mqyim

[mqyim]

Delayed (NSFW)

Larissa Weems x fem!reader

A/N: Larissa Weems, you, an airport lounge. The rest is history! Enjoy <3

VIP Lounge, Terminal B
Somewhere between cities, between hours

The rain had been falling in thick, unrelenting sheets for hours. It beat against the glass with the low, sullen rhythm of a heartbeat, steady and heavy, too familiar now to notice unless you let your mind drift toward it. The sky had bruised into a deep blue-black, clouded over entirely. Somewhere out there were lightning forks cracking open the night, but inside, the airport lounge was muted, cocooned in sterile quiet and artificial warmth.

You’d claimed your place in the corner hours ago. Half a glass of flat tonic water sat abandoned on the small side table beside you, your phone long dead, your book forgotten somewhere in the bottom of your carry-on. The air held a low hum—whispers, an occasional clink of cutlery, the soft sigh of a tired receptionist fielding questions about standby lists. You had stopped checking the monitor when the third flight delay came through. There would be no flying out tonight.

And yet, you stayed.

The lounge was a space designed to dull inconvenience with velvet upholstery and dim, expensive lighting. No one looked anyone else in the eye here. Everyone was floating. Between cities, between obligations, between versions of themselves. You were no exception.

That was when you saw her.

She wasn’t there, and then she was. Like someone had written her into the room just slightly out of time. Seated at the lounge bar, one elegant arm stretched along the marble counter, her posture the picture of composure. Hair pinned back in that old-fashioned twist, every pale strand immaculate. Her profile was sharp under the warm overhead light—cheekbone catching it just so, the sweep of dark lashes veiling a glance you couldn't yet see.

She was alone.

You looked once, casually. Then again, slower.

Her suit was a shade of ivory too rich to be mistaken for white, tailored to fit like a whisper. She raised her glass—something gold-toned, neat, deliberate. You watched her sip. The lipstick she wore was a kind of red that should’ve felt loud in a place like this, but somehow didn’t. Everything about her was too intentional for accident. Too perfect to be tired, delayed, or adrift like the rest of you.

Still, there was something beneath the surface. You couldn’t name it. A quiet intensity. A suggestion of waiting.

You stared too long. Caught yourself. Looked away.

Then back.

This time, she was looking directly at you.

It wasn’t a dramatic thing. Her gaze didn’t snap or linger or invite. It just found you—settled on you like gravity, calm and assessing, and held you in place. Your breath caught somewhere under your ribs. Her lips curved faintly at one corner, more acknowledgment than smile. Then, as if nothing had passed between you, she turned her head, lifted her glass again, and resumed whatever internal rhythm she had been keeping before.

Your fingertips tingled.

You weren’t brave. Not yet.

You tried not to look again.

You tried, but the space between you hummed with the awareness of that brief, searing glance. Like an invisible thread had pulled taut between your corner chair and the polished curve of the bar. Every time you shifted in your seat, her presence whispered at the edge of your senses. Not imposing. Not loud. Just there.

You watched her reflection in the chrome of a coffee machine, in the black glass of the television screen no one was watching. Once, you saw her cross one long leg over the other, the hem of her trousers sliding just enough to show the sharp line of her ankle. Another time, she touched her glass to her mouth and lingered there, eyes fixed distantly ahead—though you could’ve sworn her lashes flicked up toward the mirror.

You thought she might be watching you back.

Or maybe she wasn’t. Maybe she’d already forgotten you. A glance meant nothing. A look could be a thousand things. But your hands were sweating.

You waited for something to give. For the staff to announce another flight. For her to gather her coat and disappear into some silent hallway without ever meeting your eyes again.

Instead, she tilted her head slightly—and looked at you once more.

This time, there was no room for ambiguity.

She held your gaze for three full seconds. Not a smile, not quite—but something softened her expression. Interest. Confidence. Permission.

You stood before you could think better of it.

Your legs felt unsteady, like you hadn’t walked in hours. You crossed the lounge, heart hammering in a slow, deliberate rhythm, the kind you felt in your throat more than your chest. As you neared her, she turned slightly on her stool, body angled toward you now, open in a way that felt rehearsed. Regal. Welcoming.

But she said nothing.

Neither did you, at first.

Up close, she was... impossible. A sculpted thing, lacquered and real, scent clinging faintly to her—something floral but cold, expensive. Her gaze was sharp even in stillness, made of glass and intellect and something untouchable.

“Mind if I join you?” you asked, voice quieter than intended.

A pause. The corner of her mouth curved. Not kindly, not unkindly. Almost like she was amused by the idea that you thought you needed to ask.

“I would’ve been disappointed if you hadn’t,” she said.

Her voice was low and deliberate, velvet over ice. Polished vowels. The kind of voice you only ever imagined hearing in dreams or in old films. She gestured faintly to the empty seat beside her.

You slid onto the barstool, pulse ticking in your throat. She lifted a hand and caught the bartender’s eye without looking. A moment later, he was in front of you both.

“I’ll have another,” she said, holding up her glass—nearly empty now, but not quite.

The man nodded. “And for you?”

You hesitated.

“She’ll have the same,” she said simply, gaze not leaving yours.

That made you smile. A quiet, startled little thing.

“Don’t like giving people choices?” you asked.

“I find most people don’t know what they want until it’s offered.”

There it was again—that hum, that low thrum of something dark and thrilling beneath the surface. You weren’t sure if she was talking about drinks anymore. You weren’t sure you cared.

You accepted the glass when it came, letting the burn of the alcohol settle something nervous in your chest. For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence between you was oddly comfortable, though your mind raced with every breath she took. Her posture was perfect even in rest. One fingertip drew slow circles along the rim of her glass. She wore a ring on her right hand—a single pearl, perfectly set.

“What brings you here?” you asked eventually, just to hear her speak again.

She tilted her head, a cool, unreadable glint in her eye.

“A delay,” she said. “Same as everyone else.”

“But you don’t look... stranded.”

She looked at you then. Properly.

“And you don’t look nearly as discreet as you think you are.”

Heat rushed to your face. You laughed under your breath, shaking your head. “Fair.”

Another sip. Another moment. Then she leaned in just slightly.

“You’ve been watching me for a long time.”

“I know.”

“I don’t mind.”

You swallowed. “I wasn’t sure if I was imagining the... return attention.”

Her smile, this time, was undeniable.

“I don’t return attention I don’t want.”

That pulled the air right out of your lungs. You reached for your drink again, hands a little unsteady. She watched you calmly, with the air of someone who had never once been nervous in her life.

“I’m not usually like this,” you said, not sure why.

“I would hope not,” she murmured. “It’s much more interesting if I’m the exception.”

You sipped your drink again. It burned less now.

The silence between you had shifted. Still comfortable, but heavier, like a room with the door shut. The clink of cutlery and low hum of televisions faded to a distant buzz. You weren’t sure when you’d last looked at the clock. Maybe time had stopped mattering.

She looked forward again, not at you, but not far—eyes fixed on something beyond the glass walls, where the night swelled with storm and shadow.

“What do you see out there?” you asked.

A pause. “Nothing I haven’t already lived through.”

You let that settle. It didn’t feel dramatic when she said it. Just tired. Or honest.

“That bad?”

She turned her head slightly, meeting your gaze without flinching. “No,” she said. “Just long.”

You nodded, unsure if that made her older than she looked or just more tired. The kind of tired you recognized. Not the bone-deep exhaustion of lack of sleep, but the quieter kind. The kind that comes from holding yourself upright too long.

“I always thought airports were a little liminal,” you said. “Like you could be anyone, and it wouldn’t matter. No one really sees you.”

“They look at you,” she said. “They don’t see you.”

You glanced at her.

“Do you?” you asked. “See people?”

Her lips curved, almost fond. “Only when I want to.”

You let out a small breath of laughter, shook your head. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m aware.”

Her fingers lingered against the rim of her drink. You watched the way her shoulders moved when she turned toward you, slow and deliberate, like she was never in a rush to be anywhere.

“There’s a comfort in being unmoored,” she said quietly. “In drifting. No past to explain, no future to plan for. Just... now. Just this.”

You swallowed. “You speak like someone who’s been doing that a while.”

Something flickered in her eyes. “Too long.”

You leaned forward a little, elbows on the bar, drink cradled between your hands.

“I don’t usually talk like this,” you said. “Not to strangers. Not to...” You glanced at her. “Beautiful women who look like they’ve stepped out of a novel.”

She smiled, indulgent, almost a purr of amusement. “You should do it more often. It suits you.”

You hesitated, then said it.

“I left someone. A few months ago. Three-year relationship. Comfortable. Safe. But I was disappearing.”

She didn’t look surprised. She didn’t say sorry. Just waited.

“I thought travel would help. I needed to remember who I was before... I tried so hard to be who he needed me to be, I forgot what I actually wanted.”

“And what is it you want?”

Your eyes met. Her gaze didn’t press—it invited.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I think I’m still trying things on.”

“Then try this,” she said, voice low, silk sliding beneath the words. “This night. This conversation. No name, no past, no future. Just... this.”

You felt it again—that gravity. That quiet but undeniable draw to her. She wasn’t promising anything. She wasn’t offering safety. But she was real in a way that felt impossible. Like something plucked from an older world, or a dream you didn’t remember having.

“You?” you asked. “Are you trying something on, too?”

She looked at you, and her expression softened—not the way someone softens when they care, but the way someone softens when they decide to share something real. Risk something.

“Once,” she said, “I believed I had to be everything for everyone. The poised one. The perfect one. I thought if I held it all together long enough, someone might finally see me.”

Your chest ached. “Did they?”

“No,” she said. “But I stopped waiting.”

You let the silence fall again.

It wasn’t uncomfortable. It was full.

“I don’t want to forget this,” you said, almost without meaning to. “Even if we never speak again. Even if we never...”

She looked at you, calm and unwavering. “You won’t forget. That’s the thing about moments like these. They root themselves quietly. You’ll think about it when you least expect it. The next time you’re stuck somewhere. Or lonely. Or trying on someone else’s version of you again.”

You reached for your drink. She reached for hers.

Only yours was empty.

Her gaze slid to your hands—steady, but no longer hiding how tightly you were holding on.

She slid her glass towards you and when her fingertips brushed yours, it wasn’t an accident.

It was an invitation.

You didn’t pull your hand away when she touched you.

Her fingers were cool—slim and deliberate, like they were meant to hold crystal or tilt chins. She didn’t linger, but the impression stayed. Your skin hummed. You swallowed around the ache rising in your throat.

You brought her glass to your lips, purposefully placing your mouth on the lipstick marks that stained the rim.

She watched you steadily, lips parted just slightly, as though deciding something. Then—

“Truth for truth?” she asked.

You nodded.

She turned toward you fully then, crossing one long leg over the other. The hem of her trousers shifted, revealing the sharp line of her ankle again, elegant even in the smallest of movements. The lounge lights caught the pearl on her finger as she lifted her glass, though her eyes never left you.

“I’ll go first,” she said, voice soft but assured. “I haven’t had someone look at me the way you have in a very long time.”

You blinked. “What way is that?”

“Like I might still surprise you.”

Your breath caught. She didn’t say it for effect—it wasn’t flirtation, or self-pity. Just the simple, naked truth of it.

“My turn,” you said, quieter. “I think I wanted to talk to you before I even saw you. Does that make sense?”

She considered the question, then nodded slowly. “Yes.”

Her fingers brushed the rim of her glass.

“Your question.”

You hesitated, then asked, “When’s the last time you did something just because you wanted to?”

She huffed out a low, amused sound—more breath than laugh. “You don’t start small.”

“I don’t think you’d enjoy it if I did.”

“I wouldn’t.” Her voice dropped slightly. “The answer is... right now.”

Your pulse thudded low and hard.

Your turn. You curled your fingers around your glass. “Ask me something hard.”

She didn’t even blink. “When was the last time you felt desirable?”

You looked down at your hands, then back up at her.

“I don’t remember,” you said. “Until now.”

Her expression shifted—just slightly, but it did. Something softened at the edges. Approval, maybe. Or heat.

She leaned in a little then, close enough for her perfume to catch in your throat. “Then let’s make sure you do.”

Your stomach dropped. Your breath quickened.

“Come with me,” she said.

You rose without asking where.

She didn’t wait to see if you would follow. She simply stood, gathering her coat—not to put on, just to sling carelessly over one arm—and walked with unhurried grace toward the far end of the lounge. Past the empty concierge desk. Past the hushed hallway with the restrooms marked in gold lettering. Her heels clicked against the marble only when she allowed them to.

You followed.

Of course you followed.

And every step you took felt like shedding something.

The lounge restroom was designed for elegance, not necessity.

Muted lighting glowed from behind golden mirrors. Marble counters, pale and gleaming. Velvet chairs against one wall, absurdly comfortable for a space meant to be transitory. The scent of eucalyptus and wood polish hung faintly in the air. Not a sound but the hush of your own breath and the soft click of your shoes on tile.

The moment the door clicked shut, she turned to you.

Not in a rush. Just with that quiet, unshakable certainty.

Her hand found your wrist, her fingers wrapping there like they’d always meant to. She pulled you closer—until your hips met the counter, until your breath mingled with hers, until her eyes, steady and blue as storms, pinned you there.

You thought she might kiss you.

But she didn’t.

“You’re trembling,” she murmured, voice low and indulgent.

“I’m not used to being wanted like this.”

She tilted her head, studying you. “Then let me show you what it’s like.”

Her hand traced the curve of your waist, down your hip, until her fingers dipped just beneath the hem of your shirt, touching skin—barely. You inhaled sharply. She watched your face as she slipped that hand lower, slid beneath your waistband, unbuttoned you without breaking eye contact. Her mouth curved, like she liked how breathless you were getting just from the anticipation.

Her fingers slid between your thighs, and—

Oh.

Warm. Sure. She stroked you through your underwear first, a teasing glide that made your breath catch. Then she slipped beneath the fabric and touched you properly, slick and wanting and already so ready for her.

You let your head fall back against the mirror, knees trembling.

“That’s it,” she whispered. “Let me.”

One long finger slipped inside, then two. No fumbling. No hesitation. She took you slowly, deliberately, her palm brushing just right as she curled her fingers inside you. Her other hand braced at your lower back, holding you up when your thighs began to shake.

She watched every flicker of your expression. Every stuttered breath. Her eyes were on your mouth when you moaned, on your chest when you arched, on your throat when you whimpered in a voice you barely recognized as your own.

It felt like being unraveled one touch at a time.

“You’ve been watching me all night,” she said softly.

“Yes,” you gasped.

“Imagining this?”

You managed a nod, though your body felt molten.

“Good,” she said. “I want you to remember me when you fly away.”

You came with a quiet cry, body clenching around her hand, hips grinding down into her palm. She held you through it, whispering soft encouragements—that’s it, just like that, you’re doing so well—until your pulse stopped hammering and your breath came back ragged.

When her fingers slipped free, they dragged slowly along your thigh. She reached for a towel, cleaned you gently—too gently for someone who hadn’t asked your name—and then kissed the corner of your lips. Not possessive. Not romantic.

Just a moment.

Just a mark.

You both returned to the lounge without speaking.

The storm had quieted outside. The lightning was gone, the thunder a fading echo somewhere in the distance. Through the tall, soundproof windows, the tarmac gleamed wet and silver under the pale light of early morning.

The air was different now. Less charged. Less heavy. But something still hung between you, thread-thin, invisible, and impossibly strong.

She took a seat at the bar again, legs crossed, posture impeccable. You slid into the seat beside her. Close, but not quite touching.

The bartender reappeared like magic. She ordered a whiskey, neat. You asked for water, suddenly parched.

For a while, neither of you said anything. You just sat in the afterglow, the quiet hum of music and low conversation filling the space around you. You glanced at her hands, remembering the way they’d felt between your legs, and had to look away again.

And then—

A chime rang through the lounge.

“Now boarding: Gate A19, Flight 704 to London Heathrow.”

She turned her glass slowly in her hand.

“That’s me,” she said softly.

Something in you faltered.

You weren’t surprised. You’d known this couldn’t last—hadn’t been meant to—but the finality of it still hit sharp.

She stood and gathered her coat, draped it over her arm again. She didn’t rush. She didn’t linger. She was exactly what she had been through the evening: composed, graceful, impossible to hold onto.

You rose with her, suddenly unsteady. “Wait—”

She looked at you. And God, her eyes were soft. Not sorry. Not cruel.

Just real.

You swallowed. “Your name.”

A beat. She studied you like she might refuse, like keeping it sacred would make it easier.

But she didn’t.

She stepped a little closer. Lowered her voice.

“Larissa.”

It landed in your chest like the softest impact. A name. A tether.

You nodded, almost to yourself. “Thank you.”

Her smile was small. Almost sad.

“Don’t lose sleep over me,” she said.

“I won’t,” you lied.

And then she turned.

You watched her walk away—tall and calm, heels quiet against the floor, disappearing into the soft blur of travelers and announcements and time.

And even though you knew you’d never see her again, you would remember.

The storm.
The glances.
Her hands.
Her name.
Larissa.

————————————————————————

taglist: @weemssapphic , @im-a-carnivorous-plant , @dingdongthetail , @gwensfz , @erablaise-blog , @rainbow-hedgehog , @renravens , @kaymariesworld @niceminipotato , @witchesmortuary @notmeellaannyy , @weemswife , @m-0-mmy-l-0-ver33 , @redkarine , @women-are-so-ethereal , @opheliauniverse , @willisnotmental , @raspburrythief , @fictionalized-lesbian , @geekyarmorel , @h-doodles , @cxndlelightx , @m1lflov3rrr , @winterfireblond @nocteangelus15 , @aemilia19 @spacetoaim22 @vendocrap8008 @jkregal @gela123 @lilfartbox1 @xuukoo @bellatrixsbrat @sadsapphic-rose @dumbasslesbi @larissalover3 @friskyfisher @fliesinmymouth @imprincipalweemspet @forwhichidream11 @amateurwritescm @imlike-so-gaydude @sugipla @lvinhs @http-sam @gweninred @a-queen-and-her-throne @ficsloverblog

[mqyim]

I am literally boiling with rage. Not only is she dead, not only is the new principle a MAN, but he slandered THE LARISSA FUCKING WEEMS IN A PROMO!

Get out.

[mqyim]

netflix saw us begging for larissa weems to be brought back and then they shove that shit of a promotion to our face.

[mqyim]

that larissa weems slander is making me so pissed.

[mqyim]

this is my blog and i can and will be as delusional as i want.

"empty grave"👀??

[mqyim]

fr tho 😭 there was something about it that made it so eerie to look at..

[mqyim]

Gwendoline Christie's Larissa Weems is featured in Nevermore Academy's new student recruitment video

[mqyim]

i NEED the movie NOW 😠😠

[mqyim]

[mqyim]

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLE-

[mqyim]

[mqyim]

how is it possible that people can look at Gwendoline Christie and still not cast her as a vampire? 😠😠😠

*cough* lady dimitrescu *cough* *cough*

[mqyim]

hola!! I would like to request larissa x reader where they broke up years ago and when larissa sees reader again she finds out reader has a daughter who looks just like her 👀 lots of angst please

All the Quiet Things

Larissa Weems x fem!reader

A/N: Ngl, I usually wouldn’t write fics where a kid is involved, but reading this request my brain was immediately flooded with angst ideas…. I hope you’ll enjoy it, I sure enjoyed working on it! Oh and happy pride month!

She tells herself it’s the books.

There’s a stall in Greymoor Square that sells rare volumes. Bindings cracked from age, typefaces long since faded. The woman who runs it speaks only in riddles and won’t haggle for anything less than a poem. It’s charming, Larissa tells herself. Worth the hour’s drive, if only for the atmosphere.

That’s why she’s here.

She repeats it like a mantra as she steps onto the cobbled main street of the town just past Jericho. Her heels click sharply against stone. The air smells of baked bread, cherry blossoms, and something sweeter underneath. Something she refuses to name.

It’s early yet. The market is just waking.

Sunlight stretches pale across the awnings, catching on glass bottles filled with syrup and honey. Someone’s tuning a fiddle in the corner. Wind stirs the edges of paper signs.

Larissa inhales. Exhales. Keeps walking.

She should be back at Nevermore, revising staff evaluations, fielding calls from the board, dealing with that absurdly smug fencing instructor who’s started teaching metaphors alongside parries. Instead, she is here, in a town she once passed through and never returned to.

The lie still holds.

Barely.

She stops at a table of marmalades, nods politely to the vendor, pretends to study the jars. Her gloved fingers pass over labels—plum-rose, blackberry-thyme, fig and burnt orange. The colors are rich and glimmer faintly in the morning light.

She does not buy anything.

Instead, she drifts. Watches the life of the market unfold in pieces. An elderly man arguing about tomatoes. A pair of girls balancing loaves of bread between them. A woman with a sleeping child tucked against her chest, the tiny hand curled in soft trust.

Larissa’s stomach turns.

She pauses at a flower stall. The scent is almost overwhelming: lilac, sage, and freshly cut mint. She remembers the smell. Not the exact one, but the shape of it. You once carried mint on your fingers, tucked wild herbs into your pockets. You used to tell her she smelled like winter, and you were determined to warm her up.

She hadn’t thought of that in years.

Hadn’t let herself.

But now the memory presses forward uninvited, and she cannot push it away.

Because someone said your name.

It had been nothing, really. A casual remark over coffee in the staff room. One of the teachers, cheerful and unobservant, had mentioned passing through the Greymoor market the weekend prior.

“Oh, and I could swear I saw a woman who used to work at the Academy years ago… What was her name? The one with the clever mouth. You know, the one Principal Weems was always—well. Never mind.”

Larissa had smiled. Tilted her head. Raised one perfectly plucked brow.

“You must be mistaken,” she had said.

But her tea had gone cold in her hand.

That night, she couldn’t sleep.

And this morning, after the groceries, her car somehow veered west instead of north.

And now, now she is here. Pretending not to search for something she has no right to find.

She rounds a corner and sees the bookseller’s stall in the distance.

Her breath stutters. Not because of the books.

Because someone just turned away from the herbs stall, and she would know the shape of your shoulders anywhere.

There are moments the mind saves for after the fall.

Not the arguments. Not the leaving. Just the quiet before it all began to end.

It comes to her now like mist curling through an open window. Soft and familiar, tinged with the ache of what she never gave.

You used to come to her only after dark.

Never earlier than midnight, never later than two. The hours when the halls of Nevermore slept, and her corridors belonged to no one but ghosts. You never knocked. You didn’t have to. The door was always unlocked, cracked just slightly as if her restraint had slipped at the last minute.

She remembers the sound of your steps.

Barefoot on stone. Careful. You used to hum to yourself on the nights you thought she wasn’t listening.

She always was.

Her quarters were colder than they should’ve been. A high-ceilinged thing with windows far too large, draped in velvet so deep it swallowed moonlight whole. You hated the curtains. She used to watch you wrinkle your nose at them, mutter something about feeling like a kept secret.

And you were.

She made you one.

Every time you touched her, she felt seen in ways she didn’t know how to bear. You peeled her open with fingertips and laughter and soft, unrelenting trust. And what did she give in return?

Nightfall. Shadows. Silence.

You’d crawl beneath the covers beside her, skin warm from sneaking across cold floors. Your body always found hers instinctively, one knee slipping between her legs, one hand brushing her hip like you had every right. You’d smile into her collarbone and call her headmistress in that irreverent way that made her shiver.

She let you shift her. Literally, sometimes. Those were nights she gave in to the instinct buried deep in her kind, the one that allowed her to change shape and body, to take on something heavier, harder. You liked that. She did too. Not because of what she became, but because it was still her, and you never flinched.

But even then, in the dark, there were boundaries she never let you cross.

No hand-holding outside.

No pet names. Not where anyone could hear.

And always—always—you left before dawn.

She told herself it was protection. That if the wrong person knew, your job would be in danger. That you didn’t want that kind of attention. That the board wouldn’t understand. That she was sparing you.

But the truth lived deeper.

She didn’t want to risk herself.

It was easier that way. To keep the thing sacred only in secret. To let love bloom behind curtains, never in daylight. She convinced herself you understood. That the way you curled closer afterward, pressing your forehead to her sternum like it was the only place you slept well, meant you were content.

But she remembers the last night.

You’d said it like it didn’t matter.

“I won’t do this forever, you know.”

Your voice had been soft, almost sleepy. You were lying on your side, hair mussed from her pillow, fingers tracing idle circles over the inside of her wrist. Larissa had stilled. Not enough for you to notice, not enough to seem afraid, but she had felt something tighten.

You didn’t look at her when you said it. You looked at the drawn curtains, the ones you always hated, as if they were the ones holding you captive.

“I can’t keep being nothing in the daylight.”

And Larissa, she didn’t answer.

Not with anything that counted. Just touched your hair, pressed a kiss to your bare shoulder, and pretended the moment hadn’t happened. She thought, maybe, if she stayed quiet long enough, you'd stay too.

But you didn’t.

You left before dawn, as always.

Except you never came back.

She had told herself it was for the best. That you’d moved on. That some bright-eyed suitor had offered you a life that didn’t involve shadows and silk-draped secrets.

That it was easier this way.

It’s what she clung to—until now.

Because now, in the center of the market, the crowd parts for just a moment—and you’re standing not ten paces away.

Older. A little.

Your hair is longer. Or maybe shorter. She can’t tell. Her breath has stilled in her throat like a bird caught behind glass.

You haven’t seen her yet.

You’re studying a jar of jam like it contains the answer to something complicated. The sun lights your cheekbone in the exact way it used to when you turned toward her bedside window. She feels the past stretch toward her like an echo trying to find its source.

It hits her all at once:

You’re real.

You’re here.

You suddenly lift your eyes.

And the world stops.

Larissa doesn’t remember stepping forward. Only that your face is exactly as she remembers, and nothing like it at all. Softer around the edges, perhaps. More tired. Or maybe just sharper, carved by five years of silence and everything they didn’t say.

Your expression changes.

Not shock. Not warmth.

Something colder. Something closed.

Her breath stumbles. She swallows it.

“…Hello,” she says.

It lands with all the grace of a stone dropped in water.

You don’t smile. Don’t look away. You just set the jar down on the table—deliberate, controlled—and straighten.

“Principal Weems,” you say, voice dry as paper.

That stings more than she’ll let show.

She gives a small nod, trying to hold herself upright beneath the weight of her own cowardice. “You… look well.”

“Do I?”

There’s no warmth in your voice. No invitation. But you don’t walk away.

Larissa seizes on that small mercy and steps closer. The space between you is measured now, not by feet, but by regret. The kind that yawns wider the longer it’s left untouched.

“I didn’t expect—” she starts, then stops herself. She can’t say she came looking. Not like this. Not when she barely deserves your gaze.

You raise an eyebrow. “Didn’t expect to see me? Or didn’t expect to see me here?”

The market bustles around you, oblivious. Somewhere nearby, a fiddle begins to play. It’s light, cheerful. Out of place.

Larissa draws in a breath. “I heard your name. A colleague mentioned seeing you. I… didn’t believe it at first.”

Your jaw tightens, just slightly.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come back this way,” she adds.

“I didn’t,” you say flatly. “Not until recently.”

A beat.

She wants to ask everything. Where you went. What you’ve done. Who you became without her.

But you speak again before she can find the words.

“You look exactly the same,” you say, tone unreadable. “I guess time doesn’t touch you the way it does the rest of us.”

Larissa flinches inwardly. “That’s not true.”

You let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Isn’t it?”

Her throat closes.

There are a thousand things she could say. Apologies she’s rehearsed in the silence of her chambers, explanations that don’t excuse but still try to make sense of her choices.

But you glance to the side. Just slightly. As if checking for someone. Your posture shifts, not in fear, not in nerves, but in the guarded way of someone who has something precious nearby.

A little girl—no older than five—comes sprinting toward you across the square. Pale curls bouncing, face alight with joy. You bend slightly as she flings her arms around your waist, and you catch her like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Like you have always done it.

Like you are her mother.

Larissa can’t breathe.

The child turns and looks up at her. Wide blue-grey eyes. A dimple in her left cheek. The shape of her nose, her chin, the curl of her lashes…

Larissa staggers a step backward.

“She looks like me,” she says.

You don’t answer right away.

Larissa can’t move.

Because suddenly, the past five years shift. They realign. Every breath, every sleepless night, every echo of your body in her bed.

It all collapses into this one impossible truth:

She hadn’t just left you behind.

You hold your daughter a little tighter.

It’s instinct. Not fear. Just the kind of silent tether a mother keeps when the ground starts to tilt.

You don’t look at Larissa. Not right away.

Because you can’t.

Not when her eyes are locked on the child like she’s seen a ghost. Not when her voice trembles with that awful, fragile kind of disbelief.

“She looks like me,” she says again.

You breathe through your nose. Slow. Measured.

You’ve practiced this.

You’ve practiced everything.

The way you kept your voice steady through the morning sickness. The way you signed the birth certificate without a second name. The way you buried that old photograph, the one where you lay half asleep, curled into her bare chest, her fingers still tangled in your hair.

You buried it all.

But it still breathes.

Your daughter shifts in your arms, resting her head against your shoulder. Her curls brush your cheek. You close your eyes.

She smells like sun-warmed linen and lemon soap and the apricot pastry she insisted on having for breakfast. She smells like home.

You open your eyes and finally meet Larissa’s.

She’s pale. Paler than you’ve ever seen her. Her lips parted. Her hands slack at her sides.

You don’t want her to look at your child like that. Like she’s a riddle. Like she’s an answer. Like she’s a revelation Larissa didn’t earn.

So you speak. Soft. Sharp.

“Don’t.”

It stops her cold.

Her mouth opens. Maybe to ask. Maybe to apologize. But you cut in before she can do either.

“You don’t get to look at her like that.”

Your voice doesn’t shake, but your fingers do.

Just slightly.

Larissa notices. Of course she does.

“I didn’t know,” she says. “God, I didn’t—I didn’t know you were—”

“Pregnant?” You exhale. “Neither did I. Not when I left.”

The words sit heavy between you.

“I wasn’t hiding her from you,” you add. “I just didn’t know she existed yet.”

Larissa stares. Frozen. Like if she breathes, the world will split open.

You look down at your daughter. Your voice softens without meaning to.

“I left because I was tired of being a secret, Larissa. Not because I stopped loving you.”

She looks like she might fall over. Like the ground has opened and nothing is holding her up anymore.

“I would’ve stayed forever,” you say. “If you’d let me exist in the daylight.”

The silence that follows is raw. Almost sacred. The kind that only lives between people who were once everything.

Your daughter stirs, blinking up at you.

“Everything okay, Mommy?”

You brush a strand of hair from her forehead. Smile, soft and instinctive. “Everything’s fine, sweetheart.”

You glance back at Larissa. Her face is shattered.

You should walk away. You know you should.

But something stops you. Not pity. Not cruelty.

Just history.

Just love. Old and threadbare, but not quite dead.

So your voice gentles when you speak again.

“I didn’t plan to hurt you.”

You shift your daughter higher on your hip, thumb smoothing the back of her dress.

“I didn’t plan any of this.”

You start to turn away. Then pause.

And when you meet her eyes again, something quiet lingers there. Not forgiveness. But not quite blame, either.

“If you’re wondering,” you say, “I named her Solene. she’s kind. And she’s bright. And she likes to sing when she thinks no one’s listening.”

A breath.

“She got that from you.”

A silence.

A heartbeat.

Then you’re gone.

The car door slams harder than she means it to.

Inside, the silence is too much. The stillness. The absence.

Larissa grips the steering wheel with both hands, but it’s pointless. Her palms are damp and shaking. The leather is warm under her fingers, but she’s cold. Icy, bone-deep cold.

She stares straight ahead.

The market is still busy. Families move between stalls, children tugging their parents toward sweets and painted wooden toys. Laughter floats through the air. Bread, flowers, the sharp salt of feta samples. It all smells like life continuing. Like nothing has happened.

But something has.

You.

And the child.

Her child.

Larissa shuts her eyes.

“She looks like me,” she had said.

And it was true. God, it was true. Those wide grey-blue eyes. The dimple. That nose. That mouth. It was like someone had taken the smallest, most human parts of her and carved them into new life.

A daughter.

Your daughter.

She presses her forehead against the steering wheel.

You didn’t tell her.

Not because you wanted to hurt her. Not because you meant to hide it. You just… left.

Larissa feels the ache of it now. The terrible symmetry of what she did to you—hiding you behind drawn curtains and late-night shadows—and what you had to do in return. Raising a child alone. Bearing the weight of both your griefs in silence.

She had no idea.

All these years, she thought you walked away out of pride. Out of anger. That you’d found someone new. That the pain she’d tried not to feel was mutual, deserved, symmetrical.

But you didn’t know you were pregnant.

And you still chose to walk away, because Larissa never once gave you the sun.

She breathes through her teeth.

Something hot and acidic swells in her chest. Grief, yes, but something else too.

Longing.

Want.

Not for the past.

For now.

For that child who looked up at her like she was no one. For that child who should’ve known her. For the curve of your voice when you said she sings when she thinks no one’s listening.

She should’ve heard that.

She should’ve known that.

Larissa shoves the door open and climbs out.

She doesn’t think. Doesn’t lock the car. Doesn’t glance at the market square. She just walks—quickly, eyes darting, scanning for any glimpse of your silhouette, your hair, that soft blue dress your daughter wore.

She doesn’t care how foolish it looks. How desperate. How loud.

She needs to see you.

Not to apologize.

Not to explain.

To ask.

To beg.

Let me try.

Let me meet her. Let me know her name. Let me hold her just once. Let me be the thing I never thought I was allowed to be.

Let me be her mother.

She turns a corner and sees the crowd begin to thin.

Shops give way to cobblestone alleys and quiet cafés. She slows slightly, eyes searching every step ahead.

She has no idea what she’ll say when she finds you.

But she knows she won’t let it end in silence again.

She sees you half a block ahead.

Near the bakery. That little one with the peeling paint and the lavender hanging in the window.

You’re slower now. Your daughter’s hand is wrapped tightly in yours. She’s walking on the low stone edge of the path, carefully balancing herself as you guide her. You glance down every few steps, steadying her with just a brush of your palm.

Larissa doesn’t call your name. She doesn’t think she could if she tried.

She just walks faster.

You hear her steps before she’s close enough to speak.

You stop walking. Don’t turn around—just stand still, spine straight, hand still curled protectively around your daughter’s. You murmur something to the little girl, and she hops gently off the stone ledge. You gesture toward the bakery door.

“She’s hungry,” you say as Larissa slows to a stop behind you. “We came here for bread and I let her get distracted. She loves the cheese twists.”

Larissa swallows. “You do too.”

You almost smile.

Almost.

“She’s five,” Larissa says, quietly.

“Five and a half,” you correct. “Birthday’s in November.”

There’s silence. A breath too long. A breath too charged.

You sigh.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you?”

Larissa’s voice is hoarse. “Because I didn’t get to say anything.”

You don’t turn around. Not yet.

“She asked who you were,” you say. “I told her your name. That’s all.”

“And if she asks more?”

“She won’t. Not today.”

Larissa nods. She deserves that.

You shift slightly, just enough to glance at her over your shoulder.

Your eyes are tired. Not just from today. From years of it.

“She doesn’t know,” you say. “Anything. She doesn’t know you exist.”

The words land with a weight she can barely bear.

“And it wasn’t to punish you,” you say again. “I didn’t do it out of spite. I did it because I didn’t want to give her a ghost.”

That’s what Larissa had become, after all.

A name unspoken. A grief unshared. A memory too sharp to explain to a child with nothing but questions.

“But now I’m not a ghost,” Larissa says. “I’m here. And I want…”

You turn fully now. Still holding your daughter’s hand. Still standing between them.

Larissa’s voice cracks.

“I want to know her.”

You say nothing.

“I want to learn her favorite color. I want to hear her laugh. I want her to know she came from something… from someone who would have loved her so much if she’d only known.”

You blink, and something shifts in your face. Not forgiveness, not yet. But a fissure. A place where something old has started to melt.

“I don’t know what you’re asking.”

Larissa steps closer.

“I’m asking you not to shut the door. I’m asking you to give me a chance to meet my daughter. I’m not asking for your forgiveness. Just…” Her voice breaks again. “A beginning.”

Your daughter tugs lightly on your sleeve.

“Mommy,” she says. “Is she sad?”

You crouch to her level, brushing a curl from her face.

“She’s someone I used to know,” you murmur. “And maybe… maybe someone we’ll get to know again. What do you think about sharing your cheese twist?”

The little girl looks at Larissa.

Then nods.

Larissa doesn’t move.

You rise slowly and tilt your head toward the bakery. “Come in, if you want.”

Larissa breathes. For the first time in minutes. Maybe in years.

You’re not promising anything.

But you’re not walking away.

Not this time.

————————————————————————

taglist: @weemssapphic , @im-a-carnivorous-plant , @dingdongthetail , @gwensfz , @erablaise-blog , @rainbow-hedgehog , @renravens , @kaymariesworld @niceminipotato , @witchesmortuary @notmeellaannyy , @weemswife , @m-0-mmy-l-0-ver33 , @redkarine , @women-are-so-ethereal , @opheliauniverse , @willisnotmental , @raspburrythief , @fictionalized-lesbian , @geekyarmorel , @h-doodles , @cxndlelightx , @m1lflov3rrr , @winterfireblond @nocteangelus15 , @aemilia19 @spacetoaim22 @vendocrap8008 8 @jkregal @gela123 @lilfartbox1 @xuukoo @bellatrixsbrat @sadsapphic-rose @dumbasslesbi @larissalover3 @friskyfisher @fliesinmymouth @imprincipalweemspet @forwhichidream11 @amateurwritescm @imlike-so-gaydude @sugipla @lvinhs @http-sam @gweninred @a-queen-and-her-throne

[mqyim]

I get it Patti fucked up but death threatening her is too much. Some people need to touch some grass.

[mqyim]

Helloooo!! I was wondering if you could write something like Larissa x VampireReader.

I'd like some tension that makes me freak out, and maybe some smut idk 🫦 or something like hate sex? I don't know, I'll leave it up to you, I hope you can do it 🫶

I'm using translator so an apology if there are mistakes or something

Beneath Her Fangs (nsfw)

Larissa Weems x vampire!fem!reader

A/N: Me when I get the opportunity to write some scrumptious angst—😏 I hope you’ll enjoy what I did with your request and the plot I created!

The conference smells like pride and polyester.

A thousand voices blur into one endless academic murmur—principals, instructors, scholars of outcast institutions from across the globe, gathering under one roof to exchange theories no one listens to. You don’t belong here. You never did. But tradition demands attendance, and you’ve followed worse calls.

You’re halfway through a glass of something red—not blood, disappointingly—when you feel her.

It’s not scent that hits you first, though it follows fast. No, what you feel is pressure. The cold density of moonlight forged into a woman’s shape. Years haven’t softened her. If anything, she’s grown sharper, more polished. A weapon sheathed in silk.

You turn, and there she is.

Larissa Weems.

Hair still carved from ice. Lips too perfect for kindness. Her body tall and statuesque and dressed in pearl-toned cruelty. She moves like she owns this place. She probably does. You can smell the fear clinging to the others when she walks past.

Her eyes land on you like a blade. You let them. You let her look.

The last time she saw you, she didn’t beg you to stay. That’s how you remember it. She watched you go, unflinching. Made it easy.

And yet now, here she is—hovering across the conference room like the ghost of everything unsaid.

You're seated beside her at the afternoon panel, of course.

Shaping the Future of Outcast Education: Balancing Heritage and Modernity. A pompous title, and a poorly veiled excuse for posturing. The selkie moderator offers everyone two-minute introductions. Larissa speaks with practiced elegance, gesturing with a hand so poised it could slice glass.

You go last. And you smile with your teeth when you speak.

“Ashthorne Academy has always encouraged… flexibility. Adaptability, even. Some of us, after all, aren’t bound to the past.”

Larissa doesn’t look at you. “And some of us aren’t running from it.” She mutters.

The moderator makes a noise like a drowning fish.

You don’t look away. You smile. “I wouldn’t expect Nevermore to understand evolution. Fossils rarely do.”

Her lip twitches. It’s not a smile. Not quite.

But it’s close.

You don’t plan to corner her in the elevator. And she doesn’t plan to follow you into it. But somehow, the steel doors shut behind you, sealing you both inside.

The air goes still.

You watch the mirrored wall rather than her reflection, which says enough. Her scent clouds the elevator—white musk, lavender, something cold beneath it. It tightens your hunger like a fist.

“So,” she says, breaking the silence like porcelain. “Still playing headmistress?”

You scoff. “Still pretending you never cared?”

“Please.” Her voice is cut-glass. “You were never that special.”

“You were. Once.”

She smiles. It doesn’t reach her eyes. “And you’re still running.”

“You think I left to spite you?”

“I think you left because you couldn’t stand the things you felt.”

Your laugh comes low, bitter, ancient. “I’ve felt things older than your bloodline, Larissa.”

Silence.

Then, just as the doors open on your floor: “You left me.”

You step out, slow. Deliberate.

Then turn back, voice low. “You never asked me to stay.”

She knocks on your door thirty minutes later. Not hard. Just once.

You open it without a word.

The moment she crosses the threshold, it’s war.

Her mouth finds yours like punishment. Her nails rake down your shirt, buttons scattering like pearls. You shove her back, hard enough to make her gasp.

“Is this how you mourn?” you mutter against her mouth. “Years of silence and now you want to fuck it out?”

“I don’t mourn you.”

“Liar.”

You push her against the wall. Your hand closes around her throat—not to choke, just to hold. You feel her pulse jump under your fingers, fast and sharp.

“You want to be ruined,” you breathe.

She bares her throat in answer. Your mouth is on it before you can think. Her pulse drumming against your tongue.

“I could kill you,” you whisper into her skin. “You know that, don’t you?”

She arches beneath you. “So do it.”

You bite instead.

Not deep. Not enough to break skin. Just a threat. A promise. Your teeth rest just above the artery. She moans like it’s worship.

The bed catches her knees when you push her. She sprawls like she’s meant to be devoured—pale and furious and breathing hard. Her blouse is already open, bra skewed. Her skirt rides high on her hips, revealing expensive lace, white and obscene.

You step between her legs. Drag your fingers up the inside of her thigh, slow as a sin.

“You’ve imagined this, haven’t you?” you ask. “Years, and you’ve touched yourself thinking about me.”

“Not once.”

You laugh—low, dark. “Liar.”

You tear the lace. Not enough to ruin it. Just enough to make her gasp again.

Your fingers slip inside her—hot, wet, furious.

She groans. Bites her lip. Tries not to give you the satisfaction.

So you press deeper. Curl slow. Watch her shudder.

“Do you hate me?” you murmur.

Her hips buck.

“Yes,” she hisses.

“You’re wet for someone you hate.”

She meets your eyes, glassy with lust. “You’re wet for someone you abandoned.”

Your mouth crashes into hers.

You take your time.

You drag her shirt off completely. Kiss her collarbones. Her throat. Her breasts. Suck her nipple until she arches and claws your shoulders.

You murmur things into her skin. Taunts. Confessions. Half-truths and full regrets.

“You could’ve had this every night. All of me.”

“You didn’t offer.”

“I did. You just pretended not to hear.”

You make her come with your fingers buried deep and your palm grinding against her clit. She bites her own hand to muffle the noise.

You don’t stop.

You slide down her body and hold her thighs open with unforgiving strength.

“Look at me.”

She does.

You don’t kiss like you’re being kind. You kiss like you’re making a point.

Your tongue drags over her—slow and precise. You keep eye contact as she whimpers. When she tries to squirm away, you pin her harder.

She comes again. Louder. Broken.

Still, you don’t stop.

You want to see her unravel. Entirely. Want her too sore to walk. Want her to remember.

When you finally rise, her hair is wild, her lipstick gone, her eyes glassy with overstimulation.

“You don’t get to pretend anymore,” you whisper.

“I wasn’t pretending.”

You arch a brow. “You just liked pretending I was the villain.”

“Maybe I did.”

“And now?”

She lays beside you. Silent. Breathing shallow.

You watch her from the shadow of the headboard.

“Tell me you didn’t want this,” you say.

She doesn’t reply.

“I would’ve stayed,” you add softly. “If you’d asked me.”

She turns her head then. Meet your eyes in the dark.

“I couldn’t,” she says. “Not when I didn’t even know what it was.”

You nod.

Understand.

But knowing doesn’t make it hurt less.

You were centuries old. Still, heartbreak never stopped tasting new.

————————————————————————

taglist: @weemssapphic , @im-a-carnivorous-plant , @dingdongthetail , @gwensfz , @erablaise-blog , @rainbow-hedgehog , @renravens , @kaymariesworld , @niceminipotato , @witchesmortuary @notmeellaannyy , @weemswife , @m-0-mmy-l-0-ver33 , @redkarine , @women-are-so-ethereal , @opheliauniverse , @willisnotmental l , @raspburrythief , @fictionalized-lesbian , @ness029 , @geekyarmorel l , @h-doodles , @cxndlelightx , @m1lflov3rrr r , @winterfireblond @nocteangelus15 , @aemilia19 @spacetoaim22 @vendocrap8008 8 @jkregal @gela123 @lilfartbox1 @xuukoo @bellatrixsbrat @sadsapphic-rose @dumbasslesbi @larissalover3 @friskyfisher @fliesinmymouth @imprincipalweemspet @forwhichidream11 @amateurwritescm @imlike-so-gaydude @sugipla @lvinhs @http-sam @gweninred @a-queen-and-her-throne

[mqyim]

This tweet lives rent-free in my head now. Hands-down the best comment about the relationship between art and artist.

[mqyim]

Lucy with horns😫? Let me tell you, I hated drawing their hair. Its beautiful but so complicated, just the rendering gave me a lot of trouble.

I gave up on their clothes, perhaps just removing it would be better..😳

(edit: just realize her face is a bit wide, oops)