gothmoes - Tumblr blog

gothmoes · 3 months ago

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ooh, I love this. I need her so bad, I wouldn’t even be mad at that ending. 😩🫦

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.

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."

#tara carpenter #tara carpenter x reader #gp!reader #🔞 18+ 🔞#t.c reblogs ✨#tara carpenter x fem!reader #txt.faves.xx #j.o reblogs ✨

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gothmoes · 3 months ago

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my blood drop is returned. 🖤

#Wednesday Addams #jenna ortega #wednesday addams x reader #wednesday season 2

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gothmoes · 4 months ago

Text

𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐲

❥ pairing: Ridley Kintner x fem!Reader

❥ wc: 2,6k

❥ warnings: mild spoilers for the movie. read at your own risk. test driving writing for ridley. completely self-indulgent fluff/comfort fic. wordy. meh ending. only cross posting until the tag takes off.

It’s 8 pm when the familiar lights of the Kintner’s car illuminate the quiet street. As they pull into the driveway, you rush down the entrance stairs, rubbing your damp palms over your jeans. You’d been waiting for hours since Ridley told you they were boarding the plane to return home with the news that she needed to talk to you about something terrible that had happened.

Ridley is in the passenger seat. She doesn’t even wait for Elliot to finish parking before she throws the door open and jumps out, hurtling straight into your open arms with so much force it nearly knocks the wind out of you. You gladly let the momentum guide you into a spin, squeezing the shorter girl closer as you breathe her in deeply.

Ridley smells… not great. But she’s in one piece. She’s back, safe, and, most importantly, in your arms again. You have every reason to be overjoyed.

“You’re back.” You say, your voice muffled by her hair against your lips.

Ridley nods against your neck. “You’re here,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “I missed you.” Her grip on your arms is fierce, and her nails are unforgiving on your skin. It’s wonderful.

“Course I’m here, Rid; where else would I be?” you chuckle and kiss her clammy forehead. Her hair feels like straw against your lips, but her skin is warm and soft. She’s very alive. “I came as soon as you called.”

Ridley leans back and slides her hands up to cradle your face. Her eyes dart between yours and across your face frantically as though she were committing you to memory. You brush your lips over her knuckle as she swipes a thumb across your cheek, allowing her all the time to do as she pleases.

“I missed you so fucking much my heart hurt.” Is all Ridley murmurs before she pulls you down, pressing her mouth to yours fiercely. Her teeth clack against yours at first, yet you can’t bring yourself to care when Ridley slides a hand up your neck and into your hair as the other clutches your arm for purchase. You hug her around her waist securely, her body melding against yours like the perfect puzzle piece.

Ridley sniffs. You pull back and rest your forehead against hers. Her eyes are shiny, and her lashes are wet. The tip of her nose is bright and warm, and her chin quivers with the effort to keep down the sob bubbling in her throat.

“Are these bad tears?” you ask, brushing away a fat tear from her chin.

“No.” Ridley breathes shakily and gives you a watery smile as she shakes her head. “I think I got overwhelmed. These past few days were a lot, and with everything going on, seeing your face,” Ridley pauses, swallowing hard. “I’m just so happy to see you. I didn’t know if I ever would again.”

“You had me worried I wouldn’t either,” you admit. “I almost thought—”

You missed Ridley so much these past two days that you almost forgot where you are. You break apart at the sudden and suspiciously loud slam of Elliot’s door but don’t let go of each other. Ridley hardly seems as concerned with PDA as she usually would be and stays tucked under your arm, hugging you tightly around your waist as though even an inch of space between you would be too great a distance.

“I’ll tell you later,” Ridley murmurs. You tap your fingers against her arm in understanding.

Elliot greets you with a tired smile as he rounds the car and walks over. You wonder whether you should shake his hand or not. You’ve never been on the best terms with him by extension of Ridley, but it seems like no one has the energy for all that today.

“Hello, Mr.Kintner. It’s nice to see you again.” And for the first time, maybe ever since you’ve been with Ridley, you mean it. By the softness in his eyes, you know that he knows it.

“You know what? Right back at you,” he replies honestly. He stays rooted in place for a long, awkward moment, hands in the pockets of his slacks. If you were closer, this is where you’d offer him a hug. He seems to be considering the same thing.

After a stretch of silence, and without parting from you, Ridley opens an arm wide toward her father. Elliot momentarily drums his hands over his trousers, seemingly considering declining. He meets Ridley’s eyes, and there’s an understanding amongst them that you are not privy to. He nods to himself as he closes the distance between you.

One of his arms encircles Ridley’s shoulder, and the other hooks over yours. His presence is strange and unfamiliar to you but not unwelcome. Especially not when this seems to be just the thing Ridley needs. She presses impossibly close, practically sandwiching herself between the two of you. You complete the hug, wrapping your arms around her and Elliot.

Ridley sighs deeply. It’s like a weight lifts off her chest.

“I don’t know what happened,” you start, measuring your words, “but I’m really glad you’re both safe. I was worried about you all weekend, and I feel like I can finally breathe again.” It’s aimed more at Ridley, but Elliot doesn’t point it out.

Instead, Elliot delicately extracts himself with a small laugh. He regards you kindly.

“You have no idea what we went through.” He pauses, a thought suddenly occurring to him. “Wait, you don’t actually know what happened yet? Ridley didn’t tell you?”

This, at least, is as surprising to Elliot as it is strange to you. There is nothing, especially of import, Ridley wouldn't tell you.

At this, Ridley reappears, finally extracting herself from your embrace. “The service was terrible,” she replies pointedly, “remember?”

“And the messages that did manage to be delivered were horrifying.” You add, biting back a grimace. “Eventually, Rid called me before you boarded the flight but said she’d wait to explain until she got home. I was imagining the worst the entire time.”

“Well,” Ridley starts, smiling sheepishly. “Your worst is still not close to what happened. You’re probably going to want to sit down for this.”

“Well, fuck. That sounds fun.” Ridley brightens. “You know I’m ready to hear about it, but I’m sure you’re both exhausted. I made you dinner while you were gone. If you'd like, I can reheat it for you while you settle back in. You can tell me your story before I return home, yeah?”

“You made us dinner?” Elliot asks hesitantly, pleased.

“You’re leaving?” Ridley looks up at you, her dark, round eyes pleading.

“You need to rest, based on what little I’ve gathered. I couldn’t possibly wait until tomorrow to see you, but I don’t want to intrude tonight. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Honestly?” Elliot says. His eyes drift between Ridley and you contemplatively. His shoulders slump. “I’m going to bed straight after dinner. Dying is exhausting, you know? But you’re free to stay. I’m sure Ridley would love the company.”

“Dying?” you echo in bafflement.

“Really?” Ridley‘s eyes light up. “She can?”

“If she wants.” Her father confirms, waving a hand. “It’s nice to have a familiar face that’s not out to get us, anyway.”

“I think I have some questions,” you interject, eyes shifting from Ridley to Elliot.

“And I have a lot to tell you,” Ridley promises. She takes your hand, leading you inside. “After dinner.”

***

You’re already flopped on Ridley’s bed when she reappears from the bathroom, towel-drying her hair. You busied yourself by staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars dotting her bedroom ceiling, but sleep had overtaken you, and your eyes were slipping. You look up as she sits by your legs, sending her a drowsy grin.

“Better?”

In place of an answer, Ridley carelessly tosses the towel back into her bathroom and crawls up to snuggle into your side, sighing deeply. She drops her entire weight on your body; despite this, you feel a wave of peace you hadn’t felt the whole time she was gone. This feels right. You weren’t the one who left, but now you feel at home.

“Mhm.” She tucks the top of her head beneath your chin, her ear against your heart. “Much better. This is just what I needed.”

You wrap an arm comfortably around her body and bring her closer until your cheek is smushed atop her head.

“You going to tell me what happened now?” You trail your fingers

“I will. I just need to soak this up for a little bit first.”

“Okay, baby. Take your time.”

***

“Do you notice anything different about me?” Ridley scoots back, allowing you to study her entire frame carefully.

You hum, eyes raking across her face. Your brow twitches as you think. Something does look different about her, but you can’t quite put your finger on it. You shift closer to your knees, coming to a stop before her. Ridley’s lips twitch as she looks up at the ceiling, giving you access to contemplate her appearance.

You gently take hold of her face, chin in hand, guiding her to look to the left, then the right. She’s beautiful as always. “I feel like there is,” you begin. “Your skin feels so soft and smooth… Wait-” You do a double take, cradling her face between both hands.

“Is it… your acne? I swear your skin was irritated when you left…” you trail off, lightly thumbing the apples of her cheeks, where, for so long, Ridley struggled with cystic acne. “It was pretty bad right here.”

The lack of scarring is fascinating.

Ridley meets your eyes, her own crinkling joyously. She breaks out into a smile, beaming.

“That’s what it is, then? What happened?” You touch the smooth, supple skin of her cheeks in awe.

“What do you think?” She asks instead, showing off both sides of her face proudly.

“You look beautiful, Rid.” You breathe. “I mean, you always did to me, you know that. But your skin is so… healthy and glowy. Did they give you a new serum or something?”

“Well, see … that’s the thing. Sit down now.” She pats the spot next to her by the headboard, turning serious. “This is going to sound crazy, so you might not believe me, but I swear on my mom that this is exactly what happened.”

“Okay…” you trail off, puzzled. You take her hand, though, and give it a gentle squeeze. “I trust you. No matter what you tell me or how hard it is to believe, I know you will be truthful.”

“Thank you.” Ridley sighs. “Things would’ve been entirely different if you’d been there with me,” she murmurs with a weak smile.

She takes a deep breath and begins recounting the events of the weekend, from when they landed in Canada to when they boarded the plane to return home. By the time she’s finished, her voice is hoarse, and you’re stunned in silence.

“Holy shit, Rid,” Is the first thing that flies out of your mouth. “Just to make sure, this isn’t a joke, right?”

“No, no. This happened. I promise—”

“Okay, okay, I believe you.” You wrap an arm around her to appease her and pull her into your lap. She curls into you like it’s second nature, throwing her legs on the bed as your arms encircle her. “But, holy shit. That is insane.”

Ridley being here safely with you feels even more incredible now that you know everything she went through to survive and return.

“I know.” She agrees, twisting her rings around her fingers. Quietly, she asks, “So… what do you think? Do you believe me? Really?”

You lick your lips as you collect your thoughts. It’s a fact that everything Ridley just told you sounds fantastical and ridiculous, but she’s not lying. You’re confident about that. You can’t fake sweats, tears, and a racing heart when all you’re doing is telling a story. Not unless you’re reliving it in your mind.

Which is clear Ridley did.

“Well, like I said, it’s insane. But I believe you. I know you, and I trust you. I have questions, but I really want to know how you are. Mentally, emotionally, everything. You think this is going to come up in therapy?”

Ridley smiles faintly at your response. The earnestness in your voice lifts the anvil on her chest. It’s just like you to worry about her instead of asking the million other questions she knows she’d have if the roles were reversed. She leans her head on your shoulder.

“You know what? This might sound crazy, but—”

“Crazier than what you just told me?”

“Just a little.” Ridley gnaws her bottom lip, twisting the ring on her thumb more insistently. You take her hand and intertwine your fingers together. She sighs deeply, continuing slowly, “I don’t feel… bad about what happened.”

“Really?”

“I mean, don’t get me wrong.” She leans into the warmth of her chest, but her gaze is far away now. “Seeing my dad die in my arms is going to stick with me, but everything else…” Ridley pauses, searching for the correct words to label her feelings.

After a prolonged silence where you patiently rub circles on her back, she gives up with a shrug. “What happened happened,” she says plainly. She meets your gaze, deep wells of melted obsidian piercing through you for any signs of discomfort or disgust over her raw honesty. “I feel like it was meant to be, you know? I, for one, will not lose any sleep over the Leopolds; that’s for sure.”

“No one mourns the wicked.” You tuck a strand of hair behind her ear and kiss her forehead, nuzzling your nose into her.

“I’m thankful for that. I know it’s incomparable, but my god, I thought I was going to die of a heart attack before I ever saw you again. A few of the messages you tried sending me did make it to me, and to say that they had me stressed would be the understatement of the century. I had no idea if I was going to see you again. I felt so powerless. I hated knowing that you needed help, and I couldn’t do anything to offer any.”

Now that you know what happened, you can finally laugh the stress away. It’s not funny, but it’s all so bizarre. It just feels good to get it out of your system.

“I actually didn’t think about how you’d feel.” Ridley’s brows furrow, and her lips purse, eyes awash with guilt. “I’m sorry.”

“Of course you didn’t. You were trying to survive. I don’t blame you for that; you certainly don't need to feel bad about it. I’m just thankful you’re back.”

Ridley nods. She finds herself too tired to argue with everything finally out of the way. For tonight, she can be content with accepting your support.

“You didn’t ask me the other things I’m sure you wanted to know,” she mumbles instead, eyes sliding shut as she listens to the pleasant thump of your heartbeat.

“If I did, I doubt you’d even hear them,” you reply, laughing slightly. Ridley smiles, twisting in your lap to face you. She nuzzles back into your arms. “There’s plenty of time to talk about that tomorrow. Think it’s time for you to get some sleep.”

Ridley hums in agreement as you adjust yourself more comfortably against her pillows, keeping an arm around her small frame.

“Kiss.” Ridley mumbles, angling her face toward you. “Now.”

You meet Ridley’s demand with a chaste kiss. You pull back momentarily to take in the satisfied look on her face. You swoop back in to steal a longer kiss when her eyes flutter open, which she happily melts into with a quiet moan.

Less than a minute later, Ridley is out like a light. Her lips are pressed unceremoniously to your cheek as her breath flutters evenly against your skin. You quickly follow suit, soothed by her body's lively warmth and familiar scent.

𝐓𝐚𝐠 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭: @freakshow2501

#ridley kintner x reader #ridley kintner #ridley kintner x fem!reader #death of a unicorn #jenna ortega #jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega x fem!reader #wednesday addams x reader #tara carpenter x reader #ryn writes.

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gothmoes · 4 months ago

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taking requests for smut drabbles. I do write g!p, and prefer to write dom!reader/sub!character dynamics, but pretty open minded. won’t be writing everything, mainly looking for inspo. writing for:

jenna ortega

anima

cairo sweet

lorraine day

tara carpenter

wednesday addams

#jenna ortega #Wednesday Addams #cairo sweet #lorraine day #tara carpenter #wednesday addams #jenna ortega x reader #wednesday addams x reader #cairo sweet x reader #anima x reader #lorraine day x reader #tara carpenter x reader

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gothmoes · 5 months ago

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𝐃𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐉𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐎𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐠𝐚 𝐡𝐜𝐬

❥ pairing: Jenna Ortega x fem!Reader

❥ wc: 2,2k

❥ warnings: long, rambly, and self-indulgent 🫶 no actual ending to wrap this up, will just come back to this when I get new ideas to add.

Jenna is spoiled rotten, and it is no one else's fault than yours. She wants your touch, warmth, kisses, and attention—and she knows she will always get it.

Jenna tries not to be so needy (not really), but now that you’re hers to claim, she can’t help but want to be in your bubble constantly. That girl would live in your skin if she could.

Jenna is highly affectionate. Not only is she hungry for your affection, but she also freely gives you hers. You name it: hugs, kisses, cuddles, bites, licks (she is particularly fond of licking your face and biting you wherever she can reach, for some reason). If it means she will touch you somehow, she will do it.

Velcro girlfriend, in other words.

If Jenna lies somewhere, she calls you over to lie on her. Your weight is like a heated blanket; she loves playing with your hair and caressing your face as you drift to sleep on her chest or soft tummy. It’s a good way to bond when she's reviewing a script or reading a book.

She has a habit of coming up behind you and nuzzling into your back, prompting you to turn and scoop her into your arms.

Height difference is a huge plus! Jenna loves to be smothered by you when you hold her, to drown in your fragrance and melt into the safety of your embrace.

She is very touchy. Not only affectionate-touchy but “will grope you as she passes by you with no particular purpose than to make you squirm” touchy.

She loves to play with your hands. No reason; she loves how your hand envelopes hers and your fingers fit together like puzzle pieces.

Not a napper, or rather, was not a napper until she discovered paradise in your arms. Now, being held by you triggers an instant rush of oxytocin and melatonin that, coupled with the thump of your heartbeat and your warmth, knocks her out within minutes.

Jenna is kind of a baby when sick, but it's your fault. She wasn't like that until you came in and started babying her. She used to be independent and treat her illnesses in a very mechanical and detached way because it was nothing more than a setback from work. Now, she can't imagine having a cold and spending her quarantine without your tender touches.

Same thing when she’s PMSing. The more time you spend caring for her, the better, quicker she feels.

Jenna has an insane staring problem—always has and always will. She can’t help but stare at you like you hung up all the stars in the sky; she’s so lucky she has you. Her adoration is ever present in her eyes. It’s one of the reasons it’s so tricky for her to have you around when she’s supposed to be focused. Her giddiness and the sparkle in her eyes is impossible to hide.

Don’t get her started on your smell—she’s one of those freaky women who inhales you any chance she gets. She loves the way you smell so much. It’s like her entire nervous system instantly relaxes whenever she catches a whiff of you.

Jenna is not huge on stereotypical nicknames. She prefers to have a few significant ones for each other that you probably come up with after an important experience or memory. Hell, she even takes inspiration from her favourite songs. However, she is partial to how “Angel” rolls off your tongue, and she will occasionally slip up with a “Babe” now and again.

Jenna lives in your clothes. The majority of your wardrobe is with her at all times. You might wonder where your favourite hoodie is just to get a photo of her lounging in it five minutes later.

“Excuse me, I believe that is mine… ? I’ve been looking for that.”

“Correct. I am also yours. :)”

Jenna is a certified yapper with you. She naturally is, but most people don’t get this version of her because she doesn’t feel uncomfortable being herself around them. You are more than happy to hear her speak her mind about any topic she can think of, finding peace in how her eyes light up and excitement laces her voice when she realises she has your undivided attention.

This woman will babble about the randomest topics, even as she drifts to sleep. It’s incredibly endearing, and she never fails to make you laugh with the strange things that endlessly pop into her pretty little head. She doesn’t even need to try to be funny most of the time; she just is.

Jenna is very supportive of you and your goals. Ideally, she wants you to travel the world with her, which is doable if you study through an online program or work a remote job.

If, due to your goals, you don’t have the availability to go with Jenna for long periods and you’re mainly doing long-distance, things get a bit more complicated. Still, Jenna is 100% invested as long as you are.

She is a terrible texter, BUT she does try for you! You can't say she doesn't. The problem is that she doesn’t typically send text messages. Instead, you receive a constant stream of photos updating you on what she’s doing, where she is, who she’s with, what she’s eating, what she’s wearing, what she’s not wearing, etc, with no follow-up. Most of the time, she sends them in faster succession than you can keep up with.

The second common way of communication between you is FaceTime. It’s simply more convenient than texting, given her lifestyle. AND she needs to see you constantly for mental health reasons.

When she does text, Jenna makes your heart swoon. She might not be the best at sending you a “Good Morning” text every day at the crack of dawn (those timezone differences have her fucked up).

Still, she never misses an opportunity to show you how much she loves and thinks of you. Sometimes, her messages are a little poem she came up with while thinking of you or a song and some lyrics she heard that remind her of you with no explanation other than “this is you <3”.

She often sends you voice notes and videos to make you smile. Hearing her lovely voice and seeing her angelic face is always a delightful surprise.

This woman is incredibly cheeky. She loves to flirt with and tease you. Sometimes, she does it to get a laugh out of you, and other times, she does it to get a rise out of you. (She gets a big head about eliciting your reaction every single time without fail.)

Jenna is not a great cook, even though she grew up eating delicious homemade meals. The main reason is that she simply doesn't have the time to hone her skills in the kitchen. Lord knows she tries, though!

When she makes something, she stares expectantly at you with those sweet doe eyes and hesitant smile, and you never have the heart to shoot down her efforts.

Despite Jenna’s chatty nature, one of the things she deeply appreciates about you and your relationship is that she takes repose in your silence. She can talk until she tires but knows that she can also exist near you quietly when she needs to without you expecting her to fill in the silence out of discomfort. Her tranquillity with you is unlike anything she’s ever felt. She cherishes those moments as much as any other because your silence is just as precious.

You are the subject of lots of photos! Jenna photographs what she loves, so roughly 30% of her storage is photos of you, while another 30% accounts for photos you’re in, like couple selfies and other lovey-dovey stuff. (The rest has been quickly overtaken by Fig.)

Jenna loves driving, but she also loves being your passenger princess because it’s peaceful sitting beside you, your thumb rubbing small circles over her thigh or her hand clasped in yours with the hum of the car lulling her into a nap.

She loves taking baths together. To melt into your body and forget the pressures of the day.

Date nights are random and spontaneous. Jenna’s schedule is too erratic most of the time for you to nail something down permanently. Regardless, they are enjoyable, a great time to bond and let the world disappear.

You both love to explore new cities and get lost together. It’s an excellent way to discover new hang-out spots and restaurants, but you also have homebody moments.

Sometimes, all you really need is to be in your bubble, sharing a warm meal, wine, and ice cream. Either way, you always laugh and make out wherever you are.

Movie nights CONSTANTLY. If they’re not your thing, then they’re simply something you do to indulge Jenna, which becomes a bonding ritual you relish.

Jenna worries about you when you’re apart from each other. She likes to be updated when you have important things going on to avoid overthinking and getting anxious for you.

You’re her madness and peace all wrapped into one, and Jenna is not shy about showing you her true colours; you get all of her, and she expects to get all of you.

Jenna is not a morning person. If she has a day free, she expects to enjoy being able to sleep in; otherwise, she wakes up cranky and glaring at everything and everyone. Nothing a long cuddle and some well-placed kisses can’t fix. Even when she wakes up for work, she stays quiet. It takes her a while to fully wake up, but by the time she gets to work, she’s usually her bubbly self again.

She’s not a big spender on herself. She is not interested in things but loves spending money on you.

Jenna low-key tries to impress you, not with her acting, because she dislikes you seeing her act, but with her outfits. You’ve never gone to her fittings because she loves to get your first reaction the day of.

She loves to make you laugh, and it's very easy for her because she's odd. She is absolutely delightful, though, and her unique sense of humour has always been one of the things you most adore about her.

She loves celebrating you in any way she can, but she prefers to do it privately and intimately. Birthdays, holidays, Valentine’s Day, National Girlfriend Day, she never forgets those dates, and she takes pride in showing you her appreciation for you. She also loves to be on the receiving end of your celebratory plans for her. You go all out and have never let her down. (Things might be becoming a bit competitive, though.)

Jenna makes you endless playlists for all sorts of events and moods, but she gets emotional when you do the same for her. It makes her feel vulnerable in the best way that you know her as well as you do.

When she’s upset, she’s not a huge talker. The main thing she needs is your physical comfort, to know that you’ll hold her and let her soften into you, and she can lose herself in your embrace because you’ll shield her from the world. She does open up eventually when she feels more regulated, but normally, she stays in your lap while you discuss her issues.

People know you’re dating. It’s easy to hide if you’re doing the long-distance thing because no one but her sees you, but when you start travelling with her, Jenna can’t hide how happy it makes her to have you around. You blend in easily with her crew, but a few detectives start putting 2+2 together and scrutinize you until she slips up. Which she does. It might be much later than expected, but it still surprises people.

Jenna is not huge on PDA because she doesn’t like sharing your thing with everyone, but that doesn’t mean that she’s good at avoiding it. She prefers to keep you and your relationship out of the spotlight because you’re precious to her, and she values your wish to keep your relationship private, but sometimes, she can’t help herself. The few photos circulating the internet where you’re holding hands or kissing are all due to the fact that she couldn’t keep her hands to herself for long enough to avoid it.

When Jenna gets anxious, she needs you. It doesn't happen often, but it does. A hug, a handhold, just you. It’s not that she expects you to automatically “fix” her; she would never burden you with that responsibility. It’s just that your presence truly is that comforting. Being around you gives her the strength to regulate herself, especially when you’re being closed in by paps or invasive fans. That foreboding feeling that triggers her to be in survival mode feels less menacing and overwhelming when you squeeze her hand or shield her from prying eyes.

Jenna is not a jealous person, but she does get jealous. She trusts you wholly and knows you would never intentionally make her jealous or disrespect her. Still, other people don’t value your relationship the same way. More often than she’d like, Jenna has had to deal with people who are so drawn to you that they’ll openly flirt with you in front of her. She begrudgingly has to admit to herself that she can’t blame people too much, though—you are remarkable and magnetic and so breathtakingly gorgeous. She understands why people want your attention so much, but damn if it doesn’t make her blood boil.

She is very playful and such a tease, but she cannot take what she dishes out for the life of her. As soon as you give her a taste of her medicine, she simply... shuts down and stares.

𝐓𝐚𝐠 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭: @freakshow2501

#jenna ortega #jenna ortega x fem!reader #jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega headcanons #ryn writes.

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gothmoes · 5 months ago

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𝐆𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐦𝐨𝐞𝐬' 𝐑𝐞𝐜𝐬

𝐉𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐎𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐠𝐚

houseoflovin's

legally blinded - ongoing series

stabortega’s

no surprises [pt 1, pt 2, pt 3, 🔞]

wesstars’

touch [🔞]

𝐀𝐧𝐢𝐦𝐚

𝐀𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐝 𝐃𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐳

𝐂𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐨 𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭

wesstars'

crush [🔞]

𝐋𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐲

𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐚 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫

marvelfilth's

angel [🔞]

wesstars’

hot on your lips [🔞]

𝐖𝐞𝐝𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐀𝐝𝐝𝐚𝐦𝐬

toournextadventure's

[wenclair x vampire!r] when you love it

wesstars'

sorry, baby x [pt 1, 🔞] // heaven on earth [pt 2, 🔞]

#gothmoes recs

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gothmoes · 5 months ago

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𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭

𝐉𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐎𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐠𝐚

dating jenna ortega hcs

dating jenna ortega hcs ♡ celebrity!au (WIP)

𝐀𝐧𝐢𝐦𝐚

dating anima hcs

perv!anima hcs

cry for me

𝐀𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐝 𝐃𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐳

back to the old house I, II

𝐂𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐨 𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭

𝐋𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐲

𝐑𝐢𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐧𝐞𝐫

something in the way

𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐚 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫

𝐖𝐞𝐝𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐀𝐝𝐝𝐚𝐦𝐬

red wine supernova

#masterpost #📍important #j.o bulletin board 📍#ryn writes.#navigation

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gothmoes · 5 months ago

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𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐚 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡 - ྐ❤︎

𝐀𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠: fanfic side blog mainly for jenna ortega & her characters. written for wlw (f!reader & she/her pronouns). there will be nsfw contppent, read at your own discretion.

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ 𝐁𝐨𝐭𝐬

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ 𝐌𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐛𝐨𝐱 📮

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ 𝐆𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐦𝐨𝐞𝐬' 𝐑𝐞𝐜𝐬

𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐧𝐞𝐰𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭: something in the way (ridley kintner)

#navigation #masterpost #📍important #📍 pinned post.

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gothmoes · 9 months ago

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𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐒𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐨𝐯𝐚

❥ pairing: Wednesday Addams x fem!vampire!Reader

❥ wc: 3,7k

❥ summary: Wednesday had taken the initiative to surprise you with an date evening together. You, however, were nowhere to be found, and the loss of your presence made Wednesday miss you threw a wrench into her carefully thought out plans. Unacceptable.

❥ warnings: terrible, entirely self-indulgent writing. lots of swapping between povs

❥ a/n: thank you to my wonderful beta readers! your efforts and input were much appreciated xx

It was late at night when you hauled yourself up your balcony and finally made it through your window. One glance at the grandfather clock read 1:46 am; okay, you thought, grimacing, so it’s early morning the next day, Saturday. Great.

Under normal circumstances, the halls would have been abuzz with secret parties and sleepovers to welcome the weekend, starting Friday night. Due to your busy exam week, even the few students who had the energy to celebrate on Friday were now in their rooms, trying to recuperate some of their lost sleep and accumulated exhaustion. It seemed you were the only one awake on school grounds now. You would’ve been more appreciative about this if you weren’t so worn out yourself.

Your shoes squelched with each step you took further into your bedroom, and the sensation of the cold water pooling in your soles made you cringe and shudder with discomfort.

A wide puddle from your jacket, heavy and drenched with rainwater, formed beneath you. You peeled it off, cursing it beneath your breath as you did, so much for a raincoat. You did nothing to protect me from the unforgiving elements. You tossed it through your bathroom door and into your bathtub to wring out later, revealing your equally soaked-through second layer. Being thoroughly wet from the rain made the ever-present coldness in your bones seep even more profound, almost freezing. Your bloodstained shirt, jeans, and, finally, your boots followed swiftly, hitting the tub with a booming thud.

Most of that outfit is ruined for good, you mused as you pulled a clean hoodie over your head, too exhausted to wash up properly, but that's a problem for future me.

For a moment, you considered your reflection in the mirror. The only light in your room was that of the moon, illuminating the centre of your chambers with its phantasmal glow. Beyond the centre, however, pitch black consumed the room. Shadows cast by the furniture stretched and bent around you in strange shapes, enveloping you with their cold and unforgiving embrace.

You sighed quietly, the serenity of the night like the comfort of a dear friend, and some of the tension you amassed from the day lifted from your shoulders.

Despite the darkness, the dried blood on your hands and the specks on your face were visible to you. With your hunger sated, the smell of the blood was no longer appetising. Instead, something in the pit of your stomach churned, disgust curling your lips as you scraped the crust off your knuckles.

“Welcome home.”

You heard the voice before you saw the person, which was especially impressive when considering your perfect vision in total darkness and inhuman auditory capabilities. The magnitude of this accomplishment ended as soon as you considered who the culprit was. If any human could sneak up on a vampire, it would be her.

An unnatural warmth bloomed from the cavity in your chest at the thought, something akin to pride, spreading like wildfire to your extremities.

The figure shifted from the farthest corner of your room, rising from the leather chair behind your desk. It took shape as it moved through the shadows slowly and deliberately. The form that stood before you had the appearance of the most darling earthly creature in all the realms—your ultimate weakness. If you had a heart, it would have leapt straight out of your chest and into Wednesday’s hands.

Oh, how you’d missed those reproachful eyes.

“Well, hello.” You greeted them with disgraceful breathiness and glimmering eyes, “My beloved blood drop, you should be in bed.”

If looks could kill, you would’ve been six feet under already. As Wednesday stared you down, the thought that she would not entirely be against driving a stake through your heart crossed your mind. Again. It was undoubtedly her go-to threat for swift correction, and she always kept hers on hand. So cute.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Wednesday said tersely, ignoring how your stupid nickname caused a hitch in her breath. You did not react. Wise. “You missed classes today. Where were you?”

“Hunting,” was the only reply you could muster as you gazed upon her with that sickeningly tender look.

Wednesday’s hands clenched into fists at her side, nostrils flaring almost unnoticeably. That’s it? That’s all you had to say?

Wednesday couldn’t quite describe the wretched emotions that drove her to madness throughout the day; too many had happened too fast for her, but she cut you an affronted glare all the same. At the end of the day, the fact was that you’d thrown her wildly off balance with your sudden shift in routine. You forced her to notice your absence. But worst of all, you made her feel and weren’t there to help her deal with those strange and overwhelming emotions.

Now, she was standing before you, and those unbearable feelings continued.

That was simply unacceptable.

“You…” Wednesday stopped and pursed her lips, her gaze sliding from your eyes to roam across your face. She’d spent the better part of the night sitting alone in the shadows of your room, going over all the creative ways to make you regret abandoning her for a whole day with those idiots you called friends. Still, she had failed to mull over how to ask her interrogative questions without sounding so damn needy. You didn’t deserve to hear how desperate she was to see you.

Not yet, anyway.

“You failed to notify me of your absence today,” she gritted between clenched teeth. Her eyes, black as obsidian, bore into yours unflinchingly through her lashes. “I-You were supposed to be there, yet you left me alone with all of them.”

There was an edge of irritability to Wednesday’s tone, which became even more apparent by her rigid stance and the unusually rapid drum of her heart. Still, something was just under the surface that you couldn’t quite place. Her brows met with the tiniest crinkle, her lips set straight. She tilted her head the slightest bit, chin angled up—her eyes a raging fire.

That atrocious flip-flopping in your belly returned with the vengeance of a dozen bats wreaking havoc in your rib cage.

“I know.” You eventually acknowledged her words with an apologetic smile. You dared to rub circles over her crossed arms with a feather-light touch. Thankfully, she didn’t attempt to hack off your hand (this time). The lack of Wednesday in your day and the space between you was abysmal and all-consuming and had obviously taken its toll on you. You needed to feel Wednesday’s warmth against you or feared you might disintegrate right where you stood.

“I didn’t anticipate needing to go hunting today,” you continued, filing those alarming desires away for inspection later. “It just… happened. I had that ravenous hunger when I awoke; the blood bags did nothing to satiate it. I needed to feed from something raw and unprocessed as soon as possible.” Your fang caught on your lip, brows furrowed.

A hungry vampire loose at a school would have been catastrophic. No matter how annoying, those students were your friends, not food. Even worse was the possibility that you could have hurt Wednesday. You shivered; the idea that you were merely one wrong decision away from being responsible for something so horrific froze you from the inside out with a bitter coldness not even death could match.

As you explained, Wednesday took an imperceptible step closer, pressing more of herself into the weight of your hand as her eyes studied you again from head to toe. She was undeniably seething, but her eyes had softened. She knew the exact moment it happened because the emotions that had driven her for most of the day, which were as robust and tumultuous as the ocean, gave way to an equally strong sense of unease.

Wednesday’s brain computed your unspoken concern. She hated how fast she deflated at the flash of fear that crossed your eyes. You were never easily frightened, less so than herself, so seeing that agitation on your face made the pit of her stomach heavy with lead.

Wednesday’s hand shot out to fist the front of your shirt, effectively breaking you out of that train wreck of a notion before you could truly get lost going down that path. She yanked you down close enough that your noses brushed, with so much force you would have knocked into her if it weren’t for your vampiric reflexes. She ignored your small huff of complaint and cupped your jaw sternly, thumb stroking the dried flecks of blood from your cheeks with uncharacteristic care.

A stray thought wandered into Wednesday’s mind as she regarded you, something wholly distracting involving the sight of you with the blood of your prey still on your body and the elongated fangs still peeking out between your teeth, further proof of your successful kill and your capabilities as a top predator. She forced the thought away with a slight shake of her head.

“You should have told me.” Wednesday’s palm flattened over your cheek, her eyes glinting. Her voice had lost its edge as she closed the space between your bodies, stressing, “I would have helped.”

You shook your head immediately, pulling a frown from Wednesday’s lips.

“I know,” you murmured, pulling her hand from your cheek to lace your fingers through hers. You delivered a kiss to the slender fingers, and the tender gesture pulled an involuntary shiver from Wednesday, her traitorous body spiking with heat that crawled up her neck. “I know you would have helped if I’d told you, Wednesday, but I couldn’t risk hurting you. I was out of control. Seeing you before I fed was absolutely out of the question.”

Wednesday’s jaw clenched. She felt like she was five seconds away from stomping her foot.

Your decision was level-headed, and your actions had been driven by reason. You’d done what was safest for the school and, most importantly, Wednesday. However, you had ripped out the part of herself that she’d carefully hidden away behind the safety of a concrete tower reinforced with steel and forced her to face you—to face the feelings for you that had taken root in her heart and continuously grew like a parasitic infection; that part of her still held your decision against you because you left her for a whole day.

Not for the first time, Wednesday had to acknowledge that she was well and indeed done for. You’d spoiled her rotten, and now she couldn’t even bear the thought of being without you for one day without wanting to rain retribution down upon you. It-no, she was pathetic.

Wednesday breathed in deeply through her nose, eyes fluttering closed. “I understand,” she said tightly, “I just—” the rest of her words lodged pathetically in her throat, growing thorns that prickled her skin. She didn’t speak again, though. She swallowed hard, brows furrowing with annoyance as her eyes roved across your face wantonly.

“I know,” you spoke for the two of you, and your eyes conveyed your understanding. You reached out to bring Wednesday close, guiding her into your space by her hand. “I missed you dearly, my blood drop.”

Wednesday stiffened for a moment, out of a lifelong habit more than anything, before slackening. She wrapped her arms around your middle and burrowed her face into you, her cold nose finding home in the cool flesh of your neck. Instantly, the raging sea of emotions in her chest quelled, tempered by your soothing embrace. With the familiarity of your scent, the noise in her mind quieted.

“I would never leave without telling you first unless the situation was dire. You know that, right?” Your words were muffled, spoken into Wednesday’s temple, but she heard them clearly.

Wednesday nodded slightly and sighed. Of course, she knew that. Hearing you say it to her was reassuring in a way she couldn’t verbalise, but she was glad you understood that about her; she was glad for you.

“No matter what, I’ll always come back to you. I promise.” You ended your promise with a chaste kiss on her forehead, the freckled space between her brows.

Wednesday abhorred how effortlessly, thoughtlessly, she leaned into your lips, chasing more of your affections. Her fingers dug into your sides, lashes fluttering shut as she mumbled, “I know.”

“I’m still sorry I left you,” you carried on, an edge of mirth in your tone. “I can’t imagine how dreadfully joyous your day without me was.”

“You should be.” Wednesday sneered, but there was no weight to her words. She couldn’t make herself fake it through her unsuccessful attempt to crawl into your hoodie. “Enid tried to make me smile.”

“How dare she!” you responded with appropriate appallment.

“She almost managed to when she tripped over Thing.” Wednesday sighed, giving up for the time being. You weren’t particularly helpful in her endeavour, but she swore she would be back in her rightful place nestled on your chest for bedtime. “It was awful.”

“Ghastly. Would you like me to maim them for you?” you asked as you wrapped your arms around her again.

Wednesday was glad for the protection of your chest. She couldn’t hide the smile that curled her lips at your earnest offer. She weighed her options carefully.

“Not unless you can do that without leaving again.”

“A later time then,” you said. “Just say when, and I’ll be on them like a vulture on a carcass.”

For a while, you stood in the middle of your room, underneath the moonlight, with Wednesday tucked securely into your chest. You swayed gently from side to side, making a thick fog roll over the edges of Wednesday’s mind, your steadying breaths against her cheek lulling her deeper and deeper into an enticing abyss.

As you moved, you faintly hummed an eerie and reposeful melody, your mind fuzzy with contentment. You periodically nuzzled your cold nose into Wednesday, breathing her in with an animalistic instinct until you had her scent committed on a cellular level. The specific flutter of her heart and draw of her breath was ingrained into you already; you could pick her out of a crowd of a thousand blood bags by that alone, but you never tired of feeling her heartbeat, hearing her breaths, and smelling the scent that was unmistakably hers—all signs of her liveliness and health.

You were making gentle circles over Wednesday’s back when suddenly, you stiffened. “Wait a minute,” you muttered, breaking the silence.

Wednesday lazily opened her eyes to peer at you. She hummed in askance, an adorably feline noise, and blinked blearily, big eyes glossy with sleep.

“You're wearing your outdoor clothes.” You pulled back, creating a space between your bodies, much to Wednesday’s chagrin, and assessed her outfit thoroughly. She was bewitching, as per usual, but she was dressed in her ‘investigation’ outfit, something practical but wholly uncomfortable. You arched a brow. “What were you doing in my room when I came in? Did you stay up… waiting for me to come back?”

Wednesday’s face turned passive at your question, eyes sliding away from yours to tack onto something beyond you on your desk—Oh, look. That’s where she left her stake. No wonder her pockets felt so light.

Truthfully, she’d forgotten about this part of her day after you delved into your explanation for your absence. It took her a long minute to answer, but the sweet smile on your lips never faltered.

“After classes,” she began, pursing her lips in the way that made her dimples visible for a fraction of a second, “I thought you’d be back by then. The weather forecast for tonight was prime for a night out. Cold rain and thick fog.”

Wednesday paused as you stroked your thumb over the crease that had formed between her brows, loosening the tightness in her face. She could feel the intensity of your gaze on her. She had your undivided attention. She bit her bottom lip, forcing her eyes to meet yours, and let herself freefall into the sentiments that the utter devotion in your eyes conveyed.

“After this week of exams, I believed you might fancy spending the night together in private. I thought you might appreciate it even more if it came unexpectedly.”

Wednesday would never know how the countenance of a creature as impure as you could regard her with such affection and devotion. All she knew was that her parents would be beside themselves with pride and joy at what she’d found here at Nevermore. She’d never live down the humiliation of eating her own words. Damn you.

“A date.” Came your breathless whisper, eyes widening. Wednesday could practically see the moment the stake of realisation pierced through your undead heart. “W-Wednesday,” you murmured, voice cracking, “What did you have planned?”

“Grave digging,” she muttered, ears growing hot.

“Grave digging—your favourite. You wanted to do it together?” your grip on Wednesday tightened so much it was almost painful. She welcomed the ache. It gave her something other than the downright devastation in your eyes to focus on. Wednesday returned her head to your neck and nodded.

The blood you’d consumed earlier bubbled up your oesophagus. You weren't there when Wednesday wanted to take you on a surprise date—the first she’d ever planned for you. The stake twisted deeper, cutting through you like a serrated knife. Your eyes gleamed with something Wednesday hated to see.

Vampires weren’t supposed to be able to do that. Right?

Still, something about your reaction warmed Wednesday from the inside out, and she scoffed to hide the slight sound of amusement that threatened to leave her lips. You were as theatrical as you were romantic. You were such an Addams.

“Wednesday,” you croaked ruefully, “I’m so sorry. I would’ve never missed out on such an important—”

Wednesday cut you off with a finger to your lips. “I know.”

“I’m here now,” you continued, kissing her finger as you spoke. Your eyes were pleading. “Would you still like to go? We can leave right now if you wish. Just say the words.”

Wednesday sighed, curling a hand around the back of your neck to mash your lips together, effectively silencing you. “Shut up,” she muttered darkly against your lips. “You’re rambling.”

“M’kay,” you said weakly.

Wednesday’s hand released you, but neither of you moved to separate. She smoothed her hands over your shoulders, mapping out the powerful muscles underneath your annoyingly enticing skin.

“No,” she said, the shake of her head making her bangs bounce. “Grave digging can wait. I want to be here,” she stabbed her pointer finger into your chest. “Where I belong.”

“In my… heart? You already stole it,” came your cheeky reply.

Wednesday rolled her eyes, unable to hide the pleased curl of her lips. She didn’t bother reminding you that you didn’t have a heart, a beating one, anyway, and pressed on, braver now that you’d made a fool of yourself more than she ever could.

“In your bed, in your arms, on your chest.” Wednesday purposely enunciated every word with another forceful poke of your chest, her gaze assured.

“Oh… Well, aren’t you a demanding little thing?” you chuckled and took Wednesday’s hand in yours.

“I could kill you.”

“I know.” Your eyes had that soft look again, and your smile was delicate. It was, dare she say, adorable the way your fangs poked into your lips. “You don’t need to keep wooing me. I’m already yours.”

“An Addams never stops,” Wednesday quipped, brushing past you. She shed her jacket and toed off her boots, leaving them folded on a chair by your desk as she made for your closet with the air of a girl who was right at home. “Get used to it.”

As Wednesday rummaged through your wardrobe, you sat on the edge of your bed with a lovesick grin. Wednesday had such a way of livening up your room that it no longer felt like your home without her. You lived here, and you had for years; the objects in this room were all yours, from the enormous canopy bed to your clothes and books and the tiniest miscellaneous trinkets adorning your shelves. Yet, everything here undoubtedly belonged to Wednesday—everything, including you.

Wednesday knew that. It was evident how she moved throughout your room like she owned the place. You were more than satisfied with this.

Seeing her reemerge in your sleep clothes to take a seat at your vanity table made the ghost of something warm and heavy, a heart, or maybe a soul? Thump swiftly against your ribcage, sending an electric shock through your veins. You appeared behind Wednesday in a flash and stilled one of her hands from their work of undoing her ties. You fingered the end of a braid and met her curious eyes through the mirror with a hesitant smile.

“May I help?” you asked with unexpected shyness.

Wednesday froze, evidently taken aback by your question, but nodded, the corner of her lips curling up the slightest bit. Your touch was featherlight as you removed the bands securing her hair, each touch purposeful and gentle. She nearly closed her eyes as your fingers nimbly undid her braids before raking through her scalp with the brush to loosen the waves. She did several times briefly, but she couldn’t bear missing the way you so delicately touched her. It had been long since anyone else had handled Wednesday’s hair. She nearly purred. Shameful.

“Breathtaking,” you whispered, awed at the sight of the raven hair cascading down Wednesday’s back in silken, inky waves. You kissed the top of Wednesday’s head, cold hands cradling her jaw reverently. Wednesday shivered. She angled her chin high, a hand coming behind your head to pull you into a kiss. “Bedtime now?”

This time, Wednesday had nothing to say, but she clung to your neck and let you pick her up.

Once you were both finally in bed, Wednesday wasted no time burying into you, just as she had promised. Wednesday released a deep breath as her eyelids grew heavy and her limbs relaxed. Your cold lips were pressed against her forehead, and your fingers carded gently through her hair. Your touch was cold like ice and gentle as death's embrace, more soothing and comfortable than any morgue she could ever sneak into. She fell asleep promptly with a final murmur of your name and admission of affection on her lips.

#Wednesday addams #Wednesday Addams x fem!reader #Wednesday Addams x reader #jenna ortega #Jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega x fem!reader #vampire!reader #ryn writes.

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gothmoes · 9 months ago

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My darling in Dublin yesterday. Bewitching as ever 🖤

#Jenna Ortega #jenna ortega pics

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gothmoes · 10 months ago

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New pics of my beloved, blood drop. 🖤🖤

Courtesy of Irish_working_sheepdogs || IG

#jenna ortega #jenna ortega pics

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gothmoes · 10 months ago

Note

Astrid deetz x fem!reader

R is a ghost who is indebted to beetlejuice due to him helping her and cash in the favor by having her help him

she stuck in the old deetz house and is used as a messenger and tell him everything that going on *but she really wants to scare scaring Lydia’s “boyfriend” away cause she see right through his nice guy act.* She takes a liking to Astrid and keep an eyes on her which cause Astrid to feel like smth or someone is watching her

She join Lydia to help her after hearing about Astrid being in the netherworld.

*though R’s friendship with beetlejuice is both mutual but also being frenemies and mean spirited toward to each other. Think of the “he push me down the stairs” or them being annoying siblings *absolutely hates when the creepy baby beetlejuice and has the urge to kick it every time it bites her ankle to spite him*

I kind of like the idea of her doing a self-sacrifice and taking beetlejuice back to the netherworld but also has to tearfully say goodbye to Astrid. But end up coming back as human *wether if it’s marrying Astrid or switching with a living person*

But I also kind of like the idea of beetlejuice not being gone *given the fact that Winona Ryder mention that she ships beetlejuice and Lydia. Astrid and Lydia agree that r and beetlejuice are not to be left alone unsupervised*

R- totally worth for a cute girl like you. 😒but serious you are one dumb girl. Why did you believe ghost boy you know for a day over your mother!?

Astrid-😠 *ready to throw smth at r*

R-😘 also your dad gave me his blessing on dating you but he also gave me the shovel talk

Went to see it and love but one thing that suck was the ac in the theater near me wasn’t working so I watch it with the room hot and stuffy🥵🥵 *but totally worth it*

But during the I knew there was something off about the character Rory like how can you ask someone to marry right after her dad wake ceremony/funeral service!?

𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐎𝐥𝐝 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 [𝟏]

❥ Astrid Deetz x fem!ghost!Reader

❥ wc: 2k

❥ warnings: none

❥ author’s note: thank you for this request. as soon as I saw it in my inbox, I knew I had to write it. unfortunately, life got in the way, so I didn’t have the chance to get to it immediately, but here’s a little something to kick things off. this is a sort of prologue/part 1 (out of what will be a total of 2 or 3 chapters). it’s a little wordy for my taste, but I feel like it was necessary to set the scene for what you can expect for this story. next part will be coming some time next week.

❥ additional note: this is canon divergent from the movie. while the movie took place within two or three days (if I remember correctly), this fic will span across five to seven (still working out the kinks), and it’s important to note that Astrid has been aged up to 17, as opposed to her canon age of 16.

You are not quite sure why he insists on meeting you here, in his fake therapist’s office behind his real one, but he does.

Three times a week, well after his designated “Couples Counselling for the Dead” appointments every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday (because he doesn’t work during the weekends, “Work/life balance is essential to me.”) leave, an invisible force plucks you from your post at the abandoned Deetz’s residence.

It’s incredibly annoying. You can more than transport yourself through the plane of the living into the netherworld, and vice versa, without his “assistance”, but he ignores your complaints every single time.

You are then deposited unceremoniously into the cracked leather chair of human skin in front of his desk. Immediately, whatever good mood you may or may not have been in is sucked out of you, like the room itself is a soul sucker.

With his unrestrained powers, one would think he’d be more inclined to renovate the place a bit. Maybe he thinks the drab and depressing atmosphere of the dimply lit and dusty storage room will intoxicate you into your second death, duplicating your debt to him. You doubt it works that way, but you don’t dare voice your thoughts. You’re afraid of being right.

This is where you find yourself today. Again.

You straighten up in your seat, breathing a deep sigh discontentedly. You'll need your wits about you to get through this meeting.

“Beetlejuice,” you greet flatly. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“There she is! My sister from another mister, back from the world of the living.”

Beetlejuice rises out of the seat with a dramatic clap of his hands and comes around to lean against the desk, facing you. He opens his arms grandly as though he were asking for a hug. You stare at him, unamused and unmoving.

“What?” he lowers his arms in mock hurt. “No hug for your big bro? Ouch. That’s cold.”

You roll your eyes at his childish antics, not in the mood to entertain him. You were having a wonderful time messing with the neighbour’s dogs back home. Humans placed so much trust in their pets to protect them from the unseen. It had quickly become one of your favourite pastimes to torment the annoying pair of huskies that kept up the entire neighbourhood at night.

“Alright. I get it. You’re all business, no fun, you know that? I think you could learn something from dear ol’ Bob.” Beetlejuice gestures through the blinds toward the office space on the other side of the window, where Bob and the other shrinkers are dutifully taking calls. He’s upset for all three seconds before breezing past his dismay as though it never happened.

“Anyway, I called you here because I have some good news. Charles is dead, and Lydia is coming home to me! Can you believe it?”

You arch a brow, leaning forward slightly, and a wicked grin curls Beetlejuice’s lips, exposing his mouldy, rotted teeth.

This is news.

In all the five years you’ve spent haunting the Deetz, formerly known as the Maitland, residence, you’ve never actually seen the family in person—or, phantasmal person.

Not anyone besides Lydia anyway, whose photo Beetlejuice keeps on his desk at all times and who you have seen out in the wild a handful of times during the rare occasions Beetlejuice required your assistance in tormenting her.

You obviously knew who the family was and what they looked like; newspapers continued to be delivered to the home every morning, and various members of the wealthy Deetz family often made the covers. Even without those current updates, you still had multiple photo albums and framed pictures carelessly discarded in the attic to study in your free time.

“Interesting,” you murmur, a smile creeping up your face. You smell chaos on the horizon. As a human, you were never much for trouble, but with fragments of your soul slowly fading and Beetlejuice’s constant presence over the last years, chaos now seems to nourish you in the way food used to. “And what does this mean for me?”

“I am so glad you asked, girlie!”

Beetlejuice snaps once, and the scene around you changes instantly. The office walls disappear on all sides, and the floor opens up beneath you, swallowing you both.

When you blink again, you’re standing in the middle of a hoard of dressed-up teenagers. You are now wearing a ridiculous costume of a caricature you are unfamiliar with, while Beetlejuice is still wearing his pin-striped suit. Everyone passes through you without a second thought.

“Really? This?” you huff, sending the old man a scathing glare. “What the hell am I even wearing?”

Beetlejuice wraps an arm around your shoulders and brings you into a half hug, following the crowd into what seems like some sort of courtyard. You wrinkle your nose and nudge your face in the opposite direction of his. You’ll never get over how moss covers his skin and roaches crawl over him.

“It’s Halloween season.” He replies cheerily. “Just thought you’d want to blend into the crowd and not stick out like a sore thumb, you know?”

“No one can even see me,” you grumble with a roll of your eyes. Your gaze sweeps across the heads of the flesh bags in front of you, then toward the stone building. “Wait… Where are we?”

Beetlejuice stops you by some iron gates, letting the teenagers pass you. “Why, this is my daughter’s school!” He grins, then turns to point out toward the courtyard. “And right over there is my beloved bride-to-be!”

You follow the direction of his finger and sigh, your eyes fluttering closed in irritation.

Sure enough, Lydia Deetz is only a few metres away, sitting on a stone bench in front of a fountain. At her side is who you can only assume is her daughter, a much more grown-up Astrid Deetz from the photos you’ve spent hours parsing through back home. She’s facing away from you and is facing her mother, but Lydia is in clear view of where you are. They seemed deep in earnest conversation, with Astrid’s voice rising irregularly.

“Astrid Deetz is not your daughter, you freak,” you repeat for what must be the nth time. “Just because her father passed doesn’t mean she needs a new one.”

“Tomato-tomato.” Beetlejuice sighs dreamily, waving your words offhandedly. “Once I finally wed my woman, Lydia, she will be. I’ve come to terms with having a kid in the house. We’ll be a perfect family!”

“Right.” You shake your head, changing the subject before you get another migraine. You cannot explain to him why his delusions will never come true again. You just can’t!

“So, why are we here, and what’s the plan?” you prompt impatiently.

“Oh, I just wanted to see Lydia and our daughter again.”

You resist the urge to bash your head into the stone walls of the school.

“The plan,” he rubs his palms together eagerly, turning to face you with a horrific smile, “is that you will scare away that placeholder of a flesh bag that hangs around Lydia. He’ll be coming to the house along with the Deetz’s, and you know I will need some alone time with my old woman.”

“Riiiight.” You eye the bio-exorcist in front of you suspiciously. The plan seems simple enough, but nothing is ever simple with Beetlejuice, which makes you wary that there must be more he isn’t telling you. “And where’s the guy?”

Beetlejuice cranes his head, jabbing a finger toward a vehicle parked in the courtyard where a tall man with sunglasses is pacing around, a mobile phone attached to his ear.

“Ew, him?” You’re not often surprised by things any more. Beetlejuice has taught you to expect the unexpected, but this time, you visibly recoil. “Lydia Deetz is with that man? I can tell he’s an ass just by the way that he stands.”

“He started as the manager of her show,” Beetlejuice growls, lips curling with disdain. Even his roaches scatter irritably beneath his suit. “Can you believe that? She is way out of his league.”

The irony of his words is not lost on you, but you bite your tongue to peer back at the Deetz women. Your eyes widen, and you turn back swiftly, ducking your head. Most people can’t see you, but Lydia Deetz is not most people. She’s the one person whose eye-line you’re supposed to stay out of. It’s in your contract.

Fortunately, this ridiculous disguise Beetlejuice put you in has done its job. You doubt Lydia can focus on anything that isn’t Beetlejuice’s loud stripes. She seems to be extra sensitive to his presence.

“Uh, BJ?” You jab your elbow into his side, gesturing with your chin back toward the Deetzs. “Lydia is looking over here. I think she just saw you.”

Beetlejuice spares a look over his shoulder to confirm and grins mischievously. He did that on purpose.

“Time for us to go. We ought to get you home so you can receive my girls later.”

Lydia is rubbing her fist furiously into her eyes when Beetlejuice snatches your arm, and the scene around you changes again.

A second later, Lydia looks up again, eyes wide and mouth agape. She shakes her head, unable to make sense of the sighting even as Astrid angrily gets up, gesturing wildly in front of her.

You’re standing by the attic window when the Deetz’s sleek black Tesla rolls into the driveway.

Beetlejuice is long gone at this point.

By now, the sun has long hidden behind a thick blanket of clouds. The sky turned a lovely indigo as the moon illuminated the rolling hills behind the home. The moonlight makes the house seem ghostly glowing with its pure white exterior and elevated height on the hill.

After Beetlejuice brought you back home hours earlier, he instructed you to keep an eye on Lydia and do whatever possible to keep her boyfriend away from her until he could return.

“I have nether-world business to take care of,” Beetlejuice had told you, rolling his shoulders smoothly. “Left Bob in charge, it’s good for his self-esteem, you see, but you know how it goes. Without the head honcho,” he gestured toward himself, “the family business will fall apart. I’ll probably be back in a few days. I’ll let you know if plans change. Take care of my girls, will you?”

Then, he disappeared in a plume of black, smelly, probably toxic smoke. A flyer for his bio-exorcism and newly established match-making cupid business fluttered to the ground in his wake and landed at your feet.

“Ew,” you muttered to yourself upon reading the flyer. “Who’s going to fall for that?”

You tossed the page behind you with a roll of your eyes, letting it land wherever, and waited.

And waited.

Waited.

Until finally…

Delia Deetz leads the two younger Deetz women through the door, letting it fly open noisily and slam against the interior wall.

From what you’ve heard, she never did have much respect for the residence, even after all of the interior changes she made throughout the years.

You cringe, feeling somewhat bad for the house. It’s not the same as the one you grew up in with your parents, but you’ve become attached to it nonetheless.

Can anyone blame you? It’s been almost exclusively yours for the better part of five years.

Astrid brings up the rear of the three women and slams the door shut behind her, making the door rattle in its hinges. You can feel its vibrations even up here in the attic. You click your tongue disapprovingly. The lock to the front door clicks shut as the tall, dark-haired man you’d seen earlier with Lydia at the school clambers up the porch to rattle the doorknob.

You bark a laugh, watching the ridiculous man go around the side of the porch to knock on the glass windows, desperate to get someone’s attention from inside.

“Interesting,” you note to yourself, biting your lip mischievously. “It seems like Lydia can’t be bothered with her so-called boyfriend. And Astrid clearly dislikes the man. This should be fun…”

You step away from the window just as the door opens, and the male scrambles inside, the different voices of the women inside carrying out into the night.

#astrid deetz #Astrid deetz x fem!reader #astrid deetz x reader #ghost!reader #jenna ortega #jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega x fem!reader #beetlejuice 2 #ryn writes.#answered

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gothmoes · 1 year ago

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Some more headcanon prompts! Give me a headcanon you’d like to see and Jenna Ortega + some of her characters.

Headcanon Prompts

I've been working on this for a while lol. This is a list of prompts for Headcanons that I can take when I open up requests.

(Other Prompt Lists)

Requests: With these prompts I would create a list of Headcanons for whatever character is chosen. These headcanons will be written in a 'x reader' style. - some might also include drabbles afterwards. When requesting hc's you can chose one or two that are similar for one request, and I can combine them. *Note: I also do just take other headcanon requests for whatever else you want (more specific things), this is just for people who might not be sure, or want ideas.

[Rules] -- [Fandoms]

Feel free to reblog these for use on your own blog. If you want to use specific ones, or only a certain amount in your own list(s), I give you permission to copy them - but only if you provide a link to the original post and/or an @ credit to me. Please, and Thank you!

Current Number of Prompts: 43 (will be adding some on as I think of them)

A-Z Relationship Headcanons

Crush > Confession > Dating

Crush: How would they act with a crush, do they pine?

Relationship: General Relationship Headcanons

First Date + First Kiss

Flirting: How they flirt, how they react to you flirting, etc.

Intimacy: How they show intimacy; physical and not.

Confession: When and how they admit their feelings for you

Hobbies: What hobbies, interest, etc would they share with you.

Holidays: How they celebrate the holidays

Comfort: How they would comfort you after a ... (bad day, nightmare, your choice)

The moment(s) they realize they have feelings for you (pre-relationship)

The moment(s) they realize they are in love with you (established relationship)

Cuddling: Do they cuddle, how do they, when do they, etc

Kissing: Do they like kissing, how do they kiss, when, etc.

Love Languages: What is their receiving and giving love language (and how do they show it)

Jealousy: How they act when they are jealous, what would make them jealous, etc. (before and/or during the relationship)

Cooking/Food: Cooking for each other, food preferences, etc.

Taking care of them when they are sick

Them taking care of you when you are sick

Romance: Are they romantic, how do they show it, etc.

First Meeting + First Impression

Domestic Headcanons: What it's like to live with them, how they show domesticity (Note: I don't write for pregnancy/kids/children)

Protective: Are they protective? How they show it. Etc.

Taking care of them when they are hurt.

Them taking care of you when you are hurt.

Friends > Lovers

Love: Ways they say or show they love you.

Anniversaries: How do the two of you celebrate your anniversaries

Proposal + Wedding

Traveling: Where would you go, what would you do?

Platonic/Best Friends: What is your friendship like

Gifts: What kind of gifts would they give, how often, when, why, etc. And, what kind of gifts do they like?

Pet-names/Nicknames (for you and for them)

Regret/Guilt: How would they act, what would they do if they hurt you, or you had a fight (wont right for abusive styles of fighting, just general arguments and misunderstandings)

Aesthetics: What smell(s) are they, what flower are they, what season do I associate with them, do I think they have a favorite aesthetics, songs, etc.

Surprises: How would they surprise you, what with, why, etc.

Magic/Fantasy AU: If they were in a world of magic, what powers would they have, what would their role be?

Meet-Cute: If you were to have a meet-cute with them, what would happen during and after.

Secret Admirer: What would they do as a secret admirer

Enemies > Friends > Lovers

Dates: How often, and what kind of dates do you go on?

Royalty/Fantasy AU: In a world where there are such things and princes, princesses, dragons and knights, what would they're role me, and how did it coincide with yours? ((42))

**When requesting hc's you can chose one or two that are similar for one request, and I can combine them.

#writing prompts #headcanon prompts #jenna ortega #Wednesday Addams #lorraine day #Tara carpenter #Cairo sweet #jenna ortega x reader #wednesday addams x reader #lorraine day x reader #tara carpenter x reader #cairo sweet x reader

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gothmoes · 1 year ago

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Your Love, My Religion

|Pairing|: Wednesday Addams x gender neutral reader

|Warnings|: Ooc! Wednesday Addams, childhood best friend! Wednesday Addams, canon-divergence because there's no Tyler, it's Parent's Weekend but this detail is useless, Pugsley LOVES you, kissing but weird 'cuz you'll see, author is in their experimental phase.

|Summary|: It only takes half a semester away and a stupid (yet surprising) school event to get Wednesday quit being a coward.

|A/n|: This was requested by my wife @wol-fica and reposted because yesterday the tags hate me.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Bewitching.

You were that in so many ways.

And now, as Wednesday locks eyes with you from across the quad—past all the bustling crowd of students and parents of Nevermore Academy—she realizes the fact hasn't changed, not one bit.

Her foot took a step forward for her. Then another. And another. Before she knew it, she was already heading toward you—bumping and trampling past the people she couldn't care less for—her heart hammering wildly against her chest.

You've always had that effect on her.

When your parents brought you for a playdate years ago, Wednesday had locked you in one of the rooms of the Addams family mansion. But instead of crying or screaming for help, all she heard you do was mutter a small okay and bye-bye.

And she was content to let you rot and die a slow death, but when she pressed her ear to the wood and heard your faint giggles, she had to open the door to see what had brought you glee amidst her kidnapping.

She found you—sitting with your legs crossed on the floor—petting Nero, her pet scorpion on your lap, with a fascinated look on your face.

Ever since that day, 5-year-old Wednesday Addams would invite you to playdates every week without fail with excuses like, "Nero loves your pets more than mine," or, "Nero wants you to come over."

Even after the scorpion's tragic death a year later, she allowed you to continue visiting her weekly. Your title had changed from 'playdate partner' to 'study partner' as soon as both of you went to the same elementary school, and you've been joined by the hips with the Addams girl ever since.

The weekly visits grew into daily ones, and soon, Wednesday would spend nearly every waking hour of the day with you, filling her childhood with memories of endless thrilling adventures.

She'd never admit this to anyone, but she respects you for not judging her for who she is. Other people had called her a freak, a menace to society, and Wednesday couldn't care less about them, especially when you look at her with so much kindness and passion every time she talks about torture methods or unsolved murder cases.

You were there when Pugsley was born, and Wednesday blames you for the tender personality his brother would later develop. In a way, you raised Pugsley just as much as she did, and it proved to earn you an unbreakable bond with the boy.

And that's why as she gets close enough to you, she can see Pugsley standing on your side, holding your hand—a perfect mirror of the picture she had seen a thousand times growing up.

Her breathing quickens, and so do her steps; Wednesday was basically sprinting at you with butterflies in her stomach. But she didn't care because you met her halfway and embraced her with a ferocity that nearly matched hers.

"I missed you so much," You whisper, and Wednesday swears to memorize the sweet sound. She hadn't realized how much she had missed hearing your voice until now.

"You came."

"Pugsley invited me for this Parent's Weekend thing," You mumbled into her shoulder before pulling back to look at her face properly, "I know it hasn't even been a semester since you moved, but I have to see you again."

Wednesday almost melts then and there at the intensity of your words and how you look at her with so much compassion and trust—like you knew she'd never hurt you or betray your devotion.

And she wouldn't. Not when her lips are so close to yours, with your breath fanning her face, nose scrunched adorably.

You look perfect, like the last time Wednesday was in the same position with you, the night before she had to leave for Jericho and this damned school that has cursed her entire being.

Last time, she acted like the coward she was, turning her face away from your longing gaze, heart too weak to leave you if she'd kissed you goodbye.

But now, as Fate has presented her a second chance, Wednesday grabbed your jaw and pressed her lips to yours. Unlike last time, her move was sure as she felt your soft silken lips on her chapped ones. And when you kissed her back—with the same tenderness that she finds in your eyes, words, and touch—warmth fills her pitch-black heart, luring her deeper into your spell.

She kisses you like a prayer—your lips the altar, your love her false God—and Wednesday now understands how man can sink so deep into their religions; to die for their Gods.

Because she would die for you, kill for you, live for you, and unlike last time, she'd gladly sin over and over again, redeeming herself on the lips that perfectly match hers.

The bewitching you; her life was a living testament to that. And she'd never let you go.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Tag list is in the comments or else this post breaks.

|A/n2|: I am never posting this day of the week ever again. Also I forgot to say thank you to 700 of you! 🥲💖

Edit: NOW I FORGOT TO ADD TAGS TO MY POST HELP WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME-

#wednesday addams x reader #wednesday addams #wednesday addams x fem!reader #j.o reblogs ✨#jenna Ortega

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gothmoes · 1 year ago

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my little devil ☹️

Mattress Laid, No Questions Asked

|Pairing|: Wednesday Addams x gender neutral reader

|Warnings|: Ooc! Wednesday Addams, Hurt/Comfort, Wednesday also has shower thoughts, Wednesday panics romantically throughout the fic, two idiots so deeply into each other they just can't tell, there's only one bed trope but not really.

|Summary|: Wednesday needs a little caring after the final battle with Joseph Crackstone.

|A/n|: My hunched back says the 12 hours is not worth the end product.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

"Sit down."

"I don't want to."

You look over her messy braids and the monochrome school uniform, now stained red. Her fingers are slightly jittering, though you're not sure if the Addams girl realizes it. The night has finally taken a toll on her.

"Please?" You give her your best assuring smile, sitting on the stool next to your bed, patting the comfy duvet.

Wednesday clenches her jaw.

She took a step forward.

You nod at her before reaching under your bedside table. It's a good thing Enid urged you to keep a medicine kit in the room. You make a mental note to thank the werewolf next time.

Standing up from your seat, you walk to the dorm's bathroom to get some warm water. "I'll be back in a minute," you half-shouted, hoping the girl hasn't already left your room.

Wednesday is already rigidly seated when you come back. Walking across the room, you carefully put the water-filled bucket beside your stool, clean cloth in your other hand. You inspect her face. It seems that the blood has stopped dripping. The dried-up red would need a little cleaning, though.

"I'm gonna tend the wound on your face first. Is that okay?"

"I can do it myself."

"I know," you swiftly put on your gloves, grabbing a gauze pad and dipping it in saline solution, "but let me do this for you."

"The wound has closed," Wednesday notices the slight raise of your eyebrow. "Don't ask me how."

"Fine. I won't," you put back the gauze pad and the bottle of saline solution on a tray. Grabbing the abandoned cloth, you dip it into the bucket beside you, wringing the excess water. "But at least let me clean it."

Wednesday gives you a dissatisfied look. Her hand reluctantly comes up to lift her bangs off her face. You offer her a small smile as a thank you.

Standing in front of the ravenette, you bend slightly, hands gently dabbing the skin with care. There wasn't a wound, just like what Wednesday said. Only crusts of blood indicate where the injury was previously nestled.

You breathe shallowly, as little as possible. With Wednesday's face so close to yours, her stare that flickers to your lips doesn't go unnoticed. You train your gaze to her cheeks, forehead, and chin, anywhere but her sunken eyes. The dirty spot on her skin has transferred to the almost-dry cloth, and you pull away carefully.

The clean water now has the slightest tinge of crimson as you dip the towel into the bucket once again. Wednesday furrows her brow as you give her a once-over. Suddenly, she becomes hyper-aware of the uniform that sticks obnoxiously to her skin and the tie that chokes her neck snugly.

"I got it," your hands come up to loosen the fabric delicately, pulling the neckwear off the raven. "You should probably change. I'll help you."

Wednesday's face remains stoic, and when you see no sign of opposition, you remove the blazer off her shoulder, pulling the sleeves slowly to avoid injuring her. Inspecting the torn shirt covered in blood, you run your fingers along the fabric, touching the smooth stained skin.

Wednesday gulps in your wake, but when she feels your breath fanning what little bit of flesh she has exposed, her breathing hitched; an almost gasp escapes her lips.

You stop your movement.

"Shit— Did I hurt you?" you scan over Wednesday's face, expecting a wince of some sort. Instead, you found a frown that had deepened, and her eyes focused on the ground. She looks almost embarrassed.

"I'm sorry, I'll grab you some clean clothes," you quickly get your hand off her shoulder and walk to your wardrobe. Wednesday's eyes feel heavy on your back, examining your move. You ignore the pounding on your chest and rummage the space until you find your old black t-shirt and sweatpants.

"Will these do?" You stride over to her, raising the clothes over your body.

"They would have to."

You hand her the garments before lifting the bucket, leading her towards the bathroom. "You can change inside. There are some clean towels if you wanna take a shower. There should still be warm water, so take your time."

Wednesday steps inside the bathroom, and her hand hovers above the doorknob. She's hesitating.

"I'll be here," you assure softly.

There's a slight nod, and the sight of her is soon replaced with the wooden door.

You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Warm water hits her back, and Wednesday feels the tension in her muscle loosen. Scarlet drips to the floor, and the water turns a few shades darker. The sight of blood wasn't unfamiliar, even if it was hers. But tonight, Wednesday scrubbed the dried liquid off her skin hurriedly, touching the spot where her gut had been stabbed, then magically healed. The ravenette lets her mind wanders over the events that have led her to this moment.

Enid had retired to bed before her; loud snores were evidence of her fatigue. Taking on a Hyde with her wolf form, especially when it's only her first time, must've exhausted the blonde.

Wednesday was exhausted herself. But she couldn't fall asleep.

Her bed creaked as she tossed and turned, huffing loudly as the image of Joseph Crackstone flashed through her brain. His wicked voice and disgusting breath, as well as his crooked descendant—the poor excuse of a teacher—boiled Wednesday's blood.

Then there was Tyler. The boy she had trusted and felt enough for. Yet he dared betray her trust, lied to her, turned against her, and attacked her best friend. Wednesday wonders if she can trust anybody close to her anymore.

At least the whole school was saved. And you.

Wednesday runs her fingers through her hair, smoothing the waves her braids had created. The water is colder now, and she lets it wash over her face and freeze her scalp. The sensation calms her, and she lets her hand trail to her shoulder. The wound wasn't there. It seemed that all her injuries from the night had disappeared.

Her hand stays there, eyes closing to remember your touch. Wednesday feels her heart slowly picking up pace, and it dawns on her with a realization. She's alive. You're alive. And she can't deny her heart swells disgustingly with gladness and relief.

Because you're alive, you caught her restless feet wandering through empty corridors. It was an activity the two of you shared. She had found you walking around the school grounds aimlessly on her way to the nightshade library. Wednesday would stalk you every night after that—only to find you repeatedly standing in the middle of the quad—before resuming her investigation.

She never thought you had realized her presence; until tonight.

Wednesday heard you call out her name softly, and she stepped aside from the pillar that hid her figure. Your eyes were tender as you walked over to her with an unreadable look before locking your arms around her and squeezing her body tightly.

Wednesday didn't pull back or bury her head in the crook of your neck. Instead, she stood there, frozen, almost scared of breaking the moment. She thanked the stars that there was nobody around. There was only silence, and it was comforting and engulfing.

When you stepped back and led her to your room, she followed.

Wednesday wonders why it was so easy for her to trust someone, to trust you, especially after such a night.

The answer stares back at her, a distorted image reflected on the clear water flooding your bathroom floor.

Her hand reaches the tap and turns the water off.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You had settled into your pajama. It's much more comfortable than the uniform, after all. Inspecting the mattress on the floor beside your bed, you hum in satisfaction. That should do for the night.

Sitting down, you stare at your bathroom door. The sound of running water had ceased minutes ago, yet Wednesday hadn't come out yet. She's making you worry, and it takes everything in you not to burst through the door and make sure she's okay.

That's until you hear her call your name.

You rush to the door, stopping in front of it before clearing your throat. "Everything good? Do you need anything?"

Wednesday doesn't answer.

Instead, you hear a thud, as if someone has just dropped their entire weight on the floor. Your hands come to turn and push the doorknob frantically, panic setting in as the wood refuses to move. "Wednesday, what happened—"

"Stop."

You halt your movement.

The ravenette must be sitting against the door. That's why you can't get it opened. You mentally cursed at yourself for not figuring that out sooner. You exhaled in relief before sitting against your side of the door.

"You good there?"

There's silence again, and you willed yourself to calm down. The faint smell of your soap tickles your nose, and you wonder if the scent is not to Wednesday's liking. Maybe that's why she called.

"Sorry for the strawberry soap," you let your head fall back, "Yoko gifted me that for my birthday last year, and I'm only using it now."

"That isn't a problem," Wednesday croaks.

"Then what is?"

Moments of quietness are exchanged. You feel your body tensing with each passing second, your heart hammering mercilessly against your ribs. There's no reason as to why your head seems to cloud at the absence of her words; it almost feels entirely stupid. But you stay silent, patiently waiting for her answer.

"Will you—" Wednesday's voice cracks, words faltering in a way you've never heard her before. "Will you stay for me?"

You can practically picture the impossible sight of her quivering lips and her furrowed brows, a single tear rolling down her cheek. She sounds afraid—as if she fears you telling her no.

"I'll stay with you, Wednesday," you rise to your feet urgently, hands coming to brush the wood. "For you, always."

The girl finally comes into your sight, the door opening fully. Wednesday chews her lower lips, eyes welling with tears. She rips her gaze from yours to the floor, nose sniffling as she chokes the sob threatening to escape her throat.

You pull her into a tight embrace, snaking your hands around her petite body; your breath is taken not from the squeeze but from the realization that Wednesday's arms are finally around yours, holding you so desperately, not giving you a chance to pull away.

You rub circles to her lower back, your other hand stroking her hair softly. You hope your body can take her stress and pain away; to make her feel safe and taken care of. You hope she understands how your throbbing heart is telling her you love her.

Wednesday's presence is all-encompassing, and you let her melt into you for as long as the moment allows it. When her dark brown eyes finally meet yours, there's an unspoken gratitude, a softness to her stare you wish to capture forever.

Her red, puffy eyelids seem to tug at your heartstrings, and you feel like saying something stupid only to clear the heavy air. "What do you think of my pajamas?"

Wednesday momentarily looks at you up and down, a grim look growing on her face.

"It's pink."

"Yes, your favorite color, right?"

"I'd die before letting myself transform into that state of mind."

You snort. "That didn't answer my question, genius."

"It's horrendous," Wednesday crosses her arms.

"You don't look so bad yourself," you grin at the sight of the Addams girl in your clothing before walking towards the mattress, the ravenette following you closely behind. "You can sleep on the bed. I want you to be as comfortable as possible."

Wednesday eyes you closely as you lay down, your hands fumbling with the blanket before settling in your position. She looks over to your bed. It does look comfy, though quite wide; she can't believe it's for one person. Suddenly the white bedding seems quite lonely.

"Do you feel like sleeping at all?"

Wednesday huffs as she grabs a pillow on your bed and steps to the edge of your mattress before carefully laying herself on the empty spot beside you. She can practically feel your teasing grin even with her back turned against you, her mind urging her to get up and walk out of your room to save herself from more embarrassment.

Instead, she feels the fabric of your duvet covering her, and Wednesday stills in place.

"Don't hog the blanket, okay? It'll get colder, and I'd prefer we both make it out tonight without freezing to death."

Wednesday turns to you before grabbing your hand and pulling it with her as she crosses her arm over her body—her signature corpse-like sleeping position.

"Now we both will freeze slower."

"Yeah, but I'm gonna get whiplash before it gets to that."

You turn your body to Wednesday, and you can see her face adopting a tranquil look; eyes closed with her hair splayed across the pillow like an angel. She smells like strawberries, and you can't fight the dopey smile tugging the edge of your lips.

It dawns on you that you had assumed she'd spend the night with you. And fortunately, she is doing just that.

Your heart clenches deliciously.

"Goodnight, Wens," you lace your fingers with hers, eyes closing as sleep overcomes you.

"May you have terrible dreams," Wednesday squeezes your hand, "because you forgot to turn off the lights."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

A/n2: I love how I can just blame reader for all the plot holes I overlooked. To the anon that requested this weeks ago, I hope you enjoy!

Check pinned post for tag list.

#wednesday addams x reader #wednesday addams #j.o reblogs ✨#wednesday addams x fem!reader #jenna ortega

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gothmoes · 1 year ago

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our little secret pt.v

Summary: Letters to you.

Word Count: 4.5k Warnings: swearing, mention of possible suicide (slight mention, nothing happens), mental instability, mental spiraling, religious talk (Southern Christianity) Pairing: Lorraine Day x Reader (Masterlist) A/N: this is like a little filler, just having fun trying out something different. Don't worry, there's still a giant chapter left! Also? When Lorraine signs the letters to you, she puts a little heart over the i <3

June 15th

I thought you said you’d always be waiting. But I come home to hear from your momma that you’re on a vacation with Roy? Why didn’t you tell me before I left? I would have given you a proper goodbye.

It’s probably a good idea, though. Roy could definitely use the break and I’m sure you can too. I know the past few weeks have been… rough. I’m sorry. I didn't know it was going to happen. But we can talk more about things when you get back. For now, make sure you have some fun, okay?

Your momma said y’all went out West. If you could write me back and let me know where, maybe I can meet up with you. We can have a proper vacation for once. Do y’all have any real plans, or are you just traveling? I’m sure either one will do the job. You always did want to get out of town for a bit.

Our shoot went well. Max and Bobby-Lynne asked about you the whole time. It doesn't sit right with me when they're constantly checking up on you. Maybe I'm just jealous. It's probably nothing compared to how you feel. At least they mean well, I suppose. They send you their love. Maxine sent… a little more than love, but I’m not telling you about that.

By the time you get this letter, it shouldn’t be too long before you’re back home. I’ll be here waiting for you, okay? Don’t forget to send me some postcards. And if you find anything cute, don't forget to buy it for me! I'll pay you back, I promise.

I'll see you soon.

Yours, Lorraine

—---

June 29th

Having too much fun?

We all thought you'd both be home by now. The 4th is next week, you know. We never miss the 4th. Daddy said he would cook out this year. He's making your favourite and Beau and Huck got the good fireworks. We can take the truck out and watch the show, just you and me. RJ will be out so we can be free for a bit. That’ll be nice, right? A nice little break. So you better not miss it.

Speaking of, Beau isn’t too happy that you’re not home yet. He’s been doing a lot of pacing and mumbling a bunch of nonsense. I think he’s being a bit dramatic. He’s not happy that you left without letting him know. Said he could have told you a few places to go to be safe. I think he just misses you. We all do.

We haven’t been out to a shoot for a while. I’m glad. It hasn’t been the same since RJ proposed. Nothing has, really. Things just don’t feel the same. There’s guilt in everything I do now, I don’t know how to explain it. I just don’t feel comfortable with anything, even daily chores. Did you ever feel that guilt? The one that sits deep in your belly?

On a brighter note, Jimmy and Liz are back in town. They seem to be doing good. And no, they’re not pregnant, thank God. It’s a modern miracle. They had hoped to see you before the summer is over. Of course they will though, it’s not even July yet, the summer is still young. Besides, I know no vacation is more fun than hanging out with us, right? Even Roy would agree, I know it.

Momma is calling me to dinner now, so I’ll wrap it up. I’ll see you on the 4th, okay?

Yours, Lorraine

—---

July 23rd

Hey darlin, I think it’s about time you came home. You’ve more than missed the 4th, and Lorraine ain’t too happy. It’s the first time you’ve missed a holiday, you know? It ain’t like you. I know this ain’t the happiest place for you right now, but your family is here. We’re all here.

Where’d you go anyhow? You and Roy are homebodies, y’all don’t know anybody out West. If you really wanted a vacation, you could’ve waited for us to get home. We would’ve taken you. I’m sure Lorraine would’ve been happy to go too. We could’ve had a double vacation, you know? Like we always talked about?

Huck and I won our competition the other day. Wish you had been there to cheer us on. We wiped the floor with everybody. Best team ropers in the South, just you wait. You’d best come home for the next one. I’d hate to get too popular for you to notice us, you know?

I’ll keep Lorraine calm and happy, but I really need you to get home, darlin. It’s a bit past time to be concerned. At the very least, send us a letter back. I can handle you being gone for so long if I know where you are. I know this isn’t a happy place, but we’re still worried about you. We can make it a better place again, I promise.

Just send me something back, okay? I’d appreciate it.

Love you, Beau

—---

August 12th

Hon, I really think you need to come home. Lorraine and Beau are losing their minds. No one has heard from you or Roy since you left, and your parents don’t seem worried at all. Your momma seems the slightest bit concerned, but your daddy isn’t. Everyone is just acting weird, so you need to come home.

Jim and Liz left for seminary again last week. They were mighty upset they didn’t get to see you before they left. It’s been about since Christmas since y’all were together, right? They miss you both. Y’all are family. Maybe try to write him while y’all are gone, I’ll write his address at the bottom in case you don’t remember.

If I have to listen to Beau and Lorraine ask where you are one more time, I’m going to lose my mind. You know neither one of them knows how to be patient or think logically. They have a single bad thought and run with it. I need you here to help me calm them down, because you’re fine, just taking a break from everything.

No one blames you for taking a break. After everything… it’s the least you deserve. I’m not supposed to tell you this, but Lorraine asked the other night if this is her fault. I told her it wasn’t. We all know that girl loves you to the moon and back. And we all know you love her back. Things can be worked out, but you’ve got to come back home first, okay?

After all this, you had better be having the time of your life, darling. I’m going to assume as much since you’re not answering anybody. Hey, if you can’t write back, can you at least give us a number to try and call you at? Beau said he’d pay any long-distance charges, he just wants to make sure you’re okay.

He’s playing the part of a dutiful boyfriend, you know. Everyone thinks it’s romantic. I know he’s just worried about you, but it’s weird to hear everyone giving him their sympathies. Is this how you feel when everyone talks to Lorraine about RJ? Like you’re in second place in a race you hadn’t wanted to compete in? Because if so, then I think I understand you a bit. It’s… not a nice feeling.

Ah, I won’t get sentimental. We can talk more when you get home. I think I understand you a little better. That’s kinda sad, isn’t it? Took you leaving for me to get a better grip on your feelings? Well, just come home soon so we can talk. As I’ve made clear, Beau and Lorraine miss you. But I miss you too, darling. Enjoy your trip, but please come home soon safe and sound.

With love, Huck

—---

October 9th

This ain’t funny anymore, you know. It ain’t funny, and you need to get home now. You can quit ignoring all our letters, we get it. You’re hurt, you’re upset, you wanna teach us a lesson or somethin. We get it, we understand, just come home.

Lorraine is losing her gotdamn mind, and quite frankly I am too. No one’s heard a peep from you or Roy. You didn’t even like the West, you had always said it was too different. Never liked how they did their food either. So why would you even go out that way anyway?

You’re probably out drinking those fancy beers they try to peddle up there. They’re not as good as ours and you know it. Or you’re out doing those stupid hikes that you never cared for, getting more blisters on your heels because you don’t even like walks. There’s nothing good out there and you need to come back.

You should’ve left us a note before you left. That ain’t like you, you know. You always let us know where you’re going. You couldn’t even go to church camp back in the day without leaving a personalised letter for each of us. But now you just up and leave in the middle of the night? No warning? That ain’t right and you know it.

People keep asking me where you are and I don’t have any more answers. I can only say “she’s on vacation” so many times before people realise it’s a lie. And it is, isn’t it? It’s a lie. You’re not on some damn vacation. If you ran off, just let me know. I’ll leave you alone as long as I know you’re safe.

Did we make you that miserable? Was being around us so awful that you had to leave? You could’ve told us first. We could’ve come up with a plan, something that wouldn’t hurt you so bad. I don’t know what we could’ve done, but we could’ve tried something. Anything at all.

I need you to answer my letters, honey. I really need you to let me know you’re safe.

Please be safe.

Love you, Beau

—---

December 17th

You missed Halloween. And Thanksgiving. Are you going to miss Christmas too? And New Year's Eve? Am I going to have to jump into the new year without you? Please let me know if I am, because I need to be prepared. I’ve spent holiday after holiday waiting for you to come back, for you to spend it with me again. I get my hopes up every single time just for you to not be there.

RJ keeps asking me what’s wrong, and I’m honest with him. I miss you. I miss you so badly my chest aches. But he doesn’t understand. He thinks I just miss my best friend. And I do, you’ve always been my best friend. But you’re so much more than that, and I can’t explain it to him until you get back because I need someone to hold on to while you’re gone. When are you coming back?

Are you waiting for an apology? Because I’ll give you one, I’ll give you as many as you want. I’m sorry about RJ. I’m sorry about the proposal and that I didn’t say no. I’m sorry about Mr. Dylan, he never should’ve touched you. I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye properly. I’m sorry I avoided you after the proposal, I was just scared and didn’t know what to do.

I’ll say sorry for anything you want or need. Just please answer me. Please come home. I don’t want anything else for Christmas, I don’t want any other miracle, I just want you. Please come home.

I miss you.

Yours, Lorraine

—---

January 24th

We searched Roy’s room and found all his guns gone.

I’m done asking, darling, you need to call us or send us a letter. Now. Now, I don’t believe Roy would do anything to you, but your daddy is on a kick about how unstable he was. How he’s still sick from the devil and all that nonsense he would always preach. I know he wouldn’t touch a hair on your head, but I really need you to answer me.

Lorraine has been losing her patience with RJ. She yelled at him the other day just because he tried to hold her hand. Told him not to touch her. It was quite the show. And it’s going to get her in trouble. She needs you, you know? You’re not the only one who has to hide.

I’m sorry, but I went through your room. It’s been long enough, your momma practically gave me the go ahead. You didn’t take any of your letters from Lorraine. Did you mean to leave them? I hope you didn’t. I hope it was an accident, and you didn’t mean to leave us behind.

Beau has a letter for you too, but he’s not done with it. I don’t know how to help him. He’s got himself convinced he should’ve done more. I don’t know what he should have done. I don’t know what he could have done differently. Did you want him to propose? The three of us could’ve moved off somewhere, you know. We could’ve made it work if it’s what you wanted.

Everyone wants you home. They need you to come home. No one is complete without you, it’s like a big part of town is missing. Stevie from the bar finally pulled me aside and asked about you last weekend. I couldn’t even give him an answer. He said he’d pray for you. Said he’d keep a shot of the good stuff saved for when you get back.

Fuck it. I miss you too. You’re one of my very best friends, hon. You’re the one who’s been with me through everything. Hell, you introduced me to Beau. You’re the only one I can truly talk to about things. I need you home too, okay? You’re part of my home, so I need you to come back.

I need you to write back.

With love, Huck

—---

January 30th

You’re an absolute bastard. You know that? You’re a fuckin bastard. A vacation? Give me a fuckin break, you didn’t go on no gotdamn vacation. Where’d you go, huh? Somewhere we’d never find you? Did Roy convince you to leave? He probably did, the prick. Ain’t no way you would’ve left on your own, you’re not stupid.

What the hell were you thinkin? Just up and leavin like it ain’t nobody’s business. Well it’s my business. It’s my fucking business and you should’ve told me. You’re supposed to be my girlfriend. I don’t care that we’re pretendin, I still fuckin care about you and you just fuckin left? Did I mean that little to you?

We had a pretty great thing goin, you didn’t have to leave and ruin it. I don’t care that it was a lie, we were happy. I still had Huck, and you still had Lorraine, and we were happy. You didn’t have to pack your bags and leave like a thief in the night to, what, prove a point? Well I get it now, you weren’t as happy as I thought. You could’ve told me instead of doin all of this.

You’d better answer the gotdamn letter this time. I ain’t playin around anymore. You better answer the letter and get your ass home. And if Roy is readin this, then you better get her home. You’d better have kept your gotdamn hands and your guns away, and you better get her home. Now.

Beau

—---

February 15th

Hey, momma said I should try to send you something. She said you might answer me since I’m your baby brother. Are you and Roy okay? I don’t care what Pap says, I know y’all aren’t dumb, y’all didn’t go do something stupid. Roy probably just grabbed his guns to keep you safe. He’s not crazy.

Gramma came down with something nasty. The doctors think it’s pneumonia, but we’re still waiting for tests to come back. You both should probably get back just in case it’s bad. She misses you. She prays for you both twice a day. It’s really sweet, she just wants you both safe.

Seminary has been alright. Boring. You would’ve liked it more. Heck, you would’ve been better at it. No one knows the bible quite like you, I don’t care what Pap says. If any one of us should’ve gone off to study, it should’ve been you. Maybe once he sees how bad at it I am, he’ll change his mind. Think so? Probably not.

I’m waiting to propose to Liz until you both get back. I’ve got it all planned out and everything, even bought a ring. You’d like it, I think. But I can’t get married without my big siblings, right? Don’t worry, I can be patient. Y’all just get home safe and sound, you hear?

We love you. The both of you. We’ll see you soon.

Jimmy

—---

February 18th

Your Gramma passed away today. The funeral is in two weeks. That should be more than enough time for you to get back.

We’ll see you soon, love.

With love, Huck

—---

March 4th

Your Gramma’s funeral was today. You weren’t there. Why weren’t you there? You meant the world to her. She meant the world to you. You were the one she wanted to see, and you weren’t even there to see her buried.

She would have wanted you to be here.

Yours, Lorraine

—---

April 4th

A police report came in that they found two bodies in the river a few hours away from here. The bodies are decomposed too much to make identifications. I swear to god, hon, it better not be you. I know things were hard. For the both of you. But you didn’t have to go and do that.

It better not be you.

With love, Huck

—---

May 26th

Your daddy practically declared you both dead at church this morning. I guess after almost a year, he’s tired of worrying about it. He was never a patient man. I don’t think anyone really believed him, but who’s going to argue with their preacher? No one in this town, that’s for sure. Momma and daddy said you’re probably fine, just got sick of your daddy. No one would blame you if that were the case.

After church, Mr. Dylan told your daddy you and Roy had tried to kill him the night you left. If that were true, I don’t know why he didn’t bring it up when everyone was asking where you were. Don’t know why he saved it for now, but he did. Said you had both tried to kill him in the church.

He told your daddy you were a queer. Said you were a queer and you were going to infect the town with your sin. Huck hit him. Square on the jaw, knocked him out cold. I had thought it would be Beau. I hope he gave Mr. Dylan a concussion.

Did he really find out? Because I didn’t tell anybody, I swear. We always kept things a secret. At least I think we did. No one was ever around that didn’t already know. I know none of my crew told, they wouldn’t dare. I promise I didn’t tell anyone.

Momma asked me this evening if you really were queer. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what her reaction would be. She has always loved you, I didn’t want her to think any less of you because of what Mr. Dylan said. Daddy said we shouldn’t talk about it while you’re not here. Said it wasn’t right to talk behind your back. I don’t want them to hate you.

I won’t ever let them hate you.

Yours, Lorraine

—---

June 1st

I hate you. Wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, I hate you. I hate you, and I hate Roy, and I hate this fuckin town and everyone in it.

You were supposed to be here, gotdammit. You were supposed to be here, and we were all supposed to grow old together. What the fuck were you thinkin? Don’t you know how much you’ve hurt me? Don’t you understand? We might not have been in love, but that didn’t mean I didn’t love you. I loved you, and you went and broke my heart like this?

We were all supposed to be together, you know. No matter what, remember? I thought you were my Huckleberry. Well what are you now, huh? A coward. You’re a fuckin coward. What, times get hard so you leave? You just pack your shit and leave with your crazy fuckin brother?

What were we to you? Were we just a means to an end? Nothing more than a toy for you to play with? Cause you were never that to me. You were never anything less than my best friend, the only girl I ever loved. And you just fuckin left me. Was I not good enough for you?

If that’s how you feel, then good fuckin riddance. Stay away. We don’t want you back in this town anyway. Go stay with your new fuckin friends that won’t ever fuckin know you or care about you the way we do. No one is ever gonna understand you like we do.

Don’t even bother comin back.

Beau

—---

June 2nd

Please come back. I can’t do this without you.

Beau

—---

June 4th

I broke off the engagement today. It’s all just too much. I can’t even stand looking at him anymore. Every time he looks at me makes my skin crawl. I can’t even stand being in the same room with him anymore. Each time he touches me makes me feel like a piece of my soul dies.

Did I do this to you? Did I push you to leave? If I did, I’m sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. If I had been smarter, I would’ve suggested dating Huck instead. Then none of this ever would have happened. The four of us would’ve been together and no one would have ever known. We could’ve been happy.

Were you that unhappy? I never wanted you to hurt. All I ever wanted was you. Every time I had to fake a smile with RJ, or play nice, I always thought about you. I didn’t care about him, he was just a good distraction so no one would know about us. It was stupid. I never should’ve been afraid of how I felt.

I need you to come home. I need you to come home and tell me everything will be okay. Nothing feels the same without you. Foods don’t taste good, the sun isn’t as bright, nothing is fun. Most days I don’t even want to get out of bed anymore. I would rather rot away than go another day without you.

I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry for everything. I’ll take everything back, I’ll tell the whole world that I love you. I’ll hold your hand at the store. I’ll sit in your lap at the bar, and pull you to dance with me. I’ll do whatever you want, whenever you want. I just want you back. I need you back.

I love you. You’re my home. I need you here with me.

Please come back to me.

Yours, Lorraine

—---

July 1st

You took my heart with you, you know. No one else is ever going to have it. Please keep it safe.

Yours, Lorraine

—---

The bonfire was hot against Lorraine’s skin. Far too hot. Combined with the sweltering summer heat, it was painful. She didn’t care. Painful at least felt like something. It felt like something real, something she could focus on. Almost as real as the pile of letters in her hands, all stamped with the same thing on the front in red.

Return to sender.

“I’m sorry,” Max said softly. Her hand was surprisingly cool against Lorraine’s upper arm.

On the other side of the fire, off in the distance, she could hear Beau yelling. Drunken, incoherent rambling that no one could really understand. Huck had given up on trying to console him. After all, how could he console him about something that they couldn’t fix? What would be the point?

Another beer bottle shattered against the hard ground.

You were supposed to come back. You were supposed to be there waiting for Lorraine when she got back from filming. Then you were both going to talk, and you were going to come up with a plan to get out of the engagement, and then everyone was going to be happy. Maybe you could’ve gone out East for real, like the four of you had always talked about.

The letters in her hand felt like lead.

“Do you want us to give you a minute?” Bobby-Lynne asked. She squeezed Lorraine’s shoulders. It was comforting. Grounding.

“No,” Lorraine said softly. “It wouldn’t matter anyway.”

The letters were the last connection she had to you. Your daddy had quickly emptied out yours and Roy’s rooms, labeling you both as sinners and traitors. She had been lucky enough to grab your hat before he had thrown everything out. It sat comfortably on her head right at that moment.

Her last remnants of you.

No tears came as she held the letters over the fire. The flames licked the skin of her damaged fingers. She knew, logically, it should have hurt. It didn’t. Maybe, if she kept her hand there long enough, you would appear and pull her back. You would scold her for doing something dangerous, and then you could both go to bed.

That’s all she wanted. She just wanted to go to bed.

Her fingers pried themselves away from the letters, and she watched them fall onto the bonfire. One by one they caught a spark, turning a dark brown and curling around the edges before igniting. She could see the different handwriting on each page. Beau, Huck, Jimmy. Her own. All filling the pages with their thoughts, their concerns, their feelings. Things they would never dare tell each other.

She watched the fire until the very last letter burned. Your name faded away into the orange flame. You faded away into nothing, and when your name was no longer legible, Lorraine felt her own heart go with it. There was a space shaped exactly like you within her chest. No one would ever fill it, and she didn’t want them to.

You were her heart and soul. Her home.

She would never find anyone else for as long as she lived. And then, she would find you in death.

She would find you in every lifetime. No matter how long it took.

#lorraine day x reader #lorraine day #j.o reblogs ✨#jenna ortega #x (film)#lorraine day x fem!reader

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