Doubleloner - Booooooo

the look of love (for writers)

"it's all in the eyes i was once told"

catching the stare of someone across a crowded room

subtle furrowing of eyebrows beyond a blank facade

coldness easing into warmth

a fond mothering gaze

corner of the lip nudged upward

forced glower/glare as they break underneath

batting their lashes, playful

a boisterous laugh

intrigue piercing the stoic

proud smugness at the other's success

lingering glances

a childish joy bursting through

pupils dilate

eyelids shut in a look of peace, calm and trust

look of longing/betrayal

"there was once a time when they were mine"

terseness

features fold into a scowl

an urgent flinching back

coldness returns (as though the warmth had never come)

lips part then purse

invasion of shock

slow stare at the floor

the ripple effect of a swallow

frustrated breath/sigh

bitter laugh in reminiscence

dread tearing through the seams of their composure

look of hatred

"darkness"

mean smirk- teeth bared grimace- scowl

dismissive gaze

gaze of contempt/impatience

threat lowering the voice

sardonic goading grins verging on manic

rolling one's eyes

flicker of irritation in the eyes

stares stubbornly ahead despite distraction

gritted teeth, clenched jaw

fierce biting remarks

even measured complexions betraying no thought

strangling oneself back from violence

utter apathy

murderous silence hanging in the stare

snobbish laughter

smiling at another's downfall

I don’t care if it’s Valentine’s Day—if he doesn’t look at me like this, then I don’t want him!

i want to claw his back in a way that makes his friends exchange looks and whistle and poke fun at him the moment he takes his shirt off in the gym the next day

one thing i need to start living by is “become the thing that you want” if i want friends who throw themed parties maybe i should start throwing those parties. if i want someone who writes me love letters maybe i should start writing letters for the people i love. if i want to hang out at museums and pretty cafes maybe i should invite my friends to these places. and maybe even then i won’t find the kind of people i want to be around. but then i would have become the exact person i want to be around. and maybe that’s good enough.

i need to draw me with my f/o

GHOST WHO runs his calloused fingers through the fabrics of the clothes you folded for him: now gingerly placed in his duffle bag for another month of service. Neat and compact just the way he liked it.

GHOST WHO has to push the delectable taste of your cooking another plate away as his taste buds prepare for stale food kept in plastic bags, despite the ache festering in his stomach.

GHOST WHO always drops you off to work the day or two before he leaves: admiring the radiance of your face amongst street lights and the upward curve of your smile like the delicate bend of a crescent moon. He'll squeeze your hand before you slip through his fingers, not before tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, not before the wind whirls and spins; taking him away.

GHOST WHOSE tongue festers bitterness because he knows you're assistant and students will smile and laugh at your jokes and come to you for support because of your tenderness to the world: to which he has learned was your highest virtue, a weapon of undoing to his bruised soul. He'll clench his fist and furrow his eyebrows because he knows the cafe's barista will ask you more 'How are you?' than himself, he knows the youth living down the road will banter with you more as you share a cake you can't finish on your own, he knows the woman walking her dog every Saturday will acknowledge you more than he has in a month. He knows he won't be part of the small moments scattered about your life. He knows it damn well.

GHOST WHO seldom mentions you around anyone, even t141. Initially, it was all about your security: to keep the spark in your eyes aflame, it always is of course. However, amongst the dim lights of a bar, the rest drunk on the fleeting rush of victory and memoria, he'll make sure to silence the thrashing beat of his heart and the desperate desire crawling up his throat to join in on the drunken yearning and say: "I miss my wife."

GHOST WHO returns home to either your waking body or sleeping flesh. The cycle repeats anew.

cod masterlist. ( yet to be made ) / similar posts

⤷ omg! first post of the blog. got a little angst out here... hope you enjoyed it. reblogs and comments are highly appreciated!

Christmas comic in October? It's more likely than you think.

Also I would die for young Kyle and Simon

Speaking thoughts aloud:

I love Cullen. Everything about him. His strengths and his flaws.

I love his story. Every bit of it. As it is written.

I may have wished for more. For him to be a companion so we could dive deeper into his character and arc. To see things handled a bit differently only because his story had the potential to be truly fantastic.

But even so, for me, it was.

He may not be perfect in Inquisition, he may still have some growing to do (and my opinion of what that growth looks like is not the same as others, which is okay), but in truth, that makes me love it—love him—all the more.

It keeps the theme of his story that has been there from the beginning:

What it means to be human.

To have hopes, dreams, ideals, ambitions. To have preconceived notions and to have them proven wrong. To have your heart and mind at odds. To have doubts, struggles, fears. To have your heroes fail you. To have your friends turn against you. To have your ideals used against you. To be broken. Used. Abandoned. Violated. Manipulated. To have that pain twist and corrupt. To have that pain weaponized. To weaponize it. To lose your way…and yourself. To face your sins. To claw after redemption. To seek atonement. To have faith as your shelter in the storms of life. To want to serve something greater than yourself.

“I have decided to take Seeker Pentaghast's offer. The Circles have fallen. I can give no more to the Templar Order, nor it to me. The Maker has shown me a new path; I must take it.”

Hands bloody, tears streaming down your cheeks, throat raw from prayers and penitence, heart trembling with the fear that you’re too far gone as you dig through the refuse of your own making to find yourself—who you truly are—again.

To persevere.

And against all odds to find life, freedom, purpose, hope and even love in the end.

sluttiest thing a man can do is say your name mid conversation

this is what its like being autistic on tumblr