Blue: I Made This Friendship Bracelet For You.

4. treat him as they’ve treated you | b.s.h

look this is really dumb but noah and ronan totally do that thing where they point to random stuff that they think abstractly reminds them of their friends and inform them “that’s you”

like gansey knocks a bowl of cereal onto the floor and ronan points at it and turns to adam “that’s you” or noah sees two squirrels fighting and points like “that’s you guys” to blue and ronan

gansey tries to fit in with the cool kids but he doesn’t get the point so he just points to really pretty flowers in cabeswater like “adam that’s you” and adam’s blushing just “gansey pls you’re embarrassing me in front of our friends” or he uses it to awkwardly flirt with blue like gansey: *pointing to the sun* blue that’s you bc you’re bright and painful to look at

Gansey: *worries that adam will find out he and blue go out just the two of them to look at the stars and not kiss*

Adam: *worries gansey will find out he and ronan go out just the two of them to plan a fucking fake murder*

I had this one lucid dream where a lady came up to me and said, “Don’t control the dream,” really softly. I had the same dream again a couple days later but instead of just one lady. I was surrounded by a whole group of people with glowing eyes just saying, “Don’t,” and I got so freaked out that I never tried to lucid dream ever again.

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. 

Cracks

Thundercracks; chasms; those in coffee cups; crevasses; crispy crackling; cracks full of bones in the mountains to the far North and the snow has mercifully covered them but in Summer you can still see the traces; those in badly-constructed alibis; those on which you must not step; those that start small and widen until they have split a whole country in two and spilled out all the hidden vaults and subway routes into the chasm; those which stare back; those of doors opened just a smidgen; the varnish-cracked faces of china shepherdesses in the spider attic; the crack that cracks a case; that cracks a skull; those in valuable vases; fractured air; those whose fixing is part of the art; cracks that spill forth ants; those that are breaks in reality; whip cracks; bum cracks; those in broken biscuits; the first cracks in a wall that you wish gone.

marina nery @ the society

the raven cycle female characters: three psychic women with very different personalities who live together and raise a kid together, a 600-year-old witch, a tall girl who wears bell bottoms and orange nail polish and flirts with her customers over a psychic phone line, a morally ambiguous woman who earns the disapproval of her family by dabbling around in the darker parts of magic and doing it for fame not morality, a rich socialite with a helicopter license who’s described as beautiful but unattainable 

the raven cycle fandom: CAN WE TALK ABOUT HOW MISUNDERSTOOD DECLAN LYNCH IS

Alhambra. Granada, Spain.

Rumi, from “Unseen Rain; Quatrains of Rumi,” originally publ. c. 1986