white blank wall

the kisses au

because there are so many types of kisses! have some affectionate widowtracer because i refuse to believe their relationship is purely sex and angst

  • lena oxton is a very affectionate person
  • she is all smiles and hugs and friendly hip-checks and cuddles and sharing space and, needless to say, widowmaker is not.
  • so when they start this… thing
  • widow is not prepared for what comes next
  • she wakes in the morning covered in ten blankets and a snoozing lena oxton, surrounded by a mess of pillows and teddy bears and textbooks on theoretical physics, and it is warm and the sunlight was made for basking in, and she jolts a little in surprise
  • her talon bunker is cold and dark and decorated with one purple gouge across the blank white walls and the cot is stiff and poky and she has nothing but nightmares
  • lena stirs at her movement, grumbles sleepily. widow freezes, unsure of the protocol. does she… touch her? move? does she stay there? oh god what should she do?
  • she settles for tentatively touching lena’s hair. it’s soft, fluffy, perpetually messy, and she pats her head with cold hands.
  • ‘lo,’ lena murmurs, throat creaking a little, and widow blinks, snatching her hand back.
  • ‘good morning,’ she says, a touch stiffly. lena doesn’t seem to notice, tipping her head slightly and shifting closer, burrowing her head into widow’s neck and pressing a kiss to her jaw. the whole motion is easy and careless and widow can’t help but smile.
  • lena whispers something groggily against her throat, and she frowns in confusion.
  • ‘quoi?’
  • lena lifts her head for a moment. ‘said you look cute.’
  • ‘cute?’
  • ‘ya know, mornings. hair down. ‘s cute.’
  • ‘so do you.’
  • ‘mm. thanks.’ 
  • she’s waking up slowly, sitting up, bending over amelie to blindly kiss her face, opening her eyes, the soft brown gentle in the rising sun, her nose bumping clumsily against amelie’s icy cheek.
  • ‘there’s a diner here somewhere,’ she mumbles between kisses, aiming for amelie’s nose and missing spectacularly. ‘you into coffee?’
  • ‘café au lait,’ is amelie’s response, and lena snorts, snuggling into her shoulder.
  • ‘you and your prissy french coffee.’
  • amelie sticks her tongue out at her and lena pouts exaggeratedly, spread-eagling herself over widow and clinging.
  • ‘get off,’ amelie says, without meaning it. lena just smiles at her knowingly, and clings tighter, dotting kisses over amelie’s collarbones and humming some pop song.
  • ‘i want food,’ amelie says abruptly and decisively, and clambers off the bed with lena still attached to her. ‘shoes on. am i carrying you there?’
  • ‘yeah,’ lena mumbles, and then blinks. ‘wait, are we going naked?’
  • ‘no,’ amelie says, rolling her eyes fondly, ‘put your clothes on.’
  • lena sings as she straps the accelerator to her chest and slings a leather jacket around her shoulders, dances up behind widow and spins her around and presses the spiderbites into her ear and widow snorts when she makes a pun, eyebrows waggling
  • they walk to the nearest cafe and lena buys four pastries and feeds amelie pieces of an apple turnover as she talks about a recent prototype of the plane that she and winston are developing and widow hums and listens and feels the soft brush of lena’s fingers against her lips and the way they skim over her jaw and down her arm to her hands, and then lena gets momentarily distracted in favour of kissing each of amelie’s fingertips
  • and amelie tells her about sombra’s embarrassing moments, hands dancing in the air (she’s wonderfully expressive when she wants to be), smiles a little when lena laughs so hard she almost snorts coffee out her nose
  • they’re the best mornings amelie’s had in a while.
  • late nights are good, too
  • they curl up on the couch, and amelie wears lena’s fuzzy koala socks, and they watch old movies and lena squishes in next to her so close that amelie can smell the faint traces of the lemon soap she uses (and amelie steals on a regular basis) and she wraps her arms loosely around lena’s midsection and lena hums and traces her tattoos and pecks kisses on her wrists
  • and sometimes, every so often, lena comes home to amelie sitting on the floor with a bottle of wine and hard eyes and lena talks her down with quiet words and soft desperate ‘i am here’ kisses and amelie cries and tangles her hands in lena’s hair and they sit together on lena’s kitchen floor and amelie mumbles about needles and gerard and monsters
  • at nights, they lie together, lena’s arms tight around amelie’s shoulders, quiet words of affection. lena learns a bit of frankly horrid french and takes a certain amount of delight in sneaking up behind amelie and whispering, ‘je t’aime’ into her ear
  • and her accent’s bad and the tones are wrong and she doesn’t quite say it like people in france
  • but it seems much more right than anything amelie’s ever heard

everyone dies in a mask,

it’s just a question of whether it is your choice

the first mask you were given was at your birth 

and it was a forced smile that didn’t reach your eyes

you’d been wearing it so long that the first time you cried 

you didn’t know you were sad 

in the blank white room with blank white walls 

you looked in the mirror and saw red;

red splotched cheeks, and red veined eyes 

that had never looked so fever-bright

the doctors with their masks intact handed you pills 

and they said they’d make you feel better 

but they lied,

you felt better when you cried.

everyone dies in a mask, 

and as your smile rips your face open

you tighten the new one that you made yourself.

I'm Not Dreaming - Part One (Michael Cifford)

i’m honestly really struggling with some serious depression right now. i don’t want to trigger anyone; I just needed a way to get my feelings out so I started writing?? If you guys like it I can continue:)

MASTERLIST 

PART TWO / PART THREE

 REQUEST HERE 

Summary: You’re struggling with depression and Michael doesn’t know. 

Warnings: DEPRESSION, MENTIONS OF SUICIDE (Please don’t read if this might trigger you. If anyone needs to talk about anything I’m always here! Xx 

 —————————

I stared at the wall. White. Blank. Nothingness. It was how I felt. I didn’t want to move, speak, or do anything. 

Depression consumes everything. I didn’t want to admit it, even to myself, but it had consumed me once again. Everything I cared about was becoming a twisted blur shoved into the back of my mind. I closed my eyes and laid back in the bed as tears wet my cheeks. 

It was all too much. School, work, me. I didn’t want to die. But at the same time, I did. I felt out of control. It had nearly been two weeks since I’d gone to a class or to work. I didn’t know why I felt the way I did. 

I’d been to a few doctors and they’ve all told me the same thing: I’m depressed. And I need to go on this medicine or that medicine. None of them are working. 

Generally, I’m a happy person. I didn’t want to face anyone like this. I could barely even talk to my boyfriend. I was vague in my texts back and made every excuse not to talk on the phone. He was currently out of the country touring with his band. He was having the time of his life, and I didn’t want to burden him with my silly problems. So I was stuck at our shared apartment in California while he was somewhere in Europe. 

I swallowed down my new sleep medicine from the psychiatrist before turning the light off and laying back down. It was already past 3 am. I finally felt myself drifting to sleep when I heard the front door rattling. 

My eyes shot open. This was not happening. The sleep medicine had fully kicked in and I felt like a zombie. 

“God dammit,” I muttered, swinging my legs of the bed and pushing myself up onto my feet. I grabbed the bottle of pepper spray out of the side table. 

Sneaking towards the bedroom door, I slowly opened it and took a step forward before smacking into a wall I didn’t know existed. 

“God damn wall, can you please move out of my way. There’s a robber,” my voice cracked. Suddenly the wall was chuckling and I sprayed the pepper spray. The wall yelped and the lights came on. I looked up at familiar green eyes, 

“Michael?" 

"Did you just spray hairspray on me?” He asked with an amused expression before wiping it off his face. I looked down at the bottle in my hands, 

“Fuck.” Michael laughed before wrapping his arms around me. "I’m pretty sure I’m dreaming right now because you’re supposed to be in Amsterdam,” I mumbled in his chest. He kissed my head, 

“I’ll explain in the morning. You seem more tired than me and I’ve been traveling all day.” I yawned and snuggled my head further into his chest, 

“I’m fine.” He tilted my head up. I kept my eyes closed.

“Y/N,” He whispered, “What’s going on?” My lower lip trembled and I looked up at him. Dark bags lined his concerned filled eyes. 

“Nothing, Mikey I’m just tired.” My eyes drooped as I tried to keep them open. He sighed, letting go of my face and wrapping his arms securely around me,

“We’re talking about this in the morning.” I yawned again,

“I love you, Mikey.” He scooped me into his arms bridal style,

“I love you too, Y/N.” I fell asleep before we even made it to the bed.  

_______________________________

Let me know what you think.

Part two Request in my ask!

just in general I am not a fan of minimalism. Like, I get it, it’s very Cool, very stylish. Me? I’m the opposite. I’m extremely uncomfortable with any empty space and I feel instantly anxious when I see one. My ideal home is cluttered with tons of strange Stuff. like antiques and books and photos. My ideal walls are covered in 10000 different pieces of art in all different styles. A blank white wall makes my skin crawl. My ideal furniture is mismatched and colorful. My ideal art is all patterns and color and glitter. No empty space. Whenever I go into a minimalist home I feel like I am a disaster waiting to happen. I get like… rejecting consumerism and stuff, and I get Bauhaus, and I get all this geometric simple stuff that everyone loves so much. But me personally? I’m not about it….

So we’re allowed to hang things up in the walls in front of our desks and I’m about to buy a canvas map of middle earth to stick in front of me and look at tbh.

Peonies

Title: Peonies
Pairing: JiHope
Requested?: No
Summary: In a world where unrequited love causes pain and suffering, Hoseok finds himself at war with a very pink flower. He much more prefers lilies.
Warnings: Um..swearing. there’s some swearing, that’s about it.

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Voices [SF9 Youngbin]

Prompt (s): Death & Illusions

SEVERE TRIGGER WARNING: SUICIDE MENTION

This somehow pushed me out of my comfort zone, and I wrote something I don’t normally write. I’m sorry if you hate it, it was inspired by these two words. So yeah… Insane Reader…. (I promise I normally don’t write these)

Word Count: 1015

Originally posted by bureureung

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Someone Call The Doctor (Jimin)

with the help of my tumblr best fran and bloody genius writer 4meensuga​, here’s a little spin to a doctor’s visit with dr. jimin :) 

Genre: hospital fluff with just a pinch of angst

Word count: 2560

Rating: don’t read if you if you hate hospitals? or if fluffy Jimin is too much to handle?

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5

sometimes when i feel bad again, i write a bit
i wanted to share this one because i want people to hear it

[journal entry titled “Untitled Words from Eli”. Dated 7-8-15.
“It’s funny how on the TV they use the words ‘terror’, ‘tragedy’, and 'disease’ to describe autism when the real terror that keeps me awake at night isn’t the 'condition’ that has 'taken over my brain’ but the fact that I will never get to experience being appreciated and loved for who I am.
'We love you no matter what!’
(unless you’re autistic…)
It’s funny how I will spend my days staring at walls of doctor’s offices, of hospitals.
I can’t look at blank white walls the same anymore.
Sunday night I surf the internet and pull up the page of the hospital that will test me for autism. And there it is, my suspicions confirmed. Supporters of Autism S/peaks (I can’t bring myself to write it). But something underneath it catches my eye. 'Inpatient Autism Programme’. It screams and me and howls in my ears, YOU’LL NEVER GET OUT OF HERE.
Yesterday I deleted one of my favourite bands from my phone. I had listened to it on the way to the hospital that day before they took my phone, before they took my voice, before they took my sense of safety.
I remember holding back tears when they told me that when I got home my laptop would be gone and I wouldn’t be able to leave the house.
goodbye voice
goodbye freedom
At breakfast I sat at the hospital table and cried. So they locked me in a room.
6 designated times of day where we had to talk about our feelings. If we didn’t we wouldn’t get points and we’d be locked in another room.
But I didn’t understand feelings. So I lied. And they were angry.
'How do you feel?’
'I don’t know’
'I don’t know’
'I don’t know’
(But I’m okay with that)
You can’t take my thoughts you can’t take my feelings you can’t take them you can’t take them.
I feel violated.
I rocked and rocked and rocked. They told me I was scaring the others so I had to be moved. A tear rolled down my cheek and I tried to hide it.
I was out a week later.
But it was almost worse.
Late nights thoughts of doctors and white walls and 'feelings’ and therapy seep into my mind. And I lie there.
What’s the point of being out if I go back there every night.
And the worst wasn’t the locked rooms and prying and normalising. It was the doctors’ smiles and state of the art buildings and cheerful voices that told me I no longer had power over my life over my mind over my body.
'Abused? You weren’t abused!’
'You’re being silly.’
'It’s for your health.’
And 4 months later the commercial comes on and I hear the words again.
disease
tragedy
terror
My hands shake and my eyes tear up. And they won’t know, they never will. The power of words.
I rock back and forth at night, these words of hatred in my head.
I’m not a disease not a disorder not a medical condition not symptoms
I’m me I’m me I’m me I’m me
And I want to be safe and okay and mine.
(It’s too much to ask…)”]

Everyone’s A Critic | Victor + Chun-Ja |

@victorconstantin

Everyone once in a while there was a wall; a nice clean, friendly-looking type of wall that no one else in the neighborhood got around to tagging yet. Or rather, was unable to tag. The mystery of the blank, white brick wall, just begging to be marked up, was one of the greatest temptations known to man. Chun-Ja had passed the innocuous building on their way to and from their apartment almost every day. And each time she leered at the virgin wall like the wolf in a cautionary tale. 

It occurred to her briefly, of course, that there was a good reason the bricks were still allowed to age with dignity. A warning sign, far more effective than any ‘keep out’. Well, effective in upping the temptation to go to fucking town. 

So one day, Chun-Ja did just that. No time for a big planned production, just a nice pattern maybe, something to get the itch out from bending over a canvas all night. It just wasn’t her preferred template. But this- this was going to be epic levels of enjoyment.

It was night when she struck, the customary baggy hoodie hiding her face as she used her expansive arsenal of spray paint to start her work. Various shapes began to come to life, eyes everywhere (her favorite), just a collage of whatever had been stewing away in her brain. It was around 2 am, the owner should have been long gone. So, nothing to worry about. Besides, she was the human road runner- Meep meep and off she went at the first sign of trouble. 

At least, that was the plan. Until, finally able to let loose, Chun-Ja lost herself to the soothing release of the white wall turned art. Didn’t even hear the footsteps behind her.

Pleasantview Gothic

Bella Goth has disappeared. Her face is on the milk carton, on the newspaper, trapped in an old oil painting, everywhere. She is the town’s greatest mystery and posthumous celebrity. You cannot, however, remember having ever heard of her before she vanished.

There must have been a point when people lived in the empty condos on Main street, the ones with white empty walls and blank empty windows.

The town is filled with wandering, disaffected teenagers, yet almost empty of children.

From the trailer park on Woodland drive, you can see the towering emptiness of the mansions on Wright way, shining white and Hollywood-perfect in the sun. No one has ever been inside, but you can feel the weight of them in the afternoons, looking down, watching you. They’re the life on TV that you’re supposed to aspire to have… that you can never have. They want to be filled.

The dog days of late summer have gone on since time immemorial. The teenagers are growing restless. There is no breeze; the air is too lazy to move. The sun is beating down on the hot blacktop and it smells like death and taxes.

I am not good at the in betweens–I have never been able to multitask effectively. It’s why I can’t write when I’m happy, because those things each want to consume me in a different way–they want to pull me apart, one demands my words, the way that I feel, the corners of vast insides of me that are my emotions–and one wants to fill that space.  When I have one, I can’t have the other.   I cannot win.

I am not your savior and I promise you don’t love me more than I love you. But I also don’t love you more than you love me.  We love each other differently.

You love me in the prospect of tomorrow, and I love you in the moment of today. I don’t want Christmas trees in a couple years in a tiny apartment that we’ve just moved into that has blank white walls and smells like new paint and our sex and the absence of youth and the absence of recklessness.

I want to love you at the bottom of a glass of wine that I’ve yet to finish because I’m not sure where I’ll stand when it’s finished. I’m not sure if I’ll be too sober to want you or if I’ll be tipsy enough to fall all the way into your love. Things taste sweetest to me when you savor them, instead of thinking about the next drink you’re going to order.

I want to find a balance but that’s hard to do when there are so many miles to go, literally and figuratively.  I hope it happens, I hope we have Easter eggs next April and I hope that one day we don’t have two mattresses in two cities, I hope we have one and I hope we made a place we can call home–I hope we put your constellations of dreams into jars and bottle them up and keep them on shelves in the basement and I hope we chased them and I hope we’re happy.

I just wish it all wasn’t so far away, and I wish I could touch you tonight.

—  Where do we go next?

Kylie was curled up on her bed in the orphanage, looking at the blank white wall across from it. She was stuck in her room after her sixth escape, and she didn’t like it. It felt way too much like the place she had been trapped in for almost all of her short life, and all she wanted was to be outside again, not in this horrible city. She buried her face under her pillow, trying not to cry.

riversongspoilerss

Stockholm Syndrome:Calum Hood (Pt 1)

You wake up to distant chatter, the voices pretty quiet but you can tell they belong to men. Looking around the room, you don’t recognize anything. The walls are a light blue and the furniture is all white, walls blank except for a few random posters. 

 “Mom?” You start to stand up but your legs feel numb and you stumble forward grabbing the dresser. You knock over the lamp and it shatters, the loud noise echoing off the walls. “You’re awake.” You turn to the voice, startled. 

“Sorry, who are you? Where am I? Why the fuck am I here? Where is my family and why can’t I fucking walk?” You make eye contact for a minute with the tall boy who has dark hair and amazing arms before he answers you. 

“That’s a lot of questions princess. My name is Calum. You’re at my friend’s place. You’re here because things didn’t go as planned. I’m assuming your family is at home and you can’t walk because you’re slightly drugged up.” 

 You close your eyes and take a deep breath, this cannot be happening, it must be some sort of crazy dream. The boy, Calum, takes a few steps toward you and you flinch at the action causing him to freeze. “I’m not gonna hurt you y/n.” You can feel the tears start to sting your eyes and you run your hand along the smooth edge of the dresser. 

“Why should I trust you?” He holds out his hand, offering it to you. “Well what other choice do you have?” You look up at him, shaking your head. “Why did you take me? I don’t even know you..”

 “But I know you, I’m gonna take care of you I promise. You just have to cooperate. I’m gonna take you downstairs to meet the boys now okay? They’re here to help too, they’re not gonna hurt you.” 

You squeeze your eyes shut in attempt to wake up but you feel his arms wrap around you, one under your knees and one behind your back, carrying you toward the bedroom door and out into a long hallway.