#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.

[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.

[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

[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!

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

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.

[nerdytextileartist]

Lian Harper is in street clothes, huddled next to Billy and Skidmark over a sketchpad.

Lian: ...So "Fuecoco" is going to meet up with "Sprigatito" behind Phan's after trailing "Team Skull" to their "gym". Suddenly, the teens look up as they hear the roar of a motorcycle as Red Hood drives up and stops right in front of them. He dismounts and approaches. Red Hood: I heard through the grapevine that a new dealer moved into Alley Town. Bet you could use my help- Lian: Nah, we're good. Red Hood, taken a back: 'Cuse me? Skidmark: We appreciate the offer, but we got this. Red Hood: You do know who I am, right? Billy, staring daggers into Red Hood: We do and that's why we don't want you here. Red Hood, glaring back at Billy: Bold words for a kid who hasn't seen nearly half of the crap I've seen at your age. Skidmark, sliding in between Billy and Red Hood: Look. We get it. You got your way of doing things that works for you- Lian: That's debatable. Red Hood shoots a glare at Lian. Skidmark: -but that's not how we do things here. Lian: Plus, you got a bad habit of drawing attention to yourself and we and everybody who live here really don't need targets drawn on our backs. Red Hood, incredulous: So, you three are what stands between East End and the drug dealers, the wannabe crime bosses, and the other creeps that just want to see the world burn? (scoffs) And they say I have a death wish. Lian: We didn't say it was just us. (to Billy and Skidmark) I didn't say that, did I? Skidmark: Nope. Billy: Nah. Lian: When I said that we were good, we don't need your help. Red Hood: Okay, then who do you have that's so much better than little ol' me? Mia Dearden, appearing from the shadows: 'Sup, loser! Red Hood is surprised, but regains his composure. He turns to face Mia. Red Hood: Mia, what brings you to Gotham? Did you finally realize what I can do for you that Green Arrow can't? Mia: Actually, I'm here to spend time with my niece and her bros. Red Hood looks back at Lian and puts two and two together. Red Hood to Lian: Did Roy ever tell you how I broke him out of a Quraqi prison- Lian, unimpressed: He did. You're still not my uncle. Not even close. Red Hood, scowling: Fffffffffffffine! I get it. I know when I'm not wanted. I'll just take my epic feats to a more accepting audience. Good luck with your little operation. Try not to get fridged. Lian, shouting: Wouldn't be the first time! Red Hood waves them off as he mounts his motorcycle, fires it up, and drives away. Lian to Mia: Was he that big of a weenus when you fought him? Mia: He didn't blow up a school this time. Skidmark looks at her with shock. Mia: It was way after hours. It was just me and him in there. He sucks, but he's not a monster. Billy scoffs. Mia: Mind sharing? Billy: Let's go over the plan.

[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.

[mad3lyncline]

𝑪𝑨𝑹𝑨𝑴𝑬𝑳 𝑺𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑪𝑬 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑺 . starters from the song ' caramel ' by sleep token . adjust pronouns as necessary !

i'm not gonna be there tripping on the grapevine .

they can sing the words while i cry into the bass line .

wear me out like prada , devil in my detail .

i swear it's getting harder even just to exhale .

stick to me like caramel .

walk beside me 'til you feel nothing as well .

is it going good in the garden ?

i'm lost but i beg no pardon .

up on the dice but low on the cards .

i try not to talk about how it's harder now .

looking sideways at my own visage .

i guess that's what i get for trying to hide in the limelight .

guess that's what i get for having 20/20 hindsight .

everybody wants eyes on 'em .

if you don't think i mean it then i understand .

i'm still glad you came .

so let me see those hands .

i'm falling free of the final parallel .

the sweetest dreams are bitter .

there's no one left to tell .

too young to get bitter over it all .

too blessed to be caught ungrateful , i know .

so i'll keep dancing along to the rhythm .

this stage is a prison .

i'll take what i'm given .

i thought i got better but maybe i didn't .

tell me , did i give you what you came for ?

terrified to answer my own front door .

missing my wings in a realm of angels .

[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)

[melishade]

i was wondering what's the military, ppl on the walls, Marleyen on paradis, Eldien Restorationists, Yelena, Onyankopon, Erwin, Kenny, Nile, Kiyomi, And Kenshin Opinion about Terminus in the Remorse Timeline. Like they've never seen an Old Cybertronian before.

Previous Episode of the Remorse Timeline

Okay. Let's bullet point.

-Paradis Military: Initially saw him as useless but then learn about the garden and see a benefit.

Paradis citizens: Love him. Great source of knowledge and food.

-Marleyans on Paradis: Many are locked up at this point in the timeline. Don't talk to him.

-Yelena: Doesn't talk to him either because of prisoner circumstances.

-Onyankopon: Enjoys his company and asks him about the passage of time on their world.

-Eldian Restorationists: They think he's friendly.

-Kiyomi and Kenshin: Once they get alerted to Terminus' existence and his garden they are freaking out because "WHAT DO YOU MEAN THERE'S AN OLD TITAN THAT'S BEEN CAMPING OUT IN HIZURU FOR THE PAST 2,000 YEARS?!" Kiyomi is ready to make a profit out of some of the items that Terminus is growing, especially since they've gone extinct in the past and were considered luxury items.

-Nile, Erwin, and Kenny: The only ones from that list you mentioned that know about Megatron's connection to Terminus because Nile found out through the grapevine and told the other two. Nile is weirded out and doesn't know how to talk to Terminus. Kenny thinks this whole thing is hilarious and calls Terminus 'Gramps' much to Nile's dismay, and Erwin is pissed off at Megatron and is close to beating his ass! WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU HAVE AN OPPORTUNITY TO TALK TO YOUR FATHER AGAIN AND REFUSE TO DO IT?! ERWIN WISHES FOR AN OPPORTUNITY LIKE THAT!

[minyard-05]

count me out like sovereigns payback for the good times right foot in the roses left foot on a landmine i'm not gonna be there tripping on a grapevine they can sing the words while i cry into the bassline wear me out like prada devil in my detail i swear it's getting harder even just to exhale backed up into corners bitter in the lens i'm sick of trying to hide it every time they take mine so stick to me stick to me like caramel walk beside me till you feel nothing as well and they ask me is it going good in the garden i say i'm lost but i beg no pardon up on the dice but low on the cards i'm trying not to talk about how it's harder now can i get a mirror side-stage looking sideways at my own visage getting worse every time they try to shout my real name just to get a rise from me acting like i'm never stressed out by the hearsay i guess that's what i get for trying to hide in the limelight guess that's what i get for having twenty-twenty hindsight everybody wants eyes on them i just wanna hear you sing that top line and if you don't think i mean it then i understand but i'm still glad you came so let me see those hands so stick to me stick to me like caramel walk beside me till you feel nothing as well i'm falling free of the final parallel the sweetest dreams are bitter but there's no one left to tell too young to get bitter over it all too old to retaliate like before too blessed to be caught ungrateful i know so i'll keep dancing along to the rhythm this stage is a prison a beautiful nightmare a war of attrition i'll take what i'm given the deepest incisions i thought i got better but maybe i didn't (in these days of days) tell me did i give you what you came for (i wish it all away) terrified to answer my own front door (i thought things had changed) missing my wings in a realm of angels (everything's the same) so i'll keep dancing along to the rhythm this stage is a prison a beautiful nightmare a war of attrition i'll take what i'm given the deepest incisions i thought i got better but maybe i didn't.

[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.

[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.

[kawaiibarty]

CONGRATS BITCH!!!!!

lucien please

† lucien — i'll assign you a fucked up book i read/have heard about

helllooo yours is too easy. i actually was hoping you'd ask for this one.

so a lot of people may be familiar with the title "a certain hunger" by chelsea g. summers, and i heard somewhere down the grapevine that cannibalism has been a hot topic for a while (i mean who doesn't love a bit of anthropophogus cuisine?)

The book follows food writer Dorothy Daniels, who is also a convicted serial killer. Daniels narrates the story of her crimes from prison, moving back and forth in time between her life behind bars and the life that led to her imprisonment: specifically the food she ate, including eating men.

who is this diva? you may ask. well. i don't know. this book has been on my tbr for well over 3 years now and i keep meaning to pick up on reading it but i could never get there. ive read snippets here and there on tt and pinterest and i can tell you with certainty that it has the potential to be a good read if you take time out to digest it.

see what i did there? omw id make an awesome dad. anyway. my honest opinion is that it could very well be the female version of american psycho ✋🏼😔

it has a 3.8/5 stars on goodreads so it's not AMAZING SHOWSTOPPING JAW DROPPING literature but it's something

anyway. happy reading!?