#if i have enough spare time and enough deep existential angst | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

archived-kin · 3 years

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late with lucifer

note from kin: i just realised that the title sounds like a talk show ffs

anyway get ready to get SAPPY (and also get ready for a low-key out of character lucifer)

fandom: obey me!

character(s): gn! reader, lucifer, satan, beelzebub, belphie

pairing(s): lucifer/reader

warning(s): brief existential dread right at the end but i think it’s relatively light

genre: fluff all the way (with maybe a teensy bit of angst???? i accidentally got kinda deep towards the end)

Deciding to commit yourself to a bona fide workaholic music nerd who would sooner chop his own hand off than skip a single working day for potentially the rest of eternity has been... a choice and a half, to say the least. Yes, he’s a sweetheart most of the time, and you love him more than possibly any being in the known universe (though jury’s still out on cats and the dragon you met a couple of months ago who brings you giant mouthfuls of leaves every weekend), but you’d be lying if he didn’t have qualities that make you want to drop kick some sense into him sometimes. And one of those qualities happens to be his absolute refusal to just take a damn break.

“Just one more hour,” He keeps telling you whenever you ask him if he’s finally finished with his mountain load of paperwork. “One more hour, and then we can spend some time together.”

It has been five hours since Lucifer went to his study to ‘get a bit of work done’. Five hours of attempting to finish the mountain of books Satan has recommended you in the corner of the library, probably irritating the poor guy to no end with your constant restless shifting. You're surprised that he hasn’t up and left to go read in his room in peace - then again, it’d be hypocritical of him to tell you off for moving about. You’d think a bookworm like him would be so absorbed by his beloved books that he wouldn’t be able to move at all, but he fidgets about so much when he’s reading that you’re surprised he hasn’t somehow worn a hole through his favourite armchair yet. At any rate, you’re pretty sure you can see him getting ready to flip himself upside down for the seventh time this evening in the corner of your eye.

You try once again to focus on the lucrative business deal happening in Chapter 52 for the fourth time in the last ten minutes, but your brain just doesn’t seem to be listening to you right now; no matter how hard you try to register what’s going on, the words just don’t want to be processed. Finally, checking the clock on the wall for what feels like the hundredth time this evening, you decide that you might as well go bother your busy bee upstairs. It’s been at least a fortnight since you’ve been able to spend a full evening or night with him, and, if you’re honest, it’s beginning to get a little on your nerves.

Satan barely looks up from his book as you hop to your feet and begin making your way out, though he does lift a hand to wave a brief goodbye. Contrary to your prediction, he has not flipped himself upside down, but is now sitting the wrong way around on his armchair instead, facing the seat’s back, with his book carefully balanced on its head. Unconventional, but you’ll give him credit for the creativity.

The House of Lamentation is oddly quiet for a Friday night, but you’d guess that’s because Asmo and Mammon, the two loudest members of the house, have taken it upon themselves to celebrate the arrival of the weekend by going out for the night and probably blowing their savings in the process. Well, Asmo will be blowing his savings - Mammon will most likely find a way to put his spendings on one of his other brother’s tabs, or worse, yours. Then again, you don’t buy things often, so you suppose you can spare a bit of cash. (Knowing Mammon, though, he’ll probably buy enough to put you in debt for the rest of your life.)

On your way through the corridor, you’re struck by a sudden idea. Lucifer’s been shut in his study ever since he got home from the R.A.D., which means he most likely won't have eaten anything. At any rate, you know for a fact he wasn’t there for dinner with everyone else, which means you now have a much better excuse for going to see him other than just wanting to. Lucifer may be a stubborn demon, but he's never been able to resist a mug of tea and some biscuits on long nights when it's you offering them.

Beel is rustling about in the snack cupboard when you slip into the kitchen - no surprises there, but it is a little odd that he’s going for the lighter foods rather than something more filling. You'd comment on why he's down here so late into the night - he should really be in bed - but then again, it's Beel. He'd listen to his stomach over his brain any day of the week.

“Oh, hey,” He greets as he retreats from the cupboard with an armful of what look like several cookie boxes stacked on top of each other. “Did you get hungry as well?”

You shake your head and pull two mugs out of the crockery cabinet. “Nope. Just thought I’d bring Lucifer some tea and biscuits, you know?”

“He’s been in his office for ages,” Beel agrees with an earnest nod. He glances down at the heap of cookies in his arms, then pauses. “Ah… here.”

You look up as you fill the kettle with water to see him holding one of the boxes in his arms out to you. “...what’s this for?”

“There aren’t any biscuits left in the cupboard,” He says by way of explanation, shaking the box he’s offering to indicate that you should take it. “So you can have these.”

“Aw, you don’t have to do that, Beel!” You gently push the box back towards him and give his arm a fond pat. “I’ll just bring him something else. Go ahead and eat the cookies, okay?”

On any other occasion, Beel would most likely have accepted your offer without hesitation (the day that Beel rejects food will probably never come, but you have a sneaking suspicion that a black hole would rip this reality apart if it does), but it must have been a really good day for him in terms of being fed, because he actually continues to try to give you the box. You’re tempted to coo at the big softie’s uncharacteristic generosity, but you’re not particularly sure how that would go over with him. If being in a relationship with Mr Pridey McPrideface upstairs has taught you anything, it’s that you can never take a reaction for granted.

“No, you have it,” Beel insists, shifting so that he doesn’t drop the rest of his biscuits and stubbornly attempting to shove the box into your hands. “I’ve got plenty right here.”

Your surprise must show on your face, because a moment later he smiles a little sheepishly and adds, “I promise I’m not sick or anything. I’ve still got lots right here. One box won’t make that much of a difference.”

You think it over for a moment as the kettle begins to bubble aggressively behind you. You’re a staunch believer in the fact that one should never deprive Beel of his food, partially because he’s an absolute sweetheart who deserves the food he eats, and partially because something bad could and probably would happen if said food is taken from him. Then again, you’re not taking the food from him, strictly speaking - he’s the one offering it to you. That exempts you, right? At the very least, you have a counter-argument if Belphie tries to persecute you for taking his beloved twin brother’s biscuits. (He probably wouldn’t - the kid adores you - but it’s good to be prepared for possible trials.)

“Ah, fine...” You eventually relent and allow Beel to press the box into your hands. Your compliance is well worth it - the beam on his face and the little pat he gives the box in your hands in satisfaction could probably cure multiple strains of cancer. “You’re the sweetest, you know that?”

He flushes slightly. “I-it’s not that big of a deal…”

“Oh, that’s nonsense,” You tell him firmly over your shoulder, beginning to busy yourself with the teabags and sugar as the kettle hisses to a halt. “Personally, I think I’m going to remember it for the rest of my life.”

You smile to yourself as Beel laughs a little bashfully behind you. “Thanks…”

“No problem, bub,” You reply, pausing in your work to turn around and shoot him a wink. “Hey, chuck me a spoon, would you?”

He nods and does just that - literally. He throws the spoon across the kitchen with such precision that it lands perfectly in your outstretched hand.

You thank him and begin to pour the hot water into Lucifer’s mug. He says that he likes his tea as is, without any bells or whistles or fancy additions, but you’ve been doing this thing for long enough that you know that he actually prefers his tea with a teaspoon of honey and just a splash of lemon. He just refuses to actually say it out loud.

(To be honest, you’re not sure why he does that - does he think tea with honey and lemon is a wimpy drink or something just because you told him it’s often drunk as a remedy for a sore throat in the human world? Knowing the way his mind works, it’s probably something along those lines, but still, it’s a weird conclusion to make.)

You finish preparing Lucifer’s tea quickly - you’ve done this so many times that the movements have become second nature to you at this point - and start making your own. The drinks are finished a minute or so later, and with that you begin setting up your little snack tray.

After a moment’s debate, you decide that today is worth going the extra mile, and start to carefully arrange the biscuits on a pretty plate. It’s a bit of a hassle to get them into the right formation, but it’ll be well worth it once you get them to their intended receiver - Lucifer always gets the fondest little smile on his face when you bring him his biscuits in patterns, and that man doesn’t smile nearly enough for your taste. Personally, you’d quite like it if he smiled like that all the time, but then again, their rarity is what makes them so precious to you.

Ah - you’re starting to get sappy again. That’s a surefire sign that you haven’t spent enough time with your beloved demon lately. Well, it’s a good thing you’re going to see him now, isn’t it?

The door to Lucifer’s study is still as tightly shut as it was five hours ago when you approach it, but you doubt he’s actually locked it. He’s stopped doing that ever since your visits while he works became a regular thing - he hasn’t said it out loud yet, but you know that it’s his way of showing you that you’re always welcome to come in.

Unlocked as it is, though, you can’t exactly turn the doorknob to let yourself in. You’re a human of many talents, but being able to balance a heavy tray in one hand is not one of them. Lucifer’s tea wouldn’t make into his study - it’d just end up all over the floor.

“Lucifer!” You call softly through the door, mindful that he might be having another one of his work-induced headaches, “I’ve brought you some tea! Open up!”

For a while, the only reply is silence. You know there shouldn’t be any reason for him to be, but you can’t help but worry briefly if Lucifer’s somehow angry at you. Then again, Lucifer’s always liked to play the fashionably late card against you - whether to tease you or to disguise something, you’ll never know.

It turns out that your little worry was unfounded - a few moments later, the door swings open to reveal your favourite demon in all his exhausted-looking glory. Lucifer, who looks like the physical manifestation of work burnout, offers you a tired smile, and stands back to let you enter.

(Here’s a little secret - Lucifer would never tell you this, but he’d perked up like a kid when candy is offered the moment he heard your voice. Still, gotta put up the cool front, right? Even if that means waiting restlessly right next to the door for a minute so that you don’t think he’s over-eager…)

“Thank you.” He murmurs as you bring the tray over to his desk and set it down on one of the few patches of wood that aren’t covered by papers.

You dramatically pretend to swipe sweat from your forehead as if you’ve just finished a ten-mile run and shoot a smile up at him. “All in a day’s work, love.”

He smiles softly and leans in to gently press a kiss to the crown of your head. His pale cheeks have darkened slightly - Lucifer’s always been a softie when it comes to the host of sappy nicknames you’ve given him. One gentle ‘sweetheart’ and he’s melting like an ice cube on a hot day. It’s the sort of thing that people like Mammon and Levi would probably call gross or something, but you honestly couldn’t really care less about that. It’s not harming anyone else and it makes both of you happy, so why shouldn’t you give your lover as many endearing pet names as you can come up with?

“What even is all this?” You ask, peering at the papers scattered across the desk as Lucifer moves over to have a look at the plate of biscuits. You look up just in time to spot the way his eyes light up slightly when he sees the flower you've arranged them into.

“This and that,” He replies vaguely, hovering a single gloved hand uncertainly over the plate, as if trying to decide which biscuit he can take without spoiling the pattern.

“That’s hardly an answer at all,” You complain, plucking three broken quills from among the documents and waving them at him. “Why do you keep using these? A pen would be way more efficient.”

“Official documents should be written in the traditional way,” Lucifer tells you. He takes his time chewing the biscuit he’s finally chosen before continuing. “And Diavolo prefers quill and ink calligraphy to look at.”

“Honestly…” You round the edge of the desk and reach up to brush some powdered sugar from the corner of his mouth. “You don’t have to do absolutely everything according to him.”

Lucifer blinks down at you, lips parting slightly in half awe and half surprise as you smile at him. “Ah…”

His smile widens slightly, and he gazes at you with so much fondness in his eyes that you almost feel a little weak at the knees at the very sight. Lucifer really is a dangerous demon - in more ways than one.

“Well, c-come on, then,” You prompt him abruptly, not wanting him to realise how much his gaze has affected you, because you just know it’s going to give him an ego boost. He pauses in surprise as you start tugging him over to the big armchair beside the fire - the one that the both of you can fit snugly into together. “Let’s have a drink together.”

“I still have papers to fill out—” He attempts to say, but cuts himself off as you shake your head and stubbornly attempt to push him down into the seat. It doesn’t work - Lucifer’s much stronger than you, after all - but he does at least seem to appreciate the effort.

“You’re taking a break whether you like it or not,” You insist, starting to smack lightly at his arms in an bid to get him to listen to you. “Papers can wait. I’m more important.”

That does get a little chuckle out of him, and he finally relents, sitting down with a subtle sigh. “That goes without saying.”

You laugh, suddenly a little more hot around the collar than you’d have liked. “You said it!”

Pausing to retrieve the tray with the tea and biscuits and set it on the table beside the armchair, you quickly join Lucifer in front of the fire, snuggling in at his side and letting out a blissful sigh as you feel him start to draw circles on your arm with his fingers. It’s a sort of habit that he’s developed over the last few months - you’re not sure if he even realises that he’s doing it.

The two of you stay like that in comfortable silence for several minutes. Lucifer’s tense shoulders relax more and more with each passing moment, and soon enough, he’s sprawled out against you, pressing his cheek lovingly into the crown of your head.

It’s only at moments like this that you get to see this softer version of him, so you always cherish it when it happens. Lucifer may be a slightly passive-aggressive panther who could kill most beings with a swipe of his hand if he sees fit, but, every now and then, he’s a sleepy panther who’ll roll over and let you scratch behind his ears.

Conversation is usually sparse at times like this - the two of you are content enough in each other’s presence that you don’t really need to make small talk. Today, however, Lucifer seems to have something he wants to vent about.

“Belphie has been missing a lot of his homework again lately,” He murmurs. You make a noise of affirmation to indicate that you’re listening, staring at the mugs of tea sitting on the table and pondering whether the two of you will actually manage to part for long enough to drink them.

“Is it anything important?” You ask after a moment, playing absent-mindedly with his left hand. He doesn’t make any move to stop you as you mess about with his slender fingers, so you assume that he doesn’t mind.

“Mostly essays,” He replies, shifting slightly and letting out a quiet sigh. “He’s never liked writing them, but he hasn’t had so many missing before.”

You make a thoughtful sound. Now that you think about it, wasn’t Belphie confiding in you about this the other day?

“It’s just hard to sit down and concentrate sometimes, especially when I’m always so tired,” You remember him saying resignedly over hot chocolate and marshmallows. “It’s not like I don’t want to turn all my homework in on time. Sometimes I just can’t.”

“Well, you shouldn’t force yourself to do them, either,” You’d replied, giving his shoulders a sympathetic pat. “Needs over school of course. If you need to sleep more, then sleep more - if you feel like you can’t write the essay, then don’t write the essay. I’ll talk to Lucifer if he gets mad at you.”

He’d given you a grateful smile then, and turned back to his hot chocolate with a marginally brighter look on his face.

“Belphie’s been having a lot of nightmares lately, so he isn’t getting as much sleep,” You say slowly. “I told him to go ahead and take as many naps as he has to. His needs are more important than schoolwork, after all.”

Lucifer takes a long while to answer, but you don’t mind. It’s only fairly recently that he’s really come to terms with the idea that he doesn’t need to be so hard on his brothers - that it’s okay to put their comfort before whatever image of respectability he’s trying to keep up for Diavolo. The change has been somewhat jarring, according to Satan, but it’s not an unwelcome one, and you’ll gladly take responsibility for it with your constant reminders and careful explanations that Lucifer’s younger brothers have their own problems that he needs to give more leeway for.

“...did he come to talk to you about this?” He asks finally.

“Yeah.” You can’t see his face, but you can practically hear the frown beginning to pinch at his brows. “I know it might not seem like it sometimes, but he does want to make you proud. He’s never wanted to disappoint you.”

He takes a deep breath and releases it with a low hum. “...Belphie has never disappointed me.”

“Seems that he doesn’t realise that sometimes, though,” You sigh, tracing the seams of his glove with your index finger. “He’s a good kid, really.”

Lucifer doesn’t give a verbal reply, but he does hum again. You shift slightly and turn to look up at him; he looks back at you with sleepy, half-lidded crimson eyes. “Take it easy on him, okay?”

He gazes at you in contemplative silence for a long while, blinking slowly like an affectionate cat. Finally, he nods, and you beam proudly, dipping your head to rest on his chest, carefully positioning yourself so that his buttons don’t dig into your cheek.

“I’ll speak to his teachers,” He says quietly. “We should be able to arrange something.”

You smile against the fabric of his waistcoat, taking his hand in yours and giving it a squeeze. “That’s progress. I’m proud of you.”

He doesn’t respond, but you know full well that he loves it when you say that to him. He didn’t in the early days of your relationship, mostly because he’d thought you were patronising him, but now that the two of you are so much more familiar with each other, he’s learnt to recognise that you don’t mince words; you say what you mean, and you mean what you say. Which is exactly why, as the Avatar of Pride, he absolutely loves it when you tell him that you’re proud of him.

Lucifer himself is deep in thought. Struck by a sudden warmth spreading through him, quite independent of the crackling fire before him, he wraps his arms around you, resting his cheek against your head. It’s at moments like these, when you’re so close to him, that he realises just how fragile humans like you are.

It terrifies him sometimes, knowing that the unforgiving march of time means that you cannot be with him forever. One day you will leave, and you will grow old and fade away without him, because, no matter how much he wishes otherwise, you belong to a different realm. You are not a demon, and he is not a human; your worlds can collide briefly, for a single, beautiful moment, but then they will continue to move in their own orbit - and perhaps they will never meet again.

Some would say that, for this reason, he never should have fallen in love in the first place. Relationships like yours have always had a sort of taboo, even in the Devildom, because all beings are not created equal; humans have such short, meaningless lifespans compared to demons and angels, such little power, always depending on leaders and faith in a deity that they cannot prove the existence of. That is what demons tend to think of humanity, and until he’d met you, Lucifer had felt similarly.

But your life has been anything but meaningless, and the power you hold over him and his brothers is far stronger than any amount of potent magic that any being holds. The seven lords of the Devildom would lay waste to all three realms should anything happen to you.

Lucifer had never thought that he had the ability to love so deeply and so purely, but then again, he’d also never thought that a human like you could exist. It seems that he’s been wrong about a lot of things, and he can only pray that he will be wrong in his prediction of how this will end.

But you’re with him now, curled up against him with a content smile on your face. For now, you’re here, and while you are, Lucifer doesn’t want to waste time on worries.

Your story is yet to reach its ending, and if Lucifer knows anything, it’s that he will stay by your side until then. As long as your worlds are still connected, he will continue to love you, and he will love you long after your worlds separate again.

He’s sure of it.

#unedited #obey me #obey me x reader #obey me imagines #lucifer x reader #swd lucifer #swd satan #swd belphegor #swd beelzebub #fluff #lucifer is one of those characters that you can interpret in SO many ways and i love that for him #he's pretty fun to write as well #existential dread #we love a good big brother lucifer #for those of you reading these tags here is a hint for the next obey me piece #remember the simeon with a himbo bf piece?#we're getting a part two baby #(warning: the part two is likely not going to be anything remotely like what you're thinking of)#;)

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mirahuyooo · 4 years

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Shuffle Shuffle | jjk

Shuffle Shuffle

— Who knew a simple option could provoke such a reaction from you?

Word Count: 2,064 Content/s: AnGSt, fluFf, dRAmA, sWeArinG, y/n has an existential crisis followed by a nostalgia trip, Only Then by Jungkook is the bop, exes to lovers! AU Pairing: Jeon Jungkook x Reader

A/N: HAPPY biRTHDAY TO KOOKIEEEEEE!!! Here’s a bit I managed to make skksksksks I hope the internet works well to post this one T-T

Here’s the word inspo!

deep cut

n. an emotion you haven’t felt in years that you might have forgotten about completely if your emotional playlist hadn’t been left on shuffle—a feeling whose opening riff tugs on all your other neurons like a dog on a leash waiting for you to open the door.

I hope you all enjoyed!

[masterlist]

The sun brightly beaming at you through your window and (f/c) curtains elicits a reaction from you, where your snarky self flops onto your other side with your face contorted into an awful grimace. With your back facing the rest of the world, you stare at the bland beige wall before you as the earphones plugging your ears supplied you with a background music that occupied your mind as you get lost into a whole slew of internal debates.

A sigh leaves your lips as you coiled around a spare pillow like a fragile baby. You were in a foreign country, currently overwhelmed with a terrible bout of homesickness. You missed the sense of familiarity with your friends and family. South Korea, to you, was a garden of plenty possibilities, but one that you had to bask in alone.

You have a decent job that you manage to balance with your studies, but not much free time to really enjoy yourself. Thus on such a free day like this, you no longer knew what to do with yourself. The few friends you had managed to make were busy with their own lives, and you weren’t really up to go out and about today either.

And so, here you were, lying on your bed in your matching pajama set at well past noon with your phone playing songs on shuffle. In your slight existential dread, there existed a sliver of indifference in you—the numbed part that’s used to the mundane occurrence of your everyday life. Whether you’re really distressed about the lack of life in your life or fine with just existing, you can’t really decide, hovering in the middle and stuck between an endless tug of war.

A groan escapes your lips as you caught yourself teetering over the edge again. To be distracted, you turned your focus onto the lyrics of the songs, humming along to the tune of a finishing ‘Girls Just Want To Have Fun’.

One Last Time followed soon enough. Oh no, exes?

Next.

Grenade? Oof.

Next.

Way Too Good At Goodbyes?

Next.

Your heart stops at the next song that plays, though your brain takes a few seconds to conjure a reason as to why. Your fingers wouldn’t move to tap to the next song. The words soon flowed through your ears, brought to you by such a painfully beautiful voice.

The way to love me isn’t hard Just hold me tight like you are now We don’t know what will happen to us later But I like that nothing’s decided

The song itself was filled with such wistful melancholy—enough to blur your eyes with stinging tears as your thoughts once again whirred to life and tormented you with moments long passed.

Who cares what others say? We can’t live without each other, so what’s the problem? We can be more in love together

Love has left a bitter aftertaste in your tongue. In all of your years here, it came and went, but one such herald that love sent to you had left quite the impact—especially when he slipped from your grasp.

If you start to like someone else If I get used to not being with you When that time comes, when it’s that time Only then we can break up

Only Then—the very song he used to play to you back then when days were hopeful and filled with bliss. How long has it been? Two years? Three?

Either way, you didn't want to cry anymore so let's shut the music session down, shall we?

Pulling your earphones out, a shaky outbreath leaves your lips as you found yourself staring up at the ceiling. Where the outside world was sunny, within you was a brewing storm you couldn't find shelter from. All this time, you never thought that a mere song would give rise to such a shattering heartbreak in you, and yet here you were—chest heaving rapidly as you make a feeble attempt to stop the onslaught of ugly sobbing threatening to spew from your lips.

Perhaps it was from the vulnerability you were left with from your previous state of mind or simply the memories that washed to shore from the reflective lyrics, but you wanted to damn whoever invented the shuffle option and decided to fuck with your feelings on such a day.

You sat up, throwing the covers off of you. No time for wallowing around—maybe a little time outside could do you some good.

Wrong.

Twenty minutes of exposing yourself to the world and you deeply regret making such a terrible decision.

You had chosen to simmer your troubles down with food—the one thing you could always trust to be there for you. In a quiet corner of the new, aesthetically pleasing restaurant that your classmates and coworkers alike gushed about, you sat by your lonesome, snacking on a set of donuts and sipping on a latte that broke your heart to ruin the art kitty cat on it.

Alas, it was too much to think of getting a break from your racing thoughts and heart.

In walked a young man, who timidly orders at the cashier that was clearly visible from your spot. His sleeves slid as he hands the money to pay for his order, displaying an array of ink on his skin that didn't really surprise you but still jumbled you nonetheless.

He turns to look for a seat while he waits for his order. It was then your eyes met.

Fuck.

Your heart might've burst—you weren't quite sure. You were too shaken by the fact that Jeon Jungkook was now slowly approaching you.

"(Y/N)?"

Your name leaves his lips with a slight touch of hesitation and a shit ton of awkwardness that invokes a slight grimace on both of your faces. He gestures to the empty seat before you. "May I?"

You were sure he didn't mean to, but your brain instantly rages on all of the alarms as it frantically slams the projection of your first meeting onto your head. Unlike his current all black get up, he had been dressed then in a denim jeans and jacket combo that sported a white tee underneath. He had a donut in his hand while you both gawked at one another. He, too, had come up to you then and asked for a seat on your table.

Parallels! Damn Parallels!

Damn this entire restaurant, the other customers and your inability to say no to this man for occupying the rest of the tables and conspiring against you. Like the years before, your instincts took over while you were busy with internal conflict. "Sure," you stammered this time, forcing a smile—unlike the first time around. You’ll regret this, (Y/N). You’ll regret this.

He silently slides onto the seat before you with a little grateful bow. Even with a black mask and bucket hat obscured most of his face, you could still make out those big, doe eyes of his, swimming with things he wants to say but can't.

You, in a sudden bout of shamelessness, took it upon yourself to ease the situation. "How are you?" You ask, a part of you genuinely wanting to know.

"I'm doing fine," he says, mask shifting lightly in a way that tells you he was smiling. "The hyungs are still family, ARMYs' still the best..."

You could only nod.

"And you?"

God, what are you gonna say? Nothing much, just a little bit of existential crisis, y'know? I cried to our song earlier, too! Fun times!

"Everything's fine," you simply say, like the liar that you were.

Sitting down with your ex-boyfriend and trying to keep a polite chat afloat wasn't an easy feat, but, somehow, the conversation survives amidst the pitfalls of awkward silence. Nostalgia seemed to be of help—even if it did hurt like a bitch.

Time had bled into later hours, the emptying box of donuts and a couple of empty glasses were a testament to that. It was now a little over four o'clock.

In front of you, Jungkook sips on the last of the banana milkshake he had ordered on an impulse, as you munched on a glazed donut. You were telling him about the latest hot tea on your friends back home, both of you laughing and gossiping as if you weren’t so much as strangers earlier.

The young man before you stops for a moment, and as you were about to ask why, you caught him steal a glance on your lips. His hand reaches towards you, but you flinched away before he could even touch a sliver of your skin. “What is it?” you stutter, instantly reaching for your phone to switch the front camera on as some pseudo mirror.

There was a smear on the side of your lips from the donut you had been eating. Quickly grabbing some of the tissues on the table, you wipe at the smudge, looking into the mirror to avoid his eyes. Jungkook, you noticed, look down to fiddle with his hands. The air between the two of you was once again riddled with discomfort, both of you unsure of what to do or say next.

In the deafening silence, you caught wind of a familiar tune. On a table not too far from yours, two girls were gushing quietly amongst themselves as the both of them leaned in to listen to the song that one of them played on her phone. As Jungkook’s voice faintly reaches both of your ears at this distance, you concluded that they must be ARMYs. They didn’t seem to notice the fact that their idol is just a couple of seats away.

Still, that damn song is following you this day, huh?

Hearing the song further urges you to refuse meeting eyes with your former lover. Looking at the texture of the wooden table, you distracted yourself by following the patterns, as if you were evaluating a piece by the masters of art. You hoped that the song would end soon. It’s bringing back one to too many memories.

“What a song, huh?”

A forced chuckle comes from Jungkook as he tries to lighten the situation. You try to give him a little chuckle of your own, but it too was forced. Both of you were struggling here.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

“Listen, Ko—”

“Listen, (Y/—”

Your heart skipped a beat at the timing of your words mashing with his.

“You first—”

Oh God. Why must the two of you be such awkward babies?

You remained silent, glancing towards him expectantly to let him start his words. When you caught that Jungkook had already been staring at you, you froze in place, unable to tear your eyes away.

“Do I—”

He was struggling with his words once again, shaking his head and licking his lips as he starts over again. “Do you…” he says, “Do you think we can…”

Your heart picked up its pace at what his words implied. “Start over?” you dared to finish his thought, hopeful but not really expecting much. Much to the shock of your heart, he timidly nods. Eyes burning, you found it a little difficult to breathe as you held back the sobs threatening to wreck through you.

Unlike what the lyrics said, the two of you hadn’t broken up because you found someone else, nor did you separate because he got used to not being with you. You had gone apart because of a massive fight provoked by the strains of the long distance and frustrations of having to hide from the rest of the world. One day, he came home and the two of you had talked it out to a route that has left you both broken.

Only Then hurts because of the fact that the both of you had broken your promises to one another.

Only Then hurts because you still miss the very man that made you feel at home in such a foreign place.

Only Then hurts because that damn shuffle play made you realize that there’s still something in you that longs for Jeon Jungkook.

A soft smile lightly tugs at the corners of your lips. “I think…” you took in a deep breath, “I think I’ll like that very much.”

#bts #bangtan sonyeondan #bangtan boys #bts imagines #bts fluff #bts angst #bts au #bts jeon jungkook #BTS jungkook #bts jeon jungkook imagines #bts jungkook imagines #jeon jungkook #jeon jungkook fluff #jeon jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook imagines

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tharrb · 3 years

Text

Digimon tamers retrospective- Episode 32

It turns out that the shibumi Hypnos has been trailing is actually a mokumon. This does raise the question on how a fresh level digimon is able to bio-emerge…until you consider that shibumi has the blue card

Hell, I think it’s safe to say mokumon is shibumi’s partner

Yamaki spared waste no time getting the tamers parents on board. Good thing to, since most of them didn’t get to say goodbye or even know where they’re children for the past few months

Another thing is should mention concerning the franchise; digimon are both fantasy creatures and self aware ai. In other words, they’re humans dreams and imagination manifesting in the global computer network. Dolphin even states that the original digimon were based off the dreams and stories of the monster makers children

This is also why it’s always children who become partnered with digimon: their childish nature makes them more open to digimons fantastical nature

Yamaki must be opperating juggernaut (for a third time today) in order to communicate with takato

Takato basically lies to the parents in order to tell them everything hunkey dorey(he also probably told them about ryo, which is why his parents show up in episode 41)

As ryo explained, Humans in the. digital world aren’t subject to the worlds logic, which means they don’t need to eat, drink, or breath, unless they think they do(digimon are still affected though. Maybe Henry used a card that allowed him to breath underwater)

Aw, the divermon is just trying to protect his Otamon kids

So the tube leads to a hub of sorts that transports users to various points on the mini-verse. Henry, terriormon, and takato just happen to be transported to shibumi’s library(or maybe they were guided there by digi gnomes)

Here he is, shibumi aka Gorou Mizuno aka konaka’s self insert

Info dump time

Apparently shibumi was supposed to have been revealed to be dead at the end of episode 23, but that scene was cut for time. Konaka said “fuck it time to make him an actual character” we see later that shibumi was in a coma astral projecting himself into the digital world via his life support machine

He seems very tired, like he dosent have much time left in this world. Not because he’s dying, but quite the opposite, he’s starting to wake up

I think shibumi’s dream speech is supposed to be deep, but I don’t even he knows what’s going

Shibumi:”talked about dreams and evolution”

Takato and Henry: “grandpa’s off his meds again”

“It just seemed logical to call them digi-gnomes, al least to me.” Yes, it’s logical to call sprite like fish creature…gnomes

So, as it seems the blue card was created by shibumi and the digi gnomes to allow for data to communicate with the real world. The d-arcs are versions of the blue card converted into the form of hand held devices

Tamers also cleverly subverts the chosen children angle. Yes, takato, rika and Henry were all chosen by the digi gnomes… but as part of some grand destiny(shibumi didn’t even expect for the kids to become tamers) just as a way to communicate with the real world

I do think azulongmon may have had a hand in it, but I’ll get into that later

Shibumi also explains that the catalyst was an algorithm meant to allow digimon digivolve easier, and cause them to become more sentient(it’s implied that digimon could digivolve without the catalyst, but it would require massive amount of data, hence the kill or be kill attitude. Think gaining EXP to modify their own code)

We’ve see here how guilmon was created; the digi-gnomes used data packets and info from takato’s drawing to bring him to life

If heard from some that takato’s angst over weirder guilmon is just data is forced drama. Personal though, I think his reaction to all this is the result of the illusion being shattered, so to speak. Not only does he know how guilmon was created, he learns that his partner exist only because digi-gnomes wanted to communicate with real world, and he just happened to wanted it a lot. Like they gave him a toy

Furthermore more, takato starting to realize that data can be erased, replicated, altered etc. so that leaves him with the question: if guilmons data, how easy would it be to completely change him?

As we see soon enough, not hard at all…

In less existential news, I think there was a error in the script. The sovereigns domain is stated to be the highest layer, when in actuality, it’s the lowest

Oh yeah, the sovereign digimon is actually one of the four sacred digimon from adventure. In this continuity, they appear to be digimon that have evolved to the point of reaching godhood, and have dedicated themselves to protecting their home

“Digimon and humans will never be able to separated themselves from humans” the last episode:

“It seems they’re afraid the won’t survive unless they find away to defeat whatever is coming for them” and people say the true enemy wasn’t built up

#digimon tamers #digimon tamers spoilers #dmt retrospective

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wheezykat · 3 years

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You’re smiling but I don’t believe you!! SPILL 😍

YES. HELLO FRIEND. ❤❤

Let me wax poetic about this one for a min, because I’m very very excited about it! And that’s pretty new for me - I’m usually really unsure about the things I’m writing and worrying about how a piece will be received. This one is different for me - I feel like I’ve poured out a part of myself in the story. It’s entirely self-indulgent, and something that really took me by surprise with the force in which I needed to write it.

This started as a lil 400 word drabble in response to a drarrymicrofic prompt for the word “metamorphosis.” And then a down and out chainsmoking!Draco took over my brain, and I literally couldn’t help myself. I’m just shy of 8k right now, and still going strong - I’ve got a few more scenes left to write before it will be complete. 😈

you’re smilin’ but i don’t believe you (before&after) is largely a story focused on Draco’s character arc after the war and him dealing with the aftermath- the guilt, the regret, and all of the hardships he has to endure just to get by after losing everything. It’s entirely Draco POV, and hops through several years, centered around encounters he has with Harry and the cause/effect of those encounters on his life; how he shapes himself, rebuilds, and grows. I absolutely adore the Draco I’ve written for this, and I really hope everyone who reads it will too. I tried not to shy away from the reality that he’d be faced with, and the reality that life can be hard. But that we can keep pushing, working for a better future for ourselves, even in the face of those hardships when everything feels hopeless. And I guess ultimately, how we deserve the ending we’ve worked so desperately for. Accepting that we deserve it, regardless of our past, because we’ve changed for the better. As you can guess, it’s quite heavy on the angst in the beginning, but it does gradually (v gradually) recede, leaving room for a happy ending.

OK, now that I’ve had my existential crisis about it, here’s a snippet for you below the cut. 😅

ask me something about my WIP folders!

(tw: angst, reluctant sex work [implied, not pictured], general misery and depression)

It was getting to be the end of the month, and by his quick calculations, he’d be about a hundred pounds short for his rent this month. Losing his job as a dishwasher meant he lost more than just his pittance of an income, but also his access to cheap, and sometimes free, food. He’d managed to snag a position as a barista in a shabby, rundown coffee shop just down the street only a week later - but his additional food expenses, and the loss of just a single paycheck, put more of a dent in his earnings than he’d previously thought. Not even trying to subsist on purely caffeine and leftover scones had made up the difference, it would seem.

A sense of vague despair shivered up his spine as he looked at himself in the only mirror in his flat, fingers pressing against sharp hip bones and slightly protruding clavicles, as he tried to think of a better work around than the one currently on the forefront of his mind. Working at the greasy spoon had been hard, often back breaking work, fingers pruned and skin sticky with residue by the end of his shifts. But it had been awhile since he’d had to resort to - that. The months had soothed his shattered soul like a balm, happy to be able to exist in his dull routine and the safe return to his bed and slightly ratty blankets every evening. Feet aching, sometimes with an empty stomach, but with the relief of knowing that he’d get a reliable paycheck at the end of the week.

He watched his lips turn downward in a frown, a mockery of the pouts he often saw painting the faces of those models on the front of those awful muggle magazines. His cheekbones were too sharp, eyes bloodshot from his early morning shift. He was shadowed and thin and hungry. And he didn’t have any better ideas.

With a heavy sigh and shaking hands, he grabbed his kohl eyeliner from the counter, rimming his eyes to conceal the dark circles. He quickly downed a series of preparatory potions, among them a Draught of Peace to ease his nerves. He’d learned the hard way to keep those on hand at all times, even if he thought he’d closed this chapter of his life for good. Thank Merlin for owl deliveries and fake names - at least Knockturn shops hadn’t altered their proclivities too much after the war.

Feeling a familiar sense of calm wash over him, he turned from the mirror without another look to dig around the bottom of his drawers before finding a pair of leather breeches and the silky shirt he preferred for nights such as this. He dressed in absolute silence, only the sound of his soft breaths and the rustle of fabric filling the room.

Finally dressed, Draco briefly rubbed his palms against his sides, taking deep breaths to try and quell his growing resentment at his situation. His life, in general, if he were being honest. Puffing one last breath out, fringe ruffling against his face, he grabbed his packet of cigarettes and walked out the door of his flat, locking it wordlessly behind him.

It was late into the day, but not quite late enough for the activities he would need to solicit to earn enough to meet his rent, the twilight just beginning to fade from the sky as the dark overtook and the shadows of the shabby buildings he passed by lengthened. His booted feet drug as he made his way along a familiar path, sparing a longing glance at the former greasy spoon as he passed by, heart panging with the loss of its reliability. He lifted a cigarette to his lips, flicking a flame to the tip as he took a deep inhale and let it steep in his lungs.

Draco continued to trail his way down the emptying streets, the hollow shine of streetlamps flickering on reflecting their light off the Thames back at the rising moon. He was in no particular hurry, legs and limbs lethargic in their dread for the coming night. He’d likely be out late, but would have to make it to his early five a.m. shift at the coffee shop regardless of his lack of sleep if he had any hope of avoiding this particular fate again next month. He did, assuredly, want to avoid it.

His hopes dwindled every time he found himself back at this place.

He paused on his path, crossing the street to lean over the stone ramparts, dragging in another ragged breath of smoke. A pale, shaky hand rested beneath his sharp jaw, the other vaguely tracing runes against the cement as he chased his melancholic thoughts, smoke billowing up to the winking stars. He wondered, briefly, if this was it. If this is what life had in store for him, for the inevitable future. Giving himself away for a price, for a meal, for a roof over his head and a shaky sense of security that could be toppled at any moment. He wondered, not for the first time, if he could take it much longer. He rubbed his hands roughly against face, palms digging in against his eyes. He wasn’t sure anymore.

His cigarette burnt down to the filter, smoke turning acrid without the tantalizing smell of tobacco to coat it, embers turning hot between his fingers. He opened his eyes, slightly dazed and weighed down underneath the potions he’d taken earlier and the dark thread of his thoughts. Watched red move ever closer to his skin. Heaving a sigh, he flicked it out across the river, before reaching into his front pocket to light up another.

#WIP folder asks #WIP asks #ask and you shall receive #wheezykat answers #angst #depression #tw: reluctant sex work #substance use tw #my writing #kat writes

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anchored-in-high-tide · 5 years

Text

MILK

Fandom/Pairing: Sherlock/Johnlock Rating: GA Words: 2k Tags: Post Mary’s Death, Pining Idiots, First Kiss, Parentlock, Angst with a Happy Ending, Grocery Shopping

Summary: It's been two months since Mary's death but John doesn't blame Sherlock. They live together again but still struggle with their past, caring for baby Rosie, and their feelings for each other. A trip to the supermarket might change everything.

John sighed. “Damn, I forgot the milk.” His shoulders slumped in defeat as he spoke. He loaded the bananas on the belt a little more forcefully than necessary and pinched the bridge of his nose, pressing his eyes shut against the cold neon light. It was already dark out. They should be home by now, lounging in their chairs or on the sofa, watching something trivial on the telly. But between a particularly gruesome triple murder and flu season at the clinic, neither of them had had time to go out for groceries. With Mrs. Hudson gone to her sister’s, their emergency food supplier had forsaken them as well, leaving their fridge and pantries shamefully empty. They had had no choice. In her baby carrier, Rosie gave another sharp wailing sound that drowned out the soft 80s music droning from the speakers. The little girl had begun to fuss and cry as soon as they had entered the supermarket, raising either annoyed or pitying looks from other customers. John had hardily ignored them while he put toast, produce, and diapers into their cart and bounced his agitated daughter. Sherlock shot John a quick glance, eyes taking in the deep bags under John’s and the way his skin seemed to gradually lose its usual golden colour. He could all but taste the exhaustion oozing out of every pore, seeping through John’s shirt and coat, tainting the air with sleep-deprived resignation, so tangible it might actually be contagious. “I’ll go get it,” Sherlock said before John could ask. He weaved past the other people in the queue behind them. “I’ll be fast.” “Thank you,” John called after him as Sherlock disappeared into the next aisle, his long legs bridging the distance to the dairy section much quicker than John could’ve managed with Rosie strapped to his chest.

As he reached down and grabbed one of the cartons, a sad smile fought its way up to his lips. Buying milk. This used to be such an innocent annoyance when they had first moved in together, a cause for infinite bickering and countless jokes. But that was before everything had changed. Before Sherlock had gone and come back. Before John had gotten married and Sherlock had been shot. Before Mary had jumped in front of him, had spared Sherlock a second bullet and given her life in return. Before her loss had rippled through the already stained fabric of John’s existence and torn it to shreds. And yet, hanging on barely more than threads, John carried on, ever the brave soldier. Every day, every night, he marched onward with bleeding feet and steely stubbornness, Sherlock always by his side to catch him as soon as his legs would ultimately give in. It had been two months and not a single accusation had left John’s lips. In fact, he had barely spoken at all. Uttering not one word too much, he had organized the funeral, taken time off at the clinic to arrange everything for Rosie, packed up all their belongings and moved back to Baker Street. Somehow, he had brought this impenetrable silence with him. Maybe it was the boxes containing what was left of Mary. They still stood in John’s old bedroom, a brooding monument of their marriage, filling 221B with her presence. Sherlock knew—or at least strongly suspected—how unhappy John had been in the few months he had been married, not only because his wife had turned out to be an ex-assassin and shot his best friend. In John’s eyes, carefully covered with layers upon layers of self-preservation, swam something else, something like regret and longing and shame. Sherlock could catch a glimpse of it some nights, when John had numbed his sorrows with one too many glasses of whiskey. This look, this strange look he gave him, had grown so familiar over the years, its intensity waxing and waning. Lately, it had become so powerful that Sherlock was sure it would break through the surface at any moment. Or maybe he was just wishing for it, actively looking for the mirrored image of his own distraught face in those dark-blue eyes. They hadn’t talked about it, of course. And now that Mary was dead the conversation seemed, paradoxically, even more out of the question. Her death had sealed their fate and their lips alike, presumably forever. Some things simply had to stay unspoken, unseen, unfulfilled. Sherlock didn’t care though. John was back at his side again—a worn-out, almost pellucid version of him, but John nonetheless. This time, Sherlock decided, he would do everything right. He would be as supportive and kind and accommodating as he could muster, for John, and for his goddaughter. If this resemblance of togetherness was all that could ever be between them, he would take it. Even if it meant accompanying John on such tedious tasks as grocery shopping. The milk slowly bedewing with little drops of perspiration, Sherlock hurried back to the check-out, finding that the cashier had already begun to scan their items. He shimmied past the other waiting customers and slammed down the milk just as the clerk picked up the last item, the box of formula for Rosie. Her eyes coolly eyed the packaging before wandering over to John who still tried to calm down the baby while packing up the groceries. She pursed her lips into a tight smile. Her voice thinly masking her condescension, she said: “Someone’s a little fussy, I see, being out this late. You know that breastfeeding is actually much better for your child, don’t you? For their immune system and—” “What did you just say?” Sherlock interrupted her, stepping closer and fixating her with an adamantine stare. John startled and halted in his movements, only his eyes flicking back and forth between Sherlock and the victim of his anger. “Excuse me?” the cashier asked, her disapproval still written all over her face. Sherlock examined her closely; the way her cheaply coloured hair framed her turgid, starkly rouged cheeks; the company-issued t-shirt that clung to her sinewy body; the nicotine-stained fingernails. His voice dropped to menacing depths as he cocked his head and said: „Did you seriously just try to shame him for buying formula for his child?” The woman didn’t avert her gaze but swallowed heavily. “I just—” “Do you have any idea what this man has been through? His wife died only weeks after giving birth to their daughter and here you are, you sorry excuse for a human, and try to lighten the weight of your own meaningless existence by belittling a grieving father!?” His voice was barely more than a deadly whisper but the cashier stared at him as if he had shouted. The look on her face—shock, confusion, defiance—made Sherlock’s synapses sizzle like high-voltage lines, sending white-hot sparks to his eyes and overriding his self-control mechanisms. How did this horrible woman dare to even look at his John with anything other than utter admiration? The anger that bubbled up in him like boiling sulphur kept spilling out. “Oh, it’s so much easier, sitting in your chair and judging other people, without having to give their problems a second thought, you insensible woman. Just so you know: This man is a war hero, a doctor, and now a widower and single father. He’s the most hard-working, loyal, and intelligent man you’ll ever meet, but you wouldn’t recognize intelligence when it hit you in the face, now, would you? What have you ever accomplished in your life, apart from becoming a bitter, arrogant underachiever who can’t even work her way up the ranks by shagging the manager? What on earth gives you the right to spill your unqualified, self-absorbed opinions on decent men like him? You’re not even worth the dirt under his shoes so, for fuck’s sake, just shut up.” The woman’s mouth stood agape, giving her the look of a carp in an existential crisis. Sherlock felt a grim sense of satisfaction rush through him and took a deep breath, readying himself to fire another round of words sharp enough to sever limbs. A warm hand on his forearm stopped him. “That’s enough, Sherlock,” John said, his voice calm but stale. He lifted their shopping bags off the counter and made for the door without so much as looking at the cashier or any of the other customers. For a second, Sherlock stood there completely motionless, his eyes following John out of the store. The sight of his back, upright and sturdy as always, extinguished Sherlock’s anger as if John had emptied a bucket of ice water over his head, leaving nothing but wet, charred doubt. Hastily, Sherlock grabbed the milk, threw a few pound notes on the counter, and hurried after John without waiting for his change. Outside, the chilly wind blew away the last wads of smoke still erupting from his curls. It already smelled of spring. John was waiting for him, only a few steps away. The store’s harsh lighting illuminated his figure but his face remained hidden in the shadows as he bowed his head down to Rosie’s and cooed sweet words that finally seemed to calm her down. Cautiously, Sherlock stepped closer. The milk carton in his hand weighed five stone at least. “Why did you say that?” John asked in a tone Sherlock couldn’t quite place—confused but soft and… hopeful. Taken by surprise, Sherlock took a moment to answer. “It just… made me so angry that she assumed you weren’t doing what’s best for Rosie. She shouldn’t—no one should be allowed to talk to you like this. Not on my watch.” Maybe it was just the neon light playing tricks on his eyesight, but Sherlock was certain that John had smiled for just a second, even though his expression was more serious than he had ever seen when he finally looked up. “No, I mean, the things about me.” “About you?” Sherlock knitted his brows. How he hated stating the obvious. “Because it’s true. You are the best person I know, by far.” John moved closer, this unidentifiable thing floating in his eyes again, right beneath the surface. “So, you meant it?” “Of course, I meant it. Every word,” Sherlock rasped out. Why was his heart pounding so fast? When John gave him a doubtful smile, he added: “John, you are amazing, how do you not know that? You’re an amazing doctor and a great father. You’re irreplaceable as an assistant and a friend. You’re talented and smart and funny and understanding and basically every good thing I could never manage to be. I never dreamed that someone like you would even consider putting up with someone like me. And yet, after all we’ve been through, you are still here and you are still as amazing as ever.” With these words, Sherlock saw it finally break free, rupturing the invisible barriers between them and pouring from John’s eyes, iridescent and beautiful. Before he could as much as take a breath, John had let go of the bags, grabbed Sherlock’s face instead and pressed his lips to his in a desperate kiss. The world cracked at its hinges, tumbled over and spun around with twice its usual pace. Dizzying bliss flooded Sherlock’s system at this touch he had least expected and most longed for. His mind shut off, saturated by unadulterated happiness. He barely gained enough consciousness back to reciprocate the movement of John’s warm mouth against his and fling his arms around the man he had loved for longer than he dared to admit. When they finally broke the kiss, both gasping for air, Sherlock felt something wet creeping through his shoes and into his socks. He looked down to find a white puddle slowly spreading on the pavement. “I—I dropped the milk.” John gave him a smile so bright that it seemed to wash off all the hardship of the past months. “Forget about the milk.”

@itsalwaysyou-jw @benzedrine-calmstheitch @sarahthecoat @micahmatters @lsop712 @drunk-rambles @barbsiebabe @alexangelscuddles

#johnlock #johnlock ficlet #sherlock BBC #post mary #first kiss #fanfic #johnlock fanfic #johnlock fic #Sherlock Holmes loves John Watson #john watson loves sherlock holmes

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cloversreblogs · 6 years

Text

Memento Mori- ABHOT submission

@aphabriefhistoryoftime

Links: FFN.net, AO3, Wattpad

Remember that you have to die. One day, you will be gone. One day, you will be forgotten, and the legacies you leave in this realm will be left to rot. He, the Kingdom of the Franks, was always afraid of this truth. So he will do whatever it took for him to stay in power. Even if it meant killing his kings.

Fandom: Hetalia: Axis Powers

Characters: APH Kingdom of the Franks (OC), APH France, APH HRE/Germany, APH Lotharingia (OC), APH Aachen (OC), many mentioned nation OCs (APH Gaul, APH Saxons, APH Alemanni, APH Rome, APH Germania), many mentioned Frankish rulers (Clovis I, Louis the Pious and his 3 sons, Charlemagne)

Genre: Tragedy, spiritual

Rating: T

Warning(s): Strong dealings of death, 2 attempted murders (regicide and sororicide), existential crises, overall a very depressing fic, don’t read if you have an existential crisis

Words: 5.1K

Yeah it’s a lot of angst here. If you want any sunshine and rainbows, then oh man have you gone to the wrong place

Please note that I am not a historian, so if there were any mistakes in regards to history, please let me know, and that will be noted.

This fic is set during and after the Treaty of Verdun, which marked the end of the Carolingian civil war. It split the Carolingian Empire into 3 territories, East, Middle, and West Francia, and in most cases, marked the end of the kingdom of the Franks. Some say that the Kingdom of the Franks never ended, however, and instead evolved into Modern France and Germany. In my interpretation, the Treaty of Verdun is the official death of the kingdom of the Franks, and so he died entirely when the last king of the Carolingian Dynasty (Charlemagne’s dynasty) died.

For all of you wondering what Frank looks like, he looks like Odin Grina

East Francia/Karl- HRE/Germany

Middle Francia/Lotharingia- original OC

West Francia- France

I headcanon France and Germany as related, which is partially thanks to this comic

Treaty of Verdun. August, 843 A.D.

Verdun-sur-Meuse, Carolingian Empire.

Memento mori.

Remember that you have to die. One day, you will be gone. One day, you will be forgotten, and the legacies you leave in this realm will be left to rot.

Even nations, no matter how prosperous or deific they were, submit to this rule and fall. From fresh, new nations too prone to death, to ancient empires that crumbled at its own power.

He, the Kingdom of the Franks, was always afraid of this truth. That any memory of him will fade into oblivion once he's gone. When will this happen? How? Due to this fear, he lived by Carpe Diem. To seize every day to the best of his ability, in hopes that by doing so, his legacy will live on further.

But now, his end his end was near. Too near. The pain inside his skull pulsed in the torment of civil war. The war between Louis the Pious’ three sons tore his sanity and mind apart. If not careful, they could divide his land. He could not live past this war, he could not. It was a feeling deep down his guts, instinct, that told him that nevermore will he be an empire.

He had lived past several other civil wars. This one shouldn’t drive him to the absolute breaking point yet, it shouldn’t. It was too early. Rome had a legacy of over a millennium, his own had not lasted half as long. Why would he, a warrior, a conqueror like him, perish under the hands of his own rulers? It was not right. He was a nation, he was strong. He will emerge, alive. No matter what it took.

As the quill stained the surface of the parchment, he gripped tighter onto his dagger. Frank’s forehead was damp, and his lungs ache for air. Fear rattled deep within him. How come? He told his gentle self. This was no different than on the battlefield.

If they died, he would live.

Screw your courage to the sticking place, he scolded. It will be like in battle. A stab at the heart or better, the head, and it will be over. It didn’t matter if they were his kings. He was their nation, and only he will say in who lives and who dies.

The dagger’s handle pained his palm as he gripped it and welled up his nerve. As the other members of the court watched them, he shifted to behind the last of the sons who signed the parchment. Slipping a bit of the dagger out its sheath, he squeezed his eyes together and pulled it over his head.

With all his might, he brought the blade down. A grip held his wrist up above their heads.

When he flung his eyes open, he saw a court member and a guard stopping his blade from descending. Fury burning within him. he yelled and struggled as the court members gasped in shock at the spectacle.

Not yet. Not yet! One movement and he will live. He will not go gently yet!

He…

He...

The furious fire dissipated as a hollow feeling filled him. His mind went blank, and the room spun.

The paved floor below him rippled, and he lost his footing as all the nerves in his body collapsed.

The treaty. He had been too late. The sons had signed the treaty during the commotion. As he fell, he saw three boys clad in white linen, appearing behind each of the sons.

His head hit the stone floor, and a crack wrecked through his skull. There was some commotion in the room, drowned out by an uncomfortable buzz. The light of the room darkened. While his head throbbed harder, he slipped into unconsciousness.

Frank groaned as he came to, and winced in pain at the pain at the back of his head. His head was wrapped up in a bandage, and as he looked around, he realised that he was placed back into his chamber. A hollow, nauseous feeling washed over his entire self. He didn’t feel like anything alive.

He knew why. The three boys behind each of Pepin’s sons had confirmed his worst fears.

Never before were there other personifications of his kingdom than him. It was always just himself, and his watchdogs of kings, dukes, and princes.

Now, he was back into his room. The grey granite of the castle room was dyed a cold, indigo blue of twilight. It was midnight when he became unconscious. How long had it been since then? The quiet was not right either. Only the trees and wind outside rustled and howled. He had been changed into a linen nightgown. His silken clothes sat beside him, with his sword in its scabbard resting on top. The dagger was removed.

Frank's head collided with the pillow. He was so pathetic. Was a scratch of the quill against parchment what had ended him? Was-

The sound of stone scraping against shoe echoed in the room.

He spun his eyes towards where the noise came from. While he was worn down, his senses honed from his hunting days were still sharp. A shadow in the far end corner that hid away from the window’s light. He peered, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark. A ripple of white linen stood out in contrast of the dark.

The same clothes that each of the boys wore.

“Come out, all three of you,” he ordered. His voice came out scratchier than he had expected, but it was clear enough to work. There was some shuffling in the shadows, before one of them came out, the dying sun illuminating him.

He was a spitting image of when he was a child. Blonde hair, his fog blue eyes, everything. On closer inspection, Frank realised his mistake. Judging from the round quality of her face, it was a girl.

“You… you are the Kingdom of the Franks,” she whispered, voice like the breaths of wind. This child had a lighter voice. Two children and a girl.

“Yes.” In response, she gripped her nightdress, clearly wiping the sweat off of her palms on the linen.

“I-I am Middle Francia.” The way she had said it told him that she was instructed to say it. Like as if he was a dying man who was supposed to pass his wisdom to his heirs. Fools, if they thought that was the last of him.

By now, the other two children came out also. West and East Francia, he presumed. They were dead ringers for the girl, though they were both clearly boys. He squinted. If the girl looked like him when he was a child, the two boys looked closer. One of them had blue eyes the shade of spring skies that sparked with a certain warm kindness. He had seen those eyes before-

oh, no. No no no. Those were Gaul’s eyes. What cruel joke was this? Brung back to haunt him- Frank snapped himself out of it. The boy’s kingdom probably included Gaul’s land. It happened. When a child personification inherits the land of a previous personification, they would always inherit some kind of trait from them, whether if they were related or not.

The other boy had lighter hair, but paler eyes. Frank frowned. He resembled Alemanni, the tribe that was annexed into the kingdom. They both had an expression of nervousness, but the first one had a clearer expression of uncertainty, the lighter haired one tried to hide it with sternness and courage.

A buzzing sensation filled his ears. The room spun. Before they could continue, the room around him turned blurry, and everything blacked out.

To his shock, he didn’t die straight away.

Why? After the treaty, it should have been the end of him. Unless it meant that fate decided to spare him a while longer.

Every dawn, he hoped for a chance that the ruler would come to his senses and reunite the empire. Every dusk, that wishful fulfillment was left to dust. Every day, that hope would fade more and more, until it rotted into bitter anger.

Such an easy task. He should have risen up. Frank glanced down at his hand. He twitched a finger, but a migraine and a nauseous sensation filled his head. His ears rang. With all of his strength, he lifted his hand up, ignoring the sick feeling that came with it.

Not even a foot up, his nerves collapsed, and his hand fell back onto the duvet. Frank welled up all of his strength again, but his mind fogged, and he collapsed back before he drifted back into unconsciousness.

Every day, his strength weakened, and more humiliation filled him every time.

Every day, all he could do was lie down, and watch as the sunrise turn to the sunset, midnight turn to noon, and the Summer turn to the Winter.

It drove him insane. How long had it been since he had ‘died’? All conception of the time was lost. Only the sun and the moon told him how long. How many times did the sun set and the moon rise? A lot. What had happened to his kingdom outside of this cell?

Pathetic. He was absolutely pathetic. What had become of him? A respected empire now bedridden.

This was not the end of him. He will not allow it.

Day. Night. Sunrise. Noon. Sunset. Summer. Autumn. Winter. Spring. Watch.

And repeat.

A scream pierced the night. He had enough.

Frank grabbed his sword that was sheathed in the scabbard. He pulled out the weapon, and with all his gathered might, stood up.

He squeezed his eyes shut at a migraine. The strong pulse like he had bashed his head into an iron church bell, but he gripped his sword tight. The stone floor shattered his knees, and a spike of pain pierced his abdomen. A scream of pain escaped.

When he opened his eyes, blood dyed black spilled on the moonlit floor.

A guard had carried him back. He wanted to struggle against it, but his mind was too fogged to do anything. Stop it. Stop this! He wanted to say, but the pain in his head pulsed too much.

For the night, shameless tears were shed. Pathetic.

The event was a slap in his face of how much he withered since. He wanted to forget about it. He didn’t want it to happen again.

Since then, more people came into the room, mostly maids. For the first time, a maid peeked her head through a gap of the door, her eyes wide. The whole time she stayed inside, she shivered. As if he was a resting dragon with unimaginable power. She had a duster with her, as well as a cognac bottle and some cloth.

She pulled back the cover. With shaky hands, she applied the cognac onto his wound. It stung, but Frank stayed silent.

Now that they knew he was not of any threat, the maids would no longer shiver. Instead, they hummed, as if they were alone, cleaning in their own homes.

The wound would not heal. It clotted, but it wouldn’t harden.

To his disgust, sometimes it was one of the three children who entered. As the maids grew more and more used to him, they visited more often.

West Francia, who called himself Francis, was the one who visited him the most. East Francia visited him also, but it was to console with him with politics, warfare, and advice of the court. He even chose his name to be Karl, after his ruler Charlemagne, the one who had started his golden years of the Carolingian Renaissance. Francis simply told him of his day to day life.

At first, he was a little disgusted. Was he the heir to his land? A ruler should be strong and battle worthy. He hated being pitied, which was why Francis talked to him. For a while, he resented him, and so didn’t pay attention to what he was saying.

One day, he reminded himself-- he was a child.

What did he do when he was his age? He didn’t care about becoming an empire back then, he just lived as he did. His desire to become an empire came only when Clovis I suggested it to him.

It was better having company and someone to talk to rather than rot on a bed. Before he knew it, he started to look forward to his visits. It took his mind off of his current state and allowed him to simply let be, to actually enjoy himself for once, even if it was just listening to him speak.

“Frank… is it lonely up here?”

Lonely? More like stuck in the labyrinth of his own thoughts to compensate for the months of being bedridden.

“Yes. I suppose.” The way he said it touched him a little, how he thought enough of him to ask this.

One time, Karl stopped when he saw Francis already talking to him. With envy in his eyes, Karl backed out.

Already was East Francia focused on glory, while his brother was focused on the little things in life. What did he focus on when he was a child?

He focused on living his life. Playing with his brothers, hunting game in the cool, green glade. Never did he want to become an empire in the first place… it was only at the suggestion of Clovis II that it grew into a desire.

What stood out to him was that only once did Francis call him a father, and that was only when he first began visiting him. It was opposed to Karl, but he had a feeling that it was more towards duty than an actual connection.

He couldn’t call himself one either. A father should be a parent who protected his kids, no matter the cost. He was too young to be one. His empire lasted for less than a millennia. He doubted that he reached 20 physically.

Frank remembered his father, Germania, a whispered legend amongst his siblings. He did his best in raising them all. It was not a glamorous upbringing, he wasn't by their side all the time, but he was always there when he needed him. Always there to guide him.

But now he couldn’t even stand up. He was a crippled man. Yet he still had the audacity to call him their father?

Francis’ visits thinned in quantity, from every day slipping to every week to every month, from hours worth of conversations to quick recaps of what had happened. Now, it had been a year since he last saw him.

One day, it was not Francis, nor Karl, nor the maids which came in, but a girl.

A girl with blonde, braided hair appeared behind the door. She was clad in fine clothes and armour, so it could not be one of the maids.

Middle Francia. Frank realised that it had been a long time since he had seen her.

“Can you please teach me?” She whispered. She hung her head down in a way that told him she feared him.

“Teach you what?”

“Fighting strategies.” Fighting strategies?

"Is that all?"

“Yes. I want to be able to defend myself from invaders.” That was a new reason. Unlike Karl who learnt battle techniques for the opposite reason.

“Defend from who?” Her eyebrows knitted into a frown as she looked down and chewed her lip.

“I’ve forgotten what they were called.” She was lying. Perhaps it was because she was too prideful to say who. He used to do that.

“Forgotten? Then learn their names. To fight an enemy, you need to know your enemy enough, find a weak place, and target that.” She nodded, her features tense, before she looked to the floor, thinking. Frank remembered how he’d ask his father for defense strategies, and plan it out in his head just like her. The girl reminded him of himself more so than he had thought.

“Your land contains the centre of my kingdom, correct?”

“Yes.” The centre of his kingdom contained his homelands before he became an empire. No wonder she reminded him of himself.

Frank realised that she had never told him what his human name was. “Have you picked out a name for yourself yet?”

“No. But I’m named Lotharingia rather than Middle Francia now."

For the rest of the afternoon, they discussed defense strategies-- she was reluctant to learn offense strategies.

Finally, she did a small bow. "Thank you for your time," she bid. Without a second word, she left.

When the door clicked close, he resumed into his limbo.

He hoped that either Lotharingia or Francis was visiting the next time the door creaked open. To his surprise, it was Karl. But Karl was lacking the air of focus in his eyes. Something was wrong.

“How’s your sister? I haven’t heard from her in a while.” At the word sister, Karl tensed up. Frank rose an eyebrow at the act, and a pang of horror struck him. It couldn’t be. Was she dead?

Karl placed a bloody knife onto the bed.

“I... I am the true heir of the Franks. Right?”

Lothairingia’s land contained his homelands.

Karl must’ve felt the cold stare down his neck. He backed away as Frank tensed.

"Did you kill her?" He growled. Karl's head shakes released tension from within his head, but the audacity of the attempt left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"I... I-I'm-"

“Leave,” he commanded. “Take your blade with you.” Karl staggered back to the door. He looked away from his gaze, his blonde fringe sticking to his sweaty, pasty forehead before he reached the handle and left.

The red stain remained a horrid copper smell that started to fill the room. Frank dug his nose into the pillow to muffle it.

So that was what they were concerned of the most. Whether or not they were his true heir! A dreaded feeling in his gut, instinct, told him that Francis desired the same. What he had thought were Francis’ comforting words were now techniques to win over his favour. What he had thought were questions of a nation were now methods to surpass him.

Was that all they cared about? Being the true heir? No wonder Lotharingia asked him of fighting strategies. No wonder she never mentioned the names of the invaders. Because they were the ones who attacked. She never even pick out a name for herself!

Was this the fate of the ones less fortunate than oneself? In the act of becoming great, people below perish? He never thought much about war. Something about Lotharingia's death snapped his heartstrings in half. He thought of how he and his siblings fought. Was this why Germania was never there?

For the night, he allowed himself to be in sorrow. The next time he regained consciousness, his temples were wet.

But the world outside of the castle walls moved on. He longed to be out there. Under the sun as the smell of trees blew with the wind, into the forest catching game, swimming in the lakes cool from the shade, but instead, he was stuck in this miserable fucking hellhole.

He sighed. What good was it to resist that urge to swear? Eternal damnation in exchange for just one curse word? He’d take that any day.

Was this what he deserved? Under Clovis I, he converted to Christianity and set out to convert the rest of Europe as well, to free people of the so-called damnation. Yet people who died because of him.

Gaul. Saxon... he had told himself that it was for the good of Europe. Now that he witnessed an attempted fratricide, he wondered if it was worth it.

There were rumours that Rome was still alive. Was he rotting somewhere like him, begging for death to take him swiftly? Drifting from consciousness to unconsciousness, too tired to care?

He mused for a while longer. His eyelids grew heavy, and he fell back to sleep.

—-

The sensation was as if a pail of cold water was splashed onto him. He was dry, lest for sweat that glued his hair and clothes onto his skin, but awake, as if he had woken from a dreaded dream.

A maid pouring him water yelped in surprise and spilt some drops of water onto the bed.

His head was spinning as if he was sick. Sick… he hadn’t felt that way for years. Tired? Yes. But that was a lack of feeling. Right now, he felt alive. Sick, sure, but alive and breathing. Frank actually felt alive. Heaving in, breath by breath, the cold air shocked and rejuvenated his lungs. The maid flinched when he looked her way, gripping her water jug tight.

What had happened that made him feel so alive? Frank heard chatter and music from downstairs. A celebration? He connected the event of the celebration to him awakening… was his empire reunited? Frank ordered the maid to fetch his clothes and got dressed, and cursed at his feeble knees and ankles as he went down the stairs. Being bedridden for years, his bones ached and wobbled all over. Before he could reach the end, his knees collapsed. He gripped onto the iron railings to stop himself from crashing downwards but hissed in pain as his knees crashed into the cobblestone stairs.

He forgot his pain when in the dim light, the bones of his hands pressed white against his skin. When did his hands turn so thin? Feeling his face, he noted the loss of softness in the cheeks. Around his eyes, his cheeks, it was bony. He felt his chin and frowned at his beard. Even when he didn’t shave, his beard hadn’t grown much. Had his limbo stopped it?

The sound of lutes and gossip caught his attention. Frank noticed the door in front of him. Standing up, he opened it and flinched at the bright lights.

Nobody stopped when he entered the room. Compared to the greens, reds, and blues of the guests, Frank's clothes had faded into a grey colour. As he made his way through the crowd, Frank realised that he didn’t recognise anyone attending the party. All the noblemen, noblewomen, he swore he could see some resemblance to people at the court he had known. How many generations had he skipped?

Until he saw a flash of blonde in the crowd. It was his capital Aachen.

“Aachen?”

Said capital turned around. He stared blankly, like if he was a stranger.

“Aachen. It’s me.”

Aachen gasped as his forehead turned white as if he had seen a ghost. He couldn’t blame him, he had been bedridden for decades. He must’ve thought that he was dead.

It was strange to see him now. While it had only been 40 years since he had last seen him, the city in question had grown his hair a bit longer. He cleared his throat and placed his goblet on the table.

“A lot has changed since the treaty,” he muttered, looking away. “This is Charles the Fat’s coronation.”

“Fat?”

“Yeah, look at him. He’s... “ Aachen stopped and cleared his throat. “Big.” Frank looked forward, and the King was indeed fat, big was an understatement. Even now, Aachen was still cowardly and soft-spoken.

“Did the kingdoms reunite?”

“There was no more heir for the West, so he was crowned King.” So it was something by chance that he was resurrected, but in no way was it an attempt to revive him.

His eyes wandered across the coronation, recognising nobody until he saw Francis. Francis had grown taller and grew his hair longer to his shoulders. His eyes wandered around, and he saw Karl, who had trimmed it into a neat bowl cut. Francis was joking with some other nobles, his capital focused on a book, while Karl was talking with his own capital. The two stood away from each other. A larger divide between the two has formed since he had last seen them.

Karl caught a glimpse of him but was distracted by another court member. Barely a glimpse. Like he couldn’t be bothered with.

He frowned at Lotharingia's absence. Where was she? It seemed only yesterday since that dreaded day, yet still, the court members joked like nothing had happened. Was she too unwell for the coronation? At such a young age?

Memento mori. Remember that you have to die. No matter what you are, the world moved on. Like him. He was a ghost that no one, not even his former capital, recognised. His role in the narrative was over. No longer was he in charge of the narrative, but he was now a bystander who could only watch as the world unfolded before him.

Was this why people pass away? Because the final chapter of their narrative was finished. There was nothing left for them to tell, and so the world moves on from them.

Perhaps the dream of becoming a mighty Empire like Rome was a luxury only a few could afford. To be remembered, admired. But maybe even Rome one day will be forgotten. People used to praise him back when he was recognised. But look at him now. Maybe it will take much, much longer, but Rome, too, will be forgotten to time’s abyss.

Frank admitted that it had been a decent life.

Once Charles had died, he was resumed into becoming bedridden.

Not even fate had decided to revive him. The last few years were a test of the waters, to see if he was still viable as a nation. Apparently not.

At last, he felt a twinge within him. In Greek myth, the sisters cut the strings of souls who were due for the Underworld. A nation had one for each citizen within them. Whenever they break, they were unnoticeable, nothing more than the pain of a hair being pulled out. Over the course of centuries, as fewer people aligned themselves as a member of his nation, the strings had been pulled out one by one. Until at last, there was only one strand left.

Frank sighed in relief as the last connection snapped within him. It was the last King, Louis V. He was waiting for that one to break. A nation’s people was everything. He now understood that the condition of leaving your roots to let them start new ones was a consensual one. And now, his time had come.

Perhaps it was the very nature of nations like him. No matter how powerful, it was always the most unexpected and simple route that brought them to their demise. Rome, though mighty and grand, fell at his own power. Even after Hellenising the world, Greece’s empire eventually fell apart due to its size. His demise was not as mighty, or grand, but rather, as a result of some scratches of ink on the paper.

What was born of flames die in flames, and what was born of dirt die of dirt. He had lived for centuries as an empire, so long that he had forgotten his origins as a group of tribes by the Rhine. Wouldn’t living a life of flame mean that one would end in them?

The sound of a door swinging open shocked him out of his thoughts, and he spun his eyes around.

True to his prediction, Francis stood, his blonde hair brushed into a small ponytail. This was the first time that he had seen him in decades. He cleared his throat.

“They call me Frank now.”

“Frank?”

“Or France. I-I’m still calling myself Francis, though.” His voice was shaky as if he was aware that this meant that it was the end of him. Already his legacy had become his, became a part of him. Already had those who called themselves the Franks thought of Francis rather than him as their leader. Frank simply nodded.

“l see. Karl?” Francis frowned a little in response.

“Well… he named himself the Holy Roman Empire.” His title. His name. The Holy Roman Emperor was a name that Charlemagne had been appointed to. And now… now his name was given to his successor. Both of his names were taken. It was funny. Karl, the successor who dreamt of glory, inherited his title, while Francis, the successor who didn’t focus on that as much inherited his original name.

“Francis, listen,” he croaked.

“Hm?”

“My time… it has come to an end,” His vision was darkening, and a feeling in his gut, instinct, told him that it was today.

“An end?” He nodded.

“It’s time for me to leave.” He groaned and felt the muscles in his neck loosen. Francis knelt down and held his skeletal hand, worn out compared to his own, before stroking it. Frank frowned, remembering his tactics to win his affections. “I know you want to be my true successor.”

A gasp escaped out of Francis. He sighed, as he searched for an answer. “I… I want to be loved. Admired. Like you.” Love. Admiration. Ironically both concepts that his reign had lacked. Did anyone love him? Did anyone admire him? No.

��I was never loved or admired, Francis. No one remembers me now. Unless you rise to the glory of Rome himself, unless you reconquer all of Europe again, you will forever be stuck in the shadow of the greats. Forever you will be forgotten by history as just another impersonator.” Realising his muscles were tense, he lied back down. “Look at me, for example. Does anyone still admire me?”

“I admire you! Karl-”

“I am respected only because I mimicked Rome. But what else is there? Tell me!” He scolded. Francis took a step back. Frank calmed down as a headache rose. “If you want to be loved, don't follow my footsteps. More than one nation wants to rise to the glory of Rome, but few succeed." There were so many more things he wanted to say. Who will admire you once they forget you? And even if your legacy was admired, what good was it to lead more people to the hopeless endeavour of fame? He chose to stay quiet. "I doubt that they were loved because of it. Understood?”

“... I-”

“Yes or no, do I have to repeat myself?”

“No, you don't. I understand.” Frank’s features relaxed.

“Good.”

When he lied back and closes his eyes, a small smile formed on the side of his mouth. His vision darkened much faster than usual, but not of drowsiness.

Death was easier than falling asleep. With sleep, you had to be drowsy first. With death, you simply lie back and let be.

I’m still unsure about the date that Frank died tho since people still saw themselves as the Franks. I found out that the Capetian Dynasty, the dynasty that succeeded the Carolingian Dynasty, saw themselves as Frankish. So I could just mark Frank’s death with the date of the last ruler’s death, right? Well nope, cause this dynasty ended during the French Revolution. Just imagine the comedy!

“Francis. Listen. My time… it has come to an end.”

“You’ve been dying and saying that for 900 years now oh my lord”

Thank you for reading!

#abriefhistoryoftime #aph kingdom of the franks #aph france #aph hre #tw: death mention

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theclaravoyant · 6 years

Text

out here in the dust (if you don’t have trust) - 5x12 coda Fitz Daisy

AN ~ This is a 5x12 coda. I wrote this before 5x14. I will be writing much after 5x14 and you’re welcome to prompt me. For now, have some healing and bonding and the quality FitzDaisy brotp content We Deserve because apparently the writers are coming for this brotp’s life!! Title from One Foot by Walk the Moon which is more of a romantic song but I love it so go with it.

Fitz & Daisy (plus a teensy bit of background FS), hurt/comfort, angst with a happy/hopeful ending. Rated T. 5x12 coda.

Read on AO3 (~1500wd)

out here in the dust (if you don’t have trust)

The reception was just as understated as the wedding that had preceded it: a collapsible trestle table decked out with the finest tablecloth two dollars could buy, matching red-and-white checked napkins, and paper plates full of assorted finger foods. Sandwiches and spring rolls, candy and cupcakes; the spread might have been more suited to a children’s party than to a wedding-of-the-century in a supernatural forest below the surface of the Earth. Nevertheless, the happy couple – from the looks of them, at least – had never been happier.

Unfortunately though, supernatural forest or no, the pressures of reality eventually began to sink back in. Mike and Davis melted away, and Deke took this as an opportunity to retreat back to the bunker-like safety of familiar ground. Mack followed after another round of congratulations, eager to return to Elena’s side. Daisy outlasted them all, but gradually her optimism and energy began to fade. Every time she caught sight of Coulson’s smile, every time the bittersweet timbre of his voice cut through to her, she felt a stab of rage and fear and love that scratched away at her happiness. As the crowd began to thin, there was less and less reinforcement, and soon, as happy as she wanted to be for them, Daisy found she could not look her best friends in the eye. Not when such angst was reflected in her own.

Said best friends, of course, began to notice this as Daisy distanced herself from the crowd. Jemma frowned, thinking of Coulson, thinking of how she herself would feel if her own father had given her such news. She glanced over at Fitz and saw that his smile had faded too. He was staring with a melancholy sort of ache, at where Daisy now sat on a hillock with her back to them, hugging her knees as she looked out over the water. When Fitz caught Jemma watching him, he tried to flash her a reassuring smile, but it was swallowed quickly by guilt. He dropped his head, playing uneasily with the food in his napkin. It had felt too strange to hide his concern, he thought, but just as strange that a profound sense of guilt should steal away what he had thought to be unquenchable happiness. His fight with Daisy, her fear and anger, still played on his mind. It felt selfish, to be so flagrantly happy when she was still so clearly torn apart inside.

Jemma saw the spiral he was turning down, and nudged his arm. She nodded back in Daisy’s direction.

“Talk to her,” she insisted: softly, calmly, firmly.

She wrapped a chocolate slice in a new napkin and pressed it into his hands, and Fitz reluctantly took on his mission, trying to pull himself into some semblance of order, of focus, of empathy, as he trudged the surprisingly long, surprisingly steep distance to his friend.

An apology sat on his tongue. Hung in the air. Refused to be spoken aloud.

Daisy took a deep breath.

“You can sit, if you want.”

Small relief, at least. Fitz approached and sat beside her. He offered the slice in silence, and she took it with a nod of appreciation, and laid it to rest on the napkin on her other side before she resumed her forward outlook. For a while, Fitz stared with her, but the silence was sour and uncomfortable to rest in. He tried not to sigh, as that would draw attention to it. Daisy picked at the grass, but it was not nearly distracting enough, so in the end, she spoke.

“I am happy for you guys, you know,” she said. “Really, I am. Didn’t want to bring the mood down, but… It’s been a bit of a long day.”

“That’s an understatement,” Fitz snorted, “but I get it. You’re worried about Coulson.”

Daisy snorted too. “That’s an understatement.”

Fitz could hear it in her voice, see it in her knotted shoulders and the way she still had not looked at him, the depth of what she meant. She was terrified and angry and somehow endeared and loving and lost and a whole, complex mixture of extreme emotions, all at once. He knew that impossible extremity well, but he’d still not yet worked out a way to reach into one’s soul and soothe it. There was one wound, however, that he could still hope to heal.

“I didn’t mean what I said, you know. Before, about Coulson. I don’t think trying to save him is stupid or naïve or whatever – besides, I mean, you know me. I’m the king of stupid naivety. Any other day I‘d be right there with you, but the truth is, this whole thing’s thrown me for a loop. First the Framework, then prison, and now this, it’s like everything I believe about myself and the world and the whole- the whole bloody universe is up in the air. I can’t make heads or tails of it, and, I dunno… sometimes I don’t think my heart’s in the right place anymore.”

“I’m sorry too,” Daisy said. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I shouldn’t have gone after you like that, all that Hydra business. I don’t think you’re becoming some evil Nazi and I know you’d rather die than touch a hair on any of our heads. I’m really sorry I dug that stuff up. For what it’s worth, I think your heart is in the right place, or is at least looking for the right place. There’s just lots of right places it should be. You wanted to keep me safe, and that meant abandoning Coulson, so… wait, I didn’t mean-“

“No, you’re right,” Fitz insisted. “Abandoning. That’s just it. But I’m not too sure about the rest of it. You should’ve heard me, Daisy, I- I started volunteering people. I knew somebody would probably have to die and I had a list ready. I list I wasn’t on. Does that sound like a good heart to you?”

Daisy swallowed her words, because the answer was no and they both knew it. The effect was the same - a knife through both their guts - but after a beat, Daisy let out a wry laugh.

“It just wouldn’t be Shield without an existential crisis after every celebration, now would it?” she jested bravely. Then, sparing Fitz the pressure to appear humoured, she pushed on with a more solemn tone. “Look, maybe you’re right. Maybe something is going on with you, God knows you’ve been put through the ringer at least as much as the rest of us, if not more lately. Fear and anger, they can twist a person. I’ve been there. But love and forgiveness, they can untwist you, right?”

Fitz clenched his fist, and thought of the Framework. Of a man, like himself in so many ways, but twisted – twisted beyond what should have been recognition, except that more and more, he recognised. Shaking, Fitz felt the tears clog his throat. He couldn’t tell Daisy to stop talking. But now she was looking at him, and she could see the fear in his eyes, and changed her tack.

“A wise man once told me,” she reminded him, “that being good is a choice. Maybe you’re right about something changing inside you, maybe you’re not. Maybe you’re just scared and sick of dying. Either way, I know you know the right choice. When push comes to shove, I know in my heart that’s the one you’ll make, Fitz. That’s who you really are.”

She smiled gently. Hopefully. Any other day, Fitz might have smiled back. He might have left it there, and waited for her kindness and faith and wisdom to work its magic on his troubled mind. Today though, lost in a sea of exhaustion and uncertainty, he felt like he was walking out on the mast of a stormbound ship, and that somewhere she was reaching out, waiting to lead him back to solid ground. He reached through the storm toward her.

“The right choice is to save Coulson,” he said, his voice unsteady but his words true and spoken from the heart. “Save Coulson, and take the rest as it comes. Save the world. Together.”

There was a firmness to that last word. A promise. One that they have promised each other time and time again: to never leave each other behind. Today, it settled over Daisy’s heart uneasily, but it settled all the same, and for all her doubts about the road ahead, she found in it some consolation. She shuffled closer to Fitz, nuzzling against his side so they could share the serene supernatural view. He put an arm around her, grateful to have her close again, and quietly, Daisy added her voice to his vow.

“Together.”

#fitzdaisy #aosteam #aospositivitynet #aosficnet #aos fic #clara's fic tag #fitz #daisy johnson #aos s5

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sleeplessnightwithphan · 7 years

Text

Expect Nothing

Summary: Phil was expecting a restless sleep and lots of crying. He was expecting having to move on without his best friend and feeling lonely. He was expecting a life filled with regret and the question “‘what if?’.

Phil wasn’t expecting a familiar figure crying on his bed.

(But hey, life is full of surprises, isn’t it?)

Genre: Angst, post-breakup, bit of fluff in the end (I couldn’t not)

Word Count: 6.4k

TW: Alcohol, mentions of wounds, hospitals, mentions of cancer (very briefly), mentions of death (very very minor character dying)

A/N: Thank you so much to @snowbunnylester for helping me to continue writing this fic instead of just deleting it when I got stuck, and @phillybops for making sure everything I had written was actually in English instead of some alien language. I love you both! <3

I have literally been writing this story since March/April, back when Humpty and Dumpty were still living in their old place, so imagine it taking place there (I was too lazy to change it all.)

I had already posted part of this as an attempt to write a chaptered fic, but I feel like it works better as a oneshot, so yeah. Here it is I guess?

I hope you enjoy the story, and feedback is always appreciated ^^

Readon AO3: X

At nine o’clock, Phil hesitantly opened the door to the apartment. Dan had told him that he should be done packing his stuff and on his way out by six, but he hadn’t actually built up the courage he needed to return until now.

He was scared to see the place half empty, no proof left behind that there were once two men living their lives together in there, being very much in love.

He wouldn’t be able to wear one of Dan’s jumpers at night anymore when he was feeling lonely, wouldn’t be able to go into Dan’s bedroom and be reminded of all the good things that happened in their relationship (even though Dan’s bedroom had unofficially become the spare bedroom a long time ago, it was filled with little things that made it distinctly ‘Dan’.)

Nothing left behind to remind him of making dinner together after a long day of work, which would always end up in them almost destroying their kitchen. Nothing to remind him of sitting on the carpet in their hallway beside his boyfriend, talking him through another existential crisis.

Nothing to remind him of the smiles, the tears, the fights, the making up, the ups-and-downs. Feeling alive, the exhilarating knowledge that no matter what happened, Dan would always be right beside him: being able to take on the world together.

Seeing the apartment half empty would make everything real. It would force him to accept the fact that Dan had moved on, and he had left Phil a broken mess.

Having felt sad, lonely and scared all day thinking of what he had to face when he came back home (it felt strange having to refer to a place without Dan as ‘home’), Phil just wanted to go to his bed and fall asleep, tired out by constantly worrying about his future and missing his best friend.

He was so lost in thoughts that he failed to realise that there was another set of keys on the table in their hallway when he emptied his pockets on there. He was oblivious to the fact that the lights were still on, even though Dan always turned them off when he left (quite a few arguments had started with Phil forgetting to do so). He didn’t notice the boxes in the hallway that hadn’t been there when he left the place to go out earlier that day.

It wasn’t until he walked into the bedroom and saw a familiar figure sitting on the bed, crying his eyes out, that he realised that Dan hadn’t left yet.

***

Phil just stood in the door frame, staring at his past lover.

His first reaction was to run away, leave the apartment again and come back after a few hours. Phil never was one for confrontations, always wanting to do everything he could to make everybody happy. He hated awkward meetings, discussions, or fights - usually opting to avoid them altogether.

But then again, this was Dan they were talking about. The man he had known for years now. The man he witnessed growing up from an awkward, starstruck boy who managed to grab his attention on the internet, into a confident, beautiful adult. The man he fell in love with, and even though they broke up, he still felt his heart beginning to beat faster when he looked at him.

So no, Phil could definitely not leave him here alone.

He decided to take a step into the room and softly knock on the open door, as to not startle Dan. However, he didn’t acknowledge Phil at all, but just kept his face buried in his hands and continued to sob.

Phil tried again, knocking on the door a bit louder, and when Dan still didn’t seem to have heard him, he decided to speak up.

“Dan…why are you still here? Why are you crying?” he asked with utmost carefulness in his voice, as if he were trying to approach a young animal in the woods.

Finally, Dan had noticed him. He lifted his head up to see who had walked into the room, but when he saw it was Phil, he quickly looked away and tried to hide his face with his hands again.

“Please, don’t look at me like this. I’ll leave in a bit. I’ll let you continue with your life without me, I’ll go away, just… give me a minute, please.” He spoke, words becoming nearly incomprehensible through the layer of hands and the result of crying.

Even if Phil was to ignore the state he had found Dan in, the words he used didn’t help to assure him that Dan was alright. It sounded almost as if he thought that Phil hated him. If only he knew…

They had decided to break up a month and a half ago, but it was a long time coming. They had found themselves fighting with one another more and more often, most of the times over trivial things they couldn’t even remember afterwards.

Dan had started to get more and more guarded again, seemingly not wanting anybody to see how he felt, putting up an act. It was as if current Dan had switched places with the 2012 version of himself.

This shift in behaviour had caused Phil to have to be extremely careful around his boyfriend, picking every word he said with care, constantly walking on eggshells. And even then, there always was something Phil had apparently done or said wrong.

Their final night together, Phil had decided that he had had enough. He wanted an explanation for Dan’s sudden change, he wanted to stop feeling like Dan was a ticking time bomb that could explode at any time. So he had gathered all of his courage, and went up to Dan to express his concerns.

“Dan, can we talk for a minute, please?” Phil had said while taking a seat on the couch. It was apparent in his the shaking of his voice that he was very nervous and even a bit scared, but he knew that this was something he needed to do.

“There is something that’s been… bothering me, I guess? And I just wanted to discuss it with you.”

Dan, who had been busy on his laptop, sighed, put the laptop away and turned to Phil. “What’s wrong?” he said, sounding annoyed with Phil.

Oh great, this had gotten off to an amazing start.

Taking a deep breath, Phil ignored the small voice in the back of his head that was screaming not to do this. They couldn’t go on like this.

“I...I don’t really like the way you’re acting lately. It’s constantly making me feel like I’ve done something wrong, and I don’t want to have to worry about that all the time,” he had said with all the courage he could muster, looking down at his hands.

“What do you mean, the way I have been acting? I haven’t been acting any different. What has gotten into your head?” Dan spoke, raising his voice just a little bit, but enough to make Phil want to back out of this.

But Phil knew that he couldn’t. He had to do this.

“I just… I constantly feel like you’re shutting me out, you’re not talking to me anymore. We’re always fighting about nothing, and it’s been making me feel like you’re superior to me.

Phil started playing pulling on a loose thread on the bottom of his shirt, anything to avoid making eye contact.

“And, I just, I don’t want that, I want us both to be equal in this relationship. We used to have that, but I… I feel like we don’t anymore. I just want what we used to have.”

That, apparently, hadn’t been what Dan wanted to hear.

“I have been shutting you out? What do you mean, I have been shutting you out? I have been acting superior to you? Phil, those are lies!”

Dan had started properly shouting at this point, something Phil hated. He crawled away into the corner of the couch, but that didn’t seem to stop Dan from fully blowing his lid.

“I have never, never acted superior to you! If anything, you’re the one who has acted superior to me! Always expecting me to tell you everything, acting like you’re the only one who knows how to handle things, but guess what?! I’m an adult as well! I can deal with my own shit, and I don’t need you to baby me!”

“I’ve never done anything but try to help you, Dan! I was trying to be a good boyfriend! Why are you getting mad at me about that?!” Phil started crying at this point, out of frustration and anger, not knowing what he did wrong.

But Dan never answered the question, instead collapsing onto the couch and starting to sob as well.

Phil, out of habit, tried to wipe away his tears and go over to Dan, hold him and calm him down. He moved over to sit down next to Dan, and put his hand on Dan’s shoulder.

Dan’s reaction, however, wasn’t what he had been expecting, not at all. Instead of accepting his embrace, he pushed Phil away, hard enough to making him fall to the ground, and began screaming again.

“You see, Phil?? That’s what I mean! You always have to baby me, act like I’m a child! I’m not anymore, I’m 26 years old for fuck’s sake! And you, you just, you don’t listen when I tell you not to!”

They both stared intensely at each other for a moment, trying to calm down, before Dan stood up and started walking away. Phil was still laying on the floor, in shock over the fact that Dan, his Dan, had actually pushed him.

But he did still hear the words Phil had always hoped he would never have to hear come from Dan’s mouth.

“This isn’t working anymore. We’re over.”

***

Everything after that was a hazy mess clouded with tears, his brain struggling to understand what was going on.

Phil couldn’t remember getting up, didn’t remember moving around. Somehow he ended up banging on Dan’s locked door, begging to be let in, begging to be given a second chance.

Dan hadn’t let him in, hadn’t talked to him, hadn’t acknowledged him at all.

In the end, they had gone into their separate rooms, not sleeping in the same bed for the first time in years. Phil just lied there and stared at the ceiling, listening to any sounds that might be coming from the next room.

Eventually, Phil had fallen into a restless sleep, vaguely aware of the sounds of someone packing a suitcase coming from the other bedroom.

By the time he woke up, he was alone in the apartment.

That’s when he fell apart.

Phil had spent the first week in their – no, his - bedroom, crying the entire day, lacking the energy to do anything. He usually was full of joy, but apparently that part of him had left together with Dan.

He had lied awake at night, thinking about every possible way that he might have been able to save their relationship. Yes, they had been very busy over the last few years, and yes, they hadn’t been spending as much time with one another as they used to, working on separate projects a little more. But it wasn’t as if they never saw each other anymore, they still spend most of their time together, nothing had happened that seemed big enough to cause Dan’s behaviour to change so much.

Should he have noticed it earlier? Was there a very obvious reason for Dan’s behaviour that Phil had managed to miss completely? Was there anything he could have done differently?

He came up without an answer every time.

Dan, on the other hand, didn’t seem to have been sad for a long time after their break-up. Phil hadn’t been able to make himself turn off the notifications for Dan on all his social media until three weeks afterwards, and the pictures and tweets he had still been notified about had shown him that Dan was doing just fine without him.

The Dan currently sitting in front of him didn’t even remotely resemble the Dan he had seen in pictures from those three weeks.

It was then that Phil spotted a bottle laying next to Dan on the bed. He couldn’t make out what the label said from where he stood, but he had a feeling it wasn’t just a bottle of water. Upon further inspection, he noticed that it was completely empty – that could explain at least part of Dan’s behaviour.

“Dan, have you really drank an entire bottle of alcohol on your own?” he asked, slowly stepping closer to the bed, sitting down far enough from Dan as to not make him run out of the room.

“I did, but it was nearly empty anyway. I’m not completely drunk if that’s what you’re thinking.” The tears had stopped falling out of his eyes, Dan had removed his hands from his face once again and was staring at the carpet at his feet. “I just… needed it, I guess.”

“And why is that?”

“I…I…I…” Dan tried to respond, but instead he started bawling his eyes out again, and throwing his arms around Phil’s neck, pulling him closer and nestling his head into the crook of Phil’s neck, soaking his shirt with his tears.

Phil just held Dan in his arms, caressing his back and allowing him to cry, keeping him safe and warm.

It brought back memories of all the times he used to do exactly that, comforting Dan and guarding him from whatever it was that was haunting him. How he was the first person Dan would come to when he felt sad, lonely, or doubtful. When negative comments on his videos got to him, or even just when he was exhausted from a long day of work, Phil was there for him.

They would cuddle for hours if needed, not saying anything, the feeling of being in Phil’s arms enough to calm Dan down and bring a smile back onto his face.

Here they were, in the exact same position they had been in so many times over the years, but everything felt different. Phil was once again reminded of how much things had changed. This time, Phil somehow was the reason Dan needed protection and consolation. He was the one who caused this, and he had no idea how to make Dan smile again.

Sitting here like that also brought back those painful memories, reminding of the last time they’d been in this situation, and how Dan had gotten angry with him for trying to console him. How he had pushed Phil away, breaking up with him only minutes later.

He tried to blink away the tears he started to feel building in his own eyes, holding onto Dan out of selfish reasons, trying not to fall apart himself.

He needed this just as much a Dan seemed to need it.

After a while, he noticed that Dan had stopped crying and his breathing had evened out. Pulling him away from his neck a bit, Phil saw that Dan’s eyes were shut and his face looked peaceful with just a hint of sadness; he had fallen asleep.

Given the fact that Dan had most likely been just as exhausted as him, Phil really didn’t have it in him to wake him up and make him collect all of his stuff. They would hopefully talk about what had happened tomorrow morning, but for now, they both just needed to rest.

He quickly moved Dan around so he was properly laid down in bed, tucking him in and making sure he was comfortable.

Not being able to resist, Phil brushed Dan’s hair out of his face, caressed his cheek, and softly placed a kiss on his forehead, before leaving the room to go sleep in the spare bedroom.

The soft smile that formed on Dan’s face after the kiss went unnoticed by Phil.

***

Phil

I’m so sorry about last night. I didn’t mean to trouble you in any way at all. I don’t know why exactly I thought that drinking half a bottle of vodka would help me accomplish that goal, but apparently, I did.

I will ask Louise if she can come by sometime next week and pick up my stuff for me. I’d hate for me to trouble you anymore than I already have.

Thank you for allowing me one last night in our your apartment, you really are the kindest soul to ever roam the earth, and you deserve so much more than what I was able to give you.

I truly wish you all the best, and I hope you find the love of your life soon, so you can finally become happy.

Again, sorry for last night. I won’t be giving you any more trouble ever again.

Just... thank you, I guess.

Now go and have a happy live.

Dan

***

No. No no no no no. This wasn’t happening. This was not allowed to happen.

Phil had woken up the next morning, feeling quite optimistic. He was hoping that Dan had been able to get a good night sleep, and they’d be able to sit down and discuss what had happened the night before - why Phil had found Dan drunk and crying in his old bedroom. He had been hoping to at least get some closure, an explanation on why Dan had behaved to strange in their last months together.

Now that they had spent some time apart, and after seeing Dan being so miserable the night before, Phil was actually feeling like this time, Dan might actually tell him.

That was, until Phil walked into the bedroom to see it empty, bed being made, and a note left behind.

Reading it, he felt himself getting angrier and angrier at every word he read, his blood starting to boil.

So, Dan had just decided to run away again? Leave Phil with all the questions he had? Send Louise to pick up his stuff in order to not have to see him again?

And as if that wasn’t enough, tell Phil that he deserved better than Dan? That he hoped Phil would find the love of his life soon?

Fuming with anger, Phil crumbled up the note and put it in his pocket.

He had already found him. He had found his true love. And there was no way that Phil was going to let him run away a second time.

So Phil did what he decided he should have done the first time already. He took his phone, keys and wallet, put on a coat and walked out of the house. He was going to find Dan and finally talk to him.

Dan wasn’t getting away again.

Not like this.

Once Phil had pulled close the door of his apartment behind him, he realised that he had no idea where to start looking first.

He tried to call Dan and talk to him, but it went straight to voicemail, so Phil presumed that Dan had either turned his phone off, or it had run out of battery (given the fact that Dan had spent the night at their apartment, and Phil hadn’t thought to plug in his phone overnight).

In the end, he just started walking down the road, hoping to find some inspiration.

The last thing he heard, Dan has been spending a few days at his parent’s house, but that had been right after they broke up, and he doubted that would be where he still was.

(Not that Dan didn’t love his family very much, he just always valued his independence, and he didn’t want to feel like he was bothering anybody.)

Maybe Dan had been staying over at a friend’s house? Or he had found a new place to live?

By the time he decided he should try and call some of their friends, Phil had made his way to a small park and sat down on a bench. If anything, Dan might have been in contact with some of them, or maybe one of them could help in his search. Trying was the least he could do.

Bryony hadn’t seen Dan since before the break-up, but she promised to let Phil know if she heard anything from him.

PJ had let Dan stay over at his place for a few days, but that was two weeks ago, and Dan had taken off without telling him where he was going. (PJ did end up talking to him for an hour, allowing Phil to vent, express his worries, and calm down. PJ also promised to keep an eye and ear out for Dan.)

He even reluctantly called Dan’s mum, but that only ended up in making her worry about her son. It might not have been the best idea Phil had had today (but hey, he was desperate).

After Phil hung up the phone for the fifth time, he could feel his eyes starting to water, but he tried to blink the tears away, refusing to cry over this in public.

Why was Dan making it so hard for him to be found? What had he been thinking when he wrote that stupid note? Why did he say that Phil deserved better than him?

Phil honestly couldn’t imagine ‘someone better’. Sure, Dan had his flaws. Yes, Dan could be stubborn, he could be lost in his existential crisis for days, or never believe anything he did was good enough. He could be incredibly loud, but also incredibly quiet and shy. He was unpredictable.

But all of that made him incredibly ‘Dan’. Incredibly familiar. Their relationship had always been easy, it had always felt natural for them to be together, as friends and later on as lovers. They balanced each other out perfectly.

The sky has slowly begun to get darker and darker while Phil had been sitting in the park, and he could feel little drops of water beginning to hit him.

It almost felt like the clouds were mocking him.

Sighing, Phil slipped his hands into his pockets to protect them from the cold weather, when his fingers skimmed a piece of paper.

Dan’s note. He still had it on him.

He pulled it out and started to read it again, trying to find any clue on where Dan could be.

And Jesus, how could Phil have been that stupid?

I will ask Louise if she can come by sometime next week and pick up my stuff for me.

Louise. Of course. Phil had completely forgotten to call Louise, when she was the most obvious person to know where Dan was.

Louise must know where Dan was.

Quickly, Phil dialed her number, and held his breath as he heard the phone going off.

First ring. Second. Third. Fourth.

He was almost afraid that she wouldn’t pick up the phone.

“Hello, Louise speaking.” Phil’s heart skipped a beat when he finally heard the familiar voice.

“Louise, it’s Phil here. Listen, I-” he got out before Louise interrupted him.

“Oh, hi Phil! How have you been? I haven’t heard from either of you guys in months, we need to get together sometime!” Louise told him cheerfully, as if nothing was wrong.

Phil felt as if he just stepped into a cold shower. She hadn’t heard from either one of them in months… surely that must mean that she had no idea what had happened.

“Louise… have you heard anything from Dan these last few weeks? Anything at all?” He asked, desperate for any sort of news, but he already knew what she was going to say.

“Dan? No, I haven’t heard from him since the last time we went out together? Why, is something wrong with him? Are you alright?” She asked, sounding worried.

“He is… we didn’t…he went...” is all that Phil managed to say, before he fell apart.

If he hadn’t already been sitting on a bench, he was sure he would have collapsed onto the floor. Tears started rolling out of his eyes, mixing with the raindrops already covering his cheeks. He managed to hang up the phone with what seemed like his last bit of energy left.

No, he wasn’t alright. He was far from being alright. He felt completely exhausted. He was tired of looking for Dan, tired of trying to make things right, tired of having to make such an effort.

But also tired of not having Dan around to make everything better, tired of missing Dan, tired of feeling like he did something wrong and not knowing what it was.

He really needed to find Dan.

He doesn’t know how long he sat there on the bench, lost in his thoughts. It could have been 10 minutes, could have been an hour, could have been multiple days for all he knew.

When he was slowly beginning to calm down a bit, he noticed that the that the rain had stopped pouring down and completely soaking him, and instead had subseded into a light fall of small water droplets you had to pay close attention to to notice. He was also hearing a sound he couldn’t quite put into place right now, one that was slightly confusing him; what kind of weird bird made those noises?

It took him a few seconds to realise that the weird sound was his phone ringing, but once he did, he immediately fought to pull it out of his pockets (when did he even put it in there?), hoping it would be PJ or Dan’s mum (or even Dan himself, but the odds were not really in his favour today).

This enthusiasm and wishful thinking was why he felt a wave of disappointment and sadness crashing over him when he saw it was an unknown number.

“Stop pretending he’ll come back, Phil. You messed up, you don’t really know how, but you obviously messed up. He’s not coming back.” He thought to himself, putting the phone to his ear and answering subconsciously.

An unfamiliar male voice that came through pulled him back to reality quickly.

“Mr. Lester? My name is Elyas Basheera, I’m a nurse at the Royal London Hospital. I’m calling you in regards to a patient that was just admitted, Daniel James Howell.” The man spoke.

“Hospital… Dan? But, what… how…what? Is Dan alright? What happened?” Phil stuttered out. Suddenly, it was getting hard to breathe, the air not quite seeming to reach his lungs, his head starting to spin.

Dan, in hospital. This couldn’t mean anything good.

“Mr. Lester, are you still there? Are you alright?” The voice came through the phone again. Phil was vaguely aware of the man giving him an answer, but with his thoughts going a hundred miles per hour, he hadn’t paid attention to what he had said.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t really listening. What were you saying, sir?”

The man made an understanding noise before repeating himself. His job probably involved a lot of dealing with people who were reacting very emotional.

“I said that Mr. Howell was found in South London, collapsed on the ground. He seems to have suffered a head wound, and we also suspect he has had one too many drinks. He was brought in here in order to receive medical attention, but he’s in a stable condition at the moment. Since you’re his emergency contact, we would like to invite you to come to the hospital as well.” The nurse spoke calmly, trying to reassure Phil of the fact that everything was allright.

Phil doesn’t think he ever ran to get a taxi faster in his life.

***

Hospitals were something Phil had never taken a liking to.

His earliest memories of them was visiting a distant relative, he hadn’t really known who it was, a cousin of his father or something like that. The man had just received chemotherapy, and Phil clearly remembers how poorly he looked, as if he were a ghost just hanging to his body by a small thread.

Considering the fact that the man had passed away just a few weeks later, he might as well have been.

Every hospital visit ever since, he’s been confronted with people who were trying to battle for their life, people who were grieving, crying, feeling the absolute worst they could. People who were doing anything but being happy. Being the optimistic, happy guy he always was, he didn’t really know how to deal with it.

But here he was, walking down a hallway, passing by rooms that all held people with their own struggles, their own worries and sadness.

And Phil couldn’t care less about any of them.

The only thing he cared about was reaching room 215, the room he was told Dan was currently in. He was almost running down the corridors, trying to reach him as fast as possible.

But when he was almost there, he stopped. 5 steps separating him from being able to walk in the room and hold Dan close, but he had to stop.

What would he even say? Dan obviously didn’t want to see him anymore, wanted to stay as far away from him as possible. He had somehow hurt Dan, even though he never intended to, and he didn’t know how or why.

Should he even be here? Should he just waltz right back into Dan’s life, while he had made it so obvious he didn’t want him anymore? Should he be so selfish and force Dan to talk to him, just so that Phil could feel better?

He was seriously considering walking out of the hospital and asking Dan’s mum to go pick him up, when a nurse walked out of the room. Upon seeing Phil stood in the hallway, she smiled at him.

“Mr. Lester, I presume?” she spoke with a soft, calming voice. “Mr. Howell is just in this room, but he is asleep at the moment. You can go in, but don’t wake him up. He’ll need all the rest he can get in the next few days. The doctor will come in in a few hours, and he’ll most likely be allowed to go home then.” she told him before walking away and disappearing into another room.

Hearing that Dan was asleep helped to calm Phil’s nerves a bit, and he took the last few steps and entered the room.

Taking a deep breath, Phil walked over to the chair standing next to the bed, avoiding to look at Dan for a moment. Sitting down, he took another deep breath before finally allowing himself to look at the figure in the bed.

Head bandage. IV. Hospital gown. A few scratches, bruises and bandages. The wounds weren’t as bad as Phil had feared they might have been.

It was Dan’s expression that surprised him more than anything.

Asleep, Dan usually looked calm, peaceful, all his worries that haunted him during the day disappeared from his face. Even when he was sick or stressed, sleep never failed to make him look young, careless and innocent.

But right now, even sleep didn’t manage to fully erase the pain and the hurt from his face. It wasn’t obvious, barely even there, but Phil still noticed it. Dan was hurt.

They were both hurt.

Phil took hold of Dan’s hand, and lost every sense of time.

When Dan was woken up a few hours later to get his final check up done, Phil never left the room, just kept looking at Dan. Dan didn’t object to him being there, didn’t even acknowledge it. He just walked along with Phil out of the hospital after being told by the doctor to take things slow for a few weeks.

Not really knowing where else to go, Phil told the taxi driver the address of their apartment, and the two of them remained silent throughout the journey, even though there were so many things Phil wanted to ask.

They could wait. He first needed to make sure that Dan was alright.

***

Once they had arrived at the apartment, they made their way over to the lounge. But Dan kept hovering awkwardly in the doorway, not seeming to know what was acceptable or not.

Sighing, Phil decided to put aside the questions that were floating in his head, begging to be answered. They couldn’t have a proper conversation when Dan was feeling this on edge, he needed to calm him down first.

He went to the kitchen to get them both a cup of tea, and when he came back, Dan was sitting on the couch, staring at the floor in between his legs. Upon hearing Phil entering the room again, he looked up, and Phil swore he saw a shadow of a smile on his face, before he turned his face back to stare at the floor again.

“I really don’t get why you would still want to see me after everything I did to you.” Dan laughed, but there was no amusement in his voice. “Damn, I fucked it up really bad, didn’t I?”

Phil sat down next to Dan, put the cups of tea on the coffee table, and turned his body so he faced Dan.

This was it. This was he’s been wanting to do for weeks now. This is why he had tried so hard to find Dan.

To get an explanation. To ask what he did wrong.

“Dan, could you tell me -”

“I found the ring.”

“- what I did… what?”

If Phil wasn’t fully lost for words before, he was now.

“Ring? What ring? What are you talking about? I didn’t - “ Phil said, before he finally caught onto what Dan was talking about.

The ring.

The ring Phil had seen in a shop one day, more than a year ago, and it reminded him so much of Dan that he couldn’t not buy it.

The ring that had been hidden in his sock drawer ever since, waiting for the perfect moment, and where is probably still was now, because Phil had completely forgotten about it after everything that had happened in their lives since.

The ring Phil was going to use to make Dan his forever.

Dan’s voice sounded like he was on the brink of crying again. “Yeah. The ring.”

“But, why? I don’t understand? What does you finding the ring have to do with this?” Phil was utterly confused at this point.

Dan turned to look Phil in the eyes, trying to be brave, but Phil could still see how scared he was.

“Because, a ring, and what you were going to use it for, has so much that comes with it. Marriage is something for adults, people who have got their life together, people who know what they’re doing. Not people like me. People who are relying on medications to get them through the day, people who have no idea what they’re doing with their lives, people who are in so many ways still needy children.”

Once again, tears were making their way out of Dan’s eyes, but Dan didn’t seem to notice that.

“I found the ring, and I was up in the clouds at first, because I really wanted it. But then I realised that I wasn’t worthy of marriage, wasn’t worthy of you proposing to me, I had to fully grow up first. But whenever I tried to act like a proper adult, I did something wrong, and I ended up pushing you away. I couldn’t stand to see you waste your time on me anymore, so I had to let you go to find someone you deserve.”

Somewhere along Dan’s little speech, Phil had started to cry as well.

Some part of him wanted to smack Dan Howell right in the face. Because how dare he think he’s not good enough for him.

How dare he think he has to change even the slightest thing about himself in order to ‘deserve’ marriage.

Instead of telling Dan all of this, he pulled him into his arms, and he didn’t intend to ever let him go again. Dan went very willingly, and slotted his head in the crook of Phil’s neck immediately.

Dan had missed him too, and this meant the world to Phil.

“I would never want you to change anything about yourself,” he muttered into Dan’s neck. “ I wouldn’t have bought the ring if I wasn’t fully in love with every last part of you. You’re just as much of an adult as I am, there is no reason why you wouldn’t deserve marriage. And if there’s any other reason why you left me, if I hurt you in any way whatsoever, then I’m still allowing you to go, but if that’s the only reason you walked out, then please come back. We’re both hurting, I need you.”

Phil pulled back a little bit to look Dan in the eyes, but still kept him safe in his arms. Dan smiled softly at Phil, his eyes filled with tears and joy at the same time.

“There is no way you could hurt me, it’s all me. But I need you too, I’ve been miserable on my own, and I still very much want you.”

Very gently, Phil pressed his lips to Dan’s, and immediately felt his heart skip a beat. He’d missed the softness so much, the way their lips moved together with such familiarity.

Kissing Dan again felt like coming home.

Pulling away reluctantly, he couldn’t help but start to smile widely, seeing Dan doing the same thing.

“Good, because you still have me.”

***

The ring stayed safe in the sock drawer after that, both of them needing to heal, needing to work on their relationship again. They weren’t ready for it yet.

The two of them went through a lot, and there would undoubtedly be a lot they still had to go through.

But the ring would come out of it’s hiding place eventually. Maybe in a year, maybe two, maybe in a month. Phil didn’t know when. And he honestly couldn’t care less.

Because when he woke up in the morning, and got to see the early sunlight reflecting off of Dan’s sleeping face, there was nothing else he needed.

#phanfic #phanfiction #angst #post-breakup #let's be real I can't write sad endings #tw: minor character death #tw: mentions of wounds #tw: alcohol #tw: hospitals #tw: mentions of cancer #i hope that's all the tw's #I wrote a fic! be proud of me!

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drink-n-watch · 5 years

Text

Genre : Supernatural thriller, suspense, action, drama

Movie: 46 minutes

Studio: Ufotable

Imagine that you had to share your consciousness with someone else. Another personality. A volatile and violent entity always on the edges of your consciousness. And now imagine that that someone else was your best friend. That they truly cared about you, maybe even loved you. What would you do if you woke up one day and they were suddenly gone? This is the situation Shiki finds herself in. After 2 years in a coma, she now wakes up in a world very different from the one she left behind. SHIKI is no longer there and in his place are nightmarish visions that plague Shiki’s every waking moment. For the very first time Shiki is the only one in her own mind and in complete control over her thoughts and life. And for the very first time, she is truly alone.

The fourth movie in the Garden of Sinners’ ongoing saga is called The Hollow Shrine. A disappointingly short title for my purposes but very pretty. And very fitting. I have a feeling this movie may have marked a turning point in the story, if so, the title seems particularly well suited, as I would say it’s a great way to describe the movies thus far.

good titles make me happy

I am currently watching ufotable’s Demon Slayer: Kimetsu No Yaiba with Crow. It’s a fun series that really displays the studio’s flair for visuals and stunning animation. This is obviously a team that’s very skilled but also unafraid to try some things.

If you’ve been following along with my The Garden of Sinners reviews, you know that I started off flabbergasted by the production’s extensive and diverse use of visual and atmospheric storytelling. For better or worse, as the movies have progressed, this has been traded in for higher if more traditional production values.

I can no longer see layers of symbolism in each image. Colors don’t jump at you cryptically trying to tell you something. I didn’t even really notice the sound design at all. There is some obvious and heavy handed hallucination imagery and long lingering shots but it lacks the subtlety and sheer breadth of previous titles.

so the blue is to show that something weird is happening…

However, the movie once again is noticeably prettier. Designs are crisp and slight details have been added. Most scenes look like they could be used for promotional material without any extra editing. Movement is faster and even more fluid. Any awkwardness in proportions in action has been smoothed out. You can see my header gif for an example of a standard scene.

The voice actors remain the same and their performances haven’t changed much but they seem to have gotten to know each other better and the chemistry is definitely improved. It may have helped that Touko is much more present this time and she is a welcomed foil to the other two much more stoic characters. It makes the interactions between then that much more interesting with a different personality in the mix.

Touko makes everything better

The Garden of Sinners 4 : The Hollow Shrine, is a difficult movie for me to review. As a standalone feature, I wouldn’t call it very good, because it’s not. A standalone that is. The story seems to pick up where the second movie ended. In 1996 Shiki spared Kokutou and turned her violence inwards instead. Ever faithful, Kokutou rushed her to the hospital where Shiki was barely saved and left in a coma. After visiting her regularly for two years, even seeking out a Magus’ (Touko) input to help and understand Shiki, Kokutou learns that she’s finally woken up. But this isn’t the girl he once knew, she’s somehow…empty. (or Hollow…you get it)

This time around, the story does even less than usual to establish its lore and characters, as such I’m not really sure how well someone that is not already familiar with the franchise could follow the story. Moreover, as The Hollow Shrine is mostly concerned with finally fleshing out Shiki’s character a bit, it’s possibly the slowest and most introspective movie yet. Even if you understand everything, without having formed a previous connection with the cast, I’m not sure you would care about what’s happening. Most of it is Shiki just lying around.

exciting!

So let us instead consider it as what it really is, a denouement of a larger ongoing plot. If you approach it from the point of view of someone who has seen the previous movies, then it becomes much more interesting.

Like I just said, The Garden of Sinners 4 : The Hollow Shrine is essentially a character building and origin story for Shiki. There are no elaborate serial murder mysteries to solve, no strange disappearances in the background. Instead the bulk of the action such as it is, is centered on Shiki’s little hospital room, and her sparse visitors. But that doesn’t mean we get to know her all that much better. I still couldn’t tell you what her favorite food is, what pet she had as a kid or what type of music she likes. I can’t even tell you *if* she likes music. I still know nothing about her family and the movie pretty much tells us the mystery of the prequel will remain unsolved.

I do not know Shiki at all, but I kind of *get* her now.

wait, hear me out

The Garden if Sinners movies always had this tendency for vague and introspective story telling. You don’t understand what’s going on as much as you feel it. And this one was no different. Small movements, quiet moments and terse snippets of conversations slowly pile up to reveal a picture of a lonely conflicted girl. Powerful yet aimless. Uncertain whether the weight of existence is worth it on an almost purely practical level. I don’t know Shiki but I recognize her. The picture is still far from complete, and that’s okay.

Once again the running themes of existential angst and the nature of personal identity are tackled, even more head on but with a measured hand and less drama than I’ve come to expect. Make no mistake though, The Garden of Sinners 4 The Hollow Shrine is still far from a comedy!

depends on your sense of humour, I guess

In a way, the movie really started in the closing tag. We see all the lonely special girls from previous movies, and a few new faces, seemingly being recruited by a second Magus named Souren Araya, but for what purpose, remains unknown. It’s an exciting set up that really makes me look forward to the next movie but it made The Hollow Shrine seem like a somewhat dour preamble rather than a story in its own right.

Long story short: The Garden of Sinners 4 The Hollow Shrine is a decent entry in the series and you should watch it (after the second movie) if you plan on watching the entire franchise. As n individual movie it lacks both a beginning and an end, and doesn’t have enough buildup to support its own story.

Random thoughts, using a lit cigarette as a magic wand is awesome. you even have hat glowing tip. And it looks surprisingly less ridiculous. People should use that more!

it was cooler in the movie

Favorite character: Touko

What this anime taught me: SHIKI was a he? Not that it matters much but it was an interesting touch. Also, the Japanese version of singing in the rain has a drastically different melody.

Everyone has a hidden talent even they don’t know about..until someone pours tequila

Suggested drink: a Magus (not ancient)

Every time anyone says Rougi – take a sip

Every time Shiki sees “things” – take a swig

Every time Touko is being rather unhelpful – raise your glass

Every time it’s raining – get some water

Every time Tuko smokes – take a deep breath

Every time Kokutou visits the hospital – take a sip

Every time someone mentions SHIKI – take a sip

Every time we see flowers – take a sip

Every time it’s sunny – finish your drink

I’m sorry Kokutou, I didn’t put any pics of you

As usual you can find a few more screencaps here if you are interested.

The Garden of Sinners 4: The Hollow Shrine Genre : Supernatural thriller, suspense, action, drama Movie: 46 minutes Studio: Ufotable Imagine that you had to share your consciousness with someone else.

#action #anime #drama #Garden of Sinners #supernatural #thriller

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