#like 'hello I got consumed with body and soul by university for one and a half years but here I am again do you still do lessons?'

[lieutenantselnia]

I currently have to write a thesis, work on the biggest project in my entire study programme and will have to start preparing for my bachelor's exam at some point, and my brain thinks now it's a good time to get back into Red Dead Redemption 2👍

[theresattrpgforthat]

Hello! I have two (separate) genres im interested in recs for, if youve got them (though combined would be fascinating tbh): Horror and farming sim-like ttrpgs. Horror im sure is fairly common, just not in my circles (which are adventure fantasy based); farming sim though seems like it may be rarer? for that id be interested in either solo or with 2+ people

Theme: Horror Games

Hello friend, I’m going to let one of my older posts do some of the heavy lifting, and point you towards the Small Town Farming collection I put up back in 2022.

You are absolutely right that Horror is much easier to recommend, but I’ll also try and put some quick recs for solo-farming type games at the bottom of this post.

1978: The Night They Came Home, by World Champ Game Co.

1978: The Night THEY Came Home is a 1-2 player horror roleplaying game telling the story of a fateful showdown between Survivor (a clever and resilient person caught up in horrifying circumstances) and Slasher (a legendary force of evil). Using a deck of poker cards, dual rule books, varied resources, and shared play space, players will recount the events of a forsaken Halloween, zooming closer into the haunting folklore of a small Midwestern town and its inhabitants, and culminating in a violent battle for survival.

Here is a game for solo gamers and folks who want a more intimate experience. If you’re a fan of Friday the 13th, this is probably in your wheelhouse! 1978 has a win condition, meaning that either the Survivor or the Slasher will come away as the victor, and the fact that this is also a game that depends on a deck of cards means that I think this might also be a good game for folks who also enjoy card games and board games.

Vast Grimm, by Infinite Black.

EACH MISERABLE DAY THAT PASSES, THE UNIVERSE INCHES CLOSER TO ITS INEVITABLE DEMISE.

Vast Grimm is a stand-alone, art-filled, punk-fueled OSR role-playing game about the few humans remaining in a universe being consumed by growing parasitic würms.

Are you a MAnchiNe ravaged by war, pieced together with remnants of bots and the little flesh left of your body? Maybe you're a twisted biochemist shoving needles into your arms in hopes that this next fix will be the one that saves you and what’s left of humanity? Or perhaps you are a soul survivor, like a cockroach, doing whatever is necessary to stay alive even if it means the rest of your Legion must perish.

This is a game about survival, no matter how gruesome things get, humanity must survive.

If you’ve heard of MÖRK BORG and thought it was cool, and if you want the same kind of energy but in a sci-fi future full of mutant animals and horrific parasites, then you might want to check out Vast Grimm. Your characters will have to ration food, energy and ammo in an unending battle against the worms. This game looks to have a large amount of support, from expanded content, to a number of adventures, to an online character generator. For over-the-top violence, plenty of alien goo, and shambling pathetic characters that look like they might fall apart at any moment, try out Vast Grimm.

The Lost Bay, by IKO.

What Is The Lost Bay? The Lost Bay is a Suburban Gothic tabletop RPG se199X. The Lost Bay is also the name of the setting where the game takes place: a coastal suburb inspired by films and media from the 80s and 90s. In it you play as a young person touched by the Weird, an ancient force that gives you supernatural powers. You roam the Bay with your gang, its malls, arcade games shops, skateparks and beaches, and fight the Horror that has awakened.

The Lost Bay is a game for folks who like their horror drenched in 90’s nostalgia. Characters are archetypal, and each one comes with special powers. Using your powers is exciting and effective, but also brings you closer to Scars, horrible truths about the world around you that will irrevocably change your hometown.

The Lost Bay is great for planning heists, rescuing friends, and trying to get out of dodge when the going gets rough. It’s not about fighting your way out, but more about trying to keep you and your loved ones safe. A lot of game designers have had a riot putting together adventures for this game, which you can check out in this game jam. The link above is for the Kickstarter, but in case you see this game after the campaign finishes, you can also check the game out on Itch.

Flyover Country, by Headstone Hills.

Fields of wheat and corn ripple in the wind, hungry eyes peering out between the stalks. Billboards along the road advertise strange and dangerous attractions. Smiles are too wide, manners too polite, secrets buried too deep. The neon light of a diner glows in the distance, but you may never reach its doors. An empty highway stretches out to the horizon, then wraps back in around itself. This is Flyover Country.

Flyover Country is a Midwest road-tripping horror role-playing game for 4-6 players: one gamemaster, or Watcher, and 3-5 players, or Drifters. It is designed to be played in one setting and without prep. It only requires paper, writing utensils, and a tarot deck.

This is a great option for a group where the GM is uneasy about doing a lot of prep. While one person acts as the Watcher, much of the events in this game are simply generated by drawing tarot cards from a deck. Characters will also draw from the Major Arcana to determine what their secret is - and what special ability it has given them. This is a game of hidden information, and grinding your characters down towards a tragic or grisly end.

Gravemire, by Clawhammer Games.

Gravemire is a tabletop roleplaying game about death, growth, horror, and survival, based in an original mechanical framework and set in the churning waters of the Louisiana bayou circa 1894. Players slip into the roles of outsiders arriving in the town of Scarstone, a rural outpost that has been warped by a terrible transformation known as the Convulsion. Once, Scarstone was surrounded by similar towns. The Bayou once had an end. Now, unknowable numbers of horrors seep through the uncharted backwaters, strange magic contorts reality to its whims, and the settlements that called Scarstone their neighbour jut half-ruined from the mire like bones from a wound. Times have changed.

Gravemire is a pretty brutal game, not afraid to kill your character and steal their soul. The town of Scarstone is a trap; your characters wandered in one day through curiosity or the desire for adventure, but leaving the town isn’t nearly as easy. Characters are built using a point-buy system, and as you play you may acquire more skill - but you will also acquire Aversions, which sap your Willpower and inhibit your ability to muster through the worst of what the game can throw at you.

If you want to check out an abbreviated version of the game, you can check out the Kickstarter playkit here.

Under the Autumn Strangely, by Graham Gentz.

"Under the Autumn Strangely" is a storytelling game of pastoral horror priming with anachronistic Americana set in a land that Never Was.

Inspired by "Over the Garden Wall" created by Patrick McHale, players collaboratively create a world uncanny and old. Codify and encourage tonal clash as the Three Roles meld whimsy, autumnal melancholy, and dread.

Take a wrong turn on a dusty road. Follow the sign past the red barn with peeling paint. Doubt your senses.

Get a little lost.

Welcome to the Never Was.

From what I understand about this game, it works best with three players, as there are three roles that the participants are expected to embody. One person plays the Arcadian, who embodies the landscape and setting. One person plays the Traveller, who acts as a “main” character. One person plays the Terror, which grows to dominate the story. Each role can only add to to one role’s suggestions, and can only deny the other’s. If you want to mix your horror with nostalgia and a romanticized vision of the rural USA, you might want to check out Under the Autumn Strangely.

The Facility, by Galen Pejeu.

You awaken, cold and in the dark. Fumbling around by low blue lights in a coffin shaped pod. You pull yourself out of the box, and in the dark see the faces of others. You are all wearing loose fitting white clothing and laceless shoes. Hospital patients? 

You peer into the dark, seeing little but hearing the sound of dripping, running water and distant machinery. You gather what you can, knowing that something is hunting you. It will be here soon.

Wait.

Can you remember who you are?

The Facility is a game for any number of players, taking on the role of ordinary people, stripped of their memories and trapped in a hostile and insane labyrinth of machines and interdimensional weirdness.

The Facility places your crew into an unknown place full of machines that want to kill you. It’s great for high-action scenes, and since your characters have lost their memories, I think the struggle to find pieces of who you are (or were) is a great way to zoom in and make the horror personal. The game is Breathless, so expect your character’s gear and/or abilities to slowly wear down over time, and for the staked to get bigger every time you pause to try and re-stock. If you want a science-fiction twist to your horror game, check out The Facility.

You Should Also Check Out...

My Shudders Rec Post

The Curse of the House of Rookwood, by Nerdy Pup Games.

Nature, Town, Farm, Villagers, by CardboardHyperfix.

Weeds in the Waste, by Meghan Cross

The Wandering Tea Garden, by AP.

Green Thumb, by Curious Frog.

The Bonsai Diary, by Sticky Doodler.

Iron Valley, by M.Kirin.

[siremasterlawrence]

A Ticket Of A Lifetime

My Destination is upon after waiting for well what felt life endlessly unwinding weeks of hell on earth torture and it all comes down to this my dears.

I enter the stadium a long, humongous ever lasting walk to the stage in the center of the super ball for this moment and I climb this stairs.

My per view grows smaller as I see three guys who are competing with me for the grand prize of a surprise and I am not one of those who competes.

I am selected by some community of voters weird right. Anyway, he undoes the envelope opening it with a simple tear and reads off my name.

The lights descending on him in a hovering like fashion quelling the crowd with a single hand gesture my world is about to take one hell of gnarly change.

Handing my the letter adorn in pure gold it is lighting on fire, eviscerating in my hand a lovely ember red hue is left and fades leaving a key in my hand.

It’s hot to the touch consuming my thoughts which are now running a mile a minute and I never saw the crowd disappear nor the arena either.

All I have is a door in front of me front center for me to see and dead on arrival for the truly most spookiest event ever if you will ever get to see.

I doubt that though considering my key is in the key hole, I brace myself turning it as the door swung open and I cannot believe my eyes.

The air swallows me whole with one swoosh I am past the thresh hold and embrace in to a strange pair of arms and I know it all so good.

Strong masculine body that is so massive in its state wraps my waist in to his and drapes highly over me.

My nose accidentally digging in to his shirt I can’t help to love and savor his scent as it is now with me forever.

“OH MY GOD! “

“That is not me “

“Henry Cavill?”

“You got it mate”

“Why are we here?”

“I have no idea…though you might”

“Anybody here?”

“Your guess is as good as mine”

“Commence, prompt, activate “

“Why did you say those…”

“Henry? Mate? Are you ok?”

“Soul transfer begins “

“What are you saying! STOP!”

“My body !”

“Why is changing?”

“Is this astral form “

“Your body too”

“How on earth are we flying?”

“Hello! This is a your new body speaking “

“Excuse me?”

“You won the universal gift a new life”

“Are you saying?”

“This body “

“Is yours now”

“Henry? Is he?”

“Dead?”

“Yeah”

“No! Very much alive”

“Woof!”

“Think of this one soul meets another “

“You are combined “

“Combined us both?”

“It’s only right “

“For the better”

“You deserve it”

“You are just “

“So godly!”

“Who me?”

“You are the most perfect”

“Iconic”

“Greatest!”

“No one else as good”

“He will soon see”

“He is the other side to your coin “

“How can this be possible?”

“Everyone has a match “

“Soul match!”

“Relax man “

“Shussshhh”

“Close your eyes “

“We are one”

“Exactly one body “

“Mind”

“Soul”

“Body “

“Let it all surrender “

“Nothing to hold you back “

“Free falling in to one existential existence “

“Mwahahahahaha “

“You are enjoying “

“I am now assembled “

“This is the best gift”

“A LIFETIME WORTH”

“Mmmmmm”

“I feel so sexy”

“I am fucking sexy”

The end

[ashmcgivern]

Aiben: The Great Hunt (Context)

HELLO and welcome to the segment where I summarize the D&D campaign I play in on Saturdays to the best of my ability. Actually, after this post, I plan on posting my PC Zeal's journal instead, since it's already written out and it'll be less work for me.

It's worth noting that the DM aims to create a sourcebook for the setting! Our campaign is heavily modified to suit our PCs needs and so the final sourcebook will be pretty different, but I've got his blessing to share a certain amount of info. Some information will be left vague our out entirely to keep the ~mystery~ of the campaign's "answers"

The wall of text is below the cut - this first one is gonna be mostly PC descriptions so we can get that context out of the way. Enjoy!

Also, if you'd like to see all content relating to this campaign/world, including art, be sure to look at my Aiben tag.

The adventure starts in the continent of Aiben in the capitol of Averias, where a hunt for an ancient and powerful metal known as Morphirium is being sponsored by the current king, Swesdon Wolfram. The Morphirium, once on display as an "art piece" 499 years ago, is the largest singular piece of the element currently known to humanoid kind, and is absolutely filled to the brim with arcane power and magical potential. The event is huge, requiring prior registration and paperwork, for a total of 100 teams participating in this hunt. The winners of this event take home 1 million gold pieces.

The last team to slip into registration, Team 100, consists of Eddisar of the Long Sight, his two grandchildren Makera Flintbreaker and Zeal Eddison, their friend Peanut, and two employees of some of Edd's old friends - Ursa Ironsand and Traverse. Later in the adventure, Atache, Slythe, and one other secret (for now) PC joins the party.

Player Characters

Eddisar of the Long Sight - Tiefling, M, ?? (Lore Bard)

A kind old man, an archeologist and historian. Long winded, gets lost in himself and his thoughts fairly often. Has seen most of the world and has an infinite number of stories to tell. He dresses plainly with no armor or weapons. His most peculiar feature is his right arm, which is clearly replaced by a branch he can control like a normal hand.

Edd is the de facto leader of the group, having signed everyone up for the contest, but takes a very relaxed approach to directing the group. He's keen on being more a resource to the party than being a hard and fast leader.

Makera Flintbreaker - Tiefling, F, 22 (Champion Fighter)

A tough young woman who's hard to impress. She is blunt and doesn't like to get caught up in details, opting for simpler solutions to complex problems. She is a boxer in a local league, and is hoping to go nationally pro someday like her mother, Bulana, was. She has an insane sweet tooth, an addiction to puzzles, and is inseparable from her cousin, Zeal.

Zeal Eddison - Tiefling, M, 23 (Celestial Warlock)

A bright-eyed enthusiastic young man with a headlong, heart-first sort of personality. He's a school teacher, but wants to go to university to study Planar Physics. In the absence of money to go to school, he consumes just about every book he can get his hands on. He endured an intense tragedy as a child where he met Xanthanel, a Solar that looks after him like a son. He's inseparable from his cousin, Makera.

Peanut - Tabaxi, M, 50s (Open Sea Paladin)

A HUGE, gruff, well built Tabaxi sailor. He is a gentle soul trapped in a war tank of a body. Spent a lot of his life in the Collesian Islands working as a boatswain, where some of the best sailors in the world exist. He's a tank and a force to be reckoned with, but also gives the best big kitty hugs. He has a taste for cheese, and collects/consumes wheels at an alarming rate. He is looking for his uncle, Sherbert, who went missing recently and left behind a puzzle box Peanut believes will lead them to him.

Ursa Ironsand - Desert Stormfolk, F, 16 (Sanity Cleric)

A short, kind and mellow elemental. Always stressed, but wears it well, keeps a level head and exudes "mom energy." She comes from a long family line of smiths, but isn't a very skilled one herself. She used to work at the "Forbidden Pit" in the middle of the desert, where nothing really happened, until one day she started having crazy dreams. Her boss suggested going on this this trip as a 'working vacation.' She is, well and truly, a disaster lesbian.

*Stormfolk are a custom race and Sanity Clerics are a custom class, making Ursa 100% homebrew material. Stormfolk commonly only live to be about 35, maxing out at about 45, making Ursa well and firmly an adult.

Traverse - Half Elf, M, 30s (Battle Master Fighter)

A slightly unkempt half elf, with chains around his wrist dressed in ratted armor. Once a guard for Agaras, became disenchanted with the world and realized he really only liked being a guard for the thrill of the fight. He's since gotten himself in a myriad of trouble and was sentenced to prison, but on his mentor's good word he's been given one last chance to redeem himself - help Eddisar on this quest, and he can go free on good behavior.

Atache - Warforged, NB/M, ??? (Eloquence Bard)

A flamboyant as FUCK warforged, a bit thin and gangly, absolutely not built for battle. Always ready to meet with the upper crust even though they've been long removed from their previous station. Enjoys fashion, but cant afford the newest things, so he makes do and calls it ~vintage~. They enjoy the finer things in life, and is a phenomenal cook. The party met up with them when they first visit the Wintering Isles.

Slythe - Yuan-Ti, M, 20s?? (Armorer Artificer)

Sassy as hell and not one for niceties, Slythe is a no-nonsense fashion designer. He aims to create articles of clothing that are both highly fashionable and highly functional for adventurers. He takes incredible pride in his work and is always looking for new sources of inspiration, and new people to model his designs. An NPC named Elana stole a dress he was working on with her, and in a fit of rage joined our party to get it back, take revenge, and also field test some fashionable armor he made for the party.

Mystery Character - COMING SOON

[makeste]

BnHA Chapter 318: On Your Left

Previously on BnHA: The Hawksquad+Lurkers were all “well this sucks” and sat around a bit talking about how maybe they should actually come up with a new plan that is actually good, but then in the end they were like “nah.” Deku was all, “THERE’S SOMETHING INSIDE ME THAT PULLS BENEATH THE SURFACE!! CONSUMING, CONFUSING!! THIS LACK OF SELF CONTROL I FEAR IS NEVERENDING. IT’S HAUNTING HOW I CANT SEEM TO FIND MYSELF AGAIN. MY WALLS ARE CLOSING IN.” Just, literally that whole entire song. All Might was all “Deku you should take care of yourself, try eating a thing,” and Deku was all “BYE, ALL MIGHT,” and just LEFT. He left!!! What the fuck!!!

Today on BnHA: Endeavor is all, “maybe if Deku didn’t listen to All Might he’ll listen to me instead.” Deku is all, “[doesn’t listen to Endeavor]” because, well, yeah. The Vestiges are all, “surprisingly, even we are a little concerned -- maybe you should get some rest, kid.” Deku is all, “((Ò ‸ Ó)).” The Vestiges are all, “holy shit.” Deku is all, “[wanders the ruined city streets terrifying the populace on account of him looking like Shelob had a baby with one of the Nazgul].” Some shriveled-up puppeteer villain asshole is all, “HORIKOSHI SAID IT’S MY TURN TO ATTACK DEKU TODAY SO I AM GOING TO SUMMON MY FRIGHTENED HELPLESS ATTACK MOB!!” Kacchan is all “WHADDYA MEAN THEY FOUND THE NERD!!! -- oh wait, that’s me, I found him. I found the nerd, you guys.” And just in time, too. I was about to owe a whole lot of people a whole lot of dollars.

so I have been super good about spoilers this week as always, but let me tell you guys, for the past 36 hours my dash filters have basically been nonstop “manga spoilers” this and “bnha 318” that, and so I’m coming in with a fair amount of hype here. your move, Horikoshi

oh, good! they got Endeavor to call Deku to try to talk him out of it. what a great and wonderful plan

“listen up kid, you haven’t slept since March and you are basically a walking biohazard right now, I’m just telling it like it is. didn’t you get shot like three times?? and there was a whole thing about how you urgently needed medical attention?? and supposedly we gave it to you, but I mean you haven’t even changed your clothes and don’t seem to have any fresh bandages or anything, so did we?? did we, really?? and also we all got blown up yesterday, so yeah.” hmm he’s making some reasonable points here you guys, but you sure do go on and on, Endeavor

oh he says foreign aid is finally on its way! I’m sure they’ll be very helpful. I mean in fairness they can hardly be worse than the home-grown heroes at this point

hey Enji, could you maybe try appealing to Deku the sixteen-year-old human boy, as opposed to Deku The World’s Last Hope? he does have value beyond his quirk. I know that’s always been an incredibly difficult concept for you to grasp, but could you maybe TRY, jesus

and also we’re worried about you as a person?? you’re just a kid and you’re pushing yourself way too hard?? you were going to say that part next, right. why the hell didn’t Hawks make this call instead

“don’t worry about me... I’m completely fine” Deku you do understand that saying it over and over again doesn’t actually make it true

and again with the rush!! all the rush rush rush!! we’re running out of time, we can’t let AFO and Tomura keep getting stronger, I have to end this now, there’s no time to rest, etc. etc. etc. just the constant pressure of this whole big countdown on top of everything else

holy shit, you KNOW it’s bad when even the Vestiges are telling him to chill

these guys are basically the walking talking embodiments of self-sacrifice; if even they’re telling him he needs to take five, then he must seriously be like half a step away from death’s door

OH SHIT LMAO

DIDN’T EVEN LET HIM FINISH HIS SENTENCE BEFORE HE SENT HIM INTO THE FUCKING SHADOW REALM WITH THAT FUCKING LOOK. HOLY FUCK. DIDN’T EVEN KNOW IT WAS POSSIBLE TO DIE TWICE. SHIT

(ETA: so I’m pretty sure this was just Danger Sense activating and so he cut them off to go do more hero stuff, but I’m gonna go ahead and stick to my original interpretation anyway lol.)

anyway so how’s everybody doing. we all good? En, you good? Banjou? Shino? I’m imagining you guys all curled up in a little ball on the floor right now lol. can’t say I blame you though, no shame

lmaoooooooooooo

“SHEESH.” sheesh indeed, lmao. “what in the FUCK was that”

see, this is why y’all need Kacchan. you need someone who’s not going to back down from him no matter what. if it’s a matter of out-stubborning Midoriya fucking Izuku, then there’s only one other person on the planet capable of that, and we all know it. don’t pretend like you don’t. I am not going to shut up about this! we’ve had our hurt so now what about SOME COMFORT, DAMMIT

“I’m afraid that he’s becoming influenced by my conscience” nah are you kidding Nana this is all 100% made-in-Japan pure original Deku right here

see, Banjou gets it. “that kid, he’s totally going on his own.” exactly. this was so inevitable it was basically scientific law

“well I for one don’t see the problem with Deku being so obsessed with saving everyone else that he pushes himself until his body and soul literally fall apart” okay, whose speech bubbles are these?? we’re about to have words

lol of course

well you always did prefer the direct route didn’t you. but even you can’t possibly think this is okay lol

dark AU!Kacchan please tell us more about your badass doomed timeline in which everything went to shit and you apparently had the same character arc that Deku is having right now except it somehow made you sexier instead of turning you into a rabid t-rex. I have so many questions

oh so now you want to help??? well -- good, actually. sorry if that sounded offended just now lol

(ETA: so at first when I got to the end of this chapter I was wondering if Katsuki B. had somehow summoned his alternate-universe counterpart through trippy OFA space telepathy lol. but in the original Japanese there’s no reference to “we”, so this appears to be a mistranslation. this line should probably read more like “if there’s something/someone out there that would be able to complement/complete the current Midoriya Izuku [it would be]…” which, oh hello, is that Horikoshi once again reaffirming that Deku and Bakugou complete each other lol. “guess what guys, the Vestiges ship it too" heck yeah. they know what’s up!)

look how admiring his boyfriends are. HORIKOSHI GIVE US THE REST OF THIS BACKSTORY ALREADY GODDAMMIT

“meanwhile somewhere in the depths of the ruined city, Deku was having a dance-off with the villains”

I like how the villains all have this “AHH WHAT THE FUCK” kind of body language to them lol. I mean if it were me, and an eldritch horror suddenly clawed its way from the shadows with its writhing glowy tentacles and pants-shitting nuclear death stare, I would probably just die on the spot. no need to stick around. only pain awaits

lol for a minute I thought this was Can’t Ya See-kun and I was like “WHAT A FASCINATING CROSSING OF PATHS” but it’s just some random girl

he seems genuinely confused lol

Deku it’s because you look like something that crawled out of a sewer drain, sweetheart

lol they just took his word for it?

so trusting. even though they’re immediately hauling ass anyway just to be safe lmao

“my appearance is frightening to others” no shit Deku it’s because you look like a fucking alien exorcism. you look like a Lich that got caught up in an oil spill my dude

NO NOT THE CHOSEN ONE ANGST AGAIN

I RAN OUT OF ESSAY JUICE FOR THIS ALREADY HORIKOSHI!! I’VE BEEN TALKING ABOUT IT FOR MONTHS NOW WHAT TOOK YOU SO LONG!! BUT ANYWAYS, GOOD!! I MEAN, BAD, THOUGH, OBVIOUSLY. BUT YES

“ENJOY THIS MONTAGE OF DEKU BATTLING A RANDOM KAIJU AND WANDERING THE WOODS LIKE A DERANGED GREEN BABA YAGA” okay yes but sir, exactly how much longer is this going to go on. if it’s a matter of you wanting to make sure we get it, let me assure you that aside from a few stray chuunis who think that Deku embracing the Darkness is the coolest thing he’s ever done, all of us here in fandom fully comprehend that this is Not Good

-- OH SO IT’S LIKE THAT

really. with the flashbacks to his loved ones’ smiling faces and everything. not even gonna try to aim above the belt, huh

AND NO KACCHAN??! NO CLASSMATES?!?! IS HE PURPOSELY NOT THINKING OF THEM??? OR ARE THEY BEING SAVED FOR THE NEXT PAGE??? SO HELP ME, IF THE NEXT PART OF THIS SENTENCE IS “CAN PROTECT THEM”, OR EVEN WORSE, “CAN SEE THEIR SMILING FACES AGAIN”, I...

WHAT DID I JUST SAY

(ETA: my man did Sero and Kaminari fucking dirty lmao. I miss their smiling faces too omg.)

the sheer, unparalleled irony of him saying this while he stands there looking like the gargoyle demon from Fantasia got crossed with an umbrella that got struck by lightning. Deku :(

oi who the fuck is this clown

is he controlling this mob with his evil hair. “what if I made an exhausted, running-on-fumes Deku battle a brainwashed mob at Ground Zero.” Horikoshi do you just have like a checklist of horrible things you want to do to your protagonist

easy there Sasori

well joke’s on you buddy because he’s apparently “completely fine”, so

“here’s to hoping that you know more about AFO’s location than the others” jesus christ Deku you really have hung your mercy out to dry huh

now he’s forcing his mob of terrified prisoners to attack Deku ahhhh. sucks to be them. at least they’re not being controlled by bees

so Deku is saying that Sasori’s control can be broken with “physical trauma.” similar to Shinsou’s quirk I guess. but so does that mean he’s gonna have to hurt them? ( •﹏•)

NO NOT MORE SAD EYES

“DEATH BY EMPATHY!!!” HORIKOSHI NO

fuck. he looks like he’s on the verge of passing out

this is what happens when you nerf a character’s self-preservation stats in favor of spamming their bone-breaking stats instead. NOW ACCEPTING BRAIN CELL DONATIONS FOR A BOY IN NEED!! with your loving generosity we can hopefully help him live to the ripe old age of seventeen

OMGFGGG

YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

[grabs your hands] ლ(*꒪ヮ꒪*)ლ [swings you in a circle] へ(ﾟ◇ﾟへ)

THASSSSSSSS WHATSSSSSSS UPPPPPPPPPP

HORIKOSHI REALLY SAID FUCK THAT MASK (ノ°ο°)ノ YOU FINALLY LEARNED!! IT’S CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT!!!!

JUST FOR YOU KACCHAN, HORIKOSHI LEFT THIS ONE BAD GUY WHO’S STILL WEAK TO FIRE. GOD BLESS

IT’S YOUR COUNTERPART, KATSUKI B!!!! HOW WE DOIN OVER THERE IN THE TRIPPY COSMIC OFA SPACE REALM LOL. DO WE BELIEVE YET, FANDOM???

LIGHTS!!!!

INSTANT RESULTS!!! IT’S SUPER EFFECTIVE!!!

(ETA: imagine what this must look like to Deku though. he’s been caught up in this dark cloud of despair and exhaustion that’s been building up over... I’m gonna go ahead and say “weeks”, because yeah. and now he finds himself here, in the place where All Might’s legacy ended and the torch was passed to him. and the world is in ruins, and he’s surrounded by frightened people who are all trying to hurt him -- because who isn’t trying to hurt him, these days -- and he’s scrambling to figure this all out, but meanwhile the weariness is finally starting to catch up to him, and so he’s basically just standing there in a fog of complete and utter misery.

and then all of a sudden through that haze, he hears the one voice that’s more familiar than any other that he knows. like, I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if he thought he was just imagining it at first. Kacchan showing up to save him right when he’s at his most desperate and feeling the most alone. Kacchan, showing up to save him.

this is the person he always looked up to as a child (to be fair he was quite a strange child lmao). the person who was even closer to him than All Might. the person he always thought was amazing. and bam, here he is now. appearing in the sky out of nowhere to one-shot the bad guy with a single blast (which, btw, that was his armor-piercing attack too lmao dslkjlk take it easy there kiddo). like, that must have felt absolutely surreal to him, especially coming at a time when he’s already half-delirious and barely hanging on to reality. he must have really thought that he was losing it there for a second.

but he’s really there. it really is him. and for this brief moment -- before the rest of the situation catches up to him, and he remembers about all of the fucked-up AFO stuff, and remembers why he was so afraid and why he was pushing everyone away -- for just this one brief moment, he’s too exhausted and stunned to do anything except to just react. just stands there, looking up at him in awe.

and you know, it almost reminds me of...

just. you guys. the character development. the freaking character development. someone who brings reassurance. someone who shows up and makes you think, “oh, it’s all going to be okay now, because [person] is here.” the role reversals. the growth. the payoff!! because who is the one person who always had faith that Kacchan would one day grow up to become an amazing hero like that. WHO IS IT. YOU ALREADY KNOW.

omg. anyways, bless you Horikoshi, my feels which have been on backorder since fucking September have finally arrived lmao. yes, good, thank you. worth the wait. it is always, always worth the wait. fuck yeah.)

“LOWFRIES” SO YOU’RE TELLING ME THE WHOLE GANG IS HERE, AHHHHHHHH (º̩̩́⌣º̩̩̀ )

BEAUTIFUL. WONDERFUL. SENSATIONAL. I DON’T EVEN CARE THAT JUMP IS ON BREAK NEXT WEEK. THIS RIGHT HERE WILL SUSTAIN ME

[stayevildarling]

Wilhemina Venable x Reader- When the time is right Pt 2

Part 1, Part 3

word count: 3.5k

warnings: brief mention of dizziness and feeling sick, mention of scoliosis, angst + fluff at the end

A/N: Part two! I will write one more part, potentially two, kind of depends. I hope everyone enjoys this story so far!

Taglist:

@lunaticwhittaker , @mrsdeanhoward , @alexajbitar , @in-cordelias-coven , @kenzbro , @loverofallthingssarah , @twistedpoeticjustice , @billiebeanhoward , @minaslittleone , @lilypadscoven , @vintagepaulson , @ninaahs , @whitelotus00 , @httpfiftyshadesofgay

After getting back to your desk and quickly sitting down as it felt like your legs might just give up on you, heart still racing fast and mind filled with thoughts, you try and focus on the tasks ahead again. Your boss instructed you to make arrangements for the new partnership with Kineros Robotics and as you do some research on their website instead of clicking the Company History link or the product one to actually write the article, your thoughts trail off.

As a result, you click on ''Employees'' and you recognize the two men from earlier. One of them is called Jeff Pfister and the other one is called Mutt Nutter and you chuckle at that name. You learn they are heads of the company and then you see HR and there she is Wilhemina. In the photo she seems cold and harsh and not even in your worst nightmares you imagined meeting her would be like it was today.

First of all, you have trouble believing she works and lives in the same city you do now like it must be fate right? You moved and changed jobs and you find yourself in the same city? Your new firm working together with hers? and you running into her after thinking of her earlier while listening to some lyrics in your lunch break?

It all seems too good to be true and it definitely must be the universe sending you both some kind of signal. As you type out some words on your computer, actually trying to get some work done, you feel how shaky you are and that you can't even type properly. Taking a deep breath, you try and remind yourself to say calm and that this feeling will pass and reminding yourself this is just the result from today's events.

As you lean down to get your bag to drink something you see stars and you can feel dizziness approaching, so you slowly make your way to the employee's bathroom, also feeling slightly sick. Standing by the sink, you let some cold water run down your wrists and you also splash some cold water on your face to try and calm yourself down.

Obviously, it would affect you, seeing her again so unexpectedly but you didn't think it would hit you like this and feel like a tornado just rippled through your life. It feels like all this time since Wilhemina walked out of your life, the pain never truly stopped, and even though you had healed since, the scars opened again today.

After a while, you hear the bathroom door open and you hold onto the sink feeling sicker by the second. ''Oh dear Y/N are you okay?'' you hear one of your co-workers ask and rush over to you.

''Yeah I- I think I didn't drink enough'' you say and she offers to take you home but you don't wanna bother her. ''I think I will be fine'' you say and after drinking some water she got for you, you feel less dizzy but still completely exhausted.

''I will talk to Mr. Odell'' she says and before you can protest she is gone. After a few moments, she comes back with your bag and coat and guides you outside the building, and takes you to your car.

''Are you sure you should drive?'' she asks concerned but you reassure her you are fine. ''Thank you'' you say and she leaves with a smile and says ''Just rest and if you need anything just call'' and with that she leaves and you are left, sitting in your car and you let out a deep breath you have been holding in for way too long.

You start your engine, knowing deep down that you are in no state to actually drive and that you probably shouldn't but at the same time you just want to get back into the comfort of your own apartment, as soon as possible and lie down.

The drive doesn't take too long and with the window open, music very quietly playing in the background, and the occasional sips of water, you manage to get home quicker than you initially thought. You drop your bag and coat in the hallway and after shutting the door, you head straight to the bedroom, abandoning all your thoughts and things and practically falling into bed.

The dizziness quickly subceeds as you feel your body now adjusting to the comfort of your mattress, soft pillow, and blanket you managed to wrap loosely around your tired body. Sleep quickly consumes you, your body needing rest after this exhausting day, the thought of the redhead, causing this reaction, abandoned for now but she is here yet again to haunt you in your dreams, moments after falling asleep.

''No no no please don't leave'' you scream, currently caught in a nightmare, another sign your body and brain are still processing today's events. It feels like your personal hell, as you seem to relive the worst moment of your life over and over again and that's Wilhemina walking out of your life just in different scenarios and moments but it hurts in every form of it. Tears stream down your face as you beg her not to go but each time she leaves and it feels like dying every time.

The next morning:

As soon as your eyes snap open after hearing a faint sound coming from the other end of your apartment, you feel exhausted, the last night not providing you with the kind of sleep you needed for your body and mind to fully relax and be ready for another busy and packed day ahead.

Sighing, you rub your eyes and slowly get out of bed, your feet automatically following the source of the noise, that initially woke you up and as you realize it's your phone, you are somewhat glad for the distraction as it pulled you out of several nightmares. As you finally reach your bag, you retrieve your phone and you feel relieved as you realize it's 6:30 am and you didn't miss work. At the same time, your heart skips a beat as you see Mr. Odell's number this early in the morning.

''He-hello?'' you ask slightly dumbfounded why he would be calling you at this time in the morning. ''Ahh Miss Y/L/N I was just checking to see if you feel better'' he starts but you can already feel he is after something as this seems like a small excuse to call you. ''Yes I am, thank you'' you quickly reply, waiting for his actual reason behind calling you this early.

''Listen, the contracts with Kineros Robotics are finished, I need you to go and collect them with Ms. Venable this morning'' he instructs and you can already hear him typing away on his computer. ''Of course'' you reply before he says a few 'Thank yous' and ending the call.

Closing your eyes, you try and take a deep breath and remind yourself that everything will be okay and to keep the raging storm of emotions at bay but somehow the thought of seeing Wilhemina again terrifies you and makes your stomach flip but at the same time there are so many 'What ifs' and unanswered questions, still filling your brain and causing you to overthink.

Still feeling sleepy and also exhausted from the night before, you decide to have a quick shower, before getting ready and adjusting your usual work attire in the mirror, styling your hair, and applying makeup. The only difference today is that no amount of makeup could cover or hide the bags under your eyes and how exhausted you look.

Taking a deep breath and grabbing your things, as well as a coffee, you leave your apartment and head over to Kineros Robotics. Somehow, even though it seemed like on the entire car ride there you didn't even pay attention to anything, the day before you, you somehow did as you find yourself in the familiar parking lot, a while later.

As you walk in, heading straight towards the familiar corridor, walking past the front desk, you don't realize at first, that the entire building is dead quiet, your own thoughts too loud and only as you pass a clock on the wall, you realize it's seven thirty am and probably the reason for the silence and no one there yet.

Part of yourself feels relieved as you hear some clicking on a computer keyboard and without being able to see her yet, you know Wilhemina is already there. You aren't actually that surprised because the redhead used to be the first one in the office every morning, at your old firm where you worked together, always the first to open up and last to close up, really focussed on her work and taking it seriously.

As she hears footsteps approach, Wilhemina looks up confused about who would already be here at this time because she is always the first one and her idiot bosses wouldn't be awake at this time. ''Y/N?'' she asks confused as she sees you enter, stopping whatever she is working on, and for a moment you just look at her unable to say a word.

She scans each one of your features and by your posture and facial expression she knows you are not okay, she used to hold you whenever you weren't feeling well or after a nightmare and she can read you better than anyone else.

''What- what are you doing here this early?'' she asks confused and you can tell she hesitated at first before asking and you notice her voice still sounds dominant but it sounds slightly softer at the same time.

Finally clearing your throat and approaching her desk, ignoring your sweaty palms or heart beating faster, you compose yourself and manage to form a reply.

''I'm here to pick up the files and contracts for Mr. Odell'' you say, still feeling intimidated by her burning gaze. It seems as if she is staring straight into your soul, reading and knowing every single detail about you like the sleepless nights, nightmares, or how she still haunts you every single day.

''Very well'' she replies and nods and she retrieves her cane, gripping hard around the snake handle, before walking over to a cabinet and getting out some folders with the needed documents. As she has to slightly bend down, you notice the same expression on her face, even though you can only see half of it. Wilhemina always hid her pains from you, even back then, she would reassure and promise and pull the most adorable faces, promising she is okay but you knew deep down by the furrow in her eyebrow and how quickly her eyes shut close, whenever she had to move her back the slightest, she was lying.

It takes her moments to gather the needed documents and you find a little smile playing on your lips because despite what happened to the woman you used to know so well, it makes you feel calm that deep down she is still the same organized and hard-working Wilhemina she always had been. It feels like a glimpse of hope, a little ray of sunshine in the middle of a storm.

However, your smile quickly fades as Wilhemina turns around, her gaze lingering on you as she walks towards you. Her expression is stern and cold, no emotion visible and your little glimpse of hope vanishing again. Slowly the realization sinks in that no matter what might have happened, there will be no way to ever get back to how things used to be and this doesn't just cause your throat to go dry, hands shaking uncontrollably again but also for your heart to beat out of your chest, the feeling of anxiety slightly creeping it's ugly way back into your brain.

The woman standing across you, that used to be so much more to you than a stranger, scans your features, noticing the bags under your eyes and the sadness radiating off you. She can look behind the facade, the forced and polite smile but the Wilhemina currently standing in front of you doesn't know how to reach you anymore, as deep down she knows that she lost you long ago and along with you, the only source of light in her life, ever.

Snapping out of it, Wilhemina hands you the files not once averting your gaze and it feels like you might just die from the force her brown observing eyes have on you. As she hands you the files, you reach for it, trying to hide the shaking of your hands but the redhead instantly notices, her gaze finally leaving your eyes.

''Thank you, M-'' you start to say out of a habit, as you were so used to calling her that nickname before but you stop yourself just in time. You give her a polite smile that she doesn't return, her face completely lacking any emotions or giving you any indication on how she is feeling, either about this interaction or seeing you again in general.

Slowly, you turn back around, the same polite smile on your face and a little nod as a form of saying goodbye to her, not expecting to see her again in the near future, as Mr. Odell's assistant would be back tomorrow and you wouldn't be working on this anymore either way. As soon as you turn around and are about to head to the exit, back through the same corridor, your smile fades, face almost crumpling, the pain of seeing the woman you love change into this person completely lacking emotions and reminding you more of a robot than a human, which technically is fitting, considering the company you are currently in and the work they do.

Just as you are about to leave, you suddenly feel a hand reach for your wrist. You flinch momentarily and freeze, as you feel the material of the cold gloves on your skin. Instantly you are reminded of her touch lingering on your skin before when the two of you were still in each other's arms and lives. Her hands had never felt this strange and cold before, as they used to have the sole purpose of making you feel warm and loved, either by holding you or making you feel beautiful in other ways.

Finally, you snap your eyes open as a wave of emotions hit you, part of you wants to cry, part of you is angry about the way she left, heartbroken even being in the same room and just deeply concerned and worried about the redhead standing behind you and holding onto you still as if she was scared if she let go, she would lose you all over again.

''Y/N wait'' Wilhemina whispers and as you turn around, now inches apart, you don't notice the way her voice went soft and she let go of her grip after noticing you flinched a bit at the sensation. The two of you instantly lock eyes and it feels like so much is being said, simply through the locking of your eyes.

Despite the redhead trying to hide her true emotions, internally reminding herself who she is and who she has to be, to keep her perfect and cold appearance intact, she crumbles underneath the bottling up emotions and the way it made her feel to see you again. You notice the inner battle she is fighting, her eyes turning a darker and lighter shape with each thought inside Wilhemina. It feels as if the soft Mina is trying to fight her way out of this darker version, wanting to say so many things to you, but at the same time fighting with everything she has left inside her.

As you stand there frozen, just watching the woman standing across from you, your own emotions take over as tears prickle in your eyes and your heart loudly begins thumping in your chest. You look at the redhead, part of you begging her to speak up, to finally let those bottled up emotions go as you can practically feel them radiating off her. For a split second you have hope, as her mouth parts and you expect something, an explanation, an apology or something that could soothe the many questions and aching in your heart, that started with the day she walked out of your shared apartment.

However, the battle inside Wilhemina is too strong, the darker side having ruled her little kingdom of emotions too long that in result, soft Wilhemina, the woman you used to know and fell in love with, has no chance of winning or voicing herself. You sigh in defeat, as you realize there is no chance to get even a simple explanation out of Wilhemina. ''It's okay'' you mumble, after giving her enough time to speak and realizing that it's too late.

Your ex-girlfriend watches, as you turn your back to her again, this time not stopping in your tracks and this time you being the one to walk out of her workplace and life. She stands there frozen, unable to move for a while as the soft Mina is utterly heartbroken as a small part is still inside fighting somewhere. It takes her several minutes to snap out of her state after hearing her two bosses walk in with silly faces, clearly wanting something from the redhead again and needing her attention. She snaps out of it, turning around and walking towards her desk, the same cold expression on her face as if nothing had happened.

A while later, you sit by your desk after handing your boss the documents and unavoidably handing him the key to your connection to Wilhemina, as from tomorrow on Mr. Odell's assistant will be working on the Kineros Robotics case again, like she was supposed to. You try and focus on the tasks ahead but avert your gaze from your computer, looking out the window and watching as the clouds keep the sun from shining and blessing the city with sunlight. Your mind can't help but wander to Wilhemina and the question what had happened to her in the first place to change into the person you had met again yesterday.

Feeling a little shiver run down your spine, you try and ignore the thoughts, accepting fate and believing that fate always has a plan in the end. ''Maybe we aren't meant to be after all'' you think to yourself, before focussing your attention on your tasks and work for the day again, unaware that in a similar, much more purple office, on the other side of the city Wilhemina is sitting by her desk, her mind occupied by you.

[brockadoodles]

Take my Heart, I’ll Give you my Soul - b. boeser

AN: Alright, here it is. Without a doubt my favorite and most popular fic. It will probably flop and my heart will shatter since this is a repost but y’all said you wanted it so here ya goooooo. 

Word Count: 24,717

Warnings: Drinking, angst, mentions of sex, and that it’s a long one. 

It might have been dramatic, but you couldn’t possibly imagine that you had ever had a day as exhausting as this. It was your senior year of university, and one of your seminars was an 8am. Normally this wasn’t an issue, you generally enjoyed mornings, especially in your new apartment. Ever since moving in six months ago, you found yourself waking up early to enjoy the sunrise over the city, sipping your morning coffee on your balcony as you watched the city come to life. Lights slowly turn on, pinks, and orange hues lighting up the sky as the sun rises. You found it calming, taking extra care to slow your breathing down and relax, the cool air running through your hair. 

This particular morning, however, had gone entirely wrong. You must have forgotten to plug your phone in the night before, waking up slowly around 7:30, which gave you nowhere near enough time to shower, get dressed, and commute from the city to campus. 

You rushed through your morning routine, simply brushing your teeth, throwing up your hair, and a simple combination of a sweatshirt and leggings to get you through the day. You were the type of person who hated being late, to you, if you weren’t at least ten minutes early to something, you got a sense of uneasiness in your stomach. You tried to brush the feeling off, reassuring yourself that your professor didn’t care and that you were still attending the seminar rather than skipping like most students probably would have. 

You rushed out the door, locking it swiftly and throwing your bag over your shoulder, walking quickly toward the elevators of your building. You tapped your foot impatiently as you watched the numbers on top of the doors count upward to yours. When the doors opened, you saw Brock standing there, a deep blue Canucks sweatshirt on him, dark grey sweats covering his legs. You stepped aside, allowing him and his dog, Coolie, to walk out of the doors. You had only met Brock a few times, being as he was your across the hall neighbor and you hadn’t seen him until one morning in August, him introducing himself to you in the elevator. You had spoken a few times in passing, never more than a quick hello as one of you was coming or going, but he always offered a friendly smile. 

Today he looked different, a frown on his features while he exited. He was clearly stuck in his own head over something, thoughts mulling around. If it weren’t for Coolie rushing to your legs, he probably wouldn’t have even noticed you standing there. 

“Good morning, Coolie.” You leaned down to pet the dog, scratching softly behind his ears while he wagged his tail. Brock smiled over at you, mumbling a quick hello before you parted ways for the day. You barely knew him, but something felt unsettling about the way he looked at you. The smile didn’t reach his eyes, and it seemed more than just the fact that it was early morning. 

The day progressed and things quickly escalated from minor inconveniences to flat out annoyance. Class passed by painfully slowly, and your shift at work dragged on, with your boss coming hard on you for something you didn’t feel at fault for. By the time you got back to your apartment, you had three new assignments due, and a new deadline for a project at work. Your head was pounding from the stress, and you pulled your hair up into a loose bun and settled into your glass of red wine, a pair of old red fuzzy socks adorning your feet. You combed through the cupboards, wine glass in hand as you pulled out ingredients for cookies with your other hand, knowing that baking might help take your mind off of things and that the smell of freshly baked cookies would remind you of home. 

You had always been a stress baker, finding something relaxing about the meticulous craft that was baking, comfort coming from strict measurements, and the feeling of control as you worked through various recipes. It had gotten you through many rough patches in life, and earned you a ton of friends more than willing and enthusiastic to consume all of the treats you baked. 

When you moved to Vancouver, you lost that luxury, and you hadn’t really felt stressed enough to whip out the supplies since moving in six months ago. But with that day being so long and exhausting, you found yourself missing home more than you usually did, and as you had for many years, you turned toward baking to get you through the homesickness. 

You turned on some music, letting it play softly as you started mixing your dough. You danced around in your kitchen feeling the tension release from your body and your head start to clear as you loaded up a plate of chocolate chip cookies, exiting your apartment and heading to the one across the hall before you could consciously realize what you were doing. You could blame it on the glass of wine, but if you were to dig deep into the archives of your mind, you knew it was because there was a nagging feeling about Brock nestled there all day. A single thread tying you to this boy you barely knew, wanting to make his day just a bit better. 

You raised your fist to the door, knocking softly while balancing the plate of cookies in your other hand.  You instantly regretted what you were doing as soon as you removed your knuckles from his door and heard Coolie’s feet scrambling around inside the apartment. You held the plate nervously, the few leftover chocolate chip cookies still warm from the oven. You knew you looked like a mess, your hair was sloppily thrown up on your head and your makeup had long since been removed. The dark leggings you wore were stained with flour, from you accidentally wiping your hands on them while mixing your dough. You told yourself that it didn’t matter, you and Brock were friendly enough, and with the look on his face that morning not leaving your mind for most of the day, you wondered if maybe your neighbor needed some sort of pick me up of his own. 

“Hello.” You were met with a voice you didn’t recognize. You looked up at the young man standing in the doorway, Coolie trying to rush out of the door once he saw it was you standing there. You made eye contact with him, noting that he was tall, and blonde, like Brock. He was wearing a Canucks sweatshirt, similar to the ones you had seen Brock in many times, so you could only assume he might be a teammate or someone else who works in the organization. 

“Petey, who is it?” You heard Brock’s unmistakable voice, muffled from the walls. The boy in front of you smirked, looking down at the cookies in your hand, and your cheeks flushed red in embarrassment.

“Uhm, is Brock here?” You asked tentatively, sneaking a glance past the blonde-haired stranger in front of you. 

“It is a girl with cookies.” He called back, voice calm and monotone. You weren’t sure what to make of him, he wasn’t not being nice, but he was quieter than Brock. And now, with it arguably too late to turn back, you were beginning to feel regret creep up inside you about going over there in the first place. 

The door flew open after your short interaction with the other blond, revealing Brock. Coolie immediately rushed out, tail wagging as he whined for your attention and sniffed your legs. Brock smiled at you, a more genuine smile than you had seen from him this morning, and it instantly melted all of your nerves as he motioned for you to come inside the apartment.   

“God, I don’t deserve you.” He groaned, reaching down to the plate of freshly baked cookies you just set on his counter. You saw another young boy sitting on the couch, dark brown hair, and dark circles under his eyes. He looked a little awkward and was staring blankly at the basketball highlights playing on Brock’s TV. You suddenly felt embarrassed, you had no idea who these friends of Brock’s were, and here you stood, hair a mess, covered in flour, bringing your neighbor who you barely knew cookies in the late evening. 

Brock either noticed you tense up, or was just genuinely polite enough to speak up after he swallowed the last bite of the cookie. 

“Ah, this is Petey.” He properly introduced the blonde who answered the door, clapping a hand quickly to his shoulder before throwing it back to point at the other boy on the couch.

“And that little dead kid is Quinn.” He smiled. Quinn looked over at you, smiling softly and nodding his head before resuming watching the television, not even reacting to Brock borderline insulting him. Brock eyed you curiously as you reached down to pet Coolie who was pawing at your leg for attention, a fond look on his face. Petey eyed you suspiciously, watching as his best friend looked over at you. He assumed this was the pretty neighbor he always talked about, who he never actually had the nerve to hang out with on his own. 

You could see Petey mulling over the interaction, almost as if you were watching him analyze the situation, causing you to feel exposed there in Brock’s kitchen. You swallowed, just about ready to gather your excuses and head back home before Brock spoke up. 

“So, what brings you over at 11:30 with freshly baked cookies? Seems a bit late for baking.” He teased, chuckling lightly as you stood back up, wiping your hands on your already dirty leggings. You felt your cheeks heat up with his eyes on you, you were a bit embarrassed, having intruded on what appeared to be their guys' night. 

“Just had a long day and baking helps me unwind. I made too many and don’t know anyone else so…” Your voice got softer as you spoke, unsure of what else to say. You brushed a strand of hair away from your face, watching carefully as Petey went and sat next to Quinn, the two of them whispering a bit as you stood in the kitchen still with Brock. Brock leaned across the counter a bit in front of you, resting his chin in his hands while he studied your face. The next words out of his mouth smooth.

“Want to grab coffee tomorrow morning and talk about it?” He asked. Your eyes widened a bit, this was your neighbor, who sure, you were friendly with and was ridiculously cute, but coffee? Was it a date? Was it the beginning of a friendship? You weren’t sure. You glanced over to the couch, the other two boys now with their full attention on you, making you nervous once more. You swallowed one again, clearing your throat quietly as you answered. 

“Sure.” 

“Cool. There’s this really old place a block from here, they have the best latte art.” He smiled once more, grabbing another piece of a cookie and popping it into his mouth. 

“Latte art?” You questioned, finding it oddly charming that this tall, broad guy would be interested in something as trivial as that. But you didn’t know anything about Brock yet, and you couldn’t help but smile a little bit at how adorable it was. 

“Very cool, one time they tried to do a portrait of me.” He nodded. 

“It was ugly.” Petey jumped in, smirking at his friend for finally making the move at getting to know the cute neighbor he had to suffer through Brock always talking about. Brock laughed, a genuine full laugh where his hand rested on his stomach and his eyes crinkled and you instantly felt yourself growing captivated by him. He had the best laugh and it made you feel warm, something that no one else had ever been able to do for you.

“9?” He ignored his friend, instead focussing his attention only on you. You nodded before saying goodnight to everyone. You walked back into your apartment, hopping in the shower and working through your evening routine, mentally preparing to keep yourself up all night in anticipation of this coffee date with the cute boy across the hall. 

The next morning you found yourself irrationally anxious, silently cursing yourself for agreeing to coffee with Brock. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to go, you liked Brock, maybe had a bit of a crush on him, but that was exactly the problem. You had no idea why someone as cute and successful as that wanted anything to do with you. You were just a normal person, finishing up your undergrad at the University of British Columbia, hopefully entering the world after with some sort of better job than you already had that would allow you to stay in the city. Brock probably had way better options than you on his horizon, given that he was, from what you gathered, a successful professional athlete. 

The fears melted away when Brock knocked on your door the next morning, a smile on his face and dark beanie covering his hair. You felt more comfortable around him than you expected so early on in what would eventually become a close friendship, following his lead as you entered the elevator together. Conversation flowing easily between you as you walked the short distance to the coffee shop he had been so excited about from the night before. 

It didn’t feel like he was a stranger, and you found yourself wanting to share more with him than you normally would with someone who was just an acquaintance from across the hall. You also noticed how attractive he was, feeling yourself blush more than once as he intently listened to you tell him about your school and work. 

You reached the shop, looking up at the old wooden building, a stark contrast from some of the more modern structures lining the streets. It felt homey, a warm-toned feeling emulating from the outside, spreading to the inside as Brock held the door open for you, motioning you inside. You looked around at the shop, seemingly empty for that early in the morning, just a few other patrons scattered throughout. Brock followed you up to the counter, saying hello to the barista who seemed to recognize him. 

“Hey Brock, the usual?” She asked, her hand reaching for a cup to write his order down. You noticed how friendly he seemed toward everyone, nodding to the other barista who was across the shop, wiping down tables, a quality that you found yourself attracted to. 

“Yeah, but for here.” He smiled, looking toward you. You felt your cheeks flush, carefully saying you’d take whatever he was having, feeling slightly embarrassed. The barista nodded, grabbing another mug with a smile on her face as she looked from you to Brock and you tried not to think about if you were the first girl that he had brought here as he handed over some cash to pay for the drinks.

You settled into a table near the back of the coffee shop, talking endlessly about anything and everything together. Brock was a presence that you didn’t know how you lived with just in passing for the last few months, now that you were seeing what he was showing you. The strange thing about it was how natural it felt, a connection between you that you couldn't explain. 

You watched Brock curiously as he was speaking, finding yourself slowly memorizing each feature of him as if you were painting a picture in your mind for safekeeping. You felt drawn to the way his eyes closed as he smiled, and the way his hand rested on his stomach when he laughed. He was distracting, in the most endearing sense of the word. You sat there in that coffee shop, listening to him for almost two hours that morning, a fluttering in your stomach and heart that you were cautious about. 

When Brock walked you to your door that was just across from his, there was an easy smile on his features as the conversation dwindled down. You felt your cheeks heat up as he stood close to you, your hand fumbling in your bag for your keys, his eyes softly on you.  

“Since we’re now friends.” He started, a small smirk present as the two of you stood in front of your door. 

“Can I have your number so we can do this again sometime?” He added, leaning his shoulder against the door frame, coming in close to your body. He smelled like cinnamon and cloves, the warm smile still present on his face as he watched you, carefully gauging your reaction to his seemingly weighted question. You had to concentrate on not fumbling while you exchanged phones, entering your phone number into his.

When he handed you your phone back, you laughed softly at his contact entry, the little whale emoji and blue heart next to his name, feeling yourself flush at your cute neighbor who you just had what some would assume was a great first date with. You tried to ignore the flutter in your chest as the texts started coming in, communication between you becoming a new constant in your life, friendship coming together seamlessly as it was meant to be. 

The only downside was that as you started getting closer to Brock, the more it became painfully obvious your crush was unrequited. But that was okay with you because having Brock as a friend in the city was something you were grateful for, and if it meant you had to pack up your seemingly silly crush into a box, sealed and locked away in the depths of your heart, you would, because having him was as a friend was better than not having him at all. 

Brock, however, knew he liked you from the first time you showed up to his condo, your red fuzzy socks on your feet, flour across your legs, and cookies in your hands. He had seen you many times before, in passing when one of you was leaving or coming back, but when you knocked on his door that late November night, he knew you were someone that he wanted to get to know better.        

---------

December came and you and Brock had quickly gotten close, any awkwardness that you usually experience with a new friend as you get to know them had already melted away. You found yourself at his condo more often than your own on days and nights that he wasn’t out of town. He had even gotten you to go to one of their home games, surprising you with a jersey beforehand and laughing when it wasn’t even one of his. 

“Brock last I checked, your last name is not Pettersson.” You ran your hands over the stitching, and you tried not to let your quickly beating heart question why he wouldn’t want you to have one of his. 

“Yeah, I’m sorry. I didn’t have time to grab one but I knew I had this. Don’t worry, next game it’ll say Boeser.” You nodded at his words, pushing down any anxieties you had as you folded the jersey and set it down, making a mental note to not forget it as you left. 

“Okay, let me cook you, useless boy.” You joked, shooting him out of his own kitchen while you started washing the vegetables and preparing dinner. 

You and Brock had developed somewhat of a routine the last few weeks, with at least two dinners a week together when his schedule would allow it. It was nice at first until Brock absolutely wrecked a simple meal and you realized you’d either be eating takeout or cooking yourself each time. You didn’t mind though, because you liked being there with him, a lazy smile on his face as he tried to help you with whatever you were making, usually sneaking in bites of the food while he thought that you weren’t looking. 

“So let me get this straight, you need me, to go on a double date with you and some girl Quinn wants to impress? Why?” You laughed. 

“He really likes this girl, and you know how huggy is, he’s awkward.” Brock smiled, knowing that you had a soft spot for the little Canuck of the team. He reached over with his fork, grabbing a quick bite of your roasted vegetables from your plate, humming as he plopped them into his mouth. You swatted his hand away from your plate, rolling your eyes as he overly exaggerated how good the roasted veggies were while he chewed. 

“Please? He’s taking her mini-golfing, clearly, he needs help!” He laughed once more, thinking about how nervous his teammate had been over this date, practically begging him to come along. “Plus, I can’t just third wheel it.” Brock added. 

You rolled your eyes, softening a bit at the idea of helping Quinn. Brock watched you as you pondered over the idea, knowing that you would probably say yes. You knew he wasn’t seeing anyone, so it wasn’t as if there was an option for him to bring a date. 

“Fine, on one condition.” You said, pointing toward Brock with your wine glass in hand. 

“I win put put, and you’re taking me out to that fancy new brunch place downtown.” Brock smiled at your words, relieved that you said yes. He raised his beer to your wine glass, clanking them together softly as he grinned at you, cheeks slightly pink. 

“Done deal. You know if you wanted me to take you on a fancy brunch date, all you had to do was ask.” He teased. Your own cheeks now rivaled his, your crush on your best friend bubbling to the surface. Brock winked at you as you shifted in your seat, gulping back the last of your wine while shifting your eyes away from him. You needed to compose yourself, Brock was just joking around, he wouldn’t actually be taking you on a date and you needed to keep telling yourself that to push the lingering feelings away.

“Don’t push it Boeser.” You smirked, gathering your plate and heading into your kitchen, leaving him at the table while you started packing up the leftovers from the dinner you cooked for the two of you. 

A few nights later you found a nervous Quinn in the elevator as you were heading back home to get ready for this date. He was wearing some nice jeans and a simple sweater, with a dark jacket over it, cleaning up nicely. His eyes looked nervous but it looked like he had slept, a good sign you thought. He had a small bouquet of roses in his hands, debatably too much for a low key first date, but you shrugged it off, thinking that this girl would probably appreciate the effort. 

“Quinn, what made you think it was a good idea to take a girl on a date outside in December?” You said, ruffling his hair quickly as you walked down the hallway toward Brock’s door. 

“I didn’t really think about it..” he trailed off, avoiding eye contact. You touched his arm soothingly before knocking softly on Brock’s door, Coolie barking in the background. 

Despite the cold weather, and Brock trying to block every shot of yours that you tried to get to go in, you were having a great time. It was deceiving though, because you were sort of in your head about all of it, almost giving yourself the illusion that the date with Brock was real. 

You stepped off to the side of the course, leaning against a short fence. Brock followed you, positioning himself right next to you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body. 

“What do you think?” He asked, nodding his head toward where his teammate was, fumbling over his golf club while Kyn laughed at him softly. You smiled. 

“I like her, he looks like a nervous wreck but it’s nice to at least see some emotion.” You joked, leaning against the small white fence next to Brock as you watched Quinn fumble over Kyn. She was currently giving him an earful about how to properly put the shot in through the small windmill, Quinn looking at her with adoration in his eyes.

Brock laughed, throwing an arm around your shoulder while he watched them. It was stupid, really, how such a simple action from him caused you to feel nervous. You had known Brock for a while now and while he wasn’t overly affectionate with other people that you could tell, he always seemed to have a need to be touching you when you were together. Sometimes it was his knee brushed up against yours on the couch during movie nights, sometimes it was his arm casually thrown over your shoulder while you were out with some of the team, and sometimes it was his hand brushing against yours while you walked. 

“Wanna ditch them?” Brock’s voice pulled you from your own head. You looked over at where Quinn and Kyn were standing, he was laughing at something she said, both seemingly oblivious to the fact that you and Brock had separated yourselves from them. You turned toward Brock, leaning into him slightly.

“Movie night?” You asked, knowing that those were likely going to be the next words from his mouth. Brock smiled, leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to your temple, sending your heart flying at the seemingly friendly kiss. 

Brock pulled back, avoiding your eye as if he wasn’t sure why he had just done that and you felt your shoulders slump a bit at his reaction, only reinforcing his lack of feelings for you. But, the moment passed almost as quickly as it came, and he smiled down at you.

“You know me so well.” He said, the two of you already leaving the mini-golf course, seeing Quinn and Kyn in the distance, a budding romance building up between them that you found yourself slightly jealous over, no matter how hard you tried to push the thoughts of Brock taking you on a real date away. 

---------

The next week, you were lounging on Brock’s couch, Coolie with his head on your lap, your hand resting gently on his head. Brock was in Washington DC, the Canucks on an east coast run. Over the last few weeks, you had slowly become the one that Brock trusted enough to watch Coolie, with you usually staying over at his condo, keeping an eye on things whenever he was gone. It was nice, domesticity with Brock that you fell comfortably into. You felt at home in his place, after many nights spent there with him over the few short weeks you had known him, and you absolutely loved the dog. 

You never thought about how your friendship looked to other people, how quickly everything seemed to progress. You just felt like Brock knew you, and you knew him, two pieces of a puzzle that fit together smoothly, the only rough edges being your unrequited feelings for him. 

You sometimes wondered if it was crossing some sort of metaphorical barrier of friendship though.  You slowly picked up on him not talking to other girls, him calling and texting you even more so than he already used to, his body usually as close to yours as possible when you were together, and you would be lying if you said that you didn’t let your heart think about what it all meant. 

The annoying thing was that you beat yourself up over it, allowing your mind to drift into places that Brock never put you in, in the first place. He never did anything to make you feel not good enough for him, so why did you suddenly feel like that’s what it was? 

You hadn’t been able to watch the game that night, getting in late from work as you rushed from your office back to where Brock lived, where you used to live. You had seen the score though, and you knew the Canucks lost, and you were anxiously awaiting Brock’s Facetime to talk it out with him. 

Brock always called you after bad games, or away games. There was something soothing in your ability to ground him, you listened to him, never offering advice if it wasn’t warranted, but you held him accountable to his game. He loved that about you, you had taken the time to learn him, memorizing everything about the inner workings of his mind to a point where he was unsure of if anyone would ever compare to you. Brock wanted you, more than anything, but what you had was so valuable that he wasn’t sure if it was worth the risk of losing. So instead, he took what he could get from you, and tried his best to give you everything you needed in return. He knew he was setting himself up for heartbreak down the line, but he didn’t care, so he kept dialing your number, with no intentions of stopping. 

You picked up on the third ring, switching the call to facetime. Brock’s heart swelling in his chest, seeing you there in his condo, with his dog laying on you. He was selfishly getting too used to it, coming home to you, so much so that he found himself missing you when he would find stray items of yours scattered around. The hair ties in the bathroom, or the smell of your shampoo on his pillows. He knew he was falling, hard, and every time he came home to you, he found it harder and harder to restrain. Li

“Hey,” you said, eyes soft as you took in his appearance. He was in a hotel room, the dim lighting, and bad decor a giveaway. He looked tired, as you scanned his face you saw the large gash on his cheek, flecks of bruising starting to appear around it.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” You rushed out, instantly worried. You hadn’t seen anything about him getting injured, and even if it was just a cut, you felt a tugging on your chest, needing to know he was okay. 

“Yeah, yeah I’m okay, just a high stick. My shoulder is a bit sore though, I took some bad hits.” He said, voice calm and reassuring. Brock was the type of guy who didn’t like to complain, he didn’t want people worrying about him, so he tended to brush things off, instead of focusing on what others needed. It was one of your favorite things about him, how selfless he was, but sometimes you needed him to take care of himself. You never said anything though, because it wasn’t your place to tell Brock how to react or not react to things that happened to him, especially if they were in his career. It was your job to be there as his friend and support him when he needed it, so that’s what you did night after night, facetime calls going so late into the night, often falling asleep next to one another on-screen. 

“Tell me about your day though, could use the distraction.” He smiled. You could tell that something was off with him, maybe it was that he didn’t want to worry you with his pain, or maybe something else happened and he didn’t want to talk about it. Brock rarely asked for a distraction, he was always forthcoming with you, so him not wanting to talk about what happened bothered you, more so than it probably should have. 

You bit your lip, glancing away from the camera slightly before looking back at him, short enough that you didn’t think he would notice. The truth was that you didn’t have a good day, you found out that you were going to be unable to go home for Christmas, something you had been looking forward to since moving to Vancouver. 

Brock noticed something was wrong as soon as you picked up the call and switched it to facetime. You looked tired, your eyes heavy, the room dark with just the small lamp by his couch illuminating your face. He still thought you were beautiful, his mind reeling when he noticed you were wearing one of his sweatshirts, something that you did often that he never grew tired of. He saw you bite your lip and look away, something that you had a tendency to do when something was wrong. He softened a bit, waiting to see if you would bring it up with him. When you didn’t answer right away, he said your name softly and you turned, offering him a small but not quite all there smile in return.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asked. You looked at Brock, not necessarily surprised at how he picked up on your shift in mood. You felt your eyes well up with tears, partially from the news from today, partially because you were simply exhausted, and partially because you missed him. He had been gone almost a week now and you were missing him more than you knew you should for being just his friend. Being in his condo, sleeping in his bed, the scent of him everywhere, it felt too intimate and you were beginning to get overwhelmed by what it all meant. 

“I can’t go home for Christmas.” you softly said, him frowning slightly in return. 

Brock knew how much that trip meant to you. You loved the holidays and you had been telling him for weeks how excited you were to go home and bake with your mom, go out to the tree farm and cut down the perfect tree with your dad, and just be around your family that you hadn’t seen in months. He also knew that most of the people you were close to in the city probably weren’t staying in the city for the holidays, and his heart ached at the thought of you spending Christmas alone. 

“I’ll stay with you.” He said, voice small as if he was afraid this was too much, or the wrong thing to do. 

“No, Brock you can’t, what about your dad?” You frowned, knowing how important going back to Minnesota whenever he could was to him. Brock picked up the phone, adjusting it on his pillow as he shifted around in the bed. 

“I’ll just go home for All-Star break, it’s only a few more weeks, they’ll understand.” 

“Brock-” you tried, him cutting you off quickly.

“I want to stay, let me.” He sounded so sincere, and you couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed by it. You knew Brock cared about you, he always made you feel like you were one of the most important people in his life, but volunteering to stay with you for Christmas because he felt bad you couldn’t go home was heartwarming in a way that you couldn’t describe. You felt light tears pricking in the corner of your eyes, the relief from knowing you wouldn’t be alone during your favorite time of the year making you emotional. 

You propped the phone on the coffee table in front of you and pulled one of the sleeves of the sweatshirt down to wipe your eyes. Smiling softly at Brock who was watching you carefully, taking in your movements, hoping that you wouldn’t fight him on this. 

“Okay.” was all you could manage, the tears slipping out quicker. 

“Good, because I really think I need to make my trainer mad by eating a whole batch of those gingerbread cookies you have been raving about for a month.” Brock joked, trying to lighten the mood. He hated seeing you cry and it was even more distressing to him when you were alone in his condo, him a thousand miles away unable to do anything about it. 

You smiled at his joke, nodding your head at his words. Words couldn’t describe how appreciative you were of Brock, and a few weeks later when Christmas did roll around, you baked him two batches of those gingerbread cookies, watching in enamored amusement as he tried to shape them into various shapes. You were treading down a slippery slope with Brock, one that you were terrified of as the train raced down the track, headed toward the sharp curve of your heart, a curve that you weren’t sure the train could withstand. 

---------

January came and went, with you busying yourself with your last semester of classes, and Brock going home over the All-Star break, you felt like you hadn’t seen him in a while. It was the busiest month for both of you, with the Canucks mostly out of town for away games, the only times you truly got to see Brock were when he would come back to his condo late from roadies, carefully slipping himself into the bed next to you, softly murmured “hellos” before you both drifted back to sleep. 

It was agonizing in a way, this back of forth with Brock, you were friends, but ever since Christmas, it had felt like more. You were almost sure he was going to kiss you that night, the tree illuminated in the background, joking around about hanging mistletoe up. And you let yourself stand there in front of him, prepared to take what felt like a long-overdue step in the confines of your relationship and it just never came. Brock never leaned in to kiss you that night, and you had carefully replayed the entire scenario over and over in your head wondering why he didn’t. 

But now it was late February, and you were running late from work getting to Brock’s birthday party. You had been excited about this the whole week, feeling like you hadn’t had that many great opportunities to spend quality time with him. You were in the throws of midterm exams and a big project deadline at work, simply catching glimpses of him in late-night Facetime calls or the occasional morning coffee runs together if he didn’t have a morning skate or practice scheduled that day. 

You had felt something shift since he spent Christmas with you, a dynamic in your friendship that felt slightly different. You didn’t know how to describe it, but the thoughts of him as more than your friend were getting stronger, more evident in the way that you thought about him. You were scared that maybe he could see your feelings, as if they were like a neon sign lit up in a window, the window protecting the piece of your heart that you hadn’t given to him. 

You felt anxious as you left work, time slipping away from you as you sent Brock a quick text, apologizing for being late, and that you’d be there soon. You walked down the streets of downtown Vancouver, holding your arms close to your chest to keep yourself warm from the late winter breeze as you headed toward the bar where you knew everyone was. 

Brock had been anxiously awaiting your arrival at the bar, knowing you were leaving a work meeting that had gone on a bit later than you anticipated. Most of his friends were there, mingling amongst each other in the dimly lit setting as they began celebrating Brock’s birthday, drinks freely flowing. He was waiting at the bar, saving a drink just for you for when you got there, knowing that you were the one he wanted to see. He watched carefully as he saw your figure come into view, you tucking your ID back into your bag and looking around for anyone you recognized. He was just about to raise his hand to try to get your attention when he saw you run into Quinn, instantly pulling him into a quick hug that Brock told himself he wasn’t allowed to be jealous over. 

“You should tell her.” Brock looked over at the voice, Elias walking into the bar to get a refill of his drink. Brock just watched as the bartender handed him a new drink, Petey bringing it up to his lips to take a sip. When Brock made no move to respond to his friend, Elias spoke up once more. 

“You should tell her how you feel.” He clarified, shifting his eyes slightly to where you were standing, just outside of earshot from where they were leaning against the dark wooden bar counter. Brock followed his gaze to where you were, looking at you. You must have just gotten there, your coat still wrapped tightly around your shoulders, cheeks, and nose slightly flushed from the strangely cold February night.

You were laughing at something that Quinn was saying, a genuine smile reaching your eyes. He would do anything to be the one to make you smile all of the time, harboring feelings that no one should have for someone who was supposed to be just a friend. If he really thought about it, he could rationalize that maybe you felt the same way, that the lingering looks you gave him as he told you about something important to him, the lines crossed after nights out where you’d wake up in his bed with your legs entangled together, all were indications that you wanted him in all of the ways he wanted you. 

He was about to deny it, words tumbling out along the lines of “We’re just friends” to Petey that he had said so many times before, unsure of who he was trying to convince at this point. But before he could stop looking, you turned, catching his gaze, and offered him a small smile. The moment was quick as you turned your attention back to what Quinn was saying, but Brock was mesmerized by the small upturn of your lips. 

“Brock.” Petey tried, looking at his friend who was so hopelessly in love with you that it didn’t even surprise anyone anymore. Brock pulled the cap from his head, running his hand through his blonde hair before putting it back on, trying to shake off the moment that had just happened. 

“There’s nothing to tell, we’re just friends.” He laughed, desperately trying to believe it himself. It was so much easier if you truly were just friends, and if he had to repeat that statement a million times for it to be true, and for him to forget about the feelings he had for you, he would. He couldn’t lose you, and if that meant mentally locking up his heart when it came to you, that’s something he was willing to do. 

“You two are something else.” Petey shrugged, leaving the counter with his drink. Brock quickly finished his vodka-soda, nodding to the bartender for a refill. He felt the alcohol starting to take effect on his body, watching as you slowly work your way through the crowd of his teammates toward him, stopping and saying hello as you passed by. 

“Hey, birthday boy.” You smiled, walking right into Brock’s open arms. He hugged you close, resting his chin on your head for a moment before leaning back to grab you a drink. The bar in downtown Vancouver was busy even by a Friday night standard. The season had somehow worked out in Brock’s favor that year, with only a practice scheduled the morning of his birthday, and a day off the day after. He held you close for a moment, taking in the scent of your perfume and the presence of your body wrapped in his. He was already a few drinks in, feelings for you bubbling up to the surface from the haziness of the alcohol. 

He handed you a vodka soda, letting his eyes scan your body quickly. You were wearing black booties and a pair of black skinny jeans that hugged your hips nicely. You had a navy blue sweater on, the dainty gold necklace that you always wore peeking through the collar. You had just come from work, not having time to change before heading to the party everyone was having for Brock’s birthday. You smiled at your best friend, chuckling slightly to yourself as you saw how hazy his eyes were from the drinks. 

“Got you something, Boes.” you said, digging into your bag to pull out a small box, wrapped in blue paper. Brock looked from your eyes to the box, smiling widely as he slipped it from your fingers. 

“A present? From my favorite girl?” He said, grinning widely. You felt a blush rise to your cheeks as he pulled you into his arms, pressing a sloppy drunk kiss to your temple, something that was a bit more than friendly and had your mind racing. Your skin feeling hot from his touch, even through your sweater, your silly little crush on your friend rising to the surface from his overly affectionate tipsy actions. 

“Open it!” You beamed, taking a long sip of your drink. Brock quickly unwrapped the box, the curve of his lips tilting upwards as he looked inside. 

“These are amazing, I love them.” He said, looking at the silver cufflinks you got him, engraved with a small outline of Coolie on each one. You thought the idea was kind of silly when you bounced it around with Petey, him reassuring you that this was exactly the type of sentimental but useful gift that Brock would love. Brock pulled you into another hug, letting his arm linger on your body as people started filtering through to wish him a happy birthday. You let your guard down, drinking arguably too much with your best friend, your head spinning faster each time his hands lingered on your body.

“Are you coming back to my place?” He asked, smiling once again at you. You nodded, curling your body back into his arm, that was loosely hanging over your shoulder. His breath was hot on your ear as he smiled wide at your wordless answer. You felt butterflies at the question that was only loaded in your head and going with a surge of bravery you reached up and laced your fingers through his, a move that earned you another soft kiss to your temple, and Brock’s sparkling drunk eyes looking at you fondly. You both ignored the looks from the others as you left the bar like that, hand in hand walking back to his condo, drunken giggles, and incoherent secrets spilled between you.

The walk back to the familiar building was quick and one you had taken many times before moving out, fond memories of nights out with Brock entering your mind as you stepped into the lobby. 

“It’s still weird coming back here and not going into my place.” You said, walking into the elevator Brock trailing behind you, hand still laced tightly in yours. He pulled you flush against his chest, facing the mirror on the back of the elevator, looking at himself holding you, something he never wanted to stop doing. 

“I miss just walking over to your place in the middle of the night.” He frowned, remembering the day you moved out. 

“Mmm, me too babe, me too,” you mumbled into his jacket, the pet name slipping from your lips before you could reel it back in. Brock finally let go of you when the elevator doors opened, following your lead as you walked toward his front door. He fumbled with his keys as he heard his dog running toward the door at the sound of you and him waiting outside. When he slid the key in the lock, you pushed the door open, drunken giggles and Coolie’s whining filling the silence. 

“Coolie, my favorite boy!” You said, tumbling into Brock’s condo, getting down on the floor to allow his dog to jump all over you in excitement. Brock laughed, walking into the kitchen and pulling out two glasses from the cupboard, filling each one with water. He came around the counter, reaching a hand down to help you up to your feet, you crashing into his chest, giggling. 

You took the glass of water from the counter, drinking it slowly as you walked toward Brock’s bedroom, entering his closet to pull out a shirt for yourself to sleep in for the night. It didn’t even phase Brock how you walked around as if you lived there, because deep down he spent a lot of nights thinking about it. Whenever he was on a roadie, he knew you were there, watching his dog, sleeping in his bed, and it drove him crazy. 

“Have I ever told you how much I love your bed?” You groaned, plopping yourself on top of the bed, crawling underneath the covers. Brock laughed in return, tossing his shirt to the floor and getting in next to you. He pulled you into his chest, the atmosphere in the room shifting to something more serious. You tried to focus on his face and the way he was looking at you, but all you could feel was your heart beating in your ears as his fingers danced softly along the top of your hip, sliding his shirt that was draped on your body just enough to show skin. You needed to do something to break the silence, to pull his stare away from you before you did something that you might regret.

“Did you have a good birthday?” You whispered, hoping that he couldn’t hear the steady thumping in your chest. Brock smiled again, his whole facial expression getting softer the more he looked at you. 

“The best.” He whispered back, leaning in and pressing the softest of kisses to the corner of your mouth, lips almost touching yours. Your breath caught in your throat, the moment passing as quickly as he did it. Brock tightened his arm around you, leaning his head into your shoulder. You lay frozen there, with Brock draped over your body as you struggled to breathe. Brock’s almost kiss sending you into a spiral of thoughts, instantly making your heart race. It wasn’t until you felt his hot breath on your neck, and heard his snores in your ear that you were able to calm down enough, drifting to sleep, neither of you remembering or mentioning the almost kiss by the time you woke up.    

The next morning, your eyes felt heavy, your head pounding as you tried to block out the sun coming in from Brock’s windows, the floor to ceiling windows normally offering your favorite view of the city shining sunlight that was far too bright for anyone who had that much to drink the night before to deal with. You groaned, feeling Brock’s arm wrapped securely around your waist, no memory of how you got into this position with him from the night before. 

“Brock.” You shifted, trying to move out from under his arm. He groaned in response, pulling you even closer into his chest. You were overwhelmed by the situation you were in, Brock’s legs entangled with yours, his arm sprawled over your middle, his head in the crook of your neck. You felt more vulnerable with each thump of your quickening heartbeat, holding your breath while you pieced together the night before. You and Brock had slept in the same bed before, you were adults and friends. Sometimes after a night out, the two of you would stumble drunkenly back to his condo, wordlessly sinking into his bed together to sleep off whatever the drinks of choice were for the occasion. This felt different, you’d never woken up completely consumed by him, your bodies close together. It felt too intimate for your relationship, his arms too closely holding your body, his lips mere centimeters away from peppering light kisses into your neck. 

You found yourself daydreaming about what it would be like to wake up like this every morning, feeling secure and content in Brock’s arms. You could easily picture a slow morning where you’re woken up in the late morning to soft kisses, running your hands through his hair while you come close together. It wasn’t that far off from where you were now with him, only you couldn’t just wake him up and kiss him, and the realization sent you spiraling into your own heart with feelings you had so desperately tried to keep at bay for months. You needed space, you needed to get out of his grasp and forget about how good it felt to be with him, even if it was only for a moment of consciousness. 

“Brock.” You said more firmly this time, you shook his arm slightly and he seemed to realize what was going on. His eyes fluttered open and for a moment he looked at you, there in his arms and it was the best feeling he had experienced in a long time. Something so simple as being wrapped up in you sent him over the edge, tumbling through his feelings like a boat on rocky water. 

He pulled himself from you, running a hand through his hair as he watched you get out of his bed, eyes lingering down your body. His heart was pounding, and his mind racing as you stretched slowly in front of him, his t-shirt you had borrowed from the night before riding up your thighs slightly. He let himself imagine for a moment what it would be like to pull you back into bed, fingers laced together while you’re underneath him, needing only each other. 

“Fuck.” he cursed, trying to rid himself of the image he created. 

“What?” You laughed, turning to look at Brock. He had a hand stretched out over his face as he groaned.

“Just a headache, one too many vodka sodas.” He joked, sliding his hand through his hair before smiling at you. You smiled back, your eyes soft as you focus on him. It felt like something more, the way you looked at him. 

“Well, Boes, I’m starving, think I need some of your famous eggs.” You grin at him, the moment passing just as quickly as it began.  

---------

Brock steps onto the ice, knocking over a few pucks that are stacked up on the bench next to the tunnel before beginning his usual warm-up lap. It’s game one of the first round of playoffs, the Canucks entering as the wild-card this year. He was absolutely buzzing with nerves for the first game, the energy in Rogers Arena already different than it was for normal home games. 

It was still early, but the arena was already filling up with fans. 

He was focusing on his pregame rituals, but still taking his time to read the signs that kids had taken the time to write, stopping every so often to toss a puck in their direction. He took glances over at the other end of the ice, where the San Jose Sharks were warming up for the game, flashes of video of their games running through his head as he focussed on getting mentally checked into the game. 

He was pleasantly surprised when he skated by and sees you behind the player’s bench a few minutes into warmups, pre-game nerves for the playoffs settling in, but somehow slowly evaporating when he realizes you're there. You’re smiling brightly at him, offering a small nod as he noticed you. He quickly glances toward the young girl next to you, holding your hand. Brock quickly picked up a puck on his stick, bouncing it around before catching it in his right hand. He mouthed something to you that you didn’t quite catch, but before you could ask he was tossing the puck in your direction. You caught it, watching Brock as he smiled at your niece and waved. 

“Is that the one?” Your sister-in-law teased as you reached down, and handed the puck to your five-year-old niece. You sighed, knowing exactly where she was headed with this conversation.

“We’re just friends.” You tried, not knowing who you were trying to convince more at this point. Your crush on Brock had developed into full-on feelings, and sometimes you were almost sure that he could sense the way you reacted to him. You hadn’t admitted your feelings to anyone, hoping that if you kept them guarded close to your chest that you would eventually move on and stop daydreaming about your best friend. But it seemed like almost everyone was onto your scheme, poking fun at your dynamic with each other every chance they got. No matter how many times it happened, you couldn’t help but feel a slight pinch in your chest each time Brock brushed off their comments. Your heart sinking every time he laughed the words,

“We’re just friends.” To someone. 

Holly came down after warmups, just before the game was set to start, a smirk present on your face as she held her hands behind her back. 

“Okay, what’s that face for?” You rolled your eyes, knowing Holly it could be anything. She pulled her hands in front of her to reveal a denim jacket resembling her own. You looked at it, noticing Boeser clearly written on the back, details surrounding his name of things you knew and loved about him. One thing that caught your eye, was the small patch on the top right corner, just where one of the seams aligned with the shoulder. You widened your eyes at your small initials embroidered into the corner. 

“Well, what do you think?” She smiled brightly handing the jacket to your shaking hands. You didn't know what to think. You weren’t Brock’s girlfriend, Holly knew this. Holly also knew about your long harbored crush for him, feelings that had been spinning out of control lately, a wag jacket doing nothing to help them go away. 

Your sister in law looked at you, a knowing smirk evident on her face as she bounced your niece in her lap.

“Holly…” You trailed off, unsure of if it was even appropriate for you to be wearing something like this, endless questions racing through your mind, wondering if Brock even knew about this, and worse, if he did, what would he say. You ran your fingers over the stitching on the jacket, letting your heart think for just a moment about what it would be like to wear this if you were actually his girlfriend. 

“Well, put it on. I want to see.” you sighed at her demand, stomach filling with nerves as you placed the jacket over your sweater, the fit perfect on your frame. You felt like people were staring, it was obvious what that jacket symbolized and even most casual fans knew who Holly was, being that her husband was the captain of the team. The last thing you wanted to do was end up all over Twitter as “Brock Boeser’s girl spotted” or something like that. Not only would it be embarrassing, but your feelings were already growing stronger, like ivy settling into a trellis, weaving its way through the spaces while the beautiful leaves slip out, and you didn’t need those leaves present to the entirety of hockey Twitter right before an important series for Brock. 

“God, he’s going to have a heart attack when he sees you. Poor guy probably won’t make it.” She said, taking a sip of her drink and settling down into the seat, the other girls slowly started to fill the friends and family section down by the ice. You felt exposed, standing there in a matching jacket knowing that so many of the girls knew you weren’t Brock’s girlfriend.

“Wait, he doesn’t know?” You exclaimed, making a move to slide the jacket off of your shoulders, embarrassment clouding your judgment, and turning your cheeks a bright color as you felt the temperature of the arena shift. The lights began to dim and the Canucks opening graphics started to appear on the ice, you instantly shrugging back into your seat when you saw Brock skate out with the rest of the opening lineup, eyes searching the crowd for you as he stood there next to his linemates. He offered a small smile toward you, nodding slightly before focussing his attention back on the ice as you waited for the anthems to start. You tried to ignore the way the jacket felt on your body the rest of the game, ignoring how the meaning of wearing it felt as time progressed.  

It was late in the third when Brock scored a goal, pulling the team ahead 2-1. You jumped up and cheered loudly along with the girls as he skated right up to the glass in front of you with his linemates. When the celebration broke and he skated along the bench, bumping fists with his teammates, he looked at you the entire time, smiling brightly. He didn’t notice the jacket, too focussed on your smiling face, and the momentum shift as his goal pushed the Canucks in the lead as he skated by, the goal ending up as the game-winner for the opening night of the first-round series against the Sharks. 

You shuffled out of the stands, saying goodnight to your sister-in-law and niece before following Holly down to the tunnels, a text from Brock burning a hole into your hand as you read it. 

Wait for me? It read. 

The words twisting in your mind as you tried to decipher what they meant. It could be nothing, but you couldn’t help but feel a shift in the air as you wore his last name on your back, standing amongst all of the other wives and girlfriends. You tried to push the feelings down, shoving them back into the box whose wood was splintering more and more lately, feelings for Brock tumbling out of the cracks. You couldn’t even deny it anymore, you liked him, and it terrified you in a way that you couldn’t explain, and wearing his name on your back was doing nothing to help you push the problem away.  

You tapped your foot anxiously as you stood around with the rest of the girls waiting for him. You felt a bit out of place, being there among all of the wives and girlfriends, but Holly had stuck by your side, welcoming you with open arms, and a big surprise that you were now wearing. 

The denim jacket hung loosely over your shoulders, Boeser embossed on the back, the number 6 stitched on the right arm. You felt a bit strange about it at first, not wanting to cross another boundary with Brock, the lines seemingly becoming blurrier and blurrier as the last few months wound down. You told yourself it was just playoffs, this was standard, and you knew Brock wasn’t seeing anyone, in fact, as far as you knew, he hadn’t been talking to anyone for months. You tried your best to ignore what that meant, to tell yourself it was just a coincidence that the two of you had started spending even more time together. 

Brock exited the locker room, his hair was still slightly damp from the shower, his navy blue suit back on his body. He was riding a post game-high, and the feelings only escalated when he saw you standing off to the side. Your bag was draped across your arm, foot lightly tapping on the ground as your eyes looked around the hallway. His breath came to a stop when he realized what you were wearing. 

Draped over your shoulders was a light wash denim jacket, one that he instantly recognized as the infamous wag jackets. His eyes darkened as he scanned your body, gaze lingering on the number 6 on your right arm, his number. He took the final steps toward you, wrapping your body into his as you realized it was him there to greet you. 

You looked up at him, instinctively tossing a hand up to his slightly damp hair, his arm wrapped around your waist as he hugged you. 

“That’s a nice jacket.” He said, leaning his head in, resting his forehead against yours, causing your cheeks to flush and your heart to rapidly beat in your chest. You didn’t know what he was doing, but something about the darkness of his eyes, and the softness of his voice removed you from where you were. All you could focus on was him, not the tunnel, not the other players and wags shuffling out of the arena, it was just you and Brock.  

“Yeah? Thought I’d represent my favorite guy.” You whispered, leaning in ever so slightly, shaking with nerves and hoping that you weren’t misreading the situation. This was it, Brock was finally going to kiss you, and you weren’t entertaining any of your head’s thoughts of stopping it. 

“I’d hope that’s my last name on the back.” He said, the tone of his voice lower, eyes reflecting something darker that you hadn’t seen before. Your cheeks were probably red by now, your heart was beating in your throat, and butterflies were swirling deep in your stomach as you both leaned in. The moment was agonizingly slow. You felt your eyes flutter shut, preparing yourself for a kiss that you had spent months waiting to happen. 

“Boes! You forgot this!” Jake yelled, and Brock pulled away from you quickly, recovering instantly as if the moment never happened. Your heart sank, and your stomach filled with another emotion, one that you tried to avoid thinking about as you hung the jacket up in your closet later that night, coming to the realization that he didn’t want to kiss you, rather he must have just been caught up in the moment. 

Neither of you mentioned the almost kiss, instead it was added to the overstuffed box of moments that you swore he felt what you were feeling, only to be locked away collecting dust as you waited for a kiss that at this point you were beginning to feel like would never come.    

The Canucks unfortunately were knocked out of the first round, your heart aching as you watched the final seconds of the sixth game on tv, knowing that Brock was probably beating himself up over the missed breakaway chance from earlier in the period that would have tied it and sent it to overtime. You watched sadly as the Canucks skated off the ice, seeing Brock with his head down as he left quickly. 

Your heart ached for him and the rest of the team, knowing how hard they had worked to get to that spot only to be eliminated so early on. You opened up your text thread with him, fingers hovering over the keyboard as you questioned how to offer your support when he most likely didn’t even want that right now. Before you could come up with some attempt at empathy for what he was feeling, your phone buzzed in your hand, his name flashing on the screen indicating a text.

“Going to try to sleep off the bad mood, we land at 8:30 tomorrow.” The text read. You just sent three blue heart emojis back, not knowing what to say, wishing that you could comfort him but knowing that he just wanted to be left alone. You couldn’t pretend that it didn’t sting. You wanted to be the person he went to for everything, and while you knew you were practically that person already, him not opening up to you now had you feeling like it was a reassurance that he didn’t feel the same. Your brain is trying to convince you that if he did have feelings, he would want to talk to you. 

The official end of the season also meant that you knew your time with Brock was dwindling down as he prepared to go back to his hometown for the summer, something you were selfishly dreading. Going a few days without Brock usually felt too long, and you selfishly didn’t know how you’d handle not being able to see him every day. With how close you had grown in the months since meeting him, and how wrapped up in him you had somehow let yourself fall, you couldn’t imagine what this summer would be like with him gone. 

Brock got back into Vancouver the next morning, coffee and pastries in hand as he came into his condo, relaxing as soon as he saw you and Coolie curled up on the couch. You were wrapped in the throw blanket, head leaning awkwardly on the back of the couch with Coolie curled up next to you. Your favorite show was softly playing on the TV in the background, a now cold cup of tea sitting on the coffee table in front of you. 

He went into his room, dropping his bags near the closet and grabbing some fresh sweats and a shirt to wear, Coolie noticing and jumping off the couch to follow him. He reached down, greeting his dog with affection before walking back out to the living room. He slipped onto the couch next to you, pulling the blankets over enough to cover himself, nudging you softly until your eyes fluttered open to meet his. 

“You’re back.” You said, voice slightly groggy from sleeping. Brock reached up and put his arm around you, motioning you to lay down on his lap. You smiled, curling yourself into him and adjusting your position so that you were able to lay on his lap. His arm adjusted, resting over your stomach, his hand just close enough to yours that you almost reached up and threaded your fingers through his. His other hand softly playing with your hair, actions feeling like they were blurring a line to the point of almost crossing it, but not taking the final step. 

He didn’t say anything in return, instead looking down at you with a smile. You could tell he was upset, the reality of the season-ending finally kicking in now that he was home. But he made no move or indication that he was wanting to discuss it, probably earning an earful from the coach anyways. Instead, the two of you settled into the spot there, your show playing on the tv with both of your minds drifting to each other, wondering if the quickening paces of your hearts were normal or just an illusion of the feelings unspoken between you.   

A few hours later, you found yourself in a different position, your feet were feet propped up into his lap, one of his hands was resting securely on one of your shins as he scrolled through his phone with the other. It was quiet, the two of you finally up and awake from the nap you took together when he came back, and you knew the inevitable talk of him leaving was coming. 

You didn’t want to talk about it, and if you had your way, Brock would be staying in Vancouver this summer with you. But, you weren’t his girlfriend, and it was unreasonable to allow your mind to drift to that place, no matter how many times you thought to yourself that he must feel the same, only to be let down by nothing ever-progressing past friendship between you. 

You didn’t know how much longer you could handle it, the underlying feelings every time his skin touched yours, the times where it felt like he was so close to finally kissing you, only to pull back and stop himself. You didn’t know what to do, your heart and mind battling back and forth with your mind begging you to distance yourself, trying to tell you that it was good he would be gone for a few months, and your heart telling you to keep as close to him as possible. 

“So, when are you going home?” Your voice broke the silence. You spoke quietly, trying to hide the hint of sadness in your voice at the idea of him leaving. Brock looked up from his phone, locking it and setting it down on the coffee table before he squeezed your shin reassuringly. 

“Well, I wanted to talk to you about that.” He started with a hint of nervousness in his voice. You leaned up, propping yourself up on the pillows to look at him, nodding at him to continue. 

“Do you want to come home with me?” His question startled you and sent your mind slipping down a runway that you didn’t understand. The question felt loaded yet natural at the same time. Going home with him meant meeting his family, spending time with the people he cared the most about, and you didn’t know how to process what exactly he was asking of you. 

You were just Brock’s friend, what would his family assume when he brought you home? Did they know about you? The questions were circling in your mind, causing you to freeze for a moment before being able to answer his question. 

“Brock, what do you mean?” you asked. 

“I know the last couple of months have been hard, with graduation and your job winding down, and I also know that I can’t imagine spending months away from you. I thought it would be nice to show you where I’m from, get you away from the city for a bit. You’d love it there.” Your heart fluttered at his words, overtaking every inner thought that your mind was screaming at you. Your head was telling you to say no, that this was most definitely a clear boundary that shouldn’t be crossed. But your heart was running through every red light, every traffic signal placed there by your head, telling you to turn around and stay in Vancouver. 

You placed your hand over his and he instinctively flipped his hand over and threaded his fingers into yours. It was a small gesture, but one that sent your heart into absolute overdrive, killing off any willpower that your head was trying to preserve. 

“I’d love to.” You answered, leaving your hand entangled with his for a moment as you watched his smile grow, a weight seemingly lifting from his shoulders. He looked happy, and you would have done anything to make him happy. 

---------

Spending time with Brock in Minnesota was something that you didn’t know you needed. You felt like you were seeing a different side of him, one that you knew was there but that you hadn’t had the privilege to see before. He was more at ease around his family, always in a relaxed state of mind no matter what was going on around him. 

You watched him with his dad, sitting out on the dock next to one another. The hot sun casting a beautiful sheen onto the lake water outback. Brock’s hair was getting lighter, his skin getting tanner with each passing week, and you found yourself falling even more in love with him than you already were. Watching him with his family changed something in you, you knew you had feelings before, but for the first time since discovering them, you wanted to do something about it. 

There had been so many instances since being in Minnesota where you’d be there with Brock, so close to leaning in and finally crossing that boundary, showing him how you felt. But something stopped you every time, fear. 

You continued looking out at the dock, watching as Brock sat with his dad. You loved this side of Brock, seeing him so at ease with one of the people that mattered most to him. You knew Brock was happy in Vancouver, and that he was working hard on contract negotiations to stay, but Brock in his hometown was a different side of him, one that you felt privileged to be able to see.  

Your eyes lingered on the sky, bright stars filling the vast dark space, the moon illuminating a reflection against the water as you laid next to Brock on the small boat. Your head comfortably resting on his chest, his arm around your shoulders. It was another shift in closeness with him that had occurred over the short week you had been in Minnesota. Something between you had changed, and despite knowing everything you thought you could know about Brock, you found yourself wanting to know more. Each touch sends you closer to admitting your own feelings to him out loud, only to stop yourself short by the worry of losing the best thing in your life that you had. 

“He’s happy you’re here, you know?” His mom’s voice startled you, her stepping onto the patio where you were, taking a seat at the small table outback, a drink in her hand. You looked at her curiously, replaying the words over in your head. Something about her tone had you feeling like there was more weight to them. 

“I’m happy too.” You smiled, trying to keep your composure. It wasn’t that his family made you nervous, but you wanted to keep having a good impression on them because they were important to Brock.  

“You can tell him, he feels the same way.” Her voice was distant, ringing in your ear as the words hit you like a force of air rushing through your lungs. You watched as she looked over at her husband and son, smiling softly, before looking back to you. You were frozen in time, hand firmly on your glass as you circled through her words in your head, dancing around the idea of taking them to heart. 

“Just something to consider.” She said, standing back up and walking inside, leaving you to your thoughts. 

You felt something bubbling up to the surface, feelings that you had tried for so long to keep in a box tucked away. Albeit, you were doing a poor job as of late, but something about what his mom said to you had you thinking about it, taking the chance on Brock, something you’d been telling yourself you don’t need to do for longer than you could remember. You were terrified, even if he did feel the same, that it wouldn’t work. It wouldn’t work out and you’d be left alone, in a city that you grew to love because of his company, shattered while you were left to pick up the pieces alone. But you also knew that you couldn’t keep going the way that you had, the two of you dancing around something that had been seemingly so obvious for so long, mere inches from one of you taking the plunge. 

Brock caught your eye from across the yard, a gorgeous smile on his face as he made eye contact with you, eyes squinting slightly from the sun, skin glowing. Something about the way that he looked at you at that moment had everything come crashing to a head for you, and you knew his mom was telling the truth. You knew Brock was just as in love with you as you were with him, and maybe if you let your guard down long enough, your own fears would be powerless to stop it.  

A few hours later you found yourself outside with Brock, the two of you in a comfortable silence as the pinks and oranges flashed through the sky, the sun beginning to set and moon beginning to rise. You had been thinking about what his mom said to you all day, about him feeling the way you felt, willing yourself to just reach out and take his hand, lacing your fingers together like you had done so many times before, only this time the meaning would be more. 

Brock stood up, his sudden movement startling you from your thoughts as he reached his hand out for yours. For a moment, you wondered if he was in your head, taking the leap that you had been wavering back and forth over for quite some time now. 

“Come on, I wanna take you on the water.” He said. You tentatively reached out and placed your hand in his, allowing him to pull you up as he threaded your fingers together leading you toward the small boat that was at the dock. He helped guide you over the ledge, using his hands to steady your hips when the boat lurched underneath your legs as you climbed on. You looked around, noticing the pile of pillows and blankets scattered on the floor of the boat deck, a bottle of your favorite wine visible. 

Brock kept his hands steady on your hips for a few seconds as you adjusted to the movement of the water, your eyes curiously wandering around the small scene he had set up, fully intending to take you out for a nice sunset ride on the water. 

“What’s all this?” You asked, feeling your stomach begin to fill with butterflies that Brock had given you so many times up until this point. He just looked at you, a fond smile present on his face while he reached his hand up from your hip, slowly guiding it toward the back of your neck to cradle your head in his hand. You thought, once again that this would be the moment where he would finally kiss you, but instead, you felt his lips touch your forehead, and your thoughts of doubt creep back in. You tried to ignore the sinking feeling in your chest as he let your body go, motioning for you to sit down as he got the boat away from the dock, the sun setting in the distance. 

The whole time spent navigating to the middle of the lake was quiet but comfortable. You sipping on wine, and Brock steering the boat, sun continuing to set. He had a serious look on his face, and from knowing Brock all of this time, you knew he brought you out here for a reason, one that you only hope would be something good. 

He dropped an anchor in the water, keeping the boat steady when he got to a place he liked. It was beautiful, the water of the lake a gorgeous deep blue, the dark trees casting shadows onto the water as the sun disappeared from the horizon, the moon taking its place in the night. Brock came over to where you were sitting, laying down next to you and watching the stars. He was quiet, deep in thought as you looked at him. 

“Brock,” you started. He turned to face you, leaning up slightly and opening his arms, a silent ask for you to lean into him. You laid down, resting your head onto his chest, on hand sprawled out on his stomach. He reacted quickly, one of his arms wrapping around you, holding you as close to him as possible, fingers pulling slightly on the ends of your hair. He pressed a soft kiss to your head, another action that sent your mind fluttering with worry as you waited for him to speak. The two of you resting in that position, holding each other while the night continued on. 

“I got an offer today.” Brock’s voice broke the silence, vibrating through his chest as he spoke, his hand absentmindedly playing with the tips of your hair. You knew what he was talking about, it was part of the reason you had come with him back home in the first place. Brock was up for a contract in Vancouver, something he desperately wanted, but he also knew that anything is possible in the league, and things can change quickly. You lifted your head up to look at him, pressing your hand into his chest for balance. 

“Where?” You asked, voice small. You didn’t want to let yourself think about what would happen if Brock left Vancouver, and you had managed to push the thought away for weeks. In your mind, Vancouver had to work out, and maybe that was selfish of you to think, but you didn’t care. You knew how much he loved the city and believed in that team, not to mention the friends he had. Moving somewhere would be devastating for him, and you didn’t know how to process what that could do to your friendship if it would even survive at all. 

“Nashville.” He hummed, threading his hand through your hair, resting on the back of your neck. A simple touch, one far too intimate for your supposed dynamic, but that sends chills down your spine. 

Your shoulders slumped as you went over what he just said, repeating Nashville in your head a few times, mentally calculating the distance, trying to justify hanging on when he would be almost half a world away. You felt your heart sink completely, silently closing the door to telling him how you felt that night, realizing that if he was leaving, maybe it wasn’t worth the risk at all.  

“Oh.” You said. Brock sighed, still holding on to your neck, looking you deep in the eyes. 

“I’m still waiting for Vancouver.” He smiled sadly. You looked at him for a moment, recognizing the tenderness in his eyes, the way he was so shakingly trying to keep his worries at bay, to protect you from the possibility that this was your last summer together. You laid your head back onto his chest, focussing your breathing to match his, listening to the steady beat of his heart while you laid there, mulling over the words tumbling through your head. 

“Brock?” You whispered, not daring to move. 

“Yeah?” 

“What happens if you leave? To us?” You tried to sound light, but the shakiness in your voice was difficult to disguise, the only noise surrounding you was the soft rocking of the water, and crickets chirping through the darkness. Brock tightened his arm around you, pulling you further into his chest. It was warm, secure, and for a moment you allowed yourself to drift into a headspace where this was more than it was. Brock was your best friend, but in that moment, you had never felt more sure that all of your feelings were reciprocated, the two of your heartbeats synched. 

“Nothing, no matter where I am, you’re too good for me to not be close to.” You tipped your head up at his words, faces mere inches apart. 

“Do you mean that?” You whispered, already knowing it was the truth. Brock never was dishonest, he wore his heart on his sleeve and proudly carried around the scars that people who didn’t deserve him left. He gently raised his hand to your cheek, offering a reassurance you needed in his expression, eyes connected with yours. 

“Always.” 

You instinctively reached up, threading a hand through his blonde hair. The two of you looked at each other for a moment, your eyes glancing down to his lips. The moment is frozen in time, nothing but the late-night cool breeze passing over your skin, raising goosebumps on your arms, but the only sensation you could feel was your heartbeat in your throat, willing you to take the chance. It was now or never, you thought, needing to show him how you felt, how badly you couldn’t handle it if he went to Nashville, leaving you alone in Vancouver without him by your side. 

Without processing your next move, or allowing yourself to stop, you leaned up and pulled his head down to meet yours, pressing your lips softly to his for the first time. Brock reacted quickly, leaning further into the kiss, moving his lips against yours. Your mind was on overdrive, and your stomach in knots. You had wanted to kiss Brock since the day you tumbled into his apartment, fresh cookies from your infamous stress baking sessions. But somewhere along the way, he became your best friend, and while the thoughts of kissing him never went away, you locked them into a box tucked deep in the cavities of your heart, in hopes that it would protect you from losing him. By kissing him you had taken an ax to the box, ripping it apart at the seams and allowing the feelings to escape, blind to the pressure that you would come to feel from it all in just hours time. 

You tugged on the ends of his hair, the kiss becoming deeper as he pulled you closer to him, every emotion you were both feeling tumbling out from the safe spaces it had been locked in. Brock slowly pulled back, eyes darkened as he looked at you, lips slightly pinker. He had never thought he would get the chance to kiss you, and now that he had, he didn’t think he could ever stop. But, he needed to know you wanted it too, that this wasn’t some fleeting caught up in the moment kiss. 

You smiled at him, a smile that he had seen so many times yet could never get enough of. You leaned in, pressing your lips to his jaw slowly, delicately as your fingers pulled through his hair. He could barely breathe, your lips igniting his skin. He needed to feel every inch of you. 

“Are you sure?” He hummed out, tilting your head up to look at him once more, a question holding more weight than either of you imagined would happen when heading out into the late summer night on that boat. 

“I need you.” was all you said, intently looking at the boy in front of you who had somehow become everything. Brock kissed you quickly, a fire in his eyes and heart that only could be contained by you. You deepened the kiss as he slowly leaned your body back, rolling himself to hover over you. Your hands ran up his chest, settling back into his hair. One of his hands firmly pressed into the dock, steadying himself as his other snaked under the sweatshirt of his you had on, settling on your bare skin just above your hip.

Your breathing started to get heavier as his lips left yours, trailing softly down your neck and collar bones. His hands slowly sliding up your sides, resting just below the line of your bra. He pulled back slightly to look at you, admiring once again how beautiful he thought that you were. You knew what he was going to ask next, Brock was always the type to need clear consent before doing anything. You reached a hand up to his cheek, lifting your head to press your lips to his softly once more.

“It’s okay, you can keep going.” You smiled, thankful for the only light being the moon so that he couldn’t see your flushed cheeks. Brock pulled his hand from your sweatshirt, reaching up to grab yours in his, lacing your fingers together and pressing a soft kiss to the back of your hand, a move that sent butterflies into your stomach.

“Are you sure?” He needed to hear you say it, he needed to make sure this feeling was real, and that he wasn’t just imagining what was about to happen with you. You squeezed his hand softly, words firm as you spoke.

“I want you, Brock, all of you.” He took his time, hands gently peeling the clothes off your body, reassuring kisses splattered all over your neck and chest. You leaned into him tugging softly on his hair while you felt his whole weight on top of you. Your mind was hazy, thinking of nothing but this moment with Brock, how good it felt to finally have him. 

He laced his fingers through yours, pinning your hands down as he slowly entered you, his body hovering above yours. Moans softly filling the air as the pace picks up, your bodies flush against one another as you irrevocably cross a line in your friendship in the darkness, stars floating brightly in the sky, the only illuminance reflected on the still water.

---------

Brock swore he imagined it, you kissing him the night before, the way his hand fit tightly in yours, the soft breaths you took underneath him. And when he woke up to the light shining through the curtains, and you curled up under his arm he worried for a moment he was still in the dream. He lay there, listening to the soft snores coming from your slightly parted lips, admiring how at peace you looked. It was only when he realized you were in only his shirt, a hint of red marks peeking out from the collar that he realized he hadn’t been in a hazy dream after all. It was real, you and him, it was all real and he was determined to make it last.

“Morning,” Brock mumbled, pressing a light kiss into your shoulder. You opened your eyes slowly, memories of the night before flashing through your mind. You curl your body into Brock’s, and he pulls his hand into yours, lacing your fingers together. Your mind was racing, every emotion running through you. Brock kept peppering kisses along your shoulder, something that was far more intimate than friends should be doing. This was what you always wanted with him. So why did it feel like you were standing in a forest, waiting for the tree to drop on top of you, knocking you out of the dream world that you must have been residing in. 

“Brock.” You whispered, daring yourself to break the silence. You felt your insides twisting, your stomach rumbling with nerves as you laid entwined with him. It didn’t feel real, and the longer you put off the inevitable conversation, the worse the heartbreak for you would be when he told you it didn’t mean anything or was a mistake. 

“Yeah, baby?” He said, lifting his head up from your shoulder. You shifted in his arms, detaching yourself from him and sitting up in the bed. You felt exposed, laying there with nothing but a thin linen sheet covering your body, knowing that you had slept with Brock not once, but twice the night before. You bit your lip, avoiding his eye as he sat up next to you, running his hand through his hair. 

Brock was nervous, you weren’t reacting how he assumed you would, and part of him wondered if last night was some fever dream. Something he imagined happening, but your naked bodies next to each other confirmed the reality of the position you two had put yourselves in. He wanted you, he wanted everything with you. He wanted to hold your hand all the time, kiss you whenever he wanted. He wanted to hold you while you cried and help wipe the tears away. He wanted to be yours and only yours, for as long as you’d have him, and the memories of your body entangled with his was pushing his heart to finally open up his heart fully to you, even if you already unknowingly held it in your hands. 

“So, last night…” you trailed off, gripping the sheet closer to your chest. You were feeling more anxious with each breath you took, heart, filling with regret of your own actions as you sat there next to Brock. He smiled at you softly, no indication that anything was wrong, and although that should have reassured you that it would all be fine, something about it made you more uneasy. You opened your mouth to speak, willing your brain to somehow come up with everything that your heart wanted to say, only no words came out. Brock sensed your uneasiness and tried to grab your hand. You pulled yourself further away, not wanting to push the boundaries that you bulldozed through the night before. 

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Brock’s words rang in your ear, echoing in your mind as you felt your breathing constrict as if you were underwater, gasping for a final breath of air to fill your lungs. You couldn’t speak, you couldn’t move, the words coming from his lips were so sincere, so heartfelt, and was what you thought you would want to feel in this situation. He watched you carefully, reading the signs of apprehension on your face, his heart pace quickening.

“I think I have been for a long time honestly, you just, you’re my best friend. But you’re more than that, you’re who I want to call in the middle of the night when I’m feeling down, you’re who I can’t wait to come home to after weeks away. You’re who I want next to me at every moment. I want to hold you all the time, comfort you when you’re sad, and celebrate with you when something good happens. God, you’re everything, you’re the most amazing person I’ve ever known.” He continued. He looked so happy, the weight of his words weighing heavily in the air, causing you to further sink into the bed, grasping on to the sheet like you were on the edge of a mountain, hanging on for dear life. You were biting your lip so hard, nearly drawing blood as he told you everything your heart wanted to hear. But it all felt wrong. 

“Brock, you don’t love me, we just-” you struggled to find the words, not wanting to hurt him even though you were caving into your own insecurities and fears. You weren’t sure what you were doing, letting your brain sabotage what your heart desperately wanted, images flooding your mind about the pressures of being Brock Boeser’s girlfriend, what it all meant, how it would change you. You wanted nothing more at that moment than to go back to the day before and return to pining over him from afar because it was easier. It was easier when you didn’t know what his lips felt like against yours when you didn’t know that he was in love with you.   

“I love you, and I want to be with you.” He said, his voice firm, eyes locked in yours. Brock was trying to hand you his heart, it was there, alive and beating in his hands and all you had to do was reach out and take it. All you had to do was say the three words back to him that you knew you had been feeling for years. But you couldn’t. 

“Brock, we can’t.” Was all you managed to get out, your head hung down in shame. You didn’t see how his face fell, because you didn’t let yourself. You told yourself this was for the best, that Brock deserved someone better than you. Brock deserved to be with someone who he could give the world to, who could be waiting for him no matter where he went, and someone who he would be proud to show to the world. You felt your throat closing up and tears pricking the corners of your eyes. You weren’t even strong enough to face him, knowing what you were doing to him. 

“Oh.” He said, turning his head to look at you. He felt like his world crashed right in front of him, the best thing he could ever have just out of the reach of his fingertips. A lingering taste from the one bite of you that he got to take. You were starting to cry, and for the first time in the years that he had known you, he was at a loss for how to help. Everything felt murky between you, the lines blurred together past the point of visibility, a comforting touch felt like too much now that he had opened his heart, unrequited.

He had thought this summer with you had been different, a shift in the trajectory of your friendship, built up feelings finally coming out into the open. You looked at him differently, glances lingering past the point of friendship, dancing along blindly in what he thought were reciprocated feelings. Brock was never good at reading the signs, but something in the way you gravitated to him over the past month disillusioned him into believing what he felt was mutual, that the sex the night before meant something more to you. He had never felt more sure of anything than he did as he kissed you, only to wake up the next morning and have you rip it all away. A dirty mistake that it seemed like you couldn’t wait to forget.   

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The first few weeks back home you spent locked away in your apartment, ignoring every phone call, every text, any attempt at contact that wasn’t Brock. You didn’t expect him to call, but you wholeheartedly wished he would, because if you could, you would take it all back. You knew that stepping onto that plane you were burning down the best bridge you had ever built, and now here you were, broken and battered, walking along the edge of steel beams as you tried to forge it back together. But you knew you couldn’t, that bridge was built by two sets of hands, not one. 

It took three weeks before Holly showed up at your door, baby in tow, demanding you get dressed and come with her. You did as she asked, carefully showering for the first time in days, putting on the slightest bit of makeup to attempt at hiding the dark puffy skin under your eyes, an indication of your lack of sleep since you returned to the city. 

Your head rested on the window as she drove you out of downtown and closer toward East Vancouver. You didn’t have to guess where she was taking you as the familiar scenery passed by. When she parked outside of your favorite brunch place, you sighed quietly, appreciative of her efforts even if you weren’t hungry. You waited patiently as she grabbed Gunnar, buckling him up into the stroller before walking into the restaurant. It was a small hole in the wall place, with an outdoor seating area with white metal awning, decorated in lights and ivy, and earthy atmosphere as strangers chatted away eating their breakfasts, mimosas steadily flowing. 

You sat down, listening to her catch you up on things with Bo and the baby, an obvious attempt at trying to distract you from your own thoughts. You appreciated her effort, you really did, but you weren’t ready to be outside of the safety of your apartment just yet. You nodded and hummed along as you listened to her talk, feeling nauseous once your food was placed in front of you. Your mind drifting back to the time you took Brock here, and the two of you got drunk on a Sunday from mimosas, having to walk around the neighborhood for hours before sobering up completely enough to drive back home. 

“Okay, something happened with Brock. I’ve gathered that much, and I’m worried about you. Talk to me.” She finally tried, a reassuring look on her face. You didn’t know if she knew the whole story, if Brock had told anyone what happened, you had to guess that he was feeling bad enough to contact Bo about it, you had really messed him up. You slipped into the story, telling Holly about how you felt, and how you hurt the best person to have ever been in your life, tears settling into your eyes, threatening to spill out as you reopened the painful wound, still fresh from the weeks before. 

“I don’t know how to fix it.” You whispered to Holly, looking down at the table setting in front of you. You twirled the fork in between your fingers, food remaining untouched on your plate as you sat in the restaurant with Holly. She sighed and shook her head softly at you. You could tell by the purse of her lips and the look in her eye that she was preparing to tell you something that you likely wouldn’t want to hear. You were okay with that though because, at the end of it all, you were the one who hurt Brock. You left him in Minnesota, and while you wanted to fix it, you had to come to terms with the realization that some things are beyond repair.  

Holly set her fork down, leaning into the stroller that was sitting to the right of her. You watched as she picked up Gunnar, who was fussing. You hated that your mind instantly went to Brock. Knowing that if you hadn’t have let your fears outweigh what you felt in your heart, that he would have been it for you. You knew that. Deep down you knew that it was always supposed to be him. 

Brock poured his heart out to you that morning after in Minnesota, sharing the most vulnerable pieces of himself with you. All you gave him in return was nothing but lies, and the image of you packing your suitcase, going back to Vancouver without him. The worst part was that as soon as you stepped foot on that plane, you knew what you had done. You knew you had broken the only person you had ever loved, and you still didn’t stop yourself. 

It was like you were outside of your own body, watching as someone else sat on the tarmac, music softly playing in their headphones, head leaned against the airplane window. You left Minnesota as a different person, someone who was broken beyond belief, but it was at the hand of your own actions. 

Holly cleared her throat, bringing your head back into the moment. 

“Bo said he’s never seen him like this before and I don’t think he’ll see you, not right now.” She started, a solemn silence between you as she chose her next words carefully. You perked up at this, not knowing that Brock was back in Vancouver yet. You knew it had to be any day, with how training usually went for the team, but something about knowing he had returned and gone to Bo broke your heart even more, and you wondered if he found himself walking around the city as empty-hearted as you were.  

“You know I love you, right? You’re one of my best friends. But, what you did, If I were Brock I wouldn’t forgive you either.” It was harsh, and it stung hearing it come from her lips. But you knew she was right, and if you settled into a thought where Brock had done that to you, you probably wouldn’t give him a chance either. 

Your eyes welled up with tears. You avoided Holly’s gaze, bringing the sleeve of Brock’s sweatshirt that you were wearing up to wipe your eyes. It was the only thing of his you had managed to hang onto, something old from his rookie year, the 6 faded on the side, Boeser still clear on the back.  

“I know.” Were the only words you could seem to find, your heart feeling heavy in your chest.

“Look, Brock loves you, right? He’s so in love with you, he has been for a long time, and God knows his heart is way bigger than all of ours. Just, give him some time.” Holly said. You tried to take her words as hopeful, but you worried deep down that you were permanently destined to live a life without him, nothing but an old sweatshirt and memories of your time together. 

 Brock had been feeling like the air hadn’t returned to his lungs since you left all those weeks ago. He couldn’t stop replaying the scene in his head, rethinking over what he said if he could have changed your mind, but most importantly why he even told you how he felt at all. He knew it was a risk to lay every card he had on the metaphorical table in front of you, but after that night on the boat, he thought he knew you would feel the same. He thought he knew you, and that it would end with your hand in his for the foreseeable future. Instead, the cards blew up in the air, disillusioned by the words you spoke, words he believed because you wouldn’t lie to him. 

The worst part about it was that he wasn’t mad at you, how could he be? No person can help how they feel. A moment shared the night before, the lingering touches and your soft moans filling the room, didn’t mean to you what they did to him, and he could never have found it in his heart to be upset by that. But when you left that morning, he knew in his heart and mind that he couldn’t just go back to being friends with you. He couldn’t allow you to have any piece of him anymore, because all it did was confine his feelings back inside, shoved away for no one to experience but him. He was in love with you, and he didn’t know how to go back to being friends and make that go away. He didn’t know how to look at you without remembering how you felt beneath him, how complete he felt when his hands tangled in yours, lips exploring one another. 

Brock spent those last few weeks in Minnesota trying to piece together how his life would look without you. He became a bit of a recluse, spending most of his days out on the water with his dogs, unplugged from his phone and friends, only answering if it had something to do with work. He let himself go through the motions as if it were a breakup because, in a way, it was. Losing a friend, especially when it was you, hurt him in a way that most other losses hadn’t. 

You were there for him through every good or bad thing that had happened in his life since moving to Vancouver. Every win or loss, his injuries, every doubt he had as a rookie, every trade rumor, and every success. But it wasn’t just his career you had been there for, you were there through his life too. When he worried about his dad, you were the first person he would call. He smiled at the memories of you knocking on his door every time he felt anxious about his family, cookies, and wine in hand, ready to be the shoulder for him to cry on. You never questioned him or made him feel bad when he was upset. You just were you, and your comfort was all he needed to feel better. 

You were such a part of his routine that it took him almost two weeks to stop opening your contact in his phone, willing himself not to call you. He hated that his first instinct most mornings was to check in on you, to see how you were feeling after all of it. He grew resentful, but only at himself for his own emotions. The resentment melted into sadness as the time for him to go back to Vancouver grew closer. He didn’t know what would happen when he came back. For the first time in his career, he dreaded going back, not because he didn’t want to play, but because it meant being back in the city where every step he took reminded him of you. 

His condo felt different without your presence, and for the first time since you moved out of that building, he was grateful you no longer lived across the hall. He at least didn’t have to worry about seeing you in the elevator, or breaking his convictions and knocking on your door. 

He took his time settling back in, slowly gathering any lingering items of yours and carefully placing them into a box. He’d been through breakups before, but nothing compared to losing someone like you. When he had finally rid his apartment of your belongings, he taped the box shut and set it by the door, trying to forget about it. Sometimes Coolie would sniff it, probably recognizing your smell from the items inside. 

Brock settled into the couch, propping his feet up on the coffee table as he opened the container of takeout that Elias had brought over. He fiddled with the remote, opening up Netflix to queue up the latest episode of Gossip Girl. He patted the spot next to him on the couch, motioning for Coolie to jump up. When he did, he settled in next to Brock, on top of the grey throw blanket that was draped over the cushions.

Elias took his time in Brock’s kitchen, scanning the apartment and looking at his friend. He knew Brock was miserable, and as much as Petey loved you, his loyalties were here. He carried his takeout container in one hand, the smell of the Thai food from down the street wafting into the air, two beers in his other hand and he walked to his spot on Brock’s couch. He set the beer down on the table, glass beginning to frost from the sudden change in temperature. He leaned back, eyeing the box by the front door suspiciously. 

“What’s that?” He asked, pointing toward the object in question. Brock stiffened, glancing over where Petey was nodding toward. 

“It’s all her stuff.” he sighed, not wanting to get into the subject. Petey knew what happened, as far as Brock was concerned, they didn’t need to divulge into the details once more. What Brock needed was a distraction from all of it, and Petey was happy to be there for his friend, even finally agreeing to watch Gossip Girl, which Brock had been asking him to do for months. 

The pair sat on the couch in silence, eating and drinking while watching a few episodes of the show, before Petey left to return home, and Brock drifted into his bed. When he woke up the next morning, the box was gone. 

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It was mid-October, three months since that morning back at his home in Minnesota. The season had just started, and the rain was starting to settle into Vancouver, a grey sky covering the city most days. He found himself settling into the familiarity of life during the season, but it didn’t feel the same. He woke up most days feeling like there was a hole in his chest where his heart should be, mourning over a loss that he didn’t know how to comprehend. You were still there in his mind, and while over the last few months it had become less frequent, he still wasn’t able to go any substantial amount of time without thinking about you. 

He pulled his hood further onto his head as the rain started to come down harder. It was late morning on a rare day off. He was looking down at his phone as he pulled the door to the coffee shop open, the creaking from the worn-out wood filling the air. 

“Oh god, sorry!” A voice startled him, one that sent him spiraling down a highway of memories he had spent the last three months trying to forget. He knew it was you, the voice unmistakable. 

“Oh, uhm-” You started, and then cut yourself off. The two of you frozen there in the doorway, rain coming down. He hated every moment of this, an ache is his chest resurfacing harshly the longer time stood still with you in front of him. He looked at you, noticing that your hair was shorter, your eyes not quite as bright as they were before, a small frown settling on your features. You looked sad, and like you had been sad for a long time. 

Brock often wondered what it would be like to run into you again, after having not seen each other for months. He wondered if it would happen organically, a chance run-in like the situation he was in now, or if you would show up to some event, knowing that his friends were still yours. For the first time since everything happened, he felt a different emotion seeing you, his heart clouding his head with resentment for what you did, the anger at your actions finally bubbling through to the surface. 

You looked at Brock and saw a fragment of the boy you knew before, the one you ripped apart without a second thought, the one who invaded your dreams every night, haunting you of your past mistakes. You could have had a beautiful thing with Brock, and you let your fears overtake your mind and broke his heart in the process. You hadn’t spoken to Brock since the day you left, only hearing fragments about how he was from Holly when she was nice enough to share. She was the only one who would talk to you, the rest of your mutual friends cutting you out for what you did. You didn’t blame them, they were Brock’s family, not yours. But you couldn’t pretend that when Elias showed up with a box of your belongings, not uttering more than the words, “Brock wanted to give these back.” that your heart didn’t collapse with your body after you closed the door, letting the sobs overtake you. 

You never opened that box, not wanting to relive any of the memories trapped inside, lingering in the belongings you had left with him over the years, the gifts you had given him probably tossed haphazardly in. You knew it was what you deserved, even someone with as big of a heart as Brock couldn’t forgive you for what you did, and you had to live with the consequences of that. Instead, choosing to see him only in your dreams, or scattered around the city in memories. 

You knew living in the same area you risked the possibility of running into him again, especially since you two frequented the same places, the only difference now was that you did it alone. And while you thought about it, you never knew how it would make you feel to be in the same space as him again. It felt familiar, and almost every part of you longed to touch him, to reach out and push yourself into him and fix what you broke, but looking at him only confirmed the suspicions that you had that he wanted no part of your life anymore. 

You stood in the doorway of the old coffee shop unable to move, your coffee securely held in your hand as you took in his appearance. He looked tired, his beard had grown out more than it usually was, his eyes dull. Your heart ached to know that you caused this, that all Brock wanted was to give you the world and you ripped it out from under him.      

The moment only lasted a few seconds, with Brock turning his body away from you, no words escaping his lips as he continued into the shop, leaving you standing there on the sidewalk in the rain. Before the door shut completely, you opened it back up, figuring that if this was the only time you’d ever see him again, at least he would know that you were sorry. 

“Brock-” you tried, grabbing onto his arm. You winced softly as he shook it from your grasp, eyes cold as he looked at you. 

“I don’t have anything to say to you.” His voice was soft but harsh as he looked at you one last time, turning once again to leave you standing, stomach twisting, and eyes beginning to water. You’d never seen Brock so cold, and knowing you were the one that caused it broke you beyond belief. 

You went home that day, the image of his face as he walked away burning in your mind as you curled up in bed and let yourself cry over the boy you were still hopelessly in love with.  

Brock stood in that coffee shop for what felt like hours, agonizing over the small interaction before finally getting his coffee and leaving. He thought about it for the rest of the day, thinking of how different you looked, how you weren’t the same person he thought he knew inside and out. He thought about how maybe he was too harsh with you, seeing the broken look on your face when he said he didn’t want to talk, eyes filling with tears.  

Brock went out to his balcony, sitting on one of the chairs, a place where he often went when he needed to think. You had basically become an intruder in his mind, invading his thoughts when he desperately wanted you erased. All he could think about was the summer, your hair blowing with the breeze while you sang loudly along to the radio, driving through back roads in his hometown. You were like a time capsule he couldn’t seal, instead he saw visions of you in old photographs taken on a disposable camera dancing through his mind, one by one, each a memory of him falling more in love with you. But the thing about photographs is they fade, the ink turns a different color when exposed to heat, and his confession ended up being the heat that warped the photographs of you, turning them into nothing but what was supposed to be fond nostalgia of the girl he loved. 

He thought about you the rest of the week, living almost on autopilot as he shuffled himself from practice to games. His mind was so out of it, that he didn’t see a bad check coming from the Vegas player, sending his body curtailing toward the boards, head making contact with the ice as he fell. He managed to get up, limping back through the player tunnel to get looked at, every moment after that a blur. 

He wished it was only that night where his game was affected, but the symptoms followed through practice the next day. He wasn’t skating as fast, he was missing calls, and fumbling over drills that were normally second nature to him. His teammates and coaches all noticed, frustrated with his lack of ability to separate his personal life from the game, but also worried that his lack of focus was going to get him seriously hurt. 

Brock’s inability to disassociate from that short interaction was affecting his career, and when he spent the next game as a healthy scratch for the first time since playing in Vancouver, he was so broken that he couldn’t find the energy within himself to care. 

He shouldn’t have been surprised when Bo appeared at his front door, his six-month-old baby strapped to him, a hard but concerned look on his face as he let himself inside Brock’s condo. 

“Sure, come in,” Brock said harshly, wanting to be alone.

Bo looked around the room, walking into the kitchen to a scene he had never seen from Brock before. There were dishes piled in the sink, unopened mail piled up on the counter, empty take out bags piled up by the recycling bin. He sighed, unstrapping Gunnar from his chest and handing him to Brock. Brock reacted quickly, taking the baby boy into his arms and walking over to sit on the couch, holding him tightly to his chest. 

He distracted himself with the baby as Bo silently cleaned the kitchen. He was sitting there, letting Gunnar bite on his fingers while he waited for anything from his captain, bracing himself for what was likely to be a long conversation, especially now that Bo had taken it upon himself to clean up the mess Brock left, not bothering to do it himself. 

“You need to get your shit together,” Bo said, walking back over to the couch, wiping his hands on his jeans before holding his arms out, indicating he wanted his baby back. Brock handed over Gunnar, sighing softly as he ran a hand through his hair, unwashed for two days now. 

“And take a fucking shower, you look like shit.” He added, words harsh but true. Brock knew he was a mess, his beard growing out, hair slightly greasy, but he didn’t care. He didn’t have the energy to deal with his physical appearance, and he didn’t feel like it mattered, it’s not like he had anyone to impress lately anyways. He didn’t say anything, he just let his eyes follow his captain as he sat down with the baby. He cursed Bo for bringing Gunnar, knowing it was a calculated move to ease into what was going to be a serious conversation, he knew Brock loved babies, and that it would soften the harsh words that were probably moments from coming. 

“Look, you’re my friend above all else, I hate seeing you like this. But I’m also your captain, and it’s my job to keep your head focussed.” Bo started, Gunnar making soft noises while he spoke. Brock leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, bracing himself for the confrontation. 

“I know.” Was all he managed in response. 

“Holly had brunch with her a few weeks ago, she’s a wreck, Brock.” Bo softly said, hating seeing two people that he cared about hurting like this. While he was frustrated with Brock as a captain, wanting better from his teammate, he also realized that maybe right now Brock needed him as his friend. 

Brock’s head shot up at that, hearing that Holly had seen you. Part of him felt a weird satisfaction that you were maybe just as messed up as he was, hurting over what happened still. Brock spent most of his time wondering why he seemingly wasn’t capable of getting over you, moving on, letting it all go. You didn’t feel the same way, and while he understood that, he didn’t understand why you left the way that you did, ripping apart the friendship that had been such a stable for both of you, or so he thought. But a small part of him, one that he wasn’t proud of, was feeling smug at the fact that you were likely not entangled with anyone else, that you were just as hurt as he was. Hearing that you were a wreck and not emotionless about it at least meant that you cared about him in some capacity, that maybe the friendship at least meant to you what it did to him before it all blew up in his face. 

“Oh?” Brock questioned, unsure of if he truly wanted to hear just how bad you were doing, already feeling the guilt bubbling in his chest from moments before, his mind flashing back to the look on your face as he harshly pulled away from you, the memory causing a dull ache in his chest.

“I’m not here to tell you how to live your life, but she misses you. A lot. Holly didn’t tell me everything, and I know I don’t know fully what happened, but it might be worth hearing her out.” Gunnar started crying, interrupting Bo for a few moments while he soothed his baby, Brock mulling over the words from his friend. 

Coolie came running out of the bedroom at the sound of Gunnar’s cries, a soft plush dog toy in his mouth as he jumped up to the couch, settling in near Bo and the baby, his tail slightly wagging, ready to make Gunnar feel better. Brock’s heart rate quickened, and he hated himself for his thoughts once again turning to you, an image of you holding a newborn, Coolie next to you on the couch as you rocked the baby to sleep. It scared him how you could hurt him so badly and yet he still imagined a whole life with you that would never happen because you didn’t feel the same. 

“I don’t think it’s that simple, Bo,” Brock said, slowly beginning to feel like he could open up to someone. He hadn’t shared with anyone the true details of what happened between you, he never mentioned the night on the boat, or the morning after, simply telling them that something happened in Minnesota and you left. 

“What happened? Why did she leave?” Bo tentatively asked, hoping that Brock felt okay enough to finally let someone in. 

Brock took a deep breath, launching himself slowly into telling Bo what really happened three months ago, opening the wound that had been haphazardly stitched up with blood seeping through the bandages ever since he got back to Vancouver. Bo listened intently, never interrupting as Brock stumbled through some parts of the memories, not commenting when Brock’s voice became thick, or when he let the tears escape from his eyes, finally freeing himself of this problem he had kept locked away for months. It hurt to recount the entire event, but Brock also felt like a weight was lifting from his body as he spoke, freeing himself from the loneliness of overanalyzing each action you took and the word you said. It felt good to let someone into the mess that was his mind. 

“You need to hear her out.” Was all that Bo responded with, a serious tone to his voice as he looked over at Brock cautiously, gauging what reaction might come from those words. Brock’s eyes widened a bit, a frown still evident on his face, slight hints of surprise filling his features at what Bo said. He wasn’t sure what reaction he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t that.

“I don’t know what the outcome will be, I don’t know if it will fix things between you. But this?” Bo gestured to Brock’s state, a slight dig at his heartbroken and pathetic appearance. 

“It has to stop. It’s affecting your game, and your ability to function. So call her, figure it out, get the answers you need and either fix it or move on.” 

Brock glared at his phone that was resting on the counter. He spent the last few hours after Bo had been there cleaning up his apartment, metaphorically piecing back together some sense of normalcy. Then he took a shower, letting himself mull over the idea of calling you, wondering if you’d even pick up the phone. He trimmed his beard, not fully shaving it, blocking out that he knew you liked his beard, remembering your fingertips on his cheek before some event he took you to. The old photograph of the memory coming into view of you saying you liked how it made him look, a soft smile on your lips as you spoke, cheeks heating up from the compliments you gave. That was the first time he remembered that he realized the things he was feeling for you weren’t what a friend would feel for another friend. 

It was late fall, the Canucks annual charity dinner in full swing. You had come as Brock’s date that night, meeting most of the team for the first time. They had all heard about you before, offering knowing smiles as you entered the event with Brock’s arm around your waist. Even if Brock didn’t know how he felt, they all did. They watched as his eyes lingered on you for a little too long, how he danced with you slowly, keeping his arm securely locked on your hip as if you were the only two in the room.

Brock slowly picked up his phone, fingers tapping methodically toward your contact, something he hadn’t opened in weeks but still came naturally, a muscle memory that he never lost. He wasn’t sure if it was Bo’s words that got him to this point, or if it was him finally accepting that maybe you deserved to be heard out, but as he thought back to that first night of realizing his feelings, his mind danced through the memories fondly, them sparkling bright like the stars that night on the boat. 

You had just gotten off of an entirely too long conversation with your mother, one that had your head pounding and all you could think about was the bottle of red wine sitting on your counter and the hot bath that you were going to take. Between brunch with Holly that week, seeing Brock, and your mom, you needed to take whatever energy you had left and try to relax. You grabbed the bottle, foregoing the glass as you walked into your bathroom, turning on the water as hot as you could. Maybe if you made it hot enough, you’d feel something other than the ache in your chest. 

Seeing Brock felt like a figment of your imagination, and even though you knew you got the reaction that you deserved, that didn’t mean that it didn’t wreck the already fragmented pieces of your heart. Things had been hard since you left him in his bedroom, eyes wide in shock, heart burst and bleeding on his sleeve. You hadn’t slept in what felt like weeks, barely getting through the motions of each day, walking around Vancouver, and feeling him around you. You didn’t dare step foot far enough into downtown where Rogers Arena was, you couldn’t handle being near the building for fear of what it would do to you mentally. 

You ignored hockey completely, tuning out the team, only hearing the bits and pieces that Holly told you the few times you had seen or spoken to her. The Canucks were too much of a tie to Brock, and you couldn’t handle watching them, seeing him on the tv, so instead, you tuned it out. But none of that compared to seeing him again, at the old coffee shop you first forged a friendship with him in, the only place you still allowed yourself to sometimes go when you needed a small taste of memories of him that were happy. 

You sat in the bath until the water went cold, slowly working your way through too much wine to be acceptable for one person to drink on a Tuesday evening. You allowed yourself to cry, letting the tears silently roll down your cheeks, bubbles slowly melting away in the water, telling yourself that this was the last time you’d let yourself cry about Brock. He didn’t want anything to do with you anymore, a notion that you were now acutely aware of, his harsh words echoing in your mind with each sip coming straight from the bottle. 

You get out of the bath, tossing on a pair of soft shorts and a big t-shirt, swaying into the kitchen, in a wine drunken haze. For the first time in a long time, you felt an emotion that you didn’t think you’d ever feel, acceptance. It was okay how Brock felt, it was okay that he didn’t want to hear you out, and while you still felt regret over your decision, part of you started to come around to the idea that there would be a life without Brock. Maybe it wasn’t today, but someday you were going to be able to open up those years of memories with him and they wouldn’t hurt, they’d instead be looked at fondly. Brock saw a side of you that no one else got to, and even if it all went wrong, you don’t regret sharing just a small portion of your life with him. 

You tapped on your phone, connecting it to your speakers in your kitchen, turning on a relaxing playlist. Before you could realize what you were doing, you opened the cabinets, carefully pulling out the ingredients for baking soft chocolate chip cookies, something you hadn’t done in months. Baking used to always be your escape, but when you left Brock, even that stress and pain was too much to get you to pull out the mixer. The heartbreak you felt couldn’t be fixed with chocolate chip cookies, not this time. But, as you stood there, wine drunk in your kitchen with music playing softly, you finally felt like you could bake again. 

You were startled when the music coming from your phone stopped, the generic ringtone indicating someone was calling now coming from the speakers. You ignored it, letting the ringing continue until it sent whoever it was to voicemail, assuming it was your mom calling again, something you didn’t have the energy for. You were finally feeling somewhat okay, you didn’t need her in your ear about fixing things with Brock for the second time that day. When the phone rang a second time, and then a third, you resolved to the fact that whoever was calling must have had something important to say. 

You picked up your phone, heart in your throat as it went to voicemail a final time. You froze seeing the bubble on your home screen indicating you had three missed calls, all from Brock. His name never felt weirder to see on your screen, the emojis he put in there still present, something that used to always be on your phone but had since vanished. You couldn’t wrap your mind about why he would call, let alone call three times, but your heart feared the worst. Maybe something happened to his dad, maybe something happened to him, or the dog. You didn’t know, but when your phone lit up again for the fourth time, this time a picture of you and Brock lighting up the screen, you answered almost immediately. 

“Brock?” You said, tentatively, you didn’t know what the tone of the conversation would be, and your stomach was racing with nerves. 

“Yeah, uhm, hi. Hi.” He stuttered, clearly nervous to be calling you. 

You gulped, sitting down on the stool by the island, legs dangling down, fingers nervously tapping on the counter. The wine you drank seemingly evaporating from your system, your mind falsely clear as you took in his voice. God, you missed hearing his voice. 

“Is everything okay?” You asked, worriness present in your voice. Brock picked up on it right away, reassuring you everything was fine and that bad news wasn’t why he was calling. 

“I’m sorry about the other day.” He started, referring to your run-in at the coffee shop.

“You have nothing to apologize for, Brock.” You softly spoke, terrified if you said too much that he would remember that he was talking to you, and hang up. 

“I do, that wasn’t fair of me to treat you that way, and I’m sorry for it.” He said, his voice was firm but still soft. You could almost hear the wheels turning in his head through the phone, picturing him, probably in his kitchen at the same place you were, running a hand through his hair as he spoke. Before you could say anything in response, he spoke again,

“I was hoping we could talk if you’re up for it?” Your eyes widened at his words, something you weren’t expecting to hear from him. Not that you expected a call from him at all, but let alone an invitation to talk. 

“Now?” You asked, unsure if he meant on the phone or something else. 

“If you’re free? I uhm, I got curry, from that place you like?” He offered. You couldn’t believe how small his voice sounded on the phone, so much weight held in an offer for curry, something that used to be a routine. 

“I can’t drive, I had some wine.” You started, Brock exhaling in response.

“No, no, uhm, I can take an uber. Be there soon?” You said, not entirely confident in your voice or words but hopeful for what was to come. 

“Yeah, yeah that works. Keycode is still the same, just, come up.” He said. The conversation felt awkward, two people who had been through so much, trying to navigate the broken pieces of a love that was almost everything.  

You walked into his apartment nervously, for the first time since knowing Brock, you truly felt like you didn’t belong there. You felt as if it was something was off. Brock looked better than he did the last time you saw him, his beard was trimmed, his hair clean, and his eyes didn’t look as tired. You felt uncomfortable there, standing in his kitchen while you waited for him to speak. When he didn’t, you found yourself getting more anxious, wanting to do anything to break the silence as he looked at you. 

“Brock, how did we get here?” you asked, instantly regretting the question as soon as the words slipped fom your lips. It was a question that you already knew the answer to, because it was a situation that had the blood on your hands. 

Brock sighed, bringing a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, jumping right into the discussion that had been put off for entirely too long now. 

“It was never me that didn’t know what they wanted. I told you that I wanted you. I meant it. And you left. You let me have you for one night and you left.” Brock said, eyes watering. He was standing across the counter from you and all you could think about was pulling yourself into his arms and trying to make it better. But you couldn’t, you lost that right the second you walked out all those months ago. You wiped the tears from your cheeks, leaning a bit on the counter as you smiled sadly at him.

“Brock, I love everything about you. You make everything better. You make me love the things I hate about myself because you’re you. And you love them, why wouldn’t I want to be with you?” You felt like your head was spinning with each word that you spoke, your heart beginning to beat faster as you wished he could put himself inside of it, feeling every emotion you felt, trusting that what you were saying was the truth. You knew you didn’t deserve that trust, you could only hope that Brock would see past your mistake, and remember who you were. 

“I’ve never been in love before, not until you. All of those feelings were only for you. And there you were, giving yourself to me and it scared me. Brock, it scared me so bad that all I knew how to do was run. And I know that’s not fair, you deserve more answers than that, you deserve someone who isn’t scared. But that’s the truth, and you deserve the truth.” Your voice was cracking as you spoke, words pouring out of your chest that you weren’t sure made sense anymore. You watched Brock carefully, trying to piece together the expressions on his face that you couldn’t decipher. You felt like you didn’t even recognize him anymore, that you were just two people who knew each other years before, and you didn’t know how a few mere months could do that to two hearts that were so closely connected. 

“I just don’t understand how you can say all that, but when I told you I loved you, you left.” He said, voice cracking, tone matching yours. He ran a hand over his face, bringing his eyes to yours. He was trying to think of the right words to say, letting his mind process everything you told him. He couldn’t even focus on the fact that you just threw your heart over the table because there was a part of him that wasn’t allowing himself to believe you. 

“I never would have been mad at you for not feeling the same, but you tore apart everything. Feelings aside, you picked up our friendship and threw it overboard when you decided to leave. I would have gotten over my feelings, but you decided that wasn’t enough, and that our entire friendship no longer was worth saving.” His words were harsh, cutting you deep because you didn’t want him to think that you didn’t want his friendship. You were standing on the edge of the boat, trying to reel in all of your emotions and Brock came crashing into you like a wave in a storm, and every fight or flight instinct had you thinking the best course of an option was to throw yourself overboard. 

“Brock you were everything to me. I fell in love with you almost a year ago. You were everything I ever wanted and then it happened and it was so good that it scared me, and I fucked it all up. I let every insecurity tell me that it could never work.” Your voice breaking, desperately trying to make him believe what you were saying. If this was the last time you saw him, you needed him to know you loved him. Maybe that was selfish, but after all this time you still did, and after what you did, he deserved the whole truth.

“I just need you, to be honest with me.” Brock sighs. Your words should have been enough, and his heart and head were colliding as he tried to figure out what to do. He hated seeing you cry, he hated that he was in a way doing to you what you did to him by letting you release every feeling you had, offering next to nothing in return. But, another part of him felt like it was fair, and that he shouldn’t feel bad for making you give him answers. He spent months trying to get over you, trying to comprehend how one night made everything go so wrong, and maybe the answers would settle the battle in his heart and he could finally forgive you. 

“Honest about what, Brock? About how I’ve spent every day since thinking about how I let go of the best thing I ever had? About how I painfully relieve what it felt like landing back in Vancouver knowing you were thousands of miles away hurting because of me? About how I’m still so madly in love with you that it's just aching in my chest I can’t get rid of no matter how hard I try?”

“Did you regret it? Leaving?” Brock whispered.

“The moment I got to the airport, I haven't stopped regretting it since.” The tears were freely falling down your cheeks. You watched in confusion as Brock walked to you, coming closer than he’d been in a long time. Before you could process his next moves, he took your face in his hands, pressing your lips together in a kiss.

You responded quickly, instinctively kissing him back, it was different than last time, probably because of the intensity, both of you trying to communicate your love for each other in the moment. Brock deepened the kiss, lifting you up and setting you on the counter, hands digging into your thighs. You could feel all of him, and you wanted this feeling to last forever.

Brock pulled back, running his thumb along your cheek where a few tears were still there.

“Brock-“ you started.

“We have to do this right, I need to know you’re in, that you want to be with me. For real this time”

“I’m in, Brock. You have my whole heart if you want it.” You smiled.  

He leaned in, kissing you once more. When he pulled back, he pressed soft kisses all over your cheeks, trailing down your neck before pulling you in close to him, holding you tight. 

“I love you.” You said, unsure of if he would be ready to reciprocate, but you didn’t mind. You would wait for Brock for as long as it took if it meant that things would be okay, that you would be together. 

“I love you too, always have.” When he smiled, it was bright, eyes crinkling, cheeks slightly flushed from the shared kisses. You would do anything to keep that smile on his face all the time. 

“By the way, I owe Petey $100 now.” He laughed. 

“Oh? Why’s that.” You hummed, threading your hands through his hair. 

“He knew we’d end up together I guess.” 

“Seems like a good investment.” You teased. 

“Worth every penny.” He agreed, dipping his head down and kissing you softly once more. The feeling of his lips on yours was something you knew you’d never grow tired of, knowing that Brock was it for you, and you’d love him as long as he let you. 

[fellowstrangetownappreciator]

Curious and autistic-coded

Hello there! April draws to an end and with that I think it’s high time to hurry up and write this. What does April have to do with anything, you ask? April is the Autism Acceptance Month. So what better month to do this?

Unfortunately I didn’t make it. I failed. It’s already 1. 5. when I’m posting this. But at least I tried to deliver on time.

In this mini essay I’ll present my case about why I think the Curious brothers from TS2 Strangetown display autistic-coded traits and my personal takes on it.

It’s basically your average headcanon post but with a funny top hat!

0: Preface: What do I mean by “autistic-coded”?

When a character is coded as something, it means that they have traits that are associated with the demographics in question to make the consumer knowingly or not link the character with the demographic, although the character's "label” is never explicitly disclosed.

In the nutshell, it means that there are canonical reasons to read the characters as autistic, although you won't find the word "autism" anywhere in the game nor in the developer's commentary.

In this particular case I do believe that the developer may not even be aware of the code, as there is no evidence to suggest otherwise. If there is, I’m not aware of it and I would be happy to learn.

So, let’s start!

1: “The white male who is very good at science”

Unfortunately autistic representation in pop-culture has a long history of being rather straightforward in which traits the characters often have. This stems from the belief that autism is “a boy’s disorder” (that’s why some autism charities to this day use blue in their symbols). Among popular examples of autistic-coded characters are Big Bang Theory’s Sheldon Cooper and Death Note’s L and Near. I’m sure you can think of more but you’ll find that most of them are men and either explicitly white or racially ambiguous white-passing. They also tend to be gifted in tech, logic or other science-y activities.

There’s nothing wrong with that! Nothing wrong with being an autistic with those “stereotypical” characteristics and there is nothing wrong with people being represented. What is wrong is the monotony and afab people/people of color being underrepresented which leads (among other factors) to harder access to diagnosis and resources for those people in real life. But! That’s a topic for a different day. (and not for a simbrl, mind you)

Back to the Curiouses! I just wanted to say that autism in media is traditionally associated with characters whose gender presentation, race and interests align with theirs. Those characteristic thus make a very convenient template for autistic-coding.

2: Inconsistent performance, huge gaps between strengths and weaknesses

Pascal, Vidcund and Lazlo are very skilled Sims by default, extraordinarily even for their age. Pascal has a skill maxed while his younger brothers both near maxing theirs.

But as you can see in Pascal’s default skill panel, apart from Creativity, all his other skills are extremely low, 0 points for Mechanical, Body and Charisma, 1 point for Cooking and Logic and his second best skill, Cleaning, has only 3 points. The same situation can be observed in Vidcund’s and Lazlo’s, except their strong suits are Logic and Cooking respectively.

Huge discrepancies within performance in different cognitive areas is a common trait found in those on the autism spectrum. We’re often talking extremes here and the scale of the difference is the defining factor. Everyone has their strengths and weaknesses, it’s just in neurodivergent people those tend to be unusually noticeable.

I think that skills, simplified as they are, are the closest The Sims has to possibly simulate that because they track the character’s performance and expertise in different areas and allow comparison. In real life, of course, this comparison is not nearly as possible and exact, nor desired, but for all our analysis-loving enthusiasm, here we’re still talking fictional characters.

3: Struggle with social cues

It is widely known that one of autistic traits are difficulties with processing social situations, picking social cues and successfully replicating socially desired behavioral patterns.

But these three are Sims, are they not? They cannot possibly display this trait, since they’re programmed the same way as others.

Yes and no.

It is true that there is no specific in-game feature that would allow Sims to behave with explicit neurodivergency in mind* but with the right combination of traits they can simulate behavior that really hits close to home for neurodivergent players.

*at least not in TS2, TS3 has traits that simulate some possible neurodivergencies but their names tend to be rather... ableist unfortunate and they’re not relevant to this post since they’re not autism related, and even if they were, we’re focusing on TS2 exclusively

Let’s take look at Lazlo here. He is, indeed, a playful soul. He likes to goof around, tell jokes, make others laugh. And since he’s very close to his brother Vidcund, close enough even to Tell Dirty Joke (an interaction that needs quite a high relationship to unlock), he autonomously does just that.

And oh boy, does Vidcund disapprove.

From my personal experience playing them, their relationship usually takes quite a hit from every cheeky joke Lazlo throws Vid’s way. They usually autonomously repair it very quick but it happens often.

But that’s a standard behavior. Vidcund’s very serious, he doesn’t take well to jokes.

No. I mean technically yes, Vid is definitely a grumpy old plant dad but, at least in my game, he tends to accept Lazlo’s jokes. All kinds of them, actually, except for the dirty ones. And Pascal, who technically has even lower Playful points (0 in comparison to Vidcund’s 4), doesn’t seem to mind Lazlo’s poor attempts at grown-up humor.

But! What is it that makes Lazlo try still? What drives him to attempt to make Vidcund laugh with a dirty joke over and over again? (and fail?)

I my interpretation, Lazlo doesn’t do that on purpose, he is just really poor at evaluating “dirtiness” of a given joke and frequently misinterprets Vidcund’s cues. The animation of a dirty joke being rejected even supports that as Vid doesn’t signal his discomfort with any exaggerated easy-to-read facial expression until Lazlo gets to his punchline.

No only that but as I mentioned, the invisible lines between spicy and too vulgar are often hard to thread. I can recall many times I thought I was saying a witty quip on an “adult” topic and was met with awkward silence or someone shushing me because “that’s not how you speak in public”. I can well imagine myself in Lazlo’s shoes.

A situation of social cues being misinterpreted or ignored can be observed also in Vidcund. Programming-wise, those are just his low Niceness and extreme Shyness showing but combined they again paint a picture of a very neurodivergent-looking behavioral pattern.

He often behaves like the concept of politeness or social rules doesn’t exist because the combination of the aforementioned traits makes him come off very blunt (lecturing and shoving telescope-peepers with no warning whatsoever) and distant (having a high chance of rejecting simple small-talk socials).

(That’s Jasmine Rai casting the “Summon Vidcund” spell.)

Yes, I am fully aware that it makes a stronger case for him being an a**hole than autistic but... there’s no reason he can’t be both. Not all autistic people are sweet cinnamon buns, all personalities you can think of can be neurodiverse and, for some their neurodiversity can even amplify their inconsiderate ways, as I believe it is the case with our dear grouch Vidcund.

4. Their bios

“No matter what happens, Pascal believes there is a logical explanation for everything. In his free time, he practices home psychoanalysis and collects conspiracy theories.”

(that’s how I imagine practicing psychoanalysis looks like, sorry Freud)

“Serious and exact, Vidcund strives to fit the universe into a nice tidy package. He has an unnatural fondness for African violets.”

(let’s collectively pretend those are African violets)

“Not as studious as his older brothers, Lazlo got his degree in Phrenology. He likes to call phone psychics and spends hours trying to bend forks with his mind.”

*error: screenshot of Lazlo bending forks not found*

(but here he is hanging out with Erin Beaker, the closest thing to “calling phone psychics” you can actually do in-game)

Both Pascal’s and Vidcund’s bios point to a pattern-focused worldview with a strong emphasis on rationality as the center-point that anchors the way they understand the world around them and build their principles on. This “pattern-ization” of thinking is a common autistic trait, with rationality being a popular theme because emotions tend to be difficult to access and asses for many of us.

Lazlo’s biography is an outlier. But it still has something significant in common with those of his brothers: All three of their bios allude to a potential special interest of sorts.

Special interests as an autism-related term are very specific, in-depth and long-term hobbies or areas of expertise that make an autistic person happy and they tend to go to seemingly exhausting lengths, often at the cost of other areas of knowledge and most likely the person’s ability to talk about anything else for a long enough time. (a loving hyperbole, no disrespect meant) Mine are my characters and cats. An even more intense but a short(er)-term passion is called a hyperfixation.

Them potentially having a special interest is yet another possible autistic-coded feature.

5. Wait. Why does it matter?

Right. What does it matter if a Sim (A SIM) (or two or three) is autistic? What do I hope to achieve, pushing my autistic Curiouses agenda down your throats?

I got to write a long rant-piece about some of my favorite TS characters and I feel like I can finally die satisfied.

Apart from that and me sharing my happiness of finding some good pixels I can relate to, it is a matter of representation.

Remember by the very beginning I wrote how most of the representation our community gets in media tends to be just a one specific type of character?

And how the Curious brothers seem to fit the stereotype to a point?

There is something I omitted, something I saved for the last on purpose.

The role. The role in their story, the role in the society the piece of media portrays.

We often see neurodiverse, autistic or autistic-coded character as children, students, villains, lone savants, victims in distress, comedic relief sidekicks, either very vulnerable and needing protection, or detached and having their role defined only by their academic prowess or their special interest/profession.

What we rarely get to see them as, are... parents.

That’s what many of us autistics are or plan to be someday in the future. The dogma around autism has started to dwindle relatively recently and there are little to no examples of autistic adults being the care-givers for once in the media around us.

The Curious brothers are just that. They are chaotic, they are eccentric, they can be a little too much... but they are dutiful and loving fathers/uncles to their little aliens they raise.

They make it work. Even if they face difficulties, even if they don’t exactly fit the standard.

“Sometimes, a family truly can be three brothers raising alien babies, and it’s beautiful.”

It encourages us to define family by love rather than traditional structures and it shows us that portrait of a functional neurodiverse family we need to see.

And goodness, is it a powerful sight.

[cynic-spirit]

The Poem Series (2) “My Love is like to ice, and I to fire” - John Wick

The woman sat wit her other friends and John watched from afar. He turned back to the bar and led out a sigh. Addy takes note and finally approaches John. While wiping the bar with a small cloth she asks John:

“What has gotten the boogeyman to sigh?”

“Self-Contemplation”

“for…?”

“For daring to imagine a life”

“With her?”

“Would she?”

“If you ask her”

John scoffed. He has not asked out any woman on a date before. He never thought he is a man to be tied down. He was an assassin. He was the one who was feared. He was cold, ruthless, feared, and taciturn. How could a woman be with him. In his world he was like Hades. This woman who had just sung on stage was unaware of his life, his past, his tragedies. She had become his Persephone and like Hades, he would make her love him. He would win her heart buy offering her his. He would carve himself open and offer everything he has for her. John became stiff. His body was an outcome of years of discipline. He had a pronounced jaw, with dark beard decorating it. He imagined her with him saying his name and his body jolted. Yes, he decided. I will go and talk to her right now.

 John turns around. He looks at the table. There is no one seated at the table. The waiter is picking up the plates and glasses. John looks around with a hope to find the mystery woman named Diana. He hoped that he might catch her before she leaves. Around the entire club, he cannot find her or any of her friends. She has left. John is now restless. For a few moments, he felt he was not alone. He was honest with himself. He thought about her, he felt about her, he dreamt but now that dream is vanished. John knew that it would be difficult to win her for she is a free woman, but he knew he could never again be a free man. Her presence, the few moments with her were enough to drive him to madness and bring the boogeyman to his knees. John finished his whiskey and asks Addy

“Did you see where she went?”

“No. I was talking to you”

“Do you know who she is?”

“I haven’t seen her here before. Perhaps she is new to the place? What are you thinking John?”

“Her name she said was Diana”

“Yes.”

“She didn’t tell her last name.”

“No. She didn’t. You seem smitten John” Addy finally teased him.

“No Addy. I am not smitten. I am just curious” With this, John gets up and leaves.

John had never been a man of many words. He has never spoken much to anyone. He knows in his heart that he is not just curious. The moment he saw her, heard her, a part of him walked out of his body and wrapped itself around her, and there it still remains. How will he find her in this vast city. There are so many women named Diana. He cannot take the resources of the High Table for anyone who interests John will become a target for his enemies. He cannot risk his beloved’s life. He will find her himself. John’s determination however gets riddled with doubt when he thinks, what will he say or do when he finds her. John has not been trained for this. He is confident in his abilities as an assassin but it is not what is needed now. John further thinks, if he asks her, if she agrees, if they are together, what will he say he does for a living. Would he tell her the truth? Would she accept it? She will be repulsed by him, or worse, she will be scared of him. He does not want to lie to her. No. He will not lie to his beloved. He sat in his car and goes to his house.

John’s house is away from the city. He is a private man. He is serios and stoic and rarely speaks more than necessary. He prefers actions over words. His home is a place where can be what he is for real, John. It is a place where is just John. Even his dog, a black pit-bull, is called as just “dog”. John changes his clothes and goes to his basement. He needs some time with his hobby. John enjoys book-binding. He got into book binding from the orphanage he was in. He found restoration and binding of books, soothing, peaceful. With each book he bound, he felt as if he restored part of himself. Through many books that he restored, he was able to find a sanity that resulted in him falling hard for a woman whom he barely knew. John smiles as he binds the first edition of Pride and Prejudice. He thinks about the woman named Diana and does not know whether he is regretful that she didn’t sleep with him or charmed by her singing. Every cell in his body for telling him that she was his happily every after. John puts in the finishing touches on the book and keeps it with the others. John then goes to sleep thinking of her.

It is a new day and John is now up. After having breakfast, and feeding Dog, John has decided to go to the bookstore. It is not so much a bookstore as an antique store. John often takes books from this place and restores them. The shopkeeper, Harold, knows John. More than his name, John, Harold also knows the Boogeyman. John takes a look into the shop for other old books. As he looks around he recollects the innocent face that he came across the previous night; The innocent face with that heavenly voice. The small interaction between John and Diana can hardly be called a meeting but she etched herself in John’s mind. She has tattooed herself on his heart. Yes, John was sure that he was in love with her. Unconsciously, John picks up an old book. It’s a poetry book, and on one of the pages John reads,

My Love is like to ice, and I to fire:

How comes it then that this her cold so great

Is not dissolved through my so hot desire,

But harder grows the more I her entreat?

It was a poem from Edmund Spenser. John does not understand much of poetry or literature ut somehow those lines intrigued him. He wondered what were they about. Lost in his thoughts, John keeps looking around the shop when the sound of the bell on the shop door rings. John leaves out a sigh. Another customer, he thinks. John is not a fan of crowds or people. He is a loner. He sighs. He will come at a later time. He is about to leave when he hears a voice, a very familiar voice, the same voice that has consumed him for the past few hours.

“Hello. Do you have the first edition of The Little Prince?”.

For a few moments, John is in disbelief. Is fate suddenly kind to him? Should he test it? With reluctance and hesitation, John turns and thanks to all the powers in the universe. It was her. It was her, standing on the counter, talking to Harold.

“I have been looking for the book all over. I checked a few other antique shops. DO you have it?”

“Let me check”

Harold goes around to check for the book, as she, the woman who had captured John Wick’s heart stood on the counter waiting, while John stood again in a fix. He has another chance. Should he take it, Should he talk. John is about to talk to her when Harold returns.

“I am sorry, we don’t have it.”

“Oh. Its okay. It’s a hard edition to find. Anyway, thank you.”

With that Diana turns around and faces John. John swore that he would never let those eyes lose their sparkle.

“Hi. John Wick, right?”

“Yes”

“I am..”

“Diana” John interrupted, earning a smile from her and he knew, he would kill another hundred people to see her smile that way again.

“Yes. That’s right. Fancy seeing you here.”

“I could say the same thing”

“I am just looking for a book. Do you live around ?”

“Yes a few blocks away”

“Oh my! And who is this little guy” Diana comes closer to Dog and scratches him behind his ear, earning a whine and woof.

“this is dog”

“Might I say, its an apt name”

“I loved your song yesterday”

“oh. Thank you. It was better than the other thing. I am not usually that forthright with men”

“do you sing professionally?”

Diana blushed and John’s heart raced. “No, I teach literature. Music is just something I enjoy”

Diana’s attention goes to the book John has in his hand. She observes that he has put a finger on one of the pages. She cannot resist and asks.

“What have you got there John?”

“Just some random book I picked up”

“Looks like an anthology of poetry, may I see it?”

“Yes Of Course”

John extends his arm to give the book to Diana. She takes it carefully, not mixing up the page that was opened by John’s finger. As she took the book, Johns hand brushed against hers. John closed his eyes momentarily. Her skin next to his skin, He has had women before, in all ways, in all forms, but when was the last time he was touched? He wondered. The one second that his hand brushed with hers, John knew what he craved. He craved her mouth, her voice, her hair. He was silent and starving. He used to prowl through the streets, and he realized its not the food or money of the killing that would nourish him now. Dawn and dusk disrupt him. He now craves the nourishment of his soul that he will find only through her. He is hungry for her sleek laugh. He is hungry to become the reason for it. He has been pacing around like a hungry, deprived, soulless body all through his life. She was his rain and his harvest. John could go on but he was brought to reality when he heard the voice.

“You are reading Spenser.”

“It is a random page. I don’t even know what it means.”

“would you like to know?”

“know what?”

“What the poem says”

“Yes”

Diana slowly reads the first four lines again. My Love is like to ice, and I to fire:How comes it then that this her cold so great Is not dissolved through my so hot desire, But harder grows the more I her entreat?. She almost whispers the last line. Then she looks up at John and says,

“ its about two lovers John. The poet says that he is like “fire” inside, but his love is comparable to “ice”. Mainly because he is unable to express his love the way he wants to. When he says, But harder grows the more I her entreat We realize that the two lovers are fundamentally very different people. But then the love of the man is so great that it will not stop them from coming together. Spenser is laying that love has the power to change everything. It has the power to alter anyone’s life”

 John could not believe what just happened. Was this fate carving him a path towards this woman. He did not open this poem. He has not read poems in his life and when he opened the opened a random book, it was a poem about love and lovers that expressed his feelings like he never could.  John’s heart raced. Yes, he decided. He will pursue this woman. He doesn’t know how, but he knows he will bring the worlds together to win her heart. Finally he spoke.

“its beautiful”

“Yes it is”

“I am not a very talkative person”

“I can see that John. Do you want me to leave you be”

(No never. Consume me, set fire to me. Burn me with your words, your voice, your presence. Take every bit of me, destroy me, build me and destroy me again. Consume me like the fog engulfs the city. Consume me like death devours the soul. You are what resides before, beyond and betweeneverything I am now. I am only a fragment of your magic John thought, but he just looked down, smiled and said)

“Would you like to go for a cup of coffee?”

[mae-gi-writes]

It’s Okay Not To Be Okay | Kevin Moon (TheBoyz)

You call Kevin in the middle of the night when you can’t deal with the sadness consuming your entire being. 

Genre: Angst, lil fluff, inspired by my personal feelings tbh 

For all those who are away from their loved ones due to the pandemic. Be strong, we’re in this together, and I love you. 

----

“Hello?”  I know without asking that Kevin is half-asleep, barely awake from his slumber, and I feel like kicking myself for disturbing him in the middle of the night. 

“Hello?” he repeats, his voice a little clearer, a little stronger. I hear his sheets ruffling on the other end of the line and picking up what is left of my courage, I murmur out a soft: 

“Hi.” 

There’s a distinct pause. Then: “Y/N? What’s wrong?” 

I hear the panic in his voice, the way it hitches a tone higher than his usual mellow alto. A rational thought in the back of my mind is screaming at me for bothering my boyfriend when he obviously has better things to do, but my heart seems to be thinking otherwise. I open my mouth to give him a somewhat coherent answer, only for a choked sob to make it out instead. Instantly without warning, my heart cracks open and no sooner have I provided him with a response that my eyes start flooding with tears.

“I’m okay,” I murmur when it’s obviously clear that I am not. Even a deaf person would’ve figured out my blatant white lie. There is some more shuffling, probably Kevin tugging his blankets away to sit up in bed, and my hand clamps over my mouth in an attempt to stop the onset of tears spilling down my cheeks in silent rivers. 

“Y/N,” Kevin breathes, “What’s wrong? Don’t--Don’t cry. Please don’t cry. Talk to me, hm?” 

“Everything,” my words barely make sense amidst the endless sniffles, my heart aching like someone is insistently throwing punches without mercy, “Everything is just--just so wrong.” 

His attempts to shush me only make me cry harder and my head dips down in shame, as though trying to make myself appear a little smaller. I hate having to rely on him, hate the fact that he sees me in my most ugliest state when all he ever does is bring me happiness and laughter. He’s the definition of joy itself and sometimes, I just wonder why someone that walks on sunshine as he does bothers to love someone like me, someone who is nothing but a pack of broken bones and a mess of feelings that constantly seem flooded by a permanent sadness. It’s a stain that never seems to come off no matter how much you try rubbing it raw.

The thought makes me cry even harder, heart squeezing inside my chest so hard that it hurts to breathe, gasps spilling from my lips every time I try to regulate my breaths. 

“Hey hey,” Kevin’s tone is soothing, soft, “Y/N, listen to me. Y/N?” 

“It--” the words break halfway out of my mouth. My body shudders, my breath rattles, “It hurts, Kevin. It hurts so much and I, I don’t--I don’t know how to make it stop.” 

“It’s going to be okay,” he responds, followed by a soft shushing, “you’re okay. Breathe with me, alright? I got you. Breathe with me.” 

While I struggle to even comprehend what he’s asking of me, I force my brain to focus on the comforting tone of his voice, on his words and nothing else while trying not to get distracted by the constant endless whisperings of my demons on my other shoulder that are tugging me further and further into sadness. There’s a dull pounding in between my heartstrings where my heart is supposed to be, but still, I close my eyes and breathe in, shaky and unstable, before following his lead through the phone.

My fingers are clutched so hard around my device as if it’s my life line.

In, out. In and out. In. And. Out. 

“You’re alright,” he says softly, words caressing my soul, “You’re okay, Y/N.” 

How in the world can someone so far away manages to calm me down with mere words is a complete mystery. But soon enough, my sobs have died down into soft sniffles, hiccuping every once in a while. And he waits, waits patiently as I try to gather myself, before speaking up once more.

“You want to talk about it?” 

Do I? Do I want to keep pestering him when he’s been nothing but supportive? Do I really want to drag him down with me to the depths of the waters I constantly swim in? 

It’s like he knows that my thoughts are battling themselves out inside my skull, for he says, “Stop overthinking it, Y/N. Just tell me. Please?” My stomach clenches with guilt. It’s not fair to him, to be put in such a situation. He didn’t sign up for this.

“It’s just--” I bite my lip and my hand unconsciously fists through my hair before I tug at my locks, “I just--I’m just sick of all this waiting. And I’m tired of constantly being sad. I hate--I hate being like this. I don’t want to be like this,” I shake my head as a fresh set of tears brim the corners of my eyelids, “I’m sorry,” I murmur in an attempt to restrain the wave of pain crashing through my body, “I’m sorry, Kevin. I don’t know what’s wrong--”

“Stop.” 

My mouth snaps shut.

“Stop saying sorry,” he says fiercely, all softness gone to be replaced by an intensity that causes me to wince, “stop saying sorry for being sad, Y/N. Being sad is normal, anyone would be in your shoes, far away from family, without knowing when borders are going to reopen, stuck in a country you can’t even call home...Of course you’re going to be sad, and you’re allowed to. You are allowed to be sad, Y/N.” 

I clamp down on my lips so hard to restrain my emotions that I draw out blood.

“And I don’t know if that makes you feel better but,” he exhales in a soft breath, “I miss you too, you know?”

I squeeze my eyes shut as another tear rolls down my cheek to follow the path that’s already carved out by so many others. Gratefulness rushes through my chest, mixed in with intense affection that clogs the back of my throat. 

“I miss you so much,” he continues in a rushed breath and if I didn’t know better, I would’ve sworn that he’s trying to hold in the tears as much as I am. 

“I--” I swallow thickly, “I love you.” 

A soft chuckle, surprising but present, slides past his lips, followed by another deep sigh, “I love you too.” 

I close my eyes and allow the words to wash through my heart and soothe the ache in my chest. 

It seems like minutes, but the time flies as we continue our light, soft-spoken conversation until I finally feel like I can breathe again and that the knot inside my chest slowly loosens. Soon, I find that it’s easier to smile, chuckling at his jokes, laughter spilling more easily from my lips. It’s past four in the morning when he finally urges me to get some sleep, while claiming that he really doesn’t fancy a zombie for a girlfriend.

“I hope you’re eating properly,” he scolds jokingly, “I don’t want to see you losing more weight.” 

“I won’t,” I roll my eyes, “I eat well, okay?” 

“That’s what you always say, but I don’t trust you,” he sighs dramatically and causes me to giggle softly, “there it is, there’s the laugh that I love.” 

My heart warms, like he’s just given me the warmest hug in the universe despite being hundreds of miles away.

“You’re so stupid,” I can’t stop myself from grinning. 

“I prefer the word ‘ditzy’,” he responds, “anyway, go sleep. It’s late.” 

“Okay,” I murmur.

“Hey,” he pipes up suddenly just when I’m about to say goodnight, “I love you.” 

“I love you too, Kevin.” 

“We’ll see each other soon, yeah?” 

A sting resounds through my chest at the thought. I hope so. 

“Soon.” 

[wingsofkpop]

Hiraeth - I.I: Stay

pairing(s): Hybrid!Im Jaebeom x Reader, Witch!Mark Tuan x Reader, Werewolf!Jackson Wang x Reader, Vampire!Park Jinyoung x Reader, Supernatural!Got7 x Reader

genre: Supernatual!AU, Dark Magic!AU, Angst, eventual Smut

warning(s): Mature languages, descriptions of death and murder, violence, graphic depictions of fighting, blood and gore, mentions of traumatic experiences, etc.

word count: 6k

synopsis: How far are you willing to go to find out the truth about Moon Dye Bay?...

chapter directory

Once upon a time there was a lone seamstress who lived inside a little house in the woods. Few knew of her existence, and even fewer knew of her name, for outside the safety of the forest, the world and its inhabitants were cruel and corrupt. To relieve the weight of her loneliness, the seamstress sat on her roof every night to speak to the moon as it traveled across the black sky. She spoke to the moon about everything, from the rushing of the river current after a spell of rain to the plumpness of the round, ripe peaches that arrived in the summer, and when she ran out of elements of reality, she turned to ones of fantasy instead. She told the moon stories of massive dragons who breathed butterflies with wings of jewels instead of fire and planets where the seas were composed of golden honey and tall mountains of glass. 

The moon fell in love with the seamstress and her fairy tales, for she was just as keen for a companion. She loved the seamstress so much that one night per cycle, when the ocean tides were at their lowest, she would leave her nightly perch and join the seamstress on her roof. No one knew of the true nature of their relationship, whether they were friends, lovers, soulmates, but that did not matter, for the moon loved the seamstress, and the seamstress loved the moon in return. 

In order to show her love, the moon gifted the seamstress one of her brightest stars from the night sky. Upon consuming the star, the seamstress was blessed with abilities beyond imaginable: Gifts to heal creatures long past the point of decay. Talents in skill, wit and knowledge that surpassed the most brilliant scholars. And most notably, the miracle of eternal life. 

Outsiders soon caught word of the immortal seamstress who lived in the little house in the wood, and some sought to steal her and the moon’s power for their own gain. On a night when the moon was at its fullest, a band of malicious villagers stormed the seamstress’s home right on the very roof where she sat. The moon, unable to intervene, watched the villagers kill the one she loved. In a final attempt to best the attackers, the moon shattered the seamstress’s soul into pieces, which had become one with the star, and scattered them across the world. To this day, the ruins of the seamstress’s house still stands deep within the forests of time. On nights when the moon disappears from the night sky, some say that if one listens close enough, sobs and wails can be heard from the roof of the little home where the moon mourns her lost companion. 

Many have tried, but it is impossible to gather enough shards of the seamstress’s spirit to recreate the full power of the gifted star. It is said a piece of her soul resides inside all of us. Though in some, the magic is more prominent than others… 

☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ 

“—and then she started getting all defensive over it.” You hold back a sigh at Jihyo’s huff, not desiring to make your roommate and close friend aware that her over-the-phone rant is draining what little sanity remains within your mind. To be honest, you actually lost track of the conversation a couple blocks back, and have little clue over who she’s complaining about. Probably yet another one of Sana’s douchebag crushes “Like, I get you like him and all, but the dude’s literally an asshole. I mean, he’s stood her up how many goddamn times, and not to mention, the whole thing with Chaeyoung— 

“(Y/N)? Are you even listening?” You immediately snap from whatever headspace your consciousness slipped into at the change in Jihyo’s tone. Your hand raises to wipe the drowsiness of a twelve-plus-hour day from your eyes as you speak for the first time since you left the university: 

“Not really, honestly.” You finally release the breath in your lungs, “It’s… It’s been a long day.” 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Jihyo scolds, “You know you’re free to hang up on me anytime I get too fired up. Or at least snap me out of it.” 

“I know,” You peer at both sides of the street before making your way across, pulling your jacket tighter around your body to fight the chilly, night air. “Like I said, it’s just been a long day.” 

“You can tell me all about it over some take-out, sound good?” 

“Sounds great. I haven’t eaten much today.” 

Jihyo’s grumble emerges over the line, earning an amused chuckle from your own chest. You can hear her yell something to most likely Sana, your other roommate, in the background before returning with yet another scold, “You’re in serious trouble now, (Y/N) (L/N). What have we said about skipping meals?” 

“I was busy today!” You protest, unable to hold back the smile that spreads along your lips at your friend’s mother-like nagging.

“That is no excuse!” A couple muffled sounds carry over the line, along with a hushed, inaudible conversation between Jihyo and another person. You cross another street and round the corner, preparing to cut through your usual shortcut to your apartment building, when Jihyo finally returns, “I hope you’re okay with Thai because apparently Sana’s going to die if she doesn’t get her Mango Sticky Rice...”

“I’m okay with that. You know my usual?” 

“Do you know who you’re talking to?”  

You chuckle, “Fair enough. I’ve got maybe another ten minutes until I’m home. Try not to let Sana eat all the food before I get there.” 

“No promises. See you soon, babe.” 

You hum a wordless farewell in response before lowering your phone from your ear to end the call. Without the buzz of the line and your friend’s voice to fill the silence, you finally notice how quiet and empty the streets seem. During the hours of the day, the town is usually packed with people meandering out and about in the bay’s usual nice weather. Without the sunshine, however, the nights can get rather cold, and by missing your bus, you’re experiencing that fact firsthand. 

You can feel goosebumps emerging across your skin underneath your clothing as you traverse further down the path, a flickering, lone streetlamp your only guide through the darkness. The alleyway in which you usually cut through gapes on your left, but before you enter the narrow passage, you pause to peer over your shoulder. While it wouldn’t be the first time your paranoia has emerged for little reason, considering your track record of life experiences, the sight of shadows and stillness does nothing to ease the eerie sensations creeping along the back of your neck. 

Passing the strange feeling off to the cold, you finally step into the pitch black of the alleyway, taking quicker and longer steps out of pure instinct. You pilfer through your bag, wanting to find your phone again to light your path, but as per usual, it seems to have dropped to the very bottom of the bag’s contents. A silent groan rumbles from your chest at the discovery that you’ll have to continue through the dark, or at least until you reach the opposite end of the alley. Hopefully there’s no rats or bats or—

Your entire body jumps at a loud clatter that sounds from behind. You quickly pivot on your heel to investigate the sudden noise, finding nothing but darkness, darkness and more darkness. 

“H-Hello?” Your call bounces between the brick walls of the alleyway, echoing back inside your ears. You swallow, with your throat as tight as your chest, and call again. The only sound that answers is the violent racing of your pulse and your shaky breaths. Clutching your bag closer to your chest, you begin to walk backwards while keeping your eyes trained toward the entrance you only moments before came through. The idea seems ideal, that is, until your foot catches a divot and your form collapses onto the pavement. 

It takes you a moment to recover from the fall, but you’re quick to grab one of the stiletto heels from your foot and arm yourself with as best a means of defense as you can manage. You carefully rise, shuddering as another clatter sounds from somewhere in the alley. Your eyes dart through the darkness, searching for a shadow that moves more than the rest. After maybe another minute of silence, with your makeshift weapon still in hand, you rush toward the exit of the passageway. 

A breath of relief leaves your lips as you enter a level of light where your hand is no longer a silhouette in front of your face. Using the lamp post as support, you reach down to grab the second heel from your other foot and toss it inside your bag while its twin remains prepped just in case. You can survive walking the last three minutes to your building barefoot. All else be damned. 

Just as you’re about to resume your walk home, something grabs the back of your scalp, and using the roots of your hair as assistance, yanks you back into the dark alleyway. You immediately fight back, swinging your arm as hard as you can to stab the assailant with your heel. Obviously taken off guard, the figure surrenders its hold on your hair and provides the opportunity for you to stab him again. It releases a blend of something between a groan and a growl, grabs your wrist and quite literally, launches you deeper into the darkness. 

Your body connects with a brick wall with a violent thud, stealing every ounce of breath from your lungs. You try to clamber to your hands and knees, but your right arm throbs and goes completely limp at the movement. You curse at the broken bone, but still manage to bring yourself to stand. No sooner are you on your feet, the figure, who you briefly forgot about, shoves and pins your back against the wall with a hand around your throat. 

“G-get off…!” You sputter, using your good arm to claw at its face. With speed and strength that’s mostly definitely not human, it keeps your flailing body pressed against the brick surface, yanks your arm out of the way and harshly tilts your head to the side. A loud scream sounds from your lips as binding pain erupts from your neck. Warm blood slips down your flesh like raindrops, staining the collar of your shirt crimson red. The pain is so fierce, it disorients your mind and numbs the remainder of your physical strength, leaving no room for you to fight back any longer. 

Your vision begins to grow blurry, partly from tears and partly from the painful fogginess exhausting your brain. For a moment, you wonder what will kill you first: The blood loss, the excruciating pain, or the knowledge that your life in itself is slowly slipping from your fingertips. 

You are going to die. The thought repeats itself like a broken record on repeat. You are going to die without seeing your students again. You are going to die without seeing Jihyo and Sana and all your friends again. You are going to die right here, in this dark alley, from a brutal monster that came straight out of hell. 

Just when you’re on the cusp between consciousness and unconsciousness, the figure is torn away, leaving your body to collapse to the ground. Muffled sounds of what seem to be barbaric snarls and roars spill into your ears, followed by the obvious snaps of breaking bones. Through the pitch black, you can almost make out a human-like silhouette approaching your grounded figure. 

The last thing you remember before you slip underneath the waves of exhaustion is the gentle touch of bloody hands and a soft murmur of your name. 

☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ 

Familiar faces mill about the confines of the graveyard, some as bystanders, whispering rumors behind yellow-taped borders, and some as pursuers, tiptoeing around the grounds as if one wrong step will shatter the tense atmosphere like glass. From his perch leaning against a nearby tree, Mark watches the coroner zip up the black body bag with a blank expression set across his features, contradicting the cloud of sorrow suffocating the means of his soul. Even with the corpse out of sight, he can remember her face—the still-rosy cheeks, the icy touch of fingertips, the unseeing eyes…  

The coroner rises to his feet, shaking his head before turning to speak to the town sheriff beside him. Mark continues to observe as both investigators engage in a brief conversation. As if sensing his gaze, they simultaneously turn to peer his way. Mark quickly turns his eyes elsewhere and abandons his post. He heads in the direction of the crypt, attempting to push the persistent, vulgar images out of mind. 

“Mark! Hang on!” His steps halt at the frenzied call of the sheriff, providing the opportunity for the older woman to approach. She offers him an apologetic smile and an affectionate pat on his forearm. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask you anymore questions.” 

“Good. Don’t think I have anything much else to say.” The sheriff doesn’t reply to his weak attempt at humor, instead mapping out the very extent of his face. Trying his hardest to keep his features neutral, Mark stares right back at the female officer—the last thing he needs is to break down right then and there. 

After another moment of silence passes, the sheriff finally speaks, “How are you doing, Mark? Really?”  

“How do you think I’m doing, sheriff?” Mark releases a sigh, “One of my friends is dead.” 

“I know.” She also expels a deep breath, running a hand through her long, brunette tresses. Her grip stiffens just slightly, enough to be able to feel her skin trembling against his. “I wish I could say something to make it better, but I can’t believe it myself—” She chuckles scornfully, “Do you have any idea who—or what, would do this?” 

“We’re trying to figure that out.” Mark replies, “Some of us are… taking it pretty hard.” 

“Until then, you and everyone else have to be careful.” 

Mark shakes his head, “Sheriff—” 

“I mean it, Mark,” The sheriff squeezes his arm so tight that Mark wonders if it will bruise. “Whoever did this knew what they were doing, and they knew what she was. Promise me that you’ll keep on your toes?” Flashes of her lifeless body overtake the forefronts of his brain even before he can help it. He hates how his stomach twists at the memory of that foreboding symbol carved into his chest—right next to the confines from where her heart was torn.  

“I promise.” 

“Good.” A breath that Mark didn’t even know he was holding escapes his lungs as the sheriff removes her hand. “Let me know if you find anything. I’ll keep in touch.” 

“Thanks, sheriff.” The sheriff doesn’t say another word, only lays one final pat on Mark’s shoulder before taking off after a group of officers hauling the body bag into the back of a large van. Mark watches as she goes, unable to shake off the feeling of her quivering fingers until she’s out of sight. 

Ignoring the staff mopping the blood-stained gravel pathways, Mark resumes his journey up the steps and inside the tall, white-marbled mausoleum. To anyone on the outside, the structure just seems like a normal place to house a passed loved one, but to the specific few, it’s so much more. The coziness of the inside somewhat eases the anxiety flowing through his veins, welcoming the warmth the flames in the fireplace provide. He gazes around the one-room building, past towering bookshelves stuffed with ancient grimoires and cabinets lined with jared materials of all kinds, until his eyes settle on a second figure standing at the lectern placed in the center of the room, flipping through the yellowed pages of a ragged book. 

“Any luck?” Mark asks, making his way through the cluttered space beside his busy companion. Youngjae glances up from the tome that’s pretty much falling apart, and sullenly shakes his head. 

“Nothing. I tried to track her blood—” Youngjae gestures to a map on a nearby table, its surface decorated with spreading crimson lines and swirls, “—but it’s weird. The trail doesn’t go anywhere. It just…doesn’t stop.” 

“What about that mark? Anything on that?” 

“I’ve gone through everything we have on runes, symbolism, hieroglyphics, but there’s nothing that even remotely resembles what was on her chest.” Youngjae pauses, hesitant to speak the words on the tip of his tongue, but with a glance at Mark, he continues, “...It’s like whoever, or whatever killed her doesn’t exist, hyung. There’s literally nothing.”  

“Shit—” Mark curses, pinching the bridge of his nose with a huff, “There can’t just be nothing! There has to be something—!” 

Youngjae shakes his head, “I don’t know what to tell you…” The younger watches as Mark picks up his book. He flips through a few pages before slamming the cover shut with more force than necessary. A moment of silence aside from the sounds of their breathing passes until it is broken by Mark’s yell as he launches the text across the room, knocking over a collection of stacked artifacts. 

“Hyung—” 

“One of our people is dead, Youngjae!” Youngjae flinches at the elder’s harsh tone, watching helplessly as he shoves a pile of grimoires across the mausoleum floor. “And we have no fucking clue who killed her and why they did it! What if they come back, huh!? What if they come for you next!? Or Lia!? Or Jisung or—” Mark’s angered tangent falls quiet at the shrill call of a cell ringtone. Mark retracts his phone from his pocket, and with a composed sigh, answers the device and lifts it to his ear. 

Youngjae watches Mark’s face carefully as it shifts from annoyance to confusion to absolute anguish. He tries to inquire about the subject of the phone call, but Mark only lifts his finger in warning. After a couple cool replies, Mark mumbles a less-than-pleasant farewell and disconnects the line. One of his hands lift to push back the strands of his dark hair while the other frantically reaches for his jacket: 

“(Y/N)’s in the hospital. Fuck, I have to—” 

“Go, hyung.” Youngjae hums, “I’ll see if I can find anything else.” 

Mark’s composure softens. Guilt begins to flow through his veins as he recalls the harsh tone he previously directed at his younger companion. Guided by his emotions, Mark reaches forward to squeeze at Youngjae’s bicep, similar to the sheriff’s actions minutes before. He murmurs, “Thank you, Youngjae.” Youngjae only nods, bending down to begin clearing the remnants of Mark’s wrath as said figure heads out the door.

The forensic team is still cleaning the blood as Mark makes his way toward the exit of the graveyard. 

☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ 

The first color you see when you open your eyes is white, playing more into your assumptions that you’re currently in the beginning stage of the afterlife. As more and more of your consciousness and common sense return to your brain, the puzzle pieces of the strange situation slowly begin to slide into place. You’re not floating in a cloud at all—but in fact, laying on the most uncomfortable bed known to man. You groan, forcing yourself to sit up as to collect more clues to your surroundings. 

A soft murmur of your name and set of hands on your shoulders takes you completely off guard. Immediately, memories of your encounter with the violent creature invade your brain like water to dry soil. You flail your limbs wildly, attempting to defend yourself against the unknown figure with each kick and punch. 

“(Y/N), hey! Calm down!” The stranger seizes your wrists before you can knock his eye out, tugging your arms to rest on your lap. It’s painfully aware that his strength outmatches your own, so you make no other attempts to use force—also partly due to the gentle tone of his voice. You allow the stranger to guide your upper body back to lay down on the bed, using the  opportunity to peek at his face:

The man is despicably handsome to the point his features seem to be sculpted by the gods themselves. His face is long, with a jawline that is sharp enough to slice your finger if you were to reach up and touch the structure. You can’t tell which is more alluring, between his dark, almond-shaped eyes, or his full, rose lips. Then again, the jet black, fluffy hair atop his head is also a close third…or the milky canvas of his strong neck—

“...(Y/N)?” When the stranger speaks again, you notice a strange lilt to his voice, almost like an accent of some sorts. But like the figure himself, you can’t place where you’ve heard such a figment of speech.  “...Can you understand me?” 

“I’d hope so.” You murmur blankly, “What am I? A fucking alien?” 

The stranger’s lips curl in amusement at your retort. He pulls a lone chair closer to your bedside, not once breaking his gaze from your own. You ignore the strange shivers that crawl down your spine as he takes a seat, leaning forward to rest his forearms atop the edge of your mattress. Through the corner of your eye, you notice the multitude of wires connecting your arm to the machines stationed on the opposite end of the bed—so you’re not dead. What a relief. 

“You’re in the hospital—” 

“Figured that out already, pal.” You sigh, rolling your head back into the pillows and allowing your eyes to slip shut. The act does little to calm the storm occurring inside your mind, so frustratedly, you open them again and instead, peer at your unfamiliar companion with a raised eyebrow, “Pardon my French, but who the fuck are you and why are you here?” 

Before the stranger can settle the confusion bubbling through your entire body, a knock sounds from the door a few feet away. It slides open to reveal a woman in a white coat with a clipboard and pen in hand. With a sweet smile across her face, the doctor enters the room to approach your position on the bed. 

She outstretches a hand, “Hi, (Y/N). I’m Dr. Yoo Jeongyeon. I heard you had a pretty rough night.” Too lost inside bewilderment, you accept her formal greeting without saying a word. Dr. Yoo pays no mind to your silence, instead checking the machines at your bedside. “You should be glad Jinyoung found and brought you here.” She finishes recording the results of the pacemaker before requesting you to sit up for a moment. You do so, looking straight ahead as she checks your eyes. “You suffered a nasty concussion—”  She switches off the light, “—so how do you feel?” 

“I feel…” Your voice fades before you can give a complete answer. It’s not that it wasn’t an easy question—it’s the fact that right now, you feel great… The best you’ve felt in the past couple years as a matter of fact! But that doesn’t make any sense, especially with what you remember from the alleyway. There was blood… and you’re pretty sure your arm was broken too…

“It’s okay to be a little out of sorts. Especially after hitting your head and knocking yourself out.” Dr. Yoo assures, marking something down on her clipboard before nodding, “Everything looks great, but we’re going to keep you here for the rest of the night just as a precaution. You’re free to go home first thing in the morning.” 

“Wait, I swear I—” 

“Please let one of the nurses know if you need anything else. I’ll see you in the morning.” You watch as Dr. Yoo bids both you, and the man called Jinyoung, a brief goodnight and exits out the same door she came through only minutes ago, leaving your thoughts swirling with even more questions than before. 

You shake your head, “I didn’t fall though. I was attacked.” 

“Like she said, you hit your head pretty hard.” Jinyoung shrugs, “Your memory is probably a bit off.” 

“That’s not—no.” His face grows visibly surprised at the drop in your tone, but still retains his usual neutral aura. “I know what I saw.” 

Jinyoung releases a heavy, almost annoyed breath before climbing to his feet. More shivers attack your helpless body as he leans forward, diminishing the distance between the two of you until his nose is only centimeters from brushing your own. You can taste the mint of his breath as he speaks. Calm, collected, and slow: 

“You fell and hit your head. Nothing else happened.” Amongst his strange words, you can’t help but notice the rather unusual behavior of his eyes. The ring of his chocolate, brown irises disappears as his pupil grows three times its normal size before shrinking down to a nonexistent dot—you don’t like the familiar ghost of paranoia breathing down the back of your neck. 

“What the hell is wrong with your eyes?” 

For the first time, actual emotion lifts to Jinyoung’s face in the form of pure disorientation. He lurches backward, as if finally realizing how uncomfortably narrow the distance was between the two of you, and clears his throat. Although it’s probably a trick against the bright, alabaster background, you swear you saw his eyes once again flash to black. 

  “Nothing. It’s the lighting.” He manages to get over his confused state, or mask it beneath another layer of vacancy, before awkwardly gesturing to your cell phone on the bedside table. “I called your friend, Mark. He was the first contact on your list, so I just thought…” 

“That’s… really nice of you.” 

“He should be arriving soon…” Jinyoung, once again, stiffly points in the direction of the closed door. “I should wait outside to make sure he finds your room…” He hurries to the doorway, eager to be rid of the tension lingering between the two of your forms, and peers over his shoulder to nod, “I hope you have a goodnight, (Y/N).” 

“Jinyoung, wait—” You hurry to sit up, hoping to catch your mysterious savior before he disappears from the room. Thankfully, Jinyoung, with one foot out the door, pauses at your command. This time, he does not turn to meet your gaze—and you curse the longing that sparks in your gut because of it. 

“Thanks for… bringing me here, I guess.” Your cheeks burn as you say the words out loud, wondering if Jinyoung can hear the slight waver to your tone. You expect the stranger to nod his head, like before, and high tail out of your sight, but as always, Jinyoung does what you least expect: He turns around and delivers a tight-lipped, but surprisingly sweet smile. 

“You’re welcome.” His response makes your insides flutter, “I… I hope to see you again soon.” Jinyoung doesn’t give you the chance to return the conversation, and with one final glance, vanishes through the hospital doorway. Even with his presence gone, your body thrums with the remnants of his aura. Partly because of the lingering aftertaste of his charming presence:

—And partly because of the apprehensive feeling in your gut that grows the more you dwell on the abnormality of his gaze. 

☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ 

Jinyoung never meant for the night to turn out like this. He only wanted to get out of the manor—well, get away from his brother before he broke his neck. Literally. Jinyoung never meant to catch your scent during his midnight stroll, nor eventually find you in that alleyway, where he watched as you bravely attempted to fight off that crazed, bloodthirsty fledgling with nothing but a single shoe. The logical part of his brain initially forbode his intervention, but watching how you fought that vampire awoke the remaining human component inside his soul.

—He realized that he couldn’t let you die. 

So against his better judgement, Jinyoung saved your life… and now he’s paying the price. 

“You better have a damn good explanation or I’ll hex you into the next fucking century.” Jinyoung waits patiently as Mark exits the hospital elevator, barely flinching as he shoves his body against the nearest wall. Ignoring the pure rage wafting off of the witch’s body like a Spring scent, Jinyoung raises his arms and replies coolly: 

“Please take your hands off of me.” 

“Not until you explain to how (Y/N) was almost killed by a fucking bloodsucker.” Mark tightens his hold on Jinyoung’s collar, pressing him further into the surface of the wall. “If this is because of your douchebag brother, then I swear—”

“I already told you that Jaebeom cannot turn other vampires.” He pushes Mark’s body with just enough force to free himself from his hold. “And so help me, if you try to go after my family again, I’ll kill you and your pathetic minions.”

Mark scoffs, “Just because you can’t be killed doesn’t mean you’re invincible.” Jinyoung quickly bites his tongue to hold back his retort and inhales a deep breath to calm the frustration brewing through his veins. His mind, against his own will, conjures up the memory of you sitting and staring at him from the hospital bed. Just the image of your bright, fire-lit eyes eases the tension from his shoulders, washing away whatever anger remained inside his gut. 

Jinyoung sighs and changes the topic, “(Y/N) is fine. After I killed him, I fed her my blood—” 

“Oh, fucking hell—” Mark curses, burying his face in his palms. “Yeah, everything is just peachy.” 

“It was either that, or she die from blood loss. Take your pick.” 

“We had a deal,” The witch begins, “The coven, the pack and the league would allow you and your brother to stay in town as long as no other bloodsuckers make an appearance—“ 

“I can’t keep count of every vampire that comes into town,” Jinyoung replies truthfully. “Last I checked, that’s your seer’s job.” He takes note of the painful expression that overtakes Mark’s face, replacing his frustrated tone with one of concern, “What happened?” 

“Nayeon is dead.” He feels an imaginary punch sink into his gut at Mark’s sullen answer. “She was killed a couple hours ago.” 

“Killed? By what?” 

“That’s what we were trying to figure out when I got your goddamn call.”

Jinyoung shakes his head, “I’m sor—” 

“Save it.” Mark finishes just as a couple of chatting nurses clad in sky blue scrubs turn the corner and stop in front of the elevator. Both him and Jinyoung offer the hospital staff polite smiles, waiting a couple breaths for the metal doors to slide open and the passersby to enter. Only when the doors shut and the elevator dings, is when Mark continues: “Where is she?”

“Room 116. I told her I called you.” Jinyoung quickly moves forward as Mark tries to push past him, blocking the doorway so he can’t pass. “Hang on—” 

“We’re done talking—”

“She can’t be compelled.” Jinyoung ignores how Mark tries to shove him aside, keeping his body rigid and exactly in place. 

Mark rolls his eyes, “Well, no shit. I gave her a ring infused with vervain—” 

“She wasn’t wearing it,” Jinyoung insists, “And her blood is clean. You know what that means.” 

“Are you out of your fucking mind!?” A couple surrounding bystanders curiously glance their way at Mark’s hiss. The witch releases a heavy breath before dragging Jinyoung to a more inconspicuous corner of the hallway. His voice is quieter when he speaks, “Look, I know this girl. There’s no way in hell she's anything remotely supernatural.” 

“Then explain how she can’t be compelled by a Prime Vampire.” Jinyoung argues, narrowing his eyes as Mark scoffs and turns to begin the journey to your room. He purses his lips before calling out, “I know you feel it too.” Mark freezes, but doesn’t say a word. Jinyoung takes his silence as a means to continue, “—that rush you feel whenever she’s around… like you’re the most powerful being in the world.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Mark replies before peering over his shoulder to shoot Jinyoung a stern glare, “Stay the hell away from her. Or else.” And with that, Jinyoung watches as Mark scurries down the white hallway and disappears around a corner. 

Jinyoung releases a sigh, lifting a hand to run his fingers through his hair. His thoughts are scattered: Stressing about a witch killer lurking around the town… Dreading his future encounter with his ignorant, dastardly counterpart back at the manor… Pondering over the reasons why Mark lied just seconds before…  

But most importantly, Jinyoung wonders when he will be able to see you again. 

☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ 

Mark doesn’t understand why he’s so nervous to see you. Maybe it was the look in Jinyoung’s eyes that has him spooked, or the fact that you can’t be compelled by one of the most powerful vampires in existence. Since you came to Moon Dye Bay, Mark has been able to shield the truth of the monsters that go bump in the night from your innocent eyes—the knowledge of your resistance toward mind compulsion proves that he has to be even more careful… especially with a supernatural murderer in the picture. 

He inhales a deep breath before rapping his knuckles against the wood of the door. Your gentle call for his entry immediately lifts the heaviness from his chest. With less hesitation than before, Mark opens the obstacle and slips past the doorway into the room, his eyes softening at the sight of your body tucked beneath the sheets of the medical bed. 

“Hi.” 

“Hey, Mark.” Just the way you say his name spills warmth through his limbs, settling like a warm blanket over his heart. He makes his way to your bed to gather your figure in his arms, appreciating how yours and his bodies fit like puzzle pieces. 

He murmurs against the crown of your head, “How are you feeling?” 

“Honestly… confused as hell.” Mark pulls back at your weak attempt at a laugh to watch your face instead. His desire to caress the swell of your cheek comes at him so strong that he has to station his hands on your knees as a distraction. “I swear I was attacked by—I don’t even know what—but I don’t even know…” 

“It’s okay. We’ll figure it out.” 

“I know, I just—don’t understand how things just got so screwed up, you know? I don’t even—Mark, what’s wrong?” 

Your question seizes his attention, causing his eyebrows to furrow from confusion. He opens his mouth to inquire about your out-of-the-blue concern, but his words die at the hand that appears on his cheek. He watches in disbelief as you wipe a tear from the edge of his eye, wondering where during the conversation he had begun to cry. Whether it’s the pure compassion in your eyes, or the traumatic encounters throughout the night, Mark doesn’t know… but he allows himself to break down in your hold. 

He allows himself to melt into your embrace as you pull him down against your body. He allows the sobs to freely flow from his lips and catch into the crook of your neck. He allows himself to be vulnerable for that one moment… because he can’t show weakness anywhere but with you. 

“I… I thought I lost you…” Mark feels your hold tighten at his whisper, “I can’t lose you… Not you…” 

“You won’t, Mark…”  For a moment, he allows his heart to trick his mind into believing your words meant more than what they’re intended for. Just for a moment, Mark actually convinces himself that here, in your arms, is where he belongs…but he knows it’s far from the truth. 

Because even though you may feel like home—Mark can never, truly satisfy his homesickness for you.

[missblissy]

Rebirth (Chapter Two)

Alastor X Human!Reader ((Reincarnation!AU))

((@u@ I can’t stop. Every time I step away I need to write more. It’s consuming me. Two chapters in one day. I’m on a fucking roll.))

Prologue || One || Two

Tagged: ((You can ask to be added to the tagged list!!)) @alastors-bambi​ @peachesandkats​ @riintss​ @destiny-in-the-universe @dadzawas-eyebags @daedaliaaan​ @putridjoy​ @shieldagentofthemonth​ @originofthedragonjim​

What the Hell was going on? The Hello and smiley face was drying into your mirror while you ran out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around your frame and water still dripping down your skin. There was a loud cackle of thunder as lightning flashed into every corner of your apartment. You stumbled into the living room as you tripped over a box you didn’t see.

Suddenly there was an ungodly sound that struck your ears. From the floor, you struggled to get up. All the lights when out, turning off and leaving you in the darkness as a terrible ringing of static and chaos took over. As if things couldn’t get any weirder or more terrifying, you watched as the boxes began to shake, fall over, and spill out their contents all on their own. The only thing you could do was sit there, scared and frozen as paranormal activity continued around you.

You didn’t think it could get worse until everything stopped. There were boxes floating mid-air, frozen. The rain pelting against the window was still and stuck, not a single drop dripped down. Cold air caused ice to form on the windows. You could see your breath as everything turned icy with a white tint of a misty frozen glow. You started to shiver as you heard a menacing and low laugh. And that's when you watched your cat, Buck, patter by on the tips of his paws. Was this his doing? You only had him a few weeks, he was a rescue... Sure he was an asshole...? But a... A ghost? Voodoo demon? Monster? Uh... well you couldn’t be too sure about that anymore. 

Buck disappeared around a pile of tumbled clothes spilling from a box. You heard the snap and spark of static as a green glow shined from behind the boxes. When you expected Buck to come out from behind the pile, you were instead met with a shadowy figure with a face that you could easily make out. The figured gave you a wicked grin through what looked like a mouth that was stitched shut.

Stunned and scared and cold, you listened in fear as the spirit continued to laugh as it grew a pair of arms, ears, and antlers.

“Boo!” It finally jumped at you in its black foggy form. It was a deep and evil voice, “Did I scare you, human?” It asked as it drifted around the room, “Did you like my little act?” Your eyes followed it’s every move, “I haven’t been here in... haha... Centries. It feels good to be back on the surface.”

“W-who are you!?” You demanded quickly before it talked anymore, “W-what are you!? S-some kind of monster? What did you do with my cat?!”

“Soooo maanny questions,” The shadow figure drawled out slowly, mocking you as it’s face twisted into fake pitty, “I just don’t have the time to explain all that. I’m just here to help out an old friend of mine,” It moved towards some boxes that were still floating. You didn’t think it’d be able to touch them, seeing as it was a shadow of some kind. However, it dug into the box and threw random articles of clothing at you, “You’re gonna want to put these on- I don’t know how you humans dress anymore. Just look nice for him, okay? It’s very important that you do not look like that.” It waved a hand with long claws at you.

You were thrown a shirt, sweat pants, a few different sweaters and a couple of tank tops. At least you could use some of these. Who was this thing talking about and why was it even here? You didn’t think ghosts were real! You didn’t think anything supernatural was real!! What the fuck was going on!?

The shadow jumped at you for a second time, you could feel it cold icy claws pinch your cheeks as it got into your personal space, “And remember, dear!” He pinched hard and pulled your cheeks up, “You’re never fully dressed without a smile~!” It backed off before waving a hand for you to get on with it and get dressed. You did your best to throw a shirt over your head and shuffle the sweat pants on while having this shadow figure stare you down. As soon as you did that, it tore a large black claw into the air. It ripped the seams of seemingly nothing. The air opened up into what you could only describe as a portal opened before your eyes.

The grinning shadow held his arms open as the portal grew in size. Fire and brimstone burst from it, melting away all the frozen air and ice that had formed only seconds before. Screams of agony escaped the portal as unknown hands and arms tried to claw their way out. Then suddenly out jumped a figure. A person?

No... something similar to a person, but very different. You could smell the toxic and terrible smell of iron and blood wafting from the portal as this... other thing jumped out. The portal quickly closed and you were now alone in the dark with something not human. 

A bright and glowing smile came off of him. Large red eyes snapped open with an even brighter glow of their own. You were still on the floor, sitting there in a state of fear. The standoff sound of static bubbled into the air, it sounded as if someone was trying to change a radio station. The red eyes looked around then locked on you.

“What a mess we have here,” Said the person before you. His voice was weird and warped. It sounded like he was speaking through an old-timey microphone. He snapped his fingers and your apartment came to life. The boxes emptied themselves, your things were put away all on their own. Dishes flew and stacked themselves in the cupboards while clothes were folded and floated off to your closet. The lights turned on and you found that your apartment was perfectly unpacked and clean. Everything looked as normal as could be.

You finally got a good look at whatever was speaking to you. He was very tall, with wild red and black hair, ears to match, antlers or.. horns or something sprung from his head. He was red and black, head to toe, with an old microphone clutched in his claws.

“That’s better!” He said then flashed his evil eyes onto you, “Ah! My, my. You look as scared as I expected!” Was he trying to be nice or mean? You could hear a small laugh track play in the distance. His smile never left his face as he walked towards you and extended a hand, “I’m guessing you don’t remember me? Alastor’s the name, demonic entertaining is the game!” You stared coldly at his hand. You didn’t want to touch him. He took the hint and closed his hand and held it in a fist behind his back, “A pleasure! A true pleasure to be meeting you again, my sweet dear, my lovely (Y/n)!!” His voice wavered with static, some parts fuzzier than others.

A-again? What was he talking about, “I-I-I...I don’t- I don’t know you!” You barked back. You started to climb to your feet finally. It wasn’t cold anymore and everything seemed normal minus this... Alastor person, “What are you?” You couldn’t stop yourself from shaking like a leaf.

“What am I? Dear, I am a man of entertainment, you see. I live and breathe to entertain and be entertained,” His smile was wide and wicked, it grew in size as he took a step forward while waving an old microphone in his hands. He spoke into it with a grin, “And I’ve missed you’re entertaining smile for a long... long twenty-two years,” Twenty-two years? That’s how old you were... Weird. What the hell was he talking about!? “Now then, shall we get started?” He grinned a twisted smile, teeth flashing as stared you down. 

You took a step back, then another, “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” You exclaimed, “Why are you here?” Suddenly the demon warped into a shadow, slithered across the floor and reformed beside you, a hand on your shoulder as he invaded your space.

He kept smiling as he spoke, “For you! This may be a new body but the soul is the same,” Your soul? “You poor thing,” He sighed and gave you a pity smile with trickster eyes, “They gave you the same name, but none of your memories,” His voice made you shake. What the hell was he talking about? None of it made sense! “Perhaps I shall help you remember?” He extended his hand again for you to take, claws twitching to grab onto you.

“Remember what?” You were so confused. Clearly this wasn’t getting through to you. You swatted away his hand, still not interested in any of his funny business. 

He was getting very tired of your questions and you obviously weren’t going to play this his way. Very well. There was a shift in the static, it sounded like a radio changing stations, “Your last life,” Alastor said slowly, almost as if he was speaking to a child. You frowned at him, still confused, “Your soul, my dear, you’ve been reincarnated! Reborn! Given a second chance at the sweet game of life!” He gave a little wave of his finger as he gestured to you, a smug and shallow grin on his face, “I know that might be hard to believe. But it is true and I can prove it! I know your soul better than any living creature! Or the dead! Haha~!” He stretched tall onto his tiptoes to make a point. Everything about him was expressive but his face. A never-ending smile flashing at you.

It took a second for you to process what he was saying. You... or rather your soul knew him in a past life. But why was he here, “Do you... like... own my soul?” 

Alastor chuckled and shrugged his shoulders as he laughed, “I wouldn’t say own... But...” He then waved his hand dramatically in the air, “I knew you very well. You were...” He started to drift off, his gaze was foggy and a sinister look covered his face, “One of the most powerful demons that resided in Hell. A soul hundreds of years older than my own. A true sinner. A songstress that knew how to kill with a love song made of teeth and claws... Murdering for the fun of it, drenched in the blood of our enemies...” He paused, his voice filled with pops of static as he gazed into his memories. Then he quickly snapped back to a large smile, chuckling to himself,  “Ah, I do miss those screams.”

“So why are you here then? To drag me back to hell? If you don’t own my soul, then what is it?” This night was getting weirder and weirder. What did this mean for you? How much was this going to change your life?

“Quite correct. I’d like to bring you back home-”

“You’re gonna kill me!?” You cut him off, now scared and ready to run.

You could see a little wave of irritation crack onto his face. Alastor quickly recovered and smiled, “No. Well... Not yet. Your soul is washed all sparkly and new! If you were to die now you’d surely float up to heaven. You’re so pure that you’ve barely sinned a day in your mortal life. It’s just sad, really.” 

You suddenly wanted to defend yourself. You didn’t know why. You were speaking to a demon so there was no way you’ve sinned more than him,”I’ve... sinned,” So said slowly with a frown, “I’ve drank! I’ve smoked the devil’s lettuce!” He laughed at you, making you feel silly for even saying anything, “What makes you think I want to go to Hell, anyways,” You crossed your arms over your chest, still frowning but at least you weren’t as scared. You had a feeling Alastor, as intimidating as he was, meant what he said. So for now, at least, he wasn’t going to harm you. You found no reason for him to lie. 

He perked up at your question, “My dear, I’m sure that after you’ve spent a little time with me, you’ll come to realize how much fun it is down there. And no,” He seemed to already know your next question, “I cannot take a living mortal to Hell, as soon as you pass through the first gate, you die,” You opened your mouth to say something but he cut you off, “No,” He smiled wide, “You cannot make me go away. I will come and go as I please! You cannot do anything about my presence here, sweetheart, you’re out of luck! No amount of praying from a little priest or bishop will make me go away. Their influence has no effect over a demon from my background and status.” He plucked his bowtie and fixed it around his neck with a cheeky grin.

You wondered if he could read your mind or if he just expected all these questions. You thought some nasty things but he didn’t seem to react or be bothered. You shook those thoughts away and looked around the room, “So you’re just gonna... Haunt me?” 

For some reason, Alastor burst into laughter. A loud laugh track fizzled in and out with his fuzzy laughter. You weren’t even trying to be funny, “Yes, indeed! But I’m sure this is all a lot to take in and you need some time to let this soak. I am, however, a very busy man with many people to entertain. So I will only be here in my free time. And would you look at that!” He pulled a pocket watch out and flipped it open than snapped it shut, “I must be going! I have a splendid little hotel to attend too. You’d love what’s become of it. Now, a very good day to you, my dear! Until we meet again~!”

He snapped his finger and the screaming portal tore open the air. Alastor gave a little bow then sprung into its fiery embrace. You were finally left alone. It felt like hours had past but in reality, it wasn’t nearly that long. The thunderstorm still raged outside. Buck was back, but you weren’t sure how to feel about his presence now, seeing as he had ties to Alastor. Was he even a cat, or was he that shadow spirit in disguise? You made sure to remember to bring that up should Alastor really show up again.

A huge part of you wanted to call someone, anyone, and tell them what happened. After a few seconds of thought, you knew how bad of an idea that was. Another part of you was still convinced that none of that was real and you were just severely hallucinating. 

You told yourself you needed to go to bed. The only reason you knew it was all really real was that Alastor unpacked all of your things, you nearly forgot that you no longer had to make your bed so it nice when you entered your room, you saw that is was already made with your favorite blankets and pillows arranged just the way you like it. Okay... Maybe Alastor did know something about you. It did nothing to ease your thoughts however. You climbed into bed, hoping that sleep would come easy and that for the love of god, you hoped Alastor wouldn’t show up again.

[thelittlesttimelord]

The Littlest Timelord: The Fall of the Eleventh Chapter 25

TITLE: The Littlest Timelord: The Fall of the Eleventh Chapter 25 PAIRING: No Pairing RATING: T CHAPTER: 25/? SUMMARY: Elise Smith is now a teenaged Timelord. In addition to losing the Ponds, the fields of Trenzalore are calling. But first they have to figure out exactly who Clara Oswald is.

They sped after the little girl in the moped.

“Merry!” Clara yelled, reaching out for her.

Before Merry could grab her hand, she was dragged into the pyramid and the door slammed shut.

“Brakes! Brakes!” Clara screamed.

They landed roughly, throwing Elise from the moped.

“Okay, time to let go,” the Doctor told Clara.

“I can't.”

“Clara, you have to.”

“Why?”

“Because it really hurts.”

“Sorry.”

The Doctor got off the moped and Clara followed. Elise stood up as the Doctor soniced the entrance. “Oh, that's interesting. A frequency modulated acoustic lock. The key changes ten million zillion squillion times a second,” he said.

“Can you open it?” Clara asked.

“Technically, no. In reality, also no, but still, let's give it a stab.” The Doctor rushed at the door and started to sonic it.

Elise pulled out her own sonic screwdriver (newly updated) and set to work helping the Doctor.

“How can they just stand there and watch?” Clara asked.

“Because this is sacred ground.”

“And she's a child.”

“And he's a god. Well, he is to them, anyway.”

They heard Merry scream.

“Merry! Merry, hold on!” Clara yelled, “We'll be there soon. Doctor?”

“Yes, yes, yes, yes. Oh, hello.”

“Hello what?”

“The sonic's locked on to the acoustic tumblers.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning we get to do this.” He looked at Elise, who nodded.

The door started rising.

“Hello there. I'm the Doctor, this is my daughter Elise, and you've met Clara. She was supposed to be having a nice day out. Still, it's early yet.” The Doctor stopped sonicing the door and it dropped a little. “Are you coming, then?”

Merry shook her head.

“Did I mention that the door is majorly heavy?”

“Leave. You'll wake him,” she told him.

“Really quite extraordinarily heavy.” The Doctor collapsed to his knees. “Elise, get inside.”

“What? No.”

“Now!”

Elise stopped sonicing and ran inside.

“Clara?”

Clara ran inside.

The Chorister was still singing.

“Merry, we need to leave,” Clara told her.

“No! Go away.”

“Not without you.”

“You said I wouldn't get it wrong and then I got it wrong. And now this has happened. Look what happened!”

“You didn't get it wrong.”

“How do you know? You don't know anything. You have to go! Go now, or he'll eat us all.”

“Well, he's ugly. But you know, to be honest…” Clara walked up to the glass box. “I don't think he looks big enough.”

“Not our meat, our souls.”

Elise rolled her eyes and grabbed Merry’s arm, about to drag her out of the pyramid. Merry touched her temples and Elise was dragged up against the glass box.

“Get me off of this! Get me off of this right now!” Elise screamed, her cheeks flushed with anger.

“He doesn't want you. He wants me. If you don't leave, he'll eat you all up too,” Merry told them.

“And you don't want that, do you? You want us to walk out of this really quite astonishingly heavy door and never come back,” the Doctor said.

“Yes.”

“I see. Clara's right. Absolutely never going to happen.” The Doctor stopped sonicing the door and quickly ran inside.

“Did you just lock us in?” Clara asked.

“Yep.”

“With the soul eating monster?”

The Doctor straightened his bowtie. “Yep.”

“And is there actually a way to get out?”

“What? Before it eats our souls?”

“Ideally, yes.”

“Possibly. Probably. There usually seems to be.”

“Will someone please shut him up!” Elise yelled.

The Chorister was still singing.

The Doctor knelt in front of him. “He's trying to sing the Old God back to sleep, but that's not going to happen. He's waking up, mate. He's coming, ready or not. You want to run.”

The Chorister finally stopped singing.

“That's it, then? Song's over?”

“The song is over.”

The Doctor and the Chorister stood up.

“My name is Chorister Asbethix, and the Long Song ended with me.” He touched his bracelet and disappeared.

“Are you kidding me? We could have teleported this whole time!” Elise yelled.

“That's it, then. Song's over,” the Doctor said. The Doctor soniced the Mummy and it came to lift, roaring.

Elise’s hearts sped up.

The Doctor ran up to the glass box. “Ah ha! Look at that.”

“I hate you,” Elise muttered.

“No, you don’t.”

“You've woken him,” Merry whimpered.

The Mummy started banging on the glass as the Doctor walked around it.

“I don’t mean to rush you, but GET ME OFF OF THIS THING NOW!” Elise yelled.

Clara walked up to her.

“Clara, I’m really scared.” Never let him see the damage.

“I know. I know you are. I am too,” Clara reassured her, “But he’s gonna figure this out. You know he will. He always does.”

“No, we didn't wake him. And you didn't wake him, either. He's waking because it's his time to wake, and feed. On you, apparently. On your stories.”

“She didn't say stories. She said souls,” Clara corrected.

“Same thing. The soul's made of stories, not atoms. Everything that ever happened to us. People we love, people we lost. People we found again against all the odds. He threatens to wake, they offer him a pure soul. The soul of the Queen of Years.”

“Stop it. You're scaring her.”

“Good. She should be scared. She's sacrificing herself. She should know what that means. Do you know what it means, Merry?”

“A god chose me.”

“It's not a god. It'll feed on your soul, but that doesn't make it a god. It is a vampire, and you don't need to give yourself to it. Hey, do you mind if I tell you a story? One you might not have heard. All the elements in your body were forged many, many millions of years ago, in the heart of a faraway star that exploded and died. That explosion scattered those elements across the desolations of deep space. After so, so many millions of years, these elements came together to form new stars and new planets. And on and on it went. The elements came together and burst apart, forming shoes and ships and sealing wax, and cabbages and kings. Until eventually, they came together to make you. You are unique in the universe. There is only one Merry Galel. And there will never be another. Getting rid of that existence isn't a sacrifice. It is a waste.”

Without knowing it, the Doctor had comforted Elise once again. She loved when he made speeches like that. It reminded her of the Pandorica and the pride she had felt.

“So, if I don't, then everyone else…?” Merry asked.

“Will be fine,” the Doctor reassured her.

“How?”

“There's always a way.”

“You promise?”

The Doctor made two crossing motions over his chest. “Cross my hearts.”

Merry wrapped her small hand around the Doctor’s. Merry blinked and Elise could move again.

The Doctor half expected her to rush towards him, but she simply stepped away from the glass as the Mummy broke a hole in the glass where her head had been. The Doctor had to keep reminding himself that this Elise wasn’t as needy or clingy as the last one had been. This one acted like she didn’t even need him.

The asteroid rumbled.

“Something's coming. What’s coming?” Clara asked.

“The Vigil,” Merry said.

“And what's the Vigil?” the Doctor asked.

“If the Queen of Years is unwilling to be feasted upon…”

“Yes?”

“It's their job to feed her to Grandfather.”

Three beings appeared with a puff of black smoke.

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry!” Merry cried.

“Don't you dare,” Clara threatened them.

“Yep. Stay back! I'm armed! With a screwdriver,” the Doctor said.

The beings knocked the screwdriver from the Doctor’s hand and blasted Clara, the Doctor, and Elise.

Clara was the first one to come to.

“Clara. The sonic,” the Doctor told her.

Clara got up and grabbed the screwdriver and threw it to the Doctor. The Doctor created a shield and Merry ran back over to Clara.

“You know all the stories. You must know if there's another way out,” Clara told her.

“There's a tale. A secret song. The Thief of the Temple and the Nimmer's Door.”

“And the secret songs open the secret door? How does it go? Can you sing it?”

Merry started singing and a door opened.

“Go!” the Doctor yelled.

Clara and Merry ran out of the room as Elise started waking up.

“Ow,” Elise groaned.

“Elise, get up,” the Doctor told her.

“Doctor! Elise!” Clara yelled.

The Doctor grabbed Elise and they ran out of the room.

An energy beam hit the sun behind the pyramid and the Vigil disappeared.

“Where did they go?” Clara asked.

“Grandfather's awake. They're of no function anymore,” the Doctor said.

“Well, you could sound happier about it.”

The asteroid rumbled again.

“Actually, I think I may have made a bit of a tactical boo-boo. More of a semantics mix-up, really.”

“What boo-boo?”

“I thought the Old God was Grandfather, but it wasn't. It was just Grandfather's alarm clock.”

“Sorry, a bit lost. Who's the Old God? Is there an Old God?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

The sun started to get brighter.

“Oh, my stars. What do we do?”

“Against that? I don't know. Do you know? I don't know. Any ideas?”

“But you promised. You promised!” Merry cried.

“I did…I did promise.”

“He'll eat us all. He'll spread across the system, consuming the Seven Worlds. And when there's no more to eat, he'll embark on a new odyssey among the stars.”

“I say leg it,” Clara said.

“Leg it where, exactly?” the Doctor asked.

“Don't know. Lake District?”

“Oh, the Lake District's lovely. Let's definitely go there. We can eat scones. They do great scones in 1927.”

The sun rumbled.

“You're going to fight it, aren't you?”

“Regrettably, yes. I think I may be about to do that.”

“It's really big.”

“I've seen bigger.”

“Really?”

“Are you joking? It's massive.”

“I'm staying with you.”

“No, you're not.”

“Yes, I am. I can assist.”

“No, you can't.”

“What about that stuff you said. We don't walk away.”

“No. We don't walk away. But when we're holding on to something precious, we run. We run and run as fast as we can and we don't stop running until we are out from under the shadow. Now, off you pop. Take the moped. I'll walk.”

Clara and Merry ran to get the moped, while Elise stayed.

“Elise…”

Elise crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re insane if you think I’m leaving you.”

“Elise, please.”

Elise walked over to him and took his hand in hers. “You and me, remember? No matter what.”

The Doctor smiled, stroking her cheek. He placed a kiss on her forehead and they faced the sun.

A few minutes later, they heard Merry singing.

The Doctor smiled. “Okay, then. That's what I'll do. I'll tell you a story.” The Doctor kissed the back of Elise’s hand and let go, stepping closer to the sun.

Elise knew he needed to do this himself, but she’d been here for support. She also really loved watching him monologue.

“Can you hear them? All these people who've lived in terror of you and your judgement? All these people whose ancestors devoted themselves, sacrificed themselves, to you. Can you hear them singing? Oh, you like to think you're a god. But you're not a god. You're just a parasite eaten out with jealousy and envy and longing for the lives of others. You feed on them. On the memory of love and loss and birth and death and joy and sorrow. So, come on, then. Take mine. Take my memories. But I hope you've got a big appetite, because I have lived a long life and I have seen a few things.”

Tendrils of energy attached themselves to the Doctor.

“I walked away from the last Great Time War. I marked the passing of the Time Lords. I was given an opportunity I never thought I’d have again. I became a father. I saw the birth of the universe and I watched as time ran out, moment by moment, until nothing remained. No time. No space. Just me. I walked in universes where the laws of physics were devised by the mind of a mad man. I've watched universes freeze and creations burn. I've seen things you wouldn't believe. I have lost things you will never understand. And I know things. Secrets that must never be told. Knowledge that must never be spoken. Knowledge that will make parasite gods blaze. So come on, then. Take it! Take it all, baby! Have it! You have it all!”

The energy tendrils released the Doctor. There were several explosions and the Doctor collapsed.

Elise rushed forward, wrapping her arms around him.

The sun came to life again as Clara ran to them.

“Still hungry?” Clara asked the sun. She opened up her book and took out the leaf. “Well, I brought something for you. This. The most important leaf in human history. The most important leaf in human history.”

The sun smiled.

“It's full of stories, full of history. And full of a future that never got lived. Days that should have been that never were. Passed on to me.”

A tendril of energy reached for the leaf.

“This leaf isn't just the past, it's a whole future that never happened. There are billions and millions of unlived days for every day we live. An infinity. All the days that never came. And these are all my mum's.”

The Doctor stumbled to his feet. “Well, come on then. Eat up. Are you full? I expect so, because there's quite a difference, isn't there, between what was and what should have been. There's an awful lot of one, but there's an infinity of the other.”

The leaf dissolved.

“And infinity's too much, even for your appetite.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The TARDIS landed.

“Home again, home again, jiggity jig,” the Doctor sang.

Clara opened the door. “It looks different.”

“Nope. Same house, same city, same planet. Hey! Same day, actually. Not bad.” The Doctor spun around. “Hole in one!”

“Clara? What’s wrong?” Elise asked.

The brunette had a pensive look on her face. “You were there. At mum's grave. You were watching. What were you doing there?”

“I don't know. I was just making sure,” the Doctor said.

“Of what?”

The Doctor approached her. “You remind me of someone.”

“Who?”

“Someone who died.”

“Well, whoever she was, I'm not her, okay? If you want me to travel with you, that's fine. But as me. I'm not a bargain basement stand-in for someone else. I'm not going to compete with a ghost.”

“No.” The Doctor took a ring out of his pocket. Clara’s ring. “They wanted you to have it.”

“Who did?”

“Everyone. All the people you saved.”

Clara took the ring and placed a kiss on it.

“You. No one else. Clara.”

Clara left the TARDIS and the Doctor watched her for a moment before closing the door.

The Doctor and Elise were quiet for a moment before Elise walked up to him, holding out her bracelet.

“What is this?” he asked.

“I want you to have it.”

“But…but it’s yours.”

“And I don’t need it.”

“You should hold onto it. Pass it down.”

Elise took the Doctor’s hand and placed it in his palm. “Please keep it.” She kissed his cheek before disappearing down the corridor, probably on her way to the library.

The Doctor looked down at the delicate bracelet in his hand. It was far too dainty for him to wear, but he put it in his pocket.

Just as Elise had never taken it off, he’d carry it around on his person.

No matter what.

Forever.

[misstinfoilhat]

for the drabbl thing, how about Edward with "take me instead"

Woop! First one! It became waaay too long, but I just can’t with this “drabble” thing. I hope it meets your expectation! I got a little off track. --- Truth was standing before him; that infuriating toothy grin beaming boastfully. ‘W-why am I back here?’ Edward thought, peering over his shoulder as if he expected to be back in his room. There was just an infinite amount of void as far as he could see. White endlessness of absolutely nothing.   Behind Truth, was the gate. The large murals hovering over him, and Ed felt a surge through his stomach by the memory of being pulled by black ethereal hands and rushed through the dimension of overwhelming knowledge.  “Hello, Edward,” the sharp voice called out, demanding the teen’s attention. Edward took a few aggressive steps forward with a raised fist and paused.  His arm was back, he realized numbly. He blinked at it, wondering if it was real. Then he relaxed his stance and felt his left leg move effortlessly. No pain from a long-needed tune-up, no joints groaning from misuse, or irritation to the skin where metal met flesh.  “How did..?” Edward drawled, looking awestruck as he flexed his fingers. “Do you like them?” Truth chortled with excitement, shifting to stand up. “I don’t understand,” Edward answered as he tugged at his pant leg to confirm that there actually was a real leg under there. Sure enough, there it was. All though, the limb felt strange. Foreign. But he reasoned it was because he had been wearing those heavy metal limbs for the past four years.  “I figured you might like them,” Truth chirped as it strolled mundanely towards him. “Besides, their real owner won’t need them much longer.” A cold chill ran down Ed’s spine and he felt his pallor change. “W-what? What do you mean?” “What I just said.” Truth shrugged its shoulders, glancing towards the wary boy, its smirk growing steadily. “What’s the matter? I thought you’d be happy! Maybe it’s not your own limbs, but at least they will be kept in the family,” it laughed diabolically.   Ed couldn’t move. Understanding crept up on him slowly. Piece by piece falling into place, forming into a picture in his mind. Again, he raised his arm, closely examining the paperlike skin and its suddenly emaciated appearance. He was sure it hadn’t looked like that at first… Golden eyes widened in terror. “Al!” he realized out loud and took a step back. The weak leg crumbled under his weight, his knee (no no no not his, Al’s! Al’s knee---) buckled and he toppled over. Edward landed painfully on his hip, scrambling on the ground and started crawling away from the sound of the enigmatic being’s low giggles. What was going on? What did Truth mean by Al not needing his arm and leg anymore? They were going to get his body back, and he absolutely would need his limbs!  Edward had already taken so much away from his little brother, he would rather have no arms or legs at all than for Alphonse to miss a single strand of hair from his body when they got it back! Edward would not take those away from him, even if he had to sacrifice his heart to get them back to him!  The thought of his little brother’s arm and leg substituting for his own made him sick to his core. This was wrong! Determined, Edward steadied himself to a sitting position, using his healthy left arm. But, he couldn’t see Truth anywhere. In the featureless creature’s place, sat a gaunt figure, crossed-legged and sickly. Long golden hair cascaded beneath fatigue shoulders, ribs protruding from his chest, and a solemn smile on thin lips. Missing from the boy, was a right arm and left leg.  In a moment’s confusion, Edward thought it was himself that sat there. Him from some alternate reality. The Gate had changed too. Only for a moment, Edward lingered in uncertainty. The emaciated boy tilted his head and looked directly at him, and Edward felt his breath hitch. Never in his life would he mistake those hazel orbs.  “Al!” Edward shrieked as he fought to move, crawling towards his younger brother. It felt like something was pulling him back, like an invisible rubber line wanting to pull him back. The more he struggled forward, the distance between then only increased. “Alphonse, I’m so sorry! I’m so, so sorry! You will get them back, I swear!” Ed wailed, struggling forward on hands and knees. “Okay? Please say something!”  Alphonse didn’t respond. He just sat there with the same patient smile, eyes tired and so, so thin. It was like he was staring right through him, lost in the void. “Your brother’s presence in your world is weakening,” Truth’s voice rang through the empty space. Edward looked up, searching for the Godlike creature while frantically reaching for his younger brother. A rumble was heard and the ground shook. A blinding white light emitted from the slit doors that protected Alphonse’s Gate.  “No,” Ed cried distraughtly and forced himself to his feet and tried to run. “There is no use, Edward. Your brother’s soul wants to join its original vessel soon.”  Again, Edward yelled his brother’s name, ignoring the chilling voice and refusing to believe that they were already running out of time. He limped as fast as he could while stretching both of his arms (not his!) out for his brother.  The black arms wormed their way from the dizzying universe inside the Gate, starting to pull on Alphonse’s body. “No! No, please!” Edward wept and picked up his pace. “Please, don’t take him! Take me instead! I’ll do anything!” For the first time, it seemed like Alphonse really noticed him- his eyes were fixed on Ed and Ed alone. He didn’t look scared, just resolute. Like he had accepted his faith and was ready to be taken away. As dark arms tangled around his body, his smile broadened and he gave his older brother a crescent-eyed smile. “Wait! Don’t take him! Take me instead! I did it, not him! You- you can have anything--- just, please bring him back-” Ed was broken off by a heartwrenching wail of intense agony. Alphonse was screaming as the Gate tore his body apart, limbs turning black and vanishing into the surge of distorted pictures and eye shattering light. “No!” Edward collapsed to the ground, sobbing as his brother was devoured by his sin, clawing at the ground, pulling his hair out and choking on his own tears. The Gate was gone. His brother was gone. Everything had been taken away and there was nothing left. Like the space around him. Consuming everything, containing nothing. Images of Alphonse as a plump and healthy ten-year-old flickered through his thoughts, being eaten alive by those cursed arms. The panic, grief, and desperation he had felt back then were pouring through him once again and he wondered what there was left to give. What would he have to give up to get all of Alphonse back? A sudden twinge of pain seared through his abdomen. Edward startled and looked ahead stiffly. ‘What the hell?’ Again. The pain in his midsection grew until he was unable to restrain himself from screaming. He gasped for his next breath, almost vomiting while his body shook and pulsated. Downcasting his head, he finally realized what was causing the pain, all though, it did little to relieve his confusion of the situation. One of the Gates’s arms had lodged itself in his stomach, penetrating it through and through. There was something strangely familiar with it, but Ed’s mind was too clouded to think, to process. All his muddled brain could do, was to wonder what the arm was reaching for.  Then, it yanked back, painstakingly slowly and Ed cried out again. His vision faded in and out, white turning black and back to white, as the foreign object was drawn out of him. A faint flashback of a pair of large, strong hands holding his shoulders still, and the musky smell of gun powder mixed with wet clothing and blood. Edward also remembered the cold, biting at his fingers and toes, but brushing pleasantly against his feverish cheeks. The only other sensation than pain at the moment. “Edward?” ‘Not you again,’ Edward thought furiously. ‘Have you not taken enough from me?’ But his lips wouldn’t move. Now that he thought about it, neither could he. “Edward, can you open your eyes?” It didn’t sound like Truth- Truth’s voice was shrieking, almost feminine, and violently unpleasant. This voice was deep and grumbly, like a large man’s. Almost like Armstrong’s (oh god please don’t be Armstrong). Little by little, whatever that had taken toll of his body let go, and Edward stirred. Flickering eyelashes tickled his cheeks as his eyes fluttered open (he didn’t remember when he had closed them). He awoke in a small room. The bed he had been put it was hard, but at this point, his throbbing body was appreciative of anything that didn’t involve moving. Narrow, black eyes peered down on him, as an enormous hand scratched at brown, bushy sideburns. A little behind him stood another man, approximately the same size as the first one, with a yellow mustache that rivaled Armstrong’s own. The past day’s events rushed back to him. About Alphonse leaving to meet Winry and Scar’s group, the confrontation with Kimblee and the chimeras, the mineshaft, and the alchemy that had taken years off his lifespan to seal his wound. Looking down, he saw that his midsection had been heavily bandaged, and he rested a hand over where the two chimeras had pulled the bar out after he helped them and sighed. It had just been a bad dream. There was nothing to worry about…right?

[foggedgrief]

okay, hello, this is going to be a part one to a series of introductions ! i have already hit my five character cap because i’m a menace but that means you get more content and honestly that feels like a fair trade off. without my rambling, i give you nicky ( click here to find some quick facts about my boy ) and emi ( click here to find some quick facts about my girl ) ! wanted connections can be found here.

be warned ! before you click that handy dandy little read more, the following triggers will be discussed : death ( multiple deaths due to the fog, not explicit : both nicky and emi ), grief ( parent losing a child : emi ), religion ( turning away from : emi ) !

losing  friends  and  family  to  the  fog  and  blaming  yourself  for  not  being  more  vigilant,  taking  guardianship  of  your  little  sister  and  getting  a  second  job  to  make  sure  ends  meet,  trying  your  hardest  and  kicking  yourself  for  not  doing  better,  bloodied  knuckles  aggravated  by  vodka  to  clean  them  and  wrapped  so  tightly  you  fear  your  fingers  might  turn  blue,  anger  replaced  by  grief  replaced  by  the  understanding  she  needs  you  and  you  will  tear  down  the  rest  of  the  world  to  keep  her  safe.

nicholas adam locklear was born in inverness, scotland, and still has a scottish accent even though he’s been in the country for twenty years. 

nicky and his family moved to maine a few months before his seventh birthday. they moved to maine because his mother, a once american ex pat, had a father who wanted his kids to be closer because they all seemed to have scattered to the wind. he walked into the fog a week after the locklears had unpacked their home. 

the fog has always been a thing of morbid fascination from nicky and after grandpa took his walk into the woods, nicky was kept particularly far away from the forest line, fog warnings or not. on all saint’s day, the day after he turned eight, nicky found himself in the fog. and then he found himself in his bed with no explanation for either event. 

he started drawing that day, intricate sigils that gave themselves meaning but no voice, so he spoke them into existence: protection from sorcery, protection from evil, wards off negative energies, heal the body and the spirit. four symbols that he couldn’t stop drawing on everything he owned. homework, notebooks, on the walls of his home in crayon ( if you look in those spots today, in the locklear family home, they’re painted now. a whole interior room covered in the sigils intended to look like an artsy photo collage wall. ).

some in town say that the locklears are cursed, that their family bears bad blood, that they owed some kind of karmic debt too large for one life. whatever the rumor, they all boil down to one thing: too many locklears have gone missing in the fog. nicky’s paid little mind to them, though there’s a voice too strange to be his but too familiar to dismiss that encourages him to go in ( to go back ). 

nicky’s life revolves around his little sister, belle, who was born when he was twenty. a few months later, their mother went into the fog and their father went about an hour later to try and look for her. neither came home. though the courts tried to pass belle off to the next living relative, nicky petitioned for rights to guardianship because he lived in the home and could find a way to make ends meet for him to be belle’s caretaker. enter the diner and blue valley.

nicky’s always been a hard worker, never one to take a short cut and never one to take the easy way out. his focus has always been to take care of belle above board, so no one could have a reason to take away the last of his family. that little babe was his world and is nicky’s driving force in most things. he started working at the bar first and took on a job at the diner when he realized that tips got slow after a certain hour and what better way than to make more money by helping to sober up the people you just got drunk ?

when customers offer to buy nicky drinks, he usually puts together a couple of complimentary mixers ( cranberry juice, pineapple juice, and orange juice ) and pours in water from an old tito’s bottle to make it look like he’s adding tequila. he’ll pocket the cost of a drink as an extra tip. he never drinks on the job. 

his jobs aren’t glamorous but they keep the roof over his head and belle’s. he works 14 hour days ( 9 pm to 11 am ; 9 pm - 3 am at blue valley and 3:10 to 11 am at the diner ), 6 days a week ( sundays off ), 84 hours a week and he’s damn good at what he does, and seldom calls out for anything. nicky’s the kind of guy to pound three monsters and call it a day just to keep himself going. he’s used to running on little sleep because of his paternal role with belle and wanting to keep as engaged with her as possible. he usually leaves her with the finnegans so he doesn’t have to pay any babysitting money.

the one time nicky tried, dottie looked at the bills in his hand and just hugged him tightly and said, “no child of mine is going to pay me to watch theirs.” nicky cried that day and spent ten minutes crying into her shoulder and then slept on her couch for a few hours while belle played with the finnegan twins. 

nicky is a good person and he’s a really good dad. at 22 he became licensed in the state of maine to be able to foster and has fostered ten kids in the last five years. right now it’s just him and belle in the house that his parents bought that he keeps up as best as he can. the guest bathroom needed a remodel three years ago and the kitchen appliances only work when you knock on them the right way and if the wind’s blowing in the right direction, but some things are just the way that it is. 

other important things that i couldn’t work in above but you should know: 

nicky gives like ,,, just really comforting hugs that suggest a level of emotional intimacy that is likely to catch you pleasantly off guard. 

will help you buy your groceries because he has a better chance of making fifty dollars tonight than you do. 

usually sleeps on disney princess sheets because belle insisted they would look best in his room ( she was right ). his other sheets are bubblegum pink and he bought them for himself because that’s the vibe he was feeling and sometimes you just have to do what will put a smile on your face. 

his little sister is seven but nicky is the only parent she’s ever known and she usually calls him dad over nicky even though she knows the difference. 

nicky calls her his kid a lot. everyone in town pretty much knows the story. 

steady  hands  and  steady  heart  are  starting  to  shake,  pleading  with  officers  don’t  let  me  bury  an  empty  casket,  the  table  set  for  three  but  you  can’t  bring  yourself  to  put  the  plate  away,  pale  yellow  front  door  once  made  your  laugh  now  just  makes  you  sad  because  your  daughter’s  sunshine  still  lingers,  and  there’s  no  place  to  put  your  faith,  nothing  so  powerful  would  take  away  a  little  girl.

emi is considerably less fleshed out than nicky but we’re still going to do our best to give her a fair shake at an intro, so here goes ! 

noemi was born noemi sofia ibarra in pine haven, maine. though she’s always considered pine haven her home, she’s always desired that her upbringing was somewhere warmer. 

she’s a third generation doctor at the clinic, following in the footsteps of her grandfather and mother and knew from a young age that she wanted to help people. she bounced from pine haven for a while ( from ages 18 to 28 ) and followed her dreams to go somewhere warmer and graduated from emory university’s medical school in atlanta. 

she pushed through medical school immediately after graduating with her undergrad and returned to pine haven as a permanent resident when she was 29. having been home, officially, for ten years, she has found herself in the center of the community. more often than not, residents of town know they can call emi and come sit on her kitchen table if they need urgent care. 

life outside of pine haven’t wasn’t all medical school, though, because she also met her the father of her daughters. at 23 emi gave birth to her elder daughter, evangeline. that sweet little girl meant the world to her and emi spent double the amount of time awake those first semesters trying to get used to having a baby and school to balance. she was the center of emi’s universe, this baby and her father. 

emi’s second daughter, catalina, was born about eight years ago and is as much emi’s pride and joy as her older sister. the pair never fail to blow emi away in their creativity, kindness, and love, and she has made that known to them from the time they could open their eyes. though these times were sweet it’s time to fast forward to the current day because this is where emi shifts for the worse for as much as she doesn’t want to. 

two weeks ago, during the fog warning, evangeline wasn’t home with the family. emi was at work, locked down with a few patients, and when she didn’t get a phone call from her daughter, like she asks of all her family, she started to worry. panic didn’t settle in until after the fog warning and no one had heard from evangeline. frantic, begging, trying to stave off the final moments before the inevitable declaration, emi found herself begging the officers at the station: find me something to bury before absolutely crumbling against the weight of her own fears.

prior to her daughter’s disappearance, emi had put at least some stock into god but spite consumes her whenever she thinks about him. something all loving doesn’t steal child from the arms of their mother’s and something all powerful doesn’t let whatever lives in the forest to exist after taking the first soul. this town suffers because of that fog and venom pools in her mouth waiting to spit at the first person who proclaims that god will watch over her daughter. some people turn to faith for stability. emi has turned away. 

[a-mandala-rose]

Angry, Angry, Angry, Pie

Words:  1474

Summary:  After overhearing a conversation between Sam and Cas, Dean Winchester talks about his feelings... kind of.

“Hey, Cas.  Why the long face?”

Blue eyes squint in confusion as the angel touches a tentative hand to his own cheek. 

Sam smiles.  Even after all these years, his friend can still be so literal at times.

“What’s wrong?”  he clarifies.

Cas’ eyes widen briefly in understanding before the despondent look that prompted Sam’s question in the first place finds its way back onto his features.

“I believe Dean’s angry with me again.  I’m not precisely sure what I did wrong this time, but I must have done something.”  Cas pauses.  “It seems like he’s always angry with me.”

Sam frowns.  He’s not sure what the hell is up his brother’s emotionally repressed ass this time, but he is certain that whatever it is isn’t Cas’ fault.

Sighing, he readies himself to clean-up the emotional fallout of Dean’s poor coping skills.  Again.

“Look, Cas, what you have to understand about Dean is that sometimes when he’s angry, he’s not really angry.”

Cas looks more confused by this than by the “long face” question.

“I’m an Angel of the Lord, Sam.  ‘Holy wrath’ is something of a specialty of ours.   I am more than capable of recognizing anger when I see it.”

“No, what I mean is…” Sam hesitates and looks up at the ceiling, thinking of how to best explain the complex emotional tapestry that is Dean Winchester.  “Sometimes when Dean acts, and looks, and sounds angry, he’s actually feeling something else.” 

Another pause.

Another round of confused angelic squinting.

“Okay, so there are four basic emotions, right?  Anger, fear, sorrow, and joy.  Most people express those emotions in very different ways.  But Dean…  not so much.”  Sam takes a seat on the table next to where Cas is seated in one of the sturdy library chairs and leans forward, starting to warm to his subject.  After all, he’s spent his entire life studying his older brother and Cas is a singularly captivated audience when it comes to all things Dean.  “For Dean, there’s the angry that means he’s angry, the angry that means he’s scared or worried about you, the angry that means he’s sad… And then there’s pie.”  He sits back in his chair, quietly satisfied with his analogy.

Cas stares at him a moment before saying slowly, “So… you’re saying that Dean’s four emotional states are angry, angry, angry… and pie?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“That makes… a surprising amount of sense.”

“Really?”  Sam’s eyebrows raise in surprise.  Understanding straightforward emotions was a struggle for Cas at one time.  Emotions masked as other emotions?  He hadn’t expected the angel to catch on so quickly.

Castiel nods, angelic countenance thoughtful.

“Human emotions can be… overwhelming.  When I first began experiencing them, I sometimes felt like I was going to explode from the sheer force of what I was feeling.”  Castiel stares at a spot above Sam’s shoulder, clearly picturing something in his mind.  “Dean Winchester is the Righteous Man, Sam.  True righteousness cannot exist devoid of emotion.  There have been many men who could have been considered righteous based on the logic of their actions and yet, while benefiting the masses, those actions bestowed horrors upon a select few.”

“The ends don’t always justify the means and the needs of the many don’t always outweigh the needs of the few.  Right,” Sam agrees while scrunching his forehead in confusion.  He’s not quite seeing how this ties back to his brother acting like an asshole caveman.

Cas’ eyes find his again. 

“What constitutes ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ in terms of human conscience is shaped by the values and customs of a particular society.  It changes over time.  Righteousness is universal.  It’s rooted in the empathy that exists between all souls.  A soul as bright, as righteous, as Dean’s must be anchored deeply in emotion, consumed by it even.  To feel things so deeply, far more deeply than other humans… perhaps that explains why Dean constantly appears on the verge of exploding.”

Sam blinks.

“You got that from ‘angry, angry, angry, pie?’”

“Yes.  Thank you, Sam.  Our talk was very enlightening.”

Still feeling a little lost, Sam runs a hand through his hair and shrugs.

“Uh, sure.  Glad I could help, I guess.”

He pretends not to notice Dean listening from the doorway.

~***~

“Hey, Cas.”

“Hello, Dean.”

Hearing his brother and Cas in the library, Sam continues his trek toward the stairs without saying hello, hoping to squeeze in a run before dinner.  His steps slow, however, and take him back toward the library door when he hears Castiel’s next words.

“Are you finished being… angry with me?  I apologize if I unintentionally did something to upset you.”

“What?  I wasn’t ‘angry with you!’” Dean barks out sharply.

From where he’s standing next to the doorway, he can just make out Castiel’s eyebrow arching in challenge at Dean’s tone. 

He probably shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but since Sam’s the one that’ll undoubtedly be cleaning up Dean’s mess if he screws things up with Cas (again), he feels justified.  It’s not spying.  It’s completely reasonable and defensible reconnaissance.  Commendable even. 

“I wasn’t angry with you,” Dean repeats in a softer tone, before slumping into the chair across from Cas and ducking his head to catch the angel’s eyes with his own.  “Look, just because I’m angry, don’t mean I’m angry at you,” he explains before adding hurriedly, a finger jabbing toward the angel, “Don’t get me wrong, sometimes I really am pissed at you.  You’ve done some really stupid shit, man.  We both have.”

Cas nods in silent agreement.

“But most of the time,” Dean leans back in his chair and runs a hand through his hair, “I’m just angry about you.”

“About me?”  Cas asks quizzically, tilting his head in classic Cas confusion.

“Yeah.  Like, angry about you not being here.  Or angry about you getting yourself killed.  Again.” Dean rolls his eyes.  “Or angry about you thinking you can handle shit on your own, instead of coming to me and Sam.  Angry about you thinking that you have to handle shit on your own.”

“But none of that is you being angry at me,” Cas says doubtfully.

“Nah, not really.”

Dean taps his thumb nervously on the arm rest of the wooden library chair, his entire body radiating anxious energy.

“Dean?”  Cas asks, shooting a pointed look at Dean’s fidgeting fingers.

“I uh, heard you talkin’ to Sam earlier,” Dean blurts out, “about my feelings or whatever.”

“About the way you express emotions?” Cas clarifies with raised eyebrows. 

“Yeah.  That.”  Sam rolls his eyes.  Turns out the only thing more painful than talking to Dean about his feelings is listening to him talk about his feelings with someone else.

“And?”

“And he ain’t exactly wrong.”

“So, you’re saying that earlier today, you weren’t angry angry?”

“Right.”

“So, which angry were you?”

Dean rolls his eyes.

“I don’t know.  One of the other ones.  Just pick one.”

“So you were s-,” Dean shoots a warning glare at Cas, who quickly amends, “one of the other types of angry, but not angry angry, about me, but not at me?”

“Exactly,” Dean grins and leans back in his chair, fingers laced across his stomach.

“Okay.  Thank you for telling me… that.”

“No problem.”  Dean clears his throat.  “So, uh, that stuff you said.  You know, the soul stuff.  Was any of that true?”

“I believe it all to be true, Dean.”

“Yeah, okay.”  Dean swallows and looks down at the table before finding Cas’ eyes again.  “Doesn’t give me the right to take it out on you though.  Doesn’t give me the right to be an asshole.  You gotta call me on that shit, man.  Don’t just take it.”

“I appreciate you saying so.  The next you seem angry with me for no apparent reason, I’ll try to remember to ‘call you on your shit.’” 

Sam grins as he watches Cas make air quotes around the end of his sentence.  He can’t see Dean’s eyes, but he does see Dean’s entire head move with what he’s sure is a very affectionate eye roll.

“Yeah, you do that.”  He stands, hands stuffed in his pockets awkwardly.  “So, we good?  You don’t still think I’m mad at you all the time?”  he doublechecks, taking a few backward steps toward the door.

“I… no, Dean.  I no longer think you’re angry at me all of the time,” Cas says, looking as bemused as Sam had felt after their earlier conversation.

“Good,” Dean says, “That’s good.  Because, Cas?  Just so you know, the way I… the way you make me feel?”

Dean pauses.  Takes a breath. 

“You’re pie.”

The last thing Sam sees before he makes a hasty retreat are the corners of Cas’ mouth ticking up in a smile that, while small now, looks like it’s on verge of exploding.