Larissa Weems x Reader (Wednesday)
Time Travel AU
words: 2,931
AO3 link
For one long heartbeat, you forgot how to breathe.
The locket glinted softly between you, catching the lamplight in a way that made the room feel suddenly smaller, more intimate. Larissa’s fingers hovered just above it, as if some instinct warned her not to touch it.
“Where?” she asked again, voice still soft but laced with more urgency and frustration.
You felt the answer rising—the truth, raw and jagged, that you had pried it from rubble with shaking hands, the air thick with smoke and the metallic sting of blood. That you had carried it for years like a relic, a fragment of a woman you’d never met alive.
You swallowed it back.
“I found it,” you said, the lie tasting like ash. “At an estate sale. Years ago. It… reminded me of Nevermore. I thought it might’ve belonged to someone here once.”
Her eyes lifted to yours, searching for cracks. You did your best not to flinch under the weight of her gaze.
“An estate sale,” she repeated slowly, as if rolling the words over in her mind to see how they fit. “In Jericho?”
“Near enough,” you managed. “I didn’t know who it belonged to. I just… kept it.”
Her expression was unreadable, but something shifted—some internal calculation adjusting itself. She let her hand fall away from the locket, though her eyes lingered on it for a heartbeat longer, like a person trying to recall a dream they’d nearly grasped.
“Regardless,” she said at last, voice smoothing back into cool authority, “it doesn’t belong on my desk.”
She closed the ledger, the quiet thud far louder than it should’ve been.
“You’re clearly in no state to be interrogated about paperwork today,” she continued, turning that same assessing gaze back on your face. “And I’m far too tired to be as thorough as I ought to be.”
There it was again—a sliver of something almost like kindness, threaded through her sternness.
She circled around the desk, coming to stand closer than before. Close enough that you could see the faintest trace of fatigue smudged beneath her eyes, the way carefully applied makeup couldn’t quite hide it. Close enough that the scent of her perfume—lavender, spice, and something warmer—settled over you like a memory you hadn’t yet made.
“You’re pale,” she observed. “And you’re trembling.”
You hadn’t noticed, not consciously, but now you could feel the fine tremor running through your fingers. Your body, still half in the ruins, hadn’t quite caught up to the fact that the world here was intact.
“I’m fine,” you lied.
“Clearly not,” she countered, without any bite. “Come along.”
She picked up the locket, weighing it in her hand a moment before passing it back to you. Her fingers brushed yours, cold from the early morning air, and the fleeting contact sent a shiver up your arm that had nothing to do with fear.
“Keep your… estate-sale sentimentalities with you,” she said lightly but pointedly. “If we’re to have a conversation later today, I’d prefer you not collapsing on my carpet before then. It’s vintage.”
The corner of your mouth twitched despite the ache inside your chest.
“Yes, Principal Weems,” you murmured, not sure what else to say..
She gestured toward the door with a graceful sweep of her arm. “Come. I’ll show you to a guest room. We have a few on the staff level that aren’t currently occupied.”
You followed her out into the hallway, the shift from warm office to stone corridor making your skin pebble. The castle at dawn was quiet—properly quiet, not the hollow, echoing silence of the ruins, but the kind that held within it sleeping bodies, dreams, and the soft rustle of nocturnal life.
Your boots thudded beside her heels, slightly out of rhythm.
Torch sconces and low lamps cast pools of amber light along the walls. Familiar portraits watched from their gilded frames, alive and unharmed, not charred or torn free. A few blinked. One tilted his head to squint at you and Larissa both, deciding you weren’t worth comment.
You had walked these same corridors in another lifetime with a flashlight and a respirator mask, stepping over fractured stone and dark, unidentifiable stains on the floor. Now you forced yourself not to look for cracks in the ceiling, not to listen for the whistle of wind through broken glass that wasn’t broken here.
“I do apologize for the lack of… ceremony,” Larissa said after a stretch of silence, her tone clipped but not unkind. “We don’t typically welcome new staff by startling them in my office after hours. Or at all, ideally.”
You glanced at her profile—at the controlled line of her jaw, the way her gaze flicked over each shadow as they passed, cataloguing threats that weren’t there.
“It’s all right,” you said. “This is more ceremony than I’m used to.”
That earned you a faint hum of acknowledgment.
“And you’re certain Marilyn signed your appointment?” she asked, light but pointed. “Because the last time she surprised me, it involved a rather unfortunate choice of floral arrangement in the foyer.”
“She did,” you replied. “If there’s been… a miscommunication, I’ll accept full responsibility. I’m just here to help.” The words came out too earnest, too quickly.
Her eyes narrowed by a fraction, and you felt heat crawl up the back of your neck.
“To help?” she repeated, something dry creeping into her tone. “An alarming phrase in a school full of outcasts and secret societies.”
You huffed a weak, startled breath that was almost a laugh. “I meant administratively. Records. Correspondence. Whatever you need.” Whatever keeps you alive, you didn’t say.
You two reached a landing and she veered left, leading you down a quieter corridor with fewer portraits and more doors marked discreetly with brass numbers. The air here smelled faintly of old paper and wool—staff quarters, not student dormitories.
“We’ll see what I need,” she said. “Nevermore is… demanding. Those who work here don’t last long if they’re inflexible.”
“I’m adaptable,” you said quietly. You’d had to be, in a world that kept collapsing beneath your feet.
“I suppose we’ll find out,” she replied.
She stopped outside a door near the end of the hall, unlocking it with a brass key she produced from a ring at her hip. The hinges creaked softly as it opened, revealing a modest but comfortable room: a neatly made bed, a small wardrobe, a writing desk by the window, and a lamp shaped like a raven perched on a stack of books.
It was absurd how seeing an intact mattress almost undid you.
“You’ll stay here for the time being,” Larissa said, stepping aside to let you enter first. “I’ll have one of the janitorial staff bring you a change of linens and something suitable to wear until we sort out your… situation.”
You lingered on the threshold, looking back at her. Her silhouette filled the doorway, a tall, still figure framed by shadow and soft lamplight. She looked every inch the headmistress you’d spent years reading about in reports and testimonies. The difference was that now, when you blinked, she was still there.
“Thank you,” you murmured earnestly.
She tilted her head, studying you more closely at that. “Don’t thank me yet. I’ve hardly decided if I trust you.”
“I know,” you said. “You shouldn’t.”
Her brows lifted at that, just enough to show you’d surprised her.
“You’re remarkably forthright for someone who’s just lied to me about paperwork,” she observed, one corner of her mouth curving in a faint, wry almost-smile.
Your cheeks warmed. “I… don’t want to lie to you.”
“Then I suggest you don’t,” she replied simply. “Consider that my first piece of guidance as your employer. Provisional employer.” Her gaze softened faintly. “Rest. You look as though you haven’t slept properly in weeks.”
You almost told her it had been years.
“I’ll try,” you said instead.
She nodded, fingers curling lightly around the edge of the door.
“Breakfast is at eight in the main hall,” she added. “Be there. And afterward, you and I will have a more… thorough discussion.”
You swallowed, still unsure of everything you would be able to say. “Yes, Principal Weems.”
She hesitated for a heartbeat longer, as if there was something else she might say—some instinct nudging at her to ask one more question or offer one more reassurance. In the end, she turned to close the door. It clicked shut behind her with a soft finality.
You stood in the center of the room for a long time, listening to the receding echo of her footsteps down the corridor. Your knees felt shaky, the adrenaline that had dragged you through the spell and into her office finally ebbing, leaving behind a hollow ache.
You set your journal carefully on the desk, smoothing a hand over its worn cover. The room’s silence pressed in on you, but it was a full silence, cradling the faint tick of old pipes, the distant hoot of an owl, the crackle of the castle settling.
You’d slept in abandoned safe houses before, in drainage tunnels and crumbling stairwells, your back to concrete and your face pressed into your own arm to muffle your breathing. This felt wrong in its softness. Safe in a way that made your skin crawl, because you knew—too well—how easily safety could be ripped away.
You sat on the edge of the bed and let your shoulders sag, elbows on your knees, hands laced together. The locket lay heavy in your pocket, warmed now by your skin. After a moment’s hesitation, you pulled it out and let it rest in your palm.
It looked different here, under the warm lamplight instead of the sickly gray wash of a ruined sky. You thumbed over its worn edges, tracing the faint engraving along the rim. You’d done this a thousand times, trying to imagine the woman who’d clasped it around her throat, who’d once worn it as casually as a second heartbeat.
You had never expected that woman to look at you like you were a problem she meant to solve.
You turned the locket over, pressing your thumb against the tiny hinge. You’d never been able to open it in your timeline—the clasp too corroded, the mechanism damaged. Now, here, it clicked open with the softest of sounds.
Inside, the photograph was crisp and whole.
A younger Larissa gazed out at you in black and white, hair pinned back tighter, smile smaller but no less sincere. Beside her was a woman you didn’t recognize—dark hair, a sharp jaw, eyes crinkled at the corners with laughter. Larissa’s arm was tucked behind her back, fingers just visible where they curled around the other woman’s hip.
Your throat tightened.
In your world, whoever this was had long since turned to dust.
Carefully, you closed the locket again, the metal clicking shut like the end of a held breath. You lay back on the bed without undressing, the mattress dipping beneath your weight. The ceiling above you was smooth, uncracked, clean white plaster framed by dark wooden beams. You lay there in the quiet and catalogued the differences between this ceiling and the one you remembered: no scorch marks, no water stains, no jagged lines where collapse had begun.
You should have felt relief. Instead, you felt like an intruder.
You didn’t come back to the past to get comfortable…to get distracted.
But your body remembered the way she’d looked at you, the way her eyes had narrowed not with malice, but with a kind of wary curiosity. The way her voice had softened, just slightly, when she’d told you to rest. The way her perfume still lingered faintly on your skin where the locket had passed between you.
You rolled onto your side, facing the wall, and forced your eyes closed.
Sleep, when it finally came, was shallow and full of fractured images: Larissa’s office collapsed in on itself; Laurel’s smile knife-sharp and stained red; a thousand nameless faces turning to ash on the wind. Through it all, one thing remained constant—the sound of Larissa’s voice in the present, low and steady, threading through the nightmares like a tether.
—
You woke to the sound of a bell.
For a terrifying moment, you didn’t know which world you were in. Your heart surged against your ribs, ready for another evacuation alarm, another raid, another scramble toward an exit that might already be blocked.
But the sound was clean and melodic, not shrill; it rang through stone halls and down stairwells, calling students to breakfast instead of bigots to arms. You lay there and listened to it echo, your breath slowing by degrees.
Brighter morning light spilled around the edges of the curtains. You sat up, stiff from sleeping in your clothes, and swung your feet to the floor. The carpet was warm beneath your bare soles. Outside the door came the muffled thud of footsteps, the rise and fall of voices, laughter, complaints about early mornings, the hum of life you had almost forgotten how to hear.
You dressed as best you could—straightening your jacket, smoothing your shirt, doing what you could with fingers that still shook slightly. The mirror above the small dresser showed a face you scarcely recognized: eyes shadowed, mouth tight, hair mussed from restless sleep. You splashed water on your face from the small sink in the corner, the chill snapping you further into the present.
By the time you stepped into the hallway, the corridor had mostly emptied, only a stray late staff member jogging past you with a muttered apology. You watched them disappear around the corner, throat tightening at the sheer normalcy of it.
You walked toward the main stairwell, fingers brushing along the cool stone wall as if to reassure yourself it was real. Every sight you passed tugged at memories from the other timeline—some with perfect overlap, some different in tiny, disorienting ways. A tapestry hung straight here that had been torn there. A suit of armor that should’ve been missing an arm stood whole and polished. A windowpane intact instead of spiderwebbed with cracks.
The cafeteria was already buzzing when you slipped in along the side. Long tables stretched beneath high, arched windows, students clustered in their respective cliques and clades. Bright hair, fanged smiles, pointed ears, scaled skin—the riot of outcast diversity you’d grown up hearing about but had only seen in faded photos by the time you were old enough to understand.
You stood just inside the doorway for a second longer than polite, taking it in. The sound. The smell of coffee and toast and something faintly metallic that must have been blood for the vampire table. The rustle of newspapers, the clink of cutlery, the soft crackle of the fireplace.
Your chest ached.
Then you felt eyes on you.
You turned and found Larissa at one of the staff tables on the raised dais, her gaze already fixed on you. From this distance, she looked perfectly composed—back straight, shoulders square, hands wrapped around a porcelain mug. But you’d spent enough time reading the margins of reports about her to notice the subtler signs: the tilt of her head, the slight tightening at the corners of her eyes, the way one finger tapped once, twice, against the side of her mug before going still.
She inclined her head toward you in acknowledgment. It wasn’t quite a beckon, but it wasn’t dismissal either.
You made your way to the side table presumably meant for staff and visitors, acutely aware of the curiosity following your progress. Whispers rose and fell, small and harmless compared to the vicious rumors you’d once heard hissed over campfires about the “last survivors of Nevermore.”
When you glanced back toward the dais, Larissa’s attention was still fixed in your direction. Not openly staring, but tracking. Assessing. As though she had yet to determine whether you were a complication or a solution.
You forced yourself to reach for a cup of coffee, fingers curling around the ceramic to give them something solid to hold. The bitter scent rose, familiar and grounding. You took a slow sip, letting the heat burn your tongue just enough to anchor you.
You had not come here to be part of this world. Not really. You were a disruption, a fracture line in the timeline, a single determined refusal lodged in the throat of fate.
However, as Larissa dipped her head to speak to a teacher beside her, profile sharp against the tall windows, you felt it again—that quiet, terrifying tug inside your chest. The one that said you could belong here, if you let yourself. You could stand in morning light instead of dreary ash. You could exist in a world where her laugh was something you might hear with your own ears, instead of imagining it from secondhand descriptions and faded ink.
You pushed the thought away. There would be time enough for impossibilities later—if you succeeded.
For now, there was only this: the weight of her gaze every few minutes, the knowledge that when breakfast ended, she would call you back to her office. That she would ask questions you weren’t ready to answer. That you would have to lie again, carefully, strategically, until the moment came when you couldn’t.
You wrapped both hands around your coffee cup, letting its warmth sink into your chilled fingers, and tried to look like a person who belonged in the present.
Larissa Weems x PhDstudent!Reader
"No Closed Doors"
words: 6,868
AO3 link
The next morning arrived with the audacity of a woman who had not spent half the night thinking about Larissa Weems.
Pale light crept through the curtains of your room, thin and gray-blue, catching on the discarded clothes you had failed to gather from the floor. Your sweater was still slumped over the back of your chair. Your shoes sat unevenly near the door, one tilted onto its side as though it, too, had given up on dignity sometime after midnight.
You blinked at the ceiling. For one blissful second, your mind was empty. Then memories returned with the subtlety of a brick through stained glass.
Larissa’s office.
Her voice, low and trembling at the edges. I’m afraid of losing control. Her fingers brushing yours at the end, deliberate enough to ruin you, restrained enough to haunt you.
You shut your eyes with a groan and dragged your comforter over your face.
No. Absolutely not. You would not start your morning like this. You were an adult. A graduate fellow. A scholar. A person with a dissertation, color-coded notes, and at least some working understanding of institutional ethics.
You were not going to be undone by the memory of a tall, silver-haired principal admitting, in a voice like cracked velvet, that she did not want you to leave and did not want you to stop flirting.
Your phone buzzed on your nightstand.
You froze. For a terrible, hopeful second, you thought it might be her.
It was not.
Mrs. Cunningham:
Good morning, dearie! Updated schedule attached. Principal Weems requests your presence in her office at 9:00 before today’s community roundtable. Breakfast will be available in the faculty lounge beforehand.
You stared at the email.
Of course.
Of course Larissa Weems would almost unravel in front of you one evening and then summon you by way of her assistant the next morning like a perfectly reasonable employer. Of course she would turn desire into scheduling. And of course there would be breakfast.
You dropped the phone against your chest and laughed once, dryly.
“Coward,” you muttered half-heartedly, though you were not entirely sure whether you meant Larissa or yourself.
The schedule opened beneath your thumb with one unforgiving tap.
9:00 — Briefing with Principal Weems
10:00 — Community Relations Roundtable, Jericho Town Hall
12:00 — Lunch with Outreach Committee
2:00 — Research consultation / archival permissions review
4:30 — Follow-up interview with Marginalia student newspaper
You stared at the day ahead of you.
Too much Larissa. Not enough Larissa. An absolutely fatal amount of Larissa.
You let the phone fall beside you again and pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes. The ache behind your ribs had not lessened. If anything, sleep had only refined it—turned last night’s frantic heat into something more dangerous. Something quieter. More focused.
Want was one thing. Knowing you were wanted back was another beast entirely.
You had been able to make jokes before. You could flirt, tease, press gently against the edges of her restraint because uncertainty had given you cover. Maybe you were imagining it. Maybe Larissa’s lingering looks were kindness. Maybe the warmth in her voice was charm, habit, professional polish.
But after last night? No. There was no unknowing it now.
Larissa Weems wanted you. And, apparently, she hated that almost as much as she wanted it.
The thought settled low in your stomach, both thrilling and heavy. You turned onto your side, facing the window, where the early light made the glass look silvered. Somewhere beyond the glass, Nevermore was waking: pipes groaning, students chattering through walls, old stone shifting with the cold.
And somewhere beneath all of that, Larissa was likely already awake.
Probably immaculate. Probably composed. Probably pretending she had not gone home—or wherever Larissa Weems went when the mask was finally too heavy to wear—and thought of you.
Your face heated. You sat up too quickly and nearly tangled yourself in the sheets.
“Nope,” you said aloud, swinging your feet onto the floor. “Not doing this.”
You did, in fact, spend the next forty minutes doing exactly this.
You dressed with more indecision than the occasion deserved. Every option felt like a message you weren’t sure you wanted to send. Too casual looked careless. Too polished looked intentional. Too revealing looked like a declaration of war, and you weren’t convinced Larissa would survive another one so soon.
Eventually, you settled on a dark green turtleneck tucked into high-waisted black trousers, the kind that made you look like you had your life together in a quiet academic way. You added your usual rings, a simple belt, and boots with just enough heel to make you feel steadier than you were.
You looked in the mirror.
Reasonable. Professional. Not at all like a woman who had spent the previous night clutching a pillow and trying not to think about the exact shape of Larissa’s mouth.
Good enough.
By the time you reached the faculty lounge, the scent of tea, toast, and something faintly buttery filled the hallway. A few early-rising faculty members were scattered through the room, speaking in low voices over cups and plates. You recognized one of the history instructors from a previous introduction and exchanged a polite smile.
Larissa was not there. Your disappointment was immediate and humiliating.
You poured tea you did not particularly want and chose a slice of toast because it gave your hands something to do. You were halfway through spreading jam with the seriousness of a surgeon when Mrs. Cunningham appeared beside you.
“There you are, dearie.”
You turned, nearly dropping the knife. “Oh, good morning.”
Mrs. Cunningham gave you the kind of look older women gave when they knew something and were deciding whether to weaponize it.
“Sleep well?”
You took a bite of toast to buy yourself time and immediately regretted it. Too dry. Too much chewing. Too much needing to appear normal.
“Fine,” you said eventually. “A regular amount of sleep. A… responsible amount.”
Her brows lifted. You sipped your tea.
Mrs. Cunningham hummed. “Principal Weems is already in her office. She asked that I send you down once you’d eaten.”
“How ominous.”
“She’s always ominous before nine-thirty.”
That startled a laugh out of you.
Mrs. Cunningham smiled, pleased with herself, and patted your arm. “Don’t look so worried.”
“Right,” you managed. She wandered off, leaving you to wonder if every woman at Nevermore was somehow capable of seeing directly through your skin.
You finished as much of breakfast as your nerves allowed, then made your way toward Larissa’s office.
The corridors seemed longer than usual.
Ridiculous, considering you knew the route well by now. You had walked it with curiosity, with excitement, with dread, with barely concealed arousal, with bruises hidden beneath your clothes, with questions pressing behind your teeth. Today, the hallway felt less like a path and more like a test.
Her office door was open. That struck you immediately.
Not ajar in the careless way of last night. Not inviting in the intimate, golden spill of lamplight that had made your pulse leap. Open. Properly open. Wide enough that anyone passing could glance inside.
You paused just outside.
Larissa sat behind her desk, dressed in a cream blouse and a dove-gray skirt that made her look infuriatingly untouchable. Her hair was swept into its usual flawless arrangement. Her lipstick was perfect. Her posture was perfect. Even the stack of papers at her right hand looked like it had been placed there by an anxious museum curator.
She looked up. For half a second, something crossed her face. Not composure. Not quite. Recognition, maybe. Memory? Then it was gone.
“Good morning,” she said. Her voice was smooth. Even. Polite.
You wanted to throw yourself out the nearest window.
“Morning, Principal Weems.” Her eyes flickered at the title. Briefly. Almost imperceptibly.
Interesting.
You stepped inside but did not sit until she gestured to the chair opposite her desk. The same chair. Of course. Your body remembered it before your mind could object—the precise angle from which you had watched her composure fracture, the distance you had reduced by standing, the look in her eyes when you asked what she wanted.
You sat down. The door remained open behind you. Larissa noticed you noticing.
A faint line appeared between her brows before smoothing away. “I trust Mrs. Cunningham sent you the updated schedule?”
“She did.”
“Good.” Larissa picked up a folder and opened it, though you were fairly certain she did not read the top page. “Today’s roundtable will include several town representatives, a member of the Outreach Committee, and a local reporter from VNE. The intention is to frame your fellowship as part of Nevermore’s ongoing commitment to transparency and community repair.”
“Sounds fun.”
Her gaze lifted. You smiled innocently.
“Your enthusiasm is, as always, overwhelming,” she said. There it was. The faintest glimmer. Dry. Familiar. Almost warm.
Your chest loosened despite yourself. “I contain multitudes.”
“I have noticed.”
The words landed differently than they should have.
Larissa seemed to realize it at the same time you did. Her fingers shifted against the folder. The office, despite the open door, felt suddenly smaller.
She cleared her throat. You watched the movement.
Stop it, you told yourself.
“Today will require care,” she continued.
The word care struck between you with cruel precision.
Careful.
You leaned back slightly. “That seems to be a recurring theme.”
Larissa’s eyes held yours. For a moment, neither of you spoke.
A student’s laughter echoed faintly from somewhere down the corridor. A door closed. Footsteps passed, visible for a moment through the open doorway, then gone.
Larissa looked away first.
“I mean,” she said carefully, “that the town is still sensitive to recent events. Outreach Day helps, but the wounds between Jericho and Nevermore are not healed simply because we schedule programs and refreshments.”
You nodded, letting the seriousness of the subject pull you back to steadier ground. “I know.”
“I believe you do.” Her voice softened before she seemed to catch herself. “However, it is important that your remarks remain focused. You are not there to apologize on behalf of Nevermore, nor to defend every outcast against every accusation ever made by normie society.”
“Tragic. That was exactly my plan.”
“Nor,” she added, ignoring you with admirable discipline, “are you there to provoke.”
You placed a hand against your chest. “I would never.”
Larissa’s mouth twitched.
The victory felt embarrassingly satisfying.
Then her gaze dropped to your hand, to the rings on your fingers, then away again. The motion was small, but it sent heat crawling up the back of your neck.
So this was how the day would go… Death by almost-looking.
“I reviewed your preliminary notes,” Larissa said, too quickly.
“My notes?”
“The excerpts you sent Mrs. Cunningham for the press packet.”
“Oh.” You blinked. “Right. Those notes.”
“They’re thoughtful.” She hesitated. “Particularly your comments on the limitations of normie scholarship regarding shapeshifters.”
Your body stilled. There it was.
You had known, eventually, the subject would become difficult before you even knew Larissa was a shapeshifter. You had pulled quotes from Foundational Concepts in Shapeshifter Cultures with increasing irritation, marking passages that framed shapeshifting as deception, punishment, instability, or divine correction. The more you read, the more the scholarship felt not merely incomplete but accusatory.
And then there was Larissa.
The woman who moved through the world as though every inch of herself had been edited for public consumption. Larissa, who was a shapeshifter in a world eager to make that word mean liar.
You chose your response carefully. “I’m still working through that section. I don’t want to overstep.”
“No,” she said, and the immediacy surprised you. “You haven’t.”
The admission hovered between you.
Larissa lowered her eyes to the papers again. “But you should be prepared for resistance. Jericho likes comfortable narratives. Shapeshifters as tricksters. Sirens as manipulators. Gorgons as threats. Vampires as predators. Each category conveniently simple enough for normies to fear without having to understand.”
There was no bitterness in her voice. That made it worse. She said it like a fact she had memorized young.
You studied her face, the line of her jaw, the immaculate calm that had settled over something old and carefully buried.
“Is that what they called you?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
Her eyes snapped to yours.
The room changed.
You regretted the question immediately—not because you didn’t want the answer, but because the answer mattered too much. Because the open door suddenly felt less like a boundary and more like an audience.
Larissa’s expression did not move for several seconds. Then, quietly, “That is not relevant to today’s briefing.”
It was a reprimand. It was also an answer.
Your throat tightened. “I’m sorry.”
She inhaled slowly, and for once the breath did not look practiced. “You needn’t be.”
“I shouldn’t have asked like that.”
“No,” she agreed. You winced.
“But,” she continued, voice quieter, “your instinct was not incorrect.”
Your eyes lifted. Larissa held your gaze for a fraction too long, then turned a page in the folder with exquisite precision. “You may find that the most enduring prejudices are the ones people dress up as observation.”
You swallowed. “That’s good,” you said softly.
Her brow arched.
“For the roundtable,” you clarified. “Not good. Obviously. Horrible. But… useful phrasing.”
A glimmer of amusement returned to her eyes. “You may use it, provided you do not attribute it to me.”
“Noted. Anonymous devastating insight.”
“Do not call it that either.”
“I’ll workshop it.”
The corner of her mouth curved. The smile was tiny. Barely there.
It still felt like being handed something precious.
Then a knock sounded against the open doorframe. Both of you turned.
Mrs. Cunningham stood there with a clipboard pressed to her chest, looking between you with the faintly amused neutrality of a woman who had never missed a thing in her life.
“The car is ready, ma’am,” she announced. “Town Hall in twenty minutes.”
Larissa stood immediately. “Thank you.”
You rose as well, gathering your folder and bag.
As Larissa moved around the desk, you both reached for the same stack of printed materials at the same time. Your fingers brushed. Bare skin this time. Not through gloves. Not accidental enough to dismiss.
A spark went through you so sharply that you almost forgot Mrs. Cunningham was standing there.
Larissa’s fingers froze against yours.
One second. Two. Then she withdrew.
“After you,” she said.
Her voice was perfectly steady. Her eyes were not.
—
Jericho Town Hall looked as though it had been built by people who believed civic responsibility should include uncomfortable chairs.
The room was paneled in dark wood and decorated with framed photographs of town founders whose eyes followed you with ancestral disapproval. Folding tables had been arranged in a loose rectangle, with pitchers of water, paper cups, name placards, and an assortment of pastries that looked dry enough to legally qualify as historical artifacts.
You took your seat beside Larissa, because apparently the universe had a sense of humor and a vendetta.
To your left sat a VNE reporter, a thin man with aggressively neat hair and the posture of someone who liked asking questions that made people sweat. Across from you were two town representatives, one Outreach Committee member, and a local business owner whose name tag read MARIAN HOLT. You wondered if she had ever smiled in her life or if Jericho had outlawed it sometime in the nineteenth century.
Larissa opened the meeting with her usual poise next to the sheriff.
You had seen her command rooms before, but it still fascinated you. She did not raise her voice. She did not over-explain. She did not plead for goodwill. She simply occupied authority so thoroughly that everyone else seemed to adjust themselves around it. It made the authority of the man next to her seem diminutive in comparison.
“Our aim,” she said, hands folded elegantly in front of her, “is not to erase the tensions between Jericho and Nevermore, but to address them with clarity and intention. The fellowship program is one part of that effort.”
Several eyes turned to you. You smiled, polite but not too bright.
The reporter clicked his pen.
“And as the first normie graduate fellow at Nevermore,” he began, “how would you characterize your experience so far?”
Larissa’s knee was close enough beneath the table that you were aware of it without touching.
You kept your posture relaxed. “Complicated. In a good way.”
The reporter looked disappointed you had not said something dramatic.
You continued, “I think any meaningful research environment should complicate your assumptions. Nevermore does that. It’s easy for normie institutions to talk about outcasts as a subject. It’s different to be in a space where outcasts are not theoretical. They’re students, teachers, colleagues, historians, artists, teenagers trying to survive adolescence without also being treated as monsters.”
The room was quiet. Good quiet, maybe.
Larissa did not look at you, but something about her stillness changed.
The reporter leaned forward. “You use the term monsters. Do you think that language is still relevant to normie and outcast relations?”
You felt Larissa’s attention sharpen. Careful, you could almost hear her say.
You took a steadying breath. “I think monster is often a word people use when they want fear to sound like evidence.”
Across the table, Marian Holt’s mouth tightened. Beside you, Larissa’s fingers went still around her pen.
You pressed on. “A lot of my work looks at how language shapes public imagination. If a community tells the same story long enough—sirens manipulate, vampires prey, shapeshifters deceive—then individuals get flattened into symbols. And once someone is only a symbol, it becomes easier to justify mistreating them.”
The reporter’s pen moved quickly now.
One of the town representatives cleared his throat. “Surely some of those concerns come from actual incidents.”
“Of course,” you said. “Harm happens in every community. Outcasts are not exempt from accountability, and normies are not exempt from prejudice. But patterns matter. Who gets treated as an individual who made a mistake, and who gets treated as proof that their entire identity is dangerous?”
Larissa shifted beside you. Not away. Not closer. But present.
The Outreach Committee member, a woman with kind eyes and a cardigan patterned with tiny ravens, nodded slowly. “That is a useful distinction.”
You smiled at her gratefully.
The reporter turned to Larissa. “Principal Weems, do you agree with that framing?”
Larissa’s expression did not change, but you felt the air around her cool.
“As a principal,” she said, “I have learned that students rarely thrive when they are treated as representatives of someone else’s fear.”
The room stilled again. You looked down at your notes because looking at her felt too dangerous.
The meeting continued, weaving through topics of safety, integration, Outreach Day, student conduct, and Jericho’s “ongoing concerns,” which seemed to be a polite way of saying prejudices they had not yet figured out how to make sound progressive.
Larissa was brilliant. That was the problem.
She navigated hostility with grace, corrected assumptions without appearing defensive, and smiled just warmly enough to make several people forget they were being professionally dismantled. Watching her was infuriatingly attractive. Worse, it made your chest ache.
Because now you could hear what lived underneath the polish. The caution. The exhaustion. The discipline of a woman who had learned to be impeccable because anything less would be used against her.
At some point, under the table, her knee brushed yours. Barely.
You stopped mid-note. Larissa continued speaking without pause.
You glanced at her profile. Nothing.
Her knee remained there. Warmth spread through you, slow and traitorous. It could have been an accident. It probably was an accident.
Then she shifted half an inch closer.
You stared at your notebook, where your pen had made one long, useless line through the word narrative.
Careful, indeed.
—
The meeting ended with handshakes, polite smiles, and the particular exhaustion that came from being measured by people who thought curiosity and suspicion were the same thing.
Larissa was intercepted almost immediately by Marian Holt and the VNE reporter, leaving you to gather your notes near the refreshment table. You poured yourself water and considered whether one of the pastries was worth the risk.
“Hey.”
You turned.
Imogen stood a few feet away, one hand tucked into the pocket of her jacket, her expression cautious. She was not in her Weathervane apron today. Instead, she wore a black denim jacket over a striped shirt, her hair braided loosely over one shoulder.
You blinked, confusion marking your tone. “Imogen?”
“Yeah. Sorry.” She gave a nervous laugh. “My aunt is on the Outreach Committee. I helped set up chairs this morning.”
Of course she did. Jericho really was the kind of town where everyone’s aunt was on a committee.
“Oh,” you said. “Right. Hi.”
Her eyes flicked toward Larissa, who was still across the room speaking to Marian with a smile sharp enough to cut ribbon. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“I was on the schedule.”
“Right.” Imogen rocked back on her heels. “You were really good up there.”
“Thanks.”
“I mean it. The stuff you said about people being turned into symbols…” Her face pinched slightly. “I’ve been thinking about that.”
Something in your defensiveness softened, though not entirely. “Yeah?”
She nodded. “After Burlington. After what my friends did.” Her voice lowered. “I keep trying to tell myself I didn’t know they would go that far, but that doesn’t really matter, does it? I knew how they talked. I knew how they usually thought. I just thought…” She swallowed. “I don’t know. I thought because they were nice to me, they were nice.”
That landed harder than you expected. You looked down at the water cup in your hands, watching the surface tremble slightly.
“That’s a difficult thing to realize,” you said.
“Yeah.” Imogen gave a humorless laugh. “Not as difficult as getting dragged outside and punched because someone thought you were a vampire.”
Your ribs seemed to remember before you did. You breathed slowly.
“I’m not trying to make you forgive me,” she added quickly. “I know I keep showing up and making it weird.”
“You do have a talent for timing.”
A small, relieved smile crossed her face. “I deserve that.”
You looked toward Larissa before you could help it.
A mistake.
She was watching you.
Not openly. Not rudely. But her attention had cut across the room and settled on you with the same cool precision she used to silence rowdy students and arrogant town officials.
Her gaze flicked to Imogen, then back to you. Possessiveness looked devastating on her. You hated that you noticed.
Imogen followed your glance, then exhaled. “She really doesn’t like me.”
You almost laughed. “Principal Weems is protective of Nevermore.”
“Sure,” Imogen said, not sounding convinced. “And dragons are protective of gold.”
Your head snapped toward her.
Imogen held up both hands. “Sorry. Sorry. None of my business.”
“It isn’t.”
“I know.”
The silence that followed was awkward, but not hostile.
Imogen shifted. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry. And I’m trying to be better. Not because I want anything from you. Just… because I should have been better already.”
You studied her for a long moment.
There were still things in you that did not trust her. Things that remembered waiting alone outside a nightclub with a dying phone and a bruise blooming under your clothes. Things that remembered how easily desire had made you reckless.
But she looked younger today. Not in age, exactly. In certainty.
“Thank you,” you said at last. “I appreciate you saying that.”
She nodded, visibly relieved. “Okay. Good. I’ll let you get back to…” Her eyes flicked toward Larissa again. “Whatever that is.”
You gave her a flat look.
She smiled, sheepish, and backed away. “Right. Leaving now.”
You watched her go.
When you turned back, Larissa was no longer across the room. She was beside you. You startled hard enough to nearly spill your water.
“Jesus.”
“We really must stop meeting under that name,” Larissa said.
You pressed a hand to your chest. “Do they teach stealth walking in principal school?”
“Only to advanced students.”
Your pulse was already misbehaving. “How much of that did you hear?”
“Enough.” Her eyes remained on Imogen’s retreating figure.
You waited. Larissa did not speak.
“Oh, come on,” you said under your breath. “If you’re going to loom disapprovingly, at least commit to the commentary.”
Her gaze shifted to you. “I am not looming.”
“You are absolutely looming.”
“I am standing.”
“Menacingly.”
Her lips pressed together, but the amusement did not reach her eyes this time.
“She apologized,” you said, softer now. “Again.”
“I heard.”
“And I handled it.”
“I saw.”
You tilted your head. “Then why do you look like you want to ban her from every building within a five-mile radius?”
Larissa’s expression cooled. “You mistake professional concern for something far less appropriate.”
You stared at her. She stared back.
“Do I?” you asked.
A muscle feathered in her jaw.
The room was still full of people, which was the only reason you did not step closer. You wondered if she knew that. You wondered if she was relying on it.
Larissa looked away first, lowering her voice. “We should return to Nevermore. Mrs. Cunningham will expect us for the archival review.”
“Of course.”
She turned. You followed.
Outside, the cold air hit your face with a clarity you desperately needed. The sky had gone white with cloud cover, and the town square looked washed out beneath it, all brick storefronts and damp pavement. Larissa walked beside you toward the waiting car, her posture as flawless as ever.
For half the walk, neither of you spoke.
Then she said, “You did well.”
The praise struck so unexpectedly that you nearly missed a step.
“At the roundtabe,” she clarified, as though she had not just handed your heart a lit match. “You were composed. Measured. Persuasive.”
“Thank you.”
“You also quoted me.”
You looked up at her. “Anonymously.”
Her brow arched. “Devastating insight?”
“I was being generous.”
“You were being impertinent.”
You smiled despite yourself. “Maybe.”
A faint warmth passed over her face and vanished almost immediately.
There she was. There you were.
You climbed into the car with the terrible awareness that the space was too enclosed, too familiar. Not the van from Burlington, thank god, but close enough to awaken the memory of leather seats, shaking breath, the horn blaring beneath you at exactly the wrong moment.
Larissa seemed to remember too. She sat a little too still behind the wheel.
You fastened your seatbelt with exaggerated care. Her eyes cut to you.
“What?” you asked.
“Nothing.”
“You’re thinking something.”
“I am often thinking something.”
“Is it about seatbelts?”
Her hands tightened on the wheel. You grinned, unable to help yourself.
“Do not,” she warned.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was not.”
“You absolutely were.”
The laugh escaped you before you could stop it, bright and startled.
Larissa’s face softened. Only for a second. But you saw it.
The drive back to Nevermore was quiet after that, but the quiet had changed. It was not the suffocating silence after the Burlington kiss. Not the tense emptiness of avoidance. This was something stranger—an awareness held carefully between you, like a glass filled too close to the rim.
At one point, Larissa turned the heat up without asking.
At another, your hand rested near the center console, and hers shifted on the gear stick close enough that your smallest fingers nearly touched.
Neither of you moved away. Neither of you moved closer.
By the time Nevermore’s gates appeared ahead, you felt like your entire body was made of withheld breath.
—
The archival permissions review was, objectively, boring.
It should have helped. It did not.
Mrs. Cunningham had arranged several boxes of documents in Larissa’s office, along with permission forms detailing which historical records you were allowed to access for dissertation purposes and which required faculty supervision. There were rules about student files, genealogical materials, medical documentation, and anything classified under “species-sensitive cultural records,” which sounded both fascinating and like a bureaucratic trap.
Larissa reviewed each category with you from behind her desk.
The door remained open. Again.
You noticed. Again.
This time, irritation slipped in beneath the want. It was one thing to be careful. It was another to be managed.
“Species-sensitive cultural records require approval from either myself or the relevant department head,” Larissa explained, marking a line with her pen. “In the case of shapeshifter histories, that approval would come through my office.”
Your eyes lifted. “Of course it would.”
Her gaze sharpened. “Is that a problem?”
“No.”
“You said that as though it were.”
“I just said, ‘of course it would.’”
“Pointedly.”
You leaned back in your chair. “Maybe I’m just wondering if I’ll be allowed to research anything that makes you uncomfortable.”
Larissa went very still. The temperature in the room seemed to drop a few degrees.
“That is not fair,” she said quietly.
You regretted the edge in your tone almost immediately, but not the question itself.
“No,” you admitted. “It probably isn’t.”
Her eyes searched yours. “My discomfort is not the issue.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No.” Her voice was controlled, but there was strain beneath it. “The issue is that some materials in this academy belong to communities that have been studied, distorted, and exposed by outsiders for centuries. Access is not entitlement.”
That landed. You looked down at your hands.
“You’re right,” you said after a moment. “I’m sorry.”
The air shifted.
Larissa’s shoulders softened slightly, though she did not relax.
“I know I’m not entitled to any of it,” you continued. “That’s part of what I’m trying to figure out. How to do this without repeating the same harm. How to write about communities I’m not part of without making them feel like objects under glass.”
Larissa’s expression changed, but you could not immediately name how.
You pressed on, quieter now. “And I know my position here is complicated. I know I’m useful to Nevermore because I’m a normie who can say things other people might not listen to from an outcast. I hate that. I’m also trying to use it responsibly.”
Her gaze dropped to the folder between you.
“I am aware,” she said.
Something in her tone made your throat ache. You looked at her carefully. “Are you?”
Larissa’s eyes lifted. You did not mean the question cruelly. You meant it plainly. Almost tenderly.
For a moment, she looked tired. Not visibly, not to anyone else. But you knew enough now to recognize the almost imperceptible loosening around her eyes, the weight beneath the painted elegance.
“Yes,” she said softly. “I am.”
The office was too quiet. The open door felt suddenly obscene, as though the whole hallway had been invited to witness something fragile.
You looked away first.
Larissa set the pen down.
“I do not wish to obstruct your work,” she said. “On the contrary, I believe it matters. Perhaps more than I initially understood.”
Your chest warmed.
“But I will not allow you to harm yourself trying to prove you deserve to do it.”
That pulled your gaze back to hers.
“What?”
“You throw yourself at difficult things,” she said. “People. Questions. Rooms full of suspicion. Women who have already disappointed you.” Her eyes flickered toward the direction of Jericho, then back to you. “You call it justice or curiosity or desire, depending on the hour. But it is often the same impulse.”
Your mouth parted. That was unfair.
It was also devastatingly accurate.
“You don’t know me well enough to make that assessment,” you said, but your voice lacked conviction.
Larissa’s expression softened. “No?”
The word was quiet. Too quiet.
Heat rose between you again, but this time it was tangled with something far more difficult than want. Being seen was thrilling when it came with flirtation. Less so when it came with a mirror.
You stood abruptly, needing movement. “Maybe we should finish this later.”
Larissa’s eyes followed you. “Sit down.”
The command was soft. Your body reacted before your pride could. You hated that.
You remained standing.
Her brows lifted, not in anger but warning. “Please,” she added.
That was worse.
So, you sat.
Larissa inhaled slowly, then rose from behind the desk. She walked to the open door. For one wild second, you thought she might close it.
Instead, she rested one hand lightly against the edge and looked out into the corridor, ensuring no one was nearby. Then she turned back to you, leaving the door exactly as it was.
A boundary. A message. A punishment, maybe, though not only for you.
She came to stand in front of her desk rather than behind it, arms folded loosely at her waist. The position brought her closer. Not close enough. Too close.
“I need you to understand something,” she said.
You swallowed. “Okay.”
“What happened last night cannot become our pattern.”
Your heart kicked. You knew she was right. You hated her for saying it first.
“Which part?” you asked, because apparently self-preservation had left your body.
Her eyes flashed. “You know which part.”
“Do I?”
“Do not be deliberately obtuse.”
“I’m not,” you said, though you absolutely were. “There were several parts.”
Her cheeks colored faintly. Good.
Terrible. …Good.
Larissa looked toward the door, then back at you, voice lowering. “The part where I allowed a conversation that should have remained professional to become something else.”
“Allowed?”
Her lips pressed together. “Participated in.”
You tilted your head. “That’s closer.”
She exhaled through her nose. “This is not amusing.”
“No,” you said, softer. “It isn’t.”
The honesty shifted something between you. Larissa’s face changed.
“I meant what I said,” she admitted.
Your breath caught.
She continued before you could speak. “I am afraid of losing control. I am also afraid of what happens if I don’t.”
That was new.
You gripped the arms of your chair.
Larissa looked almost angry with herself for saying it. “You are under my care here.”
“I’m not a student.”
“You are a graduate fellow at my academy.”
“I am also an adult.”
“I am aware of that,” she said, a little too quickly. The flush at her throat betrayed her.
You almost smiled. Almost. But the rest of her expression stopped you.
“This institution is still vulnerable,” Larissa said. “Nevermore is being watched. By the Board. By Jericho. By every normie publication eager to decide whether last year’s events were an aberration or proof of something monstrous. You are part of the story they want to tell about us.”
“About you,” you said quietly.
Her jaw tightened. Not confirmation, exactly. But the smallest fracture in her expression told you that you had stepped closer to the truth than she wanted.
This was not only about your fellowship or the academy’s reputation. It was about the shape a scandal would take once normie mouths got hold of it. How quickly concern would become accusation. How easily desire would be rewritten as danger.
You could not know the exact fear moving through her, but you could feel its outline. And its outline looked a great deal like her. The older outcast woman as predator, no matter how mutual the want, no matter how human the ache beneath it.
Your anger softened into something protective. “Larissa.”
Her name did what it always did. It moved through her.
Not visibly enough for anyone else, maybe. But you saw the way her lashes lowered and lifted. The subtle catch in her breath.
“You keep asking me to be careful,” you said. “But you never say what you’re actually afraid I’ll break.”
Her eyes held yours. “My career,” she said. “Your research. Nevermore’s reputation. Take your pick.”
“And you?”
The silence was immediate. Devastating.
You stood slowly.
She did not tell you to sit this time.
The open door remained in your periphery, bright and watchful. You did not move closer than you should. You only stood there, a few feet away, close enough to see the faint unsteadiness beneath her composure and far enough that neither of you could pretend the distance wasn’t chosen.
“Am I allowed to worry about breaking you?” you asked.
Larissa’s face went very still. For a moment, you thought she might retreat completely. Send you away. Rebuild herself into polished marble and leave you standing in front of a statue.
But then her expression fractured—not much. Just enough. “You should not worry about me.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Her eyes shone strangely in the office light.
“No,” she said after a long moment. “I suppose it wasn’t.”
You waited.
She looked away. “I have spent a long time ensuring there is very little of me available to break.”
Your chest hurt. There were a dozen things you could have said. A dozen tender, reckless, impossible things.
Instead, you said, “That sounds lonely.”
Larissa’s mouth tightened as though the words had physically touched her. Then, softly, “It is efficient.”
The laugh that left you was small and sad. “That’s not the same thing.”
“No,” she said. “It isn’t.”
The space between you pulsed with everything unsaid. You wanted to cross it.
She wanted you to. You could see that now. Worse, you could see how much it cost her not to ask.
A set of footsteps passed in the corridor. Both of you looked toward the door.
The spell cracked but did not break.
Larissa drew in a careful breath and straightened. “There will be rules,” she said.
You blinked. “Rules.”
“Yes.”
“Is that your solution?”
“It is a boundary.”
“It’s a delay.”
Her eyes returned to yours. The heat in them was low and controlled and absolutely damning.
“Then let us hope,” she said, “that I am better at delays than I am at denial.”
Your mouth went dry.
Larissa seemed to realize what she had said only after saying it. Her posture stiffened, but there was no taking it back.
Good. Let her live with it. You certainly would.
“What rules?” you asked, voice quieter than you intended.
“No closed doors.”
Your gaze moved instinctively to the open office door. “Subtle.”
“I am not attempting subtlety.”
“That’s new.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Do you want to hear the rest?”
You held up your hands in surrender.
“No unnecessary private meetings after hours,” she continued. “No suggestive messages during official assignments.”
You winced. “That one feels targeted.”
“It is.”
“Fair.”
“No touching in public beyond what is professionally appropriate.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Professionally appropriate has been doing a lot of work lately.”
Larissa’s lips parted, then closed. A flush crept up her neck.
Your entire body celebrated the victory.
“And,” she said, regaining herself with effort, “we will both remember what is at stake.”
That sobered you. You nodded.
“I can agree to that,” you said. “But I have one rule too.”
Larissa looked wary. “Which is?”
“No pretending I imagined this.”
Her expression changed.
You pressed on before she could deflect. “You can make rules. You can keep the door open. You can call this whatever you need to call it in public. But I won’t be the only one carrying the truth while you hide behind professionalism.”
The words shook more than you wanted them to.
Larissa noticed. Of course she did.
Her voice softened. “You didn't imagine it.”
Your breath caught.
She held your gaze, and for once, she did not look away from the wanting. “You are not imagining it,” she said.
The room went silent.
Your hand twitched at your side. Hers did too. Neither of you moved.
The open door had never felt more cruel.
Then Mrs. Cunningham’s voice called from somewhere down the hallway.
“Larissa? The Marginalia girls are here early!”
Larissa closed her eyes briefly. You bit the inside of your cheek so hard you nearly laughed.
Of course.
Of course Enid Sinclair would somehow become divine intervention.
Larissa opened her eyes again, and the mask slid back into place, though not as completely as before. She smoothed her blouse, reached for the folder on her desk, and looked every inch the principal once more.
But when she passed you on her way to the door, her hand brushed yours.
Not by accident. Not long enough to break a rule. Just enough to ruin one.
Her voice was low as she moved past. “Come along.”
You turned to follow her, pulse thrumming beneath your skin.
In the hallway, Enid’s bright voice carried toward you, cheerful and oblivious. Yoko said something dry in response. Mrs. Cunningham laughed.
The world resumed around you as though nothing had happened.
But Larissa paused at the threshold, glancing back over her shoulder. Her eyes met yours. Only for a second. Then she continued down the corridor, elegant and untouchable and not nearly as composed as she wanted to be.
You followed, your folder clutched to your chest, your heart doing something reckless behind your ribs.
No closed doors, then. Fine.
You wondered how long either of you would survive the open ones.
Larissa Weems x Reader (Wednesday)
Time Travel AU
words: 2,392
Reader has to travel back in time to stop Larissa’s death. In the original timeline, Wednesday defeats Crackstone, but Tyler and Laurel are still scheming. They eventually end up wiping out almost all North American outcasts. After completing a lot of formulations, only Larissa’s intervention can stop that fate from happening. However, Reader accidentally falls in love with Larissa in her efforts to save her.
AO3 link
The moon hung high above a desolate Nevermore Academy, its once vibrant halls reduced to silence. It cast pale, silvery light over the skeletal husk of what had once been a sanctuary for the outcasts of the world. A ghostly glow draped over shattered spires and sagging stones like a shroud.
You stumbled through the wreckage, your boots crunching on shattered glass and splintered wood. Dust plumed with every step, clinging to your clothes and stinging your throat. In your arms was a journal, its leather cover weathered and scarred, filled to bursting with hastily scribbled equations, arcane symbols, and desperate notes written by trembling, sleepless hands.
Time was running out.
Wednesday Addams had defeated Crackstone, but the victory had been short-lived. Tyler Galpin and Laurel Gates, thought to be neutralized, had emerged from the shadows with a vengeance. Their methods were subtler, more insidious. A biological agent introduced into the water supply targeting Outcasts. There were also whispers through government channels, unmarked vans at midnight, names erased from public records before their bodies were even cold.
Over the next few years, they orchestrated a campaign of terror that decimated the outcast population across North America. It started slowly, simple disease and death. That is… until camps, purges, and massacres became whispered realities and then public spectacles. Outcasts were hunted, their unique gifts turned into liabilities in a world that now sought to extinguish them. Nevermore, the heart of the outcast community, had fallen early, its inhabitants scattered or killed. The banners were ripped, statues shattered, classrooms crusted with soot and dried blood. You had survived by sheer luck and the unwillingness to give up hope.
You were one of the few survivors—a lone archivist and scholar who had pieced together the timeline of destruction. In the eerie quiet of the Nevermore ruins, you combed through relics of the past, fingers numb and ink-stained. The journal in your hands was the culmination of years of study, fragments of prophecies, and stolen documents from Laurel’s operations. The conclusion was unmistakable: the future unraveled the moment Larissa Weems died.
You clutched the journal tightly, knuckles aching white. Larissa had been more than the headmistress of Nevermore. She was its keystone, the figure who had held the outcast community together in their darkest hour. Her death—well, murder—had been the domino that tipped the scales. Without her, the community splintered, and Tyler and Laurel exploited the cracks like rot seeping into old foundations.
“No more,” you whispered, the words more of a plea than a declaration. Your breath misted in the cold air, fragile as prayer. You flipped to the final page of the journal, where a time spell was scrawled in trembling ink. It was a patchwork of various arcane practices: alchemy, necromancy, and the dark arts of temporal manipulation. It wasn’t perfect, but it was your only option… the future’s only option.
The spell required a focus, something deeply tied to the moment in time you wished to reach. Slowly, you pulled a small, tarnished locket from your pocket. It was Larissa’s, recovered from the ruins years ago, crusted with time and memory. The metal was cold against your palm, heavy like the weight of fate. You held it tightly, closed your eyes, and began to chant.
The air around you shimmered, the ruins blurring and twisting as the spell took hold. The scent of dust faded, replaced by the faint smell of lavender and polished wood. The oppressive silence gave way to the distant murmur of voices—warmth, life, breath. You felt the ground tilt beneath you as though falling out of the world, before everything went black.
—
You woke with a gasp, your head pounding as though you had been struck by a hammer. Your stomach wretched slightly as you wobbled, waiting for your body to acclimate to your new surroundings. Your ears rang, vision swimming like water rippling beneath broken glass. The first thing you noticed was the warmth. The cold, desolate air of the future had been replaced by a comforting heat. Early morning sunlight streamed through tall windows, casting golden patterns across a lush, patterned carpet. Dust motes drifted lazily, gilded like tiny embers in a hearthlight. You sat up slowly, your eyes adjusting to the brightness.
You were in an office—no, her office. The gothic elegance of Principal Larissa Weems’ workspace was unmistakable. The grand bookcases lined with leather-bound volumes, the meticulously arranged wooden desk, and the faint scent of her perfume—lavender and something richer, almost spicy—all confirmed it. Every detail prickled at your senses: the polished brass lamp, the velvet drape of the curtains, the cooling embers of a late night fire in the office’s fireplace. You barely had a moment to process this before the sound of heels clicking against the floor filled the air, sharp and rhythmic.
“Care to explain why you’re in my office at this ungodly hour?”
The voice was cool, authoritative, and sharp enough to cut glass. Your breath hitched as you turned to face her. Larissa Weems stood in the doorway, arms crossed and one perfectly arched brow raised in suspicion. She was alive, vibrant, and every bit as commanding as you remembered from the stories—more so, seeing her now bathed in living light rather than the memory of a portrait framed by ruin. The tailored navy suit she wore only added to the air of unassailable power she exuded, hugging the lines of her posture with regal precision.
“Principal Weems,” you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper. You scrambled to your feet, your movements clumsy in the face of her scrutiny, your boots dragged against the carpet’s dense fibers. “I… I can explain.”
“I should hope so,” Larissa replied, stepping further into the room. Her piercing blue eyes scanned you, taking in your disheveled appearance. Like the tear in your jacket sleeve, the smudge of soot on your cheek, the dried salt of old tears at your collar. “Breaking into my office is hardly the way to make a good first impression.”
Your heart thundered in your chest, each beat echoing as if she could hear it. You hadn’t planned this far ahead, honestly. The spell had worked, yes, but now you were face-to-face with the woman you had come to save. How could you possibly explain the gravity of this mission without sounding insane?
You swallowed hard, willing your pulse to steady. The familiar urge to confess everything—to spill the years of blood, ash, and ruin at her feet—rose fast, and you found yourself pressing your hands together behind your back as if that alone could hold your truths inside. Your fingers dug into your palms until the sting grounded you in this world instead of the one you’d fled.
No. Not yet.
You hadn’t come this far to frighten her into disbelief, or worse, suspicion.
“I’m not… I didn’t mean to break in.” Your voice sounded distant, like you were hearing it through the ruins again. “I arrived earlier than expected, and the office door was open. I thought I should wait here rather than wander the halls.”
Her gaze sharpened at the edges. You could almost feel her assessment like a cold fingertip tracing the line of your jaw, calculating what you weren’t saying far more than what you were.
“Arrived?” she echoed, her voice dipped in silk and steel. “And who might you be, exactly?”
You straightened your shoulders, instinctively meeting her poise with formality. The air between you felt charged, humming with tension.
“I’m the new administrative aide. A temporary appointment. I was assigned to support with archiving and correspondence—Miss Thornhill signed off on it. I can show you the paperwork…”
A half-truth, but one that slid cleanly past your tongue. In another world—one that never burned—you probably would have become exactly that: a quiet scholar buried in records, forgotten footnotes, and living history. If fate hadn’t carved everything into ruin, your face might have fit easily into the background of her office then.
Larissa blinked once, long and controlled. Something in your delivery gave her pause, as if she sensed the way your words trembled at their core.
“I don’t recall approving any such position,” she murmured. Her tone didn’t harden, but her curiosity narrowed like a lens focusing to a pinprick. “Nor receiving notice from Thornhill regarding a new hire.”
Your stomach knotted. Already, the fracture lines in the timeline might be showing.
She moved past you, circling her desk with a predator’s grace, fingers ghosting over the leather blotter as though searching for some physical confirmation of your claim. The morning sunlight picked out silver in her hair, turning it pale as frost. The scent of lavender and spice stirred with her movement—comforting, almost painfully familiar from the future you’d crawled out of like a wounded animal.
“And yet,” she continued, “you stand here. In my locked office.”
You winced. “The door… wasn’t locked.”
At that, she paused. Just briefly. A ripple of confusion passed over her features—there and gone like a shadow crossing a sundial.
“I distinctly remember locking it before heading to the faculty residences,” she said slowly. “I don’t make a habit of mistakes.”
You did not need reminding. You had built an entire theory of salvation on the brutal precision of Larissa Weems—on her foresight, her vigilance, her ability to see through pretense.
And some part of you—the fractured, exhausted part that still smelled gunpowder and smoke whenever you blinked—wondered whether your spell had done more than transport you. Whether it had warped the past just enough to make space for your presence, bending small certainties out of place.
She finally turned to face you again. Not angry. Not alarmed.
Just searching.
“If you are indeed the aide Marilyn approved, I’ll verify it later this morning. For now, however…” Her chin lifted slightly, eyes narrowing again in appraisal. They glinted like deep ocean through a pane of ice. “I would like to hear why you look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
It wasn’t an accusation.
It was empathy disguised as scrutiny, a quiet, pointed concern wearing the mask of discipline.
You almost broke then—almost let the grief spill. The image of Nevermore’s shattered clock tower flashed behind your eyes, iron gears exposed to the elements. Then rows of empty beds and silent classrooms. Then the terrible weight of unburied bodies under a sallow autumn sky, the air swollen with the scent of decay and rain.
Larissa would die soon in this timeline. You knew the hour, the location, the urgency in her expression when a scent of Wolfsbane would tell her too late who she’d let in. You felt the knowledge like a blade tucked between your ribs.
You forced your breath smooth.
“I apologize,” you murmured, voice rough at the edges. “It’s been… a long journey. I’m still adjusting.”
She studied you for a few seconds longer than professionalism justified, her gaze sweeping over you like a measured touch.
And there it was—her instinct.
Some unspoken recognition that the sorrow radiating off you was too sharp, too old, too deep for someone merely ‘traveling’ or exhausted. It clung to you like smoke, like a stain that could not be washed away.
Larissa Weems was not a woman easily deceived.
But she was a woman capable of restraint, and you could almost feel the moment she decided not to pry. Not yet, anyway. She would collect data, observe patterns, measure the edges of you before pressing harder.
That was her brilliance. She was ice water calm, paired with an uncanny ability to sense the fractures in people.
“Very well,” she said at last, as though granting you a fragile mercy. “We’ll discuss your position in a few hours. Until then, I expect you to do two things.”
You blinked. “Of course.”
“One,” she raised a finger, elegant and stern, “try to look less like you’ve stepped out of a nightmare. Nevermore may be eccentric, but we are still a prestigious school. Appearances matter.”
Despite the tightness closing around your ribs, something about her tone made your lips twitch. A weary, nearly imperceptible smile pulled at her own—gone as quickly as it arrived.
“And two?” you asked.
Her eyes held yours, unreadable yet steady.
“You may remain here, but you do not roam these halls alone. If you need anything, you come directly to me. Is that understood?”
Understood?
Your mind reeled at the memory of a different version of these halls, where the wind had howled through empty doorframes like grief incarnate, dragging dried leaves down corridors where laughter once lived.
“Yes, Principal Weems,” you whispered dutifully.
She gave a small nod, satisfied enough to release you—for now. “Good. Morning classes come quickly. As does paperwork, I’m afraid.”
She moved to retrieve a ledger, but paused when she noticed the locket on the desk—Larissa’s locket—placed where your body had materialized. The sunlight glanced off its curve, catching on the engraved filigree.
For an instant, the room seemed to stop breathing.
Her expression changed just slightly. The tilt of her head sharpened, her gaze flicking between the antique jewelry and your face. Something flickered—recognition, curiosity, perhaps the faint stirrings of a memory she did not yet possess.
She did not know it yet, but some part of her recognized the shape of herself reflected in it.
And you could feel the future gathering like thunder behind your ribs, pressure building, inevitable and electric.
“Where did you get this?” Larissa asked, voice a shade softer, but infinitely more dangerous. The question slid through the air like a drawn blade.
Not suspicion. Something more intimate. A breath held. A truth sensed before spoken.
You opened your mouth, knowing any answer you gave would be a lie. Or a truth she wasn’t ready to hear.
Either way, the first thread between you felt tugged taut—something fragile, electric, and terrifyingly fated.
You hadn’t come here to know her and linger in her presence. Only to save her life.
But already, standing in the warmth of her office, with sunlight gilding the sharp edge of her profile and lavender clinging to the air like a promise… you feared the line between the two was already beginning to blur.
My lovelies! I am gonna be pretty away for the next 5 days. If you see any stories about our queen Larissa Weems, tag me!!!! I don't wanna miss a single one!
Larissa Weems x PhDstudent!Reader
words: 7,093
cw: smut/masturbation
AO3 link
Larissa Weems stood in her office, her immaculate desk scattered with the neatly organized Outreach Day assignments. Despite her usual precision, one name remained stubbornly unplaced: yours. It wasn’t just a matter of logistics—finding the right Outreach Day placement was typically a straightforward task.
With you, it felt different, charged with a weight she didn’t dare name. Placing you meant deciding how much distance she needed, how much proximity she could bear, and that wasn’t something she was used to grappling with.
Larissa had reviewed the list at least twice, attempting to find a location that felt appropriate. Professional. Distanced. And yet, each time her eyes drifted to your name, she felt an uncharacteristic hesitation.
“This isn’t difficult,” she murmured to herself, smoothing the front of her blazer with a deliberate motion. The fabric felt cool and crisp under her fingers, a small comfort against the storm of thoughts in her mind.
Yet the motion didn’t settle her—it only emphasized how tightly she was holding onto her composure. It was difficult, and she knew why.
Spending time with you—even in a professional capacity—was dangerous. You had a way of seeing past her carefully constructed façade, coaxing out a playfulness she wasn’t sure how to control. Worse, she liked it.
She turned toward the window, gaze fixed on the sprawling grounds of Nevermore Academy. Snow dusted the gothic architecture, and faint laughter from students echoed in the distance. Larissa found herself wondering where you were at that moment—if you were enjoying the slow descent into winter, whether you were as oblivious to her inner turmoil as she hoped.
A knock at the office door broke her reverie. “Come in,” she called, her tone crisp and neutral.
You stepped inside, the warm light from the hallway framing you as you entered. “Principal Weems,” you began, holding a folder of your own. “I wanted to confirm the plans for Outreach Day. Miss Cunningham said the assignments were almost finalized?”
Larissa’s composure didn’t falter, though she felt a flicker of unease. “Yes, most of them are complete. I was just… reviewing the last few placements.” She gestured for you to sit, her movements as graceful as ever.
You settled into the leather chair across from her. Your presence radiating an energy that made the room feel smaller—more intimate—as you watched the older woman’s facial expression.
“Any recommendations for someone new to this?” you asked, a playful lilt in your voice.
You couldn’t help but wonder how she would respond, whether she would brush off your question with her usual poise or offer something unexpectedly personal. The way her sharp gaze flickered with amusement sent a thrill through you, one you tried not to show too plainly.
Larissa tilted her head, her sharp gaze scrutinizing you. She reached for a safe answer that didn’t leave much room for imagination.
“That depends on what you hope to gain from the experience. Outreach Day is meant to bridge gaps, foster understanding between Nevermore and Jericho.”
“Bridging gaps,” you repeated thoughtfully, a faint smile curving your lips. “That sounds like something you’re good at.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line, though the corner of her mouth threatened to twitch upward. She was surprised by your sincerity—and wary that it might hide other intentions. “Flattery will get you nowhere,” she reminded you dryly.
“It wasn’t flattery,” you countered, your tone more sincere now. “You have a way of making people feel… seen. That’s rare.”
For a moment, Larissa’s guard slipped. She looked away, fingers tracing the edge of the assignment sheet on her desk. The repetitive motion steadied her, but only slightly, as her thoughts swirled with uncharacteristic uncertainty.
She couldn’t ignore the way your words lingered, their honesty both unsettling and alluring. It was as though you had gently cracked a door she’d kept shut for years, and now she was unsure whether to close it again or let the light flood in.
“It’s a skill cultivated over time,” she said quietly, though her voice lacked its usual authority.
Silence stretched between you—not uncomfortable, but charged and fragile. You could feel the tension in the air, the unspoken conflict within her. When Larissa finally looked back, there was a hint of vulnerability in her expression, a chip in the polished exterior she worked so carefully to maintain.
“Perhaps the library,” she suggested at last, tone firmer now. “They could use assistance cataloging historical records.”
You raised an eyebrow. “A quiet day surrounded by dusty books? You think that’s the best use of my talents?”
“I think it’s an environment where you could… thrive,” she replied, words carefully chosen. But the corner of her mouth twitched, betraying her amusement. “In fact, there may be valuable texts for your research.”
“Thrive, huh?” You leaned forward slightly, looking at her through your eyelashes as you rested your forearms on the edge of her desk. “You don’t think I’d be better suited to something more… dynamic?”
Her breath hitched imperceptibly at your proximity, though her posture remained poised. “Dynamic environments often come with distractions,” she said smoothly after a moment. “You’d benefit from focus.”
“I think you’re underestimating me,” you relayed teasingly, though the undercurrent of sincerity remained. “I can handle distractions.”
Larissa’s gaze locked with yours, quiet intensity in her eyes. “I’ll take that under advisement,” she said, voice marginally softer now.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The clock ticked steadily on the wall, each second stretching longer than the last. Finally, Larissa straightened in her chair, her professional demeanor reasserting itself.
“Thank you for your input,” she said, tone clipped but not unkind. “I’ll finalize your assignment shortly.”
You rose to leave, but as you reached the door, you glanced back at her. “Principal Weems?”
“Yes?”
“For what it’s worth,” you said, your voice warm and steady, “I think you’re more dynamic than you give yourself credit for.”
She said nothing, expression unreadable. As you left, though, you could have sworn her eyes soften.
That evening, Larissa lingered in her office longer than usual. The assignments were complete, your name now definitively placed next to the Jericho Library. She’d chosen it with meticulous care, reasoning that the quiet atmosphere might temper the intense energy you brought into every interaction.
But there was more to her decision than she cared to admit.
The library provided a safe distance—a structured environment where she wouldn’t have to confront the disarming ease with which you drew her out of her shell. It was, she told herself, a professional decision.
Yet as she reviewed the list one final time, doubt crept back in. Larissa traced your name with her finger, her mind replaying the moments you’d shared earlier. The way you leaned closer, your teasing tone, the earnestness in your eyes—it unsettled her in a way she wasn’t at all used to.
Why did it matter so much where you spent Outreach Day? She knew the answer but refused to acknowledge it
You were unlike anyone she’d encountered in years—someone who saw through her walls without effort, who made her laugh when she wasn’t supposed to.
She couldn’t decide if it was exhilarating or infuriating.
As the clock struck midnight, Larissa sighed and rose from her office chair. Moonlight spilled through the tall windows, illuminating her in its pale glow. She caught her reflection in the glass, her composed exterior betraying none of the turmoil within.
And yet, for all her resolve, she couldn’t shake the thought that tomorrow would bring more of the same maddening tension.
And perhaps, she realized with a small, wistful smile, she didn’t hate that possibility after all.
—
Outreach Day dawned crisp and pale, the kind of early winter morning that swallowed sound and made the world feel newly carved.
You arrived at the quad while most of the students were still trickling out of breakfast, your breath fogging in the chilled air. The school hummed with barely controlled chaos—groups forming, teachers corralling, the occasional voice calling out instructions—but beneath it all was the steady pulse of anticipation.
You scanned the crowd almost reflexively.
There—standing near the steps of Nevermore, clipboard in hand, posture perfect enough to shame a cathedral pillar…
Larissa Weems.
She carried herself with the regal stillness of someone who had long ago mastered the art of hiding any hint of inner disorder. Yet when her eyes found you, something palpable shifted: a heartbeat missed, a breath caught, a blink too slow. She recovered instantly, of course—Larissa was nothing if not disciplined—but you’d seen it.
She knew you’d seen it.
“Good morning,” you vocalized, stepping into her orbit.
“Good morning.” Her voice was smooth, succinct, perfectly measured. But her eyes lingered a moment too long, tracing the slope of your collar, the warmth rising in your cheeks, before flicking away. “I trust you’re prepared for your assignment?”
You offered an interested smile, wondering where this would go. “I did pack my enthusiasm. And my alphabetizing skills. I even brushed up on the Dewey Decimal System. Impressed?”
A short, involuntary breath left her—too light to be a laugh but dangerously close.
“See that you put all three to good use,” she replied, flecks of warmth flickering in her eyes. “Your group departs in five minutes.”
“Will you be joining any of the excursions today?” you probed, trying to keep your curiosity sounding casual.
Her shoulders tightened so slightly most others would never notice. “I’ll be supervising the Academy from here. Ensuring everything proceeds smoothly.”
“So… no library visits?” you pressed, soft but suggestive.
The image of being alone with you between the dim stacks at the library suddenly occupied her mind.
Larissa inhaled a steadying breath. “No,” she said plainly. “The library will survive the day without my intervention.”
“But will you?” The suggestive words slipped out before you fully meant them to—provoking, but laced with the truth neither of you would bring up.
Her eyes flashed down to yours, bright and sharp as lightning over winter fields.
But as you boarded the shuttle with your assigned group, you felt her gaze on your back like a warm hand between your shoulder blades—steady, intentional, impossible to ignore.
—
The Jericho Library greeted your group with its usual solemn hush, all towering shelves and amber light filtered through frosted windows. The scent of aged paper and polished wood wrapped around you, a cocoon of quiet that should have been soothing.
You’ve certainly spent enough time in your share of comforting library spaces.
And yet, Larissa’s earlier expression—controlled, yes, but edged with something exceedingly close to longing—followed you like a ghost.
You began your assigned tasks with surprising ease after brief introductions. Cataloging wasn’t difficult; it was almost meditative. You traced your fingers along the spines of books, noted the dates, updated the records. But your mind kept circling back to Larissa: the way her voice had softened when she addressed you, an almost-smile she’d been too careful to fully allow.
At one point, the librarian approached you. She was a thin woman who looked swallowed by her too-big cardigan. “You’re the new instructor from Nevermore, correct? The graduate student?”
“Correct,” you answered lightly. “Here to bring order to the archives, apparently.”
She chuckled, seemingly tickled by your attitude. “Well, if Principal Weems sent you personally, I imagine you’ll do more than that. She’s… very selective.”
Personally? Selective?
You tried—truly tried—not to read into that. But your stomach did a slow, traitorous twist anyway.
—
Back at Nevermore, Principal Weems attempted to pretend she wasn’t thinking about you.
It did not go well.
She tried to review correspondence. She reorganized her schedule. She checked in on a few other Outreach groups via phone—her tone crisp, distant, professional. But every task slid off her focus like condensation on glass.
Each time she glanced toward the door, she chastised herself for hoping you might appear in the frame, despite logic insisting you were miles away.
She paced from her balcony window to her fireplace a few times, then sat down, then rose again—an uncharacteristic restlessness moving through her. Her reflection in the window betrayed her: flawless posture, immaculate hair, expression composed. But her eyes…
They were searching. Longing.
She pressed a hand to her desk, grounding herself.
“This is ridiculous,” she whispered.
And yet the truth persisted: sending you to the library was supposed to quiet the pull she felt toward you. A controlled environment. A calm assignment. A safe distance.
But distance was proving flimsy—woefully inadequate.
Because even now, in the silence of her office, she felt the echo of the way you had leaned toward her hours ago. The warmth of your voice lingering under her skin. The sincerity in your eyes threatening to unravel her carefully maintained restraint.
Professionalism. Boundaries. She repeated the words in her mind like a litany.
Still, she found herself checking the time again. When had she begun doing that? Waiting for you?
Gods help her….
—
By early afternoon, the library had grown busier, but your quiet corner remained undisturbed. As you sorted a final stack of records, your phone buzzed softly.
A message. From Larissa.
You felt your pulse quicken before you even read it.
Weems:
“How are the library tasks proceeding? Any issues?”
Simple. Perfectly appropriate. Nothing incriminating at all.
And yet the mere existence of the message sent warmth curling through you.
You typed back, refraining from flirting too much.
You:
“No issues. Unless counting adorable bookplates is an issue.”
A pause. Then:
Weems:
“That depends. Are they distracting you?”
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
You:
“Not nearly as distracting as some things.”
Another pause—longer this time.
You imagined her in her office, staring at her phone, debating the professional response, the safe response… versus the truth.
You sent a follow up message to give her an out.
You:
“Like this steaming cup of hot chocolate that Lillian brought me.”
The librarian, or Lillian as you’d learned, had wanted to show you her gratitude for your actual work while other, younger Nevermore students idled and chatted between bookcases. It was kind of her.
Finally, Larissa replied:
Weems:
“I see. Well, I’m glad someone is ensuring you’re… comfortable at the library today.”
A pause. Then another message before you’d finished reading the first.
Weems:
“Regarding your previous comment… we will address that when you return.”
A promise. A warning. A line drawn—or perhaps a line surrendered.
You closed your phone with shaky fingers, your breath unsteady in your chest.
The rest of Outreach Day passed in a pleasant blur, but your mind lived elsewhere: in her office, her voice—anticipation tightening like a ribbon around your sternum.
—
When the shuttle returned to Nevermore, the sky had shifted to a dim, lavender dusk. The last scraps of daylight stretched thin across the horizon. Students spilled out in uneven clusters, their chatter echoing off stone and snow, laughter puffing into the chilly air.
You stepped down last, the cold biting pleasantly at your cheeks after the warm confines of the shuttle.
Larissa Weems stood at the base of the steps, framed by the towering entrance arch, her silhouette carved with perfect composure against the fading light. She didn’t rush, didn’t fidget—she simply was, a quiet center of gravity amid the returning chaos.
The collar of her winter coat brushed her jawline, catching the lilac dusk like a faint halo around her. Her spine was straight, her arms relaxed at her sides, her expression the same serene neutrality she wore in Board meetings and assemblies.
But her eyes—
Oh, her eyes were something else entirely.
They swept over you with a warmth she hadn’t extinguished since that morning—low embers of awareness and wanting kept buried beneath professionalism. The fading light only sharpened the effect, turning her irises stormy and luminous.
“Productive day?” she asked, voice deceptively even. You doubted anyone was listening close enough to detect the slight roughness beneath her smooth veneer.
“Very,” you replied, your breath forming a faint cloud in the cold between you.
A small nod. Controlled. Precise. Her gloved fingers flexed once at her side.
“Good.” She inhaled—shallow, measured. “Come to my office when you’ve settled your things. I’d like a debrief.”
A simple request. Entirely appropriate. Yet it landed in your chest with a devastating weight.
The space between you tightened, thin and electric, drawn taut like a thread. Students brushed past with muffled laughter, but the world felt like it narrowed to you and her and the fragile distance you shared.
You nodded once. “Of course.”
She turned, her coat sweeping elegantly as she pivoted—and as she passed you, her hand brushed yours.
It was nothing. It was everything.
A barely-there touch, fingertips grazing the back of your knuckles through your glove. Light as a whisper. Soft as the breath she’d drawn a moment too slowly.
Intentional.
A want carved in the smallest possible gesture.
The contact lasted only a fraction of a second, but it set your nerves alight, warmth flaring up your arm, weaving through your insides like a lit fuse.
The world didn’t just warm—it caught fire.
Larissa didn’t look back as she walked toward the entrance, but you saw the faint tilt of her head, the smallest shift in her shoulders—as if bracing against the flame she’d just struck.
—
Her office door was ajar when you arrived, warm lamplight spilling onto the glossy hallway floor. You knocked gently against the doorframe, and her voice—smooth, clipped—invited you in.
Larissa stood by the window instead of her desk, as though sitting might suggest a level of comfort she wasn’t prepared to grant. Her arms were loosely folded, posture impeccable, but the tension in her jaw hinted at the storm underneath.
“You’re prompt,” she said without turning.
“I know not to keep Larissa Weems waiting.”
You watched the subtle rise of her shoulders—an inhale she hoped would steady her. It didn’t.
She finally faced you, expression carefully composed. “Sit.”
You complied, settling into the same chair you’d occupied that morning. The symmetry made the air feel weighted, as though the day had looped back to its origin—only sharper now, more charged.
Larissa crossed the room with sleek, measured steps and stopped behind her desk. Not sitting. Not relaxing. As though the height difference might help her regain the control she felt slipping.
“Tell me about your experience at the library,” she said, hands resting atop the desk. “Any challenges? Any concerns?”
You almost laughed. That was the opening question she’d chosen? After everything—after the near-flirtatious messages and the lingering touches?
But you indulged her. “It was quiet. Productive. I catalogued a few hundred entries and reorganized their historical maps. The staff was welcoming.”
“Good.” She nodded once. “I expected no less.”
A beat passed. Two.
You leaned back in your chair, letting your gaze drift over her in a way that was polite on the surface yet undeniably attentive. “Are we done with the repeated professional summary? Or was there something else you wanted to discuss?”
Larissa’s fingers tightened around the desk.
“There is,” she said, her tone wavering at the edges. “We need to address… certain patterns.”
“Patterns,” you echoed, confused but intrigued. “Such as?”
Her gaze locked on yours, sharp and intense. “Your flirtations.”
You blinked, raised your eyebrows, and asked incredulously. “My flirtations?”
“They’re inappropriate.” She said it fast, as if the speed would make what she was saying more true. “I’m your superior. This is a school. I won’t tolerate anything that undermines professionalism.”
“And you think I’m the one undermining it?”
She exhaled, something brittle flickering across her face. “I think you enjoy testing boundaries.”
You stood slowl, not closing the distance but reducing the vastly uneven height she’d tried to maintain. “Only the ones that feel… flexible.”
Her breath caught. You saw it. You felt it.
“Sit down,” she demanded, grasping for authority.
“Why?” you asked softly. “Does it make things easier for you?”
Her throat bobbed with a swallow. “This is precisely what I’m referring to.”
You tilted your head, studying her carefully. “If you truly wanted this to stop, Larissa, you’d be better at pretending you don’t want me here.”
Her composure faltered. Visibly.
“That is not what I—”
“What you intend to say,” you interrupted, gentle but pointed, “or what you actually feel?”
Silence fell—thick, pulsing, unbearably intimate.
Larissa’s gaze dropped to your mouth before she dragged it back to your eyes with visible restraint. “You’re making assumptions,” she whispered, dismissive but thin.
“No,” you maintained, stepping forward just enough for the warmth between you to become tangible. “I’m making observations.”
Larissa held perfectly still, the way someone might when a wild creature approaches—thrilled, terrified, wanting it to come closer, wanting it to go.
“I shouldn’t be affected by you,” she confessed at last, voice nearly breaking. “It’s… unprofessional.”
“But you are.” You responded, quietly empathetic.
“Yes.” It escaped her before she could stop it—soft, raw, the first wholly honest word she’d given you.
You breathed in, slow and steady. “Do you want me to leave?”
Her lashes lowered. “No.”
You stepped closer. “Do you want me to stop flirting?”
A pause—long, trembling, damning.
“No,” she said, barely audible and as if it were hard speak.
The admission hung between you like a secret exhale, the loosening of a single, crucial thread.
You reached out—slow, deliberate—and touched the edge of her desk. Not her, but close enough that the air shifted around your hand. “Then tell me what you do want.”
Her lips parted. Her fingers curled slightly, as though resisting the urge to reach out.
“I want…” She stopped, breath shaking, then forced herself upright with a quick inhale. “I want you to be careful.”
It wasn’t what you expected.
It wasn’t a rejection.
It was a confession disguised as a warning.
“Careful?” you echoed gently. “Because you’re afraid of how this might look? Or because you’re afraid of how it feels?”
Larissa’s eyes shut for half a second—long enough to suggest the truth. She swallowed, the motion tight, her eyelids now fluttering as though she were fighting something back—something she knew she wasn’t going to win against.
“I’m afraid,” she whispered, “of losing control.”
You leaned forward, your voice a velvet murmur. “Then let me hold it with you.”
Her eyes opened fully—stormy, undone, electric. For a moment, she simply looked at you, her gaze drinking you in with a hunger she didn’t know how to disguise. You saw every fractured piece of her composure, every fraying thread, every unspoken yes trembling behind her ribs.
But after another breath, she straightened, her mask building again, just enough to keep the current moment hovering and trapped rather than free and falling. Resolve edged itself onto her face.
“This conversation,” Larissa said softly but firmly, “is over.”
You didn’t push. You didn’t need to.
The heat in her gaze said everything she couldn’t—want, fear, longing tangled together so tightly they nearly pulsed.
And when her fingers brushed yours again—barely there, a whisper through fabric, intentional in its lack of apology—you both went still. A single spark pressed into the struggle between you.
She didn’t flinch. She didn’t pretend it hadn’t happened.
—
You stepped out of Larissa’s office before either of you could say something… or do something you wouldn’t be able to take back.
The door clicked shut behind you—soft, polite, devastating.
For a long moment, you just stood there in the dim hallway, pulse hammering in your throat, palms sweaty despite the cool air. You felt both electrified and hollowed out, as if the conversation had emptied a space beneath your ribs and filled it with heat.
Gods.
You’d never seen Larissa like that—cracked open at the seams of her composure, emotion flickering through her eyes before she could cage it. She had practically whispered her undoing into your hands, then snatched it back at the last second.
It left your entire body humming.
You turned and walked—quickly, quietly, because if you stopped moving for even a second you might have marched right back into her office and undone every boundary she’d tried so desperately to reassert.
The corridors of Nevermore were shadowed this time of night, empty save for the occasional lamp casting long, geometric patterns across the floorboards. Your footsteps echoed too loudly in your ears, matching the sharp thrum of your heartbeat.
Every inhale brought her back to you—her perfume, warm and subtle; the faint tremor in her breath; the way her eyes had followed your mouth as though memorizing its shape.
By the time you reached your dormitory, your fingers were shaking. You closed the door behind you and leaned against it, letting your head fall back with a rough exhale.
“Careful,” she’d said. As if you were the dangerous one. As if she hadn’t nearly melted the moment you stepped close.
Your room was still, faintly chilled, quiet in a way that made your own thoughts feel unforgivingly loud. You shed your jacket, tossed it blindly onto a chair, and paced once—twice—trying to shake the pent-up charge clinging to your skin.
It didn’t help.
Your body felt wound like a wire pulled taut, vibrating with ache and restless jolts. Want pulsed low and persistent between your legs, not sharp enough to hurt but impossible to ignore. The memory of her voice—husky, strained, honest—kept replaying in your head.
“I’m afraid of losing control.”
You groaned softly, dragging a hand through your hair.
“That makes two of us,” you muttered into the empty room.
Finally, you collapsed onto your bed, the mattress dipping under your weight. You stared at the ceiling, every muscle buzzing with the need to do something—move, scream into a pillow, run ten laps around the quad—anything to burn off the intoxicating tension she’d left you with.
This was ridiculous. You were an adult. A functioning one, even. But the moment she’d said No—not as a refusal, but indicating a confession of what she wanted too—the ground had shifted beneath you.
You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes, trying to steady your breath. It only made Larissa’s image sharper behind your eyelids: the tremble in her voice, the flush at her throat, the way she’d looked at you like you were the very thing she’d spent years convincing herself she didn’t need.
You turned onto your side with a quiet, frustrated sound, clutching a pillow to your chest, knees drawn up as though you could physically contain the restless pull inside you.
You needed to walk. You needed fresh air. You needed— Well, you needed something that wasn’t her.
Because right now, if she so much as looked at you again the way she had in her office, you weren’t entirely sure you’d be able to keep from closing the distance between you and—
You exhaled sharply, burying your face in the pillow.
She was the one who’d asked you to be careful. But she was also the one who’d lit the match and placed it in your hands.
Your breath slowly steadied, though the heat beneath your skin lingered, coiling low and inexorable. Frustration pressed at the edges of your thoughts—equal parts desire, confusion, and a dizzying craving to push past the boundary she’d tried so valiantly (and unsuccessfully) to draw.
You lay there aching, letting the tension simmer rather than burst. There was no solving it tonight—not without crossing a line neither of you were ready to erase.
But Gods, you wanted to. And you knew she wanted to, as well.
That knowledge burned hotter than anything else, and you could feel the renewed heat of arousal course through your veins.
Without hesitation, you stripped off your shirt and pants, tossing them carelessly onto the floor. You turned on some lusty, atmospheric music so that no other students in the dormitory could hear you. The building rhythm and the principal's earlier words echoed in your mind.
You could still feel the warmth of Larissa’s breath on your neck, the intense gaze that seemed to see right through you. Your fingers trembled slightly as you reached behind yourself to unhook your bra, letting it fall away.
The last time you tried to get your mind off Larissa Weems, you’d ended up beaten, bruised, and left in Burlington. Reckless. Time to try something else… something a little more safe.
One trembling hand then drifted down your stomach, dragging tantalizingly over your skin, making it prickle under your touch. You slipped that hand between your thighs, and the fabric of your underwear was already damp with arousal. To be honest, you’ve been turned on ever since arriving at Nevermore. You lightly teased yourself through the fabric, shuddering at the building, tingling sensation.
You then circled your fabric-covered clit with a single finger, biting your inner lip to stifle a moan as you thought about the way Weems had looked at you—with such hunger, such desire.
The room spun with images of her: Larissa pinning you against her desk, her long fingers digging into your hips, her mouth claiming yours in a bruising kiss. Fuck, you needed her—needed to feel her weight pressing you down, her tongue tracing paths of fire across your skin.
You gasped as your fingers continued to circle your clit, already throbbing and slick. Teasing slowly at first, you imagined Larissa watching, her lips morphing into that commanding smile. "Touch yourself for me," she'd whisper, voice like velvet over steel. You pinched your clit hard, hips bucking up off the mattress.
Unable to wait any longer, you pushed your underwear aside and slid a finger past your glistening folds and into your dripping pussy. You imagined the principal pinning you against her desk, hiking up your skirt, and burying her porcelain face between your legs. Your body answered immediately, heat and urgency rising with the music.
Your single finger picked up speed, plunging in and out of yourself as you thought of Larissa’s skilled tongue delving inside you. You let out a garbled moan as your breath stuttered, and you imagined her elegant, confident hands and mesmerizing, pink tongue.
You began to finger yourself in earnest, plunging two, then three fingers deep into your wetness. You pumped them in and out, stretching and fucking yourself with increasing urgency as the music pulsed around you.
As your fingers plunged into yourself, the wet sounds filled the room. Your walls clenched around your desperate fingers, greedy for more. But it was Larissa you pictured thrusting deep—her elegant hand replacing yours, curling just right to flutter against the spot that made time go hazy behind your eyelids. You spread your legs wider, free hand jolting upwards to twist a nipple, the sharp sting fading with the building pleasure.
"Principal Weems," you gasped, your hips bucking against your hand as you fucked yourself hard and fast. You pictured the silver-blonde, shapeshifting beauty ravishing you, claiming you.
Your other hand came up again to grope your breast, rolling and pinching your nipple until it ached. Between your hand alternating from your stiff nipples to your swollen clit, your back began to routinely arch off the bed as you tensed and chased release.
The room filled with the obscene sounds of your wanton masturbation, your juices dripping down onto the bedsheets below. You could feel your climax building rapidly.
"Larissa," you moaned, the name spilling from your lips desperately. Faster now, fingers slamming inside, thumb grinding your clit in relentless circles. Sweat beaded on your skin, making the bedsheets stick to your lower back while your breaths come in ragged pants. The tension at your core tightened, unbearable—her face in your mind, eyes dark with lust, whispering your name as she fucked you senseless.
Your mind continued to drift to the way Principal Weems' eyes had raked over your body in her office, lingering on your curves in a way that made you feel simultaneously nervous and excited. You wondered if Larissa had been imagining touching you, tasting you…
At that, your breath came in short, sharp gasps as you edged closer and closer to climax.
Orgasm ripped through you without mercy. You body seized, clenching around your fingers as waves of ecstasy crashed over you. Come slicked your hand, dripping down your thighs between each spasm, your body arching in forbidden bliss.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck, Larissa!” You cried out, slightly muffled against your pillow. The walls around your fingers contracted almost violently as you came hard, gushing all over them. The release was both overwhelming and insufficient, leaving you aching for the real thing—for her touch, her command, her presence.
You collapsed back against the bed once again, chest heaving and skin flushed with post-orgasmic bliss. Panting, you withdrew your fingers, staring at the glistening evidence of your desire. Guilt flickered briefly, but it drowned in the haze of your afterglow. Larissa Weems had certainly awakened something feral from within you…
You knew it would be that much harder to hold back now.
—
Larissa Weems had survived worse days.
She’d managed crises, soothed panicked parents, wrangled staff disputes, mediated adolescent feuds, negotiated with the Board, and done it all with the unwavering poise of a woman carved from marble.
But this—this quiet evening alone in her office—was undoing her.
The moment your footsteps faded down the hall, her breath left her in a harsh, unguarded exhale. She gripped the back of her chair as though bracing for impact, though the only thing striking her was her memory.
Your voice. Your proximity. Your hand inches from hers on the desk. Your request:
“Then tell me what you do want.”
Larissa squeezed her eyes shut, but the image of you leaning in—warm, certain, devastatingly sincere—only sharpened behind her lids.
“Control,” she whispered to the empty room, as though reminding herself. “Maintain control.”
The words hit the air like brittle glass.
She crossed the room in three measured strides, heels clicking a little too sharply against the floor. She needed distance—from her desk, from your chair, from the echo of her own treacherous heartbeat.
The window offered no solace; in the reflection, Larissa’s entire body betrayed her. Her chest rose and fell raggedly. Her makeup was slightly smudged. Her eyes were too bright and glassy, too unsettled, too alive.
Damn you.
She leaned her palm against the window frame, letting the cold seep into her skin. It should have steadied her, but of course, it didn’t.
The conversation replayed in fragments:
“If you really wanted this to stop, you'd be better at pretending you don't want me here.”
Larissa clenched her jaw. You were reckless. Insufferably perceptive. Dangerously intuitive. And worst of all—you were right.
She moved to her desk again, pretending she needed something from the top drawer. She opened it, closed it. Opened it again. Her hands refused to be still, and her mind refused to focus.
Your voice lingered in the room like heat.
“Do you want me to leave?”
“No.” The honesty of her answer still terrified her.
Larissa sat down at last, spine stiff, knees pressed together. The familiar solidity of the chair usually comforted her; instead, it felt like confinement. She stretched her fingers against the armrests, trying to release the tension coiled through them, but it only reminded her of your fingers brushing hers.
Accidental… Not accidental… Not at all.
“Control,” she murmured again, though her voice cracked slightly.
She pinched the bridge of her nose, inhaling sharp and slow. She’d handled delicate situations before, but this—this quiet blooming of something forbidden and intoxicating—was unraveling the threads she’d spent a lifetime weaving.
She should have reprimanded you. She should have enforced distance. She should have walked away.
Instead, she’d drawn closer. Leaned in. Let the truth slip between her teeth before she could sew it shut.
“I’m afraid of losing control.”
She hated how vulnerable she’d sounded. How un-Principal Weems it had been. She hated even more how relieved she’d felt afterward—finally admitting an ache she’d been pretending not to feel.
The clock on her wall kept time in slow, merciless ticks.
She imagined you in your quarters, unwinding. She imagined your frustration—that same pull, the same electric hum threading through your body.
Her thighs pressed together instinctively.
Gods help her.
The feelings she’d tried to smother all day now rose with brutal clarity: the way your eyes softened when you were sincere, the way your voice dipped when you teased, the way you looked at her like she was not the principal of a renowned academy but a woman still capable of being wanted.
It was undoing her piece by brittle piece.
Larissa reached for a stack of papers in a last-ditch effort at distraction. Her fingers trembled. There’s no way she could successfully read and sign anything in this state, so she set the papers down again. She tried checking her email, but the words blurred.
Eventually, she gave up the façade entirely. Larissa leaned back, staring at the high ceiling as though it might offer wisdom.
“Be careful,” she remembered whispering—to herself more than you.
But she already knew the truth. She was the one teetering. She was the one losing ground.
And if you came any closer—if you pushed even a little further—if you so much as said her name again the way you had earlier…
She wasn’t entirely sure she would choose restraint over ruin. The thought sent a shiver down her spine.
Not from fear. Anticipation.
Larissa pressed her hand to her sternum, feeling the echo of her own heartbeat—unsteady, aching, alive in a way she hadn’t permitted herself in years.
Want was a dangerous thing. And you… You were becoming the most dangerous want of all.
Larissa couldn’t hold off any longer. She locked her office door with a sharp twist and kicked off her heels, sighing as she rubbed her temples. She walked to the mini-bar that she kept in her office for such occasions and poured herself a glass of scotch. Her usual red wine wouldn’t satisfy what she needed tonight.
As she sipped the strong liquid, she began to unbutton her crisp white blouse, revealing the silky black bra beneath. She crossed over to the plush velvet sofa in the corner of her spacious office, setting her glass down on the side table. Sitting down with her legs splaying wide, she leaned back against the soft cushions and closed her eyes, releasing a shuddering breath.
Larissa's mind drifted—inevitably—back to forbidden thoughts of you. The way your skirt hugged your curves, the defiant glint in your eye, the soft pout of your pink-tinged lips. The principal's hand drifted down to the hem of her pencil skirt, slowly dragging it up her toned thigh.
Her fingers brushed against the lace of her panties, and she couldn't stop the quiet groan that escaped her. She was already so wet, so turned on by the thoughts swirling in her mind.
Larissa firmly pressed her palm where she ached, rubbing through the thin fabric as if pressure could quiet the heat and hunger coiled inside her.
It didn’t.
Unable to deny herself any longer, she pushed her panties down further and slid two fingers deep into herself. So easily, so slick.
A sharp gasp cut through her as she curled and stroked, imagining the wrong things—like your young, eager mouth on her aching clit. Your name on her lips, and her own on yours.
She pictured you in her office, touching yourself because of her—moaning her name. The thought ignited her; she followed the length of her slit down to her opening and back, hips jerking forward each time. Larissa's other hand came up to grope her breast, pinching hard her nipple between her fingers. Almost digging her nails into the supple flesh until pain blurred into pleasure.
Lost in lustful fantasy, Larissa fucked herself roughly and with no rhythm, her cunt clenching and fluttering around her own fingers. Heat flashed over her; sweat gathered at her temples, dampening her hairline.
Deeper, faster—imagining it was your tongue lapping at her folds, your eager mouth sucking her clit while she gripped your hair and ground against your face. “Yes, just like that,” she'd command, voice gravelly with dominance, even as vulnerability clawed at her edges.
“Oh, god! Mmmmmhh,” Larissa heaved unevenly. Her thumb flicked her clit, fingers curling inside to stroke that rough spot that made her vision haze. The pressure swirled, tense like the start of a storm, which brought her dangerously close to orgasming.
She wanted to drag it out, to edge herself over and over. To pretend she was in control. But she neededrelease, and it was agonizing not having your touch for it.
Her climax built in waves—lingering, fluctuating, the way it always did when she’d gone too long without getting off. She could feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter in her core, her climax fast approaching. Her body jerked and twitched.
Her breath caught, shoulders tensing as the first tremor hit, then the next.
Tensing. Holding her breath. Shuddering.
When she finally tipped over, it came hard and long, moving through her in relentless surges. Her hands kept pumping, and her orgasm turned into waves of pleasure like rolling hills. She couldn’t tell how long it lasted—only that it was too much and still not enough. Nothing involving you could be straightforward.
After what felt like minutes, Larissa slumped back against her office sofa, gasping for breath and feeling as if her entire body were jelly. As if it was loose and heavy like being shaken apart.
When she finally moved again, she withdrew her hand carefully from her still slick opening, attention flicking—absurdly—to the two thousand dollar antique velvet sofa beneath her.
Any tension in her neck and shoulders had melted away. However, now that she had given into her desire, the distracting heat between her legs remained—blooming, stubborn.
Even though she was Larissa Weems, unyielding and composed, here she was… shattered for you.
The morning light filtered through the coffee shop’s large windows, casting soft shadows across the cozy interior. The faint scent of roasted beans mingled with the sweet remnants of Larissa’s hot chocolate. Her porcelain features seemed even more striking in this light, the delicate curve of her jaw highlighted and her pale complexion glowing faintly under the sunlight streaming in.
You caught yourself staring again, drawn not only to her beauty but to the quiet intensity in her gaze that seemed to hold thousands of unspoken stories. She had already caught you once or twice, and her slight, knowing smirk made you wish you could act nonchalant for just five minutes. Gods, this woman.
You were about to apologize for losing focus when she cleared her throat softly. “Shall we?” she asked, motioning toward the door. The day awaited and so did the interviews about Nevermore Academy. It was your main reason for being here, even if Larissa Weems had now taken center stage in your mind.
The itinerary for the week of interviews was enormous. You doubted they would all be as low-key as the school newspaper’s interview. You promptly forgot what would be happening on which day about five minutes after Mrs. Cunningham had printed (and laminated!) the schedule for you. All you remembered was to talk up Nevermore since you’re the first normie graduate student to study at the academy.
As you and Larissa stepped outside, the brisk air bit at your cheeks. Larissa’s height towered over you as she walked beside you, her strides graceful and decisive. She had donned a fitted navy coat that cinched perfectly at her waist, her signature red lipstick vivid against the pale tones of the incoming winter season outside. The way she carried herself—so self-assured yet effortlessly elegant—made it impossible not to admire her.
You broke the silence. “So, where’s our first stop? Press release?”
Larissa’s gloved hand retrieved a leather-bound planner from her bag. “The Jericho Historical Society,” she said with a wry smile. “They insisted they have pertinent information about the town’s history with Nevermore, though I suspect most of it will be folklore.”
“Folklore can be fun,” you replied. “It’s all about the delivery.” You were half teasing and half sincere.
She raised a perfectly arched brow. “Is that so? Are you offering to take over?”
You grinned, so thankful that the rapport between you two seemed back in good-standing. “Only if you’re promising to heckle me.”
“Oh, I’m an excellent heckler,” she quipped, her tone carrying a faint playfulness you hadn’t expected. You doubted she had ever heckled someone publicly in her life. Her expression softened briefly as though she was letting herself enjoy the moment, but then she straightened, her professional mask sliding back into place.
The Historical Society turned out to be more charming than you had anticipated, with creaky wooden floors and dusty glass cases filled with relics and old photographs. The elderly curator droned on about the origins of Nevermore Academy, detailing old rivalries with Jericho’s townsfolk. You and Larissa exchanged subtle glances, your eyes meeting every time he went off on a tangent that included extended folklore. Once, you stifled a laugh as she feigned a cough to cover her own amusement. It felt like a shared secret, this quiet mockery.
During a lull in the curator’s spiel, Larissa leaned down slightly and whispered, “Remind me to send them a gift basket for their enthusiasm.” Her breath was warm against your ear, and you fought the shiver that threatened to run down your spine.
“I’ll make sure it includes better storytelling material,” you murmured back, unable to resist adding to the moment. “And some pizzazz.”
Her lips curved into a sly smile as she straightened up, and for a fleeting second, you wondered if she enjoyed these small exchanges as much as you did.
As the curator led you toward another display, Larissa’s hand briefly brushed against yours. It could have been an accident, but the deliberate pace of her steps made you doubt that. Or maybe you’re just biased, because of course you wanted it to be intentional…
Regardless, the sensation lingered, warm even through your glove. Your thoughts raced, but you forced yourself to focus on the curator’s words, nodding politely as he rambled about Jericho’s founding families.
The rest of the morning unfolded in a blur of interviews, notes, and Larissa’s meticulous oversight. She was precise, her every word chosen carefully, but there was a softness in the way she nudged for you to ask your own questions, to share your thoughts. You noticed the delicate way she would tilt her head when you spoke, her attention unwavering as if your words held an unexpected significance.
By mid-afternoon, the two of you found yourselves at a small, retro diner a few streets down from the Weathervane. The warmth of the place was a welcome reprieve from the chill outside. Larissa ordered tea this time, though she teased you when you ordered a hot chocolate.
“Jealousy, perhaps?” she inquired, her eyes glinting mischievously as she stirred her tea.
“Oh, entirely,” you replied, meeting her gaze with a boldness that surprised even you. “Though I’ve learned my lesson about sharing.” Your eyes focused on her face and lips.
Larissa’s lips parted slightly, as though she were about to respond. Instead, she took a deliberate sip of her tea, her red lipstick leaving its mark on the porcelain cup. You watched her as she set it down, the silence between you charged but comfortable. The low hum of the diner’s activity faded into the background, leaving only the steady rhythm of your heart and the faint curve of her smile.
“Tell me,” she began, changing the subject smoothly, “what’s really your impression of Nevermore so far?”
You thought for a moment, then said, “It’s nice… It’s a place that doesn’t just teach you who you are. It teaches you how to live as yourself. I think that’s rare to experience.”
Her expression turned thoughtful, her gaze lingering on you a moment too long. “A very insightful observation,” she said, her voice carrying a warmth that made you feel seen in a way that was both exhilarating and slightly unnerving.
The conversation flowed easily, shifting from the quirks of Jericho’s history to your personal experiences. Larissa listened intently, her questions pensive and probing in a way that felt less like an interrogation and more like genuine curiosity. You found yourself sharing more than you had intended, but her calm demeanor put you at ease.
The two of you returned to Nevermore as the sun dipped low in the sky, painting What was left of the Vermont leaves in shades of gold and amber. The rest of the evening was spent in her office, reviewing notes and piecing together the day’s findings.
At some point, Larissa removed her gloves and draped her coat over the back of her chair. Her sleeves were rolled up slightly, revealing delicate wrists that somehow seemed just as elegant as the rest of her. The way her fingers moved—deft and deliberate—as she sifted through papers was mesmerizing to you.
Between the low hum of the office lamp and the rhythmic scratching of her pen, the atmosphere grew intimate, a tangible quiet settling between you. The proximity of her presence, combined with the soft glow of the desk light, made focusing on the notes before you nearly impossible. Each time her shoulder brushed yours or her pen hovered close to your hand, your pulse quickened, a subtle but undeniable tension building. Could she feel it too? you pondered.
It wasn’t all distracting—it was also grounding, as though the unspoken connection between you made the work itself feel more significant. At one point, Larissa leaned over your notes, her arm flat against yours. The proximity made your breath hitch, but you kept your focus on the papers in front of you. She seemed to notice but didn’t pull away, her presence consistent and electrifying all at once.
“You’re quite good at this,” she said, breaking the quiet as she scanned your notes. “You’ve a knack for understanding people.”
“Maybe I’m just good at understanding you,” you replied before you could think better of it.
Her head tilted slightly, and for the briefest moment, vulnerability flickered in her eyes. But then her usual composure returned, and she offered a small, enigmatic smile. You were nervous to have her shut down or turn to stone (not literally, sorry Gorgons!) by your flirtatious remark.
“Careful,” she said softly, her tone a mix of warning and intrigue.
Hours slipped by unnoticed, the two of you falling into an easy rhythm of work punctuated by quiet exchanges. At one point, she stood and moved to the window, gazing out at the darkened, evening grounds. “It’s peaceful here at night,” she remarked, her voice almost wistful. You joined her, standing close enough to feel the faint warmth radiating from her. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence stretching comfortably between you.
It was nearing midnight when you yawned and finally stood to leave. Larissa walked you to the door, her presence as controlled as ever, though there was a newfound tenderness in her demeanor. As you turned to say goodnight, she reached out, her fingers grazing your sleeve to stop you.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “For today. It was… enjoyable.”
You smiled, your heart thrummed at her words. “The pleasure was all mine.”
Larissa’s gaze lingered on you for a moment before she stepped back into her office, leaving you with a feeling that today proved so much about your complex relationship with Nevermore’s headmistress.
—
The Weathervane was bustling with homeliness and the chatter of patrons seeking refuge from the morning air turning bitterly chilly. The rich scent of coffee mingled with the sweet aroma of baked goods, creating an inviting cocoon of comfort. Larissa adjusted her coat as she stepped inside, her silver-blonde hair catching in the soft light. Her elegant profile stood out against the casual, rustic café surroundings. She navigated the small crowd and went toward a secluded booth in the back near a window where you were already seated.
You looked up as she approached, her eyes meeting yours with a flicker of something unreadable. Was it relief? Possessiveness? Larissa’s lips curled up slightly at the corners. Regardless of what emotions laid beneath the other woman’s eyes, you couldn’t help but feel your body become alert as she approached you.
The soft hum of conversation surrounded you as Larissa settled into her seat, her movements swift yet slightly guarded. She was composed, as always, though the faintest smile touched her lips again when you slid her a steaming mug across the table. It was a hot chocolate, her favorite, complete with an intricately swirled rosetta in the foam.
"Thank you," she murmured after a sigh, her voice smooth, as if with a quiet affection that she reserved for moments like this.
Your grin came easily as you sat across from her, a teasing glint in your eyes. "Of course. Wouldn't want to risk your day being ruined by subpar service.”
Larissa chuckled softly, a rare sound that lit her features. "A wise decision," she replied, taking a long sip of her still hot drink.
The conversation shifted to work almost immediately—reports to review, upcoming schedules to finalize. Larissa’s demeanor was professional of course, though the occasional quirk of her lips or arch of her brow betrayed her enjoyment of your banter. The dynamic between you was one you cherished: sharp, easy, and layered with an undercurrent of something neither of you fully addressed. It was the kind of connection where words often fell away, leaving behind a resonance that lingered in the pauses of your conversations. Moments like when a flicker of mirth glinted in her eyes in response to your humor or when her gaze lingered a fraction too long spoke volumes about the depth of what you shared, even as it remained tantalizingly undefined. Despite the casual focus on tasks, there was an undeniable closeness in how she leaned ever so slightly toward you, the way her eyes lingered on your face when you spoke.
"How was the review session?" you asked, nodding toward the papers she was spreading before her.
"As thorough as ever," she replied, her tone cool yet edged with a hint of satisfaction. "Though it would be far more efficient if certain staff members actually read the instructions provided."
You chuckled, thinking about how universal the typical it’s-on-the-syllabus dilemma is. "Sounds about right. I don’t know how you put up with it sometimes."
Larissa’s jaw shifts, like she’s biting down on a laugh, a playful glint now in her eyes. "An enviable level of patience, I suppose. Though some test it more than others." Her fingers toyed idly with the handle of her teacup. You couldn’t sense whether she was including you in that category or not right now.
As the two of you settled again into work and conversation, the morning passed in a comfortable rhythm. The interplay between you two was natural, filled with moments of banter that left her smirking and fleeting silences that felt more like shared understanding than awkward pauses. Yet, even in this pocket of tranquility, there was an unspoken tension—a thread that seemed to pull tighter with every glance, every brush of your hand against hers as you reached for the sugar or passed papers back and forth.
Halfway through your work session, the easy rapport was interrupted when a familiar figure approached the table. Imogen. Her strawberry-blonde braid swung lightly as she moved, her Weathervane-branded apron smudged with coffee grounds. The sight of her stirred conflicting emotions—her sheepish smile was a stark contrast to the sharp memories of the nightclub in Burlington. Imogen carried a tray of pastries, her smile wide and eyes lingering on you longer than necessary.
"Hey," she said softly, her tone tentative as she placed a gooey cinnamon roll in front of you. "I thought you might like to try one of our new bakery items—on the house, of course." Her voice was almost cloying.
Her gaze flicked to Larissa briefly before settling on you, as if she was considering something. You wondered why.
“I, um, wanted to say I’m sorry. For that night. What my friends did was… awful. I should’ve done something. Stayed. Anything but what I actually did."
You hesitated, caught off guard by the apology. The memory of that night in Burlington flickered in your mind—Imogen’s playful flirtations, the way she’d conveniently abandoned you when her friends turned combative, and the sting of humiliation when they had shoved you away, calling you an outsider.
Her remorse seemed genuine, but the memory of being left alone—of the cruelty that followed—still lingered. The nightclub had been a humiliating chapter you’d worked hard to close, and yet here she was, stirring it up again.
What awful things would have happened to someone who was actually an outcast? The question burrowed deeper the more you thought about it.
Imogen hadn’t intervened for you—a normie. Someone with the privilege of being merely mistaken for an outcast. So, what would she do if the “threat” were real and the violence was aimed at someone truly vulnerable? If the person dragged outside and shoved were a siren or a gorgon or a vampire who didn’t have the luxury of being misidentified?
You already knew the answer. If she froze up when it was you, you doubted she’d suddenly develop a spine for someone who needed it more.
Larissa’s posture stiffened slightly, her fingers tightening around her drink with a tension so small it might’ve gone unnoticed by anyone who didn’t watch her as closely as you did. She said nothing at first, her expression composed and unreadable, that perfected mask she wore like a second skin. Still, you didn’t miss the subtle narrowing of her eyes, the cool blue of them cutting toward Imogen with an appraisal that was far from kind. Her lips pressed together, not in politeness but in the clipped restraint of a woman forcing down several very unprofessional responses.
"Thank you," you said finally, your voice measured. You had considered responding curtly, but decided that wouldn’t help. You are literally researching normie/outcast dynamics… Besides, you don’t want it to be awkward every time you’re at the Weathervane. “It’s in the past now.”
Imogen nodded, relief softening her expression. "Still, I just wanted you to know I felt terrible about it. I really liked getting to know you. And, um…" She emphasized flirtatiously and paused, her cheeks coloring slightly. "If you ever want to talk or, you know, need someone to—"
"Imogen," Larissa interrupted, her tone as smooth as silk but cutting enough to make Imogen glance her way nervously. Larissa’s voice was perfectly polite, but it was laced with a coolness that could frost the edges of the café’s windows. It was the kind of tone that didn’t need volume to command a room—it simply expected compliance. "Perhaps you could check on the other tables? I believe we’re in the middle of something."
The younger woman blinked, her confidence and bravado faltering under Larissa’s razor-edged glare. "Oh, of course. I’ll, um, let you get back to it."
She ducked her head and retreated so quickly that she nearly bumped into another server. All that was left behind was the faint scent of cinnamon and the lingering awkwardness of her departure. Your eyes followed Imogen for a moment before shifting back to Larissa, who was sipping her hot chocolate with an air of practiced indifference.
You looked at her, amused, one eyebrow lifting. "Subtle."
Larissa’s expression remained composed, though her fingers tightened ever so slightly around her teacup. “She was intruding,” she said simply, her voice calm but edged just enough to suggest it wasn’t up for debate.
“She was apologizing,” you countered, leaning in just a little with your eyes alight with challenge.
“Was she?” Larissa’s gaze flicked to you, cool on the surface but carrying an unmistakable undercurrent of heat. “It seemed to me she was angling for something more.”
She straightened a fraction, lifting her chin. “Her eagerness to be of service is commendable,” Larissa added evenly, though the slight pointedness in her tone made it clear she meant anything but. “Though one might suggest she focus that enthusiasm elsewhere.”
“So you’re jealous?" you teased, unable to resist. The way the other woman’s eyes narrowed, however slightly, sent a thrill through you.
"Hardly," she replied, though the faint pink tinting her cheeks suggested otherwise. “I simply don’t appreciate… interruptions.” She delivered the last word coolly, but her veneer cracked under your amused gaze. “Particularly when they’re so blatantly unnecessary.”
“Interruptions, huh?” Your grin widened. You couldn’t help the quiet chuckle that slipped out as you savored this rarity—Larissa’s composure not shattered but undeniably bending. “It’s kind of nice how protective you are.”
“Protective?” she echoed, a single brow arching with that elegant precision only she could manage. “Don’t flatter yourself. I assure you, my concern is purely professional.” Larissa lifted her tea cup then, her eyes meeting yours over the rim.
“Sure it is,” you murmured, leaning back but never breaking eye contact.
Her lips twitched—just barely—but in that small movement was the ghost of a smile, warm and exasperated and unmistakably fond.
“You’re insufferable,” she said softly, though the lack of reproach in her voice turned the words into something almost affectionate.
“And yet,” you replied, your grin turning smug, “you keep inviting me to these meetings.”
"Perhaps I enjoy the challenge," she replied smoothly, her tone regaining its usual poise. But there was something different in the way she looked at you then, a softness that lingered in her gaze even as she tried to mask it.
Larissa’s eyes glittered with amusement as she set her cup down with deliberate care. The tension that had briefly clouded her mood seemed to dissolve, replaced by the same teasing energy that had carried you through the morning.
The playful current simmered between you two, and you could feel the shift in her demeanor, the small tells you’d learned almost instinctively. Like the way her gaze held yours for a heartbeat too long, the gentle dip in her tone whenever she spoke directly to you, the careful control in her posture that made it obvious she was trying—trying not to lean closer, trying not to let herself slip.
There was vulnerability in the slight brush of her fingertips along the edge of her teacup, a grounding gesture she made only when she felt off-balance. With anyone else, Larissa Weems was a fortress. With you, she was trying—failing?—not to sway. It made you wonder how close she was to reaching across the table.
She shook her head lightly, more amused than admonishing. It was as though she were trying to shake off the moment. “Let’s finish our work,” she said, but her voice was lower now, threaded with something warm and dangerous. “Before you cause any more trouble.”
As the meeting dwindled, the papers between you became little more than decoration—ignored in favor of conversation that kept slipping off-script. The ebb and flow of her sharp wit meeting your casual charm filled the space. It was professional enough to match the purpose of your meeting, yet the charged undertone of your exchanges felt anything but.
At one point Larissa shifted to reach for a different folder, and her knee brushed yours lightly under the table. The contact jolted through you, tightening something low in your stomach. Warmth spread through you. Her perfume, warm and soft with something floral beneath it, curled into your senses. She didn’t flinch away. If anything, her leg remained close enough that you could feel the heat radiating through the fabric of her stockings.
You tried to focus on the notes in front of you; she pretended to read a paragraph twice. Neither of you succeeded.
For a moment, the world outside the café seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you in the golden afternoon light. The typical morning crowd of the Weathervane had long since dispersed and left behind only the faint hum of conversation and the occasional clang of a ceramic cup being set on saucers.
Larissa’s lips parted as though to say something, but the words never came. Instead, she held your gaze, her storm-blue eyes searching yours for something unspoken. Whatever she found there must have satisfied her because she leaned back slightly, her lips curving into the faintest smile.
"You’re impossible," she murmured, as though she were confessing rather than scolding..
"You wouldn’t have it any other way," you replied with a grin, the tension ebbing into something warmer, softer. But as you gathered your belongings and prepared to leave, the memory of her touch and the unspoken words between you lingered, as tangible as the scent of coffee and the golden light spilling through the café windows.
When you held the door open for her, her silver-blonde hair caught the light, giving her an almost ethereal glow that contrasted with the normally guarded expression she wore. A moment later, Larissa brushed past you into the crisp late afternoon air, leaving you to wonder if you’d ever truly understand the depths of her.
—
Summary: You and Larissa decide to dress up on Halloween this year for a party. One could say a game of cat and mouse. Or in this case, an innocent little girl and the big bad wolf ;)
“All right let me see,” Larissa called from the bedroom. It took at least a week to gather the materials and get all the right accessories in order to cohere with hers perfectly. This year, the two of you dressed up as Little Red Riding Hood and The Big Bad Wolf. Your idea of course.
It was a last minute choice as a couples costume. Taking a day or two of convincing Larissa before she finally agreed. She was hesitant to dress like that surrounded by colleagues. To her, it was a fashion crisis compared to her usual ornate taste. Denim overalls, a deep crimson colored plaid flannel, and fake little wolf ears. Though you knew you'd be lucky if she were to actually put on those ears.
She wasn't with the idea of it at first. And that was the case, until a particular thought got stuck in her head. You, all soft and innocent, in a little red and white dress, short heels, bows and stockings with a hood…
Christ. She was already weak in the knees at the thought.
You pranced out from the shared walk-in closet and gave her a twirl. The dress flowing around you beautifully in the process. You begin to slowly stalk forward to her sitting on the bed. Larissa's eyes widened and a smile curled up instantly, “Oh sweetheart…” she stood, taking a few steps to you as she took one your hands into hers. “Do that again,” she requested, and you happily delivered.
Giving her a quick twirl princess style, “Honey you look fantastic. Ravishing, even.” she murmured as her eyes soaked in every little detail. From big to small, head to toe. You could already see that subtle appetite in her growing each second that her eyes were locked onto you.
“Thank you love, it was almost impossible to find the right hood for this.” You said while starting to fully admire her dressed in her own costume. Pleased to find she was wearing everything you had picked out for her. Including those silly ears, it made your heart thump in your chest.
She took her fingers and traced over the edge of the hooded cape with a soft smile. “Yes I know, and you made an excellent pick sweetheart.” she spoke before giving the hood a little teasing tug.
Your hands went to her hips as you examined each detail she had added to her own. You admired the effort she put in to kinda look like a wolf, a sexy one at that. Your eyes went up, and up, until you noticed she added teeth to it too. Your stomach burned hot.
Who would've thought. Larissa Weems with fangs would made your legs feel like jello.
“Oh shit- Riss I love yours. Did you add fake teeth?” You questioned as you got onto your tip toes, immediately poking your finger at the subtle molded wolf fangs. She let out a soft chuckle as you analyzed her mouth.
“Yes, I did… Is it too much?” She questioned before turning her head towards one of the mirrors. She took a glance at them, second guessing the bold choice in a school full of real wolves. You put a finger on her jaw and turned her gaze to look back down at you.
“No no, absolutely perfect. You're still as beautiful as always, even as a wolf” You assured softly. Taking a second to straighten out the collar of her flannel, “I think it's kinda sexy to be honest”. She put her hands on your hips and gave you a wolfish smile.
Oh how perfect. She was already fitting to the predator role… The sight alone made those little hairs stand up on the back of your neck.
“Sexy? Oh I see... the plaid and overalls do it for you then, huh?” She teased as she gave a slight pinch to your hip. Making you squirm in the slightest, “Yes, they do… However, those fangs are my favorite part.” You quickly admitted.
Larissa leaned in a little closer, her eyes starting to pierce through you. “Careful, dear… They are rather sharp”, she teased once more. You felt your cheeks slowly beginning to burn. Your face was already turning red and the two of you haven’t even left the house…
“We have a party to attend, darling. Don't want to be late now, do we?” she murmured with a wicked smirk. Giving your hip a light pat as she straightened herself back up. Her hands slithered up from your hips to tidy the hood that hung from your shoulders. “No ma’am” you replied in a low tone. Soft enough that it was just right to get under her skin. You knew the moment you suggested the idea of attire how this night would end.
Over the course of the evening, it was going to be a long game of cat and mouse. Or even better, Little Red Riding Hood and The Big Bad Wolf.
When you finally entered the party, the fellow staff complimented you both. Some were rather impressed that you were able to convince Larissa to wear such a thing and have fake wolf ears. Others complimented on your cute little dress. Bonus points on how creative of an idea it was. Hours passed with conversations about classes, meetings, up-coming holidays, and other various topics you couldn't really be bothered about.
It was out of your norm to socialize at faculty parties like this, but Larissa insisted that you went this year. “Oh come on, it'll be good. Halloween is one of your favorites, I'll even let you pick our costume.” and a few more convincing promises from Larissa and you finally caved to attend.
You were soon to find out that it was about to be the end of your night. You were over at the small table with the variation of drinks. Your eyes were taking a scan over the selection to find your pick. Suddenly the sound of heels started to click behind you, the sound echoed in your ears.
You could feel a presence approaching closer behind you, the sense of eyes piercing through your back. Freezing in front of the table as a hand was placed on your shoulder. A familiar voice flowed into your ear, “Lost in the woods dear?”
Those hairs stood up on the back of your neck once again, a smile rising instantly. You abandoned trying to find a drink and turned around to face her. Looking up to her with mock innocence, displaying a few bats of your lashes. “Oh yes, I seem to have lost my way. Do you think you can help me?” toying with her back. That dark smile of hers instantly made its return. Those subtle fangs glistening in the low light of the party as she looked at you like a piece of prey.
There it is, game on.
“Oh yes little one. Surely I can help you with that…”
She leans in a fraction closer, “Now tell me. what's a sweet thing like you doing out here all alone in these woods?”. Your pulse instantly started spiking when her words graced your ears.
You subtly cleared your throat, “I lost my way to my Grandmother's house, can you help?”. Her eyes took their time moving over you, soaking in the sight of you growing increasingly flustered. “Ah yes. I believe I can…” she nearly purred down at you.
Larissa’s eyes took a scan of the room for a moment. Everyone was occupied with their conversations, and a drink or two more deep than they should've been. Perfect for the two of you to finally make your escape.
She gave a nod towards the exit with one thing on her mind, you. You took her signal and turned on your heels with her lurking close behind. The feeling of her hand finding a home on your lower back made goosebumps rise on your skin. As she was guiding the two of you out, you turned your head back muttering something so soft only she would catch it, “Oh my, what big hands you have.”
Her nails pressed into your back at that comment. She leaned in close to your ear as she continued to push you a little faster towards the exit through the cluster of people “All the better to touch you with my dear” she whispered into your ear, sending a heat straight into your gut.
On the way back home there was a lingering sense of tension. Larissa was eager to get you back home alone with her, and she knew you were equally anxious to get back and continue the little game you two were playing. She unlocked the door with a subtle haste and stepped aside to let you walk inside first.
Her eyes tracked every movement of yours with intent. You brushed past her with a faux bit of extra politeness. You found yourself in the low light of the quiet house. Letting out a deep breath of relief with the sound of the lock clicking behind you, you took a second enjoying the dark emptiness of the house.
That was until Larissa had creeped back up behind you…
Her fingers pinched the hood from behind and tugged off of your head. Letting the soft red fabric fall down to your shoulders, the sudden move eliciting a slight flinch from you. Your legs grew weak as Larissa slowly stalked around to the front of you, peering down at you with a dark grin. “Dont look so scared dear. I promise I don't bite.” she voiced as her grin grew, revealing those pretty fangs of hers.
Yeah. ‘I don't bite’ my ass. You thought. You knew better than that.
Your heart began to pound as she looked down at you like a delicious treat. “My, what big eyes you have”. She gently placed a hand under your chin and leaned in closer, your lips mere inches apart. “All the better to see you with, my dear” her breath ghosted across your lips and the heat began to build up in your body. Her hand left your chin and moved to the tie holding your hood, pulling the string loose with a sharp tug. She let it fall freely to the floor, pooling at your feet. Your breathing grew deeper as she continued to tease you.
“Oh my, what pretty teeth you have…” Her eyes narrowed with a dark fire building behind them. “All the better to eat you with my dear” She lowly spoke before dipping her head down to bite the skin of your neck, leaving a dark mark in the process. A soft gasp escaped your lips as you allowed your head to tilt back for her. Larissa let out a dark chuckle against your pulse point as she watched how easily you were coming apart for her already.
Her arm wrapped around your lower back, pulling you flush against her. She slowly marked her way down the column of your throat to your collarbone, licking the purple marks after each bite to soothe. She made a point to utilize those teeth to scrape down the soft skin of your neck. Your hand cupped the back of her neck holding her close against you, a silent plea for more as you softly moaned.
Larissa drew back enough to look at you, “An innocent little thing like you seems to like being bitten by the big bad wolf then, hm?”. You looked at her and sheepishly nodded, letting yourself melt against her body and grip. “Well my love. Like it or not, I'll be tasting every damn inch of that sweet little body of yours.”
She tangled her fingers into the back of your hair and kissed you harshly with a hunger like you've never felt before. Your tongues dancing with one another with equal pent up frustration. Larissa groaned into the kiss and finally picked you up in one swift movement. Throwing you over her shoulder as if you weighed nothing.
She quickly stomped down the hallway with you hanging over her shoulder. Kicking open the bedroom door, and tossing you down onto the bed. The demanding, yet somehow still gentle action elicited a little whimper from you as you hit the mattress. Her mouth immediately clashed with yours again in an instant. Your body arched up in need as her as her hands ran down your sides.
Larissa began to undo the bits of your costume, roughly yanking your dress off and tossing it to the floor. She straightened back up for a moment to admire you spread out beneath her. It's a sight she knows she will never grow tired of. Her wicked smile lit up her face like she was going to devour you whole. And you bet she was going to. “So damn pretty.” she praised before leaning back down to your neck.
She slowly kissed her way down from your throat, making a point to drag her fangs over your breasts. Moving lower down your stomach, nipping and marking the soft skin on her way to her desired destination. Her mouth ghosted over your clothed heat for a moment, planting a soft kiss against your aching core. “Christ- Riss please-” You whined to her teasing, just begging for more. She could feel the dampness between your legs against her lips.
“I don't think a sweet girl like you should be this wet for the big bad wolf. Not so innocent now, are you?” She teasingly purrs against you before giving another intoxicating kiss to the fabric. Her hands slowly moving up your legs, those nails taking their time raking up higher and higher. It sent a wave of electricity through your veins.
You glanced down at her, your eyes immediately locking with hers. She gained a near evil smirk as she took the fabric of your panties between her teeth. She made quite the show for you tugging at them, those fangs just begging to puncture through the fabric.
At an agonizing pace she slowly peeled them off and down your legs, making sure you didn't dare take those eyes off of hers before she dropped them to the floor out of her mouth. Her teasing had you absolutely dripping at this rate.
She began planting soft kisses over the inside of your legs as she inched her way back up between your thighs. The fact she was taking her sweet time was driving you insane. Once Larissa was level with your dripping core once again, not a moment passed before she flattened her tongue and dragged it slowly up your slit. Lapping up the evidence of the well played game, your head fell back down into the bed as you finally let out a moan.
Her hands took hold of your thighs and threw them over her shoulders. She finally began to lap you up with deliberation. She started slow, but after a few needy whines escaping you, she quickly picked up the pace. She worked her tongue over your clit with such vigor you thought you were going to quite literally explode. Your hips began to squirm, pushing yourself against her tongue. Her hands slid up under your hips and encouraged your movements. “So beautiful when you're like this, taking it like such a good girl.” She breathed between licks.
Larissa's praise ended up snowballing you closer to your release as she continued to devour you. Suddenly you felt her finger trace over your opening, teasing for entry. “Gonna take a little more for me, aren't you sweetheart?” she panted into your core. “Fuck- yes please-” You whined, as soon as those words left your mouth she pushed her finger inside. She pumped it slowly at first before adding the second. The slow and deep thrusts of her fingers drove you nuts in contrast to the work of her tongue.
It wasn't long before you were clawing at the sheets by your sides. Your thighs tightened around her head, teetering on the edge of your climax. She could tell you were close by the way you were clenching around her fingers. “God your so fucking tight…” she groaned as she picked up the pace of her thrusts, curling those fingers and directly aiming for that spot. Hitting it over, and over again while her tongue ferociously worked your clit.
“Fuck- Im so close…” you whimpered as your back began to arch off the bed. Larissa thrusted her fingers harder, deeper. It only took a few more brushes over that soft spot inside you to finally make you snap. Trembling around her while moans echoed through the bedroom. “That's it. Come on my fingers like the good fucking girl you are.” she growled into your core as she worked you through your orgasm.
Once you finally stopped shaking she let your legs down, slowly withdrawing her fingers from you. She crawled back up your body and held her fingers coated in your slick up to your lips. “Suck,” she ordered, and you quickly obeyed, taking her fingers into your mouth. You gave her a display of it as you swirled your tongue around them. She watched you with a satisfied smile while you sucked them clean. She pulled her fingers out of your mouth and releasing them with a pop. She replaced her hand with her mouth, kissing you proudly like a reward.
Her hands cupped your face as she drew back just enough to catch her breath and speak. “You did very well my love… And might I say, what an excellent choice of a costume.” She muttered against your lips with a sly smile. You let out a soft chuckle before you kissed her again. “Told you that you would like it. Maybe we should dress up more often then,” you teased. With that, she nipped at your lip with a low hum, “I might have a few ideas…” She assured with a promising smirk.
