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#its a trifecta!
cainternn · 6 months
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RED
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ghostlypawn · 1 year
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obsessed with how she looks like a cowboy vampire and pirate all at the same time
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why-me-marti · 10 months
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Random headcanon that both Sweetheart and Darlin' smoke. Sweetheart smokes strong cigarettes and very rarely, while Darlin' smokes light cigarettes but a lot more often. They got closer because every time they went out to smoke at a pack meeting or soltice party they'd see each other there and just start talking about stuff because of their shared vice. Sweetheart would make fun of Darlin' for smoking so often and Darlin' would make fun of Sweetheart for smoking strong cigarettes, bantering over which case is worse. Another bestie duo I headcanon and love 🫶
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beauceronn · 19 days
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Beauce screenshots.
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If you consider all Tenmas to, at some level, be the same Tenma then its almost funny to count up his trauma quotient. The dude has been surrounded by death. He lost his parents when he was young, he lost his wife (even before Tobio in some variants if I'm getting the read of 03 right), Ochanomizu had a brush with death, and then Tobio is a given....he must think he's cursed or some shit
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epic commission of my cringe baby from @squea !!
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colrana · 10 months
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a pearl is formed when an intruder enters a mollusk. the mollusk reacts to the intruder by layering calcium carbonate and conchiolin over the intruder for years
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angelcactus · 1 year
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Asher is a boob guy
Milo is a butt guy
David is a thigh guy
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elusivefalsehoods · 9 months
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as a saiki k fan i wanna thank akira oatmeal and fluffydice for singlehandedly (triplehandedly?) supplying all of my food direct to dash
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unalivenote · 2 years
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ok girlies help me fill this out
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tutomisidae · 1 year
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It's fun being a Soundwave fan sometimes. You get stuff like that one scene in Earthspark where Optimus talks down @ him and saying 'Megatron is a better protector of our kind than you will ever be' and IMMEDIATELY remember in not just one but TWO continuities how we lost our favorite boombox who cannot seem to help himself in giving up his actual life so others can prosper, for both autobots and decepticons alike in both continuities and humanity in one.
Having so much fun at these universal constants and definitely not foreshadowing itbetternotbeforeshadowing—
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angellfag · 2 months
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Boobs named Sam and Dean, pussy named Castiel
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the-holy-ghosted · 5 months
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*holding out my hands completely unbidden and unprompted*
Hey I heard y’all got ocs in here? Ocs hello?? Hot ocs in my area????
hi im gonna pretend i didnt get this asked to me by somebody else before i clicked a wrong button and tumblr erased the whole post. taking this unbiased opportunity to jump into these characters.
i have had these ocs for upwards of 7 or 8 years, who went untouched for a VERY long time before getting picked back up and refurbished as of about 2 years ago. it is with MUCH pride i tell you that they intertwine very deeply with a friend's own ocs (YOU!! WHO SENT THIS!!) and they've helped me build up these characters into something i'm incredibly proud of and ought to share by now
without further adieu: some pirates, some 19th century fantasy (a LOT of fucking fantasy), and like 8 years worth of worldbuilding that i am STILL not done with. enjoy
FIRST of all let me show you who we're working with:
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Who the hell is that?
Leo Blackwater (he/him) - 56 yrs, 5'6'', 152 lbs
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Captain of the ship The Eclipse.
Widower of 19 years. only recently decided to open his heart back up; she wanted him to be happy, after all. She's a sensitive topic, even now. so any prodding or teasing on the matter of moving on will be met violently.
Bounty hunter. Smuggler. Doing pirate things, you see. Polite old dad, a warm personality to lure you into a false sense of security and turn you in for a pretty penny.
Disabled after a beam cracked and landed on his knee, breaking it. It never healed right, and hes slower for it, especially in old age. Despite this handicap making him more vulnerable, he does not carry much in the way of weapons.
Eldest of 6 siblings. Son of a humble small town fisherman; perhaps not all that glad for his son's criminality, but the money he sends home makes it forgiven.
Father of one, a daughter, captain of her own ship.
Formed his love for the sea at 18 on his father's fishing boat. Never much respect for the Navy proper. But, after being in the right place at the right time and earning the reward money for a highly wanted pirate, he started to get ideas...
Percius (Percy) Blackwater (they/them) - 48 yrs, 5'10'', 150 lbs
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Younger sibling of Leo. 3rd child of 6.
Takes up a number of jobs on Eclipse. Took up the role of second in command after the passing of Mrs. Blackwater.
Respects and trusts their brother's choice in livelihood. Begged since they were young to let them sail with him. Didn't realize what it entailed until they were already aboard.
Unmarried. They're a bit busy right now.
Willing to be called uncle by their beloved niece, for lack of a better word.
Betelgeuse Blackwater (she/her) - 30 yrs, 6'5'', 240 lbs
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Captain of The Starlight, all-female crew.
Bounty hunter. Smuggler. Learned her way of living from her parents.
Inherited her face and density from her father, nothing else. Prone to brute force rather than wit and cunning. This works for her just fine.
Quite awkward, if she likes you.
Eldest (and favorite) grandchild, an only child, a totally different woman if you see her around family. Towers over father, but makes herself small for a kiss hello.
Was only about 7 or 8 when her mother passed. She remembers what little she has of her fondly, and greets her kindly when she looks in a mirror.
So whats going on?
What a funny question!!! I got no clue. But I'll start by explaining a little worldbuilding lore (cringe explination incoming):
There is magic in this universe. Not one that's denied or marveled at, but exists as much as everything else you dont pay attention to around you. Its as real as gravity. It's a honed skill in some, frowned upon by others, used unwisely by a small (but not unheard of) few. Magic makes itself present in a number of ways; it's hard to find written rules of these things unless you know precisely what you want and what you believe in. In many areas, some small towns appear to be protected by nameless elements and energies. It's more often that you find individuals who put in the work to harness their beliefs into something tangible, all calling their faiths and abilities something different from each other. Again, its not unheard of for individuals to use these abilities for their own poor intentions. If someone like Leo is lucky, bagging a Magic user is worth every ounce of hassle it takes. He seems to get away with feats like this often, though port authority fears him enough not to ask how. The Blackwaters won't admit foul play, though, if you're in the right town listening to the right gossip, you might hear a rumor or two about Betelgeuse's warm touch and a spitfire attitude when shes angry.
So whats up with Leo?
hehehehe.
As aforementioned, Leo has recently made himself a bachelor. He has no shortage of acquaintances and colleagues in his line of business. His demeanor, if you trust it, is very welcoming to new colleagues. He's not looking for something to jump too quickly into, he's happy to take things slow as he navigates romance again after so long.
And then he captures Roark.
Roark Renshaw (he/him) - 68 yrs, 6'6'', 250 lbs (CREATION OF @skelelephant)
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World's worst man.
Captain of The Red Hound, took this position by force at the age of 21. The crew that remained after his mutiny had naught the will to defy him, choosing to follow out of curiosity more than anything else afterward.
Professional menace. High-seas whore. Good old fashioned murderer, committer of pirate crimes as you'd imagine. Terribly smug about it.
Unknown origin, unknown motive. He cropped up out of thin air and has made himself a name to be feared ever since, doing a service to the red flag The Hound flies.
For all his force, he is not one easily captured. For all his reputation, he is reckless. He caught Leo at a bad time, unfortunately.
Roark is a household name among most port towns, wanted dead or alive for the better half of his life by the Navy. His nature is not unlike that of a rabid dog, compared often to his ship's namesake. It is a state of being that none have been able to tame him out of, not by any rotating carousel of lovers he finds among port towns or the enemies he finds in equal amount, and one that gives the bounty over his head a lot of zeros. One that Leo, for all his skill, saw as a pipe dream. Leo knew of him, certainly. Roark has been on his radar since before his wife's passing- they'd spoken of capturing him fondly, joked about like some impossible fantasy. But for all his reputation comes bad habits that lower his guard when he needs it most. Stumbling drunkenly out of a tavern one evening, docked unknowingly at the same port as The Eclipse, he is disarmed and captured before he knows it.
This is a victory unheard of. It seems only fitting that Leo Blackwater would bag him, Roark having not expected to meet his match in such a mild man. Before the crew of The Hound have enough notice, Eclipse sails off to deposit the dog that is Roark Renshaw to the navy for a glorious execution, and an even more glorious reward. Leo has the gall to boast this to his prisoner, who seems almost humored. Hes quite charming when hes disarmed, a feature of his that seeps into the cracks of Leo's resolve and that itch the loneliness that he had yet to satisfy. Hes dangerous even with his hands tied.
This is what solidifies Leo's decision to turn him in. A man who so loved to be chased and so loved the rotten attention he recieved, who needed to be put down. It was a thrill, though, to capture the hound himself and be one of few to ever do so. To be revered as Roarks captor would make one want to do it all over again.
By luck or by the hunger for chase that gnawed on Roark and Leo's ribs, Roark finds the moment to escape as hes being escorted off the ship. Leo, notably, makes a piss poor attempt at catching him.
Seen as a dire fluke from the outside, the captains know it was on purpose. They've found themselves amidst a game of cat and mouse, that gives them a small purpose for at least a little while. You bond very closely when trying to kill each other, you know!
So what's their deal?
Well, their deal is that they *make* a deal.
Though Roark might be a big fish in their career pond, he is not the only one. Eventually, always eventually, there is another to challenge Roark's reputation. He wants the pirate out of his way, and Leo could always use another bounty. But hes slippery... moreso than Roark, who lets himself into Leo's jaws on purpose.
So... an alliance is formed. Temporary, of course, they split this bounty and part ways. So they say. But Roark is a charming man, and fulfills the loneliness and search for companionship that Leo wanted... and Leo is collected and steady, more than the majority of Roark's colleagues. They stand out to each other. They're comfortable. Attached.
So... after the bounty is collected they choose not to end their truce. Spend more time together. Work together exceptionally well. Balance each other out, in a way.
So they're together?
GAY AS CAN BE, BABY.
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probably the only existing drawing of them Together despite how much we both draw them seperately.
Their alliance spills over into something... fond. Affectionate, even. A few meetups at a port town turn into a lot more working together peacefully. This leads to some... interesting wires to cross between their own respective enemies, interesting wires between one another. They get to know each other very personally in some strenuous circumstances.
Anyways! Now that they're on the table, I feel a little more comfortable to talk about them more. Draw them more. Answer some questions, if anybody has any. I did leave a lot open-ended...
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seokmatthewz · 2 years
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THE8 ✧ HOT ✧ 220605
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thedragonagelesbian · 3 months
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For the one word prompts, 2-Safe and/or 21-Laughter, possibly for Cyrus and Wyll bc I think they both deserve them 🥺🥺 or for anyone else you feel like writing for!! ❤️
thank you dear <333333333333333333333333333
Send me a one-word prompt and I'll write a lil something
You're so right they DO deserve this, I love the prompt 'safe' for them so much I decided to write one for each of them. I also swapped the order of the prompts to have one ficlet for each of the three acts of the game
Also. I know these are all too long to constitute proper drabbles and I don't care!! Once I start writing about these two, I can't stop.
21 - Laughter
"Are you alright?"
Cyrus' head was ringing as he picked himself up off the floor, pointedly ignoring Wyll's outstretched hand. This was now the second house--or was it the third?--in this demolished husk of a village in which he had nearly bled out, and he was getting sick of it. He couldn't even remember the last time he had been hurt this bad: sore from head to toe, skull still throbbing even now that he was on his feet again, blood slick and sticky down his sleeve, abdomen aching and bruised with every breath, every blink, every moment...
But that didn't mean he needed help.
"That ogre hit you mighty hard," Wyll continued in a tone that would have been consoling to just about anyone else, but Cyrus grunted in response and began to dig through his pack.
"I've been hit by worse." A blue dragon allied with the Zhentarim in Iriaebor, for example, determined to raze the city if it couldn't be kept under their control. But that had been over a century ago, and the bad memories did little more than tighten Cyrus' scowl. "I'm fine."
If the harsh snap bothered Wyll, he didn't show it. Instead, he studied Cyrus for a moment, his expression steadfast in its stoicism before he bent down to inspect the corpse at their feet. Cyrus couldn't help but give a small sigh of relief. That was a better use of Wyll's time than fussing over him, he was sure.
Meanwhile, Cyrus pulled out a satchel of rogue's morsel salt. A pinch taken with water was at least enough to dull the agony in his side, but a pang remained between a couple of ribs that were probably broken. They would have to camp soon, loathe as he was to admit it, furious as he was with himself for how weak he had become. How in the hells had he ever been any good at this?
The plate mail, for one, a cocoon of hard metal layered thick enough to protect him far better than these damned leathers could. The divine healing, too, the pulse of the holy he could draw out through his hands to patch himself up with merely a thought. And the smites, and his holy aura, gods he missed that, each breath another fold in the fabric of the universe to keep himself and his loved ones safe.
Well, his loved one.
And what did he have now?
A tadpole in his skull, a new magic that seemed to knock from his fingers just as quickly as he summoned it, and a few other people as fucked over by life as he was.
And at that moment, one of those people in question produced a massive ivory war horn from the dead ogre's belt and blew into it. Loudly.
The noise caught Cyrus by such surprise that he nearly drew his weapon, but wheeling back around, he saw only Wyll, smile sheepish as the thunderous roar died down and he gave an apologetic shrug. "It's like I always sometimes say." He nudged the still-lifeless corpse with his toes. "You can't summon dead ogres, no matter how hard you blow."
Cyrus blinked at him hard, so stunned by both the cacophony and the absurd follow-up that he couldn't help but laugh. It didn't sound like that, of course-- it was a rough, choked noise, up through the nose and only tickling the top of his throat, and it shocked him almost as bad as the horn did. "You..." his breath was short now too, lungs stuck between articulations until it forced something less like a snort and more like a bark from his windpipe. "You always... sometimes say that?"
Wyll's smile widened, and Cyrus swore his chest puffed up a bit. "Indeed I do. A habit I picked up from my father, for it was he who first told me: a good idiom is worth its weight in... well, just about anything, depending on the circumstance."
Still stutter-chuckling and nearly breathless, Cyrus asked, "And what is it worth now?"
"Hearing you laugh."
2 - Safe
(1)
The evening started like any other: hot tea in Cyrus' tent, underneath the herb planters and the light cantrips that sustained the canopy above their heads. Newer was the physical intimacy, seeking respite between sips of the bitter infusion in shoulders or the crooks of necks and each other's hands, but the sense of safety was so familiar to Wyll as to almost feel old. As absurd as it was given the short time in which they had known each other, when he felt Cyrus' arm around him, he could almost forget that he had ever known anything other than its steadiness.
Almost. But their impending arrival at Moonrise Tower had stirred up too many memories and feelings about what had come before. Wyll had started trying to give voice to that, as new as it was too. So eloquent in every other regard, describing his trepidation came to him like early season snowfall, each word an individual flake struggling to survive long enough to join with its kin and build up into something of substance.
Most of the time, the words melted away, but Cyrus listened patiently anyway, and always kissed him first on the cheek and then on the lips before leaving to check the camp one more time before bed.
Tonight, though, when their cups were emptied and Wyll had started yawning, Cyrus hesitated. He did pull away, and he did turn to face Wyll, but instead of kissing him, he said, "I, uh, have something for you."
"Another book?" Wyll asked hopefully. Cyrus had found plenty of fuel for his budding barding, but the Shadowlands had proved light on light-hearted literature.
"No, it's... well, I know how this will look, but just bear with me for a moment."
Cyrus reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of rings. Both had bands of warm, recently-polished gold and were topped with bloodstones chiseled into hearts. The only distinction between the two was the ornamentation of a pair of hands framing each heart-- one cupping it from below, the other hugging it from above.
"I had Gale identify these for me, he says that they work together so that whoever wears this one," he pointed to the down-turned palms, "can protect the one who wears this one," the upturned palms, "from, well, just about anything. Makes them harder to hit, makes the hits they do take hurt less."
"That's quite the boon." Wyll considered Cyrus' cautious tone before adding, "But magic that powerful usually comes with a cost."
"Yes." Cyrus' brow furrowed, deepening the wrinkles already set there. "Whoever wears the first ring, whenever the other is wounded, they take the wounds too. Hurts just as deep and just as long, according to Gale."
"Oh." Wyll thought of how many times he had seen Cyrus drop in battle. Thought of cradling his dead body after True Soul Nere had plunged his screaming sword through Cyrus' stomach. "Oh, well, I'd be happy to do that for you."
"What? Wait, no, no, that is not what I'm getting at." Cyrus closed his hand around the rings and pulled them away. "Wyll. I'm covered head to toe in adamantine, I don't need..." His cheeks turned pink, and he suddenly dropped his gaze. "I- I want to do this for you."
Wyll felt his face warm too. "N-no, I couldn't possibly ask you to--"
"You aren't asking, I'm offering."
"More than I could in good conscience accept." Wyll reached out to take Cyrus' fist, and Cyrus let him uncurl his fingers, but Wyll's interest was not in the rings but the scar beneath them, which he stroked gently. "You've already given so much of yourself."
Cyrus responded by reaching up to massage the skin at the base of one of Wyll's horns. "And you haven't?"
Wyll didn't have a good answer for that. No easy way to say that his flesh felt like a small price to pay away for someone else's life.
But Cyrus said it for him: "You're right, I'm no stranger to sacrificing my body for people I love..." A small shudder passed through him. "For people who claim to love me... But that's all the more reason to trust that I know what I'm doing now. This isn't a cavalier decision for me, Wyll, I've given it a lot of thought, and I'm... ready, for the first time in a long time, to give this. To protect you. To keep you safe." His hand slipped from Wyll's forehead to the swooping lines across his cheek where Mizora had first dug her claws into him. "Please let me keep you safe."
Wyll tried to swallow and found a knot in his throat, gnarled and aching with pride and guilt and expectation, a wound worried too many times to heal clean, bled out over and over and over again for others.
He didn't know what it would mean to staunch it with someone else's skin.
"If you must carry my harm," he managed at last, "please at least also let me soothe it."
Cyrus was rarely one to accept magical healing, but he smiled now and murmured, "A fair deal." Fairer than any other Wyll had ever made in his life. Cyrus slipped one ring on and held up the other. "May I?"
Wyll nodded, a touch light-headed as Cyrus lifted his hand. As a rule, he tried not to dwell on what he had left behind in Baldur's Gate, all of life's milestones he had missed in his exile, but he was reminded of them now watching Cyrus slide the ring down his pointer finger. The other man's hands were rough and weathered, but Cyrus worked gently, tenderly, each caress a slow drag not of memories--Wyll had already missed out on those--but of dreams he had never thought would come true.
And when Cyrus bowed his head and brought his mouth to Wyll's knuckles, it was better than any fairytale.
(2)
When he first awoke in the Elfsong Tavern, Wyll assumed it was because Cyrus was coming out of his trance. Even nestled in a bed for the first time in ages, Wyll slept lightly, and even though Cyrus always tried not to disturb him when he broke his meditation, most nights, Wyll woke up anyway, over-attuned to minute changes in his surroundings to the point of exhaustion.
But most nights, the end of the trance was signaled by a slight shift in Cyrus' posture, a change of his breathing against Wyll's chest, a snuggling deeper into his arms.
Tonight, those arms were torn open as Cyrus was suddenly scrambling out of bed. Wyll sat up to watch him dash across the room and double over his pack.
"Cyrus?" Wyll rubbed at the sleep in his eyes and barely stifled a yawn. "What are you looking for?"
Cyrus didn't give any indication that he had heard Wyll, but an answer came when he pulled out the astral prism, a tinge of orange still swirling between its facets. In the moonlight pouring through the window, Wyll watched Cyrus hold it tight between his palms and press. Hard. Like he was trying to crush it, as if it were a sheet of paper and not a box of iron.
"Cyrus?" The jagged points of the prism's vertices bit deep into his hands, prompting Wyll to leap to his feet. "Cyrus! For gods' sake, you're going to hurt--" By the time Wyll made it to the corner, Cyrus' palms were already sliced through, blood mingling with his opalescent scar on his right hand and dripping down his left. Wyll tried to wrench the prism away from him, but Cyrus had always been the stronger of the two, and his grip was fierce. Desperate. Loosening only when Wyll begged, "Please, stop."
Cyrus blinked at him like he was realizing for the first time where he was. And Wyll realized for the first time that his pupils were blown with panic.
"My bloom, what's wrong? What's happened?" He took Cyrus' hands again, gentler this time, and he felt how they shook against his own. "Please talk to me."
The prism hit the ground with a heavy thud.
Cyrus held Wyll's gaze for a moment, grey eyes wide and trembling, before he crumpled. Wyll caught him before his knees could give out entirely, and Cyrus collapsed into him. He clung to Wyll and heaved against him and smeared blood all up and down Wyll's back, but Wyll did not let him go. He wrapped his arms as tight around Cyrus as he could, squeezing each shiver and shuddering breath until finally Cyrus gasped:
"I want this damn thing out of my head." The words, more distraught than Wyll had ever heard from him, came out hot and wet against his neck. "I want this fucking thing..." He suddenly jerked away-- just enough to kick the astral prism. It rolled to the other side of the room, where it knocked dully against a wall and came to a rest, which provoked a smothered sob from Cyrus. He let go of Wyll to clutch his skull instead, nails digging in to his temple like he meant to claw the tadpole out right then and there. "I want it gone. I want her gone. I want..." He looked at Wyll again, streaks of blood framing the wild look in his eyes. No longer the hunter but the prey. "Gods, I want this all to be over."
"It will be." It was an easy promise to make, and Wyll believed it. He didn't know where their journey would take them, but he knew where it would end, and he had his new oath and his love to guide him to that destination: Cyrus, in his arms, always and forever. With one hand, he took Cyrus' bloody hands into his own, while the other remained firmly attached to his waist. "It will be. A year from now, ten years from now, this will all be a bad memory, and that doesn't mean it won't still hurt, but we will have a lifetime of good memories together to weigh that hurt against... And we will be safe. The both of us, we will finally be safe."
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squeakadeeks · 2 years
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this thought came to me in a dream and i felt compelled to create it first thing this morning 
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