#and ronan had a lot of answers

[friendofcars]

the night where you no longer live (meghan o'rourke) // the dream thieves (maggie stiefvater)

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Dirty Work 22

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: Sinuses are trying but I'm fighting!

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

"There you are. Lots to go around," Frigga seals the top of another container. "It'll be a nice surprise, eh?"

"Uh, thank you," you offer a fragile smile.

"Of course, dear. I know how stressful it can be to care for the sick. Odin, my husband, had a scare a few years back. A heart episode..." she explains as she puts the large containers in a cloth bag, "it was a rather eventful family dinner, to say the least."

You let your smile fall. You're reminded of your father on the floor, lifeless, your mouth over his as you desperately tried to breathe life into him. The kitchen blurs around you as you revert to the horror of that moment.

"Darling," Frigga frightens you with a gentle squeeze on your forearm, "apologise if I said something."

"No, no, my dad will be happy," you roll the tension from your shoulders. "Leslie too."

"Leslie?" She prompts curiously.

"His nurse. Sometimes she cooks dinner so this will save her some work."

"Ah, a nurse. That must be expensive."

"A little," you admit, "I have some stuff to finish up on still..."

"Oh, don't let me keep you any longer. I know how demanding my son can be," she pats the bag and slides it to the corner of the counter, "this will be waiting for you."

"Thank you. Again."

You turn to go, little, reluctant steps as you venture back into the large house. Dread slows your feet like a ball and chain as you climb the staircase, pausing every few steps to listen. Mr. Laufeyson is lurking somewhere, like a snake in the grass, you know it.

You turn towards the library and pass the open study door. You peek inside and find it empty.  You press on and knock before you enter the library. Alone, you shut the door and let out a heavy breath.

Your heart is racing as if you've escaped some terrifying race. You go to the desk and sit, leaning forward to plant your elbows in front of the closed laptop and cradle your head. What is happening? You can't handle all this. You need to get it together. But how? You've never dealt with any of this before; the spreadsheet, the woman coddling you, and the man who looms in the shadows.

Shoot! You forgot about Ronan. He's due to finish soon. You should go check on him. You stand up and spin, stopping short as a figure fills the door frame between the study and library. You stare at Mr. Laufeyson like a doe caught before a speeding car.

"You have some time," he raises his wrist, checking his watch; the black band and the blue face, that little accessory that caused so much trouble.

"Um, yes, I was going to see the carpenter--"

"I've dealt with him. He's loading up his truck now," Laufeyson slithers forward, "you needn't worry about him."

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Laufeyson," you look down and open the laptop, stunned by the image on the screen. 

You expect your screensaver to cascade down but instead, there's a woman in a rather scant black and white outfit. Your lips part and you slam shut the computer. Your fingers rest on the lid as Mr. Laufeyson strides closer.

"Hope you don't mind I borrowed your laptop, my own was charging," he purrs, "bit of online shopping, seeing as my mother's hard work should save us some cost on culinary services."

"Mr. Laufeyson," you tremble, staring at the desk, "what..."

He hums and leans in, his fingers splayed wide as he places his hands on the wood, "what...hm?"

You steel yourself and force yourself to look him in the eye. You flinch at the darkness there and stutter. "Wh-what are you doing?"

He snickers and tilts his head, "I simply thought you earned a bonus with all your hard work," his tongue pokes out as he smirks. "It should suit you well..."

You take a step back, nearly falling into the chair as you collide with it. You can't hear above the pounding in your temples. No, it can't be what you think it is. He's not saying that. He can't expect you to wear that... that... thing. You stumble around the seat and scurry to the door, fumbling with the handle as his calm pursuit trails after you.

As you pull the door inward, it snaps back shut. His hand is above you on the wood as he pens you in against the door. You whimper and clutch the handle tightly, pressing yourself to the door as your heart hammers against your ribs. You shudder as his other hand curves around your waist.

"When it arrives, you will put it on," he commands, "and you will begin your duties as always."

"Mr. Laufeyson, please, I'm scared--"

"You needn't be," he purrs as he leans in to inhale your scent, his breath grazing your scalp, "you take orders rather well. I trust you will continue to do so."

"I don't--" you wisp as you brace the door, his fingertips poking into your side as he grips you tighter, "I don't want to..."

"Mm, pet, you should know by now," he loosens his hold on you and lets his hand stretch across your stomach, dragging it up to your chest as he brings himself flush to your back, "this isn't about what you want." He bends and nips your ear with a growl, "you wouldn't want to let dear old dad down, would you?"

You whine and twist the handle frantically. You're pinned to it as he continues to grope you, rolling his body against yours from behind as he groans. You're mortified as heat radiates from his touch and floods your veins. The flames lick at you and have you tingle as nuzzles you breathily.

"Didn't think so," he rasps and slowly draws away.

He backs away as your knees buckle and you slide down the door, crumpling against it. His shadow struts away as your hands shake and you watch them in a haze of shock. You're weak, you're stupid, and you're worthless.

You could scream for help, you could run out, you could try. But you won't because he's right. You can't. You need him more than he needs you.

💄

Mr. Laufeyson opens the door ahead of you, waiting patiently as he turns to watch you. You carry the bag of containers against your work bag down the hall as Frigga trails you. She informs you that she put a few extra goodies in as a surprise. You nod and thank her, trying not to show your discomfort as you near your employer.

"Thank you, mother, but I'm certain she is eager to be away," Laufeyson intones, "she has a loving father waiting for her at home."

You flinch. You still wonder if he'd witnessed that pocket dial or not. He's hard to read even when he's spelling it out clearly. You bid a final goodbye but scuff to a halt as Laufeyson stretches out an arm.

"Allow me," he takes the bag from you, his hand brushing yours before closing around the straps.

"Aw, Loki, my gentleman," Frigga preens, "darling, you have a good night."

You let him take the tote and your work bag. You precede him out the door, fluttering your fingers as if to shake away his touch. He follows you as his mother watches from the door. You keep your head forward as he comes close, sidling around you to open the passenger door before you can do so yourself. His behaviour sets you even more on edge. He's taunting you.

You get in and make yourself as small as you can in the seat. You refuse to look at him as you buckle in. He shuts the door and opens the rear one, placing the bags on the backseat before he diverts around the hood. He claims the driver seat, the car shifting slightly with his weight. He pushes the ignition and the car whirs to life. You fixate on the dashboard, trying to tamp out his presence and the memories nipping at your mind.

He clicks his belt into place and adjusts the mirror. He takes his time. You can tell it's deliberate. You don't understand him, but you're starting to. Everything he does is for his own delight, which he seems to draw only from your distress. You've never met anyone like him.

"A lovely day," he declares as he shifts gear, "wasn't it, pet?"

You blink and look at your lap, tracing a line on your palm.

"Now, don't be rude, I asked a question."

"Yes, Mr. Laufeyson," you mutter.

"You must be tired," his hand wanders from the stick to your knee, "why don't you close your eyes and enjoy the ride?"

"I'm okay," you fold your arms as he squeezes your leg.

"What is the matter, hm? You seem perturbed, pet."

You shudder and put your hand on his as it starts to crawl higher, "Mr. Laufeyson, please stop calling me that."

"I'm tired of your little game," he pinches the tender flesh of your leg.

"I'm not--"

"I've made myself very clear," he taps your leg before slipping his hand out from under yours, "I am interested and that's that. I am wealthy, attractive, I hardly see how it would be an issue..." he steers with one hand as he speaks to the road, "especially for someone like you."

It hurts. To have it said aloud. Not his intent, no, but your worth. Or, what you lack. Who are you to be picky?

You wiggle your nose and turn your face away. You don’t respond as your gaze pans through the window. Your eyes singe and your nose tingles. You feel like the little girl standing against the wall again. The whispers swirling all around you, fingers pointing, voices jeering…

The silence stretches the minutes to eons. You watch the streets pass and lean into each turn. Finally, he steers onto a familiar road. You’re almost there.

He slows and pulls against the curb outside your father’s house. You unbuckle the seat belt and he does the same. You glance up at him but he doesn’t notice. He gets out on his side as you hesitate. Before you can even get your door open, he’s halfway around the car.

You climb out, nearly colliding with the rear door as he swings it open. You sidestep it as he bends to reach within. He pulls out both bags, elbowing the door shut carelessly before stepping up on the pavement. You reach for your work bag and he evades your grasp.

“Ah ah, I insist, it wouldn’t be very nice to let you struggle with all of this.”

You pout. Nice? When has he ever been nice? He’s mocking you again.

“Mr. Laufeyson, please,” you beg, “I can handle it–”

“Go on, pet,” he motions ahead of him with the square tote, “it’s rather rude to refuse an offer of help.”

You cringe and shrug helplessly, throwing your hands up slightly. What else can you do but obey? He knows you have no other choice and he basks in that fact.

You turn and slouch, dragging your feet up the walk as he follows you. You search for an excuse to keep him outside. Some sort of out. He has to understand, your father is sick!

He trails you onto the porch and you stop at the door, facing him.

“I can get it from here,” you eke out.

“Nonsense, I don’t mind–”

“Please, Mr. Laufeyson, my father doesn’t feel well most days. He’s not fit for visitors.”

“I’ve come all this way. I know manners are hardly in vogue around these parts but it is only polite to invite someone in,” he reproaches.

You whimper. Why are you doing this? You don’t ask. You know already. He’s doing it because he can. Because you won’t stop him. You can’t.

“I don’t want you to go in,” you confess as you look down, “please don’t go insi–”

You hear the door, the loud groan of the squeaky hinges before the screen door hits your shoulder. You sidle out of the way and turn to Leslie as she pokes her head out. Her eyes flick up to Mr. Laufeyson and her forehead ripples in surprise.

“I was wondering what all the chatter was,” she opens the door wider, “what’s all this?”

“Um, Leslie,” you gulp, “I…” you blink and look at Mr. Laufeyson, “this is my boss. He just drove me home.”

“How nice,” she remarks, “that’s… him?” She steps out completely, “he’s your boss?”

“Loki,” he introduces himself, “charmed.”

“Me too, me too, I… Leslie, I help her father, I’m the nurse,” she explains.

“We brought dinner,” Laufeyson lifts the tote higher, “my mother wanted to send her well wishes. She heard about her father and wanted to help out.”

“That is so sweet,” Leslie fans herself, “please, sir, come in, come in, Charles will be so happy to meet you.”

Doom crashes down on you. You stand back as Leslie holds the door open and you only vaguely hear Laufeyson’s insistence that you go first. You move in a fuzzy sludge, barely aware of the world around you as your legs carry you on habit alone. 

You stand in the front entryway as Mr. Laufeyson hands over the bag. Leslie takes it with glee and hurries away. You sway and touch your forehead. You wince as he touches your arm.

“Mm, this place is… vintage,” he muses as he nudges you, “please, introduce me. I’ve heard so much.”

You breathe out shakily and curl your fingers into fists. You give a pleading look. You’re already too embarrassed to tell him the truth. He doesn’t want to meet your father and your father doesn’t want to meet him.

You surrender and turn cautiously. You meekly pass through the entryway, your father’s shoulders hunched over the table as he works on the puzzle. You shuffle closer, standing just behind the corner of the couch.

“Dad,” you utter, “um… this is my boss, Mr. Laufeyson. He, er, he brought us some food.”

“Eh, is that what she was going on about?” He snorts into a cough and covers his mouth. He makes no move to rise as he reaches for another piece.

“Charles, is it?” Laufeyson steps forward, stopping just beside you, “I prefer Loki. It’s a pleasure to finally meet.”

“Chuck,” your father snarls, “call me ‘Chuck’.”

“Of course, Chuck, I didn’t mean to presume.”

Your dad tosses the peace and scoffs. He coughs again and stands, adjusting the tub below his nose as he rounds on his visitor. Mr. Laufeyson doesn’t waver as your dad scowls in his direction.

“Wonderful home you have,” Laufeyson offers his hand.

Your father looks at his fingers then narrows his eyes at his face. Mr. Laufeyson is a head taller, though your dad is wider. He claps his hands against your boss’s and tries to jerk his hand. The effort teeters your father but does not affect the other man.

“You’re the one dressing her up like your little whore,” your dad sneers.

Mr. Laufeyson laughs curtly, “pardon?”

“Look at that skirt,” your father spits.

“Better than the rags you supplied,” Mr. Laufeyson retorts without pause, “I can see she didn’t get her manners from you.”

“What did you say to me, boy?” Your father’s face contorts with rage, “you come into my home and– and– and–” 

Your father coughs between each word until he’s racked and quaking. He grips the armrest as he leans forward and covers his mouth, unable to stop the fit. You go to help him but Mr. Laufeyson blocks you with his arm.

“He has his nurse,” he says brusquely.

“Please,” you beg.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you are,” Laufeyson lowers his voice dangerously as your father heaves, clutching his chest. 

“Fuck off,” your dad chuffs out.

Laufeyson snickers and sighs, “are you always so hospitable, sir?”

“If I wasn’t chained to this thing,” your dad clutches the tube trailing down his chest.

“Alas, you are,” the taller man shakes his head, “let’s not. We have a lovely dinner waiting for us. A real man might even be grateful.”

“I’m not hungry,” your father turns and drops onto the couch. “Choke on it.”

Mr. Laufeyson lowers his arm and takes your hand without a look. He drags you away from the couch. He pulls you level with him and commands you to lead him. You take him into the kitchen where Leslie stands by the stove, the radio buzzing on the shelf.

“Just gonna pop it in the oven for a couple,” she smiles, “hon, why don’t you grab some plates?”

“Yes, why don’t you,” Laufeyson urges, “we’ll sit down and have a lovely family dinner.”

[jhsjykwpdw]

ronan and adam know each other so well and are so comfortable with each other like what in the actual best-friends-to-lovers is this

If Ronan had been there, he would have said, Everywhere’s a crime scene.

It would have been easy enough for Ronan to do it himself, but perhaps he had known that Adam would like the mind-occupying puzzle of it.

“Democracy’s a farce,” Ronan said, and Adam smirked, a private, small thing that was inherently exclusionary. An expression, in fact, that he could’ve very well learned from Ronan.

“Some.” “A lot,” Ronan translated, and he was right, because, strangely enough, Ronan knew a great deal about how Adam worked.

As Gansey shut the door behind him, he heard Adam say, “I don’t want to talk,” and Ronan reply, “The fuck would I talk about?"

bonus:

Slowly his memories of before – everything this place had been to him when it had held the entire Lynch family – were being overlapped with memories and hopes of after – every minute that the Barns had been his, all of the time he’d spent here alone or with Adam, dreaming and scheming.

That night, not long after he returned from work, Adam heard a knock at his church apartment door. When he answered it, he was first surprised that the person on the other side was real, and then he was surprised that the person was Gansey and not Ronan.

[unclewaynemunson]

prompt idea! :D

steve being a poet and eddie being a songwriter. they both reference each other in their works and no one has put it together yet.

( also hi you're awesome )

Oooh anon I love this, this is such an intriguing concept bc the possibilities are ENDLESS with this one! I hope you like the direction I ended up taking it in :) (and thank you so much for dropping this in my ask box! <3 )

EDIT: I wrote an expanded version for this one and it's also on ao3 :D

---

Jeff was the one who introduced Eddie to Ronan Right. His mom was moving and when Eddie visited to help, he found his friend with his nose buried in a small book that was nearly falling apart in his hands.

“What's that?” Eddie asked, flopping down next to Jeff among the boxes.

“My mom's favorite poet,” Jeff mumbled, barely glancing up from the page.

And as soon as Eddie got a chance to pick up the book from where Jeff had left it, he was hooked. He was no help at all for Jeff's poor mom, completely engrossed in poem after poem, reading them again and again and again.

Eddie liked reading poetry to get some inspiration for his songwriting, but a lot of poetry had this atmosphere of pretentiousness around it. This didn't. It was surprisingly simple. To the point, with a rawness to it, mostly short poems that had a simplicity with which they managed to cut right to the heart of things.

Ever since that day, Ronan Right became Eddie's biggest source of inspiration. He'd never start working on new songs before reading one of Right's poems first. And whenever he got stuck on his lyrics, he'd pick up one of Right's books – and every time, without fail, he'd find something in there to help him find the right words.

---

When people would ask Steve what inspired him, his answer was always the same, always simple: music. Most people probably assumed that by that, a poet would mean classical music or maybe jazz of some kind. They were wrong: Steve Harrington, professionally known as Ronan Right, liked to blast the most screamy metal imaginable whenever he was writing – much to the discontent of his poor neighbors. He didn't care much for lyrics, it was all about the sound for him: about volume, about harmonies, about a combination of ingredients that somehow managed to flip a switch inside of his brain that unlocked the more creative ways to look at words.

His favorite band was called Corroded Coffin. Something about them stood out in the long list of metal bands he loved to listen to. It was something about the sound of the singer's voice, about the guitar riffs, that simply made sense to him, made the words that he was looking for bubble up to the surface naturally.

He got halfway through the first song on Corroded Coffin's newly released album, when he froze at his desk. He didn't care much for lyrics, but those words... There was something familiar about them.

He replayed the song from the beginning and started frantically flipping through the pages of one of his earliest poetry bundles... Yeah, there definitely was something familiar about those lyrics.

They weren't copied, exactly. It could just be a coincidence.

But the album kept playing on and Steve kept getting distracted by the lyrics because there was so much familiarity in them. It wasn't like the singer was stealing from him, it wasn't even like he was taunting his copyright or anything like that... It was like he was building on Steve's words. Like Steve had laid a foundation that had sparked Corroded Coffin to make something beautiful. Like the two of them shared a mind, a soul, an inspiration.

And Steve wrote the best poem he had ever written, in one go, that day.

---

More bundles followed. More albums were released. And they kept interlocking with each other, one causing the other to do something new, try something different, figure something out.

Ronan Right was still an obscure poet, well-respected but not mainstream enough for bigger successes. Corroded Coffin was still an obscure metal band, praised by the connoisseur but too experimental to ever get anywhere bigger than the verge of the metal scene. The only one who noticed the textual similarities between the two, was Jeff's mother. She'd smile her knowing smile and chuckle quietly, delighting in her own private understanding.

---

A new book was about to get published. Steve had to drive down to Chicago to meet with his publicist and talk some things through, but his car was in the shop so he got on a train instead. The meeting went well, Don't try to be a hero officially got the green light, and feeling content, Steve pulled out the latest Corroded Coffin cd to put in his walkman as soon as he got on the train back home.

“Hey,” the guy opposite him said with a smile and a nod towards Steve's walkman, just before Steve could put on his headphones. “Corroded Coffin, nice.”

“You know them?” Steve asked, taken by surprise, a matching smile creeping onto his own face.

“Yeah.” The guy chuckled. “Yeah, I know them.”

Sunlight fell through the window and shone on the big rings around the guy's fingers, catching Steve's eye – and pulling his gaze towards the tiny book he was holding in his hands.

“Hey,” he said, “Ronan Right, nice.”

The guy stared at him for a few seconds, something like disbelief in his big brown eyes. “You know him?!”

Steve felt laughter bubble up in his chest. “Yeah, I know him.”

[romantichopelessly]

invitation to speak more about the secret good td3 in your head, if you so desire!

Ok so I sat on this ask for DAYS because I wanted to have some cohesive, great answer, but the thing about The Dreamer Trilogy that haunts me is that I can never come up with good concrete thoughts about how to fix the issues I have with it, which is why I reference the “secret good td3 in my head” because it can never fully leave my head in any real way. That being said here’s a list of some elements I would change to make my secret good td3, in no particular order.

The visionaries don’t exist. Liliana, Persifal, etc. are just psychics that keep getting visions of the end, and die for reasons other than their power. Explaining what Visionaries are and subsequently over explaining the magic system of td3 is part of what made the trilogy so confusing and ruined a lot of the magic that the TRC universe already had for me. We don’t need concrete explanations, and psychics can still fill this role. The changing age and exploding added nothing?? to the narrative?? that I can think of?? We can even keep the age gap for Carliana if we want to, just make Liliana an older psychic like Maura/Persephone/Calla. It will even add to the excellent Carmen-Mr. Gray parallels.

Lean more into the themes of the age group. TRC is a coming of age story. It’s about being 17/18. It’s about learning your inner self and getting others to see the true you. TD3 should be more about being 19/20/21. To me, TD3 at its peak is like Buffy the Vampire Slayer Season 6. Which is uniquely about the horror of being in your early 20s, losing support systems, having to learn to be a full self-reliant person, grappling with what your parents did to you, and the crushing loneliness of not being around Your People anymore. TD3 has all of these themes, but I really think they need to be fleshed out more, and given proper conclusion that isn’t just “yippee everything is fine now!”

Greywaren is longer. I think almost everyone agrees that Greywaren, as a book was just too short to wrap up all the plot lines set up, and does almost none of them justice. That book needed a whole rewrite. In theory, I’m completely fine with how it opens—Ronan being in a dream coma was foreshadowed from CDTH, and is an idea that I’d actually thought of as interesting before even reading the book. Other elements of this book like Declan’s rampage, Matthew going rogue, etc are great directions for the characters, I’d just want to rework them. I could make solo posts about any of these.

The Pynch breakup either doesn’t happen, or is set up further in advance and lasts longer. Personally, I lean towards the latter. Adam and Ronan’s conflict is set up from the very beginning of CDTH, or even from Opal (Adam warring between wanting to stay with Ronan and needing to follow through with his lifelong plans, and being frustrated that Ronan never asks for anything from Adam (specifically, to stay) ((side note: perhaps Adam’s insecurity here about Ronan respecting his boundaries so thoroughly stems from both having a family that never would respect his wishes, and Gansey (Adam’s model of love, Adam’s model of everything) having to learn not to ask things like that of Adam. What does it mean that Ronan never even tries?)) AND Ronan dealing with the crushing loneliness of being left and dealing with the consequences of having a long distance bf who is more successful than him). So they needed to have an argument about this. It’s also just in character that these two would not be perfect communicators. So. My idea: In CDTH we get no Adam POVs, just Ronan’s side of the story. We see, rather than Ronan just getting upset over one missed text, that Adam begins to pull away after the murder crab incident. We the audience don’t know why, other than Ronan’s unreliable narration and insecurity. So when Adam doesn’t respond to that one text at a vital fraught time, Ronan does what he does best, shuts down, pulls away and self destructs. Then MI rolls around and we start getting Adam POVs. We learn that after the murder crabs, Adam was throwing himself into trying to fix the nightwash situation for Ronan (Adam is not in contact with Declan here, unfortunately). After visiting for Ronan’s birthday and seeing the Lace, Adam starts to have dreams/premonitions about the end of the world (no visionaries in this universe, just psychics who are/were close to dreamers getting the visions!!). So he obviously sets out to fix this alone too. He calls his best approximations to contacts in this underground world that aren’t Declan. Henry and Mr. Gray. (+ maybe also Maura & Calla) ((Also don’t worry Henry doesn’t leave the Sarchengsey trip, just advises Adam on where to start)). Now that Adam has lost contact with Ronan (he was busy and missed the message and Ronan went off the grid like in canon), he goes full throttle into trying to solve everything while managing being his perfect Harvard persona (this gets him close to a breakdown, very reminiscent to Dream Thieves). Perhaps we get to see Adam and Declan working together to acquire sweet metals and understand the underworld of magic together. He and Ronan fight the one time they get to talk over the phone, Adam because he is truly scared Ronan will be the one to end the world, Ronan because he feels like this is another person perceiving him as a failure and wanting to control/baby him (+ he hates Adam hanging with Mr Gray and Declan of all people). By the time Greywaren starts, Adam is wrung out and hurting and Ronan is dead to the world, so yeah. He doesn’t think he can spend emotional energy playing safeguard to his boyfriend’s coma corpse. And then by the end of the book they have an actual argument/discussion no “they didn’t need words” cop out.

The number of Dreamers/Dreams has to be reduced. It’s cool to say that dreams were always integrated into this world, but it creates so many plot holes it isn’t even funny. There is no way Niall could have passed off the Greywaren being a box that brings dreams to life if Dreamers were such a common occurrence. No secret can be kept that well, someone in the black market would have known, and thus Greenmantle/Mr. Gray/Laumonier/ect WOULD HAVE KNOWN !!!

Declan does not have all his character erased by suddenly loving his mommy and daddy. Seriously what the fuck was that. Declan suddenly deciding to forgive his father because actually Declan was secretly the favorite child first is INSANE. Especially after seeing that that changed because Niall and Mor WANTED TO KILL HIS BROTHER!!! The two tenants of Declan Lynch in TRC were protecting his remaining family and fucking hating that Ronan idolized Niall just because Niall loved him best. So why make Declan turn around and do the same??? Suddenly Niall wasn’t so bad because actually he let Declan be shoved into a car trunk during a shootout out of love. I hate this plot line. Family doesn’t have to be forgiven. Understood, that’s one thing. Forgiven?? Not always. Sick of it. The real takeaway from seeing those memories should have been closure to Declan’s arc of learning that dreams should be viewed as people completely.

I definitely have other points but I cannot think of them right now. And I want to post this so I will. But TD3, as you can see, makes me an insane person.

[thrawns-backrest]

Hopefully there are still people out there that are reading this, I feel like I've put way too much thought in it. Anyway let the Ronan and Ba'kif adventures resume.

Title: Buried in Ice

Characters: Ronan, Ba'kif and others

Chapters: 6/?

Summary: Ronan adjusts to life with the Chiss when a sudden revelation leads him to realize that his fate is not as firmly in his hands as he'd thought it was.

___

Ba’kif shifted his posture and refocused his attention on the blank wall opposite him.

How had it come to this?

There was a dull ache in his knuckles from how tightly he’d been clenching his fists and he flexed his fingers before giving up on the effort altogether.

He should have seen this coming, he really should have.

Letting his eyes roam again, he glanced at the human occupying the seat parallel to his. Lyron’s complexion remained pale and drawn and his hands played nervously with each other where he’d folded them in his lap. It was one of the more extreme signs of alarm Ba’kif had observed in him and he filed it to the back of his mind on impulse.

If he’d thought the tension of their uncertain circumstances was taxing, then he was unprepared for the frustration their current circumstances incited in him. Perhaps he was losing his touch?

… He really should have seen this coming.

The café was nearing its evening lull by the time they were halfway through their drinks. Those who had opted to spend their afternoon there had thinned, making space for the patrons that would begin filing in at the end of their workday, and the servers had taken to lounging around the bar, in preparation for the coming flux.

It was just the right amount of ears Ba’kif felt comfortable discussing more sensitive topics around.

He set his cup back down in its saucer and repressed a grin at another blunt remark from his companion.

Despite having most of their work-related talks in his office back in EDF headquarters, he would still invite Secretary Lyron out here occasionally, under the pretext of a by now established tradition.

It would be dishonest to say that the human’s file was complete by now. No, unbeknownst or perhaps very much known to Lyron – Ba’kif had learned not to underestimate him by now – his evaluation was still very much in progress. And Ba’kif had taken note of the fact that the human felt much more comfortable in a less professional environment.

“It’s stupidly brash, is what it is,” Lyron fumed, picking his finished cup up for the umpteenth time before setting it back down, disgruntled at its emptiness. “How are we supposed to defend someone whose actions are indefensible?”

“We don’t.” Ba’kif said simply. “Our job isn’t to conjure blamelessness where there is none. So by all means, let the Syndicure rip into them.”

Lyron grumbled something unintelligible.

“That reflects on our own reputation you know.”

“I admit there is a certain tendency among the younger generations to blunder in their approach. There are a lot of young officers who seem to have misunderstood some of our more successful strategies.”

Lyron’s gaze beckoned him to elaborate. Ba’kif sighed and repositioned himself in his chair.

“Many saw Thrawn’s success in the early days of the war and thought uncompromising hardheadedness was the way to go.”

Essentially missing the true nature behind Trawn’s genius. And only taking away the unfortunate side effects, Ba’kif finished in his head.

“You mean we work for reckless upstarts who live in a post Thrawn era and think they don’t need an ounce of political acumen.”

Ba’kif chose to forgo his answer. Lyron winced sympathetically.

“Just how deep of a scar has this man left on your society?”

“Crises come and go, Lyron,” Ba’kif waved him away. “Our society is used to weathering them without any lasting effects. We, as the Ascendancy’s servants, simply need to make sure it survives its current predicament.”

Lyron shrugged his shoulders cheerfully.

“Well, I’ll be cheering for you from the sidelines.”

The remark prompted a wry smile from Ba’kif that he opted to hide behind his cup.

From the sidelines, Lyron said. Little did he know how hard that was to believe, just looking at him. Lyron might have been loath to admit it but he was integrating into their people quicker than anyone had anticipated.

As for his opinions on Thrawn, Ba’kif had to give the latter some credit and admit that it was all a bit more convoluted than that.

There was, for one, the possibility that the Syndicure’s desire to avoid another Thrawn scenario at all costs exacerbated the whole situation.

This was why the Mediation Bureau had come to be to begin with. But that strategy also had its pitfalls.

On the one hand separating politics from military matters presupposed some degree of detachment and independence for the officers of one from the other. But on the other it made a larger mess when the two were forced to interact.

This effect may be less Thrawn’s doing and more a natural progression of things that they had to adapt to for the greater good.

This was a point of contention between Lyron and Ba’kif; one they’d discovered during the many times they’d discussed the topic since it was first brought up.

Lyron argued the need for earlier family separation in the navy, as early as Junior Captain, and a simultaneous obligatory education in political and state affairs, while Ba’kif preferred to let things happen more naturally. Regardless of whether Thrawn’s influence had been the inciting push that had set things in motion, the lines between the two institutions were showing signs of becoming less blurred and the Mediation Bureau had so far proven successful in being both buffer and wedge.

Ba’kif could envision it growing and expanding slowly as the new status quo settled, a subtle development that responded more to demand rather than any artificial meddling. 

The Arostocra were still jumpy, even with Thrawn so far away, and a rapid reform like this could incite fear among them of losing some of their influence. Some of them were already noticing the shift Thrawn’s heroics and departure had caused in the navy and were not happy about it at all.

Ba’kif had tried to explain it to Lyron multiple times but the human merely shook his head, insisting that a strong legal framework was necessary for any experimental project’s survival and that establishing that framework while the Aristocra weren’t yet up in arms about it was crucial.

And Ba’kif, though he wouldn’t say it out loud, was secretly pleased by the opposition. Much like Thrawn, he recognized the value of different viewpoints working together and he had a good feeling that the solution to their problem would eventually be found in the middle, so long as they both worked diligently toward it.

Thrawn had warned Ba’kif that Lyron could be particularly stubborn about his opinions but could be swayed given a solid enough explanation. ‘A deference to hard facts and logic, if you will’ Thrawn had called it.

But Ba’kif suspected it had less to do with stubbornness and more with dislike, though he’d prudently chosen not to voice that opinion. Thrawn’s methods and Vanto’s apparent disloyalty (a rather hypocritical label, all things considered) seemed to be the source behind Lyron’s staunch antagonism and while that was a flaw that didn’t do him any favors, Ba’kif could tolerate it as long as it didn’t get in the way of his work.

So far that work had been satisfactory and promising for Lyron’s future in the Ascendancy. Although, Ba’kif had to admit, letting his thoughts drift for a moment, that was certainly not the only motivation he had for keeping Lyron around.

The man was a valuable asset in another regard. The place he came from, his vaunted Empire, was a form of government where the military held much more sway than it did in the Ascendancy. Essentially a stratocracy.

As such he could provide insight into how such a system operated. What loopholes were used to give the military its influence, what laws were in place to empower it. Thrawn had given them a detailed rundown of how the Empire operated but he was always more interested in the military side of things, as was Vanto.

How and where politics came into play was still a gray area which if charted, could provide guidelines of sorts, Ba’kif thought darkly.

Lyron seemed to straddle that line between military and politics. His own commanding officer, from what Ba’kif could glean, had been a civilian.

It was a dangerous thought… a slippery slope perhaps. But if they were to survive this war, they had to loosen the Syndicure’s hold on the military. An army fettered by a slow cumbersome political administration could not hope to weather the pressure the Grysks were exerting on them forever, if much longer.

And Ba’kif was well aware of that.

“Well, I believe this is all for today.”

Lyron sighed at length, getting up and tucking his questis under his arm. “No appointments for this afternoon?”

“None, Secretary.” Ba’kif nodded.

“Good, I can peruse these at home then.”

Home.

Another smirk hidden behind Ba’kif’s cup.

“Ah, and secretary,” Ba’kif stopped him before he could walk away.

“I had one of my aides order the garments you spoke of when we last met. They should be delivered from the seamstress’s in the coming week.”

The words sent a flash of surprise over Lyron’s face, bordering on shock.

“Thank you that’s...” he stopped and fumbled for words for a moment, “Very considerate of you.”

Ba’kif smiled indulgently.

“I know your situation makes it difficult for you move about freely. That shouldn’t bar you from simple comforts.”

“Yes, thank you. General.”

In a rare show of awkwardness, Lyron excused himself and hurried out of the café, leaving Ba’kif to finish his drink.

He did so with a touch of amusement.

It seemed, Ba’kif noted, that the human’s combativeness left him floundering when faced with simple courtesy. The Empire apparently didn’t employ such methods to ensure the loyalty of its subjects, though admittedly neither did the Ascendancy, not normally at least.

Turning back to his tea, he eyed the dregs at the bottom of the cup and contemplated dragging out his stay a bit longer. There were few opportunities for rest these days. The Syndicure and the Grysks made sure of it.

Something wouldn’t leave his mind, though, no matter how hard he swatted at it.

It was something Lyron had said. Something about a gift…

Now, the gift itself wasn’t unusual. Lyron had received various gifts and trinkets from Aristocra who were happy with how their family members’ cases were handled.

That part wasn’t unusual.

What was unusual though was that the gift was apparently anonymous.

No politician would make a moot move like that, Ba’kif reasoned, frowning at his cup, there was no point in an anonymous gift if your only purpose was to curry favor.

He tried to set the thought aside as paranoid but it persisted and the itch only seemed to grow the longer he let it ferment. In the end it bothered him enough to cause him to drop the idea of rest and make his way out of the café, setting a brisk pace in the direction of the EDF’s housing quarters.

Paranoid, part of him chided but he reasoned that indulging his paranoia in this case wouldn’t hurt. Worst case scenario, he wasted a few minutes on a detour. A detour he had no intention of relegating to someone else for fear of coming off as neurotic.

Making a sharp turn at the corner of the square, he ignored the stares of the passersby and found the nearest entrance to the winding building complex carved into the stone. The apartment was easy enough to find – he’d never been there himself but the number was seared into his memory. Few of the people they monitored were accommodated in their own branch’s housing district after all.

He rapped his knuckles on the hatch once then twice and was dismayed to receive only silence in response.

It pushed him into doing something he wasn’t looking forward to and he dug into his jacket reluctantly, pulling out an access card and swiping it against the hatch’s controls.

They would cross that bridge when they got to it, he told himself and took a step into the moderately sized suite. The place seemed empty, save for the scarf draped next to the hatch, and his eyes immediately landed on the bottle sitting innocuously on the coffee table in the living room.

Closer inspection revealed that it indeed bore no inscription just as a voice sounded behind him.

“General?”

He turned to see Lyron at the threshold to what seemed like the apartment’s fresher.

“Where did this come from?” Ba’kif asked brusquely, forgoing all formalities.

He watched as Lyron’s confusion reflected on his face, his eyes making a few meaningful trips between the open hatch and Ba’kif’s presence.

“Like I said, it was dropped off at the office this morning,” he tried hesitantly.

“Do you have any idea as to who might be the sender?”

“We had a busy month. Many cases.”

The words pressed Ba’kif’s lips into a thin line.

In hindsight, he would be grateful for the decision to indulge his paranoia, he reflected later as they sat in tense silence, awaiting the results of the secondary analysis.

Finally, the questis on the table in front of them let out a soft ping and Ba’kif’s hand shot out to grab it. He perused the brief message grimly and turned towards Lyron with a single word.

“Lethal,” he all but growled and watched the last of the color drain from Lyron’s face.

It was official then, Ba’kif concluded wryly as he set the device back down with a sigh, shooting a glance at the nauseous-looking human at his side.

He was once again fighting a war on two fronts.

[lizpaige]

snippet sunday

i have many half written beginnings of ideas that i may or may not come back to so why not share them on a wip/snippet sharing post?

“Your boy is calling.”

Ronan sat up on the couch just in time to catch his phone from Hennessy tossing it to him. He answered the call immediately.

“Hey.”

Hennessy threw a pillow at him, whacking him in the head. Ronan grabbed it and threw it back at her, getting up to duck out of the room. They were in Ronan’s new apartment, Ronan and Adam’s new apartment starting tomorrow when Adam moved out of the dorms. It was the end of the school year and Adam was transferring to Georgetown in the fall.

“Hey.” Adam’s voice always seemed to warm him up. There was a lot of noise on the other end.

“What’s happening over there?”

A puff of air blew into the phone. “Party. Finals are over. Everyone’s door is open on my floor and they dumped all their leftover alcohol in this big plastic storage bin and they’ve been passing it around.”

“Nice.”

“Yeah, it’s really not that bad.”

“You’re drinking that toxic waste? That’s hardcore, Parrish.”

“Yeah, well…” Ronan could hear the sound of a door shutting and the cacophony of dorm room celebration became muffled. “They don’t really take no for an answer. I’m hiding in my room trying to pack. What were you doing?”

Now that he could really hear him, Ronan picked up on Adam’s accent, in full swing, dropping the ends of words, melodic in its cadence, dipping low and swaying up high. There were only a few times when Adam would let his Henrietta accent back in. When he was very tired, which was possible since he had just worked his ass off with exams. When he was alone with Ronan or close friends, because he didn’t try to hide it from those he trusted. Or on the very rare occasion that he was under the influence. Ronan got him high once and could barely even understand Adam, he was too turned on to try and decipher whatever he was saying.

Adam rarely drank, so Ronan rarely received any drunk texts or calls. Ronan didn’t really drink either anymore. For Adam’s birthday last year, Gansey, Henry, and Blue came to the Barns and they had a big barbeque, fire pit, and Ronan fixed up a dreamt projector to show some shitty action movies on the side of the long barn. Ronan drank a little, Adam drank a little more. He was tipsy at best, but ended up falling asleep in Ronan’s lap in front of everyone by the end of the night.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

Ronan bit back a smile at the dropped ‘g’. “Just hanging out with Hennessy. Why’d you call?”

“I don’t know.” A pause… and then, “just missed you.”

Ronan bit back a smile. “Missed me, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“You a little tipsy there?”

“No,” Adam answered too fast, as if his voice wasn’t incriminating enough.

[kanos]

WIP // LAST LINE // MUSIC MONDAY

all in one bc i'm so so behind but i was tagged by @imogenkol @ruvviks, @g0dspeeed @tommyarashikage (i think that was everyone im sorry) to post wips and last lines of wips and idk what music monday is but like lets goooo

there's a lot in this so i'm so sorry lmao its been awhile since i've posted a wip or even finished writing a fic wow

some ronan x ellis i started writing on the plane a month ago

“Did you find it?” He called from the kitchen.  She hadn’t, for her attention was caught by something else. Underneath a stack of books was a wanted poster with a crude drawing and her name in bold letters - her name she knew, but the rest of the words on the page was unreadable. The eyes were too dark, the scars more angry and grotesque, and the hair was short. It was clear this was the work of someone who hadn't seen her in person but only heard the frightened words of bystanders who caught sight of her. Word of her infamy wouldn’t have reached as far as the small town of Faith and how he had come by a poster of her was unclear. Ellis holds the paper steady in her hands, eyeing the curve of the other woman's smile before turning around and heading back for the kitchen.  Ronan looks up and his curiosity falters as their eyes met. “Ms. Cooper?” She drops the poster in front of him and pins it to the table with her knife, the blade through the caricature's throat. With the other hand she grabs the front of his shirt and yanks him closer. “Where did you get this?” A quick glance to the paper and back. He holds his hands up and attempts to calm her rage down. “I can explain, but you have to let me go.” “I don’t think so. You can talk just fine like this.”

uuuuh rian / maxi / ghost anyone?

"Those two seem to be getting close lately." "Who is?" Ghost questions with clear disinterest, not even glancing towards his friend. A soft hum is his answer before any verbal response. He was hesitating. "Sinclair and Brennan." His gaze flickers to his friend and then follows the direction he is looking to find the two in question standing beside each other. The Irishman has his arm draped over the woman's shoulders, leaning down close. Maxine has the faintest hint of a smile on her lips but she doesn't shrug the man off. Rian's hand brushes over hers as he takes the knife she held and flips it around. Ghost feels his hand twitch and he's thankful for his mask to hide what he could only assume would be the expression of annoyance. "So? That's good she's getting along with someone." "Is it?" Soap teases, shrugging as he stands from his seat. "Then I better do the same - what if they get married? Then he'll be family."

LAST LINE(s)

"For fucks sake, Theo. How many people are you sleeping with? Next, you're going to tell me you're fucking one of the Seeds, huh?" Nathaniel can't conceal his anger - no, not his anger, but frustration for having such a reckless niece. Theo clicks her tongue and crosses her arms over her chest. "Really don't think this is something I should be discussing with my uncle." A stifling moment of silence doesn't have time to settle when Nathaniel speaks again. "You're not going to deny fucking one of the Seeds?"

and lastly my music monday contribution, enjoy this

tagging everyone again i'm sorry @strangefable @anoramactir @firstaidspray @pitchmoss @pavus @florbelles @carrionsflower @thedeadthree @roberthouse69 @carlosoliveiraa @shellibisshe @statichvm @risingsh0t @hollytanaka @confidentandgood @leviiackrman @bigbywlf @samuelroukin @cryptcombat @beemot @tekehu @evilvvithin @red-nightskies @pheedraws

[taglist opt in]

i apologize that this is writing and not everyone wanted to be tagged in writing but if you have any wips or just want to do the music thing, that's fine to!!

[ganseysglasses]

Turns out I wasn’t done with Adam and Gansey quite yet.

That one part in The Raven King after the Ronan and Adam kiss where Adam is really unsure of where to go from there really made me go insane.

Adam is freaking out, not because Ronan having feelings for him was a surprise, or because he was Ronans first kiss, or because he just suddenly realized his own feelings for Ronan, but because now he has to do something about all of that.

Adam had spent the entire series up to that point trying to established himself as an independent entity, not a pawn or simply a piece of his friends. He prepared himself to be on his own, and leave for the prestigious school he made sure he would get into.

But now he’s tied himself to Ronan in a way he can’t deny or ignore and he cares enough about Ronan to not just rip that apart so easily. So, he goes to Gansey! Gansey, who always says the wrong thing, and makes Adam so furious sometimes, and wants to help him so badly even though Adam believes he doesn’t need it. Adam, who spent four books trying not to rely on anyone else, willingly came to Gansey for something so personal and serious to him.

He asked Gansey what love felt like, and didn’t even think about the anger he would have had hearing the answer to that a few weeks prior when he was just so angry at Blue and Gansey for lying. Gansey had learned the ways that Adam works in a way Adam probably doesn’t believe is possible, and gives the most Gansey-like answer that’s also exactly what Adam needs to hear.

I just like to think about the significance of this a lot. Adam didn’t even go to his friends for the court hearing with his father. He was entirely prepared to lose a trial against his father and be judged and ridiculed all by his lonesome. But they showed up and, and Gansey being Gansey knew the judge and Ronan wore a tie!

Not only the relationship between Adam and Gansey, but it’s definitely is significant to Adam and Ronan as well. Adam knows how much Ronan means to Gansey, and he knew Gansey would be the person to talk to about this. Adam Parrish cares enough about Ronan Lynch to go against his every instinct and ask for advice. He bears his heart on his sleeve knowing it could very well break, just so he could protect Ronan from himself . I love these characters.

[vroombeams]

FIC WRITER INTERVIEW

tagged on main by @boonbeenblade i hope you don't mind if i answer over here where i'm more active 💖

How many works do you have on AO3?

21!

What's your total AO3 word count?

72,196

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

like you do (1,011)

delicate topographies (666) (nice)

hot in it (637)

a place to rest your arms (478)

mile why club (408)

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

i do! as often as i can i try to respond to comments because i really appreciate them all and it really really really keeps me going. but it's been a bit of a contentious thing lately i think in fandom at large, the way that there've been a few people saying that they straight up won't comment if they see the author doesn't respond etc etc. for me personally i have pretty severe chronic fatigue and just a whole cornucopia of bad brain things that make it difficult sometimes to go through and drop what is essentially a copy-pasted thank you note in the replies to each comment. i'm not at all against responding and especially if there's a question or something to engage with it always makes me really happy to do so, but it does push into burnout territory faster. so usually i'll just write more fic and hope that that's enough!

What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending?

free for all or decathect probably! actually intermediate was pretty bad too in that capacity. forgot about that one. but i mean most of those also are semi-ambiguous i guess, like it's sad and continues to be sad and it may or may not continue to be sad after? but yes those three. if the bloodborne au ever gets finished that will ~snatch the crown~ tho. also i was filling this out before i finished kinktober and probably the cnc fic is pretty up there now

What's the fic you've written with the happiest ending?

like you do? a place to rest your arms? the happy they're-going-to-get-together endings i guess?? for me also i would personally put rear 32 in this category. to me it's like, there's a sweet-warm-good vibe to the end of it and in my head and i guess sometimes on tumblr there is some extremely warm aftercare that follows that makes Me, Personally, very happy

Do you write crossovers?

liiiike. i guess you could qualify a really distinctive au as a crossover if you really wanted to. the crime au could be considered a gta crossover. paleblood is, you know, bloodborne but with landoscar in it. but i guess to me a true crossover would involve characters meeting other characters from that other universe??? and the answer to if i've written those is also yes, but not for f1 (yet)

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

oh yes in the dark days of ffnet there was a great deal of flaming all the time, the etiquette wasn't quite what it is today lmaO. to be fair i deserved a lot of the hate i got. i sucked pretty bad. and then a couple of fandoms ago i got a pretty cruel guest comment on a fic that i ended up deleting, but that's a whole other story lol

Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

gestures vaguely at the kinktober archive

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

not that i'm aware of! i don't think i'm big enough to have been stolen from. but one can always hope (jk)

Have you ever had a fic translated?

yes!! someone in a previous video game fandom i was in translated one of my fics to mandarin. very cool!!!

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

yesss a few times! all in previous fandoms. there were a couple of people i used to write with pretty regularly in that way, like popping a bunch of junk in a doc and then letting each other run wild and smoothing out the rough edges at the end. super rewarding and super fun and a really interesting exercise in making different styles flow together

What's your all-time favorite ship?

all-time is a rough one to answer LOL. in f1, currently, probably jondo. as far as ships that i still will actively go back to and enjoy just as much... maybe adam/ronan (raven cycle) or altair/malik (assassin's creed)? zack/cloud from ff7 lives within me also. and will till i die

What's a WIP that you want to finish but don't think you ever will?

the water takes it back for sure. between that one and i guess the long-distance relationship landoscar fic. i like them both a lot conceptually but they're both pretty raw to write, like, achy in ways that feel too personal maybe? i'll probably continue to pick at them but i don't know if i could ever finish/post them just because they are a Lot in a Lot Of Ways. then again i'm also in a bit of space rn so. ask me again in a few weeks

What are your writing strengths?

maybe knowing what i want from a piece? like the goal of a thing or the vibe i want to achieve. but also sometimes i do just be flinging myself into a doc and hoping something happens so it's maybe not that specific lmaO. but yeah, i guess the vision is a strength, when i do have a vision it's usually a pretty strong and solid one!

What are your writing weaknesses?

dialogue the beloathed! i hate it i always feel like it comes out clunky and makes the rest of the piece clunky by extension

also getting caught up in like. a lot of minute details and plot threads? this is obviously not an issue in all of the stuff i've been posting for the last month because. duh. but in larger projects i definitely find myself creating too many threads or not tying off threads correctly or not having enough threads, god forbid. this is of course why there's no multichap posted on this account lol. it's something that i'm specifically working on right now! trying to be better at you know... organization and clarity? by the end of november we will know if i've achieved that lol

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

oh interesting question. i don't think it's like... super necessary? to include? like unless a pov character has some familiarity with a second language that they don't actively speak, i don't think there's a ton of reason to write out like idk a whole bit of dialogue in french or italian or whatever. mainly because if you don't speak a language At All you're likely not going to be catching complete sentences/words anyway, so taking the pov character into consideration is important for this?? as far as a bi-or-morelingual character goes, i think doing a dialogue tag in english and saying 'they said, in (language)' after makes more sense from a reading perspective. if that makes sense. that's just my personal take on it!

What was the first fandom you wrote for?

yugioh lol. way back on ffnet. i think my first ao3 fandom was... mmm. we will just say [redacted] bandom i guess

What's a fandom/ship you haven't written for yet but want to?

ohhh. like is it a cop-out to say indycar because i'd love to mess about with some pato ships in the near future??

What's your favorite fic you've written?

rude question to end on THANKS

i don't know man. as it stands everything i've posted isn't like a favourite?? anymore?? my go-to answer has always been free for all or pouffe. but there are a couple of the kinktober fills that i'm really really fond of now like the oscarmark breeding kink? the oscarmark cnc is like also important to me in a lot of ways. i think i'm also in the post kinktober headspace where i want to tear everything i've ever done to absolute pieces and then maybe set it on fire??? anyway yeah those ones 😭 otherwise probably there's stuff in my docs that i've not posted that i prefer but that's neither here nor there atp

i know this one is fuckin huge so extremely no pressure tagging @glasscushion @freeuselandonorris @monacotrophywife @piastriachios @bright-and-burning to at your leisure if at all 💖

[emmerrr]

wip wednesday!

i started writing today for the first time in what feels like forever, so here's a little bit more of this:

Ronan looked at him, then lifted the back of his hand to Adam’s head, as though checking for a fever. His hand felt warm, but then again Ronan was always warm. Adam leaned into it without meaning to. Ronan lowered it again, but not before hesitating on Adam’s cheek, just briefly. He let out a shaky breath. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, showing up here like this.”  Adam knew this, and he was sorry, but Ronan didn’t sound mad for once. Just resigned.  Ronan turned away, grabbing a glass out of a cupboard and filling it with water. He handed it to Adam, who took a sip. It was nice; cold and refreshing. It made Adam feel just a little bit better, just a little bit calmer. Ronan was just staring at him with his arms crossed, so Adam took another drink. He said nothing. Ronan said nothing. And then saying nothing became too much. “Do you want me to leave?” Adam asked. Please don't make me leave, he thought. Ronan rolled his eyes, annoyed by the question. “C’mon,” he said, answering by not answering. “You can bring your water up.” He left the kitchen, and Adam followed, switching the light off on his way out. There was a little light somewhere on the upstairs landing that gave them enough to see by as they headed up, but truthfully, Adam could’ve made this journey in the dark. And he had, many times, arriving late in the night and letting himself in with the key Ronan had given him. Sneaking into Ronan’s bed, trying not to wake him, sometimes succeeding, sometimes not. But, awake or not, Ronan would always reach for him, and Adam would fall asleep, warm in the arms of someone who loved him. But that was all a long time ago. Adam shook the memories free.

if anyone has anything to share, consider yourselves tagged! <3

[clotpolesonly]

Live A Little (Love A Lot)

some silly Bronan platonic bonding and bickering in honor of valentine's day, cuz they're just so much fun and i love them | Bronan | Gen | 3k | Banter | Fluff & Humor | Platonic Kisses | (also on AO3)

Blue wasn’t quite sure how she ended up alone at Monmouth Manufacturing with Ronan. Gansey was at a family function—a political function, rather, that happened to involve his family, and thus required his presence to complete the pretty picture—and Adam wouldn’t be back from his factory shift for another twenty minutes or so. She had a feeling that Noah might have been here at some point, but after his sacrifice and Cabeswater’s reconstitution of Gansey, their ability to keep track of him in their minds and their memories was a little hit or miss.

However it had started, now it was just Blue cross-legged on Gansey’s bed, being nosy and going through all the books he had stacked up on the floor beside it in a tower tall enough to act as a nightstand for yet more books, and Ronan, sprawled out on the main strip of miniature Henrietta and tossing bits of potato chip into the air for Chainsaw to swoop for. Half the time, she was too late to catch them and the bits fell back down to hit him in the face. He didn’t seem to mind much.

It was a drowsy, boring, waiting type of afternoon, but it was kind of nice too. Out of all her boys, Ronan was the one she’d spent the least amount of time with, and she wasn’t entirely sure she’d ever spent more than a few minutes with only him. Being trapped in a frightening mystical underground cavern in the dark together and tormented by images of their dead and potentially soon-to-be-dead loved ones, she thought, didn’t count.

She put down Rhiannon: An Inquiry into the Origins of the First and Third Branches of the Mabinogi and picked up Mysterious Creatures: A Guide to Cryptozoology next. It had a candy bar wrapper stuffed in it as a bookmark, about thirty pages from the end. There had been ten books stacked on top of it. Blue wondered if Gansey remembered or had even noticed that he hadn’t gotten around to those last thirty pages. Probably not.

“Hey, maggot.”

A few months ago, this might have ruined her good mood. Now she just turned to the entry on Sasquatch—Gansey had doodled several footprints of varying sizes in the margins here—and said, “I’m not dignifying that by answering to it.”

“You just did, moron. Hey, would you date me?”

Blue put the book down. “Come again?”

Ronan had not unsprawled from downtown, one foot planted on Magnolia Drive so that his crooked knee towered over the drug store with the old-timey striped awning, the other elbow jutting out between the public library and the less respectable of Henrietta’s two Denny’s. Chainsaw seemed to have realized where all the chip bits were coming from. She’d stolen the bag right out of Ronan’s hand and was pecking covetously through its contents a few crossroads away. Ronan had to crane his head back, pale throat bared, to look at Blue upside down.

“Noah said you said you’d go out with him—” Well, that at least confirmed her suspicion about how they’d ended up in this position, though it smarted that Ronan seemed to remember something that she didn’t. “—you know, if he was alive and shit. What about me?”

“You are alive. And shit.”

“No duh, dumbass. I meant, would you go out with me? If I asked?”

Blue blinked at him. “Ronan, you don’t want to go out with me.”

Ronan’s eye roll was impressive in its thoroughness. “Yeah, yeah, but, you know. If I did.”

For a moment, Blue was stymied, both by the question itself and by the fact that Ronan had asked it. It struck her as nonsensical in a way that none of their wild, mind-bending, magical shenanigans ever had. Then she looked at Ronan again—at the sharp and graceful hooks of his elaborate tattoo, at the artfully distressed jeans that she knew he bought that way on purpose rather than letting them get ripped up organically, at the way he lounged like he was just waiting for somebody to paint him like one of their french girls. She narrowed her eyes at him.

“Is this a pride thing?”

Ronan grinned, sharp and unrepentant; she had him pegged and he seemed to like that. “Gotta make sure the chicks dig me.”

“Even if you don’t dig ‘em back?”

“Especially when I don’t dig ‘em back.”

Blue huffed. A piece of unruly hair, escaped from its clip, bounced haphazardly in front of her face. She ignored it in favor of grabbing another one of Gansey’s books without looking at its title. “Well, I am not a chick—” Her tone made very clear how unfeminist she considered the term to be. “—and I’m not dignifying that question with a response either.”

“Oh, come on.”

Ronan dragged out the last syllable for a day and a half. Maybe two days. There was a whole Daylight Saving’s Time trapped inside that syllable. He finally rolled himself out of the road to sit up, startling Chainsaw into flight and nearly knocking the painstakingly crafted popsicle stick awning off the drug store, just so he could make an entreating face at her. She ignored that too.

“You said you’d date Noah!” he whined. “You dated Parrish! You’re all up on Gansey’s d—”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence, Ronan Lynch.”

“And now Cheng too!” Ronan scoffed spectacularly. “Not to be confused with Cheng Two, though at the rate you’re going—”

Blue snapped her book closed and said, “Quit being a shitbag, Lynch. I don’t date shitbags regardless of their sexuality.”

Ronan made a very put-upon noise, like she was being unreasonable about the whole thing and horribly unfair to boot. “If I was attracted to women, and neither of us was dating anybody else who would object, and I asked you out. Would you say yes? That’s all I’m asking!”

“You really want to know?”

Ronan frowned stubbornly at her in response. It wasn’t an angry kind of frown, though. She was very used to Ronan’s angry frowns, and his angry glares, and his angry smiles, and pretty much every other kind of angry expression, seeing as anger was his default emotion. This one looked more petulant than anything. Grumpy in a challenging kind of way, like a goat getting ready to butt heads, or like one of the toddlers that frequented 300 Fox Way when they wanted to stay up past bedtime and had a whole argument ready to present in favor of the idea and were just begging for somebody to try and tell them they shouldn’t.

This wasn’t an angry or upset Ronan, Blue realized. This was Ronan in a good mood. He was having fun arguing with her like this.

She bit down on a smile. “You really want to know?” She dragged out the word for a whole ‘nothing Daylight Saving’s Time.

Ronan picked up a stray chip and threw it in her direction. It bounced off her knee and fell down behind Gansey’s pillow. “Why would I ask a question if I didn’t want to know the answer, huh? Stupid.”

Blue put the book she’d been pretending to read back on its precarious tower—several books shorter now than it had been before she’d gotten nosy—and stood, hands on her hips. “Come on, then,” she said brusquely. “Get up.”

Ronan blinked up at her, taken aback. “What for?”

“I like to make informed decisions. Up! Let me get a look at you.”

For a second, she thought he might object to the idea of being examined and evaluated like livestock, but then another grin bloomed on his face, every bit as sharp and unrepentant as the last. He stood with the coiled grace of a pit viper ready to strike. His arms, bared by his black tank top, were impressively muscled, and his tattoo flirted over the edge of his solid shoulders. His thumbs found his belt loops, jeans low slung and hips jutting forward. His eyes really were some of the bluest Blue had ever seen, rivaled only by his own brothers. He was all sharp angles and contrast, danger and insouciance, like a cat on a tightrope casually licking its claws.

In short, he looked good, and it was obvious he knew it. Nobody adored a Lynch like a Lynch.

Blue kept her face impassive, lips pursed. She took her time circling him. He didn’t turn his head to watch her, content, apparently, to let her survey him from every angle. There was a smirk on his lips by the time she came back around to stand in front of him.

“So?” he asked, a laugh in his tone. Like he knew what her answer would be. Like he’d already won. “What’s the verdict?”

Blue hummed thoughtfully. “No.”

Ronan lost his smirk. “What?” His voice had jumped up at least half an octave, like he’d been shocked into forgetting it was supposed to be low and gruff and sexy.

“No,” Blue said again, breezily. “I wouldn’t date you. Sorry.”

There was a moment of silence while Ronan recalibrated. She’d never seen him speechless before, but she had really and truly caught him off guard. As his mouth opened and closed without any words coming out, Blue thought he might actually be a little hurt.

Finally, he said, “Why the fuck not? You’d date everybody else!”

Blue crossed her arms over her chest, hoping her cheeks weren’t pink, and shrugged. “Don’t feel bad about it. It’s nothing personal,” she said honestly. “It’s not because I don’t see the appeal or anything. It’s just… Well, frankly, you’re too tall for my tastes.”

Ronan scoffed at once. “Seriously?”

Blue raised an eyebrow at him. Then she dragged her eyes down to what was actually on her level, which were his pectorals, if she was standing up real straight. She didn’t even reach his clavicle. He was, quite literally, head and shoulders taller than her.

“Gansey and Henry are already bad enough,” she said. “And Adam was on thin ice back when we were together. I would break my damn neck trying to kiss you! No offense.”

“How is that not offensive? Not my fault you’re a midget.”

“Not my fault you’re the human equivalent of a telephone pole.”

“You should kiss me anyway.”

“What?” It was Blue’s turn to get squeaky with surprise.

Ronan had his smirk back, though. “I said you should kiss me anyway! You already kissed everybody else.”

Blue’s cheeks were definitely pink now, both at the reminder of the time she and Adam had ill-advisedly—AKA drunkenly—decided to finally have the kiss that had broken them up several months before, just for the sake of saying they’d done it, and at the realization that Ronan was right. What kind of cliche was she, the only girl in a group of boys, getting kissed by every one of them?

Well, almost every one.

“Ronan Lynch,” she said, indignant enough that nothing else needed to be said to make it known.

He was not shamed. “Come on, why not? I’m feeling very left out! One kiss. What, are you afraid you’ll fall desperately in love with me?”

Blue’s snort of laughter was so immediate and so strong that Ronan honestly should’ve been offended by it. He only grinned, though, and reached out to tug at the stray piece of hair in front of her face.

“Come on,” he said again. “Just one kiss. As a friend thing.”

Blue was pretty sure that wasn’t something normal friends did with each other. But, then, she was also aware that theirs was hardly a normal group of friends. She slapped his hand away and said, “A friend thing, really?”

“It’s only weird if we make it weird.”

“I think kissing my ex-boyfriend’s gay current boyfriend is weird by definition, no matter why I do it.”

Ronan’s grin widened. “Live a little, Sargent.”

There was a dare in that smile. It was the kind of smile Ronan gave to Adam that convinced Adam to tie himself to the back of the Pig and see if he could skateboard behind it like he was waterskiing because if he didn’t do it then it meant he was scared, and, if you asked Ronan, there was nothing worse than being scared. It was the kind of smile you rose to the challenge of or you risked losing Ronan Lynch’s respect, and, if you asked Blue, there was nothing worse than losing Ronan Lynch’s respect.

Blue kicked Ronan in the shin. Hard.

He yelped, as much out of surprise as from pain, and pitched forward to protect the area under attack. Blue only had to give him a little push to get him down on one knee.

“Fuckshit, maggot, what was that f—”

Blue caught his face in her hands and cut off his question with a kiss. It was a proper one, too, not one of those chaste little grandma-pecks. If Ronan Lynch wanted a kiss, then she was damn well going to give him one. There was only a split second of bafflement before he was giving back as good as he got, never one to lose or be outdone. Blue had to acknowledge, at least to herself and never ever out loud where anyone else could hear, that Adam was a lucky man.

When she was certain that the challenge had been met to everybody’s satisfaction, she pulled back to pat Ronan on the cheek. Stunned, Ronan let her get away with it.

In answer to his interrupted question, she said, “I told you you’re too tall. As nice a kiss as that was, I wasn’t about to break my neck for it. And anyway, I think I like you better like this.”

The sharklike look on his face was all the warning she had. In a split second, Ronan was on his feet again, one arm wrapped around her to keep her in place, ruffling her hair so aggressively that it sent clips ricocheting around the room. Chainsaw immediately started snatching them up and spiriting them away.

“Lynch, you asshole!”

Ronan released her with a peal of laughter. He dodged her attempt to grab him back and made good use of his significantly longer legs to book it to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. She could still hear him laughing in there.

“Yeah, yuck it up, chucklefuck,” she yelled. “See if I ever kiss you again!”

“What’s going on here?”

Blue spun around to see Adam, bleary-eyed and grimy, paused in the entrance. She hadn’t heard the heavy door open over all the commotion. Straightening out the rumpled mess of her outfit and also, hopefully, her dignity, she said, “Your boyfriend’s cheating on you with me.”

There were several seconds where Adam tried to make sense of those words. Eventually, it seemed, he gave up. “Okay. I need a shower.”

He disappeared into the godforsaken bathroom-laundry-kitchen monstrosity. Blue huffed and threw herself back down onto Gansey’s bed. The chip Ronan had thrown at her earlier bounced out with the motion to nudge at her hand. She snatched it up, ate it, and only then remembered that it had been on the floor before it had become a projectile. Oh well. It was probably more sanitary than anything that had been prepared in that bathroom anyway.

“You lied.”

Blue spun around again, only this time it was Noah, smudgy and pale and half-there, that she found this time. He was lying on his stomach down the main strip of miniature Henrietta, poking at the drug store awning like it fascinated him. It felt, in that moment, like he’d been there the whole time.

“What d’you mean?” Blue asked him. “About what?”

“When you said you wouldn’t date Ronan if he asked. You totally would. No matter how tall he is.” He said it like a statement of fact. Like there was no doubt in his mind.

Blue stuck out her chin in defiance. “Oh yeah? Why are you so sure about that?”

Noah shrugged. “He’s one of your boys.”

Blue deflated. She made a very put-upon noise, but she could hardly argue. Not against Noah. “I guess. Don’t tell him, though. It would go straight to his head, I’d never hear the end of it.”

Noah mimed zipping up his mouth and throwing away the key. Chainsaw, returned from hiding Blue’s hairclips where no one would ever find them again, chased the motion like she thought he’d really thrown something and made a distinctly plaintive noise when she realized he hadn’t. He offered her a stray piece of cardboard in apology.

Blue settled back down into Gansey’s bed. She picked up The Welsh Kings: Warriors, Warlords And Princes and flipped to where a gas station receipt marked the day Gansey had forgotten he was reading it. The noise of the shower running was soft and soothing. Noah was humming something she was almost certain he’d learned from Ronan. Everything smelled like mint and dust and old paper.

Soon enough, she thought, Ronan would probably judge the coast clear. He’d emerge carefully, watching her for any sign that she was mad and preparing to launch another sneak attack on him. She was willing to bet he would be sharp-eyed and thrilled the entire time, delighted by the game. A sudden fondness filled her up so much she thought she might burst with it.

Noah was right. No matter how obnoxiously tall he was, no matter what a shithead he could be, no matter the nature of the relationship—Blue still loved Ronan more than words could say. How could she not? He was one of her boys.

[polichinelle]

the raven cycle timeline

"trc takes place in the mid-2010s" "trc takes place in 2012" no it doesn't! it's pretty common knowledge that mstief isn't the most specific when it comes to timelines (an example is that she had to change ronan's birth date after readers pointed out that it didn't line up with the events of the book; another example is the pre-canon gansey & adam & ronan friendship timeline, which doesn't make sense at all if you think about it longer than a second), and she has said before that her editors are more or less the same.

what that means is that the raven cycle and the dreamer trilogy are kind of nebulously "present-time," and no matter what year you think it takes place in, some details are going to be inaccurate. but since i am a chronic nit-picker and i get very fussy about timelines, that didn't sit right with me! i needed to know the exact year. so on my last reread, i kept a look out for any mention of dates so that i might be able to pinpoint exactly when the raven cycle takes place.

and i think i might have the answer :)

all of my arguments come from the dream thieves.

firstly, adam's birthday. we know that his birthday is july 3rd:

we also know that he was missing for most of the previous day:

what happens then is that he falls asleep for an indeterminate amount of time ("Later he fell asleep sitting up on the end of that same sofa."), he and gansey drive back to henrietta, adam visits blue at fox way, and after scrying with persephone he falls asleep again for twenty-one hours, and during that twenty-one hours is when his birthday takes place.

for a while i assumed the "quietly turned eighteen" referred to midnight, but that actually doesn't make a lot of sense given the context of the previous day being saturday. both of our options (gansey and adam drive back the same evening they found adam; gansey and adam drive back the next morning, on sunday) leaves us with adam falling asleep on sunday. at some point during the next twenty-one hours he "turns eighteen."

the thing is, there is no convenient year where july 3rd falls on a monday (in the scenario where we assume that "quietly turned eighteen" refers to midnight on the day of his birthday). however, if we go with the idea that it is still sunday and it refers simply to his actual time of birth, we're left with a pretty good answer:

adam turns 18 on sunday, july 3rd, 2011.

i have another thing to kind of back this up.

if we assume niall wasn't lying about that, we have two (well... kind of) options:

i searched for earthquakes in northern england since niall was born in cumbria. however, in my opinion, the second one, on december 26th, can't really be counted, since it would mean niall was... 32 in 2011. a little young lol. but if he was born in 1970, he would be 40/41 at his time of death, which makes a lot of sense (it also makes sense he would be a leo). neither earthquakes are a 4.1, but whatever, maybe he just forgot the exact number. maybe he was being humble.

so... all of this to say that the events of the raven cycle probably happen during 2011, and thus the dreamer trilogy would take place in 2013. considering the references to fortnite and all, that doesn't make a lot of sense, but at least i can rest easy knowing that that's just because mstief didn't think about this stuff at all while writing it (hence nebulous "present-day" being the actual correct answer as to when the books are set).

for a while i actually thought trc took place in 2010 since the lynches go to church before kavinsky's party, which i assumed meant july fourth was on a sunday, but it's mentioned that they go for a "special" "holiday mass" and not regular mass. either way, 2011 works better with adam being missing on saturday.

anyway, all this to say that i think about timelines too much. thank you for reading if you've made it this far lol

[romantichopelessly]

thinking about the raven king again and. I think MS isn’t that good at writing finales.

don’t get me wrong, I love TRK in a lot of ways, but it is the weakest book in the raven cycle (not to mention Greywaren being what it is)

Both Greywaren and TRK are weak in that they’re far shorter than they need to be—leaving many questions left unanswered and many plot points rushed.

When I finished TRK, I had many questions (some of which were answered in the dreamer trilogy, but I believe TRC should be able to stand alone). Can Blue and Gansey kiss again? Did Ronan ever get in touch with Declan and Matthew after he almost died? Do they remember Noah at all? Does Mr. Gray get to return to Henrietta? What about the Camero wheel they found in the lake? How is Gansey really doing post-death? etc. etc.

Not to mention the rushed plot points like Blue finding out her heritage suddenly, and that not really getting to go anywhere.

All of these problems are turned to the highest notch in Greywaren but quite frankly I don’t have the energy to talk about that book.

[gtlurker]

Chapter seven of inhuman! Hope this chapter I'd enjoyed because I loved writting it, bit of violence but nothing to major in this chapter, enjoy!

Chapter seven

Atlas

“There is no way in hell he just said ‘you have twenty minutes,’ then hung up.” Ronan tells me from the other side of the kitchen where he's pouring himself a glass of whiskey from the locked cabinet that I'm not allowed within ten feet of.

He started to keep a lock on the cabinet a few months ago when I stole a bottle of rum and brought it to school to try with some other kids, so it makes me a little annoyed when he offers a glass to isabelle. “Isnt she underaged?”

I ask, gesturing to miniscule girl. Isabelle chose one of my favorite dresses that i made, a simple forest green ankle length, long sleeve running dress with built in shorts. It's simple, yes, but I can certainly see why she chose it.

“She's twenty, not fifteen. If she wants some alcohol then she can have some.” Ronan responds with an eye roll, he turns back Isabelle, who shakes her head in response. “I'd rather not.” Her voice is so quiet it's basically a whisper, I can't tell if it's because she's so small her voice won't project, or if it's because she's still scared.

She spent the night here last night, and most of the house didn't get a wink of sleep. I had stayed up the whole night trying to find more information about our little guest. Isabelle just stayed up the whole night, sitting on the window sill and watching the backyard, the house is surrounded by acres of forests, but at night there's not really much to look at.

I tried to start a few conversions, but her responses were always quipped, and each time I spoke she would jump out of her skin. I don't know how she's still so awake right now after spending the whole night awake.

Ronan had asked her a few questions about her time in the lab, but she didn't really seem inclined to answer any of them. It's impossible to not stare at her, she's holding a single cheerio, and it's taking her a while to eat through it. It's almost hard to imagine that just one of something people usually eat by the hundreds is enough for Isabelle to eat.

I wonder what it would feel like to hold her, though she hasn't let me hold her yet, i've seen ronan hold her a handful of times, she clearly hates it each time and is never very willinging to be picked up, i still find myself jealous that i probably won't get the opportunity to hold her before her brother comes to get her in a few minutes.

The room is filled with an uncomfortable silence only punctuated by the sound of Ronan taking a sip from his glass.

A loud knock at the door that's more like a banging than a knocking is the only warning were given before the door bursts open, and a very angry looking damien is storming into our house, in the span of five seconds, the chain lock broke and is currently sitting on the other side of the kitchen, ronan has got to put more money into our security system.

Ronan's glass has shattered to the ground and his gun is drawn and aimed at Damien, and Damien's gun is pointed at me. Why me!? I don't even have a weapon on me, unless you count a bowl of soggy cheerios a weapon.

As Damien and Ronan start to shout over each other, both threatening to pull the trigger if the other didn't put his gun down, my gaze shifts between the two of them for a good few seconds. I really hate when I'm held at gunpoint, it's not as fun as it seems in the movies.

As the two gun wielding assholes continue their screaming match, the sight of Isabelle curled in on herself and covering her ears catches my eyes. Did neither of these idiots think that maybe screaming and pulling their guns out might hurt her ears? She's four inches tall, her ears are probably a lot more sensitive than a normal persons.

I make sure neither Damien or Ronan have their eyes on me, before I slowly reach over to gently tap on Isabelle's back. Naturally, she recoils from my touch and looks up to me, her hands still pressed tightly over her little ears.

Our eyes meet and i nod to my outstretched hand, it takes a moment before she carefully removes her hands from her ears and scoots a bit closer to my hand, i quickly look up to make sure that both of them are still distracted and watching as damiens finger get a bit closer to the trigger of the gun.

I don't understand why both of them had taken their guns out, I'm also a bit concerned that Ronan had a gun on him when I thought that we were both unarmed. How many times has he had guns on him and I was unaware, he probably sleeps with guns under his pillows for all I know, and I really don't know why Damien pulled out his gun when he broke in.

we would have let him in if had just knocked on the door, you know, like a normal fucking person. It also makes no sense why he has his gun pointed at me.

After confirming that their both still distracted i gently scoop isabelle into my hand, bringing her to my chest and cupping my second over top of her to make a small quiet space for her, it's probably still noisy for her, but it's definitely more muffled than when she was covering her ears on the table.

When the realization that i'm holding an entire life in my hand right now. Her whole entire life is in the palm of my hand, and it feels so surreal. It's almost unreal how I can feel her squirming slightly in my grip. I swallow and try not to make a sound or move a muscle so as to not scare her into making a sound. I don't want either of them to notice that I'm now holding her.

I flinch at the sudden sound of Ronan bursting out laughing and damien demanding to know what's so funny. Rona looks over to me and points at Damien with his gun, laughing harder as he tries to get the words out.

“He- he has a BB gun!”

Ronan exclaims, followed by another fit of laughter. Damien stares dumbfoundead, and looks at his gun, my eyes also slide down to his gun. He turns to the gun in his hand and looks back to me, and then at his gun. His gun in fact, is not a BB gun, it's a 3.3 Semi-automatic handgun.

Damiens brow furrowed in confusion as roman's laughter abruptly stopped, and he fired two shots at damien, one in the elbow and one hand.

Damiens shout is more out of shock than pain, he gun clatters to the floor and Ronan wastes no time grabbing it and aiming that in him as well. I can feel Isabelle trembling in my cupped hands, muttering and trying to figure out what's going on.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Ronan asks calmly, there's an anger lacing his voice that I've never heard before. When Damien's only answer is a pained grunt, Ronan fires another shot that takes Damien's pinky finger right off, Isabelle shrieks at the sound of a third shot followed by a pained cry, and I feel my dinner rise to my throat at the bloody sight.

“I said, who. The fuck. Are you?!”

Ronan shouts again, and I quickly realize he has no idea who Damien is. I make a dash for the door as damien starts to shout who he is and what he's here for, i hold isabelle tight to my chest, and the sound of two guns clanking against the floor is the last thing i hear before i shut the door to my bedroom and open my hand to see isabelle.

she's been crying the whole time from the look on her face, so i set her down to not further overwhelm her. “Was, was that my brother?” she asks, and i nod, deciding to be honest.

“Why did he have a gun?!”

“I don't know.”

“Was he shot?”

“Yes. in the arm.”

“Will he die?!”

“No.”

Never mind being honest, she is not in the right mindset for hearing the truth. The truth is I don't know if he'll survive those bullet wounds, I don't hear any more gunshots or shouting, so I'm assuming they've started to get along.

Isabelle and I stayed in my room for another hour. She gets changed into a set of pajamas I sewn two weeks back, a pink pair of pajama pants and an ill fitting pastel yellow shirt to pair with it.

When I'm confident that they've dealt with all the blood and started to calm down, I take Isabelle and slowly creak open the door.

Ignore the question part I clicked it by accident and don't know how to remove it, so just enjoy a little pole lmao

ANYWAY hope you enjoyed this chapter, Ronan forgetting the face of his own client is honestly so real

[denimbex1986]

'There are certain kinds of films that really impact me emotionally. One genre is what I will call “Saddest Film I Ever Saw”, and weirdly the Brits seem to have almost cornered the market on this one.

If asked, I usually say the very saddest film I have ever seen is “Never Let Me Go”, the heart-rending British Sci Fi classic based on Nobel-prize winner Kazuo Ishiguro’s novel. Oh, and if that didn’t make you cry, with its trio of Oscar winners and nominees — Andrew Garfield, Carey Mulligan and Keira Knightly — trying to love and live before they are forced to sever their limbs (yep), then the Merchant-Ivory production of Ishiguro’s “The Remains of the Day” has to.

Or your tear ducts have straight up dried up.

And, also from the UK, Saorise Ronan in the insanely sad Dystopian Sci Fi film, “How We Live Now”. Oh.my.garsh. There’s a new one: a distinctly British tale of late love, “All of Us Strangers”.

Gay Love and Heartbreak: Who Knew?

I have read a lot of reviews of this film, and, well, it had a nearly perfect IMDB Critics and Users score. I recently had a debate with some other people who are quite knowledgeable about film, about whether IMDB scores even matter. They eschew IMDB and use Letterbox’d — all the cool kids do, apparently (LOL).

Trust me, IMDB scores matter. Nearly every film I have ever seen that has had an IMDB score higher than 6.5 has been Good, and ones with a 6.8–7.1 score (they hardly ever (ever) go higher than that) are usually amazing.

What critics have keyed on is not that this is a beautiful tale of Gay love, of growing up Gay during the AIDS era and having parents who, in the words of The Fresh Prince, “just don’t understand” (or do they?), and then get killed in a car crash. Although all of that is present. Critics have keyed on the fact that “All of Us Strangers” is a timeless story of love and loss. Period. It could be any pair of people: old, young, gay, straight. It doesn’t matter, because Haigh’s and co-writer Taichi Yamada’s script and direction deliver the goods.

The Progress We Have Made

This film probably could not have been made, or been as successful even ten years ago. But today, when despite the forces of Evil arrayed against LGBTQ+ people all over the world, and especially in the US, Haigh presents us with an achingly beautiful love story between two people, who happen to be Gay Men. And it shows us, sans any prurience, gorgeous scenes of Gay Lovemaking that are the farthest thing from pornographic or even lurid.

And he does this by asking more narrative questions than he ever answers. Which I, personally, love.

Andrew Scott plays Adam, a screen-writer (how Meta) living in a nearly empty apartment building somewhere in London, at some point in time (the recent past? the near future?), who by a simple twist of fate ends up in the arms of Harry, played by Paul Mescal. I have loved Scott ever since his turn as a sexually active Anglican Priest in Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s amazing TV series “Fleabag”, and also love Mescal for, among other things, the critically lauded “Aftersun”.

A Queer Ghost Story?

What makes the narrative so fascinating is that, in parallel with this surprising tale of new love, Adam decides to return to his home town and finds his Mother and Father still living in the house in which he grew up, and still the same age they were thirty years ago right before they died in a car crash.

Why and how this impossible thing is happening provides much of the narrative force for “All of Us Strangers”, and Haigh inter-weaves the yearning love of Adam and Harry with Adam’s need to talk to his parents. You see, he needs to know if they knew he was Gay when he was in school (they did) and whether his Mum approves of the fact he likes Men, not Women (She does).

If you are fully willing to “suspend disbelief” (as Poet Coleridge famously said) then you are all in, and the only important thing is to see how Adam’s dialogues with his Mum (played by the excellent Claire Foy) and his Da (played by the under-rated Jamie Bell) will give them, and him some Peace.

It Gets Weird, then it Gets…

And why do they need that? Because, and this not a spoiler, they are all probably Dead. Jamie Ramsay’s gorgeous, yet unintrusive, Cinematography establishes a dream-like visual language in which we simply follow along both the Love Story and the Ghost Story, and really don’t want it to end.

But, alas, the story needs to go somewhere, and in the third reel Adam comes back to the Apartment Building to find Harry dead in Harry’s apartment. Again, not a spoiler, as it is never clear if any of the few characters in the film are actually alive in the first place.

As they lie together on his Bed, the shot of the two of them starts to shrink against a white background, eventually collapsing like a Neutron Star. Queue tears — bawling, really.

Question posed? Yes. Answered? Brilliantly, no.'