#which is fine because he often wakes up with john LITERALLY bed sharing with him

[picnokinesis]

TAKKAAA!!! I reread the last chapter of part 6 from Campervan and you cant tell me that Koshei isnt or wasnt in love with the Doctor when they were teens. He talks about how beautiful she is for fucks sake. And that flashback on the roof, he was pining SOOO HAARD, OH MY GOD. AAHHHH.

KSKSKS HI HELLO

Oh, I wouldn't dare tell you otherwise - he absolutely was. He's been in love with the Doctor since he was eleven and has just been Not Dealing Well with it ever since. The only people that Koschei has ever truly cared about in his entire life were his mum and John/the Doctor. So we all know how well that worked out for him. And from what you get in that last chapter, you can just see how much he fixated on John - Coryn describes it pretty well, but it's important to remember that Koschei at that point was so completely alone and self-sufficient, because he'd made himself be after what happened with his parents, and then suddenly he finds someone who is like him, someone who makes him feel like he ISN'T alone...and he can't bear the thought of letting it go. So he digs his nails in. Unfortunately, being the fixation of Koschei's attention isn't particularly a good thing, since his methods of showing affection and devotion are questionable at best. Luckily for him, John's more than a bit messed up too. I mean, they regularly get into physical fights with each other and enjoy it. And, tbh, I think that mostly has to do with them both having a lot of energy and anger and no outlet for it, but, y'know. It's not healthy (not that anything these two do is healthy sksk), and fundamentally those two kids needed help, in more ways than one, and no-one really gave it to them.

I actually have a document in my campervan au folder which is basically 'the backstory from Koschei's pov', which is something I love a lot, and is essentially excerpts about the two weeks leading up to the events of 13th June 1999. In an ideal world, it's something I'd like to finish writing/post once the entire au is completed. But for now, here's an excerpt set on 31st May 1999, where John and Koschei have literally just been fighting in the dirt sksk which gives you a sense of how normal 15yo Koschei was about John hahaha

When the two of them eventually tire and mutually surrender by some unspoken agreement, he lets himself roll off onto the ground next to John, the pair of them panting with exertion. Koschei raises a hand to his face, pressing fingers against the tender spot where John’s elbow had got him, and then glances to look at the boy in question. John’s face is flushed, and there’s a fresh cut on his lip where Koschei managed to land a punch. His friend is looking up at the sky, dazzled by the blue – but then he turns to look right at him, and Koschei can’t help the breath that gets stuck in his throat. John looking away from the sky to look at him is nothing short of an honour. He hides his awe under a sharp laugh. “Missed doing that?” He doesn’t mean it to come out as a question, but doesn’t care that it did, especially when John huffs a soft, quiet laugh himself and closes his eyes. Lying on the ground, out in the open, eyes closed – like he knows nothing will touch him if Koschei is here. Like he’s safe like this. He’s right, of course. “Yeah,” John says, and he doesn’t even sound shy about admitting it. “I really did.” Another laugh, and John opens his eyes, looking at Koschei as he scrunches his face in a way that is a bit too adorable for Koschei to be able to stand. “That’s messed up, isn’t it?” Koschei hums. The static inside him and the knot in his stomach are still there, stronger than ever, twisting his insides. He can’t decide if he likes it or not. “I dunno. I think it’s the best thing there is.” John’s smile brightens, and the knot in Koschei’s stomach does somersaults. “Yeah. You’re right.” “Well, obviously.” “Not obviously,” John complains, pushing himself up on his elbows for the intent purpose of shoving Koschei with a touch that feels like burning – only to flomp back down on the ground again once he’s done. Koschei can’t help but grin. “You’re wrong all the time.” “Oh, right, ‘course. My mistake.” His grin widens, eyebrows raised in anticipation. “And you, on the other hand?” “Always right,” John says, very smug, and smiling in a way that Koschei hasn’t seen in weeks – and maybe that’s a good thing because he can barely even take it, it’s so beautiful, and yet he can’t take his eyes off of him, not even for a moment. “All the time.”

[ineloqueent]

party for one

Roger Taylor x Reader

synopsis: you’re not excited about your birthday, and have thus decided not to tell anyone about it. but then Roger finds out, and refuses to let it go.

warnings: swearing, drinking

word count: 2.8k

see moodboard here!

⭒

December, 1979

Turning thirty was not something you looked forward to.

It was a big number, the number at which everyone expected you to have your life together, be married and have children, have a steady job.

Well, you could check one of those boxes.

As the newly-appointed tour photographer for Queen, you were well-liked, and thus had no fears of unemployment in the near future.

You’d gotten quite close with the members of Queen over the past month, during the aptly-named Crazy Tour, sharing late nights and early mornings with the four musicians. Late nights and early mornings had a funny way of bringing out the true personalities of people, because lack of sleep meant that no one had a filter, and your mutual exhaustion had made you the best of friends with the band you were travelling with.

You liked to go dancing with John, when nobody else would, because Brian couldn’t dance for the life of him, and Roger hated disco, and Freddie was often busy.

You went with Brian to the science museums he wanted to visit in many of the cities where you stopped, because everyone else had had enough of his rambling. Brian was talkative when he was talking about something he cared about, and it was a sort of reprieve for you not to be the one talking— to tour managers, to publicists, to press, to the lighting department who spoke in riddles, to the security guards in various nations that did not speak English.

Freddie loved shopping, for anything and everything, and was ever so pleased to have a companion on his many expeditions in search of rare records, paintings, clothes.

And Roger… Well, Roger. What could you say about Roger?

Roger was the in-between moments. Not that he wasn’t around— because he was, and practically everywhere you looked— but because whenever things seemed to slow down, or grow drearily quiet, or when you stood at the eye of the storm that was the never-ending flood of work that came as part of your employment with Queen, Roger was there, with an easy smile and a striking insightfulness.

He became the quiet moments when he took you to see strange, foreign films on off-nights, showed you forgotten corners of sprawling cities across the continents, or called you over to read you a quote from whatever book was currently occupying his headspace.

One such night, you were sitting in the games room of a hotel, cleaning one of your cameras, as Brian and John attempted to beat one another’s pinball scores, as Freddie sat watching telly with a few friends, and a handful of crew members played an intense game of pool.

You had taken a seat on one of the two sofas in the room, leaving ample space, should someone else want to sit down, but Roger occupied an entire couch to himself, feet up at one armrest, head at the other. He’d been wearing headphones, plugged into a brand-new Sony Walkman portable cassette player, the one which both band and crew had gawked over when he’d first bought it, back in July. But now he took the headphones off, mussing his blonde hair— recently cropped— and sat up.

“Hey,” he said, and you looked up. “Come listen to this.”

With a small sigh, you carefully deposited your camera on the coffee table, and crossed over to the other side of the space to join Roger.

You flopped down at his side, and he looped his arm through yours, pushing his reading glasses up on his nose before softly clearing his throat.

“What is that feeling when you’re driving away from people,” he read quietly, “and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing?”

“I don’t—”

“Shh,” Roger peered at you over his glasses, nudging your shoulder with his, “I’m not finished.”

“Oh,” you said. “Well, sorry. Go on, then.”

“It’s the too-huge world vaulting us,” Roger continued, “and it’s goodbye. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.”

“It’s beautiful,” you murmured.

Roger smiled. “It’s us,” he said, and then said nothing more, until you relaxed into his side and sat there with him as he read in silence, and your eyes fell shut and your mind fell into a dream.

With the days, the tour went on, and as the date of your birthday approached, you took great care to pretend that it did not.

But your birthday had always been an ordeal for you, and you weren’t doing particularly well at hiding the sense of impending doom that came over you, when there was only a week until the day.

John noticed, that much was obvious, but said nothing, ever respectful of your personal matters as you were of his.

Brian noticed, but only asked what was wrong in such a roundabout way that you felt inclined to say he had not noticed at all, or was too polite to ask directly.

Freddie noticed, and asked outright what was bothering you, but he did so right before going onstage, and refused to perform before you had answered his question. So you answered, albeit untruthfully, with a hurried, “Nothing!” to make him get the fuck onstage.

And Roger noticed.

He caught your arm the day before your birthday, as they were all departing the stage in the wake of raucous cheers, a towel slung around his neck as he caught his breath from the physical exertion that was playing the drums. He pulled you off to the side before you could protest, before Freddie and the others could drag the both of you off to some party, and looked at you in such a way you thought he’d stare right through your very heart.

“What?!”

“What’s wrong?” he asked, folding his arms with an inquisitive expression.

“Wrong? Nothing’s wrong.”

Roger snorted. “‘Course it is. You’ve been like this for weeks. What’s the matter?”

You shrugged your shoulders in discomfort, avoiding his gaze. “It’s—”

“If you say nothing one more time, I’ll go get Brian and ask him to explain zodiacal light, and we’ll be stood here for literal hours before we can get any sort of food or drink or bed. So spit it out, because I worry about you, and I promise I’ll leave you alone.”

He stared you down, and you felt a sudden compulsion to embrace him for having cared enough to ask about you, to take the time to ask about you.

With a heavy sigh, you conceded your secrets to him, as simply as had you been a book he’d opened, intending to read from cover to cover.

“It’s my birthday—”

He frowned, “When?”

“Tomorrow—”

“Tomorrow?” Roger balked. “Why the bloody hell didn’t you tell us? We would have organised something!”

“No, no, I don’t want you to make a fuss—”

“Well, what if I want to make a fuss?”

“You want to—”

He grasped your hand, and with the contact, your heart clenched. “You deserve to be fussed over,” he told you, earnestly. “Don’t you get that?”

Your mouth had fallen open, and you now pressed your lips together, glancing down at the floor.

“No,” you mumbled. “I don’t get that.”

“And so you’ve been living your life wrong,” said Roger. “Get that into your head, love.”

It was strange, how words so simple could strike a chord, but there was a lump in your throat when you swallowed, and when you nodded, you couldn’t look at him.

“C’mon,” he said. “Let’s go back to the hotel. I’m sure you’re as tired as I am.”

You nodded again, avoiding his eyes, and he set off.

He didn’t let go of your hand.

You didn’t mind.

And as testament to Roger’s assertion, when you had parted from him and gone to your hotel room, you’d changed and fallen asleep as soon as your head had hit the pillow.

The following day was your birthday, and a day without a scheduled show, so you slept in. No one would miss you for a few hours, you thought, and indeed, no knocks roused you from your sleep until you got up, well into the afternoon.

You ran into Freddie in the hallway, and, suddenly possessed by the notion that you should do something fun on your birthday, even if no fuss was to be made, you asked Freddie if he wanted to go with you to see a movie, and where the others were, should they wish to come as well.

“No, sorry darling, I’ve got a thousand things to do before tomorrow, and I’m afraid I’ve got no idea where anyone else is.” He pursed his lips. “In fact, I’ve been looking for those three idiots for the better part of an hour.”

“That’s… rather strange,” you said, in all honesty.

“Rather,” Freddie agreed. Then he clasped his hands. “I’m going to keep looking for them, if you don’t mind. But enjoy your film, and I’ll see you at dinner?”

Your heart dropped, but of course, the great Freddie Mercury was a busy man, so naturally, this was to be expected. “See you at dinner,” you replied, and let him be on his way.

You wandered the hotel for a little while, perhaps ten minutes or so, before you came upon Brian, who had pink-flushed cheeks and wore quite the coat— bulky, and oddly overstuffed, like some sort of armchair.

“Hey,” you said in greeting. “Freddie’s looking for you.”

“Freddie’s— oh, is he? Right. Well. Better find him then before he loses his temper, ha ha.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Are you okay, Brian?”

“What?” he folded his arms around his body, in an awkward fashion, because he was clearly not accustomed to the bulk upon his frame. “Nothing. I mean, yes, I’m fine, yes. I’ll go find Fred.”

And then he hurried down the hall, before you could open your mouth to ask him if he was free to go see a film.

“Never mind,” you muttered, and proceeded in the direction you had been going before.

Two down, two left. This was truly going to be a rotten birthday, if you were to go to see a film on your own. Not that there was anything wrong with that, aside from the glaring fact that you didn’t actually feel like being alone.

You found Deacy in the lobby, leaning his elbows on the counter as he called to the person using the phone in the adjacent room.

Approaching him, you realised he was talking to— or rather, talking at— Roger, who had leaned out of the room, one hand covering the mouthpiece of the telephone.

Roger’s gaze met with yours briefly, before his eyes widened and he hissed to John something that sounded distinctly like shut up.

John saw you then, and smiled as you approached.

“Hello, Y/N. How’s it going?”

“Fine,” you responded airly, feigning a happy demeanour. “You?”

“Lovely,” said John. “Just getting Rog to make a few phone calls about the next show.”

You shook your head, puzzled. “The next show?”

“Mmyes. There was a mix-up with some gear, last time, so we thought we’d get onto it ourselves, so we know exactly what’s going on. Hands-on, you know?”

“Yeah,” you answered slowly, though in actual fact this made absolutely no sense to you, and you were sure that it made no sense to the person who had spoken it.

“Finished, Roger?” John called back to his friend, his tone more warning than inquisitive. You wondered why.

A muffled, bell-like sound announced that Roger had hung up the phone.

“Finished,” he affirmed, adjusting his round-lens sunglasses.

“Well,” said Deacy, “I’ll be off, then. See you later, Y/N.” He raised his hand in a wave, and disappeared around the corner.

You blinked at his sudden departure, then turned to Roger and asked your question before he could disappear as well.

“Rog, come see a film with me?”

Roger was pulling on an overcoat, and promptly shook his head. “Can’t. Sorry, love.”

Your fingers caught on his sleeve as he passed you, and he stopped.

“Please,” you murmured. “I know I said I didn’t want a fuss, but it’s my birthday. Come with me?”

Roger shook his head again, squeezing your hands in his. “I really can’t,” he said. At least he had the decency to look apologetic. You supposed that was something. “But I’ll see you tonight, okay?”

You tried not to sound too dejected, but truth be told, you were crushed. “Yeah, tonight.”

“Alright, then. Well, I’d better be off.” His grip gentle on your forearms, he tugged you forward and kissed your cheek, and you blushed beneath the touch of his lips to your skin, at the warmth that passed from him to you. Drawing back, he winked, let your hands fall, and was gone as well.

You went to see the film on your own.

And then you saw another. And another, just for the hell of it.

By the time you returned to the hotel, it was dark, and you found no one anywhere once more. Until you more or less crashed into John on the landing.

“Blimey, good you’re here!” he said breathlessly. “You’ve got to come quickly. Something’s wrong.”

“Wrong?” you asked. “What do you mean, wrong? Is everyone alright? Is someone hurt?”

John shook his head. “No, no. Just… Come on. You’ll want to see this.”

“See what—”

He more or less dragged you down the hall, until you reached the games room, and ground to a halt.

“In there.”

“The games room?” you said dubiously.

Deacy nodded. He stepped aside, indicating you should open the door.

Eyeing him warily, you reached for the door handle, and pushed it down. The room was dark—

And then abruptly, it was not.

Streamers burst forth, and twinkling fairy lights glinted off of the faces of your friends— Brian, Freddie, Roger, and smattering of crew— smiling from behind a table piled with all sorts of food. Food, and presents.

“Surprise!” came the cry, and you barked a laugh, half in surprise, half in disbelief at your stupidity for not having seen this coming.

“I— thank you,” you said, just as Freddie blew a party horn, to the dismay of those standing immediately beside him. You laughed again, “How did you manage all of this… with such short notice?”

Brian grinned. “It was all Roger.”

“And your bulky coat?” you asked.

“I was carrying bags of ice,” Brian admitted, to a chorus of laughter. “I was cold, okay, but I couldn’t let you see it, so I had to get away from you as quickly as possible. Sorry if that came off as rude.”

You merely laughed once again, then turned to Deacy, who stood beside you. “And, John?”

“Head of organisation,” he said. “Though it was Roger’s master plan.”

“Freddie?”

“What do you think, darling? I did all the shopping,” he swept his arm in a grand gesture, indicating the food and the presents.

“Oh, come off it, Fred,” Roger scoffed, pushing past Crystal. “Not all of the shopping.” Roger now stood before you, and, inclining his head, he handed you a rectangular package, wrapped in butcher paper and white string. “Happy birthday, sweetheart,” he said.

“Thanks, Rog,” you smiled, as you felt yourself be filled with a happiness you had long since thought gone.

“Go on. Open it.”

You looked down at the parcel in your hands, then began to tug at the string.

“We haven’t got all night,” called Freddie. “There’s cake for you as well, so hurry up!”

You glanced at Roger. He shrugged. You tore the paper from the present, and let it fall to the ground.

In your hands you held a first-edition copy of Lord of the Rings.

You gaped. “But how did you—”

“Made some phone calls,” said Roger modestly.

Without a way of putting your gratitude into words, you threw your arms around him, so forcefully that he stumbled backward, before he wrapped his arms around you as well, chuckling.

“Thank you,” you murmured, as someone started a record on the nearby deck, and the party was set into motion.

“You deserve to be fussed over,” he murmured back.

And if it was possible, you hugged him even more tightly, for once at home in this quiet, strange world, with its triumphs and its downfalls, and its in-between moments.

With its Roger moments.

Yes, that was what they were. There was no in-between when Roger was in your world.

And he knew that for as long as you would let him, he would damn well stay.

[outerbankslut]

Here For You... JJ Maybank

Summary • One afternoon after seeing a certain blond pogue hurt you are left confused and worried for him. So you set out to figure out exactly whats happened to him or more like what happens behind the closed doors of the Maybank residence.

Warnings • Swearing. Cannabis abuse. Mentions of abuse(from the show)-And please if you’re going through anything like that please talk to someone. My doors always open if you need to talk <3

Word Count • 4.3k (Imagine)

Masterlist

(GIF isn’t mine, let me know if it’s yours)

    FLOUR ENCASED YOUR clothing as you finally slid the greased up tray into the oven, dusting your hands off after. John B and your friends were out on the boat for the day which you declined to have the day to yourself to bake cookies and do homework in peace without the likes of John B your brother and JJ your best friend. He stayed around a lot and at this point he basically lived there but you didn't mind. Truth be told, you had a big fat crush on the boy. But it was the opposite of all teenage love stories. He didn't love you back. You often found yourself happy to wake up and see the boy sitting around the house drinking beer or smoking a joint. He gave a sense of comfort in the house that felt so empty without your dad.

You and John B being twins shared most things—one being friends. You had known the blond since you were in third grade, and that was when the crush bloomed but you could tell by his constant hookups he didn't know nor reciprocate those feelings. He only thought of you as a friend.

Then there was Pope. Occasionally you worked down at his dads shop for extra money for rent if your uncle didn't come through with it as well as groceries since he didn't seem to care if you or John B starved. Pope was the sweetest and smartest boy you had met. When your brother refused to show you how to drive a boat the Pope showed you on delivery once. Though it got you in trouble with Heyward when you turned back up late to the shop.

And Kiara. She was a Kook. Got a taste of both sides of the jungle. The kooks didn't sit well with her so she ended up an honorary pogue. She was your best friend as soon as she joined the group since you'd never had a girl to talk to since your mum left and your house was filled with boys.

You sighed as you settled down atop the counter looking at your phone as you added a timer since the one on the oven was broken. It was all quiet apart from the low hum of the oven fan until a door was shoved open and stumbling footsteps walked round the house.

Everyone else was on the boat, so who the hell was this?

You picked up the wooden base ball bat from that leaned on the wall just in case and held your phone ready to call 911 and inched towards where the sound was coming from.

And the bathroom light was on, you furrowed your eyes brows in confusion.

Then when you pushed open the door you caught a flash of golden blond locks as the boy quickly turned around putting his shirt on quickly.

"JJ?"

A bruise had formed just beneath his eye and along his cheek bone, mixed arrays of blues and purples splashed with the cream colour of his skin. You gasped as you saw it. His lip was busted and there was a small cut just above his eyebrow.

You reached forward to get a better look at his face as you finger lightly grazed over the bruise and he flinched away slightly making you frown.

"Sorry." You pulled away looking at the boy who had nothing to say in that moment but normally was not the quiet type. "Wait, why are you here? I thought you were on the boat with the others."

"I decided not to go today. I—um, had to help out my dad with some stuff at home." His voice wavered as he spoke leading you to believe he was keeping something. Then he turned his eyes to you. "What about you? Didn't think anyone would be here."

"I have homework to do. But that's beside the point. What happened to your face?"

He panicked. You couldn't know. As much as he wanted to wrap his arms around you and just stay there forever in your safe arms he couldn't. He couldn't drag you into his mess of a life. If would be best if you stayed just outside of it. You couldn't get hurt because of him.

"Homework. And I thought Pope was the nerd." He was deflecting. You rolled your eyes at the act. Something was definitely up. If this was just a small run in with Rafe other other Kooks then why would he be hiding that?

You sighed deciding not to question him for a second. Though you wanted to know who did it so you could punch them, he could tell you in his own time.

"I can help clean you up, got some frozen peas in the freezer. And some antiseptic wipes for that cut. But after that I want to know what happened."

"You know, I forgot I've got to get back to work and stuff. I'll see you later, Lu." He rushed past you away from the bathroom he had sought refuge in, where he thought he was alone but the prying eyes of Lucie Routledge never once left his.

"Wait, JJ!"

But he didn't stop. He carried on until he was perched on his bike and you were walking down the porch stairs.

He ignored you pulling on his helmet though when doing so his shirt rode up slightly and you got a glimpse of how bad it really was. How bad his homelife was. Though you didn't connect the dots just yet.

You gasped with a hand over your mouth seeing bruises all down his side, a messy painting of purples, blues and greens mashed together. But before you could say anything he sped away leaving you in your thoughts about what the hell happened.

The rest of the night you filled the out the pit in your stomach with chocolate chip cookies and empty thoughts. Since then you couldn't concentrate on your homework having given up an hour ago just when John B came back with Pope and Kie.

Your brother barrelled into your room a cookie in hand and jumped onto your bed as you winced hoping it didn't break.

"Did you guys have a good day?"

"Yeah. Especially since you weren't there." He joked taking a hefty bite of the cookie just as you threw your pillow his way.

He noticed your expression after that. You were distracted and confused and seemed distant.

"What's up with you?"

You sent him a puzzled look. "Nothings up with me. I don't know what you're talking about."

He rolled his eyes before standing up and messing up your hair with his hand which you promptly slapped away. "Well if you want to talk then I'm just next door."

Except you weren't part of the thoughts plaguing your mind. It was JJ.

    THE NEXT DAY when everyone was round at the Chateau JJ didn't even look at you. His gaze was focused either on the ground or towards whoever was speaking except from you. You could never get him alone to talk to him since he made sure you were never alone in a room and would spark up a conversation with literally anyone before you could utter a word.

It was midday and you were out on the HMS pogue with them all sitting next to Kie. John B was fishing, JJ was smoking as usual on the other side of the boat, Pope was reading and Kie was on her phone while you were braiding your hair. If the others weren't here you would definitely be able to cut the tension between you and JJ with a knife. If he was going to ignore you for wanting to help him then so would you. Two can play at that game.

The others could sense something was wrong though and were choosing to ignore it. They could tell since JJ had only flirted with Kie all day. He'd willingly had a conversation about science stuff with Pope. And none of them had seen either of you speak a word to each other.

As you sat with your eyes covered by sunglasses and body clad in a purple bikini you heard a squeal emitting from beside you and turned to see John B tipping fish out of a net right next to you and Kie and you felt a small splash on your legs of water from the dead Sea life.

"Nice haul, dude. Look at that." JJ commented.

Kie grimaced scouting away as she moaned at the boy for putting it so close to her. "Ugh, John B."

"Been all bait for, like, three weeks." Then John B threw a fish at JJ landing beside him.

"Gross."

Then your brother turned to you holding a fish in his hand and you scooted further away practically laying on Kie. "John B, do not thr—"

You were interrupted by the slimy fish landing on your lap after it had hit your face. JJ erupted with laughter at that as you narrowed your eyes. Practically the only interaction he had today with you. You narrowed your eyes on JJ before turning to John B and throwing the fish back at him as he ran to the other side of the boat.

Then JJ tackled down at the bow of the boat laughing before Pope jumped on top and Kie joined.

"Incoming." You yelled as you flopped down on the four people pile hearing groans in response with muffled laughter.

"I think you guys squished my organs." John B muttered as JJ nodded but you couldn't help but lie there and wish that this would be the way your life was for ever. The boat adventures, surfing, island life and doing whatever the fuck you wanted.

"Uh... Lu?" Kie muttered nudging your side and you jumped off realising you had just been sitting and staring into space. You noticed JJ wincing slightly as you all got up and felt guilty. Though he did jump into it himself. Literally.

"Sorry."

"No problem, my lungs may no longer work but it's fine." John B said and you flicked him on the forehead when he sat up.

Kie looked to you as though she got an idea and smiled. "Food at the wreck? I've got a shift in like...an hour."

"Not gonna turn down food. Especially from the wreck my favourite place on earth."

"My dads not gonna give you a discount for ass kissing." Kie deadpanned to JJ who looked dejected as you laughed. "You can have leftovers from are lunch menu though if I can convince him."

"Score." He pumped his fist in the air and you rolled your eyes. This was going to be a long day if he kept this up.

    AT THE WRECK the table could not been more awkward. The only seats left were next to each other that both you and JJ were forced to take while the other three sat on the other side of the round table laughing and joking around. It was like they did it on purpose. You picked at the fries in the small basket while JJ entered the conversation and you kept mulling over yesterday. The thought of JJ hating you felt horrible—like you were about to throw up every passing second. It may seem an overreaction to him ignoring you all day but why else would he be. Maybe you did something yesterday. Maybe you said something wrong. Maybe you—

"Lu?" Kiara stared concerned from beside you. Maybe you'd been lost in your thoughts for too long.

"What's up?"

She pointed to your hand and you looked down to see in your ranting thoughts you hadn't paid much attention to anything else and had squished a few fries in your hand. "You murdered some poor fries." She pouted as you laughed.

"Oh. Oops." You dropped them into the basket and by impulse sent a fleeting glance towards JJ who stared at his own food eating slowly which was unusual for him.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah I'm fine."

Kie nodded in response slowly not really believing you.

"Okay, well I have to go start my shift now. So I’ll see y'all later." You all waved goodbye to the Carrera girl before finishing your food and heading back out on the boat from the docks by the wreck.

First it was dropping Pope off at Heywards to help his dad and then you headed back to the chateau, a silence among you until your brother coughed awkwardly looking between the two off you.

"Okay, none of us said anything earlier but you guys are acting weird. First it was you guys not speaking a word to each other. Then it was your fry mass murder. What's going on?"

"Nothing." JJ shrugged nonchalantly. Yep absolutely nothing was wrong. It was all fine and dandy.

"Whatever you guys want to think." John B shrugged not pushing anymore.

Once you got back to the Chateau John B docked up the boat just as JJ walked off down the dock to the house. You sighed. Could you give him anymore time? This couldn't go on for much longer. Surely.

    HE WAS STILL ignoring you the next day and it was just pissing you off now. So you stormed out to the porch where he had laid himself across the couch smoking. John B was out at work so it was just the two of you there and he was actively avoiding you.

"JJ!"

Still nothing. So you did something he would definitely respond to. You went up to him and before he realised, you had snatched the joint from his fingertips.

"Hey!"

"So now you talk to me." He scowled before attempting to take the joint back but you moved backwards sending concerned eyes to his rigid figure. "I'm worried about you JJ. You come in with bruises and avoid telling me why or letting me help you and then you ignore me all day yesterday. What's going on?"

His eyes softened as he focused his gaze on you and ran a hand through his hair turning around. And just when you thought he was going to open up to you he stopped the softness in his eyes dissipating into emptiness.

"What’s wrong is you just don’t know when to let off. You need to mind your own business Lu. You’re fucking annoying getting in everyone’s business all the time.” His voice was angry but it didn’t reach his eyes. The frustration didn’t reach those baby blue eyes. In fact they were filled with a sea of guilt and regret. But it was done now. He couldn’t go back now. And he knew he’d royally fucked up when he saw your face melt into a melancholy frown. But what did he expect?

So it was your fault. You were too nosey? But you were truly just worried about your friend. Is that a crime?

“Are you joking or something?” You laughed to ease the tension but the coldness in his face didn’t break. “You’ve been mad at me because I care? Your my friend, of course I care. I’m not going to apologise for getting into your business if it means that you’re okay.”

“It’s getting unbearable! You’re getting unbearable and annoying. I can’t—I just needed—need a break! So forgive me for not wanting to talk to you today! Because no one asked you to help them, it’s not your fucking place!”

“I know no one asked thats just what you do as a friend. You support them no matter what. Those bruises are clearly from something bad if you don’t want me to know. So I’m sorry someone actually fucking cares about you JJ!” Your voice raised towards the end but then cracked at the tears building in your throat suffocating you.

It broke JJ. He was causing this. He was the idiot that made you think you were anything less than amazing. But it was for your own good. Right?

Your best friend and unrequited love, thinks your unbearable and annoying and intrusive. And yet had never mentioned it all this time.

“I just need a break for a bit, I need you to leave me alone for a bit and so I can cool off. Is that too hard for you?!”

“What? Our friendship? You can’t just put something like that on hold. You can go fuck yourself cause when your ‘ready’ and ‘cooled off’ I won’t fucking care. Find yourself some new friends who don’t care about you cause it won’t be hard for me to leave you the fuck alone!” You spat at him. Was it too harsh? You were scared it was but he was harsh first. He didn’t say anything after. Just stayed quiet as you scoffed, salty tears sliding down your cheeks.

"You're a fucking asshole JJ Maybank." You shook your head and shoved past the boy. Your mind had completely forgotten about the bruises now. If he wanted to stay out of his business then so be it. You would remove him completely from your life.

The rest of the day you lounged around the house. After the argument you hadn't given JJ his joint back so you got high the rest of the time and it helped. For a few hours and then you were back to mourning your friendship. Thinking about all the good times you’d had. All the times when he didn’t seem to hate you. The blond hadn't resurfaced. He left just after the argument going somewhere but obviously you didn't ask.

It was days after that and you were laying in your bed that was pressed up beside the window and staring at the sky thinking about the blonds words over and over.

A loud knock startled you out of your gaze and you looked down to see the figure of the boy you had been thinking about all day. Your eyes settled on him narrowed and blazing until you saw his face. Littered with more bruises than the day before. More than you could count.

He stood looking so much smaller than any other time than you had seen him. His eyes were watery and red and you could see him trembling slightly. You immediately wanted to take him into your arms and hug him tight. But would he want to?

You quickly went and opened your window allowing him in as you scooted backwards in your bed. When he got in you immediately went and hugged him not even asking for an explanation this time. He was upset and hurt and what he needed then was comfort not an interrogation.

As soon as your arms wrapped around his body he shook with sobs his tears running down your shoulder.

You rubbed his back and made soothing circles as tears of your own leaked out. After 10 minutes he moved away looking down not feeling like he could even look you in the eye after earlier and him crying to you.

"I'm so sorry, Lu. I didn't mean to hurt you and I didn't mean anything I said. I just didn't want you to know. I didn’t want you to know—to see how weak I was. I wanted to push you away so you wouldn't get involved in my messed up life." You nodded slowly as more tears fell. Tears of relief but also sadness. Sad that he didn’t think he could come to you. To confide in you and that instead he pushed you away in the worst way possible hurting you both.

JJ felt like shit. Emotionally and physically. He couldn’t believe what he had done to you days earlier. It was like his mind was in autopilot not allowing you to do anything by watch as you both argued.

He still avoided your gaze until you softly put a hand under his chin lifting his gaze to your as you smiled sadly at him. "It's okay J. I just wanted to make sure you were okay so I could help or stop it somehow. But right now there's more important things than that and I need to get some first aid stuff."

Just as you got up his hand reached out to yours holding it softly and stopping you in your tracks.

"It was my dad."

You froze tears gathering at the hoarseness of his voice and the crack that echoed when he said it. His dad. Though you never liked Luke Maybank, you never thought he would stoop this low. Beating his own child. It would take a lot of willpower not to go over there and give him a taste of his own medicine. The one person that’s supposed to take care of him. To love him. Beats him instead.

You didn't say anything except hug him once more time. Holding him tight but careful around the bruises areas. The thought of his dad putting those bruises and scars all over his body made you sick to your stomach. How dare he. How dare he think he had any right to lay a hand on his child like that.

You left when he sat perched on the edge of your bed no longer crying. It broke your heart since JJ was a tough nut to crack half the time. But this was obviously going to be his breaking point. It would be anyone’s.

You gathered all the thing you'd need and took JJ to the bathroom careful not to wake John B as you did.

"Tell me if it hurts okay?" He nods and you take an antiseptic wipe towards the new cut on his cheek dabbing it gently to clean it. There was another cut on his arm and his split lip which you cleaned as well as the boy stared at you intently. You felt redness spread across your cheeks as you finally looked into his eyes.

"What?" You asked and he just shook his head a small smile appearing.

"I'm just realising how much of an idiot I was pushing you away this morning. Your my best friend—no you're more than that and I shouldn't have done that I just didn't want to get you caught up in this mess."

"Exactly JJ. I'm your best friend. A best friend is meant to be there for you in moments of weakness or through things like this. I don't care about being caught up in all this I just care about you. I’m here for you. Always." You carried on cleaning his open wounds carefully. JJ realises in that moment. You were the one person who stood by him when he got beat up in 4th grade by a bully or when people were hanging up on him and you stood up for him. You stuck around when he did crazy shit that the others didn’t stick around for. He realised that as much as you were there for him, he wanted to be there for you. He wanted to be loved by you. Not by his lowlife dad. Or his random Touron hookups. He wanted them to be you. Always you. He loved you.

"I love you." He spurted out and you stifled a gasp as you stood silently, your hand frozen in air millimetres from his face as you stared at each other. The way he said it didn’t sound like just a friend I love you. It sounded like something more. Some more which you reciprocated but you didn’t think there would ever be a day when he would say that.

"I love you too." You laughed it off.

"No Lu, I—I love you more than a friend."

“I love you more than a friend too. JJ Maybank.” His eyes widened in happiness the corners of his lip turning up and stretching as he grinned despite his split lip.

He looked like he couldn't believe it. But you had been crushing on him for longer than you could remember but you always thought it was one way. That he thought of you like a sister or something.

But maybe this whole time you had both been oblivious to each other’s blatant feelings. At least it was out now.

He placed two hands softly on your cheeks and gently pulled you in closer smashing your lips together. You could taste the metallic blood of his cut as your tongues brushed over each other’s but you didn’t care. You both pulled away breathless as you smiled into his touch. JJ looked dazed. Though the thoughts of his injuries still plagued your mind as you pulled away running out of the room to get an ice pack and some tylenol.

The bruises running down his body made you more angry by the second. But you couldn’t be blinded by that. Keeping a level head for the boy was what was important.

When you came back the boy grinned shaking his head.

“You didn’t need to get me that. What we just did was enough of a pain reliever. Though it did make me wanna relieve myself in another way if you—”

“JJ. No.” He pouted as you said that like a sad puppy.

“Another time?”

“Yeah whatever.” You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help but smile. Somehow even through this JJ managed to smile and joke around. He had his bad days. Like the last. But he was strong. And you loved him for that. “I’m always here for you if you need me. In that way and any other way. Also you’re not going home.”

“Of course, Milady. Why don’t we go watch Netflix and—”

“Do not finish that J.”

“Awe, come on.”

Note • This is so long Jesus. And it took me so long to finish writing and edit and I still kinda hate it but I don’t think it’ll get better than this. Oh well. Oh I forgot that when I was writing it I gave them a name rather than y/n and I cba to change it now.

[sleepless-in-starbucks]

Hewo! I know I was literally just hear but like, I like your inbox soooooooo yeh. ALSO you introduced me to my new obsession *coughAnalosleepcough* and that deserves some recognition or whatever. So uhhhhhhhhhhhhh, meep. quack quack. moo. mooove bitch get out the way. (in a john cena voice) ARE YOU SURE ABOUT THAT. I'm feeling very memey right now. Send help. Or send me Analosleep fics\headcanons. Whatever works to make sure I don't die. I'm sowwy I have done this (Not really tho)

oh,,,, so you want analosleep do you,,,, :3

a dangerous thing to say to an idle Me, Hewo…. a dangerous thing….

(warnings for sleep deprivation, self-deprecation specifically around feeling things/feeling sad, referenced nightmares + isolation, panic attack, happy ending ofc; tagging @emo-disaster for the fic idea + the fact that it’s their ot3 I’m legally obligated to tag ‘em)

~~

When Logan shot up in bed in the dead of night, his first instinct was to slam a hand over his mouth.

Of course, this seemed to be a poor choice on his part- it was hard to breathe through sobs when you couldn’t pull in the air through your mouth, as sobbing often demanded you do- but in reality, it was the most logical one. It was the only way to muffle his sobs; aka, it was the only way to make sure he didn’t wake up his partners. They were cuddled against him, Virgil simply curling into his side whereas Remy had their arm through over his midsection. Though both were snoring softly, Logan knew that, if he wasn’t very careful, they’d be awake soon enough. Insomnia and poor sleeping habits made both of them into very light sleepers.

Which made the whole ‘not waking them as he fell apart’ thing a little difficult.

Slowly, Logan lifted Remy’s arm off of himself, tucking it against his partner’s side. Remy stirred at the movement, and Logan immediately froze, holding his breath as well as he could until Remy seemed to have settled back down.

He pushed himself up, careful not the creak the mattress too much as he quietly jumped over Remy. He hit the ground quietly enough, the result of having pulled this move off many times for happier reasons- usually to escape Remy trying to keep him in bed all day (and often being immediately caught a moment later by Virgil) or to get out so he could make a surprise breakfast for his partners. Using it in such unpleasant circumstances was grim, but if it worked…

Logan was careful as he crept out of the bedroom, well aware of exactly where the hazards and noisy spots were. He moved towards the dresser first, claiming his glasses before moving towards his escape. The door was tricky- it always squealed halfway through opening. Even opening it as little as possible, it still whined, and Logan winced, quickly turning back towards the bed to see if either of his loves had awakened.

Remy remained on their side, motionless and facing away from him, but Virgil had moved, face scrunched up as he reached out for the warmth that had left when Logan did, but his eyes thankfully still closed. Logan waited in the doorway as he watched Virgil grope about, letting out a small breath of relief when he found Remy’s arm and tugged them closer. With luck, he’d assume that Remy was Logan and fall back asleep, paying no mind to the lack of a third body in their shared bed.

Feeling secure in a successful escape, Logan slipped fully out of the bedroom, padding down the hallway towards the kitchen. He wiped impatiently at the drying tear tracks on his cheeks, happy that, at the very least, his sobbing had sorted itself out.

All he had to do now was get a drink of water, wash his face, take a breath, and go back to bed, pretending like nothing happened. Because that was the truth of the matter- nothing had happened! Nothing at all! It had just been some stupid nightmare- hell, was it even bad enough to be called a nightmare? Logan really didn’t think so.

After all, it had been bland- just him, him in some void of a place, all alone. Which was fine, what did he care, the only thing that even mattered a little was the odd lingering feeling dream-him had, the feeling that earlier he hadn’t been alone, that earlier Virgil and Remy had been there, but they were gone by the time the dream started, gone because they didn’t want to be there, gone because they didn’t want to be with Logan, gone because they had left him because they didn’t want him couldn’t deal with him couldn’t be with someone they didn’t love-

Logan stopped in the doorway to the kitchen, hand coming up to his mouth again as another sob tried to bubble out- this time not to muffle himself (the kitchen was down the hall from the bedroom, he was plenty far, he hoped) so much as to stop the sobbing before it could start up again.

Because it was pointless, really, to be crying over some stupid dream that wasn’t even real, that he knew wasn’t real and therefore didn’t matter to him at all, that didn’t mean anything because it was just. a. dream.

His body, however, wasn’t getting the message, and his attempts to stop his sobs were failing. All he could manage was keeping them quiet, even as he leaned against the kitchen doorway and slid down it, hitting the floor not-so-gently as he continued to remind himself why this all was just stupid.

Stupid, pointless, not even real, just a dream, get over yourself, even if it was real you could deal with it, this is stupid, whiny, emotional, this is-

“Honey?”

Logan froze at the sound of his partner’s voice. Why were they awake? He had been so careful- and they needed their sleep, why would they have come after him-

Remy was already dropping down to crouch next to him. They looked odd like this- hair messy instead of carefully arranged, sunglasses no where in sight, wearing baggy shirt and shorts instead of their fitting jacket and jeans- but they also looked soft, so Logan didn’t mind. At least, they normally looked soft- right now, forehead creased, eyes worried, they looked unhappy, and Logan hated that.

Logan opened his mouth to speak, but a sob came out instead, and even though he slapped his hand over his mouth as soon as it slipped out Remy had still heard it, their eyes only going wider in worry. They reached out, placing their hands on Logan’s shoulders. When he didn’t react, they started moving their hands over his arms, grounding, comforting, familiar.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, shh, you’re okay, I’m here, you’re safe, you’re okay, darling it’s alright, you’re alright.”

“Why are you awake?” Logan managed to ask, this time successfully stifling the sob that tried to slip out instead. There were still tears running down his face, yes, but it was dark- he could probably convince Remy it was just a trick of the light, convince them that Logan was fine, that they could go back to bed and Logan would be there soon enough, completely fine, as if nothing had happened (because, in Logan’s mind, nothing had).

“I woke up when you opened the door.” Remy answered, still running their hands over Logan’s arms soothingly. “Virgil did too. I thought you were just going to get water, but he said you looked upset.”

“I’m fine.”

Remy chuckled, but they sounded pained. “Babes, you’re crying on the kitchen floor at two am in the morning. This isn’t fine.”

“I’ll be fine.” Logan corrected. “You should- you can go back to bed, I’ll be there in a moment.”

“Then I can wait a moment so that we can go back to bed together.” Remy told him, one hand moving from Logan’s arm to cup his cheek, thumb wiping away some of his tears. “I know how you react to these things, love, and I’m not going to leave you alone to repress and ignore your problems away.”

“Go to bed, I’ll be fine.” Logan repeated, turning his head away from Remy and the hand cupping his cheek. He closed his eyes, as if pressing them shut would stop the flow of tears, would make Remy be sleeping again, would put everything back to a few minutes ago when everything- as far as his partners were aware- was fine, would make it so neither of them had to deal with him now, deal with him like this.

And that was the really ugly part of all this, the reason why he couldn’t just shake the thought, shake the stupid nightmare that wasn’t real- because it could be real, so easily, so easy that Logan was surprised it wasn’t real already, because his partners must have made some mistake when they picked him and every day that passed that they didn’t undo it was a miracle to him.

Because they were so- so feeling, Remy so lively and real and carefree, and Virgil may often be stuck in the throes of his anxiety but when he wasn’t he was so alive and bright and happy in his own way it was nearly infectious, and then there was Logan, Logan who had as many feelings as a worm and smushed them all down to the point they barely existed anyways, until all he was was stupid pointless outbursts and annoyance and waking up his partners who needed to sleep and not worry about him or his stupid fake unrealistic problems that came in the form of night time terrors and sobs he just couldn’t silence-

“-gan? Logan, I need you to breathe for me.”

Breathe? Why did he need to breathe? Wasn’t he already breathing? Why was Virgil (and when did Virgil get here?) asking him to breathe when he was already-

Oh.

He wasn’t breathing.

That was why.

He tried to do as Virgil asked, tried to take a breath in (since apparently at some point he had stopped), but it got stuck halfway up his throat, choking him instead. He bent over as he coughed, someone squeezing his hand reassuringly as he did so, Virgil still in front of him. Virgil took Logan’s free hand and pressed it against his chest.

“Breathe.” Virgil repeated, taking a deep breath as he spoke. Logan knew what he was doing- over-exaggerating his breaths so that Logan could follow them. Logan was more than grateful for the gesture.

It took a few minutes of Virgil coaching him through the breathing exercise and Remy- who Logan had finally identified as the one holding his hand- murmuring reassurances before Logan finally got his breathing under control. As soon as he did, Logan ducked his head, refusing to meet Virgil’s focused and earnest yet incredibly worried eyes any longer.

“Hey, Lo, can you look at me?”

Logan ignored Virgil’s polite ask. His boyfriend sighed before softly cupping Logan’s cheek. He didn’t force Logan to look up, however. “Can I see your pretty face, love?”

“Don’t want to.” Logan murmured, shaking his head minutely against Virgil’s palm.

“Alright.” Virgil responded easily, still cupping Logan’s cheek. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Logan said. “I’m fine.”

“You already tried that, hun.” Remy pointed out, words accusatory though his tone was only gentle. “And if I didn’t believe you before you had a panic attack, I’d definitely not believe you now.”

“I’ll be fine.” Logan said instead, well aware he was just repeating what he had told Remy earlier, hoping it would work this time. “I’ll be fine, just- you can just go back to bed, I’m sorry I woke you-”

“We’re not going back to bed until we know what’s wrong.” Virgil said, calmly but firmly. His hand remained against Logan’s cheek, thumb now rubbing a circle right beneath his eye. “And something’s pretty clearly wrong.”

“And whatever it is, you can tell us, sweetheart.” Remy added. “We won’t be angry, or upset, or anything. We just want to know what’s hurting you.”

“It’s stupid.” Logan told them bitterly.

Virgil clicked his tongue. “If it’s got you this worked up, it’s not stupid. And even if it were, I’d still want to hear it. We can’t help you til we know why you need help, starshine.”

Logan didn’t respond to that, allowing the conversation to be overtaken by silence. Remy and Virgil seemed to be alright with it, Virgil continuing to rub circles against Logan’s face and Remy continuing to ground him by squeezing his hand, neither of them showing any signs of stopping soon.

“…I had a dream.” Logan finally admitted after a good five minutes had passed, forced to accept that nothing he said would get his partners to simply give up on him (and a horribly illogical part of him spoke up too, saying this meant not escape but comfort, but Logan ignored that part). He cleared his throat. “A nightmare, actually.”

Both his partners made a noise of upset. “What was it about?” Virgil asked.

“Nothing, which is why it’s so stupid.” Logan lamented, angry at himself. “It was just me, sitting around doing nothing.”

“Is that all?” Virgil asked, gently prying, clearly unbelieving that there was nothing more to the nightmare.

“Yes!” Logan said, snapping, not at them but at the general idea of such a thing having brought him so low. “That was all- I was just there, minding my own business, alone, alone because-” Logan cut himself off, ignoring the lump that was starting to reform in his throat.

“Because what?” Remy pushed, quietly.

Logan swallowed. “Because-” He could say this, it wasn’t that hard, just the truth, “because you- you two had- you weren’t actually there I just knew that- that you had- you had left.”

Something that had just barely been fixed broke inside of Logan as he said that, and suddenly he was crying again, which really wasn’t making him feel any less stupid. Now, however, his partners were here, Virgil moving to hold Logan’s face with both his hands, gently wiping away the tears but not minding if he missed some; Remy’s grip moved from his hand to his waist, their arms wrapping around him and holding him comfortingly close.

“Shh, darling, handsome, honey-love, it’s okay, it’s alright.” Remy murmured, laying their forehead against the side of Logan’s head, a warm and real reminder that they were there. “No wonder you were upset, sweetness, I’d be upset too.”

“And it’s not stupid.” Virgil added, taking a moment to tuck Logan’s hair behind his ears so that Virgil could see his eyes. “Being left behind by people you care about is terrifying, Lo.”

“But it wasn’t real.” Logan protested, his voice raw and ugly from crying as he spoke. “It was just an illusion, a product of my mind, and you two are- you’re here, now, and not gone- yet- not gone and-”

“We’re not gone ever.” Virgil corrected. “You’re stuck with us forever.”

“I don’t know why…” Logan muttered, looking downwards, as if that would hide his comment.

“Because we love you, ya dork.” Remy said, voice light but sincere. “Because you’re cute and you make nerdy science jokes and have our favorite meals memorized even though you can’t cook and you’re the best at giving surprise cheek kisses and while it’s really stupid you’re always trying to be admirable and deal with your issues alone, which- like I said- is stupid, but sweet in theory.”

“Don’t want to bother you-”

“And you’re not.” Virgil cut him off, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “You’re our very beloved boyfriend, Logan. If you’re hurting, we want to help you. You’re never bothering us, especially not over something like this.”

Logan didn’t speak for a moment, processing what his partners had told him. He almost wanted to come back with a lie, almost wanted to look at it and find that their words were false and empty, but he didn’t find that- it was late, they were all tired, and yet their voices were real and honest, in a way that couldn’t be faked ten minutes after awakening.

With a sigh, Logan leaned his head forward, Virgil immediately moving up so that Logan’s head hit his shoulder. “I’m sorry.” He mumbled.

“Don’t be.” Virgil told him, starting to run his fingers through Logan’s hair. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I was being illogical.”

“We all are sometimes, dearest.” Remy said soothingly.

Once more, silence fell upon the three of them, but it was more comfortable this time, Logan allowing himself to relax against both his partners as they held him. The nightmare was still playing in the background of his mind, but it didn’t hold as much sway over him now, the loneliness of the false memory nothing against the warmth of his reality.

“Should we relocate?” Virgil asked after a good five minutes had passed, still combing through Logan’s hair. Logan had started to lean more and more heavily against him, slowly but surely falling back into the embrace of sleep.

Logan nodded against Virgil’s shoulder, humming tiredly. Crying took too much effort.

Virgil just chuckled. “Babe, you wanna pick up our moonbeam?”

“Of course.” Remy said, quietly but happily. There was some shifting around Logan- part of which involved him removing his head from the crook of Virgil’s neck- before he was settled in Remy’s arms, his partner holding him close against their chest.

“No offense, babe, but you look worse than I do when I haven’t had my coffee.” Remy teased as they carried Logan back towards their room, Virgil following behind.

“Oh, don’t be mean to him.”

“I’m just saying!”

Logan hummed again and pushed himself closer to Remy. “Shhhh.”

“Aw, sleepy nerd.”

Virgil gently slapped their arm for that one, Remy chuckling soundlessly before leaning over and giving Virgil a kiss. “Love you too.”

Finally, they reached their bedroom once more, Virgil pulling Logan’s glasses off for him as Remy settled him down on the bed.

“And this time-” Remy  got on the bed as well, barely a second between them letting Logan go and them pulling him close against their chest once more, “you’re going to sleep until noon.”

“That’s too late.” Logan protested sleepily.

“And you’ve had a rough night.” Virgil said, climbing in behind Logan and wrapping his arms around both him and Remy. “You can have a little bit of sleeping in. As a treat.”

“That’s grammatically horrible.”

Virgil just laughed quietly and kissed the top of Logan’s head. “Go to sleep, nerd. Worry about my grammar in the morning.”

And, surrounded by the solid, real warmth of his partners who had no intentions of going anywhere, Logan did.

[i-believe-n-sherlock-holmes]

What is Reality?

So, I spent the morning typing out this long, detailed response to a post by @possiblyimbiassed​ concerning therapists in the show being representations of Sherlock - hit the post button - and found Tumblr ate it. Yep, it disappeared into the ether. That’s... fine. Probably didn’t belong on that post anyways since it went down a completely different track, but here is an abbreviated version of what I concluded:

We have always been in TAB/S4 hell and just didn’t realise it. 

It all began to break down when I tried to discern the point of view we are seeing the story from - or who the author is. This is a story about John - we begin with him, and he is ‘the blogger’ (and original author of the Sherlock Holmes stories) so we might naturally conclude he is the storyteller here, but then that conclusion quickly breaks down the first time we see Sherlock. We see Sherlock before John meets him. John has no way of knowing about Sherlock beating a corpse and rejecting Molly’s advances, so how are we seeing that if John is the author? Lest you think that John made this up from Sherlock’s comment about leaving the riding crop in the morgue and his interaction with Molly when she brings him coffee 1) that would be amazing because we have never seen anything to indicate this level of imagination from John 2) his stories on his blog are not anywhere near as detailed, fantastic and elaborate as this moment and the show on whole 3) that is a pretty twisted conclusion for John to draw about what a man he just met was doing with a riding crop in a morgue - not something one would just guess. Also consider that John would never have known (and is unlikely to have ever been able to get an accurate account from Sherlock given the way we see them interact) about what really happened between Sherlock and Jefferson Hope when they were alone. 

So maybe Sherlock was the narrator? Well, then there are several scenes that he didn’t witness and can’t have possibly known about (like the entire first part of the story where we are shown what John’s life is like beforehand) and what happened with Donovan and Mycroft. Likewise, it seems very unlikely that Sherlock would have been able to devise John’s very novel reaction to Sherlock being with the killer. I mean, one would not typically think that an experienced soldier with ‘nerves of steel’ (as Sherlock himself says) would panic and go running through the building screaming Sherlock’s name which would both alert the killer that he was coming and alert the cleaners that someone is in the building who shouldn’t be. Not a reaction otherwise in character thus far.

This doesn’t even go to mention that there are scenes that neither character could have seen or known about. We see Jennifer Wilson and several of the other victims right before their demise and we have to conclude that those scenes are either seen through the eyes of an omnipresent/omnipotent (all seeing/ all knowing) author or through the killer’s eyes.

OK, so maybe it is a story told from the omnipresent/omnipotent perspective? Well, then that doesn’t explain the shared consciousness between the characters. Again, I’ll point you to the first scene, if we only see what happens to John because we are “omini” then how does Sherlock know about what happened to John to play out a very close echo of that original telling of exactly what happened to John before they met in his TAB MindPalace drug dream. Another glaring instance of this is the whole “dragon slayer” term, which is first mentioned when Sherlock and Mycroft are alone together, then Mary calls Sherlock the same thing when she’s alone with him, then John uses the term - none of them should know what the other has said.

So reality is broken from the start. 

Why?

Well, this is where things really make your mind explode. 

So in the 2nd episode when John returns from his interview with Sarah, Sherlock says that he had asked John for a pen when John was gone and John concludes that Sherlock ‘didn’t notice’ he was gone. We might be tempted to take John’s assessment at face value and think that Sherlock was too distracted or self-absorbed to have noticed John left, but we have been given an evolving perspective on what that moment really means. Over time, we’ve learned that Sherlock actually sees a version of John in his alternate reality (MindPalace) where he talks to John and John helps him solve things. And sometimes (like when he tries to replace John with Molly as an assistant in solving crimes) that alternate reality spills over and he hears John’s disembodied voice taunting him in Reality. So, what we have from this little moment in episode 2 is the clear indication that, at times, Sherlock cannot discern Reality from his Alternate Reality. Yet, as things evolve, we (as a viewer) often move with Sherlock seamlessly between these two realities that, in their own right, seem equally real except that the location of one might be a bit extraordinary or Sherlock exhibits extraordinary qualities to manipulate the Alternate Reality - cluing us in that it is “not reality”. 

Two realities. Bleeding between them. Funkiness in both of them. What does this sound like? Well, it sounds a lot like TAB, doesn’t it? And what did we find out in the end of TAB. Neither reality was Real. 

So, what does this mean? What part of what we see is Sherlock’s hallucinations or alternate reality and what is Real?

Maybe this moment in episode 2 and Dr. Frankland’s and Culvertson’s drugs that make people hallucinate and lose memories are hints that Sherlock has been drugged from near the beginning and was seeing things and/or losing time since the 2nd episode. All reality is suspect because we are shown Sherlock’s internal world along with the rest - but some it Real.

Maybe, Sherlock really did take Jefferson Hope’s pill before John could reach him and, instead of dying, he slipped into a coma like-state and everything after that point was like TAB where he created two realities (a MindPalace and a Real World) and he keeps slipping between the two, but neither are Real.

Maybe nothing is real and from the beginning it is all in Sherlock’s head. From that first episode we see perspectives that don’t make sense from any one point of view and there is a collective consciousness that can’t be explained unless there is a narrator that has full control of all the characters and so every character has the potential to know what other characters have said or done (since they are all just fabrications). 

Perhaps, it will be explained with something akin to the movie Ghost Stories (which, interestingly enough, Martin Freeman plays the doctor) where Sherlock has been ‘locked-in’ his own mind (in a coma-like state) this whole time and has simply been “setting the stage” with the people from his hospital setting who seep into his imagined world (John is really his doctor, Sarah and Mary are nurses that Dr. Watson seems to flirt with, Lestrade is the kindly janitor, Billy is the anesthesiologist, etc., etc.). And, if you have ever had your mind play a trick on you by reinterpreting something you hear or feel from reality (like your alarm clock going off or your cat sitting on your chest) into something that can fit into your dream, then you can begin to imagine how Sherlock could be reinterpreting things from Reality into his coma-like state. John really has saved his life so many times and so many ways (as his doctor). The gunshot wound literally was surgery. They really did have to restart his heart. When he is walking around on walls and everything is falling apart, they’ve got him drugged up and are moving him between beds (which would give the strange sense of weightlessness), etc., etc. Maybe there is a telly on his room that is playing documentaries (about Chinese pottery and the Van Bueren Supernova) and news (about Chinese gangs, bombings, murders) and infomercials (featuring Connie and Kenny Price) and kids shows (featuring Richard Brooks) and the occasional Bond and horror movie. And, as his health deteriorates, so does his imagined reality, until he is torturing himself with his past and everyone is both a mirror of himself and an enemy. 

The last possibility is the saddest interpretation of all the facts because it is quite possible that if in a S5 Sherlock does manage to wake up, the relationship between him and John is not nearly as deep as he imagined it to be and is, in fact, (if Sherlock is just a patient) non-existent. It could even be that Sherlock put himself into that state when he was a young man, overdosing due to his attempt to escape some childhood trauma. If so, then he might not even be consulting detective. It is also possible that the image that Sherlock projects of himself isn’t at all close to reality but more who he wishes he was. Perhaps, he is more like Billy, extremely clever underneath it all (able to deduce John) but looks and speaks in a way where no one would listen to him or pay attention to him in Reality.

What is reality? 

It could be very, very different and jarring.

  @ebaeschnbliah, @sarahthecoat, @sagestreet, @raggedyblue, @possiblyimbiassed, @sherlockshadow,

[qqueenofhades]

I am having some serious feels over the fact that Lucy's now confirmed Rittenhouse royalty (via the new deleted scene) and her heritage is the literal embodiment of everything Garcia Flynn is fighting against. What say you to a wee fic about her being terrified he'll find out the truth, yet he loves her no matter what - maybe more, even? I mean, what kind of SOULMATES?!? (hold me. *sobs*)

well, i did the edit and the meta, it’s time for the fic. set in a late-s3 timeline where Lucy and Flynn have been together a few times but haven’t really decided what they are or discussed it much. also because a comment on one of @extasiswings’ posts (about Flynn realizing that if he has kids with Lucy they’ll be Rittenhouse’s descendants too) fucked me RIGHT up.

rated a for angst.

Time-traveling to stop your evil cult family from destroying history and taking over the world isn’t exactly top of the job-satisfaction list. Especially after Rittenhouse destroyed the bunker and the team barely got out, has had to stay over somewhere in the past as often as they dare to return to the present, have saved Rufus but are still struggling to repair the cracks, have the looming question of whether they could once more travel on their own timelines and make this go away. All that in addition to Emma being, as promised, much more terrifying a leader than Nicholas, and a war that seems literally never-ending. It’s entirely justifiable that Lucy would feel shitty for an extended period of time. She’s surprised she doesn’t feel worse. But this lingering malaise, whatever it is, is getting on her nerves. Feels run down and tired and sick, and puts it down to all those nineteenth-century campouts. Modern amenities are starting to be a luxury. Needs more vitamin C, or just a few nights of real sleep, or –

The other possibility hits Lucy like a freight train, on a rainy night in 1899 in Wilcox, Wyoming. (Butch Cassidy, the Sundance Kid, and their gang are about to rob the Union Pacific Overland Flyer tomorrow, so it’s entirely possible that this is not just a figure of speech.) Oh God. What if she’s – no. She can’t be. No.

(No. She’s careful. She’s only been with Flynn a few times, and they haven’t said anything, and it’s been her coming to lie down with him in the dark, and sometimes other things happen and sometimes they don’t, but – she’s careful.)

Lucy barely gets through the mission with her head intact, and she finds herself avoiding Flynn for the next week or two after that. Since it’s now much more common for them to be together than otherwise, she can tell that it baffles and hurts him, but he doesn’t push. She’s just counting back in her head to the last time they were together, trying to force herself not to panic, when – she’s never been more relieved in her life – she finally gets her period. Her cycle can be irregular, especially when she’s stressed, and she’s been stressed for years now. Thank God, thank God. She’s not pregnant. She doesn’t have to tell him.

(Does she have to tell him?)

“Lucy, are you all right?”

Lucy doesn’t answer, as she’s lying with her back to Flynn’s chest and his arm draped over her waist. Now that she knows she is not in fact with child (especially given what’s going on with Jessica), she’s decided it’s safe to be around him again, but she tenses beyond all measure when he speaks. It’s a simple question, and it’s not. He’s worried, and he has a right to be, and she knows she’s been pushing him away (it hurts her as much as him, she has just wanted to come back to his arms and forget), but –

“I’m fine.” She is glad he can’t see her face, as he would sense her dishonesty immediately, and he might still. “Just been feeling a little under the weather, but I’m better now.”

“Are you?” He tugs on her arm, getting her to roll over and look up at him. “Two weeks of getting up and walking out whenever I was in the same room, and tonight you come to my bed again and none of that happened? I’m not mad, Lucy. I just want to know if I did something wrong.”

Lucy has to laugh, very dryly. “Don’t I usually tell you if you did something wrong?”

“Yes,” Flynn admits. “Clearly and repeatedly.”

“Because you deserve it.” She reaches up to brush his cheek affectionately, a hint of the playfulness they can sometimes show around each other now, and he turns his head to kiss her fingers. For a moment, it’s easy and it’s better and it’s the closest they’ve felt for weeks, but his eyes meet hers with an open question and she can feel her resolve wavering. They have so little, but they have always had the truth. It doesn’t feel right to be keeping this from him now. At least part of it, but – they haven’t even confirmed that they do have a relationship. This is a lot for any man to take in, especially him. And yet.

There is a long pause. Flynn continues to look at her, hoping she’ll open up but clearly not willing to pry. Lucy takes a breath and turns her head; she can’t meet his eyes directly. Then she says, “I – briefly thought there was a chance I could be – that I could be pregnant. I’m not, by the way. But it. It… startled me.”

Flynn’s hand has been stroking her shoulder, but it abruptly goes still. Another pause. Then he says, deliberately offhand, “Oh.”

Lucy knows him well enough to catch some of the undercurrents in that, but the rest elude even her. God, what can he be thinking? He has a child, has a daughter, who he has fought to save for every waking moment for almost the last half-decade. The possibility of suddenly having a new one, in the middle of this war, with her – it would be intimidating enough if they were a regular couple in a regular relationship, and they’re not. Does he want it? Does the idea, having been raised, haunt him in a strange and unspeakable way for a loss he hasn’t even, strictly speaking, actually had? The question of which family they’re fighting for, or could be? Lucy almost feels compelled to apologize, even though this obviously is something she didn’t want in any way right now.

“Garcia?” she says at last, tentatively. “Are you…”

He takes a deep breath of his own, passing his hand over his eyes. Then he puts the other hand on her cheek and turns her face toward him. “That’s not all,” he says quietly. “There’s something else.”

“Is this one of the things you know from the journal?”

“It’s one of the things I know from knowing you.” He raises a dark eyebrow, but won’t be deterred. “Lucy. What is it?”

Lucy debates furiously with herself. She doesn’t have to tell him, after all. She can keep this back, not throw another canister of nitroglycerin into this, here, with him. She has lost so much and she can’t stand losing him too. But the chance is there, and he deserves to know, and maybe she needs to say it.

“It was… when I was a prisoner of Rittenhouse.” Her voice catches, and Flynn takes her hand, still not looking away from her. “My – my mother told me that we were direct descendants of David Rittenhouse. That one day I could be his last living heir. Now that she’s dead, unless there’s some other cousin I don’t know about, I – I am. I knew that the Prestons and the Cahills and the Keyneses were all Rittenhouse, but – I’m descended from him. I’m the Heir of Slytherin.”

Flynn’s hand is still on her cheek. At that, it falls off. It’s hard to tell if it’s in disgust (God, God, please no) or just shock. He opens his mouth, then shuts it.

“So I… I suppose if you had shot John Rittenhouse in 1780, I wouldn’t – I don’t know what would have happened to me.” Lucy plunges on wildly. “I could have survived, but my family wouldn’t have existed, and I don’t know that that’s such a bad thing. You saw how we all turned out. If we stopped that line, Rittenhouse wouldn’t exist and all the terrible things it’s done wouldn’t either. You would have gotten to grow old with Lorena and see Iris grow up, and – “ She doesn’t know if, likewise, she needs to apologize for this, but this time she can’t help herself. “Maybe I should have let you do it. I’m sorry.”

Flynn’s face remains stunned, immobile. He slowly lowers his hand as if trying to remember how to do it. A muscle works in his cheek, but he doesn’t respond.

“So if I was… pregnant.” This is far too much to throw at the poor man at once, but now that Lucy has gotten started, she can’t stop. “It would have been a descendant of David Rittenhouse, and for you to have to look at your own child and know that, that that bloodline is still living on after what it’s done – maybe I need to die childless, that’s my destiny. That way, the direct line finally ends, and we’re a step closer to destroying the whole thing for good. It’s possible. If I just get sterilized and make sure there’s no risk in the future – “

“Lucy.” It’s the first thing he’s managed to say, and it comes out raw and hoarse. He doesn’t move to touch her. She can’t tell if he’s horrified or heartbroken or repulsed, any or all of those. His mouth is grim and his eyes are wet. “Lucy.”

“I should have told you a while ago.” Lucy stares up at the ceiling. “Before we – before anything happened between us. You – if you regret what you’ve done, or what we’ve become – ”

She almost can’t bear to voice the possibility, or see any hint of him agreeing, but she still can’t read his face. Flynn hasn’t shouted, hasn’t raised his voice at all, or tried to push her away from him. He looks frozen. He moves his hand as if to brush the backs of his fingers over her face, but pulls away just before he does, clearly struggling with all his might to respond to this without hurting her. At least she hopes that’s what he is doing. And yet. If it’s not, she doesn’t think she can blame him. She is the embodiment of everything he wants to destroy. Technically, this doesn’t change that – he knew she was Rittenhouse long ago. But not this. Not the last one. Not the princess, the reason it survived. Not the woman he loves, who – if they did have a child one day – would share his blood and that of his mortal enemy. The reason he lost his first daughter, and his wife, and everything else. No man has a responsibility to bear that.

“I’m sorry,” Lucy whispers again. “If you want – if you want space right now, I can go.” Whether just for the night, or forever, she doesn’t know. She’s burned a lot in this war by now. She can manage one more. There are only echoes and emptiness inside her anyway. “Do you want me to?”

Flynn closes his eyes as if he’s been shot. His fingers touch her cheek, incredibly tenderly, but she can feel in them that he really needs to be alone right now. Neither of them speak, and the silence towers, the ghosts gather. Then he opens his eyes, looks at her again, and without a word, he nods.