#well anyways. moth in the woods grabs your hand and whispers he wants to dance with you WYD THEN? SAY NO?

[ratcandy]

unforeseen predicament number 2: Never written dancing before, am gonna have to do that . more than once

[whirlybirbs]

--- tenderly feral. 

summary: you’re used to being alone. daryl, somehow, changes that. rating: t for violence, references to murder/assault/loss, s5 spoilers, if that matters. word count: 3.7k a/n: this is set mid-season 5. right before alexandria. listen, i know, i’m catching up, okay???? anyways, i wrote for daryl when i was literally in high-school and i think this is very fitting. it all comes full circle. this will, no doubt, be a series.                                             ✘      next chapter.      ✘

You’re quiet. Mean lookin’ and awfully quiet.

Daryl Dixon reasons you’re a little bit like a feral cat - used to bein’ outdoors and used to bein’ mean, mean as can be. You’re not used to havin’ others around. It shows.

You don’t trust easy.

And that’s fine, because neither does he.

You’re with the group a little over a week when you finally speak more than a word -- it’s to Rick, saying you saw some formula and diapers and baby blankets in one of the neighborhoods South of Atlanta. It’s a metaphorical olive branch; offered in favor for the next-to-nothing meals and for the church roof over your head...

For saving your skin.

Your voice is a rasp, sounds like you haven’t used it in months. The words fall past your lips slow and sluggish.

(Daryl wonders if it’s from the bruises around your neck, from the hands that had been strangling you into the pavement with no remorse when he found you.)

You’re trying to say thank you. The words don’t want come out just yet. Daryl knows how that feels. So you offer a supply run instead. Risk your neck. Show your thanks.

You figure you won’t be around for long. Might as well make it worth it.

The archer squints into the evening sky as a sunset flare draws a halo around your head.

“Didn’t think t’ grab it, then,” you mutter, lips ghosting over the words as your worried eyes bounce to the cooing infant in the officer’s arms. You toe the dirt, “But, I could grab it now. She’s gotta eat.”

Rick doesn’t trust easy anymore -- not to say he ever really did before.

His eyes narrow, a blink of a microexpression that’s laced with skepticism and curiosity and a vague sense of doubt. Despite it, you stand unwavered as Daryl watches through the mousy strands of his hair from the front steps of the church. After a moment, Rick nods.

His eyes dart across the wooded horizon.

“Tomorrow,” Rick says finally, “Sun’s gonna set soon.”

Daryl watches as you nod, shuffle past, and retreat to the church. His stare follows the steps of your well-worn boots, blue eyes watching as you weave through the open doors to the Lord’s home silently.

You’re a feral cat tryna be an indoor cat.

But you’re tryin’.

Daryl guesses that’s all that matters.

✘ 

You prefer being alone.

It’s just... better that way.

You leave before sun-up and come back that afternoon with a carload of supplies -- Daryl isn’t sure how you managed to swing it, heading out to the ‘burbs with the van alone like that, but you do and there’s grub in everyone’s belly at the end of the night because of it.

It’s either sheer stupidity or pure survival and Daryl isn’t sure which one.

That night, he watches from a few pews back as you fork a can of brown bread into your mouth while you shake a bottle of formula.

In the lights of the candles, you seem softer -- maybe not so mean.

You present the bottle to Carl, lips quirked up into a ghost of a smile as the boy thanks you and bounces his sister on his hip.

(The boy reminds you of someone you knew once, then, and the formula hangs between your hand and his as a memory punches you in the gut -- you remember Boston, and Pennsylvania, and every loss along the way and Carl sees it before you can wipe it away. You try your best to distract from your gaping wound with a tight-lipped smile, but the burn of tears unfallen paint the boy’s face all sorts of guilty.)

“You okay?” he asks, eyeing the bottle.

“Yeah,” you whisper, ducking to the ground, “M’ fine.”

You ain’t. Daryl sees that.

The pew creaks as Rick settles beside the archer.

Silence runs like a river between the two men as you cross the church and settle back against the wall by the altar. They’re both watching, like wolves protecting their pack, and you avoid the weight of their gazes in favor of your canned bread and the small comfort of your corner.

You swipe angrily at the tears streaking your cheeks.

Daryl sees it. He doesn’t know what to make of it, but he sees it.

This is why it’s better to be alone.

“If we’re gonna move soon, after we get Beth,” says Rick after a few beats of breath, “We need more supplies. Somethin’ t’ last us more than a few days.”

Daryl blinks into his can of beans, knee bouncing.

“Yeah.”

“She offered to show us the spot. Go with her tomorrow.”

Daryl nods, tipping back the can into his mouth as Rick pats his knee.

✘

“I’m comin’ with you.”

You go rigid, stiff as a board, when Daryl’s voice passes behind you. Swallowing, you bend at the knee and move to finish shoving a few balled up bags and some water into your camping pack -- when you stay silent, his boots carry him closer, and you’re left to eye the lopsided laces staring back at you.

“Y’ alright with that?”

“Don’t matter,” you say, words biting a bit more than you mean for them to; you’re quick to stand, hauling your pack onto your back, “... Does it?”

Suddenly, the world swings on a hinge and like a screen door slamming open, you’re locked in the orbit of Daryl Dixon. The shiner around his eye makes him look meaner than he is. Blue eyes are soft, betraying him even more. You stand straight, unwavering, as the archer wets his lips and breaks away. He toes the ground and swings his crossbow over his left shoulder as he squints along the tree line.

Mean, mean, mean. Ain’t you?

“No,” he breathes, “It don’t.”

✘

The ride to the South End ‘burbs is quiet.

You forfeited the keys without a fight, swinging yourself into the passagender side of the van -- your fingers had clawed at grime and scum lining the windshield only to yield nothing but smears. So, as the van rolls on, you opt to look out the window.

The view, however desolate and broken, is nice.

After a long stretch of road and a longer stretch of silence, Daryl finally speaks. Blue eyes dart to the curve of your face. They linger, following the column of your throat.

“... Those bruises are healin’ up good.”

He eyes the road with a noted sense of worry.

Again, you seem to stiffen and turn inward. Your hands fly to your neck, pushing the collar of your worn flannel up. The brush of your fingers spurs a wince that flashes into a snarl. Daryl sees it.

Mean.

You plant a boot on the dashboard and cross your arms.

And that’s that.

✘

You manage to stock up three bags of cans, water, and medical supplies.

It’s not much but it’s something, and as you drag yourself up into the van, you catch Daryl’s figure in the rearview. There’s a cigarette hanging between his lips, fingers prying at a bag in the trunk -- the smell of nicotine is better than that of the upholstery which has seemingly soaked up all the residue from it’s previous owner.

The stain in the carpet is big.

Your eyes fleet up from aforementioned stain, connecting with Daryl’s like keys fitting a lock.

He’s always watching.

You reason Daryl Dixon is a bit like a fighting dog -- nasty when he needs to be and fiercely protective. It shows.

He doesn’t trust easy.

And that’s fine, because neither do you.

(Even when if he is the man who’d saved your fucking life. Even if Daryl Dixon is the man who’d pried another living being off you -- even if he’d tackled that fuck to the ground while you gasped for air and stars swam in your eyes. Bloodied fingers clawed at the hot pavement and the world swayed, but you could breathe and you were alive, even if the sound of a tinkering belt and violent threats still sat in your ears.)

Trustin’ ain’t easy now-a-days.

✘

The dance of candlelight carves his face into something softer -- you swear you can see the play of a smile there when Carol talks; as the grey-haired women waves her spoon and shrugs, you find yourself missing conversation for the first time in a long time.

Maybe you have been alone for too long. It shows in moments like these.

You tuck your knees closer and fork the peaches in the tin can with an edge of frustration. In your corner, you sit, far from the lull of the group’s conversation.

But, it’s Tyreese who drags you up from the bottom of that pit of loneliness -- the deep baritone of his voice rouses your attention.

“... Where are you from, newbie?” he asks, words weighted with sincerity, “Where’s home?”

(You’re not a newbie. Maybe that lanky boy Noah is, but you’re not -- this is just something temporary between the running. This group... well, nothing is ever permanent anymore. Especially with the current state of things.)

The conversation holds itself still the lungs of those around you, stuck in their throats as Tyreese drives apart the sea and welcomes you in with a kindness unfounded.

Your eyes hit the bottom of your can. The sugar sweet peaches glisten like tears.

“Boston,” you muster finally, exhaling.

“Christ.”

A sea of murmurs. You can feel the distrust of Rick and Michonne in the tempered reactions -- as Rick bounces a cooing Judith, you’re suddenly feeling like the flame the moths flock to. You feel obligated to share this part of your story, after all isn’t that what people do?

You’re not sure. When you’re alone, you avoid the living like the plague.

But, despite your hang-up’s and hesitation, you nod again, move forward and sit up. You swallow and wet your lips.

“Been on the road for a long time.”

“How long?”

“Since it started.”

Daryl’s face flinches. You see it. He knows.

“Why?” asks Michonne with a pointed edge, “Why not... settle?”

“I did,” you say, “Tried to, at least. Then people died, shit fell apart, and... I kept moving. I had to.”

“Alone?” asks Rick, eyes narrowed.

You nod. Shame weighs your shoulders.

“Seemed like I was bad luck,” you chirp, “Real bad.”

“Well, you’re here now,” says Tyreese, “And we’re glad.”

You wonder if that’s a good thing, after all.

✘

“Here.”

You narrow your eyes.

In his hands hangs a tube. The label is faded.

You squint up at Daryl Dixon from your spot on the church’s steps as a mid-day sunray curls right around his head like a halo. His face is set in something awfully serious. Fiercely protective. Like a damn fightin’ dog. 

(You wonder who holds the choke chain, who yanks the leash.

Is it Rick?)

You take it, confusion flying across your face.

“It’s some cream,” he says, “Carol found it. Said it’s good for bruises.”

You see the way his eyes fall on your throat.

“M’ fine,” you croak, “It... It don’t even hurt.”

“Bullshit.”

“How would you know, huh?” you bite, lips snarling, “I’m fine.”

“‘Cuz I been choked out before,” Daryl snaps back, looming closer, “Take th’ damn cream.”

You do, only with a lasting look of irritation. The moment the tube leaves his hands, he relaxes.

Like that, the air dissipates into stillness.

Daryl’s eyes roam the steeple. When you speak, it catches him by surprise.

“... Thanks.”

You’re still feral. But you’re tryin’.

✘

You stay back -- you don’t know much about this mission to save one of their own, but you know you want nothin’ to do with the pigs in that hospital. You’ve met them before, out on the streets of Atlanta, and you have no intention of meeting them again.

The thought leaves a bad taste in your mouth.

And when there’s trouble with the walkers that crawl to the church, following the hysterical father, you barricade them in alongside Michonne without second thought -- but this turn of fate dredges up this gut-churning feeling of bad luck.

Bad, bad luck.

And then, a fire truck full of friendly faces plow into your concept of bad luck and compounds it with a lie about a cure for all this and a busted trip to Washington.

And then, when you all drag yourselves to Grady Memorial and Daryl Dixon hauls a dead Beth Hershel out those back doors in his arms? When Maggie, the kind woman with the kind drawl crumples at the sight? When Daryl wails and Carol tries -- god she tries --  to calm them both down?

You’re left to wonder if you’re better off alone.

If you and your bad luck is better off in the streets.

Mean and awfully quiet.

✘

The group finds two cars.

They park in the woods and bury Beth at sun-down under a sky of red.

You pass dirt along the grave and remember a prayer from long ago. It’s a croak on your lips but it means something to Maggie, who reaches for your hand and thanks you after it’s all said and done.

Grief sits heavy in Daryl’s gut.

He’s at the edge of the makeshift camp, nothing but a shadow. But, you find him.

In your hands is a can of beans.

You settle next to him on the log. The wood groans but Daryl doesn’t flinch -- his eyes art trained on the low fire that glows before his boots. The embers crackle. He inhales, sharp and fast, and you don’t need to see his face to know he’s been crying.

So, you pull your knife from your boot and crack the top of the can open. You gesture it towards him.

“Eat.”

“I ain’t hungry.”

Your jaw tightens.

Silence draws itself up between you and Daryl and dances in the flames of the campfire. You bounce your knee and clutch the can. That suffocating silence swells there, finally bursting when you turn to eye him with a careful amount of worry.

“... Who was she?”

You see his mouth move. His brows knot, then his face falls.

“A friend,” he whispers, “Family.”

You wonder what that’s like -- to have both of those with the current state of things.

(You had it once -- before things fell apart and you started moving on your own. You had a sister and friends and people who had killed for you by your side. You’d killed for them, too. You would, again. Maybe you’d kill for Daryl, too. A part of you already feels like you owe him.)

“I know it’s not my place,” you say slowly, “But she’d want you t’ eat.”

Daryl’s eyes rocket upwards, catching your expression.

He knows your right.

He takes the can and your fingers brush.

“... Thanks.”

And that’s that.

✘

Tyreese.

You liked him.

You forgot how this felt. Loss. Grief. Death.

You stand shoulder to shoulder beside Daryl over a shallow grave.

And you cry.

✘

It’s bad.

You’re bad -- you’re nothing but bad luck and all this? This is how it’s gonna end.

A thousand miles, and for what? To starve on a Georgia highway?

Behind you, like a ball and chain, is a horde of walkers that snarl and gasp and trudge along, waiting for one of you to drop. You wonder if you’ll go first -- if your last meal will really be peaches. Canned fuckin’ peaches.

You swallow, swipe at your clammy skin, and keep moving.

For the first time in a long time, you’re tired of moving. Tired of running. Of being alone.

For the first time in a long time, you glad you’re not alone.

Daryl is lingering behind you. His steps are sluggish and his crossbow is slung across his waist, posed and ready. The vest around his shoulders is soaked, tattered shirt darkened with sweat. You’re no better. The hair along your neck clings with reckless abandon. You spare him a glance, then slow up to match his pace.

You’re quiet for a while, steps falling in with his.

And then you speak.

“I never said thanks.”

Daryl’s face gives nothing away. HIs eyes, though, dart to you for a moment. When you speak, your eyes are off on the horizon.

“That guy was gonna kill me over a can of soup,” you speak slowly, ignoring the garrish flashes of the scene that unfolds behind your eyes every-night, “And you stopped him.”

“... Had to.”

“No,” you shake your head, finally breaking to look at him, “You didn’t.”

He’s quiet for a few feet, then he sighs. “Jus’ ‘cause things have got t’ shit don’t mean people don’t matter.”

Your mouth goes dry. “I’m bad luck.”

“You’re not.”

“Ever since I joined up,” you drawl, movements sluggish as the horizon glimmers, “I... People have --”

“It ain’t your fault.”

His words are firm, backed by a rush of anger that knocks you for a loop. Daryl staggers along, face set in some unreadable way that leaves you wondering what he really thinks -- he’s like Rick and Michonne. Pointed and distrusting, but there’s something else there.

“Tell the others I’m goin’ t’ look for water.”

He dips into the woods and disappears.

Mean and awfully quiet.

✘

He doesn’t find water.

But when the skies split open and pour rivers of rain down on you all, you find yourself not caring. You lay in the street beside Tara and Rosita and you laugh -- peels of joyous sounds that mesh as the group scrambles to grab bags and bottles.

And when the sky roars, you and the group hole up in that barn down off the beaten path.

You curl up in a corner, far from the fire, as the come-down of the day seeps into your bones with the rain.

It’s Daryl who approaches, rousing you from a half-sleep.

He plops down against the hay bail, prompting you to stir.

You inhale and shift, rubbing your eyes. You blink at him, caught in the tired look on his face and the cut of his cheeks. He looks rough -- you haven’t known him long but you know this isn’t him. He’s a ghost of himself. Between grief and starvation, Daryl Dixon looks nothing like the man you’d watched nights ago back in the church, glowing in the light of prayer candles and good grub.

“You okay?” you ask softly, voice nothing more than a mere wisp.

“I wasn’t gonna save you at first,” he blurts, “Wasn’t gonna fight that guy, wasn’t gonna... stop him. Things have been bad and... I don’t --...”

His words die. Your chin drops.

“All this?” he gestures suddenly, “All this is just remindin’ me I’m alive, y’know?”

You turn to eye him, then nod. “Yeah.”

His fiddles with his fingers. Silence creeps between you two and your chest aches with some sort of feeling you’re not too sure of. Maybe it’s dread? Maybe it’s regret or... distrust. You don’t know. But it’s not nice.

“I’d do it again,” he leans, “If I had to.”

“Do what?”

“Kill someone,” Daryl mumbles, “If it meant savin’ you. I don’t regret that.”

You think of the sound the crossbow bolt made when it passed through that man’s skull. You think of Daryl, scrambling to help you up as a group of walkers creep in -- you think of him and Carol, prying you out of the thick of it and saving your fucking life.

“You don’t know me,” you say slowly, “What if I’m not who you think I am?”

“I’d know,” he watches you and you feel like you’re stuck in cement, “Everyone would know. But you ain’t bad. You know that.”

Maybe you do.

Again, the quiet rolls in like mist in the morning. You’ve started to realize it’s a part of Daryl -- he isn’t a talker, not like Glenn or Eugene. He’s quiet and reserved and he picks his words; there’s nothing that doesn’t matter in the way he speaks. It’s all him.

He spins a piece of grain between his fingers.

Your head rolls. You trace his profile with your eyes.

“M’ sorry about Beth.”

“Yeah,” he breathes as he drops his head back, “Me too.”

“... Think we’ll survive this?”

“We always do.”

✘

His name is Aaron.

And you don’t trust him.

You wonder if it’s because you’ve met men like him before -- promising a safe place to rest your head. Promising safety and a future. Those men have all been liars, thieves, murderers.

(You wonder if this is how Rick felt about you. If welcoming you in with Daryl’s blessing was met with the same hesitation? Were you once nothing more than another Aaron?)

But... he’s not lying.

Rick notes your discomfort. He needs that. He needs the good and the bad and the ugly, the trusting and the distrusting. He’s a good leader -- you’re seeing that now in the ex-cop. 

That’s how you get shouldered in between Aaron and Michonne in the backseat of that shit-box Lincoln. That’s how you plow through the dead at 45 MPH, heart dropping into the pit of your gut as you haul ass out of the car and plunge your hunting knife into as many heads as you can. Your survival instinct is feverish and terrified and full of desperation; as you roar, Rick watches.

In a flash, something settles between you both.

You book it through the woods and hit Route 16 with no RV in sight.

No Carl, no Judith... No Daryl.

The moon casts inky shadows in your wake.

No time to stop. You all keep moving.

✘

Rick whistles. He gives a call.

There’s a response.

You carry yourself into a collision of an embrace -- Daryl curses, quietly, as he sways on his feet and grips your shoulders tightly. In the light of the alleyway, it’s just the two of you; the moment passes like a ship in the night and peel yourself away with a broken laugh.

“You okay?” he asks, stepping back and gauging you. The touch makes his skin hot.

“Fine,” you croak, “You?”

“Never better.”

✘

Alexandria is what they call it.

In the cramped back of the RV, you spare Daryl a look as the vehicle rolls to a stop and Abrahram announces the arrival with a measured level of reservation.

You can’t remember the last time you stopped running.

No better time than the present.

After all, you’re just a feral cat, tryin’ its best to be indoors.

[amorphousfurrysnakething]

So I have a fursona now

Despite being an incorrigible furry for over a decade now, I’ve never actually managed to get a stable-ish fursona sorted out ‘cause I’m indecisive (and didn’t realise how my fluidity was interacting with that). But now I have and want to froth, so:

Name:Ráðsviðr Náttfari ("Rath") Species: Garden Tiger Moth (https://www.ukmoths.org.uk/species/arctia-caja/) NB Masculine, he/him, pan (masc preference) Appearance: A moth, he has eight limbs (four arms, two legs, two-ish wings) and is covered in a soft fuzz of fur. Lean build, but looks bulkier due to fuzziness. Red body, brown and red spotted wings. His wings have arcane text written across them and close inspection reveals that they're made up of lots of very thin pages. Job: Thaumozoologist (Lives in a pseudomodern fantasy setting)

Powers: Scrivened Wings: Has dozens of very thin wings, which when at rest or when being used as wings look like a pair of normal moth wings in shape. These wings are covered in text copied from books, to absorb text, he must read the original. The character can read any of the text on their own wings by concentrating on them, and others can read them like a book. Although he can fly with his wings, it's fairly undignified fluttering and he doesn't like going too high. Wizard: A dabbler in the arcane, he favours spells of healing and others that interact with animals and living phenomena, as well as general utility spells.

Because I can't draw and don't have the funds right now to commission a ref sheet off someone, I instead wrote some horny which I'm going to put behind a cut.

(NSFW, Contains fingering, pet play, teasing and denial, casual nudity, bondage and an unreasonably buff lion)

  There's a knock at my door, and I start. I'm not expecting anyone, and I'm currently sprawled, topless, on my sofa. I cast about for a jumper, my society might not have a problem with casual nudity, but I have enough body image issues to do so. I don't manage to turn one up before the knock comes again, and its insistence calls me over to the door on instinct. I mutter a quick spell, opening a window through the thick wood, and smile as I pull the door open.

"Hiya, Marcus."

The lion grins down at me. I'm not short, but Marcus is massive. He's a head taller than me, and in contrast to my skinny build, he's broad too, and exudes easy confidence that I'm both jealous of and so very gay for.

“Hey, Rath, need to pick your brains.”

“Sure, come in.”

I try not to blush as my sometimes-boyfriend strides into the room, and it's made harder when his tail gently brushes against my stomach. He's been running, and isn't wearing much more than a pair of shorts that show off his legs as he brushes the mud off his paws. He's probably flirting with me, again.

“Can I grab a drink?”

“There should be a clean glass by the sink. What do you need?”

He tosses me another grin. “Looking for information on thaumic mutation in plants. There's a nest of something nasty up by Silver Beck and it needs clearing before some hiker stumbles into it.” he calls over his shoulder as he heads for my kitchen.

While he's busy filling a glass, I start looking for the books I'll need. My library might not be huge, but I've thus far failed to maintain anything beyond the most rudimentary organisation, and by the time Marcus comes back in I'm fluttering near the ceiling, glaring at a row of computing manuals that should be arcanobotany references. Or at least, could be, after the first three locations were, in order: empty, the 4th edition of Thaumaturgic Encylopedia, and the complete Judge Dredd collection.

“Any luck?”

“Nope.”

I descend quickly, trying to salvage some dignity by getting my feet back under me. It's...not entirely successful; moths are not known for being elegant fliers. While I'm distracted, Marcus slips behind me.

“I'm sure there's something on these wings of yours.” the husky whisper in my ears coincides with a firm rub between my shoulderblades, the leonine pads sending jittery tingles through my body. My wings flicker, the arcane text flowing across them dancing in my brain. “You remember the safeword?”

“Banana.” I'm not trying to whisper, but my breath has left me.

“Good boy.” he purrs. I can feel his arms wrapping around me, and at the corner of my eye I see the contrast of his golden fur against my red fuzz. “Now, then. Do you have what I need?” The magical text scrawled across the layers of my wings dances behind my eyes, and I nod.

“Very good boy.”

He gently guides me to my bedroom, and I have no desire to stop him, simply enjoying the feel of his muscle and fur against my body, and the hard warmth where his groin rubs against my back; the absence when he lets go is almost painful. He pulls my box of toys out from under the bed, his bent posture putting his tail and arse on full display in front of me.

“Enjoying the view?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You're hot too, you know.”

This time I do blush, and though it's barely visible through my natural colouring, Marcus' smirk tells me he sees it. The smile turns a little ironic, as he stands back up, and my vision goes dark as he wraps a blindfold across my eyes.

“Good lad, now get yourself naked while I get my reading table set up.”

I hesitate, but a squeeze to my arse that is both reassuring and warning suppresses my reservations, and as I hear him moving around I quickly strip off my clothing. Once I'm done, I suppress the urge to cover myself again, and my unpleasant brainworms are silenced by an appreciative noise from Marcus.

I know he's done when his lips meet mine, pulling me into a passionate kiss while his paws explore my body, as they've done so many times but never seem to tire of. He draws me close, his clear arousal heightening my own.

After a few minutes, he pulls away and a needy whine escapes me.

“I know, lad, but I do need that info.” His own lust is clear.

I'm guided over to the bed, and gently pushed onto it. With a firm hand, he straps me facedown and spread-eagled, at his mercy. He settles himself over me, kneeling across my lower back, the light pressure of his body delightful as he bends over, rubbing again at that spot between my shoulderblades. A brief, ecstatic spasm leaves me limp, and I can feel the leaves of my wings begin to separate out, becoming the pages of the book they are.

“Very good. Now, you know what I need.”

The text on my wings, scrawled across the eigengrau filling my eyes, runs rapidly through my brain, and the thin pages of my wings flip and blur. A cool wind brushes across my antennae until I find what is needed.

Marcus gives a pleased pet to my head, and leans back against my abdomen, and for a few minutes I am nothing. A pleasant calm of the cool and warm and dark, with a background scratch of Marcus' pen as he takes notes. Occasionally, the peace is punctuated by the soft pleasure and pressure as he turns a page.

“There we are.” He scritches the base of my antennae, and I purr without meaning to.  “You're adorable. Now, I think I'm going to order us some dinner, if that's OK with you?”

“Yesss.” I'm so relaxed that I don't manage much more than a soft hiss, but Marcus knows me well.

“Well, sit tight.”

I can feel the weight shift as he gets up and leaves me alone. I know it won't be long before he comes back, but I wriggle impatiently anyway.

“Patience, lad”

Marcus punctuates his return by running his paw across my crotch, which only causes me to struggle more, whining with need.

“We've a few minutes before it arrives, so...”

He lays his erection against my arse, and I push back as far as my binds will let me, hungry for more, but Marcus knows me well, and he leaves me desperate as he takes his pleasure, rubbing his body against mine with only the briefest, but expertly chosen, touches to  my most sensitive areas. His early growls turn to ragged pants as his orgasm approaches, and I grind my body against him, trying to increase his pleasure in hopes of reward, as well as an instinctive act to attenuate the sensations he's so skilfully denying me.

“Pleasse...”

“Good pets don't talk.”

His admonishment is gentle, but unyielding, though quickly unnecessary as words are lost in a pleading whimper.

“Good...good...” the intended compliment is abandoned as his climax comes, and he roars in delight, splattering his cum across my back and wings. It's a long minute before he's able to catch his breath again. “Good boy.”

I moan plaintively, feeling my own unfulfilled arousal drip out across my bed, but he just gently pats my arse and gets up, going into the bathroom to clean himself up and leaving me to stew in the frustration in a most delightful way.

He's barely done when the doorbell goes, and his brief negotiation with the deliverer ends in curry smell awakening an entirely different hunger in me. I hear him plate up the food, and he unbuckles my restraints, though he doesn't let me free, quickly binding my arms and legs doubled over, denying me my hands and forcing me to crawl to the bowl of curry he's left on the floor. Leaving me to sort myself out, he sits in a chair with his own dinner, smirking at my fumbling.

By the time I've managed to empty my bowl, he's long finished, enjoying an eyeful of my raised rear. As I rock back, licking the last of the sauce from my lips, he gets up, stalking towards me and pushing a finger into my still-wet pussy.

“You're really desperate, aren't you.”

Remembering the earlier command, I don't respond verbally, trying to fill my voice with as much desperation as I can as I whine in acknowledgement. Marcus chuckles as he adds more fingers, one by one. He knows his business, and I'm soon panting as his movements send waves of pleasure through my body. After a moment of particularly masterful attention to my clit, he bends low against me and whispers.

“Do you want to cum?”

I nod again, and with a his long experience, he quickly brings me to a shuddering, screaming orgasm, the waves of pleasure turning into a tsunami that crashes over me.

As I lie there, recovering, he strips off the bondage gear, murmuring gentle praise that ends with us both curled up in my bed.

[maxineswritingcenter]

Beauty and the Beast AU! - Demon!Dean Winchester x fem!reader part 4

Read part 3 here!

This is my second time posting this because Tumblr hates me.

Summary: You are seen as the oddball around town, you're into books and other nerdy things that the small town you were raised in just don't get. You dream of going on the road and having adventures, but it's unlikely you can because you don't have a lot of money. Your father runs a house renovating business and goes to a job in the spooky abandoned house in the woods. You see where I'm going from here.

----

Later that night, I started reading. Looking into any book I could get my hands on that mentioned anything about a sacrifice of the heart. After Dean showed them the video, Sam and Castiel also searched. I was getting more and more frustrated.

"This is so stupid!" I shouted and slammed another book shut. I held my head in my hands, fresh tears filling my eyes.

"Did you find something?" Sam asked, looking up from his laptop.

"Barely. All that I found was one thing. But it's so damn vague that it's making my head hurt trying to understand it." My breathing got quicker, "All it says is that a sacrifice of the heart is made in dire need and is permanent. Nothing on how to perform it or how to undo it." I shook my head, getting more and more frustrated and confused. It hurt to breathe and it felt like my head was going to explode.

Dean, who had been standing in the corner and watched them all, moved to place a hand on my shoulder and squeezed lightly.

"It's okay... We'll figure it out." He said. I took deep breaths, reaching up and holding onto his hand.

"I'm just trying to get over the fact that angels have been living in town." I sighed.

Sam looked at the us, then refocused, "Well that and we have to figure out why they wanted your mom in the first place. They wanted her to have a baby but what does that mean?"

Castiel looked at us from across the room, several scrolls under his arm, "She was chosen to bear the savior."

"The second coming? Really?" Crowley asked, clearly more interested now, "That would cause chaos. It would kick start the rapture when he came of age."

"Hold on." I said, rubbing my temples, "Are you telling me that my mother was chosen to give birth to Jesus?"

"Precisely." Castiel nodded, "Once he was born, it would only be a matter of time before the apocalypse would begin once more."

Dean crossed his arms over his chest, "But since her mom isn't here it won't happen, right?"

Castiel looked at me solomly, "I'm afraid not. Like your vessels, it's passed down through generations. You said Michael was always trying to get you alone?" I nodded slowly, not prepared to hear what she had already feared.

"It's me? I'm... I'm supposed....?" I whispered. Castiel only nodded.

"Well, didn't realize we were in the presence of the new Virgin Mary." Crowley held up a glass to me, "Cheers, love."

"There is no way in hell that's happening." Dean said, "I'll kill every damn angel in that town before I let Michael lay a finger on her."

"We won't let it happen, Dean." Sam said, "We can't let it happen."

Dean was fuming mad, his eyes flickered black but only for a moment.

I stood up, "Guys, let's just calm down for right now. Castiel was talking about antiangel engravings on your ribs, I'll get them too. But just for tonight... Let's just relax. And have a beer because I really need something." I let out a small chuckle.

Sam smiled, "That's a great idea. I'll get dinner started."

"I will do more research." Castiel walked to the hallway, scrolls to be read.

"And I'll get in touch with a few associates. They could dig something up." Crowley made his way out of the room.

-

I was in my room, picking out something nice to where for dinner. It was supposed to be a relaxing night and I wanted to look my best with what was given. My only bra and undies had been washed so I put those one and opted for a large Metallica t-shirt, I tied it on the side so it appeared more form fitting. After rummaging through the closets of this place I had actually found a black bell shaped skirt that probably had not been worn since the 1950s, but it wasn't eaten by moths so there was that. It actually fit pretty well. My sneakers, who had been through it all, still decided to hold together. I took a deep breath and fixed my hair the best I could. Makeup just wasn't an option. But I had decent eyelashes and I seem to have been getting away with only wearing a tinted chapstick that was loose in my bag. I looked at my outfit, wringing my hands together. Why was I so nervous about looking good? Was it Dean? Just the thought of his name made my heart flutter. Who would have thought... That brute was kind of.... Growing on me. Like a fungus. But a handsome fungus. A dangerous fungus. I should stop calling him a fungus.

I took a deep breath and walked out the door. The guys were in the kitchen, clearly talking around the island. But the conversation halted as I entered. Sam patted Dean's shoulder lightly to get his attention. And when he looked at me I felt my cheeks go hot. Dean's eyes widened and his jaw clenched. He moved towards me, stopping a few inches in front of me. He lifted his hand, then lowered it.

"You look uh..." He stuttered.

"Yes?" I asked patiently.

"Uh...." Dean looked back at Sam who was giving him the thumbs up.

"Uh dinner's ready." He said. I heard Sam sigh loudly.

-

Dinner was great, Sam made spaghetti and it was pretty good. Not as good as Dean's cooking though. Dean had found an old radio in a back room and decided to turn it on. The old thing still worked.

He turned up the volume and grinned, "There we go!" He clapped his hands together. Dean was into classic rock and metal bands, so when AC/DC came on he seemed pretty excited.

"She was a fast machine. She kept her motor clean. She was the best damn woman I had ever seen." He sang along with the song, pointing at me. He could actually sing, he had a deep smooth voice. I laughed, getting into the rhythm of the song. He grabbed my hand and brought me to the middle of the room. He twirled me around and brought me close. One hand held mine while the other was on my waist. I grinned, following his lead. At the chorus he wrapped his arms around my waist and lifted me up, swaying along with the beat. I giggled and held on to his shoulders.

"And we were making it and you! Shook me all night long!" He brought me back down, twisting and swaying and dipping me back until the song came to an end. I was out of breath but I was laughing. I looked up at him and watched him grin. He was having fun and he was happy. I wondered if that's what he was like before the mark.

"I think I need some air." I panted, going to the table and grabbing my glass of water.

"I'll go with ya." Dean said. I nodded and followed him up the stairs. I turned back, seeing Sam, Castiel and Crowley look away after they were very obviously staring.

We went out on the porch. As soon as the cool air hit me I shivered. I should have grabbed a jacket.

"Here." Dean said, shrugging off his green army jacket and helping me out it on. It was warm and comfy. It didn't have that sulfer smell but something different. Like pine and soft leather. We stood there for a moment, just looking out into the sky. There was a full moon, it's light made the snow sparkle.

"I haven't had that much fun in a while. Almost forgot..." He said after a long time. I looked up at him and smiled. He looked into my eyes, slowly moving closer. My breath hitched in my throat as he slide his hand against my cheek. It was warm and rough from callouses, but that didn't bother me. Then he blinked and pulled his hand away, shaking his head. The loss made my shoulders slump.

"It's crazy," he chuckled, "Thinking you could want anything to do with someone like me."

"I wouldn't say that..." I whispered. He looked down at me, almost shocked.

"Really? You would want to stay here?" He asked. I bit my lip and thought about it. If I would stay, it would still be as a prisoner really. I wouldn't be able to leave.

"Could anyone be happy if they weren't free?" I said, looking away.

"My dad used to take me to those daddy-daughter dances. I used to step on his toes a lot." I changed the subject.

"You must miss him." He said, he sounded so sad and disappointed.

"Yeah... A lot." I said.

"Would you want to see him?" He asked making me perk up.

-

Dean brought me to his room. It was messy but it was still his. In his nightstand there was a hand held mirror. The frame and handle were made of a dark polished wood. There were intricate vines and flowers carved into the surface. The mirror reflected my and Dean's image.

"Just say who you want to see and if they're by a reflective surface, you can see them." He said, handing it to me.

"I want to see my father." I said to the mirror. Amazingly the mirrors imaged clouded and wobbled. But soon it cleared, it looked like the glass window from the bar in town. There was a large group of people led by Michael. He had my father handcuffed, he had a black eye and his lip was bleeding.

"Give me your blessing, old man. I would prefer to have it before I take your daughter anyway."

My dad spit at Michael's feet. Michael glared and slapped him across the face, knocking him over. I gasped and touched the image.

"What are they doing to him?!" I shouted, anger rushing through me. Dean was silent, only for a moment.

"You have to go." He said.

I looked back at him, turning fully to face him, "What?"

"You got to go now. You don't have a lot of time." He pulled my car keys from his pocket and held them out to me. I took the keys and tried to give him the mirror back.

"Take it." He said, "Maybe look in on us every once in a while." He smirked but it didn't reach his eyes. I nodded, leaning up and pressing a kiss to his cheek.

"Thank you." I said and ran down the hall and up the stairs. I left the abandoned house, got into my car and sped down the road back to town.

Dean watched her leave, a thickness settling into his chest again. He growled and let out a roar, his eyes flickering black. He angerly knocked everything off the side table on the ground. The lamp shattered on impact with the concrete floor. A dark rage came over him as he left the room and down the hall. He went to the axe in the glass case on the wall. He punched the glass with his whole fist, the glass shattered beneath his knuckles. He yanked the axe free from it's holster and marched down the hall.

Sam ran to see the trouble, "What-" he stopped, backing away from Dean with his arms up. Dean shoved passed him with his shoulder, going back into his room and smashing everything insight.

-------------------------------------------------

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[crazylittlenobody]

Back To The Start.

Requested By Anonymous - Bellarke canon request when the radiation never happened so maybe the remaining 100 kids go back to live at the dropship? They share a tent and take care of each other.

The two leaders had been thinking of returning to their former home for weeks, the dropship had been left abandoned for months, most of the 100 were now dead and the remaining were cooped up in Arkadia living their lives as normally as they could. Bellamy had been the first to suggest it, he missed how things used to be, when they would be in charge, keep people from danger without an adults help. Bellamy missed the 100, he really did, they were his family on the group, the people that listened to him for once and followed him as though he was a born leader; sometimes he took occasional strolls to visit their old home, kicking the scorched wood around the camp. It would need to be cleared obviously, but he and a few others could handle that.

“What are you thinking about?” Clarke asked curiously pulling him out of his daydream and glancing down at the blonde that had appeared by his side, her focus ahead watching their people like usual; or should he say Abby and Kane’s people now.

“The dropship...the remaining hundred...I miss it.” 

Clarke shot him a faint smile signaling she missed it too, her younger self didn’t enjoy it when she was there but that was just because she was so hung up on trying not to get killed and avoiding Finn once Raven came down. The silence hung between them for a few minutes before Bellamy spoke up again.

“What if we took the remaining hundred back there? It would be our own little Arkadia like it used to be.” He suggested, turning his body towards her now. Clarke had turned to him now too, she was intrigued by the suggestion, to be the young leaders they were a few months ago; back when they were just teenagers.

“Hm.” Clarke said in amusement, short and sweet making Bellamy arch a brow at her, a smirk stretching on his face.

“I’m serious, Clarke.” 

Clarke grinned, giving him a little nudge. “I know, well we’d have to see what it’s like out there first, we’ll stay out there tonight and we’ll see if we’ll still be able to sleep with the ash smell roaming the air.”

Bellamy beamed excitedly, Clarke usually dismissed his ideas, telling him it was too dangerous to be out at night, vulnerable to whoever their recent attackers were but the fact that she’d agreed made him want to pull her into a hug but he forced himself not to. 

“I’ll go tell Monty and Jasper to pack a bag, then I’ll tell Harper and Raven, that’ll be enough for a trail run, right?”

Clarke smiled fondly, nodding softly. She liked when Bellamy smiled, it always made her day better, even when they were basically facing death twenty four seven, it was reassuring to see he was happy, that she could still make him smile. “I’ll go pack my things too, only bring three tents.”

Bellamy gave her a curt nod before moving fast in the direction where he’d last seen Monty and Jasper, the pair had been fiddling with some electrical thing which Bellamy was sure Raven would scold them both for later.

Reaching the dropship was simple, it wasn’t too far from Arkadia really. Clarke had told her mother where they were going seem as she knew what her mother was like, if Clarke just up and left her mother would end up sending a search party out for her something she didn’t exactly want. Monty and Jasper were playfully shoving each other as though they were children in a playground. Raven was rambling about the lack of a workshop here and how she thinks it would be a horrible job to come back here, yet she came along anyway. Harper was shooting little looks to Monty who gladly returned them, Clarke didn’t miss the little flirts they’d shoot at each other every now and then. Bellamy was stood beside her, eyes travelling around the dropship as though he was picturing how it looked before the whole grounder mess. Clarke hated thinking of that day how she had to leave Bellamy out there, how she closed the door with a tear-stained face, wishing she could open it and let him and Finn in.

“Needs a spring clean, don’t you think?” Clarke grimaced as she looked around at the slightly blackened ground beneath their feet. Bellamy’s eyes fell to it and he shrugged.

“I think it’ll vanish when we walk all over it, eventually it’ll clear.”

Clarke rolled her eyes playfully at him, she should have gathered he’d say something along the lines of that. Clarke grabbed the attention of the others when she spoke up a little louder, indicating she wanted them all to listen.

“We have to set up our tents, try and find some place at least slightly...less covered in ash.”

Bellamy shrugged the backpack off of his back, dropping it to the floor beside Clarke as he knelt down to rummage through it for the tent. “We’ve got three so we’ll pair up, Monty and Jasper, Raven,Harper and me and Clarke.”

Clarke’s gaze fell on him at his words as did everyone elses, surprised by the suggestion. Bellamy never made a move on Clarke and it frustrated the rest of the group so much, they’d have to watch the longing eyes, the protecting each other from death alongside the bad flirting. Sometimes it even annoyed Clarke that he never made a room and yet here he was deciding that they were to spend the night together in a small tent, side by side in the silence of the woods. Clarke felt her cheeks burn as they blushed, a little smile making it’s way across her lips, she wasn’t going to argue and it looked like the others weren’t either.

They went ahead rather quickly putting up their tents, Bellamy done first of course seem as he’d started before the others, Raven was done soon after and Monty and Jasper last seem as they were pretending the tent’s poles were light sabers and were clanging them against one another making a noise with their mouths as they did so. Clarke had wandered off with Harper so that they could collect some wood for a fire seem as it was getting dark quick and soon the temperature would dip and they’d be freezing. It wasn’t long before the two girls returned, arms full of wood that was dry enough to burn and keep them warm, dropping them in the centre of their three tents which were slightly apart from one another.

Bellamy’s gaze found Clarke like it always did, watching as she sat beside Raven, the two talking about something that Bellamy couldn’t quite hear from where he was sat but he knew it was a topic about something in Arkadia, nowadays it always was. All business and survival. Monty was lighting the fire and Jasper was lounging on a log now so far from Bellamy, he was mumbling something about it being so peaceful and Bellamy had to agree. Silence was hard in Arkadia, people were always arguing, kids always crying and orders always being given, it was nice to be away from that for once. The fire flickered to life almost instantly, the dancing flames attracting the moths and the heat warming the six of them up. It really did feel like they were on some sort of camping trip, Bellamy smiled as the dim orange glow reflected on Clarke’s face just like it had the night they went looking for Finn, just like it had that night his heart fluttered in his chest.

“I think I’m going to head to sleep, all this walking has tired me out, don’t forget to put out the fire, theres no need to burn this land once more.” Clarke announced getting to her feet and giving Raven a smile, turning to look at Monty when she spoke of the fire knowing he’d end up being the one to put it out. Bellamy got to his feet too at her words, glancing around at everyone but her, nervous to be sleeping beside her in such a small space.

“Yeah uh, I’m going to join her...I wouldn’t advise you to keep the fire on for long, we’ll end up having a whole herd of moths here in the morning; get some sleep.” He gave them a short nod before moving to their tent, generously holding open the tent for her. He’d already placed their sleeping bags in there, he wasn’t sure what side Clarke slept on so he just placed them down beside each other so she could choose. 

Clarke gave him a shy smile before ducking into the tent, feeling the eyes of the others on her and Bellamy, she knew what they were thinking and it made her nervous. Clarke moved to the right side of the tent, leaving the left to Bellamy, she’d always preferred the right side for some reason and Bellamy seemed satisfied with her decision crawling in beside her as they settled down. It was quiet at first, the atmosphere uncomfortable as they listened to the muffled conversations from their friends outside the tent, Clarke stared up at the ceiling of the tent, Bellamy was beside her doing the exact same.

“Bellamy, do you really want to come and live back here?” 

Her voice was hush as she whispered, eyes still focused on the ceiling, awaiting a reply from the brunette close beside her.

“I do...it’s peaceful, here there isn’t a war going on, it’s like we’re separated from it all,” Bellamy told her, his head now turned to look at her as his hand rested on his stomach, his other pressed against Clarke’s own arm. “But if you don’t want to stay then I won’t either.”

Clarke rolled her eyes and this time turned her whole body to the side to face him, a hand under her head as she studied his face, a look scrawled on his face that made her heart thud in her chest. “Don’t do that.”

Bellamy frowned. “What?”

“Don’t say you won’t do something you want to do just because I don’t want to do it,” Clarke explained, “I don’t control your life Bellamy, I don’t want to keep you places you don’t want to be.”

Bellamy fell quiet, his eyes shifting back to the roof of the tent and he let out a light sigh, not an annoyed one but one where he he was tired of holding something in.

“I want to be wherever you are, Clarke. I wouldn’t mind staying in Arkadia if your there, I just thought it would be nice to finally be away from leading for once,” Bellamy looked at her again, his eyes locked on hers. “We carry the weight of the world on our shoulders all the time, we shouldn’t have to do that but we do and I feel like this is an escape from all that.”

Clarke listened quietly, she agreed. They carried everything on their shoulders that normal people their age would never have to have hanging over their head but even when her mother took over, she still felt the world on her shoulders. Clarke’s eyes fell to Bellamy’s lips, a smile tugging at her lips.

“If you want to be here, Bellamy, I’d gladly follow you. But you have to know if my mum needs me, I’d have to go back.”

“I know and I’ll be right by your side if you do, but for now, whilst things are civil I think we should stay here. I can hunt and so can the remaining hundred, we had to learn and you can draw all you want here without having to deal with people asking when the next fight was.” Bellamy smiled dreamily at her, he pictured a world with Clarke that he prayed one day would come true. Clarke’s smile widened now, she could picture it too and she longed for it. Clarke propped herself up on her elbow now, gazing down at Bellamy.

“You’re always by my side.”

Bellamy just smiled fondly. “It’s where I belong.”

Clarke let out a light loving giggle and leaned down slightly, slowly as though she was asking for his permission. Bellamy gladly curled a hand around the back of her neck bringing her lips to his, after all this time he’d finally gotten a kiss. Clarke smiled into it, glad he wasn’t too shy to return the kiss. Bellamy changed their positions knowing sitting like that must’ve started aching Clarke’s elbow, it also made it easier for them to deepen the kiss so Clarke didn’t argue. Little did the pair know the others were listening outside the tent, Raven silently high fiving Harper in victory as the heard Clarke hum in delight. They didn’t listen for long though seem as it would soon get awkward and the four dispersed to their tents. Their leaders were finally together.

[lavieenor-blog]

I wrote this and someone suggested I post it here so BOOM into the pits of tumblr.

ninety six corolla

 i dont hit snooze anymore.

i am awake at least an hour before the alarm goes off. i have never had a quiet mind. it races with want and worry all night until dawn when i am inevitably give up and decide to officially be awake. stretch, move hair out of my face, listen to my hearbeat. i take a deep breath, check the time, and then begin to concentrate on the steps.

step 1 is getting out of bed. put your feet on the ground, stand up. go. make yourself move. Â you have to get out of bed. you do not have a choice. well, you do have a choice but you have to make the right choice.

getting out of bed was never hard until one day it was hard. jobless, hungover, no appetite, sick of it all. why face the day. or the next. or any day. getting out of bed became a herculean task. so this step is important, it is the first goal that puts you on the path to other goals. touch the day.

 i get up.

step 2 is hygiene. take a shower, brush your teeth, comb your hair. this also, as hard as it is to understand, is something that can be incredibly overwhelming when the night before you stared at bottle of luksosawa and some vicodin a lover brought over because he naively thought he was helping you calm down, and you thought to yourself “no one is going to care.” and then you did it, you tried anyway and still woke up and you suck at that too so why bother combing your hair? step two has become my favorite. 45 minute showers, shelves and shelves of scented soap shaped like seashells and imprinted was sexy names -lavender, amber mist, green valley, crabtree and evelyn.

 i am going to always smell fucking good.

eating breakfast is the next step. i grab an orange and a cigarette. the irony is not lost on me. today, i am josephine baker.

the memories seep back during traffic. red lights, stop and go, mind-numbing talk radio. too easy. too much time to think.

i did not know i was depressed in the clinical way. i just thought my time was done. it was a good life. i had been fearless all through-out my 20’s and whatever had suddenly attacked my brain also came with a steady whisper in my head, day in and day out. it was over. my depression was not a fade to black, with slow dances towards cut wrists and sad songs playlists. i did not write letters. i did not plan my funeral, i did not reveal my state of mind. my depression was giving up and wasting away and disappearing. my depression was changing my number for no real reason. my depression was a $100 sweater with the tags still on it, that i was once coveted, suddenly becoming my dogs blanket, with the tags still on it. my depression was will & grace marathons with white wine out of a box on tuesday mornings. my depression was not eating until i almost passed out then ordering $200 dollars of chinese delivery to hold me over until next time. my depression was, come over, leave by 2 a.m.. i was reckless with money and men, i wanted it all gone. the plan was when the money ran out, so would i. the men would disappear on their own.

step 3 is call your family and let them know you are still alive. make sure you eat your lunch.

step 4, when the day gets long and you start to question everything, step 4 reminds you to dream. think about what makes you happy. create a goal.

i picture a roast chicken with lemon, rice pilaf, a salad, a mexican serving dish, green red white ceramic dishwasher friendly, antique silverware, guests at a table, candle light. a game of cards. josephine baker. if i allow myself to be generous with dreams it might stretch to a daughter in ballet class, a son in soccer. or vice versa. continuing. a night with my handsome, who’s face is always clouded (i do not know how to fill this part in), at the opera in an evening gown. we go to dinner afterwards and waltz in the street in the rain. im just following the steps.

time to go home.

here is where it gets the hardest.

steps 5 and 6 are more guidance to make sure you stay on track. make sure to eat again. do something to occupy your time. read a good book. get a hobby. please do this.

but those hours when you are supposed to stay awake, when you are supposed to watch sitcoms and laugh and unwind, those are the hardest hours. when you are counting down minutes until sleep just so tomorrow you can do it again, the steps again (what is life without the steps?) that is when you ask yourself what is the fucking point?

i read chapter 3 of Beloved. Anything dead coming back to life hurts.

i never did get the chance to run out. at my lowest point i wouldn’t even drive a my car. anxiety played a part but dealing with that involves different steps. (hint: breathe). Â my old faithful toyota corolla. it represented freedom, it was memory wrapped in metal, wanderlust on wheels. sorry for being wordsmith indulgent. i could no longer get behind the wheel, i no longer saw possibility on the road, in big cities, in small towns, in life in general. 

most people do not know that a corolla by definition is the petals of a flower.

i no longer had the will to give the car the life it gave to me. i let it wilt in the driveway and by neglect i let it die.

the fantasy involved a long drive into the woods and a hose extended from the exhaust to the window, safe inside of the petals, curled up like a sick, twisted adult ann geddes photo shoot. i’ve always been a dramatic romantic. my depression would not let me move, make this lovely quiet end happen. even death  was a burden. i was too depressed to try. had someone handed me a gun though, i know for a fact i would not still be here, doing the steps.

i cannot say when the turning point came but it was slow to come. my brain got tired and my body started to rebel. my hair was falling out. my belts, barely a size 26, no longer fit. mostly, defiantly, i was tired of the hospitals i ended up in whenever someone came to check on me. contrary to popular belief, doctors are not nice to people with issues.  i did not want another moment of having to drink a sprite out of a plastic cup because staff was concerned about the rough edges of a can. i hated being told what to do, and worse i hated being punished for refusing to do what i was told to do. the independence was starting to overcome the demon. it was time to try.  i gave in i took the help. i took the therapy, i took the pills, i took 30 days in the mountains.

step 7 asks you to look back at your day and what you accomplished.

 i used to journal the highs and lows of everyday but as i got better, i started to forget that task. it has become an anything book. 30 pages of self-congratulatory statements turned into random phone numbers, drawings of floorplans, a shrimp recipe “3 tablespoons curry, 1 stick butter, hdfl grn beans, a moth wing delicately saved in a small plastic bag and stapled to the back cover. these are highs and lows of a different sort. a patchwork of scribbles so i dont ask what is the fucking point?

the point is josephine baker singing REVES.

when it is time for the evening to be done, when i have successfully kept myself busy, when i can get into the bed and say goodnight to the moon knowing that in the morning i can feel the sun, when i survived another day, i did it, take that depression!, this is when, and only when i can forget about the steps.

step 8: sleep.