#this is me actually churning out 3K for fucking once take a look at this

[novantinuum]

From Gallifrey, With Love

Fandom: Doctor Who, 11th Doctor era

Rating: K

Words: 3100~

Story Summary: The Doctor genuinely didn't expect to leave Trenzalore alive, that long night. Doctor's POV of the clocktower regeneration + missing scene.

It's hard to find any fics that go into much detail about regeneration and that's a shame really, because I love weird alien biology stuff like that. So I got really indulgent and wrote one myself.

Far above the clock tower, the Dalek flagship hung in the lower atmosphere like a hunter crouching in the brush, waiting for its prey to die.

“Sorry I’m a bit slow,” the Doctor said as he hobbled up the last of the stairs, clinging to the railing like a lifeline. His right knee protested, having not exerted this much effort in a very long while. “I may not be at my best right now.”

Drones identical to those he remembered from the Time War whizzed around the tower in an endless threatening display of might. They fired upon the small town as he watched, powerless to stop them, decimating homes and shops and gardens in a blaze of ash and smoke. Screams cut through the night. They sliced directly into his weakening hearts, already beating slower with every day. His body was shutting down, and he genuinely didn’t know if it was due to age or guilt. He leaned into his cane as he lowered himself onto the chair he’d placed up here years back.

“You are dying, Doctor!” one of the Daleks broadcasting from the flagship proclaimed, as if he didn’t intimately know that fact already.

He grimaced as a dull spike of pain radiated up his thigh from his other knee, from where the rest of his leg had been severed centuries earlier. “Yes, I’m dying. You’ve been trying to kill me for centuries, and here I am,” he declared, voice dripping in cynicism, “dying of old age. If you want something done, do it yourself.”

“You will die, and the Time Lords will never return.”

A younger man might have rolled his eyes at this. Daleks, they never ceased to state the obvious, now did they? He almost felt disappointed that they hadn’t killed him yet. “You still can’t work up the courage to shoot me, can you?” he mumbled, growing louder with every word. “You’re still worried I’ve got something up my sleeve!”

For once, his arch enemies restrained themselves to silence, taunting him by cutting circles around the tower. He huffed, dropping his head in failure.

“Well, you knock yourselves out, boys. I’ve got nothing this time.”

The Doctor sniffled, despite himself, and prepared for the end. Below, children were crying. Wailing. The sound of gunfire split through his ears, a gift from the last remnants of the resistance. Explosions rang in response as the Daleks ruthlessly attacked the populace. He aimed to die, the last time he was caught in a war with an impossible end. Perhaps in some twisted, poetic way, he’d finally gotten what he wanted. At least this time around he wouldn’t die committing double genocide.

He thought of Clara, standing somewhere below. Probably outside, because she was never one to do as he told. He sighed heavily. At least this time, if he had to die, he wouldn’t die alone.

All fell to silence, beyond the Daleks’ fury. The universe beyond their stars, holding her breath. And then… a roaring clamor as loud as thunder split the skies of Christmas in two. His hearts seized as he whirled around to look, to seek out the source of this disruption.

Impossible...

His eyes blew wide. Far above this petty skirmish, the crack in time opened its gaping maw. He squinted in confusion, knowing this was the Time Lords’ doing, but not knowing why. Why would they risk their safety now by revealing themselves after over 900 years of trying to quietly wait this threat out? Stupid, stupid! He didn’t spend all his lives working to save Gallifrey for them to all but commit suicide!

Admittedly his sight was far from adequate these days, but he could swear he saw something emerging from between the milky white light of the crack, something tangible. Something… gold and fine as silk, and gliding straight towards him. He didn’t dare move. His joints locked in place, he watched it advance with a sort of mesmerizing wonder, watched with eyes nearly crossed as it passed between his lips. It settled within him much like the warmth of a satisfying supper, much like— oh. Oh. The Doctor knew then in his hearts exactly what this offering was, even if he still couldn’t explain to himself why.

He splayed out his hands in front of him. His double heart rate increased as that hauntingly familiar golden glow spread through his varicose veins, excess energy wafting like dust off his skin, the telltale sign of impending regeneration. But this was impossible, absolutely impossible. He was dead, he saw his grave, he was—

“You will die now, Doctor. This is the end of you!” the Daleks above taunted.

—he wasn’t going to die today. The realization hit him with a bit more numbed shock than he anticipated, nearly knocking the breath right out of him. When had he grown so complacent in his supposed destiny that he’d forgotten how to hope? He slowly rotated his wrist in front of his face, feeling the Time Lords’ miraculous gift resurrecting him moment by moment.

“The rules of regeneration are known. You have expended all your lives!”

It was making him more than a little giddy, coursing through his tired body like a maelstrom of lifeblood. Suddenly he could stand without pain radiating in his joints, without his remaining leg weakening under strain of supporting his full body weight. He could think without his mind growing cloudy and distant, lost amongst centuries of stagnant memory.

“Sorry, what did you say?” he said, rising to his feet once more. “Did you mention the rules? Now, listen. Bit of advice! Tell me the truth if you think you know it, lay down the law if you’re feeling brave, but! Daleks never,” he punctuated his words with a tap of his cane, “ever tell me the rules!”

He lifted his closed fist, still grasping the cane, back to the sky, allowing his enemy to see the impossible golden energy brimming under his skin. Below, the clock struck twelve, its bell tolling the first chimes of midnight.

The hoard of insolent metal drones seemed to swell in panic, picking up speed as they buzzed about the town. “Emergency! Emergency! The Doctor is regenerating, the Doctor is regenerating!”

“Oh, look at this! Regeneration number thirteen,” he exclaimed, swinging his cane as he gaily traipsed atop the platform. “We’re breaking some serious science here, boys! I tell you what, it’s gonna be a whopper, ho ho!”

“Exterminate, exterminate the Doctor!”

He paused for breath, for a moment drinking in the scene, drinking in his surroundings. The Dalek force reduced to pleading desperation, pathetic creatures, and not even one brave enough to face one ancient, solitary Time Lord. His body, surging with a fresh-from-Gallifrey cocktail of power he hadn’t felt washing over him in a thousand some odd years. These were impossible circumstances, but the first impossible he’d played company to for over half a lifetime.

“You think you can stop me now, Daleks? If you want my life,” he bellowed, and threw his arms outwards, letting his cane drop from old, weathered hands, hands that glistened mischievously with the light of renewal. “Ha, ha! Come! And! Get it!”

He sucked one final breath between his chapped lips. Digging his feet— both flesh and prosthetic— into the dense concrete of the clock tower’s platform, he willed the dam to burst. This time, however, he wouldn’t allow the explosive mixture of hormones and artron energy running rampant through his veins to progress on automatic, oh, no, no, no. The Daleks were still advancing, faced with the prospect of a regenerating Time Lord in the middle of their battlefield, which— so shoot him, it couldn’t be helped!— one should never do in any circumstances if they valued their continued existence. His one advantage? They still expected a standard regeneration. Instead, he was about to do something far, far worse. He clenched his fists in solid determination.

The Doctor swung his right arm in a fast, wide arc as if fancying himself an air guitarist, mentally willing the energy pooling under his skin to surge towards his extremities. He partially let go, shooting his fingers outwards and allowing the golden light to surge outwards in a dense, fiery fury. His teeth clenched together so hard they ached as he desperately attempted to channel this wayward energy through the ashy sky, directly at an advancing Dalek drone. It didn’t take more than a split second for the strike to hit, instantly reducing the rust-gold drone to burning shrapnel plummeting towards the shingles below. Emboldened laugher bubbled up within his chest despite everything else, despite the mortal danger of this whole scenario.

He’d seen other Time Lords carry out this sort of weaponized regeneration before, of course. On the front lines of the Time War, in the heat of battle, there was often no alternative but to regenerate out in the open, under fire. In such a scenario, one could theoretically push their regeneration to become dangerously explosive, and in doing so neutralize advancing enemies while healing oneself. It was a risk, though, oh golly was it a risk. A very grave one. He himself had never needed to take it, always lucky enough to drag himself to the TARDIS or another safe place before finally succumbing to death. Stubborn, stubborn man he was. But even a thousand years past the War, memories of young Time Lords regenerating in the open only to be gunned down dead by Dalek fire in the middle of it still haunted him. Only luck would keep him from facing the same fate. Well, luck and the fact that this was no ordinary regeneration in the first place.

Hearing the whiny approach of another small Dalek craft to his left, he threw his other arm to the wind, using his fingertips as a sight as he willed the energy buzzing with an almost electric tang in his veins to burst forth. It flowed off of him in violent waves, dense droplets of gold spilling from his hands almost like liquid. Another direct hit. His eye tracked the descent of the burning Dalek shell to the square of the war ravaged town below. Time seemed to creep at a maudlin pace as he drank in the scene one last time. One last time, with these old eyes. The townsfolk were screaming in panic, advancing to any shelter they could find amidst the chaos. And amongst the faces, dozens upon dozens of faces he knew he’d seen every day for decades but had failed to remember in his advanced age, there was one he knew he could never forget. One woman who would always keep a tight hold on his hearts, for all the sacrifices she’d sewn through the threads of his time stream. Her hair pooled around her face in smooth ribbons as she yelled for the others to take shelter. His focus jittered at the sight of her, regeneration almost tussling conscious control from him.

Clara.

He— his breath hitched, and his nerves tingled as he wrestled to retain restraint— he couldn’t, no, no, no, not yet. He had to give her a few more seconds. A few more seconds to lead the rest of the children inside, before he let go completely. Wise, clever Clara, of course she’d understand what he was about to do. Daleks whizzed in circles in an endless gamble, none daring to cross too close in the wake of the power threatening them should they edge just a few meters more towards the clock tower. Once more, giddiness over the sheer impossibility of this scenario hit him with a vengeance, teasing his mouth into a devilish grin. He laughed without abandon, arms spread wide in the fires of renewal.

Echoing far above the roar of regeneration and the chaos of the Dalek hoard he head the front door of the church slam shut. Time enough to let go.

“Love from Gallifrey, boys!” the Doctor proclaimed at his lifelong foes, voice steeped in contempt. He swung his arms and hands inwards, folding into himself, and then gave up his last shred of conscious control.

From there, caught in the throes of biological process, his memory of what happened was a bit sketchy. He recalled surrendering himself to regeneration, feeling every cell in his body flooded with the explosive mix of hormones and artron energy all at once. A peculiar tingle ran from his left knee down, as he regrew a limb he’d learned to live without for centuries now. Somewhere along the line, he must have gnashed his teeth together.

The burning intensified. The Doctor could feel new hair follicles growing from atop his scalp, muscles tightening and regaining strength. And then, as unexpectedly quick as this limit breaking regeneration had emerged from the crack, the energy bathing him in an ethereal glow of gold and orange grew thin and dissipated into the night. He stumbled backwards, nearly blacking out from the repressed shock of all that had just happened.

When he finally came back to himself, to the world at large, he was met by smoke, and rubble, and… confusion. His ears rang, a high pitched whine that threatened to snap the last threads of cognitive thought currently cartwheeling through his mind in free fall. But no matter to that, no matter to the state of his own physical condition— somehow he’d blown the entire roof of the bell tower to smithereens with the sheer destructive force of his regeneration! A small part of him— the part not currently fussing over the shrapnel from the Dalek craft that was still plummeting from the sky, impaling roofs and making a disastrous mess of the streets— silently thanked the stars that he hadn’t regenerated inside the TARDIS for once. She’d likely never forgive him.

Speaking of the TARDIS…

His hearts seized as he nervously eyed the wreckage of the buildings around him and desperately tried not to imagine his old girl in the same state. Tough as she is, even she wasn’t fully immune to shocks as rife as that. Far past thinking first and acting later at this point in his life, he climbed over what was left of the stone balcony and lowered himself to the roof. He needed to check on his ship, to ensure she was all right. He slid down the shingles, as delicately as one could. When he reached the lowest point of the eave, he ground his heels to slow himself down, and then slung himself over the edge, dangling only a measly few meters in the air.

He let out a shallow huff as he dropped to the ground, distantly acknowledging with a jolt of surprise that the timbre of his voice was the same, that his hands were smooth but his body was the same— centuries younger, but the same. Absolutely identical. What was up with that, hmm? Why hadn’t he changed? He carded his fingers through thick locks of hair, no longer scarce and paper thin. Was it because this was the start of a brand new cycle? Whole new set of regenerations, a whole new set of silly Doctors? Set… A reset. Brow creasing, he brought his hands in front his face, flexing his digits as gold dusted his skin. He swallowed hard, trying his best not to feel a rush of disappointment over this revelation. So that’s what it was, what all this must be. Not a get out of jail free card. Not a bargain. A good old fashioned factory reset.

The Doctor skirted to a stop in front of his TARDIS, reaching out with a shaky hand. He inhaled, deep. Pressed his palm to the blue stained wood. She thrummed under his touch, reassuring him. Not damaged. A tough girl, see, exactly like he said. Well, like he thought. But then, he’s always getting those two mixed up.

“How ‘bout it?” he whispered, gently stroking her outer shell, affectionately, reverently. “Time for our last hurrah, eh?”

He reached for the cord strung around his neck and pulled it free, slotting its key into his ship’s lock. The door swung open. Her engines hummed in a baleful sigh as he crossed the threshold, recognizing the presence of artron energy within his system. He felt her presence brush against his mind. A delicate whisper. What might she say if she could talk, he wondered? They’d talked once before, hadn’t they? Long time ago...

Both feet inside the TARDIS. A gasp for breath, as if awakening from an impossible dream. Over nine hundred years, taking the slow path on the same demure planet, growing old, growing frail. God, how he’d missed this— the promise of tomorrow, a doorway to all of time and space. He glanced back once, only once, at the ruin he’d brought to the town called Christmas. He never looked back. Almost never. The Doctor, weary warrior, let the image of this place burn itself into his mind so that he’d never forget it. Not ever. Not for a second. His parting burden was that he would always remember those days, each battle, the full weight of his struggle. The reason he did it, the reason he stayed for years and years and never gave in, not even if it killed him… the trusting smiles of the children he failed to save, the keening sobs of villagers who’d suffered losses far beyond what any of them deserved...

Because sometimes, on his very good days…

Everyone lived their lives, and they were all happy. And after what he’d done today, they’d be able to live those silly little lives for as long as they pleased.

His fingers trailed across the inner door frame, twitching to slam shut the doors and whisk himself into the greater cosmos. A soft hum from his old girl reminded him of why he had to wait, just this once.

“Clara,” he breathed, peering at the church the townsfolk hadn’t dared emerge from yet. She’d be the first to dash into the square, to search for him. His impossible girl, still looking out for him centuries later. “My Clara…”

Suddenly he gasped, clenching his teeth to ride off a wave of discomfort rippling through his body. His hands flared with gold, the shimmering energy wafting off his skin.

“One last bow,” he murmured, exhaustion catching up with him again. Didn’t have long. Not long, before—

He opened the cabinet housing the phone on the TARDIS’ exterior and dialed her mobile. If he could only hear her voice, one last time with these ears, then-

The Doctor pulled the corded phone through the doors, shut his eyes as it rang through, and waited.

[katsukikitten]

WARNING 18+ BIRB NOT BIRB SMUT! Band AU, harem collab. In which reader meets her favorite faceless singer. Little over 3k

Sweat trickles down your spine as your favorite song is blasted from the large speakers. Fog from the stage lingers just above your head as you feel as if you were in a dream. The setting is surreal especially since you actually managed to WIN those rare radio tickets to see a band in concert. And not just any band, your favorite fucking bad.  

TOKYO MOB

The band consisted of four people, Bakugou Katsuki, the drummer who was angrier than any person you'd ever seen wearing nothing but skinny black jeans and a perpetual frown. Jiro, so cool and sleek in anything she wore as she tore up her guitar as side vocals. Then there was Denki, funny, cute even, on the bass with his electric blonde hair and killer smile. Lastly there was "Dark Shadow", the lead vocalist. 

No one knew his real name or what he looked like, he chose to wear a headpiece in the shape of a raven or crow. You loved him, even without knowing his face. 

He was so fit, strong arms and deadly abs that could be seen from beneath his cut off band tee crop top, much like you were wearing now. His voice was soothing as a bird's song, whether he was screaming or singing. The sound so uniquely beautiful it brought tears to your eyes the first time you heard it. And standing here with nothing but a small barricade and stage separating the two of you was a dream made in heaven. 

He sings your favorite song, looking out into the crowd, body drenched in sweat from the high energy show as he jumps to the beat. He pauses to hit a long note and while the guitar riffs he looks into the VIP section. You swear you feel as if he is looking dead at you. The next few lyrics are packed full with emotion as he gets onto his knee, one hand holding the microphone while the other gently floats towards outstretched hands. 

"I've been looking for youuuu, I just need to find youuuuu and when I do, when I do I'll dress you in my band teee and make youuuu~"

But it's yours that his fingers brush, intertwining his fingers with yours as tears prick your eyes. 

"Mine. Forever miiinee~" 

The world stops, his silky voice smoothing over your skin before it erupts in goose flesh, he holds on to your hand as he sings the chorus again. The screaming people around you fade away as you hear nothing but his sultry voice. 

As if he were serenading you in the kitchen of your home. 

"I've been looking for youuuu, I just need to find youuuuu and when I do, when I do I'll dress you in my band teee and make youuuu~"

"Mine. Forever miiinee~"

He squeezes your hand as he finishes the note, releasing your hand slowly before starting to stand. The music begins to fade as he huffs, trying to catch his breath before looking over the band. He sees that ever might need just a second more to take in some water so he brings the mic close to his face as he shouts. 

"Are we having a good time tonight?!" 

The crowd erupts into a scream, so loud you can barely hear the one tearing up your throat. 

"I can't fucking hear you, extras!" Bakugou shouts into his own mic. The sold out stadium shakes rivaling the bass of the sound system as they all play off random notes and beats. When the deafening roar becomes a hushed, dull roar Bakugou sets the beat, Jiro and Denki join in as their most popular song begins to bump through the speakers. The song sets a heavy, hype beat that can get anyone to bang their head to. You start along with them, booze lighting up your system and causing you to ignore the charged air around you  

Some of the bystanders, some of the women especially were jealous of the fact that you were holding hands with none other than the DARK SHADOW. 

"Stupid bitch." They murmur amongst themselves, "Let's really fuck her up." 

One says before shoving her unsuspecting and overly excitable boyfriend into another guy while shouting. 

"MOSH PIT!" The crowd follows suit, putting you in the thick of it. Normally you could handle a little mosh, staying on the fringes to avoid too much damage but being in the center was beginning to spell trouble. The world spun as body after body began to slam into you, turning you this way and that before someone begins to take advantage of the situation. A sleazy guy you had hoped to avoid "falls" into you, rough palms grabbing a handful of your ass, beneath your skirt. A yelp lost to the crowd leaves your lips, tears burning in your eyes as this man set out to ruin what was possibly the highlight of your life. 

He was going to ruin it with his disgusting cigarette breath, lips sloppily kissing at your throat as he moved the two of you closer to the barricade. His fingers dig into your ass, spreading your cheeks as he shouts into your ear. 

"These fishnets for me slut?" He slurs, chuckling as he presses your back into the cool biting metal, "Love the crop top baby, do you got a bra on underneath?" 

A sob threatens to rack through your body as your elated high quickly turns into stomach churning nausea. Desperately you look up to the stage, anything to distract you from the fingers that try to venture between your thighs, while the other rips at your favorite top.

Tokoyami jumps, stopping to adjust his feet for steady ground to do the screaming part of the song, he glances down into the crowd, silently looking for you. The woman who made his heart flutter for the first time in years and when he sees your face tilted up towards him with fear and pain twisting your features he loses his cool. 

"Fucking stop!" He shouts, the lyrics gone for now as the music abruptly stops, the man holding you startles as the light follows Dark Shadow's accusing finger. He is illuminated by the stage light as bystanders rip him from you, he punches one guy and makes a run for it. 

 "Aye yo security. Get this asshole!" Dark Shadow shouts, leaning down for your now outstretched arms. Pulling you on stage with ease as his fingers flutter over your shoulders and sides for injuries.

"You okay my sparrow?" He coos softly and you nod, and he guides you towards the back of the stage, leaving the two front members to appease the excited crowd. He presses a cold water bottle to your hand before pulling up a chair a few feet from the drum kit. 

"Stay by Bakugou okay? He'll take care of you." He wipes some sweat from your face before squeezing the nape of your neck. Bakugou glares your way with mixed emotions before doing his show starting beat to get the crowd jumping. 

"Anyone else wanna act like a fucking douche?" Denki asks, walking up and down the front of the stage waiting for Tokoyami to return to the forefront. 

"NOOOOO!" The crowd shouts, Denki offers a cheeky smile before adding. 

"That's my good fans!" He blows a kiss to the crowd and the screams fly up an octave. 

"Alright let's start this shit from the top!" Jiro shouts, letting out some hypnotic notes before looking towards Tokoyami. 

"Actually, let's give them a sample of the new album. Let's give them a tease. Do you wanna be teased?" He asks the crowd aiming the mic towards them as if he needed to. 

"SHOW US! TEASE US!" The crowd chants before Tokoyami looks towards his band members. 

"I dunno do they deserve it?" Bakugou prodes and the audience lets out a dejected whine. 

"Promise to behave?" Jiro teases and the crowd collectively screams out desperately "YES!"

"Well keep your hands to yourself and listen up cause you're only gonna hear it this once til it drops!" Tokoyami shouts before Jiro starts playing that hypnotic sound, shortly after Denki joins in. Bakugou twisting his drumstick as he waits for his cue impatiently. Dark Shadow takes in a deep breath before singing the haunting first lines of their new song. 

"What do you do, when it's stalking after yoouuu? What do you say when it's just a breath awaaay~? Coming closer and you can't seem to get awaaaaay?" 

"Always watching, always loooomming-" 

Bakugou slams his sticks down hard onto the kit, foot tapping the bass drum at an alarming speed as everything seems to be hitting a climax. 

"WHAT DO YOU DO WHEN ITS COMING FROM INSIDE OF YOU? WHAT DO YOU SAY WHEN IT SHARES YOUR NAAAAME? 

WHEN YOU CAN'T HIDE THE DEMON THAT'S LURKING INSIDE!" 

The last line he screams and the crowd is overcome with emotion. The height of the music and the new song that the band pours their hearts into, sends the crowd into a frenzy. Sweat dripping from everyone as their black shirts dampen around their collars. 

The song the crowd wanted to last forever comes to an end and you find yourself standing to scream, tears in your eyes.

"That was amazing!" Curling your fingers into a fist, Dark Shadow turns back to see you, out of the millions of people there tonight, in that moment he could only hear you.  

"Well I think we gave them a good show huh?" Denki asks into the mic, Bakugou drums a heavy beat as he shouts. 

"FUCK YEA WE DID!" 

"HAVE A GOOD NIGHT!!" The band members shout in unison before waving and slowly backing off stage. Tokoyami rushes towards you, hand slipping around your natural waist as he guides you into the darkened stage towards his dressing room. Your heart is racing in your ears as the silence becomes deafening. Being this close to Dark Shadow you couldn't help but notice the little cushion that keeps his helmet from damaging his throat and the intoxicating smell that rolls off of him like a cool breeze. He smells like cedar and pine at twilight while the wind brings with it the threat of snow. 

You shiver despite the warmth of his touch. Swallowing the lump in your throat you force your tongue to cooperate as he steps in front of his door politely opening it for you. His small silver chains clink from the motion.

"You must be tired, are you sure you want...company?" If you could see his face you imagined he'd be smiling. Pressing his hand at the small of your back to urge you inside. 

"I'm sure." He walks in, waiting for you to follow before he slumps onto a worn leather arm chair. Your platform converse move on their own as you cross the threshold of the room, closing the door behind you. 

"Lock it, would you sparrow?" All you can do is nod as you turn the lock until you hear a soft click. He gestures for you to sit on the couch beside him before his broad hands go towards his helmet. 

The blood rushes from your face as a moment of honor and horror wage war in your gut, pulling your heart down towards your feet. 

"Wait!" You shout, startling both of you and you feel heat rise into your cheeks and throat, "I don't want you to feel obligated to take it off. We can just...talk." 

Nervously you fidget with the hem of your skirt, thinking he was going to kick you out for being so lame. 

Boring. 

He stands and you flinch before he sits beside you on the love seat. If you could see his eyes you wondered if they were sparkling. His winter woods smell tickles your nose and you smile. 

"I'd love to just talk. But first." He must notice your ripped shirt as he stands again. Rummaging through his suitcase to find the first edition band tee ever made for TOKYO MOB.

"I couldn't!" You half shout and then squeak, "I shouldn't" 

"I insist." He says softly placing it on your lap before giving you his toned back. The cropped tee he wears shows off the dimples in his lower back that has you thinking of what it would look like while those hips piston into you. Quickly you toss your ripped shirt aside and slip his over your head, relishing the present smell, heart stirring.

"It's safe." You say softly and he turns around taking the seat beside you again. 

After a small awkward silence the two of you begin to talk, the conversation coming easy as you gushed over his voice and where you went to college when he asked. Him wanting to know more about your life and the night ended up being about you instead of him for once and it was nice. 

Nice to not have someone prying or clawing at his neck to find out just who he was and what he looked like, suddenly heat rushes to his pants. His hand comes to rest on your knee just below the hem of your skirt, ringed fingers sliding beneath the black fabric. You swallow, looking into the face of the bird mask and softly speak. 

"How- how would we kiss?" It feels stupid, embarrassing that you would even think that. He kills the light by the love seat flooding the room in total darkness before he takes off his helmet with a clatter. 

"Like this." His lips are by your ear now sending ecstacy through your body in the form of a spine tingling shudder. He kisses at your lobe working his way down your throat and then up to your jaw, avoiding your lips as he tastes every inch of you he can. His damp hair tickles your nose as he moves you to him, hovering over you as he kisses the plane of your stomach beneath his lifted shirt. 

"You look damn good in my shirt baby." He trails his tongue up your sternum causing you to moan, he smirks against the bone before sucking at the supple skin of your breast. Choosing them for his canvas to paint in blacks and blues that you would soon come to wish would last a life time. His free hand twists your nipple, pulling it as he scrapes his teeth against your other. Tongue flicking against the sensitive nub another moan escapes your lips as he plays with you for what feels like hours. He doesn't even go to touch your aching cunt until you're covered in a sheen of sweat. Begging for his hands to move lower as your vision spots in the dark from his sensual touch alone. Your own hands explore up his defined abs and torso occasionally catching the cool metal of his chains, this time you decide to pull him into a kiss. Your lips touching his for the first time all night and you feel like a live wire. Hungrily and aggressively trying to devour him as you feel music dancing through your blood, humming in your bones, he groans amplifying the feeling as his clothed hard on presses into your core. His tongue swipes over yours and the thought of not even knowing what he looks like arches your back into his touch. 

Finally he flips your skirt up, his fingers venturing between your thighs and when he finds no fabric and the satisfying sound of your slick he bucks his hips, biting at your breasts. 

"So wet sparrow…." His voice is soft breath and a little desperate causing your cunt to clench. He circles your clit until you're crying, his fingers occasionally checking for a stream of tears. When he feels the droplets on your face he chuckles shoving his fingers knuckle deep going agonizingly slow until you're fluttering around his thick curled digits. You cum hard and he whispers praises in your ear, several times as your body shakes and you think you won't be able to make it through the night. 

"Ready for my cock babe?" He asks gently swiping his thumb over your swollen and heavily abused clit. You perk right up, ready for the finale silently thanking the gods for a band members stamina. You notice him shaking as he leans down for a kiss, his stomach sweaty and sticking to yours. You fist his hair, pulling him back just a bit. 

"You'll be okay?" You can just make out the gleam of his teeth from his smirk before his voice comes out as pure sinful husk. 

"The question is, will you sweet sparrow?" 

Too stunned to answer he swallows your silence with a kiss before he sheaths himself inside you. Relishing the moan in his mouth and the fluttering of your velvet walls as they adjust to him. You were so wet, so ready for him as he slowly rocked his hips. Your half wish from earlier coming true as your hands fly to the dimples of his lower back, trying to urge him to quicken his pace but he keeps it languid, deadly. Each stroke hitting with purpose. The head of his cock hitting that cushy spot as his pelvis snapped against your clit. The sensation sends you into a never ending moan. Each gasp his stage name as he marks you as his, nails raking down your arms as he praises. 

"Such a nice pussy you have. Taking me so fucking well." He lingers by your ear, his tone the opposite of his lustful words. Your own nails claw down his back in viscous lines as he keeps you on the edge. The coil, steady and tight as you feel the pressure in your stomach growing. He can feel how tightly you're squeezing him and how your thighs are locked around his waist. He press his fingers into your stomach as his thumb swipes over your clit, his hips snapping faster and faster as he waits for what he hopes is coming. The pressure becomes too much he overstimulates your body, shaking as you cry out. 

"I can't, I can't…" 

"You can, just for me. Don't be shy, cum for me baby." His deep voice sends a chill through your body, you go rigid, quiet before your body jerks and releases a clear liquid onto his pelvis and cock. Shaking as he fucks your through it before his voice comes out strained as you milk him. 

"Imma cum baby, where do you want it?" 

"In me, I promise I have an IUD just fucking cum Dark Shadow!" You gasp and he obeys, adding to your pleasant after shocks, filling you to the brim with his hot seed with a husky grunt. He collapses onto you fixing your shirt before he gently withdraws, keeping his face to your chest as your fingers find his hair. You try not to let your thoughts wander and as if he could read your mind. 

"I promise you, you're the only one who's made me do that." He kisses your throat gently before his hand searches for your free one, interlacing his fingers with yours before he hums. Slowly singing you to sleep. You welcome the feeling as exhaustion blankets you in darkness.

"Uh miss." The voice comes as a shock as a large man tries to wake you from a distance. You startle, grabbing at blankets to cover yourself although you're fully clothed.  

"Hate to wake you miss but we're locking up. The venue is closed and the band is…" Although he looks a brute he clearly has some sort of heart. Unable to say what you know.  

"Gone." Tears burn your eyes as you think of how stupid you were. To ever think you were special enough to be anything more than a groupie. A note sits on the bedside table. 

"Should we cross paths again, Sparrow. I'll make you forever mine" 

The note blurs as you recognize the lyrics to the song. You look down at his band tee and wonder if your favorite song was more of a gimmick to pick up fans than some fated promise. 

And so life moves on.

You can only tell that time has passed from the fading color of your bruises. Slowly they melt from a cold bluish black into cool greens and warm dotted yellows. You sigh, looking in the mirror before you head towards your room for clothes.  Finally mustering up the courage to wear that stupid band tee he gave you again. It still smells faintly of him, of the winter woods suspended in forever twilight. Of musk from your sweat and his. You fight back the tears as you remind yourself you just put on mascara, finally choosing to participate in a social life after having your heart broken for being a fool. You decided to get ready sooner rather than later, otherwise you would have backed out from the plans and mopped around the house. You figured some coffee would help kill the time as you lace up your converse thinking of your favorite shop. You head out and walk leisurely to the cafe off the beaten path of downtown.  The street is full but not overly so as people browse the shopping district of the huge city you call home. Everyone fades into the background until your eye catches against a handsome man, dressed in tastefully torn black jeans, and an onyx turtleneck. You would be concerned for his attire in this weather if he wasn't so damn handsome. You must catch his eye as well as his face instantly lights up when he makes eye contact. He beats you to the cafe door, holding it open for you with ringed fingers like a gentleman waiting for you to enter. The gesture feels familiar causing your heart to squeeze in your chest, feeling trapped beneath your too small rib cage. As you walk past him you think you smell something familiar. 

Like cedar and pine, dancing on a snowy wind as the sun sets the world on fire. 

Your world on fire as you grip at the front of Dark Shadow's shirt trying not to cry. You just wanted your fucking macchiato and to move on with your life. You had lived every fan's dream of sleeping with your favorite band member. Tasting Dark Shadow's blackberry mouth. Shouldn't that be enough? 

Your aching heart said otherwise. 

Suddenly warmth is behind you, radiating off of a thick body as the handsome man bends over to put his profile to your ear. Goose flesh prickles your skin in late August as he says with a voice that drapes you in sinful black silk.

"You look damn good in my shirt, sparrow." 

[seeaddywrite]

written for alex manes appreciation week 2019, day one: “daydreaming with a broken heart.” i played fast and loose with the prompt, as always, but i am fairly proud that this is under 3k! shout out to my sister for reading through it to make sure it was at least coherent, even though this is not her fandom, & to @soberqueerinthewild for helping me modify my original idea that was not working when i started to something that did. 

disclaimers: alex’s views on mental health are not my views; keep in mind, his state of mind is not great in most of these moments, & he tends to be harder on himself than is really fair. 

warnings: unreliable narrator, PTSD, war-time, generally poor mental health. set mostly pre-canon, with some future-fic at the end. as always, guys, it’s angst with a happy ending. 

The first time Alex realizes that the entirety of the Atlantic Ocean can’t keep him away from Michael Guerin, he’s in the middle of the desert on his first deployment, crouching behind a crumbling wall in an outpost. Ostensibly, he’s trying to find a safe place to work, but in reality, he’s  really just attempting to keep the contents of his stomach where they belong, rather than splashed over the sand-covered floor.

Angry shouts in a language Alex only sort-of knows precede the rapid report of gunfire by a few seconds, but it’s still not enough time. His fingers move faster on the laptop he’d swiped from one of the empty rooms in the outpost; it’s covered in dust and the screen is cracked, but it’s functioning, which means there’s a chance Alex can hack into the communications network and get a radio message through to their back-up. He can rescue this entire clusterfuck op, can make sure his men get home. He can fucking do this; he just has to ignore the sweat dripping down his face and the shouts of screaming men and gunfire, and focus on the code.

“We’re sitting ducks in here, Manes! You better have a fucking plan!”

The bellow from Argent is nearly drowned out by the repetitive thunder of gunshots from his weapon, and Alex can’t spare a thought or an instant to respond. Being surrounded in an outpost in the middle of the desert isn’t great, but it’s a hell of a lot worse when there are only three friendlies, with the rest of their men at least a mile away with no way to know Alex’s guys are in need of rescue. Alex sucks in a lungful of humid air and focuses back on the screen in front of him, searching the flickering lines of code for a back-door entry to the communications array.

When Argent’s bellows keep coming, though, urging Alex to hurry, he lifts his gaze from the laptop screen exactly long enough to realize that the enemy is no longer simply shooting from outside — they’re in the fucking building now, and getting closer with every second. Alex does his best to swallow down the panic that swells in his chest, but his fingers shake on the keys in front of him, and his vision blurs. It’s too much — too much pressure, too much stress, too much, and Alex has never been able to come through for anyone when it really matters. He’s not strong like his brothers, not heartless like his father, and this is not the life he should have had. His incompetence is going to get his squad killed, and Alex is sucking air into his lungs, but he still can’t breathe.

“Since when are you the one who gives up?” The irritated, slightly mocking voice is so familiar, so real, that Alex’s head snaps around, certain that he’s about to find Guerin somehow in the middle of this mission alongside him. The thought doesn’t help the churning in his stomach or the panic still steadily mounting in his chest, but when he looks, there’s no one standing there. Another loud gunshot echoes through the room; closer, again. Closer all the time.

“Come on, Alex, you’ve got this. You can do shit like this in your sleep.” Michael doesn’t know that — Michael doesn’t even know that Alex has been taking computer classes since he was in middle school, but it’s what Alex needs to hear, and the tremors in his fingers and knees finally start to ease at the reminder. He can do things like this in his sleep. The communications array in these places are rarely even protected by a decent firewall; the real enemy here, Alex realizes, is himself. He can do this, and he will.

With a sudden surge of determination, Alex forces numb fingers to move, striking keys in rapid succession until he’s down to one stubborn line of code that just doesn’t want to cooperate. He hesitates at the sound of yelling behind him, but there’s a ghost of a caress on his cheek, drawing his attention back where it needs to be, and Alex doesn’t waste any time reminding himself that Michael can’t actually be here, that he’s probably hallucinating due to stress or exhaustion — because he doesn’t give a shit. The idea that Guerin stills cares enough to help him now is one that he desperately needs at the moment, and clings to it with both hands.

“Good,” Michael’s voice praises him, and later, Alex will wonder if the stress of this op cost him his sanity, since he’s hearing his ex-boyfriend’s voice from half a world away and actually feeling proud at the praise. Jesus Christ, apparently, war fucks people up a lot faster than Alex realized.

“Hey, stay with me,” that same, calm voice demands. “Take a deep breath and get this done. You’re okay.” Still half in the thrall of whatever psychotic break he has to be in the middle of, Alex obeys, hauling in more oxygen through his nose. As he does, the musky scent of cheap aftershave hits Alex’s nose somehow, over the smell of sweat and sand and electrical discharge, and for a moment, Alex is so sure that he’s safe that his body believes it. His fingers stop shaking, his focus sharpens — and less than a moment later, he finds the right line of code and corrects it, and the distress call goes out over the radios.

The other two men hear it and cheer, but Alex is too busy missing the phantom caress of a daydream on his cheek.

That’s not the last strange, dreamlike encounter Alex has with Michael in times of stress — an no, that’s not something that he’ll be admitting to his military-appointed shrink anytime soon, thanks just the same. He knows that Michael doesn’t really come to him when he’s scared or in pain, is well aware that it’s a trick of his subconscious as it yearns for the peace and safety of home, which he’d always found in Michael Guerin’s embrace. Psychologically, Alex thinks, it makes total sense. And most of the time when it happens, he’s too busy fighting for his life or the lives of others, to worry about what this might mean for him.

The day that they lose Argent, Michael is there, a phantom hand in his and a muted, grieving whisper in his ear reminding him that Argent would kick his ass if he got himself killed, too. When Alex ends up hacking into a the controlling element for weapons of mass destruction while his team engages hostiles, Michael’s there behind him, invisible hands on his shoulders, murmuring reassurances and sweet nothings until the goal is met and his team is safely on their way back. That time, Michael stays until the others arrive, and Alex would swear he feels arms around him while he shakes apart when the urgency is gone and he can no longer suppress the panic. When his men arrive and the feeling of Guerin disappears, Alex cries. The guys take it as a sign of pain, and insist on all but carrying him to their transpo unit, but even in the indignity doesn’t quite manage to stop his tears.

Time and time again, as the slow, grueling years of enlistment pass, Michael is there when Alex needs him, and the latter comes to rely on that knowledge. He doesn’t forget that it can’t be real, doesn’t pretend that he hasn’t gone half-mad in these damn deserts, and on his worst days, he curses himself for a fool for treating this as normal when it’s obviously a sign that he’s just as psychotic as his father. But if Alex can’t have Michael in the real world, and if he has to be at war, despite promising himself for at least fifteen years that he would never take this path, Alex feels like he deserves this one, small thing. He’s not hurting anyone else — only himself — after all.

Alex doesn’t remember the explosion that took his foot and part of his leg. He remembers running when the tell-tale whine of an incoming bomb hit his ears, and the sound of panicked screams of the villagers and soldiers alike in the village. He remembers the images as if looking through a kaleidoscope; the brown of the sand, the blue of the sky, the open-mouthed expressions of horror and panic on the faces around him. He remembers his own ragged breathing and the strain in his muscles as he tries to make it out of the impact zone  —

And he remembers the hand in his, dragging him along when he stumbles. “Move, Alex, move! Don’t you dare stop! Don’t you fucking dare!” Alex has never heard Michael sound quite so panicked; even when Jesse Manes took a hammer to his hand, Michael had only ever screamed in pained fury. Now, his tone is desperate, bordering on frantic, and somehow, if only to appease Michael and keep that sound from his voice, Alex manages to run faster.

He wakes up in a VA hospital in Germany ten days later, sans nearly half of his right leg. The doctors tell him that there’s an infection in the residual limb, and that they’re worried about his fever, so he vaguely understands that he’s hallucinating when Michael perches on the side of his hospital bed. It seems so real that Alex allows himself to forget, just this once, that it isn’t. He wants to escape the reality that he’s going to be forced to endure for the rest of his life, and the only way that’s possible is with Guerin.

It’s the only time he ever sees Michael in one of these episodes. Every other encounter, it’s just been his ghost, able to touch and be touched but never seen. Now, though, Michael looks terrible as he brushes tender fingers through Alex’s regulation-length hair, his own knotted and greasy, with giant, bruise-like shadows beneath his eyes. “Fuck, Alex,” he breathes, his voice so rough that Alex knows he’s holding back tears. “I thought — when we were running, I thought —

Alex steadfastly ignores that he’s talking to a voice in his head and squeezes Michael’s hand. It’s the good one, the one without the scars and damage inflicted by Jesse Manes all those years ago, and he’s grateful for that. With his mind woozy from pain meds and fever, Alex doesn’t think he could put that awful night back in its mental lockbox if something pulled it out. “Not dead,” he mutters, wishing he could make his voice louder. But his throat is dry and he’s just so fucking tired, and the barely-there whisper is all he can manage. “You saved me.”

Michael shakes his head, so vehemently his curls fall over his eyes. “No way, Alex. You saved yourself. Just like always.” There’s a gentle touch at his brow, and Alex almost allows his eyes to close — but he’s suddenly terrified that if he does, Michael will disappear, and he’ll be left alone, staring at the place on his body where his right foot should be, and he doesn’t think he can do that yet. So Alex just stares at him, turning his head when Michael shifts so that he never leaves his line of sight. He drinks him in like a man dying of thirst, clinging to his good hand, and the soft kiss to his forehead makes his eyes burn with tears. “God, I love you,” he murmurs. “And I’m so fucking proud of you.”

The tears spill over this time, because those are words Alex has never heard before, not outside of Maria’s joking proclamations or one of the guys’ sarcastic retorts, and he knows, in his bones, that Michael means it.

That’s probably why he has to be sedated when the nurse comes in and Alex is left completely and utterly alone.

Two years later, when Alex is back in Roswell and finally free of the military and his father, he curls into Michael’s naked body and buries his head in his neck, inhaling the familiar musky scent of cheap aftershave. It’s humid and dry outside, like a true desert summer, and the intersection of each of those circumstances sends him back to that very first mission, where he’d very nearly frozen and gotten all of his men killed. Alex swallows, the memory full of shame and residual fear, and Michael immediately tightens his grip around his waist.

“Hey,” he murmurs, and Alex turns his face up to look at his newly-reinstated boyfriend with a questioning tilt to his eyebrow. They’ve come a long way from those scared teenaged boys in a shed, and Alex can now look at Michael and see the man he’s become. Strong, brilliant, brave . . . alien. That last part doesn’t scare him anymore, though when Alex had believed there was a chance he could lose Michael to the cosmos, it had. They’ve done battle together, now, and not just in Alex’s head. They’ve faced down Jesse Manes and a serial killing alien. They worked together to bring Max Evans back from the dead, and reintegrate Rosa Ortecho back into society with a new identity. The two of them have a family, now, a real one, and it starts with each other.

“I’m okay,” Alex says, half of his mouth lilting upward in a half-smile. “Just — remembering.”

Michael shifts, running a hand down Alex’s bare back, and waits for the explanation. Alex considers a moment, then chuckles ruefully. “When I left to join the Air Force,” he begins, bracing himself for the instinctive flinch the words evoke from Michael. It’s a sore point between them even now, when they’ve finally sorted everything out, and Alex knows that only time will bleed the pain from those memories. “I guess I kind of — lost it, a little. Every time something went wrong, every time I was in danger, I used to . . . imagine you were there.” The tops of Alex’s ears feel hot with embarrassment, and if it weren’t for Michael’s arms around him, he’d probably try to pull away.

Instead, he manages a crooked smile. “Don’t worry, I know that sounds insane. I just —” He shrugs self-consciously, not wanting to dive into too many of the details. It’s bad enough that he’s just admitted to his most closely-guarded secret out loud; he doesn’t need Michael to know exactly how pathetic he’d been. “I guess I just wanted to feel like you were with me, even when you couldn’t be. And it — you — saved me. Kept pushing me to run when I wanted to give up, the day this happened.” He taps his bad leg to illustrate, and hides his face back in the warmth of Michael’s neck, hoping they can just go to sleep and stop talking about this.

Michael keeps stroking his back, slow and comforting, and there’s no judgement in his body language, so Alex manages to relax after a moment. This is what he’s needed for years; just Michael, holding him. The rest of it doesn’t matter, because as long as Alex can count on this, he knows he’s in no danger of truly losing his mind.

He’s on the verge of sleep when Michael shifts beneath him, rolling so that they’re face to face on the pillow rather than tucked into one another. A hint of mischief sparks in his eyes, and there’s a tilt to his smile that suggests he knows something Alex doesn’t. When he finally speaks, the words are so familiar, so specific, that all Alex can do is gape at him in incredulity.

“No way, Alex. You saved yourself. Just like always.”

[theangriestpea]

Mercy Killing

A/N: Expect some angry pea, jealous pea, douche bag pea. Nothing sweet about this chapter. Probably won't update until later next week. I meant to make this one longer but that didn't happen. It's a little over 2400 words and I try to aim for 3k.

Cross posted on AO3

Chapter Seven - Jealousy

Lavender was sipping on her chocolate strawberry milkshake at Pop’s. There was a distinct smile on her lips as she listened to James talk. She tried counting every freckle on his cheeks but gave up after the fifth try.

A few booths away Sweet Pea and Fangs sat, eating burgers. “Jealousy looks good on you, Sweets.” Fangs said with a sly smile. “I think I should call you Jealous Pea from now on.”

“Shut the fuck up, Fogarty. I’m not jealous, I just don’t trust him.” Sweet Pea said lowly. His eyes boring holes into the back of Lav’s head. “It’s our job to make sure she’s safe.”

“Lav’s a smart girl.” Fangs shrugged, obviously not worried. “And he’s hot as hell, I don’t blame her.”

Sweet Pea’s eyes moved to his friend, narrowing in anger. “She’s not that smart. Walking by herself all alone in the middle of the night so she could get attacked in the first place.”

Fangs stared back at him, his own orbs were placid. “Any of us could have made that mistake, honestly. It could have been any Serpent walking home to keep from driving. She just happened to be the one walking down the street that night. A victim of circumstance.”

The taller boy made an unimpressed grunt in response, taking a large bite of burger to silence any more of his thoughts. Deep down though, he knew that Fangs had a point. It could have been any one.

“So why Lavender?” James asked her having finished telling her a story about how he broke his ankle during a soccer tournament, showing sympathy for her broken wrist. “Is it because you like pastels? I noticed you wearing a lot of them at school.”

Lav pulled away from her straw with a sheepish grin, “Lavender is my favorite color. My dad got me lavender converse as a present and I pretty much never take them off. I guess I got kind of known for them around the Southside so when people didn’t know my actual name they just called me the girl with the lavender shoes. Then after I dyed my hair the same color it simply got shortened to Lavender.” She explained. “I don’t think half of the older Serpents even know my real name.”

“Is that a bad thing?” He asked appearing to be genuinely curious.

She shrugged as she took another sip of her milkshake, “not really. I like my nickname more than my real name anyway.”

James nodded, appreciating her honest answer. “So, was your car totaled?” He asked then.

A perplexed look crossed Lavender’s face, making him clarify. “In the car wreck.”

How could she had forgotten that she blamed her injuries on a car wreck? She mentally smacked herself for being such an idiot. “It was my friend’s car.” She lied. “It was a crumpled mess.” Really it was her that had been the crumpled mess.

He smiled at her, pearly white teeth shining. “I’m glad you’re okay. Well, relatively.”

She looked away from him, embarrassed. No one had actually said that to her. That they were glad she was okay. That was because they all knew that she wasn’t. It was a façade. One that melted away in the night when she woke up in terror in the arms of a friend. Sadness pulled on her heart and she did her best to not show it on her face.

James either didn’t notice the desperate look in her eyes or didn’t care enough to comment. “Do you know that guy? He keeps glaring at me.” He nodded towards the table where Fangs and Sweet Pea sat.

Lav turned her head to look at Sweet Pea. He was too obstinate to turn his head away, his glower only getting darker when he noticed Lav turn around. She quickly turned back around, not bothering to catch his deep brown eyes with her bright hazel ones. “Unfortunately.” She muttered as she fiddled with her straw. “Just ignore him.”

“Kind of hard when he’s trying to murder me with a look.” James said, laughing softly. The melodious sound causing Lav to smile. Somewhere in the back of her mind she thought about how it wasn’t quite as nice as Sweet Pea’s laugh that she so very rarely heard but loved nonetheless. She stirred her milkshake in hopes to will the thought even further away.

“How’s your milkshake?” She asked, changing the subject. “I hope I didn’t hype it up too much.”

He sat back against the vinyl seat, a smirk on his face that caused Sweet Pea to bang his fist against the table in annoyance. James’ eyes flicked to him with amusement dancing at the Serpent’s reaction before looking back at Lavender. “Oh, you definitely didn’t. It’s probably the best shake I’ve ever had.”

The sly look on his face was almost recognizable. Once again she found herself certain that she’d seen it before. “Have we met before?” She asked, finally working up the nerve to ask him. “Because you seem so familiar sometimes. Like I know you.”

He noticed her lean in slightly, her voice the slightest bit quieter as if she didn’t want the other boys to hear. He leaned in too, ending some of the distance that was between them and making her slightly uncomfortable at his closeness. “I think I’d remember a girl as pretty as you.” He said coolly and her heart ached in response. She never thought someone could call her pretty again. Not after what happened to her. Not after she felt so terribly unattractive to all mankind.

Their mutual stare broke when Lav noticed a black clad figure come into her peripheral vision. “We’re leaving, Rhodes.” Sweet Pea said, leaning over her threateningly, making her feel so incredibly small and helpless.

“She hasn’t even finished her milkshake.” James said, obviously not caring about the size difference between him and Sweet Pea. “Besides, I think it’s up to her to decide when to go or not.”

Again Sweets gave James a murderous look but the boy didn’t flinch. “Is he your ex or something?” He asked Lav, causing her to scoff at the mere thought. Sweet Pea was so vile towards her, there was no way they’d ever be a couple. The only history they had was their one night stand months ago.

“No!” They said at the same time, both equally enraged by the idea that they were lovers lost. The tone in each other’s voice hurting them equally. Like maybe there was something there and they were squashing it with every ounce of power that they had.

Lav drank some more of her drink before adding. “Like James said, I’m not done with my milkshake. Fangs will give me a ride when I’m done.”

His fists clenched, knuckled white and nails digging into his palms. James snorted at Sweets’ name. “Sweet Pea? Bet there’s a good story behind that one.”

Fangs quickly inserted himself between Sweet Pea and the table, facing Lavender with an apologetic expression. “He’s right. Time to go, Lavie. We have something we need to do.”

It was her turn to be aggravated. Her glare ascending onto Fangs’ with blistering fire. “Like what?” She snapped, being totally used to Sweet Pea trying to ruin her fun but not Fangs’. He was supposed to be her best friend. He was supposed to be supportive.

Now he was ruining everything and she didn’t know why.

“Serpent business.” He said cryptically. Lav knew that if that were indeed the case then he wouldn’t divulge any details in front of the outsider.

She let out an extremely frustrated sigh, “I’m sorry. I’ll see you at school tomorrow. Thanks for the milkshake.”

“Anytime, beautiful.” James said with another blinding smile. Her heart melted into a puddle in her broken ribs as she slid out of the booth. She purposefully didn’t look at either leather clad boy as she walked out of the diner, hips swaying slightly as if to give James a show and to piss Sweet Pea off all in one swoop.

*~~~~~~~~~~~*

There was no serpent business and Lavender was beyond pissed. She had spent the rest of the night not speaking to either boy, instead she’d taken to her room. She took a long shower, scrubbing at her body until her scabs bled. She wanted to scream but instead let the pain of her open wounds distract her. It had been the first day since the attack that she’d completely forgotten about it for just a little while. The first time she’d truly been too distracted to think about all of those hands roaming over her and holding her down. They had ripped away the tiny bit of relief she had been feeling and she was boiling with rage.

Fangs tried to apologize but she wasn’t having it. She had expected this kind of behavior from Sweet Pea but not from him. The fist of her good hand slammed into the tiled wall, the sound echoing throughout the bathroom. Small shocks of pain flashed in her tiny bones from the force of it.

She turned the water off finally and stepped out, ripping the plastic bag off of her cast and drying herself off with an old blue towel. In the mirror she stared at all the yellow and purple bruises. With her makeup gone she could see every splotch of color and it made her stomach churn in disgust.

Liquid thicker than water dripped down her chest and she looked down to notice the gash there was bleeding slightly, leaving pink streaks on her otherwise clean skin. She tore through her medicine cabinet behind her mirror, taking out gauze and tape to put over it as well as the one on her thigh and stomach that had opened up as well.

Lav pulled on a pair of boy short cut underwear and a soft pink t-shirt to sleep in. Tonight she wouldn’t be calling for anyone to join her in bed. She wanted to be alone despite knowing that it was probably a bad idea. She’d rather have nightmares than lay beside one of those traitors.

So one could imagine her surprise when she walked into her room to see a pajama clad Sweet Pea laying on her bed, scrolling through Facebook on his phone. “What the fuck are you doing in my bed?” She seethed, crossing her arms over her chest.

Sweet Pea looked at her with a blank face. “Fangs has to watch Ginger Snap tonight.” He said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. So naturally he assumed that he’d take residence beside her even after the show he put on earlier? Not going to happen.

“You think that after what you did today you deserve to sleep next to me?” She asked, her voice sharp and taking on a slightly higher pitch. “After completely ruining my date because you were jealous?”

The word left her lips without her even comprehending the thought fully. Was that really why Sweet Pea had acted the way he did, because he didn’t want to see her with someone else? She hurt herself with her own words.

Sweets sat up quickly at her question. “You really think I’d be jealous of him?” He spat back, swinging his long legs over the side of the bed to stand up. “You think that’s what it was about? You think I care that much about some Northsider?”

Her stomach twisted into knots. She didn’t let her hurt show and she sure as hell didn’t let it cool her anger. “You don’t care?” She mimicked, her voice dark. “Is that why you hold me so close at night just to ignore that fact that I even exist during the day? Is that why you bandaged me up like I was a delicate little flower? Is that why you don’t even speak to me ever? Is that why you punched Reggie when he was talking shit to me? Is that why you ruined my date, my little chance at actual happiness because you don’t fucking care?” By the end of it she was screaming at him so loud she was sure Fangs could hear her in his trailer next door.

Sweet Pea took two long steps so he was standing right in front of her. His teeth were clenched so hard that she could see a muscle twitch along his jawline. “Those pain pills must be getting to your head, Rhodes, because you’ve got some pretty stupid ideas roaming around up there.” He said, his voice low. “Did you really think for a second that this was any more than a job to me? That I caught some feelings for a Northside princess all because we fucked once? Did it ever occur to you that I was just trying to get laid and you were loose enough to not make me have to take you to my trailer to get it done?”

“You insufferable prick!” Lav roared, “I hate you!” She regretted the words as soon as they left her lips. A flicker of something in his eyes after she said them. Something that looked a lot like pain. Then there was a fire that was even brighter than her own.

“Because I’m Southside trash, right?” Sweet Pea hissed, “Because I’m never going to be good enough for some stuck up bitch? If you even cared an ounce about this gang then you would tell us what we need to know so we could attack the Ghoulies. Or are you just making that up too?”

His words cut her more deeply than the Ghoulies’ switchblades. How could he think for a second that she was lying about who attacked her? How could he think so low of her? Tears swelled in her eyes and swiftly fell down her cheeks. “Get out!” She said, her voice shaking from the sob she was trying to hold back. “Get the fuck out of my trailer and don’t you ever come back!”

“Fine!” Sweet Pea roared at her, his anger now pitted at himself for saying something harsh enough to make her break down. Her tears sending knives through his heart at the mere sight of them. Even worse, he knew he was the one that caused him and it made him nauseous. But still, his anger was flared and there was nothing to calm him down now.

Sweets stormed past her out of her bedroom, her trailer, and hopefully her life.

(*whispering softly* I told you this was a slow burn. Don't kill me)

Tag List: @xserpentlife  @sweetwatersnake

[wintercovers]

for @nikitsuki kuroaka feat. college!au & awakening; 3k~ for the haikyuu rarepair exchange

Kuroo Tetsurou is a smart person. Smart in the way where he sometimes considers himself to be but if someone else were to say it of him, Tetsurou would deny it. As such, Tetsurou is only disappointed in himself not to have put two and two together.

For weeks now, Shirofuku has been talking about babysitting Akaashi. For weeks now, Tetsurou has not been able to put two and two together.

The only reason he’s been able to put two and two together is having every single thing laid out in front of him for him to piece together. Today, Shirofuku had invited Tetsurou along to babysitting, he had only caved with the utterance of the words ‘there’ll be food’ because Tetsurou will take whatever he can get. The words had been enough for him even knowing that Shirofuku saying there’s food is not a guarantee that Tetsurou will be able to get food because… well… Tetsurou knows her.

So it is, weeks— almost a month and a half— of hearing about the Akaashi that Shirofuku babysits and Tetsurou follows as she lets herself— lets them both— into a place that is not her own. She opens the door to the smell of food cooking and a shout of “trouble has arrived!” and all the while Tetsurou is left in the dark.

Until a voice Tetsurou hadn’t expected at all— in the way that he kind of thought they’d been breaking in, not that hearing this voice, in particular, was a surprise— responds, “about fucking time”.

Shirofuku pauses at the words, Tetsurou worries once again that they’ve broken in somewhere they shouldn’t be, but then she hangs her head, wipes a non-existent tear from beneath her eye, and mutters so low it’s probably just to herself “they grow up so fast”. She continues then, up a set of stairs and through a doorway at the top and it’s here that Tetsurou is able to put a face to the voice.

He actually can’t believe he needed to see the face to know who the voice belonged to. He should have already known.

Been able to put two and two together.

Although, if Tetsurou is being honest with himself, most of the time he has spent with Akaashi in the past was spent with Bokuto and Akaashi and Bokuto has apparently drowned out most of the parts where Akaashi was present in his memory. Even now, trying to remember Akaashi’s voice and how he should have been able to recognise it all that is coming to mind is Bokuto’s voice, shouting out, for a toss, for attention, for extra food… for Akaashi. Okay, so Tetsurou definitely should have remembered.

It’s like meeting up again has thrown them into each other's orbits. And quite literally so. Tetsurou has been seeing him everywhere and by all accounts, Akaashi has been attending the same university for weeks before Tetsurou ran into him but now he’s everywhere, actually everywhere. It’s astounding.

Tetsurou has passed him in the corridors and seen him walking in and out of some of the local shops. Tetsurou is pretty sure they even share a lecture theatre, he’s positive he saw Akaashi leaving the very same one he was about to go and sit in for fifty minutes of his life but without actually having the guts to call out to who he thinks was Akaashi he can’t really be sure. Tetsurou is pretty sure they once passed by each other in the bathroom too but for obvious reasons, Tetsurou did not want to look too hard on that occasion.

It’s probably just being able to pick out a face he’s known basically what feels like forever compared to the strangers that he recognises but does not know. But still, Tetsurou wonders how they never crossed each other's path before now. Has he just never been looking? Are there more people he knows around, friends of friends, or acquaintances who now have the potential to be more such as Shirofuku had become?

It’s the middle of the afternoon on a Thursday, every Thursday when Tetsurou knows for sure that it is Akaashi. For Tetsurou it’s a designated lunch time squeezed in after all the lectures he had attempted to have as early in the day as possible this year. It must also be a similar kind of break for Akaashi. Tetsurou always— now always— notices Akaashi sitting elsewhere in the food hall with a smattering of other people.

Today is the first time it feels like Akaashi has noticed him back because today is the first time Akaashi has asked to join him.

Tetsurou has always considered himself observant but this entire situation with Akaashi has told him he is anything but—

“—is anybody in there? Is this space free?”

—Tetsurou apparently can’t even focus on Akaashi talking to him. Instead, too hell bent on figuring out where Akaashi has been hiding all this time or when it is he lost the ability to focus on more than one thing at a time.

“Yes sure, sit!” And Tetsurou wishes he could pay more attention to more things because then maybe getting flustered and being caught daydreaming wouldn’t end up with half his food plastered across Akaashi’s chest.

Tetsurou is getting better at this.

“So,” he starts, “honestly this time, did you like, just transfer in?”

Shirofuku glares at Tetsurou like this is the most offensive thing she’s ever heard. Akaashi just looks at him, confused, before turning his bewilderment onto Shirofuku.

“It’s okay,” she says, “you don’t actually have to listen to him. Pretend he’s an art piece you don’t understand; you look, you nod, you move on.”

“Oi!”

Akaashi holds up a hand to Tetsurou’s protest and Tetsurou swallows down whatever words he hasn’t even thought through saying. “It’s okay,” Akaashi says to Tetsurou, “I understand,” he says to Shirofuku.

“Oi!” Tetsurou shouts this time. “I am sitting right here and I will not tolerate this happening right in front of me!”

“Oh,” Akaashi says, “I apologise, I will keep the talking about you to whilst I am away from you. Unrelated, I feel like a drink.”

“Me too!” Shirofuku pipes up, jumping to her feet before Akaashi has even made an attempt to push his chair out.

“Me—“

“What would you like?” Akaashi cuts across him. “Never mind, I’ll pick something out for you!” Akaashi smiles, smirks, and it’s only now that Tetsurou realises he’s being played.

“No! No, I’m definitely coming!” But they’ve already gone. Whispering conspiratorially together, glancing back over at him. And he has to stay, because they’ve left all their things at the table with him and Tetsurou, despite whatever things they may think of him, is kind enough to not let it all get stolen.

Tetsurou doesn’t drink. There’s no reason for it, no family history of alcohol abuse, no bad night that tainted the substance for him. He simply doesn’t drink. He might when he’s twenty, he might go his entire life without touching it, he might give into it and fall off the deep end. His history is clean and his future is uncertain but in this moment Tetsurou has never touched alcohol, never tasted it beyond the dishes cooked with it where the actual alcohol is cooked out.

He doesn’t drink which places the queasy feeling in his stomach on something other than the feeling of intoxication and that’s worrying.

It’s not that he’s hungry — even though he should be, one muesli bar for breakfast was not enough to get him through the day and now that he’s followed Shirofuku out to a party, hours after classes and his last lab and with no other food to really sustain him until then it should be from hunger. But it’s not, it’s not hunger, it’s not something he ate, it’s something else.

“I think I’m getting sick.”

Tetsurou didn’t expect the excuse to work, not when he doesn’t really believe it himself.

What he actually thinks, is that this whole house party thing is not for him. Not when he doesn’t drink, not when the only few people he knows here are drinking. Not when a guy he’s kind of somewhat known since he was fifteen is downing cup after cup of who knows what with barely a blink in between and with each cup is cozying up to some guy Tetsurou is pretty sure has been making eyes at Akaashi since he walked through the door with Tetsurou and Shirofuku earlier.

Tetsurou doesn’t even know where Shirofuku ended up. Part of him isn’t sure he even wants to know.

He’s definitely convinced he doesn’t want to come to a party again. He doesn’t need to see Akaashi—can that really be called dancing?—hanging off of some stranger Tetsurou doesn’t know if he even knows.

He wants to pull Akaashi aside and take them both home, but when he tries to do so Akaashi whines and complains and the stranger Akaashi hasn’t known since he was fifteen ends up telling Tetsurou off, and Akaashi thanks the guy and Tetsurou has to just walk back across the room and keep an eye on him, on both of them, shaking off drinks all the while.

It’s not his job and Akaashi hasn’t asked him to but Tetsurou is not going to let him go home with some stranger.

Tetsurou keeps seeing him. Occasionally them. Together. Apart. It doesn’t really seem to matter. Either way, it makes Tetsurou angry and there’s no real reason as to why.

Not really, Tetsurou keeps thinking on it but he can’t seem to find one.

Outside of a lecture theatre waiting to go in, they both exit, heads pushed together, whispers shared. Tetsurou feels a frown pull at his features until they’re gone from sight, until a while after they’re gone from sight. Until they’re gone and his mind gets distracted by needing to focus on his own lecture.

He sees them outside of a coffee shop. Sure, there are books surrounding them, pens in hand, but the way they sit, on corners close to each other instead of opposite each other makes Tetsurou’s gut churn. The guy leans over, tucks a strand of hair behind Akaashi’s ear— a stupid motion that doesn’t do anything, it doesn’t make the hair sit, it doesn’t keep the rest of Akaashi’s hair from his face, and Tetsurou only feels slightly better when Akaashi runs his hand through his hair afterwards undoing the pointless gesture anyway.

He’s there at lunch the next week. Again. Tetsurou was hoping it was a one-time thing but here he is again and Akaashi doesn’t say a thing about the guy sitting down next to him. The guy doesn’t excuse himself either, he throws a nod at Tetsurou and Tetsurou feels like growling but keeps it in and regrets it for the rest of the time he’s eating.

Through all of it, Tetsurou can’t figure out what it is that makes him hate the guy. Sure, there was one night where Tetsurou saw him pushing himself on Akaashi but on that night and all of these occasions since Akaashi hasn’t seemed adverse to the attention. All he can put it down to is a gut feeling, the guy is bad news, and somehow, some way, it’s Tetsurou’s job to let Akaashi know.

“Well… shit.”

Thunder cracks overhead the lights flicker on and off a few times, but then there’s nothing. Tetsurou can hear Akaashi moving around in the kitchen where he was supposed to be making food, but if the lights are gone, the stove top is probably gone as well.

“It’s okay,” Akaashi’s voice sounds melodious beneath the crash of thunder and beating rain overhead, soft, warm, comforting. “I’m prepared for this, it just might take longer.

The hiss of a match, a candle being lit, Akaashi’s face is thrown into contrast against the flame and Tetsurou follows him as he moves from the kitchen area to where he is sitting on the floor. A few more candles are lit, and tucked beneath Akaashi’s arm is a portable stove.

“Amazing,” Tetsurou says, because he doesn’t know anyone their own age who would buy cooking equipment that isn’t what they’re gifted with in their accommodation. Then again, it’s also Akaashi, “guess you won’t let anything get between you and a meal, hey?”

Akaashi smiles, laughs into candlelight, into the hiss of gas, beneath cracks and booms.

And oh, realisation dawns on him like he’s never really known what the day really looked like before.

He knows now, Tetsurou knows now what he never quite knew earlier.

Why he’s never known how to react when his friends in class had pulled out magazines and Instagram accounts of busty models in swimsuits and less. He knows now why his go to had been ‘long hair’ because nothing else about girls had ever stood out to him— long hair was all there was because the girls Tetsurou knew with long hair got to iron it flat or curl it out and Tetsurou had always wished he had the ability to manoeuvre his hair in such a way. But that’s really the only wonder he had ever seen in it. In them. In girls. Simply the ability to change their hair, to change their hair, day to day if they so pleased.

In conversation Tetsurou had always agreed, that Kyouko was the prettiest girl in class, followed by Karen, by Chiyo, by Mina, by Reina, and so on; simply because he had heard these things paired with these names and agreeing was easier than coming up with something— with someone— on his own.

“Why don’t you have a girlfriend?”

The answer changing but always the same. He wanted to play volleyball ball. He wanted to focus on his studies. The two were always going to come first. He’s a captain now: his team focusing on volleyball and on their studies was always going to fall into place next. He doesn’t have time for other people. He’s not going to put them above himself and the goals he’s already had set in place for years.

(The— if only brief— falling out between Daishou and his girlfriend was enough to tell Tetsurou he had it right).

Again…

Again, he said these things because they were lines he had heard before and they were better for him, in his own opinion, than simply telling the truth: he just plain wasn’t interested.

Tetsurou didn’t want to hurt anybody’s feelings but he was never interested in the girls in his class or the ones hanging over the barricade at games, in the ones who sometimes he thought were watching after him whenever he found the spare time to just hang around.

His life would sort itself out first.

Tetsurou had always been convinced that when he had settled down into himself, into a job, into hobbies, into preparing for a future, that would be when he found someone who would fall into place as his partner. It had never been a long sought out dream, it was just the way he thought things went: when he hit a certain age he would inevitably have a wife and family and somewhere between then and now he would finally understand what everyone in school had been so obsessed with.

“Late bloomer” his father had called him.

His mother had called it “waiting for the right one”.

Tetsurou thinks that now, in this moment, both could be right.

Actually, what really seems to have happened, it that he was never made aware that this was also an option.

Then again, there’s something to be said for purposely turning his head in the club room, for always keeping a respectable distance even when he’s friends with people who seem not to believe such a thing exists, for keeping his limbs and blankets firmly in place on his own futon at training camps and sleepovers, for always making sure to keep his head up when conversations in the baths turned to tan lines and muscle definition.

A lot of times, a lot of instances, but none of it had really sparked this realisation within him.

But life before now has never been like this. It’s never been candlelight reflected in Akaashi’s eyes, preparing dinner in what is nearly darkness because not even a storm can keep him away from his food. A passion like no other.

One Tetsurou is starting to understand.

Not for food, but for a person. For this person.

A passion that has kind of sprung from nowhere.

Or maybe one slowly simmering, building up ever since they first collided back into each other’s worlds.

Realising that he wants to live out the after credits of the movies he’s never quite understood with Akaashi is strange. Nothing has changed. Not in the way they speak to each other, not in the amount of time they spend together, not even in how they interact, The strange thing is that Tetsurou now spends ten minutes for every second he spends with Akaashi wondering if he was too much, too obvious with his new found feelings. Has he put Akaashi off? Has Akaashi caught on and somehow, in some miraculous twist of fate, he feels the same?

Optimism, Tetsurou think, is okay in small doses.