#anyway I don’t want to die I’m not violently depressed or manic so this all feels p healthy

[melathinn]

Damn girlies I forgot how addictive this shit is

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

Blood Hungry: Part Two

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Word Count: ~1.8k

Warnings: canon violence, canon language, canon talk of death, methods of kill, fluff and angst

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Criminal Minds. All credit goes to their respective owners. If there is any warnings that exceed the normal death/kills from the show, I will list them. If you’ve seen the show, then it’s the same level of angst unless otherwise stated.

Feedback is gold, and it’s the only currency I take

“The guy the kid described definitely sounds like a tweaker,” you say once you, Spencer, and the cops show back up at the police station.

“Pull the files of all the methamphetamine arrests in the past six months,” the sheriff asks of the deputy.

“Will do.”

“We should narrow the suspect list down according to the guy's residence. Crimes like these are always crimes of opportunity,” Spencer points out.

“So the first guy on our suspect list will live in the closest proximity to the victim.”

“Do you have a place where we can set up?”

“You can use Simpson's desk. He's out. You got a phone there and a computer. Meantime, I'm gonna narrow down that list,” Sheriff Hall says.

You and Spencer walk over to the desk, and you take a seat on the edge of it while Spencer sits on the actual chair.

“You know, that house was full of chaotic energy. I saw Annie walk around her house, and I felt Wally’s energy as well as both unsubs. One was violent and angry while the other was jittery and nervous. There was only one killer, and the other guy didn’t even know what he was doing.”

“That can help us when we determine who’s on our suspect list,” Spencer nods.

“Hey, you guys find anything?” Derek asks as he and Hotch enter the station.

“Yeah,” you nod.

“Y/N found an eyewitness. A little boy who saw someone in the driveway.”

“That's more than we got at Thompson's place,” Hotch shrugs.

“We got two suspects,” JJ and Elle make their way over to everyone else. “Judd Franklin and Domino Thacker.”

“Can I see them?” you ask, and JJ hands over the files.

Both men are equally suspicious, but Domino is the one who screams at you to catch him. You hand over the file to Derek who reads it.

“I know Domino. He's bad news. Serious tweaker. Cooks his own stuff,” Sheriff Hall butts in.

“Does he live near the crime scenes?” Elle asks.

“Almost directly between them.”

“Robbery, armed robbery, possession, and possession with intent. This guy's been hospitalized for overdoses and attempted suicide,” Derek reads.

“What do you think?” Hall asks.

“We need to find Domino,” you conclude.

Derek and some burly cops went to get Domino which was the best idea they had. According to Derek, this guy ran and tried to fight back. However, due to his small stature and nervous outlook, he was easily caught and brought back to the station where Sheriff Hall placed him behind bars. This guy is wearing nothing but his underwear, so he was given a blanket due to him shivering like a Chihuahua.

“Hey, Hotch, I think it’s best if I talk to this guy. His energy is spiking in every direction, and I know I can make a connection with him easily.”

“Okay,” he nods.

Him, Derek, and Elle want to see this pan out, so they follow you to where the suspect is. From only one glance, you know this guy is the thief and not the killer. His energy matches the nervous energy you saw at the house. He is the one who robbed Annie, not killed her.

“I’m freezin’,” Domino complains as he scratches at his head.

You, Hotch, and Sheriff Hall are the only ones inside the cell while Derek and Elle are hanging outside of it.

“Domino, what were you doing at Annie Stuart’s house?” you ask gently.

“I didn't do nothin'. I got the flu. I'm sick is what I am,” he sniffles.

“We know you were there, boy,” Hall glares.

“Sheriff,” you whisper and shake your head when he looks at you.

“In the driveway. I was lookin' at that car, but I never stoled it. I was thinkin' about it, but I left. I seen that kid.”

“The blood found on the bottom of your boot is Annie Stuart's. The tread from the bottom of your boot is the same as the tread found all over the crime scene. Inside!” Elle yells.

“Elle, stop,” you snap and glare at her.

She is not helping this situation.

“Deputy. Coming out,” she sighs and leaves since she knows she won’t be of any help here.

“I didn't do nothin',” Domino whimpers.

“Domino,” you sigh and bend down so he doesn’t have to look up at you. “Look at yourself. You have a record and the blood of Annie all over you. How do you think that’s going to hold up in court? Think about that.”

“I... I… came back. I came back to her house. But he was leavin'.”

“Who?”

“Some dude, man. I don't know.”

“What was he wearing?” you ask.

“He had a hood. A black hood.”

“Domino, look at me,” you order gently, and he just shakes his head. “I’m not going to hurt you. No one is. I just want to talk to you. Come on, look at me.” He finally does and you can see just how scared he was. “You didn’t do this, did you?” He shakes his head. “Okay, if that’s true, then you gotta help us out here. Talk to me. You left. You saw him leave. Then what?”

“Went in and--and she's lying there. You know, um, I needed money real bad so... she was already like that.”

“She was like what?”

“You know, she was all cut up,” he starts to cry.

“She was all butchered up and you robbed her anyway?”

“It ain't right!” he yells, and you stand back up. This interview is done. “It ain't right! I'm sorry! It ain't right. Oh, god, forgive me. Oh, god... It ain't right! I'm sorry!”

“We’re done here,” you say to the Sheriff and Hotch.

It’s time that Domino is left alone to think about what he’s done. When you get to the main part of the station, you turn to the Sheriff.

“He didn't do it.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“He was pretty freaked out just thinking about what was done to Annie,” Derek points out.

“People pretend,” he shrugs.

“Anybody delusional enough to eviscerate Annie would not be lucid enough to recount it the way he did. Trust me, he didn’t do it. He robbed her, but that’s it.”

“Alright. I'll have him taken to detox and then I'm gonna arrest him for robbery.”

“In the meantime, I'd have your men canvass the neighborhood again to see if they saw a guy in a hooded sweatshirt,” Derek orders.

“Will do,” he nods.

Once you and the team had a rough idea of what to look for, it was time to give the profile. Every single cop in the station gathered around to hear what your team had to say. According to Gideon, he discovered that the unsub is drinking and eating the blood and organs after placing them in round containers. It’s why there were bloody rings on the coffee table. You have enough to put together a profile.

“We are looking for a twenty to thirty-year-old male,” Hotch begins.

“The unsub engages in anthropophagy. It's a psychotic conviction that he must drink human blood and possibly eat human flesh,” you add.

“For Richard Rrenton Chase, the vampire killer, he drank his victims' blood because he believed that aliens had invaded his body and were slowly drinking his blood,” Spencer spits out facts only he would know.

However, you knew about this too.

“If he didn't get the blood he needed, he'd die. Anthropophagy suggests such an extreme level of psychosis and disorganization that he couldn't have ventured very far from home to commit these crimes. This guy lives or has lived in this town. He knows the territory.”

“You've all seen him,” Derek takes over. “Maybe at the ballpark or riding his bike home from the grocery store. He wasn't always a threat. He could have been your neighbor. He might have been your friend. We think something about his delusion is keeping him here in town.”

“So, we're gonna start at Annie’s house and we're gonna spread out there in quadrants. We're gonna eliminate all of his hiding places,” Hotch determines.

“Paul Thompson's funeral is this afternoon. A lot of his neighbors are gonna be there,” Sheriff Hall mentions.

“Then that’s where we start,” you nod.

The funeral is in full service, and you’re scanning the area to see who might be at all suspicious. Most everyone is passing your tests, but there is one woman wearing a lacy black veil that raises a bunch of red flags. For some reason, she has a tint of that angry red energy you saw back at the house. There is something not right with her.

You go to mention this to Hotch who stands next to you when JJ and Elle walk over with a bunch of case files.

“So, we got some names of unsubs. Farrell Belvedere, twenty-three. He, uh, took a little too much LSD and flipped out in a Winn Dixie and tore up a cheese counter.”

“It’s not him,” you shake your head.

“Okay, show her Mark Ward. He's twenty-one with five counts of petty larceny. Attempted suicide, committed for a year, but now he's living back with his parents.”

“Nope,” you shake your head.

“The last one is Oley Maynor, twenty-five. He was institutionalized for severe manic-depression. He has violent mood swings. When he was eighteen, he got arrested for biting the heads off chickens.”

“He matches what I saw. It could be him, but it ain't the other two. I know it for sure,” you say.

“Gather as much information as you can about him,” Hotch orders.

“You got it,” you nod and leave with Elle.

Derek catches up with you and Elle to gather information on Oley, but you have one woman in mind. By the time you got debriefed, the funeral was over. The woman in the lacy veil was leaving, and you rushed over to her to see what she knows. You really want to get a feel about who she is and what she’s hiding because you know she’s hiding something.

“Ma’am, do you mind if we ask you a few questions?” you ask and flash her your badge.

“Of course, what do you need to know?”

“Do you know a man named Oley Maynor?”

“Of course. I just saw him the other day,” she nods without looking at you.

“You saw him where?” Derek asks.

“He was with his brother. In fact, I think it looked like they didn't want to be seen because he took Oley out of the car and went straight into his house.”

“When was this, Mrs. Mays?” Elle asks.

She must have known who this is because you didn’t know her name.

“Three days ago.”

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[hide-the-cutlery]

The Four Horsemen

Today was awful. I felt absolutely manic. I was irritated. I was pissed. I was emotional. I was throwing things around while cleaning. (Side note: if you ever want to add some aggravation to your life, try organizing hangers and putting them neatly into a box. Jesus fucking Christ.) I posted a comment on Facebook that turned volatile, where I ended up calling about 25 random strangers idiots, just because I felt like bickering. Talk about backfiring — it essentially wound up with people just picking on me. I swore out loud, loudly, which I knew would upset my parents. I went to the gas station to smoke a cigarette, and when I got home, my father just happened to be in the hallway in front of my room, no doubt trying to look casual, but with the intent of smelling me to see if I smoked one. I think my mother is frightened of me because I couldn’t contain an explosion of frustration I had when I was trying to talk to her and had to force myself to try to speak in a calm tone. I also think she is judging me because I couldn’t stay awake during the afternoon, mostly due to a medication increase. She flat out told me I’ve been loopy the past few days and that it scares her. It’s equally upsetting that I’m only trying to feel better, but it’s scaring people. I’m still trying to adjust to the increase, and after reading up on the medication, the risks and side effects are scary and just plain suck. I’m already fat enough, I can’t wait to gain more weight. Nothing seems to satiate me; I was contemplating making a bagel a few minutes ago. At 2:30am. It would figure that just as I feel like I’m ready to start dating, even though I’m disgusted with my body, I now get to be even more disgusting and insecure. Fucking hell.

The meds are giving me wild dreams. Last night I dreamt I was Baker acted and learned that the cops had been called on me several times, but had gotten stuck in traffic each time. I know I physically attacked at least one person and stabbed my mother. In my dream, my parents had also moved me out of my room and into another. (This has actually happened in real life, but I knew they were going to make me switch rooms. After being in their house a few months after I got out of the hospital, I was kicked out of my room, which I grew up in, and moved into my sister’s old room. She still had a child’s bed when she moved out. So now I’m 32, sleeping on a child’s bed, in my sister’s room, while she’s off living in her nice apartment and getting a useful degree and thriving without a battle with addiction and her mental health. She’ll probably never end up broke, with a useless degree, living in our parents’ house, like I have been the past 2 years because I can’t fucking take care of myself. Anyway, the reason I was relocated? My mother wanted to keep the “guest” (my) room nice for when guests come. Which has been once in the two years and some months since I’ve been here. And it was my grandparents. Clearly I’m still holding a resentment towards her about that, but I seem to have gone on a tangent — back to my dream.) The rooms in the dream weren’t in a house, but in an apartment arranged like the one I spent my freshman year in, except the shapes and sizes were different. The one my stuff was put into while I was at the mental health facility was very strangely shaped and extremely small. Occupying my old, larger, square-shaped room was a girl I used to work with, who I always hated out of jealousy. She began the same position I held about 3 years after I had been hired. I had been promoted by then, so I technically outranked her, but she was the fucking golden girl in my old office. She could do no wrong. The sad thing is if I wasn’t so jealous of her, we probably could have been friends. We even discovered we had dated two brothers! Within months, she was going to conferences around the country and Canada. I was never sent on a conference — just medical leave. Yes, my old boss actually told me I needed a break, and I had to stop working and go on short-term disability for 6ish weeks. I know she was trying to save my ass, because the quality of my work had slipped so low it was probably a fire-able offense, but really now, how many people are told they can’t work until they get some rest and time to focus on addressing some of the stress and grief they are obviously experiencing? I was even sober at the time. Well, what I mean by “sober” is that I wasn’t drinking. Getting so fucking high on Xanax every day, though, that’s a different story... I was getting drunk again by the time I came back to work.

My dreams are terrifyingly realistic. They usually follow the same storyline: I end up involved with a group of male friends and tend to gravitate towards one. He is usually aloof; I spend time with the rest of them to get closer to him. None of them are real people, but creations of my own, lonely mind. It’s funny, but the dreams usually involve Star Wars or WoW. That, or I dream about my ex or old best friend, who I was in love with from my junior year of high school and well into college. Sometimes they blend into one person, which isn’t that strange. They reminded me a lot of each other, and I’d give anything to have one (or both) of them back into my life. Their family is usually around, and more times than not, they are focused on a girl that is not me. Everything feels so real, and I believe I’ve written before about how, even in the dream, I feel/think it shouldn’t be another goddamn girl. It should be me. Often I will become violent towards the other girl, if given the opportunity. I even experience a sense of betrayal that carries on long beyond the dream and into the reality I am sometimes cursed with upon waking. And, of course, I have drinking dreams. Not so surprisingly, it’s actually not only drinking — I’ve had dreams recently about pills and even coke (which I’ve only done 3-4 times!). I have a friend who sees the same psychiatrist as I do, who told me he can prescribe me something to stop the realistic dreams, but honestly, I don’t want that. The pathetic truth is I like my dreams. It’s a way for me to have the opportunity to interact with people I desperately miss, even if it’s painful on occasion. It’s a way to lash out at people I’m angry with without actually doing so. It’s a way to drink and use (although those dreams are usually a saga of finding and keeping the stuff instead of actually having/using it). It’s a way to escape the life I’ve built and despise.

Sometimes I feel like I only live for other people. When I step back and observe my life, it’s often hard for me to point out something I enjoy or that brings me happiness (besides my kitties), including friend/relationships (unless turning back time was realistic). There are are voids in my heart and soul I fear will never be filled. I know I have people who love me and want to be in my life, and I’m trying to let them come in closer instead of pushing them away. The reality, though, is this: I don’t like my life and feel I could never be content unless I morphed it into my old one. I miss the familiarity of it. I miss days on the couch, just watching tv and chatting with people. I miss having my cats inside with me. I miss being the boss. I miss gaming, cranking up my music as loud as I want. Watching, doing, wearing, fucking, leaving, buying, smoking, drinking, taking whatever/whoever/wherever/whenever I wanted. Being messy. Isolating. Escaping. Again, the brutal truth is that I wanted to go out today. I’m sick of relying on pills so I don’t have to face reality. I hate that I can’t face reality — that everything needs to be tuned down so I can function. As I was looking at my life today, I contemplated for a while what I could change to make it enjoyable. “Happy, joyous, and free.” I couldn’t think of anything, and maybe there is a possibility that it’s simply not comprehendible to me at this point. Maybe I’m just not that far along in my healing/recovery yet, and lord knows I need treatment for having BPD or bipolar disorder or whatever the hell theydecide I have as well as the anxiety, panic disorder, depression, substance abuse problems, OCD tendencies, impulse control issues — they being anyone who takes care of me in some sort of fashion. In other words, all my providers.

They have all told me that I cannot drink ever again because my liver can’t take it. I could be dead in weeks, months, a day, who knows. Regardless of the time, I won’t make it out alive if I decide to go for a trip down memory lane. One of the only times I’ve seen a look of actual concern in my psychiatrist’s eyes (his voice is level, calm, and almost caring, but his eyes betray him) was while he was telling me “you don’t want to die from liver failure”. My primary described to me what would happen as my organs would begin to shut down: unbelievable pain, weakness, fluid swelling my whole body, bleeding out from the veins in my throat, no hope... But I don’t want to go like that — in a hospital, attached to monitors, needles under my skin, aides, nurses, doctors, family all shuffling in and out, everyone knowing by my yellow eyes and skin that I did it all to myself. Imagine the shame! No, I’d rather it be like being found on the bathroom floor. I feel like I wouldn’t be missing a lot. How much is there to miss in a world you can’t face? In a reality where you can’t think of a single possible thing to, not even realistically, but hypothetically change to make you happy? (Besides the time thing, or undoing a hell of a lot of bad memories from awful, unfair experiences). Maybe it’s my disease, as they call it, talking. Maybe it’s just something I’ll have to experience instead of trying to imagine. Maybe it’s a lot of things, but all I can possibly fathom, a life beyond my wildest dreams, doesn’t add up to the responsibility I imagine I have to stick around for others. Sometimes, all I feel is Terror, Bewilderment, Frustration, and Despair. No one knows those feelings like I do, or I should say no one experiences them like I do. My feelings are intense — too intense, I’ve been told by therapists. So yeah, Terror, Bewilderment, Frustration, and Despair push me to wanting to go out so badly sometimes. One last hurrah, and then just end it, but I couldn’t live with the guilt I’d feel. What if it persisted through death? I couldn’t handle that, but ha, I’d be shit out of luck at that point. I suppose I should note that these intense feelings were much more present earlier, but now all I feel is grogginess. It’s 4:40am. I think I’ll read this over once, even though I know it’s confusing, choppy, and just bad, and then try for some sleep. I know my dream self has people she’s waiting to see.

[artificialqueens]

party chapter ten - shalaska - pureCAMP

A/N - how the fuck did we make it to ten chapters y'all… I’m shook.

Hope you enjoy this, anyhow! <33

Alaska could almost categorise the room full of people according to how they looked – the sallow skin and hooded lids of the alcoholics, the drawn faces and manic eyes of the drug abusers, the nervous glances and shuffling of the first-time rehab attendees, and the disappointed glances and blushing skin of the accompanying family members. It was a relief that Sharon didn’t appear to fit in with any of these people. They looked sick and sad and beyond help. She just looked tired and thin. A little bored, too. It had been almost two hours and her patience seemed to be running out.

“Two more minutes,” She leaned over and whispered in Sharon’s ear. “Then we can get the fuck out.”

Sharon hadn’t spoken to Alaska much since they’d been at Sharon’s home. It wasn’t like Alaska had any expectations on what it would be like to stay with her, but she didn’t expect the strange sensation of being stuck in a limbo. Sharon slept a lot. Alaska would do laundry and organise her drag just to pass some time. Sharon would grumble about the detoxification process. Alaska would crack a joke about Detox, and they’d laugh. Sharon would have peculiar dreams and wake up sweating, but refuse point-blank to talk about them. Alaska would watch TV, her eyes flitting from the screen to the closed bedroom door in case Sharon woke up.

She’d been told already that Sharon wouldn’t display any physical symptoms of withdrawal, but there would be fun little quirks like irritability, agitation, nightmares and possibly depression. A few times Alaska wondered why she’d agreed to do this, to stay with Sharon, but in the rare moments when she talked and cracked jokes with her, those thoughts left her mind. The older queens seemed to be doing her best to control her foul moods and hide her weak moments, even if she was unsuccessful. It was the thought that counted.

“Oh, thank fuck.” Sharon murmured back, her voice low. “I’m about to lose my fucking mind. The amount of self-control I’m using right now is terrifying.”

Alaska snorted appreciatively. “Oh yeah?”

“As in, this place is making me want to do drugs more than I did before I walked in the door.” She joked, her eyebrows knitting together.

Sharon had hated every single activity they’d had to do. First was group sharing; Alaska had an inkling that Sharon wouldn’t bother to censor herself for the sake of the rehab therapists or the patients, and she was entirely correct. When asked to introduce herself, she said, “I may not look like a Sharon but that’s how most people know me. I’m here because I fucked up and did more coke then I intended to.” Alaska had smacked her face into her palm, not missing the raised eyebrows that had been sent the blonde’s way. Sharon didn’t seem to care.

Next was one on one therapy. Whilst Sharon was doing her best not to be rude, to her credit, her old bluntness and unfiltered speech ran amok throughout, which appeared to make the therapist very uncomfortable.

“Is there a reason you decided to take drugs?”

“Yeah. They’re pretty fun.”

“Was it a suicide attempt?”

“No.”

“Was the overdose on purpose?”

“Nope.”

“Were you perhaps crying for help?”

“I just wanted to have a good time.”

“Are you incapable of having a good time without drugs?”

“Nope.”

“Do you have a drug history?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about that.”

“I’ve used drugs before.”

“For how long?”

“Since I was a teenager. I worked in bars.”

“Was your life difficult?”

“A little.”

“Were drugs a coping method?”

“No, they were just for fun.”

Alaska had to fight back giggles during their exchange, which probably didn’t help. The second they left the room, Sharon burst into laughter and had to clutch the wall, gasping for breath as Alaska cackled along with her. They both started to complain through their laughter about how it seemed like a virtually useless method of healing, even though they knew it helped some. Sharon clearly had enjoyed antagonising the therapist.

The final one was team-building and group work, having to coordinate with the other patients to solve puzzles and problems that they were given. Sharon had spent the whole time sending withering looks in Alaska’s direction every time someone annoyed her, communicating through a series of forced smiles, cocked eyebrows and long sighs. To their relief, the rehab session was coming to a close, and they were arranged in a circle – like fucking preschoolers, Sharon had said – whilst their group efforts were being evaluated.

“You’re dismissed, we will see you all again at the next meeting.”

Sharon practically sprang from her seat, the most active Alaska had seen her in days, and shot out of the door at a speed significantly greater than that of the rest of the attendees. Some slunk away to their rooms in the facility, others filed through the exit on their way home, and Sharon was out of the door like a bullet fired from a gun.

“Fucking hell.” She swore, releasing a deep breath out through her lips as if she were smoking a cigarette. “Alaska, how much do you care about my wellbeing?”

Alaska frowned. “Way too fucking much, why?”

She pulled a face. “Please don’t make me go to this shit again on Thursday. Michelle doesn’t have to know.” Alaska started to laugh. “I was gonna lecture you about taking care of yourself, but I completely understand your thinking.”

“See!” Sharon cackled, pointing. “Of course I wanna recover! Just not by visiting that Westborough Baptist Addicts bullshit twice a week. We can do better than that at home.”

Alaska’s breath hitched at that – hearing the words we and home in the same sentence. It felt familiar. It felt right. She stopped herself before she could reminisce about the days where they did live in a home together. Even if she had promised that someday, somehow, she would make things work between them, they did need some time. Sharon wasn’t as stable as she seemed. It wasn’t like she was going to go out and find as much blow as she could, or drink herself into a state, but the fact remained that she was weakened from the ordeal and needed time to strengthen again. The last thing she needed was the extra stress of love in the mix; even if she was aware of it and had admitted to feeling the same way herself. They just needed time.

“You okay?” Sharon asked, her face creased in concern as they walked. Alaska snapped out of her funk and nodded.

“Sorry, yeah. It should be me asking you that.”

Sharon snorted. “Please. You just look deep in thought, that’s all. I know you and I know you don’t think because your brain was rotted away by makeup and hairspray inhalation through years of being a drag queen. Something up?”

Alaska smiled at that. “Not particularly. It’s just weird, you know? This whole fucked-up situation. But I have to admit you do seem kinda better, after that shit. Maybe you should carry on going to that place after all.”

Sharon shook her head violently, a grin on her face. “No way! Never. I guess I am talking more, you’re right about that. If I’m honest, it’s probably because I wanted to die so much whilst I was in there that my only distraction was to talk to you. I forgot how much fun properly talking to you is. I need to do it more often.”

Her heart fluttered. “I know you do. I might only respond with one word texts but you never answer your goddamn phone!”

Sharon lightly slapped her arm. “Incompatible. You’re a phone talker and I’m a text person. This is why we broke up.”

Any other time, Alaska might have looked away, but the words reminded her of something Sharon had said earlier, and she cracked up upon hearing them.

“When they asked about who had accompanied you, and you said ‘My ex boyfriend!’…Girl. Did you see their faces?”

Sharon grinned a second time. “Wasn’t it hilarious? I’ve never seen anyone look so awkward!”

“Anyway,” Alaska continued, resting her face on her fist as she pretended to think. “Should I let you off from Thursday’s session… should I talk to Michelle… hmm…”

“I’ll cook tonight if you don’t make me go. Fuck, I feel like a kid asking for permission to do something. Considering I never asked for permission as a kid, this is a weird feeling.” Sharon begged, laughing at the end of her ramble.

“For the next two weeks.”

“Five days?”

“One week. Final offer.”

“Deal. I’ll pay for takeout too.”

Alaska nodded. “Damn right you will. Hey, we’re here.”

Sharon pushed the key into the door, fumbling a little from the cold. As she began to busy herself with tidying round, muttering apologies for letting Alaska do it when she volunteered, Alaska took the time to read through the messages she’d been sent, flopping down on the couch.

Willam: we didn’t send this to sharon just in case, have you guys been online? There’s some shit

Alaska: of course there is. I haven’t looked yet, dreading it

Courtney: some of it’s nice

Willam: mixed responses really

Willam: some hate, some love, lots of “IS SHARON DEAD” and “ARE SHALASKA TOGETHER AGAIN”

Alaska: fucking shalaska

Alaska: the dumbest thing i’ve ever heard

Courtney: the couple or the name

Alaska: duh, the couple

Alaska: kidding. The name

Willam: i think we’re too old to get why the kids do this kinda shit. I think court and i take the cake with witney tho.

Courtney: AND IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII WILL ALWAYS LOVE- Bianca del rio.

Willam: don’t even start. I heard they call you two bitney.

Alaska: how original

“There’s some shit online?” Sharon said suddenly. Alaska started, her heart pounding as Sharon somehow managed to creep behind her without her notice. Placing a hand on her heaving chest, she shoved Sharon as she dropped down onto the couch next to Alaska.

“Hmm…” Sharon hummed, as Alaska let her scroll through Courtney and Willam’s texts. “Hate, love, asking if I’m dead and asking if we’re together. Ooh, I wanna go on twitter. My phone’s in my pocket, let’s use yours.”

Alaska giggled uncertainly, half-amused, half-worried. “I don’t trust you with twitter. Were you planning on tweeting?”

“Maybe.” The mischievous glint in Sharon’s eyes gave her away. “Just something dumb like ‘to all the responses: fuck you, thank you, no, maybe.’”

“For fuck’s sake.” Alaska chuckled. “No, I’m not letting you on mine. You’re a terrible person and I do not trust you in the slightest.”

Before Alaska could say anything more, Sharon had opened up twitter on her phone and was scrolling through it. Her eyebrows shot upwards and she let out something like a shocked cough mixed with a laugh.

“Wo-o-ow…” She murmured. “This is… something.”

Alaska cringed. “How bad is it?”

“If the Hiroshima bomb and 9/11 hit twitter at the same time, it looks a little like that.” She admitted.

“Sharon!” Alaska chastised her. “You can’t say that!”

Sharon coughed. “Just did. Seriously, take a look.”

She began to read a few of them, switching between tweets sent to Michelle, Alaska, Sharon herself and even the official Drag Race account.

“Sharon Needles finally took it too far, such a shame… aw, that’s a nice one. She deserved what she got… lovely. Alaska please tell us sharon is doing ok. I’m convinced sharon is dead, no one is talking about her. You can so tell lasky still loves sharon in her tweets. Agreed! I don’t know why they don’t get back together. Unless sharon’s dead.”

Sharon coughed again. “Amongst others. Most of them are along those lines.”

Alaska quivered; whether it was with rage or nervousness or relief she didn’t know. She was thankful that a large number of them were concerned, sending well wishes and hoping that Sharon was okay and would quickly recover. But too many of them were hateful – even one was too many. She didn’t know if it was better or worse, but the amount of tweets speculating about the two of them made her feel some type of way too. Of course she still loved Sharon. Sharon still loved her. It just wasn’t that easy.

“Oh shit, I just forgot that we haven’t told them if you’re alive or not. No wonder they all think you’re dead.” Alaska commented, feeling wan and exhausted. The last thing she wanted was to deal with social media bullshit.

“I’ll tell them.” Sharon said, resting her head on Alaska’s shoulder as she saw the look of turmoil on her face.

Sharon Needles - @SHARON_NEEDLES  - Jan. 6th

If you’re already dead you can’t die again .. dead girls never do blow ..

Sharon Needles - @SHARON_NEEDLES – Jan. 6th

Please don’t harass my friends and family about me . They don’t need any more hassle on my behalf than they’ve already had ..

Sharon Needles  - @SHARON_NEEDLES – Jan. 6th

And no I’m not alone . There is someone here with me and I am safe . Thanks for the love .. cunt wait to be on stage again

Sharon paused suddenly. “Thank you. I’ve been meaning to say that.”

“Huh?” Alaska asked.

“I know I haven’t been the best person to be sharing a house with – I never really was – but especially these days. I’ve been living in my own head, just letting you get on with doing the shit that I should be doing, and it’s kinda unfair. You should be out there doing gigs, you have hundreds of thousands of fans who want to see you doing what you do best, and rightly so… but you’re here. With me. Stuck in this house, watching TV and cleaning up all my shit whilst I lounge about feeling like shit.”

Alaska swallowed, her cheeks heating up. “Think nothing of it. It feels like old days.”

Sharon shook her head. “I was a terrible boyfriend.”

“You were great.” Alaska corrected her. “The only cleaning I had to do was picking up beer cans. You did the rest.”

Sharon smiled weakly. “I guess you’re right. But you should be out there screaming about anus and pussy and nails and instead you’re with me. I’m sorry I dragged you into this mess.”

“You didn’t drag me into it.” Alaska said. “I dived headfirst when I saw you like that. It was scary, Noodles. You were shivering, boiling hot, and completely erratic. I never want to see you like that again.”

Sharon looked down, ashamed, as Alaska’s eyes stung with tears. She had done her best not to think of what Sharon had been like before she passed out, only focusing on the fact that she was alive. Moments later, she felt Sharon’s hand grab at her own, and she clung on tight as she spoke.

“You said some horrible things, too… so horrible. It wasn’t you. You were like a different person.”

Sharon’s eyes glistened. “W-What was I saying…?” She asked uncertainly. “I’m almost afraid that I don’t want to know… I have no recollection whatsoever.”

Alaska tried to laugh, but the sound that came out was mirthless. “I wouldn’t expect you to remember. It was awful, it really was.”

She coughed. “You said that… you said that I didn’t give two fucks about you. That people who care about you should try and help you instead of making jokes about you. That people who say they love you don’t really care what you do to yourself until it hurts us.”

Sharon’s grip on Alaska’s hand went slack, just for a second. The tears she had been fighting so hard to keep back broke forth, flooding silently down her cheeks. A pregnant pause went by, neither of the queens sure of what to say, before Sharon took hold of Alaska’s hand once again and buried her face into the younger queen’s shoulder.

“Why do you…” She started, tongue-tied. “How did…”

Alaska rested her head on top of Sharon’s, her own cheeks growing damp from tears. With her thumb, she gently rubbed circles into Sharon’s hand, not forcing the blonde to speak nor interrupting her.

“Why are you here? I was so awful to you. You should be slandering my name out there, condemning me for taking drugs and saying horrible things to you. Why are you here?”

Her voice cracked, wobbling and pitching as she tried to speak through her tears. Not even needing to think about it, Alaska wrapped her arms around Sharon and pulled her close, holding onto her as though it were the very last time she would. Something told her, however, that it definitely wouldn’t be.

“Because I’m stupid and I love you. I told you so in the hospital.” Alaska murmured.

“It’s been all I’ve thought about.” Sharon admitted. “You said that we could make it work, we could try. I wish it was that easy.”

Alaska nodded. “Aren’t we just the dumbest pair ever? You admitted to me that you love me, I got mad about it, then realized I love you and now we’re just… Here. Doing nothing about it.”

“I think a few… less than helpful obstacles got in the way of us. Mainly the fact that I’m a fucking mess.” Sharon pulled herself upright and laughed. Alaska noticed with a pang in her chest that their hands were still entwined.

“At this point I don’t even know what we’re doing. Feels like we’re gonna be stuck like this forever. So fucking close and yet nothing. I love you and you love me and it doesn’t seem to be going anywhere.”

“Fuck it.” Sharon whispered.

In an instant, Sharon closed the gap between them and a pair of warm, soft lips were pressing against Alaska’s. She relaxed against them, kissing back without bothering to even think about what was happening. Her hands threaded through Sharon’s blonde hair as she pulled her even closer, reclining backwards on the couch with the older queen on top of her.

Finally, she thought numbly. The familiar scent of Sharon; the clichéd cigarettes and beer and boyish musk that hung around her, it all felt like home. It felt like travelling back in time to a boxy apartment in downtown Pittsburgh and kissing because it was the only thing they knew how to do. It felt like coming home and going on vacation and merging their very souls with the stars that were shining up above, unseen in the evening sky. It felt like fire and ice and passion and power. Most importantly, it felt safe. Like home. Like love. Like the first signs of a frosty winter thawing for a warmer, softer spring.

They broke apart for air, their chests heaving as they just stared at one another, pupils blown with lust, lips swollen and red. Alaska watched Sharon, the way that her tongue darted out and wetted her lips, the way that her blonde hair was dishevelled from Alaska’s touch, the way that her skin had flushed red. They had spent time apart, years of wondering and thinking and regretting, but Sharon still kissed like she had the very first time. Sharon still kissed like that drag queen who did weird drag in a shitty downtown bar and had Alaska enthralled. Sharon still kissed like a queen who was entirely jealous of Alaska’s fame and completely enamoured with her look.

Alaska was the one to connect their lips this time, lifting her shoulders up from the couch to reach Sharon before feeling herself getting pushed down again, the weight of Sharon on top of her pinning her down. It was less gentle this time; instead of communicating all of the forgotten words, the tentative whispers that they couldn’t find the words to articulate, it made up for lost time. It was needy and insistent – Sharon’s teeth dragged against her bottom lip as she kissed with bruising force. It compensated for so many years apart, four years of not being able to touch her and kiss her the way she wanted to. Years of pent-up emotions and feelings and love and hate poured out through that kiss, a thousand unsaid I love yous and I miss yous finally breaking free.

“Fuck the articles online,” Sharon breathed. “Fuck the people saying we were better apart.”

“Maybe we were,” Alaska panted back. “But why should we care?”

“They don’t have to know yet,” The older queen decided. “No one does. Michelle, Willam, Courtney, Jinkx, the fans.”

“Agreed,” Alaska said breathlessly. “Keeping it a secret is our fucking prerogative. I’ve waited too long for this.”

“You’re telling me?”

Things had changed. They were older; wiser. Both had bigger lips than they had before, two albums, different lives. Alaska didn’t see the point in waiting. They were only getting older.

“We can take this slow.” Sharon said finally, shifting her position so she was next to Alaska rather than on top of her. Almost instinctively, Alaska leant against her, smiling when Sharon’s arm snaked around her. “We don’t have to jump into this and call it a relationship and tell the whole world. But I love you and I want to kiss you and I don’t want to hold back.”

Alaska’s heart skipped a beat, and then another. She wanted to cry and scream and hug Sharon and kiss her all over again. Her mind was entirely addled and she didn’t mind in the slightest.

“I like that. I like that a lot.”

Sharon grinned. “So articulate. So eloquently worded.”

“I will end this.” Alaska threatened, giggling. “Don’t try me, Noodles.”

Sharon laughed and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “You would never. I know you love me. Even with all these needles in my face.”

She prodded at her face, pretending to model as though she were posing for a photograph. Alaska snorted.

“Of course, Miss Lepore.”

“A woman after my own heart.” Sharon joked, her hand hovering over her chest.

“You know it.” Alaska whispered, and leaned forward a third time to kiss her.