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me @ y/n when they do something i’d never do:
like babe this isn’t us ?? get it together
THE SCREAM BOYS.
(and their kinks.)
KINKTOBER ENTRY #3.
warnings: spit play, dacryphilia, somnophilia, just a bunch of freaky things.
CONTAINS: CHAD MEEKS, ETHAN LANDRY, BILLY LOOMIS, STU MACHER (and a surprise at the end!)
a/n: lowk chad is self indulgent BUT it’s still real good. 😚
18+ content. view at your own risk.
CHAD MEEKS MARTIN.
HUGE size kink. will literally get off on the fact that he towers over you, and will use his size to his advantage in bed, tossing you around and folding you in certain positions if need be.
usually mains rough dom, but can be soft depending on the situation.
loves jealous sex. will pound you into the mattress just because he saw you interact with another boy.
“who’s pussy is this, hmm?” and when you don’t answer, he pulls your head back by grabbing a fistful of your hair, proceeding to ask you more authoritatively the next time.
public sex? he loves that shit. the thought of fucking you while you struggle to stay quiet excites him in a way he can’t explain.
“your pussy is about to expose us, hmm? she’s talkin’ reaal loud..”
favorite positions? he loves full-nelson and doggy. anything where he has full control over you works too.
in love with your ass. will bite, smack, grope, and fuck it in the same day just because he feels like it.
quickies? hell yeah. no explanation. he just loves them.
doesn’t think of toys as competition, more as another way to make you feel pleasure as he fucks you. he likes to overstimulate you, making you feel so many different things at once.
likes when you suck him off while he’s on the game.
doesn’t mute his mic as you do, and is purposefully loud to let his friends know that you’re his.
very vocal during sex
literally talks to your pussy
“awe, is my girl enjoying it?” he’d say before the nastiest squelch noise left your cunt. “i guess so…”
“just like that baby… such a good cockslut.”
song he’d fuck you to!
ETHAN LANDRY.
more of a sub, but if you ask he won’t be afraid to go rough on you.
is in love with marking you up. the fact that people will know that he was the one that caused those, that made you his… 😍
more about marking you up, fuck hidden hickeys. he’ll plant them in the most obvious spots just so people can ask about them.
has a very bad mommy kink, and slipped up the first time he had sex with you. he was burning red hot with embarrassment, but you responded by riding him harder. he knew he was in love then.
likes the idea of getting caught in the act. partly because he wants people to know that you’re his, but he enjoys the thrill of having to sneak around.
mask kink? oh yeah, he’ll definitely cater to that.
likes having his hair pulled. didn’t even know it until you pulled his hair as a joke, and a switch flipped inside him. now he whines whenever you do it during sex.
favorite positions? fuck that. he just likes it when you ride him.
when you ride him, he starts blabbering random nonsense
“fuckfuckfuckfuck… oh my god- baby, baby- nononoicant- can’t take any more- pleaase- slow down…”
a big whimperer. he is LOUD. he likes letting you know that he’s enjoying the experience.
“fuckfuckfuck… mommy you’re doing so good- oh please, please let me cum- i’ll be such a good boy. please, i’ll never ask for anything again-”
he seems like a big steve lacy fan so this
BILLY LOOMIS.
(i had to use the famous gif)
he is genuinely soo slutty. will do almost anything with you.
LOVES spit play. will spit in your mouth or on your cunt, just watching it dribble down to your slick hole as it froths and bubbles.
eats you out for his own pleasure. he will drink you multiple times, but not because you want it. he just wants to taste you.
a rough dom. loves ordering you around, pulling your hair, lightly smacking, folding you in half- anything to assert himself.
favorite position? he doesn’t have one. he’s open to pretty much anything, as long as you’re comfortable.
a thigh guy one hundred percent. one day he’ll say he despises you, the next he’ll be snug between your pretty thighs, content.
when he’s done fingering you, he’ll make you watch as he sensually licks your slick off of his fingers.
isn’t really vocal during sex, but will give words of affirmation (or degradation)
strives to make you squirt every time you guys have sex. seeing that gush of liquid ignites something inside of him, an almost primal desire.
likes to fuck your thighs. the fact that he’s so close to your core but isn’t getting the real thing turns him on in a way he can’t explain.
dialogue:
“slutty fucking throat. just wanna take all of me, hmm?”
he gives freak energy so this song
STU MACHER.
dacryphilia. seeing you cry makes his cock pulsate in a sick way. he really wants to tell you, but can’t bring himself to. instead, he just overstimulates you until you cry! win win..?
a huge somno addict. he can’t help himself, he will use you when you’re asleep. he thinks you’re cute when you’re all ‘soft and unbothered,’ he explains it. the thought of your slick folds enveloping his tip while you’re asleep is just too much to handle, so he takes action!
either an insanely rough dom or a sub. absolutely zero common ground.
a jokester in bed. will literally fucking giggle while he’s eating you out.
“you taste reallyy sweet, pretty.” he’d look up at you from your plush thighs, giggling wildly.
favorite position? 69. because the number’s funny, (obviously he thinks that, it’s stu macher we’re talking about here) and he gets to eat you out!
loves your tits. he likes to suck, grope, fuck, and bite them. because he can? yeah. but also because they’re nice and soft!
gets very jealous at times, but covers it up with his bubbly demeanor. he’ll discipline you when you two are home, don’t you worry.
SUPER vocal during sex. whether it’s words of affirmation or simple sounds, he will let you know what he likes.
DOM. “just like that pretty- oh shit- yeeaaah, right there… mhm. so good for me, right? you’re my good girl? that’s what i thought.”
SUB. “awe, pretty- please… don’t tease me. oh fuck, keep doing that baby, i love you…”
song because he thinks the beat is funky
SAM CARPENTER
FEM READER:
a soft dom through and through. she doesn’t like being too rough, but if that’s what you want- that’s what you’ll get.
shower sex? she absolutely adores it. being able to press you against the cold tiles and piston her fingers into you is something she dreams about.
is she an eater? most definitely. she has a way with her tongue, hitting spots that you didn’t even know were there with the slick muscle.
when you cum, she completely drinks you up, loud slurping noises almost more audible than your moans. almost.
her soonngg!!
ANND SCENE!
well what do we think??
charlie walker here
the cost of hate
pairing: tara carpenter & gp!fem!reader
summary: tara always knew you drove her crazy — she just never expected it to go this far
warnings: smut 18+ / NSFW content (explicit sexual content), angry sex, alcohol intoxication.
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:
"I'm pregnant."
Fall(ing for You) – S.C
Pairing: sam carpenter x soft goth!reader
Summary: Sam is certain that Tara's new quiet friend may turn out to be Ghostface, unfortunately – or not –, that friend is you.
or, it takes the help of tara and a dog for sam to finally come to her senses.
Word count: 6,0k.
Content: scream 6 but without the killing, r's 23, cursing, wingman tara ft. yr dog, jokes abt r being ghostface, fluff, pining, sam falling first AND harder, silly movie references.
Note: hey guys, It's been a while since I've written for scream but I rewatched it recently and finally got some inspiration again! I describe the reader a little more in this but it won't really affect anything if you choose to ignore it.
English is not my first language.
Tara made a new friend.
Sam still isn't sure exactly, but the only plausible explanation for the way Tara has been acting lately is that her sister met someone interesting enough to keep her attention so that she gave everyone a break from her tantrums and reckless behavior since their new start outside of Woodsboro.
Now, that could be a good thing, it had been months since the kids started college and they were all doing relatively well. Mindy had Anika, Chad had Ethan and also there was Quinn, even though she wasn't very close to anyone. Tara should have someone too.
The problem is that Sam has no idea who this person is. Tara just won't tell her.
You see, Sam understands that she might have been a little too protective of her sister and that this made Tara's behavior become defensive towards her. Her new therapist – after she got rid of that quack – is helping her work through that, okay? But curiosity and worry were eating away at her insides. The curfews, the tasers and pepper sprays, and especially the ID checks were all important to keep them safe, dammit! Mindy and Chad had no problem with it, and it was only after all the appropriate measures were in place that Sam could breathe and let these new people be a part of their lives. Not knowing this so-called friend, let alone who they were, was driving her to the brink of a breakdown.
She was trying to give her some space, probing with subtle questions here and there and the most she got was an eye roll and ‘It’s just a sophomore I met at the film club, haven't you said I should try to be part of something that didn’t involve frat parties?’
Well, at least it wasn’t a boyfriend, given the lack of dreamy sighs, giggles into the phone and late-night escapades. That was good. They already had enough problems to deal with and a new relationship so quickly was the same as asking for a ghostface to go for them again and Sam hadn’t been back in Tara’s life long enough to know how to deal with this part of being a big sister yet.
Sam had understood that she wouldn’t meet this mysterious person for a while, at least until her sister’s tantrum had passed, and between two shitty jobs and trying to keep a structured life being responsible for a bunch of teenagers in the big city, she couldn’t find it in herself to insist on the subject any further and get the risk of causing a fight. She thought it would be forgotten.
Now just imagine Sam's surprise when she came home one night after a long, exhausting shift, expecting to eat the leftover pizza she had hidden in the fridge and fall into a deep sleep, only to be knocked over by an noisy and strange dog with a piece of pizza in its mouth as soon as she opened the apartment door. Her pizza.
“Koda!” Someone called. Someone unfamiliar. It wasn’t just the dog, there was a stranger in her house.
Sam’s hand instinctively moves to reach for the taser hidden in her jacket when a pair of black-clad legs show up in her vision. Does Ghostface work with dogs now? She wonders in confusion for a moment, and has given up on the voice changer?
The only thing stopping her from tasing this potential killer in front of her is the pure bewilderment and Tara’s laughter filling the room.
“Oh my god,” the figure bends down, picking up the dog who turns out to be a very excited puppy, the pizza falling from its mouth and onto her shirt, getting it all over her, “I’m so sorry.”
It’s a girl, a face she’s never seen before, looking completely mortified.
“Hey, Sam,” Tara stops beside her, a barely hidden tone of satisfaction in her voice, “This is my friend. I thought you’d like to meet her.”
It's safe to say that Sam didn't like Tara's new friend at all.
“You didn’t think about telling me you were bringing someone?” Sam exclaimed, rubbing her temples wearily, “Especially that Lydia Deetz project right there? I almost shocked her in the middle of the hallway!”
Quinn shifted from where she was leaning against the counter in the small impromptu meeting and didn’t bother to hold back her laugh, “Nah, I think Tara would fit that role better.”
“Quinn,” Sam groaned exasperatedly.
“If I had told you you would have said no,” Tara shrugged.
“Yes! Because we don’t know her!”
It was quite awkward sitting on the couch in their living room less than five feet away from the kitchen and being able to hear every word spoken as if you weren't right there, with your messy dog happily chewing on the sock on your ankle.
This wasn't the turn you expected your night to take when you decided to accept Tara's sudden invitation for a movie night, visiting her off-campus for the first time since you became friends.
You met her at the start of the school year, the day she showed up for a film club meeting before anyone else arrived, well, anyone except you. She seemed completely lost and suspicious, even though she was clearly struggling not to show it, which made you like her right away.
Getting attention and starting conversations was never really your thing, this whole club thing wasn't either, honestly, but you ended up being one of the last older members to join with most of the others having recently graduated and the responsibility of looking after the new freshmans gradually fell on you. Most of the time you kept to yourself, preferring the behind-the-scenes side of things to participating in the long-winded debates of high school teens obsessed with slashers and making Stab parodies, but you noticed the way Tara seemed desperate for any sense of normalcy beneath her laid-back facade and the whispers of murder that haunted her.
You took what seemed like a rabid kitten under your wing and ended up cornered by the personification of a Doberman because of it. Talk about doing good deeds and stepping out of your comfort zone. What a joke.
Tara’s older sister, Sam, if you got it right, stared at you with narrowed, suspicious eyes – just like Tara when you first approached her – towering over your figure that tried to look smaller than it actually was on the couch, as if she was trying to learn every little hidden detail about you.
“So…” you began hesitantly, wanting to break the awkward silence that had ensued, “you have such a beautiful house.”
“Aren’t you too old to hangout with a freshmen?" Sam cut in coldly, one eyebrow perfectly arched in distrust.
You sighed, this conversation sure started off very well, “I’m 23,” you cleared your throat, “Tara’s in the same club as me, and I’ve just been helping her with some classes I used to take when I first started here.”
You hear Tara’s distinct chuckle, clearly amused by your frustration, which doesn’t help your situation much. What a wonderful friend, indeed.
Sam hummed with fake indifference and the other two housemates watched the exchange intently, eyes darting between you like they were at a tennis match, amused by the sight of Sam trying to intimidate the poor unsuspecting twit that you were.
A great friend, for sure. Ugh, this is why you don’t sponsor obviously troubled kids.
It’s not like Sam Carpenter is really intimidating or scaring you out the way she seems to want to, she has bags under her eyes and a greasy pizza stain on her shirt and you’re a grown woman, for God’s sake! It’s just that it was extremely embarrassing to cause a scene like that, especially with someone who you really wanted to make a good first impression.
Interacting so much socially lately was becoming relatively exhausting and you expected it wouldn't become a thing, as you were feeling a bit overwhelmed by everything. You hoped this would be the last big meeting you had for a while. Tara had told you a lot about her sister, mainly about how it was a pain in the ass to always have someone hovering over her, but it was something you never took seriously because of the way she sounded when she talked about it, too loving for someone who hated the situation so much. No, Sam was important and Tara had insisted that you meet her after doing the same with the twins just a few days ago. You had carefully planned how it would happen, what clothes you would wear and what you would say and now your chance to make things right was ruined, the words seeming to have escaped you in a flash. You were reserved, quiet, small in the midst of so much hustle and bustle, used to watching everything go by from the safety of the shadows. Being a mouse was easy.
“Is that all you have to say?”
Less easy when caged with a lion.
“Look,” you tried again, silently squirming as your pup start sniffing Sam’s combat boots furiously as you stood to pick him up, “I really didn’t want to cause any trouble or misunderstanding, Tara called me earlier while I was walking this little guy and insisted it would be okay if I came over for a movie. I can leave now if you want to, I’m really sorry for… well, all of this.”
You noticed Sam's expression became conflicted, as if she didn't know exactly what to make of you standing in the middle of her living room without showing any threat and wasn't used to people actually listening to her on sight. Still, she wasn't going to give up that easily.
“Great,” Sam nodded, her voice sounding less firm, “go then.” She pointed directly at your dog, now sitting at her feet with its fluffy head tilted to the side in a guiltily innocent manner, “And make sure to take that pizza thief with you.”
(You swear he looked personally offended.)
“What? No!” Tara seemed to realize that her little game could backfire and came out from behind the counter in your defense.
“Tara—”
“Come on, Sam, it's movie night!” She stomped her foot loudly, “I refused the invite to Jason's party for that, we were marathoning all the Texas Chainsaw Massacres!”
You don’t even have to be good at reading people to know that Sam had lost that fight the moment Tara looked at her with pleading eyes, knowing that there was no way to blame her for simply doing what she asked.
That didn’t stop Sam from rolling her eyes and huffing in irritation.
“Fine,” she practically growled, shifting her attention back to you, “But I’m gonna keep an eye on you, so you better not act all smart and keep that fleabag away from me.”
“His name’s Koda.” You pointed out, before softening, “And thank you, I promise I’m not gonna—”
“Shush.”
Sam was sure this was all part of an act of yours, just the first step to infiltrate their lives and pull the rug out like others have done before, because no one in their right mind would sit quietly next to someone who nearly shocked and threatened them in many ways just a few minutes ago.
Especially if that someone is burning holes in your head with their eyes, like she's doing now.
Sam watches shamelessly and intrigued, shooting daggers at your figure as you lean back with Tara babbling enthusiastically between you, your puppy completely knocked out on her lap, oblivious to the sounds of death and fake blood spurting from the TV. She notices the way you effectively ignore her, responding to Tara’s remarks with genuine interest, even if your voice doesn’t match her enthusiasm.
You remained quiet beyond those moments and the tiredness along with your lack of sudden movements made Sam feel secure enough to leave the room and finally take a shower – because along with everything she never saw much fun in these movies like Tara –, warning you that it was better for everyone to finish the night when the movie ended.
(She also forced Quinn to take her place on the couch and promise to scream if anything happened. You didn't comment on that either.)
Sam only falls asleep when she hears the sounds of goodbyes coming from the living room and the door house being closed, finally relaxing after all the interaction, deciding that it was enough. You could have been at her house, but that doesn't mean she would let you come over again.
You come back, because of course Tara doesn’t give a damn about Sam’s warnings about being careful around strangers – incessantly claiming that you’re not a stranger – and there you are at the next game night that Chad insisted on making a tradition.
At least there’s no sign of the shirt-destroying furball this time and there are pizzas smelling good on the kitchen counter.
“‘Sup, Sam!” Chad greeted loudly as she walked through the door, waving excitedly from the couch, “We’re playin’ uno!”
Her eyes landed on you, who waved at her with a small, tight smile, awkwardly sandwiched between Anika and Ethan, the way you stood out among them so comical that Sam suppressed a snort. She decided to join in without much protest, someone responsible still had to watch you, after all.
Sam wouldn’t admit to anyone, absolutely anyone, that she was enjoying the evening, listening to the heated exchanges as everyone got competitive. Strangely, she noticed that you didn’t try to engage much in the conversation, just like the other night, seeming happy to just be there. She thought you had been withdrawn then because of her behavior towards you, but maybe you were just shy.
That made her raise an eyebrow, Tara didn’t usually embrace introverts. Actually, she had always been pretty popular even before Sam left, if she remembered correctly, so this was new. She felt a small piece of curiosity spark inside her instead of more mistrust as she expected and it disconcerted her.
“The whole point of the 7 card is that you're not supposed to talk, man!” Mindy throwing chips at Ethan interrupted Sam's flow of thoughts.
“This rule is stupid! The manual doesn't even mention it, read it for yourself!” Ethan shuffled the cards wildly – everyone at the table had seen his hand – pointing, “And you’re talking too!”
“Whatever! Nobody reads the fuckin manual to play uno, Ethan!”
Tara groaned, “Guys, just shut up and everybody buys a card.”
“But that’s not how you play!”
She decided to abandon the game and all the fuss in favor of getting some air and a slice of pizza and was surprised to find that her favorite was still untouched, which was a miracle in such a crowded house.
“Tara said that you liked this flavor,” your voice coming from nearby startled her and Sam saw you gesture to the box in front of her, “My treat, for the other day.”
She cleared her throat hesitantly, “You didn’t have to.”
“I did,” you dismissed with a wider smile, “My dog left you without dinner.”
Sam didn’t respond, but you leaned against the counter next to her anyway, picking at the dark polish on your nails casually, listening to your friends arguing in the background.
“Get tired of the crowd?” Sam asked, deciding that ignoring you wasn’t an option since you clearly weren’t leaving.
“Yeah,” you agreed, shrugging with an odd laugh, “I guess I’ve had enough socializing for one day.”
Sam wasn’t sure why she didn’t just send you away then, seizing the perfect chance to dismiss you like she’d wanted all along and avail everyone's presence to remind that you weren’t welcome, but that strange spark flared in her and made her smile unconsciously, more sincere than the previous tense ones.
“Oh, I know what you mean,” she agreed slowly.
Your expression brightens in surprise, as if you expected a cold, blunt rejection or maybe a slap (probably both) and Sam feels a bit guilty by it. Sighing, she waves you towards the apartment’s tiny balcony, silently inviting you to join her, to which you respond with a firm nod as you watch her unwind the chain on the sliding door – they keep everything locked up tight now – and follow her.
Sam swears she’s not doing this to be nice or anything, all she wants is to repay you for your politeness, that’s all.
The night breeze is refreshing and sends pleasant shivers down your arms and shoulders as Sam leans against the railing and the two of you fall silent. It’s pleasant, actually.
Sam takes a moment to look at you, like, really look at you for the first time since you met and her breath hitches.
Your relaxed features look cheerful and are well-emphasized by the makeup you’re wearing – she tries to search her memory and gets frustrated when she can’t remember if it’s the same style as the night you met – your hair blows a little in the wind and your clothes just fit. Every single thing about you seems to have been specially made to be this way, charming, beautiful.
Your elbow brushes hers in the small space as you lean in to better contemplate the dreary, empty New York sky and Sam’s skin is burning and she doesn’t understand why.
Sam didn’t realize, through all the haze of anger and suspicion and tantrum, until she was touching a pretty girl, that you were, in fact, a pretty girl.
Shit.
“You’re trying so hard not to like her that I’m getting embarrassed for you.”
It’s late. Everyone has already left, including you, who went early claiming you had to work the next morning. Tara should be in bed by now, but she’d be upset if Sam told her to do that, so she doesn’t say anything.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sam dismisses, packing up the last of the leftover pizza to put in the fridge.
“But you do,” Tara hums smugly, stifling a yawn, “Just admit that you were wrong and that I’ve made a friend who’s not a potential serial killer. And that you might have a crush on her. I saw you two on the balcony.”
“It wasn’t like that,” she grumbles, “And I wasn’t wrong for being worried that you brought home a stranger without telling me, even if she’s not dangerous.”
“Ha!” Tara points out, “So you admit she’s no danger.”
Sam sighs tiredly, bringing a hand up to massage her temple, “She can keep coming over for movie nights or whatever if that’s what you're asking me.”
Tara cheered, jumping up from where she was sitting on the counter to finally go to sleep. She stopped just before turning the corner to her room.
“Seriously though,” she caught Sam’s attention, “You guys have more in common then you might think, that’s why I like her. I think you could too, if you get to know her better.”
“That’s impossible, Tar,” Sam says weary, looking at her sister with the most done expression, “I don’t ‘get to know’ anyone, I already have all the people I need in my life.”
“Maybe you’ll be surprised,” she shrugged, “It would be good for you anyway.”
Sam's approval was all Tara needed to make you a regular fixture in their lives and make movie nights an official thing. Sam usually walks in when they're in full swing, with the two of you deep in conversation about the completely random movie you decided to watch that day, and now she greets you back instead of ignoring like she did before and you look happier every time she does it openly.
She finds excuses to wander around the living room and kitchen when she hears Tara pause the tv for whatever reason, just so she doesn't leave you unsupervised in their house – it was still too early to rule out all the care, after all. It ends up making her feel kind of ridiculous, because, hell, she shouldn't have to make excuses to wander around her own house! But you guys talk during these moments, sometimes.
Sam learns more about you as time goes on, and she tells herself that it's just gathering information, that you're not friends at all, but she finds herself soaking up every bit of detail. What are you majoring in, how long have you been in town, if you live close to campus like most students or if you have roommates like them.
(Actually, when she thinks about it now, Sam probably sounded more like a maniac trying to find out where you live, but at least you didn’t call her out on it.)
Then movie nights are joined by study sessions that Tara insists on having as her first week of finals approaches, and you manage to convince Sam to let you bring your puppy too so he won’t be alone for so many hours and she can act a little more normal around you and have a conversation that doesn’t sound like a job interview. You tell her about the movies you like – which consist of more than just an extensive list of slashers like she initially assumed – in a loud and excited tone instead of your usual repressed one, and it stirs something inside her, which leads to several other facts. Your favorite color, what kind of music you like, what you do when her sister isn't dragging you somewhere, and why you decided to adopt a dog so young when you already had so many other responsibilities.
“He helps me not feel alone,” you replied, looking deep into her eyes, “my roommate graduated last year and moved out. I guess I couldn’t stand coming home to empty houses, you know? And he’s my guard dog, he takes care of me and I take care of him. The little guy might be small but knows how to do damage.”
She could relate to that, in part.
And then you start asking too, suddenly and Sam finds herself with a dilemma after so long avoiding your attempts to get to know her. She’d rather remain closed off.
But a trade isn’t a fair trade unless she gives you something back, is it? And you’ve been quenching her thirst for knowledge for a long time now, you gave her a lot.
So, during one night when you insist on helping her make dinner, she confides in you – somewhat reluctantly – that she really enjoys cooking, especially healthier meals. She doesn't look at you, nor does she say it clearly but still, you listen and Sam is surprised when she finds herself speaking.
“You really should ask her out.”
And of course, Tara is always close enough to raise an eyebrow with a knowing look at her on practically every occasion.
“I've told you already, it's not like that.”
“You're cuddling her dog right now.”
“Just so he stays quiet and doesn't disturb you two! Shouldn't you be studying, by the way?”
“Ugh, you’re so annoying.”
Sam can almost, almost admit that you're her friend too.
(Though she kinda wished it were a little more than that.)
Movie nights evolve into sleepovers, because Sam argues that it’s simply too late and dangerous for you to come back alone and she feels embarrassed – and guilty as much – when Quinn brings up that it has always been dangerous and she didn’t mind letting you go before, when she didn’t care about you.
Now there are some of your clothes in a drawer Tara set aside for you just like a colorful food bowl in the living room for your dog – Mindy jokes that it's theirs now – and there’s rarely a day that goes by where she doesn’t see you.
And when you don’t come over, Tara makes sure to remind her of how anxious she looks waiting for a knock on the door and how she lights up when you greet her first when you finally arrive.
“I swear that now she comes here more to see you than me.”
“You’re imagining things.”
“Yeah, sure,” she huffs, “And when are you gonna make a move again?”
“Never, Tara.”
Sam hasn't heard a thing about you in days. Tara said yesterday that you ended up getting really busy with a college project, preparing a presentation that, her sister quotes, 'needs to be perfect because public speaking is horrible and there's a big chance I'll embarrass myself.'
It's not that Sam asked, it's just that she doesn't text you often and Tara thought it would be convenient to talk about it out loud when she was on the phone with Mindy.
Anyway, it doesn't really matter, it's not like you two are close. You are Tara's friend. If it weren't for her, you two wouldn't even have a reason to see each other. There's no reason to be so stressed.
But she misses you anyway. She's having a shitty day at her shitty job and everything seems to go by even slower because Sam knows that when she gets home at night you probably won't be on the couch waiting with the soft smile she's grown accustomed to looking forward and if she has to deal with another group of rude teenagers she'll freak out.
The sound of the bell ringing at the entrance draws Sam’s attention back to the counter and she ends up face to face with the person who has been on her mind all day.
“Sam!” you approached with a tired smile, your dog wagging his tail happily on a leash in one hand and a paper bag in the other, “I was looking for you.”
You'd never visited her at work before, she didn't even know you knew where it was, having only mentioned it in passing, but there you were, with the smile she wanted to see and bags under your eyes.
“Hi,” she cleared her throat, feeling her face heat up. Damn, she looked like a teen girl with a crush, “I didn't expect to see you here, what, uhm, what do you need?”
You snorted at her flustered attending voice. Seeing her show any kind of nervousness was very unusual.
“Tara called me today demanding I get out of the house for a bit and ‘touch some grass’, so I decided to bring this buddy along, he was begging me for a proper walk,” you shrugged, “And she asked me to bring your lunch.”
Sam paused at that, Tara definitely didn't make lunches for her, much less go to the trouble of delivering them like that.
“...Thank you,” she accepted the paper bag you held out delicately, eyeing the package suspiciously. You held back a giggle when she looked at you again, “Anything else?”
“Oh, um,” you shifted your weight from one foot to the other, obviously nervous, “I’m taking Koda to the park nearby and I thought maybe you’d like to come with us. If you can, of course.”
Sam couldn’t really, it was still a few hours before her shift ended at the coffee shop, but she didn’t want you to leave without the promise of seeing you again.
“Of course,” she found herself replying instead, “I can meet you there in a few minutes.”
She knew she’d made the right decision when you gifted her with one of your warm smiles.
“Okay! Nice,” you nod, absently twirling your dog’s leash around your fingers, startled by the sudden, loud bark he lets out at the delay, breaking the oblivious bubble you were in, “Alright, I should go before he starts trying to jump over the counter.”
Sam barely hears the sound of the bell announcing your departure over how loudly her heart pounds in her ears.
It takes a lot of willpower and her last pack of good cigarettes to convince her insufferable coworker — who’d watched the whole thing with a bored expression and loudly chewing gum while cleaning the coffee machine — to cover the rest of her shift. He ended up ordering her lunch too, thinking it might be something special, only to complain when he was met with a sad peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a carton of warm apple juice. Tara really didn’t cook… but then why had she done that?
(She laughed at him anyway.)
“You owe me, Carpenter,” he grumbled, taping a note to her arm that had fallen out of the package.
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”
Sam was out the door before he could change his mind.
Taking a deep breath of the damp autumn air, she picked up the yellow post-it note curiously, recognizing her sister’s handwriting immediately.
‘u looked so depressed lately that I
decided to send u a gift
DO something this time
good luck!!’
She knew. She fucking knew that smartass had set her up. Sam should have guessed it before. Tara would never let her get away with this without doing something with her own hands. At least she hadn’t brought Mindy into the scheme this time.
The park you had mentioned was more like a small square and with the rainy cold weather of the last few days, it was pretty empty. Sam could spot you without difficulty, sitting on one of the few benches watching the scenery and she made her presence known when she got close enough.
“Can he even sit still sometimes?” Sam asked, hands in her bomber jacket pockets, pointing with her chin at the dog playing alone on the grass. You moved a little so she could sit next to you and subtly moved closer when she did.
“It rained last night and he's a big fan of puddles,” you chuckled, “I guess he's just excited, we haven't been out much lately.”
He wasn't the puppy he'd been when Sam had first seen him a few months ago and the sight of him running around the trees chasing flowers and stray twigs was actually quite funny.
“He's so covered in mud that it looks like a bear.”
“Well, his name's Koda,” you pointed out amusedly, “I would have called him Pongo but he always looked more like a small bear than a dalmatian anyway.”
She snorted, “If you say so.”
Sam couldn't remember a time when she felt so relaxed, with the weight of your shoulder resting against hers, enjoying the weather of the early season, the ground covered in orange and yellow leaves framing your surroundings.
She couldn't stop the restlessness she felt inside her chest, watching your profile. Feeling warm inside, but also shivering with a terrible fear of ruining everything. Do something, do something, do something echoing like a mantra in her head.
Sam took a deep breath. She'd faced murderers before, for God's sake! She could be braver than that.
"So..." She coughed, "Tara set this up, you know? The lunch stuff and everything."
You turned your attention to Sam, raising an eyebrow with a confused look.
"She did?" You asked, "Why would she do that?"
It's now or never, Carpenter. Focus.
“She did it so I could see you,” she looked away, “Because I missed you. Because I…” She felt your hand reach for hers and noticed a fallen leaf on your shoulder.
“Because you…?” your voice echoed anxious. She could do this. She's going to do this.
“I—”
A loud howl scared the two of you and you turned to see Koda behind a pile of leaves, pupils dilated and jumping up and down.
“Oh no.”
“What?” She stammered.
“He saw a pigeon.”
You see, Sam is not a pet person. She has only had one guinea pig her entire life and only before her father left and a 6-year-old Tara let it escape from its cage never to be seen again – poor Darwin would always be remembered – she does not know how to handle dogs, much less big, excitable ones like yours.
Yet she grabs the leash from your hands when you finally reach your dog who won't stop barking at a tree and ignores your warnings that he is heavy and strong, Sam, it will end up dragging you away and tries to gently pull him to convince him to let go so you can get out of there. Because she is big and strong and she wants to show you that she can handle a mere happy dog.
He acknowledges her like she wanted and also drags her like you said he would.
This manages to surprise her more than the first stab wound she took, how one minute she’s standing still, telling your silly dog to walk in a confident condescending tone, and the next she’s running at full speed through the trees and puddles of the park, your worried voice ringing behind her, as does your laughter.
“Sam!” you exclaimed from a distance, hands cupped around your mouth and dark red scarf falling from your neck, “You need to stop!”
She does stop, yes, but only after your dog has already circled her and Sam must be a ridiculous sight with a colorful leash wrapped around her legs and a dog panting with its tongue out next to her.
“Oh my god,” you lean in closer, unable to hide the amusement in your voice, “Are you okay?”
Sam huffed, feeling a strand of hair fall across her face: “A little help would be appreciated.”
“Sure,” you laughed, reaching out to carefully untangle it, “Maybe I should call him Pongo after all.”
She rolled her eyes: “Don’t mock me.”
“I’m not mocking you, it’s just cute.”
Sam opened her mouth to retort, only to realize how close you two were, with your hands resting on her shoulders to steady her and your faces just inches apart, your breath tickling her skin. You seemed to realize the same thing, tongue coming out to wet your lips, your gaze fixed on her mouth.
Do something. Do something. Do something.
She finally does something. She kisses you.
It's all a mix of sensations, she feels when you sigh, breathing through your nose in surprise and satisfaction, she feels where your hands tighten on the fabric of her jacket and tastes you, warm lips contrasting with the cold skin of your cheeks, with traces of coffee, lipstick and something else so undeniably you that Sam swears her heart might stop.
You pull apart hesitantly, breathing fast, noses touching, eyes shining, and she feels herself falling, literally. Your dog jumps on your waist, demanding to be petted, and you fall, taking Sam with you.
Landing in a pile of leaves is more uncomfortable than the movies make it out to be, but Sam can’t find it in herself to protest when you’re the one on top of her. She smiles and you laugh out loud. She didn’t mess up.
“You’re covered in leaves,” you say, running your fingers through her hair, “And your face is smeared with black lipstick.”
She scoffs, “I wonder who’s responsible for that.”
“He is,” you point innocently at the dog standing next to you.
Sam rolls her eyes, but cups your face with her cold hands to pull you close again, and the second kiss she gives you is just as magical as the first.
Tara doesn’t expect to find a dog taking up the entire couch for the first time in days when she comes back from Chad’s dorm after sending you off on a fake mission to find her sister. Yet, hours later, there it is, with one of the sneakers she forgot to put away when she got home from class stuck in his mouth and trails of mud and leaves across the room.
“C’mon, man, that’s not a toy!”
She hears a laugh and finds herself face to face with Sam, looking completely filthy despite the sound of the shower running in the hallway and Tara knows Quinn isn’t home yet. Oh.
“So, you finally did something?”
Sam nods solemnly, pointing to the dark kiss etched into her jaw.
“I did.”
Speak No Evil - Sam Carpenter
Part 1 of Dark Knight series
Summary: You think Tara's sister hates you, or, at least, she is embarrassingly aware of your little crush on her. You couldn't be further from the truth, but Sam wouldn't let you know the length she'd go to protect you.
Warnings: Fem!Reader, Stalker!Sam, violence, blood, character death (not main) mentions of sex, cursing, mostly following canon.
w.c: 5.6 k
“Ugh, I just want to get home and throw myself on the couch.”
“Real.”
You and Tara climbed the stairs to her apartment side by side, dragging your feet more than anything else due to the exhaustion of the grueling day in college. You almost sighed with relief when you arrived in front of the familiar door, seeing your best friend take the key out of her pocket and open the lock with her shoulder already against the wall.
She entered the house already throwing her own bag aside, without even noticing the object sliding across the wooden floor. Being a visitor, you couldn't afford the same carelessness, opting to leave your bag on one of the small sofas. Your shoulders thanked you when they were spared the weight of the textbooks after long minutes on the subway and walking.
“You're home early, Sam.”
Automatically, your heart started racing when you heard Tara's simple words and you turned around at lightning speed to see Samantha Carpenter emerging from the kitchen, wearing nothing more than a gray tank top and black pants, comfortable to wear at home but dangerous for your eyes.
“They robbed that electronics store next to the bar.” She shrugged at her own explanation, but you were more focused on the way her biceps seemed to bulge when she crossed her arms. “The boss chose to close it for safety reasons, plus no one would want to drink with a police car parked right outside the door.”
“H-Hi, Sam!” You raised your hand to greet her, but your brain froze as you decided between a gesture, and you ended up with a strange three-fingered salute.
Your cheeks felt like they were on fire as you instantly regretted your action, especially after Sam barely reacted to your presence, with nothing more than a nod to indicate that she had heard you. She had barely finished greeting you when she turned to Tara again. “Since I'm here, I can cook something for dinner instead of getting takeout.”
“Great!” Tara agreed beside you. “Just don't do too much. Y/n and I are going to make popcorn and watch a movie right now, I won't be that hungry later.”
“And I'm not staying for dinner!” You hastened to say, not wanting to give Sam any more trouble, especially when she seemed to stare into the depths of your soul with those piercing dark eyes. “I-I still have a lot to study, I have to get back early.”
Still remaining a woman of few words, Sam merely nodded and began to retreat to the kitchen again, before stopping to point at Tara. “Just don't make it too loud. Last time I had to listen to a lot of complaints from the lady upstairs.”
“You got it.” Tara replied with a joking salute and the older sister just rolled her eyes before finally leaving the two of you alone. It wasn't long before you became the butt of Tara's jokes, as she mimicked your voice in an annoyingly high-pitched tone. “H-Hi, S-S-Sam...”
“Fuck you.” You punched the girl weakly in the shoulder as you walked over to the couch, throwing yourself against the cushions with your arms crossed. Tara paid no attention to the micro-aggression, laughing even louder as she sat down next to you, crossing her legs on the furniture.
A sigh escaped your throat as Tara turned on the television and flipped through the catalog of some streaming network, probably looking for another horror movie. “I think your sister hates me.”
“Nah, that's just how she is.” The shorter girl threw a gesture of indifference. “But she surely knows about this big ass crush you have on her.”
You felt your face catch fire again at the accusation. “I don’t- .”
“Yes, you do. It's obvious and it's disgusting.”
“Yeah?” You decided to join in Tara's teasing game, knowing that this was just one of your usual friendly banter. “Like the crush you have on that blonde from the basketball team?”
“Look, i’ll have you know that-”
You interrupt Tara with a shush escaping from between your lips, parted in a smile. Your phone had just beeped with a notification and you quickly pulled it out of your pocket to see Mindy's text on your lock screen.
Unfortunately, the content of the message instantly broke the fun mood. “Shit.” You cursed through your teeth, feeling the corners of your lips drop.
You could feel Tara stirring on the sofa, dragging herself to your side as she tried to read what was on your screen. “What?”
A sigh. “Mindy's asking me about what happened at ARCS.”
“Oh.”
Analysis and Reflection on Contemporary Society, also called ARCS, was an elective that you and Tara were taking and it basically consisted of having a debate on a topic proposed by the teacher every class. You had joined because the proposal was interesting, but most of the students were only there because Professor Ross graded you through attendance and not through exams.
Which was a good indicator of the type of person who was attending those classes.
The moment of silence was broken by your best friend's hesitant voice. “Do you... want to talk about what happened?”
Tara, bless her heart, wasn't the best person to offer emotional support and you knew that very well, both because of the long year you'd been friends for and because of the complete awkwardness she found herself in. Even so, you knew she wouldn't rest until you took some of the weight off your back.
“I don't want to pay too much attention to this.” You huffed, shoving your phone back into your pocket as if it were the reason for your anger. “E.J. Abrams called me a bitch to the whole class, who cares? Everyone knows I was getting his ass in that debate.”
Seeing that you were more annoyed than hurt, Tara jumped at the chance to curse the boy, feeling much more comfortable now that the topic seemed to be centered on hatred. “That little shit. He thinks he can do whatever he wants because he's blond and strong and some dumb girls suck his toes.”
“I think it's more the fact that he's a medal-winning swimmer on the Olympic team and he's in one of the most exclusive fraternities on campus.”
“Well, fuck that ridiculous fraternity and fuck his medals too.” Tara continued, seeming to enjoy the way the F-word came out of her mouth. “I can't believe Professor Ross didn't even give him a warning.”
“I can.” You retorted without much joy, knowing damn well that the man would never intervene in any discussion between students because it was all part of the “debate experience”. Which, in fact, seemed more like an excuse so that he wouldn't have to get directly involved in any conflict.
With the movie completely forgotten in the background, you and Tara continued to curse every last generation of E.J., transferring all your indignation into words that the boy would probably never hear.
Meanwhile, someone else was listening to the entire conversation through the thin walls of the apartment, making a mental note to do more research on E.J. Abrams another time.
__
Sam was glad she had decided to wear a stronger jacket. New York nights were gradually getting colder as winter approached.
If she turned around, she would probably see students rushing around as they crossed campus, trying to get to their dorms before the curfew. Without even looking at her watch, Sam knew that they had approximately 5 minutes before 10:30 pm. She liked to arrive at 10.
But she didn't turn around, choosing to keep her back against the bars of the fire exit one floor above yours. She still couldn't believe that she had a perfect, hidden view of your entire room through your window, but Sam would never complain about that gift.
It was a safety issue, yes, but you were never going to be in danger when she was right there, in that fire exit, every night. No other person would harm you as long as she was there.
“Are you still hiding behind false pretenses?”
Sam would recognize that dry, slurred voice anywhere. She barely had to turn her head to see her father, or the image of him, sitting right in front of her with that familiar mischievous smile. He looked as he always did, not that a hallucination could have such a vast closet. White blouse stained with blood, messy black hair and eyes that Sam sometimes recognized in the mirror.
“There's nothing false about what I'm doing.” Sam muttered in response, even though she knew she shouldn't.
“There’s no need to be embarrassed.” Billy continued, his smile getting wider with the attention he was receiving. “I know more than anyone that everyone needs a good obsession. Obsession makes perfect, doesn't it?”
This time, Samantha chose to leave him without an answer. Obsession. That word sounded so ugly to her ears, completely wrong too. She wasn't obsessed with you, she was just... protecting you.
At first, that hadn't exactly been Sam's intention, of course. When Tara talked about a new friendship, her protective big sister instincts instantly went on alert. No one could blame her after everything they'd been through in Woodsboro and more recently in her own apartment.
But she also couldn't deprive Tara of having a normal life and interacting with other people. Not everyone was a psycho waiting for an opportunity to stick a knife in the Carpenters. Still, Sam wanted to make sure that you weren't going to be another disappointment in her sister's life.
That's how she found herself on that fire escape for the first time, making sure that you really lived in the dorms, that you hadn't lied about your identity, that you didn't have a secret agenda or sneak out at night to play God and take some lives.
But you were... normal. Sam would even say that you were more normal than she and Tara would ever be. Everything about you was genuine and you carried with you a kindness that made Sam stop thinking of you as a suspect to someone she put on her mental protection list.
And it was by studying your normality, immersing herself in your pure and well-intentioned actions that Sam realized she was no longer watching you because she lacked trust in your person, but rather because she wanted that for herself. Those moments watching you from afar, seeing you live your life, brought an inner peace to Sam that she couldn't even explain.
It had been months since she had started this routine, so Sam knew very well that in a few minutes your roommate would open the window to use her pink-flavored vape, since you hated the smell being trapped in the room. The open window would allow Sam to eavesdrop on 20 minutes of conversation between you and your friend, which Sam thought was perfect for finding out at least a little about what was going on in your life.
Just as planned, the blonde opened the window and leaned both elbows on the sill, letting the flavored smoke escape through her lips as she took another drag of the pink device. Sam didn't like your roommate, Sammy - yes, she had also found the coincidence of names a bit ironic - because she thought the girl was... too clingy with you.
But as far as Sam knew, it wasn't a crime to be a clingy friend. It was just annoying. Annoying wasn't enough reason for Sam to do anything about it.
“... Well, frat guys are shit.” Sammy spoke over another puff of smoke, probably finishing answering something. “They must have a total of two neurons combined.”
“I knoooww...” You whined, rubbing a hand across your face in frustration. Sam could see you lying on your bed with your phone in your hand, certain that you must’ve been scrolling on your social media, as you always did at that time. “But the people in class laughed at me at the time and, I don't know, I don't want to be made a laughing stock.”
Sam felt an angry pulse in her neck. It was outrageous that you were afraid of being ridiculed in your class because some idiot thought it was funny to interrupt your debate to call you a bitch. She could almost picture the scene if she closed her eyes, and just the thought of seeing your lost and embarrassed expression made her blood boil.
“Did they put any videos online? If you want, I can delete it.”
The proposal was genuine. While Sam was still doing her own research on your life (for safety's sake, of course), she had found your roommate's data as well. Sammy was a computer science major and, from the internship she had landed with a great salary, she must have been very good at what she did.
“I'll take a look.” You answered in a low voice, your eyes frantically running over the phone screen, looking for something that Sam would never be able to see from that distance.
Billy chose that moment to come back to torment his daughter, his evil smile almost shining in the moonlight. “It's so good that there are so many people who care about our girl, isn't it?”
“Shut up.” Sam grunted through her teeth. He could even be a figment of her mind, but Sam was never going to let Billy ever refer to you as his possession.
In response, he just laughed, his dead head falling back as he amused himself at the girl's growing annoyance. If Billy had a material body, Sam would already have provided a fresh wave of red on his stained shirt.
“FUCK!”
Sam turned her head towards the window like a bolt of lightning as soon as she heard your cry of outrage. Sammy had also done the same, removing the vape from her lips as she turned around with wide eyes. “What?! What?!”
“Look at this shit!” You squawked, waving your phone in the blonde's direction. From a distance, the most Sam could see was the layout of the app. It looked like twitter, but she couldn't be sure.
Not that that was going to be a problem. Carpenter quickly took her phone out of her pocket, opening it to the app that used to have a bird as its icon. Fortunately, the account she wanted to use was already open and she had no trouble finding what she was looking for.
Yes, Sam had also created one or two fake social media accounts when she was investigating you, just to be safe. She had gotten the data from a Gordon Wu, who was majoring in engineering at your university and had apparently never created an account for himself. Sam thought he wouldn't mind if she borrowed it.
It was easy to create a profile with no photos and start following other students at the university to keep up to date with everything that was going on, as well as other random accounts such as soccer memes and Pokémon just to keep her little disguise authentic. Fortunately, the app's algorithm seemed to understand that what Sam really wanted to know was what was going on at Blackmore.
So it wasn't long before she saw E.J Abrams' verified account on her timeline, with a tweet that had over 2k likes:
@themanEJ: That bitch in ARCS just got mad cause she wants this d again
Sam's eye twitched.
“I can't believe he posted that!” You complained even louder, a mixture of anger and dread in your voice. “I've never slept with him! Never! And I never want to!”
The comments were horrible. Men encouraging E.J., calling you crazy and giving reason to his lies, women saying they wouldn't miss the same opportunity or adding fuel to the gossip, asking for the name of the mysterious bitch.
“I'll see if I can delete it, okay?” Sammy patted your shoulder before going to her own side of the room, opening her computer while trying to somehow take down that tweet. Meanwhile, Sam's hands clenched into a fist in the pockets of her jacket.
“You know what to do, Sam.” That familiar voice whispered in her ear, like a snake tempting her to bite the apple. “Are you really going to let that fucker hurt our girl?”
“She's not your girl.”
“But she's yours, isn't she?” Billy retorted without wasting any time, his dark eyes sparkling at the mere idea of having fun in his favorite way. “Don't you remember how good it felt to finish off Bailey? How amazing you felt sticking that knife, my knife, in his eye after he played with your family?”
Sam remembered the excitement, the adrenaline coursing through her veins as she took revenge for everything he and his family had done, the smile that automatically opened on her face after he had stopped moving. She remembered how satisfying it had been to slit Richie's throat as if he were a fish, watching him beg for air as the blood dripped to the floor.
E.J... he hadn't killed anyone, but... he deserved it, didn't he? He shouldn't have messed with you. Someone had to teach him a lesson.
“You know you want this, Sam. Don't fight your instincts.”
She felt the weight of Billy's knife in her pocket, serving as a nudge, as if it were another way for the universe to tell her that she was right, that she should do it.
For the first time in months, Sam looked behind her at the fire escape, now no longer focused on your window, but on the entrance to the house of a famous fraternity that wasn't that far from your dorm.
__
It was incredibly easy to get into the house. Really. The front door was open.
Sam didn't even have to make an effort to get to the boy's room, as her footsteps were completely drowned out by the loud trap music that was blasting from the speakers. She caught a glimpse of four guys playing ping-pong in the kitchen and another two playing video games in the living room.
None noticed her presence and she didn't make a point of being seen either, especially while she was dodging protein bar wrappers and plastic cups that were lying on the floor. She climbed the stairs two steps at a time, wanting to do what she needed to do right away to get out of that nightmare of a place.
She took her phone out of her pocket as soon as she reached the top floor, looking at one of the photos E.J. had posted on his Instagram that showed a bit of his bedroom from the back. The walls were dark blue with some of his medals hanging on them, along with photos of him receiving them. Sam hoped that the boys' rooms weren't all the same.
Fortunately, the first door she walked through was exactly where she needed to be. E.J.'s room wasn't much better than she had imagined. Pants and boxers (which she hoped were clean) were scattered all over the floor and the room smelled of an uncomfortable mixture of aftershave and an extremely woody perfume, to the point of making Sam's nose sting in response.
And there it was, the blue wall full of medals and photos of the boy, like a mural entirely dedicated to his narcissism. Sam was tempted to destroy some of those pictures, punch them right in the middle of that static smile of the boy-next-door that she knew very well was completely fake. There was nothing good about E.J. The world would be a better place without him.
Sam sat on the completely messed up bed, with one sheet turned over and two pillows completely crumpled. E.J. seemed to be the kind of guy who had someone to do the cleaning for him at home, of course he wouldn't be able to do something as simple as making his own bed. He probably thought it wasn't his job.
Speaking of the devil, it didn't take long for E.J. to walk into his own room and be surprised by the sight of the brunette in his bed. He was tall and strong, as an athlete should be, of course. Some people would say he almost looked like Captain America, if you completely ignored the part about having moral values.
Not that that would intimidate Sam. If anything, it would only make the result all the more satisfying.
“Heeey, babe.” Abrams cracked a mischievous smile, analyzing Sam as if she were a piece of meat. “I don't remember having anything scheduled today. Did the guys fix you up for me?”
She had to press her black gloved hands against her thighs to stop herself from immediately jumping on the boy's neck. Act, Sam. Billy's voice and her own were mixing in her head, trying to keep her in line. Sam cracked the best smile she could manage.
“I just had to have a chance with the hottest guy in Blackmore.” She winked, trying to swallow the disgust she felt at those words. Sam got out of bed slowly, her movements being followed by E.J. like a hungry predator. “Better lock the door, huh? We don't want any interruptions.”
“You're right, beautiful.” The boy quickly agreed, turning the lock behind him at the same time as Sam reached him, pulling him closer by the collar of his shirt. “You've got attitude, kitten. I like that.”
“I bet.” Sam smiled again, knocking him onto the bed just as he made a move to try and grab her waist. She tugged at the hem of his shirt, trying her best to maintain a seductive voice. “Why don't you take it off for me, E.J.?”
“Right away.” He nodded, making a show of opening the only three buttons on his polo shirt before pulling the green fabric off over his head, as if Sam was interested in seeing that pile of muscles that would soon spasm until they stiffened.
Sam took a single step closer to the bed, watching the boy crawl through the messy covers until he rested his back on the headboard, spreading his legs as if to invite Sam in. She just tilted her head to the side, her arms crossed. “E.J… What does it stand for?”
“W-What?” The athlete muttered, his eyes widening for a brief moment before he tried to pull himself together in his fake suave persona. “You don't need to know that, kitten. Come here and I'll give you something else to think about.”
“Can I guess, then?” Sam continued, finally climbing onto the bed, her knees sinking into the soft mattress right next to Abrams' thick thighs, pinning him in place. He only nodded, biting his lip as he appreciated the sight above him. “I'd say it's... Edward Jacob Abrams. But you tell everyone you're Edward James, so you don't have to admit that your mother named you after the two hot guys from Twilight. You don't think that's a very manly name, do you?”
E.J.'s expression went from surprise, to panic, to pure hatred. His set jaw quickly clenched and he made a point of getting up to confront Sam. “Listen here, you bitch - OOF.”
Whatever he was going to complain about was interrupted by a swift punch right in his Adam's apple, causing the boy's hands to go up to his throat as he searched for air. His white face quickly turned red and a few tears escaped from his eyes as he struggled to breathe.
Sam smiled at the scene. “You're really like calling women by that word, huh? It's about time someone shut your filthy mouth.”
With a lot of effort and his eyes twitching, E.J. managed to spit out a few words. “Y-You're c-crazy!” He coughed, the veins in his throat widening with the effort, his skin almost turning a purplish hue.
“Maybe.” Carpenter murmured, calmly taking the knife out of her pocket, admiring how the metal of the blade glistened against the moon rays coming through the window. “But you need to learn a thing or two about swallowing your words.”
In one swift movement, Sam used the handle of the knife to strike E.J.'s fingers with a resounding crack, making him grunt in pain and pull his hands away from the front of his neck, which had been Samantha's target all along. He raised his hands, trying to reach the woman to strangle her, but Sam had been faster.
With a single blow, now with the blade, E.J.'s throat had been slit open, spurting wine-red blood from his neck down his bare torso like a waterfall. He opened his eyes wide, his vocal cords gurgling in an attempt to speak, or to call for help, but nothing came out.
He struggled with one last effort to escape, but Sam also had strength in her lower limbs and trapped E.J.'s thighs between her own, forcing him to stay in place while he lost more and more blood and oxygen.
In a way, it was as if Sam was stealing his soul. Her eyes glowed maniacally as the brightness of the boy's eyes dimmed, his muscles growing weaker and his limbs abandoned him, giving up any chance of salvation.
Sam leaned forward, not minding the way her gloves got stained with the blood that now covered the entire bed. She moved closer to E.J.'s ear and whispered, “Who's the bitch now?”
Taking advantage of the boy's almost deoxygenated state, Sam opened his mouth without resistance, aligning her knife with E.J.'s tongue. Through the reflex of the blade, she swore she’d seen Billy’s eyes staring back at hers.
The sharp object descended on the tip of the athlete’s tongue, cutting the muscle with fluidity and letting the small piece fall back into EJ’s trachea, making it even more difficult for the boy to breathe, who at that point was a few seconds from fainting. His mouth was filled with blood, escaping from his lips and mixing with the red that drenched his neck.
E.J was finally unresponsive, breathing non-existent as well as his pulse. The boy’s blue eyes were completely lifeless, staring at Sam in an empty expression. She thought she’d feel a little bad. He was young and had not done much more than stupid mistakes of a 20-something asshole.
But she didn’t feel bad. Because that stupid mistake had been made against you, so he deserved it.
"You didn’t have to do this thing in the end, you know?" Billy commented in a faux bored voice, walking through EJ’s room with his hands behind his back, admiring the walls. "You’re more of a dramatic killer than I am."
"Shut up." Sam muttered back, feeling the tiredness begin to take over. She looked at the digital clock by E.J’s bed, which marked 00:04. Maybe she could be in bed by 1 am, which would give her six hours of sleep before she needed to get up for work. It was more than Sam usually slept, but she had the feeling her sleep would be hard as a stone that night.
Sam stood up from bed carefully, murmuring swears as she saw that the blood had stained her gloves and pants. She had expected to throw the gloves off but, man, she liked these pants.
"Who would’ve guessed that the impulse you needed to become like me was to mess with your heart and not your head."
"I’m not like you." Sam denied, turning to the image of her father in the corner of the room, his damn smirk seemed bigger than ever. She did not try to deny the rest of the sentence, however, because she knew it was true.
Her heart was her greatest weakness. And you seemed to be taking up a lot of space in it.
Billy laughed, approaching his daughter with slow, calculated steps. "You can deny as much as you like, Samantha. You have my blood in your veins and other’s blood on your hands. You cannot escape your family line."
"But, of course, you only did what you did because you needed to defend the honor of the poor and helpless Y/n." he continued, mockery escaping from his non-living lips, feeding on the growing anger in Sam’s chest. "Her knight in shining armour. No, scratch that. There’s nothing shining about you, Sam. You’re her Dark Knight"
She looked into the eyes of her father, seeing her clenched jaw being reflected in the pupil surrounded by an onyx iris. As much as she hated the way he talked about you, Sam couldn’t say that she hated the idea of being your knight, however twisted it was.
"I’ll up the dose of my medication."
"Ha! It’s gonna take more than a few pills to get rid of me, Samantha." Billy shook his head, a humorous smile still on his face. He bypassed his daughter, analyzing the crime scene as an art expert analyzes a painting. "Now let’s clean that up, shall we? No Loomis leaves behind evidence."
__
"If anyone asks me about E.J today, I’ll kill myself."
"Woah! Okay, how about we avoid suicide here?" Mindy replied from your side, gently pushing her shoulder with yours as you walked around the campus.
"Yeah, if someone has to die here, it’s got to be the people who come and try to fuck with you." Tara added, walking on your other side with the headphones hanging from her neck. "I’ll do it!"
"How about we don’t kill anyone?" Chad joined the conversation, a little further behind you while still struggling to put on his football jacket. Anika, next to Mindy, rolled his eyes with the boy’s words.
"Stop being boring, dude."
The familiarity of the conversation with your friends relieved some of your anxiety, but not completely. E.J’s tweet had gotten more than 3k likes throughout the night and most of them came from people from your college. As stupid as he was, people liked to be siding with a pretty face.
As you approached the communal area of students, more you felt a weight falling on your shoulders. It was almost as if your body was anticipating the looks, whispers and fingers pointed in your direction, as if you were a circus attraction - "The girl rejected by E.J Abrams"
But that never came, not even when you approached the tables occupied by several students. They all seemed more concerned to look at their own phones, apparently immersed in some gossip by the increasing volume of whispers in unison.
"What happened?" You turned to your friends with furrowed eyebrows, watching Mindy mumble a brief I don’t know while pulling the phone out of her pocket. Around you, people seemed scared, as if something terrible had happened.
You unconsciously thought it might be something else related to the ghostface attacks and the hell your friends had experienced in the past. You had heard the stories, had sympathized with the trauma experienced by them, although you secretly wished that the same fate would never fall on you.
Maybe that was the universe signaling you had no escape.
"Oh My God!" Mindy exclaimed as she opened her phone. Anika, beside her, took a hand to her mouth in complete horror and shock. You, Chad and Tara rushed to surround her, trying to read the news that had left the entire student body in a state of dread.
Athlete and fraternity member is found dead this morning. Suspicion of foul play falls on his roommates.
Gasps were slipping out of your throat as you kept reading the news. E.J Abrams was dead. His throat and tongue had been cut and the boy had bled to death in his own bed. The police had found some traces of hair from the other residents of the fraternity on his nails and they were the main suspects, with the current theory that it had been a prank that ended very badly.
You had a ringing in your ear. You’d woken up this morning wishing EJ would die, but now that he was really dead you felt... What? Relief? Revenge? Disgust? Fear?
A silence fell on your friends, but you could understand the thought that was being shared even without words. None of you felt bad for EJ, but the idea of your cursing suddenly being materialized seemed eerily real.
"Well, I hope they don’t cancel classes." Tara shrugged, being the first to give up pretending to care about the situation. "I didn’t walk all this way for nothing."
She pulled you by the arm, taking you out of your inner thoughts for a moment as you went towards the ARCS room, both knowing that one of the chairs would be empty but with the sketch of a body that was once there.
E.J was dead, but instead of relief, you felt in your guts that something was wrong.
Sam Carpenter P Links
Shooting you're load into her after a night at the club
Her ass alone makes you cum
Threesome with her and a ramdom girl you picked from a party
Sammy lets you cum on her tits
She makes sure you cum inside her or she'll kill you too
You werent scared she was Billy's daughter, you just needed to cum but she only let you do it on her not in her