hearts up for ronan

anonymous asked:

prompt for adam's bday: the first time ronan tells adam he loves him and adam getting very emotional

The thing is, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise.

It isn’t as though Adam doesn’t know how Ronan feels. He’d known from the start, long before he knew if he felt the same (but really, how was he meant to know? How do you define something you’ve never experienced?).

When Ronan had kissed him the first time – soft brush of lips against his, once, twice, stopping time, making him feel full of blinding white light, short-circuiting the fine-tuned machine that was Adam Parrish – Adam had known.

When Adam had finally returned the kiss, his heart hammering in his throat as he pushed Ronan up against the porch railing, drinking him in so deep he thought he’d never need to breathe again, he’d known. 

And of course he had, because there was no other option. Ronan Lynch was not, would never be, something to experiment with. Adam knew he could not try him on for size and claim ignorance later. The mere thought was anathema.

No, Adam had walked into love with Ronan with his eyes wide open, as deliberate as when he’d bargained himself to Cabeswater, but this time, fully aware of what he was signing up for. He knew it was not a game; he was not playing. He knew that there were no half-measures with Ronan Lynch, with the intricate paradox and miracle that he was. He knew that Ronan gave his heart away completely or not at all, and that when he did it, it was for good. Adam wasn’t always sure if he was worthy of it, but he was always sure he wanted to be. Ronan was a challenge Adam had never backed away from.

So, yeah. Adam knows. They just haven’t talked about it, because neither of them are very good at the talking thing, and because while Adam doesn’t doubt that he reciprocates the feeling – if he had, he would never have kissed Ronan back, despite what Gansey might think – it’s a different thing altogether to say it out loud. Of the two of them, Ronan is the poet, as profane as his verses tend to be. Adam doesn’t know how to put words to something as beautiful as what he feels – it is enough to feel it. He doesn’t want to make things ugly, so he keeps quiet, and Ronan keeps quiet, almost as if by unspoken agreement. Until now, that is.

“Happy birthday.”

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Thank you @greywvren for the help and thank you again for being the reason I read this series in the first place 💕


Ronan Lynch never thought he would ever be on a romantic date, let alone to be the one who organized it.

He searched for the less shitty and less pricey restaurant in all of Henrietta- fuck, damn it, in all fucking Virginia for something like a month and he’s now left feeling like the biggest idiot on earth, waiting for Adam to show up, and even when he hears the sound of the engine of Adam’s shitty Hondoyata, he doesn’t turn, doesn’t move because- because.

 

It was all so new, all so strange.

The tentative brotherhood with Declan, the absence of Cabeswater and the void his Mother’s smile used to lit up. He knows how easily loss can destroy him, can drive him away from everything he loves, and so Ronan Lynch decided that he had enough of self-destruction to last a lifetime.

He didn’t notice when he started to chew on the leather bands of his bracelet, but the comfort of the familiar habit is enough to keep him from working himself into an early grave, his longing consuming him more and more for every minute that he waits and when Adam enters the restaurant in his perfect, clean and flawless college uniform and his face lights up with a smile aimed only at him Ronan tries to understand exactly how many beats a heart can skip.

“Parrish.”

“Lynch.”

There’s a moment of silence and Ronan feels his heart slowly traveling up to his throat as Adam’s hand rest in the middle of the table like an invitation between the salt and pepper, just near the menu that Ronan left open so that Adam could check the prices without being nervous of everything he orders. He watches as Adam’s eyes roam over the various dishes and the various dollars and Ronan has a whole bunch of seconds that feel like a lifetime to imagine all the ways in which he fucked up.

But Adam’s smiles, the kind of smile that makes Ronan’s breath come out in a woosh, feeling a little bit lighter and a little bit happier, is such a thing is possible.

His hands move slowly and he ends up cradling Adam’s fingers in his own and he’s euphoric with the knowledge that Adam’s hands are now soft.

“So, Parrish. How’s school going?” he asks, trying to be as casual as he can and he wonders if Adam knows how badly he needs to know.

“It’s going good. Very good. Better than I could imagine.” he answers and Ronan doesn’t know if it’s the smile on his face or the fact that Adam’s thumb is now stroking the skin of his palm, but everything in this damned place seems to be on fire.

“How are the Barns?” the question takes Ronan a while to decipher, to remember that Adam cares.

“I woke a cow.” the answer comes with a shrug, even if he was on his way to cry when it happened and then seriously crying after he called Gansey and Blue to tell them and he-

He wanted to say it to Adam face to face, because Ronan knows that a part of the Barns and a big part of himself-like his heart, or his liver, or the very blood in his veins- will always be owned by Adam Parrish.

And the smile on Adam’s face could light up the darkest parts of Ronan’s corners.

“I am so happy for you. I can’t wait to see it!” he holds Ronan’s hand tighter and he can feel the fire spreading all across his face.

“It’s just a cow.” he adds, but at the words Adam’s smile only gets wider, like he knows how much it matters for Ronan no matter how much he tries to hide it.

“Gentlemen, are you ready to order?” the waitress asks and Ronan turns to look at her for a second before he gets kicked under the table.

“The fuck, Parrish?” he murmurs, his hand going to massage the injured part just as Adam answers the waitress with a polite “Not yet. And pardon my boyfriend.”

The waitress answers something but Ronan’s everything is hanging by those tiny, little nine letters.

boyfriend

“Don’t look at the waitress like that, it’s not her fault we still haven’t picked something.” Adam says, but he doesn’t move his hands from the electric tangle they make with Ronan’s.

His only answer is a hum, while he tries to regain his cool.

He knows their hands will eventually have to detangle to read the menu and actually pick something and Ronan muses that he could pay or threaten or beg to have someone read it for them.

As one pair of joined hands slowly retreats to take the menu-get a whole lunch for the fantastic prize of only 12 dollars!- the other tightens.

“I’ll take the Lasagne.” Adam says and Ronan debates with himself on the matter of: will order hamburger seem like a dick move?

His heart is still in his throat and clouding his vision of everything that isn’t Adam shaped, so he settles for the first thing that seems vaguely easy to pronounce.

When the waitress comes back to take the orders Adam is the one to talk to her, but that’s because Ronan is too busy looking at him, at the way he holds himself, his perfect self-taught manners, the way he is grounded in his own being.

He finds the act of Adam ordering for him more endearing than he will ever admit.

Ronan suddenly remembers that he has things to give to Adam, a gift from Opal and a gift from himself, and he makes a mental note to remember this later, when they are not in a restaurant surrounded by people.

When the plates arrive Ronan is crushed by the knowledge that yes, he will have to let go of Adam’s hand and finds a little solace in the fact that the latter seems as reluctant to do so as he feels.

Ronan looks at the plate in front of him and finds out that he has no idea what this shit is.

“You don’t know what you ordered, do you.” Adam’s sentence should sound like a question, but it doesn’t.

“The name seemed cool.” he answers, trying to move whatever sits in his plate with the fork and Adam laughs quietly, which makes it all worth it.

They start to eat, Adam with his back straight and elbows that never touch the tablecloth.

“How is Opal?” he asks, covering his mouth with one hand if Ronan knows he isn’t chewing a single thing.

“She’s good. I left her with Declan.” his smiles is razor sharp when he remembers the frightened look on his business brother’s face.

“You asshole.” Adam replies, but the word is affectionate and it makes Ronan’s smile go from razor sharp to I love you so much in a matter of seconds.

“Is the college cool, then?” he asks, looking at Adam and trying to use his fork in a productive way. He’s glad that whatever his food is, it at least tastes really fucking good.

Adam hums and nods, cleaning his mouth with the handkerchief but Ronan can’t help but notice the little spot of red at the corner of his lips no better than he can help his hand from moving, his thumb from removing the sauce and his own mouth from licking it off.

The hungry look in Adam’s eyes has nothing to do with the food and it takes Ronan’s breath away, it makes the fire burn even brighter.

“College is cool.” it’s his only answer, his eyes fixed on the lower part of Ronan’s face.

“You should come visit again,” he adds “you scared the shit out of my roommate.” and since Adam doesn’t seem very inconvenienced by it, Ronan smiles proudly.

They ask for the check and when the waiter arrives they split it, but Ronan adds a tip with I don’t know what the fuck I ate but man it was good written on a fifty dollar bill.

Once they are out of the restaurant Ronan sees Adam going right for his BMW, his hand on the handle of the passenger seat.

The keys in Ronan’s hand tremble.

They sit in the car and he retrieves two things from his backpack under Adam’s curious stare.

“This is a bracelet from Opal and this-” he takes the little notebook, hands it to Adam and doesn’t look at him, his eyes on the road.

“It’s a time schedule, it works however you want it to work and you can add everything you need to it, for classes and shit. It’s water repellent.”

Of all the ways Adam could say thank you, grabbing Ronan by the front of his shirt to kiss him is by far the best one.

 

 

 

They are in Ronan’s childhood bed and Adam is gently passing his fingers along the side of Ronan’s body, rib after rib after rib.

“What else did you dream?” he asks, his lips moving on Ronan’s temple.

You.”

“I don’t like taylor swift songs” why do you hate joy

whenever i think about chapter 39 of trk my heart gets all filled up because I imagine Ronan being like “what the fuck? this is actually happening? whom? what?” which is exactly what my reaction would be if I actually ever got a gf or I met Adam Parrish and ch 39 is a combo of those things for my boy Ronan so. mood

so i’ve been going through the dream pack headcanon posts i could find (they’re all on thedreampack, if the post is not reblogged there i didn’t see it sorry!) and this is what i have this far - any additions, headcanons i’ve missed, headcanons i’ve gotten wrong, just anything, please add, cause i would love to have something to base these people on that most of us agree on cause it’s hard when there’s nothing in canon (except a little on proko, and kavinsky of course)

also car colors please and thank you

kavinsky

  • white misubishi evo
  • 2nd generation bulgarian
  • pansexual cis boy
  • father is potentially dead (mobster still in jersey?), mother sleeps a lot, is always drugged
  • creates drugs for the market in henrietta

proko

  • vw golf (like swan)
  • 2nd generation ukrainian
  • genderfluid
  • orphan
  • has a thing for skov, but also sort of for swan (for comfort) and also of course k
  • in a coma after k’s death (but won’t wake up unless, y’know, ronan shares)

jiang (ace of hearts)

  • toyota supra
  • chinese
  • asexual panromantic cis boy 
  • parents argue a lot
  • they want jiang to be more like his older siblings
  • has a younger brother he basically raised himself and two older siblings (twins) at college
  • obnoxious
  • definitely the wildest and most violent
  • the tallest?
  • loves to flirt and new people
  • worries about the other members especially swan
  • loves to make swan laugh so does stupid shit
  • really wants kavinsky to pay special attention to him
  • the most broken up about k’s death

swan

  • vw golf (like proko)
  • finnish descent
  • pansexual cis boy
  • dead mother (died giving birth to him), father is gone on business a lot (diplomat?)
  • daddy blames him for killing his mother, can’t stand to look at him
  • really just wants his father to notice him
  • lives in his father’s house with skov
  • looks super innocent
  • adorable like noah, messed up like adam
  • archer
  • very smart - good at tech stuff, speaks seven different languages (english, french, dutch, russian, finnish, ?, ?)
  • worries a lot, feels lonely a lot, generally more melancholic
  • skov calls him bird pet names (ugly duckling, baby bird)
  • also has a thing for proko

skov

  • mazda rx-7
  • danish
  • pansexual trans boy (pretty much into anyone ever)
  • parents think his transgender is just to annoy them, so he never goes home even though they have not officially kicked him out
  • has a perfect older sister
  • from blue’s school
  • lives with swan (got his own room, but shares bed with swan more often than not)
  • intrepid reckless jerk (defence mechanism?) but also very self conscious
  • the youngest (baby boy - the first time jiang called him this skov punched him)

The third kiss

(the next installment in me and @dasstark ‘s pynch war) (here’s the tag if you want to see the other posts x

The third kiss. He’s never made it beyond the first before. But today, Ronan is meeting him after work, and today, Ronan is going to kiss him. Simple sentences, really, to describe a simple concept – lips on lips – yet somehow wholly inadequate.

You don’t just kiss Ronan Lynch. You drown in him, the burning oil spill of his lips and hands trailing fire up your spine – can you call it a kiss if your whole body feels touched before you even meet? Can one simple syllable do that justice?

It’s the third kiss. It’s the third time he’s combusted and been remade.

And it is Ronan, and Ronan doesn’t use words, and as Adam bends over a car with a shredded fan belt he thinks of those lips, and he knows how they make him feel, and he wonders how he makes Ronan feel, if Ronan is walking round with his hand pressed to his chest because his heart is swelling bigger than his rib cage. Should first love feel so much like a heart attack?

Hell is not a torture chamber, but endless anticipation. Adam has been through every possible scenario, every variation of the “what is this burning thing between us?” conversation and it is barely lunch time. He listens to the playlist Ronan made him (the second one, delivered three weeks after the first, containing an eclectic mix of auditory horrors and delights.)

Song lyrics hit too close to home and every description of a boy makes him think of Ronan. How did he not notice this? How did he not think of the possibility of it – actually think of it, not subconsciously desire it – until this week? These emotions in him feel timeless, as if they have always been there, yet they are so new (does this mean they can grow bigger? he will burst if they grow). How can something so timeless manifest in just a few days? Perhaps it was dormant, he thinks, ignoring science and hypothesising a code in his DNA, a code that reads Ronan, sleeping like beauty, woken with a kiss.

Time slides, and Ronan is due, and Adam wipes his forehead on an old rag, sharp engine oil reminding him of a late night drive, burnt rubber and glances that lasted too long. He pretends the sweat is from the heat, and not the rapid pound of heart and mind.

“Parrish?” Ronan calls.

“Ah. In here,” Adam says, speaking around the mass of emotion in his throat. Why is he nervous? It’s Ronan – safety amongst the turbulence. Why is he nervous? It’s Ronan, the snake in the grass. Why is he nervous? He’s in love.

“You all right, Parrish? Shit – you look like shit.”

“Er. Thanks.”

“Well, I mean, you look good but… you OK?”

“Fine. Long day, you know?”

Ronan walks closer, jeans slung low, tattoo winding (how does it look like it moves? who is this dream boy? Did Adam dream a dreamer? conjure him from a wishbone and hope?) (no, his arms are around him, real, the tang of sweat-salted skin and cut grass – Adam’s dreams smell of decay, not life.)

“I – don’t kiss me,” Adam blurts, kicking himself before the words are done. Ronan drops his arms, steps back, stung like a wasp.

“I’ll go then, shall I?” he says, cold, and Adam is the wasp and he is the snake and how did he dream of something soft here? They are all hard edges – two jawlines so sharp cannot fit together, surely?

“I – no… Ronan…”

“I’d have preferred rejection after the first kiss, Parrish. I don’t do hook-ups.” His chin is up, defiant, but his eyes show his heart. Ronan isn’t a liar – he’s a terrible portrait of truth (the truth is you sting, Adam, everything you touch turns toxic, and you don’t even have the grace to die afterwards.) He grasps for words, but neither of them have ever had many to spare – theirs is a love built on laughter and stolen stares, and neither will fix this rift, five feet and an infinity between them.

“I don’t want to reject you,” Adam whispers, clutching the rag in his hands. “I wanted… to talk. About this. Us. You. And me. Fuck.”

“What is there to talk about?” Hands in pockets, heart shielded in his hands. Adam wants to take the heart, still beating, lock it within his own rib cage and defend it until his last breath. But he cannot say that.

“What is this?”

“Two boys in a garage.”

“Be serious.”

“I am serious, Adam,” Ronan says, like the words choke him. “Serious as a heart attack.”

“Then what is this?”

Ronan closes his eyes, offers out his hand (his heart, beating, exposed.) “A chance. At something neither of us thought we could have.”

“Is it safe?”

“Safe as life.”

“Fuck,” Adam says, taking Ronan’s hand, curling his fingers into the soft pad of his palm. “It will hurt.”

“It will hurt more not to,” Ronan says, fingers tracing patterns up his arms, jumping between freckles, reaching his jaw, hesitant. “Can I kiss you?”

“Can I kiss you?” Adam asks in response. His own hands have found the soft skin at the back of Ronan’s neck, the silk of his earlobe, the full curve of his bottom lip. Ronan exhales, warm breath kissing his hand. Does that count as the third one? Is a kiss only the meeting of lips? or is it the touching of feelings also? He feels kissed.

“Yes,” Ronan whispers, and it is so odd to see him whisper, simple quiet words escaping from normally loud lips; Adam is learning him again, loving him more with each soft revelation. He brushes his lips to Ronan’s, and the scoreboard is even now – Ronan had the first kiss, desire had the second, and Adam had the third.

Ronan is so still beneath his hands, eyes closed, fingers curled at his sides. Adam touches his face, brushes fingertips to eyelids, nose to jaw, lips to collarbone. It is silent, the playlist long since ended, light faded from sun to dusky blue.

What is this? he thinks, wondering, as his body presses to Ronan’s. Two boys in a garage. What is this? he thinks, lost, as Ronan’s pulls him in closer. This is everything. What is this? a universe distilled into a kiss.


(I’m tagging this for pynchweek also - it’s not especially related to day four’s prompts but those lines of dialogue did inspire the general feeling of this little fic) (even if I didn’t use them)

Imagine one day Ronan and Adam fall asleep holding hands. They wake up and there’s something in between their entangled hands. They pull apart and see that Ronan has dreamt up two heart-shaped necklaces, one saying “Ronan Lynch” and the other saying “Adam Parrish.”

Ronan wears the necklace with Adam’s name on it.
Adam wears the necklace with Ronan’s name

ronanschainsaw asked: “pynch + ‘things you said when you thought i was asleep”

—————–

“I just don’t know what else to do, man,” Ronan said, his thoughts trailing off into yellow lines disappearing rapidly into the distance. Each time he drove back to Monmouth from the Barns, it seemed to take longer and longer. He didn’t mind so much with Parrish sitting shotgun, but Ronan refused to think about why.

“No matter what I dream,” he continued, smacking one hand on the wheel, “nothing seems to work. What if I get struck by lightning or some shit before I figure it out?” He glanced over at Adam in the passenger seat, motionless, his head leaning against the window. “Are you even fucking listening to me?” Adam didn’t stir. 

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I was sitting at lunch avoiding my responsibilities listening to this song. Feelings happened. 

Silent in the trees, standing cowardly,
I can feel your breath, I can feel my death.

Adam and Ronan are standing fifty yards from each other under a canopy of leaves. Ronan is distracted, so Adam is focused.

Adam is letting himself look.

He never looks, not the way Ronan does, as if eyes could touch. Adam is always the object of the looking, feels like he has been his whole life. He can’t remember a time when his differences didn’t draw eyes to him. Eyes that pity or hold contempt or flash with rage. Eyes that want to see only sadness or pain. Or more recently, eyes that wonder and exalt, comfort and want. It’s the wanting that feels most foreign to him, that hones him down and makes him consider the truest version of himself that he could possibly present to all the world’s prying, curious eyes.

Adam is in the shade where he’s most comfortable. Ronan is standing on the edge of a clearing. The sun’s soft light is illuminating the space around him, casting him in gentle shadows and warm glow, and Adam is as jealous as he’s always been that Ronan seems comfortable everywhere. 

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