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selarina · 1 year ago

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I love you so (I'll eat you whole)

→ Kuroo Tetsurou x Fem!Reader

Summary: Two individuals caught in a repetitive cycle of phone calls and conversations, each blaming the other for their constant and inescapable interaction.

Or as Tom Wambsgans once said, "I love you but you kill me, and I kill you.

Content Warning: Toxic Relationship, Rough Sex, Heavy Angst, Dubious Consent, Swearing, Emotional Hurt, Allusions to Substance Abuse, Jealousy, Smut, Mentions of Cheating, Power Dynamics, Spit Kink, Cunnilingus, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Post-Break Up, Dom Kuroo Tetsurou, Switch Kuroo Tetsurou, Switch Reader, Crying, Dacryphilia, Unresolved Emotional Turmoil, MINORS DNI

Word Count: 3.3k words

Author's Note: This is possibly the most toxic, and filthy thing I have written. And will likely be the last. Enjoy.

Read on AO3

"If anything this is your fucking fault."

"What the fuck? You're the one who called me," you say, and it irritates him how you can be this nonchalant. How he's the one up and carding his hand through his hair and you're just sitting, your hands and mind focused on a fucking cigarette.

"You fucking picked up. Yo—You could have just not."

You turn, your brows cinched, your eyes seething and it almost makes him happy, and that thought alone is enough to make him feel a bit sick.

"You are the one who called me," you say, accentuating every single word of that sentence.

"You always pick up. You could just not," he's repeating what he said and he thinks he could repeat it a thousand times and you still wouldn't understand.

"You're the one who's always calling. I do — Just stop."

Maybe he should, he thinks but it’s a fleeting thought. "I can't, and you know it," he says, his voice soft and a bit hoarse.

He sits down on the bed now, too tired to keep standing through this. His hand runs through his hair, he thinks anymore of this and he'll go bald — by stress or through pure frustration.

"You know it," he says, his voice comes out softer this time and you can tell he's tired.

He looks up to you, and he can tell you're tired. Tired of him trying to fix this, whatever you two would call it, but not tired enough to end it on your own. He supposes that in a way he's nothing but a hypocrite — how can he expect this from you when he won't do it himself?

Your hands come up, the cigarette finally abandoned and your fingers run through his hair, and it reminds him of the last summer before college started. Your hands would card through his, just like this. You were gentler back then, treating him like a delicate doll, now you card through his hair like he's yours, still a doll but fervently yours through time.

"I know," you say, your voice comes off hushed. "I know, baby."

And just like that he sinks. Into your shoulder, and into your life. Once again. All over again.

He smiles as his hands loop around your naked waist. You flinch ever so slightly at his cold hand, and just for a moment he thinks that maybe he should take his hands off, find his discarded shirt, and his car keys, and never return.

But then he thinks of how it feels to sink into you like this, like he could fit all of himself right next to you. You're the missing piece of his puzzle. Or maybe he is yours, he can't tell anymore.

Your hands keep moving against his hair, back and forth, and back and forth. Sometimes it moves sideways, but it's been long enough for him to figure out a pattern so he nips at your neck, slowly but harshly, his teeth sink in as he pulls against your skin.

You groan deeply, he feels it against the hand that sits on your waist. His hands tighten, he already knows that you won't pull away, but he can't help but pull you into him every single time because he knows this is fleeting, and he's grasping onto you while you're a dimly lit lantern that's waiting— no, palpitationing and aching to be set free.

Your hands are still gentle, even as he's pulling against your skin, you don't tighten into his hair. You never have, and so he kisses over the now visible bruise, and he's happy he can leave at least this on you. It makes him think that maybe all of this is not as fleeting as he thought. You carry the bruises for at least a week he realizes — all the love bites and the handprints.

He pulls back, his eyes narrow and you notice they're tinged with red, as though he cried but you know he didn't, you would've felt it. You look into your shoulders and still see no residual of tears.

His eyes stare back into yours when you look back up. They're muddled with a mix of frustration and just desire.

And for the first time today, your eyes show emotion. Other than pure fucking horniness, you feel love, it's a distant love, it's a love that doesn't exist but you feel it in this moment.

You draw yourself closer to him, and in one swift move, your lips are on his. You want to take this slow, like back in high school, when you treated each other with care and a brewing hint of fear, because you didn't want to break him and he didn't want to break you.

You can't help but internally laugh at how you both have failed, so miserably at that.

You want to take it slow, but you fear Kuroo may have different plans. He starts nipping at your lips, and tries and tries to swallow you whole. You fight against it, but eventually, as always you give in, almost feeling blissful as you give in.

His arms bruise against your hip as he pulls you onto his lap, your thighs lodging themselves onto his thigh.

You pull back, "Are you in love with her?"

This time he really laughs, "Like you'd ever let me."

"I'm not stopping you," you say. Almost offended, but mostly relieved. You're really not stopping him.

He doesn't say anything. He doesn't know what to say, you aren't stopping him. In fact, the last time he called you, freshly broken up with his girlfriend, all because she knew — she knew you were the only one for his fucked up self, and she left. You told him to go back, to apologize, to make things right and he begged to stay, to sink into your arms, and you let him because you could try to hide it all you want but his eyes could convince you to do anything for him if you didn't look away, and that night he held your face in place, and there was nowhere else to look.

"I could never. I would never not love you. Fuck, I'm so in love with you it's driving me insane," he groans, and he means it.

You softly whimper at his confession and slowly melt in his arms, arms going around his shoulders as you hug him flush. He kisses the crevice of your neck, as his hands trace down back to your waist.

He puts a soft pressure that's enough to encourage you to do more. You move against him, softly but with each grind, he puts more force into it, and it has you whimpering into his neck.

"I hated that you started seeing her. I hated that she thinks she has the right to touch you" You moan.

"Yeah, baby? How much?" He groans too, because your moving knee is moving against his crotch.

"So much," you moan, the jealous fury consumes you, and consequently consumes him. You remember how she hung onto him in their latest Instagram picture and you pull your hands in tighter around his shoulders.

You find solace in the fact that it's deleted. Gone. And the thought of that makes you sick. Somewhere down there, you know you're a terrible person. But also, somewhere down there, you feel like a teenage girl. Like the same teenage girl that met and fell for Tetsurou and all his odd charm, the same teenage girl that just won't let go, and you've long since known what happens to teenage girls in an adult world.

And then you pull back, and his eyes look up, a bit frantic, as his hands soften. He looks into your eyes, seeing if you want to back away, maybe this is the one time the two of you back away from each other.

But you've been here, and you've thought this one too many times to believe it, so you smile and push him back against the bed, with no force at all, but he knows as much to comply.

You don't waste much time, you pull his pants down, along with his underwear as your hands start moving up and down his cock.

He groans, "Baby, please. Can you—" He's cut off by another groan as his hand comes to hide his face with his forearms.

You stop all at once, and he wants to die. You lean down, one hand still stroking his cock, and the other coming up. You take his hand covering his face and pull it above him, and he looks at your face, and you think you'll never see devotion like this, not from any man, not from any disciple to their God.

You don't hide your smile, it's anything but triumphant, it's sad really. Because you'll never find this anywhere else, not even with him, no matter how much you try and try again. He's not the same as you once were.

You move your hand away, cruelty on your part, as you fiddle with your bra instead as he lies in front of you, helpless as he watches and pleads with his eyes. It almost makes you want to never give in like you should get up instead, take your carefully folded clothes against the chair, and put your clothes on as you tell him to leave before you come back from your cigarette run.

But you don't, instead your bra snaps apart and you give in completely, no turning back after this.

But you didn't look down at him through all this, and somewhere in between your contemplation and fiddling. Kuroo Tetsurou decided that he's had enough of this. He wants—no, he needs more. He's strung up and he's never been more close to bursting through the streams.

And so he reaches for your waist as soon as your bra snaps apart. Your breasts barely get a second to breathe before he's coming up and lifting you off the bed and off of him, depositing you knees-first onto the cold tile of your room.

You look up, ready to snap at him but you look up and he's standing. His cock hovering right above your face. Hard.

He gives you no warning before he smacks the meat of your cheek with his cock. A few heavy smacks hit your lips. The message is clear now as you part your lips, finally fully completely, and ardently giving into him.

As your mouth encloses his cock, trying and trying to reach the hilt of his pubes. He realizes he has missed this the most out of all things. He has missed a show of devotion from you, something stronger than a mere Instagram caption. Something as vile as this — you choking on his cock while still looking at him starry-eyed, and for a second he could fool himself into believing it's all okay. Like you love him as you always have, and the worst part is, you think you do, you think it is he who has changed.

He doesn't get to dwell on this, not when you're like this. You may be on the floor, but with you, like this, he feels so much beneath you in the basest way describable.

You pull away, your eyes teary and your lips swollen. "Come for me," you say, your voice hoarse but still commanding, and who was he to deny your command? So, like a mere disciple, he comes.

He's catching his breath as he looks down, holding his heavy cock in one hand.

His hands come to your lips, knowing you have swallowed. You never do, not until you show him. Your mouth opens up, and he bends and spits into your mouth.

His hands come to the side of your cheeks as he slaps twice consecutively. And then you swallow.

Seconds pass and the two remain as you are, trying to regain your breath. His hands come to wipe your tears, as his palm comes to caress your cheek and for the first time in 5 years, you softly lean into it.

Tetsurou thinks he could cry, so he comes down to you, sits face to face, and says, "I love you. So much."

There are tears, they haven't flown yet but you see it in his eyes and you hate it. You look away, but his hands come to bring your eyes back to him, he starts leaning in for a kiss, slowly this time like you wanted.

He softly nips against your lower lip, with no force this time. Taking his time as he moves his hand across your waist, and through your hair.

Your hair, though, is tangled and stops his hands in your hair and when he pulls, it pulls your head down with his hand.

"Fucking — Ouch!" You hit his hand away, as your hand comes to soothe your scalp.

"I'm so sorry, baby." He says, sincerely but then he starts chuckling.

You frown, but can't help but smile when you see the soft dents in his cheeks. You think they're less defined now, back in high school, they were like craters of the moon, hollow enough to hold water, you would tease. Now you think it would spill right out, holding perhaps two drops at most.

"Are you still seeing him?" He says, but he's sheepish and he looks away. He asked you this last time, actually — he threatened you to keep seeing him, as he kept fucking you that night — he told you to see him, that he would never compare.

Only Tetsurou knows they were empty words, from an empty man.

"Yeah," you say. But it barely matters to you, or the "him" Tetsurou is so worried about. "He" is your friend before he's your... well, more than friends, less than lovers, whatever you may call that.

"Didn't take you for one to cheat," Kuroo says before he could stop himself.

"I would never," you say, a sudden surge of anger emerging, fighting against your weariness. "You know I would not," you say.

He does. You think you would break up with the person and go ahead and fuck them far before you would cheat on them. Kuroo thinks you're lovely and cruel like that, but mostly lovely.

You know you would only do that because you hated the burden of one's pain, the guilt of causing that pain. You've seen how it tore your family apart, no matter how much they tried. You groan internally, no point in picking at closed wounds.

"He's not my boyfriend, Kuroo," you say.

"You told me he was," he says, his brows cinching.

"I never did," you say. He pauses and laughs cynically. Well, you're always careful with what you say and show, aren't you?

"You never told me he wasn't either," he says.

"Makes no difference," you say.

"Yeah," he agrees. He came here, thinking you had a boyfriend. You let him in, knowing he had broken up with his girlfriend a while ago. You must be a better person, right?

Looking into your eyes, he can't help but feel the need to disagree. You're kind and you're cruel, all at the same time somehow. But he's no less, so he forgoes the guilt in almost a swift minute, as he pulls you by your legs as lays you down on the cold floor.

You hiss as your back hits the floor. Kuroo's hand sweeps both of yours as he pulls it up above your head.

"Don't see him," he says. "I don't—" he pauses before he sighs. "Don't see him," he can't help but just repeat what he said.

"I'll consider it," you say.

You won't, you decide at that moment. You'll leave Kuroo and you'll continue fucking your friend, and this will all be over because one day you'll wake up as a brand new person, and you'll find that you have the ability to love someone other than Kuroo Tetsurou.

You think he sees right through all of this as he starts removing your underwear, which soon after, joins his pile of clothes lying idle on the floor.

His hands cup your cunt, and his middle finger toying with your sore clit. You hiss, and he notices. He hasn't fucked you since he last saw you 2 months ago, so he knows. He knows. He thinks back to the clothes of men he saw, the ones you were folding away as you had just finished drying them when he arrived. You insisted that you will finish folding and placing them first. Not wanting to delay fucking you any further, he complied. Maybe he was too lost in his desire to get you like this, eyes half-lidded with tiredness and desire, but he missed the slew of clothing items that seemed like they belonged to a man.

The shift in his eyes with the newfound presence of iciness in his eyes starts getting to you, as you shrivel in, and start moving as his continued pressure builds.

You try to go quiet, without the support of your hands, as you notice you're the only one making noise. He's just looking at you, not a single word coming from his mouth.

His fingers slip in, and he pumps in and out as you struggle more and more to keep quiet, and somewhere in between you give up. Moaning loud enough to know you might get a frustrating call from your neighbor.

He doesn't let you come though, and you don't know if this is comeuppance for not making him come before, or if this is frustration with your friend who's been getting the privilege to fuck you into your mattress all the while Tetsurou continued to drown himself in alcohol.

He stops his ministrations, moving back, facing your open legs on his knees. He pulls your leg apart, lining his cock with your hole, Kuroo let out a breath as he slowly pushes himself in.

It's not a tough fit, what with you already dripping all over yourself for him.

Those first few seconds always felt so fucking good, blowing his mind each time, and before you could even take the warning, he dragged his cock almost fully out of you and then pushed back in, quickly and harshly.

After a few quick and intense thrusts, he picked up a brutal pace, forcing her to take him as deep as possible each time, and each time he moved out and back in, you moaned louder, tears dripping out of your eyes as he watched you in your basest form. He thinks he's never loved you more, knowing he couldn't be more wrong.

“Was he as good as me, baby?” Kuroo growls, to cover up the fact that it's a plea. He needs to know. It would kill him if he doesn't hear it from you, he thinks.

He continues fucking into you so harshly that you kept scooting further up the floor. “Tell me, baby. Please."

You look into his eyes, and worry when you see your watery eyes, match his own.

"No one," you moan. "No one is as good as you."

He thinks he can finally breathe now. "Good girl," he says, a soft smile on his face, his pace slows down as he bends down to kiss your forehead.

You can't help but smile, just a little.

He comes back up and picks up his pace. He thinks that he could do anything to you right now, and you would accept it like the good girl you were.

His girl, he can't help but think wistfully.

He bends down again and starts kissing you, softly and harshly all at once, before he comes into you.

You don't let him go, even when he's done, and lying next to you on the cold floor. His eyes flit to the discarded clothes. He doesn't want to, but he thinks he should reach for them. See how you would react, and think of what happens from there but as he moves he finds his hand held softly in your grip. He could get out of it, and you know that.

He grips your hand. He understands.

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maskofmilves · 1 month ago

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The Substance Masterlist

Elisabeth Sparkle

coming soon

Sue

Control Yourself

Elisabeth Sparkle x Sue

Beloved

#the substance 2024 #the substance #the substance spoilers #elisabeth sparkle #elisabeth sparkle x reader #sue the substance #sue x reader #demi moore x reader #demi moore fic #demi moore smut #margaret qualley #margaret qualley fic #margaret qualley smut #the substance 2024 fic #elisabeth sparkle x sue #elisasue

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chuluoyi · 4 months ago

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i suppose it’s a well-known fact but if it isn’t rotten smut people won’t read it nowadays :’)

#—chu’s ramblings 🗯️#no but seriously i scrolled through the tags and everything is plain smut🥲#no shade to anyone ofc bc i write it too but…#sometimes i just want to read something with more substance :’)

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dont-f-with-moogles · 1 year ago

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Smut Scribbles 27. "Do you think you deserve this?"

Never Let Me Go (NSFW) Characters: Dazai x Reader Word Count: 1278 words

Shutters were lowered over your apartment windows like heavy lids. They did little to prevent the glare of city lights, for the neon fluorescence was brighter than moonlight. It dazzled the sparsely furnished room, revealing the titles of books piled in the far corners and embellishing the ink upon the scattered notes around them. It shone upon a round table cluttered with empty sake bottles and plastic prescription pots. Beside this, covering a section of floor, lay an unrolled futon with its cover thrown carelessly to the side. Whilst the rest of the building slept, and city traffic droned through the early hours, your small room was filled with low, urgent gasps and the slap of skin on skin.

Dazai’s lean figure was stretched out upon your mattress. Apart from a few bandages wrapped around his forearms, his body lay bare; an apparition of ghostly pale skin. He was hot to the touch; a sheen of sweat glowed upon his heaving chest. Sitting astride him, back arched, your thighs were warm and slick as they clenched Dazai’s thin waist. Lithe fingertips stroked at your legs; they skimmed upwards to clutch possessively at you as he rolled his hips. There was no doubt that he had every intention of leaving his mark upon you; tell tale blemishes which would boast of your exploits. In answer you moved even more strenuously against him, helpless to the searing heat pooling in your core.

Struggling to suppress the desperate sounds which threatened to escape you, you bit down on your lower lip. Your mind was clouded with incoherent pleas; the only clear thought was that you wanted him over and over again. Solace lay in the warmth of his body against yours; it anchored you in the present where, for once, you yearned to remain. For so long numbness had encased you like glass, distorting your view of the world beyond. Stifled in that stagnant air for so long, it was nothing short of a miracle to have that casement cracked open. You were able to breathe; to feel something. And Dazai knew exactly how to reach that part of you; how to unfurl such deep, divine sensations that it drove you wild with desire for more. Your eyes closed as you relished the gratifying ache of him inside you. The delicious sting spread, climbing to sweet peaks of pleasure.

You let out a shiver of breath as you gazed down into Dazai’s flushed face. With his eyes intent upon your own, your grip on his shoulders loosened, hands travelling up towards his neck. Of the many hours you had spent together that night, lost in the heat of his skin on yours, there had not passed a second which carried such intimacy as this moment. There was a sense of delirious abandonment in Dazai’s expression as your fingers encircled his throat. Beneath your thumb his skin stood out in a bloom of pink. A bead of sweat tickled your chest as it rolled down.

"You think - you deserve this?" you managed breathlessly. Eyelids lowered, a dark smile crossed his features.

"Hah... and so much more..."

You squeezed a little tighter, the colour blanching as your fingers applied more pressure. Dazai uttered a low, gagging sound, his hold upon your legs slackening.

What was one more loss after all? You had already died several times over in his arms tonight. Both of you had been at this for hours, for Dazai had refused to let either of you rest. Lifted into the bathroom basin, your legs had hung over the porcelain rim whilst he had knelt to run his tongue over your warm, parted flesh. Again, you had laid across the futon whilst he, out of sight, had brought his mouth between your thighs. Gripping the sheets with your fist, you had writhed and cried out beneath his expert tongue. And after that, once Dazai had discarded his clothes and his cell phone had clattered open beside the pile, he had wound his way up to your neck. Lying between your outstretched legs, his lips had traced your collarbone, your jaw, your mouth. And you had sought his consent, without words, to prise away the bandages covering his neck and chest, exposing the most vulnerable parts of him. Warm sake swirled down with the pills. Sheets which smelled of sex. He had outmanoeuvred you at every turn and, despite the way you were leaning imperiously over him, the only reason Dazai was spread beneath you at all was because he had willed it so. Hadn’t he wanted you to kiss the scars he had once hidden from the world? Hadn’t he asked you to strangle him with your bare hands?

Almost choked of air and surrendering to the heat of you clenched around him, Dazai’s movements faltered. You could feel it coming too. Impatient for release, you uttered a moan of longing. The gradual cresting of pleasure had felt so agonisingly sweet, a part of you knew it would be better to draw out the sensation; to savour the intensity as it broke through you. But you were so close now that it was impossible not to grind your hips a little harder. You weren’t going to last for much longer like this; shaking, soaked against him.

Then the pressure snapped. This orgasm ripped through you more violently than the others. Your mouth hung open; a soundless cry. Tension travelled from your legs to your arms, as though every muscle in your body had pulled taut, including the hands which gripped Dazai’s throat. He watched you fall apart on top of him, your body wracked with sobs of relief. It was almost unendurable, and yet you could not get enough of him. You could hardly wait for him to do this to you all over again. When, finally, you relinquished your hold around his neck, Dazai rasped out his breath in a long, desperate sigh.

Trembling, you leaned in to kiss his lips when a wave of dizziness swept over you. You pushed back a handful of damp hair from your face, uttering a confused, breathless gasp. Inevitably, you had failed to show restraint this evening in every possible sense, including keeping up with Dazai’s drinking. Your fingers remained gripped in your hair as if to prevent your head from sinking forwards. Each shift in position seemed to bring on another headrush; darkness threatening the corners of your vision. Just beyond the gathering shadows, Dazai’s brown eyes were rounded in concern.

“Are you… okay?” you managed, your voice thin, “...I feel a little dizzy…”

You prised yourself away from him and flumped down by his side on the futon. For a moment, both of you lay still. Then you turned onto your side. Dazai’s eyes still held that distant look; his face was flooded with patches of colour. Emerging bruises striped his neck; you too had left your mark. Chocolate hair was glued to his forehead and the sides of his face. He turned his head to the side, meditative, and reached out an arm to you. Gentle fingertips brushed your cheek. Dazai held your gaze just as he held your face in his bandaged palm.

“Ah -” His voice caught in his throat; little more than an exhalation. He brought your mouth to his own.

Deep, breathless, messy kisses. Dazai’s tongue was cold from all the sake; his breath carried its sweet flavour. You kissed him as though you feared being torn apart, your warm chest held against his. Feather-like strands of dark hair tickled your neck as his lips found your ear.

“...this must be paradise, Bella. Never let me go…” ... Lil birthday treat for me... 😌 (<- edited all the OD mentions out of my fic on AO3!)

#dazai osamu #osamu dazai smut #dazai x reader #osamu dazai x you #bungou stray dogs smut #bungou stray dogs #bsd #smut scribbles #n.sfw #tw choking #tw alcohol #tw slight ref to substance abuse #my writing

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ms-nesbit · 1 year ago

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Good jay hunting (chapter three of empire records)

Chapter one and two found here (x) (x)

Rating: 18+ (say it with me: minors, fuck off!)

Summary: y/n and jason go on a date at the gotham cemetery, where jason tells y/n about his tenure as robin. Her feelings for him deepens, so much that he receives a surprise when the date is over.

Trigger warning! This chapter dives into Jason Todd’s history, which includes: d0mestic vi0lence, r@pe, pr0stitution, substance @buse, child @abuse, and neglect. PLEASE be advised.

ao3

Note: I fucking loved writing this chapter. I will take a break though because it hit a little too close to home for me. I hope you all enjoy and, as always, reblog and refrain from being a dickhead and reposting my work elsewhere. Thank you!

A cold front ushered into Gotham quicker than the summer heat could pay its sorrowful respects, Gothamites struggling to acclimate to the drastic change in temperature. On the Gotham News Network, gas leaks and lawsuits were reported, detailing the inhumane treatment landlords provide for the elderly; it was nothing new to the godless city, each sin managing to top another.

Jason was desensitized to it, too. He recalled his time in an apartment on the upper East side of Gotham, near Murphy Ave. - his biological father stumbled through the door, fury steaming from his lips in the scent of bourbon, as he picked which target to his unfathomable wrath; Jason’s mother sacrificed herself when Jason’s motor skills were still developing, and skull fusing together from his ripe birth; yet, when Jason began reading, gaining ideas that inspired him to do good, he stood before his mother, fists balled and chest puffed, a zeal of a thirty year-old in a nine year-old’s body.

His father was why Jason’s mother dipped her toes into medication - he injured her so severely, she visited the doctor, who abruptly prescribed her narcotics without questioning the source of her injuries, and sent her on her way. Each tablet was a sense of bliss to her, something she missed so dearly, it enveloped her in endless bliss when she re-experienced it, so she became erratic for more, bargaining with the local shadows to entice her, indulge her, give her what she needed.

And Jason was learning from this. He blinked his deer eyes as he saw his mother dive into the pill bottle face first, and how his father’s silhouette looked carved in chalk. I’m okay, he told his teachers when they noticed his missing assignments, or unexcused absences from school. I was just sick. I forgot.

Never could he step down from his position as son, mother, and father - he was all a nuclear family to himself, and couldn’t afford to jeopardize his position. With his father dead, he was man of the house at ten, and grew three sizes to accommodate; with his mother paralyzed by chemically-induced numbness and familiarity in the shape of ovular bliss, Jason adapted rapidly, cooking meals for himself and his mother. And without the income, he stole what he could; after being arrested a few times, he feared not his own record becoming tarnished with demerits, but the judicial attention being shifted to his mother, whom he dearly loved and missed, and instead sold his soul to the streets, begging to give whatever he could so he could feed his mother, care for his mother, rear his mother as she needed.

After that dreadful night, though, when he visited his friends after school instead of checking on his mother, he re-entered the apartment, dirtied and covered in neglect. The air was thick with news he believed he had the power to prevent, the poor boy, his last light of innocence taken from him with her final breath before she lay lifeless on the bathroom tile floor, becoming one with the grime and mildew that accumulated.

He shed no tears that night. He cradled her, listened to her in lament, but remained a soldier for the mother he wished he knew. Jason held her as he rocked her to sleep, hoping the embrace could restore her soul to eternal happiness in the afterlife. With her, a piece of his soul died, too, and his smiles were in vain, voice seeming a bit tainted with a poison others in his life couldn’t quite identify.

It was quite ironic that he loved the theatre tenderly, as he became an actor at a young age, playing the role of a century. He performed at Apollo Theater as Lady McBeth, his mourning in tow each day he spoke of his mother and her life, as if she wasn’t a ghost haunting his mind post-sunset. His tongue was burning and heart lonesome as he performed exquisitely, so well that even he was convinced that his mother would be at home, waiting upon his arrival.

One night, after escaping from the hands of his disparaging foster parents, Jason picked up his equipment used to steal - or boost, if you will - automotive parts for cash. He used the pieces as relics to restore value to himself, whether it be in form of wrinkled, used money, or bartering for shelter, transportation, or a favor; that night, however, proved to be different in many ways: the moon entered its final phase, the quarter presenting itself behind passing clouds, Jason’s best friend had been missing for days, only to have his body recovered from the lake that day (another day of grief for Jason, no doubt, although he was anesthetized to death).

Jason found an abnormally shaped vehicle in Crime Alley, and he snickered to himself when he approached the profile, it was…the Batmobile. He kneeled and began his workmanship, spinning the car jack to loosen the lug nuts. Before he could finish, though, a presence bestowed itself behind him, the Fool, and it was the caped crusader himself.

The following months were a quick haze for the pre-teen - the vigilante revealed his identity as Bruce Wayne, and Jason, although ecstatic to belong in a home once again, didn’t shake his misfortune, the baggage worn around his neck like a lagahoo. If it wasn’t in his days as anxiety attacks and hoarding, anticipating the next loss, then it was carried through in his subconscious, the most unsuspecting of all in forms of nightmares and shapeshifting creatures lurking with a liquor bottle and belt.

Screams and pleas entered the halls of Wayne Manor, carrying all the way to Bruce’s chambers, and sometimes, on the most unforgiving nights, into the Batcave. It brought heartbreak to the home, especially to Bruce’s butler, Alfred, who served Jason much closer than Bruce could. Although Jason’s older adoptive brother, Dick, was polite and respectful of Alfred, Jason saw Pennyworth eye-to-eye, restoring some youth into the mature man when Jason assisted him in the kitchen, or with chores, with such glee (and it was a delightful task for Jason to partake in! He longed for mundane tasks that other children took for granted, gruelled about, resented their parents for, and Jason smiled with each load of laundry completed, or dinner prepped with Alfred.).

“We must do something, Bruce.” Alfred begged Bruce with broken eyes. “Not that cloak.” he spoke vehemently, with such disgust that the man could ever dare coerce Jason back into danger, this time with less protection and a daring purpose.

Yet his concerns were dismissed by Bruce’s concoction of arrogance and stubbornness, a deadly duo that ultimately led Jason to his demise by the clown prince of crime. His lifeless body lay on the concrete, and Bruce was taken aback by the woeful fate of the boy, despite the stern admonishments made by his aid at home. He vowed never to risk another boy’s life after this, to allow Jason to rest after sixteen years of distress.

The truth unfolded after the detective unmasked details of his son’s death: the clown had tempted him with the unveiling of his mother’s existence, his true mother. The pictures the clown’s unhinged partner took, which were messily glued to Todd’s tombstone, left little to Bruce’s imagination: the torture his son endured at the hands of a criminal, the look of terror in the boy’s eyes in one photo, with a shadow of a man’s arm in the air, crowbar in hand…

It was the first time since Martha and Thomas’s deaths that Bruce wept, shoulders slumped as he hiccuped. The boy died in vain. For nothing. There was no rest for his tortured soul, no restitution, requisition for the last breaths laborly drawn.

And when Jason arose from the dead, vindication sharp on his tongue, and life stolen from his green eyes, it only instigated heavier burden on Bruce’s aching bones, remorse deep in his voice when he faced the revived Jason returning back to Wayne Manor, distraught from uncovering that shortly after his death, Bruce replaced him.

—

“So…you were Robin?” y/n asked.

Jason nodded sadly, face pointed at the starry sky. “Yeah.”

Silence cursed them again, the night drawn out from Jason’s confession. Y/n didn’t expect it to be this tragic, although she appreciated it quietly. “Do you miss her?”

The words caught Jason off guard. He was used to y/n’s surprising angle on conversations, scoping out a person differently than the status quo. No small talk, no pleasantries, just rawness. “I talked with Bruce’s shrink about it - he said she could help or some shit,” his face warped in disapproval. “But I don’t. I romanticized the idea of her, but to be honest, she chose drugs over me. It hurts sometimes to think about, but that’s that. It was easier for me to think of my dad as a piece of shit, because he basically hit me more than he talked to me.”

“Makes sense. Guys are often stupid pieces of shit. No offense.” y/n raised a hand.

Jason shrugged. “None taken, we’re sacks of fucks.” he scoffed at his own comment. “I still kinda resent Bruce for wanting me to be Robin, I mean…why did he think that was any bit okay to do?”

“Maybe because that was the only way he could handle grief?” y/n offered.

Propping himself on his arms, palms flat behind him, he breathed deeply. Y/n had a point, though: when Bruce introduced the idea to Dick, Dick felt the same type of grief Bruce had; however, when the mantle was passed to Jason, the mourning was different, if at all: both Bruce and Dick had someone to lose, whereas Jason hadn’t.

And it showed when Jason worked the role. He showed sympathy to petty criminals, sometimes aiding and abiding them, to Bruce’s disapprobation; his demeanor soured as intel regarding trafficking rings and abusers surfaced, knuckles bruised and teeth clenched as perpetrators’ blood spurted onto the Robin costume, tainting its bright colors into a deeper, richer tone.

It was worse when Bruce pushed Jason to attend the Wayne galas. The upper class flocked their wealth and acquitted crimes, which burned Jason’s ears as he heard someone’s misfortune reduced into a witty anecdote paired with hor d'oeuvres and sparkling champagne.

Jason knew of the children who were taken by the boogeymen and women in the dark. He knew of their lives and tales that were once short, stout, and sweet. The attendees spoke of their deaths apathetically, muttering insults under their breath as they attempted to justify their ill motives. Almost as if these were the boogeymen and women, simply dressed up in thousand-dollar gowns and heirlooms that cleverly disguised their sharp talons and venomous taste for the vulnerable, their souls containing all moral onus were snatched from their now-empty vessels. He argued with them at the galas about the children, urging them ferociously about their contributions, as if nobody dare exist outside of them.

How could they? A life so lavish, how could they know of any decision made out of self-preservation and greed rather than sympathy and the greater good? They were the one-percent, top of the socioeconomic chain, the bourgeoisie glaring down from their terrace views at the filthy proletariats below them - and while one could argue that the view from up high could be so grand that even the diamonds in the filth could be mistaken for fool’s gold, the wounded mistaken for the parasite that would consume the rich had they attempted to so much as inspect the streets, why would they then take measures to ensure their own safety, stuff more money into their pockets, knowing what they’ve seen?

The pasta salad Jason was poking at lost its flavor. A shame. “I know that Bruce couldn’t understand, but…Dick? I mean, you said he was Robin, too, right? And it wasn’t like he came from a wealthy background.” Y/n spoke between munches of lettuce that hung out of her mouth.

“Dick traveled a lot, and his family didn’t have a ton, but they were…a family.” Jason’s words were a sad string playing into the cemetery.

It was the truth. Jason was a true reflection of the city in which he was raised: impoverished and tattered, the result of a godless, greedy, unfiltered city full of beasts whose sins remained unpunished, unanswered for. His heart pumped true - as that of Dick and Bruce - but in deep red, different than the blue blood that his adoptive elder brother and father carried in themselves; they could never understand him, really, their path vastly disparate than Jason’s living tragedy.

All y/n could think to do was kiss the man beside him, spilling his life before her atop the delectable array of desserts he prepared for her. She cupped his cheek with her hand and pulled him toward her, their lips clashing into a deep but slow kiss. As y/n’s lips moved to hold Jason’s, she felt a tear on her thumb, the one on Jason’s cheek, and she inched her body closer to his, to ensure that she wasn’t another chapter in his story, either.

She hadn’t disclosed her sobstory - the one filled with angst, betrayal, and the anguish of abuse and torment year after year from those closest to her; she was just as tired as he, and finally felt a bond, vulnerable with someone besides the weeping albums she listened to when her nightmares resurfaced.

When they broke their kiss, only the faintness of the ghosts from their graves divided Jason and y/n. They held their hands, fingers interlocked, as they stayed close. Y/n hummed when Jason wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and Jason smiled (for the first time in hours) when y/n reached up to kiss the white patch of his hair, now knowing its origin.

Instead of parting ways after their food finished, they laid down, hip to hip, and counted the stars as they relished in the caress of each other’s skin. It was the first time Jason saw y/n so disarmed, which was jarring compared to her all-plaid, studded outfit. He liked her anyway, a bit too much for his liking, afraid that he was diving too deep.

And before y/n drifted to sleep in Jason’s arms, she felt the same fear subside, until it quieted to nothing but a puny whisper.

—-

Jason’s administrative account was open on his laptop when he arrived back at his home, securing each lock before he removed his leather jacket and set down his biking helmet.

He glanced at a notification on his phone, which was from y/n. He was glad she wasn’t insecure and reached out to him first. The innocent grin on his face quickly turned amorous as he opened the notification, which brought him to a video y/n sent of herself.

Naked.

Masturbating.

Determined, Jason shuffled to his armchair, unbuckling his jeans and wriggling his cock free from them as he sat and watched the video. Y/n ran a hand up and down her body suggestively, showing Jason what he was missing; then, after brief teasing, she opened her legs, sitting up as she revealed her wet cunt on full display for the camera. Jason’s cock twitched when he saw her swollen clit aching to be touched, and the thought of his head between her legs, thigh on either side of his shoulders, almost made Jason explode there.

Instead, he took the fuel and set up his webcam and account, enabling bluetooth on his phone and connecting his wireless headphones to privately hear y/n’s noises. He pressed a key on his laptop, beginning the livestream.

On one hand, he held the phone, the content away from the webcam’s view; his other hand stroked his cock, quickly, as he followed y/n’s every word.

“Put your cock in me, Jay.”

“Fuck! Yes, eat me out just like that.”

The phrases were too much for Jason to handle, who was moaning incoherently, fitting in garbled, “So hot” and “Gonna make you come.” His hand moved rapidly on his cock, and he was getting close, noises crescendoing. “Y/n, y/n, so good.”

It wasn’t until y/n exploded, dildo inside of her and fingers circling her clit, that Jason’s orgasm was ripped from him, his body tensing as he nearly screamed, eyes squeezing shut as he rocked his hips into his hand. “God, fuck.” he yelped, sucking a breath in as he felt his body tense up again after he thought his climax was over.

He had forgotten he was live. He didn’t know he said her name aloud in the dazed state. Nor did he know that he continued to say her name, over and over, as cum shot from his cock.

“I’ve been seeing someone. Hope none of you are jealous.” he admitted, blushing. “I’ll see you all later. Till then, take care.” he ended the livestream abruptly, finally taking a breath after logging out of his administrative account.

He closed his laptop and set it on the end table beside the wingchair, heading to the bathroom to shower and masturbate again to y/n.

#jason todd x reader #jason todd/reader #jason todd x plus size reader #plus size reader #smut #fluff #TW abuse #TW substance abuse #TW rape #red hood #robin #dick grayson #bruce wayne #batman #nightwing #ao3 #my post #mine

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mojavebluez · 5 months ago

Text

bound by blood - a bbc sherlock / johnlock fanfic

chpt. i

John once said to Sherlock: “I’ve seen people die before. I thought I’d never sleep again. I’ll sleep fine tonight.”

fic summary | John has killed before - but not like this. John would do anything to keep it a secret. To keep his family safe. Sherlock would do anything to solve a case. And he seems to have taken a keen interest in this one.

tags/warnings | BBC Sherlock, johnlock, parentlock, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, semi-slow burn, mild smut, violence/ injury, substance abuse

words | 5.6k

a/n | it’s been a while! I can’t say how long this will be but I’m on my holiday now so I’ll have more time to write. Each chapter will be about 5.6k words I’ll try and get part 2 out asap but I just wanted to see how this was received first. Enjoy :))

ao3 edition

————————————————————————————

"You've got to tell him."

"I can't tell him, Mary."

"He would tell you."

Silence. "I know."

"He can help you."

"No one can help me."

—

"Morning, John." Sherlock called from the kitchen as soon as John set foot in the hall.

"Oh, morning, Sherlock." John stifled a yawn and shuffled into the room. He tied his tattered dressing gown around his waist in a lacklustre knot before meeting Sherlock, a regular ritual. No one needed to see his pyjamas - they'd definitely had better days.

"How long have you been awake?" John probed, sweeping a mug of coffee off the table. He gingerly took a sip, but set it back down again after realising it tasted faintly of decomposition.

Sherlock didn't turn around. He was wearing only his pyjama bottoms and a worn pair of slippers. This was nothing new; John had seen Sherlock in various stages of undressed before, even near nudity (in Buckingham palace, where else). So why did he feel the need to avert his eyes when he turned around?

He avoided the sight of Sherlock's bare chest, which filled his vision, instead smiling up at him and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Er, a couple hours, I think?" He whisked back around again without even glancing at him.

John sighed internally. What's wrong with you? It wasn't as if he was naked. He must just be tired still. His thoughts were muddled, nothing made much sense to him right now. Coffee.

"Jesus," he pulled his chair back and walked to the sink, "coffee?"

John didn't know why he bothered asking. Sherlock didn't bother to shake his head in response. "Made some," he carried on clattering about at the counter, "try it."

John cast a sideways glance at the mug. "I did."

Sherlock twisted around, eyes narrowing. "And?" It's like he couldn't help but bring his fingertips together in their signature diamond shape.

"Vile."

"Hmm," Sherlock grunted and eyed John briefly before continuing with whatever he was doing. "I'm not sure why you're surprised, John. I'm always up early."

"Yes, but it's seven. A couple hours ago could mean anything." John glanced at his watch.

Sherlock looked up, seeming to realise something. "Oh, it is seven. Why are you up so early?"

"Sherlock," John let his head fall back in exasperation. "Are you kidding me?"

Sherlock drew his eyebrows together. "Uh, I don't think so."

"Work. I'm going to work. You know, the thing I do three days a week."

Sherlock stared at him like he thought he was lying. His eyes were unfocused, as they usually were when he was working something out. "Oh?"

"Yes, Sherlock. That's where I go all day." At this point, John was leant on the counter, arms folded, waiting for the coffee to finish brewing. The smell almost masked the ever-present aroma of Sherlock's failed experiments that coated the air like London smog. John wondered how Sherlock had managed before he came along - his living space must have bordered on uninhabitable.

Not that John tidied that often. In fact, he regularly wondered how the place managed to stay as clean as it was. He suspected Mrs Hudson might have had something to do with it - though she'd only admit it if she was in an argumentative mood with Sherlock. She usually brought up the, 'I do everything around here!' when it suited.

Sherlock shook his head in disbelief. He pulled out a chair from the table and sat down, peering into a Petri dish. John wasn't sure how he could look at such off putting things at this hour. Sometimes he really wondered if he was human.

The coffee had come to boil and John poured two mugs full of the black stuff. One milky, two sugars, one black, one sugar. He sighed loudly to himself before slipping Sherlock the black mug across the table and leaving to get ready. Sherlock must wonder where all the coffee came from.

John stopped still, suddenly remembering something. He ducked his head back in the doorway, noticing that Sherlock was sipping the coffee, unsuspecting. "Oh, and you can forget me all you like, but just don't forget Rosie. She's asleep upstairs."

Sherlock looked up at that. His jaw had fallen in mock-offence. "John, how dare you."

John smiled and shook his head, walking back out the room as he had before. Sherlock yelled something from the table, along the lines of, "Besides, Rosie is far less forgettable than you."

Sherlock didn't say goodbye that morning. John wasn't offended - he was used to it. Still, he called out his own bellowing farewell from the front door and stepped into the street, peering up at the window of their flat as he turned right.

He wasn't at all surprised to see nothing but the swaying curtains. He wasn't even sure what he expected to see - perhaps the familiar figure of Sherlock, waving him off. Smiling down at him. Who was he kidding? Sherlock had never, ever done that.

John was a little disturbed with himself the whole journey to work. He'd woken up half an hour earlier to give himself enough time to walk there (he had given up on cycling a long time ago, much to Sherlock's amusement), but he wasn't feeling the usual benefits of the walk at all.

He couldn't shake the image of Sherlock, bare chested, holding a vial of something brown, standing over him. Every time he blinked it was there. He was there.

I'm going fucking crazy, John thought to himself, I need to go on Tinder or something.

He nodded at this idea once and pulled his phone out of his coat pocket. He swiped to the final page, searching for the icon. He eventually found it, thumb hovering over the screen. He slowed his walking pace, thoughts ticking, barely registering the people that shoved past him in the usual London manner.

He completely stopped when he realised what he was doing. On the fringes of his mind, reflected on the concrete slabs, he could see Mary, smiling at him, holding their child. He waved it away, not even caring that he looked like a smackhead. In its place, the woman on the bus, Eurus, smirking from across the aisle. John pressed a firm hand to his forehead.

I'm seriously losing the plot now. He hadn't thought of either of them for months, but somehow, the images always appeared one way or another. He knew he couldn't just stop meeting people - not even Mary would want that for him, he knew. But he couldn't allow himself to. Every time the prospect came up, internally or externally, it was like a brick wall slamming down over his mind.

He wasn't sure what it was. Rosie, maybe. The idea alone that she would grow up without her mother was troubling enough. He knew that he didn't want her growing up with a collage of different women in her life - it didn't feel right to him. No, he needed to be stable for her. Steady.

But it wasn't just that. He couldn't connect the dots, not now, in the middle of a busy street. Still, the answer floated somewhere in his headspace, though he couldn't grasp it. He'd mull it over later - at work maybe - if it was quiet.

I need to start waking up later. The whole morning had been a mess. It was Sherlock's fault, entirely, of course. If it wasn't for him, his skin, utterly stupidly smooth, way above him...

Christ. John slapped himself, hard.

—

Work dragged on, as per usual. The waiting list was long, far too long, leaving John no time to search his brain for what he'd been missing earlier.

At half five on the dot, he leapt from his chair and tidied his room up for tomorrow. His phone buzzed from inside his coat pocket and John, unsure what it could be, eyed it from the cupboard. It stopped for a minute or two then buzzed once again.

John exhaled loudly and stalked across the room, several possibilities crossing his mind: Sherlock with a new case, Sherlock with a Rosie crisis, Sherlock with a general anecdote, or his mother.

Instead, he saw: We still on 4 2nite? See u at the Stag if so - M

Then: Gonna get WRECKEDDD

Shit! John had forgotten about that. It was Friday, and he had agreed, in a slightly more motivated moment, to meet a couple of his friends for drinks. And because he'd forgotten (in the chaos of the morning, Sherlock) his wallet at home, he'd have to walk back to Baker Street before he went out.

He stood briefly with his head in his hands, willing any motivation to rise. He really could not picture himself drinking tonight, let alone with a gang of friends he hadn't seen in months. All he wanted was to head home and watch a Sean Connery film with Sherlock, with Rosie dozing off in his lap. That was his usual Friday routine. And he liked it.

Eventually, by twenty-to, the motivation came. He seized his coat off the hook and walked out of his room, waving bye to his receptionist as quickly as possible to avoid any conversation. She managed to slip out a barrage of questions about his evening, his weekend, his sister (how does she know about Harriet?) despite John shaking his head. He managed to make it out with not a single question answered.

He marched down the street in a manner that resembled his military training. It was fascinating, really, to see the ways those years abroad and in battle shaped him. Sometimes he was truly astounded with himself. Like the way a gun felt in his hand - like it was supposed to be there, like an extension of himself. There was a reason John was the one that carried the gun and Sherlock didn't. He much preferred target practice on Mrs Hudson's walls.

He reached Baker Street in half the time it had taken him this morning. His head was empty of the previous things that had bothered him - though he suspected that would change once he set foot inside. He had no idea what to expect every time he came home.

He only trusted Sherlock with Rosie if Mrs Hudson was in the building. Thankfully, he had created a work schedule that benefited them all and allowed John to work part-time. Working with Sherlock could probably sustain them all, but the consulting industry was temperamental, and John knew the importance of keeping a steady job.

It wasn't that he didn't trust Sherlock, he just got carried away with himself sometimes. For all his supposed hatred for humanity, he was pretty good with kids. John suspected it was because Sherlock acted like one himself most of the time - he knew what to say to them. Especially Rosie.

John was the opposite. He'd never been good with kids. His childhood seemed like a distant thing, something he had no doubt experienced, but a very, very long time ago. Rosie was different. John supposed that was fatherhood - it changed the person you thought you were, and replaced you with something completely different. An imposter. But a welcome one.

John knocked lightly and let himself in, the smell of home washing over him. He was greeted by Mrs Hudson, who was on her way down the stairs with a basket of folded laundry on her hip.

"Oh- I told you not to bother with our washing anymore." John sighed as he wiped his shoes on the welcome mat.

"Well, I don't see either of you washing it. How clean's that shirt? Give it to me when you're done with it."

"We- well, alright. If you insist..." John shrugged off his coat, "how have they been, by the way?"

"Lovely, fine. The things I hear him telling her though, John! Murder and all that. You need to give him a good talking to." She made a disgusted noise in her throat then pottered off to her flat, shutting the door curtly behind her.

John just shook his head. What made Mrs Hudson think Sherlock would listen to him, John wasn't at all sure. In fact, he'd love to hear her reasons.

As John ascended up the stairs, two familiar voices (one distinct, one babbling) became clearer. He stopped halfway and shut his eyes, trying to make out the conversation. He didn't know if they were aware of his presence yet, but he tried to be as quiet as possible.

"...quite short, isn't he?" then, "...obviously he's been off with her...needs to get sacked..."

Once John reached the top of the stairs, he could make out music wafting into the hall out the open door. Familiar music.

"Sherlock! You're letting Rosie watch Top Gun?"

Sherlock didn't turn to look at him, instead waving a hand in his general direction. "Yes, John. You said it was your favourite - I wondered if it might be hereditary."

John scoffed. Rosie turned from the TV, making a pleased noise at the sight of John by the door. She got up to greet him, steadying herself on the arm of John's armchair. Sherlock moved to help her but leant back again when she toddled off by herself.

"She seemed to be enjoying it. Not for me. A bit too..." he made an odd gesture in the air.

"I'm not sure what that," John jabbed at Sherlock, "means, but I'm going to pretend I didn't hear it."

Sherlock just hummed, unable to tear his gaze from the TV. His eyes lingered extensively on Tom Cruise's six pack.

John sighed, holding Rosie's pudgy hand as she looked up at him with wide blue eyes. "Any clients?"

Sherlock nodded, keeping an eye on the TV. "Yes, four."

John raised his eyebrows. "And?"

"Boring, boring," Sherlock stabbed at the air with a slender finger, "okay, and boring."

"What was the okay one?"

Sherlock pressed his fingers together. "Convinced her husband was a goat-man hybrid controlled by the devil, or something or other."

John was slightly stunned. "Well?"

"Carbon monoxide." Sherlock didn't elaborate.

John just widened his eyes and nodded, at a loss for words. Rosie reached up to him, wanting to be picked up, but John made no move to do so. He stared at the TV with his eyes glazed over. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"You're going somewhere."

John snapped out of his daze. "Correct."

"You don't want to."

"Also correct."

"Let me guess," Sherlock stood up nimbly out of his armchair, "the pub with Mike."

John nodded, swiping a hand over his face. He had no idea how Sherlock could know, but he wasn't interested in finding out.

"And others." Sherlock frowned slightly, bending down to pick Rosie up. He held her somewhat awkwardly as though he still wasn't used to the gesture, but she didn't seem to mind. She squealed happily in his arms.

"Yeah, a couple guys I haven't seen since the wedding." John's voice cracked a little on the last word. He hoped Sherlock hadn't noticed.

"Well," Sherlock adjusted Rosie, "don't worry about us. It'll be an early night I think." He smiled at her.

John wasn't convinced. "Sure." He paused, looking down at his shoes. "It's not that. They'll ask about Mary, and..."

"And?"

"I really don't want to be hungover this weekend." John frowned at Sherlock.

Sherlock seemed to be considering something. He set Rosie down, who wandered off to watch the end of Top Gun. "Well, I could come with you."

When John pulled a face, he continued quickly to make his point. "Make sure you only consume an acceptable amount, redirect conversation, et cetera..." He watched John's expression carefully.

John worried his lip. Usually, inviting Sherlock to any friendly alcohol-driven setting was not a great idea. Especially considering the last time they had gotten considerably drunk together, they'd ended up in a jail cell by the end of it. Even worse than that, the last time these guys had seen Sherlock was during his rather distracted best man's speech. John winced.

"Well," John began, "I'm not sure. What about Rosie?" He looked over at her. She was standing barely an inch away from the TV, mesmerised.

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "We can put her to bed and Mrs Hudson can keep an eye on her. We won't be out all night." He smiled as though he had already won the conversation.

He had. "Alright, Sherlock. You win."

He turned to walk out the door, en route to his bedroom. He couldn't exactly show up to the pub in business-casual. He called behind him, "I don't even know why you want to go. You hate this sort of thing."

"Just looking out for you, John." Sherlock said in an odd tone.

"Hm," John hummed sceptically. He wasn't convinced, but he also didn't have the energy to make Sherlock explain himself. He knew he wouldn't be able to get the reason out of him.

John proceeded up the stairs and began getting himself ready. He picked his usual jeans-and-jumper ensemble and re-combed his hair. Sherlock, of course, decided to wear a suit of sorts - him and Mycroft had that in common, at least. He went for the slightly more casual choice of a partly unbuttoned white shirt, however, which was the closest he could ever get to the concept.

It took them all but twenty minutes, most of it being John contemplating messaging Mike about the new addition. He opened and closed messages about fifty times before deciding against it. Showing up unannounced with Sherlock was not John's smartest idea, but it was better than the alternative of having to deal with an awkward text conversation. No doubt Mike would try to wriggle out of it somehow.

"And you're sure you're okay with it?" John asked Mrs Hudson by the front door.

"Oh of course, don't worry," she assured them, "you boys deserve a date."

Sherlock smiled at the ground, but John intercepted. "It's not- oh, you know what? Never mind." He shook his head at nothing in particular.

Mrs Hudson's faint voice followed them out the door, muttering something about "live and let live". John decided to ignore it.

"I really don't know why you're doing this, Sherlock." John commented.

"Like I said, John," he looked straight ahead, "I'm just looking out for you. That's what friends do." He smiled a strange little smirk that John didn't miss.

"You're so..." John trailed off.

"Thoughtful?"

"Wasn't the word I was going to use, no." John weaved through the crowds, trying not to lose Sherlock.

Sherlock met him again and turned right, John jogging slightly to catch up with his long stride. A sign that indicated the pub, nestled between several terrace-style shops, jutted out from the wall. John stopped suddenly.

"How did you know where we were going?"

Sherlock didn't say anything, sweeping his coat behind him as he stepped into the entrance. He held the door open for John. "After you."

John mumbled his thanks. He braced himself for the sight of his friends, no doubt at the bar, and their reactions to his companion. Once they caught sight of John, they all whooped, moving to greet him with their arms out. Their celebrations faded when their gaze rested upon Sherlock, who stood assertively behind John with his hands in his pockets.

John sighed. The next few hours would be interesting.

—

"So you're telling me you don't know who the queen is?"

Everyone was at least four beers deep now. The pub had gotten busier with each passing hour, and the five of them were piled in a booth, elbow to elbow.

The whole place had a warm glow, the ceiling strung with exposed bulbs and bunting. The feel of the decor was very clearly industrial, every wall being exposed brick or faded red wallpaper. It smelled like overpriced beer.

"No," Sherlock replied to one of John's friends who sat opposite. John was squeezed between Sherlock and another one of his pals. John could feel every word that Sherlock said like a deep vibration, and every breath he took warmed his neck.

John was finding it very hard to concentrate.

Especially because Sherlock's leg was pressed right up against his own, and John couldn't bear to move an inch.

"How can you not know that?" John's friend looked around, baffled, his beer sloshing onto the table. John peeled his coat off the already sticky surface to avoid the backsplash.

"It's not important," Sherlock replied.

The whole evening had gone far better than Sherlock had anticipated - each of his friends had taken a great interest in Sherlock's work, all barraging him with questions. They, of course, also had questions about the wedding and Sherlock's speech, but he had skilfully diverted the conversation. Whether that was for John's sake or his own, John wasn't sure.

In fact, John had barely gotten a word in edgewise. He was grateful for that, though - the beer had made him drowsy rather than buzzed. He had to splash his face a couple times in the bathroom to keep himself awake. Sherlock seemed to notice this.

Sherlock nudged John's foot under the table. John, who had his face in his hand and his eyes half-closed, looked up to see everyone staring at him.

"Oh, sorry," he blinked. "What was that?"

"I said," his friend opposite smirked, "are you seeing anyone?"

John paused, a little stunned. He had no idea when this topic had arisen. Sherlock cleared his throat. "They asked me, but I told them I'm married to my work."

His friends laughed at that, which Sherlock looked quite confused about. "Not at the moment, no," was all John could manage.

John noticed a crease between Sherlock's brows. He didn't say anything, though.

"Really?" Another friend joined in, "have you tried any apps? I met my..."

Their voices dissipated into the noise of the pub. John was barely able to concentrate on the conversation anymore. He could feel Sherlock's body heat rolling off him in waves, warming his whole right side. It made him even more tired. It took all his strength not to close his eyes and let his head fall.

Sherlock made the whole table explode into another round of booming laughter, jolting John awake. He groaned and swiped a hand over his face. No one seemed to take note. Except from Sherlock.

Sherlock stood up suddenly, palms pressed on the table. He thrust a handful of coins onto the table from his coat pocket. "Another round gents?"

They all cheered in response, apart from John. Sherlock seized him under the arm and excused them both to the bar. He swept up the coins and thrust them into John's hand as he dragged him along. John was a little dazed.

"Feeling sleepy?" Sherlock said sarcastically, holding John's shoulder.

"Yes, Sherlock, I am," John looked around at the crowd. He could barely hear Sherlock's voice. "Why, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked puzzled. "Why what?"

"Why are you doing all this?" John clenched his jaw. "Switching on the charm?"

"I don't know what you mean," Sherlock said.

"Yes you do," John mumbled. "You hate going out. Every time I introduce you to a friend you insist on making sure they never want to see me again."

Sherlock rolled his eyes theatrically. John saw this as a sign to carry on. "And suddenly you're cracking jokes? Trying to impress them?"

He was cut off by Sherlock ordering another round of beers. He shouted over the noise at the bartender. John waited, mouth in a tight line, his first clenched on the bar.

When he was done, John continued. "So what's this about, huh?"

"You're exhausted, John," Sherlock dragged his eyes to meet him. "Imagining things."

"You're kidding, right?" John scoffed. "No, that's not it, is it?" John searched Sherlock's face.

"If you must know! It's for a case," Sherlock hissed through his teeth. He picked up two glasses of beer, gesturing at John to get the others.

John didn't budge. He stood, frozen. "Unbelievable," he watched Sherlock with his mouth agape. "You could have told me. Could have said something."

"Like what?"

"Something!" John pinched his nose bridge. "You barged in on my one meeting with my friends in months! Years! For a case!"

"You didn't want to go anyway. I was doing you a favour." Sherlock moved to walk back to the table, but John grabbed him by his coat sleeve and dragged him back.

"So what is it, then? Huh? Tell me, is one of them a murderer?" He said sarcastically, but his voice held no jest.

Sherlock inclined his head. "Maybe. I'd hardly call them your friends, though, certainly not two out of the three..."

"You know what?" John was barely inches from his face now. He unknowingly still had a fistful of Sherlock's coat. "I don't want to hear it. Keep your deductions to yourself, Sherlock Holmes."

John let him go. Sherlock seemed to be at a loss for words. He was still holding the beer glasses, though a considerable amount was running down his arms.

John spoke for him. "I'm going home." He grabbed a beer glass out of Sherlock's hand and raised it to his mouth, downing it in four gulps. He wiped his mouth with his coat sleeve, eyes shining. "Take your time."

Sherlock called his name as John left the pub, weaving through the groups of people. He let the door slam behind him. The night swallowed him whole as he stomped down the street, his shoes slapping against the pavement.

He had no idea what time it was. The street was empty. He looked up at the black sky, stars like white-hot pinpricks scattered sparsely across. He shrunk back into his jacket once the cold bit into him again.

He could see his breath fogging the air before him, but he couldn't help himself from gasping slightly. He just couldn't believe Sherlock's nerve. He knew that his sudden interest in socialising was odd, anyway. It all seemed to make sense now.

John wasn't even sure why he was surprised. It wasn't as if this was the first time Sherlock had done something like this. Taking off in the night, leaving mid conversation, disappearing for hours with no explanation… the subconscious list went on.

It seemed to be fading as of recently. Sherlock, a man who detested routine, had settled in to 'family' life well. But John couldn't help but notice the way his leg bounced constantly, or the increasing quantity of stabbed paper on the mantelpiece.

John felt guilty, in a way. Sometimes, at night, when he couldn't sleep, his mind wandered to a time when it was just the two of them. Never sleeping, solving one case after the next, leaving whenever.

John had reassured Sherlock that he could still solve cases without him. Sherlock said that was ridiculous. He tried that before, remember? And it ended the same way it had began: Holmes and Watson.

John huffed into his hands in an attempt to warm them. It barely worked. All he could hear was the wind hissing past his ears and his footfall on the pavement.

Until they were accompanied by something else. Someone else's steps, falling in time with his own. John ignored them for a while, his mind still racing with thoughts of Sherlock.

They grew closer, barely six feet behind him now. John glanced back but only saw a figure dressed in black, the hood of their parka pulled over their head. They seemed to be staring at the floor behind John's feet.

John move aside to let them pass despite half the pavement being empty. They didn't make any attempt to move or quicken their pace. John felt an increasing uneasiness in his stomach.

John decided to take a random turn off the main road, wanting to see if the man followed. There was no clear way back to Baker Street now unless he went past the river.

His bad feeling only got worse when John reached a break in the houses. An alleyway bathed in darkness stretched to his left. John was about to break into a run when the person grabbed him by the shoulder and thrust him into the alley.

John slammed against a brick wall. "Hey! The fuck are you doing?" His voice echoed across the empty street, but the person slapped a hand over his mouth.

John couldn't make out the person's face. Their hood cast a shadow over their features, making them indistinguishable. John mumbled, yelling, against his palm, readying his leg to kick out.

"Do you know Mary Watson?" The person hissed. John froze. A gun had been removed from his pocket and was pressed against John's temple. He flattened his hands on the wall.

They threw back their hood. The person holding the gun to John was a young man, barely twenty-five, with a youthful face. His eyes, however, held something dark. He stared at John with a bitter distaste.

The man moved his hand slightly. John, far too terrified to speak, kept his mouth clamped firmly shut.

The man didn't like that. "I said," he pressed the gun further, bruising John's face, "do you know Mary Watson?" He brought his face so close John could feel his breath.

"She's my wife." John gasped. He fought to get the words out, before realising his mistake.

The man brought a hard fist to the side of John's face. John spluttered, pain clouding his vision. What did this guy want with him? With Mary? This wasn't just a mugging. That punch was personal.

He watched as John rose back up to his full height. John clenched his fist, prepared to throw back his own punch. The man was too quick - he kicked out John's legs from underneath him, causing John to whack his head on the concrete below.

Spots danced across his eyes. He groaned, barely registering the next few kicks to his gut. The man spat out assaults. "It was your bitch wife that did it! I'll kill her!"

John scrambled against the wall. "What do you-" he gasped, trying to rise to his feet, "want?" He finally choked out.

The man smirked. He didn't rush to kick John back down. "Does AGRA ring any bells? Or did she keep that one quiet?"

Just the acronym made John's stomach drop. He hadn't heard that in a very long time. And the emotions he already associated with it, even without the beatings, were bad enough.

"Your wife betrayed them. Betrayed my dad. He was tortured to death because of her."

Through the pain, John fought to recall anything Mary might have said to him before about this. The process was painful enough. Though, there were so many secrets, so many lies, that John couldn't even be sure if her stories were true.

"No? Nothing?" The man drew closer now. The gun was still in his hand, dangling from his palm.

John waited. Slowly, he rose to his feet, using the wall behind him as support. The man just chuckled to himself. This was his first mistake.

John flexed his fingers. Then, rather unexpectedly, his fist connected with the man's jaw. He staggered back but regained his footing, eyes misted with abhorrence. He ran to hold John against the wall, but he moved in time, instead twisting round to grab the man by the back of his neck.

He was strong, but John was stronger. John held him there, cheek against the brick wall. "You're insane."

"You must be," the man spat, "if you married her."

John couldn't help himself. He pulled the man's head back, and smashed it into the wall. He cried out, trying to reach for John, but he couldn't. John pinned his hands behind his back.

"I don't even know who you are!" John yelled in his ear. His vision was hazy, all he could feel was hatred. Hatred for this stranger, who somehow knew all about him, all about his wife. Who wasn't even alive.

"You will," he hissed. "Ask Mary about me. Ask her about my father."

John clenched his jaw. "She's dead."

The man's eyes widened, his black irises twinkling. “Ha!" He gasped.

John tightened his grip on his neck, but the man only winced. He grit his teeth so hard he thought they would shatter. Everything that had been filling his thoughts was gone now - all he could see, all he could register, was this disgusting man.

John wanted to kill him.

The man grinned with bloody teeth. “Though, I wish I could’ve done it myself.”

Something inside of John snapped. His breathing quickened, heart thrumming in his ear.

The man’s head met the wall. Again. And again.

The noises he made filled John’s ears - he hadn’t known, then, that he’d hear those screams for the rest of his life.

John didn’t stop. Not when the wall was splattered with blood, not when a trickle of the slick red stuff tumbled down his face, staining John’s coat. Not when the man went limp in his hand.

John’s chest heaved; his head buzzed with static so loud he couldn’t hear the words the man was spluttering out. John fought to focus, to read his lips:

“I’ll say hi to her in Hell.”

John let go. The man slumped into a bloody heap on the floor, breathing rattling breaths. John tried not to look at what he had done - the man’s nose was a crimson pulp on his fractured face. The wall was stained with John’s actions. His choices.

John once said to Sherlock, a long, long time ago: “I’ve seen men die before. I thought I’d never sleep again—“

John raised his foot, and brought it down, hard, on the man’s face. The heavy breathing ceased. His eyes slowly glazed over, gaping at the scattered-salt sky. John had seen this look before. More times than he could count.

“—I’ll sleep fine tonight.”

END OF CHPT. i

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