“He’s Been Watching Too Many Horror movies. Aidonsvalley Is Just A Tourist Trap For Weirdos Who

THE TRAGEDY OF LOVING A SOLDIER:                            the battlefield never really leaves them.              (you see his hands still shake, finger glued to the trigger) THE TRAGEDY OF LOVING A GENERAL:                     the battle may be won, but the war never ends.           (you watch sleep continue to elude her, eyes dull with grief) they both look at each other as though begging the other to be selfish.                     (the bloodshed ends, but they never find peace)

THE WAR & OTHER METAPHORS ( a.c. )

POSITIVE THOUGHTS ON THE RAVEN KING

ok ok i feel like starting with the negatives is mean so lets put in some good stuff too even though i already said what i didn’t like

orphan girl eating things she shouldnt be eating

loose quote: 

“what r u doin w/ ur future ronan?” 

“i was thinkin of becomin a farmer c:”

BARN TIME WITH THE LYNCH FAN OMG i loved it

the KISs. THE KISS. i know i said something about the pynch was bothering me but over all i loved the kiSSES.

what we saw of the whole henry/gansey/blue dynamic. i want them to travel the world together my adorable bebs. 

artemus hiding in the tree. sensitive tree man.

neeve advising piper to not do things and piper being all ‘ok but i literally do what i want c:’

henry in general, i love his character, i like that his native language is thought. 

GROCERY STORE WORKER BLUE COMIN TO THE RESCUE * U * MY HERO.

any interactions between blue and ronan tbh. i love them. they are my babies.

i was going to move on but honestly blue and ronan are so pure and honest, i love it. i love the scene of ronan and blue in the kitchen while the boyfriends were sharing secrets, pondering the meaning of love and whatnot.   

what i wanted out of that was a big sleep over with the gang at the barns but.... fanfiction will happen. im counting on y’all... or me. depending on how i feel. 

oooo whatelelsslelselse.

CABESWATER LOVES THEm

like i already knew that quote before but it’s still my favourite thing? cabeswater loves them cabeswater will do anything for them cabeswater will give life back to one of them in the best way it can since they all wished for it. i love you too cabeswater.

ronan ‘i dreamt up cabeswater’ lynch

ronan ‘i dreamt up my lil brother too’ lynch

sir richard campbell ‘for gods’ sake’ gansey III in response to the above mentioned ronan lynch.

“THE HEAD IS TOO WISE. THE HEART IS ALL FIRE” im putting that on my body one day. 

thats all i can think of right now. there will be a second wave that comes with the reread. 

5 things about the apocalypse

one.  after the sun is eaten, our shadows outgrow our bodies and the stars i took for gods go out. while i did not sleep i heard laughter—cacophonous, full of teeth. at the end i am eating tinned peaches and casting dice on the ground, in expectation of wings, of light, of anything but this stupefied cold, this silence which is an obscenity.

two.  the hungry are weeping as they walk. i have seen a man open another’s ribs like a pair of doors, unseal him where the chest is soft, harrow him for red. they eat only the heart, the first-formed part, cradled and chewed between two horrified hands. fed, they are hungrier. in this corrupt light, the gullet-red of appetite, their faces shine wet and without mercy.

three.  we send up prayers like the last of flares, phosphorus breaking upon midnight. the horizon is a hot wound parting: the dead climb out of their deep tenements, and we greet them, shaken. what does it matter that they are as pale as guilt, that their eyes do not seek us, that they shrink from us in dismay?

four.  yesterday, the words went from us. they left our books and maps and gravestones, emptied our histories and speeches and songs. they fled our throats, and made barren our mouths. in your bible genesis is a cenotaph; nothing is begotten. i hold your hands and i have no voice to speak your living name, to tell you that i am full of fear and relief.

five. it is written on a wall in jerusalem: τετέλεσται. the stars have already fallen, and she proclaims that she is the mouth of god. you go among the crowd to hear her speak, in the brick-husk of the chapel of the holy face. the look of her roars down your blood. men come for her at night, cut out her tongue and string her up by the neck in the muristan. you are kneeling in your kitchen as the earth shakes, and over that great distance you still hear her voice on the wind, causing the dust to rise. it is finished.

(six.  we held each other all night, deep in the rot, our arms helplessly tender. late was the coming of light, a whiteness so bright it seemed infernal, lifting us into a hollow morning, and what breath we were was shaken from us—

and we were dead a little while longer then, cool and adrift on the surface of the abandoned world.)

Which OC celebrates every holiday they can?

Bonus which OC celebrates none?

Button author Hanif Willis-Abdurraqib’s poem featured on the sign of a BBQ restaurant in Toronto. Get your copy of Hanif’s incredible book here.

the foxes → some of the strongest people i’ve known are women

Imagine this: Ronan Lynch kisses with his eyes wide open because otherwise he is afraid he might be dreaming

It’s because they’re in his bed at Monmouth and he’s had this exact dream so many times. 

At the Barns it’s different. At St. Agnes it’s different. Hell, even naps in Cabeswater are different. Those are places he inhabits with wakefulness and awareness. The awareness that comes from being amplified by a place and feeling too big for your skin. 

But here he simply is. Here he is not a king or a god or a worshiper. Here he is a boy who dances with sleep, sometimes leading and sometimes following. Who knows the cracks on his ceiling like he knows the back roads of Henrietta. Who sometimes dreams of tangled sheets and tingling lips and the rush of blood to every point of contact. Who wakes up alone. 

Who just this evening had tangled sheets and tingling lips and the rush of blood to every point of contact and then passed into dreaming alone. Who woke up just now with sleep bleary eyes and a glow-in-the-dark clock (not a dream, a gag gift from Gansey) telling him that it’s just after 3:30 AM and Adam Parrish is still next to him. 

Here, amidst his haphazard collection of impossible things, an impossible boy. All those dreams and he had never once dared to hope…

But it has to be real, doesn’t it? That’s what waking up means, bringing yourself through to fruition, reborn every day with weight and want and need and. Being. Knowing. 

He knows. He thinks he knows. He traces his finger down the slope of Adam’s shoulder where the shine of pale skin in the light of the streetlamp bleeds into the shine of pale sheets. Dreams bleeding into reality. 

Hope is a form of dreaming, right?

Adam stirs and Ronan pulls his hand away. He doesn’t mean to wake him, would never mean to take him from sleep any more than he would mean to take him from anything else Adam finds important. 

Adam wakes anyway. He rolls onto his side so that he’s facing Ronan and looks at him with heavy lids. He yawns and stretches and settles again and reaches out to run his hand gently over Ronan’s head. The pleasant tug of his fingers against Ronan’s short short hairs is so satisfying. Adam’s hand comes to a rest against his cheek and Ronan tilts his head into it, body heavy with sleep but still drawn to Adam’s touch like Adam’s gravity and the earth’s gravity have equal weight. 

They don’t. The tug of Adam is so much stronger. 

“You’re awake,” Adam says, voice low. 

Ronan hums his reply.

“God,” Adam says. He takes a deep breath and then exhales, long and slow. “God, god.” And the word sounds different every time. 

God, the dark suits you.

God, I never knew there was touch like this.  

God, our bodies are a riot in the quiet night. 

Ronan agrees, but words are insufficient, so he kisses Adam instead. Because he wants to. Because he wants to prove that they’re real, that this moment is made of flesh and blood. 

Adam closes his eyes, already halfway back to sleep, but Ronan keeps his open and clings to this. 

Up close Adam’s freckles blur into one another. His eyelids twitch with the restless movement of his eyes beneath them. Ronan slides his hand around Adam’s lower back and pulls him closer. Adam’s eyelashes flutter, then still. They fan out large against the gentle slope of his cheek. 

He of impossible being. He of passionate boyhood. He of crackling magic straining against the frame of one of the people Ronan loves the most in the world. He, he, he. 

It was always going to be a he, Ronan knows now, but he feels lucky that it’s this he, that it’s him. That Adam wants him back. That he’s willing to tangle himself up in Ronan’s sheets and Ronan’s limbs. That he’ll give parts of himself to Ronan, parts he’d previously been holding so tightly.

So Ronan keeps his eyes open, watches for the threshold between asleep and awake, and makes sure to keep his promise to find Adam on either side of the divide. 

But you see, this crown has grown so very heavy, and I have become tired of seeing blood red stains soiling all that I touch.

rather death than kingship (x)

yeah a boyfriend sounds nice but a supreme enemy you can make out with sometimes in secret sounds a lot more hardcore