#//also this ask was referring to when I was holding a vague poll asking 'hair up or hair down'

[ask-eden]

Etoile: PLEASE ALLIE PLEASE IT'LL LOOK GOOD I PROMISE Alaxia: I don't "do" having other pokemon braiding my hair. Etoile: Really now? Etoile: But as I recall, a certain kitten would always run up to me and ask to have it braided with his brother- Alaxia: AND BACK UP IT GOES. Etoile: NOOOOOOOOO Alaxia ties his hair back up into it's bun Etoile snaps their fingers in disappointment Etoile: AWW RATS. I'LL GETCHA NEXT TIME THO ALLIE. >:3 -- -- -- -- [ Anon ] [ top background by @/sinnohsiblings ]

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Can you imagine Chris with a fever? Trying to tell jake he doesn’t feel well, he wants to be held, but the high fever only makes it harder to talk? Everyone in the safe house crowded around, desperate to cool him down bc they can go to a hospital?

CW: Feverish, sickness, mentions of symptoms of sickness + references to past noncon/dubcon, plus fucky thought processes around that. Vague references to past torture.

Timeline: Chris’s first week at the shelter.

Tagging:  @burtlederp , @finder-of-rings , @endless-whump , @whumpfigure , @stxckfxck , @slaintetowhump

His bones hurt, but he keeps that to himself. It's just bones, after all, and he's had way more of him hurt much worse than this.

At least, it starts with bones, just in his upper arms and in his thighs, and he thinks maybe it’s because he is always tense in this strange new place. The house seems small compared to Sir’s mansion but he is allowed to move around all of it, not just one hallway of rooms. 

This makes him nervous but he does, anyway, padding silent and still as a mouse around the hallways and down the stairs at night, searching for signs that this will be a life he understands. 

He finds none. 

There is no basement, or if there is, they don’t show him. He doesn’t know what happened, exactly - there was a night where Sir had a party, and then he was put in a car and then another car and then there was this new place, these new people.

No, at first it’s really just his thighs, an ache buried so deep under the skin that no amount of rubbing against it seems to work it out. After that, his arms start to hurt, and then down his calves, and finally it settles in at his hips like two hands are gripped on tight. The ache is familiar, a memory of a life he doesn’t have to live any longer.

They tell him he doesn’t, anyway.

They tell him he doesn’t have to do that, here, but there are two men and three women and he thinks maybe eventually he will have to be good. He’s not trained for women but it can’t be that different, can it? He tries not to think about it very much, and hopes if he just stays quiet, and still, and holds his hands in little stone fists at his sides that no one will notice him.

If they don’t notice him, they won’t ask, and he won’t have to, even though he kind of wants to, but also he doesn’t, and he can’t remember if he ever really did or if it was always a voice inside him that someone put there on purpose to make him like this.

He wants to be held but he is scared of what it means, because it’s never just holding. It always means having to be good. Maybe not right away, but always, sooner or later. 

Does he actually want to be held? Or did they do that to him, with all the time he spent alone, praying someone would open the door to the white room? 

He wants someone to hold him while he feels like this, but… his bones hurt too much for what happens after the holding, and he feels so cold, like being back in the white rooms that have all blurred together. 

Once all the other hurts are joined by a strange, pounding headache that won’t lift, a weight like his brain is solidifying inside his skull, the boy takes a big soft blanket right off the bed of the larger man who lives here and finds a place to hide. 

They're all downstairs, the other people here. 

There’s a storage room at the end of the hallway where all the bedrooms are, and the door isn’t locked - at Sir’s all the doors are locked except the rooms he’s allowed in, so that must mean he’s allowed in here.

He’s having trouble walking, there’s a dizzy lilt to his footsteps and he seems to keep bumping into the wall even though he thought he was walking straight. He trips on the blanket as it trails the floor, over and over again. Somehow it never occurs to him to pick the blanket up.

The door looks wrong, for reasons he can't explain. The boy gets briefly lost in the swirl of the woodgrain, staring at what looks like another set of wood-eyes, frozen in surprise, staring right back. 

He has to blink again and again and again to get the wood-eyes to fade away. 

They are laughing at something downstairs and the sound makes the boy nervous - Sir laughing usually meant things Sir thought were good, and the boy had to be good but he never thought they were good. He has to hide, or they'll see his wobbly legs and play games with him.

Sir likes games, when the boy is tired or sick from the pills or sad. The boy doesn't want to play games, here. They have said they won't hurt him but games don't always hurt the outside. 

He gets the doorknob to turn after three tries, slips into the little storage room, and sees the perfect hiding spot.

There’s a huge wooden desk shoved up against one wall, stacked high with what looks like photo albums, folders stuffed until they’re bursting, loose stacks of paper, brochures and flyers, plus old books and all kinds of things. 

On top of one stack of flyers, there an ancient stuffed puppydog, with floppy arms and legs and floppy ears and a strange bronze yellow no-color fur, threadbare in patches where someone loved it, once. The boy could almost see the way a child must have petted along the back, wearing it to nothing bit by bit, day by day. 

Something about the sight of it makes the boy's throat want to tighten and close. He doesn't know what or why - he's never had a stuffed animal, all he remembers is the white walls and the cold and then the warmth of Sir burning him alive.

He takes a sudden breath, shivering as cold snaps through his body, his muscles contracting like aftershocks from training, chills that roll through him, bounce around inside his skin.

The desk is like Sir's and not like that at all. He doesn't want the desk - he wants the hollow spot in the center under it. It feels safe and familiar, sliding to his knees under a wooden desk, Position Two, effortless as breathing. Tip his head up, chin at rest on Sir's knee, waiting. Making his thoughts stutter-skip to a stop until all his mind is a vast and empty place he never looks too far into. 

He is not empty, now.

The boy does not feel empty at all. Instead he feels too much. He feels the strangely rough carpet under his knees, hard floor through the soft fabric of the pants they gave him to wear. He thinks of the stuffed puppy alone in the room - is he lonely in here? nobody to rub his fur all to gone any longer-

"'Real isn't how you are made,' said the Skin Horse." The voice in his mind is soothing and soft. It is a woman's voice but he doesn't know who it belongs to. He knows there was a book, can almost feel the texture of the cover, slippery-smooth, the shine as it caught the dim, yellowed light. He can feel the warmth of a soft arm around him, a hand ruffling into his hair as chubby fingers tap on his own legs, feet swinging off the side of a tiny toddler bed. "'It's a thing that happens to you.'"

His headache gets worse all at once, a thunderclap of pain, and the boy whimpers and pushes himself until his back is against the other side of the desk, curling knees to his chest with the blanket wrapped around himself. 

The chills roll through, his fingers shaking too hard to do anything but hold onto himself and hope it will stop. Teeth chatter, clattering together like someone is playing dice inside his mouth, and his tongue feels like leaden weight in there, too large for the space. 

Under the desk it is dark, no light in the room but a clouded sense of sunlight finding its way through off-white blinds, covered in dust, cutting stripes of yellow over the opposite wall.

The boy sees tiny dust particles in the air, floating. Dancing. His eyes follow them, and he almost smiles. Sir used to leave him alone for hours and hours locked in the room or the basement with nothing, but there was no such thing as nothing when your brain could follow specks of dust…

He feels no warmer, even as he sits under the blanket. The cold is too deep in him, settling into his bones alongside the pain, which has sharpened, gone from dull sawing to a sharpened blade. He whimpers, curling up even tighter.

Even now, he has hurt worse than this, and for worse reasons. He knows how to stay still, has learned to keep his palms pressed flat against his stomach to stop himself from tapping, to let the lead weights roll around inside his head to keep himself from hitting it on anything to calm down. Silence is better than screaming.

He learned his lesson. Sir may have given him up, but the boy has not forgotten. 

Footsteps move in the hallway, and the boy does not look - does not try to peek out the door and see. Now that he has curled up so tightly, he's not sure he could uncurl. His legs feel locked tightly, every muscle tensed around his hurting bones. 

Where is he? The woman's voice, the older one. The one he thought must be the owner of this household and all its pets. He's not in his room.

He is not in the bathroom, a male voice says, the slightest, barest hint of an accent to it. 

I hope he didn't run away. A girl voice. The boy shivers. 

He's not Kauri, a second girl voice says. He won't just run without saying anything. He's scared, he probably found a crawlspace or something.

A crawlspace, the first girl repeats, a little plaintively. She repeats things a lot, the boy has noticed. 

We should keep looking. The man, the one he thinks must be the Sir. But he doesn't act like one. 

The boy tucks himself back into the corner of the spot under the desk, closing his eyes as they just don't want to be open any longer. 

He wants his Sir, suddenly, so badly it burns under all the chill, like holding a piece of ice to your skin so long that the cells forget they feel cold. Sir would hold him tightly, would wrap him up or give him lukewarm baths or just hold him, in his lap, whispering things into his ear. Reading aloud the news reports, the new poll numbers. Speaking with his friend Mr. Alexander who is like me, in a lot of ways that go beyond just our career aspirations, darlin'. 

Sir would make him feel better, even if it felt awful all the same. 

A different awful. He would trade that awful, now, if he could. At least Sir's did not live so far under his skin, was only in those first few layers he could scrub away if he stayed in the shower long enough. This kind wouldn’t come out, only burrowed deeper and deeper.

He falls asleep - or into something like sleep, anyway - there under the desk, like he has on many afternoons, lulled to boredom by long days where he isn’t allowed to move or feel or think. It’s not the same desk and there is no one to nudge him awake with a perfectly shining leather shoe. 

The boy dreams uneasy dreams of vast bedrooms swathed in navy silk and uncertain worn-out fabric creatures with threadbare patches are peeking from behind the drapes, beckoning to him to come closer and hear what they have to say. Only he can’t move, because the sheets are wrapped too tightly around his wrists. They hold him to the bed or the wall, he can’t think of where he is, lying down and standing up all at once. He has to hear what they want to tell him.

He’s too far away, and they are whispering.

Real isn’t how you are made, said the Skin Horse. It’s a thing that happens to you.

Wake up. Wake up. Wake up-

“Hey.” There’s a hand on his shoulder and the boy jerks awake with a gasp, flinching back so hard his head smacks back into the back of the desk. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t, uh, you were talking and I thought maybe you were already up. Hey, are you okay?”

The boy stares, wide-eyed, at the man he thinks is the Sir of this house. He’s younger, but the others except for the older woman all do what he asks them to do. He has blond hair and blue eyes and he’s so tall the boy has to crane and crane his head to look up at him sometimes. He swallows, as he shivers all over again. “My… bones… hurt.” 

His voice is slow, evenly paced, a little hoarse. He sounds like he’s been screaming, but he hasn’t. When he swallows, his throat hurts, like swallowing glass. He winces and puts a had up to feel at the outside. His throat feels odd on either side, just under his jaw. Sort of lumpy.

“Your bones hurt? What the fuck-... hey, come out so I can see you a little better, okay? Come on, man.” The man grips onto his hands, and the man’s fingers are big and warm and the boy moves almost helplessly towards the solidity and warmth that those hands represent. 

His mind is a woozy swirl of trains, careening back and forth, his eyes drifting over dancing bits of dust and the piles of papers everywhere and old broken computer chairs, that one’s padded, should have slept there, he hears a robin call outside and fights the urge to purse his lips and whistle back. 

When he is out into the dim light in the room, the man’s eyes trail over his face. The boy feels the weight of the look, and thinks he might blush, but his face felt hot before, too, even though the rest of his body feels like it’s carved from blocks of very pretty ice.

He’s much nicer-looking than Sir is, the man. Younger, too, and something about him doesn’t seem uncomfortable and strange, but instead open and genuine. The boy can almost read him, and he never knew what Sir was thinking. But in the look on the man’s face, he thinks he can read a simple concern.

“You look like shit,” The man says - he said his name was Jake, right? - and reaches out to touch the boy’s face. “Oooh, you feel like shit, too. Clammy as hell.”

Is he clammy? The boy hasn’t noticed. He feels too cold for sweat, everywhere but his forehead, his cheeks, his lips. 

The man’s fingers prod just under his jaw, and the boy winces and whimpers when he hits the swollen little circles that seem to have stuck up from his skin there.

“Yep. Your lymph nodes are all fucked up. One more thing, okay? Just here. Right here, and nowhere else.” The man slowly lays a cool hand to his forehead. The boy’s eyes flutter closed at the simple, comforting, soothing touch.

I could be good for him. The thought is brief, there and then gone, carried further down the track with other thoughts he tries not to linger on. 

“Well, I have a diagnosis,” Jake says, sitting back on his heels. “You’re sick as fuck. Come on, we need to get you into an actual bed. And I need to tell Nat you didn’t wander off, she’s losing her shit downstairs about it. Were you scared?” His voice dips down into something soft. It’s a voice the boy wants to fall into. It’s kind of like the voice that belonged to the warm arm around him, in his dreams.

The boy shakes his head. You’re not supposed to admit you’re scared unless they want you to, and he doesn’t think this man wants him to.

He lets the man pull him to his feet. Jake notices the boy’s hands pressed still against his stomach and asks if he needs to throw up, but he shakes his head - he doesn’t, he just doesn’t want to get in trouble. When he can’t keep his hands still, he is punished. 

“Then why were you in here?”

The boy doesn’t speak. He can feel his tongue in his mouth, every one of his teeth. He might speak too quickly, stumble over himself. Silence is better than stammering. He only shrugs, a movement of thin shoulders under the heavy, soft blanket he wears. 

“Okay, fair enough. Come on, let’s get you laid down and get some Tylenol in you.”

He doesn’t remember what Tylenol is, and lets himself be led, shivering and chattering teeth, laid down in the little bed in the room where the other Box Boy sleeps. There is a framed drawing of a bird above the bed he sleeps in, and he looks up at it, feeling dazed by all the colors that want to bleed right out and down the wall and maybe he could get some color in his skin if he catches the paint…

The man is gone, for a few minutes. There are talking-sounds downstairs but the boy can’t understand them. Too muffled or too loud or too something. He gets lost in the bird.

“Here we go.” Jake reappears and gives him a cup of water as he pushes himself up to his elbow and he drinks it obediently, sipping. It’s cool and clean-tasting on his tongue. Then Jake holds out a little cup with a purple liquid in it and the boy stares down, then back up at him. “It’s… not Tylenol. Nat said her contact told her you were drugged, so I figured… maybe no pills?”

The boy shakes, all at once, a full-body shudder that wracks his tensed-up muscles and makes them burn around his bones. He bends himself nearly in half, shaking his head, again and again. “No… no pill, please,” He whispers, barely able to form the words. “Please, please, please-please no, no, no no no no-”

“It’s okay,” Jake says quickly. “No pill. So this is, um, this is like a liquid fever reducer. We keep it for the rescues who can’t… can’t swallow pills. Okay? Just drink it down and you’ll feel better, I promise.”

It could be just like the pills. The boy hesitates, looking up into the man’s eyes. Something in them seems like he can be trusted to tell the truth, and after a long hesitation, the boy takes the tiny plastic cup from his hands and drinks the sticky fake-grape taste down, wrinkling his nose. It clings to his teeth and his tongue, and he washes it away with more water from the glass. 

“Perfect. I had to guess on dosage, but that should be okay… Will you stay in the room, if I go?” The question is there, underneath the words - the boy can read them just fine. Are you going to hide under the desk again?

“I don’t… want to… be alone.” He has to carefully space words. He has to be good, that way. He didn’t understand yet what everyone here wanted. 

“Is that how you really feel, or what you’re saying because you think it’s what I want?” The man asks, his voice still soft, and gentle. “You won’t be in trouble no matter what you say.”

The boy doesn’t know how to answer this - no one ever asks him his wants. What he wants isn’t important, it’s not relevant. He grips the blanket in his fingers and twists the fabric, quilted and so soft it feels like it will float away from him. He stares down into his lap and says nothing, only shaking his head, not quite a yes and not quite a no.

“I’m… very cold,” He offers, finally, in a small voice, when the man doesn’t say anything right away. “And my… bones hurt.”

“Right, you said, your bones-... must be something to do with the fever, maybe? Something… look, lay down and I’ll get you all covered up, there are some more blankets in that storage room you were hiding in. I’m surprised you didn’t just make a nest.”

The boy hadn’t noticed the other blankets then. If he had… he might have. He lets himself be laid on his back, looking up, watching the dust spin and move and dance, as the man leaves the room once more. He hears footsteps in the hall, lighter ones, and looks to catch a glimpse of a swinging ponytail and a heavy sweatshirt and sweatpants. The girl doesn’t look at him. She goes into her own room and shuts the door.

Jake comes back with a heap of folded blankets. “You’ll shove these off once your fever breaks, but they might make you feel a little better while we wait. Oh, and I saw this in there!”

He holds up the stuffed puppy, with beady black eyes barely hanging on from old thread, the little bare patches on the rump part, where somebody petted off all its fur.

His throat closes again. He doesn’t know why looking at the dog makes him feel that way.

“Thank… you,” He says, and holds out his hands like a child, and the man drops the puppy into his arms. The boy makes a sound and rolls onto his side, letting the man cover him in blankets, tuck them in around him, with the puppy’s head tucked securely under his chin.

He feels… better.

“There you go,” Jake says, running a hand across his forehead, pushing some hair away from his eyes. “There you go. That’s better. I’ll leave you to get some sleep. Pretty sure you haven’t slept since you got here, huh? You should think about what name you want, while you sleep.”

“Sir chooses my, my, my name,” The boy says, already starting to drift, forgetting to space out his words, his thoughts. They start to run again on their natural tracks, splitting into a thousand different focuses at once. He thinks about the birds outside and the ones in his wall and the feel of the stuffed animal in his arms, surprisingly solid for its age, heavier than he thought it’d be. He thinks about his dream and how to keep waking up.

“Not here, he doesn’t,” The man says, voice firm, almost commanding. “Your name’s all you, man. Just tell us when you decide, okay?”

“Okay,” The boy whispers, and thinks about a warm arm around him, a woman’s low voice reading him a story with a deliberate, spaced-out rhythm. 

In the great green room there was a telephone and a red balloon and a picture of the cow jumping over the moon

Maybe they read him a story in training. He can’t remember. But he thinks he was too small for that. Someone else, maybe, once.

He winces as his head starts to ache and chases the thought away, sends it rolling down its track to where all the other thoughts stay that make him hurt. 

“I’ll come back to check on you in a few. Just… stay in the bed and get some rest.”

“Okay,” he says again, and his eyes have gone too heavy to open, his grip iron-tight on the stuffed puppy in his arms. He’s too old for stuffed animals - I’m eighteen, all pets are of legal consenting age - but he feels good holding it, anyway.

“Once you are real you can't become unreal again. It lasts for always.” Do you know what that means, T-

“Chris,” He says, without opening his eyes. He hears Jake stop in the doorway, turn to look at him. “I like Chris.”

“Chris it is, then,” Jake replies, sounding pleased. “That’s a good one. I’ll tell Nat. Get some sleep and feel better, Chris. That’s a solid name. I like that name on you.”

Chris waits until he hears the door close, and the sound of the man’s footsteps on the stairs, before he smiles.

I like that name on you.

He likes it, too.

Chris feels like a person. Chris feels real.

The boy falls asleep in the bed in a new place and with new people and for the first time since he got here, he falls asleep without feeling scared of what he’ll see behind his closed eyes. Baldur is scared, and the number boy was scared, but Chris, he decides, is going to live in a totally different way. 

Chris is going to be real, and not be scared of anything. 

Just as soon as he isn’t sick.

[theartoflovingthomashunt]

Last Night Thomas

[Red Carpet Diaries Masterlist]  ||  [Hollywood U Masterlist]

– – –

Characters: Alex, Thomas Hunt

Rating: Mature (by clicking “read more” you are agreeing that you are 18 years of age or older)

Notes: Day 17- Comedy & Hangover–  @playchoicesficidea​   *This is also for the anon prompt: “What if one day MC rented out a strip club filled with only sexy music she likes, no one else and a lot of whiskey and does a really sexy strip poll dance for Thomas” (I changed it from a strip club to the club from RCD 2, I personally don’t feel Thomas Hunt would go to a strip club… but then, I don’t even know what went on while I was writing this… there are a lot of book 2, chapter 2 references. lol I hope you like it, even if it isn’t exactly what you asked for.)

– – –

Alex held her head in her hands. The pressure forming in her forehead was overwhelming. She slowly opened her heavy eyes. It took her a moment to register where she was. The pulsating colored lights almost blinded her. She noticed the empty Scotch bottle on the floor nearby.  Why had she thought this was a good idea? 

Beside her, Thomas stirred, moving his arm across her. Alex turned into him, enjoying his exquisite physique–that was why. No one would believe her if she told them she and Thomas Hunt woke up naked in the club, and yet, there they were. Alex tried to smile, but the pain in her head was too great. 

Instead, Alex closed her eyes and nuzzled into Thomas’s arms as she let the memories of the previous night wash over her.

***

“Where are we going in the middle of the night?” Thomas protested as Alex dragged him down the street and into a dark alley.

“It’s going to be fun,” Alex asserted.

“Why do I feel our definitions of ‘fun’ are not quite aligned?” Thomas urged.

“Oh, hush,” Alex expressed. “I anticipate this evening to be the perfect balance of both pleasure and vexing.”

Alex pulled out a key from her jacket pocket and unlocked the back door to the club, relocking it behind them. They made their way inside, the club lights still flashing. 

“What are we doing here?” Thomas questioned apprehensively. 

“It’s the anniversary of our first not-official date,” Alex grinned.“I was here with my friends and you were here because your potential lead stood you up,” Alex wrapped her arms around Thomas’s neck. “Then, we went for drinks.”

“That wasn’t a date,” Thomas insisted.

“I do recall you giving me plenty of compliments which I just happened to mistake for you asking for my phone number,” Alex pressed, her lips grazing against the length of his neck. “Though I must note, you seem to tease much better now, Mr. Hunt.”

“You insist on giving me a surplus of practice,” Thomas admitted, as Alex kissed his jawline. “I suppose had I allowed you to direct our course, we might have saved ourselves a few months.” 

“You said when you saw me in Tender Nothings, I was so compelling, that the hair on your arms stood up,” Alex whispered, tracing the muscles on his arms. “I wonder if the little show I prepared for you tonight will have the same effect.”

“There’s a show?” Thomas wondered curiously.

“Oh yes,” Alex exclaimed. Her lips met his and for a moment, she let him completely pull her into him, before she moved away. Alex took Thomas’s hand and led him toward the bar. “Drinks first...unfortunately, one of the things you must suffer through tonight is bagged ice.” 

Before Thomas could protest, Alex continued. “I know, bagged ice is beneath you, and yet, it is part of the night’s events.” 

Alex helped herself to the liquor behind the bar and poured two glasses of Scotch on the rocks. Alex handed Thomas one and lifted her own to his. “To us.”

“To wherever this night may take us,” Thomas clinked his glass to hers and brought the drink to his lips. 

Alex and Thomas laughed through round after round as they attempted to make their way through the bottle of Scotch.

“Did you say you had a special show for me?” Thomas questioned, vaguely remembering their conversation from earlier. 

“Oh yeah!” Alex quickly turned to change the music but realized she probably would need to take it a little more slowly to keep her balance. 

She changed the music to Benny Benassi’s Satisfaction. “Since you love EDM so much,” Alex winked. “You never did tell me what you know about EDM, but I figured I’d pick something a little older, just for you!”

“This song is absolutely ridiculous,” Thomas protested. 

“Exactly!” Alex kissed his cheek. 

“We were having such a nice time,” Thomas complained. “Why assault my senses with such noise?”

“Remember, pleasure and vexing!” Alex hopped on the bar and started dancing to the music. Her rhythm was a little more off than when she practiced. A few rounds of Scotch would do that to you, but she persisted. The choppy beat of the song allowed for missteps. 

“What are you doing?” Thomas’s eyes followed her as she danced along the bar. He held his Scotch in his hand, sipping it.

“This is your very special, one-night-only private show,” Alex dropped down low in front of him, shaking her butt. She reached out and pulled at his tie, bringing him closer. Her warm breath traveling over his lips. She let her tongue gently graze his mouth before pushing him back. 

Alex shimmied, letting her own hands wander up and down her body. Alex moved her body to beat of the bass as she slowly pulled her dress up, inch-by-inch, never breaking eye contact with Thomas. When she finally removed her dress, she twirled it around her head, before throwing it in his face.

As he pushed the article of clothing to the side, Alex giggled to herself as she continued dancing on the bar. She reached for the remote and changed the song to something more sultry. 

“What on earth gave you this idea?” Thomas questioned, up from his seat, following her down the bar.

“Is it not to your liking?” Alex pressed, gently sucking on her finger.

Thomas licked his lips, his hands reaching out to caress her.

“This is not the audience participation portion,” Alex playfully pushed him away. 

“I thought this was my show?” Thomas ran his hand up her ankle and calf. She didn’t pull away this time. 

Alex offered him her hand.

“I’m not getting on the bar.” Thomas protested. “That is neither something I have ever done nor something I plan to do.”

“It is required to unlock the audience participation portion of the show,” Alex insisted as she scampered down the bar away from him, rhythmically moving every part of her body to the music.

Thomas sighed deeply, trying to hold his ground. Despite the cacophony of lights and sounds, her allure over him was too great. Reluctantly, Thomas got on the bar. At least no one else was there to bear witness to him succumbing to such an act of depravity. Alex continuously pushed him into places and situations he never thought possible. Her light was magnetic and he would follow her anywhere.

Alex pulled Thomas in for a long and passionate kiss to welcome him to her stage, giving him time to enjoy her bare skin.

“Now, this jacket has got to go,” Alex pushed it off his shoulders, but instead of tossing it to the ground, she put it around herself. “Just evening our current state of undress.” 

“We seem to be moving in the opposite direction,” Thomas noted

“Let me remedy that for you,” Alex offered, as she loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. The shirt fell behind him onto the bar, but Alex held on to the tie. 

Alex turned around so her back was to Thomas. She pulled his tie to keep him close as she moved her hips against him. Thomas’s hands ran down her stomach, hips, and thighs as his body delighted at her rhythm against him. Alex skillfully removed her bra, while somehow keeping Thomas’s jacket on. She turned back to face him; her lips met him immediately. She bit his lower lip as she pulled away and continued dancing for him. 

Thomas’s caressed her newly exposed breasts before wrapping his arms around her waist to keep her close as Alex continued to move to the music. His own body responded in kind. Alex removed his pants and took a step back to admire her work. This interactive performance show was quite to her liking. 

Alex ran her hands over her underwear as she let her torso move in chest circles. After a few moments, she let her underwear fall down. Alex rolled her hips in tight circles as she twirled her way back to Thomas, completely naked aside from his jacket. 

As Thomas pulled her in kissing her fiercely, Alex ran her hands down his chest then stomach, pressing her fingertips into his taut skin. Finally, she hooked her fingers in his underwear and slid them off. 

“You are incredible,” Thomas breathed. His hands wandering every inch of her body. 

“Has this performance been as electrifying as Tender Nothings was for you?” Alex kissed his neck. 

Thomas lifted her head back to his. “In an entirely different manner! Though I wager that it can get more sensational.” 

“Is that so?” Alex teased. She ran her hand over his desire, causing him to shutter at her touch.  

Thomas guided her down to the bar countertop as he hovered over her. “Are you planning on taking my jacket off?”

Alex ran her fingers through his hair, pulling him in for a kiss. She shook her head against his. She could feel his smile into her lips.

“Also, I was thinking something more like this,” Alex smirked as she pushed Thomas back onto the bar and straddled his hips. She held onto his tie to keep his eyes on her as she lowered herself onto him. “Now I believe you once promised me that we could make something beautiful together.” 

Thomas closed his eyes and leaned back, letting Alex take the lead. His hands held onto her hips as she began moving against him.

----

Thomas Tags:  @alleksa16  ;  @the-soot-sprite  ;  @lilyofchoices  ;  @twin-skltns  ;  @mfackenthal  ; @thearianam   ; @flyawayboo   ; @riseandshinelittleblossom   ;   @hopelessromantic1352  ;   @alj4890  ;    @cliffs-stallion; @playchoicesficidea  ; 

[marlahey]

we stumbled in the dark; i knew we’d be alright (part two)

a shawn mendes rpf fic rating/warnings: still t and tame; references the death of ellie/ava’s parents. more misc notes: please ignore my total disregard for ontario’s educational system. and that this timeline is entirely made up and intentional vague, though I will try my best to maintain some kind of sense. for the first time in ages I can see almost all the major moments of this story, so I promise I won’t drop it. although I do want to take a poll: shorter, more frequent updates, or longer chapters with longer waits? shoot me an ask if you care.  pretend I didn’t forget to give shawn an opening act it’s fine. happy album drop day! come cry with me about it. first person to spot a reference to one of my favourite films of all time gets a prize; i’ll also be tagging this and any asks/updates with wsitd for your future reference! if you want to leave comments in that tag that would be amazing.

read part one here. 

ottawa; then “Are you sure you can handle this?” 

Ava’s expression is dubious at best as she watches you tap a restless and awkward rhythm on your jeans. By some miracle you managed the four and a half hour train journey from Toronto without bursting at the seams or spilling the beans to Hannah: your sister’s new PA gig she’s been hiding for months is for Shawn Mendes. You’re sitting in Shawn Mendes’ dressing room, waiting for him to finish last-minute level checks. 

Your sister had handed you floor tickets.  “Is it weird that I normally tune out his shows?” she’d asked, as she picked you up from the train station. “I usually have so much to do. I figured if I was going to treat you, I may as well you know, experience it properly myself.” “You’re asking me that as I haven’t spent the last four hours listening to his voice,” you reply. “Is it also weird that I feel like I might self-combust any second now?” Ava rolls her eyes. “Remind me to start restricting your caffeine intake if this works.” This is this meeting. You, Shawn, Ava, Andrew. Shawn’s manager (and presumably Shawn himself) are going to pass judgement on whether or not you can manage yourself as a normal person and not freak out in the presence of an international pop star only a year and half older than you. Your sister was very clear: you’d finish high school at a distance before you could even set foot in a stadium for sound check, any and all social media would have to stop completely, and–  “I know you’re a responsible kid,” Ava had begun when the arena was finally in sight and you’d craned your neck to see the top. It seems unimaginable that a single voice could fill the entire thing. “And Shawn’s not that sort of guy–” “God Ava, what is he going to do, proposition me?”  “I’d literally murder him.” You choke on a laugh, but it fades when your sister looks at you, her eyes serious. The eight year gap between you feels impossibly wide, sometimes. “I know you, and him, and something like that wouldn’t happen. But that doesn’t mean that you won’t...” She makes a face, as though she knows the words she’s about to utter are ridiculous. “catch feelings.” You can only stare at her. “If you think that I’m going to walk around like some lovestruck–” “No.” Ava’s parked now. She reaches across the console for your hands. “No, you’re not. But you’re young, and so is he. You’re both only human.” You can read your sister’s face well. There’s an apprehension there that you haven’t seen in many years. Your throat feels tight, suddenly. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.” “Isn’t it your job to make sure he does’t get hurt?” You ask, going for levity, but failing when your voice cracks a little. “I don’t want to be the reason you’re out of a job, either. You love being on his team.” “It is my job,” Ava concedes, but her hand is cupping your cheek, her fingers threading into the red strands of your hair that your mother gave you. “But you’re my family. You’re always going to come first.” She smiles. “Besides, you’re a catch. What’s to say Shawn doesn’t fall in love with you first?” You snort. “As if.” You were certain, in the car, just as you are certain now, moments away from being in the same room as Shawn for the first time. You can’t love someone you don’t really know, and you’re pretty confident in your ability to separate your admiration for his music (and his objectively stupidly handsome face) from actual feelings. You’d have to know Shawn to have those kind of feelings. And you can’t imagine how orbiting the periphery of his life on tour is going to change that. So it’s fine. You’re totally fine.  “I’m fine,” you tell Ava.  She raises an eyebrow at you, but it’s more teasing than anything. You promptly stick out your tongue at her, which is of course the moment that Shawn chooses to open the door.  It’s been a while since you’ve blushed past the colour of your hair. Shawn smiles; if that’s laughter behind his eyes, he’s as truly Canadian as you and doesn't give into it. “Hi,” he says, “I’m Shawn.” It’s the most normal opening interaction from someone who is so not normal that you have to bite down a hysterical laugh. Shawn’s smile only widens as he looks from Ava back to you. “I’ve interrupted something, haven’t I? A sister thing. I’ve seen that look before. Aaliyah’s friends always made fun of me.” “I doubt they do that now,” is the first thing you manage, having finally unstuck your voice. You’re not sure, but what looks like a faint blush colours Shawn’s ears. You just embarrassed Shawn Mendes. Two things happen at once: you feel badly, and you realize. Just a boy.  “I’m sorry,” you blurt. “You’re fine. You aren’t um, interrupting. In fact, I’m probably interrupting because this is you know, your dressing room.”  Ava clears her throat. You feel like melting into the floor. Shawn is just watching you, that maybe laughter still lingering. “I’m Eleanor.” You wince. He notices. “Not a fan of your own name, huh?”  “No one–” Come on, get it together. “No one really calls me that, anymore.”  You don't know why you phrased it that way, even though it’s the truth. But you can tell already: Shawn is too polite to ask. Instead he glances at your sister. “Len and Lenny, right?”  You didn’t know it was possible to be this embarrassed. “Most people call me Ellie.” You shoot a half-hearted glare at Ava, who just shrugs in a what do you want from me? sort of gesture. You turn back to Shawn and remember your resolve. “It’s nice to meet you.” His smile is gentler now, as if he’s trying his best to make you comfortable and you’re just making his job hard. Relax, god. He’s just a person, not Santa Claus. “I’m excited for the show,” you say, grappling for something concrete to talk about. “Thank you for the tickets.” Shawn looks so pleased that you momentarily lose yourself again. “No problem! Av has gone to exactly a third of a gig since we met, so I’m glad you’re here. She can actually experience it and I can finally know whether she hates my music or not.” Your sister doesn’t let anyone give her nicknames. You have to resist the urge to whip around and accuse her of violating a sacred sibling trust.  He’s looking at Ava with such a teasing grin that you can’t help but smile. The knot in your stomach unfurls a little. Your sister, for her part, just swats at him with the badge dangling from her fingers. “Who wanted kombucha after the show?”  Shawn’s mouth clamps shut at that. He raises his hands in surrender and your brain gets momentarily stuck: international pop star who drinks kombucha. Ava’s gaze is full of affection; it’s as familiar as it is strange. I know you, and him. “How’s school?” Shawn asks. You’re honestly getting whiplash from all these turns in conversation, but you manage to hold on. “Grade 11 right?” Just how much does he know about you already? You nod. “Busy,” you say, because it’s the truth and an easy answer to the most mundane part of being sixteen. “We had a fire drill yesterday.” “Really?” Shawn’s ability to look genuinely interested is baffling. “How long were you outside for?” “Like, forty-five minutes? It was the worst.” You don’t have to pretend to be slightly melodramatic. Hannah had started trying to tell your math teacher that he was violating her rights. “I didn’t have my phone.” “Oh man. That’s nuts.” Shawn then proceeds to launch into a story involving the boy’s locker room and the smoke detector at school. The reality of him as an eighteen year old boy is so jarring. It’s almost hard to focus on his words; all of this is so surreal.  “...they were sure they were gonna get arrested. It was crazy.”  As if he’d timed it, the man who could only be Shawn’s manager appears in the doorway. You catch Ava stiffen a little out of the corner of your eye and instinctively sit up a little straighter. You are a normal, responsible, non-hysterical young adult.  Shawn, either oblivious to the sudden tension in the room or attempting to diffuse it, jumps to his feet. “Andrew, hey.” He turns towards you, as though you’re somehow already friends. “This is Ellie.” You extend your hand; Andrew looks at it a moment before accepting. You attempt to shake firmly. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Ellie.” “You too,” you say honestly, though your nerves probably betray you. “Thanks for having me.” Andrew looks from Ava back to you. “Has your sister filled you in on our discussion? That you might be joining us for this last leg of the North American tour?”  You nod. You’re acutely aware of Shawn looking at you, sitting again, but you’re too nervous to actually look back at him and try to figure out what he thinks of this whole crazy thing.  “You’re not going to miss school? Your friends?” Andrew asks, his tone conversational, but you feel the weight of the test here. "You sure you’re okay with spending all this time on a tour bus?” “We,” you start, swallowing past the pinch of fear that this is too personal to share, “We used to move around a lot. I’m pretty comfortable with it.”  You throw an apologetic glance at your sister, who just smiles at you, nodding. Despite your fear of looking at Shawn, there is something magnetic about his presence. You can’t read his expression, but when you say, “And I’m actually fast tracked through University Prep courses,” his eyebrows fly up. “You’re finishing early?” he asks, sounding less surprised and more impressed. You allow yourself two seconds to bask in it and nod. “Wow that’s awesome.” Even Andrew seems placated. “That’s certainly impressive. Your teachers won’t mind if we pull you away?” “I’ve spoken to her school,” Ava interjects for the first time. “She’s set up to finish at a distance. I already have all the material for the rest of this year.” This is the first you’ve heard of that, but you figure it’s best to pretend otherwise. Just how certain was your sister that this...this idea out of a teen daydream was actually going to work?  What are you going to do if Andrew says no? The silence stretches into something agonizing. It takes everything you have not to shift in your seat, before Andrew stands upright from his lean on Shawn’s chair. “Well it was nice to meet you Ellie.” You attempt to smile. “You too.” “Ava, could I borrow you? Shawn, I’ll see you in  five minutes.” “Thanks,” Shawn says, but he’s looking at you again. Not breaking eye contact feels like another test.  Your sister rises to follow her boss out and suddenly you’re alone in a room with someone you’ve followed through a screen for almost as long as you’ve had a phone.

Breathe. “I’m not making you nervous, am I?”  You have to clamp down on another hysterical laugh. “Um, a little? Is that weird?” Shawn opens his mouth to speak, but you’re so horrified at yourself that you don’t let him. “Oh god I’m sorry–” “No, no please.” Shawn reaches out like he’s going to touch you and you can’t decide if that would makes this better or worse. “Don’t feel bad. I know...” He pauses, shakes his head a little, and leans back. “I know this is all kind of a lot.” His expression is so sincere, like he’s worried you won’t believe him. A blush you don’t even understand rises up your neck. “It’s not just you,” you admit, fiddling with the ring on your left hand, staring at the pearls. You’re sort of losing control of your filter and you can only hope it’ll eventually stop. “I mean, it is. Your music is amazing. You’re right in front of me but you don’t seem real.” You force yourself to look at Shawn now. He’s not laughing at your ridiculous sentiment; that small kindness emboldens and warms you both at once.  There’s something almost open in his eyes, as though all he wants is to understand you. The words very nearly crawl back into your mouth, but you push them out. You want him to understand this, most of all. “I just don’t want to mess this up for my sister.” Shawn does lean forward then, so far that his knees nearly bracket yours. You have to pull back under the pretence of taking a breath just so you don’t accidentally touch him. His swallow tattoo stands out in sharp relief on his hand; it’s even more beautiful from this close. The magnet pull of him drags your eyes up, and Shawn’s face is suddenly incredibly serious; you almost forget to breathe out. “You won’t.” He says it with so much certainty that your throat tightens at how badly you want to believe him. “I know we just met Ellie, but Ava’s been with me for months now and I’m not letting her go without a fight. She’s just been absolutely amazing.” Do not cry in front of Shawn Mendes whatever you do–  Shawn ducks his head a little to catch your eye again, that gentle, easy smile returning. “But you already know that.” He waits there until, by some miracle, you can smile back at him, and then sits up. “As for the me not being real part...” Shawn’s smile is still soft as he holds out his hand, as if for a high five. You stare at it, then at him. He just tilts his head, a go ahead, so you reach out. It takes all your concentration not to shake. You touch your fingertips to the top of his palm; you wonder if he can feel your pulse racing there. His hand dwarfs yours. You’ve never been so aware of how small you are. “See?” Shawn says, an almost tease in it now. You can only pray that one day you’ll stop blushing in front of him. “Definitely an actual person.” The door reopens; you promptly jump at least a foot. Ava’s vaguely alarmed expression does you both in. “Fuck Ava what the hell?” you gasp, and Shawn dissolves into peals of laughter. Pretty soon all those nervous giggles finally break free.  “Time to go, Shawn,” Ava says, her confusion clear, which somehow makes it all the more hilarious. You clap your hands over your mouth to try to stop. “We’d better get down to the floor, Len. The doors open in three minutes and I am not getting crushed by a horde of teenage girls.” You stand to gather your sweater and your bag. And yourself, more generally. To your surprise when you turn back, Shawn is still in the doorway, waiting for you.  “See you after?” he asks, glancing at Ava, who smiles at him in that particular way that has always reassured you, no matter what, since you were very small.  “We will. I expect an amazing show if I have to stand for the whole thing.” Shawn grins, somehow a little cocky and a little vulnerable both at once. “You bet.” “Good luck,” you call, and as Shawn picks up his guitar that other reality, the one which he’s a stadium selling pop star, hits you all over again.  “Have a good time!” With a wave, Shawn turns out of the doorway and disappears. Your knees are shaking. Ava wraps her arm around your shoulders as you finally reach her and steers you out.  “You’re okay, kid. You did it.” She’s laughing at you a little, but you don’t care.  “I can’t believe you left me alone in a room with Shawn Mendes.” “And you survived, which was the whole point.” You’re almost afraid to ask; thankfully your sister knows you well enough that you don’t actually have to form the words. “We're gonna try it out, okay? There’s three more stops on this Canada leg. You’ll come with us, then we get a week off before we go to the States. Thankfully your summer vacation works out, so you’ll stay at Hannah’s for that week.” “And then?” Ava waves and smiles at a security guard, dropping a Platinum lanyard around your neck, who nods at her and lets you pass through a door that leads out onto the main floor. “And then, either we’re getting on a plane or Shawn’s gonna need a new PA.” The certainty in Shawn’s face flashes through your mind. “Ava...” “Hey, hey.” Your sister pulls you to a halt at the metal barrier, where maybe a dozen other people are already congregating. People are streaming into the arena. The fact that they’re all here for a boy who’d been so kind to you just minutes ago is overwhelming. “Listen, I don’t want you to worry okay? I was going to take you to this show regardless. I just want you to have fun.” Ava pulls you into a hug; it feels like the first time you’ve been able to relax since she called you this morning with a train ticket in your email. You let yourself fall into her, inhaling the familiar smell of her shampoo. “He’s even cuter in person,” you mutter into her hair. Ava snorts. “Yeah, sorry. Should have warned you.” She takes your hand and pulls you forward, until you can wrap your hand around the cold metal that keeps everyone a foot or so back from the edge of the stage. “Ready?” Lights dim. The screams are genuinely deafening, but your throat will probably be as raw as everyone else around you by the end of the night. Ava grimaces. All you can do is laugh.  Two hours later, your throat does hurt. You’re mildly afraid you won’t be able to speak. You can still feel the beat of the drums in your chest, behind your ribcage, inside your heart. You can’t stop smiling. Ava sneaks you carefully back into the depths of the arena and drops you off in Shawn’s dressing room, muttering about kombucha and rolling her eyes.  And if you thought pre-show Shawn was cute, nothing prepares you for flushed and bright-eyed Shawn, who arrives just as you gingerly drop yourself on the couch. “Ellie, hey!” Words. Come on. “Shawn, hi.” You’re not sure what comes over you, but the giddy feeling still hasn’t gone away. “I just– that was amazing. You were incredible.”  You’ve never seen someone smile as brightly as Shawn does when he’s onstage. Even though you’re not in the arena anymore, it’s still almost blinding to look right at. “Thank you. I’m so glad you had fun.” He glances around the room, as though your sister is hiding in a closet. “Where’s Ava?” You shrug. “Something about kombucha?” He laughs. “You must think I’m ridiculous. It’s delicious, I swear. And good for my  voice.” You struggle with a smile, not wanting him to think you’re teasing. “What did your sister think?” You pause, just to watch him squirm. When he looks vaguely offended you can’t help but laugh. “She liked it, she did. Though she’d never admit it. She’s a consummate professional, you know.” Shawn nods seriously. “Of course.” “She likes Never Be Alone,” you say, looking at the door and lowering your voice as if you’re sharing a secret. His eyes glimmer with amusement. “You know that harmony you do? When everyone sings?” Just talking about it is giving you goosebumps. Shawn nods. “She teared up.” He grins, but beneath that you can see that he’s touched, too. You’re so endeared, all of a sudden; a voice in the back of your mind says, careful. You can see now why so many girls around you burst into tears the moment he stepped onstage. You let silence linger, until you can’t quite bear it anymore. “You can ask me, you know.” “Ask you what?” You can’t keep his gaze. “Why Ava has to drag me on this tour with her.”  Shawn does that thing again where he ducks his chin to catch your eye. Eventually, you decide, you’ll be able to look right at him without having to steel yourself first.  “You don’t have to tell me,” he says, so gently you almost can't pretend your throat still hurts from the show. “It’s none of my business.” You have to swallow before you can speak. “If this whole thing works out, we’re gonna be around each other all the time. I don’t want it to be weird.” There is too much kindness in Shawn’s expression as he waits patiently for you to say the words out loud. You have to look at his sparrow. “My parents um, my parents died in a car accident when I was eleven.”  You take a breath. Then another. You can’t remember the last time you’d had to tell someone that, who didn't already know you as the poor orphan child with a nineteen year old sister who was so unprepared but who did absolutely right by you anyway.  “Ava took care of you?”  You nod. “Always has. She’s amazing.” It’s probably a measure of something, of how comfortable Shawn’s made you already, that you can smile at him. “But you already know that.”  He chuckles. “You know, I have no idea if you can actually get kombucha here or not.” “She’ll hate you.” The thought is hilarious. You feel lighter already. “I usually give a pick away every show,” Shawn says, reaching back for his guitar and plucking the tiny red disc from the neck. “Do you think she’d still hate me if I tried to give it to her?” “Oh god, absolutely.” When your sister returns with a small case, Shawn drops to one knee and presents her with the pick. You laugh so hard your stomach hurts. Ava glares and puts down the drink, dragging Shawn to his feet with her free hand. “Get up, stupid.” “I’m glad you came, Ava,” he says, earnest and honest still, despite how his shoulders shake with laughter. “Consider this a token of my appreciation.” She looks from him to you, before plucking the pick from his hand. “This was clearly a terrible idea. I don’t know what I was thinking.” Ava beckons you. “Come on Lenny, we have to sneak you out before the mob hits the busses. Shawn, Andrew’ll come to get you in a few.” Shawn dutifully lifts his hand in acknowledgement and hands you your sweater. “I’ll see you soon then?” he asks. You suddenly remember. Three more stops.  “Yeah.” It’s so unreal. And yet, here you are. “See you soon.” (part three)