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queerfanfiction · 2 years ago

Note

okay okay okay okay, so. your requests are open, right?

how about a larissa weems fic? the night has already fallen and shy reader want cuddles with larissa but she's still working. r mustered up courage to ask for it, and larissa just need a bit more time to finish what she's doing. r then agrees, and waits up until the night has gone deeper. r decides to just try to sleep because larissa is still deep in work, and that's when larissa eventually notices the time. what happens next is up to you (please make it fluffy)

of course, only if this is alright with you. thank youuu!

- ♡

Guardian Angel

Prompt is shown above. :)

word count: 2.2k includes: nightmares, scars, ptsd discussion, domesticity, fluff

The sky twisted and darkened overhead while a breeze rustled your hair and gave you goosebumps down your arms and legs. A nervous energy pulsed through the air. No one was around, even though it seemed like someone was just in the corners of your vision. Your breathing quickened, as you began to feel as if you were being watched. You moved across the empty streets, begging for anyone to appear and comfort you. Echoes of your footsteps and breathing rang out, bouncing against the vacant, crumbling structures.

You slump against a broken down, dusty car to bury your face in your arms, overwhelmed with emotion. After a few moments you peek between your fingers at a nearby pothole filled with water that began to ripple. A rhythmic tremor had begun to erupt below you from deep within the earth. Was something huge crawling up from within the ground? Were these impact tremors from something unseen further down the horizon?

You weren’t able to consider a better answer, because suddenly you could not see. The darkening purple and navy sky spilled black. Or maybe your own eyesight went? The only thing that tethered you to the previous moment was feeling the asphalt against your thighs beneath you. A shiver trailed down your spine as a crack of lightening sparked through the sky, illuminating the scene before you. Fog rolled in when you weren’t looking, and it seemed that each flash of light revealed more and more shadow creatures moving in fast pace closer to you.

In a panic and hoping your mind was playing tricks on you, you shut your eyes tightly. After a shaky breath, you opened them once again and saw red. Your torso was stained with thick, dark liquid, and you fingered the area—blood.

You awaken with a fright, letting out ragged breaths. Sitting up allows air to reach your lower back where sweat is pooling against the bedsheets. Your fingertips instinctively outstretch to cover the scars on your stomach.

Another nightmare.

You swallow hard as you attempt to regulate your fluttering heartbeat. You had been doing so well staving off the night terrors recently. You can’t help but be a little disappointed in your progress. You glance to your side to see the bed freshly empty. Just as your heart rate began to slow, you felt it jump seeing Larissa’s side empty. You check the clock. 3:16am.

Before you could flip the covers away to investigate her absence, she rounded the corner and almost spilled the drink in her hands. “Jesus�� she exclaims before quickly controlling her voice, adding a measured smoothness to it before speaking again. “My dear, you’re up.”

“I was worried you were having another night terror. Here.” Larissa gently hands off a warm cup of golden milk to you before settling back into the bed.

You immediately felt your shoulders relax and your jaw unclench at her company. With a slight shutter, you let out a “Thank you” before bringing your lips to the edge of the cozy drink.

Larissa had gotten into the habit of bringing you calming drinks or snacks when you were unsettled or having a panic attack. Mostly she’d bring sleepy time or chamomile tea, but when she sensed the nightmare was particularly awful, she would make the tumeric drink currently before you. You don’t think either of you ever spoke of the distinction, but you were grateful that she was never wrong in how to succor you.

One night early into your relationship when you were having trouble sleeping, tossing and turning about the bed, Larissa warmed golden milk for you. She didn’t know that you hadn’t had the drink since you were a child or that it provided such comfort to you. Somehow she naturally prepared it; she was always this way. The act made you feel immediately indebted to her kindness and thoughtfulness. It seemed to flow from her so freely.

You’ve never had a partner be so attentive and understanding to your PTSD. Usually your needs were considered exaggerations or inconveniences—something “extra” to deal with or put up with begrudgingly in order to love you. But never with Larissa.

She would hold you close against her and stroke the hair by your temple while lightly peppering kisses against your forehead. You would snake your arms around her torso and press your face into the crook on her neck. Occasionally she would hum, and sometimes you would too alongside her. Not only was this a tender moment you two shared, you knew it was good for you in more ways than one. Humming stimulates the vagus nerve and plays a key role in activating the parasympathetic nervous system. You knew that, but you swore there was something about Larissa’s distinct, saccharine scent and powdery soft skin that propelled your recovery.

—

It was possible that as the anniversary of receiving your scars grew nearer, an uptick in your night terrors occurred. The past week had shown more restlessness, and you decided to lean on Larissa a bit more. You were reluctant to do so, but she kept insisting you deserved to be taken care of the same way you often supported her. Thus, you had been asking her to wind down with you during the night.

You usually thought Larissa’s dedication to her work was endearing. Sometimes she might bring a laptop into bed and rub your back while scrolling through emails. Other times she would try to leave thoughts about work at the door, which was also nice to experience. Being at the center of Larissa’s attention was something you weren’t sure you could ever tire of; it felt addictive. More than that, though, domestic life with her was everything you could hope for.

Larissa’s home life growing up was not as positive as her demeanor would suggest, and your own family life was a trash fire. Claiming domesticity in your own ways together seemed rather revolutionary considering.

However, as much as you admired her work ethic, lately she has been zoning out and hyperfixating on her perfectionism. One email often turned into two or eight and needed to be written out flawlessly in tone and grammar. Other duties that typically needed more brainpower, like securing bands and caterers for the Rave’N, salary negotiations with faculty, curriculum changes/proposals, and meetings with the school board, started taking up for of Larissa’s free time.

As a boarding school, there really was no such thing as clocking out or leaving work at work. You understood that. It’s one of the things that made you fall in love with Larissa, even though she scoffed at the idea when you disclosed it. Her earnest desire to propose up outcasts as a force of good, as well as bridge our world with the normie world, was so powerful to experience. You loved seeing the looks on others’ faces when Larissa came to save the day in the Jericho town square or knew exactly what to say during a debate between students.

She was Nevermore.

Tonight, though, that was the problem. You’ve been having a hard week. You had been feeling fatigued, had a lack of appetite, were breaking out in acne, everything that signaled your body was under too much stress.

Larissa had been buzzing with misplaced adrenaline too, since she was in “fix it” mode over an incident with some normie and outcast kids at Pilgrim World over the weekend. You wondered if she had stopped to take in a full breath—one that reached deep into her diaphragm and provided relief and endorphins to her brain.

She had missed dinner together. You two were going to make a new colored pasta recipe using yellow and green dye, hoping to infuse it with lemon and herbs. As the time passed, it took everything in you to just order something and bring it to her office instead. Otherwise you weren’t sure if you two would be eating that evening. Your anxiety flared with the impromptu social interaction of ordering and picking up the food—something you were not expecting for your night in together.

When you dropped off dinner, Larissa had promised work would be done soon. …but that was hours ago.

You entered her office in the cutest and comfiest oversized shirt, one she adored on you since it hung down to your knees. With the sweetest voice you could gather, you tiptoed towards her desk to ask her to come to bed and cuddle you. You knew it would be good for her to rest her eyes from the screen. You read somewhere that people looking at screens for a long time should consider something called the 20-20-20 rule to prevent eye strain. For every 20 minutes someone looks at a screen, they should look at something 20 feet away for 20 seconds. It seemed like a small exercise that wouldn’t be too awful to complete, but you were sure she had forgotten any hope to do it this week.

After mustering up the courage to ask for her to help you get to sleep, she agreed and reassured you that she would meet you in the bedroom.

Satisfied with the knowledge that security and safety was imminent, you decided to lay and prepare the space. You put on Calm’s washing machine sound; having white noise of some sort always seemed to help you settle down. After you had whispered something about how nice hearing her work in the background was, Larissa had bought you a lifetime subscription to the app so that you always had something to listen to if you needed it.

You attempted to relax your breathing, not sure why you were feeling panicked. You told yourself to accept it and try to breathe into it. The body’s response to trauma has been something you’ve been unpacking in therapy the past couple weeks. You typically turn to avoidant behaviors, and your therapist suggested utilizing somatic therapy techniques instead.

As you considered how far you’ve come in your recovery, you stretched your various limbs in ways that were meant to discharge the tension you felt. Intellectualizing your stress and panic helps, but you were informed that moving through and feeling your emotions head on and diffusing them would be more beneficial.

That’s why it was such a big deal that you asked for help in getting to sleep. You felt on the verge of tears and needed the comfort of Larissa’s arms to be able to fall apart, to feel your feelings. You needed a safe space to let loose.

—

More and more time passed. You knew Larissa was trying her hardest to wrap up her work, but there was a nagging feeling in your stomach that wondered if she had forgotten you.

Trying not to let it bother you, you decided that you should try to sleep. Your arm reaches out to shut off the marble side lamp while your other hand pulls the duvet up around you, like a protective barrier.

Not long after you resigned to sleeping alone, Larissa notices the time.

Larissa had been trying to cram as much work as possible into the last few hours so that you two could have an uninterrupted sleep. No worries about writing down a suggestion in the middle of the night on the note pad she kept nearby and no mental rephrasing of emails in her head as she lay beside you. In fact, she had been trying to get a head start on some of the other items on her agenda so that the upcoming nights were solely devoted to you. However, she didn’t expect the time to slip away and betray her like this.

She rushes to shut off her lights, computer, and fireplace. Larissa slips into the dim room, with only the light of the moon poking through half drawn curtains illuminating the path to the bed. She removes her clothes, feeling how her skin aches for freedom. Mentally she chastised herself for being late and worried her lip at whether or not you were cross with her.

A soothing whisper melts around you, caressing your cheek with its softness, “I’m so sorry for not coming sooner, my love.”

You feel the weight of her shift into the bed. Suddenly her warm arms are finding their usual place at your back and sides. With a tired voice, you roll around and press into the taller woman’s body, mumbling, “S’okay.”

Your hands clutch onto her as she says, “It’s not, but I am here now and plan to make it up to you.” At this promise, you feel her arms begin to rock you back and forth. Her face begins to nuzzle the top of your head as you two sway.

Larissa’s lips kiss your hair while she gently lets out a “shh” here and there. After a few minutes, she isn’t sure if your even breathing means you have drifted off to sleep or not. She pulls back slightly to gaze onto the face before her, taking in all your beauty, grace, and strength.

“I am in awe of you, little one.” Her long fingers tuck hair behind your ear as she continues, “Every day I am grateful to be met with your existence and your selfless love.”

You hear her whispered confessions and swell with warmth, knowing when sleep momentarily claims you that you will be protected. Larissa resumes, unsuspecting of the weight and solace her words have on you, “I love you and will always be here for you.”

#thank you for being patient dear anon!!#i know this took FOREVER #larissa weems x reader #larissa x reader #principal larissa weems #request #requests #not proofread #guardian angel #gwendoline christie #larissa weems #ptsd #anon #fanfic #will also post to ao3

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mariana-oconnor · 2 years ago

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The Copper Beeches pt 3

I hope you are anxious to hear the conclusion of the case of ‘The Copper Beeches’.

Yes. Yes I am. Because while it's now pretty certain that the Rucastles are not part of a sex-trafficking ring, they're still really fucking creepy and now I also have to worry about the poor dog who is also being abused.

Family of serial killers, I swear.

"Is there a cellar with a good strong lock?" "Yes, the wine-cellar."

...

😈😈😈😈

"You seem to me to have acted all through this matter like a very brave and sensible girl, Miss Hunter. Do you think that you could perform one more feat? I should not ask it of you if I did not think you a quite exceptional woman."

Leeeeeeettle bit condescending there, Holmes. Although I feel like I am just more sensitive to that because modern perspective and experience. However, I do think think this section needs noting, if only because of all the people who are determined that Irene Adler is the only woman Holmes ever saw worthy of a compliment. Nothing against Irene, she's great, but Violet Hunter deserves better. She's been doing all the legwork herself this case, and she's made a pretty decent detective.

"If you could send her into the cellar on some errand, and then turn the key upon her, you would facilitate matters immensely."

...

heh

heheheh

...

"Of course there is only one feasible explanation."

I still want to know what the other six possibilities were, Holmes. I want to know.

"Miss Alice Rucastle, if I remember right, who was said to have gone to America. You were chosen, doubtless, as resembling her in height, figure, and the colour of your hair. Hers had been cut off, very possibly in some illness through which she has passed, and so, of course, yours had to be sacrificed also."

Miss Alice Rucastle is having the worst year. First she's sick so badly she has to cut her hair off. Then her father imprisons her in her own home. And on top of all of that her stepbrother is a serial killer in training. Worst. Year. Ever.

"The most serious point in the case is the disposition of the child."

Really? That's the most serious point? Like, I agree it's not good. He's clearly showing signs of anti-social behaviour, aggression, and a worrying taste of having the power of life and death over other living beings, but I'm not sure I'd say that was the most urgent thing right now. I think getting Alice out is the most important thing. You can get him some serious therapy later.

"This child's disposition is abnormally cruel, merely for cruelty's sake, and whether he derives this from his smiling father, as I should suspect, or from his mother, it bodes evil for the poor girl who is in their power."

Ah, okay, you're saying that it's serious because it indicates the level of danger involved. Sure, yeah, okay.

Can't disagree on this point. It's certainly not a good sign.

ALSO, one other thing that has been bugging me since part 2. Does the kid know where his half-sister is? Is he aware she's locked up? He can't be, right? Because there's no way he wouldn't have let something slip. But at the same time, he's just unaware of a whole ass person being imprisoned in his home? It's weird. He's weird.

Dear Little Edward the murderer in training is either oblivious or very good at keeping creepy secrets.

I'm not sure about the stepmother. On the one hand, the crying and the quiet indicate that she's also being abused. But on the other hand she was the one to catch Violet with the mirror and then use it to further the scheme. Although she didn't say 'she has a mirror', which would have made Mr Rucastle angry. That whole bit is weird. Was she trying to stop Violet from getting into more trouble, was she trying to save their scheme? I don't know. But then, if she's living with Rucastle and her darling son all day every day, she's probably been ground down pretty far.

A loud thudding noise came from somewhere downstairs. "That is Mrs Toller in the cellar," said she. "Her husband lies snoring on the kitchen rug."

Suddenly there came a clanging As of someone wildly banging, banging at the cellar door.

And Mr Toller didn't even make it to bed? He's just passed out on the kitchen floor? He's lucky there's a rug in there and it's not just flagstones.

Then he tried the various keys in the lock, but without success. No sound came from within, and at the silence Holmes's face clouded over.

Not a particularly good sign...

"Now, Watson, put your shoulder to it, and we shall see whether we cannot make our way in." It was an old rickety door and gave at once before our united strength. Together we rushed into the room. It was empty.

Breaking down doors! Love a bit of action with my mystery.

"Ah, yes," he cried, "here's the end of a long light ladder against the eaves. That is how he did it." "But it is impossible," said Miss Hunter; "the ladder was not there when the Rucastles went away." "He has come back and done it."

But why would he climb up a ladder when he could just open the door?

I mean we know of the existence of at least one other person who would want Alice Rucastle out of that house and who wouldn't have a key to her room.

I'm just saying, Holmes.

"He's gone for the dog!" cried Miss Hunter. "I have my revolver," said I.

Oh no... poor doggo.

Please don't kill the dog, Watson. Please.

We had hardly reached the hall when we heard the baying of a hound, and then a scream of agony, with a horrible worrying sound which it was dreadful to listen to. An elderly man with a red face and shaking limbs came staggering out at a side door. "My God!" he cried. "Someone has loosed the dog. It's not been fed for two days. Quick, quick, or it'll be too late!"

Two days?! Two fucking days? Seriously.

But it kind of sounds like the doggo is getting revenge. Good boy. Good boy! You eat the bad man.

There was the huge famished brute, its black muzzle buried in Rucastle's throat, while he writhed and screamed upon the ground. Running up, I blew its brains out, and it fell over with its keen white teeth still meeting in the great creases of his neck.

Holy fuck this action escalated quickly. That is graphic and also... poor dog. I mean... I doubt it could have been rehabilitated at this point, but still. Poor thing never had a chance.

I do not remember this story being this brutal. Holy shit that guy's throat was ripped out.

Can't say I'm sorry. Glad the dog got its revenge before it died.

"Ah, miss, it is a pity you didn't let me know what you were planning, for I would have told you that your pains were wasted."

I mean, you didn't exactly give her reason to trust you? Why on earth would she? This is the most ridiculous 'you should have talked to me' ever.

"If there's police-court business over this, you'll remember that I was the one that stood your friend, and that I was Miss Alice's friend too."

I mean, were you? Were you? Alice's friend, sure. But were you Violet's friend in all this?

"He knew he was safe with her; but when there was a chance of a husband coming forward, who would ask for all that the law would give him, then her father thought it time to put a stop on it. He wanted her to sign a paper, so that whether she married or not, he could use her money."

It's Mary Sutherland all over again, just with more violence. Hey, Holmes. Holmes! You remember how you sent Mary Sutherland back into that life and didn't warn her about it? Huh? You remember that? Maybe thinking that wasn't such a good idea now? Huh? Are you?

I've had it with these men and their refusal to let their daughters have their own goddamn money.

"When she wouldn't do it, he kept on worrying her until she got brain-fever, and for six weeks was at death's door."

I know this is like a common Victorian cause of illness and all that, but I'd be real suspicious about that brain fever, because it feels like poison is a real possibility rn.

"...that didn't make no change in her young man, and he stuck to her as true as man could be."

Good for him. Basic minimum achieved. I mean, also he's been trying to get her out of this house, so he's also gone above and beyond. I'm glad he and Alice got away in the end.

"But Mr Fowler being a persevering man, as a good seaman should be, blockaded the house, and having met you succeeded by certain arguments, metallic or otherwise, in convincing you that your interests were the same as his." "Mr Fowler was a very kind-spoken, free-handed gentleman," said Mrs Toller serenely.

Oh, she did it for the money. Not such a good samaritan. But then if she were, she would have just smuggled the girl out.

Mr Rucastle survived, but was always a broken man, kept alive solely through the care of his devoted wife. They still live with their old servants, who probably know so much of Rucastle's past life that he finds it difficult to part from them.

I will admit I am sad the guy survived that. I'm not sure how he survived it. He had a mastiff's teeth 'buried in his throat'. He's insanely lucky his carotid wasn't torn open. But I suspect he doesn't do a lot of laughing anymore. So sad.

You couldn't have waited a little longer before shooting the poor dog, Watson? Let it get its revenge?

Also, that household sounds utterly terrible to live in still. Just a lot of horrible people being horrible to each other because they literally can't get away. And what about the child? What about dear little Edward? Is he still in there with them? I can't imagine that this made him less of a serial killer.

And the man doesn't get arrested for imprisoning his daughter?

Justice has not been served this day.

And that kid is going to grow up and kill a lot of people. I'm just saying. This isn't so much an ending as a 'to be continued'.

As to Miss Violet Hunter, my friend Holmes, rather to my disappointment, manifested no further interest in her when once she had ceased to be the centre of one of his problems, and she is now the head of a private school at Walsall, where I believe that she has met with considerable success.

Good for her.

Also, Watson, leave Holmes alone. He doesn't need a wife. He's fine. It is amusing to see that commentary, though. Like... there were 0 vibes of Holmes being into her. He complimented her a couple of times and was concerned for her safety. But he kept comparing her to a sister and there was no hint of romance in the whole thing. Watson is a bit delusional sometimes.

#Letters from Watson #Sherlock Holmes #The Copper Beeches #long post #animal death #Dear Little Edward probably ends up in an Agatha Christie #He'll probably murder his parents first #I suspect Mrs Toller will make a point to stay in his good graces #Really the sequel writes itself #So after Mr Rucastle has died of 'natural causes'#Alice's daughter comes to visit her Uncle Edward #who these days is doing a far better job of hiding his murderous desires #And it all goes from there #as Miss Marple looks on and worries

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