#so I'm trying to just post what I have and worry less about perfection

[penguinsomadagascar]

This is like if Kowalski drew a map of the HQ, but Skipper made him redact part of it.

#2023madaparty #Theme 4: Home #I don't really have time to do any fully “finished” drawings #but I really want to participate more this year #so I'm trying to just post what I have and worry less about perfection #what would be really fun would be re-watching all of tpom... taking notes of every room and tunnel I see.... and then combining it ALL #into one big drawing #my art #fanart #tpom #the penguins of madagascar #2023madagascarparty

[wrengrif]

I rub my hands together..

Because I am having more Thoughts.

Big thanks to @badaziraphaletakes for pointing out the fucking obvious to me.

We talk a lot in this fandom about trauma, how Heaven and Hell leaves different kinds of psychological, and physical scars on our angel and demon. Mostly though, we focus on the psychological damage that comes from Heaven and the physical torture that comes from Hell. I am of the belief that Heaven and Hell drop a lot of both on their environs, but that's a post for a different day.

Trauma isn't that simple, though. It doesn't matter what kind you face, your reaction to it is going to fall under animal instinct. What is truly horrifying is the realization that Crowley's and Aziraphale's gut reactions are completely the opposite of what their Bosses are.

When Crowley feels like he, or Aziraphale is in danger, instead of fangs out, he's looking for the nearest escape route. The easiest way to make the problem go away. He runs away -- but of course he runs away. If he doesn't run away, he's going to be tortured. He is going to receive physical damage for making a mistake. So flight is the best option. The ability to get away, to think of how to avoid that pain, one way or another, is so Crowley-coded. I've always stated that Crowley is the strategist, the one who makes the complicated plans. He takes himself away from the problem, so he can analyze the problem. He runs away, and then he turns back. Once he has enough physical safe space, he can sit back and look to see what can be done.

He never had a chance to do that really in the last days of Armageddon, because Hell was nipping right on his heels and he had to keep retreating. Until he was put in a corner, and then you saw the Serpent come out. His fear of pain lasts until he is more afraid of losing his life, or Aziraphale. For example, the bucket of holy water. Walking into a consecrated church. Walking into a burning bookshop. The M25 - he literally drove Right Into The Fire, even with Hastur there because he had to get to Aziraphale and he had to survive driving through a ring of fire. Crowley runs from pain, but that doesn't stop him from attacking if he's got no other options.

Aziraphale is the opposite. His trauma is one I am well acquainted with, and that is psychological abuse, and torture. Don't let it fool you - just because you aren't having someone hurt you with a screwdriver doesn't mean it's any less devastating to your body, much less your mind. What Heaven does is use Fear. Fear like a scalpel, or a baseball bat to your knees. The Fear of Falling, the Fear of being considered Unworthy of God's love. The Fear of being considered less than your fellow angels, although you'll always be lesser than archangel. Fear of being yourself, fear of being anything less than perfect. All the fucking time. Nothing can save you, but us, and if you turn against us, you're screwed. Aziraphale, though, he doesn't run. He's never run. He's a Guardian. A Principality. He held a flaming sword and he held it well. Oh, he will bald-face lie to God, to archangels, to Crowley, but he doesn't run. He will try to find a way out of it with the most convoluted stories. He'll smile, look pleasant and distant and not quite there. Don't notice me. Don't worry about me. I'm not doing anything wrong for you to hurt me. Only thing he fears more than Heaven is Hell, and he's not even scared of Hell as a concept, but as a fact of Hell will hurt Crowley. Hell will take Crowley away. Hell will reach up and snatch Crowley away in a heartbeat and there isn't anything Aziraphale can do about it. Fear, fear, fear. Yet he doesn't run. He fights. He fights with words, and when there's nothing left with that, he fights with his wits, and then when he has no more left of that - he stands his ground with a weapon. A sword. A halo. His own physical body, if necessary.

Where am I going with all this?

That Season 3 is going to be You Reap What You Sow. Crowley is trapped in his misery and he can't run from it, because Aziraphale is in danger. Aziraphale is trapped and afraid, and he can't do anything about it because they'll hurt Crowley. What neither Heaven or Hell has realized yet - and I especially mean Heaven in this juncture -- is that they haven't given Crowley or Aziraphale any choices. They've been trapped in a corner by both of their abusers.

Their abusers who have never seem to learn the lesson that if you trap Crowley and Aziraphale in a corner, they're going to turn around and bite. Bite as hard as they possibly can - just to protect one another.

#crowley #aziraphale #good omens meta #good omens #good omens 2 #good omens 3

[donascozylivingroom]

LET GO OF THE STRESS AND HUSTLE TO 'GET THERE'

I was scrolling through tiktok and i found a post by someone who told me if i am comfortable in my life i shouldn't be, because i am not working on my next level. i got annoyed and skipped, two videos later: "if u want to be more comfortable..." ... skip!

i'm tired of society convincing us where we are is not ok. i either must want to be more or less comfortable, never accept my life and improve upon the life i have right now with as tiny steps as i feel i can right now.

guess what - I AM COMFORTABLE! And I love it.

I used to be a master at hustling, doing everything i can to get my million dollars and NYC Penthouse. Manifesting didn t work for me until i learned to robotically affirm and persist, and since then i am getting everything i want. And yeah I still have resistance to 2 of my only big desires, everything else i'm getting affirming 1-3 times because i assume i only need to affirm once and i get it, i repeated that for a while and ever since manifestation has been so easy.

And yeah just because i didn t get my 2 main desires yet, I AM COMFORTABLE. I understand that those things I want so much are part of my soul lessons and why my soul came here. God/Source/myself before this life decided to make some things harder than others, and that's okay.

My whole life i was either uncomfortable because i didn t get something external, or worried - why am I so comfortable?

I learned to never do anything that is not easy because my plan for this life is to FLOW, but still i was fed by the media that i am not perfect as i am, or where i am. It's not true.

Wherever you are, it's your starting place, your zero point. And if you are experiencing it, you are probably meant to be there. I mean look around u in the present moment, not to your mind. Are you okay? You're meant to be here, boo.

How can you make your life more beautiful where you are? How can you be more grateful for what is around you? What you already have.

There s no rush, you don't have to get there tomorrow. I know when you are young it seems like you have to do everything very fast, and the speed of manifestation on this planet has improved since i was a kid, everything seems to be more light and fast, BUT...

There will probably be a few more years until the speed of manifestation will be instant, especially for every single thing.

You are part of a collective, a collective consciousness, and everyone must be on board until they push the START button from above 🤭😁

We are literally on this mission together, it's not just about you, it is about the ascension of Earth and its citizens.

Don't stress! Make it your job to relax whatever happens and you will see small improvement after small improvement which will lead to an easy, chilled life that is financially supported by the Universe enough that u have time to do your affirmations, your journaling, your shadow work, etc. Make it a habit to not stress, because stress is always misaligned since it doesn t feel good.

My life currently: affirming, journaling and pinteresting most of the day while in bed...earlier i did groceries and got a lot of things i love to eat and would be considered expensive where i live. Spent 120 euro today and i am in europe. I don't work. I only manifest haha. I'm yet to be at the financial level i want (one of my two desires i'm working on) but i still live a comfortable life, a life that energetically i wish i will have once i have lots and lots of money, because the vibes are amazing. I'd rather have this warm house and bed, friendships and good vibes than a view from the last floor in NYC from my bed, while ridden with anxiety and loneliness.

Ya know.. Everything will be ok, if you struggle to affirm meditate and try your affirmations just once to check how it feels with eyes closed within your inner being..and then check more affirmations one at a time... and ask yourself, your inner being: what do i really need? what do i really want? and when you are clear, then start repeating and manifesting.

good luck!

#manifesting #manifestation #affirmations #affirmyourreality #law of assumption #persistence #robotic affirming #loassumption #loa #relaxation #relax #relax timely reminder

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for creating and running a gimmick blog?

A few months back, I was bored and decided to hop on the trend of gimmick blogs. Since I don't have any crazy skills like identifying cars or programming bots, I settled on something I thought was extremely simple: correcting typos. So I'll sometimes reblog posts that have typos in them and comment with corrections. I would only do this on posts that were already lighthearted or joking in tone; I would never derail a serious post with it. And I really haven't used it very often - maybe a couple times a week at most, just when I happen to notice a good candidate.

Well, recently I was inundated out of nowhere by a bunch of anons telling me this was a horribly offensive idea. According to them, I was insulting dyslexic people, non-native English speakers, people without access to education, and a whole bunch of other groups with these unwarranted corrections.

I had honestly never considered that angle, and I've paused using that blog so I can try and reflect on it. But when I replied to a couple of the asks asking for a better explanation of exactly how this was harmful - because I genuinely wanted to be informed - the vast majority of the replies, with few exceptions, were obscenely rude to me. I've been called classist, ableist, racist, and a lot of much worse words I don't care to repeat here. I blocked exactly two people because they were being extremely hateful in my notes, while still trying to engage with the more polite ones, but of course I still got accused of blocking and ignoring everyone I disagreed with.

The truth is, I'm still not sure whether or not I disagree with any of them on the actual subject at hand; I just can't deal with people being bitter and rude and assuming the worst of me. I tried to make it clear that I was more than willing to listen and have a conversation in good faith, but that has proved impossible.

So now I'm really hurt and really, really confused. I'm not going to just blindly trust a small group of hypocrites on the internet who claim they're worried about people's feelings while at the same time trying to completely villainize me as if I don't have feelings too. But I also understand that they might have a point. Sadly, politeness is not always correlated with correctness.

I absolutely do not want to continue running this gimmick blog if it's truly harmful and offensive to people. I've just never encountered this take before, and it was delivered with such vitriol that I had to take a break from tumblr entirely just to recover my sanity. So I'm hoping a much broader and less biased sample size will help to clear this up. I know an AITA poll isn't perfect, but it should do.

If I get a YTA verdict, I will delete the typo-correcting blog and stop immediately, no questions asked. If not, I'll know I just angered an extremely vocal minority that has no idea how to deal with conflict.

AITA?

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole

[secretpostsposts]

I'm going to call this Sibling Change

To avoid confusion, I'm going to call the adult version of the brothers John Dory, Bruce (they are the ones whose name can best be changed), Adult Clay, Adult Floyd and Branch, the young versions JD, Spruce, Young Clay, Young Floyd and Bitty B; unless it's Branch talking to the younger versions and he used the correct names (I imagine calling Spruce Bruce a mistake sometimes)

But more or less this is what I have in mind:

The adult siblings are very "emotional" as they see BittyB and have many feelings of guilt or regret because, their brother could have remained a sweet and gentle baby, but they ruined him, especially John Dory, I imagine that at some point he didn't. He endures it and only carries Bitty B and hugs him as if fearing that he would disappear into thin air and cries and asks, no, begs him to forgive him (taking into account that it was 20 years, I say John Dory seems to have traveled a lot, at some point). point returned to the Trolls Tree, so he could, for a while, believe that Branch was... Dead; I'm an older sister and I may not get along with my brother, the mere idea of losing him like that or having that idea, kills me inside, so John Doy may have that trauma, so not only does he apologize to Bitty B, he wants to believe that if he takes care of this version of his brother he will fix something about his now adult brother that he lives with) so I see a lot of part of the adult siblings these scenarios of regret and helplessness because they have this baby Branch in their hands and they know what to do but they feel bad, because he is their brother, but not their brother at the same time, they feel that they are trying to "replace" him in some way. shape.

While with the Band (I will refer to them that way since they are still a band and act more like brothers according to me) they are "floating" in the situation they feel unreal, they have their little brother, who is a baby, he wears a diaper !, and out of nowhere this adult Trolls Branch appears who claims to be Bitty B but in 20 years in the future and is so drastically different from his little brother, they understand that their little brother will change as he grows, but there is something wrong with this Branch, he doesn't seem to know how to deal with them, mistakes Spruce for "Bruce" and doesn't find Clat funny, and. Bitty B loves Clay's jokes, he seems nervous, and seems ready to have a heart attack every time he mentions or sees a Bergen too close to the tree, he also makes faces every time JD says something about the band or Harmony. Perfect Family; and not to mention Grandma, they just don't know what to do with this Branch, they know he's their brother but it's like having a perfect stranger in the house and their colors are so dull that they're starting to get sick with worry, and Branch is starting to ( I don't know if it's stealing or undermining) he will take JD's authority over the Band (brothers), he doesn't even let Grandma be in charge, he takes charge and it's strange.

This is more like a base of what the brothers' relationship will be like in these situations, a fanfic will be made, someone asked about it in the previous post, and Tumblr won't let me respond to the comments, so if anyone has something to say , the question box is open

#trolls band together #trolls #trolls brozone #trolls branch #trolls john dory #trolls clay #trolls spruce #trolls bruce #trolls floyd #brozone #Sibling Change

[baeddel]

long post abt accessability in games, DMC3, DS1, and control schemes

games like God of War or Devil May Cry can be inaccessible because they have inputs which require button mashing, which is difficult for someone with arhritis or other problems that affect their hands and wrists. but these inputs are generally not required to beat the game; you have a lot of options, so you can just avoid using any move that's too difficult. the main issue is that these games become more demanding the further into the game you want to go; keeping a combo going in DMC requires a very high apm and use of the entire controller, so a person with a motor disability will hit a wall eventually.

this is a design problem which i think is difficult to analyze. DMC starts from a very unique design—it has a huge number of moves, almost all of which are accessible out of neutral rather than hidden at the end of an attack string—which it has to pay for by using a large number of unique inputs (forward + attack, back + attack, forward then back + attack, hold shoot to charge, hold devil trigger to charge [charges can be buffered]). it introduces a lot of complexity, but it's actually less complexity right away than other action games; instead of having to memorize a long list of complicated strings (cf. Bayonetta's Punch, Punch, Kick, Kick, pause, Kick, which is different from Punch, Punch, Punch, Kick, Kick, pause, Punch [click]—have fun with those!), you can learn attack, shoot, devil trigger, then forward attack, hold shoot... etc., one at a time, and mix them into your play and find out when they're good. its combo system is not just complex but also discoverable; players can try out how its different pieces fit together without opening the movelist.

but once a player already knows all the moves, the game starts to ask more and more out of them. not only do you want to use all of the inputs one after the other very fast (try jump cancelling Beowulf's Killer Bee into another Killer Bee for the first time—pretty tough, right? and all you're pressing there is X and △! the inputs get harder!), but since your charge moves can be buffered, you also want to hold O and L1 to charge your shot and devil trigger for when you might need them, and you might also want to lock-on by holding R1. when watching a really good player playing with an input viewer it's not uncommon to see every single button on the controller light up at the same time. doing that stuff is really fucking hard.

so far we don't have any problems; it's a picture perfect picture of a system that's 'easy to use, hard to master,' right? but because the thing thats hard to do in this case is input a lot of buttons at once on a physical controller, we've just frozen out any players with hand/wrist problems or motor issues from high level play, at least without adapting the game somehow. this is a problem that's difficult to predict, difficult to foresee, and difficult to design around; i don't see how you could fix it without making DMC a completely different game than what it is.

so if you started from the premise of designing a game that was accesisble to people with hand/wrist and motor issues (including suckers like me who played a bunch of high apm games like DMC and Runescape and fucked up their wrist), you'd have to come up with something pretty different at a very fundamental level.

this is why Dark Souls is, in a lot of ways, a VERY ACCESSABLE action game. what do i mean? its control scheme is extremely simple. once you press every button on the controller you've learned everything you're going to learn about it (apart from one very non-obvious hard-coded universal cancel, but don't worry about it). all you have to do is dodge or block the other's guys attack and then hit him with yours.

there's a lot of ways that DeS/DS1 approached the action genre differnetly to other games, but right now i'm only going to highlight one: the kind of 'questions' DS is asking its player. if you think about DMC, what is DMC trying to get the player to do? while you can beat the game with one or two simple combos, the system is obviously made in a way that encourages freedom and flexibility, and the game has systems to reward long, varied combos (the 'style' rating). and that's all it wants you to do (apart from in a couple of levels where they want you to do platforming—ugh!). to accomplish this, they lock you in a room with some enemies and only let you out when you beat them all.

in Demon's Souls the main thing they want you to do is navigate complicated dungeons that are full of traps; some levels have mazes in them, and lots of traps kill you instantly. it's similar to Kings Field, which its a spiritual successor to, but it's also similar to other early 3d RPGs: Deathtrap Dungeon, Die by the Sword, Dungeon Lords... (in one interview Miyazaki said part of his job was to play a bunch of 'open world RPGs' for research, and i imagine that included some of these old, weird games; the first dungeon in Dungeon Lords has a rafter-walking section with projectile-shooting enemies, chain-pulley mechanical elevators and highly damage-resistant slimes). they also want you to kill enemies. but the game never forces you to kill these enemies; you're never locked in a room until you kill all the enemies, and enemies never have items that are necessary to progress in the level. enemies are just one obstacle among others. consequently, enemy encounters are designed in a certain way that makes avoiding them difficult and approaching them complex. an enemy that throws firebombs will stand at the top of a long, narrow staircase, forcing you to dodge them on the way up; two enemies will stand behind a doorway and, if you run in blindly, will both attack you from behind. things like that. it was hard to avoid enemy encounters in Demon's Souls because the levels involved suffocatingly narrow corridors and the enemies followed you forever. but it was possible and sometimes desirable. in DS1 running by enemies is often preferable and, with foreknowledge of the level, always possible. it's also a lot easier as enemies don't follow you very far anymore (this change was patched into the game after release).

running and jumping both consume stamina, as do dodging, blocking, and attacking. getting hit costs hitpoints, and falling off a ledge costs all your hitpoints. both aspects of the game (navigation and combat) use all of the same resources, and engaging in combat is generally one of a few options the player has to navigate an area. it is, a lot of the time, by far the easiest option, but most players will find a few areas that they hate enough to always run through. one of the messages players can leave to each other is 'try dashing through.' the game rewards you for killing enemies by giving you souls and loot drops, but it also punishes you for making mistakes by leaving you down on resources—less health, fewer estus, and fewer spellcasts—so the best thing to do at any given time is difficult to analyze.

the questions DS is asking its players, therefore, is to familiarize themselves with the level, come up with a plan, conserve their own resources and make it out with the loot. at lower levels of play the game is mostly about succeeding at lots of combats and navigating lots of traps over a long distance without making too many small mistakes. then, at high levels of play, the gameplay is mostly about movement, exploiting the game's verticality and taking advantage of holes in the enemy placement. but the change from low to high levels of play mostly takes place in the mind of the player, not their hands; they understand the levels better, they are better able to respond to things which were previously unpredictable to them, and they have more confidence in their ability to do what is needed of them.

so our game not only starts off very accessible to players with hand/wrist or motor problems, but it finishes there too. although, i've gone a little too far: the player's hands will change a bit as they improve at the game. like Monster Hunter, the best way to play Dark Souls is to have a claw grip in both hands; the thumbs should operate the analogue sticks, the index finger should operate the d-pad (for toggle escales, the universal cancel i mentioned, as well as changing spells) and the face buttons (for rolling, using items, interacting with doors and items), and the remaining digits manipulating the shoulders/triggers (for attacks, blocks and parries). while running, you want to hold L1 (block) so you can roll (circle) out of a run without jumping. this might be hard for you depending on your condition, but i don't think it's that much worse than holding a controller the regular way.

anyway, the point is this: you might want to think about making your game accessible not just to the general player with disabilities, but to the 'hardcore' player with disabilities. do you want disabled people to not only beat your game, but be really good at it? how would you design systems to accomodate that? i've talked about hand/wrist and motor issues here because it's what i was thinking about (and some games, like Runescape, aren't really accessible to me anymore thanks to my wrists, at least in the way i used to play them), but there are other disabilities you could probably design around. imagine a player who has CFS or ADHD in a way that keeps them from practicing consistently; could you make a game that is rewarding for such a player to try and get really good at nonetheless? Runescape (conceived of competitively, ie. racing to the leaderboard &c) was good for players with certain kinds of disabilities and neurotypes since it required a huge amount of time and dedication, it really rewarded being unemployed, LOL. but what if there was a game that somehow rewarded inconsistency? who knows...

anyway, i'm saying how i tend to think about it as a rebuttal to the way i see most people talk about accessibility in games, which is merely playing games. thus Dark Souls can be criticized for being difficult for a new player to complete, for example. but this always struck me as a bewildering way to talk about games. plenty of disabled people don't just want to complete games, they want to be good at them. and disabled people can and do become good at games and compete and win at them. so the question for me is not so much 'how do i make a game someone with this disability could play?' but 'how do i make a game someone with this disability would want to master?'—a game which doesn't create headaches for them, which works with rather than against them, and which they actually enjoy at all levels of play.

[lovelybrooke]

Platonic Yandere Soul Eater Gang x reader

A/N: So, I've been posting a lot of One Piece stuff, so I thought I would be good to break up with other fandoms I'm interested in. Soul Eater is an Anime I haven't watched in a while but really enjoy so I wanted to write something involving the main group. I also want to write for OHSHC and maybe even twisted wonderland and Genshin. Anyway, please like or reblog if you enjoy. Thank you!

The Soul Eater gang is filled with a bunch of odd ball characters. From an outsider's perspective, it is hard to tell that they are even friends. They are almost always arguing, and if they aren't there's an argument waiting to happen.

I like to think that you were a knew student at the DWMA, weapon or meister, it doesn't matter. What matters is that, to these kids, you were interesting. You most likely met Maka first, Soul never too far from her. After that, she introduced you to the others, and the rest was history.

Soul and Maka were like you shadow, never far from you once you became friends with them. Soul is obsessed with anything 'cool' and in his eyes, you are such. You'll never know it, but he constantly worrying about reaching your expectations. Most of the time when he's around you, he's laid back, and compared to the rest of the gang, isn't super possessive. When he's with Maka though, he's more inclined to get upset if someone interrupts your time with him.

Maka is a lot like her weapon, in the case that she isn't possessive over you and your time. She does like hanging out with you and will often spend time studying with you, sometimes even with Kid and Tsubaki. The only thing that gets Maka riled up with you getting hurt. It's something that effects all of them, but Maka always feels as though it is her fault when you get her. She is not afraid to put herself in danger if it means protecting you.

Speaking of Black Star, he is a lot. Just hanging out with him drains a lot of your energy. Out of all of them, Black Star is the one that takes most of your time, not being afraid to threaten someone who is trying to take you away from him. Tsubaki sometimes tries to calm him down, but deep down Tsubaki is just as protective as the rest of the group.

Tsubaki is super sweet. She loves hanging out with you and wishes so much of your time wasn't taken up with school. She hates seeing how stressed you are and will do whatever she can to fix it. She understands that Black Star is a lot to handle, so she's often the one who calms Black Star down when he gets too worked up. However, Black Star and Tsubaki have a hidden understanding, both of them being the one who protect you. If you even go on a mission with them, Black Star and Tsubaki will work his hardest to protect you, both expecting your praise after defeating any threat to you or your safety.

Kid is the strangest. While he loves being your friend, he sometimes feels as though he doesn't deserve your friendship. He wants to be perfect for you, he needs to be perfect for you, and will settle for nothing less. He also encourages you to be your best self, doting on you in every sense. He makes sure you are eating right and keeping up with your studies and training, along with making sure you don't stress yourself out with schoolwork. He wants you to be the best version of yourself, feeling a sense of pride when you accomplish something. Kid is also possessive and will use his status in the school to intimidate students into leaving you alone. He doesn't like when others criticize you, or even talk to you, so he will always drag you away when others try and take up your time, complaining about the so called "useless students."

Once Crona joins the school, they also take a liking to you. They are naturally shy and, like kid, don't believe they deserve you and your kindness. They feel the most content when they are with you and want to be around you constantly. They despise Ragnarök and how he constantly embarrasses them but feels somewhat better when you don't mind. Crona cares a lot about your opinion and will sometimes go as far as changing things about themself to better please you, only stopping when you say not to. Crona also doesn't feel the need to be possessive over you, feeling as though that's wrong, even if they hate it when you are not near them.

All together, they care about you deeply, and want you to be as happy as possible. While they might disagree on a lot of things, they do agree on one thing and that's you. I like to think that Maka manipulates you to move in with her and Soul so that they can keep better track of you and relay that back to the others when needed. You wouldn't really even notice their weird behaviors, since, other than Black Star, are really good at hiding the most negative aspects. If you do ever point out their behavior, they won't hesitate to quilt you into staying with them, referencing how much they've been though, and how they wouldn't make it if you left them.

#soft yandere #platonic yandere #soul eater #yandere soul eater #soul eater x reader #soul eater evans #soul x reader #maka albarn #maka x reader #black star #black star x reader #tsubaki nakatsukasa #tsubaki x reader #death the kid #death the kid x reader #anime fanfic #yandere fanfiction #faniction #fanfic #yandere x reader

[redahlia-writes]

practical magic. | javier peña x ofc

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

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

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

Words: 12k

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

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

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

also on AO3  - masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He never regretted it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Helena felt like she was losing her mind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it’s all because of him.

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your letter, he almost said. You.

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

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

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

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

“Are you or your sister hiding James Hawkins?”

“He’s not here, no.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I never asked you to, I never—”

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t hate you, Phoebe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You want a confession?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She’d learned that with Frankie, and now—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know,” she only said, and went nevertheless.

For hours her perfume remained in the room, clinging to him for so long he didn’t even notice the smell of his burned dinner. So long the letter had dried on the floor where it had slipped, enough for him to reread it, again and again until he’d managed to fall asleep.

Helena couldn’t stop thinking about Javier. From the moment she’d walked out of the motel room, he had been all she could think about—on the drive home through the storm, in the warm bath to wash the cold away, doing the dishes, in bed, unable to sleep, dreaming about him while wide awake and in the few hours she’d managed to close her eyes, too. Haunted, just like her sister.

She dreamed of the desert, an apple tree in a yard that wasn’t hers and bloomed without water, and horses that ate apples from that tree and ran faster than all the others, and a man who was taking a bite from a pie she’d made, bound to be hers for life. She’d woken up smelling apple pie and cinnamon, coffee and tobacco.

So it was no surprise when Javier showed up that same morning. She almost heard him coming. Yet she couldn’t face him right away, so she hid inside, behind her sister, still skittish, behind her daughters, still confused, behind the pretence of making breakfast.

“He’s staying!” Sophia, the eldest of her daughters, announced, running from the garden to somewhere past the living room—Helena sighed, eyes closing. “Aunt Pheebs! He says he’s staying!”

Helena wondered if, without the feeling of Javier’s hands still on her, she would’ve wondered why Phoebe would care whether or not the man investigating them was staying at their place for breakfast. She wasn’t even sure whether she was glad he was staying or just nauseated.

“Can I help?” Emma, much quieter than her sister, stepped at her mother’s side and pointed at the stove, a half-burned pancake smoking on the pan. Helena threw the failed attempt away and nodded, forcing a smile onto her face—she knew the man was in the room with them, she could feel him watching the two of them from the entrance, could see him in her mind as he leaned against the doorway.

“Be careful,” she murmured, taking one step aside, then another, and more, her own steps echoed by Javier’s. They met halfway across the kitchen, her still not looking at him while his eyes never once left her.

“’Morning,” he hummed, shoulders brushing—Helena moved aside, ignoring the sharp pain in her hip when she bumped into the table.

“Good morning,” she cleared her throat, brushing her hands down the front of her shirt—and then lowered her voice. “Why are you here?”

“You told me I knew where to find you once I’d made my decision,” he replied, matching her tone.

“And have you?” her hands began going numb as she clenched them in fists at her sides. She could still feel Javier looking at her.

“I’m going back to Laredo,” her gaze snapped in his direction, so fast the whole room spun as she inhaled sharply, holding her breath. “I thought you should have this. After all, it belongs to you.”

It took her a moment to manage to focus on the paper he was handing her—her letter, now ruined, a half-destroyed piece of paper she’d poured her heart over, more than once. When she picked it up, their fingers brushed just like the first time, and Helena almost cried out in pain.

“Now, something smells like it’s burning,” she could see the strain in his neck as he turned away from her, looking at Emma. One more moment and then he walked ahead. “Need a hand?”

“I was trying to flip it,” Emma mumbled, a pout forming on her lips that made her look more like her mother. Javier chuckled, settling at her side. “Do you know how?” she asked suddenly, a hopeful note in her voice Helena hadn’t heard in a while. Her chest constricted, watching the man smirk and roll up his sleeves.

“I absolutely know how to,” he nodded with a theatrical gesture. “Step aside and observe.”

Amas Veritas, dancing in Helena’s head as she watched Javier, fitting so well in her kitchen, flip pancakes in the air and making the young girl laugh. It had been a while since Emma had laughed like that, and for a moment she was her soft-voiced and shy 14-year-old again, who liked to look at the stars and sleep with her head on Helena’s lap.

But then her shoulders tensed, her whole position shifting, taking one step away from Javier to turn towards her mother, even though her eyes went past her. Helena knew, without having to turn right away, that something was terribly wrong.

“Mom,” Sophia came running in, breathless, and immediately clung to her arm, tugging harshly. “Something’s wrong, mom,” the panic in her voice settled in Helena’s bones, mixing with her own, and she was quick to push her daughter behind her back, stepping away from the door. “It’s aunt Pheebs, she—”

“It’s not her,” Emma’s voice was grave, so unfitting for a young woman, and she inched closer to her mother, too. Which left Javier at the stove, looking at the three of them with confusion and alarm. “It’s him, it’s the man of the lilacs.”

“What?” perplexed, Javier took a step forward, only to be stopped by Helena’s extended arm, while she pushed all three of them behind her just as Phoebe walked into the kitchen. Accompanied. “What the hell—” Javier exhaled, reaching for his belt.

“Agent Peña!” James exclaimed, translucent as he came into the light. Javier’s head started spinning as he stared at him, then at Phoebe Goode, her arm trapped in his vice grip made of fingers of smoke, then back at him. “Long time no see. How’s Laredo? I think I’m starting to feel homesick.”

As James spoke, Helena had started stepping backwards, her gaze never leaving Phoebe—the two sisters were looking at each other, guilt and fear and resolution in their gazes that no one but the younger girls could notice, the familiarity an ache on the palms of their hands as they held each others’, keeping close, keeping behind their mother.

“Helena,” Javier called, his gaze unwavering as he took hold of his gun. “You said he was dead.”

“Yes,” she nodded, and for a split second, Phoebe’s eyes showed surprise.

“Doesn’t look like it,” he retorted, and James scoffed.

“You’ve all spent weeks pretending I’m not here—well, almost all,” he tilted his head, gaze settling onto Emma, and smiled. Helena pushed her daughter into her back, the girl hiding her face against her shoulder, clinging tighter onto her sister’s hand—Sophia held her chin high, squeezing back. “It’s gotten boring.”

“Then leave,” in Phoebe’s voice there was all the rage of the Goode women before her. But then James turned, his grip tighter on her arm, and Helena watched her sister’s legs tremble. “Just leave us alone,” she pleaded, eyes widening.

“No,” James chuckled, pulling her closer—Javier could see the strain in the woman’s shoulder, her face contorting in pain, and could not wrap his head around it. James Hawkins did not look real, or at least not real enough to hurt them. Still, he felt uneasy, even more so when he spoke again, his head lowered next to Phoebe’s. “I’m feeling very into sisters right now,” his gaze flickered towards Helena, too, a grin taking over his pale face.

Javier wasn’t looking at her, but he felt Helena straighten her back, look at him, and then turn. He heard her whisper to her daughters, possibly holding them closer, to run into their aunts’ room and be mindful of the salt. He heard two sets of steps backtrack, and watched James’ face shift into disappointment.

“Oh, Lena, Lena, Lena—you really do take the fun out of anything, don’t you?” he took one step forward, dragging Phoebe with him—the woman cried weakly, trying and failing to escape his hold.

“Hey,” only now that the kids weren’t in the room did Javier lift his gun—although he was sure it would do nothing to stop the man, and his widened grin only confirmed it. “Let go of her.”

“And you,” James groaned, even as Javier placed himself between him and Helena, “you never, ever learned when to just give up,” the two men looked at each other—Javier’s gun lifting, James’ hand reaching out for him. “You should let the adults—”

Before the sentence was over, James screamed, letting go of Phoebe. Helena ignored Javier’s surprised gasp in favour of her sister tumbling to the side, quick to reach her before she could even touch the floor.

The same floor where a star shimmered, catching the sunlight. Javier carried it with him everywhere he went, in remembrance of his father, the star-shaped badge he’d lived by for ages before retiring. Javier did not believe in luck, good or bad that it was, but he did believe in reminders: of doing the right thing, always. Of never losing sight of who he was.

He picked it up right as James straightened, a hole in his near-invisible hand that echoed its shape. Without thinking, without considering, Javier held it up right as the other man—or whatever was left of him—screamed in his direction, unintelligible words that probably would’ve resounded like threats, had Javier been able to hear a single one.

Instead, he stared as the figure vanished, with one longer scream and a curse, the air darkening in front of his eyes and then dissipated into nothing, leaving him to look at the corridor that brought to the stairs, a ringing in his ears.

“It’s okay, Pheebs,” Helena’s voice slowly brought him back, words repeated soothingly as she still held her sister. “It’s okay, it’s alright,” reassuring, in spite of her trembling voice. “I need you to call the aunts, Phoebe. I need you to tell them what happened. Can you do that?”

“I’m sorry,” Phoebe was still saying, her eyes unfocused though she looked up to Helena.

“I know, I know—but can you?” Javier could almost see it—nights spent with Helena reassuring her sister, hidden under thick blankets or on the rooftop of the house beneath a sky full of stars. “Please, I need to go to the girls.”

“Oh, the girls,” Phoebe exhaled, and released the grip on her arm. “Of course. Of course. I’m sorry.”

Helena didn’t wait, though she lingered enough to rest a kiss to Phoebe’s temple, before standing and walking out of the kitchen. It took Javier a moment to come to his senses, and then he went straight after her.

“What the hell was that?” he asked, his mind still reeling, forgetting for a moment the effect he had on her. “Was that him? Did I kill him?”

“Yes, and no—technically,” Helena didn’t stop, heading for the stairs she used to sit on when she was a kid to spy on the aunts. “It was his spirit, which you banished. But I told you, I killed him. And you can do whatever with this information after, but right now—”

“Hold on just a goddamn second, all right?” Javier grabbed her arm, pulling her right back against him. A split second in which they looked each other in the eyes, and all that had happened the night before came back, all that had been left unsaid before hit them square in the chest, and in that split second, they could’ve almost forgotten all else. “What are you talking about? His spirit? I came here to bring in the bad guy—generally, that’s what I do, and now you’re telling me about spirits?”

“Is that why you came here, Javier?” she stood her ground, her arm still in his hold. “Be honest.”

“Honesty,” he scoffed. “I thought I did—and then you were here, and your letter—maybe that’s what brought me here. Maybe it was you. And I’m all mixed-up about that.”

Helena was looking at him with that storm still brewing in her eyes, and Javier felt his knees threaten to give out underneath him. His hand fell from her upper arm, down her elbow and wrist, brushing the palm of her hand. She took a slow breath in, lips trembling.

“The reason you’re here and you don’t know why is because I sent for you,” she said, quietly.

“I know why—”

“You don’t,” she interrupted him. “When I was a little girl, I worked a spell so I would never fall in love. I asked for qualities in a man that I knew couldn’t possibly exist,” she shook her head, while his fingers wrapped around her limp hand. “But you do.”

“So,” he scoffed, “you’re saying that what I’m feeling is just one of your spells?”

“Yes, it’s not real,” it sounded like it pained her to say, even though Javier knew she was telling the truth. Or at least thought she was. “And if you stay, I wouldn’t know if it was because of the spell, and you wouldn’t know if it was because I don’t want to go to prison.”

“All relationships have problems,” he muttered, and she gave a small, unamused laugh.

“I thought I loved Frankie, but that was another spell too,” for a split second, she held his hand back, squeezing her fingers around his to the point it hurt. “Still, you don’t want to know what happens if you stay. We’re all cursed. You saw that,” and just like that, she let go of him.

“Curses only have power when you believe in them, Helena, and I don’t,” clenching his fists, Javier stepped back from her. “You know what? I wished for you too.”

Helena knew. He’d told her the night before, his lips etching each word onto her skin.

But she watched him go nevertheless, glad he managed to take the steps she couldn’t.

Helena was tired. She had been tired since lying on the floor next to her sister, watching as she was being consumed from inside. But all of that was over. She’d stared at the letter from Laredo for days after that, keeping it stored with the other one written in her own hand that carried the mark of both her touch and his.

She did her best to not think of him. It was near impossible.

James Hawkins’ cause of death was accidental, read the letter. His body was identified by jewellery in the ashes of a body found in Laredo, right by his property. The same ring he’d told her was in his car, the car she’d driven, the car she’d spilt belladonna in.

Sincerely, Javier Peña, special investigator.

“I don’t think you’ll find him there, Lena,” Phoebe said softly, when she caught her reading the letter once more. “But somewhere else, perhaps.”

For days, she let the words linger. Days turned into weeks turned into months, his absence like an emptiness into her chest. She’d almost convinced herself it would pass. That, with time, that too would pass—just another pain, just another absence. She could deal with it. She could.

And then Javier was there, in her backyard, or at least that was what she thought she was seeing, because it couldn’t be. How could he be there, when he was in her dreams just that night?

“What would you do, Pheebs?” she whispered, her heart beating so loud she wouldn’t be surprised if everybody else could hear.

“What wouldn’t I do, for the right man?” Phoebe whispered in return, gently pushing her forward with a wide smile. “This is not the aunts’, this is the two of you.”

All the while, Javier looked at them, standing perfectly still like a deer in headlights, unsure of what to do, one of his hands half-raised as if in greeting but without waving, the other buried deep within his pocket. He looked at them, and watched Phoebe quickly lead the girls away even when they tried to run to him, and then Helena walk in his direction.

“A love that even time will lie down and be still for,” he said as a way of greeting, once they were standing one in front of the other. “Ever since I went back, time hasn’t felt real, because you weren’t there. And maybe you still believe it’s for a spell you did as a child, or your aunts’ fault—”

“How do you know about the aunts?” it was hard not to smile when he fidgeted like that.

“Your sister told me,” he returned, softly. “Your sister called.”

“And you’re here,” she said, a half-step forward in his direction.

“I’m here,” he nodded, moving the hand out of his pocket and reaching for her tentatively. “I’m here because I know this is real. No gimmick, just—”

“Love?” she suggested, and the glint in her eyes reminded him of the moon itself.

“Love,” he repeated, their fingers interlocking. “Helena, I mean all of it. I’ll even quit smokin’ if—”

She kissed him, plain and simple. Pulled his hands so that he was stumbling forward and caught his lips with hers, gentle, slow. She kissed him, and as Javier held her, he felt like he’d finally gone home. She kissed him, and felt that empty space in her chest filling with the taste of coffee and tobacco.

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

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

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

#javier peña fanfiction #javier peña x ofc #javier peña x oc #javier peña x original female character #javier peña x reader #javier peña imagine #javier peña fic #javier peña #javier peña x f!reader #javier peña x fem!reader #javier peña x you #javier peña fanfic #javier pena fanfiction #pedrostories #javier pena x ofc #javier pena x oc #javier pena x original female character #practical magic #redahlia

[talesofesther]

Moonstruck - Part 4

Eddie Munson x Reader

Series Summary: Eddie knew he was doomed the moment his eyes landed on you and his heart jumped in his chest. You, princess of Hawkins High, one of the most popular and beloved girls of the school, with perfect grades and perfect charisma; and the daughter of Hawkins chief of police.

A/N: Safe to say this part ended up even bigger than the last one, oh god. Hope you like it, next part might take a few extra days to be posted. <3

Masterlist | Read Part 3 here

"What the hell was that about? Are you trying to assassinate your reputation?" Allison ranted and walked with you to your locker. School day was over, and Hawkins High hallways were filled with students eager to return home.

You rolled your eyes, tightly holding your books to your chest so as not to turn around and give her a piece of your mind. You passed by one of the many bulletin boards of the school hanging over the green and orange stripes and white brick wall. Pinned to it, was the poster that announced the yearly prom. This year, given that you graduate, it would be yours. And even if it was still three months away, the anticipation was already making itself known in the back of your mind. It was a big night, or so they say.

"Hey, Y/N." Bryan, one of the most tolerable guys from the school's basketball team walked towards you.

With a small smile, you met him halfway in the hallway; forcing the other students to walk around you.

"Can't thank you enough, I would've been dead if it wasn't for you." He opened his backpack and pulled out your science textbook.

You took it from him, holding the textbook with the other two books already in your arms. "Don't worry about it, I'm glad you managed to write it all down on time."

He reached out to squeeze your shoulder. You didn't fail to notice the jealous grimace from Allison beside you.

"See you on Monday."

"See ya, Bryan." With that, you both continued walking. He towards the exit and you towards your locker.

You finally turned to your friend, who was now pointedly looking at you. "Listen, Allison, this is high school, not the Queen's Court." You stated, referring to her previous breakdown.

She had seen you walking through the school's doors earlier, hand in hand with Eddie Munson; as had the many other students you passed by until you reached class.

The metal door of your locker opened with a click, and you started storing your books inside. "I couldn't care less about the stupid social circles here, or whatever you'd like to call it."

"It's one thing to not care about social circles," she said, leaning her shoulder on the locker next to yours; "it's another to walk in holding hands with the school's resident freak." Her tone made it look as if you had committed a felony.

The sound of metal against metal was loud as you closed the locker's door. Inciting a few glances in your direction from the students talking near you and passing by. "Don't call him that."

Allison raised her hands in surrender. "I'm just saying, it was super weird. He is…" she trailed off with a grimace and huffed out a sigh; "if you keep, whatever that was, up; I don't know, some things might change."

She pursed her lips, leaning closer to you. "He's not called the school's freak without a reason. I'm telling you as a friend, you're better than that."

You knew you were considered one of the cool kids at school. You could see it whenever people who weren't in your so-called social circle looked at you, their gazes were always different, always placing you one step above them. You weren't particularly fond of it.

You crossed your arms. "I'm not better than anyone, Allison. And Eddie is just called that because of shallow people that can't see past his looks that don't fit their standards; or, his loud attitude perhaps?" You paused, taking a deep breath. "Or even because he plays a damn fantasy game. Spare me."

Allison straightened her posture, her dumbfounded look let you know she was having trouble understanding your reasoning.

"Besides, maybe I'd like things to change." You raised an eyebrow at her.

The curiosity swimming in Allison's eyes was evident, she wanted to ask much more, but just shrugged her shoulders; "it's your funeral." She leaned in and pecked your cheek, undoubtedly leaving a trace of red lipstick there. "Just, be careful okay?" Her words were genuine, manicured hands adjusting the straps of her backpack.

Opening your arms, you shrugged and smiled at her; "I always am."

She mirrored your expression with a shake of her head. "See you on Monday, weirdo."

You couldn't help but chuckle, blowing a kiss her way before she turned around and made a beeline for the main doors.

As Allison disappeared amongst other students, a certain blond jock caught your eye. Jason walked past you, his stained jacket in his hands as he stared daggers at you.

Leaning with your back against the cold metal of your locker, you made sure to move your gaze up and down his stained clothes, before settling on his eyes with a smirk and shooting him a wink; which surely only made his blood boil more. Small pleasures, you thought to yourself.

"Hey princess." Eddie's sudden and sultry voice right beside you made you jump on the spot before you turned to him with a smile.

"Eddie, hey."

He was sporting a timid smile of his own, hands on his jeans pockets and shuffling back and forth on his feet.

There was something still slightly unnerving about being so close to you inside the school, for everyone to see. He felt the stares of others, focusing his eyes mainly on you to try and block them out. He relaxed a little with your voice though, letting his shoulder rest on the locker beside him. "How was the rest of your day?" He dragged the question.

"Boring, but still okay for a Friday." You told him honestly, picking at the ends of his jacket that you happened to still be wearing.

Eddie's heart was beating too fast and his lungs were working too slow. He held himself back from reaching out; from cupping your jaw and kissing you senseless because god- it was unfair for someone to look so beautiful while wearing his worn black jacket.

The silence stretched for seconds that felt like hours. Your eyes were glued to his, focused as your smile faded and pulled Eddie into a trance; as easy as that. His hair fell past his shoulders and you tilted your nose up, until a particularly loud voice made you blink several times and Eddie gulp a big lump in his throat.

You're in school, more specifically the hallway, surrounded by students. Focus, this is the one thing you can't mess up. Eddie thought to himself.

He removed one hand from his pocket, running it through his hair and huffing out a breath to compose himself. "I wanted to ask, are you sure it's okay for me to show up at your house?" He squinted his eyes, scratching the back of his neck. Now that he had a bit of time to dwell on it, showing up at the house where none other than the Chief of Police lived, looked a lot like a death sentence.

"Trust me, Eddie, it'll be fine." You pushed yourself away from the metal door with warm cheeks, hooking your arm around Eddie's and pulling him towards the exit.

"Yeah, it's just, I'm not very confident I'll be your father's favorite person." He looked down at you with a playful grimace. Feeling the warmth of your body against his already easing his nerves.

"Well, you're mine already, so I'm sure he'll like you too, sooner or later." You pushed open the school's glass doors, being greeted with warm, late afternoon sunlight right on your face. Chatter was heard all around you from the other students, some picking up their bikes and others turning on their cars. This time of day was always your favorite. Not because of going home, but for the golden glow that shone down the school's grounds and the chilly breeze making the leaves rustle.

Eddie almost felt his knees giving up on him upon hearing the lighthearted confession. He had trouble making his mind focus on forming words, his cheeks most likely already as red as a tomato. "You'll be the death of me."

You untangled your arm from him, running your hand down his forearm until your fingers hooked loosely around his own. "Maybe so, but you do love me." Your tone was playful, not aware of how true those words were.

Letting go of his hand, you shrugged off his jacket from your shoulders.

"Yeah…" Eddie breathed out. He took the leather jacket from you and when he draped it back over his shoulders, he was instantly enveloped by your warmth and perfume. His skin was littered with goosebumps, momentarily wishing you'd wear more of his clothes.

"I'll see you tomorrow then?" You took a step backward, away from him and towards the parking lot, eyes still big and hopeful.

"I'll be counting the minutes." Eddie smiled sweetly, squinting his eyes because of the sun and only being able to see your silhouette. And he meant it, knowing he wouldn't even be able to sleep properly tonight.

______

Eddie did not, in fact, sleep at night.

He felt as if nerves were eating him up from the inside out. Even as he sat on his bed, guitar resting on his lap as he tried to play, he couldn't stop thinking about every possible outcome of him arriving at your house. He wasn't one to worry so much, not about something like this. But he really, really didn't want to mess it up. Eddie knew he wasn't the picture-perfect guy, let alone for you; he wanted to try, though.

And now, as he sat on the driver's seat of his van. Hands clutching the wheel while he stared at the turn that lead to your street; part of him wanted to tuck tail and run back to the safety of his trailer, and the other part of him knew he'd never forgive himself for that.

Eddie sucked in a deep breath and turned the key in the ignition.

The street that led to your house was pretty, surrounded by huge trees of which the round shape made Eddie think of broccoli. They were beautiful nonetheless, shaping the sunlight on the road with the gaps between the many leaves. The neighborhood was quiet, he passed by a few houses which had some kids playing on the sidewalks. It suited you, Eddie thought to himself.

Your house somehow turned out to be all he expected it would. He'd never seen it before today, you handed him the address, written down on paper with calligraphy much better than his. The house was made of dark wood, had two floors, and a big porch right at the front. It was surrounded by nice-looking grass, even if it was due for a trim, and two big trees stood tall on each side of the yard.

Eddie parked by the side of the road, he wiped his sweaty palms on his pants and got out of his van. He wore light blue jeans, a black Metallica shirt, and his black leather jacket. He walked up to your front door rehearsing in his mind everything he would say, while simultaneously giving himself a pep talk.

With a hammering heart, he raised his fist to the wooden door, knocking thrice.

The door opened slowly, and Eddie held onto his breath. Jim Hopper stood in front of him, in casual clothes, it was Saturday anyway. His face wasn't looking too casual though, he had an unreadable frown on his mouth and thick eyebrows. He looked Eddie up and down, making the long-haired boy feel as if he was reading through all his sins.

Eddie cleared his throat, "Hi, I'm Eddi- Edward! Your… daughter invited me over." He averted his eyes and mumbled a curse.

Hopper hummed, leaning against the threshold. "Y/N talked about you, and I'm gonna hear more if I don't let you in, so…" standing aside, Hopper motioned unenthusiastically for Eddie to come in.

Stuffing his hands inside his jacket pockets, Eddie ducked his head and mumbled a "thank you" as he walked through the door. The house felt incredibly cozy inside, being smaller than he thought it would be. A joined kitchen and living room, what he assumed was a door to the bathroom and maybe storage, and the stairs up that most likely lead to the bedrooms. Everything was nicely decorated, some pictures of family memories hanging on the walls that sparked distant envy in Eddie.

The door closed with a thud that made Eddie jump, he glanced over his shoulder and Hopper walked past him, cigarette and lighter in hand as he walked up to a kitchen counter and leaned back onto it. Eddie pursed his lips, praying to whatever entity for you to come and find him already.

Hopper blew out the smoke, the frown never leaving his face. "What are your intentions with my daughter?"

Eddie's eyes went wide and he wanted the ground to swallow him whole. "I uh- don't-" He fidgeted with his rings and put his hands back in his pockets. "No- no intentions sir…" He stuttered, his sentence ending more like a question. Should he be calling him sir?

"We're friends. She's my friend." Eddie nodded, as so to emphasize his words, even if they tasted bitter.

Hopper chuckled humorlessly. "Right." He glanced down and flicked the ash from his cigarette, "guess I'll have to keep an eye on you."

His words were so stern they sent a chill down Eddie's back. Before he could try to answer, they both looked up the stairs, hearing footsteps.

"But you look pretty." Eleven insisted, her hand holding on to yours.

"Are you sure? I feel weird, but maybe it's because I'm not used to it." You grimaced, referring to the new shirt you were wearing.

"I'm sure." Eleven smiled brightly as you both reached the end of the stairs.

You looked away from your sister, your gaze finally meeting your favorite brown eyes. Eddie stood awkwardly in the space between the kitchen and the back of the couch, cheeks flushed and posture rigid. He was adorable. Your eyes lit up in a smile. "Eddie, you're early."

"Hey, sorry I-" he was interrupted by your body colliding with his in a hug. He held you back, both hands over your back as the corner of his lips inevitably tilted up.

"Don't worry, I'm glad, at least we'll have more time." You beamed and pulled back. You looked towards your father with a raised brow. "I hope my dad wasn't too intimidating."

"Oh, we were just getting to know each other." With a full-on smile, Hopper walked up to Eddie and patted his shoulder, hard.

Eddie chuckled nervously, unbalanced from the hand on his shoulder. "Yeah."

Hopper put the cigarette back in his mouth, and with a last look in Eddie's eyes that told the boy everything he needed to know, he walked to the couch and sat down.

A relieved huff left Eddie's lips. He felt your thumb rubbing circles on top of his hand, automatically calming him down.

"You do have pretty eyes." The girl beside you; your sister, Eddie assumed, spoke to him for the first time. He frowned at her words and looked at you with a smirk.

"And that is my sister, Jane." You introduced Eleven quickly, with a mortified smile.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, I'm Eddie." He replied with a kind voice and extended his hand for Eleven to shake.

"Y/N talks a lot about you, she says you make her ha-"

"Okay, Jane?" You spoke loudly over her, feeling your heart dropping to your ass as Eleven spoke about your crush as if it was weather talk. "I think dad could really use some company." With both hands on her shoulders, you guided her towards the couch.

Eddie bit the inside of his cheek to contain a smile, his heart fluttering inside his chest.

"Alright come on." You took Eddie's hand and all but dragged him up the stairs and to your room.

You pushed your bedroom door after you and Eddie walked in, leaving it open with just the tiniest gap. He looked around your room and you sat on the bed, watching him.

Eddie turned on the spot, giving a quick once over to his surroundings. Your room had lilac wallpaper that almost seemed white in the sunlight, there was a desk on one side with your backpack and several school books on top, your cheerleader uniform rested on the chair, folded neatly and several potted plants stood by your windowsill. He knew he stood out like a sore thumb in your world; but looking closely he could see clothes haphazardly hanging on the holder behind your door, used sneakers pushed to the corner of the room beside the wardrobe, and to his surprise, what seemed to be a Bon Jovi tape hiding in the middle of the pile by the drawers.

He had a smug smile when he slowly turned to you. Eddie took the remaining steps in your direction, sitting in front of you on the bed. "So I have pretty eyes huh?"

You groaned, heat coming up your neck and to your cheeks. You averted your eyes as you mumbled; "don't let it go to your head."

Tilting his head to the side, Eddie watched you. "Too late sweetheart."

Something about his tone made your heart jump. Low and soft as if he was in a trance, the words rolling off his tongue easily.

You licked your lips, bringing the bottom one to your teeth momentarily. Glancing up, you caught him staring, the tip of his fingers touching your knee. "Well, it is true."

Any confidence Eddie had, left him as he heard you say it. Compliments were not a thing he received often, or ever. So having someone say that something about him was beautiful felt odd; in a good way. His mouth dried up, feeling your hand touching his. You reached out for him so easily, every time making his heart pump blood at a quicker pace.

His hand closed around yours in a gesture that already belonged to the two of you, thumb brushing over your knuckles. He couldn't put a name to what you two were, not anymore.

You got up then, separating your skin from his when you walked to your desk and picked up a thick book. "Are you sure you still have the time to do it?"

Eddie frowned, you stood in front of him, and from his place sitting on your bed his eyes leveled with the book in your hands, and he remembered why he came; having forgotten about the chemistry book before even going to bed last night.

"Yeah, but I doubt this year will be any different from the other ones, so I wouldn't worry." He shrugged.

There was an annoyed tilt to your eyebrow, you threw to book on the bed beside Eddie and crossed your arms. "Don't say that, you're going to pass Eddie. Third time's the charm, right?"

His throat rumbled with a low chuckle, he tilted his head up, dark brown eyes looking at you with blown wide pupils. "I do hope you're right, princess."

You became acutely aware of how close you were to each other. You standing between his knees and his chin centimeters away from your body. He looked up at you as if you'd hung the stars in the sky, making your skin tickle with goosebumps.

With a dash of confidence; or mostly affection tugging tightly at your heart, you reached up and buried your fingers in his hair, just behind his ears as your thumbs traced the outline of his cheekbones in a bold move.

Eddie went as stiff as a statue before your hands even made contact with him, and all but melted against your touch afterward. Your hands cupped his face with a tenderness no one ever offered to him before, for a split second, tears stung behind his eyes before he pushed them back, closing his eyes. He didn't bother to think about what this meant.

"You'll graduate, and then we'll go to prom and prove everyone wrong before driving away from this town, how's that sound?" You offered, playing with his hair and pushing it back until you could clearly see his jawline and the flushed tip of his ears.

"Fucking perfect." He breathed out, the ghost of a smile on his lips. His eyes remained shut, if this was a dream he never wanted to wake up. Eddie carefully lowered his head, his forehead now resting against your stomach.

You smoothed down his hair in a comforting manner with a hand resting on the back of his head. None of you mentioned the intimacy of the moment.

A minute passed and Eddie tilted his head back to you, getting up from the bed and straightening his jacket. "Let's go, there's a place I want to show you."

Eddie picked up the chemistry book. You smiled, with newfound curiosity making your eyes spark, and followed him to your bedroom door. He held the door open for you, making a show of bowing and extending his hand as he presented the way out.

Eddie won your heart over a little more every day.

You both walked down the stairs. Reaching the living room, you placed a hand on Eddie's forearm. "Wait outside for me, yeah? I'll only be a minute."

He pursed his lips with a smile, opening the front door and walking to his van, keys jingling between his fingers.

You turned around, bracing yourself on the back of the couch where your father was sitting. "We're uh- we're going out for a bit."

Hopper turned his head to look at you, the images from the TV illuminating his eyes. "Alone?"

"No, me and Eddie."

His eyebrows furrowed, and he got up. The way his eyes widened was comical and you held back a giggle. "Yeah, alone with him. I don't think I like the idea of you going out with that guy. Much less alone."

That made a frustrated sigh leave your lips, you rested with your hip against the couch and crossed your arms. "Give him a break, dad, he's actually much nicer and more respectful than any of the other guys at school."

Hopper grumbled under his breath. You managed to hear something about "bad influence."

You rolled your eyes, clenching your jaw while willing yourself to stay calm. You couldn't really blame him for worrying, given your past. "Dad, please listen to me. I'm only asking that you see past his looks, at least this once, he already goes through enough at school. Wasn't he super well-mannered today? Hell, he was even scared of you."

He's thinking, you can see the cogs turning when Hopper looks at you.

"I promise, he's a good guy." You said quietly, smiling softly.

Hopper massaged his forehead with one hand, you knew it was only for show though. "Alright, fine. If you trust him…"

His gruff voice with sincere approval made you beam.

"But if he does something, anything, slightly questionable; you come straight to me, understand?" He pointed a finger at you.

You nodded excitedly, "I always do, you know that."

Hopper sighed; with a calloused hand behind your head, he brought you towards him, planting a quick kiss on your forehead. "Be home before nine."

You closed the front door behind you with unmistakable happiness, skipping on your feet towards Eddie's van.

The long-haired boy looked your way as soon the passenger's door opened, his knee was bumping up and down in anticipation.

"He hates me, right?" Eddie didn't hold your gaze when he spoke, turning the key in the ignition once you were comfortable beside him.

"No, not really," the smile could be heard in your voice. Eddie's hold on the steering wheel was white-knuckled, you placed a hand on his knee to stop it from moving. "I'd go as far as saying he's warming up to you."

Brown eyes turned to you with relief, his smile was tiny and shy. It lit up your heart anyway.

Driving around town with Eddie Munson could easily be described as free therapy for you. The seats on his van were comfortable, windows rolled down to allow wind to make your hair flow. Eddie hummed along with most of the songs playing on his radio, the tone of his voice mixed with Sabbath's guitar solo was becoming your favorite song.

Eddie didn't tell you where he was taking you, making you laugh every time you tried to pry the answer from him. It ended up making things more magical. No destination, just two souls moving in tandem and finding peaceful bliss with each other.

He eventually parked in front of an ice cream parlor. It was small and nicely styled with pastel pink and baby blue colors. The sun started to go down on the horizon, painting the streets and trees around in a deeper shade of orange as the minutes passed.

Even with you insisting on the contrary, Eddie paid for your ice cream. After buying your favorite flavor along with his, you hopped back in his van. He told you this wasn't your final destination yet.

Ten more minutes of driving and you reached a secluded part of Lover's Lake. Eddie parked his van with the back facing the lake, opening the back door of the vehicle so you could sit there comfortably.

The view was easily described as breathtaking. The sun was setting right in front of your eyes, its final rays painting the lake's water with strong shades of orange, yellow, and pink; same as the sky above you. The trees around you were nothing but black silhouettes against the warm light; faded stars could already be seen in the darker parts of the sky, far from the descending sun. It all resembled a painting.

The air was a bit colder, your ice cream was almost completely eaten by now. Eddie sat beside you, his warm shoulder flush to yours, legs swinging by the edge of the van.

"It's so beautiful here." You mused quietly. You'd been to Lover's Lake before, never here though. The place felt like a private hidden spot. Your heartbeat quickened thinking that Eddie was sharing a personal place with you.

"Not as beautiful as you," Eddie said lowly, a boyish grin on his face.

You chuckled, bumping his foot with your sneakers, eating the last bit of your ice cream. "Real smooth, Munson."

Eddie glanced down at his lap, hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. "I usually come here to play guitar and shit like that, when the trailer feels too crampy."

A breeze flew by, you turned your eyes to the boy beside you. His curls followed the wind, twisting under his chin and past his shoulders; his gaze was focused on the setting sun in front of him, brown orbs taking in a golden glow. A shiver ran down your spine, feeling privileged for being with him, here and now. For knowing the real Eddie.

Your hand found his own naturally, you intertwined your fingers with his, allowing them to rest on top of his thigh. He looked down at your joined hands, his thumb tracing your skin, then looked up at you; his eyes open and vulnerable.

"Thank you, for bringing me here." You expressed quietly.

Eddie's gaze roamed your features, his lips parted. Leaning in, he kissed your hairline. The touch lingered before he rested his head on top of yours, bringing your cheek to rest on his shoulder.

Labels were a complicated thing. Friends don't hold each other like that, yet it's not like you've kissed his lips yet.

You squeezed his hand, molding your body against his. But you had time, time to figure out what you two were and what you would be.

You knew you were exactly where you wanted to be.

⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Read Part 5 here

Feedback and reblogs are very much appreciated. <3

Eddie’s taglist: @milkiane @bookfrog242 @alicefallsintotherabbithole @bambi-laufeyson @marvelbrokeme @boooil @science--hoes @cherrypieyourface @tssf-imagines  @daph-505 @astream-ofconsciousness @fentyreligion @fantasylovestoryme @justabeautiful-letdown @crazyrapunzel @yessica41 @dancing-hillary @bakugouswh0r3 @hehehehannahthings @eddiemunsonsfrgf @jakebasement @taeeyongs-hands @zervopoulouu @forverdaydreamer-blog  @fromthedt @oeuryale @mcueveryday @palah @miraakswhore @witchbinchstories @call-me-magpie

@yangsbff @loveshineslikethesky @luvmybbies @tvserie-s-world @agirlsguidetolove @strawberryoverkill @hallothankmas @ribyourtoplip @sweetpeapod @harringt8ns @forsaken-letters @hazydespair @munsonzzgf @fangirling-4-ever @akiisbae @electric-cabaret @ollyoxenfrees @linkpk88  @twinkofmydreams @ribyourtoplip @paola-carter @masterlistmanic @boomhauer

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[writingquestionsanswered]

Writing with Chronic Illness

strigiformthunderstorm asked: Could you advise on forming a writing routine with a chronic illness? I have several conditions that cause a lot of pain and fatigue, and working part-time takes up nearly all of my energy. I used to write daily but stopped while I was in "survival mode", and now getting in my head about the quality prevents me from writing. I've had success with creating multiple routines to accommodate my fluctuating symptoms, so instead of writing out a schedule, I'm kind of choreographing a dance. For example, right now I'm coming out of a flare up so I'm trying to think of adaptations like writing in bed, taking naps between writing sessions, and being less hard on myself about smoking for my pain while writing + just doing brain dumps if that's what I need to get into the flow of things. I'm also neurodivergent. I'm trying to get to the point I'm actually writing the book (instead of world building/planning) and am making consistent progress.

[Ask edited for length]

A few things that might help:

1 - Don't worry about writing daily or hitting specific word counts. Doing things to "move the needle" are just as important, even if that is doing brain dumps, researching, or looking for inspiration photos.

2 - Try to avoid making writing feel like a stressful activity that your brain will automatically want to avoid. The things you're doing are already on the right track, so continue to give yourself grace, give yourself positive reinforcement for anything that moves the needle, and doing what you can to make writing relaxing and rewarding.

3 - Many writers find that writing sprints are a productive way for them to get words on the page. So, for example, try setting a timer for 10 or 20 minutes (or whatever increment works for you) and write as much as you can during that time. Don't worry about quality (we'll get to that in a minute), just get the words down. Do this a few times a day, and it starts to add up quickly. You may also find that you gather momentum and are able to write more per sprint, sprint for longer periods, and/or include more sprints into your day.

4 - Focusing overly much on quality is probably a bigger obstacle for you right now than anything else. This is by far and away the biggest pitfall writers fall into. Remember: writing is a process that requires editing and revision. No one writes a perfect first draft. There's a reason we call them "rough drafts" and "zero drafts." There's a reason we self-edit and revise. There's a reason we use beta readers, critique partners, and editors. It isn't supposed to be perfect at the beginning. Imagine being a sculptor, taking out a lump of clay, squeezing it to shape it a few times, and then being livid because it isn't a beautiful sculpture. That's what you're doing when you allow your brain to be frustrated about the quality of your writing when you're writing a first draft. You're getting mad because your lump of clay didn't instantly become a beautiful sculpture. If you never let your lump of clay be a lump of clay, and something that looks more like a misshapen whatever rather than the thing you're trying to make, then you'll never get it to the point of actually becoming the beautiful sculpture. You have to let the words on the page be ugly before you can shape them into something beautiful when it's time to edit and revise. Have a look at the following posts for more:

Concentrate on Quantity at First, Not Quality Overcoming Embarrassment Over Own Writing Delaying Writing Out of Fear Worried About Writing Style

5 - As far as routine goes, you're actually already doing what I would have suggested, which is to utilize a variety of different routines that are catered to meet your needs in the moment. Doing the things you're already doing, plus what is mentioned above, will hopefully be enough to get you over this hurdle.

Sending you lots of happy thoughts and hope for progress! ♥

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

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[the-guilty-writer]

Criminal Minds PRIDE Fic Challenge!

Here we go! First writing challenge ever and I'm even more excited about the theme. During June I ask fic writers to challenge themselves a little bit by writing a piece that is LGBTQ+ inclusive!!! Don't let the topic intimidate you; If you want to participate, but don't know where to start, there are prompts to help. All the fics will be collected in a Masterlist that will be avalible by July 1st.

Note: if you have accessibility issues with this post (or any of my posts!) let me know and I can send you the information in an accessible format.

Prompts and rules are under the cut!

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These prompts are only ideas to help get you started! You can write any LGBTQ+ centered fic you want! Feel free to modify any of the more specific prompts to your liking.

Prompts:

Character coming out to their friends/family/the team.

Character's found family is more supportive than biological family when they come out.

Characters go to a pride parade/festival/event!

Characters discuss queer coding in media.

Character(s) explains their new, queer relationship to a child.

Character 1's child comes out to them. They go to Character 2 to ask what they wish their parents would have done.

Character 1 is having an identity crisis (gender or sexuality). They go to Character 2 for help.

Character 1 is confident about their identity. Character 2 isn't, so they ask for some advice.

Character 1 takes Character 2 to a gay bar for the first time to act as their wingman/wingwoman/wingperson.

Character 1 is unsure if they're attracted to or envious of Character 2's confidence in their identity.

Character has been dating Morgan, but realizes they're not attracted to men. He isn't sure how he ended up in this situation twice, but it's the perfect opportunity for him to play matchmaker for his ex girlfriends.

Character comes out to the team (or it's just pride month) and Penelope goes a bit overboard with decorations.

For the writers who are intimidated by this topic or unsure if they can write it: write something with GN!reader. It's less intimidating than you think, and it can make someone's day to be able to read a fic they might otherwise not relate to!

Bi and Pan Prompts:

Character 1 has always thought they were straight, but they realize their feelings for their best friend, Character 2, are more than platonic.

Character 1 is in a straight passing relationship and worries about the visibility of their queer identity. Their partner is incredibly supportive in helping them express themselves.

(NSFW) What does Emily really do during a sin to win weekend?

Trans and Nonbinary Prompts:

Character 1 gives Character 2 a gender affirming haircut.

Hotch teaches Character how to shave.

JJ teaches Character how to do make up.

Character finds themselves needing gender affirming clothes. Rossi makes sure they have the best of the best.

(NSFW) Character 1 gifts Character 2 gender affirming lingerie and it gives them quite the confidence boost.

Aro and Ace Prompts:

Character 1 keeps trying to set up Character 2 with people/telling them to find someone to help ease their stress. Character 2 has had enough of it.

Character has a monthly spike in libido and it makes them question their identity. Spencer tries to help with a ramble about science (NSFW add on: and a few other ways).

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Rules:

The fic can reader insert, OC, character x character, general fic, etc. as long as the character(s) is from Criminal Minds (yes, even the ones I don't write for).

Fics can be any genre and can be platonic or romantic in nature... and yes, this includes smut (I know, I know my brand is ruined. Oh well). You must be 18+ if you are going to submit smut. You all know I love platonic fics very much if not more!

You can write something new or dig up something you've already written! I'm also happy to add on fics that are sent to me after the masterlist is posted.

Tag me in your fic or message me the link. Please list the ship, content warnings, and have a 1-2 sentence summary of your piece! If you have multiple pieces, you can submit a mini masterlist.

Be kind and respectful! Reach out to me if you have any concerns. This blog is a safe space!

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Thank you to @imagining-in-the-margins for the support and for sending some of the prompts from discord! (and telling me it's safe to tag @foxy-eva for this too)

#criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fluff #criminal minds x gn!reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fluff #emily prentiss fanfiction #emily prentiss fluff #emily prentiss smut #spencer reid #emily prentiss #derek morgan #jennifer jareau #penelope garcia #aaron hotchner #david rossi #tara lewis #luke alvez #kate callahan

[carica-ficus]

"Harrow the Ninth"

21/02/2024

Reading progress: 507/507 (100%)

Read through since last update: 157

Didn't think I'd cram the last part into one post, but here we are anyway. These last 150ish pages were... All over the place. In a good way!

Final notes:

Oh, there she is!!! Talk about a monster under the bed.

Ok, but how casual is that scene? I know something like that was coming (I've seen some fanart, but knew too little to know who it was about, just that Harrow and Ianthe would be peeking under the bed), but it's just so normal. I like it. Kinda eerie because it's not presented as scary.

Of course Ianthe didn't see it. Don't worry Harrow, I believe you.

Yeah, ok. It makes sense that Ortus was just fulfilling other to kill Harrow. His reasoning for it just wasn't strong enough. "You're a liability." Just like everyone else.

Oho! Here we go! Epiparodos! (Whatever that means.)

NUNLET??? 🥺🥺 That's such a cute word.

Ok, the lobotomy. Right. Also saw a fanart spoiler for it, totally forgot it was coming. I thought it was gonna happen later on? In any case. Ok. Yup. This happened.

Harrow NOVA. There we go. The other Harrow finally revealed by her full name. Though I applaud Muir, I haven't even noticed we never got her last name. Gorgeous and genius writing, through and through.

HAHAHAHAHAHA love how Harrow did the typical "I am small. Therefore, I will be a quick and murderous machine" but Muir decided to break up the cliché by saying she discovered that at the ripe age of 5. Man, I love this book. And I love Harrow as a character.

"What's that, you egg?"

Dying. 😂

Ok, gotta say, chapter 40 lost me.

I think... I got it? I might need to read the remaining pages for all of this to settle down, but this is much less complicated that I thought it would be.

What is the meaning of love if not sacrificing every single memory of a person in order to save them? 😭

Of course, it was not a dream. That would be too easy. The bubbles make perfect sense.

I know I said Ortus was annoying when quoting the Noniad, but I really like him as a character. And by that I mean how Muir has given him more depth and allowed him to grow. Which also made the scene where he hugs Harrow so impactful. 🖤

Ok, the Ortus thing was unexpected. And I'm excited to learn what it's all about.

But first. The Sleeper.

UGH! I love how considerate Gideon is with Harrow's body. Sure, she's a little awkward in it and puts out a dirty joke or two, but she's just trying to be respectful and useful. Also the way she's so worried over any and all her injuries, even though she knows they'll all heal? So fucking cute.

Protesilaus took Dulcinea in his care when she fell ill. That's so cute. 🥺

Oh, hell yes! Gideon stepped the fuck up. Time for Ianthe to meet her fucking match.

(I love how protective Gideon is ggghhhgghggh)

Man, I missed Gideon so much.

MATTHIAS NONIUS!!!!!!! :O

(Such a cool scene!!!!!)

You know what? After everything that happened, my reaction to finding out Gideon is God's daughter was just "Ok. Cool."

Cue John's corny dad joke. Love it.

Also I wouldn't have guessed they were related based on their eyes. Sure, John's eyes were mentioned multiple times, but they're silver and Gideon's are gold, so I wouldn't have put two and two together just by that. But! It fits. It's foreshadowed. It works. So yeah. Sure. Love it.

I knew it! I knew that he had a cavalier! I knew that he was a Lyctor! Hell yeah!

So much stuff happens at the end. I just kept on reading, without spending much time on commentating. I needed to know what happens and tbh, I have no idea what I just read. But that's okay! It was fun!

Ok, all in all, the book was spectacular. I liked it even more than I did Gideon. I liked how Muir handled Harrow's grief. I liked the reveals, the mysteries, the tension and the stakes. I liked the characters and I liked how Abigail got a lot more page time. I didn't even care about her in the first book, but now I really like her. I liked Ortus too!

Now, I'm still confused... About a few things. Primarily Harrow Nona. So I'll have to read an explanation or teo about it (or you can comment on the post if you'd like to help me out). Did... Harrow Nonangesimus kept watch and narrated over what Nona was doing? As in, she was dissociating from her body after the lobotomy and experiencing everything from a distance? Or was that all Gideon? Because I feel like it wasn't. Gideon's narration style is totally different and clearly comes out at the very end, but idk. I feel like I'm missing something here or that I'm not grasping something ridiculously simple.

Anyway, I'll be reading a little more about it, but yeah. "Harrow" is done, so I'll have to get my hands on Nona! In the meantime I'll be writing out my review. 🖤

#harrow the ninth #harrowhark nonagesimus #tamsyn muir #the locked tomb #locked tomb #book #reading journal #dnevnik citanja #dnevnik čitanja

[wolfythewitch]

Hiii, italian nerd anon here! Saw you mentioning you "could" add the Divine Comedy on your list and I arose, since you know, I did my university thesis on it XD Okay so, it's of course a very heavy read, basically every inch of it is full of metaphors and references something else, sometimes storical, sometimes mythological, sometimes about literature. But not everything is necessary to understand it, of course: even with the minimum, I think it's a beautiful read. I would suggest a version with less notes and a good translation of the verses, but I would not suggest a retelling, since it's something that has to be approached in verses imho. I have read it in english a couple of times and unfortunately there are things that gets literally lost in translation, but it's a beautiful read nonetheless. (I would suggest even just to hear some parts in italian, just to hear how it sounds)

My thesis was on how the Divine Comedy could be a fun read, and I still stand by it. I, uhm, just want to say something that I hope doesn't come off wrong (if it does I'm sorry, I swear I don't want to offend): it's of course heavy on the religion part, medieval christianity. I'm an atheist myself, but I saw your vent comic, and I don't know if it could trigger you in some ways. That's all I wanted to say :) I think it's perfect at the end of your list - also because it does reference a lot of those greek tragedies, so it's nice if you know what they're about already! XD <3

Ooo noted!! Yeah the fact that its a heavy read is my current only deterrent HAHA since me and English are very reluctant friends

My library has a book on it so I'll try to check it out and see if it doesn't make my brain explode! If that doesn't work I might grab an audiobook

Also don't worry anon I have a complicated history with religion but by God religious imagery is my indulgence. (I say this, having just posted an animatic of an ex convict and a bishop) many things went wrong with Christianity but the stained glass windows they got absolutely right

#wolfy tedtalks #anon

[yandere-daydreams]

Loving the Miguel O'Hara works lately! I'm sure you've gotten questions like this already but does Miguel go for a reader that doesn't have a Miguel in it or isn't married to him (yet)? Like does he leave alone the dimensions where reader is married to him or does he not care and just picks whatever? I'm going to assume there aren't a lot of variants of reader, much less reader + daughter, which is why he's so desperate. And is he going after variants most like reader in the collapsed dimension? Cause I'm a little worried that he's gonna be controlling about every little aspect so that he can recreate the life he once had; let's say they do have a daughter, would he be nit-picky about her behaviour? Would he make her get into soccer/football even if it's not her thing or would he just be content with whatever because he finally has his family back?

that piece was actually written as a hypothetical continuation to this drabble (there's a link in the main post now, it slipped my mind last night T-T), which goes a little more into miguel's sorta thought process and justification, but he did take some precautions to choose a version of the reader that was most like his dead partner but still had minimal ties to the canon and wouldn't leave an anomaly-sized hole if they suddenly fell off the face of the planet one day - meaning, they never got married or so much as met their version of miguel, but still behave as much like his former partner as possible. because of that, he doesn't have to be super controlling about their behavior, but i could see him becoming more and more nit-picky, pushing certain interests and hobbies and just,,, brushing past what doesn't fit into his idea of your perfect domestic life, like the reader's disinterest in getting married or having children. he's not trying to replicate the life he lost exactly, but he is trying to get that domestic bliss back, even if that means forcing a few things onto you that you might not know you want, just yet.

#oh and #he'd definitely be easier on children if he does manage to like #find one i guess #kids are sort of malleable and while i think he'd definitely love having another daughter to finish his replica #but he didn't raise his alternative-dimension daughter #so he'd be happy enough just to have a kid #he just beats up children he doesn't emotionally manipulate them don't worry #personal #anon ask

[call-me-a-simp]

Heal My Wounds

Talk It Out (part 29)

Rhea Ripley x Reader

Tw: physical and sexual abuse, toxic relationship, selfharm, eating disorder

Summary: You are in a toxic relationship with an abusive man but manage to run away. A tall, black haired woman picks you up from the streets just in time so your ex doesn't get you. But who is she and why does she seem so familiar to you? As you get to know each other you start to notice weird feelings you never had before whenever she's around.

The following day you wake up, finding yourself snuggled into Rhea's chest. "Good morning beautiful" Rhea whispers and kisses the top of your head.

You groan a little, not liking the fact that you were just pulled out of a nice dream. "God morning Mami" you yawn without even realizing what you just said.

"oh so you're finally calling me Mami" Rhea teases you straight away. "Ugh God stop it I'm tired" you complain. She giggles and settles back into the bed letting you get comfy on her again.

"When is Dom picking you up today again?" your girlfriend asks. "ten" you mumble. "Oh that's funny because it's already 9:30 you know" she surpresses a laugh.

"WHAT?!" you shoot up "Why didn't you wake me earlierr?" you cry and Rhea finally let's out her laughter. You punch her lightly and then hurry to get out of bed.

Strange, you don't remember going to bed yesterday. Last thing you knew is you were laying on the couch watching a film together.

Now's not the time to think about that! You remind yourself. You gather your clothes and step in the shower, completely ignoring the fact that you didn't even close the door to the bathroom properly.

Who even cares? It's not like she hasn't already seen every single part of your body.

"I'm making breakfast, what do you want?" Rhea calls from outside. "Thanks but I'm not hungry" you respond. You hear her sigh and walk away, knowing very well she's gonna make you something anyway.

About 20 minutes later you're ready and even ate a little just to please your worried girlfriend. The doorbell rings and she let's Dominik in.

"Ain't y/n ready yet?" he questions. "she is but we need to talk first. Rhea replies." "You're making it seem pretty serious, is everything okay?" Dom nervously chuckles.

"Ehh.. More or less" she says and follows him to the kitchen where you're already waiting, anxiously fidgeting with your fingers and picking the skin around your nails.

The two sit down, he in front of you and she next to you, trying to calm you down by taking your hand in hers.

"So, listen Dominik" Rhea begins. "y/n told me that yesterday, as you two were taking a break from shopping, you held her hand and were more touchy than usual which made her a little uncomfortable and she doesn't know if you meant it in a friendship or romantic kind of way, so we need to talk it out!"

"Oh boy, hey I'm sorry y/n" Dom chuckles and immediately releases the tension he held just a few moments earlier.

"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable in any way, I thought you wanted to, as you were the one to take my hand. Is was just an offer from my side, I wouldn't have been mad if you declined it." he sets up a warm smile.

You relax a little and exhale a shallow breath, nodding slightly as you do so. "Okay Dom Dom, thank you" you smile back, your voice being pretty quiet.

Rhea turns to you as she speaks again. "are Liv and Raquel coming today actually?" "nah they didn't have time, got some matches, you know the drill" you wave it off.

"okay, I think you two should get going then hm? But this time you won't walk outta there without the perfect dress, you got me?" she dares you and raises an eyebrow at Dom.

"Ye ye Mami, see ya later" he laughs at her and you follow him outside, giving Rhea a quick kiss on the cheek as you walk past her. "Thanks" you whisper and earn a wink from her.

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

Little shorter than usual but I'm so freaking tired and exhausted, but still force myself to post at least every second day.

Anyway, happy Pride Month y'all! I'm kinda proud that it's the same month as my birthday haha

Taglist:@babybatlover @legit9thlunaticwarrior @thatonepansexual2000 @nox-fire

#demi bennett #rhea ripley #rhea ripley x reader #wrestling #wwe x reader #dominik mysterio #uncomfortable #no touchy #shopping #gxg fluff #gxg imagine #gxg scenarios #gxg #gay wedding #wedding dress #wedding #talk to me #talk it out

[dirtytransmasc]

What would happen if someone on the sea dragon said something bad about spider, or maybe someone got to close for comfort and made him uncomfortable?

CW - vauge mentions of like s/a, pushing boundaries, grooming, stuff in that direction, but nothing direct or graphic.

so I'm 90% this ask is in some way connected to my post about quaritch worrying about spider being around other humans while only wearing a loincloth. if its not, just send me another.

I think stuff like this would be really difficult for spider to understand. he had never encountered such a greed, such a human lust to take from other's without their consent. I think if spider were to experience any sort of predation or overzealous shows of attention from someone on the sea dragon, he would either just let it happen (cause he may not want to associate with humans and their ways, that boy is so desperate to fit in, eventually he has to break and doing everything he can to just sorta fit in) or he would try to fight it off and potentially land himself in an even more dangerous situation. this could greatly depend on exactly who it was/what happened exactly, and both have different outcomes.

if spider tries to just accept it, hiding it because every instinct he has is telling him its wrong, making him feel shameful and dirty. he would just take it in silence. I think because spider was raised by the na'vi, people who didn't have a concept of that level greed, of taking whats not yours, he is the 'perfect victim' of grooming, because the right person with the right approach wouldn't even have to try. it doesn't even have to be overtly sexual, he could be taken advantage of in so many ways, and it makes me so deeply sad.

quaritch would find out eventually, when spider becomes much more modest all the sudden, avoiding leaving his room, sneaking off when he does leave. when he finds out he's committing a murder, like a violent one, cupcake totally just went haywire when a certain someone tried to mess with her, mmm hmmm, that's what happened. not only that but he stops biting his tongue about giving spider the "humans suck, all we feel is greed, they're dangerous, and you need to be careful" talk, that and the "I know I said I wasn't your dad, but I will kill for you, I will die for you, if anyone so much as looks at you wrong, tell me, and I'll make sure they regret it" not to mention the more educational conversations a father has to have with their son.

if spider fights back, quaritch would do something quite similar, maybe a little less drastic as he caught onto it before his boy was hurt too much, but he would be throwing them to sea to be eaten by an akula.

and for just icky behavior/comments, if the recoms caught onto it before anything could happen, they're getting their shit absolutely rocked, like they have a permanent reminder when they're done with them, and its like a reminder to never hurt their boy ever again.

#spider socorro #miles socorro #miles spider socorro #miles quaritch #quaritch #avatar #avatar 2 #avatar the way of water