Look, I donāt mindĀ romantic relationships. Lots of people like them, lots of people have a lot of fun shipping things and thatās fine.Ā
I would just like to be able to find something that doesnāt have to be about shipping. I feel like everyone is obsessed with romantic relationships and insists on putting them on a higher pedestalĀ than platonic ones and that makes me really salty.Ā
Especially transforming platonic relationships into romantic ones becauseĀ āwe could be moreāĀ Ā or leaving friendships by the wayside whenever a love interest takes the screen.Ā
Maybe Iām just lonely and bitter and want to imagine a world where I can have an entirely platonic relationship without yet more people projecting romance onto it.Ā
If someone has mistreated you, it isnāt because you deserved it. You didnāt deserve to be abused or manipulated or abandoned or lied to. You didnāt bring this upon yourself. You are not to blame for someone elseās actions.Ā
If I were to try and spell out all of the issues I have with school and learning Iād be in for a novel-length post. During my final year of high school (10th grade) I had cut out my bad friend and I was doing better, but I was still really struggling to get my feet back under me while life marched on.Ā
I told my mom I wanted to try home schooling again and I dropped out to try an online program. In the end, I didnāt really....doĀ any of the work because the issues I had with studying and school were still there and being at home with little to no supervision let me get away with not doing it. So essentially, I quit school in the second half of tenth grade.Ā
Iāve tried on and off for years to get my GED, but every time I get discouraged and frustrated and my depression spikes back to school levels.Ā
Ā I would hit myself and scratch myself. When I was younger I broke my own glasses because of how I would bounce my fists against the sides of my head. In my final years of school, I was so worn out and discouraged that I simply gave up on trying. If I didnāt try, I couldnāt be disappointed when I failed. It would be my choiceĀ to fail, not because I was too stupid to succeed.Ā
A lot of my problems stem from my momās less than stellar treatment of me, but my school-specific issues can find common root in my second grade teacher.Ā
Ms. W was quite frankly, very emotionally abusive of me.Ā
Every time I took a little bit too long to finish a worksheet i was shouted at and humiliated.Ā āWhy is it taking you so long Kim? Everyone else is done? why arenāt you?āĀ
Every time I raised my hand to ask a questionĀ āwhy are you disturbing my class? Everyone else is trying to learn and youāre interrupting them.āĀ
She would hover over my desk watching me work, waiting for me to make a mistake so that she could yell at me some more.Ā
I got yelled at if my desk was unorganized
If my handwriting was bad
if I took too long to come in from recess.Ā
Second grade was the only time in my entire school career that I was ever sent to the principalās office for disciplinary reasons. The only trouble I got into after second grade was one detention for chewing gum in class.Ā
And do you think that my mom was pleased with me being sent to the principal forĀ āmisbehavingā?? (in reality, I had been one day late on a worksheet, or my desk was still disorganized after she asked me to clean it, or she felt that I wasĀ āsassing herā as if I would ever talk back to an adult) Being sent to the principal was the least of my worries.Ā
Ms. W used every chance she had to get me in more trouble at home on top of all of the things I suffered in school. She would call my mom, she would send note after note, once she called my mom to the school personally so that I could be in trouble with both of them at the same time.Ā
I was in second grade.Ā
I was eightĀ at the most.Ā
That time I broke my glasses? was in second grade. I started hitting myself at eight. It was rare, sure, only on the worst days, but I was an eight year old dealing with outright bullying from a teacher.Ā
I had no idea that this wasnāt my fault. For yearsĀ I believed that I was just a terrible, trouble making kid in the second grade. Looking back on it now, putting another child in my circumstances, its easy to see what the truth is.Ā
But back then, I learned what I was taught. From second grade onward I was terrified of my teachers, of getting in trouble, of asking them for help.Ā
To this day, trying to have someone help me with a question makes me feel stupid and frustrated and I lash out at them even if they donāt deserve it. Because Ms. W wouldĀ āhelpā me while berating me for even needingĀ help the entire time. She made me feel stupid for not knowing the things she wouldnāt bother to teach me.Ā
Every time I get a question wrong I hear her words in my own voice, echoing through the years.Ā
I used to love learning. First grade was the first year Iād been to school and I was utterly in love with it. My teacher, Mr. S was kind and funny and patient. But after that year, school was just one more hell where I was trapped by adults who I was afraid would turn out to be the same as Ms. W.Ā
It sounds stupid maybe but it makes me really sad and depressed when I don't receive the love I try to give others, and then nothing can make me happy again and I just keep crying which also annoys others and I am too clingy to others, but I just can't help it..I don't know what to do.
Hello, sunshine!
I donāt think this is stupid at all, especially because I know how it feels, it does hurt a lot! Donāt ever invalidate your feelings, instead, embrace it andĀ know that meanwhile itās not a good thing and itās not that healthy, itās still how you feel and it matters, donāt be mean to yourself because of it, just learn how to feel better, work on it.Ā
I really think you should try to be more independent and have more self-love, itāll really help you with this struggle and stop being harsh on yourself. Itās really hard to start being by ourselves more often, but itās highly needed, we need to have ourselves, our company, and feel good with it. It all stars very slow, but trust me, itās worth it to make the first step, you wonāt magically change, but someday youāll know youāve changed.
Take some time to do something you like, go out to do something you like by yourself, correct your own mean thoughts about yourself, sometimes we feel awful but just that thought ofĀ āI feel awful, but I know Iām worth it, so Iāll wait until I can think normallyā saves us. Iām 100% sure youāll find someone who wonāt treat you any bad for being who you are, but until then you need to start to learn how to love yourself and know that you donāt need everyoneās affection to be a good and sweet person as you are!Ā
I wish you all the best, my dear, I really do. Please spend more time with yourself, count on yourself more often. And of course that if you can you really should go to therapy too, it helps so much! <3
I feel guilty and lazy if Iām not doing something productive every minute of my day and I have a hard time choosing a thing to do.
I want to do something productive, but all options are either un-doable or not satisfying.Ā
Solutions:Ā
More research for Ascendant Publishing
Work on Woodsong or RemnantĀ
Work on smaller writing projects and promptsĀ
Work on house cleaning
Complication 1: Ascendant is at the editors for basically two more weeks and then Iām going to have to deal with publishing it. Having a large project like Woodsong or Remnant hanging over my head unfinished during that is just going to make me guilty and more stressed and thatās the last thing I need.Ā
Complication 2: Researching publishing and formatting stuff is just going to make me more frustrated because thereās no possible way Iāll be able to remember all of that shit by the time Iām ready to use it.Ā
Complication 3: Working on smaller projects will be satisfying in the short term but they donāt add anything long term and Iāll finish them in basically a day, leaving me back at this same exact fucking problem.Ā
Complication 4: House cleaning is in a weird limbo of guilt and resentment at the moment as I try to come to terms with the emotional mess of feeling guilty over not doing everything anymore and the logical part of me that knows that it was not a sustainable system. But in the aftermath of The TalkĀ not much has actually...changed? really? and thatās its own emotion tangle.Ā
In general today is just a :/ kind of day and I donāt know how to fix it. I already ate so its probably not that and Iām just tired today. I woke up with the intention of really hitting the productivity this week but here I am.Ā
I was never the pretty girl. Thatās not to say people didnāt find me attractive, or that I didnāt think of myself that way. But āprettyā was never my defining characteristic. I was the smart girl. Or sometimes the thoughtful girl.
And honestly, Iāve always been grateful for this. I have lived the last 20 years of my life flying under the radar. I live in sneakers and jeans. I almost never wear makeup. In my high school days, I could wake up and be out the door in 15 minutes flat if I had to be, and Iād look pretty much the same as I always do. I take care of myself, but Iāve rarely felt pressure to look perfect the way some others do.
Now Iām on Fet and dating sites and whatnot. And I get these messages, using words like pretty and gorgeous and beautiful. My immediate reaction is an eye roll and the delete button. But listen, itās not that I donāt believe these words. Itās not a rejection of these words used in relation to me. My self-esteem is just fine. No, that first reaction is driven by one thought: This person has completely missed the point of me.
I am a girl who traffics in words and ideas. Maybe that comes from a lifetime of being the smart girl. But being called pretty feels like a compliment of something that isnāt really me. Itās just this body that I carry around, no better or worse than anyone elseās. But my words and ideas are me. They are how I feel seen and valued. This is why there are 70 writings on my Fet profile but only 6 pictures. Because my words feel more me than my body does.
Thatās not to say I never feel pretty or never want to hear it. But even then, itās not about how I look; itās about what I give. I feel pretty when Iām kneeling in perfect posture for the one who owns me. I feel pretty when Iām covered in sweat and cum and tears and bruises. I feel pretty when my appearance reflects who I am in the deepest corners of my soulāendless devotion and blissful service. And then if my Dominant looks down at me and calls me beautifulā¦well, in that moment, I feel it with ever fiber of my being.
But if you donāt know me like thatāif we havenāt shared those intensely intimate momentsāthen donāt call me pretty. It means nothing to me. Engage with me about something I value. Challenge my ideas, or add your own perspective to them. Tell me about something that matters to you. Show me you value my mind. Without that, youāll never get access to my body.
to anyone struggling with depression and/or anxiety: things get better. i swear. iāve been through some terrible things and i also didnāt think iād get over anything, but i did. just know that some people recover faster than others, so donāt lose hope. i love you.
This was a writing exercize/prompt fill that turned out pretty self indulgent and d/s-y so I didnāt really want to post it on my actual writing blog but I still wanted to post it so here we go.Ā
Iām still a little bit :/ at it because it didnāt follow my original vision of the project, it turned out more plotty and less blatantly self-indulgent at some point. I had fun working on it though even if it was frustrating at times and I almost felt like giving up on it.Ā
@christiandomme was really encouraging though and Iām glad I stuck it out until the finished product.Ā
CHARACTERS:Ā
Real name: Beatrice Shepherd
Superhero name: Luna
Powers: Super strength, invisibility
Touched an alien artifact that gave her powers five years ago.
A wealthy businessman, currently using a loophole in the law to require registration of heroes and using his charm to bring some onto his side despite his long supervillainous history.
Small disclaimer: there's a lot of D/s overtones and such but this is not really an advisable relationship roadmap. Real relationships should involve talks, negotiation, enthusiastic verbal consent etc. If I continue writing for this verse we'll probably get to that but for now I'm just using this as a playground. In general, please donāt kidnap people without prior consent
***
Her head throbs in time with the beating of her heart. As the blood rushes through her veins, it finds its way to every ache and pain. She aches from head to toe, there are sharper pains in her shoulders and ankle.
Opening her eyes seems like a titanic effort so she doesnāt bother with it. Instead, she focuses on what she hears. Fluid rushing, bubbles rising, a steady tapping from somewhere to her left. An intermittent whirr, high, then low. The chime of a computer, fingers against a keyboard.
A hospital?
A lab?
Beatrice digs into her memories, she was definitely in a fight of some kind, but had she won or lost?
Lost. her mind informs her. Thoroughly and completely. Ā She remembers men streaming into her living room, flashing lights, barked orders. Darts filled with some kind of drug that had taken away her strength and her invisibility.
Sheād gotten out though, jumped from the fire escape, run into the night.
Sheād goneā¦.somewhere. The train? She can remember the vague impression of uncomfortable benches and the sound of the rails. Had the men found her there?
No, she doesnāt think so. She remembers stumbling off, realizing that she was still in her mismatched socks instead of boots. Realizing that she was leaving a trail of bloody footprints as she went.
But it wasnāt the men who found her, was it? She doesnāt remember seeing them again, but her memories are dim and vague. There is only one way to find out.
Slowly, she cracks one eye open, barely enough to see through. The room is massive, even from what little of it she can see.
There is a lot of lab equipment around, but the room lacks the stark, sterile atmosphere that Beatrice would expect from someone well equipped enough to send what amounted to a swat team after her.
There are webs of string and photographs hung on the wall opposite where she lays. Newspaper headlines, blacked out papers with classified stamped over them in red ink. Beatrice stares at the faces in the photographs and realizes that she recognizes them.
People sheās worked with, people sheās fought against, people sheās only heard of through stories or the news. At the center is Adrian Minsk. It is only when she sees his face that she puts it all together.
Someone has been keeping track of the Act. Or rather, someone else has been keeping track of it.
Beatrice chooses not to acknowledge that whoever this is, their web is far more organized and detailed than her own. Sheās pretty sure theyāve color-coded the strings.
She props herself up on her elbows, her head spins and her arms ache. It is strange to feel her muscles strain with her own weight, unsettling in a way that makes her heart want to skip. Itās been years since she felt this weak.
She winces and raises a hand to her head. Her fingers touch gauze and the wound beneath stings. Ā Ā
No mask.
For a second, she nearly panics, then she remembers. Sheād hung up Lunaās mask in favor of her undercover persona. Even if she hadnāt, there wasnāt time to grab shoes much less gear up.
Beatrice lowers herself back to the mattress. So much for her secret identity.
She turns her head and finds herself staring into the blank white eyes of the Phantom. Her heart catches in her throat, and she freezes, hardly daring to breathe. It takes her too long to realize that the costume is empty, standing on a pedestal behind a glass wall. Phantomās trailing cape is still, not caught in the impossible breeze that always surrounded her.
Beatrice sits up and drops her feet to the cold floor.
āDonāt,ā says a too familiar voice.
Even out of costume, the Phantom is intimidating. She doesnāt look like she should be. She looks like a perfectly normal woman, her hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, wearing a loose-fitting sweater over simple black leggings. Without the cape, she seems smaller even. Her face isnāt hidden behind the inscrutable mask and empty white eyes.
Somehow, she still looks dangerous.
Which is probably a good thing because the mask was never what made Phantom dangerous.
Beatrice staggers to her feet, biting her lip hard enough to taste blood when her legs nearly give out under her. Her mind whites out from the pain in her right ankle and the soles of her feet. She doesnāt let herself go down. She canāt afford to go down.
Her powers are still gone, sheās injured and in the middle of one of Phantomās hideouts. If she learned one thing over her career, it was that you never wanted to be in one of Phantomās hideouts.
She turns on one heel and limps as quickly as she can deeper into the room. She hears Phantom mutter a curse behind her and then the softer tap of her boots against the floor.
Beatrice doesnāt get far, her head is spinning, everything is painful, and Phantom has always been faster than her. She slips at the first corner, gauze has no grip on the polished floors and Phantom is on her before she has a chance to try and scramble to her feet.
For a confusing moment, thereās only the pounding of her heart, the frantic scramble of her limbs and the strength of Phantomās hands around her wrists. Her head smacks against the concrete, her elbow hits the corner of something, a table or a machine. Her heart is beating too loud, too fast. Her thoughts canāt keep up with whatās happening.
It's over embarrassingly quickly. Beatriceās hands are crossed over her chest, held by one of Phantomās hands.
Before, she could have broken out of this hold without a thought. Now she can only kick futilely, trying to bend enough to unbalance Phantom.
āStop,ā Phantom commands.
Beatrice wants to spit something defiant at her, but sheās out of breath as it is and Phantom isnāt budging no matter how much she bucks and twists. Instead, she glares up at her, daring her to try something as though she could actually do something if Phantom decided to kill her now.
Phantom hasnāt been one for murder in the past, that at least is a comfort.
āI didnāt do all of that work for you to hurt yourself more,ā Phantom says, something stern in her voice. āAnd I certainly didnāt do it so that I could hurt you myself. Calm down.ā
āIāll show you calm,ā Beatrice snarls and she tries to twist her body enough to kick Phantom in the head.
āLuna,ā Phantom presses her further into the concrete, āstop. It's not going to work.ā
A thrill of fear races down Beatriceās spine. It isnāt going to work. She has no strength, no invisibility, no backup. She is completely at Phantomās mercy. Her next breath comes out shaky and soft.
As if sensing her understanding, Phantom loosens her grip. Not letting her go entirely, but not pinning her against the floor anymore. āLook,ā Phantom says, āone of my contacts saw you wandering around, half dressed and half-conscious and brought you to me. Thatās all. Whatever happened, it wasnāt me.ā
āHow do I know that?ā Beatrice asks, her voice is softer than she thinks it should be. Too close to scared. Weakness like that gets you killed in the superhero game.
āYou have my word,ā Phantom answers, āyou know I donāt lie.ā
āUnless you need to.ā
āThis time I donāt need to, because I didnāt attack you. Or hire anyone else to attack you.ā
āLet me go then.ā Beatrice tries to wrench her wrists out of Phantomās grip. She doesnāt let go.
āNo.ā
Beatriceās heart leaps into her throat, she surges against Phantom, but Phantom is prepared and pushes her back to the floor as if Beatrice were a paper blown by the wind. āWhat are you doing?ā Beatrice snaps, straining against her. A few days ago, a few hours ago this wouldnāt have been possible. She hates this, hates being weak, being injured, being trapped here with Phantom, not knowing what sheāll do.
āLuna, stop and think. Who has the most reason to attack you?ā Phantom doesnāt give her a chance to answer, āMinsk is rounding up every superhero he can get his hands on. He knows your civilian identity, and he either already has your allies or heās setting up to do the same to them as he did to you. Where are you going to go?ā
Beatrice opens her mouth and then shuts it. Phantom is right. She knows that she is bad at undercover ops, and there are plenty of her former friends and allies that were--despite everything--swayed to Minskās side. Any one of them could have identified her, could have given her up. Ā
She canāt just wander the city until he finds her. Canāt risk exposing anyone else to attack by hiding with them. Ā
āIāll fight him.ā She says even though she knows it's absolutely stupid. The reason she was going undercover in the first place was that she couldnāt take him down on her own, and that was before she lost a fight to his goons.
Phantom doesnāt even dignify that with an answer, only pins her with a look part stern and part sympathetic. āThatās exactly why Iām not letting you leave.ā
āIām your prisoner then?ā
āGuest.ā
āA guest that canāt leave.ā
āNot yet. Iām not trying to keep you forever, Luna. You canāt even walk right now. Heal, and if you can think of a better plan by the time youāre better I wonāt stop you from leaving. Alright?ā Phantom slackens her grip as if to prove her good intentions.
āFine,ā Beatrice snaps, looking away. āNow get off me.ā
Phantom obeys, but she stays hovering nearby as Beatrice sits up. The bed seems painfully far away, her feet are sore just thinking about it. Before she can try to stand though, Phantomās hands are around her shoulders.
Beatrice finches away at first, as though Phantom will suddenly turn on her now that she has her trust.
āYouāre not walking that far by yourself,ā Phantom says, āyou were close to a fractured ankle before all of this.ā
As much as it rankles her pride, Beatrice does have to lean on Phantom as she limps towards the bed. It's not really a bed so much as it is a mattress on the floor, and Beatrice privately suspects that Phantom sleeps on it when she spends too much time in the lab and canāt bother to go wherever her real bed is.
Phantom doesnāt just dump her on the bed and go back to what she was doing like Beatrice was hoping she would though. Instead, she steps briefly away and returns with a first aid kit. At Beatriceās look, she says āyou reopened the stitches on your forehead. And your lip is bleeding.ā
Beatrice opens her mouth to argue but Phantom holds up a hand. āEven I donāt know what might be on these floors after all these years. Iām disinfecting it. And your feet.ā
She takes Beatriceās scowl as permission and unwraps the bandage around her right ankle. Without support, Beatrice can feel how close she was to a fracture. She hisses a breath between her teeth. Phantom works fast, thankfully. As sheās re-wrapping the last bandage, Phantom asks, āwhen was the last time you had a tetanus shot?ā
āA couple of years ago,ā Beatrice says vaguely because she doesnāt actually remember.
āHm,ā Phantom says in a tone that means she doesnāt believe her at all. Beatrice ignores it, looking away so she can scowl at the wall.
She nearly jumps out of her skin when Phantomās hand wraps around her jaw and forces her head back around. Phantom doesnāt let her jerk away, her fingers tighten and Beatrice is suddenly aware of how close they are to her throat.
This close, she can see flecks of gold in Phantomās brown eyes. āDonāt move.ā Phantom orders and peels away the bandage from Beatriceās forehead. The adhesive catches a few hairs but Beatrice doesnāt let herself flinch.
Phantom tilts her head to get better light, one hand absently resting on Beatriceās shoulder, halfway holding her down, halfway holding herself up. From the corner of her eye, Beatrice can see her wince. She keeps one hand on Beatriceās chin and gently probes the cut with the other.
Reflexively, she hisses and jerks her head away, one hand grasping Phantomās wrist.
Phantom doesnāt let her go, āalmost done.ā The disinfectant stings, but true to her word, after that Phantom puts a new bandage over the wound and steps away.
āPhantom--ā
āOlivia.ā Ā
āWhat?ā
āIām not wearing the mask, my name is Olivia, not Phantom.ā
Beatrice hesitates for a moment, taken aback. She supposes it doesnāt really matter, Phantom--Olivia--has been caught and arrested a few times. Her civilian identity isnāt exactly a secret at this point. āOlivia, why did you do all of this?ā
Olivia tilts her head and mask or not that gesture is all Phantom. āBecause believe it or not, Ā I hate Adrian Minsk just as much as you do, and Iām not about to let him get his hands on another hero.ā
Part of Beatrice wants to argue on the principle of the thing, but she knows for a fact that Phantom and Minsk have never once publicly worked together. Not exactly a declaration of a blood feud, but Phantom has always been quiet about her intentions and motivations.
Slowly, Beatrice leans back against the pillows. Olivia rolls a desk chair over and sits with one knee crossed over the other, her elbows resting on the arms and fingers interlaced in front of her chest. āGround rules,ā she says, āyouāre not walking unless it's absolutely necessary. If you need something, ask me. Donāt do the whole tragic hero thing. In this lab weāre practical.ā
Beatrice feels almost like she should be offended, but she has also witnessed Infinityman staggering across his apartment with only a line of stitches between his insides and the outside world. Ā
Olivia is looking at her like she knows her exact thought process. Beatrice chooses to ignore it.
Olivia smiles faintly and turns the chair away. āIāve got a tablet here if youāre bored,ā she says, āI wonāt be far.ā
***
Living with a supervillain is a surprisingly...mundane experience. Olivia mostly keeps to herself outside of checking in or meals. She seems consumed with some sort of lab work in what Beatrice has mentally labeled the ābiologyā side of the lab. A quiet part of her is amused by the fact that the tiny living space seems to have been sorted into this section.
Meals are the only time they really interact. Olivia is a surprisingly good cook, which is a strange thing to learn about someone who once threw Beatrice through a window. It's never anything complicated, but the food is less burnt than anything Beatrice makes.
She just has a hard time remembering to take things out of the oven, is all.
Meals are a mostly quiet affair, and between that and the distance Olivia puts between them, Beatrice almost wonders if sheās being given space, or if Olivia simply considers her obligation to spite Minsk fulfilled by taking Beatrice out from under him. Olivia does occasionally begin a conversation though and she seems enthusiastic when Beatrice tries to contribute.
Breakfast and lunch are almost relaxing in a way, but dinner is poisoned by a quiet tension that Beatrice canāt bring herself to banish. After the dishes have been cleared, Olivia pulls out the large first aid kit and sets about checking Beatriceās injuries and changing her bandages.
Tonight is the third night of her ārecoveryā and despite knowing what is coming, Beatrice canāt help but feel a thrill of surprise when Oliva pulls the first aid kit out from under the bed.
It is one thing to eat beside your enemy, or even to talk to them in a casual way, it is another to sit quietly while their hands hover over easy weaknesses. Beatrice never wishes that her strength would return more than in these moments.
Aside from these moments though, the only refuge Beatrice has from bored is the tablet that Olivia let her borrow. She doesnāt dare log into anything, partially out of a half hearted attempt to preserve her identity--Olivia still refers to her as āLunaā rather than her real name but sheās sitting on Oliviaās bed with no mask, thereās a point where Beatrice has to acknowledge that her identity has been exposed.
Olivia isnāt the real threat though. Beatrice is sure that Minsk has all of her accounts monitored by now. Likely has had them monitored since she disappeared, any activity on any of them will alert him.
Beatrice plays countless mind-numbing rounds of the default games on the tablet, fingers tapping anxiously at the edges as she does. The endless rows of tiles arenāt enough to distract her mind.
She is pretty sure that Minsk wonāt be able to find the files of evidence she has on him. The storage card was taped to the back of an old school ID in an empty purse. She had still been a bit thrilled with the thought of herself going undercover when sheād devised the hiding spot and hadnāt bothered to change it as time went by. Sheās glad for it now, even though sheād felt like it was overkill sometimes.
She only wishes that sheād also made a copy as backup. Thereās little chance of her sneaking the card out now, even if she could walk. Even if she werenāt Phantomās āguestā. As long as sheās missing, Minsk will have her apartment watched. Especially if he hasnāt found the data.
She doesnāt have to worry about her allies--those that are left--she had gone undercover without telling anyone. Only made vague mentions of retiring and hanging up the mask. Besides, most of her allies can take care of themselves, even against Minsk.
The ones sheās really worried about though are those who canāt defend themselves. Her grandparents run a rescue ranch across the state and now that Minsk knows her identity, he knows about them too.
She closes out of the game, unable to control the worries any longer and opens the internet app. Her fingers hesitate over the keys. Minsk might have ignored them, assumed they were distant relatives and not worth his attention.
She types the name of their town and searches for missing persons. They arenāt listed.
Its only been three days, though. She doesnāt know how often they get visitors to the ranch. Even if someone was trying to drop off an animal, would they know enough about the ranch to know that her grandparents should be there?
It could be weeks before anyone noticed them missing.
Beatrice opens a new tab and pulls up the ranch website. Her eyes flick over the home page, finger hovering over the bold ācontact usā icon.
The front page is rarely updated, adoptions and other such things were changed, obviously, but the front page of their website had been the same since Beatrice was in high school.
Today, it has a bold red banner across it: āThank you to our new benefactor, Adrian Minsk.ā Ā
She touches it and the link brings up an article from the local paper.
Philanthropist Adrian Minsk Opens New Doors for Abused Animals Ā Ā
There is a picture of Minsk with a friendly arm around her grandmotherās shoulders, giving her grandfather a firm shake of the hand, smiling out of the tabletās screen.
He has them. They may not even know that theyāre hostages, but Beatrice knows. Minsk has always known how to work the press to his advantage.
Beatrice tries to read the article, but her hands are shaking and her eyes are blurred with tears.
ā--na? Luna?ā The tablet slips out of her fingers and Beatrice stares at her knees. There are too many thoughts spinning through her head. Her grandparents are in danger. The whole town might be in danger, Minsk has never cared for collateral damage in the past, why start now?
She imagines the streets she grew up on, eerily empty, buildings hollow. Her grandparentsā ranch, where sheād grown up, silent and abandoned. The animals dead, her grandparents missing forever.
If Minsk wanted someone to disappear, they were simply gone. There wouldnāt even be an investigation. The local police will simply declare them missing, perhaps tell people that theyād probably wandered out into the back fields and had some sort of accident. Or gone on vacation and simply never returned.
Anyone who looked into their deaths would vanish too. No one could stand against Minsk, not when he wanted something. Or someone. Ā
Right now, he wants her, wants the evidence she has against him.
The world shudders, rattling her teeth. Beatrice realizes that thereās hands on her shoulders and she shakes herself out of her thoughts. Phantom is standing in front of her, too close, Beatrice jerks back.
Olivia has the tablet in one hand, the other resting on Beatriceās shoulder. āLuna, whatās going on?ā
āHe has my family.ā Beatrice croaks, her thoughts fall into order. She has to get them back, and the only way to get them out of Minskās hands is to turn herself in. Thatās what he wants, thatās why heās taken them.
A deal.
She can almost imagine his voice, cool and smooth, like a snake, āI have something you want, you have something I want, I donāt see why we canāt work it out and walk away as friends.ā His blinding billionaire smile, with too many teeth to be friendly.
She only realizes that Olivia has left when she returns. The tablet is gone, but Beatrice doesnāt care, she already knows what she has to do. She stands despite the pain and tries to brush past Olivia. She doesnāt care about what the Phantom might do to her now.
She should have though because as she passes, Olivia murmurs, āIām sorry.ā and something cold wraps around her wrist.
Time slows down as Beatrice realizes a second too late what Olivia has done. She twists on her heel, shoving Oliviaās hands away, as though that will help now. Olivia makes a sharp gesture and tosses a square at the wall over the bed.
The cuff on Beatriceās wrist beeps cheerily and drags her wrist-first to the anchor. Her feet tangle in the discarded blankets and her shoulder slams into the wall, rattling her teeth. Beatrice pays no mind, sheās already prying at the cuff, at the anchor, trying to separate them somehow.
Her heart is drumming in her ears, behind her eyes, all she can see is her grandparents with blank faces and bloody throats. Floating away, being buried, being burnt. Minsk has never lacked for way to make people disappear.
āHe wants me!ā Beatrice snarls, āI have to--ā She cuts herself off, getting her feet under herself and straining against the cuff. Her fingers dig into her own skin as they slide off of the smooth metal.
She misses Phantom coming up behind her until there is a hand pressing against the back of her neck, forcing her cheek to the wall. Another body caging hers against the wall.
āYouāll do exactly what he wants?ā Phantom asks, her voice is calm, controlled, infuriating. It isnāt her family on the line. She has no say in this. āThink Luna. If you turn yourself in, he wonāt let you go. Heāll know exactly how to control you and heās not going to give that up once he has you.ā
āIām not letting him kill them!ā Beatrice snarls, distantly, the logic makes sense. Minsk never holds to a bargain unless it benefits him. Even if he did let her grandparents go, there would always be a knife hovering at their throats, dependant on Beatriceās good behavior.
āYou have no powers,ā Phantom begins, āno backup, no plan, no bargaining chips. If you do this, youāre playing right into his hands and youāll never get out of it.ā
āTheyāre my family,ā her voice sounds dangerously close to a sob. The fear and fury are burning themselves out, making way for the hopeless reality of the situation.
āThereās nothing you can do,ā Phantom says, her voice is painfully kind. Beatrice grits her teeth against it.
āIt would be worth it.ā she says, clinging to the delusion that if she turned herself in, Minsk would let her grandparents go and never threaten them again.
āIt wouldnāt and you know it,ā Phantom says. āHeād make you give up your data on him, all of that evidence would be lost. We have to think about this logically.ā
Beatrice slumps against the wall and Phantomās fingers loosen on her neck, but they donāt leave. Beatrice turns to look at Phantom out of the corner of her eye, āwe?ā
āWe,ā Olivia says, her voice is steady and determined. āI told you, I hate Minsk just as much as you do, and Iām not letting him put another person in his pocket. Will you trust me?ā
For the chance to save her family, Beatrice had been willing to trust Adrian Minsk. Trusting Oliva is nothing next to that. She nods.
Hey LMS. I am a man and I have always been very masculine, like you. For the past several years, though, the idea of submitting to a woman has seemed just...right to me. Not even just sexually. I would want a full time BDSM relationship with a woman. But online, every time I see a male submissive they are always presented as being sort of stripped of their manhood, treated as weak. And that part isn't appealing to me. Can I be a male submissive and retain my masculinity? Is there a space for me?
Anon- itās been a while since I had a male submissive specific question, and this one in particular gives me a chance to say some things that need to be said, so thank you.
First- there is absolutely space for you in the BDSM world. If youāre looking online, Iām sure you do see a lot of forced feminization or emasculation, because the Internet is a visual medium and thatās the most convenient way for people to convey a reversal of traditional gender roles or just male submissiveness in general. But you have to remember that what youāre seeing is a lie. Not to say it doesnāt exist, mind you. But itās very much not the norm.
This is one of those areas where BDSMās online representation and BDSM reality are very different.
Here is the BDSM reality: the majority of male submissives look and dress and act like regular dudes that youād see anywhere else. The majority of male submissives retain 100% of their masculinity.
Iām a big fan of visualizations, so roll with me on this one: imagine a dog. A Rottweiler, specifically. Big. Strong. Powerful. Dangerous if provoked (but generally a big teddy bear). Now imagine that dog being walked down the street on a leash. Is the dog suddenly less big, strong, and powerful? Is it suddenly less capable of tearing you limb from limb if it wanted to? Of course not. The dog being on a leash doesnāt change its nature. And it wonāt change yours, either.
Back in Alabama, in one of the local kink communities I was part of, there was a really cool couple I knew. The female dominant was *maybe* 5 feet tall and probably didnāt weigh 100 pounds. The submissive male was roughly 6'3 and 250ish. All solid muscle. And he was a friendly dude, but you could also tell he was the queensguard. His domme was his to protect and serve and he did so with pride. Wasnāt a damn thing lacking in masculinity about this guy, I can tell you that.
My point is this: you can be a male submissive and retain 100% of your masculinity. Masculinity is determined by one person and one person only, and thatās you. Donāt buy into the bullshit myth that you have to act a certain way or drink a certain drink or wear certain clothes to be masculine. If youāre secure in your status as a man, none of that shit matters, and it sure as hell doesnāt matter if you choose to kneel to someone who is worthy.
Go forth and find your queen, brother. Make sure sheās worth your service, kneel and serve her well. There is honor in that. Never forget that.
House sitting for my aunt and uncle because Iām a moron
Itās been an hour and I hate this already. I knew I was going to hate this the minute I said yes but now Iām actually doing it and yeah, I was right, itās terrible.
The last time I house sat for them I managed to convince myself that someone had broken in and I spent like an hour hiding in a corner and crying before I called my parents.
So, thatās a fun situation to be back in.
Also just being in other peopleās places is generally an Anxiety Adventure on its own. Because Iām always afraid that I donāt know The Rules and Iām going to do something wrong. Theyāre gone so I donāt even have anyone to follow the lead of.
And Iām especially weird about food so I feel like I canāt eat anything which is gonna fuck with my blood sugar
And a thousand other little things that basically just add up to āthis isnāt my house and therefore Iām uncomfortableā
And itās cold.
And I donāt feel like I can grab a blanket.
The only good thing about this is that I get to hang out with the cat
Iām low-key hoping that I spontaneously develop my momās cat allergy so that I have a legitimate reason to leave.Ā
I wish people would stop asking me to do this for them. I hate house sitting with every fiber of my being but I donāt know how to say no apparently.Ā
Well, I managed to survive the night without getting murdered. I even got a little bit of sleep. Not much, between the cat being a weird ass dipshit and the fact that the dogs apparently canāt hold it through the night????Ā
why????
They woke me up twice to come let them out. What hell is this
House sitting for my aunt and uncle because Iām a moron
Itās been an hour and I hate this already. I knew I was going to hate this the minute I said yes but now Iām actually doing it and yeah, I was right, itās terrible.
The last time I house sat for them I managed to convince myself that someone had broken in and I spent like an hour hiding in a corner and crying before I called my parents.
So, thatās a fun situation to be back in.
Also just being in other peopleās places is generally an Anxiety Adventure on its own. Because Iām always afraid that I donāt know The Rules and Iām going to do something wrong. Theyāre gone so I donāt even have anyone to follow the lead of.
And Iām especially weird about food so I feel like I canāt eat anything which is gonna fuck with my blood sugar
And a thousand other little things that basically just add up to āthis isnāt my house and therefore Iām uncomfortableā
And itās cold.
And I donāt feel like I can grab a blanket.
The only good thing about this is that I get to hang out with the cat
Iām low-key hoping that I spontaneously develop my momās cat allergy so that I have a legitimate reason to leave.Ā
I wish people would stop asking me to do this for them. I hate house sitting with every fiber of my being but I donāt know how to say no apparently.Ā
I fucking hate it when youāre in such a fantastically giddy mood and then you see one simple little thing that makes you think, āohā and then you just get this empty feeling in your chest and you get nauseous and the world just crumbles and you want to just lay under a blanket and close your eyes and fall asleep and never wake up.Ā
From what my therapist told me, this happens because our emotions arenāt really on the āoppositeā ends like we tend to think of it. Happiness is not āupā and sadness is not ādownā-. In a way theyāre actually right ānextā to each other.
If youāre super happy, it can turn into super sad very easily, because your emotions are already highly elevated and itās only a very minor shift as far as your brain is concerned.
Knowing this can help you fight it, and it can help you be more aware of whatās going on while youāre happy and help avoid shifting towards misery.
I used to always wonder why it seemed like my happy days ācouldnāt lastā or that bad things would āalwaysā happen when I was happy. Itās not that happiness is doomed to fail, itās that emotions are volatile. I hope that helps people who experience this too- when you understand whatās going on more itās easier to manage.
House sitting for my aunt and uncle because Iām a moron
Itās been an hour and I hate this already. I knew I was going to hate this the minute I said yes but now Iām actually doing it and yeah, I was right, itās terrible.
The last time I house sat for them I managed to convince myself that someone had broken in and I spent like an hour hiding in a corner and crying before I called my parents.
So, thatās a fun situation to be back in.
Also just being in other peopleās places is generally an Anxiety Adventure on its own. Because Iām always afraid that I donāt know The Rules and Iām going to do something wrong. Theyāre gone so I donāt even have anyone to follow the lead of.
And Iām especially weird about food so I feel like I canāt eat anything which is gonna fuck with my blood sugar
And a thousand other little things that basically just add up to āthis isnāt my house and therefore Iām uncomfortableā
And itās cold.
And I donāt feel like I can grab a blanket.
The only good thing about this is that I get to hang out with the cat
Iām low-key hoping that I spontaneously develop my momās cat allergy so that I have a legitimate reason to leave.Ā
I wish people would stop asking me to do this for them. I hate house sitting with every fiber of my being but I donāt know how to say no apparently.Ā
House sitting for my aunt and uncle because Iām a moron
Itās been an hour and I hate this already. I knew I was going to hate this the minute I said yes but now Iām actually doing it and yeah, I was right, itās terrible.
The last time I house sat for them I managed to convince myself that someone had broken in and I spent like an hour hiding in a corner and crying before I called my parents.
So, thatās a fun situation to be back in.
Also just being in other peopleās places is generally an Anxiety Adventure on its own. Because Iām always afraid that I donāt know The Rules and Iām going to do something wrong. Theyāre gone so I donāt even have anyone to follow the lead of.
And Iām especially weird about food so I feel like I canāt eat anything which is gonna fuck with my blood sugar
And a thousand other little things that basically just add up to āthis isnāt my house and therefore Iām uncomfortableā
And itās cold.
And I donāt feel like I can grab a blanket.
The only good thing about this is that I get to hang out with the cat
Iām low-key hoping that I spontaneously develop my momās cat allergy so that I have a legitimate reason to leave.Ā
I wish people would stop asking me to do this for them. I hate house sitting with every fiber of my being but I donāt know how to say no apparently.Ā
A collection of Impossible Dreams @acollectionofimpossibledrea-blog - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
