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Look, I don’t mind romantic relationships. Lots of people like them, lots of people have a lot of fun shipping things and that’s fine. 

I would just like to be able to find something that doesn’t have to be about shipping. I feel like everyone is obsessed with romantic relationships and insists on putting them on a higher pedestal  than platonic ones and that makes me really salty. 

Especially transforming platonic relationships into romantic ones because “we could be more”  or leaving friendships by the wayside whenever a love interest takes the screen. 

Maybe I’m 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. 

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If someone has mistreated you, it isn’t because you deserved it. You didn’t deserve to be abused or manipulated or abandoned or lied to. You didn’t bring this upon yourself. You are not to blame for someone else’s actions. 

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Trying to get my GED (again)

If I were to try and spell out all of the issues I have with school and learning I’d 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. 

I told my mom I wanted to try home schooling again and I dropped out to try an online program. In the end, I didn’t really....do 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. 

I’ve 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. 

 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 didn’t try, I couldn’t be disappointed when I failed. It would be my choice to fail, not because I was too stupid to succeed. 

A lot of my problems stem from my mom’s less than stellar treatment of me, but my school-specific issues can find common root in my second grade teacher. 

Ms. W was quite frankly, very emotionally abusive of me. 

Every time I took a little bit too long to finish a worksheet i was shouted at and humiliated. “Why is it taking you so long Kim? Everyone else is done? why aren’t you?” 

Every time I raised my hand to ask a question “why are you disturbing my class? Everyone else is trying to learn and you’re interrupting them.” 

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. 

I got yelled at if my desk was unorganized

If my handwriting was bad

if I took too long to come in from recess. 

Second grade was the only time in my entire school career that I was ever sent to the principal’s office for disciplinary reasons. The only trouble I got into after second grade was one detention for chewing gum in class. 

And do you think that my mom was pleased with me being sent to the principal for ‘misbehaving’?? (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 was ‘sassing her’ as if I would ever talk back to an adult) Being sent to the principal was the least of my worries. 

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. 

I was in second grade. 

I was eight at the most. 

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. 

I had no idea that this wasn’t my fault. For years 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. 

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. 

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 don’t deserve it. Because Ms. W would “help” me while berating me for even needing help the entire time. She made me feel stupid for not knowing the things she wouldn’t bother to teach me. 

Every time I get a question wrong I hear her words in my own voice, echoing through the years. 

I used to love learning. First grade was the first year I’d 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. 

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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 don’t think this is stupid at all, especially because I know how it feels, it does hurt a lot! Don’t ever invalidate your feelings, instead, embrace it and  know that meanwhile it’s not a good thing and it’s not that healthy, it’s still how you feel and it matters, don’t be mean to yourself because of it, just learn how to feel better, work on it. 

I really think you should try to be more independent and have more self-love, it’ll really help you with this struggle and stop being harsh on yourself. It’s really hard to start being by ourselves more often, but it’s highly needed, we need to have ourselves, our company, and feel good with it. It all stars very slow, but trust me, it’s worth it to make the first step, you won’t magically change, but someday you’ll know you’ve 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 of “I feel awful, but I know I’m worth it, so I’ll wait until I can think normally” saves us. I’m 100% sure you’ll find someone who won’t 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 don’t need everyone’s affection to be a good and sweet person as you are! 

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!

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Rise of the Dreaded Productivity Tangle (TM)

The Problem: 

I feel guilty and lazy if I’m 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. 

Solutions:  More research for Ascendant Publishing

Work on Woodsong or Remnant 

Work on smaller writing projects and prompts 

Work on house cleaning

Complication 1: Ascendant is at the editors for basically two more weeks and then I’m 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 that’s the last thing I need. 

Complication 2: Researching publishing and formatting stuff is just going to make me more frustrated because there’s no possible way I’ll be able to remember all of that shit by the time I’m ready to use it. 

Complication 3: Working on smaller projects will be satisfying in the short term but they don’t add anything long term and I’ll finish them in basically a day, leaving me back at this same exact fucking problem. 

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 Talk  not much has actually...changed? really? and that’s its own emotion tangle. 

In general today is just a :/ kind of day and I don’t know how to fix it. I already ate so its probably not that and I’m just tired today. I woke up with the intention of really hitting the productivity this week but here I am. 

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Free Pug amigurumi Pattern!

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Don’t call me pretty.

I was never the pretty girl. That’s not to say people didn’t find me attractive, or that I didn’t think of myself that way. But “pretty” was never my defining characteristic. I was the smart girl. Or sometimes the thoughtful girl.

And honestly, I’ve 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 I’d look pretty much the same as I always do. I take care of myself, but I’ve rarely felt pressure to look perfect the way some others do.

Now I’m 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, it’s not that I don’t believe these words. It’s 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 isn’t really me. It’s just this body that I carry around, no better or worse than anyone else’s. 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.

That’s not to say I never feel pretty or never want to hear it. But even then, it’s not about how I look; it’s about what I give. I feel pretty when I’m kneeling in perfect posture for the one who owns me. I feel pretty when I’m 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 soul—endless devotion and blissful service. And then if my Dominant looks down at me and calls me beautiful…well, in that moment, I feel it with ever fiber of my being.

But if you don’t know me like that—if we haven’t shared those intensely intimate moments—then don’t 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, you’ll never get access to my body.

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[acollectionofimpossibledrea-blog]

to anyone struggling with depression and/or anxiety: things get better. i swear. i’ve been through some terrible things and i also didn’t think i’d get over anything, but i did. just know that some people recover faster than others, so don’t lose hope. i love you.

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Between Danger and Safety

This was a writing exercize/prompt fill that turned out pretty self indulgent and d/s-y so I didn’t really want to post it on my actual writing blog but I still wanted to post it so here we go. 

I’m still a little bit :/ at it because it didn’t 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. 

@christiandomme was really encouraging though and I’m glad I stuck it out until the finished product. 

CHARACTERS:  Real name: Beatrice Shepherd

Superhero name: Luna

Powers: Super strength, invisibility

Touched an alien artifact that gave her powers five years ago.

Real Name: Olivia Banks

Villain name: Phantom

Powers: suspected telepathy/telekinesis, highly intelligent

Origin unknown.

Real Name: Adrian Minsk

Other: N/A Powers: N/A

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 don’t 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 doesn’t 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.  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.

She’d gotten out though, jumped from the fire escape, run into the night.

She’d gone….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 doesn’t 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 wasn’t the men who found her, was it? She doesn’t 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 she’s worked with, people she’s fought against, people she’s 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. She’s pretty sure they’ve 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. It’s 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.   

No mask.

For a second, she nearly panics, then she remembers. She’d hung up Luna’s mask in favor of her undercover persona. Even if she hadn’t, there wasn’t 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. Phantom’s 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.

“Don’t,” says a too familiar voice.

Even out of costume, the Phantom is intimidating. She doesn’t 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 isn’t 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 doesn’t let herself go down. She can’t afford to go down.

Her powers are still gone, she’s injured and in the middle of one of Phantom’s hideouts. If she learned one thing over her career, it was that you never wanted to be in one of Phantom’s 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 doesn’t 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, there’s only the pounding of her heart, the frantic scramble of her limbs and the strength of Phantom’s 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 can’t keep up with what’s happening.

It's over embarrassingly quickly. Beatrice’s hands are crossed over her chest, held by one of Phantom’s 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.

“Stop,” Phantom commands.

Beatrice wants to spit something defiant at her, but she’s out of breath as it is and Phantom isn’t 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 hasn’t been one for murder in the past, that at least is a comfort.

“I didn’t do all of that work for you to hurt yourself more,” Phantom says, something stern in her voice. “And I certainly didn’t do it so that I could hurt you myself. Calm down.”

“I’ll show you calm,” Beatrice snarls and she tries to twist her body enough to kick Phantom in the head.

“Luna,” Phantom presses her further into the concrete, “stop. It's not going to work.”

A thrill of fear races down Beatrice’s spine. It isn’t going to work. She has no strength, no invisibility, no backup. She is completely at Phantom’s 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. “Look,” Phantom says, “one of my contacts saw you wandering around, half dressed and half-conscious and brought you to me. That’s all. Whatever happened, it wasn’t me.”

“How do I know that?” 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.

“You have my word,” Phantom answers, “you know I don’t lie.”

“Unless you need to.”

“This time I don’t need to, because I didn’t attack you. Or hire anyone else to attack you.”

“Let me go then.” Beatrice tries to wrench her wrists out of Phantom’s grip. She doesn’t let go.

“No.”

Beatrice’s 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. “What are you doing?” Beatrice snaps, straining against her. A few days ago, a few hours ago this wouldn’t have been possible. She hates this, hates being weak, being injured, being trapped here with Phantom, not knowing what she’ll do.

“Luna, stop and think. Who has the most reason to attack you?” Phantom doesn’t give her a chance to answer, “Minsk is rounding up every superhero he can get his hands on. He knows your civilian identity, and he either already has your allies or he’s setting up to do the same to them as he did to you. Where are you going to go?”

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 Minsk’s side. Any one of them could have identified her, could have given her up.  

She can’t just wander the city until he finds her. Can’t risk exposing anyone else to attack by hiding with them.  

“I’ll fight him.” She says even though she knows it's absolutely stupid. The reason she was going undercover in the first place was that she couldn’t take him down on her own, and that was before she lost a fight to his goons.

Phantom doesn’t even dignify that with an answer, only pins her with a look part stern and part sympathetic. “That’s exactly why I’m not letting you leave.”

“I’m your prisoner then?”

“Guest.”

“A guest that can’t leave.”

“Not yet. I’m not trying to keep you forever, Luna. You can’t even walk right now. Heal, and if you can think of a better plan by the time you’re better I won’t stop you from leaving. Alright?” Phantom slackens her grip as if to prove her good intentions.

“Fine,” Beatrice snaps, looking away. “Now get off me.”

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, Phantom’s hands are around her shoulders.

Beatrice finches away at first, as though Phantom will suddenly turn on her now that she has her trust.

“You’re not walking that far by yourself,” Phantom says, “you were close to a fractured ankle before all of this.”

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 can’t bother to go wherever her real bed is.

Phantom doesn’t 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 Beatrice’s look, she says “you reopened the stitches on your forehead. And your lip is bleeding.”

Beatrice opens her mouth to argue but Phantom holds up a hand. “Even I don’t know what might be on these floors after all these years. I’m disinfecting it. And your feet.”

She takes Beatrice’s 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 she’s re-wrapping the last bandage, Phantom asks, “when was the last time you had a tetanus shot?”

“A couple of years ago,” Beatrice says vaguely because she doesn’t actually remember.

“Hm,” Phantom says in a tone that means she doesn’t believe her at all. Beatrice ignores it, looking away so she can scowl at the wall.

She nearly jumps out of her skin when Phantom’s hand wraps around her jaw and forces her head back around. Phantom doesn’t 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 Phantom’s brown eyes. “Don’t move.” Phantom orders and peels away the bandage from Beatrice’s forehead. The adhesive catches a few hairs but Beatrice doesn’t let herself flinch.

Phantom tilts her head to get better light, one hand absently resting on Beatrice’s 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 Beatrice’s chin and gently probes the cut with the other.

Reflexively, she hisses and jerks her head away, one hand grasping Phantom’s wrist.

Phantom doesn’t let her go, “almost done.” The disinfectant stings, but true to her word, after that Phantom puts a new bandage over the wound and steps away.

“Phantom--”

“Olivia.”  

“What?”

“I’m not wearing the mask, my name is Olivia, not Phantom.”

Beatrice hesitates for a moment, taken aback. She supposes it doesn’t really matter, Phantom--Olivia--has been caught and arrested a few times. Her civilian identity isn’t exactly a secret at this point. “Olivia, why did you do all of this?”

Olivia tilts her head and mask or not that gesture is all Phantom. “Because believe it or not,  I hate Adrian Minsk just as much as you do, and I’m not about to let him get his hands on another hero.”

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. “Ground rules,” she says, “you’re not walking unless it's absolutely necessary. If you need something, ask me. Don’t do the whole tragic hero thing. In this lab we’re practical.”

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.  

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. “I’ve got a tablet here if you’re bored,” she says, “I won’t be far.”

***

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 “biology” 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 she’s 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 can’t bring herself to banish. After the dishes have been cleared, Olivia pulls out the large first aid kit and sets about checking Beatrice’s injuries and changing her bandages.

Tonight is the third night of her ‘recovery’ and despite knowing what is coming, Beatrice can’t 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 doesn’t dare log into anything, partially out of a half hearted attempt to preserve her identity--Olivia still refers to her as ‘Luna’ rather than her real name but she’s sitting on Olivia’s bed with no mask, there’s a point where Beatrice has to acknowledge that her identity has been exposed.

Olivia isn’t 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 aren’t enough to distract her mind.

She is pretty sure that Minsk won’t 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 she’d devised the hiding spot and hadn’t bothered to change it as time went by. She’s glad for it now, even though she’d felt like it was overkill sometimes.

She only wishes that she’d also made a copy as backup. There’s little chance of her sneaking the card out now, even if she could walk. Even if she weren’t Phantom’s “guest”. As long as she’s missing, Minsk will have her apartment watched. Especially if he hasn’t found the data.

She doesn’t 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 she’s really worried about though are those who can’t 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 aren’t listed.

Its only been three days, though. She doesn’t 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 “contact us” 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: “Thank you to our new benefactor, Adrian Minsk.”  

She touches it and the link brings up an article from the local paper.

Philanthropist Adrian Minsk Opens New Doors for Abused Animals   

There is a picture of Minsk with a friendly arm around her grandmother’s shoulders, giving her grandfather a firm shake of the hand, smiling out of the tablet’s screen.

He has them. They may not even know that they’re 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.

“--na? Luna?” 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 grandparents’ ranch, where she’d grown up, silent and abandoned. The animals dead, her grandparents missing forever.

If Minsk wanted someone to disappear, they were simply gone. There wouldn’t even be an investigation. The local police will simply declare them missing, perhaps tell people that they’d 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.  

Right now, he wants her, wants the evidence she has against him.

The world shudders, rattling her teeth. Beatrice realizes that there’s 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 Beatrice’s shoulder. “Luna, what’s going on?”

“He has my family.” Beatrice croaks, her thoughts fall into order. She has to get them back, and the only way to get them out of Minsk’s hands is to turn herself in. That’s what he wants, that’s why he’s taken them.

A deal.

She can almost imagine his voice, cool and smooth, like a snake, “I have something you want, you have something I want, I don’t see why we can’t work it out and walk away as friends.” 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 doesn’t care, she already knows what she has to do. She stands despite the pain and tries to brush past Olivia. She doesn’t care about what the Phantom might do to her now.

She should have though because as she passes, Olivia murmurs, “I’m sorry.” 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 Olivia’s 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 Beatrice’s 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, she’s 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.

“He wants me!” Beatrice snarls, “I have to--” 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.

“You’ll do exactly what he wants?” Phantom asks, her voice is calm, controlled, infuriating. It isn’t her family on the line. She has no say in this. “Think Luna. If you turn yourself in, he won’t let you go. He’ll know exactly how to control you and he’s not going to give that up once he has you.”

“I’m not letting him kill them!” 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 Beatrice’s good behavior.

“You have no powers,” Phantom begins, “no backup, no plan, no bargaining chips. If you do this, you’re playing right into his hands and you’ll never get out of it.”

“They’re my family,” 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.

“There’s nothing you can do,” Phantom says, her voice is painfully kind. Beatrice grits her teeth against it.

“It would be worth it.” she says, clinging to the delusion that if she turned herself in, Minsk would let her grandparents go and never threaten them again.

“It wouldn’t and you know it,” Phantom says. “He’d make you give up your data on him, all of that evidence would be lost. We have to think about this logically.”

Beatrice slumps against the wall and Phantom’s fingers loosen on her neck, but they don’t leave. Beatrice turns to look at Phantom out of the corner of her eye, “we?”

“We,” Olivia says, her voice is steady and determined. “I told you, I hate Minsk just as much as you do, and I’m not letting him put another person in his pocket. Will you trust me?”

For the chance to save her family, Beatrice had been willing to trust Adrian Minsk. Trusting Oliva is nothing next to that. She nods.

[acollectionofimpossibledrea-blog]

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- it’s 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 you’re looking online, I’m sure you do see a lot of forced feminization or emasculation, because the Internet is a visual medium and that’s 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 you’re seeing is a lie. Not to say it doesn’t exist, mind you. But it’s very much not the norm.

This is one of those areas where BDSM’s 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 you’d see anywhere else. The majority of male submissives retain 100% of their masculinity.

I’m 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 doesn’t change its nature. And it won’t 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 didn’t 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. Wasn’t 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 that’s you. Don’t 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 you’re secure in your status as a man, none of that shit matters, and it sure as hell doesn’t matter if you choose to kneel to someone who is worthy.

Go forth and find your queen, brother. Make sure she’s worth your service, kneel and serve her well. There is honor in that. Never forget that.

-LMS

[acollectionofimpossibledrea-blog]

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 can’t hold it through the night???? 

why????

They woke me up twice to come let them out. What hell is this

House sitting for my aunt and uncle because I’m a moron

It’s been an hour and I hate this already. I knew I was going to hate this the minute I said yes but now I’m actually doing it and yeah, I was right, it’s 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, that’s a fun situation to be back in.

Also just being in other people’s places is generally an Anxiety Adventure on its own. Because I’m always afraid that I don’t know The Rules and I’m going to do something wrong. They’re gone so I don’t even have anyone to follow the lead of.

And I’m especially weird about food so I feel like I can’t eat anything which is gonna fuck with my blood sugar

And a thousand other little things that basically just add up to “this isn’t my house and therefore I’m uncomfortable”

And it’s cold.

And I don’t feel like I can grab a blanket.

The only good thing about this is that I get to hang out with the cat

-9/10

This is why I don’t go places.

[acollectionofimpossibledrea-blog]

Me earlier today: I’ll be fine! The murder thing happened literal years ago! It’s all good! 

Me tonight, after every sound: So that was definitely a murderer. 

I’m going to die. 

House sitting in the day is purgatory 

house sitting at night is hell

home, in my own bed, surrounded by my knife collection and my own food is heaven. 

and my own pets

and my chair, 

and everything that isn’t in this house where I’m definitely going to get killed. 

fuuuuuuuck I regret everything that led up to this situation.

House sitting for my aunt and uncle because I’m a moron

It’s been an hour and I hate this already. I knew I was going to hate this the minute I said yes but now I’m actually doing it and yeah, I was right, it’s 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, that’s a fun situation to be back in.

Also just being in other people’s places is generally an Anxiety Adventure on its own. Because I’m always afraid that I don’t know The Rules and I’m going to do something wrong. They’re gone so I don’t even have anyone to follow the lead of.

And I’m especially weird about food so I feel like I can’t eat anything which is gonna fuck with my blood sugar

And a thousand other little things that basically just add up to “this isn’t my house and therefore I’m uncomfortable”

And it’s cold.

And I don’t feel like I can grab a blanket.

The only good thing about this is that I get to hang out with the cat

-9/10

This is why I don’t go places.

[acollectionofimpossibledrea-blog]

I fucking hate it when you’re in such a fantastically giddy mood and then you see one simple little thing that makes you think, “oh” 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. 

[acollectionofimpossibledrea-blog]

[acollectionofimpossibledrea-blog]

Anxious Bored (TM): the new house sitting mood that everyone is tired of. 

Too anxious to do anything, but too bored to just sit there? compromise and just sit there while thinking of all the ways this could be better. 

ANXIOUS BORED, try it today

House sitting for my aunt and uncle because I’m a moron

It’s been an hour and I hate this already. I knew I was going to hate this the minute I said yes but now I’m actually doing it and yeah, I was right, it’s 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, that’s a fun situation to be back in.

Also just being in other people’s places is generally an Anxiety Adventure on its own. Because I’m always afraid that I don’t know The Rules and I’m going to do something wrong. They’re gone so I don’t even have anyone to follow the lead of.

And I’m especially weird about food so I feel like I can’t eat anything which is gonna fuck with my blood sugar

And a thousand other little things that basically just add up to “this isn’t my house and therefore I’m uncomfortable”

And it’s cold.

And I don’t feel like I can grab a blanket.

The only good thing about this is that I get to hang out with the cat

-9/10

This is why I don’t go places.

[acollectionofimpossibledrea-blog]

I’m low-key hoping that I spontaneously develop my mom’s cat allergy so that I have a legitimate reason to leave. 

I wish people would stop asking me to do this for them. I hate house sitting with every fiber of my being but I don’t know how to say no apparently. 

House sitting for my aunt and uncle because I’m a moron

It’s been an hour and I hate this already. I knew I was going to hate this the minute I said yes but now I’m actually doing it and yeah, I was right, it’s 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, that’s a fun situation to be back in.

Also just being in other people’s places is generally an Anxiety Adventure on its own. Because I’m always afraid that I don’t know The Rules and I’m going to do something wrong. They’re gone so I don’t even have anyone to follow the lead of.

And I’m especially weird about food so I feel like I can’t eat anything which is gonna fuck with my blood sugar

And a thousand other little things that basically just add up to “this isn’t my house and therefore I’m uncomfortable”

And it’s cold.

And I don’t feel like I can grab a blanket.

The only good thing about this is that I get to hang out with the cat

-9/10

This is why I don’t go places.