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levirens · 5 years ago

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[fanfic] of flavoured names and coloured sounds (chapter 2 of 2)

Summary: "He doesn’t question it at first, the fact that sounds have colours and words have flavours. He grows up with it, grows up seeing powerful ruptures of colour when his mother plays the piano and softer, translucent bursts when the people around him speak. His father’s voice fills his vision with sombre oranges and lilacs while his mother’s is a pleasant mix of delicate greens, blues, and greys. The word father tastes like wet wood and the word mother tastes like the pumpkin juice the house-elves frequently serve him."

In which Draco just wants to know what colour Hermione's moans would be. He also wants to know if her skin would taste as sweet as her surname or maybe as intoxicating as her given name.

LINKS

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23567740/chapters/56541799 FFN: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13547597/1/of-flavoured-names-and-coloured-sounds

CHAPTER 2

Potter’s following him around. He had thought that maybe breaking the bloke’s nose and leaving him hidden under his own invisibility cloak would get rid of the nosy scarhead, but that had been a mistake on his part. Now he feels the other wizard’s eyes constantly on him, and if he had the same energy as last year, he would have teased Potter for having a crush on him. Unfortunately, the world looks substantially bleaker now, with his condition significantly impaired, and so he doubts that he would still find pleasure in his old shenanigans.

He concedes that nothing would look cheery when one has a skull branded onto their skin, directly connected to a megalomaniac hellbent on killing one of your classmates. Even the sweetness of the word cheery tastes like ash in his mouth these days, and he can no longer tell if what he’s tasting on his tongue from thinking of the word megalomaniac is the flavour of a kiwi or that of a pear.

Pansy seems to have recovered from their messy break up, shifting from pointedly ignoring him to constantly hovering around him and acting like a worried girlfriend. It especially annoys him as her voice produces some of the most monotonous hues he’s ever seen coming from one person, her only contender for the crown being his godfather and the former Durmstrang headmaster turned fugitive.

The great hall, previously a place where he would often get lost drowning in the seas of flashing colours, now looks like it is littered with gossamers of barely-there pigments. From where he’s sitting, he can see Granger and her two wanker friends whispering to each other. She’s arguing with them (real shocker that is) and he can see a look of irritation on her face being directed at Potter. He almost smiles at this, but then her eyes suddenly flit to meet his and, stupidly enough, he feels himself freeze at the contact.

She must realise that he’s been watching them, because she raises one eyebrow at him and doesn’t stop staring until the plates are magically being cleared from the table, even when he finally breaks from the intensity of her gaze and looks away first.

He knows this because every time he looks to check if she’s no longer staring at him, their eyes would meet before his would snap away to look back down at his mutilated food. It’s odd, not to mention stressful, because what he needs right now is for people like Potter and Pansy and Hermione Granger to leave him alone.

He has a mission that’s doomed to fail, after all, and he would rather stumble through that without those three constantly monitoring him.

Legilimens tastes like strawberry profiteroles and Occlumens tastes like Arabic coffee—they’re flavour he finds odd to associate with his godfather as he can’t imagine the man enjoying pastries and drinking anything other than unsweetened tea.

“I see your Aunt has taught you Occlumency,” Snape finally says, having spent the last three minutes trying to break into Draco’s mind. “Whatever it is you’re trying to achieve, Draco, trust that I am capable of helping—,” he begins to offer, but Draco cuts him off.

“I don’t need your help,” he grits out. “I was chosen for this. He trusts me to do this.” It’s a lie that he keeps telling himself, but Occlumency doesn’t work on one’s own mind and he can only pretend to believe the sham for so long—he knows that this task had been placed upon his shoulders as punishment for each and every one of his father’s failures, hand delivered by the Dark Lord himself, complete with the Dark Mark and a lovely death threat.

Suddenly, the older wizard begins throwing silencing charms all over the classroom, his tunnel-like eyes never once leaving Draco. “Do you even have the slightest idea how to cast any of the Unforgivables?”

Draco inwardly cringes. He had witnessed the Dark Lord performing all those spells, watched as subdued shades of navy blue intermingled with the green and red lights of the curses. Avada Kedavra had tasted like burnt meringue, the flavour not unlike that of Harry Potter’s combined name. Hearing the Dark Lord torture someone with repeated incantations of Crucio had assaulted his tongue with the taste of melting ice, more of a sensation that an actual flavour. Imperio, as he had come to learn, tastes like the air after a period of rain.

His mind had reeled at how innocent these curses had tasted on his tongue, when he could not even attempt to cast the Patronus charm, the purest of the spells in his opinion, as the incantation brought about a disagreeable fishy flavour. Expelliarmus he could manage quite easily, disarming people all the while savouring the taste of lemon sherbet on his taste buds.

“Can you conjure the Dark Mark, Draco?” Snape continues, either oblivious or uncaring that Draco had gone and retreated into his own mind. “Do you even know the incantation?”

“Morsmordre,” he easily answers, but his voice is barely above a whisper. He prays he never has to cast that spell as he does not particularly like the taste of rust on his tongue. When Snape does not respond to that, Draco turns away and begins to head out of the room, shoving the door open and fleeing from his godfather before the man can further prove to him how unfit he is to take on the role of a Death Eater.

Petrichor. It’s the name of the taste on his tongue as he leaves the Three Broomsticks, fake galleons tightly clutched in one hand and the feeling of guilt clawing at his heart.

(Upon inspection, he admits to himself and to himself only that the guilt wasn’t so much over what he had done to Rosmerta, but more because of the fact that he had stolen Granger’s ideas and used them for his own twisted needs.)

“Why are you slacking off on school-work?”

His physical desire to be with her is still surprisingly there, but he had demanded from the Head Boy that he change his patrol partner to no avail. Draco suspects that the Slytherin is aware that the Malfoy family is not in such a good place, as even the mention of his father could not change the mind of the older student.

“Leave it, Granger. It’s none of your business what I do.”

“It’s just curious, is all,” she continues, as if she hadn’t heard a word that he said. “Last year you spent four hours working on one Transfiguration homework, and now you’ve already missed two. Makes one wonder, what had happened over the summer that would warrant such a change—”

The minute his hands wrap around her shoulders, he regrets it, but not enough to stop himself from pushing her against a wall and invading her personal space. There’s an inch or two of space separating their faces, and he can barely stop himself from getting lost in the sea of her freckles. “I said leave it, you filthy Mud—”

“What’s so different about you now that you’d even pay someone to take your place in the Slytherin quidditch team?”

When she speaks, her breath hits him and overwhelms him with the scent of spearmint, presumably from her toothpaste. It washes out the dirty word that he had almost used on her, and before he can stop himself, he’s groaning in response to the stimulus. It startles the both of them, and he can imagine that the blush currently riding high on her cheeks is identical to the one staining his.

He pushes away from her, striding back the direction they came from and cutting the patrol short. He decides then and there that if he has to quit being a prefect to be away from her, he’ll do it.

The following week he has to listen to her describe her love potion. Amortentia, the word, tastes like overly ripe mangoes, just a good day or two away from rotting. He can’t even muster enough energy to be angry at the fact that he catches a whiff of spearmint, vanilla, coconut, and green apples when he passes by the blasted cauldron.

His tongue feels cold, but before he can cast the spell, the one that leaves Potter’s mouth replaces the ice with the slight heat of cumin. It’s a spell that he’s not familiar with, but when it hits him, he feels the gashes opening up on his skin as he falls to the bathroom floor.

It’s a queer feeling, being aware of one’s own approaching death. At first it fills him with a sense of dread, panic at the thought that everything ends there, but then as the blood drains out of his clothes to stain the tiles he’s lying helpless on, it takes with it all the regret, the hope, leaving him feeling numb as his life slips from his fingers.

His eyelids close, his ears barely pick up the sound of hurried footsteps, of someone crying beside him, and his tongue tells him that Vulnera tastes like red grapes and Sanentur tastes like sulphur.

He doesn’t know how she does it, but she sneaks in to the infirmary in the middle of the night and proceeds to spend ten minutes just standing by his bed, arms crossed over her chest, lips set into an angry line, and eyes glassy with unshed tears.

“Crying for me now?” he asks, voice rough from disuse. “Save it for someone who matters.”

“He didn’t mean to do it,” she whispers back, sinking onto the chair beside his bed. “He wasn’t trying to kill you.”

“I don’t care what he was trying to do, I was trying to kill him.” The lie comes easily enough, what with the Occlumency walls and the fact that he honestly doesn’t have a clear idea what he had been trying to do.

Hermione doesn’t say anything, just keeps staring, but the tears don’t fall from her eyes and he’s grateful for that. He wants to remind her that he’s the bad guy in her story, the same bloke who had looked at her like she was beneath him simply because her parents weren’t magical. One successful paired homework and a couple of times spent sharing a library table shouldn’t change that, shouldn’t erase what he was and what he is.

He almost wants to show her his Dark Mark just so she’d stop trying to act like he’s still got a soul hiding somewhere inside his body.

“You should sleep,” she finally says, after a long moment of just staring at each other. “Merlin knows you need it.” With that she rises from her seat, walking away from him. He panics at the sight, his mouth opening before his brain can register what he’s about to do.

“Don’t come back here, Granger,” he tells her. When she pauses her stride but doesn’t turn to look back at him, he clarifies, “Don’t come back to Hogwarts.”

The word tastes like burnt meringue on his tongue, but he can’t bring himself to say it. Instead, he finds himself talking, telling the old man everything that he’s done during the year, as if he would vomit if he stopped talking. He calls her a mudblood for appearance’s sake and actually laughs when Dumbledore asks him to not use that word in front of him.

Defenceless tastes like biting the rind of a citrus, bitter and unappealing. It’s a word that certainly does not suit the greatest wizard of modern times.

The promise of safety is a jumble of salty and bitter words, one in particular tasting like sardines and another like freshy harvested caviar. He rambles, lowers his wand, then the others rush in to bare witness to his incapability of becoming a murderer.

Albus Dumbledore’s wine-coloured pleas are answered by Snape’s sweet and smoky spell.

He quickly becomes intimate with the sensation of melting ice on his tongue. It’s when he spends most of the day torturing people that he feels the slightest bit thankful for his impaired condition.

It’s when he watches his deranged aunt torture her that he yearns the most for the colours to come back, to obstruct his vision so it would be filled with explosions of orange and teal and he won’t have to look her in the eye and face her judgment. He would much rather take the cold numbing his tongue than to look at her lying near lifeless on the ground.

Working as a double agent is beyond exhausting, but he’d sooner get killed than do nothing and allow the Dark Lord to win this war. It’s been three months since he had demanded from his godfather that he take him to the other side, for Severus to make him a spy not unlike the older man. For a moment, they had seized each other up, the both of them waiting for the other to turn out as a cleverly placed decoy to sniff out traitors amongst their ranks.

It’s been three months since he’s been allowed free passage into 12 Grimmauld Place, three months since his godfather had told him everything he needed to know in order to be allowed into the ranks of the Order, three months since he was stunned then questioned by Mad-Eye Moody while under a powerful dose of Veritaserum, unable to use Occlumency to counter the effects of the potion, and three months since Remus Lupin introduced him to the rest of the Order as their new spy.

Draco had tried to explain to Kingsley, Moody, and Lupin that Severus had been acting under Dumbledore’s commands, but the three of them had insisted that even if it were true, it would be too risky for Snape to keep working with them. Still, the clarification on what had truly happened that night at the Astronomy tower proves useful in that they relax just enough to start using the safehouse again.

He doesn’t see Potter even once during those three months, and he doesn’t try to ask them about his whereabouts. The less he knows about the Order’s plans, the better. He does, however, see the ginger weasel on occasion, and he does his best to not hex the bloke on sight.

It’s difficult, but he manages.

The concealment charm is just wearing off as he enters the house, closing the door behind him, when he hears and sees them; the sound of a piano playing invades his ears and colours his vision. The sound doesn’t come together to form music, just random notes here and there as if the person playing them is just testing out the keys. Still, it’s been too long since he’s last heard music and last seen the colours dancing in his vision, as neither he nor his mother have found much reason to touch the grand piano in the manor after he took the Dark Mark.

(It is, after all, quite difficult to indulge in music when Death Eaters are torturing and raping people just down the hall.)

He follows the sound further into the house and finds Hermione Granger sitting in front of the rusty piano. She looks up upon his entrance, her finger hovering over one of the keys, then their eyes meet. Draco mentally prepares a speech declaring himself their ally, but she surprises him by smiling.

“Hello, Draco. I was told I’d see you here,” she says, her voice causing the familiar pinks to flash before him. There’s a pang in his chest when he sees how translucent they are, barely there, and he regrets not enjoying the sights when he had the privilege to. “I must say, I was glad when they told me you defected, but I wasn’t exactly surprised.”

“Why’s that?” he asks, genuinely confused by her declaration. He moves towards her, placing a finger on the piano and swiping at the dust that had accumulated there. He reaches for his wand and performs a quick scourgify, moving to sit beside her. He sits on the very edge of the wooden bench, keeping as large as a distance between them as it would allow. He’s surprised she doesn’t jump up and slap him across the face for daring to sit next to her.

“You did save me that night, and you didn’t kill Dumbledore,” she says, a smirk playing on her lips and a knowing look in her eyes. She gestures to the piano and asks, “Do you know how to play?”

He’s slightly taken aback by the sudden change in topic, but he doesn’t show her his surprise, nodding his head in affirmation. “Do you?”

“No. You should play; I’d love to hear it.”

He should really be asking her where the others are, preferably Lupin as he has information to relay to them, but his hands rise and then his fingers are tentatively pressing down on a few keys. The colours instantly return, and with that he feels a surge of confidence that has him transitioning from hesitant strokes of the keys to the beginning notes of one of his favourite pieces. He plays for a while, closing his eyes and enjoying the dance of the colours behind his lids, and when he opens them again they seek her out as if on instinct.

The look in her eyes as they meet his has him cutting off the music, his fingers lifting from the keys mid stroke. The silence that fills the room as the last vibrations from the piano fizzle out is awkward, to say the least, and he finds himself wracking his mind for something to say.

She beats him to it by declaring, “I didn’t know you listened to muggle classical music. That was Chopin, wasn’t it?”

He nods, still unable to tear his gaze away from her. The words that stumble out of his mouth make it out of their confines purely on accident, only because he’s lost in the colour of her eyes—honey, harvested during the late summer. “His pieces have the prettiest colours.”

Confusion settles on her features and he wishes he could take it back, wishes he could fulfil his promise to his mother that he would never tell anyone about this but then again, he has broken more promises than he can remember, some that had been more detrimental to their well-being than admitting to someone that he sees coloured sounds and tastes flavoured names. Her eyebrows are furrowed, and he can barely stop himself from reaching out to smooth away her frown.

“What do you mean, they have the prettiest colours? Do you have synaesthesia?”

He’s already opening his mouth to explain but then her words register to him and he blurts out, “What? Do I have what?”

“Synaesthesia, from the Greek words sún meaning “with” and aísthēsis meaning “sensation”, is a condition wherein the synesthete, a term for a person who has the condition, is able to process data in the form of several senses all at once,” she explains, and he’s instantly taken back to their classes at Hogwarts, when her hand would shot up and she would then proceed to unload a verbal vomit of information unto all of them. “For example, some people can see colours when they hear music, or they can taste certain words. It’s a very rare condition, and most people who have it go on to become artists or writers.”

She must mistake his astounded expression as a response to her vast knowledge on the topic because she blushes and looks away. Draco, on the other hand, is experiencing something akin to euphoria. He has never heard anyone describe his little “talent” so accurately, sod it, he has never heard anyone describe it, period. In hindsight, he thinks he shouldn’t be so surprised that Hermione Granger, swottiest of swots, would know that something like this exists. That someone like him exists.

“It’s a muggle thing, then? I’ve never heard of anyone else in the wizarding community talk about something like this, and I’ve tried to research about it but nothing ever came up in my readings,” he tells her, staring at the colours his voice makes.

“I honestly don’t know,” she admits, looking back towards him and appearing somewhat sheepish, as if her not knowing everything is something to be embarrassed about. “What do you see?”

“I taste words and names. Everything has a flavour associated with them. I see bursts of colours when I hear music, and I see fainter, more translucent colours when people speak.”

“Words have colour, too? Right now, you’re seeing colours as we speak?”

“It’s not really the words that are coloured, it’s the notes that people produce when they talk,” he elaborates. Running a hand through his hair, he decides to reveal some more information to her, information that he had thought he would carry to the grave with him. “When you speak, you make pastel colours, mostly pinks and blue. They used to be so harsh and bright when we were younger, used to give me headaches every time you opened your mouth in class.”

“Is that why you hated me so much?”

He feels guilty in an instant, remembering all the things he said to her back then. “That was one thing, it was another thing that I’ve been told my whole life that muggle-borns don’t have a place in our world, but obviously you made me question that by besting me in everything except flying a broom.”

She laughs, a quiet one, but it makes him realise that she’s one of those rare people who have musical laughter. “What does my name taste like?”

Draco draws in a quick breath, quickly looking away from her searching eyes. He begins to question what he’s doing, sitting beside her, playing music for her, telling her the one thing he has never voluntarily told anyone else, lusting after her, wanting her.

(Falling for her.)

“Hermione tastes like Sauvignon Blanc and Granger tastes like green apples,” he lets out in one breath, overcome by a misplaced need to be honest with her in that moment. Before she can make a comment, before she can do something like reveal to him that she had somehow known his bias for green apples, he rushes to add, “I can’t taste it anymore as well as I used to, and the colours aren’t as vivid as they were before the Dark Mark. It dulled everything.”

He looks away from her, resolutely staring at the piano in front of him and wishing that someone would walk into the safehouse and put an end to this bizarre interaction. Talking to her has been the only good thing that has happened to him in months, maybe in years, but he’s overwhelmed by her and by his need for proximity. It’s ridiculous, wanting someone you had actively tormented for two years, wanting someone you had watched get tortured by your crazed aunt while you stood by and did nothing.

“Does it interfere with your vision, the colours?”

He frowns, turning his head to look back at her. “When there’s too many people talking, it used to throw me off a bit, but not ever since I got the mark.”

She looks pensive, her eyes unfocused before they look up to meet his confused gaze. “After this, what are you going to do about your aim?”

“Pardon?”

“The Dark Mark, it would fade once Voldemort’s dead,” she says, gesturing to his arm. “I can only assume that when that happens, the effects of the mark on your synaesthesia would also disappear or won’t be as potent as it is right now.”

He feels his chest tighten at what she’s building up to, feels something like hope blossoming there. It’s an emotion that he has almost entirely forgotten, and he’s not certain that he should be allowing her to fill him with such a thing when he had only planned to swing by and give information then be back out again in less than thirty minutes—

“What are you going to do when we defeat him, Draco?”

Severus knows what he’s doing or, at least, knows what potion he’s about to attempt to make. The man takes one good look at the ingredients laid out on the table, one good look at Draco, then wandlessly summons a quill and a piece of parchment. As his godfather writes, Draco begins the preparations for the brewing process, double and triple checking that he has everything he needs.

When he’s finished writing, Severus hands over the piece of parchment and leaves the hidden cottage without uttering a single word. When he peers down at it, he realises the man had just given him something that he would treasure for the rest of his inevitably short life.

There, in his trembling hands, are the potion master’s notes on how to successfully brew the concoction without ending up with a few missing limbs. The word Ashwinder tastes like coriander, squill bulb tastes like a combination of mayonnaise and strawberries, Occamy tastes like dried up carrots, and Murtlap tastes like the back of one’s hand.

He comes by again, nearly a month after his last visit, and this time Remus is there to receive the information.

Granger sits in the meeting, inviting herself into the table with a tray of tea for the three of them. He’s the only one with a cup that has a coaster and Remus eyes it with a smirk on his tired face. Hermione sits beside him, self-inking quill in one hand, parchment in front of her, and gives him an expectant look that he takes as his cue to start.

It takes him twenty-three minutes to finish relaying every detail he’d been able to cram into his head from the meetings he had attended, every drunken whisper, every careless slip of the tongue, he had shoved into a corner of his brain only to purge it all out right onto her messy notes.

His old DADA professor nods at him, tells him he should stay and finish his tea, then the older man is pushing away from the table and leaving the two of them alone in the old house. He performs a quick warming charm on his tea, taking in the decaying wood of the table while she worked on tidying up her notes. Once she’s done, she looks up at him and he takes the liberty of warming up her tea for her.

“Thank you,” she says, reaching for her cup and bringing it to her lips. “It’s already horrid enough when it’s hot, it’s just plain unacceptable when it’s lukewarm.”

He only nods. He doesn’t tell her it’s the best tea he’s had in nearly a month solely because she’s the person he’s enjoying it with. Not even the most expensive tea in the world would taste good when you have to drink it in the presence of other Death Eaters.

“The last time I saw you, you looked like you hadn’t slept in two weeks. That was two years ago and you still look like you haven’t slept a wink.”

Draco raises an eyebrow at this, gulping down a mouthful of the herbal tea concoction before answering, “The last time I saw you, you were being tortured by my crazed aunt with a spell that makes me feel like I’ve put a cube of ice on my tongue to melt. That was roughly a year ago and you didn’t look quite so good yourself then, Granger.”

“I was actually referring to that night in the infirmary.”

He rolls his eyes at her, plucking the parchment from her fingers and reading over her notes. “I know what you were referring to. It wasn’t the last time you saw me.”

“You’re right, I saw you last month, so I guess we’re both recalling our last meeting all wrong.”

He looks at her, watches her raise her drink to her lips to hide her smile. There’s mirth in her eyes and he’s almost foolish enough to think that she’s flirting with him, but he quickly kills the thought, crushes it underneath his dragonhide shoes and fires a hex at it for good measure.

“It was very nice of you to try and save me again, that night at the infirmary.”

“When will you stop assuming that everything I do is an attempt to save you—”

He’s used to seeing and hearing her cut off people mid-speech, usually talking over them to correct the way they’re saying an incantation or just to tell them that they’re wrong and she’s right. A couple of times, he had seen her walk away from the weasel during an argument, causing the ginger to splutter at her sudden departure.

He can’t recall a time when he’s seen her kiss someone to shut them up, but that’s what she’s doing to him.

Hermione’s lips are warm, probably from the tea, and they’re soft against his own. His eyes had closed from her sudden movement, bracing himself to get a much-deserved punch, and he doesn’t dare open them now. Her lips start to move against his and he answers in earnest, deciding he’ll enjoy it while it lasts and dissect every moment of this later, in the false safety of his own room at the manor. When he feels the tip of her tongue touch his bottom lip, he immediately grants her access, reckless in his need to finally taste whichever part of her that she’s offering.

She’s a clumsy kisser, using far too much force when she bites his bottom lip, and it’s the best kiss he’s ever had. Her tongue tastes like the tea they’ve just shared, with just the slightest hint of spearmint. When she moans, he answers it with a groan of his own, his hands finally moving to cradle her face. He feels her fingers toying with the topmost button of his shirt, popping the first three open and sliding her hands inside to touch the skin of his collar and the base of his neck.

She breaks away from his lips and trails kisses down his neck, starting at the corner of his mouth and ending at the hollow of his throat.

“Your toothpaste, it’s fennel, isn’t it?”

He tries to clear the fog from his brain but her hot breath repeatedly touching the skin of his neck isn’t helping. Somehow, his own fingers have tangled themselves into the mess she calls her hair, and he spends a quiet moment just admiring how surprisingly soft it is to the touch. When he finally gets his mouth to move, the only word he can manage is, “What?”

She lifts her head, moving to place her lips on his once more, speaking against his mouth and letting her breath fan his face. “Fennel toothpaste, it’s what your breath smelled like back in sixth year.”

His mother eyes him from across the table, one hand soundlessly stirring her tea, the other idly playing with her wand. They’re all alone in the dining room, his father having ambled away after finishing off three bites of his breakfast and three glasses of brandy.

“You’ve been busy,” she says, placing the teaspoon aside and taking a sip from her tea. He knows that tone, and that tone paired with the look she’s giving him means nothing but trouble for him.

“Death Eater duties,” he offers, his own tone bordering between sarcastic and bored. Truth be told, he has been busy—busy smuggling information to the Order and busy snogging Granger the moment they’re left alone in that house. It never goes further than hurried, messy kisses, and he tells himself he’s fine with that.

They almost get caught one day, with her sitting on the dinner table and him standing in between her thighs. He doesn’t know how he had somehow missed the sound of the door opening, but then colours float into his vision and he jumps away from her.

She’s hopping off the table, wiping at the residual saliva on her lips, when Weasley walks in along with Tonks. His presence immediately brings back the taste of his name, aggravated by the fact that Granger acknowledges them by saying both their names. Tonks tastes like butter cookies, and it would have paired nicely with the weasel’s milk-tasting name had the milk not been curdled.

It’s a good thing, really, because the taste helps kill the boner he’d been trying to hide.

It’s the first time he sees Potter after the incident at the Manor, and he barely pays attention to the boy wonder and the fact that he looks almost as pale as Draco himself because he’s reaching for Granger’s quill and a scrap of parchment. The people in the room grow quiet as he writes, and he’s thankful that they’re unknowingly helping him focus by not creating unnecessary colours to cloud his vision.

Merlin knows he needs it, the assault on his tongue already distracting enough without the visual part of his condition contributing to the skirmish. He keeps writing, struggling to maintain a straight face as flavours like soap, tripe, and horseradish clash on his taste buds, fitting together as well as mismatched puzzle pieces would.

When he’s done, he hands the paper over to Potter. His eyes search the room, finally landing and getting lost in late summer honey as the man meant to save them all reads over all the information Draco’s been able to gather about the attack to be launched at Hogwarts tomorrow. Tomorrow, Voldemort will know that there’s an informant in their midst, and Draco will confirm it by fighting for the Order. Tomorrow, he’ll dose his mother with felix felicis, the only protection he can grant her when it’s revealed to everyone on the dark side that he’s a traitor.

Tomorrow, both him and Hermione may die, but right now he ignores the sound of Harry Potter’s voice as he relays orders to the people gathered around the table, ignores the green and red colours swimming in his vision, ignores the flavours on his tongue in favour of staring into her eyes for reassurance that he knows he won’t ever find there.

He’s surprised he hasn’t had a seizure yet. He had physically felt it when Voldemort died, the burning on his arm disappearing like a bubble popping out of existence. Also like a bubble, the synaesthesia comes back in full force. It’s like having your hearing muffled by water stuck in your ear, and when the water finally gets dislodged the sound comes back in a rush, only for him it’s the colours and the flavours that crash down on him like a tidal wave.

It knocks him off his feet and he lands on his knees, staring at all the colours bursting in and out of his sight. He can barely see the people all around him, can barely focus on anything as he keeps whispering her name and relishing the full effects of Sauvignon Blanc and green apples on his taste buds.

Someone’s kissing him, and even with the colours blocking his vision with his eyes open and the hues persisting behind his lids with his eyes closed, he knows it’s her. He knows it’s her even though she doesn’t taste like the crappy tea they have at the safehouse, even though she fills his mouth with the taste of blood instead of the natural taste of her tongue.

The colours start to fade as he takes notice of the hush that slowly envelops the grounds. He imagines that they must make quite the sight, Draco Malfoy and Hermione granger all bloodied up and kissing each other, but he can’t bring himself to care.

“You were right,” he whispers against her lips, opening his eyes and staring into pools of late summer honey. “I have to figure out what to do about my aim.”

Granger does not taste like green apples, nor does her skin remind him of an expensive bottle of wine. She tastes like the soap she had used to aggressively scrub out the grime and blood from every inch of her skin, leaving her pink and tender. He understands the almost obsessive way with which she cleans herself—it’s been a week since the war ended but he still wakes up feeling dirty, feeling like he would never get rid of the warm, sticky blood on his hands. He knows she hadn’t killed anyone, unlike him, but she feels dirty all the same.

Her bones are prominent, especially the ones encasing her lungs and her heart, and he takes his time kissing down her ribs to her jutting hipbones. She giggles and it makes him see soft bursts of salmon pink. “I’m ticklish there,” she says, and it makes him see pale yellows, the colour of daffodils. He’s never seen her produce that colour before and he chases after it for a few seconds, enthralled by its appearance.

He tries to keep as quiet as he can, tries his best not to adulterate her colours and her flavours with his own voice. When she had emerged from the bathroom with only a towel wrapped around her body, dripping water everywhere, he had told her in a quiet voice to come closer. He had watched the deep burgundy dance in and out his vision and had decided that he’d much rather see pale pinks and Varathane bleached blues.

Now he’s inching closer to her centre and she’s making breathy little sighs of pleasure, her fingers finding purchase in his still damp hair. He’s doing his utmost best to keep his head as blank as possible, to taste only her on his tongue. She smells like soap down there too, and when he uses his fingers to spread her, he marvels at how pink and wet she is for him.

“Draco.”

Salmon pink flashes behind his closed lids and his favourite chocolate melts on his tongue immediately. He has to kiss her thighs, biting into the soft flesh in an effort to contain himself from tasting that part of her. He doesn’t want to taste chocolates in his mouth, he wants to know what she tastes like without the synaesthesia, so he kisses her thighs and looks up at her. He watches her bite her lower lip, nod at him once, and he knows she understands.

It takes him a moment, but his senses finally calm down enough that his tongue can only detect the faint salt and soap of her thighs. Her hands are still buried in his hair and she begins to tug his face towards her centre. He looks up at her once more, maintaining eye contact when he runs the flat of his tongue over her exposed slit.

They moan almost in unison, both their voices filling his eyes with colours that he hadn’t thought would fit well but surprising compliment each other. She doesn’t taste like Sauvignon Blanc but he thinks he could get drunk all the same. He fucks her with his tongue, watches her bite around her closed fist to keep her moans under control.

She loses the battle when his lips close around her clit and his name comes pouring out of her mouth. He groans against her slick lips, using the flat of his tongue to swipe at her clit and two fingers to fuck her entrance. Her moans grow louder as she nears her release and he’s glad he had put up silencing charms on the room—the rest of the Order still staying in the house would probably appreciate not hearing them having sex.

When she comes, she nearly shouts his name. He pulls back and sheaths himself inside of her with one push, gripping her hips and feeling her walls fluttering all around his cock. He doesn’t move an inch, feelings the muscles in his stomach tightening from the effort it’s taking him to hold back from fucking her into the mattress.

She reaches out to him, pulling him down to kiss her and taste herself on his mouth. With their lips still pressed together, their chests flushed against each other, she whispers, “You can move now.”

It’s all the encouragement he needs. Her name springs out from him unbidden, and it’s one of those moments when he can almost convince himself that he can get drunk just from saying her name.

He makes her come three more times, twice on his cock, and he would have gone for more but she starts crying after the third time and he knows what those tears are for. War had taken away his father to Azkaban and, along with the older man, much of Draco’s prejudice and the things he used to believe in. It had cost him the life of one of his friends and had crushed any chance of him ever producing a Patronus, but he knows she had lost so much more than that. He was part of the Order, a valuable spy that had ultimately help tip the scale in their favour, but he hadn’t been friends with any of those people.

As for her, they had become her family after she had been forced to give up her parents. They won the war, but he suspects that it would take a long time before her hands stop shaking, before she can go out without holding on to her wand as if her life still depends on it, before she can go to sleep without worrying that she’ll wake up screaming her head off because of a nightmare.

“I didn’t know orgasms could be that overwhelming,” she whispers sheepishly, the tip of her fingers tracing the Sectumsempra scars among the other blemishes he now sports.

The word orgasm tastes like a slice of Victoria sponge. He wraps a moth-bitten quilt around their naked bodies, and when he tells her to go to sleep, her Sauvignon Blanc-flavoured name on his tongue and her rose-coloured laugh behind his eyes are the things that lull him to the most peaceful sleep he’s ever had in years.

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sinsofsummers · 6 years ago

Text

Stay With Me

Request: “hey beautiful idk if you can do this but can you write a plus size reader with a plus sized thor please when thor is having a panic attack and she’s insecure and they comfort each other?” from @lilacprincessofrecovery

Pairing: Plus size!Thor x Plus size!Fem!reader

Word Count: 2.95k (wow, I didn’t mean to make it this long??)

Summary: After the Avengers go their separate ways after killing Thanos, you find yourself getting closer to Thor, learning how to take care of a man with more ghosts in his head than he lets on. Of course, everyone has their own demons. You know this especially well.

Warnings: Major spoilers for endgame(obviously), some serious angst, PTSD, panic attacks, body insecurity, self-deprecation, and some semblance of fluff at the end. Please, beware if you get triggered by any of these things. This is gonna be a rough one, but totally worth it in the end.

Note: Thank you so much for requesting this! This may now be my favorite piece of work that I’ve written on this blog! I really enjoy writing requests, so hopefully I did it justice! Feel free to send in more requests, people!

Send in your own request!

(this is literally the only gif of thor in endgame that actually worked for some reason)

It wasn’t every day you got the chance to befriend the god of thunder and king of Asgard. After everything happened that resulted in half the universe disappearing into dust, you had lost your family and friends. The only affiliation you had left was the Asgardian blood that tied you to the meager population of people you’d grown up with.

Through the healing process, a new safe haven on Earth for all Asgardians, properly named New Asgard, had been established. At first, it just felt like it was a crowded space full of rolling plains that were dotted with empty-minded people, just trying to grieve their lost loved one. But as time went on and everyone began to come to terms with the loss of half of all life, things seemed to turn as close to normal as they could considering the change of scenery and...other things.

You rarely saw the King of Asgard anymore. He’d put on a brave face, of course, making sure everyone was safe and accounted for. But once things were able to be run on their own without his constant supervision, he’d let others take over and retracted back into his hut, where he lived with Korg and Miek, his closest friends after the events of Ragnarok and Thanos’ reign of terror on the universe.

It was a long while before anyone saw him; his regular appearances were only to restock his beer collection in his house, drowning himself in countless beer bottles that no doubt littered the floors of his hut. You had a hard time adjusting to this new king of sorts; he’d always been so noble. He’d always known what to say, and when he didn’t, he’d ask for help. But now, he was lost. You knew this more than anyone. You didn’t have to see him all the time to know this. It was something you grappled with yourself.

Living in a place where everyone was beautiful, where men were bulging with muscles and women were as slender as new trees beginning to sprout from the earth, it had done a lot of damage to your self-image. You’d never fit into that category of classic Asgardian stature. You had a waist that, you thought, looked more like a beer barrel than an hourglass, and hips that were wide enough to hold a ship between them.

Your parents had always told you they loved you, that you were beautiful no matter what, but it didn’t matter. You had mirrors surrounding you every day on Asgard, as it was part of the natural and traditional decor. Images of your less-than-satisfactory self followed you for your entire life, so they were naturally the first thing to be left out of your new house in New Asgard. You were more focused on the other aspects of your health, and, in turn, that of your king’s.

You weren’t sure exactly what he saw in your, but you two had become rather close friends. He smiled when you were around, and though it still didn’t reach his eyes, you were happy that he at least tried. Tried to remember what it was like to be truly happy before all of this.

You knew he was far from completely healing from the ordeal(it was evident from all the weight he’d gained), but it gave you a sense of relief when he smiled at you, or when he reflected happily on a memory from his past life, whether it was about his mother, Frigga, or his brother, Loki, or his earthen friends, the Avengers.

But there was one night, one night in particular, that shocked you to your core and squeezed your heart, causing it to splinter.

After reading late into the night, you let the rain on the roof of your hut lull you to sleep, sending off a bittersweet prayer to your parents and friends that you’d lost. Nothing was heard in response other than the quiet rhythm of raindrops on the earth, but you hoped they still heard you, wherever they were. Now that you weren’t on Asgard, you weren’t quite sure where the dead went. You hoped that they were all in Valhalla, enjoying the afterlife as much as they could.

Just as you were about to drift off into a dreamless sleep, you heard a booming knock on your door that threatened to shake the entire world with the sheer force of it.

Groaning, you threw the covers off of you and stood up, shivering at the sudden change in temperature as the chilly, rainy air kissed your body, causing goosebumps to rise on your skin. Even in your tired state, you grabbed a robe to throw over your body; you hated when people saw you in your pajamas. It was like they could see every curve, every part about yourself that you hated. So you hid it from the world under your robes.

When you opened the door, you stared up at Korg, the blue creature made of rocks that towered over anyone who stood before him.

“Gods, don’t you have an internal clock or something?” You rubbed the palm of your hand against your eye in an effort to rub the fatigue out of them and look clearly up at him. “Wait, what’s wrong?” You asked when you looked again, seeing the blatant concern in his dark eyes.

“Y/N, man, you have to come over, now! Thor’s having a breakdown, man, it’s really bad this time! He won’t listen to me, and Miek’s too scared to talk, and I don’t know what to do, man! I mean, you’re pretty much the only other person he’ll talk to, so I came here, and—”

Immediately, the sleep left your eyes and you tightened your grasp on your robe. Suddenly you didn’t think the rain was any kind of coincidence. “Take me to him.”

You barely felt the rain against your skin, soaking your clothes, as you ran through the muddy, makeshift roads to the king’s hut. You’d heard of Thor’s panic attacks before. Sometimes thunder would crack so loud that you had to cover your ears, and other times the lightning would flash so bright that you were afraid it would impair your vision. But you’d never been witness to one of them. That was the one part of himself that Thor had never shown you.

When you arrived at the king’s hut, you rushed in but your feet froze in place as you took in the wreckage around you.

The floors were littered with beer bottles, some broken in anger, others tossed around on the couch and forgotten. The bookshelves that had once been filled to the brim with Asgardian and Earthen texts alike were now empty, books haphazardly thrown about in the room. The curtains had been torn off of the walls in a wave of fury. There was hardly any space to walk. Miek, upon seeing Korg return, launched himself into his friend’s arms and clung to him in the wake of all this destruction.

And in the center of it all, arms wrapped around his legs in the fetal position, rocking back and forth, was Thor, the mighty king of Asgard.

It nearly tore your heart in two to see him like this. You carefully stepped forward, calling out to the man as he sat there, his head tucked into his chest and hidden from view. As you got closer, you could hear his labored breathing, quick and panicked. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t calm down.

“Thor?” You gently called out, though your voice was nothing compared to the raging storm going on outside. “Hey, buddy, can you hear me?”

He didn’t move, just kept rocking back and forth. You could hear him start to whisper things, whispers that eventually turned into an anguished whimper that fell from his beautiful lips.

You placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, and he startled, kicked out at you and looking at you with such fury and fear in his eyes that you nearly felt a punch to your gut. “Thor,” you said, concern lining your voice, “breathe.”

Thor, the warrior king that had led his people to this new place, the man that was worthy above all others, just looked at you with his empty eyes and shook his head. “I—I can’t,” he forced out between gasps of breath. “He...he ruined me, he killed my brother, made him into something he wasn’t. Loki was good, he was never those things they called him. I…” He trailed off as a gulping wave of tears took over, and he shook underneath your palm as he squeezed his legs tighter to his large chest. “I made a vow...to avenge him. I promised him. And I...I failed. I failed everyone.”

You wanted to tell him that he hadn’t failed anyone, that he was still worthy, that he was still the greatest man you’d ever known. But you knew that to tell him those things would only feel like a betrayal. He wouldn’t believe it if you told him. He had to learn those things on his own.

So you adjusted your position beside him and wrapped your arms around your friend, enveloping him in your arms. He still shook underneath your touch, so you squeezed him tighter, hoping your words would sink into his bones. I’m here. I’m here, and I’m not leaving.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like this, your chin tucked into the crook of his neck, cheeks tickled by his long and unkempt hair, but you ignored the way your legs went numb, the way your muscles fatigued from holding him so close for so long. It was only when he stopped shaking and started to breathe deeper that you loosened your grip.

“I...I don’t know what to do, Y/N,” he whispered to you. “I’m lost.”

Picking up your head and brushing a strand of hair away from his eyes, you made sure to look him dead in the eye as you said, “I’ve got you.”

The tears shone in his eyes, but he nodded, swallowing roughly. The worst of it was over, but you knew he was still fragile. So you stood up, stretching your legs, and pulled him up with you. The god of thunder was even heavier with all the beer weight, so it was a blessing when he realized what you were trying to do and helped you pull him up.

One glance at Korg and Miek let them know that you would take care of him, and you were met with a thankful and enthusiastic thumbs up as the two creatures gingerly found their way back to their own rooms. As for you and Thor, you let him drape his arm around your shoulder, leaning into you as you led him to his room.

Thankfully the damage had only been done to the living room. You had a clear and open path to the bed, which you carefully sat him down on, smiling softly as his eyelids fluttered closed.

“I’ll be here first thing tomorrow,” you promised him, pressing your lips to the top of his head in a sweet kiss. “Sleep well, my king.”

You turned to leave, but he reached out and grabbed your wrist. “Please, Y/N,” he pleaded, eyes clouded with hope, “Stay with me?”

He’d never looked so worn out. You decided right then and there that if you ever got the chance to see the purple titan, that you’d blast him to Hel and never think twice about it. You’d give him what he deserved, for messing with your friend and king’s mind so carelessly.

It was a habit to turn him down, a habit that was manifested in your body, but the sadness in his eyes made you melt, and you nodded. He scooted to the other side of the bed, opening the covers for you to join him.

Taking a deep breath, you shed your robe and climbed into bed as quickly as you could, trying to hide your thinly-clothed body in your pajamas. “Is this okay?” You breathed, looking into the shiny depths of his eyes.

For a moment, Thor said nothing. He just stared at you. Then he lifted a hand and reached across the space between you and grasped your waist in his strong hand. He maneuvered himself closer, as close as he could until his plump chest was touching yours.

Bile rose in your throat as the king of Asgard touched the parts of you that you hated most. Rolling away from him, you turned your head to keep the tears from falling down your face in his view. How horribly poetic, you told yourself bitterly. I’m the one breaking down after helping Thor come back from his.

“Y/N, love, what is it?” Thor asked, his deep voice rumbling through your body. “Why do you turn away?”

You shook your head into the pillow, refusing to answer. You choked back a sob as you remembered what life was like back on Asgard, your childhood friends turning against you as you grew bigger, your classmates calling you names that cut deeper than you ever let them know. It was all coming back, all because Thor was looking for comfort. You were disgusted with yourself.

“I don’t deserve it,” you whispered. “Your gentle touch. I don’t deserve it.”

Thor shifted, moving closer to you so his chest pressed against your back. When you tried to move away again, getting treacherously close to the edge of the bed, he simply clamped an arm over your fluffy middle, holding you in place. “Nonsense,” he murmured in your ear, the word scraping down every piece of your body, every curve and crevice. “You are the most beautiful woman I have laid my eyes on.”

You let out a pitiful chuckle. “Don’t lie, Thor. It’s unbecoming.”

“Why would I lie?” He asked, his fingers beginning to rub soft circles into your pajama shirt that covered your stomach. “You are beautiful.”

“I’m hideous,” you breathed, years of pain and self-deprecation coming to light as you squeezed your eyes shut. “I don’t belong here. I don’t look like anyone else. Asgardians are supposed to be beautiful creatures that people can only picture in their most magical dreams. But me? I’m nothing like them.”

Thor chuckled lightly in your ear. “I would like to add that you look exactly like your king does.”

Turning around so you could face him, you sighed, the tears shining in your eyes. “You have good reason to, Thor. I have no reason to look as ugly as I do.”

“You are not ugly.” He spoke firmly and stared directly into your eyes, telling you that he would not budge.

Still, you didn’t believe him. “You,” you started, “you are a god. Nothing you can do will ever be considered ugly or revolting. You are a handsome man inside and out.”

“Then why can’t you feel the same?” He pondered aloud, lifting a hand to trace your cheek with his thumb. “Why can’t you see yourself the way I see you?”

It was a damn good question, you had to admit. You looked at Thor, at his beer belly and his scraggly appearance, and nothing ever changed in your mind. You still saw him as the most beautiful, rugged man you’d ever seen. But when it came to yourself, you found about a thousand things you could point out, bitterly telling yourself that you hated your stomach, you hated the way your neck only looked good at a certain angle, the way your arms lacked the spindly shape of all Asgardian women.

“Because,” you answered matter-of-factly, “I’m just me, and you’re you.”

“Y/N,” Thor responded, his voice a deep husky thing now, “you are extraordinary.”

You allowed yourself to savor the way his hand drifted from your cheek to your shoulder, down to your hand, coming to rest over your waist and pull you into his chest. “What are you doing to me?” You let the words slip out, failing to hold them back.

Thor looked at you with something that you couldn’t recognize. His eyes were wide, taking you in, holding you close to him. “You saved me,” he said simply, “so I’m saving you.”

A blush crept its way onto your face and you ducked your head. Slowly and carefully, you tucked yourself into Thor’s chest, lifting a leg and laying it over his waist similar to a koala bear. Though you probably looked ridiculous, you relished the way he responded to your movements. You were both tugging each other closer, so close that you supposed you probably wouldn’t be able to breathe, but you didn’t care.

You were broken, you both were. But this night, this moment, with him wrapped so close to you, his scent filling your nose, it felt right. Your chest felt a little lighter, and you could close your eyes easier. You were saving each other.

It wasn’t long before you felt sleep enveloping you, pulling you under to a place that you met with ease this time. But before you felt consciousness leave your body, you felt Thor’s lips press against your forehead in a sweet kiss. It was small, quick, and barely there, but it was enough to send fire through your body. Tilting your head up, you looked up into Thor’s eyes and smiled.

“You saved me,” he repeated. You knew the look in his eyes now, but your heart hiccuped as you recognized it. He leaned in and brushed his lips against yours. “So I’m saving you.”

#thor angst #thor imagine #thor fic #thor fluff #plus size reader #plus size thor #avengers endgame #endgame spoilers #marvel imagines #marvel requests #fic requests #laura writes #marvel fics #thor odinson x reader #thor x reader

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kathy3112-blog · 8 years ago

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Fear/Panic

Warren could not breathe.

Of course, he knew that, logically, he was able to breathe. There was enough oxygen in his room and he had a pair of functioning lungs, but his throat and chest were tight with irrational fear and he could not hold his breath for a split second before it rushed out of him again. Black spots were impairing his vision and Warren felt like he was about to pass out. He knew he was hyperventilating, that he was having a panic attack. He also knew what one was supposed to do in a case like this, but his logical reasoning had flown right out of the window, he could not breathe and he was going to die if he did not calm down.

It took some time, determination and a lot of frustration, but eventually, Warren was almost breathing normally again. His mind was still overtaken by screaming panic, and he was still shaking badly, but he felt like the worst part was almost over. Taking a deep, shuddering breath and exhaling audibly afterwards, he wiped over his face with his sleeve, wetting the cotton material with a mix of sweat and tears. He needed to take a shower and change into clean clothes, but the thought of possibly running into one of his fellow students and being picked on for looking like a fucking mess almost made him become hysterical again. Warren was an extrovert at heart, but right now, the idea of human contact made him tremble in horror.

As if on cue, Warren’s cellphone vibrated, probably having received a text message. It was lying on his desk, next to the sheet of paper that was the main reason for Warren’s panic attack in the first place. He knew that the test had not gone well (‘well’ meaning ‘perfect’ because Warren had high expectations for himself) and he had been dreading the day he would come to know the true extent of his failure. The moment he had seen the big, red ‘C’ on the bottom of the page, he had broken out in a cold sweat and made his way back to his dorm as soon and fast as he could. Thankfully, none of his friends had seen him (being invisible did have his advantages) but now, someone seemed to be asking for his attention.

Warren groaned and stood up from his bed. His legs were still shaking and weak, he had to hold onto his desk to regain his balance. He hoped that the message was not from someone asking whether they could copy his homework or something like that – people constantly imposed on his kindness and even though he was tired of it, he was scared of telling anyone so. On particularly bad days, Warren could not help asking himself if it was the only reason people hung out with him in the first place – because he was intelligent and easy to use. Intelligent, he repeated in his thoughts and laughed bitterly. After today, he highly doubted that.

Warren picked up his phone, carefully avoiding looking at the test sheet. When he saw the text message, he could not help but smile. It seemed that he did not have to worry after all. He sat down in his crappy office chair since he was still swaying on his feet, contemplating his response.

Nathan: U up for a movie?

Warren really liked Nathan, way more than he had expected he would. At first, he had just wanted to help the guy when nobody would – now, however, they were good friends. Of course, they had their ups and downs, something Warren had expected, but Nathan was making a lot of progress. He liked to think that he was helping him get better, as well. Something they did regularly were their movie nights where they made use of Nathan’s huge collection of movies. Despite the fact that watching movies with Nathan had become one of Warren’s favorite things to do, he was not sure whether he should agree to it today. The after effects were still quite noticeable and he did not want anybody to see him in this state. Eventually, Warren decided to make up some kind of excuse, keeping it vague. He soon realized that his hands were shaking too hard to type coherent words and sentences, and with every typo, he became more frustrated. In the end, he gave up on the idea of using correct spelling or grammar and just sent the message as soon as he thought it was understandable – hopefully. He just kept his fingers crossed that Nathan would not notice that something was off.

Warren: you knw id love t but sory i’m kind fbusy tpnight

Of course, he noticed.

Nathan: U okay??

Nathan: Are U drunk?

Warren gave a short laugh – of course Nathan’s first idea would be that he had gotten wasted on a Tuesday evening. He was about to write something about how he was ‘just tired’ when he got another text message.

Nathan: wait Vic told me something earlier

Nathan: U got that shitty test back right?

Warren winced. He had totally forgotten that Victoria was in his history class, too – the horror on his face had probably been obvious. It was just unexpected that she actually paid attention to him. She probably kept an eye on him because he had befriended Nathan, to make sure he treated him okay.

It’s a C, Warren typed back. He could feel his face burning with shame, even though he knew Nathan did not give a shit about grades. How was he supposed to tell his parents about this? Warren could feel anxiety rising in his chest again and soon, his stomach felt like it was tied in knots. He knew he had to breathe, but he felt so insignificant and pathetic, like he could not get anything right, and it was knocking the air right out of him. There was a faint sound coming from his door, but Warren could barely hear it over his heart thundering in his ears.

He ran his fingers through his hair and pulled on it, hard. The pain gave him something different to concentrate on. Warren also felt that his fringe was damp with sweat, reminding him that he desperately needed to clean himself up. It just added one more reason to feel disgusted with himself, which absolutely did not help to make the panic go away. Warren jumped when he felt his phone vibrate in his lap, completely having forgotten he had been having a conversation. With sweaty hands, he picked up the phone, reading the new text message.

Nathan: Open your door

A part of Warren was terrified to meet Nathan like this, but the part of him that was happy he actually cared about him was dominating. He was so fucking exhausted, and he did not want to send Nathan away when he had made the effort to come to his room, which was probably more than anyone else at Blackwell had ever done for him.

Warren did not trust his legs to carry him to the door, though, so he just yelled “it’s open”. He rarely bothered to lock his door, something he was thankful for at that moment.

His door was opened just enough for Nathan to slip into the room, immediately closing it behind him afterwards. Warren was still sitting in his office chair, trying to look as calm as possible, but it was to no avail.

“You look like shit.”

Warren gave a little laugh, rubbing his eyes. “Thanks for pointing that out. I’m pretty fucking tired”, he explained. It was just a small part of the truth, but it was not a lie.

Nathan went to sit on the bed and Warren turned his chair a little, so that they were facing each other. “I may not be a scientist like you, but I do know a panic attack when I see it.”

Warren breathed out audibly, his mind was racing. “Sorry”, was the first thing he could think of.

“You don’t have to apologize”, Nathan replied. “Especially after all the shitfits I’ve had that you witnessed.”

Warren gave a small smile at that. “I’m a mess, though. I really need to take a shower. I’m like a sweat-factory.”

Nathan nodded understandingly. “I can help you with that if you need me to.”

A warm feeling was spreading through Warren’s chest and he smiled. “Will you scrub my back for me, as well?”, he asked, mostly jokingly.

Nathan smirked back at him. “If you want.” His expression grew more concerned again after that. “Seriously, though. I know what this shit’s like, so… If you need company, I’m here.” After thinking for a moment, he added: “And take your time, you don’t smell super bad or anything.”

Nathan would always say the most ridiculously precious things with a dead serious expression and it never failed to make Warren’s day. “That’s actually the nicest thing I’ve heard today”, Warren laughed.

Nathan snorted. “You’re such a fucking nerd. Stop being so goddamn hard on yourself.”

There was something soothing and natural about Nathan’s presence and Warren did not know what it was, but he could already feel his panic subsiding.

#grahamscott #life is strange #fanfiction #fanfic #one shot #emotion based

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anartic-monkeys · 5 years ago