#knife voice Wait so who gets the million now. taco voice FUCK THE MILLION.

[skiddlecat]

alternate ii16 taco pickle and mic FUCKING KILL STEVE COBS AU. pickle survives mephonex so they make up and tacos like Okay im not gonna be a shitlord anymore but there's one more crime i would like to commit first. i would like to murder a billionaire. and pickle and mic are like OH FUCK YEAH EAT THE RICH

so they go to meeple and they fucking shoot cobs with the raygun and it turns him into popcorn and they all chill out in the ceo office eating his remains casually. and they're like Man this was a great idea.

they ate the rich 👍

[lonelyreputation]

Different (part one)

A/N: Unrequited love! Unrequited love!! UNREQUITED LOVE!!! AHHH!!!

Okay here is the unrequited love that you’ve all been patiently waiting for!! Thanks for that! So I combined two requests together for an overarching theme and will circle back to those a few times during this mini-series!! As always, let me know what you guys thought of it!! I love hearing every detail of your thoughts!!

THANKS A MILLION for all of your support! Reblogs are never expected, but always appreciated!! 🤗💞🌻

REQUEST/PROMPT: People talking a room away & Fighting the urge to cry 

Let’s Chat!! | MASTERLIST

Warnings: Few swear words, some self-doubt, and ANGST!!! 

Word Count: 4.3K

You’ve found yourself in this position before: lounging on Shawn’s patio couch on a warm summer’s night, the lights of the CN Tower illuminating the bustling city streets below, nestled into Shawn with your head resting on his chest, arm lazily draped around your shoulder.  

The fire pit in front of you was giving off heat, but it was nothing like the warmth you felt in Shawn’s arms. His arms, always tightly wound around you, felt like they were protecting you from anything on the outside.  And at times, you even felt as if they protected you from your own dismissive thoughts.

Brian was telling a story, one that you had heard before, but since it was one of Shawn’s first night’s back from touring, he was telling it as if no one had heard it.  But you didn’t mind tuning out his voice, it gave you an excuse to give all of your attention to Shawn.

He was gone for so long.  Seeing his face through your iPhone wasn’t enough to ease the ache of your heart.  Whenever he laughed on screen you yearned to hear his laugh in person, and now you were granted with the pleasure of hearing it and feeling it rumble through his chest.  

Shawn’s fingertips lazily grazed your shoulder blades, sending electric jolts all the way down to the tip of your toes.

“So, Shawn,” Brian let out a little laugh, taking a sip of his beer, as he gave Shawn a pointed look, “Any girls on tour?”

Shawn’s fingertips paused their languid movements and you felt your breath hitch in your throat.

“Got my girl right here,” he squeezed your shoulder and pressed a kiss to the top of your head.  The familiar tickling sensation inside your stomach caused the corners of your lips to lift up in a small smile.

Brian let out another laugh, “Dude, c’mon, I’m not talking about your best friend––It’s just us,” he waved his hand around to gesture at the three of you sitting around the fire, “Secrets are safe here.”

The longer Shawn stayed silent, the further you felt your heart drop in your stomach.  Was there another girl? If there was, he made no mention of it to you on your every other nightly FaceTime calls.  The rational side of your brain was having a lethal fight with the irrational part.

He tells you everything, the rational part of your brain concluded, you would know if there was a girl.

But, the irrational section of your mind weighed in, he’s a young, single and very good looking guy there’s no way he went on tour and didn’t meet an equally beautiful girl.

A girl more beautiful than you.

It was times like this where your insecurities were too much to handle.  Your own thoughts maliciously attacking you.  It was times like these where Shawn’s tight hold on you was all you needed to feel safe from yourself.

“Swear on it man,” Shawn raised both of his hands up in surrender, briefly losing contact with your shoulder.  He leaned his body toward the table, and since your head was still resting on his chest, he took you with him, as he grabbed his glass of alcohol and took a sip, “No one for me.”

Brian didn’t look convinced, but you were more than happy when he dropped the topic and changed the conversation.  But with the way Brian kept glancing at the both of you cuddled up on the couch, you wondered if there was something you should be aware of.

•••

The next night you were over at Shawn’s it was just the two of you.  It was a tradition to get together within the first five days of him returning from tour and having a night reserved for just spending time together; it was always a movie night with tacos.

You brought all the ingredients over; spices, tortillas, condiments, and meat.  While Shawn provided the cooking equipment and his company.  You were never too fond of tacos, but when Shawn had returned home from touring his Handwritten album and crashed at your house, all he wanted to eat were tacos.  You remembered how excited he was to make the tacos, catch up with you––his best friend––after months of being away, and picking out the perfect movie to watch.

His idea of a perfect movie was 10 Things I Hate About You and he fell asleep halfway through it.

So, within five days of returning from a tour, without fail, you and Shawn always ate tacos and watched 10 Things I Hate About You.  

That’s exactly where you found yourself now.

Shawn had a fairly large kitchen, definitely bigger than the one in your apartment, and you cooked with a smile on your face with all the space you had to move around.  You chopped up the lettuce while Shawn took out a frying pan.

“Did you mix the spices together?” You called out over your shoulder.

You heard your answer when Shawn let out a deep sigh, “No,” Turning your head around you saw him holding the frying pan limply in his hands as he looked at you with hopeful eyes, “Can you mix them?”

Placing the knife down on the cutting board, you walked over to him with a smile, “It’s not that hard.”

Another sigh, “But you have to measure them and there’s a million fucking little spices––“

“Hey,” you placed a hand on his bicep and gave it a slight squeeze, “Don’t worry, I got it.”

When your hand touched his arm, all you felt was warmth.  Shawn was an abnormally warm person, but this kind of warmth was felt deeper within.  The warmth you felt whenever your skin touched his reminded you of home.  His presence was so caring and thoughtful that his whole body seemed to radiate that warmth.  And you would do anything in the world to savor that feeling for the rest of our life.

His eyes flickered down to where you held your hand as a shy smile lit up on his face, “I love you.”

I love you.

It wasn’t an uncommon phrase said in your friendship.  You both had said it countless times to each other before disconnecting your long distance phone calls, sent voice notes of the phrases to each other, and said it a million more times face to face when you were finally reunited.

But he didn’t mean those three words in the way you wanted to hear them.

You mixed the spices and Shawn took over your role of cutting up the vegetable toppings as your teasing drowned out the music in the background.  Cooking was something that was enjoyable and relaxing, but with Shawn, it brought a whole new layer of excitement.  You would smack his hand away from eating the cheese, scold him for touching the hot pan, and he would always give your hips a light squeeze whenever he walked behind you.

Once Shawn had cooked the meat and you set up everything in a buffet style, you two had taken to sitting on the barstools instead of at the kitchen table.  He was typing something on his phone with a smile on his face when you sat down next to him and asked what it was about.  He quickly locked his phone and placed it face down on the counter, looking at you with the same smile he had while looking at his phone. Don’t need to worry about it now, he said, I’m with you.

It was silent as you both started eating the meal you prepared together.

“I–ve––Ote––A––Ong,” Shawn spoke with his mouthful as he went to go in for another bite of his taco.  You tilted your head and raised your eyebrows, telling him you understood nothing of what he had just said.

He held up a finger as he finished chewing, and after he swallowed his food he said, “I wrote a song.”

You rolled your eyes, “That’s what you get paid for, no?”

Shawn took another bite of his taco and slightly pushed your shoulder.  And with the skin to skin contact, you tried to bottle up that warmth that made your stomach do summersaults.

“I mean like,” he was thinking; eyebrows tightly pulled together as he bit the inside of his cheek trying to find the right words to say, “A song song,” your eyebrows continued to stay raised, having no idea what he was alluding to, “Let me just,” he fumbled with his phone that was sitting on the kitchen counter top, “Play it for you.”

The music he was playing from his iPhone throughout the speakers in his apartment cut off as a melody of guitar strings plucking together filled the room.  Shawn’s eyes were trained on the stings of his hoodie, avoiding your curious stare.

Twenty-five seconds in, the voice of the boy sitting across from you––the voice that you loved hearing ramble on about nothing in particular––started to sing.

You could be in Toronto, and I can be in L.A.

Your mind flooded with memories of Shawn always jetting off to L.A., while you were stuck in Toronto always patiently awaiting his return.  He’s been on more flights to Los Angeles than you had been on flights in your entire life.  And it never got easier driving him to the airport and squeezing him extra tight praying he would change his mind and stay in Toronto.

And if twenty years went by without you, I’d know our feelings wouldn’t change.

Your heart leaped in your chest, feeling as airy and happy as the guitar melody sounded when the chorus of the song came around.  You’ve always wanted to bottle up the warmth Shawn held, but this feeling was better.  This feeling of pure bliss––like everything in the universe was aligning just for you––made your toes tingle and the hair on your skin stick up.

You barely registered the lyrics in the second verse as you stared at Shawn with eyes wide in astonishment.  His way with words blew you away.  From the kid who was so nervous to pick up the pen on his first album to now not being able to put the pen down…He absolutely amazed you.

We’ve got that we don’t have to talk to know this love will never stop.

There weren’t many dry spells of conversation with your friendship with Shawn.  You could count on one hand when the two of you were too busy to talk to each other, but whenever the two of you would pick up your conversations, it was like no time had passed.

Oh, we’ve got it.

He looked up, staring into your eyes. You thought you were seeing the same different kind of love in his eyes that you’ve been holding in yours for too long now.

Oh, we’ve got that different kind of love.

•••

It wasn’t unusual for Shawn’s lavish Toronto apartment to be the place for parties.  Even when he was away on tour, Brian still managed to either sneak in with a few friends or have a full on party.  And where you found yourself now––politely saying excuse me while trying to slide behind two people to get to the kitchen––it was one of those full blown parties thrown by Brian for Shawn.

It took a bit of convincing, but Brian wanted to really celebrate his best friend’s return after a successful leg of his tour.  His apartment wasn’t packed, per se, but everyone seemed to be congregating in his living room area.

The music could barely be heard over the hoots and hollers of the guests, there were a few sticky spots on the ground where your shoes stuck (you made a mental note to clean it up in the morning), and nobody seemed to understand the concept of personal space.

You finally escaped into the kitchen where people only came in for a second to make another drink and then went back out to join the party.  You broke the status quo by leaving the party in the living room for the tameness of the kitchen.  The air felt cooler around you, not being pressed up against so many bodies, and you took a deep breath.

“There you are,” your ears perked up at the familiar voice, “Was looking for you.”

You didn’t even have to turn your head to know who was talking.  All you had to do was listen to the increased beat of your heart in your chest.  His arm curled around your stomach as he pulled your back into his chest.  The warmth you felt was in overload.

Shawn pressed a quick kiss to the top of your head, “You weren’t gonna leave, were you?”

You shook your head, grateful that he wasn’t able to see the blush on your cheeks, “Leave a Shawn Mendes party early?” You let out a small laugh that you hoped covered up your nervousness, “Never.”

Shawn let out a boisterous laugh as he spun you around, out of his grasp.  Your back was now pressed against the cool kitchen countertop you had made tacos on a few days prior.  The hand he had gently placed on your hips was getting all of your attention.

“Good,” he whispered, “Don’t know what I would do if you left.” He pressed a quick kiss to your cheek, “Brian doesn’t know how to handle his alcohol.”

You wanted to let out a loud laugh, but he was so close, if you moved your head just an inch forward your noses would brush up against each other, and you didn’t want to scare him away.

“Lucky me,” you contained your laugh into a wide smile, “To play the responsible adult.”

Shawn moved his face the inch closer to yours.  You didn’t know what to do as the tip of his nose slightly brushed against yours.  There had been a few drunk kisses shared between the two of you, but you were sober and so was Shawn.  At least he seemed sober in your eyes when he whispered the next words with a bit of edge to them.

“Lucky me.”

Your eyes stayed wide open as his fluttered shut for only a second before someone yelled out his name.  And that someone was Brian.

You stayed pressed up against the counter, eyes wide open as you stared over Shawn’s shoulder to see Brian looking at you with the exact same facial expression; confused, but not all that surprised at how you found yourself pressed between Shawn and the counter.  While you were starting to feel unease from the situation, Shawn stayed firm in his place, his hand was now rubbing soft circles into your side.

“Hey, Uh––“ It was the first time you had heard Brian speechless, “Cleaning supplies? Tyler just–––“

Shawn let his head drop to your shoulders, “Fuck,” he whispered only loud enough for you to hear, already knowing what Brian’s sentence was leading to. His breath was hot against your neck, causing your own breath to just stop.  And just like how fast his eyes closed in front of you, Shawn let go of your waist and walked out of the kitchen with Brian trailing behind him.

You stayed in that position for five minutes staring blankly at the wall across the way, still not believing what you thought was about to happen.

“Y/n?” Snapping back into reality, you saw your friend Olivia mixing herself a drink with a look of concern on her face, “Good?

Your mouth went dry as you tried to string together your thoughts, “I––Yeah there’s––Why wouldn’t I––“

“I saw you with Shawn.”

Her blunt words cut you off.  You didn’t think anyone, save for Brian, had caught you in that compromising position with Shawn.  But it wasn’t like you and Shawn were an item.  You weren’t anything but friends.  Best friends.

You tried to wave her off as you joined her to make your own mixed drink, telling a little white lie, “He’s an affectionate drunk,” the coldness of the glass wrapped inside of your hand served as a wake up call.

Olivia gave you a pointed look as she took a sip of her drink, “Y/n, you should tell him.”

You pretended like you didn’t hear her as you continued taking sips of your drink.  Olivia was a good friend of yours, and it was on your second bottle of shared wine after a much too stressful exam season, that you let it slip that you were in love with your best friend.

You set your near empty glass on the counter, “I can’t–––He doesn’t feel the same way.”

Olivia raised her eyebrows, she didn’t believe you, and neither did you for a minute.  In that moment Shawn had you pressed against the counter, you believed that maybe he did feel the same way about you.  But he was so quick to remove himself from you that it diminished any hope you had.

“He was all over you,” she smirked, “Got some heads to turn into the kitchen.”

You blushed at the thought of anymore people intruding on your little moment with Shawn, “He has been acting a little differently since he’s gotten back,” you tried to rationalize with yourself, “Maybe he…does?”

There was skepticism in your voice, mixed with a little bit of hope, like the vodka coke you had in your hand.

“Go,” Olivia offered you a reassuring smile as she nodded her head in the direction Brian and Shawn walked off to, “Tell him.”

With a single nod, you downed the rest of your drink, but kept the glass in your hands.  You needed something to keep your hands steady and in place or you would be more of a nervous wreck than you already were.

Confessing to your best friend that you love him? The irrational part of your brain spoke up, you know he doesn’t feel the same so save yourself the heartbreak–––

But, the rational part of your mind interrupted, he is your best friend, you should be able to trust him with anything, and if for some reason he doesn’t love you back it shouldn’t change your friendship.

You fought to silence both parts of your brain, neither of them helping your confidence right now, as you walked down the hall to where you knew Shawn and Brian were.  He always kept his cleaning supplies in the linen closet in the hall bathroom.  Each step you took felt like twenty, but before anymore anxiety ridden thoughts could swarm your mind, you found yourself outside of the bathroom door.

The light that illuminated from under the door told you that they are still in there.  The door was cracked up a smidge, and you were able to see a sliver Shawn’s side profile. With a deep breath, you raised your hand to knock on the door, but stopped mid-way when you caught wind of their conversation.

“So,” it was Brian who started talking first, “What was that back there?”

“What was what?” He was playing dumb, just like you had done with Olivia.

Brian let out a scoff, “Y/n?  Dude, c’mon, you know what I’m talking about.” His words were slightly slurred together, letting you in on that Brian was tipsy.

There was a pause on the other side of the door and you could see Shawn slightly shrugging his shoulders, eyes avoiding Brian’s questioning gaze. 

But then he spoke up, changing the conversation completely onto someone else, “Miranda keeps texting me.”

You had never heard that name before.

“Miranda?” Brian asked, “Is she the one from L.A.?”

Brian spoke as if there were other girls he kept around the world for whenever he traveled.  And he spoke her name as if he was familiar with it.

“Yeah,” Shawn said as you heard a cabinet door shut, “She came to the shows out there.”

“And?”

You were pressed up close to the door, torn between wanting to hear about the girl who Shawn was smitten with and wanting to run out to the kitchen to continue living in your head, convinced that Shawn loved you back.

“I like her,” but what made your heartbreak even more was how you could hear the smile on his face, “I like her a lot.”

You held your breath.  The vodka coke that had coated your throat in confidence was now as dry as a desert.  You swallowed the lump in your throat, but it came right back.

Brian sounded just as shocked as you felt, “But––A few minutes ago––What about Y/n?”

There was a pause.  You pressed your lips tightly together in hopes for it to stop the trembling you felt coarse throughout your body.  Hands balled in fists at your sides, you screwed your eyes shut and started to count to ten, wishing you could wake up from this nightmare.

One…Two…Three…Four…

“She’s different.”

Different.  You were different in every way possible than this new girl who had captured his attention.  You were different in that he didn’t have feelings for you like he did for this new girl.  He didn’t love you like you loved him.

The tightness in your throat was beginning to be too much, your throat scratchier every time you swallowed your tears back.  The piercing sting behind your eyes started to hurt.  You had never been pricked with tiny needles on your skin, but you imagined it felt something similar to the pain behind our eyes.

“Besides,” Shawn cleared his throat, “She’s just a friend.”

He didn’t even call you his best friend.

And when you thought that the boy you loved so fiercely couldn’t say anything more to ruin your confidence, he decided to speak once more, “I’ve never––I don’t love her.”

It was with that last sentence, the one sentence Shawn spoke with an unnerving amount of confidence, that hit your heart like a hammer.  Throughout this whole conversation, you slowly felt your heart being picked away at with an ice pick.  Each part of your heart that broke off held a memory full of love that was now forgotten in the pit of your stomach.

“Who said anything about loving her?” As tipsy as Brian was, he was quick with his question.

Shawn avoided his question all together, “We’ve got some cleaning to do.”

The hall bathroom wasn’t large, so you knew they would be out in a matter of seconds.  And if you didn’t move fast enough, it would be revealed that you had heard their whole conversation.

You ran down the hallway, feeling your heart being destroyed even more with every step back into the kitchen.  The conversation played in your head, having a hard time believing what you had just heard.  

Told you so, the irrational part of your brain mocked you.

The rational part of your mind stayed silent.

You angrily wiped away a stray tear that had leaked past your eye, cursing at yourself for being so stupid.  

With the scattered state your mind was in, as it uselessly tried to mend your heart, Brian and Shawn’s footsteps caught you by surprise.  The glass in your hand fell from your grasp as it shattered into little shards on the floor.

The broken glass looked a lot like how your heart felt.

Quickly, you dropped to the ground, collecting the little pieces of glass in your hand.  You pricked yourself a few times, but you were numb to everything around you that it didn’t matter.

“Y/n––Hey, stop-–Let me get it––Y/n.”

You stopped picking up the shards of glass when you felt his hand circle around your wrist.  You didn’t look up at him until he said your name again.  There had never been a time where you didn’t want him to touch you.  That’s all you yearned for when he was away; his touch.  Whether it was an accidental brush of your fingers, a slight squeeze to your hip when you were cooking, or his head on your shoulder when he fell asleep during 10 Things I Hate About You…His touch was all that mattered to you at one point.

But even after unknowingly breaking your heart, his touch was still warm.

“Are you okay?” He still kept a hand locked around your wrist, “What happened?”

But now you wanted nothing more than to rip yourself of his hold.  You felt uncomfortable under his gaze, nauseous as he looked into your eyes with such concern, but the worst part was, you still loved him.

“Yeah, I…” you broke eye contact with him, knowing that the sting behind your eyes was begging for another reason to overflow.  And staring into his eyes would cause the floodgates to open, “Just clumsy.”

You let out a small laugh as he slowly released his grip in your hand, “Leave it, I’ll clean it up after I take care of Tyler’s mess.”

And just like he did earlier in the night, he left without a second thought.

Knowing Shawn like the back of your hand was a skill you were proud to have.  You could always tell by the tone of his voice if something was off and wouldn’t back down until he told you.  Every eyebrow raise, nose twitch, certain looks he would get in his eyes that let you into how he was feeling…You were able to pinpoint his emotions in a matter of seconds.

Maybe, you thought to yourself, just maybe he doesn’t know you as well as you thought.

[pjlowry]

Question: You’re an atheist, and you die and are brought in front of God Almighty. Will you have something to say to him? If yes, what?

I answered this question on Quora by writing a small skit. Here it is for those who’d like to read it:

(Death occurs and yours truly ends up before the pearly gates)

Me: Oh damn, is that what I think it is?

(Looks over and there is a decent line in front of the gates)

Man in Line: Shhhhhh! No talking while waiting for judgement.

Me: Really? Okay…

(Walks over and gets to the back of the line.)

Me: I hope they have more than one window open, I don’t want to be here forever…

Man in Line: You’re not going to shut up are you?

Me: Oh, hell no. What else are we going to do?

Man in Line: I was hoping to wait patiently.

Me: That’s not very productive.

Man in Line: It’s not?

Me: Fuck no! We should talk and get to know one another, and maybe even think about what we want to say when we get up there.

Man in Line: I’m not going to lie to get into heaven!

Me: Who said anything about lying? I mean discussing it so you can remember all the cool things you really did. Like cramming for a final.

Man in Line: Well, that makes sense I guess.

Me: Okay, what’s your name?

Man in Line: I’m Raif.

Me: I’m PJ; nice to meet you.

Raif: So how did you get here, PJ?

Me: I went in for surgery. Last thing I remember is being put out before going under the knife. I guess that didn’t go as planned.

Raif: That is unfortunate.

Me: How about about you dude? How did you kick the bucket?

Raif: I was tortured to death by my own government.

Me: What? Damn man, that fucking sucks!

Raif: I was sentenced to 1000 lashes and I didn’t make it past 500.

Me: Lashed to death? Fuck me… that’s brutal. What kind of fucking government does this kind of shit?

Raif: Saudi Arabia.

Me: What the hell did you do to piss them off?

Raif: I set up a blog and posted unpopular opinions.

Me: Damn man, that’s not fair! What about free speech?

Raif: When it comes to certain subjects such as the monarch and especially Islam, you are not allowed to voice a dissenting opinion.

Me: Not fair dude, just not fair. Lashed to death for having an opinion. Just not cool in my books.

Raif: I was also sentenced to death for apostasy. That sentence was supposed to be carried out after my lashes were done.

Me: Wait a second, I read about you online! I was at a few of the rallies in Toronto to protest your imprisonment!

Raif: Thank you for your efforts.

Me: I’m sorry they didn’t work man, we tried.

Raif: It’s alright, I am at peace now and here with you.

Me: I’m not sure how long we’ll be up here.

Raif: What do you mean?

Me: We’ll… we’re both non-believers. It will be a very tough interview, I can promise you that.

Raif: I am not afraid of judgement, I did good while I lived.

Me: I believe ya man, I got your back. You seem like a great guy.

Raif: Thanks, but what about you?

Me: If this place takes any of the books seriously, then I’m toast… literally! Just the amount of times I spanked the monkey is enough to send me straight down.

Raif: I see, and is there any other activity that might warrant damnation?

Me: Oh, tons of stuff. Now that I think of it, you should probably let me go first.

Raif: Why?

Me: Because I’ll look so bad, that when you come after me… you’ll shine like a friggin’ altar boy by comparison. It'll increase your chances of getting in.

Raif: You think that could work?

Me: I’m sure they’ve got some kind of quota to meet… it’s worth a shot. I’d rather have one of us make it than none.

Raif: Why thank you, PJ.

Me: No problem man, I think you’ve suffered enough.

Raif: Here step forward, we’re almost there!

Me: Already? Damn, that dude works really fast!

Raif: Here, it’s your turn!

(Steps forward to the booth at the gate, there’s an old man with a very long white bears standing there.)

St. Peter: Name please.

Me: P.J. Lowry. Writer, Poet, Outspoken Atheist…

St. Peter: And a shit disturber. Yes, I’ve got you right here.

Me: Damn, I was hoping it was an accident and you’d send me back.

St. Peter: That doesn’t happen very often.

Me: I bet it was seriously messed up when it did, right?

St. Peter: Indeed. So surgery didn’t go well I take it?

Me: Apparently. I wasn’t exactly awake for it.

St. Peter: Alright, let’s have a look here. You have an interview scheduled in Room A. Just walk down this side of the gate until you reach it.

Me: Alright… do I need anything for this interview, like pen and paper?

St. Peter: You don’t… good luck.

Me: Thanks man.

(walks down the side of the gate that St. Peter gestured to so that the line could move along. He keeps walking until he reaches a hallway with doors.)

Me: This must be the place.

(walks up to door marked A)

Me: Let’s not forget our manners.

Door: Knock! Knock!

Voice: Come in!

(opens the door and walks in. There is a single table with two chairs. One of them is occupied by a man wearing a white robe and with a beard that was even longer than St. Peter’s. He walks in.)

Me: May I? (Gestures to the chair)

Man: Sure, please sit down.

Me: given your appearance, I’m going to to out on a limb here. God?

God: In the house, motherfucker!

Me: (Sighs) Alright, I got the top dog for my interview.

God: Do you have a problem with that?

Me: Of course not! I’m actually a little humbled, and even impressed to see you doing some of the grunt work and not delegating it all.

God: Ass kissing will get you nowhere, but good try.

Me: I’ll try my best, but force of habit.

God: I know… literally.

Me: Fair enough.

God: So, surgery didn’t go well?

Me: You think?

God: Sorry to hear about that.

Me: You and me both… any chance I could get a mulligan on that?

God: Fraid not, sport.

Me: Shit, and I had so many projects to finish!

God: I think your procrastination had more to do with that than I did.

Me: Last time I checked you created everything, so that includes World Of Warcraft, baseball, and social media…

God: I also invented alcohol, weed and heroin too… but that doesn’t mean you have to go to town on them.

Me: I have to admit, alcohol and Taco Bell were surprising good.

God: Thank you.

Me: So you created those things to test us?

God: I created a lot of tests. Television, the internet, donuts.

Me: All there to test us?

God: Yup.

Me: Fuck me, I must have bombed big time!

God: You didn’t ace it, that’s for sure.

Me: Well, tell me this much: what’s a passing grade?

God: A passing grade is 55 percent. If you did good for more than 55% of your life, you’ll squeeze out a pass..

Me: You mean just like I did for all those boring university classes?

God: Exactly.

Me: So hit me with it: what’s my score?

God: You scored…. 65%.

Me: Holy shit! I got a C!

God: Yes, quite impressive for a non-believer.

Me: You know everything, so you know why I rejected religion. As the being that invented my brain, can you really get upset that I actually used it for more than just a hat rack?

God: I suppose not.

Me: And speaking of using my brain, where the fuck have you been for the last 2000 years? You’ll show yourself to Moses and Noah to help animals and Egyptian slaves, but won’t lift a fucking finger to stop all the suffering going on in the world? Like seriously man, what the holy fuck?

God: To be honest, I just couldn’t hold it any more. And when I get back from the can… you fuckers are pointing nukes at one another and have royally screwed the environment. Do you have any idea how many years it took to make that place?

Me: A few billion?

God: Exactly, and look at the mess you guys made!

Me: Hold on, so you’re telling me you were gone for 2000 years because you went to take a piss?

God: Yeah, pretty much.

Me: It takes you 2000 years to pee?

God: You got a problem with that? I am a god so I do things differently!

Me: Okay, okay… not judging.

God: You should have seen what happened the last time I took a crap. I went to pinch a loaf, and of course when my back is turned an asteroid hits the planet and wipes out all of my fucking dinosaurs! I was only gone for 20 million years, and then poof, no more dinosaurs!

Me: That does suck.

God: Yeah, I know. After that I had to go right back to the drawing board, and that’s when I invented you buggers.

Me: Well thanks, I guess.

God: Thank you for being a decent chap, Peter.

Me: I tried my best. It wasn’t easy.

God: You got a C, don’t push your luck.

Me: Fair enough… so what happens now?

God: Now you go through that door and enjoy your welcome party!

Me: A party? That’s so cool.

God: Totally.

Me: You coming too?

God: Fraid not, PJ, I’ve got more interviews, and we’re kinda backlogged here.

Me: Oh… is there anything I can do to help?

God: Are you capable of judging people?

Me: Have you seen my twitter and tumblr accounts?

God: Good point… you’re hired!

[yeoldontknow]

Shortwave

Author: @eradikeats-writes as part of Boogie Nights And Colombian White Creative Content Contributors: @baebae-goodnight (providing an INCREDIBLE moodboard for this installment) Rating: R Warnings: graphic violence; drug use; explicit language Word Count: 4,356 Special thanks to @kpopfanfictrash for letting me borrow her Baekhyun <3 and to @the-porcelain-doll-xo for a read through <3 Yixing - The Eyes

From great heights, it’s easy to see Miami the way it used to be. With the sea in view, somehow still iridescent and tantalizing in the dark, it’s easy to let time slip and drag him back. Back to the sixties, to before Yixing had even arrived, when South Beach was little more than something lazy, something pleasant, something almost hopeful. He can almost imagine it up here, chairs and chairs and chairs of geriatrics and maybe even some teenagers, stoned and old and killing time while they wait to die. Standing on the factory roof, he can see over the cranes and the high rises, the metal scaffolding stained and painted in equal parts blood and blow. Here, Miami becomes something little more than an idealized getaway, something little more than an empty plot of sand waiting to be paved. Something made of potential.

At this height, it’s easy to pretend he is flying. Standing on the ledge of the factory roof, Yixing looks down at his shoes as he balances and offers the stability of his knees complete trust. The weight of the recorder at his side could easily make him tip or stumble, would scare a younger, less trained man into stepping away. He simply stands, feeling like a gargoyle, feeling like this factory is his cathedral charge, and lets the pavement below test his will. Occasionally, like this, when the breeze picks up and threads through his hair, he thinks small fibers of his muscles are tempted to jump, fall, fly, or kiss the earth below. He thinks that would be easy, thinks that would be nice.

At this height, a lot of things are easy, but, at this height, it’s hard to be seen.

From where he stands, he looks out over the world and sees people. Lives pass by, insignificant and inconsequential, moving at slow paces and burned by ignorance. Lights in windows glow, people fucking over the city or fighting down below, and he can hear, see, smell them all. No one sees him, because no one expects to. No one sees him, because they are not looking, but he sees them.

Years of abandonment and neglect have taught him to observe, look for, and seek all the flaws in humanity that give him the upper hand. When eyes are not focused on him, he looks and looks and looks until every person is reduced to little more than cosmic waste, carbon and nitrogen soaked in nothing more than sin. He likes it this way, thinks it’s poetic - to be the prophecy all prophecies pass and ignore. The great undoing of everyone and everything, eventually even himself.

Digging his hand into his pocket, he pulls out his lighter and juts his hip slightly to maintain balance. Pushing a cigarette between his lips, he relishes the sensation of his leather glove grazing his lips and lets the tobacco glide languidly into his chest and lungs. This moment could be soothing, he thinks, akin to a great wave of calm passing over his weary joints and mind. Could be.  

Would be, except for the entire length of his drag, someone is screaming.

Eight floors below, somewhere in the purgatory of the empty building, Minho is learning how to die.

Really, it’s his fault that he’s there, likely losing his ear and certainly losing his life - even if his heart is still beating. It was only a matter of time before the group found out he’d been poking holes in cocaine shipments, meeting the traffickers at the port and cutting slits in the bags to take kilo and after kilo to the Cubans. Yixing assumes that he was smart enough to know he’d be caught, though he probably never thought it would be a prostitute, still wet with come and sweat, who would give him away.

Minseok said his name like he was spitting acid from his mouth, disgusted with the mere idea of him. His fingers twitched, itching to reach into his back pocket for his knife. Itching to take his knife and cut off his thieving fingers but, well, Minseok has always had stellar self-control when he wasn’t tweaked or depressed.

Initially, they thought him the mole, connected him easily to every conspiracy they could imagine and fabricate, plot lines filling in like they’d been woven over years of planning and choosing. Logical. Made sense. Infuriating.

Jongin nearly punched a hole in his dash when Yixing told him not to kill the guy, instead to bring him in, back to Baekhyun who had some questions. Over a decade of working with and knowing Baekhyun had long ago taught him this didn’t mean a conversation, it meant he wanted blood, and, deep down, Yixing wanted it too. Minho got careless, reckless, and greedy - that’s what Jongin called it as he was guided through the streets, trying to talk himself down from the blind rage he found himself in. Yixing said nothing on the topic, oddly reserved for this time of night, barking out directions as he mulled over Jongin’s turn of phrase. Jongin was being kind, using gentle words, sympathetic words to describe this. Yixing called it disloyal, called it traitorous - that was his version of kindness.

Now, listening into the conversation, he’s satisfied with the words Baekhyun has selected. Their fearless leader, his childhood friend, ever the poet.

‘You know, I don’t like people.’ Baekhyun releases small grunts through his words, the effort of slicing through cartilage filtering through his speech. ‘People are cunts. Worthless pieces of come and pussy, self-servicing - fuck, I don’t even like Suho that much.’

‘It’s mutual.’ Junmyeon’s voice cuts through Baekhyun’s little sermon, sharp, pointed, and bored.

‘So what made you think that I liked you? That we were friends? Was it the money I was fronting you to push this shit? Did you think it was a fucking loan?’

Exhaling into the breeze, Yixing chuckles at Baekhyun’s nonchalant tone, almost cordial in its cadence. Any other man, he imagines, would use this opportunity to impose dominance or threat in their word choice. Treading carefully over their words, they would select the ones they find most sinister and brutal in the effort of exerting authority. For as long as Yixing has known him, Baekhyun has never felt the need to do this. He has never done this because he doesn’t need to, choosing instead to let his actions showcase his will. And his will, always and without fail, is lethal.

‘Answer me, I’m genuinely curious. I’d like to know.’

Soft whimpers permeate through the silence, intercut by howls of pain. Minho is losing his ear, and, in this case, he is lucky.

‘Oh, sorry, is my knife at your ear making it hard for you to speak? Let me make it easier for you.’

Minho screams, agony erupting out of his chest and sending Yixing back from the roof edge as he winces through the feedback in his earpiece. Laughter dances through, sounding splintered yet paradoxically gleeful, Baekhyun happily walking away with an ear.

‘There. Okay, tell me. What made you think we were friends?’

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ Minho rasps, voice ragged and tilted with pain.

‘I don’t know,’ singsongs Baekhyun, boyishly weaving his way through the interrogation. ‘You started this whole Shakespearean shit. The Brutus to my Julius.’

‘Baekhyun, can we please hurry this up.’ Once more, Junmyeon bursts through, tired and irritated with the length of time this is taking. He’d rather go home. He’d rather have the body dump already arranged. Instead, he is playing rook to Baekhyun’s whim.

Yixing gets it, he truly does, but even he isn’t so forgiving, and so he decides to speak.

‘We’ve secured this building for two hours. There is plenty of time.’

‘Lay,’ Junmyeon says, feigning surprise. ‘I’d forgotten you joined us.’

Turning in a slow circle as he surveys the area, Yixing smirks. ‘Wish I could say the same.’

‘Shut up,’ interjects Baekhyun. ‘I think he wants to speak.’

Retching sounds become the soundtrack to a young couple fucking against an alley wall far below. Yixing smiles. Yixing watches.

‘What the fuck is that, is that tacos?’

Junmyeon sighs. ‘Looks like a burrito.’

Unable to help himself, Yixing laughs as he moves towards the opposite side of the roof. ‘Jesus Christ.’

‘Contrary to popular belief,’ Baekhyun announces, playfulness steadily disappearing from his voice, ‘my patience grows thin rather quickly. So, either you speak or I’m going to tell you what I think.’

With an intake of breath that sounds more like a hiss, Yixing braces himself for the oncoming storm. Now, it’s serious. Now, this kind of betrayal is a tangible reality and everyone is starting to feel it. Even Junmyeon, who is usually taciturn and stoic during all interrogations and meetings, releases a small, almost inaudible growl from his throat. Everyone wants some of Minho’s blood, and Baekhyun is sure to deliver.

‘Nothing?’

Baekhyun’s tenor weaves its way around the room, sounding soft and beautiful, and absolutely deadly.

‘Okay, here’s what I think: I think you got comfortable. You made your first million and you thought you could use me to make more. Because we’re friends, right? Friends would understand.’

In the brief pause, Yixing grits his teeth in anticipation. There’s a rhythm to the way Baekhyun handles his interrogations, a pacing similar to a dance, and he knows where this one is headed. As if by clockwork, he hears the cock of Baekhyun’s SIG Sauer before the trigger is pulled. The sound is loud, erupting through both the mic, giving sharp feedback directly into his brain, and out into the city. No one will notice. No one will care.

‘Shit man, you’re a cripple now.’

This simple sentence tells him Minho now has a bullet in one knee cap, though by the end of the night he expects he will have more in other, more important places.

‘Do you know what happens to cocaine when it makes contact with salt water?’ Footsteps follow Baekhyun’s words, signalling his movement through the pace of his speech; Yixing can almost see him circling the chair, eyes impassive behind yellow sunglasses and mouth set in a straight line. ‘This doesn’t have anything to do with you, well, it does but mostly I just want to know if you know. You’re a smart guy. Community college. Some bullshit like that.’

‘He dropped out after a year,’ he provides, leaning over the roof to watch Jongin turn a corner, circling the perimeter without being obvious.

‘But he went!’ Baekhyun exclaims, feigning pride. ‘That’s gotta mean something, right college guy? So, tell me. What happens to cocaine in salt water?’

Minho spits. ‘Fuck you.’

‘My sex life is fucking incredible, thanks, but that’s not my question.’

Another gunshot rings out in his ear, unexpected and brash, making him bend down and open his mouth in a silent scream of shock.

‘Sorry, my hand slipped. But hey, at least you know you aren’t walking out of here, right? You can relax now.’

Tired of playing games, Baekhyun is moving forward at an unprecedented speed. Yixing can sense it, even the air that moves around the roof is saturated with his wrath, and, soon, he thinks the whole of Miami will be caught in its tides.

‘Here’s what happens,’ Baekhyun says, sounding almost too pleasant for the details he’s about to provide. ‘Coke in water? Shitty, but if you evaporate the water it’ll still be there and it’ll work. Won’t work well, but it’s enough to get you addicted. Coke in salt water? Whole other story. So, when you’ve been dropping my shit into the sea, did you think this would eventually come back to you?’

For a while, the only sound Yixing can hear is Minho’s whimpering. He hopes Minho is suffering. He hopes he never goes numb to the pain.

There’s a sudden fury of movement: the tearing of bags, the pushing of a chair, fabric thrusting and moving in nondescript motions. He can’t make sense of it, his brain trying to picture each action and rounding itself back into a fog. Speech dies on his tongue, choosing not to interrupt Baekhyun as he works and instead keeps all his complaints to himself.

‘I want you to try it.’

Now, he gets it. Now, he feels almost sympathetic towards Minho. Almost.

‘Look, I’m sorry I don’t have a nice mirror for you to snort this off, but I think your ear makes a fine dish don’t you?’

More movement occurs in vague patterns: thrusts and grunts, sounds of inhales blocked by powder in nasal passages. Minho coughs, loud and sputtering and gagged, and, soon, he’s reduced to little more than a mess of uncomfortable whining.

A small sigh, one of insincere platitudes falls from Baekhyun’s mouth. ‘Your nose is bleeding. Suho, do we have a tissue for his nose?’

‘No,’ Junmyeon says, plainly. ‘No, we don’t.’

‘Sorry man. But hey, now we know what happens when you snort impure blow. Fucking sucks, doesn’t it.’

Below, Jongin circles back around, appearing as a lost driver attempting to find the highway entrance. Below, the world is moving, dollar bills are circulating in the Florida economy that are laced with cocaine simply by passing through the fingers of Miami’s lawyer’s, doctors, car salesmen. Below, a woman walking home alone is crying.

Above, Yixing is watching. Above, Yixing is listening. Above, Yixing is waiting. He knows the bullet is coming, and so he takes his ear piece out and rests it calmly on his shoulder. Without Baekhyun in his ear, the world seems calm. Miami seems calm and quiet and soft. Without Baekhyun in his ear, Miami seems colourless. Without Baekhyun, Miami seems hollow.  

‘I’ve got one more question for you,’ Baekhyun says, voice in a loud whisper. Baekhyun is leaning over Minho now, close and low and breathing heavy into his wire mic. ‘What happens to dead bodies in salt water?’

‘I don’t know,’ weeps Minho, pathetic and sad and aware that these are likely his last words.

‘Me neither. Will you be sure to tell me?’

‘Wh -’

A third and final gunshot breaks through, and Yixing smiles. He smiles at the moon and the sea and the city, but it is neither content nor is it pleased, it’s simply relieved that one half of their problems has been eradicated. It’s simply relieved that he can go home and not sleep, just think without this weighing heavy on his mind.

Minho is dead and Yixing is now free, at least for the next six hours.

‘This was all well and good, but we still have a mole,’ Junmyeon says, wires moving and indicating he is about to disconnect and arrange disposal of the corpse.

‘His brains are on my shoes,’ whines Baekhyun, sounding childish. ‘These were a gift.’

‘I’m sure your pretty piece of pussy will be able to get you another pair.’

‘That’s not the point,’ Baekhyun states, voice stern. ‘And don’t call her that. I’ll put a bullet in your mouth if you do it again.’

‘You won’t.’

He likes it, this banter. It makes him feel as though he isn’t on his own or alone, operating like the satellite he is. It makes him feel distant from New York City, the mob and the cops and the lonely way he had to move through the night to steal a car or a kilo to make a quick buck. It makes him feel distant from the thing he was before.

He likes this banter but now, he is tired, and now, after thirty-six hours, he is going home.

‘I’m leaving,’ he announces, and all sounds on the other halt as he commands attention. ‘I’ll leave the tape with Kai. I-95 should be clear until four.’

There are three deadbolts on Yixing’s door, each made of solid brass. There are three deadbolts and each is more imposing than the one that comes before. When he suggested this, you laughed and called him paranoid. He simply agreed. When he suggested this, you said it was a tell, a give away that something serious was happening inside. You said, we’ll either look crazy or criminal, and I don’t know which is worse. He simply agreed, but he said it would keep you safe. He didn’t include himself. He doesn’t really care, not really about anything, except you.

When he walks through the door, like usual, he is ambushed by you. Whole heartfuls of lust and sentiment flare up and outward from his chest, rising through his throat to linger on his tongue. When he walks through the door, he is ambushed by you, standing in the center of your living room.

When he walks through the door, he is ambushed by you, and you are pointing a gun at him.

It reminds him of the first time he met you, when you pointed a gun at him and called him a fed, called him a cunt, called him a lot of things that made him laugh until he pulled a wire out from a car and hot wired it for you. You called him a lot things that night, held the gun to his head as he drove you through Brooklyn, while he told you he didn’t care the AV equipment was government grade or that it was hot, just that he wanted in the on the money if you were going to make him drive. You held the gun to his head all night, only put it down when he fucked you on your bed, dad sleeping in the next room an arms reach from a rifle - the riskiest sex he ever had.

When he walks through the door, he is ambushed by you. You are pointing a gun at him, and you are shaking.

Instantly, words rush forward and fall from his mouth, tearing through him before his mind can assess his surroundings. Something feels off, slightly amiss, but he doesn’t care. He cannot care, because you are there with wide eyes and looking at him as though the world is in a state of collapse.

‘Nocti,’ he breathes, hands flying up in defense. He knows you won’t shoot, you never shoot, but you’re severe and strong, and your hold on the gun was always better and more stable than his. ‘Nocti.’

Just hearing the nickname seems to make you relax, your shoulders drooping and defenses falling just enough for you to come back to him, to peek around your shell and let him know this fear and this rage is not directed at him. And seeing you soften, seeing that you are neither hurt nor fighting with him tonight, makes the atmosphere shift and the flesh of his arms tingle.

‘Someone’s been in the house.’

You say it together, at the same time, and he’s at you before you can even move to investigate. Running his hands over your face, your hair, your waist. He looks at you as though you are bleeding, hemorrhaging in his hands even though he knows you are whole and complete and vital.

‘I’m fine,’ you state, though you cling to him tighter than usual, and it makes his jaw clench with disdain that someone could have this kind of power over you and his home. One and the same, really. ‘I just got home. I felt it when I walked in.’

Furiously, he pulls away from you, sure and calculated in every moment of his limbs. He tears through the house, inspecting rooms with his knife clutched tightly in his hands while you, with your Harballer, point at the furniture as though it is preparing to devour you whole. The silence is deafening, both of you reverting to hand signals and instead listening for sounds of footsteps unfamiliar with various weak spots in the floorboards. Yixing is looking for shadows and he knows you are looking for flesh, tendons to tear and shoot, men to cripple. Yixing is looking for shadows, feeling much like the moon as he tries to draw them out of the dark and give shape to phantoms already long gone.

Eventually, you both discern that nothing has been taken nor moved, the only real difference being the weight of the air in the house. It’s sticky and damp, a swamp dripping down the walls - though, he cannot tell if it’s the Florida air finding a way in or if it’s the rapid beating of his heart making him feel as though the earth is trying to suffocate him. And while this should calm him, the fact that everything is the same and as it should be, he is only able to manage a further, excessive panic because someone got in to do just that: be inside.

There are three deadbolts on Yixing’s door, each made of solid brass. With no obvious signs of force at any entry point, this means someone followed him, likely for weeks, and made keys. With no obvious signs of forced entry, this means someone has known about his home, his life, his space for a long time. With no obvious signs of entry, this means it was planned.

‘We have to leave,’ he says, walking into the living room to where you are holding your gun at your side, defeated. ‘We need to get the fuck out.’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ you retort, putting the safety back on and tossing it to the couch. ‘Leaving means they win.’

Yixing releases a scoff at your indifference to this plight, taken aback by how firm you are in your stance. ‘Nocti, you stole a lot of shit for us. I’m not embroiling you -’

‘For you,’ you interrupt, scowling and pointing a finger into his chest. ‘I stole that shit for you, not your boss or the whores he collects. You.’

Always, you are stronger than him. Will of iron and teaching him to be fierce, unwavering, brave. ‘If they found us,’ he begins, pulling you to him, ‘they’re onto a hell of a lot more than a pimp and a club owner who might be involved with racketeering.’

‘If they find us, you can put a bullet in their brain and I’ll search their pockets for loose change.’

For a while, you both fall quiet. Still, even with the discovery that nothing was taken, the house feels awkward, the bubble of privacy and clarity wholly removed and replaced with something foreign, something he hasn’t felt since Queens and the night a dead cop turned up on his doorstep. He’s used to running, leaving shit behind until his trail goes cold. He’s used to observing, never being observed unless it was your eyes only, and he can’t help but feel as though this is the beginning of the end.

Eventually, your mouth finds his neck, kissing a calm sort of fire into his skin as you speak. ‘Besides, you have a deal in a few days to scout. We can’t leave before -’

And then he’s gone from you, pulling away from your hold and running down the hall to the back spare room. It’s mostly empty, filled with boxes of office supplies neither of you use but keep merely to give the appearance of planning, converting, using, living. He moves a box to the side and tears at the wallpaper, revealing a small panel with a lever. Tugging the metal rod, he listens to the latch release and watches the wall slide away to reveal the radio room.

This too is small, but is the single most important thing his first million ever made him. With only two tables, two chairs, and three short wave radios, the room looks like an unassuming broadcast radio station at best but it’s the eighty foot tower less than three miles from the house that makes this room lethal. This is where Baekhyun talks to Colombia, this is where traffic routes are detailed, this is where Yixing listens to all the ways they’ve learned to live and speak and survive, and no one has never heard him. Not even once.

Inspecting each radio with a careful, quizzical eye, Yixing finally finds the thing that’s changed. One small detail that any other man, a careless man, would miss.

On the second table, sitting small and green and wholly unassuming, the knobs of a shortwave transmitter have been turned, sitting now in different positions than when he left them.

Releasing a breath he didn’t know he had been holding, he rests his weary body in the chair and he looks. He simply looks and looks at the dials and knows that, now, everything has changed. The information of a mole is no longer a rumour, something to be treated as mere investigation, but something that needs to be handled as though a warrant for execution has been issued. The mole is no longer a rumour, and they are inside, crawling inside all of Yixing’s private spaces and making him feel young, out of control, and completely unlike himself.

Like this, he thinks he could be reckless. Like this, he thinks he could be dangerous, publically and vocally, and he never liked the idea of either.

It’s as these thoughts pass through his head that he notices the pad of paper, yellow and legal and long. Impressions, erratic, unfocused and illegible, remain in the center of the pad, and suddenly a great wave of relief washes over him. This is the relief he had been seeking from his last smoke, the kind he had been seeking the moment he stepped through his door and held you in his arms.

This is the relief of control.

Flipping the pages up, he tears the last sheet out and lays it over the top, grabbing a pencil and sketching whole dark lines over the top. He makes one large dark cloud, big, almost circular, and lets the indents be the only white lines in the center.

When he’s done, he’s left with coordinates.

When he’s done, he’s left with handwriting.

When he’s done, he’s left with the truth.

Taewon.

[artificialqueens]

Yoü and I Ch. 3 (Shalaska) - pradatrash

AN: Thank you, thank you again for your kind words and encouragement, sorry for the delay in chapters, I hope you enjoy the third installment to this angsty af mess!!! Love you all xx prada

For goodness sake, I wasn’t told you’d be this cold

Despite what each post-breakup interview sounded like, the two were by no means on speaking terms. It had actually taken Justin a good four months to come around and even think about communicating with Aaron, let alone move his stuff out of their old house.

He had crashed on a few friend’s couches for a bit but was now semi-permanently sleeping on Detox’s couch in L.A.  before he got back on his feet. Justin didn’t understand this post breakup limbo he was in. He constantly felt like he was underwater, in some weird  haze of confusion.

He refused to go into detail about what really happened the night they broke up, mainly because a part of him still wanted to protect Aaron from the backlash but there was also a part of him that refused to believe it was truly over. If he tried hard enough he could even convince himself sometimes that it wasn’t real and it never happened, but anything on social media reminded him it was most certainly real.

Now Aaron found himself on a plane to L.A. with the rest of Justin’s things in a small box and in retrospect it was weird for him to be flying halfway across the country to deliver things to his ex but it wasn’t like he had ever stopped caring about him. It had been almost a year and a half and in that short time Aaron had moved on with Chad, or that’s what he liked to tell himself. There was something about that name that Aaron had yet to get used to.

It didn’t roll of the tongue in the way Chad Michaels did, it kind of just fell flat.

Waking up next to someone who wasn’t Justin every morning had felt refreshing at first but it had only lasted a week or two and the reality of it all had truly set in. They wouldn’t sit on their couch and watch TV together anymore, they wouldn’t have Cerrone around to interrupt their make out sessions, and they certainly would never be in this house together again.

When he had proposed it had of course thrown Aaron off guard, because they had been dating less than a year, but what was even more strange was that he had asked for time to think about it.

It felt like some sort of surreal experience but everything that Chad was Justin wasn’t and at the time that was what Aaron needed, the complete opposite of Justin. The amount of pain that he had felt at the end of their relationship was something he could never relive—it had almost killed him.

“Let me go to L.A. and just figure things out…and I’ll have an answer for you.”

It was a complete red flag and also the fact he didn’t tell Chad the real reason he was going to L.A., but it didn’t really feel like he was lying to his boyfriend because in truth he was also going to do some drag work but it’s not like he had to tell him his entire trip was based around Justin.

It was so strange, when he spoke with Justin on the phone it was okay. That’s the word Aaron would use: just okay. Justin would rave about living in Los Angeles and the vegetarian tacos that Aaron had to try when he was there, and all the fun Hollywood things but he could hear the pain behind his voice and Justin could probably sense his as well.

The minute Aaron steps into the L.A. air he squints against the sun and feels a drop in his stomach. Just being in the same state as Justin was anxiety inducing. His hands start to shake and he thinks he might have a full blown panic attack right here at LAX but he spots a familiar and comforting face coming towards him.

For as long as Aaron lives he swears by the savior that is Chad Michaels. His best friend in everything that he is, there was nothing he couldn’t trust with him. The older man grins at him and envelops him into a tight hug. “I missed you bitch.” Aaron lets out a hoarse laugh and clings to his friend, shaking his head.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“I think you have to, you two haven’t really seen each other alone since you broke up.”

Aaron shakes his head and helps load his bags into the back of the car before hopping in the passenger seat. “I could have just shipped his things…” He exhales and Chad gives him a pointed look,

“There’s a reason you didn’t.”

—

“America’s next Drag Superstar is…Jinkx Monsoon!”

The audience erupts into a flurry of screams as music starts blaring over the loud speakers, echoing off every wall in the theater. Sharon feels her heart drop into her stomach and instantly looks to Alaska who plasters on a wide grin and moves to give Jinkx a huge hug.

“Now prance my queen!”

Sharon feels someone take her hand and looks to Chad, complete anxiety showing on her face as they squeeze knuckles. “She got so far, she should be so proud.” She hears it whispered next to her but she doesn’t hear anything right now, she only sees Alaska, her gorgeous smile obscuring the utter desolation under it.

Once they’re all led backstage the first thing Sharon thinks is to just find Alaska, immediately, she looks like a frantic mess trying to weave through the clusters of queens, her heart beating rapidly. Various people try to stop her and say strike up conversation, she tries to throw a genuine smile to Latrice and Raja passing her but her mind is just thinking one thing: Alaska.

“Sharon, it’s so good to see you!”

“Sharon, how are you feeling about Jinkx winning?”

She throws an apologetic smile to the voices shouting to her, her eyesight is only fixed on one thing and that’s getting through this chaotic mess to the one person she needed to see. What did her opinion matter right now when the most important person in her life was shattered? The only thing stopping her from screaming at everyone was Chad gently guiding her through the throngs.

Suddenly she feels someone collide into her and she instantly reaches out to steady herself and the other person when she sees a sweep of ginger hair. “Sharon, oh my god! I—“

She blinks and suddenly Jinkx Monsoon comes into view and is still somehow clinging onto her. “I just want to thank you because if it weren’t for you winning your season—“ Sharon doesn’t mean to be rude but she cuts the newly crowned queen off, her eyes looking everywhere but Jinkx. “I’m sorry but I have to find—“ Jinkx’s eyes widen in realization and she quickly steps aside to let her go, Chad giving the new queen a small apologetic smile. “Oh of course, I’m so sorry!”

That’s when she sees her, a broken vision in pink, she’s leaning over a bit talking to Detox quietly and Sharon doesn’t realize she’s just shoved a production manager aside to get to her but then she touches her arm and Alaska instantly turns.

Her eyes meet Sharon’s and it hits her like a fucking bus, the pain. She pain swirling in her eyes is heart wrenching it almost makes her lose her balance. “Come with me.” She speaks before she pulls them both away from the crowd as Detox is mid sentence. Alaska’s trembling from where Sharon is gently holding her arm and they just need five fucking more seconds until they can get privacy.

Sharon’s mind is panic-stricken searching for a private space but backstage that’s pretty much unheard of and even though it’s a last resort she yanks the door to the nearest utility closet open and tugs them both aside, the door slamming.

The minute the door clicks shut Alaska breaks into her arms. She throws her body against Sharon and she catches her, rubs her back, whispers into her ear because that’s all she can do right now and she feels fucking pathetic. She’s angry with herself for not being able to do anything that matters, if it were up to her she’d march right into that dressing room and yank the crown off of Jinkx’s head, she should fight RuPaul if it came to it but that’s not what this is about.

This is about the love of her life, trembling and defeated in her arms, in this very moment that’s all that matters. Every small sob that escapes Alaska’s lips is like a knife to her chest, she just clings to her tighter. She puts one hand on Alaska’s cheek and presses her face into her neck. “Shhh, baby, I’ve got you…”

“I failed, I fucking failed you, my family, I didn’t know this would hurt like this but fuck—“

“No! No, don’t say you EVER failed, okay? You deserved to win, you deserve everything…I swear you did better than anyone else this entire season…”

She cradles Alaska’s shaking form against her and kisses the top of her head repeatedly, squeezing her eyes shut. She tries to convey all the love she has for her right then and there by rocking her gently, trying not to let herself break because she has to be strong for Alaska right now.

“Let me take care of you, I’m going to get through this with you…I promise.”

She breathes into Alaska’s neck and holds her even closer, both of them clinging to each other like life rafts. They didn’t make it to the after party, or even the after after party. They didn’t even care to dedrag, all they could do was lay in that hotel bed and cling to one another desperately.

Sharon had never felt rage like this in her entire life. Sure, when bullies had waited for her outside of school she had felt enraged and scared but this, seeing the love of her life broken in her arms, made Sharon think she would rather get beat up a million times than see what was in front of her.

Alaska cried into the early hours of the morning until she wore herself out and even after she had long passed out Sharon lay awake, holding her closely and whispering comforting things into her hair. She physically held the broken pieces of Alaska Thunderfuck in her arms and vowed from then on to never see her hurt like this again.

—

He feels like he’s in a movie, probably some rom-com shit because he’s sitting at a Starbucks, twiddling his thumbs, listening to the conversations around him as he waits for his ex to walk through the door. He can hear the girls next to him complain about their boss, and then a man a few seats over is whispering angrily into his phone. He tries to distract himself by looking out the window at the busy L.A. street but just the thought of seeing Aaron makes him pull his eyes away from it.

The chattering sounds of people talking around him start to become louder, his heart beat picking up rapidly and he thinks he might be having a panic attack but then the door opens and that familiar spiky blonde hair walks and immediately spots him, Justin’s panic dissipates instantly and a feeling of calm washes over him.

Aaron looks unbelievably skinny, like he’s lost at least 10 pounds and not in a good way, just looking at him worries Justin to his core. He stands with a smile before wrapping the blonde in a hug,

“Hey Noodles.”

It’s weird, hugging Aaron so tightly like this, but it oddly feels like it’s the only thing Justin needs in the world right now, even more than oxygen. “You look good.” He didn’t but Aaron said it anyways, because if he stops to think for a second about how shattered Justin looks he won’t be able to get through a simple coffee date.

Aaron sits across from him and for a moment there’s an awkward silent before he snaps into it and gently lifts the box full of Justin’s things and hands it to him. “I don’t think there’s anything fragile in there, so nothing was hopefully broken on the plane…”

He watches Justin break the tape seal and lift the lid of the cardboard to peer inside the box as if he thinks Cerrone is going to jump out of it or something. Justin glances over the array of things inside before he sets it aside and moves his eyes back to the person across from him.

“How—“

“So—“

They both start talking at the same time then pause and exchange knowing smiles with a light chuckle, Aaron shaking his head. “How’s staying on Detox’s couch? Hear anything interesting?” Justin scrunches his noise in that adorable way and shrugs his shoulders. “He just has a lot of sex, and I hear all of it.”

They laugh again at the irony of it all and to probably also hide the fact that both of their hearts are beating in the same proximity, and it’s almost suffocating for both of them. Aaron pushes his glasses up his nose and looks down at the table in front of him, deciding to count the rings in the fake wood.

“H-How’s your boyfriend…?” Justin’s voice gently drawls but Aaron knows it’s not his usual tone, it’s nervousness. He doesn’t answer right away, and he can’t explain why just his boyfriend’s name on Justin’s lips gives him an uneasy feeling. He opens his mouth to respond after what feels like an eternity but he doesn’t mean to say it, it just comes out,

“I miss you.”

Justin’s eyes don’t move from his, they widen a bit, but they still remain locked onto Aaron’s. He doesn’t flinch at the words either, but his bottom lip quivers and Aaron has to look away because if one of them starts crying right now that’s it.

Justin waits a beat before he whispers back brokenly, “I miss you so fucking much, it’s insane.”

Aaron puts his face in his hands and feels the hot sting of water against his eyelids, he can’t fucking stand it because the love of his life is sitting across from him, just as broken and just as destroyed.

The taller queen shakes his head and runs a stressed hand through his hair, inhaling sharply as he too tries not to cry. It’s like they’re right back in their old home in Pittsburgh the night they broke up, the night their worlds ran at full speed into each other and everything shattered into a billion pieces upon collision.

He doesn’t know what to say, he doesn’t know how to make things right—he can’t even make sense of his world right now. He has all he’s ever wanted, getting to be a professional drag queen has been his life goal, he should have everything but yet he has nothing. Aaron’s teary voice breaks through his thoughts and he feels his chest seize at the broken words,

“Was it worth it?”

He feels a tear spill from his eye and in all honesty the question, while he was expecting it, hit him like a sixteen wheeler truck speeding on the highway. Flashbacks of that night keep assaulting his brain, tearing him limb from limb once again.

“I don’t know Aaron, I don’t know…” He replies just as brokenly and finally Aaron looks at him, his eyes are now red and tears have stained his cheeks but to Justin he has never looked more real.

“It breaks—“, Aaron bites his lip, trying to hold back more tears, but continues in a small voice,

“It breaks my fucking heart just to look at you.”

Whatever is left of Justin’s heart shatters in its entirety and he audibly gasps softly in pain. He can see it in Aaron’s eyes, and it’s then he realizes even though Aaron had been the one to end it, there are two equally broken hearts here.

“Noodles—“ But before he can say anything the older queen is on his feet and swiftly grabs his things before Justin can stop him, then he’s out the door and all that’s left of him is the box in Justin’s arms, full of memories they once shared.

That night Aaron said yes to Chad’s proposal.

—

Now it’s my time to depart, and I just had a change of heart

[xtoxicwasteofspacex]

Is it just me?

I don’t sleep anymore. It’s gotten so bad I can’t even remember the last time I had sleep. But I guess sleep isn’t high on your list of priorities when you’re fighting a whole lifetime full of disappointment, depression, finding out who you are, trying to be a mom, and dealing with the exact moment your entire world comes crashing down right in front of you.

And without going into detail let me just get to my original question.

Is it just me?

I’ve been in plenty of relationships that ended and I was able to bounce back and get to a point where I was okay.

But I’ve only ever had 3 relationships that ever stuck with me in such a way that strongly affected my life. And that’s because I let it.

Somewhere along the way I lost control of who I am as a person. One day I woke up and I felt like I was more than one person. Which led to me waking up one day and not recognizing the person looking at me in the mirror. As a result I avoided anything that allowed me to look at myself.

As things got worse and the voices got more frequent I started feeling like there were times when I would be aware of what was happening around me but I felt like I was watching myself do it. Like I was outside of my body and one of the voices inside of me was taking over.

The worst part about struggling with mental health is that you never know what it will do to you and your relationships. But as humans it’s a risk we take because we can’t bare to live life alone when we hold out so much hope that someone out in the world was made for us.

And if you’re lucky. I mean if you’re really lucky, life will allow your paths to cross and you’ll finally get a chance to be with the person you’re meant to be with.

That happened for me. I’ll never forget what it felt like. Just one look at her picture and I was hooked. Something inside of me felt different and I decided to take a chance. Fuck was it the best risk I’ve ever taken in life. Every time I found out something new about her I fell in love with her even more and it turned me on physically and emotionally. I’m talking, she could text me that she was going to take out the trash and my whole body would melt and I would just feel this urge to push her into the wall and rip off her clothes.

It didn’t take me long to realize that her entire existence turned me on and for the first time in my life I was so happy and so grateful I actually asked her mom how she made such a perfect human being.

I started praying to god, thanking him for my greatest blessing, asking him for positive vibes and to steer me in the right direction so I could find the building blocks we needed for a strong and healthy relationship.

And I actually succeeded. So much so that we got married. Anybody that knows me would tell you that they couldn’t see anyone wanting to marry me.

I’m not entirely a good person and I don’t pretend to be anymore. But I do intend to do something about it.

This part of my life is called rock bottom.

At the beginning of the year I chose to leave my wife. And not the way that you’re thinking so bare with me. Throughout most of our marriage I made a LOT of mistakes. I lied to her. I manipulated her. I tried to play victim most of the time instead of taking responsibility and apologizing. I made her feel like she wasn’t good enough. Like she wasn’t worthy. I became the reason she would cry herself to sleep at night. The reason she was always shocked to see me sitting on the couch when she came home because we had both lost count of the times fighting led me to picking up and leaving when she wasn’t there.

I wasn’t a good wife. I wasn’t the person she fell in love with. And I’m not going to justify my actions by using my mental health as a crutch but I will say that when your head and your heart are fighting two different fights all while the voices in your head can never agree on anything it makes it a lot harder to have full control over all of it.

I can’t help what I suffer from but I can help how I handle it. How I let it affect me and my life. The truth is that one day I woke up and I looked into my wife’s big beautiful brown eyes and I could instantly feel a knife in my chest. Why? Because I could see the hurt she was holding in. I could see how broken down she was. How much hope she had lost. And not only that but I could feel it.

She was and still is my person, my best friend and the love of my life. She’s the calm in the storm and she makes life exciting, something worth living for. She’s a beautiful adventure. I knew that I was losing her. I knew that I was destroying her, that I was taking all of the best parts of her and chewing them up and spitting them out. And I knew if I didn’t do something about it that I would wake up and there would be nothing left.

I had to save our marriage. So I left. And most people will tell me that leaving isn’t how you save your marriage but I knew I couldn’t fix myself if I didn’t face the demons that got me to where I was.

The only way I was going to suck out all of the poison and get control of my life was to go back to my moms and face it all head on.

It’s been the worst, most challenging, heartbreaking road of my life. They say you don’t know what you have until it’s gone but that’s not true for me because I’ve always known from day one what I have when I have her. And the answer is everything. With her I have the whole world. Even when I don’t deserve it she treats me like a queen. Even when she has a million things she’s trying to deal with she pushes everything to the side to focus on me.

When I think about perfection, blessings, happiness, destiny and soulmates I think about her. God couldn’t have created a more perfect human being. And I couldn’t believe that he made her for me.

But I let that go. And now I might have lost it forever.

People are wrong you know. We seem to have this stipulation that whoever does the leaving doesn’t suffer any pain but that’s simply not true. Making the decision to leave, to seriously work on my mental health, get put on my medications and be away from my wife at the same time wasn’t easy for me. It BROKE me, KILLED me watching her fade away in the rear view mirror.

I remember being in school and during recess we would play tug of war. Two groups of people standing on either side of the rope and each side pulls as hard as they can until one side falls down. That’s what it feels like is happening between my heart and my head and I’m pulling the rope towards my heart as hard as I can but I know I can’t do it alone. And I pushed my wife away.

I left to get better and she waited for me and I pushed her away. Because I’m a coward. And I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to win her back.

Ever since we’ve been apart there are certain places I can’t go, certain songs I can’t listen to. Just things that feel wrong without her. Is it just me?

I don’t go to Taco Bell because that’s her favorite place in the whole world and going there would feel wrong. I can’t listen to body like a backroad, love like crazy, don’t, literally ANYTHING 21 pilots.

Is it just me or do certain things just feel wrong even after somebody is gone? Is it just me or do simple things like laughing and smiling seem wrong because you don’t want to be laughing and smiling without your person?

Is it just me or do those of us who are lost inside of our minds overcome the demons? And if you can overcome the demons, if you can learn how to finally get control of your body so you never get that bad again, do you find your way back to your person? Or does it end up being too late?

I know I need to get better for myself and for Ben but this all started because I wanted so desperately to get better for her as well. To come home and rebuild our marriage and be stronger than we’ve ever been before. So does it all work out?

Or are you left with the cold hard reality that your world, your person has moved on?

And that’s one of the hardest pills to swallow. I’m on the road to change. I’m on the road to bettering myself and I won’t stop driving until I’ve reached my final destination.. her.

And the hardest pill to swallow is knowing that I could get to the end of the road and be left with nothing and if that happens I will be faced with how well I handle that. And I’m scared. Because without her it’s all for nothing.

I love my wife and I’m so deeply in love with her that I will do anything, ANYTHING, to get her back. To make her see that she’s a priority not a choice. That she’s priority over everyone and everything. To make her feel like she’s looking at the woman she fell in love with.

I have loved her for so long and so deeply that I’m completely obsessed with her. And people can say what they want but I will ALWAYS hold out hope that the universe will bring us back together again.

And that’s the thing. Even if she moves on. Even if she finds someone better than me, I’ll wait for her. I’ll always wait for her. Because she’s worth the wait. She’s worth the fight and she’s worth the risk.

So maybe it is just me but I know in my heart that god made us for each other and I’ll spend the rest of my life fighting for that.