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rippersz · 8 months

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𝙇𝙤𝙤𝙠 𝙖𝙩 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙙𝙞𝙙.

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

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

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There’s something wrong with you.

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

She looks so pretty today.

Utterly irresistible.

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

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

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

And she was your boss. There was that too.

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

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

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

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

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

Compliments to the chef, you supposed.

“Of course, Larissa.”

Of course, Larissa.

What a fuckin’ pansy. You twisted bitch.

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

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

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

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

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

Are you already scared of her?

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

No.

No no no.

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

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

The door closes.

The silence falls.

You feel a bit nauseous.

You feel a bit excited.

You feel a bit crazy.

Daring.

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

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

Only due to her.

You want to run out of the room.

You want to face her.

Your heart speaks before your mind does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You resist the urge to frown.

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

“Okay… and this has to do with me h-”

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

You blink.

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

Well. You’ll never know unless you say-

“...Sure.”

What’s the worst that could happen?

You could die.

Meh. What’s a little death?

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

You do, though. You do care.

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

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

Hm. Maybe not. But nonetheless.

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

Darling….

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And the terms?”

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

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

No. You don’t.

“Why?”

But it doesn’t really matter what you think.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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