squashed dog

anonymous asked:

How would ranpo act in a relationship where both he and his s/o have very similar personalities/behaviours. As in they have similar interests, careers, way-of-thinking/viewing things, etc. If you could make this into a scenario unwound really appreciate it. Thanks in advance.

Edogawa Ranpo

The office air is thick with tension. An elastic band poised to snap, rippling under the overpowering confidence of two masterful minds. Their gazes locked as they prepare to clash for the one thing that truly matters.


Ranpo leans back on the couch, arms crossed over his front. “That’s simple then, whoever can guess what the other is thinking takes all.”

“Easy.” They’re sitting on the other end, legs crossed and also leaning back but with their hands hooked over their knees to keep their back straight.

Between the two sits the fabled paper bag that neither are willing to surrender.

“Easier than easy,” Ranpo counters.

“The easiest.”

“Easier than that. In fact, I’ll end it right here if that’s okay with you.” Ranpo straightens up, resting the tips of his fingers against his temple. “You’re wondering if you’ll ever be as great a detective as myself. Understandable, understandable.“

“Wrong, you should at least use your ability if you want to stand a chance,” they say, making an off-handed gesture, “but fret not dear Ranpo, it’s understandable that you can’t grasp the genius of my mind.”

“Ha! That’s impossible, you’re the one struggling to grasp your own mind. A great detective is never wrong~” With that, Ranpo swipes the bag of candy from the small space between them.

“Wha-? Hey!” Springing to action against the injustice, they leap forward in an attempt to nab the bag back.

Ranpo’s not giving in so easily. Laughing triumphantly, he cranes back over the armrest to keep the sweets just barely out of reach. 

Trying to snatch it back from him is becoming far too much effort. They decide it’s time for a different approach. A subtle curve to their mouth is the only warning Ranpo gets before their lips feather over his. A phantom kiss that scarcely exists at all.

Taking advantage of the moment his arm slackens, they seize the paper bag. “HA HA HA! The superior detective takes their prize!” they declare, standing up on the couch to wave their victory in the air. 

“Oh? Don’t mind if I do.” 

Without missing a beat Ranpo hugs their legs. Their already wobbly balance failing as they fall from their moment of triumph with an undignified yelp.

anonymous asked:

Okay, Jesse, I'm curious. What is your preferred breed of dog? I mean, obviously, all dogs are good dogs, but what dog breed is your go-to when you imagine the perfect dog? Your dream dog, so to speak?

Now, this is cruel and unusual punishment right here.

See, historically, when it comes to humans I fancy romantically, I do this thing where as soon as I decide I have a “type”, the next person I fall for ends up bein’ completely outside it.

As it turns out, the same thing happens with dogs. Soon as I decide I like medium-size dogs you can pick up and hug, I meet some giant horse-lookin’ thing that I end up loving. Or maybe I decide I like real loud, energetic dogs, and then somebody has a quiet little darlin’ that wins my heart.

Historically, the few dogs I’ve ever gotten to call my own in any real fashion were big lanky mutts who liked to get up in your business and be with you all the time. But now soon as I’ve said that I’m gonna meet somebody’s tiny precious little lap dog and fall in love.

Pugs are anatomical disasters. Vets must speak out – even if it’s bad for business

I still remember when I was introduced to the concept of a “brachycephalic” (squashed-nosed) dog as a veterinary student. We were having our first anatomy lectures on the skull and the lecturer put up various slides (yes, slides – that’s how long ago I trained to be a vet) showing x-ray images of dogs’ heads. Various different-sized ones went up – a collie, a jack russell, a beagle and then suddenly an extraordinary image of a skull with a crushed nose and distended forehead. “What is wrong with this patient?” our lecturer asked. “Has it been hit by a car?” The students responded. “Has it been kicked? Is there a birth defect?” None of these was right, of course, because the lecturer had been waiting to give his punchline. “You are all wrong. It’s just a pug”.

And there you have it, brachycephalic dogs (which include pugs, bulldogs, French bulldogs and shih tzus) are an anatomical disaster. Every structure that should make up the nose has been squashed flat. The only time these dogs are not in some degree of respiratory distress is when you have them intubated under anaesthetic.

At the park
  • Beagle: I'm sniffing I'm sniffing important business finding smells much smell very explore wow
  • Lab: NEW FRIEND!!!!?!! BOOOOOOOUNCE bounce bounce bobbaunce bounce!
  • Beagle: ..... Not bounce.
  • Lab: BUT BOUNCE??????!?! :)))))))))
  • Beagle: you're bouncing on my smell
  • Beagle: Look, kid, you are more than twice my size and half my age and you have way too much energy and walks are Serious Business STOP BOUNCING ON ME MY VOICE IS MUCH LOUDR THAN YOURS
  • Lab: ......!!!?? you yell at me? Um :(((((( ????
  • Beagle: Humph.
  • Lab: solution - BOUNCE!!??!?!! Hopefully?
  • Lab: you yell again you don't like me how to fix this
  • Lab: I have limited social vocabulary?
  • Lab: um
  • Lab: how about
  • Lab: B... b....
  • Beagle: don't do it
  • Lab: BOUNCE!????!!???!??!!!!!! :))))))))))!!?
fluffy yellow towel


Stiles should have known better than to answer a call from an unknown number at almost midnight on a Tuesday. But it’s Beacon Hills. It’s bound to be an emergency.

“Coach?” he asks in surprise, because who else calls him Bilinksi? And also, what the ever-living fuck?

“Bilinski,” Finstock barks again. “I need you! I need you now!”

Um, okay. Weirdest booty call ever, or… no, Stiles really has no idea.


“I ran over a goddamn dog!”


Fifteen minutes later Stiles is pulling up outside Finstock’s house. It’s a small bungalow in a quiet neighborhood. The dead lawn is covered in Halloween decorations. In April. Stiles isn’t even surprised.

He climbs out of his Jeep and heads to the front door.

Finstock throws it open before he has a chance to knock. He looks a little more manic than usual, if that’s even possible.

“Where’s your stuff?” he demands.

“What stuff?” Stiles asks.

Finstock makes a vague gesture. “Your vet stuff, Bilinski. Jesus!”

Stiles sighs. “No, that’s Scott. Scott McCall. He’s the one who works at the vet. I’m the one who…” He actually has no idea how to finish that statement. “I’m his weird clumsy friend with ADD?”

“Aw, hell.” Finstock glares at him like this is somehow his fault. “Well, you’re here now. Want to see a squashed dog?”  

What the hell, right?

Stiles steps inside.


Finstock’s house is kind of a disaster. It’s like part of it was decorated by a mad crazy sports fan, obviously, but the other part of it was decorated by someone possessed by the spirit of a sweet old grandma. There are doilies. Lace doilies. With lacrosse sticks embroidered on them.

That’s not normal, right? Stiles is pretty sure you can’t even find shit this weird on Etsy.

“It’s in the bathroom,” Finstock says, gesturing.

Stiles wonders, not for the first time, what he’s doing here. Did he really get out of bed to come and look at an injured dog, all because Finstock can’t tell the difference between him and Scott? And what sort of guy calls a high school student who works at a vet clinic instead of an actual certified vet? Because Stiles is pretty sure the only thing Scott has mastered working for Deaton is mopping up puddles of puppy pee.

Stiles heads for the bathroom. It’s the door at the end of the hall. Stiles has been in houses before where there are cutesy little signs with pretty patterns on them and “Bathroom” written in fancy cursive script.

There is no cutesy little sign on Finstock’s bathroom door. Instead, the word “BATHROOM” has been printed there in block capitals. Right on the door itself. In Sharpie.

Stiles squints at it for a moment.


Then he sighs and opens the door.


Holy shit.

Two things.

Firstly, the dog is not squashed at all. It’s very, very mobile, and very, very angry.

Also, it’s not a dog.


 “That is not a dog!” Stiles yelps, and pulls the door shut again. Behind it, he hears the scrabble of claws. And possibly the gnashing of jaws. There is also a lot of growling.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Finstock asks.

“That is a wolf!” Stiles exclaims.

Finstock snorts. “It’s a husky.”

“It has yellow eyes!”

“So?” Finstock shoots back.

“It’s black!”

“Why are you racist against huskies?”


Finstock’s left eye bulges. “I thought you were better than that, Bilinski.”

Stiles groans. “I’m not being racist against huskies. That is a wolf!”

“Whatever,” Finstock says. “Just fix it. It likes you.”

Behind the bathroom door, the growling and scrabbling has subsided.

“I’m not a vet!” Stiles reminds him.

“Do not make me get my whistle, Bilinski.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles mutters. He’s in a fight with a crazy person. And there’s no way he can win. So, crazy person or injured wolf?

Stiles goes with option two.

It’s actually not as brave as it sounds.

Because he knows that wolf.


“Hey, Derek,” he whispers, closing the bathroom door.

The wolf bares its teeth in a growl that’s more pissed off at the world than pissed off at Stiles. Well, who can blame him? He got run over and abducted by a man who apparently uses bubble gum scented shower gel. And has a Sponge Bob toothbrush.

Stiles steps forward and reaches out. “You okay, big guy?”

Derek’s claws click on the tiles as he turns in a series of tight circles, but he lets Stiles card his fingers through his fur, looking for obvious injuries.

There are smears of blood on the bathroom tiles, and a small pool of it over by the bathmat, so Stiles knows he was hurt. He’s relieved that he can’t find any injuries now though. That means Derek is healing.

He runs his hand down Derek’s spine, not even registering the fact that Derek is shifting back into his human form until it’s way too late, and then it’s already happened, and Stiles is… oh mother of God. Stiles is stroking his very naked ass.

And what a fine ass it is too.

Stiles meeps and flails backward as Derek uncurls and stands up straight.

He glares at Stiles.

Stiles very pointedly does not look at his dick.

Well, okay, once.

Fine, twice, but it’s right there.

His mouth’s not watering. Shut up.

Derek glares again, then reaches past Stiles to grab the fluffy yellow towel hanging from the rail beside the shower. He tucks it around his hips.


Wait, what?

Stiles forces his gaze upward again. “So,” he says awkwardly, “you got hit by Coach’s car?”

Derek huffs. “Apparently.”

“That’s gotta suck.” Stiles swallows, and wrinkles his nose. “Anyway, you’re gonna have to shift back, so I can get you out of here, okay? I’ll tell him I’m taking you to the vet or—”

Derek’s eyes widen in horror as the bathroom door flies open.

Stiles spins around to see Finstock standing in the doorway.

“Jesus Christ!” Finstock exclaims. “What the hell is this?” 


This is bad.

This is really bad.

There is no way, in any reality, that Stiles can explain how a minute ago he was in the bathroom with a wolf—or husky, or whatever—and now he’s in the bathroom with a naked guy.

Ta da?


“What the hell?” Finstock exclaims again. His face is pale and his eyes look like they’re about to pop right out of his skull. He points a shaking finger at Derek. “You do not put your dick on another man’s towel, you understand? That violates every decent standard of polite society. My dick has been on that towel, and I don’t care if you were raised by goddamn wolves, Hale, that does not give you the right to be my Eskimo dick brother!”


Stiles’s jaw drops.


Derek looks just as stunned.

“Jesus Christ!” Finstock throws his hands up. “Fucking werewolves, seriously!”

He storms out of the bathroom.



Stiles finds Finstock in the kitchen, eating kibble. He really wishes he could focus on the kibble thing, because it’s sort of hilarious. But it’s not the craziest thing that’s happening here right now.

“Um, Coach?” he asks warily.

“What?” Finstock grizzles, crunching a fresh mouthful.


“Spit it out, Bilinski. How do I know about werewolves?” He rolls his eyes. “Because I’ve lived in this town for twenty years, and I’m not blind?”

“You totally knew he wasn’t a dog!”

“So?” Finstock demands. “You gonna sue me or something?”

“What? No, why would you… ugh.”

“I have seen things in this town that would make your hair curl,” Finstock tells him, then looks critically at his buzzcut. “Well, maybe not yours. What’s even going on there? Is that supposed to be a style?”

“Can we not talk about my hair right now?” Stiles feels like he’s lost all control of this conversation. Then he realizes he never had any to begin with. “You knew he was a werewolf? And you called me to deal with it?”

Finstock shrugs and rummages in the bag for more kibble. “He’s your boyfriend, isn’t he? Hale?”

“What? No!”

“Then why else does he stalk you at practice?”

“He’s not my boyfriend!”

“Don’t get so defensive, Bilinski.” Finstock shrugs. “I might be straight, but I’d still seriously consider sacrificing my remaining testicle to get a piece of that.”

“You are certifiably insane!” Stiles hisses, turning around to stalk away.

“I remain undiagnosed!” Finstock shouts at him. “And tell your boyfriend he owes me a new goddamn towel!”

“Insane!” Stiles yells back.

What is his fucking life, seriously?


He drives Derek home, and doesn’t at all stare his towel-clad ass as he climbs awkwardly out of the Jeep.

Well, okay, maybe once.




Two days later he and Derek are standing in the parking lot at the mall.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Derek mutters.

“Shut up,” Stiles says, grabbing him by the hand and dragging him toward Bed Bath and Beyond. Maybe they have Sponge Bob towels?

Finstock would probably like those.