#gang violence

[alwaysbewoke]

[reality-detective]

A dangerous Venezuelan gang known as the "Tren De Aragua" has infiltrated the US that you probably know nothing about but definitely should know 🤔

- Please share this 👆

Source: 👇

[zannilove]

A Shared Madness

Word count: 1473 words. Character(s): Rindou Haitani x Reader (not gendered), Ran Haitani (mentioned) Warnings: Gang Violence, Blood, Injury, Dark Themes, Implied Danger, Morally Ambiguous Characters, Unedited. Note: I can't read cursive (I'm a failure) so if you know the artist of the image, please let me know so I can give credit!

The district was alive. A raw, humming pulse. But tonight… the air felt scorched. Not from widespread fire, not yet. More like the aftermath of a vicious blaze, the kind left behind by too many desperate clashes. The metallic tang of ozone, sharp and acrid, mingled with the faint, stale scent of recent blood. It clung to you, to your clothes, to your skin, a phantom second skin. You tried not to breathe too deep, tried to ignore the sharp edge of it.

Sirens wailed in the distance, a constant, unsettling chorus. No death knell for peace, not outright, but a sharp warning cutting through the city's pulsing energy. Under flickering neon lights, alive but haphazard, the streets didn't just hold violence; they breathed it. You heard a low hum from hidden corners, from the shadows that stretched and clawed like unseen knives, the rage simmering, ready to burst with any wrong move, any spark.

You felt it all: in the way people moved, quick and jerky, as if they were always braced for impact. Their eyes darted, never settled. The static tension crawled on your skin, making the hairs on your arms prickle, threatening to ignite with any wrong move, any wrong word.

The district that Rindou called his own, Yokohama, the one he and Ran had carved out with blood and brutal efficiency under the banner of Tenjiku, was a sprawling, neon-drenched maze. It was a place of impossible contradictions: glittering arcade lights reflecting in puddles of grime, the scent of street food mingling with the metallic tang of exhaust and something darker, something predatory. Every alleyway held a story, every shadowed doorway a potential threat or a hidden escape. It was a territory held not by law, but by reputation, by the sheer, terrifying will of the Haitani brothers. This was their kingdom, and tonight, it felt particularly volatile, a coiled spring ready to snap.

But then… Rindou Haitani. Just him. Standing there, a silhouette against a storefront window, glass shards scattered around him like scattered diamonds. Twirling his chrome baton, slow and deliberate, with a lazy, elegant precision that defied the storm of the moment. He shouldn't have been calm, not here, but he was, impossibly. His smirk was a challenge, a dare, a promise of something destructive. And you… you felt that pull, right then, right there, amidst all the screaming chaos. He was silence, a terrifying, beautiful silence.

He was beautiful in a cruel way. You knew it, you saw it in the sharp, unyielding lines of his face, the fluid, dangerous way his body moved. He moved like an elegant, efficient predator, the kind of person who'd smile a slow, knowing smile as rival gangs tore each other apart. You could almost hear his low laugh while others screamed in the alleyways, knowing he'd watch it all, laughing through the aftermath. You knew it, and still… you stayed. It wasn't morbid curiosity, not really, maybe a little. But it was deeper. A strange, undeniable pull, like a magnet to steel. A recognition, something in him, in the chaos, a kindred spirit, or maybe just a reflection of what you felt inside, hidden, locked away until now.

"You ever watch it all fall apart and feel nothing?" he asked you once, his voice a low hum against the district's distant rumble, as he leaned on a rusted guardrail above the streets, the lights below like dying embers.

You turned to him, meeting his eyes, the neon glow reflecting back like tiny, fractured pieces of broken glass. "No," you admitted, the word a raw whisper that scraped your throat, leaving it aching. "I feel too much. All of it. The fear of what was coming, of what was here in these streets. The anger at this endless cycle. The crushing weight of knowing what this life costs. It pressed down, making it hard to breathe every single moment."

He listened, quiet, his expression unreadable. Then he chuckled, soft and bitter, a sound like gravel grinding or broken glass underfoot, a sound you were starting to recognize. "Must be exhausting," he murmured, and you knew it was, every single day, just existing. But his eyes... something flickered, just for a second, deep and unreadable, like a secret he almost showed, a hidden vulnerability, almost.

But he wasn't immune. You saw it, you always did, in his silence, those fleeting moments when the usual smirk didn't just falter, but vanished completely, leaving behind a stark, almost hollow expression. It was like something had been taken, or never there to begin with, like a mask slipping just for you. When the streets grew too quiet, a lull, a terrifying peace, a restless tension would grip him. You could almost see it in his shoulders, his jaw, his fingers tightening imperceptibly on his baton, a white-knuckle grip. He held his world, this chaotic domain, like a burning cigarette between his fingers: dangerous, temporary, a slow burn. But his. All his. And you watched him hold it, watched him control it, and sometimes… watched him suffer with it.

Fights broke out between gangs, a constant hum, a symphony of violence. Your chest tightened every single time, not from fear, not exactly, but from something more complicated: a sharp mix of dread and reluctant exhilaration, a thrill you hated but felt deep down. You were starting to crave the adrenaline, like him, just like him. The streets, often slick with rain, now shimmered with shattered glass and something else heavier, regret, after a clash. Shards glittering under the streetlights, under your feet. Rindou was always there, in the thick of it, a whirlwind of calculated violence. Every move was precise, brutal, elegant. He didn't fight for glory or territory, not really; he fought because he liked it. The rhythm of the punches, the kicks, the sickening crunch of bones breaking in sync with his own accelerated heartbeat, a dark symphony. And you? You fought to keep up, a desperate dance on his edge, on the edge of ruin. Every step a risk, every breath a gamble. You weren't like him, not really, not entirely; you were different, a different breed. But you fit, somehow, impossibly, you fit together, two mismatched pieces in a broken puzzle, a puzzle only you two understood.

You saw his worst: the raw, unleashed savagery, the cold indifference. And he let you; he didn't hide it. Bloodied knuckles clenched in silence after a fight gone too far, his eyes blank, staring at the chaos he'd orchestrated like it was just another canvas, a masterpiece of destruction. And you were there, watching, learning, becoming something new, something dangerous.

He dragged you to the rooftop that night, his hand on your wrist, firm but not unkind, not rough, just... a pull, a knowing pull. You didn't ask why, you didn't need to. You just followed, a silent shadow in his wake, through the labyrinth of narrow, choking shadows and the distant staccato of gunfire, a constant pulse. Alleys smelled of stale blood from old fights, cheap cigarettes, and the bitter tang of exhaust fumes, heavy in the air.

He finally stopped on the rooftop edge. The wind whipped at your clothes, cold, but he was warm. He looked out at the city, its sprawling, vibrant chaos, then at you. His eyes were dark and unreadable, but something shifted there.

"This place is a joke," he muttered, his voice rough and low, filled with disdain. "Built on lies. Held up by violence." He spat the words like poison.

"So… burn it down?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper. You knew the answer, but you needed to hear it.

He raised an eyebrow, a slow, deliberate movement, then grinned, a flash of sharp teeth like a promise or a threat. "You say that like it's not already burning."

There was something in his tone, not despair, not rage, but something else: a strange kind of freedom, raw and liberating. The kind that comes when there's nothing left, absolutely nothing to lose, when you've surrendered to the fire. And maybe that was it, that feeling, that made you step closer, just one step, then another. Close enough to feel his heat, his body warmth, the fire he carried like a secret, always there, burning beneath his skin.

You didn't speak, you didn't need to. Words felt useless, heavy. He leaned in, forehead resting against yours, the unexpected intimacy a jolt, like lightning, like truth. His breath, warm and raw with the taste of the humid night, ghosted over your lips, a silent promise, a shared fate.

"If it all goes to hell," he whispered, his voice low, a rumble against your skin. "Stay with me." His grip tightened just slightly on your wrist, a silent anchor. "Even if it means running from ghosts, bleeding in alleys, the gangs turning on each other. Stay." His words were a command, a plea. "Even if we’re the last two standing."

This life would burn. You knew it, you felt it in your bones. Rindou was fire, an all-consuming blaze, a terrifying, beautiful force. But you... maybe you wouldn't be consumed, not entirely. Maybe forged, changed into something stronger, something unbreakable, something that could withstand the heat of this ongoing street war. And if this district cracked, if everything you knew turned to ash around you, at least you'd burn together, two embers in the vast, indifferent city. Undeniably. Fiercely alive. One last gasp of defiance.

A shared madness.

A shared end.

[vamphorica]

mattmello week vii: nothing bad ever happened au

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category: M/M

Fandom: Death Note (Anime & Manga)

Relationship: Matt | Mail Jeevas/Mello | Mihael Keehl

Characters: Matt | Mail Jeevas, Mello | Mihael Keehl

Additional Tags: Happy Ending, Wammy's House (Death Note), Separations, Foster Care, Gang Violence, Crimes & Criminals, Growing Up, Reunions, Kissing, Not Canon Compliant

Word Count: 3,127

Series: Part 7 of MattMello Week 2024 | @mattmelloweek

Summary: After the closure of the infamous Wammy's House in 2003, Matt and Mello navigate a life without the pressure of successorship.

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“Congratulations on making it onto the New York Times Bestseller list, Mihael! Selling fifty-thousand copies for a debut novel is practically unheard of, I guess you really must be a genius.”

Mihael was already regretting agreeing to this publicity event that his manager had arranged, a book signing that took place only a week after the debacle that was his launch party. From what he was told, everyone had loved it, but he had not signed up for these repetitive self congratulatory occasions which felt less like an excuse for him to talk about his book, and instead an opportunity for orbiters in the industry to get drunk and engage in underhanded remarks to one another. It was impressive how creative these people could be in turning a benign compliment into a boasting competition within a matter of a few words. If he was not subject to its influence, Mihael would be somewhat amused.

Now, sitting at a small table, a long queue stood before him with people holding hardback copies of his first novel to their chest in anticipation. He had written it under the letter M, but his publishers had managed to miss the memorandum that Mihael requested anonymity due to the nature of his identity, and it was excitedly disclosed that the new book taking the world by storm was written by none other than a former Wammy’s boy. It was too good of an opportunity to avoid capitalising on, and thus followed lengthy reviews in various broadsheets about how the narrative would have most certainly been informed by the trauma inflicted on a young Keehl. The reader can sense the lingering pain of the author’s tragedy through his protagonist, and it serves as a harrowing reminder of how we as a society must take responsibility for our gifted youths.

Wammy’s House closed down in 2003, after a lengthy legal battle between social services and Interpol over the actual necessity for an L successor, at risk of harming the wellbeing of the children who resided at the orphanage. After the courts ruled that the House’s practices were technically abusive, all fourteen boys and girls were quickly relocated into foster care homes across the country. It was believed at the time that many of these prodigies had been so isolated from one another within the House that there was no real concern in separating them from one another – for the most part, many were young enough to forget their aliases and grow up into well-adjusted members of society as anticipated, the pressure of successorship a burden they were no longer required to withstand.

Many, but certainly not all.

As one of the oldest, Mihael struggled to hear himself being referred to by his real name, spoken by strangers in suits who would smile widely and slowly explain to him that he would be placed in a home with many new friends waiting to meet him. Even at the time, he had little expectation that moving from one house full of orphans to another would provide any respite, other than the fact that he lost his sense of purpose almost immediately. His whole identity revolved around the need to fight for his position as L's successor, and at a time in which the detective had yet to choose between himself and Near, having his singular ambition torn away from him by people who simply didn’t understand the culture at the House broke him. He dropped out of the local state school at sixteen soon after completing his exams. Despite his results being ridiculously good, a promising future in academia often projected by his teachers, he had no interest in pursuing further education. What was the point? There was no goal anymore, his life’s purpose was completely unfulfilled.

It was only a matter of months before he had found himself caught up in gangs, selling drugs and adopting the habit of carrying a blade whenever he stalked the streets at night. During those years Mihael – or Mello, as chose to reclaim – took solace in the few quiet moments he was afforded to write in a scrappy notebook that he had managed to hold on to from Wammy’s. It was nothing special, a throwaway birthday present from a friend who he still thought about too often, but upon being caught by police for the fourth time, it was taken away from him. Without it, he had nothing left from that time in his life, and despite everything he had gone through as a child, such a thought that he could lose that part of himself sent him into a panic.

“Your writing is brilliant.” His court appointed lawyer had told him as he flicked through the pages in front of the eighteen year old, “You’re wasting yourself with all this shit, you know? Practically begging for Kira to catch up with you, is that really what you want?” He sighed, passing the notebook back to Mello who snatched it eagerly, “Listen. I’ll get you in touch with a friend I know on the condition that you stay out of trouble, got it? I know you’ve been through a fair amount of crap in your life, but it really isn't an excuse to have become involved with the people you consider acquaintances now.”

Apprehensive at first, Mello did not understand what motivation someone might have to offer such an incentive. Perhaps the publicity surrounding the Wammy’s House scandal had given those in positions of authority an unfounded obligation of charitability to extend towards these traumatised orphans. Mello was smart enough to know he ought to take an opportunity when it presented itself, as undeserved as it might be.

Within a matter of a year, he had his work published to unprecedented success.

────────────────────────────

“Name?” Two hours had passed already and Mihael had given up with the facade of smiling at every person who emerged in front of him, ready to gush about his book, or ask questions that he had either answered several hundred times in interviews and panels. Sometimes, they were too invasive about his “terrible past”. Was he abused, beaten up, sexually assaulted? Did they torture children who failed exams? Did he meet L, and was he as evil as the tabloids made him out to be? His face ached as he scribbled ‘M’ over and over again, until the letter resembled little more to him than a wonky line of no distinct meaning or connection to himself. He kept his head lowered as another fresh copy of his book slid across the table towards him. He opened the front cover, and his pen hovered above the title page.

“Matt.”

No way. Matt was such a common name that when Mihael looked up, he expected a stranger to be staring back at him with a dopey smile and a remark about how the book really affected him. Instead, a lanky red haired teenager wearing a replica of the striped shirt he was so fond of as a child grinned, a slight colour tinting his cheeks.

“Found you, Mello.”

“Fuck, Matt… Wait, give me a moment.” Mihael scrambled up from his chair, alerting his manager who quickly appeared by his side, “I need a break – ten minutes?”

“Mihael, you still have a couple of hundred people waiting.”

“I can see that, Andrew, I need ten minutes and I will be back, okay?” In another world, he would have enjoyed the ability to order people around in such a manner, but such opportunities were rare to him in this line of work. Regardless, Andrew sighed and began telling those who had congregated to please wait for author Mihael Keehl to take a quick break. Yes, he will be more than excited to continue signing books once he has returned which, as a reminder, must be purchased from the tills over there.

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“You’re becoming quite the celebrity, aren’t you, Mihael?” Matt teased gently as he lit up a cigarette. They had managed to find a small space just behind the back of the bookstore, where Mihael silently inspected every slight change his childhood best friend had undergone in the past five years. He was taller, of course, and the manner in which he spoke was significantly more relaxed, deeper than it had been the last time they spoke. Yet he still retained the familiarity of a boy who Mihael still said a prayer for every once in a while. “I’m surprised. I expected that you would lay low. No judgement – the book is really good.”

“You read it?”

“Of course I did. I was going to buy it anyway because I wanted that fucking sexy author’s photo they published on the sleeve, but yeah, I actually read it as well. Was it inspired by the House then?”

Mihael folded his arms across his chest and averted his gaze towards his feet. There was something surreal about meeting Matt again like this. He was happy to see him, no question about it, but there was a weight in his chest he couldn’t quite shift. With Matt came memories unfolding and spilling out that he had subconsciously repressed, feelings of inadequacy and anxiety, but so too surfaced the reminders of comfort that Matt had provided in those moments.

“I suppose so.”

A silence descended between the two as Matt took a long drag, smoke unfurling from between his lips. Was this a new habit of his, or had he picked it up soon after the two were separated? Mihael had experimented with all sorts of things to try and block the feeling of perpetual emptiness in those first few months after the move, only progressing onto the harder stuff as he grew older, more weary of the world around him. He wasn’t sure how he felt about Matt developing the same bad habits. Mihael looked up.

“What do you do now, anyway?”

“Nothing exciting – IT consultancy. A few big companies like the idea of having a Wammy’s kid on their rota, but none of it is exactly complex stuff. I get my kicks from doing other shit.” Mihael was not about to interrogate Matt about what he meant by that, but he could imagine the redhead getting bored easily with something so goddamn corporate. It felt like it went against everything the two had grown up anticipating for themselves.

As if reading his mind, Matt continued, “I miss the House, in a weird way. I think while I was reading your book, I realised that, as fucked up as it was, there was a structure to it, you know? We were there for a reason.”

Mihael nodded, “Yeah, we were.”

“I missed you.”

“Same, Matt.”

It felt so natural to be back in one another’s arms again, clinging on as the world compressed to nothing but the heat and smell of each other. Mihael wanted nothing more than to stay like this forever, to make up for the lost years by exploring Matt, examining the man he had developed into so that he could adapt himself to his body once again. He kissed Matt’s neck and felt his hand rub his back in response. I’m here now.

“Mihael! We need you back now!”

“I’ll see you later, Mello, okay?” Matt gently eased himself out of the other’s grip, smiling at him, “You still need to sign my book after all. I paid a good fifteen quid for the hardback copy.”

Mihael smiled – hearing himself being called Mello felt right, even if he could never truly go back to being that boy again. He brushed his fingers through Matt’s hair, away from his goggles, and slipped through the side door back into the bookstore. He could manage a few more hours of this, he told himself.

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Matt had been moved to a small foster home in Northern Ireland, and had only settled down in London within the past year. His flat was rather large, to Mihael’s surprise, but when Matt disclosed how much money he earned from his legitimate endeavours alone, Mihael understood how he could afford living somewhere a little more spacious. It was probably just as well given how much shit he had managed to hoard.

“Make yourself at home.” Matt began busying himself with cleaning away loose wires and crisp packets hurriedly, taking Mihael back in time to their shared room at the House. He was not overly tidy himself, but kept his possessions relatively organised compared to Matt, whose clothes and consoles always had a habit of encroaching on his space anyway. At the time, he would moan about it, tossing Matt’s striped shirts back at him when he would stroll into the room. Now he was in the midst of the mess once again, Mihael suddenly did feel at home in a sense that he had not experienced for quite some time. He threw himself down on the sofa, a loud crinkling sound alerting him that the space was already occupied.

“Since when do you read newspapers?” He asked jokingly, pulling the page from beneath him. He glanced over it, and smiled, “Don’t tell me you’re fucking clipping my reviews, idiot.”

“Give me that.” Matt seized it away from him, “Well I have to frame it now that it's got Keehl’s arseprint on it, don’t I? How much would that go for on eBay?”

Mihael laughed and Matt sat down beside him, his hand tentatively resting on the other’s thigh. A small intimacy Mihael leant into. He had developed a strong disdain towards people touching him, tensing up as prospective foster parents would try to embrace him, knowing he would only be rejected yet again, or forcing himself to shake hands with men in suits who saw his writing as nothing more than a nice bonus to their massive bank balances. It was the punches, the slaps, that were Mihael’s only real opportunity to be touched in a manner he considered more genuine, from those who threatened him over drug deals and gang loyalty. Matt reminded him that people could want to place their hands on him gently, to make him feel good.

“I knew I’d find you again, eventually,” Matt said, “I was worried you wouldn't want anything to do with me, I don’t know. You were always destined for some kind of greatness, and I admired that about you.”

Mihael shook his head, “Don’t be ridiculous, Matt. You were on my mind every day, I wouldn’t have got to where I am now without you.” He tilted his face, angled just shy of Matt’s lips, “You have always been home to me.”

They kissed with the softness that lovesick teenagers engage in with one another for the first time. Mihael gently pushed Matt back sprawled atop of him while their hands ran across each other’s chests. As if there was still an inherent fear that they would be torn apart again, they traced each other to commit their features to memory. In another life, maybe their anxieties of separation would be valid, the early deaths of Wammy’s boys forever a haunting persistence in the back of their minds. Now, however, there was an experimental promise of stability. A life together that could be pursued. Whatever the headlines had made them out to be, abused prodigies whose collective trauma of their childhood would define them, they had the chance to defy it. They were a testament to their own survival.

“Call me Mello, again.”

“Mello?”

“Yeah.”

Matt hummed behind a wide smile. He cupped the blonde’s face between his hands, admiring those gorgeous blue eyes that now appeared alight with genuine promise of something better. A life worth living. They owed it to themselves to make the most of the future that presented itself to them, trusting in their ability to navigate it together. They had managed to get this far already.

“You are safe with me now, Mello.”

[incohearent]

Unfriendly reminder that if you supported the failed assassination attempts against Trump that means you support innocent bystanders being shot  💗 you support families being torn apart by gangsters and children made orphans and shot "accidentally" in revenge killings, the business that thrusts the poor and needy into the sort of grief that they have to row against regardless of systematic regulation  💗 because you, like any criminal, are a terrible person

[stuff-diary]

Weak Hero: Class 2

TV Shows/Dramas watched in 2025

Weak Hero: Class 2 (2025, South Korea)

Director: Yoo Su Min

Writers: Yoo Su Min & Park Hyun Woo (based on the manga by Seopass & Razen)

Mini-review:

After almost three years, Weak Hero is finally back, and the wait has been worth it. This second season doesn't get quite as heavy, but it maintains pretty much everything that made the first one so good. All the fight scenes have this gritty intensity, plus they're very well choreographed. And the entire cast is excellent, too. Park Ji Hoon has mastered Si Eun's mixture of apathy and irrepressible emotion. I would also like to highlight Lee Jun Young's work; this year alone he's given us three fantastic and completely different performances. My only complaint is that the show still suffers from pacing issues, but that's it. The door is left open for more episodes, and they can count me right in.

[alwaysbewoke]

Why The US Won't Leave Haiti Alone

[miange1]

𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 — adriana 'nana' scanchez

black riverside: is a series by me; it will be a series filled with gang violence, clubbing, pimping, cheating, gang wars, etc. there are mainly two gangs who hate each other, that being the 63rds and the Black Disciples Gang (if you get why i love you). it will consist of mlm, wlw, and mlw. i hope to take this series seriously.

tw: cheating, buying love, gun mentions, toxic relationships, obsessiveness, pegging, making out, grabbing, fingering, rough sex, manipulation

warning: adriana is a cheater, apart of the Black Disciples gang. she has serious issues where she continuously cheats on the reader, but physically cannot live without her. she is a lesbian, she will never be written with male reader. the woman in the photo is what adriana LOOKS like, that is NOT adriana and i do not know that woman. adriana is an oc.

adriana walked in with multiple bags in her hands, all from different expensive stores at the mall. she had done it again, checked out a woman right in front of you not even a week ago, and fucked her the next. you hadn't been talking to her, not blocking her but deliberately ignoring her and avoiding her.

acting like a lil' bitch is what constantly went through her mind. but as time went on, she found herself facing withdrawals. starting shit for no reason, shooting up stuff she wasn't supposed to, and fucking other girls just wasn't working out. she needed you back, so badly.

she knew how much you loved your clothes, your jewelry, and make up. lookin' all cute, she loved that and missed it. she made sure her gun was on safety, always keeping it strapped to her waist in case of absolutely anything.

we always had a copy of your key, flipping through her other keys then opening up the door. she texted you beforehand, but you just left her on read.

"ma?" she called out, slipping her shoes off and walking towards your room. you still had photos of her and you together up, she would smile to herself knowing you didn't have the guts to take them down. she missed you greatly and it boosted her ego knowing you did too.

"aye, ma. i know you're here, don't act like you ain't." she lightly knocked at your door, not waiting for a say so for her to come inside. she saw you against your headboard, your phone in your limp hand as you nodded off to sleep

"hey. ma, wake up." she nudged at you, setting the shopping bags down on your bed. when you stirred awake, your eyes instantly caught hers. "nana," you sighed, a roll on your eyes and your arm shrugging her hand off.

"what is this— why are you here?" she shrugged, moving the bags out the way. "i texted you but you left me on read. what, you thought i was playin'?" she smiled, chuckling to herself and her hand coming to your leg and inching up.

but it'd be cut off by a wince sucking through her teeth feeling a slap at her hand. "fuck was that for?" she asked you, and you looked at her like she was insane, like she had done nothing wrong.

"are you serious adriana? fuck..get out, just get out." In the blink of an eye she was closer to you, grabbing your wrist tightly. "ain't no need for all this shit," she squeezed, her voice lowering. "at least look at what i gotchu mama, the i'll go."

she watched as your jaw clenched, and you crawled over to the bags. your dream was in there. new dresses, jeans, skirts, jewelry, and belts.

"you like 'em?" her hands came to your waist, massaging at the side of them and her head coming to your shoulder. her lips kissed at your neck and jaw. ".. mhm." your head would lean back into the kisses and you touch, your thighs coming together before spreading again.

"i missed you ma."

her fingers massaged and curled inside of you, your body jolting and bucking into her hold. your arms along her shoulders slightly squeezing the loose shirt she wore. "mmh..look at you, so gorgeous ain't ya baby?"

your whimper gave her confidence, the way you melted and submitted to her had her core tight and warm. her lips stayed at your skin, continuously giving kisses and her hair tickling your arms and giving you goosebumps.

"i want you..i need you. don't you get that?" her thumb came to the bud which poked from your smooth folds, pressing and rolling at it. she sighed as she plunged her fingers deeper, just to feel your hips stutter forward, your grip tightening, and your moans getting higher.

"adri.." she shushed you, pulling her fingers out and giving a small tap to your cunt. "yeah, i gotchu."

the silicones thick head seemed to constantly kiss at the bump deep inside of you. your arms bending back and holding onto the headboard, your legs in the air and one of adriana's hands holding at your ankle. each time you'd move too far up, she'd yank you back onto your strap and purposely stop just to mate press you.

"you missed this, missed this dick didn't you? huh? answer me mama." she watched you struggle to nod your head and even get an answer out, your moans interrupting your sentence.

"y-oh! ahh, fuck! yes, yes!" she'd smirked, her other hand coming to your other ankle then bending your knees and pressing them to your chest. her chain tip kissed your skin coldly, her hips coming to another stop to bury herself inside deeper.

"fuck..your dripping," and you were, your own release and juices dripping down between your thighs and onto the bed. "so damn perfect, you're only for me." she'd lean back up, slipping her shirt off. her sports bra sticking to her with sweat as it dripped down her chest, shoulders, and back.

"look at you." she was breathing heavily, looking at you sprawled out and legs spread to your chest and pushing your tits up more. the tremble of your form, your jaw open and your eyes spaced out but still on her. that's all she needed, just needed your eyes on her and watching her.

"nana," your whine of impatience caught her attention, having her snap out of it. "mhm, don't worry i have you."

she started back up again, your back arching up for more and your legs coming to wrap around her waist. skin slaps, squelching, the headboard constantly hitting the wall. no other bitch she fucked could compare to this, compare to your body she was so addicted to.

"oh god..oh! adri! please, please please!" you'd beg, tears dripping to your temples. adriana'd groan deeply, collapsing down atop of you and her arm keeping herself uphold next to your head.

"god damn baby," her lips came to connect to yours, feeling the gloss smear onto hers. "mh, taste as good as last time i fucked this pussy." she sat up.

"my pussy." everything on you, belonged to her. all of it was hers.

[thechickwith-add]

Woooow Syrax , Vermithor and Silverwing at Dragstone waiting to jump Aemond on Vhagar. I had actual goosebumps I was actually screaming and jumping up in my seat!!! That's my Queen!!

[allthegeopolitics]

Mexican President Andrés Manuel López Obrador acknowledged Monday that authorities have had to set up camps for displaced people after some 4,200 residents fled a town in the southern state of Chiapas. Residents of the town of Tila fled over the weekend (Jun 8/9) after armed gangs shot up the town and burned many homes last week, state prosecutors said. It was probably the biggest mass displacement in Chiapas since 1997. Some residents recounted spending days trapped in their homes before army troops and state police showed up over the weekend to allow them to leave.

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[iammontewhite]

The Rise of Chicago Drill: Rap's Deadliest War

Dive into the gritty world of Chicago drill rap in our latest explainer video, "The Rise and Fall of Chicago Drill: Rap's Deadliest War." Discover how Chief Keef’s rise from the streets sparked a cultural phenomenon, only to be overshadowed by gang violence and bitter rivalries. We'll dissect the dramatic events leading to the deadliest conflict in rap history, exploring the lives and legacies of influential artists like King Von and Lil Durk. Join us as we unravel the complex narrative of a genre that both reflected and exacerbated the harsh realities of life in Chicago. If you enjoy our content, please like and share this video! #ChicagoDrill #ChiefKeef #RapHistory #GangViolence #HipHopCulture #MusicDocumentary

[defire]

Ghost of Seattle Chapter 43

Previous

Content: beating, whumpee turned whumper, (bad) caretaker turned whumpee, revenge

"I feel like I must be a sadist sometimes."

"You just spend a lot of time kicking people, Timothy. It's different."

Ghost followed Timothy and Grad along with some other low-ranking sentries. Their job was basically to back up whatever action was taking place. Ghost left Amherst's rifle with him, just as he came back from his break. 

This building's holding area was just a stairwell going down to a flooded level. They had blocked it off with rubble. The defensive structure here was a parking garage on the corner of Shiver's territory. It was an outpost with 3 levels, but the top had been blown off by a bomb that had ignited before it hit the street.

That created a firing zone for the main compound, to fire on approaching enemies, and difficult terrain.

The Shivers took Ron down the stairs and took positions around him. A kid had already gone running to get Oldman. Oldman would decide whether to kill or induct Ron. They certainly wouldn't send him back. Merc was threatening them, not treating. They would let him think Ron was dead.

"What's your name." Timothy said to Ron.

"Spade." Ron said.

"His name's Ron." Ghost interrupted, walking closer with folded arms. He caught Ron's scared eyes. 

"Ch-Chase?" Ron's jaw dropped. "It's you!"

He moved to reach out for Ghost. Ghost pushed him back, looking Ron in the eyes.

"Ghost doesn't belong to you anymore." Timothy sneered, punching Ghost in the left shoulder in a friendly way. Ghost caught his balance with a small shuffle, but didn't react otherwise, still staring at Ron.

"No he's not." Ron said, glancing around nervously. "We have him by blood. He's not loyal to you."

Ghost clenched his teeth in rage at the words.

Timothy slapped Ron hard in the face. 

Ron cringed and backed up. Ghost watched.

"Chase would never abandon us." Ron repeated. "Tell them, Chase."

Ghost clenched his fists. Timothy moved, to allow Ghost to step down 2 stairs. He faced Ron and punched the Guard in the stomach. Ron gasped and doubled over.

"But," Ron wheezed, starting to stand up.

Ghost punched him again.

Ron nearly crumbled to his knees. Ghost grabbed him by the front of his coat, pulling down his own muffler at the same time with his right hand.

"My name is Ghost, bitch." He said.

Ron was still taller than Ghost, but the younger boy had grown, and was standing on the stair above Ron, looking down on him with cold eyes.

"Stand up." Ghost said. "You wanna live?"

"Rgh..." Ron groaned. 

"Ron!" Ghost said. "If you wanna live, you show Shiver what you're made of."

Ron looked up at Ghost, obviously nauseated.

"Are you... protecting me?" He asked thinly.

"No." Ghost said, thrusting him back against the pile of rubble. Ron caught himself before falling. "And I never should've had to."

Ghost stepped back and watched the ensuing fight with Timothy and the others, until Oldman came.

Ron held up well, but his offense sucked ass. Oldman decided that Ron could stay alive if he proved himself. When Ron asked how he could do that, Oldman said,

"You'll find out."

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[alwaysbewoke]

[memenewsdotcom]

Gang violence across Haiti

[troythecatfish]