#ed warren

[dissaintful]

Currently rewatching the conjuring last rites...

[piscescrisisxo]

i’m always going to be right here (no one’s going anywhere)

♡ Lorraine gets into an argument with Ed and quickly makes up with him after being unable to sleep without having him by her side ♡

sfw

{Ed Warren/Lorraine Warren, light angst, happy ending, fluff, trauma, hurt/comfort, anxiety, relationship discussions, arguing, married couple, cuddling & snuggling, kissing, making up}

wc: 2.6k+

notes: conjuring prequel lored cast was announced today and idk what to say... the real deal has always been Patrick and Vera, which is why they keep using images of them to promote it but it's wtv ig -Also posted on my ao3 acct

“Hon, I know you’re mad at me for going to check out a case without you after you told me not to. I-I just felt like I had to go help out that family. Father Gordon called, and I couldn’t tell the guy ‘no.’ If I had told you about it, you wouldn’t have let me go,” Ed argued as he set down his sleeping clothes on the bed. 

When he got home, his wife was already in bed with her back against the headboard. All evening, she had been trying to distract herself from the recurring thoughts about where he had really gone–and who he was with–as she waited for him to get home before she could fall asleep.

“Of course, I wouldn’t have let you go, especially not alone,” Lorraine half-whispered and half-yelled, not wanting to wake their daughter up. She crossed her arms, watching her husband pull a white sleeping shirt over his head, unable to keep her eyes from traveling down to the contours of his chest, abs, and his happy trail; however, the perfect view didn’t make her any less upset. Not that Ed was using his looks to distract her from the fact she was mad at him, either, but sometimes he did use seductive tactics to get her to cave in. He really was just getting ready for bed, though. Still, he looked good doing even the bare minimum. 

“But why?” Ed asked, taking his khaki slacks off, throwing them into the laundry basket, and putting his soft, much more comfortable pants on. “I know I didn’t tell you where I was going, but if I were going out with some friends to, let’s say, fish or golf, I’m sure you wouldn’t have wanted to come along… I just want to know why you’re acting like this, Hon. You can tell me.” 

She sighed and rolled her eyes out of frustration. “Because…” Pausing, she debated whether to tell him that the real reason for their–or her–current break from taking cases was because she had a premonition of his death and didn’t want him to expose himself to any kind of danger that could make it all a reality. 

Ed probably wouldn’t understand, even if she did tell him the truth. He’d always been logical, unlike his worrisome wife. The fear of losing him was one thing, but actually losing him when she could have possibly prevented it was another. That was something she wouldn’t be able to forgive herself for. She was already so hard on herself. 

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, toying with the hem of the blue blanket they shared. Lorraine always fidgeted with something whenever she felt uneasy. If it wasn’t with the rings on her fingers or the beads of one of her rosaries, it was with whatever was near her. 

“It does matter,” Ed volleyed back, making his way to his side of the bed. “You’re not upset just because I went somewhere and didn’t tell you. There’s something else going on. I know it; I know my wife,” Ed said as he got into bed. He was tired and didn’t really want to argue–he never did–but regardless, he was open to listening to his wife. 

“You lied to me, Ed. You kept something from me. That’s the only reason I’m upset. And because you came home late… There’s nothing else,” Lorraine lied, gulping and looking down instead of looking up at him. She was hoping he wouldn’t notice, because she didn’t want to talk about the real reason why she was so upset at him for not listening to her. Not knowing his whereabouts was anxiety-inducing, and Ed knew that, which is what infuriated her even more.

“Look, Hon,” Ed started, grabbing her hand in his. “I-I’m sorry. I really am… I don’t know what else you want me to do or say.” He couldn’t tell her he wasn’t going to do it again, because chances were that he was. Ed was stubborn, and that was something she’d figured out very early in their relationship. 

Of course, he never wanted to hurt her in any way, but he also had no clue why lately she had been hesitant about helping those who needed their help–her special assistance. What Ed was aware of, though, was how much of a mental toll it took on her. And no matter what, he was going to protect her. Ed loved protecting Lorraine just as much as–if not more than–she loved protecting Ed. He always saw it as a husband's duty to look after his wife and family. 

He had previously told her that he was willing to go out and take care of the cases they were called for on his own, but it was her help that was crucial to really be able to help those in need. In wanting to keep him safe but also hopeful and feeling busy, she responded by telling him that they would just have to take less cases, only those they knew they could both handle. He agreed to it. At least initially.

Still avoiding eye contact with him, she pulled her hand away from his. “You should sleep in the guest bedroom tonight,” Lorraine said, soft and low, somewhat cold, even. 

“What?” He propped himself up on one elbow. “No. Hon, you can’t kick me out of our room…” He waited for her to say something, but she didn’t. He rubbed his forehead and exhaled, stressed and exhausted. 

Lorraine’s silence was a sign that she had her mind made up. And he didn’t blame her; he knew that doing things behind her back–or anyone’s–was wrong. 

“What about Judy? What if she sees me sleeping in another room and thinks we’re…” Ed paused, scratching his head, not even wanting to say it, not even wanting to ever think about it. “At least let me sleep on the floor,” Ed suggested. It had been too long since they had slept apart; they both had probably forgotten how to sleep without each other. 

“I don’t want to sleep in the same room as you right now,” she replied, her voice cracking. She could feel her eyes beginning to swell with tears. Finally, she looked at Ed and he sat up beside her. 

“Lorraine, please,” Ed begged, placing his hand on her thigh, stroking it with his thumb slowly for both of their comfort. “I’m not letting you go to sleep while you’re mad at me… Please.” 

“I’ll sleep just fine,” Lorraine lied, once again, sniffling and attempting to blink away the tears in the corners of her eyes. 

“I won’t,” Ed told her. Her presence helped him make it through the aftermath of his nightmares when he had them. Feeling her gentle touch and warmth and love always brought him back, and that made him sleep better than any sleeping pill ever had. It had been a long time since he had to take sleeping pills, thanks to his wife. 

“You should’ve thought about that earlier…” she said, matter of factly. “Go,” Lorraine hiccuped. 

As much as he wanted to comfort his wife, he remained quiet to not overstep. He knew he would have no luck if he did try. He sighed, not knowing what else to do to make her content with him again. Ed nodded, respecting her wishes and getting up from the bed to grab a clean blanket from their closet. 

She slid her body down until her head hit the soft pillow beneath her. She pulled the blanket over her shoulder and heard as Ed rounded the bed and made his way to her. Lorraine was facing the opposite side but she could tell he was coming up to kiss her. 

She turned her head, seeing him lean down and pucker his lips the closer he got to her face, ready to kiss her on the lips. Quickly, Lorraine moved her head to the side, causing Ed to kiss her cheek instead. 

“Goodnight,” he said, waiting for her to say it back, but she didn’t. Kissing her and telling her goodnight was something he did every night; it was routine. No matter if she was mad at him, or sad, or going through any other emotion. 

Ed pursed his lips as he shut off the lamp by Lorraine’s nightstand. Then, he walked out of their room and to the guest room, opening the door. However, he decided he didn’t want to sleep in there. 

The room was reserved for guests, and he wasn’t a guest. He didn’t even remember the last time he had entered that room. When they did have guests sleep over, it was always Lorraine who would go in to ensure everything was in order before they stayed and after they left. 

He walked over to Judy’s bedroom, opening her door and checking that she was still sound asleep. And she was. Ed hoped she hadn’t heard anything; she was smart, but still too young to understand what was going on with her parents.

As he made his way downstairs and to the living room couch, he blew out a puff of air. Sitting down with the blanket on his lap, he thought about going back up to his wife–where he belonged–but he also wanted to give her the space she needed. 

He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose before grabbing one of the couch pillows and putting it on the armrest to lay down at last. Ed twisted and turned until he found a somewhat comfortable position. It didn’t take him too long to fall asleep; it never did, especially when he had a draining day. 

Lorraine, on the other hand, was struggling to sleep with his absence. For almost three hours, her tired eyes drew invisible constellations on the ceiling. She wondered if Ed had been able to fall asleep. Ironically, it was her who couldn’t fall asleep without her husband. She needed him. 

After a while, she was unable to help it, so she stood up and put her slippers on. She walked to the guest bedroom to check in on Ed; however, she didn’t find him there. Panic began taking over her, and she went to check on Judy as well. She was relieved to find that Judy was safe and still asleep. 

Lorraine went downstairs to the living room and found Ed sleeping there, on the couch. 

“Oh, thank God,” she murmured to herself, bringing her hand to her chest, feeling her heart thumping. Lorraine slowly walked up to Ed and sat on the edge of the couch, trying her best to not make too much noise. 

Ed looked peaceful and beautiful; she didn’t want to wake him up. She knew part of her was being selfish for doing so. She caressed his cheek as she watched him sleep for a moment, wondering if she had been too unfair and too harsh with him. 

Lorraine braced herself for it, and then: “Ed?” She wrapped her small–compared to his–hand around his arm, shaking his body gently, attempting to wake him. “Hon?” Lorraine whispered, lightly combing her fingers through his messy hair. 

Ed opened his eyes slowly, his brows knitted, confused on why she was sitting on the couch he had been sleeping on for the past three hours. Not that he minded her being there, but last time he remembered, she wanted him out of their room. “Hey…” he said, still half-asleep. “W-what’s wrong?” Ed asked, suddenly concerned. He grabbed her wrist and stroked her pulse point, a touch that nearly melted her. 

“Nothing…” Lorraine answered. “Just… Come back to bed with me? Please?” She had that tiny pout on her face that she knew Ed could never resist, not from her and not from their daughter. 

He tried to rub the sleepiness from his eyes as he stretched his legs. “What time is it?”

“I-I don’t know… Ed–“

“I thought you said you would ‘sleep just fine’ without me,” Ed teased, biting the inside of his cheek to hold in the smirk threatening to appear on his face. 

Lorraine blushed at his words. “Hon, I-I obviously didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. I was… I was mad.” 

“Are you still mad at me?” Ed asked, grinning at how flustered she was. 

She shook her head, licking her lips. “No.”

“Give me a kiss, then,” he demanded since she denied him one earlier. He would’ve gone back to bed with her without a kiss, but he always had too much fun teasing his wife.

Lorraine let out a breathy little chuckle before she leaned down to give him a quick peck on his lips. 

“No, a-a good one,” he said, placing his hand on her waist.

Giggling, she closed her eyes and leaned back in, cupping his face, kissing him long and passionately and lovingly and devotedly. He moaned into her mouth, the grip on her waist growing tighter. His hand slipped lower and lower, wanting more. But before he could take things further, she pulled back. 

“Ed, can you come back to bed with me now?” 

Nearly breathless but smiling widely, he replied, “Let’s go.”

They stood up, leaving everything on the couch how it was, and walked back upstairs to their room.

Ed was the first to lay down on the cool bed that was missing the heat of his body. “Come here,” he said to her with one free, open arm as the other pulled the blanket over his legs. He was more than ready–and happy–to hold her in his arms like he did every night. 

She took her slippers off and got in bed immediately after he did. He helped pull the blanket for her to get under it with him. Lorraine scooted as close to him as possible. And close still wasn’t close enough.

He wrapped his arms around her as she put one leg over his. She laid her head on his chest and felt a rush of familiarity and love. His scent was calming and soothing. She didn’t need anything else. Everything she did need was right there with her.

“Ed?” Lorraine mumbled, tired and sleepy. 

“Mhm?” Ed hummed.

She looked up at him, her eyes flicking between his eyes and his lips. “Don’t leave me again.”  

He chuckled. “Hon, you were the one who kicked me out.”

“I’m not talking about that…”

Ed swallowed as his smile faded, feeling guilty for having hurt the person he loved most. He nodded, understanding exactly what she meant. “Yeah.”

“And don’t lie to me anymore, either… The next time you do, you’ll be sleeping outside with my chickens,” Lorraine joked. 

“You won’t let that happen.” Ed brushed her loose curls behind her ear, then cupped her chin. 

“Well, I’ll sure let them inside the house to annoy you and get back at you,” Lorraine said. And she was serious about it. She had been having the chickens inside their house more often than usual, and Ed had no other choice than to let her, even if he got a headache from them getting in his way and the constant noise they made. 

“Silly girl.” Ed laughed, booping her nose. “You do need to stop letting them inside, though.”

Lorraine shook her head slowly, smiling and laying her head back on his chest, closing her eyes. “Not happening.” 

He exhaled and shrugged a shoulder, simply accepting it. “As long as that makes you happy, I’m fine with it… I love you, Lorraine.” Ed kissed the top of her head. “Goodnight.”

“I love you, too, Ed… Goodnight.”

If you made it to the end, tysm for reading!

My ao3: @ // lonesomequeen_xo

Read pinned :)

[ellaesbonita]

let's keep this just between me and you...

[clement1me]

Title: - Dear, Only - Chapter Eleven: For Your Wounds, Babe (Chapter title is from Horizon, by Aldous Harding)

༻ ☽ ⊱⋆ 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⋆⊰ ☾ ༺

Pairing: ed warren x lorraine warren x fem!oc (clarice chenn)

Warnings: minor injury, blood, supernatural violence

A/N: I posted a chapter before this but tumblr did not circulate it normally. Here it is: Chapter Ten

-

"Jack, who were you touching earlier? What was her name?"

"Your mom."

"Is this spirit being a smart ass by saying that it was touching my mom?"

— Ghost Adventures

-

"Are you rolling?" Ed asked.

"Oh yeah," Brad answered, the large camera in front of his face, "I'm rolling."

A moment ago, just as Lorraine and Clarice had begun to refill their coffee, the bell to the cellar door had rung.

Brad sat at the kitchen table, and all eyes had fallen on him. He had pressed his lips together under the accusatory stares.

"Well, um," he said, looking to each face, "it wasn't me. Clearly."

The group stood in the doorway before the cellar. In the camera frame were Ed, Lorraine, and Clarice. Ed stood with his tape recorder slung over his shoulder. He put the connected headphones over his ears and clicked the button to start the recording.

"Ed?" Clarice said, "Can I ask you a question before we begin?"

"Sure. What's up?"

"Um, what, just what, is this thing?"

Despite herself, Clarice giggled while asking the question. In one of Ed's hands was something long, black, and cylindrical.

"It's for probin' the ghosts," Brad said from behind the camera.

Ed dropped his shoulders and gave the cameraman an exasperated look.

"Seriously? It's a microphone. Attached to a handle. Good lord."

Ed gestured toward the camera.

"You realize this footage is going to a priest?"

"Sorry, boss."

Clarice had to step out of the frame so as not to get caught laughing by the camera.

"Okay, can we all focus?" Ed said, looking between Clarice and Brad.

Clarice pressed her lips together, "Yes. Sorry."

"Alright," Ed said, looking into the camera, "It's 9:18, and we are headed into the cellar where the door has just opened on its own. With me, I have Lorraine, Clarice, and Officer Brad Hamilton."

Ed turned to the cellar door, and his group followed him into the cold of the cellar stairs. Lorraine gently held onto the wooden structure of the staircase as they descended.

"We are gonna leave the light off. The paranormal tends to show up better on the camera when it's dark," Ed explained.

As they all carefully descended the very steep stairs, the extreme cold of the cellar fell over the group. Accompanied by that strange hush. The hush that made all words fall.

Clarice hadn't been very nervous before walking into the cellar. But now, as the strange atmosphere settled over them, she remembered just how much she hated being down here.

The first sound besides their footsteps that broke the silence was Brad's overly loud voice: "I'll admit to you guys, this cellar is giving me the heebie-jeebies."

Brad had said it with such a nonchalant tone, you would have thought the man had burped aloud before saying it.

Clarice was focused on steadying Lorraine as she walked in front of her but momentarily glanced over her shoulder toward Brad.

"Oh, honey," she said pitifully, "if you get too scared, you can hold my hand."

"Ms. Chenn? I'm terrified."

Clarice smiled. "Just hold the camera."

"Brad, if you need any protecting tonight, I'll be the one to do it. Stop distracting Ms. Chenn." Ed said, meeting the bottom of the stairs.

"Ah, right, if any ghosts come near us, you'll protect us with that 'microphone' of yours."

Lorraine was the one to give Brad the exasperated look this time. Meanwhile, Ed turned to the surrounding cellar and ignored the comment entirely.

"Give us a sign that you want to communicate with us," Ed said.

Lorraine was next to him, her eyes closed and her hand lifted.

Ed adjusted something on the tape recorder.

"Just any sign."

Ed walked around the cramped space. He held the microphone aloft, moving it around different pieces of dust-filled furniture.

Brad followed the pair at a distance, whispering so as not to be heard by Ed, "There he goes with his probe. Any ghosts in here should watch out. He's a-comin'."

Clarice popped her face into the frame of the camera, squinting her eyes against the harsh flash.

She whispered, "I am deeply sorry, Father Gordon. Brad has absolutely no manners and can't take a thing seriously."

The next thing that could be seen was Clarice reaching forward quickly, and then the camera jumping back with a whispered yelp.

Ed turned to the pair, and Lorraine opened her eyes.

"Are you kidding me?"

"She pinched me!" Brad whispered shrilly, rubbing a spot on his upper bicep.

"Do you two need to go upstairs? I mean, seriously."

Clarice silently cursed Brad. She did not come down here to be unprofessional. It was very important to her that the Warrens knew she was serious about this.

"No, Ed, I'm-"

Her voice suddenly failed her. The group watched as the girl went rigid.

Her brown eyes were horribly wide as she looked back at them.

"Clarice?" Ed said, suddenly as still as she was.

Clarice just stood, her hands in claws by her sides.

Brad zoomed the camera in on her terrified face. In frame was Clarice's vividly white skin, overexposed against the flash. Dust motes floated lazily in and out of the camera's view.

Nobody moved. For a moment, the tape just rolled and rolled.

There was a quick and terrified intake of air. Clarice squeezed her eyes shut and let out a terrified whimper.

Meanwhile, everybody watched as a light brown curl shifted against her cheek. The way the piece of hair moved was like it had just been breathed on.

"Did you get that, Brad?" Ed asked quietly, his microphone aloft next to her.

Brad swallowed. "Yeah. I got it."

Clarice breathed out and looked cautiously to her side.

After a moment, she breathed out and said, "Oh my, I'm sorry for scaring everyone."

"Are you okay?" Ed asked.

Clarice looked again to her side. "I heard something breathe by my ear."

Before Clarice could continue speaking, Lorraine quickly crossed the distance between them.

"What?" Clarice asked, panicked, "Lorraine, honey, what is it?"

Lorraine moved some hair from Clarice's left ear and looked at Ed.

"Her earring is missing."

Clarice immediately felt both of her earlobes with her fingertips and then looked at Ed and Lorraine.

"Did it say anything to you?" Ed asked.

"I—no, it just breathed. It was hot. I don't—"

All eyes then fell on Lorraine, who had just bent over. She carefully held a wooden beam in front of her for support. The other hand was on her stomach as she inhaled a few deep breaths.

"Lorraine, you okay, hon?" Ed asked, moving toward her.

"Whatever is messing with her is—" Lorraine paused momentarily and pressed her fingers against her mouth. "I just— I feel sick all of a sudden."

Clarice, who was closest to her, put a hand on her back. "Do you need to go upstairs?"

Lorraine shook her head and straightened her back, though the expression she wore was still pained. She stretched her neck and shook out her hands.

"My hands are so cold," she whispered.

She flexed her fingers to get the blood flowing back into them.

Ed, seemingly agitated that whatever was in here had targeted both women, turned back to the surrounding cellar. He poked his microphone in the air.

"Come on," Ed provoked, "Say something. Don't be shy."

He poked the air again, as if prodding the microphone into the spirit itself.

"I want to hear you. Use your voice."

Lorraine shook her head, her eyes closed. She still flexed her fingers. Open and closed.

"Ed. It's gone, hon."

"It's gone?" Ed said, looking back at Lorraine.

Lorraine nodded.

"Alright," Ed sighed.

With one hand on his hip, his eyes swept the cellar once more.

"Let's go back upstairs. Watch your step."

Lorraine led the group up the stairs this time. Ed took his headphones off and followed her closely.

As Clarice began to climb the stairs, she suddenly glimpsed a piece of shining gold in the flash of the camera. Brad paused behind her as she bent to pick it up.

"What is it?" Brad asked.

Clarice inspected the thing. Gold framing a small teardrop pearl. The little pearl swung in a circular motion despite Clarice's wrist being still.

"It's my earring."

She held it between her forefinger and thumb to show Ed, who was before her on the stairs.

Ed leaned down and took the earring from her.

"Are you sure it didn't fall out when we were coming down the stairs?"

"It could have," Clarice said, "but I don't recall hearing it fall against the steps."

"Where exactly did you find it?" Ed asked.

Clarice bent to point to where she found the earring.

"It was right—"

Suddenly, Clarice's body lurched forward. The motion was as if someone had pressed a boot to her lower back and violently drove her into the steps.

A surprised yelp tore through her throat as her body collided with the stairs.

She felt a horrid bloom of pain explode in her lower jaw. Her mouth had struck against the stair edge. Immediately, her tongue swept along her bottom teeth as the pain radiated through her lower gums.

Lorraine's urgent voice immediately carried from the top of the stairs.

"Clarice? Oh god. Ed, help her up, won't you?"

Ed was already leaning down. One leg was on the stair closest to her, and one was just above.

His voice was gentle and low. "You okay, sweetheart?"

For a moment, Clarice just looked up at the man, seemingly too startled to answer.

Brad quickly dipped the camera away from Clarice as her hand reached behind and loosely grasped at the fabric of her dress. With a shaking hand, she pulled the cotton down, as it had ridden up during the fall.

Ed leaned forward and carefully moved some hair from her mouth. The curl had stuck to the blood beginning to expel from a wound on her lip. The hair, dipped in her blood, left a small, thin line against her cheek where Ed had pulled it away.

She lifted a hand to her mouth and felt the warmth that was dripping down her bottom lip.

Ed gently moved her hand away. "No, no. Don't touch."

But Clarice had already felt the blood. She looked at her fingers. The tips of her middle and forefinger were covered in a deep red.

"Oh, my."

"You're okay," Ed said softly. "Come here."

Clarice gripped his shirt sleeves loosely as he very gently worked to guide her into a standing position. She was sure to grip his shirt with only three fingers on one hand, holding her two first fingers away so she didn't stain his shirt with her blood.

"That's it, sweetheart. You got it?"

"Yes, I'm alright," Clarice said.

She was immensely grateful for the steady support of Ed's forearm behind her back as the pair carefully walked up the last few stairs.

Brad, with the camera in one hand, held both hands aloft, ready to catch her should something shove her again.

"I felt— did you see? I felt something push me."

"I saw it," Ed said.

Lorraine was standing at the cellar door and waiting impatiently for Clarice to make the last few steps.

Truthfully, Clarice had the urge to reach out to her like a child and point to where it hurts. Lorraine, however, was already in the process of pulling her into her arms.

She put a thumb on Clarice's chin and dipped her head to look at the small wound while Ed and Brad queued at the top of the cellar stairs.

After momentarily surveying the damage, she pulled Clarice into the white chiffon of her blouse and breathed into her hair.

"Oh, my girl."

—

"What happened down there?" Rodger asked as they all poured into the kitchen.

Ed sighed and, with a clatter, set the recording device onto the table.

"Something was messing with the girls. It made Lorraine nauseous and then pushed Clarice as we were all coming up the stairs. Split her lip right open. The camera might have caught something surrounding them. We won't know for sure until we get the tapes developed."

"Jeez," Rodger said, looking at Lorraine and Clarice, "You two okay?"

Carolyn was quick to bustle around the kitchen, quickly grabbing a kitchen rag and plunging it under the faucet. She then placed the rag onto Clarice's face and instructed her to hold it there.

"You need something for the nausea, hon?" Carolyn asked, leaning back from the kitchen sink to speak to Lorraine.

"No, thank you. It passed fairly quickly when we left the cellar."

Ed, Roger, and Carolyn all seated themselves at the table, and Ed began going over what happened in the cellar in more detail.

Meanwhile, Clarice approached Lorraine.

"Lorraine, I'm very sorry."

She held the kitchen rag against her lip, which was now slightly swollen and had a small pulse of its own.

Lorraine, who was leaning against the kitchen counter, immediately began to shake her head.

"Whatever for?"

"When you hugged me a minute ago, I bled onto your top."

Clarice stepped closer to Lorraine and pointed to the spot of blood. She did so with the cadence of a child pointing to a glass vase they had just broken.

The blood stood vividly dark against the white fabric. This fact made a surge of guilt run throughout Clarice's body.

Lorraine looked down at her blouse. She pulled the fabric from herself to view the stain.

Clarice bit the skin of her inner cheek before saying, "I didn't mean to."

Lorraine almost laughed.

"Well, of course you didn't, silly girl."

Clarice paused for a moment more. Her eyes seemed to have a hard time leaving the blood stain on Lorraine's top.

"We can go run it under cold water in the washroom. My pajama tops used to be covered in blood after a dream because of the nosebleeds. I know how to get it out."

"Clarice," Lorraine said, her face lowering kindly to Clarice's height, "I am not thinking about that. At all. In fact, I am only worried about that poor lip of yours. Come here."

Clarice closed the gap between them. She stood in front of Lorraine and stood still as Lorraine's hand gently pulled the rag from her face.

Lorraine sucked in a breath at the sight of the wound. An orange-slice-shaped split fractioned her bottom lip. The skin was raw and exposed.

The light touch of Lorraine's fingertips against her skin reminded her that Lorraine had complained of cold hands in the cellar. The skin of her hands felt freezing as they gently grazed Clarice's face.

"Goodness, Lorraine."

Lorraine immediately pulled away from the gentle fussing she was doing to Clarice's lip in fear that she had just hurt her. Her tone, Clarice realized, had sounded as if Lorraine had done something wrong.

"Your hands," she gently clarified, and then a soft plea, "Let me warm them."

"Shall I put them in your pockets?" Lorraine said, tilting her head at the girl with a playful smile.

"My dress has no pockets," Clarice said, and to Lorraine's disappointed tut, she responded, "Isn't it such a tragedy?"

Lorraine hummed a small mhm.

Clarice smiled, "Don’t worry, I'll just warm you myself."

Clarice then lifted Lorraine's hands to her mouth and breathed her warm air against them. It was such a strange sensation, Lorraine's reaction to it. Her hands, which had been unwaveringly cold since the cellar, seemed to thaw under Clarice's warm little exhales of breath.

Also, a very strange sensation was the fluttering pull of her lower stomach at the simple sight of Clarice doing it. Her hair was slightly mussed. Blood still threatened to form at the edges of the wound. It had begun to dry in smears along her bottom lip and chin, marking her face in a dark crimson.

She just had a bad fall and had been injured, but she stood directly and intently in front of Lorraine, worrying about her cold hands. Her leg was firmly pressed right against Lorraine's thigh, and her mouth was formed into an O as she breathed.

Lorraine suppressed the urge to lean forward and kiss the girl.

-

[briarthegoat]

— hard watch❌ hard while watching ✅

[briarthegoat]

— i KNOW dada

[mr-whatsits-wife]

‧𓍢ִ໋ ׂ𓈒 Willing Instruments‧𓍢ִ໋ ׂ 𓈒۪

🕰️ Pairing: Possessed!Ed Warren x Possessed!Female!Reader

🕰️ Word count: 4k

Part 2 ->

Plot Summary: Ed Warren goes into the basement alone because the entity has been responding to her specifically and he needs to understand why. He already suspects an incubus. He just can’t say it at a kitchen table with her husband sitting three feet away. What happens in the dark confirms everything he suspected and several things he wasn’t prepared for.

Warnings: NSFW, minors DNI, dub-con, violent horror descriptions, cheating, possession, body horror/cervix manipulation, fingering, unprotected P in V, masturbation, violent creampie, impregnation, the demon gets involved in more ways than one, can be read as smut or horror, i’m so sorry

The haunting started almost a month ago now. You and your husband had just moved into your dream home: Victorian, two stories, beautiful woodwork and wall paper.

The beauty of the place was a stark contrast with how it made you feel. Ever since you crossed the threshold, there was a stir of darkness just beneath your skin. Not to mention, books would fly off the shelves, crucifixes were knocked from the mantle, and there was a throbbing below your navel that could be considered strange since your last period was only a week and a half ago.

Ed Warren had a way of talking about this evil like it was just another contractor problem. Termites, bad wiring, a demon in the walls. It was now three days into the investigation of your house, you’d started to find that steadiness more comforting than you wanted to admit.

“It’s attached to the basement,” he says now, sitting across the kitchen table and glancing at various files. His wife Loraine is upstairs reviewing audio from the night before. Your husband is beside you, arms crossed, the same posture he’s had since you moved in… since the haunting started.

“What does it want?” you ask.

Ed is quiet for a moment, turning his coffee cup in his hands. “It’s an incubus,” he says finally. “Or something close to one. Old. Pre-Christian, maybe older. We have documented three cases with this pattern: the crucifixes, the moving objects, the…” He pauses. “The physical symptoms.” He looks at you. “In each case the entity fixated on one person in the household. Always a woman. Always one whose marriage was—” He stops himself and you notice your husband's eyes boring into him. “The entity feeds on longing. On wanting something you won’t let yourself have. It finds those feelings and it uses them. It’s been preparing you.”

Your husband shifts in his chair. “Preparing her for what?”

Ed doesn’t answer that directly. He doesn’t know. “These entities have a purpose. They always do.”

“So what do we do?” your husband asks.

“I go down. Alone, this time. It needs to think it’s getting an advantage separating us.” Ed’s eyes flick to you briefly. “It’s been responding to her. I need to understand more exactly why.”

Your husband doesn’t like that answer. You can see it in the set of his jaw. But he doesn’t argue, because before he can, Loraine comes down with her notes.

“The recordings from last night were different,” Lorraine says, spreading her notes beside Ed’s equipment. “The EVPs aren’t random noise. There’s intention in them. It’s been communicating.”

“What did it say?” you ask.

Ed and Lorraine exchange a look that lasts half a second too long. “It’s not words exactly,” Ed says carefully. “More like… intent. These entities don’t always use language. They use pattern. Repetition.” He closes his recorder case. “What I know is it’s been escalating toward something specific. I go down alone, I can confirm what that is before it gets there.”

Your gaze lingers on Ed. The careful way he checks his own gear before checking on you. “You’ll be right here,” he tells you, “at the top of the stairs. You’ll hear and hopefully see everything.”

Then Ed opens the basement door. The flashlight cuts a pale column into the dark below. With a final nod to Lorraine, he takes one step down.

Immediately your stomach chinches and twists.

Something unseen seizes Ed by the shoulders and hurls him down the stairs, his shout swallowed by the dark before it can form, his flashlight spinning out of his hand and cracking off the wall. Before you can scream, before your husband can reach for you or Lorraine can get a single word out, the same force closes around your wrist like a fist and yanks. Off your feet. Off the floor entirely.

You are dragged through the doorway so fast the frame blurs past your face and you hit the top step, stumble to the second, the third, hauled downward with a speed and violence that leaves no time for fighting, no room for anything except the dark rushing up to meet you.

Behind you the door slams. A crack so loud it shakes the walls, so sudden your husband’s voice on the other side cuts off like a cord severed. Then the bolt throws itself home with an echoing clang. Your husband's fists are hitting the wood, Loraine is screaming for Ed, but the entity is sucking up all the sound and the life upstairs that existed ten seconds ago now feels very far away.

Silence. The basement. Ed’s flashlight is shattered on the floor, throwing a broken stripe of light across the concrete. And the presence that has been here since long before you signed the deed, is done waiting at last.

You hit the concrete floor on your hands and knees, breaking skin but there is no time to process this pain. The entity comes from above, from the dark itself, pouring down your throat like something liquid and alive. You feel it enter you. A force driving itself into you through your mouth, past your teeth, down into your chest, and your body rejects it the way a body rejects poison. You are coughing, retching, hands clawing at the concrete, your whole frame shaking so hard your teeth knock together. It burns. Whatever it is, it burns going down, a fire that isn’t heat spreading through your chest, your ribs, your stomach, your spine, lighting every nerve up at once until your vision whites out at the edges and you can’t tell which way is up.

Across the basement you hear Ed making the same sounds. Coughing. Choking. Something between a gag and a shout, his body fighting what’s going in just as yours is. Then silence, from both of you, at exactly the same moment. The shaking slows, but the burning doesn’t stop. It shifts, settles, becomes something warmer. It moves with purpose, a slow deliberate migration downward through your stomach, your hips, pooling deep in your pelvis with a weight that is almost unbearable. You feel it reach your cervix and something contracts there, a slow involuntary clench, and then another, rhythmic, purposeful. A sound escapes your lips as your body opens in pulses like a door being unlocked from the inside. You press your hands flat to the concrete and try to breathe through it, curses falling from your trembling lips.

Then the heat seeps outward. Into your thighs, which feel suddenly heavy and liquid. Into your face, which flushes so hard you can feel your own pulse in your cheeks, your lips, your temples. Into your chest, where it settles like an ember pressed against your sternum and burns steadily, turning up the volume on everything: the cold air on your bare arms, the rough concrete under your palms, the sound of Ed’s breathing in the dark.

It seeped into your mind last. That is the worst part. It doesn’t take anything from you, nor does it put anything in. It only burns away the restraint. The wanting has been there all along… Ed cooking breakfast in the morning, Ed’s hand on your arm steadying you on the stairs, Ed watching you from the other side of the table with something careful and restrained in his face.

He finds you in the dark by sound first. Your breathing, ragged, hands still flat on the concrete. You hear him cross the basement floor, unsteady, and then he’s crouching beside you, his hand closing around your arm to help you up.

“Are you alri—”

That’s as far as he gets.

The contact moves through you both like a current completing a circuit. His fingers on your arm, your skin still burning from the possession. You feel him go still. You feel the question die in his throat before it finishes forming. His grip doesn’t tighten and doesn’t release. He just stops as though he had reached for a door handle and found it live with electricity and cannot make himself let go.

You look up at him and in return he looks down at you.

That’s when you notice it. His eyes are wrong. You can see it even in the broken light. The pupils are blown wide and dark, swallowing the color, the careful professional composure he’s worn for three days is absent, burned away. You know, looking at him, that yours are the same. You know he can see it too. There is a moment of recognition between you. Something is happening, something is in us…

But then, his thumb moves, brushing the soft skin on the inside of your arm.

The fire in your chest doubles.

Your hands find his shirt, your body pressing in, and there is one beat where his jaw tightens and something in his face says no, wait, stop —

His hands come up to push you back and instead close around your waist. His grip tightens. The alarm in his eyes doesn’t leave, but his mouth immediately comes down on yours.

He kisses you fervently, lips crashing into yours, but there is an odd restraint about him, like his own hands are acting without the rest of him. Come to think of it, you feel the same thing in yourself.

Part of you is watching, screaming that this is wrong, reaching for your husband’s name and Ed’s wife’s name and coming up empty. All the while, your skin is searing where he touches you. Your hands are pulling at his shirt. You are watching yourself do it, but you cannot stop.

The kiss is immediate and graceless, teeth and desperation, three days of restraint detonating all at once and amplified tenfold from whatever effect the possession had on you. His hand fists in your hair hard enough to sting and you mewl against his mouth as he walks you back against the old workbench. The wood is rough against your back and his hands are already fidgeting at your buttons before he gives up and rips the fabric clean off.

Your blouse hits the concrete floor, buttons scattering, and when his hands immediately find your bare skin the fire surges once more. Every place he touches ignites. It is something the possession has written into your nerve endings so that his fingers on your ribs, your waist, the curve of your spine feel the physical burn of sin, like your skin itself knows this is forbidden. When his mouth finds your throat you arch into him, a moan slips out, but it sounds nothing like you.

“Three days,” he growls against your collarbone, biting down hard enough to make you gasp. “Three goddamn days of watching you move through this house, listening to that husband of yours not see what’s right in front of him.”

“Ed—”

“Say it again.” His hands find your breasts, freed now, thumbs rough over your nipples. “My name. Again.”

“Ed,” you breathe, and he groans like the word undoes him.

His eyes when he looks at you are still dark. Yours probably are too. You don’t know anymore where the thing, the entity, ends and the wanting begins.

He lifts you onto the workbench, settling between your thighs, shoving your skirt up around your waist. “Should’ve done this the first night,” he mutters, fingers hooking into your underwear and dragging it down your legs. “Should’ve had you the second I walked through that door.”

“I didn’t want—”

“Don’t lie to me.” His fingers find you slick and ready, and the sound he makes is filthy, satisfied. “Soaked. For me. Just like how you were on the first night. Right there at that kitchen table with your husband sitting next to you.”

A flush of white-hot shame moves through your whole body and lands between your thighs as your legs spread wider.

Somewhere beneath the burning a small voice notes that he couldn’t possibly know that. Couldn’t know about the first night, her sitting across that table watching his large hands wrapped around a coffee cup, the solid width of his arms, and feeling something pull low in her stomach that she dismissed immediately as never, not that, not ever. He also couldn’t possibly know about the nights since — waking at three in the morning with her pulse in her throat and her hand already moving and Ed’s face still burning behind her eyes.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, working two fingers into you now, “Let me feel how much you want this. How long you’ve been wanting it.”

You have. You have been wanting it. That truth is the most frightening thing in this basement: the fact that nothing the entity has done tonight has put a single feeling in you that wasn’t already there.

You’re already gasping, already rocking against his hand, and he watches your face like he’s memorizing it. “I’m going to ruin you for him,” he says, voice wrecked. “Make sure you never forget what this felt like.”

“Yes,” you moan. “God, yes.”

He withdraws his fingers only to undo his belt. He frees himself and presses against your entrance, nothing between you, and drives forward. The feeling of him — bare, throbbing — tears a sob out of you that echoes off the stone. The sensation is staggering, overwhelming, like nothing you have felt before. The fire the possession lit in you has made every nerve raw and new, and the stretch of him entering you for the first time is a threshold crossed that cannot be uncrossed. Your whole body is shaking the same way it shook when the entity came down your throat, except now the burning is pleasure, unholy and total, consuming you from the inside out. Your fingers claw at his shoulders.

He buries himself fully and holds there, breathing hard against your neck, letting you feel all of it: the impossible fullness, the burning, the weight of what you’ve just done pressed into you like a brand. Then he pulls back and drives forward, and you both cry out, the sound swallowed by the dark. After that there is no more slowing down. He moves rough and relentless, the workbench rocking beneath you. Every point of contact between your bodies feels like a small damnation, like sin rendered in flesh, like the demon inside you is savoring each one.

“That’s it,” he grits out against your throat. “Feel that?” His hips snap forward hard enough to knock the breath from you. “Tell me your husband has ever made you feel like this.”

You can’t speak. The sound that comes out of you breaks in your throat and most certainly isn’t words.

“That’s what I thought.” His voice drops, rougher. “All this time I watched him look right through you.” Another thrust, deep and deliberate. “He doesn’t deserve what he has.”

His pace turns brutal, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the basement. You can see the fire in his eyes, the creases in his brow. With a low, possessive growl, he says, “I’m fucking him right out of you.”

“Ed,” your fingers find the back of his neck and pull him closer. “God, yes. Do it.” A hot drop of shame falls straight down your spine as your thighs tighten around him.

But then you feel it: something else in the room with you, something that is not Ed and is not you but is very much present. Invisible hands close around Ed’s hips from behind.

Your hand finds his face in the dark, holding his cheek against your palm. His eyes drop to yours and something passes between you. Not want, not shame, not fear exactly, though it lives beside all three. A mutual witnessing. We are not driving this anymore.

You feel the difference immediately. The rhythm changes, deepens, the angle shifts to something more deliberate than anything driven by want alone. Ed makes a wide-eyed groan that is partly surprise but mostly dripping in lust, his body driven forward harder than his own strength, his hips snapping into yours with a force that knocks the breath from you both. The demon is not watching anymore. It has its hands on him, gripping, guiding, rutting him into you with a single-minded purpose that has nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with its own design. Ed’s fingers find the workbench edge and hold on, his knuckles white, his body being used as much as yours is. The two of you were instruments in this demon’s twisted plan.

You should be terrified. You are terrified. And yet, the searing pleasure never ceases. It builds fast and overwhelming, every nerve alight with lust and shame. “I’m close,” you gasp. “Ed, I’m so close—”

“Come on my cock.” He demands as his thumb finds your clit. “Let me feel you. I want to feel you fall apart.”

You shatter around him with a cry that tears out of you, body convulsing, and he doesn’t let up — fucking you through it, dragging it out past the point you thought possible, past the point where you can think anything clearly at all.

“Yes,” he groans, feeling you clench around him. “God, yes. Perfect. So goddamn perfect.”

A moan tears at your throat as you feel it again: the contractions at your cervix. The demon is opening you up and still relentlessly pushing him into you. You muffle your screams with the back of your hand as you feel the head of Ed’s cock being pushed past your cervix.

He’s shaking, eyes blown so wide, whimpers escaping his lips as he crashes over the edge with a guttural groan, hips snapping forward and being held there. He’s buried to the hilt as the first pulse moves through him, the hot rush of him releasing his seed directly into your womb in thick waves. His cock throbs with it, filling you so completely that you feel the pressure of it against your walls, feel yourself stretched around him as he empties everything he has into you.

“God,” he grits out, hips grinding forward in slow circles, working himself deeper, his cum sealing into you with every movement. “Fuck-”

But the warmth in your chest — the entity’s hand on the lock — doesn’t lift. It tightens. His hips keep moving, the force grinding him deeper still, and he makes a broken sound against your throat.

“I can’t pull out,” he says, disbelieving. “It won’t let me.”

You feel it. The entity is holding you both in place, keeping him buried inside you, his softening cock still seated deep while his cum works its way further in with every involuntary roll of his hips.

“God,” he whimpers. It sounds like an apology. It sounds like a prayer.

And then, like a fist unclenching, it releases you both.

The heat drains from your chest in a cold rush. The presence that has tormented you since you moved in slithers away. The basement is back to being just a basement. For now.

Ed pulls back immediately, his softened length sliding free. Then came the unstoppable rush of everything he put into you flowing back out. His thick and warm spend began running freely down the inside of your thigh, pooling on the workbench beneath you. You both look down. The evidence of what has happened is irrefutable, visible, dripping onto the concrete floor in the pale light from the stairwell where the bolt has now slid back open on its own.

Ed’s eyes are blue again. Just blue. Just the eyes of a man coming back to himself by degrees, looking at his own hands like they belong to someone else. Running his hands through his hair, eyes racing around the room. You watch the full weight of his realization arrive, moving through him in a wave.

“I’m sorry.” His voice is barely there. He looks at the floor, at the wall, at anywhere that isn’t you, and then at you, because he owes you that much. “I am so sorry. I couldn’t — I tried to —” His jaw locks. He stops. There is no honest sentence that ends his thought without making it worse.

“I know.” Your voice comes out strange, like it belongs to someone standing slightly outside your body. You are looking at his hands — the same hands that were on you thirty seconds ago — and you can’t quite make the two things fit together into one coherent thing. “I know you tried.”

“That’s not — it doesn’t —” He presses the back of his hand to his mouth. But then something else crosses his face, the lines in his forehead deepening. Not guilt anymore, but fear. “How long ago was your last-” He can't finish it.

You already knew what he was asking. You were thinking about it yourself the moment the entity tilted your hips and held him there. The timing was wrong, or right depending on who you ask. And the thing that lived in the basement seemed to have access to knowledge about your body that you never told anyone. “I don’t know. Two weeks maybe. If that.”

His hand sat frozen, unable to leave his mouth. “If something… if there’s- You have to tell me. Whatever happens, you tell me first.”

“And then what?”

He doesn’t have an answer to that. Neither of you do. The demon that was in this room wanted something very specific tonight, and something deep in your soul told you it got it. You both felt it complete itself.

“Lorraine can never know.”

Something in you almost wants to laugh, but a larger part wants to cry. What comes out is nothing. Simply, “No. She can’t.”

He nods once, something closing in his face. He reaches down, retrieves your blouse from the concrete floor, and holds it out to you.

Above you the door drifts open an inch, letting in a stripe of kitchen light. Your husband’s voice immediately calls out to you in a wave of “are you hurt, what happened, are you okay?” The sound drifts down into the basement as he moves toward the top of the stairs.

You look at Ed and he looks back at you. His eyes are wet and brimming with regret.

You want to reach out to him, to hold his face, to comfort him like a lover.

Instead, you straighten your skirt. Smooth your hair with one hand. Button your blouse. You climb toward your husband’s voice like a dead woman walking back to life. His hands find your arms at the top of the stairs, pulling you in, and you let him hold you as the warm kitchen light washes over you once more. You press your face against his shoulder, but you are still warm in places he cannot see.

“I’m okay,” you tell him. “I’m okay.”

Behind you, below, Ed doesn’t follow right away.

It is only later, lying awake beside your husband in the dark, that it comes back.

It is the wanting, seated so deep in your belly it pulses like a second heartbeat, slow and patient and specific. You lie still for a long time listening to your husband breathe, watching the ceiling, trying to will it back down into wherever it came from.

But it doesn’t go.

Your hand slides down your stomach, the same way it has on all the nights before this one. It was always the same: three in the morning, pulse in your throat, his face still burning behind your eyes. Beside you, your husband shifts and resettles, but doesn’t wake. As you turn your face away from him, your breath comes slower, then faster, and in the dark behind your closed eyes it isn’t your husband you see.

It is the basement. His hands. The broken stripe of light across the concrete and Ed’s eyes finding yours in it, blown dark, the careful man burned entirely away.

An ember, seated so deep in your belly it feels like it was always there, like it has always been waiting. It is want — specific and ruinous — and it has Ed’s name branded on it.

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[langdonwelldone]

I want to have happy marriage like them in the future