#my wrist has been taking a beating... my carpal tunnel is at an all time high LMAO 😬😬😬😬

[shelxvy]

*posts gay lego kissing and runs away cutely*

[hollyhomburg]

Before I Leave You (Pt.4)

(Omegaverse au, Mafia au, Bts x Reader)

Summary: Yoongi makes his choice, so does Moonbyul.

Pairing: Beta! Yoongi, Omega! Reader, Omega! Jungkook, Omega! Seokjin, Alpha! Namjoon, Alpha! Hoseok, Alpha! Taehyung, Alpha! Jimin,

Tags: Graphic material, Death, Murder, Dead bodies and dying described in detail, brief suicide attempt, suicidal thoughts, depression, DARK THEMES, guilt, blood, a touch of blood kink? drugs, murder/crime themes, guilt, kinda fuck or die vibes? finally fluff at the end, mating marks, 

W/c: 7.1k

A/n: here is the moment you’ve all been waiting for! the big d word moment!!! my carpal tunnel is acting up, I will probably not be able to get the next chapter out for a few days or until next week. Chronologically the next chapter continues after part 1. 

(PLEASE READ TAGS FOR CW BEFORE YOU PROCEED)

Previous part — Masterlist

Part 4: If I Have You 

Pulling the trigger is the easiest thing you’ve ever done. 

Geumjae’s body flinches back from the force of the bullet. The ceiling splattering with the spray of his blood. It hits the side of your face too, your white shirt crested with red at the shoulders, dripping down your throat along with the blood from your mating bite. It’s a percussive splatter, noisy as it hits the wall.

People never talk about how blood gets everywhere during a murder. Yoongi is unable to stop his flinch when Geumjae’s brain matter and viscera splatter against him, just a little. 

Yoongi didn't think you'd actually do it. 

He watches you shove the body away from you, hard, what's left of his head, an empty vessel, hitting the floor with a hollow thud. His hands leave you for the last time, but the pain isn't finished. 

Yoongi barely has the forethought to lunge forward, knees scraping, wrestling the gun out of your hand before you can turn it on yourself. The barrel of the gun is hot when Yoongi's hands close around it and yank it away from your own temple. The smell of burning skin joins the metallic scent of murder. Your scent is a mess- it’s barely had a chance to mix with Geumjae’s burning wood-burning bread and wrath, rainstorms, and gunpowder. 

He shouts your name but you don't respond. 

Yoongi yanks the gun from your hands, probably hurting your fingers but panicked when he hurls the gun to the other side of the room and takes your hands in his, wrestling with you and screaming your name until the fight goes out of you. 

You’re hyperventilating when you stop struggling. Both of your wrists pinned above your head in both of Yoongi’s hands, his knees pressing your legs to stillness in a way that could be sexual but isn't- it's the easiest way for him to restrain you- both sprawled on the bloody floor. Yoongi’s crying, tears dripping down his nose, every other drop shines pink from what's on his face.  

“Yoongi please- please just let me go- I don’t want to become a ghost- I don't wanna become a walking corpse.” The way you look breaks his heart, your neck so bruised and bloody, your face swelling too from Geumjae’s hits. The way your eyes hold only darkness and no warmth as you look at him and beg- beg him to let you take your life. Your pupils are so small he can't see them at all. 

“Let me die Yoongi- please just- if you do one thing for me- let do this. let me go."

Yoongi looks at your mating mark and can already see the thin tracery of ink spreading under your skin- inky blackness spreading from your mating bite and up your throat. A piece of someone who’s dead inside of you, shot through with silver to make it stand out more. 

It’s like some silly zombie bite in a bad horror movie but it’s so much more haunting, The veins in your eyes are even starting to discolor. You have maybe a few minutes before the mating bite takes you over completely and you’re mated to someone dead.

Zombie movies were nothing more than fear of this taking root in common culture, everyone fears losing their mate. What else is more terrifying than something that takes your humanity in the way that this has taken yours. This is every person’s worst nightmare- a death sentence.  

‘Ghosts’ are what society has dubbed the women and men who live after losing their partners. Most of the time they live without alpha or a pack- unable to bond to anyone else ever again once their mates are dead. Mating bites are a one-time thing. 

When one-half of a mated pair dies- a person's body has a peculiar way of letting outsiders know how to treat them gently- The mating mark turns black like a brand. A mark to let everyone know that they would never have another person to take care of them- to love them.

But you aren’t alone- you’re not alone because you have Yoongi and he’s right here with his wide palms on you. Hands that where always made to fix things, but you aren’t just some broken toy that needs a bit of glue.  He’s too late, just seconds too late and only inches away. 

He grips both of your forearms in either of his palms hands, pulling you closer. Making you sit up, dragging you into his lap like carrying your weight in his arms will fix this. Anything to hold onto you- to not lose you too soon. 

"Stop- just stop, I've got you- I've got you," Yoongi repeats it more for himself than he does for you.

But there are wounds in your body that can’t be fixed by simple hoping. There is a limit to what one person can take. Despair is one hell of a drug and while Yoongi fights and fights there is no undoing what Geumjae has done to you.

But maybe…

Yoongi dares to hope; “It’s only a half bond if we-“ he falls silent as the idea settles over him like a bucket of cold water. His brain rushing over everything he’s ever learned about mating bites and beta’s; all of the statistics and articles that Namjoon had shoved down his throat when Jungkook had first stopped having seizures. 

The medical mystery that betas were; how they were able to heal unseen hurts and maybe- maybe this was like that. Maybe the solution to this problem lays in Yoongi’s veins, in his mouth. 

His jaw aches at the very suggestion of it.  “I’m a beta- and betas don’t usually mark- because- because they’re stronger than alpha and omega bites.” 

It’s the only truth that makes sense. All of the stories of omegas and alphas going crazy after being bitten by betas, not being able to move from them too far, extreme clinginess- a bond that was too close, too strong, stronger than anything else in their life. You weren’t supposed to bond with someone so deep, the bite almost seemed to do more harm than good. 

But you’re already dying and there isn’t much worse that could happen to you.

You don't have anything to lose but Yoongi does. You shake yourself free from his arms and pull back. Recoiling from what he’s offering to do for you; tether him to you forever when you might not make it. 

You can already feel the mating mark taking hold- It's already starting to cloud your judgment, deep down, the part of you that cares if you survive this is already winking out. The blankness sinking through your every inch, The emptiness. You’d be surprised if you lifted your hand to your chest and found your heart still beating. 

“Yoongi- No- you don’t have to- you’ve already got a pack and don’t- don’t bind yourself to someone like me.”

It’s the same argument that you had before but there’s no force behind it- every stupid excuse you had for him not to love you is moot now that your husband is dead next to you. But you're done; Every breath takes more effort than it should and you feel so heavy. You look down at your lap and feel the lethargy sinking beneath your bones like lead. Hidden hands gripping around your throat cutting off your words.

You feel like you’re choking on something. 

You’ve felt depressed before (how could you not have given what your life was like before Yoongi). And having a mating mark from someone deceased feels like that but worse, like it's turned up by a factor of three. A weird mixture of dizzy, absent, and dissociative. You have never felt less connected to your own body, it feels foreign.

You are nothing but a soul inside a body, craving release. A thread of black that wants to tug you down to where ever Geumjae is now. 

The sinking sadness says to you with gentle hands- this is a fine spot. You can just sit here, It’s okay. You don’t have to move, you can just sit here until you die. As long as no one bothers you and hurts you again, you could just sit here, as long as it was quiet and peaceful. Things don't even have to be good, you don't need good things, you just need it to not hurt anymore. Until the earth reclaims you like it takes abandoned buildings. 

 A sharp pain that goes through your heart, an ache so deep that it speaks to cavernous places, wakes monsters that you didn’t know where there. 

You’ve never really wanted to die before, maybe as a passing thought- but didn’t everyone think that way? it’s so different now- where the thoughts are all consuming, running over your words in your head like oil spreading and staining cloth. 

Die- want to die- want- want- want die- wanna go- wanna be quiet- wanna fall asleep and not wake up- want to- 

But if you decided to lay here and not get up again, Yoongi would stay too.

He would try and get you to move, probably beg and try to get you to live. Even if he never bit you, he’d stay next to you until the end, just to hold your hand so that you didn’t have to be completely alone. You thought dying would feel more lonely,  But maybe it doesn't feel that way because Yoongi’s here. 

His hand closes around yours, his thumb rubbing soothing circles as he cries. And you think if you want one thing; it's for him to stop crying. Out of all people- Yoongi doesn't deserve the hurt (but maybe you're biased because you love him).

That tips the scale in his favor.

Geumjae’s blood is pooling on the floor. His body gives a twitch, the last remnants of his misfiring nerves as he dies. You feel the painful jerk in your mating bond. Yoongi watches the muscles of your neck twitch. 

Neither you nor Yoongi pays him any mind. 

"You don't have to do this Yoongi." Yoongi’s hand on your cheek- is like a balm to those words, pushing them out of your head. “You can’t take it back. If I die- you could die too.”

“But I want to” he kisses your cheek- and the contact lights a flame down your neck to your touch starved heart. The heat flares to light and the next second your body and your mouth are aching to bite. Your instincts an avalanche around you begging you to complete the bond that’s tearing through you making you shake. He kisses a little closer to your lips, cheeks wet and cool against your skin.

Geumaje and Yoongi were related by blood at all, maybe your instincts can’t tell the difference. 

“I don’t care if it does- I can’t- I’m not going to just let you die” his voice breaks on the last word. Not when it was me who was too slow to save you; He won’t say the words or whisper his guilt into the open air. 

“Please sweetheart- let me.” He kisses your lips. So soft- achingly soft, Your first kiss, you wish it had happened under better circumstances.

You hate that the first kiss you and Yoongi share tastes like blood.

But there would be more- there could be more kisses if Yoongi manages to do what he’s saying he can. The mark on your shoulder is already healing, the blackness stretching to scar treacherously fast. Normal mating bites usually take a day or so to heal, but not yours, it’s already scabbing and sealing in the poision.

If you’re going to try this- if it’s going to work- it has to be now. The bond is advancing, regardless of the fact that Geumjae is barely dead, barely cooling beside the two of you.

It’s barely been 10 minutes since you shot him. And if you listen carefully- you can hear sounds in the rest of the house, maybe someone else from the gang here- about to come upstairs and discover the mess of you three. muffled voices and heavy footsteps grow louder by the second. 

Yoongi is safe but you’re not. “Yoongi,” you say, his name a broken hymn on your mouth. Musical- and Yoongi can’t think of a time when he wouldn’t want to hear it. Hoping for more of this closeness and maybe one day, a love that doesn’t hurt.

You get the feeling that even if you are broken beyond repair, this man could fix you. Wide hands and careful fingers that rub the blood away from your skin, hands made for making things and mending things when they break. And maybe you’re selfish enough to let him bind himself to you- broken as you are.

You press your forehead to his, you have to ask one more time. "Are you sure Yoongi?"

He nods, quick and small, "I'm sure." there isn’t anything in his eyes that makes you doubt him.

"Okay," you say softly, tugging him closer, tilting your chin up to the sky, your skin stings where it stretches around the mating mark. "okay. Come here then."

Your hands tangle in Yoongi’s hair as you guide his mouth to your throat, and his mouth sliding into the space where Geumjae was just minutes ago. He lingers for just half a breath before sinks his teeth over the mating mark, a little deeper- his mouth a little wider. He makes the bite a tiny bit offset.

Your breath hitches, back arching. His hands-on your waist go hard, holding you closer to him, as close as he can get you. Unlike before when Geumjae’s bite was agony, this feels like heroin- like every drug mixing together sending you up and up.

If you looked down and saw your hands were tipped in gold you wouldn’t be surprised. For a second you think you can taste colors, and then the chocolate sea salt of Yoongi settles over your tongue delicious, like ambrosia- fuck it’s so strong, it’s halfway between a headache and a high. You gasp when you feel it, feel Yoongi all over, Goosebumps rising on your arms as he touches you. The smell of ocean breeze and chocolate filling you in a way that Geumjae’s scent didn’t.

Geumjae’s bite was nothing compared to this, a whisper to a symphony. 

This must be what a mating bite feels like when you want it. You cry out. Gripping the lapels of his coat. Yoongi’s heartbeat thunders in your ears, the only thing you can hear, until the beat matches to your own, heartbeats pumping in sync.

Your blood tastes sweet and he wonders what it says about him that he likes the taste. He gulps at it- once- twice- and then a third time just to make sure the mark sticks, maybe he could suck a little bit of Geumjae out of you.

His kisses get feverish, lapping up your blood with wide laves of his tongue, moaning a little. and this time when you kiss- with your blood in his mouth, they get hurried and rushed like he can consume you, each one sweeter than the last. There is one moment of nausea, only one moment where Yoongi sees the black tracery receded and feels it dim. 

Maybe it’s not gone, but at least it's buried.

Yoongi can almost feel you, can almost feel the bond, but not yet. Your scent, it's all cake-sweet now. You kiss him until your jaw aches until your lips feel bruised. Until you know the sounds below actually are people, rushing around trying to find Geumjae. Calling out your names. 

Yoongi is the first to break apart, the room spinning. “Do me” he lifts the edge of his shirt, picking out a spot that he likes, the meat just above his hip. A spot is half-hidden by his shirt and his pants.

Not everyone likes to have their mating marks on their neck (you certainly would have chosen to have yours another place had you been given the chance). And Yoongi stretches out so that you can get your mouth on him, your mouth on the spot he wants to bind your soul to his.

He holds one of your hands in both of his hands so gently as you cup his hip and bite down, even as you begin to make out the noise of gang members coming up the attic stairs. Yoongi bites down a moan, lets you take one gasp of blood into your mouth before your teeth leave his skin.

The high rushes over him and he knows his pupils are mirrors of yours, black and dilated. He just has time to wipe his blood from your mouth and get you as close as he can, before the attic door creaks, the barrel of a gun pushing it open. And the gangsters enter the room with practiced steps.

Yoongi pulls his shirt back down just before they have a chance to see.

You play the part, slumping against him and letting him take the reigns. the people must take it for pain even though you’re shaking not with sobs, but from the feeling of Yoongi’s soul intertwining with yours. Full body shivers and something solidifying between the two of you. 

Together you shake, Yoongi is barely aware of the gangsters clearing the room. 

You feel like you can taste his thoughts, though you can’t actually hear what he's thinking. You can feel the way they tumble like small waves over each other. You feel concern and something else, something that feels an offal lot like love shoot down the fledgling bond as Yoongi’s arms pull you up, firmer against him.

It makes shivers rise on every inch of your skin, the pleasure he feels when he touches you that you're now hyper-aware of. It's what your body has been craving- the completion of the bond.

You both bleed- your blood dripping onto the floor. One part sacrament and sacred love and another part poisonous longing for a man you hated so much more than you ever loved him. This feels strange, it feels wrong, and that you have one part of you reaching out for something that’s not there. And then this- with Yoongi, right and front of you and inside of you. Completely occupying your heart and your mind and your body.

Accept for that one poisoned inch; you might not be completely his, but it's enough now, the bond with yoongi occupying those thoughts you'd had minutes before.

The gangsters don’t touch Geumjae, at least until Moonbyul enters the room, unarmed. Yoongi’s cousin eyes Yoongi from the door. There isn’t enough room in this torture room for the 12 or so gangsters and the three of you, they press against the walls, guns at the ready.

Moonbyul approaches Geumjae’s corpse, turning him over with her foot to see his blankly staring face, turning it towards the heavens instead of hell. For a moment, Yoongi thinks she might actually kick him. She plucks her pink handgun from the floor. Someone passes her a rag and she wipes it free of blood and fingerprints.

Her eyes on Yoongi are hard; a bit of mirth playing on the edge of her mouth as she plays her hand. A queen in a room full of pawns and knights, and the king underfoot. Her hand of aces. 

Betting it all on a simple game of roulette- red or black- will Yoongi challenge her or not. Yoongi doesn't miss the way her finger hovers on the trigger. 

“I suppose this entire situation would be concerning to me- if you hadn’t already named me as Don.” she nudges Geumjae's body again with her foot. "I guess he didn't take it well?"

She lies effortlessly, taking the moment to seize power. So this was what she was waiting for. Yoongi doesn’t challenge her words for fear of what she might do right now, not that he really would anyway. 

Yoongi tips his head forward in difference, “No he didn’t,” 

Moonbyul tucks her gun back into her waistband, and holds out her hand to pull yoongi to his feet. 

Yoongi takes you with him, small and still a little high in his arms. You hide your face in Yoongi’s shoulder, Holding onto him tight. You don’t know if you could take it if they tried to separate you now. 

Yoongi has to swallow to continue, struggling to think before he speaks with so many new sensations shocking his body. He's intimately aware of the way you shift in his arms, arms tightening around you at the very idea of you moving more than an inch away from him right now as you settle onto your own two feet. still a little unsteady. 

“He- he mated her against her will, and then he tried to kill us when I told him I wouldn’t- and- and after-” It’s not a lie- not really, but it still feels that way. Moonbyul doesn't need to do anything more than that to nod to call her men off, and they all relax around the room. 

They instantly fade from engaged concern to understanding. The other heads of household will probably grill Yoongi more. But you’ve both got time to get your story straight. For now, they need to clean up the body.

It helps that threatening the beta is a punishable offense; no one will question Yoongi killing him- especially since they’re brothers. Most of the families tend to think that inner house spats that family's business. Yoongi doesn’t know which of his relatives will inherit the title of head of the Min family, but it won't be Yoongi.

You’re small and silent in Yoongi’s arms, so vulnerable, he keeps you a few paces away from any of the mobsters, bites down a growl whenever any of them come too close to his mate. It’s just the mating bond making it’s self-known. You are his. No one can touch you.

Yoongi has never been a possessive man, but now he is. The mating mark tearing through him and screaming at him to protect, to provide, to nurture, and keep safe. He strokes down your back as his cousin quietly orders the others to clean up the mess and Geumjae’s body. The family has cleanup crews on call for this very reason.

They quietly offer to burn the house down to stage the death but Yoongi doesn’t care. He guesses it belongs to him now or maybe you. It depends on which bond the family will consider more important; the bonds of a half mating or the bond of brotherhood.

“I’ll handle it-“ his cousin has the good grace to offer comfort to Yoongi that way when he gets you into her car. she doesn't say anything about the dents in the side.  

Yoongi doesn’t quite hate her for any of this, but he doesn’t trust her the same way he did before either. She’s gotten what she wanted- the Don position. Plucked it from Yoongi’s hands.

“You haven’t had a chance to call the heads of house and tell them about your decision yet, but after that, you should be free to go” she reads him easily as always, The only other manipulator up to par with Yoongi himself in the gang. She knows that not an inch of Yoongi wants to stay in this house or this city a second longer.

At the idea of leaving you to straighten up in Yoongi’s lap to listen in a little more, you share a look with Yoongi. Your mate, your body sings the eye contact makes you shiver in your seat. Yoongi pulls you closer, stroking up to your arm mistakenly thinking you’re cold. You pull yourself closer to him- but it feels like you can’t get close enough, He makes a dissatisfied noise in his throat.

Yoongi will have to get used to this feeling. Like his soul is walking outside of his body. It feels incredibly vulnerable and intimate- He can feel your panic, how physically you’re being torn apart right now, every few minutes you shake. Yoongi puts your legs over his and holds you close. Watching your face closely for every twinge of pain as the lights of the city flicker over you two.

The meeting with the heads of house is tense, though the usual group of is two short now, standing only at eleven members now that Geumjae is gone and Moonbyul is named Don. You cannot be Don and a head of house at the same time.

It takes every bone in Yoongi’s body to let you be taken into the other room by Moonbyul’s mate to check over your injuries. He stops her with a hand on her shoulder. He catches Moonbyul’s nostrils flare, but she doesn’t say anything. “Would you look at her bruises for me?”

Later Yoongi will check them himself, again and again until he's sure you're all right. But the sooner you get ice on the nastier bruises the better off you’ll be. Someone should look at your ribs and your head too- he has half a mind to take you to the hospital before you leave the city. He doesn’t know how long it will be before you’re stationary again. He’d stay in the city tonight if you needed to. But he can feel your panic down the bond, The sooner you both get out of here the better.

With Geumjae dead there is no true opposition against his cousin's rule. She stands at the head of the table like she’s meant to be there. And still- the heads of the families talk through the night, kicking the non-proverbial dead horse into the ground. There is little mourning for Geumjae, one granny who cries faintly in the other room while the heads argue. Yoongi supposes he should look more upset, but no one pays attention to him now that he’s made his choice.

No, what they spend most of the time discuss is you. Sat in the other room, able to hear all of this, the men and woman weighing your fate and deciding what to do with you. If Yoongi listens, he can hear Hyejin’s quiet voice. Can feel your discomfort as the ice hits your ribs, maybe broken, definitely badly bruised.

Yoongi flinches every time he feels the pain pulse down the bond. Maybe in time, it will feel less sensitive but right now- Yoongi can feel your hurts just as bad as he can feel his own. A part of him is reaching out into the other room, screaming in his ear to go comfort his mate.  

He has a mate. Yoongi can scarcely believe it.

The gangsters around the table remain blissfully unaware of that fact. Most of the heads are on the same page, and he won’t reveal his mating mark unless he absolutely needs to, he will let that secret stay secret unless necessary. It’s a good bargaining chip. They wouldn’t kill you if they knew it was going to kill him too. But still- it’s hard to hear them argue over your fate when he can’t intervene.

“You know the rules- no divorces and no separations,” one alpha says, he’s older- nearing 60, but Yoongi can’t excuse that cruelty with age. The youngest, the head of the Ahn house does the rebutting for Yoongi, and he bites his tongue.

“But it wouldn’t be a divorce; she’s his widow now and his ex-mate technically.”

“Yes but that’s only a half bond.” There is only one omega head, and the woman snubs her long cigarette out on the table leaving an ashy circle 

“It’s only the alpha bite that matters- or have you forgotten?”

To her credit, the omega doesn't back down. “Chances are she’ll die anyway why are we even talking about her, we should start transitioning already.”

“That’s easy to say- if she’s got nothing left to lose what’s to stop her from going to the police.”

“I can keep an eye on her,” Yoongi volunteers, jumping at the chance to turn the discussion to his favor. They can all go fuck themselves if they ever dare to try and hurt you. “You say she’s as good as dead anyway. So you shouldn't mind if she comes with me.” 

The likelihood of anyone living after their mate dies is in the teens. Yoongi knew that and even then he bonded to you anyway. He can only hope that with his bite coursing through your veins and your body confused that you’ve got better odds than that. Yoongi did what he promised to do, now your odds are both 50/50. “I’ll make sure she doesn’t go to the police.”

Through the bond he can feel your curiosity and a little bit of fear too, you’re listening in. And he does his best to let his calmness comfort you too. Your panic instantly relaxes and he senses you reaching out. If you were next to Yoongi you’d be holding hands, and it kind of feels that way. If you could ever hold hands with someone’s soul.

“You realize that if you make her your responsibility, anything bad that happens will fall on your head as well” their betas might be sacred- but they aren’t free from the rest of the laws of the gang.

“I understand.” The Don lifts her head, regarding Yoongi with a heavy look. “She’s his widow and whether we want to address it now or not, the law says she’s inherited his wealth.”

It's met with immediate opposition, several heads of house start speaking over each other at once,  but Yoongi speaks up again, shouting over them. A beta raising their voice is about as strange as one giving or getting a mating bite, everyone falls silent. “Give it to me or her- I don’t care.”

another few minutes and they’re ready to let you go. they vote on it, and only 3 out of 11 heads vote to have you killed. Moonbyul gives the all clear, “Then you’re free to go.” Yoongi doesn���t even say goodbye, going to you in the other room just as quickly as he can without outright running. The Don’s mate is crouched in front of where you sit. Your body is mostly clean of blood and you’ve been put in other clothes; a pair of sweats and a baggy shirt.

Yoongi can see all the bruises on the side of your face turning purple and Yoongi wants to cup your face and bring it to his, kiss away the pain coloring your skin like watercolors, but can’t do it here. “Do we need to go to the hospital?” 

“Not for her but maybe for you, no ones checked you over yet, have they?”

yoongi grits his teeth, seconds away from snapping at hyejin, he wants her to get away, get as far from you as possible. “i asked if she needed the hospital.” 

Hyejin stands when Yoongi crouches. shaking her head when it becomes clear yoongi isn’t to be argued with right now. “There’s something wrong with her- but I think you know what” her eyes hover on Yoongi’s hip.

 So at least she’s figured it out. She has the good sense to utter the words quietly. Though the people in the other room aren’t concerned with Yoongi anymore, they’ve already launched into discussions about transitioning power and re-defining responsibilities. It seems Moonbyul had a plan on how she wanted the family to run from the beginning.  

He shakes off his annoyance, “Thank you,” he says to the omega, holding out a hand to you, which you take, still not saying anything. Tiredness holding you down to the chair. The same kind of look you’d had when Geumjae had died. The mating mark has been taped over but some of the blackness is still there. Yoongi wonders when it will fade, if it ever does.

“I wish I could say I’ll see you soon but I don’t think I will.” You and Yoongi nod, your hands twined between the two of you. She knows that neither you nor Yoongi has a love for the gang. No one stops you and Yoongi when you leave the house. Immediately hailing a taxi. You stop only at Yoongi’s safe house for a spare 20 minutes, while he packs up a fraction of his belongings in a hurried rush, anything to get out before someone tries to change their mind.

If Geumjae had any hidden loyalists the beta that killed him and his runaway wife would be the first targets. Let alone their reaction if they knew who had really killed Geumjae. The quicker the two of you get away from the city the better.

You end up at the train station, Yoongi breaks the bracelets off of your wrist- the same ones that he saw you wear on you the first night- and the ones that he’s always thought looked like shackles. He yanks at them as hard as he can until they snap; kissing your wrist after each one is off. You throw them over the side of the chain-link fence and into the darkness- to be lost forever you hope. The symbols of all you’ve lost.

When you get on the train, you cuddle close under Yoongi’s jacket and into his warmth. He’s a protective barrier between you and the third seat that thankfully remains empty this late into the night it’s so late it’s nearly early morning. Most of the train is empty besides an elderly couple at the front. Regardless, the two of you sit behind them. Yoongi can’t take his eyes off of the potential threat. Actually flinches when the conductor comes around to stamp your tickets.

You head off into the night- your little box of light in a sea of street lamps and hidden dangers. You almost fall asleep a few times, head bobbing as you catching yourself before it hits his shoulder. After the third time this happens he pulls you in close, tucks your head close to his scent gland, and commands “sleep” in a voice that you cannot disobey.

Eventually, you wake, the car is bright with the midday sun and the car is half full. Yoongi’s eyes are bloodshot as they train on every passenger who comes in and leaves your train car. Yoongi holds your hand, rubbing his thumb up and down the back in an endless trail. A conductor opens the door of your train car to pass through, bunching a few tickets here and there from the new passengers who have boarded the train.

He passes by where you're bundled and Yoongi flinches so hard it wakes you fully. his shoulder accidentally nudging a bruise on your cheek, He murmurs his apologies, panicked hands fussing over you. He could feel that he hit one of your bruises and the horror of hurting you make him wide-eyed and worried. You catch his hands, pressing the pads of them to your lips. Yoongi's hands shake as they touch you, hours later, he's still high on adrenaline. 

“You need to sleep Yoongi” it’s been a long few days for both of you.

He doesn’t answer with more than a grunt. But you get off the train at the next stop and it’s nearing noon by the time the two of you stumble across the street to a motel, and it’s shitty and smells like cigarettes and the lady at the front desk asks if you need the hourly rate or the daily rate. Though she does give you a discount because Yoongi’s a beta. Eyeing the blood-soaked collar of his jacket and the bloody bandages on your neck.

You should be holed up somewhere safe away from prying eyes to adjust to your new mating bite- not in a hotel where the smells of other people assault your nose. Making you press close to Yoongi because everything smells so new and scary. Like your senses have been turned up and only Yoongi can quell their sensitivity.

you don’t realize that the attendant gave you two beds until you get to the room. you both stare blankly before you cough and separated. the closeness too much now that you’re alone and free from threats. Though it doesn't feel that way. 

you hate it- you don’t want to curl up across the room from Yoongi- you want to be next to him. you almost whimper when he He steps away to the other bed to set down his backpack. You want to cry, your skin feels irritated and itchy without his pressed to yours. You want him to touch you but you can’t stay it. Don’t know how to ask around the thickness in your throat.

He gets a clean shirt from his black backpack and helps you put it on so that you don’t irritate the mating bite. You can’t lift either of your arms much and neither can he but he pushes through the pain for you. He only has 2 or three sets of clothes that he grabbed from the cottage, and it’s all you’ve got.

“We’ll get some more clothes for you tomorrow.” He doesn’t say that you should have grabbed some of your clothes- because you both know you couldn’t handle staying in that house a second more than was necessary. You barely thought to linger long enough to grab your purse, which thankfully had everything you really need in it. 

Somehow he has athletic tape in his bag, and he spends a few minutes changing out your soaked through bandages, bundling up toilet paper, and taping it over your mating bite. Only after yours is taken care of does he let you do the same for his bite on his hip, and the burns on his hands. 

You pull his pants off and then his boxers down just enough so that you can get at it, small from your mouth, the skin around it irritated and pink. You try not to let your eyes hover on the small happy trail that traces from his belly button downwards. The band on his boxers is stained with blood- and you wonder how much it hurt to have it dig into it all day.

You curl up in separate beds, and only when you’re under the covers do you slide off your pants. leaving you only in a large shirt that smells like yoongi.  Yoongi does the same, says “goodnight” and shuts off the light but doesn’t turn away from you, keeping his eyes on you in the darkness. 

You’re silent for a few minutes, but you can tell that neither of you is falling asleep. Your bed feels cold and you wonder if he feels the same, you let the distance hurt for a minute before you give in.  

"Thank fucking god-" He peels back the blanket for you the second you make the move and dash across the cold room. you scoot into his warmth and he lets out a little ‘oof’ when you collide. Letting him pull you closer, put the blanket over your back, and make sure all of your skin is covered.

It’s not enough for Yoongi and he pulls you sideways so that he can get some of his weight on top of you. A growl building in his chest at the thought of anyone walking through the door right now.

He needs to check the lock, make sure that no one can possibly disturb you. Needs to- the instinct filling him so harshly he can’t breathe. He tries to pull away, but your hands tighten on him, and you let out a whine so heartbreaking that instantly has him releasing comforting chocolate, flopping back on top of you nuzzling under your chin, you feel like you’re drowning in it. 

Your love with Yoongi is still too new and raw to be close like this without feeling shy- and yet you can’t resist, your mating bond is like a fresh burn that you can’t stop picking at because it hurts. (Like there’s something dead there that you need to get rid of, you can’t heal around, you need to tear it out so that it feels more like bleeding rather than something that was carved out by hungry heat.) You fiddle with the bandage at your neck before Yoongi takes your hand in his, lacing your fingers together.

For a moment, you crave the release that blood might give you- and like he can feel it. Yoongi presses a kiss to the back of your hand. “Couldn’t sleep?” Yoongi says. You shake your head. The motel creeks and overhead you can hear someone else moving in an adjacent room. Yoongi gets his head on your pillow and adjusts his hand around your waist so that he’s not hitting the vicious bruise that Geumjae left with one of his kicks.

The last 24 hours have been such a tangle. It feels weird to not move now. Yoongi’s heart is still hammering; you can feel it under your palm. You’re both unwilling to relax and close your eyes even for a second even though you’re both exhausted.

You’re worried if you close your eyes you’re going to see Geumjae's face.

Yoongi left the light in the bathroom on for you. Sensing that the shadows would be too thick with nightmares for you to handle for long. You look at each other in the darkness before Yoongi lets out a shaky little giggle.

“Do you know what I just realized?” he says, the words quieted against the too scratchy bedspread. “We could have gotten a better hotel, we easily have enough money for it now” and that’s true.

If Yoongi’s orders were followed and the gang's accountant really did transfer all of your inherited wealth to your name then- fuck- both of you saw the bank statements. Both of you know how much money Yoongi’s family had amassed- the same wealth that Geumjae had inherited and now you.

“Fuck you’re right,” you say, ducking in so that you don’t have to meet Yoongi’s eyes. Geumjae used to hit you sometimes if you did that- and trained habits die-hard. 

yoongi kisses your brow, slow little pecks that travel down your cheeks, as unhurried as they are sweet. It's strange to be close to him now when it’s all you’ve wanted for the last few months. You never thought you’d get this. It feels like a daydream and a nightmare all at once.

“We could buy a whole house- or three” and even then you’d have more than enough money to live on after. For the rest of your days, comfortable and cozy even if you were foolish with the money. Yoongi still gets his stipend from the gang. No doubt to be greater now that he’s the only beta.

He stops his kisses, mouth hovering on your cheek, “We could do that.” he sounds like he’s barely containing his excitement. 

You’ll both be fine. Neither of you will ever have to worry about money again and it makes you feel sick and happy with something that feels a terrible lot like grief.

Even if you got that- the last 24 hours haven’t been worth it. You’re not entirely out of the woods yet. The mark on your shoulder is scabbing over and inky. But every few hours of closeness that the two of you have- Yoongi think’s he sees the color fade- just a little bit.

You don’t know where the giggle comes from but one moment it comes out of your mouth and you laugh, and Yoongi joins in the sound startling out of his chest. He presses his forehead tight against yours and sighs at the sound. You see the moment clarity falls on him and an idea settles into his mind the second it hits. And dim happiness settles over your bond.

Yoongi lifts your hand to his mouth and kisses your bruised knuckles. “Let's buy a house.”

You smile- tired from today but still willing to placate him. “Okay Yoongi, we can do that.”

Now finally, his eyes are starting to droop, every few seconds he tries to keep them open, but you know he's seconds away from sleep. His words slurred when they whisper, his sweet chocolaty breath tickling your cheeks. “Goodnight sweetheart- love you.”

“Love you too,” it’s the first time you’ve ever said those words to each other. It feels like the first of many times you’ll say it. Forever- you and Yoongi will be mated together until you both die. And who cares if that happens tomorrow or months from now. Who cares? Because you have him and that’s all that matters.

Yoongi holds you and knows- that he will love you- as long as he can.

He watches you sleep, waits until your eyes are closed. Until he can make sure you’re safe and warm. A gentle purring fills the hotel room, soft and peaceful. yoongi hears it louder when he presses his ear to your chest. He tries to keep his eyes open, but somewhere around the second hour- they fall closed.

Neither of you dream.

—————

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[lihikainanea]

The other ask was...what would happen if Tiger was in an accident and she had to go to the hospital and Bill was out of town and she didn't want him know and worry about her so she didnt tell him and he finds out later from a mutual friend.

Oh my goddddddddd babes, my soff heart.

Alright look, follow me here, alright? A little while ago, I wrote a small blurb on how tiger once totalled her car. What if this happened at the same time? But like, did he find out from a mutual friend, or did he come home and find her all banged up? God I don’t know let’s see where this goes.

Maybe Bill was indeed away somewhere. So tiger’s car gets smashed and all things considered, she’s mostly okay. Maybe a broken wrist, or at least a really badly bruised one. She’s got a black eye and a split lip from the air bag, the seatbelt left a huge, angry bruise across her chest and hell maybe it even cracked a rib. She’s shaken up and she’s actually hurt, but tiger has a lot of people in her life who love her--her parents, her friends circle. And even in her shook up state when all she wants is Bill, she can’t bear to throw this on him--because she knows how much it would destroy him, how worried he would be for her, how he would drop absolutely everything and come running to her side. Tiger is not alone, and maybe if she was this would be a different story, but she has...other people. And those people are not Bill, but in a time of crisis, they’re still people she loves and trusts and she’d rather lean on them than cause an absolute panic with Bill.

She’s brought to the hospital to be patched up, but when she sees the suture kit come out she breaks down, heaves, panics to the point where the doctors probably have to hold her down a bit, lest she fuck up her recently reset wrist or hurt her ribs even worse. In her delirium she yells for Bill, sobs for him, and the doctors probably decide that it’s better for everyone--including her--if they go ahead and sedate her a bit. Once she’s out they stitch up her lip, and thankfully her wrist doesn’t need a full cast so they wrap it instead and she’s wheeled out to where her parents are waiting. She spends a few days with them, just because she’s definitely going to need some help at least until the pain subsides.

And she doesn’t say a word to Bill. Despite how scared she is, the nightmares she’s getting, the flashbacks, the pain she’s in--every time he calls her, she fakes a happy voice, and doesn’t mention a goddamn thing.

He’s back a few weeks later and thankfully by then at least the black eyes have faded, the stitches in her lip have dissolved. Her torso is still a mess of cuts and bruises from the seatbelt--deep, angry contusions that still cause her breath to hitch every time she moves too quickly. Her wrist still has a thick padded bandage, but she’s wearing a big wool sweater that can mask it a bit. She’s still not sure how--or if--she’s going to tell him, but she definitely needs a plan because she knows the first thing he’s going to do is reach for her, back her up into the bedroom, pull her clothes off. She needs to find some excuse to just hold him off for awhile, until she heals and the marks are gone.

She didn’t anticipate it to work, really, but it was worth a shot.

And when he came in that night, unlocking her door and putting his suitcase down, he beamed when he saw her.

“Hey kid,” he greeted, “I wasn’t sure if you were home. I didn’t see your car.”

“It’s in the shop,” she says without missing a beat, “Needed an oil change and a tune up.”

He kicks off his shoes, opening his arms to her. She smiles wide, tucking in to them.

“Hi,” she greets, and he captures her lips in a deep kiss.

“Hi,” he murmurs when he breaks the kiss, “I missed you.”

And then he presses his chest to hers, pulling her in to a tight hug. Tiger clenches her eyes shut, gritting her teeth when he squeezes her, her ribs screaming in pain. He mistakes her gasp for one full of good emotions--that she missed him, and it feels good to be back in his arms--and to her complete horror he squeezes her even tighter. She has tears in her eyes when he finally pulls away, but thankfully--he misinterprets that too. Because at this point--how could he possibly know?

“You big sap,” he jokes as he swipes her cheeks with his thumbs, “Getting all emotional already.”

She smiles and fakes a bit of a laugh despite the stabbing pain it causes in her ribs.

“Come on, I made you food,” she tries as she turns to walk down the hall--anything to keep his mind away from the bedroom, and trying to take her clothes off.

It doesn’t work. In fact, it backfires. Spectacularly.

“Great,” he says cheerily, “But I’m going to devour you, first.”

And then he grabs onto her wrist--but it’s her bad wrist. And the shriek that tiger let out was the worst sound he had ever heard and he retracted his hand immediately as she clutched her wrist and choked back a sob. But the sudden movement, the deep inhale as she tried to breathe through the pain, also just sent a searing flash through her chest and ribs and she doubled over, clutching at them too. Bill is staring at her, panicked, but he tries to stay calm.

“Tiger,” he says calmly, “What happened?”

She breathes, a sharp inhale through her nose, and tries to stand up straight.

“Nothing,” she said, “Just my carpal tunnel acting up again.”

And she turns away because she can’t control the pain contorting her features anymore, but Bill isn’t buying it for one second. And he quickly moves, gets in front of her, and stops her in her tracks.

Before she can react he grabs her elbow, pulls up the sleeve of her shirt, and reveals the thick, intricate wrap on her wrist. Bill’s blood runs cold. Because like, here’s the thing, right? If tiger just hurt her wrist, she would have told him that in one of their conversations. The kid’s clumsy, she’s always getting little injuries here and there and it’s no big deal. But the fact that she got hurt, and that she didn’t tell him, means that she’s hiding something. It means that she’s much, much more hurt than what he’s just seeing here.

“Tiger,” he closes his eyes for a brief second to try and get his emotions under control, “What. Happened.”

She bites her lip, tries to avoid his gaze, but he grabs onto her chin softly. Her eyes well with tears.

“I got into a car accident,” she mumbles lowly. Bill doesn’t blink, his eyes are just glaring holes through hers, and he doesn’t let her pull her chin away.

“I’m okay,” she continues nervously, “I just got a little banged up.”

“Where else are you banged up, tiger?” he asks, and his voice is dangerously low. He’s not mad, he’s just absolutely terrified.

She sniffles, hesitates for a second, but then she grabs the hem of her shirt. She slowly lifts it over her head, wincing a little when she lifts her arms, and then tosses it to the side. She looks up at him, and waits for his reaction. His eyes are scanning her, widening in disbelief at the sheer amount and depth of the bruises littering her ribs and her chest, and he sucks in a breath.

“Tiger,” he whispers and his voice cracks, “Are you okay?”

She nods.

“It’s better now,” she says. Bill looks like he’s losing it, his eyes well with tears but he blinks them back, bending to get a better look at her ribs. He reaches a hand out, looking up at her for permission. She nods.

“Is anything broken?” he asks, and he softly glides his fingertips over her bruised skin.

“Two ribs,” she mumbles, “And a bruised sternum. All from the seatbelt.”

He bites his lip, but then in a flash he’s upright again, and he’s grabbing her face and kissing the hell out of her. She squeaks in surprise but then kind of melts into it, and I’ll bet the poor bean even cries. She didn’t like hiding this from him. She didn’t like lying. But she also didn’t like that he wasn’t here, that he couldn’t help her, take care of her. She hates that all of this happened. But now she’s just...she’s glad he’s here. Because that accident terrified her, it made her so scared, and even though she’s been surrounded by people taking care of her, all she wanted was him. And now he’s here, and he knows, and he can help. And she finally fucking feels safe again, for the first time a long time. The tears are wetting her cheeks and he’s swiping them away, kissing her harder until she can’t breathe. And when he finally breaks apart and rests his forehead on hers, his chest is heaving and his eyes are still closed.

“Tiger, why didn’t you tell me?” he asks. And it’s not accusatory in the least. He wants to be angry, wants to be so mad at her for keeping this a secret because if he had known then he could have helped. He wants to be furious, but he’s just....terrified. He’s so scared for her, and it’s so strong that it’s the only emotion he’s capable of feeling.

“I didn’t want you to worry,” she sniffles, “I knew that if I told you, you would've dropped everything and come home. And I didn’t want you to do that.”

He’s silent, still just breathing her in, trying to absorb everything she’s telling him.

“Are you mad at me?” she mumbles. He opens his eyes, kisses her deeply again.

“I’m a lot of things right now,” he tells her honestly, his voice cracking, as he cups her cheeks again, “I’m angry that you hid this from me, yes. But more than that...I’m thankful that you’re only a little banged up, and that it wasn’t worse. I’m worried, because I know that you’re in pain. I’m scared, because I can’t even imagine how scared you must have been. And I’m glad that I’m home, so that we can figure this out together.”

She nods softly, closing her eyes and resting her forehead against his chest.

“Tiger are you.....are you okay?” he asks again, and she nods.

“It was a lot Bill,” she says quietly, “And I’m glad you’re home.”

God, my soff heart, I’ll bet the sex is so goddamn sweet and gentle. Because let’s face it, tiger is banged up to high hell but there’s no way they’re not going to do it, because both of them need that closeness. Tiger needs to feel good again, needs to be reassured that he’s home now, and that everything will be okay. And for his part, Bill needs that closeness with her too, needs to make sure that she’s okay and just needs to feel her. His mind gets away on him-and you can’t blame the guy--he wasn’t there for the accident so he can only imagine how fucking bad it was, and how scared she was, how hurt she really was. He needs that closeness with her because it reassures him that she’s okay for the most part, she just needs some time to heal.

[artificialqueens]

Wild Flower, Chapter Eight (Shalaska) 8/11 - Freyja

A/N: helllooooo!!! I just want to say thank you for all of the love this fic has gotten - it’s so motivating and my heart can’t fit inside my chest anymore, you guys. It’s becoming a problem. Thank you to Frey for betaing - she fixed a plot hole singlehandedly. I’ve said it before but I’ll say it again: this fic wouldn’t be where it is without her. This chapter gave me carpal tunnel (jk - it only finished the job) so y'all better appreciate my labor ;) Hope you’re ready for a whole bunch of feelings! Enjoy the calm before the storm!

Summary: Alaska’s been vulnerable since she came to camp. It’s about time Sharon returns the favor.

🌸

“I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself. A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough without ever having felt sorry for itself.” - D. H. Lawrence

🌸

Alaska is in love.

As she meets Sharon’s eyes in the warm candle light, her heart swells, and she just knows.

She’s never been in love before.

It’s terrifying.

Her heart starts to beat a little faster with the realization, and Alaska can only hope that Sharon doesn’t notice, despite how close they are. Unfortunately, Sharon’s head is resting on her collarbone, and Sharon is nothing if not observant.

“If you’re getting excited for some more,” she says tiredly, “you’re out of luck.”

Luckily, Sharon is also prone to making assumptions.

Alaska lets out a surprised laugh, relieved and calmer for it. She shoves her realization into the back of her mind, just wanting to bask in the moment and keep enjoying the feeling of Sharon’s skin against hers without panicking. “What if I told you I’d leave again?” she drawls.

“That would make you a liar,” Sharon says, and her arms wrap more tightly around Alaska. Alaska’s heart jumps in response, affection bubbling up inside her.

“I guess I won’t, then,” she says, fake pouting, and Sharon laughs.

“I think you’ll live.”

As long as you’re this close, I could live with anything, Alaska thinks, but she only snorts in response, carding her fingers through Sharon’s curls and gently working out the tangles she comes across.

There’s a moment of silence as Alaska works out a particularly big tangle, and Sharon huffs out a laugh through her nose. “I have a comb, you know,” Sharon says drily. Alaska snorts.

“It’s more fun this way. Besides, I’ve never actually seen you use it, wherever it is.”

“Hey! I’m not the one with a rat’s nest sitting on top of my head.”

Alaska gasps in mock anger, barely restraining her smile as she tugs on Sharon’s hair in retribution. “Take that back. It’s your fault it’s even gotten this bad.”

“You’re right,” Sharon says gravely. “I did say I would protect you when things went south.”

“I can reach my gun from here, you know,” Alaska threatens, and Sharon pulls back to laugh at her. Alaska mourns the slight loss of contact, but Sharon’s bright smile makes it worth it. It still gives her butterflies, despite the fact that they’re both half dressed and cuddling.

She would do anything for that smile.

Jesus Christ, she’s in love.

“Here,” Sharon says, sitting up and folding her legs beneath her. Alaska watches her, dismayed and suddenly chilly. They’d slipped their shirts back on, but they’re nothing compared to body heat. “Sit up.”

“It’s too cold for this,” Alaska whines, and she tugs on Sharon’s wrists to make her lie down again. “How are you not shivering?”

“I’m a weatherworn criminal,” Sharon deadpans, and she uses Alaska’s grip on her wrists to pull her up into a sitting position. Alaska lets her, albeit reluctantly. “My skin is practically leather.”

“Please,” Alaska snorts. “You could give the moon a run for its money.”

Sharon raises an eyebrow, barking out a surprised laugh. “Alright, for that you can turn around. I don’t want to look at you anymore.”

Alaska sputters out a laugh. “You can’t hide from the truth, Sharon.”

“I can try,” Sharon says, but she’s smiling, her eyes soft with something Alaska can’t quite put a finger on. “But seriously, turn around. I’m going to braid your hair.”

“Why?” Alaska asks, but she’s already turning, affection once again filling her chest. She hears Sharon grab something off of the crate behind her.

“So that you can’t blame me next time your hair gets fucked,” Sharon tells her, and Alaska feels her shift closer.

“Technically, I can blame you for anything that happens to me in this camp,” Alaska says, but she loses half of the punch when Sharon presses a kiss to the bare part of her shoulder, her breath catching halfway through her sentence.

“I’ll take it,” Sharon says softly, her breath ghosting along Alaska’s neck. Alaska shivers. “As long as you stay.”

“I’m too in l–” Alaska cuts herself off, swallowing her almost-confession along with a bubble of air. She immediately breaks out into a coughing fit, and Sharon’s hands go to her shoulders, steadying her as she hacks.

The idea of leaving seems ludicrous, now. Happiness is here. Freedom is here. The woman she loves is here. She can’t go back because of one of those reasons, and even if she did, she’d lose all three. She can ignore the twinge of guilt she feels when she thinks about her father - god knows he’s screwed her over enough.

She just can’t lose this.

“Jesus,” Sharon says as soon as Alaska is able to suck in air again, tone teasing. She starts finger combing Alaska’s hair, working out the bigger knots fairly painlessly. “Don’t tell me you have consumption.”

Alaska tries very hard not to think of her mother. “Don’t joke about that,” she says, voice quiet. “Please.”

Sharon’s fingers still in her hair, clearly picking up on Alaska’s tone. “Alright,” she says softly. There’s a beat. “Who was it?”

“My mother,” Alaska says stiffly, determined to keep her eyes dry. Sharon resumes combing.

“I had a brother. He was just a baby, so I didn’t know him well, but it was still a tragedy. I can’t imagine a mother.”

“No,” Alaska whispers, her lip trembling a little. “It was hard.”

“Mhm,” Sharon hums, and then she says, “but not as hard as brushing your hair is going to be.”

There’s a moment of shocked silence before a laugh escapes Alaska, the joke strangely healing despite its blunt tone. “For me or for you?”

“You tell me,” Sharon says, a smile in her voice, and then Alaska feels a sharp pain in her scalp as Sharon starts running the brush through her hair.

“Ah, fuck!” she snaps out, clutching her head as Sharon cackles. “Are you fucking trying to hurt me?”

“I had to follow through!”

“I’m going to bed,” Alaska sighs, and she starts to turn around, before Sharon stops her, laughing.

“I’ll be gentle! Please, turn back around. I’ll be nice.”

“Promise?”

“I cross my heart. I hope you’re writing all of these promises down.”

“Oh, I am,” Alaska drawls, turning back around. “And I promise to scream if you do that again.”

“Brat,” Sharon says fondly, and Alaska rolls her eyes.

“Haven’t heard that one before.”

They lapse into silence as Sharon resumes brushing, working out the knots relatively painlessly and pressing her lips against Alaska’s shoulder in silent apology when there’s a particularly hard tug. Alaska finds herself relaxing by increments, Sharon’s rhythmic breathing and the feeling of fingers in her hair making her eyelids heavier and heavier.

“Done,” Sharon says quietly, breaking the comfortable silence they’d fallen into. “I almost don’t want to braid it - it looks so pretty just like this.”

Alaska hums as Sharon combs her fingers through her hair, raking her nails across her scalp as she moves down. She finds herself leaning into the touch, letting her eyes close.

“I think we can forgo the braid,” she murmurs, and Sharon laughs.

“You’re awfully comfortable.”

“You’re comfortable,” Alaska says, and she falls back the rest of the way against Sharon, smiling as Sharon’s arms immediately wrap around her, holding fast. They sit in silence for a moment, both growing tired, and it allows Alaska’s mind to wander a little.

She is, strangely, comfortable.

The moment she’d come back to herself after that miraculous twist of Sharon’s fingers, Sharon collapsing next to her and grinning from ear to ear, she’d panicked, a mantra of what the fuck have I just done running through her mind as her heart pounded in her ears. She’d felt wrong - like she’d just misbehaved, and she would be caught and punished at any moment.

But then, Sharon had put a hand on her cheek, drawing her into another kiss, and all of the tension had left her body.

“Alaska,” she’d breathed, and Alaska suddenly didn’t care about anything that wasn’t the woman in front of her.

It’s become abruptly easier to push away the thoughts of her father, of society, of responsibility. Things feel natural with Sharon - right, in a way Alaska has never felt in her life. She’s going to bask in it for as long as she can, even as her heart starts to pound again the longer she thinks about it.

“Do you feel safe?” Sharon asks suddenly, jerking Alaska out of her thoughts.

Alaska frowns, a little disoriented. “What?”

“I just - you almost died today, and all I did was yell. I want to know if you still - if you still feel safe.”

“Sharon–”

“I don’t want to ruin what we have. If I’ve already done it–”

“Sharon,” Alaska says again, tone more pointed. “I’m in your lap right now. How do you think I feel?”

Sharon huffs a small laugh, but there’s no joy in it. Clearly, Alaska hadn’t been the only one getting into her thoughts.

There’s a long stretch of silence as Alaska thinks, desperate for a way to let Sharon know that her thoughts had been straying towards just the opposite when she first brought it up.

“I think this is the safest I’ve ever felt,” Alaska eventually murmurs, and it’s true. Her father was distant, cold, unfeeling - he flung her at suitors full of false charm and predatory leers. Her friends came and went, marrying off and laughing about the fact that she hadn’t.

It’s hard to feel safe when no one even cares whether you are or not.

“Good,” Sharon whispers, sounding relieved. Her arms tighten around Alaska. “Good.”

“Good,” Alaska says, and then her stomach growls. “Dinner?”

Sharon laughs.

🌸

They go to bed early that night, but Alaska sleeps for what feels like five minutes before she’s shaken awake again. She is more than a little irritated.

She groans, and she only grows angrier when she cracks her eyes open to darkness, the moon still shining through the canvas of the tent. “Sharon, this had better be–”

“Alaska?”

Alaska sits straight up at the strange desperation in Sharon’s voice, worry flooding her body and annoyance fleeing in its wake. She turns to find Sharon staring at her like she’s just seen a ghost, her hair mussed and her cheeks streaked with tear tracks. Alaska’s heart spikes with fear at the sight of her.

“Sharon?” she asks, her tone a little too loud with her worry, and Sharon’s hand clenches where it still lingers on Alaska’s arm. “What’s wrong?”

Sharon slumps in what looks like relief, breathing in a little. She looks like she isn’t all there. “You’re alright?”

Alaska tenses - was somebody hurt? “Of course I’m alright,” Alaska says, frowning as her panic rises, hundreds of scenarios popping into her head. She grabs Sharon’s wrist, where her hand is on Alaska’s arm. “Is everyone okay? Did Phi Phi escape?”

Her question seems to break Sharon out of whatever state she’d been in, and a strange series of expressions flickers across her face, the strange look in her eyes fading as she looks around the tent. She takes in another breath, her expression finally settling on a small frown. “Oh.”

Alaska squeezes her wrist urgently. “‘Oh’? What does that mean?”

“It means I’m an idiot,” Sharon snaps out suddenly, and Alaska lets go of her wrist in surprise. Sharon’s face softens, and she chases Alaska’s hand in apology. “Sorry. Everyone’s alright.”

Alaska stares at her, confused. “Then why–” she cuts herself off, realization crashing down on her like a wave. It’s her turn to feel like an idiot. “You had a nightmare.”

Sharon snorts, her eyes on the ground. “Told you there’s a reason Jinkx sleeps in Morgan’s tent and not mine,” she jokes weakly. She’s clearly embarrassed, and it’s strange to see - she’d never seen Sharon anything close to embarrassed, even after she’d punched Alaska in the nose that first night.

Maybe, Alaska thinks, because she had just that to distract from herself from what she was really ashamed of.

“You can’t tell me Jinkx was bothered by this enough to leave,” Alaska says, and Sharon raises an eyebrow.

“Who said it was her decision?”

Alaska frowns, her heart breaking a little. She wouldn’t believe Sharon kicking Jinkx out, either, if it weren’t for the clear defensive edge in her eyes. “Alright,” she says carefully, wary of pushing too far. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Sharon hesitates. “No.”

Alaska squeezes her hand, fighting back the urge to pull Sharon and her tear-stained cheeks closer. “Sharon–”

“I said no.”

“Can I–”

“It has nothing to do with you, Alaska, so just drop it.”

Hurt flashes through Alaska at her tone. “Considering the way you woke me up, I’d say it has at least something to do with me.”

Sharon blushes, glaring. “It wasn’t about you,” she amends. “Things just got - jumbled.”

“What things?” Alaska asks, and Sharon’s eyes flick behind her. Alaska turns - there’s nothing but the set of drawers.

“Please, Alaska,” Sharon says, sounding more tired than angry, and when Alaska turns back around, the expression in her eyes evokes a kind of sadness that resonates too deeply within Alaska. “Let’s just go back to sleep.”

Alaska wants to know. She wants to know so badly. She wants to be able to talk that look out of Sharon’s eyes, to know what makes this woman tick, what could possibly affect her this badly. She almost wants to get angry about it - wants to throw Sharon’s lack of trust in her face and force the answers out of her that way. But she doesn’t want to force Sharon to give her anything - that was the point. She wants Sharon to trust her, and something tells her that getting angry when she doesn’t share her darkest fears won’t make that happen.

Still, a question burns at the tip of her tongue, and she can’t help but give into it. “Was it about today?” she asks, voice quiet. Was it about me dying?

“A little,” Sharon says stiffly. “I-” her voice breaks, and Alaska is horrified when her face crumples a little. “I don’t want to talk about it.” She sounds frustrated and close to tears, and guilt swirls in Alaska’s stomach.

“You don’t have to,” she says, voice quiet.

“You’d hate me if I did,” Sharon whispers, and shock runs through Alaska like lightning.

“I wouldn’t,” she says, even as doubt nibbles at the back of her mind. What if Sharon had done something truly horrible? “You couldn’t make me hate you.” Alaska sucks in a breath as the words escape her, far too close to a confession of love.

Sharon sucks in a shaky breath, breaking eye contact to look at the streak of moonlight on the floor. “Well,” she says, making an attempt to sound normal. It’s not working. “I’m not willing to test that right now. Let’s just - let’s just sleep.”

Alaska swallows back her desire to keep pushing, and she nods instead, mirroring Sharon as she lies back down. “Come here,” she says softly, and Sharon frowns a little.

“What?”

“I just want to – let me hold you,” Alaska says, begging Sharon with her eyes. Concern is still welling up in her throat, and the desire to do something to help, anything to help, is overwhelming. Cuddling, her gut is telling her, will definitely help. “I want to hold you.”

Sharon looks at her for a moment longer before her expression softens into surprised appreciation. “Alright,” she says slowly, and she allows Alaska to wrap her arms around her, burying her face into Alaska’s collarbone.

A sudden surge of protectiveness washes over Alaska, and she tightens her arms around Sharon in an effort to relieve it. She can’t imagine what Sharon might have done - the other woman’s reaction is frightening, but Alaska can’t imagine it to be worse than what she’d done to Solomon’s gang.

It must be, though, if Sharon feels this guilty about it, and Alaska’s stomach dips at the thought.

She lies awake for a long time, pretending not to feel Sharon’s body shake with silent sobs.

🌸

When Alaska opens her eyes again, late morning sunlight is drifting in with the loosened tent flap, there are dried tear tracks pulling at the skin on her cheeks, and Sharon is gone.

She isn’t surprised - Sharon is an early riser, and Alaska is the opposite. It’s not unusual for her to wake up alone in the tent, but now she finds herself resenting it, disappointment a nagging feeling in her chest. She’s usually grateful for the chance to be alone - but now, all she wants is to see Sharon again.

She pulls on her boots, further motivated by the smell of food, and when she goes to tie her hair back, she grins at the lack of knots - it won’t last long, but for now, it reminds her of Sharon and the warm glow of their tent.

The thought makes Alaska’s breath catch. When the hell did she start thinking of this tent as ‘theirs’?

She looks around, taking in the dusty crates, the rumpled blankets, the patched holes in the canvas roof. When she’d first seen this tent, she’d laughed at the shabbiness of it, the whole thing feeling bare bones and dirty. Now, it feels familiar, lived in, safe - something she’d only felt when her mother filled the household with smiles and hugs.

The feeling scares something within Alaska, and she ducks out of the tent quickly, a little shaken.

She’s decided to stay, but it had been for Sharon, for what she now knows is love. She hadn’t expected to belong further than that, and as she creeps closer to that anyway, she finds that she had been taking a certain kind of comfort in it. She isn’t quite like these women - she’s civilized, moral - better. What does it mean if she feels truly at home here?

This thought scares her as well, and she shoves it into the back of her mind, taking a deep breath. She’s just been here long enough to form an attachment, that’s all.

Alaska finds Sharon by the fire, grinning and laughing with Alyssa and Morgan, who still looks sharp even with a smile on her face. Alaska is relieved to see it - she’d been worried out of her mind last night, the terror in Sharon’s eyes haunting her own dreams, and it’s comforting to see Sharon bounce back from what had looked like paralyzing fear.

Alaska tells herself that it’s not an act.

As she approaches the women, however, new doubts start to trickle into her mind.

How is she supposed to behave? Her instincts tell her that they should be hiding their relationship - this is a relationship, right? Can two women-? - but Katya clearly hadn’t had a problem with Trixie. Does Sharon resent her for pushing last night? Does she even want to see her right now? Doe–

“Lasky!” Sharon exclaims, finishing the distance between Alaska and the firepit and giving her a wide smile. “Good morning!”

She takes Alaska’s face in her hands, and she kisses her.

It’s only a small kiss, and she’s gone before Alaska can really reciprocate, but it still makes her stomach flutter with pleasure, and the feeling only grows when Sharon doesn’t let go of her hand. Then, she remembers that they have an audience.

She snaps her gaze over to Alyssa and Morgan, her stomach dropping like an anchor, fearing the worst: disgust, aggression, fear. She gets none of it - in fact, they seem unfazed, Alyssa smiling like a mother does on her daughter’s wedding day, and Morgan not even watching.

Sharon follows her gaze, frowning. “Is there something wrong?”

“No,” Alaska says, stunned. She feels weightless, like a huge burden has suddenly been lifted off of her shoulders. “Nothing.”

“If you say so,” Sharon says, still looking concerned, but she tugs Alaska towards the firepit anyway, the exchange clearly over.

“Alyssa was just telling us about how she got ‘discovered’,” Morgan says, raising a pointed eyebrow and cradling a cup of coffee. “And I say ‘discovered’ like that because–”

“Because it was more like she put herself up for adoption,” Sharon finishes, and Alyssa gapes at the two of them, offended.

“I’ll have you know I was sought after by the biggest showman in the West,” she says stiffly. She pauses to gently hand Alaska a bowl of what looks like boiled oats. “There’s sugar somewhere around here, sweetie,” she tells her, and then she’s rounding on Sharon again. “P.T. Barnum himself came knocking on my door!”

“And I’m sure there’s a reason you weren’t traveling around with P.T. Barnum when I found you?”

“I had loyalties,” Alyssa sniffs. “I couldn’t just leave Charles, I’m not cold hearted.”

“You seemed to have no problem with leaving when I asked you to.”

“Girl, I was old when I met you!” Alyssa laughs. “I was ready to retire anyway.”

“Please, you’re hardly old,” Sharon says, mischief twinkling in her eyes. “Showbusiness just ages you faster.”

“Rude!” Alyssa cries, but it’s clearly in good humor. “And right after I just fed y’all!”

“Hey, don’t loop me in with this,” Morgan says, and Alyssa waves her away.

“Don’t think I don’t know who Sharon was smiling at,” she says. “And Alaska’s not at the right angle.”

“Me?” Morgan repeats, mock innocence oozing out of her.

“Well, it certainly wasn’t Phi Phi,” Sharon says, and the four women fall silent, glancing behind Morgan towards the post, where Phi Phi sits, slumped over and silent.

“She’s awful quiet,” Alyssa says, a little muted herself. “Are you sure–”

“I’m sure,” Sharon says, and it’s clear that they’d discussed it at least a little before Alaska had woken up. “This has to be a set up. I don’t care how well Phi Phi can act - she’s going to stay here until she tells us what’s really going on.”

“When are you going to interrogate her?” Morgan asks, expression serious.

“Right now,” Sharon says, and as she stands, Alaska mirrors her.

“I’m coming with you,” she says, and Sharon raises an eyebrow.

“Are you?” she asks, and Alaska nods.

“I’m the reason she’s here,” she says, firm in her resolution. She will see this through - she’s still invested in the idea of a peace treaty, and the fact that Phi Phi hasn’t let it go is enough to make hope bubble back up in her chest. If they manage to end this without any more blood spilt… “I want to see how this goes.”

There’s a gleam of pride in Sharon’s eyes as she appraises her, and Alaska’s heart swells at it, pleased. “Good enough for me,” Sharon says, and then she starts towards the post, Alaska close behind, her heart pounding with anticipation and no small thrill running through her at the thought of interrogation, childhood games swimming through her memories.

“Phi Phi O’Hara,” Sharon greets as they near the pole, stopping at Phi Phi’s outstretched feet. She doesn’t, Alaska notices, crouch down so that they’re at eye level. That must have just been a part of her own, special, treatment.

“Oh, so you can see me,” Phi Phi says bitterly, glaring up at Sharon. She sounds hoarse, and she has to licks her lips before she speaks. It takes Alaska far too long to realize it’s because she hasn’t had water since before their altercation.

“It is hard to look at you,” Sharon says, unimpressed. “But yes, I can.”

“Fuck off, Needles.”

“Not until you tell me what yesterday was really about.”

“I have,” Phi Phi sneers. “It’s your own hang ups that are keeping you from believing us.”

“Can you fucking blame me?” Sharon snaps, the previous calm in her voice fading in favor of hot anger. “After what Solomon did–”

“He didn’t pretend to be anything he wasn’t,” Phi Phi shoots back.

“Which is a liar.”

“Not with this!”

“If you don’t tell me–”

“What, you’ll use one of these pokers?” Phi Phi jerks her head towards the bucket of metal fire pokers near the post, and Alaska’s heart stops at the sight of them, the fear she’d felt when Sharon had tied her up suddenly a fresh memory.

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Sharon says, and Alaska’s breath catches.

“Is that true?” she asks, before she can stop herself, and Sharon shoots her a look.

“If you don’t–”

“Sharon!”

Sharon falls silent at the call, frowning at something just behind Alaska, and Alaska turns to find Jinkx sprinting up the hill towards them from the entrance to camp, where her horse still stands, untethered in her rush to get to Sharon.

Alaska’s stomach dips fearfully at the sight.

“Jesus,” Sharon mutters, and Alaska follows her as she rushes down the hill to meet Jinkx, who’s already out of breath.

“What is it?” Sharon asks, worry clear in her voice as she reaches Jinkx, who grabs her hand. Alaska ignores the spark of jealousy she feels at the sight.

“I ran into Raja in town - she just got word–”

“Word?” Sharon asks quickly.

“It’s Kameron Michaels. She got caught in Honard, and now she’s on death row.”

“Jesus, fuck,” Sharon breathes, and Alaska can see her hand tighten around Jinkx’s. “When?”

“Two days from now. They want to do it quickly - the mayor supposedly wants to clear more space in the jail for bounties.”

“Fuck,” Sharon hisses. “I’ll have to leave now.”

“And do what?” Jinkx cries. “Advocate for her to the jury?”

“Of course not,” Sharon snaps. “I’ll break her out.”

Jinkx stares at her. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Well, I’m doing it.”

“You’re not.”

“I’m the leader–”

“And I’m the only one with sense around here!” Jinkx cries, clearly distressed. Alaska is inclined to agree with her - this feels like an enormous risk, and she doesn’t want Sharon to take it. Whatever this Kameron person did, she must deserve the quick sentence - the police hardly did it in New York.

“I owe it to her, Jinkx,” Sharon says after a beat, voice quiet with urgency. “It’s the fucking least I can do.”

There’s a long stretch of silence in which Jinkx visibly searches for a comeback, and ultimately fails. “I’m not going to convince you, am I?” she asks tiredly, slumping.

“Not when it comes to this,” Sharon says, her voice soft with sympathy. “I have to. There’s no other option.”

Alaska watches the exchange, her heart rate picking up. The idea of Sharon leaving is terrifying - she doesn’t want to be alone at camp, no matter how kind Jinkx has proven herself to be, and she certainly doesn’t want Sharon to leave and never come back.

Jinkx clearly feels the same way, and it’s with some severity that she says, “Well, I’m coming with you.”

“No,” Sharon says.

“No?” Jinkx repeats, surprised.

“If I’m gone, you’re the only one I can leave in charge. Besides, you can’t shoot for shit.”

“You’re not going alone,” Jinkx says stubbornly, and Sharon raises an eyebrow.

“And who would you suggest I bring? Morgan still can’t ride a fucking horse.”

“Detox,” Jinkx shoots back. “She’s always been sensible in things like this.”

“Detox tore her stitches for the third time yesterday,” Sharon says drily. “Sensibility won’t get her anywhere if she’s too busy bleeding out.”

Jinkx scowls. “Willam.”

“Willam has wanted posters up everywhere,” Sharon points out. “I’m pretty sure my mother had a framed picture of her.”

“You have wanted posters everywhere!” Jinkx exclaims, incredulous. “You can’t even go into Coady! And Coady doesn’t care if you’ve murdered the county sheriff!”

“I - well,” Sharon says, stumbling. “I’m going. One wanted woman is enough - two is just asking for trouble.”

“I guess that gets rid of our resident celebrity,” Jinkx mutters, glancing back at Alyssa. “Katya, then. No one cares about another European immigrant - they’re a dime a dozen.”

“I’m not taking the only person who knows how to stitch up a wound,” Sharon says quickly, and Jinkx’s lips tighten.

“I would argue that you’re going to need her more,” she says, worry creating a new edge to her voice, and Sharon shakes her head.

“It’s not happening,” she says, and Jinkx huffs in frustration, tears coming to her eyes.

“You’re not going alone,” she says. “I don’t care if you think we need Katya more, you’re not going to sneak someone you’ve met a grand total of three times out of a jail cell by yourself.”

Alaska tunes out Sharon’s response, her mind racing. She can’t convince her to stay, not when she doesn’t know anything about anything, it seems, and if Jinkx can’t convince her to take anyone, Alaska certainly can’t. Maybe if one of the girls volunteered themselves, Sharon would have a harder time–

Wait.

“I’ll go,” Alaska says, interrupting a heated response from Sharon and earning two sets of wide eyes staring at her.

“What?” Jinkx says, and Alaska nods, resolution building in her gut.

“I’ll go,” she repeats, voice a little louder. “No one knows who I am - they won’t even think twice when they see me. And I’m decent with a gun.”

Sharon snorts a disbelieving laugh at that, but Jinkx frowns at her, expression considering. “You’re sure?” she asks, and Alaska nods.

“I’m going.”

Sharon shakes her head, her expression sobering as Jinkx raises an eyebrow at her. “No. It’s too dangerous - she can’t shoot, she doesn’t know what she’s doing, and she fucked up the last little adventure she went on!”

“Please,” Alaska says, a little hurt. “The plan isn’t to shoot anyone, right?”

“That’s what you said last time,” Sharon says sharply. “Shit happens.”

“Well, fuck me if I want to make sure you’re alright!” Alaska snaps, and Sharon’s face softens slightly.

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” she says, voice still hard. “This is more than robbing a carriage full of unarmed people - these are armed men with an active agenda against me, and I’m going right into the bear’s den. You’re not going.”

“Exactly,” Jinkx cuts in, before Alaska can shoot an answer back. “And if you get hurt, I want someone there who can get you the fuck away before anything worse happens.”

Alaska’s stomach bottoms out at the thought, and she doubles down on her stance. She can’t control Sharon, but she can control how much she can help keep her from getting hurt. She’s going.

Something must show on her face, because Sharon falls silent, rolling her lips between her teeth. It’s when she pinches the bridge of her nose that Alaska knows she’s giving in.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Sharon says, irritated. She glares at the two of them. “You two aren’t allowed to talk to each other anymore.”

“Oh, thank you lord Jesus,” Jinkx breathes, and Alaska feels relief break over her, soothing her worry at least somewhat.

“I can’t believe I’m letting you come,” Sharon says, glancing at Alaska with concern. “Fuck.”

“I’ll be fine,” Alaska says, and she slides her fingers between Sharon’s, her heart beating a little faster as she initiates the contact. She doesn’t think she’ll ever get used to this freedom. “We’ll have each other.”

Sharon squeezes her fingers, still looking wary despite the small smile she gives Alaska. “At least there’s that.”

🌸

“I didn’t think Colorado got this hot,” Alaska whines, draping herself dramatically over Peaches’ neck. “I can’t believe you packed four blankets.”

“Enjoy it while you can,” Sharon says from beside her, raising her eyebrows. “You’ll be longing for it once the sun sets and we’re freezing our tits off.”

They’d left around four hours ago, and the late afternoon sunlight has them in what feels like an oven, the dry air only making the sun’s beams that much hotter. Katya had once again lent Alaska her hat, providing her with some shade, but that was the extent of mercy she’d been given - the rest of her is soaked with sweat, and she’s pretty sure she’ll have sunburn by the time they stop for rest.

It takes two days to get to Honard. Alaska just might die of heatstroke before they get to the actual danger.

“You’re one to talk,” Alaska says bitterly. “You’re not even sweating.”

“I think you’ve forgotten that my skin is leather,” Sharon says, and Alaska snorts.

“And I think you’ve forgotten that joke isn’t funny,” she says, and Sharon laughs. Alaska smiles at the sound - it makes the heat tolerable.

“Most of my jokes aren’t,” Sharon says. “You’ll have to get used to it.”

“Easier said than done,” Alaska says drily.

Sharon snorts. “I don’t think– hold on,” she says, voice suddenly wary.

She abruptly pulls Cerrone off the road, and Alaska follows, her heart already thumping against her ribcage. She looks ahead to see someone heading towards them on the road, but from the looks of him, it isn’t anyone dangerous. She frowns, pulling up to walk by Sharon’s side once again.

“What is it?” she asks, eyes still on the man. “I don’t think he’s a cop.”

“He probably isn’t,” Sharon says, but her tone is still very much serious. “But I still don’t want him to see our faces. Lower your hat.”

Alaska obeys, still frowning. If he isn’t a cop–

Bounties, she realizes, as Sharon pulls her own hat lower. Even a poor farmer - maybe especially a poor farmer - would seize the chance to catch a bounty if it was sitting right in front of them.

As they near the man, neither slowing in pace, Alaska holds her breath.

They pass with little fanfare, each raising a silent hand in greeting, and Alaska lets out the breath she’d been holding, relief sending goosebumps down her arms. She ignores the frown the man had given Sharon - women riding alone is unusual, after all.

Wishful thinking, as you know, is useless when it comes to danger.

“Hey, wait!” the man says, and Alaska’s heart stops. “Aren’t you-?”

“Go!” Sharon snarls, and she digs her heels into Cerrone’s sides. Alaska is close behind her, keeping pace as they fly across the barren hills, mountains seemingly stagnant beside them.

A gunshot echoes off the mountains, startling the horses, and Alaska knows that they’re being chased. It’s utterly terrifying, and she digs her heels even harder into Peaches’ sides despite the horse already going as fast as she can.

“Fuck!” Sharon hisses as a bullet bursts into the dirt right beside her, sending Cerrone into a frenzy, and she suddenly stops, Alaska speeding past her before she’s even realized what’s happened.

A third gunshot echoes, and Alaska feels the blood drain from her face, her heart in her throat as she yanks on Peaches’ reins, adrenaline giving her more strength than she would have had otherwise.

By the time she gets Peaches to slow, turning her around despite her own instinct to just keep running, she finds Sharon swinging off of a nervous Cerrone, revolver in hand. The man lies on the ground, clutching his leg as his own horse flees, leaving a trail of dirt in its wake.

Alaska’s stomach dips as she realizes what Sharon is about to do.

“Sharon!” Alaska shouts, sliding down from her saddle and sprinting towards the other woman, feeling much faster with the adrenaline running through her. “Don’t!”

“Don’t what?” Sharon snaps, whirling around. Alaska eyes the man, but he seems too busy trying to staunch the bleeding in his leg to raise his gun again. “Do exactly what he was just trying to do to me?”

“He’s no one, Sharon,” Alaska says, reaching Sharon and grabbing her wrists. Sharon jerks away, clearly furious, but Alaska holds fast. “He’s taken care of. You made a promise.”

“Please,” the man says, tears of pain streaming down his face. “I just needed the money. Nothin’ personal.”

“Nothing personal?” Sharon says incredulously, and Alaska shoots the man a warning look. He doesn’t seem to get it.

“I have a wife. Children.”

“Do you have valuables?” Sharon sneers.

Alaska relaxes somewhat - Sharon seems to be backing down. Alaska doesn’t know what she would do if Sharon hadn’t listened to her - hadn’t kept her word.

The man squeezes his eyes shut, sweat streaming down his face. “Please, I–”

“Because I want to take something from you,” Sharon tells him, voice dangerously low, “and the other option is your life.”

“Yes! Yes, I have somethin’! Please, don’t shoot me,” he says desperately, and he grabs something around his neck, snapping the chain and hurling it at Alaska. His hand immediately goes back to his thigh.

Alaska picks the locket up from the dirt, ignoring the blood stuck to it and sticking it into Sharon’s hand. “It’s a locket,” she says, and Sharon’s face flickers strangely.

“This is it, huh?” Sharon says, her voice suddenly a lot quieter.

“It’s all I have,” the man says. “There’s a picture of my family in there - please, I’m sure you don’t want it, and it’s the only–”

“Here,” Sharon says, anger suddenly cooled, and to Alaska’s shock, she tosses the necklace back at the man. It bounces off of his chest. “Keep it. It’s worthless.”

“It’s worth something, I swear!” the man says, growing more distressed. “Please don’t–”

“I won’t kill you, Jesus!” Sharon snaps, and the man falls silent. Sharon looks at him for a moment, her expression unreadable. Alaska holds her breath.

“Consider this a warning,” Sharon finally says, and Alaska lets out the breath she’d been holding. Sharon starts back towards Cerrone, that strange expression still on her face. Alaska follows silently, burning with questions and casting the man one last glance. He seems too surprised to speak.

Alaska feels the same, the sudden deescalation making the air seem unsteady and strange. Was this because of her? Maybe the lack of killing, but not the strange mood shift. It had to have been the locket, which–

The locket Alaska had found suddenly comes to mind, and the same questions suddenly worm their way back into Alaska’s mind as she mounts Peaches, the eyes of the woman in the picture holding secrets Alaska is dying to know.

That locket means something, and she intends to find out what.

“Why?” she asks Sharon, as they start moving again, leaving the man behind to figure out a way to get back home without his horse. Alaska can’t bring herself to feel guilty. A dark part of her even suggests that Sharon should have taken the locket anyway, as a form of some retribution - she finds that without the fear that Sharon will kill anyone, anger burns inside her, as well, a desire for vengeance.

She ignores the feeling.

For a moment, Sharon looks like she’s going to fling a barb at Alaska, before she suddenly slumps, looking tired. “I made a promise. You said I was better than murder,” she says, and Alaska startles at the reminder. “And you were right. I’m glad I didn’t kill him.”

It’s not the whole truth, but Alaska doesn’t dare to push for more. Not when Sharon’s looking at her with that unreadable expression, a glowing warmth filling her chest. She’d kept her word. Alaska loves her.

“I’m glad you didn’t either.”

🌸

“Fire really is man’s greatest invention,” Alaska sighs as the pile of dead brush Sharon’s been messing with for fifteen minutes finally catches, reaching her hands out to the warmth of the small flame. The night had brought a bitter chill along with it, and after around an hour of riding in it and several slices of dried meat, Sharon had decided to call it a day.

“Well, a woman made this one,” Sharon says, and Alaska rolls her eyes.

“Have you ever actually picked up a book?”

“I know how to read, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“It’s not, but that’s good to know.”

“Wealthy people are the only ones with time to read, anyway.”

“Tell that to Jinkx,” Alaska snorts.

“Fine. Jinkx and wealthy people are the only ones with time to read,” Sharon amends, an amused smirk curling at the corner of her mouth. “I read a lot as a kid, though.”

Alaska immediately perks up at the mention of Sharon’s past, and she suddenly doesn’t know how to reply - she doesn’t want to accidentally make Sharon close off again. “You did?” she goes with, just to be safe.

“All the time. It was all I ever did,” Sharon laughs, leaning back on her hands to look at the fire. “My mother hated me.”

“Mine did too,” Alaska says, unable to help the crooked smile that crawls across her face. “Although it was more about playing in the dirt than reading books. She would have loved it if I were a little more studious.”

“Jesus, I wasn’t studious,” Sharon snorts. “I read Little Women and thought I could do whatever I wanted.”

“And now you can. Looks like your wish came true,” Alaska teases, but Sharon’s smile fades.

“Not in the way that I’d wanted.”

They lapse into silence, and Alaska stares into the fire, thousands of questions burning on her tongue. This is her chance to ask one - she just has to make sure it’s the right one. She itches to probe more into Sharon’s childhood, into what went wrong and why she’s here, but Sharon’s skittish defense everytime Alaska brings up her past outside of being an outlaw has Alaska hesitating.

She risks a glance at Sharon, who appears deep in thought, a slight crease between her brows and her eyes far away. Alaska scoots a little closer. Maybe she’ll ask something safe, first, to test the waters.

“What did Kameron do for you?” she asks softly.

Sharon blinks like she’s confused, looking over at Alaska with a frown on her face. “What?”

“You mentioned owing her,” Alaska says, trying not to get irritated. It’s not like Sharon is acting clueless on purpose. “What do you owe her for?”

A strange expression crosses Sharon’s face. “Nothing.”

“Nothing,” Alaska repeats, voice flat.

“I’ve only met her a few times,” Sharon elaborates, “and two of those involved a couple of drinks at a bar and nothing else. The other was a funeral. She hasn’t done anything for me, and I certainly haven’t done anything for her.” Her tone suddenly grows bitter, and unease swirls in Alaska’s stomach as an unpleasant idea comes to mind.

“You didn’t - you didn’t do anything to her, did you?”

There’s a long pause. “No,” Sharon says finally, but there’s a strange lack of conviction in her tone.

There’s another long pause in which Alaska waits for her to continue, but as it becomes evident that she never will, irritation pops in her chest like a bubble.

“You have to give me more than that,” she says, abruptly louder, and Sharon jumps a little. “Sharon, this is ridiculous.”

Sharon sits up, a warning expression on her face. “What is?”

“Are you kidding me?” Alaska cries. “All I know about you is that you used to read and you have a baby brother buried somewhere! And both of those were unprompted!”

“Maybe that should tell you something about asking, then!”

“I doubt you’re going to give me your life’s story unprompted, Sharon!”

“I don’t have to give you my life’s story,” Sharon snaps, a familiar defensiveness creeping in on the edges of her expression. “You don’t want it, no matter how much you think you do.”

“I do want it,” Alaska says earnestly, grabbing Sharon’s hands. “I want to know everything there is to know about you. I want to know where you came from, what you like, what you hate, why you act the way you do - I love you, Sharon, and there’s nothing you can do to change that.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence, and realization dawns on Alaska as she stares into Sharon’s shocked face. “Um - I mean – I just got a little– I just meant–”

“I’ll tell you,” Sharon says, and then she takes in a deep breath, like she hadn’t meant to say it. Alaska stares at her, her face still warm.

“You’ll tell me?”

“I–” Sharon cuts herself off, and her hands squeeze Alaska’s briefly. “I’ll tell you. Just - just promise me that you’ll say it again when I’m done.”

“I will,” Alaska says without hesitation, and Sharon looks her in the eyes, her expression strange. It takes Alaska a moment to realize that she’s afraid.

“Promise,” she says, and Alaska nods, her heartbeat quickening. What the hell could Sharon possibly be so afraid of?

“I promise,” Alaska says. “I promise I’ll still love you.” She can’t truly promise this, but she prays that she can hold to it. Her love suddenly feels so strong, so powerful - she feels like she would break down mountains with her bare hands for the woman in front of her.

She can hold to it.

Sharon swallows audibly, and as she begins, her hands squeeze Alaska’s so tightly that she’s afraid she’ll have bruises once Sharon lets go. She can’t bring herself to care, Sharon’s story the only thing she can focus on.

“It all has to do with Chad,” Sharon starts, voice a little shaky. “Chad Michaels. She saved me.” Sharon takes another breath. “She’s so goddamn entangled in my life - nothing will make sense unless I start at the beginning.”

She stops, clearly hesitant. Alaska hums in encouragement, and Sharon’s eyes drop down to the ground as she continues.

“I got married when I was eighteen. He was a well known banker in our town and he asked my parents for my hand before he even asked me.”

Alaska shouldn’t be surprised to hear that Sharon had been married - it’s nearly unavoidable. But some part of her had thought Sharon to be above it all, had thought that she had been the woman sitting in front of her since the day she was born. That idea is starting to crumble, now.

“My family needed help - we had too many bad years to recover very well. So, I married him, and I moved into his house. It was fine for a week, but I guess the idea of a ‘headstrong woman’ grew less attractive the longer we were together,” Sharon says, expression growing dark. “It got to the point where he would hit me if I spoke first. He wouldn’t listen when I said–” Sharon stops, clearly overwhelmed and breathing heavily.

Alaska blinks away her tears, her own breathing quickening. “Sharon,” she says quietly, suddenly sick to her stomach. “Sharon, you don’t have to–”

“I want to,” Sharon says, voice growing stronger. “I’m going to.”

Alaska doesn’t know if she wants it any longer, every word of Sharon’s feeling like a knife twisting in her chest, but she nods. She asked for this, and if Sharon wants to stop, she can.

“Things were bad,” Sharon sums up, and Alaska lets out a watery laugh.

“Sounds like an understatement.”

Sharon cracks a small smile, and Alaska nearly cries with relief at the sight of it. “That’s because it is,” she says, letting out a breath.

“Did you ever report him?” Alaska asks, anger slowly making its way into her chest the longer she looks at Sharon’s face. She wants vengeance on this man she’s never met - Sharon has to have wanted it more.

Sharon’s eyebrow twitches strangely. “No,” she says, after a moment. “I never did.”

“Why not?” Alaska asks, beginning to get worked up. “He was - you just took it?”

Guilt instantly spikes in her stomach at the hurt in Sharon’s expression, and she scrambles to remove it. “No,” she amends quickly, tightening her grip on Sharon’s hands before she can pull them away. “You wouldn’t have if you didn’t have to. I’m sorry. He just–”

“Deserves to fucking rot in hell?” Sharon snorts, voice bitter. “I know. But life isn’t fair.”

“How did you get out, then? Did you run?”

“It was Chad,” Sharon says, her lips curling into a small smile at the name. “She - I was with Lucas for a year. He would send me out to the general store for tobacco pretty often, and it was there that I met Chad. I don’t remember how, but we started talking, and she somehow figured out what was going on. I think she asked one question about it and I immediately started crying in the store like some child.” Sharon laughs. “She was clearly different - she was wearing pants and she had a gun stuck to her hip. She invited me to leave town with her. I accepted. She even offered to kill Lucas for me, but I told her not to. I regret it now.”

Alaska remains silent, unable to bring herself to argue - she finds herself agreeing, even though she knows she shouldn’t. Why should Sharon have mercy when clearly, he had none? What’s just in that?

“We ran around for three years like two idiots,” Sharon says, smiling fondly. “She was like a mother to me. We had matching lockets - I think that’s what you found, last night.”

Regal eyes flash across Alaska’s memory, and she nods, raising her eyebrows. “Why don’t you wear it?” she asks, before she can really think about it, and guilt is just barely beginning to plunge into her stomach when Sharon finally answers after a long beat.

“Looking at her makes me feel guilty,” she says, voice quiet again. “She’s dead.”

Alaska tries not to jolt with surprise at Sharon’s blunt tone. “It’s not your fault,” she says automatically, and Sharon glares.

“How could you possibly know that?”

“Did you shoot her?” Alaska asks pointedly, and Sharon shakes her head. “Then it’s not your fault.”

“You’ll change your mind once I tell you I was the one who convinced Chad to join forces with Lawrence Solomon,” Sharon snaps, and Alaska’s worry spikes when she sees that there are tears in her eyes. “I didn’t even trust him - we just needed money, and he was the easiest way to it. A fucking robbery,” she snorts disparagingly. “Split evenly down the middle. It’s so obvious now that it was a set up.”

“You’re acting like Chad couldn’t have said no,” Alaska says gently, but Sharon barrels on, seemingly deaf to her point.

“I fucking - I threatened to go in with him on my own even if Chad didn’t want to. She was so concerned–” Sharon sucks in another deep breath. “Long story short, we robbed a carriage - a fucking carriage - and I watched as he shot her in the– I ran.” Sharon takes another deep breath, clearly trying her best to keep her tears at bay, her expression crumpling. “I abandoned her, Alaska, and the least I can do to make up for it is to be there for her daughter. I–”

Alaska cuts her off with a kiss, anger and relief driving it with force - anger, because Sharon blaming herself for this is the stupidest thing she’s ever heard, and relief, because Sharon blaming herself for this is the stupidest thing she’s ever heard.

She breaks off the kiss to look Sharon in the eyes. The other woman looks conflicted, hope and uncertainty in her expression. “I love you, Sharon Needles,” Alaska tells her, and it feels so freeing to say, “and none of that was your fault.”

Sharon looks like she disagrees, holding her breath for a short moment. “You just–”

“Shut up,” Alaska says, unwilling to tolerate any more. “I love you.”

Sharon looks at her for a long time, dried tear tracks on her cheeks to match Alaska’s. She clearly still doesn’t believe Alaska, but her expression shifts suddenly, like despite her disagreement, it doesn’t matter anymore.

“I love you too, Lasky,” she says softly, the warmth that Alaska has been seeing in her gaze for a week now shining out of her face.

It’s the best thing Alaska’s ever heard. It floods her with a happiness she’s never experienced, an elation that makes her feel like she could fly.

She grins, cheeks hurting from how hard she’s smiling, and she pulls Sharon into another, deeper, kiss.

She feels like she could burst with happiness, with warmth - she wants to hold Sharon tight and never let go, she wants to scream her love from the mountain tops, she wants to go anywhere and everywhere with this woman.

She’s in love. She’s loved. She could conquer the world.

As they gently fall over onto the ground, Alaska’s hands in Sharon’s hair and Sharon’s hands somewhere up her shirt, Alaska feels closer to this woman than she’s ever been to anyone.

She’s starting to understand why Sharon had reacted to the robbery the way she had - she can only hope that this mission goes more smoothly.

It has to. Alaska’s too wrapped up in Sharon to even consider the alternative.

[yehet-me-up]

Writing Tag 📝

Tagged by @yeoldontknow @kyungseokie @ninibears-erigom @xiubaek-13 thank you!! 😄💕🌟I loved reading everyone’s and getting a peek into your writing process/faves!

1. what is your ideal setting for focusing on your writing?

Definitely Panera Bread (a cozy restaurant chain that has the BEST cinnamon bagels and mac & cheese, for anyone not familiar). I’m praying that by next year COVID is to a point where I can write there again. Other than that usually at home at my desk is best for focus.

2. what is your favorite genre to write?

I’m down for anything as long as it has at least a little bit of romance 😂I think on here I’ve written rom coms, sci fi, fantasy, angst, horror, thriller, etc. and I definitely plan to continue being a wide and varied writer but with that constant romance bent, as I am a diehard romance hoe 💕I was thinking about this recently and I think the universal vibe for my work is /longing/ since that’s a reflection on who I am as a person lmaooooo

3. do you prefer to write on paper, or digitally?

Oh my god digitally. I used to have atrocious handwriting as a kid, but it’s gotten better. I have a persistent ache in my wrist/thumb on my dominant hand (i think because of carpal tunnel due to spending five years growing up working at a theater and constantly using my wrist to sweep up popcorn lmao) so I could never be a longhand/paper writer.

4. it’s the middle of the night and you suddenly wake up with an idea. what do you do?

I used to just type it into an email to myself or into the search bar on my phone or on random pieces of paper but now I just have a ‘misc’ google doc that I can pull up on my phone and jot things down. The virgo energy that thrives in my chart is SO happy to have this organized 😂

5. who is your favorite person to write about?

hmmmm I actually had to think about this. I think I’m in the minority here in the fandom since I have only written one (?) story about my ult bias Kim Junmyeon. I’m not sure why that is necessarily but I think it’s since I keep my thoughts about him so close to myself I usually spend my time and creative energy writing for other people??? My favorite person is probably Kyungsoo or Baekhyun. Baek because he’s so !!! I feel like his stories are very fun to write and Soo because he’s a bit quieter/more introverted so the fics I seem to write for him are very internal and full of longing which I vibe with on the daily, so it feels like writing myself almost lmaoooo

6. do you like making your own characters, or do you usually write about real people?

I’d say both? I really enjoy writing my own characters but I also enjoy writing fanfic, since there’s already a universal knowledge of the ‘characters.’ I always write AUs vs. RPF (real person fiction) about the IRL people I’m writing about, so it’s easier to just jump into the idea vs. spending a whole lot of time establishing the appearance/general personality of characters. While writing my book I’ve been dipping back into writing fics since it’s a nice break from having to create every aspect of the world/characters myself, so I’d say I like both equally!

7. have you ever written a book, or a story with more than 15 chapters (or 100k words)?

PLS PRAY FOR ME LMAOOOO god I’m like uhhh at about 85k on my book and just shy of 100k is the target word count for a book in the age group/genre i’m writing for so I’m aaaallllmmooossttt done. Other than that I think EXO mall is over 100k??? it’s not all one series but I sometimes consider it one. Other than that I think if I do end up writing Regency Husbands aka A Truth Universally Acknowledged here on tumblr itself I think that will probably be in the ballpark of 100k since I plotted it out as an entire book lololoollol.

8. how often do you get ideas?

fuckin hell, just - all the time. I have a few fics/books plotted out and I’m dying to get around to them and then I have a ‘misc’ google doc that holds lines, images, snippets of things that I’d love to throw together into a story at some point. I talk about this below, but now that I’m taking on trying to write books/be traditionally published (and since I’m a virgo... rising/mercury/mars/etc. I get VERY stressed by loose ends/unfinished things ughhhgghgh) I’ve had to be really clear/strict with myself when something comes up. 

Like is this new thing 1. a fic/book i want to write and 2. do I want to prioritize that over things I’ve planned already. So for now my plan on tumblr is to finish EXO mall and then re-evaluate the overflowing folder of ideas to see what’s next lmaooooo. One thing at a time seems to work best for me so that’s what I try to do, OR possibly see if it’s something I can work into an already in-process fic to try to kill two birds with one stone :)

9. do you ever get an idea that you really like, but just can’t seem to finish?

GOD YES. So many. The EXO x Italian Job series that almost was. The Jongin fae story that was supposed to be a drabble and almost became a friggin book. A lot of the things I did for drabble parties came from snippets of things I planned to write as full on fics and just didn’t feel like I could do it justice.

It’s so hard because I work full time and life is busy and I can only write SO much, so as I’ve gotten more uhh experienced? Idk if that’s the right word, but as I’ve come to know myself better as a writer I get more adept at figuring out which ideas will actually sustain me through an entire series or a 20k+ oneshot and which ones will just be drabbles/brief flashes of an idea but ones that I can’t fully ‘finish’ and explore, if that makes sense? 

I’ve come to just enjoy the idea and write a short little thing for it and be done and happy with it vs. spending ages feeling guilty/beating myself up that I just don’t feel like writing that idea. And who knows? Maybe it’s something I’ll come back to later and ‘finish’ but it’s just not the right time!

10. what is your least favorite plot?

Hmmmm I’d say anything with romantic on-the-page abuse (that’s supposed to be romantic??)/dubious consent/verbal humiliation/etc etc. I’ve found a ton of books feature this lately under the guise of an ‘alpha’ male character and I just 🙃it’s not my thing, personally. I am usually still down for like age difference fics (as long as both parties are legal adults ofc), sub/dom vibes in smut, some teasing/jokes etc. but anything with the specific intent to demean/degrade/etc. another person I’m like that gif of the mouse walking in a door and then walking right back out.

11. tag 5 or more people

Tagging @jeonocho @kpopchangedme @jinterlude @yixingminseokjongdae @kpopimagi @strawberrybobohu @simplesanitys @julietsoddeye 🥳

[purplesurveys]

1009

survey by spiritt

Do you play minesweeper or solitare or anything to pass the time? That’s what I did on my old Windows laptops whenever the internet would go out for a long period of time, but I haven’t had to do so in a while now. I’d sometimes play pinball as well, but in the end solitare ended up being my favorite.

Do you believe in life after death? No, I just think of it as sleeping for a very long time which is comforting enough for me to be okay with death. If I think too hard about what can potentially come after, I just get overwhelmed.

What do you think of Oprah? I don’t really think about her in any type of way. I know she had a wildly popular talk show and that she made fortunes out of it and that she occasionally gave out a lot of freebies to her screaming audience from time to time, but other than that I guess I never really cared.

Do you write a lot of surveys or do you just take them? Answered this super recently; I just take them.

What's something you're really good at? Beating deadlines, playing with dogs, and overthinking. Sometimes I do these individually, and sometimes I do them all at the same time loooool.

How big is your bedroom? Not very. I was supposed to have a much larger room in the house, but my sister and I were meant to share it. But after sharing a bedroom with my parents and siblings in our old house, I didn’t want to have to share with anyone anymore – so I called dibs on the bedroom that was meant for my brother; and considering my brother was only 4 when we moved in, it’s not the biggest room in the house. But I took it because I jumped at the chance of finally having personal space, and that’s the story of how I ended up having the smallest bedroom in the house haha. I never saw a reason to complain about it though, honestly...I’m only here to sleep, cry, work, and take surveys. As small as it is compared to other rooms, it provides me with all the space I need.

Do you like to go bowling? I do love bowling. But going to bowling alleys is just so expensive I never really get to go and play a few rounds. And because I’m a bit of a sore loser, I like to keep the bumpers up whenever it’s my turn, ha.

Do you usually remember your dreams? I remember them for a few hours but unless I write them down, I’ll also forget them within the day.

Do you think they mean anything? I don’t think they necessarily reveal a lot; but my dreams are very reflective of what I’m going through and/or my emotions at a given time. So I wouldn’t say they reveal, but rather reiterate.

Have you ever had a crush on a teacher? Yes, but only in high school. In college, one of the professors from the communication research department is super gorgeous and has the most amazing posture and wardrobe, but I never took her classes.

Besides bzoink, which websites do you frequent? Google Suite, YouTube, Reddit, andddd I’ve recently gone back to Twitter because I missed society, tweeting out my thoughts, and being updated with news. Isolation was also starting to not be good for me, so I had to go back.

Who was the last person to come to your house? My grandma and one of my cousins. They came for a quick catch-up and my cousin even got pizzas for us, heh <3

What's your birthstone? Do you have anything with it? Diamond. No, not yet at least.

Have you ever had carpal tunnel? Nope. My wrist has felt exhausted many times before, but I don’t think it was actually carpal tunnel syndrome.

Are you one of those people who is really smart but has no common sense? Hahahahahaha. Yeah I can be, and I’ve occasionally been told that before. I can be a little ditzy, I guess.

Do you think fast? Yes, but I’d rather not. It’s a lot of pressure to think on my feet most of the time.

What browser do you use? Chrome, but I’m increasingly thinking of making the shift to Safari because I’ve just been starting to realize how sleek and clean it looks. I probably wouldn’t simply because I’ve been on Chrome ever since I discovered the internet lmao, but I’ll give it a couple of trials nonetheless and see if I like it.

Are you clumsy? Yep. Tripping is a regular, familiar occurrence.

Paste the last thing you copied. “We were unable to authorize the payment you used to sign up for WWE Network, and as a result your WWE Network subscription has been cancelled.” I’m still figuring out how bank stuff and online payment work and so far no one has wanted to accept my subscriptions. Must be doing something wrong that I haven’t found out yet. I feel welcomed to adulthood, indeed.

Have you ever eaten at Hooters? No. We don’t have them here; but even if we did I dunno if I’d wanna go inside.

Do you like turtles? I certainly don’t dislike them.

Do you have to have goggles when you swim? No. I don’t mind the discomfort tbh, it’s not all bad.

How long can you stay awake? Just a few hours shy of 24.

Where were you going the first time you were on a plane? Boracay.

Do you have a good memory? Too sharp for my own good.

Are you usually more blunt or polite? Eh, I’ve pretty much mastered both. I use either tone whenever necessary.

Does it take a long time to get to know you? Except in the case of this blog, yes.

Is there a specific historical period that you're interested in? Anything but the Middle Ages; for some reason I find that particular period very uninteresting. The whole thing about the knights and peasants and land and feudalism just never grabbed my attention.

Tell me something funny that happened today. I went to PhilHealth today to get my ID and was super excited to take another step into being an independent adult and getting to stuff another Grown-Up™ ID in my wallet. The ID I got is nothing more than a flimsy fucking piece of paper. Barely an ID. This is also the same health insurance corporation whose higher-ups were discovered to have stolen P15 billion from the people’s funds, so. My country never disappoints; a comedy show through and through.

Do you know anyone with a really obnoxious laugh? No.

Do you hold grudges? Yes.

How much was your allowance when you were a kid? P100 a day back in high school.

Can you do push-ups? Very shakily.

I usually assume people online are girls. Do you do anything like that? ??? That’s weird, but okay. Also no I don’t generalize like that.

When you were growing up, did your family move around a lot? Only when I was an infant, so I don’t even remember those times at all.

Do you use public transportation? No. I would if they invested in it and improved on it, but I don’t see that happening.

What's your favorite punctuation mark? I don’t have one.

Have you ever had surgery? No.

What's something you're really proud of? The way I’m slowly learning to be independent. Life-wise, singlehood-wise...it’s terrifying most of the time and I still break down at least once a day. But I’m still alive and doing this survey and breathing, so I must be doing something right. Here’s to feeling and getting better; I know I want to get there.

[thessalian]

Thess vs Accessibility Options

Okay, I’m getting to a point where I think that at least in my own personal sphere, Yong Yea is a little bit cancelled.

Look, I keep up to date with the gaming news through a couple of sources - one fairly dry and factual (Yong) and one a lot more ranty and shouty (Jim Sterling), along with a few other sources here and there. But today’s video by the former was less news and more personal opinion, and it had to do with the recent Forbes article saying that Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice should have an easy mode as an accessibility thing. Yong’s take on it is ... nicer than most of the ‘git gud’ crowd, or at least more polite, but the principle is the same: “The game was designed to be unforgiving, a massive technical challenge. That’s its raison d’etre. Changing the keybindings and the like is the only accessibility option you could ever need and if you just don’t have the time or inclination to develop the abilities you need to beat this cruel and unforgiving world, the game isn’t going to just give up its primary method of conveying a harsh, unforgiving world for your comfort and convenience. If you lack time and inclination, this game is not for you”.

Now, I’m not touching the comments, because it’s a bunch of ‘git gud’ assholes bitching about people wanting to dumb down their games and taking it to the borderline comedy extreme of “these people want to just press a button to win”. I know better than to throw my disabled ass to that school of ableist barracuda. But I have a lot to say about gameplay modes and accessibility from the perspective of someone who has disability issues, and I am going to fucking say it somewhere or I am going to explode.

So. Let’s take my situation. We begin with my longstanding history of RSI, carpal tunnel syndrome, and probably incipient arthritis. My hands and wrists hurt more or less constantly. It’s pretty low-grade these days, but given my general arena of employment and my hobbies, there’s not a lot in the way of ‘rest’ for them. I have to be careful, though, because I don’t want to cripple myself. Been there, done that. Thing is, no amount of keybinding changes would let me play a game that unforgiving. I literally cannot move that fast for extended periods without significant issues. Not when I’m maintaining a 90+ wpm typing rate at work and to communicate with friends. When you consider that I have it relatively easy in terms of my manual dexterity issues compared to a lot of other people? That’s a lot of people you’re shutting out by not even considering a mode where at least you don’t have to hit as often or you get more telegraphing of incoming attacks.

Most of all, though, there’s the migraine thing, at least for me. The sheer speed at which you need to change direction and attack pattern to beat some of these things ... it would be brutal. I doubt I could finish even one major fight before I ended up curled up in a corner wishing for death with my head ringing and every ancillary migraine symptom I have flaring up. Thus tanking the same boss again and again and again to get used to the attack patterns is impossible for me, just from the point of view of my physical health. The option to take things a little slower? Would help immeasurably.

So why do I want to play this, if it’s so obviously not meant for me? Because the selling points of these games are so much more than the gameplay. There’s a story there that we’re not allowed to experience unless we have the time, inclination and physical ability to take that kind of punishment. The developers have made a skill challenge, yes, but they’ve also made a truly glorious narrative that is not necessarily reliant on that skill challenge.

It’s the difference between equality and equity. At the moment, we have equality - everyone has the exact same experience, whether they can partake in said experience or not. But because not all people are created equal ... some people are not getting the experience of the narrative at all because of the equivalent of refusing to put in a wheelchair ramp leading up to a museum. “It would ruin the aesthetic of our architecture! And look, some people can get out of their wheelchairs long enough to get up the stairs! You’re just lazy!”

See, that’s the part that really offends me from Yong. Not the opinion that From Software isn’t disrespecting players by refusing to include an easy mode, but that he seems to think he knows what constitutes “accessibility options”. Keybindings help, sure. Colour blind mode helps, yes. But that is not all there is to accessibility. And if people who just aren’t into games that punishing take advantage of a mode designed for people with manual dexterity issues? SO THE FUCK WHAT? It still doesn’t take the achievement away from someone playing on normal or hard or nightmare mode.

I’m not going to tell From Software what features they have to include in their games. I think they’re stupid for not accommodating those who lack the physical ability to develop the skills needed to tackle their game, but if they want a punishing hack-and-slash that locks away their epic story - if they honestly feel that making an easier mode that is hard for the disabled rather than outright impossible? That’s their prerogative. But I think that people like Yong Yea and the people who are screaming ‘GIT GUD’ at the top of their lungs are disrespecting players by making assumptions about what constitutes accessibility options.

Summary: Forbes made a point, Yong got a bit ableist, he’s not allowed to tell people who are actually disabled what constitutes ‘accessibility options’, and he did it anyway, so he’s kind of cancelled.

[closetspngirl]

Love Heals the Soul (Part 32) - Wait

Summary: Reader ends up in the hospital, Jensen has a hard time with it.

Masterlist

Pairing: Jensen x reader

Word Count: 1552

Warnings: minor swearing, being in a hospital, talk of surgery (nothing graphic), sad Jensen

A/N: I’m not a doctor, nor do I know how things work. I doubt you can cast a broken arm AND operate on the same arm for carpal tunnel. But who knows. Maybe you can. In this story, it works.  Feedback is always welcome! Italicized are lyrics, POV thoughts or text conversations; you can tell by the context

Jensen’s POV

Cliff had been the one to drive a handful of us to the set location, so he was there and able to take Bri and I to the hospital, not even going back to our trailers to change. I had to get there and see Y/N, I didn’t care that it was as Dean, I needed to know that she was ok.

Briana put her hand on my knee squeezing it. “She’s going to pull through, she’s a tough girl.”

“God Bri, she’s been through so much, and now this. Why?” It was barely a horse whisper, trying to keep the tears from falling.

The rest of the ride was silent.

When we got to the hospital, Cliff barely had the SUV pulled to the curb before I jumped out, Briana following me. Thank god she was there, because I had no idea what I was doing or what to say. We got to the registrars desk inside and it was all muffled, I knew Briana was talking and then taking my hand in hers and leading me to where Y/N was. When we got to her floor, I came to enough to ask where we were going.

“I just talked to the nurse’s station, she’s in surgery, has been for about an hour but she should be almost done, maybe another forty five minutes to an hour. They’ll come talk to us when she’s out. So for now we need to sit here and wait, I’m sorry hon. I’m going to  go call her parents, are you going to be ok for a minute?” I could only nod my answer.

Truthfully, I was on autopilot; I heard her words but I didn’t listen. I didn’t want to sit here and wait for them to tell me if she was going to be ok or not. I pulled out my phone to text Jared, knowing he was probably still on set so he wouldn’t answer right away.

We’re here. She’s in surgery. I don’t know anything else yet. Jar…fuck, I can’t lose her, man. I don’t know what to do right now. She promised that she wasn’t going anywhere. Briana is on the phone with her parents letting them know.

A few minutes had passed, in which time I had zoned out until I felt my phone vibrate.

Y/N is going to be fine, she’s right; she’s not going anywhere. You know how strong she is; you know she’s going to give this fight everything she has.

After we’re finished up here I’ll have Cliff come get me and I’ll bring you a change of clothes and some food. I’ll be there in a few hours. You gotta hang in there man.

Thanks.

---

It felt like a damn eternity before the doctor came over to us, and I spent the better part of it pacing a hole in the floor. “You two are here for Y/N?” We both nodded and stood upon his arrival.

“I’m Dr. Timmel, I was the operating surgeon on Y/N, and she’s stable and will make a full recovery.  She came in with a concussion, which is common for a car accident, some bumps and bruises and a broken arm. She was quite frantic going into surgery, talking about not wanting to because of the hallucinations. I had time to look over the notes from her last surgery, and saw she had a reaction to the anesthesia, so we were able to give her something else and she responded well to it. I did give her a sedative after surgery, so she’s going to be out for another few hours, but you’re both more than welcome to go see her when she’s moved to her room, maybe another thirty minutes. Do either of you have any questions?”

It was like I was playing catch-up in my head, going over everything that he just told us. “Umm…Surgery? For a broken arm? How bad was it?” I asked him, fearing the worse and starting to panic.

“The broken arm was simple, just had to reset it and cast it. The surgery was actually because of her hands, well one of them. She was responsive when she came into the ER, telling us that she couldn’t feel her hands. It was when I looked over her notes that I saw the surgeries that she had had done for them, figuring that this was probably the cause of the accident. Of course that’s just speculation, the responding officers will be able to tell you more. I was able to get enough information from her and her chart to figure out the best course of action, and of course her permission to do the first surgery.”

“It was necessary to do it now, since she didn’t have feeling in them. I was able to operate on the same arm that broke, her left one. It was tricky, but I wanted her to have a least one useable hand during both healing processes. Her right hand has lost a lot of function, but she can still use it. It’ll mostly be fine motor skills that she’ll have issues with, so she might need help with some things. Please, sit, have a coffee, and I’ll have a nurse come get you when Y/N has been moved.”

Sitting back down, I thought about what I had decided yesterday on set, that we would talk about her hands. She was supposed to be meeting the doctor before the end of the month; it wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

All I could do was sit there with my head in my hands, elbows on my knees. Briana rubbed a hand across my back, not having to say anything.

Time passed oh so slowly; one minute felt like ten, when finally a nurse came out. “I can take you both to see Y/N now.”

When we got to the door the nurse paused, “I want to warn you, she looks a little beat up, cuts and bruises mostly, casted arm and wrist. She is fine though. She is breathing on her own, but has been given oxygen at least through the night to help her out a little bit. She’s also been given a sedative, so she’ll be out still for a couple hours. You’re more than welcome to stay as long as you’d like. I’ll be back by in a couple hours to make sure she’s ok, if you need anything, just press the call button by her bed, my name is Rachel.” She smiled a meek smile, opening the door and letting us go in first.

She followed after, checking to make sure all the monitors were reading appropriately and writing down a couple notes in her chart, then left. I didn’t make it half way to the bed before I stopped and stared at her. The monitors beeping, tracking everything that was going on with her, the tube running just below her nose; I couldn’t stand to see her like this, I knew the tears were there, but I couldn’t stop them. Briana was bent over the bed, brushing the hair away from her face. I could barely make out what she was saying.

“Hey sweetie. What did we talk about, you not ending up in the hospital again? Didn’t we say once was enough?” Her tone was light, and I could only imagine she was talking about when she was kidnapped and put in the hospital. “I’m not going to stay long baby, but Jensen is here, he’s going to stay with you. I’ll be back tomorrow. You need to heal yourself up and get back to this boy, he’s a mess right now.” I chuckled at that last part, at least in my head, not sure if the emotion made it to my face.

Briana kissed Y/N on the forehead before coming back to me, putting a hand on my face to draw my gaze to her. “You with me Jen?” I nodded. “Stay here with her, she needs you. I’ll come back tomorrow morning. Text me if you need me, even if it’s the middle of the night.” I nodded again.

She kissed my cheek and left, leaving me alone standing in the room, curtains drawn over the windows to keep most of the late afternoon sun out, with just the noise of the oxygen and monitors. I finally walked over to her, kissing her ever so carefully on her forehead, cupping her cheek in my palm, running my thumb over it.

“Hey sweetheart.” The tears were coming, and there was nothing I could do to stop them. “Don’t forget. You promised you weren’t leaving, that I was stuck with you. I’ll be waiting. I’m not going anywhere baby. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

I pulled the chair from the corner of the room over next to her bed sitting on her right side, slipping my hand into hers. I took out my phone again, seeing that I had a few texts and phone calls, but I ignored all of them, opening the text thread with Jared.

She’s in her room 308. I’ll tell you the rest when you get here. She’s ok. Banged up pretty good.

I’ll be there within the hour.

Tags: @maralisa124 @somilotopia @delightfullykrispypeach @steffiemeheus @lizwinchester16 @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester @mystrie @supernatural-lover-teamfreewill @cats-are-untrustworthy @superromijn @gifsforgomez @sherlock44 @life-through-the-lenss @1233088 @fandomloveyeah @allonsy-yesiwill @amomentintime @headingforthe-target-of-insanity @justforsavingfics @ocean-waves-that-misbehave @justfloatingthroughtime @hobby27 @musiclovinchic93  @im-super-un-natural  @miserys-company23  @stellaa33  @greyeyedsmile14  @deanlovespiebabyandmeloljkiwish  @winchester-top-the1975  @siriuslyimmortal  @zahiaouzidane @hopefulcolorcollectorsthings @perpetualabsurdity @justanotheraccount12345678910 @effulgenttales @imaginationisgrowth @jbbarnesgirl

[omg-foreverfilledwithweird-posts]

Holding Our Breath

Summary: Zig and MC, Rhianna, haven’t really talked about how they feel about each other, it’s a little bit after their big fight with the brawl at the mosh pit. They’re wiry around each other and don’t know how to talk about it. It’s a bit of an angsty, sexual tension, with lots of kissing of course. I mean it’s Zig, he can’t resist MC ;)

Go easy on me btw, I’m learning and my writing isn’t the best yet but I really hope you enjoy it because I loved writing it. 

(I stole some lines from the series I really like to spice up the story. PB did really well with their relationship...)

Rhianna holds her breath around him. She can’t say what she wants without her lungs constricting in protest. She’s always been good with emotions. Giving pep talks, supporting her friends, ask how they’re doing, meddle in lives for the greater good, help the people she cares about... Especially Zig. But she can’t seem to exhale around him.

She’s suffocating. But it’s also a rush.

She’s slouching on the couch, her tired limbs spread out after a day of writing, suffering from immense carpal tunnel. 

But still, all she’s thinking about is Zig. 

Zig. Freaking. Ortega.

Zig the Latino, James Dean like, sexy, hot as hell, kind, compassionate, big-hearted, beautiful man that is somehow in her life, despite everything that’s happened. Despite her taking her pain out on him, and hurting him. He’s still here. Granted, he hurt her too, but it still baffled her. 

Why her?

As if on cue, the door swings open and Zig stalks in, his usual leather jacket, dark jeans, and white tee clinging to his muscular build. He slumps down on the couch next to me, breathing sharply in and out. 

She turns to him, and he meets her eyes, both looking at each other, immediately softening.

“Are you okay?” she asks in concern, something she finds herself asking more and more everyday.

“I think so,” he says, breathing slower now in the presence of her, but his heart still beats fast as their fingers inch closer to touching. “Manny is just being...” he sighs, tightening his jaw.

“Manny?” she finishes. “You can’t change how a person is. All you can do is be your wonderful, accepting self and be nice to him. Be kind, and be the bigger person. You know... rise above and such.”

“Your pep talk game is pretty weak today, Rhianna,” he cracks a smile.

She slaps his chest playfully and he chuckles lightly. “Hush. I can’t be perfect every time one of you need me. I’m tired and...” she pauses, wondering how to put how she’s feeling into words, but he keeps looking at her. Looking at her with those eyes and making her feel things. “And I have a lot on my mind.”

“What kind of things?” he reaches for her hand, rubbing his thumb over her knuckle. “Scandalous thoughts about me?” he flashes a smirk.

He’s not wrong.

“Possibly...” she whispers, looking at their intertwined fingers, feeling a spike of chills from it all. It killed her, wanting to touch him, but being too afraid.

She didn’t know he felt the same. Both of them so desperate but neither one knowing what to do or how to say it. 

He looks at her amber eyes, “Would it be cheesy if I said you’re on my mind all the time too?”

Her cheeks flush. “It would be.”

“And that I fantasize about you?” he leans forward, brushing his lips with hers. “Every hour of everyday.”

She meets his eyes, her lips curling as a sudden burst of confidence surges through her. “Tell me more.”

He grabs her with his hands on her waist, lifting her up to sit on his lap, his hands running up and down her curves. He looks up at her with a seductive smirk, making her swoon, “That you’re the best part of my day. Standing in that coffee shop, I’m so busy trying to get you out of my head instead of actually doing my job, it drives me crazy. You drive me crazy.”

She holds his face in her hands. Maybe she should tell him. “Zig, I...”

“Why don’t we finish...” he whispers against her jawline, pausing to place feather light kisses up her neck. “Where we left off last night? I’ve been dying to touch you all day.”

“I... I um...” she’s tongue tied, speechless. She can’t think around him. Especially when he lifts up her shirt and kisses down her stomach, lighting her skin on fire so effortlessly. 

He stops, and looks up at her questioningly.

The rush. She began to feel the rush and it took away the doubt and guilt in the pit of her stomach. Her hands rest on the sides of his face, he eyes her skeptically but doesn’t push her away. He likes her touch, her hands are soft and she smells like strawberries and lavender body lotion.

“I don’t want just sex with you, Zig,” she says. 

Exhale. Finally... she’s exhaled.

“I want romantic, cheesy walks along the beach, I want to see you everyday, I want you to hold me every night as I fall asleep, I want you to kiss me and tell me everything’s going to be okay, I want no one else to touch you or hurt you, I want you to be mine and me to be yours...” she takes a breath. “I want you.”

He looks at her thoughtfully, holding her gaze like it’s his lifeline. He doesn’t saying anything and that makes her heart sink. She’s driven him away, she went too far, too over the top. She’s scared him off. 

Rhianna takes her hands away from his face, tears stinging her eyes. She stands up and wipes at her eyes, “I... um... I think I should go.”

Her hands fly up to her face, but the tears are already rolling, it’s uncontrollable. 

She turns to leave, but a hand grabs her wrist, he spins her back so their chest-to-chest with no space between them. His hand lays on the small of her back, his eyes roam her face, then land on her lips and his heart is thundering in his chest. That’s never happened to him before. He’s never felt thing kind of thing, even if he doesn’t know what it is. She opens her mouth to speak, he captures her mouth with his own, stopping her. 

He breaks away, leaning his forehead on hers. “I like you too,” he smirks despite himself. He can’t help it.

“Really?” she asks, dumbfounded. Her eyes are wide, and she’s looking at him, trying to figure out the puzzle that is Zigmund Ortega. It killed her. Slowly, little by little, day by day, he’s been getting to her, breaking the barrier. She’s broken down his walls, taking it down brick by brick until she reached him.

And she’d do it all over again if it meant being with him. 

“No,” he says. “I really like you,” he looks at her with raw emotion, brushing his lips against hers as he leans closer and she shivers. “It’s almost scary how much I like you.”

“I can deal with a little scary...” she takes a sharp intake of breath as his lips go lower, peppering kisses all over the smooth skin on her collarbone. “You know how much I love a good classic horror film. Like Child’s Play or Chainsaw massacre.”

She wanted him. Maybe it was a lust thing or even a love thing, or possibly something in between the two. 

He chuckles against her, tickling her lips. “You’re an enigma, Rhianna Bixley,” he whispers, touching her skin and making constellations, pressing his lips to her soft spots. 

“I didn’t know you knew my last name,” she wraps her arms loosely around his neck, tilting her head back.

“I know lots of things about you,” he says, then shakes his head with a chuckle. “Sorry... that made me sound like a stalker. And a total dork,” he meets her eyes with a sheepish smile.

“But you’re my dork,” she brushes a piece of his ebony, locks out of his eyes and they glimmer with amusement at the curl of her lips. “And a sexy one at that.”

“I’m flattered,” he says, pressing himself against her, pushing her back against the wall. “Now... let me prove to you how sexy I think you are...”

“I’m all yours,” she whispers seductively in his ear, nipping at his earlobe.

He kisses right under her ear and whisper, “You’ve always been mine,” he shoots her a smirk before lowering and putting his head under her black, skater skirt. She gasps when he starts kissing up her inner thigh stopping just at her underwear line, he resurfaces and grins wolfishly at her, making her heart skip a beat. 

Zig picks her up and before she knows it, he’s holding her bridal style, her hands flat on his chest and his under her legs and the other on the small of her back. 

He looks down at her with an insinuating smirk before leaning down to kiss her, her hands fly to his face, deepening it. He pulls away and she furrows her brow, confused.

“Is everything okay?” she asks softly.

“More than okay,” he grins. “It will be, anyway,” he kisses her again, unable to keep his lips to himself, hers are just so inviting and pink and soft, he has to taste them. He tastes like coffee beans and cigarettes, but only the faintest of tastes. His lips just as addictive as the nicotine he smokes. 

“Are we going upstairs?” she whispers on his lips and he smiles. “Please tell me we are.”

“Then we are,” he chuckles. “Tell me what you want. Anything and I’ll give it to you,” he traces his lips up her neck. 

“Just be yourself,” she cracks a smile, kissing his jawline sweetly, his grip on her tightens. “You know me well enough to know what I like.”

“Do you like...” he whispers huskily as he carries up the stairs, getting to her room and kicking the door open. He walks into her room and sets her down on the bed, running his hands up her sides and tickling her. “-this?”

He tickles her harder and she erupts in a fit of giggles as his hands roam all over body, making her laugh. He stops to look at her lazy grin and his heart swells in his chest, holding himself over her. 

“What?” she asks, chuckling slightly, the dimples in her cheeks making an appearance when she looks at him. Her chocolate eyes crinkle slightly and her colored lips are swollen and bruised from kissing him.

“I can’t get over how gorgeous you are,” he says sincerely. “It’s honestly not fair for the rest of the human race.”

“Life’s not fair, baby,” she reaches up and presses her lips to his, gripping at the hair on the back of his neck. Her lips open, inviting him in, he flicks his tongue against her, making her shiver. His grip on her sides tighten, holding the soft fabric of her shirt in his fist and exposing her tempting, smooth skin. He buries his face in the crook of her neck, kissing the hollow of her collarbone. She arcs her back, chest heaving as his hands ride up under her shirt, feeling her warm, topaz skin under his long, calloused fingers. 

He traces his tongue up her stomach, heat unfurling in her core as his hands go lower and lower, going everywhere, all over her body.

“Zig...” she inhales sharply.

He looks up at her with a satisfied smirk. “Yeah, baby?”

“Don’t stop,” she says, tugging at his leather jacket and he shrugs it before she grabs the ends of his shirt and pulls it over his head, throwing it across the room. He grins and pulls off her shirt in return, stealing kisses with each other as they undress one another, eager to feel each other skin-to-skin. 

“What if I do?” he asks.

“I’ll just have to make you,” she says, his fingers outlining her curves. 

“And what would that look like?” his voice dropping an octave lower.

She takes his hand in hers and kisses his finger tips, licking up his fingers, meeting his eyes with unfiltered hunger. 

His eyes darken with lust and hunger, for her and only her, “You’re right. I’m searching for my will power and I can’t seem to find it.”

“I told you,” she says, flipping herself to sit on his hips, straddling him. Her hands run up his muscular, tanned torso, tracing the indention of his abs with her fingertips, scratching at his skin. “Willpower doesn’t exist in the bedroom.”

He smirks, “Only with you.”

“I can’t be the only girl you’ve been with,” she says, a little jealous at that fact. He’s a catch, of course he’s had girlfriends and boyfriends. And yet the thought of him being with other people, tangled in the sheets with each other, people that aren’t her makes her heart clench. He’s close to perfect, but that edge of imperfection he has makes him all the more interesting. Like a map she’ll never find the destination to, the road trip there is what matters, the people you travel with make the trip.

“Regardless of the number of people I’ve slept with,” he lowers his brow, smiling slightly. “You’re not them. You’re you, and I can’t tell you how much you mean to me. Everyday, nobody else is on my mind except you. You occupy my thoughts,” he laughs softly, smirking a bit at her. “Clothed or Naked in my head, I need you, you made me realize who I was when even I didn’t know. I had been stumbling around in the dark for so long and you were the light at the end of the tunnel,” he lets go of her wrists, still using one hand to prop himself up, and uses his other to cup her face in his hand, caressing her cheek. He laughs, “God, I’ve fallen so hard for you, Rhianna. And I don’t ever want to stop.”

She can’t stop the grin from forming on her face, and she hides her face in her hands, blushing like crazy. On the verge of tears, she says, “You’re the first guy that’s said something to me like that.”

He pulls her hands off her face, and them behind her head by her wrists, now on top of her again. “That’s very hard to imagine.”

She shakes her head with a shy smile. “Not really. I’m just me.”

He frowns, “And that’s a bad thing? Where do I even start with all your amazing qualities. You’re intelligent, beautiful, kind, compassionate, fiercely loyal to those you care about, and sexy as hell,” they lock eyes. “Anyone who doesn’t see that doesn’t deserve to have you in their life.”

Her heart clenches, making her pulse quicken under his heated gaze. She reaches up to touch his cheek, smiling to him, “I guess you make a good point.”

He traces his finger down her flat, tan stomach, drawing slow, tantalizing lower and lower. “My mother told me, these are her exact words. ‘Don’t let this girl go, mijo, she’s rare.’” 

She laughs. “I’ve said it many times before, and I will say it again: You’re mother is a smart woman.”

“Why else do you think I turned out this great?” he teases, shooting her a smirk before lowering himself to her underwear, taking the lacy band with his teeth and snapping it against her skin. 

“Someone’s eager,” she chuckles, leaning her head back as he pulls them down the rest of the way with his teeth before throwing it on the floor. 

“Can you blame me, gorgeous?” he says, capturing her lips in a heated, deep kiss before pulling away to look at her and the smile on her lips. “I’ve waited long enough.”

She grabs him by the back of his neck, kissing again, no longer controlling herself as his hands unclip the clasp to her bra behind her back. She smiles against his lips when he holds her against him. 

No more worries...

No more holding back...

No more holding her breath...

[cherry-kirsch]

CRT Glow and Cabinet Covers

gen || 80′s arcade au || 6667 words

If Midoriya had to pick a place where he could spend the rest of his life, he would have to pick All Might’s Arcade.

This was my piece for the @bnha-levelup zine! It was so great to work with such talented people!

[ AO3 ]

If Midoriya had to pick a place where he could spend the rest of his life, he would have to pick All Might’s Arcade.

He’s not quite sure why. It could be something about the psychedelic, swirling purple and green and blue carpets; or how when he goes in there, time seems to stop completely and turn into a haze of white, blue and yellow flashes coming from the CRT monitors he sits or stand in front of; or, maybe, how he always goes home with agitated wrists, sore fingers, and a bubbling sense of pride for beating that one level that he’d been stuck on for ages.

Then there was All Might himself, the dude who ran the entire place. Yagi Toshinori. He was a brilliant gamer with reflexes far above his peers in his prime. Now, due to carpal tunnel syndrome, he resigned himself to running the sort of place he would’ve liked to visit when he was younger. A haven for gamers.

Midoriya thought he was doing a pretty good job.

When Midoriya tells him this, nestled in the backroom nursing a plastic cup of soda with a swirly straw, Toshinori laughs. “That’s sweet, kid,” he says. “Really. But I wouldn’t call this place a haven, not by any means.”

Toshinori looks around and Midoriya knows he’s picking out the slightly-peeling wallpaper, and the dark brown soda stain on the carpet by the Pacman machine, and the place where the windows don’t quite match because one of the panes ended up getting smashed by some stupid kid with a big attitude. When Midoriya looks around he doesn’t see all that, but he knows Toshinori can’t help but see all the flaws.

“If you’re really worried about the wallpaper get it redone.” Midoriya suggests before he takes a small sip of his drink. “Or, take it all down and paint a massive mural of all the arcade cabinet characters.”

Toshinori looks at him. “I can’t paint.” He says.

“You could hire someone to do it.” Midoriya says. “Or take a painting class online—Or!” Midoriya cries, jumping up in his seat so suddenly that Toshinori lurches backwards in surprise. “Ask one of the patrons to do it! They’ve played video games here all their adolescent lives, they wouldn’t mind.”

Toshinori laughs again and rubs the back of his neck, giving Midoriya a reassuring (and sad) smile as he hears one of his staff calling his name. “The image you’ve got is great, and maybe one day you’ll have this place and you can do all that stuff.” He says as he stands, slowly and painfully rolling out his back as he walks towards the door leading out to the arcade floor. “But I’m getting old. I’m not as young or as energetic as I used to be, but hey, that’s life, kid. We can’t do anything about aging souls and bad wrists, but we can do something about peeling wallpaper.”

This time, It’s Midoriya’s turn to laugh. “I guess so.” He says. “So what are you gonna do about it?”

Toshinori looks up at the corner of the peeling wallpaper and considers this. “Well, I think wallpaper paste is a good place to start.” He says before he looks back down at Midoriya, gesturing to the cup in his hand. “You finish that and then hurry on home, right? Your mum gets worried and calls every time you’re home late. Oh, and, Midoriya, remember to ice your wrists this time. Please.”

Midoriya nods and take a long sip of his soda, mumbling a quiet, “M’kay.”, around the neon pink of the swirly straw, trying not to cross-eyed as he watches the liquid travel up the leisure-park-slide like twists of the plastic.

“Now,” Toshinori says, taking in a deep breath as he opens the door and looks out of it, eyes scanning the arcade floor the inevitable disaster. “If you’ll excuse me… I’m going to try and get some kid’s head unjammed from the claw machine.”

Midoriya snorts into his cup. “Why do they make the prize retrieval slot big enough for a human sized head?” He questions, giggling gently to himself. “Nobody has hands that big.”

“That was you not too long ago, kid!” Toshinori replies, half-out the door as he wags his finger at the boy. “I remember when you were up to my hip and you used to get your hands stuck in the coin-slot machine.”

Midoriya laughs again and Toshinori joins in as the door closes behind him, leaving Midoriya alone in the backroom of an arcade. He sighs, collapses into a chair, kicks up his feet on Toshinori’s and finishes his drink as he looks around the room.

The walls and wallpaper are covered in retro video game posters, some for games that line the walls of the arcade like uniform soldiers and some for family consoles, and mementos of Toshinori’s past. There are newspaper clippings of columns that covered certain game tournaments he was in, always small, always shoved mostly to the back of the paper, but they were still things to be proud of, and Midoriya smiles as he reads them, fingers reaching out carefully to touch the yellowing paper.

The photographs stapled onto the wall around the clippings frame them like a collage, and they depict Toshinori as a young man in some (not much older than Midoriya himself) and older in others, all smiling, all bright, and all of them stop after he turns twenty-seven.

He remembers dragging his mother to see Toshinori – All Might, as he was known then – play live at one of the local tournaments, and he’d always watch with wide, sparkling eyes and a brilliant smile, bouncing and sitting on the edge of his seat as he watched each twist and turn of whatever game he was playing that day. And he would always leave hungry, his fingers itching for buttons to press and a game to play.

It was a stroke of luck that Midoriya managed to not only bump into Toshinori, but become his apprentice as well. Apparently, the math was that he was more likely to be struck by a meteor than meet his idol, and, now here he was, a year into the best (and only) apprenticeship of his life.

Midoriya gulps the rest of his soda and tosses the empty cup into the bin by the desk, then he departs the backroom and heads out into the arcade floor with the full intent to head to the front, collect his bike and go on his merry way home. But, then a beauty catches his eye.

A six-foot-tall wonder with electric eyes, colourful garb and a song that seems to speak directly to his heart. He falters in his path, his heart feeling like the swishing lines and weird shapes of the psychedelic-looking carpets, and, then, his eyes meet the beautiful, wondrous, spectacular form of—

Dragon’s Lair .

His fingers itch at the opportunity to play it just one more time before he leaves for dinner. Surely one more game wouldn’t hurt? As he steps towards it, digging in his pockets for coins, he is stopped by someone walking right into him, and as he looks up to apologise, his eyes meet the soft brown ones of a young girl.

“Oh, sorry!” She says gesturing to the arcade cabinet. “Were you wanting to play?” She asks.

Midoriya finds himself slightly, and temporarily, unable to speak. “Yes. No. Uh… Yes!” He decides on finally, his tongue tying itself it into knots trying to force the words out, yet he quickly backtracks when he spots the girl’s crestfallen face. “But I’ve completed it three times so you can play it! I should be getting home—” He says, beginning to bow and scamper away from his embarrassment before he is stopped by the girl reaching enthusiastically for his hand, stopping him in his place.

“Really?!” she asks in excitement. “You’ve completed it before?”

Midoriya manages a shaky nod and a wobbly smile. “Y-yeah.” He mumbles. “Once or twice.”

The girl laughs and waves at someone behind him. “That’s more times than me and Iida combined!” She says happily. “Can you help us? Oh, I’m Uraraka by the way!”

“Uh… Hi?” Midoriya offers before he’s startled by someone coming up right behind him, shivering in fear as he stands stock still.

“Is this your friend?” He asks nervously and Uraraka grins, nodding, turning him gently around by the shoulders to face the man who stands a head taller than him.

“Greetings.” He says politely, holding up a hand in greeting. “My name is Iida Tenya. And you are?”

Midoriya jerkily holds his own hand up and nods. “Midoriya Izuku.” He answers and Tenya reaches forward to seize his hand, shaking it twice firmly before he drops it. “You have a strong handshake.” Midoriya comments letting out a rather awkward laugh.

Uraraka grins. “It comes in handy when he’s playing; he’s got fast reflexes as well.” She says before she presses her hands together in a praying motion. “Would you please help us out with Dragon’s Lair ? Tomorrow we’ll treat you to a milkshake!” She chirps and Midoriya dithers, conflicted.

Really, he should be getting home, but the prospect of playing games with new friends (was he using that word too quickly?) and getting a milkshake was just too tempting.

“Okay.” He agrees finally and Uraraka cries out in joy and leaps forward to wrap her arms around his neck. Midoriya flushes bright pink and giggles, patting her gently on the back a couple of times before she lets go and begins to drag him towards the arcade cabinet.

“That’s very good of you, Midoriya!” Tenya replies, a wide smile on his face, and Uraraka nods in agreement.

“Yes!” She says. “Thank you for helping us out.”

Midoriya smiles and leans on the side of the cabinet. “It’s nothing. I like helping others with games.” He looks between them. “Now, which of you is playing?”

Wordlessly, the two point to each other and Midoriya sighs. This may have been a little more complicated than he first thought.

Midoriya returns home breathless, slamming the door behind him as he kicks off his shoes in a hurry and almost slips and falls face-first onto the polished wooden floors. His mother, Inko, pokes her head around the doorway to the kitchen at the sound of the door opening, and steps backwards as he barrels inwards and sits himself down at the dinner table, mumbling a quick, ‘ Thanks for the meal!’ , before he’s scarfing it down more quickly than he can breathe.

Inko watches him carefully from the safety of the kitchen for a moment before she takes a seat opposite him at the table. Watching him gulp down his entire glass of barley tea before he returns to eating.

“So,” Inko begins. “Did you have a good day at school?”

“Yesh,” Midoriya says around a mouthful of rice and vegetables.

Inko stifles a giggle. “And at the arcade?” She prompts and Midoriya immediately slams down his bowl and chopsticks and grins.

“It was so cool! I made new friends!” Midoriya says excitedly, his voice steadily increasing in volume as Inko smiles fondly. “Their names are Uraraka and Tenya and we’re going out for milkshakes tomorrow after school and we’re gonna go back to the arcade and play Street Fighter ! I helped them out with Dragon’s Lair. ”

Inko makes an appreciatively noise and leans her chin on her palm. “Oh,” she says. “You’re good at that game!”

“Yeah!” He agrees. “They asked for help, so I did and we walked home together!”

“That sounds fun,” Ink says, not quite understanding but smiling enthusiastically anyway. “You should invite them over some time, I’ll make cookies.”

Midoriya’s eyes glitter like diamonds at her words. “Thanks mum!” He says before he finishes scarfing down his food and pushes back from the table. “Thanks for the food!” he chirps again before he takes off as fast as a bolt of lightning out of the room and to his own bedroom. “I’ve got homework!” he calls before the door slams shut.

Inko smiles fondly after him and begins clearing the dishes.

He meets Uraraka and Tenya outside the café the next day, still dressed in his school uniform, and is relieved to find Uraraka and Tenya also wearing their uniforms—hers with a red bow around the collar, red ribbon edged blazer and a pleated black skirt, and his with a straight blue tie and blue edged blazer. Sex segregated schools, he guesses.

The closer he gets to the two, the more nervous he feels, and, for a fleeting moment, he thinks about stopping and turning around and going home to eat ice cream and loathe being a nervous wreck. But, then, Uraraka’s head turns in his direction.

Uraraka looks up from her phone as he draws closer and waves, elbowing Tenya in the ribs to grab his attention. “Midoriya!” She calls. “Over here!”

Midoriya chuckles and walks a little bit more briskly, meeting Uraraka’s side in a matter of seconds. “I could see you.” He points out. “You didn’t have to call out to me.”

She grins. “I know,” she says. “But you looked a little lonely walking. I wanted you to smile, isn’t that right, Tenya?” She asks, turning to the male beside her who seems solely focused on the book in his hands. Though, at the sound of his name, he looks up.

“What?” he asks and Uraraka smiles fondly.

“Never mind,” she tells him, and as Tenya tucks his book into his back, she turns back to Midoriya. “Milkshakes?” She asks and he nods enthusiastically, the butterflies easily dissolving in his stomach.

“Sounds great!” He replies.

He follows Uraraka and Tenya into the café and slips into the booth beside Tenya, tucking his bag underneath his legs as Uraraka takes a laminated menu from the plastic holder and begins to scan it quickly before she thrusts it at Midoriya, who jumps a little, flushes, and squeaks a small and nervous ‘Thank you!’ as he takes it from her. He decides quickly, and hands the menu off to Tenya, who only glances at it for a moment before popping it back into the menu holder.

Midoriya clears his throat. “So, have you been here before?” he asks, and Uraraka nods enthusiastically.

“Yeah!” She says through a grin. “Me and Tenya come here all the time after school and stuff, they have really good milkshakes and desserts. It’s one of our favourite places.”

Midoriya suddenly feels very out of his depth as he looks around the pastel blue and pink paint and metal table tops and red-leather plush seats. He feels like he’s drifting through a pastel-neon-diner fever dream, and he hardly realises that a waitress is asking them for their orders before Tenya nudges him a little.

“Oh!” Midoriya squeaks, his cheeks burning bright red. “Chocolate milkshake, please!”

Uraraka giggles, Tenya gives his order and the waitress leaves with a smile and a slip of paper detailing their order. It is then that Uraraka’s eyes drift behind Midoriya’s shoulder and she lights up, her eyes sparkling as she slips from the booth and gives Tenya and Midoriya a hasty, “Be right back!”.

Tenya and Midoriya turn just in time to see Uraraka embrace a girl with raven black hair before she slips into the seat beside her. Tenya makes a noise of recognition and turns back around while Midoriya watches for a moment longer before following his lead.

“Who’s that?” He asks.

Tenya pushes his glasses up his nose. “Momo.” He replies. “Uraraka’s friend.”

“Do they go to the same school?” He asks as he turns around to look at them again, his eyes catching the ones of a stranger sitting across from Momo and Uraraka. The stranger looks up from his handheld and scans him up and down, and, startled, Midoriya flushes and turns quickly, ducking down into the booth to avoid his gaze.

Tenya raises an eyebrow, eyeing Midoriya carefully as he shrinks further into the red-leather seats. “Midoriya, what are you doing?” Tenya asks.

Midoriya makes a nervous whispery noise. “He looked at me!” he breathes. “That guy saw me looking?”

“Who?” Tenya asks before he turns to look at the booth behind them, raising a hand in a wave. “Oh, that’s Todoroki Shouto. He goes to my school.” He tells Midoriya as he turns back to the table in front of them and looks down at Midoriya. “You know, you don’t have hide like that. He’s not going to think you were stalking him.”

Midoriya’s eyes widen as anxiety creeps into his chest. “He’s going to think I was stalking him?!” He repeats breathlessly.

Tenya sighs and pushes his glasses up his nose again. “I didn’t say that.” He says. “I said he wouldn’t think you were stalking him. But hiding under the table isn’t going to give him the best impression.”

Midoriya realises this and lets his head snap up, connecting painfully with the underside of the table in his hurry. He moans lowly and clutches at the back of his head, rubbing the sore spot on the back of his skull as he lifts his head up more carefully to rest his hot skin against the cool of the table.

“I’m a mess.” He groans and Tenya just shrugs.

“I’d say you’re fine.” He says before he peers down at Midoriya in concern. “Are you okay?” He asks.

Midoriya shakes his head as well as he can while lying face-first on a table. “No.” he manages.

“Let me rephrase; Is your head okay?” Tenya corrects and Midoriya nods. “Good.”

Midoriya sits back up straight in his seat at the same moment that Uraraka arrives back at their booth, a grin on her lips and her arm linked with Momo’s. Shouto was standing a little bit behind them, his hands shoved in his pockets. Uraraka slipped back into her seat, tugging Momo with her, while Shouto dragged a spare chair over from an empty table and sat down at the head of the booth.

Uraraka faced Midoriya and gestured to Momo. “This is Yaoyorozu Momo,” Uraraka introduced with a grin. “We go to the same school.”

Midoriya turns slightly towards Momo and ducks his head in a half bow. “N-Nice to meet you!” He manages and Momo smiles brilliantly, letting out a small giggle.

“I’m not going to bite.” Momo says and Midoriya flushes immediately, letting out a sheepish laugh. “I hope we’ll become good friends. Uraraka told me about you yesterday; have you really beaten Dragon’s Lair more than once?” She asks curiously, half-leaning over the table and talking to Midoriya in a hushed whisper, as if the fact was a secret she’d have to take to her grave.

Midoriya nods quickly. “Yes. I’ve beaten in three times now.” He says, flushing scarlet when he feels Shouto’s eyes wide and curious on him. “I… spend a lot of time at All Might’s Arcade…” He says weakly in way of explanation.

“So you like video games?” Shouto asks, but he doesn’t give Midoriya a chance to answer after he turns to him, immediately filling the silence with his own words. “Have you played Pacman before? Donkey Kong? What about two-player games like Street Fighter and Mario Bros.?” The questions fall from his lips as quick as bullets and Midoriya quickly becomes overwhelmed as Shouto becomes visibly more animated and excited at the prospect of the video games Midoriya’s played.

Momo picks up on Midoriya’s discomfort and she reaches across the table to tug a little on Shouto’s bi-coloured hair, causing him to yelp out in pain and smooth his hair back down as soon as Momo’s hands leave his head.

“Slow down, Shouto.” Momo scolds, an amused smile crawling across her lips. “You’re going to give Midoriya a heart attack.”

Shouto pauses, turns to Midoriya and looks at him a moment before his cheeks turn the faintest pink and he leans back in his seat, trying to tug his fringe over his eyes in his embarrassment. “Sorry, Midoriya.” He says. “I got a bit excited. I didn’t mean to overwhelm you.”

Midoriya calms himself and gives Shouto a smile and a shake of his head. “No, it’s fine!” Midoriya hums. “To answer your questions; I’ve played Pacman, Donkey Kong. I’ve only played Street Fighter and Mario Bros. once with Toshinori. And yes, I like video games.” He says, giving Shouto a wide smile. “I like video games a lot.”

Shouto stares at him for a moment before he slowly smiles back and sits a little straighter in his seat. “I have a feeling we’re going to be good friends, Midoriya.” Shouto says, and Midoriya smiles so wide he’s sure he’s going to split his cheeks, his heart leaping in excitement in his chest.

Momo giggles again and nudges Shouto’s shoulder. “Look at you Shouto, this is the fastest I’ve ever seen you smitten with someone.” She says and both Shouto and Midoriya flush red. “And, you, Midoriya, charmer.”

“I-I wouldn’t say that, Yaoyorozu…” Midoriya says, trailing off when Momo laughs.

“You shouldn’t be so formal!” She tells him. “Call me Momo, and call him Shouto.” She says, jabbing a thumb in Shouto’s direction.

Midoriya nods quickly. “Okay!” He agrees. “You can all call me Izuku!”

Uraraka and Momo exchange a look and let out a small hum. “Do you have any nicknames?” They ask together.

“Well…” Midoriya begins, slightly uneasily. “One of my old friends used to call me Deku… but I think it was mainly used as an insult.” He says, tugging self-consciously on the sleeves of his gakuran.

Uraraka immediately lights up. “I like Deku,” she says. “It gives me a certain feeling, y’know? It just screams out the feeling of ‘ I can do it! ’, don’t you think?”

“It reminds me of the Deku from The Legend of Zelda .” Shouto offers and Momo grins in agreement, snapping her finger together.

“Exactly!” She says before she turns back to Midoriya. “Can we call you Deku?” She asks.

Midoriya hesitates a moment before he smiles tentatively and nods. “Okay.” He says, and Uraraka squeals and throws herself across the table to wrap him in a quick hug.

It is then that the waitress returns, tray laden with three milkshake glasses. She gives the company a small smile and carefully places the tray in the middle of the table before she digs in her pocket for the receipt and tucks it underneath one of the glasses, leaving with a small smile and a swish of her skirt.

Immediately Midoriya digs in his pocket for the money, only to be stopped by Uraraka calling out. He pauses and looks up at her face. “What?” He asks.

“Let us pay!” Uraraka says, gesturing between herself and Tenya. “We wanted to treat you Midoriya, y’know, after helping us yesterday. Please, let us pay.” Tenya thrusts his hand in the air and Uraraka blinks at him. “Iida?” She asks, her brow furrowed in confusion.

Tenya clears his throat. “I think it is I that should pay.” He says, holding up a hand when he notices Uraraka about to protest. “Here is my first argument for my side; I want to pay for your milkshakes.” He continues.

“Here’s my argument for my side; I want to pay.” Uraraka protests.

Momo raises an eyebrow as she looks between them. “Are you really having this argument?” She asks. Immediately Uraraka and Tenya turn to her to yell a loud, “Yes!”, at the same time that Midoriya looks down at his shoes and says quietly, “I’m not trying to argue with anyone.”.

Blank-faced, Shouto pulls a credit card from his pocket and holds it up in front of all of them, drawing all the eyes at the table to him. “Trick question.” Shouto says. “I’m paying. And none of you can argue about it.”

Uraraka stares open mouthed at him. “How do you have a credit card?” She asks breathlessly. “I knew your dad was rich but still!”

“I stole it from my father’s wallet.” Shouto says, hardly reacting to the shocked look on Uraraka and Tenya’s face. “He won’t notice that it’s missing, he has a whole envelope filled with these things at home. So, I’m going to pay and we’re not going to talk about this anymore.” He continues and Uraraka and Tenya nod in awed agreement. “Don’t worry about paying it back either.”

Momo smiles sweetly and claps her hands together. “Now, kids, what do you say?” She asks them, using the same kind of voice that a teacher would use to convince a bunch of nursery kids into repeating words that she’d drilled into their heads.

“Thank you!” Uraraka and Tenya chirp.

“Thank you, Shouto.” Midoriya says and Shouto gives him and the rest of the group a small smile.

“Just enjoy your milkshakes.” He says. “That’s all the thanks I need.”

Midoriya smiles into the depths of his milkshake as he listens to the happy sound of Uraraka’s chattering and the boom of Tenya’s voice mingling with Momo’s easy drawl and Shouto’s simple replies, and he thinks that he’s gonna like being friends with them a whole lot.

“One week until the ten-year anniversary of All Might’s Arcade!” Momo announces as she saunters in to Shouto’s room, discarding her backpack at the end of his bed with the others. At her entrance, the rest of the company looks up and she smiles at them. “Who’s still not arrived?” She asks.

“Iida.” Uraraka says, flicking mindlessly through one of Shouto’s comic books. “He’s got chemistry homework. He should be about ten minutes.” She continues, checking her watch.

Momo smiles as she sits next to her. “I had a brilliant idea on my way over here.” She says, brought out of her train of thought by the sound of the TV. She looks over to see Shouto and Midoriya sitting in front of it, staring rather intently at the Metroid level in front of them. “Boys?” She calls and they both freeze and pause the game, turning to meet Momo.

“You’re here.” Shouto says.

Midoriya waves at her. “Hello!”  

Momo returns the wave. “Yes, I am here, and hello Midoriya.” She says. “I had an idea on my way over here. You know how it’s almost the ten-year anniversary of All Might’s Arcade’s opening. I think we should do something for Toshinori to thank him for all the happiness he’s given us by running the place. What do you think?” She asks.

Midoriya lights up immediately, a smile stretching his lips. “That’s an amazing idea, Momo!” He replies excitedly.

Shouto nods in agreement. “It would be nice to repay him for all that he’s done for us.”

Momo’s face erupts into a gleeful expression. “Thank you! I’m glad you all approve.” She says before she turns to Midoriya. “You know Toshinori well, what do you think would make him the happiest? Anything in the world.”

Midoriya thinks for a moment and his mind immediately produces the images of Toshinori’s office walls covered in newspaper clippings from his prime, smiling brilliantly amongst his friends, and he looks back to Momo with wide eyes sparkling in excitement.

“We could get in contact with his old gamer friends!” Midoriya suggests enthusiastically. “He hasn’t seen them in years, he’d be over joyed!”

Momo grins and seizes up his hands in her own. “You’re a genius, Deku!” She replies and Midoriya laughs, flushing in pride as Momo allows his hands to slip from her own. “Now we’ve just got to figure out how to get them to come.” She says, looking around the group. “Any suggestions?”

Uraraka thinks, her brow creasing from the pressure before she gasps and clicks her fingers. “I know! We organise a party for the ten-year anniversary, it’s a perfect cover for inviting all his old friends, so we just tell him about the party and say it was meant to be a surprise.”

Shouto nods in agreement. “But the real surprise is his old friends.” He finishes.

Momo claps her hands together. “Exactly!” She exclaims. “It’s the perfect plan, right?”

“Definitely!” Uraraka agrees. “there’s just one thing… how are we gonna find Toshinori’s old friends when we don’t know who they are?” She asks and Midoriya thrusts his hand in the air.

“I know their names.” He says and Momo and Uraraka immediately light up. “Aizawa Shota, Shuzenji Chiyo, Nezu and Tsukauchi Naomasa.” He continues, listing the names off his fingers. “I read the newspaper clippings on his walls.” Midoriya says in way of explanation when Shouto looks at him curiously.

This time, it is Uraraka that throws herself forward, wrapping Midoriya in a tight, warm hug. “That’s amazing, Deku!” She laughs.

He flushes again, tugs self-consciously at his hair. “It’s nothing.” He tells her. “We have their names, but how are we going to find them?” He asks and Momo smiles.

“I thought of that.” She says. “We can use a phonebook.”

Uraraka’s eyes sparkle as she looks questioningly around the group. “So, we’re all in agreement, then?” She asks. “Invite Toshinori’s old gamer friends to the anniversary as a surprise?” Three voices immediately reply in unison with an excited and firm, ‘Yes!’, and Uraraka grins, thrusting her hand out into the space between the four of them. “Hands together!”

Momo places her hand on top of Uraraka and Shouto places his on top of Momo’s, and then, as confidently as he’s ever felt, Midoriya places his on top of Shouto’s, and they all giggle as they let out a loud whoop and launch their hands into the air, dissolving into peals of laughter.

It is then that Shouto’s bedroom door creaks open and Iida steps in, looking severely confused as he surveys the collapsed bodies over the floor. “What’s happened?” He asks carefully and the four exchange a look.

“Well,” Uraraka begins. “Everything.”

Iida points at the television behind her. “I guessed.” he says matter-of-factly. “But you’ve left Metroid running.”

Shouto’s eyes widen in horror as he whips around and dives for the controller just as Samus dies on screen, Shouto collapses, limp on the carpet and makes noise like a dying animal. “My high score!” Shouto bemoans as Midoriya rubs his back comfortingly, giving Shouto a sad look as he cradles his controller carefully in his hands.

Momo tuts. “You mean my high score.” She says before she sticks her hand out for the controller. “Give it to me; Ochako and I will fix it up in a jiffy.”

Shouto hands over the controller with a sad look and retreats to Midoriya, who hand him a comic book and settles down more comfortingly to watch Momo fix the loss of Shouto’s high score. Iida throws his back on the top of the pile and sits himself on the edge of the bed, folding his arms across his chest as he looks to Uraraka.

“So,” he begins. “What’s this plan?”

“You can’t look!” Midoriya insists for what feels like the fiftieth time as Toshinori once more tries to peek under his make-shift bandana blindfold. “It’s meant to be a surprise. You’re meant to be surprised!”

Toshinori laughs but allows Midoriya to swat his hands away from his head. “It stopped being a surprise when ya told me about the party, kid.” He says, and, although Midoriya knows Toshinori can’t see it, Midoriya pouts. “That’s the essence of a surprise. You’re not supposed to know about it.”

Midoriya smirks to himself for a moment, before he wipes it off his face. “Just act like you’re gonna be surprised then!” he insists and Toshinori laughs again. “Promise.” Midoriya says. “Promise me you’ll be happy-surprised not sad-surprised.”

Toshinori holds his hands up in fake surrender, chuckling quietly to himself. “I promise, I promise!” He replies before he lets out an amused sigh. “What is this? The Spanish Inquisition?”

“And no back-chatting!” Midoriya adds, wagging a finger at him.

“That should be my line.” Toshinori says and Midoriya rolls his eyes. “Please, Izuku, kid. Please tell me when I can take this stupid blindfold off.” He asks in fake desperation, tugging at the sides gently—not enough to pull it off his face. Midoriya swats his hands away again.

“You can take it off when I tell you to take it off.” Midoriya says.

Toshinori grumbles a little but keeps still. “You’ve gotten so bossy all of a sudden,” he says. “I’m not quite sure if I like it.”

“Well,” Midoriya says matter-of-factly. “You’re always telling me to take charge of myself and have no doubts. I thought I’d give it a try.”

Toshinori smiles and fumbles blindly for Midoriya’s hand until he finds it and gives it a reassuring squeeze. “That’s good, kid. I’m glad you’re taking charge.” He says. “I’m glad you’ve got yourself a good lot of friends; they’ll take you far.” A smile crawls across Midoriya’s lips at the mention of his friends and he nods, lets out a happy hum.

“Yeah.” He agrees before he stands up and tugs Toshinori up with him, leading him towards the door. “It’s time. I’m gonna lead you out to the arcade floor okay?” He says carefully, waiting for Toshinori’s nod before he opens the office door and leads him through the crowd of people and by a table laden with cake and food and drink.

“Stay here, and don’t take off your blindfold.” Midoriya tells Toshinori as he spots Uraraka and Momo gesturing at him furiously.

Toshinori grumbles his ascent and Midoriya leaves his side to join Uraraka’s, and his heart sinks in his chest when he notices the panicked and worried look on her face.

“Deku,” she whispers once he’s close enough. “We don’t have Aizawa.”

Midoriya’s chest suddenly feels tighter. “B-But… he was the first one who confirmed…” He says, his voice trailing off as Momo nods.

“Shouto was going to get him, but they haven’t arrived back,” Momo says, worry dripping into every syllable. “I don’t know what we’re supposed to do.”

Midoriya takes in a shaky breath and tries to calm himself.

And he thinks of what he normally thinks of when he needs to level himself—video games. He thinks of playing button-smashing Street Fighter with Shouto, and helping Uraraka with Dragon’s Lair. He thinks of trying to defeat Iida’s high score on Donkey Kong, and sitting idly in Momo’s room, not really talking as they’re focused solely on their handhelds. He thinks of training with Toshinori and how he taught Midoriya all he knows about every arcade cabinet in his arcade.

The only difference is, he thinks of his friends as well.

He exhales and faces Uraraka and Momo. “We’re just gonna have to surprise him without Aizawa.” He says and, sadly, Momo and Uraraka nod and wave Chiyo, Nezu and Naomasa forward. Midoriya navigates his way through the arcade cabinets and back to Toshinori’s side as Uraraka and Momo guide his friends to the front of the crowd, giving Midoriya the thumbs up when they were in position.

“Okay,” Midoriya says to Toshinori. ‘I’m gonna take off the blindfold now.”

Toshinori lets out a sigh of relief. “Finally.” He says.

And, with a tug of the knot in the bandana, the blindfold falls from Toshinori and his eyes meet the older, but still familiar figures of the people he used to spend every second of his childhood with. His jaw drops and his hands shake as he steps forward, blinking as if he doesn’t believe his eyes.

“No,” he says softly. “It can’t be.”

They laugh as Toshinori rubs furiously at his eyes before looking back at them, his eyes widening to the size of saucers and brimming with tears as the realisation finally hits him. He stakes three long strides forward and wraps them all in a big hug, his arms squeezing tight around them as if he never wants to let go.

“It’s great to see you again too, Yagi.” Naomasa says with a small chuckle. “We missed ya.”

Chiyo made a small noise of indignation. “And you worried us! What were you thinking? Dropping off the face of the earth for ten years.” She scolds. “I was worried sick.”

Toshinori gives her a wet laugh. “I wasn’t thinking, I’m sorry for worrying you.”

Chiyo sniffs. “It’s alright.”

Nezu smiles and gives Toshinori a pat on the back. “You’ve not changed at all.” He says. “You’re still the Yagi we knew ten years ago.”

Toshinori hold up his hands, showing off the long scars on his wrists from the surgery in a flash before he hides them beneath his sweater sleeves. “I wouldn’t say that.” He says. “But it’s good to see you too.”

“I hope you’re not gonna use that carpal tunnel as an excuse.” A voice says, and everyone in the room turns to see a man with messy black hair and half-lidded eyes ender with a sarcastic smirk. “Because you owe me a match, Old Man. Repayment for the time you beat me ten years ago.”

Toshinori blinks at him in shock. “Aizawa?” he manages.

Aizawa grins at him. “What do you say?” He asks, thrusting out his hand for Toshinori to shake. “A game for old times’ sake?”

“That depends,” Toshinori says as he strides towards Aizawa. “Which game?”

“ Space Invaders ,” Aizawa replies simply. “Whoever gets the high score wins.”

Toshinori laughs. “I could beat that game in my sleep.” He says but he takes Aizawa’s hand, shaking firmly. “It’s a deal.”

The two stare at each other for a moment before they both open their arms and embrace each other. Aizawa laughs as Toshinori begins to sniff into his jacket. “I missed this.” Aizawa says and Toshinori nods.

“Me too.” He replies quietly before he draws back and claps Aizawa’s shoulder. “I hope you’re ready to lose.” He says before he takes off running to the Space Invaders , cabinet, Aizawa hot on his heels.

Midoriya watches with an amused smile, hardly turning when Uraraka throws her arms around his neck and hugs him tight, Momo joining his other side to punch him good-naturedly in the shoulder. Iida gives him a smile as he comes over and Shouto stops in front of him, his fist outstretched, and Midoriya smiles as he bumps his fist against Shouto’s

Momo crossed her arms across her chest. “We did good.” She says. “It’s made him really happy.”

Uraraka nods in agreement. “Happy Ten-years, arcade.” She says, breaking for Midoriya to pat the side of a cabinet.

Midoriya grins and stand sup straighter, looking between his friends with mischievous look. “How about a challenge of our own?” he says and, immediately, everyone looks at him in excited curiosity. “If you can bet me at Street Fighter, I’ll pay for milkshakes.”

Uraraka’s eyes light up. “You’re on!”

Before anyone else can reply, Midoriya takes off across the arcade floor to the sound of his friend’s cries, the sound of their footsteps like heavy rain behind him. And he smiles, skidding to a stop next to the arcade cabinet and taking his place at the first set of joysticks as the rest catch up.

“Who’s first?” He asks and Uraraka steps forward, taking her place in front of the second set of joysticks.

Uraraka grins at the screen. “I hope you’re ready to get beaten.” She says.

“We’ll see.” He replies.

Midoriya looks into the electric eyes of the cabinet, the image of the title screen embedded into the back of his mind as he inserts the coins and presses ‘START’. He meets Uraraka’s eyes out the corner of his, and they grin at each other before their eyes snap back to the CRT monitor as the music begins to play—and in the company of all his friends and the colourful glow of the arcade cabinet, Midoriya feels more at home than he’s ever felt.

[tinymixtapes]

Interview: Everything and Nothing

The hysterical pace of development in north Brooklyn led to chronic conditions for DIY art spaces like Glasslands and Death By Audio, where a fair amount of the zeitgeist that fueled said development was forged. But, absorbing the environs of Elsewhere on a damp May evening, the destruction of those haunts at least pangs with creativity. Elsewhere is an immaculate new multi-story club complex located in the Bushwickian outer banks of Williamsburg. Combined with the similarly impressive Brooklyn Steel in Greenpoint, the complex cements the fact that Brooklyn has traded its punchy underdog industrial pioneering for genuine cultural power, fueled by money and an ever metastasizing narrative of “cool,” whatever is left of that concept. At Elsewhere, the performance spaces are weightless, the sound system is enlightened, stage lights scare away so much as a speck of dust, and a 12-ounce can of Miller High Life will set you back $7. PBR isn’t even offered at the venue bar. Imagine. In the spotless Green Room, Archer Prewitt and Doug McCombs, The Sea and Cake’s founding guitarist and new bassist (Eric Claridge left the band after the 2012 album Runner due to carpal tunnel syndrome) are lounging, lost in relaxed conversation. The room is appointed with moody colored lights and high ceilings. The furniture is crisp, unsullied by debauchery. “This is my chair,” Doug bellows and points, unprompted, after standing up. He disappears from the room. The chair in question is one of those leather loungers that one expects to see cracked and ass-fitted in the accomplished dens of aged professionals — this one hasn’t a wrinkle. Sam Prekop, chief songwriter for The Sea and Cake, wearing an inconspicuous jacket over a light hoodie and with fading sand-colored hair, enters the room. He immediately moves for the chair in question and plops down. “No — get out of my chair,” Doug orders, kidding around and not, when he reappears moments later. “Oh,” Prekop drawls quietly. “Sorry.” He politely stands and Doug, cased in denim and displaying an ornately manicured Santa Claus beard, retakes his throne. The new bass player clearly is not plagued by any Jason Newsted-esque new-member alienations. In another spotless backstage room in the shell of novelty that is Elsewhere, Prekop explains his cover photograph for his band’s 10th studio LP, Any Day. “It said, ‘You should use me as an album cover.’ So it was a rare instance where I selected the image as the album cover before it was done. A weird signpost in a way, or a marker.” Any Day by The Sea and Cake The image suggests a certain against-stream dignity and beauty in obsolescence: a pile of would-be clutter is set amidst a context of control; spotless and effusive white walls contain a pile of, well, crap; an old tube television with faux-wood paneling sets the foundation for a rumpled cardboard box and errant mid-apartment-move items (a coffee mug, a dusty end-table); a bright orange thrift store couch runs out of the frame, stinging the rest of the palate with springlike frequencies, mid-flower. The stark and pristine framing levitates above diminutive sans serif lettering drowning in white space, an aesthetic as familiar to longtime fans as Prekop’s wispy coo. “I was initially drawn to [the photo] probably based on — I love that orange next to that kind of weird… that kind of green can only exist on a blank TV from the 70s — that combination. In retrospect, somehow it gained a certain resonance,” he says. “There is a sort of weird fragile nostalgia quality to it. I think it is an odd portrait of The Sea and Cake, in a way.” The band originated as its own mess of bright, spare parts in need of proper framing. After leading the critically acclaimed Shrimp Boat in Chicago, Prekop was offered funding to develop a solo project. One-by-one, local bassist Eric Claridge, guitarist Archer Prewitt, and renowned drummer and producer John McEntire joined in the recording. The Sea and Cake’s self-titled debut was released in 1994 by the venerable Thrill Jockey Records. Other than the loss of Claridge, the lineup has otherwise been a constant, despite McEntire’s recent relocation to California and the birth of Prekop’s twins nearly a decade ago. With so much personal history between the members after an improbable 24 years of recording and performing, what could possibly feel different for them this time around, with the release of a new album and a new tour? “I never have a good answer for that,” Prekop says. “Everything and nothing.” --- Around a decade ago, I lent a few of the band’s seminal albums to a friend, expecting thanks and some level of taste-validation in return for the benevolence. “It’s all very… placid,” he said, handing back the cardboard sleeves for Oui and The Fawn along with Nassau’s plastic case. Disappointed, I tried hedging him over to positivity. “Yeah, it’s very subtle, sure. But also pretty soulful and evocative, I think.” He stared back. “Not subtle. Placid.” Translation? Boring. Did I mention that part of this band’s appeal, as a college student, was the promise of enjoying the music well into middle age? The malnourished 21 year-old could definitely see himself chilling to Oui at 55. The original insight appears to be holding water. --- Subtlety is lost on the disinterested. In the streaming era, the band’s discography must all simmer together for a new listener, into one “lovely” and “gentle” risotto. Even for a longtime fan listening to much of the post-One Bedroom discography, the familiarity and distinction of Prekop’s vocals can turn monotonous. One anticipates many of the chord progressions and bridge-to-chorus drum fills on first listen. While certain production elements have calcified over time, such as embossed vocals and increasingly precise guitar takes, every Sea and Cake album carries its charms. Everybody (2007) presents an impeccably tight collection of stately pop rock, with the slow burning “Coconut” heaping wistful yearning upon the listener, narrator making peace with commitment, confessing, “You set me free.” Car Alarm draws out crashing rock (“Aerial,” “Car Alarm”), glittering electro-pop (“Weekend”), effusive jazzy rhythmics (“A Fuller Moon,” “New Schools”), and even a steel drum outro (“Mirrors”) for good measure. The surprising EP The Moonlight Butterfly offers one of the uncanny modular synthesizer compositions (“The Moonlight Butterfly”) that have come to dominate Prekop’s solo career, along with the small miracle of “Lyric,” another plaintive confessional that floats above a melancholy Eric Claridge bass groove, punctuated with decaying electronics before transforming into a spindly jam. Runner (2012) pares an M83-esque towering synth flirtation (“The Invitations”) with the achingly beautiful acoustic “Harbor Bridges.” At this point, we reflect on our history more as a friendship and camaraderie than the music. We don’t like to dissect it too much. We’re sort of the antithesis of analysis.” Should The Sea and Cake be punished for being so good and so consistent? If this were baseball, they’d be posting a damn 2.5 WAR, at least. But music is qualitative, undervalued, and in the end we want our rock & roll to channel dionysian impulses that are intrinsically unsustainable. Shatter our neural pathways with bliss one day. Haughtily cursing you the next. No love lost. “Occasionally,” Prekop says, “I feel apologetic that we’re still making records and someone might have to listen to them. But then again, it doesn’t really matter.” Indeed, Any Day carries much of “the same.” It will be heard as antiquated, beautiful, or both. There are the quiet and catchy moments (“Into Rain,” “Too Strong”) that the band deals out with a flip of the wrist, eyes askance. But the title track calls out with something else, its easy groove lifted by Prekop’s light melodies, McEntire’s understated rhythm and Prewitt’s self-possessed riffs and accents that drop like dewdrops on the edge of a glassy pond. The song is all fresh and effortless and calls back to the band’s loose and transformational early catalogue. The gift for melody was always present, but from 1994 to the mid-2000s, The Sea and Cake moved from dynamic and jammy discursions (The Sea and Cake, Nassau, The Biz) abruptly to programmed beats and synths (The Fawn), then to lush and ineffable bossa nova (Oui) and bright electro-pop (One Bedroom). The band flirted with aggression (“Escort”) and un-harshable mellow rumination (“The Leaf”), yet always returned to its ever-flowering gift for head-nodding pop and effusive romance. The classic “Parasol” and “There You Are” enter into slow trances that reward the patient. Call it Dreamcatcher Pop — this is some of the best nap music you’ll ever find (don’t miss Prekop’s genius self-titled solo album for the pinnacle of this transitory gift). The loose naiveté of the early work kept a chair open at the table for evolution, and it’s the natural selfishness of a fan to want a return to the freshness, to once more harness those old feelings. We’re all addicts for novelty. Prekop understands the nature of the beast, but does not care to cater. “There is a definite natural march to the life of any band,” he says. “When you’re starting, that’s a different kind of excitement compared to five years in. And I think, at this point, we reflect on our history more as a friendship and camaraderie than the music. We don’t like to dissect it too much. We’re sort of the antithesis of analysis.” --- The Sea and Cake were never for “everyone.” If you were a stereotypical graphic designer in the 1990s and early 2000s, though, you were probably down. And those very graphic designers, solid dudes them all, filled The Hall at Evermore as twin disco balls flitted tiny spotlights across their greying hair while industrial electro pounded for a Trump-era rave called, Let Them Have Their Phones. The band takes the stage to moderate applause and a few yelps, which quickly die away. Prekop is in no hurry to collect himself for the opening number and flashes a familiar wry grin as the public silence elongates. Notable for this patient crowd, the silence is not particularly awkward. Eventually, the steady beats, rumbling bass, and swelling (sequenced) synths of “Four Corners” (One Bedroom) fill the room. Any Day’s insistent opener “Cover the Mountain” is surprisingly raw, softened edges from the long recording process obliterated by McIntire’s crashing percussion. With the exception of a jumpy, chronic vaper hovering stage right, the full room of bought-in fans nod along, mirroring the minor movements of Prekop and Prewitt. Drummer John McIntyre shows, throughout the performance, why he became a force of gravity all his own in the 90s, via his additional work with Tortoise and as a respected Indie producer with his own Chicago studio (Soma). He demands attention, preening above the snare, chin up to the back of the room. He winces and snarls through perfect time, dominating the stage with dead set serial killer eyes and facial twitches, as a ring of sweat expands around his collar. Meanwhile, Prewitt anchors center stage, keeping watch on his shifting, exotic chord patterns, altering them up and down the neck like a clinician. He ends a riff by throwing his head back in a rare moment of exuberance, but is otherwise as measured as his own delicate and embroidered guitar work. With rising applause after a final note, he nods in shy thanks. The love from fans may not find expression in screaming, drug dancing, or tumbling flanks of drunk friends pushing their way to the front of the stage — this is not much of a “scene” — but this serene affection runs deep. Among these focused eyes and swaying bodies, there is no room for the casual follower. Kind appreciation is offered to the new songs, while the “oldies,” as Prekop calls them from the stage, elicit sighs and hard-earned affirmations. For those who have followed The Sea and Cake for two decades, these songs are vessels of memory. Immediate presence cracks them open for catharsis of the self-posessed. --- Per the graphic designers, The Sea and Cake might be seen as pretentious and aloof. Perhaps they are, but backstage Prekop never sounds like someone who takes himself too seriously. “I just think, if it feels right and positive to make a record it’d be a shame not to,” he says of the continuation of the band. “I’m quite certain that it doesn’t sound like much else.” Appropriate to his longevity as a creator, with both The Sea and Cake and other projects, he offers a take-it-in-stride model for art making. Do as much as you can. Don’t be precious. Pay attention. Your failures are venerable. “People ask, ‘How do you make sense of being an artist as both a musician and a photographer’? “It’s all work, and I’m trying to be as expressive as possible. So, it all counts. And one thing doesn’t necessarily have to make the other thing happen. I think all of the work is important at different times — on different levels. “I’m hoping to recognize good stuff that’s happening. But, it’s sort of out of my control. I equate it to photography. It’s all already there, and you have to just find it… frame it.” http://j.mp/2JyllQX