The wrong kind of joke. Wrong kind of party. Someone decided it would fun to tie me up and scare me to death. And fuck me. I found a place in myself, then. A place for myself. I want to find it again.
You get the wrong person, a year could be longer than you think.
First, do you know what you're looking for? You want a Master, you want to find a shape for the nothing you think you've become, you say you'll do anything, that you can spend a year looking for yourself in the ways others can dispose of you.... It's beautiful, a gorgeous sentiment, and I understand it better than I'll usually admit.
But you won't do anything - there are things you won't do, and you need to be sure of that, and of what those things are. And if you're nothing, then there's nothing there to shape - you're not nothing, no one is, and you need to remember that, even if you don't believe it. And others can dispose of you in a variety of ways, some of them very unpleasant. Many of them will leave you worse than they found you, especially if you're not sure of what you won't do, and of the fact that you are not nothing
( ... )
Believe me or not, I'm trembling here. Because I'm scared now, yes, but I want, too. And you are right, I should try and define this wanting... Not a boring old realist, no. Someone honest.
And if what I feel, no matter how twisted and fuddled, is gorgeous, I want to know that. I need to know that I can be gorgeous in that way.
The place you found in yourself, for yourself, during this "wrong kind of joke" - tell me about that place. Anything you can tell me - how you felt there, what you wanted there, what you didn't want. Anything.
And the joke itself, tell me about that. What happened, and do you know what it was about it that put you in that place? Can you guess?
I wonder how much time do you have. And if you have it, what makes you wasting it after me.
But, hey, it's your time. I should be grateful.I am grateful.
I felt...it was solid, but peaceful. It was loud around me, there was music going on, and people cheering, I think, laughing, but I was ... far away. Hearing it all but not listening. Trapped but free, inside.
My eyes were close, I had a blindfold. They were hitting me, I don't know with what, and I didn't want them to stop. Because it felt right.As if, with one more blow, I would have tasted chocolate, sweet and melting on your tongue and perfect and mine. Only mine
( ... )
You might be surprised to learn how many perfectly sane, intelligent, contributing members of society love getting the shit beat out of them by people who know how to do it. Doesn't mean you're fucked up, I don't think, and I doubt they'd think so either
( ... )
Dean has been up all night. Pacing, staring at the screen, wanting to type, wanting to yell.
Discipline is not something is good at. When he wants, he wants now. When he felt like travelling, he just hopped on the first train, the first flight.
And now he has to think. To take the hand that has been offered, and think. Look for the answers in himself.
There's light outside, filtering through the curtains. It's disturbing somehow. He wonders if he should tell Urgayle of this man asking questions, this comment he hasn't answered yet but that he wants so badly to press keys for. Easier, without thinking, just jumping in.
He opens the drawer beneath the desk, reaching out for the little box with the coloured lovely pills inside. Then his hand stops in midair.
He asked for advice. He should follow it. The drawers closes with a slam. The screen is flickering, pale light in the half-darkness.
I asked you a number of questions, and I didn't ask them just because I look so goddamned good at the keyboard. I'm used to getting answers.
So here are the options.
You can answer me. Or you can ask me where I live and get your ass here, and I'll decide then whether we keep talking or find another way to address your questions.
Or I can assume this means you've already chosen another way, and I'll tip my hat to you and wish you all the best.
"I'll get my ass there", are the words that Dean types on the keyboard, deletes then types them again. And again.
Where do you live?
This doesn't seem the easiest way. But if it makes him tremble and shiver so, it has to be the better choice. And Urgayle will decide for him. Of course, he could also be one of those that could just hurt him and then throw him away. Dean breathes deply before getting ready. He only has the car keys with him, no jacket or else. He should have asked if he were supposed to bring something. Now waiting. Waiting, sweat on his palms and his back and between his hands.
Dean sits down, looking at the screen, composing his answer, typing and re-typing because it never seems right, or it is too long, or too short.
He did it, though.
The sheer exhilaration in the knowledge that he finally, actually jumped and asked...sometimes he wonders if he is the hook, or the sinker, but in the end it doesn't matter, not really.
His fingers keep flying on the keyboard, it's late at night, almost dawn, and he has typed and deleted at least five different answers. And when it's done, when he finally hits 'send' and there is no going back...it's a start.
More than he had only a few days before.
And then another comment appear and someone else asks him about him liking pain, or humiliation or being owned...his fingers lie on the keyboard, touching the keys, as if they could type the right answer for him.
He doesn't know shit about this. It's not a game. Dean can only wait, now.
So what had happened?
And be careful, son. You get the wrong person, a year could be longer than you think.
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The wrong kind of joke. Wrong kind of party.
Someone decided it would fun to tie me up and scare me to death.
And fuck me.
I found a place in myself, then.
A place for myself.
I want to find it again.
You get the wrong person, a year could be longer than you think.
So help me.
I won't know until I try.
Reply
But you won't do anything - there are things you won't do, and you need to be sure of that, and of what those things are. And if you're nothing, then there's nothing there to shape - you're not nothing, no one is, and you need to remember that, even if you don't believe it. And others can dispose of you in a variety of ways, some of them very unpleasant. Many of them will leave you worse than they found you, especially if you're not sure of what you won't do, and of the fact that you are not nothing ( ... )
Reply
Believe me or not, I'm trembling here.
Because I'm scared now, yes, but I want, too.
And you are right, I should try and define this wanting...
Not a boring old realist, no. Someone honest.
And if what I feel, no matter how twisted and fuddled, is gorgeous, I want to know that.
I need to know that I can be gorgeous in that way.
Talk to me. Please.
Reply
And the joke itself, tell me about that. What happened, and do you know what it was about it that put you in that place? Can you guess?
Reply
And if you have it, what makes you wasting it after me.
But, hey, it's your time. I should be grateful.I am grateful.
I felt...it was solid, but peaceful.
It was loud around me, there was music going on, and people cheering, I think, laughing, but I was ... far away.
Hearing it all but not listening.
Trapped but free, inside.
My eyes were close, I had a blindfold. They were hitting me, I don't know with what, and I didn't want them to stop. Because it felt right.As if, with one more blow, I would have tasted chocolate, sweet and melting on your tongue and perfect and mine. Only mine ( ... )
Reply
Reply
Discipline is not something is good at. When he wants, he wants now. When he felt like travelling, he just hopped on the first train, the first flight.
And now he has to think. To take the hand that has been offered, and think. Look for the answers in himself.
There's light outside, filtering through the curtains. It's disturbing somehow. He wonders if he should tell Urgayle of this man asking questions, this comment he hasn't answered yet but that he wants so badly to press keys for. Easier, without thinking, just jumping in.
He opens the drawer beneath the desk, reaching out for the little box with the coloured lovely pills inside. Then his hand stops in midair.
He asked for advice. He should follow it. The drawers closes with a slam.
The screen is flickering, pale light in the half-darkness.
Reply
I asked you a number of questions, and I didn't ask them just because I look so goddamned good at the keyboard. I'm used to getting answers.
So here are the options.
You can answer me. Or you can ask me where I live and get your ass here, and I'll decide then whether we keep talking or find another way to address your questions.
Or I can assume this means you've already chosen another way, and I'll tip my hat to you and wish you all the best.
Reply
Where do you live?
This doesn't seem the easiest way. But if it makes him tremble and shiver so, it has to be the better choice. And Urgayle will decide for him. Of course, he could also be one of those that could just hurt him and then throw him away.
Dean breathes deply before getting ready. He only has the car keys with him, no jacket or else. He should have asked if he were supposed to bring something. Now waiting. Waiting, sweat on his palms and his back and between his hands.
Reply
Reply
He did it, though.
The sheer exhilaration in the knowledge that he finally, actually jumped and asked...sometimes he wonders if he is the hook, or the sinker, but in the end it doesn't matter, not really.
His fingers keep flying on the keyboard, it's late at night, almost dawn, and he has typed and deleted at least five different answers. And when it's done, when he finally hits 'send' and there is no going back...it's a start.
More than he had only a few days before.
And then another comment appear and someone else asks him about him liking pain, or humiliation or being owned...his fingers lie on the keyboard, touching the keys, as if they could type the right answer for him.
He doesn't know shit about this. It's not a game.
Dean can only wait, now.
ooc: hope you don't mind me adding this bit...
Reply
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