Hi! Loved your Mononoke fics! Was wondering if I could request fluff of Kusuriuri (either Ri or Kon, love them both) proposing to reader or accepting a proposal from reader? That &/or maybe a who fell first/harder? Totally up to you! Have a good day/night & take care of yourself!
Such Aggravating Emotions
Content: gender-neutral reader, proposal, first kiss, confession of feelings, reader travels with Kusuriuri, one-bed trope, reader can ward Mononoke off, marriage proposal, Kusuriuri struggles with knowing what he feels a bit (but he def knows what he wants), slight talk of murder, Mononoke hunting, based off the Mononoke tv show
Word Count: 2.0K
A/N: sooo.....lol I did both. What can I say, I love Kusuriuri and these prompts were great. Also thank you so much for reading my fics!! It means so much to me!! Sending love your way and I hope you enjoy!!
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You had a sunny laugh.
It was the first thing Kusuriuri ever took note of from you. He’d heard many laughs, but yours, for whatever reason, grabbed his attention.
You stayed calm when everyone else screamed and squawked about in their fear of the Mononoke haunting the inn you had been staying at. You stayed nearly as calm as he did. A feat not so easy to master.
You knew how to handle yourself against a mononoke. You didn’t just know silly facts on how to keep a spirit at bay, you helped keep it at bay.
When you asked Kusuriuri if you could follow him--learn more from him--he didn’t have to think too long or too hard before agreeing.
There was no harm in allowing you to follow him…
No harm, yes, but the realization that he had come to harbor feelings for you was utter torment.
It tugged at his heart and soul day in and day out. Tugged and tugged so that he couldn't help but leave lingering touches on your hands and shoulders. Couldn’t help but buy you small trinkets and joke with you just so that he might catch a small glimpse of your smile--to hear that laugh that had initially drawn him in.
You were startled when you came to the realization that this always-so-poised medicine seller might have feelings for you. Feelings you also harbored for him. Ones you had held from the moment your eyes had fallen upon his pale, painted face. Feelings you had let grow out of your control the longer you stayed by his side.
Though, you were never too sure. Always toying the line of being too obvious--too touchy. He never seemed to reciprocate but sometimes…sometimes you were steadfast in your assumptions. Times when he would stick close to you, never letting his shoulder waver from your own. Times when he would gift you small things you had been eyeing at market and times when his compliment, oh so sweet, made you feel like flying.
But then he would go right back to being that tranquil, mischievous mystery that he was and your doubts would come crashing right back over you.
Though, all doubts came to a halt after a particularly ruthless mononoke exorcism. You two had stopped for the night in a non-mononoke haunted inn, a room purchased and a single bed shared between the two of you.
It was always easiest to pretend to be a traveling married couple. There was less judgment--less questions, that way.
You’d tried to get used to sharing a bed with Kusuriuri--to not let it trick your heart and mind into being something other than practical but this night was different. Different because the peddler could not seem to find rest. Seemed so utterly unsettled. Like his mind wouldn’t let him rest.
You propped yourself up on your elbow so that you could gaze upon his face more easily, his blue eyes wide open. Eyes clouded in that same restlessness his body exuded.
“Antsy, are we?” You questioned, unable to keep from teasing the typically at-ease peddler. Blue eyes found yours and something like irritation filtered through them.
“You bring out such--” He moved then, propping himself up on his own elbow so he could look right back at you. So that he could tower over you in the way he always did. “Aggravating emotions in me.” You’re stomach twisted in your belly.
You brought emotions out in him?
Emotions?
You?
“I don’t--what do you mean?” You asked, voice coming out more soft than you had wished it.
Your breath hitched near painfully in your throat when he leaned closer to you, those eyes of his scanning over every feature your face had to offer.
“I struggle to know the true words but,” He brought his hand full of purple-painted fingernails to feel over the warming skin of your cheeks. “I wish to do this often. And,” His fingers danced lower. Nails grazed over the outline of your top lip. “Taste these.” Your lips gasped apart at what he was telling you.
Were you--were you right in thinking he felt the same?
No--no this was…a dream. Surely, it was just a dream.
“Oh,” You breathed as he pulled closer. The air in your lungs growing heavier against the racing beating of your heart. “Do you?”
“Yes.” He purred. A purr that sent your body trembling despite yourself. “Do you?” He asked, thumb brushing over your parted lips as he held your chin steady.
“Yes.” Kusuriuri grazed his nose lightly over yours as if to test the waters. Waters you all but plunged straight into as you pressed your nose closer in answer, chin raising so that you might try to find his lips.
Half-hooded blue eyes did one last frustrating look into your own before his lips were claiming yours. Lips just as soft as you had dreamed. Lips that tasted of the very same spices he smelled of. Lips that moved slowly against yours--deeply. As if he wanted to eat you whole. You wanted him to devour you whole. Wanted him to devour you body, mind, and soul.
They were lips you were gifted over and over again as you continued to travel with him. Your tentative relationship with the peddler only grew more powerful the longer you two indulged in each other.
He shared secrets with you that had never seen the light of day before. Secrets of his past and his very purpose on this earth.
You had done the same. Had shared your hopes and dreams and how you’d even come to successfully learn to ward spirits off.
There was nothing you two hadn’t explored and shared together and you found you never wanted it to end.
Another mononoke haunt began some years later. A battle Kusuriuri himself was struggling to win, the frog spirit having slashed into his thigh much to his annoyance.
You had been by his side in moments, having already surrounded those being haunted by the Mononoke in a ring of salt. Though he had been by your side for many years now, he was still entranced with your ability to keep such mononoke away.
“Are you hurt?” You called over the croaking of the spirit before you. One that lashed and clawed and kicked at the invisible barrier you had managed to create.
As Kusuriuri watched you, he couldn’t help but think of how lucky he was to have you by his side. How lucky he was to belong to you…belong…he wanted to be bound to you for as long as this life would allow.
“Marry me.” He spoke, his voice keeping that same even tone despite the weight of emotions raging within him.
You whipped your head around to stare bug-eyed at him. To look at him like he’d gone crazy.
It was a great shock to say the least. One that had allowed the Mononoke to gain an inch on you. You tried to refocus yourself but--
He had never once mentioned marriage. Any and all marriages you both had witnessed had been practically scoffed at by the peddler.
“You--you’ve hit your head.” As you glanced at the peddler still sprawled out on the ground behind you. He was looking in a way that made your heart begin to race. Race like how it’d raced when you two first started this strange relationship of yours.
He looked serious. Very serious.
“I have not.” He said your name slowly. Your heart only gave a fluttering twist. “Marry me.”
“I--why now? You don’t--since when do you care about that? It is a purely human invention.”
“You make me…” He gave a pause, taking note of the way your arms were beginning to strain against the effort of keeping the wild spirit back. “Wish to partake in such human inventions.” He saw your eyes, eyes he could spend hours staring into, begin to bubble with tears at his words.
“You’re serious?” You’re voice came out tight as if still not believing him.
The Mononoke broke through your barrier, then with a roared ribbit. You’re eyes pulled from Kusuriuri and his seemingly impossible question as webbed claws came swiping for your face.
You’re world blurred as strong hands grabbed you up into equally as strong arms, wind whirling around you as you were rushed away. You grabbed hold of Kusuriuri’s colorful kimono for support as he moved with fluid grace through the hauntee’s home.
“Deathy.” He purred, lips brushing over the shell of your ear in a way that made your skin explode with goosebumps.
Your feet had hardly found the ground before he was reaching into the expanse of his outfit to grab a handful of triangle-folded bits of white paper. Kusuriuri threw them in a curving motion, the bits of paper springing into their rectangular shape as they found a temporary home along the floor before you, the walls on either side, and on the ceiling. They flashed a bright red eye as the Mononke rammed itself into yet another invisible barrier.
The masters of the house you had left to stand in a circle of salt gave frightful screams at the sight of it, but neither you nor Kusuriuri paid them too much mind.
“You feel for me that deeply?” You questioned, another ribbit shaking the very ground you all stood on. “To be bound to me in that way for as long as I might live?” Kusuriuri crossed the small distance that lay between you both, thin fingers lacing between your own.
“Yes,” He spoke so surely. “And then some. I wish to be bound to you in this life and the next.” His face grew closer, eyes never once leaving yours. Never once stopped showing you such emotion he so very rarely let run this wild. “Till the skies fall and nothing but dust remains, I wish to belong to you.” You held onto his hand like a lifeline.
“Oh--only for that long?” You couldn’t help the slight tease. Not when you were feeling so--so loved. A love no one had ever shared with you before. A love you only ever wished to be blessed with by him.
Kusuriuri cracked a wide grin, the tips of his fanged canines flashing at you.
“Till the next world is upon us, I wish to love you.” His hand gave yours a squeeze. “Marry me?” He questioned once more.
Your eyes began to burn all over again in your utter joy. Joy you let spur you forward into his awaiting arms. Joy you let guide your lips against his. A joy you wished to express to him in the passion of the kiss you gave him. A kiss Kusuriuri was quick to give back. A joy he was quick to express back.
“Yes.” You murmured against his lips. “I wish all that too. I wish to be bound to you. I wish to love you with my every breath. I wish to love you after the breath has ceased to flow through my lungs.” You grinned so bright it began to sting at your cheeks. “Yes. Yes I will marry you.” Kusuriuri kissed you once more. Kissed you so deeply you almost forgot about the Mononoke ribbiting in bloodthirst your way.
“What are you doing!” The lady of the house screeched. “Proposals?! Now! Get away from each other and kill that thing!”
“Oh, we shouldn’t have thrown her into that bog.” The lord of the house moaned weakly. “We shouldn’t have tossed our little girl into that bog.” A sharp smack sounded as the lady tried to shut her husband up.
“She was a freak!” Kusuriuri smirked against your lips, blue eyes opening only by the smallest amount to share his sparkling amusement with you.
“Truth.” He whispered against your lips. You smirked back as the sword tucked safely in his wooden crate gave a click then a bang against its confines.
“She was five! Such a precious gem.” The lord cried, sobs shaking through his body as the sword gave yet another clicking bang in beg for freedom.
“Humm…it’s shape?” You whispered in question to the peddler you were ecstatic to forever stay with.
“It’s shape.” He agreed, turning his face away from you only to watch the wrathful spirit rage.
“Shall we ask them all the reason?” You again questioned, letting your hand linger in his for a moment longer.
synopsis ; your roommate has the libido of a goddamn animal and it's driving you insane. not to mention the fact they have an annoying habit of jerking off in your dorm. to you.
they want you? fine—they can have you. only on your terms, though.
you grunt as you fumble for the key. cursing as, with an extreme lack of coordination—you begin to forcibly ram the bloody thing into the lock with the grace and precision of a sledgehammer. what you lack in motor control you make up for with inner beauty—or something.
the do not disturb sign rattles mockingly off the handle, meaning your roommate is definitely inside and definitely not helping out. you grit your teeth, entire body off kilter as you're preoccupied with balancing the boxes cramful of belongings in your arms; big and bulky and absolutely not helping your aim. you curse, loudly as they almost almost tumble out of your grasp the moment the key miraculously jams into place, jerking wildly to catch them. (note: super strength does not come with super-hand-eye-coordination.)
“fucking– stupid- key– fucking better– woah!”
without warning, the door swings open, inwards. a montage of your entire life flits before your eyes as you hurtle forward, boxes and all. you just about barely manage to catch yourself with an undignified stumble before drawing yourself up; coming face to face with—oh.
two figures. bodies very noticeably.. inside. each other. naked. on, what you realise after a bout of disbelief; your fucking bed.
"what the fuck?"
one of them growls, mop of black hair flopping as their head snaps up, even though you're pretty sure you should be the one slinging expletives around. with a frustrated scowl they pull out of the dude, sending a withering glare to the poor guy they were fucking into the bedspread—to which he.. disappears? glitches out? phases out of existence? because suddenly he’s not there anymore, and you’re stranded alone with a very attractive, very threatening looking college student.
who is also—uh, very, very naked.
“um, hi–”
“why do you have a key to my fucking dorm?”
oh, shit.
they are, frankly, gorgeous – like, one of the most beautiful people you've ever seen. their hair is black, mussed, and you can’t help the way your gaze follows its way down the threshold of an.. extremely muscled, slick torso before snapping upwards to find a mildly paralysing glare that reminds yourself that you are not in a very good position right now.
“i’m uh- your new.. roommate?'' you don't mean for it to come out like a question, but by the way they're staring down at you like you're a cockroach that just flew onto their windshield, you almost aren't so sure.
"i'm a fucking TA— i don't have roommates." their eyes narrow, which is like—alright, way to be real welcoming.
“i’m a.. last minute transfer..?” you offer, wincing as you meet their stare. their eyes are unflinching, yet still lidded in a post-sex haze. you can feel your body involuntarily holding its breath; though from the steel in their gaze or the way their biceps flex when they run a hand through their dishevelled locks, you can’t tell.
fuck, you hate hot people.
“oh, yeah. fuck, i forgot about that.” their shoulders slacken, mouth settling into an unimpressed line; which is only slightly more welcoming than the look of murderous intent of two seconds ago. “jordan. jordan li." they say, last name and all—which is how you know they're a prick. "make yourself at home, i guess.” they don’t sound all too enthused as they skirt away from the door, seemingly satisfied with the fact that you're not a home invader—dorm invader? whatever. you just pray that the sigh of relief you breathe isn’t audible.
“great! nice to meet you, i’m–”
“s’on the sheet." jordan cuts in with supreme disinterest as they move across the room, leaning down to pick their boxers from the floor. you’re struck once again with the realisation that they are still fucking naked, and you pointedly tear your eyes away.
“um, yeah.. hey, uh—what’s your-”
“third year, crime-fighting. don't touch my shit. no pets, obviously. if you have a dog, get rid of it. give it to the animal shelter, don’t care. don’t snoop, don't make a mess, and definitely don’t take off the goddamn do not disturb sign. got it?”
you've barely opened your mouth to reply; probably with something along the lines of what the fuck? or animal shelter? before jordan's already turned away, back muscles flexing as they sink back onto the end of their bed, scrunching their briefs up in one hand and—
“hey, uh,” jordan interjects, turning round with an unreadable expression as they glance down, and like a fucking idiot, you follow; giving you front row seat to the massive, throbbing boner that they’re still sporting—pulsing an angry, flushed red as the tip drools with precum.
“mind if i take care of this? couldn’t exactly finish, if you know what i—”
you slam the door after you, and you swear a snicker follows you down the corridor.
-
over the next week, it quickly becomes apparent that jordan either a): forgets you live in the same room as them, or b): simply does not care.
for starters, there’s their apparent aversion to doing laundry until their entire closet is out of commission, the coke stash underneath their mattress and also—oh. their need to get their dick wet at least four times a day. (irrespective of whether they have a dick or not).
“what?” jordan scoffs through a mouthful of cereal. “‘m not lettin’ some fuckin’ freshie cockblock me.”
“i’m a transfer, not a fucking freshman.” you scowl, and jordan’s lips curl to form a lazy little ‘o’. it twitches upwards into that infuriating little smirk, like they enjoy seeing you squirm.
“whatever. my libido stops for nobody, not even you. besides,” they set their bowl on the bedside table, wagging their fingers suggestively into a ‘V’ shape and licking the air between. "a bigender supe has needs too."
they’re slouching against their headboard, free arm stretching lazily above their head. your cheeks flush traitorously as their biceps flex—muscles visibly popping against their frame “you can just say 'a girl has needs'. i'm not an idiot, i know what you mean." is what you grumble back, if only to ignore the inane, stupid heat pooling in the pit of your stomach.
"but i have needs when i'm a dude, too." jordan grins, propping themselves up by their elbow, eyes gleaming impishly as they curl their hand into a fist and making a fucking wanking motion over their (currently) non-existent dick. which is—yeah. that pretty much sums up your roommate for you.
the thing is about jordan, is despite all their excessive lockerroom talk and relatively abrasive personality; they’re still rank two in all of godolkin. ergo, they’re a surprisingly busy person; being preoccupied with either studying, sparring or partying ninety of the time.
thus, like all horny, single college students, when you don’t have time to squeeze a good fuck in, you’re left with second-best option—yourself. this would otherwise be fine, except jordan’s compound v must have seeped through their bloodstream and into their libido because jesus fucking christ are they horny.
it’s not like they make an effort of hiding it, either. they seem to have zero qualms about rolling out of bed, morning wood popping out from their briefs like a fucking beacon.
“oh, shit,” jordan yawns when slide the covers off, giving way to the immense boner throbbing against their boxer-briefs. they don’t even have the decency to look sheepish when they walk past you, adjusting themselves lazily. you don’t miss the grunt of relief that escapes them as their hand palms their crotch before they disappear into the bathroom, either. or the little groans of relief that sound behind the door before they saunter out, towelling their hands with the stupidest grin on their face.
it shouldn’t piss you off as much as it does, except for the fact that even when jordan rouses without morning wood (or wood in general); they end up making their usual bathroom trip anyways. noises slipping from a half-ajar door and toilet lid left slippery, as always.
they have to be doing it on purpose. they have to be. like, they left their strap-on on your desk once. which, first of all, gross. second of all, why was it so fucking big?
“jordan!” you holler, aghast as you nudge the thing on your desk, conveniently placed right next to your laptop.
“oh! that’s where i left it. sick.” jordan grins as they saunter over, veined hands reaching over to wrap around the shiny, plastic length and fuck, since when were their palms so massive—
“thanks, roomie.” they ruffle your hair with an impish glint in their eyes, smile only growing when you jerk away with a scowl.
and that’s not even the worst of it.
“oh, shit—was that yours?” to their credit, jordan looks somewhat sheepish as they pinch a rock-hard pair of socks off the floor. your fucking socks, which have clearly been well-loved and cared for in places other than your shoes.
“those were my favourite!” they weren’t your favourites. they’re socks. however, it makes jordan wince, which almost makes it worth it.
hey, a little remorse is better than nothing.
“..i’ll buy you a new pair?” jordan offers, scratching the nape of their neck. you’re almost content to let the awkwardness linger just give them just a piece of the torture you’ve been subjected to for the past several weeks — except the sliver of satisfaction is completely negated by the way jordan’s lip twitches upwards, like they’re fighting back a smirk.
“you little fuck—“
anyways, the point is jordan wanks. a lot.
you can’t stop thinking about it. because it’s annoying. and disrespectful. and god, do they think you want to hear every pretty little moan that falls from their mouth? every grunt and groan that slips from their throat in that raspy, godforsaken timber—
long story short; if you have to find a wadded up sock or sticky residue at the bottom of the computer desk one more time, you’re going to lose it.
you think jordan knows it, too.
-
it’s midnight when you wake up to the sound of a bed creaking.
you’re an early sleeper, jordan isn’t. it works. you’re typically long knocked out before they even make it back in the dorm, out there doing god knows what. today, though, you’d far overestimated your ability to finish your latest assignment; so when jordan finally staggered through the door, slumping into bed with a little grunt, you thought nothing of it.
minutes pass, and the bed shifts. jordan groans. under the moonlight you can see the shadowed visage of their figure, splayed out on their bed with one hand underneath the covers; moving, repeatedly.
jordan grunts again, and you squint; bleary eyes adjusting to the darkness. the muffled, wet sound of slapping resounds, subdued by the weight of the blanket. if you didn’t know better, you’d think they were—
“mm, fuck—” jordan moans, blanket slipping down their hips and—oh my fucking god.
like pulling back a curtain, jordan’s cock springs enthusiastically to the surface; standing tall and proud as their fist pumps up and down the thick, veined girth of their length. it’s practically pulsating with need, bordering on desperate—they must be desperate, because jordan’s shameless, sure, but.. jacking off in the same room as you?
you didn’t think they were that much of a fucking perv.
but maybe you’re a perv too, because the moment jordan’s hips rock upwards and their tip glimmers in a thick sheen of pre-cum; you can feel the telltale surge of heat in your stomach, the fabric of your panties dampening and oh, this can’t seriously be happening right now.
“fuck—motherfucker..” jordan hisses, drawing your bleary-eyed gaze from the flushed, throbbing bob of their cock to their pink cheeks and fucked-out face, mouth lolling in pleasure. they twist their head, nosing into something tossed onto their pillow that makes you stop in their tracks.
that’s.. you thought you lost that!
“need ‘m—so—fucking bad..” jordan slurs stiltedly, nuzzling into your shirt like their life depends on it. “fuckin’—stupid fucking—”
your stomach tightens, and you can’t help it when your fingers dip down under your shorts, slipping into your cunt. you should be mad, should be disgusted, should be shoving open the door and ripping them out of their covers and.. wrapping your mouth around their adorably flushed tip? seizing their hips and yanking their cock into your tight, wet little—
"oh, fuck," jordan interrupts your thought process by growling through their teeth, precum spilling from the slit of their dick and glazing their palms. there’s so much of it, so wet that even in the dark you can see the stain pooling in their sweatpants, their bedsheets.
you’re so entranced you barely even register when it when their grip releases; length arcing and splattering thick ropes of cum against their abdomen. the sight is so mesmerising that you almost don’t pick up on the sound of your fucking name that tears out of their throat—husky and half gargled as jordan’s chest heaves. you don’t even realise you’ve been holding your breath until jordan’s figure simply lays there, pants echoing in the silent room.
they wrap your shirt around their dick and wipe it clean. it’s only when they murmur something unintelligible—burying their nose back into your jumper that you finally, finally turn away, fingers curling deep inside your cunt.
fucking hell.
-
the second time it happens, you are wide, wide awake. which unfortunately means you have no excuse for the minutes seared into your memory and sticky residue on your thighs.
granted, at first you didn’t know. as always, the bathroom door hangs carelessly agape. steam curls from the room, wafting up and dispersing in the stuffy dorm air. what lingers, however, is the fresh note of jordan’s shampoo, body wash, and something.. saltier, headier.
whatever. with nothing more than an arched brow, you pick over the discarded basketball shorts and tank tops that litter the floor, intending to kick the bathroom door shut and be on your way. it’s when your hand reaches out, closing around the cool metal that you see it.
jordan’s slumped against the slick shower wall, fingers buried knuckle-deep into their pussy.
oh, shit shit shit—
“shit..” jordan hisses, muscles working like well-oiled sprigs as they pump into their cunt, droplets of water trickling down their skin and pooling into the divots of their body.
your hand tightens around the doorknob. god, their moans.. if they think the sound of the showerhead can disguise the filthy nothings spilling out of their mouth, they are very, very wrong.
somewhere between the fuck’s and annoying’s and pretty fuckin’ prude’s their full-weight crumples against the shower wall, plush ass pressing up against steaming glass like some (high-quality) porn ad as they ram their fingers in one last time, free hand shooting out wildly to grasp at nothing before the shower wall splatters with something you only catch a glimpse of before you’re slamming the bathroom door, cheeks burning and fingers trembling. with a start, you realise you’ve almost wrenched the goddamn metal off.
the doorknob is always a little bit loose, after that.
-
you’re getting ready for a party.
well, you’re supposed to be getting ready for a party, hence the sultry eyeshadow, glossy press of your lips and sheer amount of skin laid bare. your crop-top is just a little bit too high, mini-skirt more than a little too short.
in reality? you’re enacting your fucking vegeance.
jordan likes you. it’s a fact that stares you right in the face. and if not a crush, it’s a massive, raging hard-on. for you—only you—citing a certain roommate’s post-nut ramblings you’ve heard one too many times.
as it turns out, jordan becomes considerably less insufferable when you know you’re the only thing that gets their dick wet.
“how do i look?” you call, doing a little twirl. it’s impossible to keep the smirk off your face, skirt flipping very purposely upwards as you spin, revealing a tad more than they ever (usually) get to see.
jordan glances up, and their breath fucking hitches.
bingo.
“what?” you cock your head, lashes batting innocuously as they stare. playing the oblivious role is just too sweet, especially when your eyes flicker down, just for a moment, and you can see the bulge in their sweatpants growing.
poor little jordan, hard because their roommate flashed a millisecond of ass.
“you look—good.” they grunt, tone carefully measured. their gaze lingers, only for another moment before they abruptly snap their vision back to their screen. an admirable effort, really. if only their cheeks were a little less red, cock a little less needy.
“well don’t flatter me too much,” you twist away, lips twitching upwards. feigning normalcy is easy, seeing as how you’ve been doing so ever since that first night. you're practically buzzing with anticipation when you make a big show of leaving the room, snarky comment and all.
and really, jordan could've waited for longer than two minutes before moaning that raspy, broken moan (you're so intimately familiar with) from behind the door.
your lips split into a grin, and when you slide the door back open, the look on jordan's face is so priceless you hope it'll be seared into your memory forever.
“shit!"
it’s undeniable, this time. you’re no longer a fly on the wall, and they’re no longer blanketed by the illusion of secrecy; caught red-handed with their cock in their fist and head on your pillow.
“wait—fuck—i can expl—!”
like clockwork, jordan's cock twitches as if in reaction, and a drop of fresh semen spurts from their tip before trickling down to join the messy puddle on their stomach.
“i thought—fuck! you said you were going!”
“that doesn’t sound like an apology to me.”
you delight in the way jordan flushes, their breath hitching. they take a ragged breath before they make a valiant attempt to cover up their falter with aggression. "doesn't mean anything," they retort through gritted teeth, mustering up as much conviction as they can.
it’s adorable, how much they pretend they don’t want you as if they don’t jack off to the smell of your sweatshirt every night.
“shut the fuck up.” you roll your eyes, novelty of the movement finally wearing thin. you have needs too—and with a fluid movement, you slide onto the bed and yank their hips against yours, pulling them into a straddle over your torso.
jordan can't help but hiss at the sudden contact, hips jerking instinctively. "fuck, you're cold," they mutter under their breath, though there's no denying the thrill running through them; hips bucking forward into the touch of your cool fingers as they wrap around their hard member. it feels euphoric—the contrast between your heat and coldness heightening every single nerve ending in their body. the tip of their cockhead brushing against your belly button, dripping a thin line of hot, sticky fluid after it.
“go on.” you coo, eyebrows raised.
jorda’s hands fly almost immediately to the hem of your skirt. so eager, like an impatient puppy.
before you curl your hand around their wrist, grip firm and punishing.
they freeze, head cocking like a confused puppy. “huh?” they say, biting back a noise of complaint. they want you so bad its goddamn gruelling; their fingers twitching around nothing, screaming in impatience, let me fuck you, let me ruin you already. don’t you know how long i’ve been waiting? how long you’ve kept me fucking waiting?
of course you know. they don’t know that, though.
“you’re not gonna do anything?” despite all their irritating, fratboy-esque bravado; jordan’s unable to prevent the whininess from seeping into their tone, hands tugging insistently at the hem of your skirt. their cock pulses, painful and needy.
“you have hands, don’t you?” your lips quirk at the way jordan’s expression drops and their mouth opens again, probably to protest until you yank their thighs open and press them forward, dick pressing flush against your torso.
"unnhnnngh.." jordan grunts, gasping for air while trying to maintain eye contact with you—an impossible task considering how goddamn desperate they are. their free hand grabs hold of your waist, grinding sloppily as precum spurts all over your chest. “f-fuck off," they hiss, lips crashing against yours, teeth knocking at their eagerness.
“goddamn tease—” they groan, rutting against your torso, to no avail. they bury their face into your collar, utterly miserable, fingers twisting into the hem of your shirt. “just get the fuck on with it—ahnnn.. f-fuck—”
“so mouthy,” you tease, delighted at the mewl that slips past jordan’s lips when your hand wraps around their tip. their chain necklace swings wildly, bucking their hips desperately into your fist.
“hands feel so fuckin’ good,” jordan sputters, drooling almost as much as their dick is. their fumbling grasp finds purchase in your shoulders as they pump themselves into your hand; you barely even have to move, with them doing most of the work.
“need to be— inside—“ jordan grunts; glassy eyes blinking down at you like it’ll change your mind just like that. it’s cute, how they look when they’re not scowling or fucking smirking at you. it’s even cuter, the way they inhale sharply when you shake your head and deliver a cool “no, baby,” their back arching when you cup one of their balls and squeeze, forced into dismal acceptance with a keening whine.
jordan’s movements are getting unsteady, now. eyes glazing over by the second. “y’gonna make me cum,” they slur, grip on your hips tightening. it only takes a moment before their movements stutter and they’re muttering “fuck fuck fuck oh, fuck!“ and a long, gargled moan rips from their throat and all of a sudden hands wrapped around cock are sinking in wet, sloppy heat; your fingers sliding knuckle-deep into their pussy with almost breath-taking ease.
“jesus christ!” jordan croons in sheer, unexpected pleasure as they feel you shove yourself inside them, cum spurting and squeezing out helplessly from between their walls and your fingers. they squirt so fucking messily, their leaking cock replaced by a cunt spilling out out all over your palm.
“i didn’t—didn’t mean to—” they slur, panic two steps behind their mouth. struggling to sling anything coherent together with you kneading your fingers into their pussy like its goddamn putty. “oh?” you arch a brow, and jordan visibly flushes, moaning openly when your digits curl.
“can’t–don’t really—”
“what? fuck yourself?” is your reply, because you both know they fucking do; it’s not like you don’t how their pussy sounds when it’s sliding slick against their pillow, how your name sounds cried out, thick through the muzzle of your jumper.
it’s a dual guilty pleasure—you watch, they do. at this point, you can’t tell who’s the more perverted out of the two of you.
jordan. definitely jordan.
“too busy humping my clothes, is that it?” you purr, and jordan honest to god whimpers, squirming away from your fingers both out of overstimulation and plaintive shame. “ah, ah,” you tut, nails digging into their hips as you hold them in place, finger thumbing harshly against their clit as they cry out a gargled moan.
“f-fuck off—” jordan hisses, practically an admission of guilt itself. they seem to know it, too, with the way they abandon all pretence and pound violently against your knuckles—their gaze burning into yours like they’re daring you to say another word. “don’t act like you didn’t—shit—fucking like it.” jordan gasps out between sputters, teetering on the edge of another orgasm.
“hm?” you pause, eyes meeting jordan’s heated, quivering stare. “jerk off to watching me?” they choke, eyes glossing over when you thrust “did you fuck yourself to my—mmhnn—!”
an easy, all-too-familiar eye roll graces your face before you shut them up with your fingers. their pussy clenches; hot, slippery walls gripping your digits as if afraid to let go. oh, this is too easy.
“don’t get cute with me, roomie.” the nickname tastes sweet on your tongue, and jordan’s face grows hotter. a well-timed thumb to their clit flickers their bravado out like a light. “fucking hell!” they gasp, mouth gaping into a moan and eyes rolling back into their skull.
“you wanted me to watch, didn’t you?” you coo, and jordan squirms; mouth open in protest—or at least attempts at them, what with the way they keep gasping out in pleasure as you roll your fingers against their clit.
“shut the fuck—i didn’t—”
“a pervert and a liar now, are we?”
jordan makes a noise somewhere between a hiss and a whine, crying out when you slide two more fingers into the slick canal of their core. their eyes screw shut, hands seizing so wildly into the mattress you almost think they’re about to tear a hole through the bedsheets.
“god! fuck—i can’t—”
they cry out your name when they cum, and even if its a sound you’ve heard countless times by now you don’t think it’ll ever get old. “that’s it, baby.” you coo, lips curling upwards at the way they bury their face into your collar.
they lie there, panting, for what feels like forever before a muffled, half-delusional groan leaves their lips.
CW: NSFW, unprotected p in v (wrap it up, all, the pill was just the most popular form of contraception in the 70s, what can I say)
It was so early the sky was still gray. Pale sunlight lit the edges of the curtains, painting hazy, glowing lines across the sheets. The still air of your shared bedroom was cold, sending a chill across your exposed shoulder. You wrinkled your nose. You didn’t want to wake up, not quite yet.
Pulling the covers up over your exposed form, you were soothed by the heavy, soft crinkling of the fabric. Burrowing into the bed a bit deeper, you sighed, utterly content as the warmth of the broad body at your side spread through you. The winter months were especially rewarding when you were married to a living radiator.
Sleep rose around you like a warm bath, but just when you were about to drift back to unconsciousness, the bed shifted. You opened your eyes, blinking through bleary morning tears as the covers lifted beside you. Damien breathed deeply, swinging his legs over the side of the bed as he rose.
Early riser, you thought, rolling your eyes. Well I’m still set on sleeping in—
Damien stretched, one arm bent above his head while he gripped his elbow with his other hand. A quiet groan. A sigh. His muscles tightened, firm beneath his freckled, pale skin. Your sleep-blurred gaze cleared as your skin heated beneath the cool sheets. You held your breath as you watched, suddenly very awake.
Dark patterns of hair followed the contours of his back and arms, an occasional thread of silver visible in the jet black. You swallowed thickly as he stood, the sheets falling from his waist to reveal the edges of his muscles disappearing under the waistband of dark gray boxers.
Fuck, you thought, bringing the covers up over your flushed face.
Determined to sleep in anyway, you turned over, willing your mind to clean up its act.
Moments passed and your skin cooled, muscles relaxing as you listened to Damien’s muffled steps.
You drifted off.
The dream started quickly. You held his face in your hands, watching his expression as his hands drifted over your body. His thigh was wedged snugly between your legs where you straddled his knee, grinding against him in slow, firm movements. Frustration burned in your core – you couldn’t quite get enough friction.
A wrecked moan left you, your hands moving to grip his shoulders as Damien leaned forward, lips finding the nape of your neck. His hands lowered to grip your hips, pushing you against him even harder.
Your breath came in strangled gasps, nails digging into the firm muscles of Damien’s shoulders as you moved, mind boggling with his every muffled utterance of your name.
All at once, his voice was much clearer, and the delicious friction driving you to your climax evaporated. Sweat pricked your bare skin and cooled between your thighs where you were tangled in the sheets. Embarrassed, you tried quietly to catch your breath.
You turned over to where Damien said your name, concern lining his voice. Just as you thought you might be composed enough to respond, heat rushed back through you as you took him in.
Damien sat next to you in your shared bed, propped up against the headboard, one leg bent up where he held an open book. He was dressed only in his boxers and a pair of reading glasses. You wanted to scream.
Feigning a yawn, you took the chance to shut your eyes, blocking out the frustratingly arousing image.
“You alright?” Damien asked. “It seemed like you were dreaming.”
You pushed a hand through your hair, then held the bridge of your nose, shaking your head.
“It was nothing,” you said, still blushing furiously. Damien’s gaze stayed trained on you.
“A nightmare, then?” he asked. It wasn’t uncommon for you to have violent nightmares that could throw you off for the entire day. Neither was it rare for you to try and hide it, embarrassed at your sensitivity. You shook your head quickly, smiling sheepishly.
“No, no, nothing like that,” you said. He held your gaze for a moment, and you couldn’t help but look away, hiding your disheveled form behind the sheets.
Suddenly Damien raised an eyebrow, mouth turning up into a slight grin.
“What was your dream about then?” Damien asked. You stayed silent. He took the opportunity to push further. “Was I in it?”
Your eyes widened, mortified.
“No,” you said, trying to sound as casual as possible. Damien just laughed.
“Okay, I believe you,” he said, voice laced with sarcasm. Now you were annoyed.
“Great,” you huffed, turning away from him and closing your eyes. He laughed again.
“No, no, no, how did I get you mad at me?” he said, placing a hand on your shoulder.
“You woke me up just to make fun of me?” you asked, pouting.
“Oh, so I was definitely in the dream,” he said. You shot up, looking over at him.
“Can you blame me?” You said, shaking off his hand. “I wake up to see you like-” He blinked at you, oblivious. “-like this?” Damien looked at himself for a moment, then back to you.
“You see me like this all the time?” he said, still smiling slightly. You looked at him, irritated.
“Dames,” you shook your head. “You can’t be pretty and oblivious.” His grin widened.
“You think I’m pretty?” he asked, a rosy blush creeping across his face. You flushed, unable to stifle a smile. Damn it. Then you had an idea.
Trying to hold as much of a poker face as possible, you turned your legs so you were sitting upright, and casually scooted a bit closer to Damien, who looked at you, one brow raised. Shaking a bit of hair out of your face, you reached over to brush a lock of black hair behind his ear. Then, tilting his face down slightly with one hand, you leaned over, closed your eyes, and pressed a long kiss to his lips. He hesitated for a moment before he pressed back into you, his hand finding your waist, book abandoned.
Then you pulled away. Damien’s pupils were blown, lips slightly parted. You caressed his jaw with your thumb, breathing deeply as you held his gaze, then leaned back, letting him go. You moved backwards, lifting the covers back before swinging your legs over your side of the bed, back to him, giggling quietly.
Maybe it was a little unfair to your husband, but you were undeniably satisfied with your revenge. Stretching, you moved to stand up from the bed, but was stopped when thick arms circled your shoulders, tugging you backwards with a yelp.
Your back met Damien’s chest, and you could feel where his leg was bent flat behind your hips, his other leg bent more open at your side. You held onto his arm where it was pressed across your chest, balancing on the edge of the bed. His head fell to your shoulder, sleep-ruffled hair soft against your jaw.
“Damien-” you breathed, voice barely audible through your own surprised arousal.
“Don’t go yet,” he said, his voice deep and pleading. You shivered as you felt his lips press to your heated skin. You leaned your head a bit as he kissed up the side of your neck.
“Tell me what you want, hm?” Damien asked, one hand squeezing your shoulder. You swallowed.
“You, Damien,” you laughed. “I want you.” You felt him smile against your skin.
Most couples might have slept together right after getting married, or wouldn’t have waited as long as you had. It wasn’t intentional, you’d simply been content enough without going much further than kissing or some touching. You didn’t feel like you had to do anything. Even if it might've been fun, Damien had never pressured you. As far as he was concerned, the two of you had known each other long enough for even the smallest things to be as intimate as sex, and if you never went that far, he didn’t care.
But now, as you giggled and held each other like giddy teenagers, it felt right.
Damien released your shoulders, shuffling back so you could find yourself more secure footing on the bed. You obliged, scooting back and pulling your legs up onto the bed. Already missing the heat of his skin against yours, you reached out to him, hands finding either side of his jaw. He turned to face you with a smile, tossing his reading glasses onto the small table by the bed.
With no hesitation, he followed your embrace, mouth meeting yours in an open-mouthed kiss. One of your hands slid down over the prickly, unshaven beginnings of his facial hair to the nape of his neck, your other hand finding purchase in his hair. You focused on the feeling of his muscles tightening under your grip, your tongue moving to explore the heated cavern of his mouth.
Damien’s hands were slow, moving feather-light over your tummy before dipping under the hem of your stretched-out sleep shirt. The fabric was threadbare, moving easily as his hands found the soft flesh of your waist. The skin of his hands was rough and warm against you, and you sighed, sensitive to his touch.
Pulling back from the kiss, you gulped down air, eyes lingering on the thin thread of saliva still connecting you. You gasped before you could kiss him again, fisting his hair when his hands came up under your breasts, cupping and kneading the soft flesh. His movements stilled for a beat when you pulled at his hair, a low groan leaving his mouth.
“Oh, you like that, don’t you?” you smiled, gasping. His head dropped to your shoulder when you tugged again, teeth grazing your collarbone.
“Mn—‘t feels good,” he growled against you, sending a chill down your spine. You’d never heard him sound like this before. You hummed, your other hand going to his hair. Gently, you pulled at his hair, raking your nails over his scalp. His shoulders shook with a moan, his hands squeezing you under your shirt as he curled into you.
“Your heart’s beating so fast,” he said, pressing his hands beneath your breasts to your ribs, thumbs flattening against your breastbone.
“I must like you or something,” you mumbled to him. He huffed a laugh, nuzzling further into the crook of your neck. He went silent as you felt his lips close against your neck, your skin stinging slightly as he sucked.
“Hah—” you moaned, pulling his hair again as he sucked harder, the edge of his teeth biting the bruising flesh. With a satisfied pop, his lips left your neck, kissing and gently licking the darkening hickey he left above your collarbone.
“Can I take this off?” He asked, lifting his head to meet your eyes. His expression was utterly wrecked, skin washed red and eyes half-lidded, lips slightly swollen. You nodded, arms raising as he lifted the shirt from your frame. He tossed the soft garment away, sighing as he looked you over. You couldn’t help the blush that heated your face and chest, you’d never get used to him looking at you that way.
“I think my legs are falling asleep,” you said, smiling as you unfolded your legs from beneath you and spread them on either side of Damien. He grinned, watching you move and stretch with hungry eyes.
“You might have to give me some advice,” He said, moving to sit on his knees between your legs, hands resting on your knees. “I’ve never done this before.”
You leaned back onto your elbows, contemplating how to instruct him. You knew he wasn’t very experienced beyond what you’d done in the past. You’d been married before, and he’d been celibate.
“It’s a lot easier if I’m as-” you cleared your throat, still sheepish, despite it all. “As wet as possible,” you said, meeting his eyes. He swallowed hard.
“So I can touch myself,” you offered. “Or you can touch me – what do you want to do?”
He looked down to where your legs parted, thinking. You stood up a bit, leaning forward to balance on your hands.
“Or we could do something else,” you said. You didn’t want to push him. “I really liked what we were doing before.” His blush darkened.
“Oh I want to do this,” he said, smiling. “Why don’t you start, then I can take over?” You nodded, a little amused at how seriously he was taking this. You scooted backwards a bit until your back hit the pillows, resting against the headboard.
You moved your hands down, suddenly hesitating, intimidated at the thought of doing this in front of him. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself before reaching around your hips to shimmy off your underwear. You slid the slip of fabric down your legs, tossing it to the side with your shirt.
You looked up to see him watching you intently, eyes dark. You rested one hand on your thigh, the other moving down to where you were exposed. With two careful fingers, you traced the edge of your lips, then opened your fingers just enough to part them.
You could already tell you were soaked, inner folds coated in warm slick. With a heavy breath, you dipped a finger between your folds, gathering some of the moisture before moving your fingers up to your sensitive bundle of nerves. Gasping slightly at the contact, you began to move your fingers over the bud, applying pressure towards your opening with each movement. Then, after a few moments, you pushed your finger much further, knuckles disappearing into your heat.
Breathing heavy, you looked up, curious to see what Damien thought of your movements. His expression would be burned into your memory. His eyes were focused, pupils so large his expression was dark. His mouth hung slightly open, chest heaving with every breath. He gripped your knee with one hand, the other resting on your other thigh.
That was when you noticed the bulge in his boxers, stretching against the dark fabric.
His eyes met yours, and he squeezed your thigh lightly, one side of his mouth raising slightly in a smile.
“I think I’m ready,” he said, voice low. You drew away your hand as he moved forward slightly, hand leaving your knee to grasp your wrist. You narrowed your eyes, offering him the hand he held.
He held your gaze as he bent his neck to lick the still-warm fluid from your digits. You groaned, his tongue moving to take your middle finger into his mouth. When he opened his mouth to let go of your hand, you followed his eyes as he lifted your hand to the back of his head where you threaded your fingers through his hair once more. Then he lowered himself to your center.
You watched him, in awe, until you felt his tongue swipe through your folds with an experimental lick. Your body tensed, your other hand flying to your mouth to stifle your moans. He laughed low against you before licking again, sending another jolt through you. You pulled at his hair slightly. Then, he pushed further, the bridge of his nose pressing against your already sensitive bundle of nerves.
You were writhing. He pressed his tongue in and out of you, making small movements with each lick that put more pressure on your clit. His movements started slow and sloppy, but with every minute became faster and more practiced. Now and then he would pause to take a breath, only to return to his movements, swirling his tongue around your bud.
You could only try to hold yourself back from pushing him too hard against you, muffling your cries with your other hand.
“Hah—that’s, this—fuck,” you gasped, trying to get the words out. “—feels so good, Damien–”
The pleasure was overwhelming, and you felt almost guilty for a moment for not paying him the same attention. But as you arched into him, it wasn’t just you seeking more friction. His hips moved in a slow motion, grinding against the bed as he ate you out.
The heat coursing through you was growing more intense, and each new groan and lick against your aching folds was pushing you closer and closer to the edge. Damien kept your legs apart with his hands, and it was getting harder and harder not to push them together.
That was when he figured out he could flutter his tongue quickly back and forth across your clit, leaving you squirming and crying his name. You snapped. Your legs shook, the muscles in your abdomen spasming as waves of pleasure crashed over you, one after the other.
A strangled cry left your lips when in the midst of your climax, he pressed a hard kiss to your clit, then a flat lick across your center, sending sharp sparks of overstimulated ecstasy through your muscles.
After a few long moments, you pulled him away from you and he pushed himself up, licking his lips. Hot tears pricked your eyes, your breath still labored. Damien’s mouth and chin were glossy, coated in your release. His eyes were half-lidded, a proud smile playing across his swollen lips.
“How was it?” he said, voice syrupy. You scoffed, swiping your thumb across his lower lip, holding his face in both hands.
“Fuck, Damien,” you said, breathless. “How– how do you know how to do that?”
“I just watched you,” he said. “You’re pretty responsive.” You flushed, laughing. You kissed him, lips crashing together as you caught your breath, tasting yourself on his tongue.
“I’d like you inside me now,” you said between kisses, peppering his mouth and jaw.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, grinning. He pulled away from you to move to the edge of the bed before standing, fingers hooking into his waistband before pulling the garment down, revealing his achingly hard cock. He was just under five and half inches long and uncut, a swath of thick, black hair at the base leading up to his belly in a dark happy trail.
You watched him, biting the inside of your cheek, anticipation building in your core.
He looked back to you, moving to climb back onto the bed, but you held out your hand, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. He looked at you confused for a moment before you gestured for him to come closer, standing as he took a seat on the edge of the bed. You held his gaze as you walked around to face him, before slowly crouching between his knees. His eyes widened with the realization, a dark fuchsia spreading across his features.
You settled on your knees in front of him, a hand resting on his thigh.
“What do you think?” You asked, pressing a kiss to the inside of his thigh. Damien swallowed, nodding.
“I don’t think I’ll last very long,” he said, sheepish. You smiled. Now it was your turn.
You leaned forward, licking a long stripe up the underside of his cock. He groaned, the muscles in his thigh tensing under your hand. You licked him again, this time tipping your head under him so his member rested heavy across your cheek, looking up at him. He watched you with wide eyes, mouth open. He reached down to hold your face with one hand, fingers curling under your jaw, this thumb sliding across your other cheek. You smiled at him. You could’ve sworn his breath was steamy, clouding the air.
You moved again, this time laying your tongue flat out on your bottom lip, using your other hand to position his head on your tongue. Then, with a slow movement, you closed your lips around him, pushing forward to take him into your mouth. He shuddered, his cock twitching in your mouth.
“Mn— ‘t’s so warm,” he groaned, head bent down, his other hand gripping the sheets.
Moving forward, you took more of him into your mouth, moving your tongue around the soft flesh of the underside. His head pushed up against the inside of your cheek under his thumb. He felt the bulge in your mouth with his thumb, mesmerized as you bobbed your head, taking as much of him as you could. You stroked the base with your other hand, collecting the foamy spit bubbles that escaped your lips to lubricate your motions.
“Hah—hah–” he breathed heavily, cock twitching against your tongue. “—m’ close, really close—fuck-”
You looked up at him once before moving your hand to cup his balls gently, then you took a breath through your nose before pushing forward, swallowing to take his entire member into your mouth and just down your throat, pressing your nose to the base.
“Fuck–fuck—!” Damien gasped. You hollowed your cheeks, inhaling the scent of the soft hair that tickled your face, squeezing your eyes shut as you tried to hold the position as long as you could. His balls tensed in your hand as he ejaculated, thick ropes of cum hitting the back of your throat. Choking slightly, you pulled back, letting him sit on your tongue, collecting the rest of his spend. Finally, he relaxed, and you gave a quick lick to his head that had him jolting before closing your mouth, looking up at him as you swallowed heavily.
He could only pant as he looked down at you, holding your face. You turned to kiss his palm with a tenderness that had him hard all over again.
“You think you can go again?” You asked. He nodded, his hand leaving your jaw to take your elbow as you stood up, knees stinging. The soft surface of the bed was a welcome change as you hopped up onto the bed, shuffling onto your back against the pillows. You stretched to pull one of the pillows out from under you, tucking it behind your hips, propping yourself up slightly.
Damien moved to join you, settling on his knees between your legs. With one hand holding himself near your entrance, he leaned down over you with his other, pressing a kiss to your tired lips. You reached down with one hand, taking his head into your palm, your other hand pressing flat against his chest.
“You tell me what to do, okay?” he said, eyes meeting yours. You nodded.
“Start really slow, and I’ll tell you when to start moving,” you said, anticipation leaving your mouth dry. He nodded, then moved his hips forward. You guided him to your entrance, flinching as the head kissed your drenched slit. You took a breath in, then exhaled as he pushed forward, stretching you open.
“Ah—!” you yelped, hand leaving your core to grip the sheets as your muscles stung, stretching to accommodate him. Damien froze, looking at you with a worried expression.
“What’s wrong? Does it hurt?” he asked, hand moving to caress your neck.
“—It’s-’ts okay, I’m okay,” you gasped. “Feels–feels really big–” The pain ebbed after a moment, leaving you feeling strained, but full.
“Hah—you can keep going,” you said. Damien nodded, slowly pushing a little further.
“Aah—hah–!” you gasped, the ache radiating through your pelvic floor.
“Hold onto me,” Damien offered, moving your arm under his shoulder. You did as you were told, digging your nails into his back and breathing deeply as he inched forward. The minutes were long, but slowly, the pain faded into only the satisfying stretch of him buried in you.
“I think you can move now,” you said, nodding. Damien breathed, then drew his hips back slowly. You moaned at the feeling of him moving against your walls, clinging to him as he pushed back in. He moved like that for a few long minutes, watching you intently as your expression relaxed. He pressed a kiss to your jaw.
“Okay—hah—a little faster, please,” you said. He was happy to oblige. The quiet, wet sounds of where you were joined filled the room. The gentle slap of his hips against yours had you seeing stars.
You looked up at him and let go with one of your hands, letting it drop to the bed beside you. He looked at you with a questioning look. You huffed out a laugh between thrusts.
“I’m worried I’ll hurt you,” you said “I think I’m scratching you up.” Damien laughed.
“I’m not worried about that,” he said, voice tense with effort. You reached up and ran your thumb through his eyebrow, collecting the sweat that clung to his forehead and hair. He paused for a moment, panting above you.
“You’re so good to me, Damien,” you said.
He leaned forward, pressing a long, gentle kiss to your lips.
“I love you,” he whispered against your mouth. Your heart drummed in your chest, your hand holding the side of his neck. One of his hands moved from where he supported himself by your head down over your belly to your hip, where it drifted over to press two fingers into the soft flesh just above your clit. Your breath caught in your throat, legs squeezing his hips where he was buried in you.
“Stay open for me,” he said, opening his legs slightly to push your thighs apart. His commanding tone wrecked you, and all you could do was nod.
Then, he started moving again. Each thrust was harder than the last, his pace quickening with the sound of your gasping in his ear.
Your legs twitched with every thrust, his hand pressing small circles into your throbbing clit. You said his name over and over like a prayer as the blood rushed in your ears, the pleasure building to an almost painful plateau.
“ –Hah—Damien, I–!” you couldn’t get the words out.
“Come for me, sweetheart,” Damien said, forehead falling to yours. You moaned in a gasp as the pressure finally burst, your legs squeezing his hips and your other hand clawing at his shoulder. You felt yourself clenching around him, sparks of intense pleasure shooting through your muscles as the moment passed. Damien was pressed deep into you, holding still as you rode out your climax.
Finally, your muscles relaxed, and you loosened your grip on him.
“Can I move again?” Damien asked, voice strained. Your hand at his neck moved into his hair, and you nodded, pulling his dark locks slightly. He shuddered into your touch as his hips slid back before thrusting back into your doubly slick heat. You gasped as he chased his own high, his cock twitching inside you. He tried to say something, but it only came out as a strangled gasp.
“Inside, inside,” you said, voice laced with exhaustion and pleasure. “Please, Damien–” That was all he needed. You cried out as he pushed into you again, colliding with your overstimulated nerves as he spilled into you. Warmth spread through you as he groaned into your shoulder, shaking.
Finally, he collapsed, supported only by his elbows at either side of your head, sweat darkening his ruffled hair. You massaged his scalp, murmuring how good he’d been for you, and how good he felt loosening inside you while he pressed tired kisses to your forehead. Gingerly, he pulled out of you, a thin string of your combined fluids still connecting you. You felt starkly empty without him in you.
With a quiet groan, he managed to push himself off of you, laying at your side. You turned to face him, his hand still holding your arm as you shifted to your side. You stayed like that for a few minutes, breathing deeply and whispering about how tired you were.
You sat up carefully, moving your legs to hang over the side of the bed. You stood, intending to head to the bathroom to get cleaned up, but it only took one overly ambitious step for you to collapse, legs giving out and yelping at the ache in your core. Damien shot up, only managing to reach for you before you fell, sitting on the floor with your legs crumpled beneath you.
Damien rushed to your side as you laughed, embarrassed.
“I think you rearranged some things,” you said through your giggles. Damien huffed, when a smile spread across his face.
“What–” you started to ask what he was thinking of, but yelped as he scooped you up bridal-style, your arms flying around his neck as you scrambled to steady yourself.
“Damien!” you giggled. “I’m too heavy!” He just ignored you, stepping slowly through the room as you giggled and kicked.
Your heart ached in your chest as you laughed, overwhelmed by your fool of a husband.
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!
TW: Injury, Hospital stay, Trauma, Nightmares, gore
Going to a hospital in Georgetown was out of the question.
In Damien’s few waking moments after the exorcism, you discovered that the police might be holding him under some suspicion for Burke Dennings’ death, along with some bizarre vandalism at the church. You couldn’t rule out that they’d be looking for him after Father Merrin’s death, either.
Apparently, there was one detective in particular that seemed to be after him. But that wasn’t the only reason to get out of Georgetown. The deep purple bruises clearly shaped like clutching fingers blooming across your neck would make anyone suspicious – not to mention the nurses at the emergency room you had visited for the last several days during Damien’s stay.
You decided on New York. You were grateful your car was still parked nearby.
Thus, in the freezing early hours of the morning, you and Dyer limped from the back gate of St. Michael’s, trying your best to be discreet – perhaps more a fantasy than an actual goal.
Once you were in the car, you let out an anxious breath. Dyer volunteered to drive – you were grateful to take him up on his offer, still aching and nauseous from the evening.
Even if it had only been one night, leaving the suffocating walls of the church was a relief in its own right. As Dyer began the four-hour drive, you looked back at Damien, who was slumped half-awake in the back seat.
You couldn’t really… speak. The pain in your throat kept you silent – though neither of your companions seemed very conversational either. You turned on the radio, grateful for the light, familiar sound of Stevie Wonder’s “Happier Than the Morning Sun” filling the car.
About an hour into the ride, you looked back at Damien – something you seemed to have to do every few minutes, afraid he might suddenly disappear – and found him staring right back at you. The bags under his eyes were heavy, eyes glassy. You looked down.
It took you a moment to realize he was looking at your neck, where shadows of his hands peeked out from under the hood of one of his sweaters. You had tried to hide it – but it was hard to ignore.
What could you even say to him? Even if you could say the words, you knew there wasn’t anything you could do to make him forgive himself from nearly killing you. It hadn’t truly sunken in for you either.
You elected to push the realization away, kicking it down a road you knew was a dead end. At least you had a future to ignore it with.
Even so, you couldn’t relax knowing he was torturing himself with the thought. Damien was the type to bottle up his feelings, yes – but he was also the type to internalize his shame, playing it over in his head until it was all he could think about.
So, you threw him a line. Selecting your undamaged hand, you reached behind you, offering an open palm. He looked down at your hand, hesitating. Maybe it was too soon, you thought with a wince.
But then you felt his clammy hand find yours, gingerly taking your offer. He didn’t apply an ounce of strength, like he was holding a fragile butterfly. You smiled.
—
You managed to hide your injury for a few minutes, staying with Damien and Dyer as they checked-in, Dyer doing most of the talking. The story was that you had been in a minor accident. You tried to follow them – but a nurse pulled you aside to examine your hand, and you spent the rest of the time separated.
The cool gloved fingers of the doctor brought tears to your eyes as they poked and prodded - and eventually asked you to disrobe. You felt like a child, hesitating and losing focus, somehow hoping if you zoned out, the well-meaning man might leave you alone. You wanted to push their hands away and curl up in a corner – but it had to be done.
Bandages for your knees, X-rays and plaster for your hand, more X-rays for bruised ribs, and finally, a detailed examination of your neck.
Not being able to speak didn’t stop the questions.
“Did you lose consciousness while being strangled?”
“Would you like to press charges or file a police report?”
“Did someone you know do this to you? Was it either of the men you came with?”
You shook your head for what seemed like an hour. You couldn’t blame the staff, you’d be just as inclined to be concerned. People don’t choke themselves, and car accidents don’t leave fingerprints.
Then, suddenly, you were finished. The cool plastic of the pale blue chair pressed into your back as you waited in the lobby, head down, the ice pack given to you pressed to your neck, and trying to breathe deeply. It wasn’t easy, and worse, it was boring. You were surprised that you managed to get away without being admitted – you hoped the boys would be as lucky.
Dyer was the first to emerge. You smiled at him when you saw him.
The first thing you noticed were the bandages across the bridge of his nose, a small metal plate reinforcing the structure. Thick gauze wrapped around his head, his torn ear invisible under the compress.
Thankfully, you’d had the forethought to change their clothes before you left, so Damien wouldn’t arrive in a different hospital’s garment, and Dyer wouldn't be so distracting in his cassock.
He plopped down in the chair next to you. You looked over at him, opening your mouth to ask but wincing instead.
“Seems like he’s still in, I don’t know how long it’ll take,” He said. You nodded. Leaning your head against his shoulder, you closed your eyes, listening to the busy sounds of the lobby.
—
As long as he was holding your hand, Damien could at least pretend to be a functioning person. So needless to say, the hospital visit was rough. He was quickly wheeled away in a wheelchair, hand slipping away from yours as you were led to another room. You gave him one last look before turning away.
He didn’t respond when the nurses asked him about the crash, what kind of car he had been in or where he’d been sitting. He kept his eyes glued to the checkered floor, trying to focus on his breathing. Damien wanted to scream, to stand up and run out, to hide under a table like a scared animal.
He wanted them to stop touching him. But the pain that ripped through his chest with every breath and the stinging gashes in his wrists kept him still. He could bear this if it meant he could get out of here and back to you faster.
“Sir, how did you sustain these injuries?” The doctor’s voice was serious and commanding, waking him from his thoughts. He pulled his arm away from where she held his wrist, the ragged, clotted gashes already seeping with a deep ache.
“I…” Damien rasped, mind racing. “I was r-reaching for something when we crashed. My hands got… caught.”
The older woman stared at him, one eyebrow raised.
“The socks were all I had,” he said.
“Alright, Mr.. Karras,” She sighed, shaking her head, reaching slightly for his arm once more. He hesitated, but finally let her and another nurse pry the limb away from him. He screwed his eyes shut as they explained that they’d have to give him stitches. A needle pushed into his skin, the thin point burning through his sensitive flesh.
He didn’t have the energy to flinch.
When he was finally released, it was late in the day. He sat up straighter now in the wheelchair, aware with the prospect of seeing you and Dyer waiting for him. He couldn’t… remember much from the days before. Fleeting memories of Reagan’s exorcism flashed through his mind. A different hospital. Then, the church.
The last thing he could comprehend was waking up next to you on the floor of his room, Dyer over him. You looked relieved.
But in the hours since then, your face was colored with apprehension. You kept a wary eye on him at all times, drifting in and out of his vision. It was when he noticed the dark bruises blackening on your neck that he realized that you were… afraid of him.
He must have hurt you. He must have hurt Dyer. The crushing exhaustion kept the guilt creeping up his throat at bay, for now, and the thought moved no further. Keeping his mind blank was easy.
It was seeing you in the waiting room that caught his breath in his throat. His eyes stung with tears that threatened to spill as he saw you slack against Dyer, head propped up on a thick white collar around your neck. Your eyes were sunken and dark, one of your hands encased in a thick plaster in your lap. Dyer wasn’t much better.
Damien swallowed. He opened his mouth to say something, but couldn’t make a sound. What could he say?
Dyer saw him first. He reached over to wake you. Damien wanted to tell him not to, no, let her sleep, she needs it, but you were already blinking awake. You yawned, rubbing your eyes and wincing.
He couldn't meet your gaze when you looked at him, eyes full of concern.
—
When your trio arrived at the brick apartment building you called home, he could feel your demeanor relax. He wondered how long it had been since you were back at your own apartment.
The sun was setting now, washing the cracking concrete steps to the front door in golden light. Damien looked across the several windows peeking through the vines drowning the facade and wondered which one was yours. He’d never actually seen your apartment here, he realized with a pang of guilt. You had always come to him.
You stepped out of the car first, starting for the door and digging through your pockets for the keys. Dyer left next, walking around the side of the car to open the back door where Damien sat waiting like a child. It was strange how weak he was. After so many years running, boxing, and just being able to walk as easily as he did, his hollow frame was foreign to him.
Embarrassed but unwilling to offend his friend’s unending patience, he approached the building leaning on Dyer for support.
One silent, shaky elevator ride later, you opened the door to your apartment, specks of dust floating through the sun coming from the windows. Dyer set him down gingerly on the deep green corduroy cushions of your couch as you asked him to open the windows in your bedroom around the corner.
Pulling the curtains back, you tried to open the window in the living room, only to freeze, brow furrowed, remembering your hand. You tried with your good hand, but couldn’t make it budge. You sighed, clearly annoyed.
Mustering all of his energy, Damien rose from the couch, shuffling over to your side. You noticed him with a turn of your head, quick to refuse his help, telling him he should rest. He was tired of resting.
His hands gripped under the edge of the window, willing it to slide open. You watched for a moment before stepping closer to him, your good hand joining his. Together, slowly and painfully, you wrenched it open, the cool evening air rushing into the warm, stuffy room between your bodies. You looked over and smiled at him, your hand touching his arm in a brief gesture of gratitude.
He didn’t deserve any of your kind looks, he thought. But a wave of warm, excited pride washed over him, and as silly as it was, he wanted to chase the feeling. He gestured to the window next to it, hoping to help you again. The domestic normalcy was addictive.
With all of the windows open and the stale air flushing out of the room, you seemed a little more at ease. He couldn’t help but relish the proximity as you stood next to him, watching the dry leaves outside clatter and shake in the breeze. Your hair shifted slightly around your face, eyelashes catching the last of the sun with a golden glint.
Even though he could feel himself shaking slightly with the effort of staying standing, he stared at you happily, content to watch your subtly changing expressions.
“Are you sure you don’t need me to stay?” Dyer’s voice cut through the quiet. You looked over to him, turning.
“No, I’m sure we can manage,” You said, walking over to him. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay? It’s a long train back to DC.”
Dyer shook his head.
“I need to get back to the church,” he said. “Someone needs to explain things for them. Not sure what I’ll tell them yet, but four hours should be enough time to think of something.”
He smiled, and you leaned forward, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. He hugged you for a moment before looking over to where Damien stood, leaning against the wall. You stepped back from him, watching as he hugged Damien next, arms bracketing his shoulders.
Damien was a little surprised by the gesture, but patted the man’s shoulder in return. It was the most he could do.
“I’ll see you soon, Damien,” Dyer said next to him. “Call if you need anything.” Damien nodded. He’d miss his steady, faithful presence, but he was grateful for his willingness to confront the confusing circumstances of the last weeks. He didn’t envy him the task.
“Thank you, Father,” Damien croaked. Dyer gave him one last sincere look before pulling away, waving as he stepped out of your apartment. The door closed with a gentle click.
“So,” you started, offering your arm. “Want the tour?” Damien smiled, nodding. With a deep breath, he took your arm. As you stepped away, he stumbled slightly, refusing to actually put any of his weight on you. He inhaled quickly as he felt your hand slide around his waist, shifting his arm up around your shoulders.
“It’s okay,” You huffed. “I can handle you.” He nodded brusquely, clearing his throat. A heated blush crept up across his skin.
You shuffled through all of the apartment’s three rooms, explaining details about each. First, a small bedroom with a window, then the bathroom, and finally the kitchen, attached openly to the living room. Damien drank it all in.
Everything smelled like you, sweet and earthy. The walls were covered in paintings and drawings, many of which were clearly made by children – your past students. Jars filled partway with water were scattered on every surface, some holding wilted flowers, others holding paint brushes. Books crowded shelves, others lying in tall stacks or filed neatly in milk crates.
“Feels… homemade,” Damien said, fingers trailing through patched curtains.
“Thank you,” you laughed. “A lot of it is secondhand. I didn’t bring much when I… moved in.” He watched you as you paused, the memory clearly still painful.
“I like it,” he said. “It’s very you.”
You smiled at him. I should have been there, he thought. You cleared your throat.
“Anyway, what’s mine is yours. And I’ll change the sheets so you can take the bed-” you started, but he cut you off. The thought of making you sleep on your couch in your own apartment was unacceptable.
“No,” he said, simply. “The couch?” You raised an eyebrow at him, but he was already limping out of your room, taking you with him.
“It’s a fold-out,” you said. “Dames, it’s really very comfortable, I’ll be fine-”
“Help me set it up?” He asked. You huffed, seemingly accepting defeat.
“Just a warning, it’s pretty squeaky,” you said, lowering him to sit on the edge of your scuffed coffee table. You handed him one of the thinning cushions, tossing the other to the side before bending over to pull a folded metal frame from the back of the empty space. Damien tried to make himself useful, leaning forward to lift the other end, the frame screaming as you unfolded it.
The full bed was almost twice as wide as a twin bed, but a few feet shorter. A thin, slightly stained white mattress sat loosely on the frame, bunched strangely where it had been folded for years. You touched one yellow-ish stain, grimacing slightly.
“We can make this work,” you said, straightening and padding away to your room. Damien waited patiently, listening to your rustling. You returned, arms full of blankets and sheets of all colors. After lots of careful pulling and spreading and lots of bedding, you’d managed to make the bed look quite comfortable. Standing back, you looked at your work.
“Artful,” Damien said, impressed. You huffed a short laugh.
“I minored in bed-making,” you quipped.
The sun had set now, and the autumn air moving in through the windows had turned uncomfortably chilly. You made your way around the apartment, closing them with an awkward, leaning push one by one.
Damien heard your stomach grumble and you cringed with the realization.
“Sorry,” you said. “I don’t remember the last time I ate, actually.” Damien shook his head. You rifled through your cabinets, opening your fridge for a moment before shutting it again.
“I’ll have to go shopping soon,” you said. “Turns out leaving all your food sitting for days on end doesn’t keep it fresh. Who knew?”
“How does…” you started arranging things on your counter, jars and cans clacking against the hard surface. “Soup, crackers, pickles, and… PB&Js sound?”
“Amazing,” Damien said. Clinging to furniture and walls, he limped his way over to where you busied yourself, struggling quietly to open a jar with one hand. Damien held out his hand to you when you noticed him, moving to pull a chair over.
“Only if you’ll sit down,” you said, holding the jar to your chest. He sighed, lowering himself to the chair and holding out his hand again. You handed him the jar.
—
You were surprised at how little you were able to eat. The task of cooking had been a welcome distraction from the aching of your body, but after it all, you had only managed a few small bites. Damien was much the same, though you urged him to try to eat more. The rest you figured would make an unconventional breakfast.
It was about 11pm when you started to make your way to bed. With your combined injuries, everything was a project of irritating proportions, but having someone to be frustrated with helped.
With a click, you turned off the lamp outside the door of your room, saying a quick goodnight to Damien before closing the door as softly as you could manage. With a privacy you hadn’t enjoyed in several days, you wanted to flop across your bed and give up for the day, but your throbbing ribs and aching neck protested.
Slowly and carefully, you peeled off Damien’s clothes, discarding them in an overfull hamper in your closet. Dressed in fresh undergarments, an oversized T-shirt and pair of sleep shorts, you crawled into your bed, shifting and pulling pillows up and around your shoulders to try and support your neck. After tossing and turning for several long, frustrating moments, you finally settled into your bed, body straining to relax into the soft surface.
You shut your eyes, and breathed slowly, willing sleep to take you.
Long, silent moments stretched through your body, coiling heavily in your limbs like writhing snakes. Blinking in the darkness, you convinced yourself you were simply overtired, trying instead to focus on the wall ahead of you.
Panic seeped in again, this time settling in your legs, your blood rushing in your ears, echoing against your pillow. Every breath felt syrupy, filling your mind with dark shapes and flashing thoughts.
Your breathing returned to your terrified ears as rattling, rasping breaths. Was Damien choking, trying to ask for help on the other side of the wall?
You swallowed, trying to keep yourself together. It was just the memory of everything getting to you. Pressing against your shoulder with your hand, you tried to soothe yourself through the dread. But every moment was worse.
Your eyes flew open, stomach lurching when the quiet ticking of your clock morphed into the muffled crunch of Damien’s ribs under Dyer’s compressions, a sound you didn’t know you’d heard until you were hearing it again. A strangled sob left your lips, eyes scouring the dark.
He was dead. Damien was lying still and cold in your living room. You were certain of it.
You tried to breathe, but your throat closed and your body froze with a spidering, hot panic. All that left your lips were desperate, muffled cries. The sheets seemed to be suffocating you, heavy as lead as you tried with all your might to kick them off.
In the midst of your terror, you noticed something felt… wet.
Was it happening again? Maybe you never left that cold bathroom tile. Maybe the life was spilling out of you all over again. A scream ripped through your clenched teeth.
Please, God, you prayed. Please, please, please- I can’t do this.
All at once, your eyes flew open to warm light flooding your room, and you were still. Thin sheets clung to your skin through cold sweat, and you could breathe. You sucked in one cold breath after another. A large hand held steady to your shoulder, and you clung to it, mind reeling as the room came into focus.
You found Damien’s eyes first, his expression tense with worry. His mouth was moving, but the static hadn’t quite left your ears – you settled for watching his eyes. You didn’t want to blink, as if even a moment of darkness might make him vanish.
His thumb pressed slow, sliding motions into the tense flesh of your shoulder. Focusing on the rhythm was relieving. As the moments passed, holding his gaze and breathing as deeply as you could, his voice filled your ears.
“That’s it, that’s it,” he said, voice still a little hoarse even as he whispered. “You’ve got it now.”
You knew you were coming out of your panic when the embarrassment started to wash over you.
“I’m sorry,” you said. You’d meant it to sound confident, relaxed – like you didn’t need to be coached out of a nightmare. But your voice betrayed you, breaking miserably. “I’m sorry, I-I feel so stupid-”
“No, no, no,” Damien whispered. You squeezed your eyes shut, hot tears streaming down your face, nose running. “Nothing to be sorry for.”
You sniffed disgustingly, chuckling slightly at the noise.
“Auhg,” You said, pulling your arm away from him to hold a hand under your running nose. “I’m so gross.”
Damien struggled carefully to his feet from where he’d been kneeling at your side, stepping away for a moment only to return with a handful of tissues, sitting on the side of your narrow bed.
“Thank you,” You muttered before blowing your nose. “Did I wake you up? What time is it?”
Damien shook his head, watching you.
“I didn’t get far either,” He said, looking at the clock on your wall, the hands reading an early 2:40 am. You blew your nose again.
“That’s better than I thought, actually,” You said. He nodded, eyes watching the clock.
A few long minutes passed as you steadied your breathing, gathering your thoughts when something occurred to you. After everything that had happened, it didn’t seem… inappropriate. You gathered your courage and broke the silence.
“Can I ask you something really pathetic?” You said, watching his face as he turned to you, eyebrows slightly raised.
“Shoot,” he said.
“Can I… sleep on the couch with you?” You asked, self-conscious. He paused for a moment, expression still. You kicked yourself mentally.
“Can I tell you something really pathetic?” He asked. You nodded. “I would love that.” You couldn’t help but grin, shoving his shoulder weakly.
He stood, and you slid off of the bed, gathering what pillows and blankets you could before following him shakily out of the room. Climbing onto the slightly cramped, squeaky contraption, you did your best to support your injuries, the two of you shuffling around awkwardly in the sheets. Light glowed dimly from your still open door, muting the darkness of the apartment. The cooler air in this room already made the bed seem warmer, though your feet dangled slightly from the end.
Rolling over once more, you met Damien’s eyes across the flimsy mattress. Reaching out, you held onto the edge of the blanket across his shoulders, smoothing your thumb across the soft cotton. Slowly, your eyelids grew heavy and your shoulders relaxed, soothed by the warmth of a body at your side.
You slept deeply and silently.
—
Getting out of bed was difficult. Your joints ached, back protesting any movement. Worst of all, despite your soreness, you were undeniably comfortable, curled up around a perfectly bizarre stack of pillows you were sure you’d never be able to replicate.
After several minutes of hoping you’d drift off again, you decided to do the adult thing and get yourself up, eyes straining in the rare autumn sun filling the room through your thin curtains.
Stretching a bit, you started to push yourself up – when your perch shifted. Leaning back onto your hips, you realized the “pillows” was only one pillow, half-propped up across Damien’s ribs, his hand still clinging loosely to your shoulders from where you’d been draped across him.
You tensed, warmth spreading across your features at the realization. Gently, you slipped out from under his arm, retreating from the warmth of the bed. Damien huffed a long breath, shifting around your absence before seeming to relax again.
You watched him sleep for a few more minutes, studying his bruised features in the light of day: his darkening stubble, the creases at the corners of his eyes, the proud ridge of his nose, his thick, inky lashes. Brushing dark hair from his forehead, you noticed something different, your fingers hesitating. A lock of hair just above his left temple was lighter than the rest – in fact, as you looked closer, you realized the hair, surrounding the delicately healed skin of a gash that had invaded his hairline, was snowy white.
You were surprised you hadn’t noticed it before, but as you smoothed the soft fibers between your fingers, you didn’t care to think much about how many times he’d been hurt in the last few days. You drew your hand away with a quiet sigh.
Finally standing, your eyes found a clock, grimacing at the somewhat late morning. Noon is still morning… right?
Rolling your shoulders, you tiptoed to the kitchen, gingerly starting your coffee maker, wincing at its gurgling. As the earthy, warm smell filled your senses, you realized how badly you needed a shower. Setting out two mugs, you made your way to the bathroom, closing the door before starting the water.
The heat was as shocking as it was deeply soothing, reminding you of every bruise and scrape you’d sustained. You were careful to avoid putting too much pressure on the deep bruises around your neck, though you could feel your testing touches going too deep already- you hissed a breath through your teeth. The tight ache in your shoulders begged you to stretch more or press harder, but you were too intimidated by the pain to continue.
You left the bathroom refreshed and warm, if a little sore. Toweling your hair awkwardly, you padded into the kitchen, excited to drink a cup of coffee of your own. The neck brace sat abandoned by your sink, waiting to be restored once your skin dried.
A low groan caught your attention as you poured yourself a cup of the bitter, liquid gold. Damien was bent over at the side of the bed, shoulders hunched, a hand raking through his hair.
“I might’ve… lied a little bit when I said the pull-out was comfortable,” You said, sipping your drink. “Coffee?”
“Please,” He said, bones cracking as he stretched. You dismissed the hair-thin panic that flashed through you with the sound. You heard him approach you from behind, but his steps halted, paused for a long moment, and finally retreated from you. Odd, you thought.
You turned, holding the two mugs against your middle with one hand, slowly making your way to where he sat once more, eyes glued to the floor. You sat beside him, setting your cup on the floor by your feet before holding the second out to him.
“Penny for your thoughts?” You asked. He looked at you from the edge of his vision, swallowing hard before taking the hot mug from your hands. He stayed silent.
“Hm,” You hummed, a little confused. You reached out to him slowly, brushing your fingers through his white hairs. “Did you notice you’ve got some new color?” Silence. He stared at you, not meeting your eyes. You pulled back your hand, suddenly embarrassed at your boldness. No wonder he was being so quiet.
You returned to your mug, sipping with a focused contemplation. A light touch to your neck made you jump, looking over to see Damien’s hand recoiled near your shoulder, eyes swimming with tears.
“Damien, what-” You started to ask, stunned.
“I-” He started, voice breaking slightly. “I did this?” Recognition flooded your senses, eyes suddenly pricking with tears. He saw your neck. The bruises.
You swallowed, nodding. He looked like he could wilt away, barely able to hold your gaze. You set down your mug, unsure of what to do next.
“It’s okay,” You whispered. It wasn’t him that did it, you thought. You knew that the moment his fingers clamped around your throat. It never crossed your mind to blame Damien. He shook his head, hand closed at his side.
Then he met your eyes again, a tear escaping down his cheek. His hand raised again, slowly, hesitating with every inch. You stayed still, watching for a moment before leaning your neck just slightly – an invitation.
You flinched slightly when the pad of his finger met your tender skin, but held yourself steady. His skin was rough and warm as he traced feather-light touches across each mottled bruise, following the outline of his fingers on your flesh. Your eyes fluttered shut, taking in the sensation.
His palm drifted across your collarbones, settling in the deep mark at the hollow of your neck, exactly where his hand had crushed the blood vessels only a night before.
You swallowed, tears running down your face. Each tender touch was a profound comfort, scratching an itch you forgot you were feeling. You tilted your head subtly into his hand, the heat of his touch penetrating the tender flesh.
His weight shifted beside you, his other hand cupping your shoulder in a moment. Your heart throbbed, caught between emotion and apprehension.
In a moment, your eyes flew open, a new sensation drawing a quiet whimper from your lips. The bridge of Damien’s nose pressed under your jaw, eyelashes tickling your cheek as he pressed a soft kiss to your throat.
“I’m so sorry,” He whispered against your skin. You could barely breathe for the tears streaming down your face. His lips moved slightly, finding a new bruise to place a gentle kiss over. “I’m so sorry.”
You tried to tell him it was okay, really it was okay – it doesn’t even hurt half as much as it did – but the words stayed silent on your tongue, melting with every whispered apology.
—
Two weeks passed before either of you could return to the rest of the world. You started slowly, first walking around the block, then through the park, until finally you could manage grocery shopping.
Each day was a little easier, and it helped tremendously to see the change in Damien as he healed. His steps lightened, his appetite returned, his cheeks no longer hollow. Best of all, he could focus again, each night filled with hushed conversation as he read through your collection of worn books.
Dyer visited a few days after he left for St. Mike’s. He seemed to have recovered a bit as well, his nose brace gone and the gauze on his ear reduced to a large adhesive bandage. The visit was more than a return to normalcy however. He came with questions for Damien from the church.
You listened intently as Dyer explained that his superiors were concerned for Damien’s health, but were more concerned about the aftermath of what happened on Prospect street. They had approved the initial exorcism, but with Father Merrin’s death and the unsolved murder of Burke Dennings, they were eager to hear Damien’s account.
As the three of you debated what to do, the answer became uncomfortably clear: If Damien was going to stay out of prison, you would have to lie. Even if you could convince the church of the truth, the police wouldn’t believe anything you had to say. Your only hope was to declare that nothing had happened after Damien left the MacNeil house.
You wrote a statement: Damien had been injured in some freak accident in the same fashion as Dennings, and has been staying with you ever since to recover. Father Merrin had died of a heart attack while performing the approved exorcism on Reagan MacNeil, which had been successful. Ultimately, Damien was still unfit to travel to give the statement in person, but you and Dyer could confirm the contents of the letter to be truthful, thus protecting his alibi.
Dyer’s last question was the hardest. Would Damien return to the church?
The silence was heavy across your trio as Damien considered his answer. You prepared yourself to hear his choice, reminding yourself of his commitment to the church, to God, to his faith. This was his entire life, and he had always chosen it before. A hollow ache radiated through your chest. It was nice while it lasted, you thought. You’d survive this again.
“No,” Damien’s voice cut the quiet. You froze, bewildered. You couldn’t believe it.
“I’ll return as soon as I’m able,” He continued. “To move out.”
Dyer held his gaze for a moment, silently asking if he was sure.
“Sorry to leave it to you, father,” Damien said, unmoving. “But you were always the better preacher.”
Dyer smiled, nodding, seemingly satisfied. You still hadn’t really taken a breath. You couldn’t believe it.
Even now, as you packed seemingly endless papers, notebooks, and books into boxes in his room, the realization that Damien was leaving this place for good had barely sunken in.
After Dyer had left that day, he’d scrambled to apologize for the implication that he might be staying with you indefinitely. He insisted he would find somewhere to live, though you’d stopped him. As far as you were concerned, he could stay with you forever, perhaps with the condition that you buy a bigger bed. If you could forgive his assumption, he could forgive yours. He had no objections.
Everything was so new. You were going to have a new roommate.
Returning to the room where he’d been living was far from easy, however. Armed with a radio, cardboard boxes, and a will to leave the space as fast as possible, the work of packing was going quickly. Dyer had moved several days before, similarly eager not to replay the events of that night.
The clutter slowly condensed at your hands as golden flecks of dust clouded the air, the tune of Listen to the Music by the Doobie Brothers filling the comfortable silence of your movements.
Then, a crisp knock on the door caught your attention. You looked over to Damien, who was surrounded by precarious piles of books and boxes. He shrugged, and started to step his way out of his prison.
“Pffff-” You snorted. “I’ve got it, I’ve got it.” He nodded, steadying a swaying pile as you stepped towards the door through the chaos of the room.
Another knock, louder than the last, startled you as you faced up to the door, hand already turning the knob.
With a tug, the thin wood swung open to reveal two older men dressed in layers of black, white collars bright at their necks. You didn’t recognise them, but they were clearly priests. Your skin prickled as the man standing closest to the door scowled at you, lip curling.
“Good morning, can I help you?” You asked, choosing to look at the other man, who didn’t seem quite as repulsed by you.
“Is this the residence of Father Damien Karras?” The scowling man spoke up.
“Yes,” You started, taken aback by his strangely accusing tone. “I’m a friend of his, He’s actually just-”
“Oh I know who you are,” The man said, voice lined with the emphasis of disapproval.
“Yes, I’ve done some work for the church in the past, you might’ve seen me around,” You said, trying to stay above his attitude.
“It’s bad enough that you’ve seduced the man,” He sneered. “But this is private property, and Father Karras has yet to stand to council at this institution. You’ll have to tell him that he cannot simply send his call girl to fight his battles for him.”
“Excuse me?” Offense sprang up through you, your face burning. You were deeply unprepared to be called a whore by a priest when you answered the door. The other man seemed to recoil a bit at his words, brow furrowing with surprise.
The tumbling of a stack of items came from the room behind you, and before you could turn to investigate the sound, a warm hand gripped your shoulder. The sneering priest shrank into himself.
Damien seemed to fill the narrow doorway behind you, a dark, hulking anger filling the hallway.
“Damien-” You started, looking up at his stony expression. He squeezed your shoulder, meeting your eyes with conviction. You swallowed, happy enough to let him take over the bizarre interaction.
“Father Hale,” He said, nodding sternly at the man in front of you. “Father Diaz. Did Father Dyer give you my message?”
Father Hale opened his mouth to say something, eyes flitting from you to Damien, but Father Diaz stepped forward, shooting him a hard look. Hale closed his mouth.
“Yes, Father Hale and I simply wanted to see you well and in person,” He said gently, clearly a bit embarrassed at Hale’s actions. “And to inform you that the council has asked for your presence.”
Damien said nothing, only held the man’s gaze.
“What I mean to say,” He said haltingly, glancing over to where Damien held you. “Is that the church is sorry to see you leave.” Damien sighed.
“Thank you for the thought, Father,” Damien said, nodding only slightly. Diaz smiled thinly, an uncomfortable apology written on his wrinkled features.
“We’ll leave you to it then,” Diaz said, steering a shrinking Hale down the hallway. “Bless you, Damien.”
Damien watched them go, holding you all the while. Hale didn’t dare look back.
As the door to the stairs closed with a heavy click, you finally breathed out.
“What- what was that?” You asked, hand resting atop Damien’s on your shoulder. He sighed.
“The best part of leaving the priesthood," He said.
—
Damien paced around Dyer’s office. The man was no stranger to visiting the church in times of distress or confusion, but this was different. He needed advice about you.
Dyer sat at his desk, watching his friend wear a path into the carpet. He couldn’t help but smile – as far as he was concerned, this was the best problem Damien could have.
“Is there any chance that I’m wrong?” Damien asked, looking over to where Dyer watched him. The priest sighed, shaking his head.
“I think she’s probably thinking the same thing, Damien,” he said. “In fact I think she has a lot more practice than you do with this.”
“Is it too soon?” Damien asked, resuming his movement between the window at the opposite wall before turning again to face Dyer, brows furrowed.
“I think you’ve waited long enough,” Dyer replied. “The two of you could write a very popular guide to the art of hopeless yearning.”
Damien scoffed, still unconvinced.
“Father, what if she can’t stand to be married again?” Damien stopped in the center of the room. Dyer’s smile slipped, his expression serious as he considered the question.
“Christian was–” Damien sighed, eyes dark. “I wouldn’t blame her if she never wanted to see a man again.”
Dyer rose from his chair, walking to meet his friend in front of his desk. He put a hand on his shoulder, urging him to face him.
“And yet, where has she been?” Dyer asked. Damien looked away, unconvinced. “Give her some credit, man!” His friend cracked a smile.
“She’s really incredible, isn’t she?” he said, eyes starry. Dyer took his other shoulder, shaking him slightly.
“God only knows how she’s beared it,” Dyer said, laughing. “Please, for heaven’s sake, propose to the woman.”
—
It was early spring. The already chilly air was growing colder as the sun set, already hidden behind the budding branches of the trees. The frozen soil crackled under your steps as you walked through the Manhattan park, watching your breath fog in front of you.
You clung to Damien’s arm, soaking up his warmth through the thick fabric of his coat. You liked to go on walks as often as possible, often at least once a day. However, today was special. Damien had suggested you take a cab to a further park, one you hadn’t visited in years. You were happy to accept, bundling up for the journey.
Now, as you ventured further and further through its winding trails, you rambled contently, commenting on a tree you remembered here, or a flicker-y lamppost there. Damien was quiet, expression unreadable under the surface of the shabbily-knitted scarf you’d given him so long ago.
Finally, when you’d exhausted your abilities as a one-sided conversationalist, you simply stayed quiet, wondering silently why Damien seemed so distant.
Then, he paused. You raised an eyebrow at him. He nodded to the side, and you followed his gesture to find an ornate iron bench standing between bergs of slowly melting snow.
“Do you remember this place?” he asked you. You blinked.
“Christmas,” you said simply. He nodded, stepping towards the bench. You followed, joining him to sit on the cold metal. You watched his face all the while, mind full of thoughts.
“It feels like a different lifetime,” you whispered, eyes glancing at the lock of white hair at his left temple. Damien suddenly turned to meet your eyes, his gloved hand coming to grip your arm where you held him.
“Do you like this lifetime?” he asked. You breathed, thinking for only a moment.
“Hm,” you breathed, thinking as you looked out at the landscape stretching away in front of you.
“I do,” you finally said, smiling.
You meant it. As bizarre as your life up to this point had been, you had to admit it had ended up alright. You had loyal friends, however scattered they might be, a fulfilling, though somewhat up and down career, and a beautiful, strange, overly serious ex-jesuit for a partner. You’d learned long ago to be happy with what you had, even if it meant abandoning certainty.
“You?” you asked. Any discomfort seemed to have Damien’s eyes, the golden light of the sunset catching in his caramel-brown eyes.
“That depends,” he said, voice quiet. “Will you marry me?”
Icy-hot shock coursed through you in a moment, eyes widening. Your mind raced. The world seemed to blur through the tears that immediately filled your eyes, heart hammering against your ribs. You looked away.
Suddenly too warm to stay so close to him, you stood quickly, stepping away from the bench. Damien stood shortly after, stammering a hundred apologies that barely reached you through your choking, hiccuping sobs.
“Please, forget I said anything—I’m so stupid, please,” Damien’s hands hovered at your shoulders as you wiped away tears and snot you couldn’t pull yourself together enough to care about.
Finally, you looked up at him, his expression desperate. Your face was stained with tears, your breaths syrupy and face blotchy, a smile spreading wide across your face.
“I really thought you’d never ask,” you said, voice cracking. Damien’s eyes lit up.
“So–?” he said, holding you by the shoulders and looking into your eyes. You sniffed, nodding as you blubbered.
He laughed, voice breathy and bright as he beamed at you, stepping back and spinning in place before launching into you, your arms flying around his neck as he spun you around. You sobs broke into laughter as you flew, legs lifting off the ground.
Finally, you thought. Finally.
Hey so. This took me actual years. This has been so rewarding and fun - seriously, thank you to any who have taken the time to read. Ily <3
What do I do with my life now
The answer to this question will come in the form of an NSFW epilogue chapter to be posted immediately after this chapter HA
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!
**Just a heads up, this one is pretty intense. Content warnings for sexual themes and gore. Tread with caution! :)
You claw your way though the longest night of your life.
Words: 2.8k
TW: Gore, NSFW, Injury, Death, Spooky Imagery
“I’m back, I’m back,” You said as you stepped back into the room, closing the door gingerly behind you.
Dyer looked up from where he knelt by the bed. Damien’s ashen form lay stretched, each limb strapped to a corner. Dyer’s face was stony, eyes glassy. You cleared your throat, swiping your thumbs under your puffy eyes.
“I’m sorry-” You started, but were interrupted by Dyer’s arms around yours, squeezing you awkwardly into his shoulder. You hesitated, but lifted your arms to his shaking shoulders. Your broken hand throbbed.
Though the man hadn’t been in your life quite as long as Damien, he was a faithful constant. The picture of clean-burning faith, Dyer had always felt slightly… distant. He was a dear friend, of course – the man officiated your wedding. But he was a friend of a friend – and perhaps, if you let yourself admit it, he represented everything that kept Damien from you. So you never quite let him in – arguably, this was the most time the two of you had ever spent alone together.
You let out a shaky sigh into his black jacket, nose aching at the uncomfortable angle. His warmth was a welcome break from the silent chill of the room, which seemed to grow colder by the minute. Even if it was frustrating, his unshakable faith was comforting.
A crackling laugh sent a chill through you. Dyer stiffened.
“I think it’s a little late for you to try women, Joe,” The creature said through Damien’s curling smile.
He wheezed, his laugh devolving into a choking cough. You glared over Dyer’s shoulder at his yellow eyes, peering at you through the dimly-lit dark. Maybe Dyer needed you as much as you needed him right now.
You squeezed him as hard as you could in your battered state, finally pulling away from him. His eyes were focused on the ground. You brought your good hand to his shoulder and squeezed, and his eyes raised to meet yours. You gave him what you could only imagine was a terrible smile.
Neither of you could say what you were thinking. You hoped he was as resolute as you were.
He sniffed, nodding, clapping you parentally on the shoulders.
“Let’s try the exorcism,” You said.
—
With all of Merrin’s notes spread out over the limited surfaces in the apartment and the curtains drawn, you roamed around, turning on every light you could, fluorescent light washing the small space in blue-white light.
You stuffed a towel under the door, hoping it would do something to give you more time before his neighbors inevitably came knocking about the… noise.
The monster laughed and chattered away while you busied yourselves, rasping out vulgarities and biting insults. You’d decided not to give it the satisfaction of a reaction.
Armed with a few pairs of fresh gym socks, you approached his bedside. The makeshift bandages holding his wrists together needed to be changed – you’d doused these in the antibiotic saline you’d found knocked over on the floor of the bathroom. It should be simple – he’s tied down, he can’t touch you – but you hesitated anyway.
“Y/n,” Dyer said from across the room.
He was dressed in a cassock with a purple stole, his hands evening the signature white collar. With an understanding look, he stepped over to you, taking the socks from your unsteady hands.
“I can do it,” He said, nodding. You swallowed, stepping away from the bed.
Keeping your eyes on Dyer’s careful movements, you decided to look through more of Damien’s clothes for some additional layers. You could see your breath now – a sweater would be a welcome upgrade from Damien’s shirt. As you moved, your gaze shifted to Damien’s, his eyes boring into you.
He was quiet.
The pale blue hospital gown clung to his form, his breath coming out in slow, thin clouds. He must be cold, you thought.
Standing on a milk crate of books in the doorway of his closet, your hands searched for your prize at the top of the space. Holding the bundle of heavy blankets in your arms, you lowered yourself again, padding over to the bed.
Dyer passed behind you as you threw one of the blankets over Damien, your eyes locked on his still face.
“Do the fancy clothes help?” You asked, cavalier.
Dyer gave a small smile, kneeling.
“Apparently,” He said with a huff. You gave an enthusiastic “mhmm” at that. You shouldn’t have dropped your guard, but your mind was tired. The moment almost felt… normal? You pushed your hands underneath the sides of Damien’s form to tuck the blanket in.
“You should see the stuff–” Dyer started, when Damien lurched towards him. You sucked in a breath as Dyer’s face twisted in a moment – his hands flying to where Damien’s teeth had bitten down on his ear.
“Fuck–!” Dyer screamed, trying to wrench his head away. Damien turned, pulling as Dyer struggled. You scrambled to him, your hands sliding between the two men, trying to find a grip on Damien’s jaw. His lips were slick with blood and spit, your broken hand pushing against Dyer’s head while your other curled around Damien’s jaw, trying with all your might to pull them apart as Dyer writhed.
With a sound like a wet rope snapping, Dyer managed to get free, falling back onto the floor with a groan, bright red blood pouring down his neck from where Damien had torn off a piece of his ear. You pitched forward, falling across Damien’s chest, your legs frantically slipping on the carpet trying to push you the opposite direction.
You made the mistake of looking at Damien, eyes wide in abject terror. In a second, he leaned up off the bed and kissed you, teeth crashing into yours.
In shock, you were still for a mere moment before the taste of blood and bile overwhelmed you, suddenly aware of his tongue in your mouth. Just as fast, you clawed your way off of him, spluttering and coughing.
Something was still in your mouth.
With a nauseating retch, you coughed it up onto the carpet, saliva tinted red stringing the offending object to your swollen lips – the curved, pale flesh of the top of Dyer’s torn ear.
You held a hand to your mouth as you stumbled to the kitchenette, throwing your face into the sink, the sound of your vomiting and Dyer’s ragged breaths filling your ears.
No, no, no– this is not getting the better of me, you thought, wiping your mouth. You turned on the faucet, gasping as you pushed your face under the cold water.
You stood, shaking the water from your face and wiping your eyes, willing the water to carry away your terror.
“Been wanting to do that since we were kids,” The creature said. You glared at its stupid, bloody smile and spit into the sink.
With a shaking breath, you dragged yourself over to Dyer, who was trying to stand up against the wall, hand still against the side of his head. His collar was stained red, one side of the purple stole stained a deep maroon. You led him to the sink, digging through the drawers for a kitchen towel.
“He’s going to be upset we trashed his room,” You said, holding a dish towel under the water. “Okay, deep breath–”
Dyer hissed as you eased his head under the water, using the rag to blot away some of the blood on his neck. You left him for a moment to return to the pile of bedding you’d left on the ground, pulling long ragged strips from a plain white sheet.
You dragged the project with you back to the sink, turning the faucet away from Dyer’s bloodied face. You took the towel and folded it against his ear, strapping it against his head with the bandages.
“You’re lucky I was a candy striper,” You said, watching Dyer’s knuckles turn white against the countertop while you added layer upon layer. Finally, the mess seemed like it would hold. You held his elbow to get him to a chair, where he collapsed back into the creaky wood.
Dyer swallowed.
“You were a candy striper?” He asked.
“Sure,” You huffed.
“You should’ve led with that,” He said. “I would’ve had you on the exorcist team much sooner.”
“You’re one to talk,” You nudged him. “Imagine what this is going to do for your resume.” He chuckled.
“This is going to take forever, isn’t it?” You asked, trying to ignore the bitter flavor of his blood lingering in your mouth. Dyer was quiet, reaching across the small kitchen table. You looked over as he handed you a thick bible, bookmarked to a deep chapter.
“You read the responses, I’ll start,” He said, opening his own bible. “Don’t stop, not for anything.”
—
The first few hours were simple. Thankful for the Latin you took in grad school, the reading seemed like what you’d expect from an exorcism. Dyer would pause now and then to splash holy water, sending Damien writhing – and you kept your eyes away from his as much as you could.
Dyer seemed to be united with you in refusing the creature any reactions, and eventually his uncanny chattering slowed and ceased. All that was left now was rattling breaths and sickening coughs.
Your head felt heavy, every blink a losing battle. The only thing keeping you awake now were the jolts of panic that would spike through you every time Damien would suddenly stop breathing, his chest heaving as a thick, green bile clogged his throat. You’d rush to his side, pulling him up as much as you could at arm’s length and hitting his back, urging him to cough it out.
Needless to say, you were in the splash zone.
When it neared 3 a.m., you were all splattered and stained in blood and vomit – and Damien was disturbingly silent. From his notes, it seemed clear that the ceremony should grow more violent as it continued – flashing lights, moving furniture, inhuman strength, convulsions, even vivid hallucinations – but there was nothing but the steady drawl of your prayers.
You were ashamed to admit it, but you almost… missed its voice. Now you were wracked with the strange, frustrating anxiety of hoping he wouldn’t die before you could liberate him.
Dyer’s voice seemed to have taken on the same hesitation yours had – was this even working?
It was nearly 5 a.m. when you were about to give up – to say something other than scripture – when a hoarse voice split the room.
“Mama?” Damien whispered. It sounded like his voice. You stopped reading.
He blinked against the harsh light of the room, pulling against the restraints at his limbs.
“Μαμά, πονάει,” His voice said, breaking. Your heart shattered. Your Greek wasn’t amazing – but you understood this phrase. Mama, it hurts.
“Damien?” You whispered. You couldn’t stand to hear him cry.
“Y/n, the response,” Dyer said, his tone stern. You knew you had to keep reading. So, even if your voice was breaking, throat tight with sorrow, you did.
The lights flickered.
“Mama!” Damon cried, twisting on the bed. “Mama please, Συγνώμη!” I’m sorry.
Dyer’s voice took over at the end of your passage and you had to look away–
The room was suddenly flooded with darkness. Dyer’s voice continued without a hitch, leaving you searching wide-eyed for something to ground you in the sea of black, hands groping blindly for a wall, a chair – something.
Cold metal met your palm and you welcomed the familiar shape of the end of the bed frame with your other hand.
You looked up to see your own face above you.
Ice water filled your veins. You couldn’t move.
Your naked figure arched back in front of you, legs folded at either side of Damien’s bare thighs where he was buried inside you. Your arms were folded above your head, hands in your hair, your face leaning away where you couldn’t read the expression. Damien was sat up at your back, one hand at your hip, the other digging into your breast.
Lungs burning, you tried to force a breath into your lungs, but shock kept you frozen. Damien licked a slow stripe up your taut neck, his bloodshot, yellow eyes staring back at you.
A spasming, burning heat crept into you at your core, spreading up through your insides. Your mind raced, panic filling your senses as you sank slowly to your knees at the foot of the bed, the pain folding you in on yourself. Your mouth hung open, terror painting your features.
Dyer’s prayer was the only sound in your ears.
With a sound like tearing rubber, Damien’s fingers sunk into your flesh, bright blood cascading down your frozen frame as he tore into your flesh.
Finally, air rushed into your lungs. The room was lit around you, and Dyer stared at you expectantly. You looked to where Damien lay writhing – nothing had changed. Nothing happened.
You swallowed and read the next paragraph.
“Never did anything like that with me, did ya, honey?” Your ex-husband’s voice asked. You kept your eyes glued to the page.
The deafening bang of a gunshot made you scream.
“You never called,” Jo's voice choked. Your gaze shot up to her sitting at the edge of the bed, a clean, dark hole boring through her forehead, her hair tangled and stained red at the back of her head where a bullet had ripped through. “And I never bought another bus ticket.”
“Stop it, stop it stop it,” You begged, squeezing your eyes shut like it might wake you up.
“Father–” Where was Dyer? Were you alone? You couldn’t hear him. Your mind spun. “Father, what do I do next!?”
The room was closing in around you.
—
All at once, your eyes were wide open. Damien’s hands were clamped around your neck, crushing your airway shut against the tight-knit carpet beneath you. You kicked feebly at him above you, broken hand clawing at his arms, the muscles hard and tight under his ashen skin. Tears stung your eyes.
A curtain of his dark, oily locks swayed around his face above you, his expression blank. Someone was yelling about – God? Christ? All you could hear was the sound of blood vessels breaking in your eyes.
The smell of fresh bread filled your sinuses as the world became fuzzy.
Fuck you, you thought. It can’t have me.
Just as your vision was about to go dark, the vice grip around your neck vanished. The ghastly face above you was next. Then Dyer was there.
A hard whack to your chest. You sucked in a breath. It felt like drinking hot sand. You coughed raggedly, head churning. You clawed in another gasp. The room was coming back. There was sun passing between the heavy curtains.
“–breathing, keep breathing–” Dyer’s voice was filtering in now, like static. You did your best, but the effort was excruciating.
You turned your head. Damien’s face was there next to you, cheek pressed to the floor, his eyes wide and vacant. Whatever light had been left there was gone. You sucked in another raw breath.
No.
His body jumped, a gagging whisper passing his split lips. You tried to say something, but the broken-glass pain spidering through your throat kept you silent. He jolted again, and again – you could vaguely make out the sound of Dyer counting.
His blank eyes left yours when Dyer turned his face – pushing rescue breaths into his hollow body. You felt completely useless, gasping on the floor. You wished his eyes would come back to you.
With every ounce of strength in your body, you shifted your hand, feeling for anything in your reach that might tether him to you.
Your fingers brushed the papery fabric of his hospital gown. You took as much of the material in your feeble grip as you could and held on, watching Dyer try to bring your friend back.
The long hours of the exorcism felt like seconds compared to these moments.
Then, with a gurgling gasp, Damien struggled back to the land of the living. Dyer held his good ear to Damien’s chest for a moment as he gasped. Convinced, he smiled, falling back into a sitting position, his head in his hands.
You watched Damien blink as he looked to Dyer. Then he turned to you.
Color rushed back into his face, however beaten he looked. You couldn’t stop an aching grin from spreading over your features. It was him looking back at you. Not some monster, puppeteering the man you knew. It was Damien.
“Dames,” You croaked, squeezing your idiotic handful of his clothes. He wheezed.
“You did so good,” He whispered. Dyer was at his side again, clutching his hand like he had at the bottom of the stairs, tears falling. “You did so good.”
Lord, please grant me the serenity to live through the ditches, the strength to laugh with the witches, and the wisdom to love in the back of my Dragula
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!
**I know this is a shorter update - I decided to post the first half of the chapter so I could get back into the fic without getting buried in work again, haha. Hope it was fun!!
TW: Gore, Injury, Spooky Imagery, References to Infertility
A dark hallway stretched beyond what you could see. There was just enough light to know there were walls – nothing more. Your eyes strained in the grainy black as you felt your way along.
Your skin prickled with awareness, head swimming with the cold sweat and stillness of knowing there was someone, something behind you in the dark. You knew it was there – hovering, waiting where you couldn’t see it. You crept forward, joints creaking in the silence of the dark hall.
It’s there. I know it’s there.
You didn’t dare turn to look at it.
Your bare feet shuffled along short carpet – you wanted to go faster, to run, to curl into a ball and plug your ears and wait for the thing screaming silently behind you to leave. The sound of rushing wind suddenly surrounded you, like falling in place – you squeezed your eyes shut and crouched down, trying desperately to cover your ears– Please Please Please, make it stop PLEASE- the sound blasted through you, there was no escaping it.
You opened your eyes to plush white carpet, silent walls – like being awake in the middle of the night. Another hallway – banisters and stairs, a room open behind you. Cold air blew past you from the room, eerie in the sickening quiet. You rose – the stairs were in front of you now.
A single step – the cold grit of concrete shot cold shock through you – you stumbled backwards, away from the figure at their bottom. The twisted, silent form looked up at you as you screamed, long arms wrapping around you from behind, rotting fingers digging into your skin – the bottom of the stairs rushed up to you–
“-y/n!” Father Dyer shouted and your eyes shot open to him, distraught above you. You breathed in, blinking.
“...I’m up, I’m-” You breathed, shaking your head. “What’s wrong, is Damien-”
“You weren’t breathing, y/n.” Dyer scoffed, disbelieving. You sat up on your elbow, every muscle sore. When did I get on the floor?
“You were completely stiff – I thought you were-” He choked. “Oh God,” He laughed, sitting back from you.
“I’m okay,” you forced yourself up, a shaky arm steadying you from the chair. You ran a hand through your tangled hair. “I must’ve fallen asleep – what time is it?”
Gray light filtered through gaps between the curtains. Dyer looked at you in disbelief for a second before rising from the floor, taking your arm to steady you.
“It’s four pm,” Dyer said. You looked at him and breathed a laugh.
“Of course it is, I don’t know why I asked – of course I slept through the day, I don’t know why I’m surprised anymore.” You sighed, wandering your way to Damien’s bedside.
Dyer shook his head, pulling back a curtain. The light hit him as you touched the back of your hand to his forehead. You flinched. He was gaunt, cold, and so pale he seemed almost… blue. Every breath he took rattled his bony frame.
“I went to the house,” Dyer said behind you as you brushed sweat-soaked hair from Damien’s face. “I saw Mrs. MacNeil-” he put a hand to your shoulder as you turned to him.
“I saw Regan,” he said with a smile. You inhaled, a glimmer of hope danced between you.
“How- how did she look? Was she okay?” You asked.
“She seems fine – doesn’t remember anything. Her mother on the other hand… It was hard to get her to talk about it.” He paused.
“Well, what did they say?” You pressed.
“She only remembers so much about the exorcism,” He looked to Damien. “The police took everything when they took Merrin away- and I can’t exactly ask the church for advice without them having him put away. They convinced them of the possession once, but they’ve been having doubts about Damien for months. They won’t risk it again.”
“But?” You asked.
“But, I wrote down everything I could, I brought every bible I could carry, I’ve got holy water, and we’re in a church – something has to work.”
You pushed a hand through your hair and nodded.
“You’re amazing, father,” You sighed. “But I have this terrible feeling that we don’t have a lot of time – I don’t think we can just read the bible until something works.”
Dyer turned away and sat in the chair with a huff. You looked over at him. The bags under his eyes rivaled your own, gaze focused on some point far away between you and Damien. You pressed your thumb and index finger between your eyes, mustering whatever energy was left in your body – think.
It hit you.
“Notes- Dames wrote everything down, he must have. Regan was his patient, he would have recorded everything!” You stammered through the realization, flashes of his careful handwriting in the margins of every book you’d ever shared passed in front of your eyes. “I don’t know where it’ll be, but there has to be something-”
Dyer was leaning forward now, a sleep-deprived grin spread across his face.
“And if we’re lucky it’s here!” He put his hands on your shoulders – you couldn’t help but smile at his hopeful excitement. He really believes we can save him.
“Then we need to start digging,” You said, looking around at the piles of notebooks and novels crammed in every space in the room.
–
The box was tucked away under the bed, eerily shadowed behind dusty books. It seemed like he’d hidden it intentionally – but you were at least grateful it was close. Within you found recordings, notebooks, a bible (of course), a mostly empty glass vial, and a book. Leafing through the pages, you read through the rest of the day with Dyer – and found what you came for.
The book was authored by one Lankester Merrin – the man they’d carried from that quiet house night you came back to Georgetown.
In the book, he’d written mostly about his travels – his work as a missionary, an archaeologist, and anthropologist. Finally, you found his account of an experience he had during his time on the continent of Africa – when he’d performed an exorcism on a child. It had taken days.
“This– this has to be it,” You said, feeling ill reading the details. You continued reading– until the chapter ended, abruptly. The child hadn’t survived.
“I don’t know if we can do this.”
Dyer looked up at you from where he held his head in his hands.
“I thought you said we didn’t have a choice,” He said. “You said yourself, he’s running out of time-”
“That was before I knew what this was– father, Merrin was an expert, shit Damien was an expert, or as close as you could get. We don’t know anything about this–”
“Well what do you say we do, y/n?!” Dyer snapped.
“We take him back to the hospital, we get a real doctor involved– God, what was I thinking, demons?!” You laughed. “He fell out of a second story window and down a flight of concrete stairs, and we’ve been sitting here talking about demons-”
You stopped. A horse laugh rose around your pause. The room had grown dark and silent. You couldn’t move. Dyer looked equally stuck, eyes wide and still – he was looking behind you.
“You wouldn’t take me back there, would you?” Damien’s voice was quiet and ragged from behind you as his arms encased your shoulders from behind, his skin cold and pale. You couldn’t… bring yourself to turn and meet his eyes. You… wanted him to stop touching you.
He pressed heavy against your back, leaning over you as he whispered wetly into your ear. You couldn’t move.
“If you loved me, you wouldn’t take me away from you again,” He said.
You swallowed thickly, looking down at his cold arms as he squeezed you tighter. With his laugh in your ear, you finally got your breath back with a horrified gasp. Bright crimson spread across your shirt, leaking steadily from ragged scratches across his arms.
Dyer moved before you could. He stood and pried Damien’s cold arms from around you, holding his wrists where they bled.
“Damien–!” Dyer moved him away and you finally gained the courage to turn and look at him, still shaken to your core. He seemed to crumple in on himself, stumbling back, head hanging. He was silent now.
“Bring him to the sink,” You said, rushing to the bathroom ahead of them. A part of you didn’t want to look at him again.
You tore open the medicine cabinet, searching for something to stop the bleeding with. Pills and bottles clattered down in the sink as you frantically tore apart his bathroom. The sound of the faucet filled the small space as you wrenched the water on in your panic – Dyer came in behind you, tugging Damien’s limp form to the sink, holding his ragged wrists in the running water.
“Shit–!” You cursed. You couldn’t think straight–
That sickly laugh rose from his throat again – like more than one voice.
“Better hurry,” He said in a singsong voice. Dyer was holding him up now, barking places for you to search.
In a moment of random inspiration, you stumbled back to the room and fumbled through a drawer to find a few neatly folded pairs of gym socks.
You scrambled back to the bathroom, slipping on the bloody, wet tile. You turned the water off and grabbed his arm – trying to ignore that damned laugh – and tied the white elastic length around the bloody openings. You pulled another sock over the spot, the stark fabric darkening in an instant.
You got between him and the sink, repeating your actions with his other wrist before holding one arm with both hands, encircling the makeshift bandages with both hands and applying as much pressure as you could.
“Hold his other arm,” You said to Dyer, who seemed to be struggling to hold him up.
“We’ve gotta get him sitting down–” He said, and you did your best to drag Damien back to the bed – he was completely slack and silent.
Dyer dropped him back to the bed and you took his other hand, trying to stop the blood from seeping any further.
“Fuck, no–” You gasped as Damien fell back, dragging you with him against his chest where you held his arms. He was trying to reach for his neck – and you wrestled against him, trying to keep him from opening his own throat.
You could hear him trying to say something through gritted teeth– he was trying to say help, over and over.
“Stop it, Damien!” You begged as he thrashed underneath you. “We’ve got to tie him down!” Dyer ran to the closet as you struggled with Damien on the bed – you couldn't hold a grown man, a boxer, no less, down for long.
Dyer came to your aid then, wrenching a bloody arm from your grip to loop a black belt around his bandaged wrist, pulling it tight around the metal frame of the bed. He scrambled to strap down Damien’s other arm, and as you took a moment to breathe, he lurched beneath you, kicking you hard in the stomach and sending you tumbling away from the bed.
All the air was pushed from your lungs as you clutched your abdomen, stabbing pain flashing through you. You gasped like a fish out of water for what felt like a minute before you could suck in an aching breath.
Dyer was at your side in a moment, hands on your shoulders as you lay hunched and coughing.
“Breathe, just – try to breathe for a minute,” His voice shook. “Are you okay?” You nodded.
“I’m–” You wheezed, blood rushing in your ears. “I’m okay.”
Your blood ran cold when a cold, rasping laugh rose from the bed. You looked up, finding Dyer seething at his writhing form.
“No harm done, father,” Damien rasped in a voice that wasn’t his. “She’ll always be raising someone else’s kids, anyway.”
Your face grew hot and you looked away, tears stinging your eyes. That terrible voice laughed coldly, filling your ears. Dyer looked at you, confused – It was just too much.
With a shaky breath, you clawed your way up from the ground and stumbled to the door, limping into the dark hallway – away from Damien, away from that… horrible laugh. You closed the door, your back hitting the cold wall. You slid down to the floor with a quiet sob and brought your knees to your chest, holding yourself together.
Your body ached, your broken hand throbbed and your knees stung against old bandages. Everything hurt. And as tears streamed down your blotchy face, you found guilty thoughts taking you back to Georgia – you’d give anything to be there, miles away, in the quiet of that big house.
You were exhausted. Tired of trying to hold everything together, tired of watching your best friend spiral and break and hurt you – twisting and morphing into some monster.
You were killing yourself for a man all over again.
Trying to breathe slowly, you followed the thoughts. Through the dark corners of your mind, when you felt a different pain. When your hands were raw from scrubbing that pristine house, and your heart ached for someone to know you. Faking your way through every day, and every night. Even if it was quiet – even if it was safe, you weren’t happy.
With a truly slow breath, you let your mind wander back to that winter night, when Damien held your hands in his and breathed life back into you.
You looked up at the blank wall of the hallway, eyes straining in the dark.
Whatever this was, even if it was bizarre, terrifying, and painful—you gripped your arms tighter—even if you couldn’t bear to go back in there with that – thing. Against every instinct in your body, deep down, you wanted him.
So you decided to want him – just for yourself. Not for Dyer, not for the church, not even for his mother. Not even for his own sake, no; you wanted him for you.
Standing, filled with the strange energy a truly selfish goal can bring, you prepared to go back into the room. It didn’t matter if it hurt, if it was humiliating, if it was wrong – you were going to claw him back into your life.
SITH! OBI-WAN & ANAKIN SKYWALKER | WHAT IF? STAR WARS
BY ME.
I always liked the idea of Obi-Wan corrupted by the dark side, so i made this. Star Wars really needs a what if show.
Student : Wowww the cafeteria food is so nastyyyy today right Alyssa ?
Alyssa : Yes
Their friend Randy who has been trying to convince them for months that he was a death row inmate in his previous life: For my final meal they fed me the worlds roundest pea
