#release from prison

[spicy-buttfuck]

you are free now. freer than you've ever been.

it's scary, huh?

you can drink, you can swear, you can be gay if you want.

you can find out being gay isn't really your fit, but you were free to try.

or maybe it is, and now you can kiss anyone.

you can try on clothes they never let you before.

you can be angry, you can carry a knife.

you can be loud, you can carry flowers.

you can be mean. you can be kind. you can deny god and all He was.

you can spend a quiet evening at home, you can have sex.

you can love yourself and hate yourself and do anything.

you don't have to give a single shit about "family values."

you can be anything.

you are free.

you are freer than you've ever been.

freer than they ever wanted you to be.

[ID: A animation of Mickey Mouse staring forward above the camera with a cloudy blue sky in the background, the lines moving slightly as the sun reflects off his pupils. His expression is awed and maybe a little frightened. He has white shorts and a black and white tall cap. End ID.] courtesy of @describe-things

[lliaq]

eddie diaz + faceless °2

[dontbelasagnax]

I heard it through the grapevine that Cody and Obi-Wan are kissing right now. If true please send photo evidence.

[flutrberri]

[kimdokjakimdokjakimdokja]

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

“Trends in Penology: Work Camp Plan Could Help Both Parolees, Taxpayers,” The Globe and Mail. October 15, 1960. Page 4. ==== By LEX SCHRAG Globe and Mail Reporter In Ontario localities where there are no branches of the John Howard Society, the provincial probation services lend a helping hand to the men on parole from the federal penitentiaries. The parolees must still report to the police, but they look to the probation officers for aid in re-establishing themselves in their communities.

The Diamond is the magazine published by and for the inmates of the Collin’s Bay penitentiary at Kingston. It tries to present the inmates’ views to the world beyond the walls.

In its September issue it proposes a plan which, the editor feels, would help the prisoners to stay out of the penitentiary when they are released.

Under this plan, prisoners would be transferred from the penitentiary to a work camp a month before they were due for release. They would be employed in a factory, manufacturing goods for governmental use tour prisons must not compete with private companies. ‘To overcome any union objections to cheap labor, let’s pay these men wages on a par with those earned by free men in a similaar industry.’ Income tax would be deducted from these earnings. Accommodation in the cam would be better than tat in the penitentiary. The prisoners would pay board of, say, $10 a week, out of a wage of not more than $50 a week (the editor has not been able to discuss wages with union officers, evidently).

The men in the transit camp would be given a measure of regulated freedom. They would be permitted to go shopping, perhaps attend movies or hockey games, attended by guides rather than guards.

They would be able to save enough money to buy clothes when they were discharged. ‘Prison suits have improved over the years, but in most cases they still leave much to be desired.’

When the man is released, ‘he won’t be stepping out the gate into a world that bewilders him - of which he is a little bit afraid. The defense mechanisms won’t make him put on that veneer of toughness.’

Counselling by such agencies as the John Howard Society and the National Employment Service could be carried on while the man is in the transit camp. Efforts could be launched to find a job and a place to live. Driving tests could be taken by those who would have to earn a living as truckers.

The procedure, the editor suggests, should be made available to all inmates of the penitentiary due for discharge, but should not be compulsory. To clinch the argument, an account is given of the experiment at London’s Pentonville Prison. 

There, a group of prisoners soon to be released live in a hostel within the prison walls and go out to work each day.

What do men in the provincial probation services think of the transit camp Idea?

Wallace Bunton, York County administrative supervisor, and W. R. Outerbridge, case work supervisor, favor it. In their experience, any procedure which will break down the imaginary barriers that divide us - the men with prison records - from them - the public - is valuable.

‘I had to deal with one man,’ said Mr. Outerbridge, ‘who, at 25 years of age, had spent 10 years of his life behind bars. I wanted to help him, but when I would make an appointment to see him at my office, he wouldn’t come. He just couldn’t face the public. So I went to the place where he was staying. It took days, but finally his antagonism disappeared. he got a job and became a self-supporting citizen.’

Unlike the John Howard Society, the provincial probation officers have no funds with which to aid men who have been paroled from the penitentiaries. They must enlist the aid of service organizations to provide food and shelter for men who have no funds.

Yet, they find the parolees ready, even eager, to talk to them. They are authoritarian figures and they never try to conceal the unhappy fact that the man with a prison record has a long, hard, up-hill fight before him before he will be completely assimilated to his community.

[fyodior]

i understand this is the appropriate translation but it made me giggle like yes. from one japanese man to another. speak english please

[wren-of-the-woods]

Okay but why did Jaskier have two spoons in the prison in season two? Did the prison meal just... come with two spoons? Did he barter with a guard for a second one? Has he been there long enough to have multiple meals with multiple spoons??

[nights-are-better]

the clown music is playing in my head again. fucking wee woo is back soon and im violently doing the thing i said i would not do this season...

[snakesnifter]

ngl they both kind of suck

[lethal-spaceship]

Was supposed to finish the last one but I gave up.

[narwhalsarefalling]

[mosaickiwi]

Fall Unto Me (part four)

Part one, part two, part three

The end of Angel!Angel and Demon!Ren yayyyy I'm sooo excited to have the rest of my brain back!!! IT'S FINALLY OVER (mostly).

A very long and nonsensical string of writing thoughts and notes on it will be posted much later. Also if anyone wants to ask questions I can answer them in the infodump or on discord if you want a more immediate response... I hope you enjoy da finale 👉👈 sorry this is my baby i really love talking about it but it was impossible til now fjdslkjflks

cw// religious themes

14 Days With You is an 18+ Yandere Visual Novel. MINORS DNI

That mundane, quiet night had taken a turn for the better. You could barely move a muscle after trying to settle your curious desires for your devilish companion, though they still remained. The books and red string were put back where they belonged before you found yourself cradled in strong arms and curled under silken sheets.

Ren had brought you to rest in bed, arms keeping you securely nestled at their side. His bare chest felt incredibly warm against your cheek. The sound of their heart beat steadily, and you moved your head to hear it better. Mesmerizing, and comforting. 

“I'm… tired? Fatigued?” you muttered aloud. It was so hard to stay awake, your eyes kept fluttering. You’d never been quite so drained before.

He gently held your chin to look at you, smiling all the while. “Why do you think? You’re an absolutely ravenous angel. Were it not for that fatigue, you’d surely still have me pinned on the floor with your head thrown back in—”

“Hey!” you interrupted him. The casual way they said it had you suddenly embarrassed. Being aware of your newfound… ‘ravenous’ side was something else entirely.

“It was a wonderful sight, my love, little angel,” he sang your praises with adoration, ending at a word. That word. The one you didn’t know.

An odd little pet name you were all the more curious about.

“What's that word you keep saying?” you asked and his eyes suddenly widened. “I love all the endearing things you call me, but that one—I can't place it.”

“...Oh, love,” he whispered, muffled as they leaned down to press a kiss to the crown of your head. “I’m so sorry. I won't use it anymore.”

“Huh? Is it something bad?” You weren't sure what he meant by that, but you knew well and good they'd never say something cruel to you, let alone call you by a cruel word. Nonsensical as the question was, no other reason came to mind.

“Not at all. It's my favorite word,” his voice was soft, almost heartbroken. “I didn't think you'd forget it so soon… I'll tell you when you're ready, I promise. For now, you only need to rest.”

A simple nod in response on your part. You accepted the answer so easily. There was nothing to worry about anymore. With how exhausted you were from the act, sleep was a natural decision. You could talk in the morning. Or any morning after, you no longer minded. Eventually you'd leave, so what was another few days or weeks?

You settled in and closed your eyes, lulled to sleep by their heartbeat in your ear.

💜🖤💜🖤💜🖤

Cold. You woke up cold. Jolted awake from your own nightmare of falling, drowning in the endless clouds that you once walked upon with ease, only to land in the depths of the freezing ocean below you. With a hushed gasp, you sat up in bed.

The devil was asleep right beside you. Pink hair stained with eerie grays from the moon’s glow through the open window, horns so dark they almost blended into the shadows, ghastly inked patterns that crawled from their shoulders down to their hands. 

One of his was laced tightly with yours. 

You trembled as you slowly pried his fingers away, crawled backwards on the bed until you felt nothing under you and almost fell like that cursed dream.

But the same hands you struggled to get away from caught you. You found instant comfort in his touch, despite the disgust that climbed up your back when you woke—where did it come from? Why were you even trying to get away? 

“I've got you, it's alright,” Ren murmured softly. He guided you to stand, wrapping a wrinkled shirt over your naked shoulders along with his arms. You held on as tight as you could. Your fingers were shaking. 

“I need to—I need to go, Ren. Now,” you gasped into his chest. Your entire body was unsteady, vision blurred from tears you weren't capable of shedding. Whatever you were saying didn't make sense in your head. You needed to go… somewhere. You could picture the place—it had sunkissed clouds as far as the eye could see—but did it have a name?

He read your mind, gently offered the word you couldn't think of, “Heaven?”

There. Home. You nodded. 

“You'll only get hurt.”

“I already know I'll have to repent before my god,” you muttered sheepishly and pulled away, clutching the shirt like a cloak. His knowledge was vast as ever, but what did a demon know of heaven’s affairs? 

“No, little angel. If you even make it that far,” they cursed the realms under their breath and followed as you left the room in a sudden hurry. “They'll take whatever is left of your halo and wings.”

You didn't waste any time throwing open the cabin’s door and walking out into the cool night air. Forced to pause at the sight in front of you, you stared; the breathtaking field of flowers was fully blooming. They were finally as high as Ren promised, the tallest with their golden petals proudly on display in the hallowed shape of a halo.

The beauty only helped his words to sink in. Whatever is left of your halo and wings? You turned around, fully expecting him to be right behind you.

You were face to face as you questioned him, a bite of anger held in. “What do you mean?”

Blue eyes that only seemed paler in the night, once full of hatred for heaven, pooled with long lost grief. “You've fallen from their grace,” he said quietly.

“That doesn't happen.” You denied it quickly. Such a thing had never happened in all the histories of heaven, you at least knew that without ever reading those records. If what he said was true, it’d be common knowledge. A warning that all angels would heed.

“It does, because I—”

A bell rang in the darkened night sky above. Ren froze with unknown fear for a split second and hurriedly reached towards you, shouting something. Another bell obscured their voice, then another and another until the number grew to so many your thoughts drowned in their thunder. Someone was calling you home.

Before you even realized it your wings sprouted forth and threw the unbuttoned shirt he'd given you to the wind, bringing a burning anguish so suddenly intense to bloom in the middle of your back that you fell to your knees. Ren immediately kneeled in front of you. The pain and desperation in his voice pulled at your very core, except you couldn't understand a thing. The bells were so loud. You cried out sharply. It may as well have been silence from what little else you could hear. 

A cracking noise managed to cut through the clamor of the bells above. Translucent shards of stained glass dropped from your head and piled themselves in the dirt at your knees. There was so little of it but you recognized the golden shade, illuminated by the fire licking at your shoulders.

The halo that you'd gained once the library's doors had beckoned you. The few pieces that remained of it, anyway.

Your heart stopped, then started anew. A feeling worse than the holy fire that was turning your beloved wings from feathered grace to ash. He was right; you'd fallen long before this night.

A thousand bells began to still, one by one. You could start to hear Ren again, though only a few words were clear.

“...At night… Forgive… Happen… …Never wanted this for you.”

The last feather fell away into nothing, and the burning in your back, along with the bells, died with it. All the heat you could feel was the demon only inches away, his desolate gaze fixed to you.

You blinked, tear stained cheeks now icy from the salted wind blowing across the ocean. Bits and pieces came back as memories.

The simple, towering clouds that decorated the heavens far as the eye could see. A sun that shined brightly, an everlasting sunrise that greeted you no matter the day. The library that once seemed like paradise you were destined to guard for the rest of time. All echoes of the being that was no longer you.

Something was missing. 

“My… that word,” you whispered. He'd told you it was his favorite word. One that you’d forgotten. “... It was mine?”

He smiled as best he could. It didn't reach his eyes. “You remember it.”

“A little.”

“Then... let me say it for you?” he asked and you nodded. They leaned close, the word slowly leaving their lips with reverence, sadness, unwavering love.

Nothing about it sparked as familiar on the surface. But the word once belonged to you, that empty part inside understood it. Fresh tears welled in the corners of your vision. “When did they take it from me?”

Ren gently wiped your cheek as the tears overflowed again. “I don't know.”

“How—it was mine,” you repeated with a sob. You felt the cold seeping through you and huddled into his embrace. Their body felt more warm and inviting than anything around you. There was nothing—no one else you could ever reach out to anymore.

“I’m sorry. We only have eternity together, my love,” he breathed, tucking your head below his chin with a strangled noise. “I'll say it each and every day so you'll never forget it. I don't want to lose your name, either.”

[blairamok]

i’m in a particular kind of hell where i’m discouraged from working on art because my brand of perfectionism compels me to finish everything with the absolute most polish but i just. don’t have the energy for it. i’ve resorted to forcing myself to using a specific brush that won’t let me detail things obsessively and it’s working ok but i’m still plagued with this nagging feeling in my brain that wants me to polish polish polish 😩

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

""That's right, pal," says Number Seven. "And take it in these shops. If they'd even teach a guy a trade - make him learn a trade you wouldn't mind. Then a guy would have something to fall back on if he felt like hitting the straight and narrow. But what do they do? They put you to work making automobile plates, or something that's only done in prisons; stuff you couldn't get a job at outside if you wanted to; and the machinery is all twenty years out of date; and the instructors don't know anything about up-to-date methods; and the materials you get to work with are so lousy that you can't learn to do decent work even if you want to. Here I am. I've been working in the shoeshop for five years. What good will that do me? In the first place, the work I'm doing is done by women and children outside; it don't pay any- thing; and if I tried to get away with the lousy kind of work I've been taught to do, I wouldn't last two hours in an outside shop. The print shop is the only shop in here where a guy could learn a decent trade; but Christ, there's only room for forty guys in that shop, and you have to be a high-school graduate to get in there. That don't do the rest of us any good. There's a thousand men here, and only room for forty or so over in the print shop. And not only that, but So-and-So was always threatening to close the print shop because it didn't show enough profits. That's all they think about here. They damn about us learning a trade; all they is having the industries show a profit!"

"And take a guy when he gets out of here," says Number Ten. "Times are lousy outside. Even guys who know their trades, guys that can get swell references, can't get a job nowadays. And if they can't get work, how in the name of Christ are we going to get it even if we want it? And the jobs you can get don't pay anything - not enough to live on. A guy might better be in here than out there starving to death. How the hell is a guy going to live on twenty-five or thirty bucks a week, especially if he's married?"

- Victor F. Nelson, Prison Days and Nights. Second edition. With an introduction by Abraham Myerson, M.D. Garden City: Garden City Publishing Co., 1936. p. 213-214.

[robo-dino-puppy]

horizon forbidden west | petra 4/?

[cuubism]

In Waking Dreams - Chapter 6

Rated M, Dreamling, Fishbowl Rescue, Dream Marriage, Non-Linear Narrative, Hurt/Comfort, Angst w/ a Happy Ending

Hob was frozen where he’d skidded to a stop just past the iron gate, feet glued to the muddy floor. Staring across the space separating him from the glass sphere at the center of the room, a space once infinite, the gap between real and imaginary, now condensed to but a few steps across old cobblestones. On the other side of that tiny gap, his husband stared back.

The long-awaited rescue chapter.

on AO3.