bakerstreet | —b l u r r e d

Entry tags:

[meme] shipping

—b l u r r e d—

BLURRED

For most people, the lines between platonic and romantic are very clearly drawn. Not true for you two; friendship and romance intermingle in your relationship, and to be honest, it's hard to discern where one ends and the other begins. You're bosom buddies. There's a spark between you. You're lovers, too, maybe, or it could be completely innocent. You're love interests. You're intimate, you're close, you're ride or die. You don't understand why romantic and platonic can't coexist. You don't need labels.

HOW TO PLAY

Comment with your character and preferences, i.e. no smut, etc. Feel free to include as much or as little information as you'd like.
Reply to others.
RNG for a prompt or choose your own.

PROMPTS

Since Forever: You've always been friends, ever since you were young, so this closeness is an outgrowth of that.

Natural Connection: Some people just click. You guys go together like peanut butter and jelly.

Love Everyone: At least one of you is the type to shower love and affection on everyone you meet.

No More Darkness: They drug you out of your not-so-pleasant path, so you cling to them.

Owe Them Everything: You owe them a solid. You're now more than simple friends.

No Big Deal: You don't understand romance as separated from friendship.

Cultural: Your culture doesn't discern so heavily between "lover" and "friend," a la troll society in Homestuck.

Closeness: Hugs, cuddles, and kisses, oh my!

All My Secrets Away: They know everything about you and can be there if you need help.

The Most Important Person: They're not merely a special person to you, they're The Person.

UST: Just because your relationship is unconventional doesn't mean there can't be a few unresolved issues, can it?

Intimacy: More like Friends with Benefits.

Feel More Comfortable with You: So, you kinda want to try this whole sex thing. May as well do it with the one you trust implicitly.

No One Understands Me Like You Do: In general, not many get you. But this person does and it's such a relief.

Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood: Why do people keep thinking you're a couple? Okay, by some definitions, you are, but these guys are trying to limit you!

Assisted Romance: One of you has a crush on someone outside the duo. The other is supportive...and wants to give some tips.

Want to Be More: You want to actually be official and exclusive.

Jealousy: All the attention your - well, not partner - sort-of-significant-bff has been giving other people really raises your hackles.

Unspoken: You two don't have to speak or say anything about your status; you know what you are.

Say You Love Me: ...still, you wouldn't mind hearing the l-o-v-e word.

Realization: The person you want to be with forever, maybe even in a completely romantic context, is right in front of you.

Bros Before Hos: You won't pursue or engage with someone outside the twosome because it bothers your special someone.

Upgrade: You've decided to renegotiate the terms of your relationship.

Romantic/Platonic Life Partners: No matter what happens, you guys are content to continue on as you are, even to life partner levels.

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Edited 2018-02-23 07:55 (UTC)

[ they've parked the van in a camping field this time. (the side of the road wasn't so smart, they'd learned a few nights ago, when a cop stopped by with a warning for loitering.) some of the others are tucked away in tents like little chinese lanterns guarding the main vehicle, LED lamps dimming. she and johnny stayed in the van, the cold hard steel and the smell of beer, amps at their feet, drums and bass at the side, headlights flashing in over their heads every now and then.

moiralyn frowns in her sleep. her right shoulder's cold; in her dream a ghost touches her, pulls her back from something.
she frowns deeper, says, ]

—mmjohnny. Johnny.

[ wrinkling her nose against his ear, she slowly finds consciousness and growls, tugging on a plaid bit of fabric. ]

...Johnny, stop stealing the covers.

( this isn't how johnny saw his life going, rolling along in a dingy van that barely fits them all, trying to duck the cops as much as possible, and playing in tiny no-name bars in the middle of nowhere. but as time goes on, he finds himself caring less and less about the conditions so long as moiralyn is there. sleep comes easier when he's stretched out next to her, so much so that he often often wakes up curled around her, like he can guard her from whatever the hell it is that's haunting her.

tonight is no different, even in the van. johnny doesn't jolt awake when she mumbles near his ear and tugs at the flimsy flannel blanket. instead, he instinctively shifts closer, rolls onto his side so he's facing her to sling an arm over her as if will solve how greedy he is with the covers. )

Y'gotta sleep, Moi. ( sleep slurred and too tired to try for her full name. it's just the two of them in the van. he still hasn't opened his eyes, nosing against her hair and exhaling. after a beat, his frown might even match hers. ) Shit. It's fucking cold.

[ it's been like this since they were kids. next door neighbors in the really poor pocket of town, the part where no one landscapes so the trees dip down low and you swing off the branches and you break bones but it's okay because you have each other. you make a whole world there in that pocket, away from the kids who shove you in the halls and get go-karts when they turn ten, and shiny new cars when they turn sixteen.

who needs that when you have whole universes that belong to just the two of you, throwing popcorn at the tv during tales from the crypt, discussing dreams with flashlights under the covers. falling asleep in a tangle of arms and legs.

in each universe, johnny always remains a blanket thief. ]

Was'sleep, [ she argues into his collarbone, shoving her socked toes between his, body naturally adjusting to the way he slings an arm over her, muscle memory expecting it. ] Closer, [ she insists, sliding her arms inside his hoodie. he's shivering, and she suddenly feels a bit guilty for nagging him. he's always run a little colder than her. a little more threadbare. it makes her feel protective.

moiralyn flattens her hands along his spine and presses him closer. ]

(ota.)

(We're probably not going to know each other's characters well enough to assume CR here so playing out new CR - maybe bringing in another scenario from a random scenario meme or something - would be fine, the way I play him Roland mixes platonic with romantic most of the time anyway. I'm mostly here for gen but if smut happens at some point that would be fine - I'm up for any scenario listed on this post except 17.)

[18+ characters only, please.]

m/f for ship

( for every dream johnny's had since they were kids, they've always involved moiralyn. she's part of everything, her fingerprints scattered across his passion for music, woven into his lyrics, and mapped into the very marrow of his bones. as far as he's concerned, even tucked away in this frigid van, this reality they're building is theirs and he's happy.

reality is always a far cry from intricately built universes, anyway.

but her hands are cold and he can't help the way his muscles jump when they graze over them, the tension dissipating just as quickly as it came once he does curl closer, wrapping that arm around her more securely. he's still shivering, but it's slowly easing up, their legs a tangled mess. )

M'glad you're here. ( so maybe he's still half asleep, but the sentiment is genuine. he doesn't know what he'd do without her, really. he'd gone out of town for an entire summer once when they were teenagers only to spend nearly every waking moment firing off texts to her. he never considered it a waste, but he'd missed her terribly. ) Gonna build you that tree house someday.

( and maybe, just maybe, she'll be able to feel the way his lips spread into a dumb grin against the crown of her head. )

[ moiralyn exhales on a matching dumb grin branded into the hollow of his throat, and they linger for a moment, not unlike a kiss. ]

M'glad you're glad.

[ muffled, simple, honest. not shy. this is what they do, this is what they say. these are their lyrics, the chorus, in particular. they're glad for each other. grateful for so many reasons. she thinks about that treehouse, as she observes his shivers slowly abating underneath her hands.

she thinks about the first day they met. they were five. she was up in a tree sprawling over their shared fence.
she was much higher up in that tree than any five year old had a right to be.

he hadn't looked at her funny, or called her names. so she came down.
he became her first friend.

johnny didn't look at her funny when she picked up a bluejay with a broken wing, held it, and watched it fly off again, past their neighboring rooftops. he'd opened his mouth, and then smiled at her. they stayed friends.

no one else who'd ever discovered what she could (sometimes accidentally) do ever looked at her as anything other than something to fear, even her own parents. johnny treated her like she was just moiralyn, and that in itself was a gift. he was grateful. she was grateful.

and it's fine that she doesn't have a musical bone in her body to support his dreams. that's what her brush is for. logos, band t-shirts, posters, album art. they work on this dream — it's dirty and a grind and exhausting and demoralizing and exhilarating all at once — and they do it together.

she doesn't want to be up in that tree alone. ]

And it's our treehouse, [ she corrects, into the fabric of his hoodie, ] for the record.

Edited 2018-02-24 07:53 (UTC)

[18+ only please!]

( it pulls a chuckle from johnny, airy and too pleased.

moiralyn's never been anything shy of a miracle to him. while he may have been her first friend, vic was his. it doesn't mean he doesn't remember running home after she climbed out of that tree, telling his mom he met a fairy with enough wonder in his eyes to make even tinkerbell proud.

he's never been quick to judge, not with a 'too lenient' mother and an absent father. meeting moiralyn is one of the best things to ever happen to him. when she healed that bird, it just solidified how much of a miracle she really is. funny, how he still finds her breathtaking but it's all that easier to breathe around her.

when they turned sixteen, he asked her to design a tattoo for him. she'd held his hand through it, the first time, as it was etched into his skin, directly over his heart. he'd said something sappy then, something like wherever i go, you'll be with me, but he'd nudged her to lighten the mood, even laughed a little.

as if he'd ever willingly go somewhere for a prolonged period of time without her.

he hums, quiet and low, considers the treehouse, thinks about everything it'd come with. he wants better for moiralyn and his mom, better than that shitty part of town they fought to grow and thrive in. they deserve the world. )

Does that come with a picket fence, Moi?

[ talking treehouses, dabbling over dreams, it always perks her up. sleep becomes a mantle that falls down from her shoulders, hangs loosely about her elbows, saved for later. moiralyn picks her head up, careful not to clock johnny on the chin; instead, she rests hers there, atop his, pretending to think.

they've come up with so many designs, depending on their mood. her smile is sly as she peers down at him. ]

Mmmmm— a black one, with dripping purple tips, like teeth. [ her smile widens. ] Purple dragon teeth.

[ she bites lightly at his neck to demonstrate the dragon's ferocity. he's plagued by all the things he wishes he could do, and give, and how vulnerable it makes him to the world.

wherever you go, i'll be with you.
she's the dragon who will protect him. ]

( there's nothing else in the world like looking at moiralyn in the dark of night, what light from the moon that manages to make it through dingy windows casting a glow around her, a halo. her smile is bright, sharp, and he can't hold back the quiet bubble of laughter that escapes him because of it.

maybe it isn't so different from the universes they built as kids.

laughter mellows to a grin and he lets out a breath when her teeth find his neck, raising his hand to thread fingers in her hair, gentle. )

Guess I'm gonna have to give you a house to match, huh. ( it isn't really a question — he'd lay the world at her feet given ample opportunity. he isn't a kid anymore. he knows what that means. )

[ her heart actually pauses as those words whisper their way past her ear, fingertips winding through her hair on the downbeat of that line. that muscle in the center of her chest... constricts, and along with it, her throat tightens. she knows she has to wait to speak, or her words will sound damp around the edges, and neither of them needs that.

after she's able to swallow at least twice, she replies quietly against his throat, ghost lips on real boy skin: ]

I don't need a house, Johnny. [ her fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt under his hoodie, something in it fond but stubborn. ] I don't even need one in a tree.

[ moiralyn pushes herself carefully up onto one elbow so she can look down at him. she knows she's frowning just a bit, and she tries not to, but she just... means it so much. ]

I could live the rest of my life crammed in this van with you and be happy. Couldn't you?

[ he doesn't have to give her anything else. he's already given her the entire world.
he gave her him. ]

Edited 2018-02-26 07:45 (UTC)

( it's a toe over the edge of something unspoken and johnny has to focus on the cadence of moiralyn's breathing to steady himself. maybe it's the quiet of the night, the small steel shell of the van, but if he let himself, he could fool himself into believing they're the only people in the world. the tents littered outside feel more like a distant memory, far off islands outside of their own.

moiralyn doesn't need a house or even a treehouse, johnny knows it before she says it. but looking up at her, so real and good, something in him aches to give her everything she never asked for. she deserves it, the world. she deserves more than that, lifetimes upon lifetimes more.

( his mother does too, of course, but it's an entirely different animal. )

she may manage to sidestep the damp swell in her voice, but johnny doesn't. he has to swallow it down, voice strained as he slips his fingers from her hair enough to graze the pad of his thumb against the rise of her cheek. )

I'm already happy. ( he can feel his heart in his throat, the beat of it combating against the need to keep his breathing even. ) But I want to give you somewhere you can build your dreams, Moi. You deserve that. You deserve so much, I—

( could never give you all of it, is what almost makes its way out, but johnny has to stop himself, gaze searching. moiralyn's always been a miracle. he's just a guy. )

It's impossible for me not to be happy with you.

[ moonlight catches in the glassiness of his eyes; they glow, and she can feel hers start to burn just a little because whatever he does, she reflects. when he's wounded, she aches. when he's alone, she feels adrift. when he's brimming over with happiness, she feels like a fucking shooting star, and when he loves, she... ]

I don't know what I deserve, [ she muses, leaning into his hand, gathering each detail of his features exaggerated in shadow and folding them away, ] but I know what I want. What I have.

[ she can feel a trembling behind her ribs as they look at each other, speaking words without bigger words behind them. knowing and not knowing. her bones are the cage her heart beats against, and the rhythm is woeful and wild with the purgatory of their own choosing.

but you don't break fragile, precious things. you tend to them. you care for them.

the way she tends to johnny's face gently with her fingertips, closes his eyes by the lashes. ]

I already have somewhere I build my dreams.

[ moiralyn trails her hand down his neck to the center of his chest, stops there, places the palm down flat, soft, sure. ]

Somewhere warm, and safe. It's a place I trust.

( johnny's a creature of wanting — wanting more than the shithole part of town they're from for his mom and for moiralyn, more than just scraping by to the point motel 6 looks like the taj mahal. it's moments like these, when her touch is achingly gentle and he can feel the weight of her palm over his chest that it pulls it into perspective, how much his world centers around her.

how he'd burn it to cinders to keep her safe, to keep her dreams safe. he'll always be that little boy looking up at her in that tree, wonder and awe alike coloring his features. maybe a small part of him is still waiting for her to outgrow him.

with his eyes closed, his world feels that much smaller and he's afraid he's going to say something stupid to shatter this illusion they've built up between them. letting his hand fall away from her cheek, he rests it over hers, not to keep it there, but to focus on the warmth of her. )

Right next to mine, huh. ( his voice is low, rough, and his eyes are still closed. with a breath, he can feel his heart stutter out of beat for a moment before it steadies itself and he opens his eyes, looking up at her and taking the sight of her in again. ) I guess that's fitting. None of my dreams would be complete without you.

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—b l u r r e d—

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