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greatooglymooglyyy · 27 days

Text

If We Were Vampires (C.S.)

summary: chris learns to look past his fear of growing up for a future with the girl of his dreams

contains: angst, lots of emotions, chris pov, 3rd person, a bit of fluff, some suggestive content, cussing, 1.5k words

“So what, Chris? You expect me to just sit around waiting for you to man up?”

“I never said you had to. If you feel like you wanna go, then go.”

Chris replays the moment over and over again as he lies in his bed, staring up at the ceiling. It’s been a week, and he still can’t figure out what went so wrong. He doesn’t even know how it started. But then again, he doesn’t know how any of this started.

Everybody knows what he thinks about relationships. Or more accurately how much he never thinks about them. There were just a million other things he found more interesting than chasing after some fairytale of finding the one.

But then he met her. She’d come out of nowhere, like a siren in her flowy white dress, and he’d been stuck in her orbit ever since.

He tries to call her again, but the phone goes straight to voicemail. If it wasn’t for his texts going through, he’d be sure he was blocked. Frustration floods over him and he goes to make another call before realizing she is the one he’d normally call when he felt like this.

“God, I feel so stupid.” He says, sniffling and burying his face in her neck.

“It's not stupid. You’re allowed to be sad.” She replies, her voice soothing as she runs her fingers through his hair.

“Over the fucking ninja turtles?” He asks, laughing a bit at himself at how dramatic he feels.

“Over your childhood coming to an end.” She supplies, pulling away so she can look him in the eyes. “You’re allowed to be scared of what comes next.”

He lets out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding as his eyes bounce between her kind warm ones. Somehow this girl he never went looking for has become one of the only people who can talk him off the edge.

He rests his head on her chest, listening to her heartbeat for a while before he speaks again.

“Come with me to what’s next," he requests quietly, a prickle of fear rising when he realizes how much he means it.

She's silent for a beat before she holds him tighter. “If you let me,” she whispers, the slightest tinge of sadness coating her words.

The only thing in his head now is her face. Her face when she lay next to him, wiping away at his tears. Her face when he’d agree to watch one of her lame shows just to see her smile. Her face before she stormed out of his house, her hand swiping over her eyes to fight back any tears. It makes him sick to think of her like that. But it makes him even sicker to know it was his fault.

He wants to go to his brothers’ room for advice but he knows what they will say and he needs to figure this out for himself. Opening up his notes app, he begins a list of pros and cons, making the title her name and typing until his fingers ache. He stares at the list, his vision going blurry with emotion. One side is so much longer, it’s almost comical and he chokes out a laugh that turns into a sob.

There’s only one thing that haunts both sides of his list and it makes his chest ache. ‘one day, I’ll lose her.’

It’s the truth no matter which way he spins it. They might get months. They might get forty years. But one day one of them will be left behind.

Chris closes his eyes, resolve taking hold of him suddenly. He might lose her eventually. But it doesn’t have to be today.

He picks his phone up to send her a voice memo, hoping against hope that she’ll listen and understand. “Hey…I tried calling but…um…I guess you don’t want to talk to me yet. Which I get.” He sighs, annoyed at himself for how bad he’s rambling.

“Listen, I’ve been an idiot. All that bullshit about labels and dating, I didn’t mean any of it. I was just scared. But I’m way more scared of letting you walk away from me. I’m ready to grow up… or at least I’m ready to try.” He pulls his finger up, letting the memo send as he cringes at his stupid way with words.

Shaking his head and letting go of whatever morsel of ego he has left, he records another message. “Anyway, if you think you can give us another shot, please come tonight. We’re still having our craft night. It will be fun. I know Nick wants to see you… and I.. I need to see you too. Let me know.”

Hours later, he’s leaning against the kitchen counter staring at the nonexistent replies in their thread when Matt walks over.

“You alright, man?” He asks, a hint of concern in his tone. He takes a spot next to his brother, peering over to see what has his attention. Matt sighs when he sees her name and places a hand on Chris’ shoulder. “You gotta stop torturing yourself.”

Chris looks up at his brother, trying and failing to hide the shine in his eyes. “I really fucked this up, didn’t I?”

Matt can’t quite find the words for a moment, stunned at the hurt on his brother's face. He composes himself quickly, biting his lip and shaking his head. “It’s going to be okay. She’ll come or she won’t. And then we’ll know.”

As their friends start to pile in and crowd around the table, Chris forces himself to stay in the moment. After his third time of running to the door at a knock and it not being her, he stays glued to his chair, trying to focus on his diamond painting.

He tries feebly to be a good host, making small talk and mild quips about Madi’s technique, but he’d like nothing more than to head downstairs and rot in his room.

Nick catches Matt’s eye, the two exchanging a brief “what the fuck do we do” glance before they head over to him. Nick leans over his shoulder, commenting on how hard of a pattern Chris chose but he just gives a disinterested nod in return.

Determined to make him laugh, Nick starts to go big, starting down rants that he knows Chris will love. He considers it a personal win when he hears Chris’ trademark laugh and places his hands on his brother's shoulders.

Chris looks up at his brothers, knowing despite their efforts to be sly exactly what they are doing, and gives them a small weak smile. He places his phone face down and gives his friends his full attention. There will be plenty of other nights to miss her.

“Must be the pizzas,” Nick mutters when he hears a faint knock on the door. He jogs down and swings the door open, stopping in his tracks when he sees her. A smile of relief breaks across his face and he pulls her into a tight hug, whispering a soft “thank god.”

They go up the stairs together, anxiousness taking hold of her when she spots him across the room. “Hi everyone.” She says quietly, the chatter pausing for a second as they look up at her.

They call out greetings but she doesn’t hear a word because Chris meets her eye, blinking slowly as if he’s convincing himself she’s really there. She wants to apologize. For being late, for ignoring his calls. But there are so many people here so she waits.

He wants to go to her and sweep her up in his arms. He wants to kiss her until they run out of air, make her understand exactly how much he wants this. But there are so many people here so he waits.

But it’s okay. For the first time, he’s confident that they’ve got time. For the first time, he’s relieved with how much time left there is to give her.

Tonight he’ll tell her for the first time how much he loves her. Tonight she’ll tell him back in a thousand different ways, her nails leaving small trails down his back as his skin meets hers again and again. And tonight he’ll watch her chest rise and fall until he can make himself believe she’s real.

But for now, he just breathes out a ragged breath and holds out his arms for her. So she goes to him, settling into his lap and starting a painting of her own. And even if he can’t make this last forever, he can have it now. And maybe it will even be enough.

🏷️: @sttzee @tillies33ssss @miloisdone1 @sstvrnioloo @junnniiieee07 @sturnioloslurps @mrsmiagreer @asturniolos

@teapartyprincess4two @whicked-hazlatwhore @sukiipjs @fratbrochrisgf @sturniolosmind @imfromthediningtable @rootbeerworshiper @st4rswrld @thvvluvr @sturnssmuts @littlenerdybee @sturniolossss @iloveneilperry @eclipzw @chrissloverrrrrrr16 @sstvrnioloo

@clemlament @maryx2xx @fwskullz @luv4kozume

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my-love-is-sunlight · 3 months

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In your orbit

Portgas D. Ace x Singer!Reader drabble

Warnings: none, just fluff, fem reader

The song that I reference:

𝄞₊ ⊹

Love is tender

Sounds like your favorite song

Looks like the sun coming trough the window warming your cold skin

Tastes like your favorite dessert

Or so you thought until you met the second commander of white-beards pirate crew, fire fist Ace… now you doubted, you were almost sure love was anything within his orbit

You filled your lungs with the salted evening air before continuing humming the tune of a song you were writing, holding your “baby guitar” as Ace called it, while bathing on the last rays of sunset

“I thought it was a songbird on the deck”- you heard in that familiar voice you so adored the sound of, you turned your back startled a bit, Ace’s footsteps were heard getting closer, then he sat down beside you sighing in a relaxing manner

You giggle a bit- “I am not that great at singing”, you said looking down at your instrument again and continuing on playing the tune on its strings. “You must be kidding!” Ace exclaimed overly dramatic as he always was and laughed, you shook your head, “I am almost sure that the birds are jealous of you and they stop singing to listen to you” he said in a flirty tone while he got closer to you in a playful way

His words lingered in the air for a while, your rosy cheeks being the only trace of what he had said to you

You cleared your throat and changed the subject, “Have you ever played an instrument before?”- you asked looking anywhere but at his eyes, you were sure you’ll melt away if you did, “Nu uh” Ace answered while laying back, his hat covering his eyes and his hand behind his head- “Too busy being awesome to learn” he grinned

You smiled and looked back at the ocean and began to sing, Ace moved his hat to see you better

♫

Tell me, lover

Now that you made your change

Was your soul rediscovered?

Was your heart rearranged?

The sound of your voice, mixed with the notes coming out of your ukulele made Ace feel like he was floating, everything else disappeared when you sang

Ace sometimes had to stop his selfish thoughts of wanting to catch you like a songbird in his window so that you would only sing for him. No one else in the crew, hell, in the world he thought, could appreciate you and your talent like he did

You stopped and gasped when you felt a sudden weight on your side and a sigh that tickled your neck, “Keep singing songbird… please”- oh that nickname, it made you shiver and your stomach flutter, it was hard to continue the tune, but you did, with trembling hands and shaky breath

♫

I miss this place, your head and your heart

Ace held in a giggle, he knew that whenever he was just a little too close to you, you’ll went from a confident woman to a red shaky stumbling mess.

Ever since you first joined just some months ago after saving a member of white-beards crew in your island, it was evident how Ace was drawn to you, you always saw it as him being friendly and welcoming, but after a while Ace had gathered the courage to get to know you, gain your trust and be a flirt.

He liked how someone as romantic and artistic as you, was also a very fearless fighter, he just wanted to decipher you.

♫

'Cause this town's just an ocean now

The last note left your lips, “What do you think about the song Ace?” You asked just to be met with Ace’s loud snores, you smiled fondly at the pirate. The rays of sun kissed his freckles and the wind made the hair that sticked out of his hat dance, your heart fluttered.

Ace as feared as he was, he always seemed to be so tender with you, your presence was like a lullaby to him. You put your instrument away and stared at him a while more.

Love is tender, and for Ace, love was also in your orbit

𝄞₊ ⊹

Hey! This is just a little something I wrote, I actually had fun so if you like it tell me!

#drabble #one piece #portgas d ace #one piece x reader #portgas d ace x reader #portgas d ace x you #portgas d ace x y/n #one piece x y/n #ace x reader #ace x you #ace x y/n #writing #one piece fanfiction #ace #Spotify

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wannab-urs · 8 months

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Faulty System

Graphic: Old Friends by James R. Eads

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x f!reader (i don’t really specify gender here, but the reader is afab in prior installments)

Summary: It’s easy to let all the bad parts of being with Dieter obscure the beauty of who he was. You try not to. WC: ~900

Warnings: // in order // drug and alcohol use, Major Character Death (in the past), talking to your toxic mother, excessive cursing bc that’s how I talk sorry, discussion of mental illness, discussions of like idk… physical deterioration due to mental health and drug abuse, implied sex dream turned nightmare, no happy ending, trauma dumping (not in the fic, that’s just what I’m doing)

A/N: Thanks to @theywhowriteandknowthings and @atinylittlepain for reading and discussing with me <3 eternally fucking grateful to y’all. This fic is based somewhat loosely on the song Your Needs, My Needs by Noah Kahan, which is about watching someone you love become a ghost of themselves due to addiction. I know very few people want to read a pairing//x reader fic where the other half is dead, and I really appreciate all of you who read and love my Dieter fics. I don’t know how I can ever describe how it feels to have someone tell you they read the darkest parts of your soul and found something good in it. Love y’all. also i should probably wait to post this but i have no self control :)

Series Masterlist | Dieter Bravo Masterlist | Main Masterlist | AO3 | Kofi

You asked me why I wasn't sayin' a word I'm namin' the stars in the sky after you

A late night walk, something you do to get him out of the apartment. Giggling as you slip the hastily rolled joint from his teeth. You press it to your lips and draw acrid smoke into your lungs, push it back out into the humid air and walk through a haze of your own creation. You’re drunk, maybe. High, definitely. Dieter wraps his arms around you from behind and you awkwardly waddle-walk down the sidewalk, tangled up.

He presses a kiss to the space behind your ear and you scrunch your shoulder up, shrugging him away. “Fuckin tickles!” You squirm away from him and break into a run, tossing the joint behind you, laughing and squealing as he chases you. You skid to a stop behind your usual tree in the park. Press your back into the bark. “I see you, baby. Can’t hide from me.”

You make a break for it. A stumbling, stuttering start and his arms are around you in a flash, pulling you to his chest as he hits the ground on his back. Howling hyena laughter ringing in the quiet midnight air. He kisses you, sucking all the air right out of your lungs, breathing it back into you. You separate only to turn in his arms and crash back into him, hands fisting in his curls, bodies pressed together down to your toes. He makes you dizzy, a little sick, disoriented.

You flop onto your back next to him, staring at the night sky awash with stars as you fight to catch your breath. You get quiet, gazing at the stars. He asks why. “Just thinking.” He waits for you to continue, knows to let you work it out first.

“You burn so fucking bright, Dee. It lights up the whole sky.” He smiles and brings your hand to his chapped lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

You don’t tell him he’s like the stars you learned about from that space documentary you like to fall asleep to. They burn incredibly hot and bright. More than any other star. And then they burn out. They’re quick about it. They light up the night sky for this infinitesimal amount of time compared to something like a red dwarf. And then they’re gone, collapsing in on themselves and taking anything unlucky enough to be caught in their orbit with them.

“Only for you.”

You were a work of art That's the hardest part

A meeting with your mom, a year and change after. She’s sitting in his seat, probably doesn’t even realize. You can’t look at her, your eyes flicking between your untouched tea and the window. So many days spent lying under that tree, just across the street. Tugging each other by the hand into this coffee shop. Curling up in the booth and talking for hours.

“I honestly don’t get why you’re still so upset. You were together for less time than it’s been since…” She trails off, not wanting to actually say the words. Since he died. “He hurt you. He’s still hurting you. He wasn’t good for you.” She says it matter of factly, like it’s common knowledge.

“Don’t fucking tell me he wasn’t good for me. You don’t know that. No one fucking knew him like I did. No one even gave him a chance. I had to watch this brilliant man turn into a goddamn ghost in front of me and no one else even gave a shit.”

“He turned you into a ghost too.”

You drag your palm across your face, smearing tears into your hairline.

“The sad part is – we were fucking gorgeous together. It wasn’t always bad, you know? He made me feel alive and beautiful and fucking… real. Like no one ever had before. He was incredible. He was so fucking smart. Kind, talented. Wonderful. He was wonderful.”

Trace the outlines of your dreams You'll always be a flower on my skin

A dream, a memory maybe. A blur of white sheets, dark curls tinged with blue paint. Gasps and sighs. Lips and tongue and teeth everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Eyes you never quite catch a glimpse of. Every feeling fleeting and just out of reach. Indents of fingers on your skin, dragging rough down your legs. These you feel. Hooking into you and nearly pulling you with him as he slips away. You swear you wake up with bloody streaks down to your calves. God it fucking hurts.

Watching him slowly kill himself, knowing it was happening, and not being able to do a damn thing about it, that was the hardest part. Towards the… the end... Fuck. When lucidity completely escaped him, he was scared. Terrified of himself and everyone around him. In his rare moments of clarity he was always so bitter, so angry at himself for not being what you needed. He punished himself. Didn’t eat, didn’t sleep, didn’t speak. You think you hated him a little, by the end.

Still. You don’t think you’re ever getting him out of your system. There was too much good in him to not forgive him for the bad. The rotten, broken, crumbling part at the center of him that took him from you. You watched him fall in on himself and you did nothing about it. Could do nothing about it. Helpless.

You cross that county line I promise to be there this time, alright?

–-------------------

Series Masterlist

-------------------

Thanks for reading <3

I don't really do tag lists anymore usually but:

@ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @mandoisapunk @amanitacowboy @pamasaur @cool-iguana (and I'll just drop a link to the rest of ya <3)

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro fics #pedro pascal character fanfiction #Dieter Bravo #Dieter Bravo fics #Dieter Bravo fan fiction #Dieter Bravo x reader #Dieter Bravo x you #The Bubble #pedrostories #dieter bravo x f!reader #the bubble fanfiction #Spotify

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throwingmetothelions · 10 months

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@the-way-of-words requested 97 with Nicholas my unashamed favorite and … well …

Smut Prompt 97. “do you think about me when you touch yourself?”

Nicholas x OC

The way his heart beat against her back was a feeling she’d only hoped to intensify.

Nicholas had brought her to the bedroom and wordlessly lifted her up to lay against him. Wearing nothing at all himself, he spread her bare thighs apart with calloused hands and a well placed “good girl”.

Those same hands gently gathered her hair up and let it fall down the left side of her face, granting him space to slot his head on the right slope of her neck.

He leaned in and inhaled. Vanilla and amber took over as he kissed the shell of her ear. “You know what you do to me,” he cants his hips up slightly to let her feel his growing dick against her ass, “but I’ve been curious about just what it is I do to you,” he whispers as his hand travels up and takes hold of her waist.

Her breath comes out a little harsher as her heart rate picks up.

———

They’d been seeing each other for a few months with one of those months being long distance because of tour. Long nights spent in a tour bus bunk or a venue bathroom gripping the fuck out of his aching cock because no, she didn’t send pictures.

She sent videos. With sound.

Nick would jerk off and have no choice but to leave himself messy as he tucked his dick away. He had never been one to get so spontaneously horny that fixing his problem was the only way to regain focus, but fuck if the curve of her hips and that tummy and those perfectly natural tits didn’t do him in. He considered leaving a day early after the last show just to have them to himself again.

———

Those fingers drop down and Nick can see the wet spot forming in the front of her panties - can make out how wet her slit is as the fabric clings to her. “Did I do this?” he wonders out loud.

“Yes,” and the way it falls from her mouth has him thinking that it might not have actually been a word.

Ignoring the absolute ache in his cock at the sight, he takes his middle finger and gently rubs over her. Just barely touching.

She can’t stop her toes from curling up. Wouldn’t even if she could have. “Nick please,” she whined.

“We’re gonna get there,” he says while kissing her head. “Remember … your only job is to show me.”

He helped her pull those panties off he took note of where they landed because you’re goddamn right those belong to him now and he let the fingers on his right hand skim along her inner thighs.

Her back bowed slightly as his rough hand taunted the sensitive skin at the point where her thigh met her mound. “Goddammit,” she gritted out without moving her teeth. If she didn’t get some hard friction against her slick cunt there was a chance that a new star would be born from her inevitable combustion.

Nick got the hint and slowly worked that middle finger past her outer lips and deep in between those wet folds before bringing it back out to circle her clit. “Do you think about me when you touch yourself,” his voice raspy with desire and blinding arousal, “and you better be honest,” his fingertip tapped at her clit causing a string of her wetness to connect the two. Without thinking he brought it up to his mouth and groaned as the heady taste spread over his tongue.

Her pupils were fucking blown. “Yeah I do. Think about - about like when you ate me out at Noah’s house when-n everybody passed out. Or - god Nick keep rubbing like that … like when you let me bounce on your cock a-and you were trying to hnnn talk to Jolly about merch sales at the same time,” and she couldn’t tell if her ass had flown off the bed or not, but Nick and those fucking fingers sent her into orbit.

He’s wrapped his left arm around her tits to hold her back on him, and her blunt fingernails dig into his colorful forearm as her back arches off the bed. Nick’s eyes are locked down at the mess he’s making as he draws wide circles around her bud, stopping every now and then to drag that finger down to her opening and back up. “Mhmmmm shit,” is all he can get out because her ass was still working itself back on his cock and he spent time praying to any god that would listen to keep him as far away from an orgasm as possible. At least until she came for him.

She’s not strong enough to send the both of them backwards against the pillows, but if he didn’t know any better he could say that she tried. Nothing but wall shaking moans and full body shakes are coming from her now.

“You’re gonna cum all over these fingers, huh,” he plants a kiss on her sweat streaked cheek. “You’re gonna cum, and then I’m gonna let you sit on it and you’re - fuck. You’re gonna ride it, and I - I wanna see how you touch yourself. Wanna see how you touch yourself when you think about me,” he bites the skin of her shoulder to distract himself from the way his leaking tip feels against her bucking lower back.

She cracks to absolute pieces under him. Feels his middle and ring fingers fuck into her as his palm bumps her clit. Her hands flew and grabbed the forearm and wrist of the arm that was still working her over as she came down, scratching as if that could stop him.

He slowly draws his fingers out and he watches her lips as she cleans them off for him. Strong arms slowly twist her around as she gets on top; one hand holding his wrists above his head, one hand grabbing his cock to line it up.

“Now Nick,” she says with a gasp as she sinks down, “let’s talk about what you keep on that brain of yours when you’re gone”.

#bad omens fanfiction #bad omens fanfic #bad omens fic #bad omens #noah sebastian #nicholas ruffilo #nick folio #jolly karlsson #auntievwroteit

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furiosophie · 1 year

Note

Hellooo

I'm halfway through rereading post·mor·tem for... I don't know how many times already and my friend has already finished it and is dying because of how good it is. The Thranto brainrot is too real, good job, you are one of the best fic writers out there, we will send you the hospital bills.

We were wondering if you listened to any music while writing it or if you have any specific song that helps your inspiration for this ship.

Thank you for writing this, I'm going to pile up some kleenex for when I finish it.

thank u anon, i'm so glad you both like the fic!!!!!

i did listen to music while writing, in fact i can't write anything without music and thus tend to have a playlist for pretty much every one of my fics! here's the one for postmortem:

🪐 post·mor·tem playlist 🪐

yes it's chronological, yes i am aware it's maybe a bit too detailed, and yes if you wanna know exactly which song fits where i left it all under the cut

✨ file 01 // an act of kindness - bastille

tentative friendship

hiding - florence + the machine

they nearly die and start pinning hard

half alive - amber run

violet city - mansionair

they slowly realize they are doomed

hardest of hearts - florence + the machine

thanatos (end of us) - j. maya

thrawn sends eli away

a memory away - matt maeson

✨ file 02 // remind me - bastille

thrawn knows he fucked up but tries to justify it/turn it around

hollow crown - ellie goulding

state lines - novo amor [resurfaced memories]

two evils - bastille

good day lieutenant vanto and aftermath

mercy - shawn mendes

make up your mind - florence + the machine

thrawn admits to himself he lost just as he realizes he loves eli

in between - linkin park

they make up but it still all sucks

one last night - vaults

we have it all - pim stones

✨ borika interlude (eli scenes)

eli struggles with thrawn going MIA

saudade, saudade - maro

✨ file 03 // don’t let go (love) - bastille

ezra and thrawn try to survive together

solitude - M83, felsmann + tiley

i know the end - phoebe bridgers

long & lost - florence + the machine

ezra and thrawn scream into the forest

my tears are becoming a sea - M83

thrawn tries to hold on to the thought of eli while captured

the night we met - amber run

they get rescued

blood // water - grandson

ii.

eli is fucking pissed at thrawn

what kind of man - florence + the machine

blender - 5 seconds of summer

would’ve, could’ve, should’ve - taylor swift

thrawn tries to wrap his head around eli’s anger with the help of mak’ro and broika’s

high water - bishop briggs

the hearse - matt maeson

rescuing thalias and aftermath

love me - wide awake, jacob banks

foreign tongues - crywolf [bathroom scene]

they finally make up

constellations - jade lemac

iii.

they fall into each other's orbit again

war - chance pena

thrawn has to say goodbye to ezra and borika

still - noah kahan

they struggle with their guilt and trauma

daylight - david kushner

final stand

gravitational forces - itg studios

how deep is your love? Mashup - hans zimmer, calvin harris, hozier

they heal and rebuild [thrass grave & tava blossoms]

evergreen - richy mitch & the coal miners

surprise wedding

everything everywhere - noah kahan

they decide to infiltrate the empire again

as it was - hozier

#thranto #postmortem #yes i am aware i'm a bit insane about playlists #i just listen to music pretty much 24/7 so #idk it's bound to happen #soph answers asks

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billdenbrough · 1 year

Text

“We’re out of juice,” is what Ronan says when he sits down beside Gansey, legs sprawling across the floor in contrast to Gansey’s carefully-crossed ones. Their knees still touch, like Ronan has been pulled into Gansey’s orbit so completely that it extends even to his limbs, a fact of the universe written out even on the most mundane of scales.

It’s a good representation of them: Gansey, cross-legged in soft cotton sweatpants, as if the lack of visible branding will make it any less evident to someone like Ronan—or Parrish, if he were here, but he’d know that the way he always does, the differences between him and Gansey mapped out on that invisible layer Adam holds between them, the one Gansey likes to pretend doesn’t exist—that they cost at least three figures; Ronan, leaning back a little, wearing his shitty expensive jeans that Parrish hates so much, the ones that cost at least four figures and Ronan doesn’t care about the washing instructions for, the ones fraying at the knee that Ronan has pressed up against the junction of where Gansey’s knee meets thigh.

This is the truth of things: two boys who look very, very different, but are more connected than you’d think, if you look closely enough. If it’s not their eyes, it’s their knees. If it’s not their knees, it’s their souls.

Ronan’s opinion on his soul’s eternal state is a complicated thing, but the way it matches Gansey’s is never in doubt. Not to him.

A two-headed-beast, Ronan thinks, staring out at Gansey’s insomnia-driven cardboard rendition of Henrietta. Gansey says excelsior, and Ronan’s the fucking sword cutting through. Onwards and upwards, no matter what.

“What, again?” Gansey replies.

Gansey looks like shit, so Ronan tells him so instead of answering.

He also looks like a king, handsome and regal and untouchable. He also looks like a boy, young and soft around the edges, like how ink fades with time. He also looks like everything Ronan has ever believed in, like a room in Monmouth Manufacturing and driving to the Barns and chasing down Glendower and needing help with Latin, like the gasoline-lit curve of his mouth saying the difference is we matter / dream me the world / ronan, like Ronan’s name is somehow worth holding safe in his mouth.

Ronan does not tell him any of those things.

“It’s hard to meet the standards for male beauty without juice,” Gansey remarks.

Adam says that Ronan isn’t as honest as he says he is; that telling the truth is not the same as being honest, and that Ronan might not lie, but that’s not the same thing. He says this a lot, in various ways, but especially he says it when Ronan is looking at Gansey, and Adam is watching the way they move around each other.

He’s probably right. Otherwise Ronan would tell Gansey that there’s no version of him that isn’t beautiful, and not just because of his inherited pretty face and nice clothes. It’s the kind of knowledge that just is, the sort of thing you live with and learn to move around, like how a punch to the chest leaves an ache throbbing through your entire rib cage. Ronan is bruised with it, the knowledge of all Gansey is, how impossible and exquisite and fucking fundamental he is to Ronan’s continued existence.

“Sounds like a you problem, Dick,” Ronan replies. Gansey makes a face, always hearing the capital letter when Ronan says it, and Ronan grins at him, like always. It’s a routine, this; there is a rhythm to the way they co-exist, one that had been established prior to Ronan moving into Monmouth, but has only become more entrenched in their bones in the time since. “We could get some more.”

Gansey considers this. It’s a common occurrence, these two a.m. juice runs. It’s a wonder they never realised Noah was fucking dead, honestly, considering he never came with them but never gave any indication of sleeping either.

Then again, rituals leave little room for doubt, and nights like this are a ritual for them. They always have been, even before Monmouth, and Niall Lynch’s death, and Ronan forgetting how to smile without his mouth turning into a knife. Ronan-and-Gansey, always up against the world together, whether it be ley lines and dead fathers or an inability to sleep and a lack of acceptable beverage options.

There aren’t many things Ronan relies on. Richard Gansey III—all the versions of him, including his annoying Congresswoman’s son one, and the one that holds all the wild burning pieces inside him so the other Ganseys may remain contained and safe for consumption, and the one he has right now, this teenage boy with grand goals and hair mussed from tossing and turning on his pillow before he gave up—is one of them.

Nights like this, with the Henrietta air sweet with past rain and no fucking juice in the fridge but four of Blue’s favourite yoghurt for some goddamn reason and Gansey right beside him, are another.

“Okay,” Gansey says finally, pressing his knee a little deeper into Ronan’s in a bump of warmth and acknowledgement and something that burns quietly in that part of Ronan’s chest he does his best not to name. “Let’s go get some juice.”

#trc #ronan lynch #gansey #ronan x gansey #ronsey #richard gansey #the raven cycle #this is definitely not the longest thing i've put here lol but for once i am not writing on my phone so we get to use a read more <3 #these tags are a fucking wreck bc of gansey's ridiculous name #anyway i wrote this for a flash exchange and thought it kinda fit the bill of the stuff i normally put here so #[gestures blankly] have at it if there are any trc crew amongst u #ara is the only one i can be sure of and idk if you'll even see this babes but if u do [blows kiss to the sky]#jane writes sometimes

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daisyapples · 1 year

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Holy shit, you guys, I just passed a 100,000 hits on my A03 account. 100,000 hits on my little stories about boys in love! I’m gobsmacked! Thank you all so much. To anyone who has ever taken the time to read my stories, I appreciate you!

All my stories are under the cut! Thank you all so much!!

Raven Boys- Pynch

Broken Things and Homecomings

Ronan Lynch has just returned from war; hot deserts, gunfire and bad memories. He's not sleeping or eating and the only thing keeping him functioning is his army buddy Noah.

Adam Parrish got out. He got out of Henrietta, and then he got dragged back in by his dad's funeral and his mom's illness. Now he's back at Boyds trying to figure out how his electrical engineering masters ended with him becoming a mechanic.

Delivery Boy

Ronan Lynch was crying when he opened the door. He didn't look like someone who would cry; his shaved head, sharp cheekbones and violent mouth looked more attuned to anger than tears. The attitude he had in school, when he turned up, didn't exactly scream person who cried.

Except he was crying and Adam had no idea what to do so he just said, “Eh, that'll be thirty five dollars please.”

(AKA Adam is a pizza boy and Ronan is crying and they are not friends even though Gansey wants them to be.)

Where does the good go?

Ronan has no idea why Adam broke up with him. Two years have passed and he hasn't seen Adam since, but with them both being Godparents to Gansey and Blue's new baby, it's time to face the past and maybe find the answers he's been looking for.

Talk some sense to me

Adam just found out that without being married, he'll lose half his scholarship for his MBA. He's pretty sure he can blame the next words on temporary insanity, the words saying he's engaged to his best friend and they'll get married in the next five days if it means he gets to keep his scholarship.

Now he just has to convince Ronan.

That'll probably be the easy part considering he's going to have to hide the fact he's been in love with Ronan since he was eighteen.

Hear you me

Adam met Nomad on an Aglionby forum, and they've been texting ever since. He doesn't know who he is, but when they meet at a Halloween dance, and he finds out that it's Ronan Lynch, Aglionby's star striker and resident bad boy, he runs.

Only Ronan's not ready to let go of Harvardboy, the one person who seems to understand him as an artist, not a soccer player, who seems to understand his grief and make the world more bearable, whose allowed some light back into his darkened world.

Will Adam be brave enough to face down his stepfather Colin Greenmantle, and his evil stepbrothers, Kavinsky and Tad, to be with the boy he's slowly falling in love with?

The darker the night, the brighter the stars

In which Ronan is the prince, and Adam manages to save the kingdom.

Choices

Adam Parrish is rich. Ronan Lynch is poor.

When Adam's mom commissions the mysterious artist known only as The Dreamer to create a sculpture for her husband's 50th birthday, Adam and Ronan are pushed into each others orbit and they learn that their choices are the most important thing they have.

ghost of choices made

Ronan Lynch hasn't seen Adam Parrish in ten years.

Working for Greenmantle to protect his brothers, he said goodbye to Adam a long time ago, but when Adam's parents die, and Greenmantle insists Ronan protect him from the people after Adam's inheritance, they are thrown back into each others lives and have a second chance to make the choices they wanted to make years before.

(This is a continuation of my Choices fic but it focuses on what would have happened of Ronan had made a different choice in chapter 23.)

and I feel just like I'm living someone else's life

“Oh,” he says again. “You’re mine.”

Ronan smiles, and it is a smile made for war, and a smile made for love, and a smile made for holding the things you love tight and safe. “And you’re mine.”

and when the lights go dark i wanna feel you standing next to me

The world ended when the dead started to walk.

Adam has been alone for a long time, but when he finds four strangers and a broken down camaro on the side of the road, he agrees to help them reach the mysterious Barns and apparent safety from the walking dead.

Essay

The Vacuum of Silence: What happens when queer characters aren't allowed to speak

At the end of it all, this is not just a representation problem.

This is a narrative issue.

We deserved to see Bucky and Steve have a conversation on screen because the narrative demanded it. We deserved to see Dean respond to Cas because the narrative supported it. Eventually, pandering to the lowest common denominator within the audience means bad writing, means unsatisfying conclusions to stories which have been told over years, means wasting your audience's time.

Teen Wolf - Sterek

Compulsion

Wolf watched Stiles watching him. "Who are you?"

Stiles snorted. "Yeah, okay, pull up a chair and let me tell you my life story." He pointed at the mask. "This is not just to make me look badass. Although that is a handy side effect."

He shook his head. "No, I know you. Your scent." He inhaled deeply through flared nostrils.

Stiles took a step back. "Geez, man. Ever heard of manners? It's fucking rude to scent a person without permission."

He rolled his eyes. "Fine. Why do you keep saving us?"

"Dunno what your talking about." He rolled his bat nervously between his two hands. No one was supposed to notice. Although he knew that was a pipedream, a fairytale he clung to so he could feel safe. Being invisible to HQ was all he cared about. "I am just a helpful person who happened to be passing by."

Shaking the wings of their terrible youths

Stiles didn't expect much when he stopped a stranger being attacked in an alleyway.

He didn't expect the wolf following him around New York, didn't expect the help when he was sick, didn't expect the psycho blond attacking him, or the place to stay. He didn't expect the new family.

Oh, and he definitely didn't expect werewolves.

#a03 #fanfic #pynch #Sterek #Raven Cycle #teen wolf #derek x stiles #derek hale #stiles stilinski #ronan lynch #ronan x adam #Adam Parrish

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tunemyart · 1 year

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I mean, I know that the reason Trevor Langan keeps popping up on SVU after all this time is bc the actor is married to Mariska Hargitay, and anytime they're each other's "dates" to a thing it's just meta but... imagine. if all of this is all just setting up surprise!Olivia Benson/Trevor Langan endgame.

#i can't lie my inner chaos demon is rooting for it #u thought at this point eo endgame was inevitable now that elliot's back? SUCKERS #i'm just giggling so hard #also in the post-the wide orbit au that lives in my head where alex is working at his firm and he still helps facilitate olivia's #(and eventually alex's)#adoption of noah #i just have a whole ot3 vibes about them now that skates the edge of platonic #it's a little romancey #look if olivia doesn't get cougar rights with peter stone she deserves another Extremely Tall Man with a full head of hair #anyway trevors definitely on their babysitter rotation #one or both of them are regularly his dates to events depending on his partnered status and who's with noah that night #and before they know it they look up and realize how often they are all together #does trevor have a partner of some sort? idk #do i care? no #trevor has two girlfriends now #and those girlfriends are married. the end.#not taking criticism and trying to figure out how to tag this to avoid it getting pulled into discourse - maybe no tags for me #if you see it you see it

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fidgetspringer-art · 5 months

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The story

Here's a little summary of Martin and Noah's overall history together for those interested!

They meet when Martin finds the mangled wreck of a motorcycle on the side of a road. Black lines of rubber snaking along the asphalt behind it.

Figuring this is the world’s way of making Martin pay it forward after surviving his own accident, he helps Noah to the hospital where he sticks around for a bit and they get to know each other.

When Noah is discharged he’s left stranded with a wrecked bike and nowhere to go, so Martin offers him a room at his farm while his broken wrist heals and while he fixes his bike, in exchange for a helping hand around the farm. Noah accepts and the two of them hit if off a lot better than either of them could have expected.

They spend the first several years knowing each other in what is in a lot of ways a very domestic relationship, while it's also nothing like that at all.

Martin never leaves the homestead for longer than he has to. Only to resupply or to trade produce with a few of his nearest neighbours, who are the closest thing he has to friends.

Meanwhile, Noah comes and goes a lot like a stray cat.

Sometimes he's only gone for a few days, other times he's gone for months. Martin mourns his absence every time he leaves, but suddenly he'll turn up again and it'll be like he never left at all.

Sometimes Noah sticks around long enough that Martin starts to think he might actually stay for good this time. Until he gets the itch again and vanishes like it doesn't rip Martin apart every time.

Sometimes Noah comes home with a gift and a good story. Other times he comes back with a black eye and fresh scars, or hiding bruises that Martin only catches glimpses of in passing.

So while their relationship is very good in a lot of ways, it's flawed in just as many. They're not very good at talking about it. Noah is afraid of getting tied down and Martin is dealing with a lot of internalised homophobia that doesn't let him fully enjoy what they have without a lingering sense of guilt.

They argue a lot at first. Trying to drive each other away while desperately clinging on to what they have.

They're both very imperfect and very lonely people who find a lot of comfort in each other, even if what they have isn't ideal and even if they hurt each other along the way. They love each other like nothing else, but their individual trauma doesn't let them have a truly healthy relationship for a long time.

In the end they keep up this weird sort of orbit around each other for almost 7 years before they finally realise that they need to sort their shit out. Their happy ending is that they talk it through and settle down. Noah moves in permanently, and when he gets the itch to move he either takes a day trip on his own to get his wiggles out, or they take a break from the farm and roadtrip for however long feels right to them.

#I was going to add a little scribble of Martin's farmhouse to this to make it a lil more interesting #but i'm full up with making xmas gifts atm so #it's just a silly little drabble to add some context anyways #and i'm dodging the first year of their relationship here becuse that's the main part i want to expand on later #intro post

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greatooglymooglyyy · 2 months

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username as songs ❤️‍🔥 thanks for the tag bestie @nicksmainbitch 💕 everybody take a deep breath cus this is going to be a long one. i tried not to pick the same artist twice.

g- gemini moon by reneé rapp

r- running on e by brent faiyaz

e- endlessly by omar apollo

a- all in again by dutchess

t- third world by bashfortheworld (s/o matthew)

o- objects in the mirror by mac miller

o- orbit by nao

g- ghost in the machine by sza

l- in the air by destin conrad

y- your needs, my needs by noah kahan

m- mad riches by sonder

o- okay by chris patrick

o- our 25th birthday by central cee and dave

g- gangsta boo by ice spice and lil tjay

l- lover, you should come over by jeff buckley

y- yebba's heartbreak by drake and yebba

y- yours by evann mcintosh

y- you by lola brooke and bryson tiller

tagging ppl makes me anxious so just tagging two of my favs @sturniolho @teapartyprincess4two no pressure

#sturniolo triplets #christopher sturniolo #matt sturniolo #nick sturniolo #sturniolo fluff #chris sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #maggie b talks too much

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religion-is-a-mental-illness · 2 months

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By: Richard Hanania

Published: May 14, 2023

The topic of black crime has taken over Twitter. It all started when Elon Musk responded sympathetically to a Tweet that presented data showing black-on-white crime is the most common form of interracial violence. The original tweet was completely correct, and you can see Noah Carl for some of the sophistry that has been used to try to deny or obfuscate on the underlying facts.

I personally don’t have the patience for taking part in these kinds of arguments, at least in the way that Noah is engaging here. It’s like the people who spend all their time arguing with trans and feminists by pointing to *scientific studies* showing that boys have penises and girls have vaginas. Men have more grip strength. Scientists just proved it! I guess someone has to do it, and I’ve run into some actual human beings (on the internet anyway) who tell me that they accepted the blank slate view of sex until they looked at the data. This makes me sad. But since the data does convince some people, I guess I’m glad someone is providing it.

Race and crime is similar. The numbers are there if you need them. I suppose foreigners might. But I grew up just outside of Chicago, and data on black criminality is to me just as unnecessary as sex comparisons of grip strength. Chicago is about a third black. Like many midwestern cities, it is extremely violent, with nearly all of the crime concentrated in black neighborhoods. When crime does spill over into the nicer areas, it’s committed by the people from those neighborhoods.

I knew many family friends who were Middle Eastern immigrants and store owners in the city. Every now and then, some distant relation or acquaintance would get their store looted or, in at least one instance I remember, shot and killed. Michael Jordan’s greatness was much appreciated and respected but its consequences used to fill the community with fear, because another championship tended to create another possibility that stores would go up in flames. The Arabs would speak in shorthand. “What happened to Walid’s store?” “You know, the blacks…” “Ah.” Actually, they would say “the slaves,” if you want to really know how Arabs talk.

Here’s the thing: while only immigrants and white proles explicitly discuss this aspect of their reality, every single person within the orbit of the city behaves as if they know the truth. No matter who you are, unless you’re one of the residents of those communities, your life is organized around avoiding the pathologies of the inner city. If you’re a desperate immigrant, you might open up a store, put up a “We Take EBT” sign, and take the risk of being shot. White Americans are less inclined to do this, so they instead just flee black neighborhoods and do what they can to get their kids out of black schools. They’ll make any commute or pay whatever tuition is necessary. No one is confused about this — liberals are correct that entire swaths of a major city don’t end up with zero white people by accident. They just attribute this to “racism” rather than the desire not to be sexually assaulted or physically harmed.

I’ve been talking about Chicago, but the same things are true for Milwaukee, Detroit, St. Louis, Cleveland, Baltimore, and countless other major cities. It’s also true for the cities where American elites and policymakers live like Washington, DC, which is why I’m always amused by theories that say they are actually acting in their own interests by coddling criminals. Other than blacks themselves, no group would benefit more from solving our crime problem than wealthy urban whites.

We can therefore ignore those who deny the reality of black crime. They’re either too stupid or dishonest to engage with. Among others on the left, there has been an acceptance of reality combined with pleas to simply frame the issue differently.

When liberals talk about perspective here, what they usually mean is that the likelihood of a white person being victimized by a black person is small in an absolute sense, so why worry about it? It would be a fine argument, except that we are constantly told to obsess over the harms done by police shootings, white supremacist violence, and vigilantes falsely accusing innocent black men of crimes.

I thought about showing you NYT and CNN headlines implying that blacks have to live in constant fear due to racism. But you’ve probably seen them, and instead I’ll share this clip showing how the topic was addressed a few years ago on a major network TV show.

youtube

As a digression, I would recommend checking out a few episodes of A Million Little Things if you want to see the horror that is the PC therapeutic slop that normies are being fed these days, but that’s a discussion for a different time.

So the crime debate has been going something like this.

Conservatives: Look at all the black-on-white crime.

Liberals: Get some perspective man. It’s nothing compared to the chances of being murdered by your own race. Not to mention heart attacks or covid. These are very small numbers.

Conservatives: You guys are the ones telling us blacks are living in constant fear. Stop doing that.

Now, when having these debates, what’s frustrating is that people are usually talking past one another. There’s not like one guy named “conservatives” and one guy named “liberals.” The liberals who are telling you to have some perspective on black crime often aren’t the same ones pushing the narrative that blacks should live in fear of whites. It’s easy to “own” the other side by putting together views of different people and finding contradictions.

That being said, the myth of substantial white-on-black violence is so deeply embedded in the culture that it’s a storyline in network TV shows. I think it’s fair to ask people to take a position on it. If you dislike racists on Twitter focusing too much on black-on-white crime, know that they are closer to the truth than the race obsessives on the other side, and have a lot less power.

One odd thing about these calls for perspective is that when liberals say that intra-racial crime is more common than crime that crosses group boundaries, what they are essentially saying is don’t worry about black crime, because the victims are overwhelmingly black people. But wait! Since when are liberals uninterested in problems that disproportionately affect blacks? These are the people who write serious NYT think pieces about how national parks are too white. They now turn around and say, let’s not talk too much about murder, because blacks are the victims? It’s a very odd thing, and it’s hard for me to even steelman their lack of interest in solving this issue as they obsess over every other black grievance, real or imagined.

Some years ago I noticed that fact checkers started providing “perspective” on claims rather than simply saying whether they were true or false. Of course, what perspective to take on facts is a huge part of what political discourse is about. Do blacks commit a lot of violence against whites? Compared to the number of cancer deaths, no. But in the context of a comparison to white-on-black violence, absolutely. One can conduct a similar analysis of issues like covid, terrorism, and school shootings.

For me, I like cost-benefit analysis as the way to understand what problems are worth worrying about and what we should be doing about them.

Black-on-white violence is not the biggest issue in the world, but it is useful to talk about in order to challenge narratives that pose much more serious problems. Arguments about supposed racism committed by whites against blacks are why we can’t effectively fight crime in this country and why we can’t have freedom of association or meritocratic criteria in hiring. The belief in white racism as a major factor in American life is the force that distorts all of policymaking and culture. Any arguments that are effective at discrediting that narrative are worth making.

And no, I don’t consider acting on statistical realities to be a kind of racism society should solve. Once you remove reactions that are based on group behavior, and private preferences that are none of the government’s business in a free society, the remaining “racism” in the United States against blacks is negligible, and more than balanced out by the ways in which they are advantaged.

The truth of the matter is we have a disgraceful amount of crime in the US, and the costs are not simply a matter of the number of people robbed, raped, and killed. It’s also a tragedy that what could be some of the most valuable urban real estate in the country is basically uninhabitable. In fact, part of the reason that black-on-white violence is rare in this country is because whites have overwhelmingly fled places where blacks live due to the threat of violence.

Other pathologies of American life, like NIMBYism, which drives up the cost of housing, are also downstream of the crime issue. If you’re a resident of Tokyo, you don’t need to worry about greater density leading to a decline in public safety, the way that Americans have to.

There’s no “perspective” one can take from which a reasonable observer won’t find that inner city crime is a major problem, and something we should do our best to solve. The chart below shows the ten American cities of at least 100,000 people that have the highest murder rates, and how they compare to the most violent countries in the world. The murder rates for cities come from CBS, while the country data comes from the World Bank.

[ How the ten most violent US cities with a population over 100,000 compare to the most violent countries in the world. Red is US cities, blue is countries. ]

You might be saying that it’s unfair to compare cities to entire countries, since urban areas might have concentrated violence. Yet the most violent countries in the world tend to be small. For example, St Louis, which is number one in murder in the chart above, has 293,000 people. That’s a larger population than St Lucia (180,000) and St Vincent (104,000), which are shown on the graph. Detroit has 632,000 people, making it more than 50% larger than either the Bahamas (407,000) or Belize (400,000). New Orleans (384,000) and Cleveland (373,000) are close behind. So this isn’t a matter of cherry-picking areas with minuscule populations and making them look bad. These cities are the size of small countries, which means we are pretty much comparing apples-to-apples in many of these cases. And if you want to make a real apples-to-apples comparisons, try contrasting American cities to those in other first world countries, like London.

As I argue in my articles on El Salvador, any polity that has a high enough murder rate needs to make solving crime its number one priority. This was true for that nation before Bukele came along, as it is for major American cities today. It’s not a big mystery how to do this, it’s just politically difficult, because literally everything that works is considered racist. You need more cops, more prisons, and more use of DNA databases and facial recognition technology. You can’t have concerns about disparate impact in a world where crime is so overwhelmingly committed by one group. And yes, liberals are right about one thing, which is that gun laws matter too.

But the left is so out of its mind on everything touching on race that even though they’re right that gun laws matter, when it comes to actually enforcing them, they tend to shy away from doing so for the obvious reason.

While I support policies that can make incremental improvements, actually solving our crime problem to any serious extent would take a revolution in our culture or system of government. Whether you want to focus on guns or the criminals themselves, it would involve heavily policing, surveilling, and incarcerating more black people. If any part of you is uncomfortable with policies that have an extreme disparate impact, you don’t have the stomach for what it would take. And, unlike some, I’m not naive enough to think that non-criminal blacks would end up grateful towards those who took the steps necessary to make their communities safer.

Dealing with the crime issue is complicated for reasons that go deep to the heart of the American psyche, which means there’s little hope that things will change any time soon. Until they do, we should continue to at the very least push back on the most malicious lies being told about race in America.

#Richard Hanania #interracial violence #interracial violent crime #violent crime #black violence #religion is a mental illness #Youtube

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