I was going to wait but I *can't*/
You know what I was saying about November making me very silly? I wrote this yesterday. I know I said I was going to take a break from writing but I PHYSICALLY CAN'T, OKAY?
Title: Jesspha Brought This On Herself.
Fandom: Bandom (MCR)/Sesame Street
Word Count: 2,300
Rating: NO ONE SHOULD READ THIS FIC
Pairing: I don't want to spoil the fun.
Warnings: Will destroy your soul.
Disclaimer: LIKE I NEED ONE. If this actually happened I will EAT JESSPHA. The, uh, the fictional characters are obviously not my property.
Notes: Thanks to my fucked-up boyfriend for contributing some of the dialogue in between calling me bad names for writing it in the first place.
Summary: NO. NO. I JUST. NO.
"And - okay, we're done," the floor manager called, cameramen and women already stretching their legs, puppeteers popping their heads up and skulking away out of the studio in search of cigarettes and somewhere to be that wasn't underneath a plywood wall.
Frank flapped his arms by his sides. "Done? Already? I was just getting into that!"
A row of puppets lay discarded on the top of the plywood wall, and Frank eyed them with a sense of despondency. Puppets on their own looked so sad and neglected; the floor manager saw the direction of his gaze and shrugged. "Yeah, the runners deal with that."
"You're kind of destroying the magic of Sesame Street for him," Gee snorted, scrubbing at his teeth with a fingernail.
Frank looked back at the puppets again. Blue, hairy arms lay crossed over a blue, hairy belly, another guest star on the show who was probably more likely to appeal to the viewers than the horrific rendition of "Teenagers (Are What We'll One Day Be)" and less prone to needing fifteen million retakes because of getting the giggles.
"Oh Grover," he said sadly, "you were always my favourite."
By this point no one was really listening; there was some sort of argument going on about the correct venue for lunch and whether or not Mikey was a colossal pussy for being freaked out by Snufflelufegus (pointless argument, it was quite clear to Frank that he was and that he was only freaked out because an elephant touched him in the bad place as a kid or something).
Grover's sad face was looking up at him from the wall, all blue and wide-mouthed with those funny painted ping-pong-ball eyes. He looked lonely and defeated like that, Frank thought, and that was no way for a muppet to look. Even if it was kinda. Hot.
He edged over to the plywood wall just as everyone else apparently decided to drain out of the studio. Poor Grover, all alone, all defenceless and blue and fuzzy and long-armed.
Frank held the muppet up by his chin and stroked the top of his head gently, between the eyes. "Aww, Grover, I'm not gonna abandon you."
Grover's eyes looked up into Frank's, his big split mouth wide and grinning and empty of any obstructions.
"What's that, Grover?" Frank said, patting him on the head and tickling the underside of the muppet's furry chin. "You want me to fuck your mouth? You sick fucker." Frank glanced over his shoulder at the empty studio and shrugged to himself. "Well, Mr. Muppet, if you want it so bad I guess can I give you a little taste of the Little Frank."
He held Grover's head up with hand and twisted his button fly open with the other, wishing he'd worn a zip fly instead - he had already popped a chubby. "What's that, Grover? It's not so little? Aww, too kind, man."
The next step required some logistical challenges to be overcome: Grover's mouth flopped open and Frank had to stand on tip-toes to get his dick into that wide, gaping maw; then he had to use both hands to keep that big blue fuzzy mouth shut around it.
"Aw," Frank muttered, getting his hips into an awkward, jerky rhythm as he fucked Grover's face, "no one taught you how to give head right, did they? You should - ng - you should do a song about it on your show!" He tried to help by cupping the muppet's mouth closed more tightly around his dick as he rocked back and forth on his toes, his breath coming in short bursts. "It could go something like, 'giving head is easy to do, it's just like ass-sex but you don't need lube' - I know do and lube don't rhyme exactly, but that's called an assonance."
Frank stopped in his tracks. "Dude, I can't hear you when you have your mouth full."
He pulled his dick out of Grover's mouth and cradled it, hard and sensitive, in his own colourful hand. "Huh, yeah, it does have 'ass' in it." Frank narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "Ass … in …"
He picked up the muppet savagely, letting his dick stand perpendicular to his jeans, and turned Grover over the plywood wall on his tummy, his … his puppethole facing Frank, all warm and fuzzy and blue and a bit scratchy but totally inviting and clenchable.
Frank stroked Grover tenderly on his lower back. "I guess with all those guys fisting you all day you're pretty loose down there, huh?" he stuck himself in; it was like throwing a cocktail sausage into the Grand Canyon. "You fucking whore."
He got his hand around the muppet's lower body and squeezed it until Grover's puppethole fitted more snugly around his dick, saying, "Sorry, buddy, I know it's not really your fault. I didn't mean to call you a whore."
There was no sound but his grunts and the distant clang of sets being disassembled and rebuilt, and Frank closed his eyes, "Oh Grover, man … yeah …"
There were footsteps on the scuffed floor, hesitant ones, and Frank opened his eyes hastily.
"Dude, where did you … get … to …" Mikey stared at him for a full minute, his eyes big and round behind his glasses, a card cup of something hot wilting in his hand as he watched. Frank, not really wanting to lose his momentum, kept going. "Uh, Frank."
"What? Kinda busy here."
"… are you fucking a muppet?"
"Not just any muppet," Frank said proudly, reaching down to wave one of Grover's passion-limp blue fuzzy spindly arms at Mikey, "Grover, man. GROVER." But Mikey just went right on staring at him, the cup leaning more and more dangerously towards spilling. "WHAT? Do I interrupt you when you're fucking your brother, Mikeyway? Do I?"
Mikey rolled his eyes. "Whatever. We'll be in the, the guest canteen when you're done … violating a puppet, you freak."
"It's not violating," Frank said sulkily, giving Grover's back an affectionate pat as Mikey turned away, "He totally asked for it. MIKEY! HE ASKED ME TO."
With Mikey and his judgemental stare safely out of the way, Frank got through to the vinegar strokes pretty quick; something about the way Grover's fuzzy blue back humped and deformed around Frank's dick was just totally hot. Totally. Totally.
"Unh yeaaaaaah," Frank screwed up his face and came a good load right up inside Grover's great big puppethole. He wiped a few beads of sweat off his face - those studio lights had been pretty hot and the extra exertion didn't help - and pulled out, tucked his dick away.
Frank turned Grover back over and bent to give him a little peck on the head, because that was totally the respectful thing to do, and whispered, This will be our secret. But every time I see you on TV from now on, I'm totally jerking off."
He was leaving the studio when he realised that actually, it was going to be his and Grover's and Mikeyway's secret, and he broke into a panicked run.
Meanwhile, in a not-too-distant part of the same TV studio, Bob Bryar was lost.
At least, that was his excuse for sitting next to a fake trash can, hugging his knees, chewing the end of his thumb, and shooting the trash can nervous sideways glances.
The thing was, Oscar could be in there.
Intellectually, Bob knew full well Oscar was not real. Oscar the Grouch was just a funny Henson creation with big eyebrows and a puppeteer's hand up his ass. But some part of him was eternally four years old and kinda had a weird, faintly … Oedipal thing - was it Oedipal if you wanted to fuck a father figure? Or just Generally Sick? - for the grumpy green trash can-dwelling muppet.
So he sat by the trash can and debated with himself.
He was just going to lift the lid and see if they'd left the Oscar puppet in there, and then maybe he could assure himself it was just a heap of old green funfur and not a real … thing. Not really Oscar the Grouch with his rough voice and big eyebrows.
Bob chewed on his thumb a bit longer, hunched up like a little kid, which probably wasn't helping his mindset any. Did he really want to … hah, like Gee said, did he want to ruin the magic for himself?
He was still in an agony of indecision when Frank scuttled in, wild-eyed and conspicuously reeking of sex - Bob sat up guiltily and wondered what the fuck the little douche had been doing now.
"Have you seen Mikey?" Frank asked urgently, fumbling at his fly. This produced mental images that Bob really wasn't too keen on dwelling on.
"No."
"Uhhh. If you see him, don't believe a word he says - " Frank frowned and said, pointing at Bob, "aren't you meant to be in the guest thingy?"
"Aren't you?" Bob said quickly, sitting on his hands, trying to pretend that Frank was the one acting weird right now. Which wasn't so hard, as Frank actually kinda was.
"Uh. Yeah, just going there now. Are you - " Frank cut himself off and said, "Oooh, cool, Oscar the Grouch!"
"Come on," Bob said, getting up quickly, "let's go. They've probably sent, like, runners out to find us." He went to grab Frank's upper arm, but Frank was already leaning on the top of the fake trash can and drumming his fingers over the foam-rubber top. Bob hung back. There seemed something disrespectful about banging on Oscar's trash can.
"Okay," Frank turned away from the can and poked Bob in the arm. Bob glared at him, and Frank waggled his eyebrows. "You were totally stalking Oscar."
Bob went red. "Was not," he mumbled.
"You so were. You were stalking a puppet. I can see it on your face."
"Frank, you're insane. Shut up." Bob covered Frank's mouth with his hand as they left the studio, mostly because he didn't want to hear another word of what he was supposedly doing sitting next to a fake trash can on the set of Sesame Street.
But as he left he thought he heard - and it would haunt him in his nightmares for years to come - a gravelly voice saying with great and very sexual satisfaction, "Uhhhh that's right. Shit in my can, yeaaaah."
"GEE GEE GEE GEE GEEEEEEE," Mikey wailed, hurtling into Gee's dressing room like a bespectacled comet, sounding like a particularly exuberant jockey urging on a very reluctant horse, only a good deal more traumatised. "GEE SOMETHING TERRIBLE JUST HAPPENED."
Gerard jolted away from the mirror, where he was trying to remove some of the strata of TV make-up, and gave Mikey a concerned look. He sounded pretty distressed, and all sorts of terrible, terrible visions ran through Gerard's head like a high-speed film reel as Mikey whimpered, grabbed Gerard's arm and tried to put his brother between himself and the door.
"Whoa, what happened? Are you okay?"
"THEY TRIED TO TOUCH ME, GEE. THEY TRIED TO TOUCH ME IN VERY BAD PLACES."
Gerard tried to make himself not see red at this, and said, "Who? Who?", his make-up forgotten.
Mikey pawed at his arm and looked at him very serious, his eyes huge, and said, "Bert and Ernie, Gee. They were trying to groom me for puppet sex. They kept … saying things."
Sometimes, Gerard reflected, he thought he might be wrong to stand up for Mikey when people accused his brother of being a retarded flaky tweaker. "Mikey. They're puppets. Take less speed." He tried to pry Mikey's fingers off his upper arm before they could cut off all circulation and permanently cripple him.
"No, Gee, I'm serious, they, they, they said …" Mikey still looked horrified, "they said they were going to make me their bitch."
"They're. Puppets."
"TELL THEM THAT," Mikey yelped, ducking behind Gee again, trying to keep his brother between himself and the door. "Ohmygod they tried to touch my … my bathing suit area, Gee, they wanted to touch my dick."
Gerard would have slammed his head into the mirror if he hadn't been held back by Mikey's really painfully tight panicky grip on his arm. "Oh my god you are not allowed near a TV studio again until you stop tweaking."
"They offered me more speed if I let them bend me over and be a puppet," Mikey said in tones of deep and lasting horror, "and then they offered me candy and cofffeeeee and... paperclips and pigeons and ..." He even sounded like Bert when he said paperclips. Gee frowned.
"Mikey. Either you get your head examined or you admit that puppets did not just try to molest you."
"YOU HAVE TO BELIEVE ME," Mikey wailed, distraught. "They really were. Oh my god. I can never watch Sesame Street again."
"That was unnecessarily cruel," Bob said, laying down the orange puppet with a frown. "Practical jokes are supposed to be funny. I keep telling you that."
Frank put down the yellow puppet and crawled out from under the rug he'd been lying under. "The important thing is that no one is going to believe anything he says now."
"Uh, why is that important?" Bob brushed dirt from the studio floor off his jeans and despaired internally. He was supposed to be the one who told people not to do shit, not the one who ended up doing whatever fuckheaded weird thing Frank suggested.
"Never you mind," Frank said darkly. "Never you mind."
In the guest canteen, Ray Toro sipped from a big, hot mug of coffee, and wondered where the fuck the rest of his band had vanished to.
END
A/N: BE GRATEFUL THAT THIS BIT DIDN'T MAKE IT IN -
Apiphile: You want poking?
Apiphile: Frank's dick slips out of Grover's mouth and he jabs Grover in the eye
Apiphile: There's your damn poking.
Groaty: AND GROVER'S EYE FALLS OUT AND FRANK IS DISTRAUGHT
Groaty: thank you, that is beautiful and I feel a bit wrong now
Apiphile: OH JESUS I DO NOT WANT TO FINISH THIS SENTENCE
Groaty: ... oh my god
Groaty: EVERY HOLE'S GOAL
ETA: YOU WILL BE DELIGHTED TO LEARN THAT THIS NOW HAS A SEQUEL.
Title: Jesspha Brought This On Herself.
Fandom: Bandom (MCR)/Sesame Street
Word Count: 2,300
Rating: NO ONE SHOULD READ THIS FIC
Pairing: I don't want to spoil the fun.
Warnings: Will destroy your soul.
Disclaimer: LIKE I NEED ONE. If this actually happened I will EAT JESSPHA. The, uh, the fictional characters are obviously not my property.
Notes: Thanks to my fucked-up boyfriend for contributing some of the dialogue in between calling me bad names for writing it in the first place.
Summary: NO. NO. I JUST. NO.
"And - okay, we're done," the floor manager called, cameramen and women already stretching their legs, puppeteers popping their heads up and skulking away out of the studio in search of cigarettes and somewhere to be that wasn't underneath a plywood wall.
Frank flapped his arms by his sides. "Done? Already? I was just getting into that!"
A row of puppets lay discarded on the top of the plywood wall, and Frank eyed them with a sense of despondency. Puppets on their own looked so sad and neglected; the floor manager saw the direction of his gaze and shrugged. "Yeah, the runners deal with that."
"You're kind of destroying the magic of Sesame Street for him," Gee snorted, scrubbing at his teeth with a fingernail.
Frank looked back at the puppets again. Blue, hairy arms lay crossed over a blue, hairy belly, another guest star on the show who was probably more likely to appeal to the viewers than the horrific rendition of "Teenagers (Are What We'll One Day Be)" and less prone to needing fifteen million retakes because of getting the giggles.
"Oh Grover," he said sadly, "you were always my favourite."
By this point no one was really listening; there was some sort of argument going on about the correct venue for lunch and whether or not Mikey was a colossal pussy for being freaked out by Snufflelufegus (pointless argument, it was quite clear to Frank that he was and that he was only freaked out because an elephant touched him in the bad place as a kid or something).
Grover's sad face was looking up at him from the wall, all blue and wide-mouthed with those funny painted ping-pong-ball eyes. He looked lonely and defeated like that, Frank thought, and that was no way for a muppet to look. Even if it was kinda. Hot.
He edged over to the plywood wall just as everyone else apparently decided to drain out of the studio. Poor Grover, all alone, all defenceless and blue and fuzzy and long-armed.
Frank held the muppet up by his chin and stroked the top of his head gently, between the eyes. "Aww, Grover, I'm not gonna abandon you."
Grover's eyes looked up into Frank's, his big split mouth wide and grinning and empty of any obstructions.
"What's that, Grover?" Frank said, patting him on the head and tickling the underside of the muppet's furry chin. "You want me to fuck your mouth? You sick fucker." Frank glanced over his shoulder at the empty studio and shrugged to himself. "Well, Mr. Muppet, if you want it so bad I guess can I give you a little taste of the Little Frank."
He held Grover's head up with hand and twisted his button fly open with the other, wishing he'd worn a zip fly instead - he had already popped a chubby. "What's that, Grover? It's not so little? Aww, too kind, man."
The next step required some logistical challenges to be overcome: Grover's mouth flopped open and Frank had to stand on tip-toes to get his dick into that wide, gaping maw; then he had to use both hands to keep that big blue fuzzy mouth shut around it.
"Aw," Frank muttered, getting his hips into an awkward, jerky rhythm as he fucked Grover's face, "no one taught you how to give head right, did they? You should - ng - you should do a song about it on your show!" He tried to help by cupping the muppet's mouth closed more tightly around his dick as he rocked back and forth on his toes, his breath coming in short bursts. "It could go something like, 'giving head is easy to do, it's just like ass-sex but you don't need lube' - I know do and lube don't rhyme exactly, but that's called an assonance."
Frank stopped in his tracks. "Dude, I can't hear you when you have your mouth full."
He pulled his dick out of Grover's mouth and cradled it, hard and sensitive, in his own colourful hand. "Huh, yeah, it does have 'ass' in it." Frank narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "Ass … in …"
He picked up the muppet savagely, letting his dick stand perpendicular to his jeans, and turned Grover over the plywood wall on his tummy, his … his puppethole facing Frank, all warm and fuzzy and blue and a bit scratchy but totally inviting and clenchable.
Frank stroked Grover tenderly on his lower back. "I guess with all those guys fisting you all day you're pretty loose down there, huh?" he stuck himself in; it was like throwing a cocktail sausage into the Grand Canyon. "You fucking whore."
He got his hand around the muppet's lower body and squeezed it until Grover's puppethole fitted more snugly around his dick, saying, "Sorry, buddy, I know it's not really your fault. I didn't mean to call you a whore."
There was no sound but his grunts and the distant clang of sets being disassembled and rebuilt, and Frank closed his eyes, "Oh Grover, man … yeah …"
There were footsteps on the scuffed floor, hesitant ones, and Frank opened his eyes hastily.
"Dude, where did you … get … to …" Mikey stared at him for a full minute, his eyes big and round behind his glasses, a card cup of something hot wilting in his hand as he watched. Frank, not really wanting to lose his momentum, kept going. "Uh, Frank."
"What? Kinda busy here."
"… are you fucking a muppet?"
"Not just any muppet," Frank said proudly, reaching down to wave one of Grover's passion-limp blue fuzzy spindly arms at Mikey, "Grover, man. GROVER." But Mikey just went right on staring at him, the cup leaning more and more dangerously towards spilling. "WHAT? Do I interrupt you when you're fucking your brother, Mikeyway? Do I?"
Mikey rolled his eyes. "Whatever. We'll be in the, the guest canteen when you're done … violating a puppet, you freak."
"It's not violating," Frank said sulkily, giving Grover's back an affectionate pat as Mikey turned away, "He totally asked for it. MIKEY! HE ASKED ME TO."
With Mikey and his judgemental stare safely out of the way, Frank got through to the vinegar strokes pretty quick; something about the way Grover's fuzzy blue back humped and deformed around Frank's dick was just totally hot. Totally. Totally.
"Unh yeaaaaaah," Frank screwed up his face and came a good load right up inside Grover's great big puppethole. He wiped a few beads of sweat off his face - those studio lights had been pretty hot and the extra exertion didn't help - and pulled out, tucked his dick away.
Frank turned Grover back over and bent to give him a little peck on the head, because that was totally the respectful thing to do, and whispered, This will be our secret. But every time I see you on TV from now on, I'm totally jerking off."
He was leaving the studio when he realised that actually, it was going to be his and Grover's and Mikeyway's secret, and he broke into a panicked run.
Meanwhile, in a not-too-distant part of the same TV studio, Bob Bryar was lost.
At least, that was his excuse for sitting next to a fake trash can, hugging his knees, chewing the end of his thumb, and shooting the trash can nervous sideways glances.
The thing was, Oscar could be in there.
Intellectually, Bob knew full well Oscar was not real. Oscar the Grouch was just a funny Henson creation with big eyebrows and a puppeteer's hand up his ass. But some part of him was eternally four years old and kinda had a weird, faintly … Oedipal thing - was it Oedipal if you wanted to fuck a father figure? Or just Generally Sick? - for the grumpy green trash can-dwelling muppet.
So he sat by the trash can and debated with himself.
He was just going to lift the lid and see if they'd left the Oscar puppet in there, and then maybe he could assure himself it was just a heap of old green funfur and not a real … thing. Not really Oscar the Grouch with his rough voice and big eyebrows.
Bob chewed on his thumb a bit longer, hunched up like a little kid, which probably wasn't helping his mindset any. Did he really want to … hah, like Gee said, did he want to ruin the magic for himself?
He was still in an agony of indecision when Frank scuttled in, wild-eyed and conspicuously reeking of sex - Bob sat up guiltily and wondered what the fuck the little douche had been doing now.
"Have you seen Mikey?" Frank asked urgently, fumbling at his fly. This produced mental images that Bob really wasn't too keen on dwelling on.
"No."
"Uhhh. If you see him, don't believe a word he says - " Frank frowned and said, pointing at Bob, "aren't you meant to be in the guest thingy?"
"Aren't you?" Bob said quickly, sitting on his hands, trying to pretend that Frank was the one acting weird right now. Which wasn't so hard, as Frank actually kinda was.
"Uh. Yeah, just going there now. Are you - " Frank cut himself off and said, "Oooh, cool, Oscar the Grouch!"
"Come on," Bob said, getting up quickly, "let's go. They've probably sent, like, runners out to find us." He went to grab Frank's upper arm, but Frank was already leaning on the top of the fake trash can and drumming his fingers over the foam-rubber top. Bob hung back. There seemed something disrespectful about banging on Oscar's trash can.
"Okay," Frank turned away from the can and poked Bob in the arm. Bob glared at him, and Frank waggled his eyebrows. "You were totally stalking Oscar."
Bob went red. "Was not," he mumbled.
"You so were. You were stalking a puppet. I can see it on your face."
"Frank, you're insane. Shut up." Bob covered Frank's mouth with his hand as they left the studio, mostly because he didn't want to hear another word of what he was supposedly doing sitting next to a fake trash can on the set of Sesame Street.
But as he left he thought he heard - and it would haunt him in his nightmares for years to come - a gravelly voice saying with great and very sexual satisfaction, "Uhhhh that's right. Shit in my can, yeaaaah."
"GEE GEE GEE GEE GEEEEEEE," Mikey wailed, hurtling into Gee's dressing room like a bespectacled comet, sounding like a particularly exuberant jockey urging on a very reluctant horse, only a good deal more traumatised. "GEE SOMETHING TERRIBLE JUST HAPPENED."
Gerard jolted away from the mirror, where he was trying to remove some of the strata of TV make-up, and gave Mikey a concerned look. He sounded pretty distressed, and all sorts of terrible, terrible visions ran through Gerard's head like a high-speed film reel as Mikey whimpered, grabbed Gerard's arm and tried to put his brother between himself and the door.
"Whoa, what happened? Are you okay?"
"THEY TRIED TO TOUCH ME, GEE. THEY TRIED TO TOUCH ME IN VERY BAD PLACES."
Gerard tried to make himself not see red at this, and said, "Who? Who?", his make-up forgotten.
Mikey pawed at his arm and looked at him very serious, his eyes huge, and said, "Bert and Ernie, Gee. They were trying to groom me for puppet sex. They kept … saying things."
Sometimes, Gerard reflected, he thought he might be wrong to stand up for Mikey when people accused his brother of being a retarded flaky tweaker. "Mikey. They're puppets. Take less speed." He tried to pry Mikey's fingers off his upper arm before they could cut off all circulation and permanently cripple him.
"No, Gee, I'm serious, they, they, they said …" Mikey still looked horrified, "they said they were going to make me their bitch."
"They're. Puppets."
"TELL THEM THAT," Mikey yelped, ducking behind Gee again, trying to keep his brother between himself and the door. "Ohmygod they tried to touch my … my bathing suit area, Gee, they wanted to touch my dick."
Gerard would have slammed his head into the mirror if he hadn't been held back by Mikey's really painfully tight panicky grip on his arm. "Oh my god you are not allowed near a TV studio again until you stop tweaking."
"They offered me more speed if I let them bend me over and be a puppet," Mikey said in tones of deep and lasting horror, "and then they offered me candy and cofffeeeee and... paperclips and pigeons and ..." He even sounded like Bert when he said paperclips. Gee frowned.
"Mikey. Either you get your head examined or you admit that puppets did not just try to molest you."
"YOU HAVE TO BELIEVE ME," Mikey wailed, distraught. "They really were. Oh my god. I can never watch Sesame Street again."
"That was unnecessarily cruel," Bob said, laying down the orange puppet with a frown. "Practical jokes are supposed to be funny. I keep telling you that."
Frank put down the yellow puppet and crawled out from under the rug he'd been lying under. "The important thing is that no one is going to believe anything he says now."
"Uh, why is that important?" Bob brushed dirt from the studio floor off his jeans and despaired internally. He was supposed to be the one who told people not to do shit, not the one who ended up doing whatever fuckheaded weird thing Frank suggested.
"Never you mind," Frank said darkly. "Never you mind."
In the guest canteen, Ray Toro sipped from a big, hot mug of coffee, and wondered where the fuck the rest of his band had vanished to.
END
A/N: BE GRATEFUL THAT THIS BIT DIDN'T MAKE IT IN -
Apiphile: You want poking?
Apiphile: Frank's dick slips out of Grover's mouth and he jabs Grover in the eye
Apiphile: There's your damn poking.
Groaty: AND GROVER'S EYE FALLS OUT AND FRANK IS DISTRAUGHT
Groaty: thank you, that is beautiful and I feel a bit wrong now
Apiphile: OH JESUS I DO NOT WANT TO FINISH THIS SENTENCE
Groaty: ... oh my god
Groaty: EVERY HOLE'S GOAL
ETA: YOU WILL BE DELIGHTED TO LEARN THAT THIS NOW HAS A SEQUEL.