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laceandlipstick · 3 days ago

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don’t hang up | d.w

ghostface!dean winchester x f!reader

MDNI

masterlist

word count: 8.4k

summary: “You don’t even know who I am,” he murmured through the phone, voice thick with hunger. “But you still let me make you come with just my voice. What does that say about you, sweetheart?”

warnings: SMUT, like filthy smut, dubcon, orgasm denial, fingering, oral f!receiving, p in v, glove kink, mask kink, edging, dirty talk, possessive!dean, mutual masturbation, phone sex, dean talking you through it, stalking, fear kink, lmk if i missed any!

a/n: dedicated to my one & only @sudsnribbons

You weren’t expecting anything that night.

Just another quiet Friday. One of those evenings where the silence in your house stretched too long and the TV felt like more noise than company. You’d tossed on a worn tank top and cotton shorts after your shower, settled into the couch with your legs folded beneath you, and picked at leftovers with a fork in one hand and your phone in the other. Comfortably numb. Mindless.

Until your phone lit up.

Unknown Caller

No name. No number.

You frowned, thumb hovering.

It rang once. Then twice. Long enough to startle you out of your daze, but not long enough to commit to voicemail. Like whoever was on the other end was waiting.

You hesitated.

Another ring.

Against your better judgment, you hit “Answer” and brought the phone to your ear.

“…Hello?”

For a moment, nothing.

No voice. No sound. Just the slight hiss of a line open and waiting. And then — the faintest inhale.

A breath.

Slow. Intentional. Not startled. Not accidental.

Someone was there.

You sat up straighter. “Is someone there?”

Still nothing. But you heard it again: that long, steady exhale. Someone was listening.

Your eyes flicked toward the window near your front door — blinds drawn, but the porch light outside flickered slightly against the edge. You swallowed.

“I’m gonna hang up now,” you warned.

And then, finally — a voice.

“…Didn’t think you’d answer.”

Low. Rough. Velvet dipped in gravel. It wasn’t the kind of voice you’d forget — not casual, not boyish. Older. Confident. There was something dangerous threaded into every syllable, something dark behind how calm it was.

“Who is this?” you asked, tension crawling into your shoulders.

He chuckled. The sound was quiet, almost like he was amused by the question.

“You don’t know me,” he said. “Not really. But I know you.”

A chill shot down your spine. “Excuse me?”

“I’ve been watching you,” he said simply. No hesitation. No apology. “You always answer your phone with that soft little hello. Always tuck your leg under you when you sit down. You like white wine better than red. Always stop at one glass — you think that makes you disciplined.”

You froze.

You glanced to your side — at the half-empty glass on the coffee table. Still sweating slightly at the base.

Your heart began to pound. “What kind of sick joke is this?”

He didn’t answer immediately. You heard something else — a shift in the line. Like he moved the phone to his other hand. Or maybe adjusted something. Then his voice dropped a little lower.

“That tank top you’re wearing… it’s thin tonight. Light gray, right? No bra. Like always, when you’re home alone.”

You stood so fast the wine nearly spilled. Your hand flew to your chest, suddenly aware of how much skin was showing. You rushed to the window, yanked the curtain aside.

Nothing.

Porch empty. Street calm. Just the soft breeze nudging the bushes and a distant hum of a car somewhere beyond the next block.

“I swear to God,” you said tightly, voice trembling, “if this is some kind of prank—”

He cut you off with another breathy chuckle. “It’s not a prank, sweetheart. I just… couldn’t help myself tonight. Needed to hear your voice.”

You blinked hard. Your body felt like it was humming — nerves twisted between fear and something far stranger. A part of you was terrified. The other part… couldn’t stop listening.

“Who are you?” you whispered.

The pause that followed made your skin crawl.

Then:

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Click.

The call disconnected.

You stared at the screen for several seconds before you realized your hand was shaking.

⸻

You spent the whole weekend on edge. The call played on a loop in your mind, crawling under your skin like static. Every time your phone buzzed, you flinched.

But it never came again. Not that night. Not the next day.

By Monday, you were starting to wonder if you’d imagined it.

The line between fantasy and fear blurred too easily when you were alone.

You told yourself it was nothing. Maybe someone drunk dialing. Maybe someone with the wrong number. Maybe someone playing a sick little game.

But deep down, you knew that wasn’t it. That voice — it was intentional. That wasn’t someone making a mistake. It was someone who knew you.

And worse?

Some part of you had liked it.

The power in his voice. The way he spoke your routines like a secret he’d memorized. The fact that he sounded so calm. Like he’d been waiting for this moment — not just for days, but months.

So when the phone buzzed again at 11:12 p.m. that Monday, you didn’t freeze this time.

You stared.

Unknown Caller.

It rang. Once. Twice.

You swallowed and answered.

“…Hello?”

His voice came through immediately. Smooth. Confident. That same rich rasp that curled in your belly like heat.

“I was hoping you’d pick up again.”

You didn’t speak.

“I thought about you all weekend,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Had to work real hard not to call again too soon. Didn’t want to scare you off.”

You cleared your throat. “You’re a little late for that.”

He chuckled. “Yeah… but you still answered.”

You hated the flush rising in your cheeks. You hated how right he was. Your heart beat hard against your ribs, but you couldn’t bring yourself to hang up.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked. Your voice didn’t sound angry. It just sounded curious.

He breathed in slowly. “Because I like the sound of your voice. Because I think about what you look like when you sleep. Because when you shower, you hum that song — the one from the Tarantino movie — and I like that you don’t even know you do it.”

You sank down slowly to the edge of the bed.

“You’re sick,” you whispered.

“Maybe,” he said softly. “But I’m also hard as a fuckin’ rock right now, just listening to you breathe.”

You squeezed your thighs together instinctively, caught off-guard by the heat that shot through your core.

He kept going, voice lower now, filthier. “You ever get off thinkin’ about someone you shouldn’t? Just the idea of ‘em — the way they talk, or walk, or look at you? Someone you know you’re not supposed to want?”

Your breath caught.

“You’re disgusting.”

“But you’re still listening,” he murmured.

You didn’t reply. You couldn’t.

“Tell me what you’re wearing,” he said.

You clenched the phone tighter in your hand. “You already know.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

Silence stretched between you.

Finally, you whispered, “Tank top. Shorts.”

“Bare underneath?”

You hesitated.

Then nodded — forgetting, stupidly, that he couldn’t see you.

“Yes.”

His breath hitched. And your stomach twisted in a dangerous, aching way.

“Fuck,” he rasped. “You’re gonna make me lose my mind.”

His breath slowed again. Controlled. Even. Like he was trying not to let something show.

Then, lower — filthier:

“I want you to touch yourself.”

You blinked, heat flooding your cheeks so fast it burned. “What?”

“Slide your hand down those pretty thighs. Under your shorts. I know you’re already wet.”

“You don’t know that,” you whispered, voice breaking.

He chuckled darkly. “Baby. I do.”

You swallowed hard. And for a second — a dangerous, fragile second — you didn’t say anything.

Because you were.

Your body had turned against your brain the moment he said your name that way. The moment he spoke to you like he knew everything you tried to hide — not just the clothes you wore or the wine you drank, but the way you curled into your sheets at night, the way your fingers brushed low when you were half-asleep, not even meaning to touch yourself until it was too late to stop.

And now he was in your ear. Steady. Unrelenting.

“Go on,” he coaxed. “Just a little. One hand. I won’t hang up.”

Your breath trembled. Slowly — barely breathing — you slipped your hand under the waistband of your shorts.

The cotton was already damp.

His voice curled in your ear like a secret.

“There she is.”

You exhaled shakily, lips parting as your fingers brushed low. You weren’t even thinking anymore — not about the danger, not about who this was or where he might be or why he knew so much. All you could feel was that aching pressure coiled inside you and the steady, gravel-rich rhythm of his voice.

“Tell me how it feels.”

You swallowed. “Warm.”

He made a low sound — something between a hum and a groan.

“Bet it is. Bet you’re soaked already. That little pussy—” he said it slow, thick, savoring it, “��gets real needy when she’s not being taken care of, doesn’t she?”

Your fingers trembled. You pressed in deeper, gathering slick.

“Touch your clit for me. Slow circles. Don’t stop.”

You obeyed. You hated how easily you obeyed. But you couldn’t stop.

“You doing it, baby?” he asked.

“…Yes.”

“Good girl.”

Your breath hitched. You shouldn’t like that. But it cracked something open inside you.

“God, I’d give anything to see you right now,” he muttered. “Laid out on that bed. All soft and pliant. Rubbin’ your sweet little cunt just like I tell you.”

You whimpered, thighs twitching.

“Keep goin’. Let me hear it. Let me hear what I do to you.”

And you did. You couldn’t stop the sound that spilled out of you — quiet, gasping, desperate.

“Jesus,” he breathed. “I could come just listening to you. Bet you’re fuckin’ drippin’.”

You bit your lip hard. “I—I don’t know who you are—”

“I know,” he rasped. “That’s what makes it so hot.”

You couldn’t argue. Not when your body was pulsing, slick fingers circling faster, chasing the edge like it was the only thing tethering you to earth. You wanted to hate him. You wanted to scream. You wanted to beg.

Instead, you moaned. A soft, broken thing that cracked through the line.

“There you go,” he growled. “Keep going. You close?”

You nodded — then caught yourself and gasped out: “Yes.”

He groaned.

“Good. Want you to come for me. Want you to come with my fuckin’ voice in your head.”

Your eyes fluttered closed. Your back arched. You were right there — seconds from falling off the edge when—

“Wait.”

You froze.

His voice dropped.

“I changed my mind.”

“What?” Your voice was wrecked. High and pleading.

“I want to hear you beg first,” he murmured. “I want to hear what that little voice sounds like when you’re desperate.”

You whimpered, thighs trembling.

“Please.”

“Mmm, more.”

“Please, please—let me come—”

“That’s better,” he growled. “Now be a good girl and fuckin’ come for me.”

You did.

It hit you like a wave breaking—sharp and hot and helpless. Your whole body arched, thighs trembling, fingers soaked, the phone nearly slipping from your hand as your breath caught in your throat. You didn’t know if you moaned his name, or just made a sound, something small and broken and raw, but it was loud enough for him to hear.

“Fuck,” he groaned through the receiver. “Jesus fucking Christ, you sound so good when you come.”

You gasped, shaking. Your free hand fisted the bedsheets as your body rode it out, wave after wave leaving your nerves fried, chest rising in shallow pants. You felt dizzy. Out of control. Stripped bare in the worst, best way.

And he just kept talking.

“Wish I could see your face right now,” he said low, voice like warm smoke. “Bet you’ve got that sweet little dazed look—eyes all heavy, lips parted, pussy throbbing.”

You whimpered, hips twitching as your fingers slipped out of yourself, soaked and trembling.

“I’d lick you clean,” he murmured. “Then start all over. Keep you spread open all fuckin’ night, just to see how many times I can make you come.”

You let out a breathy, shaky moan, unable to stop yourself.

“Goddamn, baby,” he rasped, “you don’t even know what you do to me.”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

Your head fell back against the pillows. The room spun slightly. Your skin felt too hot, too bare. You hadn’t even taken your clothes off, but it felt like you’d been undressed, piece by piece, just by the sound of his voice.

And he wasn’t done.

“You like that?” he asked softly, like he already knew the answer. “Lettin’ some stranger talk you through it?”

Your stomach fluttered. That heat hadn’t gone away. Not even close.

“You’re not a stranger,” you whispered.

“Oh yeah?” he said, amused. “What am I then?”

You swallowed hard.

“I don’t know,” you said honestly. “But you don’t feel like a stranger.”

He made a soft sound. Like approval.

“That’s ‘cause I know you,” he said. “Better than anyone. Better than you think.”

You opened your eyes, heart still pounding. You hated how true that felt.

“How do you know all this?” you whispered. “The wine. The tank top. The song in the shower… how long have you been watching me?”

Silence.

Then, calmly:

“Long enough to know no one else sees you the way I do.”

Your breath caught.

He meant it. You could hear it. And worse—you could feel it. That sick, dark part of you that liked being seen like that, needed it. The part that woke up aching some nights without knowing why.

“What do you want from me?” you asked, voice small.

Another long pause.

Then, soft as a threat:

“Everything.”

There was silence. But not the kind that felt empty.

It was thick—humid with everything that had just happened. With everything still pulsing between your legs and pounding behind your ribs. You were limp, sprawled across your bed, your shorts still pushed aside, fingers still damp.

And the line was still open.

You could hear him breathing. Slow. Steady. Like he’d just watched you come and was savoring the sight.

“Don’t hang up,” you whispered, unsure where the words came from.

He didn’t laugh this time. He didn’t gloat. He just said—quiet, firm, grounded:

“I wasn’t gonna.”

You bit your lip.

“Are you…” Your voice faltered. “Are you still—doing something?”

A low chuckle rumbled through the phone.

“You mean am I jerkin’ off to the sound of your voice, your cute little gasps, that perfect moan at the end?” he drawled.

You closed your eyes.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he rasped. “I am.”

Your breath hitched. You curled your fingers into the sheets, the shame and the thrill warring beneath your skin.

“Tell me what you’re picturing,” you said before you could stop yourself.

He groaned softly. “Fuck. You want the truth?”

You nodded, breathless. “Yes.”

“I’m picturing your pussy,” he said plainly, low and raw. “All messy and red and sensitive. Those shaky little thighs. Your hand still between your legs. I want it to hurt next time I touch you, baby. I wanna push you past what you can take.”

Your whole body tensed again, muscles clenching around nothing.

“Want you to be fuckin’ ruined,” he growled, voice thick with need. “Ruined for anyone else. Only ever able to come for me—my voice, my cock, my fuckin’ name on your tongue while you fall apart.”

You whimpered. Just a sound—too overwhelmed to form words.

He heard it. And it lit him up.

“You like being ruined, don’t you?” he purred. “You want to be someone’s pretty little secret.”

“Yes,” you whispered.

“Say it,” he said.

“I want to be your secret.”

A rough exhale, like he couldn’t believe how perfect you were. Then—quieter:

“I’ve been so fuckin’ patient,” he said. “You don’t know what it’s been like—watching you. Listening to you laugh on the phone with your friends. Seeing you stretch in that tank top when you think no one’s looking. Smiling at some guy at the grocery store like he stands a fuckin’ chance.”

Your stomach twisted.

“You follow me?”

“Sometimes.”

“Why?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Because you belong to me.”

The way he said it—it wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t a fantasy. It wasn’t a game.

It was a promise.

You should’ve felt scared. Maybe you were scared. But that fear melted into something deeper. Something wetter. Something willing.

“I don’t even know what you look like,” you whispered.

Another pause.

Then, voice low and serious:

“You will.”

Your breath caught.

“I think about showing you all the time,” he said. “Coming to you. Letting you see me. Pulling you into my lap with my mask still on. Lifting that little shirt. Sliding my fingers inside you—while you guess who I am.”

You gasped.

“You want that, don’t you?” he asked, almost smug. “You want to feel me before you even see my face.”

“Y-yes,” you breathed.

“Mmm. Good girl.”

You bit your lip so hard it nearly stung.

“I’d fuck you in the dark,” he murmured. “Leave you shaking and sore and begging for more—and still you wouldn’t know who I was. You’d go to bed wondering. You’d wake up aching.”

He let the silence settle. Then added, softer:

“But part of you would hope it was me.”

You didn’t say anything.

Because it was true.

Even in this haze of breathless confusion and heat, even in the quiet of your dark bedroom, part of you wanted that. The mystery. The mask. The voice that filled you like smoke.

“I don’t think I should talk to you again,” you whispered, voice trembling.

“But you will.”

You exhaled, head spinning.

“…Why are you doing this?”

He paused.

And then—soft. Unapologetic.

“Because I can’t stop thinking about you. Because you’re mine. Whether you know it yet or not.”

The line crackled slightly. You thought maybe he would hang up. That the weight of the moment had reached its peak.

But he said one last thing:

“Leave your window unlocked tonight.”

Click.

⸻

You didn’t sleep.

Not really.

You lay awake with your limbs tangled in the sheets, your skin still hot from the call, heart thudding against the inside of your ribs like it didn’t know what to do with itself.

His voice echoed in your head long after the line went dead.

“Leave your window unlocked tonight.”

You hadn’t meant to obey.

But you had.

The screen was still latched, the glass pushed up just two inches. Just enough to let air in. Just enough to let your thoughts crawl out into the dark and imagine what might be watching you from the yard.

You didn’t know how long you lay there—awake but unmoving, ears straining, breath shallow. Listening for a creak, a shift, the rustle of something heavier than the breeze.

Nothing came.

Not that night.

And somehow, that was worse.

⸻

The next day was a blur.

You moved through the hours like you were walking underwater. Everything felt thick, muted, strange.

At work, you flinched when your phone buzzed—even when it was just a calendar notification. You found yourself glancing over your shoulder when no one had called your name.

And in the bathroom mirror, you didn’t recognize your own reflection for a second.

You looked flushed. Tense. Tired.

You looked watched.

You kept thinking about what he’d said.

I want to fuck you in the dark. With my mask still on.

I want you to guess.

You belong to me.

The worst part?

You wanted to hear it again.

⸻

When night fell, the quiet returned.

You didn’t plan to let it happen again. You told yourself you wouldn’t answer. That you wouldn’t wait for your phone to ring. That you wouldn’t sit on the edge of your bed in the dark, skin prickling like it knew something was coming.

But you did.

The silence stretched.

You curled up under your sheets, legs bare, tank top soft against your skin. You stared at the phone on your nightstand like it might start glowing.

You checked the lock on your window.

Still unlatched.

And your fingers… drifted.

It started with a brush of your inner thigh. Just a flicker. A test. Your body reacted like it remembered the night before in full color. The sound of his voice. The way he told you to come.

You closed your eyes. Let your hand slip lower.

You imagined him again—not his face. You didn’t even want to see it. Just the mask. The voice. The thick, gloved hand between your thighs.

Your breath came faster. Your hips rolled gently into your palm.

You imagined him standing at the foot of the bed. Just watching.

Silent. Still.

Taking you in like he was memorizing every twitch and whimper.

You almost came just like that—without a word spoken.

And then your phone buzzed.

Unknown Caller

Your hand froze.

You stared at the screen like it was alive.

It buzzed again. Ringing. Steady.

You picked it up with shaking fingers and answered, breathless.

“…Hello?”

A pause.

Then:

“Good girl.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“I didn’t even say anything,” you whispered.

“You didn’t have to,” he said. “I know what you were doing. You touched yourself without me even asking this time, didn’t you?”

You clenched your thighs together, hand still pressed against your mound.

“…Yes.”

“Mmm.” He groaned. “Fucking perfect. Just like I knew you would.”

You couldn’t help it—you slipped your fingers beneath the waistband of your panties, slowly circling.

“You can’t keep doing this,” you said, even as your breath hitched.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s—wrong.”

“You want me to stop?”

Silence.

He waited.

“No,” you admitted, brokenly.

He made a pleased sound—soft, smug, possessive.

“You kept the window unlocked.”

You stilled.

“…How do you know that?”

Another long pause. You could hear him smile.

“I always know what you’re doing.”

Your stomach dropped. Your hand went still between your legs. Your eyes flicked toward the window—still dark, still quiet. But now it felt different.

“Are you outside?”

“I’m wherever I need to be,” he said calmly. “You think I’d miss the way you look when you touch yourself for me?”

You were panting now. Too hot. Too exposed.

“You watching me right now?” you whispered.

“You want me to be?”

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

He exhaled slowly, and that alone made your toes curl.

“Keep going,” he murmured. “Let me listen. I’m not leaving tonight.”

“Keep going,” he whispered again.

Low. Encouraging. Dangerous.

You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath until you let it out in a trembling exhale, your hand already moving again—fingers pressing in deeper, slower this time. Deliberate. Needy.

“Tell me what it feels like.”

You swallowed hard. “Warm. Wet.”

A dark chuckle crackled through the receiver.

“Fuck, baby. You really are perfect.”

A pause. “You shaking yet?”

You were.

Your legs were already starting to tremble, your body far too sensitive from the night before, from the fantasy that never left your bloodstream. You couldn’t even lie to yourself anymore—you wanted this. All of it. The control. The secrecy. The voice in your ear that felt like a hand around your throat.

“You’re touching yourself in the dark again, aren’t you?” he asked. “Lights off. Legs open. Just waiting for me.”

“…Yes.”

“Good fuckin’ girl,” he growled. “You don’t even need to see me. You’d let me bend you over and fuck you in that bed without ever taking the mask off, wouldn’t you?”

You moaned softly, your fingers moving faster now. Shame didn’t even register. It was buried under how badly your body wanted to be ruined for him.

“I’d be so good to you,” he murmured. “Tie your hands. Make you come until you cried. You’d beg to see my face and I still wouldn’t let you. ‘Cause you don’t need a face, sweetheart. You just need a cock and a voice and someone who actually sees you.”

You gasped, thighs clenching.

“I see you,” he said. “You’ve been starving for this. For me.”

“Please,” you whimpered.

“Please what?”

“Please tell me you’re real.”

“Oh, baby.” A smirk in his tone. “I’m more real than anyone you’ve ever fucked.”

He let that sit. He knew what it did to you.

You could feel your orgasm building already—your body too raw, too worked up. Every word made it worse. Every breath of his in your ear made you twitch harder.

“You gonna come again for me?” he murmured. “Wanna hear it, baby. Let me fuckin’ feel it through the phone.”

You were already there. Your breath hitched, back arching, your fingers slipping and sliding through soaked heat as your thighs trembled again.

Your mouth fell open. No words came—just a low, desperate cry, just a sound.

“Fuck yes. That’s it. Good girl. Fucking come for me.”

And you did.

You shook under the weight of it, a rolling, pulsing climax that left you open and undone. You gasped into the quiet, curling your fingers in the sheets, your body heaving with shallow breaths.

He said nothing at first. Just listened.

Like he needed to hear how you sounded ruined.

And then, after a long, reverent pause:

“I wish you could see how hard I am right now.”

Your breath caught. The room was still spinning.

“I’ve got the mask on,” he said, voice lower now. “I’m sitting in my car. Windows down. Just listening to you fall apart. And my cock’s so hard it hurts.”

You whimpered, weak and shaking.

“You left the window open again,” he added. “Good girl.”

“…Are you out there?”

Another pause.

Then:

“Why don’t you come take a look?”

You froze.

“I—what?”

“Go ahead. Peek out. I know you want to.”

Your heart slammed into your ribs. You turned your head, slowly, toward the open window. It was just a crack—barely a few inches—but your pulse was deafening now.

You pushed the sheets away and moved to the edge of the bed, legs trembling as you stood.

The phone shook in your hand.

You crossed to the window slowly.

Peered through.

Nothing.

Just the yard. Still. Empty. Quiet.

You exhaled.

“I don’t see you,” you said.

“I know.”

Silence.

Then he added:

“But I see you.”

You stepped back from the window like it bit you.

“I could come inside, you know,” he murmured. “You left it unlocked. Just like I told you.”

Your breath hitched.

“I could be at the foot of your bed right now. Could pull your hand away from your pussy and finish the job myself.”

You whimpered. The air in the room suddenly felt tighter. More full.

You turned around, slowly.

Still no one.

But it felt like someone was there.

“Do you want me to?” he asked. “Do you want me to come inside?”

You couldn’t answer. You didn’t know. You were too wet, too wired, too wound up to tell the difference between fear and longing.

“…I don’t know.”

“That’s okay, baby.” His voice was gentler now. Warm. “You’ll know soon.”

And then—calm, steady, promising:

“You’ll feel me before you ever see me.”

Click.

You stood there for what felt like forever.

Phone in hand.

Bare feet cold on the floor.

Heart pounding so loud you thought your neighbors could hear it through the walls.

He was gone. The call had ended. But his voice lingered in your ears like a fever dream, like a ghost. You could still feel it in your skin — those words, that promise:“You’ll feel me before you ever see me.”

The window stayed open.

You should’ve closed it.

You didn’t.

You backed away slowly, eyes scanning the corners of the room, every shadow suddenly thick with possibility.

There was no one there.

You were alone.

But the air felt heavy.

Too heavy.

⸻

You lay in bed, but you didn’t sleep.

Not really.

Not the way you meant to.

You drifted. Floated. Let yourself hover somewhere between awareness and dreams — that blurry place where the line got soft and the dark got bold.

That’s when you heard it.

The creak.

You sat up fast.

It came again — slow, deliberate. A floorboard near the door.

Your breath caught. You stared into the black.

Nothing.

But something was there.

You knew it.

You scrambled for your phone. Lit up the screen.

2:47 a.m.

No new calls.

Just silence.

You reached toward the lamp—

And a gloved hand snapped over your mouth.

You screamed—but it came out muffled, swallowed in leather and heat.

A strong arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you back into a broad chest. The smell hit you first—cologne and sweat and leather, mixed with something darker. Something electric.

Then—

“Shhh.”

That voice.

That fucking voice.

In your ear now. Not the phone. Not the line.

He was here.

“Hey, baby,” he murmured, low and thick. “Told you I’d come when you were ready.”

Your heart nearly exploded out of your chest.

You struggled. Twitched. But his hold didn’t tighten. He didn’t hurt you. He just held you—firm, calm, like he owned you.

You whimpered into his glove.

“You gonna scream?” he whispered, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “You want your neighbors to come running? Want them to see what kind of filthy little thing you’ve turned into?”

You shook your head fast.

He chuckled, dark and satisfied.

“Didn’t think so.”

He eased you back down onto the bed, hand still over your mouth, his weight pressing against your side now. You couldn’t see his face. But you felt the mask when it brushed your temple. Cold plastic. Familiar.

Your thighs clenched.

“You’re scared,” he said. “But you’re wet too, aren’t you?”

You nodded before you could stop yourself.

He hummed.

“Good girl.”

His gloved hand slowly released your mouth, fingers trailing down your jaw.

You gasped in fresh air, blinking fast, chest rising and falling like you’d run a mile.

He sat behind you on the mattress now. One hand still lightly at your throat, the other drifting down your shoulder.

“You wanted this,” he said. Not a question. A truth. “You begged for me.”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

His fingers toyed with the strap of your tank top.

“I thought about this every night I watched you sleep,” he murmured. “How easy it’d be to climb into your bed. Slide my hand down your stomach. Make you come without ever turning on the light.”

Your legs shook.

“You ever been touched like that?” he asked. “Not knowing who it is?”

You barely whispered, “No.”

His gloved fingers dipped under your tank top.

“Then let me be your first.”

He didn’t move to take your clothes off.

Instead, he laid you back gently.

And stayed. Just above you. Heavy. There. His breath moved over your cheek, the mask brushing your skin. You reached up blindly—fingertips grazing that cold, smooth surface.

“Can I see you?” you whispered.

A pause.

Then:

“No.”

A beat passed.

“But you can touch the mask. Just this once.”

You did.

You traced the hollow cheekbone. The sharp nose. The twisted grin. Your fingers trembled as they moved across the slick plastic. He didn’t stop you.

“I want to know who you are,” you whispered.

He laughed quietly.

“No, you don’t.”

You swallowed hard. “I think I already do.”

His hand slid down your side, slow, gentle, unzipping you from the outside in.

“I knew you were mine,” he murmured, “the moment you whispered please.”

He hovered above you in the dark, weight pressing you into the bed. The mask still covered his face. His voice in your ear, his gloved hand at your throat, his scent—real, present—filled every inch of your world now.

And still, somehow, it wasn’t enough.

Your fingers trembled where they touched the hard curve of his mask. You traced his jaw, the exaggerated frown of the Ghostface mouth, and whispered, “Please.”

He chuckled.

“Please what, baby?”

“I need… more.”

“Mmm,” he hummed. His glove slid down the center of your chest, fingertips dragging over the thin cotton of your tank top. “You’re already soaked, aren’t you? Just from me sneaking into your room and putting my hand over your mouth. That’s all it takes now?”

You nodded quickly, flushed and breathless.

His hand dipped beneath your top without waiting. Gloved fingers grazed your nipple and you arched into him with a gasp.

“That’s it,” he purred. “Let me feel how warm you are. So fucking soft…”

You whimpered as he rolled the sensitive bud between his fingers. The glove made everything sharper—rougher, cooler, foreign in a way that made your thighs instinctively press together.

You felt feral beneath him. Unraveled.

And then he moved lower.

His free hand tugged at your sleep shorts.

“You gonna let me take these off?” he asked. “Let a masked man you’ve never seen finger your needy little cunt in the dark?”

You breathed, “Yes.”

He growled, low and approving.

Your shorts and panties came off in one slow drag. Cold air hit your soaked folds, and he hissed between his teeth.

“Fuck. Look at you.”

You blushed. “You can’t see.”

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, fingers ghosting up your thigh, “you left the window open for three nights in a row. You think I don’t know what you look like when you come?”

Your legs fell open.

And he touched you.

Two thick, gloved fingers slipped between your folds—slow, lazy strokes, teasing your slit. He didn’t push in yet. He just circled your clit with the leather-covered pads, watching your hips twitch under him.

“So sensitive,” he whispered. “Could play with you like this for hours.”

You moaned, bucking gently into his hand.

“You’re so fuckin’ responsive,” he said, lips brushing your jaw. “I talk, and your whole body listens. I breathe on you and you beg.”

“I’m not begging.”

“No?” He pressed the glove more firmly against your clit. “You sure about that?”

You gasped. “F-fuck—please…”

He chuckled darkly.

“That’s better.”

His fingers slid down and pushed in—just the tip, just to tease. You clenched around nothing, wanting more.

“Such a tight little pussy,” he groaned. “She missed me, didn’t she?”

You whined. “Please.”

He thrust two fingers in at once.

You cried out—high, sharp, wrecked.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Take it.”

He pumped into you steadily, curling the leather inside you, fingertips hitting that spot that made you see stars. Your thighs tried to close, but he held them open with his other hand.

“Look at you,” he breathed. “So desperate for a stranger’s fingers. For a ghost in your bed.”

You moaned, arching under him.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered. “This pussy’s mine. Your moans? Mine. Your fucking soul…”

He pushed deeper, harder, dragging you closer to the edge with every slick, wet thrust of his fingers.

“Say it,” he growled. “Say who you belong to.”

You gasped, hips bucking. “You—f-fuck—you.”

“Damn right.”

His fingers worked you harder, rougher now. The wet sounds were obscene, echoing off your walls as your hands scrambled for his shoulders—leather, cloth, no skin. No face.

Just power. Heat. Him.

Your body trembled.

“I’m gonna—”

“No,” he said sharply. He pulled his fingers out.

You sobbed at the loss.

“Not yet,” he whispered, hovering over your lips, mask brushing your cheek. “You don’t get to come until I say.”

You whimpered, squirming beneath him.

“Say thank you.”

You swallowed. “T-thank you.”

“Good girl.”

And then, to your shock, he licked his fingers under the mask.

You could hear it. The wet sound. The moan.

“Fuck, baby,” he rasped. “You taste like sin.”

You moaned, body on fire, aching and pulsing.

He leaned in close again, his breath hot against your ear.

“I’ll let you come,” he said. “But not tonight.”

“What?” you gasped.

“I want you aching when you think of me,” he growled. “I want you to fuck your own hand and beg for me and still not know my face.”

You were shaking. Whimpering.

And when you blinked—

He was gone.

⸻

You didn’t move for a long time.

Couldn’t.

You lay there in your bed, soaked between your legs, legs still open like you were waiting for him to come back.

But he was gone.

The weight had lifted. The heat. The voice.

The mask.

You weren’t even sure when he’d left.

It was like he’d evaporated, or melted into shadow.

One second he was pinning your wrists, gloved fingers inside you, whispering filth into your ear—

And the next?

Gone.

Just like a ghost.

⸻

You were shaking when you finally sat up.

Your body felt loose. Used. Empty in the worst, most delicious way. Your tank top clung to your sweat-slicked skin. You could still smell him in the air. The leather. The heat of his breath. The faint sharpness of a glove that had just been inside you.

You reached down between your thighs.

Still wet. Still sore.

Still aching.

He hadn’t let you come.

You were so close. So fucking close—

And now you were just left ruined in the silence.

You should’ve been terrified.

Instead, you were horny and furious.

You wanted to scream.

⸻

The next morning, everything felt wrong.

Your clothes didn’t fit right. Your coffee tasted weak. Your phone screen made your eyes ache.

And every time you blinked, you felt it all over again:

His hands.

His voice.

His breath on your skin.

“You don’t get to come until I say.”

Your thighs clenched under the table.

Your stomach flipped.

You checked your phone.

No new messages. No calls.

Just one photo. Sent overnight.

Unknown Number

No caption.

No context.

Just a photo of your bedroom window.

Taken from outside.

Lit from within.

You could see your silhouette. Sitting on your bed.

You were touching yourself.

Your throat went dry.

You stared at it for too long.

You didn’t delete it.

⸻

That night, you didn’t even try to sleep. You wore the same tank top. No underwear.

You left the window open again.

You turned your lamp low, sat on your bed, and waited. Legs tucked under you, chest tight.

You waited like prey.

But you felt like you’d invited the predator.

You stared at the phone. Nothing.

You waited. And waited.

You didn’t touch yourself.

Not yet. Not until you knew he was listening.

And when the screen finally lit up—

Unknown Caller

You answered before the second ring.

“…Hello?”

Silence.

Then—

“You left the light on for me.”

Your body shuddered.

“I thought you might come back,” you whispered.

“I never really left,” he said.

You swallowed hard. “You were watching?”

“Every fucking second.”

You looked toward the window. The breeze fluttered the curtain.

“Why didn’t you come in again?”

“Because I wanted you to miss it.”

You clenched your thighs together.

“You gonna behave tonight?” he asked. “Or are you gonna make me tie you up so I can take my time?”

Your breath caught. “You can’t keep doing this to me.”

“I can,” he said calmly. “And I will.”

“You didn’t even let me finish.”

“You will. When I say.”

You bit your lip.

“…Can I come tonight?”

“No.”

You whimpered.

“Touch yourself anyway,” he growled. “Right now.”

His voice hit like a command, not a suggestion.

You were already wet. You’d been wet. All fucking day. Ever since you got that photo. Ever since you stared at your own silhouette, caught mid-masturbation, knowing he had taken it.

You lay on your back now, legs spread, phone clutched in your hand, and the window cracked open just enough to let the night seep in.

“I want your fingers inside,” he said. “Slow.”

You obeyed.

You whimpered at how easily they slid in—how your body clenched down tight, aching for something thicker, something real.

“You thinking about my glove?” he asked, voice a dark velvet rasp. “How it felt when I stretched you open?”

You moaned softly.

“Thought about tying your wrists to the headboard tonight,” he said casually. “Gagging you with your own panties while I edge you over and over until your body begs without words.”

Your legs trembled.

“You’d take it,” he whispered. “You’d let me ruin you.”

“I want you to,” you breathed.

“Want me to what?”

You flushed. “Come inside.”

He chuckled.

“You want me in you, or just in the room?”

“Both.”

“Mmm.” His voice warmed. “You’re learning how to beg so pretty.”

You started rocking your hips, desperate for more friction, more anything.

“Fuck,” you whined. “Please let me come this time.”

“Not yet.”

You whimpered.

“You don’t get to come just because you’re desperate,” he said. “You get to come when I say.”

“I—I can’t take it anymore.”

“Yes you can.”

He let that sit. Let it sink.

Then:

“You’re gonna finger yourself ‘til you’re shaking and stop right at the edge.”

You made a small, broken sound.

“Now.”

You did it.

You thrust into yourself, hips writhing, building faster, harder, trying to get there even though you knew you couldn’t.

You moaned his name—not his real name, because you didn’t even know it—but the one that lived in your head now.

“Ghostface… fuck—Ghostface, please—”

You gasped, seconds from release.

“Stop.”

You froze.

The pleasure slammed to a halt like hitting a wall. Your body jerked with the absence of it. You sobbed into the quiet.

“Good girl,” he whispered. “You’re perfect when you suffer.”

You couldn’t even speak.

“Now pull your fingers out.”

You did, twitching. Whining. Ruined.

You heard his breathing change.

“You wanna know where I am?”

You turned your head. Eyes wide.

A low chuckle.

“I’m watching you from the hallway.”

Your pulse slammed.

“I can see the way your legs shake,” he murmured. “The way you pout when I don’t let you come. You make the prettiest little victim.”

You gasped.

“And tomorrow night?” His voice dropped. “I’m gonna come in that room. And I’m gonna fuck you.”

You moaned helplessly.

“I’m not taking the mask off,” he added. “You’re gonna come all over my cock without ever seeing my face. You’ll never know who I am.”

You trembled.

“You’ll just know what I feel like.”

Click.

⸻

You don’t sleep.

Not because you’re afraid.

But because you’re ready.

You know he’s coming.

The voice had promised.

“Tomorrow night, I’m gonna come in that room. And I’m gonna fuck you.”

You’re wet just thinking about it. Your body’s been wrung out from night after night of his voice, his orders, his hands—always there and gone too fast.

But tonight… tonight he’s going to stay.

You lay still. Tank top. No panties. Window open. Lamps off.

And when you hear your bedroom door creak—

You don’t scream.

You don’t move.

You just breathe.

Heavy boots move across your floor. You know that walk. Confident. Lethal. Controlled. You blink up into the darkness, heart pounding.

And then he’s there.

Ghostface. In full silhouette.

The mask glowing pale in the moonlight. Body broad. Towering over you.

He says nothing at first.

Just watches.

You arch your back for him—slow, offering. You swear you hear him groan.

“You’ve been so fucking patient,” he murmurs.

His voice is closer. Closer than it’s ever been. No phone. Just his mouth behind the mask. Just hot breath and filthy promises.

You open your legs.

“Please,” you whisper.

He drops to his knees.

Gloved hands grip your thighs, spreading you wide. You shiver under the leather.

“You so desperate to get filled, baby?” he asks. “You been dreaming about my cock?”

You nod. “Every night.”

He growls low in his throat. “Then remember this.”

And he devours you.

His tongue flicks out through the slits of the mask—messy, greedy. It shouldn’t be hot, but it is. Somehow hotter than anything else. He eats you with purpose, with pent-up need, with a kind of possession that has you crying out almost instantly.

“Oh my—fuck, Ghostface—”

He moans against your cunt. Loud. Mask rattling.

And when you clench too hard, too close—he pulls away.

“No.”

You sob. “No—please—!”

“You don’t come until I’m inside you.”

He stands.

You barely have time to breathe before he’s pulling his pants down. You hear the zipper, the shift of leather, the weight of what’s coming next.

Then—

“Hands and knees,” he orders.

You roll over, gasping, presenting yourself like a good girl. You feel the bed dip behind you.

Then—hot, heavy—his cock slides against your folds.

Not in yet. Just teasing.

And you wail.

“I’ve thought about this pussy for so fucking long,” he rasps. “Stroking my cock in the dark to the sound of you moaning. Now I finally get to ruin you.”

“Do it,” you beg. “Please, do it—”

He thrusts in.

Hard.

You cry out—sharp, breathless—your fingers twisting in the sheets as he buries himself inside you, fully, in one brutal stroke.

He holds there, just for a second. Deep. Filling.

Then he leans over your back, hand on your throat, mask beside your ear.

“You feel that?” he breathes. “That’s me. Inside you.”

You sob, nodding, overwhelmed.

And then he fucks you.

Relentless. Mask still on. Voice in your ear. Gloved hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.

“Take it,” he growls. “You said you could take it.”

“Yes—yes, please—”

“You belong to me. This pussy’s mine. You understand that?”

You moan, high and cracked.

“Say it.”

“It’s yours! It’s—fuck—it’s all yours—”

He fucks you harder.

You can hear him panting behind the mask. Hear his cock pounding into you, your slick coating his thighs, your cries bouncing off the walls. You’re loud. And he doesn’t care.

He wants the whole fucking block to know.

You claw at the sheets. You’re close again—closer than ever. You can barely form words.

And then he pulls out.

You scream.

“Not yet,” he growls.

You collapse onto your back, whimpering.

But he’s not done.

He flips you over, lifts your hips, and slams back in with one solid thrust.

You scream his name again—the only one you know.

“Ghostface—please—I can’t—!”

“You can,” he snarls. “You’ll take every inch. You’ll come all over this cock and still beg me to stay masked.”

“I need it—need you—”

“Then come.”

He drives into you, punishing, perfect, and you explode around him—writhing, screaming, sobbing as your orgasm rips through you like a wave crashing down, loud and endless and messy.

He grunts hard—once—and you feel it.

The warmth. Deep inside.

He doesn’t pull out.

He stays there, cock throbbing inside your spasming cunt, filling you until you’re still again.

You’re both panting. Quiet.

You reach up—touch the mask.

“…Please.”

He catches your wrist.

“No.”

“Just tell me your name.”

He leans down, kisses your throat through the mask.

Then whispers:

“You already did.”

And just like that—

He’s gone.

⸻

You didn’t hear from him for two days.

No calls. No photos. No shadows under the door or footsteps in the hall.

Just silence.

Your sheets still smelled like sex. Your body still ached in places you shouldn’t have liked. Your thighs rubbed sore from how hard he’d fucked you, how long he’d held you on the edge before letting you fall.

You’d never even seen his face. But he’d left fingerprints in your blood.

You hated yourself for how much you missed him.

You replayed every detail.

His voice. The weight of him. The glove between your thighs. The mask against your cheek.

You couldn’t stop touching yourself just to hear the echo of him in your head. You didn’t even fantasize about who he might be anymore.

It was about the way he made you feel.

Controlled. Wanted. Known.

Still, a part of you needed to know.

Not for closure.

For control.

You couldn’t take one more night of wondering if the barista who smiled at you or the mailman who asked your name had once licked your cum off his gloves behind a plastic mask.

So you did something stupid.

You checked your front porch camera.

He’d always been careful before.

Except once.

The night he sent the photo.

It had come at 3:02 a.m.

You scrubbed back to 2:58.

And there he was.

You couldn’t see the mask—just the hood. Broad shoulders. Confident walk. He came right up to the porch, phone in hand, stared up at your lit window… and then turned.

Your stomach dropped.

You froze the frame.

You stared.

You knew that profile.

The square jaw. The curve of the nose. The smirk.

Dean.

Your neighbor.

Dean fucking Winchester.

Mr. friendly smile.

Mr. “Need help carrying those groceries?”

Mr. leather jacket, flannel, always in the garage fixing his stupid Impala.

He’d helped you jumpstart your car two weeks ago.

You’d hugged him.

He knew your birthday.

He knew your schedule.

He—

Your phone buzzed.

Unknown Caller

You answered without thinking.

“…Dean?”

Silence.

Then, that voice.

The one you’d moaned to. Cried for.

“Should’ve kept the curtains closed, sweetheart.”

Your heart stuttered.

“You watched me the whole time,” you whispered. “All those nights—”

“All those days,” he corrected. “When you walked to get the mail. When you bent over to tie those red converse you wear. When you said hi and didn’t know I was already hard just looking at you.”

You were shaking.

“You came into my house.”

“And you begged me to stay.”

Your mouth went dry. “You—ruined me.”

He laughed, low. “No, baby. I found you.”

You swallowed. Hard.

“You’re not wearing the mask right now,” you said.

“Nope.”

“You’re not hiding anymore.”

“Nope.”

“Then why are you still calling?”

There was a pause.

Then—

“Because you haven’t run.”

You froze.

He was right.

You hadn’t.

You still hadn’t locked your door.

Still hadn’t told anyone.

And deep in your gut, where fear and want lived tangled together, you didn’t want to.

You inhaled shakily.

“…What happens now?”

Dean’s voice came through, low and final.

“You come over here.”

Click.

152 notes · View notes

itsnotyouithink · 2 days ago

Text

AFRAID

PAIRING: tara carpenter x fem!reader

SUMMARY: Tara Carpenter never asked to be assigned to the school’s most frustrating student-athlete: cocky, charming, and somehow worse at Film 101 than she is at shutting up. But a tutoring session full of eye-rolls, slow smiles, and suspiciously flirty jabs leaves them both more affected than they’re willing to admit. And when someone asks Tara what it’s like tutoring “the hottest girl on campus,” the answer might be written all over her face.

WARNINGS: ghostface mention, daddy issues.

| part one | part two | part three |

WORD COUNT: 3.0k

AUTHOR’S NOTE: nottt proofread

————————————

You were five minutes late and Tara Carpenter was already annoyed about it.

She sat in the far corner of the library, where the tables were cracked from overuse and the overhead light flickered every six seconds. Her laptop was open, angled perfectly, a black gel pen tucked behind her ear like a warning. Her hoodie sleeves were shoved up to her elbows, and her leg was bouncing beneath the table—nervously or irritably, you couldn't tell.

You dropped your duffle bag onto the floor with a familiar thud, slid into the chair across from her, and offered your usual weaponized smile.

"Miss me?"

Tara didn't even look up. Just clicked her pen once—loud, intentional. "You were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago."

"You said three o'clock."

"I said two-thirty.”

You blinked. Grinned. Shrugged. "Tomato, tomahto."

That earned you the briefest glance—eyes flicking up, sharp and unimpressed, before returning to the stack of worksheets in front of her. She shoved one toward you, "Same scene. La La Land. Color symbolism. Try using more than three brain cells this time."

You leaned in, elbows on the table, the sleeves of your hoodie scrunched up past your forearms, still warm from practice. Your last name and your game-day number: 4, was on the back. A faint sheen of sweat clung to your skin, but you smelled like lemon body spray and stubbornness.

Your eyes flicked to the still: Mia in that yellow dress, mid-spin under a purple sky, streetlights glowing like low-hanging stars.

"You ever get tired of this movie?" you asked.

"No."

"You ever get tired of me?"

"Constantly."

"Liar."

She didn't answer. But the corner of her mouth twitched—barely. You caught it anyway and tilted your head, tapping the image with your finger. "Okay. Yellow. She's hopeful."

"Go on."

"But it's nervous hope. Like she's wearing it too brightly, trying not to spill it."

Tara looked up again. Slowly. Her gaze lingered a second longer this time, "And the purple?"

"Makes it feel fake. Dreamy. Like they're borrowing a world that isn't theirs." She blinked. You could see her fighting the urge to be impressed. She clicked her pen again, once, twice.

"Not terrible," she said eventually.

"Did you just compliment me?"

"No."

"You totally did. Should I tell the press?"

"If you do, I'm telling them about your 'sunset means mystery' theory from last week."

You groaned and slouched back in your chair, knees knocking hers under the table. She stiffened for half a second but didn't move. You noticed. You always noticed—sadly.

She wore sneakers today—her usual, scuffed at the toe—and black jeans that were fraying at the seams near the knees. Her fingers kept brushing the edge of her laptop touchpad, like she was trying to look busy. But her eyes kept flicking to yours. You tried to ignore the scar on the back of her hand: how did she get that?

"Do you always wear black?" you asked.

"Do you always ask irrelevant questions?"

"I just think you'd look good in yellow."

A pause. Her foot tapped against yours under the table.

Once.

Then again.

"If I wear yellow, will you actually pass this class?"

"If you wear yellow, I'll be too distracted to focus."

"Gross." She gagged, but she was smiling. Sort of. The kind of smile she pretended wasn't a smile. You sat up straighter, "You like me a little."

"I tolerate you."

"That's progress. Last week I thought you were planning out my murder." You rested your chin in your hand, watching her scribble something in the margin of your worksheet. Her handwriting was small, neat, and way too aggressive for a simple note. Her knuckles brushed yours when she handed it back. Neither of you moved away and she ignored your comment; she was planning your murder.

"Why are you always looking at me like that?" she asked suddenly.

You blinked. "Like what?"

"Like I'm.. I don't know, interesting."

You tilted your head, "Maybe you are."

She stared at you. No eye roll. No comeback. Just that look again. Half-curious. Half-defensive. And maybe—just maybe—a little bit soft.

You tapped your pen against the table and changed the subject before it got weird.

"So," you say, tilting your head like you're not about to ruin her day, "what's your favorite movie?"

It's casual, almost lazy, the way you say it. Like you're just trying to fill the space. But you're leaning forward now, arms crossed on the edge of the table, your hoodie sleeves pushed up past your elbows, eyes tracing her like you're trying to memorize her answer before she even gives it.

Tara stiffens. Not noticeably to someone else, but you've spent enough hours across from her—bickering, teasing, trying to make her smile—to notice the way her pen stops mid-circle. The way her breath catches ever so slightly.

"That's kind of a loaded question," she says, not looking at you. She adjusts the cuff of her hoodie, tugging at the edge like it suddenly doesn't fit right. The fabric covered the scar on her hand. Her shoulders inch up slightly, and for a second, you think she might not answer at all.

"What, like it's embarrassing?" you tease. "Is it Twilight? Just say it. This is a safe space."

"No," she says quickly. Too quickly. There's a tightness in her voice now. A weird, careful control she doesn't usually bother faking with you. She's looking at the table, at the edge of her notebook, at anywhere but your face.

"I just..." She shrugs. "Don't really have one."

You blink.

Pause.

Let it settle.

You snicker as if she's joking around with you, "You're literally tutoring me in film."

She lifts one shoulder, eyes locked on a pen she isn't using. "So?"

"So you definitely have a favorite." You chuckle but it's tense, like you asked the wrong question at the wrong time.

"I used to."

There it is. Something sharp and quiet slips between the words—just enough to make your chest go still. Tara presses the tip of her finger into the spiral of her notebook like she needs the grounding. Her nail is chipped. There's a faint red indentation around her wrist where a hair tie used to be.

You watch her. Careful.

You don't push, but your voice softens automatically. "You don't have to tell me," you say. "I wasn't trying to—"

"It's fine," she interrupts, like if she says it fast enough, it'll make it true.

But she still won't look at you.

And for once, you stop smiling.

"I was just trying to get to know you."

That catches her. She lifts her gaze slowly—eyes darker than usual, like a storm pulling in over still water.

"Why?”

Your knee brushes hers under the table. You don't even notice this time. "Because I want to," you say, like it's obvious. Like it hasn't been building since the first tutoring session when she rolled her eyes so hard you thought they might fall out of her head. You had always been the type of person to want to see every place on Earth, try every hobby or activity, and meet everyone you could ever interact with. This included your somewhat stoic, emotionally-closed off tutor — Tara Carpenter.

That quiets her.

For a moment, she just stares. And her whole face changes—like she's trying not to let it change. Her mouth opens. Then shuts again. Her hand tightens around the pen she's not using, knuckles pale, like holding something keeps her from falling apart.

"So, what is your favorite movie?" you say, biting gently on the end of your pen with a light-hearted laugh. Chuckle? Giggle? It wouldn't even qualify as a laugh more-so a breath of air.

Tara hesitates. You see it—how her eyes go a little guarded, how she tugs at the cuff of her hoodie again like she needs something to fidget with. Why is she panicking over a movie selection?

Then she lifts her chin, like she's daring you to make fun of her. "The Babadook."

You blink, "Wait, really?"

"Yes. Problem?"

"No. No problem. I just..." You grin slowly. "Didn't take you for a gay grief monster allegory kind of girl."

She stares flatly. "I literally study horror for fun."

"True. But The Babadook?" You nudge her boot with yours under the table. "Bit on the nose, isn't it?"

"It's thematically rich," she fires back. "Also, it's camp."

"So what I'm hearing is: you see yourself in the Babadook."

"I see myself in the mother," she snaps, then immediately pauses. "Okay, wait, don't make that weird."

"Already did. Sorry. It's permanent now." You grin, happy that you could lighten the atmosphere between you two.

Tara groans and drops her forehead into her hand. Her hair falls forward in a curtain and she mutters something into her palm that sounds suspiciously like "I hate you."

You lean closer, "If it helps, I'd let the Babadook haunt me if it meant spending more time with you."

She groans louder.

"Stop talking."

"Make me."

That earns you a flick of her pen to your forehead. Not hard. Just enough to make your heart stutter like a dumb middle schooler.

For a second, it's quiet.

And kind of warm.

She's still leaning on her hand, looking at you with that tired, half-annoyed, half-not expression she always has around you. You're still grinning, like you don't know how to do anything else when she's sitting across from you.

"You should probably go," she says finally, glancing at the time. "Don't you have practice again?"

"Yeah." You don't move.

She notices. But doesn't say anything.

You reach down, shove your duffle over your shoulder, and stand up slowly. "Same time tomorrow?" you ask.

Tara shrugs, playing with the edge of her notebook. "Unless you finally drop out."

"Tempting. But then I wouldn't get to see your pretty face three times a week."

She raises her eyebrows.

"Did you just call me pretty?"

You back away toward the exit, walking backwards, "Don't worry, I'll deny it later."

She doesn't smile.

But she does look down. And when you glance back one more time before rounding the corner, her hand is resting where your boot tapped hers under the table.

She doesn't move it for a while.

——————

Mindy cornered you before you could swipe into your dorm, your ID — complete with that hideous freshman-year photo — already halfway to the scanner. She slid in like a glitch in the matrix, knocking the card from your hand.

"Uhm, excuse you?"

"I need a favor," she said, like she wasn't already on thin ice from the last one.

The last time Mindy asked for a favor, you almost got suspended for vandalism — something about a carton of eggs and a tenured professor with a vendetta. But Mindy made chaos look fun. She was the rare person who didn't treat you like a walking headline or a stats sheet.

Your days were regimented like military drills: practice, press, game tape, lift, brand deal, repeat. You had nearly a million Instagram followers dissecting your highlight reels, but they didn't see the way your knees screamed by midnight. Or how the only place you felt even remotely like yourself anymore was on the court — and even that was starting to crack. The burnout was loud, but your ambition was louder. And somewhere deep down, the little-kid part of you still loved basketball like it was a painting you were trying to finish, obsessing over every stroke, every angle. You weren't just a player — you were a craftsman. You played like it meant something. Like it was personal.

Mindy got you out of that headspace, even if it meant dumb decisions and third-wheeling her dates with Anika. (Anika was a saint, by the way. The only person on campus who ever told you to rest without sounding like a trainer.)

"Absolutely not," you muttered, nudging Mindy aside to reach for your card. Her foot landed on it like she was stepping on a landmine. You stared up at her. "Mindy. Move."

"No." Her voice was stern. "I need a favor."

You sighed. "Is it illegal?"

"Egging is, like, diet crime."

"It was your professor."

"We wore masks."

"I almost got benched."

"Details," she waved off. "Anyway. I need you to come to my film festival next month."

You stood upright, suspicious. "Okay... but why me?"

"To support your talented friend," she tried with a winning smile.

You crossed your arms. "Mindy."

She exhaled like she'd just been caught sneaking cookies. "Fine. People like you. If I say you're gonna be there, more people will show up. I don't want it to tank. I've been working so hard."

Your expression softened despite yourself. "You know I'm not actually famous, right?"

"Tell that to your blue check," she grinned.

You rolled your eyes. "Fine. I'll go."

She whooped and did a half-assed happy dance in the hallway before lunging in for a dramatic hug. Just as you reached for your door again, she spun back around. "Wait—one more thing."

"You are allergic to goodbyes."

"I didn't know you and Tara were, like, a thing."

You snorted. "We're not. She's just tutoring me for Film 101."

"She's color-coding that ridiculous textbook for you, FYI."

You blinked. "She is?"

Mindy nodded. "You sure it's just tutoring?"

"I don't even think we're friends. She kinda hates me. She never laughs at my jokes. Or... anything."

"Classic Tara." Mindy shrugged. "She's sweet once you get past the barbed wire and emotionally repressed vibes."

"She called me a 'cinematic liability' last week," you muttered.

"And yet she's still helping you pass. Even if it is a paid gig."

You didn't say anything for a second. Just let yourself think of Tara — those sharp eyes, the bite in her voice, the way she never smiled but still always showed up, like clockwork. You weren't used to people sticking around without asking for something in return. Especially not people like her.

You finally said, "I just want her to be happy, you know? Even if she's a little... emotionally allergic."

Mindy raised an eyebrow. "You like her."

You scoffed. "I don't even like myself half the time."

"Bullshit." She kissed your cheek with a loud mwah. "You're just scared because she's not part of your world."

"She's too smart for me," you admitted with a shrug. "And she hates basketball. She said she would rather go through AP Calculus again than go to one of the games."

"She tolerates basketball," Mindy said. "But she might not hate you."

You opened your door finally, backpack slung low, exhaustion dripping from your shoulders. "I'll come to your festival. Send me the details."

"You're the best." Mindy saluted you like she was in a war film and skipped away.

You stood there a moment longer, hand still on the doorknob. Your body ached — a thousand micro-tears in muscle that kept you upright, moving, powerful. People loved you for your game, but didn't realize it came at a cost. That behind every dunk and buzzer-beater was another layer of obsession, sacrifice, and hours alone in the gym trying to get it just right.

But Tara... Tara saw something else. And for the first time in a long while, you wondered what it'd be like to be wanted not because you were good — but just because you were you.

⸻

One of the study spaces at Blackmore University was quiet. It was the kind of quiet that made everything sound louder. Vending machine humming. Laptop keys clicking. The occasional sneaker squeak down the hallway or honk of a truck from outside in the city.

Tara sat curled up on the far couch, hoodie up, highlighter cap between her teeth. Chad was busy at the gym, Mindy was hanging out with Anika, and there was no way in hell that she would willingly go hangout with her older-sister, Sam. Her laptop was open to the same document she'd been editing for an hour — a study guide she'd already emailed. Twice.

She was rewriting the example section. Again.

"You're really going all out for a girl who's going to forget everything the second she gets back on the court."

Tara didn't look up. She didn't need to.

Julia, a blonde freshman with a sketchbook full of half-finished screenplays and a reputation for being observant in the most inconvenient ways, dropped into the chair beside her.

"I'm serious," Julia went on, flipping a pen between her fingers. "You've rewritten that thing three times. Are you, like, secretly in love with her?"

Tara shut her laptop.

Slowly.

"Absolutely not."

Julia snorted. "Relax. I had a crush on her last semester too. First week of classes — she helped me carry a box and then told me my handwriting looked like a movie character's. I thought she was flirting."

"She probably was," Tara muttered.

"Yeah," Julia said, smiling. "That's the thing. She flirts without even noticing. Smiles like you're the only person on Earth and then forgets your name by Friday."

Tara didn't respond. Just started capping her highlighters, one by one, methodical.

"She's good at it, though," Julia added, more softly. "Charming. Stupidly nice. Kind of a golden retriever thing going on."

Tara set her pencil case down harder than necessary. "She's not charming. She's late. Loud. Doesn't take anything seriously. I'm pretty sure she doesn’t even know her left from her right."

Julia watched her.

"She shows up to study sessions without a pen," Tara went on, faster now. "Brings snacks like that makes up for not knowing what a jump cut is. Sits too close. Laughs too loud. Like she's trying to make me like her in the most desperate way possible.”

There was a beat.

"You sound like you hate her," Julia said.

Tara's jaw clenched. "I do hate her."

Julia raised an eyebrow. "Sure."

Tara grabbed her laptop, shoved it in her bag, and stood. "She's a distraction. That's it."

Julia tilted her head. "Right. So why do you keep making her study guides that match her team colors?"

Tara didn't answer.

She just walked out and Julia couldn’t help but laugh a little.

The door clicked shut behind her. The hallway was cold, dim, echoey. She didn't move. Just stood there, back against the wall, staring at nothing.

"She's a distraction," she whispered to herself again. “A horrible, obnoxious one.”

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