#note that these are all the kind of people who collectively lose their braincells once they are sharing a room

[char-writes]

Either Elysia or Oleander. Elysia has the advantage of having experienced several disasters before, and she's definitely able to keep her cool throughout another one. Oleander also has little panic in a crisis because he's been cursed before, so he understands proper perspective on things. I might say Elysia's better than Oleander if only because Oleander's priorities can get skewed if someone he cares about is directly involved. Not that Elysia doesn't have people she cares about (a thing that does get explored) but she has a history of being able to make sacrifices. Unfortunately.

Cylindra would simply overthink and/or panic. Faye has an interesting view on life which means that she might just let the crisis continue to happen if she can find more pros than cons. I would not trust either of those two to help me with anything.

which oc would be the best in a crisis? 

[max-is-tired]

Pull you in (’cause you don’t judge me)

Pairings: established Themus, brotherly Intrulogical, established Roceit (mentioned), pining Analogical (mentioned)

Characters: Remus Sanders, character Thomas, Logan Sanders, the others are mentioned

Words: 2.130

Warnings: swearing, rude consumer, feeling insecure

Notes: man writing this just made me fall completely in love with the pairing jksdcnsj @figurative-siren-song back at it again making me fall for new ships. anyway I might,,, write an Analogical companion piece to this because I love them, so look out for that one I guess? I hope you guys like it!!

Commission me!!  Buy me a coffee!!  Join my Discord server!!  AO3!!

Remus had been very excited about his weekly trip to the bookstore. Usually, he went there to wander around the different sections and bother Logan, or to help around the store when they happened to be understaffed -he may enjoy wreaking havoc and making his oldest brother lose whatever braincell he’d managed to keep, but if Logan called for his help then his help he was going to get.

Besides, Remus loved the bookstore. It was small, modest, almost hidden between the tall, imposing buildings that surrounded it. But for those who were familiar with the store, it was often described as a little slice of peace from the bustling chaos of the city. Most of its consumers were regulars that Logan had managed to collect throughout the years, people who just wanted a break from the frenzy of everyday life and enjoy a good book and maybe a few pastries in the silence the place provided.

In hindsight, connecting the shop to the neighboring bakery had been quite the good call for Logan to make, even if Remus knew very well the snarky, take-no-shit server had played his part in the decision -Logan may be a lot of things, but subtle was not one of them. The twins had had a bet going on for years about who of the two would break and kiss the other senseless first, so now it was only a matter of waiting.

Point was! Remus always enjoyed his weekly trips to Logan’s bookstore, loved stepping into the shop and lose himself into the words dancing under his eyes. Today, however, he was even more excited than usual, because the new book from his favorite horror had finally come out and Logan had called him just a few hours before to confirm they’d received the books to sell.

So yeah, Remus had been vibrating in excitement the entire morning, drawing a fond smile out of his boyfriend as Thomas pointedly moved the coffee pot as far away from him as he could.

And now there he was, pushing the door open as he skipped inside the bookstore with the biggest grin on his face. Logan smiled back at him from the counter, checking out one of the clients as his brother approached.

“So? Where is it??” Remus asked, leaning forward over the counter and wiggling his mustache.

“Why, salutations to you as well, Remus,” Logan answered, rolling his eyes in fond exasperation as he gently pushed his brother back towards the other side of the counter, “I am well, thank you for asking.”

“Come ooooon! You know I hate small talk, and you’re keeping me from my one true love, some good horror shit!”

“Someone should inform Thomas of that, then,” Logan shot back, an amused smirk tugging at his lips as he gestured towards the inside of the bookstore. “Your book is in the ‘new releases�� section’, just behind that shelf. You can’t miss it, I assure you.”

Remus let out an excited squeal, shooting a quick thank you to his brother before rushing towards the indicated area. And sure enough, there it was, in all of its glory -cover as black as Thomas’ coffee in the mornings, with small, almost invisible green details around the title and the ominous figure decorating it.

Oh, Remus was already in love.

Without missing a beat, Remus bolted forward, grabbing one of the volumes displayed. He stared at it for a few moments, admiring the way the green details shone under the artificial light of the shop, before turning the book around to read the synopsis. And oh, did he like what he was reading -this book was prefacing itself to be a goodie, and Remus simply could not wait to get home and get started on his reading.

Excited as he was, however, he had failed to notice the woman staring disdainfully at him from the other side of the aisle, holding a child close to herself as she glared daggers at the grinning man. Once it was clear Remus wasn’t going to notice her glare though, she decided to switch to more… noisy ways of making her opinion known.

“I will never understand how people enjoy that kind of crap,” she commented rather loudly, her words easily reaching Remus’ ears. Confused, the man looked up, finally noticing the lady staring at him.

“It’s gross and messed up,” she kept talking, not even hiding the way she was directing her comments to the book Remus was holding so dearly.

The boy at her side tugged at his mom’s pants, looking up at her with wide eyes. “Why, mom? That cover is so pretty, it shines green!”

The woman -Karen, Remus mentally decided to call her as he held the book close to his chest- scowled, holding the kid just a little bit tighter.

“Because those books are written by deranged people, and only someone just as deranged could ever enjoy them.”

Remus couldn’t quite hide his wince at those words, holding the book in his hands just a little bit tighter. Usually, those kinds of comments didn’t bother him much, but he’d been so excited about the new release that hearing someone bash it to the ground like that felt pretty much like someone stomping repeatedly on his heart before throwing it at his face.

Thankfully, it seemed like he at least wouldn’t have to deal with that woman much more.

“If that really is your opinion, then I am afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave the store and never come back,” came Logan’s cool voice from behind them, making everyone turn around to look at him.

“Excuse me?!” the woman exclaimed, looking downright scandalized.

“What, are you going to kick me out only because I’m not afraid to say the truth? I want to talk to your manager right now!”

Logan simply arched an eyebrow, looking absolutely unfazed. “I am the manager and the owner of this establishment, Karen, so I am afraid you’re out of luck here.”

“It’s Jennifer, young man, and I don’t appreciate the tone you’re using right now! If this is how you treat your consumers, then I promise you I’ll never come back here again!”

“Jennifer, Karen, same thing,” Logan shot back, “and thank the stars for that, I wouldn’t want the likes of you in my store anyway. Now, please leave the premises immediately before I decide to escort you out myself.”

And off Karen went, huffing the whole way as her son did his best to follow along. Logan let out a sigh, immediately turning around to focus on his brother.

“Hey, you okay?” he asked, tone strangely soft as he laid a hand on his shoulder. Remus took in a shuddering breath, managing to give Logan a small smile.

“Yeah, don’t worry about it,” he answered, choosing to ignore the sudden churning of his stomach and the heavy weight he could feel pressing on his chest.

“I will always worry about you, you moron,” Logan said. “You should go home, I think being with Thomas would be very beneficial for your mood. We’re still on for that dinner tomorrow, yes? I believe Roman is bringing over that Janus boy he’s been seeing, so you can bring your boyfriend too, if you so wish.”

“We’ll be there, you whale penis,” Remus confirmed, his smile turning a little more genuine. “And what about you, bringing anyone to the dinner? Maybe a certain emo cutie from Pat’s bakery?”

The younger did not miss the way Logan’s cheeks had immediately turned a shade darker at his words, nor the way he was not pointedly avoiding his gaze.

“I believe that is none of your concern, Remus,” Logan said, coughing into his elbow to clear his throat. “Now go to your boyfriend, and bring that book with you.”

“I still need to pay you, Specs,” Remus pointed out.

“You can pay me whenever,” Logan waved him off, adjusting his glasses up his nose. “It’s not like we don’t see each other on a regular basis.”

“Alright, alright,” Remus conceded a small laugh escaping his lips. “You made your point, I’m going. Thank you, Lo.”

Logan smiled at his brother, patting him on the shoulder. “Of course, Remus, anytime.”

+++

When Remus had skipped his way out of the front door that afternoon, Thomas had been very much aware he might as well not see his boyfriend again before dinner -knowing Remus, he’d let himself linger in the bookstore even longer, but Logan was very precise when it came to closing hours and was very much not above dragging his brother out of the store against his will.

The dude may be scrawny as heck, but after dealing with the twins’ bullshit his whole life he was far too used to these kinds of things.

Point was, Thomas had decided to use the afternoon to his advantage and clean up the flat a little, from sweeping the floor to cleaning the dishes and throwing out the trash. He’d felt strangely productive, so he’d decided to make the most of it.

He had just settled himself on the couch with a good cup of tea and a book when he heard the front door open again, his eyes moving automatically to the clock hanging from the wall of the living room.

Huh, it was still relatively early. Thomas frowned, listening as Remus shrugged off his coat and kicked off his shoes -had something happened back at the bookstore?

All it took was for Thomas to see Remus’ expression when he finally entered the room and yup, something was definitely wrong there.

“Hey,” he said, his voice soft as he stood to greet his boyfriend with a hug. “You okay, big guy?”

“I am now,” Remus answered, sagging completely into Thomas’ embrace and nuzzling his face into the crook of his neck.

Thomas simply hummed, letting himself enjoy the contact for a few seconds before guiding them both back to the couch. Carefully, they sat down, never quite breaking out of the hug as Remus ended up sprawled on top of his boyfriend.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Thomas asked, raising a hand to gently card his fingers through Remus’ hair.

Remus’ answered with a sigh, basically melting as his boyfriend gently scratched at his scalp -he reminded Thomas of a cat. A feral, chaotic cat who also happened to be cuddly as heck.

“Just the classic Karen bitch talking shit about books that don’t conform to her idea of proper,” Remus finally grumbled, not even bothering to raise his head out of where it was pressed into Thomas’ neck.

“Ah,” Thomas said, visibly wincing -he knew exactly what type of person Remus was talking about, and he also knew just how nasty their comments could be. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that, Rem. It sucks.”

“Tell me about it,” Remus chuckled, humming as Thomas left a kiss on the side of his head. “I got my book though, so I’m counting that as a win. Also, Logan invited both of us to dinner tonight, so there’s that.”

“Good to know,” Thomas chuckled, mulling something in his head for a few seconds before speaking again. “Would you read that book to me? Like, out loud?”

Remus stilled, pushing back a little to look at Thomas with a confused frown. “It’s a horror novel.”

“Yeah, I’m aware of that,” Thomas nodded, an amused smile dancing on his lips.

“You hate horror, it makes you anxious,” Remus pressed on.

Thomas hummed, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

“That’s true, yeah,” he finally conceded, “but it’s a book, so it probably won’t be as bad as a horror movie or show. And besides, you’ve been really excited about this, and I want to share some of that excitement with you.”

Remus looked down at him for a few seconds, looking almost surprised, before a small, soft smile tugged at his lips.

“You’re a sap,” he chuckled, leaning down to steal a kiss, “but you’re my sap, so I’m not complaining. Promise you’ll tell me the moment you feel uncomfortable with the story?”

Thomas nodded, pushing his head up a little to steal another kiss. “I will, I swear.”

It still took them a while to get to the book, spending quite a few minutes exchanging small kisses and a few ushed laughs. At some point though, Remus did reach for the tome he had left lying on the coffee table, settling himself comfortably onto Thomas’ chest as he opened it to the first page.

“There was something utterly terrifying about ghost towns.”

Thomas let out a relaxed sigh, letting Remus’ voice wash over him. He really could get used to this.

[doomsteady]

Look Again - ch2

WIP! bi!John/ace!Sherlock, Friends to Lovers. Explicit. Will be posted on AO3 when it’s done.

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Ch 2

It was thanks to Sherlock’s encyclopedic knowledge of London that their pursuers quickly lost sight of them through the labyrinth of back-alleys and side streets. With one last check to make sure they weren’t still being followed, they slowed to a brisk stroll as they headed back in the direction of Baker Street.

It was late now. The streets were dark, empty save for the occasional drunkard wobbling his way home from a pub crawl. Still struggling to catch their breaths, John and Sherlock shared one glance before they broke into exhausted laughter, high on the thrill of the chase.

“I can’t believe they didn’t notice us double back on them,” John said, shaking his head in disbelief. His earlier embarrassment had cooled to a low simmer in his gut, displaced as it was by the much more urgent matter of their escape.

“Idiots,” Sherlock agreed, a smug grin on his face as he shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. “They really thought they had us. You’d think the criminal classes would have learnt to stop underestimating us by now, no?”

John huffed a laugh at his feet. “I think that’s giving them a little too much credit. And it’s you they’re underestimating. I’d say their estimation of me is pretty on-point.”

Sherlock stared ahead as they walked, seemingly lost in his thoughts. He looked every bit as perfectly Sherlock Holmes as he ever did, the unflappable git. For all that he’d been shoved into a cramped car boot and then spent the past ten minutes fleeing a gang of armed thugs through the streets, Sherlock seemed to have some magical ability to remain almost entirely unruffled. His clothes had straightened themselves, and his hair looked tousled, but no moreso than it did that morning when he’d purposefully styled it that way. Nor did he seem at all phased by what had happened between them in the boot.

But John was having far greater difficulty letting it go. The night air was cooling his sweat-damp skin, raising goosebumps as he zipped up his denim jacket to ward off the chill. With his pulse calming back into something resembling its normal rhythm, he was just now noticing how badly he needed a shower. He felt like a mess, and not just in terms of the one he’d created in his pants.

He was already sensing the change in his mind, even as he tried desperately to deny it. Before today, he’d always been able to compartmentalise his feelings for Sherlock. The man was his best friend. Platonic or not, this was the most important relationship in his life. They had killed for each other, and both knew the other was willing to die for them, and none of it hinged on some vague hope or the promises of a deeper, more intimate connection waiting somewhere on the distant horizon. They didn’t need it; they were already soulmates.

There had been a time, right back in the beginning, when John had dared to have those hopes. Perhaps because at that time, he had no idea how important Sherlock would become to him. Sherlock was his closest and most treasured friend, too important to lose, and now it was unthinkable that he would risk what they had in the pursuit of something more.

Fantasies be damned: Real life wasn’t always perfect, but it was at least real. There was no point in pining after the unattainable.

John had never been a selfish man; he was grateful for whatever life deemed fit to gift his way. And anyway, Sherlock managed to be an endlessly fascinating friend. He was everything John could ever ask for in a companion that would, in all likelihood, be with him for life anyway. John found he could live with that quite easily, in the end— just being near to him, caught in the orbit of his celestial gravity. Always up close. Always from afar.

Even though he never really did stop finding Sherlock attractive in that way, he kept such thoughts under careful guard, ever considerate of his friend’s feelings. Never once did he let them dictate their interactions, no matter how enticing those ideas had occasionally been. That’s how it always was, and how it always was meant to be.

But now, he was struggling to remember how that had ever been possible. Glancing up at Sherlock’s moon-struck profile, his heart twisted beneath his ribs; the man was beautiful. A figure cut from marble, all sharp angles and long, smooth surfaces. John looked at him now and saw him in all the ways that screamed this is not how people look at their platonic friends, and he could no longer help it. One sultry glance from Sherlock right then would have brought John fully hard again in seconds.

That tamped down flame of desire burned brighter than ever now, and it troubled him. They walked together in silence, John’s mind turning over and over with increasingly dire conclusions about his rekindled attraction, and it wasn’t until Sherlock stopped short and caught John’s arm that his focus snapped back to the present.

“John. Stop.” John turned to look at him, and that was a mistake. Sherlock’s uncharacteristically open expression told John everything he didn’t want to know about the conversation they were about to have.

“Leave it. It’s fine,” John said, looking away. “Let’s just go home. Alright?”

Sherlock pressed his lips thin, a crease deepening between his brows. “You’re worrying about what happened. In the boot.” It wasn’t a question, but John shook his head anyway. “You think I’ll think differently of you. Judge you badly for it? I can assure you, John, that there is absolutely nothing to be—”

“That’s not.” John stepped away from him, turned his face away. He couldn’t do this right now. “That’s not what… I’m just. It was embarrassing. Okay? That’s all. I don’t want to talk about it. Please can we not talk about it?”

John could feel those piercing eyes boring into his back, and it only agitated him further. The last thing he wanted in that vulnerable moment was to be flayed open by Sherlock’s merciless observations. But after a moment, he heard Sherlock release a quiet breath.

“Alright,” he said, as if soothing a frightened colt, “Alright. I won’t mention it again.”

He resumed along their path, allowing John to fall into step beside him, grateful for the opportunity to regroup himself. The next time Sherlock spoke, he sounded almost genuinely spirited. “Shall we pick up some chips on the way home? That little place down Audley should still be open this time of night, I think.”

The automatic ‘no thanks’ was on the tip of his tongue, but John swallowed it, his throat suddenly tight. He knew Sherlock was just trying to cheer him up. An offer of chips should not be so endearing, but the idea of Sherlock willingly dropping a loose thread and attending to John’s needs spoke volumes about how much the man cared for him. His curiosity over the subject hadn’t abated, John knew, but he was making an effort to move them past it. That, at least, deserved some sort of a reward.

He forced a nod and a smile. “Yeah, okay. Let’s go get chips.”

Sherlock watched as John speared a chip with his plastic fork and blew a cooling stream of air onto the steaming morsel. Gripping it cautiously between his teeth before drawing it back onto his tongue, John’s stormcloud expression brightened minutely at the burst of flavour. It was a gratifying sign. Sherlock’s stomach did a little flip at the improvement.

For as long as he could remember, Sherlock had never concerned himself with trying to appease the people who attempted to call themselves his ‘friends’. Most, he observed, hung around him only for the simple convenience his deductive abilities provided. It certainly wasn’t for his charming personality.

In university, his classmates made sure to include him only up to a point where they could copy his notes and borrow his brain for their assignments. He was more human calculator than social equal, but he allowed it, because as shallow and self-serving as it was, some sad part of him had always thrived on the praise of others. Even now, the Yarders kept on tenuously amiable terms with him, only because they had too many murders to solve and not enough braincells between them to accomplish it.

John was different.

It was hard to pin down the reason John accepted him so readily, but it was nothing like the kind of selfishness others so frequently used him for. John hadn’t anything he would consider ‘valuable’ to gain by staying by Sherlock’s side— on the contrary, sometimes merely the fact of their acquaintance put John in considerable danger.

On the surface, John was an unremarkable man. In the months before meeting Sherlock, his life had been following the time-old script of the soldier returned home from war, injured and struggling to rediscover his place in common society. Had it not been for his limp, it would have been so easy to overlook him, to dismiss him off-hand as not worthy of a second glance.

But, that limp told a different story, a story spoken only in the subtext of his age-worn features. Psychosomatic. A traumatic injury, something laden with guilt. A friend had died, perhaps while John was still working to staunch the flow of blood, to keep him conscious just a few minutes more until help could arrive.

His friend had died. John had blamed himself for it, and Sherlock could tell, just by the look in his eyes, that he would have given anything to take his place on the sand.

When Sherlock looked again, he saw not just a lonely, suicidal Army medic with a shoulder injury and a deathwish, but a man brimming with untold secrets and endless, fascinating potential. John Watson was a man whose outward appearances belied a secret myriad of inner qualities.

What was it, then, that drew them together so inexorably?

From the first day they had met, Sherlock had dedicated a not-insubstantial corner of his Mind Palace to the collection and aggregation of every bit of data he could glean about his new friend John. From the exact fabric composition of his fluffy jumpers, to how often brand new crow’s feet would etch themselves into the lines of his eyes— it seemed the subject of John could never bore him, and more often than not, the man regularly found new ways to surprise him.

For the first time in his life, Sherlock found himself grasping for excuses to keep someone in his life, rather than push them away. Luckily for him, it had taken very little persuasion to have John pack up his meagre belongings, leave his dour little bedsit and move into Baker Street with him.

Nowadays, Sherlock couldn’t picture him living anywhere else.

That same man sat across from him now in the tiny chip shop, staring thoughtfully into his plate of chips as he chewed. Inside his brain, Sherlock knew, troublesome thoughts were swirling, grating, distracting him. He knew it was something about what happened in the boot of that car. But it couldn’t be such a simple thing as embarrassment, could it? That simply didn’t make any sense.

John was a soldier. He was also a doctor. He’d been to war, had men die in his arms. He was not a squeamish man. Natural bodily functions didn’t phase him, not usually. Not in the time Sherlock had known him, and he had shown John a great many mutilated corpses during their time together.

So then why was this bothering him? His body had responded as any normal human male would. Surely John knew that, so why was he suddenly behaving as if he’d crossed some uncrossable line, or revealed too much about himself?

Was there any truth in those observations? It was merely intuition, but Sherlock found himself at a loss, bereft of further data to expand upon any theory that presented itself. His friend, always such an open book to him, had suddenly closed himself off, as if Sherlock’s gaze could accidentally spark at some brittle part of him and set his entire, fragile inner world ablaze.

Sherlock wanted nothing more than to reach over and open his skull, peer inside and discover the cause of his uncharacteristic quiescence. But whatever it was, John didn’t want to discuss it. He’d said it, to Sherlock’s annoyance, in no uncertain terms.

It was tempting to ignore his wishes, to pick and pry at it, pull at the thread until the whole problem unravelled. Sherlock could get to the bottom of it, he knew. He could help, somehow. There would be something he could do, something he could say to make the whole thing go away. But John would probably appreciate that even less.

So he simply watched.

John lifted another chip to his mouth, his eyes flicking up to catch Sherlock’s across the table. Paused. Looked away, lowering his fork again. Shifted in his seat.

A moment later, Sherlock’s patience was rewarded.

“I’m about done with these. Sure you don’t want any?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“’Kay.” He cleared his throat. Stalling for time, or perhaps searching for the right words? “Sex always gives me an appetite.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to fidget, caught out by the unexpected admission. John seemed to hear the echo of his own words a moment later. His head flew up, eyes wide as he fumbled to correct himself. “Not that— That wasn’t— I just mean—”

“For God’s sakes, John. I knew what you meant.” Sherlock fought a losing battle against the smile tugging at the corners of his lips. John could be so adorable at times. “Anyway, I thought you didn’t want to talk about it.”

“I don’t,” John said, pushing his plate away.

It was nearing midnight when they exited the chip shop. The night chill had properly set in. Fortunately, home was just a few minutes walk from here. “I ‘spose it just seems… unfair,” John continued, apropos of nothing.

“What does?”

“That I ended up in that state, while you… I mean. You didn’t even.”

He waited. A minute later, it seemed John had given up his train of thought. Sherlock couldn’t bear to leave it. “Didn’t even what?”

“You didn’t even get hard!”

John’s voice rang out loud in the street. On the opposite pavement, a lone passer-by glanced their way, giving them an odd look. Sherlock glared at her until she had passed.

Frustrated and upset by his own outburst, John’s pace picked up considerably. Sherlock, with his long legs, easily kept pace with him. Now that John was opening up a little, he was not about to let this go easily. “That’s what’s bothering you?” he asked, not trying to hide the bewilderment in his voice. “That I didn’t get an erection?”

“No!” John cried. “No, just… Alright, yes. Yes. But not for the reason you’re probably thinking.”

“I can’t think of any reason.”

John huffed a tired, defeated laugh. They were at their front door. He fished the keys out of his jacket pocket, making quick work of the lock. Sherlock quietly followed him inside.

John shucked his jacket in the hallway as Sherlock hovered, enrapt by the unfolding drama, at his elbow. Could he really be blamed? He got excited at the sight of corpses, and this, whatever it was, was no more pleasant but equally as fascinating to him. It was something new about John, something unexpected, and Sherlock wanted nothing more than to understand it inside and out.

Upstairs, stepping into their flat, John was still quiet. Sherlock decided to try prompting him.

“You realise there’s a height difference between us,” he said, matter-of-factly. “There was little friction being applied on my end of the equation. And even if there were, you weren’t in the correct position to feel any evidence of it.”

John settled on the couch and scrubbed his hands over his eyes. “Yeah. Of course, that makes sense.”

Quiet again. Sherlock pursed his lips. In for a penny…

“Not that there would have been such evidence, either way.”

A flicker of confusion crossed John’s face. He looked up, meeting Sherlock’s eye. His Adam’s Apple bobbed as he swallowed once. Twice. Sherlock could see multiple conclusions being drawn and discarded behind his eyes from the simple statement. Eventually he said, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sherlock lifted one laconic shoulder and dropped into his leather chair by the hearth. It seemed the only way he would be able to tease out John’s secrets would be by revealing some of his own. It was a fair trade, he supposed, for a topic so personal.

“It means that I don’t feel things that way,” he said. “It would take a lot more than a few minutes of frotting, if it ever happened. Mostly, I just find that sort of contact… uncomfortable.”

He wasn’t prepared for the creeping horror that spread across John’s face as the words sank in.

Oh, he thought, a cold panic rising up his spine like a wave of frost. Was that… Not Good?

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