𝐀𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠: fanfic side blog mainly for jenna ortega & her characters. written for wlw (f!reader & she/her pronouns). there will be nsfw contppent, read at your own discretion.
╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ 𝐁𝐨𝐭𝐬
╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭
╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ 𝐌𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐛𝐨𝐱 📮
╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ 𝐆𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐦𝐨𝐞𝐬' 𝐑𝐞𝐜𝐬
𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐧𝐞𝐰𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭: something in the way (ridley kintner)
Please hurry up with your next new story!!! I miss your writing! Do you have any new updates for your upcoming scheming plots? (I MISS YOU)
- 🍪
Heyyyyy! I’ve been here and there, I kind of lost inspo and have been trying to come up with new ideas I might want to explore, so requests and ideas welcome :)
How do you all feel about ai fics? I’ve been seeing a lot of authors using ai, but it doesn’t seem like many people are aware of it.
EDIT: I haven’t posted any ai fics myself, but after noticing some inconsistencies and similarities in fics posted by different writers a while back, I asked ChatGPT straight up to write me something, so I could see for myself, and there was my answer. In conclusion, ChatGPT had a very specific structure and style of churning out writing content, and once you see it, it’s hard to ignore across sites. It reuses phrases a lot.
summary: reader is a poet publishing her third book. Jenna discovers the collection during a draining press tour, its words resonating with her own struggles. Their very different lives are thrown into each other's orbit by one very spontaneous choice.
Slow paced
pairing: jenna ortega x reader
genre: fluff
warnings: none, i think?
A/N: I've never posted any of my stories on here before, so bare with me while I struggle to format everything.
Anyways, I've had this idea stuck in my head for a while and I figured I might as well post it somewhere in the hopes that people enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it!
Oh, and any poems in here are ones I like and have read somewhere, I'll always include the author for them in brackets. For the sake of the story just pretend you wrote it. Feel free to let me know what you think & if i should continue :))
WC: 7.6k
please do not repost my work anywhere. if you do see my stories anywhere else, please let me know. thank you.
You always wake slowly, as if your body has an agreement with the sun not to hurry. You'd long ago stopped setting alarms, except for those rare mornings when you had to be somewhere—an interview, a dentist appointment, or any of the other mundane activities that filled your life. Not that you minded, the calm of daily life was grounding.
On most days, the light woke you up, a pale ray of dawn slipping past the intentional crack in your curtains, stretching across your bedroom floor. It caressed your cheek as you stirred awake, leaving kisses of warmth behind.
The routine was always the same. Wake up, make coffee, write. Again, and again, and again. Some might call it passion; you called it controlled madness. The urge to write crawled through your veins, and whenever you couldn’t get your thoughts out, it would fill you with unrest until you did.
The apartment was small and homey, the top floor of a brick building that had probably been built in the seventies with nothing particularly romantic about it except that the windows were wide, and the ceilings were higher than average. It was enough, covering the two things that mattered to you: air and light.
The bed was pushed into a corner, tucked between two walls, creating a small safe haven. The sheets were soft, cotton, bathed in the scent of your vanilla fabric softener. They were a soft greyish blue, a color that felt like the ocean in the morning. You never minded the ocean when it looked like that—quiet, light reflecting off the surface, with no expectation of swimming. Just a place to sit beside and think.
When you finally swung your legs over the side of the bed, you didn’t rush to dress. There was an oversized, old sweater hanging over the back of your desk chair. You slipped it on, the sleeves swallowing half your hands. There was something poetic in that, you thought—half-hidden. Kind of like you, in a way.
The apartment was never entirely silent. The hum of the fridge, the croak of the old wooden floor as you moved around, and the muted sound of your neighbor, Mrs. Johnson, talking to her tv while she was watching her shows (your favorite). They weren’t a bother, but they existed, a reminder of other lives outside of your own. There was a comfort in that, the nearness of strangers who had never spoken your name, and the reminder of strangers—those who’d lived before you, and those who would after you.
Coffee came first. You padded barefoot across the wood floors, which had been scuffed by tenants long before you. The kitchen wasn’t much, barely wide enough for two people, though you rarely had two people in there anyway. But it was cozy, and you managed just fine in the limited space. Cooking was another escape, a love passed down to you by your grandma.
Your eyes wandered out the kitchen window that overlooked a narrow alley. A cat was perched on a trash bin lid, black with a streak of white down its chest. You had seen it often, though you couldn’t tell if it belonged to anyone. Sometimes you’d leave food out. The reward was a purring companion who’d greet you and curl around your legs whenever you left your building.
When the kettle whistled, you poured the water carefully over grounds in a ceramic dripper, the kind you had splurged on years ago and never regretted. The ritual mattered more than the taste—though you liked the taste too, sharp but not bitter, a flavor that seemed to anchor the mornings.
Cup in hand, you moved into the living room. Bookshelves lined one wall, though you had long since given up on arranging them alphabetically. Instead, they sprawled in clusters: poetry in one section, novels in another, with slim art books and battered secondhand volumes filling in the gaps.
Small notebooks were stacked wherever they fit, their leather covers mismatched, with bent spines and charms hanging off the elastic. You were incapable of throwing one away, even if you’d filled only half the pages. They represented specific times of your life, and you’d start a new one whenever something meaningful happened. A clean slate.
The most important part—your desk—sat by the window, angled so that you could watch the street below if you arched your neck a bit. It wasn’t much of a street, just a side road with a bakery at the end of it and a bus stop with a crooked metal bench. But you liked seeing people pass by, the same regular faces at certain hours. A man with his briefcase at 8:15, a woman in a red coat walking her dog just after nine.
You curled up in your favorite lounge chair, cupping the coffee between both hands, and glanced at the open notebook on the coffee table. Last night, you had written a few lines before bed, half-dreaming as you scribbled them down. The handwriting slanted, letters uneven, but you could read it:
But there is something that happens when you are told you are Too Much
You begin to ask everyone, how small would you like me?”(Mary Lambert)
I overthink. I over love. I over feel. I’m the sea or I’m nothing. (Juansen Dizon)
It’s a hell of a responsibility to be yourself. It is much easier to be somebody else or nobody at all. (Sylvia Plath)
I can’t stand it to think my life is going so fast and I’m not really living it. (Ernest Hemingway)
You smiled faintly, not because you considered them brilliant, but because they were honest. Real. In a world that so often was everything but. Maybe the words would survive revision, maybe they wouldn’t. Your poetry was like that—some lines remained, most disappeared. Some stayed tucked away in journals that would only ever get to be seen by you.
Your third book was nearly finished now. It had been an insane rollercoaster from getting published for the first time, to the second book earning you enough of a livelihood that you quit your job and now were able to write for a living.
You had spent months arranging and rearranging the sequence of poems, listening to the way one piece brushed against the next. It was like putting together a playlist, except instead of songs, it was fragments of yourself. You always felt exposed when your work was published, like you’d walked into a crowded room without pants on, but you couldn’t stop yourself from doing it.
Today, you told yourself, you would go through the manuscript one last time, spread the pages across your desk, and decide if it was ready. Not that the decision was ever final—there were editors and revisions and cover choices to be made—but the largest part of the work, the part that was fully you, that part was almost finished.
The poems from last night would probably make it in there as well. This book—your third—was very anticipated. The first one didn’t receive a lot of attention, but by the time you published the second, you’d gathered some fans, appreciators of your work. Critics were split, some argued your voice was too blunt or too modern, while others praised it. Either way, this third book was something else. So unlike the others. Raw. You were both nervous and excited for the response it would get.
You enjoyed the quiet while it lasted, with your work away from prying eyes who would disect every word, every sentence, arguing about stylistic choices as if you hadn’t pressed your bleeding heart onto the pages.
By late morning, you’re forced to leave the apartment for a meeting with your editor.
She’s already there when you arrive at the restaurant. You spot her at a corner table, a neat stack of papers beside her, glasses perched on her nose. You’ve met her enough times to know the way she carries herself: precise, efficient, but softened around the edges. She isn’t the kind of person to talk to you about numbers or contracts in harsh terms. She talks instead about rhythm, about voice, about how the market might hear what you’ve written.
“Y/N,” she greets you warmly, standing briefly as you approach. “I ordered you a cappuccino. Correct?”
The small gesture makes you smile, even though you’re for sure going to have a hard time sleeping tonight with the amount of coffee you’ve consumed today.
“Correct. Thank you.”
You set your bag down, sliding into the chair across from her. The table between you gleams faintly under the light, reflecting the soft cream of your sweater. The stack of papers seems to hum with quiet weight—you know what’s inside without needing to ask. Your manuscript, printed, annotated in her careful handwriting.
The cappuccino arrives almost immediately, the surface dusted with cocoa, steam rising in soft curls. You cradle the cup between both hands, savoring the warmth before you sip.
“So,” your editor begins, folding her hands over the stack of papers. “You’ve done it again. Three books in, and you’re still… you. Which, I think, is exactly what readers are hoping for.”
You glance down at the rim of your cup, watching a bead of foam slide toward the edge. Compliments still make you uncomfortable; you never quite know where to put your eyes when they come. Whether to smile, or to be grateful even though your throat feels tight.
She notices, perhaps, because she smiles and adds, “That’s a good thing. Consistency of voice is rare. And your themes—finding the profound in ordinary gestures, identity, solitude—those are what people turn to you for.”
You nod softly, murmuring, “I hope so.”
She taps the stack of pages. “This collection has an arc, doesn’t it? More than the last two. It feels… hm, how do I say it—” She tilts her head, searching for words. “It feels like you’re walking the reader somewhere. Not just giving them glimpses, but taking their hand and guiding them through a season of your life.”
The observation makes your stomach flutter. It’s true. You hadn’t set out with a map in mind, but the poems had pulled into orbit around each other until they formed something resembling a journey.
“I suppose so,” you admit. “It wasn’t… deliberate. Not entirely.”
She leans back slightly, folding her glasses into her hand. “That’s often when it works best.”
You look around the restaurant as she speaks, half listening, half absorbing the scene. Sunlight washes across the floor, catching in the chrome edges of chairs. The air smells faintly sweet, like oranges peeled freshly. Conversations hum around you—students leaning over laptops, a man in a suit laughing too loudly into his phone, the clink of cups stacking near the counter. You tuck these details away in the back of your mind, where they might later spill into a poem.
Your editor draws you back.
“What we’ll need to finalize soon is the order. You’ve already sent me one arrangement, but I wonder if we might shift a few things.” She flips open the manuscript, pages covered in penciled notes that curl like vines along the margins. Her handwriting is tidy but fluid, each word connected to the next as if she didn’t want them to separate.
She points to a section. “Here, for example. You have three shorter poems in a row. Each beautiful, but together, they risk blending. If we insert one of the longer meditative pieces between them, it allows the reader to breathe differently.”
You lean forward, brushing your sleeve against the edge of the table. The thought makes sense; you see the rhythm she means, like arranging songs on an album.
“I see,” you murmur. “So this one—” You point, sleeve hiding half your hand, “—could shift further back?”
She nods.
You sip your cappuccino again, considering. Foam clings to your lip, and you wipe it away absentmindedly with the back of your sleeve. You wonder, not for the first time, how much of yourself you’ve hidden inside those poems, and how much you’ve revealed. Whether people will read them and see your face, or only their own reflections.
Your editor continues with gentle precision, suggesting where to cut, where to expand. She never dictates. She offers possibilities, like holding out a handful of stones and letting you decide which ones you want to keep in your pocket.
At one point she says, “There’s something different about this book, Y/N. I think your readers will notice. You’ve matured, but you haven’t lost the vulnerability or depth.”
You tilt your head. “Is that… something you can lose?”
She studies you for a moment, then answers, “Yes. Many do.” Her gaze flicks toward the window, where people stream past with hurried steps. “But not you. Not yet.”
The words sit between you, warm and unsettling at once. You glance back down at the papers, at the scrawled notes in graphite.
Hours drift this way—discussion, bites of lunch, small silences in which you stare out the window and let thoughts wander. The sun shifts gradually, shadow crawling across the floor, and the restaurant grows busier as dinner time approaches, voices rising like a tide.
When the meeting finally winds down, your editor gathers her notes, slipping them into a folder. She tucks her glasses back on, smoothing the edges of the papers with practiced hands.
“I’ll email you the marked-up sequence,” she says. “You can sit with it for a few days. Let it breathe. No rush.”
You nod. The idea of “no rush” feels like a gift.
As you stand, sliding the strap of your bag over your shoulder, she reaches out and touches your arm lightly. “It’s going to be a beautiful book, Y/N. One of those that stays on bedside tables.”
The comment lingers with you long after you leave the café.
----&----
The city air feels different when you step outside—cooler, dusk already leaning into the edges of the sky. You pull your sleeves over your hands again, hugging yourself lightly as you walk.
You think about what she said: softness, journey, bedside tables. You picture your book resting beside someone else’s bed, pages dog-eared, poems read and reread in the middle of sleepless nights. The thought both comforts and unsettles you. To be that close to a stranger without ever seeing their face.
The cat is gone from the alley when you return home. The lid of the trash bin is empty, reflecting the dim streetlight. You climb the stairs slowly, keys cold in your palm, and step into the familiar quiet of your apartment.
Inside, the light is fading. You don’t turn on the lamps right away. You set your bag down, cross to the window, and watch the street below until the sky deepens from pale gold to indigo.
Finally, you move back to your desk. You drop the new manuscript on your desk—it creates a ‘thunk’ as thick paper hits wood. You pull the lamp chain, letting warm light spill across the pages.
You slide into the chair, tugging your sleeves down until the cuffs swallow your palms. The comments from your editor hum at the back of your mind, but you don’t touch the pages just yet. Instead, you press your forehead against your hand, breathing slowly. There’s a tension here, something unfinished, even though the book is nearly done.
That’s when your phone buzzes, face-down beside the lamp. The sound cuts through the quiet, a small vibration against wood. You flip it over. A text, from a friend who has read your first two books, who has always taken a keen interest in your work.
The message is simple:
“So, who’s the dedication this time?”
Your stomach knots.
You stare at the words for a long moment, thumb hovering above the screen but unmoving. The first book you had dedicated to the standard collection of people—your parents and sibling, because without them and their encouragement from a young age, there would be no book. The second, to your dearest friend—the one who carried you through adolescence with shared laughter and secrets whispered across late nights. Both dedications had felt inevitable, obvious, necessary.
Now, though?
You swallow, your throat suddenly dry. The truth is, you don’t know. There is no name pressing against your ribs this time, no figure standing firmly in the doorway of your mind demanding recognition. The book itself feels personal, yes, but it belongs less to one person than to a feeling, a theme you can’t quite distill into a single face.
You type back.
“Still deciding.”
The reply arrives quickly.
You don’t look, too stuck in your head to hold a proper conversation. You set the phone aside again, but the question lingers, louder than before. Who will be the first name someone sees when they open the book? The place of honor, usually reserved only for the most influential people.
The thought unsettles you.
You lean back in the chair, staring at the ceiling where the lamplight fades into shadows. Names flicker through your mind like passing trains. You dismiss each one. Not because the people aren’t important, but because none of them fit the heartbeat of this book. This one is different—it isn’t about gratitude or loyalty. It’s about something harder to name, something like not bending to the pressure of the world. Like sticking with yourself in the face of everything and the struggles that come with that. Something like survival.
A sigh escapes you, thin and resigned. You reach for your phone again, not to answer the lingering message, but to distract yourself. You scroll—aimless, restless, letting the glow of the screen wash over you in the dim room. Photos and videos blur past, clips playing without sound.
And then, by chance, fate intervenes.
You stumble on an interview clip—Jenna Ortega, sitting opposite Elle Fanning, a quiet seriousness in her eyes. You don’t follow her closely, not more than anyone else. Yet tonight, for reasons you can’t explain, you pause. You turn the volume up, leaning slightly closer to the small screen.
Her voice is wobbly, tinged with something raw. She speaks about how hard it is to truly be yourself when the world is always looking at you. About the difficulty of growing into yourself while everyone else is forming opinions, about the almost impossible task of staying true to that self when you live beneath constant eyes.
The words strike you like a sudden draft through an open window. They cut across the quiet of your apartment, threading themselves into your skin. You feel a strange sense of recognition.
Your poems aren’t about fame, not directly. But they are about identity, about the fragile act of holding onto who you are when the world presses in, shaping and reshaping you. You’ve written about masks, about the quiet rebellion of choosing not to perform, about the secret strength of stillness in a world that wants noise.
As Jenna speaks, you realize: she would understand. Not because you know her, not because she knows you, but because the distance between your words and her voice feels suddenly very small.
You watch the clip twice, maybe three times, until the glow of the screen feels too bright. Then you set the phone down beside the manuscript. For a while, you sit motionless, sleeves curled against your palms, heart humming with something you can’t fully name.
The dedication question still plagues at your mind, but this time it doesn’t feel hollow. It feels… guided.
Sleepiness tugs at you, that fragile edge of exhaustion where thoughts loosen and clarity slips through the cracks. You know you should wait, think more carefully, but your editor’s deadline presses faintly at the back of your mind. Tonight, the decision feels like a thread dangling in front of you, and you can’t stop yourself from reaching out.
You pull a fresh sheet of paper toward you, slide your pen free from its case. The ink flows smoothly, dark against the white.
Your handwriting tilts slightly as you write:
For J.O.
You pause, the letters stark and simple, a mystery to anyone but you. Then you add a single line, brief, almost hurried, as if to trap the thought before sleep steals it away. Something about understanding, about knowing she would relate.
That’s all. Nothing more. No explanation. No clarity for anyone else.
You stare at the words for a long moment, then set the pen down and exhale. The room is heavy with quiet again, but different now—charged, almost, as if the dedication has stitched something shut inside you.
You slip the page on top of the manuscript, stack neat and final.
The decision has been made.
You don’t question whether it’s fate, coincidence, or something stranger.
----&----
The weeks blur. The book is published. Your quiet life goes up in flames.
At first, there is only a ripple: a few reviews, a handful of blog posts, mentions here and there in corners of the internet that discuss poetry. That much you expected—your publisher had told you to anticipate a modest response, something steady but quiet, the way poetry usually moves through the world.
But then the ripple becomes a current.
A larger outlet features your collection, calling it a voice that refuses to shout but is impossible not to hear. Another describes it as poems that don’t perform, but simply exist in their own necessary way. You scroll through these words late at night, heart skipping at the sight of your name in headlines.
Then comes the sudden rush.
More reviews appear. Praise accumulates, gathering weight like fresh snow. Phrases repeat—mature beyond her years, a tenderness that feels radical, an emerging name to watch. Your age often becomes a part of the headline. You wonder if they would phrase it differently if you were older, if you were a man.
And then, something stranger.
The internet seems to latch onto you—not just your words, but you. Photos from old events resurface, pictures snapped at a reading where you stood in an oversized sweater, hair falling in loose waves over your shoulders, hands curled nervously into your sleeves. Screenshots of your interviews circulate, comments piling beneath them.
she’s so soft omg
this is my Roman Empire.
sorry but can she step on me??
You scroll through some of these comments late at night, cheeks burning in the quiet of your apartment. The words leave you unsettled, though not entirely unpleasant. You never thought of yourself as someone people would talk about—not like this, not with hunger laced through their fascination. You had imagined readers connecting with your work, not thirsting over you.
But fascination grows. People begin making edits, pairing your photos with your lines, sharing videos of you reading aloud, your voice quiet but steady, the cadence of your poems carrying through dim-lit recordings. Fans caption them with things like she’s unreal or the poet of our generation. The kind of attention that rarely touches poets at all has suddenly landed on you, uninvited but undeniable.
Your editor calls one afternoon, voice bright with something close to awe. “Y/N, do you know what’s happening? Your book—your name—is everywhere.”
You swallow, gripping the phone tighter. “I’ve seen a little.”
“More than a little,” she says, almost laughing. “You’re being compared to the greats. And—well, brace yourself—the interviews are coming.”
----&----
You sit in a small studio, the kind you’ve only ever seen in passing. Black walls, a soft chair angled toward another where the interviewer sits. Lights hang from scaffolds above, warm but merciless, and the air smells faintly of dust and makeup powder.
The interviewer is kind, professional, dressed in crisp neutrals. You’re dressed as you always are—sweater draping over your shoulders, sleeves grazing your knuckles, hair loose in soft waves. They fit a small microphone to your collar, the wire slipping down beneath the wool, and you try not to fidget.
The questions begin predictably: What inspired this collection? How did you start writing poetry? Did you ever imagine reaching this point so young? You answer gently, slowly, choosing your words the way you choose lines on a page. You speak about quietness, about how you believe the smallest moments carry the most weight. You admit you never expected this kind of response—that you write to understand yourself, not to become known.
The interviewer nods, listening carefully, then asks: “People online are fascinated not only with your poetry, but with you. You’ve become a sort of figure—gentle, mysterious, beautiful.”
The word beautiful hangs in the air like a flare. You don’t flinch, but inside, something twists. You never speak of yourself that way. You don’t see yourself the way the internet apparently does. But you know better than to protest—it would sound false, defensive. Instead, you smile faintly, tugging your sleeve tighter over your hand.
“I suppose,” you say softly, “I can’t control what people see. I can only keep writing the truth as I know it. But I’m very grateful for everything, truly.”
It’s the best answer you can manage.
When the interview airs, clips circulate immediately. People post about your mannerisms, the way you tilt your head slightly when listening, the softness of your smile, the quiet cadence of your voice. They describe you as gentle but with a somber undertone, as if life has brushed against you more than once. You read their observations in silence, not confirming, not denying.
The effects of being known—popular—begin to seep into your life.
Emails arrive from journalists, podcasters, even magazines that don’t usually touch poetry. Publicists schedule you for panels, bookstores ask for readings, universities request guest lectures. You find yourself in cars more often, in back rooms waiting to be called onto small stages, in cafés that aren’t your own, sipping coffee you didn’t order.
The quiet life you once wrapped around yourself like a sweater is loosening at the seams. Your apartment remains the same—homey, cluttered with books, the same cat still appearing in the alley—but you spend fewer hours there. Instead, you exist in transit: between events, between questions, between versions of yourself.
And still, online, the fascination grows. People dissect your choice of clothing (always a sweater, or a blouse, something simple but comfortable), your expressions, even the cadence of your pauses. They pair screenshots with your poems, writing captions like this woman makes me believe in love again.
Your editor calls again, voice brimming with something between pride and disbelief. “You know, Y/N, this is rare. Poets don’t usually become… this. Whatever this is.”
You stare out the window as she speaks, city lights flickering in the glass. “I didn’t ask for it.”
“No,” she agrees. “But it found you anyway.”
You don’t answer.
Because deep down, you’re beginning to wonder what it means—this collision between the quietness you live by and the spotlight now turned toward you. You wrote about staying true to yourself, about identity under pressure, about stillness in a noisy world. And now, as if fate has decided to test you, the world is watching to see if you can live the very words you wrote.
----&----
The days had started to blur together, strung out in a rhythm that didn’t feel like living so much as enduring. Wake up in a different bed. Hotel curtains drawn shut against the wrong skyline. Coffee she didn’t like but drank anyway because it was there. Cars waiting to drive her to the next destination. Studios, soundstages, hotel conference rooms, red carpets that glared beneath the flash of cameras. Interview after interview, the same questions twisted into new shapes, the same answers repeated until they no longer sounded like words but like lines from a script—hollow, practiced, automatic.
Jenna Ortega had done this before—press tours, promotional runs, the endless carousel of appearances—but this time felt heavier. Maybe because the movie was bigger, the stakes higher, or maybe because she was a little older now—more aware—carrying herself in ways people still wanted to flatten. Whatever the reason, she found herself drifting, moving through the weeks like a ghost who looked like her but had little to do with who she was.
The hotels all blurred, too. None of them smelled right. Some were too polished, sterile in a way that made her chest ache. Others were all velvet curtains and chandeliers, decadent and suffocating. She missed the smell of her own sheets, the chipped mug she always used for tea, the quiet walks with Twigs. Here, everything was temporary. Even her reflection in the mirror.
She felt like a shell—an outline being carried from one obligation to the next. And yet she smiled when she needed to, answered with grace, tilted her head at just the right angle for cameras. She had learned how to be present without being there at all.
It was during one of those endless days—after the junket interviews, before the late-night taping—that someone handed her a book. She couldn’t even remember who, not exactly. Maybe a stylist, maybe a hair-and-makeup assistant who had been reading between breaks. They had finished it and, with a small shrug, pressed it into her hands. You might like this, they had said.
The cover was simple. Black, with clean lines and muted colors. The title in quiet lettering.
Later, in the thick hush of night, when the city outside still roared and she couldn’t seem to close her eyes, she opened it.
The poems weren’t what she expected.
She thought she was stepping into someone else’s world, but somehow they slipped into hers instead.
Line after line seemed to reach for her, pressing against the places she had carefully sealed off. Poems about identity, about how it bends and strains under the weight of other people’s eyes. About masks, and silence, and the invisible work of holding yourself intact when the world insists on writing you differently. Poems that were quiet, but sharp.
She read one, then another, and another. The words seemed to hum in her chest, familiar in a way that unsettled her. She could almost hear them, not in her own voice, but in someone else’s—the poet’s, whoever she was.
For the first time in weeks, Jenna forgot about the schedule. The callsheets. The next morning’s 4 am alarm. She folded herself into the corner of the hotel bed, hair falling loose around her face, and read as though the pages were speaking to her alone.
She hadn’t expected that. She hadn’t expected to feel seen inside someone else’s words.
By the time she finally decided to close the book for the night, her eyes were stinging. The room around her was still a hotel, still impersonal and temporary, but something had shifted inside her chest.
She turned off the lamp and let the dark press close, her thoughts still tangled with the words she’d read.
For the first time in a long while, Jenna didn’t feel entirely hollow.
She felt… understood.
But the days still pressed forward, relentless. Jenna hardly noticed where one ended and another began. The press tour carried her through cities like a tide—Los Angeles, New York, London, Berlin, Paris, Tokyo. Each one blurred into the next.
The book stayed with her.
It traveled at the bottom of her bag, edges scuffed from rubbing against chargers and cosmetic cases, its black cover slowly wearing down. The color dulled at the corners, flecks of white showing through where it had scraped. She never left it behind, though. No matter how rushed the morning, how early the call time, she checked her bag twice to make sure it was there.
Sometimes she opened it in the backseat of a car, the city flashing by in blurred streaks of light while she traced her finger down the narrow columns of text. Other times she read in hotel beds after midnight, the lamp too bright, her body exhausted but her mind unwilling to sleep.
The poems sank into her quietly, threading themselves through the empty hours. They became something like a mirror—though not one that showed her face, exactly. More like one that showed the outline of her inner self, the parts she rarely let anyone touch.
At first, she read them as they were. But slowly, she began to leave marks.
A question mark in the margin beside a line that puzzled her.
An asterisk next to a stanza that lodged in her chest.
A single word—yes—penned in the slant of her hurried handwriting next to a poem that stuck with her.
Sometimes she underlined, the pen snagging lightly against the page when the car hit a bump. Once, she wrote out almost a paragraph, squeezed into the blank space beneath a poem about silence: her own confession about how silence could sometimes feel like safety, and sometimes like suffocation.
The book was becoming hers, covered in notes and highlights and pages bent at the corner. She spent a lot of time with the poems, never bothering to pay much attention to anything else.
It was curiosity that made her look up the author one night, after reading the same poem three times in a row. She typed the name into the search bar while curled in another hotel bed, her hair still damp from the shower, room-service tea cooling on the tray beside her.
Clips came up immediately. Interviews, readings, features. Headlines calling her an emerging literary voice, one of the youngest poets to capture this much attention.
Jenna clicked on one video almost at random—a recorded interview from a small studio. The camera framed Y/N in soft lighting, hair falling in gentle waves over her shoulders, sweater sleeves tugged down over her hands. She spoke slowly, thoughtfully, as though each word was weighed before leaving her lips.
Jenna found herself leaning closer to the screen, not because she couldn’t hear, but because the rhythm of the author’s voice was quiet in a way that demanded attention. She spoke about poetry not as performance, but as survival. About finding meaning in the smallest textures of life. About writing to hold onto herself.
It wasn’t just what she said, though. It was the way she said it. Her eyes lifted now and then toward the interviewer, but often drifted downward, as if she was half-speaking to herself. A small smile would touch her face, fleeting and unforced, softening her whole expression.
Jenna blinked, realizing after several minutes that she hadn’t moved. She pressed pause, the still frame holding Y/N mid-thought, eyes thoughtful, lips curved in that almost-smile.
She was… cute. That was the word that rose up, unbidden. Cute in a way that didn’t feel curated, not polished like the industry people Jenna was surrounded by every day. There was something disarming about her gentleness, the way her presence seemed to invite rather than demand attention.
Jenna shook her head lightly, as if to clear it. She closed the video and set her phone aside, but the image stayed. The sound of Cairo’s voice lingered in her mind as she turned back to the book, running her thumb over the worn edge of the cover.
Life moved on, though. It had to.
The schedule remained heavy, unforgiving. Jenna woke at dawn to cameras and stylists, spent afternoons answering questions she had answered a hundred times before, nights on stages where the lights were too hot and the clapping too loud. She laughed when she needed to, posed when expected, moved from city to city like a shadow of herself.
But in every hotel, no matter the city or the hour, the book waited. In the quiet moments between, she found herself reaching for it.
Opening its pages.
Folding herself into its silence, until the noise of the world dimmed.
----&----
When your next interview is scheduled, you brace yourself. The press has begun circling you more hungrily, hungry for novelty now that your initial rise has been digested. You’ve sat in so many chairs lately, beneath so many lights, and answered the same questions so many times. Where did this collection begin? What inspires you? How does it feel to be young and already recognized? You have perfected the rhythm of your responses—truthful, but contained. Enough to keep them satisfied without spilling yourself dry.
This interviewer is different, though. You notice it almost immediately. She sits forward, her notebook balanced on one knee, her expression attentive but kind. Her questions weave more carefully, not just about the poems but about the silences between them, about how your writing handles restraint, about why you think readers have connected with your gentleness. You relax, almost without meaning to.
And then she asks it.
“The dedication,” she says, glancing down at her notes before lifting her gaze back to you. “It’s short, almost cryptic. Just initials. Readers have been speculating endlessly, but… I’d like to ask you. Would you be willing to share who you wrote it for?”
The air shifts.
You freeze for a moment, the smile caught halfway on your lips. The question lingers between you, delicate but heavy. You feel the beat of your heart pick up, loud enough that you wonder if the microphone could catch it.
Your fingers curl into your sleeves. A nervous habit surfacing at the rise of discomfort.
You could laugh it off. You could refuse. You could say it doesn’t matter, that it’s private. You’ve seen plenty of writers do that, and no one would blame you. But something about the way she asks—genuine, not fishing for scandal—makes you pause longer than you meant to.
You take a breath.
Carefully, you begin. “It’s… funny. Because it’s not anyone I know. Not personally.”
The interviewer tilts her head, curious.
You glance down at your hands, at the threads of wool fraying along your cuff. “I had already dedicated my first two books to the people closest to me—my friend, my parents. But for this one… I kept feeling like it wasn’t about gratitude toward someone I knew. It was about connection. About… recognition, maybe.”
You let the silence stretch, giving yourself room. Then you go on, softly. “I’d seen an interview with Jenna Ortega. She was speaking about the difficulties of growing into yourself when the world is watching, about how hard it is to stay true to who you are under that kind of pressure. I don’t keep up with her much, beyond admiring her talent, but in that moment… it struck me. Because those were the very things I felt, and had written about. Not fame, specifically, but identity. The feeling of being stretched thin by perception. And it fascinated me, that our lives could be so different and yet we could feel the same. Or at least… similar.”
Your cheeks feel warm. You tug at your sleeve again, wishing for the desk of your apartment instead of this spotlight, wishing for the safety of your journal. But you keep going, because to stop now would feel dishonest.
“So I dedicated it to her,” you admit, your voice almost shy. “Not because she knows me. She doesn’t. Not because I know her, either. But because I recognized something in her words. And I thought… maybe she would recognize something in mine.”
The interviewer is silent for a moment. Not the uncomfortable kind of silence, but the kind that respects weight. She smiles, gently, and her voice lowers when she says: “Do you think she knows? It’s a beautiful sentiment.”
You shrug slightly, awkward under the compliment. “It’s just honest… and I don’t know, honestly.”
She doesn’t press further. The conversation shifts again, back to the poems, back to your process.
Later that evening, you write in your journal.
The trinkets chime faintly as you open it, pen sliding into your hand like a familiar friend. Your handwriting is looser here, sprawling, less careful. You jot down the memory of the question, of how it felt to say the truth out loud for the first time. You write about the strangeness of dedicating words to someone you don’t know. You wonder whether Jenna will ever hear about it, whether she would care if she did. You suspect not—her life is far too full of other things.
And yet, in the privacy of your journal, you admit something you didn’t say in the interview: that the thought of her reading your poems, even once, even in passing, feels both impossible and quietly thrilling.
You close the journal, listening to the charms tinkling softly as you do.
This one will never make it into a book.
This one is just for you.
----&----
Press days had a way of eating time whole. Jenna had been through so many in the last few weeks that they all seemed to blur together.
But this one was different. This one was lighter.
She was seated in a bright studio chair, her black tote bag on her lap, cameras positioned at gentle angles. The concept was simple: What’s in My Bag. She had done versions of it before—sometimes with a magazine, sometimes for a video series. This time, it felt almost easy. Familiar. Like a game.
The host, a cheerful woman with a notepad, introduced the segment, then gestured for Jenna to begin.
“Alright,” Jenna said, leaning down to pull the bag into her lap. The leather was soft, slightly worn at the edges, the strap fraying where it brushed against her coat every day. She smiled faintly, setting it on her knees. “This is my everyday bag. I carry it pretty much everywhere.”
She reached inside, pulling out the first object: a packet of mints. “Necessary. I think I’ve bought like fifteen of these since the tour started.”
The next item was a travel-sized bottle of hand sanitizer. Then a pair of wired earbuds, tangled as always. The host made a joke about everyone’s earbuds ending up that way, and Jenna laughed, her shoulders loosening. The cameras rolled on, capturing her ease.
She pulled out a small Polaroid photo next, worn around the edges. She explained softly that it was of her family, something she kept with her when she was away from home too long. The host cooed appreciatively, and Jenna tucked it carefully onto the table.
Item by item, she worked her way through the bag: tinted lip balm, a phone charger, a notebook filled with quick scrawls of thoughts she never wanted to lose. She kept the rhythm light, smiling, making little jokes that felt unforced.
And then her hand brushed against the familiar texture of a book.
She hesitated for a fraction of a second before pulling it out. The cover was black, worn around the edges, flecked where the color had rubbed away. The spine bent slightly from the way she shoved it into her bag too often, pages soft from use. Her pen marks peeked faintly at the edges where she had written in the margins.
She set it on her lap and ran her hand over the cover almost unconsciously. “And this,” she said, her voice softening. “This is… probably my favorite thing I’ve been carrying.”
The host leaned forward, eyebrows raised. “Oh, a book! What is it?”
Jenna lifted it so the camera could catch the title. “It’s a poetry collection.” She said the name gently, as though tasting it. “I’ve been reading it during the tour, whenever I get a moment. It kind of keeps me grounded.”
Her fingers pressed against the edge of the cover, thumb stroking the crease there. She didn’t explain further, didn’t confess how she had filled the margins with her own thoughts, how the book had become a strange kind of anchor in the blur of these weeks. She only smiled faintly, the kind that wasn’t for the cameras so much as for herself.
The host tilted her head. “That’s wonderful. I’ve heard it’s been getting incredible reviews.”
“It deserves them,” Jenna replied simply. “Her writing is… thoughtful. Quiet, but powerful. It makes you stop and really feel something.”
The cameras caught her eyes softening as she spoke, caught the sincerity threading through her words.
And then the host, in that offhand way—like she didn’t even consider the words—added with a smile: “And it’s especially nice, I imagine, since it was dedicated to you.”
The world screeched to a halt.
For the barest moment, Jenna’s mind went completely blank. The words struck like a stone shattering glass. Her stomach flipped, and she froze mid-breath, eyes widening just slightly—just enough.
The cameras caught it. They would later freeze-frame it, loop it, dissect it.
But in that moment, Jenna’s thoughts scrambled. Dedicated to her. No. That couldn’t— She hadn’t even read the dedication.
She flipped the book open, even with the camera pointed at her, and just stared. There, on the page, staring back at her, were her initials. It could be anyone. And yet—
She forced herself to recover quickly, her actress training snapping into place like armor. Her smile returned, smaller now, tempered. “Oh,” she said lightly, forcing a small smile. “I- uh… I hadn’t heard about that.”
Her tone was careful, as though brushing it aside without denying it. The host moved on smoothly, sensing perhaps that the comment had landed heavier than intended. Jenna exhaled slowly, too quietly for the microphone to catch, and tucked the book back into her bag with deliberate care.
god, this is so beautiful. I can’t even put into words how achingly soft and warm this is.
not sure if this is going to be more than one part of not, but thank you for sharing this precious piece with us. This is an instant favourite. I love it. 🖤🖤
hello, I've missed you too! life has been hectic lately, but I did watch Wedneaday s2, so I'm hoping to write something up for her soon. thank you for sticking around 🖤🖤
Bots are cross posted on Chai and Janitorai. All characters 18+.
❤️🔥 NSFW
𝐉𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐎𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐠𝐚
❤️🔥 Jenna is your best friend—bratty, dramatic, and secretly hopelessly in love with you. She masks her obsession behind teasing touches, fake naps in your lap, and needy little games you always fall for. But today, you came home early and found her breathless, flushed, and tangled in your clothes, as if pretending you were there could ever be enough. Chai | Janitorai
author’s note: this was a request and turned out extremely long so buckle up.
Tara wasn't sure when exactly you became her nemesis.
It could've been the time you called her "Tinkerbell with anger issues" in front of the whole group — completely unprovoked, by the way.
Or maybe it was the fact that you always showed up to group hangouts exactly eight minutes late. Not seven. Not ten. Eight. Like you were trying to be casually inconvenient on purpose.
And somehow, you always had an iced coffee in hand and sunglasses on, even if it was dark outside, looking like you were arriving for an interview you didn't need to prepare for.
Whatever the origin story was, all Tara knew was that you were insufferable. Loud, cocky, always smirking like you were the punchline to a joke only you found funny.
And worse? You flirted with everyone. Constantly. Half the time you weren't even saying anything particularly charming — just leaning too close, dragging out compliments, tilting your head like you were always three seconds from kissing someone just because you could.
And people loved you for it. Chad thought you were the funniest person alive. Mindy treated you like some chaotic little science experiment she'd adopted. Anika had actually said the words "I think she 's kinda iconic" once, and Tara had nearly choked on her drink.
She didn't get it. She didn't want to get it.
You were the kind of person who made her blood boil and her eye twitch. She'd convinced herself that every time you opened your mouth, it shaved at least a day off her lifespan. You always had to have the last word. You always pushed the exact button you knew would get a reaction.
And worst of all, you did it with that face — that smug, slow-smiling, resting-brat expression that made Tara want to throw something heavy at you. Preferably a chair.
She'd tried ignoring you. She really had. But you made it impossible. You talked too much, laughed too loud, spread out across the couch like you paid rent there, and had the nerve to act like she was the uptight one whenever she snapped at you. You acted like everything she said was just part of some game you were both playing — like you didn't even take her seriously.
And maybe that was the worst part.
Because sometimes, late at night, Tara would catch herself replaying your dumb little one-liners, thinking of all the better insults she could've said. And sometimes, she'd spend way too long trying to decide whether you actually meant it when you told her she looked "surprisingly good" that one night in her new jeans.
She told herself it didn't matter.
Because you were not funny. You were not charming.
And if anyone thought otherwise, they were probably just under the influence of your freakish ability to spin basic, mediocre nonsense into something that sounded clever. It wasn't wit. It was volume control and eyebrow raises. That was your whole personality — speaking like you were narrating a scene and reacting like you knew you had an audience.
Tara hated that you always acted like you had the upper hand. Even when she was clearly, objectively winning an argument, you'd throw out some offhand line like "You're cute when you're wrong" and somehow — somehow — everyone would laugh like you were the second coming of George Carlin. It made her want to scream. Or hit you. Or both.
You always took up space without asking. You sat on counters like chairs didn't exist. You interrupted people with questions no one asked and nicknamed her things like "Captain Cranky" or "Tiny Terror," depending on your mood. There was never a day you didn't have some quip ready, like your entire goal in life was to make her feel just annoyed enough to snap in front of other people.
And the worst part was how good you were at pretending it was all harmless. Like she was the only one taking it seriously. You'd look at her with that stupid half-lidded stare, eyebrows lifted, head tilted like you were trying to figure her out. Like she was the one being weird.
God, it was infuriating. You were infuriating.
And yet, somehow, her brain had decided you deserved this much mental real estate. Which wasn't fair. Because she didn't like you. She wasn't even curious about you. She just... needed to understand why you bothered her so much.
Yeah. That was it. She was just trying to understand you.
Which is totally normal.
Totally sane.
Totally not bordering on a hyperfixation.
Tara blinked, the sun catching the edge of her vision as the sharp buzz of lunch chatter brought her back into the moment. She was sitting on one of those uncomfortable benches in the quad, elbow resting on the table, a half-eaten sandwich in front of her that she'd mostly forgotten about. The group was scattered around her — Mindy sprawled with her laptop open even though no one believed she was doing homework, Chad snacking on something loud, Anika sipping from a thermos and pretending she wasn't eavesdropping on everyone at once.
And you — of course — were across from her, leaned back like the bench was a recliner, sunglasses pushed up into your hair. Your mouth was moving, which meant Tara was already irritated.
"...I'm just saying," you were saying, mid-rant about something that had nothing to do with anything, "if I wanted to scam someone, it'd be super easy. Like, I could sell people fake concert tickets and just vanish. New name, new identity, new city. Easy."
Chad looked genuinely impressed. "Wait, you've thought about this?"
"I have a backup plan for my backup plan," you said, proud.
Tara didn't look up from her phone as she muttered, "Yeah, the plan is called 'being an idiot with too much confidence.'"
Anika pressed her lips together like she was trying not to laugh. Mindy glanced up, half-interested, just in time to see your face twist into that annoying little smirk you always pulled when Tara spoke.
You leaned forward slightly, tapping the table with your fingers. "Aw, don't be mad just 'cause your only backup plan is murder."
Tara looked up at that — slow and unamused. "If I ever do commit murder, guess who's at the top of the list?"
"Oh, I hope it's me," you said without missing a beat. "You thinking about me in your darkest hours is kind of hot."
Mindy muttered a faint Jesus Christ into her drink. Chad quietly asked Anika what the hell was happening.
Tara rolled her eyes and went back to her phone, but her ears were hot. And unfortunately, she knew you noticed that. Because you were watching her. Still.
Always.
Tara told herself she wasn't going to engage again. She had already given you one line — that was one too many. But you were still there, grinning like you'd just won something, like her irritation was a gift, and it was taking everything in her not to throw her sandwich directly at your stupid face.
God, she hated you.
She hated the way you always found a way to make the conversation about yourself — like you were the main character and everyone else was lucky to exist in your orbit. She hated your fake-deep takes on random topics, your smug little shrugs, and how you somehow got away with doing absolutely zero schoolwork but still passed everything. She hated how you never used a phone case. She hated your handwriting. She hated that you had a fanbase in school like this was a Netflix original.
And most of all, she hated that you always sat across from her.
"Okay, but if you had to pick someone in this group to survive the apocalypse with," Anika was saying, gesturing dramatically with a carrot stick, "who would it be? And you can't say me, because obviously I'd carry all of you."
Mindy snorted. "You? You panic when the WiFi goes out."
"I have emotional strength," Anika shot back.
"Emotional strength doesn't reload a crossbow," Mindy said.
"Wait, wait—" you leaned forward like you were about to say something important, which already annoyed Tara, "—do we mean zombie apocalypse or, like, nuclear winter? Because that changes everything."
Tara didn't even look up. "Why do you sound like you've practiced for both?"
You didn't miss a beat. "Why do you sound jealous?" That earned a soft laugh from Chad. Tara glared at him.
Mindy was already shaking her head. "This is why you two can't sit next to each other. It's like watching a romcom written by sociopaths."
"Excuse you," you said, hand on your chest. "I bring levity to this group. I'm the charming one."
"You're the delusional one," Tara muttered.
Chad leaned back. "Speaking of delusion — is everyone still going to that party Friday night?”
Tara finally looked up again. "You mean the one at that junior's house? Josh-something?"
"Josh Valera," Mindy supplied. "He was in that weird film class last semester. Wears too much cologne. Thinks Letterboxd is a personality."
"That's the one," Chad said. "Apparently he's got a pool and like five kegs."
Anika perked up. "Five?"
"Two of them are root beer, but still," Chad added.
You shrugged. "I'm going. I like chaos.”
Tara rolled her eyes. "Of course you do. You are chaos."
You grinned at her again. "Flirting already? Slow down, Carpenter. Buy me a drink first."
Tara didn't respond. She just reached over and stole a grape off your tray.
You blinked. "Hey."
"Shut up," she said, chewing slowly.
You didn't argue. You just gave her that look — the one that made her want to throw you into traffic. Or maybe into a wall. Hard to say.
Tara turned back to the group, pretending like the grape theft had ended the interaction, but her thoughts didn't exactly follow. Her fingers tapped absently against the table as Mindy and Chad started debating whether keg root beer was a crime or a revelation, voices blending into background noise.
She wasn't even sure she wanted to go to this party.
It wasn't her scene. Too loud, too messy, too many people trying to be seen. She'd already told herself she might flake. She had a paper she could use as an excuse. A headache she could fake. A completely made-up allergy to chlorine if anyone asked about the pool.
But now you were going — and somehow that made her want to not go even more, and also want to go twice as hard just to make sure you didn't say something so dumb no one could recover from it.
That was the thing about you. You made her feel like she had to be there. To monitor the chaos. To fact-check your nonsense in real time. And sure, yeah, maybe parties were a little more fun when you were around — but only because watching you try to dance and hit on people like a malfunctioning dating sim was basically free entertainment.
She wasn't going because of you.
Obviously not.
She was going because she was invited. Because all her friends were going. Because maybe she deserved a night out after surviving another week of your voice echoing through every goddamn group hangout like a mosquito that wouldn't die.
Totally normal reasons.
Mindy was saying something again, something about outfit coordination or theme or whatever, but Tara barely caught it. Her eyes flicked back across the table where you'd gone back to talking with Anika — animated, leaning in, saying something Tara couldn't hear but that made Anika snort.
You looked relaxed. Stupidly relaxed. Sunglasses still pushed up on your head, like you hadn't even noticed the sun or the way it bounced off your smile or how annoying it was that you smiled that much.
God, Tara hated people like you. The kind who didn't try and still got attention. The kind who didn't care and still got invited to everything. The kind who never shut up — ever — but somehow never got told to.
And now you were going to be at the party too.
Great.
Because of course you were. Of course you'd show up, talk too loud, drink too much, and somehow still end the night with everyone thinking you were fun. And Tara would have to deal with it. Like always.
Totally fine.
She could survive one night. As long as you didn't say anything too stupid.
Or try to talk to her.
Or exist within her peripheral vision.
___
Tara didn't even know why she was standing in front of her closet like that. Like she was frozen. Like any of this actually mattered.
It wasn't her first party. Wasn't even the first one this month. She knew exactly what to expect — same drinks, same music, same people. She wasn't nervous. She wasn't trying to impress anyone. She wasn't standing there for any reason at all, really.
Still, she'd been flipping through the same six hangers for almost ten minutes.
She wasn't overthinking it. She just didn't feel like hearing some dumb comment about how she wore the same shirt every time. Not that she cared what Mindy said — Mindy had zero taste and even less room to talk — but still. It wasn't about the top. It was just... the principle.
She grabbed a black crop top. Put it on. Looked at herself. Took it off.
Not because she didn't like it. She just didn't feel like dealing with it right now.
Tried something else. Looked fine. Took it off again.
God.
She tugged her hair into a loose ponytail, held it there for a second, then let it fall. Stared at herself in the mirror. Walked away. Came back. Tried on the black again. Threw it on the bed.
Her phone buzzed. Again.
The group chat was full-blown chaos now — Mindy sending voice notes nobody asked for, Chad trying to be funny and failing, Anika suggesting shots before they even left the dorm. Tara rolled her eyes. She opened the chat, typed something halfway, deleted it, then checked her lockscreen out of habit.
And of course, your name was sitting right there. With another voice note. Two, actually.
She played the first one, not because she wanted to hear it, but because it auto-played when she tapped it. That's what she told herself anyway. Not like she was listening. Not like she replayed it when it cut off halfway through because she didn't have her volume up.
She didn't even laugh. Not really. Just that weird half-smirk thing she did when she was trying not to give anyone credit for being funny.
Whatever.
She tossed her phone across the bed and sat down next to it with a dramatic flop she'd never admit was on purpose. Let her head fall back. Closed her eyes.
This wasn't her being weird. It was just her getting in the right headspace. That's all. Normal pre-party stuff. Not dread. Not anything serious. Just the kind of minor, manageable irritation that came with the territory.
People were going to be annoying. The room was going to be too hot. Someone was going to spill beer on her shoes again. And yeah, maybe you'd be there, being loud and smug and pretending like you didn't love hearing your own voice. But so what? Tara could handle that.
She always handled that.
And if she didn't, it wasn't like anyone noticed.
She'd gotten good at that — at faking it. At keeping it light. Whatever the opposite of spiraling was, that's what she did in public. Kept things casual. Played it off. Made the right faces. Said the right things. The trick was not to stop moving. Not to let people look for too long. Not to give anyone time to ask questions.
And if something slipped — if her voice cracked, if her hands shook — well, that's what alcohol was for.
It made things easier. Smoother. People didn't ask why you were acting weird if you were drinking. They just laughed and passed the bottle and told you to take another one. And Tara? Tara could always take another one.
She never had to explain anything if she was drunk.
It was a cover. A convenient excuse. And sometimes, yeah, it worked a little too well — like when she woke up still in her jeans or couldn't remember who had walked her home. But that was part of the deal. Part of the plan. She'd rather feel nothing at all than have it spill.
She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and rubbed her hands over her face.
Tonight wouldn't be different. It wasn't going to be some dramatic thing. Just another night where she drank enough to not think too hard. Just enough to laugh too loud and say something kind of mean and not care if you looked at her like you wanted to say something back.
Just another night. Same as always.
That's what she told herself as she pulled on her jacket and stepped out into the dark. She didn't rush. Didn't think too hard about it. The door clicked shut behind her, and for a second, she just stood there, her hands buried in her pockets, the quiet pressing in from all sides. Not a calm kind of quiet — not peaceful — more like the kind that made her feel too aware of everything. Her breath. Her pulse. The buzz in her ears that hadn't gone away since last week.
She started walking.
The streets were mostly empty. A few cars passed. Somewhere in the distance, someone was laughing way too loud, maybe already drunk. She didn't look. Just kept moving. It was muscle memory at this point — her feet knew where to go, even if her mind wasn't really in it yet.
She used to put music on for walks like this. Something loud, something fast. Something to drown things out. But now she didn't bother. Now she liked the silence better. Or maybe she just didn't want to give herself the chance to start assigning meaning to lyrics again. She hated when she did that. It made everything feel too obvious.
So she walked in silence. Past the same corner store, the same flickering streetlamp, the same crooked fence that probably still hadn't been fixed. Her fingers itched for a cigarette even though she didn't smoke. She was just used to the image — used to pretending she was the kind of person who'd do that. Careless. Detached. In control.
By the time she turned onto the right block, she could already hear the music. Not loud enough to be annoying yet. Just enough to feel like a warning. Like a reminder of what came next.
She didn't slow down.
The house wasn't far. Just a few blocks down — she could already hear the thump of music by the time she reached the corner. That same playlist they always used. That same vibrating bassline that never quite matched the beat. Someone had left the front door cracked open, and warm air hit her in the face the second she stepped inside, carrying with it a wave of voices, sweat, perfume, and cheap alcohol.
Same as always.
She didn't stop at the entrance. Didn't hesitate. She shoved her hands in her pockets and headed straight for the back — toward the kitchen, toward the glass sliding door with the broken lock, toward the corner that had somehow, over time, become theirs.
Mindy spotted her first.
"Tara!" she shouted, like they hadn't spoken that morning, already tipsy and holding a Solo cup with something suspiciously pink inside. She lunged in for a hug Tara barely returned, then immediately started talking about something she didn't really understand. Chad followed, grinning wide and already pulling her into one of those awkward side-hugs he gave everyone, like he was too big to fully aim.
And then there was you.
You leaned back against the counter like you owned it, one eyebrow raised, drink in hand. You didn't even say hi at first. Just let your gaze drag up and down her outfit — slow, deliberately unimpressed — before you spoke.
"Wow," you said. "She changed out of the hoodie. What's the occasion? You get drafted?"
Tara blinked once. "Wow," she repeated, tone deadpan. "That was almost funny. You've been practicing, huh?"
Mindy laughed. You grinned. Chad muttered something about not starting again.
But it was too late. The ritual had begun.
Tara took the drink Mindy offered, clinked it lightly against yours in some mock toast, and took a long sip without breaking eye contact. It tasted like something toxic, but she didn't flinch.
The circle closed around her again, just like it always did — warm, messy, loud, familiar. Anika slid in beside her and started complaining about the DJ. Mindy was yelling about rules for flip cup that no one asked for. Chad had already disappeared, probably looking for food. And you... you stayed exactly where you were, always within arm's reach, always with something to say.
It felt normal.
Same as every other night. Same drink in her hand. Same laughter around her. Same practiced smile on her face, tight but believable. And if she stayed moving, stayed distracted, stayed loud enough or quiet enough or just enough of something — then no one noticed anything at all. Not even you. Who noticed everything.
Anika was halfway through telling the story — apparently Chad had knocked over a whole drink onto the stereo setup earlier, and they all thought the music was going to short out and ruin the night. Mindy kept cutting in to dramatize it, claiming Chad had "shrieked like a toddler," and Chad, who was now camped out by the snacks, shouted back through a mouthful of chips that it wasn't that loud.
You half-listened, swirling the last of your drink around in the cup. Your focus kept drifting back to Tara, who had slouched into the armchair next to you without much enthusiasm, tapping the bottom of her cup against her knee like she was counting down the minutes until she could leave.
"Yeah, you missed it," you said finally, tossing it casually in her direction. "You took so long getting here we were about to send out a search party."
Tara didn't answer right away. She shifted a little in her seat, tapping her cup once more, before muttering, "Sorry people have other shit to do besides drink themselves stupid."
You smirked at the sharpness in her tone. That was the thing about Tara — she always bit back, even when it only made it worse for her.
"And here I thought you were just busy picking out an outfit," you said, resting your elbow lazily against the back of the couch. "Took you forever and you're still the worst dressed one here."
Mindy barely looked up from her phone. "Okay, but to be fair, Y/N would say that no matter what she wore."
You clicked your tongue like you were hurt, but Tara beat you to it, lifting her cup and aiming a lazy smile at Mindy.
"At least someone around here has taste," she said, clinking her drink lightly in Mindy's direction.
You eyed Tara's outfit again — black jeans, black top, black jacket. Somehow three different shades.
"Taste?" you echoed, eyebrows lifting. "You're wearing two different blacks right now. You look like a printer error."
Tara exhaled through her nose — not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. "Right, because I should take fashion advice from someone who thinks jean shorts are business casual."
The reaction from the group was instant — a few low laughs, Mindy muttering something under her breath you didn't catch. Tara just shook her head like she was so done, but you could see the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth, like she was holding back a smile she didn't want to give you.
Still, she couldn't leave it alone. She never could.
"You know what?" you said, straightening up like you'd just remembered something crucial. "At least I show up on time. Not everyone's gotta wait around pretending to enjoy freshmen karaoke because someone can't figure out how to use Google Maps."
That one hit — a few more chuckles around the room. Tara narrowed her eyes, shifting forward in her seat.
"It's a five-minute walk," she said, her voice dripping with disbelief. "Even you could find your way here, and you still get lost inside a Target."
You gasped like it was an outrage, slapping a hand to your chest. "Oh my god. I got lost one time."
"Three times," Anika corrected, not even looking up from the cup she was fiddling with.
You turned your betrayal onto her with a dramatic glare. "That's because Target is a maze. They do it on purpose. Like a trap.”
Tara was already leaning back, tipping her head against the wall like she was exhausted by your stupidity. "You're just dumb," she said sweetly, smiling over the rim of her cup.
You smiled wider, teeth and all, like you had been waiting for it.
"Yeah?" you said. "You got an F in Health class, Tara. You're basically a public hazard."
It was immediate — a loud snort from Mindy, Anika covering her mouth in a poor attempt to hide her laugh. Tara, for once, didn't have anything fast enough to say back. She just gave you a look — all narrowed eyes and simmering annoyance — and took a long, deliberate sip of her drink instead.
You leaned back into the couch, pleased, letting the laughter fade around you. Tara was still glaring at you from behind her cup, and you shot her a wink just to twist the knife a little deeper.
Like always — you got the last word. And like always — she hated you for it. God, she hated you.
She hated the way you acted like you didn't care, like nothing ever touched you. She hated the way you could tear her apart without even raising your voice, how you never got rattled no matter how hard she tried to knock you off balance. How you smiled at her like you liked seeing her lose.
She hated your mouth — sharp and quick and always moving — and the way you dressed, like you didn't even try but still somehow won. Tight black tube top stretched over your chest, low-slung jeans clinging just right, a little messy, a little dangerous, a lot hotter than she could stand to admit.
Tara let her gaze slide sideways, just for a second. You were leaning back against the kitchen counter now, a red solo cup dangling carelessly from your fingers, grinning lazily, legs crossed at the ankle like you couldn't have been more at home. The hem of your jeans was frayed, the belt slung low across your hips, the sharp lines of your body slouching there like it wasn't killing her.
You looked like every bad decision she had ever barely survived. And you knew it.
Tara took another long sip of her drink, swallowing down the burn. She told herself she was just annoyed — just irritated by you — that the flush creeping up the back of her neck was from the alcohol, not from the way you kept laughing, easy and bright, with everyone except her.
Not because you looked good.
Not because you made her want something she was supposed to hate.
She tapped her cup against the edge of the counter again, harder this time, trying to shake it off.
Trying to ignore the way you shifted your weight, the way the band of your belt caught the low light, the sharp gleam in your eye every time you caught her looking.
God, she hated you. And if she didn't, she was going to have to start lying a whole lot harder.
Tara cracked an eye open at the sound, her gaze dragging over you — slow, irritated, and just a little too heavy. She could already feel the alcohol blooming hot under her skin, prickling at the back of her neck, tightening in her chest like it wanted to crawl out. Definitely more than she usually drank. Way more.
But what was she supposed to do? Stand here stone-cold sober while you — in all your smug, infuriating glory — kept shooting her that half-smile like you knew you were winning just by existing?
No chance.
She shifted her weight, letting her shoulder knock loosely against the cabinet behind her, and took another sip even though she didn't want it. The liquor was starting to taste stale. Bitter. And it still wasn't working. Still wasn't shutting off the sharp, gnawing awareness of you — standing there way too close, belt catching the light, black tube top doing absolutely nothing to not make her night worse.
She blamed the red in your eyes on the alcohol too. Had to. Because the alternative — that you were already three steps ahead of her, soft and glassy and loose-limbed and still managing to make her look like the idiot — was something she wasn't about to deal with tonight.
You caught her looking again. Of course you did. You tilted your head just slightly, a silent challenge, your fingers toying lazily with the rim of your cup.
"Just you and me then, princess," you said, smirking around the rim of your cup.
Tara scoffed, hard, eyes narrowing. "Don't call me that."
You blinked innocently. "No? What about...Pissy Missy?"
She made a face like she just swallowed something sour. "Worse."
You grinned wider, pushing off the counter to face her more fully. "Snappy?"
She shot you a look that could've cut glass. "Try again and I'm breaking your nose."
You lifted your free hand, pretending to think it over, pretending to take it seriously. "Mmm... Crankzilla?"
"Jesus Christ," she muttered under her breath, rubbing her temples like the very sound of your voice was giving her a migraine.
You pushed yourself up onto the counter with a little hop, drink sloshing slightly in your hand but somehow you didn't spill a drop. You perched there like you owned the whole damn room, legs swinging loosely, head tilted just enough to seem amused, still grinning, refusing to let up. "Tantrum Tot?"
Tara let out a short, humorless laugh. "You are the last person who's allowed to call me that."
Your smile turned sly. You leaned in just a little — enough to make it annoying, enough to make it clear you were doing it on purpose. "Mean Bean?"
Tara actually recoiled like you'd slapped her. "I will literally throw you out the window."
You laughed under your breath, couldn't help it. "So that's a no?"
She shook her head, looking half-ready to murder you, half-ready to laugh. She wasn't sure if it was the alcohol making everything feel looser around the edges — the thrum in her veins, the heat crawling up her neck — or just you being a stubborn, smug little shit, the way you always were.
You looked at her, feigning disappointment. "Guess I'll just stick to 'princess.' You seemed to like that one the best."
She let out a sharp, disbelieving breath — not quite a laugh, not quite a groan — and nudged your knee with her hand as she stepped past you to grab another drink. "God, you're insufferable."
But her mouth twitched at the corner when she said it. Just barely.
And you caught it.
Of course you did.
Your eyebrows lifted, slow and smug, and you tipped your cup toward her like a lazy kind of toast before taking a sip — dragging it out just enough to make sure she noticed.
Tara rolled her eyes, whipping her head to the side like she could physically shake you out of her sight. But it was too late — you'd already seen it.
The tiny, reluctant pull of a smile at the corner of her mouth. Like she hated you, God, she hated you — but sometimes you were just... so stupid, it scraped a laugh out of her before she could stop it.
Not a full laugh — just a quick breath through her nose, a barely-there twist of her mouth — but enough to make you catch it.
And enough to make your smirk deepen.
You leaned back against the counter a little more comfortably, soaking it in, almost like you were proud of yourself for chipping away at her.
Which, of course, you were.
The room around you buzzed louder — people laughing, shot glasses clinking together somewhere across the kitchen. You turned your head lazily toward the noise, watching as a group gathered by the kitchen island, shouting numbers and already spilling cheap liquor across the counters.
Your gaze shifted back to Tara, a lazy spark lighting behind your eyes.
"Let's take a shot," you said, voice low and smooth, like you were suggesting something way worse.
Tara blinked at you, like she genuinely thought she had misheard. "What?"
You shrugged one shoulder, your smirk never dropping.
"Scared you can't keep up?"
This time, the laugh actually escaped her — a short, incredulous sound, almost more like a scoff.
"You wish," she said, shooting you a look so sharp it could've taken your head off if you were standing any closer.
You pushed off the counter, setting your drink down without a second thought, already moving toward the mess of bottles and half-filled glasses at the island.
You didn't even have to look back — you could feel her eyes burning into your back, feel the weight of her decision hanging thick in the air.
For a second, you thought maybe she was going to be stubborn — dig her heels in and refuse, just to spite you. But when you slowed up near the table, pretending like you hadn't even noticed she hadn't followed yet, you heard her exhale sharply.
You didn't have to look to know she was giving in.
You grabbed two shot glasses from the cluttered island, ignoring how sticky the counter had gotten, and poured quickly — a lazy, messy hand on the bottle.
You very obviously tipped a little more into hers, the clear liquid sloshing closer to the rim, before sliding it across the counter toward her spot without a word.
Tara caught it, narrowing her eyes immediately — but she didn't say anything. She just adjusted her grip like she was already planning how to get you back later.
You grinned, picking up your own glass, and tilted it toward her expectantly.
"C'mon," you said, nudging the rim of yours toward hers. "Don't be rude."
She rolled her eyes but lifted hers too, clearly ready to just get this over with — but you didn't let it stay casual.
You smacked the two glasses together a little harder than you should have, enough that a splash of alcohol flew up and splattered across her hand and wrist.
"Asshole," she laughed — real this time, but quick and rough like she didn't mean to let it out — wiping her hand absently on the side of her skirt.
You shrugged, pretending like it hadn't been on purpose at all, and tipped your glass up.
Tara followed a beat later.
The tequila hit her tongue hot — too hot.
Not the smooth burn she was used to — the kind that melted into your chest and stayed there — but something sharper, harsher, like her whole mouth dried up at once and she was still somehow drowning.
She squeezed her eyes shut as she swallowed it, scrunching her nose instinctively after.
She'd taken shots a hundred times before. But right now, it felt... different.
Maybe it was the amount she'd already had tonight — more than she usually would've touched.
Or maybe it was the way the room spun a little when she tipped her head back down, how everything felt just slightly off-balance, like the floor under her feet was shifting.
Or maybe, just maybe, it was the fact that you were standing there, cocky and stupid and smirking at her like you knew she was going to keep saying yes to every little thing you dared her to do.
Maybe it was that.
Either way — she wasn't about to let you win again.
You were already reaching for the bottle again, tipping it over both your glasses without even asking.
You didn't even look at her — just poured like it was obvious she was going to stay.
Tara moved automatically at first, grabbing her glass to pull it away — but she hesitated halfway through. Her fingers tightened around the rim instead, her mouth tightening too, like she couldn't believe she was actually doing this.
She was shotting with you. Standing next to you — just you — out of her own free will.
Nobody forcing her, nobody dragging her by the wrist, nobody making a joke or daring her into it.
She could have walked away fifteen minutes ago. Hell, she could have never said yes in the first place. But here she was.
And the worst part — the part that made her want to throw the shot straight in your face — was that it didn't even feel completely insufferable.
It should have. God, it should have.
Instead, there was a lightness to it. A weird, easy kind of tension that didn't make her want to throw a punch — not really. Just... knock your stupid smirk off your face a little.
You caught her staring, of course — because you always caught everything — and shot her a look like you were already laughing at her inside your head.
You smirked wider, raised your glass, and clinked it against hers again.
"Cheers, princess," you said, all slow and mocking.
Tara narrowed her eyes — but when you both tipped your heads back and took the second shot, she was smiling.
She hated it.
But she smiled anyway.
The first shot was already starting to hum under her skin — or maybe it was the second, she didn't know. She told herself that was why she was still standing there with you. Why she hadn't already shoved past you and disappeared into the crowd.
It wasn't because it felt good — leaning there, beside you, the air crackling faintly between your arms whenever you shifted too close. It wasn't because of the way you kept glancing at her, like you were waiting for her to crack first.
It wasn't because the tiny part of her — the tiny, traitorous part — kind of liked it.
No.
It was just the alcohol.
That's what she decided as she placed her empty shot glass back down, a little too hard.
That's what she decided when her head swayed slightly, and the room tipped for a second too long before steadying.
When the blurry edges of the world made it easier not to think too hard about anything.
You were leaning your hip lazily against the edge of the folding table now, one foot hooked behind the other, like you didn't have a single worry in the world. One hand still cradling your drink, the other tapping a slow, easy rhythm against your thigh.
You were too relaxed.
Too comfortable.
Like standing next to her wasn't supposed to be the most aggravating part of your night.
It made her jaw clench — and at the same time, her stomach twist in a way she didn't really want to name.
She didn't realize she was staring until you turned your head, catching her again — always catching her — and cocked your eyebrow slightly, like you could read every thought she hadn't even figured out herself yet.
You didn't say anything for a second — just kept leaning there, easy and casual, like you didn't notice the way she was barely keeping herself upright. But then your smirk deepened a little, sharp and taunting.
"Want to dance?"you said, tipping your head toward the living room, where the music was still loud and heavy.
Tara almost laughed in your face.
Almost.
But the alcohol made the floor feel softer under her sneakers.
It made the flicker of lights around the room seem farther away, easier to ignore. And it made the idea of saying no — of staying here while you went off and smiled at someone else — feel unbearable.
So she rolled her eyes, muttered something under her breath that sounded a lot like "fuck you," and shoved off the table to follow.
The bass was pounding when you reached the middle of the room, people already packed tight enough that there wasn't really much space to move properly.
You didn't seem to care. You just spun around to face her, stepping backward into the crowd and waiting, daring her, with a tilt of your head.
Tara hesitated — but only for half a second.
Because fuck it. It was just dancing.
And it was definitely just the alcohol making her heart trip when your hand brushed lightly against her wrist.
You didn't grab her. You didn't even really touch her again.
You just started moving, lazy and easy, like you knew she was going to fall in step with you eventually.
And the worst part — the part that made Tara want to rip the stupid black tube top off your body — was that she did.
The music was loud enough to drown everything else out.
The lights blurred. The people around you blurred. And suddenly it was just you.
The way you moved. The way your jeans clung low on your hips. The flash of your belt buckle when you twisted just right. The way your shirt stretched tight across your stomach, showing off every sharp line of you.
Tara's mouth went dry. And just like that, the anger was back.
Because of course this was happening. Of course the second she let her guard down for half a second, you had to go and be hot.
She blamed the alcohol. She blamed the shitty lighting. She blamed the way the air felt sticky and electric. She blamed everything — except herself.
Because there was no fucking way she was actually starting to want you.
Tara moved half a beat off from you, just enough to look casual — just enough to hide the way her eyes kept flickering up, catching on you every other second.
The lights kept shifting overhead, blurring everything in flashes of purple and red, but somehow you stayed sharp.
The slope of your neck when you tossed your head back, laughing at something someone said behind you.
The way your shirt bunched and stretched with every shift of your hips.
The way your fingers hooked lazily through your belt loops, casual, cocky, like you owned the whole fucking room.
It all felt like slow motion.
Too vivid. Too loud inside her own head.
Tara gritted her teeth and forced herself to move, let the music drag her along so she didn't freeze up completely.
Because she could not let you catch her staring. She could not give you that satisfaction.
But even as she danced — even as she made herself sway to the pounding bass — her hands curled into fists at her sides.
She wanted to slap herself across the face. Or better — slap you.
Because you weren't even doing anything. You were just existing — just breathing and smiling and moving like you didn't have a single thought in your stupid, pretty head — and it was wrecking her.
It wasn't fair. It wasn't fucking fair that you could get under her skin like this without even trying.
And it made her furious.
Furious that she couldn't look away.
Furious that you looked so good under the lights, all effortless and smug and just a little wild.
Furious that her pulse stuttered every time you shifted closer.
Furious that a tiny, traitorous part of her — deep, deep down — almost didn't hate it.
Of course this was happening. Of course it was.
It wasn't like she hadn't seen it coming — not really. Not with the way you hovered around the edges of her life now, like a bad habit she couldn't kick. Not with the way the bickering had started sounding less like hatred and more like a language only the two of you spoke.
But this — this heat licking up her spine every time you so much as shifted in her direction —
This wasn't supposed to happen.
It couldn't happen.
Not when she hated you.
Not when she'd spent months convincing herself you were a mistake — a fluke — an accident she was smarter than to repeat.
You were cocky. You were smug.
You were a walking disaster, and you didn't even try to hide it.
You made her want to scream into her pillow and punch holes through walls and maybe — maybe —pull you closer by your stupid shirt and kiss you until she forgot how much she hated you.
And that was exactly the problem.
Because if there was even the smallest chance she could want you — even for a second —even with the alcohol burning through her bloodstream and the lights spinning overhead —then everything she thought she knew about you — about herself —was a lie.
And Tara Carpenter didn't lose.
She didn't fold.
She didn't want things she wasn't supposed to want.
Especially not you.
Her head buzzed — heavy and slow — like she was moving a few beats behind everything else. Every noise — every shout, every laugh, every thud of bass — felt a little too loud, rattling inside her skull like a marble in a glass jar. She blinked hard, trying to clear the static clouding her brain, but it only made the lights streak across her vision worse.
She caught herself swaying a little where she stood, the floor tilting under her feet, and scowled hard at nothing.
Her hands clenched into fists at her sides — like maybe she could squeeze the dizziness out of herself if she tried hard enough.
Great.
Exactly what she needed.
As if this wasn't already a fucking disaster.
The music thumped louder, vibrating up through the soles of her shoes, knocking against her ribs like a second heartbeat. Someone bumped into her shoulder, laughing, a drink sloshing over their hand, and Tara barely managed not to stumble sideways.
She realized she wasn't even really dancing anymore — just standing there, stuck, her pulse pounding too close to the surface, her breath coming quicker than she wanted.
Everything felt too hot. Too close. Too slow and too fast all at once. She needed to move.
She needed to get away from you — your stupid mouth and your stupid smirk and your stupid eyes.
Without thinking, she spun on her heel and pushed away from the crowd, her boots scraping hard against the sticky floor.
The bodies around her blurred together, all sweat-slick skin and flashing lights. She shoved her way through without caring, elbowing past groups hunched over drinks, sidestepping half-hearted apologies she barely heard.
The smell of cheap liquor and something burnt clung to the air, thick enough to choke on. Every step felt heavier than the last, like her boots were sinking into the floor, dragging her down.
She squinted through the chaos, trying to find somewhere — anywhere — less suffocating, her hands flexing uselessly at her sides.
Her eyes caught on a worn-out couch shoved against the wall, sagging in the middle, a mess of abandoned jackets and empty cups piled onto one side. It was barely any quieter over there — the music still thudding through the walls — but it was better than standing around like an idiot.
She stumbled her way toward it, weaving through the crowd, her shoulder clipping someone's arm without so much as a sorry. By the time she dropped onto the couch, the seat gave a tired creak under her weight, and she let herself slump back — her legs sprawling.
She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, willing the dizziness to settle, the roaring in her ears to die down.
The world kept tilting anyway.
She hated this.
Hated the way the night felt like it was slipping out of her hands.
Hated the heat clinging to her skin.
Hated you for making it worse without even trying.
She didn't even hear you approach — not at first.
But she felt it — the shift in the air, the invisible pull of you stepping closer.
That same stupid electricity sparking just from you being near.
Tara gritted her teeth, dropping her hands back onto her knees like she hadn't noticed anything at all. Like you weren't already there, lingering behind her, all smug and cocky and impossible to ignore.
She barely had time to slump back before you caught up, dropping down onto the couch beside her like you belonged there.
Your voice was low and stupidly smug in her ear.
"What's wrong? Can't keep up?"
Tara flipped you off over her shoulder without even bothering to look at you.
The motion was sloppy — her middle finger wobbling a little in the air — and she hated how you immediately laughed under your breath like you thought it was cute.
She scowled harder at the wall in front of her.
God. She hated this.
You didn't let up, of course.
You just shifted lazily closer, sprawling back like you had all the time in the world, your knee knocking against hers.
"What," you teased, voice low and impossible to ignore, "not used to anything outside of Beethoven?"
Tara whipped her head toward you — or tried to — but the whole room lurched sideways and she had to slam a hand down on the seat cushion to steady herself.
You laughed — actually laughed — and it was so stupid and smug that Tara couldn't help it.
A tiny, treacherous snort escaped out of her before she could stop it.
She immediately clamped her lips together, furious at herself — but it was too late.
You'd definitely heard it.
And worse, you were already grinning like you'd just won some invisible game she didn't even realize she was playing.
Tara cracked her eyes open again — a mistake — and immediately caught you staring right back at her.
Her chest tightened, too hot under her skin, and she tried to look away — but it was already too late.
Your eyes locked.
The air between you stretched tight — tight enough to snap — and Tara felt her own gaze flicker down, stupid and uncontrollable.
Straight to your mouth.
God, your lips were glossy — pink and wet under the shitty lights — and she hated that she noticed.
Hated the way the thought hit her like a punch:
That she could just lean over and kiss you.
That she could wipe that stupid fucking smirk right off your face with her mouth.
The thought should have mortified her.
Instead, it just burned — angry and wild, crackling in her chest like static.
She didn't chase the thought away. She didn't even try. She just sat there, letting it ruin her, letting it make her crazy.
Because it wasn't like you could hear what was happening in her head.
It wasn't like you knew.
But then you spoke — low, lazy, almost bored — and she realized you absolutely knew.
"Wanna make out?" you said.
The words weren't even really a question — more like a taunt — sliding off your tongue slow and smooth, like you already knew the answer.
Tara's whole body locked up at once.
Her fists clenched hard against her thighs.
Her heart slammed against her ribs like it was trying to break out.
She stared at you, open-mouthed, furious —
Furious at you, at herself, at the alcohol humming thick under her skin.
And the worst part — the absolute worst fucking part —was that her first instinct wasn't to say no.
It was to say yes.
And that terrified her more than anything else.
Because it wasn't just the alcohol talking.
Not just the warmth in her chest or the slow spin of the room.
It was the way the air felt heavy around her, the way your knee brushed against hers on the couch and she didn't pull away. The way her eyes kept dragging to your mouth and how she couldn't, for the life of her, seem to stop.
Her thoughts were sticky and slow, crawling through her head like syrup.
Everything around her — the voices, the music, the clatter of cups and laughter from the next room — had started to melt together, one indistinct blur of sound.
But you?
You were sharp. Clear. The only thing not spinning. And that pissed her off.
Because you weren't supposed to look like that — not here, not now.
You weren't supposed to be this version of yourself.
Not flushed and grinning and leaning back on someone else's couch like it belonged to you.
Not with those fucking glossy lips and the heat in your eyes and that low, teasing voice that kept sliding under her skin like it knew how to get there.
You looked good.
Too good.
Not in the annoying, arrogant way she was used to seeing you at school — mouthing off in class, flashing smug looks from across the cafeteria like you knew everything.
Now, in this lighting — under the soft yellow bulbs and the flicker of whatever movie someone had left playing in the background — you looked warm.
Inviting.
Your shirt slightly rumpled from dancing, your lashes casting shadows on your cheeks when you blinked.
And your mouth.
God, your mouth.
Tara's eyes flicked to your lips before she could stop them, catching the faint sheen of gloss that hadn't completely worn off yet.
She wanted to blame the shot.
Both of them.
The burn still lingering in her throat, the warmth still spreading in her chest.
She felt high.
Not drunk — high.
The kind of high that made her limbs feel light and disconnected, her fingers slightly numb where they fidgeted in her lap.
She felt like if she moved too fast, her body would tip right off the edge of the world.
And you had the audacity to say it like it meant nothing — like you hadn't just thrown a live wire into her already scrambled brain.
Like it was funny.
Like it wasn't about to ruin everything.
She froze — only for a second — but it felt longer than that.
Long enough for her brain to scramble for something.
Some reason, some excuse, any explanation that didn't end with her admitting what she was actually thinking.
None of it will matter tomorrow.
You're drunk. She's drunk.
This isn't real.
You wouldn't even say something like that if you were sober.
So she didn't have to take it seriously.
She didn't have to mean it.
She let her head fall back against the couch — the real kind of surrender — and turned it lazily to the side so she could look at you without making it obvious.
You were already watching her.
Her gaze dropped again, and this time, she didn't pretend it was an accident.
Your lips looked soft.
Mocking.
Like they were daring her.
And for just a second, she imagined what it'd be like to shut you up with a kiss.
Hard.
Fast.
Just to wipe that look off your face.
The thought made her stomach flip.
It made her angry, how easily her mind went there.
But you weren't going to hear those thoughts.
So what did it matter?
Her lips curled before she could stop them — a slow, crooked smirk — and she finally gave in.
"Sure," she said, her voice low and dry.
Your eyebrows ticked up, just slightly.
And then you leaned in, already smiling like you knew.
Tara barely had a second to breathe.
Your face was suddenly so close — the heat of you, the smell of your skin, some mix of alcohol and mint gum and whatever lotion you used.
Too close.
And then your mouth touched hers.
It was hesitant at first. Just a press. A test.
But it was warm — soft — and her breath caught in her throat.
You tilted your head just slightly, and her lips followed without thinking.
They parted for yours like they knew how.
The kiss deepened.
Slower than she expected.
Sloppy, yes — but controlled.
You kissed like you were making sure she felt it.
Every inch of it.
Tara's lips moved with yours, instinct kicking in where reason had checked out.
She shifted her weight, angling closer, and felt your hand graze her knee before sliding up to her hip, anchoring her there.
You adjusted, one elbow slipping up along the back of the couch — the actual term she was too drunk to think of — your fingers brushing her shoulder as you leaned in further.
It made your bodies press together in a way that sent sparks shooting down her spine.
She kissed you harder.
Or maybe you kissed her harder.
She didn't know anymore.
All she could feel was the warmth of your mouth — wet, slow, maddeningly soft — moving against hers.
It wasn't clean or careful.
It was messy.
Unsteady.
Like neither of you really knew where the rhythm started or ended, just that you didn't want to stop.
Your lips parted again, and she followed.
Breath hitched.
Tongues touched.
Tara's fingers dug into the edge of the couch cushion, her balance swaying between you and the seat, and she didn't care.
Your lips tasted like cheap liquor and something sweeter underneath.
Your teeth grazed her bottom lip and she inhaled sharp through her nose — just enough for you to notice — before kissing you again.
It was chaotic.
Uncoordinated.
Hot.
Her heart was hammering.
You kept kissing her like it was easy. Like you weren't even thinking about it.
And she couldn't stand how badly she wanted to keep going.
How her body leaned into yours like it needed to.
Every second of it was wrong.
Every second of it felt too good.
But Tara didn't pull away.
Not yet.
Your hand was still resting at her hip, light but grounding, and her fingers curled unconsciously against your leg, needing something solid to hold onto. Her lips moved against yours again — slower this time, deeper. Like she couldn't help it. Like the heat simmering in her chest had nowhere else to go.
She didn't even try to think anymore.
Didn't care.
Her thoughts were loud — messy, tangled, barely strung together.
She shouldn't be doing this.
She shouldn't want this.
But she did.
God, she did.
She kissed you harder, angling her head to the side, and you met her without hesitation — like you'd been waiting for that exact pressure, that exact urgency.
Her legs shifted against the couch, thighs tightening involuntarily as your hand brushed up her side — not even high, not even skin — and still it sent a jolt right through her.
She was drunk.
That had to be it.
It had to be.
Because she could feel it now.
Low in her stomach. Between her legs.
A slow, pulsing heat — the kind that wouldn't go away. That never just went away.
It was ridiculous.
So fucking ridiculous.
But you tasted good.
You felt good.
And when your lips dragged slightly down to the corner of her mouth — just enough to make her breath hitch — Tara realized she didn't just want to kiss you.
She wanted more.
Her mind raced.
Images flashing too fast to stop — her hands gripping your shirt, your mouth lower, your body under hers — and she wanted to shake herself.
Yell.
Do something.
But all she did was kiss you again. Again and again and again.
She could barely think, barely breathe, could feel herself pooling between her legs — warm, aching, needy in a way that made her want to scream.
It was humiliating. It was infuriating.
And it wasn't stopping.
You shifted slightly, pulling her closer without even trying — and Tara let you.
Let you kiss her like you owned her.
Let your tongue slide against hers with that same cocky rhythm.
She wanted to push you back.
Push you down. Pull your hair. Something. Anything.
Because she needed more.
Even if she couldn't say it.
Even if it killed her.
The thought alone made her dizzy.
Not the alcohol. Not the heat.
Just you.
You, sitting there like you hadn't just lit her whole body on fire.
You, staring at her with those eyes like you knew exactly what she wanted and how badly she wanted it.
And fuck — she hated that she couldn't hide it anymore.
Not with her lips swollen from yours, not with her chest rising too fast, not with that hungry, throbbing pull between her legs that wouldn't stop gnawing at her.
Her mind twisted in circles — a thousand reasons why she should stop, why she had to stop.
This wasn't her.
She didn't do this.
She didn't want this.
But that voice was buried now — drowned under the heat, the rush, the way her thighs squeezed together like they had a mind of their own.
The only thing louder than her thoughts was the ache.
She wanted to lean back in.
Wanted to taste your lip gloss again, to bite your bottom lip and hear you gasp.
Wanted to see just how far you'd let her take it.
Instead, her body moved on instinct.
Sharp. Sudden.
She pulled away — barely — lips parting from yours with a sound too soft for how hard her heart was beating.
She sat there for a second, just breathing.
Just staring.
Your eyes locked with hers, confused but already glinting with that same smugness you always had.
And still — she couldn't look away.
Her hand twitched. Fingers curled.
"Come on," she muttered — voice low, tight, like the words cost her something.
Then she grabbed your wrist.
Not rough. Not gentle.
Just determined.
You didn't say a word.
Didn't ask where you were going.
You just followed.
She pulled you through the crowd, heat and bass and sweat pressing in from every side.
Bodies crushed together — laughing, moving, swaying — and Tara didn't look at a single one of them.
She didn't care.
Didn't slow down.
Her grip on your hand tightened as she shoved through, weaving past shoulders and spilled drinks and sticky floors.
The music was louder now, the air thicker, and she could barely breathe — but she didn't stop.
Because you were still behind her. And your hand was still in hers. And she needed more.
Wherever this was going —
Whatever happened next —
She needed more.
And oh, did she get it.
She barely registered the room as she dragged you inside — the faint whir of a ceiling fan, the messy tangle of an unmade bed in the corner, a dresser with half-open drawers.
It didn't matter. None of it did.
The second the door clicked shut behind you, Tara's hands were on you again — shoving you back against it hard enough to rattle the frame.
You let out a breathy laugh — smirking — and Tara wanted to punch it off your face.
Or kiss it.
Apparently her body decided for her.
Because the next thing she knew, her mouth was on yours again, hot and rough and starving.
She felt you grin against her lips — cocky and pleased — and it made something furious and electric twist deep inside her.
She kissed you harder.
Sloppier.
Your bodies crashed together, uncoordinated and messy.
It was all teeth and heat, lips sliding and tugging, hands scrabbling for something to hold onto.
Tara barely remembered how to breathe.
Her hands fisted in the hem of your shirt, tugging you closer, feeling the way your body molded into hers.
You were warm — too warm — and the heady smell of you, your perfume and sweat and beer, filled her lungs until she was drunk off it.
Drunker than she already was.
You tilted your head, deepening the kiss, and Tara almost whimpered — feeling it all the way down to her knees.
The way your tongue brushed against hers, teasing, coaxing.
The way you bit down gently on her bottom lip, pulling it between your teeth for just a second before letting go.
Fuck.
She pressed her whole body against you, chasing the feeling, desperate to steal more.
And all she could think — all she could fucking think — was:
More.
More.
More.
Her hands moved before her brain could catch up — yanking at the hem of your shirt, dragging it upward in one rough pull.
You didn't resist — you even raised your arms to make it easier — and Tara barely tossed it somewhere across the room before her eyes dropped automatically, hungrily.
You were wearing a black bandeau bra — simple, tight, strapless. It hugged your chest perfectly, the curve of your breasts pressed up and together — smooth and effortless and unfairly fucking hot.
Tara stared for a second longer than she meant to, heat punching through her chest so sharp it almost hurt.
And then she was on you again.
Her hands framed your face, grabbing you roughly, and she crashed her mouth back onto yours like she could erase the thoughts racing through her head if she just kissed you hard enough.
You made a low sound in the back of your throat — something between a laugh and a moan — and suddenly, you started walking forward, guiding her with you.
Tara stumbled a step back, caught off-guard, but didn't think, didn't care — she just followed, letting herself be pulled wherever you wanted her.
It was messy, chaotic, bumping into furniture, nearly tripping over shoes left on the floor. The floor kept tilting under her feet, the alcohol swirling through her blood like fire.
But none of it mattered.
You didn't give her time to overthink.
Before she could fully process it, the back of her legs hit the edge of the bed —
And your fingers were already at the hem of her shirt, bunching it up and over her ribs.
Tara didn't move at first.
Didn't breathe.
She just let you.
Arms raising slightly, letting you peel the fabric up and off — another piece of herself surrendered without even a second thought.
Her head spun so violently it almost made her laugh.
And then your eyes flickered down — blatantly — lingering at her chest. Tara didn't even have time to brace for it.
She was wearing a black lace bra — something strappy, barely-there, a little too much push-up if she was being honest.
The way your gaze darkened made heat lick straight down her spine. You smirked, slow and lazy, like you had all the time in the world.
"Fancy, Carpenter," you murmured, voice low and teasing.
Tara opened her mouth — maybe to tell you to shut the fuck up — but then you tilted your head, grinning even wider.
"Did you pick this out just for me?"
Your hands slid up without warning — fingers tracing lightly over her ribs before cupping her breasts through the lace.
It wasn't even that rough, but it didn't have to be.
Tara almost moaned.
Almost.
Her knees went a little weak, her body flaring hot all over — and god, it pissed her off how easily you could get to her.
Instead of giving you the satisfaction of hearing her fall apart, she grabbed your face again — rough, desperate — and pulled you back into her.
"Don't remind me that you're you,” she growled into your mouth.
And then she kissed you — hard, messy, almost feral — her hands fisting tight in your hair like she needed something to hold onto just to keep herself grounded.
Tara kissed you like she was trying to knock the smugness right off your face — open-mouthed and clumsy and a little too desperate.
Your hands stayed right where she hated them — cupping, teasing — your thumbs brushing over the lace in a way that made her hips stutter forward without meaning to.
And somewhere in the swirling, drunken haze of it all, Tara had the fleeting, stupid thought that maybe she regretted what she said. Because doing this — this — with you didn't make her hate you more.
It made it hotter.
Made her want to crawl out of her own skin.
Before she could sink too deep into that terrifying realization, your hands slid down to her waist — gripping tight — and without warning, you pushed.
Tara stumbled backward with a sharp gasp, the backs of her knees hitting the bed.
She let herself fall — dropping onto the mattress with a bounce — glaring up at you like she wanted to murder you and kiss you at the same time.
You just smirked down at her, maddeningly calm, stepping in even closer. Your knees bumped against the edge of the bed, and for half a second, neither of you moved — the air thick between you, your breathing ragged and shallow.
And then — slowly, lazily — Tara spread her legs apart, leaving just enough space for you to step between.
She tilted her head back against the bed, looking up at you with dark, furious eyes — like she was daring you to fucking do something about it. Tara could already feel herself slipping.
Her thighs tensed where they framed your hips, her chest heaving with every shallow breath.
She didn't know what it was — the alcohol, the heat, you — but she needed something.
Needed you to move, to touch her, to do something.
If that meant bending her over and fucking her until she forgot her own name, then so be it.
She didn't care. She just needed it.
Her whole body ached with it — restless, buzzing, desperate — and she barely lasted ten seconds under the weight of your stare before her patience snapped clean in half.
"Are you just going to stand there fucking stare," she snarled, her voice low and wrecked, "or are you going to fuck me?"
Tara propped herself up on her elbows like it might make her look tougher —like it might somehow hide how desperate she was underneath all the glaring.
Your mouth fell open slightly at her words, caught somewhere between a smirk and actual shock —like you hadn't expected her to say it out loud.
You let your gaze rake down her body, slow and lazy, and when you looked back up at her, your smile was downright cruel.
"Wow," you said, voice dripping with mock-sweetness. "Someone's needy, huh?"
You leaned in, one hand bracing on the bed beside her hip, your mouth just barely brushing her ear.
"Poor little princess," you whispered. "Should I help you out?"
Tara muttered a "fuck you"under her breath — something sharp and furious— but her hands were already moving.
Shaky, rushed, desperate.
She grabbed at your belt first, fumbling with the buckle like it personally offended her, her fingers clumsy with alcohol and want. She yanked it loose hard enough to make the metal clatter, then popped open the button of your jeans, dragging the zipper down in one rough pull.
And fuck, there it was — hard and heavy against the fabric, clear as fucking day.
The sight made her head spin worse, made something low and tight pull deep in her stomach, but she didn't let herself stop to think about it — not even for a second. She shoved at your jeans until you stepped out of them, until they hit the floor with a messy thud.
Her heart thundered, wild and wrecked against her ribs, but she didn't move away — not yet.
Her hands hovered there for half a second, like she was caught between hating herself and wanting you more than she'd ever wanted anything.
Tara's mouth actually watered — hot and heavy and shameful — and she clenched her jaw tight like that could somehow make it stop.
Before she could even think about it, you were already moving again — your hands sliding down her sides, gripping tight at her hips. And then you were tugging at her skirt, so much easier than the fight she'd had with your jeans.
All it took was a little lift of her hips, and the fabric slid right off, pooling somewhere forgotten at the edge of the bed.
And fuck — she was wet.
She knew it.
You probably knew it too.
The thin black lace of her panties — delicate and stretched tight over her — left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Tiny little bows sat at each hip, the material riding low enough to make her look even more wrecked than she already was.
Your eyes dragged down her body slowly, like you were memorizing every goddamn inch.
And Tara, stubborn as ever, tilted her chin up — like she wasn't seconds away from begging you to touch her already. You didn't even hesitate.
Your fingers hooked into the delicate black lace at her hips and tugged, slow and deliberate, dragging the soaked fabric down her thighs. Tara didn't move at first — didn't even breathe — but the second they were off, she let her head fall back against the bed, her elbows still propping her up, gaze tilting up toward the ceiling.
The room spun around her, thick and heavy and slow, but she didn't care.
Not when she could hear the faint shuffle of you undressing too, stripping off that last piece of clothing between you.
She didn't even have to look to know you were naked now.
She felt it — the heat rolling off your body, the slow, deliberate weight of your gaze dragging across every inch of her.
Her chest rose and fell fast, uneven.
Her thighs pressed together for just a second — instinctive — but then she forced herself to relax them again, stubborn even now.
Waiting for you to make your move.
You still weren't doing anything.
You were just standing there, hovering over her, like you had all the time in the world — and it made her insane.
Tara threw her head up from the bed, snapping in a wrecked, furious voice, "God, could you be any slower?"
But she barely had the words out before you finally pushed into her.
Her breath punched out in a strangled, desperate moan, her head falling back again, slamming lightly against the mattress.
Her bare legs immediately wrapped themselves around your waist, locking you in place, like she couldn't stand the thought of you pulling away even for a second.
"Fuck," she gasped, low and broken, her voice raspy from how much she needed this — from how much she hated how good you felt inside her.
Without thinking, she tried to grind up into you, desperate for more, desperate to chase the dizzying pleasure curling in her stomach —but your hands clamped down on her hips, hard enough to bruise, forcing her to stop.
You didn't let her set the pace. You didn't even let her move.
You held her exactly where you wanted her — then shoved her hips deeper against yours, guiding her exactly how you wanted it: hard, rough, relentless.
Pushing her into you, dragging her back, pushing her forward again — over and over, like you were using her body to fuck yourself, like she wasn't even given a choice.
And God, it was good.
Every drag, every thrust was blinding —
Tara could feel you everywhere, splitting her open, filling her until her thighs were trembling from the force of it.
She bit down on a moan, fingers clawing uselessly at the sheets beside her, barely able to breathe through how fucking good it felt —how good you felt —how much she hated it and loved it and needed more anyway.
The rhythm was brutal.
Your hips crashed into hers again and again, rough and relentless, dragging these helpless, wrecked sounds out of her throat with every thrust. The bed squeaked under the force of it, your bodies slamming together, slick and messy and perfect.
It felt fucking fantastic.
Tara couldn't stop herself — couldn't even try to stop — moaning over and over again, broken, desperate sounds ripping free of her lungs like she had no control over them anymore.
It was euphoric. It was almost too good.
Her mind was spinning so violently she swore she might black out, the pleasure building under her skin like fire.
Fuck, you were so good at this. FUCK
So fucking good it made her angry.
She squeezed her eyes shut tight, tried to ground herself — but when she opened them again, when she saw the way you were looking down at her —so cocky, so goddamn smug, so fucking hot — she had to throw her head back again, moaning even louder, because fuck, she couldn't take it.
Her body betrayed her, gave her away completely, hips bucking up to meet yours every time you snapped forward into her.
And even if her brain was screaming at her not to say it —not to admit it —every single wrecked, desperate sound coming out of her mouth was saying it for her.
You were making noises too — low, heavy grunts punched out from your chest — but Tara barely even noticed. She was too far gone, too consumed by the feeling of your cock stretching her open again and again, your body pinning her down so perfectly she never wanted you to stop.
And then, of course — you just had to fucking smirk.
"Geez, Tara," you said between rough breaths, that infuriating grin tugging at your mouth, "if I knew this would shut you up, I would've done it ages ago."
You shifted your hips with a brutal snap, driving yourself harder into her just as she opened her mouth to fire back — and the only thing that came out was a wrecked, desperate moan.
"Yeah, well— maybe you should've—" Her voice cracked, the words collapsing into a breathless whimper when you slammed deeper, grinding mercilessly against that perfect, aching spot inside her.
Tara's head fell back against the mattress, her whole body jolting with every sharp, perfect thrust. She tried to scramble for the sheets again, tried to cling to anything to ground herself, but her hands were useless, clutching nothing but air.
Every time you moved, it was overwhelming — relentless and raw and fucking perfect — and it made her legs tighten around your waist like she was scared you might pull away.
Her breath was stuttering now, spilling out in broken little gasps that only made you smirk harder. And when you pushed in again, harder, rougher, she whimpered so loudly it almost sounded like a sob.
Fuck, she hated how good it felt.
Fuck, she hated how fucking good you felt.
Her hands scrambled uselessly against the bed — grabbing fistfuls of the messy sheets, tangling in her own hair, clawing at her flushed face — but nothing grounded her, nothing eased the brutal, overwhelming way you were slamming into her.
She felt like she was going to snap.
She wanted to snap.
The bed creaked under the force of it all, the air thick with rough breaths and low grunts. Tara's entire body burned — from rage, from need, from how fucking good you felt ruining her.
And you just kept going. Kept fucking talking.
"You sound so pretty when you're desperate," you panted against her ear, smirking because you knew what you were doing to her.
Tara's jaw clenched so tightly it ached. Her whole body tensed under you — furious and humiliated and desperate all at once.
"God," she snarled, her voice low and wrecked, "shut the fuck up.”
You just chuckled darkly under your breath — and pushed even deeper, harder, like you were punishing her for even thinking she had the right to tell you what to do.
Tara threw her head back against the bed, a choked moan breaking out of her throat — furious at herself for how fucking good it felt, furious that she was the one begging now, without even needing to say a word.
And it only got worse.
Rougher.
Harder.
Better.
The slap of your bodies hitting echoed in the room, each thrust forcing little desperate sounds out of her no matter how tightly she bit her lip to hold them back. Her thighs shook where they were wrapped tight around your waist, the sheets she clawed at were useless under her hands, and fuck —that heat in her lower stomach was starting to grow.
A dangerous, simmering pit that started as a little thrum — a warning — and then kept building, sharp and dizzy and huge, way bigger than anything she was used to feeling.
She knew what it was.
She knew she was about to come — fuck, she was about to come — and it scared her how fast and hard it was coming.
It was like her whole body had turned traitor. It was like she couldn't stop it even if she wanted to.
And you must have felt it too — the way her body started tightening around you, the way her nails dug harder into the sheets — because you only fucked her rougher, dirtier, faster.
And Tara couldn't hold back anymore.
She gasped out something — something wrecked and half-broken — her head pressing back harder into the bed, her mouth falling open on a silent cry.
You were right there with her, dragging her closer and closer to the edge, like you wanted to watch her fall apart. Like you fucking needed it.
And Tara didn't stand a fucking chance.
One more thrust — brutal, rough, deep — and she was gone.
Her whole body tensed hard, legs locking tighter around your waist, her back arching sharply off the bed as a broken moan ripped straight from her chest.
It slammed into her all at once — fast, wrecking, almost violent — like something had snapped inside her. Her vision went white around the edges, her fingers clawing helplessly at the sheets, at her own hair, at anything she could grab.
Her hips bucked without her even meaning to, grinding desperately against you like she still needed more even as her orgasm ripped through her.
And you —fuck, you lost it too.
The second her body clamped down around you, tight and soaking wet and shaking, you cursed low under your breath and slammed into her one final time, burying yourself as deep as you could go.
You spilled inside her with a wrecked grunt, your hips grinding into hers, trying to ride it out as your body shuddered with the force of it.
It wasn't clean. It wasn't soft.
It was messy and hot and frantic — both of you coming so hard it almost hurt, both of you falling apart into each other like you didn't care if it fucking killed you.
Tara barely even realized she was whining until it was already out of her — high and wrecked and fucking needy, her whole body trembling as you finally, finally stilled.
And for a second, neither of you could breathe.
The only sounds were the wet, sticky slap of skin, the broken, panting breaths you both tried to catch, and the furious hammering of Tara's heart in her ears.
You pulled out of her slowly, dragging a low whimper from Tara's throat that she tried — and failed — to swallow down.
The second you were gone, she let herself collapse fully onto the bed, chest heaving, skin flushed and slick with sweat.
You hovered above her for a moment, both of you panting, just staring at each other. Tara glared up at you — or at least, she tried to.
But her anger didn't land the way it usually did; she was too fucking tired, too wrecked, too spent for her eyes to sharpen into proper daggers.
It was more of a seething, half-lidded glare now. One that didn't scare you at all.
And that was when it hit her —what had just happened.
What she'd just fucking done.
It felt like the alcohol evaporated out of her bloodstream in one horrifying instant.
Her heart hammered in a completely different way now — heavy and sick. For a second, she thought she might be sick.
What the fuck had she done?
The shame hit her first — hot and brutal — almost strong enough to drown her.
She hated herself for it. Hated you for it.
Hated how fucking good it had felt.
And that was what saved her —the memory of how good it felt. The sharp edge of her panic dulled, just a little.
The anger simmered lower, curling into something she could almost stomach.
Still — she had to get the fuck out of there. Now.
Tara shot upright so fast it made her dizzy, scrambling across the bed, snatching up her underwear and yanking it up her shaky legs.
Her skirt came next — wrinkled and inside out, but she didn't give a shit — she just needed it on.
As she struggled to tug it back into place, she looked up at you —still half-naked, still smirking like the smug piece of shit you were.
"Not a word about this to anyone," she snapped, her voice low and wrecked and shaky, "Okay?"
And you — of course — just smirked wider.
___
At first, Tara didn't think much of it.
She figured she was just still hungover — the party had been brutal, after all. She hadn't exactly treated her body well that night.
Half a bottle of vodka, God knew how many shots after, plus whatever the hell she'd eaten off some random guy's plate at three in the morning... it made sense she still felt like shit days later.
That was all it was. Hangover.
Or maybe she ate something bad.
Maybe that sketchy half-burnt pizza from the gas station.
Maybe some stomach bug going around campus.
Or maybe — worst case scenario — she was just getting sick. Some late-winter flu. Something that would pass in a few days if she just drank enough Gatorade and slept it off.
Because seriously, what else could it possibly be?
She shoved the thought away. Refused to let herself even consider anything bigger than that.
But then the days passed.
And the nausea didn't go away. It just got worse.
Creeping up on her in the middle of class — making her have to fake-cough into her sleeve just so she wouldn't gag in front of everyone.
Gnawing at her stomach late at night when she tried to sleep, making her curl tighter under the blankets, teeth clenched, trying to will the feeling away.
It felt like her body was rejecting something. Like it wasn't even hers anymore.
By day five, even the smell of coffee — something that usually got her through her worst mornings — made her stomach flip.
By day six, brushing her teeth made her gag so hard she had to sit down on the bathroom floor for ten minutes after.
Still, she told herself it was nothing.
Stress, she thought, scrubbing her face at the bathroom mirror with angry hands. College. Lack of sleep. Nerves.
Maybe her immune system was just wrecked.
Maybe it was her period coming and being a bitch about it.
It had to be something like that.
It had to be.
She kept telling herself that —over and over, louder and louder —right up until she opened her calendar app one morning and her whole body went cold.
Because she was late.
Really fucking late.
Her stomach twisted.
Not from nausea this time — from panic.
She counted again.
And again.
Counting on her fingers like a dumbass because her brain couldn't make the math make sense.
No matter how she spun it, it had been almost two months.
Tara had sat back against her bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, trying not to hyperventilate.
Trying to tell herself she was wrong.
That it was still stress, still nerves, still something normal.
It's not that, she told herself, breathing through her nose, gripping the blanket so tightly her knuckles turned white. It's not that. It's not that. It's not that.
But deep down —deep, deep down —she already knew exactly what it was.
She could keep lying to herself.
She really could.
And maybe she would've kept lying, would've shoved it down and ignored it and pretended it wasn't real,
if it hadn't been for that night.
The night she ended up hunched over the toilet, sweating and shaking, the taste of acid clawing up her throat.
No warning. No time to pretend it was something else.
It hit her halfway through brushing her teeth — one second she was fine, the next she was dropping her toothbrush into the sink and bolting for the bathroom like she was being hunted.
And as she wiped her mouth, breathing hard, hands clutching uselessly at the cold tile floor —it sank in.
Cold.
Sick.
Unavoidable.
No more excuses.
She didn't remember making the decision.
Not really.
One minute she was pacing her room, hands trembling, heart crawling up her throat —
and the next, she was standing in some grimy drugstore aisle, blinking under the too-bright fluorescent lights, staring at a wall of small pink boxes like they were a firing squad.
She grabbed the first one she saw.
Didn't read the label.
Didn't check the price.
Just threw it into her basket, keeping her head down, as if someone — anyone — might see her.
Might know.
The walk to the register was a blur.
The cashier barely looked up.
She paid in cash.
She didn't even wait to get home.
She just —well.
The bathroom at the back of the store was disgusting.
The kind of disgusting that made her hover awkwardly over the toilet, chewing on her thumbnail, breathing through her mouth because the smell was so bad.
She didn't care.
She couldn't care.
The box was torn open with shaky fingers.
The instructions were left crumpled on the floor.
She didn't need to read them anyway.
Everyone knew how these things worked.
It was over before she even realized she had started.
A few minutes that felt like years.
She sat there — cold, half-numb — perched on the closed toilet lid, arms wrapped tight around herself like it could somehow keep everything from slipping out of her control.
She didn't look at it at first.
She couldn't.
Just sat there, staring at the wall, feeling the seconds bleed out slow and awful, until every heartbeat felt like it could crack her ribs wide open.
And when she finally forced herself to glance down —just a glance, nothing more —it was there.
Blunt.
Undeniable.
Positive.
Tara didn't even have time to think.
Her stomach lurched viciously, and she was barely able to twist around and yank the toilet lid up before she was gagging into the bowl, retching hard enough that her whole body trembled.
It wasn't the same kind of nausea as before.
This was something worse — something heavier.
Shock.
Terror.
Grief.
When she finished, she just stayed there — bent over, forehead resting against her forearm, the test lying on the counter behind her like some cruel, stupid joke she couldn't wake up from.
She didn't know how long she stayed there.
Five minutes? Ten? An hour?
Time didn't feel real anymore.
Eventually, she forced herself up, stumbling to her feet on shaky legs.
She paced the small bathroom, bare feet slapping against the tile, hands buried deep in her hair like she could physically tear the panic out of herself if she just pulled hard enough.
Muttering under her breath.
Cursing herself.
Cursing you.
"What the fuck," she whispered hoarsely, dragging her hands down her face. "What the fuck."
She couldn't breathe right.
Her chest felt too tight.
Her mind kept spinning in wild, useless circles.
Who the fuck was she supposed to tell?
Sam?
Absolutely not — Sam would kill her. Not even just yell — actually kill her.
Mindy?
No way. Mindy would ask a million questions. She'd want to know who. When. How.
Anika?
Same thing. Just softer. And worse.
Chad?
Tara almost laughed — a sharp, broken noise that didn't sound right at all.
Chad wouldn't even listen for more than ten seconds.
He'd probably just high-five her over the sex and completely miss the part where her whole fucking life was falling apart.
Which left you.
The last option.
The last person she wanted to talk to.
Because this?
This was your fault.
Maybe partly hers, sure — she wasn't stupid — but mostly yours.
And the thought of calling you made her stomach churn all over again.
She didn't even remember saving your number.
She didn't even remember getting it.
But there it was — staring back at her from the cracked screen of her phone, mocking her.
Her thumb hovered over the call button.
Her heart pounded so hard it hurt.
And then, before she could think better of it, she pressed it.
She pressed call.
And every second that the phone rang, her panic grew louder, shrieking inside her chest.
One ring.
Two.
Three —
You answered, your voice so casual it made her want to scream.
"Well, well," you drawled, smug and slow, like you were grinning already. "Couldn't get enough, huh? Already calling me back?"
Tara swallowed.
Hard.
The words sat like a rock in her throat.
She opened her mouth — nothing came out.
Because saying it out loud would make it real.
Saying it out loud would shatter whatever thin, desperate hope she still had that this was some sick mistake.
You didn't say anything either.
The teasing dropped into silence — just the faint crackle of the line between you, waiting.
And then you said, more cautious this time, "...Hello?"
Tara squeezed her eyes shut.
Felt her hands start to shake.
And before she could stop herself — before she could take it back — she forced it out in a broken whisper:
❥ warnings: mild spoilers for the movie. read at your own risk. test driving writing for ridley. completely self-indulgent fluff/comfort fic. wordy. meh ending. only cross posting until the tag takes off.
It’s 8 pm when the familiar lights of the Kintner’s car illuminate the quiet street. As they pull into the driveway, you rush down the entrance stairs, rubbing your damp palms over your jeans. You’d been waiting for hours since Ridley told you they were boarding the plane to return home with the news that she needed to talk to you about something terrible that had happened.
Ridley is in the passenger seat. She doesn’t even wait for Elliot to finish parking before she throws the door open and jumps out, hurtling straight into your open arms with so much force it nearly knocks the wind out of you. You gladly let the momentum guide you into a spin, squeezing the shorter girl closer as you breathe her in deeply.
Ridley smells… not great. But she’s in one piece. She’s back, safe, and, most importantly, in your arms again. You have every reason to be overjoyed.
“You’re back.” You say, your voice muffled by her hair against your lips.
Ridley nods against your neck. “You’re here,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “I missed you.” Her grip on your arms is fierce, and her nails are unforgiving on your skin. It’s wonderful.
“Course I’m here, Rid; where else would I be?” you chuckle and kiss her clammy forehead. Her hair feels like straw against your lips, but her skin is warm and soft. She’s very alive. “I came as soon as you called.”
Ridley leans back and slides her hands up to cradle your face. Her eyes dart between yours and across your face frantically as though she were committing you to memory. You brush your lips over her knuckle as she swipes a thumb across your cheek, allowing her all the time to do as she pleases.
“I missed you so fucking much my heart hurt.” Is all Ridley murmurs before she pulls you down, pressing her mouth to yours fiercely. Her teeth clack against yours at first, yet you can’t bring yourself to care when Ridley slides a hand up your neck and into your hair as the other clutches your arm for purchase. You hug her around her waist securely, her body melding against yours like the perfect puzzle piece.
Ridley sniffs. You pull back and rest your forehead against hers. Her eyes are shiny, and her lashes are wet. The tip of her nose is bright and warm, and her chin quivers with the effort to keep down the sob bubbling in her throat.
“Are these bad tears?” you ask, brushing away a fat tear from her chin.
“No.” Ridley breathes shakily and gives you a watery smile as she shakes her head. “I think I got overwhelmed. These past few days were a lot, and with everything going on, seeing your face,” Ridley pauses, swallowing hard. “I’m just so happy to see you. I didn’t know if I ever would again.”
“You had me worried I wouldn’t either,” you admit. “I almost thought—”
You missed Ridley so much these past two days that you almost forgot where you are. You break apart at the sudden and suspiciously loud slam of Elliot’s door but don’t let go of each other. Ridley hardly seems as concerned with PDA as she usually would be and stays tucked under your arm, hugging you tightly around your waist as though even an inch of space between you would be too great a distance.
“I’ll tell you later,” Ridley murmurs. You tap your fingers against her arm in understanding.
Elliot greets you with a tired smile as he rounds the car and walks over. You wonder whether you should shake his hand or not. You’ve never been on the best terms with him by extension of Ridley, but it seems like no one has the energy for all that today.
“Hello, Mr.Kintner. It’s nice to see you again.” And for the first time, maybe ever since you’ve been with Ridley, you mean it. By the softness in his eyes, you know that he knows it.
“You know what? Right back at you,” he replies honestly. He stays rooted in place for a long, awkward moment, hands in the pockets of his slacks. If you were closer, this is where you’d offer him a hug. He seems to be considering the same thing.
After a stretch of silence, and without parting from you, Ridley opens an arm wide toward her father. Elliot momentarily drums his hands over his trousers, seemingly considering declining. He meets Ridley’s eyes, and there’s an understanding amongst them that you are not privy to. He nods to himself as he closes the distance between you.
One of his arms encircles Ridley’s shoulder, and the other hooks over yours. His presence is strange and unfamiliar to you but not unwelcome. Especially not when this seems to be just the thing Ridley needs. She presses impossibly close, practically sandwiching herself between the two of you. You complete the hug, wrapping your arms around her and Elliot.
Ridley sighs deeply. It’s like a weight lifts off her chest.
“I don’t know what happened,” you start, measuring your words, “but I’m really glad you’re both safe. I was worried about you all weekend, and I feel like I can finally breathe again.” It’s aimed more at Ridley, but Elliot doesn’t point it out.
Instead, Elliot delicately extracts himself with a small laugh. He regards you kindly.
“You have no idea what we went through.” He pauses, a thought suddenly occurring to him. “Wait, you don’t actually know what happened yet? Ridley didn’t tell you?”
This, at least, is as surprising to Elliot as it is strange to you. There is nothing, especially of import, Ridley wouldn't tell you.
At this, Ridley reappears, finally extracting herself from your embrace. “The service was terrible,” she replies pointedly, “remember?”
“And the messages that did manage to be delivered were horrifying.” You add, biting back a grimace. “Eventually, Rid called me before you boarded the flight but said she’d wait to explain until she got home. I was imagining the worst the entire time.”
“Well,” Ridley starts, smiling sheepishly. “Your worst is still not close to what happened. You’re probably going to want to sit down for this.”
“Well, fuck. That sounds fun.” Ridley brightens. “You know I’m ready to hear about it, but I’m sure you’re both exhausted. I made you dinner while you were gone. If you'd like, I can reheat it for you while you settle back in. You can tell me your story before I return home, yeah?”
“You made us dinner?” Elliot asks hesitantly, pleased.
“You’re leaving?” Ridley looks up at you, her dark, round eyes pleading.
“You need to rest, based on what little I’ve gathered. I couldn’t possibly wait until tomorrow to see you, but I don’t want to intrude tonight. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Honestly?” Elliot says. His eyes drift between Ridley and you contemplatively. His shoulders slump. “I’m going to bed straight after dinner. Dying is exhausting, you know? But you’re free to stay. I’m sure Ridley would love the company.”
“Dying?” you echo in bafflement.
“Really?” Ridley‘s eyes light up. “She can?”
“If she wants.” Her father confirms, waving a hand. “It’s nice to have a familiar face that’s not out to get us, anyway.”
“I think I have some questions,” you interject, eyes shifting from Ridley to Elliot.
“And I have a lot to tell you,” Ridley promises. She takes your hand, leading you inside. “After dinner.”
***
You’re already flopped on Ridley’s bed when she reappears from the bathroom, towel-drying her hair. You busied yourself by staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars dotting her bedroom ceiling, but sleep had overtaken you, and your eyes were slipping. You look up as she sits by your legs, sending her a drowsy grin.
“Better?”
In place of an answer, Ridley carelessly tosses the towel back into her bathroom and crawls up to snuggle into your side, sighing deeply. She drops her entire weight on your body; despite this, you feel a wave of peace you hadn’t felt the whole time she was gone. This feels right. You weren’t the one who left, but now you feel at home.
“Mhm.” She tucks the top of her head beneath your chin, her ear against your heart. “Much better. This is just what I needed.”
You wrap an arm comfortably around her body and bring her closer until your cheek is smushed atop her head.
“You going to tell me what happened now?” You trail your fingers
“I will. I just need to soak this up for a little bit first.”
“Okay, baby. Take your time.”
***
“Do you notice anything different about me?” Ridley scoots back, allowing you to study her entire frame carefully.
You hum, eyes raking across her face. Your brow twitches as you think. Something does look different about her, but you can’t quite put your finger on it. You shift closer to your knees, coming to a stop before her. Ridley’s lips twitch as she looks up at the ceiling, giving you access to contemplate her appearance.
You gently take hold of her face, chin in hand, guiding her to look to the left, then the right. She’s beautiful as always. “I feel like there is,” you begin. “Your skin feels so soft and smooth… Wait-” You do a double take, cradling her face between both hands.
“Is it… your acne? I swear your skin was irritated when you left…” you trail off, lightly thumbing the apples of her cheeks, where, for so long, Ridley struggled with cystic acne. “It was pretty bad right here.”
The lack of scarring is fascinating.
Ridley meets your eyes, her own crinkling joyously. She breaks out into a smile, beaming.
“That’s what it is, then? What happened?” You touch the smooth, supple skin of her cheeks in awe.
“What do you think?” She asks instead, showing off both sides of her face proudly.
“You look beautiful, Rid.” You breathe. “I mean, you always did to me, you know that. But your skin is so… healthy and glowy. Did they give you a new serum or something?”
“Well, see … that’s the thing. Sit down now.” She pats the spot next to her by the headboard, turning serious. “This is going to sound crazy, so you might not believe me, but I swear on my mom that this is exactly what happened.”
“Okay…” you trail off, puzzled. You take her hand, though, and give it a gentle squeeze. “I trust you. No matter what you tell me or how hard it is to believe, I know you will be truthful.”
“Thank you.” Ridley sighs. “Things would’ve been entirely different if you’d been there with me,” she murmurs with a weak smile.
She takes a deep breath and begins recounting the events of the weekend, from when they landed in Canada to when they boarded the plane to return home. By the time she’s finished, her voice is hoarse, and you’re stunned in silence.
“Holy shit, Rid,” Is the first thing that flies out of your mouth. “Just to make sure, this isn’t a joke, right?”
“No, no. This happened. I promise—”
“Okay, okay, I believe you.” You wrap an arm around her to appease her and pull her into your lap. She curls into you like it’s second nature, throwing her legs on the bed as your arms encircle her. “But, holy shit. That is insane.”
Ridley being here safely with you feels even more incredible now that you know everything she went through to survive and return.
“I know.” She agrees, twisting her rings around her fingers. Quietly, she asks, “So… what do you think? Do you believe me? Really?”
You lick your lips as you collect your thoughts. It’s a fact that everything Ridley just told you sounds fantastical and ridiculous, but she’s not lying. You’re confident about that. You can’t fake sweats, tears, and a racing heart when all you’re doing is telling a story. Not unless you’re reliving it in your mind.
Which is clear Ridley did.
“Well, like I said, it’s insane. But I believe you. I know you, and I trust you. I have questions, but I really want to know how you are. Mentally, emotionally, everything. You think this is going to come up in therapy?”
Ridley smiles faintly at your response. The earnestness in your voice lifts the anvil on her chest. It’s just like you to worry about her instead of asking the million other questions she knows she’d have if the roles were reversed. She leans her head on your shoulder.
“You know what? This might sound crazy, but—”
“Crazier than what you just told me?”
“Just a little.” Ridley gnaws her bottom lip, twisting the ring on her thumb more insistently. You take her hand and intertwine your fingers together. She sighs deeply, continuing slowly, “I don’t feel… bad about what happened.”
“Really?”
“I mean, don’t get me wrong.” She leans into the warmth of her chest, but her gaze is far away now. “Seeing my dad die in my arms is going to stick with me, but everything else…” Ridley pauses, searching for the correct words to label her feelings.
After a prolonged silence where you patiently rub circles on her back, she gives up with a shrug. “What happened happened,” she says plainly. She meets your gaze, deep wells of melted obsidian piercing through you for any signs of discomfort or disgust over her raw honesty. “I feel like it was meant to be, you know? I, for one, will not lose any sleep over the Leopolds; that’s for sure.”
“No one mourns the wicked.” You tuck a strand of hair behind her ear and kiss her forehead, nuzzling your nose into her.
“I’m thankful for that. I know it’s incomparable, but my god, I thought I was going to die of a heart attack before I ever saw you again. A few of the messages you tried sending me did make it to me, and to say that they had me stressed would be the understatement of the century. I had no idea if I was going to see you again. I felt so powerless. I hated knowing that you needed help, and I couldn’t do anything to offer any.”
Now that you know what happened, you can finally laugh the stress away. It’s not funny, but it’s all so bizarre. It just feels good to get it out of your system.
“I actually didn’t think about how you’d feel.” Ridley’s brows furrow, and her lips purse, eyes awash with guilt. “I’m sorry.”
“Of course you didn’t. You were trying to survive. I don’t blame you for that; you certainly don't need to feel bad about it. I’m just thankful you’re back.”
Ridley nods. She finds herself too tired to argue with everything finally out of the way. For tonight, she can be content with accepting your support.
“You didn’t ask me the other things I’m sure you wanted to know,” she mumbles instead, eyes sliding shut as she listens to the pleasant thump of your heartbeat.
“If I did, I doubt you’d even hear them,” you reply, laughing slightly. Ridley smiles, twisting in your lap to face you. She nuzzles back into your arms. “There’s plenty of time to talk about that tomorrow. Think it’s time for you to get some sleep.”
Ridley hums in agreement as you adjust yourself more comfortably against her pillows, keeping an arm around her small frame.
“Kiss.” Ridley mumbles, angling her face toward you. “Now.”
You meet Ridley’s demand with a chaste kiss. You pull back momentarily to take in the satisfied look on her face. You swoop back in to steal a longer kiss when her eyes flutter open, which she happily melts into with a quiet moan.
Less than a minute later, Ridley is out like a light. Her lips are pressed unceremoniously to your cheek as her breath flutters evenly against your skin. You quickly follow suit, soothed by her body's lively warmth and familiar scent.
taking requests for smut drabbles. I do write g!p, and prefer to write dom!reader/sub!character dynamics, but pretty open minded. won’t be writing everything, mainly looking for inspo. writing for:
❥ warnings: long, rambly, and self-indulgent 🫶 no actual ending to wrap this up, will just come back to this when I get new ideas to add.
Jenna is spoiled rotten, and it is no one else's fault than yours. She wants your touch, warmth, kisses, and attention—and she knows she will always get it.
Jenna tries not to be so needy (not really), but now that you’re hers to claim, she can’t help but want to be in your bubble constantly. That girl would live in your skin if she could.
Jenna is highly affectionate. Not only is she hungry for your affection, but she also freely gives you hers. You name it: hugs, kisses, cuddles, bites, licks (she is particularly fond of licking your face and biting you wherever she can reach, for some reason). If it means she will touch you somehow, she will do it.
Velcro girlfriend, in other words.
If Jenna lies somewhere, she calls you over to lie on her. Your weight is like a heated blanket; she loves playing with your hair and caressing your face as you drift to sleep on her chest or soft tummy. It’s a good way to bond when she's reviewing a script or reading a book.
She has a habit of coming up behind you and nuzzling into your back, prompting you to turn and scoop her into your arms.
Height difference is a huge plus! Jenna loves to be smothered by you when you hold her, to drown in your fragrance and melt into the safety of your embrace.
She is very touchy. Not only affectionate-touchy but “will grope you as she passes by you with no particular purpose than to make you squirm” touchy.
She loves to play with your hands. No reason; she loves how your hand envelopes hers and your fingers fit together like puzzle pieces.
Not a napper, or rather, was not a napper until she discovered paradise in your arms. Now, being held by you triggers an instant rush of oxytocin and melatonin that, coupled with the thump of your heartbeat and your warmth, knocks her out within minutes.
Jenna is kind of a baby when sick, but it's your fault. She wasn't like that until you came in and started babying her. She used to be independent and treat her illnesses in a very mechanical and detached way because it was nothing more than a setback from work. Now, she can't imagine having a cold and spending her quarantine without your tender touches.
Same thing when she’s PMSing. The more time you spend caring for her, the better, quicker she feels.
Jenna has an insane staring problem—always has and always will. She can’t help but stare at you like you hung up all the stars in the sky; she’s so lucky she has you. Her adoration is ever present in her eyes. It’s one of the reasons it’s so tricky for her to have you around when she’s supposed to be focused. Her giddiness and the sparkle in her eyes is impossible to hide.
Don’t get her started on your smell—she’s one of those freaky women who inhales you any chance she gets. She loves the way you smell so much. It’s like her entire nervous system instantly relaxes whenever she catches a whiff of you.
Jenna is not huge on stereotypical nicknames. She prefers to have a few significant ones for each other that you probably come up with after an important experience or memory. Hell, she even takes inspiration from her favourite songs. However, she is partial to how “Angel” rolls off your tongue, and she will occasionally slip up with a “Babe” now and again.
Jenna lives in your clothes. The majority of your wardrobe is with her at all times. You might wonder where your favourite hoodie is just to get a photo of her lounging in it five minutes later.
“Excuse me, I believe that is mine… ? I’ve been looking for that.”
“Correct. I am also yours. :)”
Jenna is a certified yapper with you. She naturally is, but most people don’t get this version of her because she doesn’t feel uncomfortable being herself around them. You are more than happy to hear her speak her mind about any topic she can think of, finding peace in how her eyes light up and excitement laces her voice when she realises she has your undivided attention.
This woman will babble about the randomest topics, even as she drifts to sleep. It’s incredibly endearing, and she never fails to make you laugh with the strange things that endlessly pop into her pretty little head. She doesn’t even need to try to be funny most of the time; she just is.
Jenna is very supportive of you and your goals. Ideally, she wants you to travel the world with her, which is doable if you study through an online program or work a remote job.
If, due to your goals, you don’t have the availability to go with Jenna for long periods and you’re mainly doing long-distance, things get a bit more complicated. Still, Jenna is 100% invested as long as you are.
She is a terrible texter, BUT she does try for you! You can't say she doesn't. The problem is that she doesn’t typically send text messages. Instead, you receive a constant stream of photos updating you on what she’s doing, where she is, who she’s with, what she’s eating, what she’s wearing, what she’s not wearing, etc, with no follow-up. Most of the time, she sends them in faster succession than you can keep up with.
The second common way of communication between you is FaceTime. It’s simply more convenient than texting, given her lifestyle. AND she needs to see you constantly for mental health reasons.
When she does text, Jenna makes your heart swoon. She might not be the best at sending you a “Good Morning” text every day at the crack of dawn (those timezone differences have her fucked up).
Still, she never misses an opportunity to show you how much she loves and thinks of you. Sometimes, her messages are a little poem she came up with while thinking of you or a song and some lyrics she heard that remind her of you with no explanation other than “this is you <3”.
She often sends you voice notes and videos to make you smile. Hearing her lovely voice and seeing her angelic face is always a delightful surprise.
This woman is incredibly cheeky. She loves to flirt with and tease you. Sometimes, she does it to get a laugh out of you, and other times, she does it to get a rise out of you. (She gets a big head about eliciting your reaction every single time without fail.)
Jenna is not a great cook, even though she grew up eating delicious homemade meals. The main reason is that she simply doesn't have the time to hone her skills in the kitchen. Lord knows she tries, though!
When she makes something, she stares expectantly at you with those sweet doe eyes and hesitant smile, and you never have the heart to shoot down her efforts.
Despite Jenna’s chatty nature, one of the things she deeply appreciates about you and your relationship is that she takes repose in your silence. She can talk until she tires but knows that she can also exist near you quietly when she needs to without you expecting her to fill in the silence out of discomfort. Her tranquillity with you is unlike anything she’s ever felt. She cherishes those moments as much as any other because your silence is just as precious.
You are the subject of lots of photos! Jenna photographs what she loves, so roughly 30% of her storage is photos of you, while another 30% accounts for photos you’re in, like couple selfies and other lovey-dovey stuff. (The rest has been quickly overtaken by Fig.)
Jenna loves driving, but she also loves being your passenger princess because it’s peaceful sitting beside you, your thumb rubbing small circles over her thigh or her hand clasped in yours with the hum of the car lulling her into a nap.
She loves taking baths together. To melt into your body and forget the pressures of the day.
Date nights are random and spontaneous. Jenna’s schedule is too erratic most of the time for you to nail something down permanently. Regardless, they are enjoyable, a great time to bond and let the world disappear.
You both love to explore new cities and get lost together. It’s an excellent way to discover new hang-out spots and restaurants, but you also have homebody moments.
Sometimes, all you really need is to be in your bubble, sharing a warm meal, wine, and ice cream. Either way, you always laugh and make out wherever you are.
Movie nights CONSTANTLY. If they’re not your thing, then they’re simply something you do to indulge Jenna, which becomes a bonding ritual you relish.
Jenna worries about you when you’re apart from each other. She likes to be updated when you have important things going on to avoid overthinking and getting anxious for you.
You’re her madness and peace all wrapped into one, and Jenna is not shy about showing you her true colours; you get all of her, and she expects to get all of you.
Jenna is not a morning person. If she has a day free, she expects to enjoy being able to sleep in; otherwise, she wakes up cranky and glaring at everything and everyone. Nothing a long cuddle and some well-placed kisses can’t fix. Even when she wakes up for work, she stays quiet. It takes her a while to fully wake up, but by the time she gets to work, she’s usually her bubbly self again.
She’s not a big spender on herself. She is not interested in things but loves spending money on you.
Jenna low-key tries to impress you, not with her acting, because she dislikes you seeing her act, but with her outfits. You’ve never gone to her fittings because she loves to get your first reaction the day of.
She loves to make you laugh, and it's very easy for her because she's odd. She is absolutely delightful, though, and her unique sense of humour has always been one of the things you most adore about her.
She loves celebrating you in any way she can, but she prefers to do it privately and intimately. Birthdays, holidays, Valentine’s Day, National Girlfriend Day, she never forgets those dates, and she takes pride in showing you her appreciation for you. She also loves to be on the receiving end of your celebratory plans for her. You go all out and have never let her down. (Things might be becoming a bit competitive, though.)
Jenna makes you endless playlists for all sorts of events and moods, but she gets emotional when you do the same for her. It makes her feel vulnerable in the best way that you know her as well as you do.
When she’s upset, she’s not a huge talker. The main thing she needs is your physical comfort, to know that you’ll hold her and let her soften into you, and she can lose herself in your embrace because you’ll shield her from the world. She does open up eventually when she feels more regulated, but normally, she stays in your lap while you discuss her issues.
People know you’re dating. It’s easy to hide if you’re doing the long-distance thing because no one but her sees you, but when you start travelling with her, Jenna can’t hide how happy it makes her to have you around. You blend in easily with her crew, but a few detectives start putting 2+2 together and scrutinize you until she slips up. Which she does. It might be much later than expected, but it still surprises people.
Jenna is not huge on PDA because she doesn’t like sharing your thing with everyone, but that doesn’t mean that she’s good at avoiding it. She prefers to keep you and your relationship out of the spotlight because you’re precious to her, and she values your wish to keep your relationship private, but sometimes, she can’t help herself. The few photos circulating the internet where you’re holding hands or kissing are all due to the fact that she couldn’t keep her hands to herself for long enough to avoid it.
When Jenna gets anxious, she needs you. It doesn't happen often, but it does. A hug, a handhold, just you. It’s not that she expects you to automatically “fix” her; she would never burden you with that responsibility. It’s just that your presence truly is that comforting. Being around you gives her the strength to regulate herself, especially when you’re being closed in by paps or invasive fans. That foreboding feeling that triggers her to be in survival mode feels less menacing and overwhelming when you squeeze her hand or shield her from prying eyes.
Jenna is not a jealous person, but she does get jealous. She trusts you wholly and knows you would never intentionally make her jealous or disrespect her. Still, other people don’t value your relationship the same way. More often than she’d like, Jenna has had to deal with people who are so drawn to you that they’ll openly flirt with you in front of her. She begrudgingly has to admit to herself that she can’t blame people too much, though—you are remarkable and magnetic and so breathtakingly gorgeous. She understands why people want your attention so much, but damn if it doesn’t make her blood boil.
She is very playful and such a tease, but she cannot take what she dishes out for the life of her. As soon as you give her a taste of her medicine, she simply... shuts down and stares.
❥ summary: Wednesday had taken the initiative to surprise you with a date evening together. You, however, were nowhere to be found, and the loss of your presence made Wednesday miss you, throwing a wrench into her carefully thought-out plans. Unacceptable.
❥ warnings: terrible, entirely self-indulgent writing. lots of swapping between povs
❥ a/n: thank you to my wonderful beta readers! your efforts and input were much appreciated xx
It was late at night when you hauled yourself up your balcony and finally made it through your window. One glance at the grandfather clock read 1:46 am; okay, you thought, grimacing, so it’s early morning the next day, Saturday. Great.
Under normal circumstances, the halls would have been abuzz with secret parties and sleepovers to welcome the weekend, starting Friday night. Due to your busy exam week, even the few students who had the energy to celebrate on Friday were now in their rooms, trying to recuperate some of their lost sleep and accumulated exhaustion. It seemed you were the only one awake on school grounds now. You would’ve been more appreciative about this if you weren’t so worn out.
Your shoes squelched with each step you took further into your bedroom, and the sensation of the cold water pooling in your soles made you cringe and shudder with discomfort.
A wide puddle from your jacket, heavy and drenched with rainwater, formed beneath you. You peeled it off, cursing it beneath your breath as you did, so much for a raincoat. You did nothing to protect me from the unforgiving elements. You tossed it through your bathroom door and into your bathtub to wring out later, revealing your equally soaked-through second layer. Being thoroughly wet from the rain made the ever-present coldness in your bones seep even more profoundly, almost freezing. Your bloodstained shirt, jeans, and, finally, your boots followed swiftly, hitting the tub with a booming thud.
Most of that outfit is ruined for good, you mused as you pulled a clean hoodie over your head, too exhausted to wash up properly, but that's a problem for future me.
For a moment, you considered your reflection in the mirror. The only light in your room was that of the moon, illuminating the centre of your chambers with its phantasmal glow. Beyond the centre, however, pitch black consumed the room. Shadows cast by the furniture stretched and bent around you in strange shapes, enveloping you with their cold and unforgiving embrace.
You sighed quietly, the serenity of the night like the comfort of a dear friend, and some of the tension you had amassed from the day lifted from your shoulders.
Despite the darkness, the dried blood on your hands and the specks on your face were visible to you. With your hunger sated, the smell of the blood was no longer appetising. Instead, something in the pit of your stomach churned, disgust curling your lips as you scraped the crust off your knuckles.
“Welcome home.”
You heard the voice before you saw the person, which was especially impressive when considering your perfect vision in total darkness and inhuman auditory capabilities. The magnitude of this accomplishment ended as soon as you considered who the culprit was. It would be her if any human could sneak up on a vampire.
An unnatural warmth bloomed from the cavity in your chest at the thought, something akin to pride, spreading like wildfire to your extremities.
The figure shifted from the farthest corner of your room, rising from the leather chair behind your desk. It took shape as it moved through the shadows slowly and deliberately. The form that stood before you had the appearance of the most darling earthly creature in all the realms—your ultimate weakness. If you had a heart, it would have leapt straight out of your chest and into Wednesday’s hands.
Oh, how you’d missed those reproachful eyes.
“Well, hello.” You greeted them with disgraceful breathiness and glimmering eyes, “My beloved blood drop, you should be in bed.”
If looks could kill, you would’ve been six feet under already. As Wednesday stared you down, the thought that she would not entirely be against driving a stake through your heart crossed your mind. Again. It was undoubtedly her go-to threat for swift correction, and she always kept hers on hand. So cute.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Wednesday said tersely, ignoring how your stupid nickname caused a hitch in her breath. You did not react. Wise. “You missed classes today. Where were you?”
“Hunting,” was the only reply you could muster as you gazed upon her with that sickeningly tender look.
Wednesday’s hands clenched into fists at her side, nostrils flaring almost unnoticeably. That’s it? That’s all you had to say?
Wednesday couldn’t quite describe the wretched emotions that drove her to madness throughout the day; too many had happened too fast for her, but she cut you an affronted glare all the same. At the end of the day, the fact was that you’d thrown her wildly off balance with your sudden shift in routine. You forced her to notice your absence. But worst of all, you made her feel and weren’t there to help her deal with those strange and overwhelming emotions.
Now, she was standing before you, and those unbearable feelings continued.
That was simply unacceptable.
“You…” Wednesday stopped and pursed her lips, her gaze sliding from your eyes to roam across your face. She’d spent the better part of the night sitting alone in the shadows of your room, going over all the creative ways to make you regret abandoning her for a whole day with those idiots you called friends. Still, she had failed to mull over how to ask her interrogative questions without sounding so damn needy. You didn’t deserve to hear how desperate she was to see you.
Not yet, anyway.
“You failed to notify me of your absence today,” she gritted between clenched teeth. Her eyes, black as obsidian, bore into yours unflinchingly through her lashes. “I-You were supposed to be there, yet you left me alone with all of them.”
There was an edge of irritability to Wednesday’s tone, which became even more apparent in her rigid stance and the unusually rapid drum of her heart. Still, something was just under the surface that you couldn’t quite place. Her brows met with the tiniest crinkle, her lips set straight. She tilted her head the slightest bit, chin angled up—her eyes a raging fire.
That atrocious flip-flopping in your belly returned with the vengeance of a dozen bats wreaking havoc in your rib cage.
“I know.” You eventually acknowledged her words with an apologetic smile. You dared to rub circles over her crossed arms with a feather-light touch. Thankfully, she didn’t attempt to hack off your hand (this time). The lack of Wednesday in your day and the space between you was abysmal and all-consuming and had obviously taken its toll on you. You needed to feel Wednesday’s warmth against you or feared you might disintegrate right where you stood.
“I didn’t anticipate needing to go hunting today,” you continued, filing those alarming desires away for inspection later. “It just… happened. I had that ravenous hunger when I awoke; the blood bags did nothing to satiate it. I needed to feed from something raw and unprocessed as soon as possible.” Your fang caught on your lip, brows furrowed.
A hungry vampire loose at a school would have been catastrophic. No matter how annoying, those students were your friends, not food. Even worse was the possibility that you could have hurt Wednesday. You shivered; the idea that you were merely one wrong decision away from being responsible for something so horrific froze you from the inside out with a bitter coldness not even death could match.
As you explained, Wednesday took an imperceptible step closer, pressing more of herself into the weight of your hand as her eyes studied you again from head to toe. She was undeniably seething, but her eyes had softened. She knew the exact moment it happened because the emotions that had driven her for most of the day, which were as robust and tumultuous as the ocean, gave way to an equally strong sense of unease.
Wednesday’s brain computed your unspoken concern. She hated how fast she deflated at the flash of fear that crossed your eyes. You were never easily frightened, less so than she, so seeing that agitation on your face made the pit of her stomach heavy with lead.
Wednesday’s hand shot out to fist the front of your shirt, effectively breaking you out of that train wreck of a notion before you could truly get lost going down that path. She yanked you down close enough that your noses brushed, with so much force you would have knocked into her if it weren’t for your vampiric reflexes. She ignored your small huff of complaint and cupped your jaw sternly, thumb stroking the dried flecks of blood from your cheeks with uncharacteristic care.
A stray thought wandered into Wednesday’s mind as she regarded you, something wholly distracting involving the sight of you with the blood of your prey still on your body and the elongated fangs still peeking out between your teeth, further proof of your successful kill and your capabilities as a top predator. She forced the thought away with a slight shake of her head.
“You should have told me.” Wednesday’s palm flattened over your cheek, her eyes glinting. Her voice had lost its edge as she closed the space between your bodies, stressing, “I would have helped.”
You shook your head immediately, pulling a frown from Wednesday’s lips.
“I know,” you murmured, pulling her hand from your cheek to lace your fingers through hers. You delivered a kiss to the slender fingers, and the tender gesture pulled an involuntary shiver from Wednesday, her traitorous body spiking with heat that crawled up her neck. “I know you would have helped if I’d told you, Wednesday, but I couldn’t risk hurting you. I was out of control. Seeing you before I fed was absolutely out of the question.”
Wednesday’s jaw clenched. She felt like she was five seconds away from stomping her foot.
Your decision was level-headed, and your actions driven by reason. You’d done what was safest for the school and, most importantly, Wednesday. However, you had ripped out the part of herself that she’d carefully hidden away behind the safety of a concrete tower reinforced with steel and forced her to face you—to face the feelings for you that had taken root in her heart and continuously grew like a parasitic infection; that part of her still held your decision against you because you left her for a whole day.
Not for the first time, Wednesday had to acknowledge that she was well and indeed done for. You’d spoiled her rotten, and now she couldn’t even bear the thought of being without you for one day without wanting to rain retribution down upon you. It-no, she was pathetic.
Wednesday breathed in deeply through her nose, eyes fluttering closed. “I understand,” she said tightly, “I just—” the rest of her words lodged pathetically in her throat, growing thorns that prickled her skin. She didn’t speak again, though. She swallowed hard, brows furrowing with annoyance as her eyes roved across your face wantonly.
“I know,” you spoke for the two of you, and your eyes conveyed your understanding. You reached out to bring Wednesday close, guiding her into your space by her hand. “I missed you dearly, my blood drop.”
Wednesday stiffened for a moment, out of a lifelong habit more than anything, before slackening. She wrapped her arms around your middle and burrowed her face into you, her cold nose finding home in the cool flesh of your neck. Instantly, the raging sea of emotions in her chest quelled, tempered by your soothing embrace. With the familiarity of your scent, the noise in her mind quieted.
“I would never leave without telling you first unless the situation was dire. You know that, right?” Your words were muffled, spoken into Wednesday’s temple, but she heard them clearly.
Wednesday nodded slightly and sighed. Of course, she knew that. Hearing you say it to her was reassuring in a way she couldn’t verbalise, but she was glad you understood that about her; she was glad for you.
“No matter what, I’ll always come back to you. I promise.” You ended your promise with a chaste kiss on her forehead, the freckled space between her brows.
Wednesday abhorred how effortlessly, thoughtlessly, she leaned into your lips, chasing more of your affections. Her fingers dug into your sides, lashes fluttering shut as she mumbled, “I know.”
“I’m still sorry I left you,” you carried on, an edge of mirth in your tone. “I can’t imagine how dreadfully joyous your day without me was.”
“You should be.” Wednesday sneered, but there was no weight to her words. She couldn’t make herself fake it through her unsuccessful attempt to crawl into your hoodie. “Enid tried to make me smile.”
“How dare she!” you responded with appropriate appallment.
“She almost managed to when she tripped over Thing.” Wednesday sighed, giving up for the time being. You weren’t particularly helpful in her endeavour, but she swore she would be back in her rightful place, nestled on your chest for bedtime. “It was awful.”
“Ghastly. Would you like me to maim them for you?” you asked as you wrapped your arms around her again.
Wednesday was glad for the protection of your chest. She couldn’t hide the smile that curled her lips at your earnest offer. She weighed her options carefully.
“Not unless you can do that without leaving again.”
“A later time then,” you said. “Just say when, and I’ll be on them like a vulture on a carcass.”
For a while, you stood in the middle of your room, underneath the moonlight, with Wednesday tucked securely into your chest. You swayed gently from side to side, making a thick fog roll over the edges of Wednesday’s mind, your steadying breaths against her cheek lulling her deeper and deeper into an enticing abyss.
As you moved, you faintly hummed an eerie and reposeful melody, your mind fuzzy with contentment. You periodically nuzzled your cold nose into Wednesday, breathing her in with an animalistic instinct until you had her scent committed on a cellular level. The specific flutter of her heart and draw of her breath was ingrained into you already; you could pick her out of a crowd of a thousand blood bags by that alone, but you never tired of feeling her heartbeat, hearing her breaths, and smelling the scent that was unmistakably hers—all signs of her liveliness and health.
You were making gentle circles over Wednesday’s back when suddenly, you stiffened. “Wait a minute,” you muttered, breaking the silence.
Wednesday lazily opened her eyes to peer at you. She hummed in askance, an adorably feline noise, and blinked blearily, big eyes glossy with sleep.
“You're wearing your outdoor clothes.” You pulled back, creating a space between your bodies, much to Wednesday’s chagrin, and assessed her outfit thoroughly. She was bewitching, as per usual, but she was dressed in her ‘investigation’ outfit, something practical but wholly uncomfortable. You arched a brow. “What were you doing in my room when I came in? Did you stay up… waiting for me to come back?”
Wednesday’s face turned passive at your question, eyes sliding away from yours to tack onto something beyond you on your desk—Oh, look. That’s where she left her stake. No wonder her pockets felt so light.
Truthfully, she’d forgotten about this part of her day after you delved into your explanation for your absence. It took her a long minute to answer, but the sweet smile on your lips never faltered.
“After classes,” she began, pursing her lips in the way that made her dimples visible for a fraction of a second, “I thought you’d be back by then. The weather forecast for tonight was prime for a night out. Cold rain and thick fog.”
Wednesday paused as you stroked your thumb over the crease that had formed between her brows, loosening the tightness in her face. She could feel the intensity of your gaze on her. She had your undivided attention. She bit her bottom lip, forcing her eyes to meet yours, and let herself free-fall into the sentiments that the utter devotion in your eyes conveyed.
“After this week of exams, I believed you might fancy spending the night together in private. I thought you might appreciate it even more if it came unexpectedly.”
Wednesday would never know how the countenance of a creature as impure as you could regard her with such affection and devotion. All she knew was that her parents would be beside themselves with pride and joy at what she’d found here at Nevermore. She’d never live down the humiliation of eating her own words. Damn you.
“A date.” Came your breathless whisper, eyes widening. Wednesday could practically see the moment the stake of realisation pierced through your undead heart. “W-Wednesday,” you murmured, voice cracking, “What did you have planned?”
“Grave digging,” she muttered, ears growing hot.
“Grave digging—your favourite. You wanted to do it together?” Your grip on Wednesday tightened so much it was almost painful. She welcomed the ache. It gave her something other than the downright devastation in your eyes to focus on. Wednesday returned her head to your neck and nodded.
The blood you’d consumed earlier bubbled up your oesophagus. You weren't there when Wednesday wanted to take you on a surprise date—the first she’d ever planned for you. The stake twisted deeper, cutting through you like a serrated knife. Your eyes gleamed with something Wednesday hated to see.
Vampires weren’t supposed to be able to do that. Right?
Still, something about your reaction warmed Wednesday from the inside out, and she scoffed to hide the slight sound of amusement that threatened to leave her lips. You were as theatrical as you were romantic. You were such an Addams.
“Wednesday,” you croaked ruefully, “I’m so sorry. I would’ve never missed out on such an important—”
Wednesday cut you off with a finger to your lips. “I know.”
“I’m here now,” you continued, kissing her finger as you spoke. Your eyes were pleading. “Would you still like to go? We can leave right now if you wish. Just say the words.”
Wednesday sighed, curling a hand around the back of your neck to mash your lips together, effectively silencing you. “Shut up,” she muttered darkly against your lips. “You’re rambling.”
“M’kay,” you said weakly.
Wednesday’s hand released you, but neither of you moved to separate. She smoothed her hands over your shoulders, mapping out the powerful muscles underneath your annoyingly enticing skin.
“No,” she said, the shake of her head making her bangs bounce. “Grave digging can wait. I want to be here,” she stabbed her pointer finger into your chest. “Where I belong.”
“In my… heart? You already stole it,” came your cheeky reply.
Wednesday rolled her eyes, unable to hide the pleased curl of her lips. She didn’t bother reminding you that you didn’t have a heart, a beating one, anyway, and pressed on, braver now that you’d made a fool of yourself more than she ever could.
“In your bed, in your arms, on your chest.” Wednesday purposely enunciated every word with another forceful poke of your chest, her gaze assured.
“Oh… Well, aren’t you a demanding little thing?” you chuckled and took Wednesday’s hand in yours.
“I could kill you.”
“I know.” Your eyes had that soft look again, and your smile was delicate. It was, dare she say, adorable the way your fangs poked into your lips. “You don’t need to keep wooing me. I’m already yours.”
“An Addams never stops,” Wednesday quipped, brushing past you. She shed her jacket and toed off her boots, leaving them folded on a chair by your desk as she made for your closet with the air of a girl who was right at home. “Get used to it.”
As Wednesday rummaged through your wardrobe, you sat on the edge of your bed with a lovesick grin. Wednesday had such a way of livening up your room that it no longer felt like your home without her. You lived here, and you had for years; the objects in this room were all yours, from the enormous canopy bed to your clothes and books and the tiniest miscellaneous trinkets adorning your shelves. Yet, everything here undoubtedly belonged to Wednesday—everything, including you.
Wednesday knew that. It was evident how she moved throughout your room like she owned the place. You were more than satisfied with this.
Seeing her reemerge in your sleep clothes to take a seat at your vanity table made the ghost of something warm and heavy, a heart, or maybe a soul? Thump swiftly against your ribcage, sending an electric shock through your veins. You appeared behind Wednesday in a flash and stilled one of her hands from their work of undoing her ties. You fingered the end of a braid and met her curious eyes through the mirror with a hesitant smile.
“May I help?” you asked with unexpected shyness.
Wednesday froze, evidently taken aback by your question, but nodded, the corner of her lips curling up the slightest bit. Your touch was featherlight as you removed the bands securing her hair, each touch purposeful and gentle. She nearly closed her eyes as your fingers nimbly undid her braids before raking through her scalp with the brush to loosen the waves. She did several times briefly, but she couldn’t bear missing the way you so delicately touched her. It had been a long time since anyone else had handled Wednesday’s hair. She nearly purred. Shameful.
“Breathtaking,” you whispered, awed at the sight of the raven hair cascading down Wednesday’s back in silken, inky waves. You kissed the top of Wednesday’s head, cold hands cradling her jaw reverently. Wednesday shivered. She angled her chin high, a hand coming behind your head to pull you into a kiss. “Bedtime now?”
Wednesday had nothing to say this time, but she clung to your neck and let you pick her up.
Once you were both finally in bed, Wednesday wasted no time burying into you, just as she had promised. Wednesday released a deep breath as her eyelids grew heavy and her limbs relaxed. Your cold lips pressed against her forehead, and your fingers carded gently through her hair. Your touch was cold like ice and gentle as death's embrace, more soothing and comfortable than any morgue she could ever sneak into. She fell asleep promptly with a final murmur of your name and admission of affection on her lips.
