#prison grapevine

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"WHITE MICE CARRIED CONVICT'S MESSAGES," Daily British Whig (Kingston, Ontario). October 21, 1920. Page 2. --- Penitentiary Inmates Have a Complete System of Telegraphy. ---- In view of the combined efforts of the convicts at the penitentiary to create a disturbance by yelling and hooting in the cells, citizens have been wondering how they carried out a system to bring it all about.

It is claimed that the convicts in the "pen" have a complete system of tapping or telegraphy, by which they communicate with each other, and it is carried on with great success, in spite of the efforts of the prison authorities to put a stop to it. Sometimes the tapping is carried out on the walls, or their tin drinking cups, but it is known for a fact that convicts have communicated with each other in this way, and that many a scheme has been carried out as a result.

It is stated that some few years ago, several of the convicts had white mice as their pets and that the mice were used to carry messages to and fro among the convicts. This may appear as a fairy story, but it is vouched for, by people in a position to know. Needless to say there are no white mice in the penitentiary to-day.

[lalunanymph]

GRASSLAND ROMANCE

SUMMARY the strongest tribal chieftain sets the stage to claim his most priceless reward

WARNINGS prisoner of war!reader, slave!reader, tribal chief!sylus, first time, fight-to-death-trope, concubine!reader, oral sex, breeding, mentions of lactating, size kink, mentions of pregnancy, mentions of misogyny, bartering, winning her favor trope, loosely based on the new sylus myth card, mdni, 18+

DAWN SAYS it's daddy sylus's time hehehe second one down, 2 more to go !! sylus is my ult bias and I definitely wanted to go for more of a khal drogo x daenaerys vibe when I started this out, so keep an eye out for bit of dark content discussed here... that being said, will be cross-posting this to a03 soon so stay tuned! <3

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─── ZAYNE ⊱ XAVIER ⊱ RAFAYEL

The grasslands were not kind to those unfamiliar with its ways.

As a little girl, your grandmother would tell you stories of the fearless warriors traversing these bare lands in search of resources to plunder, steal and conquer. It instilled a sense of fear in you; a knowing instinct to never step out of line less you wanted to suffer the consequences of losing everything you loved.

The day you met Sylus was the day your short life came to its meaningless end.

Taken from your homelands to his tribe, you were relegated to cleaning tasks and cooking; trying to keep your head down and eyes off of you less you wanted to suffer fatal repercussions.

Your days living in sweet bliss were over; your childhood and girlhood gone in one fell swoop.

And yet, despite your best efforts to go undetected, you wound up catching the eye of the fearsome chieftain. His calls for you to his yurt could not be ignored.

You fully expected him to take advantage of your vulnerable state, using his position to conquer what remained of your dignity and hope. 

But, Sylus proved to be a different man behind his ruthless reputation.

A fan of music and wildland games, he often asked you to keep him company for the day, and when the nights got too cold, you were ushered into his private space, allowed to warm yourself with his brazier. 

The scent of moist rose and grapevine trimmings filled the air as you lounged right in Sylus’s arms, enjoying the warmth of his presence and the fire glowing brightly while snow and sleet raged outside of his yurt.

The fearless tribal chieftain was a relaxed man tonight, savoring the presence of his favorite concubine right in his lap. His large hands stroked your hair, fingers running through your locks. The robes he dressed you in were heavy yet comfortable, providing you shelter from the cold; a stark difference from the slave rags you were forced to wear during your earlier encampment. 

“What is on your mind, beloved?”

Beloved. Despite what everyone said or thought about you, Sylus saw you in a different light. A tender and cherished one.

You turned your head to gaze at him, a softness you reserved solely for him shining from your eyes.

“I was lost in my thoughts; thinking back to the time when I first got here.”

A dark look flitted across his face, and he fixed you with a prodding look.

“I know what happened was not ideal for you, beloved. But, you are safe now. I will not let anyone in this camp harm you.”

His promise was as good as gold in this world. Sylus was not someone who would mince words or give you false hope. Despite his stature as one of the most fearsome conquerors of this land, he was a man of integrity and word.

And yet… you couldn’t help the sadness eclipsing your features. 

The ceremonial choosing of his bride was coming up soon, and from the lines of women prepared for him, you paled in comparison. These women were trained from birth to please him, cook for him, and be the bearer of his children. They were thought in the grassland ways, something you were not familiar with.

The women chosen for him did not stick out like a sore thumb, nor were they foreigners of this land.

Each of them were meticulously handpicked to appeal to his tastes and desires; where you fit in, you had no clue. 

It wasn’t as if you were his tribe’s de facto pick. You were sure you weren’t on any of the elder’s lists, your fate relegated to being his concubine for life.

As if he could read your mind, Sylus tilted your face up to look him in the eyes. 

“Beloved, you are the only one for me. There is no one else in these lands I would rather spend my days with.”

You wanted to ask him why; what could possess a man like him to love a lowly woman like you?

But, you enjoyed his caresses on your cheeks and jaw; snuggled closer to him as the wind tore through the night, safe and secure right in his arms.

The next morning, you were pulled aside by one of the village elders, Enkh, as he looked you up and down. 

“My son needs a new wife after his old one died in childbirth,” scrutinizing you from head to toe, he fixed his beady gaze on you like a dishwasher studying a piece of vermin on a brass plate. “And you will do.”

The idea of being married to Enkh’s son, known as the most ruthless and cruel man in the entire tribe, filled you with unadulterated fear. You had no say in your fate, and spent the entire day wondering how to tell Sylus—the chieftain himself—of your dilemma.

But, you didn’t have to open your mouth and divulge the truth.

Sylus already knew.

He called you out to his tent, where some men who were sparring upped and left the second you arrived. In your hands, you held a pouch, given to you by Enkh’s wife before you left their yurt.

A symbol of choice for a woman about to be married, you were given explicit instructions to hand it to his son after his sparring win tomorrow. It was tradition for the winner to receive a wife as compensation, and from the thunderous look on Sylus’s face, you could tell he was not at all pleased about this latest development.

“They claimed you, just like that? Without my agreement?”

Despite not being his official concubine, everyone in the tribe knew of your position with the chieftain. You were virtually untouchable, and only higher up families like Enkh’s, could make the play for one of his concubine’s hands. 

This displeased your lover, who took it as an affront to his rule. 

But, he didn’t react the way you expected him to, with violence and malice as the forefront of his actions. 

Sylus led you to the heart of his yurt, where thick layers of felt and wool provided insulation from the chill. Dressed in traditional Bökh gear, he was preparing for the ceremonial sparring to begin when he heard word of your impending nuptials to Enkh’s son. He dragged you down to his side, letting you rest on the rugs and pillows surrounding the area before he shared what was on his mind. 

“Do you want to marry into that family, Y/N?” 

Instinctively, you shook your head. “No, Sylus.”

He nodded, pleased at your swift rebuke. “I am going to be honest with you—the only way we can circumvent both of our fates to marry different people is for me to participate in the fights myself.”

You gasped, wide-eyed at the revelation. “But, it’s unheard of. You are the chieftain!”

Rough fingers touched your face, caressing your cheek with a softness he only showed to you.

“I know, my beloved. But, think about the alternative. I do not want to lose you.” 

A grin stole across his handsome features, and he shot back: “If I lost, I’d be stuck here forever—in this limbo of never having you… but then again, could I really lose?” 

Unperturbed by his musings, you raised the stakes by straddling his lap, glaring down at him. In this position, he had to hear you out; he had to allow logic to take hold of his wilful mind. 

“Sylus, the rules of the game means that you have to steal the gem from your other opponent and then you can stake your claim. Are you sure you want to do this? You cannot back out once the games have started.”

The Grassland Festival, or the most important festivity for Sylus’s tribe that was happening in a few hours, was in tandem with the fighting ring for men to win the hands of their future wives. 

His red eyes, which shone like a grassland sunset, appraised your form astride his lap; soft and sure.

“My love, you severely underestimate my devotion to you.”

Turning your fates around, he flipped you back onto the soft pillows and rugs, a look of fond playfulness in those jewel-toned eyes.

“All I have to do is fight, yes? And I have never lost a fight.” 

His soft touch tucks a stray lock of your hair behind your ear. “You are the prize I must win, my love. I will do everything I can to make sure we stay together.”

Filled with happiness and the surety of his tone, you put your faith in what came next. 

Long and nimble fingers snuck to your waist pockets, where he retrieved the pouch given to you by Enkh’s family. 

“Hey—!”

You tried to reach back for it, but he held it from you, a smirk playing on his defined lips. 

“Is this what you are going to give the boy?” 

Warmth splashed across your cheeks as you tried to glare him down.

“Despite what you may think, you do not own every aspect of me, Sylus. I reserve the need to keep some secrets to myself.”

He hummed, clearly not believing you. “And yet, you spoke of the sincerity of our feelings. Isn’t this me being honest, little dove?” 

You sputtered, tripping over your refutes, and he rolled his eyes.

“Alright, love. Let me make it simple—”

He lifted you closer to him, letting you fall over his lap. The sudden proximity filled your senses purely with him; igniting sparks of heat across your entire body. 

“If someone were to hand the champion a pouch, should he take it?” 

He was teasing you, and it was clear he wasn’t planning to let up anytime soon. 

You huffed, trying to swipe it again. But, he was nimbler than you, yanking the pouch away from your outstretched hand. 

Sighing, you tried to pull him up, grumbling when you barely made him move an inch.

“Have you been training more?” You grumbled, eyeing his broad shoulders; the muscles stretching across his tanned skin. 

“Perhaps. Although as much as I have been honing my skills, I do still need someone to look out for me.” 

His smirk threatened to affect your entire composure, and you darted your eyes away, flushed and embarrassed at how easily he could get to you. 

The faith you had in him to win was astounding; there was a reason why he was known as one of the best warriors in the grasslands. 

“You’re the champion,” you grumbled under your breath. “Do you need me to watch your back?”

In response, Sylus’s smile softened around the edges, his red eyes taking on a tender quality. 

“Let me paint you a scene, love: I win the challenge, and then I get to be yours. How does that sound?” 

Tugging a stray lock of hair which fell loose from your braid, Sylus waited for your answer patiently. 

It was useless to try and dispute him. Whatever the strongest wanted, he would get—and he clearly wanted you. 

“Alright,” you responded softly, conceding with a smile. “If you win tomorrow, I will hand you my pouch. There is nothing you cannot do.”

Responding to your confidence, he chuckled softly, teasing you more by dragging you closer to him, enjoying your weight pressing onto his body.

“Or, we could do it together.”

He hummed, touching the hollow of your throat with his cool lips. Your eyes fluttered shut, trying to staunch your reckless sounds.

“The second I get that gem, you run up to me, crowning me as your chosen one and I respond back.”

Struggling to control your raging thoughts, you murmured: “Will it work—such boldness?” 

To answer your question, he smirked, finding your flustered expression and slight doubt adorable. 

“My, my, love. Are you doubting me?” 

The world flipped around, and suddenly you were thrown over his shoulder. You gasped, confusion mingling with surprised delight as Sylus manhandled you with practiced ease. He stepped past the plush pillows and rugs, opening the flap of his yurt to bring you out into the mellow morning. 

“Wh-what are you doing?” Your sharp inhale spurred on his laugh, his low and rich chuckle making you flush warmly. 

“Didn’t you tell me this before, love? Actions speak louder than words.” To your mortification, he was heading right to the middle of the courtyard, where spectators were already gathering to witness the fight. 

“Sylus—!”

You smacked his broad shoulders, but he wouldn’t let you down. Sylus already had a plan in mind and you were helpless to stop him. 

“Oh, love, relax,” he teased, taking long, purposeful strides towards the other villagers. “I need to show them I already have a lover. And since she won’t let me take her away…” you could plainly picture his cocky smirk. “... I’ll just have to take her myself.” 

The rest of the villagers stopped in their tracks when they noticed their chieftain walking towards them, a smaller woman in his arms. Elders dropped what they were doing to whisper under their breaths, their judgemental eyes trained on Sylus’s smug face and the look of mortification on yours.

“Sylus—”

He set you down in the front stand, tossing you a wink for good measure.

Whispers rushed around the arena like wildfire, catching aflame from the look of pure devotion in his eyes; a look reserved just for you. 

Enkh’s son, a hulking brute by the name of Altan, shot him a glare—insulted by Sylus’s blatant claim on you.

Motivated by his wrath, the tribal chief turned to the other man, raising a brow. 

“Altan, son of Enkh!” 

His voice boomed across the field, shocking you out of your mortified stupor. 

“You dare claim one of my concubines as your wife? Do you know what that entails?”

The atmosphere in the arena tilted towards a frenzy, the people inadvertently roped in to witness the showdown of the year.

Since ceremonial rites were read and sacrifices were made, the last agenda for today would be the warrior fights. Sylus took his spot in the ring, unafraid. The head monk, a calm man by the name of Bataar, whispered something to Enkh, who glared at you as if this entire ordeal was your fault.

You shrank back in your seat, attempting to hide your scorching cheeks behind your palms.

The fight began, and it was clear from the onset that it would be an unfair one. Sylus, whose expertise and years on the field, easily overpowered Altan, pinning him to the ground. A horn blared, and the winner was declared.

A stirring eagerness and relief moved you from your seat, and you didn’t care for customs or etiquette when you ran across the ring, jumping right into his open arms. Sylus lifted you off your feet with ease, spinning you around, his laughter mingling with yours. 

In his palm, he held the priceless gem he stole from Altan’s belt— a symbol of his opponent’s virility. Its capture meant that he had won the other man’s intended bride fair and square. He handed it to you, and right in front of his entire people, you proudly proclaimed your acceptance of his proposal—slipping the jewel right inside of your pouch and handing it to him. 

Triumphant, Sylus took your offered gift, tucking it in the lapels of his leather harness with a contented grin. 

The tribe elders were helpless to stop their strongest from claiming you, as was the custom of these rituals. 

Sylus had no hesitation when he slung you over his shoulder again, a conqueror who had rightfully won his beloved. 

He didn’t care if whispers of your status or his incredible defiance towards the elders would reach his ears; all Sylus could think about now was savoring this priceless reward he fought hard to obtain.

Bringing you back to his yurt, Sylus let the flap fall close behind him, a clear signal to the rest of the tribe that he intended to enjoy his winnings in peace.

Your back met the soft pillows and rugs, his broad build blocking out the rafters letting in warm morning sunlight; lost in the depths of his jewel-tone eyes.

They shone like precious rubies, far more valuable to you than any material item in this world. 

The feel of your palm stroking his cheek, your fingers playing in his hair, suddenly made his stomach twist into hard knots. They were impossible to unravel, a bowline loop which went on for eternity.

His breathing turned ragged, gaze going soft as he looked at you—really took you in.

The sight of his beloved—his bride—right here in his home, about to be taken and claimed by him, set his nerves ablaze more than any war cry ever could. 

Sylus moaned unabashedly when you tangled your fingers in his hair, bold enough away from the prying eyes of others to fall prey to the undeniable attraction you’ve felt for him since the first time you saw each other.

He lets you bring him in for a kiss, your lips sweeter than wildberry dew.

“Sylus…”

The possessive need to claim you flared in him when you called out his name.

Smoldering attraction turned into a wild, untameable blaze, threatening to consume him whole. 

Due to his rugged nature, he never had a woman this close to him, her touch a balm to his rough edges.

In your arms, Sylus was more than the fearsome tribal chieftain whose name could strike fear in any man’s heart. 

He was wont to your desires, an instrument of your love.

“Please,” you licked your lips, and his eyes followed the gesture with a blatant look of desire. “Kiss me.”

You didn’t have to ask him twice. Sylus captured your lips in a deep and passionate kiss, swallowing your moans whole.

Your tinier fingers in his hair tightened, bringing his body closer onto yours. He fought back a shiver from the force of his desires as his body covered yours completely, trapping you beneath him under his weight.

“My love, you are playing a dangerous game,” he growled, adoring how fragile and small you felt under his hulking mass.

Dragging your hands down the slope of his shoulders, you felt his muscles rippling under your touch; his broad frame and the layers of sinew forming his brawny build leaving you lightheaded.

“Oh, my love. The sight of you underneath me, looking so vulnerable and lovely,” his voice dipped lower, a hoarse edge taking over it. “... it’s driving me wild.”

Shying away from such a bold declaration, you bit your lower lip. “Sylus, will it hurt?”

Sensing you were speaking about the act of copulating, he took your hand, rubbing circles on your palm. 

“A little, but it is nothing you cannot handle. Besides, I will be with you through it all—I will not hurt you, my love.”

The idea of a ruthless tribal leader like him, promising some young slave girl that he would be gentle with her, was so far-fetched from your idea of what a conqueror was that you began to relax in his presence.

You trusted Sylus because he has proven time and time again how your comfort and safety were his priorities.

Especially when he was this close to claiming you.

Steady yet hasty hands slowly unraveled the lapels of your thick coat, his breaths tumbling out in silent huffs. Sylus’s large palms were warm—far too warm on your chilly body.

The great chieftain was a silent, nervous wreck when he glanced down at his beloved, watching her with soft eyes and reaching out to her with an even softer touch. 

“Sylus… please.” 

The cadence of his name on your tongue will never not be the sweetest thing he's heard in his life. 

You returned the gesture, removing his leather gauntlets, slowly stripping him off his warrior bravado to reveal the sweet and gentle man underneath.

“Please, what?” He whispered against your throat. Outside, the cool breeze rattled the rafters, but inside his yurt and in his arms, you were warmer than a butterfly in spring. 

You seized, back arching when he kissed a tender path from your neck to your bare chest. 

The sight of your hardened nipples and smooth curves whipped through him like a frenzy, and Sylus grew impossibly hard at the image of your sweet body, swollen with child.

His child.

The fantasies of your breasts filling up with milk, the slope of your belly gently curving with the promise of his heir… 

 His thin patience was hanging by a thread.

Sylus shrugged off his sheepskin pants, tossing it to the side of the yurt as he quickly worked on the lapels and hooks of your clothing. 

Once your smooth body was bare to him, Sylus’s gaze softened, his tone almost reverent when he said:

“You look beautiful, my beloved.”

You had not imagined your wedding night (or, in this case, morning) to be a tender affair.

Where every brutish belief you once held towards his people melted away with every tender touch of this gentle chieftain.

Sylus propped a pillow under your hips, careful to lean his full weight onto you. Your eyes fluttered shut, a moan seeping past your swollen lips when you felt his tongue glide across your breasts, taking his time to play with and suck on your nipples.

His mouth moved down your body, teasing you with whispery kisses.

Parting your thighs wide, you realized a second too late what he was doing until he slotted himself in between; mouth pressed to your pelvis.

“Sy—”

The protests fizzled out the second you felt his tongue parting through your folds, tasting the effect he had on you.

Low whimpers slipped past your mouth, your fingers tangling in his hair.

Sylus… mhmm… s-stop—

But, he didn't relent. He glanced up at your flushed face, shaking his head. 

You can take it, beloved. Can't you? For me?

It wasn't the reluctance that set you back but the shame of such an intimate experience.

You had never experienced a man this close to your sensitive parts; the idea of him in this position itself was too much to bear. You should be worshiping him, not the other way around.

But, Sylus refused to listen to your pleas and moans—hellbent on pleasuring you.

His tongue traced patterns on your clit, drawing out more of your high-pitched whines. There was little doubt whoever passed by the yurts could hear your pleasured sighs. 

Sylus couldn't care less.

He wanted the whole tribe to know you were his;  that he had chosen you and you had chosen him.

His tongue delved deeper into your core, tasting your excitement. Some of it stained onto his face, his chin drenched with your juices.

Your hips rocked to the rhythm his tongue set, your moans reaching fever pitch.

Good girl. That's it. Show me how much you want it.

Sylus murmured, working you through your cresting pleasure.

It came like a rising high within you, soaring higher than any eagle could as you crashed to the ground, screaming his name.

Sylus tightened his grip on your thighs, doubling down on his efforts. Your mess stained his cheeks, his chin, driving his desire to a burning point.

He worked his way up your body, leaving kisses on every inch of skin his mouth could reach.

Finally reaching your lips, Sylus poured every bit of his devotion for you into this heated kiss, swallowing your moans and letting you taste him on his tongue. Strings of saliva connected your lower lip to his, hanging by a tenuous thread.

The heat of your cheeks would have burned you alive, the tension between your bodies rising to a feverish pitch.

Tenderly, he nudged your thighs to wrap around his defined waist, opening you to be taken by him.

The first stretch was accompanied by his lips on yours, coaxing you to relax and open up to him.

That is it… good girl… taking me so well…

The deeper he sank in, the more loud he was with his praise.

I adore you… you sinful, sweet girl… take me… take me good… 

Sylus!

Your cries reverberated across the sheepskin walls. It felt like drowning, your body sinking deeper into the plush woolen pillows.

Oh, oh… oh, right there…

He licked into the heat of your mouth, tracing the ridges of your teeth. 

There? Does it hurt? Do I make you ache?

Yes, you responded deliriously. Yes, yes and yes.

It was the kind of pain you could never forget, yet you desired it all the same. A masochistic plea of your body to be devoured and conquered.

Sylus raised himself up on his forearms, the bulging, rock hard muscles rippling with every exertion; his thrusts almost knocking you backwards if it weren't for his tight grip on your hips.

Every collision of his cock against a spot deep inside of you made your toes curl; leading you closer towards your desperate end.

Sylus—can't… close… 

It felt like a ball of tension growing bigger and tighter, growing uncontrollably hotter with every thrust, every heated whisper of his praise against your ear.

Sylus nipped your jaw, tracing his tongue against the curve of your lower lip.

His gentle insistence, coupled with his brutal thrusts made your body run hot and cold.

Goosebumps erupted across your skin. You were growing dizzier and hotter.

You gasp—fuck, fuck, this is too much—and he tells you just take it, darling.

Take it for me.

He nipped Your earlobe, pushing deeper against your body. 

Does it feel good? Are you close? 

Squeezing your eyes closed, you nodded.

Yes, Sylus… almost… 

Good, he traced his tongue across the heated Seam of your mouth.

Give it to me, darling. Let go for me.

One request. You gave into him.

“Yes, yes,” you shuddered, digging your heels into his lower back. 

Sylus groaned, expressions contorting into painful bliss when your walls contracted around him.

He worked you through them, letting you stab your nails into his broad back.

That's it, darling. Give it to me. Come undone for your husband. 

Husband. 

Husband. 

The word sent an unrestrained quake straight through your soul.

Yet, the reality was far sweeter.

Sylus slumped on top of you, spent after releasing ropes of warmth deep inside your quivering cunt.

Languidly, he rolled you onto his chest, skin pressed to warm skin. You were spent, soaked and still wrapped around him.

The act of consummation was over. You finally belonged to him.

And for the test of his days, Sylus would make sure to show you how much you mean to him; going above and beyond to declare his love. 

“I love you,” he slurred into the heat of your throat. “Always have. And from the very beginning.” 

You nestled closer into his side, feeling safe in the warmth of his arms, finally allowing yourself to embrace the reality of this powerful man’s infatuation with you. 

Amidst the vast and intimidating grasslands, you had ensured your survival as the feared chieftain's wife, with Sylus unwaveringly by your side.

© all works belong to lalunanymph. do not copy, repost on other websites and claim as your own. do not feed my content to AI.

[reareaotaku]

Hi! I saw your yan Bill hc's and I really enjoyed them so I was wondering if you could please do a prompt or hc's of a reader that taunts Bill after finding out he can't bother them anymore (because he's trapped in the theraprism).

Like Bill thinks reader is there to visit but in reality they're there out of spite? Sorry if this is too specific btw

I'm so glad you liked it! I also have a 'Rev! Pine Twins vs Pine Twins' & 'Teenage Ford and Stan Pines Headcanons' in my drafts. Really excited for the future of Gravity Falls

I hope that this is to your liking!

👁️ He's not supposed to have contact with the outside world, but you still heard through the grapevine that he was in the Theraprism. As a victim of Bill, you were allowed into the Theraprism as a hope for Bill to rehabilitate faster. For you it was more of making sure he was really gone and wasn't going to bother you anymore.

👁️ He was thrilled to see you, even if he was behind a force field. They left you alone and for a second, he thought you came here to help him get out. Imagine his surprise when you start laughing. He's angry and embarrassed.

👁️ "You know, when I heard you were locked up, I was imagining more chains, but it looks like you got a worse fate than prison." You laugh pointing at him. "Aww, you almost look cute in there."

👁️ "Shut. Up."

👁️ "Or what?" You tease, tilting your head, causing a smirk to appear on your face.

👁️ "When I get out of here-"

👁️ "Oh, Billy... You really think you're getting out of here? Don't be ridiculous."

👁️ He decides to just turn around and start ignoring you, much to your annoyance, because you were having fun teasing him. You were annoyed and Bill just wanted to have some control over you, even if it was having control over your anger.

👁️ "Oh, what are you? A child? Stop throwing a tantrum."

👁️ He shakes his triangle body, in a way that lets you know he means no. You frown, your brows scrunching together.

👁️ "God, you're like a kid. For someone so powerful, you really are so... Immature."

👁️ "You think I'm powerful?" He turns around, his eye lighting up. If he could blush, he would.

👁️ You groan, rolling your eyes and turning away from him. "Of course that's all you heard."

👁️ He gets close to the glass, eye to eye with you, "You have to get me out of here, Y/n."

👁️ "Why on god's earth would I do that?"

👁️ "I can give you power you've only imagined. We could rule this world toget-"

👁️ "Yeah, I'll pass. Thanks tho."

👁️ He frowns, making a sound of a pout/huff and going back to his corner.

👁️ You sigh rolling your eyes, "You know, I won't let you out, but if you're good, maybe I'll come ba-"

👁️ "Yes! Yes, you must come back."

👁️ "Mkay. I will." You dig through your bag, before pulling out a cupcake.

👁️ Bill watches you pull open the little window between you and him and pushing the cupcake in. He devours it in one bit, it was rather graphic, taking you back.

👁️ "When will you be back?"

👁️ "I don't know..."

👁️ "As soon as you can?" He practically pleads and you sigh.

👁️ "Sure, Bill. As soon as possible."

[diejager]

makarov hunting an/a (enemy? long assassin?) reader who doesn’t really want to work with him- reader knows their stuff, erasing tracks, setting up traps, etc- its a game

призрак Cw: canon-typical death, murder, assassination, mercenary, blood, tell me if I missed any.

You were a ghost —призрак in his mother-tongue. Appearing whenever you wanted and disappearing before anyone could find you, a phantom in the business of assassination, a killer without too high of a price. He’s watched the aftermath of your handiwork, the shows you played and the kills you made, they were a masterpiece he wanted to witness, to utilise for his goals. Even from the darkness of his solitary cell, locked away in the Gulag - the Zorgaya prison complex - he kept hearing about your endeavours.

You interest him, your brought out a certain excitement, made adrenaline pump in his blood, when you were first brought up. You were the a ghost - a wraith - that haunted the world, killing off men and women for the right number. You were a killer for hire, one of the best in the industry that even he - Vladimir Makarov - had attempted to recruit, to tie you down to his name and fame, to have you work for his purpose. Permanently.

But you were a slippery one, escaping whatever trap he carefully laid out for you, falling through his fingers, finding the smallest crack - mistake - in his plan that he once thought was full-proof. You were smart, feisty and skillful, able to see through his carefully crafted words for a hire, pushing past the firewall of his mind and planting a virus, corrupting his original purpose, rooting yourself into his sick mind. This feeling, the way his heart rammed against his rib when you sent a warning shot, or when you escaped from his grasp, this wasn’t love —no, he was a being detached from such frivolous affairs. He didn’t love. He couldn’t with his cold, dead heart. This was an obsession, Makarov obsessed over things, he knit picked, he stole and took apart.

Makarov was a being whose conscious transcended the likes of capitalist westerners who’ve corrupted his motherland, small-minded and parasitic politician who made the Soviet Union crumble to dust; whose forgone the primal needs that made humanity weak —vulnerable; Vladimir Makarov was better than any man.

That’s where stemmed his obsession with you, the need to hunt you down. You portrayed yourself as a being higher than him. A better strategist and killer than him. It went from word of mouth to ear, Makarov heard from the other guards and new inmate speak of you, you achievements, the spike in your demands and the people who were ready to give you an arm and leg to pay for your service. Powerful men and women routing you an undisclosed amount of money to kill of someone, to have them assassinated in their own bedroom, to be drowned in their own bathtub or to be poisoned by their own wine.

He had Konni keep a track on your work while he waited for the right time to be freed, jumping back to work once he landed in Russia. He took it on himself to follow your steps, he had a hand in every sector of the underworld, dabbing in everything to keep his hold over the world. He couldn’t find anything about you, neither your past nor your character, you were nameless and faceless, the hooded mask obscuring your face from the world. Makarov’s best couldn’t even track you through cameras and find your deposit account, it seemed as though you had a team of your own, working in the dark to keep your and their livelihood going.

You evaded his traps, able to figure out which deals were made by him as a ploy to catch you, to find the ghost that haunted his mind. You were a disease, a parasite that unknowingly clung to him. You knew him, the messages he received through the grapevines, taunting remarks and threats that made him see red. You were too skillful, erasing your steps, making it seem as if you were never there in the first place, uninvolved with it, but the world knew who committed the crime. This was a game - or so he liked to think - of cat and mouse, he preferred being the cat, the dangerous and cunning feline who stalked the small mouse, he had to swallow his pride and confess that he played the mouse as often as he played the cat, being hunted and narrowly escaping because you let him.

But this, this meeting was a surprise, to see his призрак stand before him, tempted by the proposition he had to offer you —without any underlying meaning or hidden thoughts.

“мы наконец встретились, Призрак.” (We finally meet, ghost.)

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @tallmanlover @distracteddragoness @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @konigsblog @havoc973 @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @danielle143 @dont-mind-me-just-existing-sadly @tuttifuckinfruttifriday

[jingooism]

lee dongsik’s fear of the passage of time is something so poetic. he’s lived forty plus years saddled with the weight of unbearable grief and false accusations, trying and failing to cope with both in his everyday life. time has gone by incredibly fast for him and he’s lost so many on the way and then BOOM. han joowon with his cutting words and justice seeking tendencies.

and were they at odds from day one? yes. did joowon relentlessly accuse him like the rest of the people in manyang? of course he did. but, he can forgive him for it because dongsik knows he did it all in the name of finding the true killer.

time passed like it always does in manyang and they bring everyone to justice at each other’s side, and those cold cuffs are slapped on dongsik’s wrists. and weirdly, he feels freer for it. the year in prison is quick, unsurprisingly no calls from han joowon. dongsik knew him well enough to figure that would happen. the man’s need to self flagellate over honest mistakes is one that never goes away. that doesn’t stop dongsik from asking through the grapevine about him, though. he keeps in touch with jaeyi and jihwa religiously, and jihoon always visits him on his free days. they all let him know how joowon is doing.

i’d like to think that joowon, like he normally would, goes through a harsh period of self isolation after dongsik goes to prison, only to be dragged back to manyang by the only people he can really call friends. he thinks about dongsik every day too, asks after him, hopes he’s doing okay. he’ll never call him, because in his head he’s convinced he’ll have nothing dongsik would want to hear.

even after the canon end of the show, joowon isn’t entirely sure how to navigate their relationship. and i think by this point, dongsik just absolutely aches to see joowon, but doesn’t want to impose. the pining of post-show goes absolutely crazy, i’m convinced. and there comes a point, maybe months later maybe a year later, where dongsik just cannot take it anymore.

it’s probably at one of their weekly dinners or maybe on a walk around manyang at sunset and he just looks to his side, where joowon has made himself a constant presence. he notices the small changes in his features, even from the first day they’ve met. maybe the hair that’s longer, maybe the way his eyes are softer now, and dongsik just can’t not spill his guts to his beloved inspector. because he’s aging, time has already wrapped around both of them, and while they now grow together instead of apart, they’ve still wasted so much time.

and so under a golden sun, i like to think dongsik would gently take joowon’s hand in his own (inwardly cheering at the lack of hesitation on joowon’s part to wrap his fingers around dongsik’s) and say something that’s just so simply beautiful. maybe it’s not even an ‘i love you’, maybe it’s something different that holds those words just below the surface.

[whereslynx]

could i request oscar coming home from jail to find the girl he loved in an bad relationship and he tries to get her out of it ?? maybe she’s always loved him but never thought he would get out

TW: toxic relationship + abuse — please be mindful to care for your wellbeing if you’re sensitive to these topics!

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Oscar had barely stepped out of the gates of the prison before a feeling of hope mixed with trepidation settled in his chest. For years, he’d counted down the days, holding onto one steady image in his mind—the girl he left behind, the one person who had unknowingly given him strength to get through the darkest of days. You.

But as he made his way back to Freeridge, a sense of worry gnawed at him. He’d heard bits and pieces through the grapevine, whispers that hinted at you being in a tough spot. And even though he’d tried to push those thoughts away, they resurfaced with a vengeance as he walked down familiar streets, the memories and dreams of what could have been filling him with bittersweet ache.

He hadn’t even gotten a chance to change out of the clothes he’d worn the night he got locked up, when he saw you at the corner market, barely recognizing the woman he’d kept in his mind all those years. You looked tired, like life had taken more from you than it’d given back. Bruises peeked out from beneath your long sleeves, and Oscar’s heart twisted. His suspicions weren’t just rumors; they were real.

Your eyes met, and for a split second, the years melted away. But then, you looked away, nervously glancing over your shoulder as if someone might be watching. Your reaction told him everything he needed to know. You were still in love with him, he could feel it in the way your eyes softened just slightly, but he could also see that you were trapped.

He approached you, fighting the tension tightening his fists. “Didn’t think I’d run into you here,” he said softly, his voice controlled but carrying a hint of his frustration.

You gave him a tight smile, avoiding his gaze as yours darted around nervously, “Didn’t think you’d ever be back.”

“Yeah, well.. I’m here,” he replied, his voice a bit harder than he intended. “But damn, I didn’t think I’d come back to this. You good?” His eyes lingered on the bruise peeking out from your sleeve, making his stomach churn with anger.

Youse stood there in silence, the bustling noise of the market around them feeling distant. You hugged your arms around yourself, a defensive stance that Oscar noticed all too well. It broke his heart, seeing you like this, a shadow of the girl he remembered.

“I’m fine, Oscar. Life’s just.. complicated.”

“Complicated?” he repeated, his voice rough, barely containing his frustration. “That’s how you’re gonna play it off? Who did this to you?” He leaned in, his voice dropping lower, sharper. “Whoever this fool is, he got no idea who he’s messin’ with.”

You looked away, your expression tightening. “It’s not that easy. He’s not the kind of guy you can just walk away from. He made it real clear I don’t have options.”

Oscar took a steadying breath, his jaw clenched. “Options? Nah, that’s where you’re wrong.” He reached out, his hand brushing against your arm with a surprising gentleness. “You got options. Ain’t no way I’m lettin’ you stay with some piece of shit who thinks it’s cool to put his hands on you.”

A single tear slipped down your cheek, and you wiped it away quickly, breaking down for a moment in the safety of his presence. “I thought you were gone for good.” You mumbled, fidgeting with the hem of your top, “He made me think this was it, that there wasn’t anything else for me.”

Oscar’s face tightened with a mix of pain and anger. “That’s what he told you? That you got nowhere to go?” He shook his head, his voice low and steady but laced with fury. “Nah, he doesn’t get to decide that. I’m here, aight? And I don’t care what he says. I’ll be damned if I let some wannabe keep you trapped.”

You looked up at him, a glimmer of hope flickering in your eyes before it was swallowed by doubt and fear. “Oscar, I can’t just—he’ll know. And he’ll come after me.”

Oscar’s jaw clenched, his fists tight at his sides. “He tries anything, he gon’ have to go through me,” he promised, his voice a quiet, dangerous calm. “Listen to me, I’m not about to let him lay another finger on you.”

You took a shaky breath, your eyes searching his. For a moment, your guard dropped, and you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, you could escape.

“Just say the word,” he murmured, his hand strong and steady on your arm, his voice filled with quiet determination. “I’ll get you out of there, and I’ll make damn sure you never have to look back.”

Before you could answer, a figure emerged behind you, sliding his hand possessively around your waist. He was tall, stocky, his arms covered in tattoos that looked more like threats than art. The guy’s name was Marco, an old associate from Freeridge. Oscar remembered him as one of those punks who never knew when to back down, the type who got off on control and intimidation. He’d seen Marco in and out of small-time trouble, always trying to climb the ranks in the most twisted ways.

“What’s goin’ on here?” Marco’s voice was low, but there was an edge to it, his grip tightening on your waist as he pulled you a step away from Oscar. You winced slightly at his touch, and that was all Oscar needed to know.

Oscar’s gaze hardened, meeting Marco’s eyes with a simmering defiance. “Just catching up with an old friend, Marco. Problem with that?” He kept his tone cool, but a dangerous gleam flickered in his eyes.

Marco chuckled darkly, his arm never leaving her waist. “She don’t need friends. She’s got me.”

Oscar took a step closer, his stance steady, unyielding. “Friends don’t leave marks, Marco.” The weight of his words hung in the air, and for a split second, he saw the slightest hint of unease in Marco’s expression.

“Careful,” Marco sneered, though there was a flicker of hesitation in his gaze. “You don’t wanna mess with me, Spooky.”

Oscar’s patience snapped. He stepped forward, placing himself directly between you and Marco, his tone low and dangerous. “Nah, you don’t wanna mess with me.”

Oscar stood tall, the tension radiating off him like a storm ready to break. “You might think you run things around here since I’ve been locked up, Marco, but lemme remind you—I’m the leader of the Santos. You got a problem with me, you hit up the crew round the block, and we’ll settle this.” His voice dripped with authority, each word punctuated by the weight of his reputation. The streets respected him, and he wasn’t about to let Marco act like he owned this turf.

Marco’s grip on her tightened for a moment, anger flashing in his eyes. “You think just ’cause you got some muscle, you can roll back into town and take what’s mine? You don’t get to decide who she hangs with. I control her, not you.”

“Control?” Oscar scoffed, his voice rising slightly, filled with disdain. “You ain’t controlling anything but the fear you put in her. That’s not power, that’s cowardice. You don’t get to treat her like a trophy.” He pointed an accusing finger at Marco, each syllable deliberate and fierce. “She’s a person, not some piece of property you can flaunt.”

“Keep talking, Spooky,” Marco shot back, the irritation seeping through his bravado. “But you and I both know it ain’t just about you. She’ll come crawling back to me, just like she always does.” He turned to you, a predatory smirk on his face. “Just remember, girl, he’s not your savior. This is the life you chose.”

Oscar felt a flicker of frustration, not just at Marco, but at the situation itself. “She didn’t choose this,” he snapped, taking a step closer, his eyes never leaving Marco’s. “You made her think she had no options, that she had to stay with you. But now she’s got me. And if you think for a second I’ll let you pull this shit, you’re dead wrong.” He rasped, “You’re lucky I just got out the box, woulda pulled a gun on your ass by now.”

The intensity of the moment hung thick in the air. Marco hesitated, realizing the tide was turning, his gaze flickering to the lingering stares of those who walked past. He could feel the weight of the street’s reputation behind Oscar, the respect he commanded from the Santos and beyond. “Fine,” Marco spat, finally letting you go, shoving you toward Oscar as if you were nothing more than an object. “But don’t think this is over. I’ll be watching you, and when you mess up, don’t come crying to me.”

You stumbled slightly but caught herself, glancing between the two men, You heart racing. Oscar’s expression softened as he turned to you, the anger fading to concern. “You good?” he asked, his voice low, almost gentle now.

You nodded, though your eyes flickered with uncertainty. “I think so.”

“Let’s get you outta here,” Oscar said, stepping forward and taking your hand, threading his fingers through yours like it was the most natural thing in the world. “We’ll figure this out together.”

As you walked away from the market, Oscar could feel Marco’s glare burning into his back, the tension of the confrontation still buzzing in the air. But he didn’t care. What mattered now was your safety, your happiness. He’d faced down worse than Marco, and he wasn’t about to let anyone—especially not some punk with a need to control—put you back in a corner.

“So, what’s the plan?” You asked hesitantly, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Plan? We get you somewhere safe first, then we talk. You’re not alone in this, alright? Not anymore.” His thumb brushed over your knuckles reassuringly, and he couldn’t help but feel that, despite everything, this was where he belonged—right here, fighting for you.

As they walked through the familiar streets of Freeridge, Oscar realized that coming back wasn’t just about reclaiming the past; it was about forging a future. A future where you could finally be free, where youse could rewrite your guys’ story, leaving the shadows of your past behind youse.

[lovexjoe]

Can I make of request of Mike actually taking care of younger Armando and taking him to kindergarten for the first time 🥺

STOOOOOOP🥹

Mike has been taking care of Armando since he turned 4. He found out through the grapevine that Isabel had a baby in prison and he was not gonna let his kid be raised there. He loved Isabel, but she was too rooted in evil to change her ways. Armando is now 6 heading into kindergarten. It has been a great journey being a father. He saw glimpse of his personality through Armando and boy was he a pain in the ass. Marcus and Theresa always lend a helping hand. Currently Theresa got Armando eating breakfast before they take him to school. Mike was sweating.

"Goddamn Mike he's going to kindergarten not the army. Will you relax!?" Marcus tries to calm him down but he was pacing back and forth.

“I swear Marcus if one of those little snotty nose ass kids put they hands on my boy-“

“What you gonna do Mike? Light the kids up? It’s school! Boy’s gonna learn how to fight and since he came from you I think he’s on the winning team” Mike sighs realizing Marcus is right. They hug it out then Armando walks up to him with his Spider-Man backpack.

“Ready!” Armando gives a cute smile with his missing front tooth.

As they drive to school just a minute away from the house, Mike was preparing Mando for the millionth time.

“Alright so if somebody hits you Mando, what you doing?”

“Hitting back, but I’m hitting to win.” Mike only told him to hit back but hitting to win? He’ll take it.

They pulled up to the school

“Go make daddy proud, I love you.” He places a kiss on his forehead and they do their handshake

“Te amo papa!” Mando races inside with the other kids.

Taglist: @yeahnohoneybye @cardi-bre91 @onlysarang @romanreignsluver1 @minwn

@armandosbabymama @dyttomori @bbyplutosblog @vergilnelosparda @believeinthefireflies95 @cardi-bre91 @hopetookourvibe

[thoughtportal]

This story is a Kite, a special category dedicated to first-person reports that rely heavily on a writer’s first-hand observations and experiences. Read more about why PJP uses this category here.

Well before Luigi Mangione became a temporary resident here at State Correctional Institution at Huntingdon, Pennsylvania, he and the crime he is alleged to have committed were topics of speculation among the prison population.

Through the prison grapevine, I learned that Mangione was being held in D-Rear, or the rear of D Block, a part of the prison where death row prisoners used to be housed.

Rather than the orange jumpsuit that is standard issue in here, he was wearing a “turtle suit,” a blue padded getup used primarily for prisoners vulnerable to committing self-harm. 

Every time he was escorted from his cell, D Block got locked down. During lockdowns, all prisoner movement is prohibited.

Luigi Mangione was incarcerated at SCI Huntingdon for close to two weeks in December, before being transported to New York. Photo courtesy of the Associated Press.

Within 48 hours of Mangione’s arrival here, cable and broadcast news had set up shop outside the prison. That evening, Ashleigh Banfield, the host of NewsNation’s “Banfield” show, placed a curious kind of spotlight on this prison. 

During that nighttime interview, Banfield realized the prisoners on E Block were watching her show when they shouted and blinked their ceiling lights in response to the conversation she was having from the studio with Alex Caprariello, her reporting colleague in the field. So she started posing questions directly to the prisoners, who responded both vocally out of their windows and visually with their cell lights.

I haven’t heard voices here raised in such raucous unison since 2018, when the Philadelphia Eagles won the 2017 Super Bowl. Though it was hard for Caprariello to hear anyone shouting from C Block, where I live, I suppose people relished the moment to have a voice. 

The day after the NewsNation “interview” with E Block aired, the prison’s deputy superintendent threatened everyone in the unit, particularly the guys on the street-facing side, with time in the hole if they yelled from their cell or blinked their lights for the media again.

You’ll notice in subsequent NewsNation interviews outside E Block that guys were still vocal, just not so much with the lights, to avoid being traced back to a particular cell. The deputy superintendent’s threat was all the act-right motivation they needed. Freedom of speech suppressed? Check.

Mangione’s notoriety likely softened the amount of oppression the guards here would usually dispense because they wanted something from him. They wanted stories to share with coworkers and friends and family. Everyone wanted a piece of the biggest crime story in the nation.

Now, nearly 2,000 of us are part of that story. No matter what, Mangione is and will forever be an SCI Huntingdon alumnus. His brothers here will intently follow his case as it moves forward through the criminal justice system, all the while telling anyone who’ll listen, if it had been them, what they would have done to keep from getting arrested in the first place.

Disclaimer: The views in this article are those of the author. Prison Journalism Project has verified the writer’s identity and basic facts such as the names of institutions mentioned.

[anto-pops]

Atonement - Dark!Sebastian Sallow x Female!Reader

Summary: Sebastian had tried to escape. From what you understood in the article you’d read, he had actually succeeded, only to be discovered and apprehended in the water mere miles from the shore. It was mind boggling– nearly impossible to believe– but you had no choice but to accept it as the truth when you read he was being re-sentenced as a result of the transgression. 

He had been doomed to face the Dementor’s Kiss.

Word Count: 5.3k

Warnings: 18+, aged up characters, angst, brief thoughts of suicide, violence, minor character deaths

Part 1 of this fic can be found here on Ao3! PART 2 now finished!

The brisk London air chilled your bones, billowing through your unkempt hair as you sat perched on the roof of King’s Cross Station. At this time of year, it wasn’t unusual for temperatures to dip well below freezing in the dark of the night, chasing any meandering residents back inside the safety and comfort of their warm homes. 

Good. The less people milling about when the caravan arrived, the better. 

You had been sitting there for the better part of two hours, lying in wait for the Ministry assigned escort from Azkaban to arrive with their prisoner in tow. Sebastian Sallow had, for the most part, been serving his life sentence rather quietly based on what you heard through the grapevine. Which really wasn’t much, but no news was good news, and that turn of phrase had held true for two long, painstaking years– until about five months ago. 

Sebastian had tried to escape. From what you understood in the article you’d read, he had actually succeeded, only to be discovered and apprehended in the water mere miles from the shore. It was mind boggling– nearly impossible to believe– but you had no choice but to accept it as the truth when you read he was being re-sentenced as a result of the transgression. 

He had been doomed to face the Dementor’s Kiss. 

A fate that many said was worse than death. It would strip him of everything that made him human– everything that made him Sebastian. They would take it all away and leave him a husk of his former self, and for what? For running? For trying to escape what you knew could only be Hell-incarnate? It was your fault he had ended up there in the first place; a part of you had always known Azkaban was never a solution. The prison wasn’t exactly synonymous with rehabilitation, and yet you had practically held the cell door open for him by telling Professor Black what he’d done. 

After that, you knew what you had to do. Ominis had silently listened when you’d gone to him with your idea— begging for his help— because without his connections, who knew if you would be able to reach Sebastian in time. Any remorse you may have felt for essentially manipulating him into agreeing vanished when he came to you weeks later with a stack of parchment.

“He’s being brought to London in three months. It sounds like they’re charting the trip along a road just west of the tracks near the station, but you can double check– I think there’s supposed to be a map in here somewhere. They’ll transfer him from Azkaban and bring him before a hearing. The Dementor’s Kiss will happen there, in the main chamber.” 

Your stomach lurched at the thought of Sebastian being reduced to a brainless, drooling pile of flesh in front of hundreds of unknown eyes. “Why wouldn’t they just have the Dementors do it in the prison?” 

Ominis deposited the papers on the rickety table in your kitchen, his brows furrowing. “They won’t risk a Dementor going rogue in the prison. There aren’t enough wands available to handle something like that, so they use one housed within the Ministry that’s surrounded at all times.” 

You hummed your acknowledgement before thumbing through the thick wad of information you now had to sift through. It had to work– there was no alternative in your mind. With Ominis’ assistance, you stood a real chance of getting to Sebastian now. All you had to do was stay two steps ahead of the Ministry and not do anything impulsive. You would have to act alone– no one else could know of your plot to get to him before the Dementors.

Ominis’ head turned, and you glanced over to see milky blue eyes trained in your direction. “Are you sure you want to do this?” 

“What other choice is there, Ominis? Let him have his soul sucked out? I know what he did was wrong, but when does all of this stop being punishment and start becoming torture?” 

The taller man’s eyes pinched shut, and his head hung heavy between his shoulders. He sighed, raking his long fingers through his neat coif of hair while he waged against his own internal turmoil. “I know. You’re right, I just…” 

He trailed off in silence, so you continued, “If I don’t do this, he’s as good as dead. If I can’t get to him before they do, the Sebastian Sallow you and I both know and love will be a thing of the past. He’s learned his lesson, Ominis. I refuse to believe that he hasn’t, and I can’t sit back and let him continue to pay for one mistake forever. He won’t even be making up for anything after this, he’ll just be some mindless husk shut away in a dark cell, left to rot all alone and–” 

“Alright!” he clipped, the edge to his voice making you snap your mouth shut with an audible clack of your teeth. “I get it, okay? I’m sorry. It’s just– if you do this, you can’t come back here. You know that, right? You’ll have to take him and run. Get as far away from London as you can before the news breaks and then stay hidden until things die down.” 

You frowned, “What about you? They’ll immediately suspect that you had something to do with it– I don’t want you getting into trouble for this. This was my idea, not yours.” 

He gave you a sad smile, those hazy eyes narrowing slightly as he pondered the possibilities that raced through his mind. “I’ll figure something out. It might not be pleasant, but there’s always the Obliviate charm.” 

“Come with me,” you implored him. Ominis shouldn’t have to erase his own memory just to save himself from the ire of the Ministry. You suddenly felt awful for having come to him for help. “Come with us and you won’t have to. We can all leave– together. Start over somewhere far away from London and the Ministry. There’s nothing here for us anyways.”

Ominis shook his head, the action small but firm. “At least if I’m here I can spin a story. Lead them in the opposite direction. If I go with you I’ll only slow you both down, and you’ll need to be moving fast if you want to keep him out of the Ministry’s reach. Besides, someone has to stay here in case they try roping Anne into all of this. It wouldn’t be fair to let her face their scrutiny by herself– I refuse to do that to her.” 

Something in your chest cracked. Ominis, always the logical and reasonable one. It pained you to even begin to agree with him, but at the end of the day, he was right. All of your good work for Anne’s health could be undone in a second at the Ministry’s hands. She would need Ominis’ help, and once you had Sebastian with you, there could be no stopping. You would never be able to settle in any one place, effectively on the run for the rest of your life. But if that was the price you had to pay to atone for sending Sebastian away in the first place, then so be it. 

The memory faded from your mind at the sight of carriages peeking over the hill. There had been a few false alarms thus far, so you waited patiently and scanned the line of wheeled transports for a sign that this was what you’d been waiting for. One carriage came over the cobblestone path, flanked by a second that had two Auror’s perched precariously on either side of the driver. Their robes set them apart from the man holding the reins. A long, white flag flapped in the breeze, and the familiar ‘M’ of the Ministry’s logo flashed in the vivid moonlight. 

Sebastian was here. 

You shifted so you were laying across the slanted roof on your stomach, watching silently as the carriages followed the west road leading towards the train station. All you had at your disposal was a desperate plan and a shit-load of ancient magic, but it would have to be enough. You would ensure that it was enough. Otherwise… 

Otherwise you would die trying. 

—

The entire carriage ride from Azkaban to King’s Cross Station had been… interesting, to put it mildly. To start everything off, the two Auror’s who had come to retrieve Sebastian from his cell insulted him immediately after confirming he was present. That wasn’t too unusual, though, and he honestly considered it to be relatively standard treatment from the Ministry’s best and brightest. At least, it was normal as far as the inmates were concerned. 

Then the blokes had pushed him against the wall and shoved a bag over his head, and it was game on from there. Sebastian knew what lay in wait at the end of the tracks they were taking him to, and he’d sooner cut out his own tongue than make the task easy for the bastards. 

So, he fought. He had kicked and flailed and quite possibly shattered his cell guard’s nose with the heel of his foot when Alexander Shacklebolt used Levioso to suspend him in midair, opting to float him into the carriage instead of letting him walk to his untimely demise– the nerve of the condescending asshole. 

Now, after four hours of listening to the second Auror, William Singer, sing his own praises and retell the story of how he “took down the biggest poaching ring in Northern Ireland”, Sebastian was looking forward to the Dementor’s Kiss. It should be illegal, he thought, having a prisoner’s last coherent hours on Earth be spent listening to moronic rambling. 

There was a long list of things he would have preferred to have cashed in on before being made into a failed lobotomy patient, and none of those things had shit to do with William Singer’s escapades in Ireland. 

You appeared an unhealthy amount of times on said list. 

Sebastian’s infatuation with you had only grown in his time locked away from the outside world. With nothing else to do but think, he found himself replaying the events that had landed him in Azkaban over in his mind, day after day. Perhaps it was counter-productive to admit it, but he never regretted killing his Uncle. Solomon had been a stain on his life for far too long to start backtracking now and say he missed him– but what he did regret was putting that look of fear in your eyes in the catacombs that night. 

You had done everything in your power to help him in his search for a cure for Anne. In his crazed pursuit for power, he started taking everything you and Ominis had given him for granted. Somewhere along the line, Sebastian knew he had become a terrible friend. One unworthy of Ominis’ loyalty, and most of all, undeserving of your love. 

Your shared moments with him haunted his dreams every night in Azkaban. From the adrenaline filled adventures the two of you had gone on in the Highlands, to the far more intimate moments shared in the Undercroft late at night. Sebastian longed for you like a man lost in the desert craved water. You were his mirage in the barren wasteland of his prison cell, and it was your name that tumbled from his lips during those particularly dreadful nights when all he could do to cope was stroke himself to the mantra of your name on his tongue. 

William Singer started talking again, interrupting Sebastian’s life-before-brain-dead montage, and he rolled his eyes within the confines of the sac on his head. If he could cast wandless magic, Singer would have been transfigured into a rat long before now. 

“Is the convoy waiting in London already?” Singer directed the question towards Alexander, and Sebastian had the good sense to believe that the seasoned Auror was the real brains behind this whole operation. The man allegedly came from a family of powerful purebloods and was highly skilled with his wand, rising to the ranks of Auror when he was only twenty-four years old. 

Alexander sounded equal parts uninterested and irritated when he replied. “No. As I stated before we got in the carriage, we’ll send an owl from the platform. That way the Ministry won’t be sitting ducks out in the open when we’re still heading their way.” 

The two men didn’t even bother to conceal their conversation from him, and Sebastian scowled, almost offended that they considered him to be so little of a threat. Hadn’t he put up a fight on his way out of the prison? Or maybe they figured that since he would be a witless, soulless idiot in less than a few hours, him knowing their itinerary wasn’t the end of the world. 

Merlin, he wanted to Confrigo them both into scorch marks. 

The carriage finally lurched to a stop, and Sebastian’s stomach sank into his feet. They were here. His unfortunate quietus loomed ominously in the far reaches of his mind, and he couldn’t help but feel a tad defeated at the realization that this was the end of the line. After this, whatever happened to him probably wouldn’t matter to him. He had seen what fate came after the Dementor’s Kiss plenty of times with other inmates. The most obstinate and ferocious of prisoners would return from their own sentences cross eyed and shuffling their feet, taking beatings from the guards with little more than soft grunts. 

Maybe he would throw himself in front of the train. He could sort of see through the threadbare bag over his head– albeit not very well. But how hard would it be to just… jump forward when he heard the train approaching? If Ominis could maneuver around the world without sight, Sebastian figured he could easily do it for five measly seconds before becoming a bloody splat on the tracks. 

One of the Auror’s gripped his forearm to haul him out of his seat, and he was cursing up a storm as he was unceremoniously thrown from the carriage doors. The temperature change was drastic, the cold fresh air hitting his skin like a bucket of ice water, but he couldn’t help but relish in it. He’d been too preoccupied with thrashing like a fish out of water on his way out of Azkaban to appreciate the undiluted, clean breeze that existed outside the prison walls. 

“Don’t try anything stupid, Sallow.” Shacklebolt muttered ominously from somewhere behind him, and Sebastian sighed in annoyance. 

He felt the Auror grab his bound wrists to push him forward, and he blindly allowed himself to be guided towards the front gates of King’s Cross Station. As they approached, a different kind of chill ran down his spine, causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand on end. All he could see through the sac concealing his vision were the brief flashes of light from the streetlamps, but he still strained to look around and figure out what surrounded him.

“Quit fidgeting and walk, Sallow.” William spat his name like it was a curse, and Sebastian sneered behind the safety of his makeshift mask, slowing his stride purely out of spite. William groaned, “For crying out loud…” 

The closer he got to the station, the more potent the energy around him felt. It was electric and warm, almost soothing against his skin as his footsteps echoed through the barren streets. It didn’t sound like there was anyone milling about, so what was the source? 

“Do you feel that?” William whispered to Alexander, and the older Auror stopped walking to look around with narrowed eyes. Evidently, he did. 

A few beats of silence followed the question, and Sebastian felt Shacklebolt tighten his grip around his restraints. The rope digging into his bony wrists bordered on painful, but he grit his teeth through the discomfort. He had dealt with worse. “Take him back to the carriage. Now!” 

At the same time Alexander was pulling Sebastian backwards, a brilliant flash of red illuminated the sky through his head covering. It arched overhead and slammed into the ground behind them, raining shattered wood and debris on his shoulders. Instinct screamed at him to duck down and keep his head attached to his neck, but with Shacklebolt roughly tossing him towards William, Sebastian found himself being forced to sprint back towards the carriage with Singer’s wand pointed against his back. 

“What the hell was that!?” Sebastian found himself yelling over another blast of magic. 

“Shut up! Get back in the carriage and stay there–” Another explosion heated the air in front of them, the force of it blowing him and William back against the rough stone pavement and ripping the bag away from his head. 

The night sky and crackling spells danced above him, and Sebastian blinked away the fog from his mind as the ringing in his ears subsided. His head ached when he lifted it from the cold ground, but he willed away the impending nausea to hurriedly take in everything happening around him. 

The carriage he had arrived in was now a useless pile of charred wood, as was half of the second transport that was still disintegrating into ash. Whoever had been riding inside was likely no longer amongst the living. The whole thing screamed preventative measures, and Sebastian wondered dimly if this was by any chance a prison-break. 

Alexander was entirely on the defensive, every other spell from his wand being cast to protect himself from the brutal onslaught of magic coming from above the train station. Whoever was attacking them had the high ground and was thoroughly thrashing the Auror, an impressive feat in and of itself, but then he noticed William stirring from his spot on the ground. The beady eyed man wobbled as he got to his knees, grabbing his wand from beneath him as he moved to take position behind the older Auror. 

“Accio!” he called out, and the purple tether of magic whizzed past the unknown assailant as they dove across the roof. Sebastian saw their dark cloak billow behind them as they leapt from the clock tower in an absolutely insane freefall, and right before they would have hit the ground with a bone-breaking splat, a spell shot from their wand and allowed them to float down the remaining distance. 

What the fuck kind of magic was that? 

The figure stood straight, and they weren’t very tall at all– kind of youthful in stature, actually. When they slowly began stalking closer, Sebastian realized they had a mask on under their hood. Their narrowed eyes glinted with recognition when they flickered over to him still lying prone on the ground, and Sebastian’s heart threatened to beat straight out of his sternum. Did he dare to hope?

“Whoever you are, you’re a right fool for attacking Ministry officials,” Shacklebolt’s voice was booming, drawing Sebastian’s attention from his rescuer back to the two Auror’s that separated him from them. “Rest assured you’ll get to spend plenty of time with Mr. Sallow on the train ride to London. I take it he is why you’re here, am I correct?” 

The cloaked figure said nothing, but Sebastian saw the way their gloved hand tightened around their wand. Your wand. 

His breath got caught somewhere in his throat at the revelation at the same time you were moving into a dueling stance, and it dawned on him then that you were taking on fucking Aurors to get to him. You were trying to help him escape his fate– and he couldn’t do a damn thing to help. The bindings on his wrists kept his hands uselessly sandwiched between his back and the road. 

“Last chance,” Alexander growled, leveling his wand with your head, which in turn prompted William to do the same. “Drop your wand and surrender, and maybe I’ll put in a good word and get you a nicer cell with a view. What say you?” 

You stayed silent, but the spell you fired off said everything that you didn’t.

It sounded a lot like fuck you.

Sebastian watched as Shacklebolt and Singer both started countering your attacks with devastating ones of their own, but you held your ground. Despite the uneven odds, it was you advancing closer to them, stealing the space that they tried to maintain in vain. Your wand was constantly glowing, your ancient magic pulsing in the air around him and charging the breeze with flakes of electricity. 

That was what he had been feeling this whole time– your magic. 

He never remembered it being so palpable. Sure, you’d always had something of a magnetic aura– it was one of the reasons he’d found himself so drawn to you years ago– but this was different. Something had changed. Your power had transformed into a ruthlessly sharp entity, yet it's eerily familiar warmth from your fifth-year was still there. It caressed his skin as if to put him at ease, before shifting back into the cold, jagged flecks of energy that worked to set the two Aurors’ teeth on edge. 

William rolled to the right, narrowly avoiding Bombarda as it broke apart the Earth where he had been standing seconds before. Sebastian watched in awe as you used the demolished remnants of the transport as ammunition, lifting and throwing a detached carriage wheel to knock Singer off his feet before he could steady himself. He flew back against the loose gravel with a grunt, and it was like the universe was dangling a bone right before Sebastian’s eyes, because the man’s wand bounced and came to rest not two feet away from him. 

Sebastian threw himself to the side and awkwardly clasped the crooked wood like it was his lifeline, and despite it feeling clunky in his fingers, it hummed in acknowledgement as he finally let his magic channel through him after two and half years without it. 

“Incendio,” The rope bindings around his wrists went up in flames for a heartbeat, then fell away in a pile of smokey ash underneath him. He could feel the fresh burns on his skin from the direct contact with the fire, but that was hardly important right now. 

Sebastian took his own dueling stance behind Shacklebolt, who was too preoccupied with shielding himself from your casting to notice that his partner was incapacitated behind him. Your wand whipped towards the Auror, your own spell breaking the shield he’d encased himself in, and Sebastian leapt at the chance. 

“Depulso!” It felt incredibly strange to be casting magic again– much less with an unfamiliar wand– but the way it got his blood pumping brought a dark smile to his face. He hadn’t felt this alive in years. Alexander went flying through the air before hitting the streetlamp across the road, and Sebastian couldn’t help but wince a little at how the man seemed to wrap around the pole. The Auror slid down to the ground in an unmoving heap, and at the sight of his wand rolling out of his lax fingers, Sebastian let his guard drop as he turned to face you fully. 

You had no time to say anything to warn him as William Singer reappeared behind Sebastian, wearing a positively murderous expression that promised trouble. The Auror looped his arm around Sebastian’s throat, pulling him against his chest with a strangled choking sound. 

“I’ll fucking kill you for that, Sallow,” Singer spat while trying to grab his wand from Sebastian’s outstretched grasp. All the while Sebastian struggled to take a breath to utter a spell– any spell– to save himself. He was fading quickly– the awareness in his eyes slowly seeping away as William tightened his hold against his airway. “The Dementor’s Kiss is too good for you anyways, you’re gonna die here and now, at my hands–”

William was cut off as he was snatched up into the air faster than either man could process, and he stayed hanging in midair as Sebastian collapsed to his knees, bracing himself on his hands to suck in greedy breaths. Looking over to you, he saw your wand pulsing an angry red– a red that seemed to be reflected in your eyes– and you swung your arm down in a broad motion to hurdle the Auror against the pavement. A sickening crack resonated from somewhere within him, and Sebastian’s blood ran cold. You repeated the motion two more times, essentially ragdolling William Singer’s body back and forth with the force of a damned Troll, before you let his broken form hit the ground in a bloody heap. 

Holy fuck. 

Your shoulders heaved with exertion as your magic receded beneath your skin, and the only thing you could hear was your own heartbeat thrumming in your ears. Hot, puffs of your breath warmed your cheeks beneath your mask, and with one last look at the slumped bodies of both Aurors, you ripped the face covering off and turned to Sebastian. 

His pale skin had a sheen of sweat covering it along with a few scrapes, and he was breathing heavily. An ugly bruise was starting to form along his neck from the Auror’s arm, but beyond that, he seemed to be okay. Despite being locked in the dark for two and a half years, his freckles were stark in comparison to his alabaster complexion, and you couldn’t help but smile softly at the sight of them. Sebastian’s dark brown eyes widened at the sight of you, his lips parting as if he wanted to say something, but the words got caught in his throat. 

Your steps were slow and tentative as you closed the distance between the two of you, and when you finally came to kneel in front of him, Sebastian’s hand flew to the front straps of your cloak and yanked you into a desperate kiss. 

It was all tongue and teeth as you collapsed against him, with your frantic hands cupping his cheeks and then raking through his unkempt hair, while his hands gripped your hips with bruising strength to hold you as close as possible. Part of him was afraid that if he let go, you would disappear entirely– that all of this would just turn out to be some torturous dream inside the carriage with Singer still monologuing in his ear. 

Any thoughts of William vanished at the feeling of your burning hands cradling the back of his head tenderly as you kissed him harder, more urgently, and a keening noise sounded from deep in his chest. Sebastian’s hands roved up the small of your back, tugging you harder against him as he started to pull at the fabric of your shirt.

As riveting as everything was, it was equally sobering to feel the cold pavement beneath your knees, and you forced yourself to stop and remember where you were. You placed your hands against his chest in a bid to break away, but he chased your lips as you pulled back to gaze at him. 

“Sebastian, wait–” he stole you into a kiss once more, swallowing your startled gasp and delving his tongue into your mouth to taste you. He had forgotten how sweet you were, and he felt that if he didn’t commit everything to memory now, he would never get another chance. 

“Say my name again,” he heard himself say against the curve of your jaw, the husky, needy tone to his voice making your toes curl in your boots. Merlin, you had missed the sound of it.

“We need to leave, it isn’t safe–”

“Please,” he breathed the request against your heated skin, and when his head lifted to stare up at you in his lap, the look was desperate and showcased just how haggard he actually was. 

Dark, reddish circles framed his deep-set eyes and made the whites stand out drastically, giving him something of a haunted expression. Being this close to him clued you in on how thin he was beneath his clothes. There was still a little muscle definition, but his cheeks were gaunt, and you could see the sharp outline of his collarbones poking over the neckline of his shirt. The tortured glint in his eyes imbued you with a fresh sense of remorse, and your guilt gnawed at the lining of your stomach, effectively smothering any joy you might have felt at reaching him in time. 

You might have made it to him before the Dementors, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that you’d still failed him. 

Swallowing around the lump in your throat, you let your hands rise to cup his cheeks, ghosting your thumbs across the constellation of freckles that lined his nose. “I’m so sorry, Sebastian.” 

Chuckling cynically, he lowered his stare and shook his head softly, the longer strands of his overgrown hair brushing over his shoulders. “You can make it up to me later– tell me you have a plan that gets us out of here quickly– I don’t particularly want to hang around for more Ministry dogs to show up.” 

Nodding, you blinked away the sting from your eyes and slid off Sebastian’s lap, extending your hand to help him to his feet. He took it graciously, mindlessly fidgeting with the wand he had taken from William in an attempt to distract himself from his own nerves. You let him collect himself for a moment while you took in the state of the streets outside the train station. 

Chunks of cobblestone littered the ground, along with what little remained of the carriages you’d exploded. Your eyes skipped over the bodies of the Auror’s you and Sebastian had killed, noting dimly how little the sight affected you. At this point, you had seen and done worse, but that didn’t shrink the severity of the crime. You forced a breath into your lungs to squash the sinking feeling that you would be apprehended at any moment– carted before the Ministry to face the Dementor’s Kiss alongside Sebastian– all of your planning done in vain.  

The plan. Right. The one you had spent months refining and memorizing. Snap out of it, you implored yourself, or all of this will have been for nothing. 

“Come on,” you forced yourself to say, extending a hand for him to take. He cocked a brow at you, the action so very Sebastian of him, and almost cautiously interlaced his fingers with your own. 

“Are we going to apparate?” He sounded surprised. 

You flashed him a half-smile, though you were positive it came across as more of a grimace. Of course he would be shocked at the revelation– he’d been imprisoned for two years. 

The tiny devil on your shoulder was having a field day reminding you what a massive piece of shit you were. 

“It’s a newer trick. I’ve been practicing here for a few months to get it down, but I won’t splinch you if that’s what you’re worried about.” 

He huffed a laugh, but the sound was devoid of any humor. “Hardly. I guess I assumed we’d be using the Floo network, that’s all.” 

Your grip on his hand tightened a fraction as you spoke, “I don’t think it’ll be wise to use the Floo network for a long time. I wouldn’t put it past the Ministry to somehow track us making jumps that way. It’ll be this and our own two feet for a while.” 

Sebastian gave you a nonplussed blink, but then he surprised you by giving you the first real smile you’d seen from him since saving him. “That doesn’t sound too bad. We certainly have a lot of catching up to do. How far will we get tonight?” 

“Far enough to grab a few things and rest,” you whispered, in some futile attempt to conceal your plans from the dead men surrounding you. “Are you ready?” 

Sebastian’s free hand came to curl gently around your bicep, tugging you closer, and you felt the ghost of his breath against your temple as he muttered coyly, “Lead the way.”

[choicesmaychallenge24]

MAY 2024 PROMPTS

Have fun! Take liberties! Be weird!

Playlist Inspo

SPOTIFY || YOUTUBE

Deity Inspo

(extensive list of Dieties can be found here)

Zeus

Power, Oak tree, unfaithful

"Statistically, you've got better chances being struck by lightning"

Hera

Marriage, revenge, peacock

"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned"

Poseidon

Ocean, earthquakes, horses

"stormy eyes"

Demeter

Wheat fields, middle child, poppy

"...moods that changed like the weather"

Apollo

Harp, medicine, prophesy

"...like they were the sun"

Artemis

Wilderness, moon, archery

"lets go lesbians, lets go!"

Ares

War, strength, hated

"Don't be a boar"

Athena

Wisdom, strategy, owl

"You're giving me a headache"

Hephaestus

Inventive, disability, overlooked

"...Like a volcano about to erupt"

Aphrodite

Pearls, swan, passion

"You know ___ is an aphrodisiac"

Hermes

Guide, messages, travel

"That's just an eloquent way of saying, 'fuck you.'"

Hestia

Home comforts, Eldest Daughter problems, gentle

"Sometimes a family is (insert found family here)"

Dionysus

Wine, celebration, mania

"I heard it though the grapevine..."

Nyx

Mysterious, rest, starlight

"Goodnight, My Love"

Hades

Rich, death, responsibility

"who's a good puppy?"

Quotes

"You wish to be considered righteous, but not to act with justice." (Eumenides)

"Talk sense to a fool and he calls you foolish." (The Bacchae)

"Isn’t it delightful to forget how old we are?" (The Bacchae)

"I was born to join in love, not hate - that is my nature" (Antigone)

“I have no love for a friend who loves in words alone.” (Antigone)

“Have you ever been struck by a sudden desire for - soup?” (The Frogs)

Dionysus [doing everything wrong], "Like that?" (The Frogs)

“If you try to cure evil with evil, you will add more pain to your fate.” (Ajax)

“Which would you choose if you could: pleasure for yourself despite your friends, or a share in their grief?” (Ajax)

“I ask this one thing: let me go mad in my own way.” (Electra)

"Oh, it is easy for the one who stands outside the prison-wall of pain to exhort and teach the one who suffers” (Prometheus Bound)

“In childbirth grief begins.” (Medea)

"I'll take care of you."

"it's rotten work."

"Not to me. Not if it's you." (Euripides)

“Love, stealing with grace into the heart you wish to destroy, love, turning us blind with the bitter poison of desire, love come not my way. And when you whirl through the streets, wild steps to unchained rhythms, love, I pray you, brush not against me, love, I beg you, pass me by.” (The Love of the Nightingale)

“There is a time for many words, and there is also a time for sleep.” (The Odyssey)

“Be strong, saith my heart; I am a soldier; I have seen worse sights than this.” (The Odyssey)

"Any moment might be our last. Everything is more beautiful because we're doomed. You will never be lovelier than you are now. We will never be here again." (The Iliad)

FASHION INSPO

From Dolce & Gabbana

STORY INSPO

Many of these stories have different tellings and variations, embrace whichever version you most enjoy.

Echo and Narcissus (painting) (story)

Pandora's Box (painting) (story)

Arachne (painting) (story)

Hades and Persephone (painting) (story)

The Gorgon Medusa (painting) (story)

Cygnus (painting) (story)

Theseus, Ariadne, and the Minotaur (painting) (story)

Daedalus and Icarus (painting) (story)

Eros and Psyche (sculpture) (story)

Orpheus and Euydice (painting) (story)

Myth of Sisyphus (painting) (story)

Cassandra (painting) (story)

The Fates (painting) (story)

Atlas (sculpture) (story)

[barefootinmate]

Lilith and her girlfriends were not particularly concerned when they were arrested for taking Ecstacy in a foreign nightclub. Lilith even joked that spending a night in a sordid foreign prison cell was going to make for a great story back home. It wasn't until the trio found themselves at the country's labor camp the next day that they began to worry.

"Welcome to the Farm," the guard announced. "All of you are here because you have been sentenced to hard labor for life. Don't worry, though - even the strongest of you will struggle to survive here for more than a few months or so. The chains on your ankles are permanent - you'll be buried in them after I am finished with you. You won't wear shoes here, either, and since nobody leaves the farm alive, that means you've already worn shoes for the last time. The rest of your miserable lives will be spent barefoot and chained."

Lilith and her friends were frozen in silent horror as the guard continued his introduction. "You'll harvest fruit from the fields every morning. If you fail to generate more revenue than it costs us to keep you alive on any day, then you don't eat that day. Second offense is whipping. Third time and your dinner consists of a bullet to the back of the skull. In the afternoons, you'll do manual labor. Refuse, and get a whipping. Refuse two afternoons in a row and you get a bullet."

The girls began sobbing openly, earning them all a firm strike from the back of the guard's hand. "When not in the fields, being punished, or being tortured by the guards for fun, you'll be confined to the outdoor cage you woke up in. No air conditioning, no protection from the elements, and no running water. Now get to work!"

Another guard tossed a crate at the girls and prodded them toward the grapevine fields to begin their new lives.

[thegreymoon]

Lighter and Princess

I know FOR SURE that some violence takes place here because our ML ended up in prison for years and years but WHERE? WHERE IS IT???

This drama is really doing its damned best to make sitting at a computer day and night and coding look exciting (it's failing, but it's trying at least) and I find the entire concept so hilarious.

The ML is supposed to be this rebel, but is in fact a nerd who literally does nothing but sit at his computer all day long, is a star student, first-ranked in his province, conventionally attractive and wildly popular among his peers in spite of having the social skills of a particularly inept cactus. REBEL, HOW?? WHEN DO WE GET TO THE MURDER??

And don't even get me started on the girl, she's just beyond dull, but I've heard through the grapevine that she will single-mindedly fight for the ML down the line, so I am reserving judgment until I have a few more (??) episodes under my belt. But my question again is, WHEN? WHEN DOES IT HAPPEN??

It's episode 8 and still no murder. Not even a hint of the relationship between the leads! Come on, drama, I am begging here 😭😭

If I pause this and go watch Fangs of Fortune before some hook comes along, I'm afraid I may never pick it up again.

***

LMAO, it's like a hamster baring its teeth.

***

Yes, please, let's get to that part.

***

Bitch, these are students, not your free labour pool.

***

This campus is really nice 💚

***

Oh, go fuck yourself.

***

Yes, please do 😭😭

All of you are so good and wholesome and well-adjusted. Which is excellent for real life, but very boring for a drama. Go!! Stab her tyres! Key her car! Wear a mask so that you don't get caught on camera! Be a delinquent! I was promised rebels here and I got nothing but well-behaved, top honour students 😭😭

***

Murder her.

We are long overdue for a nice murder here. You are all geniuses, I am sure you can find a way to do it and not get caught.

***

Shoes on the bed 🤢

I would maul someone, for real.

***

The current plot is her getting drunk and hungover.

We have been dealing with that for ten minutes now.

I don't even know what I'm hoping for from this drama anymore.

***

At least she took off her shoes before getting in his bed.

***

I am so done with this whole boring episode.

[cyarskj1899]

and you know what I don’t blame her

I haven’t forgiven him ever since he did this and I’m so glad that Kendrick Lamar not only beat him but also humiliated him and songs like “not like us “ exist in this timeline (heck i wouldn’t be surprised if it ends up on this year’s edition of my #spotifywrapped, coming in mid late November, check your postings)

Aubrey Drake Graham, how freaking dare you call somebody who’s been abused and proving to be abused a liar and a B word and also calling undeserved freedom for her abuser? Does this beige bastard know that his prison boyfriend has a history of violence against others?

Like I heard through the grapevine that during his adolescence, he used to steal from people and be a menace to others not just in his home country of Canada, but also in Florida(yes he was technically a typical Florida man, I mean, he grew up in Florida, but still) and that’s the man you want free, I mean, he nearly killed somebody, and you want a guy like him back to society? For real?

a guy like Tory should not be ever released into society, until he deported back to Canada, where he belongs.

Not to mention, well, he’s advocating for the freedom of his little boyfriend, he should have known that midget was even worse than I thought, at least according to the documentary he was preying on her vulnerability and her grief from the start, she going through a horrible time, and he took advantage of her . That is absolutely disgusting and just flat out wicked

Basically Drake was defending someone who took advantage of someone who was going through the darkest time of her life with the loss of her mother and her grandmother.

that’s why megan kept getting drunk , for her turning to alcohol was form of a coping mechanism, that was her way to forget her mom's passing and that midget manipulated and used HER , its giving predatory and it’s giving rape.

Most rapists would wait until their potential victim is at her most vulnerable and they strike, and when a victim is drunk, especially too drunk to partake in any form of sexual consent, that’s a victim is definitely vulnerable because the predator can use a manipulate him or her into having relations, knowing that the victim is too drunk to consent.

Megan was drunk, depressed, and grieving because she’s going through the loss of her parents and grandmother . she was orphaned He’s a fucking predator, and his supporters were playing the harlot for him. Like you were supporting a freaking attempted murderer and a Rapist?!??!!!!!!!

and Drake was like: free my boy he didn’t do anything wrong. yes he did, even if he didn’t shot Megan he was on probation he should’ve never had a gun in the first place, talk about a preventable bad situation, turning into a preventable and even worse situation.

anyone who takes advantage of someone who is vulnerable especially when they are currently in grief over a loss of loved one, is no different than a sadist. And the fact that people like Tory exist pisses me off.

and here’s the real kick in the bollocks for me: The fact she became friends with him because he brought up he also lost his mother he targeted her and uses his mothers death as a way to manipulate a trauma bond and then he ended up harming, abusing and tormenting her for nearly 5 freaking years, really got me very angry, I am outraged that live in society where people can take advantage of people, especially when they’re at the lowest and vulnerable moments and not give a flying crap about that.

But that’s Aubrey’s Man though. That’s his boyfriend , who is the prisoner girlfriend for the next 10 years(well actually eight years, but who’s really counting), because no prisoner likes a man who will harm a woman.

GOD I FEEL SICK with a blistering rage.

I honestly hate both of them drake and Tory. I’m glad Drake had the worst 2024 ever, and I hope 2025 is not even better for him. I hope they both get deported

Thanks Megan for not just surviving but thriving and thank Kendrick for making an iconic diss track that makes a predator and colonizer uncomfortable

[senka-mesecine]

The platoon cast and their thoughts on letting their lover top? 🤨 (ie take control, lead during sex, order them around etc.)

---

― Can vividly visualize that the first time Chris started experimenting with drugs the first thing that astounded him as a side effect was all the vividly wet dreams of you taking charge he started having; and you weren't gentle either. You were fierce, starved, violent and frightening, not unlike some sort of otherworldly entity coming to haunt him --- almost like a dark part of him that was starting to come forth manifested with your visage attached to it, banging on the confines of a fleshy prison, begging to be let loose. There's something esoteric and subconscious, as a result, in Taylor wanting you to take charge and liking you doing so, bordering on self-corrupting. Like he's burying the last bit of his sheltered innocence every time you impale yourself on him and start grinding hard. It's borderline telling that the more cynical, jaded, experienced, dark and worldly Chris starts getting as the result of the war, the less he'll want you (or allow you) to get on top, instead being the one who takes charge, reversing the roles singlehandedly. Now, he's the very entity he's been having all those repeating nightmares about. Your face in his dreams is replaced with his own and he's the one doing the ravishing and all the fucking, going from someone who'd almost be boyishly flustered at the notion of you taking charge to someone who'd just throw you against the bed without any questions asked because this is new management.

― This is by far O'Neill's favorite method of having sex in general; he relishes being shoved, relishes you being at least a little mean to him, ordering him around, acting all authoritative, likes you getting up there, getting a ride out of it and ultimately, with him, it means you'll be on top at least 99.9% of the time, this being just the default position with you two and it's everything else that's outside of the norm --- and it's not that Red can't do anything else. He just likes this more than anything. Now, of course, if someone else ever asked (and even if nobody asked at all), especially if that someone consists of a group of men he wants to brownnose, impress and project a certain image in front of, Red might just brag how much he's the one actually in charge and how he's there setting down the law just the way, you know, it should be and everyone else who says otherwise clearly has some queer ideas about the world at large, but much with everything else, seeing as how loudly and nervously he flaunts this idea chances are most people already default knowing that O'Neill's clearly concealing something if he's this obnoxious on the subject of convincing everyone he's the boss in the relationship. The guys in the barracks might just be there giving one another dubious looks as Red goes into yet another impassioned tangent on the subject of sexual antics nobody asked about and they all quietly conclude he's actually doing it to hide his own ass because it's actually the missus that's in charge; a surprise to no one.

― Unlike, O'Neill, Bunny tells the whole platoon what a nasty freak you are; like, he's genuinely gleefully impressed with you and makes no grand effort to hide it because he's no older than, well, seventeen or eighteen at best and his behavior reflects that --- at one point in time, one way or another, through the great grapevine or directly from the horses' own mouth, everyone's heard how you throw it back, how you're in charge, how fiery you get, and Jesus ever-loving Christ, Bunny might just even start embellishing your prowess, dominance and tenacity until he's practically describing a world class porn star who eats men alive for breakfast, perhaps, because in his mind's eye, that's exactly what you are and perhaps because he has the perverted, juvenile habit of grossly overindulging purely to annoy, say, the likes of Junior who just doesn't believe him that A). A freaky, messed up, murderous menace like Bunny landed a girl in the first place (or any girl as for that manner, not with his 'scaring-all-the-hoes' aura) and that B). she somehow turned out to be a cockhungry sex goddess to top it all off too. To him, it's one of those made-up, fabricated stories that sound like pure fantasy and fiction. But, Bunny? Bunny loves it, be he believed or not. Bunny adores all your proclivities, kinks, fetishes and cravings and pridefully recounts them with just as much pride as his favorite kill. Honestly, if 'I have a freaky girlfriend' could become a big chunk of someone's personality, it sure becomes a big chunk of Bunny's.

― Wolfe might just be the rare one out of the bunch who could be dubious on the subject of you taking charge because, get a load of this, he actually wants to take charge too and here you are, blocking him in an effort to do so or at least heavily stealing his spotlight because any moment now, he was planning to do what you're doing as we speak --- his brain just got frozen somewhere between the time you undressed and got on top of him to actually react and take the reigns; but, catch is, this notion won't hit him immediately, in fact, he could very well be so stunned for words, flustered and tongue tied while you're on top so much so that only once you're halfway through effectively doing all the work, getting him off, pleasing him, pleasing yourself does it cross his mind to flip you over and take charge, making all your effort seem like his --- professional behaviors very much mimicking sexual ones. Not that he's a selfish lover, but he does want to feel powerful and he will feel powerful even if he has to usurp what you just did to him and make it all his own doing, making him something of a slimy Machiavellist of sorts. It's not that he didn't enjoy you being dominant. Oh, he did. Too much, even. But, he wants that role to be his, making him a teensy bit jealous of you. Once he's done effectively topping you for all but two minutes after you've already topped him previously and did the whole job he labelled his own he might just contentedly sigh and turn to you as he asks you to reaffirm how good he was.

― Get on top? Of course you'll get on top. You're demon and a destroyer of men's souls. God pretty much designed you to get on top and feed that forbidden chunk of the apple to Adam until he chokes in it, unleashing you into the world like a punishment for mankind. That's what Rhah might say and if someone like Wolfe is the king of all hang-ups on the matter, Rhah might just think being on top is exactly where you belong, implementing a mix of praise and degradation into his dirty talk simultaneously even as you ride it out on him, telling you how good you are one moment and then calling you a filthy, cockstarved Jezebel with a soulsucking hole meant to milk dicks dry the next, saying the vilest, most repulsive things known to man to your face, almost coming off like a man still arguing with you even as you dominate him. In fact, you might get the direct impression Rhah actually gets off on his own verbal misogyny a bit more when you're the one with the upper hand because for all his occasional demonization of women there is possibly something undeniably hot about being effectively fucked by one and in fact, even if he wrestles control from you no differently than he claims he's fighting for his soul it is apparent Vermucci wants to lose this one and land below you, you being the authoritative party and he seemingly not liking it being a kink all on its own. I'm not saying being on top of Vermucci would verge on roleplaying a hatefuck and playing out a scenario where he's being the corrupted party, but yes, that is exactly what I'm saying.

― Okay, so the worm has definitely turned for King, and not only does he love you being on top, he absolutely relishes in it, treating the whole goddamn thing like he's at a sport's match, shouting and hollering at the players after they win a big score, cheering you on as you gyrate and grind, slapping your ass to encourage you and stir you on, grabbing your bouncing tits, all hooya's and booyah's spilling from his smiling lips, all energy and vocalizing and it's like Christmas came early for the man, doing so in tandem with a national lottery. He doesn't care who hears and he doesn't care who knows. There's probably never been a man alive quite so animated and purely overjoyed at the notion of their partner being in charge and if there was, they all pale in comparison of King's excitement because not only will he be the pinnacle of happiness during the act, but my god, the peacocking that goes on after the deed is a site to behold; puffed out chest, gleeful smirks galore, a slow, deliberate saunter, sparkling eyes, the expression of a fat cat that clearly got the cream; you take him for a ride and King's afterglow holds sway over him for days the way only the strongest pot ever could. He's all hazy, relaxed and in a near dream-like state. A smile refuses to leave his face for a good long while; everyone already knows not to ask questions because it's clear only one person could make him feel this blissed out.

― Listen, for Elias it is as simple as the fact that he has a lazy, decadent side and sometimes just likes to relax and let someone do all the work; he doesn't necessarily think in strictly drawn out lines of submission or dominance, although he isn't prudish, happens to be immensely open minded and never minded the idea of being seen as someone who surrenders, but nonetheless he views it more along the terms of him unwinding and you doing this to please him and please yourself while he lays back on a hammock, smokes a joint, throws his hands back behind his head and lets you have it. He doesn't perceive this as strictly as who's in charge of where and what and how type of affair because if he isn't about to bring the military and all its rigid structures into bed even while you ironically, play at it; that should stay out there, where it belongs and here Elias gets open your mind to the possibilities that people can be a great many things at the same time, labels not necessarily needing to exist so long as you feel good and he feels good. In fact, Elias being such a selfless lover that he might just effectively take a more submissive role if it meant it making you happy. If for, say, someone like Barnes, letting someone get on top is a means to keep the wheels running, for Elias the exchange flows shapelessly, like water, with no ulterior motives. It just is. You want it. He gives it to you. Any time and for as long as you need it. Nobody's truly in charge of nobody. You're just here loving on each other.

― Barnes thinks people need what they need to function; he doesn't have to like or even approve of their methods of escape, but reality is, a man requires his coping. For some it's pot, for some booze, for some dissociation, for some flat out delusion, for some it is cockiness and falsely inflated bravado and hey, for some it might be letting off some steam and having someone else do all the work every once in a while, or in his case, him specifically telling you when to take control, what to do once you do, for how long, when and why, ordering you to order him around all while he's frustratingly stoic in the process; because make no mistake, you might be on top right now in the physical sense but Barnes is still very much in charge, dominating from below, setting the pace, setting the rules, setting everything and even when it seems spontaneous on your part, it's not because you've merely been allowed by him to get on top, meaning that right now, he needs this and he will get it. This is what the machine needs to run perfectly, so this is what the machine will feed itself to effectively self maintain and keep its control. As a result? His opinion on you 'taking charge' and do note the quotation marks? His opinion is that it takes infinitely more than you straddling him to have the upper hand. The actual upper hand. He's practical and calculated. Methodical. This is no different from a cold washcloth applied to a fevered forehead to lower someone's temperature. You being on top is simply what he requires today, right this very instant. When he's done needing it he'll merely flip you over and stop.

[crybaby-bkg]

CONTROL FREAK

Getou Suguru x f!reader Warnings: smut, ex con getou, cult leader getou, parole officer reader, abuse of authority, unprotected sex, riding, gum swapping, spit as lube, a couple gentle face slaps, mention of drugs. please let me know if I missed anything!! Word Count: 4.1k Minors/blank/ageless blogs DNI! Also available on Ao3!

Getou Suguru was an odd case for you, different compared to the other ex-cons you’re usually in charge of. You would get the occasional murderer, or arsonist, or drug addict who did stupid shit and landed themselves behind bars. But you had never been in charge of such an…infamous parolee. 

He was a cult leader, though he never actually claimed that his organization was a cult itself. He always used this roundabout type of language when he was in court being questioned for his charges—money laundering through his organization. You use the term lightly, because if judging by the way his workers acted during the trial, with such admiration and devotion in their eyes, it couldn’t be labeled as anything but cultish. 

Somehow, the attractive felon was only sentenced to sixteen months in prison. His workers and supporters fussed and hollered at the sound of that, earning a few of them their own charges for disorderly conduct in the courtroom. But he—he was cool faced the entire time. Only nodded his head once when delivered his sentencing, put his hands behind his back without a fight, an easy smile on his face as he was walked out, a wink sent to the supporters who sobbed at the sight of him. 

He did his time well, you heard through the grapevine from your CO friends. Said he received tons of mail everyday, always had money on his books, and anyone who tried stepping to him always ended up in the infirmary just days later. (Though, he never had a trace of blood on him; never had scarred knuckles or bruises or anything. You had theorized with the CO’s that he somehow kickstarted another cult in the prison, too.) 

When he was released, you heard that there was this whole shebang about the ordeal. That his workers showed up, deep in numbers, with signs and cries of his name. They argued over who would be taking him to his new home, but you heard they all sobbed when he told them that he’d be driving himself and would stay there at the new house—alone. 

The house looks a bit like shit though, you think to yourself as you stand outside of it. Getou had visited you the day after he got out to get his paperwork sorted, what his parole consisted of for the next four years, acquainted himself with you, and the like. He looked the same as when he was in court, that was broadcasted on the news, the same as when he was publicly arrested, the same as when his followers would post videos of him and his infamous speeches. (For the greater good, was his motto. It sounded more like; do whatever is necessary for my satisfaction.)

You think they’re all shit. A scam meant to prey on the little people who have no direction in life. It doesn’t help that he’s attractive; has a tall build, seemingly lanky until he unfurls his shoulders, can find muscle peeking from under his usually baggy clothes, kind eyes that draw an innocent in, midnight black hair that has only grown longer since his time in prison. You can admit that he’s pretty, and you believe that that’s some of the allure that brings so many vulnerable, easy to manipulate people to damn near bowing down to the man. 

Well, not you. You weren’t that fuckin’ stupid nor desperate nor weak willed. If anything, you’d have the once powerful man eating from the palm of your hands. Besides, he has to listen to everything you say and command him to do, lest he want to go back to his cell for the rest of his probation time. 

You think you’re gonna have some fun with him. 

You bang your fist on the door far too hard for it to be so early in the morning. You assumed one of his lackeys would come running, greeting you with a huff and their nose stuck in the air, even though he promised it would only be him living in the house. But you’re surprised by the presence of Getou Suguru himself. 

He opens the door fully, his eyes closed as he smiles softly at you, breathing your name out quietly. He towers over you, feels like he looms over your head, and you can’t tell if its intentional. When you first met him, you were both sitting, but now—unless its all in your head—it feels like he’s trying to assert himself in some way. Like he’s trying to placate you with his disarming smile, but his posture tells you everything but. He notices the same time you do, and relaxes against the openness of the door, folding his arms across his chest, body adorned in a matching dull gray sweater and sweatpants. You try not to look down. 

“Good morning, officer,” he greets you, head tilting to the side, and you notice his hair is loose from the usual bun he adorned. “Can I ask the reason for your visit this fine Tuesday morning?” 

His voice is like silk, must have some kind of charm imbued into it, you think to yourself. You twist your mouth this way and that, eyebrows furrowed as you take all of him in. (Yes, even between his legs, but you make the glance quick. He seems to notice, anyway, and smiles a little wider at you.) 

“Just doing a house check.” You nod your head to the humble abode he stands in, looks more like some dull shack that you would’ve never expected him to stay in. He was known for liking the finer things in life. “Since it’s a new property that was brought while you were incarcerated by one of your followers, I need to do a thorough inspection.” 

Well, you didn’t have to. But you figured that it wouldn’t hurt, and he didn’t seem like the type of guy who would cry about you not following the rules exactly how you should. You just wanted to drop in and make sure that he wouldn’t be running another scam in the house, nor supplied any kind of weaponry. 

“Also gonna need you to piss in a cup for me.” You expect for him to argue, as he should. That wasn’t a special condition for him, as he never had any kind of charges brought up on drugs, despite there being an inkling that he kept them supplied for his followers. But he only huffs a little laugh at you, head tilting this way and that until locks of his hair cover his dark eyes. 

“That’s no problem at all, officer.” Getou says easily, another smile gracing his face as he swings the door open wider for you to come in. It makes you give pause, but you don’t let him stump you. After all, you were the one in charge here. 

So you strut inside like you own the place, the gum you had pushed to the corner of your mouth finding its place between your molars again as you chew loudly. You cross your arms over your chest, eyes narrowing when you turn to watch Getou shut the door behind you, his gaze dropping down for a second before they meet your own again. 

“Parole officers don’t wear uniforms?” He inquires, hands shoved in his pockets as he slouches slightly in front of you. You roll your eyes at him, motioning for him to show you around the house with a grunt. 

“Did you see me in a uniform while in my office?” You snark at him, not giving him anytime to answer before you speak again. “Show me where you sleep, parolee.” You spit the term out, a reminder of his place; beneath you. He only looks at you with eyes so dark you fear they may be blacker than night, before they’re shaded by another lock of his hair. He doesn’t say anything, just strolls on casually away from you, heading down a long hallway with a few doors on each side. 

“No followers live here like they do at the other compound?” You ask him, hand on your weapon in case anybody tried any magic tricks while you strolled behind him. Getou huffs a chuckle under his breath, looking at you from over his shoulder as he stops at the last door at the end of the hallway. 

“Compound?” He questions, as if the very thought of that word makes absolutely no sense. “You mean the group home I brought for my workers, as most of them were unhoused?” You roll your eyes at him, waving a dismissive hand as you push past him to open the door. 

“Cult, not cult. House, compound for said cult. Same thing.” You mutter under your breath, peaking your head in before you fully enter. You glance over your shoulder when you feel Getou’s presence entirely too close behind you, but he only sends you another one of those calm smiles. It feels everything but calm though, with that glint in his eyes that tells you everything you need to know about the man. 

Gods, you can’t wait to fuckin’ break him. 

You walk slowly around the room, placing your feet in front of the other with unhurried steps. Your chin is held high, as if the place disgusts you, even though he keeps his space notably clean. The only strewn thing in the room are the covers, barely ruffled, as if he had roused them when he got up to meet you at the door. 

You peak in his closet, under his mattress, behind a few things on the dresser. You don’t find anything until you open the little black nightstand beside his bed, a sudden throb making your thighs clench at the sight of a pocket pussy, and a box of extra large condoms sitting beside them. 

“You aren’t hiding any drugs in this thing, are ya?” You mumble to him, picking up the toy with the tip of your index finger and thumb, though the weight of it almost makes you drop it. It even feels ghastly warm, as if he had just been holding the thing…close to him, before you made him open the door. 

Getou only laughs at you, placing a hand on the middle of his stomach, his eyes closed in mirth. He seems to be mocking you though, with the low gaze he sends you when his little fit ends, how his fist curls into the soft fabric of his sweatshirt. He tilts his head at you, eyes sliding between your own and the toy that you hold, a clear, sticky substance still oozing from the hole. 

“Not to my knowledge, no.” Getou shakes his head, as he leans against the dresser closest to you. “No drugs, officer. Just the usual stuff that goes inside that kinda thing.” He’s sly, with his mouth pulled tight and his gaze locked on you like a predator. But you’ve never been prey, and you wouldn’t start that shit now. 

You drop the toy on the middle of his bed, sending him a faux shrug when you watch the thing dribble out whatever he must’ve left inside of it. You try not to act bothered, try not to size up just how deep he got into the toy, because based on how low you saw it hang through his sweats earlier, there was no way that toy was taking every inch. 

You plop down on the bed, ignore the toy rolling toward you from the added weight, sitting your bag down beside you. You rummage through it for a few seconds before you pull out a clear cup with a white top, leaning back on one hand as you offer the cup to Getou. 

“Well, now that my inspection is done, its time for the next step: piss in this cup for me, parolee.” You tell him with a sarcastic grin, one that he only faintly smiles at. He stands on the other side of the room, taking all of you in for a moment; the cup dangling from your fingers, your crossed thighs that you keep trying to subtly clench, the pocket pussy oozing precum on the hip of your jeans, your eyes trying to stay above his neck. 

Getou smiles at you. Crossing the room in only a few short strides, he goes to pluck the cup out of your hand, willing to play your little game, but you don’t let go. He pauses, one of his eyebrows raising in question, his cold fingers grazing your own as you both hold the plastic. You quirk your own eyebrow at him, before a sly smirk crosses your face. 

“You gotta do it right here, while I hold the cup.” You whisper to him, grin growing Cheshire when his eyebrows twitch only a hair. “Precautionary measures, and all.” You shrug, head resting back on your shoulder, your position entirely too relaxed for what you’re trying to make him do. But Getou composes himself quickly, his grip loosening on the cup as he cocks his head ever so slightly. 

“Is that so?”

“I fear it is.” You hum, twisting your mouth a little to the side, as if your made up rules disappoint you. Getou plays into it though, as he finally releases the cup, shoving his hands into his pockets as takes a single step away from you. 

“Well, it looks like you’ll have to come back later to retrieve your sample.” He says, looking down his nose at you, lips twitching at the corner. It makes your own mouth pull down slightly, trying to gauge what game he’s playing at, keep the control solely in your corner. You slit your eyes at him, clear cup still held out in between the two of you. 

“And why is that, parolee?” You lower your voice, eyes narrowing at the now grinning man, his shoulders hiked up to his ears in an over exaggerated shrug. 

“Well, most people can’t piss when they’re hard.” He says softly. Your eyes instantly shoot down to between his legs, at the now very obvious erection tenting the fabric. You’re not sure how you hadn’t noticed beforehand, but its kind of hard to miss now, with how he takes a step forward again. The thickness of it twitches at your wide eyed stare, and you can even see a little spot beading with precum through the gray fabric. 

The silence between the both of you is thick, heavy with tension, unsure of the other’s next moves. But you smile at him, throwing the cup to the other side of the room, as you splay your hands on his bed, leaning back on them, body open and inviting. 

“It looks like I’ll just have to get a sample of something else instead, then.” You shrug, still trying to hold on to being carefree and in charge. But Getou can see the want in your eyes, and practically pounces on top of you when you crook a single finger at him. 

He hovers over you, touching you and not all at once. He lingers, his mouth skimming yours, his erection just barely resting against where you need him most. He smiles, his palms splayed beside your head, his eyes teasing you. 

“Take what you want, officer. I’m in no place to refuse you.” Getou whispers, gaze as charming as his cock that spills precum through the thick fabric onto your jeans. He doesn’t have to tell you twice, as you hook a leg over his thigh and flip him until you’re on top without any complaints from him. 

If anything, the fucker just grins at you, hands squeezing your waist as you settle on top of him like it’s your gods given right. He runs his palms up under your shirt until his cold touch sends chills down your spine, mouth twitching when you settle heavily on his throbbing cock. 

“You couldn’t refuse me if you tried, parolee.” You snark at him, guiding his hands to your chest to squeeze. His lids lower, his head tilted back, hands warming up from your fiery skin as he kneads your chest in his palms. 

“Why on earth would I ever try that?” Getou says breathily, reaching around to unclip your bra effortlessly, makes you wonder how many times he’s been able to do that with some unsuspecting girl. 

“You’re a smart boy; you know better than that.” You smile at him, peeling your shirt from over your head the same time he undoes your bra, everything going at once. Getou admires you for a few seconds, his lips just barely parted as he palms your nipples in his hands, rolling them around until you sigh out of pleasure. 

His hands are surprisingly soft, a little clammy, cold enough to make your nipples stiffen up under his touch. He rolls them between his forefinger and thumb, plucking at them to hear your voice hitch just the slightest bit. Your hips roll against his own, earning you a soft hiss that makes you grin wickedly at him. 

You lean down to peel his shirt off of his own body, finding yourself nose to nose, chest to chest, with him. Only a beat passes before you both surge forward, lips meeting in a rough kiss. His teeth knock against yours, his tongue pushing and pushing, yours doing the same. They tangle together in a messy kiss, spit sliding from your mouth into his, and when you pull back, breathless, Getou is chewing with a suspicious grin. 

“You nasty fucker,” you moan to him, diving in to steal your gum back, but he puts up a fight. Grinds you down against his cock, feels for the dip between your lips, rubs the thick shaft between them until your body goes limp on top of his. He does everything he’s wanted with your mouth since the moment he first laid eyes on you, sucking your tongue into his mouth as he palms both cheeks of your ass. 

Few words are exchanged as you unzip your jeans, shimmying out of them with the desperation only someone thirsty for the cult leader could possess. He lays back with his hands behind his head as you yank his sweats down, mouth suddenly salivating when you see that he wasn’t wearing underwear this whole time. 

“Pretty,” you murmur, holding him at the base as you lean over his cock, your lips pursing as you spit on the pink head of it. “See why all your little cult followers would go to war for you.”

You look up from under your lashes at Getou, who only grins at you, never confirming or denying this cult you keep speaking of. He only flexes his biceps once, twice, as he watches you pull your panties to the side and hover over top of him. He doesn’t even try to help you out, figures you’d want to stay in control, even though he’s really the one with all the power right now. But he lets you believe whatever you want, as long as you sit on his dick for the time being. 

Without much thought, do you finally sink down on Getou’s thick cock. It’s bigger than you would’ve imagined, fat and heavy as it fills you up so delectably, you think you might split in two. You can feel every vein that twitches when you swallow him up, your eyes fluttering as you work yourself down, down, down until your lips meet his curly base. 

“Tell anybody about this, parolee, and I’ll send your ass back to your cell for the next ten years.” You threaten him, but its hard for Getou to take you seriously with how breathy your voice is. How your eyes start to roll back when he ever so slightly cants his hips up inside of you. How you palm your lower stomach, groaning in pleasure when you feel his tip just barely beneath the surface of your skin. How your cunt wraps around him so deliciously, leaking all over his pubes, dribbles down in thick rolls around his waist onto the bed. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it, officer.” Getou smiles at you, giving you another false sense of control before he stops resting back on his hands to grip your hips. Without warning, Getou plants his feet on the bed, and begins snapping his hips up into you. You yelp, falling forward onto his chest, eyes clenched in pleasure as you can only hold on for the ride. 

But you won’t let the fucker take control that easily. You push up on shaky arms as much as you can, back arching from the force of his thrusts, your eyes narrowing at his own cocky smile. You meet his thrusts halfheartedly as much as you can, fucking your hips back on his, the clap of your ass meeting his pelvis loud and echoing throughout the silent house. Getou only grins wider at you, makes you reach down to fist his hair in your hands. 

At that, he moans, to your surprise. His eyes fluttering closed, his rhythm momentarily thrown off from the pleasure. But he regains his footing, staring up at you hazily with a shit eating grin, his nails digging into your skin as he fucks his cock inside of you, holding it there for a few seconds to hear you cry out his name. 

He circles his hips, looking for that spot inside of you that makes you see stars. When he finds it, you mewl, your head thrown back, your nails digging into his scalp and the skin of his chest. Getou hisses through his teeth, but picks up his pace until it becomes brutal, his thrusts harsh and fast and dizzying enough that you collapse against him with a little cry of pleasure. 

“Fuck, right there, right there!” You moan to him, searching for his mouth as you lean up the tiniest bit. He catches you, one hand still holding your cheeks open, the other gripping your face between big hands. He shakes your head at him, mocking, laughing under his breath at the dumb little look on your face—and to think you have so much power over him. 

“Right there? Yeah?” He teases you, letting you go just to smack your cheeks lightly a few times before gripping you once more. You pout to him, nodding, reaching your hand down to start swiping at your clit, feeling your climax start to build with quickness you can barely prepare for. 

“What a dumb look on such a cute face.” Getou grins at you, finally pulling you in for a kiss when you start to fuss at him. He quiets you with his lips, your gum swapping between your mouths again, sloppy. But you love it, can’t help but start to feel addicted to it, wonder if its worth it to give up your job and become one of his followers if he could fuck you like this every night. No wonder people became so addicted to him. 

“Make me cum, parolee.” You whimper to him, your fingers rubbing at your clit, your other hand holding his face close to yours by his jaw. Getou opens his mouth in a moan, eyes heavily lidded as he looks at you, leans forward to lick at your teeth quickly. 

He scans your face as he holds you down, his hips snapping up to fuck into you, your voice high and staccato as you can only hold on for the ride. Without much preamble, do you tumble over the edge of your climax, moaning out his name as you ride out your orgasm, clit throbbing with every pound of his hips inside of you. You both curse under your breaths, your eyes clenched shut as you try to meet his hips, although your lower body trembles with exhaustion when he continues to pound inside of you. 

Suddenly, Getou pulls himself out of you, barely managing to slide his tip out before he’s coming all over your stomach. It drips back down onto his own clammy skin, but he doesn’t seem to mind, his eyes closed in bliss as he empties his load all over your tummy, your pubes, aims for the little gaping hole that he, sadly, had to pull out of. 

When he finishes, do you reach between your bodies, swiping a finger through the mess he’s made on you. You pop it into your mouth, humming in delight at the slightly salty taste of him, hearing his groan, feeling his still hard cock twitch against your lower back as you sit on his pelvis. 

“Nice job, parolee.” You grin to him, to which he chuckles under his breath at you. “I’ll make sure to get this sample in the system.” 

thank you so much for reading! kind comments/likes/reblogs are all appreciated <3

[mariacallous]

It’s fair to say the TV show Schitt’s Creek would have been a lot less funny had it concerned the family of a deposed dictator rather than the family of an embezzled video store mogul. Even so, it’s a strange but undeniable fact that when toddlers are stumbling out of dungeons, and the unspeakable horrors of the former Syrian regime are still being revealed, a significant part of the human impulse is to thirst for details of the dreadful Assad family’s new lives in Moscow, then remark tartly: “Well, they’ve gone down in the world.” And of course, the Assads may yet plunge further – for all the overly impressed reports of apartments in glittering Moscow skyscrapers, I must say I’d have picked something on the ground floor myself.

For now, Syrian refugee Bashar al-Assad might be telling himself that if Vladimir Putin has offered him asylum, he can’t possibly be angry with him for putting Russia’s unrivalled network of military bases in Syria at serious risk. In which case, it’s possible Bashar is about to go on a journey of discovery as long as the Trans-Siberian railway. Then again, it could be much, much shorter. But perhaps Assad’s comfortable with limbo. He has, after all, spent the past two decades apparently unable to decide whether he is or isn’t growing a moustache. Follically speaking, I guess he now finally has time to pick a lane. Or, as I say, doesn’t have time. For while the man who used chemical weapons against his own people may be physically located in Moscow, in security terms, and for the rest of his entire life, he cannot be at all clear where he stands.

Nor, at present, can the Syrian people, who deserve so much more than a few days of giddy celebration. None of it is unalloyed, given the utter grimness of the stories being disgorged from Assad’s torture prisons, and the ominous uncertainty of what comes next under victorious Islamist rebel chief Abu Mohammed al-Jolani.

Having said that, you have to celebrate the bright spots. What is not to love about that footage of a toppled Assad Sr statue being hooked to the back of a truck and ridden through the streets by cheering Syrians? Elsewhere, one of the best bits of any successful coup against a murderous tyrant is watching their giggling former people swarm through the private chambers of their ghastly palace. And so it has been with the Assads. Here are half a dozen oppressed citizens grinning as they take goofy photos on a souvenir sofa; here are a few hundred helping themselves to all the incredibly expensive things that got bought instead of food and medicine for the country’s children. No doubt Assad’s wife, Asma, will be aware of this, and sobbing into a diamond-encrusted iPhone to anyone who’ll still listen (an increasingly small field) that she “can’t watch the news footage”. No doubt it feels like a … what’s the word? … violation?

Perhaps Asma could distract herself by writing one of those end of year family letters that always cause so much appalled merriment for those who receive them. “Well, we finally made the big move to Moscow! Downsized a little bit, for sure – but we keep saying it’s so cosy. BTW if anyone sent greetings to the old address, it’s not totally clear they’ll be forwarded to us by the new owners. Incidentally, we heard on the grapevine that people thought our dear friend Vladimir was angry with Bashar. We assure well-meaning friends that this could NOT be further from the truth. Vladimir adores Bashar. He keeps inviting him to come and drink tea with him, which seems so hospitable, and we mean to take up the invitation just as soon as we finish unpacking the money.”

Anyway: the money. For some reason, news reports about fleeing dictators often peg their fortunes at the $2bn mark, and I duly read this week that Assad had escaped with $2bn of squirrelled-away funds; “$2bn” must be the answer to the question “what’s the precise amount of money that sounds like an ill-gotten running-away fund?”

But if the megarich Assads are nevertheless wondering what happens next – guys, get used to it! The not knowing is the whole fun of being a former dictator! Your shit creek may yet become shitty enough to satisfy even your most persistent detractors. It’s definitely possible that at some point, your gracious hosts will get bored of being gracious – as hosts in these situations historically have – at which point you might be suddenly forced to take a trip to The Hague after all.

Ultimately, I wouldn’t say nature is healing – but at least late-2000s magazine power lists are finally starting to make sense. It was back in 2007 that the US magazine Details ran a list of the most powerful men in the world under the age of 45, in which Assad was ranked a full 14 places below Kevin Federline, who at the time was Britney Spears’ unemployed former backing dancer ex-husband. If that felt like a slight misreading of the then-Syrian leader’s status – and, indeed, of Kevin’s days of smoking weed and hammering the PlayStation – this week it is starting to look more rational. K-Fed may very well now be more than 14 places more powerful than Bashar al-Assad. At the very least he can holiday outside Russian airspace – and not have to worry about whether the food delivery guy really is the food delivery guy.