#stally

[that-one-english-nerd]

outsiders rare pairs hit DIFFERENT. like, have i always been a multi-shipper? yes, but i’ve reached a new level with this fandom‼️

[gay-poet-gabriel]

stally art cuz rn yall are not well fed by me sorry

was inpsired by @felworthless to draw stally

[moodywritesmoody]

The Rivers of New Scotland Yard (A Stally fanfic - ft Ella and Janine being a riot)

Janine let the rest of their arguing go unheard as she continued to check on the contents of the boiling, grilling, and frying pots and pans. It was going to be a feast - that was the most exciting part; everyone could at least agree on that. In maybe another hour they would all be eating and drinking and making merry.

Then maybe after a few ciders and when they were all partied out and content, Janine might ask Ella for an easy no pressure chat.

It struck her again, how weird it was that she was friends with Ella at all. Because Ella was her ex-boyfriend’s therapist, the answers to some of his most baffling behaviour was forever just beyond her grasp. Even if they had only been fake dating. And not in the cute fanfiction sense. Enough time had passed since Sherlock revealed his lies that she felt she could probably survive happily not knowing just what he was thinking at the time, but also just enough time had passed that Ella might maybe let some inconsequential detail slip. Inconsequential but enlightening. And so the temptation to beg an insight off of her was ever present. She still hadn’t managed to convince Ella that the ethics of Doctor-patient confidentiality were short sighted at best and blunt force trauma at worst. But Janine was persuasive, she was Irish after all.

Ella was presently negotiating some agreement about technology usage with her teenagers. And after a few minutes of civil debate, they seemed to come to acceptable terms and went separate ways again. The kids back to the stream and Ella to their busy kitchen set-up.

“Ogh, this smells insanely good already, Janine.”

“Thank you kindly. Salted with the sweat of my brow.”

“I’m glad you’re such an excellent cook because if we had to do Sainsbury's pies around the fire this wouldn’t be nearly as fun.”

“Hey you make a really good beef stew now. It only took you, what, two tries to master it?”

“Yeah because you just cut the stuff and toss it in a pot and forget about it until it starts to smell good, that’s about as complex as I can handle. Probably also because you’re such a patient teacher.”

Janine felt chuffed, but shrugged like it was no big deal. She was a patient teacher, no big deal.

“Well you’re a great student.”

Ella gave her a look, “No I’m not.”

“No, you’re not.”

Ella chuckled.

Janine chortled.

“Don’t tell my kids, I like that they think I was a model student in school, instead of a permanent resident of detention.”

“Nah, your kids would be proud of you.”

“Hah.”

“They had a rebel as a mum. A proper trouble maker.”

“Yeah well. They’re both doing so well already, I won’t sabotage that for anything.”

“Fair.”

…

(Chapter 2 snippet)

[reasoningdaily]

Good Luck Meg, we want to see you win ALL the Awards

[just-your-casual-nerd]

Bruh meeeee and youuuuuu @v3nusxsky

Fanfiction: there’s only one room available…

Me who specifically chose a Rated M and Explicit story: oh my gosh there’s only one room they’re gonna share a bed what’s gonna happen next

[puddingmilkt]

[歌詞翻譯] 安炳雄 Ahn Byeong Wong x Layone 張來沅 x 趙廣一 Jo Gwangil - Rain Drops (Prod. Stally & Kim Jisu) 

“괜찮을 거야 근데 내가 잘할 수 있을까” 發行: 22.09.14 / 專輯: rain drops (single)

(安炳雄) 每次也是無預兆驟降的雨點 連鞋子濕掉我也沒為意 我的雨傘 總被我丟失 濕透的衣服 放進乾衣機 每次也是無預兆驟降的雨點 連鞋子濕掉也沒為意 我的雨傘 總被我丟失 濕透的衣服 放進乾衣機 沒有雨傘 被雨點灑了一身 TV裡的氣象預告員 連領帶也濕透 手機因訊息提示而滾燙 放回褲兜 連接airpods 按下播放 Chet Baker on the list 即使會感冒 此刻也想耍帥 願望清單上這樣寫著 (its okay) 所以就讓我像crush哥那個meme 究竟這陣雨何時才會停止 (盡快吧) 每次也是無預兆驟降的雨點 連鞋子濕掉也沒為意 我的雨傘 總被我丟失 濕透的衣服 放進乾衣機 每次也是無預兆驟降的雨點 連鞋子濕掉也沒為意 我的雨傘 總被我丟失 濕透的衣服 放進乾衣機 (Layone) 擠不進乾衣機的單間房 在喇叭笛鳴之間度過的夏與冬 夢見自己在前度婚禮上 提岀反對 我那單間 連女性身影也未曾見過 總感覺渾身黏糊 的確想轉換新環境 但是看了看上半年結算 明擺是妄想 親愛的 下雨了 往哪去呢 醉什麼 沒帶錢包又怎樣喝暈 趁除濕器運行 水沸 倒進拉麪 夕陽西下之際 恍神了 來了空車 也不會乘往龍山方向 身體被可悲的面子佔據 手機宣佈電池沒剩5% 泡在新沙洞的夜店街 怪可憐的 (安炳雄) 每次也是無預兆驟降的雨點 連鞋子濕掉也沒為意 我的雨傘 總被我丟失 濕透的衣服 放進乾衣機 每次也是無預兆驟降的雨點 連鞋子濕掉也沒為意 我的雨傘 總被我丟失 濕透的衣服 放進乾衣機 (趙廣一) 今天不降雨 天氣預報明明這樣說 被雨澆了一身後 全日感覺不對勁 總認為梅雨季過後 不會繼續下雨  雖然正因這類想法 讓我一而再淋雨 想哭了我又 但我只想笑著 想問狂妄的青春 能被細小螺絲完全毀掉的 算得上太空船嗎 幾億顆雨點 無預兆急墜 雖然全身濕透 衣服濕透 現在已洗乾淨 杯空了 再斟滿就是 扛得過的 但是我能做得好嗎 即使單邊肩膀總是濕透 即使雙手永遠冷如冰塊 仍然分享我的所有 雖然也沒多少錢 但是今後 雨再微我也會先把傘撐好 (安炳雄) 每次也是無預兆驟降的雨點 連鞋子濕掉也沒為意 我的雨傘 總被我丟失 濕透的衣服 放進乾衣機 每次也是無預兆驟降的雨點 連鞋子濕掉也沒為意 我的雨傘 總被我丟失 濕透的衣服 放進乾衣機

[neotrances]

megan thee stallion speaking on how passing as a trans person can be fulfilling but self love regardless of if you fit into cis standards or pass is more important @ LA PRIDE 2023

[gilyoungroach]

you wish u were part of the bang gang (gmvn)

[moodywritesmoody]

Yo what if we mixed theory and fiction. Reconstructive fiction. Meta made flesh??

“An attempt to create a new conceptual terrain for imagining alternatives to imprisonment involves the ideological work of questioning why "criminals" have been constituted as a class and, indeed, a class of human beings undeserving of the civil and human rights accorded to others. Radical criminologists have long pointed out that the category "lawbreakers" is far greater than the category of individuals who are deemed criminals since, many point out, almost all of us have broken the law at one time or another.” ― Angela Y. Davis, Are Prisons Obsolete?

[pyritecaves]

hiiii it’s ya girl megan. i’m in recovery mode for now so catch me while you can. if you want to know which anime i'm currently watching hmu @ pyritecave

[dollypopup]

(to be the one) to walk in the sun

Summary: What if Penelope said yes to Debling's proposal? What if Colin never cut into that dance? cowritten with @starryspindel Rating: E Snippet:

1816

Dear Mr. Bridgerton, I am writing to request your help in a important-

Dearest Colin, How are you? I hope you are well on your travels. I am

Colin, I have made a mistake

Mansfield Park was, in her humble opinion, the most boring piece of literature written in the last hundred years, which was a shame really because she usually liked all the novels penned By a Lady. She might have liked the novel the first, or second, or even fifth read through, but now onto her twenty-third (or was it thirty sixth? Sixty fourth? Forty first? One, two, three, four-) she was getting quite sick of Fanny, the insipid protagonist with the backbone of a chocolate éclair.

When was the last time she had an éclair? At the wedding breakfast? The engagement ball? How many had she eaten that day? One, two, three, four-

Her life had devolved into a series of numbers, something she had once thought would be so easy to keep track of. How far the room spread, (one, two, three, four-), toe to toe, (five and seventy slippers apart from wall to wall at the farthest, toe to heel, and six and thirty by the shorter end), the exact number of seams, immaculately maintained, from the papered walls, (one, two, three-), the slats of sunbeam through the curtains, (more in the midday than the morning) (one, two-). Once she began occupying herself with how many instances of the letter ‘a’ she could find ruffling through the book, (one- one- one- one-), she felt something within her splinter. 

But, as with everything in her life, now, there was nowhere for it to be kept but inside. 

So, she read. All but howled in her head as she huffed. Leave, Fanny. You could simply leave.

Fiction had, after all, been such a means of escape for her in the past. 

[twisting-roads]

I've never used a lickilicky until now and I'll be honest I don't regret it

[gay-poet-gabriel]

Steve and Dally kissing (another rare pair >:) )

EEP!!

[moodywritesmoody]

They left the campsite a little later than planned, but Stella reckoned they would make up enough time by avoiding early morning traffic into the City.

Sally, who had managed an undisturbed night of sleep, apparently still had plenty of sleep left in her, and was snoozing in the van's passenger seat, her head held in a pillow and a blanket pinned over her shoulders. She looked like a fighter at rest; body unwilling, spirit also unwilling.

So Stella was alone with her thoughts for the drive to London. Her thoughts and the melancholy of a Katie Melua album. The grey cloud from the night before had followed her into the next day and it wouldn't let her just ignore it, so Stella leaned in.

As she watched the long highway stretch out in front of her, increasingly grey and daunting; she was left to mull over just how much she dreaded returning to the office. She would make up some reason as to why her reports would be in by the evening, instead of the morning; she’d take the lecture, and then she’d buzz off for the actual weekend.

She could still remember the days when work was all she lived for, though the memory felt more and more like a different life. If she’d wanted an ordinary life she would have become an accountant, or a manager or one of the other careers her parents had insisted on, but she had fought for this life. She’d fought to get this far into her career. In every department she moved into she was always “The youngest DI in the division,” and “The most promising young agent,” and all that fluff that felt like it never ever actually led to anything. No increased responsibilities, no increased access, no increased independence; only increased bullshit. Bullshit by the shelf-load.

More forms, more protocol, more insufferable people to answer to, more restrictions but less actual codification (since it was implied that you knew what was expected, but nobody ever verbalised those expectations) and the more gracefully one could contort and bend and smile and speak gibberish, the more one fit in. It was like being stuck in a hellish game of twister, and everything that wasn't a dot was lava.

Here was the rub, ultimately, when it came to Scotland Yard, those who fit in far outpaced those who stood-out in any meaningful way. If someone like Sherlock Holmes, for instance, had tried to join the police force, he wouldn’t have made it even a week. Sherlock did his work by being different and by thinking differently: thinking differently at the Met was a recipe for daily harassment. Sherlock literally walked around with an ex-military bodyguard attached to his slender hip so it wasn’t surprising that he barely noticed.

So Stella was torn, because if she wanted her career at the Met; saving lives, pursuing the course of justice - then she had to toe the delicate line of acceptability. Even when it felt like the other side of that line was exactly where the saving lives and the justice lay. No matter how much she tried, she couldn't make it make sense.

But it had to make sense somehow. Somehow she was missing something.

It was like she constantly had to sacrifice doing the right thing, for the opportunity to keep having the opportunity to do the right thing - knowing that if she ever simply did the right thing, she’d be a failure. And would promptly be treated as such.

Stella was aware that Sally saw her as some sort of righteous hero who spoke up about a bunch of stuff that most agents knew to shut up about; but she didn’t realise just how much Stella did simply let things slide. How much she avoided because she knew that if she looked too closely she’d have to see her own culpability. Her Guilt. Fucking guilt, there was no use pretending that that wasn't what it was.

Their first late night conversation in the van played back in her mind and she felt now that there was a lot she might have said differently. She'd protested too much.

Trying to wrap her mind around the sordidness of it all made her want to punch a wall. Or else just sleep for a week.

She instead fumbled for the flask of tea she’d made for the journey; and washed down her bitter frustration. The tea was persuasively sweet. She’d figure it out, she just had to make sure of some things.

When Sally had still worked at the Yard this had all seemed much easier. No less convoluted by any means, but also not unmanageable. Perhaps it was less that the problems felt smaller but that she felt a bit bigger than them. Detective Hopkins versus the world felt like a joke, but Hopkins and Donovan versus the world was at least a breathtaking game to watch.

As she eased onto the fast lane of another high-way, her mind shifted to Sally’s cold case. The case that had finally pushed her out of the Yard for good was also the case she’d probably fought the hardest for. It was unlike Sally to concede defeat, perhaps that was why she'd ejected herself when a win looked to be impossible.

That case that had twisted her entire life inside out. It lay, like a pandora’s box in a locked cabinet under Stella’s desk and every now and then she riffled through it.

It was nothing spectacular, or out of the ordinary, and she couldn’t see what about it made Sally abandon everything in search for answers - all of a sudden. Children went missing every day. If they were to stick to every case older than 6 years where a child had gone missing and turned up dead in the river, that’s all they would ever do. But they didn’t. Because accidents happened, and people got careless, and some things were just not the Police’s job.

But Sally knew that as well as she did, which meant there was something about the case that she was keeping to herself. Some details that made this case stand out. Somehow she was... missing something.

————————————————————————-

Chapter 5 Snippet: For You

[popdiosa]

MEGAN THEE STALLION via instagram

[mcudc616]

Monsters Unleashed (1973) cover by Neal Adams