[    CARRD.     ELEANOR.     .     PINTEREST.    ]

this is marking a deterioration in my activity level since my life changed a bit and while i dont know if it’s forever, right now this is my relationship with tumblr. also, this is a happy thing. i don’t mind my url being told to people, i’m not hiding out or changing my alias or anything. you can tell people where i’m at, i’m just taking it slow. i just want to take a moment to say i love you and thank you for being with me.

no this is so silly and im still planning on moving to a friends only small space this week but ... i knitted my first sock and it’s wonky and defo not neat but it’s a sock and it’s mine and i made it and learning a new thing is fun (and frustrating)... so witness the sock in its stange lumpy glory.

it begins to feel like happiness.     he knows now why bobby and hen and chim would rush home at the end of a shift,    why the thought of finishing the day doesn’t fill them with a dread he has come to name loneliness.     but now there is a warmth in the bed as he falls unceremoniously into it,    a body bathed in the soft light through the curtains and the invitation to wrap his arms around her,     to come home,    properly.    the day weighs heavy on his bones,    still aching and heavy from everything they could not stop,    and he feels he can breathe for the first time as he presses his face into the soft of her hair,    seeks out the familiar scent of her shampoo;    he’d exist here,    if he could.      ❛   i didn’t mean to wake you.  ❜

sunlight creates a golden shrine,     kissing cheeks and eyelashes in ichor shades as if the early morning hours could hold half as much love for luke as evan does right now,    in this moment of limbs like gravity,    of the softness of cotton sheets,     of the warmth of a body by his side.    he hates the morning hours because they cannot span out as long as he’d like,    because the clock flashes five fifteen and soon it will be flashing five forty - five and he will have to leave this warmth,     this cocoon where he is allowed to be loved.     work beckons,    and he will go and in a while over forty - eight hours when he comes home again,     there will be this.    and he will breathe easy again.     but for now,    he tries to soothe the other man back to sleep,    tries to be little disturbance as he wakes himself up to the familiar weight of responsibility.        ❛   it’s early babe,    you don’t need to get up yet.  ❜

amusement is mirth shade on his lips,     a soft quirk of an eyebrow as he looks across towards her.      ❛   i think if someone saw me walking around a museum they’d be tempted to call the cops.  ❜       still wearing the names they gave him in the press,    an guilt they said was already punished,    freed but not absolved.      ❛   and history isn’t really my thing.  ❜         on account of his name written in the margins,    a horror story,    a ghost that should not be.