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snackhobi · 4 years

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pairing: jimin x reader / word count: 9.1k / genre: smut (NSFW, 18+)

summary: you wouldn’t mind your cute neighbour being such a shameless fuckboy if a) the walls weren’t so thin and b) he didn’t seem intent on adding you as another notch in his bedpost.

but there’s only so much you can resist park jimin, especially once he gets that peach involved.

warnings: sexually explicit content, Jimin being completely shameless/a lowkey ho, messy peach eating, mentions of masturbation, oral sex (m + f receiving), overstimulation, protected sex, multiple orgasms (f), dirty talk and some cursing, hmm I think that’s it?

a/n: I was so close to calling this ‘jimin and the f*cking peach’ as some terrible homage to ‘james and the giant peach’ 😂🤧 as always I would like to thank @hobi-gif for beta reading this, putting up with me having a meltdown at her, and encouraging me to write smut at work rather than doing my job, ty queen xoxo

It’s official. Park Jimin is the neighbour from hell.

He’d tricked you, to start with. With those cherubic features, those doe eyes, and his cute little smile? He looks like an angel. A sweet, innocent angel, one who’d knocked shyly on your door and presented you with a small selection of chocolates when he’d moved into the apartment next to yours. Your heart had gone boom boom at the sight of that cute smile, the slip of teeth, the way his lovely face had scrunched up.

Nowadays, whenever you see that face, you want to punch it.

Well. Not punch it. Maybe slap it a little. Because Park Jimin is a fiend.

Your studio apartment is cheap for many reasons. The plumbing is creaky and the heating isn’t exactly great but those are small sacrifices for such low rent—ones you’re willing to make. Creaking doesn’t bother you and throw blankets exist for a reason, right? You get a balcony and a parking spot, which is more than you can say for a lot of other places in this price range, so you’ll take the negatives for these positives.

But you’d give up all the things you love about this cheap flat for some sound proofing.

Because Park Jimin fucks.

A lot.

He’d been nothing but lovely for the first few weeks. You’d barely been aware of his existence, minus when you could hear him in the bathroom—your flats are mirrored, rooms sharing walls, so you’d been washing your face when you’d heard his shower start up and then the sound of his dulcet tones drifting through the wall. That had actually been really nice; Jimin can hit some high notes, and it had been a pleasant backdrop as you’d cleansed your face. It had been another bullet point you’d added to the list of things you thought were cute about him (along with his face, his laugh, his smile), and you’d stupidly started to develop a tiny little crush on this boy-next-door, thinking him some soft, kind thing.

But then he’d started to have people over.

You’ve lost count of how many days you’ve had to listen to the moans and gasps that echo through your walls. You can’t escape from it. As a freelance programmer, you’re pretty much always working from home, so it’s not like you can get away from the sounds of pleasure that shudder through Jimin’s flat and into your own.

It’s never consistent, either. There’s not a single hour of the day that’s off limits to Park Jimin. Morning, afternoon, night; the boy is always ready to go, apparently. And judging from the sounds through the walls? He never leaves anyone unsatisfied either.

Which, like, fine. People fuck. You get it. You’re not judging. You just wish it wasn’t so loud. You have to sleep, for God’s sake. But it’s not like you can knock on a new neighbour’s door and be like hey, I appreciate you have an incredibly active sex life, but can you keep it down, please?

So you’d bit your tongue. You’d gritted your teeth to bear it. You’d still smile at Jimin if you ever passed in the hallway, acknowledged him with a small nod, exchanged pleasantries, all the neighbourly stuff that you’d do with anyone. You’d just invested in some good earplugs and thought that was it.

And then Jimin had started doing his morning yoga routine outside.

You start each day with a cup of tea on your balcony, watering your hydrangeas and enjoying the dawn sun that lifts up over the horizon alongside your plants. It’s a small, singular moment of quiet in an otherwise dull day and you treasure that serenity.

Well. Treasured. Past tense. Because Jimin has invaded this part of your life, too.

The first time Jimin had unrolled his yoga mat on the balcony adjacent to yours, he’d been dressed in a deceptively unassuming outfit—a loose white t-shirt and leggings that hugged every inch of his calves and thighs and shapely ass, which you had pointedly Not Looked At. He’d tilted his head at you with a smug little smile flickering at the edge of his lips, and when he’d greeted you good morning, you’d responded in turn, even if you were still annoyed at how he’d interrupted your afternoon nap the day before with the sound of his headboard smacking into the wall repeatedly. You were still fairly new neighbours and you still felt like you had to be polite, even if he was starting to fray your nerves.

And then he’d started to bend.

Now, you’ll be the first to admit that you don’t know much about yoga. But you’d swear Jimin was choosing poses that did the utmost to display his flexibility, the flex of his muscles and twist of his limbs, balancing his body on his arms before easing into a pose that had him bent in two, head towards his toes—and with how he had his back to you this meant you got full glimpse of his ass, straining against his leggings, the way his loose shirt slipped up his body to reveal the lines of his stomach and chest, how his face was still twisted into that little smirk even if it was upside down.

Staring at you.

You’d promptly stopped watering your hydrangeas and walked inside your flat, shutting the sliding door behind you.

Jimin is relentless.

He’s pretty and he knows it. All that shy, new-kid-on-the-block innocence he’d had initially is completely gone, and all he does is flirt, flirt, flirt. He winks at you. Stands a little too close whenever you talk. Lets his eyes flicker down to your lips, trail over every inch of you, lashes fluttering when he catches you watching, unashamed and unabashed. He frequently just… hangs around on his balcony. Not topless, no, but he may as well be, his thotty muscle tees doing nothing to hide him from your eyes.

(The worst thing, though, is when you catch him unawares. When he’s tired and clearly not expecting you to be awake, too, his eyes sleepy and his hair ruffled; a little vulnerable, a lot softer than he usually presents himself. Curled up on the small seat on his balcony with a hot drink in his hand, phone in the other, his screen throwing blue-tinted light over the easing lines of his features.

You wish Jimin was like that all the time. But the second he sees you, his eyes flicker, and his brows lift, and his mouth curls, and once again you rue the day you had a fuckboy move in next door to you.)

It’s not that Jimin isn’t hot. It’s not that you wouldn’t fuck him, either. But you have no interest in being some sort of convenient hook-up for him, purely there by circumstance, fate, whatever you want to call it. You dread to think of him sending you haha wyd x texts whenever he feels like having sex and you just happen to be nearby. So you weather all of his obvious come-ons and swerve him something chronic, even if he seems intent on making his attraction to you obvious.

You’ve been managing it for months. But as time goes on, your patience wears thinner and thinner, an atom-thick layer of fortitude the only thing keeping you from grabbing Park Jimin and kissing him and/or killing him. It doesn’t help that you haven’t fucked for a while now, and you’re reminded of this every time you hear another pornstar moan through the wall (the people Jimin brings home seem to like hamming it up for effect), every time you see another mosaic of hickeys laid across the column of Jimin’s gorgeous throat, every time you see the way his yoga outfits do nothing to protect the delicious shape of his body from your eyes.

You dig your fingers into your palms. It’s fine. It’s okay. You can handle Park Jimin and his overt sexual energy, oozing out of him almost every second of every day.

It’s a little harder to handle how he still seems sweet despite his fuckboy nature. How he picks your parcels up for you. How he lets you use his laundry detergent when you run out. How he lets you keep food in his fridge when yours breaks down and you have to wait for a replacement. How he sheds that fuckboy facade whenever it seems like you genuinely need help, how you’ve heard his soft phone calls through the wall, to his friends, his family, sweet and kind and supportive.

Park Jimin is a multi-dimensional being, for sure, and maybe you sometimes wish he was actually genuinely interested in you as a person and not as a lay, so you could peel back those layers to the lovely core at the centre of his being.

But it’s fine. You can handle this stupid yearning and pining. You can handle the knowledge that Park Jimin is a genuine gentleman who just happens to like fucking, is open in his desire for it, and is apparently Very Good at it. It’s difficult, but you can do it.

You can do it.

The date you set up with someone from Tinder ends up being disappointing and lacklustre. You’d escaped before dessert, unable to put up with one more second of this asshole going on and on about stocks, and investments, and trading, or whatever, cursing the day you’d decided to swipe on him. You’re so sick of your luck (or lack thereof) with guys. (At least the food had been nice.)

Of course Jimin sees you schlepping your way back into your apartment, disappointment obvious in the line of your shoulders and lips; it doesn’t take a genius to clock your date outfit, cute as it is, makeup and hair soft. But the night has barely begun and here you are, stepping back into your flat. Alone.

“Bad date?” Jimin asks, voice gentle, and you just snort.

“Just like the rest of them,” you reply with a small sigh, before shutting your door quietly behind you, missing the look on your neighbour’s face.

Jimin, to his credit, eases off after this. You’re not sure if it’s due to a misplaced sense of pity or something, but even if he still smiles and flirts lightly with you, it’s less… salacious. Still there, still obvious, just a little softer. You hate how this has you feeling grateful towards him, because he’s still got so many fuckboy tendencies that it should outweigh this gentler side of his flirtation, but your traitorous heart still goes gooey every time Jimin smiles at you.

But then.

There’s that fucking peach.

You’re just chilling on your balcony, sipping at a glass of lemonade in the warmth of the afternoon when you hear Jimin’s door sliding open. You flick your eyes over at the sound, watching the way Jimin slips out onto his own balcony, how he throws something up in the air and catches it with ease, a flick of the wrist, a curl of the fingers each time he catches it again.

He hasn’t had any fuckbuddies over for a while. A few weeks, almost a month. It’s the longest Jimin’s gone without having sex for as long as he’s started having people over and you’d been sort of concerned. Which, yeah, you know it sounds super weird when you think about it, especially considering how much you complain about Jimin to your friends—help, my fuckboy neighbour hasn’t fucked anyone in nearly a month so I’m worried if his dick has fallen off or something.

(Well, actually, you know his dick is still attached, based off the little gasps and moans he lets out whenever he pleasures himself in lieu of fucking someone else. You’ll take this secret to the grave but those noises that Jimin lets out have been the melody you use to reach your own peaks, although you’re a lot quieter than he is whenever you touch yourself, biting your lip and muffling the wet sounds of your fingers thrusting into your cunt under layers of blankets. You’d never give Jimin the satisfaction of knowing that the mental image of him fucking into his fist and cumming over his stomach and chest is what throws you over your own edge, toe-curling orgasms that shake through your body in time with Jimin’s own.)

Anyway. He looks loose limbed and relaxed when he saunters into view, utterly unsurprised by your presence behind your window box of hydrangeas, giving you his usual, sultry smile.

He’s started to ramp up his flirtations again. This smirk is one which you’ve learned not to respond to. You just stare levelly back at him, unimpressed as you start to water your flowers, which does nothing to dissuade him. It never does. He clearly revels in the challenge.

Jimin keeps his eyes locked with yours as he lifts his hand to his lips. You catch a glimpse of what he was throwing and catching—a ripe, flush peach, tiny droplets of water shimmering on its fuzz, freshly washed.

And then he starts to eat it.

The peach yields immediately to the press of his teeth. Juice bursts out of its softness, running down his lips, his chin; he makes no moves to wipe it away, the lewd sound of his slurps as he curls his tongue into the fruit, messy and sweet.

It’s shameless. He’s shameless. His gaze is unwavering as he stares at you, his mouth glistening with the peach’s juices, the only sound the wet smack of his lips and tongue as he licks up the honeyed liquid that drips from his skin, curving around the fruit as he swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing.

Water’s been trickling from your small can onto the hydrangeas, cascading over the plants; the soil is waterlogged now, but you haven’t noticed, fixated on the way Jimin is looking at you as he wantonly eats out this peach.

Drip drip, goes the watering can.

Drip drip, goes the peach.

By the time there’s nothing more than the pit in his hand, Jimin is a mess. His fingers and mouth and chin shine with peach juice, eyes dark and heavy as he watches the way you drink the sight of him in, the way his tongue slowly drags over his full lips, catching the sweetness that lingers.

The second he puts his tongue to his fingers to get the stickiness on them, that’s it. You watch the way he sucks his fingers into his mouth and promptly put the watering can down and turn on your heel to walk inside, slamming the balcony door shut behind you.

You’re done. You’re only human. You’ve spent months with Jimin parading himself in front of you, seen the way he contorts his body every morning in an unnecessarily complex sun salutation, listened to the way his voice rises when he cums; the peach is the metaphorical cherry on top, and you’re just. Over. It.

You hammer your palms against your neighbour's door, rap-rap-rapping on the wood, your blood rising and your heart thudding in your chest, every part of you tense, wound up, pent up. The door swings open to reveal Jimin, his chin still slick with sweet peach, lips curling up in a self-satisfied smile when he sees you.

“Park Jimin.” Your voice shakes and you hate yourself for it, hate the way Jimin’s eyes glitter at the sound, the little hitch in your breath. “You are a fucking menace, you know that?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says. He leans against the doorframe, effortlessly gorgeous, hip cocked, head tilted. He lifts his hand, and there’s a heavy moment of tension as you watch him slowly swipe a thumb over the last remnant of juice on his chin, before his tongue lolls out of his mouth and he licks the final taste of peach from his fingers.

When you grab hold of his collar his expression shifts from something coy into something far more self satisfied, months of his brazen come-ons finally culminating in this—you, shoving him backwards into his apartment, kicking the door shut behind you.

“I swear,” you say. “I swear to God—”

“You swear? I can think of better things you could be doing with your mouth,” Jimin says, and then laughs when you scowl at him. “Damn, you’re so hot when you’re mad.”

“You are infuriating,” you bite out, and Jimin just laughs again, his whole body shaking, every part of him still loose and relaxed even as you continue to tighten your grip on his clothing, feeling every motion of his body under your hands. You hate how pretty he is, even now, utterly unafraid of your frustration—the brightness of his eyes and his smile, that undercurrent to it all, the way his hands slide so smoothly around your waist, your hips, sliding down to grope at your ass.

“I know,” he agrees, still giggling, and then he kisses you.

Jimin dives straight in, no holds barred, and you immediately melt into putty under his touch. He lets out a hum of satisfaction into your mouth as your hands go lax and slide down his chest. You can still taste the peach on his lips, his tongue, licking into his mouth.

You’ve thought about this mouth more times than you’d like to admit: the full swell of his lips, the little curve of his cupid’s bow, how it’d feel pressed against your own, and honestly? It’s so much better than you’d let yourself imagine it to be.

He nips at your bottom lip before soothing it with his tongue, and you bite off a gasp when he pulls you forward, grinding against you. You shudder. Jimin’s mouth is a pleased curve against your own before he pulls away, murmuring in your ear in a voice that’s equal parts sultry and sweet.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, kissing the sensitive skin of your jaw just under your earlobe, making you shiver. “Just relax. You’re always so tense.”

“Maybe that’s because my neighbour keeps me up all night,” you say, but your voice is weak, no strength behind your words, breath stolen out of you at the way Jimin starts to trail his lips down your neck, across your throat. “I find that constantly getting my sleep interrupted—oh, oh—”

Jimin sucks at the hollow of your neck, the delicate skin there so sensitive to his touch, the warmth of his lips magnified, every nerve ending alight with pleasure. Your hands have slid into his hair and you unintentionally tighten your grasp, fingers tugging at his dark locks, and Jimin bares his teeth against your skin.

It’s maybe a little embarrassing how wet you are just from a little making out. But after months of Jimin teasing you and putting you on edge, coupled with how long it’s been since you've had sex? You’re allowed to be a little desperate. All the small frustrations you were about to voice die on your tongue, slipping away from you as Jimin starts to walk you backwards with a confidence that shows just how often he’s done this—leading people to his bed, never taking his hands off you.

By the time Jimin eases you to lie down, you feel breathless. He hovers above you with that satisfied smile flickering at the edge of his lips, taking in the sight of you, finally underneath him—lips kiss swollen, exquisite, all the sharp words on your tongue softened and gone, goosebumps trailing down your skin. You tug at his collar, which catches him off guard; he sways forward and almost hits his face against yours, but before he can spend too long looking smug at your desperation you capture his lips again. You melt into the mattress, hooking a foot over his calf and revelling in the weight of him between your legs, your hips flush, and how hard he’s getting through those stupidly tight leggings of his.

When he grinds against you, the outline of his cock pressed up against your cunt, an embarrassing whine leaves your lips and trembles against Jimin’s own. Jimin goes still before pulling away from the open-mouthed kiss and when you see the expression on his face you slap a hand over your mouth, burning with shame.

“Oh.” He sounds delighted. “You’re noisy, huh?”

“Shut up,” you say, though your words are muffled against your palm. He grinds down again, a slow and deep roll of his hips that lets you feel how hard he is, and a noise shudders out the back of your throat, audible around your hand.

“It’s hot.” There’s that little smirk on Jimin’s lovely lips, every inch of him dripping self confidence. He knows how you’re entirely at his mercy, in spite of your words; your voice is weak. “You’re normally so quiet.”

“Some of us try to be considerate and think about our neighbours.”

Jimin just smiles, pulling your hand away from your mouth before gently kissing your palm, a motion that’s surprisingly tender and makes you pause.

“Trust me.” His voice is low. “I do think about my neighbour.”

Your breath hitches when he slides his free hand under your shirt, trailing his fingers over the softness of your stomach. He pulls the fabric up, letting his gaze rove over the bared skin. The way Jimin looks at you makes you feel like you’re the only woman in the world, like he’s never seen anyone prettier.

You wonder if he looks at his other fuckbuddies like this.

The thought slides away from you as Jimin dips his head and starts to kiss your throat again. You tilt your head back as his lips trail across the soft skin, his hands coming to rest under your breasts, contained as they are by your bra; once he coaxes you to sit up, it only takes him a few moments to strip your upper body, kneeling between your spread legs as he starts to trail his hands over the parts of you that are now bared to him.

“Pretty,” he says. You’d roll your eyes if he didn’t sound so reverent, and also if you weren’t distracted by the way he flicks his thumbs over your hardening nipples, your core clenching as he does, biting your lip to stop yourself from making a sound. A frown flits across Jimin’s face and he lifts one of those thumbs away from your breast, dragging your lip away from your teeth, letting his grasp linger so your lips are parted. “Don’t do that. I've been waiting for months to hear you properly.”

Before you can reply, he kisses you again, licking into your mouth and swallowing down the noise you make when he drags his hand between the valley of your breasts, down your stomach and settling between your legs, running his fingers over your cunt, the feeling dulled by layers of fabric even though he presses with intent. Your hips jolt at the sensation, and Jimin repeats the motion, dragging the fabric across your flushed lips.

“Jimin.” Your voice is a gasp against his mouth, and you can’t keep the pleading out of your tone, desperation bleeding into every letter of your words. “Please.”

He just hums, sounding pleased, and a breath of surprise escapes you as he pushes you back against the pillows. He wastes no time in getting to his prize, drawing a scattered constellation of kisses that trail across your chest, your nipples, your stomach, the line of your hip bones as you lift up so he can pull your shorts and underwear off. You’re entirely naked underneath him, bare and wet, cunt flushed and shining, and Jimin groans at the sight.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, fingers digging into your thighs as he pulls your legs wider. Your cheeks burn as Jimin stares at your pussy, but you can’t help but feel a pulse of self-satisfaction at the visible twitch of his cock in his stupid yoga leggings. “You’re so wet.”

You should probably feel embarrassed, but by now you’ve thrown all your previous inhibition to the winds. You’ve ended up somewhere you’d privately sworn you were never going to—in Park Jimin’s bed, leaned up against his pillows, laid out for him to touch and take and have, every inch of you desperate for it. There’s nothing in your brain or body but arousal and need. So instead of letting out a snip of a remark you just cant your hips towards him, another pleading sound slipping from your lips.

He gives you what you want. He dips his head and trails his lips and tongue down, down, down, wet and hot, until they press against your cunt. He looks at you with the same hooded eyes as earlier, motions of his mouth an echo of his peach eating, sloppy and messy; he’s unabashed in the way he slides his mouth over you, lips slick and tongue hot, sliding over every sensitive inch—sucking your clit, licking your folds, burying his face between your legs and drinking up every sweet drip of your juices.

You can’t help but make noise. Small gasps that slide into moans of pleasure, hitches in your breath that make your chest jump and your breasts shake; Jimin lets out noises too, muffled against your cunt, sounds that let you know he’s enjoying himself almost as much as you. It’s honestly pretty fucking hot, the way your own pleasure seems to turn him on, how he chases that feeling, eyes blown as he takes in every one of your reactions, repeating the motions that are affecting you the most.

The sight of him between your legs has you tensing. He continues to stare up at you, the curve of your stomach when you bow towards him, the fall of your breasts, which he slides his hands over, cupping them in his palms, pinching your hardened buds, layering sensation on sensation, never taking his mouth off you.

When he presses one finger inside, and then another, both thrusting firm and deep as he mouths at your clit, you tangle a hand into his hair. He watches the way your hips jump from the sensation of his tongue directly on your clit, and does it again, and again, your voice crescendoing from the explosion of sensation, how it’s too much, before he circles his lips around it and sucks messily. Your brain registering nothing but his lips and tongue against you, the hands that are trailing up and down your sides and still skimming across your breasts.

You’re not even aware of the words that are falling from your lips, oh fuck, yes, Jimin, there, oh, the way your grasp tightens in his dark hair, your hips bucking against his mouth as you can feel your orgasm approaching. The pleasure keeps building, flames fanning brighter and brighter as Jimin buries his mouth even further in between your legs, fingers speeding up as you gasp.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop,” you chant, voice getting higher. “I’m gonna cum, I’m cumming, oh—”

Your words slide into a moan as your back arches and your thighs tighten around Jimin’s head and you cum. Jimin continues to finger fuck you through it, your cunt pulsating around him as he keeps licking and sucking at your clit, his gaze fixed on your face as your eyes squeeze shut and your mouth falls open and every line of your body sings of the pleasure that Jimin has given to you. Even when your legs and hips start to jolt from oversensitivity and you cry out at each ripple of his tongue against you, he’s relentless, almost cruel in how he watches you writhe from a mixture of pain and overextended pleasure.

You're sobbing by the time Jimin pulls his mouth away from your cunt, tears pooling in the corner of your eyes, body shaking as you try to suck in air. He thrusts his fingers into you one more time, slow and deep, watching the way you turn your head into the pillow and muffle a gasp against it.

“I knew you'd look and sound gorgeous when you cum,” he says, and though you feel boneless from your post-orgasm high, you can’t help a little huff escaping your lips. Jimin clearly catches the sound, quiet as it is against the linen of his pillowcase, and takes your chin in his hand to turn his face towards you. His fingers are slick with your arousal, wet against your skin.

“You sound like you’re reading off the script to a porno,” you murmur.

One of his eyebrows arches. “Oh? You don’t think I’m just speaking my mind?” Those fingers move away from your chin and trace over the swell of your bottom lip; you let your mouth fall open and swallow them down, licking the taste of yourself off Jimin’s skin. “You don’t think that I’ve been thinking about how pretty you’d look as I fucked into you, begging for me to let you cum again and again?”

Your tongue stutters against his fingers and your core clenches at his words, the dark undercurrent underneath them, and Jimin’s expression shifts as he notices.

“You really have no idea, do you?” He runs his fingertips over your tastebuds, saliva starting to pool in your mouth, the slide so wet and messy. “Who do you think I picture whenever I touch myself? Who do you think I was wishing was in my bed every time I took someone else home?”

You nip at his fingers, running the edge of your teeth along his knuckles from equal parts surprise and disbelief at his words. You find it impossible to believe that he really means that, but then you realise—recently, on the few occasions you’d bumped into Jimin in the hall when he’d had one of his lays trailing behind him, for as different and unique each of them was, each one of them had shared some sort of trait with you. Hair colour, eyes, the set of their lips, the shape of their face; once, you’d heard a girl giggling through the wall before it had trailed off into a moan, and you’d done a literal double take at how much she’d sounded like you. Similar, but not exactly the same, a slightly off-tone echo of the sound that spills from your own lips whenever you laugh.

And the emptiness in his bed had only started after the night that he’d seen the way you’d trailed into your apartment with discontent heavy around your shoulders, disappointed at that awful Tinder date.

Oh, fuck.

“You’re shameless,” you say, words a little garbled around Jimin’s fingers, but you know he understands.

“No, I’m not,” he replies, a small smirk curling up the corner of his lips. It should be illegal: the way he has such soft features that can turn so quickly into something sharper and entirely sensual, eyes hooded, lips flushed, the column of his throat so lovely and graceful as he tilts his head to one side. “I just know what I want and don’t try to hide it. What’s shameless about that? I know you want me too, but you always deny yourself the things you want. Don’t you?”

You hate that you’ve been so transparent in your attraction to him. Because the truth of the matter is that for as much as Jimin frustrates you with his entire existence, you do want him. After all—you wouldn’t be naked underneath him, still trembling from the aftershocks of a deep orgasm, if you didn’t.

“You’re not always as quiet as you think, you know,” he adds, pulling his fingers out of your mouth and enjoying the way your eyes widen at his words. You thought he couldn’t hear you through the wall, but it seems like you were wrong.

Before you can say anything in reply, though, he grinds down. Without your clothes in the way you can feel the drag of his yoga pants against your cunt, how the wetness of your cum and Jimin’s spit soaks into the fabric, his hard cock hot, and you let out a whine. He still has yet to remove any of his clothes and you want to see them off so he’s finally naked. You’ve seen enough of his bare skin over the months to have a pretty good idea of what that looks like, but you want to see the real thing.

Jimin seems just as eager to shed his clothes, yielding to your grasping hands and carelessly throwing his top aside; you end up straddling his waist and kissing down his chest in an imitation of his motions earlier, letting your fingers trail over the lean muscle from his yoga and dance. When you tongue at one of his nipples and he gasps, you feel euphoric. He’s unfairly beautiful, from the lovely collarbones to the flex of his shoulders and arms and the line of his chest and stomach, delicate and somehow entirely masculine. You still sort of want to slap him, but settle with kissing the hollow of his neck instead, digging your fingers into his ribs as you roll your hips down against him.

His own hips buck up. You can tell that he’s desperate to be inside you, but you want to taste him first.

When you slide down his body and settle between his legs, you hook your fingers into the tight waistband of those stupid leggings and tug them down. Jimin hisses through his teeth as you let the material settle just under his hips, baring the top of his briefs to you, how his cock strains against them, the patch of wetness at the head, darkening the fabric.

You don’t strip him. Not completely. You just hook your fingers into those dark blue briefs and pull them down just enough to reveal the flushed head of his cock, wet with precum. You let your tongue flick out to catch that salty bitterness, and Jimin bites off a curse at the almost shy licks you start to lave across his slit, circling around the weeping head.

Hearing Jimin’s gasps without the wall in the way is honestly an experience. Before, whenever he had people over, they usually drowned him out, theatrical wails and groans overpowering his far more natural noises, but now there’s nothing to prevent you from hearing the way his breath hitches in his throat or the way he moans. Even the smallest things have him letting slip sounds, a noise escaping him as you coax him to lift his hips so you can finally, finally peel those leggings and briefs off, dragging over the hardness of his cock as you do. You want to take in the sight of him fully naked, give it the proper attention it deserves, but then you feel his cock throb in your hand and you can’t stop yourself from immediately lowering your mouth to it again.

His whole body shudders. You let your jaw fall open as you take him in, tongue curling around him, hands touching every part of him that isn’t in your mouth, making sure there’s no part of him that isn’t receiving attention. His eyes are wide under the mess of his fringe, hair falling over his forehead as he watches the way you run your lips down the side of his cock before sucking one of his balls into your mouth, circling his length with your hands, a twisting rise and fall in the motion as you drink down the noise of surprised pleasure that drops from his lips.

Jimin’s fingers have been tangled in your hair but he lets you control the flow. The sounds of you swallowing him down into your mouth as you bob your head are obscene, wet and messy, but you can still hear how his voice starts to rise, how his fingers tighten against your scalp, and you know he’s close when he tugs you upwards and drags your lips away from his cock.

Jimin pulls you towards him and you settle against his chest as you start to kiss again, shivering at the way he rolls his tongue in your mouth. This time when Jimin rolls his hips, there’s nothing between your skin and his, dragging the underside of his cock across your flushed lower lips, the slide between your folds and against your clit making you shiver.

“Condoms?”

You’re breathless, and Jimin quirks a smile at you.

“Top drawer,” he answers. Of course they would be, in easy reach whenever he needs them.

You lean forwards to reach for the bedside table and Jimin takes the opportunity to circle a hand around your breast and capture a nipple in his mouth, ignoring the way you bite back a surprised noise, staring up at you with almost innocent eyes as he sucks at your skin in the way he’s worked out that you like best. Your hands are a fumble as you pull a condom out of the pack, ripping the sachet away from the others, a bottle of lube rolling into your grasp. You try to focus on your task and not the sensation of Jimin switching attention to your other breast, cupping the swell of flesh in his hand and drawing his teeth gently across your skin.

“You’re insatiable,” you mutter, and Jimin laughs before he kisses between your breasts.

“I’ve been wanting to fuck you since we first met,” he says, utterly unrepentant. “I don't want to take my mouth off you.”

“Insatiable,” you repeat, but you’re flustered. Even if you know he’s not lying, and you’re naked and straddling his hips, the taste of his lips and cock now familiar on your tongue, it’s… kind of incredible to think that the gorgeous Park Jimin has been lusting after you for that long.

Or lusting after you at all, really.

But as you tear the foil of the condom, the look he levels at you is burning with desire, roaming over you, every inch of your nakedness, every movement of your body. His hands rest at your waist, thumbs rubbing over your skin as you hold his cock in one hand and roll the condom down with the other, letting your fingers circle his length, dragging your touch over the heat of him and revelling in the way he twitches. As much as you’ve thought of Jimin as a fuckboy, you know that he wouldn’t lie just to get someone in his bed, so as unbelievable as his words are, every single one of his actions backs up what he’s said: he wants you.

You don't notice how soft his gaze is as you take time to warm the lube in your hands, even though you’re desperate to feel him finally slide home. You've always been so considerate, even when he knows you've been frustrated at him, and that's evident now, in this small thing.

You spread the warmed lube over his covered cock, pumping it in your hand to get him slick and ready, loving the way he hisses though his teeth. He has to stop his hips from bucking up as you line his cockhead up with your entrance, his fingers digging into your sides as you hover in place.

“Come on,” Jimin urges. “Give it to me.”

“Insatiable,” you repeat, one last time, then you bend your knees.

You finally ease yourself down and onto his cock. You both let out moans; Jimin, finally feeling the wet heat of you around him, and you, falling into the sensation of him stretching you open, snug inside you, slowly splitting you open as you take him in, inch by inch, until you’re sitting on his hips and he’s fully buried in your cunt.

It’s been a while since you’ve had someone inside you. You grind downwards, rolling your hips, biting your lip at the sensation. Jimin’s chest expands as he sucks in a sharp breath, and you roll your hips again, a hand bracing on one of his lovely, thick thighs, the other resting just under his stomach as you lean back and arch your spine. You lift your hips, easy and slow, and then fall, Jimin’s cock dragging and pressing against your inner walls, a gasp shuddering out of your lips at the electric feeling.

Again and again, noises of pleasure drip from your mouth as you ride him, head tilting back at the sensations rippling through your body and across your skin, the apartment full of the sounds of your sex—the moans, the wet thrust of Jimin’s cock into your cunt, the praise that falls from his lips, months of feeling pouring from his lips. How pretty you are, how gorgeous, how well you’re taking his cock, how wet and tight you are around him; all the things he’s been thinking about, come to life, his hips snapping into yours as a sharp cry cuts through your lips at the sudden change of pace.

The pleasure’s been steadily building between your legs again, warm and unrushed, but then Jimin flips you without warning, fluid and graceful. Your eyes are wide as you end up on your back, Jimin’s hands braced either side of your head as he looks down at you with those dark, dark eyes of his. He thrusts forwards and your hands fly up to grab at him, your entire body shifting up the mattress at the force of his movements. His eyebrows are drawn together as he starts to drive himself into you, unapologetic in how aggressive he’s being, each thrust pushing the air out of your lungs in harried little gasps that shake the air between you.

The sound of his headboard slamming into the wall, a noise that’s been haunting you each time you’ve been trying to sleep or relax, is one you don’t even register. All you can think about is Jimin, Jimin, Jimin, caught up in the way there’s sweat beading across his forehead, strands of his dark hair sticking to it, the intense look in his eyes, the way his full lips are parted, small ah-ah-ahs falling from his lips in time with his thrusts, your body tightening around him each time he slides home.

You can’t remember the last time you were fucked this good. Jimin reads the language of your body with ease, knowing exactly when to lean back and trail a hand over your hips, circling his thumb over your swollen clit, the slide over that bundle of nerves messy from the mix of cum and lube and spit that’s laid slick across you. Each fluid roll of his hips is perfectly timed with the press of his thumb, your thighs going tense and your pussy clenching around Jimin’s hot cock as you start to reach another peak of pleasure.

“Cum for me, baby.” Jimin sounds breathless. “Let me see how pretty you are when you cum around my cock.”

Normally dirty talk seems so ham-handed and stuttering, but the words fall out of Jimin’s lips as natural as breathing, thoughtless. Stirring your arousal even further. He’s gripping your hips, pulling you down each time he presses up, and you circle your fingers around his wrist as his other hand is occupied with rubbing at your most sensitive part, tightening your hold as you feel another orgasm approaching.

“Jimin.” Your voice is a keen. “I'm so close, please, there, right there, theretherethere—”

You can't blame Jimin's other partners for being so noisy. The sound you let out is just as loud, maybe even louder, Jimin continuing to snap his hip forwards as you cum hard, a drawn out moan that crescendos as you pulsate around Jimin's cock, still hard inside you. He watches the way you writhe beneath him, tangling his fingers with yours when you reach for him and swallowing the end of your moan in a surprisingly sweet kiss, his lips gentle against yours as he slows to a stop before you become too sensitive.

Your voice is a quiet murmur against his lips. “How have you not cum yet?”

His eyes squeeze into a smile as he laughs, light and bright, the sound so sweet. “I've got stamina for days, darling,” he says, oozing that trademark arrogance you’ve gotten used to.

You clench as hard as you can around him and feel smug when he bites off a shocked curse, his smug facade broken. You can’t help but laugh at his expression, scandalised at it is, though your giggle cuts into a gasp when he pinches one of your nipples and then soothes it with his thumb. He seems amused by the look on your face and then laughs in turn, the two of you dissolving into laughter that’s edged with pleasure, your motions shifting his length inside you.

When the laughter trails off, Jimin stays smiling down at you. You draw your hands over his body, tracing all that smooth skin, and he touches the back of your hands with gentle fingers. There's a beat of silence but it's not an uncomfortable one, the air light after your shared giggles. It's… really nice. It's nice and soft and sweet, just like the expression on Jimin's face, tender, even if he's still buried inside you.

You feel so empty when he slips out, already missing the thickness of his cock when it seems as though he’s about to coax you to roll onto your front. Your hands are still linked with his and you tighten your fingers, making him pause.

“I want to see your face,” you confess quietly. It’s probably too much to ask of him but you feel like if you’re turned away from each other then you’ll feel like nothing more than a fucktoy. Just another warm body in Jimin’s bed. You don’t want that.

Jimin stares at you, surprise written across his features before his expression softens.

"Okay, baby," he murmurs indulgently. The small pet name sounds so sweet in his mouth. "We can stay like this."

He lets your hands go so that he can reach for a pillow that ends settled under your ass, tilting your hips up towards him. You’re not as flexible as he is—maybe you should start doing yoga too—but Jimin doesn’t push you far, hitching your legs up and draping your calves over his shoulders, leaning towards you so that the back of your thighs are warm against his chest. He's bent forward, face hovering above yours, so much skin-on-skin contact that your entire body feels warmed by him.

When he slides back in, you can feel the change in angle immediately. The head of his cock brushes over your g-spot and you suck in a sharp breath; Jimin notices, of course, aiming to hit it again, and again.

It feels good, of course. Amazing. But as much as you’d be happy for Jimin to make you cum again, you’d rather see him fall apart.

You dig your nails into his shoulder blades, turning your head so you can press kisses along the line of his jaw, murmuring into his ear.

“Are you going to let me see you cum?”

Jimin’s hips stutter as your words curl out of your mouth, warm against his skin. You’ve been picturing Park Jimin’s o-face for an endless amount of weeks and you’re ready to finally see the real thing.

“Cum on me,” you say, and then choke in a sob of air as Jimin responds with a sharp snap of his hips. “I want you to cum on me, Jimin, please.”

Your begging is shameless and you know it. Jimin’s face is so close to yours in this position and you can see how blown his pupils are, how his mouth is flushed from your kisses and how he’s been biting at them, his teeth digging into his lip as he starts to get faster, sloppier in his thrusts. It feels so good to know that you’re making him feel like this, that he’s reaching the peak of his pleasure with his body against yours, inside you, above you; he might have had other people in this position in the past, but right now it’s you who’s making Park Jimin come apart.

You urge him onwards with large, pleading eyes, rocking down on his cock each time he thrusts forward, begging the whole time. Pleading for him to cum, to give it to you, to cover you. Jimin obviously likes you loud and desperate, and you're more than willing to give him what he wants.

He slips out of you, fumbling with the condom and carelessly tossing it aside before he starts to pump his cock, hungry to reach his peak as he fucks into his fist. You let your legs fall open as you watch the way his body tenses, his brows drawn together and little breaths falling out of his mouth, barely audible over the wet slide of his cock in his hand. You run your hands over your body, across the swell of your breasts, down your stomach, dipping between your legs, trying to look as arousing as possible, anything to throw Jimin over the edge.

"I've imagined you cumming for months," you confess, words thoughtlessly falling from your lips. "On me, inside me, in my mouth—"

Park Jimin’s o-face is just as gorgeous as the rest of him.

You love how noisy he is. He paints your stomach with his cum, ropes of white spattering across the soft skin of your stomach and hips as he rides out his orgasm, moaning as he continues to milk his twitching cock. It’s so fucking hot, honestly, as is the expression on his face when you swipe your fingers through his cum and lift it to your lips, mouth filled with salt and warm.

“Fuck.” He’s breathless, panting. “You’re unbelievable.”

You let out a small scoff, but it’s edged with affection. “Says the man who was ready to fuck me six ways to Sunday,” you say. “If anyone’s the unbelievable one here, it’s you.”

“I can last longer, but you’re just so hot,” Jimin says. You respond by curling your fingers at him, beckoning him towards you, and you end up sharing a series of messy kisses.

You were, honestly, genuinely angry when you'd stepped into his apartment earlier, even if that irritation had been rounded out with arousal and desire. Now, though, you feel thoroughly boneless and content, loose limbed on Jimin's mattress, his lips and tongue moving against your own.

He leans too far forwards and smears his own cooling cum against his stomach. He doesn’t seem bothered, though. You’re the one who has to coax him to clean up, though with the way he looks at your still naked body, you know he would happily launch straight into a second round of fucking so he can add more cum to the canvas of your skin.

He really is insatiable, apparently, when it comes to you.

Even so, you wonder if Jimin’s going to kick you out now that he’s finally had a taste of you. He doesn't. He keeps you close, your body pressed against his side in a way that feels far more intimate than you would have expected.

“Are you hungry?” Jimin breaks the soft silence.

You’ve been trailing nonsensical patterns over his chest but pause when he says this. “Hm?”

“Are you hungry?” Jimin repeats, and there’s a cheeky smile flickering at the edge of his lips. “I have some more peaches in the fridge, if you’d like one.”

“That peach.” Your voice is an embarrassed hiss and your cheeks burn, but Jimin just laughs, boyish and bright as you slap halfheartedly at him. “That was just unfair. Who eats fruit like that?”

“Someone who’s trying to make it obvious that he’s imagining the peach is his neighbour’s pussy instead.” He’s so brazen. “And it clearly worked, didn’t it?”

It had worked. It's annoyingly effective, actually; thinking about the way Jimin had been staring at you as he tongue fucked that peach has arousal shooting through you, even after being so thoroughly fucked by him.

“Yeah, now you’ve had me,” you say. “What do you plan to do next?”

Jimin goes quiet. You wonder if you’ve misstepped, but then he sweeps his hand down the curve of your spine, goosebumps appearing in the wake of his touch.

“I was planning on asking if you wanted to go out for lunch,” he says, his voice so sweet, miles away from the fuckboy persona he usually puts on. This is the softer Park Jimin that you’ve caught glimpses of when he’s unaware, the side of him you wished he’d show more often—revealed to you, now. “Then, if you said yes, I was going to take you out on a date. If that date went well, then I was going to ask if you’d like to go on another one with me. And then another.”

One thing you know about Park Jimin is this: he doesn’t do dates. Each of his lays are one time affairs, no attachments made, no real connection beyond the physical act of sex. Your heart rate picks up.

“Obviously we’d fuck between dates,” he adds, raising his eyebrows at you in a way that’s so exaggerated that it makes you laugh. Of course. Jimin likes to fuck. “Unless you didn’t want to, but there are only so many peaches I can eat, you know?”

“So if I said I didn't want to fuck, and you ran out of peaches, what would you do?”

Your question seems casual and light but Jimin isn't stupid. He knows what you're really asking. Is he genuinely interested in something more exclusive, or would you just become another notch in his bedpost if he grew tired of waiting for you to spread your legs again?

"I can always buy more peaches."

You stare at him. He's looking at you levelly, a small smile on his face that's a little cocky but mostly warm. And, well, you know he's already gone without other partners for you, even before he'd gotten you in his bed. Park Jimin is serious about you, it seems. He'll wait.

You mouth at his collarbones, tasting the salt of sweat as you kiss and lick at his skin.

"After lunch, we can go back to my apartment, if you want," you whisper against his throat.

Just because Jimin's willing to wait doesn't mean you're going to force him to, especially as you're still as hungry for him as he is for you.

His hands squeeze your sides as you end up kissing again. You feel soft and ripe and sweet, easing under the touch of Jimin's hands and mouth.

"I still think you're a fucking menace, though," you add, and Jimin laughs so hard the bed shakes, still utterly unrepentant and entirely yours.

taglist: @beyoncesdragon

#btswritingcafe #jimin smut #jimin oneshot #jimin x reader #bts #bts au #bts smut #jimin fanfic #jimin #jimin x oc #bts oneshot #park jimin #jimin imagine #jimin scenario #bts fic #bts fanfic #joy.masterlist

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sage-nebula · 3 years

Text

((do NOT reblog))

Lately I’ve been thinking that I have Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. I’ve been tired—like, extremely so—for . . . maybe a year now? If not longer. It feels like it settled in shortly after I started my new job back in March of 2019, so in that case it’d be more like a year and nine months, but it’s hard to say for sure. I thought for a long time that it was because of my new job, because I have to wake up early in the morning for it and my delayed sleep phase disorder means that I’m running on a lower than average hours of sleep each night during the week. But lately I think it’s more than that.

See, the thing is, it doesn’t matter how much sleep I get. Even if I get the suggested nine hours a night, I’m still dozing off a little after waking up, like a couple hours later. Even if I get twelve, thirteen, or fourteen hours of sleep in a night, sure enough I’ll be dozing off again a few hours after waking up. I have no energy to do anything on the weekends. Even if I get the aforementioned thirteen hours of sleep Friday going into Saturday, on Saturday I still feel so drained that doing a load of laundry leaves me feeling completely wiped out. This causes mess to pile up in my house, because I just don’t have the energy to get it done, because I only start to feel normal by Sunday night (and even then it’s like barely normal) but then the work week starts again. I had a four day weekend this weekend thanks to the Christmas holiday, and I spent both Thursday and Friday with no energy to do anything at all. Even when I didn’t feel sleepy, I felt so drained of energy that just laying there felt like the most that I could do. Today I’ve felt a bit better, but still recuperating. Tomorrow, my last day off, is the only day I think I’ll have the energy to actually do stuff and get my house in order. But then the work week starts again, and so does the cycle anew.

And the thing is, this isn’t normal. I didn’t used to be like this. Even when I was only getting like five hours of sleep a night, I’d just need a day or so of rest and then I’d be back at 100%. But now it’s like I’m slow charging, and it’s never enough because I don’t have time for it to be enough. One or two days of sustained activity is enough so that my body wants to shut down for like a week. And it’s not sustainable! It’s very hard to live like this! I can’t keep my house clean or do basically anything else because I feel so drained. This is also why I haven’t written anything of substance in so long; even though writing isn’t a physical activity (aside from the physical activity of typing), it still takes energy, and that’s energy that I just haven’t had. My battery is constantly in the red, yellow at best, and I don’t know what to do about it.

About four or five months ago, when I told my doctor about this, he gave me Antidepressant #2 in an effort to help it. That seemed to work for like, a day or two . . . then I went right back to falling asleep at my desk at work no matter how much I slept the night before. I recently asked him to up the dosage to see if that would help, and he agreed*, but then I discovered that upping the dosage gives me tinnitus, and people on the internet say that after they kept using it despite the tinnitus it got to the point where the tinnitus never went away even after they stopped the medication, so. I’ve decided to stop taking that one and I’m going to try to wean myself off it. I’ll talk to him about that on Monday.

(*He said that he didn’t think that it would help and suggested that I exercise to get more energy instead. Of course, the fatal flaw of that plan is that I don’t have the energy needed to exercise in the first place. Plus, my legs are such shit that even things like jump rope cause my right ankle and left shin to be fucked up for days afterward. He suggested I try yoga, since that’s a low impact exercise, and I’ve got myself a mat to give it a shot, but I don’t have much optimism about it making much of a difference.)

I looked up Chronic Fatigue Syndrome online and it honestly does sound like it fits. I’m constantly exhausted, I have daily headaches (which could be down to my genetics since I do have genetic migraines but still), I often have muscle pain in various parts of my body, etc. But at the same time I’m not sure if it’s actually that or if I’m just overreacting. Like I don’t know what the threshold is, or if I’m like, I don’t know . . . what if I’m just lazy? I don’t think I am, because there are things I genuinely wish I could do that I just don’t have the energy to do. I wish I could take my dog on hikes and long walks. Pre-pandemic, I wanted to do things like go to the art museum or the science center or the zoo. I’d like to do rock climbing, provided my legs could handle that, and so on. But even before the pandemic, I never had the energy on the weekends to actually go out and do those things. I’d want to! But then I’d feel so dead that I couldn’t even get out of bed before late afternoon / evening, much less actually go out to do things. Don’t get me wrong, I do take my dog on short walks at least once a day, usually multiple times a day, because I’d never neglect her needs like that. But it’s not the same as being able to take her out to a trail and explore new areas that would surely be more interesting to her nose than just our neighborhood.

So I don’t think I’m lazy, because I want to do these things, and even smaller things, like I wish that my house could be clean and that I could make all these interior decorating renovations to it, but I just don’t have the energy. But I still don’t know if it’s actually bad enough to be considered Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. I still don’t know if I’m overreacting. What if this is a level of exhaustion that everyone has, but unlike me they can push through it? What if this is just part of Being Thirty and I’m just too weak to handle it? It’s like how I didn’t know if the pain I felt during my period was normal or not, and I still don’t actually. My gyno gave me the birth control implant to drive my periods down just because I asked for it, she didn’t actually diagnose me with any illness like endometriosis or anything like that. Sure, it felt like machetes were being shoved up into me every month to the point where I’d become incapacitated and sometimes even cry out in pain and sometimes even throw up due to how bad it was, but it could be that way for everyone, right? Maybe that’s just how it feels to have the lining of your uterus shred itself because it’s mad you didn’t get pregnant that month. How am I supposed to know?

There’s no real point to this post. It’s more that I just wanted to get my thoughts down somewhere. I don’t even know where to go from here, really. I don’t think my doctor takes me seriously enough to look into a diagnosis like this, but also I’ve never had luck finding a doctor that does take me seriously and I don’t really know where to start looking. To be fair, I do have an anxiety disorder and so I grant that my mind does find jumping to the Worst Case Scenario to be an easy one, but also the last doctor I had literally would not listen to me describe my breathing problems to her without dismissing me entirely, so. It’s been rough. Of course, even if I did get a diagnosis, it’s not like there’s a treatment, and definitely not a cure. So even if I do have CFS, what can be done about it? It’s not like knowing will solve the issues that it causes in my life.

I don’t know. There’s no point to this. It just really sucks to be fucking physically exhausted all of the goddamn time, especially since sleep does little to help it and I hate sleeping anyway since I have nightmares at least 75% of the time, if not 85%. (It honestly feels more like 85%. Maybe even 90%. It’s very rare that I wake up having not had at least one or two bad dreams that night.) I just want to have energy. I don’t know what that’s so much to ask of my body.

But anyway, DO NOT reblog this, or I’ll just delete it so the cut leads nowhere anyway and also block you, thank you,

#just medical ramblings under the cut #//--do not reblog--//

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peanutbutterworm · 3 years

Text

i love you

here we go!! here is my moreid secret santa fic!

click here to read it on AO3

warnings: none, light angst at one point but it is mostly tooth rotting fluff

word count: 4196

summary: Penelope begs and begs Hotch until he finally lets her have a BAU secret santa party. There is a small problem for Dr. Spencer Reid however when he is set the task of giving a gift to his best friend and crush, Derek Morgan.

“Hotch please?” Penelope drew out the last vowel of the word, as if it would make him say yes.

“I told you, Garcia, it’s out of my hands for now. It sounds like a great idea, really, but I don’t think that Strauss nor the director would approve of it.”

“It doesn’t have to be a work thing! Just, as friends, as a family.”

“And I already told you, Garcia, as long as we’re using company time it is a ‘work thing’.”

“God why does everyone have to be so boring. It’s a bonding thing!” Penelope checked the date on her phone. “It’s November 29th, if we’re not allowed to do this I’m going on strike.”

“Mhm,” Hotch was already moving on to something else, and Penelope left in a huff. She ran into Spencer on the way back to her office.

“Hey Penelope,”

“Hi, Spencer.” She said curtly, storming past him.

“Woah, what’s going on today?” Spencer said, stopping her by grabbing her arm. Penelope sighed, realizing she wasn’t being her cheery self and someone was bound to notice, may as well be him.

“Walk with me, boy genius.” Penelope explained her current predicament on the way to her office, huffing and using her hands to talk the entire way.

“And I don’t get why Strauss won’t allow it! It’s a great team bonding activity, and we would have so much fun!” She finished explaining.

“Garcia, we have fun without ‘team bonding activities’, I don’t understand why you’re so upset about this.”

“Because, I’m tired of being ignored. I just want one of my suggestions to go through and I’m starting to think Strauss doesn’t like me.”

“I’m pretty sure Strauss doesn’t like any of us,” Spencer said, sipping his coffee from a company mug.

“Yeah I know,” Penelope put her head into her hands and sighed. “Why are they so against us having fun?”

“They think it ‘interferes with the job’” Spencer said, quoting a seminar they were forced to go to.

“Yeah, bullshit.” Penelope half scoffed into her hands, half laughed. “How is it going with Derek?” She asked, smirking up at Spencer. Spencer couldn’t help but turn a little red whenever she asked about him. He had told Penelope about his crush on her best friend in September, and even though it had been going on for much longer Spencer was reminded every day why he didn’t tell her sooner. However Spencer never missed a chance to talk to her about it. Even though Penelope was a huge gossip, she would never tell Derek something this important without asking Spencer for permission first. And anyways, it was nice to get stuff off his chest.

“Nothing has really happened, just still lying awake at night thinking about him instead of doing something productive with my chronic insomnia.”

“How can you be productive with chronic insomnia anyways?”

“I don’t know… do things?” Spencer giggled and then paused, recalling something. “Wait, I do recall, I saw him at the grocery store.”

“No way, you two shop at the same place?”

“Unfortunately. I was too awkward to say anything anyways, and I looked like a mess too.”

“I’m sure he didn’t care. This is the man that saw me almost die and I need not remind you that he has seen you in the hospital. Multiple times.”

“I try not to remember.”

“Did he say anything?”

“No.”

“You are so boring,”

“It was late, Garcia. I don’t think I had the patience to deal with anyone, including him, and if you were to ask him I’m pretty sure he would say that feeling’s mutual by how he looked.” Spencer sighed. “He was so pretty though. Like sleepy pretty, not the way we see him at work.”

Penelope was just sitting there, sighing.

“What!” Spencer said, playing with a piece of dirt that was caught between his nails.

“Nothing. You are just so, so fucked.”

“I know!” Spencer dropped it and threw his hands to his face. “He’s just so… AH! I feel like a teenage girl.”

“Considering your looks, you might not be far off.”

“Hey!”

“Kidding, but really, you need to tell him. It’s gotta happen eventually.”

“No, I don’t want to ruin our friendship for my own feelings, it’s selfish.”

“Have you ever considered he might feel the same way?” Penelope asked, and Spencer just stared back at her. “You’re telling me you haven’t?”

“I just haven’t thought about it, of course it’s a probability but the chance that he likes me back is just so low. Did you know the chance of your crush liking you back is-” Spencer was cut off when Derek walked into the room, right into the middle of a conversation he had no idea was about him.

“Thank you for saving me from that,” Penelope said.

“Hotch needs you both at the round table,” was all Derek said, smirking at both of them.

“We’ll be there soon.” Spencer said, staring as Derek left the room. “Do you think he heard any of that?”

“You talk too fast and I wasn’t really keeping up very well, but no, I don’t think he knows it was about him at the very least.”

“Thank god.” Spencer sighed. “Come on, I don’t want to be yelled at by Hotch again.”

“Guess whatttttt!” Penelope said, with everyone mingling around their desks on a chilly December morning, having not been called in on a case yet for the day.

“Did someone die?” Emily asked, taking a headcount of everyone there, all BAU team members accounted for.

“What? No, oh my god Em. Unrelated to death, we get to have a secret santa!” She exclaimed, and everyone's faces lit up with smiles.

“Strauss thinks it would be good for us to bond over the holidays,” Hotch said, cracking a small smile.

“Yeah yeah, anyways write your names on these,” Penelope all handed them a torn piece of paper, “and put it in the magic hat.” She held out a small colorful beret she sometimes wore to work and mixed up all the names that were placed in it. “Now who wants to go first?” She asked, looking around the room eagerly.

“Can I go, Pen?” JJ asked, walking up to the hat.

“Why of course my dear,” Penelope said, dropping into a bow but making sure none of the names spilled out.

This went on for ten minutes until everyone had someone picked out. Penelope then took the last name out of the hat for herself before snugly fitting the hat back onto her head.

Spencer looked at the slip of paper he had gotten, and in all caps was the name Derek . He reminded himself that there was a 1 in 7 chance. A one in SEVEN chance. Maybe the universe just hated him, he mused to himself, trying to keep a poker face while slipping the paper into his pocket. He would tell Penelope about this later, because even though they were supposed to keep it a secret, she would want to know about this.

Derek did the same as everyone and glanced at his small slip of paper but did a double take when he saw the name scrawled on the parchment. Spencer Reid, was all it said in black ink. Great, of course he got his best friend, whom of which he was inconveniently in love with at the moment. He tried to keep his facial expression neutral, as there was a team full of profilers watching and if he even showed the slightest amount of emotion right now, it might give away who he had drawn.

“Now as per the rules of our lovely unit chief, no gifts above $20, and no telling who you got, as it would ruin the game. We will exchange gifts on the 24th and our lovely Rossi has agreed to let us use his home for the gift exchange.” Penelope described the rules, gesturing over to Rossi.

“Not home, mansion” He corrected, smiling.

A few days later, after agonizing over whether or not he should tell Penelope about his crush on Spencer, Derek texts Penelope. Everyone is asleep on the jet home except for Spencer and him. Spencer is reading a book at a million miles an hour, and Derek is on his phone. However every few seconds in between texts he would look up at the doctor, who always looked so peaceful and serene while reading.

New iMessage from: Garcia

You’re kidding me.

Derek smiled at his phone and typed,

No, I’m not. And I got him for secret santa too. I am so fucked, aren’t I?

He finished typing and set his phone on his lap, glancing at Spencer again while waiting for a response. Well, he thought, less of a glance, more of a stare. He zoned out looking at the younger man, memorizing the way his hands ran over the page. Suddenly the doctor looked up, and they looked in the eyes for a moment before they both quickly looked away. He felt a buzz on his chest and feeling grateful to have an excuse to look at something other than him, continued his conversation with Penelope.

Garcia: First of all you weren’t supposed to tell me the secret santa thing, second of all, I can feel you staring at him from here. You are so in love it makes me sick.

Penelope rummaged around her office in Quantico, cleaning up before the team arrived and they all got to go home. She felt her phone buzz in her pocket and took it out, Morgan again.

Derek: I know, but I had to tell somebody because I’m going crazy over it. I don’t know what to get him. He deserves something better than some random book.

Garcia: My sweet, I promise you he will love anything you get him.

Derek: You sure?

Garcia: I am sure.

Garcia: And if you don’t go to sleep right now Derek Morgan I will strangle you when you get back.

Derek: Fine fine, we’ll be back in an hour. You should get some rest too, go home.

Garcia: Like hell I’m leaving before you all get back here safely. I’ll wait.

They landed in Quantico about an hour later, and as promised, Derek was asleep for about 30 minutes when the jet landed and jolted everyone awake. They all walked back into the building together, tired as all hell even though most of them got sleep on the plane.

“Hey, kid,” Derek said, walking with Spencer to his desk. “Did you get any sleep?”

“Nope,” Spencer said, packing up his things, avoiding looking Derek in the eye.

“Are you alright?” Derek asked, and Spencer froze in his tracks. There were a million things he could’ve said at that moment, but he just continued packing his things after a muttered ‘yea,’. “You know you can talk to me, right?” Derek asked, but Spencer just started thinking about how no, actually he could not talk to him because talking to him about the particular thing he was feeling at the moment would ruin their friendship and Spencer didn’t know if he could take any heartbreak at the moment considering he was tired and about to break down into tears.

“Please, just go to your office, Morgan. I don’t want to talk.” Was all he said, and as Derek walked away a single tear slipped down Spencer’s cheek, which he aggressively rubbed away. The rest of the team was either too busy wrapping up or too tired to notice the distress Spencer was in at the moment.

Derek walked to his office, trying not to burst into tears. When he closed his door he immediately started crying, though. He wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take. He hated seeing Spencer in danger, which is exactly where every case put him. And he was always so cold to him, like working with him now was a pain, a formality that must be gone through with. The glance on the plane was a spark of hope before, that maybe Spencer felt the same way, but it was put out by the way he acted earlier. He didn’t know anymore.

He knocked on Penelope’s door, hoping that the technical analyst hadn’t gone home yet. And she hadn't; she was sitting in her chair, knitting when Derek came in. She jumped up, giving him a kiss on the cheek when he arrived.

“God I am so happy to see that you are safe and well and a million other good things.”

“Actually, safe and well might be the only two good things I feel at the moment, Pen.”

“Alright, talk to me. What happened.” She said, moving her way over to sit down with Derek, rubbing his back.

“I don’t know. There was a moment, on the plane, while I was texting you that I thought maybe, maybe he felt the same way but when we got back he was so cold. It was like he was trying to distance himself from me in every way.”

“Ok, well you’re the profiler. Tell me exactly what he said.”

“Babygirl I don’t remember-”

“I think you do.” Penelope said, crossing her arms at him.

“I do. He said, ‘Please, just go to your office, Morgan. I don’t want to talk.’ He sounded sad, and he said please, which means he was probably expecting me to stay.” Derek had a moment of realization before putting his head in his hands. “I should’ve stayed, oh my god I should have-”

“Hey, hey there is nothing you can do now. Deep breaths. And you’re right. Those sound like the words of someone who is trying to push you away for their own good. And I’ve heard them before,” She said, punching Derek softly in the shoulder. “I don’t think he wants you to leave, Der. I think he just needs some time to figure out himself, first.”

“Do you think he likes me?”

“I can’t say for sure,” (She definitely could) “But I’d say he does.”

“About the secret santa,”

“Hun, I don’t care that you told me.”

“No, not that. What should I get him?”

“I already told you. He would love a ‘random book’” She did air quotes around what Derek had said over text earlier. “But you should make it special, write a note inside or something.”

“You know what…” Derek started, getting an idea. “I think I will.”

“Great, glad I could be of help. Now if you will excuse me, I have to be back here in 6 hours now, and I would like to go home for at least 4 of those.

“Well don’t let me get in the way.” Derek said, smiling at her and backing out of the office.

Spencer spent the rest of that night overthinking, trying to sleep but only falling unconscious for 3 hours before his blaring alarm woke him up. Did I push him away? He thought to himself, lying awake.

Spencer texted Penelope on his way into work, and even though he wasn’t much of a texting person, he didn’t have the time to make a call right now. All his text said was: I really messed up this time, Garcia. She replied as he was walking into the office, What did you do? Although Penelope, of course, had some inkling of what the young doctor was talking about. They had a few minutes before work officially started for the day, and Hotch hadn’t given them a case yet so he strode directly to Penelope’s office, not bothering to set down anything.

Spencer knocked on the door before coming in, and closed the door before sitting down.

“Alright, so spill.” She said, crossing her legs. Her office was becoming less and less of a technical analysis space and more of a therapist’s couch.

“I pushed him away. I was tired and angry and I pushed him away.”

“Slow down, slow down. I’m sure he didn’t take it that way, all of you were feeling that way last night.”

“No but he seemed angry with me too and I-”

“I can promise you. He probably was angry at first and regretted it, and now he’s thinking the same thing you are. Make an effort today to reach out to him, you’ll be surprised.”

“You sound like JJ reading my horoscope.”

“Maybe I can just see into the future.”

“Yeah right, and anyways that isn’t the end of it. I know I’m not supposed to tell you but I got Derek for the secret santa thing.” Spencer sighed into this coffee that was pressed against his lips, and after taking a sip, said, “I’m starting to really hate you for putting this together, because I have no idea what to give him.”

“Maybe get him something he likes,”

“Yeah, but what does he even like? Music?” Spencer asked, setting his coffee cup on the table beside him. “But I don’t even know what or who he listens to. All I know is he likes music and I feel like I don’t know anything about him right now.”

“Football. He likes football.” Garcia said, also trying to think of things her best friend would enjoy as a present.

“Ok that’s a start, what about football is there…”

“No, no scratch that. Do you know how to make a mix of music on a CD?”

“Garcia, you know I can barely work a printer.”

“I’ll help you. I made his playlist that he listens to on the jet so I know what he likes. All you have to do is give it to him.”

“Wow, thanks Penelope. I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t. Say anything that is, just go catch a serial killer and I’ll have it ready by the end of the day.”

As promised, at the end of the day Spencer walked into Penelope’s office and she had a CD ready for him. It was a relatively short case, a local one that had the team home before 8pm. Everyone was in a good mood, but decided to go home early while they had the rare chance.

“Ok here it is, loverboy. Just so you know you can write on it with Sharpie and it won’t mess up the disc.” She winked and handed it to him, Spencer blushing and turning around to make sure no one was at the door.

“Thank you, Penelope. Really.”

“It’s nothing. Thank me when you finally confess your love to that himbo.”

“What’s a-”

“You know what, I’m not explaining that to you. Go home, try and go to sleep early tonight.” She said, pushing him out the door with his new CD. As the door closed in his face, Spencer started to say,

“Have a nice-” But it closed before he could say “-night.” He sighed and walked down the hall, carrying his CD and bag with him towards the elevator. He didn’t expect to see anyone else, but lo and behold Derek Morgan walking towards the elevator at the same time.

“Hey, Reid.” He said, stepping into the elevator with him.

“Hey,” Spencer replied, glancing everywhere but into Derek’s eyes. They were about level, height-wise, and this made it harder for Spencer to avoid his gaze, so he just stared down at the ground.

“Look, if you don’t want to talk to me, that’s fine. I just want to know why.” Spencer’s face heated up in shame, and he looked to Derek.

“I’m sorry that I’ve been acting so cold lately. I’ve been having a hard time, but Garcia helped me realize I shouldn’t be shutting people like you who care about me out.”

“Garcia helped you realize-” Derek paused, thinking. “How long have you two been talking?” He asked, curious.

“Pretty much every day since September.”

“Ok ok, I see.” Spencer didn’t question the way Derek asked how long he’d been talking to Garcia, and switched the topic of conversation.

“Four days and counting until the Secret Santa party.” He said, glancing back at Derek.

“Yeah, you excited?”

“Mostly excited to see who mine is.” Spencer said, staring at the elevator doors, which had just opened. “Have a good night,” He said, walking out the doors of the building, rushing towards his car.

“Yeah, you too.” He said, but Derek knew that Spencer was long gone by now. Derek left the building and walked towards his car, starting it and leaving the parking lot as quick as he got here this morning.

The day of the Secret Santa party, Hotch had one case for them. When they got to the round table, everyone was pretty disappointed, because cases often meant that they came back late and in a bad mood. But it turned out that this one was just an hours drive away, and even quicker on the jet, so everyone hopped in, hoping that this wouldn’t take long.

The case only ended up lasting the day, as the killer was sloppy and left behind an extensive trial. The BAU team boarded the jet wondering why they were even called in to help in the first place.

“Hey, at least this means you all can still come over tonight.” Rossi said positively.

“Yeah, everyone’s coming, right?” JJ said, scanning the plane, but no one spoke up. Just nods of heads to confirm that they were all going.

They all took their seperate cars to Rossi’s, with Emily riding with JJ because she left her car at her apartment and took the subway.

When Spencer got there, the house was lit up. Rossi and Hotch had been the first ones to arrive, and shortly after Spencer the rest came filing in the door, joking and laughing with everyone. Spencer caught sight of everyone holding their gifts, wondering which bag or wrapped box was for him. Penelope was the last to come in, taking off her shoes at the door like everyone else and smiling at him with a wrapped present.

“Not for you,” She said, seeing the look on his face “That comes later.”

They all ate good food and talked and drank wine that night, and everything seemed perfect for that moment in time.

“Ok, ok. It is time for the event that we all came here for to take place!” Penelope said, a little wine drunk, standing up and grabbing her present. “Here’s what’s gonna happen, everyone stand up and go find whoever you were assigned. That’s it, good luck.”

They all rose from their seats to go find their assigned person. Spencer just silently waited. He knew he had Morgan, but he wanted to receive his present first and then find Derek because he was a little more… personal, and he didn’t want anyone getting in the way. Just then Derek made his way to him . No, no way is this happening, he thought, terrified and excited at the same time.

“Spencer Reid,” He said, handing the doctor a poorly wrapped present “I believe this is for you.”

“Oh my god,” Reid said, eyes darting between the present and Morgan.

“What?” Derek asked, visibly confused.

“Here. You were who I was assigned.” Spencer said bluntly, shoving the small present towards him.

“What are the odds,” Derek said, and then added as Spencer opened his mouth “please do not actually tell me the odds,” and they both laughed, unwrapping their gifts to each other. Spencer, since he got his gift first, unwrapped it faster and found a book.

“Derek, I love this,” It was a book he had never read before, and from the many books Spencer Reid had read, there weren’t a lot of those left. “Thank you.” He said, looking at him. He thumbed through the pages as the scent of the new book filled the air around them.

“Look at the inside cover.” Derek said, with a hint of shakiness in his voice.

“Only if you look at the CD.” Derek was holding the case in his hands, not taking the disc out itself yet. He was going to listen to it on the car ride home, he had told himself.

“Ok,” Derek wondered what was written on the CD. Probably just a funny playlist name or some fun fact about music, he thought dismissively. At the same time he pulled the disc gently from it’s casing, Spencer opened the cover to the book. In Spencer’s scrawled handwriting, Derek made out the words ‘I love you.’ written in black sharpie on the disc. As Spencer opened the book, he found Derek’s bold lettering on the cover page, saying ‘I love you.’

At the same time, they both looked at each other and came to a realization that this was not platonic. This wasn’t the way friends said they loved each other. And they both realized that the other felt the same way that they had been feeling for months.

“I love you too,” They both said at the same time, both letting out a laugh and realizing what happened.

“My place after this?” Derek asked under his breath.

“Most definitely.” Spencer replied, leaving Derek with a kiss on the cheek to go talk to Penelope.

#moreid #moreid fic #i love them!!#fanfiction #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fic #spencer reid #derek morgan #tooth rotting fluff.#fluff #light angst

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storytime-with-moth · 4 years

Text

Writing the Zukka weighted blanket oneshot

Zuko was draped over Sokka who has spread out on Zuko’s couch, the tv was still playing softly next to them but the hand that was drawing circles into Zuko’s back for the past hour had finally stilled and gone heavy against is back.

Zuko smiled into Sokka’s neck nudging the other awake. Whispering softly into his boyfriends ear.

“Stay here tonight.”

He felt Sokka stiffen ever so lightly beneath him, realizing that was a bit more forward than he had meant Zuko backtracked as he sat up.

“Nothing has to happen, we can just sleep! But it’s late and you had an early shift today and I really don’t want you falling asleep at the wheel and it’s raining - and I got pancake mix…” Zuko trailed off as Sokka sat up grabbing Zuko’s flailing hands with his own.

“Zu, take a breath. Of course I want to have pancakes in the morning with you. Let’s go get comfy.”

With a sigh of relief Zuko walked to his room to make sure everything was tidy and find a t-shirt big enough for his boyfriends broad shoulders.

While Zuko rummaged around for sleep clothes Sokka took a steadying breath and put his hand over his heart lightly pressing against his chest.

Everything is going to be fine, it’s one night. You haven’t had any nightmares or stress dreams in months, you can do one night.

Zuko walked back out of his room to be met by Sokka looking him up and down smiling coyly. He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. Zuko scoffed and relaxed more “In your dreams Sokka, you have been up for 17 hours, you need sleep. Plus I don’t want you falling asleep in the middle of making out, that’s a hit to my ego that I don’t need.” he said holding a soft grey t shirt, boxers, and an extra toothbrush towards Sokka.

Sokka laughed tiredly “fair enough buddy.”

“I though we talked about this?”

“What? Oh right! I’m not allowed to call you buddy if I’m making out with you on the regular.”

Sokka winked as he walked into the bathroom.

______________________

Zuko was already settled under a light blanket when Sokka made it out of the washroom dressed and teeth brushed he climbed in next to his partner.

Sokka shuffled around for a minute trying to get comfortable in the new bed, after five minutes of shifting Zuko wiggled close wrapping and arm around Sokka. “Is this okay?”

Sokka tried to keep his voice from wavering in relief “Ya perfect Zu.”

“I warn you I run hot so I’ll probably shift back to my side once I’m asleep, push me off if I make you to warm okay?”

Sokka nodded into his pillow. Like he was going to ever push Zuko let alone give up a human weighted blanket.

Eventually Zukos breathing evened out and Sokka was left awake surrounded by his boyfriends warm embrace trying to calm his anxious mind.

Now Sokka and Zuko had known each other for a while, but it was always as “we’re both friends with Aang and see each other at his house parties and events” sort of thing.

They had only started going out two months ago, when a very nervous Zuko asked Sokka if he wanted to grab a tea sometime, and a very surprised and eager Sokka said yes.

They had clicked right away, but Zuko told Sokka early on that he needed to take this slowly whatever this was going to be.

Sokka sighed heavily.

Zuko had been so brave, on their fourth date he sat down Sokka and set boundaries and laid out triggers, informing Sokka that he was working through his own trauma from his abusive Dad to his toxic Ex. And it was by no means Sokka’s responsibility to fix it but if they were going to date this is how he could support Zuko.

He should have said something then, but that is the case with anxiety. Given the opportunity to talk about you get nervous about being a burden or that you're making it all up or you overshare everything making it all about you. Or at least that’s what ran through Sokka’s mind while Zuko calmly shared how to help during a panic attack.

Sokka numbly nodded along, noting that what Zuko needed during a panic attack was different from his needs. Guess that’s the difference between anxiety and just straight up PTSD.

Then he immediately felt selfish, here he was worrying about his illogical, irrational anxiety when his boyfriend and gone through actual trauma.

So he listened and asked questions, never telling Zuko about the prescription of Xanax beside his bed or why he always went home at the end of the day no matter how late it was, to his own bed with his own weighted blanket that helped keep him asleep. Keeping away even the most subconscious worries.

But now it had been two months, and Zuko was right it was too late to drive home and he was so tired.

If only he was too tired be anxious

Finally after two hours of overthinking, counting sheep and willing sleep to come Sokka was swept up by sleep.

——————————

Zuko slowly started to wake. It wasn’t light out yet. The clock read 4am, what had stirred him from sleep?

It was then that he registered the soft shaking from behind him. Zuko turned over to see Sokka’s face twisted up in despair, his breaths coming in shallow and quick and his whole body jerking every few seconds.

Just before Zuko could reach out to comfort his partner Sokka shot up gasping clothing at his hair and his chest.

A soft whine escaped the crying boy’s mouth, in that moment Zuko was wide awake and gathering up his shaking boyfriend in his arms.

“Shhhhh, it’s okay…. You’re okay” He said softly over and over again while petting Sokka’s hair.

Sokka continue to shake as tears fell on Zuko’s arms.

“Sokka, Babe are you having a panic attack?” Zuko asked a little surprised.

The other boy nodded unable to speak.

“Okay, ummm, you’re in my room, you were staying because it was late, we were watch Lilo and Stitch earlier, uhh can you feel my hands in your hair?

Sokka nodded and tried to stop crying only for his breaths to stutter and stumble as his body heaved another sob from him without his consent.

“Sokka, how can I help?”

When the question finally registered with Sokka’s racing mind he grabbed his boyfriend’s hands and wrapped them tightly around himself in a constrictive hug. Zuko picked up on the nonverbal message and rearranged themselves so Sokka was between his legs with his back to Zuko’s chest and his arms wrapped tightly around him.

He kept a tight grip, continuing to speak to Sokka with soft reassurances that he was safe.

After sometime Sokka’s quick breathing began to slow and his tense body melted into Zuko’s, eventually he laid his head back against his boyfriends chest and quietly looked to the ceiling.

Zuko getting the message that he could loosen up relaxed his grip but kept himself loosely wrapped around his partner.

A minute of silence later Sokka said in a rough voice “Sorry for waking you up….”

Zuko looked flabbergasted “You’re Sorry? Sokka it’s not like you have control over your dreams.”

“Ya…. I know.”

He sounded so resigned and disappointed Zuko figured there was more than just a nightmare at play. He maneuvered Sokka around so they were facing each other, Sokka’s hands wrapped in Zuko’s.

Sokka was still resolutely looking at the bed and away from Zuko’s burning gaze.

“What’s going on in there Sokka? Please talk to me.”

Sokka nodded and open his mouth a few times before any words came out.

“So ever since my Mom died and my Dad started to go on longer leaves with the Red Cross - I started to worry about Katara and my Gram Gram, and basically every single thing. I had back up plans for my back up plans. I made us a tornado kit that I made Gram Gram keep under the sink. We lived in Nunavut, we don’t even have tornados!”

Sokka stopped for a moment trying to figure out what to say next. Zuko could see his partner was feeling a little lost so he started rubbing soft circles into Sokk’as hands as he held them.

“And then I was applying for universities and it stared to get really bad, panic attack after panic attack…. Sometimes for no reason, and sometimes they would last for days just one rolling into the next. Then I would feel hungover the next day without the fun drinking part before hand.

So Katara made an appointment and took me kicking and sternly refusing to the doctor, they uh… Well - So I have Generalize Anxiety Disorder and starting in uni I was also diagnosed with a panic disorder…”

Zuko clenched Sokka’s hands a little tighter in support to keep going.

“I have meds, that I take for actual panic attacks but I was able to stop taking chronic stuff a while back. I have a routine, I go swimming, I take that stupid joy through dancing class with Aang because it makes me laugh, I have my weighted blanket, and I paint. So I’m good right now. I wouldn’t have said yes to going out with you if I wasn’t okay, that wouldn’t be fair to either of us. I just didn’t know how to talk about it with you be-“

“Did you not tell me because you didn’t think I could handle it or because you thought I would think less of you?

Startled Sokka’s head snapped up to make eye contact with Zuko. “Spirtis no! I think you’re the strongest person I have ever met…. I - I guess I thought less of myself, like I was less worthy of your love because I feel all these things for no reason, like even when I’m good right? Even when I’m good it would still bubble up in my sleep and I would wake up - well like that. It was only after I Katara bought me that weighted blanket that I started actually sleeping through the night.”

“Wighted blanket?”

“Ya I know, turns out actual science to back it up! Pressure to help relieve anxiety, like a hug, or -“

“or me laying on top of you on the couch! That’s why you got so relaxed and sleepy isn’t it?”

Sokka smiled sheeplishy “Ya, once I figured out that pressure and touch kept me grounded I started getting really clingy with everyone. Toph had to start laying boundaries down, I now have to request a hug and she can and will deny them if she’s not in the mood.”

Zuko smiled softly “Ya that sounds like her.”

There was a silence as both of them tried to figure out what to say next. Sokka began to pick at his nails his hands still in Zuko’s.

Realizing his partner’s mind was beginning to wander somewhere away from him Zuko guided both of them back down onto the bed Sokka’s head tucked into his chest and for good measure he threw a leg over the taller man.

“Can I ask what it was about?”

Sokka spoke without looking up at Zuko “Their usually all over the place sometimes its me in my high school math class and everyone knows the answer except for me, or the gym teacher is teaching us how to write essays, those ones I just wake up stressed and a bit confused about what year it is…. Other times I’m being chased or I need to help Katara or my Dad but I just can’t seem to reach them.

Once last year I had this really bad one where I was babysitting my cousins toddler and we were out for a walk and then I just walked away and left them in the snow…. I couldn’t find them for hours. I woke up thinking I had walked away from a kid and left him to die, I had to call my cousin to make sure the baby was okay. She was so confused because Tu is five now and I haven’t babysat him in four years.

I have had a few where I make Aang cry and Katara yells at me and they leave forever. I always bring a coffee and a hot chocolate for them the next day, because I feel so bad about hurting them even if it was while I was asleep. And tonight… I don’t really get them much anymore with the blanket so I haven’t had one since we started dating, and uh you talked about me falling asleep at the wheel just before we went to bed, and when I was brushing my teeth I could see that it had started raining so I guess those thoughts stuck around because…”

Sokka clung tighter to Zuko as if to protect them both from an unseen force. Zuko kept rubbing his partners back and kissing the top of his head.

“I thought I was driving home from your place tonight, they always feel so real. But for some reason you were with me and then car was spinning and the air… When it landed I could hear you asking for me, saying you were bleeding. But I couldn’t move, I was frozen in place paralyzed and all I could do was listen, and then it was really quiet and I wasn’t sure if you were okay or - or if you had left or what. And it was raining and dark and all I wanted to do was turn around but I couldn’t.”

Zuko was a little thrown, Sokka was worried about him? About Zuko leaving Sokka?

“Hey babe look at me, Sokka love?”

Sokka tilted his head up to look at Zuko, he looked so apologetic like he had actually killed Zuko with his mind.

“Sokka I am okay, I promise. We didn’t go driving tonight. We stayed in at my house, we watched a movie. You made me so happy tonight, like you do everyday. I am so lucky to have you in my life. Okay?”

“kay.”

“But - and this is important. I want a partnership, I’m not looking for a therapist that sleeps with me I am looking for a relationship where we lean on each other. I need you to talk to me, trust that I will tell you my boundaries, I need this to go both ways. So from now on you have to start telling my this stuff okay?”

Sokka couldn’t look away, his eyes were twinkling with a few tears.

“You are amazing Zu, you know that?”

Sokka tilted his head asking for a kiss which Zuko happily obliged.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, I just didn’t want to mess this up. I really like you.”

“Well lucky for you I really like you to, now do you think you can sleep some more? I think I have a duvet somewhere in the closet.”

“Just hold me… please”

“I can do that, good night Sokka.”

“G’night Zu…”

—————————————————-

The next morning they had a long talk over pancakes, which ended with Sokka falling asleep on the couch with his head in Zuko’s lap while Zuko read.

And if next time Sokka slept over there was a brand new weighted blanket on his side of the bed, and if Zuko a typical little spoon was big spoon during exams, and Sokka kept his meds in an overnight bag now, well that was no one else’s business except their own.

Fin

___________________________________________

Feel free to use any of this! I love reading fluffy modern AU’s of these two supporting each other. Two intense lads making each other laugh is my weakness. So I would love to read a long fic where something like this happens.

For more of my prompts take a look at - Send me anything you create fanart or fanfic! - https://archiveofourown.org/works/26162617/chapters/63657982

I wrote Sokka’s experience with anxiety and stress dreams from my own experience (not everyone feels and deals with anxiety the same way) But I also hate sleeping away from home, I have nightmares in every hotel when I’m on vacation.

#zukka #ZUKKA NATION #zukka RIGHTS #zukka prompt #modernAU #Modern ATLA #avatar fanfic #Zuko x Sokka #sokka has anxiety #supportive boyfriends #fluff #oneshot prompts #i'm sad and queer #under pressure #i need a cuddle #avatar fluff

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ghostofbambifanfiction · 4 years

Note

So motivated by anyone who shares they are working on losing weight. FYI 10kg is nothing to sniff at, esp. if you're not being too restrictive (as a lot of restrictive diets basically make you lose water weight at first, prob not your case). Keep it up!! If you don't mind answering, what are your goals?

I don’t mind, but I’m putting it under a cut because it’s going to be a looooooonnnnng ass ramble and I’m going to include some pics and I’m aware that I’ve already clogged everyone’s timelines with enough pictures today. Before I go off on my tangent, though, I want to make it really clear that I firmly believe that any person can be beautiful and love the way they look at any size. This is something that I am fighting very hard to believe about myself, too, regardless of what weight I am. I am not at all a believer in slimming down for the sake of vanity (despite my negative opinion of my own looks, vanity has never been a big enough motivator for me to lose weight), but this has progressed to the point where vanity isn’t even a consideration anymore.

Okay, so, backstory. When I first moved to England, I weighed 140lbs (63.5kg) and I looked like THIS ↓

Aren’t I BEAUTIFUL? I think so, even if nobody else does, I think so. I think so now. That part matters.

I can distinctly remember that when all three of these photos were taken, you see. I also distinctly remember looking at each one afterwards and thinking, “Fat, repulsive, disgusting.” Fat, repulsive, disgusting. That was my opinion of myself. I repeated those words in my head on a daily basis. I truly believed them. Hence, I’m wearing the same ugly cardigan in two of those pictures, because whenever I wore pretty clothes I felt so undeserving that I was compelled to cover them up with something ugly (the red dress is an anomaly because there was a dress code involved). EVERY TIME. It practically become automatic. “I’ve spent £40 on this dress, so what can I cover it with?” was basically my mantra. It was fine, I thought, because I didn’t care about pretty clothes. Liking pretty clothes was beneath me. This was a lie. I love pretty clothes. I love bright colours. I was drawing pictures of pretty gowns and tiaras from the age of six. But hey, easier to pretend that you don’t give a shit about pretty dresses than admit that you don’t feel worthy of wearing them.

I am seven whole-ass years older now, and I topped out at 283lbs (128kg) on the scales fives weeks ago. That is the heaviest I have ever been. I have doubled my body weight. By medical standards, I am extremely obese, and I’ve had seven whole-ass years to think on how I behaved back then. I’ve thought a lot about how much I hated my body and how undeserving I felt and how I stuffed myself full of junk food and said it didn’t matter because I was repulsive anyway, so why not? I wasn’t being kind to myself. How can I be a kind person if I don’t treat myself kindly? My own self-loathing has cost me my health, because in 2013, I didn’t need to take stomach tablets every day. I wasn’t vomiting a few times a week because of chronic digestive issues. I had regular periods. I lived in Sunderland and would get out of bed on my days off and walk three miles to Seaburn beach, just to hang out with a book and build sandcastles and paddle in the water and thoroughly enjoy my life. I had the ability to do that without wanting to collapse. I had the energy to write for hours on end without getting sleepy after forty minutes. I had lots of energy, lots of it!

I don’t have the luxury of enjoying any of that stuff now. I have lethargy and sluggishness and I get breathless walking up the stairs, and a huge part of that is because I have gained so much weight over the years, and because I have been eating things that specifically exacerbate my digestive issues. And I’m sick of it. My brother’s lottery win has been the most insane blessing to my family in that it is allowing us all to live out our wildest travelling dreams, and I don’t want to be the person who takes an eight hour flight to Paradise, only to sit around and do nothing because she just doesn’t have the strength. There is an eleven-year-old diamond in my life who I would do anything for, and I want more than anything to be able to bring him places and have fun with him and partake, instead of sitting on the sidelines holding coats because I am too fat to ride the rollercoaster (which happened to me, FYI, shout out to Port Aventura for sticking to safety measures, though the woman manning the coaster didn’t have to poke my thigh and say, “fat,” to make her point clear).

The thing is, and maybe this is a tl;dr moment that could have saved me a lot of trouble, but I am unhealthy and I’m tired and this is like...my life. My one life. What am I doing? I owe it to myself to treat my body better.

So these are my aims.

I want to get back to 140lbs. That is a healthy and reasonable weight for my height and body type. I am aware that I will not look the way I did in 2013 because I am seven years older, but I don’t care. I am aware that I will have loose skin and a belly and wobbly thighs when I reach this weight, but I don’t care. I will have energy. I will be healthier. I will be able to bring my stepson to all kinds of places and have the most fun with him.

No fad diets ever. This is all I’ve ever tried before, and the end result has always been the same: lose a bit and put it back on. I am making legitimate and incremental changes to my lifestyle. I am building lasting habits. I will weigh myself once a week to keep track of how I’m doing, but never more than that. I will exercise every day for a small amount of time, but if I miss a day for any reason, I won’t beat myself up about it. I will not skip meals. I will not deprive myself of food.

I am an excellent cook and I love trying new things, so I will be using that skill to find and experiment with new, delicious recipes from all over the world for my family to eat. Once lockdown ends, I’m going to start throwing dinner parties. I think this will really help me to change my attitude towards food and make meals fun for me, rather than a self-inflicted punishment.

No denying myself things. If I want to get a McDonalds I will get a McDonalds because, y’know what? Tomorrow I am going to have lots of veggies and cook myself a good, nutritious dinner, and that McDonalds won’t be anything but a delicious interlude in my week that I am not going to feel bad about.

No hiding myself in drab clothes. I hate wearing brown, grey and black and yet it accounts for most of my wardrobe. Both of those cardigan pics were taken in the middle of summer. I have wasted years of my life sweating it out in long sleeves and leggings so other people wouldn’t see, and for who? For what purpose? I am going to buy all the pretty clothes I like, wear loads of bright colours. Fuck it, it’s just for me.

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leggyre · 4 years

Note

bun isnt showing up on my dash, smh tumblr, I can see the post on your blog but its not showing up in my feed (also I was talking about ur oc nano... their old and new stuff :0)

[cough] delayed one day because i started feeling sleepy LOL

uuuh honestly nano-cen hasn’t changed much since the last time ive looked at him mostly because i ditched him for yu and he deserves it

I don’t really remember how much I shared last time I was asked about him though so *checking papers* lemme see

uuuh i guess it takes me longer to explain nano usually because he’s very attached to the concept of the world he’s in. Sure I can just say “there is this bunny and he is a medium and his family is all about that spirituality stuff” but it’s not the same if i don’t add “and that’s pretty normal for most part because in the world he comes from the gap between the living and the dead is very small and they are actually able to contact each other so talking to deceased ancestors is a pretty normal thing though it still requires training and not everyone is able to do it but in the end their whole culture is based on the connection they have with the ‘other side’” *takes deep breah* because then it’s hard to explain why the modernization of society is killing that culture in a way that makes his family be despised by the youngest generations

...Still with me? Well, okay.

Basically people handling the culture badly in order to make a profit is a thing that happens in a massive scale, even to the point where places considered “official” sanctuaries have been caught on the lie. There’s a lot of factors that come into play but I’m gonna spare you from the details of the downfall of bunny culture.

Nano’s family, though, they’re the real deal. And they’ve been for generations. The problem is, no matter how legit you are -- if there’s a scandal nearby, you’re doomed to be a victim of it.

And now, if I’m gonna be honest, the real protagonist when I’m talking about Nano is actually his mother. He is really just the product of her hard work and I think I should finally start saying that LMAO Aeruii, she’s a troubled woman. She’s gotta deal with a broken marriage, a very fragile child, and people who are unreasonably angry at her every now and then. And a lot of other stuff, but the big thing is: she is always busy or tired, and never really has the time for the only joy in her world, her son. She’s never there, not even when the his chronic illness eventually kills him. And that’s what changed everything. Her world stopped moving the way it used to. After years stubbornly clinging to her heritage -- to everything she grew up with -- she finally gives it all up. She leaves. Changes her name. Finds a new home. Starts a new life.

But ultimately, Aeruii breaks down at the thought that the one who deserved a second chance wasn’t her.

SO HERE’S WHERE NANO 2: THE UPRISING STARTS

uuuh i dont like to get into details because its extremely cliche satanic ritual kinda stuff but yeah she does that bc she wants to give nano everything she never could and sure it requires some hard work and sacrifices lmaaaooo

so heres the deets nano before all of this: -good boy -best friends with yu and thats all he needs -shy -likes doodling some flowers he sees -he doodles them anywhere and sometimes its not even a flower its something that looks like a flower -”check out this weird flower!” ”nano that is a cabbage” -very good at the “talking with ghosts” thing except for the part where he’s supposed to learn a whole ass language to properly do it

nano after all of this: -BITCH -doesn’t talk to anyone unless addressed first but its not bc hes shy he just doesnt CARE -ok its not really like that hes just ‘meh’ most of the time but Aeruii never really noticed the difference between his shy personality and his dead boring personality because of sad reasons -hes a little bit like a zombie? until you talk to him. hes kinda always zoning out not thinking of anything but can act like a normal person when necessary -obsessive about one person, though, will do anything for them only(and its not his mother!). says its love but its a zombie instinct kinda -saw yu once, might have attempted murder. i swear it was a very circumstantial situation and not any deep hatred

and basically that was all just aeruii’s story but nano’s story goes like this -some kids like him enough to keep him around -he gets a bit obsessive over one of them -wants to be the only one in that person’s life -mild yandere shit -they find out about him being a creepy bastard & kick him outta the group -he freaks the fuck out -violent yandere shit -the original version of this story included some deaths but worry not present be is rated E for Everyone

i wanted this to be a brief summary but that can never be true when its about nano-cen. so many fucking factors. why the hell are these bunnies so complicated

anyway, *clears throat*

ⁿᵃⁿᵒ ᶜʳᵉᶻᶦᵒ⁻ᵗᵒᵐᵒʳᵒ ᵛᵃᵐⁿᵈᵉ ⁿᵉʳᵒʰᶦ.

ᵒʳ ˢᵒᵐᵉᵗʰᶦⁿᵍ ˡᶦᵏᵉ ᵗʰᵃᵗ

#ask the leg #oc talk #ohnose

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unboundbnha · 4 years

Text

hoooo my god. this is for ME

for me. for godzilla. :’)

➤ rules; make headcanons of you and a character of your choice, be it sfw or nsfw.

Thank you so much for tagging me @spicyness! I’m gonna SKAJHDSKJ. HHHHH. This is everything? Fuck I just want a purple boyfriend 😫 this will be about Shinsou because I like him a normal amount :-)

First off, I’m a pain in the ass. My sense of humor is wack (it’s basically just ‘annoy my friends and loved ones’), I’m always fricken TANKING The Mood (because it’s funny and I physically cannot resist making a Funny if the opportunity’s there), everything turns into a game unless you make me stop wink wonk. Shinsou seems like the type to snort in amusement and roll his eyes at my dumb antics, and I appreciate that! If I could make him legit laugh I’d die happy. (I am also emotionally savvy enough to know when to draw the line though, don’t worry. It’s just, man, my idea of fun is ‘LET’S ROAST ‘EM’)

I love cats. I’ll lose my whole mind over them. They NEED head kisses. Shinsou also likes cats. He also needs head kisses. That’s it, that’s the bullet point

Being open and honest and genuine is important to me. I believe most any relationship (friendship or otherwise) can work if you’re willing to communicate and empathize with the other person: I would 100% be willing to hear Shinsou’s shit, and he seems like he’d be a good listener too. I’m also good at logicking things through and he seems like he’d appreciate that. Likewise, he seems like he’d do the same for me, and as long as we stayed humble and weren’t looking to be offended (I don’t Do That -- he’s a Cancer -- love you, Cancers -- so it might take him a minute to get on the same page, but he’s emotionally smort and cares about me so I think he’d be willing to work at it) then we could help each other through emotionally hard stuff with hard truths. Plus, I’m a super honest person: if he was in a relationship with me he’d probably be pretty secure in knowing I wouldn’t hurt him on purpose. If past shit comes up with him, I’ll talk to him. Talking’s the good shit, y’all: utilize patience and empathy and you’ll be so well off!

I also battle, with a big fucking sword, a lot with mental health stuff (LMAOOOO WHO DON’T!!! YEET). I used to struggle with agoraphobia and still deal with anxiety and depression. On top of that, I have something like chronic fatigue -- I’ve been calling it chronic fatigue because I’m fucking tired, all the time. My top energy levels are like a 35% on a fantastic day. I really like the idea of this boye seeing me melting into a puddle, face down on the carpet, and bein like “how’s it going down there? you okay?” and the answer being obviously no, but him just like. Man I dunno. He seems like the kind of person who’s tired, but who can live with it. I can’t! When I’m tired, that’s it babes! I hit a 0% on my battery and I’ll collapse! So I just, hhhh. Don’t laugh, but I like to fantasize about him bundling me up and into bed. Thinkin’ about Birthday Snoot by my good friend @lord-explosion-baku and melting, okay?? OKAY???? I’m soft, the truth’s OUT, FUCK! I want to be taken care of like a sad but pampered cat.

(Please read Birthday Snoot I still cry over it)

Also I’m gross and struggle to shower often enough because it’s exhausting so bein given a gentle bath? oh MAN. Hands softly running through my stupid, terrible hair...asking me about my day and if anything happened that triggered me feeling this bad...just....the tenderness....the gentle affection.....being loved even when I’m at my lowest. Being cared for when I can’t do it myself. That’s a legit fantasy y’all. We out here!

I love to SNOOZE. I love being COZY. You bet your sweet bippy I’m gonna sprawl over a couch and take up the whole thing. Shinsou’d better be willing to snuggle the fuck up. I’ve got great squish which I personally feel like’s great for cuddling: I’m like warm taffy. How better to gently seep into every crevasse of your Favorite Person while enjoying a cozy cuddle?

Listen, everyone fucks hard with Shinsou calling his S/O ‘kitten’, and I agree (def have written leetle -- HOO -- leetle scenarios with that nickname because wow) but I get all wibbly with the idea of He calling me ‘Angel’. A joke at first because, like, guys, I’m really nice. (I know it sounds bad when people say they’re nice and LSDFLKJDF I AM, OKAY. I’ve worked on it. Cultivated the skill of kindness! Being kind isn’t easy, and sometimes you just wanna go apeshit, but I’ve worked hard to improve upon myself! Yeet!) But I also just really fucking love being annoying. I simply cannot resist the urge to sneak up behind someone and poke them in the ribs. I rib-poke while in the deep depths of making out too, I’ve tanked the mood a lot so picture my dumb ass Pink Panther’ing behind Shinsou, prepared to be Evil while he’s, idk, making breakfast or something, and before I can commit a Rib Crime he uses his hero training and fast reflexes and honed senses and all that good stuff to snatch my wrist and ask “what’re you up to, angel?” the answer is nothing, because he’s killed me by being sexy and fast and hero-y, and he’s probably actually killed me by startling me into collapsing like a fainting goat

He gets the deep stuff. Unfortunately for everyone and especially myself, I’m a Thinker with a capital T: it never fucking stops. I had an existential crisis for like three years in a row because of course, but I feel like he knows what it’s like to get lost in your head. Working each other out of panic attacks because holy jesus the universe sure is fucking huge huh? We’re not even a blip on the radar in the history of existence and we’re gonna be dead basically tomorrow aaaand that’s why we’d be good for each other, because I feel like we both have coping mechanisms that keep us from spiraling too bad, and we could share them with each other.

I also so fucking admire his drive, but it makes me angry that stupid fucking hero society would discriminate in the first place.

Oh, yeah, that’s another good point: I’m hella mad about 98% of the time and I work hard to hide it! Because innocent people don’t deserve to get yelled at! I feel like Shinsou’s smart enough to sense when I’m about to pop and he can be like “heyyyyy...you wanna talk this out constructively instead of getting into a public brawl?” and I’ll be like “NO but I’ll do it for you because I love you” and then we get pizza.

Because I’m fine and balanced and stuff, I made a quirk for myself if I was in the BNHA-verse, and basically I can get stronger at the expense of higher thinking skills and will turn into a weapon of mass destruction against whatever I’m pointing at (ugh, that’s so sexy. Fuck I wanna be a big spooky buff as shit monster thing), friend or foe, so Shinsou and I would work well in tandem because if I got too rowdy he could use his quirk and get me to calm down! Keep me from accidentally doing a murder! Nice!

Okay this is nsfw so if you’re under 18 DON’T READ IT. I’LL CALL YOUR PARENTS. GET OFF MY BLOG.

Relating to the point above, QUIRKPLAY. Mind control me into stuff I want to do but am too awkward to ask for, please and THANK you. Also, Shinsou’s a top. Gotta be, and thank god for it because I’m certainly not. I’m not happy about being a fucking bottom, because my first and most powerful personalty trait is ‘be as annoying as possible to the people you like; don’t let them tell you what to do.’ Can’t make it easy on myself, nope. Anyway, I want the appearance of being a top without the responsibility because damn, gotta be like, suave and shit. Gotta plan stuff. I don’t like that! I do that enough in real life and I don’t like it there, either! But whatever. I’m a brat and I feel betrayed by my coochie for it. But Shinsou’s a top and he’d tease me for being Fucking Terrible, and suddenly I wouldn’t be so mad at my coochie. She has her reasons.

I...like Shinsou for a lot of reasons, but a really big one, for sure, is that I feel like he can communicate about the important stuff. He likes to tease, but he knows when to be serious too. I’m really wack about being close and intimate with people and I have, hhh, special requirements to be able to sleep with them, and I feel like he’d both be able to respect AND honor that. Like, run through the rest of the BNHA boys with me here: would Bakugou be able to be completely cool, calm, and collected while still teasing, but knowing where to draw the line? Todoroki’s closer maybe, but he’s not as people-smart (which is also a big thing for me). Confidence (or at least the appearance of it when it’s important), respect, communication, listening and respecting what I ask for even if it seems wack -- Shinsou has that, and god is it attractive.

Also, mind control.

Also, his capture weapon.

Also you know this motherfucker is kinky as shit. Thank the good lord.

Also, sexy-slow makeouts with his long, nimble hands running up my outer thighs to squeeze my waist -- teeth on neck, stolen gasps of breath --

\\\\\\

I feel bad because all of this, fuckin, WALL of text is pretty much ‘this is what purble boy can do for me’ and I don’t say a lot I’d do for him, but if I got someone like him I’d go to the end of the earth for them. I may be a perpetually-sleepy bitch, but one of my best -- and worst -- character traits is my unwavering loyalty. I’ll be 110% down to kick anyone’s ass who insults him: he can fight his own battles, but he shouldn’t have to over some dumbass with a big mouth and a little brain. Making him smile and laugh, oof, be still my beating heart. Words of encouragement when life gets too much. Genuine thanks for his help, whatever it may be. Hugs, because we’re both touch-starved as fuck and he deserves gentleness, dammit. He doesn’t seem like his love language is receiving gifts -- more like quality time and words of affirmation? Maybe physical touch? -- but I’d still get him little things that made me think of him, that could help him in his day to day life or maybe just bring a smile to his face. We could rescue each other at social conventions, have dates to the humane society and play with cats. Support each other through our depression days, prove that even having a brain that’s mean to you sometimes doesn’t make you unlovable. Man, idk. The whole thing’s soft and makes my heart go doki-doki. Hitoshi Shinsou is an extremely good person and god damn I’d want to show him I appreciated him and existing at the same time as him. He deserves love and kindness. He deserves someone to kiss every knuckle of his hand. He deserves hugs in the kitchen and blankets being pulled over his shoulders when he falls asleep at the desk. He deserves only good things, and I’d be honored to give them to him.

HHHHH.

Okay! If you made it to the end of this, congratulations! You don’t actually get anything, but boy oh boy you have a lot of information about ME now! Aren’t you delighted? Heh. So! You tag people for this stuff, and I’m gonna tag @lord-explosion-baku, @bnhascribbles, @perpetual-bed-head, @russianonion, @weebsinstash, and last but certainly not least, @usernamekate94. Tell me about Monoma, Kate. Tell me.

#god this is a mess. anyway #I just! he's a good boy brent!!!! ;_;#self ship meme #author x character #I would feel embarrassed if I possessed the ability to feel embarrassed #I'm weak for one (1) man: so WHAT if he's fictional #I can daydream about giving him the hugs he deserves!!! AND I WILL

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angrypixie-sarisa · 4 years

Text

Feliz Navidad, Winchester.

Piedras Rodantes pt.19

Sam xMexican!Witch!fem!readerx Dean (polyamorous)

Summary: You were invited to spend Christmas with Lisa, Ben and Dean, and it was just delightful.

Warning: use of the medical side of marihuana

Noche Buena was really fun. You hadn’t laugh so hard for a while. Diego’s mom, Ana Lucía, her sisters and her husband welcomed you with opened arms, showering you in hugs. The whole apartment was filled with cousins, uncles and aunts, as well as Ximena, Tyler and his parents.

You played games and drank, a lot. You hadn’t allowed yourself to drink more than one beer or cup of wine, but you were slowly progressing and you let yourself loose at least for one night.

That’s why it took you three tries to manifest the right portal to knock on Dean’s door, and even then, you had knocked on his kitchen door.

He went to open it, but he saw no one standing outside. Then, he heard another knock and your voice, even though he couldn’t see you.

“Dean, I swear it’s me. Open up, its fine.”

He complied with your petition. When he opened the door, he was met by your very hungover self, standing in between your kitchen and his. How was that possible?

You looked at his confused face, but you couldn’t muster the will to care or deal with his astonishment just then.

“I’ll explain later.” You crossed the veil and took the door from his hands, closing it and the portal. A small white light shined through the frames. Instantly, Dean went to open the door again and was met with the hallway outside the kitchen door.

“Ay, chingado! Close the fucking door, its cold outside!” You set your big pot on the kitchen counter and took off your gloves when the door was finally closed.

“You better explain.”

“Later, right now I have more important things to do.”

He scoffed. “Like what?” He wasn’t expecting your arms to be around him and your head placed on his chest and your eyes closed as you hugged him tightly.

“Feliz Navidad, Winchester.” The hug wasn’t surprising as what came next. A little soft kiss was planted in his cheek. He had hanged out with you enough to know that was just a casual hello gesture in latinamerican countries. He had seen you kiss Diego, Tyler and Ximena in the cheek before, as well as them kissing you back. It just felt that it was far away from the reality that was your friendship with him. It never crossed his mind you’d someday say hi to him like that, until now.

Before he could even return the hug, you pulled away with a smile. He cleared his throat.

“Merry Christmas, Y/N.”

“Y/N?” You both heard Ben’s voice from upstairs.

“Yes it is I, Y/N L/N! I’m announcing my presence in your sweet home! Now, manifest yourself, young man!” Your words didn’t echo much longer as the silence was filled with eager steps rushing down the stairs, followed by calm steps.

“Dame un abrazo, niño.”

Ben hugged your waist and you placed a kiss on the top of his head.

“Merry Christmas, escuincle.”

“Merry Christmas, Y/N.” He laughed and pulled away. Mere seconds later, you hugged a very sleepy Lisa, still yawning. Mid yawn, she laughed and returned your hug.

“Merry Christmas, Y/N.”

“Merry Christmas, Lisa.” You patted her back before pulling away. You both turned your heads at the sound of the lid of a pot been opened. Ben and Dean looked; curious frowns in their faces, into the pot you brought.

“What the hell is this?” Dean asked.

“Menudo. I’m hungover, slightly, and it’s delicious.”

“It doesn’t smell like it.” Ben said, wrinkling his face at it.

“I’m sorry, I thought you were Mexican.” You challenged him. You both had this inside joke about how he could actually handle some spicy stuff you liked and he also loved some of the spicy candy you offered him. So one day you joked about him being Mexican; and from there you both went on and on with the joke.

A proud look placed itself on his face.

“You’re right, I am. I’ll try it.” You both laughed and high fived. Meanwhile, Lisa and Dean looked at you two as if you both had grown a second head.

“Are you guys gonna try it?” Ben asked.

“Okay, first of all, what is this Menudo thing?”

“Well, Dean, it’s a soup with red chile in it, but it’s not spicy, it also has garlic and a little bit of onions, white corn and the stomach of the cow.”

“Ooh, cool.”

“Gross.” The Winchester said.

“Only ‘cause you don’t have the courage to try it.”

He scoffed and yelled at you “Challenge accepted”. Next think you knew you were all gathered in the kitchen hitting up some menudo and toasting some bread.

Ben liked it, Lisa tolerated it, but Dean, oh that hunter did not like it at all. It didn’t matter, you were just glad that you were there with them sharing the experience.

It was the afternoon; you were helping Lisa with the Christmas dinner while Dean played baseball with Ben.

“So, we fell for the Winchesters.” Lisa started. You smiled into the cutting board.

“I guess so. I think it’s their charm or a curse, whatever we pick it’s probably true.”

She laughed and took some of the vegetables that were already cut and started to cook them.

“Did he tell you the whole story or just that detail?”

“The whole story.” She called back, sneaking a glance towards you before going back to the veggies.

“Oh, good, I don’t have to tell it.”

“Yeah, I guess it’s not your favorite.”

“Nope. But, that’s okay.” You looked at the window, not knowing why, but as you did, you saw a shadow move outside, big and tall. It was a good thing you had prepared everything for emergencies.

“Even though they’re good guys, sometimes they’re a handful.” You told her, sipping from your wine that you had poured earlier. Lisa mimicked you and turned to look at you.

“Yeah, such a pain sometimes and really stubborn.”

“Yeah! No, one time I had to drag Sam into the doctor’s office because he had a little bit of a cold but he was convinces that it was just allergies.”

“Had he ever experienced allergies?” She asked, mid laugh.

“I don’t think so. I offered him some Claritin and he didn’t even take it. Didn’t know what it was for.” You both burst in laughter and continued sharing embarrassing stories of the brothers. You hadn’t had actually bonded with her, you just hanged out from time to time. But this really did it for you two. You made your friendship stronger. Maybe it was Christmas, big ‘ol Christmas miracle.

The day was great, before you had to cook the dinner you all watched a movie together and played some card games, gambling with m&m’s. Ben won must of the chocolates.

After getting the dinner ready, changing up and doing your make-up, you went out into their front porch by yourself. You sat on the stairs and inhaled deeply. You closed your eyes and imagined a shield around the perimeter of the house. Then you opened them again.

“Now nothing can approach the house.” You said to the air. You rubbed on your left elbow, it had bothered you all day but right then it felt like it was screaming at you for some help. No ointment would help with this pain.

You took out of your purse a lighter and a pipe, which had an illusion spell casted on it so people would think you were smoking a regular cigarette.

Just as you were to light the pipe, you heard the front door opening behind you. You tried your best to hide the pipe in your hand as you turned around from your seat to face the hunter.

“Hi, Dean. What’s up?”

As he closed the door, he frowned at you, eyeing your figure up and down.

“What are you doing out here?”

You shrugged.

“I just wanted some time alone. Why you ask?”

He lifted his eyebrows at you, before sitting beside you, sighing.

“No reason. Are you okay? You seem a little bit on guard.”

With your free hand, you rubbed at your left elbow slightly, softly so he wouldn’t think too much of it. But he was Dean Winchester, he obviously thought too much of it.

“Are you okay? What happened to your arm?” His hands instantly went to touch your elbow but you pushed them away.

“Nothing, it just got tired, that’s all.” The pain had actually grown and it also had spread onto your wrist and shoulder. You really needed to smoke.

“Y/N.” He warned you, to which you sighed.

“Fine. My arm aches. Happy?”

“That’s obvious, but why?”

You took in a deep breath before answering. “I have chronic pain in my arm. It hurts really bad if I force it too much, which includes magic, sadly. And I need to calm down the pain.”

“Well, you should’ve said so; we have whatever you need you…”

“No, Dean, trust me I’ve tried almost everything. When it really hurts there’s only one thing that helps.”

“Which is?”

You sighed and closed your eyes, before opening your hand and showing the pipe, without the spell, to him.

You kept your eyes closed, not wanting to see his reaction. You knew him well enough to guess that he was either raising his eyebrows in surprise or frowning at the pipe, licking his lips slightly.

“You smoke weed? Did Sam know about this?”

You scoffed opening your eyes only to glare at him. “Okay, first of all, this is a decision he wouldn’t have had a saying in. Second of all, I prefer to smoke weed than fucking up my stomach with pills. I won’t take pills unless they’re absolutely necessary.”

“Geez, are you also against vaccines too?”

“No. And that has nothing to do with this.” You started moving your hands vigorously explaining your journey with almost every pain killer they had to offer you and how none had worked up for you. Suddenly, held you by the wrists, gently, and laughed at you.

“I’m just messing with ya, relax.” You looked into his green eyes that were begging you to stop arguing. You took a deep breath and as you exhaled he let you retrieve your wrists.

“Sorry, the pain makes me really cranky.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

You glared at him again as you went to light up your pipe. When you took the first drag, he bumped your side softly with his, something he had never done to anyone at all.

“What is it Winchester?”

“What?”

You looked at him, soft smile in place and inquisitorial look in your eyes. “You’re acting weird, too. Don’t tell me you also suffer from chronic pain.”

He laughed and shook his head.

“Nah, you’re the only one I know that could put up with that shit.”

You took another drag, after that you said: “Then what is it?”

He looked at you without his tough demeanor, without some funny expression that could hide what he was feeling. His eyes soften up and he had a tiny smile in his mouth. He wanted to look at the ground but instead worked up the courage to look you in the eye.

“I’m just glad that you’re spending Christmas with us. And that you’re my friend. I bet Sammy loved ya, big time.”

“Well, I’m also thankful that you invited me to spend Christmas with you guys.” You cleared your throat, a small cough threatened to make an appearance, before continuing. “I really love being friends with you, Dean.”

Were his eyes watering? Or were you just a little bit high?

“So how does this work? Is it like alcohol and you’d forget everything that I said to you? So that I can, you know, keep my cool act together?”

You laughed slightly through your nose.

“If I have more than one, maybe. But bad news for you is that one pipe is enough to help the pain cool down.”

“So you’ll remember?”

“Oh yeah.” Now you bumped into his side, lightly. But instead of retrieving, you placed your head on his arm, his shoulder being a little bit high for you.

“Hey, I noticed something.” He said, looking into the distance.

“What?”

“When you do your makeup you always were red lipstick.”

“Well of course, I love red lipstick.”

“When you take it off, by any chance, do you look like the joker?” At that, you busted laughing at the top of your lungs.

“I actually do!”

“I knew it!” And you both laughed for what it seemed like hours, oblivious of the fact that two sets of eyes were watching you.

#piedras rodantes #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural imagines #Supernatural fanfic #supernatural #supernatural imagine #supernatural x reader #Sam Winchester #sam x reader #sam x reader x dean #dean winchester #dean x reader

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ladymusic600 · 5 years

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Im not lazy just sleepy.

All about Idiopathic Hypersomnia Idiopathic hypersomnia (IH) is a sleep disorder in which a person is excessively sleepy (hypersomnia) during the day and has great difficulty being awakened from sleep. Idiopathic means there is not a clear cause. Idiopathic hypersomnia (IH) is a chronic neurological disorder marked by an insatiable need to sleep that is not eased by a full night’s slumber. People with idiopathic hypersomnia sleep normal or long amounts of time each night but still feel excessively sleepy during the day. They may take long naps, but wake up feeling no better or worse than when they fell asleep. IH is similar to narcolepsy in that you are extremely sleepy. It is different from narcolepsy because IH doesn’t usually involve suddenly falling asleep (sleep attacks) or losing muscle control due to strong emotions (cataplexy). Unlike in narcolepsy, in which scheduled naps may help, daytime naps in people with IH are often long(hours) yet unrefreshing. People with IH may experience improvement with medication; however, medications do not work well for all people or may stop working over time.(it’s like a band-aid works for a little while but falls off and stops working) __________________________________________________________________________________ “SO To Whom It May Concern: I am writing this because I wanted to help you better understand some of the issues I face on a daily basis because of idiopathic hypersomnia (IH) or narcolepsy. The first thing I can promise you is that I hide as much of my suffering as possible because showing it would drag everyone else down. This is commonly referred to as our “game face.” If you ask “How are you?” the response you get is relative to how I feel all the time, so it doesn’t mean the same as when you use the same words. If the response is “Good!” it probably means I am really tired but dealing with it well enough to almost function like any other person. There is also a pretty good chance that it is a flat-out lie. If the response is something like “OK” or “fine” I am struggling and needs your help. If the answer is “tired” I am on my last leg. Something more like “crappy” is an indicator that, if you really care, you need to send me to bed and keep the kids or people quiet or take them outside or somewhere else so I can sleep. When you have IH/narcolepsy, your body usually gets plenty of sleep, but your brain is in a constant state of sleep deprivation. People with IH/narcolepsy carry a significant amount of sleep deprivation which only gets worse over time because sleep doesn’t provide relief. The most common symptoms of sleep deprivation are forgetfulness, memory issues in general, difficulties with concentration, decision making, and overall ability to think clearly. The extra effort required to focus on the issue at hand makes it very easy to forget about things that are out of your field of vision, causing problems with anything that resembles multitasking. The emotional results of sleep deprivation are probably the easiest to see, though. I am sure you are familiar with how easy it is to get cranky when you are tired? Now imagine fighting off this crankiness every minute that you are awake and trying not to cry from exhaustion. When you have IH/narcolepsy, your head is often a blur of thoughts and instead of mentally lining steps up in chronological order, everything just blurs together, so nothing goes as planned and you wind up being late for things regardless of how important they are to you, making time management difficult.(even though i can wake up on my own when i have my alarm set i fall asleep during or right after what i had to need to or am currently doing) People with IH/narcolepsy may get medications to help them with energy, mental clarity, etc., but there is no replacement for restorative sleep. Healthy people can’t stop sleeping at night and take a pill in its place, and people with IH/narcolepsy are no different. These meds may help some people gain mental clarity, but they still may be struggling to stay awake most of the time. Or they help some people stay awake, but may do nothing to help with clarity and can actually make it worse. A very good friend of mine says: “My meds just help me do stupid stuff faster.” They may provide the energy to do things, but they can take away a person’s ability to channel that energy properly. Have you ever pulled an all-nighter and relied on high doses of caffeine to get you through the next day? Yes, you made it through the day and you accomplished some stuff, but do you remember how you felt all day? How many days in a row do you think you could do that? That is just about exactly how I feel when my meds are working their best. On top of all of the internal difficulties people with IH/narcolepsy face, other people sometimes just don’t get it. As a disabled workaholic, the thing that really gets to me is the way people tend to think I am lazy. I become accustomed to being criticized for not trying hard enough by people who aren’t putting forth nearly the effort she is. Like almost every one of the thousands of people with IH/narcolepsy I have talked to or read about in the past couple years, I am constantly beating myself up for what feels like constant failure. I have often been told that I just need learn to cope like other people with other diseases do so I can function like a normal adult. The problem is that IH/narcolepsy lies right where a person’s ability to cope is supposed to come from, so getting irritated with them for not functioning right is like getting irritated someone with emphysema for not being able to breath right.” __________________________________________________________________________________

One of the first questions people ask me when I talk about idiopathic hypersomnia is, “what’s it like?” The first way I answer is, imagine sleeping for an entire night and feeling like you’ve gotten no rest at all and that you been up for days without coffee. That’s the first “feeling” I experience when I wake in the morning. Inside my body, I feel like I’m running a marathon while I’m standing still. I don’t know how else to explain the exhaustion and pain. What I’ve found most interesting is that, when I talk about idiopathic hypersomnia, few people realize it has anything to do with pain. However, when your body is always fighting to stay awake, it’s painful. Every muscle in your body is struggling to help keep you awake. It starts in your back (feels a lot like tension), and then creeps into your arms, legs, and everything else. Living with hypersomnia has taught me many things — even before I received my diagnosis. I used to hear a lot of negative talk throughout the years, like this for example: “There’s no reason for you to be as tired as you are — you don’t actually do anything.” I heard that from my own family. Hearing things like that not only hurt, but it confused me. Like why would you say that when you know what i am going through… There were so many days when I’d just come home and cry because I knew I had so much stuff to get done that day, and I knew that if I napped I wouldn’t feel any better, but I just couldn’t do anything else but sleep. _________________________________________________________________________________ Dating someone with IH just learn about it and talk to them about it!

#dating #ih #idopathic hypersomnia #hypersomnia #sleepy #narcolepsy #this is my life

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overexplainingautistic · 7 years

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ADHD Steals My Free Time in a Subtle and Unexpected Way.

Through a chain of impulses and luck, I got a part time job not all that long ago. It’s nice because it isn’t too hard, and the work environment is full of nice understanding people. It’s nice too because I have money to spend on things I want to fill my free time with. I have more inspiration and means to pursue creative endeavors than I have very possibly ever before.

I only work 4-6 hour shifts, leaving me with more than half of a waking day to do whatever I want. At least that’s what I mistakenly think each day. In truth, the part of my brain most interested in engaging in these activities (like animation, marker drawings, comic thumb-nailing, voice recording, and more than I can keep track of) can’t actually do much to focus on something with need for so much planning. Rather, not reliably without adhd meds.

So sure, I should take my meds, no problem. However, stimulants are stimulants, and my ability to go to sleep at the “right” times is already hecked enough on its own. Thus, I try not to take it save for early in my day within a couple hours of waking up. Ok great, wake up, take meds, easy. That would work fine if my work shifts were near the end of my day. Unfortunately though, no matter how I do it, it seems like I’m doomed to stay up progressively later each night until I hit one of two points. In one, I’m free to loop around the clock, and reset back at an early sleep schedule and allow it to work its way back later and later. The second is a delicate balance where I don’t sleep quite enough at night, and go to sleep at the latest possible time to still wake up to an alarm to get me to where I’m going. The former is the one that feels more comfortable, where the latter is stressful but more functional to the eyes of a semi-consistent schedule.

Unfortunately work gives me shifts that could start as early as 9am, or as late as 5pm. This sort of ruins my chance of having a consistent thing to hold me in the weird stressful sleep pattern. It also doesn’t give me much room to loop around either though. As a result, I’ve fallen into a weird position of having a very inconsistent feeling sleep schedule where I wake up either a few hours before work, or a few minutes in advance of the bus I need, but can never fall asleep at a reasonable time.

It’s fairly stressful knowing I should sleep, wanting to sleep, and having nothing in need of my attention, but being unable to sleep in one or more ways, and having this happen nearly every night. I’ve lost my ability to know when I’m sleepy. This isn’t super new, and I still feel exhaustion if it occurs, and I can feel tired in non-sleep ways, I just don’t feel tired in a way that motivates sleep. Perhaps it’s because of some chronic fatigue stuff going on that was very pronounced several months ago. I suspect it is. I also find that I’m tended towards a longer day than most people, so if I’m sleeping enough, I won’t feel tired by the time I ‘should’ be going to sleep.

So what does this have to do with ADHD and free time? Everything. My meds clearly work for around 4 hours. I can get them to sort of work for me longer by being hyperfocused on a task as they wear off. If the task itself isn’t something too hard on executive functioning, the inertia keeps me going even though normally starting it would be hard.

So when do I take meds? When I wake up? Sure, and get home from work with them worn off already? After work? Okay, but I better be sure I don’t have any specific time I need to wake up the following day. Let’s also hope work didn’t take energy enough from me to dissuade me from wanting to use energy on my own projects. Very frequently, upon getting back from work, sitting down and doing more passive things is all I feel tended towards doing. Of course once I’ve done that a bit and my energy is back, it would be a good time to do fun creative things. Though by this point it’s far too late to do that with the help of meds due to an impending bed time.

Therefore a 4 hour workshift is plenty to take up my whole day of free time, all because of ADHD with the guest appearance of some sort of sleep disorder.

#actuallyadhd #circadian rhythm #executive dysfunction #this post is brought to you surprisingly without adderall #no way would i take adderall this late at night before a 3pm shift in the morning #the world isn't set up for me #but i try anyway

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cassolotl · 7 years

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Self-diagnosis in relation to doctors, Tumblr, and the disability community generally

In which I continue to be baffled by people who are against self-diagnosis, complete with descent into a frustrated “get over yourself” rant at the end.

So a few weeks back I wrote a thing about doctors failing a lot of autistic people, and celebrating that autistic people are diagnosing themselves and finding community.

I’d like to add that getting formally diagnosed was really helpful to me, on a personal level and also on a practical one - having a bit of paper from a doctor saying I’m autistic has allowed me to have access to various services much more easily, and it’s also taken away any doubt that I am autistic and I do experience various legitimate difficulties as a result of that. It’s helped me to accept myself, and even though it shouldn’t it has helped other people accept me as I am too.

So yeah, I am accepting of people who self-diagnose but alongside that I do also encourage people to get formally diagnosed if they think it might help them. It’s not like you can’t accept and appreciate both methods of self-discovery, you know?

But the reason I’m here is to talk about the reality of seeking diagnosis and how that fits with self-diagnosis.

My story starts sometime last year. I’d been unable to work for about 10 years due to, basically, tiredness - since I was 20-21ish. (So by the time I started to feel my life was severely negatively impacted by this condition I was probably older than most people who get hassle for self-diagnosing on Tumblr, right?) I couldn’t keep a job or even volunteer work because I kept calling in sick for tiredness. In the end I gave up. The GP tested my blood and told me that I wasn’t anaemic and didn’t have a thyroid condition, so they slapped on me the label of chronic fatigue syndrome (CFS). There was no known cause or cure, and the treatment was graded exercise and CBT. She told me that with no other symptoms it’s considered by the NHS a psychological condition, and I supposed at the time that that meant it was psychosomatic, or like being unable to get out of bed due to depression. I was in my early 20s and not very familiar with the medical system, and I had no idea was autistic, and I just accepted the diagnosis. I was never really satisfied, because it felt like a cop-out, but I accepted it as best I could and moved on. I know now that CFS is usually not a condition on its own but probably a symptom with an underlying cause.

Fast-forward a few years, and I’d been diagnosed with autism and after some fighting the system I was getting support in my day-to-day life. I was around people who loved and accepted me, and I was getting therapy that was helping with, among other things, my autistic difficulties.

One day I noticed that my lower left leg felt weird. It was lighter and it felt kind of nice actually. It took me a few minutes to work out that this weird feeling was the feeling of a healthy, pain-free muscle. It felt weird, in other words, because it didn’t hurt. I had forgotten the feeling of no pain in my lower left leg. But the entire rest of my body felt this other thing - heavy, tired, unpleasant. You know, like normal, the way it feels every day from when I wake up in the morning to when I go to sleep at night. The thing that gets worse every time I walk around or up and down the stairs. I was so accustomed to pain that I thought pain was normal and how everyone felt, and a lack of pain wasn’t just a shock, it was difficult to recognise.

I realised that maybe my tendency to feel less tired and sleepy after taking painkillers might be a bit weird. I thought I was having a strange reaction to painkillers, in a caffeine way somehow, and I felt I shouldn’t take painkillers if I’m not in pain because that would be an unhealthy dependency.

But what if...

Everything is different when you’re autistic. I came to terms with the idea that my entire body is in pain all the time, and my brain has just stopped processing it as such. Even when I am paying attention and listening to my body and really feeling everything as best I can, I can detect no pain whatsoever. When it gets bad I feel like I have to go to bed and maybe nap, but when I get to bed I can’t sleep - and it’s because I’m not sleepy. I’m in pain, and I feel better for lying down in a nice comfortable bed in a safe place. And when I take painkillers, I magically feel better again.

Going to the GP about this wasn’t going to work. It could be anything. All-over pain could be a neurological problem, it could be cancer, it could be anything. I knew from experience that going to the GP with no other information wouldn’t work, because the fact that I hadn’t even been feeling the daily full-body pain I was in meant that unexpected diagnostic questions would confuse me and I would probably answer “I don’t think I have that” to everything. Yay autistic masking! \o/ She would say, as GPs have been saying to me for a long time, something like “I can write you a sick note and diagnose you with chronic pain but unless we have more symptoms to go on I can’t refer you to a specialist.”

However, for a while now I had been somehow connecting with people who had EDS. I followed people on Twitter who had it and even though I didn’t on a conscious level realise that we had things in common because they had pain and I thought I didn’t, I felt a kinship. I remembered the kinship I felt with autistic people before I realised I might be autistic too, and I made the connection.

For several months I self-diagnosed with Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome (EDS). It’s a rare genetic condition that affects your collagen, which in some people is very serious. Wikipedia told me that the classical type is experienced by 1 in 20,000-50,000 people. Surely it is really weird to leap to the conclusion, out of the blue, that I have this one very specific and rare condition? It seems so improbable. But when I looked at people with EDS, their lives were so much like mine. Their coping mechanisms and management strategies that they’d come up with deliberately to deal with their EDS were so similar to the stuff I was doing by accident just to get from day to day. If I had the same symptoms and therefore the same diagnosis it would explain everything that isn’t covered by autism and being trans.

So I went into research mode. It took months. That’s how it is when you’re autistic, alexithymic, and are very bad at self-reporting. The Beighton Score part was easy because they’re bodily tests you can do yourself at home with clear results - but for the rest, sufferers of chronic illness will remember the feeling of discovery that goes, “wow, I thought everyone had that?” It was much more difficult than that for me. For every symptom, I had to fight through layers of “but I don’t have that” and “okay maybe I have that but surely not more than most people” and “but if I had this surely my mum would have done something about it when I was a kid” and “I have this but I don’t dislike it so surely that can’t be a symptom.” Because when you’re alexithymic, sometimes you kinda lack the feeling that is like, this is unpleasant, I’d rather this was better, and actually maybe that’s possible. Sometimes things that cause other people great discomfort don’t even register to you as unpleasant. Yay alexithymia.

I had to trick myself into acknowledging my symptoms. I had to compare myself to other people in a way that wasn’t dismissing my own experience, which was a very new thing for me. “I experience this, yes, but have I ever actually heard anyone else complaining about experiencing it themselves? If not, it is probably safe to assume that my experience is unusual and causing me problems, therefore relevant to a doctor.”

I had a Google Document bookmarked in my browser, with headings for each symptom of EDS. I mulled the symptoms over in the back of my head for a long time, writing down symptoms as I became sure of them. Such is my symptom-normalisation that it took months to add these to my list:

Joints dislocating (or partially dislocating) without trauma such as a fall on a regular basis;

Dizziness and passing out from movement or exercise that shouldn’t normally cause dizziness and passing out;

Stomach aches pretty much every day.

During this process, the company who provide my support decided that my care plans didn’t fit their company policy of involving the service user in their care as much as possible. They rewrote my care plans to include constant references to me doing at least part of every activity, with a view to me eventually becoming self-sufficient and no longer needing their care. I explained to them that I was discovering that I had EDS, and could they acknowledge that sometimes I just need people to do things for me so that I had more energy to be independent on my own later. They refused. They said that they would not provide support for EDS until I was diagnosed. They said, in fakey neurotypical language, that they didn’t think I had EDS. They ended our contract over it, a couple of weeks before I was due to attend my rheumatology appointment, and all of this while constantly saying that their service was person-centred. Not that I’m bitter.

A lot of people would doubt their self-diagnosis and stop trying to see a specialist at this point. But I went through similar stuff when I worked out I was autistic and people with power over me didn’t believe me, so I kept going anyway. If I saw a specialist and they told me I didn’t have EDS, at least I’d know.

I started to say openly online that I had EDS. People with EDS accepted me immediately, completely, and without question. But I knew that there were people out there who would tell me that they wouldn’t take me seriously until I was formally diagnosed, and would assume (since I blog on Tumblr) that I was just doing it to get disability points or whatever. “They say they’re nonbinary, autistic, asexual, aromantic, and now they’ve decided they have a rare genetic condition. Yeah, right. I guess their oppression points aren’t getting them enough attention. What a special snowflake.” For serious, the frequency with which I am assumed to be a teenage girl will not be at all surprising to a lot of people reading this. My reluctance to disclose my age and gender online gets me accused of teenage girlhood by TERFs and Tumblr-haters all around, especially if they know I’m on Tumblr. In reality I’m 30, mostly post-transition as openly nonbinary with the kind assistance of the NHS, and formally diagnosed with everything I say online that I have. (I do have some things that I’m not formally diagnosed with, and those are MH things that I don’t trust the NHS with for many legit reasons and I don’t talk about them online much.)

I learned that the type of specialist professional who can diagnose me is a rheumatologist. Eventually I made an appointment with my GP and printed out my symptom list document for her. It began, “if you’re reading this I think you can help me get diagnosed with and treated for Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome.” For each symptom I described the severity and how often I experience it. From my 10+ years of GP dismissal for bad periods that turned out to be endometriosis requiring a hysterectomy, I remembered the magic words: “I’d like a referral to a [specialist] please.”

My GP happily referred me to a rheumatologist at my request, and I was on their waiting list for a few months. When I eventually arrived my document of symptoms was even longer; I’d managed to clarify a few more while I was on the waiting list.

I have told you this story to show you how long I prepared for my diagnosis appointment, how much effort I put into diagnosing myself and how much I had to know to even see a specialist who could diagnose me - and to emphasise how anticlimactic getting a diagnosis actually is.

The rheumatologist was very kind. He read through my document, which took a few minutes. And then he said to me, in neurotypical language so I’m hugely paraphrasing and he did not sound this rude in real life:

“I don’t know why you’re here. You know you have EDS, you don’t need me to confirm it. You know there’s not much I can do to treat you, and you’ve had it all your life so at 30 years old you have come to terms with the symptoms and you have lots of coping mechanisms and self-management techniques.”

He was kind and listened to my concerns. Here they are in bold, along with the rheumatologist’s response.

I’m not a doctor, I can’t ever be really sure, I wanted to talk to a doctor to confirm it because maybe I have something else kinda similar or I’m just wrong. “You have most of the symptoms, and you’re well-informed. You seem to be a pretty clear case to me. What can I do to help?”

Perhaps there are treatments or services that you can help me access? “It’s mostly a case of managing it all yourself at home on your own. Try to go out for a walk every day, and don’t rely on your knee braces because your knees need to get strong enough to support themselves and knee braces won’t help with that. But you will probably always experience this cycle of crashing and having to build up your strength again very very slowly. No one else can really help you with that.”

I’d like a bit of paper to show to people who want proof of my EDS, like the DWP (who provide income for disabled people in the UK) and support companies. “The DWP don’t care about bits of paper. They ask you to do a series of exercises like lifting your arms and moving your head around.”

This last one was difficult to hear, because the DWP would indeed declare me fit for work based on their usual tests, and the only thing that gets me out of that situation is letters from medical specialists describing my symptoms. Me describing my own symptoms is not proof enough. To put it another way, me saying “I experience daily pain all over my body” is not proof to the DWP, but a doctor saying “Cassian tells me they experience daily pain all over their body” is totally strong evidence.

The fact is that the support company who ditched me should not have needed a piece of paper saying I have EDS to provide me with support that suits my needs. They were happily providing me with support for autistic difficulties despite never having seen a diagnosis letter. They should have listened to me stating my needs, and then written care plans that suit those needs. But like the DWP, a piece of paper from a doctor saying “Cassian has these symptoms” carries more weight than me saying “I have these symptoms.” It’s kinda twisted, and my diagnosing doctor didn’t know it, but that’s how it is.

So basically, this is all to tell you that people on the internet totally trash self-diagnosed people on the internet, and say “I’m not gonna believe you unless you get a formal diagnosis, you’re making people who really have these conditions look bad, please stop” - but when you actually do get to see a doctor they have no problem whatsoever with self-diagnosis and they don’t understand why anyone would seek diagnosis for a condition that they already know they have. Doctors, they know, are for working out what’s wrong with you. If you already know the name of your condition, you don’t need to talk to them. If you are successfully self-managing and don’t need treatment, you don’t need to talk to them. And as far as they are concerned, you shouldn’t need to have a diagnosis letter to have your needs recognised and respected by companies and local authorities when seeking support.

“But Cassian,” some people will say, “you are quite a special case. You’re older and more experienced than most self-dxers on Tumblr, you did a lot of research for a long time, you did everything right. It’s a spectrum, you know? Your self-diagnosis was valid, but there’s a lot of blatant fakers out there on Tumblr.” NO SHUT UP. You cannot judge people on the internet like that! You know nothing about them and their life! And even if you feel doubtful of their self-diagnosis because of the way they talk about it or whatever else superficial reason, that doesn’t mean that they are making it up! You deciding that I am legit and they are not is PURE PREJUDICE and you can take your backhanded compliments elsewhere!

So like, let’s just go over that in very clear words so you know where I stand. I understand that diagnosis and disability and mental illness are complex and nuanced issues, BUT. Self-diagnosis doesn’t magically become invalid just because you say it does, and holy crap even if teenagers on Tumblr were giving everyone else a bad name no one would know because doctors and the DWP and local authorities and anyone who has any power over us at all DON’T H*CKING USE TUMBLR and have no idea that you think teenagers are making it up for attention. All of this tug of war between “self-diagnosis is valid (✿◡‿◡)~” and “self-dxers are attention-seeking Tumblrinas that give legit sufferers a bad name” happens in a little internet bubble that the VAST MAJORITY of people are blissfully unaware of, Jeeeesus Christ on a bicycle.

Okay, thanks for listening, I’m glad to get that out of my system.

[Also posted to Medium.]

#original posts #my words #actuallyautistic #actually autistic #ehlers-danlos syndrome #EDS #EDS things #self-diagnosis

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