#flashbang event

[sandcobangevent]

Missing you comes in waves (and tonight I'm drowning)

by @jonk-md and @glitterymumfriend

“Wait – wait, no, shit-” John scrambled for his phone, almost dropping it in his rush to activate the screen. Staring back at him was confirmation that it was 11:56am on Friday, 18th September.

His dad’s birthday was 17th September.

He’d forgotten his dad’s birthday.

He couldn’t believe it. He forgot. He forgot.

Distantly, he could hear Mariana calling his name, feel Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder. But he couldn’t do anything but stare at his phone screen until it went dark again, guilt pooling in the pit of his stomach.

He felt his lips moving, was vaguely aware of himself telling them he needed to call his mum. They might have said something in response, but John walked away in a daze, absently dialling Carol Watson’s phone number.

-

“Don’t be silly, Johnny love! It’s alright, I know how busy you are with that charming detective of yours.”

“I just- I’m really sorry, mum.”

“Nonsense! I was fine – I had a grand old time at the bingo with the girls, they kept me company. Speaking of, would you believe that Annie’s youngest has gotten herself engaged? Annie wouldn’t stop going off on one about the ring not being the right cut of diamond but frankly if that’s her only complaint it must have been a stunner, you know what she’s like-”

John hummed non-committally, shuffling things around his desk as he listened to his mum fill him in on all the gossip. Usually he’d have cut her off, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it this time.

He already felt like he’d failed her, once again.

After a while, she trailed off, wrapping up the tale of how Mr Prescott’s dog had gone for the milkman again. “You still there, love?”

“Yeah, yeah I- sorry. I’m still here. That sounds lovely, mum.”

She was silent for a moment, before he heard her sigh. “John, lovely, it’s OK. It’s been over 20 years since he passed on. You don’t need to check in on your old mum every year, I promise. I miss him – I always will – but I stopped grieving for him before you flew out to Afghanistan that first time. Was too busy worrying over you instead!” she joked. Her voice sounded a little wobbly, and John felt even worse.

He forced a chuckle in response, reaching out to idly run his fingers over the top of the framed photos on his desk.

“Don’t go fretting about it like you always do. I know how much you get stuck in that head of yours – don’t do it now. Go talk to Sherlock and Mariana, head out for a pint or something and enjoy your day.”

“Alright, mum. Take care.”

“You too, Johnny – love you!”

“Love you too.”

The line disconnected, and John dropped his phone on the desk with a sigh, slumping into the chair and placing his head in his hands. He did his best to focus on what his mum had said – that she was OK, that he shouldn’t worry himself – but he couldn’t shake the shame.

The feeling that he’d failed her. Failed both of them.

John Watson didn’t leave his room for some time.

-

He knew the others were concerned about him, but he couldn’t bring himself to talk about it. How did he admit to his two best friends that he’d completely forgotten his dead dad’s birthday, all because he was selfishly occupied with the podcast? That he’d not had the wherewithal to message his mum, even once, on the day?

That on top of all of the guilt and shame, he still missed his dad even after 25 years?

It was as if he’d plunged into an ice-cold lake the moment he’d seen the date. Like he’d been wandering along the surface, blissfully unaware until the once-solid floor had given way to murky water. He could make out the light from the surface above him, but everything felt distant and fuzzy, thoughts overruled by the fight-or-flight panic over an inability to breathe.

He doubted they’d be harsh with him – they were both far too good people to kick someone whilst they were down. But a small part of him, one that was surprised whenever people chose to stay, chose him, was too scared of risking it.

He played it off as tiredness, though he was fairly sure neither of them were convinced. But they were, as previously stated, good people, and didn’t push him on it. Instead they fussed from a distance, placing a cup of tea on the coffee table next to him without asking, or putting an old match re-run on in the background as they got on with their individual activities in the evening.

Hell, Sherlock had even complimented him about his idea of luring the murderers to 221B again.

As much as the quiet affection from the others warmed him, however, it was underpinned by a swell of guilt each time. That voice in the back of his mind told him that he didn’t deserve the care and attention. He’d been an awful son to both of his parents, and was wallowing in self-pity and keeping the truth of it a secret like a coward.

He tried to contest it – his mum had said herself that she was fine, and that he shouldn’t beat himself up over it. But every time he tried to remember that – to cling to it as if it were a rope – the self-loathing twined around his legs even further, pulling him deeper to the point where he was starting to lose sight of the surface.

He was almost relieved when he made it to bedtime and was able to hide away in his room again without being questioned. Perhaps he just needed a night to process things, and he’d be a bit more level-headed on how to resolve it all when he woke up?

He should have known it wouldn’t be that simple.

-

He was at his early 10th birthday again, and his dad was in goal. He aimed, kicked, and watched in excitement as the ball just skimmed past his dad into goal. He’d scored!

But when he turned his attention to his dad again to brag about it, something was wrong. His dad’s mouth was moving, but he… couldn’t hear it.

He couldn’t hear his dad’s voice.

What did it sound like again? Was his voice on the higher end of the register like his, or deeper like Sherlock’s? Was there an accent?

He couldn’t hear his dad’s voice.

His appearance was the next to go. Between one blink and the next, he couldn’t remember the colour of his dad’s eyes any more. His features started blurring, fading away one by one. His hair, the shirt he’d been wearing, how tall he’d been.

Panicked, John reached out, flinging himself forwards to grasp at the figure that had replaced his father between the goalposts. It was too late, however – as his hand went to make contact, it passed through as if cutting through smoke, the edges of it curling up and away from him.

The form of Harry Watson dissipated.

He was gone, and John had no memory to cling to.

A distant sobbing noise caught his attention, and he wheeled around to see his mother. Not as she’d been back then – how she’d looked when he’d last seen her. He tried to go to her, but she took a step back, her bloodshot eyes meeting his as she scowled at him.

“How could you?!” she screamed at him, cheeks soaked by tears and hands clenched to her chest, “How could you forget him? How could you leave me?”

“Mum-”

She didn’t hear him. Instead, she turned and stalked away, out of the garden and into the distance. He tried to follow her, but he couldn’t move his legs. He tried to call after her, but when he opened his mouth no sound escaped.

Like his father, Carol Watson faded away.

Like his mother, John Watson was abandoned.

He was alone.

-

He didn’t come to awareness with a yell, the way he often did with night terrors.

Instead, John woke quietly, tears streaming down his face onto the pillow and chest aching with loss.

Once he realised it had been a dream, he climbed out of bed, turning on the desk lamp and reaching for the photo of his dad. He stared at it, taking in every minute detail as the memory – his actual memory – flooded back again. His dad’s eyes were hazel, like his. He’d been wearing his Star Wars t-shirt and shorts on the day, and his voice when he’d praised John for his penalty skills had been warm and slightly nasal.

Overwhelmed by the sheer relief that he still remembered, John’s body shook as he began to sob. He hugged the photo frame to his chest, biting his lip in an attempt to be quiet so as not to disturb Sherlock the next room over.

He felt like he was still drowning in that ice-water lake, still trying to claw his way to the surface but unable to. The same trapped feeling from his nightmare bled into his waking mind, leaving him powerless to do anything but cry as his thoughts spiralled.

He’d remembered this time, but what if he woke up another night and didn’t? He didn’t have any videos of his dad – his mum had never been able to afford a video camera when he was younger, all they had were disposable camera photos.

And his mum – he knew she’d put on a brave face often enough when he was a kid, both when his dad had been deployed and after he’d passed. She’d been inconsolable when the news first reached them – the neighbours had come over to look after them both once they’d heard Harry Watson had died – but she’d fought to keep herself together for him in the weeks, months that followed.

What if she had been putting that mask back on again to protect his feelings when she’d told him she was OK? He was torn between the urge to take the next train to Swindon to see her and the worry that if he did so, his fear that she was actually suffering would be confirmed.

He felt exhausted, and curled back up on the bed with the photo frame still gripped tight. The murky depths of his emotions dragged him under, and he fell asleep feeling like he’d never be warm again.

-

His lack of proper sleep was impossible to hide that next morning, and the concern from the others was even more palpable. John could barely make himself respond to anything, unable to even try and muster up a laugh as Archie rolled off the sofa whilst asleep.

Eventually, Mariana couldn’t take it any longer.

“OK, that’s it – what’s going on, John? You called your mum yesterday - is she OK?”

John swallowed, equally relieved and anxious that the topic was coming up. He took a steadying breath before responding, trying to twitch his lips into a facsimile of a smile.

“Yeah, she’s fine,” he replied, “Talked my ear off about Tockenham’s hot goss , as usual.”

“Oh yeah? Any more news on Charlie’s mysterious beau?”

“Nah, they’ve kept pretty tight-lipped on- wait, hang on, how do you know about that?”

“We catch up pretty often, John. She asks me to give her updates on what you’re up to, given you won’t tell her any details yourself.” Mariana replied, smirking at him.

Usually, he’d sputter indignantly at the comment, but the mention of his usual avoidance made him feel even worse.

Mariana noticed, and her smirk disappeared quickly, replaced with a greater look of concern. She stepped forwards, leaning against the kitchen table he was sitting at and placing a hand against his arm. “Seriously, come on. What’s wrong?”

He sighed again, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling in order to avoid her gaze. “It’s stupid. It’s just… Thursday was dad’s birthday. And I was so distracted getting the episode uploaded, I didn’t realise the date. I forgot my dad’s birthday, Mariana.”

“Oh, John…” she bent forwards, pulling him into a hug.

“I’m so sorry.” she murmured against his temple, and John squeezed his eyes closed to avoid crying again. He pressed his head against her shoulder, taking deep breaths in order to try and calm himself.

“I usually call mum on the day, check in on her. Even when I was on my tours, I did my best to secure a video call on the day, or at least send an email.” he explained, absently processing the shuffling noise from the doorway indicating that Sherlock had just arrived in the kitchen, “Every year – and when I was home with her, I’d buy her some flowers or chocolate or something. But I didn’t this year. I didn’t think to, because I didn’t remember.”

“Was she disappointed? Is that why you’re feeling upset?” Mariana asked, letting go to lean against the table again and face him. He looked away, unable to meet her eyes.

“She says she’s OK, but-”

“But you don’t really believe her. Or, at least, your anxiety is telling you she’s lying.” Sherlock’s voice chimed in, finishing the thought. The detective circled around, taking the chair across the table from him, piercing eyes studying him intently.

Unable to speak through the lump in his throat, John nodded.

“Oh John, I’m sure she’s alright. It’s been over twenty years, right? And if you’re still feeling awful, maybe you could do something belated?” Mariana suggested, rubbing his arm soothingly.

Above his head, where the surface of the lake glittered faintly, a shape formed.

A life ring.

John reached for it, finding it to be just out of reach. But it was there .

“Do something…?” he rasped, turning to look at Mariana. She nodded, and the ring bobbed a little closer.

“You mentioned flowers – you know, I saw an advert the other day for a company that sends same-day delivery bouquets. You order one, and they’ll send the request to a local florist who can deliver them to the address you provide.”

This time, his fingertips brushed against the edge. Feeling slightly renewed, John kicked at the knot of doubts around his ankles, trying to free himself.

“She’s always loved dahlias,” he murmured, “do you think there’s a chance they’d have those?”

“They do generally bloom in Autumn,” Sherlock pointed out, “and whilst they have multiple meanings assigned to them within the language of flowers, one of those is ‘inner strength’. Sounds like a fitting choice.”

Something sliced through the vines around him, and his next kick brought him closer to the surface. And, as he searched on his phone and found an offer for a bouquet of mixed dahlias available for delivery in Wiltshire, his hand made contact with the ring and clung to it.

-

“Oh they’re absolutely gorgeous , sweetheart! Judy from across the road looked jealous as anything when that cute delivery lad came by with all these flowers for me! Bet she’ll be grumbling away at the next bake sale.”

“I’m glad you like them, mum.” he replied, breathing slightly easier at the happiness in her voice.

“I’d love anything from you, love, you could get me a £2 bouquet from Tesco and I’d be thrilled. But they really are beautiful.” she took a breath, before adding, “I’ve placed them in your dad’s favourite vase, on the kitchen table. Brightening up the room, as always. Oh! Speaking of brightening up, you’ll never guess...”

John listened to his mum chat away, somehow able to find even more things to talk to him about only one day later. Soon enough though, she said her goodbyes, explaining how she was meeting up with some of the book club for a couple of drinks.

“You tell Mariana and your Sherlock that I say hi, won’t you?”

“He’s not- I- alright, mum. Will do, I’m sure they say hi back. In fact, you know Mariana does, since apparently you two chat now!”

“Oh don’t worry too much, lovey, I’m keeping all the embarrassing childhood stories to a minimum! Toodles, love you!”

“Love you too- wait, what do you mean childhood- aaand she hung up.” he sighed in frustration, but aside from the concern that Mariana knew stories he’d wanted to keep buried he felt far more at ease than the last time he’d ended a call with his mum.

He wasn’t completely recovered yet – he was out of the lake, but the ice-water was still clinging to him, keeping him chilled. He was out of danger, though, and from the noises coming through the door to his room he suspected he’d be feeling even closer to normal by the end of the evening. Mariana had called an emergency movie night after his flower order had been placed, and had promptly ran out the door to gather supplies. He hadn’t seen her since – had spent most of the morning and early afternoon taking Archie for a long walk around the park – but he’d heard her shuffling around 221A as he’d climbed the stairs past her door.

Plugging his phone in to charge, he left to join the others in the living room.

He walked out to see bowls of popcorn on the table, pillows and cushions clearly raided from bedrooms scattered across the sofa and armchair, and the TV on, paused on-

“Is that Back To The Future ?”

“Yeah, seemed like a good choice for an impromptu film night.” Mariana confirmed, flopping into the armchair – her usual viewing spot – and tilting her head towards the sofa.

Sherlock had settled into his normal half of the sofa at the same time, and met John’s eyes from across the room. “You mentioned, once, that your father enjoyed the trilogy. That he’d watched them back-to-back a few times.”

John swallowed, taking a steadying breath at the rush of emotion that hit him. “Y-yeah, he-” he cleared his throat, working his jaw for a moment before carrying on, “he really loved sci-fi movies. Apparently he dreamed about getting a DeLorean for years after the movie came out. Mum says when I was born he’d argued the cause for me to be called Marty – Martin, legally, of course – but she shot that down pretty quickly.”

“Good thing, too – imagine being Martin “Marty” Watson!” Mariana teased, “You’d have been stuck with some stupid nickname like, I don’t know… Martian? MegaWats?”

“Hey! I’d have rocked the nickname MegaWats! Could have been known for my electric personality, eh?” he replied, grinning as he dodged the cushion Mariana flung at him whilst booing.

Sherlock sent them both an unimpressed look, but there was a barely-contained sparkle of humour in his eyes. The sight of it alone helped to ease some of the permafrost chill – he could feel his fingers again, and used them to retrieve the cushion from where it had landed.

The next moment, it hit Mariana with a satisfying ‘ thump ’. She squawked in mock-outrage, but before she could send it back Sherlock cleared his throat.

“Perhaps we can get on with watching the film now that we’re all gathered?”

Chuckling again, John settled onto the sofa and grabbed one of the bowls of popcorn. After some shuffling around, everyone was settled and Mariana hit ‘play’.

Mariana mentioned that she’d seen the movie once, years ago, but that she hadn’t really paid attention to the plot of it before. Sherlock appeared to be caught somewhere between bafflement and outrage at the storyline.

Now and again, John found himself pointing out something about the movie that reminded him of his dad – like how his childhood dog had been called ‘Einstein’ after the Doc’s dog. That had caused Mariana to demand to see photos of ‘Einstein Watson’, which John promised to find when he next went back to Tockenham.

Between those moments, however, John zoned out of the movie, having seen it so many times he didn’t need to focus on it. Instead, he switched between watching the screen and watching the other two.

These two people, who had known him less than a year and yet felt closer to him than any friends he’d made in the past. Who had listened to his worries and had put in the effort to try and support him. Who had remembered his dad’s favourite movie after one conversation, and had gone to the effort of setting up a movie night to watch it with him in the hopes he’d feel better.

And he did – he’d felt the tension leaving him as the movie progressed, breathing coming easier as he listened to Mariana laughing at the Doc’s antics, or Sherlock’s outrage at the idea a car would vanish into another point in time at just 88mph. A glowing warmth forming at his core, pressing outwards and chasing the chill he’d been trapped with since he’d first spotted the date on his phone.

As the movie came to its conclusion, with the DeLorean vanishing into the sky as the credits started to roll, Mariana sat up and stretched, yawning as she tiredly rubbed at her eyes with one hand.

“Right, I think I’ll leave you boys to it. Have a good night’s sleep, whenever you both eventually go.”

“Good night, Mariana – and thank you, again, for everything.”

She stepped over, ruffling his hair before bending down to press a light kiss to his forehead. “Of course, John. You’re one of my best friends, I wouldn’t leave you to suffer alone. I’m just glad you got around to telling us what was going on.”

“Yeah – sorry for worrying you. Have a good night!”

“You too. Night, Sherlock!”

“Mm, good night Mrs Hudson.”

The other two rolled their eyes at each other, before Mariana let herself out of the door. John heard her descend the steps, before the familiar sound of her flat’s door closing.

He knew he needed to call it a night – he hadn’t had all that much sleep the night before – but he couldn’t make himself get up.

“You’re avoiding going to bed. You’re still upset by something.”

John flinched, turning to face Sherlock. The other was studying him, looking concerned.

“I… what?”

Sherlock nodded towards his hands, drawing John’s attention to how he was picking at his nails. A nervous habit of his, and one that the consulting detective was well aware of.

He shrugged self-consciously. “It’s stupid, Sherlock. Don’t worry, I’ll get over it.”

“If it’s causing you enough upset to block you from going to bed when you’re clearly exhausted, it’s not ‘stupid’. What is it?” his gaze was zeroed on his face, now, kaleidoscopic eyes taking in every detail as if he was studying an elaborate painting.

Knowing it was futile trying to lie to him, he closed his eyes, trying to figure out how to explain.

“I just… worry, Sherlock. What if this is just the first sign that I’m starting to forget him? He’s my dad, he was the love of mum’s life, what if I start to forget more than just his birthday? What if I forget his face, or the sound of his voice, or all the other details I’ve tried so hard to keep hold of?”

A lightbulb seemed to go off in Sherlock’s head. “You had a nightmare last night. Not night terrors, not memories of the war or the bomb. It was about your father, about forgetting him.”

John sighed, shoulders slumping. “Yeah, mate. I, uh… I dreamt that I forgot him, that everything I had stored in my head disappeared. As I said, it was stupid.”

“Yes, it was.”

John’s head shot up to stare at Sherlock, hurt by the comment. Sherlock met his gaze, however, and continued. “It was stupid, because it’s not something that would ever happen. Nightmares often are nonsensical – a culmination of negative images your psyche produces as it sorts through everything you’ve taken in. This one is no different.”

“How can you be so sure, though? I already forgot his birthday, who knows what will slip my mind next time?”

Sherlock’s gaze flickered over him, eyebrows drawn together in thought. After a moment, he seemed to reach the internal conclusion he was working towards, because he nodded slightly before meeting his eyes again.

“It’s not possible, because there are various behaviours and interests of yours that display the ways in which you remember your father. Would you like me to prove it?”

John’s heart skipped a beat, cautious hope forming. He trusted Sherlock, knew the detective never said something he did not mean. Not to him.

“Please.”

Sherlock nodded again, before looking away. His eyes flickered around the room, before focusing in on the muted TV, displaying an old re-run of Match of the Day.

“Your chosen support of Swindon Town is one indicator.” He began, eyes looking towards the screen but somewhat distant. John had seen this behaviour multiple times before when Sherlock had been processing things internally, figuring out how to vocalise his thoughts. He watched quietly, taking in how the light from the screen highlighted his features. After a pause, Sherlock found his words and continued.

“Whilst I don’t know a great deal in the way of sports teams, I know tat people will generally select their favourites for three key reasons. Either it’s their home town’s team, a team that is especially successful, or the individual grew up in a household where that team were already being supported.

“Your support of Swindon Town FC is a combination of the first and third reasons. From what I gather of the league tables – and your various outbursts of frustration – it is safe to rule out that Swindon’s team could be considered ‘successful’.”

“Oi!” John protested, jokingly. Sherlock glanced at him, flashing a boyish grin before continuing.

“So, focusing on those two reasons. Swindon is geographically the closest town with a larger, more well-known team, true, but Bristol isn’t too far away and both of their teams appear to be doing rather better in the league. So that would indicate the need for another reason.

“That other reason was something I noted when we visited your childhood home a few months ago. Amongst the various trinkets and wall decorations in the living room was a signed Swindon Town FC shirt, dated from 1985. Four years before you were born, and not something you brought with you to London, so not yours. No other visible team memorabilia around the house outside of your old room, so not Carol’s. Ergo, it belonged to your father. He was a Swindon Town supporter and, because of that, you grew up to be one, too.”

“What else?” John asked, “Supporting a football team doesn’t really seem that solid, if I’m honest.”

“Your music tastes,” Sherlock replied, shifting sideways on the sofa to face John more directly. John shuffled to match him.

“What about them?”

“In a similar vein to sports teams, many children will develop a fondness for music they heard growing up. Your taste is very eclectic – despite your tendency to sing that waterfall song whenever you’re brushing your teeth after a good day – but there’s a clear preference for the genres of rock and pop, often older tunes rather than the ones playing in the charts now.

“On days where the topic of parents arises – be that Mrs Hudson speaking to her father back in Spain, or a case that focuses on a parent-child relationship – you have a tendency to listen to certain artists and songs more often.

“Another observation I made in the home, past the football shirt, was the shelf of CDs above the sofa. Mostly bands and artists from an older time, based on the designs on the spines that I could see. A few names I recognised from the playlists you’ve shown me before. The CDs themselves haven’t moved in some time – the spines facing the room were clear, as was the shelf they’re on, but the tops of them were coated in a layer of dust. They’re in an awkward position, being above the sofa. When dusting, your mother runs the cloth along the shelf and the section she can easily reach, but does not make the extra effort to reach higher to dust the top.

“The CDs aren’t hers – they are your father’s collection. And on those days when you play certain tracks more often, those songs are from artists that appear on that shelf. You are thinking of Harry Watson, and listen to songs that remind you of him as a way to feel closer to him.”

They had drifted closer together without John realising. John took a shaky breath at the wash of emotions brought on by how much Sherlock had observed of him without him even realising. However, he still wasn’t convinced.

“A lot of people listen to the music they grew up with, though. That doesn’t necessarily make it about me remembering my dad.”

“A fair counterpoint – well-reasoned, well done Watson.” the detective replied, offering him another smile. “In that case, I’ll move on to something more specific. How about the way you hold cutlery?”

“What?”

“When using a knife and fork, you hold the knife in your left hand and the fork in your right. If it were only a fork you were using, it could be excused away, as it could be if you were left-handed or ambidextrous. But you aren’t – you’re right-handed.”

Sherlock reached across, taking John’s left hand between his own. One wrapped across the ends of his fingers, whilst the other took his wrist in a gentle grip, just below the tan-line from where his watch usually sat.

They’d held hands before, but this felt different – more tender, more intimate somehow. Sherlock’s fingers were cool, but points of heat emanated from every point of contact between them. He swallowed nervously, turning his attention back to Sherlock, whose eyes were still focused on his wrist.

“You wear your watch on your left wrist, and favour picking things up with your right hand – your dominant one. Carol is the same, from what I have seen of her, and appliances around your childhood home were in positions favoured by right-handed people. The handle of the kettle pointing to the right, for example. So, why do you hold cutlery with the technique often used by left-handed people? Because you grew up mimicking someone who was left-handed: Harry Watson.”

“How can you tell?” John asked, hushed. Sherlock’s thumb swept gently over the tan-line, and John’s breath hitched.

“In photos of your father, I could see a watch on his right wrist,” the detective explained, his thumb continuing to brush over the pulse of John’s wrist. “There was also a particular photo of him holding a rifle – a training session based on his uniform and the surroundings – which had his left pointer finger held against the trigger.

“Harry Watson was left-handed, and you learnt to copy him in the way you held cutlery, despite being right-handed like your mother. You still do it today. It’s a habit you share with him. One you aren’t doing consciously, meaning it’s written into your subconscious – something that’s very unlikely to change.”

Sherlock’s fingers squeezed around his own, and John squeezed back, before using his other hand to adjust their grip so that their palms were touching. He placed his free hand on top of Sherlock’s, their conjoined hands a source of heat that warmed him through.

“Then of course, there’s the photo on your desk.” the detective continued. His voice sounded slightly unsteady, and a light flush had started to form across his cheeks. John stared, entranced.

“You are a sentimental man, and have a few important photos in your room. But specifically, it’s the one of you and your father I want to bring up.

“It’s faded, the colour desaturated in parts but otherwise undamaged. Sunlight damage. Photographs can start to fade when exposed to sunlight, due to UV rays. Given the age of the photo and the state that it’s in – plus the fact that it’s current position on your desk avoids any sunlight reaching it – I can deduce it’s been out on display near-constantly since it was first developed.

“Your room in the house was covered in posters and photos, but only a few have made it to London with you. One is of your mother and people that I believe are your grandparents, based on similarities in features. One is the photo you have of us, Mrs Hudson and Archie from a few months ago. And the third is you and your father.”

Squeezing his hand again, Sherlock continued. “It’s a treasured photo, and one you clearly rely on. You think of your father often, and care deeply about the visual reminder. This leads me on to my final deduction.”

“Which is?” John breathed.

“You are not adept at remembering dates. In fact, you keep nearly every date that’s important to you on your calendar. Friends’ birthdays, anniversaries, special events. You have nearly all of them written down – to help you remember them. But not your parents’ birthdays.

“This is because they are so important to you that you have managed to remember them, unprompted, every single year. You said it yourself: this was the very first time you forgot your father’s birthday.”

Sherlock’s eyes locked with his, gaze intense and earnest. John felt like he was unable to breathe again, but this time the feeling didn’t scare him.

He was with Sherlock: he could never be truly scared of anything so long as he was there.

“Do you understand the importance of that?” Sherlock continued, “That fact, alongside all the others, combine to provide only one possible answer. You care deeply about your parents, especially your father, and his memory is so completely entwined with your day-to-day life that you will never be able to truly forget him.

“Mistakes happen, John, you’re human. But you resolved it as soon as you realised. A bad son would have stopped caring years ago, wouldn’t be so hung up on this that he suffered nightmares from it. You love them so much that you have continued to remember, even during some of the most stressful times of your life. You have faced so much pain, so many events that would make a weaker man crumble, and you have continued to think of your parents, remember them, and care .

“You’re a good son, John. You are a good man, and Harry Watson would be proud of you.”

Eyes stinging, John let go of Sherlock’s hands to pull him into a hug, ensuring to wrap his arms around the other’s upper back. He pressed his face against Sherlock’s neck, taking deep breaths to avoid crying. He felt Sherlock’s arms twine around him in return, pulling him closer.

With that final confirmation, all of the remaining despair left him, melting away under the blazing heat of Sherlock’s conviction. John doubted he’d ever feel cold again, so long as he was close to the man shining like the sun in his arms.

He pulled back after a while, but was reluctant to move away. Instead he studied his friend’s face. They were so close, he could feel the other’s breath against his cheek, could pick out the multitude of colours in his eyes.

“Sherlock…” he began, biting at his lip anxiously. Sherlock’s eyes flickered down, zoning in on his mouth, and he watched the detective swallow.

“ John. ”

Without thinking about it, one of John’s hands rose to gently cup his face. Sherlock’s breath stuttered, his eyes closing as he pressed into the touch. It was John’s turn to swallow, his thumb absently smoothing against the other’s cheekbone.

The signs were all there, but he had to be certain that he wasn’t reading into things.

Truthfully, John felt as though he and Sherlock had been circling around each other over the past few months. He’d become aware of it after he’d been shot by Abe Slaney, in the following weeks where Sherlock had hovered and fussed in his own way.

He noticed how they’d both hold onto each other perhaps a little longer than necessary, how they’d had more quiet, gentle conversations away from the recording on his microphone, how sometimes he’d stare at Sherlock only to realise he was staring back.

The emotional rollercoaster that had been seeing Carrie again had left him scared – scared that Carrie’s words would bring his myriad flaws to the surface and Sherlock would observe them and decide he wasn’t worth it.

However, Sherlock hadn’t seemed to pay it any mind. If anything, the lingering touches and quiet stares had increased, to the point where a day without coming into contact left John feeling unsettled.

Bringing himself back to the moment, John took a breath, and released it shakily.

He had to be certain, and for that he had to be brave.

“Sherlock,” he began again, pausing as the other’s eyes fluttered open again to meet his, “I want to be clear, you can say no. If you aren’t interested, or- or anything, say no and I won’t bring it up again.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed slightly, eyes darting across his face. After a moment, he blinked, eyes widening slightly in realisation. “Are you-”

Be brave, John.

“Can I… can I kiss you?” he asked, voice wobbling.

He watched, awed, as the other’s cheeks flushed red. As his pupils dilated, and he licked his lips before replying.

“ Please .”

The second that word had left Sherlock’s mouth, John closed the gap between them. His other hand rose up, joining the first in cradling the other’s face as if he were made of crystal. Sherlock kissed him back almost immediately, one hand curling against the nape of his neck as the other was placed between his shoulders.

John Watson had enjoyed his fair share of kisses in the past, but none of them held a candle to his first time kissing Sherlock Holmes.

After an indeterminate amount of time, John pulled away, pressing light kisses to Sherlock’s cheeks, his nose, his temple, before returning to his lips again. Sherlock hummed into the kiss, the hand at his nape pushing up to card through his hair whilst the other hand pulled the doctor closer to him.

Eventually needing to breathe, John pulled back again only to press his forehead against Sherlock’s, awed by the dazed expression on the other’s face. His hands slid down from his jaw to his shoulders, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into Sherlock’s collarbone.

“Was that- was that OK?” he found himself asking, a twist of nervousness in his gut despite everything.

Sherlock brushed their lips together again briefly in response, before rubbing his cheek against John’s in a way that absently reminded the doctor of a cat nuzzling. It was oddly endearing – something that John thought often about the consulting detective.

Opening his mouth to tell the detective as much, he was interrupted by a jaw-cracking yawn. He felt Sherlock chuckling quietly at him and grumbled amicably.

“Alright, alright, it’s not that funny.”

“It rather is, I’m afraid. But it’s understandable, you’re already running on fewer hours sleep than your body is used to, and emotional stress can be exhausting.” Sherlock replied, pressing another gentle kiss against his temple before moving back. John missed the warmth almost immediately.

“But I don’t wanna go to bed, I’ve been wanting to kiss you for months!” he whined, too tired to be embarrassed by his own honesty. Another pretty flush formed over Sherlock’s face, and his expression flickered from surprise to amusement.

“I’ve wanted the same. But I promise you can kiss me again in the morning.”

John blinked, waking up a little at the implication. They hadn’t explicitly defined anything, but did that mean…?

“What about the day after? Do you promise I can kiss you then, too?”

Sherlock gave him a look that was so tender, so full of warmth and affection that he was worried he’d start crying again.

“I promise,” he vowed, quiet but emphatic, “tomorrow, the day after… as many days as you want.”

Well, in for a penny…

“All of them. I want all of them, if that’s what you want too.”

Another kiss, lingering.

“Nothing would make me happier, John.”

__________

Check it out on AO3 too!

[watsons-busted-kneecap]

'He couldn't believe it. He forgot. He forgot.'

- Prompt made by eardefenders -

Yo! I participated in a Sherlock & Co Flashbang event! Check out the fic my partner for the event somePandalol made, aye? You can find it Here on ao3, as well as other folks submissions in the Sherlock & Co Flash Bang October 2024 collection!

Had a brilliant time, here's to hoping I'll be able to join the next one o7

[kunikiiida-kuuun]

I'm just missing two Kunikidas...

[crimeronan]

the other wild thing about this is that the one time i got the cops called on me for doordashing at night, it was in a different bougie neighborhood in the metro area, and the police response time was so fucking fast they were literally there before i'd even walked back to my car. after dropping the food off.

the average police response time to a high-priority call requiring immediate intervention in portland is.... 21 minutes.

they managed to find my ass in less than 3.

this whole manhunt thing is like. the dumbest possible scaled-up version of that.

[smashwolfen]

I had a VERY eventful morning XD

The bitch bastard himself is finally home AND ITS ABOUT TIME HE ROLLED UP IN MASTERS!!!!!!!

[swallowtail-ageha]

Every time someone argues with a doylist prespective to criticize something and someone replies with a watsonian response an angel loses its wings... 💔

[pinkertinn]

Sunday Morning Shower Thoughts: A Call for More Female Pleasure in Fandom (Hear Me Out!)

Alright, let’s chat about something I was thinking about during my Sunday shower—because where else do the best ideas hit you, right? It’s about fandoms and how often we focus on his pleasure, while hers kind of gets treated like a side note. Don’t get me wrong, I love a good romance or spicy scene as much as the next person, but I’ve noticed that when it comes to fandom content, the girl doesn’t always get the spotlight she deserves.

Now, I will absolutely toss a few bucks, follow, and reblog whenever I find creators who put female pleasure front and center. In fact, I just subscribed to this amazing artist's Patreon yesterday and, let me tell you—chef's kiss. But here’s the thing: there’s just not enough of it. Across so many fandoms, the girl’s experience often feels like an afterthought, and I’m here thinking, Why can’t it be more balanced?

So I’m wondering—what if we had a multi-fandom event, something where we celebrate female pleasure, the female gaze, and maybe flip the script a little? Like, let’s focus on her moment, and maybe the guy shows up as an afterthought because of how amazing she is. It’s not about pushing anyone’s content aside—it’s about creating more space for something that doesn’t always get the attention it deserves.

Wouldn’t that be fun? A whole collection of art, writing, and creativity that explores this angle more deeply. And, hey, if this doesn’t quite align with what you love, that’s totally cool! Fandom’s big enough for all kinds of content, and this would just be another fun facet to explore.

Let’s do our part! Please reblog, like, comment to see interest!

What do you all think? Let’s get a conversation going—whether you’re an artist, writer, or just a fan like me. I’d love to hear your thoughts and see if we can make this a thing.

[vixletserenity]

"I made a new friend!!!"

"But it hurt a bit....in multiple ways."

[glitterymumfriend]

Reblogging this again to a) encourage more people to get into Sherlock & Co. and b) share that this comic resurrected my AO3 because I ended up writing a fic inspired by it: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59689681

Happy 1 year anniversary to Mr Sherlock Holmes! Here's a litttleee celebratory comic from me

[rubyroboticalt]

Vetted by: 1) gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #89 ) 2) a-shade-of-blue Here 3) 90-ghost Here 4) dlxxv-vetted-donations Here

Dear Friend,

I hope this message finds you in a moment of peace. My name is Ghazi Al Amoudi, and I’m reaching out to you from the depths of despair. My family and I are trapped in Gaza, caught in the relentless storm of war. We’ve lost everything—our home, our safety, and the foundation of our lives 💔. Now, we find ourselves huddled in a fragile tent, vulnerable to the harsh elements and living in constant fear 💨💦.

With a heart filled with both sorrow and hope, I am desperately asking for your help 😢. Every bit of support—whether a donation, a share, or a kind word—brings us one step closer to escaping this nightmare. Our home, once a place of warmth and love, is now a memory buried under rubble 💔. We are left with only fear and uncertainty, struggling to survive each day 😔.

Please, if you can find it in your heart, help us find safety 😭🙏. Even the smallest act of kindness can light up our darkest hours, offering us a chance to rebuild our shattered lives. Your compassion could be the turning point between despair and a new beginning 🥺❤.

Here is my campaign link: https://gofund.me/8a2c70d7. If you are unable to donate, simply sharing our story could help us reach someone who can.

From the bottom of my heart, thank you for your kindness and support 🙏❤.

With deep gratitude, Ghazi Al Amoudi

17% of my long-term goal

1,741€ out of 10,000€

Donations are protected by GOFUNDME

weekly silence is violence

[sillyas]

(Faceplants)

[sandcobangevent]

Fiddler’s Heart

by @bebelbo and @adsdragonlover

John Watson grinned as he played the fiddle in time with Sherlock's violin. 

They'd just finished a highly stressful case in Zadash, and upon returning to 221B Sherlock had gone for his violin almost immediately. John, ever the performer, raised his own fiddle and the two of them started to harmonize their instruments together.

The melody started off soft and slow, relaxing and soothing, until Sherlock bit his plump bottom lip with one of his sharpened canines and sped up the tempo, bringing more energy into their impromptu song.

John lost himself in the moment and the music, barely registering his own hummed along tune as he stared, enraptured, up at Sherlock, eyes tracing every detail on the tiefling as his hands moved automatically with the music. 

Sherlock's piercing eyes were closed as he played, an impressive feat for one not classically trained in music. That didn't stop Sherlock though. Nothing stopped John's Sherlock. His burgundy skin shone with a fine layer of sweat from the day's adventure, his dark curls bouncing as he moved throughout the room on his cloven hooves. His lighter red horns curled backwards from Sherlock's head, and John couldn't help but smile at his friend.

Sherlock, the friend this dwarf was absolutely gone on. 

The tempo picked up once more, rising to a crescendo, and John knew the end of the song was approaching. He played his fiddle with more frenzy in time with Sherlock before they hit a high C and Sherlock pulled the bow away from his violin, their instruments buzzing slightly in the aftermath.

The cut on Sherlock's cheek from this afternoon had now disappeared. John hadn't been intentionally casting Song of Rest, but the music and his heart had brought magic to their performance either way.

John's chest heaved, and his face was cracked into a nearly painful smile.

Sherlock opened his eyes and sat down on his chair in their living room, and smiled back at John. "Excellent playing, Watson."

"Gods, I love you." John replied, his pounding heart speaking truth through his throat in spite of his brain.

John froze, and so did Sherlock. 

They stared at each other for a moment, Sherlock's golden gaze piercing the dwarf through to his core. Sherlock's face flitted from expression to expression, too fast for John to gain any insight on what the Inquisituve Mind across from him was thinking.

"Ah, so you do." Sherlock responded after that eternity of a moment of silence. What the gods did that mean? 

Sherlock's red lips split into a wide smile that showed off his sharpened canines, and he pushed up out of his chair, stalking forward towards John, still smiling. John's heart could only pound faster as Sherlock crossed the room and knelt down in front of John, bringing them eye to eye. "You love me." It wasn't a question. "Gods, that explains- everything."

John was frozen, in fear or in hope, he knew not. He wanted to question Sherlock, what did his love explain exactly? He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. 

Sherlock chuckled. "Is this really all it takes to steal the words from your clever tongue, Watson?"

I'll show you my clever tongue, comes to mind. What a perfect retort. If only John could say literally anything right now. He wondered, for a delirious moment, if he'd been hit by an invisible mage's Silence spell; but then Sherlock gently reached a burgundy hand out and cupped John's stubbled cheek, and the wounded sound that ripped itself from John's throat was loud and clear as a bell in the heavy quiet between them.

John blushed furiously and closed his eyes, turning his head away from Sherlock's gaze and touch. He'd gone and accidentally torn his heart out from where it'd been safe and protected and secret in his chest. He could see it clear as day behind his eyelids, the image of his heart lay between them, grotesque and thumping so wildly John could feel its pulse all throughout his body. It was raw and real now, the feelings John had been keeping so tightly to his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter to block the image from his mind.

Sherlock's other hand landed softly on the other side of John's face, his touch so warm and real that he had to open his eyes again to see Sherlock. 

The burgundy tiefling smiled and bit his bottom lip just so, and John's eyes tracked the movement automatically before he looked back up into his friend's golden gaze. "I don't want to distress you any further," Sherlock began quietly. "But it'd be remarkably uncouth of me to keep my own feelings to myself after such a revelation from you, Watson."

John shut his eyes to brace himself, and then Sherlock's thumbs brushed softly back and forth underneath his shut eyes, coaxing them back open. 

He stared into Sherlock's eyes, and watched the way they crinkled at the corners with his smile. "It's imperative that you're made aware that, you're not alone. In feeling this way."

John's words come back just in time to be snarky. "Oh you love yourself too, do you? Big surprise." 

Sherlock sighed and poked John's nose. "Not quite." He smiled and the warm hand on his cheek moved down to the back of John's neck in a soft caress that made John shiver. "Your feelings are reciprocated, John. I love you too." 

John's mouth went suddenly very dry. He could press, he could ask for clarification, but John could see the truth in Sherlock's face. "Yeah?" He managed.

Sherlock nodded. "Very much so." John grinned. "And, if you'd be so inclined, I'd very much like to kiss you."

"Gods, yes, Sher-" John began, but that was all the invitation Sherlock needed, as the tiefling pulled John close by his hand on his neck and kissed him.

It was perfect. John's eyes had fluttered softly shut as they kissed and it was soft and tender and warm, Gods, Sherlock was always warm. They pulled apart after a moment, and Sherlock rested his forehead carefully against John's own, careful not to poke him with his horns.

"I love you, too," he whispered. "I love you too."

Exactly 1 Year Later

John woke up slowly, too warm and comfortable to really want to unravel himself from his position held in Sherlock's arms. The tiefling always curled around the dwarf while they slept, holding John tight to his chest like a teddy bear, his legs tucked up below John's own on the mattress. 

John yawned and opened his eyes, turning his head a little to watch as Sherlock slept peacefully, Sherlock didn't use to sleep much, and neither had John, what with all the nightmares that used to plague him. But ever since they started sleeping together in the same bed, John's nightmares had all but disappeared, and Sherlock didn't pull quite as many all nighters when he knew John was waiting for him in their bed.

Sherlock wasn't a morning person, so John liked to help the burgundy tiefling's mornings start pleasantly. He flipped over in Sherlock's hold and pressed a kiss below each of Sherlock's eyes, on his nose and on his forehead. 

Sherlock's eyes scrunched shut tighter. "It's no use," he began, eyes still closed. "The tiefling is immobile and cannot be awoken."

John grinned. "Oh is that so? Maybe breakfast will entice my tiefling."

Sherlock peeked one golden eye open before shutting it again. "Mayhaps. Or maybe more kisses from his sweet Dwarven Bard can awaken Mr Holmes from his magical slumber."

John wasted no time in testing that theory, pressing kiss after kiss to Sherlock's body; his neck, his clavicle, his thighs, and the tender spots that never failed to make Sherlock giggle. And giggle he did, Sherlock shot up, hands grabbing at John's hair as he laughed, his eyes opening. "That was cheating, Watson."

John pulled back with a grin. "Maybe, but it got you up." He slid over to the edge of the bed, fully intending to make Sherlock the breakfast he'd proposed for this special day. A hand around John's thick wrist stopped him. 

"Hey." Sherlock murmured, eyes half lidded with sleep and hair fluffed up more than normal. "I love you. Good morning."

John beamed and leaned up to peck Sherlock's lips. "I love you too, Sherlock." He pulled away and left Sherlock's bedroom to head for the kitchen.

With a happy bark, Archie waddled over towards John, standing up on his back paws to cover the dwarf's face in morning Archie slobber. He went back down to the floor after a couple half hearted "Off"s from John, wagging his butt in eagerness for breakfast and for his dwarf.

John brushed the dog hair off the embroidered edges of his sleep shirt, little blue sharks swimming between lighter blue waves, and padded into the kitchen. He filled Archie's bowl, petting his dog on the head.

Making their favorite breakfast came naturally to John by now. They'd been flatmates for two years now, and as of today, lovers for a year. He grinned to himself as Mage Hand helped John mix all the ingredients together for pancakes. 

John made a lot of blueberry chocolate chip pancakes, enough to pile on top of their biggest plate that'd he'd leave in the kitchen, with four on each of their own plates. He'd also made two smaller blueberry only pancakes he was planning to give to Archie. John piled everything on a big enchanted tray that hovered above Sherlock's bed and caught any potential spills, and with mage hand following behind carrying their tea, headed back to Sherlock's bedroom.

The burgundy tiefling was still laying in bed when John entered, and John watched his nostrils flare before he sat back up. "Pancakes," he grins. "Oh, you do love me."

"Was that ever in doubt?" John teases, sending the tray to hover in it's spot as he took his place back in Sherlock's bed.

"No, never." Sherlock confirms. "This only reaffirms it. You've gone to quite the effort here, John. Both of my favorite pancake additives, together?" He clicked his tongue. "And you put my syrup in it's own bowl."

John shrugged. "Well, yeah, I know you like to dip them. You don't like it when they get soggy."

Sherlock's gaze was so warm and fond and Gods, John loved him. "My syrup is kept on the top shelf."

John nods. "Yeah, it is. It's no problem for me though," he brings his mage hand over to deliver their tea, Sherlock's with marshmallows in it. "And it's true, I Do love you. It's no problem for me, love."

Sherlock leans down and presses his forehead carefully against John's. John leans further up and presses their lips softly together.

What a great start to their anniversary morning.

If only the rest of their day had gone that well.

They had been cleaning up breakfast when Mariana announced that they had a new case, Pumat Sol's Magic Shop had been robbed in the night. 

With has many eyes on that shop as there always are, what with Pumat's copies always around, Sherlock's interest was piqued right away. As was John's, he loves The Invulnerable Vagrant. Everyone does.

As the day and the adventure went on though, and Sherlock got more enveloped into the mystery, it became apparent.

He forgot. Sherlock forgot. John couldn't believe he'd forgotten the anniversary of their first "I love you"s.

John's mood sours increasingly throughout the day, and Sherlock noticed. Of course he notices, when does he not notice. But he doesn't press, the game is on.

Once the truth had been revealed to everyone and the game was up, the two of them headed back to 221B.

John closes the door behind them with quite a bit more force than necessary, and storms up the stairs. Mariana is out tonight, and it's just the two of them. Sherlock follows silently, his footfalls, as always, making no sound. 

John sighs and slumps against his chair, petting Archie who had immediately headed toward him. 

Sherlock sat in his chair across from John and smiled softly. "Watson?"

John doesn't look up. "Yeah?"

"What have I forgotten?"

John looks up. "What do you mean?"

Sherlock sighs. "Don't hide it from me, John. I know you're upset. And you're upset at me. I've forgotten something, and it's important to you. What have I forgotten?"

"To us." John sighs. "It's important to Us, and you forgot."

"Which makes this all the more distressing, because I don't know what I've forgotten."

"Really? You don't have a clue?" John presses.

Sherlock shakes his head. "Not a one."

John sighs. "It's our anniversary."

Sherlock frowns. "Anniversary. How long of an anniversary? Which? Anniversary?"

"Our first. It's been a whole year since I first told you I loved you, and you said it back."

Sherlock thinks briefly. "Yes. Yes it has been a year hasn't it?"

"So you do remember."

"Technically, I do. I'll never forget that moment. But I must confess, I don't know what's so special about celebrating the date. I suppose it could be a dwarvish thing, dates. Anniversaries."

"Not necessarily. I mostly get that from my mum. Being a halfling, she'll take any occasion to celebrate. Dad wasn't like that. I get my dwarvish ancestry from him, and my killer sense of style from my mum. I don't know why I'm so upset over this. It's not like I reminded you it was coming up."

Sherlock nods. "Precisely. You did Not, I had no reminder, or any other way to know this anniversary would be special to you."

John sighs and looks up at Sherlock. "So… it's Not special to you?"

Sherlock's shoulders slump and he approaches John, kneeling down to be at eye level with his lover. "Not necessarily. But to me, my love for you, it's a constant. I tell you I love every day, I make sure of that. I didn't realize anniversary's hold such sway over you. I don't particularly care for them, as I'm sure you're aware. My birthday being a prime example." He reaches a hand out and cups John's stubbled cheek. "However, if it's important to you, then it matters to me, too. I'll remember this date for the future."

John looks up into Sherlock's warm, golden gaze. "Promise?"

"Promise. Until the stars above go out, my dearest Watson."

John smiles at him. "Good. Good. I'm glad. Happy we worked this out."

"Yes, quite." Sherlock grins at John. "I love you, John Watson. Let's finish the rest of our day in celebration, shall we?"

"I think we shall."

__________

Check it out on AO3 too!

[darkenforcer]

for as close as they were (are?), yuri only popped in skullrender once, maybe twice; never felt the need to when he had free access to the boss himself. regardless, from the center cage, it feels like the first; bright fluorescents illuminating the otherwise dim room, the rowdy crowd... it's both gritty and flashy, but genuine in its spectacle. that's its charm, he supposes (takes after its owner, he notes, begrudgingly).

he pivots toward the man in question, faint laughter trickling from borrowed lips. too much to say? well, yuri'll endure as many hits as it takes.

he loosens his neck with a roll, his hands with a shake, and rides the momentum into a brawler's stance. "ain't that supposed to be my line, now?" yet the familiar phrasing works wonders for easing him back into things, "'n i don't wanna hear another 'boss' out of ya. if we're gonna do this, we're doin' it like always-- as equals."

the announcer blares through the speakers then, but it's simply background noise. there's only one person in this flashy club he cares about-- one person who has his full attention, because who knows when he'll be able to give it again?

"...i can promise ya one thing," a breath, in and out, "i'll be dancin' like it's my last!"

DING! the starting bell echoes in bristled ears, and the audience, the cage -- everything but dar'khol -- fades from existence. a raging bullet, yuri blazes forward.

it's a wild sensation. those new instincts he's been struggling with from the start? they're like an inferno coursing through his veins now, spreading until it catches every fiber of his being; it feels like he'll explode if he doesn't unleash it.

flashes of their previous battles swirl alongside the whirlwind, bringing about its own wave of emotions in regard to this one. there's no undercurrent of animosity, as he'd expected-- frustration, yes, but comparable to a desperation, or an ache... with a hint of relief, too. yuri recognizes what it means (feels it now, in fact; hell, maybe it isn't actually coming from dar at all).

it's longing, for the warm rivalry they'd built. for the chance to experience it again.

he throws his arm back, fist clenched tight. it's as basic as it gets, and he doubts it'll even be close to the satisfaction he craves, but a solid knock to dar'khol's jaw is a good place to start!

was it the miqo'te's leftover simplicity or yuri's own desire to snatch up that offer so quickly? he didn't know and, frankly, he didn't care. dar'khol had wanted an excuse and it looks like he was going to get just that.

"who knows?" comes his retort, "it's not like you're eagerly complaining about the idea, though."

it felt like a swarm had accumulated in his chest; a wild fluttering that only seemed to intensify with each step forward the other man took. having that distance shortened so quickly, having him so close already...

but it's strange. to hold such an altered perspective, to have to tilt his gaze downward to meet his own eyes. it feels like he's done this before; like there's an awareness to each of his features that differs from his own acknowledgment.

'attractive' comes to mind, and he wishes it was just a moment of being full of himself. his instincts were desperately trying to pull him away, to have his attention focused elsewhere once that description cropped up.

that swarm in his chest may as well be a vicious frenzy by now.

by the time yuri rushes past him, dar's acutely aware of the fact he'd been holding his breath. a heavy, rushed exhale escaping him as eyes followed the other man out the door. little time is wasted in following behind.

the lights of the ring are a welcome change of scenery compared to seconds prior, eyes greedily taking in the view of seated patrons to burn in a different scene. he's not allowing his attention to roll back until hearing that echoed '....again?'

"what?" breaks his momentary silence, "it helps sell the whole point of the place, draws in the more hard-headed ones, too."

it comes easy enough, a rolling response for a small jab at him. there was something almost comforting about it; how things should be rather than this hole they've dug themselves into.

that damned grin seemed infectious, too. no matter what front dar'khol might have wanted to put up, he can't deny the want to smile back in turn. that overwhelming feeling from before just about bursting into a wave of excitement he eagerly wished to dive into.

"listen to you," a small laugh trickles with his words, "you sound like you're finally starting to fit into your role."

( this is more like it. )

"you took the words right out of my mouth." leaning back, dar gives his shoulders a good roll before stepping up to the cage. a newfound determination settles in a borrowed pair of grey, head tilting as his lips curl.

"wearing that face, i'd be insulted if you went easy on me!" confidence swells in his voice, a fist rising readily to meet an awaiting palm. "--and i've got too much that needs saying to spare myself any bruises.

"so, come on, 'boss'. dance with me again!"

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Daze

(AO3 Mirror) (Main Masterlist) (Event Masterlist) (Event Info)

-> part of my 6k followers event!

Tape 1 // Side A Track 02: Daze - Steve Lacy Miguel O'Hara x First Love

summary: You pick out an outfit for New Year's. Miguel helps where he can.

warnings: tooth-rotting fluff, love confessions, PIV, nipple sucking (m-receiving). 18+, Minors DNI

a/n: this is so cheesy and lovey-dovey and self-indulgent. happy new year's everyone <3

wc: 2.3k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hey (you put me in a)

Daze (each and every)

Day (so in love with everything you do, I'm really feelin' you) 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Miguel doesn’t think he’s built for love.

Really, well and truly; it fits across his frame wrong. He tucks it into a stiff waistband like the collared shirts his mamá made him wear to church. Maybe if he pressed it out - lain on your sheets like those pretty dresses you’ll drape on your shoulders - it would sit right. Settle across him like skin - something real. Human. And like Pinocchio on a stage; he rattles around your bedroom, searching for the strings. 

If you see him in the corner of your eye, you don’t react. Miguel tries to make himself look busy, flattening silky fabric with his hands. He’s distracted, thinking about puppets and widowers and love stuck between sharp teeth like blood and sinew. The more he ponders, the more resolute he becomes: Miguel doesn’t think he’s built for love.

Oh, but… you. Love looks like a dream on you, he thinks. You’re in front of a mirror, humming and hawing; tilting your head this way and that. It takes his breath away; lip tucked under teeth, delicate hands spread flat on the fabric, the way your lashes flutter in the light. It pools out from under you like dappled hues on a summer day: love, warm and ochre-tinted around your form. You… you were built for it; made to be loved. Like the first time he met you - and it always feels like the first time, for some reason - he’s drawn in, chasing your smile like a flash of light across the sky. Fireworks couldn’t compare, he thinks: flashbangs and roman candles, sparklers and their gentle fizz and crackle - they pale in comparison to the way your eyes shine when you see him.

“What do you think?” You turn, chewing at your cheek. It makes his heart skip a beat, the way you look at him.

He blinks, thinking back to the last time you wore it. One of your first proper dates, and he had opened the door to a vision. You’d look beautiful in it, you always do. “You look–”

“It’s not too plain? I like the fabric but I’m too sure about the waist.”

“Mi vida, it’s–”

“I could go with the green one…” You pick up a bundle of fabric by your feet. “But I think it’s too revealing. Dramatic. Too many ruffles, like a prom dress.”

He hums, thinking back to when he had bought you that dress. How you had looked at it in a shop window; wide, forlorn eyes like a baby deer; and the way you lit up when he arrived with it at your doorstep. “Baby, you could–”

“What do you think your coworker’s will be wearing?” You turn to him suddenly, eyes bright. “I need to see the invite again, want to make sure I’ve got the right dress code. It’s… I mean… I should look classy, right?”

“If you want.” He says, stepping closer.

You’re huffing, rummaging through the depths of your wardrobe. 

“That’s not a real answer, Mig.” 

He pads to your side, and you feel a hand curl around the fat of your waist. It's warm, poking underneath the little tank top you've been wearing. His fingertips, impossibly rough and soft at the same time, rub circles into hip bone. 

“Baby.”

You ignore him, grunting with frustration. 

“You're overthinking.” He says it soft, wrapping his arms around your waist. 

Steadfast, you continue to rifle through the wardrobe. You're stubborn, this much he knows, pressing gentle kisses into the juncture of your jaw. 

Eventually, you soften, hands on his as he hugs you from behind. 

“I just–” You start, turning around to give him a look akin to a half-drowned puppy. “I want them to like me.”

“You brighten up every room, mi vida. Why wouldn't they like you?” He smooths away a deepening furrow by your brow, kissing it better. 

And when you melt, sinking into his arms and burrowing your face into the crook of his neck, all he can hear is the pounding of his heart. 

“Don't laugh.” You say it into the side of his neck, creating warmth that blooms from his chest to fingertips. 

“Never.” He means it. Of course, he means it. 

“I want to look like I belong next to you.”

It makes him short circuit. Miguel blinks; once, twice. He blinks a third time, gently pushing you up by your shoulders. 

“You-” He's incredulous, hardly able to process the implication of what you've just said. “You want to look like you belong next to me?”

Shakily, you nod. 

“You're amazing. Smart and kind and talented… and if they don't know it already at work then they're idiots. So,” You chew your lip, as if mulling over the right words.” I know it's just New Year's, and it's a stupid work thing, and you probably don't care… but I'm so proud of you. I want to show you off, tonight. I want to shine like you do, Mig.”

It makes him smile, thinking back to all the times he gushes about you at work. Usually quiet, generally reserved; but everything reminds him of you. Your hair, your smile, the very first time you laughed at a stupid joke of his. The way your shoulders sag after a long day, the way you curl up to his side on the couch everytime, without fail. 

Your favourite foods, your favourite colour, the way you marvel at his long lashes in bed or poke his frown lines in the morning. The gentle way in which you love him. The way he would bend over backwards to make you feel just a fraction of the love he has for you. 

“Oh God.” You groan. “Don't look at me like that. I said… don't laugh… I specifically told you not to–”

He sweeps you off your feet, carrying you to bed slung over his shoulder. In a heap of giggles, you land on soft sheets with a gentle thump, chasing away cold hands pressed all over your body. 

Miguel tosses off the clothes littered across the bed, whilst you lunge for your precious silks. 

You're laughing, writhing at the strong hands that pull you closer to his chest. “What's gotten into you?”

He's breathless, pressing kisses to the fat of your thighs. His hands travel up, hooking underneath tiny shorts. Like a man possessed, he massages the rise and fall of plush flesh, eyes trained on yours as his mouth dips low. Lower, into the crease of skin where your thighs meet your gorgeous folds, where soft cotton underwear is eaten up by your cunt. 

“Mig!” You sit up on your haunches, hand in his hair to pull him up. 

He looks at you, entranced, red-brown eyes sparkling as he rests his head on your thigh. 

“I love you.” 

And he says it like the first breath on a cold winter’s day; letting the words curl into the air like crystal and vapour. Gentle, oh-so soft.

“Oh.” It knocks the wind right out of your sails. “Well… I love you too.”

He shakes his head, sitting up in a display that has you scratching your head.

“No, baby. I love you.”

You frown. “That’s what I said, isn’t it?” 

“I love you.” He grabs your hands, pulling them to his chest. “I love you. I love you I love you I love-”

“Miguel.” You say it slowly, cradling his head in your palms, tilting him this way and that to examine his face - currently cracked into a dopey grin. Unconsciously, you brush away a stray curl that springs up by his forehead. “I love you. But I don’t really understand what’s going on. Did you take something? Hit your head? Do I need to call Gabi?  Because he really wouldn’t–”

“I went to the mall about a month ago, after — I think it was the day after we had dinner at Pesci’s and you said that you haven’t had a good churro in years–”

“No, I said the last time I had a churro was at Six Flags–”

He looks at you blankly. “Same thing, babe. So I went shopping for ingredients, went to that market, passed the shop that sells the weird looking plushies and then…” He takes a breath. “I passed the hardware store. Key cutting for half-off, or something, and I didn't even think about it. Just did it. Got a copy made of my keys and put it in a little ring box that's been burning a hole in my pocket for God knows how long.”

“I've been waiting for a good time to ask. I mean… I thought it was too soon but Gabi thinks it's time and Pete says it's not soon enough. And you've already got half your clothes at mine, and your mugs, and that fucking… rat’s nest of a jewellery plate that I gave you and you refuse to throw away.”

“It's pretty, Mig.”

“Lyla made me go to a pottery class once and I will never hear the end of it. Say the word and I will smash it into a million pieces.” You giggle and it makes him smile even wider. “You said you've always wanted a cat, and your building doesn't allow pets but mine does. Which is such a shame, because you'd be a great cat mom. The best.”

He gives you a weak smile, voice shaking imperceptibly. But you notice - because of course you do. 

“I love you so much it hurts. Sometimes I lie awake at night and stare at you like a fucking creep because I don't know what I did to get so lucky. How did I find someone as brilliant and beautiful and bright as you? And you want me? When you could have anyone else?”

“So I'm asking now - and there's no pressure, of course,” He takes a deep breath. “Will you move in with me? Please?”

His sincerity bowls you over, knocks your hair back like a hurricane-force wind. Miguel, stoic and ever the voice of reason, spilling his guts out to you in a sickly sweet daze. He's usually so forthright and upfront - and the image of him tossing and turning about the perfect time to ask you makes tears swell at the corner of your eyes. God, and then you're laughing; lost in gasping peals of giggles as he looks on, confused. 

“You…” You wipe away fat tears. “You think the best time to ask me is when I've got my pants halfway down my legs?”

Oh. Heat rises to his cheeks, and he buries his head in the covers. 

Gently, you nudge him. “That's a yes, Miguel, if you couldn't tell.”

When he smiles; wide and lopsided and exposing deep dimples either side of his face; you wrap him up in a hug that turns carnivorous, pressing obnoxious kisses everywhere you can. Eventually, you toss off your shorts and wrap bare legs around his torso, flipping him over with your hands planted by his sides. You put your lips on his, hungrily, chasing that deep, rumbling laugh that always sets you on fire. 

You kiss it into skin, making sure he'll carry it around for as long he can: love - caring and unquestioning and blinding. It wraps around him like a well-worn sweater, the slightly-itchy kind his mamá would give him for Christmas. For the first time in his life, Miguel realises; it fits. 

It makes him swallow roughly, and open his mouth wider, slipping his tongue to those spots he knows you like. It makes him shudder and shake and press you up against him impossibly close, grinding his hard length into the thin fabric at your cunt. 

Before he knows it, you've pushed the gusset aside, enveloping him between your plush walls and sinking down on his cock with incredible heat. It burns, the way you touch him, fingertips tracing his torso as you lift up his shirt. Miguel doesn't know where to look as you peel it off him – back arched deliciously as you latch onto his nipple. 

“F-Fuck.” He stutters, one hand gripping plush thigh and the other at the back of your neck. You’re messy - and wet - slobbering at his chest as he grinds up into your pussy. 

He's so, so close in no time at all. Your cunt flutters around him like you know, and then you're both falling; sinking into each other's bones in a wispy haze. 

Settling in his chest, panting and fucked out, you look up. You trace his wispy lashes, stunned by the way light kisses its peripheries, caught in golden flecks in his irises. 

“I don't like it when you talk about yourself like that.” 

You put an ear to his ribcage, steadied by its slow thump. 

“Like what?” He says it lightly, hoping the slight shake to his voice doesn't betray him. 

“Like you don't deserve to be loved.” Rolling over, you wrap your legs around his middle once more. You want to look him in the eye when you say it, so there is no misinterpreting your next words. “Because you do. Because you are.”

Miguel cups your cheek with a tenderness that makes your heart splinter. He kisses you with that same tenderness, stumbling over himself to show what his words can't. He’ll fall asleep to the gentle rise and fall of your chest, tucking his head into the crook of your neck. He’ll wrap himself around you like two pieces of a puzzle; like you were made for one another.

If Miguel isn’t built for love, then this feeling that bubbles up in his ribcage must be something else: spreading to his fingertips and toes like hot chocolate and fresh churros whilst you watch the fireworks, light fizzing and crackling across a cool night. If Miguel isn’t built for love, then the ring he’s wrapped up in a sock won’t make its way onto your left hand during a gentle night like this one.

He surveys the mess you’ve made of the bedroom. Dresses and bedsheets and fancy shoes all over the floor, and you’ve fallen asleep in the midst of it all. Miguel pulls you closer; clearing his head of widowers and puppets and love woven into silk sheets and scraggly blankets all the same.

Oh well, he thinks. He’s got the rest of his life with you to figure that out. 

_

_

_

[ceruleanchillin]

141 x American Reader

141 x American Fem!Reader

Note -

I was trying to do some quick scenarios and got caught up. I still have yet to figure out how to get in and get out with my writing.

I had to do some research to see if they had a PX (The Exchange) in the UK, and they do! They even have a Charley’s.

I need so much more practice until I'm more confident in these characters (and their accents...)😩

Simon:

Boston wasn’t terrible in Simon’s eyes, but he would still rather be home. He wasn’t really on leave, he had business on behalf of the task force with some American contacts. However, it was a lot of downtime and waiting, and it was twisting his head around to be working and resting so frequently together. He liked most things separate, easier that way.

He’d certainly been in worse places to wait in. Worse safe houses, more unfamiliar environments where his anti-social quirks made trouble, no chance at a decent pub like the one he’d taken to frequenting a few blocks from the safe house.

He was approaching the very same pub at the moment. Mind racing to mentally prepare for his next briefing with Price and Laswell. He didn’t have much, the contacts seemed to be dragging their feet, and Simon was in a daily battle not to just go gather the intel himself and be done with it.

He went to pull the door, but through the glass, saw you behind the counter. That was strange, you worked on weekends. He knew, because once he connected his increased heartbeat and uncomfortably hot cheeks to you, he started avoiding the place. 

It may have been the most authentic pub he’d encountered in America so far, but you were the prettiest woman he’d ever seen, and only one of these things made him sweat like he was back in basic.

He started to back away, but you’d seen him through the age-warped glass and were waving him in.

“You stupid pint-addict bastard.” he muttered, unnecessarily triple checking to make sure his mask was in place. 

He’d honored his promise to Price, and kept to a half mask instead of his usual balaclava. At first he was tense, short when spoken to, and constantly running a hand through his hair to momentarily shield his face. The half mask helped, but not much. It just reminded him he wasn’t where he felt he should be. He wasn’t the one to play the diplomat

However, on your first meeting, you’d complimented the contrast between his eyelashes and his dark eyes. Between that, and you pouring his Guinness at an angle, the right way, he’d had to clear his throat twice before he felt it was safe to respond. He couldn’t remember what he said, his ears had rung like a flashbang went off too close.

It must have been smooth, because you ducked your head and quickly turned so he couldn’t see you grin. Too slow, for all the vistas and colorful fabrics he’d seen in his travels, your smile had taken the prize.

“Hey! Saved your seat!” you called out over the din, pointing to the rounded corner of the bar where there was only stool and a column to block him from most patrons. “Even though I shouldn’t have. You’ve been avoiding me, and don’t deny it. My co-workers have no filter.”

He winced, you’d caught him red handed. “Not avoiding you. Just working.”

“At avoiding me.” you stuck your tongue out at him.

It was surprisingly packed for a weekday, and as he got closer to the bar, he noticed there was some sort of event going on. Drink specials, a pool tournament, and calls to tourists. He cursed, and considered how fast he could down his drink and fake a work call.

“Sit.” you pinned him with a look. “I need another sane adult around me, now.”

“Sane?” he snorted. “You’ve got the wrong bloke in mind.”

“Yeah? You wanna go up against the kid who’s pledging and has been wearing that chicken suit for two weeks, or the “actress” who keeps switching characters with every drink?” You raised an eyebrow, pointing out your subjects without a care about looking rude.

“I wanna get on the first thing flying or floating out of here.” 

“Take me with you, or I’ll steal your passport.” you slid the Guinness towards him, before leaning on your elbows, and closing some of the distance between you.

Simon had been tortured, beaten, and had given his fair share of the same back. He’d stared hardened terrorists in the eyes and made them back down every time. It was pretty silly of him, and he certainly felt it, to falter under your gaze, and yet he did. 

His fingers danced around the bottom of the glass, letting the drink settle, before he lowered his mask and took a big sip. “You don’t have to bribe me love, just say the word and we’re gone.”

He wasn’t often embarrassed. Sometimes, Johnny made him cringe, but he was usually too removed from a situation, and the people in it, to allow for such an emotion. He’d long stopped caring about the looks he, as a masked behemoth, received and whatever thoughts were behind the eyes on him.

Of course, he couldn’t do that with you. He didn’t want to, but he literally couldn’t anyways. So he had to sit there, heat rising to his cheeks, and a mental mantra of ‘shoot me’ ringing through his head on a loop.

To his barely noticeable relief, your gaze somehow grew warmer, a smile spreading across your pretty face. “I’m holding you to that Si. You don’t get to blame the alcohol either, you’ve barely touched your drink.”

It was comfortably quiet between the two of you after that. You returned to work as your co-workers got less and less professional. Things got crazier, but it did allow for him to be mostly ignored in his corner, which he was thankful for. He felt for you though.

He had to play bouncer once when a guy got behind the bar, thinking you denied his number because you couldn’t hear him.

The look in your eyes as you sought distance made Simon act purely on instinct. His speed, size, and training ended the situation quickly. You’d given a relieved exhale of air, and ran a hand down his arm before you ran off to respond to a glass crisis. It occurred to him right then how far he’d go for you. As far as he would for his team, whom he considered something around the range of family.

It frightened him that he’d only known you a few weeks, yet your connection had gotten him this far, but there was nowhere to run from the truth internally. If there was, he wasn’t sure he even wanted to.

By closing, he was the last customer, and he’d offered to stay while you close up. It wasn’t the first time.

“You better.” you grinned, wiping down the bar.

He started to help you by turning the chairs up on to the tables, and junking miscellaneous trash. He laughed when he heard you shouting about how someone got vomit on the ceiling in the bathroom.

“Fuck it lovie, make the layabouts earn their keep tomorrow.” he called out in response.

He was deep in thought about where he was and what he was doing when he turned and saw you standing by him. You got the rare jump on him.

“Don’t think I’m crazy, or do, because maybe I am. I know you were joking earlier, but I really wish you weren’t.” you threw the formerly white rag in your hand in the trash, smiling, but your eyes held the same vulnerability he always felt around you.

He blinked owlishly, processing your words before standing up to his full height. “I wasn’t joking.”

—

Kyle:

You’re a party girl to your core, but you can’t help it. You run your own bath products company, and it’s hard work. No one should blame you for playing hard to match.

Gaz certainly didn’t blame you, in fact, your vibrant social media is what drew him in. He’d been constantly checking his phone on base, to the annoyance of his partner-in-crime Soap when their pranks and game time started to lack, because Gaz had to check what your new post alert was about. 

It took him a minute, but he figured out your page was what Gaz was looking at (and so secretive about). He figured it out when Gaz started watching your live streams, and became so engrossed, Price would have to literally clap him on the back to get him on task. 

Soap knew he could forget any plans made if you started a live.

Damnit, he wanted to know who was stealing one of his best mates.

Once he saw you in full, and not glancing around Gaz’s big head, he got it. You were beautiful, vibrant, obviously in the city’s in-crowd. You would’ve fit in perfectly with him and his mates as far as your ability to sniff out a good time went. He couldn’t be mad at you anymore, and it wasn’t just because he had a minor crush on you himself, he knew his friend was gone, and decided to help him out.

He swiped Gaz’s phone and sent him on a wild goose chase so he’d have time to act. Soap put everything he had into that first message, though it wasn’t until after he sent it, he realized it was full of Scots lingo, and he cringed trying to clean it up in the following message. He realized he’d made it worse, and the DM thread looked like a tweaker got hold of the phone.

“What are you doing?” Gaz sounded both panicked and furious, causing Soap to freeze in real time.

“Uh.., I needed…to order food?”

“Bruv, with my phone?!”

“I…also..wanted to find out where you got..that hat.”

Gaz blinked at him, with an expression that clearly asked if Soap’s last brain cell had finally found a better job.

“You were there with me, it was at The Exchange. Give me my phone.”

Soap instinctively yanked the phone out of reach. “Uh, well..wait.”

Gaz’s eyes widened, voice rising. “Mate, hand the phone over or-“

The DM message notification rang out loud enough to silence Gaz immediately. His eyes somehow got wider, his lips forming a tight line.

Soap’s eyes mirrored his own, and his fight or flight instinct was triggered. “I swear…I did this for ye, not to ye this time. Ye cannae be mad about it.”

A beat passed, and Soap tried to ease the incoming meltdown a little more.

“I may have messed the introduction up a little, but I bet she went for the follow up.”

Gaz said nothing, opting instead to lunge for the device. Soap, confused and thinking Gaz was going to strike him, wasn’t fast enough, and though he outmatched Gaz in muscle, said man still took him down.

“Who are you messaging?!”

They rolled, and Soap tried to simultaneously keep Gaz from punching him, while he kept the phone stretched away from them. Another *ding* rang out, and Gaz glanced up to see a notification that contained your user name, and that you had responded. He assumed twice.

He felt his heart drop out of his ass, his eyes locking with Soap’s.

His next punch struck like a snake, fast and quick to Soap’s throat. Said man’s eyes crossed up, and Gaz took the time to try and grab the phone. He was surprised to find Soap’s grip as tight as ever.

“I’ll hand it over when ye promise not to blow up!”

“I promise to crack your chest!”

They continued to roll on the floor, Soap getting his second-wind after Gaz’s threat. Gaz, driven by what he knew had to be the biggest embarrassment of his life coming his way, and Soap by the need to explain his attempt at a good deed.

Two polished boots came into view and a sharp bark of “Knock it the fuck off!” ended the tussle immediately. 

Both men sat up, hair and clothing askew, chests heaving with adrenaline.

“What the hell is going on here?” John Price’s infamous gravel inflection hit the both of them, stiffening their spines pole straight.

Nothing came out though. It wasn’t exactly a thing you wanted to tell your captain. Both assumed he thought social media was the Yahoo homepage anyways.

He looked between them, neither meeting his gaze. “Right. Hand it over then.”

Gaz choked. On what, he couldn’t say, probably his dwindling pride. “Just uh…a little sport Captain.”

Soap glanced between them before his blue eyes settled on Price. “Yeah. What’s it gonna be Cap? Run laps, scrub latrines, we’ll take the worst.”

“Don’t worry about that, that’s a given and then some. The phone MacTavish.”

John Price rarely had to demand anything a second time, and neither Soap nor Gaz wanted to be responsible for making him do it a third. Soap gave him an apologetic side glance as he handed over the phone. Gaz cringed, feeling like a kid in class again, getting busted for swapping gross drawings of teachers.

“One of you, open it.” Price held the phone out between the two of them. Gaz sighed and input the code locking down the device.

Price pulled the phone back, and, much too efficiently for Gaz’s taste, began swiping. 

Price’s eyes scanned back and forth, and Gaz had to assume he was reading what he still hadn’t had a chance to.

After a beat, Price looked up in disbelief. “All this over a posh little beauty queen? Do you two want the one-four-one to be synonymous with a joke?”

Gaz would serve the mole-people through infinity if it meant they’d make the ground swallow him up right there. How his day had advanced to this was beyond him.

“Captain-“

Price turned to him, brows raised. “You better be glad she likes you and it wasn’t a total waste, or I’d rent you out to the circus like the clowns you two are.”

Gaz stepped back on one foot, his head snapping in disbelief. “Wait..she wha-“

“So it worked then yeah?!” Soap grinned, a breathy laugh supporting his exclamation before quickly straightening up. “I mean, I knew that it would. That’s why I did it.”

“It worked in spite of you spike strip.” Price tossed the phone to Gaz as Soap ran a hand over his treasured mohawk, pouting at the dig. “For whatever reason, that pretty little thing is interested in him.”

Hearing Price confirm your response was positive didn’t make it any easier to believe than the first time he heard it. He had yet to read whatever his dumbass friend sent your way, but…you liked it?

Gaz brought the phone to his face, and started to open the app so he could finally see for himself.

“I don’t think so.” Price warned with a sharp shake of his head. “That goes in your locker, now, and the two of you meet me out on the track.”

Gaz and Soap both hung their heads.

“Hopefully she comes to her senses by the time you’re able to even hold that thing again, let alone use it.”

“Yes sir.” Gaz locked the phone again, but he couldn’t wipe the smile off his face.

You must’ve looked at his page, and no matter what crazy thing Soap had sent you, you liked him. 

That knowledge carried him through so many laps on the track he vomited up things he swore he hadn’t eaten since he was 5, scrubbing bunks and latrines on his hands and knees until a hole opened in his pants over one knee, and endless up-downs until he and Soap had to literally pull each other up and help each other down.

When he finally collapsed in the locker room later, swearing he’d make it to the shower before he even thought of climbing in bed, he managed to dig his phone out of his locker first.

He was suddenly nervous, you were so gorgeous to him, and if your response was some pitying virtual head pat, he’d jump in front of the next Humvee he saw.

Then again, it was Price who said you liked him, and the man had no reason to or interest in making him feel better about the matter.

He unlocked the phone and quickly opened the app before he lost his nerve. 

You: ‘Um excuse me???’

He winced.

You: ‘Oh wait, I checked out your page. You’re from the UK? I didn’t know what you were saying😅. I still kinda don’t, but now I don’t think you’re creepy…you’re actually pretty cute. Thanks for your service.😘🫡’

His heartbeat sped up, and all his aches and bodily gripes were forgotten as he leaned forward on the bench. You had all his attention, and you quite possibly didn’t mind that.

He smirked, proud of his carefully curated page and the body his job helped him maintain. The more he thought about it, the more he realized how silly he was for worrying. Of course you had some interest in him, he could match your energy with ease.

He opened the keyboard ready to respond when all his short-lived bravado fell down around him. What the fuck was he supposed to say back?

—————

Johnny:

It made the two of you somewhat uncomfortable when you thought about how much chance it took for you guys to meet. The thought of not being together felt more foreign than you two ever had to each other. Johnny chose not to dwell on it, accepting how lucky he was often overshadowed the thought.

Your best friend since college was getting married, and you were not only maid of honor, but the wedding planner. Scotland was the homeland of your friend, and you knew on a good day she missed it with her whole heart. 

You did your best to incorporate her culture and her friends and family abroad into the ceremony.

This, it turned out, included her brother’s best friend John “Soap” MacTavish, who was also a family friend.

“Is Soap a um…traditional Scottish name?” you’d asked, holding up the name list she’d given you, and thinking your friend was setting you up for a joke.

“He was Johnny for years, but he came back from his dream job, built like a house, and was like ‘They call me Soap now.’.” she deepened her accent and voice to mock what you assumed he sounded like. “Don’t pay it any mind, he’s still our Johnny.”

So John “They call me Soap now” MacTavish was sent an invitation too. What you did not expect was her family to come into the country as quickly as they did. You still had a few weeks of planning, and from the moment they flooded her townhome, you were swept into their familial hurricane.

They couldn’t have been sweeter to you, but they all had input. You were overwhelmed within 30 minutes of being with them, despite your friend reeling them in repeatedly.

Johnny became your touchstone when, based on his energetic introduction, you expected him to be part of the chaos.

As you took notes and suggestions, he was the one who translated when the accents got too thick, or they slipped into Scots.

Someone got a little too aggressive with their suggestion, or talked over you? Johnny was calling out over the din and restoring the closest thing to order that he could.

His helpfulness didn’t end that evening. He became your living official Scotland handbook. 

The work you’d dreaded being added on top of what you already had to do found a partial home on his shoulders. Every choice you brought before your friend and her family received loud approval, and Johnny refused your credit every time. Claiming it was your beautiful, quick, and organized mind making the magic happen.

He was at your place bright and early every morning, the two of you forgetting you were virtually strangers who’d been thousands of miles apart the majority of your lives.

In the process of planning and arranging, you showed Johnny your neck of the woods, and the culture in Atlanta. He was fascinated by everything and you’d never been happier, having his complete and utter interest.

He loved your accent, he loved how friendly the people in the mom and pop places you took him to were, he loved how proud you were to be a Georgia girl.

He would always be a proud son of Scotland, so he got it.

“You’re really eatin’ the third one now?!” you laughed watching Johnny go through his third hot chicken sandwich. “Boy, you’re crazy!”

“And well fed too yeah.” he grinned around the huge bite he’d taken. “I’d punch Ghost square in the back of his head if they’d bring a Hattie B’s to Scotland. Of course, I’d have to stand on a stool.”

“Ghost?” you raised an eyebrow, swallowing the fry you’d been chewing.

“Oh yeah, my best mate in the service. He’s like a fuckin’ tree….if trees hit really hard and were just generally terrifying.”

Your eyes widened. “You’re in the service, that’s so cool. Is that the dream job?”

His eyes widened, his chest puffing out in pride at your words. “I am, youngest member to make it into my unit too. Got lucky with a pretty good team.”

“That where you get the name Soap? What is that about by the way?” 

He stopped chewing, swallowing hard. Visions of what his nickname referred to came to mind, and he felt like a wall was coming between the two of you. He wasn’t ashamed of his career, or most of the things he’d done to maintain it, but it’d been nice to almost be a civilian again. He hadn’t been just John or Johnny in a long time.

The distance from home, and the crush he wasn’t even going to pretend he didn’t have, helping the fantasy.

 “Yeah.” 

You senses the tone change, and started to withdraw your curiosity. “We can drop it.”

“Nah, it’s not a bad thing Bonnie, it’s just…” he furrowed his brow in thought, and you resisted the hard urge to touch him. “This is the first leave I’ve had in…maybe ever that I don’t feel a thin wall ‘tween me and my people. It’s just nice for a little bit.”

“Say less.” You pushed your seasoned fries towards him, snorting at his excited expression. “Let’s talk about how much I love it when you call me Bonnie instead.”

He choked, and your small hands found his back, pounding on what felt like a stone wall. “Jesus hen, you can’t just drop somethin’ like that when a man’s mid swallow.”

You brushed your hand over the back of his neck as you retracted it back to your person. Lowering your voice to a soft decibel. “I like when you call me that too.”

——

John Price:

How he’d let himself be talked into a cruise of all things, John would never know. 

….

That wasn’t true.

The pretty American office worker flagged him down when he went in for his briefing with the higher ups. She looked distressed, and John could feel that protective nature of his rear up in his chest and stiffen his spine. Before he could even register that he’d spoken, he’d told her whatever his help could provide, it was hers.

She’d flustered at that, tucking some hair behind her ear, and gave a sheepish smile. Her reaction sent a shock of pride from his brain to his cock.

She explained how she and a friend group back home had made plans for a week-long cruise out of Florida. She’d been looking forward to it, missing her home country, and having planned it out very carefully in the group chat. Then, earlier that week, it was brought to the light that one of the girls slept with the husband of another one. 

Sides were taken, she was attacked for being out of the country and unaware of the nuanced changes in the group, and then all the girls pulled out, essentially leaving her holding four tickets and the shreds of a perfect vacation.

That was you. A mess who’d been arguing with the travel agency, trying to wrangle all of your friends, and figure out how you wound up wasting several thousand dollars at that point.

John just stood there, like a coat rack with a bucket hat on top. Stiff, and unsure of what to do, say, or even what expression he should school his shocked features into. 

He stood there long enough for you to become embarrassed and wave him off and return to your desk.

“I’m so sorry I bothered you. God, you’re a Captain! It’s just, my momma and daddy have been on me from the beginning about how much of waste a trip like this is…‘girl why would you spend that much to float in the ocean with a bunch of strangers, you can borrow our boat and fish in the lake for free’.” you trailed off, realizing you were rambling and shoved your face in your hands.

He thought you were adorable. Most days, he wanted to find the nearest surface and have you on it, only to be embarrassed that at his age, he was thinking like a teenager. 

However, right then you were just plain adorable, accent in full swing because you were upset. John knew you were from somewhere in the southern US. Louisiana? Texas?

He approached your desk, hands splayed as he leaned his weight forward. “Love, it’s not a problem. I’m just not sure what I can do about it…aside from hunting down the husband and siccing Laswell on the other girl.”

You gave a full belly laugh. “That could work.”

He grinned, sitting on the edge of the desk, deciding he wanted more of the laugh and soon.

You quieted and started fiddling with a pen that’d been nearby. “But seriously…I would never ask you this if I thought I had other options. It’s just…you’re the person I’ve gotten closest to so far here, and um..I spent so much on those tickets. I even saved from my first paycheck into this last one..”

Your words were coming out fast and close, but John could pick them out. Admitting he was closer to you than anyone in the country warmed him so much, he didn’t care if the next words out of your mouth were asking him to reimburse you. He couldn’t imagine what else you could ask for, but at that point he’d do it.

“Do you mind filling in those spots for me with your team? It’s a perfect amount of tickets, and then I won’t be all alone, and it won’t be a waste, and just ugh! I need you to save my ass Captain Price.” you looked up at him with wide pleading eyes.

For a fraction of  second, Price wondered if you knew what you did to him, and that you could use that look to take over the mind of a weapon western governments spent a small fortune to train.

Then your request hit him like a train. You wanted him, and the adult nursery school he’d wrangled into the formation of the 141 to crash your vacation? Your sanity was up for debate.

“At any given time I’m working with half a shared brain cell between two muppets, and their long-suffering murder pet. I don’t think you’ve thought this through.”

“Oh.”

“In fact, their jackets read like the instructions for taking care of a Gremlin. No cruises is pretty high up there.” John tried to humor his way out of the suggestion until he caught sight of your face. 

You looked so disappointed, but then your expression shifted to one he couldn’t quite read.

“But you’d be there wouldn’t you?” wide pleading eyes just for him, trained on him.

He flushed, reluctantly stepping around what may have been the flirtatious tactic.  “Spending my leave pulling duty as a zoo keeper.”

“Work on your tan then Casper, I’m worried about you. You’d disappear in a snow storm.” You switched up your tactic again, hoping to amuse him into helping.

Price gave a full-belly laugh of his own, the kind he’d rarely even consider letting out at work.  “Negging me isn’t going to work love, I’d stick with begging.”

“Damn.” John watched you rise up again, slipping around your desk in heels he couldn’t stare at too long if he wanted to remain professional. “John Price, I swear if you don’t say yes after this, I don’t care where you are on this base I will find you. There, I will salt your coffee and unravel your cigars.”

You inhaled.“Johncanyouandtherestofthe141takethesdamnticketsbeforeIsnap?”

John pretended to think, enjoying watching you literally squirm from the corner of his eye. Despite the jokes, John wasn’t truly an old man, but you did make him feel much younger than he was and he liked it.

He liked the tiny carefree moments he spent with you throughout the day, and he supposed that’d be nice for one sunny week. 

“I’ll toss it to the lads, see what they say, and I’ll get back to you.”

“Meaning you’re going to make them do it.”

“Precisely.”

——-

As he stood before his men, he cursed his gentlemanly nature when faced with a woman in need. Well, if he was being entirely honest, he wasn’t being gentlemanly, and maybe this was what he deserved.  

It wasn’t chivalry alone, it was pure, unadulterated thirst. He wanted you the way a very hungry man wanted a woman, and he was thinly veiling it behind a tip of the top hat and cane.

Gaz and Soap made him feel like the 141 father the higher ups teased him about being. They reacted as though daddy came home with a promise of DisneyLand.

“The last time you told us to pack, I was picking small snakes out of my pack for over an hour. Gotta say, I want this to be a habit Captain.” Gaz was grinning, phone already in hand as he searched for vacation clothes.

“Yeah. Didn’t expect this when I woke up this mornin’. You’re not tryin’ to infringe on my prank brand right sir?”

Ghost reacted as predicted. Posture stiff, arms crossed, and his eyes doing all the talking. They said a number of ways Price should die, an even greater number of ways he could go fuck himself, and that he’d try whatever he could to get out of it.

“You’re not getting out of it.” Price dashed that dream immediately, but he’d let him fantasize about killing him all cruise long if it helped.

“Why would you want to L.T.?” Soap looked up from where he’d been trying to add items he wanted into Gaz’s cart. “Mud in yer boots, or bikinis and a pint? Pretty hard choice.”

“I don’t wanna see you in a bikini, mate.” Gaz quipped, a grunt leaving him when Soap punched his shoulder.

Price ignored that, and interrupted on the off chance that Ghost would entertain Soap with an answer. “Everyone’s going, It’s one week and you’ve all seen worse. You will be on time, you will behave and represent this unit accordingly, and by god you will all be gracious for the opportunity.”

The last line was meant specifically for Ghost. 

Said man smirked behind the mask, tiny details revealed this if you knew what to look for. “Don’t worry sir, I’ll be on my best behavior for your pretty little office bird.”

Price swallowed hard, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling as he counted to ten, and ignored Soap and Gaz’s aggressive inquiries. He was definitely being punished.

[calchexxis]

I think I skipped a few posts, but here it is, the final chapter of Flashbangs & Frag Grenades.

For those who do not know, this story was actually started before Arcane, and so the entire first...third? Of the series is before any of that dropped. When I first started posting this story, there were less than 100 fics under the Lightcannon tag, and by the time it hit 100, I was more than 10% of them. Now, there are over 1,000.

I don't say this to self-aggrandize, even though I know that's what it will sound like, but I genuinely don't know what Lightcannon as a fic-fandom would look like without Flashbangs. The reason I say that is because, and this is not a joke, when Arcane dropped, the only longform Lightcannon fic/series that I'm aware of that was still being regularly updated was mine. Most of the other fics in the tag were short, 1-2 chapters, or ficlets. There are a few standouts like 'Don't Lose My Number' by Starcola and the '100 Beautiful and Ugly Words' ficlet series by Ironstatic.

I think the longest one of the Pre-Arcane Lightcannon classics was Illuminous Duet by Kindredtea, but even that, ironically, had its first chapter posted two weeks after the first fic of Flashbangs: Wherefore Cometh Light.

Jinx has always had a kind of fun appeal to her, but to me, Lux is my girl. It's so strange for me to see echoes of my Lux in other people's fics. It's even stranger to see my personal ao3 tags 'Jinx is crazy, Lux is Crazier' show up in works whose authors I've never spoken to. So that's what I mean when I say, I don't know what the Lightcannon fandom looks like without Flashbangs, because it was here when it really took off, and it continued through the events of Arcane, and onward all the way to today. I think that Flashbangs codified what Lux was 'supposed' to sound like in fandom in the same way that Arcane codified Jinx, and I am proud of that.

For those of you have gotten this far, there is a Audiobook of Flashbangs in production, being professionally recorded chapter by chapter, and uploaded to Spotify and Apple Podcast completely for free, and we are up to the final book in the series.

If you want to donate to the cause, please check HERE.

I can't wait to see what Season 2 brings. I can't wait to see what you all create. I hope that Flashbangs continues to tell its story to all of you, so with that said, cheers.

Because We Have Come To Terms.