#honey are you okay? youre thinking about sad scenarios with characters dying again

[moonlit-dreamers]

favorite dialogue when one character is dying in front of another

"i think... i think im tired..."

"then rest. i'll be right here"

[sarcastically-defensive17]

Coffee - T. Holland

Okay, I know I have requests but this song came on at work the other day and I felt super emotional and I had to write. The use of Tom was very last minute because I had no actual person in mind for the fic, and there are very little actual defining characteristics so you can imagine it to be absolutely anybody you want!

This has broken me, so I apologize in case it has the same affect.

TW: This story contains mentions of cancer, allusions to death, mentions of death, sadness, angst, allusion to suicide, a character with cancer, and all round sadness about death.

If this content may trigger you in any way possible, please do not engage with this fic. Your personal safety and wellness is important so please take care of yourself, my lovies.

Original story by sarcastically-defensive17. Please do not copy, translate or share outside of the boundaries of tumblr without my permission. Please do not steal my work and market it as your own. Basically, don’t be a dick. Also, the above gif does not belong to me. Credit to @thollandgifs

Also, sorry the format is shit. I write on my phone so it’s hella bad.

Don't stay awake for too long, don't go to bed. I'll make a cup of coffee for your head. It'll get you up and going out of bed.

While his life stood still, hers moved. Most days he could barely move without the nausea taking over. His head pounding, body exhausted and weak beyond recognition. She had established a routine the minute she could. She made sure he had his morning coffee everyday. Whenever his eyes opened, she would be right by his side with his favourite beverage, bringing him breakfast and a warm, loving smile to entice him to get out of bed. She understood on days that his body fought him more than it already was - she was compassionate and considerate. On those days she would help him prop himself in a comfortable position, switch on whatever show they were watching at the time and curl up next to him with her work beside her.

His heart was often overwhelmed with the care she provided him. They were well into the fourth year of their life together, and he had no doubt in his mind that he would love her until his last days. He often solemnly thought of the ring he still had hidden in his drawer of their shared cabinet. He had made a vow to pop the question if he ever recovered, but the thought of that day never coming simply tore another piece from his already dwindling soul.

He would often sit in his chair, or on the bed in their small, studio apartment, watching her flutter around the house in a graceful way only she could. He had memorized her every move when she conducted the most mundane activity. The way she poured a glass of water, the way she tapped her fingers against her thigh to the tune of a theme song, the way she always made his coffee to pure perfection - in a way that nobody else had been able to do.

He had so much love for her, that he was terrified of it slipping away at any moment.

Yeah, I don't wanna fall asleep, I don't wanna pass away. I been thinking of our future 'cause I'll never see those days.

He was 24, and she was 25. They had already planned a life together. They had steady jobs, an intense and passionate love, names picked out for future children, dinner at his parents house every Sunday, lunch with her parents every Wednesday.

He just knew that he had done something to deserve such a fate. At first he was angry, terrified of the possibility of his soul leaving this earth, but as time went on, his self-deprivation grew. Apparently it was common for people in his situation. The fear of dying was clouded by a justification that this was meant to be. He had done something terrible in a past life, and karma was giving him the painful ending he deserved... but he despised the thought, because Y/N didn’t deserve to watch her boyfriend meet his end in this way.

He had thought of near every scenario in his life in which he hurt somebody - cheating on his girlfriend in his first year of college, letting Y/N down time after time, only for her to forgive him. The hurt he caused his parents when he was a teenager and full of such hate for the world. But now, all he could do was pray for forgiveness. He had hope that there was some way he could make it out of this, but he was losing hope rapidly.

Even as he sat with his love on their bed, watching re-runs of How I Met Your Mother, he couldn’t help but let his mind wander.

“When I’m gone,” his voice was croaky, his throat dry and scratchy. “Please tell me you will find somebody else.” He fumbled around to grab her hand, winching as he caught her head snapping towards his in his peripheral vision. He couldn’t turn to see the expression on her face. “You’re so young, so full of life. Your life is going to be so beautiful.”

Her hand was pulled from his, and he steeled what was left of his nerves to get ready for whatever tongue lashing she had planned, but instead he felt the bed dip further beside him, her hands framing his sullen face on each side and softly turning his gaze to meet her own.

“Don’t you say things like that, Tom.” He forced his eyes to stare into her own. His eyes seemed as if they were always ready to release tears, and the intensity of the hurt in her own made his pool unconsciously. “There is no somebody else when the other half of my soul is already with me. I don’t need anybody else because you’re not going anywhere.”

Her thumb brushed away the tear that slipped from his chocolate orbs, ignoring the dark circles underneath that made his face seem further sunken than it was.

“You don’t know that,” he sniffed heavily, dropping his eyes down to his lap. His fingers unconsciously toyed with the bracelet she had given him years ago. A soft, black, faux-leather band. An unfit symbol charm dangled close to the strap, reminding him of her favourite line from her favourite book/movie - the perks of being a wallflower. He had gone wuth her when she got the titular floral piece tattooed on her forearm. She was so happy that day. “One day you’re gonna be in a nice house, a ring on your finger, watching your husband dote over your little baby and you will be at peace in the way I know you crave. I just... I know that will never be me, who slips a ring onto your hand, or waits for you at the end of the aisle. I won’t be the one who holds your hand when you meet your baby, or the one who can give you the life you deserve - the one you want.”

His eyes snapped up to meet her own when he heard her breath grow shaky, but the action caused his brain to lose its equilibrium and he had to close his eyes for a moment. He hated doing so. Every time his eyes were shut, it was a moment that he lost of memorizing every line, curve, angle of her body. He opened his eyes again when able, and he was met with her own eyes as red rimmed as his, tears streaming down her beautiful face.

“Don’t you every talk like that, Thomas Stanley. You’re not going anywhere. You’re going to be the one to do all of those things because you’re going to make it and we are going to love each other until the end of our time, together. I’ll fucking Romeo and Juliet this shit if I have to,” her dark joke was met with a wet laugh from them both, before her face melted back into seriousness. “I’m never gonna need another person, Tommy. I have you, and I will have you forever.”

“You make every day a blessing, my love.” He whispered, his lips ghosting over hers as he gathered the strength in his lead arms to pull her into a hug. “You make hell feel like a summers day, and I cherish every moment I have left with you.”

My life was kinda short, but I got so many blessings. Happy you were mine, it sucks that it's all ending

Their days continued on for another three weeks, the same routine of morning coffee and testing the boundaries of his own fatigue. Three weeks without the dreaded conversation arising again, until she woke to find him staring into the ceiling with such an intense and thoughtful gaze. She knew instantly what was on his mind, and she could feel her heart breaking into more little pieces.

“Tommy?” Her melodic tone was soft, snapping him from his nightmarish reprieve. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing honey. Thinking about us... when we were young and full of life,” he snorted into the dark room, Y/N’s soft laugh pushed through her nose and he felt her smile against his neck. “Just, thinking about how sorry I am for all of this. I’m sorry that I’ve turned your life upside down, that we have changed so much.”

He felt weaker. His body was fighting to hold on, and he felt that they both knew that. He was being eaten up from the inside out, but he couldn’t bear to leave. He couldn’t lose her. He couldn’t leave her alone. He needed her, he loved her. He wanted to be her husband and give her everything she wanted in life. He wanted to live, for her.

“I would change everything if it meant I could be here with you,” her voice was heavy, riddled with sleep. Neither of them get much rest anymore. He is always up and down, and she frets too much to sleep through his late night jolts and retches. “You’re worth every minute of every day, Tom. You have nothing to apologize for. It’s not like you chose to have Can-“

“Don’t say it, baby, please?” He pled, silencing her before she could say the word. He hadn’t once uttered it since the day he found out. She had relayed the information to their families, holding his hand the entire time as he sat motionless. “Makes it more real than my emo ramblings.” His laugh was humorless, but he didn’t intend it to be so.

She apologised softly, snuggling closer to him. She knew how much he loved the feel of her body on his, how the intimacy of the comfort made him feel warm. Back when he could handle the weight, she would sometimes wake up curled on top of his chest because he had sought her out in his sleep.

“I would do anything for you, Tommy. I would give up everything I have just to see you smile. You’re the other half of my soul, my infinity.”

He felt a tear slip down his cheek. Her words always had that affect on him, but he loved the way she could send his heart beating with no effort. He loved her. So intensely.

“Sing to me, please?” A request he had let loose so many times before. He adored her voice, and the soft melodies that fell from her lips and lulled him to sleep.

She obliged with a smile on her face, and let the words tumble into his pale skin.

“If I could save time in a bottle, the first thing that I’d like to do...”

Soon you'll be alone, sorry that you have to lose me

Two more months passed. His doctors were satisfied, stating that he was slowly improving. His body was beginning to regain strength. He had begun to grow more hopeful, slowly but surely.

Until there was no chance for hope left.

Y/N made his morning coffee, but when she went to rest it on his bedside, he could barely breathe.

Her fingers dialed emergency services faster than she thought possible, her voice cracking as she sung to him over and over, hands cradling his head in her lap as he whispered his love for her.

The coffee went cold as the red and blue lights approached.

Don't stay awake for too long, don't go to bed. I'll make a cup of coffee for your head. It'll get you up and going out of bed

Tag list: @starshonerose @snookiebrookie @another-lonely-heart @mantlereid

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[beehylandarchive]

excerpts from VIOLET BEACH

listen here

i.

And then the same nothingness, same smell of salt, same breeze, but–

I was still standing. And we were in this space, this–this purple nothingness, no ground, no sky, no nothing, that’s a double negative, you get what I mean, and–I was still standing–more floating, which was–not as pleasant as you’d expect? But not unpleasant, either. And this woman, she looked at me,  dead in the eyes, and–

And she said–

[beat, uncomfortable]

What did she say?

[laughs]

It’s–it’s in my head, like. Tip of my tongue. I wrote it down, but it’s–it’s another individual letters making out a word I know but can’t–type situation.

ii.

I try not to have crushes, because they’re dumb, and they keep my eyes off the prize, which is to say, y’know. College. My art.

It’s a truth universally acknowledged that feelings are pointless and that we’d be way better off without them, y’know? Especially when those feelings are for really dreamy girls who manage to look, like, at least 70 percent like she’s into girls, even though this is Corielli, so, like, she could be the straightest girl on earth, and also she’s weirdly nice, like—nicer than most people. And it’s kind of annoying how nice she is, like, she—she’s nice to everybody. Even to people who don’t deserve it.

But. Anyways. She’s super hot and I’m kinda sorta in love with her. Whatever. Rant over. I’ll edit that out.

So. Ghosts and mystery and intrigue. Woo.

Y’know, maybe Mae’s caught up in this mystery, actually, cuz—well, she only showed up after all that happened. Maybe she’s, like—maybe she’s a ghost. That’s the nightmare, honestly, being in love with a ghost. Like, second only to her being straight? Worst case scenario.

I could write a solid one act about being in love with a ghost and, like, protag comes to accept that she’s dead and is willing to make this work, but ghost girl’s like, “Oh, too bad, don’t like girls. Sorry, honey!” And that’s the plot twist. Sad ending. A tragicomedy for everyone.

iii.

When I was a kid, I always wanted to be a Mulder or a Dale Cooper or a Ripley or any given Rick Moranis character, and now–now I’m none of those. But this sorta thing, it gives me a chance, y’know? It–these are my monsters of the week, this is my search for the sister, this is me living out what was never written for me, y’know? It’s–I’m in this goddamn narrative, and even if this isn’t a narrative, I’m gonna make it one. Because why not! I–I’m working on self-love everyday, like Doc Claremont said. She’s my therapist. You know. Gotta get those life skills in place. Constantly improving. Letting myself be myself. Hell yeah.

So here’s the plot, so far, then. Seven outcasts–we’re all pretty outcast, I’d argue–stand alone on a beach, and, bam, flash of light, and bam, the world is dying, and then, darkness. Lost-style eye-zoom in, right, Michael Bay spin, and then we’re back on the beach. And then we get a coherent plot about time loops, and nothing else, because it is two-thousand-and-eighteen. And there are interwoven character webs, and interesting enough flashbacks, and–

And it makes sense. And it’s well-written, and it’s well drawn, and it has a really good cult fanbase that–you know. You get the gist.

iv.

But there’s something about the beach. Something so isolated from the rest of the world, y’know? Not–not, like, when you’re at Ocean City in the middle of August, no, I mean–when you’re alone, and it’s maybe forty degrees out, middle of January, and you’re–maybe you’re listening to some acoustic cover of your favorite 2004 pop song, as is my wont, and–you just feel something. And it’s tugging at you, like, maybe the beach itself is the siren song from folklore. Maybe the beach is telling you to go–to go home, even if you and the beach have different definitions of the word. My definition is–uh. The house. With Elaine and Douglas and the hammock and the fireplace and the messy bedroom and the–the wholeness of it all. And the beach’s definition is the ocean, and the abyss, and what have you.

Except–no. That’s bland high-school level faux-existentialism, and I’m better than that. I promise you. I’m better than that.

But there’s something about the beach. Y’know? Just–just. There’s something. And I think it’s important to all of this, I–Look. Listen. Maybe I was homesick and I didn’t even know it before I came back. I think that’s the thing. I think it’s just delayed homesickness and exhaustion.

v.

Anyway. I’m currently recording from, because they have a mic and I do not, Angie and Teresa’s dorm, within the bathroom of which Angie is currently pacing, not saying anything, which is exactly the opposite of what she usually does, so, uh, we know something bad’s happened regardless of previous context. Just to. Set the scene, kinda. Some good visuals, and what have you, we gotta keep this as cinematic as possible. Also, this room’s walls are gray and have, like, emo music posters everywhere, so–let’s erase that and pretend it’s yellow with paintings on it. Maybe some faded pink or bright red accents. And I’m in the center of the shot. And this mic is old-fashioned Yeah, you got it. Right there.

Just got a typo-filled text about how these posters are not of emo bands, and, Angie, it’s good to know that that’s your top priority right now? Just sayin’. We agreed no guest stars, too, so, uh, get out of my recording. Dude. No texting. You can keep–pacing, and, uh, writing in dry-erase on your mirror, but. Get out of my recording.

vi.

So, here’s the thing about boarding school murders—cuz that’s where my brain keeps going, with this, because that’s the closest thing I have to mystery hunting in the past. Because I did help, yeah. I—I didn’t have many friends, okay, I was new, I was shy, I didn’t do sports or anything, like—I needed friends, and I had this opportunity, so. I stole a video camera from my film class and I helped make a documentary. Look. They can’t get me for it now, I have a masters. So.

We would sneak out into the woods out by the dorms and we’d just—we’d film recreations of the murder. A student killed her—well, we figured out that it was just her friend, but my roommate thought it might have been either an athletic rival or a romantic partner–which I shut down fast, like, look, I am all about gay people doing things, unless they are murder.

And we’d do this every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday night, around three AM. I didn’t sleep much at age sixteen. I don’t sleep much at age twenty-five, even, but, like—I get more, now. So that’s really good. But irrelevant. And my roommate, whose name was Janice Potter, she was from Georgia and she hated that about herself, and—like, sure, cool, whatever, one Tuesday night, when I was busy building sets for the musical, she went out by herself, with the camera, and—I was walking back to the dorm, and I saw her lying in the woods with a broken leg. And I—I brought her to the infirmary, said she fell while taking pictures of the set build for the newspaper. She wasn’t even in newspaper, we—we barely had a newspaper. But the nurses didn’t care, they just needed to tell her mother something.

vii.

I don’t want any of you to be alone. I don’t think there’s anything worse than that, I–I’m glad we have each other, the seven of us. I love you guys. That’s–that’s what I want to say. And I love these stupid–these tapes. I’m gonna make more of ‘em. I hope you guys do too.

Uh.

I love you, I guess. I hate the stigma around that phrase, like, I love you, and I love bad coffee, and I love my guitar, and I love–I love cartoons on Sunday mornings, y’know? That we ti’vo’d as a joke and now we’re watching them not as a joke. Cuz they’re comforting and they’re nice and they’re good and we’re those obnoxious Facebook teens like, share if you remember the good ol’ days.

I love a lot of things, is what I mean, but I love you the most. I guess. Again, corny. But true. And whatever.

I–I’m gonna miss this mystery hunting. So.

Why stop, I guess? Why, when we’re–we said we’d stop when we learned what,but what if we stopped when we learn how and why and what to do next.