Chapter Text
When you meet her on the roof that afternoon, she somehow looks even more radiant than usual. She is wearing a tight sage-green dress, and her lipstick is a lovely orangey red. Her cheeks are still a bit sunburnt from yesterday, but her skin is glowing.
“I brought blankets,” you say, “and wine, if blankets fail to keep us warm.”
“Drinking on the roof? My, my, we’ll be worse than the teenagers.”
“And listening to music — the true high school experience.”
She chuckles. You lay one of the blankets down on the floor, then sit down and tap a spot next to you. “Come on, sit down.”
“I’m too old for this, my back will hurt in half an hour,” she says, carefully sitting down — her tight dress is clearly preventing her from moving freely.
“We’ll take breaks to stretch. You sure you can manage in that dress?”
“I’m used to it. I worry about my back more than I worry about my dress.”
“The wine will make it hurt less,” you say, opening the bottle. “It’s a Pinot Noir. It’s supposed to be fancy, but that remains to be seen — I’m not a wine connoisseur.”
“It will do, I’m sure,” Larissa says, watching you pull two wine glasses out of the bag you brought. “I see you brought glasses and everything. I’m impressed.”
“Even though this is the ultimate high school experience, I figured I couldn’t make you drink out of a bottle — that might be a bit much.”
“I’d have done it.”
“I’ll remember that for next time.”
You turn on the music. You made a playlist for tonight, starting with Siouxsie, of course — but you have other bands on your repertoire for later.
You cheers, glasses clinking. She takes a sip of the wine and throws her head back, closing her eyes as the music plays.
“That’s some good wine right there,” she says, smiling — eyes still closed. You take the opportunity to admire her, look at the little lines at the corners of her mouth, her crow’s feet, her soft white hair and red lips. Her long legs are stretched out, and her dress hiked up a little when she sat down on the floor. She kicks her heels off. You notice that underneath her sheer stockings her toenails are painted red.
“Do you want to let your hair down again? Since you seem to be getting comfortable.”
She opens her blue eyes, giving you one of those intense looks.
“Only if you do it for me.”
You don’t need to be told twice. You kneel behind her — closer than you probably need to be — and start removing the pins from her hair. You take your sweet time. You are both comfortably silent as music plays on. When you’re finished, the wine you’ve been sipping emboldens you to run your fingers along her scalp. She lets out a soft hum.
“Want me to massage your head for you? It must hurt — those pins were tight.”
She stays silent for a long moment, but as you are behind her, you cannot see her face. You wait for her to speak.
“No, that won’t be necessary. But thank you for offering.”
“No problem,” you say, returning to your spot next to her. You feel awkward — you wonder if you’ve pushed too far.
You sit in silence for a little while, sipping wine and listening to music.
“Tell me about you, darling,” she asks.
“There isn’t much to tell,” you answer.
“I’m sure that isn’t true — but if you’re not comfortable sharing, you don’t have to.”
You suppose it’s only fair — she has shared a lot of things about herself, and you are yet to do the same.
You never thought you were particularly interesting — odd, maybe, but not interesting. Interesting things happen to other people, while you mostly just paint and keep to yourself. You love listening to other people talk about themselves, but when asked to do the same, you never know what to say.
“It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s just that I don’t know what to say. I’m not a very interesting person.”
“I beg to differ — you are very talented, for starters. You are also funny and a good listener — and I got all of that from just two days of talking to you.”
“That’s very nice of you to say.”
“It’s the truth. Do not argue with me — it’s not up for debate. I say that as your boss.” she says when you open your mouth.
“Okay, boss,” you say and she giggles. You’ve never heard her giggle before, but it’s your favourite sound now.
“Go on, then, tell me about you.”
She shifts so that she’s facing you, legs folded beneath her, looking at you with those big blue eyes. She has a talent of making a person feel like they have her complete attention — it’s nice, but also a bit overwhelming. The sun has almost set, and she looks ethereal in the faint light of blue dusk. Her platinum hair almost looks light blue.
“Uh…” you say, forgetting how to form words.
“You can talk to me,” she repeats the words she said to you in the meeting two days ago. “I don’t bite. Not until the second bottle.”
She laughs a little as she says it. You just stare at her, enamoured.
“You know, when I first talked to you I was really surprised by how funny you are.”
“Am I supposed to be offended?” she teases.
“No, I just… thought you were this very composed principal and all.”
“I am. I just also happen to have a personality.” She tilts her head, smirking. “But you are directing the conversation away from yourself again.”
“Ah, bummer, you saw right through me.”
“Nothing slides by me.”
“I’m sure it doesn’t.”
“Go on, then. Hobbies, favourite colour, pets… childhood trauma, first love…”
You snort. “You jump from pets to childhood trauma?”
“Whatever you want to share. I’m not picky,” she says giving, you a big smile.
“Well, the only thing I do besides teaching is painting — and I teach art so that’s not a huge leap. I also love cheap horror movies from the seventies — the campier, the better. Uhm… what else. I like watching ASMR videos on YouTube?”
“ASMR? Isn’t that a sexual thing?” she asks.
“Not for me. For some people it is. Depends what kind you watch. I just watch people cook.”
“Hm,” she says, “continue.”
“I don’t have a favourite colour, I think any colour can look nice if paired with another one that compliments it and brings out its best features.”
“That’s a very artistic answer.”
“Well, I do work with colours a lot.”
“And yet you don’t wear any.”
“I prefer them on other people. You look really nice in that sage green, by the way.”
“Thank you, darling.”
You once again blush when she calls you darling.
“Uhm… as for childhood trauma, I didn’t have a bad childhood per se, but I was bullied a lot in school — like, a lot. I was always very isolated. I’ve kind of gotten over it now, though, but the habit of being on my own remained. I just rarely find people I click with. When I do, I am usually very open with them, once I get comfortable. I’m no longer afraid of people like I used to be when I was younger. I just kind of learned not to care, if that makes sense — but when I find someone I like, I’m like a dog with a bone.”
“Sounds like you have a lot to give, but you’re picky about who you give it to.”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“Then I feel honoured you chose to share that with me,” she says as she puts a hand on your thigh and lets it linger for a couple of seconds before slowly pulling away. Her hand is warm.
“You’re a good listener too, you know,” you say.
“You learn that when you work with teenagers.”
“You care a lot about them, don’t you?”
“I do. But I also don’t want to think or talk about those little rascals while I’m enjoying a glass of wine with a friend.”
“Fair,” you laugh, taking another sip of wine. Music plays softly in the background. “You asked about first loves. Her name was Ella.”
“That’s a pretty name.”
“Yeah. She was a bitch, though.”
Larissa snorts as she laughs. “That’s okay, mine was too.”
“What was… their name?”
“Morticia.”
“Oh.”
There is a moment of silence again.
“So… what I gathered from that is you’re into goth girls?”
She laughs. “Let’s say I'm into women who have a pronounced sense of self.”
“Which includes goth girls?”
“Are you trying to flirt with me, Miss Hawthorne?”
“Don’t call me that, you’ll get me all hot and bothered.”
“As if you weren’t hot and bothered already. I barely have to do anything.”
“Hey, that’s… true.” You poke her in the shoulder. “But still rude.”
“You said you could handle some pushing,” she says, poking you right back, smirking. “I thought you were a big girl.”
(Your wonder how you could get her to call you a good girl.)
“I am.”
“Then you’ll have to prove it.”
“I will. You’re lucky I enjoy being pushed around a bit.”
“Do you now?” Her eyes twinkle in amusement.
“You are welcome to push me around and find out.”
“Don’t tempt me, or I might just do it.”
“Can’t wait.”
She scoffs and shakes her head, then takes a sip of her wine.
“Did we already finish the bottle?” she asks.
“We did. But thankfully, I have another one.”
“Do I have to remind you we have work in the morning?”
“We don’t have to finish the other bottle just because I brought it.”
She finishes her glass and looks at it wistfully. “Hm,” she says. “I might want one more glass.”
You open the bottle for her and pour her another glass. As she takes it from your hand, your fingers touch. You both let your hands linger just a bit too long again.
“Oh,” she says suddenly, “I know this one well. Lovesong by The Cure.”
It takes you a second to realise she’s talking about the music. You’ve completely shut it out, all your attention only on Larissa.
“I like this part,” she says. “Listen to the lyrics.”
She looks into the sky, deep in thought, as you sit and listen. She looks beautiful with her hair glowing in the moonlight.
Whenever I’m alone with you
You make me feel like I am young again
Whenever I’m alone with you
You make me feel like I am fun again
“I used to sit here on this roof with Morticia when I was young, listening to this very song. We would just sit on the ground, cold and uncomfortable, but we had a lot of fun, talking until dawn. I always wished she would kiss me, because I never had the courage to do it first. She never did.”
She pauses.
“So many better things came over the years — I really can’t say I missed out on anything. And yet, those stupid little things from your youth can sometimes gnaw at your mind, making you wish for an experience you never had, no matter how many better ones you had later. It’s not about her, it hasn’t been for a long time. It’s just that I wanted to be seventeen and be kissed on the roof.”
She looks down into her glass. “I don’t know why I told you that. I hope I didn’t overshare.”
You take the glass from her hand and place it on the ground. She looks up at you with those pretty blue eyes — they are wide and confused. “What—” she begins, but falls silent as you cup her face, gently. She doesn’t resist. She lets you bring her closer and closer, until your lips are touching.
You kiss her. Her lips are warm and soft and they taste like Pinot Noir and lipstick. You could kiss her forever. She kisses you back, reaches to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, caresses your neck — it sends shivers down your spine. You let out the faintest of whimpers, and she deepens the kiss, pulls you even closer.
You kiss for a while as the music plays. You feel warm and fuzzy, like you’re floating — completely lost in the moment. You somehow find yourself on her lap, your hands tangled in her soft hair, her hands caressing your back, sending delicious tingles all throughout your body.
It’s soft at first — but soon it starts to grow hungry. Her hands start to wander, caress your thighs, stomach, brush against your breasts. She seems delighted by the little sounds you make, touching you with more and more urgency. It is you, however, who breaks the kiss to move your lips to her neck to leave a trail of soft kisses from her ear to her collarbone. She lets out a soft moan, gripping you tighter. You bite on her neck and she gasps, then pulls you towards her by your hair to capture your lips in a hot kiss.
You are kissing again, but this time it’s not soft at all — it’s passionate and desperate, and your hands are everywhere. When you palm her breasts she moans into your mouth and the feeling drives you crazy. You start grinding against her lap, but clothes are in the way, her dress too tight, so you lift it up and bunch it around her hips. You straddle her thigh, pulling her stocking down as you grind against it. She expertly unhooks your corset in the front (making you think this isn’t her first time getting someone out of a corset), not even bothering to undo all the hooks before reaching inside of the half undone garment and grabbing your breasts, squeezing hard, making you cry out. She swallows your cry with her mouth.
You think you could bring yourself over the edge just by rutting on her thigh, but it seems too fast, too rushed — you want to savour this. You slow down your movements and reach down with your hand to caress the inside of her thighs (the softest, smoothest thighs). She squirms underneath your touch. You reach further up between her legs, feeling the warmth radiating from there, until you reach her underwear. You can immediately feel she is very wet. It sends a shiver of excitement through your body — she is wet because of you.
You start rubbing slow circles over her underwear, and she moans and whimpers into your mouth, squirms underneath you, her soft thighs clamping on your hand.
“Wait,” she says into your mouth, her breath hot against your lips. She reaches down with her hand to grab your wrist. “Wait.”
You stop, retract your hand, and pull away. She is looking at you with desire in her eyes.
“It’s okay if you don’t want this,” you say.
There is conflict in her eyes. Her brows are furrowed and she bites on her lip, and her expression is almost pained. She reaches towards your face, cups your cheek, runs her thumb over you lips.
“I want you so badly,” she whispers.
“You can have me.”
“But…” she starts, and you can tell she has a million reasons against this on the tip of her tongue.
You stop her, putting a finger over her soft lips, and look her in the eye, wanting, desiring, begging.
“Please,” you say softly.
Her thumb still lingers on your lips, and you take it in your mouth, sucking, not breaking eye contact. You release it with a wet pop. She looks at you for a long moment, eyes dark with lust. You know a process you’re not privy to is happening inside her mind.
“Please,” you whisper again. “I want you.”
You don’t know if it’s the “please” that does it for her, or the way you sucked on her thumb, or that you told her you wanted her — but she takes your chin in her hand and gives you one of those intense looks. Her voice is thick with desire when she speaks.
“Be a good girl and lie down for me.”
The moment you hear her call you a good girl, you know you’d do anything she asked of you. As if in a trance, you lie down, not breaking eye contact. She hovers over you, undoes your corset hooks completely, letting it hang loose around your waist.
“Do you want it gone?” you ask, wanting to toss the corset to the side. She stops you.
“I want it just like this, darling,” she says and dark timbre of lust in her voice makes you shiver.
She lifts her dress further up, bunches it up around her hips, so she can spread her legs on either side of you. You are met with the sight of her gorgeous, thick thighs, clad in over-the-knee, see-through stockings, and lacey burgundy underwear. There is a distinct wet patch on it.
She lowers her hips, straddling you— and you can feel the wet heat radiating from between her legs. You push your own hips into hers and she chuckles, then starts languidly rolling against you as she reaches to unbutton your shirt. She takes her sweet time with the buttons, and you know it’s on purpose.
You are quivering with anticipation, the sight of her on top of you — platinum curls fluffy and mussed, lipstick smudged, eyes hazy with desire, rolling her hips into you as she unbuttons your shirt — making you wild with desire.
“You are so beautiful,” you breathe out as she leans down and kisses the top of your left breast.
“Am I now?” she says, smirking, then pulls down your bra cup, revealing your breast. “Mmmm, just how I imagined,” she says and takes your nipple into her mouth, swirling her tongue over your piercing, making you moan.
“You imagined this?” you ask and then gasp as she takes your nipple between her teeth, then sucks on it.
“Of course I did, darling.”
She reaches into the other bra cup with her hand, palming your breast and running her thumb over your nipple. She kisses her way up your chest and then your neck, pressing her body into yours, until she reaches your ear.
“I was imagining how it would feel to fuck you,” she whispers. “Would you like that?”
She plants a hot kiss on your jaw.
“Yes,” you whimper.
She licks a long stripe along your neck.
“I want a full sentence, darling.”
“Yes, I want you to fuck me,” you say, your head spinning with pleasure, “please, Larissa.”
You can feel her smile against you, even if you don’t see it.
“Good girl,” she says, her breath hot against your ear, then reaches down, cupping you over your trousers, rubbing slow circles with her fingers.
“Fuck,” you say spreading your legs instinctively.
“I will, darling — patience,” she says, chuckling.
You groan, rolling your hips against her hand. You decide she is way too clothed still, and you reach behind her back to unzip her dress.
“I want to see more of you,” you say. You miss her hand as soon as she retracts it to wiggle her arms out of the sleeves of her dress. The dress is now completely bunched up around her waist and you have full view of her see-through burgundy bralette. Her breasts are not big, but they are beautiful — they look very soft and supple. As she leans back down to kiss you once again, you take the opportunity to roll her nipples between your fingers over the bralette. She moans into the kiss, and you pinch her nipples harder.
“Do that again,” she says, breaking the kiss, her voice breathy. You are happy to obey her.
You reach behind her back to unhook the bralette, letting it hang on her by straps only, then lift it and continue to play with her now bared breasts.
“Mmmm, that’s it, darling,” she moans into your neck and pushes her body into your hands, then adjusts herself so that she’s straddling only one of your thighs. She reaches inside your trousers, rubbing slow circles again. You lift up your thigh a bit, pressing it between her legs. She lets out a soft whimper, then slips her hand inside your underwear, reaching into your wetness and smearing it over your clit. She rubs your clit, her movements gentle, but deliberate. You are already a moaning mess underneath her.
“Fuck, that feels so good,” you breathe out.
She chuckles and slides her hand lower, teasing your entrance. “What about this?” she asks.
“Mmmmm,” you whine, “please, I need your fingers inside me.”
“Mm. Look at me, darling.”
You look at her, getting lost in her blue eyes again.
“Be a good girl and say please,” she says, her breath hot against your face.
“Please, Larissa,” you beg, “please, fuck me.”
She pushes two fingers inside of you — painstakingly slowly — keeping eye contact with you the entire time. There is something incredibly erotic about it.
She starts fucking you, slowly at first, curling her fingers into that sweet spot inside of you, sending delicious waves of pleasure through you each time she pushes into it. Your moans and pleas seem to delight her.
“Larissa? Mmm, fuck,” you manage to squeeze through your moans. Her fingers are deliciously pushing against the rough spot inside of you.
“Yes, darling?”
“I wanna… can I touch you as well?”
“You want to?”
“Yeah,” you breathe out as she curls her fingers again.
With her free hand, she guides your hand between her legs. “Go slow,” she instructs. “Use your palm first, then fingers. Go in circles.”
“Can I…?” you ask, wanting to reach inside her underwear.
“Over the fabric first, then inside,” she says, voice breathy as you start rubbing slow circles. You can feel how wet she is over the thin fabric.
You seem to be doing it right, because she starts letting out soft sighs and whimpers, and rolls her hips against your hand. Somehow she is still composed enough to continue pumping her fingers inside of you, going faster now.
“Mmm, just like that, darling,” she moans, starting to fuck you even faster. You are doing your best to stay focused on pleasuring her as she fucks you relentlessly, making your head spin. “You can… ah, put your hand inside… mmm, that’s it.”
You slide your hand inside her underwear, feeling her wetness without any barriers for the first time. It turns you on like nothing else. You want to slide your fingers inside of her, but you try to follow her instructions from earlier, rubbing circles over her clit with two fingers.
“Yes, fuck, keep doing that,” she moans, her voice high and breathy. “You can go faster. Mmm, that’s it.”
She is pressing her palm against your clit each time she pounds into you, curling her fingers in a way that makes you see stars.
“Fuck, I will… I’m gonna…” you mumble incoherently, trying not to stop rubbing her clit as pleasure overwhelms you.
“Go ahead, darling, be a good girl and let go for me,” she says, her voice shaky. She seems to be close as well.
Hearing her call you a good girl pushes you over the edge. You cry out, and your orgasm is so intense you are sure you don’t manage to keep pleasuring her, but it seems like it doesn’t matter, because her head is buried into your neck and she is crying out in pleasure right with you. You hear a high-pitched “fuck” next to your ear.
As the delicious aftershocks pass, you are aware of her warm wetness coating your fingers. You carefully pull your hand out of her underwear, and she slowly pull her fingers out of you as well. You lie like that for a minute or two. You love the feeling of her warm body pressed flush against yours. She is heavy, but it’s very pleasant.
She shifts, lifting herself up on her elbows, and looks at you. Her hair is tickling your neck and face. She is flushed, and her eyes are sparkling — she looks absolutely beautiful.
“Sorry, darling, I must be heavy.”
“No, stay. I like it,” you say, putting your arms around her waist.
She chuckles and lifts herself up in spite of the little whine you let out. “Well, I can’t stay like this any longer, actually, because my back and my knees are killing me. I told you I was too old for this.”
She lies down next to you on the blanket. You take her hand, and she intertwines her fingers with yours.
“Are you cold?” you ask.
“Just a bit,” she answers. “I’ll dress in a moment.”
You lift yourself up and reach into your bag, pulling out another blanket. You throw it over both of you and snuggle closer to her.
“You don’t have to dress,” you say.
“I guess I don’t now,” she says, smiling.
You just lie in silence for a while. You can’t get enough of her softness, her warmth, her scent. The music is no longer playing — your playlist has finished. Neither of you noticed when that happened.
“Wanna wait for the sunrise?” you ask.
She turns her head to look at you, smiling again.
“Yes,” she says and kisses you softly.
You wait for the sunrise together, wrapped around each other. You talk some more, laugh and kiss. When you see the first rays of sun, you quickly dress and gather your things. You both giggle as you walk through the empty hallways, rushing so you don’t run into the first wave of students getting up for early breakfast, stopping to kiss every once in a while. You walk her to her quarters.
“Good luck with your morning class,” she says, standing in front the door.
“Thank you, I'll need it. No regrets, though.”
You stand on your tiptoes and kiss her again. She puts her arm around your waist, pulling you close.
“I gotta go. I hear the principal is very strict if you slack off,” you whisper against her mouth.
“Off you go, then, before the principal catches you.”
You give her another peck and lean back to look at her. Her hair is disheveled, her lipstick almost completely gone, her mascara a little bit smudged in the corners of her eyes. You somehow find her even more charming like that than when she’s perfectly made up.
“You look beautiful. I know I keep saying it, but it’s true.”
“Oh, shush. I look a fright, I’m sure.”
“Not to me.”
“Go, or someone will see us.”
You kiss one more time before you part ways, and then you head to your room to shower and change. You spend the entire morning lesson smiling.
Larissa sits in her office, freshly showered, in a light grey ensemble, hair and makeup perfectly in place. She absentmindedly hums (she cannot carry a tune for the life of her, but there is no one here who’d be upset by the fact she’s tone deaf) as she sorts through her papers. She feels positively giddy, still feeling the post-orgasmic haze. Nothing could spoil her mood — not even Wednesday Addams.
She hears a knock on the door.
“Come in,” she says.
“Principal Weems. I came to negotiate the terms of my punishment,” says Wednesday Addams, appearing in the doorway.
Larissa doesn’t even raise her head from her papers.
“There will be no negotiation, Miss Addams. Now, if that is all, you may go.”
Wednesday enters the room, closing the door behind her.
“I believe you will change your mind when I present my case.”
“I have no patience for this today, Miss Addams.”
“Last night, I went on the roof. I was searching for a suitable place to practice my cello.”
Larissa lifts her gaze up.
“That confession will only prolong your punishment.”
Wednesday ignores her.
“As I searched for the perfect spot to play a melancholy tune, I saw a sight that made me want to gouge my eyeballs out of my skull, which is an action I would prefer to perform on someone else, rather than myself.”
Larissa has a bad feeling about this.
“And what, pray tell, might that sight be?” she asks, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible.
“I saw two figures in the dark, sitting on the floor, engaging in a disgusting display of affection. As if seeing two depraved teenagers wouldn’t be disturbing enough, upon taking a better look, I realised I was looking at none other than you, Principal Weems, and your young protégé, Miss Hawthorne.”
Larissa closes her eyes and rubs her temples. She immediately gets a headache.
“Miss Addams. I do not ever want to hear the word protégé come out of your mouth again.”
“What would you prefer, then? Your lover?”
“Miss Addams, you are one step away from being expelled from this school, and not even your mother calling to beg me to take you back will help you.”
“That will not happen. Unless you want this posted on Enid’s blog.”
She pulls a phone out of her pocket, showing Larissa a blurry picture. Larissa squints — the quality is poor and it’s dark, but it’s clear that’s Abigail sitting on her lap. Larissa thanks heavens Wednesday caught them with all of their clothes still on.
“Miss Sinclair would never dare.”
“She wouldn’t, but I would. I know her password. By the time she realises she has been hacked, the entire school will already have seen it, and downloaded it on their phones. The Internet is forever, Principal Weems.”
Larissa stands up and leans over her desk. Grown men would piss themselves if she looked at them like that, but Wednesday Addams simply looks at her, unnervingly still and unblinking, as usual.
“Miss Addams, listen to me well. If you do not delete this picture immediately, I will personally make sure Enid Sinclair fails all her classes.”
Wednesday pauses for a second. She is thinking.
“You can’t do that,” she says, but she doesn’t sound sure.
“I can and I will.”
“You are bluffing.”
“Try me, Miss Addams.”
There is a knock on the door, then a moment of silence before Wednesday speaks.
“This isn’t over, Principal Weems. However, I admire your ruthless move. I shall not post it, for now.”
“Come in,” Larissa says, turning towards the door.
Abigail peeks into the room, carrying a rolled up canvas. “Am I interrupting something? I can come back later.”
“Not at all — Miss Addams was just about to leave,” Larissa says, leaning away from the table and shooting Wednesday a glare.
Wednesday just stands there as Abigail walks into the room. She watches her as she approaches Larissa’s desk. She stares at the two of them for a moment.
“Ew,” she then simply says and walks out, slamming the door behind her.
“What was that about?” Abigail asks.
“She saw us kiss, and now she’s threatening to post it for the entire school to see.”
“Ohmygod, would she really do that?” Abigail seems distraught.
“She won’t do it. I blackmailed her.”
“You didn’t!” she gasps. “What did you say?”
“That I’ll fail Enid Sinclair in every class if she posts it.”
“That’s insane,” she says, laughing, then pauses. “Wait. She only saw us kiss, right?”
“Thankfully, yes.”
“Well, that’s a relief.”
Larissa rubs her temples and sits on the edge of her desk. “I have a terrible headache. Can’t even fuck a woman in peace in this goddamned school.”
Abigail laughs loudly, and Larissa’s heart flutters at the sound. She’d endure as many headaches as needed if that meant being able to hear Abigail laugh like that.
“I have something that might cheer you up, though. I brought your portrait.”
That’s what the canvas must be — Larissa was so distracted by Wednesday’s stupid stunt that she barely registered it. She is immediately intrigued — she really wants to see it.
“Can I see it?”
“Of course you can, that’s why I brought it. It’s yours to have. I can frame it for you later, if you want, or you can just have it like this. I didn’t know what you’d prefer, “ she says, unrolling the canvas and holding it in front of Larissa.
Larissa’s mouth falls open.
“Abigail… it’s beautiful.”
She wishes there was a better word than beautiful to describe it. It’s not just beautiful — it’s fantastic, unique, exquisite. Larissa is smiling in the portrait (for some reason Larissa expected Abigail would draw her serious — she isn’t sure why — but she prefers this now), her hair is glowing (Larissa is sure her hair doesn’t glow like that, but she wonders if maybe that’s how Abigail sees her, and her heart melts a little at that thought), and her lips are a perfect shade of red, the exact one she had on that day. However, what really captures her attention is the background — it’s a deep blue night sky slowly fading into daylight, thousands of little stars turning into pink and yellow dawn.
“You like it?” Abigail looks at her nervously — as if Larissa could anything but love it.
Larissa doesn’t respond, just leans forward to cup her face and pull her into a kiss.
“No,” she says after she kisses her, “I love it.”
Abigail gives her one of those bright smiles that make her swoon.
“I’m very happy you do,” she says, and kisses her once again. “I have my next class in five minutes, though.”
“You should go, then,” Larissa says, caressing her cheek, “but please come back when you finish. I want to kiss you until my lips go numb.”
“I will,” Abigail says, still smiling. She gives Larissa a sweet little peck and turns to leave.
When she’s at the door, she turns towards Larissa again.
“And Larissa?”
“Yes?”
“I will get you Wednesday’s phone,” she says and winks, before disappearing into the hallway, closing the door behind her.
Larissa stares at the door for a couple of seconds, then shakes her head.
Wednesday’s phone? That girl might just be wife material, she thinks to herself as she returns to her desk.
She spends her day typing on her laptop and thinking about Abigail Hawthorne, just like she did last Friday — but this time she feels no guilt about it. Instead, she smiles and hums out of tune. Her headache is gone.
That afternoon, she kisses Abigail until her lips go numb.