ahhhhhhh!!!!!!! happy (late) birthday, ronan!!!!! this is a project @alter-adam and i have been working on for months and we're soooo excited <3
lost and found — Richard Gansey/Ronan Lynch/Declan Lynch | E | 44k |
It felt like a trespass. Declan slinking in through some back door. Or maybe it was the other way around. How dare Gansey, of all people, go behind his back and feed Declan parts of Ronan that he had earned, not inherited?
He scrubbed harder at his arms, ribs, neck, wishing he could peel himself down to the bone.
And then a darker thought threaded in, uninvited. What if it wasn’t just about him?
surprise and happy kinktober!! this is a little something @alter-adam and i have been working on, go enjoy some freaky pynch!!
blind — Ronan Lynch/Adam Parrish | E | 4,4k |
During dinner, Adam hadn’t been able to stop thinking about how Ronan would look later: stripped and panting and boneless in Adam’s sheets, so thoroughly wrecked that he wouldn’t be able to hold a thought in his brain. Only Adam. The picture had been in his mind for days, until it was less a fantasy and more a certainty. He had thought of it when Ronan smiled over the rim of his wine glass, and again when Adam had paid for the meal, and in the car, with his hand resting on Ronan’s leg, and in the elevator, Ronan pressed to the mirrored wall with Adam’s mouth at his neck.
Adam could feel it, the double-barrel bore of it seared into his forehead like the mark of Cain.
He didn’t meet his eyes. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.
How could he meet his best friend’s eyes when the long long of Ronan’s spine, the sight of a tangled profusion of blackwork, claws and feathers and vines and knots, was still seared into the back of Adam’s eyelids?
Gansey never made his bed. It was one of his humanisms. Adam, who had been conditioned by years of carefully tucking in the corners of his blanket every morning in the gray pre-dawn before quietly shutting the door to the double-wide behind him, couldn’t fathom it. Even now, living above St. Agnes, he made his bed every morning.
The sprawl of blankets, sheets coming untucked from the corners, the humped form of a pillow half-buried under the blankets, molded to the shape of Gansey’s body, was obscene to him, on public display in the middle of the vast gallery that was Monmouth Manufacturing. It made him want to look away every time he saw it.
Actually, it made him want to bury himself, pull those blankets up over his head. Surround himself on all sides by the smell of Gansey, that boy-smell of slightly stale sheets and mint and deodorant and sweat. He wanted to drag that pillow out from under the blankets by one corner like a wounded animal and bury his face in it and inhale.
In a way he was jealous of Ronan, spread out beneath him. Adam had a long-fingered hand spread across the wrought-iron hooks blazed up the back of Ronan’s neck and used it to press him down, to force his face into the sheets. The blankets frothed around them, white and humped as churning waves, and Adam’s knees sank into the softness of the mattress and for one thrilling, horrifying moment, he had the thought that he might pass right through its surface and drown.
The idea that Gansey might walk in on them fucking in his bed at any moment was an unspoken part of the game. They both tingled with it, and it made them clumsy and frantic and hot, Ronan letting Adam wrestle him down and peel back his clothes, greedy for skin-on-skin contact, both of them thrilling at the trespass of it.
Ronan had cum with Adam buried to the hilt inside of him, with one of those hands he loved so much wrapped around his cock, his groans and curses stifled by the pillows, and Adam had cum an instant later to the jackhammering of his own heart, telling himself it was the sound of footsteps on the stairs.
Afterward, he’d stared down at the damp patch of drool or tears smeared across the pillow, at the little dribble of cum that’d escaped the cage of his fingers. He’d reached out and, deliberately, rubbed it in. Then, while Ronan was getting the shower warmed up, he’d made the bed.
Now he could feel his face heating under the weight of Gansey's stare, as he imagined him coming home hours later, maybe not even, to find the heat of their bodies trapped under his blankets, pulled smooth, the edges tucked in, his second pillow hauled out and laid neatly at the head with the other one.
He imagined Gansey stripping back the sheets, searching for evidence of trespass and finding it, climbing into bed, scrambling on his knees and stroking himself off to the scent of their sweat and cum.
Under the table, Adam made a fist and pressed it against the top of his thigh.
Seeing a lot of new people show up in my notes with like "proship dni" or whatever so RENT LOWERING GUNSHOT: IM AN ADULT WHO DOES NOT CARE IF PEOPLE HAVE PROBLEMATIC SHIPS, IM OLD AND BELIEVE TABOO FICTION IS SAFE AND HEALTHY, IM AN OLD MAN WHO THINKS IT'S FINE TO HAVE SHIPS THAT WOULD BE BAD IN REAL LIFE, I BELIEVE IN TABOO KINKS AS HEALING PLACES, I DO NOT DO SHIP DISCOURSE, I THINK IT'S OKAY TO WRITE ABOUT BAD THINGS HAPPENING TO GOOD PEOPLE WITHOUT CONDEMNING IT IN THE NARRATIVE, I THINK IT'S OKAY TO GET OFF TO MAKE BELIEVE BAD THINGS!!! THANKS
romance is a type of friendship and im sick of people pretending like they're two seperate categories. your romantic partner is Supposed to also be your friend like at the very least why are we pitting romance AGAINST friendship when they r intertwined???? romantic partners are also friends and u can have romance with ur friends stop acting like these bitches are seperate forces
For your prompts: Ronsey competency kink (either direction, just one of them being insane abt the other)
sorry this has taken a thousand fucking years and that it’s not edited and also i hope you don't have any qualms about it essentially being crack lmao but hyg
"What?" Ronan looked up, brow furrowing with sweat in the face of the beating the Barns was presently enduring by way of the sun, and wiped his forehead on his sleeve.
Gansey held a perspiring glass of iced tea out in offering, stepping around the warped line of the fence. "Nothing," he said passively, tipping his head in response to Ronan's nod of thanks. "How's it coming?"
Ronan drank greedily, the sweet, sticky liquid running in thin rivulets down his throat and pooling in the hollow between his collarbones. "It's the prettiest princess at the fence cotillion," he intoned, handing the half-empty glass back. "Like shit, is how it's coming. But we'll get there."
"I'm sure you will."
"Gotta fix the fucking roof on the long barn after this, too. You gonna stand there and watch the whole time, or would you like to do something useful?"
"I brought you a drink," Gansey defended, tipping the glass to his own lips. There was a visible semicircle adorning the edge of it, wet with Ronan's saliva, and he watched as Gansey turned it to match his mouth up precisely before taking a second longer, slower sip.
"Thanks," Ronan deadpanned, just caustic enough that, had an outsider been listening, they likely would not have picked up on the fondness lying sleepily beneath. "I'm sure that tea's gonna do a stellar job of holding this line tight while I sleeve it."
Gansey, thumb to his lower lip, crouched next to Ronan. "Do you need help?"
Ronan glanced sideways at him, eyes narrowed to slits, annoyance radiating from him in waves. "No, I don't fucking need help. Fuck off."
Gansey did not fuck off. Instead, he fell back gracefully onto the grass, propping himself on his elbows, legs crossed at the ankles. He was going to stain the elbows of his dress shirt, but he had enough of his faculties about him, Ronan reckoned, to figure that out for himself, so he didn't say as much.
Didn't say anything. Just kept plugging along, pulling the wire taut with one hand, tightening down the crimping sleeve via a pair of vice grips with the other.
After a lengthy moment of quiet, save for the lowing of cattle and the occasional, screeching shrill of cicadas, he flicked his attention toward Gansey again, just to determine whether he'd so much as shifted; whether his gameplan was to spend the evening observing Ronan while he sat around doing fuck-all.
What he found, however, stopped him in his tracks.
Not at all shyly, Gansey was palming himself through his chinos, lips pressed into a tight line, hips barely leaving the ground every few seconds, chasing the friction.
"Jesus," Ronan said, and then, for good measure, "Mary. What are you—do you not want to, like—take it inside?"
Gansey's pupils were blown wide despite the sun, and Ronan noted now that he'd popped the top button on his collar, allowing for a sliver of glistening, reddening skin to peek through. "No," he said, cool, despite his general disposition. "No, I think I'd like to keep it right here, if it's all the same to you."
Ronan blinked rapidly, brain running on dial-up, vying to catch the proverbial train. "Okay," he assented finally. "What is this—why are you—? Mother of fucking god. Okay."
It didn't fully register to him, the nature of the situation, until, several minutes later, hand working beneath his pants, Gansey prompted, "Tell me what you're doing. Just—talk me through the process."
"I'm." Ronan stopped. Swallowed. He was going to hurt himself if he wasn't careful—get too distracted with half (or three quarters, or all) his attention on Gansey and catch his fingers with his clamps, grab hold of a barb, grip the wire so hard he cut straight through his palm. "Uh. This little metal piece is called a crimp sleeve and it—it splices the two broken pieces of fencing back together. It's a pain in the ass to fasten it with a vice; there's a tool for it, which I had, but it fucking busted and I haven't replaced it yet, so I'm just. Making it work, I guess."
Gansey made a quiet, contented sound. Ronan didn't dare look at him.
"The line has ratchet tighteners," he continued, a little less steadily than he'd have cared to cop to. "They're next to the posts; those things that look like spurs. But I can't feed the wire through the sleeve without some slack, so I just have to hold it in place until it's set and then I can tighten it back down. Too much tension on either side of a post will cause it to lean, even if you can't see it with the naked eye, and it'll eventually come loose enough that the bulls can butt it over if they decide they've got a vendetta, so you have to be really, um. Vigilant. About making sure the wire's pulling the same weight on both sides."
Gansey was breathier, slightly less composed, when he asked, "What if it does come loose? How do you fix it?"
Ronan was sweating so heavily he could taste the salt on his tongue, and, gun to his head, he couldn't have determined what degree of the heat could be attributed to the sun. "Pull it," he managed, "if it's loose enough. If it's still pretty well in there you can pack around it with a slurry of something that'll dry down nice and solid, like clay soil. But if it's not, you have to rip it out of the ground. And that can be a son of a bitch, if it's not ready to come up on its own—like pulling a stubborn tooth with pliers. Have to dig it out, sometimes."
He wasn't looking. He was not looking. There was an audible swishing of fabric now, rhythmic, cadent, and Ronan wanted to seek out the source so badly his muscles ached, but he didn't.
Gansey said, "Tell me how you put it back in."
Ronan cleared his throat. Shook his head to urge a fly off his cheek. "You have to dig deeper. Just a little; if you go too far it'll offset the height from the posts on either side and fuck with the tension. But enough that the ground underneath it gives it room to settle. Otherwise it's just a point sitting on a flat surface trying to carve out a hole. Defeats the entire purpose. And then you have to clear out the dirt—so go wider than the post. You want to leave yourself room to make sure it's not leaning. Use a level, too, obviously, but your job's a hell of a lot easier if you've got a clean foundation."
A choked noise—something between a laugh and a moan—floated airily into Ronan's perception, and he took a moment to steady himself, counting off five Mississippis in his head.
Then he soldiered on.
"It's tricky," he continued, "to hold it upright on your own. Helps if you take a mallet to it first, just to drive it in far enough to keep it stable. And then you fill in around it, a layer at a time. Few inches of dirt, then tamp it down. You can use a compactor, or you can just stomp on it until there's no more give. You just have to learn exactly what you're feeling for."
"Oh," Gansey breathed, "I'm sure you know exactly what you're feeling for."
Finally, finally, Ronan allowed himself the indulgence of laying his eyes on the mess Gansey was making of himself—that Ronan was making of him.
His cock was out now, pants and underwear rucked down just low enough to expose it, the head appearing and disappearing from within the cage of his fist. He was flushed, panting, so viscerally beautiful Ronan felt it welling behind his lashes.
“Yeah,” he agreed, allowing himself a rare moment of self-assured pride, because he knew it was what Gansey wanted—what he was looking for. “Yeah. I know what I’m doing.”
That was all it took. Stares impenetrably locked, Gansey was off like a shot, stripping himself so hard Ronan wondered if it had to hurt, pearly, gauzy white spilling over his knuckles and onto his lap.
The throbbing between Ronan’s own legs was almost easy to ignore like this, watching Gansey come apart in front of him, for him, but it became insistent once again with startling clarity when Gansey urged, “You can finish up here later. I’ll race you back to the house. If you win, I’ll blow you.”
(The one where Declan hired the Gray Man to kill Niall. Also on Ao3!)
Declan Lynch.
When Colin Greenmantle had faxed him the file, the name had jumped out at him. Holding the manila file folder in his hand, the Gray Man knew with a certainty cool and smooth as a river rock that fate had brought him back to this specific backwater of Virginia for a reason.
It was not that he had any compunctions about going after a former employer. In fact, it wouldn’t even have been the first time. He was loathe to burn bridges, but given the nature of the job for which Declan Lynch had hired him, he found it highly unlikely that the boy ever planned to reach out again.
After all, he’d only had the one father.
The struggle was brief and violent, the time elapsed between kicking in the door, throwing Declan against the wall so he bounced painfully off the window casement, and Declan rolling under his right cross to snap up with a left hook, no more than a breath, a couple of frantic heartbeats.
The gun wasn’t so much a surprise as a curiosity. But then time flickered and the gun seemed to jump from Declan’s hand to the Gray Man’s, as if the phenakistoscope of events had skipped a couple of frames, and Declan was on the floor, bleeding.
Looking up at the Gray Man, Declan’s heart banged in his chest. They had never met in person when Declan had reached out to the Gray Man, but looking at him, who else could this be?
Adrenaline was spiking through him, rattling his extremities against the carpeted hardwood. He watched those expert hands turn over his gun, and knew with the unshakable certainty of imminent demise that one of the last things his father had ever seen was those same hands wrapped around a tire iron.
Declan wondered for the first time what Niall had been thinking in his final moments.
If he were to overlay his present racing thoughts over his father’s last ones, at what exact point would they begin to align? It would be perhaps the first time in both their lives. Finally seeing eye-to-eye, right at the end.
Declan wondered if Niall realized, in the end.
If he saw the shadow of Declan’s hand in the Gray Man’s.
Declan Lynch laid out on the floor below him, gun in his hand, The Gray man hesitated.
Logically, he knew he was in a high school dorm. Had been hanging around campus all day, casing the place, mentally mapping his entrances and exits.
But the boy before him looked very young to have hired a hitman. Looked exceedingly young to have hired a hitman a year and a half ago.
What could have made someone so young go to such lengths to kill his own father?
The Gray man thought of his own brother.
Slowly, as though his body couldn’t quite believe the signals his brain was sending out, he lowered the gun.
The gravity of the moment oppressed. That this ruined dorm room held the only two people to know who had really had Niall Lynch killed oppressed.
“Don’t tell my brother.”
It was not the kind of thing the Gray Man expected to hear in the wrecked landscape of a high school dorm, gun in his hand, his prey broken and bleeding on the floor.
“Which one?”
Declan’s eyes glittered, almost black, as he wiped a thread of blood from his mouth.
“Take a guess.”
Brothers. The Gray man knew about brothers.
“What’s it worth to you?” He doesn’t do this. Hadn’t done this since the early days, when he was young and eager and not too picky about how he got his information.
But from what he’d heard, the eldest Lynch boy wasn’t too picky himself when it came to favors.
Declan paused, half-sitting up, and in that pause the Gray Man crossed to him, used his thumb to wipe away the smear of blood at the corner of his lips that Declan had missed.
Testingly, slowly, eyes on the Gray Man all the while, Declan dipped his chin and took the Gray Man’s thumb into his mouth.
The Gray Man let out his breath in one long slow exhale. Control. Control.
Growing bolder, Declan wrapped a hand around the Gray Man’s forearm. Pressed his mouth against the inside of the Gray Man’s wrist. Not kissing. Just skin to skin. Somehow it seemed even more intimate a gesture than kissing. Tender, somehow, in the way a snake sliding its glistening coils around a mouse is tender.
“You were my man,” Declan breathed against his skin. “Once.”
Forget hot girl summer, it’s raven boy summer this year. Go make extremely codependent new friends. Go awaken an ancient evil. Go, uh… murder your Latin teacher. Have fun!!
(This one goes out to @alter-adam who sent me a pic of a nest of blankets in a bathtub and said “who and why?”)
Adam can’t get comfortable.
It’s one of those humid nights where he absolutely can’t stand the sheet on him, can’t stand clothes, lying in their too-soft bed, sweating.
Sometimes he wakes up like that and still thinks he’s in the trailer.
It makes for bad dreams, and he always feel guilty as sin twitching himself awake, sometimes with a pathetic little plea dying on his lips as he does, his face burning as he cringes into wakefulness.
He sits up carefully and looks down at Gansey’s sleeping face, smooth and serene. His king, sleeping under the mountain. At peace. Thinking like that gives him a jolt of panic, nerves still jangling, and he holds the back of his hand up to Gansey’s mouth to feel his warm living breath.
This happens more often than Adam would care to admit.
He thought they were both done living with ghosts, but there’s no exorcising something that’s waiting when you close your eyes.
After three days without sleep your brain starts to eat itself.
He swings his legs out of bed, gathers up his pillow.
The enamel walls of the bathtub are cool and unforgiving as a mausoleum. Usually Adam’s careful to move back to bed before Gansey wakes up, stowing the blankets in the hall closet before he’s forced to deal with Adam and Adam’s inability to just be happy.
It’s a deficiency. Gansey wouldn’t understand.
It takes him longer than usual to get back to sleep, but he blinks and it’s morning and the rattle of the shower curtain sounds like a hail of bullets and he’s tensing awake, curling in on himself, eyes closed, waiting to be seized, to be ripped from his cradle.
“Babe?” The sound of Gansey’s confusion, his hurt, is almost worse than physical violence. “What are you doing?”
“I couldn’t sleep.” It’s the truth. He’s been working on that. It comes out only with great effort, like the sick acrid-tasting burp that precedes a night down on his knees with his head in the toilet. “I didn’t want to wake you.”
And now Gansey looks exasperated, and Adam can feel the gate coming down inside of him at this reaction to him telling the truth.
“Babe,” Gansey says. “You know you can always wake me. How many nights did I sit up with Ronan when we were kids?”
That was Ronan, Adam doesn’t say. Ronan had been a mess, had needed to be taken care of.
“Sleep’s hard to come by for you. I didn’t want—“
But Adam’s cut off as Gansey clambers into the bathtub with him. He leans his forehead against Adam’s, picking up his hands in his own and raising them one after the other to his mouth to kiss his knuckles and all Adam’s clever points die on his tongue.
His heart hurts.
“I—“
“Two martyrs in a relationship just doesn’t work, y’know?”
Adam’s heart bangs. Is he saying what I think he’s—?
But Gansey goes on, unheeding of Adam’s churning thoughts.
“Sometimes one of us is gonna inconvenience the other, and that’s a good thing. Think about it.”
Sitting in a nest of blankets in the bathtub, caught in Gansey’s grasp, Adam thought about it.
If he had woken Gansey, he would have given him a chance to take care of him. He could have shown him his soft underbelly as a sign of trust, and in return he might have received all the love and care that he could possibly want. Which in turn meant that Gansey would feel comfortable asking Adam for help, next time.
Adam gave a long ragged sigh.
“I’m—“ he swallowed. “I should have woken you.”
Gansey did not need to say “Yes, you should.” His silence was meaningful.
Adam turned over Gansey’s hand using the hold he still had on Adam’s and kissed each knuckle, one after the other.
“Will you make me coffee? Please?”
Gansey smiled, and where the light of his smile touched, Adam felt more human.
for the prompts: matthew taking care of migraine adam or tummy ache declan (forcing you to choose because i can’t sorry ugh)
ily byeee <3
hiii baby, thank you smmm 💞
i Am gonna do both of these, jsyk, but this one happened first (and also it’s not quite as involved as i like to get about this kind of content and it’s kind of less matty Taking Care of declan and more just like Being There but that’s………maaaybe because it sent me on a spiral and now i’m writing a Whole Entire Ficlet that fits the prompt better hehe oopsie) so here it is For Now:
It’s late, when Matthew gets home. He’s been out with work friends, for trivia they’re all abysmal at, and by the time he pulls into the driveway of the townhouse, it’s deep enough into the evening that he isn’t surprised to find all the lights off. Probably, he muses, Declan has taken advantage of his preoccupation and gone to bed at a not unreasonable hour for once in his life.
Inside, he is met, true to his suspicions, with a brother-shaped mass occupying the center of the mattress.
He smiles fondly, shimmying out of his jeans, and draws back the edge of the blanket, intent on slipping in next to Declan and kissing him awake. Before he makes it quite that far, however, he freezes.
Beneath the duvet, Declan is curled in on himself, arms wound tightly around his middle, brows pulled together as if in pain, or, at the least, discomfort.
Gently, he settles onto the edge of the bed, resting a hand on Declan’s bare shoulder. “Hey,” he says, quietly, and then, when that isn’t enough to rouse him, “Deklo.”
Declan’s slower to wake than usual, coming to in stages rather than all at once and rearing for a fight, and something in the apparent serenity of it is disconcerting. “Hi,” he says, voice thick, reaching for Matthew on instinct and pressing a close-mouthed kiss to his forearm once he’s gotten ahold of it. “Have fun?”
“Yeah,” Matthew tells him, brushing his hair back from his forehead in what he hopes is an inconspicuous attempt to check for a fever. He’s a little sweaty, but no warmer than he ever is in sleep. “Lost by a landslide. It was a blast.” He gives it a beat, lets Declan’s acknowledging hum pass between them. Then, “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Declan says, and then, because he knows Matthew will worm his way to the bottom of the situation if he doesn’t elaborate on his own, “My stomach’s just… It’s been a day. But it’s alright.”
Matthew does lay down now, slotting his right arm beneath Declan’s head to manhandle him into position, pillowed on Matthew’s chest. Concern, familiar and insistent, wells behind his ribs, but it’s a diluted beast now compared to when he was younger, before he had a solid grasp on the fact that Declan being sick did not mean the same thing as Matthew being sick, that Declan was sick always and that some days it affected him more heavily than others.
“Have you been able to eat anything?” he asks, fairly confident that he knows the answer already.
Predictably, Declan shakes his head.
“Did you have coffee this morning?”
A nod this time, and even without the ability to see Declan’s face, Matthew knows he looks guilty. “I was exhausted,” he defends weakly. “And I had a presentation today, and I—”
“It’s okay,” Matthew interjects, and presses a kiss to his curls. “Do you think you could eat now? Just a little?”
The whir of the ceiling fan is marginally louder in Declan’s hesitation. Eventually he says, “I don’t know.”
“Have you thrown up any?”
“When I got home,” he admits, hooking his leg over Matthew’s waist. “Just once.”
“Did it help?”
“Some. Mostly just feels like I’m on fire now.”
“Oh,” Matthew intones agreeably, soothing over the tense muscles of Declan’s back with his palm. “Well, as long as that’s all.”
Declan tilts his head back and laughs—soft, just a breath—against the side of Matthew’s neck. “I’m okay,” he says. “I’ll try to eat something. Yeah?”
Matthew knows he’s okay, that he’s used to this, that it’s nothing more than going through the motions, but still, he feels a small flicker of relief at the offering. “Yeah,” he echoes.
In the kitchen, Matthew keeps it light. When he returns to the bedroom, it’s with two pieces of buttered toast, half a banana, and a glass of water (no ice, because sometimes it causes Declan to cramp), and the light is still off, but Declan’s sitting up against the headboard, looking mostly like an entire human being.
Matthew hands him the plate but holds onto the glass; tells him he can have it when he’s ready, just to say so.
Declan doesn’t quite finish, but he gives it a valiant effort, and he keeps it down, so Matthew takes it as a win.
“You know I would’ve come home, right?” he says, once they’re settled in again, Declan propped up a little because the goal is to keep him keeping it down, Matthew curled around his side. “You could’ve told me you were having a rough day.”
“I know, baby.” Declan tucks a finger under his chin, tips his head up to kiss him on the mouth for the first time since he’s been home. “There wasn’t really anything to be done about it. I just needed to sleep the worst of it off. But I know you would’ve.”
“Okay,” Matthew says, and closes his eyes, hand coming to rest on the slight swell of Declan’s lower belly. “As long as you know.”
my dog reacts worse to fireworks inside the safe, solid confines of our home than he does outside in the yard, because he can look back at me there, at the strap of his leash wrapped securely around my wrist, and understand in a way that makes sense only to a brain riddled with morality based solely in loyalty and blind faith that, in that moment, we're connected. whatever he's facing, his neck tethered by a tangible string of fate to my arm, he's facing it just as much with me—for me—as i am him.
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