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dang-itshauntedinhere · 2 years ago

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I Don't Love You, But I Always Will - Chapter 1

Summary:

I watched The Exorcist with a friend and spent the entire time staring at Father Karras, so of course we crafted an elaborate story surrounding his and reader's life together. Falling in love with a Jesuit priest and watching his faith fall apart in front of you is not problematic at all actually, and your life in this story will proceed in abject simplicity. (Lies, slander) Enjoy!

Chapter 1 (You are here) - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6

Find also on my Ao3

Divider by @racingairplanes

Word Count: 4.5k

After marrying a man you believed would give you the life you wanted, you think love will be enough. You leave everything you know and love behind, believing this.

A/N: This story takes place throughout the late 1960s and early 1970s.

Chapter 1: Leaving for Georgia

Summer in DC was always beautiful, you thought. Something about the blue skies and the shaking of the leaves always brought out something warm and exciting in you - the wind is what you really loved. How it seemed to finger through your hair and make you blush, how it reminded you of the tingling, scrappy feeling of returning home after a long day of roaming the streets as a kid.

It reminded you why you loved the city.

Chris was always up-front about wanting to move back to Georgia after the wedding, and you had agreed easily; his aging grandparents were there after all, and a tenure-track position as a professor of philosophy at the University of Georgia was nothing to sneeze at, either.

You’d spent your mornings on the phone with realtors in Athens for the last three months, leafing through the mail every day to find new flyers and catalogs. Evenings were for wedding planning and house hunting.

It had been so much organizing, though your contentment with a small wedding was an anchor, his southern family was too large to be modest. The money, through it all, had been distressing. Your new husband may have been wealthy enough to cover the cost easily, but you still weren’t used to the feeling. You were raised on frugality after all - this kind of spending was terrifying. You winced just thinking about the blank check Chris had handed you one morning. Like it was no big deal. You called him for every little step of the process, confirming every piece of the reception with sweat rolling off your brow.

You readjusted your purse on your shoulder. The noise of the busy street was comforting, but it didn’t slow the race of your heart. It felt like everything was moving so fast.

You took the long way for a reason. Your steps became a little slower, and you stopped to set yourself haltingly on a bench in front of your favorite corner store and tried not to think about never seeing its bleached yellow awning again. Smiling sadly, you took out the folded flier again.

—

You’d had your little list of hopes for a home. Space for a garden, large window sills for sitting and reading, steps to sit on and shuck corn or peel apples. You knew you wanted it to be small - cleaning a mansion every day was not on your bucket list. You knew you wanted stained glass in your door - something to stream colors into the hall and remind you of the tall churches of home, and most of all you knew you wanted a room for your painting. Anything would do, just something for you to cover with scrapbooks and canvases.

With these in mind, you hungrily poured over the pictures his family and your realtor sent along every night and made notes, checking for price and commute time to his office and your school. You circled and cut and pasted, until you had a fitting list to show him in the morning. You’d trudge to bed, hands sticky with paste and head light with images of your future home together.

Of course, he had his own list. The house needed to be no less than 15 minutes from his parent’s home, with a spacious yard for him to keep pristine, and a large office with space for his books and papers. There had to be a large dining room, (for university guests of course) a broad back porch for beers and chess in the evenings, and two bathrooms (he was absolutely anal about sharing).

Every morning, you’d sit next to him during coffee and talk quietly about your findings. You’d slide him the carefully crafted scrapbook with all of your notes and clippings tastefully collected on a page, with each option’s best qualities highlighted. He’d give a tired smile:

“What have you got for me today, honey?”

You’d begin your pitch with a deep breath. “Meet 887 Cherry Drive: 2 bedroom, 2 bath, - she’s got a HUGE back yard, big windows, glorious mahogany floors, only 20 minutes out from your office, 30 from your folks, and has delightful red shutters. And on your left, 2003 Elliot: 3 bedroom, 2 bath, with a connected garage and white porch. This one’s on a corner, so the yard is more like a side yard, but it’s got a peach tree and-”

“Oh not that neighborhood, and couldn’t you get my drive down a little more? You’re a magician with it all, babe, I know you can figure it out,” he interjected, checking his watch. “Ready?”

You closed the book. “I’ll do my best,” you sighed. “Remember we have to buy this house by August,” You said.

“Yeah, yeah. It’s just the book is taking all my time, and I only have so much time - and I’m marrying an artist for a reason! Gotta get some bang for my buck,” he smiled.

You sighed a smile. Your drive to his office helped, though, as he explained the wondrous world of footnotes. He always got this charming determined furrow to his brows when he got frustrated.

—

He picked a 4 bedroom, 3 bathroom southern colonial a block away from his parents, deep in the Athens suburbs. It was stark white, with a rolling front yard and a stand alone garage - for your painting.

It wasn’t exactly what you pictured, but it had plenty of space, and two big hickory trees in front, with one in the back - the thought of the cool shade and quiet nights had you looking forward to it.

You tucked the folded flier back into your purse, and stood up with determination. Your skirt buffeted in the wind, like it was pushing you back. You walked on. He’ll be happy for me, we’ll have a friendly goodbye and we’ll go our separate ways.

You smiled into the wind as you turned onto the familiar brick path of St. Mike’s. Don’t cry.

—

He set the glass tumbler down with a dull clink and sat down in a huff. Class on Monday - I should really get them thinking about evidence-based decision making by the end of the month.

Damien enjoyed teaching, it added something to his life that he missed when he only spoke to the others at the seminary. All of their conversations came back to faith. Medicine he could give answers for, but faith was something different. He leaned on his fist as he watched the ice in his glass melt into muddy amber.

Faith was difficult. In the last few months, he could feel his assurance slip. He still believed wholeheartedly in his beliefs of course, but the world seemed to gray around him without… something. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but his thoughts had been clouded, days monotonous, and prayers rambling. It was like he was losing his touch.

It worried him. At least the students ask interesting questions.

He watched the leaves roll soundlessly outside the window and took a sip of his warming drink. It didn’t taste like anything.

He wondered if this was God’s latest test to his faith. A cruel one, at that. He usually trusted the path of his life - it was strange to question it. Maybe devotion is lonely. He’d lost some cosmic meaning; and when a priest loses his meaning, it often means he’s close to reaching that quiet, perfect devotion that carries him through the rest of his life. Maybe this is the feeling that makes so many men of the church so, so dull.

Then he thought of her.

Her easy conversation, the sun in her eyes, the warmth of her arm through his, her ever-changing laugh - yes, he thought. It has been a while, hasn’t it? He felt suddenly embarrassed, alone with his thoughts. He missed his friend - of course.

His thoughts suddenly fell to her wedding. He hadn’t realized he’d been blocking it out - he chalked it up to a busy schedule, the small voice in his head that went to medical school scolding him.

Only a few weeks ago, he had watched her walk down the aisle, glowing in a white dress.

—

He’d sat in the back corner, as far from the ceremony as he possibly could, strangely content to have as fuzzy a view of Chris, amicably chatting with Father Dyer, as possible. The ceremony was huge. It seemed like nearly 500 people crowded into the sanctuary, sweating politely through their Sunday best. Days like these, he despised his high white collar.

He felt a little bad for his mother, seating them so far from the stage as possible, but she didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she seemed to be avoiding looking at the groom as well.

He’d been to so, so many weddings over the years, always officiating, never attending simply as a guest. It was certainly a different occasion - somehow being in front of everyone with such a central role felt less visible than this did. He couldn’t complain, however, it was her wedding. He knew he had to be there - and his mother had absolutely insisted when she heard.

Her small family sat front row, the rest he could recognize as her guests were city natives. Her doctor, a few store owners, Carol (the only woman in the whole of the city she’d let cut her hair), some graying professors from your university days, and what looked like 20 kids and their parents - her Sunday school art students. The rest of the church he didn’t recognize, and the overture of southern accents in the chatter seemed unfamiliar.

The din quieted suddenly as the overbearing weight of the wedding march rang out through the sanctuary - you always liked how the organ shook the room.

People craned their necks to watch the groomsmen and bridesmaids walk slowly to the front. He involuntarily pressed a hand to his chest as his heart beat accelerated unexpectedly. His face grew hot and he tried to breathe deeply and quietly - was it audible above the organ?

He watched as Sharon stepped slowly through the doorway in front of him, she seemed relaxed. Seeing her suddenly brought him back to the moment, and he remembered there was no reason for him to be panicking. He set his arm along the back of the pew and parted a small smile as a young girl nervously sprinkled clumps of white petals across the red carpet. With a deep breath, he forced himself to relax, and silently thanked God he’d found a seat far from where she’d be able to see him.

Until she was suddenly before him, her eyes clear through the white mesh of your veil. She’d spotted him immediately - he was painfully aware of how wide his eyes were. She smiled.

Despite his hammering heartbeat and the blood rushing in his ears, he smiled back, and something relaxed. Everything felt right then, and it was as if you’d shared a long, satisfying conversation or told a quiet inside joke - and then she turned towards the front with a step.

He wasn’t sure if it had been milliseconds or minutes, but the moment passed. He turned to his mother, who watched her with a sad smile, tears in her eyes. She held his hand in hers, cool and frail, and said quietly in Greek, “Εκεί πηγαίνει, φαίνεται τόσο όμορφη (There she goes, she looks so beautiful.)”

He forced a fast smile and looked forward. “Ναι, το κάνει (Yes, she does.)”

The rest of the ceremony passed quickly and foggily, as if it was a dream.

He didn’t see her again until the reception, when people had thronged around her so tightly he wondered if she could breathe. Flashes of white would appear in the crowd, and he subsisted on the occasional glance of her face among it all, beaming. She looks tired, he thought. Thrilled, but… tired.

Her hair had rebelled from its perfect styling, and single soft hairs stuck out at various angles, framing her face in messy curls. Wouldn’t be so bad if you’d stop running your hand through it, he smiled. You always do that when you’re high-strung.

He allowed himself to appreciate her dress in glances - the layers of off-white organza complimented her frazzled elation well, artsy, as always, and the cut complimented the curve of her waist-

He shook his head with a start. Well, it does.

He buried himself in conversation with Father Dyer, grateful for the familiar face in the crowd. He needed the distraction - from whatever that deep, vague sense of dread he was feeling was, and from her and her tired eyes and bright smile – champagne and Father Dyer’s easy going company would suffice. He leaned against a wall near the back of the room by the door, standing next to his mother, who watched the sea of people through sleepy eyes.

“Oh, looks like she’s about to toss the bouquet,” Father Dyer said, turning to a particularly loud group surrounding you. He put a hand on his mother’s shoulder, crouching down to alert her of the spectacle. They watched as the bundle of flowers sailed over the sea of heads, hands snatching at petals as it fell. It landed in Sharon’s outstretched arms, and an excited chorus rose from the crowd as it dissipated quickly.

Seems fitting, he thought. The white of her dress was suddenly navigating through the crowd, passing hands on shoulders and smiling “excuse me, sorry, pardon me” fell from her lips. She looked up and pushed a wave of hair from her face as those familiar e/c eyes found his. She smiled, carefully picking her way through the maze of shoes.

He collected his thoughts quickly and straightened. She sighed a laugh and looked into his eyes as you came upon their small circle.

“Hey, I’m sorry I made you wait so long,” she said with an apologetic look.

“You look tired,” he said. She smiled, shrugging slightly, then turned away from him and leaned down to his mother’s outstretched arms, her dress collapsing around her in pillowy swells.

“Mama Karras!” She held her face in her hands, beaming up at her.

“Αγαπητέ μου, είστε όλοι ντυμένοι! Πάντα ήξερα ότι θα έκανες έναν όμορφο γάμο,” she said.

She glanced down to her hands, where she held three white roses, preserved from the bouquet. His mother’s face lit up.

“Δεν πρέπει να έχετε!” She gasped and gingerly clutched the roses to her heart, bringing her in with her other hand as she kissed her face. He smiled at them together - they were always so happy together. When his mother wasn’t asking you to eat more, or talking about him in broken English.

“Couldn’t let you go home empty handed, Mama Karras,” she kissed her cheek and stood, holding her thin hand in her own. She leaned against the wall next to him, letting her head fall on his shoulder and hanging an arm from his coat sleeve.

“Can I tell you a secret,” She asked. He looked over at her with a raised eyebrow and a nod. He was grateful to finally have a moment to hear her, feel her touch again. Her face finally relaxed.

“I’m exhausted,” she said with a small smile, meeting his eyes and glancing over to Father Dyer.

“Lighten up, the wedding is meant to be for the bride after all.” He handed her a drink.

“Thanks.” She took a sip and sighed against him. He wished the whole party would evaporate then - just decide it was time to go home, leave you alone, let you sit down. He wondered if you’d sat down since before the ceremony.

The shadows across the room had long since grown long, and the light had changed from a bright yellow to a deep orange. The music simmered above the din, the low, sonorous tones of Doris Day relaxing the mood.

She tugged on his sleeve and glanced up at him.

“A dance, ‘father?’” She nodded towards the opening in the crowd, where guests had paired up, drifting in lazy circles. He looked to his mother, separating from you to lay a hand on her shoulder.

“How are you feeling, mama? Could we leave you for a moment?” She looked suddenly awake, lighting up as she stood quickly, straining against her cane.

“Μη χάνεις στιγμή να μου μιλάς, συνέχισε!” (Don't waste a minute talking to me, go on!) She pushed his hand away, walking haltingly to father Dyer and taking his arm. He went along easily, shooting him a knowing smile and turning to his mother happily.

He held out his arm.

“Thought you’d never ask,” he said. She smirked, taking his arm as they stepped slowly to the dance floor.

His face felt warm again, and his heart sped as they drew closer. She deflected relatives’ prying glances politely, leading them slowly. He wondered then if this was too much, if it wouldn’t bring Chris out swinging. Somehow he knew he wasn’t one to do that, but was slightly alarmed at how easily the thought of defending her from her new husband had slipped into his mind.

All at once, they had arrived. He left his thoughts as her arm suddenly left his, hand resting in his as she brought her other hand up to his shoulder, her arm resting bent against his. He brought an unsteady hand to her waist, squeezing her hand in his other. She looked up to his eyes as they began to step and spin slowly, talking quietly.

“So how do I look?”

“Beautiful, of course.” He gave a frank smile.

“Better than tired, I count it as a win,” she replied. She laid her head against his shoulder and yawned with a laugh. “Damn.”

“Cursing at a priest at your own wedding! Wait and see where that gets you,” He yawned. “Stop that.” He resisted the urge to rest his chin on her hair.

She closed her eyes.

“I like where it’s gotten me so far.” They stayed like that for a while, mumbling under the music and barely moving at all. She scrunched up her face and shook her head slightly, lifting her head away from him.

“Sorry dames, I’ve got to wake up,” She blinked repeatedly and rubbed her eyes. “Still have the rest of my wedding to be at, probably should be awake for it.” He fixed a strand of h/c hair behind her ear and took her hand. He led her arm over her head, turning her in a lazy spin.

“Wake up then,” He said. The song ended then, and the room faded back into view. They let go of each other’s hands, suddenly aware again, and clapped with the rest of the guests. She smiled at him among it all, and something struck him in her look. You’re happy.

He went to take your hand again when Chris rushed up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in your hair as you laughed. All attention was on her again, and her eyes were on Chris. Not him.

He stepped into the crowd quietly, navigating back to his mother and Father Dyer.

They left before he could see you searching the crowd for him.

—

Your knock rang out loudly in the quiet hallway of the conservatory. Your heart rushed and your skin prickled at the silence. You always appreciated that about the church, that utter quiet, and better yet, breaking it with some angelic choir or powerful organ. Breaking this silence felt different though: nervous. You could hear shuffling from within.

The door unlatched and swung open in a rush, and Damien was all at once in front of you. He looked disheveled, but fully dressed - like he’d fallen asleep standing up.

“Hey Dames,” you said with a small smile. “Did I wake you up?” You stepped towards him, straightening his rumpled collar.

“No, no, just… lost in thought -thanks for that,” He looked distant for a moment as he pushed his hair back. “Come in,” he said with a tired smile.

You stepped into the familiar room, sparse as ever. The low bed was neatly made, a solitary cross hanging above the headboard. Sunlight streamed in through the open window, the noise of the street drifting in over the silence. The only clutter of the room was an abundance of books; a half of the small room had books piled on every surface, wedged in every crook and cranny. The table was similarly populated, displaying a few open books and strewn papers. He gathered them self-consciously, adding the stack to an already-precarious pile on the floor.

You smiled at his collection and turned to his closet. You scanned the top shelf.

“Where’d you move your vase?” You asked. You offered your small bundle of black-eyed susans with a crinkle.

He dropped a stack of papers on his bed and looked over with a raised eyebrow and thought for a moment.

“Ah.” He swiveled and produced the blue pitcher, pitching the musty water into the gutter outside the window before stepping through the bathroom door at the back of the room.

You unwrap the flowers, setting the paper on the table and dropping the bunched stems into the awaiting pitcher easily. He set the pitcher on the table with a light thud.

“Thanks, they really bring it all together,” he said with a light smile.

You always enjoyed his room- some may have thought it claustrophobic, but you preferred cozy. Countless afternoons reading and talking over coffee and tea - he always kept a box for you - sitting with your back to his dresser and his back to the wall, you’d drape your legs over his and watch the light grow orange with the evening. Conversation came in patches, quips about a passage, some thought question or story about your day, and you’d slip between talking and reading, lazily flipping through hours on end. You hadn’t been over in some time - you missed those afternoons.

You were struck, suddenly, by the knowledge that this might be the last time you spoke here. You fiddled with your hands, spinning your wedding band around your ring finger. His brow furrowed with concern.

“What’s on your mind?” He sat, you followed.

“I’m uh, I’m here to tell you I’m leaving, Dames, for Georgia in a week,” You said, flashing him a smile you hoped wasn’t too forced before looking down again. “Chris’ parents are there, and we’ve bought a house in Athens. It’s close to the University, and to the school. We’re really excited- I’m really excited for the fresh start, you know? And-and I’ll get to teach part-time, art, and I’m so excited to meet the kids, and,” you looked up to find him stony-faced, brown eyes swimming with hurt. “And, so I’m leaving the city soon. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner…”

You took his hand across the table and squeezed. He looked away. You sat in silence for what seemed like minutes, watching his eyes stare at the white wall. You didn’t pray often, but suddenly your mind rang with pleas. No, no, no, I’m sorry, I wish I’d told you sooner. You’re mad. You’ll never forgive me. I wish you’d look at me.

“Talk to me, Dames, please,” You said, swallowing hard. He inhaled and straightened. He turned to you and brought his other hand to yours.

“Is that what you want?” He said, face lined with pity. “Do you- want to leave the city?”

You were taken aback by his change in tone, now tone soft and coaxing. His therapy voice. His advice voice. His “savior” voice. Your stomach twisted with indignation.

“Yes,” you said in earnest, looking away. You couldn’t look at him when he gets like this, not now. “He’s my husband, Dames, what are you saying?” You drew your hand away.

“I’m not- You’re not hearing me - are you sure?” You stood.

“Yes, I’m sure! You’re acting like I’m some wayward woman you have to counsel - you’re my best friend, Dames, I thought you’d be happy for me-” He stood and looked you in the eye, his face serious.

“I’m not blind, y/n,” He raised his voice slightly, taut with frustration. “I have watched you give yourself up to him, piece by piece - first it was your apartment, then it was your job, and now it’s this- you’re leaving me, everything?”

“That’s what marriage is! That’s what love is!” You whipped around to look at him now as you raised your voice. “It’s devotion! Sacrifice! I chose this!” Why were you getting defensive? You weren’t thinking straight - you took a shaky breath and ran a hand through your hair. You hated this feeling.

“And don’t you dare act like you don’t know what that means. Like I haven’t watched you give yourself to the church - watched you sweat and cry and bleed for this? You think that hasn’t been hard for me? Watching you give everything away and leave nothing for yourself?” Nothing for me?

“Don’t make me say it, y/n.” He said, scarily still, brown eyes burning. “It isn’t the same - I’d never choose-”

“And I’d never make you! I’d never ask that!” You said. He stopped at that, looking like he had more to say but turning away. You were surprised as a hot tear dripped down your cheek. You held a hand to your mouth, swiping the tear away and turning. No, not in front of him. Not now.

Your head ached sharply as you held back tears. The pressure was overwhelming. You tried to take a breath, but it came shaky and louder than you wanted. Your face burned with embarrassment. He started to say your name behind you but you gathered yourself as much as you could and clutched your jacket together.

“Tell your mother I’ll miss her,” you managed. He was quiet. “Goodbye, Damien.”

You didn’t look back, opening the door to the quiet hall and walking as quickly as you could away. Away from him, away from his warm voice, his knowing looks, his broad hands, his rare smile, and everything else you loved about him. The sound of his door shutting at the end of the hall was all it took. Hot tears streamed silently down your face, your vision blurry and head pounding. The only sound was your shaking breaths and small, choking sobs.

You stepped onto the street with a wash of relief and set out the way you came, hurriedly smearing tears away as you walked.

You wondered for a moment if this would make leaving easier. Somehow you knew it wouldn’t.

#Damien Karras x reader #Damien Karras/You #friends to lovers #slow burn #my first fic #wedding #mutual pining #the exorcist #love this man #damien karras #what if instead of writing a fic like a normal person I wrote a novel #damien karras x reader

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bamgeut · 2 years ago

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callisto / calli (she/her), eng/pt-br, 95 liner, probably the most unloyal yeonjun stan you'll see around here

— this is a kpop multistan sideblog! i follow from @ppulverse

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#about #tumblr pages are kinda wacky on mobile so i figured it'd be better to make a post for this lmao

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angrythicket · 2 years ago

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💚dividers by @racingairplanes💚

what’s up, i’m briar. i like nature, crimes, and my boyfriend.

part of @ninja-turtles-and-their-friends

~RULES~

don’t be rude, sexual, inappropriate, bullyish, a jerk, or anything like that.

t-cest/incest supporters may not interact with this blog or any blogs connected to this.

basic dni + homophobes, proshippers, anti-anti, etcetera etcetera

~THE FAM~

don (my wonderful bf):: @evilpurpleturtle

raph :: @raph4la

nardo :: @nardohatesnewjersey

crackle :: @crispyeelcrackle

💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚

#intro post #briar dearden #briartello #rottmnt

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mavigator · 2 years ago

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A CALAMITY IS COMING.

PHANTOM PAINS is a paranormal graphic novel based off of a nightmare I had when I was fifteen and a short story I never finished as a kid. Before judging the actions of a seventeen year-old dealing with phantom infestations in their home, mind, and body, ask yourself this: what the hell would you do?

In 1899, a stray forest fire took out the entire bottom half of Bywick, a small, forgettable town too far west of the railroad tracks to draw visitors. Hundreds of people died burning, and they took the life of the area with them. This tragedy spliced the town in two: the north side, where the laws of the universe proceed as normal, and the south side, where phantoms coast the city blocks.

By the time seventeen-year-old Jasminder moves in, it's over a century later, the south side of Bywick has been rebuilt, and stories of the haunted half of town are almost as common as the haunts themselves. Jas couldn't care less about ghost stories. They've got better things to worry about, like the collaborative English project, or finding a place that'll still develop film, and stuff like, 'hey, was that noise real, or?'––at least until a turn of events leads them to ->

PHANTOM ALLEY Nicknamed such by those that are capable of utilizing it, Phantom Alley is the threshold between the world of the living and the world of the dead. To the unseeing eye, it's just an alley located right in the middle of town. To those that are special––and what makes someone special is none of your goddamn business, not quite yet––it's a doorway. When a regular person crosses through Phantom Alley, they see nothing unusual. When someone less than regular walks through, the normal world falls away. All of the people fade from view, and the sky goes black. The air is always hollow and warm, like summer nights. Nearly every building is a phantom. Nearly every object contains a phantom.

Phantoms cannot cross through the Alley. They're locked in the south side of town.

HOW DO PHANTOMS EVEN WORK?

Anything can become a phantom––people can, of course, but so can animals, objects, and places.

Phantoms are merely impressions of what they were before they died. They don't retain memories or personality, though some retain unique knowledge.

PLACES: Say a library is closed down and demolished; this library, because it's so full of knowledge and history and experience, dies. Because it dies, it becomes a phantom. The building isn't haunted, it is the haunting. Many locations in the south side of Bywick are haunted by the places that came before them. This gives them odd properties when visited after crossing through Phantom Alley (these properties are NOT NOTICEABLE BY DEFAULT for those that aren't aware of the hauntings). For example, the bowling alley gives people three shadows, and the shopping center induces dizziness and chills. The entire south side of Bywick is extremely haunted because nearly every house was burnt to the ground.

ANIMALS: Not too complicated. When a living thing dies, it has a chance of becoming a phantom. The more haunted of an area something dies in, the bigger a chance it has at persisting after death. There's a dog park in Bywick that's occupied by tons of doggie ghosts. Not relevant to the plot at all. I just wanted you to know that.

HUMANS: Phantoms of humans are unique. They aren't able to hold their humanoid forms for long, and usually occupy an object with some kind of significance to them; could be a book, weapon, piece of jewelry, etc. They can also turn parts of themselves corporeal for very short amounts of time. They are the only types of phantoms capable of possession.

POSSESSION

Possession, contrary to popular belief, is a mutual agreement. Phantoms must have agreement from their hosts before taking over the body, and can be forced out of the body by pure will of the vessel. Possessions, overall, are not healthy for the phantom or their vessel, so they only occur when necessary and for short periods of time. When a person is possessed, they gain physical aspects unique to the phantom, such as a triple shadow or face/body markings. When possessing someone, phantoms are able to channel their spirit through their vessel to ward off harm from other phantoms. They can also talk through their vessel, which they can't do otherwise.

WRANGLERS

The wranglers are a group of people that are able to cross through Phantom Alley and see the haunted copy of the south side of town. Their jobs are best described as zookeepers; Bywick doesn't need ghost hunters. It needs people that can communicate with phantoms and keep them entertained, keep them happy, and offer companionship. When a hostile or otherwise dangerous phantom appears, the wranglers work together as a group to take care of it. Each wrangler has a patron phantom that they work with.

OKAY MAVERICK THANK YOU. WHAT'S THE STORY EVEN ABOUT?

The plot kicks off when Jasminder stumbles through Phantom Alley and into the haunted half of town. They encounter some phantoms, maybe freak out a bit before realizing none of them mean any harm, and meet a few of the wranglers. Ecstatic that they have the ability to see ghosts, Jasminder asks to join them. You know, as an after-school activity.

They meet a phantom named Crasher, a... very self-confident phantom with an eye for world domination that's convinced it's evil. Much to both Jas' and Crasher's dismay, Crasher has to be Jas' patron phantom.

During a routine phantom wrangling, Crasher possesses Jasminder to protect them. Everything goes flawlessly, and they're feeling pretty good about being a team, and then Crasher realizes it has no idea how to... un-possess Jas. This is no good–-by which I mean potentially life-threatening––for the both of them.

And then they learn that in order to see phantoms, you have to have caused a death.

Jas certainly doesn't recall killing anybody.

There are bugs crawling in the corner of Jasminder's vision. Something's growing beneath the pipes. There's a ghost hunter in town. Something's gotta break. Something's gotta bend.

A calamity is coming.

OTHER INFO

Wranglers

Jas + Crasher (wip)

Extra phantom info (wip)

Haunted locations (wip)

The Inspectre

#divider by racingairplanes :)#phpa #maverickworks #im not super happy with this but whatever. lore

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the-odd-devil · 2 years ago

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🥛 Homelander Masterlist 🥛

Gods and Good Boys

🤍 part I 🤍 part II : A Merry Vought's Christmas (coming soon) 🤍

Credit to @racingairplanes for the star dividers <3

#homelander #homelander x reader #homelander fanfiction

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hobbit-in-kuroshitsuji · 2 years ago

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William T Spears Appreciation 1/?

lmao I don't know why but I am simping so hard today for this man and the looks he gives 😩 have some gifs of the only thing I have on my mind today

can't believe my first contribution to the fandom is William glaring at people

credit gifs made by me, I do not own the Kuroshitsuji anime pink line divider by fic-dumpster moon divider and pentagram divider by racingairplanes

#more coming tonight 👀#kuroshitsuji #william t spears #black butler #book of circus #gifs #black butler gifs #kuroshitsuji gifs #reapers #will appreciation

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transfemlogan · 2 years ago

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( link to header and icon image descriptions )

I'm locked in here for your own good.

["I'm locked in here for your own good" gradient from dark blue to orange, bolded and italicised.]

Instagram: IncrediblyUndead2.0

Art Twitter: NCREDIBLY DEAD

SaSi Twitter: TransfemLogan

Art blog: @incrediblyundead

Ao3: IncrediblyUndead

DM me or ask off anon for my NSFW account

The name's Revenge or Revy. Any neopronouns. I am a 18 year old black and latino disabled queer. I primarily create art, however I also occasionally write analyses and essays and even less occasionally write fanfictions.

The Undead Sides blog: @undeadsides

2023 event list (link)

2022 event list (link)

BEFORE YOU FOLLOW (link) ["before you follow" in all caps, bolded, and in orange]

Tags (link)

Fic masterlist (link)

Header by: RollTheWhatever / Icon by: VirgilExe / Song in bio: Needs of The Many by The Garages / Divider: RacingAirPlanes & FireFly-graphics

I'm locked in here for your own personhood.

["I'm locked in here for your own personhood" gradient from orange to dark blue, bolded and italicised.]

#pinned post #ok 2 rblg. do not know why u would though

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rsdetail · 3 years ago

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⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ‌⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀🐻;⠀ ‌my favorite boy bear.

♡. like and reblog.

♡. if you use, give me the credits.

> se você usar, me dê os créditos.

divider by racingairplanes

#Taehyung #icons #bts #kpop #Taehyung icons #layouts #Taehyung layouts #bts layout #bts icons #kpop icons #kpop layouts

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ropoto · 4 years ago

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dividers by @racingairplanes

header and icon by @jddryder

WELCOME TO MY BLOG!<3

“Tajemniczy cytat w obcym języku."

ABOUT ME:

Sam

multifandom blog

RALVEZ

GIF REQUEST: OPEN!

for both 911 Lone Star & Criminal Minds just shot me an ask or DM.

If you want to request something for other fandom as long as I am familiar with it I don’t mind, just give it a try I guess :)

Here I’m luring you into my DMs, I would love to start a friendship but I’m to awkward and shy to do it myself :)

MASTERLISTS:(it seems like a cool thing to have so I wanted to create one too)

Icons Masterlist

GIF Masterlist every gif can be found under the tag #criminalmindsedit as well as #cm 00x00 just replaces the zeros with episode you are looking for :)

SOME OF MY FAVOURITE EDITS:

SAY YOU LIKE MY HAIR MORE - RALVEZ

CM AS LOTR

SOMEONE LIKE YOU- MOREID

MOREID

LUKE ALVEZ IN 14x15

LUKE ALVEZ + GREEN

LUKE BEING ADORABLE

TARA LEWIS

DEREK MORGAN

SPENCER REID + GLASSES

HAVE AN AMAZING DAY! <3

#:)

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morceid · 3 years ago

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500 follower celebration!

i got 500 followers!! omg!! thanks to all of you <33 i love the sense of community i’ve gotten in this fandom, i love all of you!! now let’s celebrate!

for anyone:

🤕: send me a word/sentence and i’ll write a drabble based on it!

🤙: send me a ship and i’ll share a headcanon for them!

🐭: send me any episode from season 5 (get it.. bc 500…) and i’ll make icons from that episode!

for mutuals:

🐔: i’ll write you a handwritten note

🦋: i’ll make you a moodboard

🍀: i’ll give you a song rec

you can send stuff until sept. 15!! tagging some moots to boost:

@garceids @moss0ntherocks @cmscreencaps @4x24 @horreid @tenelvez @reidspoet @harpersequoia @wifeyprentiss @willowrose99 @moreidsdaughter @scandinavian-punk @yeetmeintotheunknown @dayytonababy @reagan-reid @bxbyjjsupremacy @perpetual-goodvibes

(dividers up at the top are by @racingairplanes)

#pluto's brain rot #500 celebration

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solitaireships · 1 year ago

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baby you know i'm guilty

Today's my anniversary with Selina! In honor of that, I wanted to write a fic about her, so here's a fun little one of her and Alex at an auction together. The title comes from the song "Guilty" by Claudia Brücken and the Real Tuesday Weld, that's a very Alley Cat song to me

Rating: Teen

Genre: Fluff

Words: 1102 words

Divider by��racingairplanes

The hum of live orchestral music fills the Gotham Museum of the Arts, just loud enough to be heard over the chorus of people in attendance at this year’s annual auction. Alex tries to focus on the music instead of the people— it’s easier for her to process that than to try to filter through all the noise to listen to just one conversation.

Alex isn’t here because she likes parties. Especially not the ones frequented by Gotham’s elite. They’re always vapid, full of gossip and petty small talk that's part of a never ending social game, and it’s hard to feel like she actually belongs with any of these people. And yet she technically speaking does belong here, her status as a defense attorney earning her the acclaim to be invited to these kinds of things.

Alex never buys anything at these auctions. But she feels like she has to at least make an appearance, and she can admit it’s fun to get to dress up. She’s not the most fashionable person, but she likes the way the dress she’s wearing fits her, the dark red material flaring out a bit around the skirt and showing a bit of her cleavage. Her wedding ring shines on one finger while she has a couple of other decorative rings along with it, pairing them with a necklace with a silver chain.

Being here with Selina also is nice, though the two of them came here separately. Alex was caught up with finishing her work, so Selina ended up getting the auction before her. Unlike Alex, she always seems to thrive at these kinds of things, charming everyone she speaks to and enjoying being the center of attention.

Not that Alex can blame anyone entranced by Selina. She supposes that she’s been too, and she can definitely see why people would be drawn to her tonight as her eyes land on her wife making her way down a set of marble stairs.

Selina looks like a vision in her black evening gown. It shows off her chest, a bit of her cleavage visible over its sweetheart neckline, and the skirt of it is slit down the sides to give a glimpse of the black pantyhose and dark purple heels she’s wearing. A diamond necklace glitters around her neck, matching a pair of dangling earrings, and Alex is always glad to see Selina’s wedding ring on her finger.

The sleeveless look of her dress also shows off the muscles of her arms. She’s by no means bulky, having a short, lithe frame, but it’s clear from looking at her that she’s strong. What’s not as clear are the scars that Alex knows trail along her arms and shoulders, different nicks and scrapes she’s gotten over the years from close calls that are now hidden under with makeup. Alex thinks she’d look prettier with them— they're a part of her just like anything else— but she truly is stunning regardless.

And, if Alex knows Selina like she knows she does, odds are she’s going to try to steal something tonight. Her look for the evening may not be the flashiest, but she has a taste for expensive and shiny things, plenty of which are on display for the auction tonight.

“Hey there, gorgeous,” Selina greets as she makes it over to Alex, her dark red lips quirking upwards in a playful smile.

“Hi,” Alex replies. She gives Selina a quick kiss on the cheek. “You look lovely.”

“Flatterer.”

“I think I’m just being honest.”

“Well, like I said, you look beautiful yourself,” Selina says. She offers a hand to Alex. “Any chance I can convince a pretty woman like yourself to join me on the dance floor?”

Alex takes Selina’s hand in hers. “I’m sure you could.”

Selina grins as she guides Alex onto the dance floor. A soft, lilting orchestral song is playing, and Alex takes the lead, one hand resting on Selina’s hip. Selina puts her hand on Alex’s shoulder, gazing at her with a soft, affectionate expression.

Alex likes getting to hold Selina like this. She wishes that she could for this whole party.

But she also knows that Selina’s going to want to sneak off towards the auction hall. She’ll want to get her hands on something pretty— or something valuable to sell off.

Alex is at least glad that a lot of the money from things Selina steals go to charities. She’s always had a soft spot for animal shelters, but Alex knows she’s given money to women’s shelters too. Selina has a good heart, and that’s something that Alex has always seen in her.

As they move across the dance floor, though, Alex needs to make sure that Selina doesn’t take anything tonight.

“Remember to behave yourself,” she says.

Selina grins, a twinkle in her mismatched green and brown eyes. “I don’t know what you’re implying.”

“You know exactly what I’m implying,” Alex replies. She leans closer to whisper, “Keep your hands to yourself.”

“Am I supposed to completely?” She trails one hand down Alex’s side, the other massaging between her shoulder blades.

“Selina.”

“I know,” she says, pulling back to look at Alex again to be sure she can see her roll her eyes. “No stealing. But come on, Alley. I think both of us know we like the fun that comes from me getting into a little trouble.”

Selina’s not wrong. As much as Alex can play the always moral, always righteous attorney and vigilante, it’s exciting to get to leap into action as Solitaire, to give chase to Selina as she gets into something she really shouldn’t. Being with Selina under any circumstances is fun in a way that few other things are.

If there’s one thing that Alex is completely sure of, it’s that Selina has made her life better. So, she tells herself, she can be a little more flexible with the rules.

“If you do, at least be careful,” Alex says. She spins Selina around, with Selina coming to a stop in front of Alex again, pressing her back against her chest. This is definitely closer than the two of them should be for this dance, but Alex can’t find it in her to point that out when this lets her hold Selina so close.

“I will,” Selina promises. She looks back over her shoulder to Alex. “And I’m sure we’ll find plenty of ways to entertain ourselves here either way.”

Alex gives her a quick kiss on the cheek, savoring the feeling of Selina in her arms. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure we will.”

#🐈‍⬛ stolen kiss #🐈‍⬛#♠️ alex #selfship fic #selfship #safeship #my posts #my writing #happy anniversary babe <3

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dang-itshauntedinhere · 11 months ago

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I Don't Love You, But I Always Will - Chapter 4

Last Rites

Summary:

**It's been a while! Here's what I've got written so far for the next part - I can't say how long it will take me to update again, but I stand by my promise to finish it! And here we are, finally in the plot of the actual movie lol

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 (You are here) - Chapter 4 (you are here!) - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6

Find also on my Ao3

Divider by @racingairplanes

Word Count: 5k

Finally settled down, you are driven back to tragedy.

TW: Gore, Injury

This was a nightmare. It had to be.

Damien didn’t seem to think so, and he chuckled as you sat there, face red and sweat pricking your skin. You didn’t dare look up from where you sat on the floor, face buried in your hands, resigned to death by embarrassment. Until Damien laughed even louder, and you dared to peek between your fingers.

The weathered pages of an old sketchbook shook in front of you, Damien holding it out for you to see, an overworked sketch of Bing Crosby staring back at you, terrible anatomy and all. At the time, you were very proud of your work - it wasn’t your fault that 17 years revealed what a pug you’d managed to draw him as.

You groaned, standing to reach out desperately in an attempt to swipe it back. He pulled it away just as you tried, holding it above him and staring up at it while you hopped and reached for it.

“What did you do to him?” He said between laughs. You refused to look him in the eye.

“I was an amateur!!” You shot back, fighting to hang on to your anger. “You try drawing in a dark theater from a moving target!”

“Oh you’re never getting this back -” he said, craning away from your feeble attempts. You huffed, looking up at his shit-eating grin. You couldn’t help yourself, and a quick glance at the page had you choking down an involuntary laugh.

“It really is bad, isn’t it?” You said, defeated. “I can’t believe I applied to schools with that in my portfolio.” You cringed, setting your head down on his shoulder as he brought his arms down. He shook a little still from his laughing fit - you swore you could hear his smile.

“NO- you’ve shown this to people?” He said, exasperated. You gurgled in shame.

If you were being honest, he could keep the page for how happy it made him. You hadn’t seen him smile in months, much less his laugh. You turned your head to watch his face, cheek against his shoulder.

Until he went to turn the page. You knew what was on that page. Your eyes shot open and you summoned every ounce of speed in your graceless self and slammed the book down, out of his hands, praying it would fall closed.

It didn’t. A sketch fell open to you for a flash before you scrambled around Damien to close it, his arms still feigned holding the book, shocked by your movement. Gathering the messy pile of pages and blushing wildly, you pressed the book to your chest.

“That’s enough of that-” You turned to stow your secrets somewhere - maybe burn it? You risked a glance at him. That shit-eating grin. He definitely saw the page. You elected to ignore it, and changed the subject as you stuffed the book into a box under your bed.

“Did you still want to visit?” You asked slowly, glancing at the time. You hated to bring it up just when you’d managed to coax some joy from him, but the cemetery would close soon. He sighed, his face settled into the familiar pain of grief, and nodded. He looked away, staring at the window of your apartment, where only a small sliver of the street was visible against the brick of the adjoining building.

Something about the way he drifted away so readily broke your heart. If you were younger, you might have dwelled on the guilt of reminding him - but you let it go.

The apartment was small - your ramshackle life held together with patchy wallpaper and art posters. It was barely more than a single room, but it was yours. And since Mrs. Karras died, it seemed more and more like his, too. You told yourself it was because you were so close to the cemetery, but you also knew it was because you were far from St. Mike’s.

You didn’t imagine his hesitation when you crossed paths with the many churches in your neighborhood, or that when you saw him, he always seemed to have an excuse not to wear his collar.

When your feet finally met the street, the wind seemed to pick up. The familiar sting on your cheeks reminded you of the aging Autumn - was it October already? With a final glance across the street, you set off, absentmindedly linking arms with Damien as you crossed.

On most of these walks, you let him stay in silence. In the beginning you didn’t know what to say. Now, you had plenty to talk about, but nothing you would start. No, usually you would walk a few minutes before you’d ask him -

“How are you, Dames?” You walked a little awkwardly, working the peel from an orange as you walked. He didn’t seem to mind the delay. He paused, as he always did.

“Fine,” he said. You offered him half of the orange. “Better now, having seen Bing.” You retracted your hand.

“Maybe this whole orange is for me,” you said, raising an eyebrow.

“Ah, but one needs their vitamin C in these cold months,” he cracked a smile. “You wouldn’t want me to get sick now, would you?” You shook your head. Of course, he didn’t know that was precisely your intention - the dark circles under his eyes and the tremor in his voice had you worried.

“Only because I like you.” You shoved the fruit into his hand. You walked like that for a few beats before you got to the point. “Why haven’t you been back to the church?” You asked, looking up at him. His gaze lowered as he chewed.

“I’ve been to the church,” He said, looking ahead.

“Dames, I know you.” You said, pushing the subject. He swallowed hard.

“I know it should be comforting, to hear them all tell me she’s in a better place,” He said haltingly. “And I should know that. I know she’s there.” You listened and walked for a few more moments. He was quiet.

He didn’t need to say it. He wasn’t seeing Heaven - he was seeing Bellevue Hospital. He was seeing her ghostly form in that sterile room, shaking and afraid and alone. He was seeing the bars and the rust and the lost faces. He was hearing her - not angry, but confused - asking him why? He was feeling how light her coffin was.

You didn’t blame him. But, you hoped he was also seeing his uncle’s nose, broken and bleeding after you’d punched him as hard as you could outside that cold hospital. You hoped he was hearing you tell him about your visit to her, when she’d smiled at your terrible knitting. You hoped he could hear you when you told him how you’d held her at the end, how she wasn’t alone in her terror. You hoped he was seeing the drawings of him you’d buried with her, tucked at her side the day they’d laid her to rest.

You unfurled your arm from his to grip his hand as you crossed into the quiet of the cemetery. His skin was cold.

—

“I just need you here.” Sharon said. You could hear how nasally her voice was - she’d been crying.

“Okay Sharon,” you said. “I’ll be there in a few hours, okay honey?” You were already putting your coat on, pressing the receiver against your ear as you struggled to make out her words.

“Thank you,” she said, sniffing. She hung up, and you set down the phone. You pushed a variety of things into your bag in a rush - tissues, band-aids, tea bags, a wad of crumpled bills - and left.

She’d called so late, from her work phone no less. That house, what’s going on there? You bolted from your building, praying you could find a taxi that would take you out of state at 10pm.

Sharon’s job at the MacNeil’s had been confounding you the past few weeks. She would call at strange times, whispering about the actress’ daughter - who was very sick. You’d stay on the phone with her for hours, barely understanding - “noises in the attic…” “faces in the dark…” “smells - rotting, nauseating, sour smells…” - trying to convince her to leave, get out before it got any worse, but she always insisted she was alright - “she needs me here,” she’d say.

You’d even tried to ask Damien, who Sharon mentioned had visited a few times. He’d been a little more collected lately, and had been back in Georgetown for the past month, but he wouldn’t tell you much - “doctor-patient confidentiality and all that.”

You hadn’t heard from either of them in a few days. So as you slid into the back seat of the first taxi you could find, and asked to be taken to Georgetown, DC, you were resolute. The driver huffed in annoyance - he was about to refuse you, you worried. You shoved your meager savings - $251 - into the ashtray dividing the front seats.

He hesitated for a moment, and started counting the bills deliberately.

“It’s an emergency - please.” You said. “I have to get to Georgetown. Please.” He continued to count for a grueling four and half minutes.

“Okay.” He finally said, pulling away from the curb. You sighed shakily.

“Thank you.” You said. He found your eyes in the rearview mirror for a moment.

“Emergency, ma’am?” He asked.

“Yes, it’s-” the air left your words as he peeled through a turn. You looked at him again, a little afraid, but glad to be going faster.

“We’ll get you there.” He said, smirking over the sound of squealing tires. You swallowed and tightened your seatbelt.

—

When you finally reached the house, it was 3am. You checked the scribbled address one more time - this is it. Every light was on, shadows passing the windows now and then. The street was quiet, the air cold and still.

“Would you like me to stick around, ma’am?” The driver asked, noticing your hesitation. You shook your head.

“No - thank you. Do I owe you anything more?” You asked, gathering yourself. He stared at you for a moment before shaking his head.

“Have a good night, ma’am.” He said. You nodded, opening the creaking door and stepping out onto the manicured sidewalk. Your stomach dropped, and you wrung your hands, a creeping dread washing over you as you stared at the house. Forcing yourself to move, you approached the front door, stepping through the stark white light of a street lamp bordering the gate.

You only managed one knock before the door opened with a rush of air. There stood Sharon, shaking and red-eyed. The bags under her eyes were deep and dark - her hair frizzy and piled on top of her head haphazardly. She looked like she’d been awake for weeks. Maybe she had.

“Sharon-” You started, but she collapsed into you in a moment, all at once clinging to you in the doorway. You held her, shocked. She shook as she cried, whispering your name like she couldn’t believe you were there.

You caught a glimpse of the house over her shoulder, plush white carpet and soft white lighting opposing the sickly feeling that settled over the scene. You could see two other people standing there, faces hollow. They looked at you like you were diseased - eyes dark and wild. Sharon pulled away just a bit, and you held her by the shoulders, looking into her face.

“Sharon, what’s going-” Something cut you off - screaming, shrill and panicked from above the stairs. Sharon whipped around and you watched as a woman ran up the carpeted stairs, the house suddenly alive.

The screaming was joined by another voice - something deeper. Familiar. Your heart leapt into your throat as the sound of shattering glass filled the house, the other person and Sharon running from the doorway to the stairs.

Blood rushed in your ears, and you stepped back from the sickly, screaming house into the cool of the night, retreating. Something is wrong. Everything is wrong.

When you tore your eyes from the doorway, you heard a strange sound - a sickening, soft sort of clatter - like dropping a stack of books. So you ran. It felt like a dream - like you couldn’t move fast enough.

When you saw the dark shape at the bottom of the stairs, you stopped breathing altogether. You ran down the steps, slipping on blood and crunching on pebbles of glass, skipping steps and barreling forward aimlessly until you reached the bottom, stumbling forward onto your knees. A scream broke the silence and a crowd began to rush to you. You couldn’t hear them as you whispered his name.

“Dames?” You were draped over his crumpled form, looking away from his twisted limbs, knees warm where his blood pooled beneath you. His face was pressed into the pavement, dark red dripping down over his eyes, hair sticky as you brushed it away from his face. You heard a rattling breath, faint under the static filling your ears. You found his hand and squeezed.

“Damien I’m here,” you pleaded. “It’s okay, I’m here.” You felt his fingers open and close slowly in your hand.

“That’s right,” you said, voice shaking. “I��ve got you.” People milled about around you, shocked voices and screaming assaulting your ears as you strained to hear him. You wished they would all just disappear -

Let you hear your best friend’s last breath.

“Damien!” A voice broke through your focus, and you wrenched your eyes away from him to see Father Dyer, his face lined with shock. You held each other's eyes for a fleeting moment - he seemed to know what to do.

His voice shook as he choked out Damien’s Last Rites. You nodded as Damien squeezed your hand with every line. You tried to memorize him in these moments, tried to see him in there one last time - but gentle hands pulled you away from him.

You thrashed in their grip as they pulled you away - muted voices telling you “They’ll take care of him now,” “Give him some air,” “There’s nothing you can do now.” But there was something you could do. You could hold your friend’s hand. You could spare him the terror of dying alone.

You watched as they straightened his crumpled form and took him away on a stretcher, glass and blood falling like glitter. You couldn’t hear much. Couldn’t hear yourself yelling - shrieking to go with him - Couldn’t hear the sirens as they tore him away.

—

When the people finally let you go and drifted away, you just stood there, staring down the road they sped down. It felt like hours had passed when Father Dyer seemed to appear in front of you. You smiled. So it is a dream.

Then you heard him say your name. And the muted noise of the street arrived, too. And you stared into his eyes, brimming with tears as he said your name again, and you broke.

You inhaled violently - for the first time it felt like since you’d seen him crumpled on the ground - and folded over on yourself as a wail tore itself from your throat, and tears streamed down your face. Father Dyer sat on his knees in front of you, holding you as you cried like you’d never cried before. It felt like drowning.

—

The police questioned you, but the questions they asked were strange. Names you didn’t recognize, events trailing weeks back, lots to do with the church - you tried to help, but you could tell they were tired of your empty blubbering. They talked to Father Dyer and Sharon much longer. You sat on the curb and watched in silence.

The woman from earlier - Mrs. MacNeil? - caught your eye from the sidewalk in front of the house. She looked gaunt, and watched you with a deep pity in her eyes. You wanted to ask her what happened, why Damien was there, who was in the body bag they rolled out of the house, but you just watched. It was all too much.

When you finally collected yourself enough to speak, your voice was hoarse and quiet.

“Father,” you called out to Dyer. He turned away from the officer speaking to him. “Where are they taking him?” He looked lost for a moment.

“If he - if he survived?” You added, painfully. He shut his eyes and thought for a moment.

“Howard U, maybe?” he said. You nodded. The police officer was trying to get his attention again as you turned to walk towards the door of the house. You’d heard that having something to do makes it easier - so you were going to find the hospital.

Sharon called you a taxi. Her tear-stained face was a mask of pity - but you had to focus on keeping yourself together. So you stayed quiet.

Right as you went to shut the door, Dyer caught it. He held the door for a beat before sliding in next to you. His face told you he shared your mission. So you sped away, holding your breath all the while.

—

It was a miracle. A slow, painful miracle, but a miracle nonetheless. You tried not to think about it too long.

Damien had survived, barely. They couldn’t explain it to you when you asked - you didn’t blame them. It wasn’t survivable. Both legs and an arm broken, six broken ribs, a punctured lung and a mess of head trauma, but alive. That was enough, for you.

You took shifts at the hospital. Damien was comatose - in and out of surgery - but he seemed to come back every time. You would stay as long as you could, usually until they kicked you out. Then you’d switch places with Dyer, when he was available. Days stretched on and on, blurring together so it wasn’t clear how much time had passed. Weeks, you were sure.

Sleeping was the hard part. Drifting off at his side among the bustle of the hospital was easy enough - but your dreams were terrifying and shadowy - pale faces, silent statues and bloody eyes, and something you couldn’t see, no matter how fast you spun to catch it flying past the corner of your eye. You’d wake up holding your breath, soaked through in cold sweat.

When you finally trudged from the hospital at whatever strange hour Dyer could find to come to the hospital, you’d walk an hour and a half to St. Mikes, where you would sneak into Damien's room. Anything else was too expensive, or too far away. Sharon offered, but you knew she didn’t want any reminder of what happened that night - besides, you didn’t want anyone else to see you like this.

In your rush to leave New York, you didn’t manage to bring any other clothes - so you managed with what you could find in his room. You figured the sweats and stark black, oversized dress shirts and pants were somewhat fitting to the whole situation. Secretly, you reveled in the lingering smell of his clothes - his soap and sweat and coffee. You tried to memorize it, afraid it would drift away, afraid this was all you had left of him in the whole world that didn’t smell like blood and antiseptic.

The first night was the worst. When they didn’t know if he would live or die. Dyer had snuck you in then, and the sickening quiet of his dark room had threatened to swallow you up whole. Sitting at his table, you spoke about what to do next as the early morning light filtered in. It was only then that Dyer’s face dropped and he informed you of your state. Your palms and knees were bloody and bruised, fragments of glass catching the light though your torn pants. You hadn’t felt it.

So you lived, so to speak. Sometimes it could even be fun - when you worried through the night after being asked to leave the hospital and Dyer would come by and play cards with you, the radio tuned into whatever was playing. You had to admit, you were grateful to tears for Dyer’s presence. He was tired and anxious, too, but at least he could get you laughing. Distracted. Sometimes he even let you win.

Besides, looking haggard and vaguely priest-like allowed you the freedom to wander the halls at night, and you had made it your personal project to find as many secret doors into the conservatory as possible. For such a serious crowd, they sure leave a lot of doors unlocked. One night you simply pulled a dusty doorknob clean out of its door - you shoved it back and ran silently away, smiling guiltily. Later on you felt brave enough to take the doorknob altogether - just to see if they would notice. No one seemed to.

With every passing day, Damien seemed to look closer and closer to human - at least in that he healed almost superhumanly fast. He was out of his casts after only a week, only bruises remaining. You wish you could let your hope run with it, but you kept your spirits down as well as you could. His bones may have healed, but he’d lost weight in only a week - and his face was pale and hollow. Not to mention, you had no idea if he’d ever wake up - you had seen his head open on the pavement - if he did wake up, he wouldn’t be the same. So you kept your expectations low, held his hand, and stayed.

Needless to say, you were pretty sure your soul left your body as you opened the door in the middle of the night and saw him in a hospital gown, draped in Dyer’s coat, leaning heavily on him, barely awake.

“Damien!-” You couldn’t find the words as you rushed to them, snaking an arm under his to drag him to the bed. Your heart swelled with the shock, you might have cried if you weren’t so bewildered. “How?” Your voice cracked as you looked to Dyer, who looked just as confused.

“He just. Woke up,” he said, shaking his head. You lowered him gingerly down, only fleetingly embarrassed at the state of the bedding. You held a hand to his forehead. He was strangely cold.

“How could they just let him out like this?” You whispered, pushing yourself up to find another blanket - but stopped when you felt a cool grasp on your hand. He looked up at you through hooded eyes and your throat tightened. You kneeled at his side slowly, watching him, as if he might disappear into smoke in front of you. Your knees stung as they met the carpet, but you ignored it.

“He just said he needed to come to the church,” Dyer said. “I- I couldn’t talk him out of it.”

You brought his hand to your lips and breathed between your palms, trying to push some heat into his cold skin. His eyes shut again - he seemed utterly exhausted just in keeping them open. You couldn’t blame him. You stayed like that at his side, watching his chest rise and fall with each rattling breath, until eventually, you drifted off.

—

It was early morning when you awoke - and you found yourself blinking in the darkness, remembering the events of a few hours before. Damien still held your hand in a vice grip - and in a moment it was too tight.

A blinding surge of pain shot up your arm - and a dreadful, high-pitched crunch echoed in the silence of the room as your hand was crushed in his. You cried out hoarsely, too shocked to make any noise. Your other hand flew to his wrist in the dark, trying to pry his fingers from yours. Finally, he released you and you pitched away from him, holding your shattered hand and straining to see him in the dark.

You backed up to a lamp and scrambled for the switch. In the moment before light swallowed the room you were sure you saw his pale form there - sitting straight up at an uncanny 90 degree angle, eyes boring into you. But in the light he laid there - frail as ever - eyes closed. You breathed heavy as tears slipped from your eyes - bleary with sleep and pain and terror. You stood there, cradling your broken hand, mind racing, watching him.

When you were finally confident enough to tear your eyes from him, it was sunrise. You held your breath as you moved your gaze haltingly to your hand, in all its invisible, radiating pain. Your index and middle fingers were a swollen dark purple - twisted and undoubtedly broken. You gagged. Bright red and purple outlined where his fingers had been, and you turned your wrist to find the deep, thin crescents from his fingernails bleeding across the back of your hand. You stumbled to the sink and ran cold water, taking a deep breath before forcing the mangled mess under the stream. Now, through gritted teeth, you screamed.

—

“He what?!” Father Dyer said, raising his voice above a whisper for the first time since he came in. You winced and glanced over to where Damien slept. You furrowed your brow and sighed.

“How is he here, really?” You asked, not really talking to Dyer. “Shouldn’t he need some kind of medicine? Or a respirator? They said he punctured a lung…” You trailed off, shaking your head.

The hospital had recognized you when you trudged in a few hours ago to have your hand treated. A nurse who had worked on Damien lingered and finally approached the table where a nurse was setting your fingers, and asked you how he was doing. You didn’t say anything, sweating silently and hoping a cold shoulder might convince her you didn’t know anything.

“I’d say that I’d never seen anything like it,” she said. You stared ahead and tried to focus on ignoring her. “If it weren’t for that girl.” You couldn’t stop yourself from looking over at her then. She had a look in her eyes, it scared you.

“You should get yourself a priest.”

You looked at Dyer.

“What happened at that house, Father?” You asked. He looked down. You scoffed. “How is it that everyone knows more than I do? First Damien goes radio silent for a week, then Sharon calls me in a wreck, telling me she needs me but she won’t say why, then all of this happens,” you gestured at Damien. “And now a nurse is telling me I need to get a priest?!” Dyer met your eyes at that. You wiped your eyes. It felt good to cry from anger, for once.

“And I have been living under the church’s nose, and, by the way, they don’t like me,” you shook, exasperated. “I haven’t slept in God knows how long, and now he’s finally here and he breaks my fucking fingers in the middle of this night? I don’t care what you tell me, I need an explanation - any explanation!”

“I am sorry my dear,” a voice broke in. You whipped your head around to see Damien sitting up on his elbows, looking at you through hollow eyes. “You’re not going to like it.” You were dumbfounded.

“What, are you possessed?” You said, joking weakly. He looked at you as you stood in silence. You looked at Dyer, who looked just as serious. “No,” you shook your head with a half smile. This isn’t happening.

Damien made a noise as if to explain, but winced instead as he fell back again, rigid.

“Damien-” you started towards him- but Dyer grabbed your arm.

“No!” He barked through gritted teeth, eyes wild. “No, don’t come near me-” You froze, eyes darting from Dyer to where Damien lay writing on the bed.

“This isn’t happening.” You pushed a hand through your hair and turned away from them, pacing. “This isn’t happening. You’re sick, you fell down a million stairs, you’re not possessed-”

“You- you have to kill me,” he rasped. You whirled around and looked at him, horrified. “I’ll hurt you-I did hurt you-”

“Damien-” Father Dyer started, but he stopped as you moved past him in a flurry, fists clenched and eyes ablaze. Damien tried weakly to bat you away, but you overpowered him, and took his face in your hands.

“I��m not losing you again,” You said, bristling with an intensity you hadn’t felt in a long time. “So tell me how to help you. Tell us how to fix this.” He stared at you, eyes dull. You didn’t like the conviction you saw in him, but you weren’t backing down. Finally, his gaze softened.

“A-an exorcism,” he said, taking your hand. “If you want to h-help me, you have to get t-this thing out of me. You-you have to promise-” he stopped to catch his breath. “It has-has to be done-” he closed his eyes with a pained expression, a sheen of sweat across his brow.

“Okay.” You said, drawing away from him. You looked at Dyer. He looked about as lost as you felt, but he nodded to you. “But you have to promise not to die.” You demanded. He looked over at you, eyes barely open. “Please,” you pleaded.

“Can’t.” He swallowed and shook his head.

“Fine,” you said with a shaky breath. “Then you have to promise to try.” After a few long moments, he nodded. As much a victory as anything, you thought. With that, he fell asleep again. You looked over to Father Dyer.

“How do we do this?” you asked. He sat down in an empty chair and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I don’t know - the resident expert on exorcisms died at the MacNeil house-”

“What?!” You interjected.

“-and the only other living priest who’s ever performed one is…” he gestured to Damien.

“Well, what did he have with him at-” you winced. “At the house? And shouldn’t there be something written about it, or-or how to do one?” You were pacing again. Dyer looked up now, thinking.

“I think you’re right.” He stood up, suddenly animated. He opened the door. “I’m going to try something, you stay here with him.” Before you could say anything else, he was gone. You sighed, and collapsed into the chair.

“Damien,” you whispered to yourself more than him, as you watched his eyes dart wildly under his eyelids. “What have you gotten yourself into?”

#the exorcist #damien karras #damien karras x reader #damien karras/you #friends to lovers #slow burn #what if instead of writing a fic like a normal person i wrote a novel #angst #finally in the movie

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