Violent Delights Have Violent Ends

THATDUMBLAMB : i.sabella s.wan pulled for the twilight canon and written as a canon divergent fandomless character.

@pixiedforesight alice blog @forkstales : twilight multi-muse sideblog

ash ( she / they ), 32. this blog is anti s.m*yer. my b.ella will be written as a human and a witch. she doesn't marry e.dward and doesn't turn into a vampire. please be respectful of my fellow rp partners and myself. thank you. personals and minors DO NOT INTERACT.

MEMES OPENS PINTEREST PLAYLIST

The springs of the beaten-up sofa groaned as Willoughby adjusted his weight, his eyes squinting through a cloud of cigarette smoke at the flickering static of the television. The interior of the double-wide was dim, lit only by the crooked floor lamp and the blue-grey glow of the screen. Outside, rain hammered a steady, rhythmic cadence against the corrugated metal roof — a sound that usually lulled him into a stupor, but tonight, his skin felt tight with an inexplicable restlessness. A sudden, sharp scrape against the aluminum siding made him freeze. It was followed by a familiar fumble at the window latch beside his kitchenette. Willoughby didn't reach for the baseball bat leaning against the wall; his body recognized the rhythm of that particular clumsiness before his mind did. He stood up, his tall frame looming in the cramped space, and moved toward the window. He reached out to haul the window upward just as Bella's head surfaced above the sill. Reach out was all he ever seemed to do when it came to her — bracing her, steadying her, pulling her out of whatever storm she had decided to wander into. He grabbed her by the waist, his large hands nearly spanning her middle, and hoisted her upward. Even through the damp fabric of her jacket, he could feel how small she was, and the familiar jolt of protectiveness flared in his chest, hot and jagged. He sat her down on the linoleum floor with more gentleness than a man of his size typically possessed. "Bella," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that betrayed the sudden spike in his pulse. He didn't pull his hands away immediately. He let them linger on her hips for a heartbeat too long, his thumbs tracing the line of her denim jeans. The scent of rain and pine clung to her, mixing with the stale air of the trailer. He searched her face, his gaze intense and slightly guarded. He was constantly looking for a sign — some indication that the way her heart sped up was for the same reason his did, or if he was just the safe harbor she ran to when the rest of the world got too loud. "It's two in the mornin'," he said, finally dropping his hands and reaching for a dry towel on the counter, though he didn't step back out of her personal space. "You alright? What's goin' on?"

The thunder had kept her up. That and nightmares of the tracker, the ballet studio, being left in the woods, being told that was wasn't wanted. She had woken up with a start in a damp sweat. She couldn't be in her room. In her house. It was like she was trapped. Her father was working the night shift and she was alone. She hated it.

Pulling on her hoodie and converse she headed out the door. It was raining, why she didn't take her truck was beyond her. It was right there but she wanted to walk. To run. She made her way down the dark, foggy streets, not really paying much mind to where exactly she was going, but she had to go.

Then suddenly she was at his place. Willoughby. A safe place. A person she knew she could always feel safe with and count on. She could have knocked. She really should have it would have been so much easier than clumsily climbing through his window. She swore under her breath, a mix of English and Spanish as she fumbled with the window.

His hands found her and he pulled her through the window, gently setting her down. She looked up at him in the dark, she let out a breath. "I know..." Bella muttered. "I'm sorry, I just. I felt like I was suffocating in my house. My dad is still at work. There was another missing camper." She explained.