#and suddenly I wasn’t losing fic updates I did want to see in my inbox in the sea of updates for fics where I’d moved on from the fandom

[littlerit]

AO3 readers, I’m curious

Add in the tags/comments whether you have ever done a spring clean on your subscription list…

[freelancearsonist]

Congrats on the follower milestone! Can you write a fic with Poe with Hozier’s ‘Take Me to Church’?

(UPDATED) 400 Follower Celebration

My heart rate literally went from 78 to 96 bpm when I saw this in my inbox because this song is THE GOOD KUSH. Thank you so much for sending this! I really hope you enjoy FO!Poe because apparently that’s what this song entails :)

You know you should shut the door in his face. You shouldn’t let his gorgeous, bloodshot brown eyes rake over your body like they do. You shouldn’t let his big, warm, calloused hands reach for you. You shouldn’t let his smooth, wet lips trail so delicately over your skin.

But you do. You let him worship you every time he feels like it—every time he needs to be worshipped.

His world is cold and unforgiving. He hurts and kills and destroys everyday, and he’s become numb to the fact that he hurts. Deep inside, he’s in pain—it’s a dull ache, and the only time it disappears is when he’s with you. He tries not to see you too often, because he’s scared that your sanctuary will fade away. Or, more realistically, that he’ll say or do something stupid, and you won’t let him in anymore.

He has ways of forcing you to be with him, and you know it. But he’d never do that to you. He wasn’t supposed to fall in love with you, but for better or for worse, he did. He loves you, and it’s dangerous.

It’s been a month since you’ve seen him, and part of you figured he’d finally been captured. Maybe even killed for his war crimes.

But he’s very much alive, standing on your doorstep, hardly any different than the last time you’d seen him. His hair is a little bit shorter now—cropped on the sides and graying slightly at his temples—but his eyes and his tentative smile are still the same. You figure they always will be; in all the years he’s been periodically sneaking off base to see you, they’ve never changed.

“I missed you,” he mutters, voice a little gravelly. You almost offer him a glass of water, but you know he won’t accept it. It’s just a precaution, even though he knows you would never poison him. He knows you love him, too.

“Did you?” You ask, trying not to sound hopeful. Part of you constantly mulls over the fact that he might not be capable of real emotions. Part of you is still convinced that he only endeared you to himself because you’re the only person brave enough to fuck him.

“I did,” he tells you, certain. You believe him, even though you know it could be a lie. “I always do.”

You let yourself melt into his embrace because there’s no alternative—although there’s truthfully nothing else you’d rather do. Your lover is a murderer, but he’s still your lover. Maybe his world is cold and dark and cruel, but when he’s with you, he really does try to be warm. Even if only for a couple hours, he lets you take care of him and show him compassion.

And, in return, he shows you compassion.

And that leads to the only thing you’re sure of when it comes to your enigmatic Poe: you’re the only thing he’s ever cared about, even if his emotions are feigned. You’re the only one he’s even pretended to have affection for. 

And that’s why you continue to let him in. He’s your drug; your bad habit. But Poe isn’t a sore thumb when you chew the nail a little bit too short. Poe is the high that comes before the fall—he’s the satisfaction that comes with chewing the nail, even though you know it’ll hurt later.

And maker do you feel satisfied with him settled between your legs. His tongue is merciful—he doesn’t tease or edge or play. His movements are purposeful and gentle, firm licks to your soaked folds as his fingers waste no time working circles against your clit. He rejoices in your moans and gasps and whimpers because it’s confirmation that, for once, he’s doing something right. Instead of ignoring his good work and berating him for his missteps, you praise and praise and praise him again for his good work, and you forgive the missteps. Every time.

He has no trouble working an orgasm out of you, big hands firmly grasping your shaking thighs as he kisses you through it. He’s known how to tear you apart from the moment he first laid his eyes on you, and he’s never held back. He’s eager to please, and you’ve never wanted him any other way.

As always, you try to repay the favor. Your shaking hands reach for his hard length, and he gently pins your hands above your head. He trails his mouth down the column of your throat, smiling because he’s taking away your ability to be generous: one of the things he fell in love with first.

“Not now. I’m ready for you,” he tells you—you’ve heard these words before—and you vaguely wonder if he’ll ever not use that stupid excuse. Your need to touch him is overwhelming. You want to feel in your hand the veins and ridges that drive you insane every time you feel them in your cunt. But this is the only thing he’s ever denied you, and you don’t have the faintest clue why.

He’s just about to push into you when you wrap yourself around him and flip the both of you over, and he comes so close to panicking but your lips are suddenly trailing over his chest and maker it feels good. He’s never allowed you this position for the same reason he’s never allowed you to touch his cock—it makes him too vulnerable. He’s completely at your mercy now, something he was trained to never let happen.

And, in a sudden moment of clarity that almost feels out of place, he realizes that this is the only way he ever should’ve been allowed to have you. 

You’ve always been the exact antithesis of his training. You’re impulsive and caring and soft, and he’s not supposed to have exposure to any of those things. He’s always fucked you the only way he knows how because it coordinates with his indoctrination to maintain control, and it’s high time he let it go for you.

“If this isn’t okay, you’ll tell me?” Your question is sweet, concerned. There’s no doubt that you saw the momentary flicker of panic in his eyes, and even though it’s gone you’re scared that you’ve crossed a boundary.

He doesn’t answer, and usually that’s a sign of consent with him. This situation is different, though. You’ve never been in a position to do anything to him. You need confirmation that you won’t lose him over this. You can’t stand it when he shows up on your doorstep, but the thought of never seeing him again is unbearable.

“I won’t touch you unless you want me to.” You kiss just below his navel, and he grunts.

It isn’t very often that he’s given choices. He’s used to being told exactly how things are and how they’re going to be. But, yet again, you’re proving yourself to be the exact opposite of the First Order. You’re allowing him to protest—to speak up against the situation. And, even odder still, he finds that he doesn’t want to. He wants your mouth to continue its path south until he’s completely at your mercy.

“Please.” It’s the first time he’s ever asked for anything that isn’t your permission, and it sends a shock straight to your core.

You’re smiling as you wrap your mouth around him, tongue tracing his head and it’s as sweet as such a filthy act can be. Fuck. He loves your pussy, but your mouth is intoxicating. 

His training dictates that he must hide his reactions to changing circumstances, so he throws his head back against your plush pillows and lets out the most beautiful moan you’ve heard in your life.

He’s breathless, already so close to falling apart due to this new sensation. “I’m not gonna last,” he chokes out, and you smile as your hand wraps firmly around the base of his cock.

“That’s okay,” you reassure him, licking away the pool of precum on his tip before taking him all the way into your throat. He groans this time, and these noises of his are unfamiliar to you but they’re so fucking hot. You could build a religion for them. You want to.

You work him sloppily and fast, and the obscene noises of his cock hitting the back of your throat are too much for him. He comes hard—harder than he ever has before—and for a moment the feeling of you swallowing down his seed makes him think he might come again.

You’re his sanctuary. He worships you when he feels alone, because you’re a good person and you’ve earned it, but also because he’s desperate to feel alive. But he’s never felt more alive than when he finally let go and let you worship him.

Song Fic Masterlist

[consultingsnowqueen]

Wasteland, Baby!  Part 6:  Who Dares to Love Forever?

Notes:  Finally regularly updating!  Thank you all for reading and for all the kind feedback!  I’ll be wrapping this up in about two more fics!  This kinda goes away from the canon, but the changes aren’t super dramatic.  I think you’ll like them all.

Tags:  @ladynuwanda @tribble-from-wonderland

Maureen didn’t sleep that night.  She lay in a bed that wasn’t hers in a shirt that wasn’t hers.  Michael’s face was nuzzled into the crook of her neck, one arm was around her stomach, and his legs were tangled with hers.  She was rubbing his back soothingly, as she’d been doing all night.  She didn’t care about losing sleep.  It didn’t affect her at all.  What she cared about was her inner conflict.  It was easier to try to end someone’s reign over Earth when you hated them and Maureen didn’t hate Michael.  What did she feel for him?  Was it pity? Is that why she let him kiss her over and over?  His ordeal with his father did bring some sympathy, but why was she holding him so closely?  She wasn’t supposed to love him.  She was going to be an Archangel, for Heaven’s sake.  Then again, Gabriel did say to do whatever it took, but wasn’t this a little low?  They didn’t go further than kissing, but Michael begged her to stay and that’s how they ended up clinging to each other.

Michael stirred and Maureen flinched at his sudden movement.  His nose traced along her jaw until he reached her cheek and kissed it.

“You didn’t sleep.”

“I’m okay,” Maureen whispered and gave him a chaste kiss on the lips.  It was the first time she made the first move and Michael smiled at this. Without his eyeshadow on, he looked younger than he initially appeared.  He was almost giddy as he looked at her.

“I can’t believe you stayed,” he whispered, returning to his original spot.

Maureen rolled over to face him.  She brought her hand up to his face and caressed his cheek lightly.  “Why wouldn’t I have?”

“Those days you avoided me…”

Maureen swallowed thickly, feeling regret course through her.  His voice was cracking and she could feel his sadness.

“Michael, I—”

“Those days killed me. I would wait for you to look at me… at least acknowledge me.  Sometimes you smiled very briefly.  Every time you smiled I fell for you even more.”

Maureen smiled despite her lingering worries.  She kept stroking his hair.

“You barely know me,” she whispered, voice cracking.

Michael’s face turned a bit more severe.  “You’re the only person I’ve ever met who hasn’t been afraid of me, hated me, used me, abandoned me, or told me I’m evil.  How could I not love you?”

Maureen felt her heart swell at this.  Every conflict in her brain melted away and she surged forward to kiss him, pushing him on his back so she was on him.  She pulled away, giggling at his shock.

“I have to go,” she said, stopping her laughter suddenly and getting up.  She was frazzled now, realizing that she had to go change and get to work.

“Maureen, wait!” Michael called, as she began to ran for the door.  He swung his legs over the side of the bed and made his way to the bathtub where he left her bloody uniform.  He held it before her and shook it, the bloody splotches disappearing immediately. He then looked at her and snapped his fingers; her hair was suddenly pulled into the same old hairstyle Venable preferred.

“You’re amazing, Michael,” Maureen said, shaking her head and walking towards him to take her dress.

“I hate that damn hairstyle,” he muttered.

“This wasn’t your idea, then?”

“Hell, no!  This was all Venable’s idea,” Michael said, watching as she walked to the bathroom to change.  “Had I known you’d be here, you would’ve been a Purple.  Stupid hairdo.”

She came out of the bathroom and he sighed happily, moving forward to embrace her one more time. She held him as close as she possibly could and inhaled his musky cologne.

“Be careful today, my love. If anything should happen, come here immediately.  I don’t care who I’m interviewing.  Just come here.”

Maureen nodded and pulled away, walking out the door and leaving Michael alone once again.

“He what?” Angelo snapped.

Maureen rolled her eyes and sighed.  “Angelo, I’ve been explaining this for the last two hours.  If anything, this is good for us.  We’re right on track!”

Angelo was pacing far too quickly for his own good.  He’d been following Maureen from room to room as she cleaned.

“Hello, Coco,” he muttered as Maureen walked in to begin cleaning.  Coco raised an eyebrow at Angelo as he hovered over Maureen as she dusted.  “Do you mind giving us a moment?”

Coco looked from Maureen to Angelo and finally said, “This is my room.  You do realize that, right?”

“Of course, I do!” Angelo exclaimed, pulling a piece of paper out of his pocket.  “I have Maureen’s cleaning schedule right here!”

Coco rolled her eyes at this and left.

“I can’t believe you two! I mean, I’m not mad about it.  It gives us an in.  Maybe Gabriel was onto something!  Oh, he’s so smart I could just—”

“Angelo!” Maureen snapped, cutting him off.  She was looking at him from where she was folding Coco’s clothes.  Usually Mallory had Coco’s room but Maureen switched with her to give Mallory a break.  “I don’t want this to just be an in.”

Angelo blinked and shook his head.  “You mean you like him?  Michael Langdon… You like him?”

Maureen shrugged and dropped the clothes.  She felt panic settle in.  Was she damned now?  Was Angelo going to smite her with his angelic powers?  He moved towards her and she cowered.

“No!” she cried and felt tears streak her face.  To her surprise, Angelo just wrapped his arms around her and leaned his head on hers.

“Quit moving,” he muttered and rubbed her back.  “I’m not good with comforting and you aren’t helping.”

“You mean you really aren’t mad?  You aren’t going to condemn me to Hell?”

Angelo snickered and said, “Well, from what you’re telling me you might actually like it if I did that.”

“Angelo!” Maureen sobbed and the tears returned.

“Mo, stop.  I’m not mad.  I mean, I don’t exactly get what you see in him considering he seems completely fine with being stuck in the 1800s, but I have no right to judge your feelings.”

Maureen finally hugged him back and her tears slowed down until they were nonexistent.  She pulled away from him and continued folding the clothes.

“You have to realize that we do have a mission to complete.  Should your feelings get in the way, I will have no choice but to take care of him.  I won’t penalize you, but you’ll have to take on another mission to earn your Archangel status.”

Maureen shook her head quickly.  “No, Angelo. I want to be an Archangel more than anything.”

“More than being with Michael Langdon?”

“Even more.”

Michael’s stress levels shot through the roof after Maureen left him.  Emails kept flooding into his inbox and each one was more dreadful than the last.  One finally sent him flying off the handles.

“We’re sending reinforcements,” it read.

Reinforcements?  Why the hell did the Anti-Christ need reinforcements?  This was his father’s doing… he knew it.  Followers possessed by demons would come filing in, going against Michael’s orders at every opportunity.  He wanted to run to Maureen and have her stay with him but he was interrupted by the entrance of the one person he definitely didn’t want to see.

“Do I really need to worry about you?” Michael asked, leaning back in his chair.

“No,” Dinah Stevens said, her smile widening.  “I want to get to the Sanctuary.”

“Oh, you will,” Michael assured her.

She was wary, however. It didn’t help that she was already on edge from Angelo’s threat.

“I have some information for you… consider it proof of my loyalty to you.”

“Go on,” Michael said slowly.  He was hoping Dinah was about to tell him about the witches.  He knew she flawlessly betrayed them, but now he was just plain desperate for information.

“Angelo isn’t a priest… he’s an Archangel.”  

Michael felt his blood run cold as she spoke.  He swallowed hard and nodded, trying to look unphased.

“Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Dinah.”

“So… I’m in?” Dinah asked. Her constantly confidence wavered a bit in his presence, but she tried her best to stand her ground.

“Oh, you’re definitely in.”

Days later the followers came.  Michael was right to be uneasy about them.  Their eyes were glossy and empty.  Their voices were monotone.  Michael noticed with contempt that Venable never noticed how odd the visitors were. She was just happy that they brought fresh food with them and followed her commands.  Angelo and Maureen were a bit more observant than the other Outpost residents.  They noticed right away that the visitors were not human, but they kept their voices low and quietly planned some way of action.  This plan, however, was interrupted by Venable’s idea of fun… which made Angelo roll his eyes and scoff.

“A Christmas party? Really?”

“Do you have a problem with that, Angelo?” Venable asked, arching an eyebrow.

“I mean, yeah kind of. It isn’t even December and I’m pretty sure you’ve all lost faith so what’s the point?” Angelo asked.

The residents all looked at him with wide open mouths, but Maureen found herself giggling and nudging him playfully.  Michael sneered at this and crossed his arms as Angelo playfully nudged her back.

“There will be a Christmas party,” Venable said with finality.  

Angelo shrugged and sat down beside Gallant.  Venable seemed a little too enthusiastic for such a party, but that didn’t stop the Greys from doing their best to decorate.  Even Mallory, who was still shaken by her situation, found it in her to be joyous as they prepared for the party.  Maureen was even happy, well she was.  Her joy at being able to decorate was cut short when she repetitive radio scratched and halted momentarily.  The other Greys stopped suddenly, hoping that the song would change once again.  There was a collective intake of breath as the radio whirred back to life and began playing a joyful tune:  “Hark!  The Herald Angels Sing.”

The Greys began to sing along and dance, but Maureen suddenly felt nauseas and dizzy.  She slouched onto the couch and tried to breathe normally.  She was a Herald Angel.  Looking up, she saw one of the demonic followers walk by and smile at her… knowingly. Maureen swallowed hard and ran from the room.  She should’ve run straight to Angelo but she ended up knocking on someone else’s door.

“Come in,” Michael said, his voice muffled slightly.

Maureen quickly opened the door and slammed it behind her, leaning on it and sinking down slightly. Michael shut his laptop and turned with a smug look that melted away when he saw his visitor was Maureen.

“My love, are you okay?” he asked, rushing towards her and helping her to a sofa.

“I—I was scared… one of the…”

“Someone from the Cooperative?  Did they hurt you?” he asked, urgency seeping in as he caressed her face to check for any signs of damage.

“No, they didn’t.  I was just…” she trailed off.  “It’s dumb.  You have work to do.”

She moved to leave, but Michael pulled her back down and said, “It isn’t dumb if it’s bothering you.”

She didn’t know what to say to this.  He looked so kind as he stroked her cheek soothingly that she couldn’t help but lean in to kiss him.  It was an odd sensation to get used to and there was definitely still a conflict in her mind, but Maureen felt safer already.  They could’ve been kissing for minutes or hours, but Maureen finally pulled away and whispered, “I think I feel better now.”

“Stay with me anyways. Rest on the couch.  I just need to go through a few files and I’ll be over.”

He leaned in to quickly kiss her before moving back to his desk.  When he got there, he smiled at the two new files his followers brought back from the Sanctuary.  One was a file on Angelo and the other was a file on Maureen.

“Look, boss,” one follower said after handing him the file.  “I don’t think you’re going to like what you see on the girl.”

Michael glared at the man until he cowered and walked away like a kicked dog.  Michael had already made up his mind that Maureen was going. The only reason he wanted the file was out of curiosity.  He wanted to learn more about her.  He wanted to learn all of her quirks and her little habits.  Opening the file, he scowled at how bare and aged it was.  Confusion began to set in when he realized most of the paperwork was from an asylum.  A few snippets from an old book were also tossed in along with black and white pictures of Maureen with a charming young man, a woman in a dress and light sweater, and a microcephalic woman in a nightgown with a bow in her hair. Maureen looked waifish here.  Her eyes were a bit sunken in, but her tired appearance didn’t stop her happiness as she held onto the arm of the woman with the light sweater, laughing with her.  Michael squinted at the caption and dropped the paper.  He began reading the snippet of a book by one Lana Winters until he reached a highlighted section.  He reread it again and again until he was sure it wasn’t a hallucination.

Maureen Alexander died in 1964 at Briarcliff Asylum.

[marlahey]

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

a shawn mendes rpf fic rating/warnings: standard teen language; references children and illness (sorry this keeps going to sad places) misc notes: thank you so much for all the love – I have never gained so many followers in such a short amount of time! please reblog/drop in my inbox/tag any reactions with wsitd. any feedback is really loved and appreciated. I have a paper due this week, so have a super long update to tide you over.  and because I want to know if anyone actually reads these notes; a question with no context: ‘queen’ or ‘champagne birthday’? also how much does everyone love the new album? I can’t stop listening to it. (previously; start at part one here)

lisbon; now Shawn’s a little superstitious when it comes to new venues.

He’d deny it up and down out loud, but you’ve now spent enough time in his company to know the truth. You have to carefully avoid laughing while he places a worn pick in the exact centre of B stage, or getting distracted when he always hums Life Of The Party with his acoustic before any other song, his feet dangling off the edge while he waits for the crew to finish setup. “Is that even on the setlist?” you ask, though you know the answer: of course it is. 

Shawn’s smile is a little rueful as he scrubs a hand through his hair. “I just want to remind myself to remember, you know? Where I started.” You throw your arms out in the cavernous arena. “You mean you didn’t spend your childhood in concrete stadiums made to seat twenty thousand people?” There is a particular kind of joy you get in making Shawn laugh that hasn’t really faded over time, though it’s less of a surprised pinch in your stomach than a warm glow, now. He shakes his head a little, his you’re ridiculous face. “Nah, can’t say I did. Pickering was missing out.” You let your grin spin out as you do a little circle there in front of him at the floor edge of the stage, on the other side of the metal grate. It’s just high enough that you’d have to stretch your arm to touch him, if you wanted. “I can see why you love it.” “Is it big enough for you?” Shawn asks, and you stop, confused. You find him on his feet, leaning down towards you with his hand outstretched. You know he’s strong enough to pull you onto the stage; you’re a little more doubtful of your own ability to balance on the only foothold available: the barrier. “C’mon El, I won’t let you fall.” The trust me is implicit; you can see the question in Shawn’s eyes, behind his grin. All you can do is dig your foot between the pipes and take his hand, and pretend that it’s Shawn hauling you across two feet of empty space that caused your stomach to summersault a little. It’s further than probably either of you realized; you land unsteady on your feet and then Shawn’s hands are there, on your waist, keeping you upright. His necklace clangs against your forehead while your nose presses into his sternum. Your heart is hammering a little unsteady in your ears. At least, you think that’s yours. “You’re lucky,” you mutter, uncurling your fingers from his shirt. “Ava would have killed us both.” Shawn exhales against your hair, a faint laugh. You remember the flight and pull back as normally as possible. “What were you saying before? Big enough?” He blinks, and then his smile is wide and familiar and you’re sure you imagined something off in his face. Shawn steers you by the shoulers to face out from the stage, right at centre. There’s already a white x of tape at your feet to mark where the mike stand is meant to go. “This,” he says, and you follow the line of his gesturing hand out to the sea of empty seats. “Everything the light touches is our kingdom?” you ask, just to make him laugh again. “Not unless you think Queen is about you,” Shawn says. “And I wouldn’t let you sully Mufasa’s reputation with such a lie.” You wince and you’re suddenly glad he’s still looking out and not at your face. There’s a memory there you’ve tried to forget. “No, just hang on. Stay here.” His hands leave your shoulders as Shawn hops off the stage with infuriating ease and vaults over the barrier. “Show off!” you call after him, and from here you can see his shoulders shake a little. Shawn turns around in the centre of the standing floor. Even in the middle of nothing, or even in the middle of everything, you’d always be able to find him. It’s a fact you’ve resolved never to examine too closely.  “What do you think?” Shawn asks, looking amused that you still have no idea what he’s talking about. But you indulge him anyway, pulling your eyes away from him to properly look around. Alone, the arena feels even more massive than before. You think back to that first concert in Ottawa, crammed up against Ava and hundreds of other bodies. Though you’ve traveled across two countries with Shawn doing exactly this, you’ll never know what it’s like to throw your voice out and have twenty thousand people send theirs back. “It’s huge,” you tell him, as if it weren’t obvious. “Sometimes I still can’t believe you do this every night.” Shawn’s smile is that pleased, humble one. Fondness for him wraps around your ribs. Shawn lopes forward, draping his arms over the grate and leaning forward to speak as though you’re the pop star. It’s a strange thought. “In Montreal,” he says, “You told me that you like to visit places places that make you feel small. Like the ocean.” His lips lift in a teasing smirk. “Well, smaller.” You’re so busy wracking your brain that you don’t even respond to the dig at your height. “Montreal? But we won’t go there till…” You trail off. “You mean, Montreal almost two years ago?” “You don’t remember?” Shawn’s tilted his head, looking up at you in vague disbelief. “On the bus, before the show.” “I do,” you assure him. You have to grapple with the truth of what you’re about to say. “I just...I had no idea you did.” God, is that horrible? But Shawn doesn’t look upset. “Wasn’t that like, the day after we met?” You have to make a joke before a carefully controlled part of you freaks out. “I can barely remember what we ate yesterday.” It’s that you’re ridiculous face again. “Tims. I think your exact words were, timbits are a Canadian institution and if you don’t eat this, you’re no longer allowed to tell people that’s Toronto’s skyline on your arm.” It’s been a while since Shawn’s made you flush in embarrassment and endearment at the same time. You cross your arms, feeling petulant and silly. “I stand by that statement. We were about to leave the country for four months! I even gave you the last chocolate one. I can’t believe you almost gave it up.” “Yeah, and there was only jelly-filled left.” “You hate jelly-filled,” you remind him. Two can play the memory game. “So do you, Lenny.” Ava’s nickname, even teasing, is so strange coming from his mouth. This stalemate is a lot more loaded than a conversation about timbits ought to be, in your opinion. But Shawn is clearly trying not to laugh and you’re losing the fight against a smile. “Let’s go you two!” Mike barks from offstage. “If you think I’m setting up all this equipment by myself you’ve got another thing coming.” “Duty calls,” you say. The moment is broken and you can’t decide if you’re disappointed or relieved. “Shouldn’t you be rehearsing, superstar?” Shawn makes a face. “You know I hate it when you call me that.” You just smirk at him. “Fair’s fair.”

toronto; then Hannah: So I have a surprise for you.  You: Ooh tell me. The tour left Montreal at sometime past midnight, arriving at a Toronto hotel at dawn. You and tech crew fall into bed to sleep for a few more hours while Shawn and Ava rise for an early morning interview. They pick you up in the tour bus and all you can think about is how this might be the last time you ever get to see it. Hannah wants to FaceTime. Slide to answer.  You scramble up from your bunk so fast you nearly hit your head. There’s only another few seconds to figure out if there’s anything revealing in the frame; thankfully it’s your phone instead of your laptop and only a blank section of wall is visible.  You can see Shawn on the couch on the far side of the bus, earbuds in, engrossed in his journal. You scramble to plug your own headphones in. You should be fine. Hannah’s smile is suspiciously normal, though her eyes give her away. 

“You know, I still can’t believe you got to bail on the last few days of school.” “I wouldn’t call getting an ear infection bailing, but fine.” You feel badly lying to your best friend, but it was Ava’s first condition: no one can know.  “Where are you?” Hannah asks, peering into her screen. You try not shift uncomfortably.  “Doctor’s office. Just getting the all clear.”  “Good timing.” She’s just bursting at the seams to tell you something, but you can’t help a coil of dread that twists in your stomach. “So you know who’s playing the Air Canada Centre tonight?” He’s like three feet from me. “No,” you say, feigning ignorance. “Who?” “Shawn Mendes, idiot! Remember, that guy you’re always trying to get me to listen to?”  “You–” You can barely choke out the words. “You have tickets to Shawn Mendes?” You don’t mean for your voice to crack – or project – like it does. Ava’s head jerks up from her desk right across the bunks. Paul, Shawn’s personal security, winces. Shawn’s pulled his headphones off with that classic, I just heard my name? look on his face. You clamp your hand over your mouth, which thankfully Hannah just takes as shock. Which it is. “Surprise! I’ve been dying of boredom since you’ve been gone so I finally just sat down and Youtubed him. He’s amazing! My mom got last minute tickets at her work in a raffle. The seats are shit but...”  Ava’s eyebrows are shouting at you, get off the phone and Shawn’s getting up. This whole thing is too hilarious; you can barely suppress panicked laughter. “Han, I’m sorry they’re calling me in. I have to go!”  “Okay, good luck! I’ll call you later with the details and we can meet there!”  You drop your phone.  “What,” you hiss, “the fuck?”  “Language,” your sister says, more automatically than with actual disciplinary intention. Shawn snorts a laugh. The absurdity gives way to horror. You bury your head in your hands and groan. “This can’t be happening.” Andrew is surely going to kick you off the tour for this.  “Don’t panic.” Ava clearly doesn’t share your concerns as she taps away at her phone. “Worse case scenario, you go to the concert with Hannah and then you go straight to her house from there. Saves me from having to drop you off.” No one says it, and you can’t either: the Winnipeg stop.  “At least the seats are awful.” You finally look at Shawn, and then wince. “No offence. I mean, it’ll be amazing from wherever.”  He laughs. “You’re trying to save this and it’s not working.” You exhale. “I’m just glad she doesn’t have a meet and greet package. Pretending I haven’t seen you live before is one thing. I don’t know if I’ll be able to fake having never met.” Shawn recoils dramatically. “Are you doubting my acting abilities?” It’s your turn to snort. Even though it’s only been a few days, the thought of missing him is an ache, so deep and wide you have to push yourself away from its edge. Please don’t let this be the last time I see you.   The bus pulls into the Air Canada Centre. You can’t move. As if on cue, Ava’s phone rings. “Oh Mrs. Marshall, so nice to hear from you! Mhmm, yes she’s feeling a lot better now.” Your sister sticks her head out the doors, and then nods at Paul.  “Ready you two?” he asks, and it occurs to you – like it had the first night you met Paul – that he could probably very easily haul you anywhere, whether you were ready or not. But as it stands, you sling your purse over your shoulder and nod. Keeping up with the strides of your bee-lining sister and two men who clear six feet isn’t easy, but there are no frenzied screams. You’re safe. “Of course, Elle would love to have dinner with Hannah before the show. I can just drop her off– oh yes, that’s perfect.” Ava ignores your attempts to disaster wave as everyone troops behind her through the arena. “She’ll see you at six. Great. Bye!” At your affronted expression, your sister rolls her eyes. “You’ll survive. But you’ll definitely need to change – you’re going to a concert, not the farmer’s market.” “My avocado shirt resents that!”  Shawn is smiling like he’s trying not to. “It’s a great shirt.” “See?” You gesture at Shawn and force down a blush. “The pop star approves.” “The pop star,” Ava says, pointing you both into the dressing room in the next hall, “wore khakis and Vans until Serena sorted out his wardrobe.” You and Shawn look at each other. You can’t decide whether or not you’re allowed to laugh, until Paul intones, “You’re gonna need some ice for that burn, kid.” Twenty-five minutes later, you’re in the room adjacent to Shawn’s, wearing the only dress in your poorly packed emergency travel bag, your sister’s leather jacket, a hasty smokey eye and lip gloss, and are trying (and failing) to fasten a third bracelet with your left hand.  “Need help?”  You whirl around to find Shawn, clearly ready. His hair is shinier, the curl slick, dark skinny jeans paired with a grey button down, rolled up to reveal his guitar tattoo and his watch. You have to blink to reconcile him with the Shawn from an hour ago, slouched in a hoodie into which he burrowed like a turtle. He blinks, like he’s doing the same.  Embarrassment feels like a default reaction at this point. “Um, yes. Please.” You meet in the centre of the room and you hand Shawn the small string of black marbles, holding out your wrist. “Thanks.” “Don’t thank me yet,” Shawn says. His fingers are warm on your skin in the room that is just a touch cold. Do not be weird. All you can smell is his cologne. The clasp doesn’t click at first; he swears under his breath and your stomach jumps. “Language,” you half-whisper, desperate to be rid of the butterflies. Shawn’s silent laugh shakes his shoulders. The marbles clink together.  “God El,” he mutters. “Stop that. This is precision work we’re trying to accomplish here.”  No one’s condensed the name you buried with your parents into one syllable before. Shawn finally manages the bracelet; for a moment he doesn't move and you take it to admire his swallow again. You wonder if it always looks like it’s in flight, if that’s why he put it on his hand, so it’s always in motion.  You want to ask him how you find home without a place, when most of the people who make up your home are gone.  “I’m amazing.” Shawn’s victorious grin as he steps back is so ridiculous you can’t help but smile back. “I should just call it a night right now.” “Please don’t,” you say. “Hannah would never forgive me for introducing her to your music if you bailed.” You pick up your bag and point at him. “And yes, I introduced her to you. Don’t let it go to your head.” You have no idea where all this sudden confidence is coming from. Maybe it’s just all the energy you’ve amassed from being stuck on a bus and in dressing rooms for hours at a time. Maybe it’s delayed reaction from the fact that you’ve just spent the last four days with one of the most famous teens in the world and you haven’t made a complete idiot of yourself. Or maybe, he’s as real of a person as you never let yourself believe before.  There’s so much you wish you could say to him, because this might be your last chance, but you can hear Ava’s shoes from down the hall.  “Thank you Shawn.” You can only smile and hope that’s enough.  “Wait, El–” He stops. “That’s okay, right?” You shake your wrist. The bracelet holds. You hold it up, but Shawn shakes his head. “I mean– El. It’s okay I call you that?” Your heart’s doing something strange inside your chest. “Of course it is.” You’re suddenly torn between laughing and crying. His smile is so wide it’s hard to take in all at once. “I’ll see you soon,” Shawn says, like he’s certain. You flash back to Ottawa. The gaping space without him is open beneath your feet. “Have fun.” Ava is making a we gotta go wave at you. So you let her pull you out of the doorway, and even though your last glance at Shawn is of him smiling, you pretend that that the look in his eyes is because he’s sad to see you go. * You meet Hannah on the steps of the arena. By some miracle you make it through dinner without falling apart and confessing to this whole wild charade. Security is tighter than you’ve ever seen at an event here; parents stick close to their merch-covered kids and teens and your heart aches a little. Hannah clutches at your arm, chattering in your ear. “I think my favourite is Ruin–” “Excuse me, girls?” You both turn to find a middle aged woman hand in hand with a little girl, who has two tiny clear tubes extended from her My Little Pony backpack to wrap around her face and nose. You jerk your eyes back up to the mother, afraid you’re staring.  “Clara and I had special passes to meet Shawn before the show but I’m afraid we can’t stay. Would you like them? We’re not–“ The woman’s smile wavers a little. “We’re not feeling too well. You can have our seats as well, if you’d like to be closer to the front?” You recognize the look on Clara’s face. She’s distraught, but clearly holding it together for her mother. You remember being close to her age. You remember seeing that face in the mirror. Your throat feels so tight that at first, you can’t speak. “Oh no,” you start, “We couldn’t–“ “Thank you so much!” If Hannah can read your horrified glare, she ignores it in favour of grinning brightly at the woman and accepting the pass from around her neck. Clara silently holds out hers to you; her nails are sparkling. You’ve never wanted anything less in your life. You’d never be able to look Shawn in the eye again. “What’s your name sweetheart?” Clara’s mother takes her daughter’s pass, pulling the card from its plastic case. She's looking at you expectantly, but there’s something soft in her eyes, a kind of motherly understanding, as though she can see how awful you feel.  “Ellie,” you manage. The woman just nods, scrawling something in pen on the back of the pass. She takes Hannah’s and does the same.  “There you go,” she says. You take yours automatically. “Just in case they give you any trouble at the doors.” Her expression is resigned, as though this is the best she can make of whatever situation she’s been given, but her sincere smile crinkles the corners of her eyes. You’re so ashamed of yourself that you can barely keep her gaze. “The tickets are in there too. Have fun, okay?”  “Thank you!” You stare at Clara’s backpack until she and her mom are swallowed by the crowd. “Oh my god Ellie can you believe–” “We shouldn’t have done that.” You’re a lot calmer than you thought. There’s a deeper, angrier reaction somewhere further down, but you can’t bring yourself to have a full blown fight with your best friend in the middle of a concert venue. “Han, they–” “They weren’t gonna use them! You heard her, Ellie. You were seriously ready to pass up an actual meet and greet with Shawn Mendes?”  You open your mouth, but Hannah has clearly had enough of this conversation, and turns her attention to the pass. “Oh my god, we only have ten minutes to get there! God, where are we supposed to be?” While Hannah flags down a passing security guard, you force yourself to take a deep breath. And another. Don’t deprive her of this chance just because you can’t bear the thought of seeing Shawn again. But that’s only the reason you’re using to coax your feet to follow your best friend; you can’t help but think that Clara deserves this more. You recognize the guard at the top of the dressing room hall, where a barrier’s gone up and teens and parents line up and peer down towards the room you left Shawn in not two hours ago. Your heart hammers, harder even than it did when you first met. Cameron’s eyebrows furrow as the other guard explains the pass swap; you make as subtle of a wave at Hannah and an I’m sorry as you can.  Cameron looks from you to Hannah, who eagerly thrusts her pass at him while the two girls Shawn’s just seen, flushed and giggling, make their way back up the corridor. You can see Paul now, standing outside the dressing room door. Cameron lets the other girls back through the barrier towards the main concourse hall. “Okay, go ahead you two.” Your steps feel like lead. Hannah is squeezing your arm so tightly it almost hurts. Paul’s surprise is – like most of Paul’s on duty expressions – almost imperceptible, but it’s too late for any sort of communication, because you’re in the doorway and Hannah’s practically pushed you ahead of her into the room.  Shawn looks up; some irrational part of your brain screams at you to run. You have no idea what you look like, but you feel trapped. You’re sure this is it. Hannah is going to find you out and everything will be ruined. Until he smiles, stands, and turns first to her instead of you. “Hi.” Hannah is very rarely speechless. Some distantly vindictive part of you is strangely smug to see her this way. “Oh my god, hi.” She goes to hug him and you look away instinctively, flipping over your platinum pass as Hannah proceeds to find her voice and explain her mother, the raffle and–  Plat pass for Ellie. Don’t let go of that big heart. – Alice  

“I just love your music so much.” “Oh thank you! That’s so sweet.” “I’m Hannah, by the way.”  “Hi Hannah, it’s so nice to meet you.”  Your best friend giggles – the kind of giggling she flirts with. Your stomach turns. “Someone just gave us their passes! Her daughter was sick. I still can’t believe it.” You can tell without having to lift your head that Shawn’s looking at you. Can he see your hand shaking? Can he see your guilt? The truth of what you’ve done slams back into your ribcage; Clara’s determinedly okay expression is burned behind your eyes. It’s hard to tell in the moment that if your secret didn’t entirely depend on your ability to fake enthusiasm, that if Hannah wasn’t standing right there, if you’d have let yourself cry.  You can’t remember the last time you cried.  You really need to stop letting the almosts be with him. “I’m excited for the show,” you blurt, grasping at the memory of Ottawa to keep you grounded. Shawn’s eyes are searching for something in your face. You can’t tell which one of you is currently worse at this ‘we’ve never met’ game. Panic squeezes in your chest.  Just keep pretending. “I can’t believe you’re really here.”  “I’m definitely real,” Shawn says, smiling not quite the way he had four days ago. From outside, Paul tosses a quick, perfunctory wave into the room. Time’s up. Shawn nods, but looks back at you. “I can even prove it.” Here at last is something you don’t have to fake. You’re not sure what to blame on the innocuous fact that you’ve never hugged Shawn. Both Ava’s sisterly concern and Andrew’s constant watchfulness flash through your mind. But you don’t have time to overthink it, stretching into the space Shawn leaves as he bends down to meet you. His cologne’s gone softer against all the perfumes and deodorants of everyone he’s probably already hugged tonight, but you can still catch traces of it. You want to close your eyes and squeeze a goodbye around his ribs, but you don’t. Shawn’s arms reach nearly all the way round your back and your waist; his hands slide down your elbows, dropping from your wrists as he pulls back. The marbles of your bracelet clink and go silent.  “Have a great time, guys.” Shawn’s smile sweeps from you to Hannah and it’s almost a relief. “Thank you for coming.” “Bye!” Hannah waves, her hand clamping around your arm like a vice, and you’re being dragged away from Shawn for a second time. You don’t look up to see his face. Hannah is practically vibrating beside you. She skips forward, hopping through the open metal barrier, but it swings shut before you can follow. “I’m sorry miss,” Cameron says when you gape up at him, his lips twitching on the last word. He has his hand to his earpiece. “I’m told you dropped something in the dressing room?”   Your face flames as people gawk. You hurriedly pat yourself down – bag, phone, rings– “I’m sorry, I don’t–” You don’t know he’s talking about, but Cameron just nods down towards Paul, who is beckoning you back. You’re tempted to bolt back to him just to escape the particular awfulness of public humiliation, but you manage a fast walk instead.  Paul just points into the room. “You have thirty seconds, Shawn.” Your eyes dart around: his jacket, his guitar, a water bottle. When they finally land on Shawn, you can only stare as he holds up your marble bracelet.  “How–” “I saw that look on your face,” he says. Now that you’re alone, you allow yourself to really look at him. It seems like concern in his gaze, almost urgent in its openness, but there no time to process it. “When Hannah said someone gave you those passes. I just–” Shawn’s mouth twists, a shadow of regret, as though he wants to say more. “I saw it.” Well that answers that question. “I didn't want them,” you blurt, feeling helpless against fear of his judgement.   ”Do you know her name?” Shawn asks, and you’re too dumbfounded to pull away when he reaches for your wrist and returns your bracelet. “The girl?” 

“Clara.” Shame presses tears into your eyes. You blink and blink and none fall. “She’s so little,” You say in a rush. “She had oxygen. Shawn, I–” “It’s okay, El.” He hasn’t let go of you yet. You don’t want to look at him, but you’re still powerless against his pull. You see the same soft smile from that very first night, when he was close enough to touch. “It’s okay.” “Time to go,” Paul says. You turn to leave; Shawn’s fingers catch on yours as he drops your hand. Paul looks down at you, his face seemingly as impassive as ever.  “Deep breath now, little one.” You force it. You can see clearly again. Paul nods, and you follow in his shadow back to Hannah, and hold up your wrist. “My bracelet fell off,” you tell her, loud enough that it’s audible to the girls still staring with something like vague suspicion in their eyes. “He just helped me get it back on.” It’s only a half lie. At least, you’re fairly certain.  Your best friend makes a noise that can only be described as a squeal. “God he is so sweet!” You move through most of the night on autopilot. It’s probably a credit to Shawn’s showmanship that you can, at least for a while, forget whose seats you occupy in the 100 section of the arena. After TNHMB, Shawn riffs a little on his guitar while the crowd waits with baited breath.  “So I’ve already met a ton of really amazing people tonight.” Hannah squeezes your hand as she screams. “But my team let me know that there was someone super special whose been in the hospital lately, and who really wanted to be here but couldn’t make it.” Your heart leaps up to your throat.  “And I thought, because Toronto has to be one of the most amazing cities in the world–” Shawn smiles when the crowd drowns him out. “We might all send this little girl some love.” He waits for the screaming to die down. “So Toronto, if you have a cellphone light, please pull it out. Clara, I don’t know if you’ll see this, but this is Never Be Alone, and it’s for you.” The tears make it hard to sing.  You’ve never asked Shawn about this, in the weeks and months since. No video recording captured it with clarity, but some people are sure that in the final measures of the song, as Shawn pulled out his earpiece and listened as he did every night, that there were tears in his eyes, too. * Four days later, you lay on your stomach on Hannah’s bed while her iTunes shuffles in the background. You’ve successfully stopped flinching every time Shawn’s voice floated through the speakers. Ava had dropped your bag off with a hug and an, “I’ll let you know.”  It’s half a fear of being annoying and half a fear of confirming your own disappointment that keeps you from texting her at all.  “Oh my god!” Hannah’s shriek nearly makes you drop your phone. “Look!”  She shoves her own phone under your nose. It takes a minute, but eventually you realize you’re looking at Shawn’s instagram story, where Hannah’s thumb has paused on a still of Shawn’s feet walking through a pristine white hall. surprising someone special!  She clicks forward; your hand flies to your mouth at the sight of Clara, looking even tinier than she had the night of the concert, sitting up in bed. Her shock and her tears as Shawn walks into her room, someone else recording now, takes your breath away. “I’m so jealous of this girl,” Hannah says. “Can you imagine getting to meet Shawn by yourself?” “She’s in the hospital, Han.” “I’d put myself in the hospital if I got to meet him.” Thankfully your phone chimes then, saving you from having to come up with a reply. Ava: Get somewhere private. Calling in two minutes.  Is it possible to have a nerves induced heart attack? “Ava’s calling,” you say, lurching to your feet. “I’ll be right back.” Hannah lifts her hand in a wave, engrossed in her phone again. You dash into the hall, down the stairs, and out the back door to the backyard, forcing yourself to sit on the steps of her deck.  Ava wants to FaceTime. Slide to answer.  You have to close your eyes for a moment before you accept. But it isn’t Ava’s face that focuses into view: it’s Shawn. Your mouth falls open as you look frantically around the yard, as if anyone else were here besides the squirrels squabbling on the back fence. You look back. He’s still there.  “Shawn?” It comes out a little squeakier than you’d have hoped. His grin stretches from ear to ear.  “El, hey! Busy?”  “Um, no?” You don’t have time to untangle your wilting, half-up bedroom hair. You don't even know if you can hold your phone up without shaking.  “Someone wanted to say hello,” Shawn says. You catch the blur of a white room as he passes the phone to someone else. Alice, leaning down to get her daughter in the frame, just smiles as you clamp your hand over your mouth.  “Hi, sweetheart.” Clara waves and you return the gesture with a trembling hand.   “That was a really wonderful thing you did,” Alice says, her eyes bright. “We just wanted to say thank you. It means so much to us. ” “Shawn did all the work,” you croak. “I’m a terrible singer.”  Clara giggles. You think you hear Shawn laughing just beyond the screen.  “Still,” Alice’s smile is fond. “He’s even better for having people like you in his life.” “Thank you,” you whisper, because you don’t know what else to say.  “I’ll pass you back now. Say goodbye to Ellie, Clara.” “Bye!”  You don’t even realize you’re crying until you can’t see them anymore.  “Oh no, El–” You wipe frantically at your eyes to find Shawn’s mouth downturned, his eyes apologetic. “I’m sorry, I never wanted you to–” “No!” You shake your head and let out a disbelieving laugh. “No, Shawn. Please, I’m fine. I’m better than fine. Thank you for this.” You try to push your reassurance through the screen. “You just made my whole week.” Shawn’s relieved smile makes your heart stutter. This boy is seriously going to give you a heart attack. “Good. I have a question, before I go. Av looks like she’s going to rip her phone out of my hand.” You snort. “Classic Ava.” Shawn glances off camera, and then back. He makes a face like he’s trying to be serious, and failing. “Do you have a raincoat?” The question takes a second to compute. “Do I have–? Um, yes?” You don’t know why it comes out like a question. Fucking hell, Ellie. “I have a raincoat.”  His grin fills your tiny screen. “Make sure you bring it to Seattle.” (part four)