#frank and his goddamn oranges

[frnkiebby]

literally me today~🎃

[pedge-page]

omg imagine PK x Plushies i love you so much girl you are amazing

Plushies x Piss Kink Crossover - Joel Miller x F!Reader

Notes: The crossover that was bound to happen and its HEREREEEEEEEE. This is more Plushies!verse setting and they discover a lil piss kink.

Warnings: PissKink, Plushies humping, yes we are peeing on the plush, premature ejaculation, assisted male masturbation, crying, jealous!Joel, and a HINT (just a bit) of sub!Joel at the end

18+ ONLY

- - - -

“What’s this one? Benny the Buffalo?” Joel asks, staring down at the brown fuzzy stuffed animal in his hands.

“No, dummy, that’s Biscuit, the Bison,” you retort, not even looking at him as you continue reading.

The two of you are lying down on your new “shared” bed, and Joel has decided its time he get to know his roommates on first name basis.

“Course. And this?” He snatches the white rabbit next. “BunBun?”

“Carrot.”

“Appropriate. How about Ghosty over here?”

“Casper.”

“How original. Aaaannnddd....?” He shoves the next one in your face to get your attention: a fat baby chick with an enormous orange bill.

“Mr Quakers,” you answer matter-of-factly.

“I bet he’s loads of fun on that little nub of yours,” he snickers. He tosses the poor chick like a free-throw basketball across the room.

He grabs the next one, buried waaaay in the back of your bed under all the rest. “Alright, Let me guess… Hammy the Hamster.”

“No that’s—“ you take one look at the one currently in his palms: a medium sized hamster with bitty hands and a large head as big as his squat body. Quickly hiding your shocked expressions, you go back to your book and say very casually, “Um…that’s… Frank.”

“Frank?”

“Mhm.”

“Just Frank.”

“Yup.”

“Frank the Hamster. How does that make sense?”

“Well I didn’t name him.”

“And who did?"

You swallow, wondering why Joel’s got so many goddamn questions about the naming conventions of your stuffed animals. “Um … Frank did…”

“Stuck up fella, naming the thing after him. Who was this “Frank” then. Your uncle? Was he as perverted as me?”

“No. Frank’s… my ex.”

Your face feels hot, avoiding his gaze and trying to look anywhere but at him. 

Joel stares at you with an unreadable expression, then back to the fisted squishy hamster plush. He contemplates for what feels like an eternity. There’s an uneasy silence hanging in the air, and your heart is beating out of your chest, wondering what he may be thinking about those word resonating in his ears.

He clenches his jaw, gritting his teeth into diamonds while looking at something so extremely soft and huggable. You hope maybe he’ll just dropkick it out the window at worst, but instead: 

“Hands and knees on the floor. We’re fucking Frankie the Hamster tonight.”

-

There was no “we”. What he really meant was YOU are fucking Frank the Hamster tonight, and he is pinning you down and forcing you to grind on it harder.

“Joel—that—feels… uncomfortable.”

He’s not rubbing his cock along your ass, or nudging your clit or kissing you. Instead, he’s caged you between the thick mass of his sold body and the hamster on the floor, your legs spread out with his knees along the inside of your calves to keep them open.

He keeps rubbing along your pelvis, palm digging into the squishy part right below your belly, pressing hard against your bladder.

“Joel,” you warn again. Your legs quiver with the rapid build, too afraid to push him off entirely. He’s steaming, that’s for sure, but why torture you above the little helpless guy?

“S’matter? You don’t like rubbing your slutty pussy over your ex’s face?”

“It’s just a stuffed animal—ow!” You cry as Joel pinches your nipple through your shirt.

“You grind on Frankie’s face before?”

“N-no. Never,” you swear. 

“Mmm. Not sure I believe you, sweet pea. Kept him all these years, didn’t ya?”

You shake your head, too afraid to face him. You really hadn’t been grinding on the hamster ever. In fact, you nearly forgetting of his existence until Joel fished him up while asking everyone’s name. 

He forces your back to arch even more drastically, putting more pressure between your naked cunt and the soft squish bellow you. You furrow your brows, fear creeping between your spread legs, unable to clench against something to brush off the mounting pressure in you.

“Joel please—I really need to go...” you didn't want to finish the sentences. He wasn't pleasuring with his hands you in the right places so much as building pressure in the wrong one.

“Go where? I’m all you need. Right. Here.” His fingers dig possessively into your side while his other hand pushes into your lower belly.

You shake your head again. Heart racing now that you no longer care about your pleasure and are more concerned with the mess of forbidden bodily fluids you’re about to rain all over your poor Frankie—

It hits you with burning desire mixed with an irksome bile. You gasp out angrily. 

This. Mother. Fucking. Asshole.

Joel smirks into your neck behind you, as if reading your mind figuring out his evil little plan. 

“S’wrong, angel? Would you rather be doing this with any of MY plushies I’ve spoiled you with?”

“I—you—“ you grit your teeth, eyes closing as a wave of panic washes deep through your core. You’re desperate not to make a mess, a fool of yourself to tame his sadistic need to own every inch of control over you.

He hears the little staggered pants from your lips. “Do it,” he commands softly but with finality, laced with a sadistic “win” for him.

A tear slips down your cheek as you moan sadly, your stomach giving up and unclenching as the walls of your bladder breaks, and hot urine spills into the stuffed animal’s face currently wedged so tightly against your entrance. 

“Shhhhhh,” he coos, finally grinding himself against your ass. He can hear the feint rushing liquid of your piss splatting into the cotton. 

He presses you further into its plush softness, suffocating every inch of your crotch so that it absorbs all the nasty warm juice squeezing out of you like a lemon. Your legs quiver violently as you can’t help but release more and more, flowing out as if by his demand and feeling the poor plush get heavy with the rush filling its cotton innards up.

"Naughty girl, am I making you piss all over your ex's face? Little Frankie doesn't deserve that does he?" He taunts, fully well intending for this to exactly happen as he wanred.

There’s so much, and another tear slips passed you, but this one because it feels so—relieving. It’s gross and nasty, embarrassing and heartbreaking all at once, and it makes you hump against him and the dampened hamster even more. 

Joel feel the quickened breaths coming out desperately from your nose as you grind down on the defiled thing all soaked up with your own piss. Your hips are frantic, smothering your cunt with the piss-logged plush desperately, as if you were trying to...

“Shit—are you…?”

You cry out in response, mouth agape with satisfied groans when you clit catches along the wet seams just right and you find yourself cumming on the sad wet thing drowned below you.

Joel clears his throat in surprise. His cock pulses on its own and floods the inside of his pants in white strings of his seed.

Did he think you would probably cry? Yes.

Did he want you to pee and destroy your ex’s little gift to you? Yes.

Did he expect you to fucking cum from it? Um.

Did he know HE would cum from it??? No. Definitely not. 

His teeth grind against one another trying not to think about how perverted he is, pulling away from you so you can’t feel his sticky spent through his trousers and on to your back. 

The squishy lump below you begins seeping the now cooled piss into the floor boards. You sigh deeply, not sure what to do now that your little punishment has turned into—something wilder.

You feel a gentle kiss along your cheek, his thumb caressing away your tears.

“That was hot,” He admits plainly.

You cover your face to hide your smile. It’s gross. It really is. Should be embarrassing. You don’t even want to think about the hamster on the floor, the memories you’ve just soddened with your own fucking piss. 

He helps you off the floor. Your thighs still shake, the uncomfortable feeling hanging there in disgust now that you’re mentally sober again.

He guides you to the shower where you both wash up quietly.

“Um��listen I didn’t… I don’t know why you would keep your ex’s stuff but…I mean I’m reasonably… it doesn’t make me feel great, so ya can’t blame me, for getting jealous—“

You shut him up but tugging against his half hard cock.

“First of all,” you say, the sudden boldness in your voice blanking his mind into submission under your touch.

“That plush, was from my first boyfriend—in high school. We dated for 2 months,” you continued, your fingers gripping his base with a gentle squeeze, feeling him swell to full mass, “and then he realized he liked boys. That was it. We laughed about it and stayed good friends. He gave me the stuffed animal as a parting gift to college for helping him through it all.”

You stop rubbing his cock and Joel opens his eyes. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“So…Frank’s just… a friend…”

You kiss his collarbone. “Just a friend,” you repeat.

The water coats his back soothingly. An ache that had formed in his muscles, the strain of aggression tickling his brain from the minute he heard you had a stuffed animal named after your ex, still in your bed after years, had suddenly vanished. 

“Why—why would you say hes your ex and not just your old friend? Why'd ya let me make you do that to it?” He asks, concerned now that he’s ruined something sentimental to you over his quickness to jealousy.

“Because—“ you nip along the swell of his chest, both hands working along his hardened cock. “You wanted it.” Your thumb swipes along his tip, the precum feeling sticky despite the shower water drenching you. 

He moans, head falling into your shoulder as he thrusts his length into your palm. 

As your wrist continues to jerk him off, your lips ghost the shell of his ear with a deadly, lascivious whisper: 

“And I’m too crazy for you to say no.”

- - - -

Permanent Taglist

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[crazyyluvr]

heyy I've heard your requests are open! Could you do like a Jason Grace x gf reader where the reader has severe anger issues, but since Jason is rlly calm he is the only one who can handle her, and calm her down? I'm such a sucker for sunshine bf! X grumpy gf! trope haha

How to Anger a Demigod as a Horse 101

pairing: jason grace x gf!ares!reader

summary: in which you're very tempted to murder Hazel's magic (magically annoying) horse, but Jason's there to prevent that from happening.

genre: fluff, grumpy x sunshine (i think)

no particular place in the heroes of the olympus timeline, but they're on Argo II.

wc: 1.2k

warning/s: cursing, jason may be ooc, she/her pronouns, anger issues, jason's nickname for reader is pompeii because volcano n stuff

note: thank you for your request anon <33 i hope this lives up to your expectations. enjoy!

short oneshot under the cut :: not edited

The Argo II became more of a home to the eight demigods during their months of travel. Even though the ship would most probably get destroyed beyond even Leo's repair by the time they finished their quest of destroying Gaea, that didn't stop them from finding comfort within the Celestial bronze walls.

During that morning, most of the demigods were in the dining room, enjoying their breakfast. They were all tired and sluggish, since the night before wasn't kind to them. Usually they would take shifts when it came to guarding the ship, but everyone was awake last night due to the mini army of winged terrors that came across the flying ship, which caused them to set down on the sea near the land.

They all slept for less than four hours, and they all wanted nothing more but to add to those hours of sleep.

"GODDAMN THIS STUPID HORSE!"

Well, most of them slept. It seemed that one of them didn't find sleep as luxurious as the rest did that night.

"How does she have this much energy? It's like, seven in the morning," Percy groaned, almost faceplanting into his blue pancakes if it weren't for Annabeth's quick reflexes to hold her boyfriend's head up.

"I SWEAR TO MY DAD'S ROMAN COUNTERPART I WILL TEAR YOU TO TINY LITTLE PIECES YOU HUNK OF SHIT!"

"She's a daughter of Ares alright," Frank chuckled tiredly, rubbing his eyes. "Only she can be heard this clearly when she's all the way on the other side of the ship."

"What horse is she talking about? I thought the stables were empty," Piper wondered, not bothering to tame her typhoon hair as she sipped her orange juice.

"THAT'S MY SHIRT YOU DUMBASS — ARION THE FUCKING HAY IS RIGHT THERE — STOP CHEWING MY DAMN SHIRT!"

It seemed that Arion decided to pay them a little visit now that they were set on a monster-free dock. That would explain Hazel's absence from the table, and how she reappeared in the doorway. She turned to Jason, who was trying to shovel as much food into his mouth as he could so he can go to the stables.

"She's gonna explode again," Hazel panted, putting a hand on her knee to support herself. "I tried getting her to breathe, like you normally do, Jason, but she's not listening. She might actually go through with killing Arion this time."

Jason swallowed, wiping his mouth as he stood up. "I'll go handle it. You," he pointed to Hazel, "eat."

Leo looked up from his rubber band helicopter to stare at his best friend. "Good luck, buddy. She hasn't bit off your head yet, but that could happen any day now."

Jason chuckled. "Thanks, Leo, but I'll be fine." He left the room.

More cursing and shouts that sounded dangerously close to war cries made Jason quicken his pace as he crossed the deck to go down into the stables, where he could see flickering shadows of a girl and a horse.

"If you bite at my shirt again, I'll shove a grenade down your throat and use your insides as monster bait."

Jason stopped walking, to see if you could actually control yourself this time.

Chomp.

"THAT'S IT, I'M GETTING MY GRENADES —"

You're thundering footsteps grew louder as you approached the doorway to leave the stables. Jason stepped forward just as you were about to exit the room, putting a placating hand on your shoulder. "Woah woah, slow down there Pompeii. No need to resort to violence so quickly, hmm?"

Strands of hay were poking out from your hair — which wasn't as messy as Piper's but it was well on its way there. There were dark circles under your angry eyes, indicating that you didn't sleep a wink that night. Your knuckles were white from how hard you were balling your fists, and heavy breaths escaped your lips. Jason swore that he could see a little bit of smoke coming out of your ears.

"That goddamn horse is gonna die," you seethed, your chest rising and falling from your angry inhales and exhales. "Step out of the way, Grace."

Jason shook his head, a calming smile on his lips as he moved his hands to your hair, picking out the hay before resting on your flaming cheeks, flushed with annoyance. "Breathe with me."

"I gotta give that stupid piece of shit what it deserves —"

"I know, I know, but you gotta breathe with me first, okay?"

"But —"

"Breathe. In..." He took a deep breath in, sending you a pointed look when you didn't follow. His scolding glance made you mutter some colorful words under your breath before following along with him.

"Out..."

You exhaled with him. You could feel your anger boil down, and Jason saw and felt your shoulders let out the tension in it.

"In..." you closed your eyes.

"Out..."

You opened them once you sensed that Jason was done. "How are you feeling?" He asked you.

"Better. Still a little annoyed, but I'm better."

"Remember what we said?"

You glared a little at Jason, before sighing and looking away. "I shouldn't act on my anger unless necessary."

"And was it necessary now?"

"No..."

Jason's smile grew, putting his palm under your chin to make you look at him so he could give you a small peck on your lips. "You look like you haven't slept. How about you rest in your cabin for the day, let the rest of us handle the monsters and the bird crap on the deck?"

You shrugged, acting like you didn't really care, an act that didn't convince Jason, judging from the way you leaned into his touch. "Sure, whatever. As long as someone else makes sure that damned horse is gone by the time I'm awake." You casted a heated glare at Arion behind you. The horse simply snorted, bending down to eat the hay that you were trying to get him to eat instead of your shirt moments before.

Jason nodded, his blonde hair swaying slightly with the movement. "Deal. Let's get some food in your system before you head to bed, okay?"

"Fine."

You let Jason lead you out of the stables and into the dining room, where everyone was.

The silence that followed your arrival was awkward and tense, like they were still waiting for some aftershock of your anger.

They finally breathed when you and Jason squeezed into a chair and Jason gave you food that you ate in silence, a pensive expression on your face as your eyes were focused only on the food in front of you, paying no mind to the stares of your fellow demigods."

"How do you do it?" Leo sighed, launching his helicopter, which flew out of the room. "Even back at camp, not even her siblings could contain her. That takes skill, man."

Your half sister Clarisse, despite being known for her issues with controlling her anger, could hardly restrain you when someone decided to tick you off.

Jason shrugged, staring lovingly at you, his girlfriend, cheeks slightly puffed from the food you were chewing. "I don't know man. I just do it."

But deep down, Jason knew the truth. You would never calm down unless you let yourself be calmed down by someone you completely trusted.

Being able to make you see through your anger was not a skill Jason had, it was simply the one of the perks of being your boyfriend, and the one person you trusted more than yourself.

And Jason would rather jump into Tartarus than let anyone else have the privilege that you entrusted to him.

[wexhappyxfew]

when all else fails

(a/n): here it is! a Silver Bullets ensemble piece featuring all of the lovely ladies that man the B-17 Silver Bullets that is mentioned so very often. let's just say....adjusting to a new pilot after losing one that did so much in terms of care - is hard. but having each other, makes it a bit easier. (featuring also: frank, the orange cat that meatball chases when warranted).

"How many times has he mentioned that the God-forsaken cat loves him?" muttered Paulina as she came and settled herself into the chair besides Carrie, shaking her head and lacing her fingers together like an elaborate pie crust.

"Dougie'll probably keep saying it," Carrie offered and then nodded at Marianne, who was sat in her own chair, working her way through another beer, "Frank doing okay?" Marianne shrugged and glanced at the orange cat, curled up at her feet, licking at his paw, eyes half-opened as he lounged on the wooden ground of the flying club.

"Looks like he's as fine as he'll ever be," Marianne said, "Dougie snuck him a thing of cheese earlier, so….let's just say, he's content." Carrie snickered as Paulina glanced down at the little ball of orange.

"Remind me how you're going to get him home again? Strapping him up in Silver Bullets, his own mask to fit his whiskers, a parachute made out of napkins?" Paulina offered and Marianne chuckled.

"I'll just ask Benny, he got Meatball over here, I'll be damned if I can strangle Frank into a harness, but it'll happen," Marianne said, "plus, he's a big sky enthusiastic." Carrie raised a brow. Paulina blinked.

"Come again?" murmured Carrie.

"He climbs up the trees, ya know? Entertains the kids. Jumps outta them, too. Crazy son-of-a-gun. There's a reason he's got nine lives, well…probably five now." Marianne said with a sigh, like an exasperated mother, "I blame Meatball."

"Why are we blaming Meatball?" a new voice said, entering the picture, the bright-eyed silhouette of Margie Harlowe coming up to them, Kennedy Farley in tow - like sunshine and gray skies clashing together in the middle of summer, but somehow making it work.

"He chases Frank around," muttered Marianne, "therefore, Frank has it out for him. Don't think Benny would agree but." Kennedy glanced downwards.

"A real wild-eyed killer there, Mar." Kennedy murmured and Marianne grumbled.

"He's just a softie on the outside that's all," Marianne said and Carrie chuckled.

"I can promise you, if I wave a thing of cheese in front of him, he's done for, there's no fighting with Meatball," Carrie said, patting Marianne on the shoulder and she all but sighed.

"It's alright, Frank, I'd be the same way," Paulina called down to Frank - who sat wildly unbothered, "swear to ya, you could wake me from a dead-sleep."

"Any of you meet the new pilot?" Margie asked, sweeping her eyes through the current group of four staring her in the face, "Alright, what's with the blank looks?"

"Don't think we're the ones you should be asking," Carrie said quietly, "you think Francis is gonna lose it? We know what happened when Harding tried with the other pilot…..Francis couldn't stand her."

"That's because that Captain Atchinson was nothing but a stuck up twit with a stick up her ass," Kennedy offered, "told me three times about how to load my goddamn .50 cal - last time I ever went up with her telling me what to do. I know how to load a gun, sweetheart."

"Bunch of bullshit, too," Paulina said, "you know she told me I had to at least eat proper in front of the guys. Does she not realize most of these guys saw me on my death bed when we arrived in Greenland? Puking my guts up as I pathetically begged for Major Cleven to take me to the grave. That was the least of my worries-"

"Well, our new pilot is not Captain Atchinson - she's actually really sweet, level-headed, can hold her own." Margie said butting in, "You all oughta introduce yourselves, stop hiding."

"Gotta name?" Marianne asked, a bit more hopeful than the others.

"Annie Bradshaw." Margie said, a hint of a smile on her lips, "She was in Fort Des Moines, but she's been a pilot for a bit. I got Benny to spill about her to me a bit. Supposedly she was going to fly AT-6s before coming here, so I guess we can consider ourselves lucky." Someone coughed.

"We'd be lucky if Birdie was still here." Carrie murmured quietly and a collective silence came over the group.

"Alright, what's with the sour faces?" Bessie, beloved navigator of Silver Bullets, said coming with a fresh drink - beer in the bottle - and Vivian and Judy in tow, the three new sets of eyes wandering about the current display of grief that seemed to wash in like waves.

"Don't tell me," Vivian said, arm linked through Judy's, eyes narrowed, "Major Egan made another one of his bad jokes and Pauli ain't having it."

"It ain't that, Viv, but feels close enough to be just like it," Paulina mumbled from her seat and shrugged, before leaning her head on her hand, "meet the new pilot?" The group glanced towards the trio and found somewhat blank looks on all their faces as well.

"Saw her." Judy offered, a bit more enthusiastically than the others, "She's a pretty thing. Didn't say anything though. It was from afar; I was trying to keep Dougie company, poor guy got turned down. I offered him an emotionally-filled pat on the shoulder."

"You really are the sweetest out of us all," Margie said with a smile towards Judy - who grinned like she always did - one that still looked youthful and full of a life now past.

"Was he trying for Helen again?" Carrie asked, her voice a bit more stiff than it had been previously and Bessie shrugged.

"A pretty poor attempt, I'll give him that," Bessie offered, in that comforting voice of hers that never seemed to let anyone down even in the worst of times.

"That or he's going on about the damn cat." Paulina groaned, receiving a shove from Marianne, "Sorry, sorry-" she glanced down at Frank, "sorry Frank, we love ya, I promise."

"So," Bessie started, glancing around the group, "anyone else willing to make the first move or should I bite the bullet. Again, might I add."

"I'll come with you," Judy offered, "she seems real sweet, I tell ya." Bessie smiled and glanced towards the group. Silence.

"Listen, listen, I'll come," Kennedy offered, "nothing a little New England charm can't do."

"New England charm?" Paulina crooned.

"Very experimentalist of you." Carrie said with a smirk and Kennedy rolled her eyes.

"I don't see anyone else jumping to their feet," Kennedy said, placing her hands on her hips with a raised brow, "imagine that was you! Comin' in here and your first introduction is Major Egan - Jesus Christ he probably scared her off-"

"I don't have to imagine," Paulina said with a sour look on her face, "if Birdie were here, we wouldn't be having to start this all over again."

"Yeah, well, Birdie ain't here, Pauli." Kennedy said. It was tough love. A tough realization that was a hard pill to swallow and something no one wanted to have to face.

None of them had really been flying since - Francis had done a practice run with Benny, but had come puking out of the plane and that had been that. Sometimes on walks around base, there was a presence about Silver Bullets that was almost sickening. It was like trying to face a fear none of them wanted to actually have to face. Getting in Silver Bullets without Birdie there. Because how much could you trust the next person to look out for the group and do much, if not the same or more?

"Well, what a surprise," Francis Montez said, swaggering over, a tired look on her face, an even more exasperated smile growing on her lips, "go on, what's happened now. Who are we bettin' on now?"

"No one, Lieutenant, except maybe the new pilot," Judy offered with a shake of her head, "you meet her yet?" Francis' face fell flat and she glanced around the group and shrugged.

"Ran into her, was on the move, didn't have much to say yet," Francis said, her words awkward and spaced uncomfortably. A few of the women exchanged side-eye glances or random coughs or sniffs.

Everyone knew Francis was struggling the most with it all - losing Birdie like they did. Just like that. Having her stuff back at the base, having to send it home to her folks, having to write out the letters and mail it out. Having to even think or say anything regarding it all. No one wanted to express any emotion towards a new pilot, or try to replace Birdie in anyway - it's why this whole new pilot shindig hurt just a little more than they all thought. They knew Birdie would never be replaced, but sometimes it felt like it was replacing her. Francis had been the one to see it and live it. She felt it the most it seemed - and showed it.

"You doing okay, Lieutenant?" Marianne asked quietly, a few worried glances going towards Silver Bullets' copilot - the drawn in expression on her face that fought with whatever inner emotions she was feeling more and more, the dark circles under her eyes, her gaunt cheeks. Francis Montez seemed to take on the weight of the world and let it stay on her shoulders for as long as she could handle; she hadn't fallen down yet.

"Fine," Francis said and then settled onto the open chair beside Carrie, "so, who's gonna make the first move? Or well, let me rephrase, who should be the one to make the first move?"

"I vote Margie." Paulina said, with a raised hand as she sipped her beer, "Margie or Vivian, someone who walks around like it's always sunny outside or something, ya know?"

"Flattering, Pauli, truly," Margie said, and Vivian offered a graceful smile with a nod.

"I appreciate the sentiment, Pauli, you really do butter me up," Vivian said, "but I think this is a Margie Harlowe situation at its finest." Margie grinned and crossed her arms and glanced around.

"You guys shouldn't have."

"Take the compliment, Margie," murmured Carrie. Margie smirked.

"She here?" Margie asked out loud.

"Supposedly Brady invited her."

"She blonde?"

"Blonde, more dirty-blonde, but nice dirty-blonde, shorter-side."

"That her?"

Everyone followed Carrie's finger and line of sight and found the new pilot, Lieutenant Annie Bradshaw, moving towards the bar, leaning up against it smoothly and ordering a drink and then looking around, her movements fluid, calculated and purposeful, her presence not entirely overwhelming and the look on her face a mix - calm, cool, collected about herself. Someone you probably didn't want to mess with unless you had it coming.

"Yep, that's her," Judy said, "Margie you should go for it." Margie turned to the group, took a gracious bow, cracked her knuckles like some professional sports star and then turned away.

"Watch and learn, ladies," Margie said and then plowed forward.

"There she goes," Kennedy said with a chuckle, "our Margie, whodda thought huh?"

"Whodda thought what?"

"Volunteering herself like that," Kennedy offered, "going into the line of fire. She's better than me."

"What the hell do you mean by that?" Francis said, "Whatcha trying to say?" Kennedy glanced over her shoulder just as Margie stuck out her hand to shake and then glanced back at the group of women and Frank, who now was cuddled in Judy's arms.

"Harding's been trying to get a pilot in for days after Atchinson was booted. Supposedly, he didn't let anyone even meet us until he was sure, especially after what happened before." Kennedy said, "Egan let me in on it, Mr. Chatterbox. Anyway, it seems legit. The entire thing. And she made it through all their levels of inspection, interviews, questioning, all of it. She's good." The group seemed to gravitate to looking towards Francis, attempting to judge her facial expressions before coming to a consensus.

"Francis?" Bessie offered. Francis was quiet for a moment, then leaned forward and took the beer bottle in her hand.

"I won't say anything until she's up there flying Silver Bullets."

[chaitantei-ao3]

6.

Mac marches towards them, “I didn’t clear you. You’re not cleared.” He looks in between them wild eyed. “Not-not-not cleared!” Dennis takes a reassuring breath, the fog clearing from his mind. “Shut up, Mac. Stop harassing the customers.”

“No, he’s not. I did not clear him. So he’s not-” Mac stares between them, his jaw hardening. “Would you step away sir!”

“…Uh.” Roy looks at Dennis, “Did something-”

Dennis taps his hand, “Don’t worry, this is just for show, he just wants attention it’s honestly quite pathe-”

Mac takes a running start, twisting his foot and kicks wildly off target.

“What is happening?” Roy hiccups.

Mac rubs his back, gets up and lunges at Roy, “This is a security threat of the highest level. Code Alpha. Code Yellow. Code Orange. Immediate elimination. Charlie, I need backup!”

“Mac what are you-! Let him go.” The goddamn moron is going to make me lose all the customers.

Dennis rounds the counter but Mac is quicker, dragging a helpless Roy by his armpits to the door, the scotch is too much for him to do anything about it. By the time he reaches, Mac has pushed him out on the footpath, “Do not come here ever again!” He shuts the door on his face, turns back, his hair in a disarray.

“Dennis. You-you’re fine, yeah?”

“Of course I’m-” Mac looks at him, his mouth slightly open. Dennis looks down and sees he’s clenching his fingers hard into a fist.

“…I-I’m fine!” Dennis releases his grip, feeling his palm ache.

“Oh my god, Dennis.” Mac reaches for his hand, pressing his fingers on the crescent marks. Dennis feels a gentle warmth seep into him, overflowing from Mac’s gaze down to the way he rubs his knuckles and the knot inside him eases. Mac presses his hands together on his, sliding his thumb between his index. Dennis feels a frisson of electricity down his spine.

Mac licks his bottom lip, crossing himself, “I can’t believe he came right in and-” He looks at Dennis, his mouth trembling. “I could sense his malevolent intentions toward you right away, Dennis. Don’t you worry now.” Mac shakes his head, “Didn’t he read the goddamn sign, Jesus Christ.”

“You- you were the one who-! What the fuck Mac. People are walking past the bar you idiot!”

“I got to know that they’ve organised a pub crawl in the gay bars in Philly.”

“Did they? How do you know that?”

“I happened to be passing by the Rainbow. ”

“Passing by.” Dennis says, dryly.

“And-and I heard about it so I came back to make sure that they don’t include Paddy’s in it.” Mac says, shaking his head in horror. “We are not a gay bar, Dennis. It’s-it’s wrong, it’s not allowed .”

Dennis shakes his head and slaps Mac’s hand away. Mac looks at his hand, opening and closing his fist.

“You know what Mac? You are a goddamn moron.” Dennis says. “You have customers literally walking into the bar and you’re turning them away?! Do you even remember we have a serious problem at our hands? Frank has basically written us off. Now that guy, the guy you just threw out on the road was a customer .”

Mac glares at him, “A customer, huh.”

Dennis narrows his gaze, “A paying customer and practically the only one in sight.”

“Oh right, he’s so important. He’s going to give us money, he’s going to save Paddy’s.” Mac scoffs.

“That’s what customers do! He was also going to get his friends over. And you know what that means? More-”

“Oh my god.” Mac says. “More of-” He shudders, “Absolutely not.”

“First.” Dennis pinches the bridge of his nose, “They were his buddies from the place he works . He’s got a job in construction. Maybe they are gay, maybe they’re not. Who gives a shit?”

“Oh.” Mac says, scratching his neck, “Looks like I interrupted a reunion between best friends now. You know all about him.”

“A friendship is clearly not what he was looking for, in case you didn’t notice Mac.” Dennis says, satisfied seeing the blood rush to his face. “Second, I’ve really had enough of this incredibly homophobic- ”

Mac clicks his tongue, “That’s what the liberals are up to these days huh. Good old God fearing men are being called names. No wonder we’re living in such dark times I-” Dennis tunes him out, walking toward the entrance, peering into the night. The broken street lamp round the street corner flickers and illuminates it in brief flashes.

“Are you listening to me Dennis! What are you-” Mac takes quick steps toward the door, putting a hand on his shoulder. Sighing, he switches the ‘Closed’ sign to ‘Open’. “He left.” Dennis crosses his arms on his chest. “All thanks to you, just fucking great. I worked so hard and-”

“Dennis you didn’t actually want him to -” Dennis watches a look of absolute disgust envelop Mac’s face. “You didn’t want-”

“I don’t see how it’s any concern of yours.” Dennis bites out.

Mac looks at him, jaw dropping. Shaking his head vigorously, he says. “That’s not true!” Mac’s fingers curl on his shoulder, moving up to caress the back of his neck. Dennis raises a brow, feeling tiny hairs stand up. “You’re my No.1 concern! Always! And I saw you right now. You were all- you looked so out of it. You were not yourself!”

“Right-” Dennis shakes his head, “Mac, you see. That’s a classic case of projection making you see such things.”

“I know what I saw.” Mac rolls his eyes. “I know you , Dennis. You- you” Mac swallows, his gaze settling on him. “You are my… partner .” Dennis suppresses a sliver of electricity crackling up and down his spine where his fingers are still touching his neck. “You are…” Mac’s gaze lands on his mouth.

“ Nein got you sir. Mac!” They hear Charlie exiting the basement. Mac’s eyes widen and he drops his hand. Taking a step away he scratches the back of his neck. “And as partners we run this business together. We decide things together . You agreed, Dennis.” Mac looks at him, “We all agreed that we won’t be a gay bar and so that’s that.” Mac says.

Dennis snorts, ignoring the tingle on his shoulder. “There won’t be a bar to run anymore with the way we’re going. Throwing away potential customers and-”

“Not when I’m done.” Mac says, looking at him. “Charlie you got it?”

“If that’s going to stop you from putting up that thing.”

“It’s not- I just don’t think we have the money. And I think I’ve found a much better answer to our problems.”

“What the hell is this?” Dennis says.

“Pull up your sleeves, gentlemen.” Mac says, picking on the ends of his frayed shirt. “We’ve got ourselves an exorcism.”

Read more

[vestaclinicpod]

Audio Drama Sunday - 28th January ✨

Hours of data collection 😤👎 Hours of data collection with audio drama 🤭🫶

👻 @tellnotalespod (S2E2) If I had a ghost in my life, I’d want what Gemma and Micah have 🥺 I really hate this back and forth between Leo and Frank! HEY! Frank! That’s ~my~ Leo to be fond of, not yours! I’m so excited to catch up with Julia and Riley next week! 

🦀 @thesiltverses (38) Oh my god, what an incredible episode! The exploration of a dementia-like process as being stalked by a god of death - PLEASE. The sound design was fantastic, I felt like I could really see the surroundings - the encroaching woods, the smudged prayer marks on the floor, the murky silt of the river - it was a beautiful experience. And I wish I could show you my face when I heard that Faulkner had got his testosterone from the CHURCH. NO! No no no. The manipulation! Show me a character in this show that isn’t so supremely messed up!! I want to help them all 😭

🧳 Travelling Light by @monstrousproductions (10) Another lovely instalment from my favourite wholesome sci-fi show. I couldn’t agree more with the description of home-sickness, you truly can’t predict what will set off the pangs for home! 

🏛 @the-mistholme-museum (INEVITABLE) I have been hanging off the edge of my seat waiting to find out what would happen with the Beast. I love Not Eagle popping up as a contradictory voice and ATG’s completely cool, calm and collected response to it. I’m so unsure about the HoRestoration taking the Beast in . . . I used to trust her but after these cards . . . I’m less sure. 

🌨️ @thewhitevault (6) I feel like I need to listen to this episode again to really let that Family timeline stick in my mind. Everything seems to be ramping up in Goshawk, and I suspected that there might be a few more unexpected, unwelcome guests soon! 

❤️‍🔥 The Love Talker (7) This episode took us back in time to fill in some of the blanks regarding the main characters’ pasts. It’s very interesting to see how different Ren’s ability seems from the outside - it makes you wonder how it’s taken her so long to realise that the affect she has on people isn’t ‘normal’?? Is she a victim or a monster? I suspect it's gonna be both. 

🏢 @somewhereohio (S2E7) Ooooh!! I was wondering when we’d get the answer regarding why Jasmine/Olivia was seen in that truck in Scarlet’s memory in S1!!! I feel like I need to go back and listen to their first encounter again to see if there’s any glimmer of a sign that Scarlet remembered her! The way Orange describes his variance sounds like a bit of a curse - but I have faith that he can do some good with it before the end of the season!! 

🍾 I finished S2 of @ameliapodcast and it was so much fun! I loved the reveal that Amelia is a real, living person with an active role in the Project and I love that it’s Julia Morizawa! 

🌫️ @souloperatorpod (2) I’ll be honest, I don’t really have a solid grasp on what’s happening here yet but the writing is very compelling, and I adore the music! I’m looking forward for the fog to lift a little! 

♦️The Grotto (4) I went into this episode forewarned but definitely not forearmed… goddamn. Can I have a new episode soon, please? 

🖥️ The Magnus Protocol (3) .jmj error HM? REALLY. I really am hoping that this will end with our TMA faves hopping out of the computers but I would also be satisfied with an explanation that whatever this thing is has listened to them read so many statements that it’s taken their voices, if nothing else… Also, I love Colin - it’s so rare that a piece of media gives us a character who is sooo batshit right from the word go. I love him. He’s 1000% going to die. 

Hoping for a good week for everyone!!

[lightning-writes]

good heart (faulty machine of a man) - 19/30

fic summary: bucky meets someone at therapy

chapter summary: rue calls bucky (alt: nothing platonic happens after 12 am)

word count: 2150

tags: post endgame, pre tfatws, slow burn, canon divergent, canon compliant, au

warnings: none

a/n: we love a flirty bucky x rue moment! also some ruby lore!

AO3 MASTERLIST X

The clatter of his phone vibrating on the wooden floor makes him groan. Who the hell is calling him after midnight? He rolls over and sees the bleary image of Rue’s face.

Panic rises in his chest as he stands. He answers the phone with an alarmed, “Hello?”

“It’s a video call, friend, get me away from your ear.”

Bucky holds the phone out to see Rue in a bathroom. She has the phone propped behind the sink, rubbing something onto her face, and she looks down at the phone.

(He first notices her exposed stomach from the cropped tank top, then her pierced nipples again. He can’t presume her intention, but he doesn’t know which Rue’s getting tonight. And it makes his ears hot.)

“Jesus Christ, James,” she startles him out of his thoughts. The phone is in her hands now, her face close to the screen. “Look at those pectorals.”

Bucky looks down at his shirtlessness. Automatically, his hand flies up to cover himself.

In a muffle tone that he can only believe is to herself, she mutters, “I mean, I knew you were jacked, but goddamn.”

(Bucky has no idea how he should feel about this statement, but it certainly does make him feel something.)

She sets the phone back down and begins to braid her hair. To him, she says, “Vick has Frank over, so I thought I’d call you. I’m just getting ready for bed.” She peeks down at the phone. “Were you sleeping?”

“Kinda.” He wasn’t, but his answer is more acceptable than saying he was trying to find a comfortable spot on the floor of his nearly empty living room. “But, it’s fine.”

“Great.” She applies something else to her face, taking her time rubbing it into the skin. “I just had half a bottle of wine, so be prepared for that.”

(He makes a non-committal noise, wondering what drove her to drink.)

“Anyway, what’s up, how was your day?”

“Uh, fine?” He walks into his dark bedroom and finds a shirt. He doesn’t even have a lamp; he has to turn on the bright overhead light and frowns. He sits on his bed with only one pillow left. “How was yours?” he asks, unsure.

He watches her walk from the bathroom to her bedroom. She sits on the bed with a huff, and he notices the shelves above her headboard. Dried orange slices and small twinkling light hang from the bottom shelf, and he sees a plant vine that nearly brushes her head. Under the shelves, there are photographs taped to her wall, some people, some landscapes. He sees the shine of a still wrapped condom when he averts his eyes.

 “Glad you asked.” She calls attention back down to her. “So, you know how I work at Waterway? Well, so did Maeve, until we broke up, so everyone working there knows our story and mostly everyone knows about the whole Dean situation. So, apparently, Maeve just posted her engagement to Instagram, and literally, Bucky, I kid you not, everyone on staff asked me about it. If I was sad about it, if I’d seen it. As if I didn’t block her on all my socials already! You’d think they’d have more decorum, but obviously not!”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky offers. He got lost in the rant for a moment, but he finds his way out by the end.

She plows through his sympathy. “So, I went– wait, are you… against hooking up or anything?”

“What?” He’s confused by the sharp turn of conversation.

“I mean, being from the 1940’s and all that,” she says impatiently, “I don’t want to offend you with my sexcapades.” 

“You won’t,” he nearly laughs. “Trust me.”

(She pauses for too long a moment, and he wishes he knew what she was thinking.) 

“Okay, so I went to this lesbian bar I’d gone to with Maeve once, and tried to hook up with someone, but I had no luck - I bet the loser vibes were just emanating off me - so I asked Vick if we could have a girls’ night. And she’d said yes, but then canceled at the last minute!” She brings the phone close to her face again, to whisper, “Frank asked her to dinner, and she thinks he’s going to propose soon, so I guess she’s jumping at every opportunity? I don’t know, I don’t believe in marriage.”

“Didn’t you prop–”

“Anyway,” she says dramatically, giving him a hard look through the screen. He suppresses a grin. “So, while they were out - which I’d like to point out, it was ten o’clock when this happened - Dean came over, like he fucking knew I was alone and rejected, and he dropped off my stuff I’d left at his apartment. And I told him I’m not returning shit because it’s not like I’m keeping fucking tabs on all the belongings in my house!”

Bucky notes how much she swears but doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he asks, “Is that a normal thing to do?”

“Have you ever watched a ‘90’s sitcom?” Rue scoffs. She’s now laying in her bed. She brushes the end of her braid over her face idly.

“Actually–”

She doesn’t let him finish. “So, after he left, I had my wine, I did my skincare, and I called you – lucky you!”

“Lucky me.” He tucks his arm behind his head. She watches him with another expression he can’t place. “Aren’t you tired, after all that?”

She sighs, her mouth twisted in a rueful smile. “Honestly, my brain won’t shut up.”

“I can’t sleep, either,” he confesses after a beat.

(He’s tempted to tell her he can come over or they could go somewhere, but he doesn’t want to fluster her, like she’s been.)

“Give me a house tour,” she declares unprompted. She’s laying on her side, giving him a playfully stern face. “You’ve been to my place, but I’ve never seen yours.”

“You didn’t give me a tour.”

“You didn’t ask for one.”

He rolls his eyes, schooling his amused look. “There isn’t much to see,” he admits.

“I demand entertainment, Barnes,” she pounds a fist into her bed.

(His brain stalls when she calls him by his last name.)

Bucky gets up and turns the front facing camera to his bedroom. He has a dresser, a laundry hamper, and a nightstand. He doesn’t give commentary as he enters the living room, showing his TV, still on, his record player, its speakers, and his small couch. He discreetly kicks away his sleeping setup on the floor as he moves to the kitchen. Rue watches, quietly, drinking from a cup with a familiar bird logo.

“That’s it,” he suppresses a yawn as he sits on the couch. “I told you, not much to see.”

“Oh, but it definitely entertained me,” she says. She looks sleepy, too; her blinks are slower. “Were you watching something?”

“Whatever’s on at,” he checks the time, “at two in the morning.”

“Hmmm,” she hums. He passes a hand through his still shower-damp hair. She then sits up. “Wait, did you get a haircut?”

He’s startled, fingers still combing through his hair. “...uh, yes?”

“You know, if I knew calling you was just going to be a thirst trap, I would have prepared better.” She pauses. “A thirst trap is–”

“Yeah, I actually know what that one means,” he interrupts.

(He briefly wonders what she meant by prepared. He also wonders how long they’ll continue this dance. WIll it end in a grand finale or will the song scratch to a stop?)

She gives him a curious look. “So, you know what you’re doing.”

He shrugs, “I’m just existing.”

“Well, exist less hot when I’m too drunk.” She flops back, dramatically throwing a hand over her forehead. “You know, this is what got us into the Thanksgiving mess in the first place.”

“Is that right?”

“It looks nice, your hair,” she ignores his comment, “I mean, it looked nice before, but…”

She yawns. He yawns.

There’s a long stretch of silence between them, and Bucky wonders if he should be the responsible one to call it a night.

“Can I tell you a secret, Buck?”

“Are you sure you want to do that? In light of the Thanksgiving incident?” She gives him a flat look, and he gives her a soft smile. “Yeah, Rue, I want to hear your secret.”

“I’m… miserable.”

(Her whisper breaks him.)

“I’m miserable, and I deserve it.” She wipes a tear curling down her cheek with the end of her braid. “I’m miserable, and I deserve it, and there’s nothing you can say to make me think otherwise.”

“Okay,” he responds too casually. She gives him a sharp look. “You know, if you were calling to have a pity party, I would have prepared better.” She tries to mask her amusement blooming behind her mad features. “I would have put up a banner… or maybe, some balloons–”

She huffs. “Okay, I get it.”

“I think…” Bucky pauses, eyes avoiding the screen to fully form his thoughts. “You don’t deserve to feel miserable.” He looks at her then, and shrugs a shoulder. “If you did, you wouldn’t.”

“Go on.”

He chuckles. “If you did deserve it, if you really were a bad person, I don’t think you would feel so miserable. Your misery is… it’s your guilt. I mean… you know what you did wasn’t great, and you actually feel bad about it.”

“All right, big boy, we get it. You go to therapy.”

“You studied therapy,” he counters.

(He pointedly ignores her ��big boy’ comment.)

“Yeah, okay, but it wasn’t like it was my first choice,” she retorts. “Listen, I didn’t want to tell you this before because I know you have paranoid tendencies, but it seems like I’m a sinking ship and, apparently, a glutton for punishment, so I’m gonna tell you–”

“That’s a big preamble for you telling me you almost worked for Shield.”

Rue props herself up with her elbow, again, staring at him so intensely, it almost looks like the video is frozen.

“How could you have possibly known that? That’s super confidential.”

(Bucky had left the gym immediately after receiving the call from The Toad. He met with him at Red Hook Pier, in the rainy night, because better safe than sorry.

“Soldier,” the Toad greeted him in Russian. 

Bucky hands him the envelope thick with cash. “That’s not me anymore.”

He hands Bucky the envelope of information with a knowing look. “You will always be a soldier, even if you aren’t the Winter Soldier.”

“Anything I need to know?”

“How do the Americans say it,” he says in English, accent thick and stumbling, “‘The call is coming from inside the house’?”)

He just says, “I’m a former spy.” 

“You don’t even know my last name,” she protests.

“Is that right, Ruby David?” he challenges.

He watches realization spread across her features. “Okay, fine, I should have guessed you’d do this. Re: paranoid.”

“Prepared.”

“Distrusting.”

“Vigilant.”

“So, what else did you find?” she asks abruptly.

He’s quick to answer, “What are you worried I’d find?”

“Not worried.” She fiddles with her braid. “Just… curious. I’ve been pretty much an open book, other than the Shield stuff.”

To be fair, she’s telling the truth there. Aside from standard information about her and her family, Bucky mostly found information about her rebellion throughout high school, skipping class, failing class, getting caught smoking all over campus. He saw she’d been arrested at the age of twenty for protesting and a string of bar fights. She also had a long list of lovers, ranging from her age to much older, in quick succession. She’d been paid for her relationships, something the Toad called a “sugar baby”.

Her history with Shield had been brief and mostly one-sided. She’d done a lot of research into finding out whether they actually existed and how she could join them. When she’d been accepted, she had started training… and had backed out a week before initiation. It aligns with what she’d said about taking in her brother.

By the time Mikey had moved out, Hydra would have been outed, and Shield had dissolved.

(Bucky had been there for that one.)

“Yeah, you’ve been pretty honest,” he finally says.

She hums, eyes blinking slowly. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

Bucky is picking up the bedding from the ground and transferring it to his bed as her eyes are downcast. He settles into bed and sighs. “I get why you didn’t. I wouldn’t have told me either.”

Her lips quirk a soft smile. And she yawns again. And he follows. A hush falls between them, just the sound of them breathing. Bucky feels his eyelids grow heavier. The glow of the TV outside casts a dim glow into the bedroom,

“I should get going,” she finally sighs. “I have work at seven tomorrow morning.”

“In three hours,” he corrects.

“Fuck.” She turns on her side. She repeats, “I should sleep.”

Bucky mirrors her. “So, go to sleep.”

“You first.”

Bucky closes his eyes and pretends to snore. He hears her surprised giggle, and he catches her biting her lip as she gazes at him.

“Stay on the line.”

“Okay.” He switches his phone to his other hand. “Good night, Ruby.”

“Sweet dreams, James.”

[because-she-goes]

luck be a lady

warnings: alcohol use, drug use if you squint, newly sober Matty, swearing, gambling. Enjoy!

author note: go try calimochos, they’re delicious and very easy to make at home!

It is 12am and a newly sober Matty makes his way to the casino floor from his lonely hotel room. The rest of the boys currently getting high in George’s room. He bid them farewell about an hour ago, excusing himself and them sympathetically understanding his need to leave.

His tie now undone, top two buttons of his wrinkled white shirt open, hair perfectly messy. He had to admit, he looked fucking hot tonight. Dress pants still miraculously creased down the center and worn in, scuffed brown shoes as comfortable as slippers. He adjusts his hair one last time, pulling it up and away from his face and licks his chapped lips. Sauntering out towards the roulette tables, he spots a bar. There is not a soul at the chairs surrounding it, the bartender taking the quiet moment to clean glasses. He decides to wait a bit and play a round of Texas hold ‘em with people much more knowledgeable about it than him. 20 minutes later, he is down $500 and decides to take the loss and quench the thirst thats been bothering him since he lost the first round against a lady named Susan who was in a Hawaiian shirt and had the worst smoker’s cough he’s ever heard.

Now making his way to the bar, he spots a girl. Not a girl, scratch that. An almighty. She is laughing at some probably horrendous joke the bartender just made. Head thrown back, raven hair cascading down her back, babydoll dress hugging her frame like it was crafted by Persephone herself. A flush covers her freckled cheeks and eyes the most incredible shade of cinnamon he has ever seen. Her laugh like Mozart to his ears. He takes the seat besides her, hands shaking excitedly in his lap.

“Yeah, Can I get whatever she is drinking mate? Thanks!” He asks the bartender who is now sending the new arrival death glares for interrupting their conversation.

“Its called kalimocho, I don’t know if you’ll like it. Might be too sweet for your tastes.” She informs him.

“Oh is that right? Whats in it, love? Just looks like red wine to me.” He abruptly replies, not meaning to come across curt, but probably sounding like a twat to the poor girl.

“Its red wine and some coca cola and a little lemon juice.” Her tone now reflecting his coldness. How dare he be so abrasive when he’s the one who sat next to her. How dare his neck look so pretty and practically begging to have a hand wrapped around it. How dare he look like a goddamn dream to her tired eyes.

“Okay, sounds good to me. I’ll still take one, mate.” He adds, looking towards the bartender in an attempt to smooth over some of the wrinkles in the conversation.

The bartender quickly makes another in a tall glass, adds an orange peel and hands it to Matty.

“What’s your name by the way, love? Might as well know it if we are going to drink together…” He nods in thanks to the bartender and slides him a tip that is well over the 20% normal in America. She doesn’t know if this is out of generosity or a way to get in her pants by flaunting his wealth. She gives him the benefit of the doubt and replies to the question.

“Nora. My name’s Nora. And yours?” She interjects. She takes a small sip of the cocktail awaiting his response. Desperately wanting to know this handsome stranger’s name.

“Matthew, but everyone calls me Matty. You can call me whatever you like, Darling.” He swiftly answers. Pleased with his answer, she throws him a wink. Mascara coated eyelashes accentuating her sultry makeup flawlessly.

He takes a swig of the cocktail, humming into the glass as the name Nora fills his brain. How sweet. How gentle. How totally perfect of a name for such a creature as she.

“Will do, handsome.” She brazenly flirts. “Would you wanna go play some roulette or a slot machine by any chance? Stretch our legs a bit?” She adds, hoping he’ll accept her offer.

“With you? I’ll do anything, love.” He gets up and walks with her to the slots. He takes a minute and admires the way she can be so comfortable in a place like this - with drunken men much older than her surely oogling and ogling at her every movement. He commends her for being so confident i herself and completely strong while being a lamb surrounded by lions. Matty’s face shrivels up and shoulder shake in disgust at the repulsive thoughts the men must be thinking about her. She takes a seat getting ready to put her cash into the machine, startled when she feels his strong, long fingers squeezing around her shoulder and stupidly perfect lips dip in towards her ear.

“Luck be a lady, baby.” He whispers, nipping at her earlobe.

She practically moans, shivering as various vile thoughts begin to cloud her judgement. Goosebumps covering her skin.

“Don’t fuck with me right now, Handsome.” She clips, not wanting the distraction as her nerves build. Pressing the button to start the machine, anticipation killing her.

He smirks at the effect his small action has on her, intelligent eyes roaming over her and the screen waiting for the result.

A few moments later, sirens start blaring, the screen illuminating brightly with neon colors. They read the screen in awe….

“Jackpot, $35,000 dollars…….” They mutter in shock. Surely, she’s dreaming. None of this can be real. Not him. Not his hands on her shoulders. Not his eyes now staring at her in awe. Not his lips parting perfectly as he gasps.

Coming back to reality, she leaps up from the seat as he takes her in his arms. The muscles in his arms wrapping tightly around her waist, her chest pressing into his, she stands on the balls of her feet in order to reach him. He glances down for half a second over her shoulder and catches the glimpse of her butt in that dress. He nearly drops to his knees right then and there, willing and ready in-front of the whole casino. He reels himself in, coming back ti the goddess in-front of him. Nora, the name consuming his every thought. God, what he would give to say her name like a prayer in the dark of the night.

He kisses her deeply, hungrily, needy. She kisses him like her life relies on it. The both of them drinking the other in and only releasing when their collective oxygen runs out. All of the people around them disappear. They don’t notice the guy walking over to her with the cash filled suitcase. They don’t notice the machine’s sounds and lights anymore. They don’t notice the whole casino clapping and cheering.

In that moment, it is just them. Him and Her. Nothing else.

[puzzled-pegasus]

Demigods as John Mulaney Quotes bc I apparently didn't do this years ago

Percy

“Sometimes I get nervous on airplanes.”

“Why do people always shush animals?”

“And then my mom said, ‘I made a salad with Craisins!’ And the conversation ended.’”

“In terms of instant relief, canceling plans is like heroin.”

“You want it? Go get it!”

Annabeth

“Street smarts!”

“Uhm, does anyone have a laptop charger I could borrow…?”

“It's tomorrow now.”

Jason

“But you saw what they were doing to Tyler, and yet you did nothing?”

“Ah yes, the title of alpha—-which I once had—-how can I reclaim it?”

“And what a mighty king I will be, eating dinner at 4:45 in the afternoon.”

“I always try to be really polite in life, so like if I had amnesia, you'd never know it. I'd wake up and they'd be like ‘Hi [Jason], we're so happy you're awake.’ And I'd just be like, ‘Oh, hey, man, how's it going?’"

Piper

“Yeah, you can make fun of me. Just don't say that I’m a bitch and that you don't like me.” *cue intense confusion from Jason*

“No, that's the thing I’m sensitive about!”

Hazel

*takes a breath* “Oh god, it's the old times.”

“First off, no.”

“Thirteen year olds are the meanest people in the world.”

“You know when you're twelve, when you're like ‘no one look at me or I’ll kill myself!’”

Frank

“I don't know what my body is for, other than just taking my head from room to room,”

“My vibe is more like ‘hey, you could pour soup in my lap and I'll probably apologize to you!’”

“I wasn't offended as a boy being mistaken for a lady, I was offended, as a lady, who was getting pushed around by this chauvinist asshole—-who works at bLOckBuSteR ViDeo—-who was talking to me like I’m some floozy! I am a proud Asian American woman, and you will treat me with respect!”

Leo

“Because it's the one thing you can't replace.”

“And I said ‘no.’ You know, like a liar.”

“SCATTER!”

“This is an on-fire garbage can…could be a nursery.”

Nico

“You ever seen a ghost?”

“Excuse me, I am homeless, I am gay…”

*imitating an old gay man* “you want me to do what?”

“McDonald’s! McDonald’s! McDonald’s!”

“He could look at a child and guess the price of their coffin.”

Will

“Pff, you’re not gonna faint!”

“Take your goddamn Epipen, and geT OUT!”

Reyna

“You can do whatever you want forever!”

“Brush your teeth! Now, BOOM, orange juice! That's life.”

[colleenmurphy]

"Yaaa!"

"Mammaaaa!"

"Mar Bear!"

"Saint Mary!"

The cacophony of sound that hit Mary Flannery as she walked up her small patch of lawn and up the gravel path towards home startled her nearly to her wits end. Her head buzzed as she staggered for a second before catching herself and leaning against the hood of Frank's blocked up clunker he tinkered on. Being hit by a wall of sound from your loved ones at 2AM after being put through the emotional wringer washer of life sets one on edge. Frank was in the drunk tank again but not before he'd been booked for battery and assault, his third strike and would be headed Up River to the lock up in the morning once he'd slept off the whiskey anger, rum strength and the possible concussion she'd given him. Her lip was busted, her left cheek sported twelve stitches as her head was ringing and her left eye was a dusky shade of blue black. She felt a cold shiver of satisfaction knowing she'd fought back this time. She'd given him hell and managed to gouge out his eye and make him swallow two of his own teeth. The back window of her Monte Carlo was busted out, her driver's side scraped and dented and smeared with her own blood. She'd left nail scratches in the paint. It had been one hell of a night tracking down Francis Patrick Flannery.

"I'm gonna fucking kill-

"Shut up, Mike. He's locked up. I've got a protective order filed. He's going up River a while."

Her feet had carried her back into the trailer and the tattered pieces of the life before he'd stormed out. She had just gotten it set to rights after Frank's last temper tantrum. There was a her sized hole in the sheetrock and she felt her head spin. The shelves that had stood the very test of time and many of Frank's emotional tornadoes was smashed to pieces. The dainty carnival glass figurines her Granny Delaney had gifted her as a child and the ashes of her first best friend, the former junkyard pup, Elvis lay scattered and wet. The hope chest her grandfather had built for her lay amongst the rubble, the baby blankets their daughters had been brought home in that her great granny had made for her before she passed away covered in the remains of the bleeding heart flower she kept in Great Granny's memory ground in all over the burnt orange shag carpet. The framed photos that lined the tidy little hallway leading to the bedrooms were smashed and their wedding photos were ripped apart. Her gown, made by her own two hands because they were young and in love and broke..and because it was what her Mama had done before her lay scattered on the back side lawn as the backdoor was left wide open. Ironically her mother-in-law's dog, Buck was currently taking a wicked piss on what looked like the back panel; this she knew because of the embroidered Claddagh she'd spent two months making.

The reality of her situation hit her full force as she felt her blood pressure spike as she grabbed the bat she'd defended herself with only five hours before and marched out onto the back porch.

"CYBIL GRACE FLANNERY GET YOUR GODDAMN DOG OFF MY FUCKING LAWN!"

Buck was a trashy mange covered mutt with a bad attitude much like his mistress these days. Cybil's head popped out the back window of her mobile home, a pastel Easter egg nightmare just behind Mary's own place. Frank had absolutely insisted on setting up their family home right next door to his beloved Mammy.

"Don't you got go hurting my dog! Bad enough you got my son locked up!"

Making a swift move passed the would be guard dog he let out a low growl to which Mary matched him look for look. Bucked backed away with a whimper for the shelter of his kennel a few yards away. Mary kept her pace as she marched put to Cybil's front door and knocked politely.

'1...2...3'

The thwack of the bat met the cheap plastic covered metal sheeting leaving a horrid dent and scrape. Followed swiftly by two more.

"Open your door you fucking coward! Look at what your son did!"

Dead silence from inside. A plan was wheeling away inside her mind as she came to the conclusion that she'd never get the apology she was owed. If she had known what a monster Cybil had managed to bring into the world she never would have accepted his marriage proposal.

"Boys! I need your help."

Her collective herd of half siblings, or half of them, looked at her seriously.

"Anyone know someone with a dolly system and a valid CDL?"

Denny casually raised his hand and looked at her through those impossibly thick eye glasses he needed.

"Yep! He's only a call away and he's home for the next two weeks. Cost ya a case of beer and an ounce of weed."

Mary raised an eyebrow and winced remembering the scratch at eye level. She hadn't thought it was going to be this easy.

"I'll throw in some shrooms and $150 out of the Squirrel fund if he can take her over the county line and dump her trailer and all."

Looking towards the elder of the Flaherty brothers she sighed.

"Mike..I'm calling it in."

"No. No you're not."

Studying her over the rim of his beer bottle Mike shook his head. He knew about fifty people that wanted Frank's tool collection and not to mention his pride and joy of a truck he treated better than his wife and kids.

"I want you to take that stupid fucking truck apart and sell it piece by piece for the highest bidder for cash only. If anyone has a problem they can talk to me."

Mary was well and truly apocalyptically pissed the hell off and fed up, this much her brothers Mike and Denny knew. Her mother could feel it rolling off her daughter in waves so she ended up taking Dawn and Fawn for the evening just to give Mary a moment to herself.

"Even if you can't cry yet Mar Bear...let yourself. You've got to get some of the poison out."

"I plan on it, Ma. I plan on it."

Pouring herself a few fingers of Yukon Jack she hunted down her smoking box and rolled the largest joint she could as her hands shook. He had very nearly killed her tonight. She couldn't allow him the satisfaction of knowing he had scared her. She'd also ensure he never saw her girls ever again. Fawn and Dawn were Mary's entire being and reason for living. His influence on them would be washed away, she'd ensure that.

"I'll get you Frank Flannery...and you're going to rue the day you set eyes on me."

Just before dawn the roar of a diesel rig woke up the Hidden Hills trailer park, well everyone except Cybil Flannery who slept like the dead through any manner of biblically loud events due to her use of an eye mask, ear plugs and prescription sleep aid along with a tipple of three of Scotch each night. She and her Easter egg colored nightmare trailer were hauled away over into Gallow's Ridge in Vermeer County right into American territory.

'Well, it's half on half out. So it'll cost her either way to get back to anywhere she needs or wants to be.'

Roddy MacLeod had told her. He was one of Denny's friends and back in town for the summer. They had gone to school together back in the day before he and his mom had moved away. Neither of them brought up the fact that they had been absolutely smitten with each other and had a spark as it was so long ago.

'Thank you...I can add on another ounce if you want."

"How about I take all three of you out?"

"Three?"

"You and your girls?"

"They're three...and not very...people-y."

"Like you said they're three and that's ok. I'm 36 and not very people-y either. How's about dinner at my place?"

"Where are you these days?"

"My Mom's old place actually. Just around the lane on the right."

"I remember."

A very small non wincing smile graced her face as she accepted the invitation.

"We'll bring dessert."

[macisms]

fuck it...last minute dtamhd ficlet. i finished this at 4:30 am. [ao3]:

And when its all over, when Dennis has screamed himself hoarse, he's just...tired.

What the fuck is the point of any of this, really? He just wasted the whole day trying to get to this goddamn beach, and instead of relaxing like he needed to do, he had boiled over, ranting and raving and kicking at the tide until the other beach-goers scurried away with fearful wide eyes. His curses against the universe were carried away by the wind and swallowed up by the ocean, lost in an endless frothy tide. And all he has to show for it was sand in his shoes and an ache in his knees.

He's getting too goddamn old for any of this. The unsavoury thought tastes acrid, and he tries to bite it back, shove it into the deep trenches of his brain where he keeps many, many things, but he can't. He fails to suppress, and the bitter, sticky defeat clings to his body like the shitty piss-stained sand of the Jersey shoreline. The pretense weighs heavy on him, dragging him under. He'll never be the type of guy to drive a flashy new electric vehicle with an iPad jammed into the dashboard. He'll never be the type of guy who does weekend getaways, or drinks at classy uptown nightclubs, or any of that shit. Get fucking real.

The sun crawls down the horizon, painting the sky in golds and oranges - mark of another day ticking away, unfulfilled.

At this point all Dennis wants is to go home, crawl into bed, and skip forward to the next day. Even tuning out his friends' incessant drivel sounds more pleasant than another day of random people grating up against him, taking up his time and space at their own liberty. It's too late for him to turn his life around, so at least let him crawl back to his hidey-hole. But, no. The prissy little eco-friendly machine he rented ran out of charge, of all things. Fuel efficiency his fucking ass. He can't even call an Uber - the stupid car-app made his phone battery go kaput. Three cheers for modern technology.

So he's stuck on the beach, with nothing but his inner thoughts for company. Fine. At least there aren't any people left milling about - just him, the wind, and the sea. The sky grows dimmer by the minute and the air gets chillier even through his coat, but he doesn't move. He knows he'll regret this tomorrow when his back feels the consequences of sitting in the lumpy sand for who knows how long, but he feels held in place. By what, he can't say. Whether its because of the sludge of exhaustion creeping into his bones, or the hypnotizing dance of waves silhouetted against the sunset, or just the bite of salty air as he breathes in, he stays. And he breathes in, and holds it in, and lets it out. The bow of his back relaxes, ever so slightly.

He doesn't know how long he's been sitting there, watching the high tide lap closer to his shoes, staring into the dusky purple sky, when he hears the rumble of an engine behind him. He clenches his jaw, almost unprepared for the wave of irritation that swells in him knowing that some anal-retentive ranger is going to shuffle him off the beach like he's some kind of thickheaded tourist lout - he can't have a moment of fucking peace on this godforsaken day, can he? He turns to give the asshole a scorching glare and a piece of his mind, even though he has very little fight left in him and this confrontation might be over sooner rather than later - but it's his own goddamn car staring back at him from over the dunes. Not that awful yuppie piece of trash - his car. And (ruining the magic slightly), some very familiar voices coming from that direction.

"There he is!"

"Hey, Dennis! Is that you?"

Well, fuck.

Their faces pop up over the sand dunes, like - like meerkats or something, Dennis thinks, somewhat hysterically. No, he's not just imagining - it really is all of them, even Frank bumbling down in the back, nearly tripping over his own feet and the sand.

"Dude, we've been looking for you everywhere," Mac says, panting as he reaches Dennis.

"You would not believe the day we had," Charlie speaks, panting even harder. "Pressure cooker was a total bust, by the way."

"Which was not my fault!" Mac interjects, clearly anticipating an argument that had been rehashed many times.

"Oh, please," Dee scoffs, "It was completely your fault. You idiot!"

"Give me a break, Dee, if you hadn't tried to cook your own formula-"

"I don't want to know!" Dennis holds his hands up, mercifully stopping them in their tracks. Something agitated is stirring inside of him. "I do. Not. Want. To. Know. How the hell are you guys here?"

"Oh, easy, dude," Mac says, "We tracked your location."

"You-!"

Dee rolls her eyes. "Oh, you're so shocked. You know we shared locations when we were staking out that department store."

Oh, yeah. Let it never be said that they didn't have their bargain hunting/shoplifting strategy down to a science.

"It shut off after we got here, though," Mac continues. "Did you block me, man?"

"We've been driving around this goddamn shithole for two hours," Frank blusters, gesturing wildly.

"Also, we found your fancy new ride by some gas station?" Charlie says, "Weird place to park a car."

"But we called triple-A for it, so, boom," Dee finishes smugly.

Dennis blinks at them. Just half a day apart from them, and already their conversation sounds like a whirlwind to his ears, jeez. He tries to muster some righteous indignity, which he feels very entitled to - they caught him completely wrong-footed, and they're spouting nonsense as usual, and they're all standing around him while he's sat down like a chump, which he hates.

"Wh- well, how'd you get my car?" he asks, with that very righteous indignity.

"Stole it right out of the yard," Mac said, with a smugness that doesn't befit him.

"We rigged up the pressure cooker right outside the place, y'know, as a distraction-"

"Then I shot it with my gun-"

"The sound it made - bro, you should have been there-"

"And all the security bozos were so distracted thinking it was a bomb, we could just cruise right out of there!"

Dennis stares up at them and their expressions of wild, devilish pride, and comes to a dizzying conclusion: the life he has chosen is insane. It's fucking certifiable, is what it is, they all are, and they're probably going to end up locked up one day.

"You idiots," he says, but he's laughing, pressing a wrist against his mouth trying to contain it. "You goddamn lunatics!"

They grin at each other, so proud and pleased at having set off a bomb threat right next to a government facility. It sets Dennis off again, and they start snorting with laughter too, first Dee then Charlie then Mac and Frank, until they're all cackling like a pack of goddamn hyenas.

"Seriously, though," Dennis continues, pretending like he isn't wiping moisture from the corner of his eyes. "I'm going to kill you for touching my car. If there's a single scratch on it-"

"Hey, all yours now, bro." Mac tosses him the keys; Dennis catches them against his chest. "And, um, if there's a problem...Dee was driving it!"

"Fuck you, Mac! I was not."

"Well, it was really out of necessity. I mean, come on, we couldn't use Dee's car. Those things crash all the time."

"Fuck you, too, Charlie!"

"All of you shut up," Frank cuts off the brewing argument. "Look, we got a ripe opportunity here - sunset, beach, couple of beers, perfect to kick back with. Let's take advantage!"

"Oh, fuck yeah!" Mac claps his hands together. "We have a cooler in the car. I mean, obviously."

"Yeah, lets go get some beers! Come on, man." Charlie holds a hand out to help Dennis up with, and after a moment's hesitation, Dennis accepts it, though he nearly regrets it when Charlie's tug yanks at his already battered body and nearly unbalances them both. Mac calls for them to hurry up, and Dennis rolls his eyes but acquiesces to follow.

They grab their bottles of Coors out of the cooler and settle at the crest of the sand dune, their backs to the Range Rover. Dennis sits with one knee pressed atop of Mac's, and the other leg nudging Charlie's. With a smirk, Dee reaches over to clink the top of her bottle against Dennis', and then he does the same with Mac, and Charlie, and even Frank.

Then they kick back, sip their beers, and watch the sun slip into the sea.

[chvoswxtch]

debut- director’s commentary on any of my work

heheeeheehehehe love to watch you work pleeeaassseee <3 still having daydreams about it

that one...I had to take several breaks while writing. I just kept rewatching clips of billy and frank interacting (during their happier moments when billy wasn't a backstabbing little bitch) and I kept coming across the scene where billy is watching frank go to town on agent orange and the man has pure LUST in his eyes

and frank looking at billy, almost for permission??? and billy just gives him the nod and says, "goddamn, frankie. I love to watch you work."

you're telling me there wasn't innuendo behind that??? I refuse to believe that's the first time billy has told frank that

anyway the first time I watched that scene a slut was born and y'all are getting a part 2 to that eventually when I can calm down enough to finish it 🙃

[worlds-largest-juice-container]

PRESIDENTS, BASED ON HOW PRESIDENTIAL THEIR NAMES SOUND

46. John Tyler. Literally just two first names, none of which have authority.

45. Franklin Pierce. Who the fuck is this guy lmao two first names again, slightly higher than tyler cause of what i call the two syllable rule, elaborated later

44. Donald Trump, donald is NOT a presidential sounding name, neither is trump, more of a business name. Two syllable rule strikes again

43. John Adams. Adams is a good last name, so slightly higher. Lots of johns on here.

42. James Madison. He had three terms and I think thats whack, name sounds like a kid.

41. James Monroe, similar to Madison but monroe is more presidential sounding, has more professionality.

40. Chester A Arthur, first middle initial, could be baller but chester is a really stupid name lmao ( no disrespect)

39. William McKinley, I think the Mc-names are copouts presidential sounding wise, ads an unneeded syllable.

38. Herbert Hoover, sir your name is a vacuum now also two syllable so higher

37. James K Polk (Napoleon of the stump) Cool tmbg song, two first names, higher cause polk is uncommon and middle initial.

36. Millard Filmore, honestly just alright. two syllable rule works in favor, but filmore is a NERD ASS name.

35. John Quincy Adams, a different adams. I like the name quincy

34. William Henry Harrison, Trying too hard to sound presidential, nice name but the three two three just doesnt flow.

33.Calvin Coolidge. Alright two syllable rule, this name has two or more syllables in BOTH names, adding much more authority. Calvin is the name of that tiger kid BUT coolidge is so goddamn swag.

32. Andrew Jackson, two syllable rule, two first names but first names that fit together well.

31. Benjamin Harrison. Solid name. Benjamin is not all that respectable but harrison is, solid last name.

30. William H. Taft. I like that Middle initial, but that last name? Get out of here, so cool. points off for william, unoriginal.

29. Franklin D. Roosevelt. copied the cooler roosevelt, still one of the best last names. Anyone I can call frank does not scream authority, but rather respectable low ranking construction worker who loves his wife and kids a lot and is a really great guy when you get down to it.

28. James A. Garfield. Thats a caaaat. Middle Initial and Garfield is inherently funny to me. would be higher without orange lasagna feline

27. James Buchanan. That last name though, First name boring, But Buchanan? Awesome. they all called him Mr Buchanan, nobody called this mf james

26. Zachary Taylor. Honestly despite being so high up, this one is not too presidential. I just really think this name fucks hard so honorary president points.

25. Grover Cleveland, I like this guy, two non consecutive terms? Swag name as well.

24. Thomas Jefferson, Classic name, good name, strong name. Though just cause you could call this man tommy its knocked down.

23. George Washington. I do not like the name george but come on. Washington is the most presidential word in the english language.

22. Grover Cleveland, Haha i did the joke where he is in here twice. because of his non consecutive terms

21. Harry S. Truman. Middle Initial, two syllable rule. Good president name. Harry though? could do better, how about Harrier? would be much higher if was that, more syllables= more president.

20. Joseph R. Biden. Name shortened to Joe, which is average, but that R initial and the fact that Biden is a very uncommon last name is pretty good in his favor.

19.George Bush, George is a bad first name for this list but i dont know the bush just screams president name.

18.George W. Bush, exact same as previous but middle initial.

17. Jimmy Carter. Carter is VERY professional last name, Jimmy not so much. Carter does lots of heavy lifting in this arrangement.

16. Ronald Reagan. Two syllables, Reagan is a nice name. would be higher but i dont like the guy.

15. Richard M. Nixon. Nixon, great last name. thats all

14. Gerald R. Ford. Dont like ford, but Gerald is a baller first name, very authoritative, and that R initial is pretty nice too.

13. Dwight D. Eisenhower. That last name is probably my third favorite overall last name, though dwight is bringing it down a bit.

12. Lyndon B. Johnson. Very nice name, rolls off the tongue well.

11. Bill Clinton. I like bill cause Bill is like the dollar bill and that last name works hard too.

10. John Fitzgerald Kennedy. Such a good name. we getting into the good ones one.

9. Barack Obama. Obama is just a fun word to say. Obama. Obama. read it out loud it flows very nice. Barack is cool too.

8. Woodrow Wilson. Fucking Woodrow. that name fucks hard. perfect early 20th name.

7. Andrew Johnson. Like jackson's name, but better.

6. Theodore Roosevelt. the better Roosevelt. Theodore is just a good name all around.

5. Martin Van Buren. Put van Buren on a nice first name like Gerald, and that would take the cake, but martin is just an average name, keeping him out of the big boys. the top 3.

4. Hard Decision but Rutherford B. Hayes is number 4. Incredibly hard name, so good, but the others just smack it out of the park with presidentiality

3. Warren G. Harding. Initially what i considered by top pick, usurped by the other two. This name is so good. Two syllable rule, uncommonness of first and last, as well as the G initial being very nice to look at. supreme pick.

2. Ulysses S. Grant. This fucking name hoo boy. Ulysses is possibly the hardest first name ever. So fucking good, Middle initial, but the last name grant is just ever so slightly holding it back. but the real winner was never a question

Abraham Motherfucking Lincoln. The best name anyone has ever had. I don't feel the need to elaborate. this man's name is the most fucking bad ass name, even his nickname, which as you saw knocked some people out, is so fucking good. toppest tier name. Goodnight now.

[brimbrimbrimbrim]

Alright. Lemme give you a sneak peek of my foul addition. You're a goddamn delight in all ways, Flapjack... so you KNOW I'm frothing for more of your take on the Pusher. Is gonna be gooooooooooood, baby!

Bubble gum fizz pops against your cheeks like rubber-pink balloons that burst, expose, and hinder scenic horrors outlined in a cartoonist's brush—bursts of flavor stick to your lips, flying from bare-enamel teeth chomping for the end of the rainbow. 

'We don't tolerate sobriety in this house.'

You sway backward on leaden boots, reality passing in interstitials of melting candy floss and wind-swept Bazooka wrappers. Twin-refracted mouths stare at you, direct reflections filled with teeth, crunching, grinding, and spitting out creepy crawlies that skitter to your toes. Still, it's a dance and a hop back four thousand micrometers to a garden of crusty gore and kitchen mold that festers against your back… your ass… gluing bare shoulders to floral wallpaper. The tactile yet unstructured feel under chipped nails tastes of manufactured sugar and yellow number five. It's delicious… but you've been lost in the sauce before and know better than to give it a lick or five. It’ll be over soon… or you’ll die…

Suddenly, the Pusher of such delights knocks your nose with the barrel-cap filter jutting from his mask—the rush of hot, strained air wetting your upper lip with sweat.

“Murkoff release valves are a fucking joke…” he grumbles, fist churning loose said valve. The tip jabs at your belly, nudging with a poisonous drip down into the hem of your saggy belt buckle. 

“This one's always been a sticky bastard.”

A siren goes off—tornado alley style—but it’s your batteries bleeping empty. Night vision patina goes dark, sending a flood of steeplechase-faced shadows to your doorstep. Their smiles grow past waxing and waning half moons into the upper reaches of their hairlines, with chiclet teeth dipped in red. Their pupils bow rapidly under shrinkflation with tongues flick-slapping against your peripherals. They all start gibbering-babbling about rats in the walls with kitchen scissors ready to snip your balloon strings, but… like a puff of smoke, they swim into black coffee clouds as oval glass orbs tunnel your vision.

"Heyyyyyy there, sugar tits. You still with me?!"

Your lips part, and your goggles whiplash back as a hand click-crawls around your throat, squeezing sharp and hard. Some drool slips past your lower lip as the Pusher jostles you back and forth like a seesaw in space. He chuckles—a thin, delirious sound pushed through ten feet of rusted meat grinders and back again—muffled by ill-fitted rubber seals against an adam's apple further obscured with oxidized blood stains.

"Just—fuck—hold still for me," he snarls, all hippie-high and smooth as play sand.

His fist tightens, chewed nails catching on your slick skin, and there's so much skin… near all of it clawed and ripped away during the trial. Even here, coming down from the first spritz of Hofmann's special blend, recent memories throb at your temples; of evading harsher hands, weeping dicks, whittled chair legs, and teeth. It all sends your skin crawling off subcutaneous fat—so many objects prepared for your many orifices… so little time and so much luck having avoided it until now. 

Frank (or so he mutters to himself) your old friend, a chef de cuisine of uppers and downers, gives you a tap, tap, tap. That brass nozzle plays tunes up your tummy, ribs, and exposed tits—avoiding your tight nipples–and up, up, up until he's knocking on your teeth. Soft bitters of orange sunshine leak down into raw gum tissue. Your heart races faster in preparation for the little filler—that extra surge to extend the high through filthy… tasty… oral means.

If you swallowed his cum, would it get you high for days?

"C'mon. Don't be a fucking square, bitch. Open up…"

You release a wet cough, the bloody fleck from uvula-deep abrasions hitting his port-hole mask inches from your nostrils, flaring from the overwhelming stench of bile and blood. Something coils around your thigh—meat, tendon, wriggling fat and bone—and yanks you forward. 

The Skinner Man's tendrils return, work your body for you, grinding it with freakish lewdity toward the Pusher and his heavy, cowhide apron; a garment that hides him and whatever physical pleasure he leeches from seeking you out specifically. Somewhere, there are three more participants—insignificant wastes of space trying to solve puzzles for cheese and crackers—but Frank avoided them like diseased rats… hobbling in straight lines for your candied ass.

"What's the matter, pussy cat? You scared?!"

Your silent hyperventilation and damp thighs say it all.

Frank chuckles—god complex under the influence—and readjusts his grip, the web of his hand pushing under your chin, tipping you back, forcing your lips close around his nozzle, tits raised against the drenched apron. Surely, you look like a bull with a cigar in your mouth, but the leering whistle behind the mask says he glimpsed something else… something prey-soft and addicted.

"Looks like that last hit wore off," he leers through rusted filters hot with glee, "How about we give you a double dose this time?"

Yes, you think for a split second, lost in the leftover sauce. It's turned into a bit of an escape—a horror show for sure—but something different, unreal in a way, despite being far from safe, fake, and side-effect free. 

Your answer matters little more than your human rights under Murkoff rule, so a sprayer full of good times comes for you.

He pulls the trigger, and it all sinks into the floor.

"A little extra something for my favorite patient…" says the Pusher and his doppelgangers that swiftly multiply and divide—cell division and replication, baby. "For you, every hit's free."

Do you think you might do some works for The Outlast Trials? I haven’t played it yet, but I absolutely will and I can’t wait to get way too turned on, playing a game about being hunted and brutally killed by lunatics. I’m so happy Outlast is back 😁

I’m actually writing a Pusher fic for a little collaborative challenge with @butterbabyflapjack

I got no clue where I’m gonna go with this, but I’m excited to write for a psychopathic degenerate again. :3

[restapesta]

I loved your wedding story! I am a sucker for happy husbands! I also am a sucker for Mickey meeting Clayton- fics. (Aside from the emotional impact getting a preview of what his husband will look like in twenty years would probably blow his mind?!)... if you are in the mood for it, I would love to read your take on it. :)

It was eerie.

Ian had only been gone for a minute or two, the seat opposite Mickey empty, the drink his husband excitedly ordered half finished, the space for his legs underneath the plastic, too-clean diner table larger now that there weren't two long limbs trying to catch his in a game of footsies.

There was nothing but air blocking the entrance of the weird ass Eastside diner from his line of sight—another one of those stupid places Ian insisted on checking out because, c'mon Mick, we should try getting out of our comfort zone a little.

Funny how nothing ever was in Mickey's comfort zone, when compared to Ian who was a magnet for social literally fucking anything, and yet, his husband still referred to it as theirs. As if Ian couldn't leave his comfort zone on his own and let Mickey waste away in the Southside where he knew he belonged.

Nope—their.

Their comfort zone, their home, their life.

The thought made a small smile appear on Mickey's face. Just a curve of lips that was muffled and hidden by him raising the glass to his mouth again, pretending he wasn't happy whereas he actually really fucking was.

He'd be even happier if his goddamn husband wasn't taking so long in the fucking bathroom—how long did it take for him to fucking pee?—but was actually here, with Mickey, continuing their argument about ugly and not-ugly wallpapers because Ian finally found something in the house he really fucking wanted.

Something that was completely fucking wrong and that Mickey would not allow in his home. He'd been trying to change Ian's mind all morning, albeit unsuccessfully—he'd eventually shove it out of Ian's realm of possibility one way or another.

The bell jingled lowly—Mickey wouldn't have caught it, probably, had he not been alert for any sounds of footsteps coming his way. Preferably belonging to the only person he had no problem seeing 24/7, the one he should've probably been sick of by now, considering how much time they actually spent together, but really fucking wasn't at all.

And there were footsteps. It didn't matter that Mickey in fact didn't raise his head to check out the new customer that deigned this place worthy of a breakfast—he didn't really give a shit, Ian still wasn't here—but there was still somebody walking over to his table, heavy feet thudding against the polished floor.

Mickey scoffed to himself. People really were too loud sometimes. And what was it with fucking bigfoots existing in real life?

"Mr. Gallagher?"

Mickey whipped his head up at the name. At first, he thought somebody had run into Ian as he was heading over back to the table—fucking finally—but the person who spoke was standing—no, hovering—over Mickey, oddly and fucking weirdly familiar.

"What'd you call me?" He asked, leaning slightly to the side as if to hear better.

This dude, tall as fuck, orange as fuck, wasn't referring to him, right? Mickey blinked once again as the guy's neck reddened slightly, as if embarrassed.

It was too familiar.

"I'm sorry, I uh, I don't think we've ever properly met," The guy said. "I mean, I've heard of you and you've probably heard of me, but, well," The dude rambled on. He cleared his throat once, looking away from Mickey who was simply staring, because what the fuck, before raising his head again and smiling.

He put his hand out. "Clayton Gallagher, good to meet you."

Clayton Gallagher?

That Clayton Gallagher?

Mickey's mouth formed an oh shape as a light bulb lit up over his head. His arms were crossed over his chest, not even considering shaking Frank's brother's hand—fucking larger safety hazard than the pandemic—and he took one long moment to asses the guy he only knew from stories and pass-by mentions.

"So you're Clayton Gallagher," He said, watching carefully as Clayton's hand dropped. Mickey took notice of how paler his face was, the blush disappearing, perhaps from the way that Mickey spoke his name. He continued, "Yeah, I've heard about you."

Clayton fixed the collar of his jacket, and Mickey eyed the long fingers. Shit, they really were similar.

"Yes, well, I've come here with my family, and I recognized you from some of the photos I've seen online—Ian's husband if I'm not mistaken?"

Mickey ran his eyes over him, assessing for even further similarities.

"You're not."

He smiled. "Well, I thought I'd introduce myself. Say hello."

Mickey's eyebrows went up, defenses rising almost immediately. He'd heard about the man before him from here and there, nothing too detailed to create a proper mental picture—he never could've imagined this exactly, anyway—but he knew the gist of it.

And the gist of it was, this asshole was Ian's actual father, and he definitely never came to say hello once he knew for sure Ian was his son.

Oh, and he didn't even come to Frank's funeral, even though Ian had spent a while tracking down his phone number to notify him of the time and place—Mickey had been pretty pissed about that when he saw the dejected look on his husband's face after the phone call.

Would Ian be pissed if Mickey went ahead and beat the asshole up? How long would he sulk at him? Two minutes, three?

Mickey didn't feel like being sulked at by Ian. He'd never admit it but he liked the soft gazes a lot more on Ian than he did the downturn of lips when Mickey got on his nerves.

"Anything else you want?" He asked when Clayton remained in front of his table, waiting for something. Maybe Mickey to say some affirming words about how Clayton was a great person—perhaps he thought Ian married some pish-posh asshole who would try and kiss any ass related to Ian that he could.

Ha-ha. Sure.

"Um, no, I just—how's Ian?"

"What, your phone doesn't work?"

Clayton took a step back, finally reading the room. "Um, it was lovely meeting you—" Mickey cringed at the expression, because, no it fucking wasn't. "—but I think I'll be going back to my family right now."

Mickey nodded, eyeing the diner and the family of redheads seated around a table. Something about the image made him feel a churn in his gut. As if he himself was Ian and was seeing his biological dad and pack of red rats, sitting, eating breakfast at an Eastside diner, having everything he never could have had.

He smiled sharply at Clayton. "Would like to say I give a shit about who you are and what you're gonna do, but I really don't. Better pray you don't ruin my husband's day when he sees you here."

Clayton just nodded, face blanch with something—fear, probably—before he fixed his jacket again and bolted back to where his family sat.

Mickey watched as he left, wondering if he would've ever even met Ian had he lived with Clayton instead of Frank. Would Ian have been the same person as he was today? Probably not.

Weird how Mickey doesn't really think that'd change anything.

If Ian was one of the many biggest pampered assholes that Mickey hated the most in the world, he'd probably be that one exception that Mickey loved.

He felt fingers pinch his cheek lightly, cold and soft. The familiar voice whispered in his ear, "What you smiling about?" He then felt lips against the underside of his ear, before the body completely moved away.

Ian sat back into his seat, lifting up the menu once again. It didn't take five seconds before Mickey's legs were tangled with Ian's again, locked in and unable to be released. Ian did it absentmindedly as he eyed the food options, rambling underneath his breath about the options, hand stretching outwards towards Mickey's.

Mickey smiled as they locked hands.

"No, seriously," Ian said as he looked up. "What the fuck are you smiling about?"

Mickey pinched the skin of his wrist lightly. "Fuck you, asshole." He felt a pinch back, just a light press of Ian's skin against his. "Just thinking of how hot you'll be when you're old."

Ian pretended to choke on his drink. "Why are you thinking of me being old right now? New kink or some shit?"

Mickey bit his tongue—to stop from smiling or gagging, he didn't know—then shrugged. "Doesn't matter. Still hot."

The legs around his tightened and the hand holding his squeezed once.

A fleeting thought passed through Mickey's head, so fast he barely managed to register it.

They went through so much shit and yet, they were still here.

And fuck, there wasn't happier of an ending.

"So, about that wallpaper I wanna get—"

Mickey was going to murder Ian—him and his unartistic mind.

Fucking stupid how he just fucking smiled.

[the-cult-of-russo]

potentially slightly angsty and sad headcanon so ignore if u want! but how do u think billy would react if he and the reader saw arthur out in public? and how the reader knowing or not knowing would change that?

Remember this is my Billy.

This turned into like two small one shots lmao sue me...

Okay so I'm gonna split this into two sections.

You don't know:

You pick up an orange and purse your lips, it had seen better days and you huff as you put it back and grab another. You and Billy were out at the store getting some bit and pieces. He was standing next to you with an arm around you, talking about Frank and some guy at work and how Frank had him on his ass during training.

But suddenly he stops talking and you glance up at him. His eyes are flaring with rage as he glares down the aisle. You've seen him angry many times, part of being Billy Russo's girlfriend, although it was never directed at you. But as you follow his death glare, his eyes are locked onto a weird old man at the other end of the aisle who's looking at boxes of cereal.

You look back to Billy then, confused as he's still staring at him. You were about to open your mouth to say something but you felt Billy's grip on your shoulder tighten and you wince. It snaps him out of it as his eyes dart to you, guilt marring his face before his eyes shoot back to the man.

"We need to leave," he mutters tensely, chest heaving. You've never seen him this way before.

"What-Billy!" You frown as he grabs the basket you'd had over your arm and he drops it to to floor. Anything in it forgotten as he grabs your wrist and starts dragging you out of the store.

"Billy, what's going on?" You ask confused and worried. You can't work out if he looks like he's on the verge of killing someone or having a panic attack and it's scaring you.

"Not-Not here," he mutters, shaking his head frantically as he leads you to the car. Once inside you look at him carefully. His face is haunted and his hands are trembling in his lap. Never had you seen him in this state before. You reach over, taking his hands in yours and his eyes snap to you then. The amount of sheer pain held in his watery eyes made your chest ache painfully.

He tells you then. He tells you about the man at the group home who traumatised him. The one who took his love for baseball away. You sit and listen in horror and sadness as you cling to his hand. When he's done with his story, you don't really know what to say. You know he doesn't want your pity. So you say the only thing you can think of.

"Can I go in there and kick his ass?" The words leave your lips before you can help it and you blanche, worried Billy was thinking you were making light of his trauma when you in fact meant the words you said.

But he laughs, a real genuine laugh as his eyes crinkle in the corners and suddenly he's back to being the Billy you're used to. He leans over to you, kissing your lips sweetly as he strokes your cheek.

"I love you, you know that?" He murmurs softly against your lips. You smile at him, unable not to.

"I love you too," you reply.

-

You already know:

You and Maria are sitting on a bench in the busy park. The kids are running around playing as Billy and Frank are off at the food stand grabbing you all lunch. Something catches your eye and as you look, you realise it's Billy. He's no longer standing laughing and joking with his best friend. Now he's walking with purpose and a face like thunder towards an old man who's standing there watching people.

Frank's hot on Billy heels, muttering something to him that Billy seems to pay no mind to. Your eyes go back to the old man then and it dawns on you. You'd never seen him before, didn't know his face. But only one person could elicit such a response from Billy and it made your stomach churn.

You jump up from your seat, darting over to a very pissed off Billy. As much as you'd love to see him cave the man's face in for what he did, you're all out in public and around kids. You don't want him to get arrested or scare the families having a nice day out.

"Baby, stop!" You plead as you get in front of him, firm hands on his chest halting him. A deep growl vibrates in his chest and he turns his fiery eyes to you then. They soften a little but he shakes his head.

"I'm gonna kill him. What the fucks he doin' here, huh? Watchin' the little kids like a goddamn sicko?" He snarls, it isn't directed at you though. His words make you feel sick but you push on as Frank catches up to you both and puts a hand on Billy's back.

"Not here, Bill," Frank's gruff voice holds a darkness that makes you think there's another place and time he has in mind but you try not to think about it. Billy's angry face tilts to him then, his top lip curling.

"Not here? Frank he's-" he starts angrily, his mouth clamping shut when you grip either side of his face and turn him to look at you.

"Baby, he's right. Look around... you really wanna do this here in front of everyone? Scare the kids? Jr and Lisa?" You press gently. His dark eyes stare at you for a moment as your words sink in, his body sagging a little as he rolls his shoulder. His hands come to your hips then, gripping them tightly as if to ground himself as he takes a few deep breaths.

Frank seems to relax as Billy did and he glances around.

"I'll escort the asshole from the park," he mutters darkly. You know Frank could be persuasive when he needed to be and he clearly wasn't happy with a man like that hanging around his kids. Any kids. Especially not with how upset Billy is.

Billy wraps his arms around you, pressing his face into your neck as he takes a deep inhale, fists bunching in the back of your shirt. Your heart aches for him as you hold him close, rubbing his back soothingly. You stay like that for a long moment as you let him take comfort from you.

"Let's go see what the kids are doing, yeah?" You ask softly, moving back a bit to kiss his cheek. He smiles, looking much calmer than moments ago. A quick glance to the side reveals the man is now gone and Frank's sauntering back over. Billy nods, pecking your lips sweetly before he wraps an arm around you.