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little-miss-moonstone · 4 months

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The Red Thread (Carmy x OC)

Chapter One| Book of the Year

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summary: Rori moves back home to find out she’s been lied to.

WARNING: Gunshots, a bit of angst and anxiety, very little editing. i think that’s all, if you think something needs to be added just let me know:)

“A little more to the left,” Rori directed as Pete was hanging a portrait on her living room wall. She had been lucky enough to find a house not far from theirs and the couple was more than happy to help her move in. It had been a long weekend as they unpacked boxes and occasionally stopped when they found the photo album from their youth. Natalie was still sifting through a storage tub with photos and relics from the past.

“Oh my god. I didn’t know you had this,” Natalie gasped and Rori turned to look. “Carmy’s sketch book from high school.” A light blush crept across her cheeks. She hadn’t seen that book in years and she felt quite embarrassed that Natalie had found it.

“Oh, um, yeah. H- I- uh, you know Carmy’s very talented and when he packed up I just didn’t want it getting thrown out or anything so I took it for safekeeping,” she studdered. “I was really hoping Richie would’ve stopped by. You told him I moved back, didn’t you?” She changed the subject while fiddling with the end of one of her braids. Natalie began flipping through the pages trying to buy time for her response. She hadn’t told Richie, knowing he would insist that Carmy and Rori both know the truth, but then Natalie thought what harm would it do now. Rori wouldn’t just pick up and move again, not after all their hard work and the hours it took to find the right shade of navy blue for the accent wall. Surely she would find out at some point in the next 72 hours. Yeah, Chicago was big, but not big enough, especially when she knew the first place Rori would go is The Beef. As she flipped to the next page and found the drawing of Rori she smiled, first at her brother's talent, and then at how he was able to capture just how beautiful the girl was.

“No, I meant to the other day, but it just slipped my mind. Maybe you should stop by the restaurant. I’m sure everyone there would love to see you,” She suggested putting the sketch pad back into the bin. She knew she would get an ear full from Carmy and Rori either way, so she might as well delay it. Rori thought what she proposed was a great idea, but she would give herself a few more days to settle in.

Carmen was taking a smoke break scrolling through his phone while he sat on some pallets behind the restaurant. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular, just reading news headlines then scrolling to the next one.

AURORA CAVANI’S “THE RED THREAD” IS NEW YORK TIMES BOOK OF THE YEAR.

He clicked on the article before any other thought could go through his head, seeing the picture of her smiling holding the book caused the corners of his lips to slightly rise. He quickly read through the article to see all the praise she was getting and how the book would become a series. Though he hadn’t a clue what it was about, it was the only book of her’s he hadn’t read, and he was telling himself he didn’t have the time, but maybe it was also because Mikey said it was his favorite. He remembered his brother telling him the characters felt so familiar and how he was sure they could fit right in at christmas dinner. He pushed the thought from his head while finding her contact in his phone. “Congrats on book of the year” he typed out, his thumb hovering over the send button. He always did this, she would get some honor or award and he would type out a text that he would never send. He chuckled then deleted the message. He was so sure her life was much better without him in it, she didn’t need his bullshit dragging her down. He was back home trying to hold the restaurant together, he knew he was a mess, and she was doing good, living in some city, god-knows-where. Though, many times over the last few years he did miss her company, even if it was only phone calls, texts and random FaceTimes and he often wondered if she missed them too. He wanted to believe that she didn’t, but he truly couldn’t know. There was no way possible for him to know she did, she missed him so much it bled across every page she had ever written since the last time they spoke. No, he was clueless to the fact that she convinced herself it was all her fault, she should’ve kept her mouth shut on the phone that night. She had kept it shut so long, a lifetime couldn’t have hurt. That alternative had to be better than the reality she had been living without him at all. Carmen took one last long drag before flicking the cigarette to the ground and slowly exhaling before returning to the kitchen. The sound of Richie still harping over the bad date he had been on while everyone was manning their stations. There was now some-what of an order to the kitchen and he knew the progress would be slow but he was okay with that.

After stopping at the farmer market, just to look around, Rori knew she needed to go see Richie. The idea of actually stepping foot inside The Beef sent a shiver down her spine, she hadn’t been inside in two years. She found herself standing on the pavement just staring up at the run-down sign. It made her think of her childhood and Mikey… and Carmy. She took a deep breath reminding herself it would be okay, what she was feeling was the price of having loved, that is grief. She opened the door, not having time to look around as Richie was a few feet in front of her talking to a women she didn’t know.

“Holy shit,” He mumbled, he never thought he would see her step foot in Chicago again, much less the restaurant. “Red, what the fuck are you doing here? Don’t you have some fancy smancy award banquet or tea with the Queen? C’mere let me get a look at you. It's been too long, sweetheart.” He engulfed her in a hug.

“I actually just moved back, not too far from Sug. She thought it would be good after, you know,” she paused and Riching nodded in understanding, “it would just be good.” She finished.

“She’s here ya know, she’s just in the office going through some papers with—“ gunshots cut Richie off as they, along with the other women, duct down. After a moment, a familiar voice cut through the silence.

“Is everybody okay, yeah?”

A voice that Rori knew all too well, she was rooted in place, paralyzed with anxiety as his voice echoed in her mind. She thought back to the last time she had heard it three years ago. “It’s o-okay, uh, we- we can just- uh we can talk tomorrow.” Those were the last words he said before he hung up. They didn’t talk tomorrow, and all of her calls and text went unanswered for months before she decided she couldn’t take the rejection any longer. He was now in sight and the moment he saw her his breath hitched and he was standing just as still as she was. She studied his face, his eyes still the bright blue she remembered, but they looked tired and his untameable curls were still just that. She could feel his gaze and wondered if he was doing the same thing. He was, taking in her eyes, they were like emeralds staring back at him. Her hair was still as red as cayenne peppers, but he noticed the gold hoop on the left side of her nose, that was new, well at least to him. She had a few more tattoo’s, but so did he.

“Fuckin’ motherfuckers,” Richie cursed storming to the door, then outside to inspect and they were both drawn from the trance they had put eachother in.

“Uh- h-hi i-i didn’t know you were home, Sugar told me you were still in New York,” Rori spoke first, eyes darting at Natalie as she came into view.

“Is that right?” Carmen was now looking at his sister, “I, uh, moved back a couple of months ago to run this place.”

“Oh, yeah. So we’re lying now, Sug? Is that what we’re doing?” Rori laughed and although it was sarcastic, it was still a beautiful noise to Carmy’s ears.

Natalie quickly suggested that she and Rori go talk outback, dragging the girl through the kitchen before any more words could be said.

“That was Aurora fucking Cavani,” Sydney smiled, “You know her? She’s like a modern day shakespeare. How-“

“We grew up together.” He cut her off, “Now, if everyone is okay, let’s get back to work.”

The two girl could be heard yelling in the alley, their voices were muffled, but you could clearly tell an argument was happening.

“I thought she’d be happier to see you, Cousin,”Richie chuckled.

Carmen ignored his words, focusing on the task in front of him, but a part of him had hoped that if they had ever seen each other again she would be happy to see him. Realistically, he knew he had ruined any chance of that years ago and honestly expected her to slap him across his face, god knew he deserved it. His eyes wandered across to where she dropped her tote bag, the bullet hole causing him to stop what he was doing and slowly walk over to it.

“Ffffffuuck,” He exasperated, “Yo, Cousin, c’mere.”

When Richie walked over and saw what Carmy saw his face held the same expression, utter disbelief. He knew it was rude to go through a women’s bag, but he had to know where the bullet went. He slowly pulled out a hardback copy of her book, “The Red Thread”. The bullet was lodged into the cover plus a few of the first pages.

“Could you imagine if this wasn't there?” Richie asked.

“No. I couldn’t.” He sighed running a hand through his hair.

He knew in that moment he had to fix the mess he made all those years ago. The thought of something happening before he could make amends sent a shiver down his spine, he did that with Mikey, he couldn’t do that with her. The sounds of Rori and Sug arguing were beginning to die down and he was clueless as to what he was going to do. She had nearly bitten his sister’s head off for not telling her he had moved back home, but the damaged book was a reminder: Don’t wait until it’s too late.

a/n: And here it is!!! I hope to write another chapter soon. Don’t expect a regular upload schedule. My aim is for one update a week but it’ll just be random and chaotic. please please please tell me what you think and i’m wishing you all the best in 2024:)

#carmy angst #carmy the bear #the bear #carmy berzatto #camry x oc #natalie berzatto #richie jerimovich #buckle up buttercup

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starfinss · 1 year

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Ashes and Embers - Ch. 1

𝘍𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘮: Genshin Impact

𝘗𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨: Cyno + Reader

𝘙𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨: SFW

𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘊𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵: 5,197

𝘚𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺:

You never used to believe in demons. Not until you were nearly possessed, and then subsequently stricken with the ability to see all things unholy and dead. You were woefully, horribly unequipped for what you saw. Now, your only chances of navigating your terrifying new reality lie with a certain by-the-books exorcist you just can’t seem to see eye to eye with.

You were having that dream again, the one where you were being followed.

It always started the same. You were leaving work, wrapping up the closing shift, and it was pouring rain. For some reason, the umbrella holder beside the door was empty (it never was), and you were then forced to walk back to your apartment without cover. You walked towards the traffic light at the street corner, intending to duck beneath the nearby bus shelter to possibly buy yourself some time to wait for the rain to calm down a little bit. Then, you sat down on the rain speckled bench, and all at once, you felt a presence beside you.

You stiffened, as one does when they realize someone is there that they didn’t see before, your mouth curving into an awkward but polite half smile. You felt the rush of embarrassment, your mind running at top speed as you tried to decide if you’d accidentally sat too close to this person, or if any other various social faux-pas had been violated, and it was always at this point that you’d turn your head to see who was there.

But there never was anyone there, even while the presence of a person remained, pressing heavy against your side.

Cautiously, you looked around, searching for the unseen presence, but after not finding anything, you settled back into the uneasy silence, listening to the sound of the rain on the pavement. It was then, like clockwork, that the hair on the back of your neck stood up, and inexplicably, you felt the inescapable urge to get home as quickly as possible.

And so you stood, the presence shifting like ink in water, hard to place as you walked quickly towards the stoplight, staring up at the neon display of the red, outstretched palm telling you to stop. It flickered, and you grew more anxious as the presence shifted closer, the weight of it like tar against your rain chilled skin, every second that ticked by causing you to tighten like a coiled spring.

It was around here that you would realize you were dreaming. You were never sure what made you realize this, but that was when it clicked for you. Maybe it was the flickering neon sign, flicking between ‘stop’ and ‘walk’ like an old projector, or maybe it was the way the sound of the rain faded away to be replaced by slight, tentative footsteps, though the rain continued to fall.

The display switched to ‘walk,’ and you hurried across the crosswalk, head ducked low, trying to ignore the way you could hear those footsteps slipping perfectly into time with your own, but no matter where you looked, there was nothing there. You slowed down, so did it, and if you sped up, it did the same.

As you grew sick with dread, repeating over and over in your head that it was just a dream, you broke into a run, and so did whatever was following you. Your chest got tighter and tighter, and you had to stop as you coughed and hacked, struggling to breathe, and pitch black bile sprung past your lips, splattering the pavement. You could feel it grabbing you, feel its arctic breath on your skin as your vision dotted with black, and you knew you were dying, but you couldn’t move.

You didn’t think you were supposed to feel pain in dreams. Or at least, nothing like the real thing, just a cheap imitation conjured up by your brain, a memory of what pain felt like. But what you felt as you coughed harder and harder, inky liquid staining the front of your clothing, streaking your skin, it felt like the real thing.

Your vision dimmed.

And that was it. All you had to do then was wait to wake up.

. . .

It was a seamless transition, from the velvety black of death to the dark behind your eyelids, the sounds of the city streets outside your apartment alive with murmuring sound, sometimes made louder if you’d left your bedroom window cracked open.

You were on the couch this time. The television was on; you could hear it softly, set to a low volume. Your chest hurt, and so did your head.

You groaned as you shifted on the sofa, still heavy eyelids dragging open as you sat up, putting your heavy head in your hands. You had no idea how long you’d been asleep, just that every time you had that stupid dream, you felt like you hadn’t slept at all. Exhaustion tugged at the corners of your mind as you slid off the sofa and onto your feet, trudging to the bathroom, where you flicked on the light.

Your reflection was a disheveled echo of what you usually looked like, your hair a tangled halo around your head, your eyes ringed with dark circles. You knew without looking at any clock what time it was. Three in the morning. It always was, when you woke up from that dream, like a scripted event in some kind of video game.

Leaning forward, you clasped the edges of the sink basin with your hands, taking a deep, shaking breath. They had started off staggered, the dreams. It didn’t happen the first few nights you slept in the apartment after moving in roughly two weeks ago, and the first time you had the dream, you’d been so terrified that you slept with the lights on for the next few days. These days, you had the dream almost nightly. Sometimes it would start off as something else, and then it would slowly bleed into the rainy dreamscape you’d become familiar with.

You released the sink, moving back to finger comb your hair, shedding your pajamas before stepping into the shower, turning the water up as high as it would go. The hot water felt good on your aching muscles, and you relished in the temporary relief, resting your forehead against the cool tile wall. You felt sick. You’d felt sick all week, but nothing you did made it go away. You decided to see a doctor the next day, whenever available, as you looked down at your bare body, eyes scanning over the purpling bruises that patterned your skin.

With a tired sigh, you lathered your scalp, rinsing and repeating before smoothing conditioner over the ends of your hair. You didn’t spend much longer in the shower, turning off the water as soon as your hair was rinsed clean, toweling yourself off and brushing your hair out until it was free of tangles.

You really did feel sick. You stared at your appearance in the fogged over mirror, your skin reddened from the heat of the water, and you looked sick as you felt. Maybe you had the flu. Or some kind of weird stomach bug. That didn’t explain the nightmares, nor did it explain the bruises, but it explained some of the symptoms. Nausea rolled over you like a breaking wave, and you grimaced, pressing your palm against the mirror to pop open the medicine cabinet. After searching for a few moments with your eyes, you found what you were looking for, and you picked up the pink bottle, frowning at the lack of weight to it.

You were out of Pepto Bismol.

Fantastic.

You mentally ran over what you had in the house to alleviate nausea, and came up blank. You didn’t have any ginger ale, or anything with ginger in it besides a package of ginger cookies, but your appetite had been a fickle beast these past few weeks. Sometimes you were so ravenous that devouring everything in the house was all you could think about. Other times, the thought of eating so much as a slice of plain bread made your stomach roil.

There was a twenty-four hour grocery store around the corner. You’d been there before, during the daytime. You weren’t exactly keen on leaving your apartment at this hour, but you needed something to calm your upset stomach. Reluctantly, you trudged into your bedroom, quickly dressing in whatever sweats you could find before tugging on a pair of socks, as well as some sneakers. You grabbed a coat from the closet by the front door, grabbing your purse and keys from the side table.

You looked like hell, and you knew it as you stared at your reflection, displayed in the small mirror above the entry table. Your hair was untangled, but you still looked like you hadn’t slept in weeks. And, in a sense, you kind of hadn’t. At least, not well. You flipped the collar of your coat up in a half-assed effort to hide your face, and threw the deadbolt, locking the door behind you.

The hall was quiet, as was the elevator ride down, and you weren’t surprised by this, given the hour. It felt weird, seeing the deserted lobby, the front desk vacant. You checked your coat pocket for your keys, and after finding that they were, in fact, there, you took a deep breath, stepping out into the freezing October night.

It was clear outside, the sky smattered with faint stars, dimmed by the lights of Celestia City. The moon was a crescent, casting silvery light over the rooftops and threading through dark corners, the pass of wispy clouds over the moon making the light move like it was a living thing. A city like this had a heartbeat, one you could feel through the soles of your feet. It felt good to be outside, you decided, your head clearing with each deep breath.

On instinct, as one often does when leaving home, you turned, eyes searching for the balcony on the third floor, the one that opened into your living room. You didn’t know why you always did this, or why you saw others do it as well. Maybe it was just habitual. Maybe you liked to look up to where you lived, imagining yourself sitting on the balcony, overlooking the very street you were standing on. And you never saw anything there when you looked, not even at your old apartment, the one that got too expensive for you to keep, farther uptown.

There shouldn’t be anything there, sans the folding patio chairs you’d arranged on the balcony with the little glass-top table between them. And you could see those, through the slats of the balustrades supporting the balcony railing. But there was something else, too. The chairs and table belonged there. This didn’t.

You weren’t sure what made you see it. You shouldn’t have been able to. It was barely visible, a shadow silhouetted against shadow, and, in any logical situation, it wouldn’t be visible. But you could see it. A figure, standing just inside the sliding glass doors of the balcony. You stared at it, and you didn’t know why, but you knew it was staring back.

From what you could make out, it was very tall. Tall enough that it took up the entire right panel of glass that made up one half of the doors, but very, very thin. You had no idea what it was, but as you continued to look, a sense of wrongness overtook you, every cell in your body telling you that you were not supposed to see this. Fear thundered through your veins, more potent than anything you’d ever felt before, drownings out every other thought you may have been having before you laid eyes on that figure.

There’s someone in the house, there has to be.

You considered yourself to be a logical person. You’d always been a skeptic of anything paranormal or weird. You were always one to ignore the little, uneasy voice in the back of your head, asking what if when you heard a bump in the night, and you were always the first to reassure your anxious friends that it was just a leaky pipe or the house settling when they heard a sudden noise at a sleepover. ‘A good head on her shoulders,’ people said, when asked to describe you. You never believed in ghosts or monsters, all that had stopped when you were a kid.

But as you stared at the figure on your balcony, all you were was afraid, and nothing about the mess of thoughts running through your head was logical.

Intruder, you tried to tell yourself, but that little what if in the back of your head, the one you’d been so good at silencing before, was louder than your voice of reason.

No. No.

Get a grip.

You looked down at your shoes, watching your breath turn to mist in front of your face. Maybe it was the exhaustion. Exhaustion causes hallucinations. You knew it did. With careful precision, you tucked that worried part of yourself back into its corner, telling yourself that when you looked up, the figure would be gone. You rubbed your tired eyes, taking a few deep breaths before raising your head.

At first, you thought you’d been correct. It had disappeared from your balcony. You breathed a sigh of relief, mentally chiding yourself for immediately jumping to danger mode, and you half turned away to continue your walk to the store, but then, something caught your eye.

Your heart dropped into your stomach like an oversized anvil, and your mouth went dry.

It wasn’t gone. It had moved.

Fear blossomed in your chest, quickly spreading throughout your body as you stared at the doors leading into the lobby, where whatever had been upstairs was now standing.

That was not a person. You didn’t know what it was.

Everything about it was setting off alarm bells in your head, telling you that what you were looking at was wrong, that it shouldn’t exist. What you were looking at was something out of a nightmare.

Backlit by the dim lights of the lobby, you could see that it was built like a child’s drawing of a person, a living stick figure, its body the color of charcoal, like gathered shadows. It was as if someone had erased a space in the scenery in front of you, leaving a dark spot behind. The only thing you could liken the body to was old photos of famine victims, gaunt and emaciated, with each protruding bone visible. Its fingers were long and thin, tapering off into points. And its face.

Its eyes were like empty pits, somehow darker than its already pitch black body, like yawning voids of absolute nothingness. You could see no mouth, though you figured it was there, full of needle sharp teeth, set in jaws which were far too wide to fit its head. And finally, atop its head were a pair of horns. They were tall, extending far above, gnarled like old tree branches, fading off into transparency, dissipating like smoke.

One of its hands was flattened against the door, like it was going to push it open, those endless eyes fixed on you. It wasn’t just mere coincidence that whatever this thing was had been on your balcony. You could tell from the way that it was looking at you that it meant you harm, and as you stared back at it, terrified to look away or even blink, you felt like your feet had been cemented to the sidewalk.

And then, nothing.

You were still standing there, on the street, motionless, and you could still feel the pass of the late autumn air against your exposed skin, the sounds of the distant traffic and the whisper of the breeze filling your ears. You could still see, could still smell, could still touch. But you felt nothing. All the fear and anxiety and bone deep exhaustion had vanished without a trace, leaving you feeling like an endless pit had opened inside of you, taking the place of the emotions you should be feeling, but weren’t.

It should scare you. But it didn’t. You didn’t even realize you were moving, not until you saw your hand moving in your periphery, and you realized you were standing at the door back into the building. Something deep inside of you started at the realization, prickles of fear dancing up and along your spine, but whatever had taken root in your mind swatted them away like one would a pesky fly.

Your fingers wrapped around the push bar of the door, and you froze.

Stop it.

You shook your head, confused; disoriented. Your wrist flexed as you began to push the door, and then you realized. This wasn’t right.

Don’t see, something said, never see, never, never see, neverseeneverseeneverseeNEVERSEE—

You felt like your head was filled with television static, the volume dial stuck on maximum. It was a mess of fog and conflicting thoughts, all slamming against each other with enough force to make your head ache, their voices overlapping into nothingness. And then, through all of that, one single voice spoke up.

Open the door.

The voice was more disorienting than anything else you were feeling. It was both cold and warm, firm but gentle. It reminded you of several things; of a mother trying to coax a small child to do something, or of a teacher trying to encourage a wayward student. Patient, loving kindness, that seemed to know better than you. Your wrist twitched again, but you froze, your breath stuttering in your lungs.

THIS IS NOT RIGHT.

Another voice was screaming in your ears, at the top of its lungs, trying to drown out the other voice, which was now chanting the gentle command to please open those doors, over and over again, mixing with the other, frantic voice in a cacophony of confusing noise. Something in you was fighting so hard, screaming itself hoarse, and you still felt nothing.

Let me in, (Y/N).

You squeezed your eyes shut, blinking rapidly. A soft, gentle chuckle filled your head.

Let… In. Let me in.

The words were weird, you realized, all at once, the voice itself sounded wrong. It sounded like something was trying to imitate human speech, well practiced but still imperfect. Something about the cadence was just not quite right, the pitch too inconsistent. Your grip on the push bar loosened. Your head felt like it was about to explode, the coaxing voice erupting into screams of rage.

It was now shrieking at you with a voice that sounded like several people all speaking over each other, in a language you couldn’t understand, that you’d never learned or even heard, but somehow, you knew exactly what was being said.

God has left you.

The words were spoken in an unfamiliar tongue, but the meaning was being filtered into plain English.

Let me in, you st̸̘͖͉̟̾̅͒̕̚ͅu̴̩̠̼̞̐̑́ṕ̶̛̰̜̘̯̦̝̈́͗̓̏̉͜ͅị̴͍̣̤̬̫̬̅ḏ̶͓̗̲͓̥͓͍̥̫͎̗͈̥̏͋͗̆̐ ̶̢̡͖̂̐̐b̴̜̲͕̪̤̙̝̱̋̔̃̇̍̎̍i̵͕͇̮̗̩̰͚͓͎̝̟͍̦͋̊̊͗̈́̐͗́ț̷͕͎̫̫̺̙̖̞̅͊͆͊̑͛͛͑̈́̈́͜͜͠c̸̫̳̥̙̠̠̠̥͉̠̅̑͒̍͛̏̿͊̈͝h̸̢̛̤͈̪̮̪͖̱͒̓̇͠ͅ. Your putrid soul is mine. I will tear your f̴͙̞̝̺̳̙̮̫̔̍̎̂̒̇͐̀͒̀̎̐̑̾̉͜ͅi̷̜̤͙̓̀̒̃̄̍̕l̷̺̼͕̞̯̭̺̗̇̑̄̂̌͂̊͂͘t̵̗̩̠̏̏̉̈́̑̐͠͝ͅh̷̥̖͚͓̫̹̆̈́̾͌́̅̄͑͝y̵̮̥̲̩̙̥͆̍ͅ ̶̧̛͕̤̺͎͚̝̗͎͈̺̔͂̀̈̈́͐͌͂̈́͛̚͝c̵͓̄͊̿͂̌̿̀͘å̵̢̰̯͖̈́̏͒̓̉́͆͋ṙ̶͉̠̀̉c̵̝͖̤̰͓̳̆̽̽̔̂̏̌̂ą̶̲̤͈͔̼̻̮̲̖̦̔̀ş̸̱̠̪͖̕ś̷͍͑̍̃̍͒̀̇̽̈́̐̕apart and devour your heart.

There it was. There was that fear you’d been missing, trickling back in like an unblocked river, crashing forward when whatever was keeping your free will away was damaged. And among that fear, your will to fight came back, too.

But your hand was still wrapped around the push bar. You tried to speak, to bite back, but all that came out was slurred gibberish, tripping over your clumsy tongue, and your head filled with horrible laughter, taunting, and your wrist moved again, pushing, that artificial non-feeling wrestling against your own genuine feeling.

You swore you hadn’t opened the door. You hadn’t even felt yourself give the final push. But a single little inch was enough.

The creature rushed forward like the tide, a bony hand closing around your throat, and you got your first look at its horrible face up close. Its eyes were endless, and when you peered into them, you saw terrible things. You saw your loved ones dying in unimaginable ways, your life going wrong in any way possible, yourself getting sicker and sicker and dying alone and in the dark. You saw hell in those eyes, showing you all the things it knew you feared.

You are mine, the creature, the demon said in that strange language of overlapping voices.

Black spots swam across your vision, and even when you tried to scream, you found you were unable to. You were going to die, or get possessed, or whatever it was this thing had in store for you. Your mind was growing weaker, the cold of its reach ensnaring your struggling soul, pain radiating throughout your chest, making you cough hoarsely.

The demon’s other hand moved, claws scraping against your sternum, burning your flesh, trailing up to your chin to poise it between two claws, forcing you to meet its eyes.

Give in.

It was back to coaxing, and from the way it spoke, it made surrender sound so, so, sweet. Your head lolled forward, even when the other half of you, the half that was fighting, screamed at you to block it out. The demon got closer, the hand on your chin joining the other one around your throat, squeezing so tight you felt like your head would pop off. Your fingers lifted, clawing at the demon’s hands weakly, but your nails scrabbled uselessly as it dragged you closer.

Your hands dropped.

It’s no use.

You couldn’t tell which voice was yours and which one was the demon’s anymore. You didn’t want to give in, you wanted to fight, but you were so tired. Your shoulders sagged, tears streaking your frigid cheeks as your body convulsed, suffocating heat flooding your every pore. You felt like you were being invaded, like something was shoving aside your mind to replace it with something else, and it made your stomach twist. It was like when you go too deep in a pool, and water begins to fill your nostrils, burning your sinuses and your throat. All you could see was black, your vision overtaken by inky smoke, filtering into your body.

And then you felt something new.

Everything stopped, all at once. Your thoughts and non-thoughts crashed together like dominoes, all falling down and into disarray, even as something struggled to keep them upright.

You could hear another voice.

This one was real, outside your head. You struggled to understand the words, trying to kickstart your brain into working again, and you tried your hardest to listen.

“Blessed Michael, archangel, defend us in battle…”

Your head was swimming, and you heard the demon shriek, in rage and pain, though you weren’t sure if it was inside your head or out.

“…be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil…”

Prayer. Someone… praying?

“May God rebuke him, we humbly pray…”

Deep inside yourself, you realized you knew this prayer; the prayer to Saint Michael.

“…and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly host, by the power of God, thrust into hell Satan and all the evil spirits who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls.”

The words, that you thought you’d forgotten, rose to your lips like soda bubbles, and you prayed softly along, your breath slowly coming back to you as you whispered out…

“Amen.”

You were suddenly tumbling down, onto your knees, your palms making harsh contact with the sidewalk. Everything in your body was in utter agony, your head pounding and so, so loud. The praying continued, drowned out by the deafening shrieking that echoed in and outside of your skull. The voice of the demon was cursing the newcomer, calling him names and threatening horrifying violence, all in that language you shouldn’t be able to understand. But the newcomer was undeterred.

His hand touched your forehead and you shivered violently, your skin crawling, and when he splashed you with water, it both burned and felt like a relief. Your body was awash with bizarre, conflicting sensations, making you want to scream, but no sound came out. The voice of the demon switched between screaming and cursing you or the apparent exorcist, and all you wanted was to get it out.

He scooped you into his arms, and your limbs moved on their own and with an inhuman strength, shoving and hitting as he swung you over one shoulder. You barely registered the movement of his body as he ran, continuing to pray while whatever was inside of you used your mouth to snarl like an animal.

Your back hit metal, and you could hear shouting as something closed around your wrists, even as you struggled, eyes wide and rolling into the back of your skull. You could hear an engine coming to life, the sounds of tires, the wind picking up.

It was when he began to ask for the prayers of the Saints that your body began to convulse. Your own voice, though not spoken by you, exited your lips, pleading for help, for the exorcist to stop, and all the while, the hijacker was trying its best to sound helpless and small and weak.

“Be unto her, O lord, a fortress of strength…”

Your hands clenched into fists as something stirred inside of you, your jaw wrenching open in an inaudible scream.

“I command thee, unclean spirit, whosoever thou art, along with all thine associates who have taken possession of this handmaid of God, that, by the mysteries of the Incarnation, Passion, Resurrection and Ascension of our Lord Jesus Christ—”

“Foolish exorcist,” came a voice, wrenched from the depths of your own chest, “I have already taken her worthless soul.”

No, no, you were here, you were still here, the voice was lying. You felt like you were trapped in a locked room, trying and failing to pry open the door. You felt trapped, helpless, and your only hope was this stranger succeeding in this battle for your very soul.

“There you are,” the exorcist said, and without missing another beat, he continued.

“…by the descent of the Holy Spirit, by the coming of our Lord unto judgment, thou shalt tell me by some sign or other thy name and the day and the hour of thy departure.”

The demon, so furious for being interrupted in its final stages of fully possessing you, shrieked in rage, but it was growing weaker, its hold on you slipping.

“I command thee, moreover, to obey me to the letter, I who, though unworthy, am a minister of God; neither shalt thou be emboldened to harm in any way this creature of God, nor the bystanders, nor any of their possessions.”

Your own voice finally broke through in a scream of pain and terror, a string of pleas and sobs on your tongue before the demon yanked you back under.

“She’s a fighter,” you heard a woman’s voice say, “come on, girl, don’t let the bastard win.”

Prayers flowed like water, washing over you, soothing you like someone applying salve to a burn. Holy water seared against your skin, making the unholy creature inside of you howl, and you convulsed, hissing and spitting when you felt the exorcist anointing your brow.

It all blurred together after that. Your own consciousness, your soul was beginning to grow stronger, and when the exorcist demanded a name once more, a name that felt unfamiliar and ancient slipped past your clumsy human tongue.

The name, pronounced back flawlessly by the exorcist, was like a jolt of lightning down your spine, and it was with that name that the exorcist commanded the unclean spirit back to Hell, his words reverberating through every fiber of your being. Your body lifted on its own, chest arched into the air, legs twitching, the voice that wasn’t yours screaming at the top of your lungs, and…

Everything… stopped. All at once, so abruptly that it made your breath catch in your throat. You could feel something struggling inside of you, yanking itself away from your soul in a frenzy, in a hurry to leave your now-blessed and battered body.

Your own thoughts flooded your mind like a tidal wave, hitting you all at once. You slumped forward, coughing violently, tears suddenly pouring down your cheeks. You felt the restraints on your wrists being loosened, then released, and you hugged your arms close to your chest. Nausea roiled, seizing in your stomach, and you suddenly found a bucket thrust into your hands as your body jolted forward. You coughed hard, pitch black liquid spilling from your mouth. You retched until your throat was raw and the bucket was half full of a reeking, inky substance. You gingerly set it beside your legs, your shaking hands threatening to drop it.

Sweat was sticky against your skin, making your hair flatten against your head, and you slumped back, eyes finally beginning to focus on your surroundings.

You were in a van. It had been redone and decorated, with shelving units on either wall, full of thick volumes and various bottles of liquid or herbs or something similar. The lighting was dim, being cast by a single camping lantern sitting on one of the seats, which were arranged in a row against the wall. The lantern was fastened in place with a seatbelt, which would have been kind of funny to you in any other circumstances. Beneath you was a carpeted floor, though you were currently sitting on a plastic tarp, probably with your demon-induced vomiting in mind. Finally, above the double doors leading out of the van, there hung a crucifix.

Two people were beside you, one on either side. A man and a woman.

The woman had messy, crimson red hair, styled in a choppy bob cut. Her skin was very pale, her eyes, ringed with dark circles, the color of mahogany. She was dressed in leather and studs, a motorcycle jacket hugging her body, which was long and limber. She was very beautiful, in a dark, gothic way. A silver cross hung on a chain around her neck.

And the man… His skin was a beautiful shade of tawny, contrasted sharply by the silvery white of his hair, which reached just below his shoulders, tied half back. His bangs fell across his forehead in a gentle swoop, partially covering his right eye but falling gracefully around his face. His face itself was a collection of sharp angles; high cheekbones and a strong jawline, a straight, very gently upturned nose, thin heart shaped lips, and narrow, fine brows that were turned ever so slightly downwards, giving him a mildly irritated look. His eyes, though, were the most striking part of him. They were upturned and angular, framed with pale lashes, with irises the color of polished bronze. He was dressed dark, like the woman, in dark jeans and a sweater, paired with heavy work boots.

He looked like…

”An… angel?”

You watched his brows press together at your comment, maybe more concerned about the hoarse quality of your voice, or the way everything seemed to be spinning. You fell backwards, the man and the woman doubling and tripling as they left your line of sight, your back hitting the floor. You were more tired than you’d ever been in your life, and you felt your eyelids beginning to flutter closed.

Everything went black in a matter of mere seconds.

#cyno x reader #Genshin #genshin impact #cyno genshin impact #reader insert #Female reader #demons #demonic posession #Multichapter #Lol I don't know why it took me so long to cross-post this to tumblr #cw: demons #catholocism #exorcism #modern au #fanfiction #fanfic #genshin fanfic #My writing #buckle up buttercup

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