#mags gets ALL the bitches

[xxplastic-cubexx]

idec anymore. sending this out into the wild

[music-orthemisery]

GET THEM, PATRICK

[magdeleinas]

remembering that time in highschool when one girl in our friend group who had been bullying me since primary school got upset that I was finally standing up for myself and my other friend was gently trying to keep the peace asking me to stop treating her "like that" and in front of our group, including the one bullying me, I said "if she's going to act like a dog, then I'll treat her like one until she starts behaving"

[dxckgrxsonx]

ella. beloved. #4 i beg. your pick on who with 💛

Title: You - 0. Shitty Motel Bathroom - 1. Pairing: Jason Todd x (F) Reader. Words: 1.4k Warnings: SMUT 18+ - Mentions of Violence & Injuries. Prompt: 4) slow sex while one or both are injured (bonus points if it’s after a battle or after they’ve patched up each other’s wounds). Notes: Mags!! hi my love. this one got away with me and i only realised when i was 700+ words in and hadn't gotten to the smut part. whoops! hope you enjoy <3

****

You can’t scrub the dust out of your tactical suit.

Water sloshes up your wrists and you flinch, the long, thin gash spreading up your forearm stinging something fierce and annoying. If Alfred knew you were washing both yours and Jason’s suits in a fucking motel bathtub he’d string you up in Wayne Manor as a warning to others.

Sucks to be you, Alfred, you’ll never find out.

The second you submerged the rough fabric in the tub the colour changed. Clear, to murky, to downright swamp water; three days worth of blood and dirt and grime hooked into the fabric and refusing to come free. If your throat wasn’t bruised from a strangulation attempt hours earlier you’d tip your head back and scream.

Sprawled out on the shitty motel bed Jason naps.

Digging bullets from his body turns consciousness headlong into drowsiness. Or maybe it was blood-loss. You’re no stranger to patching up Hood when things deviate from his carefully calculated plans, and as such, you’re scarily aware of his tolerance to pain.

He says its a side-effect of the Lazarus Pit–his body deadening the nerves in response to physical trauma–you say he’s full of fucking shit because no one can sit through hours of forceps pulling bullet spliters from three different layers of skin, fat, and muscle before his souped up body knits closed the wounds.

Jason just grinned, eyes glowing such a vibrant green you’d asked if he was actually a Lantern.

The smile dropped off his face so fast you ended up with whiplash and you had to move even faster to avoid a furious headbutt. But you couldn’t escape his forty-seven minute rant about how Green Lantern is a stupid bitch.

Now, Jason lays silent like the grave, although you’ve caught his trigger finger flexing in his sleep. You hope whatever he’s dreaming about isn’t nasty enough to follow him back into wakefulness.

You give up trying to clean your suits, instead planning to fire them off into space to hide the evidence of your bathtub wash failure; in your head, you’re pretty sure Roy could invent something close to a cannon strong enough to launch things into the stratosphere, although he’d call it something stupid like: GCPD’s outstanding response to finding evidence.

Stepping back into the room you move to check on Jason and pause.

It’s a thin sheet covering his lower half–so far from the colour white you don’t want to think about it–and he’s hard.

Desire blooms against the palms of your hands at the way his cock tents the fabric.

At your staring, Jason wakes with an annoyed huff.

“Can you not stare at me?”

“I don’t know, can you not get a hard on and distract me?”

Jason locks up, then tries to sit up, but his body fails immediately, giving right out from under him. His hand tries to cover where he presses up against the sheets but it doesn’t make much of a difference. All you can focus on now is the thickness of him, of how part of his length still spills out around his hand.

You swallow and it hurts.

“You’re not helping.” Jason states when you don’t look away. “So unless you’re going to help, leave so I can get things under control.”

Your eyebrow climbs up, “Get things under control how? Your dominant arm is fucked and I clearly remember pulling a bullet from your hip, and thigh. The only thing you should be getting under control is your shitty reflexes.”

Memory surges, Jason’s body curling in on itself, leg dragging heavy and limp behind him. His helmet hid the look on his face, but you’ve been fighting beside him enough times now to read other parts of him. He was hurt, in pain, and he still tackled the body pressing you into the dirt, hands clamped tight around your neck.

“I should’ve let them choke you to death.” He says, still hard.

Your mouth quirks up, “Too late for that now. Want some help with that? I could use a stress reliever.”

Jason’s eyes search your face, the weight of his attention something physical, “You’d be doing most of the work.”

“Yeah but I’ll be on top for once.”

He sighs, settling back against the thin pillows, “If this bed breaks, you’re the one telling reception.”

“Bet.”

****

Jason pants desperately underneath you, sweat clinging to the strands of hair falling over his forehead. He won’t take his eyes off the way your pussy swallows his cock, inches sinking into your perfect wet heat and twitching.

Planting your feet, you feel the fierce burn in your thighs and fuck yourself on his length.

Beneath you, Jason moans, abdomen flexing. His hands reach for your hips on reflex and he whips back with a flinch when his wound splits and pulls, displeasure detonating across his face so quick you want to laugh.

“Fuck.” He whines. “I want to touch you so bad.”

Smoothing a palm across his chest you pinch at his nipple, “Only you wouldn’t be happy with being asked to lay there and let me fuck myself on your dick.

Your pace slows to a gentle rock of your hips, clit grinding at the base of his cock. Your own wetness gathers there, and you can feel the swell of Jason’s chest whilst he watches you smear your own juices across your swollen bundle of nerves.

“Ugh. So fucking pretty.” He says. “You’re beautiful.”

The praise has heat splashing wild, near uncontrollable, up your throat, and you lean down to kiss Jason. As soon as your lips brush he tips his head in such a way you sigh softly, the pressure of his mouth making your head spin. Your lips part ever-so-slightly and Jason–never one to waste an opportunity–licks into your mouth.

Pulling back you rest your foreheads together and despite his injuries, Jason raises his hips and fucks up into you.

“Shit.” You breathe. “Be careful, Jay. Last thing I want is you fucking up your stitches.”

Being as close together as you are, Jason shifts a free hand and uses it to trace the finger shaped bruises around your throat. Fury flashes bright and brilliant in his eyes, mouth pressing into a frown the longer he stares; the longer he watches you wince at the mere pressure of his hand.

“I’m sorry you got hurt.” He whispers, voice so low you barely catch the undertow of guilt. But you sink your fingers into the meat of it and want to weep. “I hate it when you get hurt.”

The rock of your hips falters, emotion slipping heavy across your shoulders, you cave inwards, unable to fully hold its weight. If you had been paying more attention, it never would have happened anyway and the knowledge that Jason–your perfect Jason–so full of emotion, blames himself for it?

You could start to cry and never quite stop.

“Don’t do that.” You try to say, but your voice is so swollen with emotion it hardly makes sense, “It’s not your fault. Please, Jason.”

His head shakes, hips picking up a gentle rhythm, setting the pace where you left off despite the pull at his body. Pleasure flares in your cunt, over your heart. Jason invokes such a strong sense of fondness at the middle of your chest it drives you near mad.

You’re so close to falling. Nerves strung taut, maybe a little frayed at the softness of him, but you’re ready for it; ready to tip off the edge and tumble into his capable hands.

“You’re everything.” Jason says, and he closes his eyes so you can’t see him. Something critical inside you revolts at the fact you can’t look him in the eye. “You mean everything.”

“Can you look at me?” You ask, trembling and holding yourself at the precipice of bliss. “Please can I see you, Jason.”

His eyes flutter open, a raw, violent kind of devotion curling around that mesmerizing green and you snap, shaking and squeezing at his cock, hand desperately flying to your clit to rub at it, feel it twitch fat against the pads of your fingers.

Jason watches you so carefully and you call his name, beg him to come with you, and he wouldn’t dream of denying you a damn thing.

****

[karvokr]

trigger finger itching

you crossed a line you didn’t mean to. now he’s showing you what happens when curiosity turns into disobedience.

masterlist pairings: toji fushiguro x reader content warnings: mdni, unprotected piv sex, creampie, gun play ( :DDD ), rough sex, degradation, spanking, overstimulation, dom toji, yes the gun is loaded (it's toji)

You weren’t trying to be disrespectful.

You just got curious– restless after three nights without him, left alone in his apartment with nothing but the low hum of the fridge and a half-empty ashtray to keep you company. You knew better than to go through his stuff. You knew better. But the duffel in the back of the closet was practically calling to you. The one with the reinforced zipper– the one that smelled like oil and gunpowder and something sharp underneath, something that always clung to his skin long after he walked through the door. The smell of him.

You told yourself it was about honesty. About not wanting to be left in the dark while he disappeared on jobs that came with bruises and bloodstains. 

But maybe you were just bored. Maybe you wanted to get under his skin a little. Maybe you missed him more than you wanted to admit.

You didn’t take anything. Just looked. Touched the grip of the handgun he never lets you near. Slid the slide back the way you’d watched him do a dozen times, just to feel it click. Ran your fingers over the edge of a knife that looked plain but felt worn, familiar, like it had stories. You counted bullets without really meaning to. Took out the mag. Put it back.

At least, you thought you did. Careful– just not careful enough.

He didn’t say anything when he got home. Just dropped his keys, kicked off his boots, and kissed your temple like everything was normal. Like he couldn’t tell something was off.

It wasn’t until hours later– when the TV was still humming low and he was cleaning up for the night– that he unzipped the bag. You heard it before you saw it. The pause. The rustle. The shift in his breathing.

“Where the fuck’s my mag?”

Low. Sharp. Not a question. Just the kind of statement that makes your blood run cold. That’s when your stomach dropped.

And by the time you turned around– trying to look innocent, like maybe you hadn’t just gone digging through a bag of weapons like it was a fucking souvenir shelf– he was already looking at you. And he already knew.

The cold metal presses against your jaw.

Not hard enough to bruise. Not yet. Just enough for you to feel the weight of it. Toji’s finger isn’t even on the trigger, but you feel like it is. You feel like he could wreck you with nothing but a twitch.

“Open.”

Your lips part before your brain catches up. Before you can ask if he’s serious– as if the glint in his eyes didn’t already tell you everything you needed to know.

He drags the muzzle lower, lets it rest against your tongue. Doesn’t push. He watches, eyes half-lidded, as your lips close around the barrel of the pistol.

“You gonna tell me why you were touching my shit?” he murmurs, voice rough, dangerous in its calm.

You try to speak, but it’s hard with the barrel resting against your tongue. Your eyes flick up to his– sharp, dark, unreadable. He cocks his head like he’s waiting for an answer. But it’s a trick. You know it. He doesn’t want words. He wants compliance.

So you hold his gaze. Let your mouth close tighter around the muzzle.

He chuckles. Low. Pleased. “Look at you,” he says, dragging the gun slowly out of your mouth, saliva clinging to the barrel. “All that attitude, and now you’re drooling like a fuckin’ bitch in heat.”

He tosses it onto the bed without breaking eye contact. You hear the soft clink of it hitting the sheets as he grabs your hair and yanks you up from your knees like you weigh nothing.

Then he flips you over the edge of the bed.

No time to think. No time to beg. Your chest hits the mattress, ass in the air, panties shoved down with one swift pull that leaves them tangled around your thighs. The air hits your cunt– slick, swollen, already soaked– and he growls behind you.

“Didn’t even need to touch you,” he mutters. “You just needed the threat.”

His hand slides between your legs and you gasp as two fingers slip in with no resistance. He curls them deliberately, making you jolt, then withdraws– slow and cruel– only to slap your pussy with his wet hand.

You cry out, half from shock, half from the heat that pulses straight up your spine.

“Oh, you like that?” he taunts. “Should’ve known. Little brat with a death wish. Bet you creamed the second you heard me askin’ about my mag, huh?”

“Toji– fuck–”

The slap lands again. Sharper. He pushes the tip of his cock against your entrance, teasing, barely there.

“Say please.”

You hesitate. Another slap. Your thighs tremble.

“Say it.”

“…Please,” you gasp, breath ragged. “Please fuck me.”

He drives in with a single thrust. Brutal. Deep. He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t ease you into it. You choke on the sound that tears out of your throat as he fills you, as your body stretches around him in one dizzying second.

“Goddamn,” he groans, leaning over you, voice thick and ragged in your ear. “This pussy’s fuckin’ perfect. Always so tight when you’ve been bad.”

You whimper– his cock dragging out, slow, making you feel every inch– then slams back in hard enough to make the bed frame creak. He sets a pace that’s merciless. Each thrust is a punishment, every slap of skin against skin a correction.

And then, you feel it. The weight of the gun again. Pressed lightly to the back of your neck.

“You gonna behave now?” he pants, hips never slowing. “Or you need me to turn the safety off?”

The answer is pulled out of you in a moan. Your fingers clutch the sheets. Your legs shake. Your walls flutter around him as the heat in your core coils tight, dangerously close to snapping.

Click. 

The sound of the safety going off.

Your breath catches, but you don’t move. Can’t. Then you feel cool metal sliding down the curve of your spine, slow and deliberate, until the muzzle settles against the small of your back, right above where his cock’s still buried deep inside you.

You whimper– helpless, aching– and he groans at the way your body clenches around him.

“Yeah,” he growls. “That’s it. You feel that? That’s what happens when you get curious.”

He presses the barrel in just a little more– not enough to hurt, but enough that your whole body tenses like it could– and slams into you harder, his thrusts rough and relentless.

“Fuck, look at you,” he growls. “Taking it so good. Creaming all over my cock like you wanted to get caught.”

You do. You did. You just didn’t know it until now.

“Toji– I’m gonna–”

“Go ahead,” he hisses, pressing the gun harder to your skin. “Cum on it. Cum while I’m still balls deep in this tight little cunt.”

You fall apart around him– loud and messy– hips jerking, toes curling, vision going white at the edges. Your orgasm hits like a freight train and you feel everything, every throb, every inch of him pounding into your overstimulated walls.

But he doesn’t slow down.

If anything, it spurs him on– makes him rougher. Deeper. His pace is brutal now, each thrust dragging another pathetic whimper from your throat. You're twitching beneath him, legs trembling, brain static– caught between overstimulation and the raw, sharp ache of being held open and fucked through the aftermath.

“Shit, look at you,” he grits out, voice low and feral. “Still squeezin’ me. Like you don’t want me to stop.”

You can’t answer. Can barely breathe. Toji leans over you, chest pressed to your back, one hand wrapped tight around your throat while the other keeps the gun in place– still pressed to your skin.

“Gonna make a mess in you,” he growls, teeth grazing the shell of your ear. “Gonna fuck you full so you remember next time– what happens when you touch what’s mine.”

His hips stutter. You feel it coming– feel the way he digs in deeper, harder, chasing his release with low, broken groans that hit somewhere between anger and awe. You think the gun is going to break skin.

Then he snaps– hips slamming flush, cock pulsing as he spills into you, hot and thick, his breath ragged against your neck. He holds there for a moment, buried deep, breathing hard. His hand softens on your throat. The weight of the gun lifts off your back. You hear it hit the sheets with a soft thud.

He stays pressed against you for a second. Lets his breath slow against your shoulder. Lets his fingers trace the curve of your side.

And just when you think he might say something soft, something human, something like sorry–

“Touch my shit again,” he murmurs, voice low and satisfied, “and I’ll fuck you with the pistol and make you say thank you.”

im getting my rose toy out. hope u enjoyed <3

[be-the-glenn-to-my-maggie]

I just reread The Hunger Games for the first time since I was 12 in preparation for reading Sunrise on the Reaping. Here is everything I had totally forgotten about since I am now 25:

-that Peeta lost a fucking lEG to the mutts and has a fake leg for the rest of the series

-they had fucking night vision sunglasses in the arena

-Rue and Katniss were only allies for a day :(

-The mutts slowly eat Cato for the entire night because he was wearing invisible body armor, like that scene was horrific. It's bad in the movie, it's like 2000% worse in this book. The entire night, Peeta is bleeding out while Cato slowly gets chewed. He fights the mutts for an hour before he goes down, I can't even imagine.

-Thresh was chilling in a random field part of the arena we never see for the whole Games

-I finished the book and still don't know Foxface's name.

-Gale is not annoying in book 1, but he's so annoying in book 2. Like the entire first part of the book is Katniss worrying about shit, things getting way worse in District 12, and Gale being a little bitch. I don't know why I can't get past his utter inability to make space for her experience in the games.

-Kinda funny Peeta gets a debilitating leg wound twice in one Hunger Games

-I TOTALLY FORGOT ABOUT MADGE AND I'M OBSESSED WITH HER??? SHE GAVE THE PIN LIKE WHAT AN ICON.

-That the disabled boy from District Nine lives for so long.

-That Seneca Crane barely exists, all he does is get mentioned twice, fuck up IMMENSELY, and get murdered.

-That Katniss's prep team were just as if not more important in humanizing the capital citizens as Effie. God, that scene in octavia where they dress Katniss in her wedding dress for her interview. Cinna has talked to them because last time they were crying and making Katniss console them about her death. This scene when Octavia cries, Venia sends her out. Flavius makes it mostly through then starts crying and Venia finishes by herself silently, something that the prep team never is. Then she grabs Katniss' hands and tells Katniss it was an honor to make her look her best. I fully cried. They seem silly and foolish when we meet them before, but they see Katniss as a person who deserves better. As soon as they were corrected by Cinna, they immediately change their behavior and treat her as he asked. It's just such a human moment for them and for Katniss, who has always seen them as they see her, uneducated and strange.

-That Suzanne somehow convinced us frosting is the same as camoflage.

-That all the capital food sounds so good.

-I love the moment with Peeta being bad at hunting with Katniss because he's loud in the woods. I think it's just her most empathetic moment. It's like, the biggest contrast between him and Gale, right, he doesn't fit in her world, and she's annoyed with him. Instead of taking it personally he tells her to have him collect herbs and berries instead and even makes a joke about it. I think she even thinks like some guys would've taken it personally but not Peeta. It makes me think about how Gale would've taken it so personally. And then right after she thinks about how he went along with her and was making concessions for her and agrees to go back to the cave instead of sleeping in a tree like she wants. It's just so empathetic of her and she's like, a character who thinks she's so unempathetic. But her thoughts always are.

-How literally obvious it was all the victors were working to save Katniss and Peeta and Katniss was still like what's the ulterior motive here huh? Do we all just think Peeta is the best, because that makes sense. Just funny, like it's almost exactly the same as the first book where as the reader it's hard to see Peeta as anything but truly head over heels for Katniss, whereas she just thinks he might be trying to kill her.

-Mags is barely there and yet I remember her so well. Same with Wiress honestly.

-Didn't remember Finnick and Johanna being as good of friends as they were. When they called for each other on the beach, or checked in with each other- I am desperate to know their friendship backstory.

-Also desperate to know how Haymitch and Johanna's convo went when he told her she had to fetch Wiress and Beetee in order for Katniss to trust her, what a guy. What a conversation to be a fly on the wall for.

-Cashmere and Gloss, what is up guys, worst careers of all time there, that cornucopia attack was so bad. We're sneak attacking WIRESS??? Please.

-Even after Haymitch explains what happened during Beetee's plan, I still have no idea. Wire is cut. I assume the plan won't work. But Beetee actually only wanted to fry the forcefield. Why separate them all like that? So confused. ALSO WHERE DID PEETA GO AND HOW DID HE END UP THERE? Somewhere off fighting Brutus but not with Finnick, I am still baffled by this scene. Katniss sees Finnick and Enobaria come out of the jungle together at one point and I am endlessly fascinated by that, and by Enobaria as a character. Enobaria girl, what is up with you? Not in on the revolution but so ready for the capital kids to compete in games, please tell me more.

-They rewatch old games at one point: has no one noticed you can't watch game 10? I wonder about this all the time.

-Totally forgot about Chaff and Seeder and I miss them so much??? Seeder deserves the world okay. AND STOP KILLING HAYMITCH’s BEST FRIENDS. I wonder what changed, when Haymitch originally suggests Chaff and Seeder to Katniss as allies. But later he forces Finnick and Johanna on her, not them. Why? I assume they were in on the revolution?

- I forgot about the female morphing who dies for Peeta. Her death was so beautiful, and the way he sent her off really is what Katniss sees in him that she can’t see in herself: that deep down goodness. She sent Rue off that way first.

-Also still has me giggling kicking my feet that the entire rebellion plan hinged on keeping Peeta alive because Haymitch said Katniss wouldn’t work with anyone if he died. All these adults trying to stage a revolution and Haymitch slams his hands on the war table to be like "You gotta save her boyfriend or the revolution is over."

-ALSO giggling kicking my feet over Katniss suspiciously trying to figure out why everyone is keeping Peeta alive and she’s pretty sure it’s because they all see how good he is, like no girl you’re down bad.

-Then Haymitch is tragically proven right by Katniss’ attitude when she gets to 13. She said she needs him, then is instantly proven right lol it's not funny.

-(this is dark but how hard do we think Gale tried to get ANY merchants out of 12, because I think it wasn’t hard AT ALL).

-Barely any of Catching Fire takes place in the arena at all. I kept updating my mom, showing her where I was in the book and telling her I still wasn't at the arena yet.

-Gale drove me inSANE in Mockingjay. He was being normal, helpful even and then he would make some absurd comment to Katniss about her feelings for him. Dude. You are talking to the walking embodiment of PTSD, she's tOO BUSY FOR YOU. This clearly is not the time. And it would be so condescending, like "I wouldn't stand a chance if this happened" like telling her about her feelings and how she'd react oh it made me mad.

-Also, again, obsessed with Katniss's prep team. Oh my god I love what they represent. Gale arguing with Katniss over how she can defend them?? Infuriating. Like, you weren't there dude what do you know? He was just so condescending. Also Ocatvia being so young really hurt me. Posy telling her she'd be beautiful any color she was and Gale acting like they were normal to help Katniss, ugh, top five Gale moments, more of the prep team.

-Squad 451, especially Pollux and Castor, I love you and miss you. Icons I forgot about all of them literally. Castor's story of how it took five years for their family to buy Pollux's way out of the sewers??? How many more people are like that in the capitol? What did Pollux do to become an avox? I want to know more.

-I especially forgot and missed Messalla. There were so many more capitol rebels who were working on the front lines than I think I remember, and they highlighted that silly comment Messalla made about the apartment value right before all the skin was melted off of him like a human candle. Horrifying. I really like that they made it clear everyone suffers under a regime like that, even if it's different, and solidarity is important.

-Something about the way Haymitch and Katniss talk to each other just gets me. Them both accusing each other for being the reason they lost Peeta and then forgiving each other? Also the way he like, in the background staunchly defends and works to help Peeta recover while Katniss is like wandering around or in district 2? Obsessed. They are like the same person so they are simultaneously able to hold each other to a higher standard than they hold themselves, but also able to forgive each other more than they can forgive themselves. You get what I'm saying???

-Johanna and Katniss roommates training montage when? Forgot all about it, I don't even remember liking Johanna that much the first time. But the way she so matter of factly cuts to the root of the problem every time; telling Katniss about her and Peeta's time being tortured when Katniss asks, answering Peeta's questions about why Gale wouldn't have believed he'd be like that if he hadn't seen it himself: that he's the evil mutt version, not Katniss. I was like oh, the value of that honestly for Katniss who cannot read into anything to save her life, and for Peeta who can't tell what's real, is monumental.

-Also Gale made that comment about feeling the same type of anger that Peeta was when Katniss was in the first Hunger Games; wild. Like, that comment took me so aback I had to read it multiple times. Like, he couldn't really be telling her he was feeling homicidal rage at watching her kiss another boy in the TELEVISED MURDER GAMES. When I catch that man. He's a great character and he's realistic and honest, but god he just says all the wrong things all the time.

-Darius the Peacekeeper. Talk about a guy that haunts the narrative, I feel like this guy was in the back more than Katniss' dad. Peeta's description of his death will stick with me forever now, I had forgotten it!! Thanks!!!

This is getting too long and I have so many thoughts but: rereading childhood books that hold up is a WILD ride. Recommend me your everlark fanfictions, or even hayffie. I'm in a THG vibe now.

[threeacttragedy]

Entry 17: The One About All the Hot Air

Oh, hey, hey, hey – what is that over there?

No, not that –

That!

Ah, fuck.

Is that what I think it is?

Yeah, yeah, it looks like some sort of hot air balloon.

Ugh, it’s that fucking wannabe Wizard! Get that manipulative shit-fuck outta here!

Seriously, don’t let it set foot on land. It’s not welcome on this side of Oz.

Someone release the flying monkeys! Like, now. Knock it out of the sky.

Wait, I thought the Wizard liked green. This weirdo has a red balloon.

Bitch, I didn’t say it was the Wizard; I said it was a wannabe Wizard.

Oh, no wonder it’s steering that balloon like a fucking clown.

Hell, I don’t even think we need the monkeys. That idiot is going to crash and burn itself straight into the glass walls of the Emerald Palace.

Well, you know what they say when you start throwing stones in a glass house…

It is slightly amusing (and a tad concerning) to me that children are always led to believe that the villain of “The Wonderful Wizard of Oz” is that bitch of a Witch of the West when the worst character traits are actually portrayed by the Wizard himself. And, by “worst character traits,” I mean that he was a master manipulator who conned an entire city into believing he held some form of great power.

Did you know that in the original story the Emerald City wasn’t really that green? Sure, it was made from green glass and emeralds, but the Wizard required everyone to wear green-colored glasses so that everything appeared greener than it actually was. Weird, that. And, even more weird, people bought it! “Here, put these glasses on and you’ll see everything exactly the way I want you to see it.”

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m fully aware “The Wonderful Wizard of Oz” is a work of fiction, but the idea that people can be easily manipulated – especially by someone with “power” – is not fiction.

That’s what today’s piece of “hot air” is about – fandom manipulation and the power of suggestion. And who better to manipulate an entire fandom than the media? It’s unfortunate that I have to give the media power in this story – and even more unfortunate that I have to give it to rag-mags and social media – but the reality is information is power, regardless of whether it’s misinformation. In fact, MIT Sloan did a study in 2018 demonstrating how false information spreads through social media, namely, Twitter, six times faster than true information. Disturbing, right? I don’t even want to know what the going rate for misinformation is in 2025.

And, of course, since I opened today’s story with a visit to the Land of Oz, we may as well take a day trip over to Australia. Remember how I told you Australia deserved an entry of its own? Well, this is it. No, not really. I did say this was a day trip, not a sleep-over, so it’s not going to be chucked full of shiny bracelets or ways to “keep a good girl down.” It’s just our starting point today.

In my first entry, I briefly described what brought me into this fandom. It was something Luke said – and not really what he said, but how he said it – that left me intrigued. He was being interviewed on the Bowral red carpet by “Gretchen from the Philippines.” Yes, that’s literally how she introduced herself! Could I instead refer to the nice lady by her real name (Gretchen Fullido)? Sure, but “Gretchen from the Philippines” is far more fun. Plus, it sounds kind of whimsical. Any ways, Gretchen (from the Philippines) asked Luke if, “in real life,” he’d support friends-to-lovers. Luke’s response was, well, a bit jumbled, which was what sparked my curiosity because his previous answers that day were, for the most part, articulate: “I would – I would support friends – I feel like it’s not something that – that I have in my li – that I resonate with – that I’ve experienced. But, you know, if my – if my friends wanted to explore a relationship with one their friends, go for it. I’ll support it.”

Something in the way Luke answered that question was like suddenly being able to see the forest for the trees. At that moment, I was convinced Luke had always been in love with Nicola, and everything else that went on during that particular red-carpet event (and thereafter) simply christened the USS Lukola. However, that comment by Luke – and a subsequent one he made in New York – would result in the addition of a lot of trees to our enchanted forest.

Now – I apologize – we need to borrow a hot air balloon, preferably one that can travel through time, and jump forward to November 5, London-time. I promise, we will return to Oz momentarily.

Oh, fuck.

What now?

That ridiculous faux Wizard is right behind us. I thought I told you to send in the monkeys!

Dammit, you said we didn’t need them! I left those fuckers back in Oz.

Well, umm, I think we might need them now.

Why??

Uhh, do you see those four-legged beasts on the ground chasing our balloon?

Oh, you mean those coyote-like creatures?

Yeah, but we’re not in the Americas – and those ain’t coyotes…

Ah, here we are: November 5, Claridge’s, London. This was the evening Nicola attended the Harper’s Bazaar Women of the Year awards. We’re only stopping in real quick to steal a piece of the speech Nicola gave that evening. Okay, got it! Let’s get the fuck out of here!

The part of the speech I wanted to share was this: “I did a six-month press tour for Bridgerton, the show which I love, and I’m so proud of. The amount of inappropriate questions I got asked about my appearance, about my relationship…”

Hold up. Relationship? What relationship?

Did she say “relationship” or “relationships?”

Does it fucking matter?

Well, I guess not. But what does it mean?

I could tell you what I think it means… Wait a hot-air-balloon-minute – where the fuck have you taken us? I told you we needed to go back to April 21, Aussie-time. This looks like Soho in January.

Shit, sorry. Let me fix that. Here we go…

>>> 

Umm, hey, where’s that weird little red Wizard? I swear it was just behind us…

Eh, probably got stuck in Soho, hahaha. Guess it missed its exit.

Do you think that’s a good idea?

Yeah, sure. It’ll be fine…

We’ve returned to April 21, Bowral, Australia. Now, at this point in the timeline, World Tour interviews were already well underway. In fact, the first two parts of EmEdits on YouTube are entirely pre-Australia interviews, making up roughly 6 ½ hours of screen time. I’m not the least bit surprised that “Gretchen from the Philippines” asked Luke what his thoughts were on “real life” friends-to-lovers. The chemistry between Luke and Nicola was hard to ignore.

The Australian red carpet also introduced the hand holding, which – if we took another magical mystery tour over to May 9, Italy – Nicola and Luke agreed was a sign of “love.” I suppose I could buy the excuse that one or both had so much anxiety they needed the other’s hand to remain calm on the red carpet. But, nah, I wouldn’t buy that at all – for one very specific reason. When Luke and Nicola were seen leaving (I believe) the Milton Park Country House on April 23, Luke instinctively reached for Nicola’s hand as they were descending the steps. Why? This reflex by Cool Hand Luke was as natural as a pregnant woman touching her stomach. I ask again – why?

There’s only one answer.

It’s the answer that fits with the Claddagh ring. It’s the answer that fits with the side jaunt to Galway. It’s the answer that fits with their natural chemistry, the hand holding, the canned “shared experience” and “unique relationship” responses, the playful sexual innuendos. It’s the answer that fits with Luke’s “the best foundation for love is friendship” bracelet. It’s the answer that fits with Nicola’s remark about “[t]he amount of inappropriate questions I got asked…about my relationship…” It’s the only fucking answer that makes sense.

But, the real kicker is, why don’t people believe that is the answer?

Why is it so hard to believe that Luke and Nicola could be in a real-life relationship?

That’s easy – because the Man Behind the Curtain told us so.

Who is the Man Behind the Curtain? Well, that’s also easy. It’s collectively the rag-mags and the social media creators on the prowl for a following. It’s the spread of misinformation at its worst and it’s so incredibly easy to do with, say, a pair of green-colored glasses.

Like I said, “…put these glasses on and you’ll see everything exactly the way I want you to see it.”

There was one major plot twist that came out of the World Tour, and you already know what that is. The seed was planted with a New Year’s Eve kiss, fertilized with blurry pictures, a compulsory hallway hug, and copycat photos, and encouraged to grow with a bit of junk news and a lot of social media innuendo. Now, I’m not saying the video and photographic evidence that was presented was fabricated; I’m simply suggesting the narrative that came out that evidence was skewed. The media, namely, social media creators, pushed us to plant Lutonia trees while Luke’s actions (i.e., not acknowledging the existence of Lutonia) told us to “pay no attention to the Man Behind the Curtain.”

Uh, so, what you’re saying is we shouldn’t have left that wannabe Wizard in Soho?

Ah, shit! I forgot about that fucker!

The unfortunate thing about the Lutonia narrative was that it was bolstered by insinuation that Luke would never be interested in Nicola. Now, whether these remarks were deliberately planted, or they were simply seedpods carried away by a storm, they were not overlooked by Lukolas – or Nicola. In fact, Nicola herself brushed upon it in her Harper’s Bazaar speech: “The amount of inappropriate questions I got asked about my appearance…” Yes, I’m referring to the suggestion that Luke preferred “brunettes” over “blondes.” Somehow this narrative was conveniently supported by the existence of – lo and behold! – the brunette “friend of a friend” Antonia, who happened to be slender. Again, whether it was intentional or not, the push by, initially, social media creators (and later gossip rags) to link Luke to Antonia inadvertently called the blonde in our story – Nicola – fat. I refuse to dance around that word because it is exactly what this disgusting narrative implied when it chose to compare Antonia to Nicola. Regardless of whether these gossipmongers “corrected” themselves by replacing “thin” with “brunette” and “fat” with “blonde,” the implication was that Luke would never be interested in Nicola because she had thick blonde hair. This was incredibly upsetting and confusing to many Lukolas because it was contrary to Luke’s behavior towards Nicola throughout the World Tour (and in Bridgerton behind-the-scenes clips).

I decided months ago that Luke was incredibly transparent. And, by that, I mean he’s terrible at keeping secrets. Luke himself admitted his “tell” to this was pulling at his ear – now go watch the World Tour with that information in mind. It’ll give you something to do, at the very least. Luke’s sincerity is also why the blonde versus brunette nonsense just doesn’t take flight for me. Any ways, as I hinted at earlier, Luke’s comments on the Bowral red carpet and his later comments in New York City about friends-to-lovers would – again, unfortunately – give the Man Behind the Curtain ammunition to debunk any real-life relationship between Luke and Nicola. Luke was quickly labeled as being “…dismissive of something ever happening between him and Nicola…” Those are literally the words The Tab used in an article dated May 22 to explain Luke and Nicola’s differing commentary about real-life friends-to-lovers. In fact, the article is titled, “Luke Newton has revealed the reason he’d never date Bridgerton co-star Nicola Coughlan.” Oddly – but not really given the source – Luke never actually said he would never date Nicola. But that fact didn’t stop it from becoming a theme of the World Tour – Luke didn’t believe in friends-to-lovers therefore he would never date Nicola – even though, by the end of the tour, Luke’s stance on this had seemingly changed. That’s not to say the rag-mags misquoted Luke – they didn’t – but the narrative they coiled around his words attempted to shut down the idea that Luke and Nicola would ever date in real life because Luke wasn’t interested. But what Luke was saying was that he believed in love-at-first sight. “I actually don’t think friends-to-lovers is something that happens in my life. If I meet someone, I know immediately.” Now, take that statement with the fact that Luke has repeatedly stated he remembers everything about the moment he met Nicola.

The above examples of gossip and innuendo are simply par for the course. The media manipulates facts all the time – whether it be through social media chatter or rag-mags putting their own spin on ordinary commentary – but this type of manipulation is not what puts the fandom in danger of itself. In fact, most of the gossip and innuendo that took root during the World Tour would have dissipated almost immediately after it ended – if it hadn’t been for Papsmear.

Yeah. That was disastrous.

Come to think of it, it was awfully convenient, too, don’t you think?

Absolutely. And you know what else was convenient? That little wannabe Wizard was –

Oh, yeah, I heard that, too! That clown has been trying to hand out green-colored glasses ever since!

Yep. Tried to give me a pair and I told it to go fuck itself and its little glass cat, too. I mean, they weren’t even name brand glasses. Fake ass, bitch.

All jesting aside, if you haven’t noticed already, I do, on occasion, use my writing to call out the fandom, usually as a whole. I mean, we are in this together, right? Actually, no; we ceased being Collectively Delulu after a few unsavory characters were bitten by the Hunter’s Moon and followed Nicola through the streets of New York and London. There was a major – and rather unexpected – shift in the fandom when the rabid Jakolas appeared from the dark corners of our enchanted forest. And I’m sure you’ve realized at this point in my story that I have one particular – oh, shit, I just realized I don’t even know to which fandom our wannabe Wizard belongs. Ruh-roh. Regardless, that motherfucker is in my peep sight because it is a perfect example of how fandom manipulation has reached a new level of toxicity.

Typically, I don’t care what part of the fandom you’re on. My general attitude is, to each their own. If you’re a Jakola and you find yourself spending an average of 15 minutes each week reading my Lukola blog, I applaud you for peeking outside of the den hole. Best not let Alpha find out, though. It’s all in good fun, right? I often find myself getting a good laugh from Jakola stories, especially when they theorize on the Woman Behind the Curtain. Question, though – did you find her? In all seriousness, if I didn’t consider Jakola and Lutonia perspectives, I would be borderline Conscientiously Stupid, now, wouldn’t I? After all, the desire for knowledge is what ultimately gave our Scarecrow his brain.

However, what I don’t find “in good fun” is when social media creators prey on more than one side of the fandom under phony pretense, namely, that they “just want Nicola to be happy.” Oh, these Cowardly Lions may argue that they’re simply being “neutral” – and, yes, I’m sure some instances of this do exist – however, neutrality does not embrace openly ridiculing one fandom over another, especially on a platform that is touted by its owners as being a “safe space” for everyone. The problem with these so-called “neutral creators” is that they’re only here for social media engagement – the clicks and the giggles – and they defect to the other side when the going gets tough. If you, too, take issue with this kind of creator, be soothed in knowing that when you play two sides, you find yourself with two-times the number of enemies.

What makes these so-called “neutral creators” – actually, let’s just call them the “Defectors” – so poisonous to the fandom is that they are made from the grease drippings found at the bottom of the barrel of the Conscientiously Stupid. The Conscientiously Stupid are one thing – they are the ones using their platforms to spread misinformation because they choose to ignore exculpatory evidence (i.e., they’re headstrong in their beliefs) – but the Defectors are typically the ones creating the misinformation and feeding it to the Conscientiously Stupid and then hanging them out to dry when the information proves to be false. The Conscientiously Stupid who refuse to “lose the battle” then resort to bullying (more so than usual) the Sincerely Ignorant of an opposing fandom. And in defense of their Sincerely Ignorant comrades (or simply because they’re sick and tired of the Conscientiously Stupid preventing anyone from having nice things), the Fact Finders – unceremoniously, I might add – have taken their own place on the battlefield (oh, yes, they are absolutely your tactical commanders). Now, the entire fandom is at war with each other – all because some wannabe Wizard – a Defector – convinced people to look through a pair of shiny, green-colored glasses. More than once.

Is it appropriate – or perhaps a bit catty – to put “ceasefire” here?

Ah, yes, well, uh, we have found ourselves a bit far from Oz at this point, haven’t we?

I suppose – but we are trying to help Dorothy find her way back home, and at least we now have an idea as to how she got lost.

Maybe one day we will get her back to Kansas.

Yeah, maybe.

Oh, silly me! I forgot to sneak in a sly reference to Dorothy’s third companion – the Tin Man! He’s perfect for the end of our story. You know, in the book, the Wizard was just an ordinary man who stumbled into his Ozian existence on a magnificent hot air balloon and took advantage of the power that Emerald citizens bestowed upon him. Yeah, yeah, yeah, the Wizard preyed on the naïve using deception and the power of suggestion and invoked fear in anyone who dared to question his authority –

Uh, where are you going with this?

Give me a minute!

Like I said – shit, where was I? – Oh, yes, the Wizard was just an ordinary man, and ordinary people are flawed. We all make mistakes. This is where our Tin Man comes in as he represents love and empathy. Yes, empathy; the ability to put yourself in someone else’s shoes, to understand and forgive, to take into consideration someone’s redeeming qualities –

You know that Wizard defected in his hot air balloon before taking Dorothy home, right?

Wait, what?

Okay, okay. It was Toto’s fault but the Wizard sure as shit didn’t come back for her!

Hmm, you’d almost think Toto knew the Wizard’s true colors all along…

“Au revoir, Wiz.”

[visceravalentines]

small town, sunday night

Bo Sinclair x AFAB!Reader

a discarded scene from a longer fic. Bo's pretty sure by now you know who you belong to, but he oughta make sure, just in case. on ao3 here if you wanna.

2.4k words. porn with plot if you squint. extremely dubious consent. Stockholm syndrome. forced exhibitionism, voyeurism, vaginal fingering, emotional manipulation. tried out something new where the narration is written more in Bo's voice and i'm interested to see if that works for you or nah so lmk.

The whole family’s gathered in the den on a Sunday night. It ain’t tradition, not really, it’s just that if everyone’s gonna get together it’s gonna be on Sunday. 

Nobody felt like cookin’ and he don’t trust you ‘round the knives yet, so Les picked up some fried chicken from the Kroger and Bo said grace and you behaved yourself like a nice young lady, and now everybody’s sittin’ in front of the television drinkin’ beer and watchin’ football like some kinda all-American family. 

He’s got you sat on his lap in a sundress that belonged to some other bitch before you. It don’t fit you right, barely covers your ass, but that’s fine by him. His brothers keep eyeing you like you’re the skin mag by the cash register. He'll let ‘em look; in fact, he wants them to look. Plus it freaks you out, makes you press yourself against his chest in search of protection and boy, if that don’t make him wanna laugh out loud. He’s all too happy to oblige, wrappin’ you in his arms and whisperin’ sweet sugary bullshit in your ear. You’re servin’ yourself up to him on a silver platter and you don’t even realize it. 

He snags the six-pack off the side table and hands it to you, watches you wrestle a beer from the plastic ring and pop the tab for him without being asked. 

“Good girl,” he says, and kisses your cheek when he takes the can from you. You're bein’ such an angel today that it’s got him nostalgic for that bitch with the bad attitude. He wonders if she's gone for good or if he could dig around in that pretty head of yours and find her. “You want one?” 

You hesitate. He watches you do the math. You know by now you can’t get somethin’ for nothin’, but apparently you think you got plenty to give because you nod quietly. 

“G’on.”  He dangles the six-pack in front of you and lets you pick one for yourself. He watches the way you set your lips on the rim of the can, watches your throat bob as you swallow. Your gaze shifts uncertainly to him and he winks at you. You almost—almost—give him a shaky little smile. 

You adjust yourself in his lap, tug on your dress, try to get comfortable. He rests his chin on your shoulder and waits for you to settle. He likes the smell of his soap on your skin, even if it makes him miss the animal stench of you from before. Bringin’ you home was a good call. You clean up sweet and so far you’ve been learnin’ your lessons real well. Shit, he’s almost proud of you. 

Once you’ve mellowed out, sippin’ on your beer and pretendin’ this is where you wanna be, he slides his hand up your thigh, fingertips twitching at the hem of your skirt. He watches you frown and glance down at his hand and then back up at the TV like you think you can ignore him. He pushes your skirt up an inch or so and bites back a smirk when you shift and squeeze your knees together, shooting an anxious glance in the direction of his brothers. 

“Somethin’ wrong, baby?” he whispers. You answer with your eyes, give him this pleading look that makes him want to tear that dress off you right here, right now. “You’re alright. Watch the game.” 

Reluctantly, you turn back to the TV with this blank expression on your face that tells him he has your full attention. He moves his hand between your legs and gives your waist a hard squeeze when you stiffen. When you glance at him again he treats you to an ice-cold smile. 

This is a test, girl. Better hope you got a shot at passin'.

You’re bare beneath the dress ‘cause what would you need panties for, and he worms his hand between your thighs until his fingers find that soft, warm center of you. You jerk like a mare tryin’ to shake off a fly, but you don’t make a sound. He probes until his middle finger slips like silk into your slit almost up to the second knuckle and Jesus, girl, you’re so wet it makes his mouth water. This is why he never listens to you, because you don’t even know that you’re lying when you do it. 

He eases his finger out of you and back in deeper, watches your lips part but no sound come out. He does it again and your lashes flutter like a doll’s. You’re sittin’ still as a statue for now but he’s gonna break you. Promise. 

“You been so good, baby girl,” he murmurs into the shell of your ear. His thumb prods at your clit and you strangle the life out of a gasp as it tries to sneak into the room. “Wanna make sure you know how much I appreciate you behavin’ yourself.” He rubs that sweet spot in lazy circles and savors the way your back arches slow, so slow, tryin’ so hard to keep it a secret that he’s finger-fucking you ten feet from his family. 

You think they don’t know, huh?  You think they don’t see you’re nothin’ but a slut?  Maybe you oughta think a little less.

You get that look on your face like you’re determined to take back control of yourself but you belong to him, girl, that body is his. When he pushes another finger into your pussy your toes curl on the arm of the chair and this little moan makes it out alive and both his brothers were raised huntin’ so they know what a creature in distress sounds like and all the sudden, you’re the Sunday evening special. 

“Well looky here,” Les says, and wolf whistles. 

Your eyes go wide and you cover your face with your hands and Bo can’t help it, he breaks into a grin. He thought he’d wrung all the shame right outta you by now, but apparently he thought wrong. 

You peer over your fingers at him with tear-filled eyes and this time, you might just be cryin’ for real. You look so betrayed it makes him sick, makes him wish he could take it back just so he can do it to you again. 

“’S alright, baby, they’re just lookin’,” he coos.

“We are most certainly lookin’,” Les agrees, and ordinarily Bo would smack him, but the way your lip quivers makes his dick twitch. 

“Pretend they ain’t even here,” he says low in your ear. “Unless you like that sorta thing. You like bein’ watched, honey?  You some kinda slut?”

He already knows the answer even if you don’t. He can tell by the way that sweet little cunt keeps spasin’ around his fingers like somethin’ dying. And you don’t deny it, just keep beggin’ him to stop with those big doe eyes. He don't gotta work hard to pull your focus back to that ache between your hips. All it takes is a little spit on his thumb, a little less friction on that poor swollen clit, and you’re melting in his hands. 

“I’m just showin’ ‘em, baby,” he whispers. “Just makin’ sure they know you’re mine.” 

He collects your wrists with his free hand and pulls them down to expose your face. You make a sound, some kinda protest, but you don’t fight him off like you used to. That girl’s been buried six feet deep inside you and you’re all that’s markin’ her grave. 

“Hey Vince. Do me a favor?”  Bo tosses his head towards the camera sitting on the coffee table where he left it, a brand-new roll of film ready and waitin’ inside. His twin snatches it up without question and puts his goddamn gift to good use. 

You’re fightin’ it hard, makin’ him work for it, but he knows your body better than you do by now. When you cum, you try to hide it, bitin’ your lip and screwin’ up your face. But you can’t keep that pussy from grippin’ him tight, throbbin’ like your life depends on it. You squeeze his hand. A whine sneaks out of your throat and he catches it in his mouth, swallows it whole, savors it to the last.

You slump against his chest, let your head roll into the hollow of his shoulder because it's got nowhere else to go. You're soakin’ his shirt, soakin’ his hand. You're made of water, girl. Maybe that's why you make him so goddamn thirsty. 

“Well she’s a delight,” Les says, slaps his thighs, stands up. “I'm gonna head home ‘n jerk off unless you gents need anything.”

He has the gall to reach for one of the Polaroids Vince is layin’ out on the coffee table like playing cards and Bo hisses through his teeth. 

“Leave it. I ain't handin’ out souvenirs.”

Les rolls his eyes and slinks off like a stray mutt. Vincent looks for a second like he might make a case for himself, but thinks better of it and rightly so. He hands Bo the stack of photos and creeps back downstairs where he belongs and now it's just you and him and the TV static. 

You're stiff as a board in his arms but you're clingin’ to his shirt with all you got so which is it, woman? He kisses your temple and starts shufflin’ through the pictures. Mama's favorite son ain't immune to the charms of the pornographic and most of them center on the view up your skirt, the curve of your ass, your juice shinin’ on his knuckles. 

But there's one, just one, of your face lookin’ up at him. With these big, round eyes fixed on him and your hands cupped together in front of your chest. You look like you're prayin’, girl. Like you're worshiping him. 

He licks his lips, looks down at you. You’re starin’ straight ahead into space, head on his chest, tits swellin’ against the bodice of that dress as you breathe deep in and out. He can tell you're searchin’ for the way back to that place you used to go, safe and warm without him. 

You can't find it. It ain't there anymore. All you got is what you got.

“Can we go to bed?” 

He’s surprised you’re speakin’ to him. Your voice is low and rough from the tears. You don't look at him until he tucks his finger beneath your chin and tilts your face up. There's somethin’ bright and broken in your eyes like glass. 

“Please.”

He hates givin’ you what you want, doesn't want you gettin’ the wrong idea about who's in control here. He can't be spoilin’ you any more than he already has. But he prizes that look of relief and gratitude you give him when he's generous. That little furrow between your brows that melts away when he's good to you. 

“Sure, baby.”

There it is. You slump against him beneath the force of your relief and fuck you for the way his hands move to hold you without him thinkin’ about it. 

He don't carry you to bed. You're not a goddamn princess no matter what you might think of yourself. But you drop that dress that ain't yours to the floor and crawl naked into his sheets and when he climbs into bed beside you, you inch your way over ‘til you're pressed up against his ribs. 

He can barely hear you breathin’. You're hardly even there. The old you would be rippin’ into his stomach, thrashin’ fit to snap your own spine. This new bitch, though, she’s manageable. Sweet, even. 

Probably you don't mean for him to hear it but something like a sob sneaks out of you and it gives him butterflies. He rolls onto his side and slings his arm around you. 

“Don't cry, now. You're alright.”

You shrink into him, make yourself small and bite-sized. You need him so bad and he knows it, figures you’re startin’ to figure it out too. What would you do without me, huh?

“Was I too mean, baby?” You choke on those tears and he bites his lip. “I'm sorry…you forgive me?”

You whimper, can't commit. It ain't your fault you're stuck tryin’ to make sense of it all, ‘specially with him feelin’ you up like he is. He can't keep a straight face, grinnin’ into the back of your neck. “I just got carried away, showin’ off my girl.” He pushes his hips against your ass. “You are my girl, right?”

A breath shudders through your body. You arch your back, don't even know you're doin’ it. He wraps his hand around your throat like a collar, nice and snug, squeezes just a little to get you back on course. “I asked you a question. You got an answer for me?”

“Yes,” you whisper. 

“Yes what?”

“Yes, I'm your girl.”

Your voice breaks and whew, he's got blood rushin’ every which way. “Tell me you forgive me.”  

You don’t respond. He tightens his grip just beneath your jaw, brings his lips to your ear. 

“Fuckin’ answer me, huh?  You forgive me?  I gotta hear it, baby doll, or I’ll be up all night.”  

His fingers dig into your flesh. He can feel you shaking like a leaf in the wind with fear or fury or something else he can put to use. He’s grindin’ against that ass, just about ready to flip you facedown and fuck the sense back into you, when you finally give him what he wants. 

He always gets what he wants, baby. Haven’t you figured that out by now?  

“I forgive you,” you rasp, and he loosens his grip and feels your tits press against his arm as you suck in air. 

“Ain’t you sweet,” he says, and he presses a kiss to the side of your head, and when he rolls back an inch or two you scoot right along with him until your back is flush to his chest again, and that’s fuckin’ hilarious, huh?  Just can’t get enough. 

He lays in the dark and feels your breath on his knuckles, feels it hitch, feels it slow, feels it mellow out and go feather-soft, and before he knows it, he’s out like a light. 

You wear him the fuck out, girl. 

[ryemackerel]

[1/4] TORD - CREATURES FROM MUM’S BASEMENT

Tom: “So first of all we have our drummer, the og drummer ever since we started the band. Always loves to smash shit and yell at the top of his lungs, and if you got someone that loves to destroy everything and anything around him, then you got yourself a good drummer.

This fucker pounds on that shit like hellfire. Talk about a song with a really-REALLY fast beat, tell Tord to drum, like, “Hey, bitch. Go drum for this song,” and what do ya know? He’s already on his feet SPRINTING for that drumset.

He’s a great guy. Keeps the energy of the group really going. You’ll never get tired recording a song when you got Tord around. Unless you’re tired of his ass, then that’s another story, lol.

And yeah. I ran out of nice things to say. Uh. Fuck this who am I kidding I was lying he’s a total prick. Complete asshole and SMELLS like an asshole.”

Tord: “Sounds like someone’s self-projecting.”

Tom: “Oh and SPEAK OF THE DEVIL. Here you go guys, here is Captain Stinkass Bitchass Motherfucker himself.”

Tord: “Says the fucker that stunk up and clogged the toilet last night.”

Tom: “EH EH EH! LET ME FINISH! Self-proclaimed “bodybuilder” but actually rots in his room reading hentai mags all-fuckin-day and couldn’t even get a girlfriend once in his lifetime.”

Tord: “You’re saying this shit and I’m sitting here with *THREE* boyfriends now.”

Tom: “Make that two once I dropkick your ass out of here, mother fucker.”

Tord: “Love you too, stupid bitch.”

[magnifiico]

He’s allowed this. I’ve allowed this; I’ve permitted this—

Practically a mantra on repeat behind the king’s stoic facade, bleeding through the faintest cracks of that composure: the clench of his jaw, the flex of his fingers in their neat tuck behind his back. He reminds himself that the musician is only here on his own authorization, that he’s oh-so-graciously welcomed a foreigner knowing full well he’d not be a threat. And he wasn’t. He isn’t. But something about that knowing spark in his dark eyes…

Well, as king, it wouldn’t be right to exercise violence against his people—much less a guest. One man to another, however, and Magnifico would rather enjoy seeing just how long that smirk on his face would last… Hm. Imagination did wonders; he’d survive this exchange yet.

“Oh, I’m not worried,” he answers in kind, appraising the man with a pointedly slow once-over to truly sell his point. His smile reflects that of the other, and his head cants just slightly to one side with a silent provocation of his own: What, in anything I’m seeing in front of me, is there to be worried about? (Though whether this is to convince himself or his guest, he declines to consider.)

Then, as if breaking from a spell, King Magnifico clears his throat, rolls his shoulders back as he listens to the entertainer’s grandiose claims. A thoughtful noise thrums right into the first syllable of his reply: “Certainly. Who am I to stop you from spreading the one thing you know best?” There, lurking in layers of his tone is the sentiment of The only thing you know. “I only ask that you not take it too personally, should the people of Rosas find no reason to remember you once you’ve taken your leave.”

AH ... check ... and mate . it would seem his defiance has certainly reached its target , if the king's reaction is anything to go by ... for what is it but a man summoning a crumbling composure ? boy , does he love getting under someone's skin ... just for fun . truth be told , he has little clue as to why he's being so foolish . it's not like his own security guards can shield him from the punishment of royalty , wherein the word of magnifico goes above his own , so long as he graces his territory ... but since the king has deigned to grant him such a ... warm welcome , how could he ever deprive him of his sincere gratitude ?

pinche cabrón . canalla . hijo de pu -

wait wait wait . he'd best stop every curse that rattles away in his mind in the musician's mother tongue . whatever it is he's looking for in the king , it certainly cannot be obtained by breaking character . it is no different than stepping into the role of a fool in a film ... this is easy .

❛ tch ... bueno , su majestad , how can i wear out a welcome that's been scarcely given to me ? you know , you should be thanking me . after all , we are not enemies , so you can stop clutching that pretty little crown of yours so tightly . not everyone is out to rob you of ... well , your most precious treasure , ❜ ernesto says , gesturing with one hand at magnifico , a sly little smirk upon his lips .

❛ but . everywhere i go , people want for entertainment and refreshment for their souls . your people are no different , and that is why i am here , aaaaall the way from mexico . you see , i am here to inject just a little bit of life into this lovely little island , which ... may i just say ... is nothing short of paradise . i can readily see why you are so proud . indeed , one has to wonder why a king so proud of his achievements would feel so perturbed by the presence of an outsider ... after all , i am simply a celebrity , señor . a mere aficionado of music and art . ❜

[dreamsteddie]

A while ago now, before I even had this blog and was writing in as anonamous, I had submitted this fic idea thing for Slick Sunday and I wish I could find it so I could reblog it today for March Mating Madness because it was about Steve getting bitched and I'm still thinking about it.

The basic presmise was that after going through the bitching process Steve's dick doesn't resead and shrink like it's supposed to and he's super self consious about his body because of it. He meets John and Argyle who run a very taseful Queer skin mag and ask him to be one of their models.

Steve doesn't think anyone is going to be into that but says what the hell and does a shoot with the. He becomes their most popular model and continues working with them for a while. It builds his confidence and makes him feel more at home in his body.

Eddie is obsessed with Steve, who never shows his face in the pictures, and buys multiple copies of all the issues he's in. They meet on accident at the gocery store and start dating but when they go to have sex for the first time, Eddie immedietly freaks out because he knows that body and feels like a total creep. He leaves and Steve thinks he got freaked out by his body the way he always worried alphas would.

They make up and it's all good but this idea haunts me. If I was an artist I would be drawing all of Steve's photos in a zine format.

@stmarchmm

[echo-of-the-eye]

Things in sunrise on the reaping that fucked me up:

chapter 5. just. ending of chapter 5.

mags was haymitch's mentor and now I'm even sadder about catching fire (actually this whole book makes catching fire so much worse)

lou lou. what did they do to that poor child

ampert:( poor beetee

EFFIE!! effie and haymitch met (mostly by accident) right before his games. and she's kind. still brainwashed and full of propaganda but she's still kind in a way the others aren't. this adds so much to their relationship

they reuse the trackers!? like the ones that were in dead children!?

"sure, I'll be your sister" KILL ME NOW

the continuing dehumanization of the tributes. THE FUCKING CAGE!??!?!!! haymitch being told to show of his scar from the injury that almost killed him (having to pull down his pants to do it. he's sixteen). before and after photos of naked children that are used for the grade of university students

maysilee's refusal to let herself be dehumanized

ALL THE LUCY GRAY MENTIONS!! THE SONGS!! HAYMITCH REALIZING SNOW KNEW LUCY GRAY! FINDING HER GRAVE

(also snow still being hung up on his situationship from 40 years ago and taking it out on a child ...which he does again with katniss 25 years later. like chill out dude. "she seems to loves you" bitch lucy gray did love you! but you broke her trust and probably fucking murdered her! and was a shitty toxic possesive boyfriend anyway)

seeing haymitch fight and rebel so hard against the games cause he thinks he has no chance of surviving and has nothing to lose... knowing that HE DOES and his family are going to die

and then the building DREAD as he returns to twelve wondering how it's gonna happen. when he fed the candy to lenore dove... I knew

when they started singing the old therebefore at the funeral... broke me

haymitch pushing everyone away for their safety and being so so alone (including katniss' parents! if he hadn't would he have been part of her life? could he have been like an uncle to her?)

the editing of the games so that no one knew what really happened until haymitch told them AFTER THE WAR

THE EPILOGUE!! haymitch talking about katniss and peeta CALLING THEM HIS FAMILY! saying katniss is like him but luckier. finally getting to see a world where there's no sunrise on the reaping...

all the additional context this gives the original trilogy: haymitch calling katniss sweetheart, knowing her parents and where the pin came from, mags wiress and beetee lore, (beetee has only had one plan ever and no matter how many times it doesn't work he will try again), plutarch (what is his deal, what made him want to stop the games so bad, is he actually just that sympathetic to the districts? what's his stake in all this?), knowing that people have tried to stop the games and start a rebellion many times, haymitch raising geese in the epilogue...

[rei-ismyname]

Magneto kneels to Cyclops

All of Utopia is having a funeral when long time frenemy and the most dramatic man in the world arrives. He's contrite and even polite to everyone not named Charles Xavier. Magneto is here to see Scott.

Scott orders everyone to attack (and I love that they have Magneto tactics, but only one kind? Should be Magneto protocol 37B or something) so Mags immediately takes his helmet off as a show of good faith. 'My sword at your feet' - the action of a beaten enemy or a vassal to a ruler.

Chuck gets his Admiral Ackbar on, interestingly while using his powers. It wasn't a trap; does that mean Chuck was lying? Did he know that Mags was here to replace him, to push him further down the totem pole of importance? He's particularly stubborn here, insisting that Magneto is 'rotten to the core.' Mags ends up being very close to Scott and, aside from a few secret murders, a valued member of the team.

Magneto refuses to fight and Scott wants to hear him out.

I don't know if this is some secret code word that sets Chuck off, but Magneto plays him like a fiddle. 'This thing of ours' is a mafia reference lol, and they make it sound gay as hell. Chuck pushes back on the idea that the world doesn't revolve around the loser husbands. His attack looked like it hurt - I wonder where it was on a scale from 1 to holocaust beam. He utterly fails to keep his cool and looks like a fool very publicly. Mags is certainly saying what Scott wants to hear, but he does end up walking the walk.

I'm inclined to think that Chuck's authority and ego being threatened are at least factors. He's definitely accustomed to being the unquested leader except he's not that anymore. He was dead for a while and he burned a lot of bridges with his unethical telepathy. Scott very clearly orders him to stand down but is ignored. His condescension isn't convincing anyone.

Except for his refusal to fight, every word he's said has been to Scott. Sure, he's playing to the crowd like the dramatic bitch he is, but he knows who's in charge here. It's why he's here. It's a pretty impressive display, too, as he compliments Scott while bending his ancient knees.

He can't help himself but to paraphrase Shakespeare, inverting Antony's declaration of ill intent from Julius Caesar. Look at Chuck frowning in the background, lol.

Chuck still isn't convinced or silent, standing next to Beast who probably agrees (and is the first to bail on the oddly named Utopia.) Scott has had enough of loser husband drama and Xavier specifically, so he definitively shuts him up. Scott has Psylocke on standby to kill Mags (but moreso to reassert his authority) and so he lifts him to his feet to talk privately. Chuck sulks up a storm and is probably super embarrassed. He definitely should be.

In a more private setting Magneto elaborates on his position - mutants are fucked and the torch has passed to Scott. Scott emphatically disagrees with the first but doesn't deny the second. He certainly doesn't trust Mags, but he's willing to give him a shot. This is a fascinating time for everyone especially in terms of power structures. I'll cover Magneto's face turn and evolution into Scott's right hand in future posts, hopefully ones not drawn by Greg Land. For someone who traces porn he manages to make a tense loser husband moment feel unsexy.

[phoward89]

Jealous!Coryo x Reader, Odair!Ancestor x Reader.

Series Masterlist

WARNING ⚠️ Coriolanus Snow is a warning in and of itself. That man is a walking blood red flag waving heavily in the wind! engagement (not reader), smut, infidelity, love triangle, manipulation, stalking?, gaslighting, fluff, Head Gamemaker!Coryo, District 4 Cruise Ship Heir!Odair OC. Dark!Coriolanus, Jealous!Coriolanus, Dom!Coriolanus

Chapter 6:

It's been too long since you've been to the spa. You forgot how relaxing it is. And maybe what makes it even better is that Coriolanus is paying for it. That you can have all the treatments your little heart desires and he's footing the bill.

“It's good to see you here again. What happen, did Coriolanus and you get into a lovers spat and he cut off your spa allowance?” The esthetician asked, applying a much needed cleansing jelly mask to your face as you laid down on the comfortable bed like table.

“He's not my lover, Adara. He's actually my boss now, plus he's engaged to Livia Cardew.” You pointed out to your beloved skin goddess, the best esthetician in Capitol City.

“Oh please.” The violet and blonde streaked young lady loudly cackled. “Nobody believes that shame for a lousy minute.”

“What? But they look-” You start to say only for Adara to cut you off with, “Coriolanus looks absolutely miserable next to her in pictures. He seriously looks like he's going to strangle her.” Shaking her head and applying more of the thick vitalizing goop on your face, she adds, “And that blonde shrew might look sweet and smiley next to him but she bad mouths him every chance she gets. Some things she's said has even gone viral on Pan-Tok, Pan-Tube, and Pan-X. She even shit talked him while a bit tipsy on her friend's Pangram Live stream.”

“I didn't know this. Why didn't I know this?”

“Probably since the aspiring Senator Snow doesn't have social media and you only have a Panbook- that you haven't been on in like over a month.”

“Fuck! So she's dragging his name in the mud via social media?!”

“Yes.” Adara confirms while finishing applying your facial mask treatment. “And practically all of Panem hates her.” She informed you while putting cucumbers on your eyes for a finishing touch.

Sitting down in the stool next to your bed Adara, who was a friend of sorts to you, says, “Livia’s worse than her older brother and Livinius is always getting into shenanigans with the two Capitol losers: Odysseus Odair, the pretty boy that drinks too much, and Hector Heavensbee, the stoned cousin of Hilarious Heavensbee.”

“Wait, what? How do you know this?”

“Social media, duh.” The blonde-violet girl rolled her eyes at you, even if you couldn't see them since your eyes are closed with little cucumbers on them. “Girl, you're too young not to be on social media.” Adara seriously told you. “Listen up, after we're done with your mask we’ll do your manicure then your pedicure. And after that you're signing up for all the social media accounts.”

“Yes, I think it's overdue for me to have more social media then Panbook.” You told her, a calculating smile hinting your lips.

Oh you're going to be creating social media accounts, but solely for the purpose of finding out what damage Livia Cardew's doing to Coriolanus’ image. Once you find out, you'll have to tell him and then come up with a plan to address it.

You're hairstylist, Fabian, was currently with another client so you're scrolling on your phone; looking at all the crazy shit that Livia Cardew's been posting on Pangram, while sitting in the lobby of the high end salon. Oh God, she's such a stick up bitch. Such a shrew. She seriously posted a picture of a bubble tea while complaining that they're wasn't enough bubbles in the tea.

Oh hell…

The receptionist was sitting at the front desk, flipping thru a rag mag whenever she gasped. Whatever she saw must be shocking.

Flipping the magazine in half, she held it up to you and said in a scandalous tone, “That farce of a political pony show going on between your Coriolanus and Livia.Cardew’s going to ruin his reputation.” Waving the magazine in the are, she told you, “Look, paparazzi’s got some pictures of her drunk and stumbling on the sidewalk. The accompanying article says the picture were taken while she was ranting to her socialite friends about how her fiance’s a freak in bed that scoffs at her purity ring, asked if he could stick it up her ass to keep her virginity intact, and she even said that Coriolanus has a thing for dirty district women; chased that former singing victor all those years ago just to screw around with her before his fall semester of University.”

“What?!” You loudly exclaimed, jumping out of you seat and rushing over to the reception desk to grab that trash gossip magazine from Xandra. “Oh Andraste’s tit, let me see that!” You curse, snatching up the magazine that's freely offered to you.

As your eyes look at the damning pictures and read the article, the receptionist tells you, “That's one of the magazine's that get delivered all over Panem; even the Districts get it. Particularly the PK bases as I understand.”

“Shit…” You mutter under your breath. You feel both pissed and lightheaded at the sudden revelation of what Livia Cardew's actions mean for Coriolanus' Senate run.

Damnit…

And it was that moment that Fabian’s client left and the stylist with perfectly feathered hair came up to you. “Y/N, it's been too long.” The hairstylist greeted you with a kiss to the cheek, which you returned in kind. Leading you back to his work station, he asked, “It's been over a month since you've had your hair done. Did Coriolanus not like my work last time?”

“No, Fabian.” You shook your head. “We just got into a spat, so we weren't talking “ You explain, taking your place in the salon chair.

“I hope you worked everything out since he called to fit you in; is picking up the tab like always too.” Fabian told you while placing a colorful smock around you.

“We worked things out as best as we could considering I'm his new assistant now. I'm his new campaign manager too.”

“Oh that's wonderful. Now if only we could toss that horrible Livia into that toxic sludge river over in 8 then everything’ll be perfect.”

“Fabian, that's horrible.”

“Yes, but you know it's true. Now, what're we doing with your hair today? Blow out, keratin treatments?”

*I want an entire new look.” You told your hairstylist.

“Ooo, new look for a new era.” Fabian clapped happily.

“I want hair that says I'm a bad boss bitch.” You smirked.

“Oh, honey, I know exactly what you need. Just leave it to me.” Fabian told you before hurrying off to the supply room to grab some supplies to make your hair new and to die for.

Your hairstylist was going to give you new hair that'll be the envy of everyone in the Capitol. Your new hairstyle will even have Coriolanus down on his knees, begging you to take him back. Oh, Fabian knows that what he has planned cut and color wise for your hair’s going to drive Coriolanus up the wall with desire. That he's going to be going crazy when he sees you.

The hairstylist views it as his personal mission to make sure that his best client stays with the only man in the Capitol that encourages his girl to routinely get her hair done. Most men aren't so generous like that when it comes to expensive salon visits every handful of weeks.

After your getting your hair done, you went home and drowned yourself in endless social media posts across various platforms for Livia Cardew. It seems like some were worse then others, but none of them were any good for your best friend. As long as he's connected to her, well, his campaign's going to tank.

You saw that Festus and Persephone weren't following Livia on social media. The newlyweds, whose wedding Coriolanus dragged you a few months prior, seemed to have either never added her, stopped following her, or blocked her from their accounts. You also saw that the couple had started to follow you on the social media accounts that you created earlier in the day with Adara in the spa.

You’re done scrolling thru Livia Cardew's accounts and decide to call Coryo to tell him all about what you uncovered. After three rings he answers his phone with a professional, “Head Gamemaker Snow speaking, to whom am I speaking with?”, before he realizes it's you

“It's me, Y/N.” You tell him as you pop up on the phone’s video screen. “I thought you would've programmed my new number from my application into your phone.” You chuckle while sitting up straighter on your sofa.

“I didn't even notice it, I just hit accept hire after after looking over your education and work history.”

“Oh.” You simply nod.

Before you could even tell Coriolanus why you're calling, he gives you a dazzling smile paired with the compliment of, “I like what you've done with your hair. The new cut and color suits you, my darling rose.”

Fabian was right, the hairstyle and color he gave you was going to drive Coriolanus wild. How did he know, who knows? But right now Coryo's baby blues are flashing with interest and mirth; they're locked into your face- he's in absolute awe of your new hairstyle/color.

A lopsided grin appeared on the platinum blonde's lush lips as he suggests, “Why don't I take you out to dinner to celebrate hiring you as both the Head Assistant Gamemaker and my Campaign Manager?”

“Don't forget your PR Liaison as well, Aspiring Senator Snow.” You teased Coryo, who still hasn't styled his platinum curls yet. “Oh, I did some digging while waiting for my appointment at the salon and found out why your campaign’s tanking.”

“Well, what did you uncover, my darling?” Coriolanus asks, leaning back in his sitting chair. The one in his living room to be exact.

“The problem isn't you, but it's your fiance: Livia Cardew. Everyone hates her.”

“That doesn't surprise me; I hate the shrew too.” The imposing blonde man, who's been your best friend for nearly 2 decades, chuckled.

Shaking your head, you sadly sigh, “Well, I think she hates you more than you hate her considering she's posting a lot of hate about you.”

Coriolanus arched a perfectly shaped brow at your words, causing you to tell him the blunt truth of your discoveries. “She’s spewing shitty remarks here and there; not to mention ranting about you on her friend's Pangram Live.” You take a tiny breath, only to sigh and tell him the most damning information of all. “Oh and then there's a story and some pap pics in a very popular and well circulated rag mag that has her stumbling drunk and ranting to her friends about you wanting to stick it up her ass cause she's wearing a purity; how you have a sexual attraction to district girls too.”

“Fucking hell…” Coriolanus groans, raking his lake hands thru his platinum curls- a nervous habit of his. “That's very damning for my campaign.”

“Yes,” You nod in agreement, “it is.”

“Well, I've been wanting out of the engagement and I've found a way to end it without looking like the bag guy.” Coriolanus told you, his lips in a thin pressed line. “But I can't tell you until we're alone in my car, it's not something I want to talk about over the phone.”

A few hours later you find yourself alone in a sleek, black sedan with Coriolanus behind the driver's seat. Since it's early spring, he's in a light grey suit with a wine hued waistcoat. It pairs lovely and really makes both his platinum hair, whose curls he just lightly gelled to keep from being messy, and his cerulean eyes pop.

“You look beautiful, baby.” Coriolanus smiles, looking between you and the road, as he pulls out of the parking garage.

“Thank you, but flattery’ll get you nowhere. You already complimented me on my dress when you picked me up, no need to do it again.”

“And only you, my darling rose, has the audacity to get your feathers ruffles over receiving multiple compliments from your lover.”

“My lover?” You scoff sardonicly, rolling your perfectly made up eyes.

“Whether you want to admit it or not, it's what we are, Y/N.” Coriolanus tells you, his baritone a bit softer then usual, as his hand slides off the clutch and onto your thigh- a thigh that's covered by the peachy pink skirt of your dress. A dress that was designed for you by Tigris, that had small white roses randomly embroidered on it.

Pushing his large hand off of your thigh, you give him a leveling look and state in a solid tone, “I thought that we're childhood best friends, who had a situationship that got a bit messy, but decided to work together for your political dreams.”

“We're working on our political ambitions. Don't forget, I did promise to make you my First Lady.” The platinum man with looks rivaling that of the gods themselves had the balls to tell you, all the while taking your hand in his. With a smirk, he changed the subject by giving you his opinion on your manicure. “I quite prefer your nails long and red, baby. They look much better then the short French tips you were wearing during our month long absence from each other.”

Of course he prefers long red stiletto nails on you over the short square French tips. Man sure does love red. You're not even surprised about that.

You don't make a comment about him liking your nails, but you do comment on his little making you his First Lady remark. “Last time I checked, Head Gamemaker Snow, the First Lady's married to the President and you're engaged to Livia Cardew.” After the little reminder of his reality, you decided to twist the knife in his heart and hurt his ego (because he broke your heart) by adding in, “Oh, and right now I wouldn't marry you if you were the last man on earth.”

Coriolanus’ Adam's apple felt thick and stuck in the hollow of his throat as a reaction to hearing your cruel words. He knows deep down in is black, head, shriveled up heart why you said that. That you're trying to hurt him because he broke your heart; his promise to you.

Except he's doing his best to right his wrong; to ensure that he keeps his promise to you.

Coriolanus’ Adam's apple bobs up and down as he swallows down the thickness trapped in his throat. Looking between you and the road as he weaves in and out of traffic lanes, he reveals, “I'm going to get out of my arranged engagement by framing the Cardew's for bank fraud.”

“What?” You blurt out, finding his idea to be a bit brash. “Can’t you just call off the engagement because of irreconcilable differences?”

“No, baby,” Coriolanus shook his head, “I can't just break it off due to irreconcilable differences.” He quickly switched lanes again, cutting off a car and getting honked at. “Livia’s being a frigid shrew and dragging my name in the mud; how do you think me dropping her like a hot potato’ll make me look? Hmm, how would it look for my campaign?”

Turning your head to give him an incredulous look, you ask, “So, what, you're going to destroy the family that runs the Capitol United Bank to effortlessly break off an arranged engagement and to gain sympathy votes for your campaign?”

“Yes.” The icy eyes man smiles widely, like a maniac. “It's a flawless plan, Y/N. I trust that as my right hand woman and future First Lady that I have your complete support with this.”

Honestly, it might sound horrible, but you didn't give a shit about Livia Cardew or her family. If Coriolanus had to destroy the top banking family in the country to end his engagement and save his campaign then so be it.

“You just do whatever you have to do to and when it's done I'll make sure that you come out smelling like a rose in the media.” You told the man next to you as he pulled over, without using his blinkers, into the entrance of the restaurant he's taking you to.

The Capitol Grille.

“Good.” Coriolanus nods while getting into the line for valet parking. “Tomorrow we need to start switching our banking accounts to the Capitol One Bank.”

You've been to The Capitol Grille a few times with Coryo, so when the maitre d greets you both with a smile and ushers you to a cozy table for two, while making the other patrons in line ahead of you wait, you're not surprised.

Coriolanus, like always, orders a bottle of the best wine and some glasses of water for you two. He also orders the go to appetizer for when you dine out at The Capitol Grille: shrimp cocktail. He also orders the usual for you two as well: the chef's suggestion of the slices filet mignon topped onions and wild mushrooms with cream spinach and au gratin potatoes. Oh, and he ordered the infamous Capitol made cheesecake the restaurant’s known for.

You didn't mind him doing the ordering since you two always got the same thing every time he took you out to eat at The Capitol Grille. You'd be shocked if he didn't insist on ordering, truth be told.

The waiter delivered both your glasses of water, wine, and the large shrimp cocktail to share all on one tray. Once he finishes delivering the items and pouring the wine, he assured Coriolanus and you that your food would be out shortly and left.

Coriolanus is fixing you up a small plate of shrimp cocktail and engaging in small talk with you about your upcoming job as his right hand woman in the Citadel whenever Odysseus’ voice reaches your ear from nearby as he smiles disparagingly. “I see it didn't take you too long to move on, sweetheart. But I didn't think you'd be moving on with Satan, or is he who you've been cheating with.”

“Oh, Odysseus Odair, I wish I could say seeing you while out celebrating Y/N’s new job as my assistant is a pleasant surprise, but then I'd be lying and I make it my utmost priority not to lie to or around my childhood best friend.” Coriolanus said in a very cool, calm, and collective way that has just enough zing to bite.

“Your what?” The bronze haired man asked, his voice hitched up in shock.

“I told you that I attended the Academy, Odysseus. Maybe you should've believed me instead of insisting I wasn't on the same level as you and Coryo.” You told your neighbor and new ex while gesturing between him and your Coryo with your hand.

“He what?” Coriolanus blinked his eyes slowly, like an offended cat. It reminded you of a cat you had as a child. Looking at you, he said with so much disdain in his deep baritone, “That manwhore insulted you by insisting you weren't good enough to attend the Academy?”

“Coryo, let it go.” You told him in a whisper hiss while Odysseus’ sea-green eyes bounced between you and the platinum blonde man you're dining with very suspiciously.

“I will not let it go, darling. He insulted you.” Coriolanus whisper hissed back.

Well, looks like chivalry’s not dead at all.

“I have a business meeting I need to attend, Y/N, but I'll call you later so we can talk things out.” Odysseus told you before booking it away from your table (since he didn't want to be around Coriolanus) and towards the table his father Posieden Odair, Mr. Larimer (a wealthy politician and investor) and Mr. Hearst (a wealthy newspaper mogul) was sitting at; waiting for him.

“You better not answer your phone when he calls.” Coriolanus tells you while making himself a small plate of shrimp cocktail with jerky, aggravated movements.

Grabbing a piece of shrimp from your plate and dipping it into the red cocktail sauce, you tell him, “I’ll answer it if I want to, Coriolanus. My relationship’s none of your business.”

Tossing the serving spoon back into the middle of the extravagant crystal serving bowl, causing some of the red sauce to splash up. Coriolanus face skewed up as he watched you eat your piece of shrimp. Taking his and dipping it into the sauce, he darkly chuckled, “I see you're going to play little minx and punish me for my arrangement by having a fling with the sluttiest man in all of Capitol City.”

“What's good for the goose's good for the gander.” You simply smirk, causing the man sitting across from you to nearly choke on his shrimp.

And then, as he's coughing and trying not to die from shrimp going down the wrong windpipe, Odysseus loudly tells somebody at his table to ‘Shut the hell up!’ before storming away from the table, right past yours, and out of the restaurant.

Hmm…

You wonder what happened at his table.

Coriolanus Snow, ever the gentleman, used his pristine white cloth napkin to spit his piece of shrimp that nearly made him choke and die. Folding his napkin and placing it back on his lap, he seriously told you, “He's a spoiled brat; I hope you get seeing him to punish me out of your system real fast because I don't like sharing what's mine, Y/N.”

“Last time I checked I didn't belong to you.” You smugly retorted while eating another piece of your shrimp cocktail.

Coriolanus leaned in close, nearly crossing the table, and declared in a low, dark timbre, “You’ve always been mine, baby. And, as you know, I'm going to ruin a family just to make you my wife; First Lady.”

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[ashlynnlylim]

Jimmy, back on earth

- Just a depressed sad sack of shit.

- Was jobless until Curly dragged him aboard interstellar delivery service.

- He spent most of his time sleeping in his apartment, either on the couch or the mattress on his bedroom floor. The cushions and futon were worn thin from years of excessive use.

- His apartment was shabby, in a weird part of town. Poor, that's it.

- He doesn't have a car; everything he needed was within walking distance anyways: convinience store, grocer, bank, whatever.

- He doesn't know a lot of people either, or like them. He finds it hard to deal with human connections. He can't be bothered with it.

- He wrecks stuff when he gets mad or annoyed. He's a physical and aggressive human. That's why his apartment is constantly in a state of disorder, musty and dark and suffocating.

- He smokes a lot and doesn't leave the windows (or curtains) open.

- He skips meals regularly, either to save money or just because he doesn't feel like putting up with it. That's why he's a skinny little bitch. He's not anorexic, though.

- Usual foods include: bread, chips and a lot of other junk food, mac and cheese, coffee, cigarettes.

- Sometimes, just to sleep through the most awful days, he swallows down sleeping pills like candy and sinks into the couch for nights on end.

- He used to cut himself but as he got older (mid 30s) he resented it because it was "girls' stuff" and made him feel like a sissy. Now he just punches walls and slams himself against cabinets, like a real man does :D

- He passes the endless time he possesses by watching the same five films over and over again, reading, or jacking off. He probably has a decent stash of good porno mags.

- He ejaculates at least once every three days.

- Sometimes Curly visits, to check up on him and make sure he's still alive. He sees Curly's concern and disdain towards his conditions of living as mockery and arrogance, and so hates it sometimes. He does like Curly's company, though. After a week of muteness, it's nice to be able to converse again.

- He likes going to Curly's a lot more. The latter's place was a lot more pleasant, more healthy. His jealousy grates against his conscience sometimes, though.

Alright, that's all I have for now.

[g00d--m0urning]

Unnamed PT. 3 (Daryl Dixon x AFAB!Reader)

TW/CW: vomiting, gore and violence (not super descriptive, dw), reader is pregnant so obvi AFAB but no gendered descriptors, ex-cop!reader, swearing, no use of Y/N, grammar mistakes, mostly canon compliant

word count: 3708

Author's note: It felt like it was getting long, so I cut it short,:( next part tho, obvi also, yay! an update after forever

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Rick looks between you and the radio, confusion furrowing his brows. He wipes sweat from his brow, staring at the radio, willing the person on the other side to speak again.

“Hey, are you alive in there?” Holy shit, his mean staring worked. Your eyes blow wide, going to reach for the walkie, but Rick beats you to it.

“Hello? Hello?” 

There’s a sigh of relief through the other end before he speaks again, “There you are. You had me wondering.” 

You’re slowly learning Rick has little patience--not that you can blame him right now--as he clicks the button again, “Where are you? Outside? Can you see us right now?”

You have to restrain yourself from making some smartass comment about him being in the tank with you guys, figuring now’s not the time.

“Yeah, I see you. You’re surrounded by walkers. That’s the bad news.”

“There’s good news?”

 “No.”

You don’t bother holding back the scoff at that; fantastic. You’re going to die, in a hot, muggy ass tank with a guy you barely know. 

“Listen, whoever you are, I don’t mind telling you, we’re a little concerned here.” 

How rude! You are not ‘concerned’ (you are), there is no need to be bringing you into this very odd conversation.

“Oh man, you should see it from over here. You’d be having a major freak-out.”

Your jaw drops a little; that’s comforting. Really. If you make it out of here, it’s becoming a personal mission to dropkick the little ass on the other side of this. Rick couldn’t seem to care less, running a hand down his face before speaking again.

“Got any advice for us?”

“Yeah, I’d say make a run for it.”

Is he demented!? ‘Make a run for it’!? Out there? Surrounded by cannibalistic freak-o’s? Rick seems to have the same thought process.

“That’s it? ‘Make a run for it?’” Rick scoffs, looking over at you with an annoyed expression for a split second. “My way's not as dumb as it sounds. You've got eyes on the outside here. There's one geek still up on the tank but the others have climbed down and joined the feeding frenzy where the horse went down” the guy explains and the situation is actually less worrisome than you expected,  “With me so far?”

Rick looks over at you for confirmation and you nod, “So far.” 

“Okay, the street on the other side of the tank is less crowded. If you move now while they're distracted, you stand a chance. Got ammo?”

“In the duffel bag I dropped out there, and guns. Can I get to it?”

You silently place a curse on Rick’s entire bloodline; what kind of jackass leaves the guns out there? 

“Forget the bag, okay? It’s not an option. What do you have on you?”

Son of a bitch, this is one of the worst situations you have ever been in, period. Rick groans, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Hang on.” he sighs, lifting his shirt up to grab his gun and counting out his rounds. You do the same, checking your magazine and the box of ammo in your bag. 

‘Glock, full mag and box of ammo.’ you mouth to Rick when he looks up at you, nodding a little. 

Something seems to catch his eyes as he leans over to the dead soldier, unclipping a hand grenade from the utility belt. He presses a finger to his lips--like you’ve talked at all since Mr. Mysterious started talking over the radio and would snitch. As if.

“Yeah. Yeah. I've got a Beretta with one clip, fifteen rounds and a glock nineteen, matching ammo” Rick finally answers, disappointed in the lack of protection. That bag would be a great help.

“You two better make ‘em count. Jump off the right side of the tank, keep going in that direction. There’s an alley up the street, maybe fifty yards. Be there.” Bossy. You don’t even know if you can trust him, Rick seems to, gathering himself to pop out of the hatch. It’s either stay in here and rot or chance surviving out there. You sigh deeply through your nose, tightening your grip around the strap of your bag, ready to bolt. 

Rick stands up, radio still firmly in his hand, “Hey, what’s your name?” You could smack him, it’s a good question, but not at all the right time.

“Have you been listening? You’re running out of time.” For once you agree with the idiot on the other side.

“Right!” Rick nods like the other guy can see him, dropping the radio. 

Rick grabs a broken shard of metal, and you ready your knife. He turns the hatch open, pulling himself out. You follow suit, groaning with effort as you stand up on the tank. You yelp a little as Rick slashes the face of the zombie still on the tank.

He helps you off the take, shooting an undead to his right. You shoot one to his left and then the one behind it. Both of you hurry to the alleyway, Rick dropping another three zombies and you one. The sheriff knocks into something, a someone you realize after both of you aim your guns up at him.

“Whoa! Not dead! Come on! Come on! Back here! Come on! Come on!” he exclaims, gesturing to the ladder.

The young guy climbs up the ladder first, you stand by the edge, facing the alley entrance in case anything tries to wander down your way. Rick grabs your shoulder, gently shoving you to face the other way and hurriedly motioning for you to go up. 

You go to argue but groans fill the air and you have no choice but to climb up. The cage further up feels claustrophobic, especially with someone in front, feet dangerously close to stomping on fingers. 

“What’re you doing!? Come on!” the male exclaims, looking down at Rick, causing you to look down. The idiots only a few rungs up and shooting at the staggering zombies.

Thank god, he listens, holstering his gun and bolting up the ladder; almost bumping head first into your boot. As you reach a utility platform, Unknown offers a hand, which you’re out of breath enough to take, hauling yourself onto the little patio. Rick follows suit, folding in half and trying to catch his breath.

“Nice moves there, Bonnie and Clyde. You two come riding in to clean up the town?”

The rest of the conversation goes unheard, male voices merely muttering behind you in blurry voices. An overwhelming wave of nausea hits like a freight train, leaning over the railing and spewing your guts onto the concrete below. Both of the men turn to look at you, Rick--knowing of your condition--looks at you in concern and the other in disgust. You just scowl a little, giving a small thumbs up to reassure them of  your state.

“‘M fine, the smell just--it’s rancid,” you extend as an excuse, turning to look at the pair.

The three of you climb up the ladder, the two men continue to converse. Glenn, you think the other one’s name is, if you heard properly. You get lost in your own head, worries clouding your mind; is it going to be like this the whole time? All it takes is just a sprint and you're out of commission? That’s certainly not convenient.

You lag behind the duo, letting them chat about whatever they are chatting about. It takes another ladder and a walk across a roof until you finally tune back into the conversation.

“I’m back. Got two guests plus four geeks in the alley,” Glenn speaks into the walkie he has in his hand. So, he’s not alone, makes sense. 

Glenn opens a door that leads to stairs; ugh, stairs, the damnation of transportation, stairs were horrible even before pregnancy. Two zombies pop out, reflexes working quickly as you reach for your gun, but two men--alive ones this time--round the corner. They’re decked in what looks like catcher’s gear and baseball bats and begin just absolutely brutalizing the undead; well past overkill by the time they stop. 

The shorter one yells at the other--Morales, you think you heard--to move and the five of you barrel into the next room. So much happens in the next three seconds. You barely have time to register that some chick has a gun in Rick’s face before yours is pointed at her.

“You son of a bitch. We ought to kill you,” she spits, shooting a look in your direction, but keeping the gun on Rick.

Morales jumps in, trying to coax her off the edge of splattering Rick’s brains over the display behind him, “Just chill out, Andrea. Back off.”

  Not that you expect her to actually shoot him, you’ve seen a lot of people shoot and a lot who haven’t and she doesn’t have the ‘I’ll do it’ look to her. 

Another female jumps in, “Come on, ease up,” she pleads with Andrea. 

Blondie scoffs like it’s the craziest idea in the world to ‘ease up’ and lower the gun from your…friend? Acquaintance? Survival tactic?‘s face. You’re tempted to raise your gun at her, but you present self-restraint, also her safety’s on. Dumbass. That’s until the gun is in your face. “‘Ease up?’ You’re kidding me, right? We’re dead because of these assholes,” Andrea snarls, her gaze hardening as she looks between you and Rick.

“Oh, come on, blondie, lower it,” you suggest, head tipping slightly. She’s not going to shoot you and you’re willing to brave that theory.

“Yeah, listen to us, back the hell off. Or pull the trigger,” Morales insists, causing you to glare at him as he tells her to pull it. He just shrugs.

Andrea chuckles dryly, but lowers the gun. “We’re dead… All of us… Because of you,” she shudders, shaking her head. 

You get what she means, clearly Rick doesn’t as he expresses his confusion. Several of them hop in to ‘politely’ tell him--and you, you just choose to stick your nose up and ignore them because you really had no choice--off.

Zombies start smashing at the double doors and that snaps you back to the current situation. You’re stuck in a building with several people you don’t know and Rick’s going on about some helicopter you didn’t see and the entire thing is just fucked. A niggling of regret pokes somewhere in your brain; maybe it’d have been better to just rot away in your apartment.

You wander around the store, vaguely listening to the conversation happening between the group when a necklace catches your attention: it’s a tiny thing, clearly meant for a child, a tiny ‘b’ hanging off the silver chain. You nick the jewelry from the display--not like the owners will miss it--tucking it into the pocket with your sonogram for the tiny bug you’ve got growing inside you.

Rounds popping off catch your attention, slipping back over to the group like you never left. Everybody groans, so it seems they know exactly who’s shooting.

“Oh no. Is that Dixon?” Andrea questions, pretty rhetorically. 

Morales slaps his palm to his forehead, pinching the bridge of his nose, “What is that maniac doing?”

Glenn starts herding everybody onto the roof, while you’re still reeling. The last name sparking premature hope you wish would die out. Dixon is a fairly common last name--you think--and what are the odds it’d be Daryl? Incredibly slim. The odds are incredibly slim.

The group bursts through the door, jogging over to whoever is shooting at the ground. Hopefully at the zombies, there’d be no point in wasting ammo, you’d have to be stupid to the point where you wouldn’t have to worry about getting eaten by cannibalistic undead. 

You feel an insurmountable rage when you finally reach the shooter: Merle motherfucking Dixon. Of course it’s him. Why wouldn’t be him!? Why would you even think for a moment that Merle Dixon wouldn’t still be alive to screw with your existence even after the apocalypse has reigned its course on the planet. 

T-Dog and Merle have a colorful conversation when Rick finally decides to play peacemaker, pushing the two apart. Merle rears up to chew Rick out when he notices you despite your best efforts to shrink into the floor.

“Well if it ain’t the town piggie,” he drawls, pointing the barrel of his gun in your direction, weaving through the group.

You ignore the insults--their practically nicknames with him--rolling your eyes and blatantly ignoring the confused glances the group is giving you. 

  “Been a long time since I’ve seen yer face.. Broke my brother’s heart disappearing like that, y’know?” he continues, brushing a hand over your cheek like the sleazeball he is. 

It’s your turn to be confused: Daryl missed you? You figured he’d be glad you left. One less cop to fuck up his life. Merle’s mouth opens again, but you beat him to the punch--literally. You can’t stop yourself, your fist connecting with his face hard enough to send him backwards.

“Oops?” you grimace as his head bounces off a pole, knocking him out cold. Not ‘oops.’ Absolutely not ‘oops.’ “I did not mean to do that.” You did. God, that felt good.

“Eh, Someone had to do it; just wish it was me,” Morales shrugs, lips down turning as he looks at Merle’s unconscious body. 

Merle’s not put very long, just long enough for Rick to get handcuffs on one of his wrists and attach him to the pole that he hit his head on. In true Merle fashion, his mouth is open the moment he wakes up, yanking the short chain on his wrist as he barks at Rick for leashing him. 

Rick goes on some goody two-shoes lecture, something about how it's just the ‘living and the dead’ and ‘white meat and dark meat,’ you weren't paying much attention, more so lost in thought. 

If Merle is alive, there's a large chance Daryl is too because if there's one thing you have to give Merle Dixon, it's the love he has for his brother; no matter how unconventional it might be.

By the time you start paying attention again, a plan is hatched. 

Said plan fails because the sewer tunnel is gated off and zombie filled behind said off, so onto plan b. 

Rick chops at the dead guy--Wayne Dunlap--and the smell is absolutely horrid, it's got everyone gagging. 

  “I'm so gonna hurl,” Glenn groans, a hand clutched over his stomach. 

“I double that notion,” you mutter, covering your mouth with your hand as bile rises in your throat. 

“Later, you two,” Rick responds, receiving glares from both you and Glenn. 

Once Wayne is thoroughly mushed, Glenn and Rick start covering themselves in guts, which is probably the most repulsive thing you've ever watched. 

You rush to a corner, leaning against the wall as you puke. You don't hear what T-Dog said, but it pushes Glenn over the edge. 

“Scoot over,” he gasps, bumping into you and throwing up himself. 

“One, fuck you, this is my puke corner,” you scowl, swallowing thickly and resting your back against the wall once you're done, “and two, at least that'll help the stench.”

Glenn mumbles out a ‘sorry,’ snorting at your second statement. Once Rick and Glenn are slathered in zombie pâté, they exit the building and miraculously, they don’t immediately become a midday snack! 

That doesn’t last long because it starts to rain. Of course it does! Why wouldn’t it? They do manage to get into a truck… and drive off. Motherfuckers!

“They’re leaving us,” Andrea gasps and that sets off Merle which sets off Morales and now everyone is panicked.

“Hey! Calm the fuck down. They didn’t leave us, they just had to circle around,” you shout of the group, throwing your hands up, “No one has any chill anymore, my god.”

“How do you know that they didn’t leave us, huh? Because it sure looks like they did,” Andrea retorts, glowering at you. What a bitch, but also… you don’t know. You’re kind of putting your blind trust in men you’ve known less than twelve hours.

But somebody’s on your side today; just moments later Rick pulls up in the van, “You want me to say ‘I told you so,’ oooooor no?” you ask, smiling smugly as you all rush down the stairs. 

You all get in the van, safe and sound. Except for Merle, which you can’t say you’re heartbroken about, but if Daryl is still alive, that’ll be a problem. That’s a later problem, though. You lean against the wall, resting a hand over your stomach in a way you hope is discrete. 

“You’re pregnant?” Morales askes and what the fuck? How does he know? That’s two men who have caught on quickly, “My wife: she did that a lot when she was pregnant,” He clarifies because, apparently he's a mind reader too!

“Yeah, I’m pregnant,” you admit; honestly, it’s probably a good thing you don’t have to hide it, hiding a pregnancy in the apocalypse would be stupid.

There’s a mixed bag of reactions, which was expected, but the excitement wears down quickly as everyone settles, exhausted from the day. Yourself included. The drive is quiet and surprisingly peaceful, given the circumstances. 

About fifteen minutes later, the van pulls to a stop, and everyone piles out of the back. You hang back for a moment, taking in the last bit of shade and peace before climbing out yourself. You catch yourself looking around camp for a certain redneck, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

Rick gets out of the front seat, coming to stand by your side, giving your shoulder a squeeze. A split second later, you hear a kid calling ‘dad,’ turning to find a boy rushing towards a now teary eyed Rick. A woman wearing a shocked expression follows after and you put the dots together: his wife and son.

They share a tear jerking reunion--you do however chalk your misty eyes up to hormones--and everyone gets introduced to each other! They’re a shockingly big group and they didn’t seem mad gaining two new additions. Everyone seems nice; except for Ed, he’s a douche, and Shane, there’s nothing inherently wrong with him, but he rubs you the wrong way.

As everyone converses by the fire, you hang back, unsure where to put in, but someone brings up Daryl--Dale, you’re pretty sure, you like him, his eyebrow game is on fleek--and you snap back to attention. They’re talking about who’s going to take the blame for leaving Merle on the roof, you hardly care, you’re more focused on the fact that he’s alive.

“I’ll take the blame,” you suddenly say, ignoring the way everyone looks at you like you’re off your rocker.

“You don’t have to do that, Sunshine,” Rick argues and you definitely ignore the nasty look you get from his wife. The others chime in, agreeing with Rick.

“No, but I want to and you’re welcome because if you do it, Daryl’s gonna put an arrow in between your eyes,” you say, not budging. Dale, ever the smart man, puts the pieces together quicker than the others.

“You know Daryl?” he asks, raising his eyebrow and oh my gosh, you yearn to reach that level of judgy.

“Yes, I do and no, I’m not clarifying further,” you answer, standing up, stretching your arms above your head, “I’ll take the blame for Merle, end of conversation. Now, goodnight all.”

You don’t wait for any type of response, walking off and taking refuge in the back of the van. You get your sleeping bag unrolled, curling up underneath the fabric. 

You wake up to the sound of clanging, begrudgingly getting up and changing back into real pants--as much as you love your Care Bear pjs, you think that’s more a day two outfit--rolling your sleeping bag back up and leaving the van.

“Look at ‘em. Vultures. Yeah, go on, strip it clean,” you hear Glenn grumble, finding out the source of clanging is the stripping of the sports car.

“Ah, don’t worry, I’ll let you drive my baby once I get her back,” you tell Glenn, slapping him on the shoulder, which makes him jump.

“For someone who’s pregnant, you sure are sneaky,” he gasps, setting a hand over his heart, “what’s your baby?” He asks, intrigued now that he isn’t actively dying of a heart attack.

“My baby is a ‘67 Chevy. Beautiful girl, all her original parts, and she purrs like a dream,” you say, sighing wistfully at the thought of your girl. You’re going to get her back, even if it kills you.

“Isn’t that the car from Supernatural?”

“It is, yeah. Good show.”

“I loved it, I miss it. I miss tv.”

“Me too. Jensen Ackles was so hot.

“I’m more of Sam dude, but yeah.”

You and Glenn sigh in unison, cueing both of you to crack smiles and laugh, shaking your heads. You pat Glenn’s shoulder again then head over to where Rick is.

“Mornin’ Sunshine,” he greets, smiling way too brightly for…sometime early…in the morning.

“Cowboy,” you nod back, rolling your eyes at his sunny disposition; maybe he’s the one that should be called sunshine.

You go to greet his wife, but the sounds of kids screaming cuts you off. Immediately, people are running off in that direction, stupidly, yourself included. It’s just a zombie gnawing on a shot up deer… Fuck. That’s Daryl’s deer, or was, it’s not edible now.

You feel your blood go cold when a familiar drawl fills the air, yelling about something or another. He doesn’t notice you, immediately stomping his way back to camp, calling for Merle. Double fuck!

Shane tries to get him to slow down, wanting to tell him about Merle, but Daryl doesn’t let up. When he finally does register what happens, he’s got a knife to Rick’s neck and you figure now is the time to step in.

“I did it! I knocked Merle out and I locked his ass on the roof, and I enjoyed it, so get the knife off Rick and on me.”