
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5828299.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Fall_Out_Boy, patrick_stump_-_Fandom, Pete_Wentz_-_Fandom
  Relationship:
      Patrick_Stump/Pete_Wentz
  Character:
      Pete_Wentz, Patrick_Stump, Andy_Hurley, More_to_come_-_Character
  Additional Tags:
      Top!Pete, Vampire_AU, technically_character_death, But_not_for_long_so
      yay_for_that, Dom-like!Patrick, but_Pete_is_not_a_sub, bottom!patrick, I
      promise, None_sexual_domination, Eventual_Smut, It's_happy_when_it_gets
      past_all_that_sad_stuff, This_might_have_triggers, So_yeah, Triggers
  Series:
      Part 1 of What's_Light_If_There's_No_Darkness?
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-01-27 Chapters: 2/? Words: 4625
****** Two Cold Souls ******
by Regret_Me_(MythicObsessions)
Summary
     This story isn’t about Pete, or his best friend(recent lover and
     tamer) Patrick. It’s not about his feelings, or his thoughts. It’s
     definitely not about his childhood.
     It’s not about blood or love, though that does play a part. It’s
     about knowing a good thing when Pete sees it.
     And seriously, so what if that happens to include his best friend(and
     maybe boyfriend), myths of the undead, collars, a little biting kink
     and maybe a lot of undead(not dead) sex?
     It’s about the idea that maybe, despite common belief, Pete can have
     a good life. And maybe it just takes dying a little for him to figure
     that out for himself.
Notes
     I can't promise updates.
     Busy-bee is me~~~
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Chapter 0: Take Me Away From Here. *****
It was dark. Blackness thick and heavy around him like tar, threatening to
swallow him up and spit him out.
 A hand graced his shoulder, and he felt like his skin were rotting away from
that point, but a whispered word told him it wasn’t a danger.
 Like a breath being pulled from his lungs, he opened his eyes, saw light and
colors where there had just been shades of gray before and shadows.
 He blinked his eyes, hot like whiskey and blood in the empty white room,
searching for the hand he knew he had felt. A hand with a ring wrapped like
liquid gold around it’s third finger. A physical sign of a vow Pete himself had
taken once, but broke too soon after. His breathing was rough and felt like
poison to his lungs but he kept breathing when a voice told him too.
   Nothing was visible then what was right before his eyes, a type of tunnel
vision that permitted only what he could see without moving his eyes or
focusing on anything at all.
 But he felt a hand, tracing circles on his back, fingers crawling up his
spine, that ring burning trust through his body like a brand. He could handle
this, if only for a moment. Handle not glancing up at his friend, his keeper.

 And Patrick could handle this for ages. Years maybe, Pete thought. Patrick
could handle anything.
And his hunger faded to near nothing with a tug of the metal around his neck.
 Take me away from here. This wicked, horrible world. I never wanted to
be borne here anyway. Never wanted to be reborn here. I trust you with my
heart, take me away. Away from here.

 
***** Chapter 1: Negatives and Positives *****
Chapter Summary
     Patrick disliked
     the building.
Chapter Notes
     This is actually going to be a story.
     Like with plot and everything.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
   Patrick disliked  the building.  Covered in dull gray, short and ugly from
the outside. He disliked how the people who worked in said building tried to
make it a happier place, covering the windows with almost see-through pictures
of happier places. Islands and theme parks. It only made the fact all the more
obvious, you were there because something, whether you admitted it or not, was
wrong.
 Patrick wouldn’t admit such a thing.  Though the whole thing about clothing
and maybe he was a little wrong in a sense but it didn’t matter because it
didn’t affect him or his day to day life. Well, not much at least.    But the
building had upsides, though few and rare, and normally barely an upside at
all. It did have upsides.
 The building sometimes filled up with people like Patrick, shy, stuttery and a
little, but not much, wrong. And sometimes it was filled with people like Pete.

 Pete was this kid Patrick saw only sometimes, Tuesdays and Thursdays every
other week on rotation, and he was Patrick’s idea of the buildings upsides.
Pete was loud, attention seeking, and clingy. Normally all things Patrick found
annoying or demeaning but with Pete, he found it endearing.
Maybe it was the floppy emo fringe or maybe it was Pete’s opinions on music. He
didn’t quite know what had drawn him to the kid in the first place, except that
it had happened and now Patrick didn’t want to be drawn apart.
 And this was a person he only got to speak to once, or twice, a month, already
affecting Patrick’s life more than speaking to doctor Landau.
The doctor Patrick had to sit with for an hour and a half once every other week
was someone Patrick wouldn’t have known if he had the choice.
 Eventually Patrick looked up from his game-boy, threw Pete a smile, who had
been hanging over his shoulder to watch him play Super Mario Land, and decided
he wanted to know Pete outside of this fucked up building, with it’s overly
happy workers.
The conversation was short, but it still meant more to Patrick
  “You want to hang out after this?” Patrick had asked, despite his shyness.
  “Yes.” Pete had hissed with open excitement and had made grabby hands at
Patrick’s game-boy after Patrick had died for the millionth time.
Pete was better then Patrick was at the game.
 
   He understood, somewhere, that he was a lost cause.
 Pete got that his parents had given up. He understood why they had. Even after
the whole closet situation, when Pete screamed too loud and his mother had
panicked and just locked him away, he could understand why she had done it.
What he hadn’t understood was why she couldn’t have just talked to him.
 So what? His childhood wasn’t a play in a lush green park. His parents stopped
caring when Pete looked like he couldn’t be cared for.
 It was understandable. Reasonable? No.
But Pete wasn’t bitter. He just didn’t like to think back so far to the days of
his childhood. The days where his parents refused to meet his eyes.
 And then Patrick.
 It was a simple solution to a problem present in Pete’s life. Eye contact.
 One of the things you never know you’ll miss until it’s gone, until people
glance away as you glance up to meet them. Patrick was nothing like that.
 Despite the rumors of screaming insanity, Patrick didn’t glance away from
Pete’s whorish gaze. His body language shouting “look at me!”
 And Patrick had. Simply flicked his gaze to Pete one day in that horrible
building. Simply looked.
 Pete never really knew love, not unless you count before his mother coddled
him in infancy. But in that moment? When wild sea green met hot, bubbling
whisky, Pete knew love.  
  Maybe it was childish, the way he seemed to float weightless to Patrick, like
a planet to it’s new sun. The silent threat of being consumed unimportant. 
You're the sun in my solar system.
 Pete clung to this new thing. Attention. He liked it. He wanted  more.


YEARS_LATER

 The Sun burned bright and hot in the sky that day, dipping lower and lower
until it was nothing but a lighter spot on the horizon.
 Pete stumbled out of that dreadful therapy building, tripping only once on the
cracked cement of the walk. Patrick tailed him like a loyal dog, silent in all
his beauty but so loud if Pete looked back to his eyes. He didn’t.
 Instead he waved his hand over his shoulder, pointing forward towards the all-
night diner they both liked. It was a familiar dance of nothing; shallow
breaths and long moments of eye-contact. Pete felt safer here in the world when
he had Patrick by his side, a warm comfort like hot-cocoa and fireplaces in the
winter.
A flashback to his childhood and that wasn’t so pleasant, so he shook his head
and the thoughts there from it.
     Patrick never ate when they went to the diner. In fact, Pete never had
seen Patrick eat at all, something that maybe should have worried Pete as his
best friend, seeing as Patrick went to the building for some reason, but it
never came up. And Patrick wasn’t dead so obviously he ate since Pete had known
him for so long that even an animal couldn’t have gone so long without food.
Years and years.
 He could barely remember days where Patrick didn’t breathe down his neck in
this weird type of backseat driving. Backseat driving Pete’s body.
One of those thoughts that sent Pete diving back into his childhood and he
didn’t like that place, so he shook it off again, watched Patrick’s mouth move
as he ordered their usual coffees and Pete   his favorite muffin.
   “What’s wrong?” Patrick asked, soft and sweet.
 “Nothing.” Pete shrugged. “Just thinking.”
   “Oh that can’t be good.” Patrick huffed.“Tell me what’s on your weary mind.”

  And Pete picked up a little fond smile on Patrick’s features.
 “How long have we known each other?”  Pete shrugged again.
And Pete wanted to take that sentence back, knew they were starting to drift
out of normal and that familiar dance of breath and eye-contact was slipping
away before Pete could reach out for it again.
   “Three, maybe four now, years?” Patrick answered it like a question. Like
maybe he didn’t really know either.
 “Oh.” Pete mumbled, “Long time.”
 He smiled a flirty smile at the Waitress as she set his plate and both of
their coffees down.
   “Yeah. It’s been awhile.” Patrick nodded.
 Pete wanted to correct Patrick there. Wanted to shake him and say “Awhile? No,
it’s been centuries. I’ve remembered you for centuries.”
 But he didn’t. He couldn’t and he never would. That he knew.
 They drank silently, Pete wrapping his muffin in a paper towel before standing
up to pay and crowd Patrick home.
 The diner was the old kind, like a house re-purposed for a restaurant. Where
the doors looked like the entryway of a family home, relaxing in the
familiarity.
 Pete always liked people who tried for familiarity, for comfort. Pete loved
the idea of the whole diner.
 But he really loved the doors. They looked almost medieval, two halves of a
circle turned away from each other on one side of the double doors, but when
they were closed, it completed to make a new circle, leaving two halves out but
oddly like winds.
 It was, again, a familiar idea.
 Pete was a half, more of a quarter in his eyes, and Patrick was the rest of
him. His completion. Fuck the rest.
 
His hands pressed hot against the doors, knocking them open for the cold of the
newly born night to feel out the interior. Breathing in the icy air, he hooked
his fingers around on side of the doors, one of the halves, and held it open
for Patrick.
   He could feel an absent hole against his back, not warm like a human body
but still, a press of  something.   Like a ghost, maybe. He didn’t think
anything of it until a hand wrapped around his waist and his grip on the door
faltered right as Patrick stepped through the threshold.
 His breath rushed out like a scream but it didn’t have the sound, a soft oof.
And there was Patrick, a warm existence in front of him but it felt like a burn
against the now frozen body against his back.
 Fear in Patrick’s eyes, a glint of something metallic, like the spoons Pete’s
mom used to treasure with the little roses in the handle, and then a prick.
    Pete had only felt a needle once, when his not-so-great friends demanded he
try heroin, and he hadn’t really liked the feeling. A coldness that sunk into
his veins and drifted, spread out. He liked the mark, but not the needle
piercing his arm.
 This was kind of like that. A prick, like that needle sinking into his
forearm, right above that blue vein that showed, only now the prick was doubled
and high on his neck. 
A hand closed around his jaw, and he could remember nights where he needed more
than a fuck, needed to lose control, and this felt kind of like that. In the
bad way though, like he couldn’t fight back, and when the rush of his own blood
flooded his hearing, he felt a little lost.
Blinked up to meet Patrick’s eyes, watched that glint dive away, the pressure
behind him fade but now his neck felt wet, sodden, dripping with something that
was cold but also with moments of heat, blinding against the former.
Tar sunk in around him, dragged him down, away from the stars, the lights in
Patrick’s eyes.
 
     The first touch was soft, a questioning brush of warm and wet. A cloth
touching his scalp, and an oddly soothing hum that might have been in his own
head.
 The ache in his neck had faded to a dull throb, a numbness in its place where
once was agony. Sliding back into a place Pete was familiar with, a place he
liked having pain be. A place he could revel in but not run from.
 He wasn’t awake. Not really. Borderline consciousness, but he could feel an
urgent something behind his closed eyes. Almost like a command, pure instinct
demanding Pete reach out for that thump thump thump of a heart beat, find a
notch where the sound was louder and sink his teeth into it, and that made Pete
feel strange. Hungry.
   Patrick had never been so scared and it wasn’t all because of who was
turned. He hadn’t ever hesitated when he had his blade in his hand but when he
saw that Vamp spit up blood that definitely wasn’t Pete’s against his neck,
Patrick couldn’t deal with the infection. He couldn’t settle the tip of his
knife over Pete’s heart like he had that Vamp, his hands wouldn’t stop shaking
when he tried.
And the basement was dark, so he wasn’t even stopping the infection. Not even
trying anymore.
Once the fever had started, Patrick wouldn’t waste any more of his viles on
Pete. Not that it’d be wasting, not if it was for Pete but he seriously doubted
anyone else would have understood that. And despite his desire to pour every
known cure down Pete’s throat, he held back but he still lunged forward when
Pete’s body refused to swallow the liquid that could result in Pete’s humanity,
poured more into his own mouth and pressed it into Pete’s.
Shockingly effective, Patrick wondered about that. How his friend’s body
wouldn’t react to anything until Patrick forced his tongue down until Pete
swallowed.
Huffing, he settled himself over Pete, his ear pressed against Pete’s chest,
listening. And he didn’t cry, he didn’t, when that repeating beat slowed to a
halt in his best friend’s rib-cage and the room became silent except Patrick’s
soft stuttering breaths, and they weren’t sobs. He hadn’t gotten off Pete
either to get that sharp blade that could end Pete’s soon to be misery. Patrick
was selfish, he knew. He knew that raising a fledgling without a sire was like
trying to build a snowman in hell. Odds long and maybe it’d be a waste of time
anyway.
   He wondered, settling a warm rag on Pete’s forehead, how he’d get the first
blood Pete would evidently need. He couldn’t leave a fledgling alone, not
without a fuck ton of blessed water or maybe a silver lock. And neither were
easy to come by.
Maybe, he thought in one of his weaker moments, he could let Pete just bite
him.
The idea was absurd. A first drink was meant to be monitored with knowing eyes
or with a mortal who no one cared died. But teaching restraint was the idea and
how could Patrick do that when he had no control over the situation at all. He
had been bitten before and he knew how that felt. Not exactly pain, and there
was something like a drug in a vamp’s saliva, something so easy to get addicted
to that letting Pete bite him would almost be like signing a contract to always
let Pete do it and that wasn’t a good idea. Patrick needed to be in control.
Patrick held his phone in his hand, thinking as his old friend’s number blinked
on the screen. Andy was the kind of hunter that never really questioned other
people’s motives. A thing that could be horrible or, well, exactly what Patrick
needed right then.
His fingers tapped on the pad of paper settled over his knees, his toes barely
touching Pete’s side but he still wasn’t willing to stop touching him for any
length of time. He felt protective. Like maybe he was on suicide watch except
the person he was watching was already dead.
On the paper he had written thing’s he’d ask Andy to get him. A list so short
and so utterly plain that it made Patrick’s stomach turn.
And it was kind of funny, in a weird way. Like he was going to get a dog.  
The first thing was obvious. Packets of blood, as many as he could get. The
second was maybe a little strange.  A choker chain.
The type of collar you use when you're trying to train a dog that’s probably
stronger than you. The type that if tugged too hard, bites into the skin and
tightens until the dog has to stop and breath. He thought about that for a
moment. It wasn’t like Pete would need to breath but the bite would be enough
to make him stagger.  
And he couldn’t believe he was even thinking about this. Raising a fucking
vampire. Something even the best Hunters could barely do, not without the Sire
under their command and Patrick had made sure that Pete’s Sire was dead even
before the infection could set in.
He ended up calling Andy though, despite his own worries, about all the what-
ifs in his head. He couldn’t think about that sort of thing when it was Pete
who he needed to tame. He could, in the very least, try to do it.

   When Pete really woke up there was an itch. Like maybe needles against his
skin, something like when he got his tattoos but subtle, almost not there. And
there was an ache behind his teeth and it made him want to gnaw on something.
He shifted, felt warmth against his side and curled towards it.
He knew, the moment the smell hit him, that it was Patrick, familiar and still
so agonizingly silent.
 There was a moment when he wanted to reach up and pull Patrick down, put his
teeth in his neck and just, keep him there. And that.  That  was weird.
 Pete pulled open his eyes and unconsciously flinched away from himself,
pushing up and off the bed he was in and away, until his back hit something
cold and hard. It was too light.
 “Hey-” Patrick cut off. “Hey, just…”
 Pete made a sound then, something like a rush of air between his teeth but
really could have been a hiss.
   “No.” Patrick said, “Don’t you even start.”
 He was firm and not as beautiful as Pete remembered, for that moment.
 Pete blinked, straightened up against, he felt, the brick wall behind him, his
shoulder blades digging in uncomfortably.
 Patrick reached for something, but Pete wasn’t looking at his hands, his eyes
glued onto Patrick’s neck like he couldn’t look away.
 Tunnel vision. His teeth ached with hunger.
 Something hard and flesh soft shattered against his cheeks and he blinked up
to Patrick’s eyes again.
 Patrick was glaring, his hand outstretched, palm open with a white powder
sticking between his fingers.
   “What was that?” Pete asked, rubbing his eyes absently. That fucking hurt.

   “Salt.” Patrick said simply.
   “Did you just throw salt at me?”
   “Yeah, you-”
   “Wow, Trick.” Pete drawled. “Real mature.”
   “You looked like you were going to fucking pounce on me.” Patrick whined,
drawing his hand back and cradling it to his chest.
 Pete stuttered. He was so transparent.
   “You're hungry?” Patrick asked, and his hesitation was obvious even to Pete,
the most observant creature on earth.
   “I-” Pete stopped.
 He was hungry, but it didn’t feel right. It was a hunger that spread from his
stomach through his veins, and-
 A heavy breath sucked in, he realized he hadn’t tasted air since he woke up.
His lungs ached with the intake and Patrick looked surprised.
   “You don’t have to do that…” Patrick said. “You need to focus, okay?”
 Pete looked at Patrick, confused.
 He was focused, he had just forgotten to breath and maybe he should have felt
that.
   “Focus on yourself.” Patrick snapped.
 Pete blinked but obeyed. He breathed in again and felt the hollowness rake
through him, and he realized with a strange sense of calm that he couldn’t feel
his own heart. And the pain came back full force.
 The ache in his jaw, behind his teeth, the empty feeling in his veins, the
gnawing hunger in his stomach.
A throb in his neck. Curling a hand around his neck as his vision blurred with
it. He remembered the ocean, a shifting, moving mass of cold water. The way his
eyes stung with the saltiness of it and he blinked up at Patrick. Only a mass
of unfocused lead shaped like his friend.

   Patrick was a star student. He had been throughout middle school and even
through high school after he met Pete. Keeping his grades up was difficult with
the side training, his mother holding that blade that Patrick now kept under
one of his vests that Pete just thought he was fond off.  He was the best
learner in his family. Even when he had to learn the alchemy of poison
designing and learning how to use it, the hardest thing a hunter could learn,
and Pete had happened to go through his first real break up and first real
suicide attempt during the first week of this training. Patrick kept up his
studies even when Pete was crying into his shoulder, or asleep in     Patrick’s
lap after confessing to sins as if Patrick were some sort of saint, and could
redeem him.   Patrick kept his books, the old ones with leather bindings and a
smell like rotten frog corpses, on him at all times. Read when Pete looked to
be asleep.
  At that time, he was stressed, tired, but still so willing to pull all-
nighters if Pete had fallen asleep during the day and he couldn’t have studied
during that time.
A couple close calls with Pete reading, or seeing, the books made Patrick
realize maybe it was impossible to keep a friendship built on lies.
   Technically, it wasn’t completely built on lies. Pete knew Patrick’s name,
his interest in the undead and music, despite his mother’s warnings about not
having time. Pete knew that Patrick never liked girls, knew Patrick wasn’t
planning on telling his mother until he was able to run to his own home and
hide from her, or ever in general.
Pete knew things Patrick wasn’t willing to let his parents know, his brother or
sister. Pete had a lot of Patrick’s secrets, and it wasn’t fair that Patrick
would keep the biggest one away from Pete like he had for years of their
friendship.
And Patrick considered Pete as something more like family than his own. But in
a way that Patrick wouldn’t admit.
  He remembered nights after Pete left the hospital where he ignored his
studies to sing to Pete. And he remembered watching Pete’s chest rise and fall
with his breath, just looking for reassurance that Pete was alive. Alive.
Now was nothing like that.
  Patrick was still curled against Pete’s side, singing softly, but there
wasn’t any movement. Nothing to reassure Patrick that Pete was alive.
It left something like a hole in Patrick’s chest, thinking that Pete might
never wake up, there being no reason for him to anymore.  He could admit,
maybe, he missed Pete’s shallow, sobbing breaths in the darkness of the
basement, selfishly. He missed the feeling of Pete’s mouth pressed against the
soft skin of his stomach, the one touch he’d always flinch away from if anyone
else did it.
But Pete wasn’t dead. He wasn’t alive either.
   Patrick sat on the bed,  a packet of cold blood in his hand like a weapon,
held away from his body but not towards Pete. Pete was still asleep.
Patrick had just gone up to the house to get the box of items from Andy, who
shrugged when Patrick tried to explain and shut him up with a quick “I don’t
need to know.” and just left. He made it back in seconds.
   See, Patrick had a thing about human blood. He didn’t consider that gray-red
stuff that vamps bled out actual human blood. More like stolen blood that got
fucked with too much. He had a thing about human blood. It made his stomach
flip and his usually nonexistent gag reflex trigger.
He shuddered and thought about how he could open the bag without all of that
blood getting all over the place. He hadn’t got the tubes or that stringy wires
he needed to put it directly into Pete’s system, which would be ideal so Pete
never got a feel for actually biting. 
   Patrick sighed, he didn’t really want to open the bag, or risk opening the
bag, before Pete was awake enough to use it but he also knew that Pete could
only go so long without physically needing the blood to maintain his half dead
state.
And by half dead, Patrick was just consoling himself. Pete was past half-dead.
And Patrick just wanted this blood in his system so he could hear Pete’s heart
beat again, if only for just a minute.
Patrick gagged at the feel of the blood moving in the bag, felt for a moment
like he might throw up, he looked up to regain his control.
And then a grip closed around his, Patrick’s eyes shot open and looked down at
a very familiar, very cold hand. Patrick blinked up to see Pete’s familiar eyes
smiling back at him, a glint of questioning there but no words.
 “I-” Patrick started, stopping too fast.
The thing was, Patrick didn’t know howto explain the whole “holding a bag of
blood” thing. But when he looked at Pete again, he realized he might not need
to explain it.
 “Just…”
Patrick shifted, pressed the bag into Pete’s hand, swallowing through the
dryness in his throat at the swoosh in the bag that the movement caused.
  “I mean…”
  "‘trick.” Pete said, hushing Patrick without actually telling him to shut up.
“I think I know what I have to do.”
And Patrick frowned, blinked against the wetness in his eyes.
Pete smiled at him then, and Patrick recoiled.
    The four long teeth he had seen before. He remembered during long nights,
with Pete asleep on his bed, studying those teeth. In the place where humans
had their cuspid teeth, four long, needle sharp fangs resided in the mouth of a
vampire.
Nothing like the stories in pop culture. Instead, a little more like cat teeth
only so sharp and with weird mechanics. Elongating when hunger was too
pressing, shorting and looking almost like the normal cuspid when the need was
met.
Pete didn’t seem to notice Patrick’s break, his eyes had fallen from Patrick’s
to the bag, red and maybe too cold for Pete’s liking, and that made Patrick
feel a little better. That Pete didn’t see his anger, his hurt. Confusion.  
   Normally when your best friend died, you didn’t expect to be feeding them
again. And, yeah, Patrick was maybe a bit confused about that. Not his mind,
but his heart. Clutched and weeping at the thought of Patrick’s first love
dead.
Patrick let himself touch Pete’s arm, met his eyes like he had that first time.
Blue mixing and swirling with bubbling hot whiskey, flaked now with blood red.
He wanted to kiss Pete but he wouldn’t. Instead he smiled, weak but it was
enough and nodded down at the bag.
 “Just bite it?” Patrick suggested.
 
Pete shrugged a little, brought that bag to his mouth and gingerly bit down.
Patrick saw the moment the blood tasted Pete’s tongue, watched Pete’s eyes
flare red, and it was amazing.
Amazingly and disgusting, true, but also kind of amazing how it drew up Pete’s
color. Flushed his skin in a way Patrick could recognize from summer days on
the shoreline with Pete’s loud happy laughter.
Patrick could ignore the blood that eased out of Pete’s mouth. He smiled,
reached for the empty bag when Pete offered it back, and he didn’t feel
endangered.
   “More?” Pete asked.
   “Not yet, okay?” Patrick wanted to give him what he wanted.
Chapter End Notes
     Sticky adventures into the world of the gross and disturbing.
     Comment, share, show you care!
     Love you all, my little obsessions.
End Notes
     So it's official, thanks to my sweetest role model, I have myself a
     poetry Tumblr.
     Here's_a_link
     And if that doesn't work, you can always just click the link here:
     http://nununiversicontritum.tumblr.com/
     Or do the whole copy/paste thing.
     Comment, Share, Show You Care!
     Love you, my little obsessions.
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