#loraine warren | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

rosiesthehat · 1 month

Text

wrap me in your arms like i'm made of glass.

Pairing: Lorraine Warren X Reader

Word Count: 7.5k

Tags: possessed!reader, exorcism, self flagellation / self harm, disordered eating, mommy issues, hurt/comfort!

Summary: You've been fighting an evil spirit on your own for months, until an angel falls on your doorstep, and you no longer have to fight alone.

Author’s Note: This one is sort of dark, ee!! Sometimes a girl just needs to write an exorcism, I guess!! This is my first go of anything horror/angsty, so uhm.. it might be kinda bad. This is also on my AO3!!

It hates the cold.

As do you.

Yet somehow, as you lay by the flung-open bay window, watching the tiny, crystalline flakes fall to cover your once-blossoming hydrangea bushes, you feel your head silence for the first time in weeks. The lightweight blanket draped over your knees isn’t much help to fight the tremble in your fingers, which are wrapped tightly around a mug of hot chocolate— you’ve been falling victim to your sweet-toothed cravings lately, considering this very well may be your last chance to do so.

The television across the room hums whatever country music variety show is on this early in the morning; a few cars pass by outside, splashing up muddy sludge into your front yard. You can’t help but wince at the action. You once dedicated so much time to perfecting your lawn, just for all of that hard work to become irrelevant in a few short hours. It’s probably been decades since this town last saw any snow. You’d never seen so much as a cold rain in your few decades of living. It seems that Hell’s finally frozen over. It’s a shame you never paid attention in church long enough to find out what to do in such an event.

You’re feeling weak. This isn’t a new sensation. Weeks’ worth of sleep interrupted by family photos flung off of walls in the middle of the night truly does begin to take a toll on a young woman’s body. Not that you ever had much energy to begin with, what with the early mornings spent tending to horses and late nights attending to sick barn cats.

It’s quite shocking just how much energy a demonic being inhabiting your body saps up.

It only takes a few minutes, lounged by the window and focus blurring out on the white mounds of snow, for you to loll off to sleep, cocoa spilling onto your favorite quilt, but you’re not lucid enough to notice.

It’s a very gentle knock at your door that rips you from your slumber. Your encounter with whatever beast has been haunting your every move has made you an incredibly light sleeper. At this point, you could be woken by a light breath against your face. You believe you already have, a few times now.

It’s incredibly difficult for you to stand from your position on your once pristine, now chocolate-stained sofa, but you make it upright eventually. The blood comes rushing to your head at the sudden swing upright, your feet heavy against the cold hardwood floor that you never bothered to buy a rug for. Your feet were calloused enough, there was no need for comfort for something already so broken.

You cling desperately to the heavy front door that, by some act of God, you manage to swing open.

The light you’re met with is blinding. You’re not sure if it’s the sun’s rays beating off of the snow and directly into your eyes, or if the woman at your doorstep just naturally emanates such a light.

“Hi there.” Her voice is so kind and warm that your entire body feels like you’ve been sat next to a fireplace. Once your eyes fully adjust to the light surrounding your savior, you notice that her face holds a slightly bewildered look, but like she’s trying to hide it. To remain professional, to not let you in on the fact that there’s quite literally a demon hanging over your shoulders.

You take her outstretched hand in your own, shaking it weakly, and as you do, her expression is replaced by a frown. “I’m Loraine Warren,” She hums, wrapping another hand around yours, seemingly trying to bring heat to the five icicles you call fingers. “and you’re freezing.” You muster up a lackluster smile, ruminating in the warmth from the hands wrapped around your own for as long as she’ll allow. Your visitor doesn’t pull back until you do, to let her into your home.

Mrs. Warren has clearly not come prepared for this entirely unforeseen snow, seeing as she’s dressed in a plaid, tea-length dress, with only a light cardigan hung from her shoulders. There wasn’t a single weatherman on any of your very limited channels that had predicted this sort of weather this far south of the Mason-Dixon.

“Thank you…” You begin, leading the taller woman to your living room, where you practically fall to your position on the sofa again. “For coming to meet with me, Mrs. Warren. I’m so very appreciative.” Your eyelids are heavy, and your cheeks hurt with the strain of a smile, but you still force yourself to engage as delicately as you can with this woman, both for the beauty that you find so enticing, and for the fact that she very well may save your life.

The affliction you’d been suffering for the past few weeks of your life… you weren’t entirely sure what it was. At first, waking up standing in the kitchen and holding a knife to your own throat was something you could pass off as a traumatizing night of sleepwalking. The sudden headaches and physical aversion to reading your leatherbound, heavily annotated bible made you think you had suffered a concussion from falling out of bed one too many times.

Seeing the Warrens on your favorite morning talk show was what led you to raise your own suspicions. The way they spoke of a young girl in Poughkeepsie who had begun levitating in the middle of the night, who began seizing when she was read the word of God… You couldn’t help but see the similarities.

You couldn’t have possibly called the demonologists sooner.

On the phone, you spoke to a man. He was much heftier with the way he spoke, clearly the extroverted salesman of the team. He seemed skeptical, and unwilling to leave his home in New England, as he had every right to be. You very well could just have the flu. But you knew, deep down, that you didn’t, and it had to be them. It had to be. You had no other hope of surviving against your oppressor if you had to fight it alone.

Your frantic begging must have been loud enough for the people close to Ed Warren to hear, because as soon as you finished your rambling about how miserable you were, a distant, soft voice came from the other side of the phone.

Ed, listen to her. She needs us.

The line then went muffled, he had placed his palm over the receiver in hopes to hide the fact that they had begun arguing about you. You couldn’t quite make out what was said, only that the woman, Lorraine, very much wanted to come to visit you, and Ed did not.

It was as if by miracle that Lorraine showed up at your door only a day after your phone call.

“Please, call me Lorraine.” The older woman returned, standing above you. “May I ask why you have the windows open? It’s just so nasty out there… it may affect your health, sweetheart.” There’s a little glimmer in her eyes when she presses the back of her hand against your forehead, which, much to her surprise, was just as cold as your hands.

A stubborn frown returned to her pink lips, and Lorraine quickly closed the two windows behind you.

“The cold helps.” You say plainly as Lorraine moves around your vintage furniture to close the windows on the opposite side of the room.

“What do you mean?” She returns to your side, placing your quilt atop your knees and finding another to cover your shoulders. She then sits on the sofa next to you, delicately maneuvering herself underneath your blanket as well.

You blush a little, hiding your face behind the large mug that you’d once discarded.

“This… thing. Whatever’s inside me… it hates the cold.” You reply, staring down at your feet, which wiggle to regain the feeling that the cold air had taken away.

“How do you know?” The clairvoyant muses, reaching up to pet the hair that’s turned into a mat behind your head. You’ve had a horrible go of taking care of yourself lately, with things as simple as brushing your hair disappearing from your mind for days at a time.

“It started snowing just last night… Since then, it’s been quieter. I’ve been able to take control of my life again, at least a little bit.” You hum, leaning into her touch, which has dropped to press comfortingly to your shoulder. “But as soon as I lit a fire, tried to get warm, it all came back. The chaos. The… evil.” You shudder to remember the noise that’s filled your head for the past few days. The screams, the whispered urges to harm yourself and others. It’s like you’ve been sent to your own personal Hell, like God finally punished you for the way that you look at women like Lorraine.

“You’re a very perceptive girl.” Lorraine offers you a smile, and you find that it may not only be the cold that calms you. Her presence has offered you more solace than any pain killer or chamomile tea has offered you in your entire life.

You try to giggle, try to accept her praise, but her warm touch, paired with your general lack of sleep, has made it truly impossible for you to remain at all upright. You slump over, dropping your cocoa once again, head landing on Lorraine’s shoulder.

“I believe you.” She whispers quietly, maneuvering your shoulders so that your head lays on her lap. The words are all you’ve ever needed to hear. To be assured that you’re not going crazy is all you need in order to finally fall asleep, and the hands that press warmth into your neck and forehead are the best medicine you could take.

You fall asleep in less than a second, your ears muffling all the noise in the room, yet you can still hear your visitor humming along to the tv as your muscles relax into the sofa.

♱

A soft whine escapes your lips before your eyes open. It’s a combination of bright light and tugging at the back of your head that wakes you up, and as much as you detest being stripped from the best sleep you’ve had in at least month, you feel rested enough to accept it.

“I’m so sorry. Keep sleeping, little one.” Your brain fights to register who the voice belongs to, but judging by the fact that you’ve only received one visitor in the past weeks, and the fact that no visitor you’ve ever met has had such a honey-coated voice, you remember right away. It’s Lorraine.

It’s Lorraine, and the light tugging you feel is a comb being pulled through the hair that hasn’t met such a thing in far too long. You’re hit by a sudden wave of embarrassment, knowing that the state of your hair must make you look so pitiful, like a child that can barely take care of herself. You hide your face in your hands, whining once again, hiding from the yellow light of a lamp above you, and from the fact that you look such a mess in the presence of one of the most well-kempt women you’ve ever met.

“I’m all done.” She purrs softly, running her fingers through your now untangled hair, tucking it behind your ear. You sit up, face beet red as you do so. You’re sure you’ve never felt more embarrassed in your entire life.

“Thank you…” You stutter out, voice heavy with sleep. “I’m sorry for falling asleep. I just… haven’t in quite a while. I hope I’m not taking too much of your time.” You glance up at her, eyes squinting to view the porcelain skin adorned by a smile. Lorraine Warren must truly have the kindest heart in the entire world to spend time taking care of someone she’s only just met.

“Don’t you dare apologize.” She says quite firmly, pressing her hand against your cheek, and you can feel yourself becoming addicted to her touch. “I want to take care of you.”

You feel a warmth in your cheeks, and a certain tingling in the pit of your stomach. You’ve never heard these words before, and the last time anyone had earnestly taken care of you was… well, you don’t really remember. It was probably in your early childhood, but even then, you weren’t too sure.

The butterfly wings in your stomach are quickly replaced by a different sensation, a large growling that just about reverberates through the living room. You’re filled with another bout of humiliation, and grip your stomach tightly. You’re also not too sure when you last ate.

A ginger hand presses against your stomach as well, and it dawns on you just how close to the older woman you’ve become. She’s pressed against you so much that you’re nearly sitting in her lap, and her other arm is wrapped around so very tightly around the small of your back. Lorraine is quite the touchy woman, and you couldn’t be more appreciative of such a character trait. You lean into her hands greedily, head tilting over to rest on her shoulder once more.

“Can you stand?” She hums, pressing her cheek to rest on the top of your head.

You nod slowly, not quite too sure that you’re telling the truth, but if Lorraine wants you to stand, you’ll stand. And you do, pushing hard into the ground, thankful that before all of this mess you were at least regularly active, and your body was fairly well maintained from throwing bales of hay.

“Good girl.”

The words make your knees go weak, weaker than they already are, and you falter a little in your steps. You thank God that Lorraine has such a strong grip around your waist and is able to keep you upwards.

“Show me your kitchen?” The clairvoyant asks softly, and while you do just as you’re asked, her steady gaze washes over each little family portrait, each corn husk doll, even the sunhats you’ve worn so much that they’re full of holes. One may see her wandering eyes and find her to be a terrible snoop, but Lorraine is doing her job, gathering every piece of evidence she can to use against your demon. She wants to know everything about your past and present so that she may rid you of this retched thing.

She gets no clue as to what suffering has conflicted this household from the photos of a quite happy family hanging from your walls, but she can sense it in the way the house creaks with her every step. There’s an evil lingering in these walls, and Lorraine can feel it.

“I’m… I’m not sure there’s even any food that’s still edible.” You speak gruffly as you arrive in the kitchen that overlooks your barn that was once such a brilliant red, and now stands with peeling paint and water damage. It’s a proper metaphor for your own status. You haven’t been in this room in many days, and the sight of wilting flowers and rotting vegetables depresses you immediately.

“I’m sure I can make do.” Lorraine shoots you that oh-so very reassuring smile once again, and leads you to sit at the dining table that’s only ever been set for one. “When was the last time you ate?”

It’s a dreaded question. A question that, once again, you don’t have a clear answer to. You think the last thing you ate was a handful of boiled peanuts… or was it oatmeal? Lately you had only had incredibly unpleasant dreams about food, and your brain has been so occupied by so many voices, that sustenance was the last thing on your mind.

“I’m not sure.” You muster in response, and Lorraine’s frown returns once again. She’s not mad at you, only furious at the creature that’s taken hold of you, keeping you from living a healthy life.

“You need to keep yourself fed.” Lorraine speaks softly, peeking out from behind the cabinet she’d begun rummaging around in. “Communing with the being, and an eventual exorcism, will take a lot of energy.”

She speaks so calmly about something that is so terrifying to you. You weren’t raised Catholic, and didn’t know much about their traditions, but the interview that you had watched of the Warrens spelled an exorcism out to be one of the most dangerous, mortifying acts that one could participate in. You trust Lorraine entirely though, and are filled with the knowledge that if she has to do such a thing, she will treat you delicately, and cause as little harm to you as possible.

It's only a few groggy minutes before there’s a plate laid in front of you, and by some act of God Lorraine has found another chair to sit in. She’s pulled up right next to you, and while you’re a bit surprised she hasn’t chosen to sit across from you, her choice is very welcomed. The heat from your plate warms your face, and you press your hands against it in hopes that they’ll warm as well.

“It looks delicious.” You look up to the women through your heavy eyelids, weakly grabbing hold of your fork to start lifting potatoes to your mouth. “I can’t believe you were able to make this so quickly! Thank you so very much.” You smile to her, licking your lips, stomach so very grateful to the woman beside you.

“I’ve always been a good cook. My husband is never very appreciative of my skills.” She laughs softly, but you can tell it’s something that truly upsets her. If you were lucky enough to live in a home with Lorraine Warren and have her food for every meal, you consider yourself to be in Heaven. From your short conversation, Ed didn’t quite seem to be a wholly grateful man. “You’re not married.” She then says, taking a sip from the old whiskey glass that’s now filled with water.

Her words are more observational than questioning, and it causes a twinge of discomfort within you. You’d always been questioned for your spinster-like nature, women in your church always wanted to set you up with their sons or nephews. You’re such a pretty girl, they’d say, why on God’s green Earth aren’t you dating anyone?

It was impossible to tell them that you’d never want to marry a man, even if someone held a gun to your head.

“No…” You reply awkwardly, and the word turns into a yawn, leading you to cover your mouth with one hand. “I’ve just… never met the right person, I guess.” You huff, kicking your elbow up on the table and resting your chin on your fist to keep yourself propped up. Who knew something as simple as lifting a fork to your mouth would be so difficult. “Or… Well…” You start again, feeling almost too comfortable in Lorraine’s presence to share a little more. “I’ve just, never really been interested in anyone.”

When you drop your fork to your plate with quite the dramatic tink, that same loving hand returns to your lower back. Lorraine has taken your fork between her perfectly manicured fingers, and lifts another bite towards your lips, which you not-so-gracefully accept.

“Well, that is a shame.” The brunette responds, and though you can’t see it, there’s the tiniest hint of a smirk on her face. She seems to be a bit too pleased by your loneliness. “I do hope you’ll find someone soon. You are so deserving of love.”

You’re not sure if you’re deserving, but you’re damn well desperate for it.

Lorraine continues to feed you, lifting small bites of vegetable to your lips while whispering her gentle praises after each bite. Your face is now permanently pink, with each of her cooing words turning you into a little mess beneath her. You’re connected at her hip once again, legs tangled around each other under your gingham tablecloth. You’re so very lucky that you never receive any visitors, for you deign to think of anyone’s reaction to your little displays of minute affection.

“I was hoping I might stay with you here. I always find it more helpful to fully integrate myself into the lives of someone I’m helping.” She hums once you’ve finished all of your food, and she can move onto her own. You lean against her shoulder once more, eyes closed, yet you’re completely awake. Her sentence is entirely shocking, yet you’re completely excited by it, and couldn’t possibly accept her request quicker.

“Yes, of course!” You hear the over-enthusiasm in your voice, and hope you haven’t come off too strongly. You sit up to meet her gaze, blushing just from the way she looks at you so sweetly. “I only have the one bedroom, I’m afraid. It’s a bit of a mess at the moment, but I can wash the sheets, and you can sleep there! I spend most of my time on the sofa anyway, I’m happy to sleep there.” You nod cheerfully, hoping with all of your heart that she’ll not be too deterred by your excitement.

“Don’t be silly.” She smiles, lifting her hand to gently pet your hair, her fingernails grazing your scalp in a way that sends a tingle down your spine. “I’ll take your bed, but only if you’re in it as well. If that’s alright with you, of course. I just want to keep an eye on you.” She winks, and it’s that moment that you feel your soul leave your body. You choke on your own saliva, coughing a few times. You’ve been sitting so close to Lorraine today, that you shouldn’t feel so strange about sharing your bed with her, yet it brings a worried feeling to the pit of your stomach. When you explore that feeling more, you’ll find that it’s really excitement, and a desperation to sleep next to another body that you’d never knew you had.

“That’s fine by me…” You stutter, trying to hide the eager smile that’s threatening your lips. You chew on the insides of your cheeks, your hands finding their way to some fabric, not knowing if it’s the tablecloth or your shirt or maybe Lorraine’s skirt. Whatever it is, you grip it tightly, trying to force all of your delight on an object rather than voice it. “It’ll be good to share each other’s’ body heat… it gets so cold at night even without the snow…” Your voice is trembling a little, betraying how fast your heart is racing.

You’re ready for the sun to go down now.

But you still have a few hours of sunlight left, and Lorraine fills it with questions about your family history, about your experience with this malevolent being, and just about your daily life. She wonders what it is that you do for fun in such a small town, and you feel shy to admit that you rarely leave the house except to go to church. That leads her to talk about her own religion, and it’s so mystifying to hear her speak about her passion for Christ. She speaks in such a profound way, like she’s spent time as a pastor, though you’d never once met a female pastor. Lorraine is certainly a better speaker than all the old men that lead prayer at church and quote the same bible verses into monotony.

She proudly shows you the rosary around her neck, explaining the story behind it with the most adorable sparkle in her eyes. When you take the metal in your hands, wanting to share in her passion, it burns. Burns like you’ve just pressed your hand flat into the cooktop of an oven. You recoil in pain, but when Lorraine attends to your palm, there’s no sign of a burn.

“It… It stings.” You whine, looking down at your hand in disbelief. You’ve never felt such pain, and the fact that it’s not left a visible mark is messing with your head so much that your eyes begin to well with tears.

“I know it does, sweetheart. I know.” Lorraine hums, holding you tightly, lifting a thumb to wipe at your tears. “Ointment won’t help it, I’m afraid. It’s the spirit reacting through nerve induction. It will go away soon. I promise.” The demonologist quickly stuffs the rosary down the neck of her blouse, wanting to hide everything that causes you pain. Lorraine hates to see you in such a state, and though you don’t comprehend anything about this spirit, her brain is working overtime to plot a strategy to rid you of this beast.

You sit together for another half hour, Lorraine consoling the pain that has long since disappeared thanks to her sweet whispers and distracting stories. You nearly fall asleep on the sofa once again, and she can see it, so without having to ask, she takes you up the stairs and to your bedroom.

“I’ll just go down the hall to get myself ready for bed. I’ll be right back, I promise.” She hums, pressing an innocent kiss to your forehead before leaving the room. Watching her walk away from you shatters your heart into a million pieces, but you know she’ll come back through the doors quickly. You trust Lorraine’s promise.

I need to change before she gets back, you think, but your body simply won’t allow you to move. You’re stuck to this bed, to this soft mattress that you once so adored, but now only fear for the horrible dreams it brings upon you.

You sit in this fear, for how long you’re not certain, before Lorraine returns. Her hair is combed through yet still has that lovely, silky wave to it, and she’s dressed in the prettiest white nightgown. She looks like an angel, in shiny white linen. She’s just missing the wings and halo. You feel a warmth rise to your cheeks, seeing her in this state, a state which she’d probably only ever been seen in by her husband. You feel so scandalous, like you should avert your gaze, like God is going to find you sinful for looking at her like this, but your eyes are locked onto this heavenly body in front of you, and you can’t pull away.

“I’m sorry I—” You begin, hands gripping at your shirt, trying to indicate to her that you’re upset with yourself for not getting dressed in her absence.

Lorraine only tuts at you, placing down her bag before rounding to your side of the bed. She helps you stand, and begins through your closet, looking for a nightgown for you to wear. Much to her chagrin, however, all she can find is dirty jeans and some oversized t-shirts, which makes her feel pity towards you, but also causes a small giggle to escape her lips because she finds the clothing choices so adorably fitting for a young farm girl. She settles on the least stained of all of your shirts before returning to your side.

“May I?” Her voice is low, knowing that you’re the only person in the world that needs to hear her. When you nod, she pulls your blouse over your head, and she develops a blush of her own to find that you’re not wearing anything beneath it. You try to hide, snaking your hands around your chest, a new warmth between your legs as you realize that Lorraine’s hands are wandering over your body, the pads of her fingers lightly prodding your exposed skin.

“You sweet thing. You just need someone to love you.” Your savior hums, delicately examining all of the bruises that cover your skin. You’re not even sure where they all came from, just that they developed fast. A few concern you more than the others: the ones shaped like fingers and teeth marks. They never hurt at night, but the fear that strikes you every morning when you reveal a new marking in the mirror is something that you never want to feel again.

Lorraine presses another small kiss to a bruise on your shoulder before helping you pull the sleep shirt over your head. She reluctantly, yet with the complete confidence that she’s carried herself with all along, pulls down your pants in one swift motion. You’re back in bed before you know it, Lorraine tucking you in tightly and making sure you’re perfectly comfortable before taking her own place beside you.

Your brain is rushing, not with the demonic thoughts that you’ve had all this time, but with so many feelings that you never knew existed before meeting Lorraine. You feel horribly antsy, like you have enough energy to run laps around the house. You miss the tiredness that had been affecting you earlier this morning, it was going to be quite difficult to sleep tonight.

“I’m so very glad you came to help me.” You whisper, voice shaky with nerves as you turn on your side to face the woman who’s already turned towards you. You can feel how close your bodies are, yet they aren’t touching, and your brain is working overtime to decide if you should close that space between you.

Luckily, Lorraine is making all of your decisions for you.

You feel the soft skin of her legs first, when they wrap around yours, holding them still. Her right arm is next, draping over the curve in your waist so gently, yet she has the firmest grip on you, like she won’t let you leave even if you tried. You’d never try.

“I…” You start again, shifting even closer to Lorraine, placing your hand on her chest so you can feel her heartbeat. You pray she can’t feel yours, for its beating is so quick it’s probably quite dangerous, and you’ve already worried her enough. “Since you’ve been here, my brain has been so… still. So quiet.” That’s not entirely true, as the angelic woman in front of you has only replaced all of your thoughts, but it’s close enough. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” She whispers back, voice so low and gravelly with her own sleep, so that you have to lean even further forward to hear her, and your noses nearly touch. “I haven’t done my job just yet.”

You tense, suddenly filled with worry about what will happen when Lorraine eventually does what she’s come here to do. If your still-burning pain from merely touching a symbol of the Lord is any indication, you’re in for a wellspring of hurt when you wake up in the morning.

As for now, though, you’re completely safe, protected by your guardian angel, and you can sleep soundly for the first time in far too long. You fall asleep under Lorraine’s grasp far quicker than you’d like, as you’d really prefer to stay awake and really cherish the soft circles she’s rubbing into your flesh, but your eyelids fall shut on their own accord.

Lorraine, however, stays up a bit later, watching your face for any sign of nightmares, wandering hands exploring your curves as if looking for clues, soothing you into the deepest sleep of your life.

Lorriane wakes groggily, yawning while rubbing at her eyes with balled-up fists. She notices first that it’s still not light outside, that she still has time to sleep. Though she won’t, because a panic rips through the woman when she registers your absence. She shoots straight up out of bed, body moving to wrap herself in one of your mother’s old house coats faster than her brain can function. It’s on sheer instinct that Lorraine wraps the rosary around her hand and stuffs her small Bible into her pocket.

She races through the creaky old home, feet freezing against the hardwood floors that whine with each of her frantic steps. Lorraine shouts your name and is only met by her own voice echoing back at her. She searches each room of your house, her eyes still blurry from sleep. She whips open cupboards and is even sure to peek into your attic, which you haven’t so much as thought about since inheriting the home.

A worry is settled across Lorraine’s face when she makes it into your kitchen, but her expression turns to true fear when she sees that the lock on your back door has come undone, and the door isn’t settled into its place in its frame. She searches for any pair of shoes she can find and settles for a pair of boots that barely fit her feet, but their steel toes will at least protect her from the elements. She’s shivering, and her eyes are watering so much that the tears turn cold against her cheeks. The demonologist places a hand over her chest, gripping onto her rosary for a moment, bracing herself for the cold, before she slings the door open and steps out into the night.

The snowfall has picked up tenfold, and there’s now a little under a foot of snow packed onto the ground. Lorraine pulls the small cotton coat around herself tightly, her hair whipping wildly around her face as she blinks back tears, searching for any sign of life. When she looks down, there’s an obvious set of footprints: kicked-back snow heading in the direction of the old, forgotten barn.

Lorraine follows your shoeless prints, still screaming your name into the void of night, her voice strained and muffled in the silence that surrounds her. There isn’t even the typical wee-hour birdsong that too frequently keeps you awake. No cars on the road make their habitual noise, no cows bellowing from across the street. Only the exhausted screams of a woman so frightened for your survival.

When she arrives to the barn, finding safety from the wind in its high walls, feeling so close to dropping to her knees and praying that she had never fallen asleep in the first place, Lorraine spots you. A frail, half-naked body illuminated by one flickering, dangling light that allow the older woman’s eyes little vantage.

She’s filled with relief that she’s found you, but that relief only lasts less than a second before she’s filled with dread. Dread that something is horribly wrong. Dread because you’re dripping with a slick, dark, shimmering liquid.

Lorraine falls to her knees beside you, taking your near-lifeless face in her hands.

“What have you done to her?” She yells, voice harsh and gravelly. She’s speaking to your demon, to the thing that has taken control of your legs and marched you out to this barn, that has treated you like such an animal.

You’re barely conscious, losing the internal battle to keep control of your own mind. All you can do is lean your pained body into Lorraine, trying to give her some sort of message that you’re still there, that you’re still swimming in your own mind, trying to breach the surface.

The clairvoyant asses your injuries, wiping the tears at your eyes and her own. Thankfully, the only damage is done to your back, the lashes across your spine that fuel Lorraine with so much hatred. When your shaking hands lift the riding crop to lay even more agony against your tender flesh, Lorraine wrestles it out of your tight grip and throws it aside, far out of your reach.

“We have to do this now.” Lorraine’s voice is significantly kinder, her hands holding your head close to her chest. She sits in her own fear for a moment, building a strategy to get this thing out of you once and for all. She whispers a prayer, and the words hurt your head, fill your brain with a terrible, searing scream, but there’s simply nothing you can do to stop it. Your livelihood now rests at Lorraine Warren’s feet.

Lorraine stands, guides you upwards. She’s shellshocked by the fact that she’s about to take on a task that she had never solely performed before, and it’s caused her knees to walk unsteadily. She takes the housecoat off and guides it over your shoulders, face twinging as she lays it against the open wounds of your back, but she’d rather you feel pain for a small moment than have your delicate skin come into contact with the weather. The woman ties the coat tight before picking you up, carrying you back through the strong winds, shoes clumping down on the piling snow.

When she replaces the darkness of the sky with the darkness of your home, Lorraine places you down on the sofa where she had once sat with you. You sit in a crumpled state, arms limp, though they fight to wrap around your body, subconsciously seeking heat. You’re impossibly cold, and the longer your toes sit with minimal blood flow, the angrier your beast grows. Your shivering only grows worse when Lorraine throws open the French windows behind you, allowing the snow to come in through the screens and settle in your hair.

“I know it hurts.” She whispers, trying to find some sort of life behind your glassy eyes. Lorraine has forced herself into seriousness, closed her tear ducts and is carrying herself professionally. She knows that treating this with any level of emotional attachment could be suicide for the exorcism, and though the near love that she’s developed for you still lingers at the back of her brain, she has to silence it, she has to save your life before she can worry about you anymore.

Sniffing back the wetness that’s come from the cold air beating against her face, Lorraine finds the Bible still sitting in the pocket of the coat draped over your shoulders. She holds her left hand against your forehead, and the cross casts a warmth against your face that you lean back to fight against, though you’re not sure if it’s of your own action or that of something else.

Lorraine begins reciting a prayer in Latin, that you’d surely be swooning over had you been at all conscious. You’ve nearly lost your battle, your body completely limp against the pillows, as though you’ve lost all muscle mass in less than a minute. You’ve lost all awareness of the situation and now exist only in your own mind, trying your damnedest to regain control.

Each word Lorraine yells with a cracking voice causes a new pain to emerge somewhere within your body, and the pain consumes you so much that you fall over, landing in a fetal position against the cushions of the sofa. Lorraine’s hands want to reach out to soothe you, to press their warmth into your blue skin, to replace your pain with her loving touch, but she restrains herself. She knows that you must feel this pain, that it will drive the presence out of your body and back to the Hell that it emerged from.

“I need you to fight it.” Lorraine interrupts her own prayer to press her forehead against your own, fingers gripping your jaw like her life depends on it. “Don’t give in, don’t let it take you.” She calls, holding the weight of your head in her hands, feeling how much authority you’ve lost over your own body. “Please, fight. For me.”

You’ve already done your fighting. Though you’ve been so horribly affected by this presence in your home, disrupting your livelihood, your sleep, your will to live, there’s not really been anything impacting your will to live at all in years past. You’ve simply been existing in this plane, doing your chores and going to church, following your routines for no reason other than it’s what you’ve always done. Your routines that are so set in stone that it took a demonic presence to shake them up. But you’ve had no one to share your routine with, no one to cook for, no one to compliment how beautifully your flowers have grown. You’ve had no one to fight for.

Your life is not one worth fighting for.

Lorraine Warren, however, feels the opposite. The way she’s holding you so tightly, on her knees in front of you, begging you to stay alive… though you can’t see it, aren’t cognizant enough to hear her begging, you can feel it. There’s a warmth against your chest that’s keeping your heart beating, and a light behind your eyes that’s pushing you to keep going.

So you do. You do as Lorraine asks, and the last little bit of willpower you have musters up into your fingers, and you grab onto Lorraine’s shoulders with an anemic grasp, trying to pull her closer. You force your eyes open, though it’s so very painful due to the rosary still swinging in view, and look up at Lorraine’s worried features. More than anything, you’re filled with hatred that you’re the one to cause her this anguish, that she shouldn’t be so concerned over a life as meaningless as your own.

It's the most beautiful smile you’re met with that causes the final push, that forces your beast out of your mind and into the wind that’s still blowing melting snowflakes onto your already freezing body. A sudden relief fills your body, the power over your own actions that brings back the feeling in your muscles. You sit up, blinking slowly, reliving the past few minutes over and over as you regain a full level of awareness that you’d been left without for the past months.

Lorraine allows you your time to rejoin the living world, slamming shut the windows behind you and throwing several blankets over your freezing body. She drops back to her knees to assess you once more, seeing the color back in your eyes and the warmth rising back to your cheeks. She had seen you in such a terrifying, corpse-like state that she’d surely soon have nightmares about, so the fact that your eyes were finally locking onto her own was an answered prayer.

You eagerly wrapped both arms around the woman’s neck, holding her as close as you can, thanking her over and over again, until the stinging on your back takes the brunt of your attention.

“Don’t thank me. It was all your own work.” She hums, trying to find anywhere she can hold you without wrapping her arms around your back. Lorraine then stands, settling on petting your hair, looking around for any other sources of heat that she may impress upon you. “Do you have any fire woo—”

She’s cut off by the swift action of your standing up, an action that she would surely advise against had she had the option to. But her lips are unable to protest, because they’re met by your own. You’re shocked by your own straightforwardness, and though the fear that she’ll run away and call you a freak is very prominent in your mind, you feel so swept up in thankfulness to this woman, so swept up in love, that the only thing you feel like doing is kissing her.

You internally thank God that she’s not pushed you off, and instead, once the initial shock wears off, Lorraine’s hands are gripping your cheeks and are tugging you forward into her. Though you’re near hypothermic, the warmth that radiates through you when you wrap your arms around Lorraine Warren’s waist is something truly heavenly. You can feel the ice melting away from your fingers and toes, even though you still stand within a house that’s currently running below freezing.

You try to stay attached to Lorraine’s lips for as long as you can, as long as she’ll allow, and as desperately as you both are to stay in this state, Lorraine’s overall concern for your health reigns supreme, and she pulls away to once again ask her question. You giggle softly, hiding your face against her chest, hoping she hasn’t seen how overjoyed your smile is. Though if you were to pick up your head, you’d see that she dons a similar expression.

You direct Lorraine to a closet, and she returns to build a fire. She sits you down right in front of it, and for the first time in far too many days, you feel warmth against your face. You’re not too sure just which direction that warmth is coming from, whether it’s from the fire or the woman sitting next to you, carefully washing the horrible scratches along your spine, but you feel a warmth unlike anything you’ve ever felt in all of your years of living. A warmth you never want to go away.

#𓏲🎀ꜝֶָ֢ annie's fics ⋆⸜ ‧₊˚#title is from a kacey musgraves lyric!!#lorraine warren #the conjuring #lorraine warren x reader #lorraine warren x you #lorraine warren fanfic #the conjuring fanfic #wlw fanfic #x reader fanfic #fanfic #lesbian fanfic #angst fanfic #horror fanfic #lesbian x reader

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