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vinyurk · 3 days ago

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THIS WAS PREDICTED OH MY GOD

Witch reader who has the gift of seeing ghosts. Some spirits whoa re particularly stubborn dont pass on like theyre supposed to. Most of the time she ignores them becuse they're still freaking out over dying and... Well dealing with hysterical people all day would be awful. She starts her new job at nevermore (teacher or soemthing idk) and while meeting the new principle in her office she sees the old one. Leant agaisnt the desk rolling her eyes and commenting on everything the new lady is doing wrong. She accidentily laughs a few times and manages to play it off, unfortunatley Larissa is sure that reader can see her and takes it upon herself to annoy her until she acknowlages her.

Oh god hello, bet you don't even remember sending this request 😅 but I really loved it and wanted to write it even if it has been a while so here you go, and I really hope you enjoy it!

Falling Behind

Words: ~2.1k | ao3 link in title Tags/warnings: Larissa is dead/a ghost but it's a silly little fic I promise, also lots of flirting

Knock, knock.

You rap your hand twice against the smooth oak of the door to the principal’s office. A ball of nerves tangles in your belly but you do your best to ignore it — you got the job, after all, and you’ve already technically ‘met’ the principal a few times via phone call. You’re just here to go over some of the details of the job before your official start date on Monday — standard procedure, nothing to be anxious about. You hear footsteps on the other side of the door and you try, subtly, to wipe the sweat from your palms on the back of your coat, which is already damp from the rain outside.

“Ah, hello, come in, come in. Welcome to Nevermore,” Principal Porter says as she swings the door open, giving you an easy smile and reaching out to shake your hand before stepping back and allowing you to step into the office. “Let me take your coat — it’s pouring outside, I hope the drive up here wasn’t too difficult. Would you like some tea?”

You smile gratefully as you step into the office and shrug off your coat. “Uh, no, thank you though.”

Your attention is momentarily diverted by a tall, blonde woman in a modest, cream-colored dress and kitten heels, perched at the edge of the principal’s desk. Her arms are crossed over her chest and she’s frowning at your feet. “What’s the use in oiling the floors if everyone is just going to track mud throughout the school?” She seems to be talking more to herself than to you, but you glance at your feet and find that, indeed, you’ve got a trail of dirt behind you, likely from walking up Nevermore’s gravelly drive. Your face grows hot with embarrassment.

“I’m so sorry,” you squeak out, glancing pleadingly at the blonde as you subtly shuffle around, as if that will help.

“Sorry for what, dear?” Principal Porter asks — you frown in confusion. She’s smiling at you kindly, paying absolutely no mind to the woman perched on her desk, as if she hadn’t even heard her at all.

“For, uh… for tracking all this dirt in.” You glance sheepishly at the blonde, who looks absolutely perplexed as she stares at you.

“Nonsense, dear, it’ll be easy to clean.” Principal Porter waves away your apology. “Please, have a seat at my desk. Excuse the mess, as you might remember from our calls this is my first semester here as well and I’m still getting sorted.”

You nod politely, shooting a furtive glance at the other woman, whose presence is all but ignored by Principal Porter. You remember what you’d read about the school’s former principal — the first one in Nevermore’s long and fascinating history to be murdered on school grounds. Apparently, finding a replacement after that incident had been rather difficult.

The office is indeed still somewhat bare, the walls lined with half-unpacked boxes of paintings, trinkets, office supplies. The only furniture in the room is a rather modern looking desk with a glass top, a grey, ergonomic office chair on one side and a rather plain chair on the other side, and a somewhat uncomfortable-looking chaise longue in front of the fireplace. There’s a white filing cabinet behind the desk which has definitely seen better days. Principal Porter reaches into the top drawer and pulls out a manila folder, before taking a seat and gesturing for you to do the same.

Rummaging around in your bag, you prepare yourself by pulling out some signed paperwork that you’d been sent.

“Oh, thank you,” Principal Porter says as you hand her the paperwork, taking a moment to leaf through it. “Now… where was that form regarding staff housing…” she mumbles — the woman perched beside her rolls her eyes and lets out a huff.

“You’ve flicked past it twice,” she deadpans, clearly annoyed, and you suppress a chuckle. But Principal Porter doesn’t react and your suppressed smile turns into a frown. Who the fuck is this woman and why is Principal Porter acting like she’s not - oh. It finally dawns on you, and you can’t believe it’s taken you this long to piece it together.

The woman perched at the edge of the principal’s desk isn’t ‘real’ in the most accepted sense of the word — she’s a ghost. As a child, you learned early on that your special ability was seeing and communicating with the dearly departed. A week after your grandfather’s funeral, your mother found you, then only five years old, sitting at the kitchen table talking to yourself about something you’d drawn — though you recall your grandfather sitting beside you clear as day.

It wasn’t until you got older that you were able to tell ghosts apart from their living counterparts more clearly, though on rare occasions you still found it a bit tricky as they appeared to you as solid, corporeal beings. It was usually the more stubborn spirits that got stuck in the mortal world, unable to fully pass on into the afterlife, and (as the mortal world was a sort of hell for most spirits) those who did get stuck here were usually in a full-blown panic. Easy to identify.

Unless you were actively involved in helping a spirit pass on, you tended to ignore them as you went about your day — it was easier that way because, usually, as soon as they realized you could see them, they would not leave you alone. And this one — the tall, statuesque blonde leant over Principal Porter’s head — has clearly realized that not only can you see and hear her, but you also seem to find her a bit funny, and she’s eyeing you with great interest.

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to ignore the way the woman’s eyes burn into your skull.

“Ah, here it is!” Principal Porter exclaims, abruptly bringing your attention back to the meeting as she stuffs your forms into the back of the envelope, pulls out another piece of paper and slides it towards you. “I’ve already sent this to your email last week but just in case, here’s a copy of your class schedule for this semester. You’ve got two planning periods, here,” she points to a space on Wednesday morning, “and here,” she points to a space on Thursday afternoon — the woman perched on her desk interrupts her.

“I’m sure the woman is old enough to read,” she snarks, and you let out a little snort.

“Pardon?” Principal Porter’s brows knit together in confusion. “Is something the matter?”

You frown. Your eyes dart to the other woman, but you quickly look away and shake your head, missing the smirk that forms on her face. “No, I’m sorry, everything’s alright.”

Unfazed, the principal continues with a shrug, explaining to you how office hours work at Nevermore, and you nod along politely.

You find it hard to keep your eyes off the blonde, especially when she seems to get bored of Principal Porter droning on about your classes and decides to stand up and pace the length of the office, her heels loud against the hardwood floors.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

“We have a small but reliable pool of substitute teachers, so if you–”

Click. Click. Click. Click.

It’s damn near impossible to focus on a word that’s being said, almost all of your attention is on the rhythmic clicks of the woman’s kitten heels, and you’re starting to wonder if she’s trying to distract you on purpose. You can feel her presence behind you, the back and forth, the way the air stirs with her every step, all unbeknownst to your new boss.

“I’m afraid we’ve had to up the class sizes for our sorcery class this year, and you’ll have 35 students–”

You don’t catch the rest of the principal’s statement because the other woman has let out a loud sigh and started to complain. “Why don’t you tell her why–”

“... due to a shortage of staff…”

“Due to complete and utter mismanagement by the school board!” The woman rounds the desk again, coming into view.

Something about her irritation is endearing to you and your cheeks twitch as you hold back a smirk — rather unsuccessfully, as you can feel her eyes on you again.

“So you can see me,” she says, and you know without looking at her that she’s talking to you — you open your mouth to answer, then snap it shut again when you remember that, though you can see and hear her, the principal can’t.

“You should tell Principal Porter,” the woman starts, the title spilling from her lips as though it's poison, “that her administrative skills leave as much to be desired as her taste in interior design.”

You let out a shocked laugh and Principal Porter wrinkles her nose. “Are you sure you’re alright, dear?”

You nod, stutter out another apology, and spend the rest of the meeting trying to tune out the woman’s comments.

After what feels like hours but is probably only about half an hour, you finally leave Principal Porter’s office with the keys to your new quarters in hand, insisting you’re fine to go check them out by yourself. You navigate the halls of the school, following the instructions your new boss had given you to get to the staff wing, and let yourself into your new living space for the school year.

Your quarters are spacious but homey, and beautifully quiet after the last half hour of splitting your attention between two people, and you lean back against the door after closing it behind you, shutting your eyes and taking a deep breath.

“Welcome to Nevermore,” an oddly familiar voice purrs, and your eyes snap open as your heart leaps into your throat.

“Jesus! You nearly gave me a heart attack!” You don’t miss the way the blonde’s lips curl into a smirk at your statement. “What the fuck are you doing in my room?”

She ignores your question. “Your application didn’t say that necromancy is your specialty.” Her voice is smooth like velvet and she’s batting her lashes at you, her eyes raking down your form. She’s incredibly alluring — even in death. “I don’t think we’ve ever had a necromancer on staff, it’s a pity, really, such a useful ability, don’t you think?”

“It’s a bit annoying, actually,” you retort with a frown, trying to piece together who the fuck this woman is. ‘We’ve’ never had a necromancer on staff…?

“I’ve been called many things but I think this may be the first time I’ve been called ‘annoying’, my dear.” She doesn’t sound upset about it, her voice is still sweet as honey and she takes a step towards you, towering over you.

“You’re… who are you?”

“Forgive me, it seems I haven’t formally introduced myself.” She stretches a hand out towards you — pale skin, perfectly manicured red fingernails adorning long, slender fingers, a heavy gold bracelet around her delicate wrist. “Larissa Weems.”

Larissa Weems. Weems…

Ah. It finally clicks for you, you’ve read that name before.

“You’re Nevermore’s former principal. The one who…” Your voice trails off, you feel a bit insensitive, but Larissa doesn’t seem bothered. She smirks.

“Died? Yes.”

You shake her hand. It’s cold, but it’s solid.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” You say it because you feel like you should, because you don’t know what else to say.

“The pleasure is all mine.” The way she says pleasure makes your mouth go dry.

“I couldn’t help but look over your resume,” she continues. “Quite an impressive background. I would have hired you, too.” Her voice drops an octave and her gaze travels down your body and your stomach does a backflip.

“Thank you,” you mumble, feeling your face grow warm in spite of yourself.

“I heard your voice during one of your interviews, the phone was on speaker. I thought you’d be beautiful, but it seems my expectations have been exceeded.”

“Are you flirting with me?”

Larissa chuckles, her smirk widening. “Would that be so bad?” You can’t tell if she’s mocking you or not.

“You’re dead.”

“And so bored, darling,” she drawls, making her way along the perimeter of your room, trailing her fingertips along the dresser against the wall, perching at the edge of the bed once she reaches it. She crosses her legs, those long legs, her skirt riding up a little, and gives you another once-over that sends a spark up your spine. “I have to admit it’s been a bit lonely these past few months… you’re the first person who’s been able to see me, you know.”

She’s dead. A ghost. She’s not ‘real’. You try to tell yourself that, but the trouble is that to you, she is real. She’s as real as anyone else and she’s sitting on your bed, giving you a look that makes you want to bury your head between her thighs.

“Am I?” you ask, your heart in your throat as you take a step towards her — you can’t help yourself, she’s magnetic. She nods and blinks slowly, as if she has you right where she wants you, and maybe this is wrong but you don’t quite have it in you to care.

She’s as real to you as anyone else, dead or alive, it’s all the same to you.

You cross the room to her.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

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#larissa weems #larissa weems is back #larissa weems is back but not alive but SHE IS A GHOST

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