underrated tumblr feature is being able to catch up to yourself on your dash. so there is an END POINT. and you can say “ah, I have reached where I left off, there is no more to see! I’ll take my leave now and come back later when there are new posts.” instead of being stuck forever in a bottomless algorithm pit digging deeper and deeper till you have to summon monumental strength to climb out
“there's still people on tumblr? rip tumblr” Meanwhile, they still find a way to access the site to steal and repost creators' gifs without any issues.
nothing will make you think "i have got to get weirder" more than finally feeling comfortable enough around other people to admit to interests of yours that you think make you a freak and a weirdo only to realize with a combination of embarrassment and relief that you're like a normie to them
Summary: It starts on your bed with a tease and ends under hot water with your legs shaking—a thread of control, toys, and laughter that only makes sense between the two of you.
You’re sprawled on your back like the evening already knows your secrets, one knee thrown open to air that isn’t even cool. The fan hums. Your phone paints the hollow of your throat in blue-white. You aren’t trying to perform. You’re wet—so wet that when your hand finally slides down, it startles a soft, stupid sound out of you.
His voice arrives like a fingertip behind your ear. “Take a cold shower.”
You smile into the pillow. “I need you to fuck me.”
“Use the showerhead.”
“What if I want your hand?”
A beat, and you can hear the curve of his mouth. “You told me that the first night we talked.”
Your free hand refuses to leave your heat. You drag your finger up, slick and blunt. The phone slips on your thigh because your skin is a mess. You type one-handed- I’m wet for you.
“Prove it.”
You angle the camera, thumb shaking, and snap fast: thigh, the shine on your fingers, the guilty damp at your panties. You send before you can rethink the crop.
His breath catches. When he speaks again it’s a low, possessive scrape. “Filthy. Touch yourself for me.” A lazy afterthought, exactly designed to bruise your brain: “Good girl.”
“I hate when you say that,” you mutter, even as your fingers speed up.
“No, you like it.” He’s not asking. “I have to see my aunt in a bit,” he adds like it’s small talk, “and you’re talking like this. She’s ancient. Behave yourself.”
“That turns me on.”
“Stop,” he growls, softer—hungrier. “I get hard fast.”
“Get hard for me,” you whisper. “I want you.”
Silence stretches, heavy. Then his tone drops into that register that makes your hips tilt like he’s palming them. “I want to shut you up with my mouth.”
Your breath skips. You circle your clit and let the phone lie speaker-up on your stomach so his voice can seep under your ribs.
“Tell me how wet,” he says.
You show him instead—another photo, closer, two fingers spreading you to catch the light, the damp stringing pretty between them. Send. On his end, his fist closes around his cock; you hear it in the way his breathing changes, the wet drag when his thumb skates the head.
“Jesus,” he mutters—then snaps back into control, mean as a mercy. “You’re going to cum for me now. Three fingers.”
“I want your fingers. Your mouth.”
“I said now.” It lands like a hand in the center of you. “It’s noisy, isn’t it? You’re such a dirty thing. Go faster. I’m not joking.”
“Bossy,” you breathe, and obey anyway. Two fingers slide inside tighter than you expected and you keep your thumb working sharp little circles. Heat narrows your vision. He murmurs approval between wet strokes of his own, the rhythm of his fist syncing to the sounds you can’t swallow. When you break quick, vicious you say it like confession “I’m cumming—God—”
“I can hear it.” Wrecked, delighted. “Don’t stop. Keep going. Fast.” A groan, like he’s pinching himself mean just to keep pace. “You’ve got me hard and I’m supposed to leave in ten minutes. I hate you.”
You’re still trembling; the petty dramatics make you laugh, breath hitching. “Ask nicer.”
“What made you cum?” He’s clinical now, the way you crave. “Say it.”
“You watching,” you pant. “Thinking about your mouth on me. You said you could see me and—” Your breath snaps. “—I came so fast.”
“Of course you did.” He’s smug and starving beneath it. “You’d love it with the window open. Say you would.”
“I would.” Because you would. And because the devil lives in your camera roll, you drop a long-necked, ridiculous giraffe meme into the thread your favorite way to make him break at the worst possible time.
He does. Laughter cracks across the line; you picture him bent over his lap, cock in his fist, face split wide. “I hate you,” he says fondly. “You’re a menace.”
The laugh jostles into a moan before it’s done. You push your shirt up and pinch your nipple until the ache zips to your spine. Your hand finds your heat again, already tender. You need the water. You need weight and pressure and tile to brace against. You grab your vibrator and the thick toy he swears he’ll replace with himself, and you stumble to the bathroom with your phone still glowing like a sin. Steam fogs the mirror in seconds. The spray hits your shoulders and levels your breath into a needy stutter. You wedge the phone on the caddy, angle the camera; he asked to see, so you let him. The vibrator hums awake against your clit steady, merciless. The sound ricochets off tile. Your thighs tighten on instinct.
His voice slinks back, darker. “Say it.”
“You love this,” you throw, rocking the toy in slow, mean inches at your entrance. “You love thinking about how wet I am for you.”
He inhales sharply; you can hear his grip change longer pulls, heavier squeeze. He’s on the edge of his bed, sweatpants shoved down, cock gleaming in his fist. Precum threads his knuckles when his thumb smears it lower. He’s thinking he should be getting dressed. He’s thinking of you instead.
“I feel like I’m on a diet staring through a bakery window,” he mutters, half-laugh, half pain. “I want my tongue inside you while the water runs over your body.” Then: knife slipped under your tongue “Open for me.”
“Hungry?”
“Sticky.” His breath judders. “Yeah. And it’s your fault.”
You press the toy in on a slow breath. Your body takes it with a flutter that makes your knees threaten to fold. You don’t let them. You brace your foot high on the tub lip and keep the phone steady with shaking fingers while you give him what he earned a close, obscene shot of you stretched and shining, water beading where the toy parts you.
He curses—torn out of him. You feel the way it changes his stroke. “Closer,” he orders. “Don’t tease me.” You send two more your fingers spreading you wide; your mouth bitten pink between your teeth and turn the vibrator up one notch. It’s cruel immediately. You chase it anyway, tip the showerhead to angle a hotter stream along your inner thigh and the soft, slick edges of your mound until your whole body vibrates from two directions.
“That’s it,” he says, voice shredded and soft. “Noisy little thing.”
You smile, wicked. “I’m going to ride your face,” you breathe. “I want your nose on my clit. I want to rub myself all over your mouth until you can’t breathe right.”
He laughs like he’s in trouble, breathless. “I want to bite it.” A beat that sounds like teeth on a bottom lip. “I’m starving.”
You slide the toy deeper, push the vibrator harder to the exact spot, and the second orgasm drags you under mean and fast—legs shaking, hand scrambling for slick tile. You ride the aftershocks; let them crest again into something wetter. Pressure gathers; you pull the vibrator away a fraction and gasp, barely holding the line. “Almost squirted,” you choke. “Had to stop.”
“I’ve heard that’s hard,” he says, fascinated.
“Not when I’m this overstimulated.” Your laugh breaks at the end. “My nipples hurt. I’m using both—toy and vibrator.”
“So hot.” Reverent. Then, faintly unhinged: “Feels like we’ve been like this for an hour.”
“We have.” You swallow. “We can stop.”
“Really?” He hates that you said it. The wet slide of his fist slows. “I don’t want you uncomfortable.”
“It’s hard to stop,” he admits, and then the truth slips out like it can’t stay contained. “You ruin me. I’ll get over it. You mess with my head.” A broken laugh. “I’ll avoid you tomorrow.”
“Liar,” you say, fond and cruel, because you know him.
You snap one more photo water beading down your breast, nipple tight, the toy still buried. It’s merciless. On his end, his jaw cocks tight; rhythm stutters. “I’ve got one obsessive thought,” he says, almost to himself. “Just one.”
“Yeah?”
“You cumming.” He groans. “I get obsessive. Maybe it’s my brain. Maybe I’m just a nympho. Whatever.” A low laugh, disbelieving. “It’s ridiculous.”
“Keep talking.” You pin the vibrator down until your thighs tremble again. No teasing now take it. The pressure sharpens, ugly-pretty, and when you tip over, it’s with a hot, helpless spasm that makes you clamp around the toy and push a slick gush out around it. You don’t try to be quiet. The tile can have your noise.
The sound knocks him loose. He finishes with a bitten-off groan, head tipped back, hand milking aftershocks down a length that’s suddenly too sensitive. He pants into the line, messy and honest; somewhere in the noise, he says something that sounds like your name. You shut the water. Steam slips down the mirror like the room exhaling with you. You lean your forehead to cool tile and grin like an idiot, because of course it’s both the filth and the laughter, the control and the chaos.
He sends another meme because even wrecked, he’s a menace. The same long-neck atrocity blinks up, a holy relic of bad timing. “Hate you,” he says, affectionate.
You’re still laughing when the next thing out of him goes straight to the root of you.
“Say it,” he orders, voice low again. “Say what you are.”
You swallow. Heat climbs your throat. “Yours.”
“More.” His tone doesn’t move. “You’re submissive for me. You listen when I tell you to open. You cum when I say. You show me everything. You like being told.”
Your knees go weak again, humiliating and perfect. “I like being told,” you whisper. “I like when you tell me.”
“Good girl,” he says, and this time you feel the smile behind it like a thumb pressed to your mouth. “I guessed voyeurism for fun, by the way. Turns out it wasn’t a guess.”
You laugh, helpless. “Shut up.”
He chuckles. “Make me.”
You towel off, slow and shaky, and check the thread like it’s scripture: dogs and books wedged between commands; an elderly aunt haunting the edge of obscene sentences; memes like landmines. You should be embarrassed. You’re claimed. And he knows it, because he’s the one who put the collar on with words.
He breathes loud enough that you can hear the way his chest drags against his palm when he finally lets go of himself. Then quieter, rawer “Between us.”
“Between us,” you echo, pressing the phone to your sternum.
A minute later he’s back, brain crawling into order just enough to get cocky again. “Avoiding you tomorrow,” he lies.
“Promise?” you shoot, already smiling.
He types, stalls, deletes, sighs, and settles on what he always settles on when the edge is gone and the need remains. “Always thinking about you,” he admits, which is not the same as avoiding. You snap a final picture not porn, not exactly. Your mouth swollen from steam and teeth, your shoulder beaded with water, your eyes heavy. Proof-of-ruin without the mess. You send it with two words that make him hiss through his teeth: Between us.
“Always,” he returns.
You set the phone on your nightstand like a secret, toys cooling in the sink, and lie back down on the bed that still smells like your laugh and your slick. The fan hums. Your muscles tremble in slow, happy waves. You open a new folder in your gallery and name it what it is: the thing you keep for yourself, the joke that still makes you blush, the altar you built out of control and chaos and the sound of his voice turning your spine to wire.
A/N: Surprise! Another part to this story was highly requested so you know I have to give the girls what they want 💋
Warnings: NSFW; 18+; oral sex (f! recieving); p in v sex; dirty talk, praise kink; soft dom energy; mirror/visual/body worship; size praise; cum play (pull out); aftercare/clean-up; domestic intimacy; mentions of body image / confidence (affirming)
Summary: Its their first official date as couple after years of being best friends and roommates living in Bushwick, Brooklyn. They have an intimate dinner in Williamsburg then head back to the apartment where she shows him the lingerie she was wearing underneath her dress, and where they....well you know...again 😏
Word Count: 2.9k+
The mirror was kind to her tonight, but she didn’t need it to be. She’d already decided she would be the kind one.
She fastened the last hook of the black lace bra and watched her breasts lift into a perfect, decadent shelf. The matching panty sat high on her hips, a V of floral mesh over soft belly, garter belt circling her waist like a secret. She clipped the straps to sheer thigh-highs and smoothed her hands down, savoring the glide. A little spritz of perfume at the back of the knees because it’s fun to be dramatic, then the dress is a black wrap with a deep V, long sleeves, and a hem that hit mid-calf. Paired with black Dolce & Gabbana slingback pumps that she got at a sample sale, gold hoops, a glossed mouth, and sleeves pushed to show her wrists. She looked like a woman on a first date who knew exactly what she had underneath.
Her phone buzzed.
Luigi: I’m downstairs. No rush. I like being nervous. 😅
She smiled and snapped him a mirror selfie from the collarbone up, nothing but the line of that V, the shine at her mouth, and her eyes.
You: Good. You should be.
He replied with a selfie that was absolutely for her, navy jacket, white button down, those hazel-brown eyes, that jaw, those hands, those dimples, and the two beauty marks that grace his cheeks. His curly hair was cut into a very rebellious taper faded mullet. Super hot. Filthy sweet. He clearly just came back from getting a haircut before their date.
He was still staring at his phone when she stepped outside, then he looked up and his jaw drops just a little. He had that look like the world stopped for a moment and its just them two moving still.
“Hi,” he said, hands sliding into his pockets because otherwise they’d be all over her. “My girlfriend.”
She felt the word land in the center of her chest, warm as freshly baked bread. “Hi, boyfriend.”
He flushed, pleased, then stepped close enough to kiss her cheek. “I’m going to be insufferable about that all night, just so you know.”
“Can’t wait.”
They walked to a tiny place off Wythe that's low light, has washed brick, a chalkboard with specials written in a hand that made you trust the food. He’d already called ahead for the booth because he knew she liked the corner. He ordered the bottle she’d picked the last time they were there as “roommates who secretly are in love with each other.” He remembered which olives she liked and which she pretended to like for the aesthetics. He made the waiter laugh by earnestly asking about the anchovy origins.
They talked the way they always have, but with a new vibe. Their knees touched under the table and neither of them moved away. He told her about a model that had broken at work and how he and a woman on his team had rebuilt it from scratch at 2 a.m., and she told him about a designer who’d pitched a capsule of nothing but green and the CFO who’d nearly fainted at the margin math. They were interesting, to each other and to themselves, and sometimes they just sat and looked and said nothing at all.
He couldn’t stop looking at her mouth. She couldn’t stop looking at his hands around the stem of his glass.
At one point, she leaned in and touched his wrist. “I have a confession.”
He angled toward her, attentive like he always was when she used that tone. “Uh oh...”
“Under this dress is a situation,” she murmured.
His throat worked. “Define situation.”
“Black lace. Garter. Thigh-highs.” She sipped her wine while his eyes flared. “For later.”
He took a very careful breath. “I need you to know I’m currently having a bunch of different scenarios running through my head and they all involve me on my knees.”
She grinned into her glass. “Good boy.”
He reached under the table and wrapped his hand around her knee, polite, courtly, unmistakably claiming. “I’m going to be the best date anyone ever had out of sheer gratitude.”
“You already are,” she said, and meant it.
They split a steak and the thin fries she always said she didn’t need and then annihilated. He fed her the last bite with an absurd gesture. She rolled her eyes and still opened her mouth for him. He picked at the brownie they pretended to share while she pretended not to notice his eyes drifting to the V of her dress, to the hint of lace where the wrap didn’t quite wrap all the way when she leaned for a napkin.
On the walk home, the East River wind was sharp enough to put color in her cheeks. He tucked her into his side, hand firm at her lower back. “Too cold?”
“Just enough to make going inside better,” she said, and his fingers flexed.
They climbed the familiar stairs and it felt like history had stepped aside to let something else pass. Their door was the same scuffed blue. The hallway smelled like someone’s cinnamon toast. Inside, the apartment clicked into their rhythm instantly...he toes off his shoes, she keeps her heels on, coats hung on hooks, and the lights low. He set his keys down and turned to her with that slightly crazed, calm, look he got right before he solved something hard.
“Before I lose my mind,” he said, voice pitched low, “you’re still okay with…everything you teased me with at dinner.”
She stepped into him, looped her arms behind his neck. “I wore it for you.”
“Say it again,” he whispered, wrecked already.
“I wore it for you.” She kissed the corner of his mouth. “All of it.”
He exhaled like it hurt and put his hands on her hips. “Show me.”
She walked him backward to his bedroom, slow, hips rolling under his hands. She flipped on the lamp, warm and golden, and stood at the foot of his bed. He leaned on the doorframe like he needed bracing for what was to come. She untied the wrap and let the dress fall open an inch, then another, slow enough to watch his breathing pick up. When the fabric slid from her shoulders and puddled at her feet, he made a sound she’d never heard from him before...a low, reverent curse that sent an excited shiver down her spine.
“Oh, baby,” he said, crossing the room because he couldn’t wait anymore. He stopped right in front of her, just shy of touching and asks, “Can I?”
“Yes,” she said, already shivering though the room was warm.
He walked around her, studying her, hands hovering, her skin prickling in the anticipation of being touched. Then he knelt down in front of her. No talking but just knees to rug. He kissed the inside of her left knee first, then the right, then just above the stocking welt where skin turned to lace, and the combination sent another shiver straight to her bones.
“You wore this for me,” he said again, needing to remind himself. He ran his thumbs gently under the band of her stockings, feeling the give, the way they hugged the top of her thick thighs. “You’re perfect.”
He kissed the garter strap where it clipped, nuzzled the soft where the strap met belt. He slid his hands to the back of her thighs, squeezed helplessly, and groaned at how his fingers sank into plush. “I love how you feel.” He pressed his mouth to her belly, a new place for him to worship and lingered his mouth there for a second. “I love all of this.”
Her hand cupped the back of his head. “Lu.”
He looked up at her from his knees, his hazel-brown orbs dark and certain, and slipped his fingers inside the front panel of her panties like he was unwrapping a present, just for him. The lace went damp under his touch. He drew it aside and exhaled again, shaky. “Pretty, fat pussy,” he murmured. “Mine.”
Heat rolled through her. “Yours,” she said, dizzy from saying it and the way he lit up hearing it.
He leaned forward and kissed her right there, just one soft press of his mouth to her slick that made her gasp. “Come sit on the edge,” he said, voice rough. “I want my shoulders under your thighs. I want to hold you open so she can't run from it.”
She sat, leaned back on her hands, and he eased down between her legs like he had been born for this angle. He guided one knee over his shoulder, lips trailing heat along the garter strap. “Shoes stay on?” he asked, grinning because he knew the answer.
“Obviously.”
He laughed against her skin, then flattened his tongue against her and licked, slow and wide. The first hit of his mouth made her cry out with her head tipping back, and his hands tightened on her thighs, turned on by the sound. He licked again, more focused, tongue tracing her clit in deliberate circles that made her belly tighten and her toes flex in her heels. He eased two fingers into her, slow and sure, and started a gentle rhythm that lined up with his mouth.
He stops to lift his head for a second, “Look at me,” he said softly. She pulled her head forward. His eyes were gone for her. “Good girl. That’s it.”
She was loud and he loved it. He hummed against her and watched her eyes and head go backward for a second, then added pressure when her hand in his hair went frantic. “Tell me,” he said into her, mouth wet, covered in her arousal mix with his spit. “Tell me if you need me to ease up.”
“Don’t you fucking dare...I'm so close baby,” she choked, and he made a delighted noise and doubled down, fingers curling just so. The orgasm came like a warm, heavy tide rolling her under...she pressed his face closer and he took it, mouth locked to her, swallowing everything she gave him. He worked her through the aftershocks, gentling the strokes until she trembled and pushed at his forehead, laughing breathlessly. “Wait, baby—sensitive!”
“I know,” he soothed, kissing the top of her thigh. “You just taste so good though. I’m so gone for you.”
He stood, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and kissed her like he needed her to taste herself on his tongue. She dragged his shirt off his shoulders, ran her palms over his chest, then lower, undoing his belt while he panted against her cheek. His cock sprang free, all thick and heavy, already slick at the tip, and she caught his breath falter at the way her eyes went hazy looking at him.
“You like seeing how hard you make me?” he whispered, smug and wrecked.
“I like that you can’t hide it,” she said, fisting him once, slow, rubbing her thumb over his tips and watching him flinch at the contact. “I like that your body tells on you.”
He laughs softly. “It’s never going to shut up around you.”
He tugged the gusset of her panties to the side, leaving the lace on because he knew what that did to her and pushed inside her, the head sliding through her thick, slick folds, catching and gliding, teasing both of them into curses. “You want me inside you so badly don't you?” he asked, forehead to hers smirking. “Answer me.”
“Yes, Lu, ” she agreed, ankles crossing at his back to pull him in.
He pressed in with agonizing care, eyes on her face as her body opened around him, welcomed him, owned him. They both moaned when he bottomed out and went still to breathe. He kissed her and stroked a hand over her belly like he was promising something to both of them.
“You okay?” he whispered.
“So okay,” she said, and rolled her hips until he made that sound she now knew by heart.
He began to move in, long, unhurried strokes that let her feel every inch. He framed her face with his hands and kissed her like she was a drug and he needed a hit. He angled her legs up, knees toward her chest, without dislodging the garter straps, his palms bracing behind her thighs. The stockings bit lightly into her skin and the sight made him groan. “You’re obscene,” he said said in awe. “You’re the most beautiful, obscene thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Good,” she said, shameless now. “Now fuck me, boyfriend.”
Something in him snapped deliciously. His rhythm stayed deep but picked up, muscles flexing under her hands, jaw tight with the effort to keep it steady. He glanced down and then back at her, pupils blown. “Look,” he said, a plea. “Watch how I disappear in you. Look how your pretty pussy takes me.” He dragged a thumb over her clit, gentle, then firmer and her breath hitched into a sweet, broken noise.
“Lu—oh, God—right there.”
“I’ve got you, baby” he promised, voice gone gravel. He rubbed in small, merciless circles while he fucked into that exact angle, and the pleasure stacked perfectly. Her eyes fluttered, locked, fluttered again, he kissed her through it, swallowed her yes, and then she was coming, clenching around him so tightly he had to grit his teeth and ride it out.
He held on for three strokes, five, a dozen, and then his control broke. He pulled out at the last second, chest heaving, and stroked himself hard, eyes locked to where she was spread open and still fluttering. He dragged the head over her swollen clit once, twice as she twitched, a helpless shock, and then he came with a rough groan, spilling hot and thick over her folds. The mess was filthy and beautiful, glossy on the lace, and shining on her skin.
“Jesus,” he breathed, hand still moving lazily to milk it out, gaze burning. “Look at that. Look at what we just did.” He tapped her clit softly with the soft head, just a love tap, and she squeaked, laughing and swatting his wrist.
“Stop, you play too much,” she giggled.
“Scientific curiosity,” he said, dazed and delighted. He leaned down and kissed her all slow and sweet, then reached for a towel on his bedside table. He cleaned her gently, and she let him, humming at the tenderness.
He didn’t let her take the garter off yet. He helped her stand and face the full length mirror in the corner of his room, framed her from behind with his arms around her waist, and his chin on her shoulder. They were both flushed, hair wild, her in black lace and stockings and heels, him open-mouthed at the sight of them together.
“Look at us, we look good together,” he said, quiet and certain, as if quoting their first night.
She met his eyes in the glass and nodded, slow. “Yeah...we really do.”
He turned her back to the bed and eased her down, taking off her heels and kissing her ankles as he does so. Then, finally unclipping the garter with a focus that made her giggle, rolling the stockings down inch by inch. He kissed each kneecap when it appeared. He kissed the curve of her calf and the arch of her foot and sighed in pure content.
“Hungry?” he asked at last, sprawled on his side, fingers playing idly with the edge of her lace.
“For food or you?” she teased, already reaching.
“Yes,” he said primly, then ruined it by laughing. “I stocked the freezer with your favorite dumplings from Wegmans. We could be feral and eat in bed together. I’ll put a towel down, I’m not a total slob.”
“Perfect boyfriend behavior,” she said, smug, and then softer, “Thank you for tonight.”
“Thank you,” he said back, hand gliding over her hip, her belly, her breast like he couldn’t choose which one is his favorite. “For the outfit, and for being mine.”
“Say it again.”
“Mine,” he murmured, kissing her, mouthing the word against her bottom lip, her throat, the soft place near her collarbone. “My girl in lace and these legs and this belly and this perfect, pretty pussy. Mine.”
Her laugh shook into a shiver. “Then feed me dumplings and watch me choose another dress you’re going to lose your mind over.”
He lit up like a damn Christmas tree. “Date two, already scheduled.”
She tugged him down for one more kiss that promised trouble after food, then let him go heat a pan, calling out outrageous demands from the bed in nothing but underwear and a smile. He answered each with a “Yes, ma’am,” and a grin that said he’d give her more than she asked for.
When he came back with a tray and chopsticks and dipping sauce, she was still in the lace, garter on the nightstand like a trophy, stockings draped over the lamp like a flag. He set the tray down, slid behind her, and fed her the first dumpling with his hands on her waist.
First date as a couple entailed wine, steak, lace, garter, laughter, and worship. The rest of the city could be anything. In here, it was everything. And when he set the tray aside and slid his fingers down the lace again with a smile filled with conspiracy, she turned and climbed into his lap like she had all the time in the world to test the structural integrity of that black set, and the bed, and his patience. He didn’t mind, though. He’d told her earlier he liked her making him nervous, and keeping him on his toes.
impressions from my first day at Riker's Island prison
i went up to the door of about 5 different male prison units. dorm-stye, not cells.
it's a lot smaller than anything i've seen in the media/tv/etc. the rooms are essentially one big cage.
even if you are a completely stable, healthy, well-adjusted human with no problems, these conditions will create problems for you and the response is always retribution/punishment from officers.
lots of guys with trauma, mental health, and substance use issues
the staff i'm doing my academic course with are amazing and are so passionate about wellbeing of incarcerated people. they are separate department from the correctional officers and related jobs, who are generally not.
i was so tired omw home i fell asleep on the woman next to me on the subway 😂
tomorrow we should think equally of Luigi AND the almost 2 million people locked up in the US.
He is in a terrible situation but he has the most support imaginable in this situation. please think about all the others <3
humans should not be locked in cages.
note: i won't be answering asks about this, so please don't send them! it's already quite overwhelming as is.
i wanted to post something after my first day, and especially in advance of tomorrow, but i doubt i'll post every day. feel free to comment with questions though!
@fligniuz @lavenderishhaze i know u were following my previous post about this :*
i think love is stored in late night conversations and "did you drink water today" and "i waited to watch this with you" and splitting a coffee or dessert and "i missed you" and folded laundry and sleepy heads on shoulders and "you're right, i'll do better. im sorry" and inside jokes and... there are so many ways people say i love you silently every single day over and over again if you just listen
gummygunk
origamiaround
amandla
andulkaphoto
