to quieten both of you - Oberyn’s breath stuttered, while you pulled your joined hands up towards your chest. He pulled himself with that, replacing his hand with his mouth, kissing messily across your chest and exposed neck, up until he could bury his nose through your hair.

Harsh breaths against your skin, he used one hand for leverage to second Ellaria’s motions, fucking up into you as he dragged his teeth down across your neck and shoulder, marking his passage opposite to Ellaria’s previous lovebites.

Made for us.

“You’re close, aren’t you, sweet one?” Oberyn’s low voice sent shivers down your spine, and with you trembled Ellaria, too, pulling back from your mouth with a loud gasp. “Yes, you are,” he almost taunted then, a harsher thrust that shifted you both, Ellaria’s hand over your stomach pressing down again. “I can feel you.”

Your muscles tensed as her touch shifted, lower and lower until her fingertips caught the apex of your core, drawing a slow circle over your clit that pulled a long whine out of you. She chuckled at that, peppering your shoulder with kisses, her tongue darting out every now and then to taste the salt of your skin.

“Let go, love,” she whispered into your ear, though you were sure her gaze was locked with Oberyn’s - her fingers moved quickly over your clit, coaxing blinding pleasure out of you before she leaned forward from above your shoulder.

Eventually, it was their kiss that brought you over the edge - head just slightly turned, through a hazed vision you watched as their lips connected almost desperately, hungrily, the hand Oberyn supported himself up with reaching for the woman’s face, curling around her hair. And still Oberyn fucked up into you, still Ellaria’s fingers drew circles on your clit.

You dropped forward with a loud cry, your head shifting from Ellaria’s shoulder to Oberyn’s, hands resting over his chest as your orgasm was dragged on and on by both their touches and motions, a pleasure so blinding it felt disorienting.

“That’s it,” Oberyn groaned, while Ellaria pulled back her hand when you twitched against them both, a broken whine leaving you. “El,” he said then, softer.

The woman shifted back from you, and through your blurred vision you watched her lie back against the pillows, legs spread once more, eyes burning against you both as Oberyn switched you two around, pushing your back into the mattress.

“Can I come inside you, sweet one?” he asked softly, a gentler, slower rocking motion that had you whine again. You could feel him throbbing, muscles straining as he tried to keep himself still, panting softly - he hadn’t since your first encounter, always painting your skin with his release instead. “Please, please love.”

“Yes,” you gasped, arms wrapping around his neck. He hitched one of your legs up his side to give himself more room before he began moving again, deep, slow thrusts that made your eyes roll back, back arching towards him. He kissed your mouth, your jaw, your neck.

“So fucking good,” he slurred against your skin, his pace picking up again, matching the wet sounds right by your side - if you were to turn your head, you’d see Ellaria’s fingers vanishing between her legs, her gaze lingering on you two as she brought herself closer to her own peak, unabashed moans falling from her lips.

There’d be bruises on your hips from his snapping pace. You buried your hands through his hair, tugging harshly to pull his head up, lifting your head to kiss him again, muffling his praises and moans.

Oberyn groaned and stilled, just as a high-pitched whine left Ellaria, too - you moved one hand from the back of his head and reached for her, caressing up her leg until your fingers interlocked, and the prince was coming with his head buried in the crook of your neck, muttered, nonsensical words caressing your skin as he shuddered.

Ellaria moved closer, nestling into your side and leaving a long kiss to your cheek as Oberyn pulled out, both of you sighing heavily with the motion as he settled onto your other side, hand falling down to your stomach and then sides, gently massaging your aching muscles.

“I’d say you made it up to me,” she whispered, amused, and you couldn’t help the laughter bubbling in your throat, tilting your head to look at her. Her skin was flushed and glistening, curls ruffled around her head, and when you tipped your chin ever so slightly, she leaned in to kiss your lips tenderly.

On the other side, Oberyn kissed your shoulder first, then guided your head towards him to mimic her, an all-too-delicate kiss that drew a kiss out of you, curling up between their warm bodies as they drew closer. Your eyes were closed when they kissed, too, locking their arms together around you.

They’d had lovers - countless, really. Mindless sex to get themselves off over a pretty face or a nice smile, alone and as a pair. But it had never been like that, like you. It had never been a tangle of bodies and hearts, whispered promises and affection, resting spent in the same bed but still caressing one another, because they could not get enough of their skins, of the other’s. Because they would never get enough of your sweetness, never feel satiated.

#redahlia #little prince #little prince / sweet one #oberyn x reader #oberyn x you #oberyn x reader x ellaria #oberyn martell x reader #oberyn martell x you #oberyn martell x ellaria sand #oberyn martell x reader x ellaria sand #ellaria x reader #ellaria x you #oberyn x ellaria #ellaria sand x reader #ellaria sand x you

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redahlia-writes · 1 year ago

Text

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.

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