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#i had no choice
scarletbirbs · 1 year
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free-my-mindd · 1 year
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I distanced myself to save myself.
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comfortfrogblog · 1 year
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so i learned how to embroider
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holly-fixation · 7 days
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I don't know why I thought this was funny but:
Over saturated hallway ✅️
Filled with Black Robes ✅️
And captioned ✅️
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yang-innie · 10 months
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Tangerine ASMR 🍊✨
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transmascmikey · 10 months
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LOOKATME // Gerard Way
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maddiedrawz · 1 year
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i mean- this definitely happened
lena didn’t wear that dress for nothing
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no text ver.
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dapperenby13 · 2 months
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You ever come across a song lyric and just Have to write/make art with it. The blorbo thoughts hit you too hard and now your over 1000 words into a fic based of a single sentence.
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i hardly ever play tank anymore, might as well send my tank jobs...
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...on a vacation 🌺
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pailight · 11 months
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A friend who only knows about emet through osmosis wiggled into my ffxiv discord with an egg. Another one told me to post my garbage so here it is.
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mx-lamour · 2 months
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4 - Bloodstain
Strahd von Zarovich sat before the hearth. Despite its blazing warmth, he felt cold. He was slumped heavily in his chair, long legs stretched out in front of him lackadaisically; his steepled fingers barely touched his chin as he stared through the dancing flames. There was nothing to be seen within them—not that he possessed that particular ability.
It had been nearly a year since that fateful night, when he had plunged the Ba’al Verzi dagger into Sergei’s chest. When he’d sucked the blood from his brother’s wound, and washed it from his hands. Nearly a year since Leo Dilisnya had enacted his treasonous plot to execute Ravenloft’s mass of guests. When Strahd himself had been struck through with enough arrows to kill him several times over, and still had not died.
It had been nearly a full year since Tatyana had fled from his embrace and flung herself from the overlook. His heart ached to think of it.
One more night.
He still had not found her body.
A fervent rap at the window excised Strahd from his reverie. His frown deepened. There should be nothing there to make such a noise. No trees handy to brush their limbs against the glass. A bat would have the faculties to avoid collision with a solid surface, and not many other creatures had occasion—nay, nor the desire—to venture this high up on castle grounds.
. . .
The place was devoid of movement; devoid of life.
Janath should be here at his post. But, even as the thought occurred to him, it seemed unlikely. A thick layer of dust coated the floor. The remains of delicate spiderwebs draped from the walls.
A chill ran along Alek’s spine. He listened hard within the stairwell, but could hear neither the rustling of his men in the barracks below, nor any sign of the hundreds of guests who should be inhabiting the rooms above. The stairwell itself was unfathomably dark.
Alek ducked his head back out of it, fear welling up past his initial shock, and strode into the chapel. What he saw there did little to reassure him. Several of the gorgeous windows were smashed. Whole pews were overturned. The trappings of the altar were strewn about the floor, among fragments of colorful glass. Alek carefully rifled through the mess in the moonlight, until he discovered a means to light the torch he plucked from its iron mount on the wall.
The rapid clapping of his boots against the stone floors echoed in the halls through which he ran. He checked a few of the guest rooms, just to be thorough, but their desolate interiors only added to his growing dread. They would all look the same, all smell of the same stale air. He climbed another flight of stairs, taking them now two at a time, racing toward Strahd’s quarters.
Alek hesitated, heart in his throat. What if he found only more of the same? Only cobwebs and dust and broken things, and… had there really been bloodstains on the floor beneath his feet?
A dozen possibilities flashed through his mind, of what might be waiting for him if he crashed through the door of Strahd’s study. But worst of all was the empty room.
He went a longer way, to stall the inevitable. From the outer walk, he reasoned, he would be able to look in through the windows, to see into both the study and Strahd’s bedroom. Outside, there was no dust nor blood—although a passing rain could have washed it all away.
Alek peered into the first window, Strahd’s bedroom. The darkness inside was too thick to peer into. Holding his torch up to the glass only showed him the reflection of his own desperate face.
But there was a light ahead, he realized. The flickering glow from the next window mimicked that of his own torch. The hearth must be lit. New hope seized Alek like a breath of fresh air. His chest ached with it. How long had he been holding his breath?
He hurried to the lighted window and looked inside. And there was Strahd, slouched in front of the fire, hands steepled, deep in thought. Alek couldn’t remember the last time he felt such palpable relief. He rapped his knuckles on the glass.
. . .
Strahd turned his head. And froze.
“Strahd!” Alek’s muffled voice called through the glass. “Open up.”
Strahd’s elbows slid from the arms of the chair. He braced himself to stand, but found himself reluctant to do so. Was this a ghost? Had Alek’s ghost come to haunt him? Or…
His eyes darted toward his bedroom, and the closet within, where Strahd had stashed the body of his chief of security, and the corpse had… disappeared.
“Strahd!” Alek called again, now slapping his palm against the window.
Perhaps he had survived, after all. And now he had come back… to do what? Why had he not appeared before? Where had he been, then, when Dilisnya and his men had massacred the castle’s inhabitants?
Hope and anger both roiled within Strahd, and together they propelled him to his feet. The anger flattened when Alek finally climbed into the room, and immediately tugged Strahd into a strong embrace. Just as quickly, Alek drew back, but his hands retained a firm grip on Strahd’s shoulders. “What happened?” he gasped.
Didn’t he know?
Strahd grasped Alek’s arms. “What do you remember?”
The full force of his gaze wiped all expression from Alek’s face. “The wedding is tomorrow.”
Strahd blinked against the stab of pain that pierced his chest.
“I was doing the rounds,” Alek explained, regaining his momentum. “The keep should be full to the brim with people! But between one step and the next, everyone was gone. My men, the servants, all the guests…” He let out a shaky breath. Strahd finally noticed, with astounding clarity, the man’s racing pulse. Alek squeezed Strahd’s shoulders tighter and whispered, “We’re the only ones left.”
Strahd gently extricated himself from Alek’s grasp, turning back toward the hearth to think.
He didn’t remember, then. Alek didn’t remember coming here, to Strahd’s study. He remembered nothing about the deal Strahd had made with Death, nor the fight which ensued between them. He didn’t remember Strahd running him through, slitting his throat, drinking his life’s blood…
It was impossible. How had he survived, unless he had become like Strahd himself? But his lungs still drew air. His heart still pumped warm blood through his veins. Alek was well and truly alive.
An abrupt choking sound behind him.
Strahd whipped around. Alek staggered back, clutching his stomach, brow furrowed with pain and sudden confusion. They both looked down. A vibrant splash of red seeped into Alek’s shirt beneath his hand.
Strahd watched in horror as Alek sank to his knees, defiantly swallowing the urge to vomit up the blood undoubtedly pooling inside his gut. He even tried to stand again. Couldn’t yet fathom he was dying. Where had the wound come from? Even as he thought it, Strahd already knew the answer.
Unable to right himself, Alek settled himself onto the floor instead, a bloody pantomime of lying down for a nap. His eyes were barely slits as he struggled to remain conscious, but he kept them fixed on Strahd’s face.
“It’s… all right,” Alek whispered, despite the scent of fear on him. He coughed with the effort, and the blood pooling in his cheek dribbled onto the floor. “...found you.”
Strahd flinched outright as a torrent of hunger rolled through him. A thin red line drew itself across Alek’s throat.
His own throat burning, Strahd dropped to his knees. His eyes were burning, too, stung by the sight of Alek’s precious blood—so much of it—pooling around his head like a dark halo, staining his blond hair. Strahd crawled toward him weakly.
From the open window, a delicate fog crept in. It crawled along the floor, too, slowly enveloping Alek’s body like a shroud. Strahd reached for Alek through the unusual cloud. He thought, for a moment, that his hand touched cloth and flesh… but then only the cold, hard floor.
When the fog dissipated, Alek’s body was gone.
. . .
Strahd drowned the rest of the night in books, though he didn’t dare open the accursed tome with the Heart’s Desire spell swimming in its pages. Instead, he sought other ghosts—any information he could find on hauntings and their infinite peculiarities.
What he found failed to be of any use. The writings nearly always described the spirits as transparent or wisp-like, except for the erroneous mentions of skeletal undead. There were accounts of spirits who seemed to be stuck in a particular moment in time, like an image of the past impressed faintly upon the present, ever doomed to repeat itself. But even this was incongruent with the events he had just witnessed.
Alek was alive, or had been for those fleeting minutes. He was no hazy specter, but as solid and real as Strahd himself. He was intelligent; he acted on new information, rather than simply going through the motions of a past event.
The one detail that did align were Alek’s wounds. The fatal wounds of his death a year prior had blossomed on his body again this night without warning. Strahd wondered: Had it been the same hour, the same moment that Alek had first suffered them? Strahd had not the proper knowledge to mend such wounds, but if he had…? What then? Would Alek still be here, whole again, by his side?
Strahd slammed the book shut and shoved it across the table. It did not quite fall off the edge.
Had he been given a second chance, only to squander it?
Then another thought occurred to him: Tomorrow.
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.
. . .
Strahd waited on the overlook, a thick black cape draped over his shoulders.
It was tempting to wait within the desecrated chapel, where he and Tatyana had finally shared their first—and last—kiss. Perhaps it would no longer be their last, but that would depend entirely on the success of his actions now. He could not know when or where she would appear, so he would prepare himself for only the worst possibility. Alek had apparently run through most of the castle before he had found Strahd in his study, but to rely on that same variable of time in Tatyana’s case might be foolish. He might linger in the chapel only to watch through the windows as she appeared in the garden beyond, already in full sprint toward the balcony.
Would she think to stop in time? Strahd couldn’t be certain.
So he waited, in the space that should be her intended path, with his back to the sheer drop of the cliff face below, ready to catch her in his arms and hold on tightly to her forever after.
He waited.
And waited.
Until the predicted hour had passed, and prickling apprehension began to crawl under his skin.
And still, he waited. Because he could not be sure when or where Tatyana would appear. He only knew that, if she did appear, he could not allow her to die a second time.
Strahd waited, stock still, eyes searching, until the peaky light of dawn crept in over his shoulders. Let it, he thought. He could not bear to leave this opportunity behind.
But the early rays of the morning sun grew swiftly hotter, until Strahd could no more endure their radiant light than he could the overwhelming ache of grief. He dissolved himself into mist to escape both, and reconstituted himself within the shadows of Ravenloft’s desolate halls. Grimly, with his incredible hearing, he listened for any other sign of life. Perhaps Tatyana had materialized within the chapel after all, and had come inside to look for…
But he heard nothing.
Strahd retreated numbly to his crypt, to welcome deathlike slumber.
. . .
Another year passed. Almost.
A rapping at his study window provided Strahd an uncanny feeling of deja vu.
“Strahd!” Alek’s muffled voice called through the glass. “Open up.”
This time Strahd wasted no time. He unlatched the window and Alek climbed through, just as he had before, tugging Strahd into a swift embrace. “Everyone is gone!” he said, as though Strahd couldn’t have known. Alek drew back, though his hands still clasped Strahd’s shoulders. “My men, the guests, the servants—all of them. We’re the only ones left.”
“I know,” Strahd replied, grasping Alek’s arms. He gazed at Alek’s alarmed face, looking into his pale eyes.
Alek’s racing heart slowed, and he sighed. But a light crease formed between his brows, mirroring Strahd’s deeper concern. “I’m going to die,” he whispered.
Strahd glanced down at Alek’s throat. Swallowed the hunger rising in his own. “No,” he said firmly.
“What happened?” Alek urged.
Where to begin?
“There’s no time to explain.” Strahd turned, pulling himself halfheartedly from Alek’s grasp to run his hand across a shelf of books. Alek followed close behind him, curious.
“What—”
“Alek!” Strahd clenched his fist. “...hush,” he said, deliberately gentle, releasing the tension in his fingers to pull forth one of the tomes. He flipped it open on his arm and rifled through the pages.
“What are you looking for?” Alek whispered, unable to contain himself.
“A spell,” Strahd said impatiently.
Suitably cowed for the moment, Alek pursed his lips. He glanced back at the window briefly.
Strahd shook his head angrily as he flipped through the symbols and incantations. A spell to mend a small tear in an object. A spell to reduce an object or whole person in size. A spell to acquire for oneself a temporary boost in stamina. None of them were quite right.
“Damn it all!” he cursed aloud.
Alek coughed and staggered. One hand flew out to catch himself on the book case; the other clutched at his stomach.
Strahd reached out to grasp the front of Alek’s shirt, keeping him upright. He skimmed through another page before dropping the open book to the floor. He would have to improvise.
“Stay with me,” he commanded.
Alek nodded, defiantly swallowing back the blood and bile that rose in his throat. His knuckles were white on the bookshelf.
Strahd pushed Alek’s hand away from the wound, and shuddered when a sudden wave of intense blood-thirst threatened to blind him. He lost the strength to hold up both himself and Alek; together, the men fell to their knees.
Strahd muttered a string of words that Alek couldn’t recognize and that Strahd had half made-up as he spoke. A sickly glowing swirl of muted colors hovered in the space between Strahd’s fingers and the wound.
“It’s all right,” Alek rasped, clenching his jaw against the racking cough that followed.
“I’m afraid it’s not,” Strahd whispered. He abandoned the wavering, half-baked spell, knowing it would do no good. Knowing what would happen next.
Strahd pulled Alek into his arms—Alek held him weakly in turn—and when the thin red line appeared in his throat—
Strahd drank.
Mouth open and pressed to Alek’s throat, Strahd drank from the well of his life a second time.
It sickened him. Not in the way that the blood of animals seemed to. Strahd had experimented with that after assisting a pack of wolves in their own wild hunt one night. Not only had he found no sustenance in it, but he had been subjected to the cramped roiling of a poisoned gut and could not keep the stuff down.
This was not the same kind of sickness, for the taste of Alek’s blood was satiating almost to the point of ecstasy. No, the sickness he felt now had nothing to do with his body.
Alek’s heart had stopped beating, but still Strahd held the man in his arms, his face buried against the curve of Alek’s shoulder. He didn’t notice the tendrils of mist spilling in through the open window. He didn’t notice when it swirled around himself and the man who had truly been his closest and most trusted friend, covering them up like a shroud.
He didn’t notice, until the body in his arms began to fade from his grasp, gradually slipping away, until there was nothing left to hold onto.
Strahd sat there for what could have been minutes or hours, staring at the empty floor. His lip quivered, his shoulders lurched. He grit his teeth.
Then he rose. As he always would; as he always must…
And closed the window.
. . .
The following years were much the same. Again, Strahd hoped that Alek’s coming would precede Tatyana’s, and he waited for her, in the chapel, or in the garden, or there on the overlook again, all to no avail. Until he had satisfied himself that she would never grace him with the beauty of her presence again, no matter how long he waited. Only then did Strahd turn his attention back on Alek Gwilym with the full force of his convictions.
He scoured the contents of his library many times over, forcefully entreating his boyars to turn up any other magical book or artifact they could find. Unfortunately, as Barovia had been barred from any exit or entry by its dense misty borders, there was very little to be found.
Strahd attempted to learn healing magic, so that he might try again to seal Alek’s wounds and prevent his ultimate demise. However, his fears were realized when he discovered himself wholly antithesis to it. Any attempt to repair a tear or cut, either human or animal, was met with disastrous results. Instead of the soft knitting of flesh he remembered from the work of Ilona’s wizened hands, the wound would fester and grow.
He practiced necromancy, then, and found that he could create a semblance of life within the dead. But only a semblance of life. The corpses became mindless, shambling things, beholden to simple commands. Try as he might, Strahd could not master a true resurrection.
There were a string of years thereafter, in which Strahd couldn’t bear to let Alek inside. Instead, he held Alek’s gaze through the window, attempting to hold him steady. But, though his body calmed itself under Strahd’s thrall, Alek continued to look worried.
One year, Alek raised his hand and pressed his palm against the leaded glass.
Trembling, Strahd’s hand rose to meet it.
“It’s all right,” Strahd murmured, before Alek could say it himself.
Alek died. Strahd’s claws left deep grooves in the window pane.
It was not all right.
. . .
Rather than waiting in his study again for the inevitable, Strahd set out to track down the exact point of Alek’s return.
He found him closing the door on an empty guest room. “Alek,” Strahd whispered, and Alek startled. Then his face lit up. He bounded toward the end of the hall where Strahd stood, partly obscured by shadow, and sighed heavily in relief.
Then he noticed Strahd’s face in the torchlight, and backpedaled. “What happened?” he gasped. “I heard—”
“Nothing you need to concern yourself with,” Strahd said smoothly.
Alek glanced around anyway. “Everyone is gone. Ravenloft is in ruins…” He gestured to Strahd, shifting his eyes most notably to Strahd’s lightly pointed ears. “What happened to you? Where have I been?”
So the passage of time had become obvious to him.
“I do not have all the answers,” Strahd said. “Tell me—You were patrolling the grounds—Where?”
Alek led him back through the castle, down a flight of stairs, to a landing near the chapel. “I’d stationed Jarath here,” he explained. Strahd could not put a face to the name, but it had obviously been one of the guards. “I thought he’d left his post, and that’s when I noticed… everything else.”
Rather than the frantic worry he’d built up by the time it took him to reach Strahd’s quarters in previous years, Alek now looked deflated. He had failed, he knew, and the weight of his failure pressed upon his shoulders.
“Alek…”
Strahd swallowed thickly. It would happen any moment now.
“It’s all right,” he said roughly, placing a hand on Alek’s shoulder. Strahd pulled gently, and Alek leaned forward with little resistance, wrapping a firm arm around Strahd.
“At least I found you,” Alek muttered.
Grimacing, Strahd bared his fangs. Alek flinched when they pierced his flesh, but Strahd drank quickly, holding the man fast to his breast, and spared him the rest of his wounds.
He watched the mists envelop Alek and spirit his body away. As the white swirls tumbled through his fingers, like the fine sands of an unfathomable hourglass, Strahd whispered to himself, “Next year.”
. . .
This began a string of years in which, when Alek asked again “What happened?” Strahd tried to explain it to him.
In the first of those years, Strahd sat him down in the ruined chapel and spoke quietly and earnestly about all that had transpired, and all that would happen to him once their time was up. The words tumbled out of him, low and soft, and Strahd had never seen Alek so deeply heartbroken. They gripped each other’s hands while tears flowed down both their faces, Strahd’s tinted a ridiculous orange-pink with the blood that sustained him. He felt that not nearly enough time had passed before the wound in Alek’s abdomen appeared, met with only a pained grunt while his eyes remained locked on Strahd’s face.
Alek removed a long hand from Strahd’s grasp to caress that face, pallid and sharp-eared, yet still the same Strahd that he had known only this morning—or rather, twenty-seven years before this morning—and brushed his thumb across Strahd’s cheek.
“It’s all right,” he said, before Strahd could object.
And then he said something else.
The roar that filled the chapel after Alek disappeared rattled what was left of the chapel windows. It sent scores of bats flapping and screeching into the night. Strahd screamed until his throat was raw, and then he dropped his head into his hands, and sobbed.
. . .
The second of those years… didn’t count. Knowing that the night was upon him, Strahd fled to his aerie in the face of Mount Ghakis, a narrow channel in the rock that even he could only reach in the form of bat or mist, and closed himself off to the possibility. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the wind howling past the mountain’s peak.
But there was no wind.
There was always wind, this high up, in this godforsaken place.
Not tonight.
Whether he truly could or not, Strahd thought he could hear the sound of footsteps running through Castle Ravenloft. He thought he could hear Alek calling his name, his voice echoing through the empty halls. He thought he could hear Alek’s heartbeat growing faster, until the rush of his blood filled Strahd’s ears and his whole body contorted with the pains of his thirst. He hadn’t forgotten to feed, early that evening, but it felt like he hadn’t done so in months, or even years.
Then it was over, and the silence and the absence of physical hurt was even more unbearable.
“Take me,” Strahd demanded, lying in his makeshift crypt deep in the top of Mount Ghakis. “Take me!” But even as he said it, pounding his fists against the top of the stony recess, Strahd knew he had nothing left with which to bargain. Death already held both of the men in its sinister claws. It held everything in Barovia—Strahd, and the land he had bound himself to; it held them prisoner.
That year, Alek could not tell him it was all right.
. . .
It was better, then, to face him head-on.
“Strahd! What—”
“There is nothing left, Captain Gwilym,” Strahd said coldly. Skeletal undead filtered up from the stairwell leading down into the catacombs, from the adjoining hall and the chapel itself, until all of Ravenloft’s previous guests and traitors alike had been exhumed and were crowding around the two men, offering no outlet for escape.
If nothing else, the stench was horrible. Alek recoiled, pressing his back against the wall as the corpses shuffled closer, and drawing his sword from its scabbard. Despite its age and decay, he recognized the one called Jarath.
“A great curse has befallen Ravenloft,” Strahd declared.
There were others Alek knew. Some of their old comrades, Strahd’s boyars. Old Gunther Cosco was among them, and Ivan Buchvold. Victor Wachter’s wife, Oleka, though Victor himself was nowhere to be seen.
“There were few survivors. You, yourself, were not among them.”
“But I’m here,” Alek argued. Then he realized his mistake. “How did this happen?”
“I sold my soul to Death. The Strahd you knew is no more.”
Alek was speechless. His eyes roamed the assembled horde, but now that they had gathered around him, each one stood inert. He looked on Strahd again, heart pounding. “I don’t believe it,” he said. “Why?”
Strahd should have expected him to ask.
“I sought the love of one who would not give it.”
Alek frowned. Hadn’t he always…? “Strahd, I—”
“It had nothing to do with you.”
Alek’s eyes narrowed. The confusion was gone from his face. “You should have let me die on that cliff,” he spat. “Spared me from seeing this.”
“I hadn’t known,” Strahd whispered.
“I would have helped you,” Alek raved. “We could have faced it—whatever happened—together. No matter what.”
“I know that now.”
“Strahd, I—”
Strahd held up a hand. “Please.”
Alek balked. His heart broke with the low fracture in Strahd’s voice. Strahd did not beg.
“Any moment now, you will die, from wounds that I caused thirty years ago.”
Alek’s lips mirrored the words ‘thirty years’ but he gave no voice to them.
“I killed you, Alek.”
“But I came back.”
“Temporarily. You find yourself in this same moment every year, and every year, you die again.”
“Is this where I died?” Even as he said it, Alek winced, and clutched at his stomach. He looked down at the red welt sprouting on his clothing.
“No,” Strahd told him. “That came later.”
Alek looked back up at Strahd accusingly. “You stabbed me.”
“That is not the worst of it.”
Alek choked, and this time he did not try to hold back the spurt of blood that spilled over his chin. He breathed heavily. “I got in a few good scrapes, didn’t I?”
Strahd laughed weakly. “Pierced my heart.”
Alek laughed, too. “Damn right… rat bastard.” He coughed again. “How…?”
Strahd understood his meaning. “I opened your throat, and drank your life’s blood.”
A wide look of bewilderment crossed Alek’s face. He nodded once, cringing through the pain in his gut. “Will you—ugh!” he groaned, sliding down to the floor. “...again?”
“You will have little use for it now.”
Alek huffed. His eyes glistened. “I dare you,” he said through gritted teeth. “Do it.”
Strahd did.
. . .
The more Alek fought, the longer he lived. So, Strahd rallied him, in any way he could think to do so. This often involved a repeat of his stunt with the animated remains of Ravenloft’s guests, to frighten him just enough that his instincts as a warrior would take hold, the adrenaline would override the confusion, and he would cling to his life for all it was worth.
If the wound in his gut were to heal, Strahd wondered, would the wound in his throat never open? He found tentative hope in the idea.
But no matter how hard he struggled against it, the wound Alek suffered year after year could hardly mend itself. It could almost work, and that was more infuriating than if it had been a fast-acting wound, like Alek’s own dagger in Strahd’s chest. But even wounds that could be mended through non-magical means required rest to do so, and rest was not a resource that was available to Alek. As soon as he slipped into unconsciousness, the slit would open on his throat, and his blood would spill. From that point, the only choice left to make was whether or not Strahd would drink from that crimson fountain.
He set about his search again for more books. There were hardly any clerics in Barovia anymore, Strahd realized with dismay. Ilona had been the best he knew, but he had sent her away on that fateful night, almost forty years ago, and had not thought to contact her again. He reasoned that it had been out of respect for the old woman, who had since passed away, but now he wondered if it wasn’t some other force that had kept him at bay. Perhaps Ilona had found a means of shielding herself from the thing he had become.
An exhaustive year passed, in which Strahd had made no progress on his errand. He was no more knowledgeable or effective in the healing art than he had been before. There was no way that he could fathom to use the solstices to his advantage, either—midsummer was also infuriatingly near, but never within reach. Alek’s visits were always weeks ahead of it.
Strahd had suggested to Alek—when he’d thought of it, the year he’d grabbed Alek by the wrist and pulled him up to the library himself, so the man could help research his own antidote—the idea that he might be able to find a means of magically keeping him awake.
Alek had been more terrified of that than the idea of dying again and again. Even without a grievous injury, being forced into wakefulness for days, if not longer, would almost certainly do more harm to his human body than it would do good.
Strahd couldn’t find it in himself to push the matter. Even he needed to sleep.
So, in that year of exhaustion, in which Strahd had again made no further strides, he decided to wait for Alek to find him. There was something else he wanted to try.
Even though Strahd was waiting for it, it seemed his cold heart leapt into his throat when the rap of knuckles on his scarred window finally came.
“Alek!” he gasped, flinging the window open.
Alek climbed through the opening again, and when he threw his arms around Strahd, this time Strahd wouldn’t let him draw back. “I’m glad you’re here,” he murmured, pressing his cheek against Alek’s. Alek’s face was cold from the blustering wind outside, but his chest was warm and his heart fluttered rapidly against the desolate cage of Strahd’s ribs.
“I’m glad I found you,” Alek replied, after only a moment’s hesitation. “Everyone is gone,” came the echo of years past. “Ravenloft is in ruins! What happened?”
“None of that matters. Not now that you’re here.”
“Strahd…?” There was a vague tone of suspicion in Alek’s voice. He craned his head back to look at Strahd’s face. The pale, pointed ear his own sharp nose brushed against did not escape his notice.
Strahd turned into the movement.
He pressed his lips fervently upon Alek’s.
Alek grunted in surprise. His brow furrowed, breath stuttering as his mind fought to reconcile his recent terror with this new development. Only this morning, he thought, Strahd had been unusually stand-offish with him—even for Strahd. Alek, of course, did not know that the morning he was remembering had happened forty-five years ago.
But who was he, to look a gift horse in the mouth? Alek relaxed into a heady feeling of relief and kissed Strahd back just as passionately, until the need to breathe finally forced him to retreat.
“What happened?” Alek whispered again, stroking long fingers over Strahd’s hair.
“I was a fool,” Strahd whispered back. He grasped Alek’s hand and kissed it, too.
Alek laughed breathlessly. “It’s not often you admit it.” Then he grew serious. Strahd finally allowed Alek to step back, though he made sure that Alek’ hands remained firmly on his shoulders. He took one good look at Strahd’s face and asked, “How long have you been here alone?”
The wound came too fast. Alek buckled, still gripping Strahd’s shoulders.
Strahd pulled Alek back into his arms, holding him close, holding him upright. “Too long,” he admitted, through gritted teeth. “Year after year, I am forced to watch you die. Just like this. I can find no remedy. I have tried everything in my power…”
“I want to stay,” Alek said, swallowing hard.
“I know.” Strahd’s voice was thin. Alek’s body was growing weaker, heavier, in his arms. “Tell me it’s all right.”
“I don’t know… if it will be.”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion.”
“Can I tell you that I…” Alek coughed, and shuddered. “...that I love you?”
Strahd turned his head, muffling himself through Alek’s hair. “Not if you go.”
“I’m sorry,” Alek whispered.
“So am I.”
“Maybe… I…” But it was too late. Alek slipped into bleak unconsciousness, and the blood he had left to spill pooled between them, soaking into the front of both their shirts.
Strahd wept. He kissed Alek’s jaw, his cheek, the unresponsive corner of his lip and that blasted mustache. Through his tears and his kisses, Strahd scowled at the approaching Mists, with a glint in his eyes like the bright red fire of fresh hell.
Strahd was the Lord of Barovia. He had gotten them both into this diabolical mess, and—one way or another—he would get them out. This was his solemn oath.
The Mists seemed to pause, their wispy white tendrils swirling pensively in the air. But they took Alek anyway. Nothing, not even the bloodstain on Strahd's shirt, remained. And the next year…
They did not give him back.
* * * EDIT - Epilogue: #3 - Sweet [Ao3 Collection] [prompt list by @syrips]
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paperzombie · 1 year
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Rain leaned against the counter, snacking on pocky and watching a video on his phone. Phayu watched him from the door as laughed at something on his phone, taking in how cute he looked just standing there.
"All your homework must be completed," Phayu says as he presses against his back, his arms trapping him against the counter.
"Mhm," he replies as he takes another bite. "We finished up everything during the study session at Sky’s last night." He tilts his head as Phayu kisses behind his ear.
" I missed you last night, Raindrop."
Rain smiles, tilting his head back and Phayu pulls him into a kiss. His tongue sliding against Rain's as his hand travels down his backside. Rain breaks the kiss, pressing a peck against his lips, "Show me how much."
Phayu smirked as he pressed Rain against the kitchen counter, pulling his pants down quickly. He started kissing down his back, using his fingers to open Rain up slowly. Sucking on his skin like a man starved.
"Phayu," Rain moaned softly, his face pressed against the counter.
"Hmm" He murmurs, sucking at his skin,his fingers scissoring him open. Rain moans softly, his hips moving to meet Phayu's fingers. Phayu pulls his fingers out, causing a whine to spill from Rain's lips. He pulls Rain's cheeks apart as he licks along his rim. Rain whimpers as Phayu's tongue circles his rim. Phayu inserts a finger as he continues lapping at his rim before slipping his tongue inside along them. Rain arched his back groaning.
"Phayu," Rain whines, "please."
Phayu goes to answer but stops as Rain's phone starts vibrating on the counter. He pauses, watching as Rain makes a low exhale. "Shit, I forgot." Phayu narrows his eyes as he starts discarding his pants.
"Answer it." Phayu says, pulling his fingers out, standing to line himself up with Rain. Rain pursed his lips contemplating. "We don't have to." Phayu whispers as he presses against his rim, kissing his neck, "But, I think it could be fun."
Rain looks at the phone, picking it up. His finger hovering over the green button. Phayu kissed the back of Rain's neck as he thrust into him slowly. Rain let out a low moan pushing back against him. Phayu pressed him back down against the kitchen counter and bites his neck gently while circling his hips. "No, Rain you're supposed to be talking."
Rain groans softly, pulling up his cellphone, answering the call with trembling hands. Phayu continues thrusting slowly as he listens to the call. "Oppa!!! How are you?" a deep voice questions.
Rain uses this time to try to steady himself. "Na..Nam-gil, h..hhi,"
"Oh, did I catch you at a bad time?" Rain debates on telling him yes and hanging up in his face. But Phayu's bruising thrust makes his breath hitch and he knows what the right answer is.
"No," Rain shudders out, " Just stretching. Wha…what's going on?" He pushes out, folding his lips to stifle a moan and Phayu continues thrusting at a steady pace, his hand grabbing at his chest, pinching a nipple causing Rain to hiss softly.
"Ahh okay, well me and Insu will be in your neck of the woods in a couple of weeks and we wanted to see about hanging out." Phayu nipped at his neck, increasing his pace slightly.
Rain would normally be excited to hear about his friends coming to visit. But right now he exhales harshly to prevent himself from moaning. "Tha..ts… that's great. How long?" He pushed back against Phayu trying to get more friction.
"Believe it or not 3 weeks!" Insu exclaims excitedly in the background. Phayu smirks, setting an unrelenting pace. Each snap of his hips harder going deeper, Rain's body arches off the counter.
"Mmmpfh!!" Rain exclaims as he bites his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. Phayu wraps his hand around Rain's cock, stroking it in tandem with his thrust.
"I know right!! We haven't had time off like this in years! You have to come meet with us!"
Rain drops his phone on the counter and brings his forearm close, biting down on it to muffle his moans. He can't, he can't, why did he agree to this. But as Phayu continues to thrust, Rain pushes backwards to meet each thrust, reaching to grab some part of Phayu.
"Rain?"
Phayu slows his motions, pulling Rain off the counter as he licks a stripe up his neck, "Color?" He murmurs into his skin.
"Green," Rain whispers out, surprising himself.
Phayu grins and presses him back against the counter, thrusting deeply that they're pressed together, "Good boy." He whispers.
"I…I’m…he…re." Rain chokes out, trying to hold back a moan.
"Are you sure you can talk?" Phayu lets out a snort, circling his hips, searching for a certain spot inside of him. He’s enjoying watching Rain struggle to hold himself together. He hums when he hears Rain let out a startled gasp. Ah, there it is. Phayu runs his hands along his cheeks squeezing them as he starts thrusting lazily.
"I'm… I'm sorry,” he squeaks out as Phayu hits his prostate again, “I’m….mmhh.. Coo…cooking.” Rain pushes out. “A treat….for Phayu.” Which earns him another hard thrust and a low groan from Phayu. A treat indeed.
“If you’re sure?” Rain wants to laugh, he is absolutely not sure. The only thing he’s sure of is that he doesn’t want Phayu to stop. He can feel his body spasm as Phayu hits his prostate repeatedly, sending his orgasm rushing to meet him.
“Ok, so Insu wants to go to a concert out there. But I was hoping you had something more interesting to do.”
Rain lets out a squeak. For the love of god Nam-gil please shut up. He will do whatever they want if he just hangs up this phone so Rain can win.
“Doesn’t your boyfriend have those races?” Phayu narrows his eyes as he stills for a moment and tightens his grip. Rain pants harshly, his orgasm slowly receding. “Yes'' he croaks out. He watches as Phayu’s face transforms and oh he is in so much trouble. Phayu sets a punishing pace, slamming into him unrelentingly.
“Oh awesome, do you think he’d let us come?”
“I… I’m… I…goi.. I.. can’t” Rain sobs out, tears sliding down his cheeks as Phayu continues to thrust into him, his hand stripping his cock chipping away Rain’s last bit of control. Rain shudders and gives in, knocking the phone to the floor as he starts meeting Phayu’s thrust, letting his moans spill from his lips freely.
Phayu groaned his hands holding Rain in place as he keeps pounding into him. He watches as Rain squeezes his eyes shut, his mouth opened in a silent scream as he tips over the edge. Phayu groans loudly, fucking Rajn through his orgasm. And as Rain clenches tightly around him Phayu follows.
Rain drools slightly on the counter breathing heavily as Phayu continues to thrust slowly until he stills. Phayu rests his forehead on Rain’s back peppering it with butterfly kisses as he catches his breath.
“Naughty boy” Phayu murmurs into his back. Rain hums softly in response, his legs trembling from having to stay standing. Phayu pulls out slowly, gripping Rain’s hips as he stands to lean against Phayu’s chest.
“Phayu” he pouted, hoping Phayu wasn’t too mad at him for telling the boys about the illegal races. Phayu narrows his eyes before sighing, “ Let’s get you cleaned up and then we can figure out your punishment.”
Rain whines softly. “I’m sorry, it slipped out!”
Phayu huffs as he picks Rain up, “A lot of things have been slipping out of my naughty boy.” He runs his fingers along the cum trailing down Rain’s thighs. Phayu makes a mental note to start putting more plugs around the house.
Rain whines all the way to the room. Phayu ends up punishing him not just for telling Nam-gil about the races, but he had slipped up and cursed too.
Hours later, Rain makes his way back downstairs and retrieves his phone. He balks at the messages his friends have sent him.
NG: “Rain was that?”
NG: “ Insu said you definitely were..”
NG: “RAIN YOU FREAKY LITTLE THING, WHO TAUGHT YOU THESE THINGS?!?”
NG: “ IN MY VIRGIN EARS, RAIN HOW COULD YOU?!
NG: “ HOW DO I BLEACH MY EARS?!”
NG: “I HAVE BEEN VIOLATED AND DEMAND COMPENSATION!!!
Insu: “Gah, I can’t believe you did that, you’ve gotten bold Rainy. Gil is not going to let you forget it.”
NG: “EWWW Jizzy!! You could’ve just gotten off the phone. We did NOT need to hear you having sex. How will I be able to look at your boyfriend in the face now?!”
NG: "ITS BEEN AN HOUR AND THAT SOUND IS STILL IN MY HEAD" 😭😭
He shows Phayu the text later and Phayu laughs at him, telling Rain he can't wait to see his friends again.
–End
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circletrapped · 8 months
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i haven’t written fanfiction in about a year and a half but the brain worms are winning so here:
Stormy Seas
Elliott/GN!Farmer
2.3k words
Fluff, no actual hurt but there is comfort
Rating: G
Description: Elliott is definitely not afraid of thunder, so there’s absolutely no reason for you to come to his cabin in the middle of the night for the purpose of comforting him. But since you’re already here, he may as well enjoy your company.
///
Crash!
The blinding flash of white light and immediate follow of close thunder jolts you from your sleep. Storms have never particularly bothered you, but the noise interrupted the perfectly fine dream you’d been having. It wasn’t anything particularly unusual or special - you were just taking eggs from your chickens and every time you thought you had finally collected them all, you’d turn around only to find more eggs. You turn over and pull the covers over your head, hoping to muffle the sound of the wind howling and the raindrops clacking incessantly against your windows.
Tick, tick-tick, tic- BANG!
It’s useless. You’re not falling back asleep anytime soon, unless by some divine intervention the storm dies down. You sit up with a sigh, giving a glance around the barely-illuminated room to check for leaks. You can’t help but feel a small amount of triumph at the fact that none of the rain has been able to seep through the roof. You’d been living on your grandfather’s farm for quite some time now, and decided you could at least teach yourself how to do some simple repairs and maintenance to save some money. Profiting from the crops you grow is anything but quick, so every little bit helps. The first time it had rained on the farm the old house was practically flooded, so you took the time to patch the roof yourself. It took quite a bit of trial and error after each storm to get it right, but it looks like the last repairs you made to your roof are holding up well.
Another loud whoosh of wind cuts through the walls of your house and you pull your blankets closer to you to combat the cold. Spring had just begun, but the winter’s chill was stubborn and holding its grasp as tightly as it could. You note that even the empty side of your bed is cold to the touch. It makes you recoil your hand back into the comfort of the heat radiating off your body.
You’d had enough of cold hands during the winter. Since it was far too cold for any worthwhile crops to grow, you’d spent most of your time fishing by the sea. It was brutal, but Willy was a kind man who always gave you a fair price for what you caught and would occasionally share a hot cup of cocoa with you on days when not even your gloves could protect your hands from the bitter chill. It made the beach your favorite place to fish.
That, and the presence of Elliott. You smile to yourself as you remember your first time meeting him.
It was a much warmer day, and you were trying to get the hang of using the rod that Willy had gifted to you as a welcome present. You were ecstatic that something had caught your hook was actually allowing you to reel it in, but the feeling quickly evaporated when a piece of trash emerged from the water. You swore, probably louder than you should have, only to have it met with a small chuckle.
You were ready to swing around and share an obscene gesture with the offender, but stopped in your tracks when you laid eyes on the tall, handsome tree of a man with inexplicably gorgeous long hair.
“At least you caught something. I’d be lucky to hook any sort of junk.”
From that point forward, you made it a point to see him every day. He was easy-going, had the soul of an artist, and took great pride in everything he did. The first time you felt brave enough to flirt with him, the bright blush on his face and the spark in his eye gave away that he was a hopeless romantic. The two of you would spend hours talking to one another on the beach until one rainy day, he wasn’t out there to meet you. You knocked on the door to his cabin and he invited you in with open arms. He told you two things that day that you stored in the back of your mind.
“I’ve never cared for storms like this. I actually feel quite foolish for moving to a house on the beach - the serenity of the water becomes an unbearable battleground in this water. I can never sleep when it rains here, and there’s no way I’d be insane enough to leave the safety of my cabin when it does. I need to watch for leaks and place something to catch the water before it reaches any of my papers.”
And,
“Of course, you’re welcome any time. Though I’d prefer you confine your visits to daylight hours. If my sleep gets interrupted, I tend to be a bit cantankerous.”
After that day, you knew wanted to learn everything about him and be the muse he’d been looking for. And after learning of his affinity for lobster, every single one you caught was gifted to him until the day you handed him a bouquet of flowers with trembling hands. What started as being the most nerve-wracking days of your life became one of the best as he accepted and reciprocated your feelings toward him.
Boom!
The thunder yanks you out of your memories. Poor Elliott, you think, he’s probably tossing and turning with this weather. Or maybe he’s running across his cabin securing his writing from any water that might invade. You look at the clock resting on your bedside table.
1:04 A.M.
He ought to be sleeping at this hour. How could he write or expect to go through the laborious process of styling his hair without getting enough rest?
You brace yourself for a moment in anticipation of the cold before you throw the blanket off yourself as if ripping off a bandage. The chill seeps straight into your bones as you slip on a pair of shoes and pull on a jacket. It offers no protection when you open the door. You hesitate for a moment, wondering if it’s really worth it to walk across the town just to cuddle with your boyfriend. Conjuring the image of his unkempt hair and puppy-dog eyes as he’s struggling to sleep is plenty of motivation.
It’s pitch black outside and the rain isn’t helping, but you could navigate the town in a blindfold at this point - especially the path to the beach. To Elliott’s cabin.
The wind nearly knocks you off your feet a couple times, but you arrive at his doorstep, albeit drenched in rainwater from head to toe. You knock on the door feebly, your hands shaking as they refuse to forgive you for forgetting a pair of gloves.
After a moment, the door opens to the exact sight that was in your mind at the start of your trek.
“For heaven’s sake, get inside!” Elliott gasps, grabbing your ice-cold hand and pulling you across the threshold and quickly shutting the door. His next words bounce between concern and outrage. “You’re soaking! What on Earth possessed you to walk across the town in this weather?! Oh, you’re shivering! What were you thinking? Get out of those wet clothes or you’ll freeze to death! I have some you can borrow. What are you doing here? This is so careless! Are you alright? What were you thinking?”
You hang your coat on a hook at his instruction. While it took the brunt of the rain, the rest of your clothes aren’t exactly dry. Elliott looks up from his dresser and back at you, his brow creasing further and frown deepening.
“All of it,” he demands. You can’t resist.
“Oh, Elliott, I just got here. You’re not even gonna offer me a drink before you get me undressed?”
His furious expression doesn’t change, but a bright blush quickly spreads across his face.
“Are you out of your mind? I ought to cart you off to the clinic this instant to get your brain examined!” He tosses a shirt and a pair of sleep pants to you before turning his back and resuming his fussing in a mutter. “Trudging miles to my cabin in the middle of the night during a thunderstorm and having the gall to immediately flirt with me, you are unbelievable!”
“Sweetheart, I’m joking,” you laugh as you pull off your shirt and replace it with his. You do the same with your bottoms, tugging the strings as tight as they’ll go to make sure they don’t fall off. Despite the muscle you’ve gained from farm work, he’s much taller than you so his clothes hang quite loose. They’re much warmer, though, and they smell like him. You have zero intention of returning them. “Alright, I’m dressed. You can look at me. Even though we’re dating and you could’ve watched me change. I would’ve made a little show out of it for you.”
Elliott doesn’t turn to face you. Your playful smile falls at the thought that he’s actually upset with you.
“Elliott?”
More deafening silence. And rain.
“Elliott, I’m sorry, I just.. I wanted to make sure you were alright. I know you’re afraid of-”
His head whips around and the glare on his face stops you in your tracks.
“I mean, I know you have trouble sleeping when it storms. And sleep is good. I wanted to help you sleep.”
The anger on his face crumbles at last and his shoulders fall as he releases a loud sigh. He walks toward you and brings his hand to your jaw.
“You’re lovely,” he whispers after a beat. “You’re too sweet for your own good. Do you have any idea how much the idea of you getting swept away in the storm scares me? I don’t like to worry about you.”
You let out a small laugh at him. “Swept away? I’m not that small.”
“You know what I mean. I have enough to be strung out over when it storms like this, I don’t want to have another thing to make me pace about.”
You lean forward to give him a quick peck on the lips.
“You know you don’t have to worry about me,” you insist. Elliott pouts at this.
“This is coming from the one who, on multiple occasions, has been found passed out in the mines covered in slime and bat bites? And now you’re galavanting through dangerous thunderstorms? I don’t think I worry about you as much as I ought to.”
You laugh again and take his free hand, slipping out of his grasp and leading him to his bed.
“Well, enough pacing. You need to rest. You know I worry about you not taking care of yourself when you get lost in your writing.”
Elliott gives a half-hearted chuckle as he follows your lead. You release his hand and throw yourself onto the bed. It’s much softer than the one you have at home. The only thing that would make it more comfortable is Elliott. The man is practically a space heater. Before he joins you, he hesitates.
“And for your information, I am not afraid of th-”
Crack!
The yelp escapes him before he can bring his hand to cover his mouth. Combined with the fact that he jumped nearly a foot in the air at the sound didn’t make for a convincing argument. You can’t help the maniacal laughter that escapes you.
“You’re not?” You giggle.
“Enough already,” Elliott huffs as he lays down next to you. You wrap your arm around him and guide his head to bury into your neck. You give him a tight squeeze and he lets out a breath of relief.
“Don’t worry, tough guy,” you coo, “I’ll protect you.”
He grumbles at being patronized but snuggles closer to you. With Elliott in your arms, the racket outside doesn’t sound so bad. It’s almost like music. Even the thunder quiets down, although it still makes Elliott flinch. You almost think he’s actually sleeping until a new sound joins the symphony.
Drip, drip, drip…
“Damn,” Elliott mutters. “I knew it would leak.”
He moves to investigate but you hold him tighter and shush him.
“I’ll take care of it in the morning,” you whisper. “I’ll clean it up for you and help you patch the roof.”
“You can do that?”
“I did it to mine. I figured Robin has her hands full enough, especially after storms like this. I’m happy to.”
“Didn’t know you were a farmer and a handyman.”
“And miner, and fisher, and my cooking is second to none- you’re pretty lucky to have me on your payroll.”
“Payroll? How much is this repair going to cost, then?”
You think for a moment then shuffle so you’re face-to-face with him.
“A thousand kisses.”
“One thousand, eh?”
“Afraid so. Between the materials, the labor, the expediency fee… yup, comes out to a thousand.”
You stare into Elliott’s eyes as you both sit in silence, stupid grins on both your faces.
“You won’t mind if I put down a deposit then?”
“Oh not at all, that’s actually a pretty good ide-” Elliott cuts you off with his lips on yours, peppering short kisses on your mouth, cheeks, and forehead while you giggle from the way his hair is ticking you. He finally comes to rest in the crook of your neck, sprinkling a couple kisses here and there before letting out a contented sigh.
“How’s that? Was that a thousand?”
You hum to feign consideration. “Just about. You can give me the rest if I do a good job tomorrow.”
“That sounds reasonable.”
You plant one last kiss on the crown of his head and feel his arm drape over your side. Thunder crashes outside again, but Elliott doesn’t flinch. You smile to yourself. You don’t doze off until you hear his soft snoring beneath you.
“I love you,” you whisper.
“Love you too, darling,” Elliott mumbles, half-asleep.
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i-eat-cubes · 1 year
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tomwambsmilk · 1 year
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ashes to ashes, dust to dust
tomshiv // "Curses", The Crane Wives
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electron-road-suspect · 4 months
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The Washington Commanders are also terrible at football. Did you know that? It was painful. I wrote another chapter.
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