Commission.
Title: Forgive me, Father.
Word count: 2326.
Ratings: Explicit.
Relationship: Corto Maltese/Rasputin
Request: Corto gives Father Rasputin a blow job.
Warnings: praise kink, priest kink, catholic imaginary, religion, heresy, semi-public sex, oral sex, plot what plot/porn without plot, porn with feelings.
Links: ao3, tips!
Commissions info here!
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” Corto observes the man looking down at him from his mockery of a throne, pursing his thin lips in a lascivious smile, eating him with his eyes and pleasing himself in the image of Corto on his knees by his feet.
“It has been too long since my last confession.” That is a lie, and the smirk on the priest's face tells he knows that much. Never before in his life has Corto ever confessed. He doesn't believe in God enough for that.
“I have never been one for religion.” Still on his knees, the sailor leans forward, pressing his hand against the thief's chest and pushing him further against the chair. Taking advantage of the five centimetres of height difference between them, Corto towers over Rasputin. “I never thought there was much in it for me.” With a mischievous smile on his lips, Corto caresses the priest's torso through his clothes, cherishing the ravishing vision that the man before him is — the black cassock falls nicely on the thief, in a sinful and perfidious way that makes something buried deep inside Corto crawl and ripple and twist, screaming and begging for attention.
“Maybe I was wrong,” Corto continues with a lopsided smile. “Maybe I should have given religion a chance.” Corto slides his hands under the Father's soutane, making his way to his sensitive areas and electing a faint moan from him. It is a nice sound — small and shy and nothing like Rasputin at all. “I mean, if all the priests are like you, maybe there is something for me in it, after all.”
Bending over, Corto kisses the Russian's exposed neck. His skin tastes salty, and he smells of cigarette ash, cheap wine and wood polish. The sailor smiles against the thief's skin, he can see Rasputin clear as day breaking into the cupboard where the wine for Mass is kept, and taking as many bottles as he can before sneaking out to smoke and get drunk away from the prying eyes of the religious portraits scattered around the small church.
Father or not, Rasputin is still Rasputin, and that man is a bastard — Corto's bastard.
“Perhaps,” Rasputin says with a strangled breath. His vocal cords vibrate against Corto's lips. Swallowing dryly and taking a deep breath, the so-called priest digs his nails into the armrest of his pulpit chair, using all his willpower to keep his composure. Once his breathing is under control, he tries again, “Perhaps this would be easier if you told me what you've done.”
Leaning back minimally, Corto allows himself to observe the scene as a whole. Rasputin is tense and rigid with his hands clenched at his sides; his face is red, his chest rises and falls in long, deep breaths, and sweat drips down his throat, falling onto the collar of his messy, crumpled cassock.
Corto drags his fingers down Rasputin's jawline, enjoying the way the thief tenses even further under his touch. The man laughs to himself, no matter what, his dear friend will always be headstrong. Not that it matters, Corto has proven more than once that he can be as stubborn as Rasputin, if not worse.
If Rasputin wants to play hard, all Corto needs to do is play harder.
Corto meets Rasputin's gaze, a crooked smile on his face. In a deep silky voice, with lust and arousal dripping from his every word like poison, he declares, “I'm not seeking penance for what I've done, Father.”
Rasputin gulps dryly, his Adam's apple bobbing. The Russian's dark eyes shine fiercely in the pale candlelight, broadcasting his raw emotions to anyone who knows the man well enough to read them — malice, lust, desire, hunger, passion, and possession.
“I'm asking forgiveness for what I'm about to do.”
As the Angel of Death had descended to Earth once before on an Egyptian night, Corte descends on Rasputin taking what has long been rightfully marked as his. The Russian's lips are thin and parched, and his mouth has the same cigarette ash and cheap wine as his skin. Rasputin moans into Corto's mouth, losing the one-sided battle against his urges. Parting his lips, he allows Corto to fully savour his mouth. Corto lets his tongue become reacquainted with Rasputin's mouth, relearning everything that may have been forgotten during all the time the Russian was playing dead.
Once the inconvenience of needing to breathe becomes sufficiently inconvenient that neither of them can ignore it any longer, Corto pulls away, much to the annoyance of Rasputin, who whimpers at the loss of the sailor's lips.
Corto grins openly at Rasputin's indignation, savouring the way the thief's defences are falling one by one.
With a swift movement that could be considered offensive, Corto rips the priest's cassock, exposing his hairy, sweaty chest and causing a few buttons to fly away — not that any of them care.
Rasputin's chest is marred by scars, small and large, conspicuous or faded, every corner of his skin is marked by a memento of an encounter gone wrong, a lie that has been caught, or a friend turned foe. Every scar is a reminder that not even the thief of thieves can go through life without bearing the consequences of his actions. They are also a testament to the fact that Rasputin survived, and will continue to do so.
On Rasputin's right side, just below his ribs, there is a mark larger than the others, with deformed, red skin. Corto swallows dryly at the sight of the burn that could easily be bigger than his hand. Logically, Corto knows that the possibility of Rasputin coming out unscathed from the explosion that caused his near-death was almost nil, but Corto had also spent a long time believing that Rasputin had died only to find him again in a godforsaken village in Mexico of all places, so perhaps the logical part of his brain hasn't put two and two together yet.
Rasputin stirs slightly in his chair, and Corto realizes that his staring contest with Rasputin's exposed torso is making the man uncomfortable.
With a thoroughness that doesn't quite belong to him, Corto trails his fingers along the burn scar; studying its edges, feeling the bruised skin against the calluses on his fingers. Rasputin breathed sharply, waiting for his companion's next move.
Corto kisses the scarred skin. It's a sweet, almost innocent gesture, but above all, it's a declaration of acceptance.
Rasputin is Rasputin no matter what, and Corto accepts every bit of him — stellar personality and charred skin included.
“Perhaps,” Corto starts, his voice uncharacteristically soft. Leaning back, Corto rests on his knees. From his place at the Father's feet, Rasputin looks way too big. Bigger than life and death itself. The candles’ light shines upon him, surrounding the priest with a regal aura. The thief looks almost ethereal. “I should pray to God, after all.”
“Yeah, what for?”
“To thank him, of course,” Corto continued in the same soft tone.
Thank him for this absurdity of a man, this thief that stole Corto's heart and has yet to give it back — not that Corto will ever take it back. He should say his graces for Rasputin, for this man who is half of his life, half of his soul. God, real or not, is responsible for creating this outrageous man down to his atrocious personality, kleptomaniac tendencies, pathological lies, and all the other little things that make Corto's heart beat harder. For all that, for all the little pieces that make Rasputin nothing else but Rasputin himself, God should get some prayers and even some praise, too. Because once one creates the epitome of man, a being so perfectly imperfect that he breathtakingly captures the essence of humanity, one definitely deserves some congratulations.
Rasputin is God's most grotesque creation, and Corto is very thankful for His work. And maybe someday he will say that to Rasputin's face. Not that he needs to, since the look on Rasputin's face when the gazes meet tells Corto his dear had caught the words he doesn't dare to say out loud yet.
“Well,” Rasputin begins, using the tone he adopts when speaking to parishioners — cocky and condensed. “If you really want to strengthen your ties with God, you can always start with a good relationship with His most faithful servants.”
“And that would be you, I assume?”
“Of course,” the bastard says with a smirk. “Who else but me?”
Corto laughs.
Indeed, who else but him?
“Tell me, Father, what do you have in mind?”
“I believe it was the Bible that says that to please a man of God is to please God Himself.”
“The Bible says that?”
“Of course,” Rasputin says nonchalantly. “Maybe. Probably. I never read the damn thing.”
Corto chuckles.
“Oh, Father, what would your parishioners say if they heard you talk like that?”
“I think they'd be too scandalized by what we're doing to pay attention to what I'm saying.”
“And what are we're doing, Father?”
“Sinning, of course.”
“Do you think this is a sin?”
“Tell me, pretty boy, when have we done anything other than sinning?” Rasputin caresses Corto's face. “Besides, I'm pretty sure it says somewhere that a man shouldn't lie down with another man.”
“Good thing we're not lying down, then.”
Corto grins maniacally, and Rasputin laughs loudly
“You, my dearest, are nothing but an incorrigible bastard walking down the dark path.” Rasputin pulls Corto by the collar, forcing the sailor to meet him on his level. “But fear not, Father Rasputin will make sure to wash away all your sins.”
The following kiss is initiated by Rasputin, and for once in a long time, Corto lets him have all the control. Rasputin's kisses are fierce and hungry, filled with pent-up tension mixed with passion and possession. Rasputin is taking what is rightfully his, and for a brief moment, Corto allows him to. But that is not the game they're playing, and so Corto pulls away.
“Now, Father, I believe I was the one supposed to please you.” Corto wipes the corner of Rasputin's mouth with his thumb. “This is my confession, after all.”
Pushing Rasputin against the chair once more, Corto busies himself with untying the sash that rests lazily on the Russian's waist. Swallowing hard, Corto takes a moment to bathe in the image before him.
Rasputin is hard, so fucking hard.
Corto is not a merciful man. With long, deliberate movements, he teases and arouses Rasputin, trailing a path of kisses down his inner thigh and slowly making his way to his erection.
Rasputin moans beneath him, shaking under his touch — so helpless, so defenceless, so desperate.
“God!” Rasputin screams.
“Now, Father,” Corto says against his burning skin, “you cannot say God’s name in vain.”
God's name is not the only thing Rasputin says in vain once Corto finally touches his hard erection with his mouth. Kissing the base of the so-called priest's penis, the sailor makes his way up from the base to the tip with long, deliberate licks. Rasputin's hands find their way to Corto's hair, and the thief's fingers pull it violently; his legs wrap themselves around Corto unconsciously, locking him in place and making it almost impossible to pull back — not that Corto wants to. Sliding up and down slowly, Corto uses his tongue to rub the length of Rasputin's cock, sucking hard and playing with the head of his penis. Rasputin's breath is harsh and weak, and Corto is not sure whether he can understand the things his lover is saying anymore — he is pretty sure Rasputin isn't talking in English any longer.
Never being the one to voluntarily get down on his knees, Corto can't remember the last time he's had Rasputin in his mouth, but the pleasure of having his man in his mouth, with his legs spread around him and his long, calluses fingers deep in his hair makes Corto question if he's as clever as he believes himself to be since anyone with half a brain would do anything to be in that prestigious position at any given moment.
Rasputin howls, screaming Corto's name as if it was God's. Corto takes it as the incentive to intensify the rhythm, adding his hands to mix and causing Rasputin to scream even louder. The thief's body shakes, his legs twitch, he arches his back and his breath shortens.
The Father is loud, obscene and vulgar, he says Corto's name repeatedly, along with a mix of expletives and profanities. He screams for God while begging Corto to go deeper; he asks for mercy but doesn't allow Corto to pull back. He is the one sitting on the throne, but he's actually the slave.
Corto plays with Rasputin like a tiger plays with its prey. He toys with him, bringing the thief to the edge only to stop. He tests Rasputin's limits, his patience, his wits, and, above all, his pride. Corto enjoys being a bastard and enjoys making Rasputin whimper and beg. He loves to see this insufferable man so irrefutably under his control.
Torture would be kinder.
Rasputin's cum drips down the side of Corto's mouth. Wiping the corner of his mouth with his thumb, Corto licks the cum off his finger and leans back, giving Rasputin space to recover.
His hair, his beard and even his chest hair are frizzy and matted, and sweat drips down his forehead, neck and chest, making his skin glisten in an angelic way. The thief's muscles tremble with exhaustion, and his breathing is laboured and shallow. The beautiful cassock was reduced to nothing but rags.
Faced with such a magnanimous display, Corto can't help but smile proudly.
This is beautiful, Rasputin is beautiful.
Corto may not believe in Heaven, but he's sure he's never been closer to the Gates of Paradise before.
Commission to Clyn.
Title: Once in a Moon.
Request: Drunken confession, Larissa finds out and happy ending.
Words: 5648.
Ratings/Warnings: General Audiences/No Archive Warnings Apply.
Relationships: Marilyn Thornhill | Laurel Gates/Larissa Weems.
Summary: She feels a lump in her throat, a heaviness in her stomach, and discomfort in her eyes. Larissa is using all her strength not to scream, not to cry, yet, as the other's diminutive figure seems even smaller and more fragile cowering in the centre of her bed, it makes everything difficult. Silently, Larissa Weems wishes she could go back to before, when she was still ignorant, to a time when she did not know the sleeping being in front of her. She wishes she could go back to the days long gone when she had yet to lose her heart to Laurel Gates.
Links: ao3, tips!
Commissions info here!
“Why do you want to work at Nevermore, Mrs. Thornhill?" Larissa uses her most professional voice.
“Miss," the redhead corrects. “Nevermore is one of the best schools in the country and I..." she proceeds to say a decorated speech. Larissa is well aware of her school's reputation, both the good and the bad, she doesn't need people to remind her of that. Weems admits that she has stopped paying attention between one word and another. After several boring interviews, it is normal to lose interest past a certain point. Everything she needs to know about the candidates is in the curriculums anyway. She studies the resume she has in hand. Exceptional track record, flowery references, no complaints or disgusted notes.
On paper, Marilyn Thornhill looks practically perfect in every way.
“And what did you say your skill is?" Not that it will change her final decision at all, but Weems likes to keep track of what kind of person she's dealing with.
“I didn't say," Thornhill smiles yellow, almost nervously, “I don't have one," she reveals. This catches Larissa's attention as she carries her gaze to her with a quickness that makes her dizzy.
“Are you a normie?" Larissa thinks she's put too much poison in the word, considering how Marilyn shrinks back in her chair. “Sorry, I didn't mean to offend you."
“No, it's okay, that's kind of my fault for omitting information." Again with the fake smile and nervousness.
“It's not like you're obligated to put that on your resume," the blonde tries to soften the damage she's caused. Weems looks at Marilyn and notices her, really notices her. The long red hair, the fringes married to the giant glasses that help hide her face, the simple clothes and nothing flashy. She looks like a low-budget red-headed version of some Zooey Deschanel character. There is absolutely nothing over-the-top about her. Marilyn Thornhill is ordinary, forgettable. One of those people who stand in the back of the room and nobody notices, as if they have a perception filter over them, deflecting away all eyes. Had Larissa not known better, she would never have married Marilyn Thornhill's resume to the person of Marilyn Thornhill. “Why do you want to work here?" Larissa asks again, this time genuinely interested.
Marilyn holds Weems' gaze, defiant. “I used to live in Jericho years ago as a child. I observed first-hand how the townspeople treated Nevermore students. Even as a kid, the aloofness, anger and ostracism never felt right to me.
“When my family left, I thought it would be different, better, however, the sad reality is that the situation away from these walls, from this town, manages to be infinitely worse. Admittedly, the citizens of Jericho are not receptive and can even cause problems for the institution and its students. However, the young people who inhabit these dark halls are not alone in the world, and as long as they have someone like you, Principal Weems, to pray for them, they are safe.
“Which, disgracefully, cannot be said about thousands of people who have their lives cowardly cut short just for being different. Like..." She interrupts herself, her eyes glistening with tears that she refuses to let fall. Taking a deep breath, Thornhill continues, “My reason for wanting to work at this very prestigious institution is not because of professional relevance, the fat salary or anything else. I stand before you today out of an extremely selfish personal desire, just that and nothing more."
“What would that be?"
“I want to protect those children, or at least try to." All the redhead's nervousness and discomfort are washed away, and suddenly Marilyn Thornhill no longer looks like someone dull who is lost in the landscape. She emanates a glow of her own, capable of blinding anyone who dares to look at her directly. The shy woman at the beginning of the interview and the woman who gave the touching speech are two completely different people. Larissa gets a glimpse of something she can't name but wants to see again. “I know I'm not much and that it's very preposterous to think that some random person with no powers can achieve something so great, or even that you need the help of someone like me, but if I can do anything to help, I need to try.
“That, Larissa Weems, is the real reason I want to work at your school."
**
Weems searches Thornhill around the room with her eyes, knowing exactly where the woman will be. The months following Marilyn's hiring have passed smoothly, and the school year follows its routine cycle without end. The students keep on giving work to the same extent as in all the other years, the faculty goes on as usual. As far as the eye can see, everything is normal, everything is fine. However, Larissa is neither stupid nor ignorant, she knows how to look beyond appearances, beyond the surface. She notices how the botany teacher has a little more difficulty in her classes than the other teachers, she perceives how the shorter one is almost always isolated in the corner and on the rare occasions she saw her talking to a student or another teacher it was for something related to her classes.
In staff meetings, Thornhill is in the corner, standing by the wall, blending into the environment. In those situations, she is only noticed by those who are looking for her, otherwise, it is as if no one is there. Weems remembers her first impression of her, of finding her ordinary, forgettable. She also remembers her words, her heart-warming speech and the small glimpse of something magical she saw that day.
“Miss Thornhill," the headmistress calls out once the meeting is over and the room begins to empty, “will you come with me? There is something I need to discuss with you."
“Of course," she agrees with a shy smile.
The walk to Weems' office never seemed so long, the atmosphere between the two similar to a burial. Corridor after corridor, Weems feels the prying eyes on them, students and staff who are probably thinking the teacher is in some kind of pickle. Glancing around, she notices a smile here and a giggle there. Something uncomfortable stirs inside her, but the tall woman just ignores it.
“Am I in trouble?” Thornhill asks once they reach the blonde's office. She sounds like a child afraid of being scolded.
“I don't know, do you have reason to be in trouble, miss?” Weems heads straight for the bar, she studies her options carefully. Checking the hours, she sighs defeatedly. “Tea?” She offers, smiling.
“Yes?”
“Are you accepting the tea or admitting you committed a crime?" the Principal asks, amused. “You don't have to be nervous.”
“Are you sure? Because I kind of feel like I should be terrified.”
“Yeah, I'm sure.” She assures. “Please sit down,” she indicates one of the armchairs near the fireplace. Looking a little more relaxed, yet still nervous, Thornhill accepts the invitation to sit down. Between heating water in the electric kettle and choosing tea, they fall into an almost comfortable silence. Weems feels the redhead's eyes following her every move.
“I was about to ask you that before, but I didn't find an opportunity,” the blonde breaks the silence. “How have you been? Is your adjustment going well?”
Thornhill doesn't answer immediately. For a moment she looks confused, surprised by the question, then her countenance changes to thoughtful. “Everything is fine,” she answers finally.
“Are you sure?" She insists. Weems put a few spoonfuls of tea leaves into a previously scalded French press, then pours the water in circular motions until the container is almost full. “You can tell me if something's not going well, you know that, don't you? Whether it's a student causing too much trouble or some inside difficulty, you can tell me anything.”
“I appreciate the concern, but it's not necessary," she assures. “Everything is fine.”
The headmistress turns to face the teacher, her concern stamped in her eyes. Weems needs to know if everything really is fine or if the woman is just being strong. Larissa cares about her staff as much as she cares about her students. Everything and everyone related to this school is important to her (admittedly, some more than others). She analyses the little redhead, looking for anything that would give away the lie in her words, however, she finds nothing.
“Either she's a great actress and a first-rate liar or she's telling the truth,” the blonde thinks to herself.
“Well,” the woman settles for saying. She approaches Thornhill, bringing with her a tray with the French press, two mugs and other things she needs to serve the tea. Depositing the tray on the small coffee table between the two armchairs, she sets about serving. “Sugar or honey?”
“Sugar.” Weems hands the cup with the blue liquid lightly sweetened with a sugar cube to Thornhill, who takes a sip of the drink before adding another four sugar cubes. “What?” she asks innocently when she notices how Larissa stares at her.
“You're a criminal,” the blonde replies.
“Pardon?”
“There is no pardon for someone who puts five sugar cubes in their tea.”
“I like sweet things,” the redhead defends herself.
“That's not sweet, that's diabetes in a cup,” she jokes. “Next time, I'll offer you just the sugar cubes right away.”
“Do so, and I'll gladly accept,” Marilyn replies with a smile.
**
Larissa tries to steal some of Marilyn's popcorn once hers is finished. They are in the headmistress' quarters, watching a film of dubious quality that the teacher has chosen. It's about a brain that won't die, however, Larissa believes the title is misleading as it's about a whole head and not just the brain. She also thinks the film is nonsensical, more than once she has commented on how a head cannot remain not only alive but also conscious without a body. In Weems' opinion, the brain surviving alone would make much more sense than the whole head. Thornhill just told her to be quiet and watch the film, which she did, even though she is itching to point out every absurd thing happening on the screen. Larissa doesn't know why she still lets Marilyn pick the movies, it's more than proven that the redhead has terrible taste in movies. The week before she picked a movie about a wormy woman, and the week before that she made the blonde watch Attack of the Killer Tomatoes, because, according to her, the fact that Larissa had never seen the movie until then was a crime.
Weems lets her eyes wander from the screen to the person sitting next to her. Marilyn is sitting with her legs folded under her on the sofa, the bucket of popcorn, her inseparable companion, resting on her lap, her eyes glued to the screen, she hardly blinks, absolutely engrossed in the plot. She wears grey sweatpants and a pastel pink shirt with a kitten on it, her hair tied up in messy braids and her glasses forgotten on the coffee table. Larissa can't help but notice how Marilyn seems to belong in the room as if she's the person who actually lives there.
“You're staring at me again,” Thornhill says, and only then does Larissa realize that the film is over.
“No, I'm not.” She doesn't even bother to stop staring.
“Yes, you are!”
“I'm not, but if I was, you can't blame me if you're so much more interesting than these bad movies you pick.”
“My movies aren't bad.”
“Oh, but they are, honey. They're terrible.”
“If you think the movies I pick are so bad, why do you keep letting me pick the movies?”
“Because you look very pretty while you're watching bad movies, and I like that very much.” Marilyn stares at Weems wide-eyed in surprise for half a second before quickly turning her face away.
“Idiot,” the redhead says in a low voice. Larissa can see the slight blush on her cheeks and can't help but smile.
**
They walk side by side through the city streets, their fingers intertwined and their shoulders rubbing lightly with each step. It is their first official date outside of school since until then they have reserved themselves for movie nights of dubious quality, idle Wednesdays drinking fancy teas, and one particularly disastrous Friday when Larissa decided to cook and ended up exploding the casserole (in her defence, Marilyn said the sauce was fine, even if it was sticking to the wall).
Marilyn talks about her passion for carnivorous and poisonous plants, the main reason she chose botany in the first place, citing some of the types they have at the Nevermore Conservatory. Weems listens intently, confused by all the scientific names that the little woman throws at her — the principal's knowledge of botany is limited to which plants she can make tea with. There aren't many people on the street, but the few they do meet give them a tail-eyed stare, with each new encounter, Larissa feels she's very close to punching someone. Realizing this, Thornhill gently squeezes her hand, calming her down and telling her it's all right.
When a group of teenagers dressed as pilgrims approach them, laughing and pointing brazenly, Larissa moves towards them, but Marilyn pulls her to the other side.
“This way, I know a shortcut.”
“This isn't a shortcut,” the blonde says, acknowledging where they are. “This is the opposite of a shortcut, it will take us at least another half hour to get to the school grounds.”
“Good,” the teacher smiles, "so I have you all to myself for another half hour.”
Larissa feels her ears burn and the blood rises to her cheeks, she thanks the moonless night for hiding the blush that she is sure has taken over her face (mentally, she imagines her head being replaced by a tomato). She slips her arm around Marilyn's shoulder, who in turn slips her arm around Weems' waist. And so they continued walking, in each other's arms, to the gates of Nevermore.
**
Weems wakes up with a sound similar to a cry. Marilyn is curled up on her side of the bed, looking even smaller than usual, her eyes closed, her fists clenched, her countenance contorted in pain. Lightly bathed in the moonlight streaming through the half-closed curtains, she looks like a wounded animal.
“Mar...” Larissa calls out, concerned. “Marilyn!” She shakes the woman when she gets no answer.
Marilyn wakes up in a jump, frightened and bewildered, she attacks Weems, her hands going straight for the woman's neck. Larissa doesn't move, doesn't fight back, just waits until the mist in the redhead's eyes dissipates and she understands where she is and what is happening, which doesn't take long. Quickly, Thornhill pulls her hands back and turns away from Larissa, terrified by her actions.
“I'm sorry,” she asks in a low, weak voice. Larissa hates it when she uses that voice. Throughout their time together, the blonde has noticed that Marilyn has a lot of nightmares. Occasionally, they tend to get worse, as if they have a seasonal trigger that makes everything go downhill. A trigger that Larissa has yet to figure out what it is to protect Marilyn from it.
“It's okay,” Weems says hoarsely. She smiles, trying to lessen the weight of the situation. They fall silent, feeling the atmosphere weigh on them. “You... you were calling for your brother...” Larissa says small, uncertain. Marilyn rarely talks about her nightmares, and Larissa respects that, though she thinks talking about it might help her. “I didn't know you had a brother."
“I don't!” She bites, her voice a thunderclap in the night. Marilyn's harsh words echo acidly in the darkness. The silence that consumes them this time is heavier, more suffocating. Larissa feels guilty, the small voice in the back of her mind telling her that she messed up. Screaming that she should have stayed quiet like all the other times. She falls into a spiral of self-deprecating thoughts. “Not anymore...” Marilyn's voice is so low that Larissa almost doesn't realize she's said anything.
“I... I'm sorry for bringing it up.”
“It's okay, I know you were concerned... and curious.” Marilyn shakes her head. She attempts a smile, but she has no strength or will, all she can manage is the shadow of something listless, lifeless. “It's just that I don't usually talk about my brother.”
“And you don't have to if you don't want to.”
“But I want to!” It's a cry for help. "I want to...”
“And I want to listen.”
For a third time, silence devours them. The anticipation of what Marilyn is going to say fills the air with statistics. Weems holds her hands and squeezes them lightly in a comforting gesture. Assuring her that it is safe to continue, safe to share whatever it is with her.
“My brother was an amazing person..." she begins, her voice so low and yet so high at the same time. “I followed him everywhere, his friends used to say I was his second shadow, and even though he was ten years older, he never treated me like the annoying little sister... I love... loved him so much... He was my best friend and the best person in the world, and he... He was taken from me...” Marilyn's voice dies. She feels Larissa wiping away her tears, and only then does she realize she is crying. Larissa hugs her and lets her girlfriend cry on her chest, she uses one of her hands to draw imaginary patterns on the redhead's back, something she knows calms her. When Marilyn finally stops crying, the first rays of sunlight can be seen through the window.
“Do you want to get up and get ready, or call in and say you're sick?” Larissa asks.
“Call who? You're my boss.”
“It's going to be a strange call, but I think I can convince myself to give us the day off.”
“ʽUsʼ?”
“If you're going to stay home and eat ice cream all day, so am I.”
**
Larissa walks through the green maze that is the corridors of the conservatory. Marilyn has missed another staff meeting. Although Weems is mature enough to admit that a part of her is relieved not to have to spend three hours locked in a room with her ex-girlfriend and all the other teachers looking at her funny, she's still the principal and Thornhill is still a teacher who needs to shoulder her responsibilities.
Aisle after aisle, the blonde makes her way to the farthest and most private part of the room. It has been a few weeks since she and Marilyn broke up, or rather, since the other woman ended it all with no explanation or apparent reason. Larissa still feels sad, empty and bitter, and potentially angry. She let the redhead have her time, and her space and waited for her to come back on her decision to break up, but it didn't happen. To make matters worse, Marilyn's performance has declined greatly, causing even more friction in the relationship between the two, who meet only to have the headmistress scold her.
Larissa goes over the conversation she intends to have with Thornhill in her head again, she needs things to work out. She doesn't want to keep fighting with the redhead every time they see each other. Marilyn was the best thing that ever happened to Weems, and if the redhead no longer wants to be her girlfriend, she understands and hopes that they can at least be friends — because Larissa can't go back to an empty and insignificant life where Marilyn Thornhill isn't part of it. The blonde takes a deep breath, trying to calm herself. She needs everything to work out, or at least not be a total disaster. The principal still feels bad about her last encounter with the teacher, where a professional discussion turned into a person and she said things that weren't true just to hurt Marilyn as her anger and frustration got the better of her. Larissa has not seen Marilyn since that day.
Turning down the last corridor, the scene Larissa encounters makes all her speech disappear from her mind in a matter of seconds. Marilyn is lying on the floor, liquor bottles were thrown around her, and a syringe with a blue liquid is near her hand. Larissa feels desperation grow in her chest, and she screams the woman's name, or so she thinks she does, but she couldn't tell since she can't hear her voice. She shakes the small body, looking for signs of life, takes her in her arms and runs out. At some point, someone appears and she believes she has given orders for the doctor to be sent to her quarters, for when she reaches her room with Marilyn in her arms, the middle-aged woman in charge of the infirmary is waiting for her at the door.
“She's fine,” the doctor says after what seemed an eternity to Weems.
“What do you mean ‘she's fineʼ, she's unconscious!” Larissa screams. She feels bad about that, but she can't afford to care at the moment. “There was a syringe on the side of her body! She tried to kill herself!”
“She has no sting marks, so I don't believe the syringe was for that.” The doctor says calmly, used to dealing with people on the edge of their emotions. “She drank a bit too much and ended up sleeping halfway through whatever she was working on.”
“She's just sleeping?” She asks, discredited and relieved.
“Exactly.”
“I'm going to kill her.”
**
When Marilyn wakes up, Larissa barely gives her time to find her way around before saying that they need to talk.
“We don't need anything.” The redhead replies dryly and dismissively. Larissa feels terrible for being used to this kind of hostility coming from the woman. Precariously and keeping herself upright by some miracle, Marilyn stands up and begins to walk towards the exit. Weems is faster than her and uses her body to barricade the door.
“You're not going anywhere until you talk to me.”
“Is that an order from my superior?”
“It's a friend's request.”
“We're not friends,” she yells.
“No, we are more than that, but you for some reason decided to ignore that fact and start acting like you don't know me!" Larissa returns in the same tone. She doesn't like shouting, even less so when the other person is not in a good place, however, she can't keep it all bottled up inside anymore. Weems knew she would explode one time or another and it seems that time has come.
“If that's not an order, then I don't need to answer." Thornhill ignores Larissa's words. She tries to walk past the blonde, but the woman's tall body doesn't even move. Right now, she is like a stake fixed into the ground with concrete.
“Please, can't you see that I'm trying here?”
“I didn't ask you to try,” she hisses.
“That's the point, you don't have to ask!” Exasperates. “I'm trying hard to give you the space you need to sort your shit out, but every second you seem more distant and lost and it's hurting you and me. To make it worse, I found you lying on the conservatory floor with a syringe full of poison thrown beside you. I thought...
“I thought you were dead... I thought I'd lost you again, only now for good.” Her voice is choked with emotion. “I can't go on like this anymore, I can't go on watching you sink deeper and deeper. When you give someone too much rope, they end up hanging themselves and I'm not going to lose you. Not like this.”
“Why do you care?”
“Because I love you, you moron! That's why I care!”
“Don't say that.”
“I. Love. You. And no matter how hard you try to push me away, my feelings for you won't change.”
“You can't love me.” Marilyn sounds like a hurt and frightened child.
“Why not?”
“Because you don't know me!" She screams with tears in her eyes. “My past, the things I've done, the things I plan to do. The real reason I came to this school in the first place. You know absolutely nothing about me, that's why you can't love me. Because if you knew anything, you would hate me...”
“I could never hate you, Marilyn.”
“I am not Marilyn! My name is Laurel. I'm Garrett Gates' sister! And I hate you. You and all these freaks in this goddamn school. Every student, every teacher, every outcast, I hate them all.” Her eyes burn with the tears she refuses to let fall. “Your kind is the reason my brother is dead. The reason I lost my entire family, and because of that I want all of you destroyed, dead! Every freak, every abnormal, every outcast, you all deserve death. All of you.
“Or at least I thought it should be that way until you showed up...” Between the few stubborn tears that managed to escape, she gives a sad, pained smile. “You who are so serious and yet kind and cheerful and perfect. You lured me in with your warm smiles and fancy teas and soft laughter and beautiful personality. What mortal could resist the charms of Larissa Weems? None, I tell you. Before I could do anything to stop it, I caught myself completely in love with you. My revenge no longer mattered as long as I could be with you. But...
“Every time you call me Marilyn, I feel my heart being torn apart. All the things you say you love about me are lies. You love a lie. That's why you can't love me, Larissa. Marilyn Thornhill, the person you love, it's not me. So, I'm the one who's begging you now, because I can't keep pretending to be someone I'm not anymore, and more importantly, I can't keep hurting you any longer. Please, let me go.”
Weems doesn't understand what is going on. She knows that she has heard everything that Mar-- Laurel has said. She feels a suffocating pain in her chest, the air, or lack of it in this case. Her head feels heavy, and she is sure she is crying, and even though everything indicates that Larissa is just seconds away from falling, it is not her body that crashes dramatically onto the ground.
**
Larissa watches over the sleeping woman in her bed. The small body curled up into a ball, her face swollen from crying. She wants to hold her in her arms and protect her from the rest of the world, to promise that everything will be all right and nothing and no one will ever hurt her again. However, she can do neither, so, with a tightness in her chest, she settles for slowly brushing her fingers across the woman's soft skin, up her exposed arms and into the fair redhead's relaxed face, taking the opportunity to brush a strand of hair from her face.
She feels a lump in her throat, a heaviness in her stomach, and discomfort in her eyes. Larissa is using all her strength not to scream, not to cry, yet, as the other's diminutive figure seems even smaller and more fragile cowering in the centre of her bed, it makes everything difficult.
Silently, Larissa Weems wishes she could go back to before, when she was still ignorant, to a time when she did not know the sleeping being in front of her. She wishes she could go back to the days long gone when she had yet to lose her heart to Laurel Gates.
**
In the morning, Larissa wakes up in her empty bed. It doesn't take long for her to discover that Marilyn, Laurel, or whatever the redhead's name is, has left the school in the dead of night. Weems notices the stares at her, the tension of the questions that no one dares to ask, she ignores everything and everyone. She ignores her feelings and the desire to scream that grows inside her chest. The redhead's words echoed in her ears, burning in her mind, repeating endlessly. She knows that everything that was said is true, Laurel's hatred was perceptible in each of her words, dripping like venom. Larissa cannot understand how Marilyn, so sweet and kind, could be Laurel, so bitter and sick. However, thinking about it wouldn't change anything, because Laurel ran away and took Marilyn with her, and that's the part Larissa can't forgive.
**
When the police show up asking questions and hinting that the botany teacher had a connection to the strange deaths that had been happening in the woods on the edge of town, Weems said nothing beyond what was public knowledge (or the public imagination).
“Yes, we had a relationship,” she replies coldly. “No, I don't know anything about the possibility of her being a serial killer,” she thus ends the interview, practically throwing the sheriff out of her office.
**
Larissa walks around the old cottage, opening the windows and airing out the place. She still remembers the last time she visited her family's cottage. Of the picnic, she and her mother had near the lake, the boat rides with her father, and how her brothers fought over the last s'more around the campfire. The old Weems Family Cottage was once a place of great joy, but now, it is just a pile of rotten wood falling to pieces.
Since her mother passed away almost ten years ago, neither Larissa nor her brothers, nor her father has dared to set foot near the place. All the good memories created in this place have been transformed into daggers that pierce the soul overnight. The blonde walks slowly and carefully through the place, parts of the floorboards look like they will give way at any moment. She wonders how she let herself be dragged to that place, but now that she was there, she had no reason to dwell on her life choices.
She sees her mother at the kitchen island cutting vegetables. Her father is by the fireplace reading the newspaper. She hears her brothers' footsteps running upstairs. Between one memory and another, she finds herself making a list of everything that needs to be fixed or replaced, or demolished. Immersed in nostalgia, in pain and longing, she hardly hears the knocks on the door.
As she opens the door, she is confronted with the reason she is there, to begin with. Laurel Gates, better known as Marilyn Thornhill, stares at her uncertainly.
“Hi...” her voice is only a whisper.
“What took you so long?” Larissa asks with a big smile that makes all of Laurel's nervousness disappear.
“The traffic was horrible.” She replies with a smile as big as the blonde. “But I promise I'll make it up to you.”
“You can be sure of that.”
**
Larissa places her cell phone on top of the mantelpiece, and the soft melody of the music she has chosen gradually begins to fill the room. She offers her hand to the person who dragged her to that place. “Will you grant me this dance?” She asks with a smile on her face.
“Of course.”
Weems takes Laurel in her arms, fitting her into her body. They follow the quiet rhythm of the music. Laurel rests her head on Larissa's chest, listening to the slightly accelerated heartbeat of the blonde. It is like a scene from a musical.
The moon shines on them like a spotlight, the damp, dusty atmosphere giving way to the cozy warmth created by the fire crackling in the hearth. The feeling of detachment and strangeness slowly went away. The world around them darkens and loses focus, and all that is left is the two of them nestled in each other's arms and Neil Young's voice echoing through the air.
“I missed you,” Larissa admits, her voice a whisper in the night.
“I missed you too,” Laurel replies in the same tone. They continue to dance together, neither daring to say anything more, unable to break the little bubble of happiness they find themselves in. They are not naive and know they need to talk about everything, but not now. Right now, what they need is music and each other's embrace.
As the music ends, Larissa stops and stands aside just enough to admire the woman with her. The new haircut, the spectacles with a different frame, the extra holes in her ears. Visually, so distinct from the last time the blonde had seen her, yet still the same person. Weems rubs her fingers slowly across Laurel's face, gently caressing her cheek. Laurel closes her eyes and lets herself be carried away by the touch, basking in the thrill of being touched by Larissa again.
“I really want to kiss you.” Softly, Larissa runs her finger along the outline of Laurel's lips.
Laurel opens her eyes and stares into Larissa's deep blue eyes that flicker in the half-light of the fireplace. There is no doubt in the blonde's eyes. “Please do so.” It is a plea.
Larissa leans in and ends the distance between them. Their first kiss after all these months apart is salted by tears that the two have not bothered to stop. Laurel's lips are the perfect match for Larissa's, just as Marilyn's were. As the kiss intensifies, Larissa feels something in her chest. She feels the hole that opened when Marilyn ran away being closed. Marilyn Thornhill may no longer be there, but Laurel Gates is, and Larissa loves her with all her being, and she will never let her disappear from her life again.
“I love you, Laurel Gates,” Larissa utters.
“I love you, Larissa Weems.” She replies with a smile and tears.
