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itsnotyouithink · 2 days ago

Text

AFRAID

PAIRING: tara carpenter x fem!reader

SUMMARY: Tara comes to your basketball game after you pass the most recent Film 101 test and you don’t expect the feelings you feel when you see her in the crowd cheering for you. You also didn’t expect your night to turn into an Ocean’s 8 reboot while trying to get “Drunk Tara” back into her own apartment.

WARNINGS: underage drinking, daddy issues

WORD COUNT: 4.1k

AUTHOR��S NOTE: send requests i’m bored

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The gym is electric, humming with pre-game adrenaline and the sticky throb of too many bodies in one space. Air conditioning exists only in theory; the overhead lights radiate down like they're trying to cook everyone alive. The floor already glistens with condensation before the first whistle.

You're bent over at the waist near the scorers' table, sweat already lining your spine and pooling in the crease behind your knee. Your taped ankle pulses—tight, reliable pain. It's fine. You've played through worse. You stretch, pull your hoodie over your head, and shake out your arms.

Then you look up.

She's here.

Tara Carpenter. Second row, dead center. She's not front row—she said she wouldn't do front row—but she's close enough to see the way your jersey clings to your back. Close enough to hear your sneakers squeak across the court.

She's in a black ribbed tank and low-rise jeans, hair half-up and loose, strands sticking slightly to her cheeks from the heat. She's leaned forward, elbows braced on her knees, lips parted just slightly. There's a red Gatorade tucked between her feet like it's waiting to be handed off.

She doesn't wave. Doesn't smile.

She just watches.

"Eyes up, killer," Chad says as he jogs past you behind the scorer’s table, grinning like he's about to say something deeply inappropriate. "The professor showed."

You roll your eyes and jog back to the line-up. Tara's not your professor. She's your film studies tutor. Who sometimes brings you coffee and sometimes rolls her eyes when you flirt. Who told you, dead serious, that if you passed the test last week she'd consider coming to a game. And now she's here. With the Gatorade. Watching.

The ball goes up.

You don't get the tip, but you get the first steal.

Banks—number 5—telegraphs a lazy pass and you pick it, quick hands and quicker feet, and take it coast to coast. Easy two off the glass.

The bench is already shouting.

Your team runs motion and you're slicing through defenders, ghosting left and exploding right. You hit a pull-up jumper from the elbow. Then a deep three from the wing. Then another. You're finding seams where there are none.

Eight. Ten. Fifteen. By the end of the first quarter, you've dropped seventeen.

The gym smells like wood polish and sweat and something sweeter—the syrupy bite of Gatorade opened in warm hands. You glance at her once. Just once.

Tara hasn't touched the bottle. The crowd groans as someone misses a layup.

She's leaned back now, arms crossed. Her face is unreadable, but her foot is tapping. She's in it. You know that rhythm. It's how she tapped during your last study session, during a scene in The Babadook she couldn't look away from.

Mindy's beside her, shouting stats. Anika's filming. Chad's across the court pretending to be your hype man. He's yelling your name like he's your agent.

"She's gonna drop forty!" he calls at the start of the second. "Y'all better call SportsCenter!"

Tara doesn't react. But her eyes never leave you.

Then it happens.

You pivot off a screen, plant your foot wrong. Your ankle gives—not fully, not enough to fall, but enough that you feel the twinge. You bite down hard and keep going, but the limp shows in your next step.

Banks notices. Smirks.

"Uh oh," she says. "Little glass foot."

You say nothing.

You score twice more.

Twenty-four.

The crowd is a body of its own now—roaring, pulsing, reacting to every touch. It moves like breath. Every time you hit the floor, someone screams your name.

But there's a cold knot somewhere in your chest. And it tightens when you catch a glimpse—just beyond the student section, seated three rows up, expression locked in place like it's carved into stone.

Your father.

He's dressed like he came from work—suit jacket folded over one leg, tie loosened. He sits with his elbows on his knees, watching like a scout, like a coach. Not like a parent.

No smile. No reaction.

You feel it in your teeth.

By halftime, you've scored 28. You limp toward the tunnel, ignoring the trainer trying to catch your eye. The locker room is a blur of shouts, water bottles, and sweat-drenched towels. You sit. Untape your ankle. Retape it tighter.

You think about quitting. For half a second. But you can't. Not tonight. Not when he's here. Not when she is.

Back on the court, the heat feels worse. Like the building's gotten angrier. But you don't slow down.

Thirty. Then thirty-four.

The defense tightens. You take a shoulder to the ribs. No call. Banks clips you going up for a layup and laughs on the way down.

Mindy's standing now, cupping her hands around her mouth. "Ref! What's your job, babe?!"

Tara's not smiling. Her jaw's tight. Her hands are clenched in her lap. That red bottle has moved to the edge of her seat.

You miss your next shot.

Then—next possession—Banks hits you hard. Deliberate. You hit the floor. The gym gasps.

You hear Chad yell, "Hands! She's all hands!"

Mindy: "Deck her, babe! We won't tell!"

You press a palm to the court and push yourself up. The pain flares. Your ankle screams. But you get up.

The crowd rises with you.

Tara rises, too. Slowly. Her brows knit. The look on her face isn't exactly worry. It's closer to rage.

You keep playing.

Fourth quarter. Final minutes. You're at 39.

Down two. The gym is vibrating. The bench is up. Students are on their feet.

You fake right, step back left, and shoot.

It arcs.

Time stalls.

Swish.

Forty-two.

You barely hear the buzzer. The bodies crashing into you. The coach clapping your back. Chad screaming like he's at a wedding. Mindy waving a towel like it's a flag of surrender. Anika already filming your sweaty face in case it goes viral.

Your chest is heaving. Your ankle's on fire.

And she's still there.

Tara Carpenter, second row. Standing now. The Gatorade open, finally, in her hand. Her bangs are damp. Her face is unreadable.

But this time—when you meet her eyes?

She smiles.

Barely. But it's there.

You limp to the sideline. One of your teammates passes you a towel, but you brush them off. You keep your eyes on her.

Tara doesn't say anything. Doesn't wave. She just takes a slow sip from the bottle and watches you like the whole court still belongs to you.

And maybe, just maybe—you believe it.

⸻

The hallway outside the locker room was colder than the gym, but not by much. The walls were that pale institutional yellow that made everything feel a little sick. Rubber soles squeaked on the tile as players came and went in bursts—laughing, shouting, dragging gym bags over one shoulder and reeking of adrenaline and deodorant and sweat.

You moved slower than the rest.

Towel around your neck, jersey damp and clinging to your ribs, hair sticking to your temple, ankle burning with each step like someone had poured something molten into the joint. You should've been sitting. You should've been icing. You should've been letting the trainer tape you up again, but your eyes weren't on the locker room door anymore.

They were locked on the girl leaning against the cinderblock wall across the hall.

Tara Carpenter. Arms crossed. One foot pressed back against the brick like she wasn't planning on staying. Red Gatorade in one hand, label torn halfway off, condensation slicking her fingers. She had her head tilted just slightly, like she was still trying to decide if she'd made the right choice coming.

The hallway lighting did her no favors, but she still looked good in that infuriating way she always did—black tank clinging to her ribs, jeans low on her hips, hair half-up and loose from the heat of the gym. Her small braid had half fallen out, wavy strands curling at her cheekbones. Her expression was unreadable. Or at least, it would've been to anyone else.

But you knew better now.

You hobbled your way toward her.

Slow. Slight limp. Every nerve still buzzing. Not from pain. From her.

She didn't look up at first. Pretended not to notice. Pretended she wasn't watching you limp your way toward her like you hadn't just broken your body on a hardwood floor for 42 points and a maybe.

When you were only a few feet away, she finally glanced up. The corner of her mouth tugged upward, just slightly. Just enough to hurt.

"I didn't think you'd actually come," you said, breath catching a little from the lingering burn in your chest.

"I told you. If you passed the test, I'd consider it." Her voice was cool. Even. Like she hadn't spent the entire game on the edge of her seat. "I didn't say anything about staying."

"You stayed."

"I was waiting for it to be over."

"Forty-two's a long wait."

Tara's eyes flicked down to your ankle, then back up. "And what'd that cost you? Half a foot?"

You grinned, sweat still beading down your neck. "Most of one, yeah."

She held out the Gatorade like she was offering you a settlement. Her fingers brushed yours again when you took it—cool plastic against your overheated palm. You didn't drink it yet. You just held it between you.

You searched her face for something. Warmth? Relief? Maybe even a sliver of pride?

But she just looked at you like she was trying to hide something behind all that silence.

"You looked pissed," you said. "Third quarter. You stood up."

"I looked annoyed."

"You stood up, Carpenter. Don't try and spin that."

Her arms crossed tighter over her chest. "You were being dramatic."

"She elbowed me in the ribs."

"You've played through worse."

"You remember that?" you asked, your voice softer now. "You remembered I've played through worse?"

Tara didn't answer. Her jaw flexed. Her eyes dropped to your lips for a second and then darted away.

Inside the locker room, someone slammed a locker shut and shouted your name. Chad's voice rang out next from down the hall before Mindy slapped his chest to shut up, "Are we going or what, MVP?! There's literally jungle juice calling your name!"

You didn't take your eyes off her.

"You going to the party?" she asked.

Her tone was casual. But her eyes weren't.

You took a long sip of the Gatorade. It was warm now. But still sweet.

"I wasn't gonna," you said, "but if you're gonna be there..."

"I didn't say I was going."

"You didn't say no."

Tara tilted her head, mouth curling into something half-cocky, half-intrigued. "I've been to your parties before. It's loud. It smells like sweat and spilled vodka."

"I smell like sweat and spilled vodka," you offered.

She gave you a once-over. "You smell like painkillers and ego."

You laughed. It hurt, but it was worth it. She was close now. Closer than she'd been in weeks. And the weight of her stare made your skin hum.

You leaned forward slightly, voice low. "You could just say it."

"Say what?"

"That you're proud of me."

Tara rolled her eyes so hard it looked like it physically hurt her. But the flush in her cheeks gave her away.

"I didn't say I wasn't," she murmured.

The hallway quieted for a moment. Just the two of you and the buzz of the lights and your teammates yelling inside. You watched her watch you. Her eyes traced the curve of your shoulder, the red mark on your chin from the fall, the way you were trying not to favor your ankle.

She swallowed.

"Go get changed," she said finally, voice tight. "Before I say something I regret."

You smirked. "That a yes?"

"It's a maybe."

You backed away, smiling into your Gatorade. "Good enough for me."

And just before you slipped back into the locker room, you glanced over your shoulder—

She was still watching.

Like she couldn't stop.

Like maybe this wasn't just about a game anymore.

⸻

The hallway of the athlete dorms smells like victory and sweat and the kind of cheap pizza they only order when someone breaks a record.

You've got one arm slung around Chad's shoulders for balance, the other gripping a water bottle like it's a trophy. Your hair's damp, jersey untucked, ankle wrapped tight but still throbbing. Every movement hurts, but you're grinning so hard your face aches.

"Forty-two!" Mindy shouts like she's announcing a lottery number. "I've never seen a game like that. You literally had the crowd in cardiac arrest."

"Banks was crying," Anika adds, deadpan. "She said she was sweating but we all saw it."

"I got that shot on video," Chad says, gesturing wildly. "You hear me screaming in the background like I was being born again."

The group laughs. Tara had to do damage control before sneaking out for the party later in the night. You nodded with a small smile before you watched her go - Mindy joked with you the whole walk back to your dorm. The stairwell echoes with noise and sneakers and energy, other sports teams buzzing like they just won too.

You finally reach your door, cheeks still flushed, high off the chaos. Someone's still humming the fight song. Mindy's behind you, dancing with a box of pizza someone stole from the locker room. Your ankle twinges as you reach for the keycard.

"You need to sit down before your foot straight-up detaches," Anika says.

You swipe your key. The light flashes green.

And then you open the door.

And everything stops.

The dorm lights are on. Too bright. Not the warm fairy lights you usually plug in. Not the soft, lived-in glow. No music. No movement. Just cold fluorescents and—

Your father. Sitting at your desk.

Still in his button-up from the game. Collar undone. Tie hanging loose. One leg crossed over the other like he's been there for a while. His hands are steepled under his chin. He doesn't stand. He doesn't smile. He just looks at you like he's already decided something.

Silence.

A full, crushing beat of it.

Then Chad, blinking. "Uh... Coach?"

You don't move. Just grip the doorframe like it might hold you upright.

"He's not a coach," you say flatly. "Guys... it's fine."

"You sure?" Mindy asks, quieter now.

You force a smile. "Yeah. I'll see you at the party."

The group hesitates—like maybe they don't want to leave you—but you're already stepping inside, already closing the door behind you. The latch clicks too loud. It echoes.

Still silence.

You drop your bag by the foot of the bed. The ice pack from the trainer thumps as it hits the floor.

"You let her hit you three times before the refs blew the whistle," he says.

Not hello. Not good job.

Just that.

You peel off your jersey, slow, careful, trying not to let it stick to your back. "They were late. I still scored."

"You played sloppy in the third quarter."

"I was doubled."

"You should've adapted."

You toss the jersey onto your desk—next to his elbow. You don't meet his eyes. You head to your duffel bag and grab the Gatorade Tara brought. Still unopened by you. You uncap it now, take a slow sip.

"You came all the way here just to say that?"

"I came because no one on your team has the balls to tell you when you mess up."

You lean back against the wall, arms crossed, the bottle pressed to your wrist.

"I dropped forty-two points."

"You could've dropped forty-five if you kept your head in the game."

Your breath catches. You bite it down.

"I didn't know you were coming."

"I didn't come to be seen."

"No," you say. "You came to watch."

Your voice is sharp now. Tired. Not angry—just done. The kind of exhaustion that settles in your chest like wet concrete.

"You were three rows up. Stone-faced the whole time. I nearly rolled my ankle into a spiral fracture and you didn't even flinch."

He shrugs. "You kept playing."

"I always do." You shake your head, “But that’s what you taught me, right?”

That lands. A flicker of something in his jaw. Maybe regret. More likely just disappointment trying on a new expression.

"I need to change," you say finally, voice quiet.

He stands. Straightens his sleeves.

"I'll see you at the next one."

You don't answer. You don't look at him.

The door opens. Closes.

Silence again.

And in it—you're just a girl standing in a room still heavy with his absence.

Skirt still in your drawer.

Tara's voice still echoing in your head: I like watching you when you're not pretending.

You sit down on the edge of your bed. Hold the Gatorade in your lap.

And let the silence hum.

⸻

As soon as you entered the frat house, you went straight for the alcohol. You absentmindedly waved at people shouting your name, played a few rounds of Cup Pong with your teammates in a mess of drunken bets and shots.

The party's at its loudest now. Music thumping. Lights dimmed to a haze of color. Every cup's sticky. Every face flushed. You've been complimented thirty times, kissed on the cheek at least five, and someone made a toast with Jell-O shots in your honor.

You earned this. You won this.

And yet—

Your crown is slipping. Because somewhere in the back of the house, Tara Carpenter is absolutely wrecked.

"We need evac, NOW," Mindy yells, cutting through a crowd of girls doing TikTok choreography in the hallway. "She's on the coffee table, screaming about gender theory and how she'd fight Freud with her bare hands."

"She what?" you blink.

"-Tearing him apart," Anika says, breathless. "It was like watching a TED Talk delivered by a gremlin."

You drop your drink and follow them through the chaos. Bodies part for you like you're royalty—or a handler trying to rescue a drunken celebrity. And then you see her.

Tara.

Standing on the coffee table in combat boots and a tank top, one braid unraveling, cheeks flushed to hell, arms outstretched like she's trying to summon a demon.

"IF I'M CRAZY THEN CALL ME KATHY BATES!" she yells.

A guy nearby cheers. Someone else drops a joint in awe.

Mindy grabs her ankle. "Tara, babe. Please come down."

"I'm making a point!"

"You're gonna make a trip to the ER!" Anika calls.

Tara squints, sees you, and gasps dramatically like she's in a soap opera.

"You're here," she says, eyes glassy, wobbling a little. "Oh my God, she came."

"Of course I came," you sigh, stepping closer. "It's my party."

She crouches down on the table like she's preparing to leap into your arms. "Catch me."

"Do not jump."

"I'm gonna do it," she stage-whispers.

"You jump and I let you hit the floor, Carpenter."

Mindy slaps a hand over her face. "This is a disaster."

Chad appears beside you, holding a slice of pizza like a scroll. "She also told three people she invented lesbianism."

"I DIDN'T SAY I INVENTED IT," Tara shrieks, hopping off the table directly into your arms with absolutely no warning. "I said I redefined it!"

You catch her. She smells like tequila, peach lip balm, and rage.

"We have to get her home," Anika says, eyes darting around. "Sam cannot find out."

"She's gonna kill us," Mindy mutters.

"She's gonna start with me," you say, adjusting your grip on Tara as she curls against you like you're her designated pillow. "I was the one who was found with her locked in the basketball gym two weeks ago at midnight. Her sister already probably hates me.”

"Holy shit," Chad says solemnly. "You are gonna die.”

⸻

1:23 a.m. – Outside the Apartment

The porch light above flickers like it's struggling to stay conscious—maybe in solidarity with Tara, who's folded into your side, draped half-limp across your back, breath warm on your neck and smelling like peach Schnapps and bad decisions. Her left boot is missing. Her right sock is wet for some reason no one understands. There's glitter on her shoulder, and her braid has completely unraveled, curls stuck to her cheek like sleep lines made of chaos.

The rest of the group crowds behind you: Mindy pacing with military intensity, Anika wringing her hands like she's praying, and Chad holding Tara's boot, a bag of ice, and a Gatorade like he's bracing for an apocalypse.

"I need absolute silence," Mindy says. "We're going full Special Ops. Tara, you're not allowed to speak unless you're unconscious."

"I am unconscious," Tara mumbles against your shoulder. "I'm just narrating from the beyond."

"Shut it," you whisper. "You smell like a jelly bean died in your mouth."

"You smell like a warm bakery and judgment."

"She's feral," Chad says reverently.

"She's possessed," Anika corrects. "That's not alcohol. That's demon juice."

The door creaks open. It sounds like it's screaming in slow motion.

The apartment is dark, cloaked in shadow. The hum of the fridge is the only sound. The air is warm, still laced with dinner and detergent and something sharp underneath—like someone left out tension to ferment.

You take a breath and cross the threshold.

⸻

1:25 a.m. – Entering the Apartment

Every step is a war crime waiting to happen. The floorboards have never sounded louder, like they've unionized against your mission.

"Step only on the edge of the runner," Mindy mouths as she tiptoes ahead. "Not the middle. And whatever you do—don't look at Sam's door. She'll feel it."

Tara clings to your neck tighter. "You're doing so good. You're like... a hero."

"Shhh."

"You smell like a cinnamon candle."

"Please."

"I'd die for you."

"Then die quietly."

Behind you, Chad stubs his toe and drops the ice bag. It hits the floor with a wet slap. Everyone flinches.

The light under Sam's door flickers slightly.

No movement.

Anika mouths, we're dead.

Mindy waves a hand. Abort nothing. Proceed.

You adjust Tara in your arms. She nestles into your chest like she belongs there—like she's always belonged there—and hums something incoherent against your shirt. Her fingers curl in the fabric like a child's.

"I feel like a burrito," she murmurs. "A burrito... of shame."

"You're a quesadilla of regret," you whisper back.

"I'd let you eat me."

"Okay," Mindy hisses. "We're officially on pause. She's cut off for eternity."

⸻

1:28 a.m. – Hallway to Doom

Tara's room is seven steps away. Sam's door is four steps closer.

The floor groans like a warning bell. You hold Tara tighter, adjusting your grip beneath her thighs, one hand splayed against the small of her back, heat radiating between you.

Her skin is warm. Her breath is shallow.

"I want you to come tuck me in," she whispers.

"I'm doing that."

"With, like, affection."

You glance toward Sam's door. The hallway feels like it's holding its breath.

You whisper, "Tara. Focus."

She leans up just enough to nose your cheek. "You're so bossy. It's... intoxicating."

"You're already intoxicated."

"I'm double drunk. I'm you-drunk."

You almost drop her.

Mindy hisses: "MOVE. MOVE NOW."

You surge forward—two steps, three, four—

Anika twists Tara's bedroom doorknob, holding it open like a bodyguard ushering in a VIP client. Chad crouches in the corner, whispering prayers to no god in particular.

You slip inside just as a floorboard pops loudly behind you.

You freeze. The hallway stays silent.

No Sam.

You exhale like you just survived a plane crash.

⸻

1:30 a.m. – Tara's Room

The door shuts behind you.

You set her down carefully, slowly, easing her onto the bed like she's made of glass and landmines. Her head falls back against the pillow, curls spilling across the case like a halo of static.

Her lips are pink, parted. Her eyes flutter open halfway, mascara smudged just enough to make her look like a tragic silent film star. Her tank top rides up just enough to show the scar below her ribs.

She looks up at you like you're something she dreamed.

"Don't go."

Your throat closes.

Mindy tosses a water bottle on the nightstand and nods like a soldier finishing a mission. "She's down. Let's run."

Anika tugs Chad toward the door.

But Tara's hand finds yours before you can follow.

"Wait," she murmurs. "You stayed."

"I always stay."

Her thumb traces your knuckles. She smiles—barely. Sleepily.

"You're really hot when you panic."

You snort softly. "You're going to forget all of this."

"Maybe." A pause. "Maybe not."

You tuck the blanket around her, brushing the hair from her forehead with a tenderness you try not to analyze.

Her eyes slip closed again.

She exhales. "My heart is so stupid for you."

And then—out.

⸻

Back in the hallway, the others are waiting. Mindy's pressed against the wall like she's just pulled off a heist. Anika's shaking out her hands like she's landed a plane. Chad solemnly holds up the boot.

"She's safe," you whisper.

"For now," Mindy mutters. "Until the Sam Bomb goes off tomorrow."

You nod once.

But even as you walk away, even as the door clicks shut behind you—

You can still feel Tara's fingers wrapped around yours.

Like she never let go.

#aesthetic #fiction #fanfic #jenna ortega #wlw #jenna ortega x reader #netflix wednesday #netflix #scream #scream 5 #scream 6 #tara carpenter x reader #tara carpenter #mindy meeks martin #chad meeks martin #annika

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