Tell me what to do when my knees won’t stop shaking,
or how to piece my heart back together when I myself am the one who broke it,

because I don’t know anything anymore,
and lately I don’t even recognize myself in the mirror.

Tell me how to lift the weight off my chest,
or how to wipe away the tears before anyone see’s them,

because I’ve become so fucking fragile, that god, even my friends don’t want to be around me.

Tell me how to get back what I lost, even though I don’t know what I’m searching for,

because my heart can’t take the crushing feeling I get every night, and I’m running out of tears to cry.

—  little bit confused little bit crazy

I wanted you to ask me, “How was your day?”

That’s all I wanted.

Just the little things.

—  Just the little things. // lily rose.


Cullen is pacing, nervous and barefooted across the cold stone floor of his office. The bed creaks upstairs and Dorian’s sleep-roughened voice calls to him. Cullen does not hesitate to answer, to ease Dorian’s worry.
“I am here.” He answers. It is late. Or early now, depending on how one looked at it.

There is movement and shuffling, and Cullen feels guilty at the first creak of the ladder rungs. He glances up as Dorian, swaddled in the bed covers, slowly works his way down to Cullen. He is half asleep still as he reaches Cullen, Cullen’s cloak in his hands to wrap around the man and keep him warm. “Nightmare?”

Cullen pulls the cloak to him but lets go and stares at Dorian instead. As arrogantly self-serving as Dorian pretends to be, he never fails to wake when Cullen stirs at his side and needs comfort. He never fails in giving it, either. A warm hand, gentle words, soft embrace. Even just space and a slow walk around Skyhold.

“No… not a nightmare.” Cullen takes a breath to speak but it catches in his chest, frozen as he watches Dorian rub his tired eyes and curl into the bedsheets. Tucking his toes into the edge of it to protest the mountain’s chill, but still stood patiently before Cullen with no intention of leaving him yet. “I…” Cullen rubs at his neck and swallows hard. “I thought I might… think. Down here. Without disturbing you.”

Dorian yawns and chuckles. “That worked out very well. Shall I leave you to your pondering?”

Words stick in Cullen’s throat, large ones that feel like they will shatter the world if they break free but will explode from him in the need to get free if he does not say them. “No, I… I will sleep.”

Dorian smiles as he shakes his head, fondness overtaking any irritation Cullen wouldn’t blame him for as he takes Cullen’s hands and leads him to the ladder. Cullen looks at Dorian and feels that same realisation he had woken for, thrum through him- heat and shock and need, burning through his chest and clawing to get free from his tongue.
He loves Dorian.

by akaiba

girl, 22, brunette. unlovely.
lives in sydney, knows the exact way the pavement cracks
beneath her feet for a five block radius around her apartment,
all the bus routes to the city, and nothing beyond the bridge.
her world is so small, sometimes she feels she’s drowning in it.

girl, 22, in mourning. occasionally pretty, won’t believe you if you tell her.
speaks too fast, too soft, tendency to mutter and stumble on her words.
chews her thin lips and bites her nails; an inherited anxiety disorder; a
tendency toward nervousness and angry fear; won’t take her meds.
a smiling disaster who won’t hold your hands while hers shake.

girl, 22, can’t sleep. writes bad poetry and loves dogs.
a certain capacity for cruelty, she can be selfish without seeming so.
doesn’t cry when she should; cares more for her appearance than her mother;
exploits disasters so she can revel in her own self-destruction.
a self-centred little bitch who should’ve died at birth.

girl, 22, won’t sleep. writes bad poetry and can’t grieve.
a certain capacity for kindness, she can be selfless without meaning to.
when he could no longer hold her hand, she gripped him tighter, so he knew
she wouldn’t let go. but  he asked her to cry and she can’t, 
not while their sadness is so much bigger than hers.
stayed behind because she knew one day she’d need to watch them die.
wonders if this is what her mother meant when she told her
you survived for a reason; make it count.

girl, 22, in love. unloveable. lonely.
a certain fascination for pianist’s hands or a crooked smile, she will
love you in secret for years, til you’ve forgotten her face and her name.
no detail too small, she will devour you and still beg for more; she is always
hungry. when they leave  she will carry pieces of 
them, tied into her hair or stained on her skin. 
obsessive, she idiolises; despairing, she immortalizes; desperate for love, she
won’t let you go.

I can’t write but please read it anyway?

Okay so. I wrote a thing. I haven’t written in forever and it sucks but idk maybe just like look at it. It’s the beginning of a Dear Evan Hansen thing and I know you’re probably all shocked.


Bleach ch 624 //Yaaass!! He’s back!!