Larissa Weems x fem!reader
A/N: my part of Europe has been going through the worst heatwave for a week, so I’ve been stuck at home with nothing to do but write this scrumptious, delicious fic. TLDR: don’t leave a writer alone in a house that’s overheating. Or do, we don’t care. [as]
The south of France had seemed like a wonderful idea sometime around February, when the world was still grey and damp and winter had settled over Nevermore with its usual quiet persistence.
Larissa had found the little stone house tucked between vineyards and lavender fields, all weathered shutters and climbing ivy, and had declared it perfect for disappearing. Two weeks with no students, no faculty meetings, no paperwork that seemed capable of reproducing overnight. Just the two of you beneath an endless blue sky, eating fresh fruit on the terrace and wandering sleepy villages that looked as though they’d forgotten what century they belonged to.
The photographs had neglected one rather significant detail.
There was no air conditioning.
Under ordinary circumstances, that might have been inconvenient. During what every French news station had begun calling the worst heatwave in decades, it bordered on cruel.
By the fifth day, the shutters remained closed from sunrise until well after sunset. The stone walls had surrendered their coolness. The little fan in the corner of the living room whirred faithfully from left to right, carrying warm air with all the enthusiasm of someone who had already mentally resigned.
“It isn’t even trying anymore,” you announced from the floor.
Larissa lowered her reading glasses just enough to look over the top of them. “The fan?”
“I rather think you’re projecting.”
You lifted your head to glare at the offending appliance before letting your cheek fall back onto the terracotta tiles with theatrical despair. “It’s blowing oven air. Whoever invented this thing should be prosecuted.”
The corner of her mouth twitched.
Larissa herself looked almost offensively composed in loose linen trousers and an oversized white shirt with the sleeves rolled neatly to her elbows. Her silver hair was gathered into a relaxed knot that exposed the graceful line of her neck. She sat in the wicker chair as though forty degrees were merely an inconvenience.
“You are handling this suspiciously well,” you muttered.
“It’s the only one I have.”
“You should be suffering with me.”
“I don’t think misery requires company quite as desperately as you do.”
You narrowed your eyes. “I hope your drink gets warm.”
She regarded the glass in her hand. Condensation glistened on the outside. Tiny droplets rolled slowly down, disappearing against her fingers. It was filled almost to the brim with ice.
Your gaze lingered far too long.
Larissa noticed. She always noticed.
“You’ve been staring at my glass for nearly a minute.”
“I was… looking at the lime.”
She smiled into her drink. “Mhm.”
“I would genuinely commit crimes for an ice cube,” you admitted after a moment.
“I’d rob a convenience store.”
“For frozen peas if necessary.”
Larissa laughed again, softer this time. The sound settled pleasantly beneath your skin despite the heat. You liked making her laugh. It always felt slightly earned.
The quiet returned. Heat had a way of slowing everything. Conversation became lazy. Thoughts drifted. Sweat collected between your shoulder blades and clung stubbornly to the curve of your spine no matter how often you shifted against the floor.
Larissa watched you for a long moment. There was something strangely endearing about your complete surrender to discomfort. Her eyes drifted once more to her drink. The ice clinked gently.
An idea arrived so quietly she almost missed it.
She closed her book. “I’ll be right back.”
You barely looked up. “If you’ve found winter, don’t leave without me.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
The kitchen wasn’t any cooler, but the freezer still worked. Larissa tipped several cubes into an empty tumbler, smiling at the bright rattle. A simple act of mercy for her overheated girlfriend. At least, that was how it began.
When she returned, you were still exactly where she’d left you. She crouched beside you and picked up a single cube.
The rest of the sentence disappeared into a startled squeal as the ice touched the warm skin between your shoulder blades. Your entire back arched instinctively.
Larissa laughed outright. “There you are.”
“I hardly think that’s accurate.”
You twisted to glare at her, though the involuntary shiver racing down your spine spoiled the effect. The ice had already begun to melt, leaving a tiny shimmering trail that disappeared into the towel.
“You look insufferably pleased with yourself.”
You opened your mouth to protest again, only to pause. The lingering cold spread slowly. Your shoulders relaxed almost despite yourself.
Larissa lifted an eyebrow. “I thought I was mean.”
She picked another cube and placed it just beneath the nape of your neck. You inhaled sharply, then gradually yielded beneath the delicious shock. She slid it slowly, leaving another cool trail. Each cube disappeared astonishingly quickly against your overheated skin. She replaced them without conscious thought, the motion becoming almost rhythmic.
Gradually your complaints faded. The stubborn furrow between your brows softened. Your breathing slowed. She traced idle patterns now—small circles, lazy lines—watching tension dissolve beneath her fingertips one careful movement at a time.
You made the faintest contented sound.
“I think,” you murmured, eyes still closed, “I love you again.”
“You’d fallen out of love with me?”
“You’ve redeemed yourself.”
She smiled. “You are remarkably easy to bribe.”
The next cube slipped slightly. Instinctively she steadied it with the flat of her hand. Her palm rested lightly against your back, warmer than the ice, cooler than your skin. She could feel the steady rise and fall of your breathing, the tiny shift of muscle with every exhale.
Something had shifted in the room. The awareness settled heavily between her ribs as she watched damp strands of hair curl against your neck and goosebumps rise wherever the cold passed.
You turned your face just enough to find her eyes. “What?”
“Nothing,” she answered softly. “Turn over. It’s only fair I cool the other side too.”
For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. Then, slowly, still watching her face, you rolled onto your back. You let out a shaky breath, one arm draping lazily above your head. Your white bikini top clung to the curves of your breasts.
Larissa’s gaze traced the length of you without hurry. Something darker and warmer slipped beneath her usual composure. She took another cube.
This time she started lower, just beneath your navel. Your stomach jumped at the sudden cold. She dragged it upward in a slow, deliberate line between your ribs, painting a glistening trail. Then she drew lazy circles just below your sternum, watching the water slip sideways along your waist.
“Still perfect?” she asked, voice low.
She traced the delicate hollow at the base of your throat, then followed the line of your collarbone. Your breathing had changed—shallower, quicker. Every exhale trembled slightly. The contrast left your skin hypersensitive, tingling long after the ice had passed.
Larissa shifted closer, kneeling beside you. Strands of silver hair slipped free and tickled your shoulder. She picked up a fresh cube and let it rest for a moment against the side of your neck, then let cold drops fall slowly onto the swell of your left breast. One. Then another. Then another.
You arched, a quiet whimper slipping out.
She leaned down, lips nearly brushing your ear. “May I?”
Her fingers slipped beneath the edge of your bikini top with agonising slowness. The ice cube followed. The shock of cold against your overheated nipple pulled a sharp gasp from your throat. Your back arched cleanly off the tiled floor.
Larissa made a soft, appreciative sound. She kept the cube trapped beneath the fabric, circling the sensitive peak slowly. The ice melted quickly, sending icy water streaming down the curve of your breast and soaking the fabric until it was nearly transparent. She moved to the other side, repeating every motion with deliberate care—sliding a fresh cube beneath the right cup, circling, pressing just enough to make you squirm. Her thumb occasionally brushed warm beneath the freezing burn.
Your hand found her shoulder, fingers curling into her linen shirt. You couldn’t decide whether to pull her closer or simply hold on.
“Look at you,” she whispered, watching your face as she rolled your nipple slowly beneath the dwindling cube. “So responsive… and all from a little ice.”
She let the last sliver melt completely, then reached for another cube. Her hand slid lower. She tugged gently at the string of your bikini bottoms.
“Lift your hips for me, darling.”
You obeyed, thighs trembling. She slipped the fabric down just enough. The warm air kissed your skin for only a moment before the ice followed.
She pressed the cube first against the sensitive crease where your thigh met your groin. You jolted. Then she guided it lower, slipping it beneath the damp fabric and rubbing lightly along your swollen lips. The freezing hardness gliding through your wetness drew broken, needy sounds from deep in your throat. The cube melted fast, sending cool rivulets mixing with your arousal and dripping onto the tiles beneath you.
Larissa moved with agonising patience—tracing every fold, pressing just enough to part you before retreating, then gliding upward again. Your hips twitched and rolled helplessly, chasing the overwhelming sensation.
She shifted the shrinking cube higher and pressed it directly against your clit.
Your entire body jerked hard. A loud, needy cry tore from your lips. The freezing intensity bordered on too much—sharp, burning cold that melted instantly into overwhelming pleasure. She held it there, rubbing in tight, slow circles, keeping firm pressure as the ice shrank rapidly between her fingertips and your throbbing clit.
“So sensitive,” she murmured, almost reverent. “Look at you… melting for me in every possible way.”
When it dissolved completely, she reached for another fresh cube. This time she pressed it directly against your entrance, letting the freezing tip part your folds. You gasped sharply as she pushed it slowly inside with two fingers. The intense cold bloomed deep within you. She worked it deeper with gentle, unhurried strokes, letting it melt and spread icy water with every movement.
She followed with a second cube.
Your back arched hard. Larissa kept her fingers there, stroking slowly, curling them to press the melting ice against your inner walls and that sensitive spot inside you. Her thumb returned to your clit, circling with cool, steady pressure. She took her time—long, deliberate thrusts mixed with shallow, teasing ones—replacing each cube as it melted, keeping you full of that delicious freezing burn while your moans grew louder and less controlled.
Sweat and meltwater slicked your skin. Your hips rolled desperately to meet her hand. The sensations built gradually, relentlessly.
“You’re dripping everywhere,” she whispered, voice husky. “Such a beautiful mess for me.”
The cold slowly gave way to a deep, throbbing ache of pleasure. Her chilled fingers felt impossibly good stroking that perfect spot while her thumb kept its patient rhythm on your swollen clit. The coil in your belly tightened inch by inch, winding higher with every slow thrust, every precise circle, every quiet word of praise.
Larissa leaned down, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your sternum and lower.
“Let go for me,” she murmured against your skin, fingers never faltering. “I want to feel you come around my cold fingers.”
The orgasm finally crashed over you in heavy, pulsing waves. Your back bowed sharply off the floor. A loud, broken cry tore from your throat as your walls clenched hard around her fingers. Larissa kept stroking you through every tremor—slow and steady—drawing out the pleasure until you collapsed, limp and trembling against the damp tiles.
Only then did she gently ease her fingers free and pull you into her arms. She brushed soft kisses to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.
“There you are,” she whispered, warm with affection and lingering desire. “My perfect, melting girl.”
You managed a soft, wrecked laugh and turned your face into her neck, breathing her in. The heatwave still pressed against the shutters outside, and the cicadas still sang, but wrapped in her arms, it felt wonderfully far away.
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