#demonic posession

[starfinss]

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.

[adventism-atheism-orthodoxy-me]

For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places. - Ephesians 6:12 For by him were all things created, that are in heaven, and that are in earth, visible and invisible, whether they be thrones, or dominions, or principalities, or powers: all things were created by him, and for him: - Colossians 1:6 Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off every encumbrance and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with endurance the race set out for us. Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.… - Hebrews 12:1-2 For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. - Romans 8:38-39 The demons begged Jesus, “If you drive us out, send us into the herd of pigs.” - Matthew 8:31

I find it odd that a professed Christian is willing to accept the "Magic Man in the Sky" concept while mocking the "principalities and powers of this world" as naïve. If you accept the one, the other must at least be plausible.

As an Adventist, I would expect an even greater sympathy for the unseen given that there's an elaborate "investigative judgement" as part of our soteriology to prove the righteousness of God to the universe/cosmos.

I think there are several threads of thought here that I'm trying to untangle.

The first is an overly materialist view of the Universe, an Atheistic Therapeutic Deism view of life. I have no idea what the person who wrote this article thinks heaven might be like, if he even believes in a heaven or if that idea slips into his category of superstitious fantasy. What about a bodily resurrection - realistic, or fantastic? What exactly does he think Christianity is if not acknowledging and engaging with the powers of light and darkness that surround us? Is all "demon possession" merely an imbalance of the humors, or perhaps, just "an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of underdone potato"?

It's hard to say. He seems to be intellectually conflicted, and completely unsure as to what he believes.

A double minded man is unstable in all his ways. - James 1:8

Depending upon a man's disdain for the spiritual, this line of thinking could lead to a very narcissistic Theology. One that emphasizes embracing and enjoying modern materiality culture such as lust, ambition, and avarice over the spiritual fruits of the Spirit.

The second thread of thought here, after embracing materiality over spirituality, is the idea that the Bible can't be trusted.

Now, I've made it clear that I'm not necessarily a Sola Scriptura kind of guy, but that doesn't mean that I replace it with modern notions of critical scholarship that throws out what I don't like, and interprets the rest to conform to my biases, proclivities, and passions.

Big No.

I look to those who think and write in the oldest Christian traditions I can find. Some of them may actually be modern, but all have been immersed in the waters of an ancient Christian Orthodoxy that predates Luther and even Pope Leo IX.

Thinkers who write in a tradition that predates all the Christian Schisms in the West. St. Isaac the Syrian, St Athanasius the Great, St. Gregory Palamas, St. Anthony the Great - many of the desert fathers to be sure - St. Gregory of Nazianzus, St. Irenaeus, St. John Chrysostom, St. Symeon the New Theologian, Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite, among many, many others.

The truth is, if you believe in God, and in his angels, then you must also recognize that Satan and demons exist too. They are two sides of the same coin. To think otherwise is to assert that we live in the best of all possible worlds - because only God and his angels exist.

I contend that we do not, in fact, live in the best of all possible worlds.

Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, Have Mercy upon me, A Sinner.

[addiescreams]

👿😈 "The Devil Inside: Unleashing the Inner Demons! 😈👿

Hey there, fellow adventurers of the unknown! 💀🔮

Let's talk about 'The Devil Inside,' a journey into the depths of our own darkness. 🌌 This mind-bending exploration of the human psyche is an absolute rollercoaster of emotions and self-discovery. 💥🎢

🔥 Prepare to confront your deepest fears and desires as you delve into the shadows lurking within. It's a wild ride of self-reflection and introspection, and it'll make you question everything you thought you knew about yourself. 🤯🤔

👹 The Devil Inside is a stark reminder that we all have a bit of devil in us – those inner demons that push us to our limits and challenge our very existence. But remember, we also have the power to conquer those demons and rise stronger and wiser from the battle. 💪🌟

So, take a deep breath, embrace the darkness, and embark on this incredible journey. It might just be the key to unlocking your true potential. 🗝️💎

Are you ready to face 'The Devil Inside' and discover what lies beneath the surface? Share your thoughts and experiences in the comments! 🗣️💬

[whumpsmith]

OC talk~

One of my favourite whumpee OC's as he's suffering from demonic possession~

More about he under the cut

Aiden was possessed by the demon Amon as a child, which initially presented as behavioural trouble and chronic illness. He was home-schooled on his parents' horse ranch and subsequently caused injuries to both his parents through several incidents; pushing his mother down the stairs, sabotaging his father's chainsaw, etc. He also killed the family cat. After having him tested for pretty much everything, his parents desperately turn to the church for help to get their son exorcised, however this only weakens and angers the demon, so at the age of fifteen Aiden runs away from home to protect his parents from further harm.

Amon only keeps him alive because he can't survive without him, and will go to extreme lengths to keep Aiden in line. These measures present themselves as self-harming behaviour or physical illness. In moments of weakness, Amon can force Aiden to cut himself, bite his own tongue, vomit and more.

Although the exorcisms caused a decent amount of trauma, Aiden remains a devout Christian, still attending church, praying frequently, and even telling off his friends when they involve a religious figure in their curses, much to Amon's chagrin.

There's also angelic possession, but you can read all about that in his story~

[danascullysjournal]

If You Will Let Me

A Post Milagro X-Files Fic

TW: Horror, Demonic Posession, Minor Blood and Gore, Torture, Autopsy 

Chapter 14: Cicada Songs

Cracks of light, so minuscule he questioned their existence, blinked dimly through the rubble as he continued to pound at the foundation bricks. It could be truth… it could be another lie.  But, Mulder considered grimly, he was out of alternatives.  

Through the darkness, he pummeled at the ancient brick that powdered, bit by bit, under his blow.  He tried not to consider the life that the skull in his hands once held, or the lives of the bodies that surrounded him.  Scully.  Get to Scully.  

Pound. 

Crumble. 

Sweep the debris.

Pound.  

Crumble. 

Sweep. 

He kept himself at a quickened pace, though his biceps burned and his neck ached. The cadence was his only chance.  He couldn’t stop. 

Fragments of brick began chipping off in earnest, and Mulder felt his hopes rise up.  The light that speckled the decrepit wall before him was growing to small, faded beams that teased through the dust. 

Turning on his side, Mulder reached both hands to the breaking bricks.  The soiled, burning wound in his palm had faded to a tingling ache that he tried to ignore.  He pressed his dirt-filled nails into the grit of the foundation and pulled.  At the shift in the bricks, his fingers wiggled deeper into cracks, clawed in a frenzy at pieces that rasped and cracked as they gave way.  Pinholes grew to a diminutive, ragged opening.  His hopes lifted. 

Beneath the sound of cracking foundation, falling sediment and his own rhythmic breathing, Mulder felt something.  A vibration.  One that couldn’t register on his tympanic membrane, but reverberated through each cell of his body.  He felt a tingling electricity in the stale air, like the charge of a thunderstorm.  They knew what he was doing.  He could feel it.  

But he had to take the chance.  Let them come. 

He wouldn’t stop. 

Pound. 

Crumble.

Sweep.

Repeat. 

Find Scully. 

_______________

Scully’s eyes took in the gaunt, gray face of Philip Padgett’s corpse.  His teeth shone in the darkness, tendons straining in his neck as he pressed tighter on her throat, leaning his flayed body forward.  She wanted to tear her eyes away, just as much as she wanted desperately to run.  Escape.  

But she could do neither.  

Her vision was held as captive as her body, and so she stared, struggling to breathe, sensing each movement of his cold body over hers.  Watching what should be impossible, fully animated and all powerful, as he began to pull the icy scalpel across her skin. 

Don’t give him any pleasure in it.  None. 

But Scully couldn’t stifle her body’s response to the scalpel that cut beneath her collarbone.  The slice of the blade ripped through her, a searing pain that held each nerve ending fast. 

Her scream, grated and stifled, escaped her throat, and she lurched against the hand on her neck that held her down. 

“Get.  Off.”  Her words rasped through compressed vocal cords.  Muscles strained against dark smoke that swirled over her and held her still.  She was drowning under his body and a sea of cold, black emptiness that was smothering her. 

Padgett’s dead face grinned down at her with satisfaction.  His pale fingers raised the blade to his own gaping chest. 

“We aren’t finished yet.”  He traced the blackened, vertical opening of his y incision, tilting his head.  Gloating.  Ebony crusts of his dried blood fluttered down to her bare chest.  “You’re going to feel every slice you’ve ever made.  All those autopsies.  All those bodies.  Each.  Cut.”  He pressed harder on her straining neck, and bent his face to hers. 

Scully tried to pull air into her starved lungs.  A warm stream of her own blood traced a path from her clavicle, down the side of her chilled, bare chest.  Away.  Get away.  She could think of nothing else as her brain began to slow from lack of oxygen.  Padgett’s cold, decaying breath registered dully in her nostrils, and she felt the blade revisit the fresh opening under her clavicle.  Finding the next piece of her to parce. 

Hssssssssss.

The sound crawled on her skin.  It was soft in her dulled eardrums at first, but rose abruptly to an angry crescendo. 

The palm of Padgett’s hand withdrew sharply from her throat. Through the darkness, Scully could see his body waver.  Change.  She gasped air into her lungs, shaking.  Grateful.  Silent.  Something had drawn his attention.  The last thing she wanted to do was remind him of her presence.  Her eyes searched the dim attic, considering her situation.  Low visibility in a seemingly empty room.  An undetermined space between the ancient bed she occupied and the stairs.  Her aching neck, her bleeding chest.  The dead body holding her fast.  Not ideal.  

Mulder’s words interrupted her pessimistic thoughts, pulling her back to herself.

You are not a victim, he had said.  You’re stronger than that.  

No.  

She wouldn’t be a victim. Not again.  She could take back control.  

Hsssssssssssssss. 

It was coming from nowhere, and everywhere, pricking at her skin, filling the corners of the darkened attic.  It was electric, dripping with fury.  Something was changing. 

The fingers of black smoke that had chained her down released their grip as the sound grew.  Peaks of ebony smoke undulated in the darkness, pouring over themselves, and she could make out masses that seemed to climb.  Like pillars.  Or bodies.  Padgett, cold stone over her, lurched suddenly, twisting unnaturally.  The white flesh of his torso, the gaping autopsy hole in his chest, all of him wavered.   Blackening.  His mouth opened, joining the unnatural choir that hissed and grated like a cacophony of cicadas.   

It was otherworldly.  

Demonic.  

The terror pitted in her stomach grew, but she forced it down.  With its attention distracted, Scully had an opportunity.

And it could be the only one.

——————————

This has to be enough.

Mulder’s tired eyes strained to size up the crumbled gash he had torn out of the aged foundation, considering how best to squeeze through.  Steaming summer air wafted over his dust-coated face in small, featherlight kisses, and what sounded like cicada songs rose up in swells that peaked and grated, a stark contrast to the rhythmic chirps of grasshoppers in the cornfields.  

Cicadas meant late afternoon.  Evening.  Had they been there that long?   Through the foundation wall it was a serene, lazy Midwest day, and Mulder caught the grim laugh that threatened in his throat.  Peaceful life sang brightly, just outside his grasp, and here he lay in a catacomb.  Surrounded by the dead.  Dead which he would be joining soon, if he didn’t figure out a way to save himself and his partner.  Golden sunlight filtered through the hole, illuminating dancing particles that wavered listlessly before him.  Particles, he knew, of skin and bone.  Lives long stolen by the beings above him.  

Dust to dust.  

But that couldn’t be his fate- not yet.  Not while the possibility of finding Scully was even remotely plausible.  Every second was closer to something terrible for her, he knew.  Something meant to break her and fold her into the writhing mass of darkness.  He could feel time ripping away from him.  The memory of Padgett choking her on the bed, taking every shred of her dignity, was carved into his subconscious.  The gloating visage of that man haunted Mulder.  Taunting him inside his head. 

That hadn’t been real. 

But she was somewhere in this tomb of a house.  And those shadows… those demons.  They could be doing that to her right now.  Or worse. 

No.  He couldn’t let himself dwell… couldn’t think.  Every time his neurons fired a pained memory, a fear, they could hear him.  He knew.  They could hear everything.  And they already knew that losing her was what terrified him most of all.  Though the legion knew his intentions, as much as they knew every other thought he dared to think, they had seemed to leave him alone when he fell down here, turning attention to find her.  

To take her.  

He felt suddenly nauseous, and defeated.  If that’s where all the dark energy was focused… 

God, please.  If you’re up there.  Please don’t let them….  Mulder didn’t dare finish the thought.  

His bloodied hand emerged into the golden glow first, tentatively.  Seeking.  Was this real?   Mulder wasn’t sure anymore.   He rotated his body, twisting himself sideways to best match the gash in the bricks, and began to push himself closer with his good hand while his feet kicked and scuffled against the bone fragments that surrounded him.   They clattered their displeasure.  

“Sorry.”  

He knew it was stupid to talk to dismembered, decayed corpses.  

But he was sorry.  Desperately.  Sorry for kicking them.  Sorry that they were murdered here by those evil beings in the first place.  Sorry that he and Scully had ever met Padgett, that he had written the report that pissed Kersh off.  Sorry that Kersh had been so punitive with this assignment.   And so very, very sorry he had brought Scully out here on this damn paperwork check and gotten them lost.

His neck bent unnaturally, tight against his shoulder as he squeezed his head through the ragged opening, and he felt his ear catch, then rake its way across the threshold.  

As he strained and clawed through the opening, born again from the tomb behind him, the cicada song grew louder, building in pitch and cadence.  Frantic.  Enraged.  Ravenous. 

The sun hung high in the cloudless sky, and Mulder knew.   

The sound was not cicadas. 

Lazy summer heat washed over him, but it did nothing to soothe the chill he felt on the back of his neck, or the sick pit in his stomach. 

He struggled to his feet, caked in earth and powdered human remains, and squinted up at the old farmhouse.  He was eye level with the front door, standing in the piled lumber refuse of what had once been a covered porch addition.  Weather, vermin and time had all taken their share, and the boards had long since rotted and crumbled into piles of porous fragments and peeled, faded paint chips.  Before him, the door shook, bearing, for the moment, the raging legion within. 

Mulder moved to rub his hands over his face, fighting hopelessness.  He stopped short.  His palm was covered in blood.  The gash was much worse than he had realized, and though matted with dirt and debris, it still trickled fresh crimson as he flexed his fingers. 

He figured his scraped ear and forehead were not much better.  His shoulders slumped.  Exhausted.  

This house.  These things.  

Everything screamed of decay.  Of sadness and emptiness, destruction and death.  Even himself.  He found himself wondering just how much longer.  How much more.  How much farther he was willing to go before he released his desperate grasp on the notion of ever being with his partner again.  

Thud. Thud. 

Scrape.

The cacophony shrieking, pummeling behind the door rattled the warped windowpanes that leered at him from above.  He felt it reverberating inside him, an electrical impulse that wore him down.  Pulled him in.  

Thud.  Thud.

Snap. 

Falling over itself, the door cracked and splintered, raining down in clattering wooden shreds that disappeared into the black sea of smoke that began pouring over him. 

He saw his dim hopes eclipsed. 

Through the swirling ebony haze, his eyes met the glowing eyes of Samantha, who stared down at him from the darkness in the doorway.  Her face was stone. 

“Fox.”  She was speaking to him, but her lips didn’t move.  The voices were many, inside his head.  “You’re home now, with us.  Don’t you remember?”

“No.”  Mulder’s mouth was dry.  His eyes burned from human debris.  From summer air and dehydration.  From the angry tears that threatened to spill over.

They would never stop.  He was certain, more certain of it than of anything he had ever claimed or believed in his pathetic life. 

He felt himself giving up. 

Her lips turned up in a minuscule smile, but the eyes were unwavering.  Boring into him, white hot and void of anything but hunger.  As the darkness enveloped him, the violent, raging shrieks grew more frenzied, and Mulder felt them wash over him.  Through him.  Into him. 

Through the din, under the currents raging inside his mind, he managed to form two rational thoughts which still belonged to him:   

The demons were already consuming him.  But maybe he had bought Scully some time. 

——————————

Adrenaline coursed through Scully’s veins, her breath quickening, her muscles tense.  She steeled herself, eyes wide, and shoved with all her strength, pushing at Padgett’s chilled corpse so she could wriggle free. 

And her hands went into him. The blackened flesh was cold as ice, but somehow loose now.  Soft.  It wavered, suspended for a moment, then began to slide, pieces of thick, black skin and muscle tissue sloughing off onto her as she scrambled backward.

Desperate to escape, Scully backed up blindly, reaching with frantic fingers that found nothing but air, and fell off the bed.  She landed, head first, with a stifled groan and a dull thud.  Licking her dried lips, she drew in a shaky breath against the musty wooden slats of the dusty, forgotten attic. 

Pressing her palms down, she steadied herself.  Moving like stone.  Mind racing.  Her eyes turned slowly up as she twisted to glance behind her.  

She wished she hadn’t.  

The shrill, unnatural shrieking had stopped.  Deafening silence was in its stead.  What had been Padgett’s head slithered itself down, eyes locked on hers.  They shone white, piercing through the undulating, ethereal mass of smoke that had once been his body.  Frantically, her eyes darted to another mass.  Then another.  And another.  Countless clouded forms that had built themselves up pressed into the ceiling of the small attic, looming in each corner, closing in.  Each possessed the same cold, beaded white eyes that cut into her soul. 

As a child, alone in her darkened room, Scully had imagined the devil.  Imagined Hell itself.  Nights of staring at the doorway, or crawling into Melissa’s bed, the danger had felt imminent.  But it dissipated in the early light.  It had been frightening, but like a bad dream, or a fairy tale, removed and safely bound within an old book.  Stories, Melissa had reassured her.  Just old stories, not truth.  

But this.  Not even her worst nightmares had prepared her for this. 

These were demons.  Hungry.  Coming for her. 

Her logical brain wanted to argue, wanted desperately to find a rational truth to cling to.  But there was no logic.  Only eyes, and darkness.

Quickly, she pivoted herself, clawing away on all fours, fingernails raking the wood.  

Only two thoughts existed in her terror infested mind. 

Find Mulder.

Run. 

But where?  Everything was black.  And she had seen the haunting white eyes behind her, watched them fill the room.  She could feel them, everywhere. 

Except… except for one space.  A corner to her left.  Run there.  She could conjure nothing better, and so she followed her instinct.  She hunched forward and bolted, a runner from unsteady blocks.  A feral, wounded animal, desperate to escape.

Voices rose up from the living smoke that trailed behind her.  They echoed, sang out in waves that hit all octaves.  Deep.  Sharp.  Bitter. 

“You won’t leave us.  Because he is with us.”

She choked.  Froze.  Mulder.  

An eddy of cold energy lapped at her skin, traversing the nerves in her spinal cord, then up into the gray matter.  Parsing through the neurons to find each thought before it touched her tongue.  

She knew they were attempting to dig into her.  Break her down.  She also knew that Mulder would never want her to give in. 

He isn’t.  And I won’t stay either.  The thought was barely formed before the beings retorted, billowing out.  Ever closer. 

“He is,” the sadistic chorus sang.  “He is in us.  And. He wants you.  With us.”  The lilt in the voices turned her stomach.  She was reeling, from blood loss, from the spirits ready to claim her.  From the loss of her closest friend. 

Ankles unstable, Scully stumbled toward the corner that offered a haven from the enveloping smoke, if only for a moment.  

A frantic stride. 

Another. 

Her toes stepped into a void, and hovered gracelessly before gravity seized her, dragging her down the farmhouse stairs, buffeted against the walls.  Her body came to rest against the wooden door, heaped over itself like a ragdoll.  

Groaning, she unfolded herself, eyes wide.  She was thankful for the pain.  It burned her, across her chest, through her bruised body.  Through its growing intensity, it focused her.  Forced her on.  The airy, haunting laughter carried down the stairs on waves of black, ghostly vapors.  Coming. 

She couldn’t think.  Wouldn’t think. Just.  Act. 

Her arm found its way up the old door, fingers groping, and her clammy palm found the brass doorknob. 

It turned.  

Scully spilled out into the tight, dimly lit hallway, coming to rest on her back, her hands unconsciously covering her bare chest and bleeding wound.  Gasping, she lay for a moment, enough to process her new surroundings in this hellish maze of a house.  

The attic door was at her feet.  Down the hall, to the left, the bathroom.  And to the right… Sunlight?  Whispers, almost imperceptible, and a chilling in the air told her it was time to move. 

She heaved herself up and began moving to the promise of the outside world.  Even if it was a lie.  She wouldn’t stop until and unless they gutted her.  

Not a victim.  I’m not a victim.  Her pace matched her mantra. 

[mrtreefingersart]

I love this character, I will never stop drawing him, he’s my favourite broken little guy. Best OC I coulda asked for

[thecitythatdoesntsleep]

Part 9

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5] [Part 6] [Part 7] [Part 8]

(Tags/TW: Implied: post-torture, broken bones, bloodloss, consensual intimacy (whumpee x caretaker), demonic possession, demonic torment, royal whump, fantasy whump, vampire whump, Prince!whumpee, servant!caretaker, psychic/gifted caretaker, paranormal elements)

...

There was no energy left inside the Prince when the demon left him hollow again. 

He was hopelessly drained, worn, from what he’d just been forced to do to the human that had done nothing but care for him. They’d tended to his every need, even those he refused to admit he had. He’d been held, comforted, they gave him what he needed most. 

And in the end... 

He’d left them in a bloodied heap. 

Honey hair was black and matted from crimson, skin speckled with purples and blues and he knew their arm wasn’t meant to bend like it was. They were quiet, still. They had been for a long time and it angered their demonic assailant more. But they were on to something, when they confidently declared they knew the demon wouldn’t kill them. 

No. They were far too valuable to it’s plan to manifest the dimensions as it pleased. 

Even when the vampire had long collapsed onto dirty stone flooring, could only manage to shift through thoughts; he felt like dread had become a monster and swallowed him whole. His stilled heart ached, fingers spasmed in reflex from how much the demon had burnt through the blood he’d freshly consumed. He felt stiff, like he’d shatter if he tried to move a single inch. 

So little of it mattered, when he was straining to hear past his ringing ears to see if they were still breathing. 

In all of his years, he couldn’t remember the last time he scraped against the floor and bloodied his fingers to try to get closer to them. Nails cracked in his rakes, tips split and bruised but he made it, inch by inch. 

Nothing meant anything, anymore. Not his crown, the castle they were in, the apron he’d ripped off of them in the chaotic struggle. The heart that flowed life when his stood still; the beats inside their chest were the only thing that calmed him. 

They were alive. He could hear that much from where he now laid beside them. 

When lids finally fluttered, the human came alive with jolts of agony; pain rattling out of them as if the mute button had come undone. The prince flinched back and cracking, whining sobs choked up the human on the ground. The sudden influx of sensation was crippling, like they’d been dunked in scalding water all at once. 

Where their bones were broken, where skin had blackened with blood underneath it, there was radiating, sharp bolts of electricity. 

It hurt. It hurt so badly they couldn't see for a long gap, felt stress take their sight like when they were a youth. They struggled to breathe, body shook with tremors and it took all they had to stifle their cries.

They didn’t want to make him feel worse, hear just how much damage he’d done to them but they were delirious with pain in an instant. They couldn’t think, couldn’t manage to reel themselves in or even pretend to. He’d done a number on them and the closer he got, the more their body pushed away on instinct beyond their control. 

Even they couldn’t help flinching back from him, after what he’d just subjected them to. The demon was right, had been right all along, that he’d break every last stitch of hope the Prince had left. 

“I-I’m sorry-” He whispered from dry, straining cords, unable to tell if they could hear him over their own sobs. 

“I-I should have done more-” A lamentation that was possibly too late to even have weight anymore; as he’d paused in defeat and stilled in his slumped position on the ground. 

The Prince could tell, the trembling human was doing their best to bring themselves down. Trying to stop their overwhelming emotional outburst before it made them even sicker, to conserve for the sake of everyone involved. 

“You need to drink my blood..” He spoke aloud, “Please, t-there’s nothing else I can offer you, it’s okay if you can’t see them..” 

“N-No.. I-I can’t..” Such a broken, pitiful voice from the human and he scraped closer. 

“Please.. I-I did something- I can hear it..” He pleaded, reaching out to cover their hand with his own, giving a small squeeze. 

The demon had feasted on them too much, thrown them, tossed them with his inhuman strength. There were holes somewhere, against their lungs from a fracture. He could hear it draining and bubbling in when they breathed. They’d drown if they wouldn’t drink. 

They were so weak, fighting for every inhale and just barely looking at him with bruised, swollen eyes. He wanted to cry, wanted to beg and plead to them.. but the Prince knew now wasn’t the time for either. 

At least this time, he’d come back to his senses before he’d completely killed them. 

He didn’t try to beg anymore, instead he forced his weak muscles up, drug himself off the ground beside them. He scooted closer, grit his teeth in how much pain his body had extended. Even when they shrank back in blossoming tension, he reached for them anyways.

They cried out, posed a small struggle when he collected them into his arms but once they were cradled against him, staring up, they fell limp in surrender.

The air around him was blue, mucked deeply with wisps of black and purple. He was sad. It was really him, back in ownership of his actions.

They had promised. Tried to promise him that they wouldn't fear him, wouldn't associate his actions with that of his aggressor. It was even easier to do so, when they saw silent rivers of tears smearing blood down his face.

How many times had he done this?

When they met eyes and he watched the human's swirl with a prism of color, timid, shaking fingers met their cheek in a gentle caress. They flinched against their will but pressed deeper into the chilled palm with the warm, bruised slope of their jaw.

"Please... Don't make me lose you, too." A sullen plead from undead lips and he lowered his head to rest against theirs. "I don't care about anything else... This Kingdom can fall to ash, if it means you'll make it."

He never stopped looking at them, watching every strained rise and fall. When they whimpered in duress, he startled in alert but felt the heavy slump of their hand against his head.

It drew a flustered sob and the Prince muffled it against his wrist, used throbbing fangs to grind deeply into his skin and drill into the still rushing vein.

Still... He offered. Held the limb close but didn't press it to their lips. Even in a deadly moment, he treated them differently than all the rest had. That's why they let their hand fall to his and covered the wound with warm, split lips.

Another wake of tears dripped off his chin and with a few strong mouthfuls, he was the only one left trembling in pain and worry.

The look of relief was the first thing to place something other than sadness into his chest. The way their eyes lidded, hazed with relaxation. They gripped with more strength but their hold relaxed. He'd long forgotten what it was like to be fed from, even by a meagerly imbibing human.

A soft pull against skin, how much they licked in comparison to piercing fangs. They were conscious, never met his flesh with teeth and that was the most stark difference between his kind, and theirs.

When they moved away, it was for a panting breath and it ran chills up his arm where their saliva still cooled his languid warmth. He'd been looking at them with more intensity, hadn't noticed he'd calmed from the sensation of someone drinking from him.

They exchanged long gazes and his thumb idly caressed the back of the arm in his grip, the other still lying limply in place for their feast. Fingers gave a small twitch of sensation when the human returned for seconds, gave a stronger pull and each swallow made their color change.

Bruises vanished from the hollows of their eyes and warmth tinted their skin once more. Their heart pumped stronger, each inhale a little deeper and at last, they spasmed with a cough after their final swallow.

The Prince tilted them as they wracked, soothed over their back in comforting sweeps. When blood left their lungs and hit the muddied stone flooring, his shoulders fell in relief. They had healed enough to expel it and had the strength to turn back over by themselves.

"Is the pain less..?" He asked aloud, pushing stringy, crusted hair off their face when they looked back towards him.

“I-It’s less..” They muttered. “It’s almost gone..” 

He watched them closely, counted each breath as if it were his own and finally, they caught eyes once more. The Prince looked worn, still wore smears of their blood and pain across his pallid skin. 

“Can I take you to get cleaned up?” He asked in a somber tone, hand gently forming to their cheek as they closed their lids and pressed into it. They still felt so warm under his fingertips. 

“I-I can do it- You don’t h-have to care for me Prince..” They argued and his lips thinned into a sullen line. 

“Please.. let me clean up the mess I’ve made.” He begged, in such a broken sounding tone, one they’d only heard him plead to the demons with. He couldn’t look at them anymore, he was bathing himself in shame. 

They already knew, he needed to pay for what he’d done. In his mind, he’d built a debt he owed them and tending to their state, was just coins to his mountain of self-hared. If it would help ease his guilt, allow him to cleanse the grief from his fingers; they couldn’t ever deny him now, not as their head buzzed so warmly in his presence. 

“You can do what you’d like, majesty..” The human whispered, reaching for a hand that laid against them to tenderly take in their own. He startled to attention and stared at their interlaced fingers as if he didn’t believe they were there. 

It took a long moment but the Prince made it off the ground, arms keeping them upright. He adjusted them in his grip and took slow but sure steps as he regained strength in his weakened muscles. 

The rooms changed around them, the brick turned back into woods and polished stone the closer they got to his quarters. Deeper through the castle, until they made it to the bathroom and he was able to lower them into carved marble. He’d turned to light the stove but they caught his arm, pulled it back towards them in sudden fear. 

“D-Don’t leave..” The human pleaded themselves and his brows pinched in their corners. 

He’d never faced a human that dared cling closer to him, after he’d just spent the night tormenting them. As his own body still ached from the power put into harming them and after he’d wounded them fatally and barely used his blood to reverse it. 

“I’m not going anywhere, I promise.. I’m just going to warm some water.” He soothed, covering their shaking hand with his own. 

They felt foolish, shameful, latching on like a needy child but the thought had scared him, that’d he’d merely leave them to themselves. When they let go, they sat in silence, chastised themselves in their headspace. Hands to their lap, folded as if he’d scolded them. 

Patience took the Prince through crafting a fire in a burning box, working until flames peeked through the sides and rushed heat through the pipes. He’d silently ghosted around in the meantime, gathered glass bottles and cloths to clean them. 

“I-I’m hot..” The human mumbled in a soft voice, brows pinched with distress and cheeks flushed, all the way to their ears. 

“I’m sorry, it’s my blood.. it’s healing you but you’ll feel strange in the meantime.” 

Strange wasn’t even the half of it. Their worst fear had come to fruition, they couldn’t seen any other realms or spaces. Any demons, any spirits, passing entities or ghosts. They just saw him. 

And boy, from their position, dazed and laying in the cool basin; he looked beautiful. Hair as dark as the shadows that tried to claim him, eyes burning, passionate with the blood he needed, craved. So worn, so, so worn and haunted by what he’d just done, how to fix it. And entirely, wholeheartedly, fixated on them. 

“Can you...” The Prince paused, meeting eyes with the battered human and watching their gaze swirl in their head. Opalescent eyes calmed to a single color and cheeks flushed with heat and his personal poision. There was no way they could tend to anything for themselves right now, his question was pointless. 

What thoughts might be running through their head as he towered over them, looming, about to strip them further to try and clean the dirt off of them, he’d put there by hand. 

“I need to get these off of you..” The Prince spoke softly, voice long returning to a sullen whisper after the demon had left his body. 

“I’m yours Prince... do as you wish.” A repetitious reminder and while it was meant to comfort his actions, it burnt more shame into the doings entirely. Even if they meant it, earnestly, it would never stop forming an ache in the pit of his chest. 

He was getting tired of being served. Of being in charge. Of ruling lives, land, servants. 

“You know you’re free, right..?” The Prince idly spoke, starting to work shaking fingers down the buttons of their shirt. “You can leave, whenever you want. I’m not holding you here.” 

“...Are you kicking me out..?” They asked in confusion and panic took over his features when they reached out for his sleeve in desperation. “P-Please Prince- I-I have no where to go...” 

“N-No! Of course not- No, I just-...” He paused, meeting gazes with the innocent human and feeling another surge of emotion in his chest. They were crying, crying at the idea of being thrown out of a castle he’d just killed them in. If not for his blood, if not for their acceptance of it.. They would have long perished. 

“...Surely the streets have to be safer when you’re living with a monster..” Tepid fingers reached for a wet cheek and a calloused thumb swiped over its curve. 

As always, the human curled deeper into his hand, pushed into it with something akin to yearning. Begging. They were almost begging, as they looked up at him, still bloody and still so pitifully frail. 

Just how he’d left them. 

“...T-This is my home, Prince..” They mumbled shamelessly, on bruised lips that were slowly discoloring and fading back to their normal plush pink. “..Please don’t take it away from me..” 

Please, please don’t take him!!

Anything but him!! Take me instead!! Please!! 

Prince!!

You’ll pay for that, you damned leech!!

What if I pry those fangs out? Split that nasty jaw in two, what then beast?!

Guts hangin’ out and you’re still snapping for blood.. Guess that’s the power of a noble..

The General says he’ll make him forget.. Do whatever you want to’em. Only chance we’ll ever get to ruin a fresh faced Prince like him..

“...P-Prince..?” “Prince!” 

When the vampire lost his trance, the doe-eyed human was left gaping up at him, face mirroring concern from the long gap of time he’d lost. A minute, two minutes, almost three from the time he’d first breached the memory until he was back to staring them down. 

He flinched, when they reached up and cupped clammy cheeks with still-stained hands. They returned the gesture, found tears that had pushed out of his corners and wiped them away with the same sweet tenderness. Human. The kind of tenderness that only humans ever managed to contain. 

Even drunk on his blood, obsessed with his presence, beaten, maimed by the same figure; same hands, same vampire. They were so achingly careful, gentle with him, like he was the fragile one.

The Prince didn’t realize, how much his expression, demeanor changed as he looked at them. Deep into their eyes, occasionally down towards their lips, closer and closer. They’d adjusted in their concern of his flashbacks, sat up to meet him; now they were so, so temptingly close. 

Please, don’t say anything.. I’ll never have the self control, if you say what you always say.. 

Please, Please, Please...

“I’ll remind your Majesty...” Gods be damned, don’t say it...

“I’m... entirely his... to do with as he pleases.” 

The Prince was strong. Resolute. Iron-willed. He’d fought in two wars with the bravest alliances in the eleven kingdoms. He’d been cursed with a demon and withstood it longer than any man alive. He’d been tormented, tortured, forced to kill at the will of another. He’d watched every brick in his kingdom get turned upside down. He’d seen his life’s work fall to ruins. He’d watched loved ones die from his hand and drained their body dry the moment after. 

But his greatest weakness, was pulling him closer without even realizing it. 

Such a gentle touch that it almost felt invisible, but the pulse of warmth it left behind, living, breathing; it was unmistakable. The breath, the rise and fall, how soft they took each inhale. What wonderful, sweet noises they could make in such reckless delight. Pleasure they deserved and had probably never been allowed to feel for themselves. 

His mind was rotted, with such a simple string of words. Words they’d chosen, words they knew held different meanings every time they’d said it. First, for comfort. Second, for feeding. Now... now they were offering him more, even more of themselves than he’d already forcefully taken. 

He wasn’t worthy. He’d never be worthy, when they still wore his handprints and fissures in their bones from his strength. The same strength it took to keep himself from making them think this was all he’d been waiting for all along. 

“...You can’t say that to me..” The Prince breathed, forehead coming to idly rest against theirs when they bridged their staring gap and pushed themselves boldly closer. “...The last time you did.. I drank and then I attacked you.” 

“I-I don’t think that will be an issue, Prince..” The mimicked the same low tone, unable to pull away from the close, fiery set of eyes that held them pinned. 

“What makes you say that..? I could have just killed you-” 

“Harming me.. Your Majesty.. Is the furthest thing on your mind right now, I think..” They couldn’t help the verbal poke, as they took a risk and adjusted their arms, nearly encircling his neck. “And I’d like to remind you, Prince..” 

Gods be damned... 

Forgive me, for tainting them...

“That I’m yours, your highness... to do with, as you please...” 

-

Tags: @wolfeyedwitch @i-msonotcreative @moss-tombstone

[mentagenesis]

Ascent Into Invulnerability.

by Daniel Wolfert. I’m not one to dwell much on the underbelly of life on planet Earth. I prefer to keep my thoughts elevated and therefore my vibration high. I learned a long time ago that what you place your attention on is drawn into your reality. Therefore when I wrote the blog post The Gift of Encouragement a while back, I wrote it from a very positive viewpoint. That is to say, I wrote…

[lillidigest]

The Battle Within: Exorcism & Demon Possession in Nonfiction & Fiction

Whispers in the Darkness: The Terrifying Realms of Exorcism and Possession Are you prepared to delve into the darkest corners of human existence, where the forces of evil conspire to claim unsuspecting souls? Brace yourselves, as we embark on a spine-chilling journey into the realms of exorcism & demon possession, both in nonfiction and fiction. Welcome to The Battle Within. As an Amazon…

[carrotkicks]

shoutout to that time i got the Pizza Sim bankruptcy ending by the 2nd night..

[daincrediblegg]

[lotuslate]

Will I see you tonight?

[notesfromthecactuspatch-blog]

Itchy Spots and Hillary Clinton's Demonic Shingles

Itchy Spots and Hillary Clinton’s Demonic Shingles

Style my Coonskin Cap with “Dippity Do” and call me Davey Crockett. 2022 isn’t half over, and I get slapped with another surprise. 6 months ago, I had a growing itchy spot on my back. It looked like a spider bite or an irritated mole. My wife, being a senior nurse, said we should keep an eye on it. It grew larger and became a source of irritation. I begged her to cut it off with my Chef Ransey…

[thingsaday]

CIPHER FAMILY - PART 1

(More Pines to come!)

[r0b0t1me]

had some specific characters on my mind tonight. i dont really know which ones though :/

[cowardz]

𝐏𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝! 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

your best friend has been acting off lately. his diet has changed (I know paleo is a trend right now, but raw meat? really?); you could have sworn you saw his eyes flash in the dark like a cat; and weirdest of all, your sweet reserved bsf is growing pretty bold? You want to be worried about this change, but if he’s decided to reinvent himself then what kind of best friend would you be to complain.

What you don’t know is that you absolutely do have reason to be concerned. Your poor bff seems to have gotten himself mixed up with demonic powers and now he finds himself unwillingly sharing a body with a demon. It could be worse though if the demon was only slightly more powerful… lets's just say he wouldn't have to worry about sharing the body.

This arrangement comes with some quirks. For example, both inhabitants are finding themselves subjected to emotions they didn't previously have. The demon finds himself assaulted by fond feelings for someone he doesn't even know (who the hell is (Y/N)!) while your best friend is dealing with violent urges, even when the demon isn't piloting the body.

The demonic being finds his human "counterpart" completely pathetic. He's been in love with the same person for years and he can't even make them aware of his feelings, let alone get with them. You see if he were in hell right now he'd kill any competition and make them his mate on the spot! However, his cowardly human prevents him from doing what he really wants so he must resort to other means. He can't stand being associated with such a cowardly being so he'll just have to teach the human to court his love the right way. and considering he's sharing emotions with his human roommate he might have some ulterior motives in helping you two get together…

That's how you found yourself in this situation, being flirted with (and basically stalked) by your previously shy best friend and his demonic captor.