The rain is hot and miserable, its drops hitting like quick punches. On the ground, he breathes—it’s raspy, his lungs like an old door slowly swinging open. Small puddles are forming in the folds of his robes.
The fingers of his non-injured hand spread out, trying to reach something.
She doesn’t know why she does it, but her fingers slide easily into his—like a knife between ribs.
“Stop moving.” He does.
One of my very favorite fics and very favorite authors! Everything she writes is like poetry, and I wish I could draw it all.
“It’s hard to believe that it’s already been a week since our 10th Anniversary Celebration! Check out the rest of the photos on our website. 📸: @jemerling” – @aitaf on twitter