#not just my plants. the annuals and all the other stuff. it was a whole thing.

[cantankerouscatfish]

water my own dang shoes multiple times a week keeping thousands and thousands of plants alive. it's not FARMING though. it's. technically agriculture, according to the state. but. listen,,

[illdowhatiwantthanks]

Hiya,

Do you think maybe you could write a Casey x Autistic!reader (not necessarily the same autistic reader from the previous ones) where casey snaps at reader after an interaction where reader thought everything was all fine and dandy, but things were in fact not fine and dandy (plus casey being under a lot of stress from work).

Ive had multiple social interactions where i get whiplashed because i thought i was doing all the right things and saying all the right things, but in fact wasn’t and getting scolded or teased (negative) about it…

-Ara

Hey, Ara! So glad to see a request from you! 💖 Every time you interact with any of my stuff, I'm like, "Oh, yay! Ara's here!" Ngl this one was hard to write. Mostly because I also have been in many social situations where I am trying so hard to do or say the right thing and end up messing things up for people I care about. There are a lot of things about being autistic that I've grown to enjoy and cherish, but this one... oof. This one's still hard. It's a little longer than my usual, but I hope it's what you're looking for! – illdowhatiwantthanks

They Go Low

Casey Novak x autistic!fem!reader Warnings: people being meanies, angst (resolved at the end though!), hurt/comfort-ish (?), explicit language (let me know if I've missed anything!) Word count: 3.2k

Summary: It's the annual New York County Lawyers Association gala, and you're going as Casey's date. You're terrified of messing something up, socially and, well, when the worst happens...

You exhaled heavily as you stood in front of the mirror, adjusting your tie and your pocket square. You looked good, objectively speaking. You’d gotten a haircut the day before. The suit was custom-made and fit you like a glove. And Casey had helped you put on “just a little makeup, babe.” But you weren’t worried about looking good at the New York County Lawyers Association Gala. You were worried about acting good.

Casey came up behind you and wrapped her arms around your waist. She looked so pretty it took your breath away. Full evening gown, in a deep, forest green, with a halter top, which you loved because it allowed the dress to contrast against Casey’s hair. Rich and red and glorious and one of your favorite parts of her, even if she did get self-conscious about it sometimes.

“You look so beautiful, honey,” she said, planting a light kiss on your cheek, careful not to leave any lipstick.

“Not as beautiful as you,” you told her. You knew that parties like this should be fun. What you wanted was to be a perfect partner for Casey, to be someone worth showing off at an event like this. Casey already felt like an outsider at a lot of these events because she wasn’t New York law royalty like some of the others. She didn’t come from money. She’d worked to get where she was. Hard.

You’d come a long way in accepting autism as part of yourself, even come a long way in loving yourself for it, thanks in no small part to Casey. But small talk? With strangers? It wasn’t your strong suit. You wanted so badly to make Casey proud, but you always felt like you were subpar. Like there were whole levels of conversation going on above you. You could tell they were there. You knew you were missing things, but you couldn’t tell what you were missing.

You let out another shaky breath, fidgeting, trying hard to keep your fingers quiet at your side as you stimmed, practicing for when you’d be at the gala.

“Hey,” Casey said, turning you around to look at her. You avoided her eyes, but she bent her head a bit so you had to meet them. She ruffled your hair a bit, playing with the waves, with the fluff of it at the top of your head. “You okay?”

You shrugged. “Just nervous.”

“You…” she started, straightening your suit jacket and helping you with your cufflinks. Your heart swelled; you hadn’t even asked–she just knew. “...are charming and funny and sweet. You’re so smart. You’re a great listener. You’re good with people, even if you don’t think you are.”

You nodded, drying your sweaty palms on your suit pants.

“You’re gonna be fine, honey. Alex will be there. So will Liz and Rita. If you get nervous and you can’t find me, or I’m having to talk with other people, you can always find them. They know you and they like you.”

“Okay,” you conceded, voice shaky.

In the taxi, you played with Casey’s fingers–a nervous tick that she indulged. You liked the feeling of a fresh coat of nail polish on her nails, liked to press on it, but you were careful not to press too hard and ruin it tonight.

“I like this color,” you told her, brushing the pads of your fingers along her wine-red nails.

“Me too,” she agreed. “You don’t think it looks too much like Christmas? With the dress?”

You surveyed her quickly and shook her head. “No. It looks nice. You look nice.”

Your leg started to bounce as you got closer to the venue.

“Casey, what will I even talk about? The weather!? The Bill of Rights!?” You were starting to panic a bit, even as you tried to shut it off–it was Casey’s night. You did not want her having to take care of you during the NYCLA gala.

“Well, let’s make a list, yeah?” Casey said, taking your hands and flattening them between hers to relieve the tension you held there. “You can ask about where they’re from and talk about where you’re from. That’s always a classic.”

You nodded, determined not to need help this evening.

“You could ask what type of law they practice.”

You furrowed your eyebrows. “Casey, I don’t know anything about law.”

She nudged you with her shoulder. “Sure you do! I talk about work all the time. Just talk about the lawyer-y stuff you know from me.”

“Okay.” You were talking more to yourself than her. “Okay, I can do that.”

Casey squeezed your hand as you exited the cab. You took a deep breath, offered her your arm, and walked in, determined to make Casey proud.

And for the most part, you did alright. Casey introduced you around during the cocktail reception, and you figured out what to say. Your go-to was making people laugh. If you could just find an anecdote, just latch onto a story that resonated with these people, then everything became easier. Then it was just a routine, like giving a rehearsed speech instead of improvising every conversation.

You ate dinner, spoke cordially, if quietly, with the other people at yours and Casey’s table, and laughed in all the right spots at the program. You’d even managed to keep your stimming to a minimum.

But now the night was winding down. Groups of lawyers were scattered about the room. When you returned from the restroom, Casey seemed in deep conversation with a few other people, and you didn’t want to interrupt, so you went to stand by the bar, nursing your last cocktail of the night and trying desperately not to look awkward or out-of-place.

A tall man, imposing, but with a friendly face, approached the bar, ordered a dirty martini, and stood nearby. He nodded at you, and you nodded back.

“I haven’t seen you around before,” he said.

“Yeah, I don’t attend a whole lot of lawyer events,” you replied, taking a quick sip.

The man laughed. That had been one of your best lines of the night.

He introduced himself, extending his hand. “Trevor Langan.”

“Y/N Y/L/N.” You shook his hand, flashbacks of practicing a “firm handshake” with your dad in the back of your mind.

“So what brings you to the NYCLA gala, if you’re not a lawyer?”

“Oh, um, do you know Casey Novak? She’s in the Manhattan DA’s office?”

Langan’s eyes lit up. “Oh, sure! Casey and I go way back.”

You smiled, glad to have something to talk about, something you could talk about forever–Casey. “She’s my girlfriend.”

“Ah,” Langan said, tipping his drink toward you, as if in a toast. “Lucky woman.”

“Her or me?”

He burst out laughing and you tried to laugh along, too, even though it had been a genuine question.

“Good one.” He took a sip of his martini. “In all seriousness, though, Casey knows her stuff. She doesn’t crack. Hard to believe she’s human sometimes.”

Oh, now you could hit your stride. Casey as a person. You loved getting to show off Casey’s soft side.

“She’s great at her job,” you agreed. “Not that I know a ton about being a lawyer, but… she struggles, too, you know? Some of the SVU cases can be really emotionally difficult. Like, I know she’s working on one right now that’s really taking a toll.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Oh, really? What’s the case?”

“There’s this serial rapist,” you explained. “Apparently, they’ve been trying to nail him for years. They had DNA evidence linking him to one of the rapes, but I guess the judge threw it out recently? Not really sure why… But Casey says there’s not a whole lot else to go on, so she’s been working really hard with SVU to dig up more evidence.”

“Huh,” Langan said, nodding toward Casey as she made her toward you both. “Sounds like it might be a lost cause.”

You shook your head, leaning into Casey as she placed her hand on the small of your back. “Nothing’s a lost cause with Casey. Right, honey? I was telling Trevor about that case you’re working on.”

Casey seemed to grow stiff beside you. “The serial rape case?” she asked, and you had to look at her face to confirm what you were hearing. She looked… angry? Scared? You couldn’t quite tell, but it was some flavor of upset. Maybe she was still worried about the case…

“Yeah,” you confirmed, hoping to lift her spirits with a little optimism. “You know, about how hard it is right now because the judge threw out the DNA, but that you’ve got it because you always do.”

She gripped your hand tightly, so tightly it almost hurt, and glared at Langan. “That’s fucking low, Langan. Even for you.”

“Just business, Casey,” he said, holding up his hands in defense.

You felt so deeply confused. Something had gone terribly awry in this conversation. Maybe Casey and Trevor Langan weren’t friends after all?

“You’re an asshole,” she spat at him. “She doesn’t know any better.”

Okay, so they were talking about you. Your mind raced back through the conversation, trying to figure out if you’d said something wrong.

“Yeah, honestly, Novak, I wouldn’t have put you two together,” Langan observed. “I don’t know that she’s quite in your league. You know, mentally.”

You blushed furiously. You got the jab on that one, or at least the implications of it. That you didn’t deserve Casey. Which might be true, but it still hurt for someone else, someone who barely knew you, to see it and say it.

For her part, Casey looked like she might clock Langan with a strong right hook. “Well, she’s way out of yours.”

And with that, Casey pulled you away, out into the brisk, New York spring night. You tried to catch her eye as she hailed a taxi, but she wouldn’t look at you. You were growing increasingly anxious. You’d fucked up somehow. You knew it. You could tell. And you must have fucked up badly or Casey wouldn’t be this mad.

She was quiet on the way home, fuming. And she didn’t hold your hand. She always held your hand. Your stims got more anxious, more obvious, along the ride. You wanted to ask her what was wrong. Wanted her to tell you what it was you’d done to mess everything up, but you were afraid to ask in front of the taxi driver.

You opened your mouth to ask as soon as the door to the apartment shut behind you, but Casey was faster. She was angry. Her face was red. And she was nearly crying. Casey never cried.

“Why the fuck would you tell Langan about that case, Y/N?!” she yelled, furiously kicking her heels off.

You felt your heart drop, panic run up your spine like ice. “I– I was just trying to talk about lawyer stuff.”

“Not that stuff! Case details!? Babe… this is just common sense!”

Your heart felt like it was being suffocated. Your voice was shaky and weak. “H-he said he knew you, that you went way back.”

Casey laughed and pressed her hands to her face. “Oh, yeah. We sure do. Way back.”

You were trying so hard to get what she was saying, but your brain wouldn’t quite make the connection. “I… I don’t understand, Casey.”

A tear streaked down her cheek. “Of course you don’t understand!” she railed. “You never understand!” She sat down heavily, rubbing her forehead. “He’s the fucking rapist’s defense attorney, Y/N! And now he knows we’ve got nothing!”

You felt like you’d been slapped in the face. In fact, you almost would have preferred Casey actually slap you in the face. Tears filled your eyes, and you knew you were about to lose it. Casey had been mad at you before, but not like this. And you knew you didn’t understand a lot of things. You didn’t catch social nuance. It went right over your head. But to hear it from Casey… Casey who usually made you feel like there was nothing wrong with you. You’d ruined something. You’d ruined something important tonight. You felt guilty, but more than that you felt ashamed.

Your hands twitched by your side, and your breath came in huge, desperate gulps, and you knew you were on the verge of breaking down. And that last thing you wanted tonight was for your breakdown to be another fucking thing that Casey had to deal with. Another thing for her to fix. You’d already given her enough to fix tonight.

“Be right back,” you said, because it seemed like something normal to say, and you didn’t want to just exit. You walked quickly to the bathroom and shut the door behind you, locking it.

You sat on the floor and curled yourself as tightly as you could into the corner where the wall and the shower met, pulling your feet to your chest. Suddenly, everything felt very tight, too tight, and you yanked off your tie and your suit jacket, unbuttoning your collar because you could barely fucking breathe right now. You held your head in your hands and rocked back and forth, trying and failing to regulate your breathing. You kept hearing Casey’s and Langan’s words in your head, as if they were on a constant loop, replaying in your mind’s eye: She doesn’t know any better. She’s not quite in your league. You don’t understand, you never understand!

You knew you were crying, but it wasn’t something you were in control of, just hot tears streaming down your face, just your heart beating so rapidly you didn’t know how to tell it to slow down. You’d fucked up. You’d fucked up so bad that you’d hurt Casey. Maybe you’d fucked up so bad that Casey wouldn’t even want to be with you anymore, and who could blame her? You didn’t even really want to be with you. Stupid, stupid, stupid…

You heard a soft knock on the door, but couldn’t bring yourself to acknowledge it, let alone open it.

“Y/N…” Casey called, voice muffled through the door and through your heartbeat pounding in your ears. “Will you open the door, honey?”

You couldn’t respond, didn’t want to respond, felt worse for Casey having to worry about you now. As if you hadn’t already given her enough to worry about tonight.

And your rocking back and forth, your absolute spiral, stopped only when you heard Casey’s voice crack, when you thought she might be crying. And your instinct to take care of her took over your instinct to wallow in self-loathing.

“Please, baby,” she begged. “I’m so sorry. Just let me in.”

You scrambled quickly to the door and unlocked it, then scrambled back to your corner, huddling protectively, your body literally shaking. You were scared, you realized. You didn’t like being scared of Casey. If anything, Casey should be scared of you, and how’d you’d mess things up for her. You buried your face in your hands as you heard the door creak open. You didn’t want to meet her eyes, terrified of what might be in them.

You heard Casey approach you, could feel the shift in the air around you as she sat down next to you, the rustle of her dress as she adjusted it.

You were so anxious that you were gripping tufts of your hair. You weren’t going to pull it out, but it gave you something to grab, at least.

“Y/N, honey, can you look at me?” she asked, and you could tell from how thick her voice was that she’d been crying.

You shook your head, still rocking back and forth.

She exhaled deeply, then continued. “Baby, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean what I said. You do understand, okay? You understand me. You understand when it matters. You didn’t do anything wrong tonight. It was a dick move by Langan.”

You still couldn’t bring yourself to look at Casey. You were suspicious of her. Casey always made sure you were okay. You could see her lying to you to try to make you feel better. You felt her brush a bit of hair out of your face and jerked away.

“Look, if anything, it’s my fault,” she continued. “I should have been clearer about what lawyer things to talk about or not.”

Now, this you couldn’t abide by. Casey making it her fault? No. You lifted your face, blotched red with tear stains and looked at her, and the way her makeup ran–clearly she’d been crying–it broke your heart.

“You shouldn’t have to fucking explain!” you cried. “That’s not fair to you, Case! I should just know, and I don’t because I’m fucking dumb!”

“Hey,” she said, her voice sharp as she grasped your face in both hands. “You are not dumb. You’re one of the smartest people I know.”

“Stop lying to me!” you pleaded, more tears dripping down your face.

“Look at me,” Casey said, her voice rough with emotion as she held your face even tighter. “There’s nothing wrong with you. You know what is wrong? That you have to act a certain way for all those people tonight to like you. That’s dumb.”

You tried to look away, but she only gripped you harder. Her voice broke and you wanted to cry even more, cry with her and for her.

“Honey, you are so smart,” she continued between gulps of breath. “And so kind. And you have such a special way of making people feel like they can be themselves. You know you make me feel more loved than anyone ever has? You remember everything about me, everything I say. And you listen and you notice things and you… you make me feel like I’m who I’m supposed to be.”

Your sobs had quieted a little, until you were just shaking now, hiccuping with the aftermath. “You are, Casey,” you choked out. “You’re perfect.”

“See that?” she said, smiling a little and wiping your face with her hands. “You are twice the person Trevor Langan is. You build people up, you don’t bring them down.”

You let Casey slide next to you, let her wrap her arm around you and rest her chin on the top of your head.

“I’m still so sorry,” you mumbled. “I fucked up your whole case.”

She sighed and chuckled. “Honestly, it was already fucked. And Langan would have found out sooner or later.”

You let out a shaky sigh and settled into Casey, your head tucked under her neck, ear pressed to her chest so you could hear her heartbeat drawing you back down from your spiral.”

She breathed evenly, running her hands gently through the short hairs at the back of your head.

After a few minutes, Casey kissed the top of your head and pressed her hand to the side of your face, holding you close to her chest. “I love you, you know that?”

You nodded, snaking your arms around her waist and burying your face in her neck. “I love you, too.”

[rileyslibrary]

Ghost helps Riot decorate the Christmas tree at the base.

Fluff. A gift for my friend, @gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot with her OC, Christine “Riot” Vega. (Awesome render here!)

———————————————————————

“It’s too tall.”

“Or, maybe you’re too short.”

Riot shifts her gaze from the Christmas tree to Ghost. He doesn’t regard her back, yet she knows there’s a smile underneath that mask—one of those triumphant, snarky, arrogant, ‘i-got-her-again’ grins.

“Behave, Lieutenant,” she warns. “I’m 1.70, in case you didn’t read my file.”

“Congratulations to the whole 1.70 of you,” he replies and playfully pats her head. “With or without the shoes?”

Riot rolls her eyes and swats his hand away. “Can you just get me the ornament boxes from the warehouse?” She asks.

“You have to be more specific, love,” He says. “The warehouse is a two thousand square meter void filled with cardboard boxes.”

“I don’t have the coordinates, Ghost.” She replies, smirking. “You can ask Gaz whether he planted a GPS tracker in them or, here’s a better idea: how about you search for the boxes labelled as ‘Xmas’?”

Now, he’s the one rolling his eyes. He murmurs a “how unique” and walks to the door to fulfil her request.

While waiting for Ghost to find and retrieve the boxes, Riot tests the new Christmas lights they bought by plugging them into the socket. Once she confirms they work, she starts wrapping them around the tree. Although the task appears to be assigned to just the two of them, it took all five—including the captain who gave the roles—to make it happen.

Gaz chose the tree and bought extra ornaments, then Soap measured its dimensions, ensuring enough lights to cover it. Once aligned, they raked the entire base to decide on the perfect spot. Their prerequisites? It had to be a place where everyone could see it and would do it justice. Unfortunately, they couldn’t agree on a specific location, so they met in the middle and decided to place the tree in the mess hall, the exact same spot it was last year. And the year before it. And the year before it.

Then, it was up to Ghost to carry the tree, and the captain instructed him to help Riot with the “heavy-duty” tasks. Now, all that’s left is for Riot to decorate it.

“I still don’t get why you get to decorate.” Ghost says, placing the boxes on the floor. “Why are we doing chores like measuring and carrying boxes while you get the fun stuff?”

“Because whoever did it last year did a terrible job,” she retorts, emphasising ‘whoever’ and handing Ghost a light strip to continue up to the top. “You guys didn’t even shuffle the decorations. Not to mention that the back was empty.”

“Nobody sees the back,” Ghost argues.

“You don’t?” Riot smirks.

“Nobody sees the back of the tree,” Ghost corrects.

“Well, I do,” she replies, pointing at the top of the tree, “and go a little bit lower over there.”

“Like that?” he asks.

“Like that,” she confirms.

After finishing the light placement, Ghost sits on the sofa. He takes an ornament shaped like a candy cane from one of the boxes and starts playing with it. Riot, on the other hand, gets straight to the job. She opens the boxes and grabs two ornaments. She places one on the tree, removes it and tries the other. She concludes on the latter. She turns around to search the boxes for more ornaments and catches Ghost fiddling with the candy cane.

“You can go if you’re bored,” she says. “I won’t finish anytime soon.”

“That I figured,” he murmurs under his breath, making Riot instinctively place her hands on her waist. He lets a sharp chuckle and shakes his head. “I’m alright here.” He assures her.

But of course, where else would he be alright if not here?

Time passes quickly. Ghost and Riot reminisce about their past Christmases—childhood festivities, memorable Boxing Day gifts, favourite holiday foods, and the annual movies that defined each season. Yet, these beautiful memories end at a certain point unique to each. Maybe those memories have faded away, or perhaps they have purposefully chosen to let them go. And when that happens, when they approach that personal boundary, they stop dwelling on those past celebrations and turn to each other, to the present, to fill them with joy.

Sometimes, Riot shows Ghost different ornaments, and he either picks one or dismisses the options with a casual “whatever” or “there’s no difference.” Other times, Ghost critiques her progress, giving feedback while she decorates. He points out areas needing more attention or playfully suggests she’s gone overboard elsewhere. In return, Riot replies with a firm yet joking, “Go on; you do it then”, and shuts him up.

She lifts one final piece into the air and shows it to Ghost—the Christmas tree topper.

“Seems that I’m too short to reach the top,” she pouts.

“Nonsense,” he whispers and stands up. “It’s the tree that’s too tall.”

He walks towards her, grabs her waist, and lifts her up.

“Now I get why the captain assigned me for the heavy-duty stuff,” he says.

“Drop me, and I’ll stick you up there instead of the topper.” She warns him, chuckling. “Take one more step forward, please.”

Ghost does as told, and Riot places the topper at the top. She adjusts it and lightly taps Ghost’s hand to put her down. They take a few steps back and marvel at the result.

“What do you think?” Riot asks, still looking at the tree.

“Seems alright.” Ghost shrugs. “Should we turn the lights on?”

“No,” Riot replies. “I want all of them to be here when we do it.”

He turns to look at her and nods. She meets his gaze and smiles.

“Thank you for lifting me up.” She says.

“No,” he replies. “Thank you for lifting me up.”

———————————————————————

[whateverisbeautiful]

♥️Reveling in Richonne - TOWL

#48: The Wedding Plans (1.05)

Of all the Jadis and Father Gabriel flashbacks, this was the best one right here because we get to learn something so special - Rick wanted to have a wedding with Michonne. 😭 Officially marrying his wife is one of the many milestones that trifling Jadis stole from them, and Michonne also addresses some other missed milestones Jadis took from them as they hunt her down 🚖...

Flashing back to two years ago, Jadis and Father Gabriel have another one of their annual meetings in the forest. Jadis asks, “How’s Rick’s wife doing?” And I do like hearing Michonne be referred to as 'Rick’s wife' by someone, even tho it’s one of my least favorite someones.

Father Gabriel says, “Michonne? She’s away helping people.” And even with this, I was like...SIR, are you at all curious why Jadis is curious about how Rick’s wife - who Jadis wasn’t close to - is doing? Like, please...

I'm not even saying Father Gabriel needed to immediately put together that Jadis had anything to do with Rick, since he, like many, thought Rick died. But still, he could have at least been a bit more suspicious of Jadis' whole situation and told some people back home about her and her helicopter.

And then I’m side-eying Father Gabriel again when he asks, “Why did you call her his wife?” Gabe, you have to ask? 😑 Lol, I know it’s not a big deal in the grand scheme of things, but, the second I even realized these two were having these yearly meet-ups, everything they said and did had me looking at both of them like...

Jadis says, “I mean, wasn’t she?” And I just know she’s thinking about how Rick barely says five words to her in Philly and most of those words are about his wife. 😋

Father Gabriel says, “Well not officially. If that matters anymore.” I said now Father G, I know you see Michonne every day raising those kids and wearing a wedding ring around her neck. That’s Rick’s wife, stop playing. 

Also, in TWD I was proud of Father Gabriel when he had his whole evolution into a real one and became a valued member of the group. But seeing TOWL made me remember that while Father G has grown a lot, this man did in fact enter this franchise with snake tendencies.

Had me wondering if his snake past is what makes him intrinsically drawn to this snake Jadis. But little does Father G know, that while he's actually tried to improve himself, Jadis is still slithering through life and causing so much harm.

Something I do like about this exchange between them tho is it feels like yet another thing TOWL came to set the record straight on regarding Richonne. Like for all the viewers that used to comment “no ring, no marriage,” stuff about Richonne, this was TOWL being like nope, Rick and Michonne are and have long been husband and wife, period. 👌🏽

This show didn't allow any room to downplay, discredit, or dismiss who Rick and Michonne are to each other and how much they mean to each other and I'll always appreciate TOWL for that. 😌

Then we get to the best part of these Jadis/Father Gabriel flashbacks when Father Gabriel says, “It’s funny. One day, Rick said that I should marry them. Maybe we should do it right there on the bridge that we were building”

Y’all. 🫠 When I tell you I was gagged when I heard that the first time.

I had been ready for them to just hurry this Jadis/Father G scene up but then I heard that line and...

I adore that we got to learn that Rick wanted to have a wedding and was making plans for it before he was taken. He wanted to marry Michonne on the bridge. 🥹 The very bridge he was then taken from her for years. 🥺

Watching Rick's season 9 episodes back, they’re now even better knowing that making his marriage to Michonne official was on his mind. It’s almost like you can see it with certain scenes, even tho obviously this detail was more added in TOWL rather than pre-planted in TWD.

It’s so sweet too because Rick was so adamant about that bridge being completed and I love knowing that it was both because of its practicality/symbolism of unity bringing the communities together and because it was where he and Michonne could celebrate their own special union with a wedding.

gif cred: @perryabbott

This was esepcially great to hear because I had always felt that Rick would be the type to give Michonne a ring and want that traditional solidification of their marriage. So it was nice to hear these details that show he really was working on it. 🥹

Also, another TWD scene that becomes extra emotional upon learning that Rick wanted to marry Michonne on the bridge is Michonne’s first scene post-Rick in 9.06.

Michonne goes to the destroyed bridge years later and essentially expresses how she’s still so committed to Rick and still fighting for him and them and their family. It’s almost like she's saying vows.

And little did Michonne know (because I’m sure Father Gabriel’s secret-squirrel behind didn’t tell her) that bridge is the very place Rick wanted them to exchange vows and get married. 😭

Rick truly does look at Michonne and see his future because he had big plans for the two of them in season 9. He was fully ready to have a wedding and a baby with her in his final TWD eps.

Also, in the season 8 premiere, Maggie asks Rick if he’s been thinking about what 'tomorrow' looks like and he confidently says "Yes I have" as well as telling Maggie, "After this, I’m following you."

I already always got the sense that part of that meant Rick was thinking about expanding his family by having a baby with Michonne. But I like how now after TOWL that s8 scene really reads like Rick was thinking about having a baby with Michonne and officially marrying her. That's what he wanted his 'tomorrow' to look like. 🥲

And a Richonne bridge wedding would have been beautiful. 🥹 In my head, Rick and Michonne definitely go on to have a wedding with their kids a part of it now that they’re back home. 

Father Gabriel says, “But I couldn’t see the future he described, so I sat on a log in the forest, and there at my feet in the dirt right in front of me was a ring. It seemed like it’d make a pretty nice wedding ring.”

See, see, see, even when others don’t see your vision, God gon’ see the vision. And He always makes a way. Amen. 🙌🏽

And Richonne is blessed and highly favored so of course a ring showed up. 😇

But then...y’all, I have to side-eye Father Gabriel yet again with what he does next.

Father Gabriel says how he picked up the ring and thought to put it someplace that Rick would find it “because I could suddenly see that someday” and then this man takes the ring out, revealing that he’s been holding onto it all these years 🙃...

Um imo, it would have been nice if shortly after the bridge he had told this story to Michonne and let her decide what she wanted to do with the ring.

Michonne clearly finds a lot of solace in these types of sentimental items and wore a wedding ring around her necklace. It could have possibly been a comforting thought for her to know this was the ring Rick might have proposed with since he was planning on them getting formally married with a priest and everything.

IDK, this was just making me feel like team family tried Michonne once again. 

Father Gabriel says sadly, “But then what happened, happened.” And Jadis, perhaps masking remorse but still as self-centered as always, just starts talking about how she looks forward to their next visit and the chance to just sit and talk and feel like who she was. How can she be so unmoved by the fact that she’s kept two people who love each other dearly apart for years? She got to have moments of feeling like who she was while Rick lost himself day by day. 😑

Jadis starts opening up a bit more about what she does and how it weighs on her but she’s committed to the mission and...they just can never make me like Jadis, tbh. 😪 Even when she's supposed to be showing her more human side I'm still just like...

And then Father Gabriel gets one more side-eye from me when he gives Jadis of all people that ring. What? 🙃

The only thing I like about that choice to give her the ring is that it’s kinda like the ring had a similar journey to Rick. It was stuck with Jadis for years but then eventually found its way to its rightful person - Michonne. 👌🏽

But otherwise, I was like 'Father G, why would you...???' Jadis of all people should hold onto the ring he found for Rick to give to Michonne?? 😪 Wasn’t exactly here for that choice. But that wedding ring leads to not one but two of my absolute favorite Richonne moments going forward so it’s all good now. 😌👌🏽

gif cred: @perryabbott

In the present, Rick and Michonne engage in a car chase with Jadis.

Rick says they can’t kill her but Michonne begs to differ saying, “Oh we can.” I promise Michonne and I stay on the same wavelength at all times lol. 💁🏽‍♀️ Michonne,...

Rick says, “I told you, she left a file about home for the CRM to find.” Michonne knows Jadis is just a neverending source of destruction when she says, “To destroy Alexandria because that’s what she does, Rick. She destroys!” Wrong where? 💯

Also, I love the little detail of seeing Michonne is wearing the M bracelet while she’s driving. Like they had to rush to get dressed and go chase after Jadis but Michonne still said I’m gonna remember to put on this bracelet from my man before we go. Here for it. 😊

gif cred: @ricksmarlene

And then I so appreciate that we get a moment for Richonne to acknowledge the valuable and important life moments and milestones Rick missed because of Jadis as Michonne says, “She robbed us of you being there to see your son being born. Taking his first step.” 😭

I love that she says robbed ‘us’ because Rick being there to see his son being born and RJ's first steps would have been such incredibly special moments for Rick and Michonne to share. 😢

And Jadis really took that from them. Because while yes Rick was going to need the kind of medical assistance the Civic Republic could provide to survive the injuries he got from that rebar, he eventually would have been healed up enough to go home and recover there and be present for at least the tail end of Michonne’s pregnancy and birth. If only he hadn’t been held captive somewhere he couldn’t leave. 😞

Then I absolutely adore that, upon hearing Michonne mention super special milestones that Rick has missed in his wife and son’s life, Rick is immediately on the kill-Jadis train as he says, “Okay, what do we do after she’s dead?” I love the switch-up and how he’s instantly on board. 😋 He knows Jadis has got to go for, as he said before, stealing their family.

Michonne says they’ll do whatever they have to do and sis is not playing. 👏🏽 Jadis ain’t making it out of today alive if Michonne has anything to do with it.

gif cred: @nerd4music

Michonne rams into Jadis’ car and then they eventually get Jadis to crash off the path. As they continue their Jadis hunt down on foot, Jadis flees and enlists the help of that one noodle-less trio. She clearly has a scheme in mind because one thing about a snake...

In the woods, Rick tells Michonne that the CRM's bases are spread out across the country and they have to figure out which one Jadis hid the dossier in. Rick suggests there might be a route where they can take Jadis alive and talk to her to get some info.

Rick notes how Jadis clearly hated being called Anne and he thinks that the Anne-version of Jadis is still in there somewhere. (Both versions gotta go, in my book 🤷🏽‍♀️)

He says, “If there’s something she can give us first - something to keep Alexandria safe.” But Michonne feels they don’t need Jadis for that when she says, “We’ll keep it safe." And then, determined for Jadis to meet her maker before the sun sets, Michonne adamantly says, "But she’s gonna die.”

You already know I'm with that energy. But I get where Rick is coming from too as he says, “We need to keep it safe without risking anything."

Rick then adds, "I couldn’t see some things. I couldn’t. You helped me. Maybe we can help her, and if we can’t...” And Michonne is in her full deadly mode as she finishes Rick’s sentence saying, “Then I can kill her.” She is not interested in deprogramming that lady. 😂

gif cred: @taiturner

First; I love that Rick stays giving Michonne credit for how she helped him. He knows that after the mental warfare the CRM did on him, he was finally able to see the light - the real light not ‘the last light of the world’ - because of his wife.

And second; it’s admirable that Rick has it in his heart to want to help even someone who has done him so wrong. However…Jadis done had too many chances for help and she squandered it or took advantage of it every time cuz she’s a snake through and through. So the time for helping her has passed, which is why Michonne is hellbent on killing her.

gif cred: @taiturner

Rick says, “Be my guest." because while he knows Jadis can be a resource to getting things they need, he also doesn't mind if she gets sent six feet under. I mean, killing her was a dream of his so he gets it. 👌🏽

Then Rick says, "Maybe just maim first.” and that delivery is great and always makes me smile. 😊 Rick trying to talk killing down to maiming - you can tell he knows his wife is gonna rip Jadis up somehow someway for everything she’s done to him and their family.

gif cred: @taiturner

I don’t think Michonne even quite heard Rick's 'maim' comment cuz she spots some fresh blood on a tree and as a lethal woman on the hunt, she’s immediately ready to follow where it leads. And as they go, this pursuit leads to Richonne's final confrontation with Jadis. 😌👌🏽

[creamiesstoryconer]

Yandere Harpy x Reader Part 1

Chance Encounter

I ended up rewriting this whole chapter and reusing some of the content from the teaser I am so sorry!

This is my OC I'll probably post some more info about him at a later date and some world building stuff!

Word count: 1.5K

Total reading length: 12+ Minutes

Requests:Open!

TW:Blood and fighting

Baskets woven of fresh twine and twig, sitting on the soft palate of green crumpled underneath its own weight. Stacked high with the long forgotten labours of yesterday, fruits stained with the dew of early sun and ripened with the bitter winds of the night. 

Air crisp, smoking as you exhale, the condensate rising - dancing as it allows itself to be carried away by the senseless wind of the day. Gentle nipping of one's flesh, all warm bodies fall victim to the spring morn.

Haze settled in the distance, creating a golden sea that is bound to the floor. Almost a pure white light within the sky paints an ombre from deep greys and sea blues to a dusty hue.

Gravel path under foot, leading to rustic wall a deteriorating fence, scrapes and rolls each step taken. Tiny pebble tumbling down path, momentum faster than you can keep up with. A gentle smile nestled snugly upon your face. 

The start of spring, a true new year here. 

Following small path embed into ground, leading to a  patch of heaven. Plot of land, on the edge of the garden packed with love. Vibrant colours embraced alongside one another, roots embed into soft browns, out of sight yet still make themselves known. 

The scent as one passes by is catched in the breeze, pine that mutes the undertones of lavender. A refreshing scent against the early damp morning air.

Finger brush against aged wood, a gate whom had lived many a storm, shown upon the peeling of its face Overgrowth of ivy that had cast its grip upon the barrier. Ridges in the warping material cling to the moist air, the faint feeling lingers upon your skin as you pass yourself through. 

Into the arching corridor of nature that leads to the woods,  a path that is no longer rock, nor even dried mud. A long neglected walkway that mother earth had taken back for herself, tall grass flattened, a trace that you had been here just days ago. 

Trees hand in hand enclose the pathway, a canopy of dampened greens blocking out the sea of light that lay just above this seemingly separate part of the world.

Isolated and almost silent, it seems that time has grown stagnant. Further foot trod into the canopy walk, the gentle russell of leaves brushing against each other. The first songs of birds drowned out what little was not natural to mother Earth herself. High chirps and low croaks of frogs that called home to the rushing river just out of sight.

Flickering breaks in thick trunks that stud tall and proud, give opening to a flash of water that follows down hill. Cold clashes against stones that  leaves speckled clear upon plants that rooted themselves in the sloping waters. 

The natural web of nature, adhering to the splashes left by the waters. The transparent pearls that adorn exquisitely plumped ropes. glimpses of sunlight peeking through the thick foliage, its warm, golden light illuminating everything underneath.

Further onto ground you continue, colours finally spring to life, a refreshing taste to the repetitive greens and browns that had painted the day so far. Bunches of flowers finally make the canopy walk look bright, overhead gaps finally form allowing for break from dampened light.

A bit further up the overgrown trail you are familiar with, an annual springtime ritual. To make a sacrifice, to hope for world harmony, to continue a titration you have become tired of. Children should not be terrified of the customs and stories of the elderly; they are nothing more than fairy tales. 

At the opening's edge, feet stiffened as the deep green canopy of the trees gave way to a torrent of gold. Warm on the skin and a striking contrast to the morning breeze, the honey-coloured light completely engulfs the clearing. 

A few seconds it takes for your eyes to adjust. To be able to see a sea Of Clashing colours festival seemingly brought together by nature.Clashing smells of floral fight to enveloppe your nostrils. 

 Blues and pinks cramped by one another, twisting and fighting, reaching for the sea of light that washed over the bed of natural beauty. Delicate petals, untouched, pure.  Embodiment of times untouching hands where humans are not. 

Though at the moment feet had frozen, they had begun to move once more. The harsh cut out in the sea of purity, a feeling that causes legs to move upon their own.

A splatter of ugly red, tainting once faultless blossoms. A mark of impurity of ingrace. 

Flattening of the flower bed, a sin upon Mother Nature's Beauty, ones core told them to investigate. 

Your steps are cloaked by the cushion on greens and vibrance, Edging closer and closer to the flat  patch. In the air a metallic stench rises, the rusted colour of crimson upon translucent petals morphs from speckles to harsh thrashes. 

A trail leading to it…

Eyes glancing upon it, at first tanned skin, human. Deeply kissed by the sun, broad chest heaving. His warm breath clashing with frigid air that still plagued the thicket, a gutterel  wiring escaping from his body. 

A lingering look for too long, the source of what defiled the flowers around the laid body. A piercing arrow, through his shoulder. It’s deep oak and shaft crowned with it’s flesh wound. 

As if second nature, your fingertips reached forward, to aid or  to provide comfort you do not know. Softened Digits that grazed upon taunt skin, one exposed to the elements seemingly for a lifetime. 

Gaze focused upon the stranger's face for a reaction, though his features obscured by a mess of locks, a mixture of braids and tatters.

Then a hint of gold made itself  known through the nest of chestnut that hid most of the beings' identifying features. 

Time is still for only that moment. Only for a moment …

A blur and a impact,

The faint memory of something sharp around your waist before a harsh impact to one's back.

The coarse texture of dried bark entangled in once soft locks of hair. Throbbing, building a deafening silence is what over stimulates the nerves. Soothing warmth trickling down your neck, tracing itself past your crook. Allowing for a bud of red to flow and root itself onto once pristine white clothing. Now defiled with browns and quickly darkening crimsons. 

The rising of your chest like hard labour, air having been stolen from your lungs. Hoarse gasps replace a steady rhythm that was once there. Drying your mouth as a once cared for body folds in upon itself. 

Ringing in your ears causes one's head to spin. To not focus is to not be able to see. 

Blurs of greens, a blue perhaps the sky. Golden shines for a moment. Then the sight of flesh. 

Flesh unclothed, blotches of maroon identifiable upon the sun kissed skin. A guttural scream escapes your lips, ripping through your vocal cords, straining already fatigued muscle despite no fight being given. 

Cheeks, red as puffed eyes strained to stay open, salty water - your own tears-  sullying your face. Teeth bared as saliva bubbles and leaks from the corner of your mouth.  Instinct forces your disorientated body to stay awake.

Fingers tangled within a sickenly soft plumage of feathers. Almost comforting to touch under dirt stuffed nails.

Air that was once almost refreshing to the lungs now reeks of desperation and fear. Tawng of metallic lingering, your own blood that was long dried and flaking. A dried river of rusty colour liquid fashioned from your own wound, wrapping around your neck like a macabre necklace. 

It’s animalistic eyes boaring into you, pupils blown to unnatural size. Tilting its head, forcing itself to envelope your sight. It’s chest rumbling, trilling… studying.

Hands still entangled with the red feathers, weakened digits clasp desperately. Unable to keep your head straight for much longer, a final fight escapes your limps. Harsh, violent yanking down upon plumage in hand. 

Pure red decorating your hands and the floor below. Feathers flown, taken from the scene of pure instinct by the gentle winds.

Ringing in your ears accompanied with an unworldly screech, piercing a cry that would shatter one's heart .

 All within a moment a peaceful day ended with your hands painted in red , head once again snapped into wood. Before the shuddering that was your world goes black within a moment. 

Yet body still feels the dragging across the field of mother earth's patch of hidden gold.

[someprettyname]

Lore time! (If it sounds bad I'm sorry)

Annual school fest in Osaka which will determine who'll represent the prefecture, right? Held at my school for a week (arts and sports together) while I was a high school first year. I was in for a debate competition (let me dream about being confident enough) and versification (Not kidding, I actually competed for poetry within my state and was SO close to getting a rank I was sobbing), but that wasn't till the third and fourth days, so I decided to just randomly walk about the school, maybe watch some programmes. Two days went like that, then the third day, when the soccer games would begin, I ended up running into our favorite crow boy who thought I was a soccer teammate of his (also from India, an OC). Took him a while to realize I wasn't a guy, but I assured him that I preferred being referred to as a guy. Then we talked and stuff, and he revealed the team had come individually, so he was trying to find them because they'd already found each other. So I went alongside him, searching the whole school together with him. In the meantime, we chatted a lot, casual and deep, and I'd felt like I'd clicked with somebody despite being an introvert. But then we finally spotted one of his teammates there, and we just sorta–

"Oh yeah, that's him there."

"Alright, well... so, I guess this is goodbye."

"Nah. You got a debate today, no? 'M gonna be there, 'cause I need to see you ace it. *Don't* sweat the small stuff, 'cause you're pretty fucking capable. Think of them as like plants or something."

And then he just pats me on the back and leaves. Just like that. Anyway, so in that daze, I somehow do participate in the debate (we narrowly won, by the way). And then I get off the stage, only to meet his smirking face. "Ya did good for all that panicking earlier."

I scoffed and decided to walk off casually, but then I tripped over my own feet (being the clumsy shit I am) and ended up spraining my ankle. And this guy– he literally took initiative so fast, catching me just before I fell completely, asking me if I were okay, before supporting me and walking me till the infirmary somehow (thankfully it was right down the corridor). He stayed with me the entire time basically, I got my foot bandaged up, then he again offered me support to walk around. I asked him when his game was, because I remember him saying his team would play the starting game.

And I'm telling you, never have I seen a guy run so fast. He just yelled a "Stay safe" to me and ran. I laughed so much that day. Anyway, that was the first part of it. After the game was done and stuff, he ended up coming to me to a say a bye, whether I'd be there the next days or not. I assured him I would, then he left with a grin.

Now, timeskip to the final day, we talked during the times we had free, I recited him some of the things I'd written, he talked about his interests during the days. We made a bet that if his team won, I'd owe him a favor and if my school's won, he owed me one. We could ask for anything that wasn't too much. Unfortunately, his team ended up winning. Fortunately, however, what he did was he only talked to me just before leaving;

"Ya owe me something, sweets."

"Ugh. Damn you."

"Mhm, deal's a deal. Here's what it is."

He handed me a folded piece of paper and abruptly went to the car where his parents were waiting for him to come. I opened the paper cause I was too nervous to ask him. Nothing much. Just his number and a note underneath it.

"Because your ass doesn't know how to text without panicking, call me. Plus, wanna hear that cute laugh of yours more. And I'm preeettty sure you like my voice, you kept spacing out while I talked."

Didn't get to grin at him– he'd left by then. So I called him right there and then. Still remember his smug voice that evening. What a cocky piece of shit that I had developed a crush on.

Anyway, that's how it started. We'd video call almost every other day. My family got used to me talking about him, they liked him pretty well. Same with his. About a year passed like that, then like, when we were passing into our third year, he just called me up one Sunday, and asked me if he could send one of my poems to confess to this guy that he had a feeling liked him back. I felt this weird tightness in my chest, but I said okay, deciding I'd ask the details after. Then, I got a notification on my phone. Checked it. One of the poems I'd written, sent right back to me, with an extra message underneath, "Wanted this to be the first text."

I agreed, by the way.

Oh em geeeeee gon do my commentary as I read tehhehe

"Think of them as like plants or something." <- Bahhahahja i cracked up

And then I get off the stage, only to meet his smirking face. "Ya did good for all that panicking earlier." <- tell me you crumbled down on the inside

And I'm telling you, never have I seen a guy run so fast. He just yelled a "Stay safe" to me and ran. <- AYO SUS 🤨🤨🤨🤨🤨🤨 was he blushing?

"Ya owe me something, sweets." "Ugh. Damn you." (<- I know you were blushing) "Mhm, deal's a deal. Here's what it is." <- GUHHHHH YOU'RE BOTH SO CUTE IM GONNA GO CHOMP CHOMP

"And I'm preeettty sure you like my voice, you kept spacing out while I talked." <- KARASU YOU BITCH BOYYYYY nice move

URFGHSHHSJSIIAHSHSJNS GAHHHHHH THIS IS SO ?!!!?!?!?!?!?

Oh my god this is so cuteeeeeeee how long have you both been together now?

[rainbowstargazerlilies]

Time for a new pinned post!

Hi, everyone, this is Becca or Ori! Those in the Mechs fandom might know me for my Mechs and TMA themed knit dolls (all tagged "#stargazer's four inch friends"), or the TMA and Mechs fics I write (see below). I'm in my early twenties, am currently a graduate student in psych-related fields, and live in the eastern time zone.

If you're interested in my fics, promo for that under the cut. Otherwise, enjoy the chaos!

Why should you read what I mentally call the booty shorts saga, actually known as "The Semi-Annual Non-Denominational Winter Holiday Gift Swap"?

Have you ever wondered what gift swaps might look like in the Magnus Institute?

Do you need to imagine Certain Characters (Jon) receiving so many pairs of booty shorts?

This sticks close to canon, so. . . do you want a story about booty shorts and nonsense to suddenly give you So Many Feels?

This is a collaboration between the amazing @ladydragonkiller and myself, and it was our first foray into writing and posting fanfic. I love it. Go read LadyDragonKiller's other stuff if you're a Mechs fan.

Why should you read The Stars Claim Them?

I started this series with imagining Lyfrassir Edda surviving the Bifrost Incident, and then ending up at the Magnus Institute, so it is a TMA/Mechs crossover.

I've been consistently posting for over a year. Two years as of this March, and I am so excited for that :) Currently, we're nearly 100,000 words in and going, posting right now is concurrent with TMA season 2, and I've had so much fun.

This is the fic where I stare canon in the eye, say "coward", and save every single character I can manage.

Be prepared for a very slow burn indeed, but the Violinspector element is certainly Very Much There.

We've had road trips, heists, blood snakes, rubber ducks, far too many Michaels, and more. I did a whole Peter Pan arc. It's nonsensical and amazing and I love it.

We've got a discord, where we have Very Normal Conversations about the fic, the Mechs, the Magnus Archives, and more. If you like the fic series, you're more than welcome to join!

If you enjoyed LadyDragonKiller's Raphaella backstory, I have some Easter egg references to it scattered throughout, because we brainstorm together. I consider it canon to this series, as far as that goes, and I have fun planting those :)

Why should you read anything from Corner of Dreams?

Those were oneshots I wrote last year as a part of a challenge to myself!

The first one is the angstiest Toy Soldier thing I could manage without crying. Have fun! Bring tissues!

The second is a fun little Violinspector thing that I really enjoyed writing. It just amused me so much to think about. And that ending. . . I like to think it ended happily, but there's no guarantee, is there?

The third is a Brian/Galahad oneshot. It could go so many different directions after the ending, most of which would absolutely change up canon. I like to think it wouldn't end sadly. Probably.

If there's enough enjoyment of these, there's two more I might add one day, based on Alice and on Gunpowder Tim vs the Moon Kaiser.

Also, if you're trying to get a taste of what I've written, one of these is probably a lot easier to start with than TSCT. These are each under 5,000 words.

Why should you read I Got You, Babe?

It's now several chapters in and we already have the start of some fun stuff going on. We've got Violinspector angst, Nastya doing interesting stuff post-Out. . . Why wouldn't you?

Also, I'm having far too much fun whenever I get the time to write on it. It's going to be interesting. I can't wait to share more.

[liaromancewriter]

Hey Lia! Here are some headcanons from the Ask Game:

Max definitely has a crazy bucket list and he does like, a variety of extreme sports, like rock-climbing and parkour and other cool stuff.

I'd like to think Sienna would have a huge back garden of sorts in their home, or at least a garden where she gets to do gardening and make delicious treats from the fruits and veggies she grows.

Cassie might've been a child actress of sorts? Maybe for commercials or obscure short films before she got into ballet. Maybe she and Max got up to some mischief on set.

I feel like Ethan is the type of person who'd have the cleanest desk possible but at the same time, have the messiest drawers (?) Ik ik it's a bit strange but he'd have all of these small knick-knacks and even if he doesn't believe in luck or fortune, he kind of likes to have things around to fiddle with them.

Mads -- It's so nice see you on my dash again. Thanks for the ask!

Max is definitely all that and more. He's all about experiences. He doesn't consider it a bucket list but more just living his life to the full. He's gone sky diving several times, tried BASE jumping, taken a Zero G flight, driven a F1 car at max speed.... Sienna asked him to slow down when he got injured during a jump after they had kids.

Max and Sienna have a penthouse apartment, so no backyard garden. But they eventually took over the whole floor and she planted a rooftop garden on one side of their second floor. No vegetables, but she planted herbs. Her in-laws have a huge garden and she and Max take the kids there often. Her mother-in-law also shared gardening tips with Sienna and they bonded even more over gardening stuff.

Cassie was not an actress. They moved around a lot as children, so she was lucky to at least continue her ballet training. However, her Mom has a charity/foundation and Cassie and Max are required to model for the calendar and other promotional materials annually. It's been happening since they were kids, so she does model.

Absolutely agree on Ethan. We know from Book 1, Ch 4 that Ethan keeps stress balls on his desk (he thought it would work for a baby gift 🤦🏻‍♀️). I hc that he often gets those and other promotional gifts from pharma/insurance reps and just dumps them in his drawer.

Send me your headcanons about my OCs and I’ll confirm or deny!

Character Asks: @annfg8 @bluebelle08 @cariantha @crazy-loca-blog @coffeeheartaddict2 @doriopenheart @lucy-268 @jerzwriter @lady-calypso @quixoticdreamer16 @rookiemartin @tessa-liam @trappedinfanfiction

[whats-another-song-contest]

I keep reading comments all over how disappointing the first Melfest heat was and apparently the least-watched Mello start in over a decade. There are even predictions about a possible NQ of Sweden (which I won't believe in because, well, it's Sweden and practically guaranteed around 20 televote points from Finland & Norway). According to Crystal Ball ESC on Twitter the next two heats are going to be even weaker than the first one, and there are speculations about the contest being rigged for Loreen since she got the ultimate pimp slot performing last in the last heat. What are your thoughts?

Oh, interesting question!

My feeling is that people are overreacting a bit by saying things like Sweden might have a non-qualifier before we've even heard all the entries. Another thing which I always keep in mind with esc stuff is the divide between the fans and the general public, since their tastes can differ drastically (see Latvia last year). As far as rigging the contest, I would say that's unlikely. I think that like most years we have a bunch of medicore songs and a few good ones, and because Loreen garners the most interest and likely has one of the better songs they've put her last to let people engage with the rest of the entries before she gets most of the attention (I'm also of the opinnion that people put too much store in the influence of the running order - just because it's the factor we know beforehand doesn't mean it'll be the most significant one on the actual night, when so many more and less predictable factors come into play). But I also only keep up with tumblr and YouTube comments, so I can't really evaluate the nuances of what fans are saying elsewhere.

I get where they're coming from though. To me it feels like mello has been running on empty for years now. Unlike countries with less established national selection procedures, where the varied selection processes may result in more diverse and risky entries, Melodifestivalen feels like a bohemuth whose deep roots make it very hard to shift. There is a very particular and established public perception of what mello is and should be in Sweden, and behind the scenes there is a whole industry which also helps maintain this expected fascade (how tired aren't we of hearing that the same few names have written most of the entries?).

It's like I said in my post comparing mello to doctor who: at this point mello keeps moving mostly on built-up momentum. But momentum doesn't allow for the quick turns and adaptions other countries can pull off so effortlessly. Momentum isn't a creative force, it's a derrivative one. For many countries, national selections are a sprint to be undertaken each year. Mello is a marathon we've been running since Björkman revolutionised the format in 2002. Another simile would be a garden: most countries plant new annuals every year, some have nice bushes they've been tending to for some years, and mello is the big old oak at the edge of the garden. It's majestic and showcases decades of dedicated hard work, yes, but no matter how much love and effort we keep puring into it, trees still grow old and wither. This particular one probably hit its prime over a decade ago.

I'm mixing my metaphors, but I think you get the point. We live in a very different world to 2002. We listen to and engage with music in ways you would struggle to explain to a 2002-ian if you were to go back in time and try. I think it's beyond argument that mello needs not just a reform, but to be revolutionised - the way they did in 2002 - to keep it interesting and relevant to current audiences: both the fans and the public at large. The transfer of management from Björkman to the new team (which happened before last year's edition) would have been a great opportunity for this to be done, but the tiny changes which actually were implemented are barely worthy of the name in my opinion. Behind the scenes they may have made a difference, but the experience of watching the show is very much the same - if not worse (glances at the painfully predictible voting procedure).

Real revolution would take inspiration, and that would equire entusiasm from people deeply familiar with the current landscape available to musical audiences. Mello feels like it's gone in the other direction, toward a more corporate "make a formula and stick to it" assembly line type deal. Though, I guess mello has never been the place you went for musical innovation; perhaps my tastes have just diversified with age. Either way, I agree with the general consensus that mello feels stale. There's a reason esc is my main interest, and it's the diversity of the music and performances. If mello feels more and more restrictive, esc is a liberating breath of fresh air. I can't wait for May to arrive!

[fireintheflames]

Long post incoming!

As a little mental health exercise for myself, I have decided to do some actual blogging about my real, irl life! Everything will be tagged with #personal stuff if you want to tune it out.

This is the first of those posts, we’ll see how long I can keep this up! These are probably going to be pretty long and rambling (I have a tendency to word vomit), so I’ll put a cut in if you want to continue scrolling.

Today’s topic: Touching Grass

For a bit of backstory/reminiscence, I grew up on a pretty sizable chunk of land (~15 acres, 10 of which we let go back to fields) in the Upper Midwest, one of those places that was parceled out of a farm in the 80s. My parents were very clear that my sister and I learn how to do at least a passable job at property maintenance, so I spent a sizable chunk of my youth mowing lawns, pulling weeds, planting gardens, all that jazz. Because the sweeper on the lawn mower broke one year (and dad was too cheap to get a new one and not handy enough to fix it), we raked around 2 acres of dried grass every summer after the first big cut by hand, and threw it all of it in the back field in “the pile” to compost and grow volunteer pumpkins and tomatoes. We had probably 5-6 active gardens at a time, scattered throughout the property.  I even had my own garden over the septic tank that I filled with annuals every year, and I laid the brick borders by hand (as for the positioning, septic tanks need to be pumped every couple of years. The flowers were so we didn’t bend the tank handles with the lawn mower and knew where to dig. I usually did marigolds, petunias, and snapdragons). So tldr, despite being an introverted nerd I did spent a lot of time outside doing manual labor.

Living in dorms and apartments for the past 6 years, I had forgotten how much I enjoy outdoor chores. The closest I could get was some small, unsuccessful window plants. And moving into the house with my fella in the fall meant all the lawn and garden work was already pretty much done. So I haven’t really done what I would consider “touching grass” in almost 7 years. I tried going to parks and nature trails, and while those are better than staying cooped up they didn’t scratch that itch to get my hands dirty. And in those 7 years my mental health has quite frankly circled the drain.

But this week has really been a big turnaround in that. Decided to start doing some outside work because with spring coming on, a lot of the tasks that were neglected before we moved in have come to light. Whenever I’ve been feeling stressed, I’ve been pulling the English Ivy the previous owner decided to plant in the front bushes.  My guy and I have been working to convert the back half of our lot to a native pollinator garden, and as the plants we ordered are starting to come in I’ve been planting them myself. Today I trimmed hedges with snippers for about 2 hours. And to my surprise, I feel great!! Both physically and mentally. I feel like I actually want to do things again!! I signed up for art classes, I have made plans to go traveling, just feeling like a whole new person.

So was it the touching grass? Probably not entirely. I think it probably had more to do with shaking off the winter, exercising, and just generally feeling useful. But now that I know that I really like doing outdoor chores again, I can incorporate those into my routines easier! We even have a little composting bin I can throw the grass clippings in (fun fact: if you dry them first, they count as “browns” instead of greens, so they can be used to offset other garden waste!).

[mrfancyfoot]

I saw some mentioning Walmart, and while they aren't listed in this report, there were claims a couple years ago of their Great Value line of spices and herbs having heightened levels of various toxins: https://www.courthousenews.com/walmart-on-hook-over-claims-of-heavy-metals-in-spices/

I know I have some lesser used stuff in my cupboards that are easily 2-3+ years old, so you may want to consider cleaning them out. :/

For those that may be interested (though I know it can't replace everything and not everyone has the spoons or space for it), many herbs are some of the easiest things you can grow yourself (and dry). If you have the space outside, they can be incredibly low maintenance. I have a whole bunch that I just walk outside and harvest as needed (even having to water them has been rare [I'm in Michigan]). Most are annuals but can reseed. Inside, many are happy with a cheap plant light and watering 1-2x weekly. Green onions and basil are two of my favorites because I'm terrible at remembering to water and they both grow very fast and I use them a ton (like practically every day). Dill and chives are other good ones from seed. Rosemary and thyme can be slow growing, but my outdoor rosemary plant stayed green all winter (it's been unseasonably warm here the last couple years, though). My outdoor green onions and chives stay green every winter here. I have a bunch of green onions growing inside from when I bought a bundle from the store and stuck the half inch bottoms in dirt after I used the rest and they very happily grew (keep out of reach of pets, though). That's practically infinite onions. These can be dried and I've found that they freeze decently well, too.

just always make sure that MINT IS POTTED. And green onions (quick-growing bulb-y and rhizome-y stuff in general). These grow insanely fast and will absolutely take over your yard and be very difficult to remove. Many gardeners will scream this at you in warning. You give mint to novice gardeners you hate.

The homeowner before me planted mint in the back veggie garden and it's been a battle every year I've lived here to get rid of it. I despise mint. I couldn't work that garden much (or even be out in the yard) last year due to illness and I'm scared to see what it managed it do. My parents' yard perpetually smells like onions because someone dumped green onions in the back and they grew and took over everywhere. Make sure you trim the tops off if you have them close to ground even in a pot because they can grow tall, bend over and root...and then they've escaped.

U.S. people, if you bought cinnamon from Dollar Tree, Dollar General, or other discount stores, throw it out. It's got lead

[crimsonblackrose]

I had to go get my blood drawn for my annual and thought I’ll be fine. I’m not good with this stuff but how many shots have I gotten in the last like 3 years? So many. And I was good. This is similar. Right?

And before this I had to get blood drawn every year for work. This is old hat, on a scale of omg to this is nothing for medical stuff this is nothing,

And then I nearly fainted. 😂 I feel like it was a karma thing because I was listening to their messaging machine where they were like you can bring one support person and giggling, like okay so how does that actually work and then the nurse looked at me very seriously as she stood all feet planted to make sure I didn’t face plant, “Bring a support person next time”

Like I think it was just a whole bunch of terrible things that all combo’d. One not getting enough sleep and general nervousness, add onto it that that got spiked because of the pandemic so I’m like a little baby deer every time I go to the doctors now (dad being in the hospital for nearly 2 years and nearly every time I came home prior probably didn’t help things) and then my aunt was supposed to go with me but 1. her doc said she couldn’t do her blood draw early and 2. she didn’t bring a mask. And then you add to that that as soon as I arrived some other guy was in the back moaning and generally having an awful time and I was like well that’s not helping. And then on top of that she kept like rubbing my arms trying to figure out which vein to go for and it like spiked up the nervousness because it kind of hurt.

But hey now I know ice pack on the back of your neck and front of your neck and putting your feet up like helps a lot. Because I had like 3 nurses run in as soon as I said “I feel light headed” and just bury me in ice and put my feet up. 😅

I was so shocked because I haven’t gotten light headed and nearly fainted at a doctors visit since I “crushed” a bone in my foot and had been walking on it unaware for months (it wasn’t even in the foot that was bothering me?!?!) and had to lay down after the doctor told me that in his office for like a half hour. And now I’m just like so how on earth do you expect me to bring a support person with me every time? Like sure it’d be lovely, but where do you expect me to find someone to literally hold my hand and distract me like a toddler with a birdie to take a picture? People be busy. 😅

[mcmansionhell]

short lease in a slick machine: a personal essay about apartments

Hi Everyone, you may have wondered where I’ve been for the last few months. The truth is, I, like most people must at some point in their lives, needed to take a little break and figure some things out, needed to go on some long personal journeys, needed to meet some heroes, needed to just not do this website for a short amount of time, but don't worry, I'm back now, and I'm bringing the feels on the way in.

Before I present this essay, I would like to offer my deepest thanks to the people who kept supporting me on Patreon during this soul searching. I owe you everything.

---

I’m moving again. I’ve moved every single year since I’d left my parents’ house at the age of eighteen, with the exception of the apartment I had on the second story of a Queen Anne on S. Mendenhall Street in Greensboro, in which I stayed in for two years. The rest of my dwellings have been painfully temporary, with life inevitably coming around to its annual migratory upheaval. There have been many reasons why, of course, quotidian reasons that always feel devastating at the time – jobs, school, pestilence, crazy roommates, despicable slumlords, partners to be moved closer to, relocating just to get away from where one has been before. I could rank every apartment on a scale of worst to best, from most to least livable, but none of them were permanent.

above: the only apartment I ever lived in for more than a year, a sacred place.

I wanted to write about the apartment I’m moving away from in Chicago even though perhaps it’s not prudent to do so – it’s never prudent to be personal on the internet. Don’t worry, though, I won’t include anything incriminating that could be construed as defamation or whatever. You can just feel angry on my behalf, which is really, truly in the spirit of McMansion Hell. And this is, well, apartment hell. The apartment I’ve lived in this past year quite frankly and very succinctly encompasses everything I kind of hate about architecture, about design, about the ways people in the profession are expected to live their lives for the benefit and the consumption of others.

first impressions

When I first saw the apartment, it was the nicest apartment I’d ever been in, the finest I'd hitherto walked the halls of in my rubber Birkenstocks. It was big and full of light, with lovely maple floors, the kind where, at the right time of day, you could sometimes see the tiger pattern emerge in flecks and ribs like those on the backs of violins. When the landlord, an architect, showed it to us, he had his stuff in there still. A Bertoia chair that was probably real. Very carefully selected items from Design Within Reach alongside enough pieces from other places to make the whole getup seem more authentic. Sparse hangings on the walls, each big and well-framed. Single potted plants. A well-oiled cutting board.

There were European bath and kitchen fixtures and recessed lights that dimmed at the press of a button, which meant we could get rid of all of our floor lamps. In the kitchen, tall, elegant white cabinets above a slab of marble, dubbed, reverently at the time, a living material. Blinds on rollers meant no need for hanging curtains. A soaking tub and a Duravit toilet, you know, the floating kind cultured people had. Europeans. The rent was at the top of our budget but still doable. I signed the lease fast, with unbelievable giddy excitement. Finally, a nice place to live after years and years and years in what could only be deemed as shitholes. Shitholes and the nice midcentury apartment building I lived in in DC, but that was a studio and DC was a place I wanted to get so immensely far from that we ended up in Chicago, the only city in America I ever really wanted to live in.

cracks in the facade, so to speak

As soon as we moved in, an unsettled feeling crept in. I can place it now as the sense that this apartment was too nice for people like us – people with particle board furniture and student loan debt. That it wasn’t really ours, we were just borrowing it before someone worthier came. Subconsciously, we knew this. We never hung anything on the walls save for the Mondaine clock my husband bought at the MoMA Design Store and the Giro d’Italia jersey signed by Tom Dumoulin, which I’d had framed. The walls were a blinding white. Putting tacks in them felt like an unlawful penetration. Our landlord fussed over the stuff we had on the back porch. One time he criticized where my husband had situated the soap on the kitchen counter, the living material which, in reality, is just a fancy term for “stains easily.”

All of a sudden, we were living under a microscope.

We weren’t using the apartment the right way; namely, we didn’t decorate or live like an architecture critic and a mathematician theoretically should. Our apartment wasn’t photogenic. There were too many bikes in the living room. We still had a garbage $300 Wayfair sofa that felt like sitting on cardboard. There was clutter. This beautiful apartment wasn’t meant for our kind of ordinary and this was made known several times in subtle and rather degrading ways, after which our lease was not renewed, to the relief of all parties involved. Even if it meant moving again.

The longer I lived in the apartment, the more I hated it, the more I realized that I had been fooled by nice finishes and proximity to transit into thinking it was a good apartment. As soon as we’d got in there, things started to, well, not work. European fixtures aren’t well-liked by American plumbers. The dimmable lights would sputter and spit little blinking LEDs for reasons totally unknown and we’d have to pull a tab to reset them. Everything was finicky and delicate. The shower head, the kitchen sink that fell in two times somehow (which we had been accused of being rough with, an absurd thought – it’s a kitchen sink!), the bedroom doors that didn’t close right, the bathroom door that would trap you inside if it shut during a hot shower. All of the niceness, the glitzy brand names, the living materials were not meant for everyday use, even by gentle individuals like ourselves. They were made solely for looking at, as though that were the point of all habitation.

Suddenly, we were in a prison of design. This was a place for performing living, and we, as normal people, simply wanted to live – wanted to leave clothes in front of the washer as we pleased, wanted to bake cakes that got flour everywhere, wanted to just collapse somewhere and go to sleep, wanted to have a private life not dominated by the curation and fussiness and pressures of taste that govern careers like mine. Our house was always just for our consumption, not that of others. I spend most of my life in the worlds of design and architecture, and to be honest, you wouldn’t know it aside from all the heavy books and the tapered legged coffee table. I never had it in me to turn my house into a museum of my own clever delectations, a proof of concept of my skills as a critic. I just wanted to dwell naively. Off Instagram.

But the worst part of the apartment was that it was designed by someone who didn’t know how to live, couldn’t think of anyone’s world other than the sparse one of the architect who owned nothing save for color-coordinated books and limited edition lithographs. It had all the functions of living, technically speaking, but the way in which they were allocated and arranged made no sense. There were no closets in any of the rooms, just open storage, which only works for people who don’t actually have things. The tub wasn’t caulked to the wall so that it would appear to float, a nice aesthetic effect which made taking showers annoying and perhaps bad for the walls.

Above all, I hated the kitchen the most. The kitchen was basically ten feet of counter space, with giant cabinets extending to the ceiling, far beyond what any normal person could reach without a stepladder, the upper shelves of which being where things went to be forgotten. A sink punctuated the center of the marble countertop – and marble is a terrible material for a countertop. It stains and wears with water. It shows all mess mercilessly. There was a stove and a fridge just, like, in the kitchen attached to nothing. The gas stove had no overhead ventilation and every time we used it we had to open the door so the smoke alarm wouldn’t go off. It was a kitchen designed by people who never cooked: too small, inefficient, laid out in the way it was, like so many apartment kitchens, so that it shared services with the same wall as the bathroom. We couldn’t put anything in the finicky sink to soak so the counter was always crowded with dishes. We had no dishwasher because that would mean ceding the only bottom cabinet that was truly usable.

It angered me, really, as an architecture critic, that this apartment, which had so very much been made to be ogled and looked at and oohed and ahhed over by people of taste was absolutely, for a lack of a better word, bullshit. That it was beautiful but unlivable, like some kind of joke made only for people like me to laugh at. I love design, obviously, but I hate the pressure to have to perform taste in the most intimate of one’s settings and this was the epitome of that, the untouchableness of it, the smug superiority of its flavorless emptiness. I’m not a curator of other people’s gazes when I’m in my pajamas or sweating it out on the trainer. I’m simply Kate Wagner, living with a husband and a dog, like a lot of twenty-seven year old white girls in cities. By the end of the lease, I just wanted to move somewhere where I’d feel at home, whatever that meant. I never had the type A personality needed for pristine white walls. I hated how the recessed lights made all our stuff look cheap, like a museum of stunted adulthood.

Our new apartment has a two-year lease, which is about as much stability people like us could ever hope for or afford. It’s the first floor of a worker’s cottage dominated by a palladian window on the second story that would be pretentious were it not so earnest. The house itself is a hodgepodge of the vernacular, which is what I deserve, as its chronicler. The interior walls are painted lively colors – a soft blue, a slate purple, a taupe, a mint green. It’s gritty enough to be cool and old enough to be livable. There are closets. The bathroom is covered in chiclet glass tile that’s different shades of blue, which I find endearing. But what I love most of all is the kitchen.

All my life, I’d been in search of an apartment with a decent kitchen, and I’ve always wondered why apartment kitchens suck so bad save for the obvious answer (landlords are cheap.) Like I said earlier, the desire to route services (plumbing, electricity) in the most efficient way possible governs most things, though this is more true of renovations or new builds than the adaptation of single family homes into multi-family dwellings. In the case of the latter, the second floor apartments are always the worst off, in fact, almost all apartments are worse off than the one that houses the actual original full-sized kitchen to begin with.

Adapting a space that was meant for sleeping into one where food could be cooked often required some inventiveness with regards to fire safety and ventilation and this usually took the path of least resistance, hence why most kitchens are positioned to the rear of the house, especially if there is outdoor access. (Plumbing in older houses also tends to be positioned on interior walls to avoid pipes freezing in the winter.) In Chicago, most layouts of familiar single-family vernacular housing styles are similar to one another on the ground floor, but the apartments on the second floor are always quite varied, especially with regard to where the kitchen is placed. Often it’s done, again, in a way that allows existing services to be used or for new ones to be built that are on the same wall as another unit. Adding new plumbing where it wasn't before is expensive and a pain.

However, service routing aside, most apartment kitchens are only ever satisfactory – kitchens for people who ate nothing but takeout or miniature versions of the real thing as though apartment living were just an audition for owning a house, something that’s just no longer true in this economy. This one -- with its vintage 50s aluminum cabinetry and its enameled countertops with glitter infused in them like some kind of demure bowling ball and its full-sized appliances and dishwasher, and mint green penny tile, its wonderful quirkiness and its ample cabinet space beneath the counters -- is functional. It works like a kitchen should, towards a domestic life engineered by modernism and scientific management with a dash of feminism to be less arduous. This is nothing short of a miracle to me. When I think about it, I get emotional. I have been searching for so long for any kind of semblance of a place tailored in any way towards my needs, towards my desires, which is to have enough space to help rather than hinder in the preparation of meals. Meals we now enjoy as a very small family. The kitchen was never really important to me until I had someone to share it with, as insipid and mawkish and introduction-to-a-gluten-free-recipe as that sounds. I’m no longer living for one, but for two, and I didn’t realize how much that changed living.

I didn’t realize how much autonomy meant until I lived in a place where I felt I had none.

Our new landlords, a school-teacher and private investigator (what a combo) are there right now cleaning the house, fixing the little nicks left by the previous tenants, pulling out their picture hanging apparatuses, which, they assure us, we can leave too. We can put stuff up on the walls, the very thought! They’ve already stickered our names on the mailboxes, have installed a doorbell, which strikes me as a very post-COVID gesture. They hope we will stay there a long time, and so do we. There’s a yard for the dog to play in with garden beds that house burgeoning bell peppers. Our friends are allowed to come over, which they weren’t before — well, not officially, but it felt like it. There are sounds in the house, of those who dwell above and below, the sounds of life. There’s a window I wish I was sitting by writing, and soon, I will be.

So many of us ask the simple question, what is home? What should it be? And the only real, genuine answer I have to give after ten-odd moves is that home is the only place in the world where one can be truly unselfconscious. Even if that means having particleboard furniture and a bunch of bicycles.

That’s my business, not yours.

If you liked this post, check out the McMansion Hell Patreon, or, if so inclined, drop a tip in the tip jar.

[gallusrostromegalus]

Thanks for reminding me about this post because The Crime Tube has bullied me into doing a garden this year, with the kind of patient positive re-enforcement and blatant emotional manipulation that would make a dog trainer or Hannibal Lecter would admire.

I wasn't planning on doing a garden this year because we just moved house, had an extremely expensive plumbing event and I got spayed this spring, so I had neither time, money, nor core muscle fortitude for starting a garden this march, which is usually when the beds have to go in if you're trying to establish a garden out here. But we have had an extremely wet spring so everything's running a bit late and I was on the fence about starting a little one, and put some of the plastic bins from the Pandemic Patio Garden out to see what kind of sun exposure they'd get.

Once sighted, Herschel realized that A Garden was a possibility and started on a campagin of psychological manipulation.

Herschel loves the garden, because he likes green beans off the vine but more than that, the garden attracts squirrels to the yard and his bloodlust has been left wanting of late. He also loves activities and I think was maybe a little sad that he wasn't getting to do his morning patrol of the yard with me this year.

So he stopped going out in the mornings.

He clearly wanted to. Charlie, who very much likes having his little helper dog around, wanted herschel to come out too. but instead, Herschel would run to the far end of the house where he can still see the back door, and watch me.

...he wants something. I try offering a treat. Nope. I try calling Charlie over and heaping attention on him, something that usually makes Herschel's jealous little ass hustle on over. Nope. Still waiting for something. I put my shoes on. ZOOM. Ah. My presence is wanted outside. I step out with them. I step back in. Herschel stops MID-PEE to turn around and come back in, and stands at the far end of the house. I go back out. Morning yard activities resume as normal.

He continues this nonsense of running away from the back door until I put on my shoes and go outside with them, and immediately stopping what he's doing if I go back inside before some internal metric of his is met for the better part of a week.

Then it's herding me outside, and jumping on me for attention, running nine feet away, stopping, and looking over his shoulder at me, which has previously been established as his "Are You Following Me? Please Follow Me." I follow. He has shown me carrion instead of just eating it before and I gave him a whole piece of turkey about it because that was VERY good behavior and I am eager to re-enforce it. Instead, he patrols around the plastic bins, doing a "Follow Me?" check every few feet.

Yesterday I returned from the nursery with 70% off annual plants for a mini-garden and not only were there extreme yard zoomies of excitement, I got three toys piled on my foot as a reward for the desired gardening Behavior.

Now, This is the kind of behavior I got and trained Herschel for- Herding dogs are good at remembering load-bearing rituals like "Take your meds" and "It's time for food!" and other stuff my ADHD Brain struggles with. So I'm very proud of him.

...I just didn't realized this memory and enforcement behavior extended all the way to "IT'S TIME FOR THIS ANNUAL BEHAVIOR I'VE ONLY SEEN TWICE BUT IS APPARENTLY CRUCIAL AND I WILL BE A LITTLE ASSHOLE AND ALSO FLAGRANTLY DOG-TRAIN YOU TO DO IT, BECAUSE THAT'S HOW YOU TEACH ME THINGS".

Great job, little Crime Tube. I got extra green bean plants for you.

Herschel Has Discovered Tool Use. Again.

In january of 2021, deep in the throes of pandemic psychosis, we acquired a Corgi Puppy.

I would like to go on the record that we did not get a Corgi because they're cute. We got a Corgi because they're criminally brilliant and enthusiastic working dogs that were bred to bully cattle, which is the exact temperment a dog living in a house with three ADHD adults should have. Herschel does commit a lot of crime, but he also does his appinted service-dog job of "make everyone wake up, eat meals and go to bed at a reasonable and consistent time" extremely well, as well as his bonus jobs of "Keep the squirrels the hell out of the garden" and "Yell every time the cat does something". I didn't actually ask him to do that last job but it has helped in the "teach the cat to stay the hell off the stove" area.

But even with having a whole pack of humans another dog, and a cat to manage, this pales in comparison to his genetic capacity to manage several hundred sheep or cattle across the fields of Wales, and thus, Herschel has decided on further intellectual pursuits to occupy himself, namely, speedrunning the early phases of human tool use and terraforming.

I realized he has the brains of an entire hunter-gatherer tribe shortly after he got fixed, and within 24 hours and still dpey from anesthesia, he'd figured out that his plastic cone could be used to monopolize the water bowl and his favorite chew toys, and within a week, had learned how to carry three toys at once while leaving his mouth open by tucking the toys behind his enormous ears and under his chin. He also figured out that he could wiggle the cone to rest against his shoulders, and started using it as a shovel by literally running the bottom edge into the ground. But that wasn't making holes effeicently enough, apparently, and I ended up watching him figure out how to rotate the cone around so the two pieces of overlapping plastic were under his chin, then use his chin and the stairs to the deck to pinch both ends into a much more efficient V-Shape that let him gouge huge strips of dirt up in seconds. The anthropologists and animal behaviorists in the audience may recognize this as Tool Creation, a behavior normally only seen in higher primates, crows, and some parrots. Once a hole of suitable length, depth and temperature had been achieved, he very carefully rolled the cone around so the digging side was over his head and the smooth side under his chin, and splooted into his hole to cool his little tummy and stitches off. It was at that point that I realized that I was going to have to teach him how to garden, or he was going to teach himself.

He no longer has the cone (He was beginning to experiment with it as a battering ram), but his morning ritual is now "Wake everyone up at 8AM by screaming, locate everyone in house and jam my nose up theirs to make sure they're alive, go outside and scream at the squirrels. Now that Yard is Secure, go get Fun Parent who has hopefully taken their meds by now, and supervise them while they rifle through the plants (this is apparently KEY to their mental health), eating any pest animals Fun Parent points out, chase squirrel AGAIN, go inside and get Breakfast cookie." and BY GOD if we deviate from it there will be much screaming and destruction. If I am not home, it has been reported that he walks round the garden beds and sniffs the plants in the order I usually check them in before he will agree to come in. He doesn't quite know what the deal with the melons is, just that they need to be checked.

But we're out of the labor-intensive parts of gardening and now into Harvesting Season, and this is a bit boring except when I give him snap peas right off the vine, and he has decided to work on the complex physics problem that is Doorknobs.

And last week, he had a breakthrough.

Sometime in 2020, my mom sort-of taught her horrible crime herding dog Arwen how to open the back door so she could let herself out as she pleased during the day and stop interrupting Mom's Zoom calls. Arwen is a Kelpie, which means she's about 60lbs with full-length legs and horrible monkey paws that are one joint away from being hands, so when Arwen wants to open the back door, she sits up, leans on the door for purchase/to push it, and uses her terrible crime hands to *push* on the knob until it turns. She can pull the knob open by pawing and catching it on her toes, but she's 11-13 years old now and has mild arthritis, so she prefers to catch it on her central pad instead. She taught Charlie, the other equally brilliant but less criminally inclined dog, to do this but he doesn't like to go outside alone, so he rarely does this.

Herschel, ever the observant student, immediately tried copying them, but even though he is actually tall enough to reach the knob, his toes are just too stubby to get a decent grip on the knob, pushing or pulling, and the first few times, gave up and sat down to scream until one of the fullsize dogs or humans came to open the door for him.

Last week, we were up at my parent's again, and I watched him hunt around the living room until he found his slightly-sticky orange rubber ball (It's clean, it's just a kind of rubber that's always a bit tacky), carry it across the house, stand up on his hind legs at the back door, put the rubber ball on top of the gap between the knob and the wall, and then push down on the ball, which caught the doorknob and turned it for him, thus opening the door. He let himself out, had a merry time yelling at the squirrels, came back in, stopped a few feet inside the door, went back out, grabbed his ball, and brought it back into his kennel, a place he can leave toys if he doesn't want the other dogs playing with them.

This means he somehow worked out how doorknobs work, how fucking levers work, and that his orange rubber ball specifically was the one that would work (none of his other toys are the correct size/texture), that he'd need that ball specifically to open the door again, and yesterday he did the same trick with the bedroom door, so he knows that the rubber ball/skeleton key can be used on all doorknobs, not just that one.

I wonder if I can teach him to sweep.

___

If you want to fund Herschel's research into Tool Use and/or get me therapy for the ensuing chaos, please feel free to donate to my Ko-Fi, or get further Dog Content by subscribing to my Patreon.

[myafterlifeisbetterthenyours]

Lucifer & Lilith X a who is physical embodiment of Hell itself

Lucifer & Lilith with the physical embodiment of hell.

Lucifer, in his arrogance believed he could rule heaven greater then God, and for his arrogance he was cast from heaven.

So, banished from the only home he knew, he went abou founding his own domain.

He wanted to build a place where all the sin and vice God had forbidden, could flourish.

Whether he wanted a place where souls could embrace there sin without judgment, or a place where those sins would consume there soul, even he's forgotten.

But he knew what hell was now. It was Hell.

It was a place of perpetual torment, where if you weren't being preyed apon by your own sins, it would be by another soul.

It was a hound eat hound world and he didn't much care to change it.

He had his beautiful wife, a daughter that, while he didn't agree with and believed to be an inevitable failure, he still loved deeply and only wished she could see her ideals simply wouldn't work.

He loved his wife, and she loved him. The two of them deeply committed to there Unholy union.

Despite being his domain, Hell was its very own entity, an ever changing place, erratic and unforgiving. It wasnt selfish creature, it was what it was.

Demons feared him, rightfully so, ad his followers worshipped him like divinity. Although he suspected many would worship any who sat in his throne.

It was during the annual purge, an event he only allowed because otherwise he wouldn't be able to get out of bed without walking through a waist high sea of sinners.

He was holding a ball for his most loyal and important followers, keeping them safe in his palace.

It was as he was speaking to one of his followers, the two of them talking over some petty nonsense when he saw you.

You were just standing there, calmly looking around you as though you weren't entirely sure I your surroundings were real.

Quickly excusing himself, he went over to speak to you.

Getting closer, your reaction didn't change, calmly looking around, like the king of hell wasn't standing besides you.

You had something of an odd back and forth, the king calmly asking you who and what you were doing here.

You calmly responded to each question.

Apparently you didn't really know who or what you were, you just kind of Appeared.

You supposed you were a demon, but... you just didn't know where you came from, but you found yourself attracted to this place, but you don't even know why. So you just stood there, searching for whatever it was you were looking for.

Lucifer was at a loss.

If what you were saying is true, you were an unknown factor.

And given the fact you were currently standing in his palace, perhaps the most secure building in hell, during the purge, without any form of identification and clearly not being one of his servants. He had no reason not to believe you.

He had you stay with him for now, wanting to keep you close so he could figure out exactly what you were.

And it didn't take long before he realised, you were No normal demon.

The king had asked you to stay within the manor, but somehow, kept managing to find your way outside.

He found you in the garden, slightly annoyed as he'd spent 30 minutes searching his palace before realising you weren't in there.

When he found you, he was Intranced.

He found you calmly inspecting a flower. And while you were inspecting the flower, your whole body seemed to change, your body morphing to match the very plants surrounding you.

It was like you weren't even aware of your changing form, as you innocently inspected the flower before you.

Getting closer, you seemed to notice without even looking.

Turning to him your body shifted back to normal, you just smiling at him like you didn't even notice your body had shifted.

He introduced you to Lilith.

Your meeting was pleasant. You bluntly telling her you though she was beautiful to look at.

But that was the beginning of an odd trend.

As it turned out, you had no filter.

Maybe it was because you were so new to Hell, or maybe you just didn't understand cultural norms, the very few hell actually had.

Or maybe you were just an ass.

As the couple got closer to you, they learned quiet a few things about you.

Like how, they mentioned before, you were very blunt. You were brutally honest as well, if you were asked a question, you'd tell them your honest opinion.

Something else about you they quickly learned was, you were without mercy, without sympathy. Something they both found rather appealing.

As the two spent more time with you, they found themselves comfortable around you and you around them.

You got along so well, they felt as though they'd known you for centuries. Your relationship was so natural, you just... worked well together.

Now, Lucifer loved his wife, and she loved him. The two loved each other deeply.

Both were more than mature enough to have a mature discussion about you, and the two quickly agreed they wished to to court you.

The two agreeing that there relationship was unbreakable, they were simply both attracted to you and wanted to be apart of there union.

You kinda just went along with it. You were already quiet content being with the pair, as you already just seemed naturally drawn to them.

A romantic relationship wouldn't be all that different then before. Of course, you'd act like a romantic couple, or rather a triad.

Youd sleep in bed with them, doing the usual sappy stuff. Kissing, holding each other close. More Kissing. All the good stuff.

It would also be something of a breath of fresh air for the two of them. As you weren't some lesser demon, drawn from the population that knew they were with the king and Queen of hell, if anything, there titles meant nothing to you. You treating them no different than any other demon.

At least until you entered the relationship, you tried to be a little more certious after that.

Your relationship would be more so an emotional one, not to say you didn't get physical, but much of your time was just spent together.

Lucifer was the more playful of the pair, always flirting or pulling little pranks, telling jokes, he especially loved giving you riddles. The fallen angel became giddy watching you put the pieces together.

He was also the more affectionate of the pair, often times giving you a little kiss, or wanting to hold your hand. Loves to hold you close, just enjoying your embrace.

Lilith was the more mature of the pair, not to say she didn't enjoy giving or receiving affection, she was just more refined about it.

The Queen much prefers having conversations with you, or doing something together. Teaching you chess became a major pass time for the two of you.

She'd often read to you, resting your head on her lap as she read you one of her favourite novels.

Your relationship was an odd one, being such a new being, you still had much to learn about your surroundings and now being with them added a whole new layer atop your already dizzying place in hell, including figuring out just what you were.

But Lucifer and Lilith were there for you, and made sure you didn't have to figure it out alone.

Hey Hey. I did my very best to match the request, but it was a fairly tricky concept to pull off.

I was originally gonna go with a badass, "I am Hell. I know no pity or mercy and take from all I come across." But I felt Hell, at least Vivziepops hell, was more straightforward. It wasn't some place of fire and brimstone. It was a void, a void where you were left with only your sin. And made a character to match it.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the story, feel free to check out my other works. Bye Bye.

[messwriting]

Written for the Whorehouse Compilation [RAW DOG 1080p] (Try Not To CUM) Collab:  Masterlist.

Open wide: the Doctor is IN

Shirabu Keijiro x Female Reader 

Doctor Shirabu gives you a very special treatment on your first appointment.

Rating: E for explicit | Don’t read this if under eighteen.

Note: I’m sorry for being this late to the party. The cursed porn search we all have looked at least once (some... lots of times hehehe). THANKS TO @dymphnasprose​ for the little porn search bar i love them so much ;-; <3 My (very) late contribution to the Whorehouse Server CUMpilation. Thanks for letting me participate Miki! Doctor Shirabu is ready to see you now. 

Warnings: POSSIBLE TRIGGERING CONTENT.  CONSENSUAL NON-CONSENT.  DOCTOR/PATIENT. MEDICAL PLAY. INAPPROPRIATE TOUCHES. WRONG GYNECOLOGICAL EXAM. Breast exam but not really. Corruption Kink.  MEDICAL KINK. Use of medical equipment in inappropriate ways. ANAL PLAY. Established relationship clarified at the end: role-play. Poorly researched medical stuff. Overuse of Good Girl. 

Word count: ~4.4k 

You’re such a cute little thing.

Sitting on top of the big, pristine examination table, waiting for him while wearing an easy summer dress, square heels dangling from one side to the other as your hands fumble with your own fingers on your lap, eyes flying to him immediately as he enters the close space - big, bright eyes shining in the dull white hospital room, framed by beautiful eyelashes and soft makeup. Your tempting lips are almost deployed of lipstick from as much your teeth have punished the plush flesh.

“Hello.” Shirabu greets you with an easy smile, one that he doesn’t really use despite the little effort it takes.

“Oh, hi Doctor.” There’s an anxious smile on your lips and Shirabu feels a tingle start on his fingertips, climb his arm, spread down his back to burn in his guts. You’re so pretty when you’re nervous.

“How are we today? You can come and sit by the chair first.” Shirabu moves calmly, closing the door behind him; carefully turning the key without bringing attention. He’s still testing the waters but he can gather that you’re a trusting one, waiting to hear from him what exactly you need to do and then do it. 

“Ahhh, um… I’m good, just came for my annual checkup.” You say while taking a seat on the chairs, only risking one look up at his face, then lowering those eyes onto his coat, clearly reading his name. Your expression seems surprised… but pleased. Is it because he’s young or because he’s attractive? Shirabu can’t decide, but there’s a clear smile in his lips as he looks you over, then circles his way to sit behind the table.

“Is this your first time here? If not, when was your last appointment?” 

“Actually,” Your eyes meet his when your head angles up and you scurry them down as if you’re embarrassed. Your lips are once again suffering under your teeth before you free them and speak, “It’s my first. Like, ever.”

“Oh,” Shirabu let’s slip with a breath. There’s too much joy in that little sigh and in his tone when he asks, “Really?”

Your head goes up and down first, fingers fumbling, then you seem to remember that you need to speak with him, “Yes.”

“Do you have a medical file here already? Any complaints I should know?” Shirabu covers the usual bases first, calmly checking his agenda and time, how much he can have with you and how he can extend it.

“Hm… No complaints, except…” You fall silent for a moment and Shirabu can feel the burning in your face all the way through the table. 

“It’s okay.” He’s quick to tranquilize you, “I’m your Doctor, you can tell me anything.”

“I think my birth-control is… uh, how can I say this? Making me… a little numb?” You tell him in a low voice, a hint of worry slipping through as you try to send him a little embarrassed smile as if you’re worried he may feel bad about it. 

Shirabu is quick to smile back, so pleased at how you relax and melt back into yourself at the sight of it. He can’t help but think you’re such a good girl. “You didn’t answer the first question, though.”

 “It’s my first time in the clinic as well. A friend of mine recommended it to me.” You give a precious little giggle as if your nervousness scrambles your train of thought and Shirabu thinks it’s endearing, especially the fact that you’re a pretty little thing who doesn’t know best and you’ve ended right on his lap. 

Well, he plans to make the most of it.

“Hmm, understood. So, Miss… Is it Miss?” Shirabu sends you a charming smile, one he knows it’s good, and your eyes seem to flash with something at the sight of it, your throat bobbing right before your lips split in a little smile.

“Yes,” you giggle his way with a little roll of your eyes, as if it’s obvious and he makes a surprised face along with another dazzling smile. Shirabu has smiled more in the last ten minutes than n his whole week and he’s face will soon protest.

“Really? You’re so pretty, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone had already planted a ring on your finger.” God knows he would, and as fast as he could, too. 

You bite at your lips to avoid a smile planting itself in your face, eyes fleeing from his as your hands fist your dress and you left a little breathy laugh out. As if he’s being ridiculous. 

“Okay Miss, so since it’s your first time doing this check-up, I’ll need you to do a few things for me, okay?”

“Sure, Doctor.” God, that shouldn’t mess him up as it does, the hairs on his arm standing on edge at the delicious sound of it in your voice.

“I’ll need you to go to that bathroom right there, strip all your clothes including underwear and change into the paper gown that’s right on top of a cabinet there. Leave the opening to the front and then come back to sit at that examination table right there. Can you do this for me?”

“Of course, Doctor.” Warmth spreads from his body, rolls thick with his blood around his limbs and starts concentrating south. Jesus, you’ll be his demise like this.

“Good. Now go.”

Once you’re out of sight, Shirabu makes arrangements. And when you come back, clad in nothing but a paper-thin gown that leaves little to the imagination, he buttons his coat as long as it goes. Just to be sure.

His eyes thread carefully over your barely concealed body, enthralled by how your breathing comes in quick puffs of air, goosebumps rising on your skin under the cold temperature of the room. Pressing against the warmth of his palm at the slight touch of his fingers on your shoulder. 

“You can sit at the examination table. We’ll start with a breast exam before you lie down, okay?” Shirabu knows his voice is sweeter than usual; carefully built in a trusty tone, words rolling off his mouth a little deeper, a little low - all just so he can assure he has your attention. 

 “I’ll start with a breast exam and then you can lie down.” He explains his steps one by one, so when he opens the front of the barely existing paper gown, all you do is take a sharp breath and slowly let the air out. So nice. Such a good girl for him.

He carefully brings his fingers to glide over the outskirts of your breasts, pressing on your flesh with steady, slow to warm digits. Shirabu feels as you fidget slowly when he circles the flesh once, slow and deliberate with the pressure he applies. “I’m checking for any unusual lumps around the tissue,” Shirabu tells that so close to your face he can feel the warm wave of air your gasp lets out at his words, and he pretends the little taste does nothing for him despite the way his blood boils in his veins. 

He does the same circular motion a second time, then a third time in reverse, and all but grin in his self-satisfied way when he notices the shy nub stand to attention. Your brows are furrowed even from such little stimulation, throat bobbing as your mouth sucks cold puffs of breaths inside your lungs. 

Shirabu’s digits slide up your collarbone, then press together in a quick motion from all the way up to under your breast, stealing just the slight touch over your erected nipple. 

“Please put your hand over my shoulder,” Shirabu says carefully, detached; and is delighted when you push a little dazed “what” out your swollen lips. 

He can’t help but smirk; poor little lamb is lost to the wolf around her - and his claws are already in. 

“Like this, honey.” His hand takes yours in his, open your palm with his fingers to press it on his shoulder, a wide-angle that gives him better access and provides for a comfortable examination. 

“Hm, okay!” You strangle it out, cute and bashful and Shirabu feels his slacks getting tighter.

“Good,” he breathes close to your face and restarts his movements, digits massaging up and down your chest, right side first as his fingertips get together to start to draw patterns from outside until the center in a repeated motion that ends with just a barely-there, butterfly touch over your nipples as he does a careful glide around the circle.

Your shoulders tremble and curve inwards as your abdomen seizes, hints of your pleasure that Shirabu can pinpoint even without his medical expertise. It makes his heart soars; such a little innocent thing that you can’t even speak up about it, just quietly suffering from the need growing inside you until you’ll burst.

His hand stops under your breast to weigh it, palm covering the extension of flesh as his thumb slides in a fond motion to the sides. 

“Now I’ll do the left,” Shirabu announces and feels as you tense, eyes looking up at him in a lost haze even as you blink and nod. There’s a small storm brewing inside your eyes clouding them over, as if you’re struggling to catch up to his fingers, trying to fully wrap around his motions and still falling victim of your innocence, agreeable and placid, trained and directed to respect authority. 

Dr. Shirabu knows best, you’re probably thinking as you nod once again, hands grabbing at anything they can to hide their trembling. Then he starts his ministrations by rolling your nipple with his thumb, drawing a gasp from you.

 “Oh, sorry,” Shirabu says with fake sorrow before he starts the circling massage around your breasts once again. 

A humming agreement is all you answer him, lips pressed together as if you’re embarrassed by the noise you’ve left. Oh, poor little thing. 

He can’t wait to ruin you.

Shirabu wonders if you can notice how he changes the motions of his fingers this time around, pressing closer to the center and around the halo of your breast as he kneads the delicious mound with his digits. 

Your knees are practically pressed together and you’re struggling to hold your shoulders up in a straight line and Shirabu is absolutely delighted at causing your downfall with such little, fickle things as the point of his fingers.

He waits for the moment where your teeth close sharply over your swollen lips, holding both breath and noise inside, and angles both his hands to press under your breasts, upwards motion that is a good excuse for groping - not that you’d know. Your spine curves as your head turn down in waves of burning hot embarrassment at your own behavior and Shirabu simply has to move before he does something bad.

Well, worst.

 “All done,” he tells you with a small curve on his lips as he steps back. You wait for him to turn before letting a breath out, but even that sounds sharp in the silence of the room. Shirabu hides his hands from your eyes in his pockets, fingers twitching in the absence of your smooth skin under his digits.

“Now we’ll pass to the examination.” The little tremble in your frame is enough to add twisting fire into his veins, temperature rising even when the air conditioning is running low. Shirabu does his best in making his voice sound unaffected and neutral, walking over to the stirrups and adjacent dressing table where he keeps his medical gloves.

“You can lie down and put your legs over the supports.” 

“Yes, Doctor.”

You obey like a good girl, the simple motion already flashing him the precious skin underneath, legs spread wide open and immobilized. Anxious eyes look for his in reassurance, then seem to think better of it as they fall down to watch your open legs. The view making you squirm once again in the padded table. 

So precious.

And trusting.

Your hands are clasped over your belly in an attempt to keep them from fidgeting, eyes eagerly fleeting between Shirabu’s frame and the ceiling. He sends a smile your way as he pulls the chair close to the stirrups and your disconcert is practically charming. 

When Shirabu walks over to sit between your open legs, his cock strains against his slacks, immoral coil twisted hard at the small peak of heavenly skin, of glistening folds swollen by the blood flow.

If only he could lick it.

There’s a tremble to your form that he can’t pinpoint, but the wide-open arch of your legs immobile over the stirrups clear are involved in; that, and the pulsating arousal in your center, if the way you’re throbbing open for him is any indication. 

Shirabu had considered going slow, threading carefully before taking what he wants, but the fortitude of his mind is being challenged by the view alone: You, laying on the table, legs spread and skin glowing. It’s wicked. Shirabu wishes so much to taste, but he’s snapping his gloves on instead. 

 “Are you sexually active?” He makes small talk, chair sounding loud in the silent room as he finally takes his place on it.

“I’m, uh, not for a while.”

“Any unprotected intercourse?”

“Hm... N-no.” Huh. Shirabu doubts he was able to hide the motion in his lips signaling that the little slip in your tone isn’t lost. “Are you certain? We may need to do a test, just to be sure.”

Your eyes fleet to him, shining in the artificial illumination, flustered expression as you down them for your clasped hands after. It’s rather endearing to watch as your anxious behavior spike, the way you’re unable to twist or move, pinned there by physical barrier more than just his eyes.

“It’s possible.” You answer him, meek, and he tries not to smile. “But I’ve been on the pill.”

“Ok, then. You mentioned numbness. Did you mean during intercourse or just in general?”

“Sometimes general, but normally when I’m… touching… myself.”

Oh well. What a nice little improvement. His eyes bore on yours between the valley of your legs, the air surrounding you both turning thicker. 

“Understood. I’m going to be touching you now.”

You nod, and then gasp when his hands actually touch the inside of your open thighs, a light caress to satiate the need to know how soft and plush you feel, and it’s exactly as much as you look. You suck in a breath slowly, and Shirabu lets his fingers slide up to your hot center.

“I’ll start with the pelvic exam. If you feel any pain or discomfort, just say so.” You nod and he starts slowly, two gloved fingers carefully threading over the swollen labia with acute precision, circling motions as he caresses the underside of your most sensitive place and downwards, rounds the dripping wet entrance, and sliding back up, fingers opening in a “v” motion, a small twirl around the engorged nub above it all. “I’m making an exterior exam, any numbness?”

You nod your negative. Eyes barely holding themselves open, teeth sunk on your lips. “Tell me if you either don’t feel anything or feel anything hurting.”

“Okay,” it’s mostly a whine, breath leaving your mouth as soon as you open it. He descends a third finger over your sex, up and down circling motions that rip a groan from your throat.

“Does anything hurt?” Shirabu’s voice is collected, calm, a stark contrast to the throbbing length in his pants. “Numb?”

“I...don’t think so?” You’re trembling, voice breathless as the stirrups squeaking under the strain of your thighs and Shirabu’s other hand comes up, palm planting over your pelvis, feeling the soft skin and then pressing his palm on it.

“Doesn’t seem like you have a problem with sensibility.” He tries to reassure you as his fingers thread to your entrance, indicator slowly tracing the tight circle pulsating in front of his eyes. You’re dripping wet, soaking his gloves and all he can think is what a delicious little patient.

“I’ll be entering you now, okay? There’s no need for the speculum, so I’m performing a touch exam.” 

“Oh-kay, doctor,” comes your little gruff voice, putty under his hands and opening up nicely for his fingers when he presses inside. You’re tight, wonderfully so, clinging to his gloved fingers. Shirabu angles them up and deep, your blistering warmth spreading from his digits to his arm and then his whole body. 

He’ll have to find a way to “test” you there, as well.  He doesn’t retreat his fingers, but he aims the motions of them inside and above, looking for the sensitive place that’s bound to make you-

“Ah!” 

There it is. Shirabu chuckles and rounds the place with his digits as your knees buckle inside then angling out, spreading wide. He retreats his fingers, rolling them with a little scissoring, then plunges deeper inside as an excuse of trying to reach your cervix. If only he could use his cock- that’d be way easier.

“And now?” Shirabu asks, wicked. “Any pain? Numbness?”

“N-uhnn-” You try to speak but choke on a soft moan, your hands flying to your face as you swallow and answer him back in a trembling tone, “No.”

“Anything else?” It’s teasing, clearly, but you don’t seem to notice it, dazed eyes searching for him as you wet your mouth before speaking.

“It feels… weird.”

“Really? ” Shirabu spreads his fingers a bit, rolls them to feel around your walls. ��Why’s that?”

“I- I don’t know. It’s… good.”

“Hmmm… That’s interesting.” His gloved thumb descends over your labia, rolls over your clitoris with strict precision, fingers angling inside to meticulously hit that special place once again. The table squeaks under the strength of your buckling, open cunt pulsating around his fingers in plain view for his appreciative eyes. “You seem to be a bit oversensitive, not numb.”

“Is that- a problem?” You say between breaths as Shirabu’s thumb rolls over your clit. He’s astonished you don’t question any of his debatable moves, only looking at him with dazed, soft eyes. 

“Depends. Do you always leak like this? It can be a condition.” Shirabu presses his palm over your pelvic bone, angle his fingers meticulously and swirl your clitoris with his thumb in firm precision. You moan and immediately recoil in embarrassment, mouth agape in your own surprise. Shirabu scissors his fingers in a rotating motion, inside and out for barely a few seconds and your spine arches off the table, mouth falling in a wide “o” as you tremble on his examination table.

Delicious.

“Sorry, did I hurt you?”

“No,” you answer in a breath.

Shirabu palms his length to release the pressure, cock straining at the soft expression of rapture on your eyes. “Everything seems good inside; But maybe you’re sensitive. I’ll keep that in mind for the next exams.”

“Is it… done?”

“Almost.” Shirabu smiles, but it's a be-ready-for-trouble one. “All we need is the ultrasound for the internal exam.”

“I thought you had just-”

“This one was the touch one, the next one is done with the ultrasound equipment. It will be inserted inside and then I’ll be able to take a good look at your uterus health.”

“Oh, okay.”

You seem focused on catching your breath as your stretched hole keeps winking at him, as if begging for more. Unfortunately, Shirabu has to move on. He pulls the equipment table close, moves the screen to the side and at a fairly inaccessible angle for your eyes. The transducer reminds a wand, long, shaped anatomically thin with a slightly larger head, barely two-fingers girth. 

“Have you ever orgasmed before? Sensitive dysfunction can make it harder for women to achieve sexual gratification.”

“I… actually don’t know…”

Shirabu slides a condom on it, drops a generous amount of lube over it and then turns to you with a smile. Your legs twitch and your walls clench and he has a strike of brilliance right there as he eyes the pretty furl of muscle under your pleading pussy.

You yelp as he brings a lubed finger to draw rings over your rear, embarrassed eyes quickly searching for his.

“Doctor?!”

“Oh, sorry. The equipment goes in anally. Didn’t I mention that?”

“No?!” You groan, surprised, a soft breath escaping your lips.

“Sorry. I’m just preparing you, passing something to help it.” Shirabu explains, as a liar, and slowly work you open with his indicator pressing inside - carefully, slowly, with clinical precision until his whole knuckle is inside and your breathing is labored, open pussy throbbing for something he can’t give it to you just yet. How precious. “I’m inserting it now. Please tell me if it hurts.”

Shirabu angles the device on the lubed hole and watches, enthralled, as your ass swallows it’s wider head whole with just the first push, the rest of the body following easily as the tight ring presses the overflowing lube out. Fuck. Shirabu’s cock is weeping uncontrollably inside his slacks and he carefully brings a hand to help with the tightness of his pants, opening it enough to allow his thick length to escape free, but still covered by his lab coat.

Then Shirabu presses the device deeper, the angle sharp. He brings the receptor over your belly, presses way to closer to the apex of your sex. “Does it hurts?”

“No,” you breathe out, dazed.

“Does it feel good?”

“...Yes,” you sigh.

“Hmmm, interesting.” Shirabu retreats it, pretending to angle it somewhere else. He moves the equipment a bit more and your knees tremble as your pussy starts to drip on the floor. Jesus, that’s fucking hot. He leaves the receptor over your skin to fly his hand to his cock, slowly pumping it to relieve the throbbing ache. You’re way too lost in your own pleasure to notice his, and that only makes him more feral.

“You can feel something entering you now, but it’s just another equipment,” Shirabu says as he abandons his aching cock to slide two fingers inside your pleading hole, instead. He’s not even sure you understood his warning. Cute. 

“Doctor,” you breathe, almost panicked and Shirabu rolls his thumb over your clit to hear you yelp, your ass tight around the transductor as he scissors his fingers on your wide-open cunt.

“Yes?” 

“I feel... “ You sound so wrecked and lost, a shiver wandering down Shirabu’s spine as his throat bobs. Your pussy throbs around his fingers, begging for something it can’t even pinpoint. Poor thing.

“Pain?” 

“No? Something… else.” Such a cute breathless voice, chest heaving with rabbit-fast beats that Shirabu almost can feel on his fingers deep inside your soaking walls. 

“Pleasure?” He offers, fighting the need to smile at how your confused expression, brows furrowed as you try to think of another word but come ultimately short.

“I…” You start but bite your lips to hold the noise at how he aims at your special spot. Then blink twice, still losing the fight against the thick pleasure fog in your mind. “I guess?”

“Wow.” You’re so honest. Shirabu’s surprise is fairly genuine. He hopes his tone sounds more understanding than completely hungry. “Well… It’s not unusual for patients to feel arousal by exams considering their invasive nature. It’s okay, don’t panic.”

“But,” You start, tense and writhing, but Shirabu stands up, the equipment in your ass changing angle but his eyes are finding yours in the distance. 

“It’s okay,” Shirabu repeats and you listen, hazed eyes focused entirely on him. “Take a deep breath.” 

You obey so well, mouth opening as you breathe deep, chest filling even when Shirabu slowly edges the equipment out of your tight asshole. The fingers inside your pussy don’t stop, though, and he brings his other hand, now free, to aid him in wrecking you. “Now surrender to it. Let it wash over you…” 

“I…” You whine and tense, but then his two hands are gliding over every erogenous zone on your labia with acute expertise, and you let go, bones essentially melting under his ministrations; letting out a soft, obedient, won over, “Okay.”

“Good girl.” He tells you and rotates his fingers in and out, keeping you nice, wet and wide. You’re close. Shirabu can feel it in how you’re swelling around him. “You’re an amazing patient, Miss. Just do as I say and I’m telling you to cum.” That does it, as your head angles back, hands holding yourself and the table as you take a deep breath.

“Yes, doctor,” You whisper and moan, surrendering to the intense orgasm that pulses suddenly through you and quivers around his fingers. It’s beautiful to watch you come undone, legs trembling sharply as they’re held wide open, pussy fluttering in a wave of wetness that joins the puddle on the ground, mouth open as your tongue slides past it, eyes rolling inside your skull and probably seeing white. 

Shirabu never feels tired of it, finally angling himself to bend over your frame, mouth looking for yours quickly as he breaks character.

“Keijiro,” you sigh, pleasure-drunk and Shirabu licks over your open lips, bites on your jaw, sucks the skin to leave his marks. 

“Yes, love.” He answers against your pulse point and you lets out a satisfied sigh by his ear.

“That was amazing.”

“You think so?” Shirabu rolls his hips against your bare, soaked wet pussy, and his free cock rolls deliciously between the lubricated folds. “I’m just starting, though, Miss. I think you’ll need a more thorough exam, though. With special equipment too.” He brings his hand to angle his cock on your entrance, eyes locked on yours as you blink and smile, blissed out and pleading. Shirabu presses himself inside and you throw your head back in bliss, hands planting on his shoulders with sharp nails aiming for his skin. “Such a good patient I have. Open wide, love.” 

You arch your head back to look up at him, mouth falling open on command, for Shirabu to do as he pleases. You, wide open on his table, for him to do as he pleases. He’s your husband after all and you’ve learned from a long time that what pleases Dr. Shirabu Kenjiro the most is picking you apart piece by piece, white bliss searing your every nerve-end as you fall and shatter for him, drowning under his thumb as he holds you down waves of pleasure, dragging you like the tide - strong and unyielding until it hurts to even breathe. 

The mere thought of having more makes your lips fall open in a moan, “yes, Doctor.” 

Because you love everything about that.