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silverleafnightshade-blog · 5 years

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The Exorcist

William Friedkin’s horror masterpiece, released 45 years ago this holiday season, was largely set in the collegiate Washington D.C. neighborhood of Georgetown. The Georgetown of the early 1970s was a bit less posh than the neighborhood today, but even at the height of the eponymous school’s frattiest years, the area was chockablock with Federal-style and early American architecture. The university itself is heavily featured in both book and film (author William Blatty was an alumnus), as are establishing shots of the Key Bridge (formally, the Francis Scott Key Bridge, built in 1923) that spans the Potomac.

The infamous “Exorcist Steps,” which run from Prospect down to M Street, were even honored as such by the city in a 2015 ceremony.

As previously established, I was raised Catholic-lite: First Confessed but barely Confirmed, aka Catholic enough to be disturbed by the Exorcist but not Catholic enough to have picketed the movie. Although in 1973 I was but one year old, and that would have been a very tiny and cute picket sign in my chubby fists, maybe “Former Fetuses Against Friedkin” or something like that. Anyway! I first watched the Exorcist with my atheist-raised high school bestie, and at the time we both agreed that it was just unsettling enough to raise some doubts about God and the Devil. Also about the wisdom of fucking around with a Ouija board.

No girl! Captain Howdy is not your friend, ma petite.

My second viewing of the film was as a full-grown adult, when the director’s cut was released in 1999. I now realized the true horror of this story was just under foot: the ugly carpeting in that awesome Federal-style townhouse!

The MacNeil residence’s main floor has herringbone parquet in the kitchen, dining nook, and study, but the rest of the house is covered in that ugly-ass, low-pile fuzz bomb. I could barely register Regan’s infamous spider walk down the stairs, I was so distracted by that gross carpeting.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Why would you ruin such a historic property? How could you commit such high crimes against the herringbone? But then I did some research, and sigh, I was all wrong. You see, the Exorcist house, aka the MacNeil Residence, wasn’t built until 1950.

Thus, that carpeting makes total sense, as does Chris MacNeil (Ellen Burstyn)’s bedroom style.

The furniture is Federal-style but the wallpaper and (blech) carpet are definitely 20th century.

Regan doesn’t seem to be into carpeting much, either, given her tinkle on the Persian rug. I just love the reaction expression on Father Dyer’s face after Regan pisses the floor. By the way, that character was played by a real live priest, Father William J. O’Malley:

Speaking of priests, Father Damien Karras (Jason Miller) pretty much wiped out any remaining Catholicism lingering in me. I never met a priest half as handsome, and thus that confirmed that there must be no God.

Mon dieu, he is a tasty sacrament. O la la...

There was so much myth and legend surrounding The Exorcist, it’s sometimes hard to remember there was some bona fide weird shit happening as well. An actual serial killer makes an appearance in the film (okay, alleged serial killler, but convicted murderer). Friedkin shot the hospital imaging scene at New York University Medical Center, and used an actual neurosurgeon and his team as extras. Paul Bateson was an X-ray technician on staff at the hospital and made it into the scene, with a line to boot.

Bateson was arrested in 1979 for the murder of film critic Addison Verrill (an act committed during a date gone terribly wrong). While incarcerated at Riker’s, Bateson boasted to other inmates that he had murdered at least six other gay men. The details he provided were eerily similar to the “Bag Murders” that had terrified the NYC gay community in 1977 and 1978, when the bodies of missing queer men turned up in the Hudson River. The victims were all dismembered and disposed of in plastic bags, just as Bateson described. The police were never able to assemble enough evidence to charge Bateson, so he instead only served his sentence for the death of Verrill. William Friedkin had already been approached earlier to shoot a film based on the 1970 novel Cruising, but he passed on the offer until the Bateson arrest. Friedkin was so disturbed and intrigued by this story and his own connection to the murderer, he ended up making the film.

There are a lot of other fables about the Exorcist curse, which are mostly explained away easily. I personally was a bit haunted when doing my research, thinking about Georgetown Preparatory School and this past year’s shitshow Supreme Court nomination hearing. Even though Georgetown Prep separated from the University and moved to Bethesda, MD in 1919, the name is still triggering. Dr. Christine Blasey Ford still cannot live in her own house, due to death threats, and the accused sits clear and free on the highest court of the United States. Believe women. Why the fuck would we go through this torture a second time, if we weren’t telling the truth?

Here’s to hoping for a better 2019. I made it through a year of blogging about my special obsession, hurray! I’m going to keep this going as long as there are interesting architectural examples in 1970s horror movies. January is going to get weird, so stay tuned. I love you all, you sexy demons. Tabernak!

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foursprout-blog · 6 years

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35 Fascinating Things Most Horror Fans Don’t Know About ‘The Exorcist’

New Post has been published on http://foursprout.com/happiness/35-fascinating-things-most-horror-fans-dont-know-about-the-exorcist/

35 Fascinating Things Most Horror Fans Don’t Know About ‘The Exorcist’

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1. The movie is based on a book, which was inspired by a real-life exorcism. The novel, also titled The Exorcist, written by William Peter Blatty, was first published in 1971. It was based on the 1949 Maryland case of a 13-year-old boy, only known under the pseudonym of Roland Roe. The boy was suffering from an inexplicable ailment after the death of an aunt who had introduced him to the Ouija board and started presenting extreme signs of demonic possession. The first attempt at the ritual was performed by Roman Catholic priest, Edward Hughes, at Georgetown University Hospital (a Jesuit institution). The exorcism was unsuccessful and stopped when the priest was physically harmed, as the boy was said to have broken free from his restraints and slashed the priest using a mattress spring. Rev. William S. Bowdern, in St. Louis, was granted permission to perform another exorcism by the Catholic church. The boy is said to have undergone around 30 exorcisms, many in which he succeeded in breaking free from his restraints and becoming violent. Roland had no recollection of his possession or exorcism when breaking free and went on to live a normal life.

Cover of The Exorcist. (YouTube)

2. The book on which it is based was initially a failure when published. The author hit some luck when he was invited as a last-minute guest on late night show, The Dick Cavett Show. Subsequently, the book hit The New York Times best-seller list.

3. The author of the book also wrote the screenplay for the film and acted as producer. Previous to making the bestseller list, Hollywood studio after Hollywood studio rejected his screenplay for the film. After his book became a success, Warner Bros bought the rights to the film, and Blatty acted as producer.

4. The demon’s name in the film is Pazuzu. The name of the demon is never explicitly mentioned in the film. At the beginning of the film when Father Merrin stands in front of a statue in an archaeological site in Iraq, he is actually in the ancient Nineveh. The statue is that of Pazuzu. He is an ancient Assyrian and Babylonian demon, king of the demon winds and son of the Hanbi, the god of evil. He had the power to control winds that could cause destruction and famine. Though Pazuzu was an evil force and was to ascend the underworld throne, he actually protected pregnant women by keeping the demon goddess Lamashtu at bay, who was said to harm pregnant women and babies.

5. The Macneil house caught fire during the shoot, except Regan’s room. A very mysterious fire left the WHOLE set damaged, but Regan’s room was completely unharmed.

6. The iconic eerie scene of the priest’s arrival, as he steps out of a cab and in front of the Macneil home, is actually inspired by a series of three oil paintings. Director William Friedkin took inspiration in The Empire of Light, painted by surreal artist René Magritte.

The Exorcist

7. A real-life suspected serial killer makes an appearance in the film. Paul Bateson, a real-life X-ray technician, played the role of the radiologist’s assistant in the scene where Regan is having a carotid angiography. He was arrested for homicide in 1979, after meeting film critic Addison Verrill, having sex with him, and proceeding to bash his skull in with a skillet. Bateson boasted about killing other men while awaiting trial, claiming that he did it for fun and dumped their bodies in the Hudson River. Authorities suspected him of being a serial killer that had been targeting gay men in the years of 1977 and 1978, and wrapping their chopped up remains in plastic bags. These were known as the Bag Murders. Though they had a confession, they couldn’t link any evidence to his claim. Sentenced to 20 years for the murder of Addison Verrill, Bateson became a free man in 2004.

8. Linda Blair secured the role of Regan Macneil, having defeated 500 other actresses. WOW! There was actually a point during the search for the right child actress, in which the director considered auditioning adult dwarfs, as it was proving to be a challenge.

9. Willy Wonka’s Violet, actress Denise Nickerson, almost played Regan, before being pulled by her parents because they found the script so disturbing.

10. The role of Chris Macneil, played by Ellen Burstyn, was originally turned down by both, Jane Fonda and Audrey Hepburn.

11. The role of Father Dyer is played by real-life priest William O’Malley. He also served as technical advisor to the film.

12. Director William Friedkin actually took deliberate measures to abuse the cast for a fear effect. He went as far as firing guns without warning behind the actors to frighten them. He slapped Father O’Malley across the face to catch footage of his shocked reaction for the film. He also put Ellen Burstyn and Linda Blair in harnesses and had them shook and yanked violently.

13. The screams you hear when Regan’s mother is thrown to the floor after the possessed girl slaps her, are actually genuine. She permanently injured her spine during the shooting of this scene because she was pulled too hard by a cable.

14. Linda Blair also injured her back while filming. A piece of rigging broke while shooting one of the infamous possession scenes.

The Regan MacNeil Mechanical Puppet from the 1973 film. (Pollack man34/Wikimedia)

15. Regan’s room was literally freezing. The director wanted it to appear genuine that the room was cold and literally chilled it to achieve this effect. The entire room of Regan was refrigerated to catch the breath of the actors on camera. The room was actually 30-40 degrees below freezing.

16. Mercedes McCambridge went to extreme lengths for the voice of the demon. She provided the vocalizations of the demon and in order to perfect the distorted voice, she actually gave up sobriety. She chain-smoked cigarettes, drank heavily, even ate raw eggs to master the Satanic voice. She was also physically bound to a chair with torn sheets by arms, legs, ankles and writs to achieve a more realistic sound.

17. Jason Miller, who played Father Karras, had actually studied to become a priest before dropping out because a loss of faith.

18. Stanley Kubrick turned down directing the film.

19. Max von Sydow, who played elderly Father Lankester Merrin, was only 43 years old. He actually had to undergo 5 hours of makeup every day before shooting.

20. Actress Mercedes McCambridge ended up suing Warner Bros because they failed to credit her for the voice of the demon.

21. Linda Blair’s double, Eileen Dietz, also sued for not being credited for the vomiting sequences. The shooting of these were actually so complex that Dietz couldn’t even close her mouth. There was an actual “vomiting apparatus” involved.

22. During the first day of filming, Max von Sydow (Father Merrin) actually forgot his lines because he found Linda Blair’s crude dialogue so unsettling.

23. Linda Blair received an insane amount of death threats. The majority of these were from religious zealots, many who believed her to be Satan’s voice and helper. These threats got to be so horrendous that Warner Bros had to hire bodyguards to be with her 24 hours a day, seven days a week, for nearly 6 months. The threats actually didn’t stop after the movie was released or when buzz died down, they continued on for years.

24. Warner Bros originally wanted Marlon Brando for the role of Father Merrin. The director wasn’t keen on the idea because he thought Brando’s involvement with the film would overshadow its importance.

25. Jack Nicholson almost got the role of Father Karras before Jason Miller landed it.

26. People actually believed the film was cursed. The popular belief was that even playing the film could invite demonic possession. Televangelist Billy Graham said, “There is a power of evil in the film, in the fabric of the film itself.”

27. The film was banned in the UK. The movie was released with an X rating in the UK in 1974. It was later banned by a few local authorities, and in 1988 the sale of the film was banned under The Video Recordings Act. It wasn’t until 1999 that the film was legally released again in the UK.

28. It was banned in every Middle Eastern country except Lebanon. The re-release went on to be banned there too.

29. The sound of the demon leaving Regan’s body is actually recordings of pigs being led to slaughter.

30. The scenes where Father Karras visits his mother in Bellevue actually contain real mental patients and some were recorded using hidden cameras.

31. There was quite a number of deaths surrounding the movie. Actor Jack MacGrowan died from the flu shortly after shooting ended. Actress Vasiliki Maliaros also died during post-production, due to natural causes. Both of their characters died in the film. Linda Blair’s grandfather and Max von Sydow’s brother both died during shooting. The son of Mercedes McCambridge murdered his wife and two daughters before taking his own life in 1987.

32. A woman was so frightened at a showing of the movie that she passed out and broke her jaw. She later sued Warner Bros and ended up settling for an undisclosed amount.

33. The movie made people so nauseous that theatres started handing out bags to vomit in with every movie ticket.

34. The cast and crew believed the set to be actually cursed and a priest had to come bless it.

35. This was the first film to be nominated for Best Picture at the Academy Awards.

#Happiness

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storiesitelltoooften · 10 years

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Do not watch horror movies during Shark Week.

I couldn't be less scared of Satan, but that last scene with Father Dyer made me cry.

#the exorcist #karras x dyer

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transgender-karras · 4 months

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and no I am NOT done talking about these stupid fucking gayass priests thank you very much. also here’s their playlist it has a LOT of mitski

#dimmieposting #🔪.txt #damien karras #father karras #father damien karras #the exorcist (1973)#the exorcist #joseph dyer #father dyer #father Joseph dyer #dyer x karras #karrasdyer

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corn-fanfiction · 5 months

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Oh My Love (Damien Karras x GN Reader Pt. 6)

(Pt. 5) (Pt.7)

“I'm a human first. Humans lie.”

I’m not ashamed of what I do and I have no reason to be.

“Which part were you lying about?”

Damien massages his jaw. Something passes over his face.

“I’m sorry you had to see that. And I’m sorry I reacted the way I did.”

Your brows pull together. “That’s it?”

“Is there something else?”

“You apologize to me and suddenly the problem is gone?”

“The problem is my own to carry. I did you wrong and I want to apologize. That’s it. There’s nothing else.”

You nod mutely and watch the horizon. “Alright, then.”

Rating: M

Author’s notes: no tws apply

What comes next?

More of the same. Fleeting glances, stolen moments that almost, almost end in contact. Laughter and information shared among friends. Friends.

Two weeks of this.

You're sitting in his residency room with Joe there as well. The three of you are studying- reading through different books on the psychology of religion, demonic cults, the works. You're reading for you, Damien's reading your notes from the Satanic ritual book you now refuse to touch, and Dyer is reading some long forgotten, translated tome about Judeo-Christian folklore. You all have been at it for hours. A half eaten pizza lies cold and forgotten on the cot next to Joe. You've taken up at the desk chair with your feet resting on the bed, and Damien has claimed the remaining chair in the corner. The window is cracked to allow the cigarette smoke to linger out and a radio is softly playing Pavarotti behind you.

All things considered, it's a perfect way to spend an evening.

At some point, Joe checks his watch. “Ah shit. I got to go. Dinner with a parisher and her husband. You two got it from here?”

“Not that we won't miss your genius contributions,” you mutter.

“‘Genius’ is the best you can do?”

“I'm tired.”

“Then go home.” Joseph puts on his coat and hat and bids you and Damien goodbye. Soon, you and Damien are alone.

The atmosphere instantly changes. The last time you two had been alone in here together you'd ended up sleeping next to each other. That isn't something you're looking to repeat tonight. You have class in the morning.

“Any closer?” Damien asks without looking up from the notes. You blow a raspberry.

“Maybe? I'm going cross eyed.”

A few minutes of silence. There's a soft singing that drifts in through the window. Craning your neck, you see a group of carolers across the street in front of a row of townhouses.

You'd almost forgotten that Christmas is in five days.

“Any plans for Christmas?” You ask and close your book.

“Visiting my mother in New York.” His eyes flick up to your face to gauge your reaction. “What about you?”

You shrug. “I don't know. Probably not. My aunt and uncle and I aren't exactly on speaking terms. I don't mind it. I've never minded being alone. But it'll…” your throat catches at the start of a truth you haven't spoken yet. “It'll be the first Christmas I have without them.”

Damien nods silently. You can feel the words before they escape his lips.

“You know-”

“No.”

He looks at you in shock. “What?”

“I know what you're going to ask. And the answer is no.”

“Well let's assume you're wrong about what I'm going to ask. Listen, I'm sure Mama wouldn't mind another guest. She makes enough food for ten people.”

“Damien.”

“All you'd have to put up with is my uncle pestering you with invasive questions.”

“I don't need you feeling sorry for me.”

“I don't feel sorry for you. I feel empathetic towards you. Isn't that okay?”

“I don't want to intrude.”

“You won't.”

Won't. Not wouldn't. He already anticipates you saying yes.

“You don't have a car,” you say, taking one last drag of your cigarette and blowing the smoke out the window. You smash it into an ashtray on Damien's desk.

“No. I take the subway.”

“To Manhattan?”

“Brooklyn.”

“Right.” You nod. “With your luggage?”

“Just a bag.”

“What if it gets stolen?”

“What if the subway crashes into a giant rat? Are you coming or not?”

You watch the carolers diligently and let your eyes glaze over. There's a couple walking past with their young son. For a moment, you've never existed. Your parents and William somehow survived. But Damien would be alone right now.

No, you think. He has Joe.

Well, he's not asking Joe to Christmas, is he?

You don't have anything else going on. No better excuses than saying that you're afraid of crossing a line.

You shrug. What the hell.

“Sure. Why not.”

You don't leave until early Christmas morning as Damien drew the short straw for midnight mass on Christmas Eve. You guzzle down coffee and watch as Damien leads the parish in classic songs and hymns. You sing along under your breath. You suddenly think that you haven't listened to your music in a while. It's always you in the back of the church, enjoying Betty's company, watching as Damien or Joe, but usually Damien, give their homilies.

Once mass dismisses, Damien slips on a coat and you grab your things.

“Ready?”

You nod and squeeze your eyes.

“Are you going to make it?”

You nod your head through a nod. “I'll make it.”

Damien leads you to the closest subway stop; you've only been there once and it was during daylight. The good news is that the station is sparse. The bad news is that it echoes with loneliness. What few people there are seem to stare at Damien.

You look over at him and notice a stoic discomfort on his face.

“You okay?”

“Yes.”

“They're…staring at you.”

“It's the collar,” he says. “They never expect to see us outside of churches. And if they do, they want help.”

You two have made it to the northbound train stop. You glance around at some homeless people that stare at the two of you unabashed.

“And what kind of help are they looking for?”

“You never know until they're asking.”

“And you're above it?”

The sleep is talking. His face sours.

“No. But it's hard to stop. It's hard to start afterwards.”

You nod but you don't fully understand. The train comes soon and you both board. It's nearly empty. Over your shoulder you spare one last look to the men and women that continue to stare as you depart. They never asked you for help, sure, but you never offered it.

What a lonely place the world can be.

You awaken to Damien lightly shaking your arm. The voice overhead announces your arrival in Manhattan. Damien stands and offers you a hand.

“Were you awake the whole time?”

“I take this commute a lot. Come on, the next train leaves soon.”

You shuffle to the next stop. Thank god you're tired and Damien is surefooted. If you had to be any more alert you may just be terrified of the subway stations. The barrenness, the desolation. The way bodies drift in and out of tunnels like ghosts. At some point you lean against Damien slightly as you two wait for the second train. You steal a glance upwards. The swinging florescent light overhead casts a halo around his dark curls. How badly you want to touch them.

He looks down at you and smiles. From here, you notice something different. He's taken his collar off.

For the sake of comfort you decide not to address it, though you doubt in your current state you'd be able to with tact anyway.

There's the second train, then the third and final. You sleep the whole way through. Damien has many sleepless nights. What's a few hours on the train?

Christmas morning in Brooklyn is just as bustling as you had expected. You'd been to New York once: Times Square with your parents and a young William. You had gone to see The Sound of Music on Broadway. There was some humor in that, or perhaps irony, that you were still too tired to find.

You follow closely behind Damien as he leads you to a narrow sidewalk that borders a brown-stone apartment. Down the street there are children playing in the snow.

You can't help but notice, and you've gleaned some of Damien's past before, that this is a poor neighborhood. That there are dripping water stains and holes in the plaster inside the front entryway. Damien takes you upstairs to the third floor. He knocks on a door and then opens it.

“Mama? I'm here.”

You follow him inside and close the door behind you.

“Dimmi?” A stout elderly woman crosses from the kitchen. She is much shorter than Damien but they share remarkable features.

“Geia sou, Mamá,” Damien says as he kisses his mother on her cheek. You stand awkwardly in the doorway until she notices you.

“O, kalesnéos!” She exclaims and walks towards you. “And what is your name?”

You tell her and she breaks into a smile. She turns back to Damien. “Poly elkystikós!”

“Mamá,” Damien says. He sounds exasperated. You start to remove your coat but he notices and helps you out of it, hanging it along with his on a nearby hook.

“What did she say?”

Damien clears his throat. “Just that she's happy to have someone else here.”

You hum. Elkystikós.

“John! O anipsiós sou eínai aftós,” Mrs. Karras calls from the kitchen. Then, “Kai éfere énan kalesméno.”

Out of an adjoining room comes a man a bit younger than Mrs. Karras, but not by much. He comes over and pulls Damien into a hug.

“Dimmi, Dimmi, Dimmi. Still not too good for us, eh? And who did you bring with you?”

Damien introduces you to his Uncle John. The man nods, though his eyes keep flitting between you and Damien.

“Ah, anyway. Your mother has been cooking all morning. Help me set the table.”

John totters away with Damien at his heels, but not before he can turn around and give you a reassuring smile. You return it and rub your hands together, trying to shake the morning's cold.

You decide to head for the kitchen as Damien and John get set up in the living room for the meal. Mrs. Karras is busy at work, toiling over two pots on the stove and something else in the oven. You're almost afraid to interrupt her work.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Karras?”

She smiles at you over her shoulder.

“Come in! Just finishing up.”

“Anything I can help with? I'm not great at cooking- I'd burn water if given the opportunity.”

“You can stir?”

You nod and take over one of the pots, stirring it with a wooden spoon. She doesn't talk to you, just hums a tune you don't recognize.

“What are you singing.”

“Ah, kalanta.”

“Kalanta?”

“Christmas carols.”

“Oh! Well it sounds lovely.”

Mrs. Karras smiles at you and continues her work. You don't mind the quiet. Greek music- kalantas play on a nearby radio. There's something peaceful about settling into the task at hand.

“Dimmi!” Mrs. Karras calls. Damien comes to the kitchen.

“Mamá?”

“Take the pork from the oven, parakaló.”

Damien does, pressing his back to your back to slip into the small kitchen. He carefully takes the pork shoulder from the oven and places it on a rack on the counter.

“Anything else, Mamá?”

“Óchi, Dimmi.”

Mrs. Karras looks to you and wipes her hands on her apron.

“Okay. Dinner is on.”

Damien was right: Mrs. Karras cooked enough for ten people.

The pork roast, spanakopita, roasted potatoes, and of course wine. You had no problem loading up your plate with food.

“So, how do you know Dimmi?” John asks between bites. It’s not as casual a question as you’d prefer. There’s some skepticism laced within.

“I work at Holy Trinity.”

John’s eyebrows raise. “A priest?”

“No,” you laugh. “No, not for me. I’m a graduate student. I help Trinity translate Latin texts.”

“Ah, is there good money in that?”

You feel Damien stiffen slightly next to you. His chewing slows.

“Well, it certainly pays at least. It’s a pretty good deal to be paid through a degree.”

John hums. “Well. Sounds like you’ll put your degree to use. Not everyone does.”

Damien sets down his fork and wipes his mouth, setting a steely gaze on his uncle.

“Siopí , John!”

John lifts his hand in defense. “What did I say wrong? If there’s nothing wrong with it, Damien should not mind me speaking the truth.”

The table grows quiet. You clear your throat.

“Damien does really important work at Trinity,” you say through a smile. “Certainly more important than mine.”

“Don’t do that,” Damien tilts his head towards you.

“Don’t do what?”

“Belittle your work just to come to my defense. I’m not ashamed of what I do and I have no reason to be.”

“No, your poor mother only has to walk three flights of stairs.”

“John!”

“Speak plainly, Uncle John.”

“All I am saying is that you have a degree and could be making more money in private practice.”

“And what is it you do?”

John sets his eyes on you. You don’t know what’s come over you but your heart is pulsing in your ears. Damien rests a hand on your forearm under the table.

Your sleeves are rolled up.

The barrier has been broken.

“Factory accident when I was 56. Now I survive off my military pension. And what is it you do? Translate a dead language? Did you parents pay for you to get a useless degree?”

“Se proeidipoió,” Damien says.

“John, will you stop!”

At the mention of your parents you feel tears well up and you hate them.

“Now we're crying. Yes, yes. Meanwhile those poorer off suffer. I am very sorry.”

John pushes his way from the table and steps out into the hall. Damien tries to move his hand to sit atop yours but immediately upon contact you jerk away. Through tears, you gather up empty plates.

“I'll uh, get these washed, Mrs. Karras.”

You stumble into the kitchen and set the dishes in the sink as gently as you can, which may in fact have been anything but gentle. Somewhere behind you, the window opens and shuts.

Mrs. Karras comes in and takes the sponge from your hands as you scrub furiously against a plate.

“Próseche. It’s good china.”

You laugh through tears at Mrs. Karras’s kind smile. She jerks her head to the window.

“Go check.”

You nod, wipe the tears from your face. Carefully you go to the window and climb out onto the fire escape. Damien is looking out onto the street, the setting sun casting a rainbow hue onto the snow banks. Cigarette smoke curls into the cold air.

You wrap your arms around yourself and approach him.

“Is this where you came to brood as a kid?”

It is strange to think you’re actually in Damien’s childhood home. You think to yourself that you’ll have to check the walls for portraits of a chubby baby when you get back inside.

“You shouldn't have done that.”

You freeze and any humor you are attempting falls from your face.

“Shouldn't have done what?”

“Defended me.”

You draw closer. “What was I supposed to do?”

“Let me handle it.”

“He was treating you like shit!”

“He's my family.”

Damien’s trying to keep calm, but he delivers an intensity to let you know to drop it . Of course, you don’t.

“So? What does that have to do anything?”

He flicks out his cigarette and steps to you.

“If we were having dinner with your family and the same thing happened, what would you say?”

Shit . You think of that exact situation: in Aunt Grace’s gilded dining room, clean holly and poinsettias decorating the walls. Clean candles, perfect turkey, your young cousins sitting in their velvet Christmas best. And none of them can even look at you.

“It wouldn't be the same thing. You know what they'd say and you know how I'd feel.”

He takes a moment to look into your eyes. His face softens. “Well, maybe it's the same for me.”

You stutter. “But, you said…”

“I'm a human first. Humans lie.”

I’m not ashamed of what I do and I have no reason to be.

“Which part were you lying about?”

Damien massages his jaw. Something passes over his face.

“I’m sorry you had to see that. And I’m sorry I reacted the way I did.”

Your brows pull together. “That’s it?”

“Is there something else?”

“You apologize to me and suddenly the problem is gone?”

“The problem is my own to carry. I did you wrong and I want to apologize. That’s it. There’s nothing else.”

You nod mutely and watch the horizon. “Alright, then.”

Damien’s eyes drop to the street below. “Snow’s really piled up down there.”

“When were you thinking of leaving?”

“Before the end of the day. Mama doesn’t have enough room for the four of us.”

You sneak a look to Damien. He notices.

“What?”

“Your mom made apple pie. She said it’s your favorite?”

Damien chuckles and hangs his head. Finally, a real reaction.

“She’s right. Alright, dessert.”

The four of you resign yourselves to a polite, if not tense dessert. By the end of it, you’re stuffed and listening to Mrs. Karras offers insight into Damien’s childhood. She walks you along the walls of the living room and shows you exactly what you wanted: chubby baby pictures of Damien. Then, Damien as a child in a school uniform. Then, Damien as a young adult, cheesing with a bloodied face and crooked nose, raising a trophy in the air.

“Holy…”

Damien comes up behind you. “Ah…didn’t think those were still here.”

“You were a boxer?”

“And a baseball player.”

“And a candlestick maker?”

“Alright, that’s enough out of you.”

“I don’t think it is.” Your eyes move to a photo of Damien in a graduation cap and gown. “Was this seminary or medical?”

Damien considers it for a moment. “Seminary…I think.”

“You don’t remember?”

“I must’ve been twenty or something, and after two graduations you start to forget them.”

“And yet…”

He eyes you warily. Maybe there’s humor there. Maybe there isn’t. “And yet?”

“Nothing,” you shake your head. “I think I was going to attempt a joke but my subconscious thought better of it.”

Damien lifts his sleeve and checks his watch. “Gee, it’s already half past seven. We ought to head out.”

Mrs. Karras poked her head around the corner. “No go! Door blocked.”

“What do you mean blocked?”

“The snow! It blocks the front door. Cannot go in or out. You must stay the night.”

“Mama,” Damien sighs. “We both have to work tomorrow.”

“See for yourself,” Mrs. Karras waves dismissively. “Don’t trust your Mama, Dimmi. Me hercule!”

Damien looks to you. “Let me go check.”

He leaves for a few minutes and you continue to browse the many photographs and trinkets around the apartment. Soon, Damien returns.

“Well, she was right. Completely blocked off. We’ll have to wait until they clear it in the morning.”

“Didn’t you say your mother doesn’t have enough beds? I don’t want to put her out. I can probably foot it to a hotel-”

“No, absolutely not. Especially in this weather and time of day. No, Uncle John takes the couch, you’ll have my bed and I’ll take the floor.”

You cross your arms. “Absolutely not! You’re old. Floor’s bad for your back. I’ll take the floor.”

He rolls his eyes. “‘Old’. Wisened.”

“Ancient.”

“Petulant.”

“Me?” You ask in mock offense. “Never.”

Mrs. Karras lights a fire and the four of you tune into the movie channel. It’s a Wonderful Life . The irony is not lost on either you or Damien. Each time a particular scene happens, you two share a knowing glance. An inside joke. A history.

Mrs. Karras goes to bed early and Uncle John needs the couch, so you and Damien sequester yourselves to his room. His childhood room. There, you see further proof of his life before priesthood. Secular books, boxing and baseball trophies, ribbons, medals. His bed is twin-size. Arguably big enough for two people, comfortably.

Damien lends you a spare set of sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt promoting a local boxing ring. You test the size of the bed, scooching to the wall and making yourself as small as possible.

Damien has changed as well and is placing a single pillow and blanket on the floor.

“There’s room up here…” you mumble.

“There’s room down here, too.”

“Come up here or I’m coming down there.”

He doesn’t move.

“Fine.”

“If you’re not careful we’ll all start to think you just want to sleep next to me.”

“I want you to be comfortable.”

“I’m comfortable.”

You shift around. “I’m cold.”

“Put on a sweatshirt,” Damien mutters into his pillow.

“I’m lonely.”

“What else is new?”

“Ouch.”

Sleepiness begins to take you.

“Are you cold?” you ask. He doesn’t say anything. “There’s plenty more blankets.” You roll to the edge of the bed just enough to see Damien pulling the threadbare blanket tighter around himself.

He jumps when you toss the comforter on top of him. He’s right: there is more room on the floor. You flop a pillow onto his face for good measure and slink to the floor. With the now pile of blankets and pillows, you’re just as comfortable as before, and you notice Damien relaxing.

“Better?”

Damien hums. While you'd like to think you're approaching some friendly banter, you know you're both tired and decide not to push him. His back is to you and you figure that's a fine way to go to sleep.

And, at some point when you wake up in the middle of the night, Damien's turned to face you and you suddenly realize you've never seen him asleep, though he's seen you in that state. His mouth is parted slightly, his breathing soft, his face finally relaxed and looking at least ten years younger without the lines on his face being exaggerated by stress. You yearn to run your finger along his jagged features. To brush his soft hair away. To kiss him.

To what?????

You turn away abruptly and squeeze your eyes shut to block out the intrusive thought. No. No way.

You've gotten away with the ambiguity of it all until now. How could you let it happen?

But then, you remember. He has touched you. He touched you in the way you weren't supposed to. Innocuous, sure. But you both knew. You both know.

Maybe you're delusional. Maybe you're not. There's really only one way to find out.

#the exorcist #damien karras #damien karras x reader #fanfiction #the exorcist 1973 #the exorcist fanfiction

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corn-fanfiction · 5 months

Text

Oh My Love (Damien Karras x GN Reader Pt. 4)

(Pt. 3) (Pt. 5)

“My father died when I was a kid.” He flicks ash onto the steps. “The funeral wasn’t much of anything. Almost wish we hadn’t had one.”

“They’re for the living anyway. So how do you feel about doing mass for funerals, then?”

He shrugs.

“Just another part of the job.”

Rated: M

CW: some brief yet upsetting descriptions of "Satanic" rituals.

You’re desperate now.

Desperate for material, that is. You dig and dig and dig, and Father Merrin and Dyer both give you some suggestions, but none of them seem to suit your needs. You consider asking Damien but…it doesn’t feel right.

So you’re sitting at your desk, pouring over three different scripts when there is a knock at the door.

“Come in,” you sigh. A distraction is welcomed.

But oh, what a distraction indeed.

Damien pokes his head inside.

“Hey. Are you busy?”

You shut your book a bit too quickly.

“Not really. Struggling to get work done. Why?”

He fully comes inside with a book tucked in his hand.

“Well, I came to ask for a favor. See, every year I’m required to write up a thesis report. This year I’ve decided to write about Satanic Rituals, you know, black mass and sacrifices. Nasty business. Anyway, I found a text that I think would be very helpful, but…”

“But…it’s in Latin?”

He chuckles bashfully and sets it gently on your desk.

“It’s in Latin.”

“You don’t speak it?”

“I can read and speak it if I know what I’m saying. I’m trying to learn. Some would say I’m too old.”

“Well with that attitude nothing can get done. But sure. I’d be happy to. Maybe it’ll help me too.”

You crack the book open and notice that while the cover is well kept, the inside is close to falling apart like autumn leaves. What you skim pulls your brows together.

“Gee. It’s definitely not written to be ready easily . And- wow, it starts off strong.”

Damien leans over the desk with a sudden and boy-like interest.

“What does it say?”

“It talks about sacrificing infants, drowning animals in blood…Jesus,” your eyes flick up to his and you suddenly notice how close he is. “Sorry. Do you want me to make notes?”

Damien averts his eyes and clears his throat. “As direct a translation as possible would be best- if it’s not too much trouble.”

“It’s not. Happy to do it.”

You smile at him and he gives a half grin.

“Is there…anything else?”

He drums his fingers against the desk. Again, you can tell he’s holding back. Something is fighting against his teeth.

“No. But thanks again.”

And he spins away and nearly flees the scene, you can only watch in slight disappointment, the book forgotten in your hands.

You buckle down on your essay, using some of Damien’s book to help you along. While it’s not exclusively mistranslated, there’s definitely word choices that would change meaning from Latin to English, and with that, certain religious implications. It’s not perfect content, but for a sixty page thesis, you can find a home for it.

However, what has become more troubling is the content of the book. It’s nothing you haven’t at least heard of, but the candor within the details, the desolation of the accounts- it keeps you up at night.

But still, you submit the first quarter of your thesis for review. Part of you considers being anxious about any sudden lack of feedback, but you’re too tired. You’re not sleeping as much. What time you don’t spend thinking of your degree, you spend thinking of Damien.

It’s pathetic, actually. You’ve never been stuck on someone like this before. Not that you’ve never taken interest, but this was something else. Maybe it was the forbidden aspect. no matter how much you tried to convince yourself you only wanted friendship, you cannot deny the way you delight in seeing him, in talking to him on personal matters, or even school work. You also notice- you’re not a fool- that you two never make direct contact. No skin on skin touching. It’s almost as if there’s an unspoken rule between you two. That if you breach that boundary, all hell would break loose.

The thought is both devastating and tempting.

You’re perusing the library when Lankester Merrin approaches you. He catches you off guard and you jump a little and remove your headphones.

“Father Merrin! Sorry, I was concentrating. What is it?”

Father Merrin removes his glasses to inspect them. “Oh, well Reverend Thomas Bermingham- have you had the pleasure?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, I’m sure you know he’s the University President. He’s hosting a dinner with myself, the Cardinal, Dr. Lance, a couple of political so and so’s, and likely Dyer and Karras. I thought, since you’re a prime example of our partnership with the university, you could be in attendance as well.” He replaces his glasses casually, as if he hadn’t just invited you to a dinner with very important people.

“I- I mean, I’d love to, but are you sure? You don’t think I’d be awfully out of place?”

“No, no. Not at all. As long as you don’t mind some smiling and nodding, and mentioning your thesis. You certainly don’t have to-“

“No! I want to. I’d love to. Thank you, Father.”

“Of course. Dress is formal. It’ll be at the president’s house tomorrow night, 7 o’clock, I think. I’ll get you the address.”

He goes on to ask about your thoughts on his report, which you give him excitedly. You even find that you're able to work better once you return to your office. Perhaps the dinner serves as a new motivation. The more you can accomplish, the more you'll have to talk about.

You soon receive a decent review of your thesis submission. Dr. Lance is sure to note that your content doesn't flow as well as it could with the subject, but you also know that by the end of it, you can pull anything together.

Sunday morning comes and it's so freezing outside that you forgo your morning run and opt for sitting in the back of mass instead to read. This morning’s service is being led by a young priest you don't know.

As you read in the back corner, Joseph Dyer very quietly approaches you and takes a seat in the chair next to yours. You close the book you're reading.

“Well, good morning, Father.”

“Good morning. Awful early, isn't it?”

“Hm, it's too cold for a run. Figured I'd hold up here until more people trickle in. What about you? You're obviously not doing mass.”

“Had to meet with Damien about something.”

“Ah, so he wasn't at the track, either. I feel less guilty now. Say, is he alright?”

One thing you can always rely on is Joseph Dyer's honesty. He shrugs and watches mass.

“More of the same. The ebbs and flows that come with priesthood, I suspect. Why?”

“No particular reason. Just trying to make sure I'm not making it up in my head.”

“You do that a lot?”

“Make up problems to solve? Almost every day.”

Joseph smirks. “Well, that explains your thesis.”

You guffaw and hit him playfully with your book. Betty turns to you.

“Knock it off! It's not even six yet. Young people,” Betty adds under her breath, shaking her head and rolling her eyes as she positions her fingers to the keys.

“You hear about this dinner?” Joseph asks, now more aware of his volume.

“Sure, Merrin asked me yesterday. You going?”

“I probably should. It's usually a fifty-fifty toss up of interesting people. Sometimes it's movie stars and scientists. Sometimes it's senators and anomalous rich people.”

“You do these a lot?”

“Fun fact: they only keep me around for my looks and my personality.”

You stifle a giggle and return to your book as Betty strikes up the organ. Joseph sneaks away.

“Suppose I'll see you then.”

You nod and smile and watch as Joseph disappears through the arched doorway and presumably out to the connecting hall. You like Joseph Dyer. You see why Damien hangs around him so much.

Dressing for the dinner is difficult.

You’re going to be around priests and college administrators, so sexy is out of the question. But…mature? Flirtatious?

And just who are flirting with?

Nobody! Maybe it’s just to make you feel good. Is that so wrong?

You go with red. Nothing too revealing- show a little skin, keep it interesting. We can’t wear sweaters and collars all the time, now can we?

You wonder what Damien will be wearing. Likely his normal vestments since he and Dyer are going at priests. Probably the same for Merrin.

It also sounds as if you’ll be the youngest person there. Not that it’s a problem.

It’s snowing full force when you leave your apartment in a coat, scarf, and gloves, but no hat so you don’t ruin your hair. You think to wait for a cab but you don’t want to be late, so you walk it. By the time you get to Reverend Bermingham’s front door you’re shaking. You knock firmly, your first like solid ice, and wait.

A woman you don’t know answers the door. She looks over her shoulder and shouts into the hall.

“Thomas! We have another guest!” She turns back to you. “Come on in.”

You follow her inside but she’s turning into a room before you even get your coat off. You hang it up along with your scarf, stuff the gloves in a pocket, straighten yourself out in a mirror hanging in the hall.

Deep breaths. It’s just a dinner.

You follow the woman to the room she turned into. It’s a richly furnished sitting room, complete with a roaring fireplace and baby grand piano that Dyer sits at.

“What’ll it be?” He asks the group. Everyone else is already here. Shit. “Oh, looks like our final guest has arrived.”

Everyone turns to you and even though most of the faces are familiar, you feel scrutiny shoot up your spine. You smile meekly and wave.

“Sorry. Am I late? I had to walk.”

“No, dear,” the woman from before says, sitting herself down in an armchair. “We were simply early is all.”

Your eyes search for Damien and you feel a bit relieved when you see him standing towards the back, speaking quietly with Father Merrin. It’s too obvious to just go over and stand awkwardly next to them, so you opt to sit next to the piano.

“What do you think, y/n?”

You ponder with a finger to your chin.

“Hark the Herald Angels Sing?” You suggest.

“Glory to the newborn king!” Dyer laughs and begins moving his fingers across the keys, playing seamlessly. You lean to him.

“I didn’t realize you played.”

“Since I was five. My folks were keen on giving me a classical education.”

You nod, though you hadn’t had the experience yourself.

Dr. Lance stands by Reverend Bermingham and laughs politely. She turns and gives you a wink. She’s trying to calm me down , you think. Is your anxiety so obvious?

A woman pokes her head in the doorway. You think you recognize her- Bermingham’s wife?

“Dear? Peter says that dinner is ready.”

“Thank you, Charity. Everyone, this is my lovely wife, Charity.”

She waves to the room. You get the sense that she is mild, but has a certain twinkle in her eyes.

You all move to the adjoining dining room.

“No assigned seats,” Charity says.

Is it too obvious to sit next to Damien?

But then, he is soon sandwiched between Merrin and Dyer so, frowning slightly, you sit between Dyer and another man you don’t know. He extends a hand to you.

“Hi. Billy Wilde. I’m a writer. You are?”

You take his hand with hesitation and give him your name. His smile is too broad, the shake too assertive, and judging by his eagerness to give you his occupation, he certainly likes himself.

“What do you do?” he asks.

“I’m a grad student. I’m working with Holy Trinity to translate texts for both their use and my master’s.”

Billy Wilde nods but is soon distracted by something the woman at the door is saying. A waiter comes around to deliver plates. Baked chicken, beans, mashed potatoes, and rolls in a basket at the center of the table. Perfectly agreeable. At least it tastes good.

There are polite conversations happening around you.

You listen mutely, slowly chewing your food, sipping on the red wine that’s much too dry for your taste.

So far, no one’s asked you a single question, besides Mr. Wilde.

At some point, Dyer leans over to you.

“Psst. Can you switch me spots?”

You look at him as though you didn’t understand.

“What?”

“Switch me spots, if you don’t mind. I want to pick the brain of the writer. Unless you want him to yourself?”

You shake your head vehemently and you and Joseph switch seats, then trade plates.

Now, you’re next to Damien. He’s in his vestments but has a black cardigan draped over top. Suddenly, you have nothing to say. And he hasn’t looked at you yet, either.

“Avoiding me?” you ask jokingly. He looks over to you and smiles.

“Of course not. You said you walked?”

You nod, trying to cut the subject short so he doesn’t ask you about the weather like a complete stranger.

“Dear?” the woman from the hallway is getting your attention. “What did you say your name was?”

You tell her. Her face falls and her mouth turns into a tight frown.

“Oh. Are you…John and Helen’s oldest?”

The sound of your parents’ names turns your gut to lead. Your hand in your lap attempts to flex the sudden numbness away to no avail.

“Yes, I am.”

The table has grown almost silent. It is unbearable.

“Oh, goodness. Forgive me. I was friends with your parents. They were splendid people, truly. I couldn’t make it up for the funeral, unfortunately.”

You force a shaky smile and shake your head. “It’s alright. I couldn’t, either. I didn’t make it back from Rome in time.”

Her mouth gapes from the tragedy of it all. “My deepest condolences, dear. And for your brother as well. What was his name, again?”

The noises around you begin to turn into roaring water against your ears. “William.”

“Right.” She turns to the table and begins to explain how she knew your parents. Slowly, suppressing the shaking in your bones, you quietly excuse yourself. As you leave the room, you hear the woman.

“Oh, I hope I didn’t upset them...”

Out on the front stoop, you sit in your coat and scarf, watching the snowflakes fall more gently now onto the pitch of the street. The brittle cold clings to your hair and your eyelashes but it’s as invigorating as you can get right now. You think distantly of your aunt and uncle. What if they could see you right now from across the street? Would they even stop to stare?

You feel a gust of warmth as the door opens behind you. Damien sits beside you in a long coat. He fishes a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offers you one. You’re not a smoker, but take it anyway. He lights it for you and then one for himself.

You blow smoke and it disappears into the foggy night sky.

“Some people don’t really understand when to stop talking,” Damien mumbles to his cigarette. You shrug.

“It’s not her fault. She was just trying to be nice.”

“Still,” he says. “I didn’t know you weren’t able to go to the funeral. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. My aunt and uncle were in charge of it- my mother’s sister and her husband. When I couldn’t come straight home they just went on with it. I don’t blame them. Not something to put off.”

“My father died when I was a kid.” He flicks ash onto the steps. “The funeral wasn’t much of anything. Almost wish we hadn’t had one.”

“They’re for the living anyway. So how do you feel about doing mass for funerals, then?”

He shrugs.

“Just another part of the job.”

Funny thing for a priest to say , you think, but dare not speak it. Yes, something was definitely wrong.

“I’ve been reading more of your book,” you change the subject. He seems to perk up at the mention of it.

“Anything interesting?”

“More of the same, it seems like. It’s hard to tell what’s written in earnest and what’s fear-mongering.”

“Well, as a religious text, I hope it’s earnest.”

“You can never be sure.”

He quiets after that.

“What was your dad like?”

You don’t really want the conversation to end. Damien sighs against the cold.

“To be honest, I didn’t know him very well at all. He worked all the time. Tried to provide for me and my mother. Poor immigrants, you know?”

“Did you grow up here?”

“No. New York.”

His clipped responses feel like an attempt to cut things off.

“Does your mom still live there?”

He doesn’t even give a verbal response. He just hums in affirmation and stomps out his cigarette.

Fine. If that’s the way he wants it to be.

You press on your knees to stand. “Alright, then. I think I’ll just go home. Will you let them know? Just say I wasn’t feeling well.”

“It’s a sin to tell a lie.” He stands as well.

“Yeah well, it’s not a lie. I don’t want to go back in there and it doesn’t seem that I’m much wanted anyway. I don’t really feel like being on display anymore. Goodnight, Damien.”

You don’t get five steps from the stoop before he calls after you.

“Do you really believe what you said?”

You turn around. The snow is getting heavier.

“About what?”

“Do you think it’s dishonest? That none of it’s real?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You mentioned it.”

“And I also mentioned that it might be honest. You never asked before what I thought about it all. Why now?”

He hesitates then shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. Let me call you a cab, alright? You’ll catch your death out here.”

“I’m fine.”

Of course, you’re not fine. You left your gloves inside and your whole body is freezing.

“I can see you shaking. Come on.”

You want to stick up your chin and bear it but you both know you can’t. So, you linger in the hallway as Damien calls a cab. Anyone who comes out to see what the commotion is gets the same answer: you’re feeling sick, Damien’s called you a cab. You appreciate the invite. You enjoyed the food.

At one point it’s you, Damien, and Joseph, who leans against the wall next to you.

“Faking it?”

You shoot him a look. “No. I feel terrible.”

Again. It’s not a lie .

“Well, forgive me for saying so but I wouldn’t blame you. I see now why you didn’t mind moving away from the writer. He’s abysmal.”

You smile at Joseph’s similar appraisal of Mr. Wilde.

“Well, not everyone can live up to your golden standards, Joe,” Damien jabs from the opposite wall. Joseph smiles.

“Nope. Only the three people in this hallway.”

There is a moment, never mind how brief, where you catch an almost indistinguishable, fleeting exchange between the two priests. It’s unspoken, it’s even unmoved, but there’s something in the eyes. Something you recognize, because Damien has looked at you that way, too. Or at least you hope.

Which leads to one of two conclusions:

Either, any hope at all of something more complicated between the two of you has just been dashed.

Or,

Things just got much, much more complicated.

You get home fine, change into more comfortable clothes, your track and field sweatshirt from your starting days at Georgetown. You need to take your mind off of the maybe-revelations of tonight. Something equally as occupying will help. You choose to lay down on your couch with Damien’s book. You’re not going to take notes, simply read. It’s not the best bed-time literature, but it will get the job done.

You fall asleep easily, your hand falling off the couch and dropping the novel onto the floor. Outside, a snowstorm rages. Inside, something equally as powerful stirs.

#damien karras x reader #damien karras #fanfiction #angst #the exorcist 1973 #the exorcist #the exorcist fanfiction

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corn-fanfiction · 5 months

Text

Oh My Love (Damien Karras x GN Reader Pt. 3)

(Pt. 2) (Pt. 4)

“This part always, always sends you into a tizzy and you find yourself laughing out loud. You turn a couple heads and shrink down into your seat, giggling.

“Do you do that a lot?” Damien whispers.

The sound makes you feel warm. He's speaking only to you. Only you. And he's not being critical. You can catch the mirth in his eyes, alight by the twinkling stars on screen.

“Oh, it's just getting started.”

Rating: M

Tags: religious imagery and symbolism, catholic guilt, priest kink, hurt/comfort, friends to lovers, gn reader, queer characters, realistic depictions of anxiety attacks, s*icide, foul language, eventual sm*t

December

“Glory to God in the highest,

and on earth peace to people of good

will. We praise you, we bless you,

we adore you, we glorify you,

we give you thanks for your great glory,

Lord God, heavenly King, O God, almighty Father… ”

Karras’s prayer rings out within the church and is reciprocated by the congregation. You sit in a back corner by the pipe organ, reading an unpublished chapter of Father Merrin’s latest dig report (which you still can't believe he loaned you). Truth be told, you do still yearn a little for the high arches and warm sounds of a nave. A corner of your heart aches for the carpeted floors and creaking pews, the light streaming in through stained glass depicting saints and martyrs.

Your eyes drift to Betty, the organist, and her nimble hands on the keys. She's older than you but not elderly, maybe 40s, and has proven to be kindly and realistic: your two favorite traits. You love listening to her play. She's always in the pocket of the rhythm which keeps you on your toes. It's easy to get distracted by her playing.

Except you don't get distracted from Father Karras suddenly pausing during his recitations. You lower your reading and furrow your brows in curiosity. You give Betty a glance and she shrugs her shoulders and continues playing.

When you look back to Karras he's back into his flow, but you see his eyes flick up to the congregation, then to you, the back down to the prayer book. You're hesitant to let it go, but you force yourself to keep reading and check on him later.

He has office hours. He said so. So it would be no problem at all for you to pay him a visit. Right? Right???

Right. So, you gather your courage and knock on the door to the little white cottage out the side of the church..

“Come in.”

You let yourself in. Damien's desk is situated against the right wall and he turns to you when you enter.

“Y/n,” He says, his eyes betraying a slight surprise.

“May I come in?”

“Of course. Can I get you anything, coffee, water, tea?” He stands from his desk and moves to get you a drink and you sit.

“No thanks, I'm good.”

He stops, awkwardly grips his hand like he’s missing something, then returns to his seat, but moves it to face you.

“Alright. So how are you settling in? How are you feeling?”

You shouldn’t be surprised he’d ask about your wellbeing. It’s his job. You give a tight smile.

“Good.”

He nods.

“Good.”

“Say; and I hope this isn't too presumptuous, but I wanted to ask…are you okay? I mean, I've only noticed the past couple weeks you've been…distracted, I suppose. And I think I wouldn't have been able to go around if I didn't check on you.”

Maybe it’s the priest in him, but for a moment you notice a flash of something across his dark countenance. But just as soon as you see it, it is gone.

“I'm fine, thank you for asking. What about you?”

You raise your eyebrows.

“Me?”

He splays his hands like it’s obvious.

“I can imagine the transition from Rome back to Georgetown could be jarring.”

You nod thoughtfully.

“It is, but at least it's familiar.”

“Have you seen your family at all?”

The question catches you off guard. Your pulse quickens and you palms sweat. How- does he not know?

“I'm sorry?”

“Your family, Joseph Dyer said that you had family nearby.”

Oh. Oh, he didn’t know. You suppose there’s no reason any of them should. Still, it’s unsettling.

“Oh, he must have misunderstood, or maybe I wasn't clear. My family passed in a house fire when I was in Rome.”

Damien’s face darkens. “Oh, I'm sorry.”

You shake the sentiment away as you’ve heard it a hundred times. It’s not that you don’t believe him or can’t appreciate it, but after so long the words lose meaning.

“No, don't be. Georgetown was my brother's favorite place. It reminds me of him.”

Damien relaxes into his chair.

“What was his name?”

“William. He was younger than me.”

“Tell me about him.”

“Um, he was inexhaustibly kind, but hilarious. I mean he was the funniest person I knew.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah. I think you two would've gotten along great. He was brilliant. He uh, wanted to be a civil engineer when he got out of school. He was 19.”

“He sounds like a wonderful young man.”

“He was.” You sniffle as tears began to fall. “Shit, are you gonna have to bill me?”

Damien laughs, actually laughs for the first time in front of you. Everything else up till now has been guarded chuckles and passive hums.

“No. Technically since you're a student you're entitled to free therapy.”

“Hm. Good to know.” You wait a moment, watching him. “You’re sure you’re fine?”

The lie slips from his lips with ease.

“Yes.”

“You know it’s a sin to tell a lie. Ink Spots said so.”

Back to a hum.

“I’ll keep it in mind. Is there anything else?”

Oh. Does he want you to leave?

You wring your hands in your lap but shake your head.

“No, that was all.”

You stand to go and Damien sees you out. As you exit, a young priest passes you to visit Damien, and when you turn around to give a final parting, the door has already closed.

The next morning you are right on time for the daily jog. It’s not every day, but often that you and Damien cross paths here. But today, you’re alone.

That’s strange. Where is he?

No water bottle or towel in sight. The early morning is clear and cold and you can see around the entire track. No, totally alone.

You try not to dwell too much on it. It is getting colder every day, perhaps he’s sensitive to it. Maybe he has early mass this morning and you simply forgot. All of those seem more settling than the alternative that your gut twists into a likely truth. That he was lying yesterday.

When you make your first lap and return to the bleachers, there he is, setting down his things and removing his windbreaker to reveal his sweatshirt underneath. You slow before him but he doesn’t look at you.

“Wow, I’m never here before you. Everything alright?”

Damien nods but when you catch even the side of his face, markings of haggardness and exhaustion are evident in the droop of his eyes, the lines of his face.

“Sure. Had a bit of a time getting up this morning.”

You brace your hands on your hips.

Ah. Fuck it.

“I understand that. Listen, Father…” You catch yourself. Maybe you’ll have better luck with the personal angle. “ Damien . Would you want to see a movie tomorrow? They’re showing It’s a Wonderful Life at the theater and I go every time it’s on. I like to sit in the back and make stupid commentary and…” You notice now that he’s looking at you and grinning. “...I’m not selling this, am I?”

“On the contrary, I’d say you made a compelling case. Sure, why not?”

A wide grin breaks across your face that you don’t try to hide. “Alright. I’ll pick you up at the cottage. Five alright?”

“Five is fine. Alright, care to run?”

Well, of course you’re distracted for the rest of the day, and how could you not be? You’re only going to be sharing your favorite movie with someone you now consider a good friend.

It has to cheer him up , you think. It simply has to.

The next day you actually have to attend a lecture, so you tuck yourself into a seat in the back of the hall and scribble mindlessly on your notepad. You have to start writing your thesis soon and you have to admit to yourself that you haven’t exactly made strides on it.The book of hymns proved fruitful, but you were otherwise occupied with Father Merrin’s report. That, and thoughts of a dark haired priest.

The bell rings and your stomach knots. Doubt creeps in.

Gee, what if this was the wrong move? I mean, what do you expect?

Your professor calls your name before you have a chance to dart out. Dr. Lance, an aging woman in her sixties, smart spectacles perched on a small nose, approaches you, her large frame taking only a few strides before she is upon you.

“I couldn’t help but notice you sitting in the back today.”

You blush and hold your books closer to your chest. “Yes, I’m not feeling well and wanted to be close to the exit in case I needed to leave. I didn’t want to be a distraction.”

Dr. Lance hums. “How are things at the church?”

“They’re fine. I’m learning lots.”

“Good. I’ve spoken with Father Merrin a handful of times-”

“I didn’t realize you knew him.”

“Oh, yes. Going on two decades now. He told me that you’ve been spending quite a bit of time reading his Kuwait Report, and spending time with one of the priests. What was his name?”

You swallow through a dry throat. “Father Karras?”

“Yes, that was it. Kind man. I understand it’s a new environment with many points of interest, but I have a responsibility to remind you of your purpose there. I’m sure Lankester’s report is fascinating, but will it aid you in your thesis?”

You force yourself to meet her eyes. “No, probably not.”

“I’m not dictating your free time, mind you. You’re a grad student, you’re an adult. But I also know how an experience like this can host distractions.”

You had been ready to flee the conversation at the soonest chance, but you linger at her words.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, for the sake of professionalism, I’ll simply say that…well, institutions often have a way of drawing us in before we really know we’re there.”

And God help you, you laugh. Dr. Lance’s brows pull together in scrutiny.

“What?”

“It’s just…the idea of being tempted by a church . It’s funny, is all.”

Dr. Lance seemed to be out of things to say so she lets you go. You rush back to your apartment and tear through your closet, your conversation shaving off five minutes of your time, that and the class had run over a bit. You're stuck on what to wear. Not too casual, but not too flirty. Definitely not anything flirty. Maybe something that makes you feel beautiful, handsome, nice. Yes, that's it. Nice.

So you find something nice and adjust your appearance in the mirror. A brush here, a flick there; maybe he won't notice. Maybe he will.

You arrive at the cottage at 4:57. You're glad you wore a coat as the wind breaks through the scraggly trees and bare shrubberies.

At 5:02 the screen door to the cottage opens and Damien steps out in his windbreaker. He notices you appearance almost immediately and smiles as he locks the door behind him.

“Well, you look nice. Now I feel underdressed.”

Nice.

“Well, there's probably still enough time to throw on a cassock if that's fancy enough.”

He laughs at you again and you two begin walking. You crane your neck over to look at his shirt. He leans away.

“What?”

“Your collar. You're not wearing it. I didn't think you all were allowed out without them.”

It's true, Damien is wearing a corded black turtleneck, something that compliments him quite nicely.

“Well, we wouldn't want everyone to know.”

“That you're a priest?”

“Sure. Aside from the hundred something people we see every week in mass, it's a phenomenally well kept secret.”

You throw your head back in laughter. He seems to be in better spirits. Good , you think.

You two approach the kiosk and you insist on paying for both the tickets.

“Priests resign themselves to a life of poverty, right? Consider it a donation to the church.”

It's a joke and one he mildly chuckles at, but seems to maybe lower his head when the ticketer hands you back the tiny slips of paper.

“First room on the right.”

As the two of you walk in, you begin to ponder. Perhaps he was telling a partial truth earlier. Perhaps he forwent the collar so people wouldn't recognize a priest out with a grad student. But why would they care? Georgetown was overflowing with Jesuits and students. Surely there's bound to be overlap.

Still, there's something knocking at the back of your brain. Almost as if you feel it too. Some foreign scrutiny that you can fight all you want to dismiss as ridiculous, presumptuous. But still.

You two make it to the back of the auditorium and settle into your seats. There's only a handful of other couples dispersed throughout.

Other ?

You focus on the film.

“What's wrong, is he sick?”

“Worse, he's discouraged.”

This part always, always sends you into a tizzy and you find yourself laughing out loud. You turn a couple heads and shrink down into your seat, giggling.

“Do you do that a lot?” Damien whispers.

The sound makes you feel warm. He's speaking only to you. Only you. And he's not being critical. You can catch the mirth in his eyes, alight by the twinkling stars on screen.

“Oh, it's just getting started.”

By the time George and Mary are walking back from the party, your feet are propped up on the empty seat in front of you and you and Damien are both munching on a bag of popcorn you left to get earlier.

“ Oh buffalo girls won't you come out tonight, won't you come out tonight, won't you come out tonight. Buffalo girls won't you come out tonight, aaaaand dance by the light of the moon.”

You sing along quietly, knocking your feet together lightly. If you weren't so engrossed in one of your favorite scenes, you would notice Damien watching you.

“I thought you didn't like romance movies.”

You flash him a grin. “Eh. This doesn't count.”

But when Mary and George draw close together and it seems as though they may just kiss, you feel that same flutter you get in your chest every time.

Oh, what you wouldn't give to be looked at like that.

If you were paying even a little more attention, you may be thinking that you were.

After the movie, he offers to walk you home. You accept.

“Thanks for coming with me tonight. I get a lot more strange looks when I go by myself.”

“Well, thanks for getting me out. I don't really do these kinds of things. I'm not sure why. I suppose I have the time.”

“Sometimes it just takes someone asking, you know?”

He gives you a loaded look. “Yeah, I do.”

Whatever his intended implication is, you fight a blush. You chalk it up to the cold. You two approach your apartment. You fiddle with your keys.

“Would you like to come up for a few minutes? Warm up?”

And that’s all you want. Just to offer him brief shelter. He looks at the ground and you already know his reply.

“I’m not sure I should. It’s getting late.”

Ah. He can color it any way he likes but you know the true meaning of his words. You bite your lip- an anxious habit your mother had always discouraged.

“Have I done something to make you uncomfortable?”

His eyes widen. “No- goodness, no. I have the five o’clock mass tomorrow.”

“Makes sense.”

“Which means I won’t be at the track, either.”

“It’s fine.” You give him a smile. “Well, goodnight, Father.”

You turn to leave but a hand reaches out and catches your arm. Not a grab or a grip, but a gentle laying upon your coat. You face him again.

“I really do hate to cancel on you.”

“It’s fine, Damien. Really.”

He presses his lips together in measured thought. “It’s nothing else.”

You search his eyes for some truth. What does he mean ? It’s nothing but circumstance that he can’t come up, can’t meet tomorrow morning? Or is it something worse: the time spent is nothing else? You know what the else is. It’s gut-wrenchingly devastating, despite your supposed absence of expectations.

“Alright,” is all you can think to say. You move from his touch and return to your apartment. From the window facing the street, you watch as he rubs his mouth, glances out to the street, and then eventually makes his careful way back to the cottage. You draw a bath and heat up some tea. Both scalding waters still can’t manage to quell the chill within.

#angst #fanfiction #damien karras x reader #damien karras #the exorcist fanfiction #the exorcist #the exorcist 1973

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corn-fanfiction · 5 months

Text

Oh My Love (Damien Karras x GN Reader Pt. 1)

(Pt. 2)

Summary: Reader (non-gendered) is completing their master's capstone at none other than Holy Trinity church. And guess who is starting to have a crisis of faith?

Rating: M

November is cold in Georgetown.

Four years of your Master’s studies has taken you from Penn State to Rome, to the hills and valleys of the East, and back to Georgetown now, to take up a scribe’s position with Holy Trinity Church.

You’ve never been a scribe, at least not for money. But you can’t pass up this opportunity. Georgetown is only an hour and a half from where you grew up, and it is a pleasant enough little town.

It’s your first day so you’ve dressed in your smartest sweater and slacks. Your coat is a hair too big. You bought it for five dollars at a second-hand store in town with the aim to grow into it, though you’re fully grown.

A worn cassette player is nestled delicately in your pocket. What money you’d saved on the coat you spent on a nice pair of Vanco headphones so you can listen to your music in peace. Today, it’s John Lennon.

It’s a little after nine when you reach the church- earlier than you’d planned, but that was a symptom of neuroses. You had to be early to everything.

You creak open the great wooden doors to the church, clicking off the music and resting your headphones on your neck. Within it was warm and smelled sweetly of incense. The gentle wood beneath your feet gives a little with each step you take and soon you’re in the nave of the church. It’s not very crowded, only six or seven people, but at the altar, beginning mass is a priest in a green chasuble. He’s impossible to miss. He’s intense yet carries a softness in his voice as he reads aloud passages. His black hair falls into his eyes and you feel the sudden desire to swipe it away.

You promptly push the thought away and linger in the back as the pipe organ strikes up and the small crowd begins singing.

You must lose yourself in the ceremony of it all because soon things are wrapping up. You blink away the haze of just watching it all and straighten.

“Pardon me, y/l/n?”

You turn to find a priest standing beside you. He has a wide smile and clean-cropped hair.

“Yes, that’s me. Are you Father Dyer?”

He nods and extends a hand for you to shake and you do. The music begins again and the bells strike.

“I am. Thank you so much for coming. I hope you weren’t waiting long.”

“I was, but I showed up early. I always do- can’t help it. It was nice,” you nod to the altar but the other priest is gone and the parishioners are dispersing.

“It’s nice to hear. How does it feel to be back in Georgetown? I saw on your resume that you got your undergrad here.”

“It’s familiar so it’s comfortable.”

You keep it at that. No reason to dredge up why you constantly reassure yourself about living here. It’s a nice town. It’s close to home.

You falter for a moment when the other priest approaches the two of you. He’s dressed down to the typical long-sleeved button-up and slacks. And he wears them well.

“Ah, Damien! This is y/n. Y/n, this is Father Damien Karras. He serves as priest and psychiatrist here at Holy Trinity.”

You shake hands and note how well they fit together. “Double duty? How'd that happen?”

“Holy Trinity made me an offer I couldn't refuse,” he says with an earnest smile. “What brings me here, if you don't mind my asking?”

“Work, hopefully,” you reply, catching Dyer's eye. He smiles and nods.

“Y/n is completing their Master's capstone in transcribing religious texts. Georgetown sent them here to study our collection.”

This seems to pique Damien's interest.

“And what are you looking for in our collection?”

You unsuccessfully attempt to hide a blush as the truth of the matter comes to light.

“Truthfully, I'm analyzing for mistranslations. Not that I think I'll find something no one else has before, but maybe I'll write it down in a new and interesting way.”

Both men nod, and if either of them are uncomfortable they hide it exceptionally well. This reassures you a little.

“Well, welcome to Holy Trinity. If you need anything, I have an office on the second floor.”

“Do you have office hours for spiritual counseling?”

Damien cracks a smile and even gives you a chuckle for that one.

“No, the spiritual door is always open. It was nice meeting you. Joseph,” he addresses Father Dyer then exits from a side corridor. You watch as he goes, for some reason wholly fascinated with the way he spoke to you and the rich contrast of it against his preaching. You often forget that priests are people too.

Just…usually not people that you find attractive.

“So,” Dyer begins, clapping his hands together in a way that shakes you from your thoughts. “Have they got you set up with a place to live?”

You nod. “An apartment on Prospect Street by those tall stairs. It's nice enough. So, when can I start?”

“As soon as you'd like. We can get you situated in one of the studies in the back corridor so you won't be disturbed. It has easy access to the library.”

The reality of it begins to set in. Your own study and unlimited access to ancient texts? It was every grad student’s dream.

“That sounds wonderful, Father Dyer. Thank you. Is it alright if I return tomorrow to get started? I have some supplies I need to get before settling in.”

“Of course. I’ll let Father Merrin know you’re here. He’s about to leave for an archaeological dig, but I’m sure he could spare a moment to talk to you about translating Latin. It’s one of his favorite pastimes.”

That you didn’t expect. Father Merrin is something of a legend around Georgetown. Prolific, with a deep voice that people found both calming and demanding. He often left Holy Trinity for things like digs, or pilgrimages. You never thought you’d get the chance to meet the man.

“I- that would be spectacular. I’ve always wanted to meet him.”

“Alright, I’ll get it set up for tomorrow if I can. Have a good day, y/n.”

With that Father Dyer leaves. With butterflies in your tummy, you depart as well, welcoming the cool air of Georgetown as you take the first steps into what is shaping up to be a wonderful adventure.

#damien karras x reader #damien karras #the exorcist #the exorcist 1973 #exorcist fanfiction

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