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#granite is working through bad anxiety problems but really does love to just listen to others talk
viper-draws · 4 years
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Asking my D&D characters:
"What do you look for in a romantic partner?"
Parts 4-6
Parts 1-3
This was a fun little project, honestly. It gave me a chance to draw some of my characters that I haven’t before.
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zankivich · 5 years
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Breathe: A Blurb - Shawn Mendes x female reader!
a/n: based off this story. I just really wanted some ultimate fluff with Shawn being taken care of endlessly tbh.
Trigger warning: detailed description of panic attack and active work to come out on the other side.
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When he calls her it’s not good. And he knows that she knows it’s not because he never calls this late. He does his best to be aware of the time zone changes, and to not be a hinderous on her life just because he’s halfway around the world living him dream. This time he’s only in California, and she’s in Toronto, but she might as well be on another planet. His heart is thudding so fast that he can feel it ring in his ears. He just can’t fucking catch his breath and he could have called Andrew, could have called Brian, or Cez, or any of his team that were literally on the same floor of the hotel as him. But the problem is that the moment he feels like he’s losing himself there’s no one else he’d rather call.
“Baby?” She whispers across the line, voice still deep from sleep. “What’s wrong?”
He parts his lips and tries to speak but the words don’t come. All there is is the whoosh of air past his lips. He presses his hand firmer against his chest and chokes as he starts to get even more freaked out. It was bad this time. Really bad.
He hears her sit up in bed at home and all he can picture is crawling beneath the covers and holding her tight, wanting to feel her body against his because it was the calmest senesation he could think of. Right now he was anything but calm.
“Okay. Okay, I’m here.” She murmures, voice immediately so soft it feels like a caress but so firm that it rises above the ringing in his ears. “Just listen to the sound of my voice.”
“Try to breathe in and out for me. I I know that it’s scary but listen to the tempo of mine and try and match it. I need you to remember that this only temporary. What you’re feeling right now will pass.”
She takes a deep breath and he closes his eyes and tries to replicate it. And it doesn’t come very easy. And when it doesn’t come easy he gets frustrated and it sends him all the way back to the beginning. Somehow without even asking, she just knows that it isn’t working.
“Shawn? I don’t need you to try and speak right now but do you think you can make any sound at all? I need to know how bad this is right now on a scale of one to ten. And I want you to remember what your doctor said about an accurate representation of pain or anxiety. So one being that you feel absolutely fine, and ten being that you can’t focus on anything else, that this is the worst it’s been, can you give me any indication of what’s going on?”
“T--ten. Ten.”
“Thank you. Let’s count our breathing for a little while okay? Let’s see if that helps.”
Time feels so illusive when you’re trying to remember basic bodily functions. Part of him feels like they’re there for days. The easier that breathing becomes, every time he’s able to establish a rhythm for five seconds, and then ten, and then twenty, he feels like such a piece of shit for putting her through it. It was one thing to be the rock star boyfriend who was gone half the year, but to add another layer of burden of panic attack calls in the middle of the night felt so incredibly unfair. So, when he can breathe--even though his chest still feels so incredibly tight--there’s only one thing that comes to mind to say to her.
“Sorry.” He whispered, throat tight and eyes wet with tears. “Fuck--I’m so sorry. That was embarrassing.”
“Hey don’t say that shit. There is nothing embarrassing about reaching out for help. If I ever found out that you needed me and you didn’t call because of something as stupid as what time it is, I’d kick your ass the second you got home.”
He chuckled a little bit and wiped at his eyes.
“You’re right. I just--I know that when your boyfriend who isn’t home very often calls, you might want to talk about something besides re-teaching him how to breathe.”
“Well, then you don’t know me very well, Mendes. I wanna talk about whatever makes you feel good. I just want to take care of you in whatever way is meaningful and healthy. You know that.”
His fingers grow a little tighter around his phone.
“I love you so fucking much. I can’t wait to come home to you.”
“I love you too. And I can’t wait to cuddle for hours and definitely not let you go to the gym.”
“You have no idea how good that sounds, honey l...Listen, I know it’s late, and you’ve already done so much for me but I--I don’t wanna be alone yet. Can we maybe just sit on the phone a little while longer?
“We can stay on the phone until you fall asleep. You don’t have to ask my loud mouth ass to keep talking, Shawn. Let me tell you a story about the time I skipped school to go meet the Jonas brothers, broke my ankle, and got a selfie while I was crying on the ground.”
She gets him to laugh when he was crying fifteen minutes before hand. And when she laughs and snorts his whole body lights up. He feels endlessly more present than he’d felt all day. It’s the wildest thing. She doesn’t need anything from him, doesn’t want anything but his happiness and his safety and his love. He’d give it all to her if he could, and he endlessly tries. By the time he falls asleep he’s emotionally exhausted, but the sound of her voice chases him into his dreams and it’s enough to make him sleep a little lighter.
***
The fans at the airport can tell that he’s not a hundred percent. Maybe it’s the bags beneath his eyes. Maybe his smile isn’t what it usually is. But he still takes every hug and every photo despite them not listening when he tries to explain that he really needs to get home, that he really needs to get to her. It’d been a long week. And the only thing that was gonna make any of it better was crawling into his own bed with the girl that he loved.
Sometimes he had the feeling that she knew him better than he knew himself, like she could sense his emotions before they’d even made themselves known in his own head. When she’s there at the airport braving the snow and the cameras in her sweatpants, it only affirms his theory.
He sees her and immediately runs to wrap her up in his arms. In the end it’s more like she wraps him up in her arms, and he just finds a little moment of solace in the space between her neck and shoulder where he hides his face.
“Looks like someone missed me?” She giggled.
“Too much.” He groaned squeezing her tighter. “Please let’s go home?”
“Anything you want.”
She tries to carry his suitcase and there is sure to be a video online  of him rolling the wheels back over to his grasp only for her to take it back and run off towards the exit from him knowing damn well he wasn’t about to run with his guitar case in his other hand. That woman would be the death of him. Or, she might be the only one who could keep him going. Who was keeping track.
All he knew was that the second they got into the car, she put the heater on full blast and the car smelled like her perfume. She let him lean on her shoulder while she drove and didn’t ask any questions about why he was in such a funk. She was just there for him. As if it could be that simple.
When they get home she pushes his suitcase off the side, makes him set his guitar case down, and tugs instantly at his hands.
“Come with me. Let’s take a shower.”
“Babe, I really just want to lie down.” He mumbled stumbling after her into the bedroom.
“You can sit on  your little fancy granite stool the whole time, I swear. Just a shower. For me? Please?”
So, he takes the shower. Really he just sits there on the edge of the little built in chair, and watches her instead. The water is hot enough that the whole room fills steadily with steam, but it doesn't stop him from being able to see the rounded curve of where her ass meets her thigh, or the absolutely delightful way her hair curls when it gets wet. He just wanted to hold her. Or--preferably--her hold him. If a shower is what it takes to get there, then that’s what he’ll do.
She reached up on her toes to grab the removable shower head and his eyes get caught on the way her calves flex. He almost doesn’t notice her coming towards him until the water begins to hit his chest.
“What are you doin’?” He sighs softly, a smile coming tiredly to his lips.
She turns those big old eyes on him and slightly pouts her lip as if he could ever put up a fight when it came to her.
“Wanna take care of you. Can I?”
He quite hated feeling like a burden on other people, and usually he always tried to take care of things on his own. But, the truth of the matter was he was struggling. He was tired and a little sad, and even if he didn’t know why those things were happening he had to believe that she just wanted to take care of him because she loved him, or he might never make it through the day.
She washes his hair for him. At first he thinks she’s just trying to get all of the greasy product out, but when she picks up his shampoo and steps between his legs his heart beats a little softer for her. Her fingers are gentle and soothing as she massages his scalp. He finds himself closing his eyes, fingers relaxed against his thighs. It feels so incredibly comforting.No one but his mum had ever washed his hair before, and somehow this feels a little different than his spiderman toys in the bathroom while his mum tried to get him to sit still.
He gets to just be for a minute, focusing on nothing more than the pleasure of her nails against his scalp. She must sense how good it feels because she scratches and rubs much longer than he ever would in the shower. Eventually it just becomes a massage on his head and he releases a sigh that feels bone deep in him.
When she rinses the shampoo out and he can finally open his eyes, he just looks at her. And she smiles at him and taps his chin like she’s not everything to him. Like the love that she shows him isn’t insurmountable.
“I love you.” He whispered kissing her palm. “Thank you.”
“I love you too, Shawn. Always.”
They stumble out of the shower and dry themselves off pulling on the bare minimum of clothing before quickly getting into bed. He doesn’t even had to ask. She simply opens her arms and legs and lets him nestle himself perfectly on top of her. Her chest is soft and he can hear the even rhythm of her heartbeat  against his ear. It’s the most calm he’s felt in days.
“I missed you so much.” He sighed gripping the material of her shirt in his fingers.
She runs her nails in soothing rhythm along his back and he practically purs at the feeling of it.
“I missed you too. When you called last night? I actually couldn't sleep. I just had a feeling that something was off. It’s so hard to be away from you and not know what’s going on.”
“I know what you mean. Like that time when your mom was sick and I didn’t know what was going on, but something just felt off, so I called to check in?  I think we might be on another wavelength.”
“Well at least it has its upsides. If I’m gonna be worried sick, I’d rather be able to help you through when you need someone. You can always call me. You know that right?” She murmured rubbing her fingers through his hair.
He nodded softly against her chest. “I know. I just don’t like making you have to do it all the time. I should--I’ve gotta get a handle on it myself sometime.”
“Why? Where’s this rule that says you have to go through this shit alone, Shawn? You think you have to take the world onto your shoulders and you just don’t. And no one wants you too. I would rather you call me seven days out of the week at three am than you try and figure this shit out by yourself. We’re supposed to be a team, remember?”
“We are a team. We are.” He murmured sitting up just enough to look her in the eyes. “Please don’t be angry with me. I’m just trying to make sure I don’t rely on you all the time. Even if you’re willing it doesn’t mean that I should. You can’t always be there, babe. You can’t. It’s impossible.”
She huffed gently beneath her breath. “I’m not angry with you. I just think sometimes...sometimes you take on too much. And you don’t really let me in until it’s already gotten on top of you. I just wanna help.”
“Okay. I’m sorry. I’ll try and do better. I just know that no one’s ever taken care of me like you do. No one’s ever loved me the way that you do. I just want to give it back to you. I love you so much.”
“I love you too. Just come here and let me love you.” She whined.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him close enough to kiss him. His body felt like jelly against hers and it was all because of her ability to make him feel completely at ease in his own skin. Her love and her tenderness and her passion was everything to him. He falls asleeps in their bed, lying right there on her chest, and it’s the kind of comfort he could never buy no matter how many records he sold. It was simply her. Just her. And God was he lucky to have her. And maybe, just maybe he actually deserved her kindness, her love, her everything. Maybe.
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lolcat76 · 6 years
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Six Senses prompt: Regina soothes Robin after Roland throws a particularly big tantrum that ends in the dreaded "I hate you!"
It’s an adjustment, thethree of them trying to figure out how to live in a small house in Allston.Robin misses his carefully chosen granite countertops; Regina misses her carvedbanister. She has to relearn every step of the new house, every squeak of thestairs, every bubble in the wallpaper.
Robin has to organizehis cookware a good six times before Regina feels comfortable with how he setsit up in her new kitchen cabinets.
Roland has to adjust toa small yard with no trees to climb, and an even smaller bedroom in hisfather’s new house. He doesn’t seem to care that the new house is less than 20minutes from his mother’s house; he wants his window seat in his father’stownhouse and the trees in Regina’s backyard.
He wants nothing tochange; he’s had enough change in his life. Regina can empathize. The part ofher that counted out every step from her bathroom to her bedroom hates the newhouse.
The part of her thatloves Robin loves that she wakes up next to him every day. She doesn’t knowthis house yet, not as much as she wants, but she knows which area rugs mighttrip her up. She knows which drawer knobs are loose. She knows that, soonerrather than later, Robin is going to have to fix the leaking toilet in theguest room because the constant sound of water running through the pipes whenshe can’t sleep at night is enough to drive her slowly insane.
A little thing like aleaky toilet isn’t enough to tarnish Robin’s excitement over the new house. Theparquet floors on the ground floor aren’t quite the cherry wood he laid by handin his townhouse, but he likes them nonetheless. Parquet, cherry, cedar…shedoesn’t really care. They all sound the same under her heels, and she lovesthat he’s making an effort to clear out those tricky rugs so that she won’t betripped up by her own flair for interior design.
He knows that she likesto hear the reassuring click-clack of her heels against the floor, a reminderthat she still occupies time and space. She’s still adjusting to the new count ofsteps, but every day she comes home, she taps her fingers against her thigh asshe makes her way to the kitchen, relieved that every day it takes exactly 127steps to get from the front door to the refrigerator. She might make an attemptat dinner, or she might dig through the menus tacked to the fridge, closing hereyes and pulling one at random so that he can order them something to eat.
She might find him inthe kitchen waiting for her, and she might find that she doesn’t need to worryabout it, because he’s already taken care of it. He worries about their newlyinstalled dishwasher far more than she does. She knows how to load adishwasher. If he wanted the fancy kind that operated on a timer, well then…hewas going to have to learn how to set the timer himself.
Relationships are aboutgive and take, she reminds herself. He gives her grief about loading thedishwasher; she takes his freshly washed t-shirts and sleeps in them. And,because he insisted on having the washer and dryer installed in their mastercloset, she doesn’t have to go far to dig them out.
If it were just the twoof them, she’d happily take the quirks of the house, but they have Roland everyother weekend. He hates the house. He hates the parquet floors. He hates hislittle bedroom, because it doesn’t have a window seat, and he hates the yardthat doesn’t have trees he can climb.
Robin has endlesspatience for his son, and Regina loves children, so why the two of them bickerconstantly on the weekends when they have Roland rocks her to her core.
Three months into livingtogether, and she’s sick and tired of hugging the edge of the mattress on theweekends Roland spends with them. She’s not the kind of person to wade intoparenting issues – no matter what Emma says – but she’ll be damned if she letsRobin’s son hold her hostage in her own home.
She already has too manythings holding her hostage these days. And the leaky toiled may keep her awaketonight, but at the moment she can barely hear it over the wheels turning inhis head. It’s either get up and try to fix the toilet herself, or get Robin toadmit what’s got him sulking on the other side of the mattress.
“Robin,” she says as sheprods him with her elbow. He grunts and digs his face further into the pillow.
Nice try. Even a blindwoman can see that he’s trying to avoid her.
“ROBIN,” she snaps, andthis time she knees him somewhere in the vicinity of his kidneys.
Her aim is still good,if his yelp of surprise is any indication. She silently thanks years of playingfield hockey, then pulls his arm until he’s face-to-face with her.
“I’m awake,” hegrumbles.
This close to him, shehas no trouble reading his body language. He’s wound so tight she’s surprisedhe doesn’t spontaneously shoot from the bed.
“Roland hates it here.”
To his credit, Robindoesn’t argue. Once again, Regina feels that old familiar guilt settling in herchest, making it hard for her to breathe. She counts out her breaths – threecounts in, four counts out. She’s just getting her anxiety under control whenhe pulls her into his arms.
“He doesn’t hate ithere. He hates me.”
Admittedly, Regina isbiased, but she doesn’t see how that’s possible.
You don’t see anything, that snippy little sarcastic voice in herhead says.
Very funny. Also verytrue.
“How can he hate you?You spent a good three hours tonight reading Shel Silverstein to him. And Ican’t see much, but I can see enough to know that Roland spent the entire threehours picking his nose.” She was pretty sure, anyway. “And you didn’t once tellhim to knock it off.”
Robin grunted. “You’reasking me how a child can hate a parent? You? Asking me? I think we both knowwell enough how that happens.”
Also very true, but notin the least bit funny.
“I didn’t ask you how achild could hate a parent. It’s late, and I’m tired, and I don’t want aphilosophical discussion about child rearing. I asked you how your son could hate you.”
Robin sighs, and she’sthrown by how…utterly sad a simple exhalation of breath can be. During thecourse of their relationship, she’s gotten used to his relentless good cheer.As annoying as it can be, he always finds that silver lining, and the fact thathe’s lost in the dark gray clouds now…well, it scares her. “Tell me,” she says.“What happened?”
Robin doesn’t answer,but merely turns away from her and punches his fist into the pillows that shebought for their new bed in their new home. Pillows that were guaranteed by thesalesperson at Macy’s to hold their shape, no matter how much frustration hetakes out on the synthetic goose down. He pounds the pillow into submission andrests his head on it, curling away from her.
“Robin,” she says, andthis time it’s a whisper. “Talk to me.”
“I tucked him intonight, and he told me that he wants to go home. To his mother.”
She can sympathize. Can’tsay that she’s felt the same, but Marian is no Cora, and Roland is no Regina. Ina fairytale book, though, she can understand a child wanting his mother.
“Is that such a badthing?”
He huffs, then throwsher very expensive pillow to the floor. “Is it such a bad thing that my sondoesn’t want to sleep in my house? Yes. Yes, Regina, it’s a bad thing.”
Funny, she thought itwas their house, not his, but she’ssmart enough to know that now is not the time to argue that particular point.
“And when you were hisage, I’m guessing you felt the same.”
“It’s different.” Herolls back onto his stomach and throws an arm over his eyes, clearly done withthis discussion.
“Is it?”
She knows it is, wellbefore she feels his body shift on the bed and lean a little closer to her.Regina knows she’s skirting on the edges of sleeping in separate rooms for afew nights at least, but she can’t take much more of Robin’s tossing andturning and weary moans.
“I didn’t want to sleepin my father’s house because he didn’t like me, not because I didn’t like him,”he says, and he sounds so much like his son that she just wants to pull himclose and let him rest his head on her chest until he drifts off again, lulledby her fingers combing through his hair, but that will hardly solve theproblem.
“And did your fatherever ask you why? Did he ever bother to listen to what you had to say, or didhe just slam the door and then go to sleep next to your mother and keep herawake all night?”
Every muscle in his bodytenses against her, and she’s afraid she’s pushed him too far, but he lets outa long breath and relaxes into the space next to her. “I’m afraid of what he’sgoing to say,” he admits.
“He’s already said hehates you. What could be worse than that?”
Despite his anger, fearand frustration, he chuckles. “Not much,” he admits.
Regina settles a littledeeper into her pillows, tucking her body against Robin’s. “He doesn’t hateyou. He hates this. I hate this. And I think if you weren’t so damn cheerful,you’d admit that you hate this. Change is hard on all of us, but on a littleboy, it feels like the world is ending.”
“I don’t hate this,” hesays, but she wraps her fingers around his lips, silencing him.
“Yes, you do, or elseyou wouldn’t be hanging off your side of the bed to avoid me on the weekendsyou have Roland.”
She expects him toargue, but when he doesn’t, she moves her hand from his mouth to slowly strokethe line of his neck from jaw to collarbone.
“It’s ok to hate change,”she whispers “God knows I do.”
“Yes, but you didn’thave a choice,” Robin says. He’s gearing up for a reasonable, well-thought-outargument, but she doesn’t want to hear it.
“Neither does he,” shepoints out.
He’s quiet for a longtime. If she didn’t know him better, she’d think he fell back to sleep, but shecan feel the tension in the shoulders that lay pressed to her chest. He’sworking things out in his mind, trying to find the magic answer that will makethis situation better for them all.
There is no magicanswer, she wants to tell him. They’re just going to have to stumble through inthe dark and hope they don’t get tripped up on the edges of the rugs they’velaid down to make their little home pretty.
And if they do, they’rejust going to have to believe that someone will be there to catch them whenthey fall.
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