#cannibal larissa weems

[rippersz]

𝖸𝗈𝗎, 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝖨 𝗋𝗎𝗇 𝗍𝗈.

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(DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT) (TW: Mentions of cannibalism, murder, slight glorification of both; gore, toxic love, fluffy love, nightmares, etc.) (Larissa Weems x Fem!Reader)

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"Where could I rest but in your hurricane?" ~ Erica Jong

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There’s hot breath at your heels. And a pounding in your head. And your feet are sore and your neck is aching and everything kind of hurts. Like you’ve been dragged across rocky lands by your ankles, only just given the chance to run once cut loose from rope binds.

Blindly, you turn corners.

Where are you?

One right, one left.

What’s happened?

One left, one right.

How do you get out?

Two lefts.

Is this a maze?

Two rights.

Is there an end?

No.

Just more darkness.

Something smacks the grass behind you, trampling it beneath heavy feet. Heavy… paws? You can’t tell. You don’t want to look back. The only way through is forward and forward is leading you to Hell. But there is no other choice.

You keep going.

Cool sweat paints your back, your temples, your upper lip and your thighs. Making you shiver through the hazy mist. Blood rushing and lungs burning. You can never get far enough. Never go fast enough. It gains whatever ground you trek and its warm breath laps like waves at your ankles.

“Come,” it’s telling you. “Give in to me.”

“You know you want to.”

“You know this is who you are.”

There’s light at the end. There. In the distance. One smooth run away. Only a few steps. You can do it. You can make it. Or you can run the other way, into the darkness. Or you can stop and let yourself be eaten. Consumed. It depends. What do you want to do? Where do you want to go?

The light.

It’s a saving grace.

The good ending.

Your mind hurts and your bones feel stiff but still you must go. Still you must try.

One foot in front of the other. Go. Go go go. Time is running out. The light gets closer. Closer. The beast chuckles somewhere behind you. A warm sound that slips through red teeth and pale skin.

“You’re precious to me,” it coos, watching your body push itself to ash. “Can’t you see that?”

No.

No you don’t want to.

This isn’t worth it.

Nothing is worth it.

There-

The light.

Close.

Close.

Closer.

Go.

Go.

There-

No.

No.

No.

…

…

…

..what?

…it’s… no. It’s just a lamp.

You stop, vision blurring, knees trembling. Staring as if your gaze could change reality. Just a lamp.

It’s just a lamp. Resting on a long branch. With a fake candle in the middle.

What?

What is this?

Why is this-

“Look at me, sweetheart.”

No.

Yes.

No, please-

Yes, right here-

“Look. Give in.”

Your feet shift without warning. Your body is pulled- you steer it- toward the beast. And you cannot stop it. You cannot do anything.

But you don’t want to.

Do you?

You move of your own accord.

You let it take you.

You see, in the dark, its bulky form.

You find comfort in what it can offer you. You find bliss in its soft fur and its glowing eyes. So many eyes. It is beautiful. It smiles wide.

“This is it, dearheart.”

Its voice is low and smooth and human.

You swallow.

“I love you.”

Which one of you said it?

Why did you say it first?

A tear slips down the side of your cheek, and you are smiling.

This is home.

Its glowing eyes are brighter than the sun. This is your good ending, you see.

This is it.

“I love you, too.”

You take a step forward.

–

There is a deep harsh ringing in your ears when your heart jumps to your throat. You try to grasp it, the panic, before it escapes - but it’s too late. You’re too slow. And your eyes are wide, aching, when they meet the dark wall opposite the bed. There’s sweat painting your back and neck, dampening the hairs at your nape, and your hands are clenched around the bedsheets. They’re sore. Tense. You’re wound up like a spring but there’s nowhere to bounce off to.

It wasn’t real, of course. It wasn’t real. It didn’t even feel real. And yet you were still scared.

Are scared.

Hyper aware of the way your body thrums, thumping from the adrenaline of a chase you never experienced. You quake in your meager bed. Thoughts swirl in a near deafening tornado. You don’t know what to do. You don’t know what to think. The silence is potent. Thick with its desire to have you killed. Maimed and left for dead.

You’re not ready to die. You’re not ready to leave just yet. The heaving gulps of air you take are so soothing, so comforting, you can’t die- you won’t die.

What if there’s something behind the door?

There isn’t. Don’t be stupid.

Skulking about. Waiting for you. Long fingers twitching and white eyes blazing and smile so wide it stretches the skin into its hairline. Smelling of rot and disgust. What if it is there. What if the beast, with its heavy paws and changing voice, lurks along with it. Two beasts. More monsters. A cacophony of horror waiting for you to leave.

There’s nothing there. Stop it.

But your eyes shift anyway, glancing, and suddenly the walls have peep holes and the bathroom is hiding something in the dark. Deep chuckles and hungry tongues and desperation to mutilate you. Watching you. Eager for your blood. For your bones and your flesh. You shiver, darting wide eyes around in the emptiness - as though looking at the monsters, facing them, could possibly save you. But they can’t. Nothing can. There, in the corner, is a stranger. A tall figure, too tall for the room, with a head that’s upside down and eyes too wide for its slim face. It smiles. Still and prone in the dark. It is watching. It is waiting.

You can’t do this.

You can’t do this again.

Are you hallucinating?

It doesn’t matter.

There’s a slight glow beneath the door, caused by the flicker of hallway candlelight, and you’re scrambling out of bed before you can think. Before you can even stop yourself and pause and maybe turn on a light and come to the realization that you’re overreacting. It’s too cold, it’s too dark. Your hand slips on the doorknob, your bare feet fall sensitive on the chilled floor, your legs shake as you tear out of your bedroom. You don’t even know where you’re going. What can protect you? What place can hide you? The beast lurks around each corner. The tall figure follows behind. You can hear its footsteps. Are they yours?

Where are you going?

Who are you looking for?

What does safety mean when you are not home?

Your heart stutters as the pad of your foot hits the ground too hard and your leg goes buckling beneath you. No. Now is not where you fall. Now is not where you die. The figure gains, and you catch yourself against concrete brick with a loud ‘slap!’, and the sound spurs you again.

Running.

Like the dream.

Running where?

Is this the maze? Were they the same thing? No. No, couldn’t have been. There is no branch here with a fake lamp. There is no false candle flicker. There is only darkness and only silence and the embarrassing pitter-patter of your quick feet that make you cringe. You are being too loud. They will always know where you are. They will always find you.

What place is safe?

Where does protection exist in the dark?

There is no one to save you. No arms to run into. You run for so long, hearing the thumps of your own heart and mistaking them as chasing creatures, that the sweat on your back renews. It drops to the curve of your spine. You feel sick with your fear, with the way it suffocates you slowly. Draws you to the dark.

You can’t keep going. You can’t feel your legs. You don’t know where you are. You don’t-

Principal’s Quarters.

Oh.

No.

No, there’s-

No.

Are you serious? Is this it? Is this your lamp? Is this your plastic flame? Your end and your beginning? Is this where you will always return? The orbit you were born into? The infinity you occupy? The ouroboros you are caught in, eating your own tail, returning to your end? Your death? Your liberation?

The monsters lurk. They are behind you. You can’t turn - you won’t.

It is smiling, it is huffing, it is there, and you are in front of a twisted salvation that will embrace you with clean arms and red lips and blue eyes. Not white. Not a grin too large. Just right. Perfection. On the outside. On the inside, something a little rotted. But you don’t mind. This is your only choice, as you cannot turn around. As you won’t.

“Larissa?” Your voice is soft, weak, in the silence. There is no answer. There is no savior.

Your knuckles begin to pain as you knock on the door, hitting the wood so hard you can feel the pangs of hurt run through your tendons. Right down to your wrist. You knock once. Twice. You knock a third time and then you knock again, until it flows into one steady stream of sound that only draws the creatures nearer and as you knock, you fear that if she doesn’t open up soon, you will not be alive when she gets back. You will not be breathing. You will not be there to hold and pick up. There will be no more infinity and no more liberation. No more shared secrets and sobbed apologies and no more memories of how you untangled yourselves from the closet floor and sat in her living room at a complete loss for words. No more tension. No more quiet understanding. No more glancing at each other and no more weeks of avoidance. No more yearning. Strange yearning. Out of place yearning. No more thinking about apologies and warm hands and the way she held you together. No more contemplating the lack of fear- the nonexistence of it- because when you looked down, there was no blood beneath her fingernails. No blood on her teeth. No carnage in her form. Because you were safe and she would not hurt you and you were special and she would not eat you and you’re not sure if she loves you but that doesn’t matter right now because dear god Larissa just please- please- open the door-!

And so it opens. And the gods have answered.

“What on E-”

Your fist lands blindly on the soft skin of an exposed collarbone and before you can stop yourself, grasp onto a nearby wall or gain some sense, you are falling. Shifting into the depths, the churning tides of the room beyond, and letting out a small squeak as you go. For a long moment, everything is one quick whirl of dim light, dark shadow, and fear. It jumps to your tongue, climbs to your mouth and your hands, and you are clawing at the person that has opened the door. Behind you, as your head knocks to the side and a glimpse of the hallway grows clear, you swear you see movement. Creatures fleeing. Running away, back into the night, because they have come across something unknown. Tails between their legs and ears pressed back. Eyes wide with terror. They have run into the heart of a bigger beast. A smarter beast. A beast that watches with a gaze of cut cerulean and a tongue sharper than a knife’s edge. A beast so intelligent and cunning, it is capable of fooling the world. Tricking the tricksters. One big painting of iron-clad facades and not a single sniffing nose looking for her. A beast that opens her arms to you, and draws you in, and will not hurt you even if you beg.

A beast whose arms, cool and familiar, go running around your waist, eager to keep you from smashing your teeth out onto the hard floor. Her hold is strong and desperate, weakened from sleep, but good enough to clutch and pull you closer. Into safety. Large hands immediately press at your back, flung wide from surprise; and warm breath is pushed out in a rush from modest lungs. You cling to this post of life, to this beam of gold, to this beast, as your feet scramble over the threshold and the door slams! itself back into place behind you.

Safety at last.

From one darkness into another.

But this darkness has no interest in hunting you. She is only surprised that you have shown up at all.

“Y/n? What’s going on? Are you hurt?” Her hands fly to your waist, going to push you back to get a better look at you, but the fear still runs thick and you need a moment to think - so you push yourself closer and nearly topple the poor woman off balance.

“Sorry,” you mumble into her shoulder, finding immediate comfort in the smell of everything Larissa. It should be off-putting to push your face against her, to fall in love with the softness of her hastily thrown on robe, but you can’t find it within yourself to care. She is here and you are safe and as long as she is here, you will always be safe. Somehow. Someway.

“It’s okay,” comes her soft whisper. “It’s okay.”

Her gentleness is unexpected. Wasn’t it only about three weeks ago when you were running all over Nevermore, scared out of your mind? Frightened that she’d eat you alive–even though she said she wouldn’t? Full of begrudging trust and weepy eyes as you fell apart on the carpet of her walk-in closet? Was a bit of space, a bit of time, all you needed in order to come running back like the love-sick fool you are?

Or was it always meant to be like this? Running back to Larissa, who would probably always wipe the blood off of her lips and out of her mouth before trying to kiss you. Never wanting you to witness her horrors, no matter how self-indulgent. You think for just a moment, as you stand there melting into her body and shivering as her fingers go tangling into your hair, that you may be able to live the lie. Nothing is wrong. When you’re with her, there are no nightmares. When you’re with her, you’re safe. She will brush her teeth and then you will kiss her senseless. She will wash her hands and then she will touch your skin, reverent and desperate. She will wash the red from her hair and then she will let you brush it.

A modern romance. No horror. You can live it, you think. If only you tried.

“Are you alright?” She eventually whispers, heart beating steadily beneath your cheek and ear. Clearly, she’s worried. Trying to keep the tremor out of her voice but still swimming in relief because you’ve come to her. Out of all the people to go to and you came to her. You know she feels a new sense of hope, because you do too. Three weeks without confronting the depth of everything only led to sadness. Sadness and emptiness and desire. A deep clawing desire that begged you every day to show up in front of her and demand her attention. Knock on her office door, the door to her quarters, the door to her teacher’s room, anywhere everywhere, just for a moment of her time. Just to look into her eyes and know that you were okay. You wanted to be okay so bad. But you never gave in. You never went searching. You would’ve soon rather chained your feet to your desk than run out of your room and go to her.

Though now here you are, with your body working against you. Betrayal spelled in bold letters. Leading you back to the beast you want.

“No.” You’re safe, yes, but you’re not alright. You’re frazzled and tired and sleep has been an elusive creature and all you want is rest. So much rest you grow fat and lazy with it. Rest so good and long that it comes spilling out of your ears. Rest that hasn’t lied beside you in days because sleeping alone has proven so difficult. So bloody difficult in a way it hasn’t been in so long. And you don’t know what to do anymore. Running from imaginary creatures, nightmares that followed you in your mind, was the last straw. You’re exhausted. A sigh shakes your body, making your shoulders rise and fall with its strength.

Large palms find their way there, onto your biceps, and gently squeeze.

“What do you need?” Larissa’s voice is so kind, so open and sweet, you want to cry. “Tell me and I’ll do what I can.”

You don’t know. You really don’t know. All you can understand, accept, is the comfort of her strong arms. The power of her supple body. The protection she is giving you without wanting anything in return. So selfless a person, but so horrific a soul. You don’t know what you want from her aside from this eternity. This slice of heaven held near to her heart.

“I don’t know,” you shake your head, rubbing your forehead against the silk of her nightie. Your own has stopped sticking to your back, falling limp against the sweat that has cooled.

“A cup of tea, maybe?”

No. Not enough. You shake your head again.

“Okay,” she hums, “I may have some melatonin somewhere-”

“No,” you whisper. “It doesn’t- it won’t help.”

“Oh,” her shoulders jump as she gets an idea. “What about a bath? It might help.”

No. No no no. You’re much too tired to bathe. You’ll deal with that in the morning, even if you do feel a little gross. You’re recovering from a fear-induced marathon, your hair is greasy, and you’re probably a little smelly, but Larissa doesn’t care. She only holds you closer as you shake your head again and your chest goes slumping. You don’t want to bathe. You don’t want to do anything. You don’t even want to leave her side. The feeling of her breath, the rise and fall of her bust, is soothing enough to lull you to sleep. To a land of comforting dreams and maybe even a bit of blissful silence. Darkness. Not a thing to remember and thus, not a thing to dwell on. That’s what your body cries for. Larissa’s presence. The knowledge that she is safe, no matter what she has done.

“I-” your heart goes pounding away in your ears again, kick-started by anxiety. “I- can’t.” Why can’t you?

“Can’t do what, Y/n?” She manages then to pry you away from her, and holds you steady while she takes a small step back. Just so she can look into your eyes, lit up in the glare of the moon that shines through the living room’s tall gothic windows. It’s not too much light, but it’s enough. Enough for her to catch the desperation in your gaze and the way your cheeks go pink when you can view her properly. Finally revealed in the dim rays, her hair acts as a halo. Tied up in a loose bun, with flyaways going everywhere; face pale and free of makeup. Pink lips. Blonde lashes. Eyebrows so fair-haired you can barely see them, but still they are there. Delicate. So delicate and so lovely. You can’t imagine splashes of scarlet across her chin and chest. You can’t imagine the glint of murder in those cerulean eyes as she leans over a corpse. Gentle hands clenched so tight around a throat. Perfect teeth bared in a deep animalistic ferocity. You can’t picture it. You don’t want to.

But you want to fall asleep next to her? Good lord girl, get it together.

Get it together.

Why?

Why should you?

Why get it together, why even try, when you’re the exception?

“I don’t- I don’t want to- bath. Or drink tea.” You huff, finding it difficult to be honest under her intense blue eyes. Her lips instantly tug into a frown, reflecting her disappointment, but that’s the last thing you want. The straw that could probably break your back, so you’re quick to reassure. “I just- but I just-”

A hand finds your clenched fist. It caresses the hills of your knuckles. You glance at it, at the pale slender fingers, and you wonder (not for the first time) how such pretty palms- nails- glorious soft fingertips- could ever be capable of violence. Rough red violence that kills and maims and uses silver tines to tear apart cooked flesh. Steamed, grilled, poached to perfection by her own vein-deep desires. How can a willowy, strong, kind woman like Larissa ever want to kill? How can she feel even the smallest sparks of such vicious anger?

Unless it’s not done out of anger.

Unless it’s done out of pleasure.

An evil pleasure. Twisted with the kind of joy that comes from seeing another suffer. A slight inkling that perhaps the pain is deserved. Perhaps all humans need a little bit of it, a bit of searing- stabbing- hunting- in order to be humbled. Is that what she thinks? Is that what she feels? When she stands over them, when she looks at her shifting forearms and notices that the red stays red no matter what shape she takes - does she think about it then? Does she revel in it? Does she look just as beautiful? Do those doll lips pull up into a serene smile as she contemplates the richness of her impending dinner? Does she close her brilliant blue eyes when she hears the bones snap? Does she caress the cold face of a corpse and mourn their warmth before shoving their cheek into the shallows of dirty water and rushing off into the wood? Does she name them? Or does she know their names already? Does she have a system? Or is she spontaneous?

If you weren’t the exception, would you already be dead?

“Y/n-”

It doesn’t matter, you’ve decided. It doesn’t matter because you are the exception. And there is no point wasting precious thoughts on something as silly as your death. She will never hurt you. For some reason, she cares too much. And you are beyond exhausted, beyond drained, to trudge back to your own room and wait for the sun to rise before finally falling back asleep. The dark, recently, has become too haunting. And Larissa is so bright…

“I just wanna sleep,” you finally tell her, still entranced by the way her large hand covers your own. “I just want- rest. I’m so tired.” She can hear it in your voice, in the way your tone can’t reach higher than a hush. And your eyes, which flit to the broad line of her shoulders and the curved bit of her jaw. They’re shadowed and droopy and you’re too tired to explain any further.

Maybe, at a different time, perhaps in the morning, you will be able to tell her that not speaking for three weeks had nearly driven you completely mad. Focus did not exist for you while you taught. While you sat. While you lied awake in bed in the mornings and forced yourself to get up. She would walk the halls and you would pass her by and you’d glance and your eyes would meet and nothing would come of it. Beautiful woman, beautiful soul that she is, with her red hands and her secrets. Walking at a brisk pace to avoid being stopped by you, but you weren’t planning on asking her to talk. What sort of talking was there to do? Larissa wouldn’t stop and you wouldn’t ask her to. Some people are simply made to be outsiders. She runs a school of them, and still she is the most far removed. Perfectly sane and yet… and yet. The game was a different story. Adrenaline was high and she was in her element and you were a fool for ever agreeing to it but if you hadn’t…

“Alright,” comes the sweetest whisper, “I’ll take you back.”

If you hadn’t…

“No. No I don’t want that either. I just- I can’t-” you look up at her and plead with your eyes. You beg. You ask. Please. Please let me stay here with you.

If you hadn’t…

Recognition explodes in her gaze. Stay with her? You? You feel safe enough to do that? To sleep in the bed of a predator? To sink into her arms and yearn for more? Is that what a bit of warmth, a bit of care, can do? “Are you sure?” She is confused. Her perfect brows are furrowed. She thought you were scared. Of her. Of the dark. Of the monsters. Of her.

“Yes. I- yes. I can’t- I don’t want to be alone Larissa.” Her name is a concealed plea from your lips. Whispered and wanting.

If you hadn’t…

She is uncertain, running a soft thumb over your knuckles, but the last thing she wants is for you to go. Call it selfishness, call it disbelief, but she wants you near. Three weeks was too long. She’s missed you so much.

“Alright,” she murmurs, twisting her hands to run up to your shoulders. “Alright.” And she’s gently turning and steering you in front of her, walking you to the bedroom.

…then where would you be?

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Next part may include some kissy kissy lovey lovey... Lemme know if you wanna see it. - Rip x

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Tags: @kaymariesworld @bloommushroom @readingtheentrails @thegoddamnfeels @theonefairygodmother @theflashesoflove @sweetderacine @gwensfreak @shyladyfan @sunnyanon @emilynissangtr @sugipla @deongocrazy @nocteangelus15 @azu-zu @hopelessly-sapphic @enchantressb @syrenacrainn @im-a-carnivorous-plant @willowshadenox @aemilia19 @scarlettssub @ladysdraga @willisnotmental @gela123 @zillahofviolets-bayolet @the-bearr @amateurwritescm @alex-nyx @h-doodles

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[softshrimpy]

When I said cannibal Larissa has me in a chokehold I meant it-

Thank you to @rippersz for putting these thoughts in my brain

(I accidentally deleted this post earlier forgive me besties 😔)

[rippersz]

OH MY GOD??

@im-a-carnivorous-plant HELLO !!!

HELLO ?!?! CANNIBAL LARISSA WEEMS FANS SHE SAW THE FANART OF MY FANFIC??? Oh god…

DOES THAT MEAN SHE LIKES IT? OR DID SHE JUST NOT READ THE CAPTION? LMAOOOOO

[rippersz]

𝙳𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍

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(DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT) (TW: Mentions of cannibalism, murder, slight glorification of both, gore, toxic love, smutty/suggestive themes, etc.) (Larissa Weems x Fem!Reader)

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“To love someone is firstly to confess: I’m prepared to be devastated by you,” ~ Billy-Ray Belcourt

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You found a place.

It’s risky. It’s crazy. It’s fucking mad.

But you found it.

And it’ll work. If you’re quick, quiet, sleek, smart - it’ll work.

You leave the other shoe behind, somewhere in a random hallway near the botany classroom, tipped onto its side just like the first one. It’s forgotten as soon as you turn away and stalk down the left corridor, mind set on nothing but the spot that you imagine.

It may not even be there honestly, but that’s okay. A shot in the dark. There will be other places. What time is it? You don’t stop to look at a clock. You can’t. She may be around here. She may be watching. She may be waiting.

Just go. Just go. Just go. You know where. Just go.

Every teacher at Nevermore has a master key. It’s uncommon- different to normie schools where teachers only have keys to their own classrooms- but it’s a safety precaution. If a young outcast, unfamiliar with the environment, lashes out or has an issue and is trapped in a place unreachable by anyone but a certain adult, there could be consequences. Larissa put the master key rule in place. Larissa was kind enough to think of the students. Larissa made it possible, ironically enough, for you to hide during your game of hide and seek- and win.

You’re going to win.

You slide the golden key into the lock, slide it out again, and you know you’re going to win. You turn the handle and open the door, slowly slowly slowly- there’s no creak at all- and you know you’re going to win. You walk into the dark and you know you’re going to win. You close the door behind you again, slowly slowly slowly- there’s no creak at all- and you know, you just know, you’re going to win.

You’ve never been here before. You don’t know anything about this place. You wouldn’t dare to step into it on any other day, never alone and never without an invitation, but she never gave you boundaries. The predator never confirmed the walls of play. The predator never told you not to cross the line.

And being the excited, nervous, scared little lamb that you are, you jumped over it. Grasped the chance to outsmart the wolf. The tiger. The lion. The bell.

You take a few terrifying seconds to let your eyes adjust. The dark is consuming. The silence is thick. Ringing. So loud. The absence of life. Nothing but you breathes within this space. Within this den.

They always say the abused returns to the abuser. They always say the best place to hide is in the seeker’s home.

Well you’re in the seeker’s home.

And everything’s quiet.

And as you stand there, chest slow with breath and eyes quickly blinking to adjust to the dark, you can’t help but think about how lovely it would be if you could walk in there with a smile on your face and a bouquet of roses in your arms.

“My love! I’m back! Where are you?”

“In the bedroom, darling!”

And the space would smell like garlic and spices and simmering butter and there’d be the soft sound of socked feet padding into the open-plan living room and kitchen and nothing but a smile, silk pajama pants, and a bra would greet you. Lips stained with the leftovers of rose-colored rouge, the palest eyelashes, brows, and hair on display without makeup. Platinum locks a little messy and half untangled. She’d be interrupted during her nightly routine while dinner cooked on the stove; a pin or two held in one hand and nothing but love and a golden ring of matrimony in and on the other.

“Oh… What’s the special occasion?” And she’d give you the most sinful smirk while she grasped the collected stem of roses from your hand and used her grip to tug you closer.

It would draw every bit of sense from your head. It would make you blush and smile so hard you’d get dizzy.

“I just wanted to treat you. You’ve been working so hard,” and it would come out as a shy whisper and a look of utter softness would pass over her features before she’d bring you as close as she could.

“Thank you, my sweet girl,” and then you’d kiss her so slowly- so beautifully- that you wouldn’t be able to believe your luck.

And the timer on the stove would choose that second to beep. And then she’d tug herself away and waltz over to the kitchen, leaving you to put your coat up on the stand and your shoes in the closet beside the front door.

“What did you make, love?” You’d call, eagerly setting your purse down on the living room couch before charging into the kitchen.

And she’d be busy already taking out a vase from a cabinet somewhere, filling it with water, using the other hand to toss whatever it is that was cooking to perfection in the pan.

“Roasted vegetables, potatoes, and a new spin on fried rice. Does that sound alright with you?” And she’d give you a smile over a pale shoulder and you’d want to rush forward and ravage her within an inch of her life - but you’d stay still, lean against the island, and nod. Of course it would be alright with you.

“Sounds delicious!” And she’d hum in happy agreement as she puts the pan down to pull out kitchen scissors and start tending to the roses.

And then you’d help with dinner and you’d sit down together and she’d disappear to put a shirt on and you’d frown and say ‘whyyyyyy?’ and she’d swat you on the shoulder with a playful smile and then you’d have your home-cooked meal and it would taste just as good as it smelled and everything would be perfect and right and there wouldn’t even be an ounce of meat within 50 feet of you and there’d be no mention of murder or cannibalism or anything of the sort.

And it would be lovely. A dream. Warm candlelight on her face. Curled hair brushing the tops of her shoulder blades. A sweet palm reaching out to curl around your own. The deepest most beautiful nothings whispered in between bites.

A world of utter bliss.

…

…

…

But the bell still tolls, doesn’t it?

Even there.

Even in that world.

It tolls. Even in that salvation, it echoes. Coming for you. Hungering for you. Hers forever. The matching rings say so.

And there’s no bouquet in your hand anyway.

And there’s no smile on your face anyway.

And there’s no warmth in the room you stand in.

And it only smells vaguely of Larissa’s perfume and that unique scent that all spaces of living seem to have. And there’s really nothing for you here at all, is there? Even in the dark, when your eyes finally become familiar with the slightest outline of certain objects- even then, you know you are an intruder and not a guest. You know you are not welcome, even though Larissa would surely love to have you there with her. But only under her authority. And only with her by your side. So you can’t go snooping. So you can’t find real evidence of what she is.

What she does.

The lives she ends.

Does that make her a monster perhaps?

Does all of that red make her a murderer instead of a woman in need of food? Of survival? Does the harvesting of organs make her a sinful thing only deserving of death?

What makes her different from a mother lion catching food for her babies?

What makes her different from a hungry animal dashing through the underbrush?

Does lipstick, hairpins, perfume, and clothing set her aside? Does having a conscious aid in a lack of sympathy? Is she merely returning to base instincts and taking taking taking what she truly desires?

Why do you hate something that does not affect you?

Why do you fear her when you are not the victim?

You haven’t gotten around to asking her why you’re so special. You haven’t told her that you’re confused and that you’d like to know quickly because it’s been keeping you up and driving you mad. Is it because you fear her answer? Is it because the unknown depths of her interest make you feel far more special than they should?

Is it because you don’t want to give in?

You want to resist?

What makes her different from the outcasts that have conquered entire regions? From the outcasts that tried to dismantle the world?

What makes her… better?

Is it because of her status?

Her grace?

Her achievements?

Or is it because sometimes- sometimes- you find yourself glancing at her out of the corner of your eye and seeing the face of a woman you want with all of your heart?

Or maybe it’s because sometimes you think you can love her. Even as the monster she is.

—

Larissa finds herself quite bored when you’re not around.

Where has her little lamb gone? Where has she disappeared to? The pretty thing left her shoe behind. Silly lamb. The predators never fall for decoys. But she did have to hand it to you - what a good distraction. Only to honor your intelligence did she dip into the room, take a look at all of the available hiding spots, and walk out of the office with a small smirk on her face. Of course she knew you weren’t there, but that didn’t matter. She had time.

As she rounded the corner of an intersection, taking a glance down all three of the halls before her, she brought a wrist up to check her watch.

10:19, the little mechanical hands spelled. 26 minutes.

26 minutes and you’re all hers.

26 minutes and you can have the sweetest dinner of all time. The most romantic.

26 minutes and you can see she’s not mad. She was just born to be as she was.

The hands tick.

Larissa flicks her wrist down and stalks forward. There’s no time for dilly-dallying. If she could cut it down to 15 minutes, 10 if she’s feeling daring enough to start jogging, then that would be even more time spent in your company. Perhaps you could go over the plans for the meal. What other sides would you like with your meat, she wonders. Are you a savory person? Or sweet? Oh and dessert- she has to start thinking about that as well. Are you allergic to anything? She makes a mental note to ask - and nearly misses the black wedge left carelessly in the middle of the floor.

A light eyebrow raises.

“Oh?” Her voice is a velvet murmur; tinged with surprise and interest.

She expected you to keep the other shoe. The office was a clever idea, indeed, but anything beyond that would be overkill. She blinked, taking in the black felt and raised heel. Obviously, you disagreed.

No.

You wouldn’t just do that.

Not on purpose. There was no point to it. She already knew your shoes were off - and you wouldn’t hide near a breadcrumb she so readily consumed…

It must have been dropped in a rush.

An idea had struck you. And you left the shoe on its own, all too eager to win.

She turns her head, taking in the hall. You left it near the botany and biology wing. There’s not many places to hide in those classrooms. It’s mainly equipment, plants, open spaces for demonstrations and hands-on learning. She tilts her head, imagining you running off in an uncertain direction, finding yourself spooked by staying in one place for ‘too long’. Like Cinderella leaving her beloved slipper behind. For the big bad cannibal to find.

She hums, taking the time to waltz in a circle around the shoe before deciding to crouch. Pale hands slide beneath her, smoothing out the dress to slope against her knees. Now if she observes the shoe, a simple object yes but one that can give you away with ease… if she imagines the strap of it hanging from two of your fingers… or resting like a comfort item within your arms, held close to your chest… she can picture you dropping it. Or placing it. But with no particular purpose in mind if not to just leave your hands empty. Free to use. To be stealthy. Wherever you tottered off to, you needed to be extra quiet. She tilts her head. The heel of it, made from a strange pale wooden material that the typical ‘wedge’ seems to be made of, faces the corridor to her right. And the toe of it points to her. Many shoes, she’s observed over a long period of time wearing her own, tend to fall on their sides when they’re plonked down. And many of them tip toward the edge that is ‘heavier’. For a wedge with a slope, like yours, the part of the shoe that holds the majority of your foot- the last three toes and the flatter part of the sole- is higher than the rest. So it’s heavier. Unless it was knocked off balance beforehand.

She lets out a quick ‘tsk tsk tsk’ and shakes her head.

Right. Well. To retrace her steps; she came from the left, near the teachers quarters. But while she was there, she didn’t hear anything. Not even a creek.

So you must have gone to the left of that - which would be forward if you ran down the hall to her right.

With a nod, she finally stands.

She’ll check down there first, and if it’s quiet and still, she’ll double back to look for her lamb.

—

Your original idea of hiding under the kitchen sink turned out to be a bust. The space there was full of cleaning supplies. Rubber gloves, bleach, plastic bags - you wrenched your hand away with a grimace once you pictured what she’d done with those things. What messes she’d cleaned.

What footprints of her own she had to hide. Wash away. Get rid of.

Yeah. Under the sink was no good. And the kitchen was wide open anyway; if she thought to check her quarters, she’d go there first.

After you stand up and let out a sigh, only one other place comes to mind.

Larissa must have a big closet.

She always looks so gorgeous. Her clothes are designer - her shoes are rarely worn twice in the same week - her accessories change in the blink of an eye. So many things to adorn her body. So much space to keep those things.

It’s hard enough to move around in the dark with no aim, but when you’re looking for something, it’s far worse. There’s a sudden panic that exists. A sudden desperate hurry.

Need to hide before she comes. Need to go go go, otherwise the doorknob is gonna turn and she’s gonna walk in and it’s all gonna be over and it can’t be over I have to win I have to win I have to win I have to win I have to win-

Finally, you go stumbling into an open room. The floor is hardened wood beneath your feet, the air smells heavily of Larissa’s perfume, and there’s a lightswitch on the wall near your shoulder. It’s a bad idea to turn it on - a very bad idea - really it could put you in immense jeopardy - but if you do it quickly, if you do it just so you can see where the closet is (assuming it’s her bedroom after all), then you may have a chance to hide amongst the clothing. Or somewhere else. Anywhere could work, really. So long as you’re hidden.

“Okay,” you mouth to yourself, nodding at no one in particular, gathering the courage to place one hand on the lightswitch and flick it on.

Two seconds.

One.

Two.

A swift glance- scan- then it’s off- and you’re turning to your right, having seen the open closet door out of the corner of your eye. In your nearly blind haste, you smack your shoulder against the wood of the doorframe and let out a surprised hiss. It hurts, instantly, like a motherfucker - and you grasp your arm and close your eyes and press your lips together hard to hold in a whimper. Hopefully the bone hasn’t been knocked out of its goddamn socket. Though even if it was, it wouldn’t matter. You can’t exactly call for help now, can you? And there’s no one to run to. And there’s nowhere to go. And the only other person in the general vicinity is currently the same person hunting you down.

The bell never stops tolling. Not even for an injured lamb.

So no matter what you do, you’re gonna have to deal with the dull, bruising ache. It spreads from your shoulder out, but that doesn’t matter. None of it matters. You need a hiding spot. It’s the greatest priority. The very thing that will (hopefully) save you.

And sure you’re not being murdered. She’s not going to slaughter you. But for some reason, that’s all you can picture her doing once she’s caught you. Slicing a knife through the butter of your throat and spilling the rich of your blood onto the floor. Watching it seep. Finding it oddly beautiful. And then honoring your body by consuming it. Drinking it out of your veins. Searing the sweet flesh of your thighs. Or your arms. As you duck into the closet, covering yourself in darkness, you wonder briefly what part of the human body is her favorite. She’s never told you. Perhaps she never will.

…Unless she wins.

No. She’s not going to win because you’re going to win. You have no choice.

Right. No choice. Of course.

You move your hand and press it to the wall, feeling around for another lightswitch. As soon as you find it, you figure the quick-flick method could work again. She’s less likely to see it since the closet is facing away from the entrance and it will only be for a second. Yeah, just a second. Yeah… just a second. Or two.

Click.

One.

Two.

And it’s off.

You scanned as quickly as you could, trying hard not to get stuck on the many beautiful garments that lined the hangers on all sides. A very tall full-body mirror, lined in a golden frame, leaned against the far left wall, and there was a big white poof in the center of the room, and once you look up, taking only a millisecond, you see- ah.

In the short amount of time that you have to look, you spot a shelf that runs around the entire perimeter of the room. It’s just above the hangers, separating the clothing from the space above it. There’s things on the shelf- shirts, pants, and even a few handbags, but the smile that spreads onto your face only grows at the sight.

If you find a way to get up there, then the game is yours. Yours completely. You can win without a doubt.

The cards are on the table. Take the money, lamb. Take it now.

—

You’re nowhere here and she’s starting to get frustrated.

Her sweet girl couldn’t have gone far. You don’t know all of the access points to the roof; and it’s hard to go out into the woods - especially when it’s raining. And uncomfortable. And cold. You wouldn’t be that silly. And she knows that you know that she’d check the Nightshade Library. So you wouldn’t hide there. And the children’s dorms…. Well she hopes you know better than to covet yourself within their private spaces. Yes, that was a line neither of you would cross.

So where else was there to go?

Where else was there to sneak away to? What other place could you possibly dare to-

…….oh.

She stops in the middle of the corridor.

Oh.

Oh darling.

Oh lamb.

You’re where you’re not supposed to be, aren’t you?

Clever. So clever.

Always running right beneath her nose. Just out of sight. Waiting for her to get impatient and snatch you up.

She continues forward, remembering a notch in a nearby wall that triggers an entrance to the stone labyrinth that rests within Nevermore’s hallowed halls. The students don’t know of it. The staff doesn’t know of it. There's joy found in the most hidden thing. Her school, her secrets. Her game, her rules. Her advantage. She will win.

The path opens. The door slides closed. The torches light themselves.

Dearest lamb… sweetest lamb… you were tense with worry and intrigue when she last saw you. Dashing off into the beauty of her home, only to wind up within the epicenter of everything you’ve come to find is most harmful. Most complex. Most toxic. But humans have never been very good at taking care of themselves. So close to wires, to bleach, to the rot of the universe that they die from their own silly mistakes on the daily. And there you are, her darling lamb, running head first into danger. Don’t you know you’re not supposed to. But honestly, if anyone were to ask, Larissa would say she didn’t mind. And she doesn’t. Of course it’s no surprise that you don’t believe her words. That you don’t think she’s capable of ‘giving it up’. And she’s not. She isn’t. But you don’t have to know that. She’ll leave you in suspense, and when the moment is right, she will win.

It will hurt to see your shock. And your pain. But it must be dealt with, no? You agreed to her terms - and so you will face the consequences.

Sweet loon… why do you punish yourself for your own desires?

—

How the fuck are you gonna make it up there?

You’ve tried jumping, reaching, grasping - all with no result. To be fair, the shelf is very high. But it seemed sturdy when you saw it earlier. And if you got onto your hands and knees, you could most likely make it. Unless the time runs out.

You’re too nervous to feel your way back into the kitchen just to get a glance at the clock so you resort to flicking the light back on in the tiniest intervals. It doesn’t really help but it, at least, finally, tells you that there’s a ladder in the closet. Standing against the far right corner, hidden in the shadows, is a step stool with quite a few levels.

Seems even the tallest of cannibals need a little help reaching their designer bags.

You peel it away from the wall slowly, holding it tight, and move backward in the dark. There’s no ideal place to put it, but you figure the farther away from the door the better. Just in case she finds you out, she probably won’t notice the ladder so far into the back of the closet. So you keep it near where you found it and take the steps one at a time.

The only sounds in existence are your breathing, the shift of your clothing, and the steps creaking as you go up. And up. And up. And finally- there. You reach out with one hand and touch the side of the shelf. Just as you figured, it’s made out of some weird reinforced wood. There’s barely a noise made when you push some more of your weight onto your hand.

Getting up will be difficult with a hurt shoulder (it still makes you wince to move it), but you really have no choice. You can practically feel the clock as it runs closer and closer to the bottom of the wire. What happens when it hits the very end? Who knows. Maybe the bell will stop tolling. Maybe you’ll be caught. Maybe it’ll be a tie. What happens then? If neither of you win and neither of you lose? Will Larissa give it up and you will have to eat dinner with her anyway? Or will nothing happen? Or will nothing change? Or will it always be like this? Running and hiding and running and hiding… no end in sight? No happy ending? Not even a glimpse of one? What’s the point of it, then? What’s the point in continuing your little song and dance? Will the pain of it all ever really be worth it? Will any of it matter in the end?

You pause, lingering on the top step of the ladder.

Are you going to live through this vicious cycle until the bitter finale? Until you’ve had enough? What even constitutes enough? What is your breaking point? Why haven’t you broken already? Why haven’t you shattered? Why haven’t you told the police?

She’s going to make you eat human meat if she wins.

And if you win, somehow someway, there’s just no way to hold her to her word. There’s no way to trust her. An addict can’t just quit cold turkey. A poor fiend can’t stop stealing out of the blue. That’s not how it works. A hungry predator doesn’t stop stalking prey because it decides it’s wrong.

She’s just another animal killing one of her own. What’s so terrible about that?

What’s so terrible about learning to deal with it?

Why can’t you accept it?

Why are you making a mountain out of a molehill? Why are you freaking out about the cycle of life? It’s just a little death. It’s just a little hunger. Why can’t you love her freely? For who she is? Why does there have to be perfection for you? Why do you set the bar so high? She’s everything, you know. She’s successful, she’s intelligent, she’s amusing and humorous, she’s charming, and handsome, and she could give you the world. And somehow, the best thing is, she thinks you’re worth the world.

Why?

No one knows.

Why does the wolf kill the lamb?

It’s hungry.

Does the lamb know that?

No.

The lamb just thinks it’s being killed for merely existing. Like eradicating a pest. Except they’re the pest. And so they must be eaten.

That’s how it goes.

Why?

No one knows.

Why does the bell stop tolling?

Oh don’t be silly.

It doesn’t.

It just keeps ringing. Ringing. Ringing. Ringing. Ringing. Ringing. Ringing. Ringing. Ringing. Ringing. Ringing. Ringing. Ringing. Ringing. Ringing. Ringing. Ringing. Ringing. Ringing. Ringing. Ringin-

Footsteps.

Outside the door.

Down the hall.

Footsteps.

Footsteps...

Running?

«——..✞..——»

Okay I quite liked how I did this lol. Probably one or two more parts for this little series type thingy. Let me know what you think? Thank you my darlings. - Rip x

«——..✞..——»

Tags (Keep in mind Tumblr won’t let me tag certain accounts):

@kaymariesworld @bloommushroom @readingtheentrails @thegoddamnfeels @theonefairygodmother @theflashesoflove @sweetderacine @gwensfreak @shyladyfan @sunnyanon @emilynissangtr @sugipla @deongocrazy @nocteangelus15 @azu-zu @hopelessly-sapphic @enchantressb @syrenacrainn @im-a-carnivorous-plant @willowshadenox @aemilia19 @scarlettssub @ladysdraga @willisnotmental @gela123 @zillahofviolets-bayolet @the-bearr @amateurwritescm @alex-nyx @alexusonfire @h-doodles @weemssapphic

[rippersz]

𝘐𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘠𝘖𝘜.

«——..✞..——»

«——..✞..——»

(DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT) (TW: Mentions of cannibalism, murder, slight glorification of both; gore, toxic love, smutty/suggestive themes, etc.) (Larissa Weems x Fem!Reader)

«——..✞..——»

"I’ll be your slaughterhouse, your killing floor, your morgue and final resting," ~ Richard Siken

«——..✞..——»

It was an accident.

It was all an accident.

Wrong time, wrong place, wrong moment.

Why were you awake?

What were you looking for?

Was it her?

Was it something else?

Were you out of bed because you had a feeling?

Was the bell tolling for you even in your sleep? Could you hear the echo?

Was her silence too loud?

You turned the corner.

Why did you turn the corner?

She was so close to safety.

Too slow, in the end.

Too slow too slow too slow.

And you were too fast too fast too fast. Too inquisitive. Too smart for your own good.

Draped in the darkest grey of a hooded designer coat. Gloved hands holding bags. Red plastic and squishing softness. The handle of a pocketknife tucked between white teeth. No heels, but black boots. Careful not to track mud.

There was no mistaking it.

There was no mistaking her.

Tall, intimidating, curved and sleek. Disappearing into the night without a peep, only to come back past the devil’s hour and get caught.

Years of secrecy.

And to think it was all ruined by you.

You. Her limbo. Her undoing or her reaffirming supporter. Her end or her beginning. The in-between of her life. The connecting thread, so thin, so weak, that ties the two aspects of her existence together. The hungry and the satiated. The mask and the actor. The figure in the dark and the hero in the light. Trusted and feared. Loved and bewared. You, who had captured her eye the very moment she saw you all that time ago. You, who stood in her presence and commanded all of her attention and looked her in the face with no fear at all.

You, who only felt the fear after you turned the corner.

‘No, not you’, was her first thought. ‘No, please, let it be someone else. Let it be someone palatable.’

But no.

No no, little bell.

There you stood, hands limp at your sides, watching Larissa open the door to her quarters with a small golden key. Not trembling from the rush of the kill. Not breathing heavily from the long walk back. Not even bothering to slow her steps as she comes to a stop before her door.

Calm, instead; and swimming in a sea of only thought and anticipation for how the future meal would taste.

One does, after all, burn quite a few calories after chasing a rabbit through the woods.

She was hungry.

And you couldn’t sleep.

And in a fucked turn of events, her desire to romance you into love had melted into a necessary evil. Of course she could just kill you, but what a regret that would be. Not seeing your pretty little face each day… not hearing the sweet tones of your voice… not knowing the way you laugh… oh what a mistake it would be to taste your liver. And she probably wouldn’t enjoy it anyway. She never enjoyed the ones she cared about. Strangers were preferred. Strangers that would never be tied back to her because - my oh my why would anyone like Principal Weems ever kill somebody? How could anyone ever dare think that? When would she even have the time? And no woman could shoulder the emotional weight of murder! And cannibalism?! Oh perish the thought! No, Larissa Weems wouldn’t hurt a fly. She’s an amazing woman; she’s helped my kids so much. Oh, Principal Weems? No, that woman is an angel. She’s really good with the teens, younger and older; gets along with everyone too. And she’s a great colleague! There’s no reason to suspect her. Because she can’t kill anyone. She doesn’t have the heart. Doesn’t have the guts. She’d cry and cry and cry her way home, bending beneath the horror of her actions.

She doesn’t have it in her.

Whatever ‘it’ was.

Whatever ‘it’ is.

No. She didn’t have it in her.

She had something else in her.

A bell. An alarm. An innate sense of disguise, of self, of shadow. A mind 20 steps ahead at all times. A heart that never stopped beating. Breath that never skipped. Hands that never shook.

Unless you were around.

Then the human sank forward and suddenly she found herself falling behind, skipping beats, skipping breaths, and shaking.

And what, above all else, was so special about you?

Hm? What was so special about sweet darling beautiful you? Was it your own intelligence? Was it your own knowledge? Your own creativity? Was it your ability to be effortlessly funny? Was it the way you looked at her, sarcastic and cold and frightened and lustful? Was that it?

Or was it because you knew?

You knew.

You know.

You saw.

She waited for so long- days, weeks- sitting around, walking around, breathing and going about her life, waiting for everything to come crashing down. Waiting for the police to walk up to her door, demanding an inspection. They wouldn’t find anything, no, but that didn’t matter. They’d keep it all on record. So if anything did happen in the future, and she slipped up, her head would be on the chopping block - instead of one of her victims.

But the police never showed. And nothing ever changed. And the only shift in her life was you - but even that was slight and even that was small and even that was enough to make her feel reinvigorated. Because you knew… and yet you didn’t tell anyone. Why didn’t you tell anyone? She asks herself that constantly. Why haven’t you said anything? She’s teased you, frightened you, lured you in, put people on your plate, and you have yet to bolt up from the seat in her office and fly out into Jericho, screaming bloody murder. She’s most likely killed a person you saw once in passing; watched the light fade from their eyes, their breath dissipate in one last exhale, their heart slow to a complete stop. She’s ripped out insides, rearranged them, memorized their places, tasted them and enjoyed them. She’s done the most horrific things a human or non-human can do to its own kind, and you know this, and you haven’t called for help.

Perhaps you should just be honest with yourself, lamb.

Perhaps you should just say it. It will make things easier. You can cut through the tension and get over all the bullshit.

You want her.

Don’t you?

You want her just as much as she wants you.

You saw her that night after turning the corner and you knew. You felt it.

Something changed.

You want her protection. You want her passion. You want her love.

One could even say you are hungry for it.

–

By the time Larissa reaches the top of the stone steps, feet cold and heart thumping in anticipation, the minutes she has left have dwindled. It was a long trek through the halls to her quarters and once the secret wall on the other end slides into place behind her, she flicks up a beautiful slim wrist again and nearly chokes on her own breath.

“What on Earth?”

2 minutes?!

She has 2 minutes?!

Not a chance she spent that long cloaked in the dark of the Nevermore passages. There’s no way…

But her eyes don’t deceive her. Even after the few times she blinks, caught by utter surprise.

No. The clock reads 2 minutes. 2 minutes decreasing.

“Right,” she nods and huffs, suddenly and so thoroughly pissed off.

2 minutes. Fine. If she had 2 minutes, she’d do something with it. No predator waits for their lamb. You’re hers anyway.

You’re hers and that’s that. 2 minutes or not. That’s how it is.

And she’s gone too long without seeing your face this evening. Time to find you, her sweet darling. Time to win.

–

Her legs slide into a strut as she makes her way down the hall. Chafing, she finds, is a complete bitch. But she’ll bear it of course. For you.

You, who are so keen on pushing lines and breaking rules. Thinking you’ve outsmarted her. Hiding yourself away somewhere in her quarters.

Or so she hopes.

Really, there’s no way of knowing. You could be anywhere else actually. In a bathroom somewhere maybe - or a closet, shoving yourself into the shadows with a hand clasped tight over your pretty little mouth. Even in the main hall… celebrating your victory as she takes herself to her own bedroom, hoping to the gods that you’re there.

She wishes, of course, that you could walk into her bedroom under better circumstances. Circumstances in which you’re less frightened, and not so full of anxiety. Circumstances in which you’re smiley and giggly and happy to be in her company and not worried about if she’ll eat you or not - which she won’t. Ever. As she’s already told herself.

But you don’t know that. And you’re in her room, maybe, shaking with the fear of when she finds you. Even though, at the heart of things, she’s not sure if she has it in herself to stick to the rules of the game.

Can they be changed?

It’s the one thing she wonders about as she gets closer and closer - speed eventually picking up into a jog as she looks down at her watch and sees that it’s ticked over to 1 minute. 1 minute. 1 minute.

Can the rules be changed?

The outcome maybe?

50 seconds.

Her feet begin to pound against the stone. They’re cold - they nip at her bare heels - but none of it registers.

40 seconds.

She needs to take a left then a right.

A left then a right.

A left…

45 seconds.

Then a right…

30 seconds.

–

BANG.

Silence.

Footsteps.

You barely have time to hold in your gasp- barely have time to breathe through your panic- no time at all to duck into shadow and hide- because she’s already there.

In the doorway. Outlined by a muted light.

Out of breath, but victorious.

“I found you,” Larissa huffs, shoulders falling up and down in the most mesmerizing rhythm.

Up… down… chest moving with the weight of her lungs as she catches her breath.

So she was running.

Since when does the bell run instead of toll?

“I know.”

It’s all you can think to say.

Double checking the time doesn’t even fade across your thoughts. Making an effort to dash past her somehow never even touches the corners of your mind. The bell has run and the game has ended and you have lost - just as you somehow knew you always would. Because what else would the universe have you do? Win? No. No, the lambs never win. That’s just not how it goes. And when a phone begins to beep somewhere- a small silent beep beep beep beep beep in the next few seconds- you know that doubting your loss will lead to nothing. She has won. And you have failed. And now you will have no choice but to consume one of your own. Another lamb that could never beat the wolf. Never smart enough. Never fast enough. Never good enough.

“10 seconds to spare,” comes her dulcet murmur.

You nod, numb to the truth of it all.

10 seconds to spare.

If only the bell walked.

If only you were smarter.

If only you were better.

If only you were good enough.

Silence blankets the two of you. The only thing that speaks are the breaths from each of your throats, pouring into the still perfumed air of Larissa’s closet.

From an outside perspective, one would think that a chase like that, a game so neck and neck, would end on the most explosive of notes. The biggest catch, so to speak. The climax of it all. One would think that with everything on the line, with a livelihood wagered and morals placed on the table, the finale would be something memorable and great and probably terrifying and macabre.

The be all end all for games of wolves and lambs and bells and prey.

But great climaxes don’t happen in real life. And the feeling of your heart in your throat is uncomfortably genuine. And though you’d like to have the balls to tell Larissa to go fuck herself and shove her cannibalism where the sun don’t shine and flee off down the hall past Nevermore’s doors to the Jericho police station, you just don’t. You don’t have the balls, the courage, the energy.

In the face of Larissa’s success, your body’s given up.

Months of trying to keep in stride with her, but it never works. You never feel like the control you have is actually yours. She is just too good. Too good at making you feel special. Too good at capturing your attention. Too good at being a woman of her word and making you feel comfortable even when you feel uncomfortable - and too good at making you love her.

But.

But really.

How can you love a woman who will feed you the thigh of a man?

How can you love someone like that?

How can you want someone like that?

Truly. Honestly.

What is wrong with you?

Why do you want, even now, to grasp her shoulders and pull her close and kiss her senseless? Why do you want her to lead you to her bed? Why do you want to drown in her passion?

Why do you love her so much?

Why do you love her so much?

Why do you love her so much?

Why do you love her so much?

WHY DO YOU LOVE HER SO MUCH?

WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!

A person can’t be heard screaming in space.

All calls for help don’t matter there.

And we ask ourselves: what is the human psyche if not a universe?

What is the mind if not a vast unfathomable thing?

One in which we cannot hear each other’s screams? One in which we do not care enough to hear?

The cries for aid are internal for a reason. They reverberate through time and bones and blood and viscera and space and everything.

So Larissa cannot hear you.

All she can do is watch. And see you unravel. And hear your muted sniffles in the dark as tears well up in the hot of your eyes. Eager to fall. To release. To plead a case to a woman who has been the source of judgment for so long. To beg in the face of danger.

“I don’t want- I-” you choke on your words.

“…I don’t want to eat human.” Your voice is far away. Soft. Defeated.

“Please,” and only now do you return to the moment - blinking at her through the haze of your tears and the midnight of dark, “please don’t make me.”

Your heart, a tad late on the delay, seems to realize now the extent of everything. You have lost. And now you must face the consequences. And give into her wishes. And ruin everything for yourself.

For the rest of your life.

To eat… that… would be to say ‘this has gone too far.’ It would be to say ‘You are making me do this because of a silly stupid game and for that, I can no longer love you.’ Because eating one’s own kind is only seen in some animals - and you are no some animal. You are no hungry beast. You are no curious soul that is unable to admit the truth to themself.

You are just a woman. A woman who does not want to stop loving, even though the love feels more like rot.

Even though the love feels more like pain.

“Please. Please don’t make me.”

And the tears only fall faster, racing down your cheeks in the same rhythm as your heart’s beat. On and on and on and on. Even as Larissa mumbles your name and flicks on the closet light, rushing forward at the smallest sight of your wet face. Flushed from tears, crumpled with sadness and self-loathing and the undeniable feeling of being lost. So lost. So out of place.

And you don’t even question the whole power situation - how Larissa’s room has power while the rest of Nevermore doesn’t. Or seemingly doesn’t. It would be like Larissa Weems to ‘fake’ a power outage for the sake of raising the stakes and winning the game. Just another reason why she’s fucked up and you shouldn’t love her and yet-

“Shhh shhh, you’re okay. You’re okay.” Her soft accented voice in your ear and warm breath against your temple, speaking the sweetest reassurances as you tuck your face into your open palms and weep into the clammy skin of your hands. Her body presses against yours and her arms go winding around your waist as soon as she realizes that your legs are slowly buckling - simply unable to hold up the heavy weight of your heart.

“It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.”

But you don’t know how you can believe her. Even as she sits down next to you, both of you on your knees, pressed to the cream carpet in the middle of the walk-in closet with your head slowly falling to the side. Resting against her chest. Seeking solace in the very thing that frightens you and seduces you and restrains you and frees you and knows you and loves you and needs you and is somehow comforting you while you cry about her cannibalism.

It’s sickening.

But it’s what you need.

And when warm tears fall into your hair and are smushed along your temple, you realize that Larissa needs it too.

Not the comfort or the vulnerability or the release, but the shared feeling of otherness. The realization that neither of you are alone in your secret. A secret you never asked to know and a secret Larissa never wished to tell. And yet here you are. Knowing and telling and sharing and keeping. Keeping it between just the two of you. Like Romeo and Juliet against the world. Twisted souls with a depraved lust and desire for each other- in the heart and in the flesh.

But Romeo and Juliet is romantic.

And you two are just sad.

And damned.

And leaning on each other still, silently weeping while mindless words spill out of Larissa’s lips.

“I won’t,” she rasps, “I won’t make you. You don’t have to. I promise. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t- this wasn’t- I’m sorry. Please. Believe me. You have to believe me. I’m so sorry.”

But she’s not sorry about eating people.

She’s just sorry you found out.

She’s just sorry you saw who she really was. Is.

She’s just sorry you love a version of herself that isn’t the woman she wants to be.

Still Larissa Weems, but someone different.

Still Larissa Weems, but a murderer.

Blood on her hands. As red as her lipstick.

“I’m sorry. You don’t have to. I’d never make you. I swear it.”

And she cries as she speaks, the length of her throat clogged with guilt and tears and sorrow. A million apologies for a million offenses. One right after the other that somehow fills the void in your heart and stitches up the horrendous wounds in your mind. Keeping you bloated on apologies.

The only difference being that she means them.

You can tell.

And when she says she’d never make you, pushing it out of her lungs in the way she does, sobbing it into the softness of your neck, you believe her. She wouldn’t let a single piece of long pork touch your tongue and she wouldn’t serve you something you don’t want to eat. No woman in love would do such a thing. And so she clutches you closer and whispers it over and over again.

“I won’t I won’t I won’t I won’t you don’t have to I’m so sorry I’m so sorry-”

Until you’re both exhausted and you find enough breath needed to take your hands away from your eyes and wipe your snot and tears on the skin of your forearm.

“I know,” you finally speak, crackly and pathetic. “I know.”

Larissa sniffles and nods but doesn’t stop her weeping - and her hands only bring you closer. As close as you can get. Molded to her body, tangled up with her on the floor, finding your arms returning the desperate hug and sliding around her midsection to hold her close too. Like a lifeline.

Like a lifeline.

«——..✞..——»

Smiles nervously. - Rip x

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Tags (Plz keep in mind Tumblr doesn't let me tag some accounts): @kaymariesworld @bloommushroom @readingtheentrails @thegoddamnfeels @theonefairygodmother @theflashesoflove @sweetderacine @gwensfreak @shyladyfan @sunnyanon @emilynissangtr @sugipla @deongocrazy @nocteangelus15 @azu-zu @hopelessly-sapphic @enchantressb @syrenacrainn @im-a-carnivorous-plant @willowshadenox @aemilia19 @scarlettssub @ladysdraga @willisnotmental @gela123 @zillahofviolets-bayolet @the-bearr @amateurwritescm @alex-nyx @h-doodles @weemssapphic

[rippersz]

The meat is cold.

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«——..✞..——»

(DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT) (Mentions of cannibalism, murder, slight glorification of both, etc.) (Larissa Weems x Reader oneshot)

«——..✞..——»

“She eats the hearts first, before they go bad— as all hearts will.” ~ Jessica D. Thompson

«——..✞..——»

“Are you going to eat me?”

You’ve asked her before but you repeat yourself anyway.

Larissa blinks. Long and slow. Sizing you up. Running her blue eyes over the length of your arms and stretch of your legs. Something flickers there. You briefly wonder if she’s questioning how fast you can run. You briefly wonder if she’s salivating over the thought of catching you.

“I didn’t plan on it, but now that I look at you closely, I think you want me to.”

You swallow.

She’s wrong, of course. She’s wrong. It’s just her own delusions. She thinks and perceives what she wants to think and perceive. Truth does not matter to a liar. The sweat on your palms says it all.

“I don’t.” Your voice is firm, but somehow it doesn’t feel like enough. Somehow it feels like-

“I don’t believe you.”

-like she won’t believe you.

“Why not?”

A weird heated pleasure fills you at the sight of her smirk. Red, curling, slight, full of undeniable mirth. She really does find you funny. She really does enjoy your time together; you’ve never doubted that.

But you should. You really should. You don’t want to be one of the sheep. You don’t want to play with the facade and finally accept her for what she is on the surface. You don’t want to know her as the school principal. You don’t want to die.

“Because you’re still here. And the door is unlocked.”

Yes. You knew that. She rarely locked it. Mainly because that wouldn’t be very professional, but also because she wanted to give others the option of leaving. Anxious or angry students, tired staff members, pleased parents… they could leave whenever they wished. You could leave whenever you wished. You could leave right now.

Then why aren’t you moving?

“Who is this?” You sniff, looking down at the plate in front of you, desperately trying to grasp for some control.

You agreed on dinner at some point. She took you up on it by surprise earlier that morning. The food, she said, was on her. The meal, cooked to perfection thanks to her skills, was supposed to be delicious. To anyone else, it would be. They’d have been nearly finished by now, praising her to the heavens and letting out little noises of appreciation. But you know what she is. And you know that you’ve never really been interested in eating people before.

“I don’t see why that matters,” is the smooth response you get - quickly followed by the clink of silverware and the cut of meat and the gentle hum of a woman satisfied. You can’t bring yourself to look up.

“…Did they deserve it?” You’re not sure of what else to ask - you just know that you don’t want to leave. You would never admit that out loud, never willingly, but it’s the truth. You are the killer’s favorite. You are safe. You are better than them.

“Doesn’t everyone deserve it at some point or another?” Her voice is light and airy- twinkling with a complete lack of care.

“No,” is your immediate sharp response. It sort of slips off of your tongue by accident, but when you look up to gauge her reaction, you’re surprised to see not even a hint of shock or anger. Instead, all that paints her eyes is intense recognition. Like she knew you’d say that. Like she knew you were a morally correct hero hiding a dark heart.

“No?” Her fork spears a piece of meat. ‘Sirloin,’ she’d said when you first sat down. Yeah, right. “Why do you say that?”

You fix her with a look. A very obvious look. A look with a tilt of your head. One that says ‘You and I aren’t the same Larissa, but you know exactly what I mean.’ One that says ‘Don’t ask questions you already know the answers to.’ One that says, secretly, ‘I don’t know. I just know that I’ve been told no good soul deserves death.’

Your mouth, on the other hand, says “Just because we all end up dying doesn’t mean we all deserve it. There are some amazing people out there that would have made the world better if they were still around.”

She seems to think over your serious response, rolling it around within her vast mind. While she formulates a suitable reply, her lips move with each chew of her steak - you try hard not to focus on that. When it comes to killers, good ones at least, there’s always that thing said about them: they’re charming; handsome or pretty; they’re alluring in a way that no “normal human” could be. Larissa Weems has never been the exception. She is no different. It can be disturbingly easy to get lost in the other things she has to offer. Like her beauty. Or her intelligence. Or the way her eye contact makes you feel like the most important, most recognizable, most wonderful thing in the entire world. You’d compare her to a drug but she is something worse than that. She is an aura. A feeling. She is something entirely different. You think it’s partly due to her outcast status. She’s not a ‘fur’ or a ‘fang’ or a ‘scale’ or a ‘stoner’. She’s not just regularly odd or eccentric. She’s not even mythical.

And yet?

And yet.

The very atoms in her body, the skin across her bones and veins and muscles, the makeup of her organs, can shift shape. Can adjust. The image is crafted in her mind and suddenly is mirrored onto her body. You’d never seen it in person, up close, but you know it’s true. You know it’s a wondrous thing to see. You know some sick desperate hungry part of you twists with the desire to watch her body become something entirely different. You know you want to see her in her element.

Whether it’s bloody or not.

“You either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain… I think that sums it up perfectly. The longer a person stays in good health, the more bitter they become. No one truly wants to live forever, Y/n. You know this…,” Larissa pauses, taking a moment to slip her long fingers under and around the belly of her wine glass so she can take a sip. You watch as her throat moves with a swallow. “…And those who go against nature and insist that they do want to live forever, that they’ll somehow find the world to be better as the years go on, well…,” blue eyes suddenly move to you, slicing into your gaze. “They’re liars, of course.”

Of course.

Liars. Of course.

You know it’s the truth.

You hate when she’s right.

You hate when she knows she’s right. There’s that playful little sign in her eyes, glowing with satisfaction, glowing like the cat who captured the mouse.

“I hate you.” It’s a small whisper. A little defeat. Another start to the same cycle. You indulge her, you meet with her, you keep her secret, you dip into your own psyche and pull out your weird fascination with her mind. You go at it until you find yourself becoming tired of thinking so much. Then you tell her you hate her. Or you yell at her. Or you storm out or slam the door or just fall silent and allow for the excitement to pitter out into nothing. But eventually, every time, at some point, you let it die.

Only to revive it again. Only to get lost, once more, in her beauty and allure. Her stupidly literal killer charm. Her strange instinctive ability to easily slip out of trouble and cover her tracks. Not that there were many tracks to cover in the first place. She’s very very good. Worryingly good. No one suspects a thing.

You could fix that, though.

You could put an end to her reign of terror.

You could say one word, provide one sample of one of her dinners, drop a hint or two, and she’d be placed behind bars faster than you could blink.

You could save so many people.

You can save so many people.

You can snatch up a piece of the cold meat on your plate, walk right out of her office, and race down to the Nevermore van. You can do it. You’re not terribly fast but adrenaline pushes the human limit. And though you’re not human- seeing as you can control fire- you’re not too keen on burning her alive. Such an act would probably result in Nevermore’s demise as well - and that would break your heart.

Would Larissa’s death break your heart?

You look up from your hands and study her face. There’s a sudden tiredness there. It’s small, minuscule, but the lines in her skin look deeper and the weariness in her gaze looks shinier and the mask, you realize, has slipped. She’s frowning- not a lot but just enough. And she’s not looking at you. Well, she is, but not into your eyes like she usually does. No, no, she’s staring at… at your chest. At your heart. You’re sure she doesn’t have X-ray vision but some part of you wonders if that’s what she’s trying so hard to see. Your pumping life. Your beating force. If it expands and contracts for her and her only… or if it breathes to destroy her. If any of her interest, her fascination, even matters in the first place. She’s never told you why you’re so special; so important; so cherished, but that doesn’t deter her from her advances. From her fluttered lashes or easy smiles or husky laughs or occasional indulging conversation. It’s not seduction at its finest, but stalking at its lowest. Like she’s watching you through the underbrush and you know she’s there and she knows that you know she’s there and you both stand still because maybe, by some miracle, if you don’t move, you can enjoy the silent attention of each other for just a little longer. Because you can’t help but think that maybe if she were more normal and more caring and didn’t enjoy the taste of long pork over the taste of regular pork, you’d be able to somehow fall in love with her. Start a life with her. And not have to worry about her waking up one day and deciding that she wants to prepare and plate your kidneys for supper.

Would Larissa’s death break your heart?

You hear her clear her throat. You watch as she takes another sip of wine. You see her hand shake. You see the appetite she once had perish on her tongue.

“I hate you,” you’d said.

Did you mean it?

Will you ever mean it?

Why are you doing this to yourself?

Why do you love her?

Why does she not see it?

“I know,” is Larissa’s final response. Something dies behind her eyes. “I know.”

And the cycle continues.

«——..✞..——»

A swift dive into some stranger fic topics. I figure if Larissa were to be a ‘baddie’, she’d be a cannibal. I may make this part of a little series of scenarios. Hope you’re all doing well. - Rip x

«——..✞..——»

[rippersz]

ℑ𝔫𝔢𝔡𝔦𝔟𝔩𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔡𝔦𝔰𝔤𝔲𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤

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«——..✞..——»

(DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT) (TW: Mentions of cannibalism, murder, slight glorification of both, gore, toxic love, smutty/suggestive themes, etc.) (Larissa Weems x Reader)

«——..✞..——»

"She was my darling: difficult, morose - But still my darling." ~ Vladimir Nabokov

«——..✞..——»

“I love you,” comes the soft murmur in your ear, sending goosebumps over your skin and lightning over your bones.

Her breath is ticklish - you can’t hold back the giggle that spills over your lips.

“I love you more.”

She chuckles and presses her cheek against your own.

“Never.”

“Oh never?”

A low hum. Red lips at your neck.

“Mmm… never.”

A smile tugs at your mouth.

Curious fingertips float over your waist, over your hips, over your breasts and shoulders.

“Never ever ever,” she whispers before bending closer and pressing delicious kisses to your flushed skin.

A sigh floats from your lips.

“Mmm I disagree.” Your eyes flutter closed, blocking out the warm glow of the world.

“And I disagree with your disagreement,” she chuckles, long arms tightening around your body. Keeping you still as her kisses become harder- determined to leave red prints on her darling.

Her sweet darling.

Her everything.

Her Y/n.

Her you.

Larissa’s body is facing the doors when you take your chance and run.

Darkness slopes over your body, preserving you, casting you and becoming your grave, as you dart off into the winding halls.

She hears your footsteps get further and further away.

Her lips part with each breath- with each number spoken as loudly as she can without yelling.

“… 13… 12… 11…”

Is she being too generous?

No.

No, she’s being just right.

It’s only fair, isn’t it?

Poor little lamb… not even sure where to go.

“… 10… 9… 8…”

Already, she misses you.

Where have you gone?

Where has your brilliant mind taken you?

And when will you return to her?

Will you return to her?

Yes.

Yes yes yes.

Return return return.

Come little lamb, return to your flock.

They miss you.

I miss you.

“… 7… 6… 5…”

A smirk bleeds onto red lips.

Excitement twirls in her - like a tired dancer unable to stop as the music continues. No end in sight. Only knowing one turn after the other. Only knowing winces and pain. Only knowing more more more.

“… 4… 3… 2…”

Oh lamb…

Insatiable.

Come out.

Hungry.

Come out.

Desperate.

Wherever you are…

“…1.”

A deep breath.

Clenched fists.

A swoop of the cool night air when she finally turns and greets the moonlight.

“Ready or not darling, here I come!”

–

Distantly, somewhere near the East Wing of the Academy, you hear her voice ring.

Ready or not darling, here I come…

The bell tolls for us all.

Your bell just so happens to be dressed in red - and fucking evil.

Terrifying, really.

Horrifying.

You can’t hear her footsteps but you know she’s moving. Skulking around in the shadows, hiding behind the corners. The game has just started but you anticipate her at every turn. Every turn that leads you deeper and deeper into a world you are suddenly wildly unfamiliar with. Nevermore in the harsh dark, as it seems, becomes a world completely unexplored. You’ve never been here before. Nothing seems right. The walls and floors look the same. They sound the same too. The cobblestone is loud. The brush of your clothing speaks too much. The air whispers.

It’s hopeless. She’s already found you. She knows where you are. Little fool. Silly little fool. There’s no point. You’re wearing yourself out.

But you’ve just started.

And you don’t wanna give up.

You don’t wanna lose.

You don’t wanna be hungry-

Click. Clack.

You bite your bottom lip hard to hold in a hiss.

“Damn these shoes!” You mouth to yourself in outrage, looking down at the black wedges on your feet.

They’re drawing her to you. Be smart. Fix it.

There’s an alcove.

You run for it, pressing your back against the curve, and take that moment to pull the things off of your body. It’s so quiet without the hum of technology - like static blooming within your ears - but you push through the dizzying silence and clutch your shoes to your chest. The floor is chilly beneath your bare feet, but you don’t notice it. It’s not important anyway. You’ve already stayed in that spot for too long. You have to get moving.

Okay. Wait- which way did you come from again? South? The corridor right in front of you? No no no. Maybe East? Closer to the forest’s edge? With the dark trees that cut out the moonlight and leave you in complete darkness? No. Maybe?

The still air tells you nothing.

You have no idea where she is.

Right behind you of course.

But that’s not possible. There’s a wall behind you - and it’s freezing, seeping through the fabric of your dress.

You have to get going.

You have to keep moving.

Run along now, little lamb. You hear the bell’s toll.

Swallowing the urge to let out a sigh, you turn to the right and begin your trek again.

The quicker you find a place to hide, the more at ease you’ll be. The game is not for her to chase you after all; she just needs to find you. And then keep you there. So technically speaking, if you manage to get away, that means she doesn’t win automatically. You just have to figure a place to covet that she won’t even think of. Which is difficult - considering she’s usually at least three steps ahead.

Not in this case though. She may be fast with those killer legs of hers, but it’ll take her some time to get around as well. And the kitten heels make a noise even louder than your wedges did. So maybe… maybe…

No. Best not to get too cocky. Don’t think so much about winning. Just think about hiding first.

There are so many places to go. Places she’s sure to check. Like your quarters. Like the faculty room. Like the gym. Like the cafeteria. Hell even the perimeter of the building or forest if she’s feeling desperate enough. Larissa didn’t place boundaries on the game area so you could go that far… but then getting outside without making a noise would be difficult. And sneaking inside, with dirt on your feet, would be even harder. There’s a few nooks and crannies you’re familiar with, including the Nightshade library, but no. No. She’ll look in those places too. The bathrooms aren’t sanitary, and the clocktower only has one entrance with a shit ton of stairs. Returning to the main hall would be suicide and sneaking into one of the dorm rooms would just be weird. She wouldn’t check there, though.

Or would she?

Well it depends. How smart does she think you are? And how well does she know you?

Well enough to know that you’d waste time questioning her.

Fuck.

You’ve always been indecisive but this is just pathetic. There’s no choice but to pick a place and stick to it.

But where could you go?

Where could you-

A flash of something gold sneaks into your vision as you whiz down the corridor. It’s slight, could even be a hallucination, but it catches your attention anyway and has you backing up as quick as you could.

‘Principal Weems’ glares back at you. Taunts you on the door.

Whenever you see it, the weird pang of discomfort you get in your heart puts a damper on your mood. It’s just a pity to know that she’s so fucking good at her job… while also being entirely bonkers. Well. Not entirely. You don’t actually know whether to classify her as a psychopath, sociopath, or neither. But then again, you aren’t qualified to do so in the first place. You only know the slightest differences… and she doesn’t fit the mold of a ‘mad woman’. She would, after all, die for any of the students that attend Nevermore. Hell, she’d probably die for you. She’s a soft woman at heart… but whoever she is when she’s hungry… well that’s different. That’s someone else. That’s a version of Larissa that you’re not sure you should feel honored about having met. But one you do feel honored about having met.

And that office held so many memories. It was the place you found out about her. Her and her hobbies. And then where you spent most of your time together. And grew. And bonded. And fell in l-

“Daaaaarling, where are you?”

It echoes, the bell.

It’s far, but it echoes. And if it echoes, it’s traveling. Getting closer. Closer.

You’re running out of time. Out of space. You run your tongue over the fronts of your teeth and you can already taste the lamb. It’s game-y. Meaty. Full of blood.

You’re moving before you can stop yourself.

The door handle is grasped, turned as slowly and quietly as possible, and then the door is pushed open with a creek. A small creek. And it’s only opened the tiniest bit. Barely even a few centimeters. A mere hint. A distraction. You nod to yourself, desperate for reassurance as you place one of your wedges near the door. It’s tipped onto its side; forgotten in a rush. Staged, obviously, but it’ll save you time if she bothers to stop and look.

If you were her, you wouldn’t take the risk that your prey weren’t there. What’s a minute or two spent exploring and uncovering? You can gain it back with increased speed. But it would still be a distraction.

I can make you think too, Larissa.

I can make you lose, too.

Where did her voice come from?

Was it behind you? Or the left? No, it was definitely the left… the way you came.

So you turn, one shoe in hand, and race down the other end of the hall. You can’t hear any footsteps. You can’t hear anything.

-

Larissa wasn’t a fool.

She’d slipped her feet out of her heels quite early on into the game. Once she figured the aesthetic came second to the satisfaction of winning quickly, she toed them off and left them near the entrance hall. At the very start of one corridor. Should you find them, or better yet- trip over them- then you’d know that the stakes were higher than ever.

Two could play at stealth.

But who had been hunting for longer?

The answer was obvious.

And the bell was feeling particularly wicked.

She’d eaten earlier. Harvested kidney with homemade potato salad and green beans with almonds and feta. A good meal, but the flavors didn’t melt into her tongue like they did when she’s with you. There’s just something about your eyes… hesitantly knocking into her lips, then her fingers, then the curve of her fork, then the meat on the other end. Fear flows through you, but there’s something else there as well. Something darker. The innate human curiosity. It enchants her. It grasps her.

She wants to explore it. She wants to explore you. She wants whatever you will give her.

Even if you will give her nothing.

She checks the doorknob to your chambers, entirely unsurprised to find it locked. She knows you, she knows she does, but a human is always capable of trickery. And you’re a smart woman. And she hates losing.

Even during her own Nevermore days, she hated it. Everything done with Morticia was easy. The Poe Cup. The fencing. The game of hide and seek where two players would go searching and the rest would hide. She won and she won and she won again. But during the times in which she was against Morticia… well then there were bent sabres and angry looks and the most infuriating hateful spews that fell out only under the hot water of a scalding shower.

Larissa was a force when she was furious. And her roommate knew that. She knew of the things that lurked. Larissa never scared her, not truly, but there were times where she wondered… times where the platinum blonde looked over at her roommate and saw the desire in her eyes to shift away. To put some space there. To run but never for help. To run just for the sake of running. To escape the fact that maybe- maybe- she birthed some of the darkness that lived in Larissa. Morticia never encouraged, no, but she never stopped it either. And so when she noticed her roommate’s sudden interest in the culinary arts… she didn’t question why she returned to the dorm late. Or why she spent so much time painting her nails. Or why she had a phase in which she wore headwraps and fashionable hoods and darker greys more often than she did the lighter colors. She didn’t question it at all. Not even when Jericho started booming with missing persons reports. And not even when one of Larissa’s favorite pair of white heels mysteriously disappeared after one evening out on the town.

Because there was nothing to ask. There was nothing to question.

She knew.

She knew.

And now you did as well.

So would she lose to you?

No.

No, she wouldn’t.

She’d never lose you.

You were too precious to let go. Too dear to her. Held in her clutches. Caressed by her strong fingers. Hers. Hers hers hers hers hers hers mine.

A creek caught her attention.

Crimson lips traced into a smirk.

Sweet lamb…

Your time is running out.

«——..✞..——»

Welp. -Rip x

«——..✞..——»

Tags (keep in mind Tumblr won't let me tag certain accounts):

@kaymariesworld @bloommushroom @readingtheentrails @thegoddamnfeels @theonefairygodmother @theflashesoflove @sweetderacine @gwensfreak @shyladyfan @sunnyanon @emilynissangtr @sugipla @deongocrazy @nocteangelus15 @azu-zu @hopelessly-sapphic @enchantressb @syrenacrainn @im-a-carnivorous-plant @willowshadenox @aemilia19 @scarlettssub @ladysdraga @willisnotmental @gela123 @zillahofviolets-bayolet @the-bearr @amateurwritescm @alex-nyx @alexusonfire @h-doodles

[rippersz]

𝕴𝖙’𝖘 𝖗𝖔𝖙𝖙𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖙𝖔𝖔.

«——..✞..——»

«——..✞..——»

(DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT) (TW: Mentions of cannibalism, murder, slight glorification of both, gore, toxic love, smutty/suggestive themes, etc.) (Larissa Weems x Reader)

«——..✞..——»

“The blood on my teeth begins to taste like a poem, like religion, like the way you look at me.” ~ Sean Glatch

«——..✞..——»

Turns out, the maintenance crew was due to leave only about two hours after everyone vacated Nevermore to go to the carnival. The only catch was that Larissa had to turn it back on five hours later; some inane thing about a system catch up and not wanting to blow the lights and blah blah blah. She didn’t really seem too concerned, so you figured it wasn’t worth worrying about. Though then again, her level of reaction is often exaggerated around others. A smooth coverup to her consistent undertone of intense apathy. She’s a damn good actress, you have to give her that. Even when around you, she puts a bit more life into her eyes. Into her voice. Into her breath. It’s forced, of course. Yeah. Most definitely. She doesn’t just magically feel more alive because of you. That type of thing doesn’t happen in real life.

…Cannibals, on the other hand, happen far more often than people like to think.

If you could go back in time and tell your younger self that you’d somehow fall into a weird pseudo-psychotic-relationship with your one day shape-shifting cannibalistic gorgeous boss, you’re pretty sure your younger self would just burst into tears. Or blink maybe- and ask what a ‘cannibal’ was. You wouldn’t have an answer, of course, but that’s neither here nor there.

What’s more important anyway is the fact that you stupidly agreed to meet Larissa by Nevermore’s main entrance at exactly 9:45. You were exhausted after a day of rowdy teenagers and slow classes and it was only at about 7 PM when you remembered that your day wasn’t even over yet. Oh no no no. You still had a game to play. A game that, now as you think of it, standing by the two big doors and waiting for the guest of honor, may just go on well into the night. It depends on how Larissa’s feeling. It depends on what the ‘terms’ are. It depends on if she’s eaten dinner yet and if she has the energy to kill, cook, and clean before everyone gets back.

God you hope that’s not the case.

You really really hope-

“Always on time, I see,” a familiar voice rings through the hall, sounding from the top of the staircase.

Speaking of the fucking thorn in your side.

You turn at the exact moment that Larissa’s kitten heels start click-clacking their way down the stairs… and then promptly fall short of breath at the sight.

You haven’t seen her all day. Not even once. And now there she stands, all 6 feet and however many inches in those shoes and she’s painted against the moonlight that shines through the large windows behind her and the shadows drink her in as the air loses itself in her beauty, stealing away into her lungs and depriving you of oxygen and you, not for the first time, find yourself wondering why it’s so hard to just accept her. To just come to terms with the fact that maybe, if you ignore her insatiable appetite, you may be able to fall asleep in her arms and kiss her peacefully without feeling shame. Why can’t you just push guilt aside and fall into her body and let her pick you up and surround you and finally feel safe? And why oh why can you not take your fucking eyes off of her goddamn body? Jesus you are barely holding yourself together as she drags one slender hand down the bannister, making eye contact with you as she prowls. Those crystal eyes take on a dark, nearly black hue in the grey of the evening and you find yourself ashamed of the fact that you can’t look away from them.

Perhaps some sins are meant to be indulged in.

Her crimson lips curl into a placating close-mouthed smile. Her skin and hair are as pale and pristine as ever. Her perfume, as she gets closer, is heavier- spicier- but the intoxication of scent is the least of your worries. Oh no; the thing you’re most concerned about is the dress. Never have you ever seen her wear red. Not in your five and a half years of working at Nevermore. Not even in your dreams. Larissa doesn’t touch deep colors. She doesn’t wear the darker shades.

And yet?

Yet, there she is. Torturing you. Wrapping her long slim fingers around your attention span and taking all of it for herself. ‘Mine,’ is what she’s silently saying as she gives her hips some extra sway and shows off the loose sash around her waist. The dress reveals the curve of her calves and the tiniest bit of her thighs and suddenly you come to the (stupid) realization that she’s not wearing any stockings. Which she always wears. Which somehow, the absence of, makes your brain short-circuit and recalculate.

“Thank you for meeting me.” And before you even know it, there the Big Bad stands - hands clasped at her waist and head tilted to the side, looking like the cat who did not only catch the canary but also skinned, filleted, and served the little fucker up on a silver platter.

You feel the need to glare at her, to curse her for her beauty and her allure, but you simply can’t muster up the energy to do so. You’re tired- and your emotions are frayed- and you just want to rest- but clearly someone doesn’t want you to be at peace just yet. No, clearly, she wants you all to herself for just a little while. You’re not sure why, you’ve contemplated it before, but dwelling on anything regarding Larissa Weems is a spiraling whirl of insanity and despair that you just don’t wanna go down right now. So it’s better to stay in the present… and give her a little hum while you cross your arms. If she’s noticed that you take on such a defensive stance whenever she’s around, she hasn’t said anything. And she probably won’t either. Cuz she doesn’t care.

“Yup. Are we gonna get this over with or what?” It comes out harsher than you want it to, forcing your organs to immediately crinkle up like smashed paper as you cringe at your sharp tone.

Larissa fairs no better as her expression falls and her lips twist into a frown. The lines of her face become deeper when she looks so depressed, like she hasn’t slept in 80 years. You want so terribly to tell her to suck it up and stop acting like a baby, but you also know that her excitement about fun and friendliness is not a thing she fakes. The Poe Cup excites her. The Nevermore dances and activities and Outreach Day and this, that, and the other all bring her some modicum of joy. The kids themselves make her happy. It’s weird to know a person who has killed another human being and enjoyed the taste of their flesh… while also finding happiness in the simple annual events of their job. Like she has an alter ego; but you know that’s not the case. She’s 100% herself. Which is both admirable and scary.

“If you don’t want to,” Larissa hisses, making you freeze at the sound of undeniable ice in her tone, “then don’t make me force you. Go to bed, if you so wish. I’m not going to keep you against your will.”

Like a monster. She doesn’t say it, but you think that maybe she’s thinking it.

And though you want to respond and say But you are a monster. You have kept people against their will before. You have killed before. you decide to steer the conversation to safer shores and get yourself out of harm's way. Larissa doesn’t often get serious with you, but whenever she does it, you know better than to push her buttons. Certain boundaries have not yet been established. You never know if you are safe.

“Sorry- sorry. I’m just tired. Really, I’m fine. Let’s play and then we can get some rest. That sound okay?”

A dark gaze pins you to your spot, staring into the very marrow of your bones. It’s clear what she’s thinking. It’s clear what she knows. Like she knows you’re just agreeing to save your own hide. She knows you’re complying out of fear. She can’t hear your heartbeat, but she knows it’s running faster than a speeding train. She knows she’s shifted the line once again.

The only thing is that she really can’t bring herself to care.

You’ve complied. That’s all she needs.

“…Fine. Yes. Are you ready to discuss the terms?”

It’s obvious that the tension hasn’t dissipated entirely, but you figure that as the night carries on, that will change.

“Yeah, I’m ready.”

Who knows? It may even be fun.

Larissa smiles.

It’s wide.

It’s.. scary.

Sharp.

A Cheshire grin.

Cold. Steely. It doesn’t reach her eyes. You feel sweat start to bead along your back.

“In the name of saving time, there will be one round. I will seek. You will hide. We will have 45 minutes in total. However, you will get a 20 second head start. Should I manage to find and catch you in under 45 minutes, you’ll join me for dinner. The main course will be poached lamb. And you will be required to eat it.” There’s a pause.

“All of it.”

Okay not fun. DEFINITELY not fun. So incredibly not fun.

You swallow.

“…And if I win?”

Then what? Then what if you win? What the fuck do you get out of this? What could she possibly give y-

“Then I will give it up.”

…What?

You look at her wildly. But there’s no expression on her face. She’s just… blank. White behind the eyes. Nothing. Apathetic.

No.

No.

Practiced indifference.

She doesn’t think you can win.

She doesn’t even want to consider you winning.

But all is fair in love and cannibalism. And she’s never been one to tip the scales.

“I’m sorry, you’ll what?” You’re just not sure you’ve heard her correctly. She’ll ‘give it up’?

Larissa sighs, her lashes fluttering as she purses her lips and gives you a ‘look’.

“If you win, I’ll give it up.”

…And that’s it? That’s all she’s gonna give you?

“What do you even mean? Give up the whole killing people and eating them thing? The-” You look around, suddenly nervous about a creature somehow lurking in the shadows. One can never be too careful. Probably best that you don’t speak so loudly. “-the cannibalism?” Your body leans closer to her as you whisper, though your eyes stray and scan the shadowed columns and walls of the entrance hall.

Larissa of course takes that opportunity to get closer to you and bends down at the waist, lining her lips up to your ear while you’re distracted.

“Yes, darling. I’ll give up the cannibalism.” And her voice is so husky and her breath is so warm, flushed against the side of your neck, that you nearly fall right to your knees.

I’ll give up the cannibalism.

Oh you could laugh. You could laugh and you could laugh hard. She’s joking- she has to be. And you’re about to tell her that, you’re about to turn your head and tell her not to fuck around with you, but then your cheeks brush and suddenly you’re letting out an embarrassing squeak and stumbling back to hit the door behind you.

She blinks, straightens up, and smiles down at you as though nothing ever happened.

It’s infuriating.

“You’re lying. You wouldn’t do that.”

A light eyebrow quirks up.

“Wouldn’t I?”

A heavy staring contest ensues; but you’re the only one trying not to blink - Larissa is just looking. And smirking. And god fuck her for being so fucking gorgeous.

“I’m a woman of my word, Y/n,” she purrs, watching with such amusement as you desperately try to collect yourself and steer yourself back on track.

Not that the track was very clear nor sane in the first place. In fact, the track probably leads to Hell.

Oh well.

You were never getting through the pearly gates anyway.

“Okay,” you decide, looking her up and down. “If I win, you stop it. All of it. No more killing, eating, nothing. The only protein you consume comes from livestock. Not human livestock. Just- livestock.” You nod to yourself, giving her a firm stare.

But just because you reaffirmed what happens if you win doesn’t mean you will. And she knows that. So she hums and turns on one heel, taking her burning gaze away from you and sweeping it over the floors and walls- down into the darkness of the corridors. You don’t know what she’s thinking, but you have a feeling it’s not good. Larissa can be very sneaky when she wants to be… cheating, at least in a playful little game like the one you’ll be having, is certainly not below her. In fact, she’s entirely capable of winning. Like on a level you could not even imagine. She’s been around Nevermore for how long? Counting her years in the Academy as a student and as an adult… knowing her roommate used to be the cunning and sly Morticia Frump neé Addams… well. Her big sexy shapeshifter brain probably has the entire fucking place memorized.

And you haven’t even been there for six years.

So you’re saying you’re doomed.

Yeah. Basically.

“Yes,” Larissa finally confirms, turning back to you with a quick shift of her legs. “And if I win, you dine with me.” Oh she looks so excited about that. Her eyes, somehow, are darker than they were before. No light reflects at all as they carve into your soul. Already you can tell that she’s imagining how she’ll cook the meat.

“…Poached lamb, you said?”

She grins, her smile sudden like she’s surprised (and delighted) that you remembered.

“Yes. Would you like to know what other dishes I’ll be preparing?”

At the sound of her cheery tone, your expression sets into a scowl.

“You’re talking as if you’ve won already. What makes you think that’ll happen?”

Her physical response is minuscule. Barely even there. But you notice the slight way in which her cheek twitches; and you see how her hands tighten around each other. When she responds, her red lips are curved into a smirk and her voice is soft. Soft and kind. It sends a blaze of hot warmth across your body.

“I find acting as though you already have the thing you want tends to result in obtaining it.” Her head tilts. Her eyes run over your body. From your feet to your head, over the swaying black cotton dress you’re wearing and the necklaces you have draped over your collarbones. Slow and steady. Tracing your arms… your legs… your shoulders… your waist… your breasts and your hair… not hungry for your flesh in her stomach, but hungry for your skin against her tongue. Your skin against her lips. Your skin against her own. She lets out a sigh. “And I want you.”

It’s breathed out into the night - and accompanied by the sudden loud chime of Nevermore’s clock tower.

You jump at the sound of it, immediately slapping a hand over your heart in shock.

“Goddammit! That fucking thing gets me every time.” It’s definitely not the thing to be focusing on, but you’re not sure you have the mental capacity to pick through and understand the implications behind Larissa’s words. As it is, the change of the hour means you have even less time to play before the rest of the staff and the children return.

Larissa, of course, did not jump out of her bloody skin. Instead, she watched your body tense and your eyes widen with no small amount of fondness. She thought you were silly. Adorable. Hers.

“I suppose that’s our cue, then. Are you ready to begin?” Her white teeth glimmer when she turns to glance up at the staircase.

You feel your heart start to thump within your ears.

Always the little lamb, aren’t you darling?

Yes.

Always the prey.

Yes.

Meant to be hunted.

Yes.

Meant to be found.

Yes.

No.

Wait. …Meant to be found?

No...

No no no no no no.

Not meant to be found. Not meant to be found at all. The whole point is not to be found. The whole point is to escape.

Oh? What are you escaping from? There is no one here to hurt you. There is no one here to get you. You are safe. You are safe.

Oh if only that were true…

If only she could love you without wanting to swallow you whole.

You finally sigh, resigned and tired.

“As ready as I’ll ever be, Larissa.”

«——..✞..——»

Can you tell I’m hyperfixating on her? Thank you so much for the love. (Let’s just pretend Nevermore’s clocktower works. And the power being out will come into play in the next part ;)) - Rip x

(P.S. Tell me who you want to win in the game of hide and seek.)

(P.P.S. Most of the meat referenced in this series is code for human flesh. ‘Long pork’, for example, is the official name for human. Here, the ‘poached lamb’ and other types mentioned in future is also code. Thx.)

«——..✞..——»

[rippersz]

𝙇𝙤𝙤𝙠 𝙖𝙩 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙙𝙞𝙙.

«——..✞..——»

«——..✞..——»

(DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT) (TW: Mentions of cannibalism, murder, slight glorification of both, gore, etc.) (Larissa Weems x Reader)

«——..✞..——»

“Is that all you want to be? Liked? Wouldn’t you rather be passionately and voraciously desired?” ~ Margaret Atwood

«——..✞..——»

There’s something wrong with you.

There’s something definitely completely entirely seriously wrong with you.

She looks so pretty today.

Utterly irresistible.

You kind of want to kiss her. But she had lunch earlier. And you are in the middle of a staff meeting. And though she often brushes her teeth and uses breath mints, you don’t really want to taste the lingerings of human tissue. Even if the sounds of her pleasure would make it more bearable.

They probably wouldn’t though, of course. Because kissing a cannibal is not bearable in any way. And you’d probably throw up right after. And you’d probably gag and tell her to get away from you. And you’d probably have to wrench yourself away after realizing that although her mouth feels so good, and her hands feel so soft, she has painted entire walls red with her strength. And she has licked them clean with the same tongue she’d no doubt drag along your teeth.

…So no. Maybe kissing her wasn’t a very good idea.

And she was your boss. There was that too.

“Alright everyone, I think that’s it for today. Swift reminder that the Academy will undergo a planned power outage on Friday. Considering most of you will be chaperoning the students at the carnival that evening, I’ll be staying behind to look after the maintenance crew. If all goes well, it should be restored by the next morning. Please enjoy the rest of your days - if you need me, you know where I am.” Swift and to the point she was. Always so quick to hand out little encouraging smiles. Always eager to provide some words of wisdom or kindness. A very well-built facade.

And of course, because they have no other reason to doubt, they eat it all up with vigor. Little kittens to their saucer of fattening milk. Never ever stopping to question how Principal Weems is the way she is. And why she is the way she is. And what she does during her free time.

“Y/n, will you accompany me to my office please?”

You pause in the doorway, feeling the heel of your shoe touch the floor with a small muted clack, experiencing the drop of your heart as your fate is sealed without a single word.

But she doesn’t really need a response anyway. She knows you’re going to say yes. She knows you can never deny her - not unless she asks you to indulge in another one of her very well-cooked meals.

Compliments to the chef, you supposed.

“Of course, Larissa.”

Of course, Larissa.

What a fuckin’ pansy. You twisted bitch.

“Thank you,” is her soft responding whisper before she’s slipping past you and strutting out into the hall - leaving you to close the door behind you both and trail after her like a hungry mutt.

A strange beast of utter tranquility seems to exist within Larissa at all times whenever she’s with you. Never before have you seen her angry, though you know from stories that- on occasion- her irritation can lead to fury. It’s not a pretty sight apparently. But you know that’s most likely not true. You know it’s probably a very pretty sight - but no one wants to admit it. And no one wants to talk about it. Some women are simply off limits even in mention whenever they become angry. Rage, after all, is a powerful thing. It travels through ears- time- and space.

You know you’ve never seen her that way because she doesn’t want to scare you.

You know it’s because she doesn’t want you to be scared of her. Only her.

But you can’t help but wonder - is it too late for that?

Are you already scared of her?

Or is there still time to put you at ease? Make you comfortable? Help you settle?

No.

No no no.

You will not settle. You will not let her rest. For as much as she hides it, you know Larissa lives on the edge of nervousness. She knows she can only control you but only to a certain extent. And she knows you set the pace; even though one would be led to believe that she has all the power. She doesn’t. It may be her turn to serve, but the ball is, perpetually, within your court.

“Please close the door behind you, thanks.” And with that, you find yourself led into the lion’s den; willingly putting yourself to the slaughter as she goes about setting her things down and straightening her dress to sit.

The door closes.

The silence falls.

You feel a bit nauseous.

You feel a bit excited.

You feel a bit crazy.

Daring.

She may be a murderer, a human-eater, a manipulative mad-woman with an incredible sense of fashion, but she also makes you feel alive. And that’s the scariest part.

Any woman knows that once something interrupts the din of daily living, once something begins to worm and thrive and corrupt, there is rarely any chance to go back. You are infected. The virus spreads. The lightning strikes the bones. The heart starts to pump faster than sound travels. You’re alive. For the very first time, you’re alive. Your mother’s womb was not a home. And the world was not a result of love. You’re alive only due to that thing.

Only due to her.

You want to run out of the room.

You want to face her.

Your heart speaks before your mind does.

She’s looking at you. Contemplating you, which she always seems to do. Running her eyes up and down your back, and across your arms, and over your chest and shoulders and down to your midsection and legs. She isn’t thinking about eating you or cooking you - at least you don’t think so. No. No, she’s just admiring. Allowing herself to be before she has to jump back into her role as ‘The Principal’. Or ‘The Murderer’. Either way, you don’t always like the staring - so you break her trance when you turn and walk over to the chairs opposite her desk.

“What is it now?” Your words come out in a huff when you sit, placing your bag on the floor by your side. “I have things to do.” No, you don’t. You wouldn’t have followed if you did. But that’s also not true. You followed only because you wanted to - because curiosity has always been your greatest enemy. And she smiles brightly because she knows that.

“I was just curious about something,” is her easy response. Her hands move to clasp themselves together.

“Hm. What?” Crossing your arms over your chest and leaning back into your chair is the only way you can maintain an air of control. It probably doesn’t work, but that’s beside the point.

“I’ve been growing bored lately. Summer is so far away and the days are dragging on longer than they ever have before,” Larissa laments, letting out a sigh (most definitely forced) to go along with it.

You raise an eyebrow. Where is she going with this?

“I think they’re coming along just fine. And winter is ending soon so it’s not that far.”

But she’s never been one to back down from a challenge, so instead of taking the hint and changing tactics, Larissa only smiles and gives you a small incline of her head. It’s the only recognition you’ll ever receive in regards to ‘being right’.

“Mmm but think of the events we’re all planning for. They’re fun, sure, but time consuming. Though the carnival, in particular, will provide some excitement for everyone...”

Everyone but me, of course is what she means to say.

You resist the urge to frown.

It’s just another thing about Larissa Weems. The guilt. The sympathy. She is not harmful, you try to tell yourself. But she is. She is just a woman, you insist. That doesn’t make it better. She… she needs help. But then you look at her and you know that she doesn’t want help. And want and need are two different things. And whatever Larissa is about to ask of you next, you’re pretty sure it’s something she wants and something you need.

“Okay… and this has to do with me h-”

“I’d like to have fun as well. Just for one evening. Would you be interested in joining me?”

You blink.

This time around, there’s nothing giving her away. In fact, she’s very still in her seat - practically on the edge - wondering if the invisible line the two of you always seem to move around has finally been crossed. Your points of contact consist of meals taken in her study and the occasional quick stroll through the hall. There is nothing outside of that. So what is this? And why now? And what did she mean?

Well. You’ll never know unless you say-

“...Sure.”

What’s the worst that could happen?

You could die.

Meh. What’s a little death?

“Wonderful,” is the slow toothy-smiled response you receive. Though her reaction is all sunshine, with the way her eyes crinkle and her nose scrunches and her head tilts a little bit, some part of you knows she’s surprised. It’s found in the way her eyebrows tick up just the tiniest bit. She was expecting a fight. Or more questions. Or any type of refusal at all. But perhaps you’ve grown soft… perhaps you don’t care.

You do, though. You do care.

But, you reason, in the face of The Devil, would a lone Angel not know that it’s better to play along and wait than to find themselves in trouble, stuck for eternity? Because that is what you’re doing, is it not? You’re waiting, no? Observing? While she may be the predator in the underbrush, staring through the bush, you’re the prey with more speed, faster reflexes, and keener eyes. You peer and you watch, knowing that the moment will come in which you’ll need to race off to the edge of the world - and never look back. Just like the Angel finding their time to leave.

But you are no Angel. Don’t you dare compare yourself to that.

Hm. Maybe not. But nonetheless.

“I was thinking of taking part in a game this Friday evening. One of our own, while we have Nevermore to ourselves…” Larissa says gently, drumming her fingertips on the surface of the desk. “Does that sound amenable to you, darling?”

Darling….

You clench your hands into fists, fighting down a violent shiver. Darling. Oh she was wicked when she spoke to you like that. All low tones and velvet tongue and blue eyes peering up through dark lashes… so knowing in her effects. Using them to her advantage. Like she figures that if she could be sultry for a long enough time, you’d somehow remarkably forget about her tendency to eat people. To devour them. To watch the life leave their eyes and think, yes, this one will be in my breakfast. Perhaps in an omelet. Or maybe a side dish of meat with a main course of cinnamon toast and honey.

“What kind of game?” There’s an edge to your voice. It gives you away.

What makes you think she won’t eat you next?

There’s a flash of pink tongue running over white teeth. A quirk of a smile. A hum rumbling from the throat.

“A fun one. Hide and seek, most likely.”

You’d probably taste good. She’s thought about it before. There’s no way she hasn’t.

“And the terms?”

Ah. Hook, line, and sinker. She knows she’s got you.

“I think we should save that for the night of, don’t you agree?”

No. You don’t.

“Why?”

But it doesn’t really matter what you think.

“Well I believe we all need a little bit of surprise in our lives every once in a while. Who knows?” Larissa shrugs, shuffling in her seat to cross her legs at the ankles, “You too may find that you prefer to know all of the details when the time comes.” She licks her lips. You try not to stare. “And I’ve always been a woman of my word. So there’s no need to worry. Is there?”

Yes. Yes there’s always need to worry. Yes you worry very much. All the time. About many things. But mainly her. Primarily her. Nearly her all of the time. It’s reflexive, honestly. Instinctive. You track her movements with a thumping heart and hungry eyes - not because you want to eat her, but because you want to kiss her. Hug her. Fuck her. Until she forgets that she’s stronger than you. Until her hunger for human flesh dies down into nothing. Until you can cure her. Be safe with her. Be finally finally free with her.

Wishful thinking, of course. She can’t change.

So instead of doing what you do want to do and reach over to kiss her- or stab her with a nearby paperweight- you shoot her a heavy glare. “Why can’t you just be normal?” rests on the tip of your tongue, but you shove it back into the recesses of your throat. There’s no point in upsetting her. And the sight of her sadness makes you wanna throw up. And anything you say could be the cause of your death. So, to a certain extent, eggshells are where your feet rest. And dance. And twirl. And lord knows when you’ll be able to stand on solid ground again. Maybe when she’s behind bars, or in a mental ward, or six feet beneath the Earth… rotting, no matter what, but rotting far away from you.

The sound of her throat clearing has you tearing your eyes away from their spaced out spot on the window - and bringing them right back to her. The very epicenter of your worry. And your horror. And your lust. And everything. Everything everything everything.

“I-…” You want to tell her that you’re scared and unsure, but you don’t know if she’ll care. You don’t know if she’ll use that against you one day either. So without choices left, you sigh. “Yeah, okay. Okay. I’ll wait. Fine.”

And you hate the way her smile makes your heart skip a beat.

«——..✞..——»

Surprised Cannibal Larissa got so much love! I know it’s different, but I quite like writing the uncomfortable things. Lemme know if you’d like to see more of her? Thank you all. - Rip x

«——..✞..——»

[rippersz]

4. Lover’s Horror

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(Cannibal!Larissa Weems x Reader) (TW: GORE!!) (NOTE: This is an AU within an AU. Consider this a diverging path. My version of Cannibal!Larissa Weems would NOT do something like this; but it IS October - so I wanted to do something creepy.) (DARK FIC; DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT. CANNIBALISM.)

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A deep world-rumbling croak of thunder is the thing that wakes you up. Not the lightning flashing on the other side of the windows, or the hard droplets of rain and hail that strike the Academy roof; not even the lack of a body on the other side of the bed was enough to pull you out of sleep.

But now that you’re out of it, and very much awake, the sudden realization that you’re alone has your heart beating wildly. Where has she gone? And how has she been gone so long that the other side of the bed feels cold? She’s not the type to get up in the middle of the night and disappear; usually she’s far too exhausted to even bother getting dressed into anything but a single pair of sweatpants.

So what could have possibly stolen her attention away? And why hadn’t she woken you up? And when was she even planning on coming back to bed?

You let out a soft groan into your hands before tugging the duvet off of your body. It’s rather annoying, having to get up like this, but the quicker you seduce Larissa back into the warmth of your sheets, the quicker you’ll have her arms around you again. And what a slice of paradise that is… to feel her hum softly into the back of your neck after she’s finally gotten comfortable… long cold legs teasing your own as she pulls you as close as she can… her slurred words falling into silence as dreams slowly tug her into the dark of sleep…

Being with her at night, so safe and so comfortable, is your most favorite thing on Earth. And she knows that. So where the Hell is she?

You’re confused for a very long moment after opening the door to your bedroom. She’s not in the en-suite or the walk-in closet; and she’s not in the study either. All of the lights are off, all of the doors are closed.

But there’s a sound. A very odd sound. Coming from the guest bedroom? No. You turn around. It’s coming from the living room. A very odd sound, indeed. Like the scrape of… something against… something. Glass, maybe? Did she drop a plate? Or fine china? Porcelain? Is she… cleaning the dishes? With a metal sponge? Or is she just… scratching something together on purpose? Maybe it’s an animal, actually. And maybe she’s gone out to get something that will get rid of it? But how could any animal have gotten in? And why would it make that sound? Like…

Like…

You turn the corner into the living room, and see the dark. There’s nothing there. You still, allowing your ears to clear, allowing your mind to catch up and tell you-

The kitchen.

That’s where.

Dread pours down your spine.

Larissa… we talked about this.

You make your way to the kitchen as slowly as you can. Your feet, socked and soft, walk carefully along the wooden floor until you turn. And see her.

Through the dark.

Lit by a single candle.

Sweatpants low on her waist, snowy hair unpinned. Disheveled. Shaking? Is she… is she shaking? Her chest heaves with effort. With strong breaths. With… exertion.

What is she doing? Hunched over something? Her hair is a curtain, but she’s standing. Crouching? You can’t tell. You don’t know.

What the fuck is going on?

There’s something in the back of your mind telling you to run.

It’s soft. A very quiet voice. Asking you to please leave. To escape. But what is there to escape? And where will you escape to? Larissa is just… well. She’s- huh.

You frown.

“…Riss?”

The world seems to break.

Everything stops.

Her body stills. Her breaths, ragged and wheezy, stop dead in her chest. The scraping sound falls into silence.

Caught, the voice murmurs. She’s been caught.

“What the hell is going on? Are you okay?” For some reason, your tone is hushed. Not too loud. You don’t want to break whatever… the fuck is happening.

But that doesn’t matter.

Too late, as they say.

The damage has been done.

Larissa’s head rises. Slow, uncertain, inhuman and dreadful.

You swallow.

And simply can’t compute what you see.

Red.

A lot of it.

So much.

Painted onto her lips, her chin, her bare chest and her collarbones and some of her neck. Her right hand holds a fork. Her left clutches the side of a plate. Both of them slippery with red.

Crimson.

Glinting in the light of the flickering candle.

Giving her away.

Caught.

Caught caught caught.

We talked about this Larissa.

Don’t you remember what we talked about?

As long as I don’t see it.

As long as you don’t serve me.

As long as it’s yours and yours alone.

Is this why she crawled out of bed?

For…

For…

Chunks. On the plate. Torn, fleshy chunks.

Lungs, the voice says. Cubes of it.

Ripped and torn; bloodied and fresh.

Raw.

Raw.

You never discussed raw. You didn’t think raw was a thing. You didn’t even consider it as an option.

Raw makes you sick. Blood makes you sick.

Some of it is smudged onto the tip of her nose. The edge of her jaw is covered by shadow. Her hair falls into two parted wavy curtains, white strands sticking to the red on her face.

The blue eyes you love so much are wide with adrenaline - as though she’s just run miles. White eyebrows lifted, surprised; and the lines in her face deeper from the lack of light.

She’s still Larissa.

But she’s also…. She’s not.

You’re taking a step back without thinking.

“Larissa…” you can barely hear yourself over the sudden thump of your heart.

Raw.

Raw raw raw.

Not animal.

Not beef. Not pork. Not even bull or ram or lamb.

Not normal.

Your palms are clammy.

The fork slips from her hand with a loud clatter. It makes her eyelashes flutter.

It makes you run.

For so long you hadn’t heard the bell toll.

You thought it was over.

You thought it was fine. Out of sight, out of mind. You were safe with her. You were safe with her.

But even as you dart for the foyer, feet nearly slipping in your haste, the only thing you can think is raw.

She ate it raw.

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Again, this was like an AU within an AU. Cannibal!Larissa Weems would not eat raw meat. But it’s spooky month, so let’s pretend for one (1) moment that she does. Hope this was okay. - Rip x

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[rippersz]

Do you think Cannibal Larissa would be into period sex? Or is she more of a eating the person and less of the enjoying the blood when you kill them kinda gal?

Good question, Anonymous darling!

I do make references to Cannibal Larissa drinking/tasting blood, but since it’s not as palatable as meat, she wouldn’t indulge in that. Blood can carry a lot of diseases and other germs/bacteria that I don’t think can be removed - meat, on the other hand, can be cured and cooked, etc. so that it doesn’t have negative affects.

However, Larissa Weems doesn’t mind period sex at all. Cannibal or not. But since we’re focusing on the Cannibal- she doesn’t hold any reservations about it. She will take her lover and she will take them until they’re dazed and stupid. It’s not like she hasn’t seen blood before. And if she bites her lover while she’s at it - well what’s the harm in that? She doesn’t want to EAT them, she just wants to taste them. And their skin. And anything else they have to offer. And if she shoves her head between her darling’s legs while they’re on their period, then so be it! It’s what she wants. So it’s what she’ll get.

Hope that answers your question. - Rip x

[rippersz]

𝙏𝙖𝙜-𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩 𝙄𝙣𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙢𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣:

Hello darlings!

Your support over the past few months(?) has rendered me speechless! Thank you for your continued interest and love. In the name of easy communication, I’ve decided to put together some tag-list info:

Please respond to this post either in the tags or comments with any of these corresponding emojis to inform you of when I post about a specific character:

🩸 - Lady Alcina Dimitrescu

🌙 - Brienne of Tarth

👠 - Miranda Priestly

💄 - Larissa Weems

🫀 - Cannibal Larissa Weems

🖤 - Jane Murdstone

🔥 - Lucifer Morningstar (The Sandman)

Keep in mind, you’d be notified about one-shots, headcanons, idea posts, fics, etc.

Yours, Ripley x

[rippersz]

HELP I JUST REMEMBERED THE POWER IS SUPPOSED TO BE OUT IN NEVERMORE DURING THE GAME OF HIDE AND SEEK. SOMEONE PLEASE PUT ME DOWN WHAT THE FREEEAAAAKKKKK.

(I may have to delete and re-write that entire thing).

[rippersz]

https://www.tumblr.com/zephyr-is-tired/729744194736979968/i-know-we-arent-here-to-knkshame-but-all-these?source=share

this is in response to people saying we should not write larissa x wednesday apparently writing cannibal larissa is as bad as writing p*do larissa

I see.

Well, I’ll make this statement first and foremost: My writing is all fiction. It is within the Wednesday universe, yes, but it’s fiction. Not canon.

I have not forced people into liking cannibal Larissa Weems. I understand it’s not everyone’s cup of tea.

But if there’s anything to be said about the series overall: The relationship is not entirely non-consensual. First, the reader agreed to the game of hide and seek despite knowing that they could say no. Second, the reader has all of the ability necessary to run to the authorities. Third, any references to Larissa ‘eating reader whole’ or what have you - it’s not vore. It’s a metaphor. It’s already clear that Larissa isn’t going to kill reader.

There is romanticism to this, yes, but I believe I state in the introduction of EVERY SINGLE POST WITHIN THAT SERIES that the topics involved are toxic, include romanticized dark themes, etc.

I’m not interested in drama over a headcanon or an alternate universe fan-fiction series. It is what it is! And what it isn’t - is a kink. Cannibalism is not a ‘kink’. I don’t remember ever stating that it was.

That being said, thank you for bringing this to my attention Anonymous darling. If anyone feels the need to discuss it further with me, my direct messages are always open. - Rip x

[rippersz]

Just be honest with me darlings:

I can’t decide so please help me out? - Rip x

PLEASE PLEASE CHOOSE FOR ME PLEASE I WANNA WRITE FOR HER SO BAD BUT WTF AM I SUPPOSED TO DOOOO

[rippersz]

Cannibal Larissa makes me feral. A bitch in heat. Animalistic.

She too, is quite animalistic. So you have something in common.

If all goes to plan, this little mini series will have two to three other parts. Then it’ll just become a one-shot/headcanon/scenario type of thing.

This actually also made me laugh so hard like wow rly putting it out there babes speak your truth.

- Rip xx