#streetlight diaries

[hajicide]

i've slept with my window open since i was a child, because i wanted to see the stars before i slept. the stars were so clear from my childhood bedroom: bright and shining down through my blinds.

now, all grown up and 3,000 miles away from home, i still sleep with the window open. the not-dark sky leers down at me, starless from the pollution of the city. if i squint my eyes and look down to the streetlights, i can almost pretend.

[youandtom2]

The Hunting Ground (18+)

Dom!Tom Holland x sub!bratty!Reader

Summary: How else would you get adventure back into your life than to visit a speakeasy that's definitly not a kinky-cult-sex-club? Themes: EXPLICIT, BDSM and mentions of BDM, dom/sub, knife play, breath play, unprotect p in v, oral (fem rec.), orgasm denial, overstimulation w/c: 13k oops

a/n: it's late and it's 13k so I'll probs revisit another time whoops. apologies if writing gets sloppy.

MASTERLIST

“Come on. This has got to be a joke. This is the kinkiest cult shit I’ve ever seen.” 

“Nope. Not a joke.”

“When I said I was looking for something exciting and adventurous, I didn’t mean a sex club!” You flippantly disregard the masquerade mask onto the couch, whilst your friend Danny, holds his elegantly in his hand as if it is the beholder of all his memories. 

“It isn’t a sex club. It’s…an opportunity.” Danny’s lips twist into a smirk that wavers between sweet and sinful. That alone should’ve told you that his opinion on this ‘club’ was simply that. An opinion. A biassed one at that. The other thing Danny doesn’t account for is that opinions are subjective, interchangeable and while he sees his little kinky sex club as an opportunity, you see it more of a shameless hookup with cultic motives. 

But you’re curious to hear how he can possibly sell this to you. “Oh yeah? An opportunity for what? Enlighten me.” 

Your friend coyly swivels his hips playfully, that all too familiar bashful glow emanating from his olive cheeks. He leans gayly over the edge of the couch with his bottom lip snagged between his teeth, entrapped in his childlike manner and embracing his inner Princess Diaries by swinging his feet. He so desperately wants to say ‘to flirt with hot men and recklessly have sex with them with no strings attached’, but to your surprise, his answer is a little more profound and in-depth.

“To meet like-minded people who share similar interests. To embrace a community that doesn’t judge you for what you like, who…take you as you are. It’s actually very liberating.” 

“Puh-lease! You threw that innuendo in there on purpose. Look. It’s a sex club. You meet up to have sex. That’s the common ground.” 

“Oh my God, you speak about it like it’s a brothel and you couldn’t be more wrong. Okay, okay, I’ll admit, it’s a little provocative, but it’s not like some sex dungeon, it’s a speakeasy. There’s a bar, drinks, music, dancing, it’s totally chill. You don’t even need to have sex, it’s not a guarantee.”

You fold your arms, staring outwardly and chewing your lips as you mull over the possibility that it might not all be what you initially think it is. But the only way to prove otherwise is to go. Dammit you wish you weren't so curious. 

“And…what’s this place called?”

Danny smiles contentedly. “The Hunting Ground.”

~~~~~

“Do I really have to wear this?” The flimsy black ribbon of the mask trickles through your fingers. The shell is midnight black with a faint covering of silver lace, embellished with enough sparkle to catch your eye under the streetlights. Ahead of you is what looks like an ordinary bar under the false name of The Playground. The tinted windows and low purple LED lights inside is a clever ruse to fool anyone who is none the wiser to believe that the mystery is revealed when you step inside, leaving no other incentive to keep exploring. However, hidden behind the facade of an ‘ordinary bar’ as confirmed by Danny, is the speakeasy. It’s quietly genius; it’s all hidden in plain sight. 

“Yes, you have to wear it; it’s like a pass for entry into the club since it’s invitation-only. Plus, anonymity is kinda a thing here. Especially for newbies if they’re not too sure what they’re looking for. You get all types of people here. You’re bound to find someone who is yours.” 

You roll your eyes as you tie the ribbon tightly around your head with a grunt, the thick plastic mask sitting squarely on the bridge of your nose. “Anonymity, sure. These things are as good a disguise as Superman putting on his glasses and all of a sudden he’s Clark Kent and completely unrecognisable.” 

“Trust me. They do their job. Oh and one last thing.” Why is he smirking again? “Sub or Dom?” 

“Come again?” 

“What are you, Sub or Dom?”

You blink. “I don’t know. I don’t even know what that means.” 

“God, you’re so vanilla--they’re, um…types of people.” Danny vaguely explains and purses his lips, thinking as he evaluates you. “Hmm, we'll stick to sub for now. When you get inside grab a white cup.” 

“Fuck sake.” 

You follow Danny down a poorly lit, narrow staircase and you get a sense of entering a restricted area, having it not as well decorated, but then you remember; it’s supposed to be secretive and unwelcoming to any wandering stranger. The staircase is quiet compared to the floors above you and below you, giving off a feeling of limbo, neither here nor there as the pounding of the bass-heavy music distorts your sense of direction. There’s two different songs playing and they blend into each other so well that you can’t quite tell what is coming from where, but the further you descend down the staircase, the more obvious it becomes. The floor above you is phased out when you come to a stone archway, lined with plum velvet curtains hanging at either side where wisps of vapour spill from the room. A fiery red spotlight casts a shadow where the words ‘The Hunting Ground’ are projected on the wall to welcome you. Danny stops you before you enter.

“And you told me this wasn’t a sex club,” you quip, motioning to the entrance to hell.

“Remember it’s just to socialise. Nothing needs to happen, okay? After a drink or two, you’ll start to loosen up and have more fun.” 

You huff. “I’ll take your word for it.” 

You take one step into the stuffy haze and instantly you feel the change in aura, perhaps because you know what people are here to do. Danny patiently waits with you as you soak in the sights, the smells, the heat and the very suffocating atmosphere of the room in front of you. A fine mist hovers in the air, just enough to hinder your view of anything further than 10 metres in front of you - probably intentional to hide the erotic acts in the corner - and only the blacklights and the dancing neon laser lights shoot through. Unlike the bar above, the music is slower and less adrenaline pumping, perfect to fulfil its purpose of enticing its listeners to socialise rather than all-out partying, but in effect, it makes you more nervous; how do you socialise with people you’ve never met? You bump shoulders with Danny is a quiet plea to stay close.

A few people within eyesight turn their heads as you enter in your sage green dress, making their judgements on you through the narrow slits of their masks, a symbol of membership to the club, identical to the one you wear. Under the cover of darkness, the masks do actually provide a sense of anonymity and you take back an earlier thought; what the hell are these masks going to hide? Everything apparently. 

You decide not to linger around the entrance any longer for you feel that others can smell your hesitance a mile off. You make a B-line to the table adorning white cups, directly across the table that hold a much smaller number of black cups, and perpendicular to a table with grey cups. As soon as the rim of the cup touches your lips and alcohol sears your throat, you ease a little.

“God, I feel like I’ve just entered the mafia. Why is this place so stiff?”

Danny laughs inwardly. “Oh they’re stiff alright.” That earns him a swift elbow to the ribcage. “Ow!” 

“You said this place was chill and judgement free.” 

“It is--”

“Then why do I feel like I’m being victimised?”

For a fleeting moment, you catch Danny’s eyes flitting over to the white cup you hold in your hand, being quickly emptied by you. There’s obviously significance behind the white and black cups and you’re certain Danny knows why as he too picks up a white cup with conviction, but what significance they have is being purposely withheld from you.

It’s definitely a cult thing. 

“They just want to get to know you. Give them a chance. It’s all with friendly intentions, I promise.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

Like Danny said, there’s all sorts of people here; men, women, and more situated around the room whether it’s standing in small clusters around a table or sitting in smaller, more private groups in booths. Few white cups, some grey cups, but black cups hold the majority. Some are dressed more provocative than you would ever dare where some keep their secrets to themselves. Those who begin dancing are booming with confidence, sashaying their hips while others simply observe with a glass of whisky in hand. Even hours into the night, you’re still pondering over the likemindedness of such a diverse group. There must be something that ties these people together, because every hour or so you catch a glimpse of couples' escapades, hand-in-hand as they disappear through another archway with a black curtain. 

“I’ll be right back,” Danny murmurs into your ear.

“Where are you going?” 

“I’m just going to catch up with a friend. I won’t be long. You can manage your own for a bit, can’t you?”

“Don’t think I have much of a choice.” 

Danny quickly disappears into the smog and across the dancefloor, and by the time he reaches the bar, he’s out of your sight and anxiety creeps in. As ever, you find solace in the very alcoholic drink, quietly sipping away in a dark corner of the room. 

Or at least you thought you were in the corner of the room…

The solid wall behind you suddenly swings open and you lose your balance, falling backwards into the void that has just opened up. Your heart leaps to your throat and your lungs flood themselves with oxygen to prepare for what you know will be a painful fall and the loss of your dignity. Inches from disaster, a miracle happens when two hands reach out to hook underneath your arms and break your fall, leaving you hovering over the floor until the stranger finds the strength to bring you back to your feet again. Sadly, there’s nothing to be done about your drink that puddles on the floor…

With a breath of relief, you quickly compose yourself, turning around to see that indeed the wall you were standing against was actually a door, and in that doorway now stands the masked stranger that saved you from your fall. He stands just a couple of inches taller than you, dressed in a black suit (it could be navy - it’s just so damn dark in here) but replaces the standard crisp, white shirt with a baby blue one, keeping it casual with undone buttons by his collar. You want to make more guesses of his appearance but this club’s obsession with anonymity is slowly becoming a nuisance. 

“I’m so sorry, I really thought that was a wall.” 

“No worries, it’s easily done.” His words are smooth and puckish, and you feel like he genuinely believes you when he places a gentle supporting hand against your back. 

“Right? Especially with a place like this, I mean, would it hurt to turn up the lights even just a little bit?” An innocent laugh escapes you but the second you see his lips parting in what you can only assume is disbelief, you instantly feel like you might’ve crossed a line. His hand drops and sinks deep into his pocket. So much for no judgement…

“Well, we could but most members here know there’s a door here.” 

Caught. 

He doesn’t watch for your reaction as he picks up the empty white cup from the floor, long, slender fingers holding it tightly while he studies it for a moment and the corners of his lips tug a little before settling it on a nearby table. You’re still not privy to the colour codes and their meanings, and something itches inside of you when you see this stranger turn to you with a knowing smirk on his face. Because he knows. 

He folds his arms, muscles defined in the tight squeeze of his blazer and stands stoically before you. “You’re looking a little lost, newbie.” 

“I’m just waiting on my friend Danny. He’s the one who brought me here. I don’t know why to be honest. I don’t really think this is my kind of scene.”

The stranger tilts his head curiously. “How so?” 

You snort. Isn’t it obvious? “I mean the mask thing is a little weird. And the segregation of cups? What the hell is that all about? Like, I’m always down for something different but the anti-religion cult vibes just isn’t doing it for me. I haven’t been here that long and already I’ve had so many daggers from people that I just can’t tell whether they want to kill me or eat me.”

“Oh my God, you really have no idea, do you? Tell me then, if this place doesn’t suit your majesty’s preferences, why are you still here?”

This stranger doesn’t need you to take off your mask to know that there’s a scowl taking over your features. Affronted, you decide to mirror him, folding your arms and delivering his own stinking attitude back to him. 

“Cut the sass. You asked me a question and I answered it. If you listened, you would’ve heard me say that my friend brought me here. Said that if I was looking for something exciting and adventurous I should come here, but I’m not seeing either. Anyway, what does it matter to you?” 

“Careful, newbie. Some people here don’t take too kindly towards being spoken to like that. It can get you into a lot of trouble, unless you’re searching for it, in which case, Danny was right to bring you here. And tell him he should’ve put a straw in your drink too.” 

You’re so fed up with these innuendos. “I don’t even know what that means!” 

The stranger takes a step forwards and brushes your shoulder with his. You hold your breath as he leans down close to your ear and murmurs words that sound like a threat. A shiver descends down your spine. “Ask him to explain it. Tell him that Tom told him too.”

Your stance stays strong as the stranger sweeps past you in an obtrusive manner without a word to spare. Finally out of sight, you give in to the urge to roll your eyes and scoff with as much conviction until satisfied, having suppressed it in front of that stranger. You’re never one to be so outwardly rude to someone, but unless it’s warranted, then by all means, give them hell. 

The interaction has somewhat soured your mood, and considering that this place has yet to prove any of Danny’s claims of what a ‘friendly, non judgemental’ place this is, you might make the move to leave. You’ve been here long enough and you doubt that the fun has yet to come.

Not three steps towards your leave, you’re stopped by Danny emerging from the smog like a phantom. “Oh hey! You’re alive! See? I told you’d be fine.” 

“Yeah, not fine, Danny. Don’t leave me ever again.” 

“Such a drama queen. Where’s your drink?”

“Spilled it almost falling over. By the way, what do the colours on the cups mean? Some guy ‘Tom’ said that you were to tell me what they mean.”

His smile drops and hangs ajar, eyes wide as he processes the words, the name you’ve just invoked. “Tom--did you just say Tom?” 

“Yes, why? He also said that you should’ve put a straw in my drink too. Danny, for the love of God, what the fuck does that mean?” 

Annoyingly, he ignores your last question. “What did you say to him?” 

Danny devotes all of his attention to you as you recount the interaction from beginning to end, sure not to leave any details out. As your friend, all of your expectations are placed on him taking your side in it all, but with each word you spill, he cringes further and further into himself. 

“Then I told him to cut the sass--he was being so rude to me!” 

“Oh you have got to be kidding me!” You’re struggling to understand why your friend has descended into a fit of laughter, creasing over until he can no longer catch his breath. It’s great that he’s finding it so hilarious that he can’t even seem to straighten himself up to give you an answer, but what’s even better is that you can’t even begin to imagine how many people are witness to Danny descending into mania while you stand with your arms folded, a slack jaw and a look that could kill. And even if some can’t see it, they can bloody well hear it. “I cannot believe you said that to him!” 

“Danny, I don’t have time for this. If you don’t tell me at least something, I’m leaving.”

“Wait, wait, wait, sorry, I’ll tell you, okay? I’ll tell you.” After wiping the tears from his eyes, he latches onto your arms and pulls you into his side, directing you to look out at the room before you. “Okay, so you remember the question I asked you before we came in? About being a sub or a dom?” You nod. “The cups are representative of that. White for sub, black for dom. Grey if you don’t particularly have a preference. They’re sometimes called switches.” 

“Okay, but what does sub and dom actually mean?”

“They’re just abbreviations. Submissive or Dominant if you want to be proper. They define what a person likes to be in the bedroom. Dominants are usually controlling, they like to manipulate and gain pleasure from using submissives in whatever way they like. Submissives gain pleasure from being controlled, from being told what to do and will usually go through extreme measures to satisfy their doms, and in lieu, themselves. For example, see over there?” Danny points to a booth of what looks like two guys sitting on either side of a girl. They are shadowing over her, running fingertips up and down her leg whilst she sits bashfully in the middle. “Two doms and a sub.” 

You look to another area of the room and in the corner you see a woman, dressed in the tightest latex corset you could imagine, and she looks fucking amazing in it. Full of luscious curves. Her confidence is striking as she walks with her head high like she owns everything in the room. She somehow makes picking up a black cup look sexy, drinking from it until it’s empty but inexplicably doesn’t swallow. With her puffed cheeks, she grabs the face of a man who kneels beside her, opening his mouth—“Oh my God!” The words spill from your lips as you watch the woman spit her drink into the man’s mouth, swallowing with glee in his eyes.

“Anyone can be sub or dom. That’s why the cups make it so much easier to identify who’s who and cuts out all the small chat bullshit in between.” 

Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit. This is a fucking sex club. “But how did you know I was going to be a sub?” 

“I just guessed. It takes a certain confidence and skill to know how to be a dom, and no offence honey, but I don’t think you’d be a good dom.”

“And the straw?” 

“Signifies a bratty sub. A sub who likes to be controlled but also loves the fight against it. Anything to piss their dom off.” 

“Hold on. A brat?! Who the fuck does this Tom guy think he is? He’s talked to me for no more than five minutes and he calls me a brat?” 

“Shhh!! Shut up!!! Oh my God!!” He hurriedly ushers you away from prying ears and you feel a sort of trepidation when he looks around cautiously. “Honey, you know I love you and I care for you but you have seriously fucked up to the point where I literally cannot protect you from what’s about to happen.” 

“What? How?” 

“Tom’s the owner of this place.” He’s trying to hold in his laughter again. “And you just stood there and insulted everything about his club to him--oh my GOD you are so dead. I’m weak just thinking about it.” Had he not been squealing and bouncing on his tip-toes in a nervous but weirdly excited way, you probably would’ve taken Danny’s warning a little more seriously. In Danny’s overly-dramatic fashion, his translation of ‘dead’ just means that you’re only slightly in trouble. 

“So what, he’ll probably just kick me out.” 

“You better wish that’s what he’ll do because Tom is a capital D-O-M and is a stickler for obedience. He has everyone, sub or dom, address him as sir. It’s like one of his rules.” 

“Sir? Really? Are we back in school?” 

Your own mocking laughter is the last thing you hear before a voice creeps up behind you, settling deep into the canals of your ear and shocking you into a small but powerful fright. “We can be if you like. At least then I can teach you a lesson or two about how to respect me, newbie.” The way his voice instantly scorches everything inside you is mildly terrifying. It’s the mixer in your soup of emotions; trepidation, anxiety, curiosity, exhilaration, anticipation, swirling together in the pit of your stomach.  

You and Danny’s eyes are locked in a stupor, both of you donning guilt-ridden, colourless faces. You think it wise to follow Danny’s lead in not speaking, not moving because only he knows the repercussions that you face. Besides, if you listened to what your brain initially told you to do, you would be in a lot more trouble.

A wordless plea twinkles in your eye and your heart plummets when you see your friend respond with tightly pursed lips and a subtle shake of the head. 

“Next time you bring your friends, Danny, I would expect you to inform them on how to conduct themselves around me. You should know better.”

“Sorry, sir.” Danny’s voice wobbles. Fucking wobbles. Loud and proud Danny, centre of attention on the worst of days, always one to speak his mind and is never afraid of judgement, and now he’s…scared. 

“Now go. Justin’s waiting for you.” The unfamiliar person Danny has become swiftly brushes past you with no more than a final apologetic look and disappears further into the centre of the room. A certain desperation keeps your eyes on him for as long as you possibly can until you eventually accept your defeat, standing here alone with Tom stalking very close behind you. You notice his shadow standing just on the coast of your peripheral, lurking. 

After an excruciating silence, Tom eventually murmurs into your ear, just the edges of his mask skimming the side of your hairline.

“Follow me to my office. We need to have a chat about rules.” 

“Okay,” you breathe. 

Sure enough the door you nearly fell through enters the hallway leading to his office. It’s well lit, spotlighting the framed memorabilia on the wall and you almost choke a gasp when you see what they contain. Whips, paddles, cuffs, chains, anything of an erotic nature is framed, dated and hung on these walls in plain sight. Tom catches a glance of your awestruck eyes from over his shoulder, smirking wickedly. Little do you know that that isn’t even half of his collection. 

He enters the office first leaving you to nervously trail in behind him. 

“Sit.” 

The tickle of velvet feathers your bare thighs, knees already knocking together while Tom takes a stand behind his desk, underneath the low-intensity spotlight that shines down on him from above. Your eyes skate over his features the second he unties his mask, shadows hugging every sharp angle from the crook of his brow bone to the contour of his cheeks. Holy fuck. Your knees lock tighter together.

“Mask off.” It falls to your lap. When you look back up at him, you see that he doesn’t bother hiding how he takes in every inch of you and it makes the burn of his stare even more obvious. “What do you know already?” 

“Um, not much. Danny told me about the masks, Doms and Subs, the thing about the cups, addressing you as ‘sir’ and…” you clear your throat, a previous anger returning, “having a straw in my cup.” 

“Ah, so he explained it to you, did he?” Fuck, even his grin is perfect. 

You bite your gums, eyes averting. “Wish he didn’t.” 

A piercing whistle rings in your ear, short and sharp in the small, panelled office causing an audible wince. “Oi, eyes up here.” Did he just whistle at you? “I’m going to handle this very delicately because you’re new, but if you keep testing my patience then I won’t even give you the chance to back out.”

What the fuck. 

“Since your friend failed to explain the rules, I’ll have to do it instead. This is my private establishment and I expect anyone who enters it to follow my rules, including newbies like you. Rule number one: respect. Respect for me, respect for others, respect for the property. Simple, yes?” 

“Yes.” His eyes widened slightly, “sir.” 

Tom begins to circle around his desk, nearing you. You tuck your feet in underneath the chair as he leans against the desk a foot in front of you. “Rule number two: boundaries. Boundaries must be set by every individual and must be adhered to by every individual. That includes things they consent to and things they don’t consent to, and safe-words should be agreed to and abided by also. Yes?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“And I know you know rule number three.” 

But does he know that you also hate rule number three? Grinding your teeth together, you bite back his answer. “Yes. Sir--” Before you’re able to utter another syllable from your lips, Tom has your cheeks in the pinch of his fingers, pulling you from your seat until you’re just a breath away from his own. Despite the circumstances of your racing heart and your throbbing cheeks, you come to realise that Tom has brown eyes, that his suit is really black, that he has one strand of hair that curls against the rest. Shit. You’re really dipping your toes into muddy water here. 

“See this fucking attitude of yours? Drop it. If you’re really so eager to talk, you’ll tell me what it is you want out of this. And know that before you start speaking, you’re on your last warning.” Thankfully, his grip loosens but it doesn’t disappear completely. Keeping you just as reigned in as before, his fingers sink to the curve of your chin and curl around it gently. It’s hypnotising enough that it coaxes you into spilling the truth.

“A little bit of excitement and adventure. Danny suggested I could find it here. So I came to find out for myself.” 

“And?” 

“I’m…not sure yet.” 

“We can certainly offer what you’re looking for, but it depends what kind of adventure you want to take. Do you want to explore or do you want to experience?” 

“What’s the difference?” 

Tom drinks in your curiosity, content with a quirk to his wet lips. All is silent in his sound-proof office, the beat of your own heart thundering in your ears and it’s the only thing you can tune into while the incredibly intimidating man in front of you sadistically drags out each and every second. “We can start off slow, test your endurance and your tolerances, discover your likes and dislikes, introduce new things one at a time, a soft start over a number of weeks.” 

“...Or?” 

His pupils dilate. “Everything all at once. A full session, right here, right now. Thrown in right at the deep end. No restrictions and I get full control. An experience to say the very least.”

You gasp and the breath gets stuck in your throat. As the idea is spoken into words, you can’t help but picture everything you saw in the hallway, the whips, the paddles, the chains, the ludicrousy of them ever being used as sources of pleasure and begin to feel yourself being overwhelmed. Albeit, the rebellious side of you plagues you with the mentality of saying ‘fuck it’ and trying it anyway, its voice ringing with the sound of your youth; willing to try everything, to say that you were brave enough to try it, to run away from the boring life of always saying no because you just weren’t sure. You might even find that it’s something you like…

“What do you say?” He whispers with the small coaxing of his thumb gracing over your pout. “And don’t leave it up to me. I think you know what I would prefer.” 

You take a breath, cheeks already flushing knowing what’s to come. “I…I want the experience.” 

He doesn’t move aside from his lids opening a fraction wider. “Say it again. To be sure.” 

“I want the experience.” 

A slow, salacious moan sings through his sigh, his breath crashing against your skin like a wave. “Mmmm, I was so hoping you would say that. I’ve been wanting to put this brat back in her place all…night…long. Now I can. All. Night. Long.” Warmth encircles your neck and you realise that his hand has completely captured your throat, controlling every breath you breathe. You desperately try to whimper but even then, all your sounds are clamped down by him. Sensing danger, your own hands reach for his wrist as he pushes you back against the spine of the chair and shadows over you with fire in his eyes. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. 

“Safe word?” 

“Err…” You don’t have one. You’ll have to make one up. What did you have for dinner last night? “Pasta.” 

Tom chuckles but accepts it. “Pasta it is.” 

When your one and only chance to speak is taken, Tom quickly readjusts his grip on your throat again, closing it off until your skin is tinted red with exertion. He sinks low, invading your space until there’s nothing but him in your darkening sights, until his lips skim the tips of yours.

“I’ve been wanting to get my hands on you all night. Do you have any idea how hard it was to keep that urge at bay? So fucking hard. I knew you were a newbie, but fuck, you were so fucking rude. You know, you never even thanked me for helping you up earlier. Instead, you chose to insult my club and my customers, and when you do that, you insult me. That doesn’t fly with me and something will need to be done about that mouth of yours.” 

You gasp erratically, fighting for breath and his vendetta against you refuses to relent. Just as blackness consumes your vision, just as you're hanging on the precipice of consciousness, he finally relieves the tension and you gulp down air like it’s your drug, your lifeline. Almost simultaneously, Tom thrashes his lips against yours, seizing back whatever oxygen you just gained in a vicious attack. His tongue slips in almost too seamlessly, brushing against your own and tasting every inch he can reach.

From one method of suffocation to another. With his hand no longer occupied at the base of your throat, you find it clamped to the roots of your hair, keeping you detained as he forcefully kisses and licks every part of your mouth, barely leaving any time to breathe. It isn’t painful as such, but god damn it’s overwhelming. The small squeak of struggle easily gets swallowed up by him and he growls for more. In time, another is drawn out but this time it's the result of Tom’s other hand pulling down the neckline of your dress and finding your tits, pinching and squeezing with a passion that’s guaranteed to leave behind a bruise. To say you completely underestimated what the experience is and how little prepared you are for it, is under-statement of the fucking century.

He really isn’t shy, is he?

Minutes go by and you’re losing sensation in your swollen lips and Tom can sense that too; you become lethargic, sloppy and out of control but that’s exactly what Tom is waiting for. He can feel the plumpness of your lips as he drags them out slowly between his teeth, perfect to have wrapped around his cock. 

He stands to his tallest, your hair still tight in his grip. “Do you have anything to say to me?”

“I’m…I’m sorry, sir.”

“What else?” 

“Th-thank you for helping me up, sir.” 

“There’s actually one thing you should know about me,” he murmurs darkly. “If someone is apologising or thanking me, I expect them to show their regret or their gratitude to me. Usually on their knees. That way, I know they mean it.” 

“And if I don’t?” You are genuinely curious. 

A shadow casts over his face, eyes glowering at your words. He clenches his jaw so tightly that you have to remind yourself to unclench yours out of fear. In quiet, articulated words, he provides you with the first piece of insight of what kind of night lies ahead of you. “I will fuck you and edge you against this desk until you are spent of every piece of sanity that keeps your bratty brain together. Even if you beg, even if you are crying out for release, I will not stop until you are nothing but my cum-filled slut.” 

“Fucking hell,” you whimper quietly, but he hears it all the same. 

“I would think very carefully about your next words, newbie, or you’re going to become very familiar with my temper.” 

Hey, you said you were up for the experience…right? 

It takes just a fraction of your lips to curl into a smirk for Tom to realise your motives. Provoked by just the smallest of your smiles, he runs his tongue along the lining of his cheek. He can’t quite tell if he’s insulted or pleased, regardless, the result of either is the same; he will have you reduced to absolutely nothing if his life depends on it. After all, he doesn’t allow insults to run dry on him, he snuffs them out as soon as possible and that’s the lesson you need to learn. 

“Don’t fucking do it,” he warns one last time. How generous of him. 

The air is tight and feverish, and so very, very quiet. Until…”Fuck. You.” 

Your words trigger a pregnant pause, leaving just enough time to hear a pin drop before something sinister happens. A cacophony fills the room: the wooden scraping of the chair legs as Tom yanks you from it, the squeal and the grunt that marry together, the clutter of objects as they fall from the desk to the floor, the resounding thump as your body mercilessly collides with the wooden desk and subsequent the yelp of pain to be heard by no one other than Tom. 

The brute’s groping hands impatiently tug at your dress, whipping it up to sit around your torso and the moment your ass is exposed to him, he wastes no time to drill his hips into yours in a desperate bid to split your legs wider and keep you still. The sweltering heat of your cunt seeps onto his trousers and, even contained, his cock feels it all. The harder he pushes to force you down, the harder the edge of the desk cuts through your pelvis, and the longer you stay there, the louder your pleas become. And every second of it all is like heroin to him. This is his high. 

Tom rips your underwear from you, the thin material reduced to rags in seconds and just as quick, they become your bindings. With your hands now tied behind your back by the remains of your wet thong and your head smothered against the wooden surface, you are unequivocally oppressed. 

“Stay there, and don’t move.”

“Yes, sir.” 

“Don’t bother trying that shit with me. You’re too late. You’ve already made your decision to be a brat, so I’ll fuck you like one.” 

The recognisable sound of chain links clinking together stops your heart dead in your chest. “Wait, what are you doing?” You try to shimmy a look over your shoulder to take a peak, but you can’t see Tom crouching down behind you. 

“Extra precaution.” Cold metal tightly hugs your ankles, grinding away at your bone with every tug. There’s little room to move, you can barely bend your knee without causing yourself harm. You didn’t want to believe it, but the reality is true: he’s chaining you to his desk. 

“No fucking way.” 

“Yes way. This is what you asked for.” He leans down to leave a patronising kiss to the shell of your ear, unbinding your hands and placing them exactly where he wants them, gripped to the edge of the desk beside your head. Not chained, but the wordless warning to keep them there is evident in the squeeze to your wrists. You’re almost crucified to the desk. It’s enough to make your sweltering body shiver. “And I’ll gladly provide.” 

Without warning, he spits into your ass and stops to watch it trickle down to your clit with hunger ruining his patience. He collects it with deft fingers, spreading it through every lip of your cunt, all the way back to gloss your puckered hole. You can feel every movement of his whether feathered or anchored, following the path of his fingers from your asshole to your clit and back again, only stopping to teasingly circle your entrance. He repeats it over and over and over again until you’re leaking with your own slick, glistening underneath the singular spotlight and the fire of Tom’s eyes. It’s tantalising. Worse yet because you can’t move to stop him. You’re stuck with a burning cheek pressed against the desk and your hands trapped under what feels like Tom’s invisible reins. 

“Look over to my clock and tell me what time it is.” 

“It’s 11:57pm.” 

“Good to know.” 

By 11:59pm he has you teetering towards the edge of your first orgasm with as little as two fingers and a thumb violating your cunt. By the turn of a new day, he has you wishing you had just said sorry and meant it. 

“Such a tight little pussy.” He groans behind you, littering small kisses along the base of your spine and your ass. His two fingers enter you again, anchoring down on the spot that winds you up so perfectly, stroking it with the curl of his knuckle and just when you both sense the coil tightening, he picks up speed and power. Anxiety and excitement broil in your stomach. 

“Oh God, f-fuck, I’m gonna cum.” He already knows this. He doesn’t need you telling him. In fact, he’s familiarised himself with the quivering of your thighs, the shaking of your body and already, he knows exactly when to stop. “No! Fuck!” You grieve over the loss of your climax quietly with a small groan laced with heavy breaths. 

His gruff, irritated voice buzzes straight down your ear, vibrating with impatience. “You will take what I give you. And you will thank me for it.” 

The voice that spills from your lips is hardly recognisable. Whining, winging and moping, you don’t quite understand where the grovelling came from and how it took over, but you can’t find it in you to stop it. 

“Thank you, sir.” 

And just like that, the routine starts again and without a doubt, the result is the same. 

Muscles ache, bones shaking, you feel yourself teetering on the edge of liquifying here on his desk. Alas, Tom possesses the ability to keep you solid like no other man has, keeping you somewhat stable and conscious enough to make you feel every last drop of his torment. No matter what sweet relief you feel when he gently massages your cunt, it’s completely forgotten about the moment he slaps the back of your thighs for moving your hands one centimetre out of place. And just like that, you’re back in the room. 

When Tom painfully edges you for the sixth time, he asks you to read the time again. The digits of the numbers have blurred since the last time you checked, but you can just make them out. “It’s 12:32am” 

He smirks. “Good to know. Fuck, look at the mess you’re making on my floor.” A flat palm smacks against your cunt, seizing at the stimulation. Your thighs beg to squeeze together, anything to build up some friction to tame the urge but the chains rattle beneath you, keeping you contained.

He tames the fire with the lick of his fingers that curl eloquently onto your clit and swivels it around in circles in the same, insatiable manner as before. At first, you think he’s going to build you up again like he has done for the last thirty-something minutes and you’re not so sure that your mind and body can take the strain, but you feel the pressure of his other hand anchoring down onto your back, pressing your stomach flat against the wooden desk and eliminating any chance you have of escaping. Not that you had any before, but Tom’s a man of guarantee rather than possibilities. 

It’s new and the prospect that he might allow to cum reignites the exhilaration in your core. 

Effortlessly, he sets your nerves on fire, plucking every one with overstimulation and you're on the cusp of the well-desired orgasm that you’ve waited for for what seems like all night. You writhe so desperately for it that your pebbled nipples are starting to chafe underneath you. 

Tom’s maniacal laugh drifts into your ears, his lips pressing soft, tender kisses against your ear and your neck. “What do you want?” 

You open your mouth and moans spill out, not the words of an answer. He continues to ruin you anyway. “I want…I want to cum. Please!” 

“So you don’t want my forgiveness? You’d rather cum instead? So fucking selfish of you.” 

He rips his fingers from you and the sensation is lost. “NO!” 

“Yessss.” 

~~~~~

You still haven’t came yet. How the fuck have you not been allowed to cum in all the pleasure Tom’s fingers and teasing words have granted you? He hasn’t allowed you to move either leaving all of your muscles, joints and sanity aching against the stiff wood as you remain prisoner to his chains. And as his prisoner, all of your self-control has been stripped from you. With your eyes closed, voice gone, mind vacant, Tom decides to finally, finally, re-evaluate the situation. 

And by re-evaluate, you mean change position. 

Now unchained, he forces you to lie on your back and you’re thankful that the desk is long enough to support your head, because when you are being punished with extremities, the littlest things can be a saving grace. 

“Tell me the time.” 

You look over, Tom catching a glint of your red cheeks and the imprints of the wooden grain etched into your skin. “It’s…it’s 1:23am.” 

He grins wickedly, licking his lips, and with a smooth wink, he replies. “Good to know.” 

“Please, Tom.” The crack is your voice is liquid gold in Tom’s ears and with his hands skating over your thighs, he hears what you have to say. “I’m so sorry about earlier. I am…so sorry. Please--I…I can’t take it anymore.” 

“What is it you want?” 

“I want your forgiveness. Please, sir.” 

He sees it. He really does; the desperation in the tear that leaves your eye, the look of absolute surrender donning your features in fear that he won’t accept your apology, and even in the way your body warms at his touch tells him that there’s nothing else that you desire. That’s the part he loves most and the main attraction for his dominant tendencies; the moment when the bad turn good. When they’re at such a loss with their original intentions that they have no other option but to surrender and submit. From brazen words to pitiful pleas. From bratty attitudes to willful compliance. From ‘fuck you’s to ‘thank you’s. When that switch is pulled, that’s when Tom knows he’s won. 

He holds your legs dearly in his hands, your swollen cunt perched directly in front of him as he crouches to the floor. It’s red, puffy and glistening in the light, screaming out to be touched, filled and ultimately freed of the orgasm that is running ragged inside. 

He eases the slight quiver in your thighs with a grounding kiss, powerful enough to emboss just the traces of teeth marks onto your skin. 

“What a good girl you’ve become.” The same kiss is planted on your other thigh, just a hint closer to your crying cunt. “I’ll tell you another thing about me,” he whispers, feeling the softness of your skin against his lips. “I don’t just dominate and manipulate people, I manipulate pleasure too. I control it. I can stop it from happening, but sometimes I can be in the mood to make sure it never stops happening.” 

You take a breath and hold it. The anticipation of what’s about to happen savagely ruins your mind that you just can’t settle your pulse, and even if you try to slowly release that breath, you realise that it is all in vain. Your heart still positively thunders in your chest. 

“And guess what, sweetheart?” 

Traces of your voice weakly spill out. “What?” 

“I’m in that exact mood.” 

Tom doesn’t waste a second before his tongue is licking a fat, wet strip up the centre of your cunt and completely destroys your sanity. It’s slow, meticulous in its travels as it covers every inch of you from your hole to your clit and your body involuntarily searches for more. It’s like a wave, rolling over your cunt before crashing into the bundle of nerves at the end. Your cries vibrate through your body, all to be felt by Tom when his lips tightly seal around your cunt, suffocating it with the heat of his mouth and the lashings of his tongue. It’s incredibly enthralling; being constantly aware of every small minuscule change in direction. From thrusting into your hole with tenacity to swirling tightly around your clit in a frenzy, there’s no telling what he’ll do next. 

Your body drips with sweat and you can’t decide if it’s from all the involuntary squirming upon the table or if it's the fire within, being fuelled by Tom’s uncontained lust. There’s a small explosion waiting to happen inside you, and Tom holds the detonation trigger.

“Holy fuck.” 

“Mmmmm.” 

With his head buried beneath your thighs, his hands blindly roam your body. They descend down your thighs and over the valleys of your hip bones, shaping the contours of your waist before feeling the grooves of your ribcage as they expand with each pant you breathe, until he finds your tits, groping and pinching where he can. In both of your minds though, his hands are an afterthought, especially when his gorgeous mouth is massaging your pussy so rhythmically, moving against you like a ship on a wave. 

“Ohhhh my God,” you whimper, feeling the burn in your abdomen descend deeper and deeper towards your cunt. You’re so close it hurts. Your legs start to twitch closer together.

“Legs open,” he mumbles. “And look at me. Look at who’s got you shaking.” 

You cast your eyes downward, unblinking as he sucks and pulls at your cunt with his lips, making what you think to be the most salacious, delicious sounds a man could make while eating you out. 

“F-fuck. Tom, please—.” 

Tom’s dark lashes lift, lids heavy as he stares at you with such forbidden intentions that it’s enough to make you shiver. Neither of you break the connection and you think it might just be the final nail in the coffin. With a deathly snarl, he claws at the back of your thighs, lifting them until they are pressed harshly against your chest and pans all of his attention, mind, body and soul into forcing you to cum. You sob as his tongue darts out, abusing your clit in all directions and it slingshots you directly towards the climax you have been aching for. 

“Tom!”

With a final flick of his tongue, you crash into your orgasm. It immediately wreaks havoc on your system and splinters your sanity completely, so much that you can’t tell whether you're ascending or crumbling right here on his desk. Your lips part to scream, but your consciousness is shattered into a million pieces and your voice is lost. Wood creaks as your nails dig into the edge of the desk, white-knuckled and numb with a grip so tight you swear you feel your bones begin to bend under the strain. 

Like he promises, Tom doesn’t stop. Despite being trapped between your thighs, despite the wriggling and writhing, your pleas and desperate whispers, Tom doesn’t stop. Not for one second. 

Every flick of his tongue is more intimate than the last, plucking at your nerves so harshly, nerves that are already pulsing and in need of mercy. Regardless, Tom remains kneeling, feasting on you like you are his last meal, last drink, last breath he’ll ever take. 

Swimming through the pain, you come out of the other side to find another climax already waiting, just seconds from bursting as drastically as the first one. With one final pleading look to Tom, his dark eyes swallow you whole, subliminally telling you that he’s more than ready to keep this cycle going for as long as he deems necessary. 

Mercilessly, his lips seal around your cunt, tongue slithering itself straight deep into your entrance, still not yet satisfied with what he’s tasted all ready. You’re so wet, and with Tom’s constant laving and licking he only just adds to the mess that he spreads with his hands to your thighs until the glossy sheen catches your eyes. The sparkle of it makes you truly realise for yourself just how aroused he has made you, the sight so alien from your own eyes. No man has ever worn you down like this before. It’s…unnerving. Only because you’re not sure if this is supposed to be what it’s like.

As another orgasm explodes, your body shudders violently on the table, his hands digging themselves into the crooks of your knees being the only thing to keep you from completely wriggling away. Your head collapses against the desk and gives way to a desperate whimper. It isn’t cute, it isn’t coy or coquettish like what you’ve heard before in porn or films. It’s raw, painful and very, very real. 

It never seems to end. You’ve lost the ability to determine when one climax ends and when the next starts. 

By the fifth time - at least, you think - he claims yet another, an hour later, you break. 

After his torture renders you thoughtless, mindless and perhaps a tad vacant, your instincts quickly take over. Your hands whip from the silent hold he had on them and swing down to push Tom’s head full of curls away from your aching cunt while it still throbs through the orgasm. He grabs your wrists, far too quickly for your liking. Tom watches your every movement through his brows, still latched onto your clit, giving nothing away of the disapproval you know he would be demonstrating had he not been so adamant in eating every particle of you. “Please,” your hoarse voice scratches your throat, sounding nothing like you. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll do anything, please--ah, fuck--it’s too much.” 

Slowly, deathly slowly, Tom’s lips detach from you, finally granting you freedom, salvation, relief. Yet he just can’t resist recoiling every other second for just one last taste, one last swift lap of his tongue from entrance to clit in one clean strip. The moment all touch detaches from you, your thighs swing close, nursing the pulse that squeezes at your abused clit, taming the orgasm as it flickers its last flame. 

“Fucking hell,” you pant. “You truly are a sadist.” 

Tom only chuckles, deep, dark, leaking from lips soaked in your slick. It rumbles straight to your core. “Tell me the time, sweetheart.” 

Bleary eyes lazily drag themselves over to the clock and after a few blinks, the numbers sharpen. “It’s 2:38am.” 

His fingers tickle up your shin, tracing circles around your knee. “So, so good--” you gasp, darting to catch his hand before it sinks between your thighs. He smirks, “--to know.” 

Your sadist allows you just one minute, you know because he counts it, to cool down and let your body reset; a glass of water, a clean rag and a comfy seat, unshackled and dressed. He also very calmly warns you as he sheds his blazer and unbuttons his cufflinks, rolling his sleeve up his tanned, muscular arm, that although it’s very late into the night, traipsing on the verge of closing, that you still have a long night ahead of you.

A small breath narrowly slips from your lips while you hold his stare. You can’t even dwell on the gravitas of the situation, not risking spending the valuable seconds of your - likely - only cool down. So you bite your lip, sit yourself down and quietly regain your energy.

Your heart beat doesn’t slow as quickly as you want it to. The exhilaration doesn’t leave your system either, stuck in a perpetual cycle of replaying all that had just unfolded.

You force your way through a breathing exercise sitting on the chair he originally placed you in, facing forward, blocking him out behind you because you know that one look at him and he would detonate all that you had worked to subdue. Once calm, the tether between mind and body reconnects and there’s one thing that screams down the line. 

Filled with pleasure, yet still feeling empty. Yet to be fucked. 

Tom alerts you that your cool down has come to an end as he saunters out of the dark corner behind you. It felt like barely a second. He had watched you the entire time, eyes roaming your figure, how it shook, how it quivered, how you barely managed to stand on your own two feet as you jumped from the desk, body scorching with the heat from your core. You were like a new-born deer learning to walk while he was a wolf waiting in the shadows.

Sat on the chair, you spin around to complain, attitude brimming, mouth open, words at the ready and…“Hmph!” His hand clamps down hard onto your mouth, pinching your nose with the other. Not a breath slips through. 

“Here’s me thinking you had learned to know better than to talk back to me.” His body arches over your head above you, tilting your head back to catch the panic glaze over your wide eyes. You think he’s going to do something rash, something to make you regret even thinking about turning around to answer him back; a slap to the face, a tug to your roots, something as evil as his wicked voice sounds in your ear. 

So you can't exactly blame your heart for tripping over itself when, as smooth as butter, he lowers his head, lips puckering to lay a slight kiss to your forehead. It feels like air, an offering that doesn’t conceal something malice behind it. A fragile dusting of comfort to your skin, gentle like a snowflake feathering down onto the ground. Your conscience arrows towards it.

When he lifts his hands from your mouth and nose, you don’t find yourself desperately sucking in the air you lost. Rather, you inhale slowly through your nose and out through your mouth. It had to be that small, insignificant little kiss that lay your nerves to rest. 

Tom is one hell of a manipulator. 

His lips remain lingering on your skin, skating over the surface, mirroring his hands as they trickle down your cheeks and hold your jaw in their embrace. He whispers…“Do you think you can behave like my good girl again?” A small hum of confirmation buzzes at your lips. It isn’t enough for him. “Take this as your warning. If you decide to be a brat, if you decide to not listen to every word I say from now on, know that I cannot be responsible for what happens to you.” 

The severity of his caution has your eyes opening just a fraction wider, able to read the same warning that traces his words in his eyes. He means it. Really means it. Danny’s words echo around your head. ‘He’s a stickler for obedience’. What is he about to do to you that it’s imperative you listen to what he says? 

You could say no. You could invoke upon your safe word and make it stop right now. But when you delve deeper into the part of you that made you agree to this in the first place, you find that it still roars with life, telling you that your need for adventure hasn’t quite been satiated. 

You swallow, throat bobbing under his digits. “I understand.” 

He scrunches his nose in delight. “Perfect.” 

You don’t turn to follow his movements to the back of his office, your ears tell you what you need to know. A cupboard door squeaks open, old, rickety, likely an antique. Then rustling. Objects hard, soft, textured, plastic, rubber, metal. A hum of satisfaction, then the closing squeak of the door, different to the first. His footsteps near you, perching directly behind you while you feel the soft sweep of his torso brush against your hair. 

Then darkness. Soft, pillowy darkness that floods your vision. Remnants of light trapped in your irises float around like shooting stars before fading completely. It’s the only thing you can hone in on as the knot tied behind your head tightens, confirming that he has indeed blindfolded you. 

“Remember your safe word.” He breathes into your ear in earnest. Pasta. “Don’t hesitate to use it.” 

“Yes, sir.” You don’t know if he’s still expecting you to say that, but you do it anyway to stay in good graces with him. You’re not entirely sure if it will make a difference to the impending danger Tom warned you of. Even if it doesn’t, Tom’s lip still curls anyway. 

“Good,” a quick kiss to the corner of your mouth has you blushing, “now don’t move.” 

A single breath is all you have to prepare yourself before something cold eases across the skin of your arm. Insubstantial, almost weightless, it falls from the curve of your right shoulder and descends down until it reaches your hand, resting on the velvet arm. The sensation is ghostly but frigid, gliding but piercing. You can’t quite work out what it is…

The same icy coldness retraces its path back up your arm, floating and gliding along your clavicle and stops directly at the base of your throat, the pit where your collar bones meet. 

It knicks your skin. 

“Oh my God--”

“Don’t. Move.” 

Holy fuck. It’s a knife. It’s a knife. It’s a knife. It is a fucking knife.

That’s the metal object you heard. And its sharpest point is resting directly against your neck.

Your skin pales and your stomach swirls with nausea. All your efforts to stay still and keep calm drains very quickly and panic floods in. Any chills the knife aroused in its cold path is replaced by small beads of sweat, your entire body blazing, screaming danger. Surprisingly, among other things, your nipples begin pebbling, brushing harder against the silk slip of a dress that adorns your body the more the blade's sharpest edge tickles along your skin. Your heart pounds, the sound of panic-infused adrenaline thrumming in your ears, comparable to the time you went on that rickety, old roller coaster when you were younger. 

You guess the memory isn’t too dissimilar; forced to feel the thrill of having your own safety rest in someone else’s hands. You have no control here. 

It’s…intoxicating. 

A dark admission on your behalf, but you’re here for the experience, right? 

You dare not speak, dare not break his rules as the peak of the very sharp knife trails lightly up the column of your throat as its runway, bumping over your trachea, scraping the finest layer of your skin, commanding you to incline your head as it rises higher and higher. Your lungs expand and you can’t deflate them until the knife flicks off your chin. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! 

In the stone cold silence of his room, the resonating shwing of the knife rings in your ears. A small respite. 

From what you can hear, Tom moves behind you somewhere. The creak of the floorboard dances from the left to the right and back again, giving you not one hint of where he plans to strike next, subjecting you to the torment of crippling anticipation until he does.

Suddenly the blade comes into contact once more with your skin, laying its long, razor sharp edge against your neck. Your body freezes, your nails scratch the edge of the armchair. 

“Stand,” Tom commands sharply. The knife’s blade maintains the same pressure on you, even as you come to a stand, knees knocking beneath you. 

Seconds later, the chair clatters behind you, just the swiftest of touches of velvet to your calves before it crashes off to your left, and where four legs once sat now stand just two. Tom. The warmth of his breath flowing past your ear is a stark contrast to the cool blade on your throat. But it’s the low grumble bubbling against your back that plucks a chord deep in your stomach. You can feel yourself getting wetter…

“I can feel your heartbeat hammering against your ribcage, newbie. Worried?” 

Yes…

“Or is it more than that? Excitement? Anxiety? Lust? Desire? What is it? Tell me, a penny for your thoughts.” 

“Nerves. Mostly. But…exhilaration and curiosity. And confusion.” 

“About?” 

“Do people actually get off on this?” 

He chuckles at your naivety. “Lots of people do. It’s perfect for keeping any brat in their place. But you’ll find it’s mostly the sort that spend all day bossing people about. Whose jobs are to take on the burden of responsibility, leadership, authority. If it’s been a particularly long and hard day for them, they come here. This is their relief.”

“To be held at knife point?” 

“To relinquish control. To let someone else take the reins for once. To be controlled rather than being in control. The knife just adds that flare, the incentive to keep them in that headspace of receiving orders instead of being  the one to make them. It could be a gun if you’d like,” he jests. You’d shake your head, but you might slice your throat in the process.  

You take a constricted breath, feeling the weight of the knife’s edge becoming just that little bit heavier. “And…do you like it? Being the one in control?” 

He presses himself against you as if to mould the contours of your body into his, lips furrowing deep into the crook of your outstretched neck roaming where they please. His free hand anchors down onto your hip, slithering its way across the expanse of your abdomen where, if he held you long enough, would feel the flutter of butterflies wings coming from within. Alas, he spreads his fingers, sinking lower onto your pelvis, teasing the curve of your pubic bone and presses down hard, bending you into him. As if the knife he holds against your neck isn’t controlling enough. 

His erection pokes and prods at your backside. He’s so hard you release a whimper. What you would give to feel him inside you. 

Tom’s words speak directly onto your neck like he’s tattooing them onto you. “I love it.” A beat, then--“Tell me,” he says, low in tone and volume. “Your dress. Any sentimental attachment to it?” 

“No.” 

The knife’s blade glides to the strap of your dress on your shoulder and picks it up, pulling it taut. “Good.” 

One tug and the material snaps. 

A small yelp falls out and a flinch has your shoulders raising just an inch closer to your ear. The integrity of your dress now hangs precariously with just one strap holding on for dear life. If one thing is for certain, it won’t be holding on for much longer. You smother the urge to scold him for ruining your dress, your property, and lest you forget the threat of the very sharp knife he holds against you, it’s only the straps, you could tie them back together as a temporary solution. An easy fix. 

The knife repeats its actions on the other side until your dress hangs lifelessly around your hips. The cold air bites at your nipples and Tom doesn’t wait one second before he brings the tip to circle around the little bud. 

“Oh--” You can’t stop your head tilting back onto Tom’s shoulder when the slight overdose of adrenaline makes you dizzy. The tickling sensation refuses to relent, crossing over the valley between your tits to tease your other bud just as salaciously. 

Just when you find pleasure of the tip running rings around your nipples, when Tom’s hand sinks to cup your pantiless sex, when his scent rushes in through your nose, a harsh slap of the blade's flat edge to your tit whips you back to caution. It’s unexpected. Being blindfolded, every touch is. Any touch you feel, whether blade or not, makes you flinch. Quick as a bolt of lightning surging through your body. It’s torturous because in your darkness, in your paranoia, you’re permanently recoiled, shielding, flinching at nothing, waiting for the next hit.

He’ll strike. You know he will. Not knowing when is killing you. And he knows it. 

“You asked if I like what I do-” his finger sinks into you, skimming over your clit wet with your slick, “-from what I can feel, I think you like it too.” Your hips buck to gain more friction from both his fingers and from his hard cock pressed against your ass, desperate to feel that euphoria of pleasure again. A sick, twisted crack of satisfaction surges through you when you hear him moan. “Shame you’ve forgotten your manners.” 

The surface of the knife slaps you again, harsh against your nipple. “Ow! T-thank you, sir.” 

“Better. Now move.” 

A few blind steps clumsily place you facing a wall, palms resting flat against the wallpaper while Tom kicks your feet further apart. He makes sure that while he puppeteers you to never let you forget that the knife he holds is always within close proximity, that if you dare defy him, he wouldn’t hesitate to use it. Gentle scrapes, warning knicks, cold presses, even to go as far as break skin would he warn you. 

The audacity he has, though, when he takes the knife and slices his way through the remaining fabric of your dress, leaving you to stand stark naked before him. That’s going to be less easy to fix…

“You ripped my dress!” 

“Problem?” His voice is challenging, subliminally daring you to bite the bait.

“How the hell am I supposed to get home with no clothes?” 

The fiery attitude that tries to bloom inside dies the instant he presses the flat edge of the blade flush against your cunt. The cold surface lying against your heat causes a stutter in your breath. It pushes upwards, almost lifting you off from your feet and onto your tiptoes from fear that any slight movement of defiance would trigger excruciating pain. It’s dangerous, careless, and reckless, and you wish you could scream it, thrash around, push him away and yell in his face. The compulsion is overwhelming. If only you didn’t have a knife to your cunt…

“Telling me your problem isn’t going to make it my problem.” 

Your jaw slacks, away from his prying eyes and you suppose you could allow yourself just one moment of freedom. Just one moment of no restraint because releasing what you’re dying to say would just be as gratifying as the first time Tom allowed you to cum. You can easily feel the knot that’s dying to unwind, and saying what intransigent words would tease out the knot inside you, and also send him reeling. 

He wants to call you a bratty sub? Fine. That’s what he’ll get. 

“You are such a bastard, do you know that? I think you’ve spent too much time being told ‘yes, sir, of course, sir, thank you, sir’ that it’s all gotten to your head. Maybe you could do with being reminded that not everything you do deserves that.” 

Quick as a whip, the blade snaps to your neck, digging into your skin that you feel it tearing your skin. The wince is evidence of your pain, but Tom ignores it, settling on placing his focus not on the knife he holds against you, but how quickly he can undo his belt, his trousers, springing his hard cock free and lining it up with your sopping cunt. 

Without a warning, because you don’t deserve one, he thrusts into your core, holding your breath hostage under the knife. “So fucking tight,” he stutters to himself. Even for him, the sensation is immense. His next message is for you. “Cheeky little bitch. Think you’re clever? Think you’re funny? We’ll see who’s laughing when you’re begging me to stop.”

Your bodies clash as Tom begins rutting his hips against your ass, the staccato notes of skin on skin and the room swallows every snap, barely making out the door. He fills you, stretches you, and ruins you within seconds and you can’t explain how the pain you feel translates so quickly into pleasure. You feel yourself needing more of it. The stretch, the burn, the knife, it’s indescribable.

His relentless pace maintains, stopping every ten or so seconds to ensure he fills every inch of you, submerging himself to the hilt and mercilessly grinding his hips against you, rolling around your cunt. Without fail, your hands claw at the wallpaper when he does, begging for reprieve. 

“When I tell you,” he pants, lips pursed and eyes ablaze, still holding the knife firmly against your neck. “You are going to give me everything.” 

He drops himself, snatching a slab of flesh between your neck and shoulder between his teeth and bites viciously in his frustration and you howl. His thrusts only become faster and harsher.

“I need to feel you squeeze around my cock.” A hand slides between your bodies and starts toying with your clit. “I’m not going to stop until I feel you cum around me.” 

Tom effortlessly tugs at the elastic band in your stomach and you are about to snap. He overloads your senses, violating your sensitive cunt to the point where you can feel it pulse in anticipation of the orgasm that is threatening to spill. Under the knife that now trails down your body, a pressure builds and it clenches your muscles with its tight grip, and with each pounding Tom hits you with, it grows a little closer to letting go. 

Tom fucks you in phases, fast, slow, harsh, gentle, silent, loud, anything and everything thrown into his efforts to completely tear you apart. If it’s regret he’s after, he’s got it. If it’s an apology he wants, it’s there for the taking. If he desires to hear you begging, then it’s on the horizon. You’re willing to give because you’re not sure you know where your limits are, and with your legging threatening to crumble beneath you, you sense that you’re about to get a good idea. 

Tears brim your eyes only to be soaked up by the blindfold, a quiet plea for release. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, please! ” Tom denies relief, keeping you squirming on his cock until his needs are satisfied. He has no care for you writhing to get away, because he can easily drag you back where he wants you with just a swift reminder of the blade that pierces your skin. You’re certain by now that you have tiny little cuts littered over your body, accidental or not. 

“Tom, stop! I can’t! It’s too much. Fuck!” He doesn’t heed your cries because to him, they are the symphonies he is waiting to hear. 

Your entire body quivers and with the flick of his deft fingers and the thrust of his cock, you come undone. There’s no holding it in anymore. The elastic band snaps and a white-hot wash of pleasure convulses through your body. Blood pumping at your core but Tom isn’t relenting. 

The squeeze of your orgasm around his cock is suffocating, but yet just as painfully pleasurable as he needs it to be for the euphoric feeling to consume him. Finally, as the walls of your cunt contract once more, he cums inside you. But by this point, you are weak and Tom can clearly see just how destroyed you are. Nevertheless, his selfishness convinces him to pull away and sink into you over and over again, slower and with purpose. 

“Don’t you have something to say to me, sweetheart?” 

“I’m s-sorry, fuck, I’m sorry!”

“Taking me so well. My little cocksleeve, aren’t you?” He peels away the blindfold to find your eyes over your shoulder, but in your pain and exhaustion you can’t focus on much else and your eyes serve a very glazed-over look. “Look at me,” he spits, you obey. “You’re mine. This pussy is mine. Remember that any time you want to act like a brat.” He thrusts into you again as a testament to his words.

“Yes,” you meekly whisper. The word comes out of your mouth before your sex-inebriated mind can comprehend what he actually said. Once it does, you gulp. 

“Yes, what?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Good girl. Stay still.” Blinded by bliss, Tom pulls from you and with his size, it’s a feeling equivalent to an orgasm in itself and you hiss. Your pussy is hot, swollen, pulsing and leaking and yet somehow, as evident as it is for how sensitive it is, Tom can’t resist one more taste. The knife clatters to the ground. Salvation.

“No, no, no, no, it’s too much, Tom, please, I’m begging you.” The words drip with a desperation you don’t recognise. He simply hushes you, kneels behind you, splits you apart and continues to savour the taste of your arousal, meticulously circling his tongue around the small bundle of nerves once again. The warm, wet muscle glides from entrance to clit, cleaning you up of your wetness and replacing it with his own. For as excruciating as it is to endure so soon after an orgasm, you find yourself melting into the feeling and dizziness envelopes you in a warm hug. 

~~~~

“Tell me the time,” he murmurs, turning you around. 

Your eyes peer to the clock. “Fuck, it’s…it’s 4:29am. When does this place close?” 

Tom sniggers, floating over you with a smirk. “It closed an hour and a half ago.”

“What?! Why am I still here?” 

“I’m the owner of this place. I decide who gets to stay and I promised you an experience did I not?” 

“You did,” you agree quietly. The slight stickiness between your thighs bears a reminder of the experience and suddenly you’re burning again. You bite your lip, trying to contain the coy giggle like a teenager with a crush. “Some experience that was.” 

“Sweetheart, that was child’s play,” he laughs.

“What?”

He pulls you close, skin to skin, soothing out your muscles in a gentle massage. “You didn’t actually think I was going to show you everything, did you?” 

Would it be stupid of you to admit that you did? “I don’t know, you did say--”

“That I would give you an experience. Something new, something outside your comfort zone, something you hadn’t done before, an adventure.”

“But--” But the paddles, the chains, the whips, all the things you saw outside…

Not another word lets slip before he cups your cheeks, holding your stare and wordlessly silencing you. “If I had shown you everything, there would be no incentive for you to come back again now would there?” You shake your head. “While you may think I’m a sadist, there are some things within BDSM that newbies like you just can’t be thrown into. Trust me. I wouldn’t put you through that. At least, not yet.”

“Like what? Tell me, I wanna know.”

Tom’s lip curls. He’ll definitely be seeing you around here soon enough given you’re so invested. “Voyeurism, roleplay, flogging, bondage, anal, wax play, primal, orgies, consensual non-consent--”

Your brain fumbles over his words. “Wait what? What’s that?” 

The way his eyes lit up so brightly. He brings you closer to brush his nose against yours. “Consensual non-consent or CNC. A fetish where people enjoy being either the victim with the extreme lack of control or the predator with extreme control. Sometimes called rape play--” your eyes widen, “--but it is thoroughly negotiated beforehand and varies from scene to scene. Consent, as well as safe words, are vital. But for some people, verbally communicating consent takes away from the mood. To overcome that, they assign consent to an object. It would be agreed beforehand, could be a red scrunchie that you tie in your hair. If you came here one night wearing a red scrunchie, I would know that you would consent to me taking control over you. Perhaps drag you away against your will, take you somewhere where no one would see, make you get on your knees, suck my cock…” his voice reduces to a whisper and lets you feel his words on your lips. “Would do things to you…”

“Oh…”

Tom sighs, pulling away and composing himself. “For another time.” He winks. “But for now, you need to clean up. There’s a bathroom through that door. Feel free.”

“Oh, uh, thanks.” 

~~~~

You don’t emerge from your bedroom until early afternoon the next day. In your true stubborn nature, you do anything you can to prolong the confrontation with Danny. He knows what prevailed between you and Tom, and munching away at a bowl of cereal, you find him smirking at the breakfast bar. All because he knows he was right, he knows that bringing you to the Hunting Ground was the ideal thing for you. You can’t deny him of it.

His eyes find the bite mark on your neck first, bruised and marked. Then to the large T-shirt that he’s certain isn’t yours. The memory of Tom dressing you in it last night has your heart thrashing against your ribs. 

“So how did the kinky-cultish-sex club turn out for you?” He grins, a smile stolen from the Cheshire cat. 

You click your tongue, deliberating the two ways you could go about this. Against your better character, you grin back at him, colour rushing to your cheeks. 

“When can we go back?” 

[myka444]

Your Diary

Pairing: Miles Morales x Reader

Description: Miles finally tells you that he’s Spider-Man.

A/n: Somehow I only get writing ideas when I listen to songs I don’t know how that works💀

2:36 AM

Late into the night you found yourself wide awake staring at your ceiling. The sound of rain outside your window helping you relax, it had been falling for quite some time and it seemed to not be letting up anytime soon. The night was cold and the patter of water against the window pane would waver from time to time.

Since your bedroom window faced the rest of the city it was never dark in there as if it just never seemed to sleep. Together with the illumination of the buildings and streetlights, the rain cast shadows on your bedroom walls creating an almost hypnotic image.

It was calming and after the hectic day you had you needed it. Miles had skipped class again today making it his 6th time this semester, you’d text him and make sure he was ok to which he’d reply with—

“Oh yea I’m fine just got caught up, I’ll see you later!”.

While you trusted him with your entire being you knew something was up and not even he could hide that from you. In the past year his behavior had drastically changed, going from having many friends and being very social to just having you and Ganke.

He had done a complete 180 and completely abandoned his social life like he just didn’t have the time to make friends anymore. Which he didn’t, whatever was keeping him busy you barely even saw him these days with the only exceptions being in class and even then he didn’t show up sometimes.

While you weren’t one to pry something in the back of your head was telling you that there was something going on and you needed to get to the bottom of it.

Random cancellations on hangouts and dates had been going on for too long and you needed to know why, so with a sudden burst of energy you sat up in your bed and grabbed your phone off of your nightstand. As you unlocked it you started to feel anxious but there was no backing out as you had already opened up your messages with him.

Today 2:53 AM

You: Miles we need to talk

Read 2:54 AM

You: Miles?

Read 2:54 AM

“There’s no way this man really just left me on read..” You whispered in disbelief as you placed your phone back down.

While trying to process what had happened the rain outside had grown heavier and soon enough you started to hear the slight rumbling of thunder. Giving up didn’t seem like the right thing to do but since it was 2 in the morning there wasn’t much you could do about the situation. You shook your head and sighed heavily as you rubbed your forehead in frustration and decided to just try again later in the morning.

With your failed attempt still heavy on your mind you retreated back into the comfort of your bed and pulled your duvet over you, after warmth had finally enveloped you, you closed your eyes and within a few minutes you had fallen asleep.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

You stirred in your bed as you began to hear a faint tapping sound coming from the far side of your room. ‘probably the rain..’ you thought as you turned towards the wall and repositioned yourself so you could be more comfortable.

The consistent tapping had gradually grown louder and despite wanting to ignore it, you just couldn’t. Sitting up in your bed you yawned as you still felt a bit tired and then you looked over to where the sound was coming from and in your window you saw…Miles?

He waved awkwardly and smiled a bit and gestured down to the bottom of your window, you thought for a second and finally decided to get out of your bed and walk over to your window. The floor was cold so it took you a moment to adjust to the sudden change in temperature as you walked over to let him in.

When you finally reached the window your hands met with the bottom of it, you unlocked it quickly and lifted the bottom of it as to not have him standing out in the rain for too long. As soon as you were done he stepped inside carefully so he didn’t trip, the rain outside drenching him from head to toe. He had on his jacket, his hood was on to somewhat shield him from the harsh weather but it didn’t do a great job.

After a second he removed his hood from his head and sighed, as he did you saw his shoulders lower a bit, almost as if he had been holding in the breath for a while. Your eyes darted across his entire being as you tried to make sense of why he was in your room in the middle of the night. He looked out of breath like he had been running..had he ran here?

“Miles, why are you..?” You start to ask in disbelief but end up trailing off mid sentence.

He opens his mouth to speak but immediately closes it as he starts to think of what to say, you raise your eyebrows in confusion and tilt your head slightly. He catches on to your body language and starts to speak.

“(Y/n)..I have something to tell you.” He spoke, a slight waver in his voice, he was nervous.

You nodded slowly and looked at him expectedly waiting for him to continue.

“I know I’ve been like really..really distant lately and you don’t deserve that, like at all there’s just been a lot going on and I think you deserve to know why.” He expressed.

He inhaled deeply and then unzipped his jacket with a slight tremble in his hand, you held your breath and crossed your arms around your body. Underneath his jacket he revealed a black suit and a recognizable red symbol displayed on his chest, your eyes widened as a sudden realization hit you all at one.

The absences from class, change in behavior, randomly leaving in the middle of hangouts and dates. It had all made sense now and the way that he’s standing in front of you inside of your room being vulnerable like this made you feel nothing but pity for him. To have a secret like this and not be able to tell anyone, the burden is unimaginable.

So without any hesitation you go to hug him, when you wrap your arms tightly around him you feel him relax like a heavy burden had been lifted from his shoulders. It didn’t take him long to return the gesture as he wrapped his arms securely around you, he then rested his forehead and your shoulder and the two of you stayed like that for what felt like hours although in reality it was only a few minutes.

“I don’t feel any differently towards you, I’ll be the loyalty you need you can trust me Miles.” You pull away from him and grab his hand firmly and look him in his eyes. Mixed with the luminescent lights of the bustling city his eyes glowed as they stared back at you.

“I wanted to tell you as soon as I found out but I just couldn’t, I didn’t want you to be in any danger.” He admitted as he looked to the floor feeling ashamed, you grab his chin gently with your other hand and turn his head to look at you.

“You know I don’t blame you for not telling me right? I understand.” You spoke almost whispering, he nodded slowly as he thanked you for understanding.

Suddenly you lead him over to your bed and gesture for him sit down and you do the same not letting go of his hand.

“Here you can be yourself.” You start as you looked back over to your window and notice that the rain has started to let up a bit, the sound of thunder also receding.

“No one has to know what you are feeling, no one but me and you.”

“Your secret is safe with me..”

A/n: ok so I’m finally posting on this app after idk how long of having it but it’s about time, please request with any ideas ya’ll have for a story!

[future-crab]

I spent all day reading Laura Jane Grace's memoir and felt compelled to try writing something in that sort of non-fiction/memoir/personal essay style. I'm not really sure if this is worth posting, but you can blame @unusualshrimp for encouraging me.

Laura Jane Grace’s memoir has got me thinking about diaries, and about writing down important memories before they have a chance to fade too much. And honest to God, I think seeing her in concert might be one of the best memories of my life. Walking down well-lit Cleveland streets on a warm early-summer night, just barely cooled off from a sweltering early-summer day, humming fucking M*A*S*H to myself as I left the show – a song she wouldn’t release for another few months, and that I wouldn’t even especially like in its studio-recorded form – I was as happy as I’d ever been.

My cousin’s apartment was only a block or two from the venue, and despite the late hour, I had plans to meet up with them after the show. I wished, suddenly, that they lived farther away. I wanted this walk to last forever. 

Have you had any suicidal thoughts today? Yes, I’ve had about seven or eight. A modicum of propriety kept me from actually singing it out loud, but it looped in my head, over and over, the buoyant, infectious rhythm of it setting the pace of my steps. I hadn’t caught the rest of the chorus, or if I had it hadn’t stuck, so I just filled in the space in my head with nonsense.

Have you had any suicidal thoughts today? Yes, I’ve had about seven or eight. La da da da da-di da da da da, So ba-da killing yourself today. The chorus ended, then began again. The verses hadn’t stuck either. Have you had any suicidal thoughts today? Yes, I’ve had about seven or eight…

My scuffed platform boots bounced against the pavement. I wondered if the people passing by could tell – from my outfit, from the stench of sweat and booze and weed drifting off me, from the Laura Jane Grace tee shirt tucked between my body and my bag because it was too hot to put it on, from the big, doofy grin on my face – that I had just come from a concert. As far as I was concerned, I was glowing like those big sodium-yellow streetlights overhead.

Have you had any suicidal thoughts today? Yes, I’ve had about seven or eight. La da da da da-di da da da da, So ba-da killing yourself today… 

Was it “killing” or just “kill?” I didn’t know and I didn’t care. I couldn’t relate to the song at all, just then. Unhappiness was a vague and unconvincing memory. Life was joy and sweat and sticky heat, and shouting along to True Trans Soul Rebel in a packed, tiny room that smelled like tobacco and body odor.

The world didn’t feel real. The street, the lights, the air that never quite stirred into a breeze. I wasn’t used to such complete and uncomplicated hapiness. I had felt it after other concerts before – driving back to a crappy Long Island motel room after MCR, sprinting away from Mr. Small’s through a sudden torrential downpour after an unexpectedly excellent LS Dunes show, wandering the South Side with my sister after seeing the Crane Wives together, unable to make any conversation beyond Holy shit, that was a good show! – and I knew it wouldn’t last forever, but in that moment it still felt like it might.

I bounded up the three flights of stairs to my cousin’s apartment more loudly than I should have, and more quickly, too – I was out of shape and asthmatic, but joy had given me strength. I probably wasn’t very good conversation. I was still incoherent from the glow of the concert, convinced that such insights as, She played Black Me Out, and, like, obviously she was going to play Black Me Out, but holy shit Black Me Out was incredible! were not only interesting but important. 

It turns out my cousin’s boyfriend knew her work. When I mentioned Against Me!, he went, “Oh, man, that’s her? I didn’t recognize her new name – I used to listen to them way back before she transitioned!” We chatted about the band, about the venue, about the show. I tried, probably without success, to impart what it had felt like, because it had felt incredible. I was hot and tired and miserable through both openers, because I’d had a long drive to Cleveland that morning and spent just about every minute since on my feet and in the sun. She took the stage at 10:00 pm, and at 9:59 I was wondering if I should just head home early, because even if I could stay on my feet through the entire set, there was no way I’d enjoy myself. And then the instant she stepped into view, it was like a switch had flipped. I was grinning from ear to ear. I must have looked insane, but I wasn’t about to care. I will never understand the kind of stage presence some people have – it feels like a magic trick.

Eventually I had to go back to my hotel – my cousin and her boyfriend were too polite to hint that I should leave, but I could tell that they, at least, needed to get some sleep. I was still too wired to even attempt sleep for another few hours, but I managed to resist the temptation to keep them up all night. As I stepped out into the stairwell – old fashioned art deco tiling spreading out in pretty black-and-white patterns down three storeys to the exit below – my radiant joy dimmed just slightly.  The song in my head had lost some of its energy, but it looped dutifully on.

Have you had any suicidal thoughts today? Yes, I’ve had about seven or eight… 

I stepped out into the hot summer night aware that eventually – not soon, but eventually – I would come down from this high. I’d fall asleep, the sun would rise – though not necessarily in that order – and the day I saw Laura Jane Grace perform would give way to just some Sunday in May. But for just a moment, it had felt like that night would never have to end.

[wheredidhiseyebrowsgo]

fave trope: meeting alternate universe selves (bonus points if one of the universes feels fucked up to the characters of the other one). Alternatively: Stiles&Scott friendship. Like, as the Ultimate Friendship.

Man I would love to read some of these. Do you have any recommendations?

Hi @webetterfly! @kevaaronday made this list for us!

lean on me by thoughtsandthings (21/21 | 34,650 | Teen) This is a ceiling he knows, a sight he woke up to for years and years. This bed, too, is one that swallows his body in a familiar way, and the blankets and sheets smell like home. The room is dark, only the streetlight casting in through the window confirming his fear as he glances around the bedroom— the posters on the walls, the desk piled high with books and papers and homework, the empty spot where his crime wall should be.

He’s woken up in his childhood bedroom.

Stiles slowly rolls his head to the side to find a young, floppy-haired Scott fast asleep beside him, his breathing soft and steady.

-

A time travel story about friendship - Stiles and Scott haven’t been friends for a decade, not since Scott made the mistake of believing Theo and pushing Stiles out of the pack. Now twenty-seven, they get into an argument and wake up in the past, back to a time when they only had each other.

Diary Of An Overworked Nurse by RoryMarx (1/1 | 4,636  | Gen) “If you have it… we’ll do something,” Scott suddenly said, and then they were hugging. Crystal looked at them, could feel the other adults do the same, and the only word she could describe the hug with was desperate. Scott and Stiles clung to each other like two people afraid to drown. It was heartbreaking. These teenagers loved each other. No matter what the MRI showed today, Crystal knew Stiles wouldn’t just have his dad to count on – he would also have Scott.

OR: Over the years the nurses and doctors of Beacon Hills Memorials watched Stiles and Scott grow up - they saw a lot of tears, hugs, laughter, and grief.

5 Times Scott and Stiles Celebrated Their Humanity + 1 Time There Were Werewolves

Stiles’s Pain In The Ass by Wiccan507 (1/1 | 3,679 | Teen | Sterek) Stiles has a pain in his ass and its only 50% Scott. Suffering from his latest night with Derek, Stiles tries to go about his day as normal. But Scott is not making it easy with his ass jokes and using the pack to convince him to tell Derek.

Hold the Sugar, You’re Sweet Enough by Dani Mahealani (1/1 | 2,846 | Gen | Sterek) Stiles loves his friends, he really does. But as he’s making Derek’s latte, he catches what Scott’s written on Derek’s cup and groans.

“What are you, twelve? You know Derek already has my number. He’s had my number. We text every day,” Stiles says as he works on the latte.

Scott looks over at him from the register with the most innocent grin in the world and shrugs. “I know, but I wanted to make a statement.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “You mean adding ‘+ SS’ underneath his name and drawing a heart around it wasn’t enough of a statement?”

“If you’re not going to flirt with him yourself, I’ll just flirt with him for you,” Scott says, shrugging.

or the one where their meddling friends decide it's high time for stiles and derek to get their acts together and date

Handcuffs and beards by Kindred (1/1 | 2,337 | Mature | Sterek) Scott and Derek are arrested and are saved by Stiles... of course

God, You’re Frustrating by royal_propellor (1/1 | 1,167 | Gen) It was late, around one in the morning, when Scott said, “What’s your biggest fear?”

Scott and Stiles had been driving around the Beacon Hills area for a while after eating dinner together. The original plan was to get back to Stiles’ house by midnight and go to sleep - it’s a school night and they have a game tomorrow - but now they’re laying in the grass on a hill somewhere in beacon hills, talking and stargazing. ——

or, scott and stiles have a deep conversation at 1am.

the other half of me by ralf (1/1 | 1.141 | Teen) It starts with a new buzz cut.

There’s Always Hope by Must_Be_Thursday (1/1 | 797 | Gen) “Oh, my God. Have you still not seen Star Wars?”

“I swear, if we make it back alive, I will watch the movie.”

Stiles and Scott have a Star Wars marathon after the events at the Glen Capri Motel. It was supposed to be a fun distraction, but a certain scene in Revenge of the Sith hits a little too close to home for Stiles.

AND

@tkcthatsme suggested this one!

If the ley lines you should follow by forestofbabel

(10/10 I 52,111 I Teen I Sterek)

And Derek just stood there, staring at Stiles like he was a ghost.

“Dude, I know it’s been a while but you don’t have to look at me like you’re that surprised I’m hung over in the woods. It’s practically a tradition at this point.”

“Stiles?” Derek whispered, the name falling from his lips like a punch to the gut. Stiles watched, confused, as Derek took a deep breath in and took a shaky step forward then back again. “You’re not- you can’t be. Who are you?”

[careforbesdaily]

STACKEDIARIES | february 16th | “all my children”

“She certainly looks good walking away from you.”

[Caption: gifs of Caroline Forbes in The Vampire Diaries. She first enters the door of the grill  with flattering curls, opening her black coat to better show her lowcut black top, and her cleavage empathised by a small discreet silver pendant. The second gif shows a close-up when she raises her eyebrows conspiratorially to Alaric and continues walking. In the third she has her arms crossed as she throws a falls smile to Klaus and tells him she’d rather die of thirst than drink with him, before walking away. Later she slowly walks away as he chases, smiling while he can’t see her, as the plan to separate him from Kol is working. The next gif shows a close-up of her face as she smiles and looks down, coy, sitting next to Klaus, with flattering streetlights illuminating her. Then, she shrugs and says “Nothing.”, visibly tensing and worried when Klaus starts suspecting something is wrong. In her last scene at Bonnie’s doorway, she’s seen from the chest up, now without the coat, which shows the straps of her black top, as she kindly but firmly asks Elena to give Bonnie space. The last gif is a close-up to her smiling at Elena, promising her to pass along Elena’s message to Bonnie (that she loves her).]

[miscriont]

Okay I've thought about this as long as I can stand and--am I the only person who thought this was *awkward*?

I've been chewing on it, reading about other people's reactions, studying frame by frame the movements of Aziraphale's hands and like. I *see* it, I see how y'all get to the "brief moment of reciprocation" conclusion, but.

It is AWKWARD. It is one of the most awkward onscreen kisses I have ever seen.

Why is that??

The characters have chemistry. The narrative has established their relationship. The actors have chemistry; each of them has a proven track record of standout performances. And it's not as though either of them is new at this. So why, with all that on the table, does this look like amateur hour?

I got curious about it, and my hypothesis is this: they're reading from different playbooks.

"Saw it in a Richard Curtis film".

It feels like a throwaway line, something to wink-nudge a laugh out of the audience. There's a bit of confusion immediately afterwards regarding Jane Austen, Prolific Novelist and Jane Austen, Jewel Thief and Crime Lord, and isn't that funny haha look at the clueless celestial beings but almost NOTHING in this show has been just filler, or meaningless.

So who was Richard Curtis and why is he the model for Crowley's attempts at matchmaking? Turns out Richard Curtis directed some of the more iconic romcoms of the 90s and 2000s. I'm talking Notting Hill ("I'm just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her", remember that one?); I'm talking Love Actually; I'm talking Bridget Jones Diary--which, funnily enough, is at the very least inspired by Pride & Prejudice. Sappy monologues and kissing in the rain is this guy's bread & butter.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, wants to try the Austen-esque approach of having balls. There were fairly rigid rules to courtship back in Austen's day. Rules that HAD to be followed, in the right order, or else face social ruin. Austen made her career out of poking fun at those even as her characters worked within them. Point is, you only get to kiss at the end, and one of you better be wearing a wedding dress.

I may be stating the obvious but I haven't seen anyone else talking about it so: one layer to Crowley's and Aziraphale's brainstorming session on how to get Nina and Maggie together is also their way of subtly indicating what they themselves find romantic, and would want someone else to do for them to demonstrate their interest. For Aziraphale it's dancing and atmospheric lighting and having everything just so and *conversations that clear up everything*. For Crowley it's tearful speeches and getting the chance to tell the truth while streetlights glitter through pouring rain, where the protagonists seem to be pulled into a showstopping kiss almost as of by magnetism alone. There's a formula to each of the kinds of romantic storytelling that inspires their different matchmaking styles.

For Aziraphale, The Kiss (because you know this bitch(affectionate) would use the Capital Letters for Emphasis And/Or Significance) skips several steps in the courtship dance he thinks they've been doing. From Crowley's Perspective, Aziraphale is three acts, two scenes behind from where *he* thinks they are. Their kiss looks awkward because they are desynchronized, out of step with each other.

In other words, and in many more ways than just the one, they are not on the same page.

But you know who these two numpties have in common?

William Fucking Shakespeare. My outlandishly speculative prediction for season 3 is their reconciliation will have something to do with Shakespeare's comedic works. The perfect turnabout would be modeling it on Much Ado, with Nina and Maggie playing the bits of Hero and Claudio in fabricating evidence to get them back together: Crowley and Aziraphale messed about with their lives, it's only fair they should get to dish it out.

[soircieres]

‘A sudden slant of bluish light across the floor of a vacant room. And I knew it was not the streetlight, but the moon.’

— Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Diaries of Sylvia Plath, July 1950.

[medusasprotegedaughter]

I remember 16, hope in the everyday air I breathed, when holidays were those lonely times of the year you didn’t see the faces of classmates. When school meant anticipation and excitement, and a promise of love. We didn’t have one of those “Sweet 16”s; it was the time when birthdays meant an extra 10 mins at lunch breaks, when birthday parties meant a phuchhka treat. That was before our hormones had fully kicked in and all we had was adrenaline. That was before parties meant neon lights, sex and hangovers. That was a time when love was not conditional, when we still believed in young-adult romance, when all the heart-pounding feelings were something new to be discovered.

I remember high-school, on our nerves about the voyage of the impending adulthood, grappling with mixed feelings and self-identification, wishing it all last just a little bit long. I remember the tree by the school gate, the name of which I never knew, standing like a proud mother, its shade consoling all those tumultuous young hearts. I used to stand there many a day, before breathing in for the walk home, and watched the tall sturdy back of the almost-love. That was the time of “to-be or not-to-be”-s. That was the time when stolen glances were something all new. At dusk, we boarded our buses back home, savouring all the hurdles the seasons had to give us. Years later, dusk remains as a reminiscence of those days, like a diary of all the sweet-bitter moments, a culmination of melancholy and innocent happiness, and a reminder that we have grown up. Now, when the sun sets, and the streetlights turn on, houses light up one-by-one like a kind of domino, each with a tale to tell, even the most humid of days sends a wish to go back in time, and a false hope that it all lasted just a bit longer. That unnamed tree is not there anymore. Only the dusk remains, as a list of all the places and the people to whom I could not properly bid goodbye.

I’m thinking about the forlorn call of the last Kauai bird, calling into the void in the hope of a lover, a lover he was destined never to meet. In the years after graduating from high-school, far flung into the complexities of the adult world, I’ve frequented the roads that led to the school premises, where the fervour of teenage still lingered like dragonflies in autumn. Time and time again, I reached for the past linger a little bit more, only to realise that on those roads the past and present exist in parallel, never to meet. I walk alone over those roads, thinking of the people I walked them with, friends who are now 7 years away. On those roads, I exist as the Kauai bird, never to meet the time lost.

Taglist:

@jukti-torko-golpo @the-devils-feather @mapleheart0 @theamoristwriter @yebar @darkacademiadesign @wedarkacademia @hanirii @orrphelia @thinkinmyselfdizzy @sentimental-bits @lilhappylilsad @dobaara @nezhcs @day6andetcetera @carpeposterum @diana-selene @bipdf @titlishu @justadotsstuff @mossmurdock @babooshcat @mutton-biriyani @lovechildofamyrosagina @beykhabarr @what-is-wrong-with-me101 @what-is-t-h-e-point @inara-a @aloo-bhorta @king-of-knives @lunae-umbra @65pillows @cowboylikezoe @detergentbubble @viiviiv

[bluejaysandblackbats]

Five Stages of Mamma Mia

Fandom:

AU where Catherine Johnson is Jason's bio mom and Jason doesn't know who his father is. (Jason Todd is Jason Johnson for fic reasons).

Chapters: 2/?

Characters: Jason Todd, Jason Blood, Catherine Todd Mention, Bruce Wayne, Willis Todd Mention

Relationship(s): Past Catherine Todd/Jason Blood, Past Catherine Todd/Bruce Wayne, Past Catherine Todd/Willis Todd

Additional Tags: Canon Divergent AU, Mamma Mia-inspired AU, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Long Lost/Secret Relatives, Father-Son Relationship(s), Jason Todd Experiences the Five Stages of Grief

Chapter Two: Does Your Mother Know?

Jason woke up in the middle of the night in a full-body sweat. "Mom!" Jason called out. He looked around in the dark, and when he realized she wasn't coming, he lay down and did the only thing he could. "God, please let me be strong enough to endure this. I'm not asking you to make things easy. That's not how it works... I know, but I just—. I guess I'm asking you to make it, so I'm not alone anymore..." He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. "The fact that I'm praying to you right now must mean you're with me... Right?" The streetlight flickered, dimly illuminating the apartment. He couldn't go back to sleep, so he went to his mother's bedroom.

He still had to go through the rest of Catherine's things, and he needed a distraction from the feeling of dread that washed over him in waves. Jason opened the suitcase once more and went through more of the photographs. There was a third man, and most of his photographs were torn and taped back together. She wasn't as happy in her pictures with him. Catherine never talked about her life before he was born. He never thought to ask. Besides, Catherine was his world.

Jason didn't need a father because he had her. Before Catherine got sick, they did everything together. She was his world, and he was hers. They never had much, but they had each other. Jason didn't need a father while they were together, but Catherine wasn't coming back. Sooner or later, he'd need someone. He picked up his damaged birth certificate to see if his father's name was listed there, but that part of his birth certificate had a hole in it.

He didn't have the money to get another copy. Jason fought the panic in his chest by looking for the mystery men's names. He stayed up all night looking through the room for any indication of the men's names before forcing himself to open her diary. Jason didn't want to look through it but had to do something. Jason used the attached key to unlock the faded leather-bound diary and flipped to the months leading up to the dates on the pictures. The first entry seemed so deeply personal, but it was like he could hear her voice.

October 15, 1997

Tonight, I met the dreamiest guy. British. He had such strange eyes. I can't remember what color they were, but I remember being mesmerized by their beauty. Gosh. The way he looked at me was enough to make me melt. Oh, he was such a romantic. We walked around until the sun rose, and he read poetry to me, tracing the words on my skin. He whispered the words onto my very flesh.

I finally asked him his name, which seemed sort of funny. We'd talked all night and never once thought to introduce ourselves. Anyway, he had the most beautiful name. Jason. It means healer.

I'm glad my date stood me up tonight because this Jason Blood guy is so sweet. I'm going out with him again tomorrow night. I hope this isn't too good to be true. Well, I'll keep you updated.

Jason grinned. This guy had to be his father. He was named after him. It was funny how easy it was to find his name. It had to be fate. He cleaned up and slipped his jacket on before walking to the library. Jason knew it'd be closed, but it wasn't that hard to break into a library of all places. The back door had a faulty lock, but no one else knew. Jason needed the computer to find Jason Blood's number in the White Pages. He also needed to use the phone. Jason hopped behind the counter and looked through the phone book until Jason found the name. He took the push dial phone and sat on the floor behind the desk as he dialed the number. The phone rang twice before he picked up. "Hello?" Jason Blood answered.

"You are British. Just like my mom said," Jason whispered. "Sorry, I'm not from the library... And I hope I didn't wake you, Mr. Blood. I just—. I have questions that I hope you can answer... But I'd prefer to do so in person."

"Who is this?" Mr. Blood questioned.

"I promise I can explain all that to you in person. Will you meet me?" Jason replied. His heart was beating so fast he could hear it in his ears.

Mr. Blood sighed. "Alright then, and where is it that you'd like to meet?" Mr. Blood answered him with another question.

"Robinson Park, across the street from the old pizza parlor... The one that got shut down by the health department," Jason whispered, "Meet me there in two hours?"

"I'll see you then," Mr. Blood replied before hanging up. He only had a short time to get home from the library to get the pictures of Mr. Blood and get to the park, so he hopped over the counter and ran home. He changed clothes, put on the only suit he owned, and frowned at the worn and faded fabric on the lapel. He tossed the jacket and shoved the pictures into Catherine's diary.

The sun had risen, and he only had an hour to get to the park on foot. He ran down the street and narrowly avoided getting hit by a car. "Watch it!" a woman yelled.

"I'm in the crosswalk! Stop your car!" Jason hollered back. He shook it off and stood across the street from the park. Mr. Blood was already there. Jason wanted to turn tail and run, but the man waved at him. Jason waved back. He hadn't aged a day. Jason chewed his lip. He whispered a few encouraging words to himself. "I'm just gonna ask him a simple question. 'Are you my dad? I think you're my dad. Were you with my mom in ninety-seven?' I can do this."

He crossed the street and met eyes with Mr. Blood. "My mom was right... Your eyes are weird," Jason whispered without thinking, "Wait, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like—. I'm Jason Johnson. My mother is—." Jason stopped speaking and pulled a picture of Mr. Blood and Catherine out of Catherine's diary. "My mother is—."

"Catherine Johnson," Mr. Blood interrupted as he took the picture from Jason. "She named you Jason?" Mr. Blood glanced up at Jason and watched as the young boy nodded. Jason shrank under the man's gaze. "Does your mother know you've asked a strange man to meet you in a public place?"

Jason shook his head. "My mom's gone. That's the only reason I'm bothering you now," Jason explained.

"Here, let's have a seat," Mr. Blood whispered. He waited for Jason to join him on the bench before resuming their conversation. "Should I guess, or would that derail your plans for our conversation?"

"You can guess," Jason answered innocently.

"You want to know if I'm your father... Don't you?" Mr. Blood questioned. Jason nodded. "The rest of your motivations are lost on me, so this would be the part where you fill me in on your plans for me."

"Well, I can't afford another copy of my birth certificate," Jason paused, "And I'm not trying to turn your life upside down. I'm just asking that you—. If you're my father, I need you to tell the social workers that I'm moving in with you. I'm not asking you to let me move in with you. I'm asking you to lie for me. If you're my father."

Mr. Blood narrowed his eyes. "You can't live by yourself... You're what? Twelve years old?" Mr. Blood questioned.

"I'm not trying to be a burden to anyone. I'm doing alright on my own. I just need—."

"You can't live by yourself. That's just not acceptable. I'm not necessarily set up for children, but you can stay with me until we sort things out. I've got more than enough space," Mr. Blood insisted. Jason was tired of adults insisting on giving him charity, but he understood that Mr. Blood meant well. "I'm not sure I'll be a suitable long-term guardian for you, but maybe we'll figure something out in the short time we're together."

Jason nodded. "I don't have a choice... Do I?" Jason asked. Mr. Blood shook his head.

[vergeltvng]

FILM GENRE AESTHETIC bold: always applies. italic: sometimes applies

i. romance. love poems. flickering candles. conversations in the meadow. roses. midnight meetings. silk dresses. long phone calls. spilling your heart out. curtains blowing in the breeze. cheap paperbacks. the sun‘s reflection on the water. smooth jazz. waiting for something to happen. blushing cheeks. kisses in the rain. faded polaroids. noses bumping. floral perfume. a restless spirit. oil paintings on canvas. hiding under an awning during a thunderstorm. candlelight dinners. horse drawn carriages. sunset view. smeared lipstick.

ii. action. streetlights reflected on rainy pavements. a phone alarm. rapid texting. the smell of smoke. aggression. the natural instinct to fight. dramatic reunions. distant gunfire. funerals in the rain. the coppery scent of blood. solitude. fierce protective instincts. doomed to fail. driving through crowds. expensive watches. tired eyes. overnight plane rides. cold cups of coffee. dangerous secrets. lying through your teeth. bullet holes.

iii. horror. a distant farmhouse. congealed blood on the hardwood. ice picks. tilted headstones. bare feet on the carpet. splintering wood. masks that hide who you really are underneath. quiet summer camps. ghost stories. locked rooms. sharp knives. a full moon. the scent of rust. grasping hands searching for something to hold. last minute decisions. bags under your eyes. a cross hung on the wall. crawling maggots. the carcass of a dead animal. an abandoned hotel. blood–soaked clothes. broken bones. the sound of glass shattering.

iv. adventure. gnarled rope between your fingers as you hold on for dear life. glittering gold in a dark room. snakes. an incoming sandstorm. the consequences of your actions. hidden secrets. an unopened door. a leap of faith. squeezing your best friend´s hand. shelves of dusty books. complicated puzzles. mystery novels. footsteps echoing in a large room. smudged lenses on glasses. warm skin. doing what’s right. dirt under your fingernails. scribbled notes. cobwebs blocking your path.

v. comedy. friends you’ve known for years. crowded comedy clubs. crescent moons. open mics. out of tune pianos. a messy desk. leather messenger bags. stacks of papers. huge sweaters. bitten nails. ordering takeout every night. dog eared pages. unmade beds. hand movements and broad gestures. the smell of the subway. colorful graffiti on brick buildings. big dreams. enthusiastic phone calls. rejection letters. the heat of stage lights. pulling pranks. restless sleep. cold showers. laughing until you’re crying. half-finished ideas. tiny apartments. velvet curtains. cheap alcohol.

tagged by: @exsecrabar and @arasanwar tagging: @dear-diary-of-disaster @thesmartassdetective @chaoticjoke & whoever wants to

[skiplo-wave]

That other anon talking about Kentucky and the sketchy white washed asian food on wheels does not surprise me. I was born and raised in Kentucky. Hell, we didn't even have Diary Queen. We had a Diary King🙄

I could write a non-fictional book, Skip. People would swear I making this shit up.

In the hills, which we always called it the hallows, where I was from, we didn't have internet or cable until we moved in 2005. We didn't have streetlights. It was pitch black at night. And the neighbors which was spread out in the woods, they was filled with scary racist sexist men. It was like a cult. You had to drive almost 1 hour to the nearest town. And a lot of the couples there in town, the guys would have mistresses and their wives would allow it. One of the baptist preachers also had a bunch of mistresses that he jokingly would call his wives. And it's no telling how many half-siblings was dating each other without known.

My parents moved there to get away from their parents. That's the only reason they was there. It was a two bedroom cabin with a outhouse for a bathroom. I lightly remember it. They was brought in a really bad situation, that was worse then the town they moved too believe it or not. Around 1983, my mom was like 13 years old and her creepy ass uncle was like "You are 13 and not married yet?". And so her dad and uncle made arrangements, trying to marry my mom off to her second cousin. But my mom refused it. And she ended up living with her grandma - my great-grandma Sage as she was called - for a while because of it. They just kept pressuring her to marry. I don't know how legal it was back then but wtf. When she was 14, she met my dad and they didn't get together until they was 16 (1986). Her dad knew his dad, so they decided to try to arrange them to get married which ultimately they did but it was out of love otherwise, again, my mom would had fought against it. My mom moved back home after her grandma died around this time. And so her parents decided to have a quilting for her which is something they did back then when a girl gets to a certain age. And then they had a coming out party where it was kinda like a southern ball type of thing where they was serving MINORS ALCOHOL BTW. And that's where they arranged my mom and dad. They got married and they took off with what little money they had. They didn't want to raise their kids in that situation.

You:

My lizard brain: They don’t have Dairy Queen

[scrb1a]

inner child

It isn't healing anymore. The inner child is a parasite. I find a photo of you and she licks at my fingers,

swallowing each one whole as I thumb through old diary entries, working on my legs as I walk to the house you would rot in taking my chest as it heaves at the loss of

You, my melancholia memorabilia, You, my slit-wrist superstar, You, my tiny-waist triumph.

She has stolen my eyes and I am blinded in the fog of recollection. You stand ten, twenty feet away… you are shimmering, beautiful… the streetlights call out in dangerous colour, crawling, waiting to demolish, illuminating what was once holy in the crimson sin of love.

[cosmicdreamt]

“📔” (Write about the bestie....)

Dear Diary ( Accepting ) || @pluviacuratio

You know...it's kinda funny.

I was trying to remember when it was that I first met Bella...but I couldn't. And I find it weird that some people you can remember exactly how it happened and some you can't...but both people will be just as important to you. Some people make such a profound first impression which I feel is what most people tend to think of when it comes to relationships. That you should remember the exact moment someone made a difference in your life.

But what about the ones where it happens quiet?

The ones where one minute they weren't there and the next you wonder how you even had a life without them in it. The ones that it suddenly hits you just how much they mean to you and just how much you know about each other. The ones that come into your life like the seasons change instead of a sudden storm - when there's that one day in particular when you ask yourself when did it finally become Spring after dealing with the Winter cold for so long.

That's Bella to me.

She's not a torrential downpour but that gentle spring rain. That light drizzle you don't notice until a stray raindrop finally hits you, but you realize that weather is the most refreshing it could ever be. That calming breeze on a warm day and that moment the streetlights turn on reminding you just how late it's gotten.

And once again I'm reminded of just how special the little things are ( height pun not intended ). An entrance doesn't need to be intense to be meaningful. It just has to be.

[the-darkmess]

February 13th 2013 was 10 years ago. It was also the night I was kicked out of my mother's place for the last time.

I was 12, it was just past midnight and I was supposed to be putting away my laundry. I was not doing that, but instead playing my favorite game on my DS.

Unsurprisingly my mother was unhappy that I was playing games and not doing my chores, but she never really was one for finding a punishment that fit the crime. She blew up at me, screamed, threw stuff in my room at me so hard that they shattered against the wall.

I ran downstairs to get away from her and she told me that I should be running, cause it was no longer my home and I needed to find someone new to take care of me.

Now at 12, this was not my first time being kicked out by her, and this time I had a plan. I grabbed my winter boots (I had been kicked out while shoeless before) and my backpack for school the next day, and I got out.

It was about 1am in mid February in Canada, and the snow was high than my knees and continued to fall. I knew I needed to find shelter since I had no coat with me, only my pajamas and boots. The complex I was in has a shelter where we would sort out recycling to be picked up. There was cover, and light, and it seemed as good of a place than any to stay until school the next day.

Out of my backpack I took out a little diary, only used to document my mother's anger. This was instructed by a worker at CSA, because in past incidents they never had enough evidence to make her stop.

My hands were numb from the cold and I remember I was using Crayola pencil crayons to write with out of lack of actual pencils.

An older Indian woman came in to put her recycling away and found a sobbing 12yo sobbing and shivering in her pyjamas. She took me in.

I did not recognize her, but it turns out she only lived a few doors down from me. I called my dad, and she and her daughters made me a strange spicy hot chocolate. Her house was covered in hand embroidered silk pillows, that felt interesting under my numb fingers.

My dad called back and sent a cab to pick me up. I thanked the woman profusely and she gave me her number if I ever needed help again.

The cab driver was obviously uncomfortable as we drove in silence across the city. The snow was yellow under the streetlights.

Getting to my dad's I explained to him everything that had happened. I changed into dry pjs and went to bed. I did not sleep.

At about 4:30 dad came upstairs and sat on the foot of my bed in the dark. He told me my mother had called the police and that they were on their way.

He told me it was time I knew and explained how they broke up when I was a baby. I was not the first person my mother abused.

The police came, and although my dad, a black man, spoke quietly, I could hear him tell them that if they were going to take me back to her that they were going to have to do it by force.

We all went downstairs and I explained to the police what happened that night.

My dad played the message he woke up to around 2am. His child sobbing incoherently from a number he did not recognize.

Satisfied after a few hours the police let me go back to bed. The sun had risen and I did not sleep. I wasn't cold anymore but I couldn't stop shivering.

The police drove me back to my mother's house before school. She was not there, but the house was a wreck and smashed stuff was everywhere. Me and an officer went to my room to pick up a few things of mine. I collect the stuff I needed, but also a dress. It was now very early on Valentine's Day and we had a dance scheduled at school.

I looked for my DS that had started the whole thing. I had bought it for myself with my own money at 11. It was missing from the wreckage... Except for the right bumper piece, broken off.

The police officer escorted me to school. Nobody asked me why, they didn't have to.

I went though the day in a blur. I danced, I ate junk food. In the back of my head I feared my mom would show up and take me away. She had a knack for making a scene in front of my friends at school.

I did not see her for a week. She brought me cupcakes, and a shiny new 3ds (a better model!)

She never admitted to breaking my old one. Years later I asked her what happened to it, pretending that I didn't know what she had done. Distance had helped our relationship after I started living with my dad. I had a new hope that she would tell me the truth.

She told me she didn't remember.

And it was probably true, she never remembered.

[godmodebeginswithlesbians]

10 songs you like that everyone should go listen to right now, GO

UHHHHH

wild roses by of monsters and men

the ghost of you by my chemical romance

sloom by of monsters and men

organs by of monsters and men

slow it down by the lumineers

sugar in a bowl by of monsters and men

the diary of jane by breaking benjamin

so cold by breaking benjamin

i will not bow by breaking benjamin

a moment of silence/a moment of violence by streetlight manifesto (technically 2 songs but its more like one song that was split into 2 tracks?)