on the wall of my room

anonymous asked:

Please write something where Scully is attacked and Mulder helps her.

Some angst tonight! Tagging @always-angst, @today-in-fic and @fictober

After five years on the road with Scully, Mulder knows that motel room walls are paper-thin. So thin in fact that sometimes Mulder imagines watching Scully’s silhouette on the other side of the wall. They’re so thin that Scully can reiterate whatever movie he’s watched to fall asleep the night before. One of the reasons why, at least when they have adjoining rooms, Mulder no longer watches porn movies in his room. Tonight, they’re so thin that Mulder is woken by a gentle thumping noise against the wall. Thump, thump it goes without rhythm, hard, then harder. He rubs his eyes, listens. Thump, thump. Various scenarios run through Mulder’s mind as he gets up; he pays them no attention. Thump, thump. The adjoining door is unlocked and he tears it open, consequences be damned. Slivers of light stream in through the half closed blinds. They tear through the scene and paint it in surreal lighting. Mulder reacts before he even knows what is going on. There against the wall, pinned up high, is Scully. A large, fat hand around her throat keeps her there, strangulates and chokes her. Her feet dangle in the air, try to kick and fight. 

“Let her go!” Mulder’s yell reverberates through the room and the intruder turns to Mulder, bares his dirty, yellow teeth like an animal. His hand opens, lets go of Scully, who slips to the ground. Thump, only once; a sad sounds swallowed by the carpet. The attacker jumps at him and Mulder ducks. The other man crashes into the bedside table. Mulder watches him, prepares with balled fists, as his eyes catch Scully’s gun. He waits for the man to come at him again, avoids his fist, and finds himself on the other side. Mulder grabs Scully’s gun, aims and fires twice. The attacker collapses, goes down. Thud. Silence. 

“Scully.” His voice is barely above a whisper as he finds her on the ground, half leaning against the wall. His hands, like magnets, find her skin. Her throat is dotted with deep, dark purple spots. Her lips tinged bluish, her eyes closed and Mulder’s heart misses a beat. His hand is trembling as he checks for her pulse. Steady, strong. 

“Scully? Can you hear me? Scully?” She groans, but doesn’t open her eyes. Mulder doesn’t want to let go of her, let her out of his sight, but they need an ambulance and the police. “I’ll be right back, Scully.” He whispers and lets go of her hand. Mulder uses Scully’s cell phone to make the calls before he kneels down in front of her again. He doesn’t let go of her when the police arrives and asks him what happened. Her hand is still in his when they take her into the ambulance. Someone mentions he’s not wearing a shirt as the ambulance rattles through the street. Up until now, Mulder hasn’t even noticed.

They make him let go of her hand in the hospital. He screams and fights, but they wheel her away. ‘We’ll take care of your girlfriend’, a young doctor remarks before he hands Mulder green scrubs and jogs away. Mulder puts the rustling shirt on, his whole body shivering in cold or shock. The moments stretch on. Each time a door swings open, Mulder startles, waits. He should call Mrs. Scully, he knows. But what would he tell her? Your daughter was attacked by a mad robber. Not even case related. I couldn’t keep her safe, Mrs. Scully. Too many monsters and demons, too many mad men. Just a bad motel in a bad neighbor, a coincidence. He can’t call her, not now; it’ll have to wait. Let her sleep in peace for one more night. ‘We’ve been looking for this guy for ages’, a police officer praised him as they took the body away. Mulder barely heard the words and stared instead at the dent in the wall where Scully had kicked her feet against. Thump, thump. 

“Mr. Mulder?” The young doctor from earlier walks towards him, finally.  

“Can I see her?” That’s all he wants, needs. The doctor nods.

“She asked for you. She’s got a concussion, neck lesions. She’s strong, though. We’ll have to wait and see, but it looks like physically there’ll be no lasting damage. Psychologically it’s too early to tell. She seems tough.”

“She is.” Mulder answers. He wants to push the poor doctor out of the way and get to Scully. “I need to…” The doctor nods, understanding. He lets Mulder through. 

“Hi.” Mulder can’t help but smile as he sees Scully propped up in bed. There’s a bandage around her neck and her head where she must have suffered a wound. 

“Hi.” Her voice is raspy and Mulder swallows hard. 

“Do you know… do you remember what happened?“ Mulder asks her and sits down at the edge of her bed. He puts his hand on hers as it is resting on her leg. She nods. Her eyes are clear and determined. That’s my Scully, he thinks.

"I already told the police. They said you shot him?” Now it’s Mulder who nods. 

“I am so sorry, Scully. I should have been there sooner. I should have-” Scully puts her free hand over his and he quiets.

“None of this is your fault, Mulder. It could have happened to anyone, anywhere.”

“But it happened to you.” While on a case. While he was sleeping in the next room. “We’re going home, Scully. I don’t care about the case, I don’t care-”

“Mulder, no. We’re staying. At a different motel maybe,” she smiles at him and he blinks at her. How can she smile? How can she comfort him after what she’s just been through? Mulder laces his fingers with hers. He could have lost her today, again, and not to some unknown entity, or some invisible monster. “They said I could leave tonight.” She finishes, staring at their entwined hands.

“I’d rather you stay here, Scully. Just for one night.”

“Are you the doctor now?” She pokes his scrub-clad chest. "Green suits you.“

"No, I’m… I’m just worried about you. Wherever you sleep tonight, I’ll stay with you." 

"I don’t need you to-”

“I need to, Scully,” he squeezes her hand; he won’t let go. Even if he wanted to, he can’t. Needs to feel her skin against his, needs to know she’s safe now. Staring into her eyes, he knows that if he could, if she’d let him, he’d never leave her side ever again. Night or day. “I need to be with you tonight, Scully. Will you let me, please?" Her face is unreadable and he waits. He’d wait forever. Then, with a small nod and a faint blush, she nods.

"You can stay.”

i see a light of haunting color
reflected in your eyes
it brings be back to hidden times
that only I despise
as I was the only one
that saw them as they were
cats with broken whiskers
unable to ever purr
I see it now reflected
in the window down the hall
casting abstract shapes
on the unliving room wall
yet no one’s ever struck
with this gripping melancholy
that tears at my insides
at it shoots off another volley
just
me
it is how I see
down the tunnel
of yesterday
the light must carry pieces
of what it feels like to be sad
it resonates
in ways unspoken
just to reassure
that something has been
broken

2

Cadi and Aries eventually come up for air. I stare at him, waiting for him to return my gaze with those strange eyes. But he doesn’t. He pulls away from Cadi, offers to take my luggage up to my bedroom. The weird moment between us had passed, if it had ever even happened. I was so tired maybe I was imagining things.

My bedroom was as dreary and dingy as the rest of the house. What made the house so bad was that there were still hints of its former beauty. The floors were all thick hardwood, the doors and paneling were sturdy and well made, the window panes were thick. But the cracks in the walls, the dust in every cranny, the soiled and aging furniture made me think that the house was giving up its energy, like a person fading away in their  final senior years.

Aries puts my bags in the room, quietly steps out to give Cadi and I some privacy. 

what does it take

to get you off my mind?


would it help if

I give it you little

more time?


or have you made my

head your own residency?


walled up

with misery


painted with

self-loathing thoughts


under flickering lights

of distraught


because I can’t

take it anymore


I admit I am

weak unlike before


I wake up at dawn

and get ready for school


now I find comfort

in a dark room

Check - In

His words are like smudged kisses on an antique mirror.
The faint trace of shimmering peach,
And the smell of ‘Aux étoiles’ dancing dimly between these
Pink hotel room
Walls that scream 'Teenage Love Affair’.

He’s lost somewhere in my eyes,
Ignoring all of my suffering, my pain, my curiosity and the
Depth they contain seem to distract his dauntingly
Dark mind from loving me, again.
He says my dream-like touch is too much
For a boy of his age.
These peach pink lips seem to hold a memory of a distant past that I no longer remember.

The memory of my bones cracking
To make space for him to rest between my lungs on these
Lonely Saturday nights.
The smell of 'Retour à la terre’ wrapping its hands around
My neck
And filling my chests
With the toxic reality that once tasted
So sweet.

He asked me what I was thinking
With all my aloofness and my doe-like eyes
But I never told him the answer.
For the air we shared was now poisoned with the
Thought of these continuous Saturday nights
Between these pink hotel room walls.

Worry [Juice]

Panic rushes through [Y/N] as yet another call to Juice ends up in the voicemail box, but that panic soon turns to rage as she closes her phone and flings it across the room. The cellphone strikes the wall across from her jarring the battery loose as it clatters to the floor.

“When I get my hands on that boy so help me,” [Y/N] mumbles just as the doorbell chimes. Taking a deep breath she heads towards the front door, but stop shorts when she sees a very familiar face, one that she currently wants to smack.

In a hurry she yanks open the door coming face to face with Juice, “Where the hell have you been? Better yet, why the hell can’t you answer your phone? I’ve been so worried Juice.”

Juice doesn’t respond, instead he crosses the threshold and pulls [Y/N] into a hug, “I know baby and I’m so sorry, I just-I just needed some time.”

Her fingers grip his hoodie tightly as tears prick her eyes, “You had me so worried Juice, Chibs has been calling asking if you’re okay.”

“I know, I know and I’ll fix that, but for right now it’s about us.” Juice states as he kicks the door closed and ushers [Y/N] to couch, never letting her go.

“I love you Juice,” [Y/N] replies.

“I love you too,” Juice replies as his eyes land on the dismantled phone, “is that your phone on the floor over there?”

“Yes, yes it is.” She replies as Juice lets out a chuckle.

anonymous asked:

hey u doin that ask meme?? how abt 5 and 100 :o

5. What is your favorite color?

blue !!

100. Color of your room?

my old room was all blue (curtains walls floors ext) but the one im in now is beige and grey :/

warriorofhammerfell  asked:

fear of the dentist? why am i only now learning about this and how did pennywise factor into it?

dude im terrified of the dentist swdewsdefesf

but ok so like

when i was a kid, my brother forced me to watch part of the IT movie

which happened to be this scene the kids were looking at this photo that started to move, and Pennywise appeared and got closer and closer and then threatened to kill them

so like after i watched that, a few days later

I went to the dentist

and they had a blown up version of that same exact picture hanging on the wall in the waiting room

so i thought my dentist was in kahoots with a killer clown

needless to say, we ended up switching dentists lm a o

My Bed is a Cave

My bed is a cave. It’s undying warmth provided by a couple blankets and a heater. It’s my home inside my home, rather than away. It’s small and sturdy, a good staple. A proper relationship. It gives, and gives, and gives. And the room it’s in calibrates my whole day.

You see, things have their place. My dresser is against the left wall, my bookshelves on the right, my chalkboard above the dresser, my posters hung high and in frames. The way it all looks from my bed can clear or clutter my mind. One day, having my desk against the wall makes me happy, and the next it’s like a bug in my brain move me move me move me. One day my dresser seems a bit too small, and the next I want to throw all my clothes out and live the life of a minimalist. One day a big bed sounds nice, and the next day the thought of it is suffocating. All that space.

There’s always a light on, in my room. A point of brightness to stave off nightmares. Fairy lights that twinkle. A lamp shaped like a unicorn that my friend gave me for Christmas. Another lamp on my desk, and candles on most of the surfaces. Mason jars strung through with Christmas lights hang over my bed to drive away bad thoughts. The bathroom light must be off in order for me to get any sleep. It scares me, light without a definitive source. I want to see the bulb. That bright glow.

My instruments have a shrine, at the moment. In between the bookshelves and under the floating one that holds little knick knacks. Needless things. Bracelets and toys won from quarter games at the mall. I lean the guitars against the wall because I haven’t been able to commit to wall hooks yet. My saxophone sits unplayed. Lost talent. Wasted space. It’s too loud to play in an apartment building. Bells like that have two settings: loud and louder. Playing it cuts my lips. The rough wood.

The floor is beigey-white. A nondescript kind of thing. When it’s clean my brain feels cluttered. There’s more standing space then. More space to walk and stalk. With piles of
clothes to block the way it takes it a bit longer to get to me. That indeterminate monster. My mom tells me to clean my floor, so, the clothes hide under furniture. Less space for the slinky beasts that stay close to the ground.

My bed is my real home, even if the sides hide the hands of monsters. Even if the slats were made for children because a full is just two big. Even if the twin size makes me curl up into a ball, afraid of fingers and toes being grabbed in the night. My bed is the illusion of safety. And that’s good enough for me.

percy weasley and oliver wood were in the same year and house at hogwarts, i don’t know why it’s taken me so long to realise this but

  • oh god they would be so annoying to live with
  • both total perfectionists but about different things
  • percy getting annoyed at oliver for revising his quidditch strategy when they had a test tomorrow
  • percy acting smug because he’s head boy, oliver firmly believing that being quidditch captain is much more important
  • oliver happily aiding the twins in their pranks to get his own back at percy for not appreciating how important it is that he wins the cup
  • their dorm mates getting totally fed up of the two of them stressing tirelessly
  • ‘oh my god we have an exam in three weeks i need to revise’ ‘oh my god i have a quidditch match soon and the team is not practicing hard enough’ 

honestly, im surprised that none of the other gryffindor boys smothered them in their sleep

Everyone has different personalities hidden inside of them. It’s no secret. We are all formed of smaller galaxies, that we take out and put on as coats whenever we see fit. It’s no shame. I have that. We all do. It’s no strangeness.

I let some people see the summer rain in me, the warm coffee in me, the dusty old books, the smiles that feel like warm sunshine on my face. That’s the galaxy full of bright stars you just want to dive in.

I let other people see the hurricane, the wolf blood, the sharp bites and whiskey smirks. That’s the galaxy not many explore, the side you don’t venture into because you want to.

I perhaps have thousands of little universes like these that I bring out whenever I feel like it. I am not a chameleon, I don’t adapt to what’s asked of me. I just like to think that I’m not simple enough to be defined by one single thing.

But every galaxy has its black holes. The one thing you don’t talk about, the one you keep hidden and pretend it doesn’t exist.

I feel like the person I become when I get close to the black hole isn’t who I am. I see it as another person, completely separated from me. I keep her in a locked room. Or perhaps I don’t keep her, perhaps she has caged herself there, in a prison of her own making.

She is sad. She is a weeping sky. She is angry. She is an unmerciful tsunami. She is mad. And she scares me.

I don’t let her out. In fact, I think I have no control over her whatsoever. She comes out whenever she wants and she does what she wants once she’s out. She cries, she yells, she laughs, she scares. She scratches on the walls of my mind as a warning before she erupts. But she doesn’t stay too long. She never does. Maybe she just gets lonely in there, all by herself, and wants to make sure I haven’t forgotten her.

We all have universes, stars, dangerous planets and black holes. Perhaps I am made of books full of raindrops and hunger and feathers and broken wings sparrows. Made of going but never leaving. Of had enough’s and trying too hard. Of cigarette smoke and poison and storms. Of poetry and spilled ink. Of shy mornings and midnight thunders.

But do I ever think that makes me original or special or different?

Not even for a second.

—  writinghurricanes, shades of blue