Shawn Peter raul mendes

anonymous asked:

hi! pls do one where shawn and reader get into a huge argument and reader leaves but he has a panic attack afterwards and begs her to come back

“all i’m asking is for a little bit of us time shawn.” you huff loudly out of annoying as you stuff your belongings into your bag. you can practically hear him roll his eyes at your simple request, but his silence is a sign of annoyance and exhaustion. “fine ignore me then.” you reply to his quiet response, swinging your bag onto your back and making your way out of his bedroom.

shawn’s been back in toronto for a good few days now and he hasn’t paid any attention to you whatsoever. he’s always inviting the boys over or going to one of the boys’ apartments. he spends the night with you when he’s exhausted and exchanges around 3 sentences with you and passes out.

he didn’t even try running after you and you didn’t know if that was because he was tired or just didn’t care. you get into your car, unprepared for the drive back to pickering. it wasn’t an extremely long drive and because it was 1:32 in the morning, there would be hardly anyone on the roads. however, you’re beyond tired from a night of sitting in shawn’s room doing homework while listening to them play fifa in the lounge.

picking up your phone, you begin to scroll through your contacts, wondering if anyone would let you crash at there place which isn’t a long drive away from shawn’s. just as you click your jon’s contact your phone freezes, the sound of your ringtone filling your car and shawn’s face appearing on your screen. a silent groan leaves your lips, letting your phone ring for a few seconds before answering. “what?” bitterness running through your harsh voice.

you hear sniffles and choked sobs on the other side of the line, worrying you slightly. you can hear shawn trying to choke out your name but he just erupts into loud sobs. “shawn? what’s wrong?” you’re already opening your car door, locking it just after you slam the door shut. “you were right.” is all he can get out before breaking down again. “p-please come back.” you’re already jogging up the stairs to his condo, knowing he’s going through anxiety attack. 

he normally gets a form of separation anxiety when he argues with someone he cares for and they are apart. “i’m coming now baby.” he hangs up the phone, knowing you’d be bursting through the door in a matter of seconds… and you did. 

you drop your bag and follow the sounds of his deep breaths and muffled cries, only to see your boyfriend curled up on his bed, arms wrapped himself. “oh baby.” you gasp to yourself, sitting on the edge of his bed and staring into his honeycomb eyes. “just cuddle me… please.” his breathing is shallow and short and you want to control it but you also want to give him what he wants. 

you curl up next to him and spend the night in each other’s arms, ranting about your thoughts and feelings, expressing how you feel about the two of you not spending much time together and agreeing to talk things through instead of letting things turn into an argument. 

Before Now

Previous Chapters: 0. 1. 2.

Originally posted by kdrauhl


I hate how much I’m dreading Christmas dinner with my family and Shawn’s. It’s mostly the Shawn part that I’m dreading. Not the Christmas part or the family part. I tend to overthink things; I always have. At least I have the distraction of helping my mom get everything ready for Christmas dinner, since we’re hosting it this year. By the time I finish setting the dining table for dinner, I’ve managed to convince myself that I really am just making this all seem like a bigger deal than it is. There are going to be so many people here, I probably won’t even have to say more than just hi to Shawn. It also shouldn’t be hard to avoid him because he won’t be dying to try talking to me after what I said to him the last time I saw him.

Shawn’s aunt’s family is the first to show up. I’m relieved. I talk to his cousin about her upcoming wedding, something I actually don’t mind discussing. Now that I’m older, I can talk to them and relate to them more. At this point, I’m looking for any sort of distraction, a way to look busy when Shawn arrives, even if I don’t want to admit it.

I’m mid-sentence when he walks into the living room, and I swear I freeze for a second. I quickly snap out of it. Everyone in the room notices him enter, and apparently, he hasn’t seen his extended family or mine in a long time because everyone is overly excited to see him. He makes his way around the room, greeting everyone. This is something our families have always done. We all greet everyone with hugs, making sure to say hello and goodbye to each and every person. It isn’t weird for him to make his way around, Aaliyah is now following behind him to say hi to everyone too. I haven’t seen their parents yet, but they’re probably around somewhere.

Keep reading

O, Brawling Love: Part One

a/n: In which someone is lost and someone is found.

Y’ALL. I can’t believe this is really happening. That I wrote almost 3.3K for a first part of a new series. I also can’t believe that I’m actually writing a Fairy!Prince!Shawn AU. It sounds insane, but I totally lost myself in this. I’m so fucking in love with this, but I’m also so fucking scared. I love all of you so much and savor your feedback so keep it coming! I accept all forms (likes, reblogs, comments, tags, etc), so whatever your preferred method, it’s alright with me. 

warnings: death (aftermath)

Originally posted by myrkvidrs

Silence hung in the air of the forest, betraying the carnage that surrounded him. The sweet, rusty smell of death filled his nose as he desperately tried to pay attention to anything other than the lifeless form in front of him—the lifeless form that spilled his same, shared blood into the soil at his feet. Andrew, the crown prince of Faerie, his brother, was dead.

Shawn’s knees sank into the soft earth as he leaned forward and pulled his brother’s head into his lap. Soft pitter-patters sounded off the metal plating of his chainmail, a steady rhythm of sorrowful tears dripping from his face. He gently pushed a lock of hair from Andrew’s forehead and slid his eyes shut, putting him to eternal sleep. The death lilies were already sprouting from the ground underneath him, the magic of the land remembering its brightest son.

“Your Highness…” a voice cut through his grief, pausing in reverence, “Shawn, we have to move him.” It was Brian, his best friend.

Blinking tears from his eyes, he collected himself, inhaling a ragged breath that burned his lungs. He looked around, the sound that shock had silenced rushing back to him. Suddenly, it was loud, the post-battle noise deafening in his ears. He looked up at Brian, trying and failing to collect himself, deep sorrow choking the words from his lungs as he struggled for breath. He had to stand up. He had to take his brother home.

“Brian, send a swallow to my father,” he said with more authority than he felt, rising to his feet, “tell him that we won the battle but at great personal loss.” He took a deep cleansing breath, at once shedding the skin of the second son he was born and trying on the air of a prince born to rule. In the chaos, no one noticed his momentary identity crisis. His distress could only be momentary, he had to show his people that he was capable of leading them, of fighting for them, of sacrificing his life like his brother had in the name of his family and theirs.

Shawn grazed the tree in front of him with his fingers, summoning its power. He felt its roots roil beneath him, cracking and sprouting from the ground to cradle his brother. The makeshift stretcher hovered above the ground, lilies continuing to sprout from the tree’s hardened bark. Life, like death, couldn’t be controlled. As Andrew’s body was loaded into a draped cart for the long trek back to his father’s sprawling sanctuary, deep in Faerie’s most dangerous Dark Wood, Shawn braced himself and walked to the front of the caravan of hundreds of faeries, male and female alike, wounded but victorious, unsure of what the future might hold.

“Kindred!” he yelled above the soft din of moving metal and flesh, steeling himself for this speech he never dreamed of giving. The forest went quiet—not even the trees were breathing. They waited for him to speak, to succeed or to fail.

“My brother is dead,” he paused to give the moment weight, stilling the tremble in his voice; “we won an important battle today against our foes, the Banished whose names I will not utter, but we lost a beloved star. He gave his life for me and for each and every one of you, and because of his sacrifice, we will live to fight another day. This war is not over.” Shawn exhaled, shifting his tone, trying his best to sound like something was gained and not irrevocably lost.

“Now, we return home victorious. We lift our heads high. We regroup united. We will burn my brother’s body with sacred kindling and his memory will live everlasting in the fabric of our people, a hero and a rally cry!” He beat his fist against his chest once and five-hundred fists beat back at once, a deep, metallic echo amongst the trees. He bowed his head and together, five-hundred voices sounding like five-thousand, they cried “mennai métim’ andúnë!

Mennai métim’ andúnë,” he whispered, more to himself than for anyone else to hear. Until the last evening. Andrew’s last evening had come too soon and too unexpectedly. A skirmish in the thin wood should not have resulted in the death of a crown prince, but Shawn knew better than to assume that the Banished had any sense of propriety. They cut his brother down instead of taking him for ransom to send a message, and if they were going to show no mercy, then neither would he.

A hard day’s ride later, the conquering procession returned to the Dark Wood. As Shawn dismounted from his horse, he saw his mother and father waiting for the body of their son. He started toward them, but seeing the look on his father’s face, despair hidden underneath smooth glass, he turned, instead slipping away to his quarters without a word to anyone. He would not fall victim to his father’s impending rage. On the outside, King Manuel of the Dark Wood was a good-natured, but fierce, warrior king who celebrated death and sacrifice as heartily as he celebrated life and bounty.

Up, up, up, Shawn climbed the winding stairs carved into the tallest tree at the heart of the wood. Pushing open the door to his haven from the world, he breathed a sigh of relief, the fatigue settling into his bones. The walls were made of loosely woven branches, moss and lichen curtains hanging from the ceiling. Aside from a small collection of scimitars, his weapon of choice, the room was spartan. He wasn’t here often enough for this place to feel lived in. Crossing to the small tub on the other side of the room, he intended to finally wash the battle and the blood of his brother off of him, but his reflection caught his eye.

He walked to the mirror, not really recognizing the figure staring back at him. Sure, he looked the same. His eyes were still hazel, mostly brown with the iridescent, glittering green flecks that were the mark of his family, and lined with smudged kohl from the yesterday’s battle. He reached up and touched his cheek and the reflection did the same, both smearing green, swirling war paint that had begun to run down his cheeks, from sweat or tears he wasn’t sure. His fingers continued to explore his face, trying to find what had changed, eyes darting toward his ears. One was blunted, the tip having been cut off years ago after a lost battle and a period in captivity, a source of great shame for him. But all of it was the same. The reflection betrayed no physical source of difference, but something was there, deep inside of him that felt obviously, and yet invisibly different.

He ran his hands roughly through his hair, fingers catching in the blood-matted curls, stained a dark chocolate. The moment he had stood up and set his grief aside—the moment he had declared his brother dead—a part of him had died. It wasn’t the part of him that had loved his brother, it was the part of him that was content being the second son. He had never wanted to be the crown prince. That was Andrew’s job, his destiny. His brother had been made for it, had trained for it. While Shawn was riding horses and practicing archery, Andrew had studied, had worn the burden of his future crown well and their father had loved him for it. There wasn’t enough time for Shawn to lament the carefree, whimsical part of himself that was now buried underneath his brother’s death lilies. He would have to settle for washing it away.

A flitting buzz filled his ears. He turned and watched three pixies, tiny but deceptively strong creatures, zoom around his room with buckets of steaming water. They filled his wash basin and infused the water with rose petals and different musky oils. His father would have instructed them to clean him up and prepare him for tonight.

Instead of grieving, the king would have a party. Shawn had known this would happen before he even arrived back in the Dark Wood. It would be a wild affair, dampened by Andrew’s loss, but his people were warriors. Death did not supercede victory. They would burn his brother’s body and then they would feast and dance, energized by the spirit of the sacrifice. Shawn had always seen it as a macabre affair, but that meant little to the king. To him, it was their way of life. The only way of life.

He undressed and slipped into the hot water, groaning when it hit his sore muscles. He scrubbed, feeling the grit, the gruesome mixture of dirt, sweat, and blood, leave his skin. By the time he was done, the water was cold and stained red. He sat there a little while longer, chin against his knees, until his fingers pruned and he felt waterlogged, but he prefered it to getting out and facing his fate.

Suddenly, his door burst open and Brian waltzed through.

“Please tell me you are deceiving me with magic and you are not still in the bath?” Shawn rolled his eyes, finally getting out of the water and stepping over to his modest wardrobe. As he dressed, he looked over to his friend, clearly annoyed, “Brian, I do not need a babysitter. You can head to the party without me.”

“You really think I am not going to walk in with my best friend, our new crown prince? Do you know me at all?” he said, checking his appearance in the mirror, making sure his red hair was spiked in every possible direction and smoothing his jacket. He was wearing a shockingly purple doublet with multicolored tulips embroidered all over it, a loud choice for the loudest being in any room. Shawn, on the other hand, had opted for sensible, demure black with subtle gold stitching in ancient tribal designs that represented his family. He chuckled and rolled his eyes at his friend’s primping, “you can use all the pixie spit in the world, but your hair is never going to look as good as mine.”

Shawn shoved Brian out of the way and tousled his curls before placing a simple crown of baby’s breath on his head. The crown felt more like a shield than his actual armor. When he put it on, it helped him stand straighter and feel more like the man his father expected him to be. The prince he was born to be. The king he would have to be one day now that his brother had departed.

“Are you done, princess?” Brian cackled at the door, “let’s go! We must send your brother off in style, it is what he would have wanted!” Shawn knew he was right. Andrew was the spitting image of his father. He lived a life of duty and honor and he loved being a warrior and all that it entailed. If Shawn were honest with himself, he knew that his brother would be upset with him over the way he was taking this death. Dead warriors deserve a bacchanal, he would say, as he tipped back the last of his third bottle of wine. He studied his reflection, setting his jaw and nodding his head one last time, putting the second son to bed. He turned his head away from the mirror and smirked at Brian, a devilish glint in his eye.

“Come now,” Shawn rushed at him and pulled him out of the door by the arm, “my brother awaits the dust!” They rushed down from Shawn’s sanctuary on high and descended into the depths of certain hell.

The Dark Wood Kingdom was built around a central clearing at the foot of a massive tree, the Tree of Adar—the tree of our ancestors. It was the forest’s oldest and most sacred tree with winding, angry roots that reached beneath the soil, tangled and connected with every tree around it. Tonight, its roots were decorated with twinkling lights and lanterns, illuminating the wood almost brighter than the sun at midday. Pixies and gnomes milled about, crawling and flitting about the nooks and crannies of the trees, while their tall faerie cousins chattered around the centerpiece of the evening’s festivities.

In the middle of the clearing stood a pyre. Andrew’s lifeless body laid atop the pile of dry branches dressed in a spotless white linen robe and Shawn’s father, his face in shadow, stood at the base, looking up. He knew better than to think King Manuel of the Dark Wood would cry in front of all of his subjects, but it was the closest thing to pure emotion Shawn thought he had ever seen from him. The king, like Shawn, wore black and gold, the royal colors of their house, but unlike Shawn, the gold so overtook the king’s long robe that it was difficult to look at him for too long. When Shawn finally joined his mother, her long blonde hair and solid gold tiara a stark contrast to her solid black bodice and skirt, silence settled on the clearing.

“KINDRED,” the king boomed, drawing the attention of even the feeble-minded pixies, all of them leaning in to listen, “tonight, we gather to feast our victory!” He paused for cheers, waving a meaty fist in the air as if his own hand had crushed Banished heads. “Alas, to achieve this victory, we have paid a heavy price. Your crown prince, my beloved Andrew, is dead. He was our most passionate champion. His last evening has come, but we still look to toward the dawn. He passes the torch to his brother,” he motioned to Shawn, “who will carry it with just as much dignity, and twice the zeal.” A great roar rose from the crowd as Shawn waved at them all, feeling the dread slowly creep in. His father set him with a look, hidden from the crowd, that all but shouted his true feelings at him, I wish you had died and he had lived.

“Shawn!” he cried, loud enough for the entire crowd to hear, “my first request is not from father to son, but from king to newly appointed general.” Shawn braced himself, knowing what was about to happen, what his father was about to ask him to do. He wasn’t sure if it was a challenge or simply because he couldn’t bare to do it himself, but it didn’t stop the air from leaving his lungs in a rush when the command came from the king’s mouth, “send my son to dust!

It took all the strength Shawn had to walk over to the base of the pyre. He laid both hands on some of the lower branches and summoned power from the earth through his feet. The heat traveled up his legs, elemental strength roiling in his belly, and up around his head. He could smell the baby’s breath in his crown singeing, knowing all he had to do was force the energy through his hands, but he was hesitating. His body started to shake with exertion, his face flushed and red hot to the touch. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes, allowing one tear to roll down his cheeks. It evaporated off of his fiery skin as he whispered, one last time, “mennai métim’ andúnë.”

Flames rushed through his fingertips, lighting the pyre with such violence that the ground shook beneath his feet. The crowd rejoiced, a thunderous chorus of voices beating against his eardrums. Music started from somewhere high above him and all around his people began to dance. His brother’s spirit would swirl around the festivities for hours to come. Shawn could already feel its power in his weary bones. He looked to his mother, her cheeks shining with tears. Whether they were for him or for his brother or both, he couldn’t be sure, but he was sure that the look of deep sorrow in her eyes could only be a reflection of his own.

“Well,” his father walked over, clapping a hand on Shawn’s shoulder, “I wasn’t sure if you could do it. I’m proud of you.” Shawn grimaced, unsure of how to respond, until a creeping thought rose up in the back of his mind, something was missing.

“Father, where is Aaliyah?” he asked, kicking himself for not thinking of his sister earlier. The king’s eyes darkened, an anger Shawn didn’t understand creeping into the corners. “Your sister is on her way home from the Green Wood. She was training there. We sent her a swallow, but she refused to be here for your brother’s burning.”

Good for her, Shawn thought, making a mental note to give his sister something special for standing up to their father. “I’m sure she has her reasons,” Shawn said, non-committal, “you know how she feels about her training and about traditions she thinks are silly.” Manuel made a disapproving tutting noise and looked off into the distance.

“Go now,” he commanded, “tomorrow starts your education. You have much to learn before you can really call yourself crown prince.” In just a sentence, Shawn felt low again. It was amazing how quickly his father could pull the ground out from under his feet. He stumbled away, determined to find Brian and a bottle of faerie wine.

Brian was, predictably, very near the faerie wine stores. Grabbing a bottle, Shawn slung his arm around his best friend’s neck, “well, I’m glad that is over.”

“Highness, you were m-majes-stic,” Brian slurred, already flushed and stupid, “I can only hope to ever one d-day be as majestic as you.” Shawn laughed heartily for the first time in days, tilting his head toward his best friend, and gave him a peck on the temple, “that’s impossible, Brian, because one day you’ll be calling me your majesty.”

Listening to himself, he quickly took a long pull from his wine bottle, expelling the thought. He was determined to enjoy himself tonight and not think of all the coming days of training and studying and catching up. How could he possibly think about being the heir when he had so enjoyed being the spare?

On his second bottle of wine, Shawn began to dance. He moved lithely around the funeral pyre, swaying to the intoxicating music. It was a band of banshees singing, their melodies at once haunting and passionate. He could feel the fire radiating off of Andrew’s monument, but the heat in his body was also building. The wine and the heat and the dancing bodies were a heady mixture. His head clouded with the sensation of the movement, the feel of the hot breeze on his skin, the smell of the scorched earth, the sweet taste of the wine fresh on his tastebuds, the sound of delicious harmony slowly seducing his senses. He closed his eyes, depriving himself of sight, proving he could be in control, that the moment had not completely overwhelmed him.

Without his eyes, Shawn never saw the girl dancing toward him, never watched the way the flowers in her braided hair floated on the wind. He never saw her whisper to her friends and nod in his direction, giggling at his drunken, spastic movements. He never saw her being pushed toward him, a pixie spinning her body out of control. He could never have predicted the ways in which this faerie girl, in her flowing blush pink gown with cheeks to match, would change everything, would dismantle his life in ways not even he could imagine.

Until she spun right into his chest and knocked the crown right off his head.

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