#EVERYONE shut the FUCK UP

[murdrdocs]

"Oh, fuck off. You'll do fine," Roman tells you, patting your leg. "You always do, right? C'mon. Scoot your ass down, sweetheart, you know the fuckin' drill."

"Yeahhh, there she is. Oh, that's sweet. You even shaved for me."

HELLOOO????

Doctor’s Orders

You can't cum, so you visit Doctor Roy.

Tags - gyno!roman, abuse of power, dubcon, sexual frustration, finger fucking, finger sucking, pap test, breast exam, titty play, medical kink, gyno kink, morally bankrupt roman, also. anyway, don't worry babies, you will fuck doctor roy later. but not tonight :) A/N - YEP I KNOW I KNOW I KNOW. STEPDADDY, ROOFTOP FUCK. I had to get this out of my system, okay? I love you. It’ll be okay.

You hate waiting rooms. Medical offices, whatever. Everything is sterile and smells like alcohol and hibiclens, which isn’t an unpleasant smell on its own, but it’s sort of aggressive and sharp and…

Whatever, doesn’t matter. It’s just the context. Nobody likes the doctor, right? All the needles, the being poked and prodded at by blue hands. The invasive questions that you know are asked for the sake of your health, but still. How much do you drink? When was your last period, and describe in detail the texture, color, and smell of your menstrual blood. Are you sexually active? Do you smoke? You shouldn’t, you know. 

It’s just an unpleasant experience. But part of being a healthy human.

You tap your nails on the clipboard after filling out your paperwork - date of birth, current address, billing address, insurance, emergency contact - all that shit - while listening to the music playing from the tinny, staticy speakers. Doctors’ offices always seem to play the worst songs from eight years ago, for some reason. The thought tickles you. Like that’s universally appealing, or something. 

A nurse opens a door and calls your name. You collect your things, then join her as she takes your paperwork and leads you down a long hall, your shoes squeaking on the linoleum flooring. She has you slip off your shoes then stand on a scale to jot your weight, then leads you to an examination room. 

“And what brings you in for your visit?” 

“Uhh…” You fidget with your nails, picking away the chipping nail polish you painted on a few days ago. “Struggling to reach orgasm,” you murmur.

Your nurse nods as she types your response into her laptop, and you’re thankful she doesn’t show any judgment. Maybe she is judging you, but so be it. She hides it well. And,  she’s not the one you have to worry about. 

She bends over and opens a drawer, then hands you a paper gown and a large paper sheet. She shows you how to wear the gown, then instructs you to lay the paper sheet over your lap. The doctor will be in shortly, she says, then leaves and closes the door behind herself. 

The cool air has your skin erupting in goosebumps as you strip bare. This part always feels…awkward. Putting your clothes into an awkward little pile on the chair across from the examination table, putting that awkward, baggy paper gown on, covering yourself with that awkward paper sheet. It could not be less flattering on you, and makes you feel sort of dehumanized. Just not yourself.

You hope this will be over soon. You’ve already been sitting on the examining table for about fifteen minutes, legs dangling in the air as you wait for your doctor to show up. While toying with the paper sheet, crumpling it and smoothing it out again, you notice a few stray hairs you missed shaving on your legs - fuck. You hope he doesn’t notice. Or worse, say something. He totally fucking would, too. 

Good god, you feel nervous. Do other people feel this nervous, usually? Or is it just you? You’re looking at all the sterile, scary-looking tools on that little metal table covered in a blue sheet thinking–

Knock knock. Doctor Roy doesn’t give you time to say anything before he’s opening the door and waltzing in the room, and there’s a rush of cool, moving air that prickles your skin. 

“Hey, hey, if it isn’t my favorite fuckin’ patient,” Roman announces. “How the fuck are you?” You open your mouth to speak, but Roman cuts you off, “Cute panties,” he interrupts, pointing to your pile of clothes. The comment makes your cheeks heat up, and Roman laughs. 

Roman Roy, MD. He’s a rather unorthodox gynecologist, and that’s putting it generously. He’s got no bedside manner whatsoever - which likely contributes heavily to his abysmal two-star rating online. He’s very rude, very short and impatient with people. Lewd. Inappropriate. Everything you don’t want your gynecologist to be. Oh, god, people are so fucking sensitive now, right? What, can nobody take a joke? 

He was the only doctor in your insurance network when you started visiting the gynecologist, and you’re stuck with him. Feel like you’re stuck with him, at least. You’ve thought about going elsewhere, but Doctor Roy knows you, and he knows your medical history. Being so fucking unpopular amongst patients due to his terrible demeanor, there’s only seldom a wait to see him. If you get a yeast infection or a UTI - or, shit, even strep throat, he’ll write you a script quickly and easily, no jerking you around. You just have to put up with his dirty jokes, and stuff. Things could be worse. Right?

Roman gets right to it. He sits down on the leather-covered rolling stool and opens his Macbook to read through your chart. “Buh-buh-buh…” he hums absently, scrolling through your records. “Oh - okay. Great. Fuckin’ nurse didn’t ask you anything or take your blood pressure or any of that shit. Jesus fuck, I have to do everything around here.” 

“Oh?”

“Yeah, sorry. She’s new. Fresh out of nursing school and fucking useless,” he mutters, his eyes still glued to his scream.

Roman stands up and switches on the blood pressure machine to your left, and it whirs to life. He unsticks the gray, Velcro cuff from itself, “I’m gonna take this, thank you,” he murmurs, taking your left arm in his hand without your permission, and raising it up so he can wrap the cuff around your bicep. Roman presses another switch and the cuff slowly fills with air, squeezing you. “Sorry,” he says. “Fuckin’ thing is slow as shit.” 

“It’s okay,” you whisper. You study Roman’s face as he watches the numbers on the display. He’s growing a little bit of scruff - you like the look on him. In the bright, sterile room, his hazel eyes lean slightly green. His hair has grown out a little, and you find it interesting how it’s darker and lighter depending on the season. He’s got the softest, most beautiful strands. 

Being honest with yourself, part of the reason you still visit him is because he’s so fucking handsome, and you just can’t help yourself. That has to be true with his other patients, too. On no other fucking planet would his antics and lack of ethics fly if he weren’t so attractive. 

Looks really do get you everywhere. 

The machine hisses as the air is let out of your cuff, and then Roman’s taking it off of your arm. He grabs his stethoscope next and puts the two little earpieces in his ears. He flicks your paper gown to the side and presses the cold metal bell against your bare chest, brows furrowed as he listens to your heart. Then, he smirks. 

“Heart’s beating a little quick today, huh?” he muses, teasingly. “What’s up with that? You nervous?”

“A little,” you admit. Fuck, you can smell him - his cologne and the almond-scented soap he washed his hands with. His breath is warm on your face as he moves the stethoscope around, listening intently to your heart. When he’s done, he shuffles and  moves the bell to your back. 

“Deep breath in,” he instructs, voice softer and more measured. You inhale deeply. “And out. Good. Again. In,��� he guides, “And out. Goooood.” 

Roman notes your shaky breaths. Nothing to worry about, he concludes. They match your pounding heart. You’re just a little nervous, is all. And fucking turned on, if your dilated eyes are any indication - Roman’s not stupid. He knows you’re attracted to him. He guesses that the minute you put your feet in the stirrups and your cunt is on display for him, he’ll see you dripping down the examination table. Whatever, though. He’ll make his nurse do the grunt work. 

Roman sits in his stool again. “When was your last period?” he asks you. 

“Uhhh, the twenty-eighth.”

Roman types that into his computer. “Still on the Nuvaring?” Roman looks at you, eyebrows raised. 

“Yep.”

“Any side effects? Still workin’ out okay?” 

“Still working out okay.” 

“Any pelvic pain or discomfort? Are you sexually active?”

“No and yes.” 

Fuck Doctor Roy and that stupid fucking smirk he wears. “Latex allergies?”

“No, Doctor Roy.” 

“Good, good.” Roman ruffles a hand through his hair, using the other to scroll back up to the “reason for visit” section of your chart. “So you’re here because…” Roman’s mouth drops open. “‘Patient can’t reach orgasm’. Oh shit,” he laughs. “Seriously?”

“Well, yeah,” you answer quietly, embarrassed, and heat creeps up your neck. It’s one thing to talk to your friends about this. They’re shocked too, but sympathetic, at least. “I know how you feel. My boyfriend never makes me cum.” As if that’s the same thing.

“The fuck am I supposed to do about that?” 

Your jaw drops. You feel so embarrassed, but you’re fucking pissed now, too. 

“Chill. I’m kidding, okay? It’s a j - it’s just a joke. The doctor is on the case, or whatever.” Roman crosses his ankle over his knee and clicks a pen. “So how long’s this - y’know. Been a thing?”

“Mm…forever, I guess.”

“Oh, fuck. You should’ve come in earlier,” Roman says. “Maybe you need a new partner, huh? ‘Cause like, you can achieve orgasm on your own at least, right?”

That comment pisses you off too. It’s one thing to be on the receiving end of some dirty jokes and Roman’s foul mouth, but you don’t need to be shamed and made fun of by your doctor. “No,” you answer, then grit your teeth together. 

“No? How do you fuck yourself, huh? Sorry - how do you stimulate yourself, honey?”

“Just - I usually just use my fingers—”

“Uh huh. You should try a vibrator, sweetheart. Doctor’s orders. There’s a sex shop nearby - the girls are real nice there. Tell them Doctor Roy’s got a script for you, huh?” Roman winks. Gross.

You sigh, frustrated. “I have tried toys, Doctor,” you explain. This is demoralizing. Is he gonna tell you to drink a glass of wine, too? Smoke a little weed the next time you fuck yourself? “Something - something’s just wrong with me,” you huff. “I just can’t do it. I can’t fucking cum, and please stop clicking that pen.”

Roman makes an amused face at your little outburst, and makes a show out of putting his pen down. He smirks to himself - it’s probably, you know, all your pent up frustration. “There’s a lot wrong with you,” Roman says, “But not that. You can cum.”

“How do you know?”

He tilts his head, narrowing his eyes at you. “Uh, because,” he scoffs, then smiles with his tiny sharp canines on display, “I am a fucking expert in vaginas, thank you very much. Never met a pussy that I couldn’t make cum.”

Ugh, he’s fucking disgusting. You don’t doubt he’s telling the truth, though, and the thought of him pleasuring a woman makes you throb despite yourself. You open your mouth to speak, but Roman speaks first. 

“Anyway–” He claps his hands, a look of something…something, in his eye as he wears a teasing, sickening sort of smirk. “It’s your lucky day, did ya know that? You, my dear, are due for your pap.” 

“Oh.” That’s it? Just…whatever. Okay. No orgasms for you, probably ever.

“Yeah, oh. I’m gonna start with a breast examination,” Roman says, squirting a bit of sanitizer into his palms. He rubs his hands together, then stands next to you at the examining table. “It’s not always routine, but breast cancer’s on the rise in young women, so y’know. Gotta feel you up a little. I’m gonna have you lie back–” Roman puts his hand on your shoulder and pushes you backward, walking the line between forceful and gentle. “Do you ever check your breasts, sweetheart?”

“Not like - not really, I guess.” 

Roman hums. “Well, you should,” he tells you, reaching for your hand. “Arm goes up, hand behind your head like this, right there.” Roman bends your right arm into place and then opens the side of your gown, exposing your right breast to him. “Ready?”

He doesn’t wait for you to answer, he just touches you. You take a shaky breath as he walks two fingers over the flesh of your breast, up, down, and around again. He touches near your armpit and you jerk a little. “Oh, ticklish, are we?” Roman murmurs, now doing little circular massages, working his way from the outside in. You swallow hard. “Any pain here? Discomfort?” 

“No, it feels–” you gasp as his fingers touch your nipples, and Roman does a little hum as they pebble up under his touch.  

“Feels what, honey?”

You close your eyes, searching for the words as Roman covers your chest again. “Uh - doesn’t hurt.” 

He chuckles as he rounds the table, and repeats it all with your other breast. Hand behind your head, lightly and firmly pressing into your breasts with the pads of his fingertips. You keep your eyes closed, breathing heavily. You hope it passes off as anxiety, but Roman knows better. Thoroughly versed in female sexual health, he knows an aroused woman when he sees one. Good, he thinks. 

“You can sit up now,” Roman says, giving you a gentle squeeze on your shoulder. He helps you up and then stands in front of you, and opens the front of your gown to visually assess your breasts, apparently. They look good. No abnormalities in shape, texture, color. Healthy. Roman quite enjoys the look of your breasts, too. There’s a lot of things to love on a woman’s body - her ass, her curves. Her cunt (fuck, how he loves a pretty fucking pussy). But Roman’s always loved breasts. The soft, yielding flesh as he massages and gropes that flesh, the way nipples rise and harden with a practiced flick of his thumb, or tongue. 

Now finished with your breast exam, Roman covers your chest with your gown. He sits in his stool as you sit on the table, legs dangling over the edge, bouncing your mismatched sock-covered feet against the metal. He rolls his stool over to you, dragging his instrument stand a little closer as well. 

“Alright. Say ahh.”

“What?”

Roman laughs. “Your legs, genius. You know, say ahh? Open up?”

“O-oh. Okay.” 

Roman pulls out the stirrups from the table, and takes the liberty in assisting your feet into them. First one, then then the other. His hands are strong and cold, fingertips pressing gently into your skin. You can still feel them after he lets you go. “I mean, I guess you could open your mouth, though. Vagina, mouth. No real difference there, huh?”

He’s so unfathomably unprofessional and inappropriate fucking…rude, but you’re still throbbing for him. You wonder if he’ll notice your pulsing cunt, if it’s as visible as it feels. 

You feel awkward as the cool air ghosts over your exposed center, listening to the sounds of Roman getting ready for your pelvic examination. He rolls up his sleeves past the elbows first, then takes the two blue latex gloves on his instrument stand and puts them on, snapping the elastic on his wrist each time. “Ready?” Roman asks, tugging the material down as he wiggles his fingers. 

“Uh - yep. Yeah, I guess,” you breathe.

“Oh, fuck off. You’ll do fine,” Roman tells you, patting your leg. “You always do, right? C’mon. Scoot your ass down, sweetheart, you know the fuckin’ drill.”

You scoot a little down the table, holding your breath while looking up at the ceiling. Roman scoffs and rolls his eyes before standing up, sliding both of his gloved hands under your paper gown. He lifts you and situates your bare ass right at the edge of the examining table, then sits back down. “Yeahhh, there she is. Oh, that's sweet. You even shaved for me.” Your cheeks heat up at the comment and Roman’s subsequent snickering. You did shave for him. 

He touches you then, spreading you wide as he examines your vulva. And he called it - you’re fucking soaked, arousal glistening under the fluorescent lighting. He presses on your swollen labia, watching as your clit and your hole pulse. “Just relax,” he whispers, his warm breath fanning over your heat. “It’s just you and me, right? Relax for me, sweetheart.”

Okay. You can relax. You take a big breath in and breathe it out as you interlace your fingers, resting your hands on your tummy. “Good,” Roman tells you, lightly running his thumb over your clit. “Good fucking girl,” he praises quietly, noting the way your breathing changes and how your thighs twitch at those two little words. He’s teasing you, just for shits and giggles. His right as a gynecologist, really. Running his thumb up and down your seam, then circling your clit just once. 

Roman reaches for the Surgilube and the metal speculum, then squirts a generous amount of jelly onto the tool. He rubs it around, then turns the speculum to the side and notches it at your entrance, then slowly pushes it all the way inside your hole, eliciting a sharp gasp from you. “Oooh, shit. Is it cold?”

“Yeah, a little,” you answer, wincing. 

Roman pouts mockingly. “Poor thing,” he mumbles. “You’re just gonna feel a little pressure,” he tells you, widening the instrument. Again, Roman reminds you to relax - not that you can or will. With each loud click of the speculum opening comes a rather uncomfortable increase in pressure, but not necessarily painful. You’re squeezing, tightening around the speculum as Roman looks inside you. “You’ve got a niiiice fuckin' cervix, you know that?”

“Thank you?” 

“You’re welcome,” he says, reaching for another tool - a little brush. Fucking weirdo. Roman unwraps the brush from its plastic packaging, then leans forward as he inserts it inside of you. “Gonna feel a little tickle,” Roman lies, brushing your cervix with the tool. It’s less of a tickle and more of a light scrape, but it doesn’t totally hurt. Just feels…weird, more than anything. “Done,” he says, pulling the brush away from you and reaching for the collecting tube. He puts your sample into the tube and closes it tightly, then loosens the speculum and pulls it out of you.

You sit up, lifting your feet out of the stirrups. “Ah ah ah, not so fast. You keep those fuckin’ legs open,” Roman scolds as he puts the tube into a small plastic bag with your name on it. “Doctor’s not done with you yet, honey. Good try, though,” he grins. 

Roman peels off his gloves next, then wipes a bit of the lube off of his wrist with a paper towel. He squirts more sanitizer into his palms then, the scent of isopropyl alcohol burning your nostrils as he rubs it into his hands. He puts on another pair of those blue gloves, snap, snap. As soon as he’s done, he’s rolling back in front of you on his stool.

“Just gonna feel around a bit for the pelvic exam,” he says, prodding at your folds with gloved fingers. He spreads your labia out, this time truly examining you, not just doing his secret little tease. He is a professional, after all. Somewhat, at least. Roman squirts a little more Surgilube onto his fingers before inserting them inside you, not that you need it. He bites down on his smile of amusement as you clench around him. 

He stands up then, reaching under your sheet with the other hand to press on your lower abdomen. He assesses how you feel inside, the size and position of your uterus and ovaries. Good, good. Nothing swollen or anything like that. 

You look at Roman and find him staring at you, his eyebrows raised. “Any pain?” he asks. You shake your head, and he nods. 

You can’t cum, huh? That’s what brought you in today? Oh, you poor fucking girl. If only Roman knew this whole time that you were struggling to reach climax, he would’ve done this sooner to you. It’s a mental block, more than likely. You said yourself that there’s something “wrong” with you, after all. 

There’s nothing wrong with you. Really. There’s nothing wrong with any woman who can’t orgasm. They, and you, just need Doctor Roy’s touch, his steady stroking and massaging. Just someone to show you that it can and will be done.

Roman adjusts the hand on your stomach and presses down firmer, then searches for that special little spot inside of you, the one he’ll use to make you see stars. “Feeling okay? Maybe a little discomfort, hm?”

Roman begins to rub your g-spot slowly, intentionally, knowing exactly what he’s doing to you. You squirm on the table, tearing the paper underneath you. Legs starting to twitch. 

“N–just,” you gasp, arching your back, “Just pressure, Doctor.” 

“Uh huh, sure. Pressure.” Roman smirks at you. “I think you fuckin’ like this.” You sigh as he pulls his fingers out of you, then rubs on the seam of your cunt. Men - and women, too, for that matter - always forget this part. The labia are hardly touched enough. Roman drags his warm, gloved fingers through your folds, his other hand sliding up your torso. He opens your paper gown, exposing your breasts, and squeezes a handful of flesh there. Not harshly, just gentle. He rubs his thumb in circles over your nipple as he rubs your clit with his other hand, noting the way your breathing deepens. 

He massages your clit expertly, wearing a crooked grin as you grip into the soft leather of his exam table, further tearing at the sanitary paper. “Oh,” you moan, canting your hips into his touch. “Oh, Doctor - fuck.” 

Doctor. God, Roman loves that. Loves being called a lot of things. Sir. Fucking…Daddy. But Doctor, well. The prestige and power that comes with that little honorific is second to fucking none, isn’t it? 

Roman’s moving his hand lower again, and slipping two of his slick fingers into your cunt. He teases your other nipple as he pumps those two fingers in and out of you, savoring the way you squeeze him. Roman curls those fingers inside you, stroking lazily as he stares down at you. 

You’re making all the right noises, all the right faces. Those pretty moans and that scrunching of your nose. You’re gonna fucking cum. Roman’s gonna make you fucking cum. 

He strokes harder, now repeatedly curling against your g-spot. The action makes you moan loudly, and he clamps his hand over your mouth. “Shhh, honey,” he tells you, gagging you with two fingers. You taste your own arousal and the latex from his gloves, and instinctually suck on his digits, looking up at him with wide eyes. “I don’t fingerfuck all of my patients like this, right? So keep quiet.” 

Roman steadily fucks you on his fingers as he adds his thumb into the mix, rubbing that swollen clit of yours as he works you. You’re getting sweaty now, soaking through your paper gown. Roman can feel your thighs twitching, and your walls beginning to pulse in non-rhythm. 

You try to speak but can’t with Roman’s fingers still in your mouth, and make only desperate little moans instead. It’s for the best, really. He knows you’re gonna try to tell him that it’s too much or whatever, not realizing what you’re on the brink of. 

“You’re gonna cum for me,” Roman tells you. “Okay? Doctor’s orders. Cum for me.” 

With the methodical, almost ruthless way he fucks you on his fingers, you have no choice but to lay there and fucking take it. Surrender to it. He’s got you trapped between his fingers, playing you like you’re an instrument. Pleasure seems to build almost exponentially, and before you know it you’re imploding; clamping down on Roman’s fingers as he relentlessly works you. The relief you feel is almost palpable, pleasure running through your veins in unending waves. 

Roman guides you through your orgasm until the very last of your twitches, then pulls both of his hands from your body. He leaves you gasping on the table as he removes his gloves, and when he looks back at you, you’re crying. It’s natural, of course. To be expected. He’s still gonna be a dick about it, though. 

“Oh my god, are you fucking crying?” he asks, joining you at the table. He helps your shaky legs out of the stirrups, then reaches for you. “Need a hand up?”

You take his hand and pull him close, wrapping yourself around him as you cry it out. All of that pent up energy, everything. “Oh, you’re fucking hugging me. Yeah, that’s…whatever. Uh huh. There, there,” Roman says, stroking your back. “Fuckin’ told you,” he adds. 

A knock at the door has Roman pulling away from you. “Welp, duty calls, huh? Pleasure to see you as always, and fuckin’...glad we sorted you out. You can schedule your next appointment up front and I’ll see you next year, I guess. Same time and place. Okay. Bye!”

If you enjoyed, let a girl know :) I love reblogs and when you hop in my inbox.

[beefdogcoffee]

WIFE WIFE WIFE WIFE WIFE WIFE

[sad-emo-dip-dye]

GOOD MORNING SSKK NATION this interview is fucking me up on an astronomical level

[thatonepersonguy]

Also them because I FUCKING hate them !!!

[i-restuff]

The next trailer for Mutant Mayhem officially arrives May 31st! Also the release date for the film got moved up too August 2nd!

[eleooooooo]

WE'RE SO FUCKING BACK

[reigningm4x]

Can the booing talk track die now

[magicn8ball]

the moment the garashir gifsets from this episode go up i will be all over that shit. #liked #followed #saved #downloaded #reblogged etc etc

[lonely-night]

wait.... so kalinda really killed her abusive husband??? nothing mentioned in this episode about what she did last ep?????

YALL WEREN'T LYING WHEN KALINDA KILLED HER HUSBAND BECAUSE HE THREATENED ALICIA??????

I THOUGHT IT WAS FANFIC WHAT THE FUCK

[sunflowermp4]

SURPRISE FRANK OCEAN SNIPPET!!!!????>?*"&"*>&"*>&*

[lolastarkeyfr]

[cat-downthestreet]

Man, I love Matpat, but his Zelda theories are just the WORST. Does he even know the lore?

Also, no, I'll never stop being angry about his Majora's Mask purgatory/dream theory. If Link died at the start of that game- when he was a KID, mind you- how do you explain the existence of Twilight Princess' Hero's Shade? In order for Link's ghost to look like that, he would've had to die as an ADULT. Otherwise, the Hero's Shade wouldn't have been a Stalfos, but a Skull Kid. You could argue that Link is internally an adult because of the whole time-screwery thing in Ocarina of Time, but that doesn't line up with the lore. You have to actually be an adult to show up as a Stalfos after dying in the Lost Woods. Besides, I'd argue that internally, Link is still just a kid. He didn't stop being a kid just because of the seven year timeskip. He just had to take on the responsibilities of an adult before he even got the chance to grow up.

Moving on. According to the Fallen Timeline, for an entire world to exist within a dream, you'd need a Windfish and a curse that makes him sleep. Majora's Mask had neither. Therefore, Termina is simply an alternate world, sort of like Lorule and the Twilight Realm. It was not a dream. End of story.

Although, I'd argue that the Twilight Realm is the space between worlds. Hyrule is light, Lorule is dark, and twilight is literally the time of day where it's not quite light and not quite dark- as in, just in between. It would make a lot of sense...

Anyways, sorry for the rant. I'm a bit ticked off at the continuous insistence on using dream theory as an explanation for everything that's weird about Majora's Mask. Dream theory is a cop-out. It was never anything else. It's just another way to dismiss making any actual theories about something this complicated.

[sad-emo-dip-dye]

IS THAT LIGHT?!!?!!! IN HIS EYES!!!?!?!!

[musical-chick-13]

I did NOT spend five fucking years breaking my back and my brain getting a degree in this for people to say that musical theatre is corny and useless and inherently shameful.

[lemontartyellow]

Just remembered Oswald and Martin. He literally loved his boy………………………

[aliceinmadnessland]

If housing wasn't absurdly expensive I'd have left this house years ago. I'd rather be alone and deal with my thoughts 24/7 than dealing with my own family 'cause I can't fucking stand them anymore.