#speaking of. go listen to jaws by lemon demon.

[irl-morros-account]

Hey Morro!!! Because i just discovered what a sea turtle's mouth looks like, you now get to be subjected to this horror too!!!!!

Here you go!!!!!!

OH WHAT THE FUCK WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT TO ME. MY HEART SANK SO FAST AS I SAT THERE AND LOOKED AT IT.

Why are you like this. So cruel. My entire day is ruined. >:(

[a-passing-storm]

(13 of) The 15 Fears As Lemon Demon Songs

In order of confidence/how well the songs fit/also just preferred fears.

The Eye - Touch Tone Telephone

The Extinction - Cabinet Man

The Lonely - Amnesia Was Her Name

The Spiral - Sundial

The Web - Spiral of Ants

The Stranger - Nightmare Fuel

The Buried - I Earn My Life

The Flesh - Modify

The Dark - Ancient Aliens(?)

The Hunt - Jaws(?)

The Slaughter - Knife Fight(?)

The Vast - The Ocean(?)

The Desolation - Action Movie Hero Boy(?)

I literally could not find any that fit The End or The Corruption. Explanations and some rambling beneath the cut.

I wanted to do this because I had ideas for a few of them, mainly The Extinction, Eye, Lonely, Spiral, Stranger, and Web. Then I kind of struggled to do the rest. I also typically only listen to Spirit Phone and View Monster, so I was mainly drawing from those two.

The Eye

Touch Tone Telephone - I don't have a good reason for this one. It fits John better than it fits The Eye, but I think you can argue that it fits the need for knowledge and loss of self in that search.

The Extinction

Cabinet Man - I don't think I need to explain this one! Cabinet Man is so similar to Binary, when that guy ate his computer.

Samuel and Rosella - I think this one is a sub-flavor of The Extinction. It's like... ah yes, these old people are convinced that the world is ending. Because of Kids These Days. Not climate change...

Fine - Speaking of climate change! This one is climate change denial, but I think it still fits The Extinction.

The Lonely

I had so many ideas for this one. Not all of them will make it here.

Amnesia Was Her Name - It reminded me a lot of Martin getting stuck in The Lonely in Season 5 and forgetting his name. It's got that sense of disconnection from other people.

It Can Get Lonely In My Mansion - This one fits pretty straightforwardly, because it is... about a guy who is in a huge empty space and feels lonely. The reason I didn't put it as my Final Choice was that it is more Capitalism Horror than Lonely Horror, in my opinion. I do think it fits The Lonely Making You Think That You Are Superior To Others And You Not Hanging Out With Them (I think that came up in Peter Lukas' statement?).

Soft Fuzzy Man - Again, being very literal with this one, it fits well. Some of the ocean vibes in the lyrics (ie. "cold and windy / dark and stormy") remind me of The Lonely's fogginess and Peter Lukas' sailor thing. I'm just going to start listing off lyircs: "can't you see me? / why can't you see me?" "I need to feel like I exist / so please, baby, please, baby, step into the mist." Going off of the lyrics, it fits well, but it just seemed a little too literal.

You're At the Party - I really wanted to use this for The Lonely, but then I decided it fit The Stranger better, but then I found other things that fit The Stranger. This song reminds me of when you are in a very busy/crowded place but feel completely invisible, out of place, and separate from everyone.

A Mask of My Own Face - This is another Lonely/Stranger one to me. You can take it as being around other people but still separating yourself from them, again in the Peter Lukas way.

Stuck - Doesn't really fit, but there is a line about forgetting your name and not having a clear personality.

The Spiral

Sundial - It's a silly nonsense song! The Spiral is the silly nonsense fear (ish). Sundial is a personal favorite Lemon Demon song, so I suppose I also wanted to assign it to a fan-favorite fear.

Eighth Wonder - Honestly, this one might fit better than Sundial, because it is an entity that is actually dangerous that comes off as very silly and playful, much like certain door people.

The Web

Spiral of Ants - I feel like someone is going to kill me for putting this here and not The Corruption or The Spiral, but it is... it is not really Bugs Gross nor is it about going crazy (that much). I think it fits The Web, because it discusses a loss of control over your own life, a lack of awareness over that loss of control, and the sense that you are just acting as a part of a collective as opposed to an individual with free will.

Redesign Your Logo - This was what I initially had for The Web. Going off of the literal words, it does have the repeating "everything's connected," which is pretty Web-y. I also think the general idea of manipulating and controlling people via advertising fits that pretty well.

Stuck - I feel that realizing that you are a character with no free will is pretty Web-related.

The Stranger

Nightmare Fuel - Once again, I feel that I don't need to explain this one. We have creepy clowns, puppets with human hands, mannequins that move, robots with human eyes, monsters made of clay, and a direct mention of the uncanny valley.

You're At The Party - This one is very Something Is Off But You Don't Know What to me and is personally very strongly associated with derealizing, which basically gives everything an uncanny valley feeling.

A Mask of My Own Face - I think this only works if you go by the imagery of someone wearing a mask made of human skin.

The Buried

I Earn My Life - I was initially going to use this for The Web, but then one of the Q&As mentioned that tax offices would totally be places of The Buried, and I figured this fit. Obviously, it fits more with the metaphorical sense of being stuck and having a lot of pressure on you than it does with literally being buried.

The Flesh

All of these seemed like slight stretches, so I had a hard time deciding between them.

Modify - This just felt like the most Body Horror song that I could find, even though it dealt less with the Ew Squishy Meat element of body horror than it did the Meat That Can Be Damaged element of body horror.

Lifetime Achievement Award - This was my initial choice for The Flesh, mainly because of the "even as we speak we're synthesizing blood and organs" in the chorus. It really doesn't fit that well, but that line tends to hit me with the sudden awareness that I am just a bunch of cells making more cells and such. Fleshy.

Nothing Worth Loving Isn't Askew - This one fits because of the "you are muscle, flesh, and bone," at the beginning and the themes of dysmorphia and insecurity about one's body. I just didn't find it particularly horrifying, I suppose. I kind of found it wholesome.

The Dark

We are now getting to fears where I feel that my song choices really didn't fit.

Ancient Aliens - I thought it fit mostly because of the sense of not knowing and the fear of the unknown. Also, the mention of darkness. Also, the mention of eye damage, I guess. Weirdly, a lot of Lemon Demon songs mention eye damage or specifically gouging out your eyes.

The Hunt

Jaws - Look. Spooky shark hunts people. People hunt shark. Shark hunts and eats people. People hunt shark more. Shark is dead. Hurrah!

The Slaughter

Knife Fight - Senseless violence! We'll ignore the tickle fight at the end.

The Vast

The Ocean - I did just pick a song that mentioned the ocean. In my defense, it also mentions not being able to see the horizon and watching the stars, which has been associated with The Vast a bit. By the way, there is another song called Deep In The Ocean, which also doesn't fit that well, though I suppose you could interpret it as being about how insignificant humans are in the grand scheme of things (time-wise).

The Desolation

Action Movie Hero Boy - I think you could argue this for The Slaughter, because both feature senseless violence, but this one touched a bit more on the romanticization of violence/destruction, in my opinion. Fire and explosives. Desolation. Woo.

Angry People - I think this one might fit better with The Slaughter or even The Extinction thematically, but it reminded me of baby Agnes. That was the main reason I picked it. Plus, I feel like The Desolation's people tend to be very passionate about things, and the mention of having sex angrily and eating angrily kind of had that vibe to me.

Others

When He Died - This really fits a good amount of them. I'm getting Stranger, because of the random skulls, Laughing Record, and clown; Lonely, because nobody mourned him and his wife's "voice began to fade to nothing;" Desolation, because of the house fire; and End, because of the foreseen death thing. There is also an apocalypse mention, so... Extinction + The Watcher's Crown.

Man-Made Object - It may or may not have reminded me a little bit of Jonah Magnus.

Pizza Heroes - This has got to be the Breekon and Hope theme song. They always deliver. :)

No Eyed Girl - This one! Thinking about this one in the context of The Magnus Archives actually made me cry. Like. Okay. Hear me out. Let me just straight up post the lyrics, actually. I will ramble and then I will straight up post the lyrics. I am not a huge fan of JohnMartin, however... Like. This song. This song in the context of Episode 200. Especially since the song is about someone falling in love with like... an unknowable being. In the song, the no-eyed girl and the unknowable being are two separate people, but like... this song if Martin was the no-eyed person and John was the being.

Oh, knowing what we know, knowing what we don't know  This is gonna change our world  Feeling how I feel, I'll accept the unreal  If you'd be my no-eyed girl From nowhere mankind can go  There's too much light, blinding white  Your matter tells mine to scatter  It's alright, it's alright From the moment that we met  I've been awake like I've never been awake in all my life  If I spoke your language, I could tell you how I feel  But your language isn't real In every myth, there's a little bit of truth  But I cannot say a thing  I cannot say a thing  Without proof, oh, no Knowing what we know, knowing what we do not know  This is gonna change our world  I might go insane if I learn your full name  If you'd be my no-eyed girl From nowhere mankind can go  There's too much light, blinding white  Emotions, human implosions  It's alright, it's alright Right before the kiss, I noticed something in the air  Molecules existed when there should have been none there  Chemical reactions with the surface of your skin  Some will say my actions let the no-eyed people in And I'd do it all again  And I'd do it all again  And I'd do it all again

I'm still rambling about this song. Like. Hello???

"Knowing what we know, knowing what we don't know. / This is gonna change our world." Like... HELLO? Knowing what they know about the Fears and the Archive and everything about alternate worlds? Not knowing exactly what would happen if they died or attempted to fix the world? But knowing pretty damn well that it sure would change?

Even the idea of being blinded by knowing too much... Jonah Magnus much? Everything going wrong as they kiss? Also just... how sad the last verse sounds...

Help!

[shingetsu-online]

Tell me about Vio and Jasper’s favorite songs

YEAAAAAAAAHHAHAHA OK!!!!!!!

vio has a very mixed music taste. a song i've connected with him alot is 'arrows' by foo fighters. it's about a person going through a shitty experience and feeling absolutely fucking miserable, at least that's what i've picked up from the lyrics. 'dirty water', also by foo fighters fits him as well. also 'don't speak' by no doubt is one that i'd picture him screaming the lyrics to lmao,, he also listens to a lot of mitski and marina as well. however, he likes music that's pretty much the exact opposite of that !! i started listening to the album 'artpop' by lady gaga around the time i was beating pokemon violet, but especially the song 'venus'. i pretty much connected the album to area zero, especially with the futuristic feel of the song and all of the futuristic paradox pokemon wandering around!! it's definitely more upbeat than the other songs i've mentioned!! dark necessities by rhcp [red hot chili peppers] is another one i've connected with him! i've posted this like twice before as well but vio unironically listens to 'if we were gay' by ninja sex party like 3 times a day.

jasper's music taste is actually easier to pin down lmao. nature tapes by lemon demon is her favorite album. the chaotic instrumentals combined with nonsensical and silly lyrics are his thing. really cool wig, jaws, my trains, and the infamous two trucks are the best examples i have ^_^ she likes jazz emu and tom cardy too! for similar reasons as well. upbeat and lively instrumentals paired with comedic or stupid lyrics are what i pair with jasper the most. she also likes gorillaz but thats because i listened to a lot of gorillaz while i was playing shield for the first time lmao

hope this answers your question anon!!!

[white-hemlock]

For @drarrymicrofic

Prompt: First Time (am I late?)

Words: 3 238 (micro lol)

He woke up at the sound of people arguing. He couldn’t make out much though. Pain was coursing through his entire body. His head in particular.

He felt someone moving by his side and soon after the pain began to fade away.

"You have to leave. I'll come back later to inform you of his condition but right now I need to take care of my patient."

"I have been waiting for twenty hours. Twenty hours! You had plenty of time to inform me. So if you want me to leave this room you will have to give me answers, and satisfying ones. Otherwise you can be sure I'll be in your way until I lose it and finally strangle you!"

He opened his eyes. He saw two men in front of him. The one with the white coat and tired and disapproving look was obviously a doctor. The other one was tall with short blond hair and a very classy suit. The doctor noticed that he was awake and gave the other man an even more disapproving look.

"Mr Potter, I apologize for the noise. I'll lead Mr Malfoy to the exit and be back for you."

But the so-called Mr Malfoy was already by his side: "How do you feel?"

He looked at him for a few seconds, trying to figure out what was going on: "I'm fine but who are you?"

The man raised an eyebrow and gave him a look of pure confusion.

The doctor sighed: "That is precisely why I wanted to speak to you before allowing you to see him... Mr Potter, you had a serious accident. We believe that the trauma on your head may have resulted in a partial, if not total, memory loss."

He paused, allowing the two men in front of him to assimilate his words.

"Can you tell us what you remember?"

He opened his mouth to answer. But the words didn't come and he closed it. He couldn't think of anything. It was not really a blank. He felt as if the memories were right there but as soon as he wanted to grab one, it eluded.

Feeling his confusion, the doctor tried to help him: "Can you tell us your name?"

That should have been easy. But again, it slipped away. So, in embarrassment, he replied: "You called me Mr Potter."

The man at his side snorted and with a cold and most unpleasant voice he hurled: "If this is a joke, you'd better put an end to this because it really doesn't amuse me and you might not like the consequences."

He started to feel irritated by the way this man was behaving. He was arrogant and presumptuous, nothing very likable.

"I'm afraid this is no joke… Sir, your name is Harry Potter, you are 34 years old, you work as an Auror and were injured on duty. The man by your side is your husband. " He paused, aware of the awkwardness of the situation. "Now rest assured we will do everything to assist you in your recovery. There are many ways to help people suffering from amnesia. But for the moment, you need to rest. Mr Malfoy, please follow me."

Harry had felt a wave of horror when the doctor had told him that this tall blond man was his husband. He had never imagined he could be someone so close. If this man was sharing his life, how could he feel nothing looking at him? How could he not remember his name? Then he realised he couldn't even remember his own name. He looked into Mr Malfoy's eyes and saw a reflection of his own shock and fear. But the blond man said nothing as he slowly got up and followed the doctor, leaving him all alone with his thoughts and his fleeing memories.

***********************************************************************

The couple had just left. Hermione and Ron they called themselves. They seemed really nice. He was glad to know he had friends like that. They told him a lot about his life. The life of the Boy who lived, twice. Three times now, they said as a joke. But their laughter never reached their eyes.

Everything seemed so unreal, as if he were told the story of someone else. He, the hero who saved the world? Really?

He asked them about his husband as well. Draco Malfoy. There was a very awkward silence before Hermione started to share the story of the young boy, raised in a pure blood family, son of the closest ally to the one who killed his parents. They told him plenty about their rivalry at school and his difficult position during the war. Not so much about how they ended up together. He didn't insist. It was already a lot to process. He was exhausted.

He woke up an hour later when his husband entered the room. The man saw his sleepy face and offered to come back later but Harry declined. He was uncomfortable when Malfoy was around. That man was his husband but didn't behave that way. Not once had he made an affectionate gesture, nor told him he loved him, nor called him by a nickname. He didn’t even smile at him. He was distant but also embarrassed and Harry couldn't blame him for that.

This time he came with a bag from which he took what looked like a large and heavy book.

"The doctor suggested that pictures could help. We never really took time to create a proper album so I tried to gather a few pics…"

He looked exhausted, his eyes were red and his shirt was creased.

He sat on the chair by his side and dropped the album on his knees. Harry stared at the cover with apprehension. It was one thing to hear his story from the mouths of others, it was another to see images of himself living a life he couldn't remember.

He took a deep breath and opened it.

The first photo he saw was one of a couple dancing near a fountain.

"These are your parents. Don't bother trying to remember them, you were one when they died. I thought you might want to know what they looked like though."

He had shifty eyes and seemed even more uncomfortable than usual. Harry didn't comment and listened to his explanations as he browsed through pictures of his parents, their friends, his godfather. Eventually he started to see pictures of him, as a young boy with a young Ron and a young Hermione. Him with other friends. Malfoy even added some articles from the newspaper. And as he turned the pages he saw himself becoming older. He saw himself with a baby making his first steps. His godson apparently. He saw himself at Hermione and Ron's wedding. Then himself holding another baby. Rose he said, his friends' daughter.

As time passed he was less and less talkative. But Harry didn't mind. He didn't need more, that was already a huge amount of information to assimilate. It was hard to accept that the young man with messy dark hair in those pictures was himself.

Soon after he started to see pictures of him and Malfoy. And his husband fell completely silent. There was a picture of Malfoy rolling his eyes in some restaurant, a picture of him struggling with a tie, fancy-dressed for some occasion, a picture of the two of them at Christmas where he was watching Malfoy unwrapping a present, a loving smile on his face.

He paused a long time at the sight of him in a prestigious black and gold wizard dress, Malfoy by his side in full white and silver, flowers falling all over them. Malfoy was whispering something in his ear, making him laugh out loud. They seemed genuinely happy, both of them.

He glanced at Malfoy but the man was looking somewhere else, his jaw clenched. Harry felt sad and a bit angry. None of these pictures were bringing any memory, not any emotion, not even a vague feeling of déjà-vu. He could only imagine his husband's disappointment.

He kept browsing through the pictures of his wedding, hoping one of them would trigger something. There were pictures of them in an exotic country, on a white sand beach. More Christmas. A picture of him holding another baby. A picture of his husband holding that same baby. And more and more pictures of this baby, turning into a white blond hair child, always smiling from ear to ear. He felt a shudder of horror crawling down his spine as he turned the pages and kept seeing that kid playing with him, hugging him.

Unable to continue, he put the book down.

"Malfoy…” He took a deep breath, shivering “Draco?"

As he called him by his first name for the first time since he woke up, his husband turned his head slowly to face him, demons in the eyes.

"Do we… Do we have a child?"

Draco didn't answer right away. First he leaned down to turn a new page of the book, revealing the picture of them with the young boy holding a tiny baby the best he could, his smile wider than ever.

"Two actually…"

Silence fell as Harry froze. He felt nauseous. How could he? How could he forget something that important, forget that he was a father, that he had a family?

He stared at his husband, hoping for an impossible answer.

Draco tried to explain, his voice broken:

"I didn't know how to tell you… I'm sorry."

And he burst into tears.

And for the first time he saw that proud, lordly man in all his vulnerability. For the first time, what was a mask finally fell down.

He squeezed his arm, hoping to provide some sort of comfort as the tears kept falling down.

A weird thought crossed his mind. He surprised himself thinking of a bathroom and leaking water, of coldness and red blood running on white tiles. Definitely not an appropriate thought for the situation, so he pushed it away.

***********************************************************************

Harry was waiting in front of the main chimney. Draco came toward him, showing a file in his hand:

"All done! Are you ready?"

Harry breathed deeply; he was not ready, he was terrified.

"No, but I don't think I'll ever be."

Draco grabbed a pot filled with floo powder before handing it to his husband:

"I told you everything you need to know. Even if you miss a few things, they'll forgive you. They know about your accident and they are so eager to see you that details won't matter."

Harry nodded and grabbed a handful of the green powder before entering the chimney. He gave a last look at his husband and gathered all his courage to yell the address Draco gave him before dropping the powder.

The first thing he noticed when exiting the floo was the smell. A complex mix of wood, coffee, hot bread, lemon, herbs and so many things indescribable. But a somehow very familiar smell. He knew that scent. He knew it so much it moved him. It was linked with a feeling of safety, of love and happiness. It reminded him of relief when coming back from work, busy mornings, animated lunch… it smelled like home.

Draco joined him right before a tiny blond storm rushed toward him, yelling:

"DADDYYYYYYY"

Unconsciously, Harry kneeled down and opened his arms, catching his son and hugging him tight. The boy started to cry and Harry felt overwhelmed. A few tears rolled down his cheek as he realised that for the time he understood, deeply understood that the story people had told him was true. This was his home, this was his child. He may not remember everything but he knew all this was part of his life.

He raised his head and noticed a little boy hiding behind Draco's leg. He moved an arm to invite him to join the hug but the child didn't move. With a very small voice he asked:

"Are you still my daddy if you can't remember me?"

The question hit him like a punch in the stomach. Draco had warned him. Albus didn't talk much but when he did he always surprised them with a maturity way too advanced for his age. He tried to compose himself and answered:

"I may not remember everything, I may have forgotten the day you were born, your first words, your first steps... but nothing, you hear me, nothing will ever stop me from being your father. I am still here and we'll make new memories together, I swear." His voice broke. It wasn't fair. A child shouldn't question his father's love. Especially not his own child.

Slowly, one tiny step after another, Albus reached for his father, hugged him and grabbed his t-shirt so tight, Harry felt as if it was his heart that was squeezed by this tiny hand. He suddenly remembered staying up all night, trying to soothe a terrified baby Albus holding his finger as if his life depended on it while a thunderstorm was shaking the windows.

Finally, he thought. It wasn't much but it was a start.

***********************************************************************

Harry was enjoying a glass of firewhisky in front of the fireplace when Draco came in, poured himself a glass and sat by his side on the sofa, obviously exhausted.

"Two hours later, they are finally asleep!"

Harry giggled softly:

"I could have done it, you know. It really doesn't bother me."

Draco frowned.

"Of that I have no doubt. But it's been weeks since you came home and it's time they accept being tucked in by their other father."

Harry smiled but didn't answer. Draco was right of course, but he really liked sharing that moment with his two sons.

His husband suddenly stood up and took a letter from the coffee table.

"The minister asked me to give you this. They want you to come back to work quickly. Again. I don't understand how they can harass you like that after what happened. What would it take for them to give you a break? You losing an arm?!"

He sat down on the couch and emptied the glass in a single shot.

Harry didn't even bother to open the letter. He made it fly directly to the fireplace. His husband raised an eyebrow, silently asking for an explanation.

"I'll answer by telling them that I quit. That should calm them down."

Draco couldn't hide his surprise.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I certainly had very good reasons to do this job but I think I've done more than my part. It's time I get a bit more selfish and focus on myself."

"So what are you going to do?"

"I don't know yet… something far less dangerous, that's for sure."

They fell silent as they both watched the flames devouring the paper. Draco was obviously concerned but Harry gave him time to put the right words on his feelings. When he finally spoke, Draco avoided his eyes, like he did when he felt vulnerable.

"If you ever want to ask for divorce I would understand… All the reasons you married me probably disappeared with the rest of your memories."

Harry couldn't help but smile and took a sip of his drink before answering.

"You know when I first woke up, I thought that you were an arrogant little prat."

His smile widened when he saw a faint blush on Draco's cheeks.

"Then I realized that there was more to you than met the eye. Every passing day I understand a little more why I married you in the first place. It would be a shame to end things now, don't you think?"

His husband didn't answer right away and Harry added, suddenly more serious:

"That is if you want to give it a try as well. After all, I probably changed and I may not be the man you married anymore."

Draco took a few seconds to consider the matter, his eyes lost in the dancing flames of their chimney.

"You did change. You seem more… peaceful. I guess some memories are best forgotten."

He stopped and Harry turned toward him, his arm laying on the back of the sofa.

"You didn't answer the question."

Draco smirked and Harry noticed that he really liked the curve it gave to his thin lips when he did so.

"In sickness and health. Those were my vows. And I still remember them. Sure I wasn't expecting amnesia but I still knew that with you it was far from being empty words."

He opened his mouth as if he were about to say something else but closed it as he changed his mind.

Harry exhorted him to keep going.

"But?"

Draco bit his lips and stared at his empty glass.

"No but. I still want to believe in us. It's just… complicated. In the beginning I felt as if you were a complete stranger. Almost as if my husband was dead and his body was being possessed. And yet sometimes you do or say something and I feel like nothing ever happened. The weirdest part is that it makes me feel… guilty. Almost as if I was cheating on my husband with you." He paused and nervously tapped his glass with his long fingers. "Sorry, that's ridiculous."

Harry smiled tenderly. There was something about Draco's vulnerability that was touching and addicting. The fact that he chose to expose himself to him and only him was the only thing really making him feel like the Chosen One.

"It's not ridiculous. I myself am struggling to make a connection between who I am and who I was." He added with amusement:

"You know what's ridiculous? The links my brain makes sometimes! I mean, the smell of wet grass makes me think of Quidditch games with Scorpius. OK, I get it. I must have played with him many times while it was rainy. The smell of your shampoo under the shower makes me horny. I think I can get that one too. But why on earth would I think of cinnamon cookies when I see you smile?"

And to his greatest surprise, Draco burst into laughter. A real, uncontrolled laugh, brightening every cell of his face. For the first time since he woke up, Draco let go of the fears, the doubts and the sorrows, only to fully embrace the moment. And he was gorgeous that way.

Draco bit his bottom lip to regain control and explained with a mischievous smile: " Well I may have tried something called positive reinforcement to make you like me when we both started working for the minister. But damn, I didn't know it worked that well."

Harry didn't listen, still mesmerized by Draco's smile. He felt a sudden burst of heat as his heart missed a beat. The words left his lips before he could even understand them.

"I think I'm falling in love with you again."

He almost regretted his words when Draco's smile froze. But then a small blush colored his husband's cheeks and as they closed the gap between them, nothing else mattered.

Their kiss was soft and shy. A light touch of their lips, asking for a permission to hope, slowly getting firmer as if to anchor the moment into reality.

It was far from being their first kiss, but it definitely felt like one.

[satsuma-saturn]

Lemon - Beelzebub x Reader

A/N: I haven’t written fanfic in years, so apologies if this is poorly written :’)) I just wanted to get back into the scene and I hope Beel isn't too ooc, since I’ve never written him before. I hope y’all enjoy :’))

Reader is gender-neutral, unless otherwise specified

WC: 2174

Warning(s): Reader deals w/ depression

Fic below the cut :)

Lemons were sour, a no-brainer. You remember sucking on a lemon as a dare when you were younger, your friends laughing at the puckered face you made when the sour juice made contact with your tastebuds. After that, you’d sucked down an entire glass of water, in an attempt to rid yourself of the taste, yet it lingered. Another time, you were preparing fresh lemonade to sell at a lemonade stand, but when it came to tasting, it was horribly sour. Your grandmother gave you the advice to scoop some sugar into the lemonade, as it would sweeten it. She was right.

You laid in your bed, staring at your ceiling. It was dinnertime and you hadn’t left your room in...you didn’t even know how long. Some time earlier, Beel had popped his head in your room, letting you know that it was time for dinner. After his announcement, he remained in your doorway, seemingly waiting for you to walk with him to the dining room. With a small sigh, you had told him you’d be downstairs soon. He had frowned, like he didn’t really believe you, but he was hungry, so he stepped out and closed your door behind you. That was around half an hour ago and you hadn’t budged an inch. Your head hurt and you felt...empty.

Like the taste of a lemon, the empty feeling lingered inside you. It grew stronger the longer you laid there, staring at your ceiling in the dark. You squeezed your eyes shut, curling up in the fetal position. Your fingers ran up and down your sheets as you tried to take deep breaths.

“One...two...three…” Your eyes burned and you rubbed them with your fists, trying to wipe away the hot tears that threatened to spill out. Too late. A sob that welled up inside your chest escaped your throat, sounding akin to a dying whale. Fuck. Why were you like this? Why were you crying? You clenched your fists, your nails leaving behind crescent-shaped indents in the palms of your hands. Shaking, you slid under your blanket and rolled up in it, as if you were a human burrito. Hiding away in a blanket burrito was safe and warm, but you knew you couldn’t hide away forever. Someone would come to get you. If not that night, then they would the next morning, since you had school. Would Lucifer let you stay home if you claimed to be sick? You did feel sick, after all. Even if you weren’t physically sick, there were still physical symptoms.

When your door opened and a towering figure silently stepped in, you didn’t notice. In fact, you only noticed his presence when your bed suddenly shifted, rolling you into him. Sniffling, you peeked out from your blanket. It could only be Beel.  Who else was the size of a fucking tree? He must have come back after waiting for almost an hour for you to come back downstairs. You did tell him that you would be downstairs for dinner, only you hadn’t actually moved from your bed, so he was probably worried about you. Oops. Maybe you should have waited until after dinner to cry yourself to sleep.

“You’re crying,” he mumbled, as if you didn’t already know that. The room was dark, but you could feel his violet eyes drilling into you, waiting for you to speak, to say anything. You were silent for the longest time, though, unsure of what to say. What could you say? Sure, you could just be honest and spill your guts, but you weren't positive he would understand. It wasn’t that you thought he was dumb, because he wasn’t, but demons were decidely different than humans. Still, Beel was more emotionally intelligent than any of his brothers, so even if he couldn’t empathize, perhaps he could sympathize.

Wiping your nose, you sat up and reached over to turn on your lamp. The light scorched your eyeballs, since you’d been sitting in the dark for who-knows-how-long. When your eyes adjusted, you focused on Beel, who was watching you expectantly. You still owed him a response. Swabbing your tongue on your dry lips, you thought of what to say, how to explain how you were feeling that would make sense to him.

Swallowing, you finally found your voice. “Yeah, I am crying. I’m just...not feeling very well right now--”

He interrupts you, his voice laced with concern. “Are you sick? Do you need medicine? I’m not really sure if we have medicine here that humans can stomach, but I think we can figure something out. Do you need a cold pack? Or maybe a hot cloth?”

If you didn’t feel so miserable, you could’ve cracked a smile at his million mile questions. “No, Beel. I don’t need any of that. I’m just sad, that’s all. You don’t need to worry about me.” Your lips curved up in a small smile, but your eyes remained melancholic. That was bound to worry him even more, but you were still thinking of ways to explain it in your head. The cogs in your brain were rusted, though, refusing to budge.

His jaw tightened, his eyes boring into yours, as if he was thinking of how to respond. After several moments of silence, he took your hand in his and leaned in to speak, his voice low. “You’re sad? Did someone make you sad? If so, I’ll make them pay. Or was it me? If it was me, I…,” he swallowed, “I’ll do anything to make it up to you, promise.” You loved this man (demon?), but he was never going to need another leg day from all the jumping to conclusions he was doing.

“Beel, let me talk.” You paused for a second, waiting for his affirmation before resuming. “No one is making sad--”

“So why are you sad?”

“You’d find out if you stopped interrupting me every two seconds,” you say, your tone tinged with annoyance. You didn’t mean to get annoyed, but he wasn’t listening when you were trying to tell him something important. A sigh escaped you before you continued. “I’m just sad just to be sad. There’s no rhyme or reason behind it, but that’s just how my brain functions. Sometimes, I get headaches and nausea from it, like right now. It causes me to want to isolate myself and just generally sleep and cry a lot. Does that make sense?” You tilted your head, silently watching his face. It was your turn to wait for a response.

Slowly, he nodded. “Yeah, that’s depression, isn’t it? I don’t know that much about it, other than what I’ve read in one of Satan’s books. I got bored, though, because reading about the human brain hurt my brain.” He carded a hand through his ginger locks, sighing softly. “So, that’s what’s going on? Why didn’t you say that before? You were really starting to worry me, pumpkin.” Pumpkin. That little pet name he gave you always melted your heart when he said it. Pumpkins were stupid because you couldn’t even tell if they were a fruit or a vegetable, but you liked hearing him call you that.

“I‘m sorry,” you mumbled, hugging yourself and bowing your head. You felt ashamed. Ashamed that you were alone in your room, crying. Ashamed that you hadn’t gone to Beel when you started feeling that way. After all, you didn’t want him thinking that you didn’t trust him. He was one of the most important people in your life and you didn’t know what you’d do without him. Your shoulders shook as a sob wracked through your body. You were so stupid.

“Hey,” Beel said, softly. “I’m not mad at you. I was just worried, I guess. I should’ve known something was wrong the first time I was up here, but I was too hungry to pay attention to anything else, other than getting to the dining room for dinner. I’m still hungry, actually.” Right on cue, his stomach growled and he frowned. “Everyone else is done with dinner, so we can go to the kitchen to get something to eat. Maybe Mammon’s left some cake in the fridge or something. Let’s go check.” He held out his hand and you quickly wiped your eyes before taking it.

Somehow, none of the other six brothers spotted the pair of you sneaking to the kitchen. It wasn’t very late, so they were all still definitely awake. Well, most of them were definitely still awake. A certain twin was probably fast asleep somewhere in the house. You trudged behind Beel as he raced towards the fridge, desperate to find something to eat. Seating yourself on the counter, you watched him rip open the refrigerator door, pulling out random food items and muttering to himself. He wasn’t above eating his brothers’ food, but you knew Mammon’s would be the first to go if it came to that, especially after the Custard Incident, which left you without a wholeass wall.

“Hmm...Levi’s got something here, but I don’t trust anything from him,” you heard him say, as he searched, which was valid. “Ooh, pudding!” His tone was excited as he pulled his head out of the refrigerator, narrowly missing slamming his head. “Looks like it’s...mine!” His voice was excited as he grabbed a spoon and opened a container. “Here, take a bite. Food always makes me feel better and I thought we could share this. You’re the only one I’d share with, though.” He brought the spoon towards your mouth and you took a bite, but it was hard to swallow. Your appetite was nonexistent, but you were willing to humor him.

“Mmm, thank you. It’s good,” you said, flashing him a small smile, but he returned it with a frown. Why was he frowning? You weren’t lying about it tasting good.

“You’re still not happy. Am I doing something wrong?” He asked, taking a bite of the pudding. Even as he worried about you, his hunger could not wait. Something about that was endearing, but you couldn’t quite put your finger on it.

In response, you shook your head. “No, you’re not doing anything wrong. I just need some time to deal with my emotions, but we can still eat pudding together,” you replied, leaning towards him. He took that as an opportunity to capture your lips in a kiss, wrapping his free arm around your waist. You could taste the pudding on his lips as the pair of you kissed, and it was sweeter than it had been before.

After a few moments, he pulled away from your lips, still holding onto your waist. “You taste like pudding. I could eat you up,” he mumbled, burying his face in your shoulder. Normally, ‘I could eat you up,’ was something cute to say and it would’ve made you blush, but hearing it from Beel was mildly concerning. “I’m not going to actually eat you, don’t worry. I mean, I could, but I’m not going to.” His voice was muffled by your shoulder, but you were still able to make out what he said. It didn’t really make it any less concerning.

“Okay, well, we have some actual pudding to eat here, and I’m surprised you haven’t already inhaled it yet,” you quipped, picking up the bowl. Beel yanked the spoon out of the bowl, thrusting it in your direction. You were confused about the mild aggression, but you shook your head, raising your hand to block the spoon. The one bite of pudding had been enough.

“Eat.” He held out the spoon, waiting for you to take a bite. “You didn’t eat dinner and you can’t go to bed hungry. That’ll just make you more sad. I know I’d be sad if I went to bed hungry.”

Shaking your head again, you said, “I’m not hungry, though. You can have the res--”

“Pumpkin,” his voice was firm, but not angry or mean. It was strange, as you’d never heard him like that before. “Even if you’re not hungry, you still have to eat. I love you and I don’t want you to get sick.” Love? He loved you? Sure, you were seeing each other and he obviously liked you a lot, but you didn’t realize that he loved you.

“You love me?” You made eye contact with him for the first time that night, your heart feeling like it was going to thud out of your chest.

His eyes widened, as if it had just occurred to him what he’d said. Maybe he wasn’t planning on telling you yet. Oh well, too late. You knew. “Uh, yeah, I do love you. I love you like I love food, which is a lot.”

You cracked a smile, a real smile, for the first time that night. “I love you too, Beel.”

Depression lingered like the sour taste of lemons, but the warmth of Beel’s love softened the blow, just as sugar sweetened the taste of lemonade.

[larissa-the-scribe]

We’ll Make it Out

Whumptober, Day 1

For more info on characters and setting, go here

1780ish words

It didn't take Lenesse’s brain too long to catch her up to speed, even as she was still opening her eyes. Bound, sprawled on an icy stone floor in the Nyrthyl stronghold, still damp, covered head-to-toe in foul-smelling swamp mud, as well as various cuts, scrapes, and bruises that stung like she’d been bathed in lemon juice. Where the bog-walker had bitten off a chunk of her flesh burned and ached, itching fiercely from dried blood, dried mud, and the rough-woven ropes pulled tight just below it. 

And before that: the panicked chase, running from Lanshir and his men. The border of the Nyr Swamp. Her brilliant idea that could maybe have given them a fighting chance — because of course no one would be stupid enough follow a quarry into a cursed swamp.

On the plus side, she had been right. No one had followed them.

On the down side, no one had needed to.

Considering the three different monster attacks in the space of five hours, the fog that got them instantly and hopelessly lost, the three-hour long limp along the bank of the one clear river in the swamp (their desperate thought being that maybe it flowed out of this Melsyth-forsaken hellscape), and the pathetic last stand they’d made against a band of magic-wielding Nyrthyl warriors — well, it was understandable why the Nyr Swamp had the (literally) accursed reputation it did.

And now we’re captured. Lenesse stared up at the faintly glowing stone ceiling. Makes sense. What else should I have been expecting? A way out? Something NOT terrible? At the very least one night of actual sleep? Well, that would be just… too much to ask for, I guess.

Esyin is probably flipping out even more now, what with the demon-spirit-things. I'm going to hear a lot of I-told-you-so's later, from both him and Andren.

Esyin. Andren.

Lenesse tried to push herself up on her elbows, but a spear haft shoved her back down, knocking her head back against the stone.

“Yeah, they're not letting us move around,” Andren's voice said from her left. "Best to stay still for now."

Lenesse turned her head to look at him. That small action seemed permitted by the guard, standing stiffly within spear-striking distance of all three of them. Esyin was closest to her, lying limply as if he had just been dumped off someone's shoulder - he still looked to be out cold, but his face was facing away from her, so she couldn't tell. Andren was slumped against the wall just beyond him, dried blood cracked across his cheek and matting the rough stubble along his jaw. 

She couldn't remember if that injury had been there before. "You alright?"

Andren nodded. The black eye he’d gotten earlier looked worse in the pale, warmthless light; even more dried blood dribbled from his nose. It looked broken. Again.

She smiled. "You look great."

Andren tried to chuckle, but ending up coughing. The Nyrthyl shoved him back against the wall when he tried to shift into a more comfortable position. "You don't look too bad yourself, Less."

Lenesse rolled her eyes. "Come on, we’ve talked about the nickname thing."

Andren snorted. “What are you going to do? Give me a black eye?”

“Sure, that way you can have a matching set.”

"It'd probably be an improvement," Esyin croaked, stirring a bit for the first time. He tried to straighten out a bit, but got a sharp rap across his injured ankle for his trouble. He winced. "I mean," he added through gritted teeth, "you at least can’t make him look worse. Have you seen his face lately?"

"Well, I could help you out, too, if you want," Lenesse replied. “You can probably use it.”

"Eh. Go jump in a river."

“Rude.”

"Take a bath while you're at it," Andren added, "I've seen cleaner mudskippers."

Lenesse smiled. Her whole body shuddered from cold and exhaustion, but if she closed her eyes and listened only to their voices mumbling out familiar banter, maybe - just maybe - she could convince herself they were all back in the barracks. For one second she could be free of this whole dismal nightmare.

"Can you understand us?" Esyin said, breaking the illusion. He had turned to stare up at the Nyrthyl guarding them.

The Nyrthyl curled his lip, flat, glowering face and glowing skin radiating disdain. His mouth moved for a second, then he stopped.

"So, you can," Esyin said, relaxing back against the stone floor, "you just don't like us enough to try and respond."

"He could just be planning a surprise party for us," Lenesse said dully, still watching the Nyrthyl. His face twitched, and, without moving, his eyes shifted their glare towards her. 

Yeah, he can understand us.

"Just doesn't want to risk giving away the secret," Andren agreed.

"That's probably also why he looks like he wants to throw up every time we talk," Lenesse added.

"I mean, he could just be allergic to cake," Andren said.

The Nyrthyl's hands shifted on his spear, tightening, knuckles whitening.

Man, Lenesse thought, he really is about two seconds from killing all of us.

"A very pleasant fellow," she said out loud.

Andren didn't seem to have anything to add. Esyin was still staring at the wall. 

The silence seemed to echo in the small stone chamber, mingling with what sounded like a river just outside the door. Which was odd. But, come to think of it, legends did say that the Nyrthyl castle had a river flowing through it, so maybe there was even more truth to those tales than previously thought.

It’s probably the river we were following, Lenesse thought. The idea nearly sent her into a fit of hysterical laughter. That had been their last hope, to follow the river out of the swamp to safety. Of course it led them to the Nyrthyls. Of course it had.

Our last hope is going to be what kills us. 

Lenesse bit the inside of her lip, strangling the high-pitched giggle she could feel bubbling up in her throat.

Of course. I mean, did we think we were getting OUT of this? ANY of this?

We marched into the heart of Lanshir's territory and we thought we were going to march back OUT?

It was harder now. She could taste blood on her lip as she bit down more, the suppressed laughter adding to her shudders, a manic grin fighting to break out on her face.

She couldn't even give herself the satisfaction of blaming herself for everyone dying. She might be responsible for them dying in the swamp, but they were always going to die - ever since they stepped out of City of Kings, like all the poor fools sent on this fools errand before them.

She thought of her two little brothers, her parents. Wondered when they'd be told that she was "missing in action". Wondered how Tresha and Ayin would take the news back in the city. Wondered what poor soul would be sent after them to meet a similar deadly fate. Maybe Sir Ralben would get the idea and stop sending his soldiers two by two to their deaths.

Yeah. Two by two. Because I was never even supposed to be here.

Another giggle bitten back. The crowning stupidity of it all was that if she had just done as Fylon had told her, she'd be back in the City of Kings — bored out of her skull, yes, but not tied up to be killed by Nyrthyls. Andren and Esyin would be out here dying on their own.

They'd already be dead, actually. Just at Lanshir's hands, not the Nyrthyls. Because, somehow, she had been stupid enough to think they had any sort of a fighting a chance in any version of events, and had given them all enough hope to drag this all out further. If it hadn’t been for her they'd already be corpses back in the forest.

That thought was the first to nearly brought a sob out of her.

She couldn't think about them dying.

She could die, probably with hysteric laughter if past experience was anything to go by. But not them. It couldn’t be them. Not them lying on the ground, blank eyes staring into nothing. Not them with a spear to their throats. Not them — 

"If you don’t mind, why exactly are we still alive?" Esyin said suddenly.

The Nyrthyl stared at him but did not answer.

"We were trespassing on your land, and you apparently hate us. So why are we still alive? For you to kill us slower? Or do you have some other purpose in mind?"

The Nyrthyl jabbed at him sharply, speaking for the first time in broken, heavily-accented Trade. "No questions."

Answers or not, Esyin had a point.

Why were they still alive?

A shiver ran down her spine. It couldn’t be for anything good.

"I mean, thanks, though," Andren said. "This way you’re giving us enough time to escape and make it out of this mudhole."

Lenesse knew his confidence came from bravado and nothing else. She wasn't sure if she wanted to hug him for it or shake him for being an idiot.

The Nyrthyl laughed, the mocking sound bouncing off the stone room hideously. "Keep that thought, orsidtezc. It will make it more enjoying for me when you scream, dying."

Lenesse flinched involuntarily.

"Sure, if the idea makes you feel better." Andren looked down to lock eyes with Lenesse. "We are going to make it anyway. All the way out."

The fear behind that brash assurance, which she knew was an act for her benefit, nearly broke her resolve to keep from crying. She could see the reality in his posture, strung up as if by puppet wires — slumped but too tense, too ready to snap into sudden action to be believable. She could see it in how wide his eyes were, in how strained his mouth was as he tried to smile at her.

Oh Andren, she thought. I know you're just as scared as I am. Maybe even more so. You're terrified that you're going to have to watch your brother die in front of you. You're terrified of failing him and breaking your promise to keep him safe. You may even be scared of breaking that half-cocked promise you made about protecting me. 

She knew it was all a lie. It didn't make it reassuring. But it did, somehow, make it infinitely more comforting.

"Yeah," she said, smiling grimly, trying to ignore the single, silent tear pooling up in the corner of her eye. "All the way out."

[sundry-whovengerslocked]

Let Me Know, Tonight And Evermore - Chapter 2

Masterlist

Special thanks again to @crowleysansweringmachine and @ineffable0husbands for helping me with ideas and character development for this fic! You guys are my lifeline <3 Also @lemon-tree-lesbian for coming up with the idea for Crowley's ring!

Warnings: mentions of war, mentions of death, implied transphobia, ducks being rude, general silliness

Tag list: (remember to let me know if you want to be added!) @crowleysanwseringmachine @ineffable0husbands @idkimbadwithusernamesandstuff @elrilsf @askazfellandco @dystopianinterstellar @ampyrsandrya @chaosfandombeing @butttteeerrrrrr @littleghostyghost @wolfbear135

Let me introduce you to Stephanie.

Stephanie, like Crowley, worked for British counterintelligence under the guise of being a Nazi. She disguised herself as a blond, blue eyed, cisgender male SS soldier. This wasn't too difficult, as she did have blonde hair, blue eyes, and was assigned male at birth. No one suspects the scrawny kid in the corner, which is how she appeared while pretending to be a man.

When she was not playing at being Finn, the SS soldier, the Nazi lackey, Stephanie had the advantage of passing as a cisgender female. That way, she could be herself, and not be recognized.

She had been a spy for a number of years then, since before the second war began. She and Crowley met often, exchanging information. Sometimes Crowley came as Astoreth, sometimes as Anthony. Stephanie always came as Stephanie. They respected and understood each other, and that's what made them such good partners in, well, not crime.

(Not that Crowley would ever admit it, however. Perhaps to Stephanie, but to his coworkers Down Below, he didn't work for anyone on earth, and certainly not against Nazis, even if most demons quietly disagreed with the Führer's work. In Falling they were blatantly separated, after all.)

Crowley and Stephanie often met in the private clubs of Soho, but other times, like the second of October, 1941, they met in St. James Park to feed the ducks.

Stephanie tugged on a blonde curl absently, making sure her wig didn't need to be adjusted. (Of course, it didn't, as one always styles a wig before putting it on; however, it was still a habit of hers.) She looked around the decently empty garden, and the couple of flowers that were lively. Tourism wasn't exactly booming since the blitz had started; and the few people in the park could be assumed to be spies, with an occasional local passing through.

One such spy - who was also a local - approached Stephanie at the bench, a loaf of bread, folder, and small paper bag in hand.

"Hello, Astoreth," Stephanie smiled, gesturing to the spot next to her.

"Stephanie," Crowley said, sitting down next to her frien- ahem -fellow agent. She opened up the loaf, already starting to throw crumbs carelessly to the waterfowl. "How's the hair treating you?" she asked politely, referring to the wig she had given Stephanie.

The woman smirked, a sparkle in her eye. "Well, actually. Although I could say yours is growing a little out of style."

Astoreth's eyebrows shot up, her dark red lips in a slight scowl. "Don't tessst me," she hissed.

Stephanie smirked, opening up her own paper bag and pulling out a marmalade sandwich. She took a nibble, watching Astoreth out of the wrinkled corner of an eye.

The older woman made a tsk sound, trying to hide her amusement at the familiar banter. Taking out her own parcel, she brought out a slice of toast and began to spread jam on it.

For a few minutes the two ate, listening to the birds and breathing in the semi-fresh air.

When they were done, Astoreth handed Stephanie her folder. "Let's talk business."

She opened the folder, seeing a detailed sketch inside. It was of a sword, flames sparking out around it. "You've seen it before?" Based on the look in Astoreth's eyes, Stephanie had elected to say it as more of a statement than a question.

"A long time ago," she responded, twisting the snake wrap ring on her finger. It was silver, with small stones on the head and end of the tail.

"What aren't you telling me?"

She hesitated before speaking morosely. "This time... it's personal."

Stephanie raised an eyebrow. "Does this have to do with your boyfriend Azi?"

"He's not my boyfriend!" she said defensively.

"Right, and I'm a man," she chuckled darkly, starting to fiddle with the paperclip that was in the folder.

(To an outsider this statement may not make sense, but Astoreth knew very well that she was referencing the common experience all people had throughout the war: of having to lie about who you really are, and what you really feel.)

A pair of swans swam by, one black and one white, close but not quite touching.

"Either way, when am I going to meet him?" Stephanie asked, expression mischievous. "His bookstore isn't too far from here, right? Less than a mile to Soho."

"No!!! No, that would be chaos!"

"How come? Think he wouldn't like me?"

"The opposite! You guys would hit it off!" Astoreth's hands moved erratically through the air as she spoke. "Then you'd share stories about me, and if I'm being honest he probably wouldn't let you go back to work."

Stephanie smiled. "He sounds like an angel."

Astoreth scoffed, unintelligible noises leaving her again. "No, he's, he's an absolute bastard, nothing like an angel, why would I ever call him an angel?"

The younger woman knew her too well. "You do call him an angel, then? That's a cute pet name."

There was silence, and more throwing of bread.

"Can we please just get back to the sword?" Astoreth asked, sadness hidden behind sunglasses.

Another beat of quiet, the ducks pecking each other a little over the crumbs.

The young Nazi spy fidgeted with the office supply in her hands some more, before answering in a hushed tone. "I haven't seen it. But I've heard the rumors. I didn't want to believe them, but they're coming up with all new kinds of torture technology, I wouldn't be surprised."

(She didn't know it wasn't new. She also didn't know it was as old as the earth itself.)

"Apparently von Reichenau is the one who has it," she finished.

Astoreth grimaced. "von Reichenau? Wasn't he in charge of operation Barbarossa?"

Stephanie nodded. "Yes. He was also the one who ordered the Ukrainian Auxiliaries into Baba Yar."

(Field Marshal Walter von Reichenau of the German Sixth Army did more than plan just those events. He was responsible for many other atrocities and invasions.)

The ginger clenched her sharp jaw. "I have to find him, then."

Suddenly, one of the ducks Crowley was feeding came up to her and snatched the rest of the loaf from her.

Stephanie laughed sourly. "I guess they're as desperate as we are."

Astoreth sighed, looking over to the younger woman. "You need to be careful. I still can't believe they put someone so young into this."

"I'm 26, Ash. I can handle it. Besides, a lot of the real soldiers are far younger than I am.” Her brows furrowed. “We need all the help we can get."

There was a long moment of somber silence between the two women before the blonde stood up. "I should go."

Astoreth didn't respond, but as her fellow spy began to turn, she spoke softly. "A.Z. Fell and Co. Eight o'clock. There will be a Bentley out front. Make sure you're not followed," she practically spat the last part for emphasis.

Stephanie smiled slightly, nodding in affirmation. She reached out to hand Astoreth the paperclip she had been fidgeting with, then promptly left.

Crowley opened her palm to look at the paperclip, turning it around in her hands and letting out a sigh. It had been bent into the outline of a small sword. She closed her fists, looking back out across the river. This wasn't going to be fun.

[heavenzfiend]

Fanfic: Alone Again (Tokugawa Ieyasu x MC)- SLBP

Read on AO3

Word count: ~4800

Warning: LEMON. Non-con/dubious consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Physical Abuse, Forced Orgasm, Power Play, etc. Don’t read if you’re expecting fluff!

Summary: MC finally seems to be getting closer to the reclusive Lord Motoyasu when Lord Yoshimoto orders them to take each other’s virginity but under his exact instructions. Just how much more control over the boy will it take for him to be satisfied?

Author’s Note: This is a continuation of the Event Story, “Another Story Part 2” for Ieyasu, who is Matsudaira Motoyasu. The first part of the ES really affected me emotionally because of how he was treated by that –insert all the bad words- Yoshimoto but while playing the second part, I got this thought: what if he forces them to sleep together? I can see him doing something like this, just to control more of Ieyasu’s life and to limit more of his freedom, even in terms of love and sex. Anyways, hope you enjoy~

“I’m finished. Thank you for the meal,” Lord Motoyasu says in his usual genial tone.

“I hope you enjoyed what I had prepared for you,” I state, knowing fully well that he did, judging from his empty plates and fast pace of eating.

“I did. I’m grateful as always.”

I clean up the dishes one-by-one with a pleasant smile on my lips as well, happy to know that he is speaking to me with a lot longer phrases as of late. Suddenly, my hands brush against his as they occasionally do when I’m cleaning up. Unlike before when any physical touch made him freeze up, Lord Motoyasu seems to not mind as much nowadays. He allows them to simply slide against each other, my hand feeling the warmth of his for the briefest moments, grateful that he doesn’t pull away in shock or disgust.

I exit the room with almost a skip to my steps, unable to hide the smile plastered to my face. I feel as if I’m finally bringing out the real Lord Motoyasu hidden deep inside his shell molded by Lord Yoshimoto’s rigid control of every fiber of his being. I can’t wait to find out more about him, like what he likes to do if he had free time outside of his reading and archery practice or what he would like to do outside the castle walls if he had a whole day free from his set schedule to do whatever he pleases.

I wonder if one day soon he will even hold my hands. I have to stifle a giggle from escaping. I move down the corridors to the kitchen with my arms heavy, laden with the plate-filled tray, but heart and mind light at peace.

-----------

Just as I’m about to leave the kitchen to retire to my room for the evening, one of the maids accosts me.

“Miss MC, Lord Yoshimoto is asking for you. Please go directly to Lord Motoyasu’s chambers.” I furrow my brows, confusion etched on my face, at her worried tone but the maid quickly leaves after saying that, not giving me any other option but to do as she relayed lest I keep the lord waiting for too long.

As I walk down the corridor my mind is filled with worry at the thought of facing the lord of the castle. A day without having to see him at all is a very good day indeed in my books. Just the thought of him brings a shiver down my back, the purple robes giving a fake illusion of regality when it houses a demon instead.

I announce myself and slide the shoji door slightly after preparing my nerves, noticing that nothing seems to be amiss in the air, notwithstanding the usual awkwardness. This is the first time he has called upon me to Lord Motoyasu’s chambers at this time of night.

I take my usual seat next to Lord Motoyasu, muscles fidgeting from anxiety. I look up to see Lord Yoshimoto smiling at us, his stubby eyebrows reminding me of a chilling ghost from the Heian period.

“I see you still sit so close to dear Motoyasu, how lovely,” his smile growing wider along with my confusion. “You must be wondering why I called you here tonight.” Both Lord Motoyasu and I stare at him to continue.

“As a father-figure to my darling Motoyasu, I want to see all his needs satisfied. You're his chambermaid and if I'm not mistaken you two got quite close lately. You also would do anything to care for Motoyasu, am I right?” he asks with his too perceptive eyes.

“...Of course, Milord.” My heart is pounding so fast in my chest, it threatens to leap out of my body and it almost hurts to breathe.

“Have you laid with a man before?” My eyes grow wide as plates as I stumble for a reply, mortified at the question. I don’t like where this is going but I know I have to answer him.

“N-no...” My cheeks feel warm and eyes nervously fleet around but pointedly avoiding Lord Motoyasu’s general direction. Why, oh why are we talking about this right now?

“Well that's wonderful. You see, my sweet Motoyasu is also a virgin. I think as his chambermaid you should pleasure him and mate with him. How fitting for both of you to have each other's first time,” he says with that sweet, deceiving smile of his that I want to punch right off his face.

Just as Lord Motoyasu finally got comfortable with me, just as we were finally getting closer, Lord Yoshimoto seizes that opportunity to take control of our lives down to the most private matters, dictating when and how we will have sex. I relish our developing friendship and, despite the love I have for Lord Motoyasu, I know things can never be the same after we come together in this sense. I don’t want things to unfold like this, not tonight, not ever, under these circumstances.

“This poor boy has never experienced a woman's touch,” he continues in mock pity. “Don't be troubled about your lack of experience in this matter either. I shall gladly assist you both every step of the way.”

He means to strip the last dignity left on Lord Motoyasu, to let him know that he even dictates when, how and with whom he can have carnal pleasures.

My breath gets caught as if the evil lord shoved a metal ball down my windpipe and constricted my heart by squeezing it in his fist mercilessly, bleeding it out slowly. How crueler can this man get? I'm more worried about the damage this will ultimately do to poor Lord Motoyasu than any physical pain I have to endure by giving my virginity to a man.

“Milord! I… this wasn’t in my job description, surely!” I try to protest rationally but my voice comes out in high-pitched squeaks fueled by my over-wrecked emotions.

“You had consented to look after my boy here and he in return can use you in any way he desires,” turning to Lord Motoyasu, he asks, “and you do desire her, do you not?” His dullish brown eyes search Lord Motoyasu’s.

After a long, excruciating silence, Lord Motoyasu opens his mouth to respond.

“…Lord Yoshimoto, I… I'm not sure if we should…“ Lord Motoyasu’s eyelashes fluttered down with uncertainty, first time showing hesitation to his captor.

Without warning, Lord Yoshimoto slaps Lord Motoyasu across the face so hard that his jaws make a cracking sound as it whips to the side. He suddenly grabs a fistful of his hair, showing no mercy even to such beautiful, golden locks. How can he be so monstrous to something, or someone, that looks so angelic? My heart weeps for him.

“You dare defy me?” Yoshimoto asks, his face an eerie blank sheet, void of emotion.

“Lord Motoyasu!” I can't stand by watching him get hurt, I just can't. If I have to give my body to satisfy one of his whims, I'll do it to save Lord Motoyasu.

I’m kneeling by his body, tears streaming down my face as I beg him to stop. However, my desperate pleas aren't what he's after since the onslaught of abuse continues. Even with the poor boy slumped on the floor, ruthless kicks rain down on him all over his body.

Finally, after what seems to be an eternity, Lord Motoyasu weakly lets out, “Forgive me, Milord… I seemed to have forgotten my place…” and begins to cough up blood on the floor.

“See to it that you don’t forget again. I gave you an order, not a request. Do not forget, both of you belong to me.” He turns to me and adds, “I expect great things from you, young lady.”

I wonder if we can just pretend we did it and call it a night, but somehow I feel like he will find out if we actually did as he said or not. I wonder what he meant by assisting us? It’d be mortifying if he was listening and providing verbal feedback through the shoji screen.

“Make sure to follow all of my instructions. Come in.” He situates himself near the corner and calls out to someone. Suddenly, two maids appear from outside with a sheet of paper, ink and brush, laying it on a desk in front of the seated lord. “You two are dismissed for now but stay behind the door in case I need something.”

“Yes, Milord.” The two maids exit and I see the outline of their figures behind the shoji. Wait, so Lord Yoshimoto will be in the room with us while the maids will be listening right outside? I look around the room like a frightened rabbit caught in a trap, eyes landing on both men and not quite believing what’s going on. I've never even kissed a boy before but now I'm expected to perform the ultimate act of bonding between a man and a woman under the instructions of a sadistic psycho?

Nothing could have prepared me for the nightmare that is tonight.

“Now, first thing’s first. Kiss.”

Lord Motoyasu pushes off the floor with one arm while the other clutches at his sides. He peers at me with those unreadable, reddish eyes. I don’t want him to move any more than necessary so I scoot closer to him and bring my face very, very close to his. I hear him suck in a breath at my audacity but I have my eyes closed in anticipation so I thankfully cannot see his expression, which seeing it would only further my own embarrassment at the absurdity of our current situation.

Seconds pass by when I feel the gentlest brush of lips that jolt my eyes open. Lord Motoyasu’s face is right in front of me, our noses touching as well as our lips. I quickly shut my eyes again, not wanting to stare into the depths of his eyes from such a close proximity. This is way too intimate. My head whirls at the distinct scent of coppery blood assailing me from his mouth.

He continues to press his lips against mine, holding still. When he finally parts, Lord Yoshimoto’s voice echoes in the silent room, “I didn’t say you can stop.” He quickly mashes our lips back together, almost too fast that our teeth collide and I register a slight bit of pain. He hisses through his lips in pain as well, but it’s gone in an instant and he regains composure. I hear a brush gliding against paper from afar.

“Try tilting your face this way and that. Stick your tongue in her mouth.” Lord Motoyasu attempts to follow all the instructions given exactly as is. His mouth covers mine more fully with his head slightly tilted to the side and I feel something really warm and wet wedging between my lips. I part them slightly as to not deny him access but my whole body is tense. Isn’t kissing supposed to be romantic? I can’t imagine anything less romantic than the moment I’m sharing with him right now, with him shoving his tongue down my throat. My mouth feels thoroughly invaded and uncomfortable.

“Young lady, you need to relax.”

Easier said than done! Although behind my eyes I kick his stupid face repeatedly, I take a deep breath and let my shoulders drop, also loosening my jaws in the process. I don’t know when to take a breath and when to swallow. I feel some of my saliva escaping from the corner of my mouth and I quickly mop it up with my sleeves.

Yup, definitely not romantic.

“Strip.” The command comes out from nowhere that I freeze. Our lips make a smooching noise as he extracts himself away, filling the otherwise quiet night.

“Lord Yoshimoto… C-can we turn the light off?” I suggest in an attempt to save my modesty.

“No.” That’s all he says. What did I even expect? Even in the cover of darkness, my modesty will not be salvaged. After this night, the whole castle will come to know of me as Lord Motoyasu’s plaything. A broken marionette. A whore.

Seconds pass by without either of us actually performing the command when the voice from the corner says, “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

We both bashfully look down at our clothes, not wanting to face each other unless absolutely necessary. With trembling hands, I tug at my obi strings and belt, then slide one arm at a time out of my robes. I hear similar rustling of clothes in front of me but I don’t dare look up quite yet. I continue to disrobe all my articles of clothing until they are pooled at my feet and I am standing stark naked in the middle of the room with my hands cupping my private areas in an attempt to hide as much as I can. I know I won’t be able to for too long but just standing there with my hands to my sides is unthinkable.

“My goodness, just look at you two fools just standing there. Go on, touch each other.” Our eyes both look up at the same time and his face and chest are both so red that I would find it quite endearing if we weren’t in this ridiculous situation and I’m not equally as red, but alas that’s not the case. We both hold each other’s eyes not daring to break it lest we see too much of the other person. Never seeing a man’s body before, aside from Yahiko but he doesn’t count since he’s not even a fully grown man, the curiosity and anticipation is killing me but I don’t want to do anything too rash to startle him so I keep my eyes focused solely on his face.

But eventually Lord Motoyasu’s eyes flicker down my body, slowly drifting from my neck, collarbones, my left breast then my right one, each place he looks at burning hotter at the sensation of his eyes. And then he looks at the apex of my thighs and my toes curl at the scrutiny. Despite my hand attempting to cover the general area, I’m sure he can still see the dark hairs peeking through and I just wish I could die at this moment so I don’t have to be subjected to this any longer.

“...Milord, where exactly do you mean by... touch?” The uncertainty in Lord Motoyasu’s voice is followed by a chuckle from the seated lord.

“Wherever you want. All over.”

With the sudden freedom that came with that response, Lord Motoyasu’s eyes slightly widen like a kid at a confectioner’s store and the maroon in his eyes become a shade darker. I don’t think he’s ever touched a girl before so he must be a tad excited. I try to relax and let him do what he wants, chanting to myself, ‘It’s just Lord Motoyasu. It’s just him touching you. You actually like him, so it’ll be okay.’

His hands reach out to tentatively touch my hair, rubbing his thumb and forefinger on some strands, as if he’s amazed how flowy they are. I suppose he’s never got to touch long hair before since Lord Yoshimoto probably has someone cut his hair tidy at a set schedule.

Next, he traces his fingers down my neck, gently wrapping his large hand around my neck. I’m scared for a second, wondering if he will strangle me but he is nothing but gentle in his touches as he ventures onwards. His fingertips ghost at my collarbones and a short gasp escapes me as goosebumps appear all over my body.

His actions stop and I see him looking at my chest.

“...Can I?” He whispers, eyes searching mine. He doesn’t have to ask permission since the lord commanded it but I’m thankful that the sweet Lord Motoyasu still lets me believe I have some semblance of control in all this.

“...Yes,” I breathe out, barely audible.

The warmth in his eyes become even gentler as he puts his whole palms against my breasts. He sucks in a breath as if he can’t believe how they feel as he cups them and squeezes them with his hands. Then he almost studies my body, so different from his own, scratching my nipples to attention first then methodically twisting and pinching the tautness. I wish they weren't so pointy and erect.

Just as I’m about to get lost in the sensations he produces, the unwelcomed demon speaks.

“Bury your face on her breasts and suck on her like you’re her child. Surely it should come naturally to you as you’ve never had a proper mother to suckle from. Imagine there’s milk flowing from her. Drink her up.”

Cruel words from a cruel man.

Lord Motoyasu looks so conflicted that I feel so sorry for him, despite myself being used as well.

I stand up a little straight, attempting to make myself taller so he can get down to snuggle against my bosom. He must see that as an invitation as he nuzzles his face against my soft flesh and then pops a nipple into his mouth. I gasp at the sensation that I’ve never experienced before. It almost feels too much yet not enough at the same time. The feeling of bonding to this person is so strong. I don’t know what happened with his mother but if I can give even a small amount of comfort to his broken soul, I will be more than willing to let him use my body.

I can smell his scent from his hair and as if they are beckoning me to them, I can’t help but run my hands through them. A small, broken noise that almost sounds like a sob comes from him, as he moves his mouth in a sucking motion. My one hand pats his back reassuringly as my other hand gently caresses his hair.

I finally get the chance to fully take in his body and register that he is naked and so close to me. I can feel the muscles and sinew on his lean arms while he holds my sides firmly. His chest and upper body are generally strong-looking, which then lead down to the wisp of a waist. He’s not overly muscular but his daily archery practice definitely defined his shoulders and upper back so that first impressions wouldn’t show how much of an overall sedentary life he leads.

After quite some time passed of him simply being in my arms, we both relax into a steady rhythm, in sync in both breaths and heartbeats.

“Touch her. Make her come.”

I inhale a huge gulp of air which leads to uncontrollable coughing. Lord Motoyasu eases himself away from me as I gain control of my breathing once more.

No! Where does he even get these ideas from? I don't want to show him my pleasure. Just how could he expect me to achieve orgasm in a situation like this, with hatred for him circulating my entire body? He must be thoroughly enjoying this, the sadistic bastard, watching both of us struggling to fulfill his every demand as he showcases his power over us like puppets on strings for his amusement.

“Milord! I can’t possibly!” I nearly shout.

“You will. We have all night.” That scares me, the thought that he probably is being serious, that this could well last the entire night if he so desires. Shouldn’t the lord of the castle have better things to do than observe two young people having sex, against their will might I add?

I wish he would just be satisfied with Lord Motoyasu putting his thing in me so I can crawl back to my room and pretend this night never happened. But I have to do this. I have to do this for Lord Motoyasu’s sake, as well as mine.

Lord Motoyasu inches closer and right before gently pushing me to the ground, discreetly whispers, “...Perhaps you can pretend to achieve satisfaction?” Even before my mind gets to process what those words mean, I hear the amusement.

“Don’t be so daft as to think I don’t know what you’re up to. I will know.”

All hope is lost as I willingly subject to his touch, stiff as a log with my back on the floor and legs stretched out. Lord Motoyasu looks lost as if he has no idea how to ‘make me come.’

Not wanting to be here anymore than necessary, I reach out and take his hand in mine, guiding his middle finger to my slit. I slide it up and down where it easily traverses due to the amount of fluid in the area. His eyes widen and mouth open in fascination at the feeling of a woman’s heat.

I mostly guide him along my clit, where I find the most amount of pleasure based on personal exploration. I focus all my concentration on finding release, desperate to get it over with. I squeeze my eyes shut. If I close my eyes, if I focus solely on the warmth of his touch, the scent of his masculinity and breath close to me it almost feels like we are two normal lovers sharing an intimate moment.

Just when I feel so close, his finger tease at my opening, prompting my eyes to open. And just as unexpectedly, Lord Motoyasu gives me the sweetest kiss on my forehead and the emotional connection pushes me over the edge. I give an uncontrollable cry as my lower body twitches, squeezing his fingers which have found their way inside out of curiosity.

Lost in the throes of passion, I hazily open my eyes but they accidentally land on Lord Yoshimoto, his languid brushstrokes gliding on the parchment, writing whatever cruel words to use against him later, to further humiliate and control his life. It is the equivalent of being doused over the head by an ice bucket as my body goes rigid again despite my inner walls still tingling from release.

The tears well up in me in shame when my body stops convulsing, the feeling of emptiness so consuming that I want to curl up and hide.

“Now, deflower her. But take care not to spill your filthy Matsudaira seeds inside her. We wouldn't want to burden my hospitality even further by having your pathetic, useless spawn here with us to waste my resources, now do we? I'm sure you wouldn't want him to know how stupid and a waste of space his father truly is.”

Lord Motoyasu’s crimson eyes flare in rage, so full of raw emotion normally concealed that it bores into my soul, forever imprinted. However, it was a fleeting emotion, gone just as fast as it arrived.

He clutches my thighs with his strong hands, forcing them apart wider when my instincts naturally attempt to close them together without meaning to. I bring both my hands up to hide my face, unable to see how he must view me now with my legs spread like a frog, such wantonness on display.

With his hands on either side of my hips, he pokes me down there with something hard and warm. I’m too frightened to even look at it so I continue to hide my face behind my hands. He nudges his tip into the wrong hole and I freeze in panic. He begins to push when I scream, “Ahhh! Lord Motoyasu! N-no that's not-!”

Lord Motoyasu embarrassedly apologizes while readjusting and I hear a burst of laughter from the only one who's having a time of their life right now at our expense. Lord Motoyasu continues to struggle to find my entrance, slipping down or poking at the wrong hole again and again.

All of a sudden, I can feel searing warmth as something smooth and thick is finally placed right along my opening, pushing in bit by bit.

I thought I was ready, but nothing could've prepared me for the pure pain that follows the pressure of his body fitting against mine. A strangled noise escapes me as I struggle to keep from writhing, my body desperately fighting to reject the foreign invasion. The impulse to push him away is so great that I have to constantly remind myself to just endure it.

I forgot how to breathe. I'm holding my breath without intending to and my whole body is on edge from tension, abdomen clenched and fingernails indenting deeply into my palms that it might draw blood. I thought it would be okay. I thought as long as it's Lord Motoyasu I would be able to endure the pain willingly. But it just hurts so damn much.

“It hurts… it hurts…” I say through the spurts of breath I manage to exhale while looking up at him. I can feel tiny beads of liquid forming from the corner of my eyes.

How can anyone find this act pleasurable?

“Forgive me… I’ll… be fast...” he says but he soon moves against me like a rabid animal, filling in and out of my hole.

“Ahhhhhh!” I scream into the night, unable to care about the rest of the castle hearing me. The initial shock and pain soon dissipates and is replaced by an achiness. His body seems to move on its own in a fervor.

The constant slap, slap of skin meeting skin, squelch, squelch of fluid meeting fluid fills the air.

It's as if I can feel Lord Motoyasu deep inside me in a place no one else has ever known me, filling me so fully that it feels like I've been empty my whole life without my knowing, waiting to be filled by him.

Am I strange to want this night to end but this intimate moment with him to last longer?

Just as Lord Motoyasu increases the frequency of his pumps and huffs sporadically, a voice sounds from the corner, “Don't come yet.” But it was a cruel command, seeing as his ecstasy was already forthcoming.

In an act of defiance or not enough control, he releases his seeds inside me. I’m unable to tell what it was but I’m happy to have something of his inside me, though not everlasting.

Lord Yoshimoto observes the whole affair with an almost pleased glimmer in his facade, as if everything had gone according to his plans down to the last moments. He patiently waits until we both calmed and then casually walks over to me, throwing my robe at my face where it stings from the slap of the fabric.

“If you can’t even control your own body, how do you expect to control all of Japan, let alone your retainers?” He isn’t even looking at me as he spits venom at Lord Motoyasu’s naked body.

“You think you can get away with not following my directions? How foolish of you.” I'm scrambling to dress, only managing to get my robe draped around my shoulders when his next words sting far more than the physical pain I endured.

“As punishment, it's only fair to take away something important to you, don't you agree?” he grabs my forearms to yank me to my feet and heads to the door with me dragging behind him, half naked with the robes flapping open in the front without an obi to secure it.

“MC will be attending to me as my personal page from now on. Other maids will bring your meals like before her arrival at our castle. You're not permitted to see her anymore.”

A gasp escapes me but I'm being manhandled so forcefully and hastily to the point where I cannot form words of rebuttal as I desperately try to close the robe with one hand without success, mixture of blood and fluids from both our bodies sliding down my legs.

No! I don't want to leave Lord Motoyasu’s side! Just as we were getting closer, Lord Yoshimoto is tearing us apart just like how he did with family and retainers of Matsudaira.

I’ll find a way to see you again, Lord Motoyasu!

I turn my head while being dragged off, desperately trying to catch sight of him. The brief glimpse of Lord Motoyasu that I was able to get will forever be imprinted on my mind— the image of him naked on his knees looking dejectedly down at the floor, covered with both of our blood, and what seemed to be a single tear sliding down his cheek, all alone.

Author’s Note: …Who wants to kill Yoshimoto with me? I was in a confusing state of sad and aroused while writing this… Is that even possible?! Thanks for reading! :) Please let me know what you think!

Tagging: Not sure who to tag... @rubyleeray @pseudofaux @kawa-akarin @dani677 @julias1993

[nuzblog]

November 25th, 2017

The second generation of Pokemon is my least favorite. It is the generation with the most lackluster Pokemon designs, an absolutely borked level curve, garbage Pokemon distribution, and a whole mess of other design issues. But then... all of those criticisms are based on my experience with SoulSilver. Perhaps things will be different playing the originals? I do think they made some pretty important improvements over generation 1, fixing a lot of those games' issues. Hard to say at this point.

Now, before I discuss my entry into the world of Johto, I think it is worth discussing rules. Since my last attempt at Blue ended successfully, I think I'm going to keep the same general ruleset for a bit longer. The only real question the new mechanics in the game brings up is that of eggs - do hatched Pokemon count as acquired where they are acquired as eggs, where they are hatched, or what?

For this, I think I'm going to use the logic that I can't exactly breed a Pokemon I don't already have, and say that, with the exception of gift eggs such as the Togepi one in this game, eggs are essentially free. If I ever want to spend a chunk of time while nuzlocking to breed for better natures, abilities, egg moves or IVs... then I'm freely allowed to do so. That's the simplest thing, I think.

It's also worth mentioning what does and doesn't count as an important battle for this game. At the moment, I'm only counting the battles against the rival and against gym leaders - I can heal after either, and I must match party size for both.

Oh, and then there's the matter of Pokemon Boxes. In Gen 1, a Pokemon would be identical when retrieved from the box as it was when it was put in. In Gen 2 and onwards, Pokemon Boxes heal the Pokemon put into them... which is no good for a restricted-healing challenge, right? I think my solution here is that, while Pokemon can be put INTO the box whenever, they can only be removed from the box under one of two circumstances - either on the other end of a battle that I had to restrict my party for (in which case, the boxed Pokemon needs to be at full health when boxed), or when healing at a Pokemon Center. Which, yes, means my box usage is limited too. That's the only way I could think to keep it fair.

Now that that's out of the way... I started playing Pokemon Silver at 2 AM, on the 25th.

NITE

After speaking to Oak, setting the time, naming myself Sheen, and getting the game started, I make my die roll for my starter. In this generation, I find all 3 starters pretty lackluster, but Chikorita is a cutie that stays cute, and Totodile has a solid charm to it, so I would be happiest with either of those. Naturally, then, I get the worst possible result - Cyndaquil, a Pokemon that I find completely unimpressive, and that others around me have a tendency to call far worse things. So, maybe not optimal in terms of me loving it. That's fine.

At this point, I took a short break to figure out my nickname scheme for this one. I think attaching a guessing game to this one is pretty silly, because it's not really a puzzle of any kind. If you already know about the thing, it's obvious, and if you don't, then it's impossible without Googling. Also literally only one person has ever indicated any interest in this guessing game for name scheme thing, so like... I don't feel bad about forgoing it for this playthrough. The theme for this run of Silver is that I'm using the titles of songs by Neil Cicierega, who is my favorite human being. His musical projects include Lemon Demon, for his original music; Deporitaz, his far older, mostly instrumental stuff; his mashup albums in the Mouth series; one-song wonder Sunshine and Grapes; and his internet filmmaking prowess often extends to music as well, with some oddities being exclusive to videos on his Youtube channel. If you're unfamiliar with his work, I encourage you strongly to get familiar.

I name my Cyndaquil "IndieCindy", for the song Indie Cindy and the Lo-Fi Lullabies, off the album Dinosaurchestra. You can listen to that song here. I'll try to link the songs when I mention the name of the Pokemon named for them.

From here, I start the trek to Mr. Pokemon's house. What kind of name is that for a character? Mr. Pokemon? Like, really? Also, you know how in Gen 1, there is a single short route that is designed to be navigated in two directions between the professor's lab and the macguffin that lets you start actually playing the game proper, Pokeballs and all? In Gen 2, there's a fairly lengthy route with Cut trees and ledges that don't actually make the return trip any better, and then a city, and then a route North that is bisected (but half of it is cut off with a Pokemon Battle, which is tbh a pretty smart way of restricting your path compared to most Pokemon games) and lengthy and again, clearly not designed with a hasty return in mind. Oh, and there's a red herring path off of that first route.

Anyway, I make the trek. Maybe it's supposed to feel like a burden of an errand? If that's the case, then mission accomplished, but it still sucks not being able to train anything other than IndieCindy the entire time. By the by, I didn't realize that they started the starter off with a berry attached! I actually think that's pretty cool. I mean, the "Pokemon are holding items" mechanic is new to this game, so adding a held berry to the starter Pokemon is actually pretty clever. It does also keep me from having to use the Pokemon Center in Cherrygrove. I do purchase some Potions there though. And, I get the Map for my PokeGear.

The walk to Mr. Pokemon's house is generally uneventful. I pick berries (Hey! It's BERRY!), I fight stuff. I get the Mystery Egg and Pokedex, I walk back. But first I fight my rival!!!! Now, in Gen 1, the first rival fight was scripted immediately after both you and your rival get your starter. As such, the playing ground is equal - both combatants are at the same level, and both essentially have just one normal type attack of equal power and one status move. In this game, however, the first battle is on the other side of two full routes worth of encounters. I was around level 8, but if I really wanted to, I could have been grinding even higher. I had Smokescreen and a solid stat advance. In other words, I got a head start. Meanwhile, my rival had just stolen his Pokemon, and for that matter, while mine came with a berry and I had since equipped a fresh berry to it, his lacked the berry. So, it was an easy battle. I'm not sure if this was a good or bad design decision. Future games have gone back and forth on this change - Gen 3 also has plenty of grinding time before fighting your level 5 rival, but Black and White have you fight both your friends before even leaving your house. I think it's just different, and not better or worse necessarily. Which, is fine.

Anyway I beat ???'s Totodile, and move on to Professor Elm's lab. Interestingly, this is my infinite healing spot for this game, because Sheen's mother apparently doesn't love him. I mean, all she does is take a cut of his money to spend on the stuff she wants, and doesn't even heal him. Messed up! I, of course, make sure my mother doesn't get shit. I have enough issues about my money being co-opted by my family already, I don't need it to be happening in the virtual world too.

I get to name my rival, and his name is Luster. Since I'm playing Pokemon Silver, I think Sheen and Luster are reasonable names for the characters. I also get 5 Pokeballs, and NOW the game is open to me!

I caught a Rattata on Route 29, named it Jaws... and promptly fell asleep.

DAY

I woke up and started playing again around 4:30 PM, because I'm working overnights so my sleep schedule is now the weirdest. On the way to Cherrygrove, I stopped at Route 46, and caught a Geodude, whose name is Rock Star. Now THAT's useful. After all, the first gym is flying type. I could have got an Onix in an in-game trade in Violet City, but that means forgoing Togepi. Not that I really am interested in using Togepi... but just getting a wild rocky boy is really more optimal. I heal my new teammates at Elm's lab, and start grinding Rock Star and IndieCindy a bit. Mostly, this is so that it will be night-time in-game, and the Hoothoot I want will be available on Route 30.

NITE

Surely enough, once I do pass enough time, I do see that Hoothoot, who I catch and, after careful consideration, I name Drinky-Bird, before realizing that T.I.M.E. would have been WAY better. The Name Rater is in Goldenrod, so I can fix this pretty soon, I guess. I box Jaws away, and move on with the game. Going towards Violet, I get Youngster Joey's digits, so that I can get obnoxious phone calls about his failed attempts to catch Hoothoots ever 20 minutes or so. Hooray.

On Route 31, we get our first brush with the duplicate clause as I first encounter a Rattata before finding a Bellsprout. Now, I LOVE Bellsprout, so this would rule... if I didn't JUST use a Bellsprout in Blue. Now, I know Nuzlockes are all about working with what you get, but I just... I would find that so boring. I loved Penthes, I can't just tarnish his memory like that. I catch the Bellsprout, name it Stickly, and box it.

In Dark Cave (which has awesome music, by the way. One of the best songs in the series, just about, I'd say), I catch...!! A Zubat! Amazing! I call it King Bob and box it too, when I arrive in Violet City. I also heal when I do, since I was running low on PP. After a touch of grinding, to get a STAB move (Ember, Rock Throw and Peck) onto everyone, I head into Sprout Tower. My encounter there, a Gastly, sadly goes down because getting moves that could actually touch the ghosts also increased my power too high to not oneshot them. Oh well. First wild Pokemon murdered instead of caught. It happens!

I ascend the tower, getting as much XP as I can out of it, and also the Flash HM, which is... basically useless. Hooray? Encountering Luster but not fighting him here was pretty cool. I then fight the gym trainers, before briefly diverting over the the Ruins of Alph to catch an Unown, mostly for funsies.

It's J. I name it Worddis, and try to figure out its Hidden Power type. First, I test it on another Unown, which is Psychic type. It does neutral damage, ruling out Psychic, Fighting, Dark, Ghost or Bug type Hidden Power. I head into Sprout Tower, and try it on a Gastly, where it also does neutral damage, ruling out Normal, Poison, Grass, and Ground. I head to the route, testing it on a Hoothoot, and AGAIN the damage is neutral, ruling out Electric, Ice or Rock. I then enter the Dark Cave, and try it on a Geodude... and it's STILL neutral, ruling out almost every other type EXCEPT for Dragon. So... Dragon Hidden Power. Absolutely useless. Thanks for nothing, Worddis. Welcome to the box.

I heal again in Violet City, since I had one leftover from my battle against Luster, and I battle Falkner and his weird ass level 9 Pidgeotto.

As you might expect given the fact that my Geodude must be at least level 11 to know Rock Throw, making it higher leveled AND being super effective and STAB... it's basically a joke. IndieCindy returns to my party, and I grab the Egg from Elm's Aide while I'm there, counting as my Pokemon for Violet City.

Route 32 grants me a Wooper, which... rules! I haven't used a Wooper, but its typing is great (4x Grass weakness is a fine trade for an Electric-immune Water type!) Its name is Rainwater. I grind it up a bit, teach it Mud Slap, and make the trek back to Elm's lab to heal again before I stop playing for the 25th, so I can catch Farfetch'd in Pokemon Go and also go to work.

NOVEMBER 26th, 2017

When I get home from work around 5:40, I keep playing, because I'm a disaster. Berries respawned, so I grab a few, although I don't go too far out of my way for them. I keep heading down Route 32, reaching Union Cave. I find pretty quickly that the cave's only new Pokemon for me is Onix, which would have made that in-game trade even uselesser. I heal using Route 32's Pokemon Center before venturing further into the cave, which I guess counts as Johto's first dungeon? It's so short and easy with Rainwater. I do end up finding the Onix while going through, and I name it My Trains. I consider using it instead of Rock Star, for that eventual Steel typing... but I decide to keep Rock Star for now.

On the other side of the cave, on Route 33, I catch an Ekans, who I name Goosebumps. Can I just say how pleasing Ekans' sprite in this game is? Maybe it's because I just had to spend a whole game that is, quite frankly, ugly as sin, but something about the direction of this Ekans sprite is just... so nice. Noticing this, I recalled the long-abandoned endeavor of the "Pokemon Sprite Guy" to review the sprites of every Pokemon to determine the best. He ended up choosing Ruby/Sapphire's, but somethng about how this Ekans is facing away from the direction most sprites face is really pleasant to me.

As I'm walking to Azalea Town, my egg hatches, and I have a Togepi! I name it Cookie, and keep it, My Trains and Goosebumps boxed. I speak to Kurt, and enter the Slowpoke Well, catching my Slowpoke first. Luckily, I get a female one. Why luckily? Well, so I can name it Amnesia. I box it too, though. I have a perfectly servicable Water type.

IndieCindy evolved beating the rockets in the well! I heal once I'm done, and head in to fight Bugsy...

Who is also a total pushover. Cindy's got Fire, Drinky's got Flying and Star has Rock. Bug is weak to ALL of these, and Bugsy's ace, Scyther, is DOUBLE weak to Rock.

I didn't realize this game had the Twins trainer class in it, though. Weird, given its lack of double battles! Might they have intended to include doubles in this game but not had the time or cart space? Anyway, seeing two trainers send out one Pokemon each, one after another, definitely reminded me of the encounter I had in Pokemon Sun where I was definitely expecting to be fighting all 5 Team Skull Grunts at once in a Horde Battle a la the Aqua/Magma Grunts in ORAS... but since Gen 7 hates every type of battle that is newer than Gen 3, it's just a single encounter with 5 Pokemon.

That's where I stopped playing, and it's been a few days as I put off writing this. But now it's written! ... Of course, I can't quite post it until my blog looks nice, and this literally took me all day, and I have a headache and I just want to play more, but I can't until I get my Pokemon Silver blog theme looking choice. Blugh.

[kristie-rp]

orders

Who: Neve Niksmith, Dante, John Talbot Westlake III, Paris Remmington What: Newborns, soulbonds, plots, and bad moons.

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

“Move.”

Dante has no qualms about shoving Neve and the other demons out of the way, regardless of their involvement in maintaining the portal.

The newborn in view has a mess of matted dark hair. It’s pink and quiet, wrinkled and damp and bloody as the nurse towels it off. Neve watches as a bespectacled woman, looking harried and curious, reaches for the thing. There is a soft pink cord trickling from her chest, reaching somewhere beyond the room. More threads criss-cross the room, and Neve ignores the ones attached to the nurse.

After all, the only one Dante cares about is the thick pearlescent thread on the newborns chest, the rope-like thickness indicative of a strong bond. Neve’s breath catches at the sight of it, but she quickly returns to the standard, back ramrod straight and hands tucked behind her back. After all, difference will catch the would-be-Usurpers attention, and that is not something she wants; he may be confined to the Pit, but he can make all of them suffer.

Back to the rope, which Neve examines carefully. It’s thick, indicative of a strong bond. The pearlescence suggests the match has not yet been born, that this creature – Dante’s half-human son -  has bonded with a soul that already existed, one that is out of body. She doesn’t know where the match has existed before, or who it is; it is not in her power to know.

Dante’s jaw is locked when she dares a glance towards him. He is fuming, though it’s largely a sense of aura that makes this evident. Dante’s aura is expansive and domineering, drowning all of theirs as it fills the room, more like soup than an aura has any right to be. It’s thick, dark red, swirled through with gray. Disappointment, Neve realises, paired with anger.

No, not anger – more than that. Outrage, perhaps?

“Sir?” someone dares to prompt. It’s not Neve. She doesn’t speak to Dante unless he initiates the exchange.

“That bond,” he starts in a hiss, starts and stops, catching himself. His tone shifts from outrage to something pleasant as she listens, and she clamps down on a shudder. “Mortals and their soulmates,” he says, dismissive. “It would be interesting to see the consequences of severing the bond, no?”

She doesn’t like the sound of that; she looks again at his face, unmoving except for her eyes. He is smiling, and his teeth are too sharp in his narrow face, gleaming against skin that shimmers gold. Dante is determined, and she’s not suicidal enough to risk challenging him, or trying to talk him out of it. All she can be do is be thankful, in her way, that the mate is not born yet. It’ll be born without a bond, of course, and that sense of being incomplete will permeate their existence. But as Dante looks at her, and she looks up to meet his gleaming gaze, she can’t help being grateful that she won’t have that kind of pain on her conscience.

“Neve, was it? I’ve good news for you. You can finally prove your worth to me. Cut the bond; it shouldn’t be too hard. No son of mine will suffer a mortal soulmate.” The word curdles the air, the way he says it; clearly Dante believes that dependence on others is not a blessing. If anything, he seems to believe it’s a curse, the way he’s insisting on ending it.

She wonders absently if there’s a story behind it, if there’s some pain there to cause this standing. She wonders with more focus why he bothered freeing her from Hecate’s clutches, only to reject her loyalty. She wonders if this is any better than being the slave of a witch.

“It will be done,” she hears herself say, and summons a corrupted athame to her fingertips.

-

The hospital is chemically clean, bleach and something lemon in the air. Neve pulls on a less sinister appearance, softening the lines of tainted humanity in an illusion only the insane and Gifted will see through. She might have lost her humanity, but she has not lost her decency. Not yet. She steals a set of soft cotton scrubs, pastel pink like what the nurses in the maternity ward wear, and heads there.

The baby seems smaller in person. There’s a human clipboard in a language Neve casts a spell to understand, unfamiliar with modern English. Name – John Talbot Westlake III. Born – 12:01 AM, 25th July 2003. Birth weight – 5.6 pounds. Gender – male. Mother – Janelle Olivia Westlake. Father – John Talbot Westlake II. (She smiles at that, a tired effort. She does not know if this Janelle knows John II isn’t actually the father, if she’s aware that she bedded Dante last Halloween while he wore her husbands face and used the thinness of the barriers between existence to reach the earth. She isn’t certain she wants to know.)

Neve stops reading it, choosing instead to examine the child. It’s a baby; she doesn’t know how else to describe it. It’s pale and wrinkled and, when she touches it, soft and warm. The hair atop its’ head is lighter in person, a rich brown instead of a pitch black. Asleep like this, it’s almost possible to forget its limited mortality. That it will have powers that exceed that of many demons. (Not her, of course, but in a life before this, before debt and slavery, she was a powerful witch, and some things transcend species. It’s her own gluttony for power that got her enslaved to Hecate, and her foolish optimism that landed her in Dante’s service. Somehow.)

And the thread – it’s not as thick in person, but it never is, not when the portals tend to exaggerate things that stand out from the humans on this plane. It’s a fine thread, neatly braided; it looks strong to Neve’s gaze, and she chews absently on her lip, jagged incisors piercing softened skin and dragging forth copper blood. She wipes it away and draws the athame, murmuring the spell that will let her interact with the cord, and grips it with her hand.

She’s not likely to be able to cut it when it wakes up, after all, and so she must make this quick. Her expression does not shift with the task, and she trusts that the cameras cannot catch her and her actions, if they are in operation at all.

She saws at the thread, catching on resistance she wishes she did not know to expect. Too many monsters have tried cutting these cords in the past, and today, she is just like them.

She wonders if, if she’d expected to get here, of all places, before she heard the rumours of how a demon can amplify a witches power, if she’d have still taken the deal. Knowing herself, knowing her flaws, she thinks she might.

She’s sawing at a bond that isn’t breaking, and she is forced to drop the blade as her wrists burn. It starts off manageable, but it gets worse as she works, and her fingers refuse to cooperate any longer. She bites her tongue against her pain, drawing yet more blood, which pools in her mouth and drops on the baby as her lips, too thin as her illusion wavers, part.

It wakes the child, and she braces herself for tears, for screaming. For attention reigning down on her, for having to explain herself and her athame. For drawing attention to her failure, to her inability to cut a bond – only she knows this isn’t new, she’s heard of it before. Paimon and Christabella, over and over again, have demons trying to rip their bond apart; it never works for them, it’s impossible to break it. And this – this baby, Dante’s baby, and the little unborn mortal it’s tied to, they are going to be inseperable. Neve’s heart, if she still has one, is in her throat; even if it doesn’t, it feels like it is. None of the spells she can think of will soothe the pain at her wrists, and her hands shake above the baby as black marks burn themselves around each of her wrists like manacles. They’re the exact same shade as the mark her efforts have left on the soulbond.

John Talbot Westlake III is a baby, but there are no tears. Hazel eyes stare up at her, the gold and ice blue in them gleaming like sparks. She swallows; this is the look Dante gave her the first time they were introduced, curious and impatient. This look brooks no argument, no matter what it is. This look makes her shiver, deep in her bones, piercing the hollow in her chest where she once held a heart.

This baby – this boy – he is going to be terrifying. And he’s going to be unguided. And Neve cannot break his soulbond; no one will be able to, not without obliterating her soul.

She swallows and turns away from the crib, then back again. She is indebted to Dante, but he needs her to leave the Pit, at this point. If she leaves, he can’t do anything, not until he finds a loophole – and he won’t, not for a decade or longer. And she can find protection up here, could turn to someone, anyone else – Paimon is in this city, calls Port Lyndon home with his precious little bride.

Neve’s plan is not a safe one, not for her. But someone is going to have to influence this baby to be nothing like his father, to practice restraint where it goes ignored. And someone is going to have to coach him in control, to help him to master his power. Dante’s powers mimic witchcraft, when he walks the earth, or at least they have in the past.

Neve is going to figure out a way to become integral to this boys life. And then she is going to be take care of what is needed.

No soul bond severing necessary.

-

(On the same ward a year later, a dark haired girl is born. Her parents name her Paris, and she is born under a bad moon. She’s too small for her age, born too early, and for the first few hours of her life, she’s kept from her parents. The nurses are scared she will die.

There is one nurse there, watching, who never seems to worry that death is imminent. When she gets a look from her cohort, she offers a smile that holds too many teeth.

“This one has stronger ties to this life than any of you,” she croons, tapping the childs nose. The baby sniffs, and she twists a smirk onto her face. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

John Talbot Westlake III lies awake that night, much to the frustration of his adoring mother. He isn’t making a noise; instead, he stares out the window, at the moon rising in the distance.

The bad moon. That’s what Neve calls it when Janelle asks for her help convincing Talbot to sleep; the newest addition to their staff has proven over and over again that she has a way with him.

At midnight, Talbot sleeps.

At midnight, no one fears Paris will die tonight.)

[wickedshewolf-blog]

The Dark and Knowing

Characters: Jason Voorhees, Original Character

Genre: Hurt | Angst  | Romance | Horror | Lemon

Summary:  A young woman with a horrid and haunting secret has to face her demons in the form of Jason Voorhees. Destiny, fate - whatever it is, young Catherine falls prisoner to the ancient and dark Crystal Lake. Supernatural powers at work leave our local urban legend questioning everything.

Word Count: Around 6k

Warning: Intended for 18+ various trigger warnings. It’s F13 so you can imagine a lot, hah.

Also on FanFiction

THE DARK PART

I grew up in New York. No, not the city. I was born and raised upstate. Mountains, great lakes, tall trees, etc. One of those places you don't really miss until you've left it. The harsh winters, were cold and unforgiving. Trees so old they kept dark and wonderful secrets. The lakes so perfect they were on postcards and tacky souvenir gifts. I would give anything to taste that air and feel the cold rush of fresh northern water one more time. I spent my summers exploring the forests with my siblings, preferring the solitude of those ancient trees and silent craggy mountainsides. My childhood consisted of little else, outside of my family. Though in recent years, I lost contact with my mother, who'd turned to alcohol and painkillers to dull her heartache. She was never the same after my father left. I was raised almost entirely by my older brother, Booker. When my father left us, things just sort of, stopped turning. As if the cogs in the intricate workings of our little family had rusted to a halt. Life was, to say the least... uneventful.

I wanted to leave. I had never been out of state before, so when presented with an offer to leave I was more than willing. I had my hesitations, of course, but I wanted to be free of the past pain holding me there. I was, by no means wealthy. I came from a blue-collar family and had nary two pennies to rub together. Booker had tempted me with promises of fun, money and, as the brochure put it "breathtaking scenery". He'd gotten an offer to be a counselor at a new camp. I didn't question how the offer came to be - his luck was impeccable. People just naturally liked him. Everyone was drawn to him, wanted to befriend him, date him. I stood tiny in his immense shadow. There was no sibling rivalry, it was just the way it was. He never held it over me and I never hated him for it. He was the cute jock, I was the odd bird. Life went on and people sucked.

He goaded me into leaving. He could convince me to do just about anything. He'd had always been the social butterfly of the family. I was the black sheep. Lord knows why he didn't get into motivational speaking - the man had a gift, truly. The conversation was as cliche as those old slasher flicks:

"Come on Catherine, it will be fun. You'll have a great time. I mean, you've never even left New York. You mean to tell me, you are perfectly happy right here serving coffee to assholes for another twenty years?"

"No. It's just... it seems a little too perfect." Always the skeptic.

"Not everyone is just out to get you, you know." Always the optimist.

"That's unfair. I don't think everyone is out to get me. It's just... statistics. More often than naught I get the shit end of the stick. Come on, I'm even the middle child. Life just loves to continually chap my ass."

Cue puppy dog eyes. "Please go?"

"Stop that. That is cheating."

He was relentless. In this and in everything about life - it bent to his will like clay in his hands. There were never two people more polar opposite. Booker saw the good in everyone and everything. I saw the worst. But I wanted so dearly to be like him and he always used that to sway me. He helped me pack my bags with, I'll admit, annoying excitement. Not to say I wasn't excited, I just had a bad feeling about the whole affair. To be fair - I tended to be right about these things. I'll skip the boring parts, where I tell you I shared an small, cramped apartment with my brother and worked at a cafe serving caffeinated drinks to young adults who always said I was "weird." Sometimes they would get creative and use words like, "funky," "dark," or my personal favorite, "totally fucked up."

I was by no means cynical. I knew people. Let's just call it intuition for now. A week later I was stuffed in a car with Booker and three of his friends. The cream of the crop when it came to society, really. Booker and I took turns driving and riding shotgun. Neither of us trusted his friends to make the trip. Though more than one was older than me, they were by no means mature nor responsible. They spent most of the trip sleeping in the back, trading phones to look at less than dignified pictures of women (ill gotten pictures, I have no doubt) and listening to music.

As we neared the destination, Hoyt, a tall man with slicked back brown hair and a sickeningly charming smile, laid his hand on my shoulder. "You know where we are going, right Cat?"

I shoved his hand away, repelled, "Please don't call me that," I sighed, annoyed. He snickered and rolled his eyes, pleased with himself. The three of them in back exchanged hushed tones and chuckles. Booker looked at me sideways as if to apologize. I just gave my eyes a roll and smiled through the corner of my mouth. I was used to the whispers and the taunting. It felt like my only human interactions outside of Booker was just that. Whispering voices, taunt stares and pointing fingers. Booker slowed the car as we passed a worn old sign covered mostly by underbrush and mud.

Camp Crystal Lake.

The forest around us seemed daunting. It was different from the familiar tall, ancient trees of the Adirondack I was used to. They were stouter, bushier. But it was something else too. They had seen things. I couldn't put my finger on why it made me feel so uneasy, but it did. As I stared blankly out into the thick forest, I could hear the three men laughing in the back.

"Let's take a selfie," Sam said excitedly from the back seat. All three of them scrambled from the car. Booker stopped a moment, his hand resting on the door handle.

"You can't be serious," I said with a deadpan stare. He shrugged and got out of the vehicle jogging over to the group. They fumbled with their phones, taking turns strangling each other or pretending to hold a knife. Booker motioned for me to get out. I shook my head slowly. He clasped his hands together and mouthed the words "come on." I laughed silently to myself and caved. So easily swayed, I was. Especially when it came to him.

I got out of the car, my hand lingering on the handle for a moment. Hesitantly I shut the car door, the thud of the rubbed on metal echoed forever, it seemed. As I stepped off the old, threadbare asphalt into the grass, I felt an inexplicable stone drop into the pit of my stomach. I swayed momentarily on my feet. I slowed my pace and touched my fingertips to the side of my head. Booker's face went from playful to worried instantaneously. My palms began to sweat, a sudden high-pitched ringing rattled through my head. I could taste something chalky and smoky on my tongue and I realized I was clenching and gritting my teeth so hard it was sending pangs of agony down my jaw and into my neck. I mumbled something not even I could decipher and suddenly everything was black. I was so familiar with the inky blackness that it no longer scared me like it used to. When I was a kid I would scream into that void and no one would answer... usually. This time, as many times before, it was silent. I was silent - swimming in the dark waters. Only I wasn't alone. There was something out there, in the somber, murky waters with me. A sudden and unfathomable panic shot through me. I felt the innate need to run or swim to survive. That fight or flight instinct we all posses was alive and well inside of me. A loud bang erupted above me in the dark skies and it lit up with veins of lighting. For a moment the endless blackness was gray and alight with tendrils of light. It the distance I could see a figure. The light faded and I swam harder, away from the figure. The thunder and lightening clapped again, the blackness alive once more. The figure was impossibly closer now. The panic turned into sheer, carnal fear. Like fear I'd never known before. I screamed, just as something clutched the raw skin of my ankle and yanked me underwater. The warm, black water was suddenly hot as the lightening overhead illuminated the dark waters. I was surrounded by bodies. Hundreds and thousands of corpses, piled into absurd mountains of decay and bone. As water filled my lungs and I felt my pulse slow - I heard something faint and hoarse, as if it were whispering into my ear.

"Run."

When I woke up, I could feel the sweet kiss of grass on my face. My heart was pummeling in my ears, my limbs sore and rigid. As I opened my eyes, columns of sunlight drowned out everything else. Booker's face came into focus. I knew that look on his face; I'd seen it a hundred times before. Concern, embarrassment, fear. His hand was around my arm and he pulled me up into a sitting position. Hoyt, Sam and Charlie were standing dumbfounded behind him. I blinked the tears in my eyes away, dragging the corner of my sleeve along them. "Cathy," Booker whispered, motioning to his nose. I touched my fingertips to my lip and pulled them away. Blood. That had never happened before. He pulled a bandanna out of his back pocket and handed it to me. I dabbed it at my nose shakily.

"Oooooh, Camp Blooood strikes again!" Charlie said in a sing-song voice. I didn't even look at him.

"Shut The fuck up Charlie," Booker hissed and pulled me to my feet. It took me a moment to gather myself. The three men talked among themselves as Booker helped me back to the car. I slid into the passenger seat. Booker squatted next to the car and squeezed my arm. "Did you take your medication this morning?" he whispered, glancing over his shoulder at his friends.

I set my teeth and sighed inwardly, "Yes," I said curtly. Booker cleared his throat, visibly shaken.

"I'm not trying to be a dick, Cathy - but I've never seen you this bad before." I looked down at my hands in my lap and pressed my lips together.

"I know," I said, my voice tiny, defeated. He nodded, repeatedly. "I don't want to be here," I said, looking up, my eyes meeting his.

"Look," he said shifting on his feet and squeezing my arm again, reassuring me. "If you don't feel better by tomorrow, I'll take you home. Okay?" his voice alone was soothing. Booker, my hero. "Okay?" he repeated. I nodded sullenly and he shut the car door. As pathetic as it was, I felt bad. Guilty. Like my being around was wrong. Booker had been defending me, consoling me, taking care of me, my whole life. I couldn't imagine the weight on his shoulders. His sister, the freak, the fuck up, the burden. The remaining few minutes of the car ride were silent. I think Booker had told the guys not to speak.

As we pulled up to our destination, a young kid, no older than eighteen, stepped out from a booth and strode up to the car.

"Names?" he said, official and important like. Booker smiled and rapped out our names. The boy wrote them all down on his clipboard and motioned us onward. The gravel road was bumpy, flinging rocks to and fro. Booker patted his car's dashboard and smiled. I tried to smile back but I think it came back more painful.

"Relax Cathy, we're gonna have fun," he said gently, shaking me by my shoulder. "We're gonna forget all about what happened and we're gonna have a shit ton of fun," he said with a laugh. I nodded and smiled a weak and pitiful smile. We passed under a sign being erected that read Camp Songbird. Lovely.

As we pulled up, the cabins came into view. Brand spanking new, fresh coats of pain, assigned names. All seemed ready to greet the summer latchkey kids. Mom and dad happy to rid them for the summer so they could enjoy their dinner parties, adult barbecues and enriched, cultured lives - kid-free. Yeah, okay, I was a little judgmental. Having never attended a camp myself, I just didn't see the allure. Before we could exit the car, a few people in matching shirts jogged up to us. Booker looked over at me and gave me that toothy grin of his and lightly tapped my shoulder. "Smile," he said like a chastising parent. As we all got out, the group of matching shirts greeted us happily. A man, much older than any of us, strolled up, wearing a polo, whistle and carrying a clipboard. His name tag was embroidered into his shirt "Colin". I still felt a little dizzy, so I stood in Booker's shadow like a little kid.

"Hey ya'll" Colin said too cheerily. "Welcome to Camp Songbird!" He extended his hand to shake my brother's and introduced himself. "Name's Colin. You must be Booker." Booker smiled and reciprocated the handshake.

"Guilty," he replied smiling. "Oh, and this is my sister, Catherine," he said, pushing me front and center. I mustered up my best smile and shook his hand.

"Oh, you'll be heading up our arts and crafts," Colin said, shaking my hand gently. "You'll love it here," his voice was nice. He seemed like the type of person that sent his kids to places like this. I held back a look of skepticism, shooting Booker an "I'm behaving" look.

"It's beautiful," I replied with a soft nod. After all the boring introductions and how-do-you-dos, we were given a tour of the camp. The mess hall was massive, with a state-of-the-art kitchen, lines of tables and cooks already working out menus and recipes. The archery range was stocked and ready, instructors already prepping. There was a beach and docks, those inflatable jumping things - in layman's terms. And in my corner of the camp, the arts and crafts studio. Modest sized, paints, canvases, pencils, easels. Fully stocked and ready to be used. This wasn't you run-of-the-mill summer camp. It was one of those rich kid camps. Parents spent a fortune to send their kids here.

I felt a little overwhelmed after the tour and decided to retire to my cabin - which for ease of access was connected to the arts and crafts studio. By the time it was all done and over, the sun was setting over the lake. Most of the future counselors, instructors and what have you were gathered around a massive fire pit just off the shore of the lake. I didn't want to be near the water. After the incident at the old camp, water seemed like a shadowy figure. Something told me, something deep inside me, that that lake was not one to be trifled with. As I pulled down my bedding, and untied my hair, a sudden knock at the door sent an irrational panic down my spine. I spun around to see Booker waving through the small window. I quickly opened the door and glared at him.

"What?" I said in a less than friendly tone.

"You're not gonna come out here and meet everyone? Come on, I thought we talked about this."

"I just don't feel up to it. Not after... "

"Look, Cath, it was a one time thing. I bet you, it was just the excitement, right? Everything is fine. Besides, we're at least three miles from that place." I looked at him sideways, clasping and unclasping my hands. "Just... give this place, these people a chance. You might just surprise yourself." I rolled my eyes and gave in.

"Fine. Fiiiiine." He did a victory fit pump and draped his arm over my shoulder. "But I swear if people start acting like drunken idiots I am tapping out so fast you won't even know I'm gone."

"Okay deal, if people start enjoying themselves, you are free to leave." I lightly punched his shoulder.

There were eight people around the fire, give or take. Colin, Booker's friends, three girls I'd yet to meet and an older man I had seen at the mess hall earlier in the day. Booker, practically dragging me with him, sat down in a white Adirondack chair and motioned for me to sit next to him. I sat, begrudgingly.

"Everyone, this is Cathy, my little sister. She's an Aries, she likes arts and crafts-" I punched him again, this time harder. "Hey, I was just trying to help you out," he laughed. I weakly waved at the other counselors.

Charlie spoke up, "Denver here was just telling us about the Blood Curse, Cat," he said waggling his eyebrows. I gritted my teeth and looked at the older man from the mess hall. "Please, continue," Charlie said, spreading out his hand and leaning back in his seat.

Denver cleared his throat, "'Course it s'all local myth. Y'know, like the Pope Lick Monster, Jersey Devil, Bigfoot-"

"Cryptozoology," I chimed in. Everyone stared blankly at me, "It's the study of folklore," I said softly, pulling the zipper of my jacket up to my chin.

"Right. Well, like I was sayin', they said there's a blood curse on this place. They don't really know when it started, but it was long before the Camp Crystal Lake murders. Long time before we was here. Maybe Native American times. It's old, older'n time."

"Camp Crystal Lake murders?" a girl on my left said. She leaned forward, intrigued. The radio playing "I Can't Go For That" suddenly fizzled out into white noise. No one seemed to notice.

Denver nodded his head, "I'm sure you all heard of Jason Voorhees," he paused to spit. The only person who nodded was Charlie. "It started almos' thirty years ago. He drowned in this very lake. His mama, Pamela, worked as cook for the camp. She was torn up by his death'n the circumstances, she went on a killing spree. Killed the counselors responsible for his death. Every time they tried to reopen that damn camp, she made sure it didn't happen. Crazy old bat. Fires, murders, water went bad too. Took them years to finally give up. After Pamela was killed, right here on this shore, by the only survivor, the killins' didn't stop. They say Jason saw his mama killed that night. They say he picked up where she left off."

A shiver went down my spine, "But I thought you said he drowned," I said softly.

"We all did. Course, this is just an old camp cook's tale. But there was rumor she wasn't the best mama. Wasn't all there, y'know. He lived but he was too afraid to go back home. Lived in the woods, trappin', fishin' and the like. No, they say he's still alive, livin' in these woods. And anyone who comes 'round is sure to meet the business end of a machete." Denver spit again, "The same machete that killed his mama-"

"Alright! That's a great story Denver," Colin stopped him, "But it's just a story, of course. There's no curse. It's a scary story kids tell each other when they're camping. In fact, this land has been observed and there isn't anything here or anything wrong with it as a matter of fact. I'm going to head to my hotel now, you kids don't stay up too late. Denver, you need a ride home?"

As Colin and Denver trudged away into the darkness, the radio popped and fizzled back on. I shifted uncomfortably, unable to take my eyes off of that murky lake water. Booker chuckled and playfully nudged me. I didn't find it so funny. Not after my blackout at the old camp. Something wasn't right. This land had a dark passenger, I could feel it. I could feel in that dark empty spot.

Charlie exchanged whispers with one of the girls and motioned to me with his head. I swallowed the knot my throat. "Cat is shaking in her boots," he said, putting in elbow in Sam's ribs. Booker shot him such a venomous glare it scared even me.

Sam laughed and covered his eyes with his hands, mocking me. "Run, run," he said in a whisper.

Charlie snickered and joined in. "Jason," he said a faux scared voice. Booker stood up and clenched his fists tightly at his side.

"Shut up Charlie," he seethed. I shot them all a confused look.

"Come on Booker, she was just trying to scare us all," Sam sighed and tipped his head towards me. Booker repeated himself and cast a glance back at me.

"What?" I said incredulously. I clenched the arms of the chair tightly. "What are they talking about?" I said breathlessly. The three men laughed and Charlie dropped to ground, covering his eyes with his hands and pretending to convulse.

"Run, run. Jason," he said. Booker reached down and grabbed him by the collar, yanking him up. He shoved him and he Charlie fell back down. "Hey chill man, we're just teasing her."

"Well it's not funny," my brother snarled, looking at them all as if they were simple, petulant children. "She's not here for your amusement. You don't even know the first thing about her. She has a condition-"

I immediately stood up and started walking, quickly, back to my cabin. I could feel the familiar sting of embarrassment in the pit of me. The sound of footfalls behind me, made me jog now. I knew it was Booker before he even grabbed my arm. I yanked it away.

"Come on Catherine," he said, trying to slow me down by stepping in front of me. "I didn't mean condition. It's not that big of a deal." I stopped dead in my tracks.

"Did I really say that? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Well, I didn't want to scare you."

"Your friends are assholes."

"You just scared them is all. They think you did it on purpose."

"I didn't even know about that story!"

"Oh come on, you probably Googled it and forgot. The subconscious is a powerful thing."

I made a disgusted sound and shoved past him. "You should know me better than that, Booker. Go back to your buddies. Have a great time." I glanced over my shoulder as he stood there defeated. He slowly turned and walked away, throwing his hands up.

I opened the cabin door harshly, it slammed the wall and knocked down all the toiletries on the shelf. The various bottles skittered across the wooden floor. I slammed the door shut, the white blinds bouncing off the door and swaying back and forth.

"Jerk," I whispered, pushing back the tears in my eyes. I stood there, swimming in the dark of the cabin, wracking my brain. Searching for an explanation, a memory of that name, that story. Nothing. I thought briefly of my vision, my blackout but I couldn't look at it. The fear, the darkness, the bodies. I shivered, slipped into my bed and pulled the covers over my face. I was exhausted from the day, my eyes shuttered closed without effort.

I woke up at the edge of the lake. It was very dark. The moon was barely visible, filtering through heavy clouds. Although I had fallen asleep fully clothed, I was only wearing my underthings. I clutched my hands around my waist and shivered, my breath coming out in small white clouds. Without the slightest warning, the sky lit up with coiling veins of lightening. With a loud clap, it began to pour. The rain hit the lake in a sweeping motion, towards me. When it hit me, it felt like ice, sharp and unrelenting. A shadow out on the dock caught my attention. Someone was swimming. I blinked through the rain and shifted in the now muddy earth. The figure stood on the far end of the dock, just staring. It was featureless, emotionless and inside me, somewhere it said "Run." So I did. As I went to turn on my heel, I slipped into the mud. I struggled to get my footing. Finally, I launched off into a sprint. But I felt as if I was getting no closer to my cabin. To safety. To Booker. I pushed with every ounce of me I had. Everything inside of screamed run harder. But the cabin never came any closer. I lost my footing once more and fell to my stomach. Cold, wet mud sloshed around me as I rolled to my back. There it was. The figure, looking over me. The rain and mud stung my eyes as I struggled to make out who it was - what it was. I could make out that it was human, tall, taller than anyone I'd ever seen. I remembered, briefly, my father taking me to see the Harlem Globe Trotters. One of their actors was tall. My brain was firing away, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. Scratching at memories, piecing together shards and tattered husks. No he wasn't quite that tall, but close. He. I said he. The dark place inside of me, the place that all my fear and hate and pain hid away - it said he. All at once, it was a he and it was terrifying. I could feel the warmth that was fear-driven adrenaline shoot into every part of my body. I was agonizingly smaller, slower, weaker. The figure - he - leaned down, his face illuminated by a chance stroke of lightening. White. I blinked back the rain, smearing mud on my face as I pushed soaked locks of hair from view. Again, the lightening crackled, illuminating everything around us. My eyes widened. It was one of those old-school hockey masks. With such ease I couldn't comprehend, he lifted me by my throat. I kicked and tried to scream, but he was crushing my windpipe as if it were nothing to him. Then, without pause, everything was black and I was underwater once more. I could see the surface, far above me. I could hear screams. A fire, induated above me, like a hot tidal wave. I could see the perverse corpses, like I had before. Twisted craggy hills of flesh and bone, agony and hatred. They were miles long, deep into that inky black lake water. I tried to swim for the surface, to soothe my aching lungs with the kiss of air. As I neared the surface a large shadow fell over me. Like a black cloud. It blocked out light from above. Slowly, twisting and twirling as it fell, a hockey mask sank towards me. As I watched it sink into the depths below me, I noticed the mountains of bodies had disappeared. I looked back to the surface, swimming more fervently. As I closed in on safety, I could see bodies floating above me. Familiar faces. Camp counselors - Denver, Charlie, Sam... Booker. I screamed, water filling my mouth, my lungs, sinking me back down into the depths. Deeper than before. Agony. Darkness. Death.

Then that voice. Hoarse, gentle, a whisper of a whisper, "Jason."

I woke up startled, sweating, covered in something wet. The shutter on my window clattered back and forth.

Creak, bang, creak bang.

Slow, soft droplets of water leaked through the roof above my bed, hitting my face and rolling down the angle of my jaw. It was raining. I sat up, the covers flung to the foot of my bed. Dark red streaked my pillowcase where my nose he'd bled again in my sleep. I reached for a tissue on my nightstand. I absently stuffed it up both nostrils and swung my feet to the side of the bed. The cabin floorboards groaned under me as I stood, unsteadily. I wiped the water from my brow and toed across to the front door. The fire was out, chairs were tipped over, rainwater splashing mud onto fresh, white paint.

The lake seemed almost black under the cloud-filled sky. In the distance I could hear the rolling thunder as the storm moved overhead. A whip of lightening lit up the sky, and for a moment it was almost daylight outside. I looked out, instinctively to the dock from my dream, vision, episode, whatever it was. Empty. A sigh of relief fell from me inside the otherwise silent cabin. "Just a story," I whispered to no one in particular. I bit my lip, hard, just to be sure the dream was over. Something told me I need to see my brother. To make sure he was okay. Rationally I shook my head. I was being silly. It wasn't much longer until daylight. I would get breakfast in the mess hall and he would be there with his friends, laughing and being there generally rude and irritating selves.

Go see Booker. My hand faltered on the doorknob. Finally, hesitantly, I turned and opened the door. The wind swung it from my grasp, tearing into the side of the cabin. The wind howled through the trees, whipping across the face of the lake. A broken tree limb blocked the stairs to my cabin, so I jumped to the side, mud splattering up past my ankles. I popped the hood of my jacket up and trekked through the mud to the fire pit. Beer cans littered the grass, the radio was lodged in the mud, dented from the back as if someone had stepped on it. I narrowed my eyes down at it and tilted my head slightly. As I squatted to pick it up, something far off in the treeline moved. I stood immediately to my feet, my hands shoved deep into the pockets of my jacket. The voice of reason in me repeated the words Colin had said so confidently earlier that night. "Nothing is wrong with this land. Just a story." The skeptic in me took hold and I rolled my eyes. Wildlife was lush in places like this. Deer, bears, coyotes were not bothered by rain. They carried on as if nothing were amiss. I turned back towards the camp and made out the dark silhouette of Booker and Charlie's cabin. As I strode through the mud and rain, I could hear the far off murmur of music in another cabin. A reassurance that all was right and I was being silly. I had a rich imagination, as my mother said.

The lights in Booker's cabin were flickering. The sound of the generator hummed in the distance. I rapped three times on the door before opening it. It didn't seem rude at the time to burst in unexpectedly. I needed to know he was there. The main room was dark, the light completely out. The bathroom light flickered on and off in the back. I could make out a person in Charlie's bed, who I assumed to be Charlie. Booker's bed was empty. The covers lay slumped to the side, pushed into a haphazard pile. A small coil of worry slithered through me. I toed to Charlie's bed and shook his shoulder lightly. "Charlie," I whispered. Nothing. I shook harder. "Charlie," I said excitedly. Irritated I grabbed the flashlight on his nightstand and clicked the button. It fizzled out. I smacked the head of it a couple of times against my hand and it sprung back to life. The column of white light fell over Charlie's bed, I quickly guided it to where his head should have been. Should have been.

Only there was no head. His neck, bone exposed, torn and sliced away as if he'd stuck it in a guillotine was threadbare and gored. My mouth opened and closed repeatedly, my hands began to shake as I stood rooted in shock. The flashlight fell from hands and rolled under the bed, smacking the baseboard and spinning around. There were no words I could find. I couldn't even scream. Everything was tightened down and muffled as if I were a million miles away from my body. I spun around to see Charlie's head sitting on a chair, the column of light from the flashlight illuminating the corner just enough for me to know. It felt like I was stuck in slow motion as I ran sluggishly and tripped to the door.

I flung it open and ran out into the rain, my hood now down. The rain pelted my face angrily. Not asleep. Not a dream. This was happening. Just then, with no warning, a figure sprinted past the fire pit and slipped in the mud. I didn't speak a word, still stunned. The figure stood back up, glancing over its shoulder and stumbled to my cabin. I reached out a hand, very slightly, trying to muster up the words "Over here," but it came out in a small, pathetic gasp. The figure, looked over its shoulder once more, and there under the flickering haze of the porch light, I could see my brother's own stunned expression. "Booker," I whispered, shivering in the rain. As I took a strangled step forward, the soft, reassuring hum of the generator stopped. Sparks flew from the lights as they died off into a soft orange glow. "Booker," I choked out a bit more loudly now. I stumbled a few steps forward, sliding in the mud. The lights lurched on again, only for a moment.

It only took a moment - there, behind Booker, as if materialized from nowhere, was the figure. The shadow shape I had come to know well. In my dreams, in my visions. Inhumanly tall, strong, malicious. In his hands, gripped with sureness dangled a machete. An extension of himself. Not a tool, but part of his hand. I sucked in whatever air I could muster, "Booker!" I screamed, drawing from the bottoms of my feet, the pit of my stomach, the tips of every last finger. My brother spun around, droplets of mud and rain flecked in every direction. I couldn't save him. Not as he had always saved me. I reached out to him, thinking in some way I could stop it. I could make the dream end and I could wake up and everything would be fine.

I am forever thankful I could not see. But I could hear. I could hear the dull slice of metal on flesh. I could hear the gurgle of blood and that last sigh of life. And it was over as quickly as it had begun. I closed my eyes, I cried, I screamed, I sank to my knees in the mud. The animal in me said get up and run you idiot. The sister in me, alive with hate and anger said kill him for what he did. But I could do neither. The numbness spread through me, the pain was agonizing as it all hit me at once. Booker was gone and I would never see him again. I would never hear his laugh or feel the warmth of his embrace. I would never hold his hand as he worked me through an anxiety attack.

The hardest part of losing someone so close to you isn't the white hot, blinding pain. Or the indescribable sense of loss. It's how from the moment you know until the moment you die, every memory of them is cemented into place like anchors. They consumed me down to the very bone. The times he had consoled me. At school, at home. How he'd make me smile even in the darkest of times. And the zenith of all these memories, the apex forever ground into my brain like a bloody, unforgiving thorn; the last words we shared. It wasn't supposed to be like that. The last time I spoke to him, it was cruel and unfair. Angry, misplaced, ridiculous, childish anger.

As I sat there, slumped over myself, I could feel the presence of my own personal demon. As if he'd lured me here. As if I'd grown up, my whole life, for this very moment. I looked up at him - my end - scornfully. "You bastard," I whispered, shivering into my soaked coat. In retort, he grabbed either side of my jacket and hoisted me up with ease to my feet. I swayed back and forth before him. I said nothing, I just stared blankly into his chest. What could I say? There was nothing that could bring back my brother.

We both stood there, for a moment. He titled his head to side, watching as I just submitted to my impending death without a fight. "What are you waiting for?" I seethed, looking up it through half-lidded eyes. "Do it," I could feel my fingernails digging into the palms of my wet hands. "Do it you asshole," I shouted. Without warning or hesitation his hand was around my throat and he hoisted me easily into the air. That impossibly strong, sure hand, tightening ever tighter. The last memory that slithered into my mind should have been of my family. Some warm, happy farewell thought. But instead, I thought of my first day of second grade. A memory I had long since buried in the recesses of my mind. The kind of memory that's pushed down so deep, you're not even sure it's a memory anymore.

I'm seven years old. I'm swinging across the monkey bars. Abruptly all I can see is blackness. Miles and miles of total blackness. It's all-consuming, empty, void. I scream out for my mother. Nothingness. Not even an echo. I'm not sure I even screamed, because there is nothing. Then, out of nowhere, voices swirl into this infinite blackness. Loud, then soft and distant. Saying things I've never heard before nor never hope to hear again. It goes on what seems like an eternity. Alone with the black void and millions of voices whispering unspeakable things. When I wake up, I m face down in the mulch with a broken arm. My classmates have gathered around me, some petrified, some amused. When I stand cradling my limp arm, its obvious I have wet myself, a patch of darkness on my denim. My eyes dart around, looking desperately for an adult. A girl, in a grade just above me utters a single word - a single insignificant word that sculpts the remainder of my youth, well into my adult life.

"Freak."

The memory faded into blackness as I closed my eyes, my throat burning, closing. I coughed for air, my legs kicking as that last bit of survival in me clawed at the surface. Like a long-awaited embrace, darkness fell, tendrils of warmth and silence engulfed me. Just as I surrendered to that eclipse, the deep, dark voice inside me, the one that I assumed was my subconscious, the one everyone has - reason, doubt, your soul, whispered, "I'm ready."

Something lurking in the black void, answered.

Hoarse, gentle, a whisper of a whisper, "No."

PART TWO