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wosoluvrr · 5 months

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sorry about the blood in your mouth, i wish it was mine || a. russo x reader (1)

summary: everyone knew the game against united was going to be scrappy, but no one was quite prepared for that.

warnings: lots of talking about blood and injury, angstangstangst, a curse word or two, not much else i don’t think

a/n: i love that quote by richard siken and i just have to be different so i figured including it in my first fic/writing thing (?) was the way to go. anyways, i hope you enjoy! i’m happy to be here, and excited to post more and hopefully get to know some of you:) all my love 🤍

"what the fuck is your problem, zelem?" the question came out more like an insult, your body taking over as you moved towards her on the pitch. in doing so, you left alessia's side, the girl flat against the pitch as she gripped at her ankle and fought back tears. vic and lia stayed kneeled beside her, the rest of the team taking notice and making their way towards the midfield where alessia had gone down.

katie only rolled her eyes at your screaming, sparing alessia a quick glance and then focusing back onto you. "i barely touched her, you've all gone soft," she replied with a scoff, her teammates remaining in their positions.

"the audacity you have is a bit mind blowing really, who'd you have to pay to get that armband?"

she doesn't reply this time, her face curling into an expression you can't quite read. you're not sure how the hell you'd come up with something like that, but you opt to keep your expression blank as you turned your attention to the ref who was jogging towards the scene.

alessia still wasn't getting up, the ref signaling for the medics as she made her way from the scene to the two of you. jen was approaching you as well, her face offering a warning for you to take the scolding and not let anything go further.

before the ref can reach you she pulls out a yellow card on zelem, writing her name down sloppily once she arrives and beginning her scolding of the two of you. jen's hand on your shoulder keeps you in your own spot, zelem's eyes fixed blankly on your own as the ref opts to check back in with the medics and leave the three of you alone.

"keep your mutt off my shit, beattie." she begins to storm off but you're quick to follow, your body slipping out of jen's hand as your pace quickens.

your only intent was to give her a push and bag the yellow card, deeming it worth the release of steam. however, somehow seconds after zelem had jolted forward and turned to make her way back towards you, a first slammed square into your face. you ended up on your hands and knees, spitting blood into the grass below you.

medics guessed a broken nose and a split lip which might need stitches due to your face accidentally getting stepped on when the players reacted.

sitting on the locker room floor was undeniably embarrassing, your body slumped against the wall as you struggled to keep the gauze firmly against your face. even with the pain consuming you, it was hard not to wonder just how badly you’d be punished.

benched for x amount of games? kicked off the squad? banned from football for life? the possibilities seemed endless, each one worse than the other.

"that was quite the shove you got in," alessia was standing in the doorway, the large puffer coat on her body making your eyes crinkle in place of a smile.

you didn't dare take your eyes off the floor as the shame burning within you only deepened in her presence. there wasn’t a single part of you that wanted to know how angry she was with you, the thought of her conveying her disappointment making you feel sick.

"your ankle?" you ask, ignoring her insinuation.

alessia laughs gently, properly walking into the room and shedding her puffer onto the closest surface.

"rolled, which really sucks." she moves a stool in front of a bench, slightly limping her way over to you as she extends her hand out. "i'll be out for a few weeks at worst.”

you feel like crying, the girl in front of you wrapped in a bandage and you had somehow managed to make things worse. you accept her hand and allow her to guide you to the bench, your head falling back against the lockers as you groan.

"why aren't you at the hospital?"

"i wanted to apologize before i went," you answer. "my selfishness is making sure i don’t do a very good job at that.”

your voice is more pathetic than you imagined it'd be, the pain from your face spreading all around your body. pain was doable when it was just pain, but this just had too much in it for you to feel able to manage it.

"let me help you," she beats your slew of apologies, hands reaching out to the hold the rag against you. her fingers are cold against your hand for the seconds they do touch causing you to pull away quickly, the burning in your arm from holding it up so long dulling down to an ache.

her pressure immediately becomes too harsh and you moan in pain, arm back in the air as your hand roughly grips onto her own. "please be gentle," you gasp, her face washing with regret as she nods, free hand moving to rest on your bare thigh.

her newly adjusted position has her face far too close to your own and you're certain if your nose was working you'd be able to smell her minty breath. it was really her eyes that had you going crazy, the deep blue they sported making you feel dizzy as you examined them.

"thank you," you start, eyes closing as you continue to fight the threat to cry. "i regret it already, i don’t want to be a violent person.”

you quickly find that it's easier to look past alessia, fixating on the door frame and instead of anything else. she's frowning back at you, trying to come up with the right things to say.

"you're a sweet girl," her voice is barely a whisper. "katie's completely fine, and you're going to be fine too, yeah?"

you nod, finally looking her in the eyes.

“is ella angry, you think?”

you hadn’t even considered how awful it must’ve been for you to start a fight with a team that coincided with tooney. there was somehow more guilt to be felt, your brain imagining the damage you may have caused between the two girls.

she doesn’t answer, eyes narrower than they were before.

"i'm sorry, alessia." it's sincere, your head nodding to convey your feelings better as she nods back, something resembling her usual smile creeping onto her lips.

"you can check that off the list now," she teases, a feeling of relief spreading through your body. “i just want you to be okay.”

you had expected her to be far more angry, far more disappointed in you. but, she's not. because how could she be? it was alessia, after all. sweet, composed, and painfully beautiful alessia.

it's embarrassing how caught you are by her even in the state your in, your mind barely able to keep up with just how closely you're getting to see the girl now. you decide now you have to very carefully memorize the small details of her face, selfishly noting you'd probably never be this close to her ever again.

"you're too good to me," it's barely a whisper, your eyes shamefully fixated on alessia's lips. it's hard to contain yourself anymore, your heartbeat finallt recognizing that there was more than pain against you in this moment.

"no such thing," she says.

she readjusts her hand and tilts your head to the side in an effort to examine if anything else had left you with marks. to her disappointment, she finds the scratches your face had taken from the rest of the cleat on your face. it wasn't a pretty sight, you were sure of that, but her gaze didn't feel like pity.

she was looking at you like she always did, merely taking you in for what you were.

she moves the gauze slowly away, wincing at the what was beneath the fabric. your nose is offset, blues and greens inviting themselves into your usual complexion. dried blood stained it’s way from your nostrils to your mouth, your bottom lip sporting the nasty gash.

it was uncomfortable knowing how ugly you must look right now. you opted to close your eyes and pretend you were somewhere else, desperately trying to act normal when she ran her thumb over your cheekbone.

“i’m sorry about the blood in your mouth,” she whispers. “i just wish it was mine.”

you’re crying now, body shaking with sobs as she pulls you into her chest, your chin hooking onto her shoulder as you cried. alessia’s fingers are rubbing your back, her lips whisper ‘it’s okay’ over and over until you start to believe her.

“i think it’s time you get some help with all this, don’t you think?” you’re still pressed against her, hands desperately clenching her jersey. you don’t want to pull away. you don’t want to leave when you’re certain you’ll never have her like this again.

it’s selfish, having her like this when she doesn’t know the way you feel. it almost feels wrong to be tended to so lovingly by her, your secret administration making the weight of her actions far different for you.

but, of course you nod, pulling yourself out of her embrace and allowing her sweet hands to brush the matted hair from your forehead to the sides. her touch is so gentle you almost cry again, cursing your stupid brain for making things harder.

you wanted to ask her about so many things. you wanted to ask what she had meant about the blood and what she had meant when she chose to rest her hand on your thigh. or why she had chosen to be kind to you instead of absolutely losing her head over your recklessness.

you settle for a later date. “can i call you once i’m finished?”

the laugh she lets out makes you feel warm, her arms helping you to stand up and bracing you as she walks you to the physios. you curse yourself for asking something that stupid, walking into the room with a newfound embarrassment.

“you think i’d let you go alone?”

a/n: part 2, mayhaps? part 2 for a kiss and some confessions, mayhaps? feel free to request, too! i’d love the help :)

#woso x reader #alessia russo x reader #woso fic #alessia russo fic #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso blurbs #arsenal wfc

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majorbaby · 2 months

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it takes a conscious effort to break your patterns of consumption and unlearn the notion beauty, interiority, diverse ways of existence aren't exclusive to whiteness or maleness. part of that isn't your fault. certain music is played on the radio, certain shows survive cancellation no matter what, certain people seem to be able to commit the worst possible acts against other human beings and are excused on account of their creative genius. others are selectively punished, with good reason sure, but still, selectively.

now more than ever it's easier to immerse yourself in art made by people outside of the mainstream. reading lists, free resources, playlists... all this stuff is more accessible than ever, but you've got to make an effort to give it a try. it's black history month, the recs are pouring in, go have a look. or take a chance on something absolutely no one has recommended anywhere and if you find something you like, rec it to someone else because the likelihood is they haven't heard of it.

tracy chapman's "fast car" is one of eleven songs that appears on her self-titled debut album. can you name the second hit single from it? if you're american and you fell anywhere left of center as of the 2016 election, it should be on the tip of your tongue if you were engaged in your country's politics at the time, regardless of your level of actual investment in the system. if not, the next time you're doing a task you need both hands with, washing the dishes, having dinner, doing your makeup, put that album on.

there's a post with over 100K notes on here that i see all the time of bruce springsteen and clarence clemons kissing. there's a part of that that is immediately meaningful to many if you're lgbtq, and a part that is harder for non-black lgbtq people to feel the weight of. but it is worth trying to do and was part of the reason why they kissed so often in the first place. clarence clemons was from norfolk, virginia. he released multiple albums outside of his work with the e street band. they may not be for you, but give them a try.

give enough music, or movies, or books that aren't a part of the approved canon a try, and there's no way you won't find something you don't feel as passionate about as you do about springsteen, siken, the beatles, what have you.

james baldwin was a prolific artist. see if you can't find something of his you like more than giovanni's room.

immerse yourself in ringo sheena, who mitski cites as one of her influences.

if you have difficulty paying attention to music you don't recognize, (i get it) make a playlist that alternates tracks you know and love with brand new tracks. start small. 5 faves of all time, 5 you're going to try out. you won't like everything, but you might find yourself looking forward to 6 songs instead of 5 eventually.

for movies, pick an actor whose performance you loved in something and explore their work. last year i picked whoopi goldberg, also a prolific artist, with a vast body of work that's pretty accessible as a result of her constant, intentional effort.

if you're an artist yourself, you can only stand to improve by getting to know your fellow artists better. so expand your notion of what art is. you can do it for free in lots of cases, and you're spending that time listening to music or reading or watching movies or series anyway, what have you got to lose?

anti-racism sometimes means engaging in real-world narratives of pain endured by brown and black people. that pain permeates much of our art, but we're just as three-dimensional as everybody else, and every aspect of our experiences come through in our work. you know that already, because what else is happening when you indulge in various genres. for everything you love or enjoy, there's a brown or black person who's doing something along those lines, in many cases, those genres wouldn't exist in their current form without the influence of our communities, some more than others, depending on where you're from. you can actually keep one foot inside your comfort zone and dip your toe into something else. that choice is both a joy and a luxury.

#im saying this with generosity #the best time to start was ten years ago the next best time is today #hope i don't regret this. lol.

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rippersz · 6 months

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𝘐𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘠𝘖𝘜.

«——..✞..——»

(DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT) (TW: Mentions of cannibalism, murder, slight glorification of both; gore, toxic love, smutty/suggestive themes, etc.) (Larissa Weems x Fem!Reader)

«——..✞..——»

"I’ll be your slaughterhouse, your killing floor, your morgue and final resting," ~ Richard Siken

«——..✞..——»

It was an accident.

It was all an accident.

Wrong time, wrong place, wrong moment.

Why were you awake?

What were you looking for?

Was it her?

Was it something else?

Were you out of bed because you had a feeling?

Was the bell tolling for you even in your sleep? Could you hear the echo?

Was her silence too loud?

You turned the corner.

Why did you turn the corner?

She was so close to safety.

Too slow, in the end.

Too slow too slow too slow.

And you were too fast too fast too fast. Too inquisitive. Too smart for your own good.

Draped in the darkest grey of a hooded designer coat. Gloved hands holding bags. Red plastic and squishing softness. The handle of a pocketknife tucked between white teeth. No heels, but black boots. Careful not to track mud.

There was no mistaking it.

There was no mistaking her.

Tall, intimidating, curved and sleek. Disappearing into the night without a peep, only to come back past the devil’s hour and get caught.

Years of secrecy.

And to think it was all ruined by you.

You. Her limbo. Her undoing or her reaffirming supporter. Her end or her beginning. The in-between of her life. The connecting thread, so thin, so weak, that ties the two aspects of her existence together. The hungry and the satiated. The mask and the actor. The figure in the dark and the hero in the light. Trusted and feared. Loved and bewared. You, who had captured her eye the very moment she saw you all that time ago. You, who stood in her presence and commanded all of her attention and looked her in the face with no fear at all.

You, who only felt the fear after you turned the corner.

‘No, not you’, was her first thought. ‘No, please, let it be someone else. Let it be someone palatable.’

But no.

No no, little bell.

There you stood, hands limp at your sides, watching Larissa open the door to her quarters with a small golden key. Not trembling from the rush of the kill. Not breathing heavily from the long walk back. Not even bothering to slow her steps as she comes to a stop before her door.

Calm, instead; and swimming in a sea of only thought and anticipation for how the future meal would taste.

One does, after all, burn quite a few calories after chasing a rabbit through the woods.

She was hungry.

And you couldn’t sleep.

And in a fucked turn of events, her desire to romance you into love had melted into a necessary evil. Of course she could just kill you, but what a regret that would be. Not seeing your pretty little face each day… not hearing the sweet tones of your voice… not knowing the way you laugh… oh what a mistake it would be to taste your liver. And she probably wouldn’t enjoy it anyway. She never enjoyed the ones she cared about. Strangers were preferred. Strangers that would never be tied back to her because - my oh my why would anyone like Principal Weems ever kill somebody? How could anyone ever dare think that? When would she even have the time? And no woman could shoulder the emotional weight of murder! And cannibalism?! Oh perish the thought! No, Larissa Weems wouldn’t hurt a fly. She’s an amazing woman; she’s helped my kids so much. Oh, Principal Weems? No, that woman is an angel. She’s really good with the teens, younger and older; gets along with everyone too. And she’s a great colleague! There’s no reason to suspect her. Because she can’t kill anyone. She doesn’t have the heart. Doesn’t have the guts. She’d cry and cry and cry her way home, bending beneath the horror of her actions.

She doesn’t have it in her.

Whatever ‘it’ was.

Whatever ‘it’ is.

No. She didn’t have it in her.

She had something else in her.

A bell. An alarm. An innate sense of disguise, of self, of shadow. A mind 20 steps ahead at all times. A heart that never stopped beating. Breath that never skipped. Hands that never shook.

Unless you were around.

Then the human sank forward and suddenly she found herself falling behind, skipping beats, skipping breaths, and shaking.

And what, above all else, was so special about you?

Hm? What was so special about sweet darling beautiful you? Was it your own intelligence? Was it your own knowledge? Your own creativity? Was it your ability to be effortlessly funny? Was it the way you looked at her, sarcastic and cold and frightened and lustful? Was that it?

Or was it because you knew?

You knew.

You know.

You saw.

She waited for so long- days, weeks- sitting around, walking around, breathing and going about her life, waiting for everything to come crashing down. Waiting for the police to walk up to her door, demanding an inspection. They wouldn’t find anything, no, but that didn’t matter. They’d keep it all on record. So if anything did happen in the future, and she slipped up, her head would be on the chopping block - instead of one of her victims.

But the police never showed. And nothing ever changed. And the only shift in her life was you - but even that was slight and even that was small and even that was enough to make her feel reinvigorated. Because you knew… and yet you didn’t tell anyone. Why didn’t you tell anyone? She asks herself that constantly. Why haven’t you said anything? She’s teased you, frightened you, lured you in, put people on your plate, and you have yet to bolt up from the seat in her office and fly out into Jericho, screaming bloody murder. She’s most likely killed a person you saw once in passing; watched the light fade from their eyes, their breath dissipate in one last exhale, their heart slow to a complete stop. She’s ripped out insides, rearranged them, memorized their places, tasted them and enjoyed them. She’s done the most horrific things a human or non-human can do to its own kind, and you know this, and you haven’t called for help.

Perhaps you should just be honest with yourself, lamb.

Perhaps you should just say it. It will make things easier. You can cut through the tension and get over all the bullshit.

You want her.

Don’t you?

You want her just as much as she wants you.

You saw her that night after turning the corner and you knew. You felt it.

Something changed.

You want her protection. You want her passion. You want her love.

One could even say you are hungry for it.

–

By the time Larissa reaches the top of the stone steps, feet cold and heart thumping in anticipation, the minutes she has left have dwindled. It was a long trek through the halls to her quarters and once the secret wall on the other end slides into place behind her, she flicks up a beautiful slim wrist again and nearly chokes on her own breath.

“What on Earth?”

2 minutes?!

She has 2 minutes?!

Not a chance she spent that long cloaked in the dark of the Nevermore passages. There’s no way…

But her eyes don’t deceive her. Even after the few times she blinks, caught by utter surprise.

No. The clock reads 2 minutes. 2 minutes decreasing.

“Right,” she nods and huffs, suddenly and so thoroughly pissed off.

2 minutes. Fine. If she had 2 minutes, she’d do something with it. No predator waits for their lamb. You’re hers anyway.

You’re hers and that’s that. 2 minutes or not. That’s how it is.

And she’s gone too long without seeing your face this evening. Time to find you, her sweet darling. Time to win.

–

Her legs slide into a strut as she makes her way down the hall. Chafing, she finds, is a complete bitch. But she’ll bear it of course. For you.

You, who are so keen on pushing lines and breaking rules. Thinking you’ve outsmarted her. Hiding yourself away somewhere in her quarters.

Or so she hopes.

Really, there’s no way of knowing. You could be anywhere else actually. In a bathroom somewhere maybe - or a closet, shoving yourself into the shadows with a hand clasped tight over your pretty little mouth. Even in the main hall… celebrating your victory as she takes herself to her own bedroom, hoping to the gods that you’re there.

She wishes, of course, that you could walk into her bedroom under better circumstances. Circumstances in which you’re less frightened, and not so full of anxiety. Circumstances in which you’re smiley and giggly and happy to be in her company and not worried about if she’ll eat you or not - which she won’t. Ever. As she’s already told herself.

But you don’t know that. And you’re in her room, maybe, shaking with the fear of when she finds you. Even though, at the heart of things, she’s not sure if she has it in herself to stick to the rules of the game.

Can they be changed?

It’s the one thing she wonders about as she gets closer and closer - speed eventually picking up into a jog as she looks down at her watch and sees that it’s ticked over to 1 minute. 1 minute. 1 minute.

Can the rules be changed?

The outcome maybe?

50 seconds.

Her feet begin to pound against the stone. They’re cold - they nip at her bare heels - but none of it registers.

40 seconds.

She needs to take a left then a right.

A left then a right.

A left…

45 seconds.

Then a right…

30 seconds.

–

BANG.

Silence.

Footsteps.

You barely have time to hold in your gasp- barely have time to breathe through your panic- no time at all to duck into shadow and hide- because she’s already there.

In the doorway. Outlined by a muted light.

Out of breath, but victorious.

“I found you,” Larissa huffs, shoulders falling up and down in the most mesmerizing rhythm.

Up… down… chest moving with the weight of her lungs as she catches her breath.

So she was running.

Since when does the bell run instead of toll?

“I know.”

It’s all you can think to say.

Double checking the time doesn’t even fade across your thoughts. Making an effort to dash past her somehow never even touches the corners of your mind. The bell has run and the game has ended and you have lost - just as you somehow knew you always would. Because what else would the universe have you do? Win? No. No, the lambs never win. That’s just not how it goes. And when a phone begins to beep somewhere- a small silent beep beep beep beep beep in the next few seconds- you know that doubting your loss will lead to nothing. She has won. And you have failed. And now you will have no choice but to consume one of your own. Another lamb that could never beat the wolf. Never smart enough. Never fast enough. Never good enough.

“10 seconds to spare,” comes her dulcet murmur.

You nod, numb to the truth of it all.

10 seconds to spare.

If only the bell walked.

If only you were smarter.

If only you were better.

If only you were good enough.

Silence blankets the two of you. The only thing that speaks are the breaths from each of your throats, pouring into the still perfumed air of Larissa’s closet.

From an outside perspective, one would think that a chase like that, a game so neck and neck, would end on the most explosive of notes. The biggest catch, so to speak. The climax of it all. One would think that with everything on the line, with a livelihood wagered and morals placed on the table, the finale would be something memorable and great and probably terrifying and macabre.

The be all end all for games of wolves and lambs and bells and prey.

But great climaxes don’t happen in real life. And the feeling of your heart in your throat is uncomfortably genuine. And though you’d like to have the balls to tell Larissa to go fuck herself and shove her cannibalism where the sun don’t shine and flee off down the hall past Nevermore’s doors to the Jericho police station, you just don’t. You don’t have the balls, the courage, the energy.

In the face of Larissa’s success, your body’s given up.

Months of trying to keep in stride with her, but it never works. You never feel like the control you have is actually yours. She is just too good. Too good at making you feel special. Too good at capturing your attention. Too good at being a woman of her word and making you feel comfortable even when you feel uncomfortable - and too good at making you love her.

But.

But really.

How can you love a woman who will feed you the thigh of a man?

How can you love someone like that?

How can you want someone like that?

Truly. Honestly.

What is wrong with you?

Why do you want, even now, to grasp her shoulders and pull her close and kiss her senseless? Why do you want her to lead you to her bed? Why do you want to drown in her passion?

Why do you love her so much?

WHY DO YOU LOVE HER SO MUCH?

WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!

A person can’t be heard screaming in space.

All calls for help don’t matter there.

And we ask ourselves: what is the human psyche if not a universe?

What is the mind if not a vast unfathomable thing?

One in which we cannot hear each other’s screams? One in which we do not care enough to hear?

The cries for aid are internal for a reason. They reverberate through time and bones and blood and viscera and space and everything.

So Larissa cannot hear you.

All she can do is watch. And see you unravel. And hear your muted sniffles in the dark as tears well up in the hot of your eyes. Eager to fall. To release. To plead a case to a woman who has been the source of judgment for so long. To beg in the face of danger.

“I don’t want- I-” you choke on your words.

“…I don’t want to eat human.” Your voice is far away. Soft. Defeated.

“Please,” and only now do you return to the moment - blinking at her through the haze of your tears and the midnight of dark, “please don’t make me.”

Your heart, a tad late on the delay, seems to realize now the extent of everything. You have lost. And now you must face the consequences. And give into her wishes. And ruin everything for yourself.

For the rest of your life.

To eat… that… would be to say ‘this has gone too far.’ It would be to say ‘You are making me do this because of a silly stupid game and for that, I can no longer love you.’ Because eating one’s own kind is only seen in some animals - and you are no some animal. You are no hungry beast. You are no curious soul that is unable to admit the truth to themself.

You are just a woman. A woman who does not want to stop loving, even though the love feels more like rot.

Even though the love feels more like pain.

“Please. Please don’t make me.”

And the tears only fall faster, racing down your cheeks in the same rhythm as your heart’s beat. On and on and on and on. Even as Larissa mumbles your name and flicks on the closet light, rushing forward at the smallest sight of your wet face. Flushed from tears, crumpled with sadness and self-loathing and the undeniable feeling of being lost. So lost. So out of place.

And you don’t even question the whole power situation - how Larissa’s room has power while the rest of Nevermore doesn’t. Or seemingly doesn’t. It would be like Larissa Weems to ‘fake’ a power outage for the sake of raising the stakes and winning the game. Just another reason why she’s fucked up and you shouldn’t love her and yet-

“Shhh shhh, you’re okay. You’re okay.” Her soft accented voice in your ear and warm breath against your temple, speaking the sweetest reassurances as you tuck your face into your open palms and weep into the clammy skin of your hands. Her body presses against yours and her arms go winding around your waist as soon as she realizes that your legs are slowly buckling - simply unable to hold up the heavy weight of your heart.

“It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.”

But you don’t know how you can believe her. Even as she sits down next to you, both of you on your knees, pressed to the cream carpet in the middle of the walk-in closet with your head slowly falling to the side. Resting against her chest. Seeking solace in the very thing that frightens you and seduces you and restrains you and frees you and knows you and loves you and needs you and is somehow comforting you while you cry about her cannibalism.

It’s sickening.

But it’s what you need.

And when warm tears fall into your hair and are smushed along your temple, you realize that Larissa needs it too.

Not the comfort or the vulnerability or the release, but the shared feeling of otherness. The realization that neither of you are alone in your secret. A secret you never asked to know and a secret Larissa never wished to tell. And yet here you are. Knowing and telling and sharing and keeping. Keeping it between just the two of you. Like Romeo and Juliet against the world. Twisted souls with a depraved lust and desire for each other- in the heart and in the flesh.

But Romeo and Juliet is romantic.

And you two are just sad.

And damned.

And leaning on each other still, silently weeping while mindless words spill out of Larissa’s lips.

“I won’t,” she rasps, “I won’t make you. You don’t have to. I promise. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t- this wasn’t- I’m sorry. Please. Believe me. You have to believe me. I’m so sorry.”

But she’s not sorry about eating people.

She’s just sorry you found out.

She’s just sorry you saw who she really was. Is.

She’s just sorry you love a version of herself that isn’t the woman she wants to be.

Still Larissa Weems, but someone different.

Still Larissa Weems, but a murderer.

Blood on her hands. As red as her lipstick.

“I’m sorry. You don’t have to. I’d never make you. I swear it.”

And she cries as she speaks, the length of her throat clogged with guilt and tears and sorrow. A million apologies for a million offenses. One right after the other that somehow fills the void in your heart and stitches up the horrendous wounds in your mind. Keeping you bloated on apologies.

The only difference being that she means them.

You can tell.

And when she says she’d never make you, pushing it out of her lungs in the way she does, sobbing it into the softness of your neck, you believe her. She wouldn’t let a single piece of long pork touch your tongue and she wouldn’t serve you something you don’t want to eat. No woman in love would do such a thing. And so she clutches you closer and whispers it over and over again.

“I won’t I won’t I won’t I won’t you don’t have to I’m so sorry I’m so sorry-”

Until you’re both exhausted and you find enough breath needed to take your hands away from your eyes and wipe your snot and tears on the skin of your forearm.

“I know,” you finally speak, crackly and pathetic. “I know.”

Larissa sniffles and nods but doesn’t stop her weeping - and her hands only bring you closer. As close as you can get. Molded to her body, tangled up with her on the floor, finding your arms returning the desperate hug and sliding around her midsection to hold her close too. Like a lifeline.

Like a lifeline.

«——..✞..——»

Smiles nervously. - Rip x

«——..✞..——»

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