#he holds u so damn tight and he doesn’t cry but his voice is wobbly ‘you didn’t pick up’ and u just melt against him bc ‘u came anyway’

[yuwuta]

Your thing about katsuki losing his shit when u don’t answer his calls is hilarious to me bc he definitely would and since that’s just roommates that implies that when you’re actually like together he’d be so much worse (And eren does this too I can’t help but bring him up)

he takes it so so seriously it’s comical. ever since katsuki started at ua, he’s acted like he’s your government assigned bodyguard, too. and through all the attacks and shit that happened while he was in school, he really doesn’t take any chances, so he needs you to pick up the damn phone when he calls. you guys only became roommates because he was one missed call away from having a heart attack, please he does not play around when it comes to you. showing up to your place of employment at 2pm in full hero gear and dirt on his face because he called you thrice between 11am and 1:32pm and texted twice and you still didn’t answer so he’s coming to check up on you himself.

missing a call from him while you’re on way home from work bc you were underground on the subway, and not even realizing until you open the door and there’s katsuki standing in the entryway with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face and looks to your phone sticking out of your bag, taps on it, and dramatically goes “oh, so it does work!” to which you roll your eyes, and earn a poke to the nose and katsuki grumbling, “answer when i call, dummy,”’ before going back to the kitchen to finish dinner. he’s such a brat about it (and the only reason he didn’t go collect you from the train station out of panic is because you two have each other’s locations now—in an effort to stop dynamight from interrupting your work meetings).

when you two finally start dating, honestly it calms a bit. naturally, you’re spending more time together, and less virtual communication is needed. his panic really only sets in when there’s an attack or a villain on the run. he calls you before and after missions—sometimes he calls during them, he’s got to make sure that you’re okay, that you’re safe, that he can come back to you when it’s all said and done. all his friends say he’s whipped but katsuki really couldn’t care less, he needs you to be there. and let the record show, that when you call him first, he always comes running

[ickle-ronniekins]

      - u n d e r n e a t h    t h e    w i l l o w    t r e e -

      Age 10 The summer breeze picks up its speed; eagerly, she jumps to her feet and brushes the grass off of her shorts before running forward. She presses the bottoms of her sneakers into the trunk of the willow tree, not listening to the calls from her sister. “You’re silly!” her sister calls, sticking out her tongue. “You’re going to hurt yourself!”

Of course she doesn’t listen, because when has she ever let people dictate what she should and shouldn’t do? Never. She’s halfway up the tree and she can feel the roughness of the thick branches digging deeper and deeper into her skin, but she wants to keep going. She’s got to get to the top.

Perhaps she should have listened to her older sister though, because suddenly the wind whips her hair into her eyes and she loses her grip, tumbling through the leaves and branches and crashing dramatically on the thick bed of grass beneath her. She wants to scream, because the truth is that the pain of the fall is almost unbearable, and her sister is already screaming in horror at the sight and immediately runs inside for their parents.

And then someone appears next to her: the boy from across the street, the one who’s always fiddling with some type of baseball playing cards on the bus with his friends. The one with the turquoise eyes and the blonde hair. The one who likes to cook with his mom. The one who always waves to her when they’re both playing in their driveways. He peers down at her with concern. “Are you okay?”

She huffs in annoyance. “Does it look like I’m okay?”

In response, he giggles. “Glad to see that the fall hasn’t affected your ability to be funny!”

And alright, she can’t help it: she laughs. And he does too. The dimple on the right side of his face is quite noticeable, she realizes.

“How come you didn’t listen to your sister?” he asks, kneeling down next to her. “She was right, you know.”

“She may have been right, but I was gonna climb that tree whether she liked it or not,” the girl announces, folding her arms across her chest. Then she winces in pain, cradling her ankle that’s already beginning to swell. She’s forcing herself to not cry, not cry, not cry. She’s about to get up when the boy places a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t try and move. Trust me. Your sister went to go get your mom and dad. I’ll stay here with you until they come, is that okay?”

She nods slowly. Then he sits down next to her and leans back against the tree. To her surprise, the tears fall down her cheeks, but the boy doesn’t say anything. Instead he smiles at her and says, “I would’ve climbed that tree, too.”

And to think: this entire time, he’s been right across the street. Why haven’t they been friends this entire time?

      Age 15 “Don’t you see!” she squeals in horror, staring at something in the mirror he can’t quite see.

He’s standing behind her with an expression filled with confusion, his hands in his pockets. The bus will be soon and we haven’t had breakfast, he wants to say, but he knows if he rushes her, she’ll lash out. So instead, he impatiently says, “Um... no?” except, it kind of comes out as a question.

The girl throws her hands up in annoyance and violently rubs a brush along her jawline, careful to cover whatever it she sees that the boy cannot. “I’m going to look like such a fool! The first day of high school, and I can hardly even cover up the disaster that is my face. Why don’t they just lock me in a dungeon and be done with it! Clearly I’m ugly enough to be kept in one, far away from society!”

The boy, who’s now speedily following his friend down the steps of her house as she makes her way begrudgingly toward her refrigerator, which she opens and stares into without saying another word.

“You’re too pretty to be locked in a dungeon,” he says suddenly, catching her by surprise. They lock eyes and for a moment, things between them become still -- weirdly still. Then he clears his throat and scoots past her to grab the milk for his cereal. “Come on, it’ll be fine. You’ve got me, haven’t you?”

“You’re supposed to say that, you’re my best friend,” the girl replies, stealing the piece of toast from the toaster oven that is most definitely meant for her sister. Then she turns back to her friend and lowers her voice a bit. Her eyelashes flutter as she asks, “Do you really mean it? That I’m too pretty for a dungeon?”

The boy stops for a moment, his mouth full of Cheerios, and he wonders if she’s able to hear the steady, drumbeat pounding of his heart. He swallows and speedily stuffs another spoonful of cereal into his mouth. “Nah,” he replies jokingly, “Actually, you fit the description of ‘dungeon creature’ quite perfectly, actually.”

He supposes he deserves the giant shove from her that nearly knocks him off his stool, but the two of them laugh anyway. He stops for a moment to watch her as she turns the piece of toast over and over in her hands, as if she’s examining it for any minor flaw. He realizes now that she was probably peering into the mirror, looking for flaws of her own. He wants to tell her that she won’t find any, no matter how hard she tries to look. But maybe now isn’t the right time.

“It’ll be alright,” he says finally, grabbing her attention. She doesn’t want to start high school, and he knows it. Elementary school was so easy, wasn��t it? High school has heartbreak waiting to happen. And so he tries to be as reassuring as he can. “And if it isn’t, and the world does lock you away in a dungeon, I promise to join you down there.”

Now, the idea of being locked away in a dungeon sounds better than high school ever has.

      Age 18 She’s not sure when she started crying. Maybe it was when things had started to feel a bit off a few weeks ago, and she tried a bit too hard to get him to tell her what was wrong. Maybe it was when he started canceling dates, telling her he’d reschedule, but never did. Maybe it was when she found him with her, tucked away in a corner of a restaurant, when he’d told her that he had to work that night. But either way, she’d been crying forever over him, this stupid boy from school who lead her on and lied, and never, ever comforted her when she cried.

She finally opens her eyes for a moment to look at the world around her, hoping it won’t look as dismal and awful as she feels. But the purples of her walls are duller than usual, her bed unkempt and messy, and she can hear the rain and the wind outside whip furiously through the trees. It’s mimicking her, the weather. It’s a carbon copy of how she feels inside. And yet, through her blurry vision, the sight through her windowpane is as clear as day: the boy from across the street, jumping through puddles and pulling his hood tight over his head, and within seconds, he’s sitting himself down next to her on her bed, tentatively placing a gentle hand to her shoulder.

The two of them sit in silence; it’s been eight years since they first met, and they’ve become strangely comfortable being together in complete silence. He lets her cry. He lets her throw things at her already broken closet door. He lets her start to yell and relay the whole damn story through bouts of anger, before she starts crying again. And he lets her fall into his shoulder and cry some more, her tears staining the collar of his button down shirt.

The clouds have turned dark and the rain has subsided, and her parents are calling for the two of them that dinner is ready. He’s absolutely starving, but she doesn’t feel like eating, she says. And so he stays put on her bed, massaging gentle circles into her back and speaking in soothing tones so she won’t be able to hear the grumble of his stomach.

“He wasn’t the one, you know.” he tells her, and she finally peers up at him with tears in her eyes and a small grin painted onto her face.

She nods slowly, and her lip wobbles as she opens her mouth to speak. “I know,” she squeaks, and he can hear the future cries that have yet to escape her. “I just wanted him to love me. I just want to be loved.”

“You are,” he replies, “and you will be.”

She snorts a little, and he’s trying hard to contain his laughter. He’s always found her snorts wildly hilarious. And then an involuntary, hoarse cry escapes her once more. “When?”

She peers down at her shoes, and she doesn’t know what exactly what he’s thinking, but his eyes are speaking the words he wouldn’t dare too: not here, not now. It isn’t right. And so instead, he says,

“He’s on his way, and he’s getting here as fast as he can, alright? I promise.”

Except, he’s already here, isn’t he? At least, he hopes he is. The truth is that he realized it a long time ago, and he’s been holding it close to his heart, along with her and every single small thing about her. The way her hair falls over her shoulders, the way she scrunches her nose at the sight of fish, the nervousness in her eyes when change is on its way.

It’s up to her to realize it now.

“You’re always helping me,” she whispers, not quite certain of why he’s always there in her rearview mirror, with all the drama she brings.

He grins. “Yeah, and don’t you forget it.”

She snorts again and throws a pillow at his head, and he begins to see shades of his old friend again, his friend before the heartbreak.

One day. One day he’ll speak the words he’s just swallowed, and one day, she’ll realize it, too.

Age 26 It’s funny, the way things can unfold.

Through injuries after falling out of trees.

Through painful days of high school, when kids can be so cruel.

Through failed tests, awful jobs, and a whole bunch of firsts: a first school dance, a first kiss, a first driving lesson. A first heartbreak, a first chance encounter, a first realization.

There were boys who lied and played with her heart, and there were boys who cradled it as if it were the most precious jewel in the entire world.

It’s funny, how things should have been like this years ago.

But perhaps they needed to go through all of these things to find one another, right?

These things that were theirs: like endless ice cream sundaes after being hurt by groups of friends who were manipulative and catty, like Friday nights in with tons of movies to help ease the pain of a broken bone from a rough game of football, like countless mornings watching the sunrise, just because they could.

Like that time they tried to bake a cake from scratch and they nearly added salt instead of sugar. Or the time that they (he) backed his dad’s car into the mailbox and needed to quickly come up with a story as to what had happened. Or all those times he swallowed his feelings for her, just to be a good friend.

She wished he hadn’t done that, she told him one day, in the spot she figured it all out. Underneath the willow tree.

But he’s glad he waited, he told her. He needed her to realize it on her own, just like he did.

He’s cradled her heart in his his hands for years. Because it’s precious, even more so than a jewel. He never did quite understand why people had treated it with anything but the utmost love and care. But it doesn’t matter anymore. Not when he’s promising to cradle it for the rest of his life.

She thinks she’s yelled out ‘Yes’ before he’s even finished, but the truth is, she said yes a long time ago. She said yes when realization struck. She said yes to him years ago when she let him sit down next to her in the grass, waiting for her parents that time when she broke her ankle, underneath this same tree.

She’s swimming in his turquoise eyes, and he’s getting lost in her violet ones, just like he always has. And after moments of laughter and tears and tight embraces, she looks above her, into the branches of the trees, and teases him. “Race you to the top.”

Him, her fiance, her forever. He grins at her. “You may end up with a broken ankle.”

“Maybe,” she replies, gripping the lowest branch and digging her shoes into the trunk, and suddenly, she feels ten again. “but I think it’s worth it.” And they both think back to that day, the one when they first met.

And to think: it’s been him, the entire time, all these years. The boy from across the street.

[thefoulbeast]

Monstrum Malum (Evil Monster)

It’s finally october!! U know what that means!! Aoextober!! I’ve been waiting to be able to post this hahhhahahaa… some good ole soft horror in the spirit of the month of scary… I’ll also put it up on ao3 soon…

Characters: Todou Saburota, That demon he had at first, Todou Homare (mentioned). Contents: Violence & gore, monsters, memory manipulation, surrealism (or is it derealisation? basically we got some weird stuff going on), elements of horror. Rating: Teen & up. Word count: 2 888.

__________

It’s all a little fuzzy, this far back in his memories…

According to family tradition, Saburota receives his temptaint at ten years old. It’s scary beyond belief – the sudden grotesque presences that await him at every turn.

There’s a thick black snake on the teacher’s desk that watches him, a cat with two heads and three tails and no skin that doesn’t meow as much as it yells, spidery, shadowy hands that wave at him from dark corners and alleyways, always beckoning closer in silent invitation.

The horrible sounds of screaming and crying at night he can’t drown out no matter what he tries to do.

He doesn’t understand how his father and brothers and – everyone, really- can just ignore it all, can just pretend like it’s all normal and okay.

Though, he supposes it’s not too implausible – their ability to ignore things is quite remarkable. One time they pretended he didn’t exist for a whole week – and honestly, he’d been questioning his existence himself by the end of it.

But the problem is these… demons. These ghosts and spectres that follow him and distract him and terrify him.

Saburota tries to focus on the page in front of him – a test in maths that he’s writing in pencil because his pen is bleeding red blood – an ever-growing puddle over the surface of his desk that never reaches his papers and drips over the edge with quiet plips.

The numbers in the problems tilt and tumble and his hands are tingling. But if he focuses just so- if he can keep them in his mind long enough, he can do this.

Pit-pat… Pit-pat…

The blood drips steadily down onto the floor. No one else notices it.

–

“Oh, come now! You’ll get used to it,” his aunt says when she sees him flinch back from a dark mass that covers the floor like a living carpet, undulating and scintillating and breathing.

She walks right over it, and the black sticks to the heels of her shiny beige pumps like tar – but she doesn’t even seem to notice-

“Come on, Saburota, let’s go,” she pulls him by the arm, stronger than he can dig his heels into the ground. The black thing is unpleasantly soft under his feet. He feels it writhe.

“Don’t be so obstinate, we’ll be late to the opera!” she huffs, exasperated, “Honestly, you’d think a boy your age would have some manners.”

The black clings to the bottom of their soles without end even after they’ve crossed all of it and are out on the street, spreading out from every point of contact their shoes make with the ground, melting together to form a winding, snakelike path.

“What show are we going to see?” he asks cautiously, trying to distract himself.

“Three dead men and the devil, of course” she answers haughtily, “Why, Saburota, it’s as if you’re trying to irritate me on purpose! You’re the one who wanted to go!”

He did?

“Oh, I remember now!” he says, but it’s a lie, it’s his mouth moving on its own, “I hope it’s as good as the reviews promise!” he says again, a giddy edge to the words- but they’re not his words.

“It will be,” his aunt answers with a mysterious sort of smile, her hand tightening around his wrist.

–

Saburota’s hiding under the bed, curled up in the dark. It seems like no matter how much he shrinks down; he still feels watched, still feels threatened. Feels like he’s not alone, like there’s something else inside him.

The door opens and footsteps make their way over to the bed – but they’re sharp, like knocking wood on wood, and so loud.

Saburota holds his breath when hooves come into view right in front of him. Fear is like a bird trapped in his chest, raging desperately against the bars of his ribs.

Whatever it is climbs up on his bed with an ominous sqeak of the springs and a decidedly animal huff.

“Oh, you’re already in bed, honey?” the voice of his mother speaks from the doorway. She all but floats over soundlessly. Her skin is deathly pale and dry beneath the hem of her nightgown.

“I’m scared, mommy,” the thing says in a voice that’s nowhere near Saburota’s own. “I think there’s a monster under my bed.”

“Monsters don’t exist, silly,” she coos, “but I’ll look and make sure for you, alright?”

She gets down on all fours and peers beneath the bed. Her unseeing eyes look straight at and through Saburota. Her face is as pale and bloodless as her feet and hands, a greenish-blueish tinge to her lips and eyelids.

“There’s nothing here, honey,” she says in her beautiful, sonorous voice. Her smile reveals her teeth that look much longer and sharper now that the gums have dried out and shrunk back.

Then she rises again and says, “Now, will you be a good boy and sleep? We have a busy day tomorrow. You need to be ready to do what has to be done.” She kisses the thing sweetly goodnight before leaving, footsteps as soundless as when she entered. The door closes behind her, and so disappears that last bit of illumination the room had.

The darkness left behind feels like it’s eating Saburota whole, encompassing him in a tight and claustrophobic space. He reaches out to prove the feeling wrong, but the darkness is smooth and solid against his hand, pushing up against it with incrementally increasing force.

“You don’t have much time left down there, do you?” the thing up on the bed asks, soft and sleepy. It yawns. “You know, God can’t see you anymore, and neither can most other things.”

The darkness pushes up against his skin, too tight to move, too tight to breathe.

–

They’re in the main hall. A soft record plays in the background, a gentle but somber croon accompanied by a saxophone and a cello.

“You know they don’t exist,” the shadow sitting across from Saburota at the dinner table says, “right?”

It’s gesturing at his family, where they’re chatting amongst themselves as they eat. At the other, farther end of the table – it’s farther than usual. The table is as long as the room as opposed to taking up just the center.

There are so many empty seats. So many set plates, untouched. Like there’s supposed to be a banquet, but no one’s shown up.

Saburota stares down at his plate. The soup is black and thick, and there’s the smooth off-white surface of a bone peeking out from beneath the surface.

He’s not particularly hungry.

“You’re wrong,” he tells the shadow quietly ad he pushes the plate away, and the damn thing laughs in response. It’s fuzzy and translucent, and smears in Saburota’s vision when it moves.

“Oh, my bad!” the shadow chortles and picks up a knife, and twirls it around the fingers of its hand; the gleaming facets of the blade catch red and orange lights from some strange and unknown source, “You’re the one who doesn’t exist, I meant to say. Easy mistake to make.”

Saburota feels goose bumps break out over his body. A cold gust of wind whistles over the edge of his collar, ruffling the back of his hair. He places one of his palms protectively over his nape, feeling unsafe.

The room is colourless now, and his family sounds all muffled - and the shadow is gone. He shivers, then takes a fortifying breath and reaches for the spoon again, hand trembling minutely.

Saburota lifts a spoonful of the simple noodle soup to his mouth hesitantly. It doesn’t seem like there’s anything wrong with it, but… he’s just got this nagging worry that something isn’t right.

–

“I see right through you,” the creature says hotly in his ear, “you’re little more than smoke - a miasma leaking through the cracks of the skin you wear.”

Saburota stares at it through the mirror. It’s taller than him, wider than him, has horns like an ibex and hands like eagle claws, poised up in the air, talons glinting menacingly.

“Poor little Saburota,” it hisses, leaning in even closer, snake tongue peeking through its teeth on the ‘s’. “So damaged and twisted that no one could ever like you. You empty little puppet, you pathetic fucking piece of shit.”

Saburota shrugs at its words. They sound about right. It’s what he’s heard all his life, what he’s thought all his life. A truth confirmed over and over.

“You should bite them back for making you,” it says with a beastly leer, talons wrapping around his shoulders and digging in, drawing blood in small beads, “Make them regret your existence. Teach them what it means to hurt. You want to. You need to. I’ll help you. I’ll make you strong, I’ll make you dangerous.”

There’s a certain desperation to the thing’s words.

“Maybe someday,” Saburota murmurs, stepping forwards - out of the creature’s embrace towards the sink, heedless of the shallow wounds left behind by the drag of its talons. He needs to brush his teeth and get to bed.

The bathroom darkens and the walls and floor wobble dangerously, like light broken on the edge of water, like matter passing through the planes of a prism and coming out wrong.

“You’re ready,” the creature wails, upset at his coy evasions of what needs to be done.

“No, I’m-“ he stammers. God, everything here looks so fake it makes him nauseous. He needs to- he needs to set himself straight. Needs to recalibrate.

”I’m not ripe yet,” Saburota says gently, cautiously - looking at the beast without turning, eyes dark like the sky on the night of a new moon.

–

Father’s saying something to him. He looks angry. He’s gesticulating like crazy.

Saburota can’t hear it. The sound’s muted. Pure silence.

No, not pure… there’s something whispering in his ear. It takes a moment for him to understand what it’s saying…

Saburota feels a smile spread out over his face at the promises of violence, bloodshed, nasty ugly retribution-

The world seems sharper somehow. Like it’s come into focus after being blurry and vague for his entire life.

Saburota looks at his hands. He’s got claws – mean, nasty looking things, the kind that maim and rip and rend. When did that happen?

The little whispering voice giggles in his ear. I’ll give you this. I’ll give you this if you just let me-

–

“I’ve been cultivating you for years,” the thing says, looking down at him from its full height. The creature is menacing, attention catching, terrifying. “You’d be nothing without me. You’d be small and powerless and pathetic.”

Its arms wrap around his shoulders covetously, possessively. The talons sink into the flesh of Saburota’s deltoids like a butcher’s knife sinks into a hunk of meat.

“You’re all mine,” the thing whispers, opening its maw to reveal row upon dizzying row of teeth arranged in a beautiful rosette. Saburota touches a tooth and pricks his finger.

Blood red. Drops on the floor. He smears them with the toe of his shoe and suddenly realises.

Oh, what a clever thing. Had him really going for a while.

“No, I’m not,” Saburota says, something in his voice dark but… whistful and dreamy. “You did nice this time, I’ll give you that. Too bad you’re so slow with it all,” he says, and reality shifts.

Well, the not-reality shifts. Saburota’s holding the thing – a squirming little creature with a long leathery tail, smaller than ever and…

And perfect for eating.

–

He’s not afraid anymore. Despite the thing’s attempts – this particular memory remains unchanged, remains his fully. So far.

There’s carnage all around – his family, the house staff – mutilated sacks of meat, strewn about carelessly, all carved up and bled out.

Saburota can taste it – the metallic tang of something raw clinging to his palate, the edges of his teeth.

He knows what he did. He knows how he did it. But… he’d been too excited, too in-the-moment about it. It’s all a red haze in hindsight.

“Well, this was easier than expected,” he says, all light and happy and unburdened.

“You finally did it,” Homare says as she watches him from the top of the stairs, her face a blank mask.

“You’re free now,” Saburota says with a wide grin, “This power could be yours too, Homare.”

It slips off his tongue like a well-oiled phrase. This isn’t the first time he’s said this.

“Why won’t you let me out, Saburota?” she says in someone else’s voice. Shadows cling to her, making her larger and darker than what she is. The beast is here again, messing with his mind and senses. “Why must you deny me so? You can’t hold me down forever. I will claw my way out.”

The house is dark and crawling with black shapes and bugs the size of rats. Saburota feels his mood sour. That’s not right, that’s not what she really said.

Homare’s walking down the stairs towards him, heedless of the gore she steps in, looking at him like she wants him to burst open like an over-tense bulla.

“Kill yourself, Saburota, you worthless fucking heap,” the thing says, even if it’s Homare’s lips that move, “Getting all cocky and full of yourself. You will regret it. I will make you regret it.”

Saburota smiles lazily, “You’re just throwing a tantrum because I’m stronger than you. Tsk-tsk. You’d think that demons had more class than that.”

Saburota flicks open the zippo in his hand, and the smell of buthane hits him above the wet smell of fresh guts. His hands are shaking, his heart is racing. There’s a cacophonous screaming in his head above it all.

“Let me out, Saburota,” the thing says through Homare’s lips, low and thunderous and so angry, “Let me out and let me in for real.”

Saburota flicks the wheel and sparks the flame, looking right into Homare’s eyes where he sees it looking at him.

He drops the zippo carelessly, ignoring the beast’s words. This – all of this is his.

And he’s going to burn it all down.

–

Saburota wakes with a jolt that has the water sloshing against the sides of the tub. He’d dozed off again.

The nightmarish pictures of his dream fizzle out into the subconscious part of his brain. The phantasms are creeping upwards again, seeking to dig their claws into his more recent memories.

He sighs tiredly, rubbing a palm over his face. It had taken him too long to notice. Next time the demon might get him for good. He rests a palm over his stomach where he feels it like a hot, familiar weight in his gut. So small, so stubborn, so bothersome.

Saburota can’t remember his childhood clearly anymore, not the way it really was. His recollections are all twisted and maimed, cut up and pasted together into tid-bit horror stories and fantastical exaggerations, much like the dream had been.

It comes with being a demon eater. There’s a certain cost, a sacrifice he has to make in the form of his memories and occasionally, his personality. One can only hold on to darkness for so long until it grabs back.

Saburota barely ever sleeps anymore. Whenever he dreams, the distortions get worse and feel more real.

Realistically, he knows there wasn’t a dead man lying on the table and singing at Homare’s tenth birthday party… he knows that his mother died in childbirth when she had her last pregnancy, that he’d never heard her voice and had only ever seen her in pictures… but he can remember these delusions so very vividly it’s kind of scary.

“Your brain’s rotting…” He tells himself in a low voice. Then, he chuckles,” Heh, who knows if what’s left is even you anymore…” He pauses, moving his hand through the water, watching it slosh against the sides of the tub.

He’s awake, sure, but he still feels like he’s dreaming, like this isn’t reality. Another chuckle, a little more self-deprecating, “Good thing that won’t matter soon enough.”

Saburota sinks lower into the water so that his nose just above the surface. The water’s lukewarm now, so it doesn’t seep into his bones and muscles the way he wishes it would.

He’ll get out in a minute and get dressed and do things, but for now he just… ruminates. On what he is. On what he’s done.

He doesn’t regret his choices, but… sometimes he wonders what life would be like if he was… more normal. If he’d never clashed with his family the way he had… if he’d just…

Well, whatever. Those thoughts don’t lead anywhere.

He’s made it this far – that’s the only thing that matters. He just needs to pull through and do his part in getting the phoenix for the Illuminati. He’s been planning it for years now, sowing doubt and trust in the right places, and it’s finally so close he can taste it.

That’s his purpose now. That’s what’s important. He has a goal and a purpose, and he is needed. With that much, he’s satisfied.

As long as he does what he needs to do for the Illuminati, for The Commander, what happens to him afterwards doesn’t really matter…

[wildcard47]

(U know I had to do it to 'em) "I believe in you" or "Please talk to me" for Fitzier bc I crave that sweet angst/hurt/comfort potential

“I just wanted to tell you that I’m getting married.” 

Sophia’s voice, a bright tinny whisper, was barely audible across the bad connection.

Francis had been waiting for a dinner table in front of a crowded terrace restaurant. The second he heard those words, he signaled to James that he was going to take this call to the nearby alley in an attempt to find more privacy, and sputtered out a nonsense noise as he searched for the right response.

“That’s… Jesus, Sophia. Are you really?”

“I know.” She actually laughed. He could almost picture her now, pacing back and forth in her kitchen the same way she’d done twenty years ago when they’d tried to do long distance, and talked by phone almost every night. “Who’d have thought that? After all the fuss I kicked up?”

“Was sure you were going to be one of those – George Clooney types, yeah.” When Francis laughed, it brought on a strange leaden sensation in his chest. He fought to swallow it down. “Though I guess that’s out of date now. So, erm. Tell me about your Amal. What’s – what are they – ”

“Well. He’s a professional athlete, actually. Erm. You’ll never believe my luck, but the man’s a sailor. Competes in The Finn. Or qualified to do it for Rio, anyway. The details are beyond me.”

“Oh,” said Francis, and closed his eyes, physically bracing himself for the next blow. He could hear her, clear as day, still telling him I can’t be married to a sailor; I won’t become some awful old widow staring at the sea. “Well. Brilliant.”

“What else? Er. He’s a lovely dancer. Enjoys those silly car racing movies. Not very well read, but it doesn’t matter. People in his circle aren’t exactly literature critics.”

“Would be very surprising if they were.” Oh, Christ, why was that awful tight heat suddenly building behind his eyes? For god’s sake, surely he wasn’t going to cry over this like a fucking sixth year? “Erm. But he – I mean, you’re happy, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” sighed Sophia, which only confirmed it. “I am.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Francis saw James walking closer, and angled his body the opposite way so he wouldn’t get caught out looking like an idiot.

“Obviously he’s aces in bed,” Sophia continued, with an audible sniff. Probably getting a cold. “Funny. Sweet. Good heart for a total beefcake. Weird, right?”

“No. I mean – if he’s – the one, then I’m happy for you both.” Francis blinked back more tears, willed himself to stay calm; his voice wobbled noticeably over the next word. “Really am. Er. Sorry, James and I are – are waiting for a table, so we’ve got to – probably should be – ”

“Oh, of course, Francis! Don’t let me keep you. I’ll send you a save the date once they’re printed, all right? Love you, dear thing. So glad we chatted. Give my best to James and to your sisters.”

“Yeah. All right. You, too. Bye.”

When Francis hung up, James had already come to stand next to him, and stretched out a tentative hand toward his elbow.

“What’s the matter?”

“No. Stop. I’m – ‘m fine,” said Francis, even as his throat constricted and two huge tears dropped from his eyes. “Really.”

“Please talk to me. I know it was Sophia. What’s going on?”

“Christ.” Francis hid his eyes with one hand; a sob overtook him before he could choke it back. “It’s so stupid, James. We’d’ve been awful together an’ – and I know I didn’t really l – love her, not the way I thought, b - but – ”

“Francis.”

James put both hands on his shoulders, and suddenly Francis couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“She told me she didn’t want to be married.” Leaning forward, Francis buried his face in James’s shoulder for nearly a minute before pulling away, and swiping at damp eyes with the back of his hand. “Because I was a – and now she’s with some beefy idiot who does the same damn thing for a million pounds a year, and it’s only – fuck. I mean, I know it wouldn’t’ve worked. I’m well convinced of that. Don’t even know why I’m bloody – crying over it now, two fucking years later.”

He glared down at the dirty pavement, as if this would somehow absolve him of weeping over an ex-girlfriend. How bloody pathetic he must look.

“‘S just – shit, isn’t it.”

“Francis, you love her.” James offered up a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket. “Proposed… what, four times?”

“Only three.”

“Yeah, well, either way, you’d care that she’s getting married.” James pressed the handkerchief into his hand; Francis’s stomach flipped in an alarming way at the contact. “You’re allowed to care when your ex is engaged. Especially if it’s to some idiot bodybuilder who can’t tell his boat from a Bible.”

“I s’pose.” Francis swiped at his nose, laughed a little at the joke.

“Plus, imagine how bored she’ll be, once the beefcake gets old and fat. Talking about that time he went to PyeongChang or some rubbish.”

Francis laughed again. “It’s a summer sport. Can’t sail boats in the ice.” He swallowed the congestion in his throat. “Anyway. Sorry for ruining dinner. If you want, I can just… ”

Throw myself into the Thames, he didn’t say. Go to bed for fourteen hours.

“You’ve not ruined anything, Francis. Obviously you know why it wouldn’t have worked, but you can’t be so rough on yourself in hindsight. I mean, I think it’s – sweet, actually. How much you still care.”

When Francis looked up, met James’s steady gaze and saw the soft, tender light that had unfolded across his friend’s angular face, he thought maybe the night wouldn���t be a total loss after all.

[notfunnydean]

Love is a hurting thing 4/33

Rating: General Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Category: M/M Fandom: Supernatural Relationships: Gabriel / Dean Winchester; Gabriel / Sam Winchester; Lisa Braeden / Dean Winchester; Castiel / Dean Winchester Main Pairing: Destiel Additional Tags: #Fake / Pretend Relationship, #at first, #dean loves gabriel, #gabriel loves sam, #it’s really complicated until it’s not, #charlie is the best friend, #high-shool-au, #soccer team #Endgame Destiel, #don’t worry Dean will be happy at the end, #thanks to cas, #oh also lisa/dean is only mentioned, #hurt dean, #hurt cas, #misunderstandings, #sweet cas, #soft dean, #gabriel and sam get their shit together too in the end

Chapter 4: My heart is broken, what now?

Dean didn't make it home. Of course not. His ankle hurts like shit and he sits on a bench alone in a park, not even close to his damn apartment, but close to the football training. Dean watches the fountain. Training is already over for an hour but nobody even called Dean, to make sure he is alright.

Maybe Gabriel and Sam are together right now? Maybe they are kissing already? Dean doesn't want to think about that stuff, but he can't help it. In this park he realized that he fell in love with his best friends. Over a year ago. Dean sighs.

"Dean?"

Dean doesn't startle at the voice. He is still watching the gurgling water. He remembers how Gabriel and he played football here. It was in the middle of the night after a party and that despite he can't play football at all. But it was incredible. The moonlight was shining on Gabriel's hair and he looked so beautifully, that Dean couldn't help but stare.

In this moment he knew, that his feelings weren't just platonically. Only a few days later Gabriel told him about his crush on Sam. And if that isn't just Dean's life.

"Are you insane?"

Dean looks finally up at that and looks into the angry eyes of Charlie. She seems very worried and sits down next to Dean on the bench. Dean looks at the ground. He doesn't really want to talk, but Charlie seems to want exactly that.

"What are you doing here? Why aren't you home?" Charlie asks and she puts her hand on Dean's thigh.

"Pain." Dean says shortly and Charlie tries to touch his bandage, but Dean hastily hides his leg under the bench.

"Not there." Dean growls and Charlie seems to be confused. Well his ankle still hurts, too but he wasn't talking about that. He is talking about his fucking feelings. He knows why he normally ignores them. He points at his chest and Charlie looks even sadder at that.

Pah. She was so happy for Sam earlier, why being sad for Dean now?

"Did you tell Gabriel?" Charlie asks and she puts her bags down. Dean only sees now that she was buying groceries as it seems.

"Why? So he can tell me again how beautiful Sam is?" Dean asks back and he rolls his eyes. Seriously as if that would help him with Gabriel. Charlie sighs and takes Dean's cold hand in hers.

"I will bring you home." Charlie says then, when they are both quiet for a moment. Dean's chest tightens even more. He doesn't want to go home. He is pretty sure Gabriel is home and maybe he has Sam with him. Oh god. What if they are on his couch making out? Dean wouldn't survive that.

"Can…can I come with you instead?" Dean asks and this time Charlie looks nervously down.

"Uhm..you think thats a good idea? Don't you wanna be alone for a bit?" Charlie asks and she seems overwhelmed for some reason. Normally Dean is always welcome at her tiny apartment. Dean just shakes his head and closes his eyes. Another tear escapes.

"Alright. Come on, wouldn't want you to sit here forever, hm?" Charlie says, when she sees Dean is crying and she stands up. She hols her hand out and Dean takes it, so she can help him up. It's not that far to Charlie's apartment and Dean is thankful for that.

Charlie asks him more than once, if she should get her car, but Dean denies it every single time. He can walk on those damn crutches.

"Why did you bought so much stuff?" Dean asks, when Charlie struggles with her bags. Charlie blushes at that and starts to stutter.

"Well you see… I'm not exactly alone. Just…try to be nice, okay?" She stammers and then opens the door. Is Charlie having a girl over or something?

Dean knows she likes Jo, but he wasn't sure she would ever make a move on her. Dean tries to hop the stairs up, but it's very awkward with his crutches. Charlie is right behind him though, so he can't fall.

"Charlie?" Asks someone, when Dean opens the door and jepp. Charlie still hasn't had the guts to ask Jo out. It's Castiel who sits on her bed.

"Hey Cas. I bought Dean with me. That's okay, right?" Charlie says and she still seems very nervous, about the whole situation. Dean frowns at her behavior. Castiel cuddles back into the thick blanket, till Dean can only see his dark hair.

"Yes." Castiel says shortly and then Dean can hear him sniffle. Wait. What?

Dean nearly throws his crutches to the ground and hops over to the bed. Charlie puts the groceries away and then sits down on her chair. She doesn't seem to know what to do, either.

"Castiel?" Dean asks and he sits down on the end of the bed. Castiel doesn't move and he also doesn't answer Dean. He knows it's rude, but Dean pulls the blanket away. He is a bit shocked, when he sees Castiel's blue eyes filled with unshed tears.

"What happened?" Dean asks and he is even more worried, when Castiel tries to hide under the blanket again. Dean is stronger and prevents him from doing that. Castiel sniffles again and looks over to Charlie, as if she could help him.

"Castiel…he has the same problem like you." Charlie whispers and when Dean looks back to Castiel, he can see that the younger boy is crying quietly into his hands. Dean feels like he has a heart attack. He never saw Castiel cry before. Normally Castiel is the one who comforts his friends.

"Who is the bitch? Should I punch her for you?" Dean asks, because he can't watch Castiel cry like this. Castiel has to be happy. He wants to see him laugh again. But Castiel sniffles instead and his underlip wobbles dangerously. It breaks Dean's heart to see Castiel like this.

Castiel's eyes are red and swollen and he is still crying silently. His skin looks even for him way too pale and his hair sticks in every direction.

Dean doesn't know what's does it, but somehow it's easy to treat Castiel like a close friend. He likes Castiel, but they never shared a deep friendship. Castiel was just there, easy and always smiling. But now Dean ignores his own feelings and hugs Castiel as tight as he can. Somehow that makes it worse, because  Castiel starts crying for real.

But he hugs Dean back and he even holds onto Dean's jacket like he is drowning. Castiel puts his head on Dean's shoulder and squeezes his eyes shut. Dean carefully pets his back and for a moment he forgets all about Gabriel, because seeing Castiel hurt like this, hurts him somehow, too.

"U-uriel." Castiel chokes out between all his tears and Dean hugs him even firmer. A man. Castiel is in love with a man. Uriel. Dean doesn't know this Uriel very good, but he saw him more then often around Castiel. He thought they were good friends and he also knows Uriel is in most of Castiel's classes, from what Castiel sometimes tell them.

"What did he do?" Dean asks and he sounds so angry, that he is a bit surprised himself. But he would kill Uriel for making Castiel cry like this.

"He…he..he doesn't like me back. Dean it hurts. Please make it stop." Castiel whimpers again and again. Between his words he always hits Dean's chest, as if it was all Dean's fault. But the hits are so light, that Dean doesn't really feel them. He just strokes Castiel's back and looks up to Charlie. She still looks worried and shrugs, when she sees that Dean is watching her.

"I know how that hurts." Dean whispers back and he is cuddling Castiel more then he is just hugging him at this point. Actually he feels a bit better, now that he isn't alone with unrequited feelings, no matter how bad that sounds. Dean presses a kiss in Castiel's hair and then breaks their hug.

Castiel's blue eyes are still wet and he still looks beautiful.

Dean frowns at his own thoughts. But he is right. He just never recognized how beautiful Castiel actually is.

"You guys wanna watch a bad movie, eat some ice cream and tattle about boys?" Charlie asks then and Castiel giggles a bit at that. It's a quiet sound and it doesn't fit Castiel, but Dean has to chuckle at that sound, too.

"Only if we don't watch Star Wars again." Dean answers, even though he loves the movie as well. Charlie just laughs and throws a pillow at Dean.

"I said a bad movie!" She laughs and even Castiel laughs at that. This laughs is more honest and Dean is glad that Castiel stopped crying. Maybe they can distract him for a bit longer. Charlie gets up and searches for a movie to watch. In the end she picks Batman, because she knows how much Dean loves it and Castiel seems alright with that, too.

Castiel turns the tiny lamp on Charlie's nighstand off and the film starts. Charlie stays on her chair and makes herself comfortable, while Dean and Castiel share the bed. It should be weird sitting this close to Castiel, since normally the don't even talk, but it doesn't.

In the middle of the movie, Castiel shivers and then somehow fidgets a bit closer to Dean.

"You okay?" Dean asks carefully and Castiel nods slowly. He still seems embarrassed somehow, because Dean can see from the corner of his eyes that he is blushing.

"Can I… I mean…can I lean on you?" Castiel stutters and Dean can hear how afraid he is to ask something like that.

"Course." Dean tries to say it casually, so Castiel wouldn't feel so uncomfortable around him. Castiel shifts immediately closer to Dean and pulls a thick blanket over them. Dean feels warm and way better with Castiel so close and he sighs happily. Maybe he should hang out more often with Cas and they could be good friends some day.

Dean looks at Charlie, who is already asleep. As always. If she isn't watching Star Wars, Charlie falls asleep while watching a movie. Dean loves to tease her about it, but he yawns too.

"Are you angry with Gabriel?" Castiel asks a while later, after the movie is over and they both just stare at the dark screen. Dean scoots a bit over to his left side, but then presses Castiel even closer against him, so he isn't cold.


"I don't think so. I mean I can't stand mad at him, doesn't matter how much he hurts me." Dean answers after he thought a few minutes about it and it's true.

Gabriel often does some stupid things, but Dean still forgives him. And that's normal right? With being in love and all.

Castiel just lays his head on Dean's shoulder and sighs sadly.

"I know what you mean. I mean…Uriel broke my heart earlier, but…but I can't stop thinking about him." Castiel whispers and Dean feels sorry for him. He carefully takes Castiel's warm hand in his own. Castiel seems confused by that, but Dean ignores him.

"I didn't know you like men." Dean says quietly and Castiel almost jerks away at that.

"I don't. Well…I mean it's…only Uriel. Never was in love with another men before." Castiel says and Dean nods. He considers himself as bi, but actually he isn't sure about that either. Gabriel was the only guy he really fell in love with. But Castiel also looks quite good. So maybe his feeling was right.

Dean looks to his right side and watches Castiel. The dark bed hair, the blue eyes and that he always frowns adorably at everything. And those lips. Yeah, Castiel is pretty cute.

But he isn't Gabriel.

"Sometimes I feel like, I will be forever alone." Castiel says, when he sees Dean watching him. Dean's eyes widen in surprise at those honest words. Castiel's underlip wobbles again and Dean's heart breaks for him.

"No, Cas! That's…no. Just because Uriel is a fucking idiot and doesn't see how wonderful you are, you are giving up?" Dean says and he carefully strokes over Castiel's hand, that he still holds. Castiel shakes his head.

"Not because of that. I remember that, when I was 6 years old and we still lived in Minnesota, I was so in love with our neighbors daughter. Well as in love you can be with 6 years. But she didn't like me back. And then with 14, the year we moved here, I fell in love with my classmate Anna. God she was so pretty. But again. She said I wasn't good enough. Well and since I'm 15…I'm in love with Uriel. And again I'm not wanted… so maybe…maybe I should stay alone." Castiel tells him quietly and Dean cuddles him more with every word.

"I'm sure you will find your princess. Or well prince." Dean whispers back, because he doesn't know what he can say to that. He feels sorry for Castiel, but he knows pity doesn't help.

Dean can see that Castiel's eyes fall shut again. Seems like Castiel is really tired after this horrible day. Dean leans back on the bed and he takes Castiel carefully with him. Castiel doesn't fight back, so Dean carefully puts the blanket over them again and lays on his side, so he can face Castiel.

"I really wish he would love me back." Castiel whispers, when he closes his eyes again and he even cuddles against Dean's chest. Normally Dean wouldn't like that, but right now, he feels at peace. Dean relaxes and nods.

"I wish that Gabriel would love me, too." Dean answers finally, before he puts an arm around Castiel and falls asleep, too.

And although he thinks of Gabriel, he dreams from Castiel.