#scyftan

Ammonia feels better today - somewhat. Better enough.

Her hangover was horrible, but could have been worse - she did fall asleep with a full stomach, after all, purely thanks to Larissa. She woke up after that night on her couch, head pounding, a glass of water and some Tylenol set upon her coffee table.

Once her hangover eased, it wasn’t just her body that ached less - her heart did too. After all, even if she humiliated herself in front of her darling, being drunk and blabbering, Larissa did stay - and promised a discussion.

One that has Ammonia feeling quite conflicted - bubbling with a blend of anticipation, anxiety and dread.

Larissa speaks the words to her when she’s sat upon Ammonia’s couch again, after the werecat told her that she is doing better than she was (which is far from a lie, as she is dressed properly and did do her morning skincare routine and take a very refreshing shower full of proper hair care) and hands her a mug of hot orange-ginger tea. “It’s not the new day that I’m grateful for,” Ammonia replies, before taking a seat (somewhat) beside Larissa and sipping from her own cup (in an attempt to ease her racing heart).

“I’m… I’m sorry that you had to see me like that. I don’t have any excuse - but it does mean so very much to me that you took the time to help me home.” Her mug is warm in her hands, and she recalls exactly when she bought this specific tea - in the grocery store, weeks before, mind sparkling with the thought of sharing it with her honeybee. Everything bright and sweet and full of citrus makes her think of the older woman. “I hope I didn’t make you feel too uncomfortable - and that you got back home at a decent enough hour.”

"Thank you." Morticia says as she smoothes out the fabric of her dress. "For staying the night with me." Larissa really could have told her no, but then Morticia would have felt bad for making her go out in the rain the night before.

⚖️ You’ve Reached Durán Law: Plotted @scyftan

The dusty pink door of a ‘57 Bel Air swings open as a pair of high heels hit the cobblestones, followed by a charcoal suit, shoulder pads, and a set of keen eyes locked on the looming towers of Nevermore Academy.  Even having now driven through the better part of New England now for the last six or so hours of her life, Dolores still can't quite get over just how old some of the architecture around here is. New York has old buildings, sure, but this feels less like walking around historic Yorktown and more like stepping onto the set of Dracula or Frankenstein. Kind of fitting given all the rumors, but something else catches her attention before she can really dwell on that thought for too long.  Stepping out from the shadows of the school, a woman approaches and two thoughts cross Dolores’ mind. The first thing she takes note of is how she carries herself. Poised, controlled-- everything about the way she moves is meticulous. She can respect that. The second thing she notes is ‘damn that’s one tall lady’, standing at least a foot above her.  “Ms. Weems?” Shutting the door behind her with a clunk, she meets the other woman halfway with a briefcase in one hand and the other outstretched for a shake. “Hi, I’m Dolores Durán.”

Chaperone duty is very low on the list of things Farah enjoys about her job. Handling small groups of students one at a time in a classroom environment is one thing, but trying to keep her eye on just about every single student at Nevermore at one time as they perform acts of community service around Jericho is another. Principal Weems is supposed to be helping her, but has yet to show her face, and she wonders if some last minute fiasco means she'll be on her own for the entire afternoon. Highly likely, as Wednesday Addams was nowhere to be seen either.

Farah has stationed herself by the Weathervane, leaning idly against the building with her arms crossed as she watches (and reaches out with her magic) for any sign of trouble. A rather handsome man eventually approaches her, and offers her a hot coffee. "You look as if you could use it," he comments smoothly with a charming smile. Despite her better judgement, she accepts the cup and sips on the coffee as they engage in casual conversation.

She is laughing, a rare sound, at something he's said, and doesn't even see Larissa sweep in until the other woman is already at her side. She is wearing an utterly saccharine smile and dips her head to air kiss Farah on each cheek. "Farah, dear," she greets, her voice cloying, sparing barely half a glance towards the man. "So sorry I'm late, there was an incident back at the school that required my attention."

"I assumed as much," is all Farah manages to say in a clipped voice, completely caught off-guard by Larissa's behavior as she is. It takes every bit of her self-control to keep down the blush that threatens to rise to her face in response to the sensation of the other woman's breath tickling her cheeks.

@scyftan ✶

✎ @scyftan penned: "i thought i told you to stay back." for lana, and larissa is LIVID ✎ "stop putting yourself into danger!" prompts.

There is a cold sort of panic, a backwards nod toward another day, another incident, another institution and the consequences of Lana's own scheming recklessness, but it's only the feeling of it that comes. The memory, in some small mercy, merely clings to the edges, hidden and residual behind that thick, perpetual layer of instinct and now. There is tension, certainly. There is fear, always. But...there is no sudden blow, no other shoe dropping and landing and squashing whatever lies beneath it. There is only Larissa Weems, towering and furious, and the vague impression of something massive, furred, and long gone.

It takes several moments, an eternity more than suits Lana's carefully constructed image of grit, before she manages to decelerate from id and adrenaline. Her jaw clenches. Her nostrils quiver with the deliberate shallowing of her breath. And yet...the muscle memory of terror twitches at the corners of her eyes, squirms against the hard line of her mouth.