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theonefairygodmother · 8 hours ago

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I've looked around enough to know that you're the one I want to go through time with

Larissa Weems x f!reader

It's been years - decades, even - since Larissa Weems broke up with you. Running into the shapeshifting principal at the Weathervane all these years later, she's just as striking as you remember.

This is sort of a part two to my fic do you get deja vu when she's with you? but it can definitely be read as a standalone (which is why I ultimately decided to post it this way).

Words: ~2.7k | ao3 link in title Hurt/comfort with a little angst but a happy ending

For all of the times you ran into Larissa in the year or two after your break-up, you somehow managed to completely lose sight of her in the years to come. Years have passed without so much as a whisper of the woman you once loved - the woman you’d have once given up everything for turned to nothing more than a distant memory.

Moving helped, of course - no longer feeding your daily caffeine habit at the Weathervane, giving up your Jericho library card, taking up a new job out of town, spending your summers traveling and trading your usual haunts for theaters in New York, cafés in Paris, parks in London - never stopping, always looking ahead. Towards a better life, you told yourself, towards something new and exciting. Towards a future worth living for.

You didn’t realize that you were actually running away. Away from heartache, away from her.

A failed relationship and a wave of nostalgia has brought you back to Jericho. It's fall, and there’s a pleasant chill in the air, and you’re craving a latte - for old time’s sake. You haven’t been back here in years, and you’re almost shocked at how time seems to have stood still for the sleepy little town. The interior of the Weathervane has been renovated, but just barely, looking so similar still to how it looked the last time you were here that it sends an uncomfortable chill down your spine. You ignore the overwhelming wave of deja vu threatening to pull you under and step up to the counter, ordering a latte from the teenage boy at the till.

“For here or to go?”

You shouldn’t stay. You shouldn’t indulge your nostalgia. You shouldn’t risk running into anyone you used to know.

“For here.”

If you hadn’t been so lost in your thoughts, you might’ve noticed her sooner.

As it stands, you’re watching the kid steam some milk, watching him pour it into a glass - the espresso at the bottom of the glass mixes with the milk, creating rich brown swirls that wind their way up the walls of the glass. You thank him and take your coffee, heading back to the corner booth you used to sit in - old habits die hard. You’re so preoccupied looking around the little café, taking in the change in upholstery that had apparently taken place at some point during your absence, that you don’t notice that someone is already sitting in the booth until you’re right in front of it, until it’s too late to turn around.

Thin, white eyebrows raise in shock, blue eyes go wide before she’s able to school her features into a look that you’ve seen on her face before, usually when dealing with difficult parents - a polite but vaguely disinterested smile, seemingly relaxed yet with an undercurrent of irritation, evident in the way the muscle between her brows twitches. It’s truly been ages - how long, 10 years? No, definitely more like 15 - but the years have been kind to Larissa. Of course they would be, you think, unable to help the twinge of bitterness pricking at your tongue at the realization. You wonder, vainly, if Larissa will think that the years have been kind to you, too. You hate yourself for caring in the first place.

She’s clearly aged though, you note, the wrinkles at the outer corners of her eyes more pronounced, fine lines etched into her skin - skin that’s a bit looser around her neck, her jaw. Her nostrils flare slightly, and you can tell she’s uncomfortable beneath your scrutinizing gaze. You’re sure she’s growing self-conscious - it brings you a fleeting sense of satisfaction before the guilt sets in, a heaviness deep within your bones. It shocks you to realize that you’re nearly, though not quite, the same age that Larissa was when you first met her, and that she, in turn, must now be nearly old enough to retire.

Retire. Is Larissa capable of such a thing? Surely she’s still at Nevermore. Surely she must be married by now - surely she must have children of her own, like she once admitted to you she’d dreamed of having. She’s alone, you note, but you quickly remind yourself that that doesn’t have to mean anything.

“Larissa.” You hate how smoothly her name rolls off your tongue, like the melody of a beloved nursery rhyme, not sung since childhood yet stubbornly ingrained in the recesses of your memory. “I almost didn’t recognize you.” It's a flimsy lie - Larissa knows it, and you know it, but neither of you addresses it.

“How fortunate I am that you did,” she replies with a bit of a sardonic bite behind her words, no doubt a reaction to your own distant tone. To both your shock and hers, it makes you grin.

“You haven’t changed a bit,” you retort, your smile wide, and Larissa's mouth twists at the corners as she lets out a haughty chuckle - she can’t tell if you mean it as an insult or not and, honestly, you’re not too sure yourself.

You’re expecting her to wrinkle her nose in disdain and tell you she must get going, or perhaps even have the audacity to tell you to leave. Instead, she utters the words “care to sit with me?” with a look of surprise in her own eyes, as if she hadn’t meant to ask you to sit with her at all.

She has, though, and she doubles down on her offer when you hesitate by arching an eyebrow and gesturing to the seat across from her.

“Why not?” You shrug and sit opposite her, annoyed by the way your hand trembles as you place your glass on the table, by the clumsy way your knee bumps against the edge of the booth and sends a shooting pain through your leg, making you grimace. Larissa pretends not to notice.

Her own hands rest on the table, her fingertips grazing the porcelain of a large, white coffee cup. The backs of her hands show her age more than her face does, and a lump rises in your throat - you look away, focusing instead on the faint print of deep red lipstick on the edge of the cup, watching as those hands raise the cup into the air, towards pursed, painted lips, with fine lines stretching out into pale, incandescent skin.

Everything about Larissa reminds you of how much time has passed since you last saw her, and you quickly look out the window to your left instead, taking a strange solace in the fact that the view is exactly the same as the last time you’d sat here.

“You don’t live here any longer, do you?” Larissa asks, her voice a deep, soothing rumble, her accent smooth and pleasant as ever, and you chuckle in response, focusing your gaze back on her face.

“Astute observation.”

“I haven't seen you here in a very long time.” Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but she sounds a little bitter, as if displeased that you had the audacity to try and move on.

“Well, I haven't been here in a very long time…” You sigh, taking a sip of your latte - it burns your tongue. “You’re right, I moved.”

Larissa nods, sapphire eyes mapping out your features, no doubt assessing the visible passage of time against your own skin. Her expression remains neutral - it borders on disinterest, though the twitch of her lips betrays her. At one time, long, long ago, she might’ve asked you why you’d moved. Where you’d moved to. What brings you back. Something, anything, that shows an interest in you, in your life. Today, she doesn’t. And you don’t even think it’s because she doesn’t care, but because you both know it doesn’t matter. You both know that you left Jericho because of her, and no amount of small talk is going to erase the past. It doesn’t matter if she cares now or not - not anymore.

“You still at Nevermore?”

Larissa smiles - it almost upsets you. You wish that she’d smiled at you when she first saw you, as she once did - instead it takes a mention of her career to get her lips to curl up into that familiar grin you once coveted.

“Yes,” she replies, both pride and fondness evident in her tone.

“I don’t suppose you’ll retire soon…”

Larissa’s mood seems to sour a bit. It's a fragile thing, her mood - it always has been, but it seems a little more so today. You can’t blame her, you suppose, not when her ex is ruining her lunch break.

“I don’t think it’s quite time for that yet,” she says bitterly, and you realize that she’s self-conscious of her age, of you recognizing that she’s gotten older in the time you haven’t seen each other. You can see the resentment slowly growing in her gaze, a tiny flame that could turn into a roaring inferno at the slightest gust of wind and burn down everything in its path. Turn you, yourself, to ashes. You smile in spite of yourself.

“Nevermore wouldn’t be Nevermore without you anyway, would it?” you hum thoughtfully, placating her, and it works. A calm washes over her features and her knuckles unclench and she cocks her head to the side as her gaze sweeps over your form.

That gaze makes you feel so small. It makes you feel so worthless, because it reminds you of that time she looked at you in the bar on New Year’s Eve, the first New Year’s Eve after she’d broken your heart - like she was looking at a stranger, like she was looking straight through you, like you didn’t exist to her. And it’s been 15 years and you shouldn’t feel that way, still, after all this time, but you do. And you can tell that she knows. You can tell by the way something in her expression changes that she can see the subtle way you shrink down in your seat, the anxiety swirling in your pupils even as you keep your own expression as impassive as you can.

“I shouldn’t have asked you to sit with me,” she says in a sudden, uncharacteristic bout of honesty. The words are so matter-of-fact, said so abruptly, that they go through you like a cold shower.

She’s probably right, though it angers you to admit it.

“Then why did you?”

She opens her mouth, then closes it again. “I wanted to know how you were doing,” she says, after a long period of silence.

“You haven’t asked,” you grumble.

Larissa looks down at her cup, twisting it this way and that on its saucer, seeming to study her own lipstick print for a moment. “I don’t suppose you think I deserve to know.”

Her answer infuriates you even more, because, once again, she’s right. She doesn’t deserve to know. But she has a lot of nerve assuming how you feel after all this time.

“Do you think you deserve to know?”

Larissa doesn’t answer - you clench your teeth.

The silence that befalls your little corner booth is almost too heavy to bear. Except it’s not a silence, not completely - there’s music playing over the radio, and the song that’s just started hits you like a punch to the gut.

It’s “Uptown Girl” by Billy Joel, and for a moment you think Larissa hasn’t made the connection. That’s what sets you off - that what you and Larissa had could mean so little to her that she barely remembers any of it - barely remembers something that shoots straight through you and makes you feel, for a single, fleeting second, as though you’re still madly in love, as though you could just reach out and grab her, kiss her and feel her smile against your lips as her arms wind around you and shield you from the world.

“How’s your girlfriend? Or is she your wife now?” you ask - you might as well start asking her questions until you find one she’ll answer. This question is a bit childish, a little petty - you know that before you’ve even opened your mouth to ask it, but you can’t help yourself. You can tell Larissa thinks so, too, by her raised eyebrow. To your surprise, she answers.

“I don't have a partner.”

You’re not sure if the emotion bubbling up inside of you, licking greedily at your insides, is glee or pity - surely it’s a strange, ugly mixture of both seeping into your expression at her admission.

“Did you get bored of her, too?”

Larissa’s lips part ever so slightly as a blush colors her cheeks - a faint pink hue that’s gone faster than it came. You hate that you know Larissa well enough still to immediately recognize what she’s done: shapeshifted away the visible evidence of an unwanted emotional reaction. You hate that you can’t shapeshift away the redness in your own cheeks.

“That isn’t fair,” Larissa says quietly.

You don’t know what’s more interesting - the fact that she doesn’t deny your statement, or the fact that her eyes are swimming with guilt, even as she frowns at you.

“Isn’t it?”

Larissa doesn’t answer - again - and the song seems to get louder and louder as it goes on, filling the space between the two of you, and your hands clench into fists on the table.

“This fucking song…” you mutter bitterly, and Larissa freezes as a flicker of recognition crosses her face.

“You really liked this song,” she says, as if it’s some sort of revelation to her as she sounds, for the first time, a bit regretful.

You can’t help the hollow laugh that vibrates in your chest at her words. “I really liked you, Larissa.”

Larissa seems taken aback at your statement. She runs a hand over her pristine updo, smoothing down imaginary fly-aways, turning her head to look out the window as tension seems to grip her at the shoulders.

“I know I don’t have much of a right to say this,” she says finally, her voice just a bit softer than it was before. “But I liked you, too. I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

You’re stunned into silence. In a way, it’s more of an apology than you ever dreamed you could get. On the other hand… she’s making it sound a whole lot like she hadn’t had a choice in the matter, like she didn’t leave you as if it were the easiest thing she’d ever done.

“You’re sorry it didn’t work out?” you repeat, your voice strangely hollow, and Larissa shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “You’re the one who left, Larissa. You’re the one who made it seem like I was nothing to you.”

“I know I did, and there’s no excuse for that.” Larissa pauses, deliberating. “One thing I never did get the hang of was being in a stable relationship.” She pauses again. “I regret hurting you in the process.”

“But do you regret leaving me?” The words tumble out of you before you can stop them, and you could choke yourself to death, you really could, for sounding so helplessly pathetic after over a decade of unsuccessful mourning.

To your surprise, Larissa doesn’t laugh or shrug off your comment. She tilts her head, meets your gaze. “Yes, I do.”

Larissa takes one final sip of her coffee and stands. Red-tipped fingers slowly disappear into a pair of tan, leather gloves that fit snugly around her wrists. One hand reaches for her handbag, lying on the bench beside her, as the other is placed firmly on the table, used to steady herself as she rises from the booth.

It’s not that you’d necessarily forgotten how tall she is, but you’re somehow struck with the realization anyway, as if seeing her for the first time. Her kitten heels add an inch or two to her already towering height, and she tilts her head down to look at you, her tongue darting out to wet her lips.

“Where are you going?”

Larissa smoothes a hand nervously over her hair. “I need some fresh air.” Her voice sounds the slightest bit hoarse. “It really was lovely to see you.”

“You’re not leaving again?” you ask incredulously, pushing yourself to your feet and stepping up to Larissa, craning your neck back to get a good look at her face. Her eyes widen and, to your surprise, her lips quirk up at the outer corners.

“I don’t suppose you’d like to go for a walk, then?”

“I would, actually.”

Something within Larissa seems to relax, and she leads you out of the Weathervane with a hand on the small of your back.

Taglist: @alexusonfire @pro-weems-places @kimiinou @imprincipalweemspet @h-doodles @bychrissi @giogwensversion @gela123 @friskyfisher @justcallmelittleone @scream-queenlover @a-queen-and-her-throne @anne-lister @winterfireblond @imgayforwoman69 @fictionalized-lesbian @aemilia19 @milfsloverblog @missdowling @billiedeansbitch @http-sam @saltrage @renravens @opheliauniverse @niceminipotato @thevillagegay @barbarasstar @jadewolf22 @autumn-leaves-chasing-breeze @lilfartbox1 @dovesintherain @fallenbutch @lunala-rose23 @ahauandthesun @thenazwife @m-0-mmy-l-0-ver33 @thesamesweetie @theonefairygodmother @lvinhs @rainbow-hedgehog @daydream-cement @im-a-carnivorous-plant @milfomaniac @ilovetlcc @lesbiahonest24 @wastdstime @gwens0girl @larissa-weems-chokehold @makemyworldworthliving @spacetoaim22 @m1lflov3rrr @nightingalespen

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theonefairygodmother · 8 hours ago

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Long Overdue Promise

Larissa Weems x fem!reader

When a shadow from Larissa’s past shows up at her door, reminding her of a promise she made twenty years ago.

A/N: Writing is basically keeping me sane right now. Enjoy! Jordan, this one’s for you! See you in 20 years!

The house was quiet, save for the faint crackle of the fireplace. Larissa Weems sat curled in her armchair, a glass of wine perched precariously in her hand. She stared into the burgundy liquid, swirling it idly, though her mind was far from the drink. The evening had been like so many others lately—lonely, subdued, heavy with unspoken thoughts.

Forty-one.

The number lingered in her mind, heavier than she'd expected it to feel. Her birthday had passed a few weeks ago, marked by polite well-wishes and a dinner she had hosted herself. But no celebration could erase the quiet truth of it: forty-one years, and her life looked so different from what she’d imagined when she was a student at Nevermore.

Her lips curved into a small, self-deprecating smile. What had she expected? A perfect career? A family? Some grand, sweeping romance? She’d told herself over the years that she didn’t need any of it. She had her work. She had her home. Her students. But tonight, as she stared at the fireplace, she felt the faintest echo of longing—a hollow space she couldn’t quite name.

It was like a pull, the quiet tug of a memory buried so deep she’d almost forgotten it existed. The weight of it, however, was undeniable now. She was older. Her heart, once a wide-open vessel for hopes and dreams, had been shut away behind layers of practicality and caution. For so long, she’d told herself she was fine on her own, that love wasn’t something she needed, or that it was something for other people—people who didn’t carry the weight of history on their shoulders.

Her thoughts drifted to a time when she had believed in everything—the fierce optimism of youth, the way she had once thought she could be anything, do anything, with the world at her feet. But it hadn’t taken long for the truth to sink in. She hadn’t just built walls around her heart—she’d constructed an entire fortress. And that fortress had been reinforced by the memory of a love that had never been fully hers.

Her thoughts returned to Morticia Addams, the sharp, intoxicating magnetism of her presence still alive in Larissa’s memory. Even as she’d built her career, her identity, Larissa had always carried that secret, private love. It was the kind of love that never quite faded, never quite disappeared, but that you learned to keep tucked away in the quietest corners of your heart. And it was that love—unrequited, unspoken—that had shaped every relationship since. None of them had ever felt real enough, close enough, because none of them had been her.

Larissa’s fingers tightened around her glass, but before she could take another sip, a sharp knock at the door startled her, breaking her reverie. She frowned, setting the glass down carefully before standing. Visitors weren’t exactly common at this hour, especially unannounced ones.

Her heels clicked against the hardwood as she crossed to the door, her mind already flipping through possibilities. A student? A staff member? An emergency, perhaps?

But when she opened the door, the sight that greeted her was one she hadn’t imagined in years.

It was you.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You stood there, rain clinging to your coat and hair, a nervous smile playing on your lips. Larissa’s breath caught in her throat as she took you in. You looked older—of course you did. But there was something about you that hadn’t changed, something that tugged at a part of her she thought she’d buried.

“Happy belated birthday,” you said, your voice soft, familiar, and entirely too casual for the weight of the moment. “I just realized we’re overdue on a promise.”

Larissa stared at you, her mind struggling to catch up. And then, as if pulled by some invisible thread, the memory hit her.

It had been a warm spring night, the air thick with the scent of blooming flowers and the faint hum of crickets. You and Larissa had been sprawled on the grass near the Nevermore lake, a stolen bottle of wine between you.

“I’m serious,” you’d said, your words slurred but your tone insistent. “If we’re both still single at forty, we’ll marry each other. Deal?”

Larissa had laughed, a rich, musical sound that echoed across the water. “Oh, absolutely. Because nothing screams romance like two lonely spinsters making a drunken pact.”

You’d nudged her shoulder playfully. “I’m being serious, Weems.”

“And I’m being drunk,” she’d teased, though the warmth in her smile betrayed her fondness for you.

Still, there had been a sincerity in your eyes that had quieted her laughter. She’d felt something shift in that moment, though she wasn’t sure what it was.

“Fine,” she’d said at last, raising the nearly empty bottle in mock solemnity. “If we’re both single at forty, we’ll get married. Deal.”

You’d clinked your glass against the bottle, your grin wide and mischievous. “It’s a promise.”

Larissa had never expected to think about that night again. She hadn’t thought about much from her past, especially not from her time as a student, when she’d been far more carefree. Those years had become a series of disconnected moments, each one replaced by the demands of her career and the cold weight of responsibilities. She’d buried those lighter, hopeful parts of herself beneath layers of control and composure.

But now, seeing you there, the years didn’t seem to matter. Everything felt familiar—too familiar. She had always known there was a reason she hadn’t had long-lasting relationships, a reason she’d spent so much time alone. And that reason had always been tied to her feelings for Morticia. There had never been room for anyone else—not really.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d remember,” Larissa said, her voice soft as the memory faded.

You smiled, a little shyly, and shrugged. “How could I forget?”

She stepped aside, gesturing for you to come in. You hesitated for a moment before stepping past her, shedding your damp coat and setting it carefully on the rack. The warmth of the room enveloped you, though it did little to ease the nervous flutter in your chest.

Larissa led you to the living room, her movements graceful despite the slight stiffness in her posture. She sat down in the chair she’d just vacated, gesturing for you to take the couch opposite her.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

“I suppose I should offer you a drink,” Larissa said at last, her voice tinged with wry humor.

You shook your head. “I’m fine.”

Her gaze lingered on you, searching, questioning. “So,” she said slowly, “is this a social visit? Or have you come to collect on our… agreement?”

The teasing lilt in her voice couldn’t quite mask the vulnerability beneath it.

“I…” You hesitated, suddenly unsure of how to begin. “I’ve been thinking about that night. About you. A lot.”

Larissa raised an eyebrow, her expression carefully neutral. “Have you?”

You nodded, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sweater. “I turned forty a few weeks ago,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I know,” Larissa said softly. “I saw the announcement in the papers. Congratulations, by the way.”

You looked up at her, startled. “You… you still read those?”

She smiled faintly. “Old habits die hard, I suppose.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy and fragile.

“I never forgot about you,” you said at last, your voice trembling slightly. “I know we haven’t spoken in years, but… I don’t know. I just felt like I needed to see you.”

Larissa’s expression softened, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. “Why now?”

You swallowed hard, struggling to find the right words. “Because I think we made that promise for a reason. And I think… I think I’ve spent the past twenty years trying to convince myself I didn’t need you. But I do, Larissa.”

Her breath hitched, and she looked away, her gaze fixed on the flickering fire.

“I’m not the person you knew,” she said quietly. “I’ve changed.”

“So have I,” you replied, your voice steady. “But I think some part of us—of what we had—is still here. Don’t you?”

She didn’t answer right away, her fingers tightening around the armrest of her chair. When she finally looked at you, her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

“You deserve someone who can give you everything,” she said, her voice trembling. “Not someone who’s spent their whole life building walls.”

“I’m not asking for perfection,” you said, leaning forward. “I’m asking for you.”

The vulnerability in your words broke something in her. She stood abruptly, pacing to the window as though the act might give her space to think.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she admitted, her back to you. “I don’t know how to let you in.”

“You already did,” you said gently. “A long time ago.”

Larissa’s breath caught at your words. She turned to face you, her expression raw and unguarded. For a moment, she looked like the girl you’d known all those years ago—soft, hopeful, afraid of wanting too much.

Her heart beat a little faster as she watched you, feeling the weight of everything between you—years of silence, of missed opportunities, of dreams that had never quite come true. She had spent so much of her life convincing herself that she didn’t need anyone, that she was fine alone. But the truth was, she'd been lying to herself for so long.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she whispered, her voice catching in her throat.

“You won’t,” you said, your voice a promise—fragile, but full of hope.

The words hung between you, a delicate thread of possibility that neither of you could ignore. Slowly, cautiously, Larissa crossed the room and sat beside you on the couch. Her hands trembled as she reached for yours, her fingers brushing against your skin.

"Are you sure about this?" she asked, her voice barely audible, the weight of the question pressing against her chest.

You nodded, tears spilling over as you squeezed her hand. "I’ve never been more sure of anything."

And for the first time in years, Larissa allowed herself to hope.

The silence between you felt different now, less oppressive. It wasn’t a promise yet, but it was something. It was a beginning—of something new, or perhaps something old, rekindled. The road ahead would be difficult, filled with the shadows of your pasts, but for the first time in a long while, Larissa didn’t feel so alone.

And maybe, just maybe, this time, she wouldn’t have to be.

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taglist: @weemssapphic , @im-a-carnivorous-plant , @dingdongthetail , @gwensfz , @erablaise-blog , @rainbow-hedgehog , @renravens , @kaymariesworld , @niceminipotato , @witchesmortuary , @notmeellaannyy , @weemswife , @m-0-mmy-l-0-ver33 , @redkarine , @women-are-so-ethereal , @opheliauniverse , @willisnotmental l , @raspburrythief , @fictionalized-lesbian , @ness029 , @geekyarmorel , @h-doodles , @cxndlelightx , @m1lflov3rrr , @winterfireblond @nocteangelus15 , @aemilia19 @spacetoaim22 @vendocrap8008 @jkregal @gela123 @lilfartbox1 @xuukoo @bellatrixsbrat @sadsapphic-rose @dumbasslesbi @larissalover3 @friskyfisher @fliesinmymouth @imprincipalweemspet @forwhichidream11 @amateurwritescm @imlike-so-gaydude @sugipla @lvinhs @http-sam @gweninred @a-queen-and-her-throne

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