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youknowmymethods · 6 years

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Content Creator Interview #6

Hello again and welcome to our sixth interview. This time, it’s the turn of @ashockinglackofsatin to put @sunken-standard ‘s writing under the microscope. Together they chat about the early days of the Sherlock fandom, how music can influence writing, and why the I Love You scene helped end sunken’s own great hiatus.

For those who don’t know me: I am @ashockinglackofsatin on tumbr, satin_doll on AO3. My test subject...erm, sorry - interviewee - is the notorious sunken_standard, probably most famous for her two epic, novel-length stories Longer Than The Road That Stretches Out Ahead and Fumbling Toward Ecstasy, which can be found on AO3 (along with her other wonderful stories) and should be required reading for anyone aspiring to write fanfiction.

You should know, first off, that I’m crap at doing interviews, which I discovered years ago when I had to interview musicians and various personalities as a job. I didn’t last long at that job.

So here is Kat’s Idiotic Interview with @sunken-standard.

satin_doll: You’re very good at writing Sherlock’s emotional cluelessness without making him seem like an idiot or an ass. Can you talk a little about the way you see Sherlock’s character that allows you to do this?

sunken_standard: Thank you :D So the answer to this is going to carry through to some of the other questions, but basically, I write Sherlock as a version of myself. I feel a kinship with the character, a highly intelligent person surrounded by idiots and so, so frustrated by it, but even more frustrated by his own brain and the inability to control it. Probably autistic, just like I'm probably autistic (and I don't want to get into it but I'm not trying to co-opt an identity here or anything; I've tried to get a diagnosis and found out that's just not possible with my current healthcare options).

Anyway, one of my probably-autistic things is being hyper-aware of other people's emotions, but also having trouble identifying them and the appropriate responses. At times I do lack empathy, like I honestly can't understand why someone is feeling what they're feeling because I wouldn't feel that way in the same situation and it doesn't make sense. Sometimes I can empathize so much that it's overwhelming and I just kind of short-circuit, especially when it comes to grief or loss, and I end up being insensitive or just not saying or doing what a normal person would.

So basically, I approach his responses to other people's emotions the way I would my own, only stripped of female socialization and self-awareness.

satin_doll: How much do you draw on your own life and experiences in your fics?

sunken_standard: For scenarios and specific scenes, not a lot. For emotional and sensory experiences, more. I haven't done very much or lived to my full potential, so it's not a very deep well on either account. Every now and then anecdotes or details creep in (like Mars Cheese Castle and the “call me Daddy” during sex thing [which, for the record, was skeevy as fuck irl]), but most of it just comes from nowhere or stuff I saw on TV.

satin_doll: Both “Longer than the Road…” and “Fumbling Toward Ecstasy” are novel length stories. “Road”, however, is written without breaks/chapters. Did you ever consider breaking it up into parts or chapters? How hard was it to keep it all in one piece and how long did it take you to finish it?

sunken_standard: When I write, I usually just start and then go 'til it's done or I burn out. I got through three or four chapters' worth of FTE (and was on the verge of giving up until maybe_amanda convinced me not to). Since the story wasn't nearly finished and I wanted to start putting it out into the world (mostly because I have no patience, but also because I knew there was a window to stay relevant and a large number of people were looking for a longer, meatier [cough] post-TFP fic), I decided to start posting what I had and just write as I went because I was, in hindsight, probably hypomanic and I was keeping a good pace at that point.

I dunno, I think there was a lot more of that long-format thing happening in fic back then, where you'd have a 40k piece that only had breaks because of the word limit per post on LJ.

As far as how long it took, I don't remember. I know I started it February of that year and had probably a good 75% of it finished (all written at a tear, over the course of probably ten days or so, because when I was still smoking actual cigarettes I could and did do 3-5k words/ day), but then I dropped it and went on to try other ideas. I went back to it when those other stories fizzled, and I finished it in maybe another 2-3 weeks with editing and beta reading. I had some real problems with the ending and it was never good enough for me, but I just got to a point where I was sick of it and it was good enough.

So basically, it's harder for me to work in chapters than it is one long piece. There's more discipline to a chaptered work; each chapter is its own story, in a way, and each one needs to end on a certain kind of beat. I still don't feel like I have a knack for it, and I think if I did anything long like that again I'd have to write most of it without breaks and then shoehorn them in where I could later on.

satin_doll: You took a long hiatus from Sherlock fic after S2, and came back for S4. What was it about S4 that sparked your writing again?

sunken_standard: I don't really know. I mean, the ILY was a big thing, but I think S4 gave me more to work with for the kind of things I write (all the angst and inner monologue) than S3 or TAB. I had mixed feelings about S3. I didn't like Mary much for a long time because she was one of Moffat's women (and anyone who's seen my tumblr knows how I feel about that), but I finally unclenched after a while because I like Amanda Abbington a lot and Mary was preferable to Sarah Sawyer (who I'm more ambiguous about now, but really didn't like for a long time because there was something about her that I read as smarmy, though now I see her reactions as more subtly uncomfortable and kind of like “what's going on/ this is weird/ John's a nice guy but is everything around him always this weird?”). Anyway.

I did try writing a bit after S3, but I never finished any of it; I didn't really feel like there was a place in the fandom or much of a community at that time, either—at least, not like what I had been used to from the early days. The tribe that existed wasn't my tribe (any of them). I think I need a certain degree of shared enthusiasm to motivate me to keep writing. Like, I have a lot of ideas for fic in other fandoms, but they're dead or never existed in the first place. And I know I'll have some audience for the small fandoms and people will read and kudos and everything, but there's no one around to geek out with or bounce ideas off of, so it just isn't as appealing. If I'm going to be miserable and alone while writing something, it's going to be something I can at least make money off of, y'know?

satin_doll: Do you edit as you go or finish the story first and go back over it to edit?

sunken_standard: Edit as I go. When I get stuck, I break that cardinal rule of writing and go back over what I've written and nit-pick it to death. It's a bad habit, but at the same time, small changes have led to big developments in the course of the story later on. I mean, I think sometimes this is why I have so many unfinished things, but I've tried just writing through and that doesn't work for me either. Once I get to the end of something, I've already made most of big cuts and done a lot of the reworking, so the beta polishing isn't as labor-intensive. I'm one of those people that when I feel like something's finished, I don't want to have to go back to it again. And if I didn't edit as I went, it would kind of feel like redoing the whole story and that's extremely unappealing to me. It's kind of like baking—it's always better if you clean as you go, rather than waiting until the cake's out of the oven to do the dishes and put stuff away (which I do when I'm low on spoons, but it ends up seeming like double the work).

satin_doll: Do you proof it yourself or rely on someone else to proofread it for you? I’m talking technical details here, proofing as opposed to simple beta reading.

sunken_standard: Mostly proof myself, since I edit as I go (and proofing is inevitably part of that when the mistakes just jump out). My beta catches everything else (and she's amazing; I misuse words and just legit don't know spelling differences for a lot of things [stationary vs stationery] and I'm not great with grammar and prepositions because I'm an ignorant fucker with no education).

satin_doll: When did you first start writing? When did you first discover that you COULD write?

sunken_standard: I remember writing stories as a kid, but I burned them all when I was a teenager so I don't even know what most were about or anything. I do remember that I wrote one when I was in like 4th or 5th grade that was ST:TNG self-insert fanfic and I think the plot was me working with Data to bring Lal back. I know it was Data, because I had a huge crush on him as a kid. I really thought I could grow up to write ST:TNG novels at that point.

And as for CAN write—jury's still out on that one. Ask my 12th grade English teacher, who laughed in my face when I told him I was thinking of pursuing English so I could be a writer. But before that, I had some other teachers that used to give me A+s on my creative writing assignments (despite all the spelling and grammatical errors). In 11th grade, I had a really great teacher, Mr. Lansing, who turned me on to the good parts of American lit and really encouraged me to read (and write) what I liked, not just what other people told me I had to. He encouraged me when I applied for the Governer's school, too. (The Governer's School is this program in PA for kids who excel; it's like a summer camp for the elite nerds. They have a bunch of them, each for different areas—math, science, medicine, I think one that's like history/ government/ civics, and then one for the arts. For creative writing, they take a total of 20 kids—10 for poetry and 10 for prose. I tried for the poetry category and made the first round of cuts and went for a regional interview (with about 50 other kids, so like maybe 150 kids state-wide); long story short I didn't make it. I was the first alternate, meaning if somebody couldn't attend, I would get their spot. #11 out of 10. I was so crushed, because it basically reinforced what I'd been told by other people—I was a big fish in pond too small to even piss in and there were always going to be people better than me. I was already mostly checked-out when it came to academia and aspirations; after that there was just really no point to keep going.)

Anyway though, I did write bits and pieces here and there even after school, thinking one day I'd get my shit together and write my own Confederacy of Dunces and then off myself (it's still a viable plan). Then, in 2008 I was recently unemployed and everything in life was shitty, so I wrote a big happy-ending fic for The Doctor and Rose. It was kind of the right bit of media at the right time that inspired me. More about that later though.

satin_doll: What/who do you think has had the biggest influence on the development of your style?

sunken_standard: I've been asked this before, and I always feel like I'm a little pretentious and I trot out the same names (both fanfic authors and book authors), but I had a realization a while ago that I'm always missing one person—Vonnegut. I think he's got this kind of no-bullshit way of saying things that still manages to be poetic and delicate and that's what I most aspire to.

I think a lot of my style is influenced by film, too. Some influences are probably Todd Solondz, Richard Linklater, Kevin Smith, and John Waters, as far as the way I approach the reality within the story. I think I tend to focus on a lot of the same things—the weird, the mundane, the mildly uncomfortable—but I don't go nearly as far in any direction. I think even the way I string scenes together and the shifting of focus within my scenes between action, dialogue, and inner monologue are influenced by cinematography. I always say I'm just transcribing the movie in my head, so I mean, there's bound to be some kind of influence.

satin_doll: You’re noted for the banter between your characters, humorous and otherwise. Do you have rules/profiles for characters that establish their voices for you? Are there things, for example, that you think Sherlock or Molly simply would never say/do or would always say/do? How structured are these characters in your head when you start writing?

sunken_standard: It varies slightly from story to story/ universe to universe, but I think I have patterns for the banter (and I have a different set for Sherlock and John, and Sherlock and Mycroft, but there are common threads throughout). As for comedy, it's not quite straight man/ funny man, but I tend to default to Sherlock being more literal and deadpan and Molly being more expressive and emotive. I use the scraps of the dynamic the show's given us and just build on that. It's kind of formulaic, actually: Sherlock does a not-good thing (degree of severity varies), Molly reacts with a blend of annoyance and amusement while going along for the ride.

I have a kind of mental file for things I think would be out of character for each of them, but sometimes I like to try to find a way to get to one of those things and slip it into a fic organically. One of the reason I liked doing the one-line prompt fics so much was that so many of them could easily have been intros to the kind of fluff that makes me gag; I'm no fool, though, and I love me some low-hanging fruit, so I just adjust it to my tastes. I'm a never-say-never kinda gal. Mostly.

That being said, there are a lot of things that I think would take a lot of doing to make them be in-character. I don't think they'd ever use pet names for each other unless it was through gritted teeth or with at least a bit of irony (like how I used “yes, dear,” in FTE, and I think in some of the universes in Ficlet Cemetery). I can't see Sherlock ever doing housework unless it was for a case (though dishes and sanitizing surfaces are an exception, because both those chores are tangent to the kind of cleaning up after oneself one does in a lab setting, and imo that fits with his logic). I can't see him being very affectionate in public, except under rare circumstances when he might do an arm around the shoulders or a guiding palm to the small of the back.

And as for structure, I think they all start with the same scaffolding, but in every new universe they get draped slightly differently according to variations in backstory or tone or genre or whatever. Or like, they're already sculpted, but the lighting changes. I think that as I write, they take on different nuances and acquire more depth, though. Like it wasn't really until a few chapters in to FTE that I got a fuller picture of the Molly I was writing, even though I had the rough idea of her backstory from pretty much the beginning. Same with Longer Than the Road, too. As I come up with details of someone's past, I experience those scenarios and it makes me rethink and fine-tune everything about them in what I've already written, and adds more texture as I keep going.

satin_doll: You’ve listed a playlist for “Longer than the Road…” Do you write to music? How much does music inspire your writing? Does every story have a playlist?

sunken_standard: It's funny, but I don't listen to music nearly as much as I did even 5 years ago. Not sure why, honestly, maybe something to do with my mental health and overstimulation? So I don't write to music much anymore. Not every story has a playlist or songs attached (I don't think any of the FC stuff does, at least not in any significant way), but it seems like my best work is inspired by music in some way.

FTE didn't really have a soundtrack, but I listened to a lot of the music I had in common with the version of Molly that I was writing—very 90s alternative and pop rock. Lots of Pulp (which I picked as Molly's favorite band because I think they're Loo's favorite, or one of her favorites). For the proposal, I had “Dreams” by The Cranberries on a loop as I wrote. There's just something musically about that song that's full of anticipation and the wavy kind of guitar (I don't know the music terms and it's been so many years since I was into anything instrument-related that I'm not even sure how the sound is made, like a whammy bar or wiggling their fingers on the frets or whatever but anyway) just has this kind of wavering emotion that makes it feel like it's on the cusp of something. And also it's the big romance song from every coming-of-age thing ever, and so just hearing it is like an auditory shorthand for breathless, adventurous romance, at least for women of a certain age (namely, my age, and I'm only a year younger than Loo/ Molly). There was another scene—I can't remember what it was without rereading the fic—that I spent like three days listening to nothing but “The Way” by Fastball. It might have been the thing with the drink testing and then the sex on the sofa and the cake baking. (As an aside, I just started listening to the song and immediately got hit with a sense memory of night-wet spring air blowing in my window, because that's what the weather was when I was writing to this and it gives me a weird yearning pull in the back of my throat, like nostalgia almost but something else in it. Like, did you ever hear a pop song that taps into some deeper part of the human experience, both musically and lyrically, and you just feel like there's some universal truth in it that's too much to totally grasp? That's how I feel about both of those songs. Anyway.)

Another story that had a few songs attached was Stainless, Captive Bead. Radiohead's “Creep” was what they were listening to in the tattoo parlor, and a lot of the sex bits were written while listening to Nine Inch Nails' “Closer” (look, if it's set in the 90s and there's fucking in it, I'm going to find a way to relate it to “Closer,” because that song is just dark sex and angst set to synthesizers and a high hat).

Also, sometimes when I write I listen to ambient noise stuff, cityscapes or rain or whatever fits the tone of the piece and my mood. I can't listen to anything for too long, though, because I get listener fatigue and I burn out faster.

satin_doll: Have you ever considered self-publishing your stories as a book or series of books?

sunken_standard: I've tried to file off the serial numbers on the Girlfriend series, but it was harder than I thought it would be so I back-burnered it. I still like to think that one day I will, it's a life goal, but if I put too much pressure on myself I only make it worse and nothing gets done.

satin_doll: You seem to have a detailed backstory for every character in your stories, from Janine to Molly’s mother. Do you work these out beforehand or do they just happen in your head as you write?

sunken_standard: Both? I kind of touched on it earlier, but I usually have an idea of the backstory, the bones at least, and then as I write it gets richer. I have multiple headcanons for every character, so I just start off with one of those. Like I have five different families for Molly, all things I was coming up with when I was writing other stories. Hell, I've got like five different Uncle Rudys (most of them highly unpleasant and most likely triggering).

I have a habit of just sitting and thinking about a character, like “what would make them this way?” armchair psychoanalysis stuff. And if I can establish a plausible-sounding backstory, I have a better foundation for introducing non-canonical traits or details. I think that's the downfall of a lot of fic authors—they just write a canon character as they would an OC and expect us to play along without demonstrating any internal logic. Maybe I'm just picky; there's certainly an element of that, too.

satin_doll: How detailed is the story in your mind before you start writing it? Do you work from plans and outlines with every story?

sunken_standard: It all depends on the story. Sometimes I have a whole series of detailed scenes just waiting in my head to be written out. Sometimes I only have one thing and I just keep going. I say I use an outline, but it's not a proper outline. More like a collection of notes and bullet points of what I want to happen and what kind of beats I want to hit. I usually keep it at the bottom of my working document so I don't have to switch to another doc to look at it if I need to.

satin_doll: Where does a story begin with you? What constitutes the “urge” to write? You once mentioned (in a comment reply I think) that you know the ending of the story first and then write the rest of the story to get there. What do you do when a story goes off track? How do you get it back to the way you planned it, or do you even try to do that?

sunken_standard: (I don't know why my document formatting went tits-up here, so I'll answer 1 & 2 both here)

So stories are a visceral kind of thing. I always have ideas. Seriously, give me a theme or a title or something and I can spit out a summary and details in as long as it takes to type it out. But actually crafting prose (can I sound more pompous?) is best likened to the urge to poop. Classy, right? I said it was visceral. Really though, it's that same kind of state of heightened awareness/ arousal (in the strictest medical sense of the word, not sexual arousal), something is happening and if it doesn't things are going to get weird and I'm going to be very uncomfortable for a very long time. Also, like pooping, if it's not ready, no amount of grunting or straining is going to make it happen, and it might even make it worse in the long run. As you can tell, I've been very, very constipated for the last year.

Anyway.

Stories going off track... a lot of the time I just let it happen because it's taking me to a better place than where I thought it was going to end up.

satin_doll: Quote from you: “I spend way too much time thinking about who Molly is as a person. Writing porn and comedy both have their appeal, but I really like sitting down and thinking about what makes any given character tick and how they might feel about what's happening around them. 30s and single has so much baggage to it, even if all the women's magazine articles and whatever-wave-we're-up-to-now feminist thought pieces say it's a myth or a stereotype or whatever. It's a truth we don't want to be true because it's not fair. I mean, it's not the thing that solely defines any woman, but it's there, just like cellulite and brand new and worrying moles and our favorite brand of whatever suddenly being discontinued (or significantly changed) because some marketing person decided it was too 'old.' But anyway, such is life. And I like putting that in fic.”

Do you write character studies to use as a reference for your stories, or just wing it for each individual piece?

sunken_standard: The character study is dead, isn't it? Like, as standalone fic. Never see them anymore, which is a real pity. I used to write them (or, well, start them, heh) before I took a break from writing/ fandom, mostly to try to get some of my headcanons down in some kind of usable way. But I haven't really written a character study (in prose, at least) since 2012 or so.

So when I write, I keep two documents open—the working copy that's a first-through-final draft and a “notes/ cut bits/ things to work in somehow” document. In the notes document I usually keep any character details (backstory or how I want them to react to something later, whatever). There are themes I go back to over and over, like a cluster of traits I reuse in some fashion because I think they fit the character (Mycroft and disordered eating, Molly as a middle child in some fashion, John as the child of alcoholics, etc.), so a lot of that just lives in my head. Any bits of characterization specific to a story go in the notes doc for that story, while any generic thoughts or something that I think I might want to use later gets stuck in another document full of random ideas, snippets of dialogue, jokes, AUs I'll never write, that kind of thing. I've got a few of those docs from different writing periods. They're mostly just a way to externalize a thought so I don't lose it; I hardly ever go back to them for anything.

satin_doll: What was your first involvement with fanfiction? Where did it all start?

sunken_standard: I started to answer this in another question; basically, fanfic's been in my wheelhouse in one way or another since I was a kid (Star Trek novels are fanfic, period). I discovered fanfiction back in the days of eXcite searches and webrings while looking for translations of Inu Yasha manga scans; I stumbled upon an English-language fancomic/ doujinshi called Hero in the 21st Century and it was so well-written, funny and poignant and well-researched I was just drawn in. I still think about it and the author's other works to this day. I did pick at the idea of writing myself, sometimes even put down scenes or outlines and did hours of research, but never did the thing.

And then, in 2008, the stars aligned and I started a thing. Journey's End spawned a ton of Doctor Who fic, and that was good, because I could just kind of slip mine in there and I probably wouldn't get a lot of criticism or attention. So I wrote like two chapters without any idea of how it was going to end, and I submitted it to Teaspoon and an Open Mind (which was the Doctor Who fic archive at the time; it was curated/ moderated and where you went when you wanted to read something you knew would be good, or at least conform to certain standards, unlike The Pit [which is still garbage today]). And I got rejected. My grammar and spelling were awful (I didn't even have spell-check in whatever program I was using) and they said the whole thing had good bones, but I really needed to work on the English before they'd look at it again. Getcherself a beta, they suggested, and I think they had a forum where writers and betas could connect. So I got myself a beta and she stuck with me for like 30 chapters, answering questions and keeping my characterization on-track and basically re-teaching me the rules of written English. I tried to email her a few years ago to thank her again, but her email bounced back. Her name was Julia and if she sees this, thank you Julia. You're a wonderful person.

Anyway, I wrote lots in that fic universe for like 2 months, then got another job and tapered off. I abandoned it completely after a year. Life got in the way of a lot of things, and the next time I was really inspired to write anything was a couple years later, for Supernatural. I only put it on my LJ, never posted to a community or anything, and no one read it. Literally, I don't think the post got any hits at all and for sure no one commented. I sometimes think about putting it on AO3 just because. And then Sherlock happened and here we are.

satin_doll: Do you think writing fanfic has hurt or hindered your original work? Why or why not? (that looks like a high school test question - sorry!)

sunken_standard: Lol @ test question :D

I'm not really sure, tbh. On one hand, I only have so much creative energy—it's definitely a finite resource, and a scarce one—and devoting it to fanfic diverts it from any original work. On the other hand, all writing is practice. The only way to improve is to keep doing, no matter what it is. So in that sense, fanfic's certainly helped me to find a comfortable voice and a prose style that works for me. There are still problems to solve, figuring out the best approach to a scene or story from a technical standpoint (stuff like tense and perspective and all that), so I'm always learning something as I go. Mixed bag, really.

satin_doll: What was it about the Sherlock/Molly dynamic that got you started on a piece like “Longer Than the Road…” What did you see there that made you want to explore it in such detail?

sunken_standard: So I always talk about how Sustain was my come-to-Jesus moment with Sherlock and Molly. Here's something I've never told anybody, not even maybe_amanda (because I was kind of ashamed, but not for the reasons people might think): before ever reading Sustain, I started a story that was Sherlock/ John and Sherlock/ Molly. I had it roughly outlined and a few pages written, but I just kind of lost the feeling of it and it was starting to get problematic for character motivations, yada yada, so into the scrap heap it went. It had a passing similarity to Sustain because of a platonic-sex-for-pregnancy element (hence why I never talked about it), but the major difference was that it was going to end up as a kind of polyamorous arrangement, Sherlock loving both of them and having a kind of co-parenting triad. In mine, John wanted a baby, and Molly wanted her own baby, and Sherlock thought “best of both worlds!” and why do IVF when you can write awkward angst-fucking instead. But yeah, I never finished it.

Anyway, I always saw something there, but I couldn't make it work in a way that was consistent with my own characterization of Sherlock until after Series 2. Even in Series 1, he looks at her with a kind of fondness and a sort of bewilderment that just lends itself to nerds in love. At the time (and even now, tbh), I kind of attributed that to BC having a crush on Loo (and oh man do I have theories, which are gossipy and gross and not the kind of thing I usually even bother having opinions about, but have you listened to the S1 commentary and some of the interviews around that time? there's something more there) and that kind of just spilling over onscreen and it working for the editor because it makes BC look sexy.

I mean look, I make no secret of the fact I started off shipping Sherlock with John almost exclusively (though I'd read just about anything), and after S1 aired it was just a different time. I get really annoyed when people talk shit about the pairing and the people who still ship them, because most of them weren't even in the fandom at the time and didn't have the same experience as the OGs. When Series 1 aired, hardly anyone knew who BC was, and Martin was just the guy from The Office and some other shows that were kind of unremarkable; most of the fandom was composed of old-school ACD Sherlockians and a few stragglers (like me) that got there from Doctor Who or were just general mystery/ thriller fans that got sucked in. We had a different perception of it because we weren't led into it by Star Trek or Hobbits or MCU; the characters didn't have that baggage attached for us. A lot of us already had a perception of Holmes and Watson as some shade of gay, so it was no great leap to see the very obvious romance (and yes, they all called it that in interviews at the time) onscreen as a romantic one. Martin, when asked, said basically that he'd play the next series (S2) however they wrote it, and if romance was there he'd go down that road. Whatever, I don't need to defend it because people think what they think anyway.

Anyway, getting back to the actual question instead of a million tangents and rants, I think I saw a lot of the things that have since become like backbone tropes of the pairing (even in canon, with the whole “alone, practical about death” thing). Their interactions in S2 were great; everything hinted at more than what was on-screen. And I really liked the idea of exploring the dynamic that was pretty much already there, as far as Molly having both a crush and self-respect and Sherlock suddenly having to rely on this person (that he picked because she was reliable to begin with) who's a friend, but also kind of a stranger in the way that a lot of the people we consider friends are (at least, friends made in adulthood; work-friends, church-friends, club-friends, gym-friends). Past that, I really saw the potential for character growth stemming from their interactions, but not like her humanizing him or whatever; both of them gaining insight about themselves, with the other person (and their relationship) as a vehicle for those realizations. I think I could have done better on that front, but hindsight blah blah.

satin_doll: How familiar were you with the Sherlock Holmes character before the BBC series aired, and what made you want to write about him?

sunken_standard: So I wasn't very familiar at all. Just what was in the general cultural lexicon, maybe a few episodes of the Granada series on PBS as a kid, a few of the stories that I just couldn't get into when I tried to read them because I hate Victorian prose (hate it, everything about it, I won't read anything written before 1920 or so because I just hate it [Wilde being the singular exception, but I even get bogged down by him]). Oh, and the RDJ movie, which wasn't really Sherlock Holmes to me, but just like a Victorian-era action movie. After S1, I just devoured canon (though, full disclosure, I still haven't read all of it, probably only about 80%), then moved on to other adaptations and canon-era fic and pastiches, read a bunch of extra-canon material on the internet. So as far as that goes, I'm very much a poseur and newbie in the greater Sherlock Holmes fandom. At least I did my research?

Anyway, it really took the modern adaptation and BC's performance to make the character resonate with me. The aspects he chose to play up—the frustration and impatience and frantic mental energy—just hit a nerve. He really channeled the “gifted” experience (which I suspect was just a lot of BC himself bleeding through). Finally I could use a fictional character to bemoan how stupid everyone around me was and sound like a complete asshole and be completely in-character! The heavens smiled upon me.

Really though, I was initially attracted to how cerebral it was and how smart the fandom was overall. It was the early fandom (and I mean early, like days after episode 1 aired) that drew me in, at least to a participatory (vs. consumptive) level. Lots of very clever, very educated, very queer people having these deep, insightful discussions about everything (sometimes only tangentially related to the show). When I did start writing, I didn't have to dumb anything down; the challenge was to sound smarter than I actually am. And, I mean, I got to dredge up a lot of my own emotional baggage from being a perpetual outsider, which is always cathartic (and probably not very healthy, long-term, because it's not resolving anything, just exploiting myself, but that's a can of worms).

satin_doll: Are you more drawn to Sherlock or Molly as a character, or both equally? Why?

sunken_standard: Sherlock, I think, for the reasons described in the last question.

I don't generally identify with female characters in fiction, since my own identification as female is tenuous (and in general they're poorly written and poorly realized, but that's another story). I mean, I can draw from my own experiences as a (mostly) female-shaped person with female socialization, but I have a hard time intuiting feminine and it's harder for me to write a “normal” woman.

Paraphrasing something I read in an interview with another fic author I admire, writing a woman is always a self-portrait, and how much of yourself do you really want to reveal? Since I don't know how to woman correctly, I'm always afraid I'm going to slip up and hit the wrong beat for what a normal woman is and end up ruining the characterization. I do manage to channel a lot of my own frustrations with men, relationships, being a single and childless woman over 30, and the patriarchy into Molly's character, though.

I mean, don't get me wrong, I really love Molly (and always have—I was one of the first to use her as a main character and not just a punching bag or a punchline). I love her sense of humor and her job and her fashion sense, all of it. She's not one-dimensional. It's just easier for me to write Sherlock than it is to make decisions about who Molly is.

satin_doll: You are “internet famous” for Longer Than the Road (rightfully so!) What about that story do you think is so affecting for fans? How has “Road” influenced subsequent work you’ve done in the Sherlolly ship?

sunken_standard: You know, I'm really not sure why it seems to resonate with people. Maybe the homesickness or the exhaustion that comes with impermanence (and I mean, we all feel that on an existential level, everything's always changing and it's faster every year, just existing is like trying to walk in an earthquake). Or the healing/ recovery aspect of it (I tried to balance both sides, the affected and the caregiver). Or maybe I just wrote it at the right time (when there wasn't much else out there) and people kept coming back to it because it was familiar.

As for how it's influenced subsequent work... I'm sure it has, but I don't know how, exactly. I still think it's the best thing I've ever written and the closest to something literary I'll ever get, so in a way it's an albatross (no one ever wants to be reminded that they already peaked). I get frustrated when my newer work doesn't live up to the standard I set for myself with it. That frustration doesn't make me a better writer, it just makes me tired, so everything I do now is paler.

One thing it did do was cement my characterizations of Sherlock and Molly and the dynamic between them. I tend to write them a certain way and don't deviate from that, and that all has roots in the push-pull, love-hate thing I established in Longer Than the Road. I can't write Molly without a degree of contempt for Sherlock and I can't write Sherlock without a degree of shame and contrition in his feelings toward Molly.

satin_doll: How does feedback affect what you write? How important is it? Is it more important that a reader “get” the point of the work or just that they like it? What kind of reader do you write for?

sunken_standard: I try not to let feedback affect my writing. I mean, I only get positive feedback, really, so it's a high. I'm not trying to brag or anything; I count myself lucky that I don't get the shit others do (though I honestly think anybody that posts on The Pit is opening themselves up to it because it's a garbage dump, but I've never liked the site, so). I try not to let it go to my head or anything though.

I also try not to let it influence the direction my writing takes; I might do a comment fic or write a silly HC or something, but I like to keep my substantial pieces pure, so to speak. Though sometimes a comment sparks something and a whole other fic grows out of it, so I fail there, I guess. Sometimes it's a lot of pressure when people say they want to see more of something, or want me to write a kind of specific scenario, so I usually just don't, and then I feel bad about not giving nice people what they want and it starts this whole weird spiral of guilt and obligation and then swinging the other way and getting (internally) belligerent over not owing anybody anything. I uh, have a complicated relationship with my work being acknowledged in any capacity.

As for people “getting” it... I don't know if they really do or not. Sometimes I get comments and I can tell they're definitely on my wavelength and they picked up on an allusion or a detail or just saw or felt everything in the scene like I did when I was laying it out. Once in a while I get a comment that has a different interpretation than what I was trying to get across, and that's really cool because it makes me re-examine my own work and see it from a different perspective (which I think makes me stronger for the next thing). It's really validating when someone “gets” it, but at the same time, I write to entertain other people (as well as myself), so as long as they like it, I feel accomplished.

It's cliché, but I write for an audience of one. I've tried to write outside my taste and it doesn't end well. Sometimes I write tropes that aren't my bag (like the Wiggins “the Missus” thing, or kidfic/ pregnancy), but it's kind of like a nod and wink to people who do like it, rather than outright pandering. At least, that's what I tell myself. Sometimes you need to try on every bra in your size, even the ones you know you hate, just to make sure you're getting the right one, y'know?

satin_doll: Do you think fanfic has changed since you began writing it? If so, how?

sunken_standard: Yeah, but I don't think it's a good or bad thing. And it depends on where you look and what you consume.

In the last like five years, Tumblr's purity culture has shamed a lot of kink back into the closet, I think, and people (in my fandoms, at least) aren't really writing on the edge. I see darkfic, but it's about as dark as the night sky over Hong Kong. I think people are afraid to go really dark anymore because they don't want the backlash from a generation fed on a diet of pink princesses and promise rings. And I think everyone's desire for happy-ending escapism has ratcheted up because the real world is shit and TV shows are all playing Russian roulette with surprise deaths to add drama (thanks, The Walking Dead, for making that element so ubiquitous that the rest of the mainstream picked it up and ran).

On the other hand, I'm not seeing near the amount of badfic as I used to. It was never as much of a problem on the old platforms and AO3 (compared to The Pit), but there were always some. I mean, there are still lots of turds out there, but they all seem a bit more polished these days. As far as the English goes, at least. Maybe my fandoms are just maturing.

I think people interact a lot differently now, too. This is going to kind of tie into the next question, but the types of feedback are different now and I think authors have changed what and how they produce to kind of chase the dragon of positive feedback. Like, when I started, most public archives (read: not just one author's own website with all their fic, like you found in webrings a lot)—both completely open and curated—had some way to submit comments and allowed author replies. There was really no other way to let an author know you liked their work. I mean, some sites tracked numbers for bookmarking features or hit counts, but those weren't as... active(? I guess), they weren't really participatory for the reader.

Then AO3 came along and started the kudos thing (which people still bitch about because they think they get fewer comments; like be happy you get anything, ya fuckin' ingrates). Kudos count became a de facto rating system, thanks to the sort feature. Whenever I start reading for a new fandom, I pick a pairing, pick a rating, and sort by kudos. Sure, popularity isn't the best way to find good fic, but in any decent-sized fandom you can assume that the stuff on the first page is going to be written to a minimum standard. Anyway, one of the ways to game the system a bit on kudos is to do a multichapter fic; I've seen works that are like 80+ 200-word chapters (don't get me started on omnibus fic across fandoms). They aren't the best fic by far, but they pick up kudos every chapter, often from guests that are just people not signed in or on a different device. I'm not knocking it, exactly, since it front-paged me for more than one fic. Part of me still feels like it's disingenuous, but I also recognize that I should pull the stick out of my ass. Anyway, the kudos count was kind of the death of the one-shot longfic (which, when I wrote Longer Than the Road, was a pretty common format).

And now, it seems like the Tumblr fic culture is writing ficlets (under 1k words) and posting without a beta (and I do it too). Fic consumption has become a social activity. Reblogs aren't always about one's personal taste, they're a social signal of group affiliation. If you don't reblog certain things, you're suspect and given a wide berth. Woe betide the poor fucker that crosses party lines and posts one of the verboten ships. And I mean, this isn't just one fandom, I've seen complaints about it from all corners—Supernatural, Star Wars, MCU, Steven Universe ffs. I think when you have predominantly female spaces, you're always going to have an element of Mean Girl culture, y'know? I'm probably going to get my fingernails pulled out for being misogynistic or some kind of -phobic for saying that.

Whatever. It's true that a kind of hive-mind develops and all kinds of tropes and HCs get repeated until they become fanon. I mean, that kind of thing's always happened, but the whole culture of Tumblr forces you to identify yourself and your group affiliation by what fanon you subscribe to, probably because it's harder to find your tribe without dedicated community spaces like LJ had. With Tumblr, you basically have to trawl tags until you find your echo chamber.

I'm old and I fear change.

Tumblr ain't all bad, though. It's very collaborative, kind of like the old-school round-robin fic people used to do. Authors and artists riff off each other and a lot of really cool stuff comes out of these casual collaborations. And I do like the prompt lists; I remember kinkmemes and prompting communities back on LJ, but it feels more off-the-cuff and spontaneous to just give someone a numbered list and let them roll the dice for you.

You know what else has changed? We're kind of in a new era of epistolary storytelling with memes and shitposts; stories emerge that aren't prose (though might contain a prose element). I mean, people did mixed-media epistolary in 2008, but it was a lot harder then (create graphic, hand-code into text piece, hand-code all the italics and bolding and font changes to denote various media types, if you're really a wizard add in-line text links to audio clips to add ambiance). It's a lot easier to add a new thing on each reblog now, like someone does a video, followed by a 3-panel comic sketch, followed by a ficlet, and then a gif, you get the idea. I like it; it's just a shame that it's so ephemeral. Maybe that's part of the charm, though.

satin_doll: You’ve talked a bit about your experience with LiveJournal in the “old days”; what other platforms have you used in the past? Which ones did you like best?

sunken_standard: I went into it a little in another question, but I first posted fic to A Teaspoon and an Open Mind (www.whofic.com). Honestly, I don't remember much about it. I'm not sure, but I don't think they had a richtext editor at the time (2008) and I had to hand-code some or all of it. I vaguely remember having to do HTML for italics and paragraphs. I know I had to do that on LJ sometimes because the formatting from whatever word processor I was using at the time did some hinky shit sometimes on a copy/paste.

Next came LiveJournal (and DreamWidth, but I really only used that to back up my old LJ blog). It wasn't better than Teaspoon, just different. Teaspoon is niche, only fanfic and only for one fandom (well, one universe of fandoms, really, with all the spin-offs), where LJ was all kinds of stuff under one roof—personal blogs, communities with various intents and levels of participation, fanfic, fanart, gossip blogs, you name it. I liked the friendslist view thing; it was like proto-Tumblr. And you could talk to people on the threads; even personal blogs were like a forum.

I joined AO3 in 2011, after waiting like six months for more invites to open up, but I didn't post anything there until 2012. I'm really happy with it as a platform for posting fic. I like the editor and I like the tags, ratings, and sort features. I never even considered posting to ff.net because I'm a snobby fucker (and they can blow me with their whole “adult content ban” that still continues to be selectively enforced). Anyway, I preferred having my fic on AO3 before I even left LJ, since I didn't have to split my stories into parts because of character limits.

And then Tumblr took over and I kind of hate it, since you can't have conversations anymore, it's like leaving passive-aggressive post-its and there's no editing something once it gets reblogged, so typos and bad links and all that are always there. And even when the original is deleted, the reblog keeps going, which I really hate from a creator's standpoint (though the archivist/ curator part of me likes it because it doesn't get lost in the ether [the recent purge notwithstanding] like so much of the early days of the web did). Tumblr's really bad for posting anything but ficlets and links to fic on other sites.

satin_doll: What would your ideal fanfic publishing platform be like?

sunken_standard: Honestly, AO3 is just about as close to ideal as I can think of. I just wish you could directly upload images instead of having to do code jiggery-pokery to link to something hosted elsewhere. I've tried a million times and followed all the tutorials in an attempt to add the cover art to Longer Than the Road (gifted to me by @thecollapseinwonderland), but it just never works. It shows on the preview, but not on the live version and it's frustrating because I'm computer literate, goddamnit. Anyway. And I mean, in an ideal world there would be better ways to find quality fic to my taste, but there's no real way to add a rating system (like 5-stars) independent of kudos without discouraging authors (and I mean the potential for abuse and bullying is just too great).

Additional reader questions from @ohaine:

Stylistically, Longer than the road is quite different from the other fics at the top of the AO3 Sherlolly ratings; stream of consciousness at the beginning, and the nested internal thoughts. How much of that was a deliberate departure, and how much was you just channelling the story as it came out of you?

sunken_standard: At the time I was really influenced by a Sherlock/ John fic (I can't remember the title or author, it was 7 years ago, but I feel bad about forgetting). It was originally on LJ and their journal was a lightish blue color and the font was small (if anybody remembers this... there was something with an EKG and I think something with shooting up blood as a romantic gesture?). It was Sherlock POV and the author had a really unique way of presenting internal monologue. Anyway, at that time there was a lot of experimental writing going on on the slash side of things, it was great. To be perfectly honest, I hadn't read a lot of Sherlolly fic at that time because what did exist (as far as happy-ending/ happy-for-now stories vs like darkfic/ angst) was really, really not to my taste (the exception being Sustain). So it was only deliberate in that—even when I wasn't being experimental—I didn't want to write Harlequin books.

I wish a story like that would just come out of me. I mean, to a degree it did, but doing the thoughts and sub-thoughts was work. I mean, I've always been a brackets-and-footnotes kind of person because I like reading it, but the way I did the thoughts was more like writing HTML than a regular rambling narrative.

I think I read recently (maybe on a blog post?) that Riders on the storm was the original inspiration for Longer than the road. Was the scene in the storm your starting point with the story, or where did you begin?

sunken_standard: That was the first scene I wrote; at that time I had a really nebulous idea of the story. The imagery was really clear in my head, though the very earliest concept took place in the desert—the classic American image of the road going on forever and rusty sands and the heatwaves rising up off the asphalt. I'm not sure how it morphed into North Dakota, I might have seen a picture of lightning over the plains or something.

So after S2 aired, I just kind of sat and chewed it over for a month before any really strong ideas emerged for a story. I had to find the internal logic for the kind of plot I wanted to write—namely, them on the lam together. Making Sherlock have a breakdown seemed pretty natural at the time; in ACD canon (and many, many pastiches) he was always having them and going off to the country to recuperate. But he was supposed to be dead and he was all over the tabloids, so it's not like he could just move to some sleepy little village and hope no one recognized him.

I thought about sending him to Europe, using the places ACD Holmes went after Reichenbach (and I did start more than one with them in Florence, a few incarnations of which were Molly/ Irene wanklock PWPs, I actually think one of the Rusty Beds stories came from that, but I digress). The only problem with Europe is the language barrier; I thought it was too convenient to make Molly fluent in another language (she might have some conversational Spanish from a holiday or something, but that's it), so I had to make them go somewhere where English was common enough. I also didn't want them too far from the UK; I wanted Sherlock to be able to get on a plane and be back within half a day (I realize this isn't the reality of flying, but deus ex Mycroft, so). So Asia, Australia/ NZ, and even South Africa were out, leaving Canada, the US, or parts of the Caribbean. I didn't want them to by happy, so they didn't go to the Caribbean. Canada's great, but it's too nice and they also don't have deserts. America it was; it also really added some background tension because I think a lot of non-USians have a love-hate with us. Movies are okay, music too, and of course the tech and consumer innovations, but everything else is garbage and we're all just rude, ignorant, obese Yosemite Sams. For someone like Sherlock, I think the US is the last place he'd want to go (even though canon ACD Holmes was really into America). And I mean, write what you know, so that was that sorted.

Once I got them here I needed them to do something; I wanted to tell a very intimate story, and that would be boring if they were just living in a 2BR cape cod in Jersey. And I mean, what city would really suit Sherlock? Where could he have a life that wasn't London? Anyway, the inside of a car is just about as intimate as two people can get, and the greatest tradition in American literature and film is the road trip, and that was when I knew I had a solid foundation for a story. After that, it just kind of flowed as I planned the route.

Perfect, not perfect-perfect is a beautiful, brave piece that I think has a real air of authenticity to it. It was a very tough read, purely because of the journey the characters are on, and I wondered how difficult it was for you to write? Was it catharsis or an emotional black hole?

sunken_standard: You know, I'm not really sure if it was either catharsis or black hole. A lot of the particulars and even the emotional places in that story aren't mine, but an amalgam of some other friends' experiences with polyamory. My own experience with it was pretty shit and pretty unremarkable, but I learned a lot about the human heart and how some people can lie to themselves because they can't let go of their ideals and their identities (I'm also still a little bitter), but that's got nothing to do with the price of tea in China, so moving on.

Since a lot of those experiences weren't mine, it wasn't raw, so it wasn't very hard on me, personally. I think I wrote it in like three days? I don't think I wanted it to be a slog, so that's why it's in present tense and very sparse and matter-of-fact. Dispassionate, even. There are times when I'm writing really emotional stuff that I'm disconnected from it (which is a fuckin' mercy, because most of the time I'm right there going through it, over and over for days sometimes until I get the scene right and can move on to the next thing), and this was one of those times. I was writing this alongside the Girlfriend series, so there was some overlap there; I'd already done the emotional labor for everything up to Mary's death and I was thinking of different angles of approach for later installments of the series.

The most “me” part of it is near the beginning, writing my way around the bisexual experience from someone else's point of view. I don't have a lot in common with any of the characters; they're a higher social class, urban, products of a more liberal culture, yada yada, but there are some things that are just kind of universal and misunderstood about bisexuals, the stereotypes that we have to contend with and end up internalizing.

Oh, and the perpetual alienation is all me, too. Molly's feelings of being left behind are mine, how I felt every time friendships drifted apart or when female friends got married and then had kids. So a lot of the fatalism and insecurity are me projecting how I would feel or react. I kind of like depressed Molly, more than the perpetual ray of sunshine/ cinnamon roll at least.

*********

Many thanks to sunken_standard for taking the time to answer these questions!

And many thanks and much love to OhAine for all her hard work putting this project together! It’s been fun and enlightening!

Next week, Friday 29th March, it’s the turn of @ellis-hendricks and @geekmama

#content creator interviews #sherlolly #Sherlock #ashockinglackofsatin #sunken_standard

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wavemaker9 · 5 years

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So far I think Toni has like 4 potential ships for him? Remind me if I’m forgetting anyone but so far I think it’s just Cami, Mel, Gil, and Ivan who’ve gotten a focus on.

I also think I already touched on how Cami’s the best for Toni in the same way that Mel is for Austin and Ivan is for Kyle, so I prolly don’t need to go too deep into those two. I will say I had the thought the other day of like a need vs want thing with the three boy’s ships, and like. I think it was that Austin needs Mel but doesn’t usually want her right away, Kyle both wants and needs Ivan like right at the start, and like. Toni needs Cami a little but I do think he wants her more than he needs her. Mainly just cause like. We’ve discussed this in discord but not on here so basically for a written record, We were talking about Cami being a source of character development for Toni in GTA AU but then countered that because in GTA AU he really doesn’t develop any from his relay with Cami. He does for a little bit I guess but then regresses right back to normal because he’s a dumb idiot who learns nothing from his mistakes. It’s the same thing with the issue with Gil, he doesn’t come away from that going “I need to value and trust my friends more because we care about each other and I’ve known them long enough to not only recognize that, but /recognize it in a way that adjusts my behavior accordingly/”. He doesn’t. Like. If you talked him through the whole thing with Gil and Francis, you could get him to quickly admit he genuinely doesn’t believe there’s any way that Gil or Francis would, unprovoked, betray him. But then also be like “But technically there’s some way, so gotta be prepared.” HE’S THAT BATMAN LINE. THE DUMB ONE ABOUT “IF TEHRE’S A .1% CHANCE HE COULD BE OUR ENEMY WE HAVE TO TREAT THAT AS A 100% CERTAINTY!” Dumb idiot. I think it’s just that like. Because Toni wants to be prepared for everything so that he can handle everything, he has a hard time prioritizing probability over possibility. And that’s probably true in any AU but especially in ones like GTA where he has more to lose and has learned to be more paranoid. He knows the probability of Gil betraying him is like so small it’s basically 0%, but also Toni can think of ways that would force Gil to pick a side and have Toni be that losing side. Threatening Ludwig is the biggest one (and I’d assume there’d be an equivalent for Francis of “if someone threatened X if Francis didn’t betray me, he’d have to pick X”), but Toni probably also assuming that if it came down to a thing of picking Francis or him, Gil’d pick Francis. Similarly, Toni assumes Francis would pick Gil if Gil forced Francis’ hand, while not also considering the fact that if your two causes are “Francis would betray me if Gil made him” and “Gil would betray me if Francis made him” and you don’t have any other factor that would prompt either Francis or Gilbert to make that move to push the other in the first place, then those aren’t really possible/probable causes are they, Toni? Even if the other cause is “Someone threatened Ludwig/X to make Gil/Francis betray me, but he doesn’t want to fight me directly so he’s then convincing Francis/Gil to do it.” like. His independent mentality doesn’t even have him consider “They would come to me and the two of us could work out how to save Ludwig/X together.” He just assumes betrayal because that’s how shit works in Los Santos, and because he assumes betrayal even in the .1% chance this extreme event happens, he feels he has to be prepared for it and won’t fucking chill about it. And even when it’s pointed out to him “Do you realize how unrealistic this is,” that’s not what he cares about. He knows it’s unrealistic, but that doesn’t make it impossible. It’d be like always wearing a life jacket 24/7 in case your house floods. You can point out how unlikely the flooding is at any given time, but he’ll just counter “and then what if it happens and then I don’t have a life jacket????” Like I guess you’re technically prepared, sure, but at what cost. Ugh, Toni’s the worst, I can’t believe I took this character I liked the best out of my three and made him the worst in his inability to learn a goddamn lesson.

Similarly, GTA Toni doesn’t learn a goddamn thing from what happens with Cami either. He doesn’t learn to communicate better, he doesn’t learn to trust people and put more faith in their choices, he doesn’t learn not to lie needlessly. To him, it’s not a factor of “Things would be better if I HAD told the truth” and more “Things would be better if I’d BEEN ABLE to tell the truth” because he’s still in some dumb mindset of unintentionally not respecting Cami’s (or anyone’s, really) autonomy. He /couldn’t/ tell Cami the truth, he /couldn’t/ 100% trust Gil and Francis. Again, he’s not realizing that these were actual choices he made and are specifically his fault. They are what /had/ to happen because, given his own knowledge and no other input, they were the best option at the time and thus the only thing he could really do. Even after Cami snaps at him about how much his break up with her and everything hurt her, he laments factors that were outside of his control instead of recognizing the choices he made weren’t good. If only he hadn’t gotten into the crime business, if only he’d met Cami earlier in his life, if only X, if only Y, blah blah blah. He recognizes that he made things worse here, but it still feels to him like “cami would have been better off if she never met me or if she’d met me before I got into crime” vs “cami would have been better off if I’d treated her with more actual respect and not this romanticized old version of respect where I pull her chair out for her but don’t ask for her opinion on major life decisions”. All of it basically boils down to ‘this wasn’t solely on me because I did what I /had/ to do given the circumstances. Nevermind that I could have changed the circumstances by discussing /anything/ with /anyone/. *hanzo voice* I do what I must.’ I touched on this in the fic with him and Gil, but Toni leans on excuses a lot more than he likes to think he does. During mel’s fake death, he calls out Kyle for not planning ahead and being aware of the consequences his actions have until they’ve already happened, but Toni has the exact opposite problem of /always/ trying to plan ahead to a harmful level and only being aware of the connection any consequences that happen may have with his actions until he actually does the thing and then any mistakes were a flaw in fate itself really, he did his best.

Anyway, fuck, that was supposed to be 1 paragraph about the generic dynamic of cami and toni, not multiple trainwrecks about what a trainwreck I turned that boy into in GTA AU. Back to the point. A lot of that is lessened in the handful of other AUs where Cami and Toni end up together even briefly, so that’s good at least. I mentioned to Khep the other day the idea of a similar thing happening with Toni in Color Coded AU of him having an interest in Cami after meeting her thanks to investigating her for PRISM, but when seeing how truly kind she is, him trying to step back because, while he does value PRISM for the help it gave him with his powers, he recognizes it’s shady and manipulative towards coders at best and doesn’t want Cami involved in that world. PRISM keeps a close eye on every one of its heroes, even those that leave/retire if it can, and Toni probably believing that while Cami could stay under the radar if staying on her own, any serious involvement with him would put her more at risk of PRISM’s lasting attention and she doesn’t deserve them watching over her and possibly deciding when she should and shouldn’t join. But in that one, he’d actually talk to her. Instead of spending his YA years as an independent and pseudo-paranoid crime leader, he spends them in a large community and as the leader of a team where communication is key. This Toni /knows/ that it’s important to ultimately trust people with information in order to better protect themself, and the only reason he’d hide info from Cami while trying to break things off would be at the very start since it’d probably take a little effort to find a way to communicate with Cami where he could be sure PRISM wouldn’t be keeping tabs. In other more chill AUs he tends to be better about that shit, too. Firefly AU was brought up since that’s another Toni that learns to lie with priority, but they don’t really end up together in that one so agreeing with the point there fo it not being as much of a thing? Mel and Gil feel like bigger factors into his development there than Cami does. Honestly, I can’t remember many other AUs where they even interact let alone date, now that I think about it tho? There’s the one happy one where they’re both single parents but that always felt more like a focus on the interaction between the kids/kids+parents vs between the parents, like honestly the TonixCami factor there was definitely back burner whenever I thought about it. Ugh, there has to be other AUs, right? Okay and I just went through my page of AU/Xover lists and it seems like no. Wait OUAT, I forgot that, but that’s also a bad one but not my fault. God we really do need better AUs for them. But honestly there aren’t many AUs for any of these ships we’re here to talk about so I guess I’ll be as assuming here as for the others.

I do feel like a non-GTA and the like AU where Toni and Cami can end up together is good. I’m still standing behind what I said in discord the other day of like. Toni is not necessarily the best end for /Cami/ if the AU has anyone else like Cian in it. I’ll also add something new of like. Even though Cami is probably the best of the options so far for Toni, she’s not the /ideal/ match either. Which, tbf, the same is true for Austin and Mel, honestly? It falls back to the need vs want thing. Kyle lucked out and got someone who helps him better himself while also being the type of person he absolutely adores. Austin’s best option would be someone who challenges him similar to how Mel does, but in a more reserved way and someone he has a bit more in common with. Someone he could start off wanting, instead of learning to want after a long while. (That’s also part of why Aud is a better fit for Mel too, since Aud is a bit more open and accepting of challenges and such due to her past vs Austin who is really not here as much to be significantly challenged; Aud isn’t /looking/ for a challenge either exactly, but she won’t back away from one as quickly as Austin will). For Toni and his ideal, there’s obviously the thing of like. Usually a relay with Toni isn’t great for her either since it’s just. Their relationships always feel very romanticized but not super realistic? I could see them having a long term relay and being happy, especially in more chill/neutral AUs like the adopted family AU one, but I think it takes them both a medium to /long/ while to relax around each other. Which isn’t… the worst, but also, it just feels a little unhealthy having to try /to that level/ in a relationship. Like trying in a relay is good, trying to seem perfect in a relay isn’t so much, and it’d probably take a few years to a decade or so before toni starts to feel comfortable not trying to the max 24/7. And that’d be exhausting, and that’s for Toni who is used to and honestly lowkey thrives in a challenging environment, because Cami would in turn likely also feel the need to always be at her best regardless of Toni’s reassurances, and that’d be even worse for someone like her who is NOT already confident and believes herself as being at the best level already. Eventually they could settle into a really nice comfortable life together, and I think it’d be very good for both of them at that point, because they’re both very caring and passionate people at their cores, but it’d probably be rough to start off with.

Mel is next on the list and honestly a very good match for him, too, although probably not as challenging as he would need to key points. I’ll cover this more for Gil and Ivan later on but I picture Cami and Gil are better at challenging Toni in ways that he could use given his flaws, where as Mel is more middle ground and. God, Ivan. We’ll get to Ivan. With Mel, it’s not that she wouldn’t be capable of challenging him or anything. She’s honestly probably the most prepared for that and can probably shut down a lot of shit the first time she sees it and knows it’s bad. Toni doesn’t talk to her about something important and just does X thing and her confronting him immediately on it. Same with like the one fic I did for the rarepair thing. She sees he’s not honest about who he is and what he likes, and she talks to him right away to kind of address that and why it’s important to her that that change even a little if they’re going to stay together. Really, they are a good match in that they either compliment or contrast each other well. They’re both active worker types who enjoy fighting and such, and though there’d have to be some competition between them, I could imagine it being treated as more playfully competitive than full on “I have to be the best” aggressive. Toni’s more diplomatic and that helps Mel with socializing some times and kind of getting her to take a hot second when angry to calm down and think through her reactions so she doesn’t get too mad and make more enemies than friends. They really do work very well together when they try and it’s not like having each other wouldn’t help better them. Honestly the main reason I don’t move Mel up to the highest potential pairing is just that I don’t picture Mel as the sort that would inspire him to naturally want to change on anything that’s a major issue for him. Like he wouldn’t naturally want to fix the communication thing, he’d just see that mel doesn’t like this so he’d fix it. One of the things that causes Cami to appeal to him most is her being so nice and sweet leads to him trying to be a naturally nicer person and just genuinely care more about people. Tone down that pride and judgement and be more open minded and selfless. The other thing, as we’ll get into with gil, isn’t something he thinks he needs as much initially but would probably learn to recognize a need for more, and that’s just chilling the /fuck/ out for once and just having a breather. Again, he thrives on challenge and stuff, he loves putting 110% into everything if he can, but like. Just relaxing and being chill and not being the best is okay too? And that’s not like “do the work, take a nap, get back to work” that’s like “I don’t have to be prepared to defend my non-existent title on everything to impress people. I can just relax and be myself genuinely and it’s probably fine.”

So let’s just move onto Gil then since that’s the big pro when Toni gets to date him. Honestly, at least atm, I think Gil is the only person Toni ever knows that he feels like he can 100% relax with? Francis is close in most AUs, probably like 95% in more chill scenarios, but Gil has a much more natural way about him where he’s just so honest, it’s infectious to Toni. It really is why he likes Gil so much. Francis is arguably cooler and more fashionable and confident, but Gil seems to have this fucking ultimate zen thing going of owning who he is so completely which even Toni hasn’t mastered yet, and Toni thinks that’s the coolest. Great humor and confidence is a big factor into Toni befriending Gil so closely. Gil can always make Toni relax and laugh and forget his worries for a bit and Toni has such a chill genuine fun time when with Gil, and, again, for someone like Toni who feels like he has to try 110% minimum at all times, feeling comfortable in the moment enough to not feel like he has to impress and watch himself is really nice. Honestly? I feel like there are a lot of things Toni likes that he’s just kind of filtered out of his personality because of reputation, and it’s only when hanging out with gil or the full group that he’ll find himself doing that kind of shit again because he feels like he can get away with it more when with gil and/or francis. Like in a lot of AUs Gil’s probably the first one to get out of Toni that he does like being called Toño more, to the point of I don’t even know if Toni often fully realizes it until Gil gets him to stop and consider it. Like there’s just a lot of stuff like that where Toni doesn’t even think about it anymore. He found ‘Toni’ was the name people found easiest growing up (usually) in America, so he went with that until it felt like his preferred name. God, honestly I think there’s just a lot of Toni’s personality that might not really be his personality and who knows what is or isn’t at any given time? He probably doesn’t on a lot. I sure don’t, I’ve never had this boy down pat. Hell, there’s already the thing of him naturally wanting to swear a lot but training himself to cut that out so he really only does it around Francis and Gil. Like. Maybe dressing up in high business casual all the time is just something he’s convinced himself he likes? What if I say he actually hated tomatoes as a kid and just whoever his guardian is in each AU loved them and made them a lot so he eventually tricked himself into liking them?? I can do anything with this new power, incredible! But yeah, maybe that’s another factor of liking hanging out with Gil too is not just “oh I get to relax and enjoy things I don’t normally allow myself too” but also “sometimes I remember I enjoy things I haven’t done in years and that’s nice”. Fucking Gil one day just questioning “Hey how come you say ‘probably’ or ‘probably not’ a lot when I ask if you like a thing instead of just yes or no?” and then through a slow convo of having to break down toni’s answers because even toni doesn’t realize fully that he does this, that finally coming out and gil just baffled once things click. Gil showing up the next day with a bunch of foods from the store for toni to try and actually see if he likes them. Toni like I don’t think this is how it works, Gil. Gil teasing back ‘maybe you’ve just convinced yourself you don’t think this is how it works when the REAL toni would love my idea? It’s impossible to know!’ and toni just laughing but conceding, sure, yeah, sounds 100% legit and not at all bullshit, what’s first on your goofball buffet, bud?

Okay, distracted again, back to the point. Toni relaxing is good, but I think it’s better as a friendship thing longer term? Toni relaxing every once in a while is a good break, but his morals and priorities and such slip when he’s not careful. Which leads us to the last boy on the list, Ivan. ...Listen. I /love/ the compare and contrast factor between Toni and Ivan because they really do have a surprising amount in common for not seeming like they would at a glance. A couple of terrible smile boys, love them, /but also/. Not the greatest influences on each other. This is especially true in verses like GTA and Nationverse with baggage. Toni tries to be a better person and move past his bloody history, but given who he is, it requires a /lot/ of maintaining. And like the pro with Gil is that I think Gil would still mostly be a good enough influence where even while encouraging toni to relax more, he’d still be a more good than bad influence in almost any AU. Like even GTA, Gil is a chaotic good sort, and that’d be important. But Ivan is decidedly not in those sorts of AUs, and pairings between him and Toni have the potential for being the worst in those. GTA (and probably Nationverse too?), Ivan loves prying at that mask of Toni’s and so tries to instigate him more, that would lead to Toni then pushing back, and like. A long term relay between them in those AUs would be hard. You factor in that Toni’s trust issues are worse in those and his darker instincts are way stronger from his history + Ivan also probably very similar on a lot of those points too and also just has not learned to respect human life at all tbh? Toni’s trying to respect human life, but yknow sometimes it’s hard???? (anyone else: I find it’s not hard at all not to murder people. I often go long periods of time without killing anybody! | toni and ivan: we all have our draughts) I just picture in those AUs they are too much of a chaotic force when together and it would be damaging for themselves and/or others. Plus the idea came up once between Avi and I of the GTA fling between them becoming more romantic but god you’d have to find the perfect storm to really make that happen to be honest? It’s not /impossible/ but it’s very unlikely. Toni doesn’t trust ivan enough to let himself become that close to him really, and if he couldn’t allow himself to let down his walls for cami, it’d be damn fucking hard to get him to do it for ivan in turn. He’d pull himself back before he did, and that could be another factor of ivan trying to pry at toni and see how much he can push him, see if he can pull him back in, but that would just further sour any possibility of an actual romantic relationship. In better AUs where they aren’t both bad kids, it’s a little more possible, but I still think even then, they wouldn’t be /great/ influences on each other. Definitely better! They both learn to try and be on better behavior, but. yknow. The bar was set low; there’s only so many AUs that aren’t better than gta au.

#ignore this #the boss kid #amusing muse musings #hey you au #crossovers! unlimited crossovers!

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the-awkward-writer · 7 years

Text

No One Like You

Pairings: Sam x Reader

Word Count: 3.9k (including lyrics)

Warnings: so much fluff it will give you cavities, a tiny, tiny, tiny bit of angst, swearing

A/N: This is my entry for @impalaimagining‘s 3k Followers Challenge/Sam Winchester Birthday Challenge! You don’t understand how much I giggled while writing this. It’s so fluffy you’re gonna die. The song I chose was No One by Alicia Keys, and the quote is in bold in the fic, so it is easy to find. Any and all mistakes are mine.

A/N/N: I wrote this while watching the Harry Potter weekend on Freeform, so that would be the reason for the references...

Song: No One: Alicia Keys

Quote: “There’s something about this girl that I can’t quite put my finger on.”

I just want you close Where you can stay forever You can be sure That it will only get better

You knew you were in for the long haul when you felt the butterflies fighting each other in your stomach whenever you saw Sam Winchester walk into a room.

Although, you technically couldn’t be in it for the long haul, considering you weren’t even dating him.

You were sitting in a dingy motel room on a thin and lumpy bed, trying to gather any information you could about the case.

You had been searching for over six hours, but you weren’t able to come up with anything.

“I’m telling you Dean,” Sam said as he burst through the door, “You really should start eating healthier. It’s much better than the awful bacon cheeseburgers you always eat.”

You didn’t miss the butterflies that were fighting a third world war in your stomach when Sam arrived.

Dean looked disgusted, “Who are you?”

“Sam fucking Winchester,” Sam shot back, making you snort slightly.

Sam sent you a smile, silently thanking you for laughing at his sad attempt at a joke.

Dean dropped two white paper bags on the table, ignoring his brother, he turned to you and said, “I brought you some food.”

You gave him a soft smile, “Thanks, Dean-o, but I’m not hungry right now. I’m just going to go to sleep.”

Dean scowled at the nickname, but nodded in understanding. You had been working on research for hours on end with no break.

“Sweet dreams,” he said sarcastically as you closed your laptop and settled under the covers, quickly falling asleep despite how uncomfortable the bed was.

Sam looked over at you and chuckled. You passed out immediately, sprawled out on your stomach, lightly snoring.

Dean chose that moment to look at his brother. He instantly noticed the heart eyes Sam was shooting in your direction.

“You’re in love with her,” Dean said flatly.

Sam almost gave himself whiplash with how fast his head snapped in Dean’s direction. “N-No I-I’m not.”

Dean almost laughed at his brother’s sudden inability to speak properly. “Even I can tell you’re in love with her, and according to her, I’m the most oblivious person on the planet.”

Sam ran his hand over the back of his neck, something he did when he was stuck in an awkward situation, “I don’t know if it’s love, Dean. It’s just that there’s something about this girl that I can’t quite put my finger on.”

“You need to tell her,” Dean said, trying to catch his brother’s eye.

“She probably doesn’t feel the same way. She barely even looks at me.”

Dean scoffed, “That’s because ninety-eight percent of the time you aren’t looking when she’s staring, and vice versa.”

Sam sighed and turned his attention to his food, “There’s no need to lie to me to make me feel better,” Sam said with a grimace.

Dean threw his hands in the air. He was so close to shaking you awake, leaving for the night and not coming back until you and Sam had worked things out.

“Fucking idiot,” Dean grumbled as he shoveled a few fries into his mouth. “The both of you.”

You and me together Through the days and nights I don't worry 'cause Everything's going to be alright People keep talking they can say what they like But all I know is everything's going to be alright

Unlike Sam and Dean, you didn’t grow up in the hunting life. You entered the life when your entire family was killed by a group of 5 djinns.

You were only 16.

You met Sam and Dean when you were 19. Sam was 22 at the time, and Dean was 26. You bonded easily with both boys, quickly becoming a part of their team.

Although you loved Dean like a brother, you felt differently for the younger, taller, Winchester brother.

Sam was different in so many ways. He was someone that you could share all of your insecurities, problems, and secrets with. And you trusted him to not tell a single soul. And vice versa. He confided in you when he was struggling with Jess, and the trials, and Ruby.

You would never dream of telling anyone about the things he told you.

Another way that Sam was different was because of generally how comfortable you were around him.

Not only were you able to confide in the man, but you could always trust him to be your best friend. He would be there when you needed him, and give you the advice you needed when you were at a loss.

However, even though you were a grown ass woman, you did watch your family die, and your mind still insisted on replaying the image again and again every few nights. Those nights you would would need more than just advice to help you through the night.

When you would wake from a nightmare, your clothes would be soaked through with a cold sweat, your heart racing in your rib cage, and your chest heaving with the effort of keeping up with your racing heart.

No matter the day, things you did before bed, amount of exercise you got that day, to the things you ate, you’d have the same nightmare. Your parents and siblings dying over and over again right in front of your eyes, and there was nothing that you can do about it no matter how hard you tried.

In those moments, you’d untangle the sheet from your legs, get on a fresh pair of pajamas, and make your way down the cold hallway to Sam’s room.

You’d open the door slightly, a beam of light coming in through the door would land on Sam’s face pulling him from his light slumber.

He would jump and grab the gun under his pillow; he could only see you silhouette.

You’d put your hands up, “It’s just me, Sammy,” your voice would crack from sleep.

He would immediately stuff the gun back under his pillow, “Same nightmare?”

You would nod and make your way over his bed. He’d turn on to his side and make room for you and open his arms for you to settle into.

Tucking yourself into his side, you breathe in deep, finally getting your heart rate to slow. “Yeah.”

Sam would wrap his arms around you, creating a barrier between you and the outside world. While in Sam’s arms, you knew that you were safe. While in Sam’s arms you knew the nightmares couldn’t reach you. You know you’d have a dreamless, restful sleep.

The two of you wouldn’t say anything else unless you initiated the conversation. You would just listen to his steady heart rate and breathing, falling asleep quickly.

The next morning you would thank Sam at breakfast; you wouldn’t see him before hand because he would be out jogging. In response he would kiss your forehead, “Anytime,” he’d say.

Those nights were what made you fall even more in love with him.

When the rain is pouring down And my heart is hurting You will always be around This I know for certain

Not only did Sam help you through rough times, but you helped him.

For example, the rather nasty break up he had with Amelia.

It wasn’t exactly nasty per se, but it sure did do a number on the strong hunter’s heart.

Sam would toss and turn all night only getting an hour or so of sleep once his body finally shut down from exhaustion. He would be thinking about Amelia and the dog he left. Boy is he glad that her father can’t find him.

When thee little voices in his head became particularly rude, Sam would find you to help calm him.

Most times, he would be on the verge of tears with the things his own mind would saying to him.

He would shuffle sluggishly down the hallway to your room and open the door, much like you would do to him.

Much like Sam’s initial reaction, you would sit up, gun pointed at Sam’s chest, “It’s just me, Y/N. It’s Sam.”

You would throw your gun on the nightstand and scoot over.

During the nights that Sam sought out your comfort, his head would be on your chest while you ran a hand through his hair.

“You having trouble sleeping?” you would whisper.

Sam would nod. He would talk if he wanted to, but you usually didn’t press the subject. You would just hold him, letting him know that you were here for him if he needed you.

You would curl your legs up slightly, and if Sam was having an especially rough night, he would bring his legs up under yours and wrap his arms around your torso, almost as if he was trying to escape into your body.

Your heartbeat would lull him to sleep, and his steady breathing would help you settle back down.

In the morning, it was usually you who woke up first. However, most times, during the night Sam would shift himself to be half on your body, half on the bed, making it impossible for you to move without waking him up.

Instead of waking your best friend, you would simply wait there, and run your hands through his hair.

Since Sam was an early riser, he would be up not long after you, “Thank you for last night, he would mumble in your ear.

“Don’t mention it,” you would say. But in reality, it was the hardest thing you ever had to do, watch him leave your bed and not come back unless he needed you.

Those were the nights that Sam fell more in love with you.

“Harry Potter,” is all you say as you head into the bunker, making a beeline for your room.

Sam looks confused and drops his bag at the bottom of the stairs, “What about Harry Potter?” he calls out to you, but doesn't get an answer.

Dean sighs heavily, “If you two are going to nerd out all day, then I’m leaving,” Dean pointed to his little brother.

As if on cue, you walked down the hallway in your pajamas, with three blankets and the entire Harry Potter movie collection in your hand.

“Yup,” Dean said and grabbed his keys, “I’m leaving. Feel free to sing Hedwig’s Theme as loud as you want,” Dean grumbled.

As the bunker door clanged shut, you turned to Sam. “How did he know it was called Hedwig’s Theme?”

“He’s a closeted nerd,” Sam shrugged before scurrying off to change into a pair of his own pajamas.

Every once in a while, either you or Sam would be very stressed about the outside world, so one of you would suggest a Harry Potter movie marathon. Dean always left the two of you to pig out on junk food and nerd out to your hearts content.

As Sam made his way back down the hallway, he smelled popcorn coming from the kitchen.

He stopped in the doorway, “Are you ready to spend the next nineteen hours and thirty eight minutes crying, fangirling and nerding out?”

“You bet your ass I am,” you said and turned around to empty two bags of popcorn into the giant salad bowl on the counter.

Sam laughed as he grabbed the bowl from your hands, leading the way to the couch.

Sam settled down n the couch, grabbing the fluffiest blanket and throwing it over his legs. You inserted Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone into the DVD player, racing back to the couch and snuggling up to Sam.

Sam laughed, throwing some popcorn into his mouth.

“Let the marathon commence!” You exclaimed.

Halfway through Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire Sam looked over to see you snoring lightly against his side.

You were never able to make it all the way through the marathon.

Sam leaned over and placed a kiss to your forehead, “I love you, Y/N.”

Sam had never said it to your face while you were conscious; that task was just too daunting. Saying it to you while you were asleep was a lot easier to handle.

Sam shifted your body slightly so your head was on his shoulder.

Sam closed his eyes, falling asleep quickly.

No one, no one, no one Can get in the way of what I'm feeling No one, no one, no one Can get in the way of what I feel for you, you, you Can get in the way of what I feel

"C’mon Y/N!” Sam yelled at you, “You need to stay awake!”

You cried out as Dean ran over a pothole, “I’m too tired, Sammy.”

“I don’t care, stay awake!”

Dean sped down the highway toward the nearest hospital as you bled out from a stab wound in the backseat.

You closed your eyes, you ere just so tired.

“No, no, no,” Sam’s large hands captured your face, “Stay with me, please!”

You winced, “You’ll be fine without me, Sammy. Don’t you worry your pretty little head,” you tried to joke, but only end up in a miserable coughing fit.

Dean swung into the hospital parking lot. Before he even had Baby in park, am was jumping out of the car with you in his arms. He ran to the emergency room door, frantically searching for a nurse.

You groan at the jostling, pain radiating through your entire body.

“I need you to save her, please!” Sam yelled desperately as he laid you on a gurney.

“What’s her name?” a tall, male nurse asked Sam.

“Y/N Brown,” Sam said, using the fake last name the three of you had agreed on years ago.

The nurses started yelling things that Sam couldn’t understand as they wheeled you down the hallway. Sam fell to his knees in the middle of the emergency room praying harder than he ever has that you’re okay.

“Next of kin for Y/N Brown?” A nurse in rainbow scrubs called out.

Sam shot up out of his seat, slightly off balance from the lack of sleep and the amount of tears he had shed. “Is she okay?”

Dean had left half an hour before to get a hotel and food.

The nurse gave him a tight smile, only slightly intimidated at the giant man lopsidedly lumbering his way towards her.

The small woman held up her hands to make sure Sam didn’t run into her, “She’s going to be fine There was minimal internal bleeding. I’m afraid there will be a nasty scar, however.”

Sam almost laughed in her face. Almost. “I’m sure she’ll be fine with a scar.” Sam felt as if a huge weight had lifted off of his shoulders once he knew that you were okay. “Can I see her?”

“Are you family?”

Sam nodded, “She’s my wife,” he lied easily.

The nurse only smile and turned around, leading him down the hallways and to an elevator. The pair went up three floors to the ICU, walked down three brightly lit hallways, and down four doors.

“She’ll be in here for the next 24 hours. Just to make sure that there are no complications. From there she’ll be moved to recovery and spend a few days there. She may be a little loopy or sleepy for the next few hours. The anesthetic is still wearing off.”

Sam thanked the nurse before opening the door. The sight in front of him almost made him break down yet again.

You were laid on your back. A breathing tube was down your throat and at least four IV’s coming out of each arm.

You looked like hell.

Sam’s boots made almost no noise on the polished linoleum floor as he walked over to your bedside.

He pulled up a chair and sat down, taking your cold hand in his. Sam sucked in a deep breath, “God, Y/N. You scared me shitless back there.”

You didn’t answer, but Sam didn’t expect you to.

“I’m so sorry that this happened to you. It was supposed to be me that got hit, but you stupidly pushed me out of the way. I wasn’t looking at hat was happening. This is all my fault,” Sam’s throat started to close with emotion as tears started to fall down his face. He laid his head down on your arm, careful of the tubes.

Your eyes fluttered open, your heart rate accelerating slightly. You tried to talk, but the giant breathing tube in your throat made it hard. You lifted your left arm, pulling the tube out, fighting back our gag reflex. “C’mon Sammy, self deprecation is Dean’s thing.” Every word felt like you were swallowing seventeen knives.

Sam jumped, looking at your bruised face. There was a small smirk present on your lips. “You asshole.”

“Eh, you love me,” you teased, but coughed as the words caused too much strain on your vocal chords.

Sam poured you a cup of water from the pitcher on your bedside table and brought it up to your lips so you could drink.

Once you drank the whole cup, and three more, you laid your head back, “I’m sorry for scaring you, Sammy.” Sam blushed, knowing that you heard him, “It’s okay, Y/N. I was just worried that wouldn’t have had the chance to tell you that I’m in love with you.”

You gasped, “Y-you’re...”

Sam laughed, “I’ve been in love with you since the day I met you, Y/N,” his hand came up to rest on your cheek.

“The feeling’s mutual, Winchester,” you whispered.

A huff of air left Sam’s body, “Thank god,” he said and crashed his lips to yours.

You only pulled away when you were in desperate need of air, “God you don’t know how great it feels to finally be able to do that.”

Sam smiled at you, “I think I know.”

You turned on your side, trying to make room for Sam’s giant frame, “Come here,” you beckoned him over.

Sam kicked off his shoes and climbed in with you, careful not to bend the tubes.

Sam placed a kiss on your forehead as your head settled into his neck, “I love you Y/N.”

“I love you too, Sammy,” you said as your exhausted mind and body shut down, sleep taking over.

I know some people search the world To find something like what we have I know people will try try to divide something so real So till the end of time I'm telling you there ain't no one No one, no one, no one Can get in the way of what I'm feeling No one, no one, no one Can get in the way of what I feel for you, you, you Can get in the way of what I feel for you

Your hands shook violently as you smoothed out the invisible wrinkles in your white sundress.

You turned away from the mirror and started pacing across the floor.

You were getting married to Sam Winchester.

The loud knock didn’t even register in your mind as you continued to wear a hole in the carpet.

“Y/N?” Dean called out to you. He pushed open the door and chuckled slightly as he saw you practically chewing off your nails while pacing the floor.

Dean walked over, the stiff dress shoes cutting into the side of his feet, and placed a hand on your shoulder.

Without a moments hesitation, you grabbed Dean’s hand, twisting it behind his back.

“Shit, Y/N!” Dean yelled in pain.

You immediately dropped his arm as you recognized his voice, “Sorry, Dean.”

Dean shook out his arm and turned to you, “In hindsight, it wasn’t smart to sneak up on a hunter like that,” he smirked.

You laughed, “Probably no, Dean-o.”

Dean rolled his eyes at the stupid nickname. “You ready to go?”

You swallowed, “Um...”

Dean rolled his eyes and took your hand, leading you out the door. “You are ready, whether you like it or not.”

You huffed out a breath, but let him drag you to the Impala.

The closer you got to the wedding chapel, the more nervous you felt. “I’m getting married, Dean-o.”

“Welcome to the party, Y/N. You may have arrived little late, though,” he said with a small smirk as he parked the Impala.

You let out a short giggle, “I’m nervous, Dean.”

Dean looked at you. Your eyes were as wide as saucers as you stared at the chapel. The two of you still had ten minutes before you had to walk down the aisle, so he turned his whole body to you, “Care to explain?”

Taking a deep breath, yet still not taking your eyes away from the daunting white chapel, “What if we get married, and he finally realizes that he’s stuck with me? What if he realizes that he wants to get out of our marriage, but he doesn’t know how. What if he just wants to leave period. What if I’m not good enough for him?” you mumbled quickly.

“Whoa, whoa whoa,” Dean raised an eyebrow, taking your shoulders and forcing you to look at him, “First, I have never seen Sam look at anyone like he looks at you. That boy is completely and utterly in love with you. Secondly, there is no doubt in my mind that even if both of you were immortal, Sam still wouldn’t leave you. And third, any man would be lucky to have you. you are so compassionate, strong, caring, bad-ass, you’re everything anyone needs in a woman, and Sam knows that. If Sam were to ever let you go I would a) beat his ass, and b) blame him for letting a girl like you go.”

By the end of Dean’s little speech you were tearing up, “Thanks, Dean-o.”

Upon hearing the stupid nickname you gave him, Dean knew that he spoke the right words. He brought you to hi chest in a quick hug. “Let’s go get you hitched.”

You let out a giggle and carefully wiped under your eyes. “Let’s go get me hitched.”

Both you and Dean climbed out of the Impala and hooked arms with each other.

You had asked Dean if he would be the one to walk you down the aisle since your own father had passed. Dean happily obliged, almost tearing up when you asked.

You took Sam’s hands. His were as clammy as yours were.

As the officiant began his speech you took a deep breath.

You are going to spend the rest of your life with Sam Winchester, apple pie life and all.

tags: want to be added or removed? send me an ask!

@evyiione

#Sam Winchester Birthday Celebration #Taylor's 3k Followers Challenge #happy 34th birthday sammy #sam winchester #sam wincehster x reader #sam winchesterxreader #sam x reader #samxreader #reader insert #sam winchester fluff #sam fluff #sam one shot #sam winchester one shot #no one like you #my writing

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racetrackthehiggins · 8 years

Text

Johnny and the Delinquents: A Murphamy Rock Band AU

warnings: brief unspecific references to child abuse, alcoholism that was mostly in the past, lots of swearing, men who suck at talking, my aggressive inability to write lyrics, and John Murphy singing a cover Can't Help Falling in Love BECAUSE FUCKING EVERYONE ELSE IS RIGHT NOW.

apologies: on how long this took, and also the sheer number of JTHM references in here. I spent the early 2000's writing JTHM fics and it turns out the name Johnny is FOREVER linked with that so there's that. Also I know nothing about music besides singing so I'm sure I got a lot of that wrong and also I apologize for the stage names...I thought it was funny

and last but not least, a note: I'm pretty sure this is gonna be my last work in the 100 fandom, at least at the moment. thank you all for sticking with me, and who knows, maybe I'll return to the 100 in the days to come!

below or on ao3

Murphy answered the phone, because it was Jaha. As much as he hated his new manager, he had also learned better than to blow him off. “Y’ello,” he said, because he knew how much it irritated Jaha.

He was exhausted and had earned his uninterrupted sleep. He and Emori had a show that went until two the night before and then they had gone out for drinks. The City of Light had been months in the making, but their fifth major gig had gone splendidly, and he blamed the combination of sleepy, hungover and deeply satisfied on why he completely missed what Jaha said.

“It would be a really good opportunity for you,” Jaha said. “Everyone else has agreed,” Jaha said. “The publicity would really help The City of Light, and you know how much I want to see you all become a success,” Jaha said.

Murphy could tell there was something Jaha wasn’t saying, but didn’t know what it was. Jaha could be infuriatingly cryptic. Everything had been better before he had done a summer at Burning Man and come back frustratingly zen. “Okay,” Murphy replied. “What is this great opportunity?”

Jaha’s long pause was telling enough and Murphy really wanted to hang up, but resisted because Emori would be irritable if she knew he was blowing off their manager. “A reunion of Johnny and the Delinquents. Don’t hang up.”

Murphy took his finger off of the end-call button reluctantly. “No. I’m not doing it.”

Jaha continued like Murphy didn’t say anything, which he always, always did. “Album and tour, a couple of photos of you all hugging, and you’re done.”

“I believe I already said no.” Murphy felt anger already bubbling up from within him like a volcano of rage, but so far he’d kept his voice quiet enough that Emori was still passed out and he hadn’t threatened anyone or even cursed.

His anger management counselor would have been so proud.

Jaha took another long pause to find his words. “You’re contractually obligated. They expect you in New York in a week.”

Murphy could feel his blood pressure rise. “Excuse me?” he said, and it all went downhill from there.

The second he hung up with Jaha he called Raven. “What the actually fuck is going on, Raven?”

“I dunno,” she said, and he could tell she had a wrench in her mouth because he had known her long enough to know what that sounded like. “Just the sound engineer.”

Murphy rolled his eyes. He might be across the country, but he was not in a different reality. “I know you know, so spit it out.”

“Apparently your split from The Delinquents wasn’t ever made official—now that Kane’s in charge of the label, he wants the publicity from a reunion tour. Plus technically you’ve been in breach of contract for five years.” She paused. He tried not to fidget. “But that’s just what I’ve heard. I’m only a lowly engineer.”

Murphy took a deep breath and counted to ten. There’s background noise on the phone, something that sounded like voices.

Raven came back sounding too chipper. “Octavia wants to know if you still have your combat boots or if she should order you another pair.”

He hung up. Emori was still passed out in bed. He didn’t want to wake her. He looked at the clock. It was 9:23 on a Saturday, so he left the room, still dressed in his gig clothes, which he realized he hadn’t taken off, in search of somewhere serving brunch. He’s pretty sure getting mimosa drunk at brunch was acceptable.

He stormed back into the hotel two hours later, and five mimosas tipsier.

Emori was sitting up in bed, repainting her nails, black on black, which he, drunkenly, thought must be a metaphor for something. She looked up at him expectantly.

He stared her down. “I am contractually obligated to do a reunion-thing. I don’t know how long it’ll last.”

Emori nodded. “Okay. When you are going?”

He sighed and slumped into the bed across from hers. “Friday. But I’d prefer never.”

She shrugged. “It’s almost the summer. You know I go every summer to teach some humility to those little rock camp shits. This summer wasn’t going to be any different.”

Murphy nodded. “I know, I just felt like we were finally getting somewhere, you know?”

She nodded again. She was very understanding when she wasn’t being destructive or angry. He liked that about her because he hated that about himself. “The City of Light could wait. Go finish out your contract, and if we’re still feeling it, we’ll keep going. And if not, we’ve had a good run.”

He wanted to hug her, but Emori hated hugs. “You’re the best guitarist I’ve ever worked with,” he said instead.

She laughed, and it was clearly at him. “Nonsense. You’ve worked with Bellamy Blake.”

And that right there was the problem.

He spent the rest of the week in a much nicer hotel that he bullied Jaha into paying for, and occupied his time looking through the lyrics he wrote for that last album that never happened and trying to get back into the headspace of Johnny.

It was harder than he expected. Johnny had been all about righteous anger. He was a violent character, vicious and hurting and eager to watch the world burn, and the music he had created had been the area of pop-rock that flirted with metal and punk. Murphy’s more recent work had been a solo album, that was embarrassingly depressed and almost entirely about heartbreak and acoustic, and his work with Emori, which was a neo-folk duo.

He didn’t want to be Johnny again. Johnny was an idiot, and Murphy liked to think he had learned something since then. He thought about seeing them all again, and it made his chest ache. Murphy probably hadn’t learned shit.

The week ended too quickly and then he was flying into JFK which was not his favorite, but at least wasn’t Newark, and wishing maybe a little more than he should that the plane would crash and his untimely death would cancel the contract for him.

“Who’s picking me up?” he texted Raven as he took the escalator down. It has taken forever to get off the plane and he was irritable and exhausted.

She texted back immediately, “why should i know im just the sound engineer,” followed second later by, “the blakes.”

Murphy looked up from his phone and saw Bellamy standing at the bottom of the escalator in his usual public disguise of a baseball hat and sunglasses.

“No,” he said, pushing past Bellamy and heading for the baggage carousel.

“John,” Bellamy said, and it almost sounded like he was pleading.

He managed to snag Murphy’s arm in his hand, but Murphy shrugged it off. “I’m taking a cab.”

Bellamy sighed. “We’re going to have to work together.”

Murphy sneered at him, but his heart was beating a mile a minute. “We’re not working right now, are we?” He turned around and stormed off to get his bag. Octavia was sitting on it, sipping something from a Starbucks cup.

“Do I at least get a hug?” she said, and he was so mad he wanted to say no, but he never had a problem with her.

She hugged him tightly, and she was still using the same shampoo that smelled like coconuts and he spent so much of his youth in the Blake’s basement so even the smell of her hair sort of felt like a home-coming, but then he remembered Bellamy and he wanted to cry.

“I saw your interview. About Skycrew. You guys sound good,” Murphy said, pulling away.

Octavia grinned at him, easily, like they hadn’t been out of touch for half a decade. “Thank you. We’re unfortunately on hold at the moment. Lincoln’s in rehab.”

Murphy managed a sympathetic smile. “Sorry to hear that.”

She shook her head. “No, it’s good. He’s getting help. Besides, I’ve been waiting for this reunion for ages.” She handed him another Starbucks cup that she must have had squirreled away somewhere. “I heard your new EP with Emori. It was really, really good Johnny.”

Murphy nearly choked on his hazelnut mocha (and was a little pleased to see that she had remembered his favorite drink). “No, no, no, no, no and no. Same rules apply as before, you use my stage name, I use yours, and I have no compunction calling you Babydoll in public.”

Octavia scowled. “Fine, Murphy. You win this round. Now, c’mon, if we hurry we’ll miss the worst part of rush hour.”

She grabbed his bag and started wheeling back in the direction of Bellamy, who he realized hadn’t followed them.

“Octavia, wait,” he said resolutely. “I should take a cab.” He was strong of body and mind, and his will could not be broken. Or something.

Octavia rolled her eyes, but the look was softened by the smile she offered him. “You should sit in the back with me and eat the cupcakes I got for you from Melissa’s.”

Murphy was the weakest of willed. “The mini cupcakes?”

Octavia laughed. “Come on!”

So he did. The car ride would have been awkward, in no small part because Bellamy kept shooting him these furtive looks in the rearview mirror, but Octavia was talkative and kept him from focusing too much on the back of Bellamy’s head.

“So what about Clarke?” Murphy asked, halfway to Manhattan.

“She and Lexa just finished a tour as Wanheda, so they were planning on a break anyway. She’ll be flying in tomorrow, and they asked if anyone would mind if Lexa hung around, and considering they’re the hottest couple of the season, we all said no problemo.” Octavia stole a cupcake from him, but he still had twenty left, so he chose not to complain.

Bellamy from the front said, “We would have asked you, too, but none of us had your number.”

Murphy very obviously turned to smile at Octavia. “It’ll be nice to see Clarke again in person. I caught Wanheda in Chicago, they’re very…” He tried to think a word that wouldn’t sound backhanded.

“They’re a lot,” Octavia said with a smile, and he smiled back. “Finn’s not coming back, but considering he didn’t do the last two albums with us, I’m not sure anyone will notice. Wells won’t be available for the tour, so he’s a no go. We’d love to get Mbege back, but he’s not responding to any of our calls since…”

Murphy nodded. “I’ll call him.” Mbege would come back for him. They’ve toured together twice since the split, and they were still as close as they’d ever been. He pulled out his phone and texted him, because calling was for losers.

Mbege texted back, “when and where?” so Murphy mentally patted himself on the back. He would be going into this experience with at least Mbege and Octavia on his side, maybe even Clarke. Things could have been a lot worse.

Things could not have been a lot worse.

“I’ll stay in a hotel,” he said to Octavia, because he was not making eye contact with Bellamy.

Octavia sighed. “We don’t know how long it’s going to take to record the album, there’s no need to throw away money on a hotel room when Bell has a perfectly good spare room.”

Murphy’s palms were getting sweaty. “What about your spare room?”

“Clarke and Lexa called it,” she said, and sounded so honestly apologetic that Murphy almost felt bad for how angry he was getting.

“I’ll get a really cheap hotel,” he bargained.

Bellamy spoke up for the first time during this exchange. “And you’ll have to also pay for transportation. I’m two blocks from the studio. We don’t have to talk if you don’t want, but you know the writing will go faster if we’re in the same place.”

Historically, Murphy wrote the lyrics, maybe half a melody, and Bellamy filled in the rest. Murphy didn’t give a fuck about history.

“Fine,” he spat, and he wasn’t yelling or swearing or punching anyone, so he figured he was doing okay. He dragged his bag into the spare room and slammed the door.

The bed was comfortable, and lying on it, he felt more out of place than he’d felt in years. He called Emori.

“How’re The Delinquents?” she asked without a greeting, because that’s who she was. He usually found it charming. Currently, he found it beyond irritating.

“I want to go home,” he said, because if she could speak in non-sequiturs, so could he.

“Give him a chance,” she said back.

He hung up and barely felt guilty. He spent so many nights of his youth in the guest room at Octavia and Bellamy’s house, desperate to get away from his mother and her shouting, and he had been so angry, Johnny had come naturally.

He was tired now. He was tired of the music and the attention and tired of acting and of Bellamy and of the person he felt himself becoming.

He fell asleep in his clothes and woke up to the sound of someone knocking quietly on his door. When he dragged himself out of bed there was no one there, but there was a tray with a cup of coffee and a real New York bagel.

It was nice, as far as peace offerings go, but nowhere near enough to make Murphy forgive him.

Bellamy was scarce all morning, and Octavia arrived at noon to take him to lunch. They got burgers and shakes and she sat across from him and waited for him to stop chewing.

“So do you know where this album is going?”

He chewed more slowly to give himself some time. While the band had always done edits, the actual meat of the stories had always been his. The first four albums were the evolution of Johnny, and everyone was waiting for the fifth, the last of the Johnny story, to end it somehow satisfactorily. He had been writing those songs right before the split. He had maybe half an album in notes. They were all concept albums, all a linked story. He wasn’t sure he hadn’t lost the concept.

“Maybe,” he said after a long pause, swallowing.

Octavia took a thoughtful sip of her milkshake. “The last album,” she reminded him, unnecessarily, like he hadn’t been listening to it non-stop, “ended with Johnny in his darkest place. Since the split happened so quickly after, a lot of the fans thought that it was sign. That Johnny died.”

Murphy nodded. He’d been skimming through forums for days. “I was thinking I could maybe go with that. Johnny in the afterlife. Johnny in heaven, Johnny in hell. Maybe being reborn.”

Octavia’s face turned thoughtful. “Huh. Not really dead, but changing into something different. I like it.”

“I don’t want to keep doing Johnny after this,” he blurted, and was embarrassed. He used to be so much more sarcastic, caustic, even. He missed that part of himself, maybe a little.

Octavia put her hand on his, which was more comforting than he wanted it to be. “I don’t want you to run away after this. There’s definitely room for you in Skycrew, or we could all start something new. Just don’t leave.”

Murphy absolutely was not crying in a Schnippers. “I can’t face Bellamy, O. I just can’t.”

“Think about it,” she said, and lead him out into Manhattan. She sent him away in an Uber; he couldn’t really blame her, plus he had work to do.

With Octavia’s support, the lyrics began to flow more readily. He sat on Bellamy’s inexcusably comfortable sofa and accessed his anger, which was easier than he would have liked. The comfortable couch only served as another reminder that Bellamy had built something successful—and comfortable—without him, while he had spent the past five years wallowing in his crappy one bedroom in fucking Wisconsin of all places.

By the time Octavia burst into Bellamy’s apartment with Clarke, Lexa, Raven and Jasper in tow, he had solid melodies and words for a few songs. Bellamy followed behind the group, looking around angrily, but Murphy ignored him, because he would much rather hug Clarke.

“Murphy!” she exclaimed, and gave him a very rewarding embrace. “So good to see you!”

“Clarke,” he said, because he was good at not being mushy. “I saw Wanheda in Chicago. You were great.”

Lexa smiled at him, and he shook her hand firmly once Clarke had released him. “We appreciate it, thank you.” Lexa was strikingly beautiful in a could-easily-kill-you kind of way, which tended to be the sort of women Clarke went for.

Raven slung an arm over his shoulder and gave him the most heartfelt side hug he’d ever experienced, which was nice, but unnecessary, because the two of them had kept in contact.

He and Jasper fist bumped. They had never been close—Jasper wasn’t even really part of the band—but they had hung out enough that a greeting was expected.

“Anyone want a beer?” Octavia called as she skipped into the kitchen, returning with an armful of bottles and corn chips, placing them all on the low table in the living room and ushering them onto the couch. She turned to Murphy and said, “I called Mbege, he can’t come tonight, but we have the studio tomorrow to start a rehearsal-slash-jam-sesh tomorrow assuming you write at the speed you usually do. That okay?”

Murphy nodded and threw his notebook to Bellamy, who was sitting in a separate chair as close to Murphy as he could get while not being on the same couch, and who promptly fumbled it.

“Nice one, Bell!” Jasper called, extended his bottle for a toast. Murphy reluctantly clinked with him.

“Shut your face, Jasper,” Bellamy replied, settling the notebook on his lap and flipping through it.

Bellamy had seen his writing since the age of seven, so the rush of anxiety that made his chest ache was completely uncalled for. Bellamy had read his first ever poem, which had gone, “I like my friends/I like the sun/I miss them both/When the day’s done,” and it didn’t get much worse than that. He sat still to keep from hyperventilating.

Bellamy scanned the lyrics and scraps of music he’d written around it and looked skeptical. “We’re doing Johnny as Jesus?”

Murphy’s face flushed hot with anger and embarrassment. “No, Johnny’s not that forgiving,” and turned away from him to face Clarke, who had her concern hidden badly under her curiosity and immediately engaged him in the backstory for the new album.

“I’m thinking more Dante than Jesus, yeah?” she asked him, and his breathing came more easily.

He’d always sort of loved Clarke. She was so unattainable in high school, popular and beautiful and honor roll smart, until one day she had walked up to him and said, “Bellamy said you’re starting a band, and I want to join, if that’s okay. My name’s Clarke Griffin,” and had shaken his hand so professionally. She was like a sister, but better because she didn’t have the baggage of growing up with him to affect her love for him.

“I like it,” Clarke declared after nearly an hour of intense plotting, and turned to Bellamy. “What would you change?”

“Oh,” Bellamy said. He looked like a deer in the headlights, like he thought he wouldn’t at some point have to weigh in on the situation. “I guess it’s pretty good.” He held up a page covered in Murphy’s scribbles. “How do you feel about this one in a minor key? Maybe acoustic?”

Octavia scoffed at him. “We don’t do acoustic.”

Clarke frowned. “Why not? Everyone’s expecting us to have grown as artists. They want the music to be familiar, but innovative. Bellamy’s not suggesting doing an acoustic album, just a song. I think it could be the kind of twist that people will like.”

Murphy nodded because words were too hard. He wanted nothing more than to leave. He looked up and met Bellamy’s eyes and it was like he’s twelve again, or fifteen, or eighteen, or twenty, because now he was almost twenty-five and the only thing that had changed was that his dream had gone from fantasy to impossibility.

He looked away. “I’m gonna turn in, if that’s okay.”

The others tried to stop him, and he could hear them, but he didn’t listen. He closed the door softly, resisting the urge to slide down it and cry like he wanted to. He lay in bed and looked at the ceiling. He missed it the night before, but there were stick-on stars, like there used to be in his guest room in the Blake house. He stared at the stars and felt homesick for a place that was never his home.

He didn’t remember falling asleep, but woke up several hours later when there was a tentative knock on his door. The clock by his bed said it was 4:30 am. It had to be Bellamy, it couldn’t be anyone else. Murphy wanted to scream.

Instead, he counted to ten. His therapist would have been so proud.

Bellamy was standing there when he opened the door, eyes cast downward. “Could we talk?”

“I wasn’t aware we had anything to talk about.” Murphy’s hands were clenched into fists. “So if that’s all—”

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” Bellamy said desperately. He’s backlit, barely, by a light in the kitchen, but Murphy could see the bags under his eyes, the deep sadness in his face that never used to be there. Serves him right, Murphy thought, and tried to feel vindictive but he couldn’t muster it. “You were my best friend and I didn’t…”

It’s the “were” that made Murphy regret agreeing to come. He should have tried to weasel his way out of the contract. He should have gotten a hotel room. He should have—

“I’ve regretted losing you every single day.”

“You ran! You left! I left you 80 voicemails, trying to fix this, trying to make sure you were okay and somehow, I’m the bad guy! You didn’t lose me, because you never had me, and as soon as I’ve completed my contract, I’m gone and you will never see me again.” Murphy hands were shaking and his chest felt tight and his face was burning and he was so angry he might start crying and he hated that.

“John.” Bellamy sounded choked up, hurt almost, and it hurt Murphy more than he thought it would.

“Get the fuck out of my room.” He looked at Bellamy, whose face echoed the exhaustion and pain he felt. He sighed, and offered, “please.”

Bellamy retreated slowly with a look that said he’d really rather stay. But that was okay. Murphy had gotten used to not getting what he wanted, Bellamy Blake could afford a taste, too.

The next day went better, thankfully. The label had rented out a studio around the clock for three weeks, like they were the Beatles or something. After their first couple of albums, Murphy thought they would have killed for studio time like this. Currently, three weeks felt like centuries.

Despite how much he would have given to avoid the situation altogether, he and Bellamy worked like they’d been practicing for the past five years instead of avoiding each other like the plague.

Performing together again would be like riding a bike, Murphy thought, showing up last despite the fact that he and Bellamy lived closest to the studio; it would hurt like hell when he fell, but he’d have to just keep trying, anyway.

Everyone was tuning when Bellamy called him over to the upright piano he had set on the left side of the studio. He threw his shoulder bag on the floor and didn’t bother greeting his bandmates; hardly a minute had gone by that he hadn’t seen them and so the need for greetings had quickly evaporated. He sat down next to Bellamy without being asked, and Bellamy tried not to smile at him.

Bellamy’s stupid half-smile made a full body tingle rush through him, and he was resentful of his stupid body’s stupid feelings.

“I still can’t read your chicken-scratch,” he said, and pointed to a corner of the page where Murphy wrote what might have been lyrics, but also could have been a chord progression. Or a phone number.

“Lyrics,” Murphy clarified. “The rhyme is off though, and I can’t seem to fix it.”

“Hmm,” Bellamy said, looking over the page thoughtfully. He always used to help Murphy; it’s nothing new, but it makes Murphy’s head ache. “What if we,” he started, and Murphy got caught up in the “we” for so long he didn’t realize how animated they’d gotten until Octavia started laughing.

The candid picture that Clarke took of the two of them sharing a piano bench, huddled round a notebook like they were still the best of friends, became the bane of Murphy’s existence. She uploaded it to twitter with caption, “guess what’s coming?”

Not an hour later, someone unearthed a picture of them doing the same thing years before, with Murphy perched on Bellamy’s lap, and put the pictures side by side. Murphy wasn’t sure if praying for death would actually be appropriate.

“It’s not so bad,” Octavia said, scrolling through her favorite Delinquents tumblrs during their lunch break. “Ooh, this fanart’s pretty accurate, even though I’m not sure either of you gets off on choking.” The long considering look she gave him made him regret all parts of their friendship. “Do you think you’d be more of a bottom or a top with my brother?”

He thought about Bellamy, his long, strong, fast as fuck fingers which earned him his stage name, Twitch.

That thought had brought up a whole slew of feelings that Murphy had actually thought he had buried, as a semi-adult well into his twenties should have. Bellamy’s dexterity had been most of his fantasy life during his teen years, considering he didn’t have a reliable internet connection and who needed porn when he had a best friend like Bellamy?

Despite being a plain fact of his youth—the sky was blue, the grass was green, the thought of Bellamy’s fingers gave him a woody—it was also something he hadn’t actively thought about. His first few post-Delinquents years had been spent getting drunken blowjobs behind various concert venues, and the past few had been spent sharing hotel rooms with Emori who gave him judge-y looks when he had hookups, but judged him more when he masturbated in their room, assuming, wrongly, that she was asleep.

So it wasn’t as though he never thought of Bellamy, or his long slim fingers, or the afternoons spent in his basement watching Futurama and eating cheetohs, and being so far gone on him that the his fingers were even sexy covered in cheetoh dust, but instead that he hadn’t gripped his dick and actively imagined Bellamy’s long quick fingers there instead.

He had been in a funk for the rest of day. Half a song had been written and recorded, but not nearly enough if they were planning to finish in three weeks.

And now he just felt guilty. He stared at the door separating him from Bellamy and Bellamy’s loud 11:30pm moping. It wasn’t like Bellamy would come in without knocking, or like Bellamy could possibly know what he was up to. Fuck it, he decided. Fuck you, he then clarified to himself.

Murphy threw himself onto the bed and unzipped his pants. He closed his eyes and he could almost imagine Bellamy leaning over him, unzipping his pants instead, staring at him longingly, which wasn’t really a hard expression to conjure. He’d wrap his palm around the head of Murphy’s cock and—

The teakettle whistled shrilly.

Murphy groaned in frustration, hand falling apathetically onto his stomach and dick still bobbing obliviously. This was a mistake. He sighed again. He couldn’t keep that image of Bellamy in his mind, anyway. Instead it was replaced with the look of sheer panic that Bellamy had worn right before the split, his elegant fingers clenched into tight white fists, and he felt nauseous. His cock softened obligingly, and with one last look at the door he decided he would just go to sleep.

The fact the he could hear Bellamy in the kitchen humming the first ballad they had ever written together didn’t help at all.

When TwitchxJohnny was trending the next day, Murphy was reluctantly glad that at least they were sticking to their stage names, and couldn’t help but think that in a karmic way, he had brought this on himself.

They meshed much the same way they always did. Clarke had only become a stronger guitarist, Bellamy one-upping her and tooling away on the piano if the song called for it, Octavia doing her thing on bass and Mbege kicking ass on the drums.

Murphy, as usual, felt a little like the Davy Jones of their group, casually waiting for someone to hand him a tambourine or maracas. Despite his feelings, he had grown as a writer, and it was obvious that the group felt the same, deferring to him instead of Bellamy, which was both incredibly reassuring and deeply saddening.

By the third day, they’re on to their fifth track. Murphy missed this, even when he and Emori had finally hit their stride, there was always something between them that made their rehearsal times seem to drag.

The Delinquents’ music was buoyant, vibrant and adrenaline fast, and Murphy missed the quiet swell of The City of Light a little bit more than he thought he would, but this music was like being on a rollercoaster and he’s surprised at how much he missed the thrill.

Mbege got it. He had ended up in several indie bands, but was clearly thriving banging away with The Delinquents. The fact that he spent all his spare time glaring at Bellamy didn’t hurt either. He took Murphy out and around the town after that first week, supposedly to re-introduce him to New York, but really so Murphy didn’t have to be in that tiny apartment with Bellamy.

Mbege was really too good for Murphy.

“I’m so sorry, J2, you know I’d let you crash if I had any room,” he told Murphy several times when they were drunk off their asses and Murphy’s anger had turned to sadness.

“Don’t worry about it, J1, you’re still my fave.” And it’s true. Mbege’s friendship mostly relied on Murphy spending time with him when he had it. They wouldn’t talk for months, and then when did, it was like nothing changed.

Getting to work with him again was in many ways the balm to living with Bellamy. They avoided each other at the apartment, worked in each other’s pockets at the studio, and then tried to spend the evenings as far apart as they geographically could while staying in the same city and apartment.

“Do you think you two will ever get over it?” Mbege asked him, dropping another beer in front of Murphy. No seemed like too simple an answer.

It got harder during the second week. Murphy’s voice was embarrassingly unused to the amount of screaming and abuse he used to regularly subject it to. He left the studio every day with his voice shot, coughing, and after almost a week of this, Bellamy burst into his room one night holding a cup of Murphy’s favorite chai blend with a large quantity of honey.

“Thank you,” Murphy whispered and waited for Bellamy to leave. He didn’t. “You could sit,” he said after a long moment, because he knew Bellamy would just hover awkwardly indefinitely if he didn’t offer.

“Thanks.” Bellamy sat at the edge of the bed and stared out Murphy’s window. “This is kinda like—”

“—Midnight snack sesh,” Murphy said, because he was thinking it, too.

Bellamy smiled wistfully and it made Murphy’s chest ache. He was seriously considering going to see a cardiologist. “Remember? Every night after recording, we’d go out for a snack.”

“We were so fucking young then.” It had mostly been fast food, eaten quickly in Bellamy’s third hand Ford before they passed out from sheer exhaustion. He can’t remember a single one of those nights individually, but the summation of them was like a warm weight in his chest, a burning orange glow. “Clarke thought we were going to get fat.” Murphy smiled reluctantly.

There was a moment when their eyes met, and Murphy was unsure how he ever gave this up. How he didn’t fight harder. How could he have not fought harder?

Bellamy broke eye contact first. “Worse things have happened,” he said as he stood. He hesitated at the door, back to Murphy. “Good night, Murphy.”

“Goodnight, Bell.”

He drank the rest of his tea by himself and set the cup down, like an adult should do, instead of smashing it, like he wanted to.

Bellamy came back the next night, and the next, and it was almost okay. They didn’t always speak, but there was something between them, closer to what Murphy remembered.

It was the second to last day when Bellamy called a band meeting in the middle of recording. They had seventeen tracks which was excellent because there were always a few that were better in their heads than in their ears. Octavia shot him a warning look and crossed her arms over her chest, so Murphy knew this was something that the Blakes have discussed at least.

Which could be either really good or terrifically bad.

“I don’t like the way we’re ending the album,” Bellamy said, and made sure he met all of their gazes.

Mbege rolled his eyes. “Jesus, Bell, and you wait until now to say anything?”

Clarke shook her head, determined, as always to be the most levelheaded. “Let’s hear him out.” She reached very subtly and squeezed Murphy’s hand, which he appreciated, because he hated this.

Bellamy took a deep breath and tried to gather his words.

“Any fucking day now?” Murphy muttered and tried to avoid Bellamy’s gaze at all costs.

“The last song is still too angry.”

Murphy scoffed. “Yeah. Johnny’s angry. Johnny’s always been angry. That’s sort of his defining characteristic.”

Bellamy scowled, turning his whole attention on Murphy. “Yeah, but we all agreed, years ago to a five album sequence. Do you think it should end on an angry note? You and Octavia keep talking about growing and changing, and the entire album feels like a growth until the end.”

Murphy wanted to bite back, wanted Bellamy to look away and never look back. “End on a familiar note, is there a problem with that?”

He could see Clarke making panicked eyes at Octavia, but neither one cut in. “Don’t you think Johnny deserves more than that? Don’t we all? It’s our story, too.” Bellamy had always been a master of mixed signals, but the anger and, Murphy thought, hope in his face was beyond confusing and Murphy couldn’t believe it actually took him this long to realize they’re having two different conversations.

“How would you end it?” he asked, and pretended like he didn’t sound hoarse.

Bellamy’s eyes were boring into him. “I don’t know. Contentment doesn’t suit him maybe, but, I dunno, I…”

Octavia spoke up, but didn’t look any happier. “Optimism.”

Clarke nodded slowly. “Might be nice.”

He was furious. He didn’t get to have optimism, so why should Johnny? He wanted to yell and scream and throw stuff, because Bellamy didn’t seem to have a problem throwing this back in his face. “Fine, I’ll see what I can fucking do,” Murphy said, because he was a professional, before storming off and bunkering down in a conference room.

He was a good writer, had become so with sweat and effort. An anthem, he thought, because if he couldn’t be angry he’d be emblematic. It still was angry, when he finished an hour later. It was angry and it was an anthem and it was hopeful, and he felt 1/3 of those things, but maybe he’d earned some hope.

He brought it back to the room, and tried to ignore how broadly Bellamy smiled when he saw the words.

And then the album was done. It felt like they had just started, but then he and Bellamy were ushered into a meeting with Marcus Kane, who Murphy only hated slightly less than Jaha.

Kane smiled and gestured for them to take the two seats in front of him. Maya stood off to one side, and Murphy had only met her once, but he liked her. She was way nicer than Jasper deserved, but he couldn’t help but feel that her presence at this meeting was a bad omen.

It might have been her very uncomfortable smile.

“Gentlemen!” Kane greeted exuberantly, and looked at them both expectantly.

Bellamy nodded a weak a hello and Murphy managed an, “Uh, hi,” by utilizing all of his personhood skills.

Kane was still smiling, but his smiles didn’t reach his eyes as a rule and Murphy wasn’t convinced he wasn’t a robot or a pod person. “I heard the album, and it’s great, just great. I wanted to talk to you both about the tour. We’re pushing the timeline a little, so the album’s going to be in stores in five weeks, and then the tour will start one week after that, which gives you six weeks to get prepared, figure out choreo and costumes and whatever else.” He gestured to Maya and she gave a tentative wave. “Maya will be on the tour to do hair and makeup.”

He turned his full attention on Murphy. “The dreads were very popular, would you consider—”

“Nooooo,” Murphy interrupted. “No, the days of white-boy dreads are long gone.” Bellamy laughed, and Murphy pointedly didn’t look at him and pretended like he wasn’t blushing.

Kane frown said he was going to insist, but Maya, who he had clearly underestimated, came to the rescue. “What if did pulled back twists? Like in the promo pictures for the second album?” she asked and he nodded quickly. Anything was better than the dreads.

Kane nodded, smiling tightly. “Alright, twists it is. Maya, could you give us a moment please.” Maya left quietly and Kane gave them the exceedingly tight smile again.

It could only be a bad sign.

“I know this is…uncomfortable to talk about, but part of the appeal of Johnny and the Delinquents has always been the chemistry between the two of you. I don’t know the details of what happened, and I don’t want to. I don’t care what happens in your personal life, but on the stage, I need you two to behave how you always have.”

Bellamy choked, then croaked out a weak, “yessir,” and Murphy contemplated shoving a paperweight down Kane’s throat.

“Yeah, fine,” he said finally. “What-the-fuck-ever.”

Kane nodded decisively. “Excellent. Glad we’re all clear on that. Now then, John.” Murphy bristled. “I need you to have a more active online presence. Soon as you can. Periscope would help, twitter, the works. We’ll also be getting you on some late night programs, so play nice.”

He promised he would try but he meant it about as much as Kane meant his whole, let-me-be-your-father routine.

As soon as the CD’s were pressed they released a single, and then Johnny and the Delinquents job was hyping the hell out of it.

Kane got him on a late night show starring a white man in a suit, which was better than Murphy was expecting. He didn’t think his name carried any sway anymore. He sat on the comfortable chair in his Johnny clothes and smirked at the host and the audience and all the folks who had tuned in to see him flash his canines.

“So I’m sure you get asked this all the time,” the host asked him. “But what happened? Five years ago, Johnny and the Delinquents were truly on top, and then suddenly, nothing. Nothing for five years. So what happened?”

Murphy thought about what he could say, what Kane would want him to say. He finally settled on, “I decided y’all could use a little anticipation, so I took a long drunken sabbatical.”

He laughed. “And based on your pre-sales, you were not wrong. Where It’s Going, out this week!”

After Kane explained how very disappointed he was in Murphy, they both agreed he should try and stick to social media. Periscope, he stressed again.

Periscope helped with nothing. He used it, though, streamed rehearsals and coffee breaks. He wandered through the chaos of set-up for their first concert with his phone out and ready.

“This is Raven,” he whispered, showing the internet Raven as she yelled at a stubborn microphone cable. “She’s the best.” He walked a little further, stumbling upon Jasper, Monty and Miller. “This is Jasper, I guess he does lights, I dunno, say hi Jasper.”

Jasper smiled into the phone and said, “Hi, Jasper,” because Jasper was the worst.

Murphy tilted the phone away from him. “This is Monty and Miller. Monty does something…and Miller sleeps with him? I’m unclear.”

He was already walking away but in the corner of his screen Monty yelled, exasperated, “Craft services! We fucking feed you!” and Murphy couldn’t help but laugh.

He harassed Maya as she braided Octavia’s hair, and they were laughing so hard Murphy was barely holding up the phone when Bellamy appeared, right in front of him and said, “Hey, could we talk?” like they haven’t been living in the same tiny apartment for months and now was the perfect time to speak.

The broadcast cut off so suddenly that twitter was filled with gossip. Clips of the last three seconds of that video were looped all over twitter and tumblr and vine and Murphy couldn’t escape from his own awkward fumbling on his iphone and the pained expression on Bellamy’s face.

“What?” Murphy asked, gripping his phone in his shaking hands.

Bellamy glanced from Maya to Octavia to Murphy and grimaced. “Privately?”

Octavia scowled at Bellamy, glaring. “We’re not listening, are we, Maya?”

Maya smiled serenely at Octavia. “We are not, Octavia.”

“So please,” Octavia continued savagely. “Feel free to speak openly here.”

Murphy thought he could be in love with her in that moment (if, in reality, he wasn’t so horribly gone on her brother). “Well?” he said, and Bellamy frowned.

“I just wanted to—I wanted to talk to you before we—look, can we do this in private? Please?” Bellamy’s jaw was clenched tight and Murphy almost felt bad but he also felt vicious and self-righteous and living in Johnny’s pocket had made his anger so much easier to access.

“This is private,” Octavia insisted, still glaring.

“Very private,” Maya agreed, sealing one of Octavia’s braids with a load of hairspray.

Bellamy’s face fell, realizing he was losing and preparing to wallow. Murphy sighed. “I don’t have anything else to say, Bell. I don’t.”

Bellamy nodded slowly and backed up, turning around and running off with his symbolic tail between his very nicely muscled legs.

Octavia cackled, and Maya chuckled along and Murphy felt like he was maybe drowning.

He didn’t want to talk to Bellamy. Not at all. He didn’t think there was anything that hadn’t been said, and the tentative truce that they had formed couldn’t hold under the weight of real friendship. He wasn’t ready for that again.

Besides, he figured, storming off into his dressing room. He had a show to prepare for, figurative pounds of eyeliner to apply to his face, and twenty minutes of vocal warm ups.

The next day, sitting in Kane’s office, he wished he had maybe tried to talk to Bellamy a little bit harder than not.

Kane’s Disappointed Dad face was out in full form, and Bellamy was staring fixedly at his knees. Murphy couldn’t take his eyes off the computer on Kane’s desk, where a video of their last concert was playing. He had been aware, at the time, that he didn’t want to look at or dance on Bellamy, but he hadn’t thought that it had shown.

Watching the video, the tension between them was palpable. They barely made eye contact, and Murphy had kept far away from Bellamy’s part of the stage. It was painful to watch, like two strangers instead of people who had been best friends.

Kane cleared his throat and waited for them to look at him. “This, as I am sure you know, is unacceptable. I don’t care how you two feel about each other, really, I don’t. You have a job to do.”

Bellamy sucked his teeth and Kane glared at him. “Maybe—just throwing out some ideas here—maybe fake gay undertones shouldn’t be part of our job?”

And why did that make Murphy’s heart ache? There was almost nothing between them now, but hearing Bellamy be so cavalier about his feelings, the ones he had had since middle school, made Murphy want to drink. Heavily.

Kane scowled and folded his hands neatly on the desk. He stared at Bellamy for a long time before turning to Murphy and studying him as well. “I don’t know what went down five years ago. I don’t care. I do know that your fans are showing up for you, in droves, to try and capture the magic you had before. And you’re disappointing them. Your fans want the childhood friends who decided to start a band together, not the jaded folk artist and playboy rock star. Get your shit together, get your act together, and for fuck’s sake, try and remember that your fans are paying good money and all you have to do is remember what you liked about each other.”

Murphy glanced at Bellamy, who was staring at him, and so their eyes met, and Murphy couldn’t look away.

“Good,” Kane said. “Glad we’re agreed.” He excused them together and they walked silently out of the room.

“We should probably talk,” Murphy suggested once they hit the hall. It was surprisingly deserted.

Bellamy looked at him in surprise before fishing his phone out of his pocket. “Later? I gotta meet O in Brooklyn in 20 minutes. Wish me luck?”

They were currently in the Upper East Side. Murphy grinned. “There’s not enough luck in the world.”

Bellamy’s face shifted into a confused smile and he started backing up towards the elevator, eyes fixed on Murphy. “Later, yeah?”

Murphy nodded. “Yeah.” Later, they would talk, and they would work some of this shit out.

Clarke found him first. “Listen,” she said to him, grabbing his upper arm and herding him into a break room. Murphy glanced around anxiously, but Clarke had always been good at sensing what rooms were empty. “We’ve tried to be supportive without being overbearing, we’ve kept our distance, and we haven’t asked any questions, but this is getting out of hand, John. What happened with you and Bellamy?”

She led him to chair and looked at him expectantly until he sat down. She kept standing, and moved off to make him a cup of tea.

It occurred to him that Octavia was probably grilling Bellamy in Brooklyn, probably with less tact and more public yelling and he had never been more grateful for Clarke’s friendship in his life. That could have been him. “We fought, I quit, end of story.”

She walked over to him with a mug full of tea and honey and stood in front of him in full disapproving glory. She handed him the cup and crossed her arms, every inch the intimidating front woman she had grown into in Wanheda. “I don’t know what I did to make you think I was an idiot, but I’d appreciate it if you at least came up with a better story.”

“Clarke,” he started, sighing, but she interrupted him.

“Murphy, five years ago my family was ripped apart and no one will tell me why. Do you think this was easy on me? On Octavia? Do you think we liked having no idea what was happening with you, if you were okay? With Bellamy moping and crying and drinking and sleeping his way through everyone who looked his way?” She wiped an angry tear out of her eye and glared. “I’ve been accommodating and I’ve been kind but I am exhausted and sad and I need to know if this is something that can be fixed or if I’ve lost my family for good.”

Murphy was embarrassed his find his eyes were teary, too. “Yeah,” he said. “Okay.” And he told her. “It was the after the last show we did for Goblins, the one in LA? Bellamy came up to me after the show.”

They had been sweaty, still covered in stage makeup and hours worth of musical grime, tired and delirious and bright and happy. Raven was packing up the van (or rather gleefully directing her underlings to) and Murphy was in the green room chugging plastic water bottles and trying to decide if he had it in him to go outside and greet the roadies or if he would just retreat to his hotel room and wait for morning.

Bellamy stuck his head in the door. When his eyes fell on Murphy he smiled lazily, and Murphy felt a flood of warmth like the stage lights hitting him all over again. “Hey, Murphy.”

He would have blushed if his face hadn’t already been red from exertion. “Hey, yourself.”

Bellamy had invited himself in, then, like he always did. They had been sharing a space for so long that they frequently forgot about personal space. He smiled, and then Murphy’s phone buzzed. He frowned instead. “Who is that?”

Murphy looked at his phone and then blushed even harder. “That guy. From the show in Philly?” Bellamy’s face still clearly asked for clarification so Murphy made with the clarifying. “We’ve been talking a lot. He’s in town. Wants to see me, I think.”

Bellamy was still frowning. “Are you going to see him?”

Murphy sighed, standing up and stretching. “I guess so.” He smiled at Bellamy, but it was a weak smile. “Can’t keep chasing my dreams forever.”

Bellamy scoffed and gesturing grandly around the green room. “That’s literally all we do.”

“Yeah but—” Murphy sighed again, tried to align his brain with his mouth. “It’s different now, isn’t it?” It was different. Wells was gone, Finn was leaving. Raven had gotten into MIT and Clarke was talking about college, plus Monty and Octavia were talking about settling down with their respective boyfriends, like they weren’t too young for that shit and Murphy—Murphy was chasing after Bellamy’s shadow, just like he had done his whole life.

When he looked up, Bellamy was close to him, so close to him Murphy could hear his breaths, could practically taste his sweat. “It doesn’t have to be different,” he said vehemently. “We can stay the same.”

Murphy shook his head. “I can’t stay the same. I need to stop chasing.” He smiled, melancholic. “Don’t I deserve some happiness, too?”

“Yeah.” Bellamy was so close he could feel the whisper of his words and then Bellamy was kissing him and Murphy was so caught up in the sensations he could barely process what was happening until Bellamy pulled away.

“Bell,” he said, and tried to close the distance between them, but Bellamy shoved him backwards and he hit the makeup table—not hard enough to hurt, but enough so that his things went flying.

“I’m sorry,” Bellamy said, and then he was out the door.

By the time Murphy was up and into the hall, Bellamy had disappeared into the throng.

When Murphy got to the hotel, Bellamy’s stuff was gone, and no one—not even Octavia, who would have absolutely lied for him but had no poker face whatsoever—knew where he was.

So he texted him. And he called him. Left message after message and email upon email and finally after five days he got a call from their manager politely demanding that they fix their shit, or Murphy, the volatile lead singer, was going to get the axe.

And Murphy was angry, the deep, hot, seething sort of anger that he had only felt before for his mother, that he channeled on the stage but never really let himself soak in anymore because he had been so depressed in middle school and high school and he had excised that anger through music and friendship and now he was adrift, and the figure that he had chased after for so many years was nowhere to be seen.

He thought, what would I have said in high school? And so, calmly, politely, he phoned up their manager and said, “fuck you, I quit.”

And then, he told Clarke, sitting in the recording studio, in the breakroom, “I drank for a week, and I thought about moving to Australia, and then I put out an album of me crying for seventy minutes. And now here we are.”

Clarke reached out and gripped his hand tightly in hers. “I love you, you know that?”

He was teary eyed again, and his voice was shaky with it. “Yeah, I do.”

Clarke nodded decisively. “And Bellamy is an idiot. But he loves you, too.”

“Clarke—“

She shook her head. “No. I know he fucked up and he hurt you, I get that. I do. But he loves you and he’s been trying.”

Murphy could feel himself getting angry but he swallowed it. His first thought was, fuck Bellamy. Fuck Bellamy and fuck the fact that he got to have Murphy’s family and Murphy’s job and Murphy’s life while Murphy had to settle with trying-hard-and-not-quite-making-it. “And I haven’t been.”

Clarke smiled at him. “You’ve been trying. A little. But he’s been trying a lot. Meet him half way?”

Murphy nodded, and stood up, figuring Clarke was done with him. She squeezed his hand and stood gingerly. “Good,” she said. “Now let’s go find Lexa, she has a proposition for you—before you have that interview to get to.”

He couldn’t remember anything about an interview but he hadn’t really been paying attention, had he? He hadn’t been trying. They found Lexa in the lobby, scaring off paparazzi with a glare. She smiled at them as they approached, which was much more friendly than he expected from her. She absolutely terrified him and he really liked that about her.

She laid out her proposition and Murphy immediately accepted, before being ushered into a company car by Clarke, presumably taking him to the aforementioned interview.

He texted Raven on the way. “Where exactly am I going?” he asked her.

“not ur calendar & am in fact doing important sound stuff,” she replied, followed almost immediately by, “casual fan interview, should mostly be a puff piece, but wat do i no im just the sound engineer.”

He got out of the car in a small cupcake café on the lower east side, which he wasn’t expecting, but considering Murphy remembered literally nothing about the interview, he supposed that wasn’t shocking. He walked in and looked around anxiously at the pastel covered café, glad he was in his civvies instead of his Johnny regalia.

“Mr. Murphy?” He turned and was face to face with a girl who was definitely younger than him, wearing a very professional outfit that did nothing to age her up. The French braids didn’t help, either. “Hi, I’m here to interview you! My name’s Charlotte. I’m a music blogger. I started SoundSiren?”

“Hi,” he replied, and reached out to shake her hand. It then occurred to him that he had heard of her blog before. “Oh! Hi, yeah I know you. Can I ask a stupid question before you start recording stuff?”

She laughed, a real sounding and very charming laugh. “Of course!”

“Why are we in a cupcake den?” He had been avoiding looking at the glass case because Murphy was weak and the cupcakes smelled like exactly what he deserved after the past few hellish days.

Charlotte grinned mischievously. “I heard they were your drug of choice.”

He smiled back but was instantly filled with guilt. He was pretty sure his drugs of choice were, in order of most destructive to least, Bellamy Blake, tequila, Bellamy’s twitter account, vodka, Bellamy’s old anonymous livejournal account, rum, and then cupcakes.

“You heard right,” he said, and let her lead him to a table, already covered in cupcakes.

“I wasn’t sure which kind you like,” she said apologetically, gesturing to the smorgasbord of cupcakes.

He laughed, and felt more prepared for this interview than he’d felt for anything in months. “Oh, you are definitely on my good side.”

She smiled and slid into her seat, Murphy following. She pulled out her phone. “Do you mind if I…?”

He hated having audio recordings of himself wandering through the internet, but despite himself he trusted her. Murphy nodded and bit into a red velvet cupcake. The girl had good taste.

“So,” she asked picking a caramel cupcake, “how does it feel to be back in New York?”

“Like a kick in the balls,” he said, and she laughed.

“Just like old times, then? Speaking of, how’s the band meshing after years apart?”

Murphy paused, chewing. She scribbled something onto her phone with a stylus. He hoped it said something like, “he chewed contemplatively,” instead of “he stared stupidly into the distance and messily devoured a cupcake.” He had seen her blog before and she could be ruthless when she wanted to.

“We’re coming together,” he said finally. “There were some road-bumps, but we’re family, you know? Even when we hate each other, we still love each other. And I think that comes across in the new album.”

Charlotte’s face turned a little guilty even as she said, innocently, “was last night’s concert one of those bumps in the road?”

Murphy choked on a piece of cupcake. “Yeah,” he wheezed and tried to remember how to swallow like an adult. “Definitely. But we’re working on it, and it’s only going to get better.”

“Good,” Charlotte said, and beamed. “I saw the show last night and it was…”

“A work in progress?” Murphy offered.

Charlotte laughed. “That’s a good word for it. Do you mind if I ask—what went wrong?”

Murphy paused and used the opportunity to cut into another cupcake. “I think there were some miscommunications. Some bad blood that we needed to excise.”

“Metaphorical or literally?”

He thought about how badly he had wanted to punch Bellamy’s face in the night before. “Metaphorical blood letting,” he clarified, “literal talking.”

Charlotte laughed again, and very kindly changed the subject. “So I asked my readers what they were most interested in me finding out, and surprise surprise, they want to know who is the inspiration for “Brainfreeze” and “Kill the Moment”?”

Murphy polished off the cupcake and moved onto a chocolate one covered in glitter. “Who says they’re about anyone? Let alone the same person?”

Charlotte pounced. “Well, general fan theory is that before your character, Johnny, died at the end of Goblins, he was developing feelings for someone. The imagery in “Brainfreeze” and “Kill the Moment” are very similar; wanting to stay in the moment that’s occurring right now, but wanting to see what happens next. All this rising to the high note of “Finger Guns,” before the album ends abruptly, presumably in Johnny’s death.” At his incredulous look, Charlotte blushed. “I’ve been a fan since I was in middle school,” she admitted.

Murphy laughed and wiped the chocolate off his mouth. She made another scribble on her screen. “There was someone in Johnny’s life—we intended to give him an accomplice. But his life didn’t turn out that way.”

“And your life?”

Murphy could feel the self-deprecating smile unfurl across his face. “My life didn’t turn out that way either.”

Charlotte gave him a very sympathetic look before visibly changing gears. “I was very excited to hear a studio version of “ ’07,” which has gotten consistent concert play, but has never been recorded until now. What made you decide to change that?”

Murphy sighed. He loved almost every song he had ever written—and he loved ’07. That said, if no one asked him about it for the rest of his life he would die happy. “People have been asking for you it, you know? I wrote it for our first album, We Who Are About to Die, but it was cut for space reasons, and so we could end on “Salute,” which clinched the reference, you know?”

Charlotte nodded avidly.

Encouraged, he continued, “So we’ve been trying to squeeze it onto somewhere, and Octavia—er, Babydoll suggested it be the bonus track, and we all agreed.”

Charlotte nodded. “Well, it sounds great! Definitely well worth the wait. And I believe you wrote it for your mother, correct?”

Murphy’s heart started pounding loudly in his ears. “No,” he heard himself say. “I wrote it about my mom, but I wrote for me. My mother was terrible—honestly if it wasn’t for Mrs. Blake I doubt I would have survived high school. When I turned seventeen, she disappeared and I haven’t heard from her since. So “’07” was for me to excise those feelings. She made my life hard enough when she was in it, she has no right to make it harder now that she’s out of it.”

She looked at him, impressed, or maybe even proud, and he reached for another cupcake because he’d earned it.

He got back to the apartment before Bellamy that night, and, exhausted, fell asleep before he heard Bellamy return. He figured, as he drifted, that they would talk in the morning, when Bellamy didn’t feel so angry from fighting with Octavia, and he didn’t feel so exhausted from spilling his guts out to small bloggers.

The article was up the next day, and Murphy was glad that Charlotte had made him seem engaging and funny and had left out that he had eaten a total of seven cupcakes.

Talking about his mother had, in some ways, put things into perspective for him. He was actively hating Bellamy because he had committed himself to it, even though it made him miserable. If happiness was his end goal, then he should try to make that happen, instead. Which probably meant reconnecting with Bellamy, even just to see if he could.

He walked out into the main apartment area, still skimming through the article, and looked up, when Bellamy made a soft, surprised sound.

“Good morning,” Murphy offered, before grabbing a piece of toast off of Bellamy’s plate and stuffing it into his mouth.

Bellamy gaped at him, open mouthed and floundering. “Um. Hi.” Even fishlike and baffled, Bellamy still managed to seem aloof and available and charming, and in the morning light as a new and improved Murphy, he realized he was just as head over heels as he’d ever been.

“You sleep well?” he asked, and tried to play it off like they had this kind of conversation on the daily, like two grown ass men.

“To be honest, I’m not sure I’m awake,” Bellamy said and then winced. “Sorry, that was—sorry.”

Murphy shrugged. He almost certainly deserved that. “You ready for tonight?”

Tonight was the real start of their tour, their biggest show ever and at Madison Square Garden (the Madison Square Garden, was this even the real life), before their stateside tour began.

“Honestly?” Bellamy asked, rolling his shoulders. “I feel like I’m about to vibrate out of my skin.”

“Yeah,” Murphy agreed. “It’s great, right?” Murphy held his gaze for a long moment, and his body hummed. He felt energized, centered and a little horny.

Bellamy swallowed hard and turned away, which was good, because it meant he missed how much Murphy stared at his throat. “What are your plans for the day?”

Murphy would give the amount that Bellamy’s voice didn’t waver an E for Effort. “Not a whole lot. You?”

“Nothing.”

Murphy tried to smile openly. He wasn’t really an open kind of guy, but he didn’t want Bellamy to think this was a trick. “Wanna order pad thai and watch Pulp Fiction?” which really shouldn’t have been a tradition but absolutely was.

Bellamy looked stunned, open and vulnerable, and the shitty vindictive part of Murphy wanted to laugh in his face, but the rest of him wanted to cuddle down on the couch with Bellamy Blake, thai food, John Travolta, and Samuel L. Jackson.

“Yeah,” Bellamy said. “Yeah, okay.”

Pulp Fiction had lead to Kill Bill which had lead, inexplicably, to Charlie’s Angels, and when they left, together, for MSG, Murphy more at peace than he had felt in years.

Because they were all big name stars now, they each had their own dressing room, not just a green room. Maya had emailed them all very specific schedules of when she expected them to be sitting in their rooms waiting for her, and Murphy was cutting it close as he spotted his name on the door. Or well, Johnny, but he’d take it.

He had just reached for the handle when Bellamy said, “Wait.”

Murphy turned around, conscious that every ticking second brought him closer to Maya’s subdued and quiet (but still probably dangerous) wrath.

Bellamy fidgeted, which made Murphy nervous too, before pulling something from his pocket. “I know, I—we—there isn’t really—here,” he said, and passed Murphy a tarnished silver nut on a chain. “I’m not sure if we do this anymore, but it was from before, so. Have a good concert. It’s from that night, but I—I should go,” he said, and ran.

Murphy squeezed it tightly in his hand and walked into his dressing room.

Bellamy had, at some point, created a tradition for them, whereby he stole a piece of the venue they did the last show of a tour in, and gave it to Murphy at the start of the subsequent tour. It was a silly tradition that resulted in stupid pieces of memorabilia like the dumb necklace in his hand.

He put it on over his head and sat down to wait for Maya. He looked in the mirror. He was stupidly in love with Bellamy Blake, but maybe, just maybe, Bellamy Blake was stupidly in love with him, too. He began applying the first of many layers of eyeliner and smiled.

Maya came by to do his hair and rolled her eyes at the way he couldn’t stop smiling. Raven came by afterwards and was even less amused.

“This is a microphone,” she said, holding the microphone in front of his face. “Microphones are for singing into, they are not for dropping, me entiendes?”

“Mhmmm,” he said dreamily.

Raven took a deep breath, and then whacked him with the mic.

“Hey!” Murphy yelled indignantly. “You’re the one hitting people with them!”

Raven nodded. “Right. Because they are my mics. And I know what they can take, like a light smack against the empty head of a dumbass. And I also know what they can’t take, which is being flung into the ceiling by the same empty headed dumbass.”

“It was funny though, right?” he asked, smirking.

Raven rolled her eyes but he knew he had won.

Tonight was going to be amazing.

And it sort of was. Unlike the night before, it had gone down without a hitch. Murphy had remembered how to properly stalk and run and throw himself around the stage including not one, not two, but four backflips (take that Brendan and Josh), and had engaged in some really questionable grinding on two microphone stands and also Bellamy, to the loud approval of the audience. He was surprised to find he felt like Johnny again.

They reached the first encore way too soon, in Murphy’s opinion.

He sneered into the mic while his bandmates tuned and hydrated. “What’s good?” he asked the crowd, and they screeched. “I’m Johnny,” he said, and paused for the cheers. “And these are my Delinquents. On my right,” he pointed to Octavia, “the beautiful Babydoll on the bass. Next to her, the incomparable Sandman on guitar,” he pointed at Clarke, who gave him and obliging sting on her guitar. “My pal Thanatos on the drums, and of course, Twitch, who doesn’t even need an instrument to play you.”

He blew Bellamy an exaggerated kiss and the crowd shrieked again. Bellamy rolled his eyes, but it felt so much more like their normal patter. Murphy grinned again. “Thank you, New York, you’ve been great!” he said, and then sauntered off stage. The others followed, and they huddled off stage while the audience chanted, “Johnny, Johnny,” over and over.

“Hey,” Murphy said to Bellamy, pulling him aside physically.

“What’s up?” Bellamy’s eyes were glued to the spot where Murphy’s hand was attached to his arm.

Their stage manager was already prepping them to go back out, but Murphy refused to be rushed.

“Hey,” Murphy said again, and then cupped Bellamy’s face and pulled him into a kiss. He could hear Clarke’s gasp and Octavia’s cackle and Mbege’s obnoxiously loud wolf whistle, but he ignored them. This was his moment. “I love you,” he said, and then ran back on stage.

The crowd roared again, and Murphy had never been in front of so many people in his entire life. “We got a surprise for you tonight,” he said, as Lexa marched on stage, looking like she could kill. “Lexa from Wanheda is here to play for you lucky delinquents, so make some fucking noise!”

The crowd did, as crowds are known to, and they began their first encore. Lexa was an incredible bassist, and Murphy was definitely going to tap her for their next group project.

Their first two encore songs went better than he expected, and as he desperately chugged water before their last two songs, he turned to see Bellamy actually smoldering at him.

He hadn’t wanted to play “’07” in public but Octavia had insisted. In part, he assumed, because it was one of only three songs where she got to sing back up. It was still one of his best, but also personal and way too relevant. It may have been written about his mother, but he could have written the same song about Bellamy.

He sang the entire song without checking on Bellamy again, which he counted as a personal achievement. “’07” ended in a false cheery tone that he loved and he waited for the cheers to die down.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Clarke motioning for the other’s to put their instruments away, and he was as, always, extremely grateful for Clarke. Lexa switched out her electric bass for an acoustic one and her eyes twinkled as theirs met.

“We got another surprise for you lucky criminals!” The crowd exploded with cheers.

Lexa began playing the melody on her bass, which was way more affective than he thought it would be and he gripped the mic and began to sing. “Wise men say, only fools rush in,” and the audience cheered its approval.

His hands were shaking, Jesus, more than they had ever shook in his life. He wanted to turn around and look at Bellamy but he didn’t let himself. Bellamy had to know, he was smart and he knew Murphy, and wasn’t that the problem, anyway? Murphy had let himself be hurt and he knew he was setting himself up for the same exact fall. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me a hundred times and shame on love.

“But I can’t help falling in love with you.”

Lexa nodded at him, and he managed to take a real breath before he kept singing. The final time through, as he sang, “Take my hand, take my whole life, too,” he tilted his microphone out to the audience, who obligingly sang along.

He felt the hands on his shoulder spinning him before he could register it. His hand was still outstretched, the mic aimed at the crowd when Bellamy swooped down and kissed him again and he dropped the mic and Raven was absolutely going to murder him, but he could hardly care because Bellamy Blake was playing tonsil hockey with him in front of the biggest crowd they’d ever played for and he was pretty sure he wasn’t dreaming.

The crowd was deafening or Murphy’s heart was just pounding so loudly in his ears that when Bellamy pulled away, his equilibrium had gone to shit—and it had to be the noise because there was no way he just got weak in the knees.

“Don’t run away this time,” Murphy said against his mouth.

“Never again,” Bellamy said, and Murphy reluctantly detached himself.

Lexa had just finished playing and was smiling at him smugly, which both meant that Murphy had impeccable timing and that he and Bellamy had made out for possibly an embarrassingly long time.

“Good fucking night New York,” he hollered, and ran offstage, dragging Bellamy behind him.

“We should talk,” Murphy started, but Bellamy interrupted him.

“I love you,” he said. “I love you and I’m in love with you and I’ve spent the past five years hating myself for chasing you away.”

“Oh,” Murphy replied, and prided himself on his sharp wit. “Well in the case—” and let Bellamy pull him into a kiss again.

Behind him, he could hear Octavia say, probably to Clarke, “I’m beginning to think we made a huge mistake.

“I don’t know,” Lexa replied, managing to sound introspective and domineering all at once. “I think they’re cute.”

Epilogue

“So,” Charlotte asked, and smiled charmingly at the webcam. “What can you tell us about your new project?” Her set-up had improved in the last year, and instead of a cell phone and some cupcakes, she had a full a video portion of her website and a studio to match, although her hair was still in two little braids.

“Well,” Murphy said. “It’s massive. It’s a coalition between Skycrew, Wanheda, City of Light, The Delinquents and Lexa’s old band, Tree People. It’s me, the Blakes, Lexa and Clarke and their old bandmates Anya and Gustus. We have Mbege—Emori and Finn are going to be on selected tracks—and we have Lincoln, who is finally fighting fit and the kind of badass a band of this size really needs. We strings and a trumpet, more drummers than I personally know what to do with and so many guitarists that I literally can’t make a g-string joke without risk to my life. Oh—and we’re calling ourselves Polis.”

Charlotte’s excitement was very poorly hidden, but he liked that. It was nice that she had asked to interview him first, nice that he could finally do a press interview in his civvies. “I can’t wait to hear your new stuff! When does the album drop?”

Murphy grinned back. “It’s called Power to the People, and it’ll be out mid-march. But actually, we wanted to surprise you and your viewers with our first single.”

Charlotte’s disbelief was so genuine he almost laughed. It was replaced by excitement almost instantly. “I—thank you—this is such an I honor—I—”

“It’s called “Arcadia,” why don’t we take a listen?” he said, and nodded to Bellamy off camera, who had taken over her sound equipment, and let it play.

Afterwards Charlotte whispered to him, “I’m going to cut the part where I’m all googly-eyed and cry in the middle of your new single okay?” and Murphy nodded, because he was nothing if not accommodating.

She gathered herself and looked him in the eye. “Mr. Murphy, I know I shouldn’t, but I have to ask. How are things with you and Mr. Blake?”

He glanced at Bellamy off screen, who was smiling a reluctant, dopey smile, the way he always did when Murphy did interviews. “Things,” he said, still looking directly at Bellamy and feeling possibly contentment. “Things have never been better.”

#long post #murphamy #murphamy fanfic #the 100 fic #murphamy fic #implied clexa #jesus i'm so sorry #gabriel writes fic

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