pulls shirt

it's four A.M.

request: 25 & 14 Drunk Shawn or something like that pls ?
14. It’s four A.M.
25. Why do you smell like a walking liquor bar?

— word count: 359
— warnings: none

You lie on the couch as the television plays quietly. You are just barely asleep when Shawn stumbles in the front door. You open your eyes and look at him.

“Oh, hey (y/n)…” he says as steadily as he could as he shakes his coat off of his body.

“Hey…where’ve you been?”

“Out with Geoff.” He walks closer to you, pulling his shirt off over his head, throwing it on the floor with his coat.

“Shawn…it’s four A.M.”

“Is it? Wow.” He chuckles a bit.

“Yeah..it is.” You say standing up.

He smiles at you, “Sorry, babe. We must’ve lost track of time.”

Your nose scrunches up as he gets closer to you and you can actually tell what he smells like.

“Why do you smell like a walking liquor bar?”

“Well, Geoff and I were at the bar.” He says shrugging.

You knit your eyebrows together and pick up the shirt and coat he had thrown on the floor.

“Until four A.M.?”

“I guess so, yeah.” He shrugs.

“Shawn Peter Raul Mendes…I swear you’ll be the death of me.” You say shaking your head.

He grins and wraps his arms around your waist, which you immediately protest because of how strongly he smells of liquor.

“Hey, it’s not the bad.”

“Yes, Shawn, it is.”

He smells himself and makes a face.

“Okay…maybe it is that bad.”

You nod, “Ya think? Go take a shower and change your clothes,” you glance at him as the smell hits you like a brick wall again, “Please.”

You grab his hand and lead him into the bathroom.

“Please, Shawn. For the love of god, shower.”

He puts his hands up in the air.

“Okay, okay.” He says starting the shower.

You walk out of the bathroom, closing the door behind you, shaking your head. Shawn just needed a shower and sleep. Hopefully, that would get rid of the stench and his inability to realize how strongly he smelled. Or at least you hoped.

sandstormsfireandgrace  asked:

we need to talk about your life choices + double black

*eyes emoji* 

Dazai shoved Chuuya against the door of his bedroom, swallowing his words with rough kisses. 

Chuuya didn’t mind. He threaded his fingers through Dazai’s hair and their bodies pressed together. 

Dazai pulled away, looking at Chuuya like he wanted to rip his clothes away. His hands fumbled with the buttons of Chuuya’s waistcoat and Chuuya smirked. 

“Having trouble?” He reached up to undo Dazai’s tie, pulling it off and letting it drop to the floor. 

“You’re just so distracting, Chuuya,” Dazai murmured, finally managing to pull Chuuya’s waistcoat off. 

Chuuya made quicker work of Dazai’s, and was already undoing the buttons of his shirt. It was almost like a race to see who could strip who faster. 

And then, when Dazai’s shirt came off, Chuuya was faced with bandages. 

“This isn’t fair,” he said. 

Dazai hummed, undoing the last button of Chuuya’s shirt and pulling it off. Chuuya frowned up at Dazai and Dazai laughed. 

“Poor Chuuya,” he said, pressing his bandaged chest against Chuuya’s bare one, pinning him to the wall. “He has to do so much work.” 

“I always do.” Chuuya rolled his eyes and slipped a finger under a ribbon of bandage covering Dazai’s heart. “But this…we need to talk about this.” 

“Chuuya,” Dazai whined, “you know why, and it’s so cute when you struggle with them…” 

With his other hand, Chuuya extracted his knife and began cutting through the ribbons. 

Dazai pouted. “Now I can’t reuse them!” 

“That’s gross!” Chuuya cried. “We really have to talk if you’re reusing these!” He cut through a few more just to prove a point. “You really are a waste of bandages, you know.” 

“That’s why I try to recycle.” Dazai shifted, the bandages falling off him as Chuuya cut through. He grabbed Chuuya’s hand, squeezing a bit so that Chuuya dropped the knife. “You know, bandages aren’t cheap, and they don’t always have the ones I like. If they’re not dirty there’s no reason why-” 

Chuuya ground his heel into Dazai’s foot. Dazai yelped, bending over, and Chuuya pulled him in for a kiss. 

Originally posted by asapscience

Up before dawn, because pain. Flashes before your eyes kind of pain. 

Frozen shoulder is a curse. A long, long, long lasting curse. 

This one, the second that I’ve experienced, is about a year in. My range of movement decreases daily and my ability to lift anything is for shit. 

Things that I never thought about doing before such as pulling a shirt over my head, drying the back of my hair, reaching out to catch myself when I stumble, have become major affairs of struggle. 

I’ve tried to be as positive about this as I can. In the grand scheme of things, pain and restricted movement is on the low end of life’s difficult dramas. I’ve been assured that this will remedy itself, probably within the next year, and that the pain will end and the movement will be restored. Knowing that, I realise that I shouldn’t have much to bitch and moan about. Almost seems like one of those ‘first world problems’ scenarios. 

This morning though, damn. I’m tired and weary and wish I were still in bed, having a lie in, like everyone else in my house. If I could have managed to have stayed in bed, I would have. There is just no position that will work. I turn over and it brings tears to my eyes. I’m sleepy and hurty and whingey and that’s just how it is. 

My father, who would have celebrated his 75th birthday four days ago, spent the last few years that I was there at the farm having similar problems. He didn’t have frozen shoulder, but he had arthritis and fibromyalgia and other general physically-worked-hard-all-his-life kind of pains. He would wake up at the crack of dawn because he hurt too bad to stay in bed. I thought he was full of shit. I figured his meanness just leached into his muscles and that his aches and pains were karma turned inward. If he were alive, I’d owe him an apology. 

This has been the difficult part of getting older. The moment when my heart and mind still feel ageless, vibrant even, but my body does not. My body feels old. Crunchy knees when I walk up the stairs. This curse of a shoulder. Numerous other wear-and-tear ailments. Nothing screams mortality in your face like the feeling that your body is wearing out. 

As a recovering addict, I stay away from the OTC pain medicines they allow you over here. Codeine makes me nauseous, which is undoubtedly a good thing, because if it didn’t I’d probably be buying it by the case. That’s a path I don’t want to take again. So I’m left with Tylenol and Advil, worthless chiclets of liver damage. Meh. 

I also struggle with the concept of self-compassion. The woulda, shoulda, coulda brigade chime in way too much with a chorus on repeat of all the things I needed to do to keep myself in fighting shape but that I didn’t do. It creates a vicious cycle. I ‘should’ exercise, do some yoga, some tai chi or zumba-y kind of thing, but I hurt too bad and my arms and legs don’t flex and bend enough. 

My psychoanalyst says that I am to expect more body/pain issues at the moment. He contends that when we really start to look at our psyche’s shit, that it bubbles out into our joints, into our guts, into our muscles. He says that it is par for the course that I’d feel like shit on a cracker. I’m not sure of the validity of his argument, but if the emotional wringer he’s been putting me through is an indication of how I am supposed to be feeling physically, then I need to go to bed and stay there. 

I suppose the thing is, I’m having to learn to live with the paradox that, on the one hand, my life is good and I’m happy and largely content, and I don’t have much to bitch about and, by all measure, I’m one lucky old bird. On the other hand, pain is pain and you can’t just will it away or pollyanna it into oblivion and it sucks. Seriously sucks. At every moment, I’m living both realities. 

Anyway, I’m done with this whinge. The sun is out and it is crisp and cold outside, Simpsons clouds above, hot coffee in the cup, a loving cat on the desk in front of me, plopped down between my hands while I type. The rest of the house will wake up soon and Tim and Lils will be their cheery Saturday morning selves and we’ll get on with the day. 

I’m grateful for that. I have a charmed life and I know it. I’ll still shout curses to the high heavens when I get one of those zingers that runs from the base of my skull to my fingertips and I’ll fight back tears more times than I can count, but I’ll do it knowing that it is really just a matter of hurry up and wait. A year down, maybe a year to go. I’ve withstood worse for longer. 

They say that chronic pain is a spiritual journey. If it is, then I should be a level 7 Thetan or some sort of shit. I should be Dalai Lama kind of enlightened, but of course, I’m not. I’m just an old bird trying to sort her self out a day at a time, looking for the good where I can find it, appreciating what I have, loving hard and true, and trying to give no fucks about what doesn’t matter. That’s the best that I’ve got. 



  • Me: It's okay to be unsure of your gender/sexuality!!1! It's totally cool to be figuring yourself out!
  • Me @ me: except you bc u need to get ur stuff together and figure out what the heck u are right now immediately