#no i mostly just like calling it his gay whiskey cos its fun really

[charmac]

what do you mean by "gay whiskey tour"????? what happened????

Glenn Howerton invented a whiskey that he likes to drink at bars across America in the downtime between his heteronormativity acting roles

[gotatext]

by this point im p sure u all know the drill.... i’m nora, 23, she/her, gmt and tonight matthew im going to be greta o’driscoll, a terrible person but a hot one which frankly makes it almost ok. here is her pinterest..... this intro is literally just copied n pasted frm the last time i played her so soz if u’ve read it like 10+ times.... 

「 diana silvers. cis-female. 」have you seen greta o’driscoll around yet? i hear she decided to be in POTENTAS for their SOPHOMORE year as a CRIMINAL PSYCHOLOGY major. the 20 year old SHEPHERD is known to be tenacious, magnetic, capricious and evasive. ➨ the muse is written by nora, she/her, gmt.

was adopted as an infant. had two foster moms and two older sisters so always surrounded by women. lived in a boarding house, very much like the one in 20th century women, with lodgers coming in and out all the time, mostly artsy young women because her gay moms were both high school teachers trying to set up their own arts collective. one of her moms left when she was 4, n she doesn’t really remember her.

while living with entirely women made her super into catlin moran and the guilty feminist, as a teenager she often let boys walk all over her bc she just craved male attention jst bcos she’d never really experienced it. saw it as something aspirational, like sitting in the back of chad’s second-hand truck while he drove you to macdonalds and offered you and his five friends with identical haircuts weed was the height of being cool to greta, she wanted to be their dream girl, even if it meant compromising her beliefs

was always a really sporty bitch. it started with a junior athletics squad, which turned into athletics and cheer, which then became athletics, cheer and hockey until she basically was doing a different activity every night. she came to see her body as a tool that she could make work for her if she trained it up and this attitude’s always kind of stayed with her that as long as her body is strong she is capable of anything. runs every day. 

bubbly bitch but also massive snake. metaphorically and literally, always shedding her skin. loyal to few, ruled by none, out for herself, babey!! every place she goes, she becomes a new character, someone who’s a figment of her imagination, as if each city is repertory theatre and she’s a character actress, so as a result som ppl think she’s called rita, some ppl know her as margot, she just flicks through identities like nobodies business.

left school at 18 n went backpacking around the states making money in the casinos by being a shot girl (yeehaw) and trying to make it as a mysterious 1920s widow with a smoky voice, a dark secret n a heart of gold, looking for love in the big city. all she found was producers and acting agents who’d promise her stardom n actually just fuck her in a motel n then ignore her calls.

TW domestic violence, TW gun, her watershed moment came when she met luke in sioux falls while she was working at a strip club. he was a few years older and had a car, and they kind of went from seeing each other to being that super intense couple who are just necking all the time.

they got engaged like 3 months after they met n rented a flat together, much to her family’s annoyance but she was 19 so there wasn’t much they could do. their relationship was super super intense though, often really heightened and when they fought it could become quite violent, but she’d pass it off as just him being really passionate.

one of their fights got really heated and greta threatened him with the gun he kept in the glove box of his vauxhall corsa, but the safety was off and she accidentally shot him. she pleaded self defence in the trial n cos of the amount of times she’d been hospitalised for various concussions n things like ‘fallling down the stairs’ the police were like yea… pretty watertight evidence that he was a bastard who [chicago voice] had it coming….. 

she’s now under witness protection, rehoused in livingstone as a sports-scholarship student, due to the amount of police involvement in the area, it would mean should one of luke’s family members try to track her down, she’d be relatively safe

massive sports fanatic. plays tennis. on the cheer team. was a track superstar in her high school. honestly just that sporty bitch, you’ll see her doing lines at a party at half four and then on your way to your 9am lecture you see her running across the park like a fresh fucking daisy who is this bitch. maybe it’s maybelline, maybe its coke.

massive feminist. low key quite scared of powerful men bcos of her ex. wants to start a female only lesbian commune bc she misses her childhood in a south dakota boarding house and has endless support for women. honestly annoyed that she is attracted to men, would so be 100% gay if it was a choice. cuffs her jeans and can’t drive. is That bisexual. skateboards. wears backwards caps.  i hate her 

isn’t a foward-planner, however. greta prefers to leave her options open, play the field, live in a spontaneous manners so her study style is mostly cramming a few days before a test, or staying up all night writing an essay on a massive adrenline boost powered by red bull or probably adderall, scribbling (or typing) furiously into the night.

has an addictive personality. seems unable to do anything in a small dose, she has to let it utterly consume her. with sports, she’s fiercely competitive. with alcohol, it’s never a shot, it’s a whole bottle – wine or whiskey – she’ll be table dancing before the night’s up and making out with someone she’ll regret in the morning. 

not afraid to go after what she wants !! ambitious academically and romantically thirsty !! she loves the adrenaline of the chase. when someone’s easy to get, she becomes bored. very bisexual and very proud of it. feminist as fuck nd part of a queer representation in the arts group which holds fortnightly meetings to discuss lgbt representation in film, literature, art etc.

old soul in a young person’s body. all the shit that has gone on has kind of aged her. she’s quite cynical about everything now. always smoking smoking smoking. very edie sedgwick in that way.  little girls skirts bought for next-to-nothing at the market because she’s skinny enough to get away with it, barely long enough to cover your bum, and then the ugliest baggy sweater you’ve ever seen thrown over it.

likes old things. old books, old music, old houses, it reminds her of happier times like when she wasn’t alive. buys all her music on vinyl and has a gramphone because “The Sound quality is Better” kfdsjj.

super into pop art and andy warhol. puts female friendships above everything but at the same time, would fuck her best friends man

her clothing style is like…. vintage thrift store but make it preppy. berets and cute hats, neck scarves, large fluffy cardigans or like those leathery jackets with big suede fringes on them, mini skirts (very 70s), and knee high socks or boots. quite often she’ll be in sports kit, maybe a cute tennis skirt, n when she’s feeling casual she’ll wear like, a talking heads tshirt with a pair of mom jeans and converse, but otherwise, the library is her catwalk.

aesthetics:

a bubble of pink gum on chapped lips, mom jeans, a beaten up pair of adidas, denim jackets, strawberry laces, knee-highs, chapped lips, peeling sticky plasters, split knuckles, bruises you try to cover with concealer, stick and poke tattoos, hot coffee, sleep caught in your eyes on a lazy afternoon, kissing girls, cigarette smoke shrouding you like a veil, alien conspiracy theories and sci-fi paperbacks, doc martens with fraying laces, the red string of a thong peaking out purposely from jeans, leonine arch of your back and that stellar smile that says ‘you have no idea who you’re dealing with’, a rucksack permanently packed for the move, a streak of red across your lips, roller blades, cut knees, not eating your greens, smiling with a mouthful of blood, and piercing your own ears with a safety pin when your mom wouldn’t take you, kate moss posters lining the walls of a teenage bedroom, his name scrawled in rage across the pages of a diary, thumb holes poked through the cuffs of your sleeves, a tennis racket you punched through in a fit of temper, feet pounding the earth until your soles bleed crimson, sleeping in a cherry lip balm and scrunchies to keep the wild locks from your eyes.

wanted plots

frinds !! unlikely friends !! toxic friends !! former best friends separated by sports rivalries ! sporting friends who are on other teams but who she absolutely loves playin against!!! 

since greta literally can’t differentiate between romantic and platonic love, she’s got off with so many of her mates, so i want awkward friendships where they nearly dated, or exes that have now just turned into weird friendships

 girls from the cheer team who she’s like, weirdly intimate with like the shower together but its not a Thing cos the other girls straight !!! what do u mean !! aha just fun !

and I want like, fellow criminology students who are like?? how is this bitch still passing?? i swear she goes out every night?? 

she works part time at a fast food restaurant, i want a mate that just goes and sits in there talking to her until her manager gets angry. 

ppl she did a few modules with ie. art history, bio-med, film studies, before changing course and somehow sort of remaining in touch with

 ppl who she runs track with. 

someone she’s trying to make a zine with. 

here’s a list of plots on her old blog if u want any of them w her.

would love plots of any type, throw them all at me please, i cnt wait to interact w all of u. like this if u want me to message you about connections / plots! xo

full biography if u can be bothered

trigger warnings: drugs, domestic abuse, gun.

you never meant for it to happen. you’d heard the stories, of girls who let their man walk all over them, and thought to yourself “i’ll never be one of those girls…” the kind that eat low-fat yoghurt and drink slim fast to shred a few extra pounds because he said she was getting round in the tummy, or the ones who spent their evenings tied to a kitchen sink drinking wine while him and the boys played poker, wishing god, if only I could get out of here. not you, not you raised by strong women, four bright shining beacons. single mother with her hard-as-nails attitude and her stony glares, elder sisters (twins) one ginger, one blonde, one doctor, one lawyer, both determined to take a bullet to the brain and a hammer to the patriarchy before they let a man touch them without asking. you were always so inferior, so insecure and small, like a bird (like a sparrow) with blonde plaits down your back sucking tropicana whilst your busom buds sucked dick, their lips permanently ripe with stories of their sexual exploits, fake tan and glittered nails whilst you sat in the unbroken egg of virginity wondering what it was like to be loved. one day you found out.

lily milligan’s parents gone and a free house for the night, bottles of ouzo and tequila swiped from your mother’s liquor cabinet thinking she wouldn’t know (she always knew) your legs, hardened from pep squad, slut dropping on a kitchen table because the boys thought it would be fun to get the quiet girl drunk. you’d never had a sip before that night. band t-shirts, denim shorts and the split soles of rotten converse that you refuse to let go of, you still clutched with both hands to your youth, but in a tube top now (borrowed from alice carmichael who had a sister in college) and a short tennis skirt, your feet not in trainers but in thigh-high boots. uncomfy as hell but lily said you needed to look sexy. you didn’t know if you wanted to be sexy. you didn’t know what kind of girl you were, if you were even a girl at all. but robbie looked at you like he knew exactly who you were, like he knew you better than you knew yourself, and his lips had the pink cupid’s bow of a movie star, and his hair was dark locks, curling like a mane. his hands were soft, and suddenly on your waist, and after three more shots his lips were on yours and his name was the only sound in your head and on your lips as you lost it in lily’s college sister’s bedroom beneath the glare of a T-Pain poster. you bled for what seemed like hours, his hand still in yours, kissing on the sofa as truth tellers and dare devils continued to spin a bottle of unprecedented youth. you thought it was love. robbie was the one. he loved you, you knew it, how else could someone be so soft? but soon he grew bored, scrunched up your paper heart and set it alight. then came the tears, the hatred, the ‘fuck robbie, in fact, fuck all boys.’ and that you did.

you were known for being easy. any boy could be yours for a night, as long as he promised to love you for those few short breaths and pants before you cried yourself to sleep. you felt poisoned, but poisonous as well, as if by ensnaring these young boys you were gaining power over them, and not the other way around. soon it started to work. they’d want more, but you’d deny them it, sick of sucking off silly schoolboys, they’d call you a tease, a vixen. maybe you were, but you couldn’t help but want older men. you got the history teacher first time, him bending you over his desk to sneak a hand up your tennis skirt as the after-school clubs carried on next door, unawares. love didn’t exist, not for you. it was nothing but a game for pretty young girls to play, bubble gum in their canines and a hand tugging at the hem of their cheer skirt.

there was so much anger inside of your small body, ‘beware of boys and their hook-like words’. hockey helped. there was something formidable about the feeling of a stick like a weapon in your hands and the thwack it made against thighs in the heat of a scrum - “slipped, sorry!” - you’d utter with a snakeskin smile, millicent quinn knowing that you’d hit her on purpose because she shagged robbie at that party last week. she couldn’t prove it, cobbled acne on her forehead turning green with disgust. ben came into your life like a car crash. two years your senior, with a baseball jacket and shoulders like a god. he became your personal hero. on the pitch, he was lethal. together, you could bring anyone to their ruin. each day after last period he’d be waiting in his car. you’d leap into his arms like a girl-half starved, love me, love me, love me, your heated kisses the envy of every junior girl. he was yours for three blissful years, utterly yours, and you were his, his star-spangled girl, and he was your knight - you were both the same, playing games, always difficult to predict. it was a shock to all when he proposed, high-school sweethearts find love in south dakota.

the engagement was a bittersweet affair; three months – you barely out of your gingham print skirts and into a graduation gown, him, a surly quarterback towering above your sisters, cigarette at his lips and a scowl like a fart in a lift. they hated him. so did you. but you were eighteen and in love, and he fitted the cookie cutter mould. everyone wanted him, and you had him. you had him and you were happy, happy, happy, and he loved you. he said he’d give you the world, anything you wanted hand-picked and given to you. instead, he gave you a jack russell terrier and a flat you couldn’t swing a cat in, wallpaper peeling like the rotten bits inside of you, the bits that only he knew. and you got tireder and tireder of the sad excuse of a life he’d picked out for you, him out doing god knows what to pay the bills, and you dancing on tables to pave your way to stardom, and this was love, this was real, until the shine wore off and your fresh-faced, dimple-cheeked cheerleader facade faded and the ugliness started to reveal itself, the whining, the petulance, the sharp-tempered cruelty, the mind games, the need to always win, win, win. he was dull, he was boring, he was nothing like the boy the girls had said he was and no chiselled six pack could hide his lack of anything remotely interesting, your patience wearing thin until it snapped like rubber, a rucksack on your back, running shoes on your feet and the joint bank account emptied into your eighth grade birthday wallet.

you built your small fortunes working the casinos of sioux falls, a crimson dress and an attitude to match. bookish archie with his little dipper freckles was fun for a month, before he became just as dull and dreary as the rest. a three hour bus and you were in minneapolis, bright eyed and bushy tailed, fresh meat ready for the pickings. a hostel here, a friendly co-worker’s sofa there as you made what you could by taking off your clothes and shaking your ass like you were back in pep squad, doing what you did best. you met your fair share of creeps, and soon it was back on the road to escape a wide-eyed stalker and a restless itch for more. milwaukee, chicago, you made the roads your own. log cabins and lodgings, and the occasional motel, a beaten up pick up truck purchased at a scrap merchants – you got a few miles out of it before it bit the dust, and when you finally set it alight after nights spent lounging across the driver’s seat, a parka tucked over you as a duvet, you were sad to see it go. you’re nomadic by fault, never attaching to place, people or things, creating a new personality in every place you go like a character actress; each town is a different repertory theatre, and you’re the star. a compulsive liar, you even fib about your own name, to some you’re ellen, nineteen, bookish, a law student who likes smoking and cosmos. to someone else you’re rita, you’re twenty five and look young for your age, like smoking, comics and fucking in public places.

in the bright lights of michigan, you found charlie, sweet charlie, too good for you, though you let him spoil you while he thought you were the small town girl of his dreams. next came abigail, who was fun until the jealously kicked in, and then luke, gorgeous luke, dangerous, exciting, who despite his temper, despite the fights, despite bruises down your spine and your teeth marks on his arms, loved you with the strength of a wild fire. there was destruction in your wishbones, a savageness from the field, from the pitch and now somehow in his arms, you were godly. he was cruel, he was careless, and he refused to fall at your feet like so many other boys had, which only you made you want him all the more. you were rage incarnate. you hated him so fiercely you thought you might kill him, so he played the only card you wouldn’t predict; proposed.

the house you shared was a backstreet flat in detroit, you making your name as a downtown singer while he footed the bill with pills. they had a drug for anything these days, to dull the senses, to pick them up, to drive you to insanity or pull you out of the madness hole. the two of you lived like criminals on the run (you never told him that you were, living out your days as the enigma he wanted you to be), you with your voice like caramel and fishnet legs. you were his and his alone until his hand was at your throat and the gun was in your hands screaming at him to stop, stop, stop, until a bullet stoppered his brain, crimson staining linoleum as you cast yourself out like lucifer. self defence was decreed the moment they saw your violet neck, black tears and headlight eyes and mind screaming red, red, red like the pom-poms you shook so willingly in school and the insides of his skull. you were gone, and “you” was born, renamed “greta”, boxed, shipped-out, and next-day delivered to livingstone where under witness protection you were a student, blank slate, fresh-faced in a place where no one knew your name, doing what you always did and starting again.

[recslikewhoa]

Supernatural recs [Dean/Casiel]

Supernatural recs - Part 1 Dean & Casiel

The Girlfriend Experience by rageprufrock, NC-17, 15393 words While it's not like Dean hasn't had a couple of truly regrettable hit-and-runs in his sexual history, this is probably the saddest fucking thing that has ever happened to him. Clearly everyone must have read this already because it's so amazing it literally calls to you. But if somehow you have not then please for the love of god go read it now because it's great. Dean and Cas were amazing, in-character but also changed enough to adapt to the situation. Sam was written excellently as well, he was just fun really but a fun voice of reason which is normally needed when it comes to Cas and Dean getting together. This fic was just hot and steamy and beautiful. Two idiots coming together and Sam the cheering squad, just wanting his big brother to man up and get with Cas. "Burgers also cost money," Castiel says in between bites, mopping ketchup off his face. "Which I don't have and do not know how to obtain." Dean snorts. "Great, we're your sugar daddies — that is shit sad, Cas." "Oh, Jesus," Sam mutters, like he just cannot believe his brother is talking about this in front of his prom date. "What's a sugar daddy?" Cas asks, and looking hopeful, he opens his mouth again. Dean cuts in, saying: "No more burgers for you. And you don't need to know about sugar daddies."

Easy Now, With My Heart by mcpadalackles, NC-17, 49663 recs Dean Winchester is a kindergarten teacher. Castiel Milton is a writer slash works-in-a-coffee-shop. He also happens to be the extremely hot one-night stand that Dean never intended to see again other than in his own fantasies (he’s classy like that). But suddenly Cas is everywhere and Dean is convinced that Fate is out to get him. And maybe they do this thing backwards, but that doesn’t have to mean they can’t make it in the end, right? This is amazing, and awesome and I just could not stop reading. Hell, Dean and Castiel in this was both kind of insane and really co-dependent - but to be fair that is realatively in character - and half the time they were looking it felt like waiting for two trains to crash but it was still so good. They're not making life easy for each other but you could feel the want and the need and the love and it was as engaging as hell. Turns out though, he was totally right. Castiel does love the place, or at least he pretends to for Dean's sake. They start off with more beer, but that quickly escalates to shots (and the dude's fucking lethal at shots—it takes at least half a dozen before he declares that he's 'starting to feel something') and then they end up nursing two of Ellen's finest whiskeys and laughing hysterically about… well, he forgets but it sure was funny at the time. Castiel's shirt is open at the neck now, his blue tie a lost cause, and Dean's pretty sure he doesn't look much better himself. And then, suddenly, and he's really not sure how it happened or who initiated it, but suddenly they're pressed together in their corner booth and they're kissing. Like full on desperate tongue and teeth action, and it tastes like booze and bar nuts but is so fucking good, and if Dean had any doubts before he certainly doesn't now. Castiel presses into him hard, forcing him to lean backwards in his seat and he has to grab the table to stop himself from toppling over.

F**k You! by deans1911, R, 24459 words Castiel Novak, the general manager of a failing restaurant, and Dean Winchester, his stubborn head chef, hate each other’s guts. It’s up to celebrity Chef Balthazar Roche to keep them from running Garrison 16 into the ground and killing one another in the process. So, okay, this is probably one of my favourite AU's I've read. It's a really nice fleshed out universe, the characters are great and it's real. In the sense that it got it sad moments, and its bad, but it also has it happy and silly and hot. And it all evens out really well. You do sort of want to bang Cas and Dean's heads together half the time but honestly that was probably part of the fun. Dean is grinning like an idiot, if for no other reason than the stunningly ridiculous visual he now has of Cas shaking his ass for money. He lets Cas turn his hand over and run his thumb over the stitches through the plastic bag. There’s that crease between Cas’s eyebrows that means he’s about to say something that’s going to make them both uncomfortable. “For what it’s worth, I actually do think of you as my boyfriend,” he mutters, voice gone rough and soft in a way that instantly has Dean’s stomach flip-flopping. When he peeks up at Dean from under the messy fringe of his bangs, flattened to his forehead from sea water, Dean wants to kiss him senseless or run screaming--he isn’t sure which is the better option.

The First Year by cloudyjenn, PG-13, 7730 words When Castiel leaves after Lucifer's defeat, all he asks is that Dean wait for him. So that's exactly what Dean does. Ohh this fic, it breaks my heart and then after that comes back round to jump on it. Which is weird because it is not exactly that angsty or even that depressing, I think it's more the idea of the fic and the message behind it. And what it said about Dean and his life and how damn hard he loves. It's gorgeous and everything is worth it in the end. "Do you want to get out of here?" Amber asked a moment later. "I can't," Dean said without thought. "I'm waiting."

The (Mostly Accidental) Courtship of Dean Winchester by tuesday, PG-13, 11171 words Angelic marriage rites were never intended to go quite like this. When are wedding/bonding fics not fun? The answer is they're always fun. I really enjoyed Dean's voice in this, I mean it is essentially a Dean that is happy which is not exactly in-character but his character in this fic was still great and engaging. Cas was great too but clearly I was pretty drawn to Dean in this. I'm more of a fun and engaging then angstful and depressing kind of fic gal. And this fitted the brief pretty well. "What the hell?" Dean had said, and, "Where have you been?" and, like Cas was the boy blocking his calls and Dean was three steps away from turning stalker, God help him, "Why didn't you answer me the first three times?" "I was busy," Castiel said. And really, Dean should have asked this first, but, "Why are you naked?"

*The Way the War was Won by deans1911, R, 37258 words Dean and Cas are buddy cops faking a marriage for the benefits and tax breaks. Except for the part where Dean’s sort of actually in love with his partner and doesn’t realize it yet. Aww cute and sweet and long. I like that we sort of skip the angsty section of their relationship and skip straight to the finally getting their shit together part. Like there's still some angst, but not enough to hurt and it is such a well written story just even though we're just hearing about their history you still feel like you know their whole story. Fun and amazing read, I loved it. “Are you actually gay or just Cas-sexual?” she quips, grinning. Dean wants to shoot her, but he doubts that Cas would approve of brain matter on their new carpet. Sam needs to upgrade. Ruby is officially a demon. “Not really any of your business,” he mutters. Ruby purrs beside him and wraps her arms around her knees. ”Oh, I don’t know, Dean. I just think it’s really fucked up of you to try to keep him from seeing people if you’re never actually going to seal the deal.” Low blow. This bitch is way too observant for her own good. Probably why she’s CIA. ”Whatever,” he snarls, but she struck a chord and he knows it.

So Glad We Made It by Annie D (scaramouche), PG-13, 16421 words At twelve years old, Dean makes a friend, who becomes his best friend, who will eventually become the love of his life. Really sweet and engaging fic, and it pretty perfectly catches that feeling of being scared of taking that step because who knows what happens when you do? When Dean does take that step it works out pretty awesome, with the right amount of angst and confusion along the way. Really good take on Dean, and while Castiel didn't always act or do what I expected that is probably more in character than him suddenly swooning and falling all over Dean. But all in all they were both great and fun and the fic was just a really good read. Later, without fail, Cas plucks Dean out from the mess and drags him to the Impala outside. (On loan from Dad, because Cas’ solemn oath to behave actually means something in their house.) Dean only stirs awake when he finds himself being tucked into bed, Cas a dark shadow hovering over him. Dean catches Cas’ arms, holds him there. He squints up at Cas, who is watching him, patient as a statue. “Always you,” Dean says stupidly. “Of course, Dean,” Cas replies, though he can’t have any idea what Dean’s talking about.