#topic of study

The next morning arrived with the audacity of a woman who had not spent half the night thinking about Larissa Weems.

Pale light crept through the curtains of your room, thin and gray-blue, catching on the discarded clothes you had failed to gather from the floor. Your sweater was still slumped over the back of your chair. Your shoes sat unevenly near the door, one tilted onto its side as though it, too, had given up on dignity sometime after midnight.

You blinked at the ceiling. For one blissful second, your mind was empty. Then memories returned with the subtlety of a brick through stained glass.

Larissa’s office.

Her voice, low and trembling at the edges. I’m afraid of losing control. Her fingers brushing yours at the end, deliberate enough to ruin you, restrained enough to haunt you.

You shut your eyes with a groan and dragged your comforter over your face.

No. Absolutely not. You would not start your morning like this. You were an adult. A graduate fellow. A scholar. A person with a dissertation, color-coded notes, and at least some working understanding of institutional ethics.

You were not going to be undone by the memory of a tall, silver-haired principal admitting, in a voice like cracked velvet, that she did not want you to leave and did not want you to stop flirting.

Your phone buzzed on your nightstand.

You froze. For a terrible, hopeful second, you thought it might be her.

It was not.

Mrs. Cunningham:

Good morning, dearie! Updated schedule attached. Principal Weems requests your presence in her office at 9:00 before today’s community roundtable. Breakfast will be available in the faculty lounge beforehand.

You stared at the email.

Of course.

Of course Larissa Weems would almost unravel in front of you one evening and then summon you by way of her assistant the next morning like a perfectly reasonable employer. Of course she would turn desire into scheduling. And of course there would be breakfast.

You dropped the phone against your chest and laughed once, dryly.

“Coward,” you muttered half-heartedly, though you were not entirely sure whether you meant Larissa or yourself.

The schedule opened beneath your thumb with one unforgiving tap.

9:00 — Briefing with Principal Weems

10:00 — Community Relations Roundtable, Jericho Town Hall

12:00 — Lunch with Outreach Committee

2:00 — Research consultation / archival permissions review

4:30 — Follow-up interview with Marginalia student newspaper

You stared at the day ahead of you.

Too much Larissa. Not enough Larissa. An absolutely fatal amount of Larissa.

You let the phone fall beside you again and pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes. The ache behind your ribs had not lessened. If anything, sleep had only refined it—turned last night’s frantic heat into something more dangerous. Something quieter. More focused.

Want was one thing. Knowing you were wanted back was another beast entirely.

You had been able to make jokes before. You could flirt, tease, press gently against the edges of her restraint because uncertainty had given you cover. Maybe you were imagining it. Maybe Larissa’s lingering looks were kindness. Maybe the warmth in her voice was charm, habit, professional polish.

But after last night? No. There was no unknowing it now.

Larissa Weems wanted you. And, apparently, she hated that almost as much as she wanted it.

The thought settled low in your stomach, both thrilling and heavy. You turned onto your side, facing the window, where the early light made the glass look silvered. Somewhere beyond the glass, Nevermore was waking: pipes groaning, students chattering through walls, old stone shifting with the cold.

And somewhere beneath all of that, Larissa was likely already awake.

Probably immaculate. Probably composed. Probably pretending she had not gone home—or wherever Larissa Weems went when the mask was finally too heavy to wear—and thought of you.

Your face heated. You sat up too quickly and nearly tangled yourself in the sheets.

“Nope,” you said aloud, swinging your feet onto the floor. “Not doing this.”

You did, in fact, spend the next forty minutes doing exactly this.

You dressed with more indecision than the occasion deserved. Every option felt like a message you weren’t sure you wanted to send. Too casual looked careless. Too polished looked intentional. Too revealing looked like a declaration of war, and you weren’t convinced Larissa would survive another one so soon.

Eventually, you settled on a dark green turtleneck tucked into high-waisted black trousers, the kind that made you look like you had your life together in a quiet academic way. You added your usual rings, a simple belt, and boots with just enough heel to make you feel steadier than you were.

You looked in the mirror.

Reasonable. Professional. Not at all like a woman who had spent the previous night clutching a pillow and trying not to think about the exact shape of Larissa’s mouth.

Good enough.

By the time you reached the faculty lounge, the scent of tea, toast, and something faintly buttery filled the hallway. A few early-rising faculty members were scattered through the room, speaking in low voices over cups and plates. You recognized one of the history instructors from a previous introduction and exchanged a polite smile.

Larissa was not there. Your disappointment was immediate and humiliating.

You poured tea you did not particularly want and chose a slice of toast because it gave your hands something to do. You were halfway through spreading jam with the seriousness of a surgeon when Mrs. Cunningham appeared beside you.

“There you are, dearie.”

You turned, nearly dropping the knife. “Oh, good morning.”

Mrs. Cunningham gave you the kind of look older women gave when they knew something and were deciding whether to weaponize it.

“Sleep well?”

You took a bite of toast to buy yourself time and immediately regretted it. Too dry. Too much chewing. Too much needing to appear normal.

“Fine,” you said eventually. “A regular amount of sleep. A… responsible amount.”

Her brows lifted. You sipped your tea.

Mrs. Cunningham hummed. “Principal Weems is already in her office. She asked that I send you down once you’d eaten.”

“How ominous.”

“She’s always ominous before nine-thirty.”

That startled a laugh out of you.

Mrs. Cunningham smiled, pleased with herself, and patted your arm. “Don’t look so worried.”

“Right,” you managed. She wandered off, leaving you to wonder if every woman at Nevermore was somehow capable of seeing directly through your skin.

You finished as much of breakfast as your nerves allowed, then made your way toward Larissa’s office.

The corridors seemed longer than usual.

Ridiculous, considering you knew the route well by now. You had walked it with curiosity, with excitement, with dread, with barely concealed arousal, with bruises hidden beneath your clothes, with questions pressing behind your teeth. Today, the hallway felt less like a path and more like a test.

Her office door was open. That struck you immediately.

Not ajar in the careless way of last night. Not inviting in the intimate, golden spill of lamplight that had made your pulse leap. Open. Properly open. Wide enough that anyone passing could glance inside.

You paused just outside.

Larissa sat behind her desk, dressed in a cream blouse and a dove-gray skirt that made her look infuriatingly untouchable. Her hair was swept into its usual flawless arrangement. Her lipstick was perfect. Her posture was perfect. Even the stack of papers at her right hand looked like it had been placed there by an anxious museum curator.

She looked up. For half a second, something crossed her face. Not composure. Not quite. Recognition, maybe. Memory? Then it was gone.

“Good morning,” she said. Her voice was smooth. Even. Polite.

You wanted to throw yourself out the nearest window.

“Morning, Principal Weems.” Her eyes flickered at the title. Briefly. Almost imperceptibly.

Interesting.

You stepped inside but did not sit until she gestured to the chair opposite her desk. The same chair. Of course. Your body remembered it before your mind could object—the precise angle from which you had watched her composure fracture, the distance you had reduced by standing, the look in her eyes when you asked what she wanted.

You sat down. The door remained open behind you. Larissa noticed you noticing.

A faint line appeared between her brows before smoothing away. “I trust Mrs. Cunningham sent you the updated schedule?”

“She did.”

“Good.” Larissa picked up a folder and opened it, though you were fairly certain she did not read the top page. “Today’s roundtable will include several town representatives, a member of the Outreach Committee, and a local reporter from VNE. The intention is to frame your fellowship as part of Nevermore’s ongoing commitment to transparency and community repair.”

“Sounds fun.”

Her gaze lifted. You smiled innocently.

“Your enthusiasm is, as always, overwhelming,” she said. There it was. The faintest glimmer. Dry. Familiar. Almost warm.

Your chest loosened despite yourself. “I contain multitudes.”

“I have noticed.”

The words landed differently than they should have.

Larissa seemed to realize it at the same time you did. Her fingers shifted against the folder. The office, despite the open door, felt suddenly smaller.

She cleared her throat. You watched the movement.

Stop it, you told yourself.

“Today will require care,” she continued.

The word care struck between you with cruel precision.

Careful.

You leaned back slightly. “That seems to be a recurring theme.”

Larissa’s eyes held yours. For a moment, neither of you spoke.

A student’s laughter echoed faintly from somewhere down the corridor. A door closed. Footsteps passed, visible for a moment through the open doorway, then gone.

Larissa looked away first.

“I mean,” she said carefully, “that the town is still sensitive to recent events. Outreach Day helps, but the wounds between Jericho and Nevermore are not healed simply because we schedule programs and refreshments.”

You nodded, letting the seriousness of the subject pull you back to steadier ground. “I know.”

“I believe you do.” Her voice softened before she seemed to catch herself. “However, it is important that your remarks remain focused. You are not there to apologize on behalf of Nevermore, nor to defend every outcast against every accusation ever made by normie society.”

“Tragic. That was exactly my plan.”

“Nor,” she added, ignoring you with admirable discipline, “are you there to provoke.”

You placed a hand against your chest. “I would never.”

Larissa’s mouth twitched.

The victory felt embarrassingly satisfying.

Then her gaze dropped to your hand, to the rings on your fingers, then away again. The motion was small, but it sent heat crawling up the back of your neck.

So this was how the day would go… Death by almost-looking.

“I reviewed your preliminary notes,” Larissa said, too quickly.

“My notes?”

“The excerpts you sent Mrs. Cunningham for the press packet.”

“Oh.” You blinked. “Right. Those notes.”

“They’re thoughtful.” She hesitated. “Particularly your comments on the limitations of normie scholarship regarding shapeshifters.”

Your body stilled. There it was.

You had known, eventually, the subject would become difficult before you even knew Larissa was a shapeshifter. You had pulled quotes from Foundational Concepts in Shapeshifter Cultures with increasing irritation, marking passages that framed shapeshifting as deception, punishment, instability, or divine correction. The more you read, the more the scholarship felt not merely incomplete but accusatory.

And then there was Larissa.

The woman who moved through the world as though every inch of herself had been edited for public consumption. Larissa, who was a shapeshifter in a world eager to make that word mean liar.

You chose your response carefully. “I’m still working through that section. I don’t want to overstep.”

“No,” she said, and the immediacy surprised you. “You haven’t.”

The admission hovered between you.

Larissa lowered her eyes to the papers again. “But you should be prepared for resistance. Jericho likes comfortable narratives. Shapeshifters as tricksters. Sirens as manipulators. Gorgons as threats. Vampires as predators. Each category conveniently simple enough for normies to fear without having to understand.”

There was no bitterness in her voice. That made it worse. She said it like a fact she had memorized young.

You studied her face, the line of her jaw, the immaculate calm that had settled over something old and carefully buried.

“Is that what they called you?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

Her eyes snapped to yours.

The room changed.

You regretted the question immediately—not because you didn’t want the answer, but because the answer mattered too much. Because the open door suddenly felt less like a boundary and more like an audience.

Larissa’s expression did not move for several seconds. Then, quietly, “That is not relevant to today’s briefing.”

It was a reprimand. It was also an answer.

Your throat tightened. “I’m sorry.”

She inhaled slowly, and for once the breath did not look practiced. “You needn’t be.”

“I shouldn’t have asked like that.”

“No,” she agreed. You winced.

“But,” she continued, voice quieter, “your instinct was not incorrect.”

Your eyes lifted. Larissa held your gaze for a fraction too long, then turned a page in the folder with exquisite precision. “You may find that the most enduring prejudices are the ones people dress up as observation.”

You swallowed. “That’s good,” you said softly.

Her brow arched.

“For the roundtable,” you clarified. “Not good. Obviously. Horrible. But… useful phrasing.”

A glimmer of amusement returned to her eyes. “You may use it, provided you do not attribute it to me.”

“Noted. Anonymous devastating insight.”

“Do not call it that either.”

“I’ll workshop it.”

The corner of her mouth curved. The smile was tiny. Barely there.

It still felt like being handed something precious.

Then a knock sounded against the open doorframe. Both of you turned.

Mrs. Cunningham stood there with a clipboard pressed to her chest, looking between you with the faintly amused neutrality of a woman who had never missed a thing in her life.

“The car is ready, ma’am,” she announced. “Town Hall in twenty minutes.”

Larissa stood immediately. “Thank you.”

You rose as well, gathering your folder and bag.

As Larissa moved around the desk, you both reached for the same stack of printed materials at the same time. Your fingers brushed. Bare skin this time. Not through gloves. Not accidental enough to dismiss.

A spark went through you so sharply that you almost forgot Mrs. Cunningham was standing there.

Larissa’s fingers froze against yours.

One second. Two. Then she withdrew.

“After you,” she said.

Her voice was perfectly steady. Her eyes were not.

—

Jericho Town Hall looked as though it had been built by people who believed civic responsibility should include uncomfortable chairs.

The room was paneled in dark wood and decorated with framed photographs of town founders whose eyes followed you with ancestral disapproval. Folding tables had been arranged in a loose rectangle, with pitchers of water, paper cups, name placards, and an assortment of pastries that looked dry enough to legally qualify as historical artifacts.

You took your seat beside Larissa, because apparently the universe had a sense of humor and a vendetta.

To your left sat a VNE reporter, a thin man with aggressively neat hair and the posture of someone who liked asking questions that made people sweat. Across from you were two town representatives, one Outreach Committee member, and a local business owner whose name tag read MARIAN HOLT. You wondered if she had ever smiled in her life or if Jericho had outlawed it sometime in the nineteenth century.

Larissa opened the meeting with her usual poise next to the sheriff.

You had seen her command rooms before, but it still fascinated you. She did not raise her voice. She did not over-explain. She did not plead for goodwill. She simply occupied authority so thoroughly that everyone else seemed to adjust themselves around it. It made the authority of the man next to her seem diminutive in comparison.

“Our aim,” she said, hands folded elegantly in front of her, “is not to erase the tensions between Jericho and Nevermore, but to address them with clarity and intention. The fellowship program is one part of that effort.”

Several eyes turned to you. You smiled, polite but not too bright. 

The reporter clicked his pen.

“And as the first normie graduate fellow at Nevermore,” he began, “how would you characterize your experience so far?”

Larissa’s knee was close enough beneath the table that you were aware of it without touching.

You kept your posture relaxed. “Complicated. In a good way.”

The reporter looked disappointed you had not said something dramatic.

You continued, “I think any meaningful research environment should complicate your assumptions. Nevermore does that. It’s easy for normie institutions to talk about outcasts as a subject. It’s different to be in a space where outcasts are not theoretical. They’re students, teachers, colleagues, historians, artists, teenagers trying to survive adolescence without also being treated as monsters.”

The room was quiet. Good quiet, maybe.

Larissa did not look at you, but something about her stillness changed.

The reporter leaned forward. “You use the term monsters. Do you think that language is still relevant to normie and outcast relations?”

You felt Larissa’s attention sharpen. Careful, you could almost hear her say.

You took a steadying breath. “I think monster is often a word people use when they want fear to sound like evidence.”

Across the table, Marian Holt’s mouth tightened. Beside you, Larissa’s fingers went still around her pen.

You pressed on. “A lot of my work looks at how language shapes public imagination. If a community tells the same story long enough—sirens manipulate, vampires prey, shapeshifters deceive—then individuals get flattened into symbols. And once someone is only a symbol, it becomes easier to justify mistreating them.”

The reporter’s pen moved quickly now.

One of the town representatives cleared his throat. “Surely some of those concerns come from actual incidents.”

“Of course,” you said. “Harm happens in every community. Outcasts are not exempt from accountability, and normies are not exempt from prejudice. But patterns matter. Who gets treated as an individual who made a mistake, and who gets treated as proof that their entire identity is dangerous?”

Larissa shifted beside you. Not away. Not closer. But present.

The Outreach Committee member, a woman with kind eyes and a cardigan patterned with tiny ravens, nodded slowly. “That is a useful distinction.”

You smiled at her gratefully.

The reporter turned to Larissa. “Principal Weems, do you agree with that framing?”

Larissa’s expression did not change, but you felt the air around her cool.

“As a principal,” she said, “I have learned that students rarely thrive when they are treated as representatives of someone else’s fear.”

The room stilled again. You looked down at your notes because looking at her felt too dangerous.

The meeting continued, weaving through topics of safety, integration, Outreach Day, student conduct, and Jericho’s “ongoing concerns,” which seemed to be a polite way of saying prejudices they had not yet figured out how to make sound progressive.

Larissa was brilliant. That was the problem.

She navigated hostility with grace, corrected assumptions without appearing defensive, and smiled just warmly enough to make several people forget they were being professionally dismantled. Watching her was infuriatingly attractive. Worse, it made your chest ache.

Because now you could hear what lived underneath the polish. The caution. The exhaustion. The discipline of a woman who had learned to be impeccable because anything less would be used against her.

At some point, under the table, her knee brushed yours. Barely.

You stopped mid-note. Larissa continued speaking without pause.

You glanced at her profile. Nothing.

Her knee remained there. Warmth spread through you, slow and traitorous. It could have been an accident. It probably was an accident.

Then she shifted half an inch closer.

You stared at your notebook, where your pen had made one long, useless line through the word narrative.

Careful, indeed.

—

The meeting ended with handshakes, polite smiles, and the particular exhaustion that came from being measured by people who thought curiosity and suspicion were the same thing.

Larissa was intercepted almost immediately by Marian Holt and the VNE reporter, leaving you to gather your notes near the refreshment table. You poured yourself water and considered whether one of the pastries was worth the risk.

“Hey.”

You turned.

Imogen stood a few feet away, one hand tucked into the pocket of her jacket, her expression cautious. She was not in her Weathervane apron today. Instead, she wore a black denim jacket over a striped shirt, her hair braided loosely over one shoulder.

You blinked, confusion marking your tone. “Imogen?”

“Yeah. Sorry.” She gave a nervous laugh. “My aunt is on the Outreach Committee. I helped set up chairs this morning.”

Of course she did. Jericho really was the kind of town where everyone’s aunt was on a committee.

“Oh,” you said. “Right. Hi.”

Her eyes flicked toward Larissa, who was still across the room speaking to Marian with a smile sharp enough to cut ribbon. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“I was on the schedule.”

“Right.” Imogen rocked back on her heels. “You were really good up there.”

“Thanks.”

“I mean it. The stuff you said about people being turned into symbols…” Her face pinched slightly. “I’ve been thinking about that.”

Something in your defensiveness softened, though not entirely. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “After Burlington. After what my friends did.” Her voice lowered. “I keep trying to tell myself I didn’t know they would go that far, but that doesn’t really matter, does it? I knew how they talked. I knew how they usually thought. I just thought…” She swallowed. “I don’t know. I thought because they were nice to me, they were nice.”

That landed harder than you expected. You looked down at the water cup in your hands, watching the surface tremble slightly.

“That’s a difficult thing to realize,” you said.

“Yeah.” Imogen gave a humorless laugh. “Not as difficult as getting dragged outside and punched because someone thought you were a vampire.”

Your ribs seemed to remember before you did. You breathed slowly.

“I’m not trying to make you forgive me,” she added quickly. “I know I keep showing up and making it weird.”

“You do have a talent for timing.”

A small, relieved smile crossed her face. “I deserve that.”

You looked toward Larissa before you could help it.

A mistake.

She was watching you.

Not openly. Not rudely. But her attention had cut across the room and settled on you with the same cool precision she used to silence rowdy students and arrogant town officials.

Her gaze flicked to Imogen, then back to you. Possessiveness looked devastating on her. You hated that you noticed.

Imogen followed your glance, then exhaled. “She really doesn’t like me.”

You almost laughed. “Principal Weems is protective of Nevermore.”

“Sure,” Imogen said, not sounding convinced. “And dragons are protective of gold.”

Your head snapped toward her.

Imogen held up both hands. “Sorry. Sorry. None of my business.”

“It isn’t.”

“I know.”

The silence that followed was awkward, but not hostile.

Imogen shifted. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry. And I’m trying to be better. Not because I want anything from you. Just… because I should have been better already.”

You studied her for a long moment.

There were still things in you that did not trust her. Things that remembered waiting alone outside a nightclub with a dying phone and a bruise blooming under your clothes. Things that remembered how easily desire had made you reckless.

But she looked younger today. Not in age, exactly. In certainty.

“Thank you,” you said at last. “I appreciate you saying that.”

She nodded, visibly relieved. “Okay. Good. I’ll let you get back to…” Her eyes flicked toward Larissa again. “Whatever that is.”

You gave her a flat look.

She smiled, sheepish, and backed away. “Right. Leaving now.”

You watched her go.

When you turned back, Larissa was no longer across the room. She was beside you. You startled hard enough to nearly spill your water.

“Jesus.”

“We really must stop meeting under that name,” Larissa said.

You pressed a hand to your chest. “Do they teach stealth walking in principal school?”

“Only to advanced students.”

Your pulse was already misbehaving. “How much of that did you hear?”

“Enough.” Her eyes remained on Imogen’s retreating figure.

You waited. Larissa did not speak.

“Oh, come on,” you said under your breath. “If you’re going to loom disapprovingly, at least commit to the commentary.”

Her gaze shifted to you. “I am not looming.”

“You are absolutely looming.”

“I am standing.”

“Menacingly.”

Her lips pressed together, but the amusement did not reach her eyes this time.

“She apologized,” you said, softer now. “Again.”

“I heard.”

“And I handled it.”

“I saw.”

You tilted your head. “Then why do you look like you want to ban her from every building within a five-mile radius?”

Larissa’s expression cooled. “You mistake professional concern for something far less appropriate.”

You stared at her. She stared back.

“Do I?” you asked.

A muscle feathered in her jaw.

The room was still full of people, which was the only reason you did not step closer. You wondered if she knew that. You wondered if she was relying on it.

Larissa looked away first, lowering her voice. “We should return to Nevermore. Mrs. Cunningham will expect us for the archival review.”

“Of course.”

She turned. You followed.

Outside, the cold air hit your face with a clarity you desperately needed. The sky had gone white with cloud cover, and the town square looked washed out beneath it, all brick storefronts and damp pavement. Larissa walked beside you toward the waiting car, her posture as flawless as ever.

For half the walk, neither of you spoke.

Then she said, “You did well.”

The praise struck so unexpectedly that you nearly missed a step.

“At the roundtabe,” she clarified, as though she had not just handed your heart a lit match. “You were composed. Measured. Persuasive.”

“Thank you.”

“You also quoted me.”

You looked up at her. “Anonymously.”

Her brow arched. “Devastating insight?”

“I was being generous.”

“You were being impertinent.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Maybe.”

A faint warmth passed over her face and vanished almost immediately.

There she was. There you were.

You climbed into the car with the terrible awareness that the space was too enclosed, too familiar. Not the van from Burlington, thank god, but close enough to awaken the memory of leather seats, shaking breath, the horn blaring beneath you at exactly the wrong moment.

Larissa seemed to remember too. She sat a little too still behind the wheel.

You fastened your seatbelt with exaggerated care. Her eyes cut to you.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing.”

“You’re thinking something.”

“I am often thinking something.”

“Is it about seatbelts?”

Her hands tightened on the wheel. You grinned, unable to help yourself.

“Do not,” she warned.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was not.”

“You absolutely were.”

The laugh escaped you before you could stop it, bright and startled.

Larissa’s face softened. Only for a second. But you saw it.

The drive back to Nevermore was quiet after that, but the quiet had changed. It was not the suffocating silence after the Burlington kiss. Not the tense emptiness of avoidance. This was something stranger—an awareness held carefully between you, like a glass filled too close to the rim.

At one point, Larissa turned the heat up without asking.

At another, your hand rested near the center console, and hers shifted on the gear stick close enough that your smallest fingers nearly touched.

Neither of you moved away. Neither of you moved closer.

By the time Nevermore’s gates appeared ahead, you felt like your entire body was made of withheld breath.

—

The archival permissions review was, objectively, boring.

It should have helped. It did not.

Mrs. Cunningham had arranged several boxes of documents in Larissa’s office, along with permission forms detailing which historical records you were allowed to access for dissertation purposes and which required faculty supervision. There were rules about student files, genealogical materials, medical documentation, and anything classified under “species-sensitive cultural records,” which sounded both fascinating and like a bureaucratic trap.

Larissa reviewed each category with you from behind her desk.

The door remained open. Again.

You noticed. Again.

This time, irritation slipped in beneath the want. It was one thing to be careful. It was another to be managed.

“Species-sensitive cultural records require approval from either myself or the relevant department head,” Larissa explained, marking a line with her pen. “In the case of shapeshifter histories, that approval would come through my office.”

Your eyes lifted. “Of course it would.”

Her gaze sharpened. “Is that a problem?”

“No.”

“You said that as though it were.”

“I just said, ‘of course it would.’”

“Pointedly.”

You leaned back in your chair. “Maybe I’m just wondering if I’ll be allowed to research anything that makes you uncomfortable.”

Larissa went very still. The temperature in the room seemed to drop a few degrees.

“That is not fair,” she said quietly.

You regretted the edge in your tone almost immediately, but not the question itself.

“No,” you admitted. “It probably isn’t.”

Her eyes searched yours. “My discomfort is not the issue.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No.” Her voice was controlled, but there was strain beneath it. “The issue is that some materials in this academy belong to communities that have been studied, distorted, and exposed by outsiders for centuries. Access is not entitlement.”

That landed. You looked down at your hands.

“You’re right,” you said after a moment. “I’m sorry.”

The air shifted.

Larissa’s shoulders softened slightly, though she did not relax.

“I know I’m not entitled to any of it,” you continued. “That’s part of what I’m trying to figure out. How to do this without repeating the same harm. How to write about communities I’m not part of without making them feel like objects under glass.”

Larissa’s expression changed, but you could not immediately name how.

You pressed on, quieter now. “And I know my position here is complicated. I know I’m useful to Nevermore because I’m a normie who can say things other people might not listen to from an outcast. I hate that. I’m also trying to use it responsibly.”

Her gaze dropped to the folder between you.

“I am aware,” she said.

Something in her tone made your throat ache. You looked at her carefully. “Are you?”

Larissa’s eyes lifted. You did not mean the question cruelly. You meant it plainly. Almost tenderly. 

For a moment, she looked tired. Not visibly, not to anyone else. But you knew enough now to recognize the almost imperceptible loosening around her eyes, the weight beneath the painted elegance.

“Yes,” she said softly. “I am.”

The office was too quiet. The open door felt suddenly obscene, as though the whole hallway had been invited to witness something fragile.

You looked away first.

Larissa set the pen down.

“I do not wish to obstruct your work,” she said. “On the contrary, I believe it matters. Perhaps more than I initially understood.”

Your chest warmed.

“But I will not allow you to harm yourself trying to prove you deserve to do it.”

That pulled your gaze back to hers.

“What?”

“You throw yourself at difficult things,” she said. “People. Questions. Rooms full of suspicion. Women who have already disappointed you.” Her eyes flickered toward the direction of Jericho, then back to you. “You call it justice or curiosity or desire, depending on the hour. But it is often the same impulse.”

Your mouth parted. That was unfair.

It was also devastatingly accurate.

“You don’t know me well enough to make that assessment,” you said, but your voice lacked conviction.

Larissa’s expression softened. “No?”

The word was quiet. Too quiet.

Heat rose between you again, but this time it was tangled with something far more difficult than want. Being seen was thrilling when it came with flirtation. Less so when it came with a mirror.

You stood abruptly, needing movement. “Maybe we should finish this later.”

Larissa’s eyes followed you. “Sit down.”

The command was soft. Your body reacted before your pride could. You hated that.

You remained standing.

Her brows lifted, not in anger but warning. “Please,” she added.

That was worse.

So, you sat.

Larissa inhaled slowly, then rose from behind the desk. She walked to the open door. For one wild second, you thought she might close it.

Instead, she rested one hand lightly against the edge and looked out into the corridor, ensuring no one was nearby. Then she turned back to you, leaving the door exactly as it was.

A boundary. A message. A punishment, maybe, though not only for you.

She came to stand in front of her desk rather than behind it, arms folded loosely at her waist. The position brought her closer. Not close enough. Too close.

“I need you to understand something,” she said.

You swallowed. “Okay.”

“What happened last night cannot become our pattern.”

Your heart kicked. You knew she was right. You hated her for saying it first.

“Which part?” you asked, because apparently self-preservation had left your body.

Her eyes flashed. “You know which part.”

“Do I?”

“Do not be deliberately obtuse.”

“I’m not,” you said, though you absolutely were. “There were several parts.”

Her cheeks colored faintly. Good.

Terrible. …Good.

Larissa looked toward the door, then back at you, voice lowering. “The part where I allowed a conversation that should have remained professional to become something else.”

“Allowed?”

Her lips pressed together. “Participated in.”

You tilted your head. “That’s closer.”

She exhaled through her nose. “This is not amusing.”

“No,” you said, softer. “It isn’t.”

The honesty shifted something between you. Larissa’s face changed.

“I meant what I said,” she admitted.

Your breath caught.

She continued before you could speak. “I am afraid of losing control. I am also afraid of what happens if I don’t.”

That was new.

You gripped the arms of your chair.

Larissa looked almost angry with herself for saying it. “You are under my care here.”

“I’m not a student.”

“You are a graduate fellow at my academy.”

“I am also an adult.”

“I am aware of that,” she said, a little too quickly. The flush at her throat betrayed her.

You almost smiled. Almost. But the rest of her expression stopped you.

“This institution is still vulnerable,” Larissa said. “Nevermore is being watched. By the Board. By Jericho. By every normie publication eager to decide whether last year’s events were an aberration or proof of something monstrous. You are part of the story they want to tell about us.”

“About you,” you said quietly.

Her jaw tightened. Not confirmation, exactly. But the smallest fracture in her expression told you that you had stepped closer to the truth than she wanted.

This was not only about your fellowship or the academy’s reputation. It was about the shape a scandal would take once normie mouths got hold of it. How quickly concern would become accusation. How easily desire would be rewritten as danger.

You could not know the exact fear moving through her, but you could feel its outline. And its outline looked a great deal like her. The older outcast woman as predator, no matter how mutual the want, no matter how human the ache beneath it.

Your anger softened into something protective. “Larissa.”

Her name did what it always did. It moved through her.

Not visibly enough for anyone else, maybe. But you saw the way her lashes lowered and lifted. The subtle catch in her breath.

“You keep asking me to be careful,” you said. “But you never say what you’re actually afraid I’ll break.”

Her eyes held yours. “My career,” she said. “Your research. Nevermore’s reputation. Take your pick.”

“And you?”

The silence was immediate. Devastating.

You stood slowly.

She did not tell you to sit this time.

The open door remained in your periphery, bright and watchful. You did not move closer than you should. You only stood there, a few feet away, close enough to see the faint unsteadiness beneath her composure and far enough that neither of you could pretend the distance wasn’t chosen.

“Am I allowed to worry about breaking you?” you asked.

Larissa’s face went very still. For a moment, you thought she might retreat completely. Send you away. Rebuild herself into polished marble and leave you standing in front of a statue.

But then her expression fractured—not much. Just enough. “You should not worry about me.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

Her eyes shone strangely in the office light.

“No,” she said after a long moment. “I suppose it wasn’t.”

You waited.

She looked away. “I have spent a long time ensuring there is very little of me available to break.”

Your chest hurt. There were a dozen things you could have said. A dozen tender, reckless, impossible things.

Instead, you said, “That sounds lonely.”

Larissa’s mouth tightened as though the words had physically touched her. Then, softly, “It is efficient.”

The laugh that left you was small and sad. “That’s not the same thing.”

“No,” she said. “It isn’t.”

The space between you pulsed with everything unsaid. You wanted to cross it.

She wanted you to. You could see that now. Worse, you could see how much it cost her not to ask.

A set of footsteps passed in the corridor. Both of you looked toward the door.

The spell cracked but did not break.

Larissa drew in a careful breath and straightened. “There will be rules,” she said.

You blinked. “Rules.”

“Yes.”

“Is that your solution?”

“It is a boundary.”

“It’s a delay.”

Her eyes returned to yours. The heat in them was low and controlled and absolutely damning.

“Then let us hope,” she said, “that I am better at delays than I am at denial.”

Your mouth went dry.

Larissa seemed to realize what she had said only after saying it. Her posture stiffened, but there was no taking it back.

Good. Let her live with it. You certainly would.

“What rules?” you asked, voice quieter than you intended.

“No closed doors.”

Your gaze moved instinctively to the open office door. “Subtle.”

“I am not attempting subtlety.”

“That’s new.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Do you want to hear the rest?”

You held up your hands in surrender.

“No unnecessary private meetings after hours,” she continued. “No suggestive messages during official assignments.”

You winced. “That one feels targeted.”

“It is.”

“Fair.”

“No touching in public beyond what is professionally appropriate.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Professionally appropriate has been doing a lot of work lately.”

Larissa’s lips parted, then closed. A flush crept up her neck.

Your entire body celebrated the victory.

“And,” she said, regaining herself with effort, “we will both remember what is at stake.”

That sobered you. You nodded.

“I can agree to that,” you said. “But I have one rule too.”

Larissa looked wary. “Which is?”

“No pretending I imagined this.”

Her expression changed.

You pressed on before she could deflect. “You can make rules. You can keep the door open. You can call this whatever you need to call it in public. But I won’t be the only one carrying the truth while you hide behind professionalism.”

The words shook more than you wanted them to.

Larissa noticed. Of course she did.

Her voice softened. “You didn't imagine it.”

Your breath caught.

She held your gaze, and for once, she did not look away from the wanting. “You are not imagining it,” she said.

The room went silent.

Your hand twitched at your side. Hers did too. Neither of you moved.

The open door had never felt more cruel.

Then Mrs. Cunningham’s voice called from somewhere down the hallway.

“Larissa? The Marginalia girls are here early!”

Larissa closed her eyes briefly. You bit the inside of your cheek so hard you nearly laughed.

Of course.

Of course Enid Sinclair would somehow become divine intervention.

Larissa opened her eyes again, and the mask slid back into place, though not as completely as before. She smoothed her blouse, reached for the folder on her desk, and looked every inch the principal once more.

But when she passed you on her way to the door, her hand brushed yours.

Not by accident. Not long enough to break a rule. Just enough to ruin one.

Her voice was low as she moved past. “Come along.”

You turned to follow her, pulse thrumming beneath your skin.

In the hallway, Enid’s bright voice carried toward you, cheerful and oblivious. Yoko said something dry in response. Mrs. Cunningham laughed.

The world resumed around you as though nothing had happened.

But Larissa paused at the threshold, glancing back over her shoulder. Her eyes met yours. Only for a second. Then she continued down the corridor, elegant and untouchable and not nearly as composed as she wanted to be.

You followed, your folder clutched to your chest, your heart doing something reckless behind your ribs.

No closed doors, then. Fine.

You wondered how long either of you would survive the open ones.

—

Tagging: @readingtheentrails, @justcallmelittleone, @enchantressb, @jeepingay, @gwendolinechristieiscute, @leftoverenvy.

As you exit your Uber in the Jericho town square, you start to glance around for the Nevermore Academy driver expected to meet you. Hm, not here yet. The coordinator you were in contact with offered to have you collected at the train station in Burlington, but you preferred to use the time in the quiet solitude of the Uber to think and prepare instead. Your Uber driver didn’t seem to mind, and for that, you were going to leave a large, thankful tip.

Once out of the car, you were excited to stretch your legs and chug the rest of your water. You check your phone before heading to the trunk for your luggage. You’re not exactly sure who is meeting you now, because there is an automated email saying the usual Nevermore driver is out sick with stomach pox (whatever that is…).

Resolved to figure it out as you go, you pull your bag and suitcase from the trunk and wave a thank you to your Uber driver as they seem to scurry away quickly from Jericho. You begin to walk towards the fountain in the middle of the open space surrounded by shops and sidewalks. The town square looks quaint; you notice a flower shop, a convenience store, a hardware store, and a couple other small businesses throughout the square. However, what truly caught your eye was a café. Caffeine sounded so, so good. Traveling always exhausted you. Too much to think about and plan. It made your anxiety flare.

Heading towards the Weathervane Café and Bakery, you find yourself grateful to have a place to rest for a moment and wait for your now unknown Nevermore driver. The gloomy, overcast sky looked like it could open up and pour rain at any moment.

Shuffling your suitcase in the door to the café, you eye a back booth out of the way so that you don’t disturb anyone with your items. You’re not sure you would bother anyone since there aren’t many people here anyway—maybe the post-lunch lull is in full effect. You notice a black-haired, tattooed barista making an espresso for a customer. After looking around and deeming your belongings safe enough, you dash over to the counter to be next in line.

“What can I get you?” you hear coming from the black-haired woman behind the counter. In response, you ask, “May I please get a light roast vanilla latte for here?” You aren’t sure how long you’ll be waiting to depart for Nevermore. You might as well get comfortable. Before you could mutter “thank you,” the barista nods and takes your outstretched payment before turning around to complete your order.

You briefly walked back over to your claimed booth to take off your jacket and check your phone for any notifications. You didn’t expect the barista to bring you your drink. As far as you could tell, she was the only one working out front. Turning to you, she speaks almost teasing, “New, huh?”

Your eyes meet the luggage at your feet. “Yeah, I guess the suitcase does make it hard to blend in.” You notice the woman has a tousled bob and nose piercing; she stood looking at you, expecting you to continue. “I’m doing a fellowship year at Nevermore Academy to finish my dissertation.”

The barista eyes you suspiciously as if she is trying to make up her mind about something. You catch on and ask “What’s the look for?” Finally, she relents, “Okay, I don’t want to sound insensitive and ignorant, but are you an outcast?”

There it is. Honestly, you were waiting for this question. “No, I’m not. I’m actually researching outcast and normie relations. I figured the best way to dive into the issue was to live it and immerse myself in it as much as I can.” There are only a couple of all-outcast schools in the U.S. You applied to Cresthaven in Virginia and didn’t bother with the one out west. You heard it was in an underground bunker and immediately crossed it off your list. The most promising (and controversial due to recent events) was Nevermore.

To be frank, you were a little nervous for how your research would be perceived after following the news and disruptions here over the last year. Scary…but also kind of exciting having first-hand knowledge and experience relating to your work.

The barista seems to lower her guard. You learn her name is Imogen, and you two begin to share some of the funny TikTok’s you’ve seen about outcasts and normies. You’re giggling when the door opens and a bell chimes signaling a new customer.

The tallest and most attractive woman you’ve ever seen enters. You’re not sure how someone can seem so delicate and feminine yet powerful and in control at the same time. This is coming from someone quite well-versed in queer theory and the wonderful fluidity of gender and power. To have you stumped and frozen by this statuesque woman is quite a feat.

“Oh, there you are!” pronounces the woman cheerfully, as if she had been searching for you. Her voice was lilting, a touch of rasp, and delicious like honey.

You hesitate, trying to find out if your silence would encourage more of the beautiful sound. She then introduces herself as Larissa Weems, the principal of Nevermore. At the end of her detailing what happened with the original driver, you notice you’ve been staring at her throughout her entire introduction. Suddenly, your mouth goes dry and your cheeks flush. Imogen, the barista, chuckles and gives you a wink before backing away to let you flounder.

You begin to reason, “I apologize for not waiting outside where we had planned. I did not know who would meet me, and I wanted to explore a bit of Jericho before heading off.”

“Nonsense. In fact, let’s sit and have a cup together.” The taller woman visits the counter, and you overhear her order a hot chocolate. Jealousy showing, you didn’t even think to order such a cozy drink. You love hot chocolate.

Eventually she comes back over to you with her hot chocolate in hand, also deciding to forgo the to go cup. You attempt small talk, saying you adore hot chocolate and that you should have gotten it in the first place. The principal assures you that it is delicious and lives up to the hype. You vow to order one to go, jokingly. She, unexpectedly, offers you a sip.

Principal Weems had already been sipping the drink, and there were red lipstick stains on the mug. Throwing caution to the wind, you look her straight in the eyes and make a choice to bring your mouth to the same spot hers was. Her momentarily taken aback expression fades quickly into an unreadable façade.

“Mmmmm, you were not lying.” You let out, feeling the warmth travel down your throat. “Thank you for letting me try it.” The other woman looks down at where you had taken a sip and back to your lips. She sees that there is a bit of her red lipstick on your own lips now. She calmly removes the glove from her right hand, leans forward, and swipes her finger across your lips to collect the red residue.

With a smirk and feeling quite cheeky, you remark, “Talk about normie/outcast relations.” The woman looks out the window in an effort to conceal her own budding smirk and seems to be slightly flustered at the interaction. Or possibly the implication.

You’re unsure if she seems flustered due to the likelihood she’s almost always in control or if she has her own internalized barriers to outcasts/normies or sexuality. You file away this information, because, honestly, it was fun teasing her. To your surprise, though, she continues to drink her hot chocolate from the exact same place as before.

You two end up talking for another 45 minutes about your travels, your program, and the work you hope to complete at Nevermore. You ask about her job, the students, and what she does in her downtime on the campus. You also ask her if it’s possible to get some background information surrounding Jericho. In response, she offers to walk around with you if the weather permits.

Before you can fully gather your belongs and head towards the door, Imogen the barista catches you to give you her number and say goodbye. You begin to push your luggage towards the door when Principal Weems offers to carry it to the car for you. After some convincing, you yield to the obviously stronger woman. The taller woman takes your suitcase and bag as if it is the easiest thing in the world to lift, not even wrinkling her fashionable ensemble, and makes her way out of the Weathervane. The van parked across the street is a short trek, and you two place the luggage in the back and lock the car. Principal Weems looks at you expectantly to initiate a stroll in one direction or another.

Of course you are trying to understand as much history surrounding Jericho and Nevermore as you can. Knowing a bit more about the current and past state of normie/outcast relations can kick start your deeper research into local lore. You also can’t help but want to prolong the time you have with the tall and comforting older woman. At your current height, she is almost a foot taller than you, and you must pick up the pace a bit when beside her.

With the scenery change, you finally have the chance to examine the woman without the obstructing table and barista’s curious eyes. Principal Weems embodies femininity in a manner you could never accomplish. She is wearing heels and exquisite clothes; you don’t know anything about designer brands, but you’re sure they pale in comparison to her impeccably tailored clothes. Her hair is frozen in the most pristine updo that liken her to a Hitchcock heroine. You’re not sure a Hitchcock heroine’s figure would hold your eyes as long, though.

You are struck with the overwhelming urgency to know as much as you can about the woman. Does she have secrets? What is her skincare routine? What is the feeling she gets after finishing a good book? How much older than you is she? You’d like to know anything—any morsels of information you can obtain from her or about her.

The two of you continue walking and talking, and occasionally your fingers accidentally brush against each other as your arms swing side by side. The sun is starting to set, and the taller woman looks at her watch and curses under her breath that time has gone by so quickly. She implores that you two need to head to the academy.

Having made it back to the van, you two sit in comfortable silence for the 20 minute drive to Nevermore. Mentally, you make a note to discuss outcast powers and identities since she likely has a wealth of information at her fingers as the head of the school. You hope the older woman is content with you asking about her professional and personal life.

Once Principal Weems carries your luggage up the steps of the school, she informs you of your rooming accommodations. As a fellowship candidate, you will be staying in the faculty residential wing, rather than the student dormitories. You blurt out impulsively, “is that where you stay?” The woman lifts an eyebrow at the inquiry but answers honestly that her living quarters are downstairs attached to her office.

It being fairly late, you part ways with the captivating woman and begin to get settled in your room. You end up going to bed with a warm feeling in your stomach as you ruminate over the day’s activities and conversations. After a few minutes, you sleepily turn over and jokingly jot down a new title for your dissertation thesis.

Larissa Weems stood in her office, her immaculate desk scattered with the neatly organized Outreach Day assignments. Despite her usual precision, one name remained stubbornly unplaced: yours. It wasn’t just a matter of logistics—finding the right Outreach Day placement was typically a straightforward task.

With you, it felt different, charged with a weight she didn’t dare name. Placing you meant deciding how much distance she needed, how much proximity she could bear, and that wasn’t something she was used to grappling with.

Larissa had reviewed the list at least twice, attempting to find a location that felt appropriate. Professional. Distanced. And yet, each time her eyes drifted to your name, she felt an uncharacteristic hesitation.

“This isn’t difficult,” she murmured to herself, smoothing the front of her blazer with a deliberate motion. The fabric felt cool and crisp under her fingers, a small comfort against the storm of thoughts in her mind.

Yet the motion didn’t settle her—it only emphasized how tightly she was holding onto her composure. It was difficult, and she knew why. 

Spending time with you—even in a professional capacity—was dangerous. You had a way of seeing past her carefully constructed façade, coaxing out a playfulness she wasn’t sure how to control. Worse, she liked it.

She turned toward the window, gaze fixed on the sprawling grounds of Nevermore Academy. Snow dusted the gothic architecture, and faint laughter from students echoed in the distance. Larissa found herself wondering where you were at that moment—if you were enjoying the slow descent into winter, whether you were as oblivious to her inner turmoil as she hoped.

A knock at the office door broke her reverie. “Come in,” she called, her tone crisp and neutral.

You stepped inside, the warm light from the hallway framing you as you entered. “Principal Weems,” you began, holding a folder of your own. “I wanted to confirm the plans for Outreach Day. Miss Cunningham said the assignments were almost finalized?”

Larissa’s composure didn’t falter, though she felt a flicker of unease. “Yes, most of them are complete. I was just… reviewing the last few placements.” She gestured for you to sit, her movements as graceful as ever.

You settled into the leather chair across from her. Your presence radiating an energy that made the room feel smaller—more intimate—as you watched the older woman’s facial expression.

“Any recommendations for someone new to this?” you asked, a playful lilt in your voice.

You couldn’t help but wonder how she would respond, whether she would brush off your question with her usual poise or offer something unexpectedly personal. The way her sharp gaze flickered with amusement sent a thrill through you, one you tried not to show too plainly.

Larissa tilted her head, her sharp gaze scrutinizing you. She reached for a safe answer that didn’t leave much room for imagination.

“That depends on what you hope to gain from the experience. Outreach Day is meant to bridge gaps, foster understanding between Nevermore and Jericho.”

“Bridging gaps,” you repeated thoughtfully, a faint smile curving your lips. “That sounds like something you’re good at.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, though the corner of her mouth threatened to twitch upward. She was surprised by your sincerity—and wary that it might hide other intentions. “Flattery will get you nowhere,” she reminded you dryly.

“It wasn’t flattery,” you countered, your tone more sincere now. “You have a way of making people feel… seen. That’s rare.”

For a moment, Larissa’s guard slipped. She looked away, fingers tracing the edge of the assignment sheet on her desk. The repetitive motion steadied her, but only slightly, as her thoughts swirled with uncharacteristic uncertainty.

She couldn’t ignore the way your words lingered, their honesty both unsettling and alluring. It was as though you had gently cracked a door she’d kept shut for years, and now she was unsure whether to close it again or let the light flood in.

“It’s a skill cultivated over time,” she said quietly, though her voice lacked its usual authority.

Silence stretched between you—not uncomfortable, but charged and fragile. You could feel the tension in the air, the unspoken conflict within her. When Larissa finally looked back, there was a hint of vulnerability in her expression, a chip in the polished exterior she worked so carefully to maintain.

“Perhaps the library,” she suggested at last, tone firmer now. “They could use assistance cataloging historical records.”

You raised an eyebrow. “A quiet day surrounded by dusty books? You think that’s the best use of my talents?”

“I think it’s an environment where you could… thrive,” she replied, words carefully chosen. But the corner of her mouth twitched, betraying her amusement. “In fact, there may be valuable texts for your research.”

“Thrive, huh?” You leaned forward slightly, looking at her through your eyelashes as you rested your forearms on the edge of her desk. “You don’t think I’d be better suited to something more… dynamic?”

Her breath hitched imperceptibly at your proximity, though her posture remained poised. “Dynamic environments often come with distractions,” she said smoothly after a moment. “You’d benefit from focus.”

“I think you’re underestimating me,” you relayed teasingly, though the undercurrent of sincerity remained. “I can handle distractions.”

Larissa’s gaze locked with yours, quiet intensity in her eyes. “I’ll take that under advisement,” she said, voice marginally softer now.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The clock ticked steadily on the wall, each second stretching longer than the last. Finally, Larissa straightened in her chair, her professional demeanor reasserting itself.

“Thank you for your input,” she said, tone clipped but not unkind. “I’ll finalize your assignment shortly.”

You rose to leave, but as you reached the door, you glanced back at her. “Principal Weems?”

“Yes?”

“For what it’s worth,” you said, your voice warm and steady, “I think you’re more dynamic than you give yourself credit for.”

She said nothing, expression unreadable. As you left, though, you could have sworn her eyes soften.

That evening, Larissa lingered in her office longer than usual. The assignments were complete, your name now definitively placed next to the Jericho Library. She’d chosen it with meticulous care, reasoning that the quiet atmosphere might temper the intense energy you brought into every interaction.

But there was more to her decision than she cared to admit.

The library provided a safe distance—a structured environment where she wouldn’t have to confront the disarming ease with which you drew her out of her shell. It was, she told herself, a professional decision.

Yet as she reviewed the list one final time, doubt crept back in. Larissa traced your name with her finger, her mind replaying the moments you’d shared earlier. The way you leaned closer, your teasing tone, the earnestness in your eyes—it unsettled her in a way she wasn’t at all used to.

Why did it matter so much where you spent Outreach Day? She knew the answer but refused to acknowledge it

You were unlike anyone she’d encountered in years—someone who saw through her walls without effort, who made her laugh when she wasn’t supposed to.

She couldn’t decide if it was exhilarating or infuriating.

As the clock struck midnight, Larissa sighed and rose from her office chair. Moonlight spilled through the tall windows, illuminating her in its pale glow. She caught her reflection in the glass, her composed exterior betraying none of the turmoil within.

And yet, for all her resolve, she couldn’t shake the thought that tomorrow would bring more of the same maddening tension.

And perhaps, she realized with a small, wistful smile, she didn’t hate that possibility after all.

—

Outreach Day dawned crisp and pale, the kind of early winter morning that swallowed sound and made the world feel newly carved.

You arrived at the quad while most of the students were still trickling out of breakfast, your breath fogging in the chilled air. The school hummed with barely controlled chaos—groups forming, teachers corralling, the occasional voice calling out instructions—but beneath it all was the steady pulse of anticipation.

You scanned the crowd almost reflexively.

There—standing near the steps of Nevermore, clipboard in hand, posture perfect enough to shame a cathedral pillar…

Larissa Weems.

She carried herself with the regal stillness of someone who had long ago mastered the art of hiding any hint of inner disorder. Yet when her eyes found you, something palpable shifted: a heartbeat missed, a breath caught, a blink too slow. She recovered instantly, of course—Larissa was nothing if not disciplined—but you’d seen it.

She knew you’d seen it.

“Good morning,” you vocalized, stepping into her orbit.

“Good morning.” Her voice was smooth, succinct, perfectly measured. But her eyes lingered a moment too long, tracing the slope of your collar, the warmth rising in your cheeks, before flicking away. “I trust you’re prepared for your assignment?”

You offered an interested smile, wondering where this would go. “I did pack my enthusiasm. And my alphabetizing skills. I even brushed up on the Dewey Decimal System. Impressed?”

A short, involuntary breath left her—too light to be a laugh but dangerously close.

“See that you put all three to good use,” she replied, flecks of warmth flickering in her eyes. “Your group departs in five minutes.”

“Will you be joining any of the excursions today?” you probed, trying to keep your curiosity sounding casual.

Her shoulders tightened so slightly most others would never notice. “I’ll be supervising the Academy from here. Ensuring everything proceeds smoothly.”

“So… no library visits?” you pressed, soft but suggestive.

The image of being alone with you between the dim stacks at the library suddenly occupied her mind. 

Larissa inhaled a steadying breath. “No,” she said plainly. “The library will survive the day without my intervention.”

“But will you?” The suggestive words slipped out before you fully meant them to—provoking, but laced with the truth neither of you would bring up.

Her eyes flashed down to yours, bright and sharp as lightning over winter fields.

“I assure you,” she murmured defiantly, voice dipping low, “I’m remarkably resilient.”

You almost believed her. Almost.

But as you boarded the shuttle with your assigned group, you felt her gaze on your back like a warm hand between your shoulder blades—steady, intentional, impossible to ignore.

—

The Jericho Library greeted your group with its usual solemn hush, all towering shelves and amber light filtered through frosted windows. The scent of aged paper and polished wood wrapped around you, a cocoon of quiet that should have been soothing.

You’ve certainly spent enough time in your share of comforting library spaces.

And yet, Larissa’s earlier expression—controlled, yes, but edged with something exceedingly close to longing—followed you like a ghost.

You began your assigned tasks with surprising ease after brief introductions. Cataloging wasn’t difficult; it was almost meditative. You traced your fingers along the spines of books, noted the dates, updated the records. But your mind kept circling back to Larissa: the way her voice had softened when she addressed you, an almost-smile she’d been too careful to fully allow.

At one point, the librarian approached you. She was a thin woman who looked swallowed by her too-big cardigan. “You’re the new instructor from Nevermore, correct? The graduate student?”

“Correct,” you answered lightly. “Here to bring order to the archives, apparently.”

She chuckled, seemingly tickled by your attitude. “Well, if Principal Weems sent you personally, I imagine you’ll do more than that. She’s… very selective.”

Personally? Selective?

You tried—truly tried—not to read into that. But your stomach did a slow, traitorous twist anyway.

—

Back at Nevermore, Principal Weems attempted to pretend she wasn’t thinking about you.

It did not go well.

She tried to review correspondence. She reorganized her schedule. She checked in on a few other Outreach groups via phone—her tone crisp, distant, professional. But every task slid off her focus like condensation on glass.

Each time she glanced toward the door, she chastised herself for hoping you might appear in the frame, despite logic insisting you were miles away.

She paced from her balcony window to her fireplace a few times, then sat down, then rose again—an uncharacteristic restlessness moving through her. Her reflection in the window betrayed her: flawless posture, immaculate hair, expression composed. But her eyes…

They were searching. Longing.

She pressed a hand to her desk, grounding herself.

“This is ridiculous,” she whispered.

And yet the truth persisted: sending you to the library was supposed to quiet the pull she felt toward you. A controlled environment. A calm assignment. A safe distance.

But distance was proving flimsy—woefully inadequate.

Because even now, in the silence of her office, she felt the echo of the way you had leaned toward her hours ago. The warmth of your voice lingering under her skin. The sincerity in your eyes threatening to unravel her carefully maintained restraint.

Professionalism. Boundaries. She repeated the words in her mind like a litany.

Still, she found herself checking the time again. When had she begun doing that? Waiting for you?

Gods help her….

—

By early afternoon, the library had grown busier, but your quiet corner remained undisturbed. As you sorted a final stack of records, your phone buzzed softly.

A message. From Larissa.

You felt your pulse quicken before you even read it.

Weems: “How are the library tasks proceeding? Any issues?”

Simple. Perfectly appropriate. Nothing incriminating at all.

And yet the mere existence of the message sent warmth curling through you.

You typed back, refraining from flirting too much.

You: “No issues. Unless counting adorable bookplates is an issue.”

A pause. Then:

Weems: “That depends. Are they distracting you?”

You smiled before you could stop yourself.

You: “Not nearly as distracting as some things.”

Another pause—longer this time.

You imagined her in her office, staring at her phone, debating the professional response, the safe response… versus the truth.

You sent a follow up message to give her an out.

You: “Like this steaming cup of hot chocolate that Lillian brought me.”

The librarian, or Lillian as you’d learned, had wanted to show you her gratitude for your actual work while other, younger Nevermore students idled and chatted between bookcases. It was kind of her.

Finally, Larissa replied:

Weems: “I see. Well, I’m glad someone is ensuring you’re… comfortable at the library today.”

A pause. Then another message before you’d finished reading the first.

Weems: “Regarding your previous comment… we will address that when you return.”

A promise. A warning. A line drawn—or perhaps a line surrendered.

You closed your phone with shaky fingers, your breath unsteady in your chest.

The rest of Outreach Day passed in a pleasant blur, but your mind lived elsewhere: in her office, her voice—anticipation tightening like a ribbon around your sternum.

—

When the shuttle returned to Nevermore, the sky had shifted to a dim, lavender dusk. The last scraps of daylight stretched thin across the horizon. Students spilled out in uneven clusters, their chatter echoing off stone and snow, laughter puffing into the chilly air.

You stepped down last, the cold biting pleasantly at your cheeks after the warm confines of the shuttle.

Larissa Weems stood at the base of the steps, framed by the towering entrance arch, her silhouette carved with perfect composure against the fading light. She didn’t rush, didn’t fidget—she simply was, a quiet center of gravity amid the returning chaos.

The collar of her winter coat brushed her jawline, catching the lilac dusk like a faint halo around her. Her spine was straight, her arms relaxed at her sides, her expression the same serene neutrality she wore in Board meetings and assemblies.

But her eyes—

Oh, her eyes were something else entirely.

They swept over you with a warmth she hadn’t extinguished since that morning—low embers of awareness and wanting kept buried beneath professionalism. The fading light only sharpened the effect, turning her irises stormy and luminous.

“Productive day?” she asked, voice deceptively even. You doubted anyone was listening close enough to detect the slight roughness beneath her smooth veneer.

“Very,” you replied, your breath forming a faint cloud in the cold between you.

A small nod. Controlled. Precise. Her gloved fingers flexed once at her side.

“Good.” She inhaled—shallow, measured. “Come to my office when you’ve settled your things. I’d like a debrief.”

A simple request. Entirely appropriate. Yet it landed in your chest with a devastating weight.

The space between you tightened, thin and electric, drawn taut like a thread. Students brushed past with muffled laughter, but the world felt like it narrowed to you and her and the fragile distance you shared.

You nodded once. “Of course.”

She turned, her coat sweeping elegantly as she pivoted—and as she passed you, her hand brushed yours.

It was nothing. It was everything.

A barely-there touch, fingertips grazing the back of your knuckles through your glove. Light as a whisper. Soft as the breath she’d drawn a moment too slowly.

Intentional.

A want carved in the smallest possible gesture.

The contact lasted only a fraction of a second, but it set your nerves alight, warmth flaring up your arm, weaving through your insides like a lit fuse.

The world didn’t just warm—it caught fire.

Larissa didn’t look back as she walked toward the entrance, but you saw the faint tilt of her head, the smallest shift in her shoulders—as if bracing against the flame she’d just struck.

—

Her office door was ajar when you arrived, warm lamplight spilling onto the glossy hallway floor. You knocked gently against the doorframe, and her voice—smooth, clipped—invited you in.

Larissa stood by the window instead of her desk, as though sitting might suggest a level of comfort she wasn’t prepared to grant. Her arms were loosely folded, posture impeccable, but the tension in her jaw hinted at the storm underneath.

“You’re prompt,” she said without turning.

“I know not to keep Larissa Weems waiting.”

You watched the subtle rise of her shoulders—an inhale she hoped would steady her. It didn’t.

She finally faced you, expression carefully composed. “Sit.”

You complied, settling into the same chair you’d occupied that morning. The symmetry made the air feel weighted, as though the day had looped back to its origin—only sharper now, more charged.

Larissa crossed the room with sleek, measured steps and stopped behind her desk. Not sitting. Not relaxing. As though the height difference might help her regain the control she felt slipping.

“Tell me about your experience at the library,” she said, hands resting atop the desk. “Any challenges? Any concerns?”

You almost laughed. That was the opening question she’d chosen? After everything—after the near-flirtatious messages and the lingering touches?

But you indulged her. “It was quiet. Productive. I catalogued a few hundred entries and reorganized their historical maps. The staff was welcoming.”

“Good.” She nodded once. “I expected no less.”

A beat passed. Two.

You leaned back in your chair, letting your gaze drift over her in a way that was polite on the surface yet undeniably attentive. “Are we done with the repeated professional summary? Or was there something else you wanted to discuss?”

Larissa’s fingers tightened around the desk.

“There is,” she said, her tone wavering at the edges. “We need to address… certain patterns.”

“Patterns,” you echoed, confused but intrigued. “Such as?”

Her gaze locked on yours, sharp and intense. “Your flirtations.”

You blinked, raised your eyebrows, and asked incredulously. “My flirtations?”

“They’re inappropriate.” She said it fast, as if the speed would make what she was saying more true. “I’m your superior. This is a school. I won’t tolerate anything that undermines professionalism.”

“And you think I’m the one undermining it?”

She exhaled, something brittle flickering across her face. “I think you enjoy testing boundaries.”

You stood slowl, not closing the distance but reducing the vastly uneven height she’d tried to maintain. “Only the ones that feel… flexible.”

Her breath caught. You saw it. You felt it.

“Sit down,” she demanded, grasping for authority.

“Why?” you asked softly. “Does it make things easier for you?”

Her throat bobbed with a swallow. “This is precisely what I’m referring to.”

You tilted your head, studying her carefully. “If you truly wanted this to stop, Larissa, you’d be better at pretending you don’t want me here.”

Her composure faltered. Visibly.

“That is not what I—”

“What you intend to say,” you interrupted, gentle but pointed, “or what you actually feel?”

Silence fell—thick, pulsing, unbearably intimate.

Larissa’s gaze dropped to your mouth before she dragged it back to your eyes with visible restraint. “You’re making assumptions,” she whispered, dismissive but thin.

“No,” you maintained, stepping forward just enough for the warmth between you to become tangible. “I’m making observations.”

Larissa held perfectly still, the way someone might when a wild creature approaches—thrilled, terrified, wanting it to come closer, wanting it to go.

“I shouldn’t be affected by you,” she confessed at last, voice nearly breaking. “It’s… unprofessional.”

“But you are.” You responded, quietly empathetic.

“Yes.” It escaped her before she could stop it—soft, raw, the first wholly honest word she’d given you.

You breathed in, slow and steady. “Do you want me to leave?”

Her lashes lowered. “No.”

You stepped closer. “Do you want me to stop flirting?”

A pause—long, trembling, damning.

“No,” she said, barely audible and as if it were hard speak.

The admission hung between you like a secret exhale, the loosening of a single, crucial thread.

You reached out—slow, deliberate—and touched the edge of her desk. Not her, but close enough that the air shifted around your hand. “Then tell me what you do want.”

Her lips parted. Her fingers curled slightly, as though resisting the urge to reach out.

“I want…” She stopped, breath shaking, then forced herself upright with a quick inhale. “I want you to be careful.”

It wasn’t what you expected.

It wasn’t a rejection.

It was a confession disguised as a warning.

“Careful?” you echoed gently. “Because you’re afraid of how this might look? Or because you’re afraid of how it feels?”

Larissa’s eyes shut for half a second—long enough to suggest the truth. She swallowed, the motion tight, her eyelids now fluttering as though she were fighting something back—something she knew she wasn’t going to win against.

“I’m afraid,” she whispered, “of losing control.”

You leaned forward, your voice a velvet murmur. “Then let me hold it with you.”

Her eyes opened fully—stormy, undone, electric. For a moment, she simply looked at you, her gaze drinking you in with a hunger she didn’t know how to disguise. You saw every fractured piece of her composure, every fraying thread, every unspoken yes trembling behind her ribs.

But after another breath, she straightened, her mask building again, just enough to keep the current moment hovering and trapped rather than free and falling. Resolve edged itself onto her face.

“This conversation,” Larissa said softly but firmly, “is over.”

You didn’t push. You didn’t need to.

The heat in her gaze said everything she couldn’t—want, fear, longing tangled together so tightly they nearly pulsed.

And when her fingers brushed yours again—barely there, a whisper through fabric, intentional in its lack of apology—you both went still. A single spark pressed into the struggle between you.

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t pretend it hadn’t happened.

—

You stepped out of Larissa’s office before either of you could say something… or do something you wouldn’t be able to take back. 

The door clicked shut behind you—soft, polite, devastating.

For a long moment, you just stood there in the dim hallway, pulse hammering in your throat, palms sweaty despite the cool air. You felt both electrified and hollowed out, as if the conversation had emptied a space beneath your ribs and filled it with heat.

Gods.

You’d never seen Larissa like that—cracked open at the seams of her composure, emotion flickering through her eyes before she could cage it. She had practically whispered her undoing into your hands, then snatched it back at the last second.

It left your entire body humming.

You turned and walked—quickly, quietly, because if you stopped moving for even a second you might have marched right back into her office and undone every boundary she’d tried so desperately to reassert.

The corridors of Nevermore were shadowed this time of night, empty save for the occasional lamp casting long, geometric patterns across the floorboards. Your footsteps echoed too loudly in your ears, matching the sharp thrum of your heartbeat.

Every inhale brought her back to you—her perfume, warm and subtle; the faint tremor in her breath; the way her eyes had followed your mouth as though memorizing its shape.

By the time you reached your dormitory, your fingers were shaking. You closed the door behind you and leaned against it, letting your head fall back with a rough exhale.

“Careful,” she’d said. As if you were the dangerous one. As if she hadn’t nearly melted the moment you stepped close.

Your room was still, faintly chilled, quiet in a way that made your own thoughts feel unforgivingly loud. You shed your jacket, tossed it blindly onto a chair, and paced once—twice—trying to shake the pent-up charge clinging to your skin.

It didn’t help.

Your body felt wound like a wire pulled taut, vibrating with ache and restless jolts. Want pulsed low and persistent between your legs, not sharp enough to hurt but impossible to ignore. The memory of her voice—husky, strained, honest—kept replaying in your head.

“I’m afraid of losing control.”

You groaned softly, dragging a hand through your hair.

“That makes two of us,” you muttered into the empty room.

Finally, you collapsed onto your bed, the mattress dipping under your weight. You stared at the ceiling, every muscle buzzing with the need to do something—move, scream into a pillow, run ten laps around the quad—anything to burn off the intoxicating tension she’d left you with.

This was ridiculous. You were an adult. A functioning one, even. But the moment she’d said No—not as a refusal, but indicating a confession of what she wanted too—the ground had shifted beneath you.

You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes, trying to steady your breath. It only made Larissa’s image sharper behind your eyelids: the tremble in her voice, the flush at her throat, the way she’d looked at you like you were the very thing she’d spent years convincing herself she didn’t need.

You turned onto your side with a quiet, frustrated sound, clutching a pillow to your chest, knees drawn up as though you could physically contain the restless pull inside you.

You needed to walk. You needed fresh air. You needed— Well, you needed something that wasn’t her.

Because right now, if she so much as looked at you again the way she had in her office, you weren’t entirely sure you’d be able to keep from closing the distance between you and—

You exhaled sharply, burying your face in the pillow.

She was the one who’d asked you to be careful. But she was also the one who’d lit the match and placed it in your hands.

Your breath slowly steadied, though the heat beneath your skin lingered, coiling low and inexorable. Frustration pressed at the edges of your thoughts—equal parts desire, confusion, and a dizzying craving to push past the boundary she’d tried so valiantly (and unsuccessfully) to draw.

You lay there aching, letting the tension simmer rather than burst. There was no solving it tonight—not without crossing a line neither of you were ready to erase.

But Gods, you wanted to. And you knew she wanted to, as well.

That knowledge burned hotter than anything else, and you could feel the renewed heat of arousal course through your veins.

Without hesitation, you stripped off your shirt and pants, tossing them carelessly onto the floor. You turned on some lusty, atmospheric music so that no other students in the dormitory could hear you. The building rhythm and the principal's earlier words echoed in your mind.

You could still feel the warmth of Larissa’s breath on your neck, the intense gaze that seemed to see right through you. Your fingers trembled slightly as you reached behind yourself to unhook your bra, letting it fall away.

The last time you tried to get your mind off Larissa Weems, you’d ended up beaten, bruised, and left in Burlington. Reckless. Time to try something else… something a little more safe.

One trembling hand then drifted down your stomach, dragging tantalizingly over your skin, making it prickle under your touch. You slipped that hand between your thighs, and the fabric of your underwear was already damp with arousal. To be honest, you’ve been turned on ever since arriving at Nevermore. You lightly teased yourself through the fabric, shuddering at the building, tingling sensation.

You then circled your fabric-covered clit with a single finger, biting your inner lip to stifle a moan as you thought about the way Weems had looked at you—with such hunger, such desire.

The room spun with images of her: Larissa pinning you against her desk, her long fingers digging into your hips, her mouth claiming yours in a bruising kiss. Fuck, you needed her—needed to feel her weight pressing you down, her tongue tracing paths of fire across your skin.

You gasped as your fingers continued to circle your clit, already throbbing and slick. Teasing slowly at first, you imagined Larissa watching, her lips morphing into that commanding smile. "Touch yourself for me," she'd whisper, voice like velvet over steel. You pinched your clit hard, hips bucking up off the mattress.

Unable to wait any longer, you pushed your underwear aside and slid a finger past your glistening folds and into your dripping pussy. You imagined the principal pinning you against her desk, hiking up your skirt, and burying her porcelain face between your legs. Your body answered immediately, heat and urgency rising with the music. 

Your single finger picked up speed, plunging in and out of yourself as you thought of Larissa’s skilled tongue delving inside you. You let out a garbled moan as your breath stuttered, and you imagined her elegant, confident hands and mesmerizing, pink tongue.

You began to finger yourself in earnest, plunging two, then three fingers deep into your wetness. You pumped them in and out, stretching and fucking yourself with increasing urgency as the music pulsed around you.

As your fingers plunged into yourself, the wet sounds filled the room. Your walls clenched around your desperate fingers, greedy for more. But it was Larissa you pictured thrusting deep—her elegant hand replacing yours, curling just right to flutter against the spot that made time go hazy behind your eyelids. You spread your legs wider, free hand jolting upwards to twist a nipple, the sharp sting fading with the building pleasure.

"Principal Weems," you gasped, your hips bucking against your hand as you fucked yourself hard and fast. You pictured the silver-blonde, shapeshifting beauty ravishing you, claiming you.

Your other hand came up again to grope your breast, rolling and pinching your nipple until it ached. Between your hand alternating from your stiff nipples to your swollen clit, your back began to routinely arch off the bed as you tensed and chased release.

The room filled with the obscene sounds of your wanton masturbation, your juices dripping down onto the bedsheets below. You could feel your climax building rapidly.

"Larissa," you moaned, the name spilling from your lips desperately. Faster now, fingers slamming inside, thumb grinding your clit in relentless circles. Sweat beaded on your skin, making the bedsheets stick to your lower back while your breaths come in ragged pants. The tension at your core tightened, unbearable—her face in your mind, eyes dark with lust, whispering your name as she fucked you senseless.

Your mind continued to drift to the way Principal Weems' eyes had raked over your body in her office, lingering on your curves in a way that made you feel simultaneously nervous and excited. You wondered if Larissa had been imagining touching you, tasting you…

At that, your breath came in short, sharp gasps as you edged closer and closer to climax.

Orgasm ripped through you without mercy. You body seized, clenching around your fingers as waves of ecstasy crashed over you. Come slicked your hand, dripping down your thighs between each spasm, your body arching in forbidden bliss. 

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, Larissa!” You cried out, slightly muffled against your pillow. The walls around your fingers contracted almost violently as you came hard, gushing all over them. The release was both overwhelming and insufficient, leaving you aching for the real thing—for her touch, her command, her presence.

You collapsed back against the bed once again, chest heaving and skin flushed with post-orgasmic bliss. Panting, you withdrew your fingers, staring at the glistening evidence of your desire. Guilt flickered briefly, but it drowned in the haze of your afterglow. Larissa Weems had certainly awakened something feral from within you…

You knew it would be that much harder to hold back now.

—

Larissa Weems had survived worse days.

She’d managed crises, soothed panicked parents, wrangled staff disputes, mediated adolescent feuds, negotiated with the Board, and done it all with the unwavering poise of a woman carved from marble.

But this—this quiet evening alone in her office—was undoing her.

The moment your footsteps faded down the hall, her breath left her in a harsh, unguarded exhale. She gripped the back of her chair as though bracing for impact, though the only thing striking her was her memory.

Your voice. Your proximity. Your hand inches from hers on the desk. Your request:

“Then tell me what you do want.”

Larissa squeezed her eyes shut, but the image of you leaning in—warm, certain, devastatingly sincere—only sharpened behind her lids.

“Control,” she whispered to the empty room, as though reminding herself. “Maintain control.”

The words hit the air like brittle glass.

She crossed the room in three measured strides, heels clicking a little too sharply against the floor. She needed distance—from her desk, from your chair, from the echo of her own treacherous heartbeat.

The window offered no solace; in the reflection, Larissa’s entire body betrayed her. Her chest rose and fell raggedly. Her makeup was slightly smudged. Her eyes were too bright and glassy, too unsettled, too alive.

Damn you.

She leaned her palm against the window frame, letting the cold seep into her skin. It should have steadied her, but of course, it didn’t.

The conversation replayed in fragments:

“If you really wanted this to stop, you'd be better at pretending you don't want me here.”

Larissa clenched her jaw. You were reckless. Insufferably perceptive. Dangerously intuitive. And worst of all—you were right.

She moved to her desk again, pretending she needed something from the top drawer. She opened it, closed it. Opened it again. Her hands refused to be still, and her mind refused to focus.

Your voice lingered in the room like heat.

“Do you want me to leave?”

“No.” The honesty of her answer still terrified her.

Larissa sat down at last, spine stiff, knees pressed together. The familiar solidity of the chair usually comforted her; instead, it felt like confinement. She stretched her fingers against the armrests, trying to release the tension coiled through them, but it only reminded her of your fingers brushing hers.

Accidental… Not accidental… Not at all.

“Control,” she murmured again, though her voice cracked slightly.

She pinched the bridge of her nose, inhaling sharp and slow. She’d handled delicate situations before, but this—this quiet blooming of something forbidden and intoxicating—was unraveling the threads she’d spent a lifetime weaving.

She should have reprimanded you. She should have enforced distance. She should have walked away.

Instead, she’d drawn closer. Leaned in. Let the truth slip between her teeth before she could sew it shut.

“I’m afraid of losing control.”

She hated how vulnerable she’d sounded. How un-Principal Weems it had been. She hated even more how relieved she’d felt afterward—finally admitting an ache she’d been pretending not to feel.

The clock on her wall kept time in slow, merciless ticks.

She imagined you in your quarters, unwinding. She imagined your frustration—that same pull, the same electric hum threading through your body.

Her thighs pressed together instinctively.

Gods help her.

The feelings she’d tried to smother all day now rose with brutal clarity: the way your eyes softened when you were sincere, the way your voice dipped when you teased, the way you looked at her like she was not the principal of a renowned academy but a woman still capable of being wanted.

It was undoing her piece by brittle piece.

Larissa reached for a stack of papers in a last-ditch effort at distraction. Her fingers trembled. There’s no way she could successfully read and sign anything in this state, so she set the papers down again. She tried checking her email, but the words blurred.

Eventually, she gave up the façade entirely. Larissa leaned back, staring at the high ceiling as though it might offer wisdom.

“Be careful,” she remembered whispering—to herself more than you.

But she already knew the truth. She was the one teetering. She was the one losing ground.

And if you came any closer—if you pushed even a little further—if you so much as said her name again the way you had earlier…

She wasn’t entirely sure she would choose restraint over ruin. The thought sent a shiver down her spine.

Not from fear. Anticipation.

Larissa pressed her hand to her sternum, feeling the echo of her own heartbeat—unsteady, aching, alive in a way she hadn’t permitted herself in years.

Want was a dangerous thing. And you… You were becoming the most dangerous want of all.

Larissa couldn’t hold off any longer. She locked her office door with a sharp twist and kicked off her heels, sighing as she rubbed her temples. She walked to the mini-bar that she kept in her office for such occasions and poured herself a glass of scotch. Her usual red wine wouldn’t satisfy what she needed tonight.

As she sipped the strong liquid, she began to unbutton her crisp white blouse, revealing the silky black bra beneath. She crossed over to the plush velvet sofa in the corner of her spacious office, setting her glass down on the side table. Sitting down with her legs splaying wide, she leaned back against the soft cushions and closed her eyes, releasing a shuddering breath.

Larissa's mind drifted—inevitably—back to forbidden thoughts of you. The way your skirt hugged your curves, the defiant glint in your eye, the soft pout of your pink-tinged lips. The principal's hand drifted down to the hem of her pencil skirt, slowly dragging it up her toned thigh.

Her fingers brushed against the lace of her panties, and she couldn't stop the quiet groan that escaped her. She was already so wet, so turned on by the thoughts swirling in her mind.

Larissa firmly pressed her palm where she ached, rubbing through the thin fabric as if pressure could quiet the heat and hunger coiled inside her.

It didn’t.

Unable to deny herself any longer, she pushed her panties down further and slid two fingers deep into herself. So easily, so slick. 

A sharp gasp cut through her as she curled and stroked, imagining the wrong things—like your young, eager mouth on her aching clit. Your name on her lips, and her own on yours.

She pictured you in her office, touching yourself because of her—moaning her name. The thought ignited her; she followed the length of her slit down to her opening and back, hips jerking forward each time. Larissa's other hand came up to grope her breast, pinching hard her nipple between her fingers. Almost digging her nails into the supple flesh until pain blurred into pleasure.

Lost in lustful fantasy, Larissa fucked herself roughly and with no rhythm, her cunt clenching and fluttering around her own fingers. Heat flashed over her; sweat gathered at her temples, dampening her hairline.

Deeper, faster—imagining it was your tongue lapping at her folds, your eager mouth sucking her clit while she gripped your hair and ground against your face. “Yes, just like that,” she'd command, voice gravelly with dominance, even as vulnerability clawed at her edges.

“Oh, god! Mmmmmhh,” Larissa heaved unevenly. Her thumb flicked her clit, fingers curling inside to stroke that rough spot that made her vision haze. The pressure swirled, tense like the start of a storm, which brought her dangerously close to orgasming.

She wanted to drag it out, to edge herself over and over. To pretend she was in control. But she neededrelease, and it was agonizing not having your touch for it.

Her climax built in waves—lingering, fluctuating, the way it always did when she’d gone too long without getting off. She could feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter in her core, her climax fast approaching. Her body jerked and twitched.

Her breath caught, shoulders tensing as the first tremor hit, then the next.

Tensing. Holding her breath. Shuddering.

When she finally tipped over, it came hard and long, moving through her in relentless surges. Her hands kept pumping, and her orgasm turned into waves of pleasure like rolling hills. She couldn’t tell how long it lasted—only that it was too much and still not enough. Nothing involving you could be straightforward. 

After what felt like minutes, Larissa slumped back against her office sofa, gasping for breath and feeling as if her entire body were jelly. As if it was loose and heavy like being shaken apart.

When she finally moved again, she withdrew her hand carefully from her still slick opening, attention flicking—absurdly—to the two thousand dollar antique velvet sofa beneath her.

Any tension in her neck and shoulders had melted away. However, now that she had given into her desire, the distracting heat between her legs remained—blooming, stubborn.

Even though she was Larissa Weems, unyielding and composed, here she was… shattered for you.

—

Tagging: @readingtheentrails, @justcallmelittleone, @enchantressb, @jeepingay, @gwendolinechristieiscute, @leftoverenvy.

The morning light filtered through the coffee shop’s large windows, casting soft shadows across the cozy interior. The faint scent of roasted beans mingled with the sweet remnants of Larissa’s hot chocolate. Her porcelain features seemed even more striking in this light, the delicate curve of her jaw highlighted and her pale complexion glowing faintly under the sunlight streaming in.

You caught yourself staring again, drawn not only to her beauty but to the quiet intensity in her gaze that seemed to hold thousands of unspoken stories. She had already caught you once or twice, and her slight, knowing smirk made you wish you could act nonchalant for just five minutes. Gods, this woman.

You were about to apologize for losing focus when she cleared her throat softly. “Shall we?” she asked, motioning toward the door. The day awaited and so did the interviews about Nevermore Academy. It was your main reason for being here, even if Larissa Weems had now taken center stage in your mind.

The itinerary for the week of interviews was enormous. You doubted they would all be as low-key as the school newspaper’s interview. You promptly forgot what would be happening on which day about five minutes after Mrs. Cunningham had printed (and laminated!) the schedule for you. All you remembered was to talk up Nevermore since you’re the first normie graduate student to study at the academy.

As you and Larissa stepped outside, the brisk air bit at your cheeks. Larissa’s height towered over you as she walked beside you, her strides graceful and decisive. She had donned a fitted navy coat that cinched perfectly at her waist, her signature red lipstick vivid against the pale tones of the incoming winter season outside. The way she carried herself—so self-assured yet effortlessly elegant—made it impossible not to admire her.

You broke the silence. “So, where’s our first stop? Press release?”

Larissa’s gloved hand retrieved a leather-bound planner from her bag. “The Jericho Historical Society,” she said with a wry smile. “They insisted they have pertinent information about the town’s history with Nevermore, though I suspect most of it will be folklore.”

“Folklore can be fun,” you replied. “It’s all about the delivery.” You were half teasing and half sincere.

She raised a perfectly arched brow. “Is that so? Are you offering to take over?”

You grinned, so thankful that the rapport between you two seemed back in good-standing. “Only if you’re promising to heckle me.”

“Oh, I’m an excellent heckler,” she quipped, her tone carrying a faint playfulness you hadn’t expected. You doubted she had ever heckled someone publicly in her life. Her expression softened briefly as though she was letting herself enjoy the moment, but then she straightened, her professional mask sliding back into place.

The Historical Society turned out to be more charming than you had anticipated, with creaky wooden floors and dusty glass cases filled with relics and old photographs. The elderly curator droned on about the origins of Nevermore Academy, detailing old rivalries with Jericho’s townsfolk. You and Larissa exchanged subtle glances, your eyes meeting every time he went off on a tangent that included extended folklore. Once, you stifled a laugh as she feigned a cough to cover her own amusement. It felt like a shared secret, this quiet mockery.

During a lull in the curator’s spiel, Larissa leaned down slightly and whispered, “Remind me to send them a gift basket for their enthusiasm.” Her breath was warm against your ear, and you fought the shiver that threatened to run down your spine.

“I’ll make sure it includes better storytelling material,” you murmured back, unable to resist adding to the moment. “And some pizzazz.”

Her lips curved into a sly smile as she straightened up, and for a fleeting second, you wondered if she enjoyed these small exchanges as much as you did.

As the curator led you toward another display, Larissa’s hand briefly brushed against yours. It could have been an accident, but the deliberate pace of her steps made you doubt that. Or maybe you’re just biased, because of course you wanted it to be intentional…

Regardless, the sensation lingered, warm even through your glove. Your thoughts raced, but you forced yourself to focus on the curator’s words, nodding politely as he rambled about Jericho’s founding families.

The rest of the morning unfolded in a blur of interviews, notes, and Larissa’s meticulous oversight. She was precise, her every word chosen carefully, but there was a softness in the way she nudged for you to ask your own questions, to share your thoughts. You noticed the delicate way she would tilt her head when you spoke, her attention unwavering as if your words held an unexpected significance.

By mid-afternoon, the two of you found yourselves at a small, retro diner a few streets down from the Weathervane. The warmth of the place was a welcome reprieve from the chill outside. Larissa ordered tea this time, though she teased you when you ordered a hot chocolate.

“Jealousy, perhaps?” she inquired, her eyes glinting mischievously as she stirred her tea.

“Oh, entirely,” you replied, meeting her gaze with a boldness that surprised even you. “Though I’ve learned my lesson about sharing.” Your eyes focused on her face and lips.

Larissa’s lips parted slightly, as though she were about to respond. Instead, she took a deliberate sip of her tea, her red lipstick leaving its mark on the porcelain cup. You watched her as she set it down, the silence between you charged but comfortable. The low hum of the diner’s activity faded into the background, leaving only the steady rhythm of your heart and the faint curve of her smile.

“Tell me,” she began, changing the subject smoothly, “what’s really your impression of Nevermore so far?”

You thought for a moment, then said, “It’s nice… It’s a place that doesn’t just teach you who you are. It teaches you how to live as yourself. I think that’s rare to experience.”

Her expression turned thoughtful, her gaze lingering on you a moment too long. “A very insightful observation,” she said, her voice carrying a warmth that made you feel seen in a way that was both exhilarating and slightly unnerving.

The conversation flowed easily, shifting from the quirks of Jericho’s history to your personal experiences. Larissa listened intently, her questions pensive and probing in a way that felt less like an interrogation and more like genuine curiosity. You found yourself sharing more than you had intended, but her calm demeanor put you at ease.

The two of you returned to Nevermore as the sun dipped low in the sky, painting What was left of the Vermont leaves in shades of gold and amber. The rest of the evening was spent in her office, reviewing notes and piecing together the day’s findings.

At some point, Larissa removed her gloves and draped her coat over the back of her chair. Her sleeves were rolled up slightly, revealing delicate wrists that somehow seemed just as elegant as the rest of her. The way her fingers moved—deft and deliberate—as she sifted through papers was mesmerizing to you.

Between the low hum of the office lamp and the rhythmic scratching of her pen, the atmosphere grew intimate, a tangible quiet settling between you. The proximity of her presence, combined with the soft glow of the desk light, made focusing on the notes before you nearly impossible. Each time her shoulder brushed yours or her pen hovered close to your hand, your pulse quickened, a subtle but undeniable tension building. Could she feel it too? you pondered.

It wasn’t all distracting—it was also grounding, as though the unspoken connection between you made the work itself feel more significant. At one point, Larissa leaned over your notes, her arm flat against yours. The proximity made your breath hitch, but you kept your focus on the papers in front of you. She seemed to notice but didn’t pull away, her presence consistent and electrifying all at once.

“You’re quite good at this,” she said, breaking the quiet as she scanned your notes. “You’ve a knack for understanding people.”

“Maybe I’m just good at understanding you,” you replied before you could think better of it.

Her head tilted slightly, and for the briefest moment, vulnerability flickered in her eyes. But then her usual composure returned, and she offered a small, enigmatic smile. You were nervous to have her shut down or turn to stone (not literally, sorry Gorgons!) by your flirtatious remark.

“Careful,” she said softly, her tone a mix of warning and intrigue.

Hours slipped by unnoticed, the two of you falling into an easy rhythm of work punctuated by quiet exchanges. At one point, she stood and moved to the window, gazing out at the darkened, evening grounds. “It’s peaceful here at night,” she remarked, her voice almost wistful. You joined her, standing close enough to feel the faint warmth radiating from her. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence stretching comfortably between you.

It was nearing midnight when you yawned and finally stood to leave. Larissa walked you to the door, her presence as controlled as ever, though there was a newfound tenderness in her demeanor. As you turned to say goodnight, she reached out, her fingers grazing your sleeve to stop you.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “For today. It was… enjoyable.”

You smiled, your heart thrummed at her words. “The pleasure was all mine.”

Larissa’s gaze lingered on you for a moment before she stepped back into her office, leaving you with a feeling that today proved so much about your complex relationship with Nevermore’s headmistress.

—

The Weathervane was bustling with homeliness and the chatter of patrons seeking refuge from the morning air turning bitterly chilly. The rich scent of coffee mingled with the sweet aroma of baked goods, creating an inviting cocoon of comfort. Larissa adjusted her coat as she stepped inside, her silver-blonde hair catching in the soft light. Her elegant profile stood out against the casual, rustic café surroundings. She navigated the small crowd and went toward a secluded booth in the back near a window where you were already seated.

You looked up as she approached, her eyes meeting yours with a flicker of something unreadable. Was it relief? Possessiveness? Larissa’s lips curled up slightly at the corners. Regardless of what emotions laid beneath the other woman’s eyes, you couldn’t help but feel your body become alert as she approached you.

The soft hum of conversation surrounded you as Larissa settled into her seat, her movements swift yet slightly guarded. She was composed, as always, though the faintest smile touched her lips again when you slid her a steaming mug across the table. It was a hot chocolate, her favorite, complete with an intricately swirled rosetta in the foam.

"Thank you," she murmured after a sigh, her voice smooth, as if with a quiet affection that she reserved for moments like this.

Your grin came easily as you sat across from her, a teasing glint in your eyes. "Of course. Wouldn't want to risk your day being ruined by subpar service.”

Larissa chuckled softly, a rare sound that lit her features. "A wise decision," she replied, taking a long sip of her still hot drink.

The conversation shifted to work almost immediately—reports to review, upcoming schedules to finalize. Larissa’s demeanor was professional of course, though the occasional quirk of her lips or arch of her brow betrayed her enjoyment of your banter. The dynamic between you was one you cherished: sharp, easy, and layered with an undercurrent of something neither of you fully addressed. It was the kind of connection where words often fell away, leaving behind a resonance that lingered in the pauses of your conversations. Moments like when a flicker of mirth glinted in her eyes in response to your humor or when her gaze lingered a fraction too long spoke volumes about the depth of what you shared, even as it remained tantalizingly undefined. Despite the casual focus on tasks, there was an undeniable closeness in how she leaned ever so slightly toward you, the way her eyes lingered on your face when you spoke.

"How was the review session?" you asked, nodding toward the papers she was spreading before her.

"As thorough as ever," she replied, her tone cool yet edged with a hint of satisfaction. "Though it would be far more efficient if certain staff members actually read the instructions provided."

You chuckled, thinking about how universal the typical it’s-on-the-syllabus dilemma is. "Sounds about right. I don’t know how you put up with it sometimes."

Larissa’s jaw shifts, like she’s biting down on a laugh, a playful glint now in her eyes. "An enviable level of patience, I suppose. Though some test it more than others." Her fingers toyed idly with the handle of her teacup. You couldn’t sense whether she was including you in that category or not right now.

As the two of you settled again into work and conversation, the morning passed in a comfortable rhythm. The interplay between you two was natural, filled with moments of banter that left her smirking and fleeting silences that felt more like shared understanding than awkward pauses. Yet, even in this pocket of tranquility, there was an unspoken tension—a thread that seemed to pull tighter with every glance, every brush of your hand against hers as you reached for the sugar or passed papers back and forth.

Halfway through your work session, the easy rapport was interrupted when a familiar figure approached the table. Imogen. Her strawberry-blonde braid swung lightly as she moved, her Weathervane-branded apron smudged with coffee grounds. The sight of her stirred conflicting emotions—her sheepish smile was a stark contrast to the sharp memories of the nightclub in Burlington. Imogen carried a tray of pastries, her smile wide and eyes lingering on you longer than necessary.

"Hey," she said softly, her tone tentative as she placed a gooey cinnamon roll in front of you. "I thought you might like to try one of our new bakery items—on the house, of course." Her voice was almost cloying.

Her gaze flicked to Larissa briefly before settling on you, as if she was considering something. You wondered why.

“I, um, wanted to say I’m sorry. For that night. What my friends did was… awful. I should’ve done something. Stayed. Anything but what I actually did."

You hesitated, caught off guard by the apology. The memory of that night in Burlington flickered in your mind—Imogen’s playful flirtations, the way she’d conveniently abandoned you when her friends turned combative, and the sting of humiliation when they had shoved you away, calling you an outsider.

Her remorse seemed genuine, but the memory of being left alone—of the cruelty that followed—still lingered. The nightclub had been a humiliating chapter you’d worked hard to close, and yet here she was, stirring it up again.

What awful things would have happened to someone who was actually an outcast? The question burrowed deeper the more you thought about it.

Imogen hadn’t intervened for you—a normie. Someone with the privilege of being merely mistaken for an outcast. So, what would she do if the “threat” were real and the violence was aimed at someone truly vulnerable? If the person dragged outside and shoved were a siren or a gorgon or a vampire who didn’t have the luxury of being misidentified?

You already knew the answer. If she froze up when it was you, you doubted she’d suddenly develop a spine for someone who needed it more.

Larissa’s posture stiffened slightly, her fingers tightening around her drink with a tension so small it might’ve gone unnoticed by anyone who didn’t watch her as closely as you did. She said nothing at first, her expression composed and unreadable, that perfected mask she wore like a second skin. Still, you didn’t miss the subtle narrowing of her eyes, the cool blue of them cutting toward Imogen with an appraisal that was far from kind. Her lips pressed together, not in politeness but in the clipped restraint of a woman forcing down several very unprofessional responses.

"Thank you," you said finally, your voice measured. You had considered responding curtly, but decided that wouldn’t help. You are literally researching normie/outcast dynamics… Besides, you don’t want it to be awkward every time you’re at the Weathervane. “It’s in the past now.”

Imogen nodded, relief softening her expression. "Still, I just wanted you to know I felt terrible about it. I really liked getting to know you. And, um…" She emphasized flirtatiously and paused, her cheeks coloring slightly. "If you ever want to talk or, you know, need someone to—"

"Imogen," Larissa interrupted, her tone as smooth as silk but cutting enough to make Imogen glance her way nervously. Larissa’s voice was perfectly polite, but it was laced with a coolness that could frost the edges of the café’s windows. It was the kind of tone that didn’t need volume to command a room—it simply expected compliance. "Perhaps you could check on the other tables? I believe we’re in the middle of something."

The younger woman blinked, her confidence and bravado faltering under Larissa’s razor-edged glare. "Oh, of course. I’ll, um, let you get back to it."

She ducked her head and retreated so quickly that she nearly bumped into another server. All that was left behind was the faint scent of cinnamon and the lingering awkwardness of her departure. Your eyes followed Imogen for a moment before shifting back to Larissa, who was sipping her hot chocolate with an air of practiced indifference.

You looked at her, amused, one eyebrow lifting. "Subtle."

Larissa’s expression remained composed, though her fingers tightened ever so slightly around her teacup. “She was intruding,” she said simply, her voice calm but edged just enough to suggest it wasn’t up for debate.

“She was apologizing,” you countered, leaning in just a little with your eyes alight with challenge.

“Was she?” Larissa’s gaze flicked to you, cool on the surface but carrying an unmistakable undercurrent of heat. “It seemed to me she was angling for something more.”

She straightened a fraction, lifting her chin. “Her eagerness to be of service is commendable,” Larissa added evenly, though the slight pointedness in her tone made it clear she meant anything but. “Though one might suggest she focus that enthusiasm elsewhere.”

“So you’re jealous?" you teased, unable to resist. The way the other woman’s eyes narrowed, however slightly, sent a thrill through you.

"Hardly," she replied, though the faint pink tinting her cheeks suggested otherwise. “I simply don’t appreciate… interruptions.” She delivered the last word coolly, but her veneer cracked under your amused gaze. “Particularly when they’re so blatantly unnecessary.”

“Interruptions, huh?” Your grin widened. You couldn’t help the quiet chuckle that slipped out as you savored this rarity—Larissa’s composure not shattered but undeniably bending. “It’s kind of nice how protective you are.”

“Protective?” she echoed, a single brow arching with that elegant precision only she could manage. “Don’t flatter yourself. I assure you, my concern is purely professional.” Larissa lifted her tea cup then, her eyes meeting yours over the rim.

“Sure it is,” you murmured, leaning back but never breaking eye contact.

Her lips twitched—just barely—but in that small movement was the ghost of a smile, warm and exasperated and unmistakably fond.

“You’re insufferable,” she said softly, though the lack of reproach in her voice turned the words into something almost affectionate.

“And yet,” you replied, your grin turning smug, “you keep inviting me to these meetings.”

"Perhaps I enjoy the challenge," she replied smoothly, her tone regaining its usual poise. But there was something different in the way she looked at you then, a softness that lingered in her gaze even as she tried to mask it.

Larissa’s eyes glittered with amusement as she set her cup down with deliberate care. The tension that had briefly clouded her mood seemed to dissolve, replaced by the same teasing energy that had carried you through the morning.

The playful current simmered between you two, and you could feel the shift in her demeanor, the small tells you’d learned almost instinctively. Like the way her gaze held yours for a heartbeat too long, the gentle dip in her tone whenever she spoke directly to you, the careful control in her posture that made it obvious she was trying—trying not to lean closer, trying not to let herself slip.

There was vulnerability in the slight brush of her fingertips along the edge of her teacup, a grounding gesture she made only when she felt off-balance. With anyone else, Larissa Weems was a fortress. With you, she was trying—failing?—not to sway. It made you wonder how close she was to reaching across the table.

She shook her head lightly, more amused than admonishing. It was as though she were trying to shake off the moment. “Let’s finish our work,” she said, but her voice was lower now, threaded with something warm and dangerous. “Before you cause any more trouble.”

As the meeting dwindled, the papers between you became little more than decoration—ignored in favor of conversation that kept slipping off-script. The ebb and flow of her sharp wit meeting your casual charm filled the space. It was professional enough to match the purpose of your meeting, yet the charged undertone of your exchanges felt anything but.

At one point Larissa shifted to reach for a different folder, and her knee brushed yours lightly under the table. The contact jolted through you, tightening something low in your stomach. Warmth spread through you. Her perfume, warm and soft with something floral beneath it, curled into your senses. She didn’t flinch away. If anything, her leg remained close enough that you could feel the heat radiating through the fabric of her stockings.

You tried to focus on the notes in front of you; she pretended to read a paragraph twice. Neither of you succeeded.

For a moment, the world outside the café seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you in the golden afternoon light. The typical morning crowd of the Weathervane had long since dispersed and left behind only the faint hum of conversation and the occasional clang of a ceramic cup being set on saucers.

Larissa’s lips parted as though to say something, but the words never came. Instead, she held your gaze, her storm-blue eyes searching yours for something unspoken. Whatever she found there must have satisfied her because she leaned back slightly, her lips curving into the faintest smile.

"You’re impossible," she murmured, as though she were confessing rather than scolding..

"You wouldn’t have it any other way," you replied with a grin, the tension ebbing into something warmer, softer. But as you gathered your belongings and prepared to leave, the memory of her touch and the unspoken words between you lingered, as tangible as the scent of coffee and the golden light spilling through the café windows.

When you held the door open for her, her silver-blonde hair caught the light, giving her an almost ethereal glow that contrasted with the normally guarded expression she wore. A moment later, Larissa brushed past you into the crisp late afternoon air, leaving you to wonder if you’d ever truly understand the depths of her. —

Tagging: @readingtheentrails, @justcallmelittleone, @enchantressb, @jeepingay, @gwendolinechristieiscute, @leftoverenvy.

The previous week’s assault was still on your mind. You were kind of confused that queer or queer-allied punk people would be so narrow minded and aggressive towards outcasts. Surely they could empathize with people not understanding their identity or how narratives are used against marginalized groups.

Regardless, you could usually read people better than that. Then again, you didn’t really know the people Imogen brought with her. Hell, you barely knew Imogen if you could be honest with yourself. She had reached out via text a few times, but you couldn’t give it your full attention at the moment. Curse your high sex drive making you reckless when it came to who you sought company with.

Your mind wanders to Larissa and the last conversation you two had. She was certainly firm and more reserved. Her desire for you pushed down and masked. It’s one of the reasons you felt so compelled to see Imogen; you wanted your own desire quenched. The older woman was too magnetic.

You can’t help but anticipate your next interaction with the principal. Mrs. Cunningham had sent you an itinerary for the first week. Apparently there were a lot of speaking engagements scheduled for the first normie graduate student to study at the academy. After the chaos of the previous year, good publicity was a necessity. Because of this, much of your time was spent with Larissa. Local news interviews, a public guided tour of new accommodations, a town hall style briefing at the Weathervane, a ribbon cutting ceremony to symbolize a fresh start with the community. You could go on. On one hand, this meant time with the older woman—time you could use to clear the air and reset the energy between you two. On the other hand, the programming barely leaves a quiet moment for the two of you. You wonder if Larissa intended that to be the case to minimize awkwardness.

With the arrival of the new semester, Nevermore students were rapidly arriving, and the faculty were finalizing their lesson plans. The days since coming back from Burlington felt a bit isolated since you didn’t know anyone, and you were nursing a bruised ribcage from the comfort of your living quarters. Now that you’re feeling better, you hoped to get a few things done before students started overtaking the quiet study areas.

Still feeling low effort, you pull on a baggy brown knit sweater and brown high-rise slacks. You were thankful that the monochrome outfit seemed more high effort than it actually was. Wanting to feel comforted, you packed your bag with some books to research while sipping something soothing at the Weathervane.

You opted to walk and absorb the already changing air of Vermont in September. It was still humid out, but it was cool enough to enjoy the stroll. Almost in a trance from the light breeze and gentle woodland sounds, you started to wonder how Larissa would respond to your presence in the coming weeks.

Would she act distant and removed? Would she be stern with you? Would she mention your shared kiss and how heated and passionate it was? Would she acknowledge that you two would have gone much further without the interruption from the car horn?

In what seemed like no time at all, you arrived in Jericho.

Almost at the entrance to the café, you remembered the multiple unanswered texts from Imogen hanging over your head since the assault. Well, no time like the present to confront things you’ve been putting off from a lack of knowing how to proceed.

You step through the threshold to…not Imogen. Phew. The barista working barely looked up at the chime of the entrance jingle. Thankful to have more time to your thoughts, you pick an empty booth to spread out on.

You ordered your coffee and brought out a couple different texts from your bag. One was “Other” as Monster: Deconstructing Bias for Marginalized Outcasts. The other was Foundational Concepts in Shapeshifter Cultures—the book you reached for at the library with Larissa and failed to open until now. You decided to forgo your computer and opt for your notepad instead. You didn’t need more distractions, and you knew any access to recent Nevermore news articles would end up with your eyes on the tall silver-haired woman.

An empty mug, color-coded sticky notes, and a slew of highlighters and pens cover the table in front of you and your two open books. You’ve been told to go through one reference at a time, but it made sense in your brain to work on both at the same time. You felt like it was easier to see how the texts worked together and differently regarding the subjects. You pulled quotes and read for more context between outcast identities and their history. However, you were so disappointed in the shapeshifter cultures anthology. There were hardly any sections on universal shapeshifters; instead, there were a lot of details of metamorphoses in Greek mythology, lycanthropy, and even vampires. You were surprised the book even mentioned East Asian kitsunes since it focused so heavily on Greek, Roman, and Norse histories. According to this account, shapeshifting was often punitive in nature and had connections to mischievousness and deceit.

While reading, you furiously tagged quotes and wrote your own commentary on post-its to mark in the book. Some of your handwriting looked feral, and you hoped you could decipher it later. You were too focused to slow down and write neatly.

Annoyance and righteousness cut through you as you continued through the anthology on shapeshifting. You knew covering so many different histories was difficult, but so much of the positive or holy connotations regarding shapeshifters was missing. Needing to vent, you spam texted your best friend, Komeha’e.

Her own outcast experience was riddled with marginalization from mostly white, normie culture. She would always tell you stories about varying Native American shapeshifter cultures. Most were stories of protection or healing within Native communities. You can hear her cute, know-it-all voice now, “Shapeshifting not only provides benefits for individuals and their communities, but it also deepens the bond between human, nature, and wild animals—an important component of indigenous teachings, beliefs, and spirituality.” Neither of her parents were shapeshifters, so she learned a lot about her identity and its ties to her culture through her grandparents. Komeha’e loved to recount every morsel to you, and you cherished it right back. That’s how you knew the information perpetuated by even the reputable book in front of you was skewed.

You sipped your latte while fully engrossed in your text conversation. Because of this, you weren’t aware of Imogen’s entrance into the Weathervane. Well, that is until she was right in front of you waving a hand in front of your face.

“…h-hey.”

You internally scream that your chance of studying at the Weathervane in solitude is now ruined. “Imogen. Hi.”

The next 45 minutes are spent debriefing on what happened at the club in Burlington. Imogen promised you she didn’t know her friends would do that to you and wanted to make it up to you. You ended up letting her know you needed time to think things over. You’re not sure you can trust her if that is the company she grew up with and continues to keep. Whether you’re an outcast or not frankly had no influence on how you felt. Their behavior was abhorrent. Exhausted from the long and unexpected discussion, you make an excuse to pack up and walk back to Nevermore.

The following morning you met with Mrs. Cunningham to go over the questions Vermont News & Entertainment (VNE) sent over in preparation for your interview. You memorize down to the third question before you two are interrupted by none other than Principal Larissa Weems herself. Her abrupt presence makes your stomach drop and your heart race.

“Ah, Mrs. Cunningham. I assume you’re prepping our new graduate fellow?” Bright smiles get thrown to you both. God, that woman can make someone feel unstoppable. You flash a quick and innocent grin back. Before small talk can continue, Larissa proceeds, “The new academy newspaper, Marginalia, would like an official interview.” Her fingers motion to you and beckon you to follow her. You gather your things and thank Mrs. Cunningham for her time before walking toward Larissa and the door.

“After you.” A shiver shoots down your spine and you feel your mouth go dry when the older woman’s hand rests on your lower back to guide you through the doorframe and halls.

You can barely contain the urge to gaze upon Larissa in confusion and shock. Your mind had conjured up many different scenarios for what the dynamic between you two would be, but this was not one of them. After walking across the quad and through two wings of the academy that you haven’t explored yet, you and Larissa finally reach what you imagine is the room for the school newspaper.

Walking in with confidence, the principal begins, “Yoko, Enid, this is our newest addition to Nevermore.” Larissa turned towards you and finished, “This is Yoko Tanaka and Enid Sinclair. They volunteered to revive Nevermore’s very own student newspaper.”

A sweet and excited figure comes into your personal space, already mid-hug before you can make sense of what is happening. A singsong voice to match rings out, “Oh my gosh, this is so cool. I can’t wait to publish our first issue. It’s going to be so much better than my Nevermore gossip blog. And you’re our first interviewee!”

Over Enid’s shoulder you see a slightly taller figure with blackout glasses and impeccable dark lipstick. She steps forward and peels Enid away from you. The one who must be Yoko mutters, “Let’s get started.”

“I’ll be right over there.” Larissa mentions as she steps away with an amused look on her face. Larissa uses this time with you distracted to collect her thoughts and watch you interact with the two students. She knew her hand placement on your lower back walking here was reckless; the principal normally didn’t act without thinking. However, her hospitality and interest leaned too flirtatious when it came to you. That much was apparent from your very first meeting. Your success at Nevermore would mean redress for the events of the past year—proof that normies and outcasts could get along and even thrive. Tainting that endeavor for the academy and community in Jericho would be inexcusable in her eyes. So, then, Larissa asked herself, why does she continually risk everything to be close to you?

In the interview, Enid and Yoko take the approach of each asking a question back and forth. Kind of like a good cop bad cop thing. You think that anyone who reads it and knows them will be able to tell who asked which questions. For instance, Enid asks about normies from where you grew up to start off the interview. Yoko proceeds to ask why you chose to study at Nevermore specifically. Enid, as if she’s an old friend catching up, wants to know how you’re finding the town and school. She then proceeds to tell you to check out something called Hawte Kewture, but you have no idea what it is.

In between questions, of course your mind wanders to the silver-haired blonde seated nearby. Larissa was friendly—almost as if the last interaction you two had was not a chastening due to making out passionately in the academy’s van/shuttle. Her demeanor caught you off guard, but you’d rather have the opportunity to be close with her than not.

A strange echoing disrupts your thoughts. Uh oh, Yoko and Enid have been waiting for you to respond and are now asking if you’re okay.

“Sorry, I’m still in the process of transferring my ADHD medicine over. What’d you say?” You hoped to not have to explain yourself too much. Otherwise, you’re sure you’d blush a bright red.

Yoko repeats, seemingly unfazed, “Why study outcasts and normies when you’re not as affected by the issue? You know…since you’re a normie.”

“Oh, it’s kind of personal, but I-” A knock on the door interrupts before you can continue to answer. Larissa had sat forward in her chair in anticipation, interested in the answer. Disappointed in the intrusion, she makes a mental note to ask you later.

“Apologies, ladies. We are needed elsewhere. The interview will have to continue another day.” Larissa reassures the two girls in front of you. Well, mostly Enid who looks pitiful.

“Hey, I had a lot of fun. And now I know who to turn to when I have questions about Nevermore. That would really help me out. I’ll see you around, okay?” You try your hardest to sound like a supportive big sister. It seems to work, because Enid beams a toothy smile and nods excitedly. You begin to walk out and don’t catch Larissa’s affectionate gaze due to your efforts. She then leads you outside to the quad where news anchors and cameras are set up and waiting.

The next interview commences. You and Larissa sit together since you’ll both be answering questions about the new fellowship position and its legacy for Nevermore.

After the interview and a lot of social pleasantries, you can tell you’re dehydrated and hungry. You hadn’t eaten that morning, unfortunately. You went straight to Mrs. Cunningham’s briefing without breakfast. As if she could read your mind, Larissa offers for you two to eat in her office before any further engagements. How can you pass that up?

Once in her office, she disappears. You’re not sure where but you can assume it is the same place she went to get the scones and fig spread you two devoured before in the faculty lounge. When she returns, she gestures for you to sit while she gathers plates and drinks. Larissa takes a seat next to you and lets out a long sigh.

“You okay?”

Larissa pours herself a glass of red wine and turns toward you. “What happened the other night?”

Surprised she wanted to discuss what happened between you two, you confess, “Well, a lot of repressed sexual energy got released, and I couldn’t stop myself from finally kissing you, an-”

“No,” Larissa corrects. “What happened that left you stranded and needing to be picked up?” Larissa urges the warmth between her legs at the memory of how heated the two of you became to calm so that she can focus on understanding why it seemed like you were physically assaulted and abandoned.

You take a moment to configure your answer, making sure to not mention that you were desperate for release due to fantasizing about Larissa and texted Imogen to fulfill that need. “I invited Imogen out dancing, and she brought friends along. Her asshole friends thought I was an outcast and didn’t appreciate that possibility.”

“So they hurt you?” Her face was marked with concern and contempt. All you could do was nod. You didn’t particularly want to dwell on it. The older woman in front of you takes a long sip of wine. Apparently still making sense of the threat posed that night, Larissa queries, “Why did they think you were an outcast?”

You omitted why you sought out Imogen in the first place, so you’re not about to explain to Larissa that your mouth was essentially fused to Imogen’s neck while on the dance floor. You hoped this placated the woman beside you, “Uh, they picked me up from Nevermore and had just assumed I was a vampire.”

Sensing that she was not being given the entire truth, Larissa eyed you curiously. Her familiarity with outcasts meant she could understand each give-away for various species. Unfortunately, these precautions were to ensure safety when out around the town. Sirens were instructed to hide their amulets around their necks in their clothes. Gorgons were taught to wear baggier hats so that tight fabric didn’t show the outline of their snakes. Vampires were taught to drink their blood packs out of opaque tumblers and wear special contacts if they were light sensitive. Even sunglasses started to be questioned by townsfolk for those who wore Nevermore uniforms. Larissa never saw you wear sunglasses or carry around any travel mugs. The image of you against Imogen’s neck appeared in her mind and wouldn’t leave. She despised the thought, even though it was the most likely explanation.

At a loss of what to say next, the two of you passed time by eating sandwiches and breaking down the interviews thus far.

“Your answer to Yoko’s final question before being interrupted, what were you going to say?”

You chew and swallow the food in your mouth, making way for an adequate answer. You didn’t know how much to divulge to the woman in front of you. “My best friend, Kome. I’ve always been a bit justice-oriented—guess that comes with being queer and neurodivergent—but I am fiercely protective of outcasts and what they represent. Kome is the strongest person I know and has been through so much at the hands of normies. Hell, even from other outcasts that have internalized normie narratives.” Your eyes flare, as if you are remembering a specific incident.

Continuing while staring into the fireplace, you add, “When she confided in me about being an outcast, I was so sad that she worried how I would react. She deserves armies of support, and I can’t imagine a better person. Making the world just a little bit safer or more understanding regarding outcasts is the least I can do. As a normie, it’s so fucked that my voice is privileged above others’. Because of this, I will always defend those who are marginalized and uplift their voices instead. That’s why I’m a little wary of all the interviews this week. So far most of the questions focus on who I am, but this isn’t about me. It’s about the issues at hand.”

Larissa didn’t expect to be so moved by your response—the raw vulnerability that you had shared with her. Once again, you were proving to be a conundrum for the principal. Senseless attraction or lust was something that could be managed. The tug in her chest pleading to share secrets, small joys, trauma, and deep desires and goals? That was exactly what Larissa didn’t need to deal with.

No response was given by the older woman next to you, not for many moments. Glossy eyes find yours, and Larissa clears her throat to speak. “I had a brother, you know.”

Of course you didn’t know; Larissa was a pretty private person about family. Sensing she needed assistance to get the rest out, you nudge gently, “You did?”

“A twin brother. He-…” Tears bead against Larissa’s lower eyelids, threatening to spill over and ruin her impeccable foundation and blush. “He’s no longer with us. He passed when I was young.”

You nod slowly, almost gravely at her. Anything to let Larissa know you were here and that whatever she uttered in the space between you would be safe. Safe and tucked away again. Almost involuntarily your hand reaches out to caress hers. You tried to convey everything you were thinking through the simple touch. You didn’t dare speak and break the intimacy between you two in this moment.

A ragged, cathartic sigh resonates out from Larissa after awhile of sitting together, hands embraced. “I’ve only ever told one other person about him. A roommate from when I was a student at Nevermore.”

As if she was suddenly aware of her openness and how near your face was to hers while leaning over to hold her hand, Larissa breaks her hand away and rises to stand against the fireplace. The absence of her hand is replaced by cool air dancing across the skin of your palm.

“We don’t want to be late for the press release in Jericho!”

Without missing a beat, you retort playfully while also standing, “And I’ll be driving, Miss Two Glasses of Wine.”

It seems that getting to know Larissa would be challenging, but you understood the significance of today. You knew it wouldn’t be a race or a sprint. In fact, you were prepared for a marathon. If the best things take time, then so be it.

—

Going about your day after the almost-kiss was awful. Frustrating. Time was moving so slowly. You tried your best to study in the library that you found so charming, find books for your research that you adored, and seek out quotes that invigorated you. However, your gaze kept falling back to the bookcase you were pinned against by Larissa earlier.

Distracted, you decide to pack up your things and walk around Nevermore before eating lunch and returning to your living quarters. It felt like the hours would never pass, not when your main distraction retreated to her duties. You wanted to study her reaction; you were sure she would have a slightly frazzled and confused look as she considered her utter lust for someone almost 20 years her junior.

Finally it was time to get ready for Imogen to pick you up. You needed no doubt in the other woman’s mind of what the night would entail. You chose an oversized blazer with nothing underneath except a dangling gold, body chain and some fabric tape. If the open front wasn’t enough, its short sleeves hinted at the sides of your breasts. You were hoping for the security of not having the top move but the illusion that at any moment it could.

With such a statement on top, you opted for simple, tight and high waisted pants on the bottom. You finished off the look with black, heeled boots. You didn’t want lipstick to be a factor to consider throughout the night; rather, you were in need of easily accessible lips. You selected a graphic, blue cat eye that emphasized the negative space on your eyelid and went into your crease for eyeliner.

Imogen texted that they were pulling up now. Who exactly were ‘they’? Grabbing only a credit card, some cash, and your ID, you walked downstairs. Your outfit didn’t exactly beckon baggage. You wondered if you would be lucky enough to bump into Principal Weems on your way out. 

No such luck.

You were able to make it outside and to the car without seeing much of anyone. Imogen opened the rear door from the back and called out for you. Inside the beat up Toyota Corolla was were three other people you’d never met. Music is playing and the two up front seem to be in a somewhat heated discussion about the Red Hot Chili Peppers. This had the possibility of being a long night.

Imogen scoots over to the middle seat in the back to allow you entry. She doesn’t mention your outfit but eyes you hungrily as you get settled. It seems you didn’t misread her interest after all. She puts a hand on your thigh and keeps it there throughout the 35 minute drive.

You didn’t care she brought an audience. You didn’t care which places you patroned. You didn’t care what specifically you had to drink. You just wanted to feel the heat of her body moving against yours as music blared, threatening to blur out everything but that moment and the pleasure associated with it. Ever since that moment in the library earlier in the day, you’ve been wound tight. You wanted to unravel.

—

What was it about night clubs that prioritized pool tables and cheap neon strobe lights? Every club you've ever been to in a city less than 100,000 in population has been like this—dirty carpet, stale sweaty air, a D-list DJ. Then again, you suppose no one really seeks out nightclubs for the posh atmosphere.

Trying your hardest to get into the current beats playing throughout the space, you decide you’re going to have to request a few of your own songs if you’re going to let loose. You and Imogen slip in among the crowd, hands clasped, making a beeline for the bar.

Two whisky sours later and you have your hand on Imogen’s ass and your mouth at her ear letting her know that you expect her on the dance floor momentarily.

You traverse over to the DJ, requesting a few songs with the pleading, seductive eyes you’ve mastered by now. Once you’ve made it near the center off the dance floor, you spot Imogen with four shots, gesturing you over. You and her link arms to throw back the shots in succession. You’re not even sure what liquor was currently making its way down your throat, igniting warmth into your core.

With impeccable timing, your selected song begins as you two put down the now empty shot glasses. You begin to feel the music and the alcohol melt your nerves and relax your muscles. In only a moment you are moved like a puppet on strings by the beats and Imogen’s hands on your hips.

The ping-pong beat and the anthemic melody of “Untrust Us” by Crystal Castles plays on as you bring your lips to Imogen’s neck and lightly suck her pulse point. She moves her dark hair aside to give you better access while her hands roam your body—one at your hip and one settling into a grasp at the nape of your neck.

As you dance recklessly, the sweat begins to accumulate over your skin, not all of it yours. Imogen attempts to bring her mouth to your own skin, only to be shut down by you enforcing and focusing on your claim to her neck with fire in your eyes instead. Her hips rock into yours at almost the same pace as the music due to your assertive response.

The colorful strobe lights mask the fluidity of your movements, and you two seem to glitch on the dance floor. You take your time marking up and down Imogen’s neck, feeling how hot and humid the space surrounding you two is getting.

The next thing you know, you are being dragged out of the club in a frenzy by your upper arm like a rag doll. You immediately miss the vibrating bass and faint smell of weed wafting off of the other dancers. The quick jolt and change in scenery made your head dizzy. Disoriented, you attempt to focus your eyes to your new location, which was outside in the quiet night air with streetlights in the distance.

You recognize the two people in front of you—both Imogen’s friends from the drive here. One was the driver and the other was in the back with you. Rage marked their faces.

“Where’s Imogen?” you tried to articulate. It came out slightly garbled.

Everyone knows everyone in Jericho. You eventually found out that the people you came with were Imogen’s friends that she had known since she was little. 

“So you can drain her like the Fang you are? No way!” Something connected with your stomach. You weren’t sure what. The only thing you were sure of was the pain. It took you a moment to realize that you had been misinterpreted to be an outcast. Being picked up at Nevermore and mouthing Imogen’s neck were apparently the strikes against you, unless there was more. You didn’t understand the ins and outs of vampires yet. Your research was still honed on literature review.

You doubled over in pain while the two friends hurried away while you were distracted. Noticing a concrete parking block close by, you clamber to sit on it before your legs have a chance to give out.

Pulling out your phone, you text Imogen. You weren’t sure if she was part of the assault directly. By the way she was moaning in your ear only minutes ago, you would assume not. However, that means she didn’t explain anything about you to her companions and likely was not clued into what happened.

Outside. Where are you? you type out slowly. Damn your one bar of signal and 20% battery alert. Movies don’t get it all wrong. Anything that can go wrong will go wrong, no matter how far fetched it seems.

You wait 10 minutes with no response. Still sitting on the parking barrier, you stand and squint into the parking lot. You didn’t see the Toyota you all arrived in. Shit.

Willing your 18% phone battery to hold out long enough to secure an Uber, you close all your apps in the background and lower the brightness. Thankfully Burlington had a fair bit of drivers out tonight. You input the address to Nevermore and wait to get connected with a driver.

An alert lets you know that Brian with 4.83 stars is on the way and will arrive in 6 minutes. Minutes pass, and you see that Uber is loading, attempting to secure a new driver. Another profile pops up to escort you, arriving in 3 minutes.

You almost immediately receive a notification that there are no available drivers in your area, despite the fact you can see the moving vehicles on Uber’s real-time map. Irritated, you consider whether or not they realized your destination and canceled or if the possibility of a sober passenger was slim being picked up outside of a nightclub. Regardless, you’re fucked.

Before Uber can continue draining your battery, you close the app and try Lyft. When a similar experience occurs with Lyft, you Google taxis. With the influx of 1 and 2 star reviews regarding wait times, you decide to forgo that option with a heavy sigh.

At a loss for next steps, you consider the only number you could try at Nevermore—the main reception line. Besides Imogen who is curiously missing in action, you don’t have anyone else’s number around Jericho or Nevermore. You could at least try the number before your phone dies.

You press to call. It rings many, many times. Honestly, you’ve lost count with how dizzy you feel and how repetitive the rings were. You are about to accept defeat when you hear the receiver click and a concerned voice speaks.

“Hello?”

“You sound cute when you’re concerned,” you mumble smugly. Too smug for your own good right now.

“What are you doing calling the main office at a time like this?” The worry in Larissa’s voice turned into a reserved, controlled tone. She had heard the ringing from within her own office. No one used the main number for Nevermore unless they were reporters or prank callers, and reporters wouldn’t dare at this hour.

“Um, I’m in Burlington and don’t have a way back to Jericho or Nevermore.”Knowing she would exhaust every option, you continued, “The rideshares I have tried keep cancelling my request. Even though I have an amazing rating. Almost 5 stars. I tip very well. I guess they don’t want to go to Nevermore in the middle of the night.”

You could almost see her scrunched face through the phone weighing her options. “Oh, and my phone is about to die. But I can figure something out. No worries.”

Exasperated, she concedes, “Where are you?”

After you give her your location, she agrees to come right away and recites her cell phone number for you to have in case you need to contact her.

“You’ve been waiting to give me your number, haven’t you?” Knowing it was not the time to tease and push the older woman who was doing you a favor was different than being able to control doing so.

You were met with silence. You brought the phone away from your ear and saw that Larissa had hung up.

—

After waiting until your ass began to go numb, you finally glimpse the Nevermore van turning onto the street the nightclub is on.

Larissa spots you stand up and almost stalls the engine with her feet hitting both the accelerator and break at the same time due to being distracted by your outfit. With everything that happened, you forgot you looked like sex personified. An imminent smirk played at your lips.

You stumble towards the car’s passenger door. Once inside, you notice her own outfit—a silk robe and sleep bonnet, not unlike her exquisite headscarves. They were the color of amber honey and drew you in to wonder if there was anything under the soft, glistening robe.

Her voice interrupts your less than innocent thoughts, “What were you doing all the way out in Burlington in the first place?”

You gesture to the nightclub in front of the idling van. “I wasn’t alone. I couldn’t find Imogen.” The information sits heavy in the air between you.

Larissa sets her jaw rigid, but her eyes remain calm and concerned in your direction. You let yourself consider if she is jealous. It would explain her stiff demeanor.

Before she can take the car out of park, Larissa notices the bottom of a darkening bruise forming on your upper arm. Her fingers lift up the fabric of your sleeve to reveal skin changing color in the shape of a large handprint. Her red, manicured fingernails tickle your skin, raising goosebumps on your arm. Staying silent, you didn’t trust yourself to speak eloquently or to not make matters worse.

After gently turning in her seat, hands reach out to cup your face. “Are you okay?” The soft syllables come forward, waiting for a response. When none comes, Larissa resumes carefully, “You’re safe. Everything will be okay.”

Looking you over again with a protective eye, she observes your smudged eyeliner. Had you been crying?

“You look like a blue raccoon,” Larissa breathes, subconsciously finding herself licking her thumb to wipe away some of the eyeliner remnants on your face. The action makes you stare at her lips, distracted by her moist tongue’s appearance.

Almost overcome with protection and want for you, Larissa is cognizant of your longing gaze and your body buzzing to bring yourself closer to her. She doesn’t stop you or pull away when your hungry lips crash into hers.

Heat immediately rises between the two of you, and desire flares as your lips move against each other. Nearly pulling free your fabric tape, Larissa’s hands grip and pull your lapels to lessen the distance between your bodies. You crawl into the older woman’s lap, straddling her with a leg on each side of her thighs.

She tastes faintly of sweet, spearmint toothpaste, and you’re regretful that her fresh mint breath is mingling with the robust, smoky notes of oak from your earlier whiskey. 

Your fingers progress to the area behind her ears near the nape of her neck and at the edge of her silk head wrap. You tighten your grip on her neck, your knuckles nearly becoming white, as you roll your hips over hers needily. With a guttural moan into your own mouth, Larissa places one hand on your ass to continue its motion. Her other hand palms your breast over your blazer, about to pull back the fabric to expose more of your skin.

Larissa probably would have continued if your behind didn’t hit the horn, scaring you both as you tried to grind into her with more enthusiasm.

Realizing the gravity of what was occurring, Larissa breaks away from your mouth and puts her hands gingerly on your upper arms, careful not to press against your bruising. You both pant heavily, your chests heaving for oxygen.

Panic, shame, and guilt ambush Larissa after breaking you two apart. She can’t encourage this behavior while you are under the influence; she could taste the alcohol on your breath. Besides, you were a graduate student under her care! You were the first ever graduate student Nevermore had as part of a proposed pilot program. And a normie, for fucks sake. She could imagine the normie headlines now, reporting that this great beast had seduced and preyed upon you.

Most of all, Larissa dreaded having her hand forced, feeling as if there were no satisfactory conclusions. She hated mistakes—hated not being in control. Finally, she hated the ease in which you could be with Imogen, a fellow normie. No obligations to maintain a certain appearance.

You were confused and startled at the abrupt end between you. You shift back into the passenger seat and study Larissa.

“Seatbelt,” she quips in a dry tone, her voice hoarse.

The ride back to Nevermore is essentially noiseless. Only the road sounds and blinkers permeated the uncomfortable atmosphere.

Days go by without seeing each other. You wondered whether or not Larissa was hiding from you or if she was busy orchestrating your departure. You worried about your placement at the school. Could it be revoked?

The next morning after having this intrusive thought, you are approached by Mrs. Cunningham, the stout woman who interrupted you in the library. Larissa had requested your presence. Once seated alone in her office, Larissa warns from behind her desk, “Nevermore’s board did not select you over many other qualified candidates for you to waste this opportunity.”

Ah, so the board may be involved now. You wince. Behind the upright and stern façade, you caught a glimpse of hurt and fear. In denial of or recompense for her past actions, Larissa was acting as if she were turned to stone by a gorgon. Unyielding.

“I understand. I will pack my steamer trunks,” you surrendered, barely able to look at the principal.

Her eyebrows twitch only for a moment. A moment hidden from you. “That is hardly necessary, even though your actions have put me and the school in an impossible position.”

Larissa stands, smooths her dress, and walks to the front of her desk in front of you. “No more infractions,” she warns. You nod with a lump in your throat while your eyes meet. You each hold the gaze longer than needed. She enunciates decisively, “You’re dismissed.”

—