#i PRAY it doesn’t desaturate PLEASE | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

oldsoldierr · 4 years

Text

The Carnation ~ Part 4

summary: the media always told you that the famous art critic bucky barnes is an arrogant, rude playboy and you agree, but something still draws you to him. is there a deeper reason to why he acts the way he does or is he the class A jackass you first met?

art critic!bucky x artist!reader

word count: 2.5k

series masterlist

Bucky’s eyelids parted slightly. He quickly closed them again at the bright light streaming in from the cracks in the blinds. He groaned. His entire body felt like it hadn’t been used in a millennium.

He turned upright in a sitting position while trying to recall the events leading up to this.

The last thing he could remember was being rolled out into a surgical suite and what he assumed was an anesthesia mask being put over his mouth. Then black.

Bucky attempted to rub his eyes. When only one of his arms responded he looked down. It was completely gone, replaced with medical tape. He took a sharp breath.

“Fuck,” he cursed. Bucky definitely hadn’t remembered that. He used his other hand to feel at the place where his limb used to be. He combed back the pieces of coffee hair that were falling in front of his face and tried to stay calm, but he was starting to breathe heavily.

Bucky scanned the room, looking for a distraction. All that was there were some chairs and walls that were tinted golden from the sun. It had to be either sunrise or sunset.

Even though everything there was supposed to be in a hospital room was there, he felt like it was missing something. Or maybe someone. Is that possible?

Bucky turned his head to the door at the sound of creaking. Out appeared a nurse holding a tray with a cup of water and a desaturated looking sandwich.

“Ah, Mr. Barnes, you’re awake,” she remarked. She set the tray down at the end of the bed.

“How are you feeling?” Bucky stayed silent for a moment, choosing to put his hand on the bridge of his nose. The chocolate haired man looked at her with his eyes, keeping his head in the same position.

“Strange.” his voice came out gravely and low. She gave him a subtle smile.

“That’s common after amputation,” the nurse explained. His sight shifted to the glossy tag beneath her collar. It read M. Wanda.

“Uh, Nurse Wanda, can I call you Wanda?” She replied with a half shrug. Bucky continued.

“Was--was there anyone here-- uh-last nigh--”

Was it last night? How long had he been asleep?

“--Whenever I was last awake, was there someone here?” She paused for a moment to think.

“You’ve been asleep for about a day,” she told him, “And a woman was here, I believe. She was here when you first came back from surgery.” It was starting to come back to him. Bits and pieces of you were coming back. But a lot of it was still blotchy. Like an unfinished puzzle.

“She left a couple minutes after you fell asleep again. Seemed in a rush. A bit after that a man came in I think?”

Everything was adding up until that last sentence. Bucky froze.

“A man?” he asked cautiously. Wanda nodded.

“You were unconscious the entire time he was there,” she informed looking unconcerned as she tidied up his room.

“Did he have blonde hair?” he inquired, praying it was Steve.

“No--,” Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “He had real dark hair. Dark eyes too, that’s why I remember him. Even had a dark suit, looked kinda mysterious.” The cocoa haired man felt the air being sucked out of his lungs.

“D-do you remember his name?” he choked out. The nurse didn’t notice his increasing stress as she was facing away from him. She pondered his question for a bit.

“I don’t think I do, I’m sorry,” She replied, sweet and apologetic. Bucky forced in a breath.

“Could you check for me? His name?” Wanda turned to him.

“Of course. I’ll let you know as soon as possible,” she told him. She began to head towards the door.

“Wait!” Bucky croaked out after her. She turned to face him. Wanda nodded for him to continue.

“I just-there's something very important I need to do, and I can’t do it here. It’s-It’s complicated and I can’t explain it but I need to go, right now. It’s an emergency and I really have to tend to it. Please, is there any way to speed up the healing process?” Bucky begged. Wanda looked at him conflicted. There were a few moments of silent thought. Eventually though, she sighed and sat down on the end of his bed.

In a lower voice she responded. “Okay, I’m not supposed to tell you this, but there is a way.” She saw him begin to get excited and quickly elaborated.

“BUT, it’s very expensive and experimental.”

“I’ll do it,” he interrupted. Wanda put up her pointer finger to tell him to wait.

“It may be dangerous. We haven’t had many test subjects, but if it does succeed you’d likely be able to walk out of the hospital the next day.” Bucky opened his mouth to speak again but she had seen it coming.

“--There would have to be a lot of contracts signed and it could all go very wrong. Are you okay with that?” Bucky immediately nodded. She looked at him exasperated.

“I’ll ask my superiors about it, and it’s not 100% that they’d even let you have the procedure. Do you understand?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Bucky responded impatiently.

“You don’t even know what it is!” OH WOOPS. He looked at her sheepishly.

“Oh, yeah, um what is it?” She raised her eyebrows.

“You’ll see if you qualify for the treatment,” Wanda told him, giving him an amused glance and she walked out.

Bucky put on a small forced smile as she left, but as soon as the door closed Bucky allowed himself to fall apart a bit.

The man she described sounded exactly like the person who had forced him to come to the hospital in the first place. Brock Rumlow, the marketing agent infamous for creating some of the most well known celebrities. His hand curled into a fist just thinking about him.

Anger and betrayal bubbled up into a growl. He didn’t know whether he wanted to be in tears or punching a wall.

Despite Brock being a bit harsh on him, Bucky had still trusted him. Now, looking back, the red flags were obvious. A smile that never reached his eyes, his obsession with material goods, a forever brimming temper. But Bucky had overlooked all that in his own ambition.

The brown haired man was frustrated with himself, but a new emotion started to creep in. Anxiety.

Brock was in his room as he slept. Bucky felt uneasy in a way he never had before. Rumlow could’ve suffocated him right then and there. Why didn’t he? What did he want? What made it all worse was that he was stuck in this hospital. He couldn’t do shit about his situation and now he didn’t even have two arms. He needed to get out. Bucky started to spiral.

When Rumlow crushed that vase on his arm, it wasn’t just the vase that he crushed. He had shattered Bucky’s world view. Paranoia began to take over his brain. Could he really trust anyone? Bucky couldn’t tell if he was hyperventilating or not breathing at all. His heart was in his throat. He felt faint. He put his hand on the bed to stabilize himself.

Find your happy place Bucky, happy place, happy place, he repeated to himself. His mind immediately went to you. He smiled a little bit at the thought of you.

...Wait what? Bucky shook his head. Why did he think of you? That shouldn’t be happening. His emotions were all tangled. He put his hand in his hair and tugged. The world was spinning out of control. Bucky’s ears were ringing.

A clink brought him back to reality and to the true silence of the room. His glass of water had fallen. Bucky sighed and went to clean it up.

Little did he know, at that same moment another glass had tipped. All the way across New York you had just woken up.

Your head was pulsing. You were nauseous beyond belief and wanted to never eat again. This was a hangover to remember. You reached for the cup of water you always prepared the night before but it was too light and fell over. Today it was empty.

What happened last night?

Your senses were starting to return to you. You scanned your room. It was definitely your house--so that was a good thing. Nobody in your bed next to you--also a good thing, but looking down you realized you were completely naked. Decidedly less of a good thing.

“Okay,” you muttered. “That doesn’t necessarily mean anything happened last night,” you attempted to convince yourself.

You rubbed your temple and closed your eyes. If you kept them open any longer you were afraid you were going to puke. Unfortunately, that wasn’t really an option as you heard your shower shut off.

Shit.

You quickly scrambled to wrap your covers around your body. There was some rustling of what you assumed was a towel before the bathroom door opened. A man you had definitely never seen before in your life appeared with nothing but a cloth strewn loosely around his waist. You yelped.

“Who are you?” The man bit back a smile.

“Been tryna figure that out my whole life sweetheart,” he quipped and leaned down to pick up a pair of pants that had been littered on the floor.

“But my name’s Sam.” You groaned. Your head was already killing you and this dude wasn’t helping.

“What are you doing in my house?” you questioned. He looked at you like you were stupid.

“Well, let’s see, you went to a bar, got really drunk, now you’re naked, I’m naked, what do you think?” You couldn’t deal with Sam right now.

“Nobody likes a smartass,” you grumbled. He smirked.

“Well, if you excuse me, I have to go to work. Sorry I can’t cook you breakfast, got a lot to do today.” He slid on his white button up and grabbed his jacket that was lazily thrown on the ground.

“Nice meeting you y/n and I hope you figure out your situation with the art guy.” He gave you a friendly smile and left. You watched him leave with a vexed expression. If stutter was an emotion, that’s how you were feeling. How did he know your name? Not to mention how did he know your “art guy” situation?

You told him drunk last night, your brain filled in. You brought one of your hands to your face and hit yourself. Why did life have to do you like this? You took a deep breath and tried to retrace your steps.

First, you recalled leaving the hospital as soon as Bucky had fallen asleep. Your heart ached at the thought of him, but you continued on with your sequence of events. You left cause you were freaking out. You weren’t thinking straight and probably having a panic attack. You just wanted to forget everything and… oh.

“Hence the bar!” you said out loud. Thinking about it, it had been morning when you left the hospital and gone to get drunk so no wonder you couldn’t remember shit. After that though, it was a blur.

You put your legs back on the ground and reached for your bedside table where your phone was. The clock read 6:03.

Damn, it’s early.

Looking further down, you saw an enormous amount of Snapchat notifications. Most from one single person. You clicked on one with a hefty amount of hesitation. It was from your best friend from highschool, Maria.

“Hey”

“Wtf did u post on ur story”

“Answer me”

“Why arent u picking up” “Omg u didn’t”

“y/n stop rn”

“If its more than pg-13 dont do it”

“Seriously”

“But i mean if ur gonna do it wrap it”

The texts continued that way for some time. You were very confused.

What did I post on my story?

You exited out of the chat and clicked on the bubble in the corner. There was a video of you, clearly intoxicated, singing karaoke to Britney Spears.

“Oh fuck no,” you said to yourself. It couldn’t get worse than that, right? You clicked the screen and it moved on to another video. The screen was mostly covered but the audio was still playing.

“Hi sexyy,” you slurred in the best seductive voice you could muster. If you’re being honest it sounded more like you had a cold.

“Heyy,” another voice answered. You could tell it was Sam. You couldn’t see yourself but you were sure you were beet red. Your face felt hot. You couldn’t believe you posted that, on your public story no less. You groaned in embarrassment.

“Let’s just get this over with,” you mumbled. You clicked the screen again. This time you could see the bottom of your head. Your phone was probably face up on the counter.

“I just don’t know what to doo,” you slurred. “I wanna protect my beautiful boy but whatever I do he’s still probably gonna get hurt. It’s like there’s a wall at every turn. He’s not even technically mine! How will he have my babies if someone cuts off his dick?” Oh my god.

Sam replied again.

“I hear ya, I wanna keep my dick,” he said completely smashed. You might’ve laughed if you didn’t want to curl up into a ball and never see anyone ever again.

At least Bucky won’t see it, you thought. That’s when you remembered why you wanted to forget everything in the first place. This was far too many issues to handle at once. You were most definitely not going to solve all these on your own.

Think, y/n, think.

You racked your brain for anything, just anything that would help even a little. Then you realized you weren’t ever going to find a solution in your own head. You needed a second opinion. You quickly went back to your phone.

“Hi Maria,” you texted. “Can I vent to you abt something?” A minute went by before Maria responded.

“Yeah ofc I’m here for you” You took a deep breath.

Am I sure I want to do this?

You knew there was only one answer. You told her everything. Bucky, your life the last couple weeks, yesterday, and this morning. About your fight, the accident, the attempted murder. You typed for what felt like an eternity. And after all that, all Maria replied was,

“Oh shit”

You were able to laugh just a bit at that.

“Ok so that was a lot to unpack” You rolled your eyes.

You’re telling me.

“But I feel like the most important thing rn is with the manager agent guy,” she said. It took a second for her to follow up.

“You need to report that, like right now. The police can help! You can’t do this all on your own” This was one of the responses you had feared the most.

You bit your lip so hard you could taste blood. You stared blankly at your phone for a couple of minutes before slowly typing.

Each clack of the keys felt like your footsteps heading closer and closer to hell. You sent your response.

“No.

I’m not telling the police” You powered off your phone and left your room.

sorry that kinda sucked! tbh i didn't plan to have this chapter so it’s a bit messy! still hope u enjoyed! series masterlist

#bucky x reader #bucky #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfic #james bucky barnes #bucky x you #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #brock rumlow #brock rumlow x reader #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #fanfic #bucky fanfic #fanfiction #marvel fanfiction

46 notes · View notes

sammys-happy-ending · 5 years

Text

Desaturate: Chapter III

Chapter Title: Danger

Pairing: Sam Winchester x Reader

Warnings: Amnesia, Canon show level violence

Summary: The reader wakes up in a room with Sam and Dean, not having a clue who they are. Through a series of flashbacks, the reader regains her memories, savoring all of the happy moments as well as the tragic ones, as she rediscovers her love for Sam.

Bookmark this piece on Archive of Our Own.

Sam’s voice is the first thing I hear. “Baby, I love you. Promise me you’ll remember that.” I feel him squeeze my hand and graze his thumb across my skin. “I miss you baby. I need you here. Really here. I’m so sorry I couldn’t get to you in time to kick that demon off you. Please come back.” His voice breaks at the next sentence, “You promised me you wouldn’t leave like everyone else has.” I feel a teardrop hit the back of my hand. “Please remember, Y/N,” he whispers. I feel my heart crack for him. Not quite to the point of breaking, but his voice breaking chisels little fissures into me.

I open my eyes and study him silently. His head is down, his brown hair shielding his face from me. He holds my hand in both of his and he presses a kiss to my knuckles. I squeeze him back involuntarily.

His head snaps up and my eyes meet his. They’re red and puffy. He’s been crying or trying not to. I swallow the lump that jumps into my throat, unable to explain why I feel his pain so deeply.

I’m the first to speak. I do nothing more than whisper his name. “Sam…”

He tucks his hair behind his ear and starts to reflexively rub circles into the back of my hand with his thumb. “I’m right here.” When I flinch my hand slightly from his, his shoulders droop. He lets go of my hand and walks to the door. He pauses in the doorway, turning back to look at me. His face is barely containing his sadness. “I’ll let you rest. I’m sure you need time to think about all this.”

“Don’t go,” I say hesitantly. I blush and avert my eyes to the foot of the bed. “Why can’t I remember anything? What happened?” I’m not sure why I’m not freaking out at this point. I don’t understand why I’m not running from him, or pushing him away from me. But at this point, it doesn’t matter.

He sighs and sits back down in the chair. He looks at me for a moment that seems to last a lifetime, pleading me without words to remember.

“Why don’t I remember marrying you?” My wedding ring peers at me from my left hand in the sling.

He huffs in amusement. “You figured that out, huh?”

“It was hard not to when there’s a picture on the dresser,” I say, smirking at him.

“Yeah. I suppose.” He looks up at me. “Did you remember anything when Cas knocked you out?”

“Was that the guy with the insanely blue eyes?”

“That would be him.”

“Who is he exactly?”

“Try to remember.”

I think about the man for a moment. I gasp suddenly as every shade of brown floods my mind’s eye. The tan interior of the Impala. The mousy shade of brown hair Sam had grown out of. The beige of Castiel’s trench coat. The chocolates Sam brought me when my cramps were so bad that I couldn’t get out of bed.

I feel my eyes widening at him. “Y/N?” He asked, hopefully curious.

“I remember Sammy,” I whisper.

His eyes widen, mirroring mine at the use of his age-old nickname. “What do you remember?” His hand reaches for mine again.

“I remember how we met.”

I peeked around the corner, wanting to stay as silent as possible. We had to find Jo before these assholes got to her. I signaled to Ellen that the way was clear. I ran forward, shotgun cocked. It wouldn’t kill the sons of bitches, but it would slow them down. I peeked into the window of the house where the demon half of town was squatting. Ellen darted up to the door, opening it. I followed closely behind and covered her back. I quickly searched every room in the house, but it was empty.

“Shit,” she huffed.

“Where could they have gone?”

“I have no idea! Let’s just head back to the church.” She walked swiftly past I and I followed.

I was no hunter. Not like Ellen or Jo. I’d been best friends with Jo since preschool, and I was there when she found out her dad died. My parents had been killed just a few weeks ago. Ellen told me it was a werewolf. All of this was still surreal, a nightmare I hoped I would wake up from. But if it was real, Jo and Ellen were all I had now. They traveled around, hunting anything and everything after the roadhouse burned down. There was no way that I was going to live the rest of my life knowing that the things that go bump in the night are real. So here I was, in River Pass, Colorado, hunting about 30 demons. Fabulous.

Ellen and I had made good time getting back to the church. I saw two men, one taller than the other, walking away from us. I pointed them out to Ellen, and she said she could handle it. I tried to protest, but she gave me the look I’d known since I was a kid; she was serious and there’s nothing I could do about it. I huffed and opened the door to the church silently, stepping over the salt line.

At the bottom of the stairs, I knocked on the door. “It’s me,” I said. The door opened and one of my non-demon comrades stood on the other side of it. He looked scared and he held up a bowl of water. Holy water. I dipped my fingers in, and when they didn’t sizzle and I didn’t cry out in pain, he let me through. Before this, he had no idea the kinds of things that were out there, and this was a rude awakening to him. I squeezed his arm gently and sat down at the table next to Amanda. The poor woman was pregnant; about seven months along. I prayed that she wouldn’t go into labor at this point. Partially because I wanted the baby to be healthy, but mostly because it would be a huge pain in the ass to try and sneak a newborn baby and her recovering mother past the demons. The girl with dark hair sitting across from me handed over a bottle of water. I took it gratefully, cracking the cap open and drinking half the bottle in one go.

Ellen came down at that point, followed by the two guys I pointed out to her. They looked apprehensively at the group of us. “This is Sam and Dean. They’re hunters. Here to help,” Ellen broke the uncomfortable silence that had overtaken the basement.

Austin, carrying an assault rifle, asked them, “You guys hip to this whole demon thing?”

The shorter guy replied, “Yeah, are you?”

Roger chewed on his lip pensively. “My wife’s eyes turned black. She came at me with a brick. Kind of makes you embrace the paranormal.”

Ellen catches Sam and Dean up to speed, telling them about Rufus’s investigation of demonic omens, when the entire town went possessed, and how Jo had gotten separated from Ellen and I. We ran into the guys when we were out looking for Jo.

“Don’t worry, we’ll find her,” said the shorter one.

“Either way, these people cannot just sit here. We’ve got to get them out now,” the other noted.

This is when I decided to pipe up. “Great idea, but it’s not that easy. We’ve tried. We already made a run for it once.”

Ellen made short work of introductions. “Sam, Dean, this is Y/N. Y/N, this is Sam and Dean.” Okay. So Sam was the taller of the two. That’ll make things easier. The boys gave a curt nod.

“What happened?” Sam asked me.

“There used to be twenty of us,” Ellen said quietly. There were only 10 left, including me and Ellen.

Dean looked troubled for a moment, but regained his confidence and calculated demeanor. “Well, there’s three of us now.” He looked at me questioningly. “Four?”

“Three and a half,” I joked half-heartedly. Dean smirks.

“You don’t know what it’s like out there,” Ellen warned, “Demons are everywhere. We won’t be able to cover everybody.”

I looked at Amanda’s worried face, her tense hand on her belly.

Sam asked, “What if we give everyone guns?”

“What are you going to arm up baby bump over here?” Dean retorted.

“More salt we can fire at once, the more demons we can keep away.”

Dean glanced at Pastor. “There’s a sporting goods store we passed on Main on the way in. I bet they’ve got guns.”

Sam dropped his bag and said, “All right. You two stay. We’ll go.”

Before Ellen can bring up Jo and Rufus, Sam reassures her that they’ll bring them back if they’re out there.

Austin opened the door to let Sam and Dean out, but Dean stops Sam. “Why don’t just I go?”

“What? Alone?”

“Someone’s got to stay here and give them shotgun 101.”

“Yeah. Ellen.” Sam turned to walk upstairs, but Dean stops him again.

“It’s going to be faster if you stay and help, okay?”

“While you go get guns and salt and look for Jo and Rufus? That’s stupid.”

“I can handle it.”

Sam paused for a second, and a look of realization crossed his face. They continued to argue while I mutter to Ellen, “Are they always like this?”

“Yup.”

“Great. Who are these guys anyway?”

“They’re good hunters. Good people, but they’ve made some pretty messed up decisions along the way. You’ll see,” she told me, then called up to Sam and Dean, “Take Y/N with you. She’s not too experienced but she’s a damn good shot.”

Sam and Dean exchanged a look. Dean seemed in favor of it, where Sam did not. “Alright sweetheart, let’s go,” Dean calls down to me. I grabbed my shotgun, but Ellen traded me for her revolver, and we set out.

2 notes · View notes

ggourami · 6 years

Text

Klance Week 2018 - Day One: Fake Relationship

Okay this is faaaaarrrr too late but I had an idea and I couldn’t perfect it until now.

I know, fake relationship usually means pretending to be a couple for the sake of the mission or whatever but honestly. Did y’all really expect fluff from me?

This story’s set in the end of January this year, when there was the super blue blood moon. Lance and Keith have been a thing for a while in this story, except they started off really dysfunctionally. Their relationship’s been really rocky but they find a balance despite it, which is why they’ve lasted for 3+ years. But two years ago, Lance’s mom died, and ever since, Lance has been in some severe depression.

I don’t think I suffer from depression, but I sorta self-inserted parts of my own current mood into Lance’s depression, so everything’s bleak, grey, no contrast, no colour, and of the sort. I’m sorry if it’s not an accurate depiction of depression, but honestly I wrote this to get a grip on my own emotions. Sorry for any grammar mistakes, no one beta’d this.

dear moon [keith + lance]

He wakes up to soft kisses pressed against his back.

Lance relaxes into the touch, trying to find comfort in it. He does, but it’s not like before. He looks up, checks the time.

9:13.

Lance closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to wake up. He’s scared this is a dream.

“Lance.” Keith’s voice is raspy, quiet, conspiratory. The voice that used to get Lance excited, sparks travelling up his spine. Everything’s faded now. “The moon’s up.”

His eyes blink open. The super blue blood moon. That’s tonight.

A thrill rises from his desaturated heart, brings back colour. Lance jerks up, tripping on the blankets as he tries to stand up. Keith catches him, a supporting hand on his back and amused smile on his face. Lance thanks him like he would thank anyone else. Keith’s smile falls.

It’s not that Lance doesn’t love Keith. He does. He loves how Keith is there to remind him that he’s worth a damn, picks him up when he falls, wakes him up with gentle kisses to his back. But something’s missing, like everything has been in his life for the past year, ever since his mother died. Everything’s lost its colour, black and white look the same faded grey to him. There’s no contrast, no saturation. Just the world, spinning along.

Lance feels empty. And he knows Keith is trying to fill the void.

He untangles himself from the blankets. He walks over to his balcony, opening the beranda doors and slipping on a robe to protect himself from the cold. Keith is right by his side.

Lance looks up at the moon.

Colour bursts before his eyes. He sees the deep blue of the sky, the mustard yellow of the super blue blood moon, the silver of the railing, the blacks of the shadowy New York buildings, the bright colours of the billboards, the lights from the thousands of cars racing through New York--everything gains colour.

It lasts a moment. But it’s the most happy Lance has been in a long time.

Lance turns to Keith. His bed hair accentuates the sharp angles of his face, especially in the moonlight; but that’s not what catches Lance. His eyes scream with defeat, lips slightly open in realization.

Lance wants to say sorry. He wants to say sorry for not being enough for Keith, beautiful Keith, who gives without thought of his own needs. Sorry that being with Keith doesn’t give him the thrills the moon is giving him. Sorry that Lance can’t give to Keith what Keith has given to him. Sorry that Lance is in patches, and pulling Keith down with it.

Keith swallows. “How long until this falls apart?”

Lance can’t answer the question. Because he knows the goddamn answer.

Keith nods, curt, sourly. He turns his face back to the moon.

“Hey,” and then he pulls Keith into a hug. It’s nothing compared to what Keith has given him, but it’s what Keith needs now, and since they don’t have much time left, Lance wants to give what he could to Keith. And what he can give is comfort. He lets Keith grip at his shirt, dig his face into the crook of Lance’s neck, lets him cry for the sacrifices he made, now wasted. This is Lance’s fault. He can’t solve it, but he can own up to it.

Tears well up in his eyes as he thinks back on the clock, ticking steadily to the end of this part of his life. Sorry, he whispers into Keith’s hair. Sorry, he cries into the kisses he presses onto every inch of Keith he can reach. Sorry, he pleads, to Keith’s heart.

Lance wishes that they can have a do-over. But they can’t. Keith has given chance and chance again for Lance to take his hand, start again with a blank slate. Time and time again, Lance has refused. And now, like a goddamn idiot, he’s crying because of the pain his own choice has given him.

So he prays to the moon. Dear Moon, he starts, let me save him. Let me start again, let me be a better person. If I can’t start again, let me learn from this, let me understand that I can’t lose hold on the people close to me. Let this never happen again. Please. I need this. Keith needs this. Tell me that everything will be okay.

The Moon doesn’t reply.

Lance closes his eyes and drops his forehead on Keith’s.

_________

The next morning, Keith is gone. Lance knows he won’t come back.

He remembers the soft kisses. He feels their ghost on his skin. He feels Keith’s tears caught by the fabric of his robe.

There’s a burn behind his eyelid. Lance tries to blink it away. He fails.

He reaches for the phone on his nightstand, then calls Keith. He doesn’t expect an answer. That’s okay. Keith just needs to hear what Lance has to say.

Keith needs to hear the apology he’s deserved for quite some time.

The ringing stops. The lady tells him to leave a voicemail.

“Hey Keith. I…” Lance bites his lips. Formulates his words, tries to find a phrasing for all his thoughts.

He can’t.

The phone drops onto the blankets.

8 notes · View notes

encomiium · 6 years

Text

Broken Bottles

21 August 2018

Liam

It always starts the same way.

The world is dark and monochrome, high contrast and desaturated. But he is a peach peeking up over the horizon, he is gentle apricot.

It’s screaming. It’s always screaming, someone screaming at Liam, shrapnel flying, guns drawn and pointed, the eyes of their barrels staring him down like the judgment of God. He hears the ultimatum behind his eyes, surrender to a life behind bars, be remembered as the man who was taken prisoner twice, or let the angels sing in a litany of gunpowder and bullets and let the devil have his way.

Somehow it feels like this has happened before, like he’s lived through this moment over and over again; only he can hear himself begging, I’m done. I’m done, please. Take me before I hurt someone.

But the men in grey keep shouting. Get on the ground!

Everything inside of him wants to, he prays for his knees to hit the ground, but his arms move without him and the gravel beneath them rises up into the air in long chains. In the sunlight, the rocks sparkle in repeating patterns, the dirt and cement clinging to the raw crystals dancing at Liam’s fingertips. He hears the gunshots in a vacuum, the sound of it so far away from the deafening echo of his breath in his ears. The crystalline chains rush towards the sirens and smoking guns and Liam runs.

It happens so fast.

He cuts around a corner, he hops over a fence. He could trace his footsteps a thousand times over. He’ll never forgive himself.

When someone rips into his path, he doesn’t see a human. He sees an obstacle, another corner to cut, another fence to hop. His heart leaps into his throat when he opens his hand and the cold diamond laying against his chest shoots out from under his shirt, the leather cord snapping around his neck. The diamond grows as it flies through the air, shrieking towards a body that may as well have been a straw target on an Afghan mountain.

He hears him before he sees the sunrise.

“Liam!”

The sound of his name explodes. His black and white world bursts into color and the first thing he sees is scarlet, deep cocoa, red velvet. It smells like oak and lillies. Like death. He can’t feel himself pulling the diamond an inch to the left, he can’t feel anything. His ears ring.

Oliver has soft lips and eyes that glisten, a heart of gold and a halo made from spun sugar. The diamond pins his shoulder to a brick wall that doesn’t deserve to embrace him. No one deserves to embrace him. In a world of bombshells and scarlet letters, he is the snowfall on the first of December, the sweet smell of fresh pine and basil.

He is the light constantly trapped inside of Liam’s rotting, stenching maw.

This aching--this is aching. He can feel it finally, the wrath of brambles snaking around his sinner’s heart. Oliver’s blood runs in a thin stream along the longest edge of Liam’s diamond. His long, kind fingers, meant to sneak tastes of buttercream icing or run through his curly raven hair, grasped at the sharp corners of the rock in his shoulder. His tender mouth full of laughter and love spilled over with decaying rose petals.

Liam has nothing but silence. His hands shake. This. What comes next. He can’t remember.

And then the world was dark. He shot up from under the covers shouting something he couldn’t hear, the cold sweat running down his body biting in the frigid room. The breath had been shredded out of him, the air clawing its way in and out of his throat with their rusty nails as he looked around the room, wild and unsure. In place of a fragile apricot, screaming red in his fist, was the inky darkness of the night, the house silent, save for an echo of a scream and his own haggard breathing.

“Liam?” came a small voice from the corner of the room. His name, then, was not an explosion, but the last raindrop in a storm, echoing softly through the leaves scared still. Liam looked up and saw Oliver cowering in the corner, his arms wrapped around the comforter, holding it close to his chest.

Liam scrambled up from the bed, tearing himself away from the sheets and backing away from the edge, everything a dizzying jumble of ache and regret and anger. So much fucking anger, a bloody need to be absolutely nowhere, to be dead. Gone.

In a quick, graceful move, so fast and clear Liam couldn’t have possibly perceived it, Oliver crossed the room and pushed the comforter to the end of the bed, crawling across the mattress to reach out and press a warm hand to Liam’s sweat-soaked jaw. “No, no, hey,” he whispered, “Stay here. Stay with me.”

Liam leaned into Oliver’s touch, his cheek pressed into his soft, beautiful hands. Everything about Liam’s hands were hard, covered in scars, stained with blood. His hands were gnarled and feral, beyond saving, where Oliver’s hands were downy-feathers and mezzo-piano, his thumbs singing soft sonatas as he ran his fingers along Liam’s cheekbones. He could do nothing but follow those beautiful hands back into the howling mouth of the bed.

“You’re okay,” Oliver breathed, pressing a kiss to the corner of Liam’s lips before pressing their foreheads together. His lips were soft like flower petals and the nectar of his kiss flowed down Liam’s throat, spreading a soft heat through his body.

If he closed his eyes and listened only to the sound of Oliver’s breathing, Liam could fall asleep just like this, could pretend his entire life had been this easy. But he didn’t deserve that. He needed to reach up, to run his hand over Oliver’s arm, along the long lines in his muscle until his baby-soft skin was interrupted by a long, keloid scar strangling his left shoulder. Two inches to the right, two seconds too late, and Liam would have pierced his heart--his precious heart that has never been able to do anything but love.

“Don’t do that,” Oliver warned gently, tangling his fingers with Liam’s to take him away from tracing the long scar where they sewed Oliver back together when Liam ripped him apart. “Don’t torture yourself like that.”

“I killed you.” The words burned like cigarettes along his spine, his stomach roiling at the acrid burn of rotten tobacco filling his nose.

“I’m right here,” Oliver pleaded, trying to pull Liam’s gaze away from the scar on his shoulder, snaking over his collarbone like an angry flash of lightning, a hidden verse about murder tangled in its lines, navy blue in the moonlight.

“Almost doesn’t matter,” Liam choked out, his throat closing around the mourner’s wake calling out from inside his chest, “I killed you, I didn’t miss, I killed you.”

Oliver reached up and wiped the tears from Liam’s cheeks, but his eyes were gone. He had a thousand yard stare, past the slithering scar on his chest, past the bed, into the gaping hole in the earth that waited to swallow him up. He pressed Liam back into the bed. “Don’t say that.”

“I don’t deserve this life,” Liam confessed in this holy place. This time, there was no struggle. Nothing hurt when he told the truth. The boy he loved, in a way no one and nothing could ever comprehend--stronger than the fabric of time or the grip of a grandmother on her first born grandchild--laid down beside him and looked for his soul behind his dark eyes.

Where Oliver could not see, Liam felt a cold point at the base of his skull. An amethyst shard sitting on the dresser as a decorative piece, a gift to Oliver from some grateful mother or another, floated languidly to the back of his neck, stiff and ready and pressing against his skin. It could be over so quickly, all of it could go away. Maybe once, when he closed his eyes, he could see darkness. Not the scarlet of Oliver’s blood spraying onto his cheeks when he coughed for air, not the millions of stars made by Afghan soil exploding into the night sky.

When he closed his eyes, he saw flashes of Oliver in a hospital bed, his big brown eyes terrified, his breath punctuated with whimpers of pain. The crystal pressed closer into his spine. He took in a breath.

When his lungs were full and he parted his lips to whisper good-bye, Liam felt Oliver’s lips on his, a soft, sweet kiss. It was a kiss like lavender in June, the kiss of the wind running in a wheat field. Liam opened his eyes to Oliver looking at him like he could matter. Like he was worth more than he was, more than the broken bottles, like touching him wouldn’t split his skin open like an envelope, make him bleed like a love letter.

“I love you,” Oliver sighed, his thumb tracing the line from Liam’s cheek to his chin, his nail quietly scratching his stubble.

“Why?” Liam begged, shaking his head.

“Because I do. When will that be enough for you?”

Liam blinked. He’d never been in love. Not before Oliver. He always imagined love left you like a wreckage, left you in pieces like a shattered window scattered over a gravel road. But this love wrapped him in a warm white duvet, tangled their legs together and swaddled him in an embrace that made everything else fall away. In that bed, where he felt the angel-soft touch of a boy who should only hate and despise him, dressed only in incredible compassion and care, ghosting over the curve on his waist between his lowest rib and his hip, he knew peace. He could never forgive himself, but he could unclench his fist, relax his bone-white knuckles and let the amethyst roll away from his skull and under the bed.

His life has been mangled fingers reaching between the bars of warped metal cages.

For one night, the forgiveness of a saint might coax him away from the edge.

#THE ENDING IS BLAH #AND THIS IS MORE METAPHOR THAN ANYTHING #IM SORRY I WANTED TO WRITE SOMETHING I LOVE YOU #I MISS YOU ALREADY #IM SITTING ON YOUR FLOOR TAGGING THIS #IM NOT GONNA CRY I PROMISE #gen:drabble #d:liam darcy #liam;oliver #PS I liked both of these gifs so deal with it they're both there

1 note · View note

theafternoonroom · 4 years

Text

bed 26

I'm not entirely sure what I'm waiting for.

The nurse has stuck her head through the door once—no, maybe twice or three times—to tell us that the patient has coughed up a lot of blood, and that his blood pressure was crashing.

Not quite enough to make my seniors rush to his bedside. He was a DNR Maxward patient with terminal cancer and multiple cormorbidities, both physical and emotional. Estranged from his family, I hadn't seen any next of kin by his bedside in the whole time that I'd been posted to the ward. And he'd always been a little difficult. We had tried to speak to him multiple times during this admission, only for him to turn his back against us or close his eyes, a clear signal that our one-sided monologues was over.

As we wrap up our exit rounds and walk from the MO room to bed 26, I'm barely thinking about the patient. My brain is caught in the rush towards MBBS and I run through the causes of hemoptysis in my head. First thing to do—rule out any coagulopathies (I had learnt that the hard way by embarrassing myself in a tutorial). My thoughts are interrupted by the resident, frustrated about how she had tried to page for the granddaughter multiple times to no avail. I offer to try again.

I punch the numbers in mechanically, before realizing that I had no idea what to say. Sure, I had updated families before. Your dad is going for this scan, your mother is doing great in the wards - you can bring her home tomorrow!—nothing about how your loved one only has a few hours left to live; please come to the hospital now to say goodbye.

I call the resident over and tell her that when I reach the granddaughter I'll pass the phone over, for a real doctor to handle these sensitive, often painful, end of life issues. She declines and proceeds to give me a summary of everything I should tell the patient. How we think he's not going to make it through the night, how we're doing everything we can to keep him comfortable, how they should make plans to come down immediately. Her voice is muffled in the background, distant, and I realize that I knew exactly what to say, I just...didn't know how to say it.

The phone rings for what seems like an eternity and I'm torn between praying she won't pick up and hoping she does, because this is the last chance she has to say goodbye. But she does, and I soften my voice to tell her the news. I trip over pronouncing a word and there is heavy silence from the other end. Before I can mentally beat myself up for the nerves that have caused me to stumble, I hear her promise that she’ll be there right away.

My only task is now done. And I’m left with nothing to do but to stand around and be a space-occupying lesion. (I should have been used to it at this point, 5 years into medical school, to be honest.) The consultant is long gone. The resident thanks me for the help (I've done nothing?) and leaves the ward to hand over the case to the on-call. "A sickie," they say. "Won't last the night."

I gently tug the curtain back to see the staff nurse standing by the patient, hands busy with fresh sheets, clothes, and pillows. I almost choke. The smell of fresh blood and sputum is heavy in the air. And I see him, lying there, in a puddle of his own blood, fading in and out of consciousness, gasping for air.

I step inside the cubicle and pretend to fiddle with the IV drip. It's late and I should be on my way home, but I don't want to leave. Not just yet. I have absolutely no clue what the protocol is, what I'm supposed to do for a man that is dying, but I know if it were me, I wouldn't want to be left in a pool of my own blood. So I tell the sister I'll help her tidy him up. She's surprised, but grateful.

I've never been good with managing my emotions. Somewhere in between finding wet wipes to clean his blood-stained cheek and arranging his black, tattered shoes neatly by his bed, I found myself struggling to keep from crying. I tried to ask if he was comfortable, but my throat was tight, and I had to do it twice before he understood what I was asking.

If you have ever seen a completely immobile patient being dressed, you would know that it is an incredibly uncomfortable process. Joints bent at awkward angles, face squashed against the sides of the bed at times, it takes some maneuvering skills to prevent catheters and IV lines from being dislodged. I hold the patient on his side as the staff nurse changes the sheets and removes the soiled linen, and repeat to him, "Don't worry; it'll be over in a moment." It was only after that I wondered if he knew I was talking about the dressing, not about his time left.

The nurse leaves to get a larger set of clothes and for a moment, it's just him and me and the IV drip machine beeping steadily in the background. I reach out to hold his hand and ask him if he can hear me. His eyes are closing and opening, and rolling up at times, but he weakly nods and I'm satisfied. I don't know what to do, so I pray for him, quickly and quietly, and stroke his head. He doesn't have much hair left, but whatever he has is neatly parted. I try not to muss it up. The nurse returns with more clothes and tells me to throw the dirty linen on the floor. We'll clean it up later.

We finish the dressing too quickly, and I'm left again with my empty, fidgety hands and a dying patient. I still don't have the heart to leave, so I wander into the nurses' station and find myself in front of a computer. I pretend to type and tidy the clinical notes, but I'm really just counting his breaths and watching every movement he makes. He coughs again, a chesty, deep rumble that sounds painful and exhausting. He's trying to cough up the blood that's flooding his lungs, but his effort is so weak that nothing comes up.

The granddaughter calls again. The staff nurse pages for me and I answer. She sounds like she's rushing. "Could you please tell him L and E are coming?" Her voice breaks a little as she speaks (and if I am honest, my heart broke a little too).

I go to his bedside, satisfied that I had found another excuse to sit with him, and take his hand. "Your granddaughters are coming, uncle, just hold on a while more. Just a little while more, they're on their way." His eyes open at the mention of their names and there's a stray tear. I wonder when was the last time he saw them. I repeat this again and again, gently, stroking his frail hand, hoping and praying that he understood what I was saying. O God, please let him last the next few minutes until his family comes.

They make it before he goes.

I go to find my resident, but she's long gone. "Handed over to the on-call already," one of the MOs tells me, "Why are you still here anyway?" I don't have a good answer. "One of our patients isn't doing too well and I wanted to make sure he was okay." My statement hangs in the air for a while, before she shrugs and turns back to her computer, to complete the stack of changes she has to finish before home STAT. In that moment, I feel silly for staying so long; why stay when you need to rest before another long day tomorrow? Not to mention, there was really nothing I could have done to improve his care. Another overenthusiastic student that doesn't treasure their student life.

I check the bus timings—I've got 5 mins to get down to the bus stop if I want to catch the next bus home. I think I can make it if I pick up my pace. I pack up my things and find my half-finished cup of bubble tea from lunch. Having left the cubicle, the sights, smells, sounds of death seem like a distant memory and the events of the past few hours fade. I suddenly remember that I'm hungry and tired from the day, wanting nothing more than to leave the hospital and go home for a cold shower. And dammit, I have to be up so early tomorrow...and I've forgotten that I need to finish studying chapters—

I catch myself mid-thought.

Perhaps the most dangerous thing that could happen to a healthcare professional isn't the sick patient that could desaturate at any moment. Maybe it isn't even the silent myocardial infarctions in our elderly and diabetics. Perhaps it's our tendency to forget. Caught between the 5am mornings and the long call hours, we often don't stop to hold death by its shoulders and stare into its cold eyes for long enough to remember what it feels like to be a victim, to imagine what it feels like to have our hourglasses slowly draining away. Our tendency to forget that for many of our patients, that is their reality.

We are all slaves to time. The clock that ticks mercilessly waits for no man and with every second, we march nearer to the same final destination. Perhaps I'll see bed 26 there one day. But for now, I have a bus to catch.

0 notes

surveys-at-your-service · 7 years

Text

Survey #94

music survey.

01. "all american girl" by train 02. "blessed with a curse" by bring me the horizon 03. "better than you" by metallica 04. "ghost behind my eyes" by ozzy osbourne 05. "slutgarden" by marilyn manson 06. "man in the box" by alice in chains 07. "scissors" by slipknot 08. "possession" by otep 09. "the frayed ends of sanity" by metallica 10. "where the dead ships dwell" by in flames 11. "better than me" by hinder 12. "my own hell" by five finger death punch 13. "how you gonna see me now" by alice cooper 14. "kill all your friends" by my chemical romance 15. "waking the demon" by bullet for my valentine 16. "hello" by fame on fire 17. "the persecution song" by cradle of filth 18. "toxicity" by system of a down 19. "when you say you love me" by josh groban 20. "i don't care" by fall out boy 21. "suckerface" by orgy 22. "promise" by akira yamaoka 23. "empire" by queensryche 24. "bring your daughter to the slaughter" by iron maiden 25. "iris" by sleeping with sirens 26. "i am hell" by machine head 27. "the day that never comes" by metallica 28. "fists fall" by otep 29. "same damn life" by seether 30. "let's get this party started" by korn 31. "trekka" by puscifer 32. "21 guns" by green day 33. "asche zu asche" by rammstein 34. "rise of the pentagram" by cradle of filth 35. "please" by ludo 36. "lost it all" by black veil brides 37. "suicide solution" by ozzy osbourne 38. "do i wanna know?" by arctic monkeys 39. "bullet with butterfly wings" by smashing pumpkins 40. "drilled a wire through my cheek" by blue october 01. which song you prefer, #1 ("all american girl") or #40 ("drilled a wire through my cheek")? #40, easily. love that song. 02. have you ever listened to #12 ("my own hell") continuously on repeat? maybe. 03. what album is #26 ("i am hell") from? "unto the locust" 04. what do you think about the artist who did #15 ("waking the demon")? i like 'em. 05. is #19 one of your favorite songs? no. 06. who does #38 ("do i wanna know?") remind you of? makes me think of jason a lot. 07. does #20 ("i don't care") have better lyrics or music? music, maybe. 08. do any of your friends like #3 ("better than you")? probably. 09. is #33 ("asche zu asche") from a movie soundtrack? i don't think so. 10. is #18 ("toxicity") overplayed on the radio? none of these songs are even on the radio lol 11. what does #22 ("promise") remind you of? nothing, really. it has no lyrics, but it has a melancholic sound. 12. which song do you prefer, #5 ("slutgarden") or #21 ("suckerface")? eh, probably #5 13. what album is #17 ("the persecution song") from? "darkly, darkly, venus aversa" (*winks @ sara*) 14. when did you first hear #39 ("bullet with butterfly wings")? isn't it the theme to a tv show? 15. when did you first hear #7 ("scissors")? a long time ago when i was just listening to slipknot songs on youtube 16. what genre is #8 ("possession")? heavy metal 17. do any of your friends like #14 ("kill all your friends")? probably. i know a good number of people who like mcr 18. what color does #4 ("ghost behind my eyes") remind you of? like a desaturated blue 19. have you ever blasted #11 ("better than me") on your stereo? not blasted 20. what genre is #37 ("suicide solution")? classic metal 21. can you play #13 ("how you gonna see me now") on any instrument? no. but i probably could when i still played guitar. 22. what is your favorite lyric from #30 ("let's get this party started")? "sometimes i wish i could be strong like you; it doesn't matter. each time i wake, i'm somehow feeling the truth i can't handle." 23. what is your favorite lyric from #23 ("empire")? "brother killing brother for the profit of another; game point, nobody wins. declines, right on time. what happened to the dream sublime? tear it all down, we'll put it up again." 24. would you recommend #24 ("bring your daughter to the slaughter") to your friends? sure, if they like metal. 25. is #2 ("blessed with a curse") a good song to dance to? as someone who used to be a dancer, i picture dances to songs a lot, and it would definitely be a good modern dance. 26. do you ever hear #16 ("hello") on the radio? well it's a rock cover of adele's song, so not theirs, anyway. 27. is #32 ("21 guns") more of a "nighttime" or "daytime" song? makes me think of sunrise, really. 28. does #36 ("lost it all") have any special meaning to you? YES. it helped get me through my break-up. 29. do any of your friends like #31 ("trekka")? maybe, but i don't know many people who know puscifer. 30. is #25 ("iris") a fast or slow song? slow. 31. is #35 ("please") a happy or sad song? sad 32. what is one of your favorite lyrics from #9 ("the frayed ends of sanity")? either "old habits reappear, fighting the fear of fear. growing conspiracy, myself is after me" or "never hunger, never prosper, i have fallen prey to failure" 33. is #34 ("rise of the pentagram") better to listen to alone or with friends? alone. 34. when did you first hear #27 ("the day that never comes")? when i first listened to that album years ago. 35. name 3 other songs by the artist who did #29 ("same damn life"): "fake it," "breakdown," "nobody praying for me" 36. do you know all the words to #6 ("man in the box")? yes. 37. does #28 ("fists fall") have better lyrics or music? LYRICS. SO FUCKING POWERFUL. 38. what album is #10 ("where the dead ships dwell") from? "sounds of a playground fading," pretty sure.

#survey #quiz #questions #asks #answered #music

1 note · View note