Tags: Haunted Houses, Ghost Sex, ghost!larissa, Masturbation, elements of voyuerism, Ouija, Ghosts, Dream Sex, Supernatural Elements, Paranormal, Touch-starved Larissa Weems, Shower Sex, Temperature Play, Vaginal Fingering
Summary: House sitting for your great aunt should have been easy, but when strange things begin happening in her home, you take to communication with the other side to find out what exactly is going bump in the night.
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Tuesday
The spire at the tip of the turret stretched upwards and disappeared within the deep gray clouds, dissolving into the mist and dissipating into the atmosphere. The bricks were dark with rain, the moss green and lush along the rocks that artfully lined the path to the entrance. It was an old house, sure, but you hadn't expected the foreboding sense of decay and ruin that lingered outside and whispered as your steps strained the wood of the stairs.
Even the key was archaic, big and brass and shaped like it was meant to be slipped into a Victorian governess' linen pocket. The lock clunked as you turned it and the door creaked just as loudly as you'd expected it to, shrill and crass against the dusty silence of the rest of the first floor.
Aside from an updated television and the blank space where the wall phone used to hang, nothing in the house had changed. The floor boards still creaked wherever you seemed to step on them, the same old rugs and sofas sat sagging with age and collecting dust. Your great aunt hadn't moved a thing.
Feel welcome to any food in the fridge and pantry, the internet password is by the television remote. Please pick up the newspaper every morning and water the plants in the front room if they get dry.
Thank you for doing this so last minute, I really appreciate it! I'll call if I'm later than Friday.
x Aunt Deb
Easy enough.
On oversized pair of shiny gold lips sat at the bottom of the letter. A brooch, and an expensive one judging by the finish. A bit of the chin and philtrum, like a cast that poured too far over, bordered the lips themselves. It didn't seem like something your great aunt would have worn, but that could explain that was why she left it behind at the last minute.
The house was silent as you walked through, mechanical clocks ticking could be heard rooms away and your footsteps were loud even on the carpet. When your bags hit the floor of the guest bedroom they kicked up a cloud of white dust. "Not many guests, then?" You said it aloud, but hardly above a murmur.
The floor creaked in the hallway, just outside of your door.
A quick glance verified nothing was there, only the dated red carpet and a single sconce lamp that illuminated the ugly floral pattern of the wallpaper. Jesus. You shook your head and turned back to your bags. Still, you resisted the urge to turn back around for another quick glance every few seconds, sure something was lurking just outside of your field of vision.
A cloud of powdery gardenia smothered your nostrils, but only for a moment. Strong enough to scrunch your nose up, but by your next breath it was gone. What was in that dust?
You cleared your throat and began undressing, though not before shutting the bedroom door tight. The attached bathroom was nice, but small, with a claw foot tub and shiny pedestal sink, all with original brass finishes. As expected, the taps took strength to get turning after years of disuse, but eventually it sputtered to life and filled the bath with water that at least attempted to be warm.
It was hard to relax into, both due to the cold cast-iron with chipped finish and because you could swear you heard shuffling and creaking from the bedroom. Old houses make noises, you told yourself. Besides, the door was shut and the hinges were loud enough that it couldn't be opened silently. You've seen too many horror movies.
Your shoulders sank into the water, cloudy with the little bit of store brand soap poured into it. It wasn't so bad, having the house to yourself for a few days with an unlocked liquor cabinet and no noisy neighbors to keep you up at night or tell you to turn your music down during the day.
No roommate to walk in on you in the bath.
The thought came too easily, like you'd been subconsciously waiting for the opportunity to get off in the bathtub for ages. No lock on a communal bathroom door wasn't great to begin with, and worse with a roommate who was adverse to knocking. You twisted the warm tap back on to a steady stream, not quite thundering with water but enough that it would provide pressure, and threw your legs over either side. You lined yourself up with the stream of water and relaxed, the constant warm pressure perfectly hitting your clit. Your hips rocked against it while your knuckles tightened around the edge of the tub. A few quiet gasps escaped your throat as the water brought you to the edge. The floor creaked again, but you were able to dismiss it as the tub filling with water and weighing the old wood down with what logic you could still conjure. One more gasp and you came hard, stomach muscles contracting and toes curling as you fought to catch your breath again.
With the faucet turned back off, the bathroom was in silence once again, aside from your heavy exhales. The floor didn't creak anymore, but you could've sworn you smelled that same flowery scent the dust had kicked up earlier, this time even stronger and closer. Must be an air freshener or something. It was already gone, anyway.
The water was suddenly much colder than it had been, goosebumps rose across your shoulders and continued down as the water drained. A house this old couldn't have central air, maybe a draft?
Wrapped in a towel, you stepped back into the threshold of the bedroom and froze. On the bed, placed perfectly facing the bathroom door, was the brooch. The same shiny gold lips that you didn't remember ever picking up, much less bringing to bed. Though, maybe you had grabbed it off the table and set it down here. It wasn't out of the question, and who else could have moved it?
A freezing trail ran down your back along your vertebrae, as if a finger dipped in ice water was being slid down your skin. A scream was quickly stifled at the back of your throat. It's cold in here, I took a bath. There's a rational explanation for everything.
Still, you made sure to dress quickly while the brooch stared from its place on the bed, following you no matter where in the room you moved. Your cheeks burned with embarrassment, even though logically you knew you were alone.
Your feet nearly couldn't move fast enough to get you out of that room.
The pantry, it turned out, was mostly miscellaneous dry ingredients that didn't combine with each other to make anything worth cooking. At the top shelf, some boxes of pasta—that you decided now to overlook whatever expiration date they might have—were just out of reach. Damn. A jar of sauce was on the lower shelf, so you grabbed that first and began looking for a pot.
Your aunt, it seemed, had an affinity for antique cookware. Some were pretty, with original Pyrex patterned bowls and heavy cast-iron pans that were older than you. It took longer than it should have to find a suitable pot that probably wasn't coated in lead and was clean enough.
"What the fuck?"
All five boxes of pasta now sat on the countertop, lined up like they were on a store shelf.
"Hello?" You grabbed a knife from the block, though you weren't entirely sure why. It trembled in your hand as you spun around the kitchen, opening every cabinet and peering into the dark corners of other rooms in the house. Everywhere turned up empty. Not a thing out of place, besides the pasta. And the brooch. The thought made you uneasy, two things had moved now without your involvement. A chill ran down your spine, the room suddenly growing colder than the rest of the house. And there's that gardenia smell again, wafting from who knows where and carried away by the nonexistent breeze. The blinds were all drawn tightly, lights illuminated every corner of the house at this point, and yet you couldn't shake the feeling of being watched.
Maybe you got the boxes down yourself, with a step stool and forgot about it. Yeah, old houses have mold sometimes right? Mold that messes with your memory. You tried not to think about the fact there wasn't a stepstool in sight.
"Well, thanks," you said aloud and took one of the boxes of pasta. The goosebumps did not go away until you left the kitchen, where just outside the threshold was much warmer. Knife in hand, you ate in silence.
That night, once the rattling of old pipes and unsettling wind through old window panes finally let you sleep, you dreamed for the first time in a long while.
You were on a park bench, not a park you recognized but one generic enough it could've been anywhere. The sun was warm on your skin, the sky blue and clouds fluffy and white. No other person was at the park, at least from where you sat overlooking a sprawling field of grass with footpaths woven through it and wildflowers just beginning to bloom.
Footsteps—heels on concrete—came from your left but when you turned to look, no one was there. The sidewalk went on straight for several yards, you should have been able to see someone coming from this distance if their footsteps were audible. Your stomach felt like it did at the top of rollercoasters, when you knew it was about to drop but the flutter of excitement made it worth it.
"Excuse me." She appeared on your right, opposite from the sound of her steps. "I believe that's mine," she said and pointed to your lap.
"Oh." In your hands was the brooch, gold and shining in the sun. It was heavy, sturdy, and the pin threatened to poke your fingertips. "Here." Your hand stretched out and up to meet the tall woman at your side. She was wearing the heels you heard, with immaculate hair and makeup despite the heat of the day. It was very hot, suddenly. You hadn't noticed it before, how much sweat was accumulating at your brow and on your palms.
She took the brooch from your hands and pinned it to her collar in the space it looked like it was always meant to go. "Thank you. May I?" She motioned to the spot beside you.
"Please." You shuffled over to let her sit, and when she did it was like a block of ice was placed next to you. It was nice, here where the sun was warm, but the same unnerving cold that the house sometimes had.
"Did you grab the pasta, earlier?" You said it before you could think it, like in the dream your mouth was ten steps ahead of your brain.
"Yes."
"Thank you." Then, that gardenia smell again, this time obviously emanating from her wrists and neck. "Your perfume," you said, "it's everywhere."
"Only where I go."
You woke in a gasp, tangled in the sweaty sheets, kicking furiously at them until your legs were free. The radiator had clicked on, turning the room into a hot humid hell. You wrestled the window open and gulped in the fresh cool air as the sweat dried on your body. You tried to ignore the strong scent of flowers again, present even through the outside breeze, while goosebumps rose on your arms and everything in your body screamed at you to run from this house.
I have finally written smut that I think is worthy of posting. I have dived into something that some of you may think… whoa, is that really what Larissa would do? And let me explain… Yes, everything I have written I’m almost certain she’d do with the right person, the person she feels absolutely non-conditionally comfortable with. Amelia is Larissa’s forever.
She swears the first time it was an accident. You just so happened to be loudly explaining your nights plan. She just so happened to fancy a glass of wine in the same place. But then she sees some young thing throwing herself onto you and well she can’t help herself but wonder what else you get up to away from Nevermore. So the instances become more routine. And this is the moment you see her think oh wow what a coincidence.
She can’t help but justify her actions, especially when she sees you falling into the wrong hands of the company you keep. Clearly you don’t know what’s best for you. She does. Silly little baby just needs mommy to guide her constantly. Protection isn’t stalking. If anyone asks she’ll simply tell them she has no idea what they are on about. Protection isn’t possession
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