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wasjustred · 1 year

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A Lesson in Trust - Larissa Weems x f!Reader

Summary: Larissa comes to your rescue.

Pairing(s): Larissa Weems x femprof!Reader

Warnings: Mention of drugs, alcohol, self-victim blaming

Word Count: ~2.8k

Author’s Note: Another little ditty for you all based on a sentence prompt that can be found here! Totally self-indulgent but I hope y’all enjoy lmaooo ♡ (un-beta-ed!) ╱ AO3

“Hey, I’m sorry––I know it’s really late, but… I didn’t know who else to call.”

You feel like pure shit, phoning your boss at one in the morning on a Friday night, crossing every professional boundary you know one line at a time, shivering against the outside bricks of a nightclub downtown. The lethargy in Larissa’s voice is clear from the moment she picks up (which surprises you in and of itself): Gravelly, low, delayed. Hot if you hadn’t just rudely torn her from a deep sleep. You had fought yourself pretty hard on the topic of dialing her up, but as your limbs got lighter and your head a little hazier, your ego gave in and surrendered to reason.

“Y/N? ‘s everythin’ alright?” She mumbles into the receiver, the distant sound of rustling sheets and the click of a lamp switch carrying in the background. You purse your lips in an attempt to keep the embarrassment and guilt at bay; it’s rallying at the gates and feels a helluva lot like drink-induced nausea.

“I’m sorry, I just, uhm––.. I just think somebody slipped something in my drink, and I’m, uh, I’m on my own, and I was wondering if you could––if you’d be willing to pick me up?” The words are jumbled and slurred in some instances, drawn out ‘s’s, but you’re clear enough that Larissa immediately perks up on the other end. You shiver against a harsh gust of wind and lean harder into the wall as you await - dread - the concern that’s bound to color each of her words.

Instead, she’s firm and commanding: “Everything’s going to be okay, I promise. Just tell me where you are, okay? And I’ll come and get you right this second.” It takes you a minute between processing her response and checking the front of the club for a name or marker, but you eventually present what information you have and she confirms she’ll be there soon. You could cry, really, not at her willingness to come to your rescue but at the harsh reality that you’re helpless and feel like a child in almost every regard.

Larissa strongarms you into staying on the phone with her as she drives––says she doesn’t want anything to happen in the time it takes her to get to you, as ‘grim as it sounds’. It’s the least you can do, so you ease yourself down into a crouching position on the side of the building and wrap one arm around your knees, the other fitting the phone snugly to your ear. The music pulses from inside, leaking out into the real world every so often as a group of girls or handsy couple stumble through the door towards the end of their night; you can feel the vibrations on the ground beneath you and shudder at the sensation, already struggling to ward off the dizziness that’s quickly made itself home within you.

“Are you still there?”

“Mhm, ‘m here.” Forming sounds, words, takes all the energy out of you. Your eyelids are fighting a losing battle against the call to sleep, and each sharp intake of breath you take to keep yourself awake and aware marks another minute on the clock. You hate feeling vulnerable. You hate that Larissa’s going to see you like this. You hate that you couldn’t protect yourself, but the feeling of free-falling through the asphalt is winning out over the agitation.

Tomorrow’s problem, then.

“I’m here… Ah, I see you. Just one second, my love.” The line disconnects as you seek out her headlights, no choice but to gloss over the pet name as your thoughts swim, convoluted and fractured. Everything feels weightless. Your phone isn’t your phone. It slips from your hand the same second you recognize Larissa’s hair, down in this late hour and curling past her shoulders. An angel.

“Thank you s’ much,” you rasp out when she reaches you, barely supporting yourself against the brick wall in your crouched position. She kneels and steadies your frame as you begin to slump forward.

“Oh, darling… You’re safe, I’ve got you, okay? Can you walk?” Larissa knows better based on the image in front of her - lolling, unfocused - but asks anyway before hooking one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back. She lifts you with an ease you didn’t expect, but you’re far too out of it to comment, mustering what little strength and wherewithal you have to tuck your head against her shoulder.

“Shit,” she mumbles, stooping down once more and struggling for a moment before she’s upright again with your phone clutched between two fingers. You feel like you’re floating as Larissa walks off towards her car with a steady hold on you. The world is swaying––no, she’s swaying? She’s lowering you into the passenger seat and the car is stationary but it feels like you’re going fifteen miles a minute as she buckles you in, chin balanced on your clavicle.

“There we go.” She slips behind the wheel a moment later and begins the drive back to Nevermore without another word. If you were more yourself, you’d have noticed her occasional, worried glances in your direction, her white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, the string of obscenities she’s mumbling under her breath, cursing the powers that be. You’d be far more ashamed than you are, slumped in her passenger seat.

The rest of the night passes in a confused blur: One second you’re pulling up to the Academy, the next you’re in the main hall, then Larissa’s quarters, then her bed as she carefully undresses you. She covers you as best as she knows how in an effort to preserve your dignity, painfully aware that you’re not there, not really. Suddenly the lights are out, and she’s pressing a kiss to the top of your head, and then the door’s cracked but she’s gone, and the weight of exhaustion mixed with something else is dragging you deep into the depths of slumber.

You don’t dream during the night. You’re asleep and it’s black and then you’re awake and the sun is bursting through the curtains unabated. When you sit up the faint sense of intoxication floods through your limbs, all the way to the tips of your fingers and toes. You’re sober, you think, but your body disagrees and is quick to make its point: You wobble when your feet hit the ground, and you’re forced to steady yourself against the mattress before you can straighten out to your full height and take stock.

Larissa’s bedroom is a masterclass in opulence, dripping in chiffon and satin, complemented by ornate golden fixtures on the walls and windows, beautifully worn furniture that matches her consistent air of class. You’re reminded in your appreciation that you’re here because last night you–––––––

You hiss against the memory and shove the heels of your palms into your eyes, hoping to rub the images away. You should’ve known better, should’ve been more careful, should’ve gone with someone else or a group and not by yourself like you did. It was stupid. Irresponsible. Shameful. Instead of basking in Larissa’s bedroom a second more, you stalk towards the door and push out into the hall,

only to knock straight against Larissa’s front.

Oh, fuck.

She ‘oof’s airily at the force and clasps your shoulders in her hands to keep you both remaining upright, confusion washed over her features. She’s already made up for the day, hair perfectly coifed and lips a veritable shade of red. The image of you two side-by-side is almost laughable if you weren’t so distraught over the idea of your boss - your kind, lovely, attractive boss - handling you at your most vulnerable: Larissa is the picture of professionalism, and you’re swimming in what you assume is one of her old school t-shirts and a pair of shorts tied tight at the waist, which is barely visible beneath the hem of the shirt, feet bare and hair tangled.

“I was just coming to check on you––how are you feeling?” Her gaze is soft, words softer. She rests a tentative hand on your forearm and you evade her eyes, desperately shrugging off the feeling of incapability that immediately overtakes you.

“I’m–I’m fine. Uhm, thank you, for helping me last night. You shouldn’t have had to do that, I realize how inappropriate that was.” If you could bring yourself to meet Larissa’s gaze, you’d be privy to the swiftness with which her expression morphs from one of caring to one of bewilderment.

“I hardly think answering a call to help from one of my employees is inappropriate, Y/N.” Curiouser than the rest of this - the shame and the discomfort - is how your insides bristle wildly at the idea that Larissa was only acting in her capacity as an employer. Somehow, the idea makes things much, much worse. You expect that some delusional part of you hoped the aggravation you felt at having called her would have subsided in some part if she admitted to coming to your aid as a friend, a–––well, a someone who cares for you as a person and not just as a worker.

“Right. Well, thank you again, Principal Weems. I’m indefinitely beholden to you.” You brush past her harsher than you mean to but don’t dare stop to apologize, making for where you hope her door may be so that you can escape to your own quarters. You just need space to breathe, to get out of her clothes, to reasonably and philosophically beat your psyche down into a pulp for being so reckless––––

“Y/N, stop,” Larissa commands, her voice suddenly full and forceful in the otherwise quiet space. By gods do you want to continue right out the door but your feet disobey you, freezing somewhere between the hall and what looks to be a sitting room. You don’t turn to look at her. Instead, you listen with bated breath as she approaches from behind, taking slow deliberate steps towards you. When she reaches you, evident by the stunted sound of footsteps and that unmistakable feeling of being loomed over, she rests a hand on your shoulder. Gently still, Larissa ushers you to face her. And once you do, she grasps your chin ever so slightly and tilts it up so that you have no choice but to meet her eye.

“I’m glad you called me. I’m glad you trusted that I’d come. And I came because I care about you, do you understand? Not just because you’re one of my professors but because you’re important to me, Larissa––not ‘Principal Weems’.” Her eyes are searching and you’re leaning into her touch despite the humiliation building within you. The humiliation brings tears with it, burning and quick to fall. “Tell me what’s going on in that head of yours, darling.” Her thumbs brush away the stray tears as your face scrunches in hopes of curbing the waterworks.

She’s too kind.

“I should’ve never put myself in that position. It was so––it was such a childish mistake. How the hell am I supposed to teach and protect my students if I can’t even protect myself? It’s embarrassing!” Your volume grows with your frustration but Larissa doesn’t bat an eye, instead guiding you towards one of the loveseats in her sitting room. She sits you down and kneels before you, hands balanced on your knees.

“No, Y/N. You’re wrong,” she insists, ducking her head to meet your gaze. “It is not your fault that there are awful people in the world who go out of their way to corrupt it. Nor does it mean you can’t protect your students; I have the utmost confidence that should the situation call for it, you’d do everything in your power to keep our Nevermore family safe. And I trust you’d succeed.” She pauses to wipe away another escaping tear, squeezing your knee. “There’s no one I’d rather have next to me watching over our students, hm? This does not change that, not in the slightest.”

Her tone is firm but compassionate, slanted by a tinge of anger at how one night has forced you to question your worth. You take a few moments to work through her words, subtly nodding as you piece it all together from start to end. It was out of your hands; you’re okay; your students are safe with you; you’re safe with Larissa. She picks herself up and slides back down next to you on the cushions as you ponder, and readjusts so that the hand closest to you can rub small, soothing circles along your back.

“... thank you. I needed to hear that.” The smile she gives you is a warm one, pleased with the shift in your line of thinking. Her hand moves further until it rests at your shoulder and then she’s turning, turning until she’s wrapped you in a tight hug, burying her face into the crook of your neck as you allow yourself to melt into her.

“I care about you very much, Y/N. It’s important to me that you know that.” For the first time this morning, Larissa’s voice is timid. You press yourself into her skin as far as you can, almost molded like a funny amalgamation of three-dimensional puzzle pieces on her couch, and squeeze.

“I know. I know. I care about you, too.” You bite your tongue before anything else can slip through unfiltered, like the way your heart thrums a million miles a minute when she smiles at you, or how the simplest things about her - her coffee order, how she greets students in the halls, the look she always gets when she watches everybody else enjoy an event she organized - makes you want to wrap her up and never let go. The sentiment stands all the same.

You finally release each other after a a couple minutes of comfortable silence, content to just breathe each other’s air and savor what little time remains in the morning before weekend duty calls. When you do part, Larissa’s eyes are glassy, and a track of bare skin beginning from the corner of her eye to the tip of her chin gives her away.

“Are you alright?” The sudden reversal in your roles makes her chuckle as you look her over, eyes wide.

“Yes, I am. I’m just happy is all.” She stops you in your tracks with that, and you have to remind yourself to manually breathe when she smiles at you, expression so unbearably fond. The urge to kiss her in this moment is overpowering; it takes everything within you not to throw yourself into it when her eyes fall to your lips, something akin to yearning there. You both inch closer - nearly impossible given you’re already wrapped up in each other - and duck your heads together as if in a conspiracy, brushing noses, sighing into the fall as––

“Principal Weems? Are you in there?”

There. The obligatory interruption of your shared contentedness. You have to laugh, and Larissa shoots you a lighthearted stare that tells you to shut it as she turns towards the door, yelling out.

“Just a moment!” She returns her attention to you, pliant in your hands, and shakes her head. “Whoever’s up there,” her eyes flit up towards the ceiling, gesturing towards the heavens, “has got a bloody dreadful sense of humor, haven’t they?” You giggle and move to fix a strand of hair behind her ear, shrugging.

“What’s a couple more hours of waiting, huh?” An eternity, really. Larissa rolls her eyes, loosening the hold she has on you begrudgingly.

“I suppose you’re right, although I’m certainly not happy about it.” A snort escapes you as you push yourself up off of the couch, reaching out a hand for her to do the same. When she does follow suit, it’s with a smile that leaves you breathless and hopeful for more, standing over you in a meaningful silence that warms you both to the core. Another knock sounds, this time apparently impatient. “Oh, Christ. Alright, go hide. I’m not finished with you.”

As you scamper off towards her bedroom to evade whoever’s on the other side of the door, Larissa pulls you in for one last hug, however brief. How it escaped you all morning you don’t know, but you’re abruptly thrust into the lingering scent of her perfume, floral and clean, undeniably her. It’s a scent you doubt you’ll escape now that you know it in this context, wrapped in her arms, in her sitting room, a couple walls away from a confession.

When she releases you, you press a kiss to her cheek and quickly dash away, clamping a hand over your mouth when she hisses ‘not fair!’ at your retreating form.

Whoever’s knocking at her door will surely have hell to pay.

#i’m half asleep rn but i think it makes sense??#feel free to put lil requests in my inbox 🥰🫶🏼#larissa weems x reader #larissa weems x f!reader #principal weems x reader #larissa weems #larissa weems imagine #larissa weems x female reader #larissa weems x y/n #larissa weems x you #principal weems imagine #wasjustred #* queue won’t tell a soul .ᐟ

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