#Tootie Fuckin Fruity

[shuttershocky]

I love Mr. Lee Arknights because his backstory is that after going to a really good school he fucked off all the way to the ends of Fantasy China to start a shady detective agency and then one of his two best friends from school shows up and goes "Oh hey Mr Tooty Fruity I know you don't have any kids so why don't you take care of my daughter for a while" before said friend fucks off for YEARS on some kung fu journey so after said daughter graduates from college Lee's other best friend tasks him with securing an evil cursed goblet containing the fragmented soul of a Dragon God from like 50 different government agencies and then Other Best Friend goes

"Alright Lee, I know it's pretty weird to ask you to drop everything and walk across Yan to go fight a god and the government for me so name your price"

And then Lee says

"I need you to pull all your Mr Mayor strings to start a manhunt for this girl's father"

"Is... Is that fuckin Huai Tianpei's kid?"

"She's not even a KID anymore! She graduated university with me attending in place of her actual dad! Am I going to walk her down the aisle in place of her old man too? That's fucked up! She's going to finish growing up without a father at this rate, I need to drag him back home!"

And then 8 chapters later the Dragon God inside the goblet is like

"Let's play a boardgame with stakes. If I win, I take your body for my own and cast away your soul. I'll kill everyone in this town too just for the hell of it. If you win, you get to keep your body or whatever."

So Lee goes

"I have no idea what game we're even playing but I'll take that bet"

And then he wins

[morroodle]

On a scale of 1-10 how gay would you say the ninja are(including morro cause you like him), 1 being straight and 10 being the most fruity tooty rainbow colored man whoring pride girlboss who ever did gay

Those legos fuckin FRUITY

[squid-ichorous]

more SNAPPER

It gets late enough for the second game to be called a draw, no chops needed. Mo has her usual enigmatic “shit to do,” Matty’s mowing his grandma’s lawn tomorrow morning. Drew’s had a little too much to drink, but his place is on the way to Ty’s so maybe he could bum a ride? If that’s cool.

It’s ice cold.

Every human smell had been expunged from the car, leaving only warmed upholstery and a sick-sweet fruitiness from an orange tree with TOOTY-FROOTY printed under its trunk. Drew, being a solid broski, doesn’t say shit. He stretches his legs as far as the space between himself and the dash will allow and closes his eyes.

Ty can’t help but look for a while - a little while, a second, as much as he can without being a creep. The sleeves from Drew’s flannel tuck his waist in a little, pull the white tank-top closer against his skin. The little GC inside its taco shell on his shoulder glistens a little under the bar’s flickering neon sign. The Snakehole, open seven days a week, line dancing on Fridays and Saturdays.

“You good,” Drew asks in a murmur, opening an eye and tilting his head towards Ty. Ty blushes and fumbles with the key before turning over the engine.

“Yeah-” Ty clears his throat, “- yeah. You?” Drew shifts a little in his seat, sitting up straighter.

“I guess I got a lotta shit on my mind. My uncle, um. He’s not… He’s not doin’ much better,” Drew says. His voice gets quiet and drawn.

“Mom’s worried sick but he’s too damn stubborn to accept any help. The doctors think he might, like.” Drew puts his foot up on the opposite knee and chops a line with his hand across his ankle. Ty grimaces.

“That’s…” Don’t say fucked up.

“Fucked up,” Ty says, wincing inwardly, “I’m really sorry, dude. You know you can tell us anything, right?”

“I know, I just don’t wanna push my problems onto anyone else. Y’know?” Drew fishes a slim silver case out of his pocket and lights up a cigarette, rolling down the window.

“Now who’s being stubborn,” Ty says, a little quiet in case he’s being a dick. Well, there is no in case, no if, but. He knows keeping things inside can fuck you up too, regardless of the price of insulin. Luckily Drew doesn’t seem to hate him for it. Drew just rolls his eyes and waves a hand.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m working on it. Trying to.” He leans his head against the frame of the car window, watching ash skitter down the highway.

“I swear to God, horses are less stressful than people.” Fuckin’ a-men to that, brother.

[moonlightmadnessreviews]

Rob Zombie’s 3 From Hell, or The Fear of Spoiling a Good Thing

It’s high noon and we watch as the sun shines down harshly on a dusty blue Cadillac. The camera flys over the long hood, the topless car giving us a good view inside the car. We look down on a bloody, dirt covered family as Free Bird by Lynyrd Skynyrd begins to play over shots of home videos, the family appearing happy and worry free. The scene pulls at your heart string as we see the car drive down the road towards a police blockade. You root for them as they load up shot guns and six shooters, and your heart breaks as you see them riddled with bullets. The movie ends, the room is black, and when the lights come on you remember this family was responsible for the death of multiple people in a hotel room and they’d been hunted for most of the movie by a sheriff driven mad after they murdered his brother!

This is the climax of Rob Zombie’s The Devil’s Rejects, released on this date in 2005. It is a ripe cherry atop the “Tutti Fuckin’ Fruity” masterpiece Zombie helmed as the follow-up to his first full length film, House of 1,000 Corpses (2003). When it was announced there would be a follow up this year, I didn’t understand where the story of the Firefly Family could even go from here. I felt the ending I’d watched time and time again, the one I’d discussed with friends countless times, one I’ve praised and screamed about to anyone who’d listen was going to be torn apart. In some ways, 3 From Hell will ruin that ending and rather than greeting their return with fanfare, I’ve been driving myself mad trying to deal with the sudden and shocking retcon to the end of the Firefly Family. But would Zombie allow this installment to slap fans of the original films in the face?

We’ve seen this happen time and time again: A studio or film maker goes into a movie for the wrong reasons and what they serve up the fans is not only disappointing but a complete mess of half finished ideas, studio interference and often times it’s even insulting. The most recent examples I can think of are The Cloverfield Padadox and Jeepers Creepers 3. I was excited for the former, following the recurring ARG for a few weeks before it’s Netflix release (the original ARG and movie hold a special place in my spooky little heart) and, though I’ve come to appreciate it as much as I can for what it is, it was a disappointment for most of the fandom. The latter was shrouded in controversy, much of it stemming from director Victor Salva’s disgusting past, and was a sorry excuse for an installment. The movie stomped along directionless, wedging itself in an awkward spot in the timeline, and answering NONE of the questions it promised to address.

As a series thus far, the story of the Firefly Family couldn’t be more different from one installment to another. Much like The Texas Chainsaw Massacre and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2, one film is a flashy neon light show with characters who buzz just as bright, and the other is a dusty Western of sorts, dark and unforgiving yet beautifully shot. Sid Haig, Sheri Moon Zombie and Bill Moseley will return as Captain Spaulding, Baby and Otis Firefly respectively. The movie seems to answer the question of their resurrection by saying “Well, we never actually saw them die.” It’s the simplest of retcons, and helps to give them an air of supernatural force, one that was somewhat hinted at in House of 1,000 Corpses by their involvement with Dr. Satan. A jailbreak plays out and it looks like we’ll be following Spaulding, Baby and Otis as they get help from fans and other “family members”, much in the way Ken Foree (as Charlie Altamont) played a part in their ill fated escape in The Devil’s Rejects.

Since 3 From Hell was announced, I’ve been nervous to get my hopes up at all. I’ll admit, the first time I watched House of 1,000 Corpses, it flew clear over my head. I knew I loved how wacky it was, but it was like looking through a kaleidoscope of gore and characters who were larger than life. With a few more watches, and more appreciation for the grind-house type films Zombie was paying tribute to, it became a favorite of mine. The Devil’s Rejects floored me in the way it made such a shift in style, yet managed to retain its brutality. Zombie pulled his characters out of the funhouse and into the light and somehow managed to make them even more terrifying. How could he possibly improve upon what is already such an iconic series?

Much of my fear comes from my feelings towards Rob Zombie’s last outing, 31. I felt the film lacked much of what made his previous efforts click for me. The outlandish characters, brash dialogue and violence was all there, but with the exception of Doom-Head (Richard Brake), there was really nothing that made me want to rewatch it. It almost felt like the film was trying too hard to be a Rob Zombie film. In fact, I’d jokingly commented to my wife that maybe I’d outgrown Rob Zombie’s style of film making. This along with my aversion to what this new movie means for the end of the story painted in The Devil’s Rejects has made it a somewhat sour lead up.

At the end of he day, the only way I was able to calm my nerves was by reminding myself who I was talking about. This is Rob Fuckin’ Zombie! The man has garnered both praise and ridicule for his films (Halloween vs H2) and he’s faced them both with the same punk, Could Care Less attitude. This is not a director that a studio can dig their claws into in hopes of making a film THEY want to see. Zombie is going to make the film he wants to make, he’s is going to be unapologetic in his sincerity and the film will be completely genuine to who he is as a film maker. The Firefly Family are classic characters from the mind of a madman and I’m confident that his passion for them will result in one of his best films to date. 3 From Hell hits theaters September 16th through the 18th, and I cant wait to stare down this next installment with the same bravado as the Firefly Family had when driving headfirst into a hail of gunfire!

[thethcministry]

[sherimoonzombie]

Shared to my Facebook page: 😍😮😍😮Oh my goodness - just look at the detail!!!!! Thank you Nigel for sharing this fantastic #BabyFirefly piece of fan🎨art! Tooti-fuckin-Fruity!!!!!!

See the original here: https://www.facebook.com/photo/?fbid=10158012263550847&set=a.278220965846

[psychodelic-worm]

Thanks for being such a big influence on grimey, twisted horror. You are such a legend and I will forever cherish the gift you left behind. Rest easy, Fire fly. 🖤

[oxiidze]

spook-riot

H E Y, TAKE IT EASY PAL

             ❝ Don’t tell me you’re worried. ❞

[honestsycrets]

Extra Hands [ Ivar x Reader, Ivar/Hvitserk Platonic ] VD7

❛ pairing | ivar/hvitserk, ivar x reader

❛ type | drabble for @youbloodymadgenius​ ‘s 1k event that I’m so, totally, late for. i’m so sorry that i’ve been slow, cat. i’ve been in a strange funk. other requests filled: you’ve never had a Valentine’s date and right, like you could do so much better. / You bet your ass I could.

❛ summary | hvitserk knows when his brother is nervous.

❛ tags | implied first date, modern ivar

“I dunno why you’re making all of these. Is that a homemade box?” 

Hvitserk picked the chocolate chunks out of Ivar’s drab vanilla cookie mix. It was the first time that he had tried this particular recipe. It was a painfully simple recipe of chocolate chip cookies, but that was the point. He made a note to use sea salt to give it some life. Who, after all, disliked chocolate chip cookies? Ivar gripped the wheels of his wheelchair, scooting himself around the kitchen. 

“Bro, this is a fuckin’ homemade box!” 

“Stop eating the dark chocolate,” Ivar lurched up, smacking his elder brother’s knuckles. Hvitserk sneaks his fingers back in to take three morsels back with him. “You’ll throw off the proportions.” 

“So what? It’s just for us, right?” 

“As if I would put this much effort into something for my brothers.” Ivar oils an ice cream scoop. He digs into the dough, scooping pieces that were-- of course, the perfect size. “It is for my woman.” 

Hvitserk about chokes on his chocolate morsels. 

“A girl?!”

“Yes, a woman, Hvitserk.” 

But you’ve never had a bitch for Valentine’s!”

“Don’t call her that,” Ivar bobs his head toward Hvitserk in a nod. He spent the better part of the afternoon in preparation for his date this evening. It was his first-- with a mother like his-- it had been previously impossible to date. But the ever-growing litany of questions that Hvitserk had for him began to pile up. 

“I gotta see this. Is she hot?” Hvitserk laughed, bouncing up and down in the question. “That why you’re making so many fuckin’ cookies? Chocolate chip cookies, thumbprint cookies, sugar cookies. Sweetheart, you can’t buy the necessities of life--err dick-- with cookies.” 

“Don’t Burton me. Why don’t you go fuck another one of your failed film students and leave me alone?” Ivar bit out. It was easier with his help, no doubt, but this was something he did with the express intention of seeing your smile. It had been years. Years that he spent changing your mind about dating your boss. He wasn’t about to ruin this now. 

Hvitserk swept the cookie sheet from the granite countertop and eased it into the oven. Ivar’s mind swims in the vast lake of his mind, wondering exactly how he could make sure that nothing went awry. It was, after all, his first date. 

“I just wanna see what she’s like. I mean, when have you brought a girl home? Suddenly you open up this publishing company, and bam, pussy.” 

Ivar looks at the other steaming cookies. They would have to cool first. His kitchen was perfumed with the scent of vanilla, almond, and delicious brown butter from the oven. Ivar eyes Hvitserk sharply, reaching for the glittery homemade box. “She’s not just pussy. She’s--” 

“Look at you being all romantic and shit.” 

“You are annoying me.” 

Sometimes, he wished he was an only child—most days. Today was one of them. His hands trembled around the box of delicate cookies. His brother’s expression was hooded for a moment before Hvitserk took the handles of his wheelchair, dragging him out of the room with nothing more but Ivar’s booming complaint. Hvitserk knew how much he hated it when he did this. It was like a mother dragging a child by the braids! 

“I’ll come check them fuckin’ cookies, don’ worry. What’re you gonna wear?” 

They come to a stop in Ivar’s room. He looks toward his crutches, settled on the wall, and decides to reach for them so that he could stand. Hvitserk rustles in his closet. He had a wealth of handsome suits-- it happened when you needed to impress a good author or attend an important meeting-- but they all seemed wrong. His practiced expression melts off his face. He thought it all through: the date, the dinner simmering on the stove, but when it came to himself. He dropped his eyes to the floor before returning Hvitserk’s look. 

“That suit, I suppose.” 

“That shit is ugly,” Hvitserk returns.

“Right, like you could do so much better,” Ivar hisses. 

 “Bet your ass I could. You gotta wear something hot. You want her to fuck you, right?”

“I told you--”  

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Not jus’ some pussy. But you wanna fuck, don’t you?” 

He would be lying if he said he didn’t. Something hot ends up being some black slacks that contrast against a burgundy button-up and a tight, black vest. He feels more exposed than he has in a while when Hvitserk comes back from taking out his last batch of cookies. He likes it-- and he hates it.

“That’s hot,” Hvitserk clapped. Ivar runs his finger under the rolled-up sleeves, noting how they formed to his muscles. “No way she doesn’t fuck you.” 

“This isn’t about that.” 

“It’s Valentine’s day,” he told him. “It has to be about that.” 

His phone trills. What he hates, but truly hates, is Hvitserk’s nosiness. He lurches toward it before Ivar could even move. He produces Ivar a decent nod. “She’s beautiful,” he flicks the phone at Ivar on his way out of the room. “Has a pretty smile, too.” 

His heart pounded in leaps in his chest. You must be here; already. He’s not yet put the cookies in the box. He makes his way toward the front door with the bundle of flowers against his chest, cognizant of the sound of a scratching spatula dragging across his cookie sheet. 

Well, Hvitserk is good for something.

Ivar isn’t sure of what the etiquette for Valentine’s Day is, but he could hardly care, knocking the door open to let you in. You slip in beside him, drawing your fingers over the v of his waistcoat. 

“Is this new?” you asked. “It looks… amazing.” 

Hvitserk, of course, is skittering somewhere inside. Ivar can hear the stifled giggle marked by the painfully unapologetic, I told you I could do better. You draw your head toward the inside, peeling the edge of your mask off. You roll your ruby red lipstick in, then out, and smile at him once again. 

“Is someone inside?” 

“Sadly,” he sighs as he hands you the flowers under his arm. “That is my brother Hvitserk. I don’t expect him to stay in the kitchen long.” 

Ivar lingers on the word stay. You laugh, drawing the flowers up to inspect them more carefully. It’s a full bouquet of romantic red roses: painfully cliche, but painfully Ivar. They are his favourite shade. 

“He’s kicking me out of my own kitchen,” Hvitserk calls back. You make your way into the house, drawing the bottom of your skirt lower: if you could manage such a thing. It wasn’t necessarily short: but the slit on the side of your leg was something Ivar knew Hvitserk would point out later. 

Evidence, he’d shout. Evidence of nothing, Ivar would say back. 

Your fingers graze Ivar’s free hand, clipping around the corner where Hvitserk stood with cookie crumbling in between his fingers. Ivar’s forehead creases, the anger bubbling up in his stomach into a roiling boil. At that moment you snatch Ivar’s hand, lacing your fingers together, and throwing cool water to the boil. 

“You must be her,” Hvitserk mumbles. “Ivar’s first date.” 

“First date? Really?” He’d kill him. He’d kill him, he’d drag him out to sea, throw his body over to the bottom of the pond and-- you lean up, planting a kiss at his jawline. “I like being the first.” 

“Yes. This is my older brother Hvitserk. He likes to eat anything he can get his grubby little fingers on. Including things that I did not make for him,” Ivar returns. He leans against the cabinet and slams his crutch on the countertop. At times his brother can be overbearing. Today, like most days, Hvitserk needed his company. Unlike most days, Hvitserk doesn’t have the patience.

“Why don’t you,” he rubs his twirls his hand in a spin. “...fuck off, Hvitserk?” 

“Ivar.” 

“Don’ worry about it. He’s just all wound up because he’s brought me home a girl to meet.” He wiped his chocolates fingers over his basketball shorts and extended his hand out— “Name's Hvitserk.”

“I heard,” you smiled, bringing the hand not cupping Ivar’s hand to squeeze his bicep. “You’re Ivar’s lit agent?”

“One of them.” 

“Ain’t that like— sexual harassment?” Hvitserk folds his hand back in, quickly catching on that you’re not a touchy type. At least, not with him. Fair enough. 

“Why don’t you take a bottle of wine to your room, Hvitserk?” Ivar grumbles. 

“Ain’t that for your date?” 

“We don’t need it,” you shout.

“Huh. Well if you insist.” At last, he folds, taking the bottle and a stolen plate of food with a bounce. Although he doesn’t say anything— he has that dopey smile. He waits until the door slams behind Hvitserk to exhale an apology. Ivar began to think that he would never leave. 

“I made those cookies for you.”

Your lips curl into a smile, resting your head on his shoulder. Hvitserk hollers something from the back room about having helped— and you pat his chest. His cheeks pinken as he looks over the dinner he’s made and the cookies he baked. His nosy Hvitserk— always killing his mood. 

“Take me to your room.”

“Hm?” he asks. “You’re not hungry?”

“Not for pasta.”

Oh. For once, Hvitserk was right.

@tephi101 @alicedopey @supernaturalvikingwhore @tootie-fruity @titty-teetee @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla @ethereallysimple @deathbyarabbit @deathbyarabbit @readsalot73 @natalie-rdr @lol-haha-joke @lisinfleur @hissouthernprincess @marvelousse @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol @vikingsmania @wish-i-was-a-mermaid @lif3snotouttogetyou @gruffle1 @cris101071 @gold-dragon-slayer​ @babypink224221 @wonderwoman292 @naaladareia​ @beyond-the-ashes​ @generic-fangirl @chinduda @laketaj24, @peaceisadirtyword, @ly–canthrope @cris101071​ @daughterofthenight117​ @unassumingviking @ladyofsoa, @inforapound​ @winchesterwife27​ @feyrearcheron44@readsalot73 @squirrelacorngliterfarts @gold-dragon-slayer​ @medievalfangirl @sallydelys​  @bluearchersstuff​ @affectionrabbitt​ @whatamood13 @notyouraveragegirl17 @igetcarriedawaywithyou​ @unacceptabletatertots @ivarandersen @stra-vage​ @tgrrose​ @cookies186​ @learninglemni-blog @theleeshanotlouise @soiproclaim​ @msmorganforever​ @destynelseclipsa​ @soleil-dor​ @strangunddurm​ @superwolfchild-fan

[life-artistic]

"I could really go for some tooty fuckin' fruity"

[chantalhandley]

‪Devil Rejects was released 15 Years ago!! Tooty Fuckin Fruity! - Sid Haig Captain Spaulding - Original Pastel Drawing. chantalhandley.etsy.com ❤️👻 #captainspaulding #robzombie #devilrejects #tootyfuckinfruity‬ https://www.instagram.com/p/CC9XxCcl8De/?igshid=2b8o7kx2c61o

[patricksparrow]

YA WANT SUM FUCKIN CANDY?! Tootie fuckin fruity. #halloween #houseof1000corpses #robzombie #captainspaulding #sidhaig #thedevilsrejects #horror #clown #halloweencostume #monster #candy #trickortreat

[shamelessly4shameless-blog]

The Sand In Your Shoe (pt 11)

Mickey is a fucking typhoon tearing at the otherwise tranquil beach. He wishes there were stones so that he could hurl them into the sea and watch them sink but he settles for fistfuls of wet sand.

“Fuck you, Gallagher! A fucking week? One week? Fuck you!”

The force of his throw almost unbalances him and he glares at the beach beneath his feet before stamping on it as if it owes him a significant amount of money and just insulted his mother.

His breath is coming in gasping husks, his hair has flopped into his face and he pushes is back angrily as he takes a running kick at the rolling waves, pretending it is Ian Gallagher’s ribs.

The salt spray gets in his eyes and up his nose and he ignores it, letting both stream and to Hell with it.

One fucking week!

He can still feel the press of Ian’s fingers against his back, it’s like the prints are seared into his skin and Mickey rolls his shoulders uncomfortably. He scrubs his hands over his face, hard enough to leave blotchy red patches across his cheekbones but he can still tell the exact spot that Ian’s thumb has caressed.

Mickey is not the sort of person who would scream at the horizon but he almost wishes that he was. Ian has been back in his life for less than thirty minutes and Mickey has been displaced from his bar and is roaming the beach, dirty, dishevelled and with snot on his upper lip and salt in his eyes.

An hour ago he was swimming in the sea, contentedly working on holding his breath beneath the waves and wondering if he should change supplier for bar snacks to shake things up a bit.

Fucking Gallagher!

Mickey laces his fingers across the back of his head and forces himself to take some deep breaths, feet planted in a wide, fighters stance. The ocean stretches out before him, no different for the amount of his rage it has just consumed, and Mickey lets his head loll gently forward, until his chin touches his chest. More than anything he wishes that a large, warm hand would settle on the exposed skin of his neck.

This isn’t who Mickey is supposed to be. He isn’t supposed to crave another’s touch so badly that the lack of it is a constant ache in his guts. Jesus. One week? How was he supposed to tell Ian everything he wanted to say in just one week? It took him months sometimes to feel ready to say what was in his heart, and that wasn’t just him being tooty-fuckin’-fruity! Mickey genuinely struggled with exposing his emotions even after all this time. He had started to get pretty good at it when he and Ian were a couple but over the years he had fallen out of practice again and … shit!

One week. Mickey huffs a weary sigh and reverses the direction of his head, tipping his face skyward. How was he going to make Ian see the man he has become? Make him see that maybe Mickey is exactly who Ian wanted him to be back then and that maybe Mickey’s second chance could become their second chance?

Mickey wishes he had been brave enough to kiss Ian. He should have done that rather than pushing him away, no matter how gently he’d done it. It had just been too much.

Mickey lets a small smile curve his lip at the memory of Ian on the steps, looking down at him like he was the best thing he had ever seen. The way the idiot had nearly broken his neck tripping down the steps and staggering across the sand to throw himself on Mickey … that moment was going to stay with Mickey until the day he died. Ian’s arms coming around him and the immediate, all consuming joy his touch brought … the way Ian buried his face in the curve of Mickey’s neck… that alone had nearly been the complete undoing of Mickey Milkovich but when Ian turned his head and those eyes, those damn perfect green eyes, blinked and looked into his, so close that Mickey could count the auburn lashes … it was too much.

Mickey didn’t trust himself not to throw Ian down on the beach and let the redhead take him right there in the open. One touch of those full lips and he knew he’d have been completely lost. He would have lost all control and he just wasn’t ready for that, not yet. For Mickey, where there was no control there could be no safety and he needed to feel safe in order to even begin to get the words straight in his head.

What he had done instead was something that was so typical of himself that he doesn’t even bother feeling bad or guilty, it would be like a dog feeling shitty for cocking its leg. What else does it know to do? Mickey had made a fucking scene, nearly got into a full on sibling-scuffle with Mandy and stomped off with a pack of smokes and a thunder cloud of temper in the air around him.  

Like most storms, the atmosphere afterwards is clear and fresh and Mickey snorts at the memory. ‘Fuckin’ lemons then’ what a stupid damn excuse to make. But that’s him when Gallagher is around: stupid and tongue tied and more emotional than is healthy for anyone around him.

He wonders if he should actually buy some lemons to save face and can’t decide if the actual physical manifestation the product he claimed to need makes him look more or less ridiculous. There is an entire fucking basket of lemons in plain view behind the bar. It’s a lost cause. Mickey hasn’t even touched the cigarettes in his pocket and doesn’t feel like doing so now. He wishes he’d picked up a hair comb instead but there is nothing to do about that. He walks into the sea up to his knees and splashes water over his face and arms and drags his fingers through his hair, trying to tame it a little. He wishes he’d got a haircut.

One week. Fine. Mickey has worked with less.

He wades back onto the shore and heads back to Galagers.

*

Mandy and Ian slip into their friendship as easily as ever, the years melting away and by the time Mickey steps into the bar they have caught up and are sat on the corner booth sofa, chatting happily about the town, the bar and Mickey himself.

“Seriously, this place was a shit-hole when Mickey bought it, the owner was dumb as fuck and practically begged Mick to take it from him.”

“It looks awesome! Was the jukebox here when Mickey bought it?”

“No, he bought that himself. He’s done a fucking amazing job here, Ian. I never knew anyone in our shitty family could work so hard at something that wasn’t on a rap-sheet. It’s kind of inspiring actually. Like, I know he’s my brother but I’m really fucking proud of him.”

“I always knew he could do something like this, you know? Even with the furniture scam back home, he always found a way to handle the business well. He’s so much smarter than he thinks he is.”

 “You assholes talkin’ about me?”

Mickey covers up the pleased smirk with a scowl and slaps his smokes down on the bar as he pushes up, half laying over it to grab a bottle of coke. Maybe he exaggerates the movement a little, he probably doesn’t need to lift his ass quite so high or arch his back quite so much but so what?

He slides back and is gratified to see Ian’s eyes are like saucers and there are two high spots of colour burning in his cheeks. One fucking week, bitch.

*

Ian feels his blood flow shift rapidly south as Mickey pulls himself onto the gleaming surface of the bar and his foot begins to bounce up and down restlessly. He tries not to stare but it’s impossible not to with Mickey lying prone like that. Ian instantly imagines how it would feel to grab the scruff of Mickey’s neck with one hand and wrench his shorts off with the other. He doubts Mickey is wearing boxers beneath them, the fabric is damp and clinging and there is no outline that would suggest further layers.

He is so lost in his thoughts of Mickey bared beneath him that his fingers are half-way to his mouth, ready to slick them when Mickey drops back to the floor with his coke. Ian drops his hand back into his lap like a stone, his face flushing and desperately hoping Mickey doesn’t notice.

“Yeah but we were saying nice things so don’t be a dick.”

Mandy quips back to her brother and Ian realises with a shock that only seconds have passed. Jesus.

“Mickey, this place is so great. I can’t believe it.”

“Thanks. Mandy show you around already?”

“No, I thought you should.”

Mandy answers and Ian is grateful because the closer Mickey gets, the heavier Ian’s tongue becomes in his mouth and he loses all but rudimentary motor functions, nodding his head in agreement. Mickey is looking at him like he is a fucking steak, rare and a little bloody and he intends to reduce Ian down to a smear of grease on the plate.

“Were they out of lemons?”

Mandy’s tongue flicks out between her teeth and Mickey’s eyes shift toward her, giving Ian a split second of relief from their burning gaze. It is all he needs to gather his wits a little and recognise the game they have entered into. There is a spasm of panic which is quickly replaced with excitement as Ian feels himself loosening up. He doesn’t know why Mickey is challenging him, in a way he doesn’t even care. The fact that he is still on Mickey Milkovich’s fucked up radar enough that he wants to challenge Ian is good enough for now.

“Yeah, said you bought them all to shove in your box to try and sweeten it up a bit.”

Mandy flips him the bird but there is a happy smirk loitering in the corner of her mouth and Mickey  runs his tongue along his bottom teeth, hoping she’ll let it go.

“Well I have an actual errand to run, so now you’re back from lemon land, can you please pretend to be a  competent fucking host for a bit?”

Mickey scratches the side of his jaw and fights back a very tiny nugget of panic that nestles in his chest at the thought of being alone with Ian.

“Do you need a baby sitter, Gallagher?”

“No.”

Ian says dryly. Mickey recovered quickly but Ian saw the way his shoulder twitched when Mandy said she was leaving. He might be acting like one big dick swinging alpha male but Ian knows him too well. If Ian is steak, Mickey is the side of fucking fries and Ian is going to lick the salt from every bit of him before devouring him whole. Game fucking on.

“Well then I guess we’ll be fuckin’ fine, Mandy. Thanks.”

Mickey’s voice drips with sarcasm and Mandy flutters her eyelids in exasperation as she slides out of the booth.

“I’m going to be gone for an hour – minimum.”

“Gee, thanks for letting us know. Can we have a snack if we get hungry, Mom?”

Mandy rolls her eyes and kisses Mickey’s temple brusquely before doing the same to Ian and skipping out of the bar, closing the door decidedly behind her.

*

The emotions that had surfaced when they set eyes on each other had been raw, almost too painful to examine and Ian knows that it is something he will have to do properly in private later but for now he lets the fire that first embrace sparked keep burning and finds that he actually wants to fan the flames.

“So, are you going to be a good host?”

It is a bold challenge and a gamble but Ian knows the rules of this game. If he stammers an apology or tries to explain himself to Mickey yet, the words will bounce right back, nothing will stick. He has to get in close, work his way in beneath the jabs.

Mickey take the bait and his eyebrows flick upwards contemptuously as he answers Ian

“This ain’t a party and you certainly weren’t fuckin’ invited. Host yourself.”

First point, Milkovich. And it’s nearly a knock out.

Ian forces himself to keep the same casual smirk on his face but his palms are sweating.

“OK, well do you know of any decent hotels around here so I can find a place to stay?”

It’s a hard blow and lands in the centre of Mickey’s gut with a thud, winding him. Ian feels the weight of it in his own centre but this is what they do. This is how it has to be.

Mickey walks back to the bar and picks up his smokes, lighting one and drawing deeply. He doesn’t offer the packet and Ian doesn’t ask.

“Do I look like a fuckin’ guide book to you? I slept in my car the first couple months, I didn’t stay in any damn hotel.”

The response is characteristically flippant, the word ‘hotel’ spat disdainfully at Ian’s feet as if he asked for silk toilet paper rather than just a place to sleep.

“Well it’s only a week I’m sure I can find something.”

Ian sees hurt flash like lightening in the gathering storm of Mickey’s eyes and it throws him off-balance. He doesn’t get why that would wound Mickey but it clearly knocked some of the fight out of him.

“You’re a regular Sherlock, aren’t you?”

Ian almost says something snippy about how many ‘Galagers’ there are but swallows the comment. It would be cruel and Mickey doesn’t deserve it. He changes his tact instead.

“How did you get started here anyway?”

“Security.”

“Were they advertising or did you just prove they needed you?”

Ian only sees Mickey’s answering smile in profile. It is quick and bright and then it is gone and Ian’s heart flutters despite himself

“Little of both. They wanted three nights a week, I showed them seven would be safer.”

“Ah. So you then you … what? Worked your way up? Pulled yourself up by the bootstraps? Reached for the stars?”

Ian stands and stretches, he is so much taller than Mickey that the stretch is really unnecessary but it highlights Ian’s physical presence and gives Mickey a tantalising view of his midriff and the smattering of red-gold hair across it.

Ian moves across the room and plucks the burning cigarette out of Mickey’s fingers and Mickey lets him do it, watching as Ian’s lips close around the filter, his cheeks hollowing as he draws it in hard. Mickey wets his own lips with the tip of his tongue, not giving a shit if Gallagher notices.

“Yeah, proper good ol’ apple pie American Dream shit. You still an EMT?”

“Yeah, good at it too.”

Ian means for this to sound cocky, trying to irritate Mickey but the older man just smiles and Ian realises with a shock that what he is seeing is pride. The game is evolving.

“Of course you are, man, You’re good at taking care of people. Always have been.”

The unexpected praise is such a drastic deviation from their usual pattern of bobbing and weaving that Ian isn’t completely sure he has heard Mickey right. The atmosphere around them is still crackling but the building sense of a physical confrontation waiting to happen softens to something a little less like a brawl in the making.

This isn’t the way things usually go. Something fundamental has shifted between them and neither of them knows what to do about it.  Mickey caused the change but is now utterly without a hope of dealing with it. He doesn’t have the words. He doesn’t know how to find them.

Mickey takes his cigarette back and watches Ian intently. His gaze is open and completely unguarded.

He knows that if he grabbed Ian by the balls and bit his lip until it bled, Ian would let him do it. If he wanted, he could be completely filled with Ian’s cock, his body aching around each desperate angry thrust, in mere moments.

And Mickey does want that. Fuck! How badly he wants it! But after all this time, after everything they have been through, they deserve better. He knows it and he knows that Ian knows it too. They could fight and they could fuck until pain and love mingle into one red hot mess between them, but then what?  

He looks up at Ian almost pleadingly and virtually sags with relief as comprehension finally dawns on the beautiful freckled face.

*

Understanding crashes down on Ian and he makes a small, soundless ‘o’ with his lips. Mickey doesn’t want to hurt him. He might want to fuck him, in fact Ian is pretty sure there is a mutually desperate desire for that, but he won’t hurt him to get it. The realisation is almost enough to bring tears to Ian’s eyes but he blinks them back.

He doesn’t know how welcome he will be in Mickey’s personal space but he is powerless to stop himself trying anyway. Mickey is right, Ian is good at taking care of people.

He steps in, near enough that he can see the fine grains of sand that have settled in Mickey’s hair and the slightly uneven tan lines from the different neck lines of Mickey’s shirts.

Mickey can smell the fruit juice Ian has drunk on his breath, hot and sweet and rolling over him in gentle puffs. Ian’s throat bobs up and down as he swallows and Mickey wants to wrap his hand around it, he wants to feel the pulse in Ian’s neck and cover it in kisses that will bruise.

He can’t stand for Ian to be this close, but he won’t back down, won’t be the one to move and so they stay locked in position.

Ian rakes his eyes over Mickey, he has not forgotten the language of Mickey’s body, rather he is rapidly remembering the nuances and the subtle shifts in pattern. Ian takes in Mickey’s hips, a boxers hips, slim and mobile; the way he shifts his weight a little always in motion even when to most people he would appear to be still.

“Where should I stay, Mickey?”

It’s the final round. The winning blow. And it is delivered with a feather light softness.

Green eyes are boring into him, demanding an answer. Mickey’s hands flutter upwards, he doesn’t even know if they are going to direct Ian out of the door or up to his room until it is happening and he hears himself saying

“Here. You’ll stay here.”

He doesn’t say ‘with me’ but Ian doesn’t need him to.

[lenin-it-to-win-it]

a tale of three chuuyas

summary: chuuya, chuoya and cyuya have some real neato-completo sex while dazai watches. dazi likes to watch.

notes: I FUCKING HATE MYSELF THIS IS ALMOST A THOUSAND WORDS KILL ME anyway i hope u all enjoy pls like comment and subscribe ;))))

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“hot bals i am the hron” chuuya moaend as he stroked his massive girthy horse cock. “is there not anyone out there who could help me beat this succulent [a/n: hehe succ] piece of meat dangling between my thicc thighs?”

“i could help” suggested dazi. dazi liked to watch.

“mcfucck off u used bandaid” chuuya snarled. he beat his meat even harder bc he was annoyed with dazais stupedness. he almost tore his own dick of!!!! but he didnt. “like i would let your disgusting yaoi hands anywhere near my massive girthy horse cock. my supple peen demands the finest touch- a touch only i, nakahaira chuuya possess”

“WHAT ABOUT ME” proclaimed a voice that was coming from the window.

chuuya opened the window. “CHUOYA!????” he ejaculated while ejaculating simultaneously from the penis.

“what in graviation” chuoya replied, tipping his fuckin’ sweet-ass cowboy hat. “yehaw bucko ill ride yall like the stallian yall are”

“o yes please n thx i would enjoy your strong but delicate hands all over the shaft and balls of my fun-time pleasure hose” chuuya replied, tenderly slapping his thunderous erection against chuoyas stone-cold martini weenie.

“harder dady” chuoya panted, whipping his sweaty hair noddle over his shoulder for a e s t e t i c   as he panted. “yall know i lov it when we slap r dicks together”

“why does he keep saying yall” dazi asked. dazi was still there. he liked to watch.

“its none of ur btich ass business u jelly-filled motherfuker” chuuya growled as he dicked chuoya down. they were fucking on the windowsill but that was ok bc those bitches could fly, yo. chuoya reached around chuuya with his extra-large neato-completo super dong 9000 and turned on the radio. taylor swift was playing so they fuckt to taylor swift

“i dont know about u” chuuya groaned, licking his lips that were moist with spit and seed. “but im feelin 22 inches of man-meat pounding into my liver oh fukc yEAH”

chuoya thrusted at chuuya so hard is dick broke of inside chuuyas dickhole and got stuck “oh no yall” he said sadly shaking his head. he took off his cowboy hat in shame. the cowboy hat had been on the whole time they were making that real good secks. chuuya was wearing his hat as well bc he liked to ocasionally tip it while climaxing and say “mlady”, anyway the point was chuoyas dick got inside chuuyas dick

“your dick is stucck inside of my dick chuoya” said chuuya whose ignrorant ass didnt even fuckin know that the narrator had literally just said that exact and very same thing seconds before. “whatever shall we do now”

“THE FITNESSGRAM™ PACER TEST IS A MULTISTAGE AEROBIC CAPACITY TEST THAT PROGRESSIVELY GETS MORE DIFFICULT AS IT CONTINUES” came an erotic shriek from below the floor

“ya know what else gets progressively harder as it continues” chuuya smirked. “DEEZ NUTS”

“he said it gets more difficult not harder” chuoya corrected “also balls dont get hard”

“bitch u bout to see how hard these balls get when i use them to bitch slap ur tootie fruity ratatouille ass the fuck out this window” chuuya SCREMED “also who tf let cyuya out of the basement”

“it was me” said dazi who was watching the whole thing. he liked to watch. he also recordeded on his n00b ass iphone 3. what a fuckin pansy. his gotdam yaoi hands are bigger than the phone smh. “i wanted to see u guy(fieri)s have a hot and sweaty thresom on the window”

“THE 20 METER PACER TEST WILL BEGIN IN 30 SECONDS” SHRIEKED CYUYA, bursting through the floor with the force of his 20-meter tallywacker.

“shit dude u just fukt up my floor u HOE” chuuya said angerily, crosing his arms. ‘but that is okey bc im hrorny as shit my dude, lets make the sekcs please”

“HOO HAH MCGEE” chuoya cried in the heet of passion. “YOURE REALLY TWIDDLIN MY FIDDLESTICKS PARDNER”

“LINE UP AT THE START” cyuya yowled as he crammed his massive length of grade-a all-beef organic farm-fresh sausage into chuuyas ass. the dick was so long it went thru chuuyas entire body and came ouf of his mouth then baCK up his ass and out again but thru his dickhole this time where it dislodged chuoyas dick out of the dickhole and back onto chuoyas body then went up into chuoyas dickhole and came out from his ass.

“fuck the start” chuuya grunted. it was hard to speak with all the dicc crushing his internal organs and cyuyas seed filling simulatenously all of his orfices. “imma finish” and finish he did, exploding into a massive tidal wave of MANnaise (like mayonaisse but man bc man juces… . wat im tring 2 say is there was alot of semen u guyes) also since it came out of chuuyas dick it tasted like fine wine mm slorp

chuoya and cyuya lapped up the delicious seed from the floor and they were so busy tasting the fruit of chuuyas supple loins that they didnt even notice when chuuya str8 up murdered them both with a fuckin glock.

“there can only be one bitchez’ he snarled at there corpses. and then he went right back to stroking his massive girthy horse cock like nothing had ever happend.

dazi was still ther. dazi liked to watch.

[thethcministry]

[sherimoonzombie]

🎂🎉🎂 HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAY to my screen brother Bill Moseley !!! 🎂🎉