fuckyeah well-written fanfiction

"Who taught you?" she counters. She smiles, very small. You look at her and you think that no one has ever taught either one of you anything. Sometimes in laboratories a specimen gets contaminated. Sometimes a seed gets smuggled on board a plane. Things grow where they aren't supposed to grow. You can't wholly contain them once they're gone. The earth is just so given to growing. You don't know how to say this. Words are still a problem. You have so many voices. So you say, "I didn't know I could sing."

I finally found the "sex js not a family road trip" quote from that a/e fic it was Counterfeit Heartstrings by recrudescence 💖

She drummed her fingers lightly against his temple. It was not unpleasant. For a moment he felt very safe, very light, there in her lap. He closed his eyes. Marthe said, "I think it is about love. We are all the Creature; we are all made by man. And yet we are all, also, Frankenstein. We judge, we fear, we condemn. We are afraid of the monster outside of us; that is, the poor, the oppressed; but then also, afraid of what is more monstrous, which is just being human. Think about it: we are meat and bones, tendons, nerves, a dozen different kinds of flesh; inanimate, and then something terrible jolts us awake." "God?" Prouvaire was thinking of the earth-as-ocean, the way he had described it: as though a great wave might come and push him to the Divine. "Love," Marthe said.

Is there a fic where the Winter Soldier goes AWOL and finds Steve in the ice and breaks him out? I could've sworn there was. Thank you!

You understand what it’s like to feel too much. You know what it means to give up everything. And you will not think that I am weak for wanting things.

You lean your head against the window. The glass is warm. Outside, a storm is gathering in. The flat land around the car is golden. But far-off clouds encroach on it. They look heavy. They hang in the air above the wheat. Every cloud, a solid object. But up close, you see their secret reformations. They are an unfixed landscape, an unsettled earth. They billow, turn solid, disperse again. Lightning licks out of them, touching the freeway. Lightning, out of nothingness.

It’s never gonna be like this again. Hell, it already isn’t.

We think of the heart as a center, a hearth, a place where you can take up residence and dwell. But that’s wrong. The purpose of the heart is not to love. We do that with our being. It’s beyond explanation, not for lack of trying.

So he joined the Order. He moved to London to stay with Sirius, in his sprawling house in Camden where there were no carpets and a velvet sofa and LPs scattered across the floorboards and no working kettle, so every time they wanted a cup of tea they had to boil water in a pan on the stove. When he arrived at first there was only one bed, and the sofa, as Sirius pointed out, had a tendency to digest people if they stretched out on it at full length for too long. So at first they shared, Remus on one side with a pile of books on his makeshift box-table, and Sirius on the other, in theory, although his long limbs did occasionally migrate.

They were learning how to love. And so they were learning how to be: for is that not how we prove our existence? By loving?

"Are you impugning my scientific learning, sir?" Grantaire smiled. Their fingers overlapped over the bottle of chenin blanc, the sole remainder of supper's picnic feast. "It is true, I am not your Combeferre or one of his fellow polytechniciens, but I have known les neuf soeurs as well as any man and better than some -- in another life, I could have been the Venerable Master of Urania and her cohort. I have read the Almagest and its table of chords, although my mind was too clumsy to play them and my ears too base to hear the music of the spheres. I spent an afternoon asleep atop the Somnium Scipionis, and in my dreams the sun traversed its ecliptic to set Carthage ablaze as Dido wept. I know how universes rise and fall: Ptolemy slew Pythagoras, Copernicus slew Ptolemy, and Moravian wine at a banquet slew Tycho Brahe when a duelist's blade could not. A nose made of gold and silver and a kidney full of stones: what an alchemical contraption is a man! Galileo and his moons, Newton and his bruised noggin: a man thinks, and the heavens shift. 'Eppur si muove.'"

Unfortunately, Roy’s never been much good at settling for anything less than perfection. He gets these itches—they’re deeper and larger than just yearnings of his heart; these are diseases of the soul, and they pour through his body until they consume him. He wants more. He wants everything. He wants the world on a platter decked with silver spoons; he wants to have his cake and eat it too and follow it up with Kona coffee.

hey did you ever find out which a/e fic this quote was from? You don’t pass go, you don’t ask me why, you don’t try and get me to give a ballpark estimate of when I’ll be ready because, guess what, sex is not a family road trip and my ass is not the destination and asking if we’re there yet does not actually get you any closer to the goal or make me very likely to put out. Clear?'”

Even now, after everything he’s done to be good enough without Jonny, to be enough besides, he just wants to fall back in next to him and say ‘I did it, I don’t need you’ and have it be okay that even after, he still wants him.

But you think sometimes of cutting them loose. Cutting them loose, in the middle of the night, and leading them out— a long string of horses— past Maspeth, Jamaica, past Babylon, till you find a place they can play in the surf. And watching the sun rise on the warm sand banks, as content as any animal creature, as content as you have ever been.

'Well…" Bossuet sat and propped his feet up on the table. He stared at the ceiling meditatively. "We must all have that one person for whom we'd attack bears, no matter the bad luck. There's no helping it; that is the nature of the thing.'