all hers

"I'd kill everybody in this town before they'd take you away from me." Tara says, eyes wild. "I'd kill everybody in the world. You belong to me." ghostface!tara x fem!reader

Chapter Text

Four murders in seven days.

It was a nightmare. You’d heard the stories, sure. Seen the movies. But you’d never thought it would actually happen to you.

That’s what you got for transferring to Woodsboro of all places.

Your phone buzzes as you finish locking the remaining doors. It’s Tara. You smile instinctively as her name flashes across your screen.

where are you? still coming over?

You look outside. It’s dark already, and the thought of leaving the house when there’s a lunatic running around scares the shit out of you.

not tonight sorry, baby. lost track of time. don’t want to leave Chase here by himself.

You contemplate asking her over. Her sister is in town, and you’d been trying to give them some space to reconnect. Sam was with her, you assured yourself. Besides, the last thing you wanted was her leaving the safety of her home and getting attacked.

“YN! Popcorn ready?”

You drop your phone to the counter, check on the popcorn in the microwave.

Chase had been your first friend at Woodsboro High, before you’d met anyone else, even Tara. Since you’d started dating her, you hadn’t seen him much. He’d asked you over tonight - your parents were out and he didn’t want you on your own. He’d had a hankering, in somewhat bad taste, to marathon the Stab movies.

It was nice being with Chase again, even under such terrifying circumstances.

You tell him so.

“You know why that is, right?” He laughs, shoveling a handful of popcorn into his mouth. “Your girlfriend hates me.”

You roll your eyes.

“She does not.”

“Does too. Every time I see her she gives me these eyes.”

He squints, twists his face into an angry glare.

“Like she wants to kill me.”

“You’re imagining it.” You tell him.

Throw a kernel of popcorn at him.

“Uh huh.” He says, turning his gaze back to the movie, “Sure.”

Talking about Tara had always been weird with him. He’d had a thing for you, back in the day, when you’d first met. He’d even asked you out once. But you already had your sights set on Tara and nothing could deter you. He’d taken it well-ish. So you’d thought.

“How are things going with her, anyway?” His voice casual. You look over.

“Good.” You say. “Great. Why do you ask?”

He doesn’t look away from the TV. Shrugs, but it’s tense. Like he’s trying to appear more non-committal. You suddenly feel uncomfortable.

“Just wondering.”

The movie plays a little, you let awkward silence wash over the room. Peer down at your phone. No response from Tara. Maybe you should have gone to her house after all.

“I-” He says suddenly, then stops. Purses his lips.

“What?”

“It’s nothing.” He says. “Nevermind.”

You stare.

“What, Chase?”

“I just get a weird vibe from her sometimes. That’s all.”

You blink, caught off guard.

“You don’t know her.” You say, instantly defensive. “There’s no vibe. She’s perfect. She’s the perfect girlfriend.”

And she was. She picked you up everyday at 8am on the dot to drive you to school. She walked you to class, held your books for you. Showered you with affection.

“She’s possessive.” Chase says. He’s looking at you now. Words spilling out of him like they’ve been pent up for a while. “You just don’t see it because you’re all moon-eyed for her. It’s not normal. It’s like you're her special toy and nobody else can play with you.”

“Stop.” You say.

“She’s isolated you from all your friends.” He continues. “You used to play soccer, remember? What happened to that? What about dance? All the things you used to love. You don’t do them anymore. Your whole world revolves around her.”

You stand up. A lump rises in the back of your throat. You’d come here to watch movies with an old friend, not have him berate you about your relationship.

“That isn’t true.” You say, “With school, I just don’t have time for those things anymore-”

“Because when you’re not in school, you’re with her.” He presses. “And she wants you with her all the time. Like I said, possessive.”

“Great to know how you really feel.” You say. Grab your phone.

“Sorry, YN. The truth hurts.” He slumps back into his seat, stares at the TV again. “Where are you going?”

“Bathroom.” You mumble.

You open your phone when you reach the bathroom, go straight to Tara’s contact.

She’s opened your message, but hasn’t replied.

“Great.” You say aloud. Your perfect girlfriend has left you on read.

You contemplate calling her, asking her to come get you. No. You chew on your bottom lip. You could just leave, chance an encounter with ghost-face. You decide against it. You’re annoyed with Chase, but not that annoyed.

You wash your hands. Head back downstairs. Flick Tara another message.

You’re not mad, are you? Love you. Wish I was with you instead. xx

Chase hasn’t moved. He looks up when you enter, looking a little sheepish.

“YN-”

“Don’t worry about it.” You say. Sink into the sofa, as far from him as possible. “Let’s just watch the movie.”

And you do. Forty minutes of cheesy dialogue and bad acting and not a word from Chase. You like it that way. You keep glancing at your phone, waiting for your girlfriend’s response. But nothing.

The movie’s over. You can hear the credits rolling, but your eyes are drooping. Half gone. Your phone long abandoned, Tara’s reply nowhere to be found. You’re dreaming of Hawaii in the summer. Pina colada in hand. Tara dressed in a bikini, waist deep in the water. Kissing her in the sand, not a care in the world.

Then you hear the crash.

Your eyes jerk open. You sit up. Startled. You look around the room. The TV has shut itself off. Chase is nowhere to be found. There are noises coming from the foyer. Your heart beats, fast. You look wildly around the room. You want something to defend yourself with.

You settle on a small wooden zebra. Some useless ornament only Chase’s mom would decorate with. It’ll do.

You hear scuffling. More crashing. Then, Chase’s voice, shrill - scared.

“Please! Stop!”

Your ears ring. Terror rips through you as you make your way into the hallway, quietly as you can.

Chase is on the floor, writhing, both his hands wrapped around a curved, silver dagger.

Your stomach drops.

It’s Ghostface.

Your bottom lip trembles. You want to run. Scream. Hide. All at once. But you can’t. You’re rooted to the spot, transfixed.

Ghostface raises his arm, steady. Then slams his dagger straight down and through Chase’s chest. Chase cries out. Blood gurgles from his lips. Ghostface stabs him, twice, then three times. Crazed. Possessed.

Your body gives way. You let out a scream. Topple backwards into the hallway cabinet.

Glass smashes around you. Ghostface looks straight at you.

Your back hurts from the fall. You writhe desperately on the floor, trying to get up. The Zebra has slipped from your fingers. Tears tumble down your face.

In your peripheral, you see Ghostface abandon Chase. Head straight for you.

You cry out as he makes a grab at you.

“Stop.” His voice is contorted, unnatural. He’s using a voice-changer. That same awful voice from that dumb movie you’d just watched. You sob as his hands tighten around you.

“I’m not going to hurt you. Don’t struggle.”

You flop out of his grip, kick up just in time to take the Zebra in your hands.

“I’m not here for you, stop-”

Your fingers tighten around the Zebra. You use all your force to smack it hard against Ghostface’s head. You hear him cry out. Fall back.

You’ve hit him hard. He clutches at his head as he falls back.

There’s a clang as his mask hits the ground.

Your breath hitches in your throat. Your chest seizes painfully. The Zebra in your hand slips out of your grasp and hits the floor.

“Tara?”

She looks up at you, her eyes wide, like a deer in headlights. Tears prick at the sides of your eyes. You blink.

She swallows. Stands upright.

“It’s okay, sweetheart.” She says. The voice changer is gone. The sound of her voice makes you want to weep, “Don’t be scared.”

She edges towards you, slowly. As if you’re a baby rabbit that might startle at any moment. You see the gleam of her dagger in her hand. Still wet with blood.

“Tara.” You say again, voice trembling. You take a step back. Panic floods through you. How can this be happening?

“It’s me.” She assures. “You don’t have to be afraid. Look.” She holds out her hand, drops the dagger to the floor. It careens over the carpet. Stains it with blood.

She inches closer. You don’t realize just how close she is before she’s reaching out, tugging you into her open arms. Your body locks up. The shock, the panic, the lump at the back of your throat. Everything spills over. You blubber into her chest as she holds you tight.

“Shhh. It’s okay baby.” She comforts you, hands rubbing tight circles across your back. You want to push her off. You want to run. But you can't, you're frozen, all you can do is bawl. She tilts your head up to her. Rubs her nose against yours. She smells metallic. Like blood. She’s covered in it, you realize with a start.

You tremble.

“Don’t be scared.” She repeats. Strokes her fingers along your cheeks. “My pretty girl. I would never hurt you.”

Her eyes are wild. Pupils blown. No trace of your sweet, loving girlfriend. You don’t recognize the person in front of you. You want her off you. But you don’t dare push her away. She presses you into her. Over her shoulder, you see Chase’s lifeless body. His glassy eyes stare up at you.

“He’s dead.” You say. Tears leak like acid from your eyes. Tara holds you tighter.

“I know.” You feel her lips graze the side of your head. She presses a lingering kiss there. “I’m sorry you had to see, darling. I thought you were asleep.”

A whimper emerges from your lips. Tears fall hot and fast down your cheeks, your hands limp at your side as she holds you. Cradles you.

“Why?”

She pauses. You feel her tense.

“Because they wanted you. All of them. They wanted you, but I’d never let them have you. Because you’re mine.”

And it clicks. There had been four victims so far. The first was Dan and his brother Sam, both boys you’d known since elementary school. Both who’d had crushes on you.

Then there was Aaron, your first kiss. Then Sadie, your first girlfriend.

Your bottom lip trembles. They were all dead because of you.

Tears roll down your face. Your body starts to shake.

Tara shushes you, pulls back only slightly to wipe away your tears. She’s so tender, gentle, you almost forget the bloodied body you’d just watch her maim lying in the corner of the room.

“Don’t cry, sweet girl.” She presses her lips to your forehead. “Here. Look.”

She steps back momentarily. Shimmies out of her black robes. She’s wearing your old varsity soccer t-shirt underneath. Your sweatpants. The necklace you’d got her for your one year anniversary. She looks like herself again. Your Tara.

Your bottom lip trembles.

“See. It’s just me.”

It makes you cry even harder. How could this be real? You’d just watched as your sweet, gentle, loving girlfriend had driven a knife into someone.

Tara. How could it be Tara?

“I know, I know, baby. It’s okay.” Her arms are around you again. She holds you as you sob. Every instinct in you screams to run. To get away from this deranged psycho who just killed your best friend in front of you. But you can’t. She’s the only one you want to run to.

You press yourself into her, tears soaking through her shirt. She cradles you, you feel her lips ghost your forehead.

“I didn’t want you to find out like this.” She says, “I’m sorry, baby girl. I know it’s a shock.”

She holds you a while longer. Until your eyes are red and dry, nothing left to cry. Your heartbeat still hammering against your chest.

What do I do?, You think. Where do I go?

She was calm now, much calmer than you. But that could change in a heartbeat. If you ran, she’d chase you. Maybe even kill you too. That look in her eyes, black, terrifying. You hiccup against her.

What the fuck do I do?

She rubs your back. Draws away from you just enough to wipe the rest of your tears from your face. Lets her fingers linger on your cheeks.

“Come here.” She dips down before you can protest. Presses her lips to yours. You don’t resist. Electricity flows through your body. Your stomach flutters the way it always does when she kisses you. Your body wants her just as it always does. Guilt flushes through you. You draw back, hold her at arms length.

“I can’t.” You pull back, a fresh wave of tears rising. Your stomach turns. “I think I’m going to be sick”

Her hands grip your shoulders.

“It’s okay. It’s alright. Hey. Look at me.” She’s firm, suddenly. You look up at her through glistening eyes. She softens her voice again, brushes your hair out of your eyes.

“I’m going to clean this up.” Her head jerks to the body near the corner of the room. “Then I’m going to clean you up.” She strokes the side of your face. Scratches on your cheeks from the glass.

“And then I’m going to take you to bed and make love to you. Show you just how much I adore you. Alright? Will that make everything better, sweetheart?”

Revulsion rises in your stomach suddenly. Her hands on you feel heavy. Suffocating. Your cheeks flush hot with emotion.

“No. Don’t you dare touch me.” You say. You shake off her hands, take a step back.

The words startle you as much as they startle her. Hurt clouds her features for a moment. She tries to smooth it over, tilting her head.

“Baby. You don’t mean that.”

“Yes I do. I don’t want you near me. Not after what you’ve done.” You back up, pressing yourself against the wall. Part of you wants to make a grab for the dagger but she’s too close. Besides, what would you do with it anyway? You weren’t like her. You weren’t a killer.

Tara blinks. Her eyes fill with something you don’t recognize.

“You’re just confused.” Tara says, voice hollow. “I know it’s hard to get your head around-“

“Please. Go. Just go.”

You’re shaking. Tara stares. Her bottom lip twitches. You recognize what’s behind her eyes this time. Anger. Irritation.

“You want me to go? After all this. After everything I’ve done for you?” For the first time, her voice is trembling. She looks angry. Hurt. Confused.

“For me?” You ask. Your voice rises. “You killed my best friend for me?”

“For us.” She urges. “Don’t you see - there’s no distractions anymore. No one else. No one is going to take you from me.”

She’s moving closer again. You don’t want her near you. You eye the door, move before she can stop you.

“YN!”

You run. Blood rushing in your ears.

She calls your name again, but you don’t look back. The front door is locked, so you sprint for the back. You can’t think straight, can’t trust your own emotions. So you trust your instincts.

Run. Run. Run.

You reach the door, fumble with the handle. Your heart in your throat. You twist it madly, but it doesn’t budge.

“Come on!” You cry out. You twist again, but it’s too late.

You feel her hands on your waist as she grabs you.

You struggle against her, screaming. The sheer force knocks you both over. You scramble up, trying to stand but she’s too quick. Her hands wrap tight around your waist, pulling you back down to her. She grabs your wrists, holds them tight over your head as she climbs on top of you.

“Get off me!” You cry, but she doesn’t. Squeezes you down tighter.

Wild eyes stare down at you. Her eyes, usually the softest brown, are wide, saucer like. Her eyebrows knit together as she pleads.

“Please, baby, stop.” She begs. “It’s me. It’s just me.”

She’s smaller than you, but she’s so much stronger. She’s always been stronger than you. It used to be hot, the way she could hold you down with such little effort. Now, it terrifies you.

You try with all your might to push her off but she only grips tighter. A frustrated sob emerges from your lips. She presses you against the floor. You feel her lips on your forehead as she shushes you.

“Don’t cry, sweetheart.” She says, voice so tender you almost forget she has you trapped in a vice grip. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Then let me go.” You wail. Your body goes limp. There’s no point in struggling. She’s too strong. “Please, Tara, just let me go.”

“I can’t do that, baby.” She says. Her voice soft, almost apologetic, “I love you.”

You whimper, pathetically. Your mind whirls, going a mile a minute. There’s no way out, you realize. She’s stronger than you. She’s faster than you. And she’s hopelessly and desperately in love with you. She’ll never let you go.

Your breathing evens out.

“I love you.” She says again, voice barely above a whisper.

Her breath is hot, against your mouth. You shudder. She presses her lips to your cheek. Nuzzles her nose into your neck.

“I love you.”

Her lips press into your neck. A hot jolt of energy sparks between your legs. Even now, after everything she’s done you can’t help but want her. You start to cry again.

She tilts herself up. Looks at you, really looks at you.

Gone is the manic, crazy killer who just chased you down a hallway and stuck a knife in your best friend. Her eyes are wide, that soft, sweet brown they always are.

There she is. Your first love. Your high school sweetheart. The girl who had taken your virginity. Tara. Your sweet girlfriend, Tara.

“I love you.” She whispers, a final time. Your heartbeat slows, steady. Your eyes flicker down to her lips. She notices.

She lingers above you only a moment, before she leans down and captures your lips.

Heat flushes to your cheeks. Butterflies erupt in your chest.

Warm, warm, warm.

Is all you feel.

You groan into her mouth. Confusion flashes through you once again.

“Stop.” You murmur against her lips. Soft. Half-hearted, like you don’t mean it. She pulls back.

“Stop?” She asks. Voice low. Like she knows what you’re going to say.

Your breath hitches. Her hands loosen their grip on your wrists. Her weight on top of you suddenly feels erotic.

“Don’t stop.” You whisper, and she claims your lips once again.

Your kisses build, feverish. Desperate. A mesh of lips and teeth and tongue. You loop your hands through her hair, pull her tight against you.

Her hands loop under your shirt, tug at your jeans. You pull hers off first, wanting her hot and naked against you, groaning at the heat of her skin against your own.

All thoughts of Chase are gone as you slip your hands into her underwear. She’s wet already, gasps as you circle her clit. You press warm kisses to her jaw.

She presses you back onto the floor. Tugs your underwear down your legs. Her fingers dip down to your heat.

“Tara.” You gasp. She nuzzles herself into your neck. Presses, wet, sloppy kisses down your jawline. Her fingers brush your clit before she sinks her fingers inside you.

She groans. Kisses you deep.

“Fuck baby, you’re so tight. So wet.”

“Tara.” You gasp. Her fingers curl inside you, her thumb rubbing gently over your clit. She kisses you again. Works her fingers deeper into you.

“Does that feel good, baby?” She asks. Her voice is graveled, thick with want. You moan out as she hits just the right spot.

“You like that? You like my fingers inside you?”

You nod, madly, clawing at her back, trying to pull her closer.

“I like it too, baby. It’s my favorite thing in the world. I’d do anything to be inside you.”

Her eyes are black, hazy, lust filled. You kiss her deeply.

“I’d kill everybody in this town before they’d take you away from me.” She says, eyes wild. “I’d kill everybody in the world. You belong to me.”

You moan.

“Tell me.” She says, “Tell me who you belong to.”

“You, baby.” You gasp.

“That's right. All mine. Every inch of you.” She growls. Her hand movements are steady. Angry. Pounding into you. Your hips jerk with each thrust, your cheeks red.

“Nobody else is going to touch you. Not ever. I’m the only one who gets to do this.” She says. Her eyes are starting to blacken again, jealous at the thought of somebody else sinking inside you.

“No one else.” You pant. “I promise.”

She growls, takes a nipple in her mouth. Bites down hard. Her fingers drive into your pussy.

You moan her name. It relaxes her a little. She slows her pace, dipping down to kiss down your stomach. She nuzzles against your thigh, lovingly.

“Who can blame them?” She says. She reaches up to touch your face, presses a gentle kiss to your belly. Her fingers pump in and out at a steady pace. Her fingers coated in your wetness. “My perfect girl. Always so beautiful. Who wouldn’t want you? I want you all the time.”

She dips down, presses kisses to the tops of your thighs, rhythm steady as she fucks you. A low moan escapes from your mouth as she licks a long stripe down your center, stopping momentarily to wrap her lips around your clit.

Your thighs clench around her head but she keeps your legs pried open. She sucks you only a moment before she’s grinning up at you, debauched, slipping a third finger inside your dripping cunt.

“I wish I could spend every waking moment inside this gorgeous pussy. Always so pretty and tight and wet for me. Always throbbing around my fingers. Squeezing. Trying to keep me in you, isn’t that right?”

Her eyes gleam. Her pretty red lips sticky with your arousal.

“You’d like that wouldn’t you, baby? You’d like me to be in you all the time.”

“Yes.” You groan.

“Dirty girl.” She chides. Her head dips down again, and you throw your head back as she sucks on your clit, hard.

She releases you after a moment. Lips back on your thighs, fingers pummeling up into your g-spot.

Your stomach coils. She sucks on your thigh leisurely, her fingers slamming into you with no mercy.

“Mine.” She says. “Say it.”

“Yours. All yours.”

Her arms grip tight around your waist. She licks her way up your length, not stopping the force of her fingers.

You throb around her, so close. She presses kisses to your thighs as she works you to the edge.

“You going to come for me, baby?” She murmurs, lips on your clit, “Good girl. That’s it, sweetheart. Come in my mouth.”

She sucks your clit, hard, and you topple over the edge.

Your back arches. You let out a low groan as your orgasm washes over you. She works you though it, lovingly sucking, her fingers curled.

You slump back onto the floor as she presses kisses to your belly. She keeps her fingers in you as she leans up, kisses you so tenderly.

“Good girl.” She murmurs. You sigh into her mouth. You can taste yourself on her lips. It’s intoxicating. She presses a kiss to your neck.

Draws her fingers out of you. You whine. She smiles, sucks you off her fingertips.

“Don’t worry baby.” She murmurs. Brushes a lock of hair off your sweaty forehead. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Your heart beat slows. She shuffles herself off you.

Wraps herself tight around your waist, drawing you into her.

Your eyes draw to the robes of the floor. The mask. The dagger. Chase is here somewhere, dead in another room. And you just fucked his killer.

Shame floods through you. Your body tenses. She can sense it. She turns you in her arms, pulls you into her bare chest.

“Shh. Don’t look, baby.” She coos. “I’ll clean it up.”

“He’s dead.” You say. More monotone than anything. In the last thirty minutes you’ve felt every possible emotion you could ever feel. You’ve cried every last tear. You’ve fought and struggled and lost against your own desires. You’re exhausted.

“It’s alright, babe.” She senses your resignation. Presses a soft kiss to your forehead. “Now it’s just you and me. The way it should be.”

She tilts your face up to hers. You let her press a kiss to your lips. Close your eyes.

“I’m all yours, baby.” She says. “And you’re mine. Forever.”

You nod, slowly.

She is, there’s no point in denying it.

Chapter 2 Chapter Text

It had been weeks.

The murders went unsolved. You attended the memorials, tried to pretend like the reason for their deaths wasn't sitting right beside you, holding your hand.

It was twisted and sick, but you couldn't turn her in. She loved you, and you loved her.

Not much had changed. She played the part of the perfect girlfriend so well. You barely spent any time apart these days. She'd drive you to school in the mornings, buy you breakfast. She'd walk you to class, carry your textbooks. Make-out in the tool shed behind the bleachers if you had a little free time between periods.

And then you went home with her. Her mom was never home so you had the place to yourselves. You cooked dinner together, watched movies, and fell asleep together.

And then you'd wake up and do it all over again.

You didn't speak about the killings. You'd made Tara promise she wouldn't hurt anyone else. You promised you wouldn't give her a reason to and she'd agreed. You didn't strike up conversation with anyone, avoided making new friends. Things were perfect as they were.

You didn't want to give Tara a reason to kill anybody else.

Except for tonight. Your dad had demanded your presence at dinner: you hadn't seen him, or your mom in days. You were busy with school, was your excuse. In actuality, you were too busy with Tara. You'd gotten used to playing house with her. You didn't like the idea of her all alone in that huge house.

You push your peas around your plate. Look down as your phone buzzes.

are you done yet? miss you? :(

"No phones at the table." Snaps your father. He's looking at you funny. Angrier than usual, like he has something to say. As you drop your phone to the table, he lets loose.

"That girl isn't good for you." He says, shoveling peas into his mouth. "You spend all your time with her. You used to play sports. You used to have friends"

"I have friends." You say, defensively. It's not true. You don't, not anymore.

"I don't want you spending all your time with her." He continues. "You can see her on weekends. Weeknights, you stay here."

Your heart sinks.

"Dad-"

"I don't want any arguments. He says, pointing his fork at you.

"I'm eighteen, Dad, you can't tell me what to do-"

He slams his beer glass onto the table. It shakes slightly. You stare back startled.

"As long as you live under my roof, you abide by my rules."

And that's the end of it.

You pace back and forth in your bedroom, staring down at your phone. Tara's calling, again. You bite your lip, unsure of what to say. Unsure of how she'll take it.

"Hey babe." You say.

"YN." She says. She sounds antsy, like she's been waiting for you, "Where are you?"

"I can't come tonight."

"What?"

"My dads being a total dick." You say, "He says I can only stay over on weekends from now on."

Silence. You chew your lip, hoping she's not too angry.

"Sorry baby." You say. "It's Friday tomorrow though, I'll make it up to you."

"Sneak out." She insists. You shake your head.

"It's just one night, Tara. Pick me up tomorrow for school?"

She's gone quiet again. You sigh.

"Love you. I'll see you tomorrow."

And you hang up.

Sleeping in your own bed is strange after all so long spent in Tara's. You miss the warmth of her body, the protective arm she always looped around your waist as she slept. Sometimes it was harder for you to fall asleep, and you'd get frustrated, but she'd always be there, rubbing your back to calm you down. Pressing sleepy kisses to your forehead.

You turn onto your side, trying to clear your mind. You imagine Tara's face, her smile. You'll cook her something tomorrow night, you think, something special. Maybe even sneak a bottle from your Dad's wine collection to make it more romantic. At the thought of her sitting opposite you, sipping on a glass of red wine, you start to doze off.

You don't hear the crack of your window opening, nor do you hear the scuffle of someone kicking their shoes off.

You don't hear much of anything, until someone is slipping in behind you, grabbing your waist and smacking their hand over your mouth.

Your eyes fly open. You gasp, struggle against the body behind you. A familiar voice whispers in your ear.

"Shhh, baby." It's Tara. She grabs your waist, hard, tugs you into her. "It's me."

She presses a warm kiss to your neck, drops her hand from your mouth. You relax slightly, turn in her arms.

"Babe. What are you doing here?" Your head "if my dad finds out-"

In the glint of the moonlight, her eyes flash.

"Nobody keeps you from me." She says. Her lips are hot against your jaw, "Remember? You know the things I do to people who try to take you away from me."

Menacing. Her eyes glint. Your stomach drops.

"Tara-"

"Now I'm trying. I'm trying to be good for you, baby. You know that. Like I promised. But you're going to have to work with me."

She slips her hands into your underwear. You gasp as her fingers grip you possessively.

"You're mine. This pussy is mine. I want you in my bed every single night, do you understand me?"

She circles your clit. Nips at your bottom lip. You groan.

"Baby- I can't just-"

"In my bed." She repeats. "Every night."

"But Tara-"

She bites down hard. Hard enough to draw blood. Her spare hand works up your shirt, she takes one of your breasts in hand. Works her fingers around a nipple.

"Every night you're not there, I'm going to sneak into your bedroom and fuck you so hard you won't able to stop your dad from hearing. Understand?"

You nod, slowly.

"Good girl." She smiles. Licks the blood off your lip. "Now take off your clothes."

You don't have to be asked twice. Arousal flushes through you at the look in her eyes. Hungry, like she's about to devour you. You tug your shorts down your legs, lift your t-shirt over your head.

It's not quick enough for her. She rips your shorts away, licking her lips as she looks down at your naked body.

"Tara," You say as she fumbles with her own zipper, tugging her jeans down to her legs, "Baby. We have to be quiet. Please."

Tara dips down, kisses you softly.

"That's up to you, sweetheart," She says, voice low, "You're the one who's going to be making all the noise. I promise."

Then you feel it. Hard, plastic against your stomach as she slips her underwear off. She's brought the strap on.

"Fuck." You moan. She kisses you hard. Takes off her shirt. Before your gaze can linger, she's flipping you onto your hands and knees.

She trails kisses down your back. Your heart thrums. Your parents are asleep, you think. You hope. Your head falls forward, mouth open as you feel Tara's tongue against your entrance.

You bite your lip. She's quick, languid kisses and long licks as she readies you for her. You're already embarrassing wet, sticky syrup against her lips. She presses a wet kiss to your inner thigh, then aligns her hips with yours.

You groan as she sinks the head inside you. Her hands hold your hips in place, grabbing hard so you can't run from her. You can hear the soft sounds of your Dad snoring across the hall. You bite your lip,

She's pushing your face down into the mattress as she pushes into you. Hard, quick, needy. Little gasps emerge from your lips before you can stop them as she takes you. Her hands are rough on your hips. She smacks your backside, hard enough you feel yourself flush red.

It hurts a little. Her hands are in your hair, tugging your face up. She doesn't allow you anytime to get used to the thickness of the dildo, ruts into you steadily, building up a pace.

She drapes herself across you, takes your earlobe between her teeth. The dildo sinks deeper inside you, you can feel her breasts on your back. You let out a long moan before you can stop yourself.

"You like that, baby?" She growls in your ear. "You like being on your hands and knees? Taking me like a good girl?"

She smacks your ass again for good measure. You whimper as she takes your hips in her hands again and begins to drill into you.

Hard wet sounds of your skin slapping against hers. She's panting, groaning, grabbing your ass. You can tell how turned on she is. It makes you even wetter. You swallow your own moans, trying not to be too loud. The mattress squeaks. Tara thrusts a final time, sinking so deep into you you almost squeal.

Then she's sliding herself out of you.

Immediately you miss her, turn your head to try to claw her back in.

She pulls hard on your legs so you fall onto your stomach. Then, she's flipping you onto you back, spreading your legs as wide as they'll go. Lustful eyes look down on you. She licks her lips as she eyes your swollen cunt, dripping with arousal.

"My pretty girl." She murmurs, dipping down to taste you. You whine, fingers immediately threading through her hair, trying to keep her in place. She's only there for a moment before she's drawing herself back up, and pulling your legs over her shoulders.

She lines her hips to yours once again, and then she's sinking deep into you, mating press style. Her favorite position. It might be yours too, you think as you feel the tip of the cock brush your cervix. You sigh, lock eyes with her. Her pretty red lips look so kissable, you can't resist. You lock your arms around her neck, trying to keep her close.

"Tara." You whine as she moves her hips. Slowly now, just teasing. "Baby."

She presses kisses down your jaw.

"Yes, baby girl?" She asks. Her eyes glint playfully.

"Please fuck me." You whimper. Her eyes flash with arousal. She thrusts hard, once.

"Like that?" She asks.

"Yes, please, just like that." Your fingers grip white on her shoulders.

"You want it hard?" She asks. You nod desperately. Try to tilt your hips closer into her.

"Tell me what you're going to do from now on." She presses another kiss to your lips. "Tell me whose bed you'll be in every night."

"Your bed." You gasp. "Every night."

"That's right." She says. Her arms wrap around your thighs. Another hard thrust. You can't stop the groan that slips from your lips. "You're my pretty girl and I want you in my bed every night. You understand?"

You nod wildly. She's smirking, draws her hips back again. Thrusts gently. You whine.

"Good girl." She presses you down into the mattress, her full weight on top of you. A final hot kiss to your lips before she draws her hips back once more and lets loose on you.
You cry out, clutching her tight as she pounds down into you. Merciless, white heat draws deep in your belly as she thrusts into you.

She's moaning with you this time. Squeezing your legs tight as she pummels herself into you. It's hard and rough, she's merciless. You whine, entire body flushing as she fucks you to the edge.

"Cum for me, baby." She's murmuring and your eyes flutter closed. You groan as your orgasm washes through you, as hot and fast as her thrusts. You feel her body seize against you as she cums too, a quiet whine and heavy thrust. She collapses into you. You catch your breath, holding her. Both boneless.

Your heart pounds, your pussy throbs pleasantly. After a moment, she slides out of you, pulling the strap-on harness off herself. Your breathing evens out as she settles in behind you and takes you in her arms. Presses a protective kiss to your neck as she entwines herself with you.

You listen carefully. Can't hear your dad snoring anymore.

"Do you think we woke him?" You ask Tara.

"I hope so." Tara says. The edge is back in her voice. She nips at your neck with her teeth. "I hope he heard me making you mine. Knowing exactly what I'll be doing to his daughter every night she's in my bed."

Your heart thrums. Stomach flips at the vulgarity of her words.

A loud snore sounds from across the hallway. You sigh in relief.

"Hmm." Tara says. She sounds a little disappointed. "I'll just have to fuck you harder, next time."

Chapter 3 Chapter Text

In the end, it really isn't that hard to hoodwink your Dad into thinking you were fast asleep in your bed most weeknights.

You followed the same routine, ate dinner with him, said goodnight, then climbed out your bedroom window into Tara's waiting car. In the mornings, she'd wake you with lazy kisses, take you back home before he woke up. You'd meet him downstairs for breakfast. And he didn't suspect a thing.

It was one of those nights again. You were watching a movie tonight, some indie horror Tara had on her watchlist. You lay against her, sprawled across the couch lazily, head on her shoulder. When you'd first met her, you'd hated horror, hated any kind of gore. Now, you don't mind it so much.

The actress is kind of cute. You find yourself thinking. She has dark hair, dark eyes, just like Tara's. You briefly consider saying it aloud. You think better of it.

"The main girl is kind of cute." Tara says, casually. Sometimes you think she can read your mind.

Jealousy flickers hot through you. It wasn't often Tara expressed interest in other girls. In fact, it was almost never. She was completely devoted to you, or so you had thought.

You frown, grip her hand a little tighter.

"Too bad for her, you're mine."

She hums, a smile playing on her lips. She likes it when you do that. Claim her. When you're as possessive as she is.

You turn your attention back to the TV, a little irked. She isn't that cute, you think. And she isn't Tara's type. At all. Unconsciously, you tug Tara's hand into your lap, grip tight.

"What would you do if she was here right now?" Her voice is low. Lips against your ear. "If she was here. In this room. Hitting on me."

It's a weighted question. You tighten your grip on her waist.

"I'd tell her to fuck off."

Tara's watching you. Your jaw is clenched.

"Is that all?"

You look at her. Try to figure out what kind of game she's playing.

"What if you walked in on us? Having sex."

At this you sit up. Stare at her. Even the thought is like ice water down your spine.

"I'd kill you." Something flickers in her eyes.

"Just me?" She whispers. "Would you kill her too?"

Desire flickers deep within you. You let yourself think. Wonder. If some whore put her hands all over Tara. Kissed her. Took her to bed. You imagine walking in on them, some other girl in Tara's lap. Riding her. Kissing her. Jealousy flickers through you, tearing your stomach into knots.

"I'd gut her like a fish." Is what you say. "And then fuck you until you forgot her name."

Tara's mouth falls open slightly. Her eyes black with desire. She presses up into you, takes your lips in a searing kiss.

"Because I'm yours." She says, breathlessly. "And you're mine."

You nod.

She presses up into you. Kisses you fiercely.

"Fuck." She murmurs against your lips. She's excited. You can tell by the way her hands are roaming, tugging gently at the base of your shirt. "Let's go upstairs, baby. I want you."

It's a familiar trek by this point.

You're fused at the lips, as always, wild hands and gentle gasps as you try to undress each other before you reach the bedroom. You're already down to your underwear by the time your back hits the mattress, Tara's weight on top of you, similarly undressed as she fumbles with your underwear.

She's gripping your hips. Unclipping your bra, pressing into you. You feel strange. Usually you like it this way. Tara on top, dominating you. It isn't what you want tonight, you realize all at once. The thought of someone else with her is fresh in your mind. You want to flip her over. Make her remember she's yours.

"Stop." You command. She pauses, looks at you, a little confused. Her hand brushes your cheek.

"What is it babe?" She asks, "Are you okay?"

"I don't want it like this." She looks confused. You grab her suddenly, flip her around onto the bed. Crawl over her. She's watching, a little surprised.

"I want to be on top."

You press a hot kiss to her lips. She smiles against your mouth. "You know I like it when you're on top." She says, sucking at the base of your neck. Her fingers trail down between your legs.

"No, baby." You say, you reach for her hands, hold both of them over her head. "I want to be on top."

She blinks up at you.

"Oh."

You kiss her once more, bite at her bottom lip as you let her hands go. You press your full weight onto her, holding her into the mattress. Grind down into her as you reach for her thighs, guide them around your waist.

You slip your tongue between her lips, grind mindlessly against her as you kiss. She's wet, you can feel her on your stomach. You break away from Tara's lips, trail kisses down her chest.

Her hands grip tight around your neck, tugging you back up to her.

She kisses you again, her thighs locking tight around your waist. You murmur against her lips, try to pull yourself out of her grasp. This isn't what you'd meant. You were on top but she still had all the control.

"Stop." You say, but she doesn't listen. Her lips fall to your jaw, sucking hotly as she grinds herself up into you.

"If you can't keep your hands to yourself I'm going to tie them up." You order, suddenly. Your own voice startles you. She pauses, looks up at you.

"Is that what you want?" You whisper against her lips. "You want me to tie you up and fuck you?"

Her eyes dart between yours. She licks her lips.

"I want to touch you." Is her answer, but you shake your head.

"No touching. Not until you've earned it."

You can see the fight in her eyes. She wants to challenge you, you can tell. She's not naturally submissive. Slowly, she nods.

You smile. Nuzzle into her neck.

"Good girl."

She lets out a breathless little sigh at that, her mouth dropping open only slightly. You press warm kisses down her chest, stopping at the slope of her chest to take her breast in your mouth. She groans as you tease her, kissing, scraping your teeth over her nipples.

"YN." She moans. Her hands are in your hair, trying to push you down to where she wants you, "Please."

You release her nipple with a wet pop, look up at her as you untangle her hands from your hair. "No touching." You insist.

Her lip twitches. She rises up to meet you, takes your face in a desperate kiss. She tugs you into her lap before you can protest, her hands grip your ass as she bites down on your earlobe.

"You're mine." She growls into your ear, "Mine to touch, mine to play with. If I want to touch you I will."

Her words go straight to your pussy. You feel yourself flood with arousal as you close your eyes, imagine just letting her throw you back onto the bed and do whatever she wants to you.

No. Not yet.

You grab her face, take her lips in a searing kiss. Then you're taking her hands and tugging them above her head, pushing her back into the mattress.

"Naughty girl." You scold her, "I told you not to touch. I warned you."

You release her. Climb off her body and make your way over to her closet. She has a scarf somewhere, you remember, fish it out of one of her drawers.

When you get back to the bed she's watching you with clouded eyes.

"Scoot up." You tell her. She doesn't. You grip her legs, lift her to the headboard. Her eyes flash, surprised by your strength. When you reach for her hands, this time she doesn't protest.

"So disobedient." You murmur as you tie the scarf around her wrists, "What am I going to do with you?"

You loop the scarf to the headboard.

She looks so pretty in her restraints, hands held high above her head, lips blood red and swollen from your kisses. There's something in her eyes, you can't quite make out; arousal, sure, tinged with a little bit of uncertainty. Like she's turned on, but she isn't sure why.

You reward her with a kiss. Move back to admire your handy-work. She's only in her underwear now, bra long discarded. You finish the job, pulling her panties down her legs. You lick your lips. She looks delectable. Restrained, and wet and naked. All yours.

"I can't move my hands." She says, pointedly.

"Yes baby, that's the point."

She tugs at her restraints, but they don't even budge. The knots you learned in girl scouts were finally coming in handy.

"I can't touch you." She whines.

"It's my turn to touch you." You say. You spread her legs, nestle yourself between them. "If you're a good girl and do exactly what I say, maybe I'll take them off."

Her eyes flash. She goes quiet, stops struggling against the binds. You press a gentle kiss to her lips.

"Can you do that?" You ask, "Can you be good for me?"

She likes that, you note. She relaxes slightly, presses up into your kiss.

You kiss her, slow. Trail your hands down her body. Press warm kisses down her body, drag your lips down her stomach. It wasn't often you got to do this, worship her. You take your time, kissing her hips, the tops of her thighs, tasting the sweet salt of her skin.

By the time you reach her center, she's drizzling arousal onto the mattress.

"Don't tease." She's looking down at you. Pulling hard against her restraints. "Please, baby."

"Hmm." You press a kiss to her thigh. "Orgasms are for good girls. But you haven't been a good girl tonight, have you, darling?"

She furrows her eyebrows. Tries to squeeze her legs tighter around you.

"I told you not to touch and you did." You sigh, "I even had to tie you up." You press a heavy kiss to her hip. She's tugging a little too hard at her restraints, now, desperate to free herself. You grip her thighs, hold her in place.

"Stop it." You say, voice hard. She blinks, stops struggling.

"See?" You say, "Bad girl. You can't help it, can you?"

"I just want to touch you." She says. Her voice is gravelly, low. Not quite pleading. But close.

You take pity on her, press a gentle kiss to the top of her public bone. Her breath hitches.

"I know." You murmur against her skin, "But it's my turn, baby."

You dip down, press your lips to her velvet folds. Her taste, her smell makes you salivate. You smooth your tongue through her, taking as much of it as you can into your mouth. Tara gasps beneath you as you begin your assault.

It's so nice to eat her pussy uninterrupted. Without her trying to tug you back up to kiss you, without her greedy hands reaching for you, always searching for more.

It wasn't that she didn't like receiving pleasure, it was just that she desired your pleasure more than her own. She had this compulsion to please you. If you had your fingers inside her, she'd slip hers into you too. If you wanted to go down on her, she'd insist you sit on her face. Sometimes she'd cum before you even got to touch her, turned on so much just from fucking you. It wasn't fair. You wanted her as much as she wanted you.

Her body is tight, hips moving madly against your lips. She's tugging on her restraints again.

"Baby." You press a warm, lingering kiss to her inner thigh, "Relax."

"Come up here." She says. There's no control in her voice anymore. She's needy, desperate, "Come sit on my face. Let me taste you."

"Soon, sweetheart." You murmur. You rub the outside of her thighs, trying to give her some comfort. "Right now I want to make you feel good."

You dart your tongue back out, lap gently at her. Syrupy sweetness oozes onto your tongue, you lick it up, greedy. You swirl your tongue in circles around her clit, gripping onto her thighs, trying to pull her even closer. She's tilting her hips up to meet your mouth, breathless little moans slipping from her lips the way they always did when she was close.

You lift your fingers to slip into her, hum against her clit as you feel her wet heat encompass you whole. You curl your fingers, tongue swirling madly around her as her legs clench around your head. Drive your fingers hard into her. She's earned it now, you think as you suck gently on her clit. Such a good girl, letting you tie her up and fuck her. She deserves a reward. You tell her so. Press a final kiss to her thigh before you take her to the edge, sucking and licking and fucking her into her orgasm.

She lets out a long, quiet moan, her entire body seizing as she cums in your mouth. You groan, her thighs pressed tight around your ears, her arousal dripping past your lips and onto your chin. You can feel her tight cunt throbbing around you, heartbeat steady as she pants, trying to recover her breath.

You press one more kiss to her. Untangle yourself from her legs.

You climb up her body, press a wanting kiss to her swollen lips.

"Good girl." You mumble into her lips, "Thank you, baby."

She's slack against you, body still thrumming from her orgasm. You tuck yourself against her body, rest your head on her chest.

"Untie me." She says, not even seconds later, "Please."

You reach for the scarf, fumble for a moment before you tug it off her. Her wrists are red, chaffed from all her struggling. Before you can even toss the scarf aside, her hands are on you trying to pull you closer. She sighs against your lips, like everything is suddenly right in the world.

You close your eyes, kiss her, not even realizing how much you'd missed her hands on you. Before you can enjoy the moment, she's flipping you over, pinning you down into the mattress. You gasp. She hovers above you, her thigh between your legs. She's gripping your hands over your head, looping the scarf around your wrists.

"You had your fun." Tara murmurs, eyes glinting with mischief, "Now it's my turn."

Chapter 4 Chapter Text

It was the same every weekend: Amber, Tara's best friend, would wait until her Dad left town, then phone up half the school for a Saturday night rager. Tara took you every weekend. It was the only real time the two of you would jump out of your love bubble, besides when you were in school. It was kind of nice to get out, get drunk and have a dance.

The only downside? Having to hang out with Tara's friends.

Mindy and Wes were okay, but Chad was a fuckboy, Liv was a drama queen and Amber was a straight up bitch. You weren't really sure why Tara was still friends with any of them, considering how little they all had in common. When you'd asked, Tara had just shrugged and said they'd been friends forever, since elementary school. So you put up with them for her, swallow your distaste for them with a red cup full of beer. At least the beer was free.

You almost spill it over yourself as you lean over the couch, placing Tara's cup on the table next to her. You drink out of your own cup, settle down onto the couch next to her. The party is in full swing, but as usual Tara and her friends claim the living room, passing around a half-lit joint as they talk amongst themselves.

Tara leans into you. Presses a kiss to your cheeks.

"You look so hot in that new skirt, baby." She murmurs into your ear. You smile, press a quick kiss to her lips. She'd taken you shopping that afternoon, and the moment she'd seen it on you she'd insisted on buying it. Her fingers skim across your thighs under the material, rub the soft skin there.

"Thanks, babe." You say. She reaches for you, grabs you gently by the waist, trying to tug you into her lap. You shift your weight onto her, wrap your arms around her neck and kiss her, deep.

The sound of Amber tutting breaks you apart.

"You two are nauseating." She sneers, "Can't you go five minutes without being on top of each other?"

"I think they're sweet." Liv coos from the other side of the room. She's draped over Chad, her boyfriend, who's mostly ignoring her in favor of watching sports on his phone. "I wish Chad wanted me on his lap all the time."

"You're too heavy." Chad says, mindlessly. Liv smacks him.

"You're just jealous no one wants you in their lap, Amber." Tara says. She rubs her hands over the tops of your thighs, skimming your underwear, not bothering to hide it.

Amber rolls her eyes.

"Please. I could pull half of this room. Guys and girls alike."

You raise an eyebrow.

"Go on then." You challenge. You scan the room quickly. Point out a broad shouldered jock. "What about him?"

She grimaces. "Too dumb."

Your eyes fall on a slim blonde girl, you point her out.

"Too skinny."

"Wes is single." Mindy pipes up. Chad sniggers.

"Ew. Too dorky."

Amber looks at you, suddenly. Her eyes narrow as she drops her beer to the table. She stands, moves in close so she's hovering over you.

"Maybe I'll just take you." She says, voice low. Smirk on her lips, "See what all the fuss is about. Figure out why Tara's so obsessed with you."

You feel Tara's hands tighten around your waist.

"Why don't you try and see what happens?" Tara says. Her eyes are hard, voice serious. Mindy and Wes stare. Even Chad looks up from his phone. Amber smiles.

"Down girl." She laughs. She backs away, picks up her drink, "She's not my type anyway. I don't do good girls."

Tara's still rigid against you as Amber wanders off, no doubt to harass some poor freshman into doing another beer run. You lean back into her, press a warm kiss to her lips. "Love you." You say, quiet enough so the others can't hear, "Don't let her under your skin."

And she relaxes. Smiles slightly, tilts her head up to meet your lips.

The party continues. You watch as Mindy and Chad argue about the rules of beer-pong. Wes comes over at some point, engrosses Tara in a thirty minute conversation about some horror film they'd seen together. You scoot yourself off her lap, leaving her with a quick kiss. She looks up at you, questioning.

"Need to pee." You assure. She nods, goes back to her conversation.

You move through the sea of bodies, manage to find a line that isn't too long down in the hallway bathroom. Alcohol thrums pleasantly through you. You feel light, carefree. That might be the weed.

When it's your turn, you open the door and go inside, only to be stopped by a foot in the door.

It's Amber. You blink as she nudges her way into the bathroom, locks the door behind her.

"What are you doing?" You ask. She shrugs, turns to the mirror.

"I need to pee. It's my house, I'm not waiting in line."

You stare at her for a moment. She brushes lipgloss over her lips. This is weird. You don't want to be here any more.

"Alright. Fine. I'll leave you to it."

She moves in front of the door, blocks your exit.

"You look really pretty tonight." She says. Voice syrupy sweet. "That skirt is- wow." Her eyes rake down your bare thighs. You cross your arms, self conscious.

"Thanks." You say. "Tara bought it for me."

"I can see why." Amber says. She leans a little close. "If you were my girlfriend, I'd make you wear slutty little outfits like that too. Easy access, right?"

You take a step back.

"She doesn't make me wear anything." Is the only thing you can think to say.

"So you're trying to tease her?" Amber asks, her eyes flashing, "Is that it? Get her all horned up for you so she'll take you into a bathroom and fuck the life out of you?"

"I should go."

This time you try and push past her. It's a mistake, you realize all at once. Amber's hands grip your shoulders, and now your faces are inches apart.

"I don't see Tara anywhere. But I'm here now. I'll fuck you better than she ever could."

Before you can protest, she's surging forward, taking your lips in a rough kiss.

You try to jerk away but your hands grip your face, holding you tight onto her. You struggle, hard, finally prying yourself away from her.

"Hey!" You slap her off but she's stronger than you. She pushes you against the bathroom counter, sending toiletries flying to the floor. You grunt in pain as your back hits the counter. Before you can recover, she's close again. Hands under your skirt, groping.

"Don't be such a fucking tease." She growls. "You've been walking around half naked all night and you're trying to tell me you don't want it?"

"Not from you." You say. You shove her off, hard as you can. She stumbles back. It's the chance you need. You surge towards the door, fumbling with the handle. Before you can pry it open, she's back, pressing her hand against the door.

"Hey." Her voice suddenly soft. Sweet. "I'm sorry. We got off on the wrong foot. How about we sit down. Get to know each other?"

"Fuck you."

You tug the door. She jams her foot in the way.

"Tara won't believe you." She says, voice hard, "I'm her best friend. You're just some slut she's been fucking for less than a year."

"Two years." You tell her. "Get out of my way."

She stares at you for a long moment. For a second, you think she might hit you.

"Fine. Fucking prude." She sneers, backing off. "I didn't want you anyway."

You're shaking when you go back downstairs. Tears spill down your cheeks, your lips still sting with the force of Amber's unwanted kiss. She's ripped your skirt, you hold it together with your hands as you make an escape for the back door.

It's quieter outside, only a few people lingering. You head to the bottom of the garden, stand against the fence.

Your lip trembles. You're wearing Tara's jacket, pull it tight around your shoulders. You take a breath. Try and still yourself. Tara will be looking for you soon. If she finds you like this, eyes wet and sniffling, she'll know something is wrong. She'll know what Amber tried to do.

Tara's going to kill her, you realize with a jolt. Not figuratively. She will literally kill her. Tonight, maybe. A fresh wave of tears spill from your eyes.

You catch your breath. Steady your breathing. It's not ten minutes before you hear the crunch of shoes on the grass behind you, and someone's hands looping around your waist.

"There she is." Tara's voice jolts you out of your reverie. She presses her lips to your shoulder, "My sweet girl."

You lean back into her. Sniff back your tears. She can't see your face from this angle. You blink away your tears.

"Where have you been? I've been looking for you." She asks, as she rubs your arms. She smells familiar, like vanilla and cinnamon. You breathe her in, instantly comforted. You close your eyes, turn yourself in her arms. Nestle yourself into her neck. Her lips press to the top of your head.

"Here." You only half lie. "Just thinking."

"Thinking about what?"

"Nothing." You mumble into her neck.

She hums against you.

"Should we go home?" She wonders, "It's getting a bit sad in there."

You tilt your head back to look at the house.

It's emptying out. You nod. Stand up properly. You tilt your head slightly away from her, hoping she'll miss your puffy cheeks. She doesn't. Her hands catch your waist, tilting your face to her.

Her brow furrows.

"You've been crying." She says, voice soft.

You gulp. She has you, there's no point in lying.

"A little."

"Why?"

You could try to lie. Save Amber's pathetic ass. But you know there's no point. Tara knows you inside and out. She can read your every mood. Hunt out any little white lie. She knows you off by heart.

"Someone tried to kiss me." You hesitate. "She did kiss me. But I didn't-" You can feel the tears pricking up once more. "I didn't want it."

Tara blinks. Her hands on your waist tighten their grip.

"Who?"

"It doesn't matter."

"It matters." Tara says through gritted teeth. "Tell me. Now."

"Tara-"

"Baby, if you don't tell me who it is I'm going to take my knife and slit the throat of every girl in that house."

You swallow hard. She isn't kidding, you can see it in her eyes.

"Amber."

Her eyes flash, but not with anger. Something else. Hurt, maybe, betrayal. Her jaw clenches. You put your hands on her forearms, try to bring her back to you.

"Tara. Baby. It's okay-"

You can see the fight behind her eyes.

"I knew she'd try something like this." She says, sounding aggravated, "Bitch. She's always wanted my things, even when we were kids."

Tara looks back to the house. Steadies her grip on your shoulders. Her hands cup your cheek, wiping away your tears. Her gaze drops a little lower, lingering on your ripped skirt.

"What happened to your skirt?" She asks. You swallow hard. "Did she do that?"

You hesitate. She leans in, presses a reassuring kiss to your lips.

"Tell me exactly what happened." She says as she pulls away, voice quiet, "Every detail."

And you do. She listens, a quiet storm brewing behind her eyes. When you're finished, she takes you in her arms, presses a gentle kiss to your forehead.

"I'm so sorry, baby." She murmurs. "I never should have left you alone."

You sway in her arms for a moment, before she's retracting, pulling her phone from her pocket.

"I'm going to call Sam." She says, pressing her lips to your cheek. "She's going to take you home."

Your heart sinks.

"No." You say, "Tara, no. I want you to come home with me. I don't want Sam-"

"I'll be home as soon as I'm done." She says, strokes your face reassuringly. She's calm. Too calm. It sends a chill down your spine. You grip onto her arms.

"Tara, no. You promised."

She looks at you, a little frustrated.

"Sweetheart. She put her hands on you. She hurt you. She made you cry." She cups your cheek, tenderly. Brushes away the fresh tears that trickle down your face, "Don't you see? That's why she has to die."

You shake your head, fervently.

"No. That isn't what I want. I don't want you to kill for me, Tara. That isn't what I need. I just need my girlfriend to hold me and tell me everything's going to be okay, and that I'm safe with her."

She's pulling you back into her arms. Cradles you tightly.

"Everything's going to be okay." She promises. You bury your face in her chest, comforted by her scent. "I love you. I'm going to keep you safe, I promise."

"You're not going to kill her." You say into her chest, "Promise me."

"Baby-"

"Promise me, Tara."

You're pulling away from her, looking into her eyes.

"I can't lose you," You say, cupping her cheeks. Your eyes are glistening with tears again. You grip onto her so tight, trying to make her understand. "Everytime you put on that mask you risk getting caught. And then they'll take you away from me."

"Oh, baby." She says, "Is that what you're worried about?"

It is what you worried about, more than anything. Sometimes you'd have nightmares about it: Tara, being dragged away in handcuffs, locked in a cell while they threw away the key. You nod.

"No-one will ever keep you from me." She promises. She looks so pretty in the moonlight. Soft brown eyes stare back at you adoringly, almost as if she's not trying to negotiate murder, "I promise."

"You can't promise that."

"Yes I can." She says. Her lips press to yours, insistent.

She takes your hand, presses it to her chest.

"You feel that?" She murmurs. Her heartbeat is wild, erratic. You press your fingertips to her chest, trying to soothe her. It doesn't work. "That's what happens when someone tries to take you from me. It doesn't feel good, baby. It hurts me. I can't eat, I can't sleep. Do you know what it feels like to have your heart racing 24/7?"

You blink up at her. Shake your head.

"There's only one thing that can stop it." She murmurs. "I know you don't like Ghostface. But sometimes she's the only thing that can make me feel sane again. Everytime you ask me to stop, I have to fight this storm in me. Fight my instincts. I don't know how much longer I can fight, baby."

Her hands are shaking, you notice for the first time.

You rub her arm with your hand. Duck down, press your lips to her chest. Close your eyes.

"So, I'm going to call Sam, okay?" She's asking now. Her eyes pleading. "She's going to take you home."

Your heart jumps in your throat.

Slowly, you nod.

Relief fills her face. She grips onto you, squeezes you tight.

"Be careful." You murmur, "Please, baby, be careful for me."

She kisses you, soft.

The next hour is like a fever dream. Tara puts you into Sam's car, kisses you goodbye.

Sam's still trying to make up for lost time with her sister so she doesn't ask too many questions. The drive home is almost silent, you staring out the window, imagining the tilt of Tara's knife slitting Amber's throat. All you can think about is her getting caught. Praying she was careful enough not to leave behind any evidence. Maybe it should worry you how little you care about someone dying. But it doesn't.

You climb into Tara's bed alone, waiting for her. You stare at the ceiling. Minutes pass by agonizingly slow. All you can do is wait.

Finally, after what must have been hours, you hear her come in the front door. You sit up, chewing your lip, anxious as you hear the shower run.

When she opens the bedroom door, she's dressed for bed.

She climbs into bed with you. Wraps her arms around your waist. You turn in her arms, immediately. Press your hand to her chest. Her heartbeat is steady, normal. She's calm. You relax.

"She's never going to touch you again." Tara murmurs. She presses a tender kiss to your forehead. You don't want to know. You burrow yourself as tight as you can in her arms. Focus on her steady heartbeat.

"I promise."

Chapter 5 Chapter Text

a/n: thought we'd go back a little bit, obviously set before Tara became Ghostface. Tara x reader's first time.

It's your fourth date. Officially.

You'd been going out with Tara for a few weeks now. When she'd first asked you out, all shy smiles and curious, wanting eyes, you couldn't believe your luck that a girl so pretty wanted to be with you. To be honest, you still couldn't believe it.

Butterflies flutter in your stomach. She'd invited you over for dinner and movies, not dissimilar to some of the other dates you'd had. Except this time her mom wasn't home. The way she'd said it, flirty, voice sort of high at the end, has your stomach in knots.

You'd never felt like this around anyone. There had been crushes, sure. A first kiss, first girlfriend for all of three weeks when you were fourteen. But nothing serious. Nothing like this.

Tara made your heart flutter. She made it sing.

You grip your palms, nervously. Knock swiftly on the door.

Tara answers almost immediately.

Her hair is down, she's wearing an apron. She smiles, wide, greets you with a kiss.

"Hi."

You hover in the doorway, trying to conceal the goofy smile that wants to overtake your entire face. She holds out her hand, and you take it as she leads you through the house and into the kitchen.

"I cooked for us." She says. She looks a little bashful. It smells amazing. Sundried tomatoes and chicken, pasta simmering on the stove.

"I didn't know you could cook."

But of course she could. She was perfect.

"Well, my mom's not really home that much, so I learned pretty early on." She shrugs. She lets go of your hand to stir one of the pots. Looks over at you, coy, "Worked out well though, all the girls seem to like it."

"All the girls, huh?" You tease. She looks back at you, her smile shy.

"Well. One girl. Hopefully."

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, a small smile on her lips.

You reach into your bag, hold out a bottle of your Dad's finest red. Stolen from his cabinet. What he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

"I brought wine."

Tara's midway pouring out two glasses when it happens. The house creaks a gentle groan, then the lights flicker. The power's out.

You stand a moment, blink into the darkness.

"Fuck."

You can make out her silhouette in the darkness. She fumbles around for her phone, presses the flashlight.

"The food."

The stovetop is out, you watch as Tara flashes the light across the chicken. Half-cooked.

"Perfect."

"Maybe it's the fuse?" You suggest, trying to be helpful. Tara flashes the light out the window. All the neighbors are dark too.

"Shit."

She fumbles around the drawers, drawing out some candles. Lights a couple, illuminating the room. She looks so pretty in the candlelight, is all you can think. Mused hair, pink lips, a little flour on her cheeks from the food.

She turns back at you, chewing her lip. Her pretty brown eyes are wide, mournful.

"Well, that's dinner gone." She looks over to the living room, as if she's just realizing, "And the power's out so no movie."

She looks upset. "I'm sorry, YN. Tonight was supposed to be perfect and now it's all ruined."

"Hey." You touch her arm, move a little closer, "It's not ruined. As long as I'm with you, it's perfect. Alright?"

She looks back at you doubtful.

"We have no food."

'That's not true." You say. Out of the corner of your eye you spot some bread on the counter. You move to it, help yourself to a couple of plates. "We've got bread. Do you have peanut butter? Jelly?"

She bites her lip.

"PB&J?" She asks. "That's not very romantic."

Butterflies flutter in your chest. She wants it to be romantic. Of course she does, idiot, you scold yourself, it's a date. You feel your cheeks getting hot.

"But a PB&J by candlelight is very romantic." You assure her, a little thankful she can't see how your cheeks burn in the darkness. "With wine, don't forget."

A smile plays on her lips.

"Second drawer on the right." Is all she says.

She might be a better cook than you, you reason as you slap peanut butter all over the bread, but nobody beats your PB&J's. When you're finished, she's poured out two glasses of wine, gestures for you to follow her past the dining room table.

Her house is nice, much nicer than yours. All high ceilings and leather furniture. This room is maybe the most impressive room, a long, cobbled fireplace sits in its center.

"We were going to eat at the table," She tells you, setting down the glasses. She reaches for a throw on the back of one of the sofa's. Lays it down on the floor, right in front of the fireplace, "But this is better. Like our own little picnic."

She takes the plates off you, lowers them to the floor.

"Here."

She's holding out her hand for you, helping lower you onto the floor.

"Do you know how to do that?" You ask, a little concerned with the way she fumbles with the firewood.

"Yeah. My sister taught me." She assures. She strikes a match, drops it against the wood. It flashes alight, the immediate smell of smoky wood fills the room. She looks back at you, smiling as she settles down next to you.

You hand her the sandwich, push the edge of your crust into hers.

"Cheers."

You take a small bite, watches as she does the same.

Lean against your hand. She mirrors you, lets the tip of her pinky brush yours. Electricity flows through you.

The fire burns bright. You're talking about school when she kisses you. Suddenly, out of nowhere, like she can't control herself any longer. The surprised gasp that slips from your lips lasts only a moment, before you're dropping your sandwich to the floor in favor of threading your fingers through her hair.

You kiss for a while, a familiar heat rising in your stomach. You'd often end up this way, making out desperately in the middle of your dates. This time feels different. It feels more urgent, feverish. You shiver as she pulls back, looks into your eyes.

The way she looks in the firelight, lips parted slightly, red and swollen. Beautiful brown eyes, wide and wanting. You want all of her. You want to give her all of you.

You swallow hard.

"Tara-" You trail off, a little nervous. How do you tell someone you want to give them your virginity?

She leans up to you, brushes the hair off your face with her fingers. You lick your lips. She wants it too, you can see it in her eyes.

"I've never-" You swallow. She's staring at your lips.

"Me either."

"Should we-"

"Yes."

You sigh as she crashes into you. All lips and tongue and roaming hands. She's pressing you back into the rug. Her weight on top of you feels impossibly good. The butterflies in your stomach are gone, instead fireworks explode, electrifying every part of you. Your body thrums hot, cheeks flushed with an uncontrollable desire for her. Her hands roam down your body, a little nervous, apprehensive, like she isn't quite sure what she's doing.

She's gripping the top of your jeans, with her fingers, pulling back from your lips just long enough to ask the question with her eyes.

God, yes.

You nod, and she lets out a breathy, excited little noise as she fumbles with the button of your jeans. It's not slick at all, it takes almost twenty seconds; her hands are shaking, but the look in her eyes when she's sliding them down your legs makes it more than worth it.

"Yours too." You murmur, sitting up slightly to reach for the button of her pants. You're quicker, help her out of them within seconds. She's pressing back into your lips, climbing into your lap. The feel of your hands on her bare thighs makes your head spin, her weight in your lap makes you throb between your legs. Your kisses are getting sloppier, more feverish as you pull the rest of each other's clothes off.

When she unclips your bra, your breasts spilling out, her pupils dilate.

"Oh my god." She says as she reaches up to take one in her hands. Her fingers immediately find your nipples. She dips down, takes one between her lips. You moan, the sensation new, and sexy. Her mouth is hot and wanting, her tongue flicking gently against your pebbled nipples. She works them in her mouth for a few moments before you're tugging her back with impatience, wanting your turn.

Hers are a little smaller than yours, but her nipples are just as hard. Your mouth waters as you take one between your lips, suckling gently. Her fingers thread through your hair, she lets out a tiny moan. You hold her by her hips, licking and sucking. When you trail kisses back up to her lips, she's looking down at you with dark, hooded eyes.

The warmth of the fireplace and her body combined as you flushed red. She pushes you down onto your back, hands wandering as she kisses you.

When her fingers hook your panties, your breath catches in your throat.

She tugs them down your legs, her eyes on yours. As she tosses them away you reach for hers.

She slips her thigh between your legs, groans as her lips crash onto yours.

You gasp. Her wet heat against your thigh, yours on hers. No barriers between you anymore, just you and her, naked and entwined in each other. The lights dimmed, illuminated only by the light of the fire and the candles.

She grinds against your leg for a moment.

The sensation is unreal. Her weight, impossibly good on you, the soft heat of her bare skin. Her desperate lips pressing hot kisses to your lips. Her excitement drizzling all over your leg.

Her hands are on your thighs, prying them open. She bites her lip as she settles in between them, hands roaming from the outside of your thighs to the inside.

Your hands are around her neck, keeping her close enough to kiss.

"Can I touch you, baby?" She whispers against your lips, breathless. You nod wildly.

"Please."

It isn't like when you touch yourself.

Her fingers brush across your slit, gently probing, exploring. She gathers the wetness from your entrance, rubs it down the length of you, her mouth open, eyes filled with desire.

She circles your clit, a little jerky. The moan that escapes your mouth is out of your control. She leans down into you, kisses you as she continues movements.

Small circles at first, warming you up. Everything feels hot: the heat of the fireplace, her swollen lips against yours, the burn of your cheeks. You clutch onto her shoulders, gasp as she dips her fingers lower, teasing your entrance.

When she hooks her finger up, slipping a single digit into your wet heat, you both moan.

Her eyebrows knit together. Your heart is thrumming, you think it might burst out of your chest. She's knuckle deep inside you, the tip of her finger hitting your g-spot perfectly.

"You're so tight." She marvels with wonder. Her voice is throaty and low. "Fuck."

She moves her hand slightly, movements a little jilted, unsure. You gasp as she hits your spot just right.

"Is this okay?" She asks, "I'm not hurting you?"

You shake your head, bite your lip.

"No." You say, "That feels so good. More please, baby."

She complies. Another finger sinks inside of you, stretching you out. She kisses you, tilting her fingers in and out, her pace glacial. Your fingernails sink into the bare skin of her back, trying to take her deeper. Your lips against her neck, groaning into her skin.

Her confidence is rising, the longer she's in you. She's paying close attention to the way you clench around her, the noises you make when she thrusts a little harder. It isn't long before you're rutting against her, orgasm building.

"I'm going to cum." You gasp out, right before it happens. Your body goes stiff against her as it washes over you. You moan, low and steady, as it overtakes your entire body, from the tips of your ears to the bottom of your heels. She kisses you through it.

You slump back onto the floor. She presses a gentle kiss to your chest, slowly withdrawing her fingers. When you look up at her, she has her own fingers in her mouth, sucking off your wetness. Her eyes black with want.

You swallow. Arousal surges through you.

Before your mind can even register, you're reaching up for her, tilting her back onto the floor. You spread her legs with your knees, only one thing on your mind.

She looks a little surprised, but her expression quickly changes to pure want the moment your fingers brush her.

Your heart is hammering again, lump in your throat. You are still so painfully turned on. Feeling her slick heat beneath your fingers only makes you want her more. You've done this to yourself before, so it isn't totally new, only she feels so much better. She's sticky, so wet, so warm. You graze your fingertips over her clit, watch the way her mouth opens, her eyes close as you tease her entrance.

When you sink inside of her for the first time, it's like an out of body experience. Warm, wet heat encompasses you. She grips your fingers, like her pussy is trying to keep you in place, exactly where you belong. She lets out a small, breathy gasp each time you curl your fingers up into her. She looks perfect: laid out before you, nipples hard, lips swollen, pussy dripping wet under your fingers.

You tell her so, lean down to kiss her.

She sighs up into your mouth.

You build a steady pace, copy what she'd done on you. It isn't long at all before you can feel how desperate she's getting, clawing at you, pussy tightening around your fingers. When she cums, she groans, low, cunt squeezing your fingers, eyes pressed tightly shut.

It's gorgeous. Beautiful.

You want to do this forever.

You kiss her through her orgasm, slow down as she breathes, her grip on you loosening. When you slip out of her, she grips onto you tight, pulls you down on top of her.

Your fingers are soaked. You bring them to your lips. Her scent is overwhelming, so good it makes your mouth water. She's bitter, it makes your tongue sting pleasantly, watering for more.

You lean down against her chest, let her shift slightly. She cradles you against her.

Her heartbeat is slowing down. You entwine your fingers with hers, close your eyes.

You feel her lips against the top of your head.

"That was-" She trails off. Squeezes your body slightly.

"Amazing." You finish for her. "We're so doing that again. And again. And again."

She chuckles. You open your eyes, watch as the fireplace flickers in front of you, burning its last log.

All you can feel is the rise and fall of her chest as she breathes against you. The smell of her skin as you breathe her in. Your eyes droop, as her fingertips rub gentle circles on her scalp.

Maybe this is what falling in love feels like.

Chapter 6 Chapter Text

For as long as Tara could remember, she’d had this thing inside her.

This hot, horrible, blackout anger that lived in her bones. Lurking just under the surface. It left her in shivers, cold sweats. It left her aching, panting. There was nothing quite like it.

Her Dad used to call it “The Rage”.

“Get a handle on The Rage, Tara.” He’d warn before dropping her off at school, “Remember. It’s just an emotion. Like any other emotion. You can control it.”

He was wrong, Tara couldn’t control it. No matter how hard she tried.

She couldn’t control it the day Peter Millwood stole her crayons. She’d whacked him across the face with her ruler with all the might of a four year old girl. Might have done worse had Mrs. Parker not frog-marched her straight to the Principal’s office.

She couldn’t control it the night her older sister Sam had stolen her barbie when she was six. She’d wrapped her hands around Sam’s throat, choking, choking, choking until Sam was screaming and her mother was prying her off and smacking her so hard over the backside it left angry, red welts for days.

Her childhood was scattered with incidents like that. Possessive. Child councilors had whispered to her father. Doesn’t share well with others.
They’d prescribed therapy sessions, pills that made her so sleepy she couldn’t concentrate in class. Her Dad hung up a poster on the back of her door; a picture of a thermometer. A sliding scale of five numbers: one, a little picture of a cartoon boy smiling, was happy. Five was a little old man, scowling and angry.

She’d gone to their sessions over and over. Their words in one ear and out the other. Nothing they said ever worked. “Five.” She’d growled at her father in the backseat of the car on the way home from a soccer match. A girl from the other team had tried to take the ball from her. The coach had stopped Tara before she could tackle her to the ground.

“One.” She’d announced happily sitting in the nurse's office after recess with a swollen hand. A boy much bigger than her had tried to bully her out of her lunch money. Tara had punched him square in the jaw.

Months flew by. Tara watched as her father turmoiled; no pill, no therapy session could fix her.

The night before Tara turned thirteen, her father walked out on them.

Sam blamed herself, but Tara knew the truth. It was her. It was the Rage. He’d spent every spare dime he had trying to fix her but it was impossible. She was a lost cause, after thirteen years, he’d finally figured it out.

Her mom seemed to think so too. She buried herself in work, business trips, vacations, boyfriends. Anything that kept her away from Woodsboro. Away from Tara.

Tara cried herself to sleep for two months straight the night he left.

The Rage had cost her a father, a mother and a sister. It wasn’t what she wanted. She didn’t like the things it made her do. It was like this thing inside of her that took over. Like a demon, swallowing her whole. It was angry, violent. It wanted to hurt.

And nothing or no-one could help her.

Sam moved out. Tara learned to spend her nights alone. She taught herself how to make simple foods, like pasta and steak. Her Dad hadn’t taken much when he’d left, so Tara worked her way through his film collection. She didn’t care much for the westerns, or the gangster flicks. She scrunched her nose up at the heist films and the rom-coms. But the horror movies? It was love at first sight.

She worked her way through the Halloween movies first. Then Nightmare on Elm Street. Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

Finally, came the Stab movies.

She’d grown up in Woodboro, she’d heard the stories about Ghostface.

Stupid name, she’d first thought. Stupider mask.
But the more she watched the more he grew on her. He began to fascinate her. His motives were always asinine, much like The Rage. The hairs on the back of her neck stuck up at every kill. She became obsessed. First it was the movies, then it was the books. She read every article, spent countless hours on youtube - interviews, theories, facts. She watched them all.

By the time she’d finished middle school, Tara could recite every stab movie by heart. Better than that - her focus on the Stab movies meant The Rage had finally lessened.

She didn’t flip out about trivial things anymore, like someone borrowing a pen, or eating her last stick of gum. Instead, she pictured herself in a Ghostface mask. The blade between her fingertips as she drove the knife deep into said pen-thieving, gum-stealer’s chest.

Then it had been enough. Just the thought of doing it. Back when she didn’t have anything worth stealing.

And then she met you.

It was like fate, kismet. Just like all the tales in all the stupid rom-coms she couldn’t stand to watch.

She’d been sitting in biology class, doodling in the line of her margin. When she’d looked up, you were there. Beautiful, ethereal. Her heart had almost stopped the moment you’d locked eyes.

She knew right then and there you were destined to be hers. The Rage purred. It coiled from her around you like an invisible string, tying your fates together.

The next day she’d asked you out. The next week she’d kissed you, soft and slow, under the gentle hum of your porchlight. And the week after that you were hers. Officially.

It was perfect. You were perfect.

Her special, perfect thing.

Instead of lonely nights on the couch, watching movies by herself, you were there.

She cooked for you, made you all the recipes she’d spent her early teens learning. Showed you all her favorite horror movies. Spent nights on nights making feverish love to each other. She was your first, and you were hers. Not two months in, naked and entwined, she told you she loved you for the first time.

She was completely and utterly enamored with you.

“Tell me about your first kiss.” You had whispered one night, laid across from her on the sofa.

Tara’s first kiss had been awful. With a boy from middle school who hadn’t bothered to take his gum out. You’d giggled at that.

And then she’d made a colossal mistake: she’d asked you about yours.

Aaron was his name, you’d recalled. He was cute. He’d made your stomach flip. Sometimes you’d see him in the halls. He had long hair now, and he didn’t really look too dissimilar to Tara. You’d told her so. Nudged your elbow in her stomach.

“Maybe I have a type.”

Tara had felt herself get light-headed. Her mouth prickled uncomfortably. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up.

Her heart hammered. White hot jealousy coiled through her veins. Her stomach dropped; It was back, worse than she’d ever felt it before. She could feel The Rage taking over.

Not at you, never at you.

Aaron. Some punk kid with long hair who had dared touch you before she even knew you.

Her hands itched, she’d needed to hurt something. Someone. Aaron perhaps.

She imagined him under her, screaming out as she drove her knife into his throat.

“You okay, baby?” You’d asked. Your hands on her back, rubbing softly, “I was just kidding.” You leaned in, pressed a kiss to her cheek, “You’re way cuter than Aaron.”

Tara had kissed you hard. Shelved The Rage.

The Rage had ruined everything good in her life, it wasn’t about to take you as well. She’d do everything in her power to protect you from it.

English class. Her knee was bouncing.

Withdrawal maybe, from you. It was the only class you didn’t share together. You’d been dating for months now, barely a moment without her. Everyday you were hers, The Rage got stronger.

It wasn’t just Aaron. You’d had a girlfriend before her, Sadie. You still shared a class together. The Rage wanted her gone, just like Aaron. Your best friend, Chase, watched you with moon eyes. You never noticed but Tara did. The Rage did. It coiled inside her, beating its fists against her chest, screaming to be let out.

She was pale today, dark circles underneath her eyes. She hadn’t slept a wink. She’d held you tight all night, gripping you as if Aaron or Sadie or Chase was about to break in and steal you from her.

Over her dead body.
In fact she was so exhausted, she’d thought she’d imagined it when she heard the boys two rows in front of her saying your name. She tilted her head, listened a little harder.

“YN. I have Math with her.” Sounded one of the boys. The other one groaned. “Lucky, dude.”

“Tell me about it. She’s so fucking hot.”

Tara leaned in. Gripped her pencil so hard it snapped. The blood rushed to her ears as she felt The Rage taking over.

“I might try to hit that this weekend. She’s always at Freeman’s parties.”

The other boy had scoffed. “Dude. She’s with Tara Carpenter. Good fucking luck.”

“Please.” Leered the first boy, “Chicks dating chicks is hot and all, but I bet she’s missing the D. All it would take is a couple of drinks and she’ll be all over me.”

He had leaned back in his chair with all the swagger of an eighteen year old virgin.

“Besides. Who knows. Carpenter’s pretty hot too. Maybe she’ll join in.”

Tara didn’t remember getting home.

She was shaking. Blood rushing to her ears. She’d got into the shower, fully clothed. Turned on the facet, straight to cold, hoping she could shock it out of her system.

One, two, three. The breathing exercises her Dad had taught her.

Five, five, five. Kill him, kill him, kill him.
It had never been this strong before. This wild. When she was a child she’d wanted to hurt, sure. She’d want to punch, or kick, or choke. In her fantasies she stabbed people - but it wasn’t real, it was just a daydream. This time, she’d wanted to kill him. A fantasy wasn’t enough.

One. Two. Three.
The cold water wasn’t working. She turned it to hot. Let the water scald her skin.

One. Two. Three.
She let out a long, dry sob. It felt like her insides were burning. Rage filled every part of her - from the painful throb of her chest to the fire-like blood flowing through her veins. She could feel her cheeks red, angry.

One. Two. Three.
“Baby?” Her head jerked up. It was you. You pried open the bathroom door.

“Tara?” You stared for a moment.

She looked a sight. Fully clothed, shoes and all, sat at the bottom of the shower dry heaving.

You were at her side in an instant.

“Baby.” You’d cooed as you pulled her to her feet, “What happened?”

The Rage pounded at her chest, like angry fists trying to claw through her ribcage. She could barely speak. You had turned off the facet, pulled her soaking body into yours.

“Come on, baby. Let's get you out of these wet clothes.”

You wrapped her in a towel, dropping to your knees to untie her shoes. She stood, soaking wet and shivering as you pulled jeans down her legs.

“You’re freezing.” You’d said. Wrapped her tight in your arms. Her body was shaking, but it wasn't because of the cold. If anything, she felt too hot. You had rubbed her arms, kissed her forehead. She’d buried her face in your chest, her hands gripping tight around your waist.

Mine. The Rage growled. You’re mine.
You’d fussed over her. Drying her hair with a towel, trying to coax her into bed.

When you’d leaned over her, pulling the sheets up to her neck, she had grabbed you by the wrist.

“YN.” She murmured, “YN. Baby.”

“It’s all right, sweetheart.” You had said, “I’m here. I’m just going to get you a hot water bottle and then I’ll be right back-”

Tara shook her head, tugging you down a little harder.

You let out a quiet gasp as she grabbed you by the hips, pulled you down to her.

“Shhh.” She’d murmured. Wild eyes. “I need to fuck you. Now. Please.”

You hadn’t put up much of a protest. She was feverish. Angry. Rough. Each thrust of her hips sent shockwaves through your entire body.

“Mine.” She had growled in your ear as you came hard around her fingers.

But not even fucking you could satiate The Rage. It thumped, still there, ever present. It was tormenting her. Flashes of you on your back, the boy from biology thrusting deep inside you. Another flash, you on your hands and knees, him pounding you into the mattress. It made her sick. It made her hands itch with anger.

It’s you or him. The Rage sing-songed at her. Stick your knife in him before he can stick his cock in her.
Your fingers on her cheek had snapped her out of it, only for a moment.

“Tell me what’s wrong, sweetheart.” You’d said. “Where did that come from?”

She’d looked down at you: lips swollen from her wild kisses. Angry red marks on your hips from where she’d grabbed you and held you down. She’d swallowed hard. She knew what she had to do.

“Don’t worry.” She’d said. Pressed a gentle kiss to your lips, “I had a problem. But I think I know how to fix it.”

She’d dropped you home later that night.

Then, she drove into town and bought herself a Ghostface mask.

She was spiraling.

She could feel it, thrumming, taking over. She was losing control.

The first murder was sweet relief. She hadn’t meant to kill two of them. Dan was his name, the awful boy who had plotted to get you drunk and steal you from her. She’d been halfway through tearing her dagger down his stomach when his older brother had walked in.

She’d had to kill him too. No witnesses. She did it quick, felt kind of bad about it afterwards.

The boost of serotonin at the look on Dan’s face when she’d driven her knife into his stomach more than made up for it.

For the first time in her life The Rage was satisfied.

But it wasn’t to last. It itched at her, the fact there were still people out there that had known the taste of your lips on their mouths. The Rage wanted them dead. Tara wanted them dead. Ghostface wanted them dead.

It was far too much to fight off her natural instincts. She was tired of fighting it. Exhausted. Now she’d known the feeling of her knife sinking deep into someone’s flesh, she didn’t think she could stop it even if she tried.

Aaron was next. She’d slit his throat while he begged for mercy.

Then Sadie. She’d stabbed her twelve times in the back. Once for every day you’d been hers.

Then Chase was all that was left.

And the worst had happened.

“Don’t be scared.” She’d murmured as you stared back at her, eyes wide and fearful. Lip trembling. Chase’s blood still dripping off her hands, “I would never hurt you.”

It was true. She’d never hurt you. Not even if you had run from her that night. Not even if you'd called the police. She’d turn her knife and drive it through her own heart before she’d ever lay a finger on you.

But you hadn’t run. You’d stayed, loved her despite the monster that lived inside her.

The Rage had taken everyone else, but not you.

Mine. It murmured everytime she was close to you. Sometimes she’d say it aloud. You’d nestle into her, hold her tight.

Yours.

Chapter 7 Chapter Text

You’re bored. Tara’s friends are boring.

It’s the fifth night this week they’ve been over.

It made sense, you guess. Since Amber’s murder they’d been a little clingier than usual. They’d lost one of their own, it checked out they would want to grieve as a pack.

But five nights in a row. You were losing your sanity.

Wes brought the video games, Mindy the alcohol, Chad the weed. Liv brought herself.

They’d park up in Tara’s living room, stay until two or three in the morning.

They’d completely interrupted you and Tara’s perfect routine; gone were the sleepy nights on the couch curled up into each other. Gone were Tara’s romantic meals, the bubble baths, making out in front of the fireplace. Instead, you sat on a couch wedged between Chad and Liv, competing with an Xbox for your girlfriend’s attention. The worst part was, Tara didn’t seem to mind.

“Mario kart?” Chad suggests. It’s late, almost eleven.

You’d kind of hoped they'd get bored and go home, especially since the last of the weed had been smoked and Mindy had forgotten to buy beer.

Desperately you willed Tara to tell them to go.

“Sure.” She says instead. Reaches over you to grab one of the controllers, “Hope you’re ready to get your ass whipped.”

You sink back into the couch.

Perfect.

The weed made Tara mellow a little. She got sleepy and by the time the two of you went to bed she was definitely too tired for sex. It made you a little antsy. Usually Tara couldn’t get enough of you. It wasn’t unusual for the two of you to fuck every night. You haven’t had sex with her in over a week and it’s killing you.

You feel on edge. Press your hand to the small of Tara’s back, just wanting to touch her. Usually, she was all over you. Not tonight. She’s too captivated by Wes’ stupid video game. Both hands gripping the controller tight. You hate this. She’s made you jealous of an inanimate object.

“You suck at this.” Chad tells her as he laps her.

You rub Tara’s back. Slip your hand under her shirt, absent-mindedly. You miss her. The warmth of her skin. She retracts herself slightly, turning to shoot you a look.

“Baby.” Tara says, frowning, “I’m trying to win.”

Hurt swells in your chest. She’s competitive, you know that. Still, the rejection makes your heart clench painfully. You withdraw your hand.

“I’m going to shower.” You mumble, more to yourself than anyone else.

She hums in response. Her eyes don’t leave the television.

The shower doesn’t help. Your body feels tight. You close your eyes, try to relax. Drift your hand down, touch yourself. You rub circles on your clit, picture Tara. Her smile, her lips. Imagine her on top of you, her weight. The tiny noises she makes as she fucks you. It almost works. You bring yourself to the edge. Furrow your brow.

Sigh. It isn’t enough. You don’t want the thought of her, you want the real thing.

You finish up, dry yourself off. Maybe you’ll just go to bed. The idea of going back downstairs and watching Tara play video games for another two hours sounds like hell. You slip into a tank top, don’t bother with a bra. Slip on a pair of tiny, black panties. Catch the look of yourself in the mirror. You look hot. Fuckable. You bite your lip, tingle running through you. All you want is for Tara to come upstairs and press you into the mattress.

You might know how to get it.

They’re still playing when you walk downstairs. Your stomach flips, knowing exactly what’s about to go down. She’s going to be furious with you. If anything’s going to get her away from that stupid video game this is it.

You feel the entire room freeze as you walk back into it. Chad and Wes stare. Even Liv looks up from her phone. No one’s looking at the screen anymore. Tara looks up at you. Blinks once. Then twice.

“What do you think you’re doing?” She asks. There isn’t too much heat in her voice, not yet. Almost pure disbelief.

You shrug. Hop down on the couch next to her. “Just getting ready for bed. Who’s winning?”

The television blares. The controllers abandoned. Wes scratches his head, looks away from you, blush rising on his cheeks. Like a moth to a flame, Chad’s eyes flicker down to your chest. But you’re not watching them. Your eyes are on your girlfriend.

She’s livid. You can almost seem the steam coming out of her ears as she stares at you. She’s shuffling out of her own jacket, trying to wrap it around your shoulders. Your top is see-through, your panties barely cover you. You know you’re putting on a show. You’re past caring. You want these people out. If you have to get naked to do so, so be it.

“Put this on.” Tara orders. She tries to pull the jacket around your shoulders. You shuffle away from her, defiant.

“No. I’m not cold.”

Her brown eyes blaze. If looks could kill, you’d be six feet under. Wes stands. Awkwardly runs his hands through his bleach blonde hair.

“We should go.” He suggests.

“Maybe we should stay.” Chad suggests, an eyebrow raised. Liv whacks him.

“Or go.” He declares standing up, a little hasty, “Bye Tara. Good luck, YN.”

They filter out one by one.

Tara doesn’t take her eyes off you. You can feel the tension radiating off her. Quiet fury, the scariest kind. You’ve never pushed her like this before, your stomach thrums with the thought of what she might do. Bend you over the couch, maybe? Throw you on the floor, or spread you out on the dining room table? You feel yourself get hot at the thought.

When the front door clicks shut, all hell breaks loose. She stands, the controllers clatter to the floor.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Tara hisses, “Parading yourself in front of all my friends dressed like that.”

“I was hoping one of them would fuck me.” You say. “Since you have no interest in doing it yourself, apparently.”

It’s a dangerous game you’re playing. Her eyes darken. You don’t care, you’re angry too. Frustrated. You miss her. You just want her to claim you.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” You say. “I wanted one of them to fuck me. Maybe Chad. He’s kind of cute. Hell, Wes too, why not? Maybe they’d take turns. You can play your stupid little video-game and watch.”

That does it. Her eyes flash. She swallows, hard. Clenches her jaw.

“Get upstairs.” She says, voice low, dangerous. “Now.”

You don’t have to be told twice. You practically leap off the couch. She’s following, heavy foreboding footsteps behind you. By the time you get to the bedroom, your heart is racing. She slams the door behind her, tears off her jeans. You watch as she reaches into the top drawer of the bedside cabinet.

You don’t bother to undress. Making her angry is turning you on. She hasn’t fucked you in days. Your body craves it, craves her. You want her to remember what’s hers. You want to see how far you can take it. She pulls off the rest of her clothes, tightens the strap-on around her waist. Your mouth waters at the sight.

“Take off your clothes.” She orders as she tightens the strap around her waist.

“No.”

She looks up at you. You don’t often defy her when she’s like this. You were like putty in her hand most nights. It’s almost fun to watch the look in her eyes as you challenge her.

“Take off your clothes.” She tries once more.

“Make me.”

She blinks back at you. Your stomach flips as you watch her. She steps towards you, hands rough as she grabs at the base of your tiny tank top, ripping it clean off.

“Come here.”

She tugs you to her, rough. A flurry of movement as she settles herself onto the edge of the bed, her hands tight around your waist. Then she’s pulling you onto her lap.

“No.” She says as you try to wrap your arms around her neck and kiss her, “Face down. Now.”

She pushes your head down, hard. Lays you flat across her lap, ass up.

Her hands are soft, softer than they should be as they brush the fabric of your panties.

“Don’t you ever do that again.” She says. She’s serious, stern. “Don’t you ever show yourself off like that.”

Then she smacks your backside. Hard.

You gasp.

The sting sends a rush through your body. She hits you again.

“Is this what you wanted?” She growls. Hits your ass once more. “You wanted to be over my lap like this? You wanted to be punished?”

“Yes.” You gasp out. Arousal pulses through you.

She tugs your panties down your legs and smacks you again. The sound of her palm hitting your bare skin echoes through the room.

Your cheeks flush red.

“You’re mine. I’m the only person who gets to see you like that. I’m the only person that gets to fuck you. Say it.”

You bite your tongue. She smacks you so hard you whimper.

“Say it.”

“You’re the only one who gets to fuck me.” You say.

“And?”

“I’m yours.”

She continues her assault. Lands smack after smack to your reddening skin. By the time she’s done you’re gasping, pussy dripping wet, ass beet red.

You almost moan the moment you feel her relax, hands smoothing over the red skin. Her other hand is in your hair, stroking, almost soft before she grabs a fistful and tugs your head back.

“Get on your back and spread your legs. Now.”

You clamber off her. Do as you’re told this time. She’s spanked the defiance out of you. You’re so wet you can feel it dripping down your thighs, you need to her fuck you. More than you’ve ever need it before.

Your body pulses as you spread your legs wide for her.

She’s on you in an instant. Tugging your hips to her, settling between her legs. She doesn’t bother with foreplay. No doubt she can see how pathetically turned on you are. You feel the dildo at your entrance, then she’s sinking into you for the first time in days. You almost orgasm right there on the spot. You moan, grab for her, trying to pull her down. You want to kiss her. She slaps your hands away, grabs them and holds them high above your head.

In your euphoria, you’d briefly forgotten how angry she was.

“You told me you wanted to get fucked, so I’m going to fuck you.” She growls. Her eyes are black, the way they got only when she was like this. “I’m going to fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk tomorrow. I’m going to fuck you so hard the neighbors will hear you scream.”

She drives her hips into you, hard. You cry out; it sends shockwaves through your entire body. She slams into you once more, her thrusts deep, hard. Merciless. She doesn’t let up. Doesn’t allow you time to get used to the length of her cock as she pounds it into you. You don’t care, you like the burn. This is all you’d wanted. Tara, your Tara, wild over you, possessive, rough. Taking what’s hers.

And then she’s fucking you so hard you can barely form a coherent thought.

Her hands snake tight around your throat, choking you just hard enough you start to get light-headed. She’s grunting, the force of her entire weight behind her thrusts builds you so quickly to the edge.

“Fuck.” You gasp.

The mattress squeaks, debauched sounds of her skin slapping into yours as she pounds into you.

“Fuck.” She’s gasping too. She removes her hands from your throat and grips your hips so hard her fingers turn white.

“Who do you belong to?” She’s asking, but you can barely hear her over the blood pounding in your ears. The feeling of her cock rocketing up into you, splitting you open has encompassed every sense you have.

Her fingers grab your cheeks, forcing you to look at her.

“Who do you belong to?”

“You. I belong to you.” You gasp out. She grabs your hips, speeds up her pace.

“Who does this pussy belong to?”

“You.”

“That’s right.” She growls. Her hands are back around your neck, squeezing. “You’re mine. Your pussy is mine. These are mine.”

She grabs your breasts, flicks your nipples with her fingers. Her hips don’t stop moving. You can’t take much more, you feel your stomach coiling.

“Every part of you belongs to me. Don’t you ever show yourself off again. To anyone. Do you understand me?”

You’re nodding wildly. Half-lidded eyes. At that she seems satisfied. She reaches down between your bodies and circles your clit.

You cum. Hard. White light flashes behind your eyelids, every part of your body feels like it’s on fire. Your pussy throbs around her. The low cry you let out sounds almost inhuman.

She doesn’t relent. Pounds you through your orgasm. Her thrusts are angry, hard. Unforgiving. You tremble beneath her, heart almost beating out of your chest. She thrusts into you once more, then she’s sliding out of you, propping herself on her knees.

“Turn over.” She growls.

Your pussy aches, the orgasm almost too much. You feel light-headed, sensitive. You grip at her forearm.

“Baby-“

“I’m not done with you. Turn over.”

You don’t dare disobey her. Your pussy throbs, your ass stings from the force of her hands. You clamber onto your hands and knees. She’s lining herself up again, sinking into you without any warning. You grunt as she pushes you face down into the mattress, her cock sinking all the way inside.

She pushes your head down into the mattress.

You feel each thrust. Your body is starting to feel it now, the way she’s been manhandling you. She lands another smack to your bright red cheeks and you almost cry out from the pain. But then she tilts her hips in such a way that you’re gasping her name out into the pillow.

You can feel another orgasm building.

She’s grunting. Her hands are around your thighs, tilting her hips so she can get as deep as possible. She hits the right spot once, then twice, then you’re moaning loudly into the pillow as your orgasm overtakes you. You feel her hips jerk, nails digging into your skin as she cums too.

You’re quivering when she pulls out. You barely feel her slip out of the strap-on and nestle down beside you. Your heartbeat is in your ears. Your entire body aches.

You shake as you feel her hands on your back, trying to pull you into her.

“Come here.” Tara says. She tugs you into her chest and wraps you in her arms. She presses a long kiss to your forehead. You shiver.

“Good girl.” She says. The anger is gone. She strokes a protective hand over your back. “Are you okay?”

You nod into her chest. Angry red hand marks bloom on your hips, your ass cheeks still red from when she’d put you over her knee. Your pussy aches, but in a good kind of way. The kind it always did when she made you hers like this.

Her hands skim over your bare skin, rubbing, apologetic. She presses another kiss to the top of your head.

“You need to never do that again.” She warns, circling a protective arm around you. “I’m serious, baby. You know what it does to me.”

You do know. You know she’s killed people for just talking about wanting you. You’d put all of her friends in danger tonight. More than than, you’d awakened that part of her she was trying so desperately to shelve for you. You press a kiss to her chest, trying to steady her beating heart.

“I know.” You murmur, “I’m sorry. I just wanted you to pay attention to me.”

It sounds so childish when you say it like that.

She looks at you for a long moment.

“I’m sorry, baby-girl.” She says, “I’ve been neglecting you.”

For the first time all night, she leans down and kisses you softly.

“You’re my whole world. You know that.” She says, strokes her finger over your cheek. You look up into her eyes. The black is gone, replaced by her soft brown irises.

“I know.” You say. Bury your face into her chest. This was all you wanted. Just you and her, the way it should be.

“I’m sorry too.” You murmur into her skin. “I don’t want Wes or Chad, I don’t even know why I said that. I’d rather die than be with someone that isn’t you.”

She likes that. You can tell by the way she curls her hand into the base of your neck, protectively. You yawn, a little sleepy.

“School’s going to be hell tomorrow.” You say, remembering the show you’d put on.

“We’re not going to school tomorrow.” Tara says. She rubs a lazy hand down your bare back, “We’re going to sleep in, and then I’m going to make you pancakes.” She presses a heavy kiss to the top of your head. “And then I’m going to make you cum for every day I didn’t last week.”

That does sound appealing. Your stomach flips. You press your lips to her chest.

“Love you.” You mumble into her skin.

“Love you too.”

Chapter 8 Chapter Text

Wes is acting weird. Weirder than usual.

You’ve felt it ever since the night of Amber’s party. He had always been one of Tara’s quieter friends. Shy, almost. But he was sweet, and he’d always had a lot in common with Tara. They both liked those awful, gory horror movies. Video-games. They had the same taste in food and in books. In fact, out of all of Tara’s friends, you think you liked Wes the most. He’d been the first to welcome you into the group when you’d started dating Tara, and he always went out of his way to make you feel like you belonged.

But over the past week he’d been acting even stranger.

It had started in the cafeteria on Monday, when you’d arrived late to lunch and climbed into your usual spot in Tara’s lap. He’d watched you close as you’d kissed her softly, fed her the last of your grapes. He was just lonely, you figured. He wanted a girlfriend of his own, maybe.

But then Tuesday he’d looked down at your entwined hands in the hall and made a face. Something you couldn’t quite place in his expression.

Wednesday he’d left the table the moment you and Tara sat down.

And Thursday he spent the entire biology lesson staring at the back of Tara’s head. And something clicked.

“Wes has a crush on you.” You tell Tara that night. She’s in the kitchen, one hand stirring the potatoes, the other minding the chicken. You’d been thinking about it all afternoon. Stewing about it all afternoon. The idea of him and her made your stomach writhe with hot, wanton jealousy.

Tara looks up at you for a moment. Then, she quirks her eyebrow and snorts.

“It’s not funny.” You tell her, smacking her arm gently.

“Why on earth would you think that?” She asks. She’s amused, you can tell by the sparkle in her eyes. You’re not laughing.

“I caught him staring at you today.” You say, “All through biology. He couldn’t take his eyes off you.”

She stirs the chicken, a smile playing on her lips.

“Maybe he was daydreaming.” She suggests, a little wry.

“Babe. He wasn’t daydreaming. He was staring. He has a crush on you.”

Tara puts down her spoon, reaches for you.

“Wes doesn’t have a crush on me,” Tara assures. She pulls you into her, presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. “He’s like my brother. You have nothing to worry about.”

She makes her point with a kiss. Strokes the hair out of your eyes.

“It’s not you I’m worried about.” You mumble. You feel hot, a little tingly. It had been hard for you at first to understand why Tara got so angry when she thought someone liked you. You think you understand it now. Anger burns under your skin. Anger towards him.

“Stop worrying.” She kisses you once more. Retracts to go back to her cooking, “Wes is harmless. And he doesn’t like me. I’ve known him forever.”

It feels unfair, the way she’s allowed to brush this off so easily. Your mind can’t help but wander. Dan. Sam. Sadie. Chase. Amber. All with one thing in common.

“If he had a crush on me, you’d have killed him by now.” You don’t often bring it up, the elephant in the room. It was unspoken between you. Like if you didn’t talk about it, it didn’t exist.

Tara looks up at you. She isn’t smiling anymore.

“That’s different.” She says, quiet. Your lip twitches.

“How?”

“You know how.”

You do know how. She’d explained it, one night when you were entwined and your curiosity had gotten the better of you. The Rage, she’d called it. She described the feeling. Hot, ever-present, like burning bright fury coursing through her veins.

“Well, maybe that’s how I’m feeling right now.”

It feels like a low blow, the moment the words leave your lips. If you were honest, you had no idea what The Rage felt like. This was something different. Something less. Insecurity, maybe. Jealousy. You didn’t want Wes thinking of your girlfriend the way only you were supposed to.

“So what are you saying?” Tara asks, “You want to kill him? You want me to kill him?”

You hesitate a moment.

“No. Of course not.”

“Good.” She says. There’s tension in her shoulders. She stirs the potatoes, a little more violently, “Because I won’t. He’s my friend.”

She points her spatula at you, accusingly, “And besides, you made me promise-”

“I know.” You cut her off. Rub your eyes, “I’m sorry. Forget it. I don’t know why I said that.”

You lean into her, press your forehead to her shoulder. She’s tense. You press your lips to the back of her neck, trying to soothe her. Trying to apologize.

“You’re right, he was probably daydreaming.” You say and she relaxes.

Wes isn’t in school the next day. It’s still there in the back of your mind, the idea that he wants your girlfriend. You try to shake it, the horrible feeling of suspicion that seeps into your bones. He has no chance with her even if he does like her, you tell yourself, She loves you. She wants you.

If nothing else you can believe that.

It’s Friday, date night, and Tara’s taking you out to a new place that opened up a couple of towns over. You want to wear something special, look nice for her, so you insist she drives you back to your house so you can grab your outfit after school. She parks in her usual spot, down a small side street so your dad doesn’t see her and switches off the engine.

“I’ll only be five minutes.” You tell her, leaning over the console of the car to kiss her, “Thanks, baby.”

And you exit the car and dash up to the house.

Your dad isn’t home, a small blessing, so you make your way upstairs and rifle through your closet, looking for the dress you want.

Not a minute later, someone is ringing your doorbell.

When you answer, it’s Wes standing at the door.

He looks terrible. Dark circles under his eyes. He’s jittery, nervous. He swallows when he sees you.

“YN.” His voice is serious, “Can I come in?”

This is it, you think as he plays with the can of soda you’ve offered him, he’s about to tell me he’s going to make a play for my girlfriend.

He’s refused your offer to sit down so you stand, watching as he paces back and forth through your kitchen.

Your stomach writhes, that familiar feeling of jealousy sinking in.

Tara will rebuff him.

It’s that voice in your head, trying to calm you.

But then again, what if she doesn’t?

Wes sits. Flattens his hands on the table. His knee is bouncing, nervous. He looks as though he might throw up.

“I have to tell you something.”

You blink back at him. Grit your teeth.

“Alright.”

You wait, but he takes a minute. Decent of him to pay you a visit, you think briefly, as decent as a person could be when he’s about to try and steal your girlfriend from you. Your mind flashes to all those times he’d been with her alone. Taking her to the cinema to watch whatever latest slasher was showing. Talking for hours with her about the importance of elevated horror over a plate of fries at the local diner. You wonder if that’s how he’d fallen for her. A beautiful girl talking animatedly with him about a bunch of teenagers who’d been carved up by a masked killer.

If only he knew.

“I don’t want you to freak out.” Wes says. His eyes are wide, earnest. “I’ve thought really long and hard about this and I wanted to come here first. You deserve the truth.”

He runs a hand through his bleached hair. He’s handsome, you suppose. You could see the appeal. They’d make an attractive couple. Your heart clenches painfully at the thought.

Tara loves you. Tara’s killed for you. Tara doesn’t want him.

The voice is back. You’re grateful for it. Wes could tell Tara he wanted her until he was blue in the face, it wouldn’t make a lick of a difference.

“Wes-” You say. You think for a moment, trying to pick your words carefully, “I know what you’re going to say. And-”

“You don’t.” Wes says. His leg is bouncing again, “Please, YN. I need to get this out now or I won’t be able to say it.”

You stare.

“Do you remember that party a few weeks back? The night Amber died?” His voice is shaky, uneven. You frown. That’s when Wes realized he was in love with Tara? The night one of his best friends was being murdered?

“Of course.” You say.

Your phone buzzes in your hand. You look down at it, see Tara’s name flash across the screen.

almost done babygirl? not getting any younger over here.

“Is that Tara? Don’t answer it.” Wes says, voice urgent. “Please.”

You put your phone on the counter.

“Wes, I have dinner reservations. Whatever you need to say-”

“My mom has this theory.” He interrupts, “I’ve overheard her talking about before. The attacks, they’re not random. They’re all connected.”

Something niggles at you in the pit of your stomach.

“I’m confused.” You say, “What are we talking about?”

“Amber made a pass at you that night.” Wes continues on as if he didn’t hear you, “In front of all of us, do you remember?”

Your stomach flips. Wes is staring at you, his eyes wild. Suddenly, you think you’ve got everything wrong.

“Yes.” You say, voice low, “So what?”

“Sadie was your ex-girlfriend. Chase was your best friend.” Wes says, “Everyone knew he liked you. Including Tara.”

The room’s getting smaller, closing in. You press your hand to the counter, suddenly wishing you’d sat down.

“The other two - I don’t know, maybe they liked you. Maybe you had a thing with one of them at some point.” He’s rambling but you can barely hear him. “I think they were killed because they liked you. Same with Sadie, same with Chase, same with Amber.”

The blood’s rushing to your head. You grip the counter so hard your fingers turn white.

Wes doesn’t seem to notice. He takes another shaky breath, looks you straight in the eyes.

“I think Ghostface is killing people who are connected to you.” He says. “YN, I think Tara is Ghostface.”

The room spins. The hair on the back of your neck rises tall. Every atom in your body courses thick, fast, in a mesh of panic and fear and confusion.

He knows.

His eyes are wide, desperate to convince you.

“Please don’t panic.” He says. He rises, reaches for you. His hands press hard around your forearms. Your face is white, he must see how you look as if you might pass out.

“I know it sounds crazy. I know it’s a shock. But I’m certain. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t certain.”

Your mouth opens, then closes. You have questions, so many questions. You want to know how he knows, what he knows. You want to know everything. You don’t know how to ask.

“Have you told anyone else?” The most pressing question spills from your mouth before you can stop it. His mom is the sheriff, god, his mom is the sheriff. If she knows it’s over. Tara will be in a cell by sunset.

He shakes his head, wildly, “No. I wanted to come to you first. I wanted to keep you away from her before she could hurt you too.”

You exhale. You can’t hide your relief. He catches it, his eyes knit tight in confusion.

“YN, do you understand what I just told you? Tara is Ghostface.”

You take a breath. Look him in the eye. Wes is sweet. He’s nice. And Tara is his friend. You can talk him down, you know you can.

“Wes, that’s-” You take a shaky breath, “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

He stares at you, shakes his head.

“No, no it’s not. YN-”

“Tara is not Ghostface.” You tell him firmly, “She’s my girlfriend. She’s your friend.”

“It’s her, YN. I’m sure. Think about it. Where was she, that night that Amber died?” He’s staring at you, searchingly, desperate to convince you.

“She was with me.” You insist, “She drove me home. I stayed with her, in her bed. She was with me the whole night. If she had left, I would have known.”

Something flickers behind his eyes. His eyebrows knit tight in confusion.

“She didn’t drive you home.” He says, voice a little flat. “I saw Sam pick you up. I watched Tara put you in the car.”

Your heartbeat pounds. Idiot, you think, of course he saw you. why did you lie?

The look in your eyes is all he needs. His blue eyes blink back at you as he pieces it together. Hurt, confusion, realization.

“Oh my god.” He says, as it dawns on him, “You already know. You already know it’s her.”

Your fingers grip white on the countertop. You swallow hard.

“Wes. You’re confused. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

He backs away from you slowly, runs his fingers through his bleach blonde hair.

“I can’t believe this. I can’t fucking believe this. Are you in on it with her?” He’s staring at you with wide eyes. He’s scared.

“I’m such a fucking idiot.”

“Wes, calm down.” You reach for him but he jerks back away from you. “Wes.”

Your mind races. In all your effort to unravel his theory, you’d only confirmed it more. Tara flashes through your mind. Her sweet smile. Dark, chocolate-eske eyes. Freckle-kissed face.

You think of Wes driving madly to the police station, pointing the finger at her. You think of the Sheriff pulling up to Tara’s house in a squad car and dragging her away in handcuffs.

You think of Tara in a cell. Tara in an orange jumpsuit. The smack of the Judge’s gavel as he declares he guilty and locks her away for life. Far away from Woodsboro. Far away from you.

You’re thinking of her when you grab the knife.

It happens in a flash. Wes launches himself at the door, trying to make a break for it. Adrenaline rushes through you. The handle is cool around your palm as you wrap your fingers around it. You surge forward, grab the back of Wes’ shirt and tug him towards you. In a panicked, heavy swing, you thrust the knife forward and sink it into Wes’ back.

He cries out, stumbles forward onto the carpet. The knife is lodged deep between his shoulder blades. You don’t think, you act. Rush forward and take the handle between your fingertips. He yells out again as you pull the blade out. Thrust it forward once more, then twice, then three times until his whimpering is dying down and your hands are coated thick with his blood.

He falls limp beneath you, face down on the cool tile of the kitchen floor. Your hands shake as the knife clatters to the fall.

Over the blood in your ears, you hear your phone buzzing.

You stumble backwards, grab it from the kitchen counter. It’s Tara, her smiling face looks back at you as you coat the phone bloody.

“Five minutes my ass.” Her voice is light, she’s teasing, “Maybe I need to buy you a watch.”

“Tara.” You whimper into the phone. Your hands are shaking. You stare down at Wes’ bloodied body.

He stares back at you, lifeless. Dead.

“Baby?” You hear the concern in her voice, “What’s wrong?”

“Tara,” You gasp into the phone. You feel dizzy, like you might pass out, “Tara, please you have to come, I’ve done something really bad. Tara-”

“Don’t move, I’ll be right there. Stay on the line with me, sweetheart. Tell me what happened.”

But you can’t, you don’t even know it yourself. It’s all a blur. The shake of Wes’ knee, his blue eyes earnest, worried. Fearful as he backed away from you. Glassy now as he stares back at you. Tears roll down your face as you sob into the phone.

By the time you hear the front door open, you’ve sunken down into the floor, wide-eyed, clutching the phone in your hands as you look at the sight in front of you.

When she enters, you watch as she freezes. Blood splattered across the floor. On the ceiling. All over you. Wes’ lifeless body at the center. Her eyes linger on him, wide and mournful.

“Baby. What have you done?”

“I had no choice.” You feel tears spill from your eyes. The awful metallic smell of blood permeates from your red hands. “He knew, Tara, he knew.”

She’s moving over to you, kneeling down to your level. You sob as you feel the warmth of her on you, her fingers on your face, brushing your blood soaked hair out of your eyes, on your shoulders, tugging you into her.

“He knew what, baby?”

She takes your hands, looking for something, inspecting. Cuts, maybe. There’s no point. It’s all his blood.

You choke back a sob. She pulls you in close.

“He knew you were Ghostface.” You say, tears are streaming thick and fast down your face now, “He came here to tell me. He didn’t know I knew.”

Your voice shakes, “He was going to go to the police, I had no choice-”

“Oh, honey.” She pulls you into her, nestles her hand in your hair. You choke back a sob. Press your face to her chest. Her scent, her arms around you soothe you instantly. But you don’t deserve it, you don’t deserve her comfort. You just killed somebody.

“Tara, what did I do?”

“Hey. It’s alright.” Her hands are either side of your face, cupping your cheeks. “It’s going to be okay.”

She presses a long kiss to your lips. Your lips quiver against hers.

“It’s all going to be okay.” She murmurs as she pulls back. You feel her take charge, “You’re going to go and get into the shower. Wash your hair. Scrub under your nails. Put the clothes you’re wearing in a plastic bag and wait for me upstairs, okay? I’m going to clean this up.”

A fresh wave of tears falls thick down your face.

“Tara-”

“Baby. I need you to be strong for me now. Okay? Tell me what you’re going to do.”

You swallow. Her voice is urgent, her eyes flitting between yours.

“Baby.”

“I’m going to shower. I’m going to wash my hair and scrub under my nails. And then I’m going to put my clothes in a plastic bag and wait for you upstairs.”

She kisses you.

“Good girl.” She murmurs against your lips, “That’s my good girl. It’s all going to be okay, sweetheart.”

You shudder as she retracts.

“Where’s your dad? What time will he be home?”

You didn’t even think about him. Panic swells in your chest, fills your eyes.

“I don’t know. God, Tara, if he comes home and sees this-”

Her hands grip firm around your shoulders.

“Shh. It’s okay. Don’t panic. Just think. Where is he usually on a Friday? What time does he finish work?”

You blink, struggle as you think hard.

“Friday drinks.” You say, finally, “He goes to that bar on 2nd with his work friends. He’s not home until like eight.”

“Good.” Tara says. She presses a kiss to your forehead, “See? Everything will be fine. Now go upstairs, and do exactly what I said.”

You try not to think.

You shower, exactly like she said. Put your clothes in a bag and leave them on the bathroom floor.

Then you slip into one of Tara’s old hoodies and curl up into your duvet and press your eyes closed. Try not to think about how Wes had felt under you as you drove your knife into him. Try not to think about his screams.

She doesn’t come up for a while. You hear her down there, moving around. You can smell the bleach wafting up the staircase. Finally, after what seems like hours she’s moving into the bathroom and turning on the water.

She’s naked when she emerges, drops her towel and rifles through your wardrobe for an outfit. Slips on a pair of your sweatpants and an old t-shirt.

“What did you do with him?” Is the first thing you say. Salt on your lips from the tears. You can still taste the metallic twang of his blood.

“Don’t worry about that. Come on sweetheart, we’re leaving.” She pulls you up out of bed, wraps an arm around your shoulder.

“Where are we going?”

“Home.”

The kitchen is immaculate. Scrubbed down, perfectly clean. Almost like it never happened. There’s a large suitcase by the door when you get down the stairs. You stop in your tracks. Your heart drops.

“Tara, is he in there?”

Her hands are strong on your back as she leads you forward.

“Yes he’s in there. It’s broad daylight, sweetheart. It was the only way.”

You didn’t even think about the logistics. The clean-up. The neighbors. The body. The body that was inside your Dad’s suitcase.

“What are you going to do with him?” Bile rises in your throat. Tara rubs your back, presses her lips to the side of your head.

“It’s better if you don’t know, babe. Come on, let’s get in the car.” She tries to pull you forward, but you resist.

“Tara. I want to know.”

She stares at you for a long moment.

“I’m going to wait until it’s really late and then I’m going to drive out to the river and dump him in it.”

The hairs on the back of your neck stand. She doesn’t allow you a moment longer to think.

“Baby. Come on.”

The drive home feels like a dream. You stare out through the windshield, trying to blink back your tears. Her hand grips yours tight over the center console. The radio blares some pop song. Kids play in the street. Grief washes through you. Grief you caused yourself.

Tara helps you out of the car, half carries you upstairs to her bedroom. You can’t stop thinking about him. He’d been here only a couple of weeks ago, laughing and smiling and smoking weed in the living room. The lump in your throat aches at the thought.

You curl up under Tara’s covers. Breathe deep, trying to surround yourself in her scent. You feel her tuck herself into you, arms wrapping tight around your waist, not an inch of space between you. Her lips ghost the back of your neck.

“Are you hungry?” She’s murmuring, “I’m going to order us some food.”

“We’ve missed our reservation.” You say, a million miles away. You could have been there by now. Sharing a plate of sushi and holding her hand over the table.

“We’ll go next week.” She promises, as if things are perfectly normal and there isn’t a body in a suitcase in the trunk of her car. As if it isn’t your fault he’s in there.

“His mom’s going to be so upset.” You can’t stop the tears from flooding over now. You’d met Wes’ mom once. Judy, the town sheriff. She was a hard ass. And she loved her son with everything she had. Tara squeezes you tight.

“Don’t think about that, honey.”

“I’m an awful person.” You whimper.

“No you’re not. You did what you had to do.” Her voice is firm, “You were protecting me. The way I protect you.”

She kisses your neck. You close your eyes, try not to think. Feel the beat of her heart, the warmth of her body pressed against you. The sweet smell of her shampoo. Coconut, you think, coconut and vanilla.

“If you didn’t do what you did, I’d be gone now. I’d be locked away. They’d take me far away from you.”

At that, you turn in her arms. Lean up to kiss her, fierce.

“Nobody’s taking you from me.” You say. You lock your hands around her neck, brush your nose against hers. “Nobody.”

Not Wes, and certainly not Judy. You’d die without her. You’d kill to keep them from her. She’s yours. She belongs with you.

Your heartbeat steadies, slightly. You take a shaky breath as you look into the warm brown of her eyes. Brush your fingertips over the spatter of freckles across her nose. She’s everything to you. She’s more important than anyone else. Anything else.

“Nobody.” She affirms.

Chapter 9 Chapter Text

The days following Wes’ death pass by in a blur.

Tara gets a frantic call from his mother the next day, asking if she’s seen him. Chad calls next, followed by Mindy. His friends want to band together, go out to all his favorite places and look for him.

You want to stay home and curl up into a ball.

That’s not an option.

“We can’t act suspicious.” Tara tells you, with all the experience of a seasoned killer, “We have to be worried for him, but not too much. You have to believe he can still come home.”

The entire ordeal is exhausting.

You spend Saturday traipsing around the back of Chad’s car, Tara’s hand clutched tightly in your own. You try not to say too much, your heart beats loud out of your chest everytime someone directs a question at you.

Tara is brilliant. Just the right amount of concern. She dials Wes’ phone multiple times throughout the day, like he’ll pick up, tell her not to worry. She insists Chad drive to Wes’ old house a few towns over. Leads the group with feigned hopefulness.

It’s a little unnerving just how good she is at it.

You do alright in front of Tara’s friends. Quiet, clutching at her like if you let go you’d spiral. But that wasn’t unusual behavior for you. Tara kisses your forehead on the drive back, tugs you into her side, reassuring hand rubbing circles on your back.

But it’s later that night, when Wes’ mom makes a surprise house call that your façade crumbles.

You’re in the kitchen when you see her. Your heart shoots up into your throat, the plate you’re holding almost clatters to the ground. She’s in her squad car, Sheriff’s hat firmly tilted onto her head.

“Tara.” You murmur in a panic. She’s by your side at once, linking her arms around your waist to hold you tight. You feel her tense as she catches sight of the woman at the door.

“Let me do the talking, baby.” Tara says. She presses her lips to the side of your head.

And just as the doorbell rings, she slides over to open the door.

“Mrs Hicks.” You hear her say, “Please, come in.”

Together, they wander into the kitchen. You nod slightly, in greeting. Your palms are clammy, you wipe them against your pants and hope she doesn’t notice.

“It’s Sheriff Hicks, today Tara.” Judy says. Her voice is a little shaky. Red-rimmed are her eyes. It breaks your heart.

“I’m here on official business.”

“We haven’t seen him.” Tara says, her low, apologetic, “We’ve been out looking for him all day. The diner, the cinema. We even drove over to Millwood, thought he might have gone back there. Right, babe?”

Tara looks at you. Eyes soft, kind, encouraging. You nod, swiftly.

“No sign of him.” Is your croaky response. “I’m really sorry, Sheriff.”

Judy swallows. Her shoulders are tense, defeated. “Thank you, girls. But that isn’t what I’m here about.”

Tara tilts her head. Your heart skips a beat.

“Some of the other officers thought maybe he-” Judy swallows, “Maybe he might have run away. Perhaps he met a girl. But I know my son. He wouldn’t just up and leave, not like that. Not without saying goodbye. He’s a good boy.”

Her voice quivers. You curl your fingernails into your palm so hard it might bleed.

“You’re his friends. You know him… differently than I do.” She says, “He tells you things he doesn’t tell me. Was there a girl? A boy? Anyone?”

Tara’s eyes lock with yours.

“I don’t think so,” She says, slow. Like she’s trying to think on the spot, “He never told me - us, about any girls. Or boys. Besides, you're right. He wouldn't leave without saying goodbye. That isn’t him.”

Judy nods fervently, as if her theory has been confirmed.

“What about…” Judy swallows, like the words are hard to get out, “Enemies. People that didn’t like him. People that may have wanted to hurt him.”

“Everyone likes Wes.” You say. Your mouth is dry, your words slightly shaky. Judy and Tara both look over to you, “He doesn’t have enemies. He’s a sweet guy.”

“I don’t think anyone would want to hurt him.” Tara interjects quickly, trying to get Judy’s eyes off you. “You don’t think… you don’t think it’s Ghostface, do you?”

Silence hangs throughout the room.

Your eyes flit to Judy, study her expression. Pale-faced, she blinks back at Tara.

“It’s not Ghostface’s MO.” She says, finally, “Ghostface is flashier. He leaves bodies, crime scenes. He wants them to be found. He doesn’t hide his crimes.”

Tara breathes a sigh of relief, “Good. Then we’ll keep looking. Maybe he got overwhelmed, with school and finals coming up. Maybe he just - I don’t know, freaked out.”

Judy stares, “Has he expressed concern about school to you?”

Tara nods, “Yeah. Of course, we’re all worried about finals. And the SAT, coming up. And with college prep, essays, sometimes I want to run away and forget it all too.”

She jots something down in her notes. You crane your head slightly, trying to see. A scribble of words, nothing you can make out.

“When was the last time you saw him?”

Your heart thumps. You’d talked about this, you weren’t to say Wes had come to the house that day, that’d been a no brainer.

“Thursday at lunch.” Tara says, smoothly, not missing a beat, “He wasn’t in school Friday.”

“And how was he?”

“Quiet.” Tara says, truthfully, “We didn’t really speak much. Sometimes he gets like that, you know, in his own head about stuff.”

Judy nods, as if she’s familiar.

“And you didn’t see him after that? Not in the hallway, not between classes?”

Tara shakes her head. “We didn’t, right baby?”

You nod. “I didn’t see him after lunch.”

Judy’s gaze is piercing. You briefly wonder if she can see right through you. You’re not a good liar, not like Tara. If Judy came any closer, she’d see you were sweating buckets.

Judy looks away, scribbles down something else on her notepad. Then she looks up, a little resigned.

“Thanks for your time girls.”

“I’m sorry we couldn't be more helpful,” Says Tara. You chew your lip, watch as Tara takes Judy by surprise in a warm hug.

“He’ll show up. I promise.”

You’re shaking when she leaves.

Tara takes you in her arms, holds you close.

“You did good, baby.” She murmurs, “She believed us. Everything’s okay.”

Everything is not in fact, okay.

Sunday is spent in turmoil. You’re agonizing. Long showers, hoping the steam will clear the fog in your head. Sleepless nights, tossing and turning, imagining Wes’ body floating up to the surface. Imagining the look on his mother’s face as she came upon her baby boy, blue and lifeless.

Tara’s trying to help, you can see it. She cooks you your favorite meals, runs you hot bubble baths, even sits through Grease just to make you happy. But nothing works.

You can’t forget what you did.

And if you were honest, seeing her face just reminded you of the sick and depraved things you’d done for her.

It’s Monday. You’re running on maybe eight hours sleep over three nights. You feel sick, you’re pale. Dark circles under your eyes. You need sleep. More than anything, you need a reprieve from her. She’s gorgeous, doting, wonderful. You don’t want her to be right now. You don’t deserve her to be after what you’ve done.

You’re spiraling in your own guilt.

Instead, you contemplate spending the night apart.

It might be good for you, to sleep in your own bed. Not worry about waking her up with your constant tossing and turning. It would allow you the time you needed to sort out the hellish landscape of your thoughts. It might let you finally get some sleep.

You send Tara a text after English.

Going to stay at my place tonight, just need a night by myself. Love you, see you tomorrow xx

She doesn’t reply, which you expected. Tara hates when you do things like this, veer off her perfectly crafted routine. More than anything, she hates being apart from you. You’d expect she would sulk for a couple of days, maybe try and call you later, convince you to come home with her.

What you didn’t expect is being woken at half-past eleven by the loud thump of Tara climbing into your bedroom window.

You look over at her, groggy. Sleep in your eyes.

“What are you doing?” Is your confused, sleepy question.

It’s dark, but you can still see the cast of vague annoyance on her face from the streetlights.

“What are you doing? Why are you here? Come home.”

“I’m just…” You can’t describe it. The thought of being curled up in bed with her while Wes lies at the bottom of the river makes you feel sick to your stomach. You don’t deserve it. You deserve to be here alone, toiling in your own guilt. “I just want one night to myself, is that so much to ask?”

“Why?”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you.” You snap. You’d finally gotten to sleep after hours of trying. It was good sleep too, dreamless. Wes nowhere in sight. A heavy, sinking feeling blooms through your chest as you realize it will take you another two hours to get back to sleep, “We don’t have to do everything together. You’ll survive one night without me.”

Hurt flashes through her pretty features. She stands, hands limp at her side. It isn’t often she doesn’t know what to do. Usually she’d take control. Press you up against the mattress and fuck you into doing what she wanted. You half dare her to try. She must see in your eyes you’re not in the mood because she doesn’t come an inch closer, just stands at the base of the bed staring over at you.

“Is this about Wes? You’re mad at me because of… his death.”

The memory coils hot and fast within you.

The knife. The blood. The body.

You swallow it down.

“I’m not mad at you, Tara. I just want one night in my own bed.”

She stares at you a moment longer. Then slips off her jacket.

“Fine.” She says, reaches down to pull off her shoes. You sit up, reaction immediate.

“No, babe.” You tell her firmly, “You can’t stay here with me. You need to go home. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“You can’t be serious.” Disbelief on her face. You haven’t spent a night apart in months.

“I’m serious, Tara. Please, go home. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

She looks so small in the moonlight. The look on her face crushes you. You almost take it back, you want to reach out and take her in your arms. No. This is the best you’d slept in nights. And she was a big girl, she’ll survive one night without you.

She doesn’t say a word as she climbs back out the window.

You don’t sleep well. The ghost of Wes hangs over you heavy, taunting. Frustrated, you kick off your blankets, try another position. Your back. Your stomach. Your side. Everytime you close your eyes, he’s there.

When you wake, it feels like you’ve barely slept at all.

Tara’s waiting for you by the curb when you head out. She’s in the driver's seat, her hair is a little ruffled. She’s still in the same clothes she wore yesterday. Your stomach sinks.

“Did you sleep in your car?”

Tara looks up at you with tired eyes, wide, vulnerable.

“I wanted to be close to you.” Her voice is soft.

You sigh. Climb into the passenger seat. You reach over and take her face in your hands, stroke her cheek. Her eyes flutter closed at your touch.

“You look exhausted.” You say, brushing your fingers over the circles under her eyes.

“I didn’t sleep much.” She admits. “Are you mad at me?”

You lean over and press a lingering kiss to her lips.

“No. I’m sorry. I just needed the night to… process.”

“Process what?”

“You know what.”

She’s quiet for a moment.

“And have you? Processed?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Oh.” Is all she says. Then. “Are you coming home tonight?”

“Is that all you care about? Having me in your bed?”

Irritation swells in your chest. It’s easy for her. You know she doesn’t care about the people she’s killed. You know she doesn't feel remorse. You’d had to make her swear black and blue not to do it again. It isn’t the same for you.

Wes is eating you alive.

“Of course not.” She says. She blinks over at you, choosing her words carefully. “I just want to be there for you.”

You sink back into your own seat. The lack of sleep has you feeling nauseous again. Irritated. Irritated with her.

“Then give me space when I ask for space.”

She stares at you for a long moment.

“Okay.”

You’re in a foul mood by the time school lets out.

You don’t mean to take it out on Tara. It’s just she’s there. Constantly. She knows your schedule by heart so she’s always there to walk you to your next class. She’s there at lunch, she’s there during History and Math, she’s there waiting for you by your locker when it’s time to go home.

Usually, it makes your heart swell.

Today, it annoys you.

“How are you feeling?” Is what she says on the walk back to the car.

Horrible, you want to say, like I want to crawl out of my own skin.

Instead, you give a noncommittal shrug.

“Okay.”

She surveys you. Reaches over to open your door for you, the way she always does. The guilt, the sleep deprivation take over.

“I can open my own door Tara, I’m not an invalid.” You snap. Brush her out of the way. You don’t bother looking back. By the time she’s in her own seat you’ve nestled yourself against the side of the car door, as far from her as possible.

“Drive me home.” You say. She looks over at you, a little hopeful.

“To our home?”

“To my home. I need another night.”

You can see the gears churning in her head. Her hands grip tighter on the wheel. You half expect her to tell you no, take you back to her house. If she tries, you’ll walk home. You’re not in the mood. Instead, she shifts the gear into drive.

“Okay.” She says, voice small, resigned.

You don’t kiss her goodbye.

You spend the night tossing and turning again. The moment you close your eyes all you can see is Wes. The look on his face when he’d realized. The feeling of the knife in your hands, cool, almost weightless as you’d driven it through his skin. Judy’s face, red, tear-stained, when she’d all but begged you for answers.

This bed is cold, unfamiliar. You miss your girlfriend. You miss the smell of her skin, the weight of her arm curling tight around your waist. Guilt churns deep in your stomach. Guilt for Wes, mostly, but for her too. What kind of girlfriend were you? All alone in a bed perfectly good for two while you know she’s outside, trying to get comfortable in the driver’s seat of her car because she can’t stand to be a minute without you.

You stare up at the ceiling, contemplating. With a sigh, you lift yourself out of bed and move to the window.

You can see her car from here. She’s in the driver’s seat, reclined slightly, as she settles down for the night.

Your heart twists, painfully. You don’t want to do this, push her away. But you have been. You’re punishing her for something you did. You chew your lip for a moment, then nudge your window open, climbing out onto the roof.

She doesn’t see you approach. Her eyes are closed. She looks so uncomfortable trying to lean against the side of the headrest. You shiver at the cool air of the night, tap gently on her window as not to startle her.

She blinks up at you a moment. Hesitant as she rolls down her window, like you’re about to snap at her again.

Instead, you pull the driver's door open.

“Come inside.” You murmur.

She pauses. Surveys the look on your face.

“I thought you needed space.”

“I need you to get a good night’s sleep. You’re not going to get it sleeping out here.”

She’s silent for a moment. Then nods, climbing out of the driver’s seat.

She’s unsure, hesitant. So unlike Tara. You take her hand, lead her back up to the roof to climb inside your bedroom window.

You climb into bed, open your arms for her.

“Come here.”

She doesn’t give you a moment to change your mind. She slips off her jacket and her jeans and nestles herself into you instantly. She feels so good against you, warm skin, her lips grazing your collarbone as she tangles her legs with yours.

You press a kiss to the top of her head. Breathe her in. You missed her so much, more than you care to admit. It’s kind of pathetic.

“I’m sorry.” You say, thread your fingers through her hair, “I didn’t mean to snap at you today. It wasn’t fair.”

She doesn’t say anything. Grips your hips so tightly it might bruise.

“You don’t have to push me away.” She says after a long moment. “I know it’s hurting you. You can talk to me.”

“I know, babe.” You say, press a tender kiss to her forehead. “Go to sleep, we’ll talk in the morning.”

She’s exhausted, you can tell by the way she falls asleep against you in minutes. Soft, tiny sounds of her breathing even, her mouth falling open slightly. You kiss her forehead once more, try to focus on the press of her against you rather than the thoughts running wild through your head.

Wes. Wes. Wes.

Wes in English class, smiling softly at you as you ask to borrow a pen. Wes at one of Amber’s parties, choking on smoke the first time he’d tried one of Mindy’s special blunts. Wes at the bottom of the river, dead, his life stolen from him. By you.

Not even Tara can save you from your own thoughts.

When she wakes, bleary-eyed and smiling, perfectly rested, you’re running on less than two hours sleep.

“You didn’t sleep well.” She says, sounding a little crest-fallen as she touches your face.

“It’s okay.” You murmur. Kiss her palm. “Come on, we’re going to be late for school.”

You spend the day on auto-pilot. Listen to your teachers blare on, not taking in a word.

The other students gossip between lessons. They wonder where Wes is. Everytime you hear his name the back of your eyes burn.

By lunch, you’re pale. Nauseous. You push your food around your plate, not having the stomach to eat it. Is this what it’s going to be like for the rest of your life? Sleepless nights, hellish days? You’re so caught in your own thoughts you barely register Tara slinking into the seat next to you.

She’s pushing a small packet of blue pills onto your lunch tray.

“What are these?” You ask, a little confused.

“Xanax. I got them from Chad. It’s supposed to help you relax.” Tara says, voice soft, “I thought they might help you sleep.”

She rubs your back. Your neck prickles uncomfortably.

‘I don’t want them.”

Tara watches you for a moment.

“Baby. You need to sleep. Look at you; you’re exhausted.”

“I don’t want pills, Tara. Get rid of them.”

She looks like she wants to argue. But then Liv is dropping down into the seat across from you. She’s tearful. Like it just hit her that Wes was gone. Tara takes the pills reluctantly, slips them into the pocket of her jacket.

Your ears burn with each of Liv’s wails. Tara’s hand doesn’t leave your back.

You drive home in silence. You’d agreed to go home with her tonight. It’s pointless, trying to sleep alone. Wes follows you no matter whose bed you’re in. At least one of you should get a good night’s rest. Tara cooks for you, all but settles herself in your lap as you eat. The press of her body on your skin feels wrong.

“Let’s watch Mamma Mia.” She suggests out of nowhere the moment the food is gone.

You look over at her.

“You hate Mamma Mia.”

“I don’t hate it.” She brushes off, standing to clear your plate, “Besides, you love it. It might make you feel better.”

You’re too tired to argue. You let her put on the movie, wrap a blanket around both of your bodies. You barely look at the screen. Wes is back, this time he’s older. He has a wife, two children. He leans down, kisses her. Then he looks right at you.

Don’t you see, he says, sparkling blue eyes filled with pain, don’t you see what you took from me?

When the movie’s over, Tara’s nudging you into bed. She tangles herself in you, as usual. Your stony silence doesn’t deter her. Then she’s pressing a hot kiss to your chest and sinking down your body.

“What are you doing?” You murmur. Her hands rub against your thighs, comfortingly.

She presses her lips to your stomach.

“Loving you.”

She feels so good, bare against you. Her lips make you shiver. You close your eyes, try to enjoy the press of her skin. She dips down a little lower, tugs your underwear down just slightly, so she can kiss the top of your pubic bone. You sink back into the mattress, try to keep your focus on her.

Her lips. Her eyes. Her body. You imagine her naked, fingers thrusting into you. Kissing her, feeling her weight on you.

And then Wes jumps back to your mind.

I’m dead, The ghost of Wes taunts, his lips curled in a snarl, and you’re having sex?

You flinch just as her lips graze your inner thigh. You clutch at her shoulders, freezing her in place.

“Stop.”

She looks up at you.

“Stop? What’s wrong?”

What’s wrong? You would laugh if you didn’t want to cry. Instead you sit up, try and pull yourself away from her.

“I’m not in the mood, Tara.” The words feel strange coming from your lips. You’re always in the mood for this. For her.

“It might help you relax.” She’s gripping your hips, tight, not letting you run from her. She presses another kiss to your hip. “Let me help you, baby.”

“You can’t help me, Tara.” You say, agony in your voice, “You can’t make this better. I killed someone. Giving me pills and making me watch Mamma Mia is not going to fix that. Going down on me is not going to change the fact that Wes is dead. And it’s my fault.”

She stares up at you for a long moment.

“It’s my fault.” Tara says, quietly, “Not yours. You were protecting me. If you want someone to blame, blame me.”

“You didn’t make me pick up that knife. I could have- I could have let him go. I could have just taken you and we could have run.”

“And then what?” Her gaze is piercing, “Run where? Hole up in some cabin in the woods? They’d have found us in a week.”

You slump back into the pillow.

“I don’t know.”

She crawls back up to you, tugs up into her body.

You shiver at her touch, but this time it’s not in a good way. Her skin burns you. You shuffle out of her grip, tug the blankets tight around yourself. She stares. Annoyance blooms across her face.

“Can you stop pushing me away?”

“Can you stop smothering me?” You growl back. You’ve had enough. You just want her to leave you alone. You want to crawl under the covers and weep. You want to punish yourself for what you’ve done. You don’t want her soft kisses, you don’t want her telling you it’ll all be okay. You’re grieving. In taking Wes’ life, you’d also taken a part of your own.

And she just couldn’t understand.

“Me trying to take care of you is smothering you, now?” She can’t mask the hurt in her voice. It makes you ache.

“Stop, Tara, please.” You all but beg, “I don’t want to talk and I don’t want to fuck you. I just want to be left alone.”

She’s silent. You feel the tears in your eyes spill over as she turns away from you, slumping to the otherside of the bed. She switches off the lamp beside the bed without a word, encasing the both of you in darkness.

You should feel bad. You don’t want to hurt her. Instead, you feel relief. Enough for you to fall asleep, body tilted as far from Tara as possible, cheeks still wet with tears. Wes’ grip lessens on you for only a moment.

And then he terrorizes you in your dreams.

Your Dad calls you in the morning, right after your shower.

Tara hasn’t spoken a word to you this morning, no doubt afraid you’ll snap at her again. Instead, she left your breakfast on the nightstand without her usual morning kiss.

“Hi, sweetheart.” He says, “I heard about what happened with your friend Wes. Are you okay?”

Your lip trembles.

No, you want to say, I killed him and then used your suitcase to toss his body into the river. And it’s tearing me apart.

Instead you let out a shaky sigh.

“I’m alright.”

A lie even he can see through. He pauses.

“Why don’t you take the rest of the week off school?” He says, not unkindly, “Why don’t we go up to the cabin. You and me and mom. Just the three of us.”

His pointed way of ensuring Tara isn’t invited. You bite your lip. The cabin does sound tempting. Isolated, empty. No classmates drumming on about Wes. No Judy. No Tara.

“Okay.” You say, “The cabin sounds good.”

“I’ll pick you up after school.” Your Dad says. “Then you can come home and pack a bag.”

When you wander downstairs, dressed for school, Tara’s waiting for you at the kitchen table. She looks up at you, hesitant.

“Did you sleep okay?” She asks.

“Not really.”

“Oh.” She looks down at her cereal, like she doesn’t know what to say. You sink down into the seat opposite her. Cross your arms.

“I’m sorry that I snapped at you last night.” You say. “Again.”

“It’s okay.” She says, voice soft.

It’s not okay. You hate this. You hate when she hurts.

You shake your head, “I don’t want us to… I don’t like it when I hurt you. Which is why I…” You trail off. Look away.

Her gaze is piercing.

“Why you, what?”

“Why I’m leaving tonight. Up to the cabin with my parents.”

She stares.

“For how long?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. A week, maybe? Two if I’m lucky.”

Silence. She stares across at you, eyes flitting between yours, like she’s trying to read your mind.

“Is this- are you breaking up with me?” Her shoulders are tight. Voice small. She looks as though she might cry. You reach across the table, grip her hand.

“No. Of course not, never.”

It doesn’t reassure her. She looks back at you, searchingly.

“I just think we need some time apart.” You continue, “So I can process properly. All I’m doing right now is hurting you and I don’t want that. It’ll be good for us, some space. For both of us.”

“I don’t want space from you.” Tara says, her eyebrows knit, “I don’t care if you snap at me. Or if you yell at me or blame me. I just want to be with you.”

You reach for her, stroke her cheek with your free hand.

“I want to be with you too. But not like this, baby. I don’t want to yell at you and I don’t want to blame you. I love you.”

“Then stay.” She pleads. Her eyes glassy, tears pricking at the corner of her eyes, “If you loved me you wouldn’t leave me.”

“I do love you. That’s why I’m going.” You murmur and watch as the tears spill down her cheeks.

You reach for her, pull her into your arms, “Please don’t cry, babe.”

She sniffles into your chest. You clutch her tight, close your eyes. You don’t want to leave her, not like this. You know how she gets when you’re away from her. But if you stay, you’ll only end up hurting her more. Snapping at her more. And she doesn’t deserve that.

“It’s only a week.” You tell her. Press a gentle kiss to her forehead, “And then I’ll be right back here with you, where I belong.”

It’s not only a week.

You reach the cabin by sunset, settle in for a long night of playing cards with your parents, helping your Dad cook hotdogs on the grill. The cabin air is cooler, fresh. The smell of pine trees and firewood encases you. You don’t think once about Wes all evening.

When you settle down to sleep that night, you’re gone the moment your head hits the pillow.

The days pass in a blur. Wes is still there, haunting you, but it’s like his voice has softened. It’s getting easier to tune him out.

You message Tara every night before you go to bed, tell her you love her and you’re thinking about her.

She never replies. She got like this when she was mad at you. Stony and silent.

You don’t dwell. You know the moment you’re back in her arms all will be forgiven.

You think long and hard about what Tara had said that night, right before you left. If you’d let him go.

And then what? Hole up in some cabin in the woods? They’d have found us in a week.

She was right. What kind of life would that be? For you, sure, but also for her. She’d never see Sam again. Never see her friends. She’s smart, far too smart to spend the rest of her life chopping logs for the fireplace and living in fear one day she’d be caught. She deserves to go to Brown, or Yale, or one of the other plethora of colleges throwing themselves at her. She deserves to be free, happy.

You want her to be happy.

And you don’t want to punish her, not anymore.

Sleep is a funny thing, you muse one day as you’re sitting on a deck chair by the lake. Everything had seemed so bad when you couldn’t get it. Like the world was ending, like your life was ending.

Now, well-rested, with ten days of dreamless nights under your belt, you see things clearer.

Your heart still aches for Wes. But he’s gone. Tara, your Tara, is still here. You want to get back to her. Tell her how much you love her. Tell her you’ll stand by her side no matter what. Tell her you’re done pushing her away.

The drive back to Woodsboro is cathartic.

Your heartbeat doesn’t drum at the sign of the town sign. You don’t scour the streets, seeing Wes in every face. You’re calm. Collected.

And then your Dad drops you at Tara’s house and everything crumbles.

“Babe?” You say as you draw your key through the front door, “I’m home.”

The house is still, silent.

It’s Friday night, usually the house is filled with laughter. The blare of a horror movie. The smell of Tara’s cooking filling the kitchen.

Instead it’s quiet. It smells stale. Empty takeout boxes litter the kitchen bench.

You pad through the house, trying to find her.

“Tara? Where are you, baby?”

She isn’t in the kitchen, nor the den. She’s not in her bedroom either. The curtains are drawn, the bed is unmade and empty. Beer bottles, old joints littered across the floor.

You frown, starting to get concerned.

“Darling? Are you home?”

You reach into your pocket, dial her number. It rings out, to no answer. But through the walls you hear the faint drum of her phone buzzing against the tile of the bathroom floor.

You open the door, and your heart drops in your throat.

Tara’s in the bath, naked, water up to her chest.

Her eyes are closed, empty bottle of whiskey in one hand.

You race to her, drop down to your knees.

“Tara. Baby, wake up.”

She makes a faint sound, and relief floods through your body. The bath water is freezing, like she’s been in here for hours. You don’t care, plunge your hands in to try and support her quivering body. Her eyes droop open, only slightly.

“YN?” She says, barely audible. You pull her close. Water spills down your front as you take her in your arms.

And then you spot the pills littered across the floor.

“Did you take these?” You ask, panic flooding through you. There were ten when she’d handed you them that day in the cafeteria. Now, you can only see three or four. You lean down, try and look into her eyes. They’re drowsy, unfocused. You pry the whiskey bottle out of her hand. “Did you mix it with this?”

She’s too far gone to respond. You muster every ounce of strength you have to pull her out of the bath. She’s heavier than usual, floppy. She slumps down onto the tile as you reach for a towel to wrap around her shivering body.

“Oh, Tara, baby.” You hold her close, try to stop the swell of tears that floods through you, “It’s going to be okay, honey, I’m going to call an ambulance.”

The minutes pass in a blur. You sob down the line to 911, almost scream at them to come as fast as they can.

Then, you hold her tight. Hold her as the responders help pull her onto a stretcher. Hold her through the agonizingly long ride to the hospital.

They pump her stomach, put her in a private room.

When she wakes, bleary-eyed and confused, you still haven’t let go.

“Hi, beautiful.” You murmur, press your hand to her cheek. She looks so small in the hospital bed, tubes in her nose, band around her wrist.

“You’re here.” She says, faintly. Like she can’t believe it.

You grip her hand, lean down to kiss it.

“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

You shuffle your chair a little closer, press a kiss to her forehead.

“Don’t you ever do that to me again.” You say, resting your nose against her cheek, “I’m serious, baby, if you had died…”

You trail off, not wanting to finish the thought.

“What were you doing? Pills and whiskey? You know what happens when you mix them.”

She knew it very well. There’d been an incident with her mom, a few summers back. When she’d told you about it she swore she’d never touch the stuff.

“I don’t know.” She says, a little heavy, “I couldn’t stand not being with you. I just wanted to make it stop for a few hours.”

“Oh, baby.” You squeeze her tight.

Before you can say anything else, the door is opening.

It’s Chad, Liv on his arm. He looks stricken as he looks down and sees Tara lying in her hospital bed.

“Oh shit.” He says. “Are you okay?”

“Does she look okay?” You challenge, “What the hell were you thinking, Chad? Why did you give her those pills?”

Fury courses thick and fast through your veins. You’d hit him, as hard as you could if you weren’t so concerned with staying close to Tara.

“I’m sorry.” He says, eyes mournful, “I didn’t know she was going to- I didn’t know she was going to take all of them.”

“What kind of an excuse is that?”

Tara squeezes your hand.

“It’s not his fault, babe.”

“You shush.” You tell her, press another heavy kiss to the top of her head, “I’m still mad at you.”

“We’ll give you a minute.” Liv says, eyeing the two of you, “Right, Chad?”

He nods. Looks between you, mournful.

“I’ll be outside. I’m really sorry, Tara.”

You wait until they shut the door, then clamber up into the bed with her. Take her in your arms.

She looks up at you.

“You’re still mad? About Wes?”

“No, baby.” You lean down, press your lips to hers for the first time in days. Feel her sigh against you. Then nudge your nose against hers.

“I’m sorry about last week. I’m sorry about the way I left. I just needed to get away.”

She looks at you, quiet trepidation in her eyes.

“I thought you might not come back.” She admits.

“I will always come back to you.” You promise. Kiss her once more. Her eyebrows knit tight.

“You say that like you’re leaving again.” She says, accusation in her voice. Her hands grip tight at the front of your shirt, like she’ll pull you down into her if you try.

You shake your head, pull her into your neck.

“I’m not, I promise.” You say, “And I want you to promise me you’ll never do this again. Not ever.”

She curls her body into yours. Relaxes slightly against you.

“Tara.”

“I promise.” She says, finally. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

“Go to sleep, baby-girl.” You tell her, rub her hand over her back, “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“But Chad and Liv-”

“Chad’s about to get his ass whooped and I don’t want you awake for it.” You say, only half-kidding. You can see him peering into the window from the hall.

“Don’t.” She mumbles. She’s tired, eyes drooping against your chest, “You’ll ruin your pretty hands.”

And then she drifts off against you. You hold her tight, rub her head soothingly. The room falls quiet. Wes is there, faintly in the back of your mind. He’s screaming.

you don’t deserve to be happy, He cries. Bangs his hands against the steel box of your brain he lives in, she doesn’t deserve to be happy.

You shut him out, and instead focus on the steady sound of Tara’s breathing.

Chapter 10 Chapter Text

Tara stays in the hospital for the rest of the weekend.

You don’t let her out of your sight, not once, sleep curled into her side with your back against the hospital bed railing so she can have more space.

You think she kind of likes it, you fawning over her like this. You can tell by the way she grips you tight when you try to get up to go to the bathroom. Or when she insists she’s too tired to shower alone.

The morning after she was first admitted, Sam shows up in a flurry, her new boyfriend Richie on her arm.

“What happened?” She asks, somewhat accusingly as she looks down at Tara’s sleeping body, curled into your side.

You hesitate a moment. Sam’s scary when she gets angry, and this would almost certainly make her mad.

“She mixed some pills. She was… upset.”

“Upset?” Sam asks, “Upset about what?”

“Wes.” Tara croaks out, stirring against your side, “He’s missing.”

Sam crouches down, brushes Tara’s hair out of her face.

“Oh, Tara. I know. I’m so sorry.”

Then, she grips Tara’s hand, hard.

“What were you thinking?”

Richie’s looking at you, a little funny.

“Maybe we should go and get some coffee.” He suggests, “Let these two catch up.”

“No.” Tara says immediately. Grips a possessive hand around your waist. You press a kiss to the top of her head.

“It’s a good idea. I’ll be ten minutes. You can catch up with your sister. I’ll get you some Jell-o.”

She stares at you a moment, before relenting.

“Strawberry, please.” She murmurs.

You press a kiss to her lips. Watch as Sam surveys you. Then follow Richie out of the room.

You’ve met Richie exactly once. Tara didn’t like him, but you didn’t think he was that bad. A little awkward, sure. Gangly but harmless. Sometimes, inappropriate jokes.

He cracks one now, as you’re lining your paper cup underneath the coffee machine, trying to break the tension. You don’t laugh.

Your girlfriend lying in the hospital with tubes coming out of her nose has somewhat ruined your sense of humor.

“So, uh… what do they think happened to that Wes kid?” Richie asks, out of nowhere, “They think it was Ghostface?”

You turn, sharp.

“No. He’s missing, that's all.”

Richie hums.

“That’s the Sheriff’s son, right?” He asks, “We ran into her on the way here. Wouldn’t want to be the one who took her kid. That guy’s in for a world of hurt when she catches him.”

Your stomach churns, uncomfortably.

“You ran into her on the way here?” You ask, head tilting.

Richie nods, “Yeah. Told her about Tara. I think she’s going to come and check on her later this afternoon.”

Your stomach drops.

“Oh. Perfect.”

Richie catches your tone, “You don’t like the Sheriff?”

You pull your coffee cup out from the filter. Try to appear casual.

“She doesn’t like us.” You say, honestly, “She’s- caught us. A few times.”

“Huh.” Richie says, like he doesn’t know what to do with that information. You’re hoping it will make him uncomfortable enough to stop asking questions. It seems to work.

“So. Um. No word from Tara’s mom?”

By the time you make it back to the room, Sam’s taken your seat, and Tara looks unhappy.

“They were out of strawberry.” You murmur, press a kiss to her cheek. Set the raspberry Jell-o to the nightstand. You settle down on the edge of her bed, rub at the frown on her face, “What’s wrong?”

“I’m moving back home.” Sam answers before she can speak. “It’s a bit of a- shock, clearly.”

“Oh.”

A storm brews behind Tara’s eyes. You rub her arm, hoping to calm her a little. It doesn’t work.

“You can stay a week.” Tara says, sounding very much like it’s the last thing in the world she wants to offer, “Then you can go.”

“Tara, this isn’t up for negotiation.” Sam says, she reaches for Tara’s hand. Tara’s shoulders tense, “Mom is…. fucking useless and I don’t want you in that big house all alone. Look what just happened.”

“I’m not alone,” Tara argues, “I have YN. And we’re happy. You being there would just… ruin everything.”

“Thanks.” Sam says, a little sarcastic. She doesn’t look put off, “I won’t ruin your love bubble, sis. I promise. YN can stay. Richie and I will take the guest room-”

“Richie?” Tara says, incredulously, “No, Sam. No way.”

Richie laughs, somewhat uncomfortably. He looks at Sam.

“Always great to know where I stand with the family.”

“Enough, Tara.” Sam says, like it’s final, “It’s my house just as much as it is yours. And I’m staying there so I can keep an eye on you, like it or not.”

Tara’s in a terrible mood when Sam and Richie finally leave to pack. You curl up into her, try and soothe some of the anger with a kiss.

“Come on, babe.” You say, press your lips to her chest, “It won’t be that bad.”

“She always does this.” Tara seethes, “She always has to ruin it. Why does she always ruin it?”

“She cares about you.” You say, “She just wants you to be safe.”

Tara pouts.

“I like it when it’s just you and me. How am I supposed to eat you out on the kitchen counter when she’s around?”

“You’re not.” You say sternly, “And don’t you dare try.”

She groans.

“See? This already sucks.”

You kiss her once more.

“We’ll just have to have sex in bed like regular people.” You tease, stroke her cheek, “It’s not the end of the world.”

Tara bites her lip, “And you’re staying with me, right?” She says, sounding somewhat vulnerable, “You’re not going back home to sleep without me, right?”

“I’m staying with you,” You assure. Punctuate your point with a kiss, “I promise.”

A knock on the door breaks you apart.

It’s Sheriff Hicks, dressed in her uniform, hat in her hands.

“Hi girls.” She says, “Just thought I’d stop by and check in.”

Immediately your heart races. Your hands sweat, clammy. The Sheriff moves a little closer, edges to the end of the bed. Tara’s hand tightens around yours. She rubs her thumb over the back of your hand, soothingly.

“Hi Sheriff.” She says, “Thanks for stopping by.”

“Your sister mentioned some pills.” Sheriff Hicks says, eyes stern, “Care to tell me where you got them from?”

“My mom’s bathroom cabinet,” Tara lies, without a beat, “That’s not a crime, is it?”

“Actually it is.” The Sheriff says, “That coupled with the underage drinking. Not a good look, Tara.”

“You’re not going to arrest her?” You ask, in somewhat disbelief, “Look at her. She’s in a hospital bed.”

The Sheriff surveys you for a moment. Her expression is blank, unreadable. But her eyes give her away. Hard, pained. She’s hurting. And hurt makes people unpredictable. For a moment, you really do think she’s about to pull out her handcuffs.

“No. Just- don’t do it again. I can only look the other way so many times, Tara.”

Tara nods.

Your heart slows, just for a moment.

“Any word on Wes?” Tara asks.

The Sheriff swallows.

“No. But that’s actually part of the reason I came here.”

She looks like him, you think. Same eyes. Same unnerved expression.

“I know you girls said the last time you saw him was on Thursday. But I have a witness who told me otherwise.”

You might be sick. Your heart hammers so loudly you’re sure she can hear it. Tara grips your hand.

“Really? Who?”

“One of your neighbors.” She’s looking at you, critical, hard, “They saw Wes on your doorstep Friday afternoon.”

Silence fills the room. Your mind is blank, frantic. You scramble for an excuse. Tara beats you to it.

“You left your biology notes for him, didn’t you babe?” Tara says, turning to you. You look into her eyes. Warm, encouraging. Slowly, you nod.

“Yeah. I’m so sorry. I totally forgot. He asked if he could pick them up.”

The Sheriff watches you, her stare piercing.

“And you let him in?”

“He had a key,” Tara says smoothly, “We were- showering.”

“So you didn’t see him?”

Tara shakes her head.

“No. Sorry. Like I said, we were busy.”

You bite your lip, anxious. Wonder if she’s buying it.

“If he had a key, why did he knock?” The Sheriff asks. Your stomach whirls. It’s a fair question.

“All our friends knock,” Tara says, her fingers tightening around yours, “We have a certain reputation. Ask Mindy, or Chad.”

The Sheriff’s tense shoulders loosen a little. She scribbles something down on her notepad.

“Alright. Thank you girls.” She hovers a moment, “I hope you feel better, Tara.”

And she leaves.

The moment she’s gone, you bury your face in Tara’s neck.

“It’s okay, baby.” She soothes, rubbing her hand down your back, “She believed us.”

“I hate this.” You say, mournful, “Every-time she’s around, Tara, I feel like I’m going to-”

“Shh.” Tara murmurs against the top of your head, “Everything is okay.”

Tara’s discharged in the morning.

Sam drives the two of you home, ignores Tara’s grouchy jabs as she cooks the three of you dinner. Tara’s still a little weak, so she serves you in bed. When she comes back to collect the plates, Tara isn’t afraid to give her honest opinion.

“The chicken was a little dry.” Tara says, slouching back against the pillows, “Can you please make sure Richie doesn’t touch my movie collection. I have it alphabetized.”

Sam isn’t easily deterred.

“Get some sleep.” She tells the two of you. Presses a long kiss against the top of Tara’s head, “Love you. I promise I won’t let Richie touch your precious movie collection.”

You kick off your jeans, crawl back into bed with Tara as Sam leaves.

“Be nice to your sister.” You chide, pinch her side as you curl into her, “She’s trying.”

“Too little, too late.” Tara murmurs, “Besides, I wanted to watch that new M Night Shyamalan movie tonight. Can’t do that with Richie lounging around, playing his stupid shooting games.”

Richie had commandeered the living room pretty quickly. Faintly, you can hear the sounds of Call of Duty blasting up the staircase.

“We can still watch it.” You assure, “I’ll get my laptop.”

Tara makes a face.

“Baby, you can’t watch movies on a laptop. It ruins the entire experience.”

“So we’ll watch The Bachelor.” You say, a little excited at the prospect, “They’re down to the final three.”

Tara tugs at your waist, pulls you into her.

“Or…” She says, pressing a kiss to your neck, “We could do something else.”

You close your eyes. Her tongue runs down the length of your neck, that familiar feeling of arousal flickering through your body.

“You’re still sick. You need your strength.” You say, a little half-hearted. Her hands grip your hips, trying to pull you on top of her.

“I’m lying down, aren’t I?” She murmurs. Her hands reach down into your underwear, trying to tug them down.

You sigh, tilt your head to kiss her feverishly.

You’ve missed her like this, you realize the moment your lips meet. You haven’t had sex with her in almost two weeks, a record for the two of you. Without a word, you relent.

Her hands are greedy, roaming, trying to touch every inch of your skin.

You climb on top of her, hands on her face, keeping her lips fused to yours.

She’s so good with her hands, you think as she slips you out of your clothes. Her touch is like wildfire, igniting every part of you. Passionate, fierce kisses as she pushes her body up to yours, trying to grind herself against your thighs.

You part from her lips for a moment, trail hot kisses down her neck.

She’s egregiously overdressed. Blindly, you tug her sweatpants down her legs, her underwear soon to follow.

You pull her shirt up, kiss your way down to her nipples and take one in your mouth.

“Fuck.” She moans as you suck gently, take the other one between your fingertips. You can hear Sam and Richie’s voices downstairs, lick at her nipple once more before leaning up to kiss her again.

“Quiet, baby.” You murmur. The last thing you want is Sam coming back up to check on her. Your hand slips down her body to feel between her legs. She feels so good, warm and wet. Your moan almost matches hers.

She looks up at you, smiles slightly, her dark eyes impossibly turned on.

“Snap.” She murmurs before you’re leaning down to kiss her again.

You kiss a while more, slipping your fingers through her wet heat, loving the feeling of her tight under you, desperate leaning up to meet your kisses. She’s so pretty like this, wild, wanting and so wet. It sends a thrill through you. Even after all this time, even after you’d had her like this so many times, she still got so turned on for you.

“I love you.” You sigh into her mouth, “I want to taste you so bad.”

It’s not a question, and you don’t wait for her response. You kiss your way down her body, tilting her thighs to nestle yourself between them. You press a quick kiss to her inner thigh, then allow yourself to dive into her syrupy wetness.

She moans as you swipe your tongue down her length. Her hands reach down to your head, locking you in place. You kiss her once, then twice, then trail your tongue down to her entrance, lapping gently in the way you know she likes so much.

You wrap your arms around her thighs, keeping her where you want her. Teasing her entrance, slipping your tongue in and out a couple of times. She tastes incredible, you can’t get enough. You drink her greedily, like she’s a fine wine, then lick your way up to her swollen clit.

“Oh my god.” She’s moaning as your tongue flicks against her. Her thighs tighten around your head, her hands gripping your hair so tight.

You lick a few times, drawing a little more wetness out of her before you’re wrapping your lips around her clit and sucking hard. She likes it like this, she likes the pressure of your lips against her, suctioning hard, not giving her a moment to breathe.

Her hips are tilting up, trying to get more as you lovingly suck her into an orgasm.

She cums quick, hard, all breathy, quiet moans.

Her hips jerk, and then sink back into the pillow. You release her with a final, tender suck, then press your lips to her thigh as you’re rising back up to meet her.

She sighs as you kiss her, wraps her legs tight around your torso.

“I missed you.” You tell her, press another gentle kiss to her lips, “I missed doing that.”

“Me too.” She says. Her hands are still in your hair, her body pressed tight against you. She’s still so wet against your stomach.

“I want to do something.” You say, your lips against her jaw, “I want to fuck you.”

She nudges her nose against your cheek, smiling slightly, “What do you think we’re doing? Playing scrabble?”

You’re deadly serious. You don’t smile, grip your hands tight around her thighs.

“No, baby. I want to fuck you.”

Her mouth falls open, slightly. She knows what you mean, you can tell by the way her eyes darken, a little unsure. You kiss her once more, soft, reassuring.

“Please.”

She swallows. Surveys you for a moment, those pretty brown eyes, dark, hesitant. Then, she nods.

You don’t give her a moment to change her mind. You’re reaching into the top drawer of her nightstand, tugging out the harness. Usually, this was her role. It’s what she liked the most. Topping you, making you hers. Tonight, you wanted to make her yours.

She watches as you slip the straps around your waist, her legs spread slightly, making your mouth water. You hurry through it, wincing as you tighten it a little too hard, confusing yourself with the varying straps.

“Here.” She sits up, helps you into it properly. Gives your hips a little squeeze.

You kiss her once more. Tangle your hands in her dark hair. Then you’re pushing her back onto the bed.

She looks a little confused. You didn’t wear the strap much, but when you did she was usually on top. You lean down and kiss her again, reassuring.

“I want you on your back tonight.” You tell her, “Is that okay?”

She blinks up at you. Then she’s nodding, slow.

“Good girl.” You say, you lean down, press a kiss to her knee, “Spread your legs for me, baby.”

She complies without a second thought. You slip in between her legs, placing her thighs on yours.

You can’t resist reaching down to brush your fingers over her clit. She looks so pretty like this. Spread wide for you, naked and wanting. She looks vulnerable, like she’s yours for the taking.

“You’re so beautiful.” You tell her, spread her thighs a little wider.

She bites her lip as you lean in a little, rub the head of the dildo through her folds.

She’s wet, wet enough for you to not need lube but you reach for it anyway. Pour a healthy helping into the dildo. She flinches slightly as the cold hits her warm heat. You apologize with a kiss.

You slip your tongue into her mouth, rub the head of the dildo against her clit. She sighs into your mouth.

“Inside.” She murmurs. “Please baby.”

You rub your hands over her thighs, soothe her as you slowly enter her.

“Fuck.” You gasp out as the edge of the strap-on brushes your clit. You sink in as far as you can physically get, until your hips are flush against the back of her thighs. She’s tight, tense against you. You kiss her, let her get used to the stretch of you.

Then, you gently jerk your hips forward. Her hands grip your arms, she shudders slightly as you sink back inside.

It’s not hard to see why she likes doing this to you so much.

You feel powerful, tilting your hips into her, knowing you’re the one inside her, making her feel so good. She’s a little breathier than usual. Her chest flushing red, biting her lips as you thrust into her. It’s addictive.

“Does that feel good, baby?” You murmur. She nods, eyes closed. You lean down, rub her clit.

“Tell me.”

“It feels good. Really good.” She says, her voice strangled. Higher than usual.

You pump your hips a little harder.

“I love it when you let me fuck you like this.” You murmur, lean down to press your body over hers. Pepper her neck with kisses, “You look so pretty like this, sweetheart.”

You grip her thighs, tilting your hips. The act itself was hot, but more than anything you knew she’d never let anyone else take control like this. The fact that she trusts you so much turns you on even more. You press down into her, fuck her a little harder.

She gasps.

You lose yourself a little. Your hips thrust hard, fucking her into the mattress. She’s all soft skin and quiet moans, her fingernails carving half moons into your back. You kiss her, a little sloppy, overwhelmed by the way she’s writhing under you.

Each thrust edges you a little closer. You suck on the base of her neck, reach down to rub her clit, needing her close.

“Fuck.” She moans, “I’m going to cum.”

Her back arches.

You pound into her a little harder, sending her careening off the edge. Her entire body tightens, nails clawing into you as you fuck her through her orgasm. Then, with one more thrust you join her, body tensing as you orgasm hard.

You heartbeat thrums. You press a kiss to her chest, feel her heart pound under your lips. Then you’re moving back up to her lips, taking her in a sweet kiss.

You lay on her a little longer, until she’s yawning sleepily, then withdraw yourself with a careful tug, and slip the straps off your waist.

You nestle yourself into her side, wrap a protective arm around her body.

“Thanks, baby.” You murmur, “Love you.”

“Love you too.” She says.

Her eyes droop slightly.

She wakes herself up, tries to reach down your body.

“Go to sleep, babe.” You tell her, press one more kiss to her lips.

“What about you?”

“You already made me cum.” You tell her, you rub her leg, tug her into you. “Doing that.”

“What, just lying there?” She smiles, tilts her head into your chest.

“Laying there incredibly sexily.” You say. “Did you like that?”

She hums. Rubs her hand against your hips.

“Yes. More than I thought I would.” She says, a little shy.

“Good.” You say. Kiss her slow, “Because I want to do that again. And again. And again after that.”

“Hmm.” She says, “I might be okay with that.”

Chapter 11 Chapter Text

Living with Sam and Richie, as Tara predicted, is entirely miserable.

Sam hovers like a mother hen, Richie walks around the house in his boxers, plays video-games until the early morning. Tara’s moodier than usual at the intrusion, throwing jabs and picking fights and you just want one night of goddamn peace.

One night without feeling like you’re living in a warzone.

In fact, you’re literally in a warzone tonight.

Richie’s playing Call of Duty, again, Tara wants to watch a movie and Sam insists on brokering peace between them, offering to go out and buy Tara a TV for her bedroom.

It goes down as well as you’d expect.

“Why doesn’t he go out and buy a TV.” Tara snarls, perched against the couch with her arms crossed, “This is my TV right here.”

“Our TV.” Sam says, pointedly. Richie scratches the back of his head, a little awkward, “You don’t own the TV and you don’t own this house. When you do, you can start setting rules.”

“Fuck this.” Tara says. She stands, holds out her hand for you, “Play your stupid game, I don’t care. Come on babe, let’s go have sex.”

Your blush flames across your chest to the tip of your ears.

“No one is having sex.” Sam says, loudly.

“No one?” Richie says, a little put out.

“No one.” Sam confirms as she pries the controller from his hands, “Not until you finish your chores.”

Tara groans. Sam had set up a chore wheel the night she moved in, something that had immediately set Tara off. It was Tara’s week on dishes, and yet again, she’d let them fester in the sink. Another show of open defiance.

“You’re on garbage duty.” She tells Richie, “And it’s full. Go take it out.”

“And then I get sex?” He asks, his interest piqued. She ignores him, looks at Tara.

“Dishes, Tara. I cooked, it’s only fair.”

“You should have to do it for cooking.” Tara grumbles under her breath, “That linguine was a crime against God.”

You hop up, take her hand before she can start another fight.

“Come on, baby, I’ll help you.” You say. You press a kiss to the back of her hand. She softens, just a little. Then you’re tugging her out of the room and into the kitchen.

“Who made her the queen of the world?” Tara seethes as she settles herself onto the edge of the kitchen counter, most pointedly not doing the dishes. You pry open the dishwasher, start stacking the dirty plates in.

“It’ll only be for a little while, babe.” You say, “Just until she’s sure you’re okay again.”

But she doesn’t go, not for days on end.

Days of Richie and Tara fighting over the TV. Days of Sam and her chore wheel. By the end of the week, you’re actually afraid Tara might kill them both.

“Bye!” Tara calls out to Richie and Sam as they head out the door. They’re off to some restaurant for their one year anniversary. You’re both thankful for the reprieve, “Don’t come back!” She adds for good measure.

Sam flicks her the dirtiest stare, then she’s heading out the front door, Richie in tow.

“Finally.” Tara says, her eyes alight, “Finally we can watch The Menu undisturbed.”

The movie is fine. You get a good bit into it before you can tell Tara’s bored. Too much talking, not enough blood.

You barely make it through the first act before she’s rubbing your leg, leaning down to press a kiss to your neck.

“Tara,” You say, trying to keep your expression even. Trying to ignore the flicker of desire that courses through you, “Baby. I’m watching this.”

“I’d rather watch you.” She says, runs her tongue along the length of your jaw.

You sigh. Let her tilt your head slightly and let her kiss you.

Her hands move to cup your face. She tastes good. Like that cherry lip balm she knows you like. Like the strawberry cheesecake you’d had for dessert. You bite down gently on her bottom lip and push her back into the couch.

She’s pulling you on top of her in a flash, movie still blaring, abandoned. You thread your fingers through her dark hair, tug gently as you pull her into you, gasp as her hands wander. Into the back pockets of your jeans, squeezing gently, teasing.

Then down your thighs, holding you into her.

You kiss her again, slip your tongue between her lips and grind down into her as she feels you up.

Kissing her is magic, you could do it for hours. You would do it for hours if she’d let you. If she wasn’t so impatient, always wanting more.

There’s that impatience now as she’s trying to pull your shirt over your head. She’s such a boy sometimes, with only one thing on her mind. And right now that thing is your breasts in her mouth.

Her eyes light up the moment she sees them, like she hasn't seen them hundreds of times before.

She wastes no time, mouth hot and greedy around your nipples, biting only slightly, then soothing you with her tongue. You tighten your grip in her hair, sigh gently as she palms your ass through your jeans, talented tongue working you up.

You close your eyes, enjoy the feel of her mouth, her hands, the little noises she makes as she sucks so gently. Then you’re prying her mouth away, wanting her lips back on yours.

She feels good, warm. You pull her shirt over her head, press your skin into her.

Then you’re dropping down to your knees, clumsily drawing her jeans down her legs. You line kisses up her thighs, spread her wide for you. She’s soaked through her underwear, you tease your lips along the waistband, dipping slightly to press a warm kiss to her soaked center. She’s looking down at you with hooded eyes, hand on the back of your head trying to guide you. You press your tongue to the fabric once more, then pull her underwear down her legs.

You both moan when the barrier is gone and your tongue runs up her length, wettening her swollen folds. You don’t waste any time, now you’re the impatient one. The moment her clit is in your mouth you suck down hard, ferocious.

Her mouth falls open, her head tilting back, a sigh on her lips.

You squeeze her thighs with your hand, then trail it up to slip a finger inside her warm heat. She feels so good around you, like she always does. Gripping and squeezing. She’s always so tight. You slip a second finger in, lovingly suck on her clit as you drive your fingers in deeper, curling so you can hit that perfect spot.

She cums quickly, all breathy moans and your name on her lips.

You frown. It’s too soon, you want to stay down here with her legs wrapped around your head and her pretty pussy in your mouth. You press a kiss to her thigh, let her recover, rubbing your hands along her thighs, hoping she’s not too sensitive for another round.

Her hands wrap around your arms, trying to tug you up.

You pout, but relent, suddenly increasingly aware of your soaked underwear.

She seems to be too, judging by the way she’s trying to pull you out of your clothes as quickly as possible. You take her lips in a searing kiss, completely unhelpful as she undresses you, until you’re naked against her, her hands reaching down to slip between your thighs.

“Tara.” You moan into her neck as her fingers brush your clit, teasing you gently. Suddenly all thought of being on your knees is gone. You want her to press you into the couch and fuck you until you forget your own name. You tug on her gently, trying to lean back and pull her on top of you. Her grip around your waist tightens.

“Mm.” Tara says, her voice low, turned on, “No, I want you on top.”

“Oh, really?” You say, eyes filled with delight. You spread your legs a little wider, trying to give her access. She presses a kiss to your lips, then she’s pulling back, smile coy.

“Wait here,” She says, eyes warm with want, “I’ll be right back.”

You wait on the couch while she races upstairs. Tilt your head, attention drawn to the TV. When she returns, it’s with the strap-on in hand. Your belly coils as she clambours back onto the couch, drawing you with her. She wastes no time, lubing herself up and then her fingers are back on you, drawing your legs open as she pulls you into her lap.

You groan as she slips her fingers inside you, warming you up.

Then you feel the cool plastic against your folds, slipping between them as she tries to find your entrance. You kiss her soft, fingers tightening around the back of her neck as she slips the tip inside you.

You start slow, getting used to it inside you. Tara’s hands are on your hips, gently guiding you. She’s kissing you, all tongue, wild. When you feel the soft press of her thighs flushed against yours, her entire length inside you, you sigh.

She doesn’t give you a moment to relax. She’s tilting her hips back and then up into you, sending shockwaves through you. You moan, drop your head forward onto her shoulder as she thrusts up into you.

She keeps a steady pace, each tilt of her hips hits hard, brushes against your cervix.

“Tara, fuck.” You gasp as she grips your hips, bouncing you down into her, “Harder, baby.”

She complies, debauched sound of your skin slapping hers as she drives her hips up into you.

You take her earlobe between your teeth, grind yourself down onto her.

“Does that feel good, sweetheart?” She’s asking, momentarily letting go of your waist to rub small circles on your clit. She’s thrusting up into you lazily, enjoying the way you bounce yourself a little harder, like you’re putting on a show for her.

“So good.” You murmur into her ear. Press a hot kiss to her neck and wrap your arms around her shoulders, “You’re so deep, baby.”

In response, she wraps her arms back around you, pounds up a little harder. You reward her with a long moan, cheeks flushed, holding her tight against you, wanting to have her as close as possible. Her naked body in your arms, her lips on your mouth, her cock buried deep in your cunt.

It’s building, your orgasm. She’s close too, her breathing a little jilted, hands around your hips squeezing, squeezing, squeezing as she thrusts her hips up into you.

She hits just the right spot and you’re about to cum around her when you hear a loud crash and a blood-curdling shriek.

You freeze, turn your head just in time to see Sam and Richie in the doorway, both looking aghast.

Richie looks like a deer in headlights, Sam is white as a sheet and Tara’s reaching for the rug on the back of the couch, a little hastier than usual as she tries to wrap it around your body.

“Tara.” Sam hisses, her eyes alight, “What the fuck?”

There’s food all over the floor, presumably their leftovers from the restaurant. You’re mortified, Richie too. Tara doesn’t seem that bothered, gripping you, keeping you in place. She doesn’t make much of an effort to move, stares down her sister, daring her to leave.

You tug the blanket around yourself, use the excess fabric to try to cover as much of her as you can. Richie’s staring at the ceiling, his hands limp at his side. When Sam’s shock passes, anger takes over her.

“This is so not cool. This is a communal space. God, I was just sitting there.”

“Sorry.” Tara shrugs, not looking sorry at all, “We thought you guys would be out longer. Trouble in paradise?”

Sam narrows her eyes.

“You’re cleaning that couch tomorrow. Bleaching it.”

Tara hums.

“We might need to bleach the countertop too. And the dining table. And the-”

Sam raises a hand. “Stop it. God, you’re disgusting. Get dressed and get out of my sight. Both of you.”

You're still impaled on Tara as Sam drags Richie out, trying to cover his eyes with her hand.

Your body is flushed bright red, but it isn’t from Tara, not anymore.

“Babe.” You whine as you slip yourself off her, “How did you not hear them come in?”

“I was a little distracted,” Tara says, biting her lip, “With you moaning like that in my ear.”

“Shut up. I wasn’t moaning.” You say, land a gentle smack on her arm, cheeks red.

She raises an eyebrow, tightens her hands around your waist.

“Oh Tara,” She mocks, “Fuck me harder, Tara. You’re so deep. I’m going to cum-”

You push yourself off her with a grumble, but she tugs you back and kisses you soft, languid.

When you pull away, she looks like she wants to go for round two.

“Upstairs.” You murmur. You look around for your discarded clothes, “God, where are my clothes?”

“You won’t need them.” Tara says, affirms her statement with a kiss to your shoulder. “I’m about to take you upstairs, put you on your back and pound you out so hard that you-”

“We can still hear you,” Sam declares loudly.

Tara huffs and you blush bright red again.

She stands, taking you with her as she wraps the blanket tight around both of your bodies.

“Talk about a mood killer. Come on, babe.”

“You’re in so much trouble.” You whisper as she leads you up the stairs. She scoffs.

“With Sam? Please, what’s she going to do? Add another chore to my roster?”

“With me.” You say, voice low, “I know you heard them come in.”

She looks at you, smile coy.

“And what are you going to do to me?” She asks, desire burning deep within her eyes, “You going to punish me?”

The thought crosses your mind. But Sam’s still hovering in the kitchen, reaching for a broom so she can clean up the mess of leftovers.

“Get upstairs,” You say, voice thick with want, “And you’ll see.”

Chapter 12 Chapter Text

Since that unfortunate incident in the living room, you and Tara have been hiding out in her bedroom.

Well you’re hiding out, unable to get past the mortification. The look on Sam’s face as she’d seen the two of you. The hushed lecture she’d given you both the morning after. Tara, as usual, doesn’t think she’s done anything wrong, but she goes where you go, and tonight, that’s curled up under her covers watching an episode of Ancient Aliens.

You’re perfectly content, wrapped up in Tara’s arms, until you hear a long rapt on the door. It’s Sam, presumably. She’s taken to knocking profusely before entering any room.

Tara’s bedroom especially.

“What?” Tara calls out. Sam’s voice sounds through the wood of the door, a little muffled.

“Is everybody decent?”

“No.” Tara says, deadpanned, “We’re having wild, passionate sex, don’t come in.”

Sam pauses.

You whack her, lightly.

“You’re fine Sam, we’re fully clothed.” You call out.

Tara shoots you a look but you ignore her, watch as Sam hesitantly steps into the room.

“Richie got Clue from the house. Do you guys want to join us for a game?”

“No.”

“Yes.”

You and Tara both say at the same time. It earns her another smack.

“We’ll be down in five,” You tell her, voice syrupy sweet. You’ve been doing that lately, being extra nice to Sam. Trying to make up for your girlfriend’s utter lack of respect.

Sam nods, closes the door behind her.

“What did you do that for?” Tara groans, “Now we’ll be stuck with them all night.”

“You need to start being nicer to your sister.” You tell her, stand and tug at her hand, “She’s making a real effort. And we still have some groveling to do.”

“You can grovel all you like, unless you can erase memories I think that one will stick with her for a while.” She grins like she’s proud of herself.

You smack her again.

“And whose fault is that?”

“Ow.” She rubs her forearm, eyes wide with outrage, “Stop hitting me.”

“Stop being an idiot and I’ll stop hitting you.” You tell her, hold out your hand. She takes it with great reluctance, scoots herself off the bed, “Now what are we going to go downstairs and do?”

“Be nice to Sam,” Tara grumbles.

“And Richie.” You remind her. She goes quiet.

“Tara. He’s fine.”

“He’s creepy,” Tara complains, “I just get a bad vibe from him. And Sam can do so much better-”

“Drop it.” You chide. You reach for her hand, interlock your fingers, “You’re going to be nice to Sam and you’re going to be nice to Richie. All night. Please?”

She really looks like she wants to argue. Instead, she pulls you into her, presses a long kiss to your cheek.

“Fine. But only for you.”

“It’s Colonel Mustard. In the study. With the knife.”

Richie’s eyes glint. Tara huffs beside you as Sam reaches for the small yellow packet in the middle of the table.

“Sam, don’t. It’s been two rounds, he can’t possibly have gotten it already.”

Sam slaps down the cards. It is Colonel Mustard. In the study. With the knife. Tara blinks.

“You cheated.” She says, immediately.

Richie laughs, “No. I’m just good at this kind of thing.”

“He is.” Sam assures, pulling everyone’s cards to the center of the table, “It’s annoying.”

You rub the back of Tara’s neck. You can tell she’s getting upset. She doesn’t like to lose and this is the third game in a row Richie’s won. You’re starting to think this was a bad idea.

“He’s looking at the cards,” Tara insists, snatching the packet off Sam, “Here, let me deal.”

But Richie wins again, even after Tara makes a big show of dealing the hand quite literally under the table. Tara’s shoulders tighten. The first sign of her mood. She goes quiet as she plays, all focus and determination, snapping replies when she’s asked questions. Pushing your hand on her thigh away.

By the end of the fourth game, you’re the one snatching the cards from the table.

“Maybe we should play something else,” You suggest quickly, your hand around Tara’s waist maybe the only thing stopping her from launching across the table to slap the shit-eating grin off Richie’s face, “Uno?”

You can’t stand Uno, you suck at it. But Tara’s good at it and she almost never loses. A quick win is exactly what she needs. You hold back your cards on purpose, determined to give her the game. Direct all your bad cards at Richie and Sam.

But despite your best efforts, Richie wins that too.

By the time game night is over, Richie’s standing a little taller and you’re left to pick up the pieces of Tara’s foul mood. You lead her back upstairs, direct an unsaid apology towards Sam with your eyes.

Tara’s so annoyed she barely notices when you strip naked in front of her and slip into bed.

“God, he sucks,” She vents, so irate you can almost see the steam coming out of her ears, “He cheats at Clue and if that isn’t sad enough he cheats at Uno too. What is he trying to prove?”

She’s a terrible loser, always has been. If someone except her wins, she’s certain they’ve cheated. Somehow you even find that endearing about her. You reach for her and rub her back, soothingly.

“Babe, I don’t think he was cheating,” You say, nestling yourself into her side, “He’s just good at games. He’s a nerd. He probably spends all his free time practicing them. I mean, all he ever does is play that stupid shooting game.”

Tara chews at her bottom lip.

“He probably spends all night practising because his girlfriend never wants to fuck him.” Tara says, her eyes sparking a little. Next to fucking you, ragging on Richie was her absolue favorite thing to do.

You indulge her, try to prompt her out of her grump.

“Exactly. And you don’t have that problem.” You say, pressing your lips against her ear, “Because your girlfriend always wants to fuck you.”

That does it. You feel her soften immediately, her hands around your waist tightening. She’s suddenly realized you’re naked against her. She runs her hands down your bare thighs, her mood gone with a single sentence.

“Hmm,” She says, her voice dropping a few octaves, “That’s true. I’d beat him every time if I didn’t have such a sexy, naked girl in my bed 24/7.”

“Definitely.” You assure, “So who’s the real winner?”

‘Me.” Tara grins as she flips you onto her back, “Definitely me.”

In the end, the real winner is you.

You get three orgasms as a reward for your peace-keeping efforts. By the time you’re done, a sweaty mess of entwined limbs, you’re satisfied but dehydrated. Tara mews as you get up, trying to tug you back into her.

“I’m just going to get some water,” You assure, reaching for her discarded t-shirt and pulling it over your head, “Do you want some?”

She nods, a little sleepily, rests her head back down onto the pillow as you leave.

The house is dark, you pad quietly through it, not wanting to wake Sam and Richie.

But when you reach the kitchen, Richie’s already there in only his boxers, a glass of milk in hand. He raises it to you in acknowledgement.

“Hey,” He says, “You thirsty too, huh?”

“Just getting some water.” You say as you reach into the shelf and grab yourself a glass.

“Tara still pissed she lost?” He asks, leaning against the countertop, “That girl sure knows how to throw a tantrum.”

He grins a little, like he’s sure you’ll agree with him. Bitches, am I right? His smile screams. As if he’s forgotten he’s talking to her girlfriend.

“She’s just competitive,” You say, a little defensively. You fill yourself a glass, grab another for Tara.

“Hmm.” Richie says, “I’m sure she’s fine now. After you got done with her.”

His eyes flicker down to your bare legs. You cross your arms a little self conscious.

“You guys have a lot of sex, you know.” Richie continues. He takes a long sip of his drink, “We can hear you through the walls. It’s driving Sam crazy.”

Your neck prickles uncomfortably. The thought of Sam hearing you have sex was mortifying but knowing Richie could hear too was somehow even worse.

“Sorry.” You say. You pull her shirt down your legs a little, subconsciously trying to cover yourself, “We’ll be quieter.”

“It’s fine.” He says, “I don’t mind.”

He blinks as if he’s just realized what he said, “Sorry, I didn’t mean that in a weird way. I just meant- you know what, never mind. I’m going to stop talking.”

He hovers, a little awkward. You blink back at him, unsure what to say.

“Enjoy your water. And your- sex, I guess.”

And then he leaves you standing in the kitchen alone, the hairs on the back of your neck standing up.

When you make your way back up to Tara’s she’s still laying in bed, her eyes drooping.

She accepts her water, and doesn't seem to notice your mood.

You’re glad, you don’t want to tell Tara about your conversation with Richie in the kitchen.

You feel weird, uncomfortable. You tell yourself to let it go. After all, he hadn’t even anything that offensive, outside of being slightly creepy. There really wasn’t anything to tell Tara. And she’d go ballistic. Probably go in all guns blazing and drag Richie out of bed by his hair.

The last thing you need is her to be angry again.

You curl back into bed against her, still wearing her shirt.

“Take this off.” She murmurs into your chest, trying to tug her shirt off you. You resist.

“You know we can’t sleep naked.” You say. Sleeping naked with Tara almost always ended up the same way; her waking you up at some ungodly hour to fuck you into the mattress because she’d gotten so turned on by the press of your skin against hers in the middle of the night, “We have to be at school for eight.”

She pouts. You press a kiss to her lips.

“Tomorrow.” You promise, “When it’s Friday and I don’t have to be up early.”

“I’m holding you to that.” She says, quite seriously and lets you pull her pajamas back on.

It’s Saturday night.

Usually, you’d be out with Tara’s friends but the mood has dampened a little since Wes’ disappearance. The friendship circle dwindling a little, only five of you left, with Wes and Amber’s untimely departures.

Instead, you’re starting dinner prep while Tara and Sam do the grocery shop. Tara had insisted on going with her, complaining Sam’s grocery options were far too organic for her taste. Richie’s out somewhere with his college buddies, so for once you have the house to yourself.

Maybe when Tara got back the two of you could watch a film, since Richie had temporarily vacated the living room. Or maybe you’d rope her and Sam into another game of Clue, fix Tara’s bruised ego by letting her win.

For now, you put on some music, put your hair up.

Chop potatoes while grooving out to Fleetwood Mac, not a care in the world.

In fact you’re so into the music, you don’t even hear the press of the kitchen door opening. The heavy click of boots against the tile. The gentle scrapping of a knife against the wood of the counter.

And when you turn around, lyrics to Dreams still on your lips, your heart almost jumps out of your throat.

It’s Tara, wearing the Ghostface outfit. Black robes and all, mask down, silver dagger in hand.

Your reaction is instantaneous; the knife you’re holding clatters to the counter. Your entire body fizzles: a mesh of confusion and rage and horror at the sight in front of you.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” You hiss, “Where are you going?”

Tara tilts her head. Her fingers press tighter around the knife in her hand. She doesn’t bother to answer. It makes you angrier. Your stomach writhes sick with fury. She’d told you she wasn’t going to do this anymore. She’d swore black and blue. Hurt, anger, betrayal well up, set deep within your bones.

“You promised me you’d stop with this. Take that off right now.”

But she doesn’t move. Not an inch. You reach out for her, grab at the mask, determined to tear it off and tell her how disappointed you are to her face. But she jerks away from you out of your reach. You stare, irritation swelling.

“Where’s Sam? Tara, if she comes home and sees you like this-”

You don’t see it coming. One minute she’s standing completely still. The next, her arms are jerking out wide, grabbing at you hard. She yanks you to her, hands are gripping your forearms so hard you think it might bruise.

“What the fuck? Get off me!” You cry out as you struggle against her.

Something’s wrong. Something other than Tara standing in front of you in her Ghostface costume. Her grip is hard, unforgiving. Her hands are too big, her weight against you feels strange. Foreign.

Your struggle against her is futile. She’s much stronger than you. She drags you backwards across the kitchen and slams you down onto the floor like you’re a ragdoll. Then she’s climbing on top of you, too heavy, hands wrapping tight around your throat.

She chokes you hard. It’s not an unfamiliar position. But this is different. She’s choking you like she wants to hurt you. You writhe in a panic as her fingers squeeze down tight around your throat. You try to cry out but she’s pressing down too hard on your vocal chords. Your vision blurs. Your head light.

In a final, desperate move, you manage to kick up between her legs at just the right angle. Her grip loosens, only slightly but it’s enough.

You scramble out from under her. Immediately grab at your fallen potato chopping knife.

When you whirl around, knife pointed out at her, she’s pulling herself back to her feet, Ghostface mask tilted menacingly.

“Who the fuck are you?” You hiss, hands shaking.

This isn’t your girlfriend, you don’t know why you didn’t see it before. This person is taller, bigger, and they want to hurt you. As they stand, you see the glint of the knife in their hands.

“Someone who thinks you should pay.” They’re using the Ghostface voice changer. You haven’t heard it since that night at Chase’s house. The night you’d discovered who Tara truly was. It sends shivers down your spine. Your lip quivers.

“Someone who thinks you should both pay.” Ghostface edges a little closer, knife tilted out towards you. Your eyes flicker down to it. It gleams under the cool lights of the kitchen, “And when I’m done carving you up, I’m going to drag your pretty girlfriend in here too. Just long enough so she can see what I’ve done to you. Then I’ll mutilate her over your corpse.”

“You stay the fuck away from her.” You growl, edge forward and launch a strike. Ghostface ducks past it like it’s nothing. You topple back, grip the counter so hard it might just crack under the pressure. Ghostface is close now, close enough that if you just reached forward and grabbed the mask…

Ghostface ducks as you try it. Launches a hard strike at you. You spin out of the way just in time, their dagger hitting the side of the counter. It clatters to the ground and you take the moment to run.

You’re sprinting, far out of the kitchen and down the hall, heartbeat in your ears. You rush for the front door. If you can just make it out of the house, run out onto the street, you’ll be able to find help. A neighbor, a car, anything.

You hear footsteps, loud and heavy behind you.

Panic floods through your veins, tears streaking hot down your face. Your hands are shaking as you pry open the lock. Their close now, close enough to grab you. Just as a pair of gloved hands reach out to pull you back, the click of the lock sounds.

You don’t wait a moment longer. Pry open the door as fast as you can and sprint forward.

Immediately, you hit a solid body.

You hit the ground hard, a mess of tears, tangled limbs and loose grocery items. You gasp as a rogue glass of pasta sauce shatters around you, a carton of milk seeping cool under your fingertips.

It’s Sam, looking confused and a little dazed. The weight of you has sent her toppling back onto the porch. You wildly flurry to untangle yourself from her, scramble up desperately looking behind you for the foreboding figure that had just chased you down the hallway.

“My groceries.” Sam gasps, from the ground, “YN, what the hell?”

But you’re not looking at her. You stare back into the house. The hallway is empty, eerie, lights flickering. Ghostface is long gone.

You hear the thud of the car door closing, and then a voice that makes you want to crumble to the ground.

“Sam?” Tara calls out from behind the car. No doubt she’s heard the panic, tries to round the corner to see what’s going on. She’s carrying two brown bags worth of groceries, a particularly long celery stick blocking her vision. She brushes it out of the way, eyes lock to Sam on the ground and you, standing limp-handed, tears and mascara streaked down your face.

“Baby? What’s wrong?”

You run towards her, all but throw yourself into her arms. She lets go of the groceries instantly. They fall to the ground with a crash as she wraps her arms tight around you. You sniffle into her neck, breathing wild, heartbeat erratic. You try to speak but it comes out in a quiet, muffled blubber, tears spilling hot from your eyes and into her neck. She’s pulling you away only slightly so she can cup your cheeks, eyes panicked as she sees the look in your eyes.

“Babe, what happened?”

“He’s inside,” Your voice shakes. It’s thick, “Ghostface. He’s here.”

She blinks back at you. Your so close to her you can almost hear the thud of her heartbeat as it speeds up.

“What?” She says, “That’s impossible.”

“He’s here.” You say, desperately, “Call the police, now.”

“Who’s here?” Sam asks. She’s long abandoned her groceries, looks over at you with concern.

“Ghostface.” You say, “He attacked me in the house. Just now. He’s probably still inside.”

Sam’s face drops. Tara’s hands tighten around your waist.

“Wait here.” Tara murmurs, pressing a quick kiss to the top of your head.

“No.” You and Sam both shout at once. You grip her hard. Keep her locked into you.

“You’re not going in there. No way.” You say. The shake in your voice gone, replaced with sheer determination. Over your dead body was she going into that house alone.

“Baby, let go. You know I can handle myself.”

Sam reaches for her phone.

“Get back in the car. Lock the doors.” She orders, taking charge, “YN, don’t let go of her. I’m calling the police.”

“He’ll be gone by then,” Tara says, aggravated but you don’t loosen your grip. Cling to her like a baby koala would its mother.

“Let’s get in the car, please Tara.” You all but beg. She looks down at you, conflict in her eyes.

“Please.”

She relents. You feel the tension in her body loosen only a little, before she’s leading you back into Sam’s car, and helping you into the back seat. You all but crawl into her lap, watch as Sam paces back and forth across the front lawn, talking animatedly to the 911 operator.

“Are you okay?” Tara’s asking, her hands over your body. She’s wildly checking for marks, cuts. “Did he hurt you?”

You shake your head.

Tara presses a long kiss to the side of your head.

“Did you see his face?” Tara asks. She looks so anxious you want to weep.

You shake your head once more.

“Did you get close? Did you hear his voice?”

“Voice-changer,” You all but mumble.

She bites at her bottom lip. She looks back into the house, eyes it like she’s about to make a break for it. You curl your fingers tight around her waist, keeping her in place. Press your cheek to her chest. Her heart is beating faster than yours, drumming loudly against your ear.

Her fingers thread through your hair, heartbeat still racing.

“Shoes?”

“Boots. They were black.”

“What did he smell like?”

You retract from her just long enough to stare up at her. She’s looking back, completely serious.

“I didn’t smell him, Tara, I was busy trying not to get stabbed-”

Your lip trembles. A fresh wave of tears spill hot from your eyes.

“Alright. Alright, I’m sorry, baby. Of course you didn’t smell him.” She takes you back into her arms, hushes your cries with a kiss, “There’s got to be something. He grabbed you, right? What did he feel like? Was he skinny? Beefy?”

“He was…” You trail off trying to remember. You look down at your forearms, remember the way he’d gripped you, “He was strong. Solid.”

“So he was a he, then?” Tara tries to confirm. Her eyes flit between yours, searchingly.

“I don’t… maybe. Not necessarily.” You say, suddenly hyper-aware of how unhelpful you’re being. You pause a moment, remembering something.

“He knew though.”

Tara looks at you, long and hard.

“He knew what?”

“What we-” You take a breath, hot flashes of memories painting thick behind your eyes. The knife in your hand. Wes’ body on the floor.

“About you-know-what.”

Sam’s close, you don’t want to say it aloud. Tara’s expression is even, unreadable. Her heartbeat hammers even louder.

“That’s not possible.”

“He said that we need to pay.” You insist, “There’s nothing else he could have meant.”

Tara goes quiet, her fingers in your hair tightened. Then she’s pulling you back into her chest, pressing another long kiss against the top of your head.

“I shouldn’t have left you alone,” She says, voice agonized, “Why did I leave you alone?”

“Nevermind about that,” You say. You close your eyes, breathe her in. It calms you, if only for a moment, “What are we going to do?”

She blinks back at you. She’s afraid, uncertain, you can see it in her eyes. She doesn’t have an answer for you, she doesn’t know what to do.

She’s used to being the hunter, not the hunted.

And the thought of Tara being Ghostface’s prey is what scares you the most.

Chapter 13 Chapter Text

You haven’t left the car - or Tara’s lap - by the time the police arrive.

Sam greets them, watches as they make their way through the house, casing for strewn pieces of clothing, discarded weapons, footprints, handprints, anything.

But there’s nothing to find. Ghostface is long gone.

By the time they’re done, your anxiety is at an all time high, not even Tara’s arms around you enough to quell the fear inside you. Your chest thumps uncomfortably. Your palms are shaky, sweaty. Flashes of the mask, the knife raised against you.

Is this how Tara’s victims felt in the end? Is this how Wes felt?

The only difference between you and Wes is you’d survived. And he’d died innocent while you survived, guilty. It isn’t fair. You deserve everything Ghostface is giving you, you know it deep down. Your will to live is selfish, almost.

Why should you live while the others died?

The answer is pressed to your side. She’s beautiful, as ever, squeezing your hand so tight the tips of your fingers turn white. Her knee bounces steadily, an indication of her nerves. Her dark eyes are wild, flitting from you to the house to the officers on the lawn. Scanning, as if Ghostface will jump out at any moment. God help him if he does, when she’s like this. Ash-faced, quietly stewing in her own anger and anxiety. You can almost hear the cogs turning in her brain as she runs wild with the possibilities of who it could be.

The police have questions, what feels like millions of them. The most pressing is why. Why would Ghostface target you specifically? Of course, you know why.

You don’t mention the other victims. You don’t mention Tara’s Ghostface mask hidden in a lockbox in her closet. You don’t mention the motive Ghostface had all but spat into your face.

Someone who thinks you should pay.

Tara, a little on edge, tires very quickly of their incessant questions.

“There’s never a why, do you even live in this town?” Tara barks, voice hot with annoyance, “They’re random. They’ve always been random.”

“That’s not exactly true.” It’s Sheriff Hicks. She climbs out of her squad car, slips her gun into her holster as she stands.

Your chest tightens. She makes you so nervous. You’re so scared one of these days you’ll slip, blurt out the truth before it’s too late.
“Billy Loomis blamed Sidney for his mother abandoning him. Nancy Loomis blamed her for killing her son. Roman Bridger and Jill Roberts wanted infamy.” She surveys you, hand resting gently on her holstered pistol, “The question is: what does this Ghostface want?”

The back of your neck prickles uncomfortably under her gaze. You sink deeper into Tara, wear her almost like a shield.

“Forget his motive, what are you going to do about catching him?” Tara says, arm tight around your waist, “I want a squad car here 24/7. I want officers escorting her to school. I want a walkie talkie and a phone number so we can have direct contact with them whenever we need-”

The thought of stepping foot into that house sends shockwaves of panic through your body. You grip her waist, tight, trying to draw her attention.

“I can’t go back in there.” You say, voice tight, “Tara, I can’t stay here tonight. I can’t sleep here.”

If Tara’s surprised by this, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she wraps her arms tight around your shoulder and presses a long kiss to your forehead.

“Okay baby.” She says, “We’ll stay with your parents, how about that?”

“I can post a squad car.” Sheriff Hicks interjects, “Two officers. I’ll give you their cell numbers. I’m afraid we’re all out of walkie-talkies.”

She looks at you, for the first time in a long time there’s sympathy in her eyes, “You’re going to be okay.” She promises, “My officers are the very best. But you call me if you remember anything. Anything at all that could help.”

The moment is interrupted by the sheen of blinding headlights. You avert your gaze, blink away the stars in your eyes at the sudden intrusion.

It’s a familiar truck, the heavy slam of the door signals the driver has exited the vehicle. You squint, make out Richie’s figure as he rushes towards you.

“Hey. I came here as fast as I could. Where’s Sam, is she okay?” He’s out of breath, a little panicked as he scans the driveway for his girlfriend.

“Sam’s fine.” Tara says, her shoulders tight, “YN was attacked.”

Richie blinks.

“By Ghostface? Are you alright?”

“Of course she’s not alright.” Snaps Tara, “Some psycho just attacked her at knifepoint.”
She pauses, suspicion brewing in her eyes.

“Where have you been?”

Richie draws his attention back to her. The lights of the police sirens flash across his face.

“I was meeting some friends at a bar,” Richie says, “Is Sam in the house?”

“What friends? You got an alibi?” Tara asks, her eyebrows drawn tight.

“You’re not serious?” Richie stares back at her.

The Sheriff tilts her head, suddenly interested.

“Do you?” She reiterates, “Tara and Sam are accounted for. We’ll need to corroborate with any potential witnesses who can place you at the bar.”

Richie opens his mouth in disbelief. He looks between the three of you, waiting for the punchline.

“I didn’t make it there. Sam called-”

The Sheriff hums, scribbles something down on her notepad.

“So no alibi.” Tara scoffs, “You’ve been here two weeks and the one night you go out, YN gets attacked.”

“This is ridiculous.” Richie splutters, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish, “Tara. Why would I attack YN? I have no motive.”

But Tara’s mind is made up, she crosses her arms, glares at the Sheriff.

“Are you going to arrest him or what?”

“Tara. I can’t just arrest people.” The Sheriff says, closing her notebook. She looks at Richie, “I suggest you outline to one of my officers the exact route you took to and from the bar. If we can place you on CCTV we can rule you out as a suspect.”

“You can’t arrest people?” Tara challenges. There’s that fire, the one that’s been brewing for the last hour, finally emerging, “What kind of a Sheriff are you?”

“Tara.” You hiss. You turn back to the Sheriff, eyes wide, “I am so sorry, Sheriff, she’s just scared-”

“Scared?” Tara says, sounding outraged. Her dark eyes burn, “I’m furious. I have a prime suspect for you and you won’t arrest him-”

“Just because you don’t like me doesn’t mean I put on a Ghostface mask and tried to kill your girlfriend.” Richie argues, loudly.

“What’s going on?” It’s Sam, finally emerging from the house. Richie and Tara both turn to face her, matching expressions of outrage on their faces.

“What’s going on? Your creep of a boyfriend just tried to murder my girlfriend.” Tara snarls.

Richie throws his hands up.

“Why? Why would I want to kill her?”

“I don’t know.” Tara says, “You tell me. Because you’re twisted?”

“You know what,” Richie says, his nostrils flaring. He points his finger at her, “It definitely wasn’t me, because if I was going to murder anyone, it would be you-”

“Stop it!” Sam yells, “Both of you. God. You’re like fucking children.”

They both fall silent. Glare at each other. Sam storms off, presumably back into the house. With a final dirty look at Tara, Richie turns and follows her inside.

You take Tara’s hand, rub your fingers over the back of her hand reassuringly. Richie is a little strange, granted, but you seriously doubt he’d try and kill you. You’ll talk her down later tonight, you figure. Right now; you want out of here.

“Do you have any more questions, Sheriff?” You ask, quietly hoping the answer is no, “I need to call my Dad.”

She surveys you for a moment.

“I think we’re all good here.” She says, finally, “Call me if you remember anything.”

Your Dad is freaked, rightfully so.

In a panic, he demands you come home. He seems to be so frightened he doesn’t even protest when you tell him Tara’s coming too.

She’s still glaring at Richie as she pulls out of the driveway, leaving the slew of officers and sirens behind as she makes her way to your parents home. One hand on the wheel, the other gripping your thigh, tight.

“It’s him, I know it’s him.” She stews, hands tightening on the wheel, “How fucking suspicious can he be. Meeting with some friends, my ass.”

“We don’t know that, babe.” You say, squeezing her hand, “He’s kind of right - what’s his motive? As far as I know we haven’t done anything to offend him.”

“I’ve been on his ass since he got here.” Tara says, “Maybe he’s sick of me. Of us.”

“Or maybe it’s someone else.” You say, staring out the window, “Someone related to the others. Sadie has a brother, I think. One of Aaron’s friends? One of Chase’s?”

There’s a long list of people who would want vengeance on the two of you. It hurts your head to think about.

“Cool it on Richie, please babe. If he is Ghostface, the last thing we need is him getting spooked.”

“I need to get him away from Sam,” She says, chewing her bottom lip, “If he hurts her-”

“We don’t know it’s him, babe.” You say, pressing your hand over Tara’s, rub the back of her knuckles, “Besides, if he is Ghostface, he’s not going to kill her. His beef is with us.”

It doesn’t calm her down. Her knee is still bouncing when she pulls into your parents driveway, grip around thigh so tight it’s starting to hurt. She shuts off the car and presses a kiss to the back of your hand.

“I’ll figure it out, don’t worry baby.” She says, voice heavy. Despite the comfort she’s trying to give you, her eyes betray her. Brown, wide, swimming with worry, “No one’s going to hurt you, I promise. I’m not taking my eyes off you. You’re not going anywhere alone, I mean it. You’ll have to get used to me watching you pee.”

You half think she’s kidding, until she follows you upstairs and into the bathroom.

“Absolutely not.” You say, pressing your hand to her chest and pressing a kiss to her lips, “Wait here.”

“But-”

“Ghostface isn’t hiding in the bathtub, babe.” You tell her, and close the door behind you.

You pause. Check the bathtub just in case.

Your parents make a fuss, like you knew they would. Your mom rushes off to comfort cook, something she does best, and your Dad gets his drill out, triple checks all the windows and doors for any shaky locks.

If he minds Tara staying the night, he doesn’t say it. Instead, he hovers at the bedroom door, eyeing her up as he reiterates his safety mechanisms.

“Keep the door locked,” He says, voice gruff as you climb onto the bed, next to Tara, “At all times. Front and back. I have a security specialist coming in tomorrow to install some cameras and alarms.”

“Thanks Dad.” You say. It takes the weight of your chest, just a little.

“I’ve got my shotgun loaded and ready to go,” He continues, “If you hear anything- anything at all - just call out and I’ll be here in a moment.”

“Do you have a spare?” Tara asks suddenly, “Gun, that is? I’ll be a little closer, is all.”

He watches her for a moment. That expression is on his face - the one he always wears when he sees Tara. Mild distaste, like he’s just taken a bite of something that’s gone bad. Briefly, you worry he’s going to try to kick her out.

“I can’t give a gun to a kid.” He says, voice curt. Her brows furrow.

“This kid might be the only person who’s able to protect her in time.” Tara challenges, “You’re all the way across the hall. What if he covers her mouth so she can’t cry out?”

“Babe.” You warn, “It’s fine. We’ll be fine.”

Your Dad shifts his weight, staring Tara down. You know he doesn’t like her, it’s written all over his face. But if she goes, so do you. And he understands that, you know he does.

“I have a handgun.” He says, finally. He looks at you, “I’ll give it to YN. Remember those lessons down at the cabin? You’re confident you know how to use it?”

You nod.

When you were younger, your Dad had taken you shooting, taught you how to fire a gun, how to load it - and most importantly, how not to hurt yourself doing it. The thought of drawing out a gun to protect Tara from Ghostface’s knife makes you feel only the slightest bit better.

He looks back to Tara. The distaste is back in his expression.

“It’s for her. You’re not to touch it. Understand?”

You can feel Tara fizzling next to you. Her fingers curl, and before she can give your Dad the dressing down you know she so desperately wants to give, you jump in.

“She understands.” You say quickly, “Thanks Dad.”

“I don’t know what his problem is,” Tara complains, stormy-eyed, when he finally leaves, “I’m just trying to protect you.”

“He’s just being a Dad,” You say, pulling her into your arms and quelling her mood with a kiss, “Don’t take it personally.”

Dinner’s awkward.

Your head is a mess, heart pounding out of your chest every time you think of the looming threat. Tara grips your thigh under the table protectively, as if she’s afraid Ghostface might launch in any second and send the roast laid out on the table flying.

Your Dad glares at Tara. Tara glares back at him. Your mom stares at you, worry in her eyes.

You stare down at your plate, your appetite somewhat dissipated.

“I just don’t understand.” Your mom says for what seems like the hundredth time this evening, “What does he want with you?”

“What does he want with any of them?” You mumble, “He’s a psycho, that’s all.”

You push a rogue potato around your plate, starting to regret the choice to come home. At least Sam’s questions were easily combatted by one of Tara’s swiftly timed jabs. You could hardly expect Tara to snap at your Mom.

“Let’s not talk about it.” Your Dad says, to your relief, “You’re freaking her out.”

“I’m just saying,” Says your Mom, chewing her lip, “Are we sure he was there… for you?”

She lets it hang. The scrape of cutlery against plates stops momentarily, as the entire table takes in the implication. You frown, look up at your Mom.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” She says, hurriedly. You don’t miss the glance she sneaks at Tara.

“Seriously?” You say, “You’re blaming Tara?”

“I’m not blaming anyone.” She says quickly, “I’m just saying-”

“Well, don’t.” You snap, standing up, “God. Tell me now if you don’t want us here and we’ll go.”

“Of course we want you here.” Your Mom says, “YN, sit down, please sweetheart-”

“I’m not hungry.” You say, scooting yourself away from the table, “Thanks anyway. Come on, babe, let’s go to bed.”

They don’t protest as you lead Tara upstairs and into your bedroom. You slip your pants off, curl up into bed, take Tara in your arms.

“Your Mom’s right, you know.” She says, after a quiet moment, “None of this would be happening if it weren’t for me.”

“Don’t say that.” You murmur. You press a kiss to her head, wrap your arms a little tighter around her.

“It’s true.”

It is true. But she doesn’t need to think that, not right now. You curl your fingers through her dark hair, scratch her scalp affectionately.

“You-” You hesitate, picking your words carefully, “You’ve made some mistakes. But that’s in the past now. You turned over a new leaf, remember?”

You remember it vividly. The night after Amber’s death, making her swear black and blue she’d never kill again. Promising her she’d never have a reason. She shifts in your arms and looks up at you. There’s something in her eyes. Fear. Hesitance.

“Baby,” She says, biting her lip, “Whoever this person is. I have to kill him. You know that, right?”

Your stomach flips.

“No.” You say immediately, “No, Tara.”

“If he’s alive, he’ll hurt you. You know I can’t let that happen. We can’t turn him in, he knows too much. It’s the only way.”

That sinking feeling is back. The one that had been there when Chase died. The one after Amber and the one after Wes. Like everything is crumbling around you. You squeeze her a little tighter.

“I’ll do it.” You say. The thought makes you sick. The thought of her doing it makes you sicker.

“No, baby.” Tara says. She presses a kiss to your shoulder, “Not after last time. Look at what Wes did to you.”

“I don’t care.” You say, shaking your head, “I don't want you doing it. You can’t-”

Be trusted, is what you want to say. The Rage is terrifying, violent, and you don’t want to reawaken it. You hold it back, pull her closer to you.

“I don’t want that part of you back. I don’t like that part of you.”

Tara’s quiet a moment.

“It’s already back, babe.” She says, pulls your hand to her chest. Her heartbeat is wild, out of control, “Don’t you see? It isn’t killing that prompts it. It’s anybody trying to get to you.”

You’re too tired to fight. Too tired to admit she might be right. At the end of the day if it’s her or him, you know what you’d rather her do.

You lean down, press your lips to hers.

“You will sleep tonight, right?”

“Not likely.” She admits, her grip on your hips tightening.

“Let’s take it in shifts.” You suggest, pressing a kiss to the side of her head, “Half and half so we both get some sleep.”

She nuzzles her nose into the side of your neck.

“Okay. I’ll take first watch.”

She looks towards the handgun your Dad left for you on the bedside table, tugs it carefully over to her side of the bed.

“You know how to use that?” You ask, a little skeptical, “You know to turn the safety off?”

“Yes babe, I know how to use a gun.” She assures, a little irritated you asked.

“Alright, alright. Just checking. The last thing I need is you shooting yourself in the foot.”

“Give me some credit,” She grumbles, “That’s something Chad would do.”

You kiss her, softly, then snuggle down into her chest. Listen to the rise and fall of her breathing, her rampant, crazed heartbeat as it pumps in her chest.

“Remember to wake me.”

She doesn’t wake you, as you should have predicated. When you wake it’s the next morning, and she’s pressing a warm kiss to your lips.

You scrunch your eyes, blink her into view.

“Babe. Did you stay up the whole night?” She kisses your forehead, nudges a warm cup of coffee into your hands.

“I wouldn’t have been able to sleep anyway. There was no point in me waking you.”

“Baby.” You groan. Her eyes are red, tired. You press your hands to her cheeks, lean up to kiss her.

“You’re exhausted.”

“I’ll nap in science.” She promises, “Mrs. Fletcher is enough to put anyone to sleep. Besides. I needed to make sure you were safe.”

She kisses you again.

“Speaking of: I asked Chad and Liv to stop by with a few supplies.”

She reaches for a paper bag, empties out the contents onto your mattress. You sit up, interest piqued.

It’s nothing less of an armory. You blink, hold up a small metal device.

“A rape whistle and a taser?” You say, “Babe, how am I supposed to take this into school?”

“Keep them in your purse.” Tara says, as if it’s a perfectly reasonable request, “It’s not like they check our bags. It’s for emergencies.”

She presses a long kiss to your forehead, “But you won’t need them. I’m not leaving your side. Not for a minute.”

“I have Chem today,” You say, heavily, “And you have English. We can’t be together all the time, Tara.”

“We’re skipping.” Tara says, “I’m taking you home early.”

“Tara, if the school calls my Dad and he finds out I’m skipping classes-”

“He’ll do nothing.” Tara says, fire behind her eyes, “You’re eighteen, he can’t force you home with him. And if he tries then I’ll-”

“You’re not killing my Dad.” You say, firmly. She pouts a little.

“That isn’t what I was going to say,” She says, a little put out, “I’d give him a piece of my mind, is all.”

You sit up, pull her into you.

“Sorry, babe.” You apologize, soothe her with a kiss, “I’m just a little on edge.”

“It’s fine,” She reassures, “Just please keep these on you. Please.”

“Alright.” You agree for her sake.

Word gets out quick.

People stare in the hallways, everyone trying to get a glimpse of Ghostface’s latest victim. It’s unsettling, this much attention. You grip Tara’s hand tight in yours and try to ignore the leering of the other students as she walks you to your locker.

When you reach it, Mindy, Chad and Liv are waiting for you.

“Is it true you saw him?” Chad asks, wide-eyed.

“Is it true he stabbed you?” Liv asks.

You shoot her a look, open your locker and grab your books for first period.

“Does it look like he stabbed me, Liv?” You ask, witheringly.

“Give her some space guys,” Tara says, pushing Liv back slightly, “She’s not a zoo animal.”

“Still.” Mindy says, “You survived a brush with Ghostface. Not many people can say that.”

You ignore the hot flash of dread that zaps through you at the mention of him. He could be anyone. Maybe he’s even here now, watching you. Waiting to get you alone. It must flash through your face because suddenly Tara’s hands are on your waist, rubbing your back reassuringly.

“She doesn’t want to talk about it.” Tara says, a little protectively, “Why don’t we meet you guys in Math.”

“Come on.” Mindy says, “Not talking about him gives him power. You don’t know who it is, right? Maybe we can help you figure it out.”

“Maybe it’s you, Mindy.” Liv says, voice sweet, “After all, you’re obsessed with horror movies.”

Mindy looks over, sharply.

“What kind of motive is that?” She says, annoyed, “Besides, I’m not the only one who likes horror movies. Tara does too. Maybe even more than me.”

“So Tara attacked her own girlfriend, that’s your theory?” Chad says, incredulous.

Mindy shrugs, “It’s happened before.”

She turns to you.

“YN, ever get the feeling like Tara wants to kill you?”

“I’m going to kill you in a minute,” Tara growls.

“Yeah.” Mindy nods, like her theory is confirmed, “Major Ghostface vibes.”

“Stop it,” You say, reaching for your Math textbook, “Tara didn’t attack me, she was with Sam. And I’d really rather not talk about it.”

Mindy’s shoulders deflate a little.

“Wes likes horror movies too.” Liv pipes up, “Maybe that’s why he ran away. He wanted us all to think he was dead so he could live his true life as Ghostface.”

You roll your eyes. Let them bicker. As you grab your final textbook your finger catches on something soft. Something you didn’t put there.

It’s a t-shirt, worn, gray, ACDC logo on the front. Your fingers curl around it, brows furrowing. Something hard is within the fabric. You fish it out, turn the cool plastic in your hand. It’s a DVD. Stab 2. Your stomach flips.

You slam your locker shut, white as a sheet. It draws the attention of the entire group. You feel a little dizzy, like you might pass out. Someone had been in your locker. It feels more of a violation than it should. Tara straightens, grips your hand.

“What’s wrong, babe?” She asks immediately.

“Bathroom.” You mumble.

You don’t say goodbye to Tara’s friends. You tug her behind you hard and fast, not sure how much longer you’ll be able to stand upright.

When you reach the bathroom, you slam the door closed, fish out the t-shirt and thrust it towards Tara.

“What’s this?” She looks confused. Flips the t-shirt in her hands.

“It’s Wes’,” You say. You take a heavy breath, try to quell the blood rushing to your ears.

Tara swallows. Her fingers brush the DVD.

“Stab 2.” She says, furrowing her brows, “What is this supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know.’ You say, biting your lip, “Nothing good. How did he get into my locker?”

“The school has cameras.” Tara says, thinking fast, “If I can get into the security feed I might be able to see who it was.”

“How are you going to do that?” You ask,

She bites her lip.

“I don’t know.”

“Please don’t get yourself in trouble,” You say, reaching for her hand. You entwine your fingers, “The last thing I need is you getting kicked out of school.”

“I’ll be careful.” She promises. Dips down to kiss you.

Then, she retracts, tosses the t-shirt and DVD in the trash.

“Tara. What are you doing? What if we need that?”

“We don’t need it, babe.” Tara assures, “Ghostface is trying to fuck with us, that’s all. Besides, the last thing we need is for the Sheriff to catch us with Wes’ old t-shirt and one of his movies.”

She pulls you in again, holds you tight.

“Are you going to be okay in class?”

You nod, drop your forehead to her neck. Wrap your arms around her waist. Your hand catches on something in the back pocket of her jeans. You furrow your brow, then tug it out.

“Tara!” You hiss, mouth dropping, “You brought a knife to school?”

Tara blinks back at you.

“Of course I did.” She says, “There’s some lunatic running around. You really thought I wouldn’t come prepared?”

“Baby, if one of the teachers catches you with a weapon-”

“I have it hidden.” She assures, “They’ll never see it. How am I supposed to protect you if I don’t have a weapon?”

You're more concerned with protecting her. There’s a horrible niggling feeling in the pit of your stomach. Like Ghostface has been a little too easy on her so far. The knife in her hand gives you only the slightest reprieve.

“Let’s go to class.” She says, with a kiss to your cheek, “Do you have your rape whistle?”

You shoot her a look, tug at the string around your neck. She’d insisted you wear it at all times.

“Right here, babe.”

“Good girl.” She kisses you once more.

Your fingers curl around the taser in your back pocket. Slip your phone into your backpack and head to class, Tara’s fingers entwined with your own.

You take a deep breath. You’re in school. In the middle of the day. Hundreds of students around.

Whoever Ghostface is, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to attack you in broad daylight.

Right?

Chapter 14 Chapter Text

The morning passes in a blur.

Tara is glued to your side throughout, scouring the hallways and the backs of classrooms like Ghostface might pop out at any second.

In a combination of her morning vigilance and lack of sleep, her eyes are red and watery by lunchtime.

You sit together in the cafeteria, her head resting against your shoulder, her eyes drooping slightly. Her food is left untouched.

“What’s wrong with her?” Liv asks as she settles down into the seat opposite you.

You press a protective hand to the top of Tara’s head, thread your fingers through her dark hair.

“She didn’t sleep well, that’s all.” You say.

“I wouldn’t sleep well either if my girlfriend was being hunted by Ghostface,” Chad says without thinking, his mouth full.

Liv smacks him. If Tara hears his comment, she doesn’t react, just nestles in a little closer, determined to use your shoulder as a pillow.

“Why don’t we go home?” You say, rubbing her back, “My parents will be out, they’ll never know we skipped.”

“No.” Tara says, sleepy voice roused suddenly, “Us home alone in the middle of the day? That’s the perfect time for Ghostface to attack.”

“It is.” Mindy agrees, scooting into the spot next to Chad, “Although, I wouldn’t get too comfortable here, either.” She gestures behind her, “Ghostface attacked Sidney Prescott in the middle of the day in that bathroom like twenty-something years ago.”

You glare as Tara sits up, suddenly wide awake.

“Can you not say things like that?” You hiss, “She’s already freaked out enough.”

“She should be.” Mindy says, “And so should you. This isn’t the time to get comfortable. We need to figure out who Ghostface is and what they want with you.”

“I know who it is,” Tara says, “It’s Richie, my sister’s freak of a boyfriend.”

“We don’t know that,” You say. You glare at Mindy, a little. Now she’d set Tara off there was no hearing the end of it.

Mindy ignores you, her interest piqued.

“Tell me more about him.”

“He’s a deadbeat,” Tara says, a little too enthusiastically, “Went to college but he works at a bowling alley. Plays video-games all day in his tighty-whities.”

Mindy scrunches her nose, “A little too much information, Tara.”

“None of this started until he moved in with us,” Tara insists.

“What about motive?” Mindy asks, eyebrows scrunched like she’s trying to solve a particularly difficult math problem.

“I’ve not exactly been the most… welcoming host,” Tara says with a shrug, “Maybe he’s got thin skin.”

This is a pointless exercise. You know the motive, and so does Tara. Mindy is quite literally taking a stab in the dark. You touch Tara’s face, just under her tired eyes.

“We’ll call the Sheriff after school. See if Richie’s story about driving to the restaurant is true,” You say, hoping it’ll be enough to satiate her, “But can we not rule out other people? It could be anyone, babe.”

“She’s right,” Mindy says, taking a bite of her salad, “It could be anyone. That’s the only rule in Woodsboro.”

Tara purses her lips, but she doesn’t argue. Leaning back into you, like she’s just remembered her fatigue. You press your lips to her forehead.

“If you won’t come home, let’s go to the library.” You press, rubbing the back of her neck, “There’s always tons of people there. You can nap and I’ll keep watch.”

“We’ll come too,” Chad pipes up, his mouth half full of pizza, “I hate Chemistry anyway. Besides, we’re a team right? That masked coward isn’t taking anymore of us.”

Mindy and Liv nod in agreement.

It’s an odd sort of setup but it works.

The librarian isn’t paid enough to care that the five of you should be in class, so you scoot right past her to a small breakout area near the back of the library.

You take the couch, let Tara stretch out and lay her head in your lap. Chad and Liv sit opposite, Mindy on an armchair, back against the wall so she can keep watch. Tara only agrees to sleep after making the four of you swear black and blue you’ll wake her at the first sign of trouble.

You hand curls around the taser in your pocket, ready to whip it out at any sudden movement. Tara, seemingly secure, falls asleep within minutes. She’s so sweet when she’s sleeping, fingers curled tight around your hand, eyes fluttered shut, her mouth slightly open. You brush her hair out of her eyes, rub her cheek soothingly.

Liv watches you, catches your eye as you look over at her.

“I’ve been thinking,” She says, a little slowly, like she’s trying to be careful with her words, “Ghostface is going to keep coming after you, right? He doesn’t often let a victim escape.”

You stare.

“Yeah. Thanks for reminding me, Liv.”

“No,” She shakes her head, like you’re misunderstanding, “What I mean is, we don’t know who he is. And if he’s going to keep coming for you anyway - maybe there’s something we can do to stop him. Unmask him.”

“You want to trap him?” You ask, chewing your lip.

Liv nods, enthusiastically. She looks to Chad for his backup. He looks a little hesitant.

“I don’t know Liv..”

“Babe. Come on.” Liv insists. She tugs at his hand, “They’re our friends, we can’t just let Ghostface come for them.”

“We’re not.” Chad says, gesturing around, “Why do you think we’re all in the library watching Tara sleep? For fun?” He raises his voice a little too high. You shush him, press your hand against Tara’s head, trying to muffle the sounds of their voices. She doesn’t move, still deep in her much-needed sleep.

“It’s not a bad idea,” Mindy says, slowly, “I mean, the biggest advantage he has is that you don’t know who he is. If we can identify him, it’s all over.”

Liv nods, enthusiastically.

“We could lure him into a trap. Unmask him. And then you’ll both be safe.”

You bite your lip. It sounds risky, sure, but no riskier than your situation already is. Liv’s right: Ghostface isn’t likely to stop coming after you.

“We’ll see what Tara thinks when she wakes up.” You say, rub her back, ever so slightly.

A little while goes by. Chad and Liv hold hands, quietly chat. Mindy watches the door. You watch Tara, content with the steady sounds of her breathing.

And then that second coffee you’d had in the morning comes around for payback.

You look around the library, biting your lip. The last thing you want to do is leave Tara. But you don’t want to wake her either. You’ll leave her with Chad and Mindy, take Liv for security. You’re in the process of trying to shuffle Tara’s head off your lap without waking her when a voice stops you.

“Don’t even think about it,” Mindy says, not looking up from her phone.

“Huh?” You say

Mindy shoots you a look.

“You’re thinking about going off somewhere by yourself. To get food, or to pee. Don’t even think about it.”

“I wasn’t going to go alone,” You assure, your back up a little, “I was going to ask Liv to come with me.”

Mindy snorts.

“My point exactly. And what sort of help do you suppose Liv is going to give you if Ghostface attacks? Other than being a meat shield?”

“Hey!” Liv pipes up. Mindy ignores her.

“Fine,” You say, “You come with me then.” You press your hand to Tara’s head, “Please. She needs to sleep, I don’t want to wake her.”

“Absolutely not,” Mindy says, her attention back on her phone, “No offense, but I don’t want to be responsible for you. I’d rather fight Ghostface himself than Tara if something were to go wrong. Besides-”

She sits up, eyes glinting, “How do you know I’m not Ghostface?”

“Because if you were Ghostface you would have agreed to go with her,” Tara says, voice groggy as she stirs in your lap.

You shoot Mindy a look, try to press Tara back down into your lap.

“Baby,” You soothe her, “It’s okay, go back to sleep.”

She stirs, sitting up in your lap, a yawn on her lips, “It’s fine, I’m up now. Where do you want to go?”

The five of you leave the Library together, reconvening in the girls bathroom. You feel like you’re the President or something, four bodyguards by your side, marching you down the hallways, ready to take on anyone who crosses paths with you.

Chad and Mindy agree to keep watch outside the door while Tara and Liv accompany you into the bathroom.

Liv immediately finds the mirror, desperate to apply her lipstick of all things. You could make a snide comment about her gussying herself up for Ghostface but you need to pee far too bad to bother. Tara hovers at the cubicle stall, her hand pressed against the door.

“You okay, babe?” She asks, for the fourth time since you’d sat down, “I don’t hear anything.”

You didn’t anticipate how difficult it would be to go under these conditions. Half of you wishes she’d waited outside.

“I’m fine, Tara,” You assure, “Can you back up a bit? I don’t want you to hear me pee.”

“Oh, I totally get that,” You hear Liv’s voice from the mirror, “There’s nothing romantic about hearing your significant other pee. I don’t even let Chad fart in front of me. If he needs to, he has to go outside.”

Tara huffs. You squint your eyes, trying to force it. Leaving Liv and Tara in an enclosed space is suddenly less appealing than Tara hearing you pee.

“I’ll run the facet, babe.” Tara says, stepping away.

Then, you hear the door open, hear Mindy’s voice.

“What’s taking so long in here?” She asks, “We’re skipping classes, remember? Not a great look if a teacher catches us roaming the halls.”

“Since when do you care about not being in class?” Tara asks.

The door opens again.

“Chad, this is the girls bathroom.” Liv says, sounding scandalized, “Get out.”

“No way. I’m not standing out there by myself,” Chad says. He shuts the door behind him, “There’s a psycho running around.”

He pauses.

“What’s taking so long? Is she pooping?”

“Okay, everybody out.” You declare, loudly, “I can’t pee if you’re all here.”

They grumble, but file out one by one. Tara doesn't move, you can see her sneakers under the stall door.

“Babe, you too.”

She doesn’t want to, you can tell by the way she hesitates.

“Babe. Please.”

She relents.

“All right,” She says, “I’ll be right outside. Use your whistle if you need anything. I’ll be back in a minute.”

You hear the door close behind her and sigh with relief.

You don’t get attacked mid-pee, perhaps the greatest victory of the day.

You spend the rest of the afternoon holed up in the library with Tara and her friends, waiting for an attack that never comes. You swear Mindy is a little disappointed when she drives off with Chad and Liv in tow, promising the five of you would come up with a game plan for the Ghostface trap tomorrow in school.

When you and Tara get home, she’s still a little on edge.

“Let’s have an early night,” You suggest after your shower, curling her hand around yours as you lead her to your bedroom, “You need to get some sleep.”

But she doesn’t fall asleep, even after promising she would.

She tosses and turns in your arms, sitting up abruptly at any sudden noise. Her heartbeat wild, erratic. She’s unsettled. She’s scared. Even with the handgun at your side.

“Baby,” You groan as she sits up again suddenly, leaning over you to double check the gun is loaded, “Please. You need to sleep.”

“I’m trying,” She says, “I hate this. I feel like he’s going to burst through the window at any moment and if I’m asleep-”

“I’ll be awake,” You finish, pull her back down into you, “And I’ll wake you straight away. Like I promised.”

“What if you fall asleep?” She asks, chewing her lip.

“I won’t babe, I promise.” You say. You rub her bare thighs, try to calm her down.

“You need to relax.”

You kiss her softly, a thought occurring at the way her hands grip tight on your t-shirt. You tug her a little closer, dip down to squeeze her ass.

“And I think I know something that will calm you down.”

She murmurs something inaudible as you lean down to kiss her neck, tightening your grip on her hips. It works like a charm. You feel her physically relax against you, threading her fingers through your hair as you trail your lips over her collarbone.

You swipe your tongue across her neck, tease her gently with your lips and tongue until she’s sighing, grinding her hips into yours. It isn’t hard to pry her out of her nightshirt, underwear soon to follow. She’s equally concerned with getting you naked, the thrill that shoots through you at her naked body on yours never getting old.

Then she’s pulling away, a dangerous look in her eyes.

“You know what would relax me?” She says, eyes sparkling, “If you let me do that thing I’ve been wanting to do.”

That thing involves Tara sticking her strap-on somewhere it definitely didn’t belong. Your stomach flips at the thought.

“Nice try.” You say, press a kiss to her lips, “You know the deal. You can do it to me if I can do it to you. You first.”

She pouts, cups your sex with her hand.

“Not even a finger?” She says, voice coy.

You shake your head.

“What about my tongue?”

You consider it.

It turns you on, the fact that she wants it so badly. You’ll let her have it eventually, you’d let her do almost anything to you. But you want her to earn it. You want to make it all the more special when she finally gets it.

“Tongue is fine. Outside only.”

She leans down and kisses you, eyes filling with excitement.

“Yes, Ma’am.” She murmurs before she’s slipping down your body to pull your thighs over her shoulders, looking like a kid in a candy store.

Her lips are hot against your inner thighs, hands gripping around your thighs as she pulls you closer to her. She works you up just right, nipping and licking and sucking at your thighs, pressing warm kisses to the inside of your knees. You moan under her as her lips find your folds, lapping leisurely at the syrup that is the fruits of her labor.

“Baby,” You groan as she diverts back to your thighs, “Don’t tease.”

She’s a sucker for you, you know by the way she relents within moments. Her tongue runs over your clit gently, then down to lap at your entrance. You gasp. Her fingers tighten around your thighs as she moves back up and takes your clit between her lips, sucking hard.

You writhe underneath her, embarrassingly close to cumming before she’s trailing her lips down, disappointment flooding through you as she releases your clit.

And then you feel her tongue there.

You can help the low groan that slips out of your mouth.

It feels dirty, taboo. Exciting.

It feels different.

She trails her tongue around the rim, then she’s lapping at your asshole like there’s no tomorrow. Her fingers slip inside your pussy, she curls her fingers upwards creating the strangest and most pleasant sensation.

You sigh, grip your own breasts in your hands as she works her magic, tilting just to the edge - so close.

And then stops.

You almost cry out of frustration.

She kisses her way back up your stomach to your mouth, slipping her fingers out. They’re sticky, warm against your hips as she squeezes you.

And then you feel her drop them down lower. Fingertips skirting gently against your asshole.

The look in her eyes is animalistic.

“Let me put them in,” She almost begs, her voice desperate, needy, “Please baby, I want your ass so bad. I just want to be inside you.”

You reach down for her hand, redirect her fingers and slip them knuckle deep inside your pussy.

“There,” You say, cheeky smile on your face, “Now you’re inside me.”

“I hate you,” She mumbles, but kisses you all the same, curls her fingers only slightly. You gasp, tilt your hips up to meet her fingers.

It only takes a few hard thrusts before you’re groaning, tightening around her fingers. Eyes closed, body thrumming as your orgasm overtakes you. She kisses you through it, holds you tight as you come down.

When your heartbeat has slowed, she’s still pressing kisses to your chest. You feel her against your thigh, sticky and wet. Desire floods through you once again.

“Come up here,” You murmur, tilting her hips up to you.

She gets the message quickly, skirts up your body until her thighs are either side of your head. You grip her hips, pull her down to meet your mouth. She’s wet, so wet, you don’t even need to tease her.

You wrap your hands around her thighs, wanting to be encompassed by her. Lips finding her wet heat immediately. You lick her folds once, clean her up a little before trailing your tongue to her entrance, letting her tight pussy encompass your tongue. She rides you a little, before you lick your way up to her clit and lovingly work her into an orgasm.

Her smell, her taste is perfect. You could do this forever. Have her sit upon your face and make her moan and gasp the way she is right now. She’s given up all pretense of trying to hold herself upright, her full weight atop you. Your fingernails dig into the milky skin of her thighs, trying to keep her in place as you suck her. In only minutes, she’s groaning, rewarding your efforts with an orgasm and a fresh wave of cum drizzling into your open mouth.

You’re a little disappointed when she climbs off you, slumping down to curl into your body. Sweat on her forehead, sticky, keeping her dark hair welded to it. You kiss her head. Murmur that you love her against her sticky skin.

And then silence falls over the two of you, just enjoying each other’s post-coital company. All thought of Ghostface gone, just you and her, the way it should be.

And then her phone starts to buzz.

She reaches out, silences it. Presses her lips to your mouth, a little sleepy.

“You think you’ll be able to sleep?” You ask, pressing another kiss to her forehead. She’s a little limp in your arms. You’ve worn her out.

“I think so.” She says. She closes her eyes, rests her head against your shoulder.

“Who is that?” You ask as her phone buzzes again.

She reaches out for it, Sam’s name across the screen.

She rejects the call, puts the phone back to the nightstand.

“Babe,” You chide, “It could be important.”

“It’s her telling me I need to come home,” Tara says, “She’s been calling all day.”

“Answer it.” You kiss her, reach for her phone and drop it back into your hands, “I’m going to the bathroom.”

“I’ll come with you.” She says, immediately, but you shake your head, reaching out for your shirt and pulling it over your head.

“You know I can’t go when you’re there.” You say, kiss her once before you’re climbing off the bed.

“Take your whistle.” She says, and you roll your eyes, tugging it around your neck. You show it to her.

“There. Got the whistle. Happy?”

“Ecstatic.” She says, deadpanned as she lifts her phone to her ear, “Don’t be long or I’m going to come looking for you.”

You slip out of the bedroom, trail down the dark hall to the bathroom. Your Dad is asleep, you can hear his snoring through the walls. You flip on the bathroom light.

And then you feel it. Something’s wrong. It comes over you all at once. The hallway is empty - you checked - and you don’t hear anything. Nothing out of the ordinary. But you feel it. It seizes through your chest, instinctual. You raise your hands to the whistle, grip it between your fingertips, ready to blow it. Your heartbeat hammers. You tilt your head, all your senses coming alive. Trying to figure out if something is truly wrong or if you’re just imagining it.

You don’t like it. You leave the bathroom, scurry back down the hallway to your bedroom. To your safety. To Tara.

And then just as you’re about to press your hand to the doorknob, strong around grip around you, pulling you close. A hand over your mouth. The figure tugs you back down the hallway.

You cry out, eyes wide, but the hand over your lips muffles the sound. Your Dad’s snoring doesn’t relent.

“Stop struggling.”

You recognize the voice immediately. It’s Richie. His breath is hot against your ear, sour, laced with booze. You cry out again, eyes bulging. Desperate for Tara, your Dad, your mom, anyone. But no one hears a sound. His grip on you is too tight.

“I’m not going to hurt you. We’re going downstairs. Outside. So we can talk.” He drags you like you're a ragdoll. Rough. Impatient. Tears flood down your cheeks. You struggle hard against him but it’s no use. He’s too strong.

“Stop it,” He hisses, arms strong, keeping you in place, “We can’t talk like this. We can’t talk if you scream.”

Chapter 15 Chapter Text

It’s a mad struggle down the staircase. You kick. Bite. Try to scramble for your whistle but it’s no use. Richie’s too strong.

He wrestles you down through the kitchen. Kicks open the back door and it’s there you take your chance. Kick up between his legs. Hard.

Then scream for help.

“Tara! Dad! Tara!”

The grass is cool against your bare feet. You scuffle through it, trying to fling your way back into the house.

But Richie recovers too quickly.

He launches forward, his eyes wild, his hand snapping back over your mouth.

“Shut up.” He says, urgently. Takes you back in his arms, roughly. It hurts. His grip is unforgiving. You can already feel the bruises start to form. Your mouth aches with the weight of his hand. But it’s the last thing on your mind.

You struggle once more, harder.

“Shh.” He says, eyes wild, “I’m not going to hurt you. I told you, I just want to talk.”

You try to bite down on his hand. Face soaked in tears. He doesn’t even flinch. Stares back at you with wide eyes.

“I’m going to remove my hand.” He says, voice slow, “And you’re not going to scream. Okay?”

You give up the struggle, slightly. Nod.

He removes his hand.

Immediately, you scream.

“Tara!”

“Stop!” He hisses. He grabs you by the shoulders, shakes you hard, “Stop yelling. I’m not here to hurt you. I just want to talk about Sam.”

At this you blink. Tilt your head. Your ears ring, body aflame. Heartbeat still in your throat.

“What?”

Suddenly, your mind runs wild.

“What’s wrong with Sam? Did you hurt her?”

“She kicked me out.” He says, eyes wide, mournful, “She thinks I did it. Tried to kill you or whatever. But I didn’t. You know I didn’t.”

You stare back at him a moment, disbelief flooding through your face.

This is what he wanted to talk about?

“Most people pick up the phone when they want to talk,” You snarl. You step back from him, “They don’t break into people’s homes and drag them outside kicking and screaming.”

“I’m sorry,” He says, mournfully, and he sounds like he means it, “I’ve had too much to drink. I just saw you and panicked-”

He looks terrible. Unshaven. Dark circles under his eyes. You don’t see a weapon in his hand. You swallow.

“Let me go inside.” You say, trying to reason with him, “Let me go get Tara and then we can talk-”

Richie shakes his head, violently.

“Tara won’t believe me. She’s the one who started this whole thing. She’s the one who poisoned Sam against me. But you and me, we’re friends right? We sometimes talk. Like that time in the kitchen.”

“Richie-”

“I didn’t do it. I swear to you. I’m not Ghostface. I’m not a killer. I could have killed you right now, but I didn’t.” His eyes are wide, earnest.

“You just kidnapped me instead?” You hiss.

“No one’s kidnapped, we’re talking. Like civilized adults.” He says as if he actually believes it.

“Richie, you broke into my house.”

“I didn’t break into your house,” He says, gesturing wildly to the backdoor, “The door was wide open! I just walked inside.”

At this you pause. Turn to look at the backdoor. You’d locked it yourself. Triple checked. No doubt Tara had done the same. Your Dad had attached pad-locks for extra security.

You see it now, tossed away in one of the flowerbeds, broken in two. Your chest seizes.

“Then what do you call that?” You hiss.

Richie blinks. As if it just occurred to him it wasn’t broken on purpose. He stares back at you.

“It wasn’t me.” He says, “I promise it wasn’t me. Why would I lie? If I’m Ghostface why not just kill you right there on the spot? If I’m Ghostface, why am I trying to reason with you?”

You stare at him, heartbeat in your throat. He doesn’t look like he’s lying. Eyes wide, pleading, begging you to believe him. It occurs to you suddenly you’d never heard of a Ghostface attack without the costume. It occurs to you Ghostface definitely didn’t drag his victims outside and ask you to phone up his girlfriend for him.

The realization sends a shockwave like ice water down your spine.

You’d called out to Tara. Not once, not twice, but three times.

Tara who insisted you carry a rape whistle. Tara who followed you into the bathroom because she was scared someone would attack you mid-pee. Tara who hadn’t let you out of her sight since that first attack.

Tara comes when you call. But there’s no sign of her now.

“Tara.” You murmur, eyes ablaze.

Shock flushes through your body. Adrenaline follows it. Before your brain can even register what you’re doing, you’re shoving Richie out of the way with all the force of a star quarterback and rushing back into the house.

You fumble for the whistle, blow it hard as you race up the staircase.

“Tara!” You scream.

It attracts the attention of your Father. He’s opening his door, eyes wild, shotgun in hand when you reach the top. Your Mom peeks out behind his frame, bleary-eyed.

“YN?” Your Dad asks, panic surging through his face.

“My bedroom! Tara!” Is all you’re able to get out as you try and sprint past him. He catches you, grips your waist.

“Let me go.” He insists.

He all but throws you back, shotgun cocked. And then moves faster than you’ve ever seen him move in your life. Richie’s behind you, red-faced as you follow your Dad down the hall.

The bedroom door is closed. Your Dad kicks it open, his shotgun raised.

And you almost bawl at the sight in front of you.

Tara’s there. Standing only in your nightshirt. Face flushed red with anger, her eyes wild as she struggles against her attacker.

The Ghostface mask stares back at you. He has Tara in a vice-grip, his arm around her throat, knife tilted to meet the skin of her neck. He tilts his mask like he dares you to come closer.

Tara’s eyes lock with yours. You watch as the anger drains, instead replaced with fear. Desperation.

“Stay back, baby.” She insists, her eyes pleading, “Don’t come any closer.”

Your lip quivers. A fresh wave of tears flood down your face. Your mother gasps, hand tight on your arm.

Then, Tara looks at your Dad, “Shoot the fucker.”

“No!” You cry out. You launch yourself forward. No thought in your head but to stop the pellet from leaving the barrel. To stop him from shooting that awful thing anywhere near Tara.

Richie grabs at you, pulling you back.

Ghostface tuts. Then that awful, hair-raising voice speaks out, “Shoot me and you shoot her. Is that really what you want, Dad? You really want to take YN’s darling girlfriend away from her?”

You sob. Struggle in Richie’s arms but his grip is too tight.

“Let her go,” Your Dad says. He’s eerily calm, his grip steady, “Let her go and we can talk. You can tell us whatever it is you need to say.”

Ghostface’s grip tightens. The knife grazes Tara’s throat. Close enough to break skin if he pushed down any harder. You watch helpess.

“You mean they haven’t already told you?”

Ghostface’s mask tilts. He’s smiling behind it, you can’t see it but you know.

Tara moves in his arms, trying to break free.

But Ghostface is stronger. He’s bigger. She looks so small in his arms, so fragile. He’s holding her up so high she’s on her tip-toes. He tilts his knife to her neck.

“Move again and I’ll slit your throat ear to ear,” Ghostface growls, “And then who will protect her?”

Tara stills, almost immediately. Her chest heaves. A fresh wave of tears spills from your eyes.

“Dad, do something.” You beg. It’s no use. You know he can’t. The shotgun pellets will hit Tara too.

“Do it,” Ghostface eggs him on, “It’s the least she deserves. Do you want to tell him, YN? Or should I?”

“Let’s everyone just calm down,” Richie interlopes as if he’s the voice of reason. You can smell the whiskey on his breath, his words slightly slurred, “We can talk about this. Mister Ghostface - I’m sure whatever Tara did to you, it can be resolved-”

“Shut up, Richie.” You and Tara hiss at the same time. He shirks back. Loosens his grip on you.

“I called the police,” Your mom pipes up, her voice wavering, “They’ll be here any second. You best let the young lady go or they’ll catch you red-handed.”

“The police?” Ghostface sneers, “You think the police are of any use? Seven murders in this town and not a suspect on the board. Seven murders and-”

He doesn’t finish.

Your Mom’s interjection gives Tara the opening she needs.

With all her might, you watch as she slams her body back, tilting Ghostface off guard. His grip on her loosens, but only for a moment. Then his grip on the knife tightens as he tilts his hand and plunges the knife into her stomach.

You scream.

Tara slumps to the floor, knife inside her buried to the hilt.

Richie’s strong grip around you is suddenly weightless. You pry him off, ignore your mother’s screams as you surge forward. Ghostface has abandoned her, his weapon gone. He charges for the open window in a mad sprint.

The drum of the shotgun deafens you as it rings out. Your Mom’s screaming doesn’t subside. The shatter of the glass of the window. You don’t see as Ghostface rushes out through the opening, knife abandoned. You’re at Tara’s side, prying her off the floor and into your arms.

Sobbing as you stare at the flow of blood oozing out of her stomach.

You don’t feel your Dad’s hands on you, desperately trying to pull you up.

You feel her. You feel the weight of her body against yours. Her chest heaving. You feel the spill of blood against your hands, feel her fall limp against your side.

Every sense you have; sight, touch, smell, sound is on Tara.

“Baby,” You murmur, voice thick. Her breathing is steady. Blood gushes from the wound in her stomach, “Baby, stay with me. It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”

Tara tries to open her eyes. They’re hooded. She’s far-away, barely there. In pain.

You sob.

“Tara?” Your Dad’s voice booms. He tries to shuffle you out of the way, “YN, let me see.”

But you only clutch onto her tighter.

He abandons the cause, not long after.

He’s speaking to your mother, instructions, maybe, but you don’t hear him. You grasp Tara’s face with your bloodied hands, try to bring her back to you.

“Tara, baby, stay with me please-”

You don’t remember much else.

You remember the flash of police bursting into your bedroom, guns drawn. You remember the hands on you, trying to pry you away as Tara slips into unconsciousness.

You remember your own screams.

But then it’s nothing. Blank. The night a total blur.

And now there’s nothing but the quiet beep of Tara’s heartbeat monitor.

She’s clean now, not a drop of blood in sight. Tubes wrapped around her arms, in her nose.

She looks almost peaceful, if not pale, her eyes still closed in her hospital bed.

It’s you who looks like a mess. Eyes red, still wet with tears. Her blood all over your hands, your shirt, your face. But you won’t move. Plastered to her side.

“YN-” Says your Dad but you cut him off.

“I’m not leaving until she wakes up.” You say, voice shaky, but firm.

He sighs.

“The doctor said she’s going to be fine-”

“Does she look fine?” Your voice trembles, a little. He rubs your shoulder.

“Alright.” He says, sinking back down into his seat, “I’m just saying when she wakes up, I doubt she’ll want to see you here covered in blood.”

“She’ll want me here,” You murmur. Brush her hair out of her eyes, “Doesn’t matter what I’m covered in.”

Out of the corner of your eye you can see Richie hovering in the hallway. Hands pressed against the glass as he peers in. He's still drunk. A wave of irritation floods through you.

“Can’t you get rid of him?” You ask.

Your Dad growls. Stands and marches to the door, “I’ve got rid of him four times already, that boy is like a gnat-”

He doesn’t finish.

Sam’s barrelling through the doorway, Richie hot on her heel. She all but rushes to Tara’s side, eyes wide and mournful.

“Oh my god, Tara.”

“She’s going to be okay,” Your Dad says preemptively, “She lost a lot of blood, but the ambulance got there on time.”

If Sam hears him, she doesn’t acknowledge him. She dips down, takes Tara’s cheek in her palm.

“Oh, Tara.” Her voice shakes. She leans in, presses the softest kiss to Tara’s forehead.

Then she rounds on Richie.

“What the hell happened?”

“It was Ghostface, Sam, and it wasn’t me.” He looks to you, wildly, “Tell her it wasn’t me-”

“And what the hell were you doing then?” Sam asks. Her voice shakes again, but this time it’s out of anger. She smacks him, hard.

Then again.

“What the hell were you doing while he was carving up my sister?”

Your Dad intervenes, pries them apart. You don’t take your eyes off Tara. Press your nose to the side of her face, willing her to open her eyes.

“Everybody needs to calm down!” Your Dad’s voice booms out, “This is a hospital. Tara needs rest. She doesn’t need to wake up to find you two screaming at each other.”

Sam abandons the fight. Her lip trembles. She walks back over to Tara’s side and sinks down next to her.

“What happened?” Sam asks you, softer. Her eyes are round, she’s desperate for answers. You rub Tara’s limp hand with your thumb.

“He got into the house somehow,” You begin. You can see Richie out of the corner of your eye. His face is pleading. Pleading you not to tell the truth, “Richie came to um- talk to me. We were on the lawn and I saw someone broke the lock to the backdoor. And then I realized he was in the house.”

“Ghostface?” Sam asks, eyebrows knit.

“He had a knife to her neck by the time we got there,” You say, taking a shaky breath, “He must have taken her by surprise. She had a gun, but she didn’t use it. God, I don't know how she didn't see him coming-”

“Unless she wasn’t expecting it.” A new voice sounds out.

Your head snaps up.

It’s Mindy, leaning against the door, looking serious.

“Unless it was someone she knew.”

Chad and Liv are with her. They don’t hover, move to Tara’s bedside. Liv squeezes your shoulders, drops down into the seat next to you. Chad hovers at the end of her bed, looking mournful.

“Is she going to be okay?” He asks, eyes wide.

You nod.

“The doctor said she’ll be awake soon. Anytime now.”

You bring the back of her hand to your lips. Hope your words will awaken her.

“See their face?” Mindy questions, eyes squirting.

“Obviously not,” You snap. You’re not in the mood to play Nancy Drew.

Mindy hums as she takes a seat next to Sam. She doesn’t waste any time.

“Okay. Updated suspect list. We know it wasn’t YN. We know it wasn’t her parents-”

“Why would it be my parents?’ You interject, eyebrows furrowed but Mindy waves you off.

“We know it wasn’t Richie. We know it wasn’t me-”

“Hold on.” Chad says, “We don’t know that.”

Mindy gawps.

“Chad. I’m your twin sister-”

“You weren’t with me, I don’t know what you do in your spare time.”

Mindy stares a moment. Then shrugs.

“Valid point. I know it wasn’t me. Liv and Chad-”

“We were having sex.” Liv pipes up, “It wasn’t us.”

Mindy wrinkles her nose.

“Convenient. And also gross. But if they’re vouching for each other that leaves one.”

She turns to Sam. Sparkle in her eye. Sam stares back at her.

“You can’t be serious.”

Mindy raises her hands.

“Everyone’s a suspect. Even family. Especially family.”

“You think I’d hurt my own sister?” Sam says, voice raised, “My baby sister?”

“Your anger is making you a little suspicious.” Chad admits, quietly.

“Sam would never hurt Tara, it wasn’t her.” Richie says from his spot by the door.

“Shut up, Richie.” Sam snaps, “I don’t have time for this. Where are the police? I want to talk to them.”

“By the coffee machine,” You say, voice gravelly, “Same ones that were posted outside the house.”

“Fat lot of good they did,” You Dad sneers. Sam stands, makes her way to the door, “I’m coming with you. I want a word with that so-called Sheriff.”

Richie trails behind them like a lost puppy. Your rub your eyes, trying to quell the rainfall of tears behind them. Tara looks so small like this. Not two hours ago you’d been wrapped up in her arms and now she’s here. Unconscious with a three inch stab-wound in her stomach. You kiss her hand once more and take a deep breath.

If she needs you to be anything now, it’s to be strong for her.

Mindy reaches into her bag, slaps down a folder and opens the first page. It’s a spider-web of names, dates and pictures. Like an information board at a police station. You stare down at it, then blink up at Mindy.

“What’s that?” Asks Liv, peering over.

“Dude.” Chad says, as he slips into Sam’s empty seat, “You really need a girlfriend.”

“Do you want to hear what I’ve found or what?” Mindy asks. Chad peers down at the folder.

“Sadie. Aaron. Chase. Dan. Amber-”

The back of your neck prickles. A familiar wave of anxiety flooding through you. You’ve been here before. With Wes.

You interject before she can go any further.

“Yes, congratulations Mindy. You've worked out the people who were murdered.” You snap.

“Let me finish.” Mindy says, sounding impatient, “They’re linked. I promise they’re linked.”

“They all went to the same school.” Liv nods, helpfully.

Mindy shoots her a look, “No, dumbass. I mean yeah, but that’s not it. Think about it. What do they all have in common?”

Your heartbeat speeds up.

More than ever, you will Tara to wake up. She’d know what to say, what to do. If the three of them work it out right now, Tara will wake up handcuffed to her bed and you’ll be long gone. Locked away in some far away jail cell.

Chad furrows his brow.

“They’re all teenagers?”

Mindy sighs. Points to an underlined name in the center of her folder.

“Sam babysat them. All of them.”

You’d laugh, but it’s not really that funny. You’d cry, if you had anymore tears left in you. You let out the quietest of sighs. For all her diagrams, Mindy's nowhere close.

Chad and Liv look dubious.

“Come on,” Mindy says, gesturing to her folder as if she’s just solved the mystery of a century, “Think about it. It makes sense. Sam’s always been- angry, and maybe this was her endgame all along. She’s been building to kill Tara. Like the grand prize. Seek revenge on all the brats who made her teenage years hell. Tara was maybe the brattiest of all of them.”

“I don’t know, Mindy,” Chad says, “It seems a little far-fetched.”

“It seems a lot far-fetched.” Says Tara, voice groggy.

Her voice jumpstarts your system.

You sit up, clutch her hand a little tighter. Her eyes are a little hazy, her voice tired. But she’s awake. Your stomach flips. Relief floods through you. You lean in close, press your lips to her forehead.

“Baby,” You say, closing your eyes as you breathe her in, “Are you alright? How are you feeling?”

You pull back, clutch her face in your hands.

“I’m fine.” She says, though she doesn't sound it, “What happened? Did you get him? Ghostface?”

You shake your head. Sink back into your seat, take her hand with you as you press your lips to the back of it.

“He got away.”

“Did you see anything?” Mindy asks, voice urgent, “Anything at all. Ghostface was in the bedroom, they can’t have snuck up on you-”

Tara tries to sit, her face betraying the amount of pain she’s in. You climb into the bed to sit a little closer, wrapping your arm around her shoulder.

“You were gone too long,” Tara says, looking up at you, “I left the bedroom to come find you and then he grabbed me. He was already in the house.”

“How did he get in?” Chad asks, looking confused, “YN, you said your Dad bought alarms. And extra locks. Not to mention the police outside-”

“The lock was broken when I went outside,” You say, chewing your lip, “And the alarms? I don’t know. Maybe we forgot to set them?”

“We didn’t.” Says Tara, voice firm, “I triple-checked them.”

Then she frowns.

“What were you doing outside?”

You pause, wonder if you should tell her the truth. She’s already hurt, and the last thing you want to do is spike her heartbeat monitor and send her back into another mini-coma. You swallow.

“Richie wanted to talk. So we went outside.”

Tara stares at you. You’re blinking too much, one of your giveaway signs. She knows them by heart.

“Richie wanted to talk?” She asks. Her eyes on you scanning, surveying, “And how did Richie get ahold of you? You left your phone in your room.”

Damn it.

“He was already in the house.” You say, biting your lip, “He asked me to come outside and talk.”

It’s not a lie, not totally. But Tara sees right through it.

“He asked you?” Tara says, “He asked you to come outside alone with him when Ghostface is running around trying to kill you?”

“He-” You sigh. You don’t care enough about him to try and protect him. You squeeze her hand, try to preempt the anger, “He sort of- took me outside.”

“He took you outside?” Tara sits up at this, her voice raising, “He took you how?”

You pause.

“He put his hand over my mouth and dragged me outside.”

Tara’s up in a flash. Her face awash with fury. The four of you jump up in mutual protest as she’s climbing halfway out of her hospital bed. The heartbeat monitor sings out as her heartbeat spikes. Chad’s arms on her are firm as he pushes her back down into the bed.

Her hospital gown seeps red with fresh blood.

“Tara, your stomach.” You gasp, “Baby, lay down, please.”

Tara groans as the pain catches up with her. She slumps, slightly, chest heaving. She’s furious, you can tell by the way she’s gripping your hand, eyes ablaze.

Then she looks up at Chad, a dangerous look in her eye.

“Tell Richie to come here right now,” She growls, “Tell him I’m about to kill him with my bare hands-”

“As tempting as I’m sure he’ll find that offer,” Interjects Mindy, sounding a little too excited, “Doesn’t this just prove my theory? It’s Sam. She asked her boyfriend to lure YN away and then when you least expected it. Bam!”

She slaps down on her folder.

“She had you exactly where she wanted you.”

Tara moans. Presses her hand against her wound.

“Baby, I need more painkillers,” She says, voice high. Sweat on her brow, “Tell the nurse I need something. Anything. Tell her I want to be up and walking and killing Richie in the next ten minutes-”

“You’re not walking anywhere. And you’re certainly not killing anyone.” You say, smoothing her hair out of her face, “Mindy go get the nurse. And can you stop with your stupid folder. As if she’s not worked up enough.”

Mindy rolls her eyes. Presses her folder back into her backpack.

“You’ll all see,” She promises as she goes off to find the nurse, “I’m right about this.”

She hovers in the doorway.

“Just don’t either of you be alone with Sam. Promise me.”

“Mindy.” Tara growls, “If you don’t-”

Mindy raises her hands, “Fine. Fine. I’m going.”

You spend the rest of the night by Tara’s side. Anxiously watching as the nurse changes her bandages. You hold her hand as they pump her with meds, try to still some of the pain from ripping her own stitches.

Chad, Liv and Mindy peter out, one by one. Promise they’ll return in the morning. You wouldn’t mind if they didn’t: the Scooby Doo act is getting a little old, Mindy’s questions starting to grate on you. You’re no closer to figuring out who Ghostface is and now Tara has a three inch gash in her stomach to prove it.

Your Dad returns a little later. Sits just outside the door, watching over the room like a posted guard. Sam sits a little closer, near the end of the bed. Her hand touching Tara’s foot every now and then as if to remind herself she’s still there.

Tara's eyes droop, loopy on pain medication. She’s shivering a little. You pull the bedsheets a little higher, settle into her side, careful of her wound. Press a kiss to her forehead.

You watch as she desperately tries to keep her eyes open.

“Go to sleep, babe.” You insist for what must be the sixth time, “You’re safe. We’re in a hospital with tons of people. I’m here, Dad’s here. Sam’s here. He’s not going to touch you.”

“What if he gets you?” She says, voice drowsy. She blinks, trying to fight off her exhaustion, “I need to stay awake. I need to protect you, baby.”

She’s not protecting anyone like this.

“It’s my turn to protect you.” You murmur. Lean in close to press the softest of kisses to her lips. Her eyes flutter closed.

“You can sleep, Tara, I won’t let anyone touch her.” Sam says from her spot near the end of the bed. Sam’s tired too, you can see it in her eyes. But there’s something else. Determination. Her shoulders are tense. You get it. This is the second time in under a month Tara’s been here like this. Looking so small in her hospital bed, failed by her mother. Failed by Sam. Failed by you.

She wants to protect her, that you can understand. You want to protect her too.

Tara looks at her, really looks at her. Her eyebrows knit, like she’s appraising her. Then she nods, a little slow. She pulls you closer, nestles her head against your shoulder.

“Wake me if you hear anything,” She says, a little sleepy. Curls a little closer into your side. You nod, kiss her once more.

“I promise.”

And then her eyes flutter closed as she drifts off to sleep.

Chapter 16 Chapter Text

Tara’s not a good patient. You should know this by now.

She whines about not being able to stand up by herself. Snaps when her nurse - Nurse Dawson, suggests a sponge bath. Begrudgingly lets you help her shower.

She hates the hospital food and refuses to eat Sam’s organic, non-gluten, non-dairy, non-fun pasta-bake when she shows up with it. Instead, she orders DoorDash to her hospital room three nights in a row.

And on the fourth night, when the doctor tells her she has to stay another night, her fist curls, daggers in her eyes.

“You know why they’re doing this?” She says, voice hot as the slew of doctors and nurses leave the room, “It’s a money-grab. The longer they keep me here, the more money they get off of the Insurance payout.”

“They’re keeping you here because you have a stab-wound in your stomach,” You say, firmly. You smooth her hair out of her face, touch her red cheeks with your fingertips, “And I want you here too. You’re not 100%, baby, you need to rest and recover.”

“I feel fine,” She complains, with a huff, “Sure, my stomach hurts, but that’s what the Codeine is for, right?”

You lean in and kiss her, soft. Climb into the hospital bed with her, your head on her shoulder.

“Why don’t we watch a movie? That always makes you feel better.”

Tara runs her hand down your arm, presses her lips to your forehead. Then squeezes your side, suggestively.

“You know what would make me feel better?” She says, voice low, “If you took off all your clothes.”

“I’m sure Nurse Dawson would love that.” You say.

Her hand catches your wrist, trying to hold you in place.

“Please.” She murmurs, “My stomach hurts and all I want is for you to sit on my face.”

“Glad to hear you’re feeling better,” Sam interjects as she enters the room. She has another pasta-bake in hand.

Your face flames red. Tara's lips purse.

“If you think I’m eating that-”

Sam shushes her, presses her lips to Tara’s forehead.

“It’s good for you. Much better than the shit you’ve been eating. I made this one special, regular pasta, just for you.”

Tara tilts her head, looks over at the pasta suspiciously.

“It has gluten? And real cheese?”

“Real cheese and extra gluten. I made a kale and apple salad to pair with it-”

Tara groans, tilting her head back to the pillow.

“Sam, why can’t you just make regular food for regular people?” She complains, but takes a helping all the same. You sit up as Sam hands you a plate, careful not to spill it all over Tara’s bedsheets.

Sam settles into the seat next to the bed, watching.

“Ran into the Sheriff in the hall,” She says, “They don’t have any suspects.”

Sheriff Hicks’ visits had been regular since Tara got hurt. She’d seemed wide-eyed, upset, no doubt seeing Tara in a hospital bed had reminded her of her own missing son. She’d come in three days in a row, hat in hand to deliver the same news.

The police had no leads.

“I know,” Tara says, mouth full, “She won’t leave us alone, will she, YN? Keeps coming in here asking me to repeat what happened over and over.”

“She posted extra police on the door,” You say, “There’s five of them now.”

“Each as useless as the next,” Tara says under her breath. She frowns, “Sam are you sure this is real cheese? It tastes like shit.”

You’d smack her, if you weren’t afraid you were going to hurt her wound. Instead you shoot her a look.

“Babe.” You chide.

Sam rolls her eyes.

“You’re welcome.” She says, then she looks to you, “Where are your parents?”

“They’ve gone home to shower,” You say, “They’ll be back a little later.”

“Speaking of people who won’t leave us alone…” Tara mutters. You shoot her another look.

“Good,” Sam says, firmly, “The last thing you need is to be left alone when there’s a maniac running around.”

She pauses, looks at Tara, seriously.

“When you get out of the hospital, I want you to come back home. With me.”

“I’m not going anywhere without YN.” Tara says. She puts her plate to the nightstand, wiping her mouth with her hand.

“So she can come home too.” Sam says, “Richie’s not there, I’m done with him. I need to be near you, Tara, I need to be able to protect you.”

Tara looks at you.

“What do you think? Will your parents go for it?”

You chew your lip. Your Dad hadn’t let you out of his sight for less than an hour since the attack. He’d bought two more shotguns and an industrial style alarm system the night after it had happened.

“Probably not,” You say, honestly, “I think he’s seriously contemplating installing iron bars on my window.”

Tara looks back at Sam and shrugs.

“Sorry.”

Sam doesn’t look happy.

“Fat lot of good all that security did last time,” Sam says, “Ghostface slipped right in. It’s all well and good having an alarm system and a gun, but it’s not enough. You need to have someone who actually knows how to use it.”

Tara’s hand brushes through your hair.

“It would be nice to go home,” She murmurs, “Maybe you could talk to your Dad? We have an alarm at the house, and it would be easy enough to buy the same locks he has. Sam’s a good shot and she has a lot of guns.”

You sigh. The prospect of telling your Dad you’re leaving home four nights after a Ghostface attack scares you a little.

“I can try,” You say, voice resigned. If for nothing else but for poor Sam. You can’t imagine not being in the same house as Tara, not being there to protect her if needed. You know Sam must be going out of her mind.

“Thank you.” Sam says.

“No.”

You blink. You’d taken your Dad out into the hallway when he’d come back. Told him there was something you needed to tell him. And then not even got halfway into your sentence when he interrupted you.

“But Dad-”

“If you think I’m letting you go anywhere that isn’t school, you’re out of your mind.” He says, voice stern, “In fact, I’m half considering pulling you out of school all together. Mom googled some good home-schooling courses last night.”

“Dad, Sam is really worried about Tara,” You plead, “Really worried. Tara said she has an armory at the house. We’d be safe there with her.”

“The answer is no, YN.” He says, sounding aggravated, “If Tara wants to go home and be with her sister, that’s her choice. But you’re not going anywhere."

You stare.

“I’m eighteen, Dad, you can’t tell me what to do anymore.”

He stares back at you. It isn’t often you challenge him like this. You can see the wheels behind his eyes turning, like if he’s not careful you’ll storm off and never come home again. His jaw clenches, then he looks over to Sam and Tara.

He sighs.

“Look - I’m happy for Sam to come stay with us for a few days, if she’s really worried. We can make up the guest room.” He offers.

You know it's as good as you're going to get.

And so it’s settled.

Sam accepts, almost immediately. The promise of being near enough to Tara to keep her safe, alluring. She leaves that night to pack, promising to be back in the morning to help bring Tara home.

When she returns, it’s to you and Nurse Dawson trying to fight Tara into a wheelchair.

“Baby, it’s just to the car.” You say, hands firm as you lower her into it. Nurse Dawson, she’d fight, but you? She settles for crossing her arms like an angry child. You press a kiss to her forehead, and let Nurse Dawson wheel her outside.

“This is ridiculous.” Tara grumbles the entire way down, “I can stand, I’m not an invalid.”

“Hospital policy.” Says Nurse Dawson, cheerfully. She’s in a better mood than you’ve seen her in all week, no doubt relieved her moody, pouty, storm-cloud of a patient is finally being discharged. She turns to you.

“Make sure to clean the wound once a day, like I showed you. Redress and make sure she doesn’t engage in any strenuous activity. If there’s any redness or swelling, bring her right back in.”

You nod.

Nurse Dawson squeezes Tara’s shoulders, helps her up into the car, Sam at her other side.

“I can do it,” Tara snaps, retracting from both of them. She slumps down into the back seat, wincing as she hits the fabric too hard. Her hand draws to her wound.

You climb into the other side of the car, reach over to help her put on her seatbelt.

“Say thank-you.” You mumble, look pointed as Nurse Dawson hovers by the car door.

Tara huffs, looks over to the Nurse.

“Thank you.” She says, not sounding like she means it at all.

Sam takes to your family home like a moth to a flame.

She helps your Dad set up his new security equipment. Trudges in a small suitcase full of guns and offers him a pistol in lieu of his shotgun. She helps your mother make dinner - to Tara’s horror - and even clears the plates, trying to wash the dishes before your Mother shoos her upstairs.

You help Tara settle into one of the kitchen stools and grab a dishcloth, pulling out Sam’s pre-made vegan cheesecake from the fridge. Tara makes a face.

“Sam is a lovely girl,” Your mother gushes, arm deep in dishwater, “Why haven’t we met her before?”

Tara crosses her arms, frowning slightly. Pout on her lips. She’s been like this all dinner. Withdrawn. Glaring at Sam from across the table each time your Dad offers her the faintest of compliments.

“She’s fine.” Tara says, voice loaded, “Other than the drugs and the huge drinking problem-”

“Tara.” You hiss, as your mother looks back, wide-eyed, “She’s kidding Mom, Sam doesn’t have a drinking problem.”

“Oh.” Says your mother. She wipes her hands against the dish-towel, “Good.”

She pauses. Hovers.

“Excuse me a moment.”

She leaves the room in a flurry, no doubt to go and hide her bottles of aged-Sherry. You move closer to Tara, flick her hand with your finger.

“What did you say that for?” You groan, “They like Sam. That’s a good thing.”

“They like her more than me.” She says, pouting, “I’m your girlfriend, not her. They’re supposed to like me the best.”

“They like you fine.” You lie. She squints, shooting you a look.

“Who cares what they think, anyway?” You say, wrapping your arms around her waist, “I like you more than her and that’s all that matters, right?”

She considers this. Smiles, slightly.

“Yeah. I guess so.”

You lean down and kiss her.

Sam’s room is just down the hall.

She wants to sleep in your room, you can tell by the way she keeps hinting to Tara over dessert how much fun their little camping sleepovers in the living room were when they were kids.

When Sam hovers in the doorway near bedtime, Tara groans and snaps at her to go back to her own room.

“It’s safer if I’m in here with you,” Sam insists. She has her pistol holstered on her hip and she keeps touching it like she’s ready for Ghostface to jump out at any second, “I can protect you both.”

“I have a gun too.” Tara waves it about, “We’ll be fine. I’ll yell if I need you.”

“Look how well that turned out last time,” Sam says, gesturing to the bandage wrapped around Tara’s waist.

“Boundaries, Sam.” Tara grumbles, “We’ve talked about this. I can’t breathe when you’re suffocating me like this.”

Sam huffs.

“Fine.” She says, and storms back to her own room in a sulk.

“Finally.” Tara says, falling back into the pillows. She draws you down with her, “We’re finally alone.”

“And going to sleep.” You say, pointedly, “You need your rest.”

“I feel fine, baby,” Tara insists, “I feel good. And I missed you.”

“I’ve been with you this entire time,” You say, eyes fluttering closed as she presses her lips to your neck.

“I know, but I’ve missed you.”

“Tara-” You protest, slightly, “Your stomach-”

“Is fine.” Tara assures. She draws you down into a languid kiss. Squeezes your hips, trying to tilt you over, “There’s nothing wrong with my mouth.”

“That I know,” You say, raising an eyebrow, “You’ve been running it all day.”

Tara pouts. You kiss it away. Then draw your hands down her legs, gently climbing atop her. You've missed her too.

“Promise me you’ll lay back and not move too much. Nurse Dawson said no strenuous activity.”

She nods, mouth falling open slightly at the way you draw her panties down her legs.

“Good girl.” You whisper against her lips, and then you’re kissing your way down her body.

You’re gentle with her, so careful not to touch her wound, or move her in a way that will hurt her.

Her skin is soft, warm, still slightly reddened from the heat of her shower. You brush your lips down her thighs and then kiss your way to her center. She’s not wet, not yet, so you run your hands over her hips, suck lovingly on her inner thighs. Ghost your lips over her folds until you can see evidence of your efforts. Sticky, wet syrup that coats her entrance. The fruits of your labor.

“Don’t tease, babe.” Tara says, desperately. She’s on her elbows, looking down at you. You flinch as the bandage on her stomach creases.

“You promised you’d lay back,” You say, hurrying back up to press her down. She draws you in to kiss her, needy, fingers digging into your shoulders as she slips her tongue between your lips.

“Come up here,” She says, voice low, “Turn around so I can eat you out.”

Your stomach flips with arousal. She’s moving up, trying to draw you up over her face. But you resist.

“Your stomach, baby-girl,” You murmur against her lips. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

She huffs.

“The only thing hurting me is the severe lack of pussy I’ve been not getting for the last four days-”

“Romantic.” You say, dryly, pulling away from her, “You’ll stay not getting it unless you lie back for me and don’t move. Like a good girl.”

She bites her lip. Nods, slow.

You press your lips to hers. Then tilt your way down her body. You stop at her nipples, take them between your lips and suck down until they’re pebbled, hard, and you can feel her wetness against your thigh.

“Baby.” She groans as you skip right over where she wants you to kiss the inside of her knee.

“Good girls are patient,” You remind her, drawing her legs over your shoulders.

She peers down at you, eyebrows raised, “And when have I ever been a good girl?”

She lets out a sharp gasp as you run your tongue along her folds, gently dragging her syrupy wetness up to her clit. Her head falls back onto the pillow, her hands reaching down to clutch a fistful of your hair. Her thighs around your head tighten as you gently run your tongue over her clit.

Experimental.

You resist the urge to sigh at her taste. She’s perfect. Sweet and bitter, all at once. You dip down to her entrance, wanting more of it on your tongue.

You kiss her velvety folds, drag your tongue along her length. Her fingers in your hair are insistent. She presses you down, further into her, writhing only slightly as you take her clit between your lips.

She likes it harder than this, usually. But you’re slow this time. Gentle. You want to make her cum, softly as you can, without straining her. You want to make love to her. Show her how much you adore her, how glad you are that she's okay.

The way she’s sighing, moans breathy, it seems to be working.

You alternate between sucking softly on her clit, then swirling your tongue in quiet, gentle circles. It isn’t long before Tara’s moaning out your name quietly, thighs tightening around your head.

You lick her once more, clean her up, not wanting to waste a drop of her.

When you kiss your way back up to her body, she’s slumped against the pillows, chest rising steadily.

“Are you okay?” You ask, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips. You trail your fingertips across her cheek, “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

She shakes her head, still a little hazy.

You look down at her bandage, rub the edges of the fabric, gently. It’s still clean, no blood. You press another kiss to her lips, rubbing her hip.

“Up here.” She says, trying to pull you up, “I want to go down on you so bad.” She says, breathless. Her hands work down to pull you out of your sleep shorts, tossing your underwear to the side, carelessly. You settle into the spot next to her, take her hand and guide it between your legs.

“Let’s stay like this,” You murmur, tilting her cheek in your hand, “I want to kiss you.”

And it's true. You want her as close as possible. You want it to be romantic. You want her lips on you and her fingers inside you. You want to be encompassed by her smell and her taste. You want to be reminded that she's here. She's alive and in your arms.

She complies with a soft nod.

You close your eyes. Her hands between your legs feel like magic. You’re soaked, the way you always got after you went down on her. She rubs her fingers along your slit, coating them in your arousal. You kiss her furiously, sucking down gently on her bottom lip as her fingers work against your clit.

You groan into her mouth. This, you never got tired of. Kissing Tara, feeling the press of her bare skin against yours. Her lips are as talented as her fingers, her tongue against the seam of your lips flooding you once more as she grazes her fingers upwards, and slips them inside of you.

The angle is a little awkward, but you don’t care. You rut yourself into her hand, hand around her neck as you kiss. She keeps trying to sit up, you know she wants nothing more than to climb on top of you and fuck you into the mattress. But you hold her down, keep her where you want her.

You break the kiss as you get close, moan out into the milky skin of her neck. She curls her fingers, then uses her thumb to rub your clit, gently. It hits you like a freight train. You close your eyes, gasp out her name as stars explode behind your eyes. The shock that flushes through you is red, warm.

You all but collapse into her side, curling a protective arm around her bare waist. She kisses the top of your head, lovingly, then withdraws her fingers. Brings them to her lips and sucks you off them, eyes flashing with arousal at your taste.

“Now, can I go down on you?” She asks, hopefully.

You kiss her, “Maybe later, baby.”

She hums, a little disappointed.

“My belly hurts a little,” She says, voice small. At this, you sit up, concern flashing through your face.

“Oh, baby.” You say, looking down to inspect the wound, “I am so sorry. I knew it was too soon for this-”

“No,” She says, hurriedly, “That isn’t what I meant. You didn’t hurt me. I just meant I’d feel better if I went down on you, is all.”

You stare at her for a moment. Then you smack her arm, gently.

“You’re such an asshole. I was about to go downstairs for more Codeine.”

“No Codeine needed. Just you,” She pulls you back down to her, eyes wide, pleading, “Please, baby.”

You sigh. She’s rubbing your arm, big brown eyes wide, the eyes she flashes at you when she wants something. You press down and kiss her. How could you resist her? She’d just been stabbed for you, after all.

Her hands squeeze your hips. She sits up, tries to push you over onto the bed. Then she winces as it pulls at her wound the wrong way.

“Shh, baby, just gently.” You say, easing her back against the pillows.

You press another kiss to her lips.

“Come up to me,” She murmurs, hands around your thighs. This time you don’t resist. You tilt your body up, shuffle over her head and let her pull you down, hands locked around your thighs like she wants to keep you in place.

You grasp at the headboard.

She moans as her mouth meets your clit. Arousal flushes through you at just how badly she wants this. How badly she needs this.

She doesn’t waste any time.

You’re already soaked, body still thrumming from the first orgasm she’d given you. You close your eyes, tilt your head back as she lovingly sucks down on you, her fingers splayed against your ass, as she’s trying to pull you in as close as she can get.

You’re embarrassingly close after only a couple of minutes, body flushed red, hands on your own breasts as you ride her face. You cum with a quiet whine, let her lick and suck her way through your orgasm.

When it’s over, you slump down into the spot next to her, tilting your head into her shoulder. She licks her lips, cleans you off her. And then nudges her nose against yours, pressing the sweetest of kisses against your lips.

“I love you,” She murmurs.

“I love you, too.” You say. Kiss her again.

She’s a little sleepy. You’ve worn her out. You touch her hip, checking on her dressing once more.

“Does it hurt?” You ask, brushing the strands of dark hair out of her face.

“It never hurt, I just wanted you to sit on my face,” She admits with a yawn.

You smile, slightly, entwine your fingers.

“I know that, genius, you’re hardly Charles Ponzi.”

“Who?” Tara asks, wrinkling her nose. Her eyes droop slightly. You press one more kiss to her lips.

“Doesn’t matter. Go to sleep.”

“I’m taking first watch,” Tara says, immediately.

“You’re taking second watch, because you blew it the first time by not waking me up.” You say, settling into her side, “Go to sleep.”

She relents, dropping her head to the pillow with a tired hum.

“We should invite Chad, Liv and Mindy over tomorrow.” She says, voice suddenly weighted, “We need a plan.”

“We don’t need them to have a plan.” You say after a moment. Mindy’s obsession with finding the killer scares you a little. What if she accidentally stumbled upon the truth? You’d rather keep her out of it.

“I have a hole in my stomach, and a Sam permanently glued to my side,” Tara grumbles, “If we want to catch this guy, we need them.”

The weight of reality is back. It’s easy to let it go when it’s just you and her, entwined like this. But the moment you stepped outside this room it fell on your shoulders like an anvil.

You’re not safe, Tara isn’t safe.

Not until you catch the fucker.

Chapter 17 Chapter Text

You wake up to the smell of pancakes.

Tara stirs, a little sleepy as you press a kiss to her neck, leaning down to check her dressing.

“It’s not like your parents to make us breakfast,” She murmurs, sitting up slightly. You were a cereal and toast kind of family. You furrow your brows, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes.

“Girls!” Sam’s voice calls up the stairs, “Breakfast is ready.”

Tara’s eyes widen.

“Oh no.”

Sam’s pancakes are made out of buckwheat flour and vegan butter. They’re brown - browner than a pancake should be, and her toppings are a mesh of eggs, avocado and chorizo. Not a raspberry, or blueberry - or any kind of traditional pancake topping in sight.

“Maple syrup isn’t good for you,” Sam assures when you ask for it. Instead, she offers a small bottle of honey, “Here. This is much healthier.”

Tara stares down at her plate, nudging her food suspiciously.

“It’s so nice to have a cook in the house,” Your mother gushes as she digs into her plate, “And this is really gourmet stuff. Our own little Gordan Ramsey.”

Tara swallows, her expression stormy. She picks up a piece of pancake with her fork and sniffs it. Makes a face.

Sam settles into the spot next to you. You take a half-hearted bite.

“How does it taste?” Sam asks, and you swallow, locking eyes with Tara.

“Healthy.”

“Good,” Sam says, sounding pleased with herself, “Tara needs nutrients.”

“Isn’t it nice of your sister to make you breakfast?” You ask Tara pointedly, nudging her foot under the table.

She blinks. Looks at you like she doesn’t want to answer.

You kick her again.

“Really nice, thanks Sam,” Tara mumbles into her plate.

It’s small and half-hearted. But it makes Sam beam.

It’s a Tuesday morning but you’re not in school.

Tara’s still too weak to walk for a prolonged amount of time, and you manage to convince your Dad it’s safer to stay home with Tara and Sam than go to school by yourself.

He and your Mom file out, one by one. He presses a kiss to your forehead. Makes sure you remember to lock the door on his way out.

They’ve been a little more at ease with Sam around, though she’s taken all their nervous energy and increased it tenfold. She spends most of her time checking the locks and cleaning her guns. The leftover is spent in the kitchen making Tara countless healthy snacks, to Tara’s great horror. Your room is filled with barely touched plates of carrot sticks and cucumber straws, tofu balls and seaweed crackers.

Sam is just as obsessive as her sister, though she shows it in a much different way.

Tara grumbles as she shoves another platter of hummus and carrots to your desk, phone pressed to her ear. She’s invited around her friends, and she must catch the look on your face because when she hangs up. She takes you in her arms and presses a long kiss to the side of your head.

“We need them,” She promises, “We need bodies to catch Ghostface.”

“If you say so,” You say, biting your lip.

It seems a little silly to you. Afterall, who’s to say one of them wasn't Ghostface? Between you and Tara, you had managed to kill two of their best friends. It wasn’t far-fetched to imagine they might be a little pissed about it if they knew.

She wraps her arms around your shoulders, presses a light kiss to your lips.

“They’ll be here in twenty,” She says, and so you quiet the thought of Chad and Liv in matching Ghostface masks and abandon Tara to get dressed.

Sam’s in the kitchen when they arrive, making Tara a green smoothie.

She doesn’t see the door open, doesn’t hear the hushed whispers as you shuffle them all upstairs to pile into your tiny bedroom.

Chad makes himself at home, lays back against the bed, one of your cushions in hand.

“Brace yourself,” He says as Tara shuts the door, “Mindy made a power-point.”

“I just thought the suspect list might be a little easier to palate in a visual format.” Mindy says, shooting a glare at her twin. She opens her laptop. Tara rolls her eyes.

“Forget about the suspect list,” She tells Mindy, “What’s the plan? It doesn’t matter who he is, we just need to catch him.”

“I still say we trap him,” Liv pipes up.

Tara groans.

“Liv, that’s why we’re here.”

“We could do it at the house,” Mindy suggests, biting her lip.

“And how are we going to do that?” Tara asks, “This house is on lockdown. He’ll never get in, now. Not with Sam parading about like the secret service.”

“We do it at school,” Chad suggests, “Think about it. Ghostface won’t be scared off by Sam and YN’s Dad. And it’s a familiar place - we know it like the back of our hands.”

“Ghostface hasn’t attacked us at school.” You say, chewing your lip.

“Not yet.” Chad stresses, “But maybe he will. If we can draw him out.”

“And how are we supposed to do that?” Tara asks, voice dry, “Send him a text message? Hey, Ghostface - YN and I will be hanging out by ourselves in the girls locker room if you want to try carve us up like cattle again.”

“We need to make it public knowledge that we’ll be alone,” You say, sitting up, “If we can spread it through the entire school, surely he’ll find out. He’s watching us, remember.”

“Detention.” Chad says, snapping his fingers together, “Principal Garcia’s detention! There’ll be no one there. No one is ever bad enough to get Principal Garcia’s detention.”

Principal Garcia had started a programme just as you’d joined Woodboro High. Regular detention was held after school, as usual. But Principal Garcia’s detention was held Saturday mornings. You’d only ever heard of one student who was naughty enough to get one of the Principal’s detention.

And that person happened to be your girlfriend.

“He doesn’t hand them out willy-nilly,” Tara says, sounding frustrated, “You have to be really bad to get one.”

“You got one,” Mindy says, raising an eyebrow, “Figures you could get one again.”

Tara’s Principal’s detention had been granted at one of your old soccer games. Faye Evans, one of the girls on the opposing team had played it too fast and loose one the field and ended up kicking your shins a little too hard. You’d toppled to the ground in agony.

Faye would have got a red card, if Tara had not got to her first.

You’d sat up, just in time to see Tara bee-lining from her spot on the sidelines. She’d grabbed Faye by the arms and body-slammed her so hard into the ground she drew blood. She’d maybe have done worse had you not pried her off.

Thankfully, Faye’s parents had settled for the detention (and Tara’s permanent ban from watching your soccer games) in lieu of a lawsuit.

“Chad punched someone last year and got suspended,” Tara grumbles, “That isn’t what we need. We need a detention, not a mark on our permanent records.”

“I was defending Liv’s honor,” Chad says, puffing his chest out a little, “Some dude in Chemistry grabbed her ass.”

Liv all but swoons. She ducks down and kisses him.

“My hero.” She murmurs.

Mindy wrinkles her nose.

Tara looks at you, “I was doing the same for you,” She says, sounding aggrieved, “Some girlfriends are grateful, see?”

“You’re not body-slamming anyone again,” You tell her, eyebrows raised, “Besides, you can barely stand up without wincing.”

“Maybe you could cuss out a teacher?” Mindy suggests.

Tara shakes her head.

“I’ve done that too, got a regular detention.” She says.

The teacher in question was Mrs. Cartwright. She’d given you a C+ on your English paper. And Tara had hit the roof.

You stir, not enjoying this trip down memory lane.

Tara looks over at you.

“We could get caught.” She suggests, “Third period - maybe before History class.”

Your cheeks flame red.

“No,” You hiss, “Absolutely not.”

“Baby, we have to do something.” Tara insists, “It has to be bad enough to get a Principal’s detention, not so bad we get suspended-”

“I’m not fucking you in front of Mr Saunders,” You say.

“It wouldn’t be all the way, maybe just some mouth stuff.” Liv says, helpfully.

You glare at her.

“Forget it,” You tell Tara, “Think of something else.”

The group collectively slump back in their seats. It’s quiet a moment, and then Chad sits up.

“I’ve got it!” He says, sounding excited, “We make a big show in class, Tara and I get into an argument - and then she punches me! The only reason I got suspended is because that kid’s Dad got involved. So I just won’t tell mine.”

You furrow your brows.

“You can act like I hit on your girl, or something,” Chad continues, “It’s perfect!”

“And I am I supposed to get detention from this?” You ask.

Chad shrugs, “I don’t know. You punch me too?”

Tara chews her lip.

“It’s a terrible idea,” She says, “But it’s the best we have so far.”

“What’s a terrible idea?” Sam’s in the doorway. You hadn’t heard her come in. She has another platter of vegetables in hand.

The five of you whip around, the guilt on all of your faces evident.

“Chad thinks we should get McDonalds for lunch,” Mindy says, lamely.

Sam stares at her, disbelieving.

“What’s this about punching Chad?” She says, staring at Tara, “And why do you want detention?”

Liv folds like a lawn chair.

“We’re trying to get Tara and YN a principal’s detention.” She says, quickly, “So Ghostface will attack Tara and YN and we’ll be able to catch the guy.”

Mindy groans.

“Liv,” She hisses, “We were fine.”

Sam stares a moment.

“No,” She says, immediately. Tara sits up a little straighter.

“Sam we need a plan,” She argues, “If we can trap the asshole and take off his mask-”

“You have a three inch hole in your stomach,” Sam says, voice shrill, “And if you think I’m trusting these idiots to protect you-”

“Sam,” Tara interjects, voice raised, “I’m not a little kid anymore. I can look after myself.”

“You’re not leaving this house unless I’m with you,” Sam says, sounding final, “And if you think I’m going to let you use yourself as bait for Ghostface-”

“She’s already bait for Ghostface,” You say, cutting in. Sam stares at you, “Look at what just happened. Sam, if we want to stop this guy, we need to know who he is.”

Sam looks at you.

Really looks at you.

You’re right and she knows it. You can tell by the look in her eyes. Hesitant, troubled. Like she’s fighting a losing battle in her own head.

Tara interjects before she can say anything.

“You can be a part of the plan if you want,” She says, “But we’re doing it with or without you.”

“You’re doing it with me,” Sam says, after a long moment, “You’re doing it right. Tell me the plan.”

Chad goes into animated detail. Too much detail.

“You’re an idiot,” Sam cuts Chad off mid-sentence, eyebrows furrowed, “Assault is assault, Chad. Tara will be suspended within the hour.”

“So what do you suggest, Sam?” You ask, a little desperate.

Tara interjects, “I still think we should get caught having-”

“No.” You and Sam say at the same time.

Tara crosses her arms.

“I have an idea,” Sam says, biting her lip, “But I need you to trust me.”

Sam’s idea is ridiculous at best, plain cruel at worst.

But it’s the best idea you have.

Wednesday morning you’re sitting in history class after having half-carried Tara into school, your stomach awash with butterflies. Chad, Liv and Mindy sit around you like body-guards, and despite the ridiculousness of the Ghostface-fighting crew you’ve put together, it does give you a little comfort knowing they’re close.

Mr Saunders is a dreary, five foot seven, forty one year old. He wears bowties to school and torments his classes with facts about history, which he delivers in a droning, tired voice. As if even he is sick of hearing about it.

It’s the Vietnam war today.

You let him begin the class, even listen for a little.

Sorry, you think preemptively.

It’s almost Ironic, how he spends so much time talking about war and is so unaware he’s about to be the next casualty in one.

Right on schedule, as he pauses to take a sip of his coffee, Tara raises her hand.

“Mr Saunders,” She pipes up, “Can YN and I be excused?”

Mr Saunders looks down at her. Long lines draw across his forehead. His shoulders tighten. He doesn’t like being interrupted.

He looks between you and Tara, eyes appraising. The two of you had a certain reputation in school, and you were certain no teacher would let the two of you go off alone. Let alone him.

“Do you need to see the nurse, Ms Carpenter? I’m sure, Mr Meeks-Martin can escort you.” Pointed, as if he sees right through her façade.

Tara shakes her head. Her eyes blaze in that way they do when she’s determined to see something though.

Your stomach flips.

“Not really,” She says, a little blasé, “This lesson is just boring me, a little.”

The class sniggers. Mr Saunders’ expression turns frosty. He stands a little taller, hushes the class with a whack against the white board.

“I’m sorry you don’t find the Vietnam war more entertaining, Ms Carpenter,” He says, voice stern, “But you’ll just have to make do. No, you may not be excused.”

You grip Tara’s hand a little tighter. It’s your turn.

“Why do you have such a stick up your ass all the time, Sir?” You say, voice a little shaky.

Tara rubs her thumb over the back of your hand, comfortingly.

Mr Saunders blinks back at you. It isn’t often you spoke up in his class, if at all. His face flames red with anger.

“Why don’t I tell you in detention?” He says, curling his lip.

He turns his back to you, scribbling madly on the whiteboard, trying to redirect the attention of the class.

Disappointment floods through you.

Detention. A regular detention. It isn’t what you need.

“He’s balding, babe, that’s why,” Tara says, loudly, “He wears a toupee and thinks everyone can’t tell-“

Mr Saunders whirls around.

“Detention,” He hissed again, “Both of you.”

“Mr Saunders doesn’t have a toupee,” Chad says, exactly on time, “There’s no way. Look at that thick head of hair.”

Tara stands.

“Sit down, Ms Carpenter,” Mr Saunders says, voice irate.

You can’t look as it happens.

Mr Saunders, although a little strict, is a perfectly nice teacher. And you were about to humiliate him in front of a sea of piranha-like teenagers.

Liv squeezes your shoulder.

“It’s for a good cause,” She offers in a whisper.

Tara reaches the front of the room. Mr Saunders doesn’t see it coming. He blocks the door, as if that’s where she’s trying to go.

And then in one swift move, she’s launching her arm forward and plucking the toupee straight off his head.

The class gasps, then erupts into a flurry of shock and laughter. You bury your head in your hands.

Tara waves the toupee about as if it’s a trophy for a moment before Mr Saunders snatches it back and tries to jam it - upside down - on his bald head.

“Principal’s office,” He hisses, face contorted, red, like he’s about to explode, “Both of you. Now.”

There’s a lot of yelling.

Mr Saunders wants you both suspended, for being “arrogant, disrespectful little shits.”

You Dad is at work, so it’s Sam who gets called.

Principal Garcia watches the two of you over his glasses with faint distaste. Like he doesn’t get paid enough to deal with this kind of ridiculous nonsense.

“Mr Saunders, I am so sorry for my sister's behavior,” Sam says, wide-eyed when she arrives, as if it weren’t her very idea, “The only explanation I can give you is it’s been a very tough couple of weeks. You know, Tara was attacked by Ghostface just days ago.”

For the first time in the last hour, the Principal softens. He looks down at Tara, appraises her for a moment.

“That’s understandable,” He says. Mr Saunders’ shoulders tighten again, like an angry little wind-up doll, “But it’s no excuse for her behavior-“

“I agree,” Says Sam, nodding softly, “Principal, perhaps one of your special detentions will set her in order. Both of them. Give them time to think about how they behave in school.”

The Principal hums.

And agrees.

Exactly to plan.

Saturday detention can’t come fast enough.

Tara breaks down the plan over and over, as if you’re both in Ocean's Eleven, the detention your diamond heist.

There are cabinets which line the back of the classrooms. Chad and Liv are to sneak into school early, hide back there until the attack happens. Mindy and Sam are to scout the doors, using a nearby utility closet to stay out of sight.

Tara and Sam are both to be armed, and the six of you are going to be wearing military strength bulletproof vests - courtesy of Tara’s mom’s credit card she still hadn’t changed the PIN number to.

Perhaps she might after the near nine hundred dollar bill she had just incurred.

Sam instructs all of you to “aim for the knees, but kill the asshole if you have to.”

And despite all the planning and the manpower, you can’t help but have the sinking suspicion something will go wrong.

“It’ll be okay, baby,” Tara murmurs that morning, scouting out your quiet trepidation with expertise. She presses a kiss to your forehead and takes you in her arms, “I’ll protect you. He won’t touch you.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about,” You murmur, lightly touching her wound with your fingertips. It’s been almost a week but she’s still healing. She winces when she sits down, and still leans on you sometimes when she walks.

You’re terrified that despite the gun and the vest, she’ll collapse to the ground and make herself Ghostface’s pin cushion once again.

She smoothes your hair back, fondly scratches your scalp.

“I’ll be okay,” She assures, “Once the adrenaline takes over.”

She kisses you.

“It’s going to be over, today,” She promises. Her dark eyes are awash with something: that fearlessness that comes so easy to her, “You’re never going to have to be afraid of him again.”

But you are afraid.

Not just of the inevitable attack that would occur, only hours later. You’re afraid once he’s unmasked he’ll talk. He knows, you know he knows. And one single utter of ‘Ghostface” and Tara’s name in the same sentence and the Sheriff would be knocking down your door to take her away.

“We have to kill him, baby,” You murmur. You bury your head in her neck, inhale her scent as if it will give you some comfort, “If he talks-”

“He won’t talk,” Tara says, sounding determined, “I’ll put a bullet through his brain before he gets the chance.”

The mood is somber.

Chad and Liv are en-route to the school, they’d texted ahead.

Mindy is to meet Sam outside the school in all but thirty minutes.

You chew down on some plain toast, trying to quell the tide of nausea rocking waves in your stomach.

“You okay, babe?” Tara asks, rubbing your back, “We need to get dressed in a minute.”

“I have a bad feeling,” You say. Tara leans over, presses a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“It’s just nerves.” She promises.

“Don’t be nervous,” Sam assures from across the table. She’s loading pellets into her shotgun, “I’m going to be armed with more firepower than the entire nation of Latvia. Motherfucker better hope he’s wearing knee pads, else I’m going to blow his knee caps clean off.”

If anything, that makes you more nervous.

“Don’t fire it close to Tara.” You tell her, chewing your lip.

Sam shoots you a look.

“Do I look like a rookie to you?”

A little, you’d fire back but your thought is interrupted by a sharp, urgent knock at the front door.

Tara tilts her head.

“Who’s that?”

You frown, crane your neck to try and see the figure through the glass. Your parents were at work, and they didn’t often host unexpected guests.

Sam stands, carefully places her shotgun on the countertop as she goes to answer the door.

You follow, curiosity peaked.

And then immediately wish you hadn’t.

It’s the Sheriff, and two other offices, poised at either side of her shoulders.

Her stance is stoic, expression unreadable. Your stomach churns in that uneasy way it always does when she’s around. But something about this is different.

She seems… formal. Far too formal for this to be a house call. You grip Tara’s hand tight between your fingers.

“Sheriff?” Sam asks, a little confused, “What are you doing here?”

But the Sheriff isn’t looking at Sam. Her eyes are honed in on Tara. Like she’s found her mark.

“Tara Carpenter,” She says, voice even, “I need you to come down with me to the station."

“Why?” Sam asks, immediately. Her shoulders tense.

“We have some questions,” Sheriff Hicks says, eyes flickering, “That’s all.”

“So ask them,” Sam says, eyebrows furrowed, “She’s not going anywhere with you.”

Sheriff Hicks reaches into her pocket.

She pulls out a piece of paper, and thrusts it towards Sam.

Your stomach sinks. A wave of hot anxiety flushes through you at the sight.

It’s an arrest warrant. With Tara’s name on it.

“You want to bet?” Sheriff Hicks says, voice cold.

You feel your heart start to pound. Tara blinks, staring at the paper a moment. You feel hot, your brain swimming. Your chest is tight, like the walls are closing in.

“I don’t understand,” Sam murmurs, crinkling the paper between her fingertips, “You’re arresting her for what exactly?”

“For murder,” Sheriff Hicks says, “For multiple murders. For the murder of Aaron and Sam Collins, Chase Matthews, Sadie Jones, Amber Freeman-“

Her voice quivers.

“And Wesley Hicks.”

It’s quiet a moment.

Your throat closes. Sam stares, eyes widening.

And then she splutters, “That’s ridiculous-“

Your hand tightens around Tara’s. She hasn’t moved. Her expression hasn’t changed.

Sheriff Hicks narrows her eyes.

“Don’t make me do this the hard way, Tara.” She says, “I can make a scene. I can handcuff you in front of your girlfriend and your sister or you can make it easy and come with me right now.”

Her hands touch the metallic handcuffs dangling off her belt, menacingly.

Panic swells in your chest. You feel as though you might combust. Your throat is tight but you manage to pry through a few strangled words.

“You’ve got it wrong,” You plead, tears pricking behind your eyes, “Tara hasn’t killed anyone.”

A blatant lie.

She’d see it if she looked over at you, saw the falsehood, the desperation swimming in your eyes. But the Sheriff isn’t looking at you. She’s looking at Tara, victorious.

As if she’s got her right in the scope.

Sam stares between them, then snaps into action.

“It’s going to be okay.” Sam says, all big-sister mode. She presses her hands to Tara’s shoulders, “I’m going to call a lawyer, right now. Don’t say anything to them Tara. I’ll follow, right behind, I’ll be in the waiting room the entire time-“

The plan.

It hits you like a jolt of lightning. The trap you’d perfected. The painstaking hours that had gone into planning it. The quick knock on the door that had sent it all out the window.

You’d had him.

Ghostface would have been yours. You’d have him unmasked, in the handcuffs the Sheriff had intended for Tara.

You think, quickly. And then close your eyes. Muster the strength it takes to get the words out.

“No,” You says, quietly. Tara and Sam both look over at you, “We had plans today, Sam.”

Sam looks at you as if you’re crazy.

There are police in your yard, swarming the lawn, sirens blaring. There’s a dozen of them, as if the Sheriff needed backup. As if, your tiny, injured, 5”1 girlfriend would put up so much fight twelve police officers would have to hold her down.

You blink back tears, hold the lump in your throat.

And you know exactly what you need to do.

“My Dad will be with her,” You continue, “I’ll call him now. He’ll call the lawyer, drive her home when they let her go. Inevitably.”

You shoot a look at the Sheriff.

“But Sam, it’s the only way.”

“No,” Tara says, voice flat, “No. Sam, tell her no.”

“It’s the only way,” You say, breathless. You blink back the tears, “We need to give them something.”

The Sheriff is watching, eyes peeled. Eyes narrowed, like she’s trying to make out your not-so-secret code.

You swallow. Taper down your emotions for a moment. Determination surges through you.

Lawyers, police, The Sheriff. Nothing could fix this but doing one thing.

Giving the police Ghostface. On a silver platter.

Sam’s quiet.

But Tara kicks up a fuss.

“Baby,” She urges, trying to pry your attention, to her “Baby, look at me. Say you won’t. Promise me you won’t.”

You swallow.

Brush her hair out of her face. Her eyes are wide, desperate. Huge brown orbs, pleading. It’s so strange to see her powerless. It’s unnatural.

You kiss her, softly.

“I’m going to protect you,” You promise against her lips, voice but a whisper, “The way you protect me.”

“That’s enough.” The Sheriff says, voice stern, “Tara. Easy way or the hard way? Your choice.”

Tara swallows.

“Sam,” She says, voice urgent, “Promise me you won’t let her. Promise me.”

Sam blinks a moment, her face blank.

And then she nods, presses a long kiss to Tara’s forehead.

“I promise,” She says, voice soft, “Go with the Sheriff. YN and I will be right behind you.”

Your heart sinks. Relief floods through Tara’s face.

“Now, Tara,” The Sheriff says, voice stern. Tara steps forward. Shoots a final look at you.

“I love you,” She murmurs.

And then you watch, tears in your eyes, as she’s hauled off in the back of a squad car. She limps to the car, looking so small amongst the sea of police officers. Helpless.

It makes you ache.

You turn to Sam when they’re out of sight, eyes shimmering with brand new determination.

“Sam- I know you’re in shock, but it’s the only way-”

“You don’t have to sell me a pitch, YN,” Sam says, voice low. The unshed tears in her eyes mirror yours, “We’re going to the school and we’re catching Ghostface.”

You blink.

Sam looks at you.

“You’re right,” She says, lip quivering, “It’s the only way to save her.”

Chapter 18 Chapter Text

You make it to the school in the passenger seat of Sam’s car without speaking the entire journey.

You feel hollow. Like the world is crumbling around you, and Sam must feel it too. Her grip on the wheel is tight, sturdy, like she knows exactly what she has to do now.

What you both have to do now.

Get him. Kill him. For Tara.

Mindy’s waiting outside the school when you pull up.

She peers into the backseat, looking for Tara, looking a little confused when she can find her.

“Where’s Tara?” Mindy asks.

Sam brushes her off.

“Change of plan. Tara isn’t coming. It’s just us.”

Mindy’s eyes widen.

“Sam,” She says, voice slow. Her eyes dart to you, “We can’t do this without Tara.”

“Tara isn’t coming,” Sam stresses, “And we need to do this. For Tara, do you understand?”

Mindy blinks. She fidgets with her phone.

“I’m going to call her first and check.” She eyes you, no doubt terrified of the consequence if something were to happen to you. Tara isn’t shy about her love for you, and she certainly isn’t shy about what would happen to anyone who ever hurt you.

“She’s been arrested,” You say, voice impatient, “She won’t pick up. The only way to help her is to catch this guy.”

Mindy gawps.

“She’s been arrested?”

“There’s no time,” Sam says, urgently, “Mindy, come on. YN, go to detention.”

She puts her hands on your shoulders, squeezes tight.

“And good luck.”

The plan is so stupidly simple, yet there are about a hundred ways it can go wrong.

You run through them on your way to detention, mind whirling, barely having the strength to put one foot in front of the other.

Firstly, the band of so-called Ghost-face protectors is possibly the worst collaboration of people in the entire school to do the job. Chad’s a meathead. Liv, his ditzy companion. Mindy is all ludicrous theories and useless horror film knowledge, and you’re either so small or so weak your hundred pound, five foot one girlfriend can put you on your back without so much as breaking a sweat.

Your only saving grace, it seems, is Sam.

You’d left her with Mindy, shotgun in hand, dressed in a tank top and a pair of old ripped jeans, looking very much like she’s about to rip through a horde of zombies, rather than take on a single Ghostface.

The only bright side to this awful situation is you no longer have to worry about Tara at the end of Ghostface’s knife. But the alternative - Tara locked in a jail cell for the rest of her life, is almost as bad.

Principal Garcia greets you, looking very much like he’d rather be anywhere else on his Saturday off. Sam had called ahead about Tara and he either doesn’t care, or can’t be bothered to ask how she is.

Instead, he sits at the front of the classroom, peering down at a newspaper through his spectacles as you settle into the front desk, nervously tapping your foot against the ground.

Your eyes draw to the clock on the wall.

The quiet click. The sound of Principal Garcia flipping his newspaper every now and then. Your heart is in your throat and it’s pounding so loud it drowns out almost everything else.

This has to work.

It if doesn’t - you’re fucked.

You look behind you, to the closets lining the back of the room and pray Chad and Liv are already in there. You have one of Sam’s handguns in your backpack. You keep it on your lap, resting your hand on it, needing it close.

Minutes pass.

Ten. Twenty. Thirty.

No sign of Ghostface.

Your eyes glance up at the clock once more.

You swallow. Start to think maybe this entire foolhardy plan is all for nothing.

And then you see it.

Through the crack of glass in the door, the bone-white of the mask. The long, black mouth. The hood. And before you can so much as cry out - Ghostface is ramming into the classroom, his knife raised.

You scream.

Principal Garcia’s head jerks around.

Ghostface’s movements are steady, calculated. He rushes forward and in one easy swing, he slashes his knife towards Principal Garcia and slashes through his raised forearm.

“Sam!” You cry out.

Ghostface’s head whips around to look at you. Principal Garcia crumbles to the ground, gasping, holding his bloodied arm.

The cabinets burst open.

Chad and Liv stumble out. Chad lets out what can only be described as a war-cry and charges forward, taking Ghostface off guard and tackling him to the ground.

You stand, hands shaky as you reach for the pistol in your backpack. You click the safety off and raise it. Chad has Ghostface pinned down. The knife in his hands clatters to the ground.

You squint, heart pounding as you try to find the shot. But their bodies are entwined, Chad’s grip on Ghostface lessening slightly as Ghostface juts his head upwards and smacks it into Chad’s.

Chad cries out.

Ghostface musters the strength to shake Chad off.

You fire out a shot.

But your grip isn’t steady. Your aim all over the place. The bullet whizzes past Ghostface and lodges itself into the blackboard.

Ghostface reaches for his knife and stands. He’s tall, menacing. He steps closer.

“Sam!” You cry out.

The mask tilts. The knife in his hands gleaming. He takes another step closer, confident. Like he knows you’ll miss again.

“Don’t come any closer, asshole.” Liv says. You feel her behind you, at your shoulder, “Shoot him, YN!”

You fire again.

And miss.

All those practices with your Dad. All those bottles you’d blown clean open have nothing on the real thing. The adrenaline is too much. The fear of him is too much.

“Where’s your girlfriend, YN?” He taunts. He flashes the knife, stepping closer once more. Another step and he’d be close enough to disarm you. You stumble back, gun in your hand shaking madly.

“Guess she’s finally getting what she deserves,” He says, “And now I’m going to give you what you deserve.”

The classroom door rams open once again.

It draws both of your attention. It’s Sam, Mindy at her side. Her shotgun is drawn, her eyes blazing.

“Back up asshole,” Sam says, voice even. Her hand isn’t shaking, she’s calm. Steady. You know she won’t miss.

“Take off that mask and I won’t blow you bit from bit,” She says. She moves a little closer.

If Ghostface knows he’s cornered, he doesn’t act like it. He turns from you like you’re not a threat, looks over to Sam and tuts at her.

“Sam, Sam, Sam.” Ghostface says, “So protective. Such a good sister. I wonder if you’d still protect her if you knew. If you knew what sweet baby-Tara did in her spare time.”

Sam cocks the gun.

“Last chance,” She growls, “I won’t ask again.”

The adrenaline in your body evens out. Your heartbeat slows, the determination in your eyes settles. You steady your hands, knowing what you have to do.

Sam wants him alive. Sam wants him to see justice.

But if he’s alive, he can talk.

If he’s alive he’ll tell everyone what Tara’s done. And you can’t have that.

You lift your gun, only slightly. You close one eye, the way your Dad had taught you.

You feel ethereal. Out of body. This is what Tara must feel like when she does it. Vision tunneled, like there’s only one thing in the world you want to do.

And then you shoot a bullet right into Ghostface’s chest.

Liv screams.

The sound of the gun firing leaves your ears ringing.

Sam blinks, startled, as Ghostface stumbles back, clutching the bloodied hole in his chest.

He crumples to the ground, right next to Principal Garcia, gasping.

You charge forward, kicking the knife out of his hands.

There’s only one thing on your mind. You have to know who it is. You have to see his face before you blow it clean off.

You lean down and rip the mask off the fuckers face.

Liv gasps. Chad gawps.

Sam’s grip on the shotgun wavers.

You blink down in surprise.

It’s Richie.

His eyes are wild, hazy. Blood pours thick and fast out of the bullet wound in his chest. The look in his eyes is terrifying. Pure hatred, hatred of you. Hatred of Tara. His mouth opens like he wants to speak, but he’s too injured. He’s moments from death, you can see it in his face.

Sam almost drops her gun. She sinks back, caught only by Mindy who steadies her shoulders.

You swallow, mind racing.

All those nights with him, the games with him. He’d slept only doors down from you and Tara. Tara had been so insistent it was him and you hadn’t listened. Because it didn’t make sense.

Why?

He’s dead before he can give you an answer.

“Holy shit.” Chad murmurs. His hands grip Liv’s shoulders. He looks to you, wide-eyed, “Are you alright?”

There’s a frog in your throat. You clear it once, twice, unable to take your eyes off the man who had tormented you for the past few weeks.

“He didn’t get me.” You say. You suddenly remember Principal Garcia and look over to him. He’s clutching his arm, eyes as wide as everyone else's, but other than the gash, he looks okay.

“Sam,” You murmur, looking over to her.

Her face is white, no doubt her entire world crumbling around her.

“Sam, are you okay? We need to call the police.”

“They’re on their way,” Mindy says, rubbing Sam’s back, “I called them preemptively. Thought we might need them.”

You place your gun on one of the desks, move over to where Sam is sitting. You crouch down, rest your hands on the tops of Sam’s thighs.

“Sam,” You say, “It’s over. It’s going to be okay. This is going to save Tara.”

Sam blinks back at you but she’s barely there. She looks as though she might pass out.

“Sam,” You promise, “It’s over.”

The police arrive not five minutes later.

The Sheriff blazes through the halls, stares wide-eyed at Richie’s dead body, Ghostface mask clattered next to him.

They take your statements, one by one.

Mindy tells them in great detail about the plan to capture him. Principal Garcia is rushed off to hospital to treat his arm. Sam sits quietly, not uttering a word until she’s spoken to.

“My sister-” She says, voice hoarse. She’s blinking, slow, “You’re going to let her go now?”

The Sheriff pauses.

“It’s not that simple, Sam,” She says, “We have witnesses- she was the last person to see my son alive-”

“That doesn’t mean shit,” Snaps Sam. She gestures to Richie’s body, “We’ve given you him. Clear as day. He framed my sister and you need to let her go.”

Sheriff Hicks considers this.

She looks over at Richie’s body, a little mournful, “If you’d kept him alive we could have interrogated him and cleared Tara’s name for good-”

“It was self-defense.” Liv says, immediately, “He came at YN and the only way she could protect herself was by killing him. Right guys?”

Mindy and Chad nod in unison.

Sheriff Hicks stares at you.

“Why would he kill my son?” She asks, and it’s urgent. Her eyes flitter, a mesh of grief and sorrow and confusion, “He didn’t even know him. Why would he kill him?”

“I don’t know.” You say. You swallow, “I’m sorry, Sheriff Hicks.”

She stares back at you a moment.

Then she’s nodding, blinking away the array of emotions she’d briefly allowed you to see.

“That’s for me to figure out,” She says. She looks over at Sam, “We’ll release Tara. But Sam - that doesn’t mean she still isn’t a suspect. If we find any link between them-”

“There’s no link.” Sam says, “My sister is innocent.”

The Sheriff nods.

“I’ll call the station.”

She moves over to speak to another officer. The relief on Sam’s face is palpable. You squeeze her thigh, mirror her relief with yours.

Tara’s coming home. You’d given the police what they wanted - a suspect to pin the murders on. She’d come home and you’d kiss her and hold her and never let her go again. Your veins flood with dopamine, the nicest high you could possibly imagine.

Tara’s safe.

But Mindy's frowning. You move over to her, frowning a little.

“What is it?” You ask.

Mindy turns to you, the look in her eyes urgent.

“Richie was there that night,” She says, “The night Tara was attacked. He was there with you and he wasn’t Ghostface. Not that night.”

You blink.

Mindy seizes your arm.

“There’s two, YN,” She says, “There’s fucking two of them.”

And your blood runs cold.

Chapter 19 Chapter Text

You ride with Sam to the police station.

What you thought would feel like a euphoric victory suddenly feels hollow.

There's two.

Of course. Why wouldn't there be? It was always two. And you'd just murdered someone's partner in crime, no doubt there would be retribution.

It feels different this time.

Wes had sent you spiraling, but Richie's death leaves you almost unperturbed.

He'd tried to kill Tara. Take her away from you.

And you'd given him exactly what he deserved. The justice he thought he was delivering to you.

It'd be scary, your nonchalance towards murder, if you didn't have much more pressing matters. Namely, your girlfriend sitting in a five by seven jail cell.

She's still in there when you arrive.

You can see her looking over at you through the bars.

She looks terrible. Dark circles under her eyes, messy, tufted hair. She's very the same clothes as she'd been brought in with and she's staring right back at you, something in her face akin to fury and relief all at once.

When they finally draw her through the doors she all but knocks you over in her flurry to get to you.

You gasp. She's tiny, but she lifts you off the ground with no qualms. Presses you down and kisses you, a little rough.

Then she drops you and rounds on Sam.

"What the hell were you thinking?" She snarls.

"I was thinking my baby sister is in jail and I needed to get her out." Sam answers, smoothly. She presses a hand to Tara's cheek, rubs at one of the circles under her eyes, "Are you okay?"

"No I'm not okay," Tara snaps, batting her hand away, "I gave you one job and you-"

"-Killed him," You interject. You draw her in closer, try and soothe her with a kiss, "It's okay, baby. We got him."

One of them, is what you should say, but Tara's so anxious you think it might send her right off the edge.

She looks over at you, look in her eyes frosty.

"Don't even get me started on you," She says, voice curt, "You're in so much trouble. If you think I'm letting you out of my sight ever again-"

"I was worried about you too, baby." You press a kiss to her hand, "Come on. Let's go home."

Sam drives.

Tara pulls you into the back seat with her, tugs you into her lap and pulls the belt around both of your bodies.

You would think she'd been gone six months and not six hours by the way she kisses you. Desperately. Needy. Her hands roam wildly, like her sister isn't in the front seat.

Sam clears her throat.

"Can you two not fuck in the back seat of my car?" She asks, "I just had the leather reupholstered."

It's a perfectly reasonable request, but Tara glares at her like she's just killed her puppy.

"How could you not know you were fucking Ghostface this entire time?" Tara asks, gripping your hips, "You brought him into our lives, Sam, Jesus."

You press your hands to Tara's face, smooth her dark hair back.

"Don't you think I know that?" Sam says, voice quiet.

"Tara," You whisper into her ear, "Your sister has just been betrayed by someone she thought she loved. A little empathy wouldn't hurt."

Tara's quiet a long moment.

Then she kisses your cheek.

"Sorry," She says to Sam, somewhat awkwardly, "I know it must be a shock. It's not your fault, Sam. Are you okay?"

Sam peers into the backseat, face awash with surprise at Tara's newfound empathy.

"Don't worry about me," She says, "What we should be worried about is his partner. Mindy's right, Richie wasn't Ghostface the night he attacked you. It was someone else."

You fiddle with Tara's fingers, nervously. The very thought of there being someone else who wanted to hurt Tara out and about and walking around in the world made you want to cry.

Tara rubs your back, reassuringly.

"So we'll catch whoever it is and dig them a grave next to Richie," She says, more to you than Sam. She presses a kiss to your cheek and lowers her voice, "Are you good, baby?"

She's referring to the murder you'd just committed, no doubt.

She has fears you'll freak out again and jet off to a cabin with your family like last time, you can tell by the look in her eyes.

But Richie isn't Wes.

Richie was guilty, and somehow it makes all the difference.

"I'm fine, Tara." You assure. You press a lingering kiss to her lips for good measure, "I'm just happy you're coming home."

"It should have been me who did it," She says, eyes mournful, "I'm sorry, baby."

You can feel a pair of eyes on you. You clear your throat, tilt your head into Tara's neck. Sam's watching, eyes squinted from the front seat. Like she has questions she needs answered.

"Richie said you deserved to pay," Sam says after a long moment. She's looking at the two of you through the rearview mirror, a little confused, "He said if I knew what you did in your spare time, I wouldn't be trying to protect you. What did he mean?"

You swallow. Tara tilts back in her seat.

"Who knows what he meant?" Says Tara, "The guy was a nutjob. Maybe I told him to fuck off out of my house one too many times."

Sam hums.

"You were a little harsh on him." She says, absent-mindedly.

Tara balks.

"A little harsh on him? He was Ghostface, Sam." She all but hisses.

Sam waves her hand.

"We didn't know that at the time." She says,.

"You didn't know that at the time," Tara says, crossing her arms, "I knew it from the minute YN was attacked."

She did, you remember all at once. So much could have been avoided if you had just believed her.

"I'm sorry I didn't take you more seriously, babe." You say, pressing your hands to her cheek. She leans up and kisses you.

You press your nose to hers.

"Was it horrible?" You ask, brushing the hair out of her face, "Jail?"

Tara brushes it off.

"It was fine," She says, "It was fine until I heard over the radio there had been an attack at the school."

You kiss her, soft.

"I'm sorry, babe," You say, "It was the only way to get you free. And it worked."

"You broke your promise to me, Sam," Tara says, an edge to her voice, "You promised me you wouldn't lead her into danger."

"I'm sorry, Tara," Sam says, "I knew it was the only way you'd go without a fight."

"You lied to me." Tara says, and you squeeze her hand.

"I'm sorry." Is all Sam says.

She parks the car, looks over at her sister.

Tara clicks her seatbelt off.

"Whatever," Tara says, "But if you think I'll trust you with her ever again-"

"I'm not a dog, Tara," You say, frowning, "Going there was my choice too."

"And you need to promise me you'll never do something like that again." Tara says, voice serious. She holds out her hand, "Please baby. Do you have any idea what I'd do if I lost you?"

"I thought I'd lost you." You say. You press into her side, kiss her once more, "I thought the Sheriff had taken you away from me for good."

"She'll never keep me away from you." Tara says, voice stern. She presses a long kiss to your forehead.

"As sweet as this is," Sam says, tilting her head to the porch, "We've got a welcome party."

Chad, Liv and Mindy are waiting by the porch when you enter.

You let them all in, watch as Sam triple locks the doors, and head to the den where Mindy sets up camp once again.

She has a fresh powerpoint with a list of suspects. It's a little impressive - and Sam rushes off to the kitchen to fix Tara a meal as you all settle down.

"What was prison like, Tara?" Liv asks, wide-eyed, "Did you have to join a gang?"

"I was there for less than six hours, Liv." Tara says sounding exasperated, "And they didn't take me to prison. Not a real prison. Just the holding cell in the Sheriff's office."

Liv nods, seriously.

"I've heard in prison you have to exchange what you have for what you want," She says, "We can bring you cigarettes, if you go back. My cousin Tammy said she exchanged sexual favors with some of the guards so she could get extra time on the phones."

Tara looks aghast.

"I'll keep that in mind, thanks Liv." She says, nose wrinkled.

You climb into her lap, kiss her softly.

"She's not going back there, Liv." You say, "They have Richie now. He's to blame for the killings."

"But he's not the only one," Mindy says, voice serious, "And that brings me to my presentation."

She clicks play.

Tara rolls her eyes.

It's a series of floating images; faces. Yours, Tara's, Richie's, Sam's.

It has everything. The exact times of the attacks. The weapons. The final slide is a picture of Richie, side by side with a giant gray question mark.

"Richie has a partner," Mindy says, "But the question is - who?"

"Who was Richie close with?" Chad asks, sitting up.

"No-one." Tara says, "He stayed at home all day playing video-games in his boxers. He didn't have any friends."

"He had at least one friend." Mindy says, lowering her voice. She jerks her head towards the kitchen, where Sam is preparing food.

Tara groans.

"Mindy, not this again-"

"It works." Mindy says, voice hushed, "My baby-sitter theory. She comes back into town, the attacks start happening. We catch her boyfriend red-handed-"

"You're forgetting one thing," You say. Mindy tilts her head, "Sam was in on the plan. To catch Ghostface. If she was in it with Richie, why would she let him get caught?"

Mindy pauses.

"Maybe she was sick of him?" She suggests, "Maybe she wanted to break up with him but didn't know how to do it?"

"So she had him murdered?" Tara asks, eyebrow raised.

"If she is Ghostface, she's a psycho, Tara." Mindy insists, "If she's Ghostface she's trying to kill her own sister. Why not her boyfriend?"

"This is stupid," Tara says, sounding tired, "Sam's not Ghostface. She's my sister. I think I know my own sister."

"I thought I knew Richie," Sam says. Your head jerks over to her. She's leaning against the doorframe, frown on her face.

"Sam." Mindy says, blinking, "I didn't hear you come in."

Sam gives her a look.

She settles down against the couch, beside Liv.

"It's fine," She says, "I get it. I'd suspect me too."

"No one suspects you, Sam," You offer, "Mindy just gets over-excited. Right, Mindy?"

"I'm just considering all the options," Mindy says, voice a little high.

"And you should," Sam says, "Right now, we should suspect everyone. Everyone except Tara and YN."

Silence fills the room.

Chad looks up.

"What if it's Wes?" He suggests, a little hesitant. Mindy stares. Your heart flips at his name. Suddenly, your hands are clammy. Tara squeezes your hip, subtle as can be.

"Wes?"

Chad shrugs.

"They never found a body. They never even found evidence of a crime. What if he skipped town, faked his own disappearance to get off the radar?"

"I really doubt that, Chad." Tara says.

"Why would Wes want to hurt Tara and YN?" Sam asks with a frown, "You guys were friends, right?"

"Right." You say, voice a little tight.

"Wes had a crush on YN, everyone knew that," Chad says, shrugging, "Maybe that's why this Ghostface hates Tara so much.

At this, Tara's head snaps around.

"What?"

Chad blinks.

"Yeah. I thought you knew?" He says, head tilted. He looks over to Mindy, "Right?"

Mindy nods, stern.

"Everyone knew."

You wince as Tara's hand tightens around your waist.

"Well, no-one told me." Tara says, eyes ablaze. She looks over to you, face enraged, "Babe, did you know?"

"Of course not." You say. You squeeze her hand, try to calm her down, "It's Wes, babe. He never would have done anything."

And he's dead. You leave that bit unsaid.

It doesn't seem to help. You recognize it immediately. It's the Rage taking over. Tara's chest heaves. Her eyes spark like fire.

"Asshole." She gasps, "Fucking asshole. He was supposed to be my friend-"

"Tara, it's not his fault," Liv says. She reaches out to touch Tara's arm but Tara retracts like Liv's burned her, "Really. You can't help who you fall for."

"You can not have a crush on my girlfriend." Tara says, sounding outraged. She looks around the room, to the sea of taken aback faces, "Anyone else have a crush on YN? Mindy? Chad?"

"No." They both say flatly, in unison.

"Baby-" You touch her again, but she's too far gone to reason with.

"Sam? You've all but moved in. Made best friends with her parents. Do I have to worry about you as well?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Tara." Sam says, rolling her eyes, "Can we focus? What do the police have on Wes?"

"Nothing," Mindy says, sounding a little gloomy, "No body, no evidence. I mean, they arrested Tara for his death so I guess he's assumed dead?"

"Put him on the slideshow." Chad says, sitting up, "If we're considering everyone, that is."

The rest of the afternoon is almost unbearable.

Mindy and Chad bicker over who their top candidates are. Sam joins in, here and there.

And Tara sits, arms crossed, pouting like a storm cloud ready to spark lightning over everyone.

Chad and Mindy are halfway through an argument about what the next plan should entail when Tara stands suddenly, bringing you up with her.

"It's been a long day, can you all please leave, now?" She says, abruptly.

Mindy looks over to her, apprehension on her face.

"Tara, is that a good idea? I mean, with Ghostface still out there and all? He could be back again tonight."

"We've got enough locks to house a small prison and Sam walking about with an arsenal like she's Lara Croft. I think we'll be fine." Tara says, sounding tired.

Chad looks over to Liv, touches her head.

"You want us to stay?" He suggests, "We could all camp out in the living room, like a sleepover."

"We're good, thanks Chad." Tara says, voice firm. She's still annoyed, you can tell by the tone in her voice. What had been an offhand remark about Wes for Chad she'd been toiling with for the last two hours - you can tell by the look in her eye.

"Are you sure?" Chad presses, "If Ghostface attacked you again and we could have done something about it-"

Tara cuts him off, voice curt, "I said, we're fine, Chad. Besides, I'm about to nail my girlfriend and would rather you weren't all down here listening."

"Tara." You hiss, mouth open. Sam wrinkles her nose and sees herself back off to the kitchen.

But it works.

Chad blinks back at her, and without a word, leads Liv and Mindy to the door.

And then Tara takes you by the hand and all but drags you upstairs.

There's a dangerous look in her eye. Foreboding, almost. Her shoulders are drawn, her eyebrows knit tight in a frown.

It's The Rage.

And you need to get rid of it, fast, before she does something she'll regret.

"He's dead, babe." You say as she closes the door. You reach for her, but she withdraws from you, instead moving over to the window, watching her friends leave.

You're exhausted. The day has been brutal - the morning worrying about Tara and the afternoon putting a bullet through Richie's brain. You want to collapse onto the bed, take Tara into your arms and not think about the days to come.

The days to come with another Ghostface to contend with.

But Tara has other plans.

She's pacing. Like she's about to put on her Ghostface outfit and pry Wes' body out of the river she threw him in.

"How did I not know?" She says, eyebrows pinched, "Babe, if I didn't know about him, who else do I not know about?"

She chews her lip.

"Mindy, I bet it's Mindy. Mindy has a crush on you. Chad too, why not? He's all brawn and thinks he can get any girl in this town. Hell, I bet Liv's thought about you too."

"Liv's straight." You say, voice stern, "And you sound crazy right now."

She looks over at you, eyes wild.

"Do you like Mindy?" She asks, moving a little closer, "Do you think she's cute? Would you fuck her, if I wasn't around? Would you leave me for her?"

She's tiny, 5'1, but at the moment she looks seven feet tall. Shoulders drawn, she almost towers over you.

Menacing.

"Tara, you're scaring me." You say, taking a step back.

She blinks. And then drops her shoulders.

"Sorry," She says, after a moment, "I'm sorry, babe."

She brings her hands to her own face, and then sinks down into her mattress.

"It's taking over me, I can feel it." She says, sounding mournful, "I'm trying to fight it, baby, I am."

You swallow. Move over to her and wrap your arms around her shoulders.

"It's okay, Tara," You say, "Look at me."

She looks up, brown eyes wide. It's still there, The Rage, you can see it swimming in her eyes. You lean down and press a kiss to her lips.

"I don't want anyone else, it doesn't matter who it is," You say, voice firm, "So tell The Rage to fuck off. It isn't needed. No one is going to take me from you."

You kiss her again. Her hands grip around your waist, holding you tight.

"Promise?" She asks. She looks so vulnerable. Like a child asking for her favorite toy. Her brown eyes are wide, mournful.

"Promise." You whisper and kiss her once more.

She sighs against your lips.

You curl your hands around her neck.

She feels so good against you. Warm and solid and there. Not in a jail cell, facing life in prison. With you, under you, where she belongs.

You push her back onto the bed and climb on top of her.

You missed her. Less than six hours and you missed her. Like someone had cut off your arm or something much worse.

Your kisses climb. You slip your knee between her thighs and press down onto her.

She squeezes your hips. You slip your tongue between her lips. You move your body against hers.

Her smell, her taste encompasses you.

You move your hands down to her waistband. Fumble with the buttons on her jeans as you hurry to slide them off her.

You manage to half pry them down her legs before she's rising up and flipping you over onto your back.

If getting you naked was an Olympic sport - she'd win gold every time.

You don't even know how she does it so quickly.

A single tilt of her wrist and your bra is unclipped, your shirt being pulled off in one quick swipe. Then, your skirt. Down your legs with your underwear faster than you can moan her name.

She has the precision of a sniper.

She spreads your bare legs and clambers between them, helping out your fruitless attempts to get her out of her shirt in seconds.

Then she's back on top of you, warm, naked, kissing you like she's still in prison and you're her last meal.

She juts her hips out, hits you in just the right spot.

You curl your hand around her neck, fingers gripping at her dark hair. Her lips don't give you a moment to breathe. She's kissing you desperately, hands on your hips, gently thrusting into you in that way that makes you soak.

You moan her name, once, twice, before she's pressing a final kiss to your lips and moving down your body to curl her hands around your thighs.

It's embarrassing the way she never needs to tease you.

You lean back into the mattress, close your eyes as you feel her lips press to your inner thighs.

"Mmm." She murmurs as she grazes her lips over the inside of your thighs, "Looks like someone's ready for me."

"Shut up." You say, touching the back of her head, trying to press her into where you need her the most.

"That's not a very nice way to talk to your girlfriend," She teases. She darts her tongue out, smoothes over the milky skin of your inner thigh. You let out a harsh sigh, thighs closing around her shoulders.

"Baby, please." You beg.

She smiles. Presses one last kiss to your thigh.

"That's better," She says, "Missed you too, babe."

Her tongue works against your folds, darting and licking up traces of your arousal like a hungry cat lapping at its milk.

You lean back onto the mattress and sigh, taking your own breasts in your hands.

It isn't long before she's trailed her way up to your clit, licking gently in the kind of way that makes you ache with desire.

You curl your hands in her hair and moan, softly.

She presses a final loving kiss to your thigh before she's moving up and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. You make a noise of protest, but she leans down and quiets you with her lips.

Then she's retracting, eyebrows raised.

"Fingers or strap?" She's asking, eyes dark like she already knows the answer.

"Strap." You all but beg, and she gives you a wicked smile before rolling over and fumbling through your top drawer.

Sam's still downstairs, you think vaguely as you watch Tara slip into the harness. Sam's downstairs and Tara's looking at you like she's about to make you scream so loudly the neighbors might complain.

Tara climbs between your legs, a dirty grin on her face.

She's reaching over your body for the lube bottle but you touch her hand.

"We don't need it," You say, voice graveled. She ducks down and kisses you.

"We need it," She promises. She bites at your bottom lip, a little playful, "I'm about to fuck you so hard and I want you nice and wet and ready to take it. I love you baby. I don't want to hurt you."

You groan.

She coats the tip of the dildo, then reaches her hands between your legs to massage it into you. You let out a sharp gasp at the cool of the liquid, but she makes it better instantly. Thumb on your clit, rubbing slightly and she sinks her fingers inside you.

"Good?" She teases as you flush red.

You're in no mood for joking. You grab at the head of the dildo and tug her forward, pulling her on top of you and taking her lips in a desperate kiss. She slips her tongue into your mouth, distracted, only slightly, before she's spreading your legs with her knees and reaching between her own legs to guide herself inside.

Her mouth presses against your neck.

You gasp as you feel it: the tip of her cock against your entrance, her hands around your hips keeping you from running from her. She sinks in slowly, biting her own lip as she looks down to admire her work.

The stretch feels incredible. You dig your nails into the skin of her biceps, tilting your head back onto the pillows as she fills you up to the hilt.

She's still a moment, letting you adjust, before she's leaning down once again to kiss you.

"Does that feel good?" She murmurs, pressing her nose to yours.

You nod. Curl your hands around her shoulders, burying your face in her neck.

"Tell me." She insists, tilting your face back up to her.

"It feels really good, baby." You say, voice high. She kisses you once, and then jerks her hips back.

"Fuck." You gasp.

Her hands grip tight suddenly around your neck and your stomach flips. She thrusts her hips towards you, pulling back slightly to build a steady, hard rhythm.

You'd gasp but her fingertips are tight around your neck, eyes ablaze with lust, and want and the kind of possessiveness that makes you spread your legs a little wider.

"Nobody else will fuck you this good," She says, jerking her hips forward once more, "Nobody. Not Mindy and her micro-strap, not Chad and his carrot dick and certainly not my sister and her-"

"Can we not talk about your sister when we're fucking?" You ask, eyebrows furrowed.

Tara slams into you a little harder, making you cry out.

If Sam didn't know what the two of you were doing up here, she certainly does now.

But Tara doesn't care. She pounds into you, her slow rhythm out the window.

"Tell me you're mine." She growls. Her hands are back around your neck, "Tell me who you belong to."

"You, Tara, only you." You gasp.

"Good girl," She purrs. She drops her hands from your neck and leans down to kiss you, slow, "That's my good girl."

She pulls back slightly, and you groan as part of her length slips out of you. She hushes you with a gentle squeeze to your thigh, before she's taking your legs in hand and placing them over her shoulders.

She slides back into you, pressing a feverish kiss to your lips. The position means she's so deep it almost hurts. Her belly presses flush against your own, her hips moving only slightly as she settles into place.

You reach out to touch her face, curl your hand around her cheek as you tug her down to kiss her. She shifts her hips slightly and it makes you gasp.

You moan her name again.

She kisses you fiercely, and you know that kind of kiss. It's the kind she gives you before she's about to let loose on you. It's like a warning, and it makes you flood with arousal and grip the back of her neck tighter.

She pulls back from your lips, eyebrows furrowed, determined look in her eyes, and then she's holding onto your thighs and fucking you as hard and fast as her hips will move.

The bed frame squeaks. She's gasping, you're moaning, the only kind of choir that could ever make you believe in God.

It builds in you quickly - her furious fucking, the sight of her red lips and messy, hair sticking to the sweat on her forehead.

You cry out, gasp her name and then stars are exploding behind your eyes as you cum. She grips your thighs, tight, not far behind. With a final messy thrust, her eyes are clamping shut as she gasps out and collapses against your body.

Your ears ring. You wrap your arms around her body, press a kiss to her sweaty forehead, rubbing her back as she comes down.

"I love you." You murmur, "And I missed you so much."

She kisses you.

"It was only six hours, babe." She says, voice playful.

"Worst six hours of my life." You say.

Her eyes sparkle. She nudges her nose against yours.

Then, sparking you out of your love-filled bliss, there's a knock at the door.

"Tara. YN's parents will be home any minute," It's Sam, sounding aggrieved, "You're making the ceiling shake and the two of you sound like something out of a bad 80s porno. You might want to tone it down a bit."

Tara rolls her eyes.

Embarrassment flushes through you. It stains the tips of your ears and your cheeks bright red.

"Thanks Sam, fuck off now please." Tara asks.

You groan, and push her off you.

She sits up on her side, pout on her lips.

"Don't worry about her, she's just mad she's not getting any." Tara says. She leans forward to place a gentle kiss on your lips.

You pull her into your side, press your lips to the top of her head as she settles against your chest.

The events from the day weigh over you like a wet blanket. But you can't bring yourself to worry about them, not tonight. Tonight, all you want to do is be with her. Love her.

Make your parents probably hate her even more.

Judging by the way her hands run up your thigh, she's on the same page.

Ghostface is tomorrow's problem. But tonight? Tara's naked, and beautiful and yours and in your bed.

Ghostface can wait.

Chapter 20 Chapter Text

Several orgasms later - when you're a sweaty, ruined mess underneath Tara's body, you hear the murmur of voices and the front door slam closed.

Sam's finally had enough, you think, a little sleepily. Her indignant request for the two of you to keep quiet had only made Tara fuck you harder. She's annoying like that. And what had been Sam's loss had been your gain.

Or so you had thought.

There's a rumble against the floorboards downstairs. Boots, the owner heavy-footed. Sam's voice - distant, a little apprehensive. And then you hear your Dad.

Deep, like thunder.

He sounds pissed.

"Tara, get off me," You murmur, suddenly. She's pressing you down into the mattress, lips on your neck, fingers wandering somewhere you definitely don't need right now.

You sit up slightly, pulling her up with you.

"But I'm not done with you yet." She says, eyes dancing as she pulls away from your neck.

She pushes you back into the bed, hard, taking your hands and pinning them over your head. You resist. Your Dad's steps hit like lightning against the staircase.

"Babe," You insist, "I'm serious, my Dad is home."

She quells your fears with a kiss. Nips at your bottom lip.

"He'll knock, babe, relax." She assures.

She tilts your head to her lips, but you withdraw.

Panic surges through you.

You hear your Dad's footsteps on the staircase. You wrench your hands out of her grip and reach for your t-shirt.

Your Dad doesn't knock. You've known it for eighteen years and he certainly is going to stop it now. You pry your t-shirt over your head.

"Clothes, Tara. Now." You hiss.

She rolls her eyes, but reaches for her own shirt.

But it's too late. You hear the door click as the handle turns and then the bedroom door bursts wide open.

Your Dad stands, eyes wild, frightening as he looks over at you.

Tara gasps, and tugs the sheets over her body.

"Ever heard of knocking, dude?" She asks, cheeks red, in a rare moment of embarrassment.

Your Dad blinks.

The anger dissipates; he's startled, like you in bed with Tara was the last thing he expected.

"What the hell is going on here?" He hisses, eyes wide with indignation. He flits between you trying to tug your shirt over your head and Tara pulling the sheets up to her neck. He looks outraged.

"Are you having sex?" He splutters. His eyes might bulge out of his head.

"No, we're playing twister," Tara says, voice dry, "Of course we're having sex, what does it look like?"

She, as always, knows how to twist the knife.

You'd tell her to shut up, but your words - along with a piece of your soul - have died. Shock, embarrassment flood through you.

Rage explodes across your Dad's face.

His chest heaves. He looks as though he might tackle her. You grip her hand, looking between them.

"Just give us one sec, Dad, we'll be dressed in a minute."

He takes a breath. Swallows hard.

Silence fills the room for a single, brutal second.

And then he's blinking over at you, the rage simmering into a steady swell.

"Downstairs." He tells you, his voice low, "One minute."

He pauses, eyes flickering with disgust.

"And put some god damn clothes on."

You briefly consider escaping out the window.

Taking Tara with you - with any luck you'd never have to look your Dad in the eye again. The thought of him tearing Woodsboro apart to find you again has you reluctantly pulling your jeans back on and helping Tara into hers.

"No talking back," You say, lip between your teeth as you button her pants, "I mean it Tara. Say as little as possible, please. Let me do the talking."

"Whatever you say, babe." She grumbles. Her cheeks are still tinted pink. You kiss her cheek, rub her hip. She's cute when she's embarrassed, but you save that thought for later.

Right now you have bigger problems.

Your Dad is wildly pacing when the two of you come downstairs. Sam looks over at the two of you, offers Tara an appraising I told you so glare, but your focus isn't on her. You chew your lip, settle into the sofa with Tara at your side.

"Sorry, daddy," You say, voice small, "We thought you'd be at work a little longer."

It's the wrong thing to say, you know it the moment it leaves your lips.

Your Dad whirls around, eyebrows knit almost comically. Deep, angry frown lines mar his face.

"Where do I even begin?" He asks, eyes flashing, "The arrest? The murder? Setting up Ghostface? What the hell has been going on and why wasn't I told?"

"Dad, please, calm down-" You start but the look in his eyes quietens you.

"Not to mention the sex?" He thunders as if it's even vaguely comparable to the others. He points a beefy finger at Tara, "You spent the morning in jail for multiple murders."

The finger turns to you.

"You spent the morning committing manslaughter. And then the two of you decided to come home and what? Celebrate?"

His face turns red, "With underage fornication?"

Tara can't help herself.

"It's not underage sex, we're both eighteen-"

"Quiet." He snarls, "We'll start with you - Sheriff Hicks arrested you this morning. For six murders."

"That was a mistake," Interjects Sam, "Sheriff Hicks got it wrong. The culprit was caught. He's.... in custody."

"In custody?" Your Dad says, "He's dead. And the Sheriff tells me it was my daughter who did it."

His fingers flex, menacingly. He's scary like this. You've always been aware of his temper, walked on eggshells to please him, but this is something different.

Something terrifying.

"He attacked us at the school, I had no choice." You say, voice small. Tara's arm snakes around your waist. She squeezes your hip, gently.

"You had no choice?" Says your Dad, taking a step closer, "You arranged it. The Sheriff told me everything. The plan. The guns. You walked in there knowing you were going to take his life. It was calculated. And you didn't tell me a fucking thing. How dare you."

"Don't talk to her like that." Says Tara. Your Dad isn't the only one with a temper, but Tara's is much, much worse. If he invokes The Rage, there isn't much you can do to stop it.

You grip her hand, trying to signal for her to back down.

"I'll talk to my own child how I please," Your Dad sneers, "And as for you? You want to tell me why the Sheriff suspected you so much she had you hauled off in handcuffs?"

"Because she got it wrong," You say, "Dad, are you even listening?"

He's quiet a moment. His eyes swell. He looks the way he did like the first time you had told him you didn't need him to push you on the swings anymore. Or the time he'd found out you'd had your first kiss with Aaron, or when you'd bought Tara home for the first time.

He looks devastated. Betrayed.

"You never told me you were having sex," He says, voice hoarse.

You swallow.

"Dad, that's - a little too uncomfortable of a conversation to have, don't you think?"

"I thought you were a good girl. I thought you had values." He looks distraught. So much so, that you almost feel bad.

"Dad... I'm eighteen, it's not like I'm a kid anymore," you say, voice slow, "And Tara and I have been dating for two years. I figured you just... knew."

Clearly, he didn't.

If anything, the sex has wounded him more than the murder you'd just committed.

"You're a Christian girl," He says, voice insistent, "We raised you Christian. I thought that would mean something. I thought you were a virgin."

Tara can't help herself; she snorts.

You dig a sharp elbow into her side, but it's too late. Your Dad's eyes flash with fury and embarrassment and grief and before you can even blink he's reaching over to grab Tara by the arm.

He yanks at her, hard, pulling her up like she's a rag doll.

You scream out, trying to draw your body between his and hers but Sam gets there first.

She shoves him back, hard as she can and steps between them, her eyes flashing.

Looking wounded, Tara rubs at her arm, face flashing with aggravation. There's an angry red handprint blooming on her. You pull her back, behind you, wrapping your arm around her shoulders.

"Don't touch her, don't you dare touch her." Sam snarls.

Your Dad breathes out, chest heaving. He glares at Tara, and if you and Sam weren't between them, you really think he might try and hit her.

It's a sobering thought. And suddenly all you need is to get her out of here.

"We're going to go." You say, voice a little shaky, "Me, Sam and Tara are going, Dad. Until you calm down."

His eyes flash.

You grip Tara a little harder.

"You're not going anywhere," He growls, "These two - they can go. They're trouble. I want them out. But you?"

He points a finger at you.

"You're grounded. You're not leaving the house, as of now. Mom will home school you, you're not seeing the rat-pack of delinquents you call friends again. And you're breaking up with her, right now."

Your heart thuds.

Your Dad's face is brazen. Serious.

But so are you.

"No." You say, drawing your shoulders back.

"No?"

"No. I'm eighteen, I can't be grounded. You can't tell me who my friends are and you certainly can't stop me from seeing Tara."

Your Dad slams his hand against the table. A cup shatters to the ground. You flinch.

"She's been arrested for murder, YN." He says, voice fraught. He blinks at you, desperate for you to understand, "And you might believe that she's done nothing wrong but the Sheriff arrested her for a reason. Between that and the-"

He shudders.

"The fornicating. No. You're not seeing her anymore. I won't allow it."

Sam stands up, hands raised. She looks furious, but there's something in her voice. Like she's trying to be the voice of reason.

"Sir - please. I know you're upset but trying to stop them from seeing each other isn't the right way-"

"You will not see her!" Screams your Dad, "The Sheriff thinks there's something wrong with her. That she was in it with Richie. And I saw it, right from the start. There's something wrong with her, YN. That girl is-"

"That girl is my sister, and I'd watch what you were saying if I were you." Sam says, voice sharp.

"We'll go," Says Tara, rubbing your back. She stands a little straighter, "But YN is coming with us. I'm not leaving without her."

"Dad, I'm going." You say, voice stern, "And if you try to stop me I'll call the police myself. I'm eighteen, you have no right to keep me here like a hostage."

There's a vein on your Father's forehead that looks like it might burst. You've never seen him like this before: bubbling with fury and fear and desperation. He's acting irrational.

Crazy.

And you don't want to be here a minute longer.

"We're going," Sam repeats for you. She still has her hand raised, as if she's afraid he might lunge at Tara at any given moment, "Okay?"

It's not okay, clearly.

But your threat of calling the police seems to work.

He swallows. Face still red.

He swears at you.

Calls you ungrateful. Smashes another glass against the floor.

But then he leaves.

And before he can change his mind, you're gripping onto Tara for dear life and leading her out the front door.

Sam drives.

You sit in the back seat, head against Tara's shoulder, inspecting the red hand marks on her forearm.

Your Dad got angry sometimes, sure, but he'd never physically hurt anyone before. He could have killed her right there, you could tell by the look in his eyes, if you and Sam hadn't been there to intervene.

You press your lips to the mark, heart aching at the thought your own Father had been the one to hurt her.

"You couldn't have waited a couple more hours before you jumped each other?" Sam asks, voice wry.

She peers into the backseat just in time to catch the flash of indignation across Tara's face.

"Way to victim-blame, Sam," Tara says, crossing her arms, "We were just fucking. He was acting like we were dissecting live cats together or something."

"I thought he knew we were having sex," You say, absent-mindedly, "What kind of couple is together for two years without having sex?"

"Mormons," Tara says, her nose wrinkled, "Or your parents, maybe."

You roll your eyes.

"It doesn't matter, now." You say, a little nervous as Sam pulls into the driveway of hers and Tara's house, "What matters is we get this place safe and secured before we go to bed tonight."

Tara squeezes your thigh.

Sam gets to work immediately.

She gets her drill out, installing new locks on each of the doors. Tara hides the knives, holsters a small pistol around her waist.

They both look hot.

You keep that thought to yourself and watch Tara as she leans over and reaches for Sam's drill. She bites her lip as she drills the hinge into place and then turns and catches your gaze.

"What?" She asks, small smile on her face.

"Nothing," You say, voice coy as she moves over and snakes her arms around your waist, "You just look sexy doing that, that's all."

"I look sexy drilling a hinge into the door?" She teases. She presses a kiss to your lips.

You bite your lip and look over at Sam. She's picking up the drill and then traipsing off into the next room.

"I want you to drill me into the door." You say, voice low.

Tara's eyes spark.

Then you hear Sam groan from the other room.

"Again?"

Your cheeks flush red. Tara laughs.

You smack her gently, then nuzzle your head into her neck.

Tara presses a kiss to the top of your head.

"I'm going to finish up these doors," She says, voice light, "And then I'll drill you into anything you want, baby."

You half consider dragging her up the stairs and taking her up on that promise. The adrenaline from the day is manifesting in some particularly horny ways. You don't know if it's the fear, or the shock but all you can think about is Tara and how much you want her.

But before you can so much as kiss her, the doorbell is ringing.

Sam peers back into the room, frown on her face.

"If that's your Dad-" She begins, but you cut her off, miles ahead of her.

If it is your Dad, the last thing you need is Tara around.

You shake her off, worry overtaking your expression.

"I'll get rid of him," You say, hurriedly, "Baby, stay here."

But when you make your way to the door, and swing it open, it isn't your Dad standing there.

You frown. Clutch at the door a little tighter.

"Sheriff Hicks?" You ask, a little confused. She's standing with her hat in her hands, looking nervous. More nervous than you've ever seen her.

And this is the third time you've seen her today, and in all honesty, you'd rather not see her again for a few weeks, at the very least.

You've had your fill of her.

"YN," She says, peering behind you. She wrings her hands, "Samantha Carpenter, is she here?"

You frown, a little confused.

You feel Tara come up behind you, press her hands to your hips. You don't need to look at her to tell she's less than pleased to see the woman who'd arrested her standing on her doorstep.

"Sheriff," Tara drawls, shoulders tight, "Here to arrest anymore innocent people?"

The Sheriff ignores her. She looks to you.

"May I come in?" She asks.

"No." Says Tara, arms crossed.

The Sheriff falls silent. Her eyes flit between yours and Tara's. She looks grave. Like she's seen a ghost.

"I'm not here to arrest anyone," The Sheriff says. She sounds serious, "I just need to speak with Sam. It's about Richie."

"Richie?" His name draws Sam out from the kitchen.

The Sheriff nods.

"If I could just come inside-"

"You're not coming inside my house," Tara says, voice sharp, "Tell Sam whatever you want about Richie, and then leave. Please."

The Sheriff looks like she wants to argue. But then her shoulders drop. She takes a deep breath and looks Sam right in the eye.

"He's gone."

Sam blinks.

"I know, Sheriff," She says, voice slow, "I was there, remember?"

The Sheriff shakes her head.

"No, Sam. He's gone. As in we can't find him anywhere."

Chapter 21 Chapter Text

Nobody says anything for a good twenty seconds.

The Sheriff’s face is stony. Serious.

You feel as if your heart has just dropped down into your stomach.

Tara’s hand grips tight on your hip.

Sam blinks, mouth open like a fish out of water.

And then it’s her who breaks the silence.

“He’s gone?”

She blinks once more. Her words turn into a splutter.

“But he’s dead.”

The Sheriff swallows. You almost feel bad for her, the way she wrings her hat in her hands like she’s standing in front of a courthouse of jurors.

“He was admitted to the morgue,” She explains, voice soft, “There was a fifteen minute window where the Coroner was off shift. We think it happened then.”

“You think what happened?” You ask, heartbeat hammering loudly in your ears, “You think he got up and walked out?”

“No,” Says the Sheriff, a little impatient, “He was dead. He’s definitely dead-”

“And you lost him?” Tara asks, her voice rising, “You lost a dead guy?”

The Sheriff looks at Sam.

“Perhaps we should do this somewhere more private?”

“Absolutely not,” Sneers Tara, “You don’t exactly have a track record of asking the right questions, Sheriff.”

Except she does. And you know it. You touch Tara’s arm, try to quiet her.

Let’s not piss off the person who can haul you right back to jail, the look in your eyes says.

But Sam crosses her arms.

“Tara stays. She’s right, Sheriff. First you try to pin six murders on her, then you lose the actual culprit. The dead culprit.”

The Sheriff purses her lips.

“I’m not here to argue,” She says, directing a pointed look at your girlfriend, “But I am here to find out what happened. Whoever Richie was working with likely took his body. Why? I don’t know. But I need answers. And fast.”

Sam furrows her brow.

“I don’t know who he was working with,” She says, “I didn’t even know what he was doing in his spare time. Hell, I had no idea who he truly was.”

She sounds a little agonized. Like it’s her fault her boyfriend almost had her sister killed.

“But you knew him.” Says the Sheriff, “You knew his patterns, his friends, his routine. If we can pin down some names, we might be able to find the culprit.”

She stands a little taller.

“And I’d like you to come down to the station and help me figure it out. Please.”

Sam looks at Tara, a little torn.

“I need to be here with my sister.” She says.

“Your sister will be fine,” Says the Sheriff, “I can arrange for a squad car. Two, if you need it. She’ll be safe, Sam. They won’t let anything happen to her.”

“Fuck that,” Says Tara, “We’re coming. Down to the station. Sam, I’m not letting you talk to them alone.”

There’s fire in her voice. Fire that usually only sparks when it comes to you. You blink, a little surprised. Sam seems to be surprised by it too, going off the look on her face.

“That really isn’t necessary.” Cuts in the Sheriff, hurriedly, “Tara, it’s really better if I talk to Sam alone-”

“You’re not talking to Sam without me,” Growls Tara.

The Sheriff blinks, her shoulders drawn tight like she’s gearing for a fight. And then she slumps them.

“Alright,” She says, voice even, “What matters is finding Richie and his partner. Tara can be with you.”

Sam swallows. She nods, only slightly.

“I’ll get my jacket.”

You’re halfway into climbing into the Sheriff’s squad car when a familiar Ford Focus pulls into the driveway.

It’s your Mom’s car. You spot her behind the wheel, looking a little forlorn as she hurries to step out.

And then you see your Dad. Face pinched. Annoyed. Like this is the last place he wants to be.

“One second,” You tell the Sheriff, and before she can protest, you’re climbing out of the backseat and stepping out onto the drive.

“YN,” Says your Mom, a little out of breath as she approaches.

Your Dad hovers by the car, scowl on his face as he surveys Tara in the backseat of the squad car. Your Mom’s eyes widen.

“She’s not been arrested again?”

“No, Mom,” You huff, “The Sheriff just needs Sam’s help on something, that’s all.”

“Oh,” Says your Mom. Then her voice softens, “Darling, please. Come home with us. We all need to talk.”

“I don’t think so, Mom.” You begin, “Not when Dad’s acting- crazy, like this.”

You look over at him. He hasn’t taken his eyes off Tara. Glaring, eyes frosted over. Like he hates her more than anyone else in the world.

“Dad has agreed to listen,” Your Mom begs, “Please, sweetheart. He knows he overreacted about the- sex,” Her voice drops, like she’s just said something scandalous, “But the other things - the arrest. The manslaughter?”

“Self-defense,” You say immediately.

Your Mom swallows.

“The self-defense. We need to talk about it. You’re still our daughter. Our only daughter. And we’re worried about you.”

You shoot a look over to the squad car.

The Sheriff is watching, her eyes pinched. Sam’s watching your Dad, but Tara is looking at you.

“Babe?” She says from the car, voice soft, “What is it?”

It isn’t the worst idea in the world. They’re still your parents, after all. You don’t want this - your Dad angry at you. Angry at Tara. You don’t want to ruin your relationship with them if it can be salvaged.

Your Mom blinks, desperation in her eyes. You soften, pursing your lips.

“I’m going to go with my parents,” You tell Tara, “My Mom is right. We should talk.”

Tara sits up. She pries off her seatbelt immediately.

“I’ll come.” Tara says, climbing out of the car.

“No.” Your Dad growls from the car. You ignore him. Rub your hands over Tara’s forearms.

“Babe, it’s fine. You need to go with Sam,” You remind her. You lower your voice, “You need to be in there, make sure she’s okay. Like you said."

Tara looks at you, conflicted.

“But, babe-”

“I’ll be fine,” You assure, “I’ll be with my parents. You and Sam can come and pick me up from the house when you’re done.”

“But Ghostface-”

“Isn’t going to attack me in broad daylight,” You say, “Besides. My Dad’s arsenal is almost as big as Sam’s. Remember?”

Tara looks at your Dad, a little doubtful.

“She’ll be fine, Tara, I’ll send in a squad car.” Says The Sheriff, looking over the rim of her sunglasses at you, “But if you want to go, I don’t mind talking to Sam alone-”

Her tone of voice suggests she very much wants Tara to stay with you. Tara picks it up the same moment you do. Her eyes narrow. Sam's an easy target - Richie's girlfriend, perhaps she could even be sold as his partner in crime.

“You’re not talking to Sam without me,” She says, voice a growl. She shimmies out of the backseat and presses a kiss to your lips, “Keep your phone on,” She says, “Text me every five minutes, okay?”

You nod.

“Okay, babe.” You assure, offering her a small smile.

She kisses you once more.

“And be careful.”

The drive back to your parents house is in silence.

You sit in the back seat, twiddling your thumbs. Your Mom drives, your Dad stewing in silence.

When you arrive at the house, it isn’t much better.

“I’ll make tea,” Says your Mom, hurrying off to the kitchen as you and your Dad settle down on the sofa. His lip twitches, like he has something he wants to say, but you get in first.

“You owe Tara an apology,” You say, eyes narrowed, “She has a bruise on her arm the size of Iowa-”

“She’s lucky that’s all she got,” Says your Dad.

You stare at him for a moment. Then stand.

“I’m not talking to you if you’re going to be like this,” You say, voice hot.

Your Dad hesitates. Then puts his arm out to draw you back down.

“I’m sorry,” He says, and although it’s through gritted teeth, he does sound like he means it, “I shouldn’t have grabbed her. I’ll apologize to her.”

You blink.

“Thank you.”

Your Mom reemerges, cups of hot tea in hand.

“Darling,” She says, “Please. Sit down.”

You settle back into your seat, phone buzzing in your hand. It’s Tara.

In Sheriff’s office with Sam, waiting for her to come back, it reads.

Then. It buzzes again.

You ok baby?

Fine, you message back, Dad said he’s sorry for grabbing u.

I’ll believe it when I hear it, Tara sends back.

Your Mom clears her throat.

“YN,” She says, “Can you put the phone down please? We need to talk.”

And talk you do.

Your Dad stays quiet while your Mom outlines her concerns. The plan, the manslaughter. Tara’s arrest. Her concerns are valid.

Yes, Tara had been arrested for murder. Murders that she had committed.

Yes, you’d set up a foolhardy plan with Tara’s friends to capture Ghostface.

And yes, you’d gone into that school knowing you were about to take someone’s life. And done exactly that.

You watch as your Mother tries to understand. And know there’s nothing you can say to quell her fears.

“I think we need to get you into therapy.” Says your Mom, chewing her lip, “We should have done it earlier. I’m sorry we didn’t do it earlier.”

You blink.

“I don’t want to talk to a shrink,” You argue.

You don’t want to talk to anyone about this. Talking led to answers, answers that you very much need to keep buried. For your sake, just as much as Tara’s.

“Please, honey,” Begs your Mom, “You haven’t been coping, that much is obvious.”

“I’m fine,” You say, leaning forward, “As fine as I can be. I know you’re upset about the plan, but Mom- it was the only way. I mean, look what he was doing to us. Dad carries around a shotgun like it’s his wallet, Tara was going out of her mind, and poor Sam is one more attack away from a nervous breakdown-”

“Exactly why you should talk to someone,” Says your Dad, quietly, “This isn’t normal, YN. Normal eighteen year olds are worried about which colleges they’re going to get into. Not about if they’re going to be attacked in their homes in the middle of the night.”

He pauses.

“And it wouldn’t hurt Tara to go, either.”

Annoyance flares up in your chest.

“Can you stop going after Tara?” You say, suddenly on edge, “She’s done nothing to you, Dad. All she’s done is protect me, and you’re acting like she’s been abusing me or something-”

“There’s something not right about her,” Your Dad says. His brows furrow, like there’s something he just can’t quite work out, “YN, she treats you like you belong to her.”

“I do belong to her,” You say immediately, and then regret it almost instantly. Your Dad’s face contorts in anger. Hurriedly, you walk it back, “I mean, she belongs to me too. I’m her girlfriend. And she’s mine.”

“Honey.” Your Mom is looking at your Dad, a serious look in her eye. Like she’s trying to warn him off saying the wrong thing.

You watch his fists ball.

“Nobody belongs to anyone,” Your Dad says, “You’re not a piece of property. See, this is exactly what I mean. Any shrink worth his weight will tell you the same.”

“I’m not talking to a shrink,” You say, voice raising, “You can’t make me.”

Your Dad stands. His voice is like thunder.

“You’re my child and you’ll do what I say,” He says, familiar vein popping out of his forehead.

You sink back into your seat, crossing your arms, “I thought I didn’t belong to anyone?” You say, voice flat.

Your Dad takes a deep breath. The way he usually does before he’s about to launch into a tirade.

His hand raises, and he points a finger at you.

And then his face freezes.

It’s unmistakable. A loud shattering, like a glass has been dropped. Your Mom’s face falls. You blink, head turning to see where it had come from.

“What was that?” Your Dad says, turning from you, suddenly on guard.

It had sounded from the kitchen. Butterflies soar within your stomach, but not the good kind. The kind that feel like you’re being eaten from the inside out.

The back of your neck prickles. And then your heart almost leaps out of your chest as you feel your phone buzzing in your hands.

It’s Tara. Her pretty smile flashes across the screen. You gulp, silencing your phone with a click of your button.

“The gun,” Hisses your Mom, “Get the gun.”

Your Dad fumbles around behind the sofa. He pulls out his shotgun, posies it against his chest.

“Who’s there?” He calls out, but his voice shakes, “I’m armed. I have a weapon.”

Silence.

Your Mom grabs you by the arm, pulls you back against the wall.

“Stay here,” Your Dad says, cocking the shotgun.

“Dad, don’t-” You hiss, as you grab your phone. It’s buzzing again, Tara’s name flashing across the screen, “I’m going to call the police.”

But he doesn’t listen.

He draws closer to the kitchen, step by step. Your Mom’s eyes are wide, fearful, as she clings onto your arm for dear life.

You press your phone to your ear, answer Tara’s call.

“Babe-” She says, voice urgent, “Stay where you are, I know who Ghostface is.”

But you barely hear her. Your heartbeat is thundering in your ears, fire flooding through your veins.

“He’s in the house,” You say, breath caught in the back of your throat, “Tara, he’s here-”

The crunch of your Dad’s boots against the kitchen tile. You watch as he disappears out of sight. Tears spill wet down your cheeks. Your Mom’s grip on your hand is so hard you feel as if she might pull it clean off.

“Baby, I’m coming,” Tara says. She’s out of breath, like she’s running, “Sam- drive.”

“Call the police, Tara, please,” You whisper, voice a beg, “Call the police right now.”

“Stay on the line, babe,” Tara says. You hear the click of the car door, and Sam’s voice. Urgent. Desperate, “We’re coming right now. We figured it out - Ghostface is-”

But you don’t hear what she says.

Your Dad disappears into the kitchen for less than a second. Another loud crash sounds, then your Dad cries out.

The shotgun blasts.

Your Mom screams.

Your ears ring as you drop your phone to the floor, the screen smashing instantly.

“Dad?” You call out, hands shaking as you move your Mom behind you, “Dad, say something. Are you okay?”

But he doesn’t say a thing.

Blood pounds through your body. Your mother starts to cry. Adrenaline floods through you.

And suddenly you know exactly what you need to do.

“Run.” You tell your Mom.

Your legs feel like jelly as you sprint through the living room, your Mom close behind. You make it to the foyer, looking behind you wildly in an attempt to see if anyone’s behind you. You press your hand against the handle and attempt to draw it open.

But it stays firm, locked.

“It’s the alarm system,” Says your Mother, face thick with tears, “The house is on lockdown, Daddy set it up to go through our phones.”

“So get your phone out.” You hiss.

She fumbles around in her pockets and draws out her phone. You watch the hallway. It’s quiet. Eerie. No sign of your Dad, and no sign of anyone else. You eye the living room window, thinking.

“It won’t unlock,” Your mother says, voice frantic.

You seize the phone from her hands, fiddle around in the app. UNLOCK is near the center, a bright green button. You press it once. Then twice, but nothing happens.

As if it’s been overridden.

“Window,” You mumble, “Mom, get to the window. I’ll break it.”

It happens in a flash.

One moment you’re dropping her phone to the floor, in an effort to grab her hand and run.

And the next, you see him.

Black cloak. Mask pulled over his face.

Your Dad’s shotgun in his hands. Blood coated over his gloves, gleaming in the daylight.

“Run!” You scream out.

Your Mother sprints. Ghostface raises the weapon, lets out a single shot that rings out heavy into the air. It misses, flies off into the wall behind you.

“Don’t move.” Says Ghostface, voice contorted, “Move and you die.”

But you don’t listen. The gun isn’t reloaded - you don’t know much about weapons, but you’ve seen your Dad shoot it before. You tear off, ignoring his angry cry out as you follow your Mom into the living room.

Your Mom grabs a nearby lamp, flings it wildly at the window. It shatters, almost as loudly as the shotgun. Pieces of broken glass litter the carpet, but it's the least of your worries.

You leap over the couch, take your Mother’s hand and lead her to the window.

And then, out of the corner of your eye, you see him again.

He’s loading pellets into the shotgun, and then, with a quiet click, he raises it once more.

But he doesn’t point it at you.

“Mom!” You scream.

Another blast sounds out. You grip either side of your head, ears ringing painfully at the sound. Your mother screams, and then falls to the floor.

Blood spills thick and fast onto the carpet.

You drop down, watch in horror as you catch sight of the wound. It’s gory, bloody, half of her leg blasted clean off. She wails, eyes wide in agony, clutching at her leg as if it will fall off if she lets go.

“Mom.” You sob. You grip her shoulders, in a feeble attempt to drag her to the window.

You should run. You should leave her and run.

But you can’t.

She’s your Mother.

And it’s just the distraction Ghostface needs.

Your Mom looks up at you, mouth open in horror as sees him, looming behind you.

“YN!” She cries out.

But you don’t turn in time.

You feel the hard press as the back of the shotgun slams against your head.

And then everything turns black.

You feel like you’re floating.

Over the earth, mind dizzy, like you’ve been launched into space without an oxygen mask.

There are stars behind your eyes. The back of your head aches, unpleasantly. You can feel something wet against the back of your neck, trickling down underneath your shirt. You groan, move your hand to wipe it away.

And then you realize your hands are bound behind your back.

Panic surges through you as you remember your last moments of consciousness.

Your Dad, walking into the kitchen with a shotgun. The bang of the bullet.

Your Mom, screaming, writhing in pain on the living room floor, shotgun pellet in her leg.

Ghostface.

You open your eyes, chest heaving.

Everything’s fuzzy, blurred. It hurts to look. The room is dark, save for a single ceiling lamp, flickering as if it’s down to its last few minutes of light. You squint, trying to make out your surroundings.

You’re in a basement, maybe. It’s dirty, dusty. Unused. Somewhere completely unfamiliar.

A wave of nausea floods through you.

Your head pounds. The wetness seeping down onto the back of your neck is blood, you realize all at once.

Your phone is broken, gone.

And Ghostface stands in front of you, shimmering dagger in his hands.

You tug at your restraints, hysteria surging through you.

Ghostface has taken you somewhere. To his house, maybe. To somewhere the police, and Tara won’t be able to find you. There’s no sign of your mother, or your father.

It’s quiet.

The only sounds are the desperate fidgeting of your hands and the heavy noise of his breathing.

But it’s hopeless.

Your hands are bound too tight. You have no weapon, and you feel light. Dizzy. Like even if you managed to stand you’d pass out instantly.

It’s the end, you realize all at once.

He has you. And this is how you’re going to die.

You swallow, squint a little harder, ignoring the waves of sickness that flood through you.

And suddenly you only want to know one thing.

“Who are you?” You mumble, “Please. Tell me what you want.”

“Who am I?” Ghostface says. He tilts his head, and you can hear the sneer in his voice. He drops his dagger, then curls his fingers around the edge of the mask.

It pulls off in one clean swipe.

Gone is the mystery. The unfamiliarity.

Your heart drops.

You’ve seen this face before. Not once or twice.

You’ve seen this face so many times in the last twenty-four hours. You remember never wanting to see it again.

But she’s here.

She has you here.

Blood streaming down your neck, hands bound so tight your fingertips are starting to lose feeling.

She stands a little taller, drops her robes and tosses the mask to the floor.

Blonde hair, wide blue eyes.

The spitting image of him.

Sheriff’s badge pressed to her chest.

And suddenly it all falls into place.

She leans in, until she’s so close you can see the untamed lunacy in her eyes. She looks wild, deranged as she tilts the blade against your cheek.

There’s nothing in her eyes but pure, unadulterated hatred.

And then her lips curls as she spits out: “I’m the mother of the boy you murdered.”

Chapter 22 Chapter Text

“Drive, Sam, drive!” Tara all but screams.

Her hands are pressed firm against the dashboard of the car, heartbeat in her throat. Her eyes are wide, red, but no tears spill over. She’s focused. Determined.

Her body is thrumming, wild, as she feels a familiar force take over. Her eyes blacken.

“I am driving, Tara.” Sam says back through gritted teeth. Her hands are sweaty, pressed firm against the wheel, her foot on the gas.

The car blows through a red light, tires screeching against the tar of the road.

“Drive faster.” Tara growls.

Her seatbelt is unbuckled. She looks wild, as if she’s about to launch herself across the car and shove Sam out of the way.

“We go any faster and we’ll spin out.” Sam tells her. She’s hunched over like a formula one driver, racing through the familiar roads of Woodsboro.

She flies past a stop sign, almost crashing into a nearby car. The car honks, but Sam’s gone before he can even make out her license plate.

Tara turns her attention to the backseat. It’s a mess of kids hockey gear and empty fast food wrappers. This isn’t Sam’s car - they’d left it at the house and commandeered it the moment they’d figured out the truth.

Tara clutches a children’s sized hockey stick between her fingertips - the only viable weapon she can find, and turns her attention back to the road.

In the distance, she can make out the house.

Just a few more feet and she’ll be there. With you.

“Let me take the lead,” Sam commands. She grips on tighter to the wheel as she launches it into the drive, “She’s dangerous, Tara, don’t do anything stupid-”

But Tara’s out of the car before it even stops. Charging into the house with her hockey stick drawn like she’s about to go to battle.

“Shit.” Sam says. She hits the brakes, drawing up the parking brake and clambers out of the car, hot on her sister’s heel.

The house is still. Silent.

Broken glass mars the lawn. The front door is wide open, an alarm blaring loudly in its wake. The noise has drawn a small crowd, near the end of the road. Neighbors peer over, their interest peaked. But Sam pays them no mind.

“YN!” Tara calls loudly. She rushes through the front door, “Baby? Are you here?”

They both hear it at once - a moan, weak, coming from the living room.

Tara doesn’t hesitate. She surges forward, and into the living room, Sam hot on her heel.

Your Mom is on the floor, eyes bleary. She can’t move, her blood oozing deep red onto the carpet.

Sam’s breath catches in her throat.

Tara leans down, eyes wild.

“Where is she?” She asks, voice desperate, “YN. Where is she?”

Your Mom gurgles.

“Ghostface…” She gasps, “Ghostface… he took her.”

“Took her where?” Tara asks, hyper-focused, “Where did Ghostface take her?”

Your Mom’s chest rises, her vision spots, eyelids drooping slightly. She's loosing consciousness.

In a panic, Tara takes her by the shoulders and shakes her, somewhat violently.

“Took her where?” She yells.

Sam reaches forward and grabs Tara by the shoulder.

“Tara,” She says, voice a hiss, “Stop it.”

But Tara isn’t listening. She stands, grabs her hockey stick and looks over at Sam, look in her eye determined. Your Mom moans out, but Tara ignores her. Her feet shuffle in a wild pace around the living room, her eyebrows furrowed together in concentration.

“Where would she go?” She asks, “Sam, think. If you were the Sheriff, where would you take her?”

Sam blinks.

“Sam.”

“To her house, maybe,” Sam says, mind whirling as she tries to think, “Think about it, Tara, she doesn’t know we know.”

Tara shakes her head, “No, Sam. She isn’t stupid. She’s thought about this. Planned it. There’s no way she’s dumb enough to kidnap someone and take her home.”

Her chest heaves.

"It's somewhere remote. Somewhere she knows she won't be seen." She deduces.

Sam presses her hands to your Mom's neck. Her pulse is still there, slightly faint.

"The police will be here any minute," Sam tells your Mom, not unkindly, "And the ambulance. And the fire department. We called everyone."

Your Mom murmurs, her eyes closed.

Tara's head jolts up. She looks over at Sam, as if she's just had a brainwave.

“Millwood. There’s a house in Millwood.” She says, voice urgent, “Wes used to live out there. The Sheriff still owns it. Wes used to drive out there sometimes to think.”

“Millwood’s thirty minutes away,” Sam says, sounding doubtful, “Tara, are you sure? If she’s not there, we’ll never get back in time.”

Tara blinks. Sam watches as the cogs spin in her head.

“I’m not sure,” Says Tara. Her voice shakes, “But there's no-where else.”

There’s a gentle hum that buzzes throughout the basement.

It’s an old refrigerator, you think mindlessly. The hum is a welcome noise. Steady, almost peaceful.

The complete contrast to the emotions you’re feeling right now.

The blood on your neck has dried, prickling uncomfortably against the hairs on the back of your neck.

The Sheriff has her back turned to you. Her dagger rests on a small table, only feet from you, police scanner in her hand.

The hum of the refrigerator is suddenly drowned out by the crackle of officers on the radio.

“Ten twenty Park, two victims down and unresponsive.” Says one officer, “Sending units, over.”

The Sheriff clicks the radio off and turns back to you.

You press back against the seat of your chair, tears leaking from your eyes.

She hasn’t said a word since she took off her mask, ignoring your desperate pleas and wild attempts to unseat yourself. She’s calm, too calm, as if she has you right where she wants you.

She blinks over at you, and suddenly something new washes through her features.

Regret.

Your heart pounds.

“I’m sorry about your parents.” She says, voice dropping, “I didn’t intend to have collateral damage.”

Your heart thuds.

“Is my Dad alive?” You ask, desperately. Your voice shakes, “Did you kill him? Did you kill my Mom?”

She stares.

“I don’t know,” She says, and it sounds honest, “They both took a few pellets to the legs. It’s just what I had to do.”

She hums, as if she’s just convinced herself of this.

“But I didn’t intend it,” She says, almost hurriedly, “It wasn’t the plan.”

“And what was the plan?” You ask, voice hoarse, “To drag us all down to the station and have your cop buddies tag team us?”

The Sheriff purses her lips.

“I was going to bring you all here,” She says, eyes sparkling, “I recorded a message. Richie. He’d been sighted, the call said. At an old house in Millwood. I’d bring you all here, get you downstairs and then-“

She closes her eyes, as if the thought of it is ecstasy.

“Boom. Boom. Boom. Sam first, she’s the strongest. I’d shoot her in the leg, handicap her.” She freezes, voice sharp.

“But not kill her. Not yet. Not before she knew all about what her precious baby sister got up to in her spare time.”

She leans in, eyes flickering.

“Not before I gave you what you both deserved.”

You swallow.

“And you were in it with Richie? This whole time?”

The Sheriff shrugs.

“Richie had a score to settle. So did I.”

At this, you blink, a little surprised.

“What did we ever do to him?” You ask.

Tara had been a brat, that you can admit. But a couple of tantrums over a game of Uno was hardly motive enough to don a Ghostface suit and attempt to kill you both.

“Tara murdered his girlfriend.” The Sheriff sneers.

You blink up at her, eyebrows furrowing. The last time you'd seen Richie's girlfriend was less than an hour ago; alive, well and climbing into the Sheriff's car.

“Sam?”

“Amber Freeman.”

“Amber?”

Your mouth is dry. You hadn't thought about Amber in months. You remember the force in her voice as she'd thrown herself at you. You remember the quiet confirmation she'd been punished for it. You feel her now, like the ghost of her is here, taunting you in your fibred shackles. You can see her sneer in the Sheriff's face.

"They met online, he said," Says the Sheriff, "They had plans of their own. Plans for Sam."

You swallow as she twirls the knife in her hands.

"Sam's related to Billy Loomis, did you know that?" The Sheriff says, "Richie and Amber had worked it out. They devised some half-baked plan to bring Ghostface back to Woodsboro. But someone beat them to it."

She blinks. Her grip on the knife tightens.

"I guess the rumors were true, after-all. Carpenters. They're no good. Related to Billy Loomis or not."

"So you decided to what?" You ask, voice thick, "Join in?"

The Sheriff purses her lips.

"Richie was devastated." She says, quietly, "He attacked you at the house, that first time. An eye for an eye, he called it. A girlfriend in exchange for a girlfriend.” She laughs, “God, he was so sloppy. I had him pegged within minutes. I was going to offer him a deal. A lighter sentence in exchange for his testimony against Tara.”

She leans in, eyes glinting dangerously.

“But then I had a better idea.”

She’s so close you can see the pores on her cheeks. Your heart hammers. If you can headbutt her just hard enough…

But then she’s retracting before you have the chance.

“And, well, you know the rest.” She says. She reaches for the dagger, grips it firm within her hands.

You swallow, desperate to keep her talking.

“How did you find out?” You ask, voice shaking, “About Tara?”

She looks over at you.

“It wasn’t difficult,” She sneers, “Tara’s not as smart as she thinks she is. She left a breadcrumb trail of bodies that all led back to you. Aaron, your first kiss? Sadie, your first girlfriend? Chad Meeks told me Amber Freeman openly hit on you just hours before her murder.”

Your head is swimming, but all you can think is: Damn it, Chad.

The Sheriff’s hand tightens around the blade.

“And then there was my son.”

Her entire demeanor changes. Gone is the taunt in her voice. Her shoulders draw tight, like a weapon ready to be fired. Her eyes flash, filling back with violence and hatred and vengeance.

“He figured Tara out, didn’t he?” She asks, stepping closer.

Fruitlessly, you tug against the binds around your hands.

“He worked it out. He was smart, he was always so smart.” Her voice wavers. There are tears behind her eyes she doesn’t let fall. Her face is hard.

“And he came to you. Not me. Not Tara. You. Witnesses had him at the house. They didn’t see Tara, they said you let him in.”

She takes in a sharp breath.

“And I want to hear you say it.” She says, voice barely above a whisper.

You gulp.

“Say what?”

Her lip curls.

“You killed him, didn’t you?” She asks, “It wasn’t Tara, not this time. He came to warn you and you killed him for it.”

She grips the knife so tightly it looks as though it might break.

The refrigerator hums loudly, once more.

This is the end, you think, briefly, no matter what you say this only ends with her knife buried in you.

And all you can do now is hope she doesn’t make it too painful.

It’s what you deserve.

It’s Wes, you see him clear as day. That little version of him that lives in your mind, popping up every so often to taunt you. He’d warned you this day would come and now here it is.

His mother in front of you, the very hands that had killed her son tied taut around your back.

It’s justice, Wes sneers.

You could play dumb, but you have the feeling it might make her angrier than the truth. It hardly matters now. The Sheriff, proof or no proof, has herself convinced you’re guilty.

And you are.

“It was me.” You say, voice strangled, “I did it.”

The Sheriff lets out a sigh. She closes her eyes, like her entire body is filled with relief. She has you now, the person who took her son from her. But it doesn’t last long.

Grief floods back into her face.

She has you but not him.

And she’ll never have him again.

Her hands reach out to grip your throat.

You let out a cry.

“Tell me what happened,” She growls, “Tell me every detail. Every word. I need to know.” Her voice breaks, “Did he suffer? How did you do it? Did he see it coming? Everything.”

“I don’t think-” You choke out. Her fingers on your throat loosen slightly. She replaces them with the blade of her knife, “I don’t think you want to know, Sheriff. I don’t think it’s good for you to know.”

“You’ll tell me every detail or I’ll slit your throat ear to ear, right now.” She snarls.

You swallow. The blade breaks the skin of your throat, only slightly. You flinch at the sting, feel a trickle of blood stream down your chest.

“It was quick,” You say, voice quiet, “He didn’t suffer. He told me he knew about Tara. He didn’t know I knew. He said he was going to tell everyone and I had to protect her.”

It sounds pathetic, when you say it like that.

You know it’s pathetic. Any sane person would have you drawn and quartered for your admission. You deserve to be locked in a cell for the rest of your life.

Your girlfriend had murdered six people and you’d protected her.

Because you love her. Because you’d do anything for her.

You’d watch in silence as she murdered them all again.

Because you’re hers and she’s yours and nothing else matters.

Not Sam, nor Dan. Not Aaron or Amber. Not Sadie, not Chase.

Not even Wes.

And she can see it in your eyes.

“Well you failed.” The Sheriff sneers, “When I’m done with you I’m going back for Tara. I’ll bring her here, let her wail over your mutilated body. And then I’ll do the same to her.”

A gasp catches in your throat.

She would kill you, that you were convinced of. You’ve relinquished yourself to it now. She’s bigger than you, stronger. She has a weapon and no matter how hard you tug on the binds around your hands, they wouldn’t break loose.

You’re at her mercy, to which you can see she has none.

If you’re lucky, she’ll slit your throat. If you’re unlucky, she’ll make it painful. She’s likely to make it painful.

But you don’t care about that. You don’t care about anything but her.

“Please,” You beg, “I’m the one you’re angry with. I’m the one who killed your son. Tara didn’t do anything to him. She loved him. She was his friend.”

The Sheriff moves away from you. She’s poised again, calm. Gone is the anger. You don’t know which is scarier. She reaches for her dagger, grazes the tip along the tabletop.

“She’s the reason he’s dead,” Says the Sheriff, “You said it yourself. He died so you could protect her.”

“But it was me who did it,” You beg, “Do whatever you want to me. I deserve it. But please don’t hurt Tara.”

She looks over at you, and you immediately know you’ve said the wrong thing.

Her eyes flicker, like there’s something she just realized.

Something she can use against you.

She grips the knife between her fingertips and leans in again, blue eyes cold.

“I was going to kill you first,” She says, voice like ice, “It’d be better that way, I figured. Safer. So you couldn’t run. But now I’m not so sure.”

You hold in your breath as she grazes the tip of the dagger along your neck. It’s so cold it burns.

She smiles.

“Maybe it’s better if I kill her first. In front of you, so you can know just what it’s like.” Her jaw tightens, “So you can feel what it’s like to lose someone precious to you.”

It happens in a split second.

She’s close again. So close you can feel her breath against your cheek.

There’s something in the back of your mind, someone, like she’s there with you, holding your shoulders and begging you to fight for your life.

“Fight, baby,” Tara begs, and you close your eyes, willing her close, “Fight for yourself. Fight for me.”

You think of her.

Her smile. The way her hair catches sometimes against the smear of her lip-gloss. Her freckled nose. Her deep, pretty brown eyes. You know what she’ll do if you die. If you die, a part of her will too.

You know she’ll never forgive herself.

And so you do it for her.

You launch your head forwards, as hard as you can. Your forehead crashes against the Sheriff. The sound is sickening; like a hammer against a ton of bricks. Immediately, your head throbs, painfully. Bright light careens behind your eyes, and a wave of nausea rips through your body like a storm.

But you ignore it.

The Sheriff cries out, stumbling backwards and careening into the table with the force.

Your legs wobble, and it takes all the strength you have left in your body to stand, bringing the chair up with you, your hands still bound to it. You stand, almost collapsing as you blink the room back into vision.

The Sheriff is on the ground, clutching her head, the knife discarded on the floor. You swing around, using all your might to thrust the chair behind you forwards onto her body.

She shrieks as the wood of the chair catches around her leg. Shockwaves flood through your body at the force. You press down onto her once, then twice, but the binds don’t budge and the chair doesn’t break.

The adrenaline flooding through you makes you feel like the hulk, but the reality is - you’re too small for this. You panic as she writhes, trying to grab at your leg and spring forward.

Like a lamb running from a lion, you do the only thing you can think of.

You run.

Fast. Towards the stairs and up to the basement door.

You must look ridiculous.

The chair catches the sides of the staircase every second step, and you almost trip trying to reach the top. You don’t look behind you, you don’t want to know how close she is. You reach the top step and use all your might to ram at the basement door.

You grunt.

Your shoulder hits the middle of the door, almost barreling it open.

But nothing happens.

The door is locked, because of course it is.

What kind of person kidnaps someone, ties them up and doesn’t lock the door to their cage?

You cry out, panic flooding through you. Your cheeks are red, stinging with the pain of the attack and the flurry of tears spilling out from your eyes.

You ram at the door once more, but it doesn’t budge.

“HELP ME.” You cry out. You smash your shoulder against the door frame once more, “PLEASE, SOMEONE, HELP ME.”

But no-one answers.

And after several moments of banging, and screaming and fruitless attempts to pry the door open, you feel a heavy hand on the base of your calf, and then you’re being tugged, hard, down the staircase.

You gasp, crying out as you hit the staircase, face first. You feel blood smear your cheeks, and a sharp, stinging pain near the top of your forehead. You scream, writhe, with everything you have left in you.

The Sheriff drags you down the staircase, her forehead red, bruised where you hit her.

And she looks angrier than you’ve ever seen her.

She tugs you back down into the basement and you feel the chair beneath you crack with the sheer force of her pull.

Blindly, with your vision spotted with your own blood, you untangle your hands from its ruins, but she’s too quick. She climbs atop your body, pinning your hands above your head. She looks crazy, possessed, like she might kill you right there on the spot.

Madly, you launch your knee up between her legs.

She growls out in pain, but her weight doesn’t move.

Instead, she frees one of her hands to clutch at the knife, and brings it up to your neck.

Immediately you still.

The room is cool. It smells metallic, of your own blood. You can’t hear the refrigerator, not anymore. Blood pulses through your ears. The Sheriff on top of you feels claustrophobic, like she’s leaning onto your torso so hard she might crush you with the sheer force of her weight.

Her eyes are black. Gone is the blue.

She chokes on her own tears as she says it.

“This is for my son.”

And then she lifts her knife, and with all the force of a mother scorned, launches it down and between your ribcage.

You scream.

Your cheeks flush red and the knife sinks deep into your skin. It’s the worst pain you’ve ever felt. Every inch of the knife feels magnified, like she’s sinking a hundred feet of steel between your ribs. The blood in your ears dulls, replaced by the sheer force of endless, mind-numbing pain that bursts from the broken skin of your stomach and out to every part of your body.

The Sheriff heaves, her grip on the knife loosening.

You furrow your brow, blood and sweat glistening from your forehead as you bring yourself to look down. The nausea brimming in your stomach almost blooms as you look down to see her knife, lodged deep into your body.

Your mind fogs, shock permeating through your body.

You feel dizzy, like you might pass out.

The nausea, the pain, the blood spilling out all at once.

Your scream dies in the back of your throat, replaced with a gentle, quiet, murmur. Sobs that can’t quite metamorphize. Quiet, strangled, blubbers as you realize the last moments of your existence.

You’re going to die here, under her.

You’re going to die and then she’s going to kill Tara too. You gag on your own saliva, choking slightly as you writhe under her, desperate for a few final moments of strength.

But it’s too much.

Your body has taken all it can. It’s failing on you.

You’re dying.

The Sheriff watches, her own blood trickling down her forehead. She blinks, satisfaction flooding through her features. Her vengeance, realized.

Her justice served.

You’re going to die and she’s going to sit here and watch.

Your eyelids fall, heavy.

Suddenly, you feel weightless.

The pain lessens and lessens and lessens, until you can barely feel it.

You feel like you’re floating.

You hear Tara’s voice again. Distant, like she’s shouting at you to stand up and fight. You want to do it for her. But it’s too much.

There’s nothing left in you.

You squint, vision hazy.

You’re on the cusp of passing out, you can feel it. Inches away from death.

But then you hear it.

A thud, quiet at first. Then louder. A distant ramming, like droplets of thunder that are getting louder and louder.

And then a crash.

Your eyes jerk open.

The Sheriff scrambles off your body, falling backwards onto the floor with a thud.

Her eyes are wide and round, but she’s not looking at you. She’s looking up the staircase, towards the basement door.

You hear Tara’s voice again.

But this time it’s not distant. It’s not in your head.

You whirl around and see her standing on the staircase, her face contorted in rage. Her dark hair is swept from her face and her eyes are an inky, jet black.

It’s not Tara, you realize all at once.

This is The Rage.

“Get the fuck away from her.”

She’s holding something, something you don’t recognize. It’s a children’s toy, some sort of bat. Sam’s at her side, your Dad’s shotgun in her hands.

“Back up, Sheriff,” Sam says, voice fraught, “Backup or I’ll shoot.”

You’d weep, if you had the strength.

She’s here.

Tara came for you. Against all odds, she’d found you. Bound in the basement, god knows where, moments from the Sheriff taking the knife in your stomach and ripping it up to your chest.

You try to call her name but it gets lost in your throat. Your fingers throb, like there’s needles inside them, all the blood that should be there is pooling around the knife buried deep in your stomach.

The Sheriff is on her back, helpless. Vulnerable.

Tara steps a little closer. Her shoulders are tight like she’s brimming with unbridled fury.

“Sam,” Tara says, voice quiet, “Do it.”

Sam lifts the shotgun, only slightly.

And then lifts the barrel and fires directly at the Sheriff’s chest.

You blink, waiting for the bang of the gun. For the Sheriff’s scream.

But nothing happens.

Only the sound of your heavy breathing and the steady hum of that damn refrigerator.

Sam wrestles with the gun, panic overtaking her features.

“It’s stuck.” Sam says, her voice frantic, “God, Tara, it’s filled with blood.”

The Sheriff takes her chance.

She launches forward, back atop your body.

Tara isn’t quick enough.

She swings the stick out behind her head, ready to launch it forward.

“If I pull it out, she dies,” The Sheriff pants. You gasp at the pressure of the knife as she seizes it, “Stay the fuck back or I'll kill her right here."

“Tara.” You murmur.

There's so much you want to say to her. You want to tell the Sheriff to give you a moment to muster the words. You want to pause the world, like a real life slow motion so you can kiss Tara and hold her and tell her the breadth of what you feel for her in broken, mindless, babbling paragraphs. There isn't an encyclopedia in the world that could do it justice.

But you can't.

The Sheriff's grip on you is too tight. Your mind is dizzy, and you know even if you tried, you couldn't form a coherent sentence.

So you settle for three little words.

"I love you." You hum. It comes out in a slur. Like you're drunk. But she hears it. She looks to you, stricken.

“It’s okay, baby-girl,” She says it soft, her voice fraught, “I love you, too. Don’t move, you’re going to be okay.”

But you’re not, even you know that. There’s a six inch knife in your stomach and you can’t feel your fingertips. Your would-be killer lingers over you, like her only purpose left in life is to take yours. You’re minutes from death, you can feel it from the flare of your broken skin to the settling realization deep in your bones.

You’re dead. If not now, you will be within minutes.

You can’t do anything about that.

But you can still save her.

The Sheriff has a knife. Tara has a children’s toy. Tara’s fiery, and she’s killed before but she's so little.

The Sheriff is bigger. Stronger. Her weapon has a blade.

They'd fight like a Doberman against an angry, yapping Chihuahua. The Sheriff would have a knife to her throat in seconds. And in your final, fleeting moments, you can't bear the thought of her taking Tara too.

It should be hard, what you’re about to do, but it isn’t. You don't think about yourself. You don't think about the pain.

You think about Tara.

It’s the easiest decision you’ve ever made in your life.

You jerk your body upwards, startling the Sheriff slightly.

And then you’re reaching down with both hands to steady your grip around the handle of the knife buried inside you and tugging it up and out of your body.

It had hurt going in, but this feels a thousand times worse.

It hurts like you’re tearing your own flesh from your body. It hurts like you’re swallowing sandpaper, or eating an open flame.

Pain and shock roar through your body. You cry out in anguish, but your hands don't falter.

Tara is the only thing on your mind.

Tara screams out your name.

The Sheriff turns to face you, wide-eyed.

And then you tilt the knife and shove it hard as you can through her throat.

Whatever energy you had left is depleted. The Sheriff gurgles, wide-eyed, hands fumbling to grasp the hilt of the blade buried in her throat.

You collapse backwards onto the ground.

Tara’s running, you think, the dull thud of her boots against the ground as you try to blink the world into sight.

You can hear the Sheriff spluttering on her own blood, but the tips of your ears go numb, muffling your hearing.

Your eyes droop. Your legs feel numb.

You don’t see as Tara launches herself at the Sheriff, thudding her weapon down against her with the force of a two ton semi-truck. You don’t see Sam hurry in after her, tossing the shotgun to the side and skidding down to press her hands against your wound. You don't hear Sam call out your name, desperate to keep you awake.

You don’t hear Tara’s screams. Carnal. Full of fury and grief and desperation.

You don’t see as she pries the knife out of the Sheriff’s neck and rehomes it.

First, into the Sheriff’s gut. Not once, not twice. Three, four, five, six times.

You don't hear the Sheriff scream. You don't hear the wet, bloodied sounds of Tara carving her way through the Sheriff's body, puncturing every span of unbroken piece of skin she can find.

You don't hear her sob as she does it.

Until the Sheriff is limp on the ground, eyes glassy, blood sprayed over the ceiling, over the floor, all over Tara.

Like Tara’s very own Jackson Pollock.

You cough. Gargle slightly on your own blood. Sam’s screaming, you think.

You narrow your eyes, trying to make out her words.

Her eyes are on Tara.

You shift. Your hands are shaking. Your face white. You try, with all your might to listen to what she’s saying.

“Tara!” Sam screams. She abandons you a moment, and you gasp as the weight of her leaves you.

“Tara, she’s dead, stop.”

But it’s not Tara she’s talking to.

You hear it again. Low, vengeful grunts as The Rage takes out all its anger on The Sheriff’s mutilated corpse.

“Tara, YN needs you,” Sam says, her voice urgent, “Tara, she’s dying.”

You try to sit, but the stars behind your eyes take over.

You slump back into the floor.

There’s a flurry of movement.

Someone’s reaching back across your body. You feel the press of someone against your thighs. You wince as a pair of hands reach over to press against your wound.

For a moment, you think it’s Sam. You can barely see, your vision is so dull. This person has dark hair and wide, brown eyes.

A smattering of freckles across her nose, under a thick coating of blood.

And you realize it’s your girlfriend.

“Tara.” You murmur.

She ducks down, presses her lips against yours. Her press is firm, but you barely feel it.

“It’s okay, baby,” She says, smoothing your bloodied hair back across your forehead, but her voice is shaking. She looks scared, “I won’t let anything happen to you. You’re going to be okay.”

She looks like an angel, you think, briefly, she’s heaven-sent.

Even like this, a mesh of tears and blood that isn’t hers.

She’s perfect.

She says something, but you don’t hear it.

The lack of blood takes over. Your eyes flit as you try to fight it. But it’s no use.

The last thing you see is the tremble of her lip before a flurry of tears spill thick and fast down her cheeks and onto your own.

“YN,” She murmurs, voice high. Desperate, “Baby. Stay with me.”

And then everything turns white.

Chapter 23 Chapter Text

In all her life, Sam has never seen so much blood.

It’s everywhere. All over the back of her hands, in her hair. It’s all over the floor, all over the ceiling, all over Tara.

All over you.

Everything is soaked crimson red.

She presses her hand a little harder against the wound in your stomach, trying to stop it.

But it spills out, flushing the floor like it’s a red sea.

Tara’s sobbing.

Her hands are on your face, your eyelids have long fluttered shut. There’s a pulse, Sam can feel it, but it's faint. Barely there.

And there's nothing Sam can do but watch as she listens to her baby sister wail for you to open your eyes.

“Tara,” Sam murmurs. She’d touch Tara’s shoulder, try to snap her out of her grief infused trance, but she’s too scared the moment she lifts her hands you’ll bleed out all over the basement floor.

Tara rests her forehead to your cheek, the water from her eyes staining with the blood on your face, turning it a light shade of pink.

She murmurs something Sam can’t hear. Presses her lips once more to the side of your cheek.

“Tara!” Sam says, a little more forcefully.

The ambulance should have been here by now. Sam had called ahead of time and then again once more. The moment you’d passed out.

But it’s been ten minutes and there’s no sign of them.

“Call them again,” Sam instructs, once she’s sure she has Tara’s attention, “Tell them she’s bleeding out.”

Tara’s bottom lip wobbles, but she does what she’s told.

She sinks her face back down into your neck and presses her phone to her ear, her words a desperate mumble.

The ambulance arrive not five minutes later.

It’s a flurry of lights, and stretchers and crime scene tape as the police follow, not long after.

These are Millwood police officers, and Sam doesn’t recognize a single face.

But for all their questions, they don’t get much out of either one of them. Tara’s at your side, hurrying out with the EMT’s as they pull your limp, bloodied body onto a stretcher, hooking an oxygen mask around your face and taking Sam’s place putting pressure on your wound.

Sam follows, not wanting you or Tara far from sight.

“Is she going to be okay?” Tara asks, voice frail as they pile into the back of the ambulance. Sam presses her hands to Tara’s shoulder in support.

They’d very nearly kicked Sam out. The ambulance isn’t massive, and Sam had half-expected to be relegated to riding in a squad car on the way to the hospital. But Tara’s near hysterical, and the only thing slightly calming her down is Sam’s hand wrapped tight around her shoulders.

“We’re doing our best, honey,” Says the EMT, not unkindly, “But we need to focus on her, right now. Okay?”

There’s a thick layer of gauze pressed to your stomach to soak up some of the blood. But within seconds it’s coated through.

The EMT’s barrel off to each other, almost speaking in code. Heavy medical terms Sam doesn’t understand. But she gets the gist.

It’s not looking good.

She squeezes Tara’s shoulders a little tighter as Tara’s whimpers break out into sobs.

When the ambulance pulls into the hospital they take you away.

You’re rushed through the cool linoleum floors, whisked behind a pair of swinging doors that Sam and Tara aren’t allowed through.

You’re going straight into surgery, is what the EMT had said. It could be hours before there’s news.

It had been a fight to stop Tara from barreling in after you.

She stands now, looking horrific; covered in blood, sweat, and her own tears as she argues with the receptionist. Bloody shoeprints follow in her wake.

“There’s a viewing platform,” She says, voice shrewd, leaning down onto the receptionists counter, “There’s a viewing platform to watch surgery. I’ve seen it in Grey’s Anatomy. I need to be there.”

“Ma’am,” Says the receptionist, looking pointed. Her phone is pressed to her ear, no doubt trying to call for security, “There is no viewing platform. That’s a TV show.”

“Tara,’ Sam murmurs, tugging at her sister’s arm, “Come on. We can’t do anything now. We just have to wait-”

Tara shakes off Sam’s hand, shooting her an angry glare.

“My girlfriend needs me,” She says, voice desperate, “If there’s no viewing platform, can’t I be in there? I’ll take a shower. Where one of those hospital gown things. Please.” Her voice cracks, “I have to be in there. I have to be with her. If she dies and I’m not there…”

Her voice trails off. She looks like she’s about to cry again.

Sam reaches out, presses her hand firm against Tara’s back.

The receptionist looks up, pity overtaking her features.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” She says, “You need to let the doctors do their job. I’ll have them update you when they can.”

She doesn’t call security.

Tara deflates like a lead balloon. Sam is alert, on guard, a little concerned Tara might take matters into her own hands and careen through the hospital in a sprint to find you.

But instead she lets Sam take her by the hand and lead her to the waiting room.

And then, she promptly takes out her phone, shoulders seizing in aggravation. Anger overtakes her features. The tears promptly stop, like someone has just turned off a hose and replaced it with a flamethrower.

“I’m suing the hospital.” Tara says, voice a growl. She’s swiping through google for lawyers. Sam bites her lip and welcomes the distraction. Better Tara take out her emotions via google than swinging a punch at the hospital receptionist.

“Okay, Tara.” She says, voice tired. Her knee bounces. Sam had called Woodsboro hospital, and your Mom and Dad had been rushed to the emergency room, their fate not dissimilar from yours. It feels wrong to be sitting. Sam feels like she should be pacing, or checking on you or doing something.

But there's nothing she can do except sit. Stew in her own panic.

“I’m suing the police, too.” Tara says, looking up, “What kind of police force doesn’t know their Sheriff is Ghostface?”

Sam hums.

Usually, she’d argue. In the overarching sense of morality, she often ends up on the opposite side of her sister.

But privately, she agrees.

How could no one have seen the town Sheriff had been Ghostface all along?

Tara drops her phone. The anger, quick as it had come, evaporates. Her lip quivers.

“Sam?” Tara asks, voice small. Sam looks up. Tara’s eyes are red, a little puffy. She’s wiped most of the blood from her face but speckles of it still linger in her hair.

She looks as if she might cry again.

“Do you think she’s going to be okay?”

It’s not a question so much as a plea for comfort. Sam scoots a little closer, draws Tara’s head onto her shoulder.

“She’s in the best place,” Says Sam, voice a little hesitant, “They’ll do everything they can to make sure she’s alright.”

She doesn’t want to lie. In truth, it had looked bad, and Sam has no idea if you’ll pull through or not. Tara sniffs against her shoulder, and Sam feels the thin material of her t-shirt soak through with Tara’s tears. She rubs Tara’s back, comfortingly.

“If she dies, I don’t know what I’ll do,” Tara murmurs. She loops her hands around Sam’s arm, clinging to her like a baby koala in a tree, “If she dies, Sam, I’ll die.”

“Don’t say things like that,” Sam says. She squeezes Tara’s shoulders once more, “And let’s not get ahead of ourselves. She’s in surgery, she’s not gone yet. Okay?”

Tara says something inaudible. Her grip around Sam’s arm tightens. She settles for resting her head against Sam’s shoulder, and Sam’s heart soars.

Tara isn’t affectionate, not with her.

She’d be lucky to get a hug out of Tara most days. They snipe at each other like sisters because that’s what they are. When they were kids it was hair pulling. Silly, bouts of sibling rivalry. But Sam’s older now, and that isn’t what she wants their relationship to be.

It’s more than sisterly for Sam. It’s maternal. Their own mother off god knows where, not a care in the world her youngest daughter is covered in blood and falling to pieces in a dingy hospital waiting room.

And so Sam will be the mother Tara needs. She presses a quick kiss to her sister’s head, and closes her eyes. She doesn’t believe in God, not really. But she prays hard now.

Because if she doesn’t pray and beg and cry she knows her sister will never be the same.

Please, God, she thinks, desperately, please let her wake up.

When you wake, you’re in a meadow.

You blink up at the pale blue of the sky, not a cloud in sight. You sit, rubbing at your eyes.

This isn't Woodboro, is all you can think. Woodboro is winding suburban streets and million dollar houses. This is a grassy field in the middle of nowhere.

You turn, confused, looking for any sign of life.

And then you see him.

Clear as day, standing over you. His expression is mild, he looks almost pleased to see you.

And you can't think of why.

"Wes?" You ask. You blink, then clamor to your feet. He doesn't move, or speak, or make any effort to acknowledge his name. You step a little closer, mind whirling.

“Are you real?” You ask, wide-eyed.

He looks real. Floppy, blonde hair. Searing blue eyes. Stubble dotting the round of his chin. His lips, slightly chapped, they way they always were. You can smell him - that cologne he liked, you can feel the warmth from his body.

You blink.

Wonder if he’d be weirded out if you touched him.

But you do it anyway.

He smiles, a little lopsided, as you graze the skin of his forearm.

“You’re real.” You breathe out in wonder.

Then you frown.

“But you’re dead. I-”

Killed you.

His smile fades.

You swallow.

“Where’s Tara?” You ask, as if you'd just realized she isn't here.

The look on his face is pained.

Panic surges through you. You whirl around, looking for her. Grass blooms as far as the eye can see. There’s nothing else. No roads, no signs. No power poles, nothing.

No sign of anything else. Anyone else.

“Where is she?” You ask again, “Wes, tell me where Tara is. Has something happened to her?”

You rack your brain, trying to think of the last time you’d seen her. But your mind draws a blank. You don’t remember anything. Nothing but her and her pretty smile.

You grab at Wes’ arm, shake him.

He blinks. And suddenly, the look in his eyes is mean.

“You’re not going to see her again,” He says. His lips purse, “You’re not going to see anyone again. And it’s your fault.”

And then he disappears.

His body crumbles like paper under water. You falter forward, your grip on his arm the only thing keeping you upright.

You cough, eyes watering as the ash hits your mouth.

You look up, desperately.

The birds chirp. A pleasant breezes settles through the blades of grass. You panic.

“Tara!” You cry out, wildly fumbling your way through the meadow, “Tara, where are you?”

You break out into a sprint. But the meadow doesn’t end. You run and run and run. A mile. Two miles. Until your chest is heaving and you’re covered in sweat. And then you collapse to the ground. Your stomach aches like someone is twisting metal through your insides.

You pant, tug your shirt up to see a bare patch of skin. There’s nothing wrong with you. Your eyebrows knit together as you start to cry.

You don’t know where you are, or what’s going on.

You can’t remember yesterday, or the day before, or the day before that.

You just think of Tara. You wonder where she is. She wouldn’t leave you alone in the middle of a field. She loves you.

Surely, she’s looking for you.

And then a soft voice draws you out of your stupor.

There’s a road behind you that certainly wasn’t there before. You blink, mouth falling open. It’s Chase, eyes sparkling. He’s in his old pick-up truck, the one with the paint peeling off the sides and the stupid ‘ladies man’ charm hanging off the rear screen mirror.

“Hey,” Chase says, with a smile on his face, “Get in.”

Tara had settled for maybe thirty minutes.

She’d closed her eyes, and for a moment, Sam had almost thought she'd drifted off to sleep. And then, inevitably, someone had to ruin it.

"Samantha Carpenter?" He'd called. He's wearing a uniform, a Sheriff's badge pressed to his chest. The badge is old, looking a little rusty. Sam frowns, and sits slightly upright.

Tara rises at the same time.

“Who are you?” Sam asks, frown on her face.

The man charges forward, a little awkwardly. He accidentally bumps a coffee table, sending a slew of magazines careening onto the ground.

"Sorry," He says, as Sam and Tara blink up at him, "Should have introduced myself. I'm the new Sheriff. Well, the old Sheriff. The old old Sheriff. I've been asked to step in."

He reaches down onto the ground and fumbles with the magazine.

His smile is sheepish.

“My name is Dewey,” He says, “Dewey Riley.”

“Okay, Dewey,” Sam says, frowning slightly, “This really isn’t a great time. My sister's girlfriend is in surgery."

The look on his face is apologetic.

"I know," He says, "I'm sorry."

He reaches into his pocket and draws out a small notebook, "We didn't get a statement, back at the house. I know it was a little - hectic. But we really need to get an account of what happened."

“What happened was your Sheriff was a raving psychopath who kidnapped my girlfriend and tried to murder her,” Growls Tara, "What happened was she stabbed her so hard she's been in surgery for the last three hours-"

Dewey purses his lips.

“I understand,” He says, “I’m sorry this happened. I know it must be very traumatic.” He lets it hang. Sam frowns.

“I know you,” She says, suddenly, it all coming at once. His face is so familiar, “You knew my-”

Father. Is what she wants to say. She catches herself just in time. Tara doesn’t know. Nobody knows. And it’s not the time or place for family revelations.

“You knew the original Ghostface.”

Dewey tilts his head.

“And the one after that,” He says, with a weak smile on his lips, “And the one after that. And the one after that. I know what it’s like to survive a Ghostface attack.”

He touches Tara’s shoulder, sympathy on his face.

“Like I said, I’m sorry this happened to you.”

“I’m suing you,” Tara says, quietly. Hatred brews behind her eyes, “I’m suing the entire Woodsboro police force. For all I know you were all in on it. I’m not talking to you without a lawyer.”

Sam pinches her nose.

“Tara, he’s just doing his job-”

But Dewey smiles.

“It’s all right, I understand.” He says, but he doesn’t step away. Instead, he sits down. Tara stares, “But it’s a bit conspiratorial, don’t you think? A police force of Ghostfaces’? Logistically, it’d be a nightmare.”

Tara blinks.

“You don’t have to talk to me,” Dewey says. He leans back in his seat, “But if you don’t, they’ll send someone else. Maybe the state police. Maybe the Feds. And they won’t do it here. They’ll take you to the station, keep you in the interrogation room for hours. The death of a police officer is a very serious matter.”

Sam swallows.

“I think you should stay here and be with your girlfriend,” Dewey says, quietly, “I think she’ll want you here when she wakes up. But that will only be the case if you can tell me what happened.”

Tara’s quiet a moment.

And then she speaks.

“It all started four weeks ago.”

Infuriatingly, Chase doesn’t say anything for a long while.

He hums along with the radio, taps his fingers against the wheel. Ignores you staring at him.

Ignores your barrage of questions.

“Where am I?” Is the one you keep repeating.

This reality isn’t reality. That much is obvious by now. You’ve been in an endless field talking to ghosts all day. Tara is nowhere in sight.

Chase looks over at you.

“You’re nowhere.” He says. And then he smiles again and tilts his head back. Mumbles along to Bryan Adams’ “Heaven”.

“Is that supposed to be funny?” You snap. You lean forward and shut the radio off, “Is this heaven? Is that where we are?”

Chase laughs.

“You really think you’re going to heaven?” He asks, bemused. His eyes twinkle.

You swallow.

“So, I’m in hell?”

Chase shakes his head.

“No. Not yet, at least. You’re nowhere.”

You grind your teeth, frustration overtaking you. Chase and Wes are some incredibly unhelpful ghosts.

“How can I be nowhere?” You ask, “Am I dead? Is this- limbo, or something?”

Chase looks over at you. He tilts his head, taking pity on you.

“You’re in your own head,” He says, softly, “You’re dreaming. This isn't real. None of it is real.”

You blink. This doesn’t feel like a dream. It’s vivid. You can touch, feel, smell everything around you. You press your hand to the dashboard. It’s solid under your hand.

“I’m dreaming?” You ask, confused, “So this isn’t real? You’re not… real?”

Chase shrugs.

“I’m dead, remember?” He says, “But I guess, dead or alive, it doesn’t matter when you’re dreaming."

You close your eyes and picture Tara. You want her here now. You want her to take you in her arms and kiss you and tell you everything’s going to be okay.

But when you open them, it’s still Chase staring back at you.

“If I’m dreaming, then I want her here.” You say a little accusatory, looking at him as if he’s the one keeping her from appearing.

“That’s not how a dream works,” Says Chase with a quiet hum, “You might want her here, but your subconscious doesn’t.”

“Every part of me wants her, especially my subconscious.” You growl.

“I think the point of a subconscious is you’re not conscious of it.” His eyes twinkle again. You huff, irritated.

“Are you a ghost or my psychologist?” You grumble under your breath. You stare out the window. That damn meadow still rolls in its wake.

“Neither,” He drawls. His hands tighten on the wheel, “Maybe I’m your guilty conscience. Him and me, maybe we both are.”

You draw in a breath. Remember Wes’ eyes. Blue, so blue. Trusting right up until the moment you’d turned your knife on him.

“But we don’t have to talk about that,” Chase offers. His smile is sad, “We could pick up where we left off. Like we’re best friends again.”

You hadn’t thought much about Chase, if you were telling the truth. You hadn’t thought much about any of them. Tara’s good at that, making you forget.

It hadn’t occurred to you that it might not necessarily be a good thing.

“I’d like to wake up now.” You declare, loudly.

Chase peers over at you.

“I don’t think that’s how it works.” Is all he says.

You frown.

“Something’s really wrong.” You murmur. You don’t know it but you feel it. Your stomach aches once more. Desperately you try to remember.

But there’s nothing.

Not a single fleeting memory from the last time you’d been awake. Vague memories, all cobbled together. Like the time your father had taught you to ride a bike. The first time you’d scraped your knee. Your first kiss with Tara.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Ghostface, something about Ghostface.

But you can’t quite work it out. It’s like you’re moving in slow motion, your thoughts not quick enough to keep up.

Chase turns the radio back on and belts out the rest of the song.

Dewey doesn’t stay long.

Tara talks quietly, but quickly. Like she’s trying to get him out of there as fast as possible. She tells Dewey about Richie, about the attack at the house. She tells him about that time he’d stabbed her, about how she and Sam had worked it out.

The Sheriff had taken them down to the station and left them in her office.

Tara had seen the suspect board, the dotted lines drawn between the victims. And then she’d remembered something that had sent her flying out of her seat.

Stab 2, the only clue Ghostface had ever left you.

The movie where Ghostface had been the mother.

He leaves with his well wishes and a promise to follow up when the investigation had started. There would be more they had to do, he assured. Witness statements, likely long talks with the state police. But he’d hold them off for a while. Allow them to wait for you in peace.

Tara returns to her seat, hands twitching in her lap.

And Sam’s quiet as she thinks.

Through all the frantic panic of the last few hours she hadn’t allowed herself to think of why.

Why had the Sheriff targeted her sister? Why had Sam’s own boyfriend joined her? Why had the Sheriff killed those poor kids - Sadie, Aaron, Amber, Chase, Sam. They were children, after all. Eighteen year old children.

And then she thinks of her father.

Some people are just bad, Sam, he sneers at her now, some people just want to cause hurt.

Sam thinks of her own sister.

Tara had been violent, so so violent.

She’d taken the knife out of the Sheriff’s throat and all but used her as a pin cushion. She’d screamed, and cried, the look in her eyes terrifying as she’d taken what little life the Sheriff had left in her.

Tara got angry sometimes, this Sam knew.

But not like this.

Sam swallows. She leans forward and touches Tara’s arm. The Sheriff’s blood is dried now, but it seems to be the least of Tara’s worries. As if, sitting here, covered in blood is an everyday occurrence.

“Are you…” Sam thinks, trying to phrase it the right way, “Are you alright?”

She fails, clearly.

Tara looks over at her as if she’s an idiot.

“Am I alright?” Tara asks, eyebrows knit together. Her voice rises. The other people in the waiting room look over, “My girlfriend is in hospital. She has a stab wound in her stomach and no one will tell me what’s going on. Am I alright?”

“That isn’t what I meant,” Sam says, hurriedly, “Sorry. Forget I said anything.”

Tara shakes her head, expression sparking with annoyance.

“I’m going to talk to the nurse again,” She says, standing, “Before you ask me any more stupid questions.”

And she’s back. The sister Sam knows so well.

Sam rubs her eyebrows and tells herself not to think so hard.

Tara approaches the receptionist once more. Sam watches, eyes squirting as she tries to make out their words. When Tara hurries back in a sprint, Sam’s heart leaps.

Tara’s eyes are wide as she approaches.

“She’s out of surgery,” Tara says, and her voice can’t hide her excitement, “She’s not awake, not yet. But she’s out of surgery, Sam.”

You feel sleepy.

Sleepier than you should, considering you’re in a dream.

Chase is humming again, his hand sprawled across the back of your seat, the way it always was. Like he’d just wanted to be close to you.

One of his few, fatal mistakes.

It had been so easy, then. Just you and Chase, taking on the world. Laughing at dumb twitter memes, watching movies together at his house. The days when he’d been staring with puppy dog eyes and you’d be too blind to notice he’d been looking at you.

You try to think about a reality where you’d never met Tara. Never fallen in love with her.

You imagine yourself in the 1950s. Chase would have been your sweetheart. You’d go out with him on weeknights and drink milkshakes, and hold hands, and make out in the back of his truck just down the street, so your Dad couldn’t see.

No Tara, no murder.

Just life.

And it makes your stomach turn.

“I would have never been happy with you.” You murmur. He looks over. There are those puppy dogs eyes again.

“I would have never been happy with any of them.” You continue. Not Aaron and his pretty eyes. Not Sadie and her sweet laugh.

Pretty, sweet and boring.

“No,” Chase agrees. He’s slowing down the car, but you barely notice. Your eyes are drooping, “You wouldn’t have. You’re too fucked up for that.”

You can see Tara now. Almost feel her. The ghost of her lips brushing yours. Her hands in your hair, brushing it back. Her eyes wide, desperate. Like she’d give anything in the world to see your eyes open.

“Wake up, baby,” She’s murmuring. Quiet, like it’s just for you, “Wake up and come back to me.”

You hum. That sounds nice. Chase withdraws his hand from your seat. He touches your arm, smile sad. Like he’s about to leave.

“I’m sorry that you’re dead.” You murmur.

You’d say it with more reverence but there’s no point. He is, after all, a figment of your imagination. You’re talking to yourself.

Chase leans forward. Presses a long kiss to your forehead.

“Me too.” He says. He squeezes your hand.

“But I think it’s time for you to wake up now.”

When the nurse tells Tara the room they’re keeping you in, she breaks out into a sprint.

Not a quick walk. Not a light jog.

A sprint.

The nurse stands in her seat, screaming at her to slow down. Sam scrambles up out of her seat, apologizing quickly to the nurse and hurrying along after her sister.

Hallways pass by in a blur. Doctors shout as Tara barrels past them. She shoves everything out of the way. A stretcher is sent careening into a window. Medical supplies burst and are sent sprawling all over the floor as Tara charges a rolling cabinet out of the way.

She all but shoves a little old lady in a wheelchair out of the way in order to reach the elevator. Leaves Sam there, apologizing profusely as she does.

But Tara doesn’t care.

There’s only one thing that matters; you.

She’s out of breath when she finally reaches your floor.

There’s a nurse by your bedside, plugging you with an IV drip.

Your face is white, so pale, you almost look as if you’re made of marble.

Chest heaving, Tara approaches. She ignores the nurse and sits down at your side, taking your limp hand between her own.

“It’s okay, baby,” She murmurs. Her lip trembles. Her heart is racing. She reaches over the bed and presses a soft kiss to your forehead, “I’m here now.”

The nurse retracts from you, studying her.

“You must be the young lady who’s been giving our receptionist hell.” She says, but her voice is light, teasing. She reaches out and squeezes Tara’s hand.

“I’ll send the doctor in to give you a rundown of the surgery,” She says, “But don’t worry too much, sweetheart. We fixed her up. She’s going to be alright.”

Tara’s heart sings.

She looks up at the nurse, wide-eyed. Her lips are chapped, her face still stained with blood. She looks terrible, frightening. But her eyes spark with hope.

“Promise?” She asks, with all the energy of a small child asking for a bedtime story.

The nurse squeezes her once more.

“I’ll send in the doctor.”

And with a wink, she turns on her heel and closes the door behind her.

The heart monitor beeps, steadily. You don’t move. Your eyes firmly pressed closed. Tara touches the tip of your jaw, working her fingers along the ridges of your face. Your chin, your nose. Your closed eyelids.

You look perfect, Tara thinks, even like this. Her beautiful, perfect girl.

She settles on your cheek and cups it, moving in closer to press the softest of kisses to your lips.

“I love you so much,” She murmurs. The heart monitor is in tune with her own heartbeat. She links her fingers with yours and presses a kiss to the back of your hand, “And it’s over now.” She promises, “No one will ever hurt you again. I’ll die before I let anyone ever hurt you again.”

She wants to climb into bed with you. Take your frail body in her arms and hold you close. Curl her hands through your hair and cradle you into consciousness. Wake you with soft kisses and soft words and never let you go ever again.

But she doesn’t.

There’s a tight bandage around your midriff that has her wary.

Instead, she scoots herself as close as she can possibly get, and rubs her nose against yours.

“Wake up, baby,” She coaxes, voice soft. She presses another soft kiss to your lips, “Wake up and come back to me.”

The heartbeat monitor beeps.

And then you feel it all at once.

Color drains back into your cheeks. There’s air in your lungs. Your throat is dry, like sandpaper. Pain, and drugs pump through your body.

You groan, your eyes flitting open.

And the first thing you see is her pretty brown eyes staring back into yours. Her eyes are wide, loving, hopeful. Like she's just witnessed a miracle.

“Tara.”

Chapter 24 Chapter Text

Waking up is painful.

Everything hurts. From the wound in your stomach to the tips of your fingers, where shockwaves of pain bolt through you every five seconds. Your throat is dry, the lights in the hospital room are too light.

You groan, but Tara’s kissing you before you can say anything. Her lips are salty, tainted with her own tears. She kisses you desperately, hands pressed to your face, like if she doesn’t kiss you right then and there she might combust.

But she loses herself in the moment. Presses her body down too hard against your wound.

You cry out against her lips.

Then, she’s withdrawing, eyes wide with worry.

“I’m sorry, baby, I’m sorry,” She murmurs, hands fervent as she reaches down to lightly touch the tip of your bandage, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

You close your eyes, mind swimming. You can’t think like this.

“Water,” You croak, as watch as she scrambles up onto her feet, almost spilling the carafe of water all over herself in an effort to get to you.

“Here, baby, drink,” She says, pressing the glass to your lips.

You gulp it back.

Water has never tasted so good. Like a cool, ice bath on a hot summer’s day or a well of water in the middle of the desert. You glug it back, almost choking in an effort to get it down your throat and into your body as quickly as possible.

Tara rubs your back, soothingly. She presses a kiss to your forehead and holds the empty glass out, eyes questioning.

“More?”

You nod, fervent.

You finish off the last of the water. It burns, pleasantly, for a moment, temporarily relieving the quiet ache in the back of your throat.

But then, your mind wanders to the pain.

A sharp, tense, pin-like feeling just under your ribs.

You close your eyes, moaning slightly. It hurts so badly, you think you might pass out. Sweat breaks out across your forehead. Tara notices, immediately. She sets down the glass and rushes back to your side, pressing her hand over your forehead.

“What’s wrong?” Tara asks, brown eyes wide and mournful, “What is it, baby-girl? Does it hurt?”

“Yes,” You gasp, “Tara - I need something. Medicine. Drugs. Any drugs, please.”

Tara draws in a sharp breath.

“I’m calling the nurse,” She says. You open your eyes, slightly, watch as she hammers her hand down onto the green button beside your beds.

Her worried eyes draw back to you.

She leans down, smoothing the hair out of your face and presses a long kiss to your forehead.

“It’s okay, baby.” She murmurs, “You’re going to be okay.”

You hum.

The pain burns hot in you.

And before you can open your eyes again, you promptly pass out.

When you awaken, it’s to the sound of Tara’s voice in the hallway.

It’s shrill. Loud.

Sam’s talking too. You can hear her quiet requests for Tara to calm down amongst the spew of Tara’s angry ranting. There’s a male voice, apologizing.

“- if you idiots can’t even do your job and give somebody who’s just been into surgery pain medication, how the hell are you to be trusted with caring for her while she’s recovering?” Tara asks, voice hot.

You swallow.

The pain is gone, numbed by the array of drugs that had been pumped through your system. You feel light, like you’re floating. You open your mouth, try to call out to Tara. But it comes out in a quiet gurgle.

She doesn’t hear.

“Ma’am, I assure you, a mandatory dose of morphine was given to the patient before she woke,” Says the male voice, “She’s just had surgery for a stab wound. Unfortunately, pain is a part of the process.”

“Pain is about to be a part of your process.” Growls Tara.

“Tara.” You call out. It’s weak.

“Enough.” You hear Sam’s voice, stern, “I am so sorry, doctor. It’s been a long day, she’s been really scared. Tara, go sit down. Your girlfriend needs you by her side when she wakes.”

“But, Sam-”

“Now, Tara. Before you get yourself thrown out.”

You don’t have a view of Tara, but you don’t need to see her to know what the look on her face is. You can hear her angry huffing as she walks back into the hospital bed, a scowl on her face that would make Freddy Kruger himself cower.

And then it dissipates the moment she sees you with your eyes open.

“Baby.”

She’s at your side in an instant.

Wide-eyed, she immediately tilts her fingertips to your cheek.

“Baby,” She says, once again. She presses a kiss to the top of your head, closing her eyes, just for a moment. Then she’s withdrawing, her hands cupping your cheeks, “Are you alright? Does it still hurt, baby? Did they give you enough? I’ll get that moron doctor back in.”

She turns.

“Sam!” She calls out, “Sam, get Doctor Dipshit back in here!”

“Tara,” You murmur. You press your fingers to her lips, blinking slowly. You feel high. Intoxicated, but not hurt. You feel as if you could climb out of bed and carry her home, “I’m okay.”

She sighs with relief.

Her hand falls around your shoulders as she leans in. She presses a long kiss to your lips. And you don’t know if it’s the morphine or just her but it makes stars explode behind your eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Sam asks, racing in. Her shoulders slump with relief when she sees you: eyes open, clutching onto Tara for dear life.

“YN,” She says, voice soft. She moves a little closer to the end of your bed, touches your calf, fondly, “You’re awake.”

“Do you want more water, babe?” Tara asks, drawing your attention back to her. She’s focused, eyes still awash with worry, “Is the bed okay like this? It’s not hurting your belly, is it? Sitting up? I tried to put it back down but the damn thing is broken, like everything else in this stupid hospital-”

“I’m okay, Tara,” You say again. You curl your hand around the back of her neck, playing with the baby hairs at her nape. You stare at her nose, press your finger against your favorite freckle. Greeting it like an old friend. Then you rub your hand along her eyebrows, trying to smooth out the worried crease.

“You’re really pretty.” You sigh.

It’s enough to break the tension. Tara’s lips twitch, upwards. You hear Sam laugh. She squeezes your foot gently.

“You’re really high right now, huh?” She teases, “We’re glad you’re okay, kid. You had us worried there for a moment.”

It takes you a moment. You feel like you’re swimming in the clouds. Your body tingles. Tara’s touch makes you shiver.

And then you remember your last moments of consciousness.

The mushroom cloud pops. Like a bucket of ice water to the face.

Tara touches your face once more. She has you memorized. Every movement. Every facial twitch or expression. She knows you by heart.

Her eyebrows crease once more.

“What’s wrong, baby?” She asks, voice quiet.

You frown.

“What happened?” You ask.

The beep of the heart monitor sings steady. Tara squeezes your fingers.

“She’s dead.” Tara says, voice forceful, “She’s not going to hurt you again.”

But it doesn’t calm you.

“Where’s my Mom?” You ask. The heart monitor picks it up, a dull thud as your heart begins to race and panic overtakes you, “Where’s my Dad? Are they dead?”

Tara’s shushing you, trying to draw you back down but you fight her off. You’ll run barefoot out of this hospital and search the breadths of every emergency room in the state if you have to.

Sam’s at your other side. She touches your arm, trying to soothe you.

“They’re okay, YN,” She says. Her voice is calm. Assuring.

You stare at her, trying to catch the micro-expressions that flood through her features. You don’t know Sam’s giveaways, not like Tara’s. You don’t know if she’s telling the truth.

“Are you lying to me?” You ask, voice small, “Are you lying to me because I was stabbed and now I’m high and you think I can’t handle the truth?”

“She’s not lying, baby,” Tara says. She’s coaxing you back to her, “Look at me. They’re okay. They’re stable. Your Dad was shot, but they got him to hospital in time. He’s awake, Sam spoke to him just before you woke up.”

“And my Mom?” You ask, lip wobbling.

Tara hesitates.

“She’s in surgery,” Tara says, “But they’re confident. They’re sure they can save her. It’s just… she might…”

She trails off, eyes hesitant. She looks to her sister for reassurance.

“She might what?” You ask. The panic rises once more, “She might what, Tara?”

“She might…” Tara catches Sam’s eye, “Lose her leg. That’s all.”

You blink.

“That’s all?”

“But she’s okay,” Tara says, hurriedly, “She’s fine. Apart from the leg, she’s fine.”

“That’s a pretty big part of her that’s not fine, Tara.” You snap.

“The important thing is she’s going to be okay,” Says Sam. She rubs your back, “Right, Tara? Why don’t we call now? Your Dad wants to talk to you. He’s been so worried.”

She reaches into her pocket and pries out her phone. Hurriedly, searches her contacts for your Dad’s number and presses the phone to her ear.

Your head is a little fuzzy with all this new information. You breathe in deep, trying to calm yourself. The heart monitor is beeping at an incredibly quickly, not-healthy-sounding rate. The thought of your Mom without one of her legs almost sends your hazy mind into a full blown panic attack.

“Baby,” Tara murmurs. She ghosts the back of her finger along your cheek, “It’s okay. You’re okay. Your Mom is going to be okay-”

“But her leg-” You can’t help but cry. Tears leak like acid from your eyes. The last twenty-four hours. The stabbing. Your Dad, your Mom, her leg. It’s too much.

“Shh, don’t cry, please baby.” Tara scoots closer. It must be uncomfortable, the way she presses the side of her hip against the hospital bed railing just to hold you, but she does it anyway.

You sniff into her shoulder.

She smells a little metallic, like dried blood. But there’s something under it. Her natural scent, a little musky, a little sweet. Comfort blooms around you like a warm blanket.

“I love you,” She murmurs against the side of your head, then kisses it for good measure, “I’m never going to let anything bad happen to you again, baby-girl.”

You close your eyes. You can feel her pulse almost jumping out of her skin. You nudge your nose against her neck.

And then Sam’s talking.

“Hello? Yes, it’s Sam Carpenter. I have someone here I think you’ll want to talk to.”

You’ve never heard your Dad cry before.

He’s a staunch guy. A man’s man. With his whiskey and his steak and his hobbies that included hitting balls with sticks or blowing targets clean off with shotgun rounds.

But he cries now, over the line with you.

Tara rubs circles into your back. Sam watches, clutching her spare hand in yours.

He tells you he wants you there, with him. Back in Woodsboro. That he’ll arrange everything.

And when he ends the call, he tells you he loves you.

“Dad’s moving me,” You say, handing the phone back to Sam, “Tomorrow, maybe. When Mom’s out of surgery and I’m stable enough to be transported.”

“Good,” Tara murmurs. She nuzzles a kiss against your cheek, “This hospital is full of idiots.”

“Now, I hope you’re not talking about me.” It’s a nurse, one you haven’t seen before. But Tara recognizes her immediately. She stands, carefully prying herself out of your grip to meet the Nurse.

“Of course I’m not talking about you.” Tara says, a little breathless, “I called for you, earlier. The doctor said you were on break.”

The nurse looks over Tara’s shoulder and smiles at you.

She’s pretty, is your first thought. Long, dark hair. Round cheeks. Dimples. The slight wrinkles around her eyes indicate she’s a little older. Maybe in her forties.

“Good,” She tells Tara, voice curt, but she’s smiling. She approaches your bed, touches your hand, “How are you feeling, sweetheart? The doctor said he had to give you a little more morphine.”

“She’s feeling alright,” Tara answers for you. She presses her hand to your face, touches your cheek, fondly, “She’s feeling better since the morphine.”

Nurse Rosario looks bemused.

“I was asking her, Tara,” She says, a little pointed, “How are you feeling, darling? You need anything else?”

You like this Nurse. She’s sweet, but in a no kind of nonsense way. Tara likes her too, you can tell by the way she’s preening. Bouncing on the balls of her heels, tucking her hair back behind her ears.

Like a peacock showing its feathers.

“I’m alright,” You say. You eye Tara, a little wary.

The nurse nods, smile light.

“Good. You let me know if you need anything, okay? I’ll be back in a couple of hours to change your dressing.”

“Okay,” You say, “Thanks.”

She shoots Tara one more amused glance, before turning on her heel and leaving the room.

“Bye, Nurse Rosario!” Tara says hurriedly, with a small wave.

Sam looks perplexed but Tara doesn’t seem to notice.

She settles back into the spot beside you, brushing your hair back out of your face.

“Who was that?” You ask. Tara presses a soft kiss to your neck.

“Nurse Rosario.” She murmurs. She clutches your fingers between her hand, “She’s the best. She was the one that was here, when they first moved you. She was in surgery with you too. She helped save your life.”

Tara presses a kiss to your lips.

You raise an eyebrow.

“She’s pretty.” You say, a little point blank.

Usually, a comment like that would earn you a scowl. A pout. The silent treatment for the entire night. But this time, Tara doesn’t seem to mind.

She blinks.

“Huh,” She says, voice high, “I didn’t notice.”

Sam snorts. A smile blooms across your face.

“You have a crush on her.” You say, voice light. Teasing.

This has never happened before. In all the years of your relationship, Tara’s head hasn’t been turned once. Not for a pretty girl in the street, nor a mindless celebrity crush.

Tara’s cheeks turn red. She looks up at you, outraged.

“I do not.” She insists, the tips of her ears pink, “Okay, I like her but not like that. She saved your life, babe. That’s all.”

You curl your lips, rubbing her reddened cheeks with your fingers.

“It’s cute.” You tell her, and you mean it.

Perhaps, if Nurse Rosario had been your age and seemed even vaguely interested in Tara you’d be jealous. But your keen eye had spotted the wedding band around her left finger.

And more than that, Tara loves you. A love that you can feel radiating off her. A love stronger than some silly, hospital crush.

In your drug-infused stupor, with all the heaviness after the last twelve hours, it feels good to make your girlfriend blush. Something that doesn’t happen very often. Embarrassment doesn't come naturally to Tara.

And if you’re not laughing right now, you think you might cry.

So you allow yourself the distraction.

“You want me to get her number for you?” Sam joins in, voice teasing, “I’ll tell her you want to meet her in the supply closet in five.”

Tara shoots her sister a glare.

“You’re both ridiculous and I don’t have a crush on her.” Tara says, sounding exasperated, “What, just because I’m nice to someone, it means I like them?”

“Yes.” You and Sam say together, almost immediately.

Tara huffs. She withdraws from you with a pout and crosses her arms.

“Fine. I won’t be nice to anyone ever again. Hope you’re both happy.”

You smile, tugging at her hand and pulling her a little closer. She doesn’t resist. She meets your kiss, and presses her hands tight against your cheeks.

And you can’t resist.

You sigh, a little dramatic and withdraw from her.

“I should have known you were into older women,” You say, eyes twinkling, “You are two months younger than me, after all.”

Sam giggles.

Tara launches herself out of the bed and glares back at you as if you’re a traitor.

“I’m having a shower,” She declares with a huff, “And when I come back you two can quit it with this weird alliance you’ve formed against me. I don’t like it. And I don’t like her.”

She scowls at the two of you once more.

You look over to Sam, eyes sparkling as Tara disappears into the bathroom. She grins at you and raises her eyebrows. Then calls out:

“You sure you don’t want Nurse Rosario to give you a sponge bath?”

And promptly ducks as Tara launches a towel that narrowly misses her head.

Chapter 25 Chapter Text

You manage to sleep through the night with little disturbance.

Tara attempts to sleep (what looks somewhat uncomfortably) sprawled across your lap, the plastic hospital bed barrier jutting into her stomach before you pull her up and into the bed on your good side.

Sam makes a bed for herself near the side of the room by pushing two chairs next to each other.

You’d tell her to go home and get a good night’s sleep but you know better than to suggest she leaves Tara. And she knows better to suggest Tara leaves you.

So you leave her be. Maybe, when you’re moved over to Woodsboro General, you’ll ask them for a pull-out bed for her. It’s the least you can do, after all. She had, in all essence, saved your life.

Nurse Rosario knocks a little while later.

Tara’s still a little drowsy against your shoulder when she enters.

“How’s my favorite patient?” Nurse Rosario asks, twinkle in her eye and a spring in her step.

“I’m okay,” Says Tara before you can respond. She lets out a sleepy yawn, “Could have slept better, these beds are awful.”

You share a look with Nurse Rosario.

“I don’t think she was talking to you, babe,” You say. She blinks, then blushes. You ruffle her hair, fondly, “I’m alright. No pain.”

“Then, the morphine is doing its job,” Says Nurse Rosario with a quiet hum. She checks your chart.

“Looks like you’re being transferred today, around 11am. I’m going to redress the bandage, and then we’ll give you a bath. Sound good?”

Tara sits up.

“A bath?” She asks, brow furrowed, “Like a naked bath?”

Sam sighs, heavily.

“I’m going to get some coffee.” She mumbles, offering you a ‘good luck, you’re on your own’ kind of glance.

The Nurse puts down your chart, nonplussed.

“What other kinds of baths are there, Tara?”

You bite your lip, rub Tara’s back. Gone are the heart eyes she’d had for Nurse Rosario last night. Now, it looks like she might leap across the bed and punch her.

“I don’t need a bath,” You say, hurriedly, trying to get ahead of the problem, “It’s fine. I’ll have one when I get back to Woodsboro.”

Nurse Rosario looks between you, a little confused. But she doesn’t protest.

“Alright,” She says, “Your call. I’ll go get some fresh gauze and I’ll be back in five.”

Tara’s seething when she leaves.

An all too familiar darkness settles behind her eyes.

She hops out of the bed, leaving you wincing at the way the bed shakes.

“That was so unprofessional,” She says, with indignation on her face as she looks over to you, “Did you hear that, baby? She wanted to get you naked.”

“She wanted to give me a bath because she’s a nurse and that’s her job.” You correct, but Tara isn’t listening to you.

She glares out the window, looking over to Nurse Rosario who’s compiling medical supplies at one of the nurses stations.

“A bath? Right before you’re about to be transferred to a new hospital?” Tara says, “It’s outrageous.”

“I’m sure it’s standard procedure, babe.” You say, voice tired.

It's too early for this. You don't have enough morphine for this.

She bites her lip, then looks over to you.

“She’s not touching you,” Tara tells you, voice hot, “Who knows what kind of perverted pleasure she’s getting out of it. I’m changing your bandages myself-”

“You are not." You say immediately.

Tara whirls around.

“But, babe-” Tara whines.

“No, Tara.” You say, voice final, “Go sit over there and be quiet. If you say anything rude to Nurse Rosario you’re not sleeping with me tonight. You’ll have to make yourself a bed in the waiting room.”

Tara stares.

Her eyes narrow, like she’s about to call your bluff.

“Don’t make me call Sam.” You threaten.

That does it.

Tara’s bottom lip juts out in a pout, but she does what she’s told. With all the energy of a toddler being told they can’t have their favorite snack, she stomps over to Sam’s vacant chair and sets herself down.

For good measure, she offers you a glare to signal how unhappy she is.

“Alright,” Nurse Rosario says, fresh bandage in hand, with all the pleasantness of someone who didn’t have to partake in the last thirty seconds of conversation, “Let’s get you fixed up, sweetie.”

When Sam comes back, coffee in hand, Nurse Rosario is wrapping a fresh bandage around your torso.

Tara’s glaring at her, arms crossed.

The tension in the room is palpable, and you’re a little concerned Nurse Rosario feels it too.

“Sam, why don’t you and Tara go get some breakfast?” You suggest.

Sam looks over at Tara.

“No.” Says Tara, teeth clenched.

Sam sets her coffee down on the table. There are bags under her eyes, no doubt from her makeshift chair-bed.

She looks far too tired to deal with her storm-cloud sister.

“Come on, Tara,” Sam urges, quietly, “We’ll go get YN a blueberry muffin or something. The food here looks awful.”

She shoots a look at the nurse.

“No offense.”

“None taken,” Chuckles Nurse Rosario. She makes the finishing touches on your new bandage, “There we go, all done.”

She squeezes your hip, lightly.

Tara doesn’t miss it. Her eyes go wide in outrage, as if Nurse Rosario has just leaned in and planted a kiss to your lips.

“Thanks, Nurse Rosario.” You say, hurriedly, racking your brain to think of something for Tara to do before she stands up and tackles the nurse, “Baby, can you get me some water, please?”

“I’ll get you water.” Says Nurse Rosario, helpfully.

“I’m her girlfriend, I’ll get it.” Growls Tara. She all but snatches the carafe from the nurse's hand.

You close your eyes and sigh.

“Thanks, Nurse Rosario,” Intervenes Sam. She all but pushes the confused Nurse out the door in an effort to get rid of her, “We’ll let you know if we need anything else.”

Sam turns back into the room.

You look mad, almost as mad as Tara.

Sam purses her lips, and decides within seconds she doesn’t want to be part of this conversation. If you could walk without wincing, you'd do the same.

“I’ll… go get some more coffee.” Sam mumbles, sounding resigned. She sees herself out before you can get a word in.

Tara circles your bed like a shark in bloody water.

“Baby,” You say, voice pinched as she leans in and presses a possessive kiss to the top of your head, “That was so not cool-”

Tara leans back, her eyebrows furrowed. She looks confused.

“Are you mad at me?” She asks, disbelievingly, “You’re mad at me for defending your honor?”

“You weren’t defending my honor, Tara, you were being jealous and possessive-”

“Protective.” Tara corrects. She blinks, hurt rising behind her eyes, “You’re mad at me for protecting you?”

You sigh, pinching your nose with your fingertips.

She just doesn't get it.

“Are we seriously going to fight right now because of her?” Tara asks, voice high, “Is this because you think I have a crush on her? You’re punishing me?”

“No, Tara,” You say, voice hot, “You were rude. For no reason. Possessive. For no reason. Do you seriously think that married woman in her forties is interested in me?”

“Everybody else is,” Tara says, voice sharp, “Chase, Aaron, Sadie, Amber, Wes. I feel like I have to fight off the entire town just to keep you.”

“Baby.” You sigh.

The anger drains out of your body.

You know it’s not her fault, it’s just the way she is. But sometimes, times like these, it’s like she’s not even trying.

It’s like she’s just letting The Rage take over.

You sigh.

“Come here.” You murmur, gesturing to the spot next to you.

She doesn’t give you time to change your mind. She climbs into the spot next to you, settling her head against your chest, big brown eyes wide as they look up at you.

You press a kiss to her forehead and tangle your fingers in her hair.

“We talked about this,” You say quietly, “I told you, Tara. You’re the only person I want to be with.”

“But what if you change your mind?” Tara says, voice small, “What if one day I’m not looking and you decide you want to be with someone like her? Someone normal. Someone… not like me.”

She blinks. Her eyes swim with fear.

You lean down and kiss her, softly. Her eyes flutter shut.

“That’s not going to happen,” You say, voice firm.

“You don’t know that.”

“I know that, or I wouldn’t say it.”

“But what if you change your mind?”

She’s staring up at you, eyes flitting between yours, searching for reassurance.

“Do you think I would put up with all your bullshit if I wasn’t sure?” You say, trying to keep your tone light. She’s impossible when she gets like this. Needy. Antsy. Searching for validation in your words that’s never good enough.

Usually, you’d use your body to console her.

That always seems to work.

But now, in a hospital bed with a three inch stab wound in your stomach, you’ll have to talk. Like a healthy couple.

A couple that has never been the two of you.

She frowns, slightly. You watch as her guard draws up.

“You seem to like my bullshit when it suits you.” She snipes, the tips of her ears turning red in anger, “You seem to like me being possessive when I’m fucking you. But what? You don’t like it in real life?”

She sits up and pulls away from you.

“Tara-”

“No, babe.” She says, climbing back out of the bed, “That’s just not how it works. I can’t turn it off, don’t you understand?”

Her eyes are wide, desperate.

“I do understand, baby,” You say. You sit up, wincing as it tugs at your stitches, “I know and I’m trying to help you. Please, come lay back down.”

But her arms are crossed.

Her anger has been redirected towards you.

It’s not the fiery kind of anger she reserves for everyone else. It’s pouty. Cold.

Silent treatment for hours kind of cold.

You lean across the bed and try to grab her hand but she pulls back.

“Tara.” You groan, “Honey, please.”

“I think I’m going to go find Sam,” Tara says, “I don’t want to subject you to anymore of my bullshit.”

She sits down, angrily shimmies her feet into her converse.

“Don’t leave mad, babe, please-” You beg but she’s committed to her dramatic storm out.

She does this sometimes. Through and through a drama queen.

And you do the only thing you know will stop her from leaving.

You swing your legs over the bed and try to follow.

A sharp pain ripples through your body. You can't muffle your gasp. She whirls around, stormy eyes widening as she sees.

“What are you doing?” She hisses, hurrying back over, icy façade melted within moments, “Get back into bed.”

Her arms are around your shoulders, trying to lift you back into the bed. You let her resettle you, clinging onto her bicep.

“You’re not getting out of this conversation,” You tell her, “Either you come back into bed and we talk or I’ll follow you down the hall and bleed all over the floor.”

Tara huffs.

“Your little girlfriend would love that,” She says, under her breath, “Give her another chance to put her hands all over you.”

“This is exactly what I’m talking about, babe.” You say. She tries to withdraw, but you grip onto her tighter, “You’re jealous and there’s nothing to be jealous about.”

“I can’t help it-” She tries again, sounding aggravated.

You grip her hand, touch soft, “I know, baby. I know it’s not your fault.”

She eyes you suspiciously, like she’s not sure why you’re suddenly on her side.

“Don’t be mad at me, Tara,” You say, reaching out to touch her cheek, “I don’t want to fight. We don’t fight. We’re too in love, remember?”

“You started it.” Tara says, voice gruff, like she has to have the last word.

You let her have it.

Try to pull her down once more. This time, she doesn’t resist. She lets you settle her against your chest, careful not to touch your wound. You press a long kiss against her head and scrape your fingers under the hem of her shirt, just wanting to touch her skin.

You watch her for a quiet moment.

Her heart is pounding, you can feel it through her shirt. Her skin is clammy, her cheeks still red. She’s in fight or flight mode, the way she always is when The Rage gets bad like this. You rub her back gently, trying to soothe her.

“When I passed out, I had a weird dream.” You murmur. Her breathing is ragged, and you know she’s still a little upset, but she looks up at you anyway. Gives you her full attention, the way she always does.

“What kind of weird dream?” She asks, eyebrows knit.

“I saw Chase,” You say. You grip her a little tighter, “And Wes. I talked to them.”

“Oh.” Says Tara. She’s blinking, like she’s not sure where this is going, “What did you talk about?”

“My subconscious.” You say, weak smile on your face, “I think he was my subconscious. I think they both were.”

You press another kiss to the top of her head.

She’s calmer now, her heartbeat slowed to match yours.

You thread your fingers through her hair, scratch her scalp fondly.

“I’ve been trying to work out what it meant,” You admit, “Dreams always mean something, right?”

“Not always,” Says Tara, nose crinkled, “I had a dream last night I turned into a bee and you thought I’d died.”

You snort.

She whacks you, gently, but a smile blooms on her face.

“It’s not funny,” She says, “You had a funeral for me and everything. Sam was inconsolable.”

“Do you often have dreams like that?” You ask, a little curious, “Dreams that separate you from me?”

She’s quiet.

“Yeah.” She says, quietly, “They’re usually more violent. But they’re all the same.”

She blinks up at you, pretty brown eyes mournful, “I lose you and you move on without me.”

“Babe,” You say, touching her cheek, “I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

She closes her eyes at your touch. For a moment, she looks a little sad.

You lean down and press a kiss to her lips.

And then pull back, a little hesitant.

“My parents want me to see a therapist,” You say, biting your lip, “At first, I said no because I didn’t think… I didn’t want to say too much, but now I think they’re right.”

She stares up at you. You half expect her to get mad again. Withdraw from you and leave the room in a huff. But she doesn’t, she just watches, quietly.

You swallow.

“I want you to come with me,” You say, softly, “It might help. We can put The Rage to bed for once and for all.”

Her lips tilt.

She offers you a sad smile.

“There’s no getting rid of The Rage, babe,” She says, “Don’t you think my parents tried? I’ve been to every therapist within a fifty mile radius. But it doesn’t help. I’m just… bad. Wired wrong, that’s what my Mom always said.”

She looks so small.

You tilt your arms around her, protectively.

“Your Mom’s a self-obsessed idiot,” You tell her, “She doesn’t know you. Not like I know you. You’re not bad, you’re just…”

She quirks an eyebrow.

“Misguided,” You settle, “Your intentions are good, baby, you just… need some help.”

“You’re helping me,” She mumbles into your chest, “I don’t need anyone else. Before you knew I would have killed that nurse for what she did just now.”

Your heart flips. Not in a good way.

You hate when you’re reminded of the things she’s done for you.

“The killing is only half the problem,” You say, and she furrows her brow, looking up at you again, “Okay, maybe seventy-five percent of the problem. But it’s just a symptom. A manifestation of the source.”

You rub her back.

“And I need it too, babe. I need to process everything. What you did. What I did.”

“And how are you supposed to do that without revealing everything?” Tara asks, quietly, “Babe, this isn’t like talking about depression or something, we’re talking about murder.”

You rub your eyes, suddenly tired.

“I don’t know,” You confess, “Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’ll talk to someone and it won’t help. But I have to try. And I want you to try too.”

You kiss the top of her head once more.

“Will you do it, babe? For me?”

You look into her eyes, searchingly. She’s hesitant, you can tell by the way she’s frowning, only slightly.

But then she softens, snuggling back into your chest.

“I’d do anything for you,” She admits, quietly, “Surely you know that by now.”

Your heart soars.

You curl your hand around the back of her neck.

Her heart has slowed to a steady pulse. Her eyes are closed. The Rage is gone. You press a final kiss to the top of her head, scratch your fingers lightly along the back of her neck.

You know her moods better than anything. Better than the tides of the moon or the intricate weave of the stars. In her eyes, Nurse Rosario is a villain she’s fought and conquered. She’s won, just by being here and having you under her. By having you whisper words of reassurance to her lips.

Nurse Rosario is a non-factor.

So you decide to keep the mood light.

“Anything, huh?” You murmur, eyes sparking with mischief, “I guess this is a bad time to ask for a threesome with my new favorite nurse?”

Her head jerks up.

Her eyes spark, but they settle the moment she sees the smile on your lips.

Her eyes narrow and she huffs, dropping back down to curl into your chest.

“You’re a fucking jerk,” She grumbles.

You kiss her once more.

“We’ll talk about it in therapy.” You smile.

Chapter 26 Chapter Text

The trip back to Woodsboro hospital is smoother than anticipated.

The morphine does wonders for your pain, but not so much for your coherence. By the time you’re rolled out into the ambulance, you’ve told Tara how pretty she is at least six times and declared Sam ‘best sister-in-law in the world’ at least three.

Thankfully, Nurse Rosario is nowhere to be found.

Although Tara had mellowed slightly after your last talk, you’re not keen for a repeat. After she’d plied you with enough morphine to take down a horse, she’d disappeared. Perhaps heeding the warning of Tara’s stormy glare.

Tara rides in the ambulance with you, her hand pressed in yours. Sam sits beside you (Dewey had re-romandeered the car they’d stolen with a sigh and a forgiving smile).

By the time you’re rolled into Woodsboro hospital, it’s near noon. Your Dad’s insurance has paid for a private room for him, your Mom and you and so you tilt your neck eagerly as you’re rolled onto the floor, searching each face for the familiarity of your parents.

“Your parents are here,” Says one of the EMTs, noticing the way your head tilts around madly, “Your Mom is getting a scan done, your Dad is with her. They’re both okay. They’ll be here soon.”

“Thanks,” You say, though it doesn’t sate your anxiety. That won’t be gone until they’re both here with you.

The floor is awash with busy doctors and nurses.

Most don’t give you a second look.

Except for one.

Nurse Dawson is standing near one of the nurses stations when you’re rolled into your room.

You see her first, though Tara doesn’t notice her.

And when Nurse Dawson turns and sees your girlfriend, her face falls.

Only for a moment. Her face conflicts, but the professionalism wins out.

She straightens her shoulders.

And you can tell by the look on her face she’s the one assigned to you.

Tara smiles at you as the EMTs settle you into your new bed. Oblivious to the carnage she causes.

It’s like some sort of reverse superpower.

The ability to somehow irritate every medical professional assigned to her.

You sigh and lean back into your pillows as the nurse approaches.

“YN. Ms Carpenter,” She says politely enough, “Nice to see you again.”

Tara looks over impatient. You can tell by the lack of recognition in her face she doesn’t recognise the nurse. Instead, she looks over to Sam.

“Sure,” Says Tara, nonplussed, “I’m going to need another bed in here for my sister. She spent last night on a couple of plastic chairs.”

You look around the room.

There’s two empty beds - presumably for your mother and father. It’s cramped in here, more so than usual with your family reunion. You can tell before the Nurse speaks Tara isn’t going to like her answer.

“We don’t have beds to spare for visitors, Tara,” Nurse Dawson says pointedly, “Perhaps you and your sister could come back in the morning.”

Tara stares a moment.

Then her eyes narrow.

You tug gently at her hand trying to draw her attention.

“Babe,” You touch her arm gently, “Maybe it’s not a terrible idea. You and Sam could both go home and get some rest.”

“Absolutely not,” Tara says, voice indignant, “I’m not leaving you alone, baby.”

“Mom and Dad will be here with me,” You assure, but Tara’s turned her glare towards you, “Seriously babe. I’ll be okay.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Says Tara, voice final. She shoots a look over to Nurse Dawson, “I’ll sleep on the floor if I have to.”

Your Mom is wheeled back in first.

You sit up in your bed so abruptly you almost knock Tara to the floor.

Your Mom is misty-eyed, gaze a little unfocused, undoubtedly strung out on pain medication. Her eyes well when she sees you, hand twitching as she sits a little taller in her seat.

“Mom,” You croak, “Mom, are you okay?”

“I’m fine, darling,” She says. The nurse wheels her into the slot beside you and she reaches for your hand, “Are you okay?”

Sam wanders off to leave you to your reunion, but Tara stays nestled into your side. Your Mom’s leg is gone, and you can’t help the flood of tears that burst through each time your gaze wanders down.

“It’s alright, YN,” Your Mom assures, “I’m alive. Dad’s alive. You’re alive. That’s all that matters.”

Your Dad follows in, shortly after.

He’s in a wheelchair, looking so frail with dark circles under his eyes and milky, pale skin. He squeezes your hand and leans forward to press a kiss to your cheek.

And then he surveys Tara.

She’s sitting up now, your hand still pressed firmly in hers. He watches quietly for a moment. You almost think he’s about to ask her to leave when he reaches out, and outstretches his hand.

Tara blinks in surprise.

Your eyebrows furrow.

Your Dad looks serious. The kind of seriousness usually accompanied by a raise in tone or the promise of his shotgun. But there’s none of that now.

Hesitantly, Tara takes his hand.

“Thank you,” He says, as she clasps her hand in his. He shakes it firmly, “Thank you for saving my daughter.”

Tara doesn’t say anything.

You look at your Dad. His voice is earnest, his brows pinched.

He looks open.

Like he’s about to cry.

“Dad,” You say, voice soft.

He squeezes Tara’s hand once, then lets her go. Slowly, he wheels towards you, eyes misty.

“You,” He says as he pulls you into a hug, “Are never leaving my side again.”

He pulls back slightly and thinks.

“Or hers.”

When the dust settles and your Dad has got the last of his dewey, sappy words out, the room moves back into normality.

Normality now, it seems, is absurdity.

Tara and your Dad are watching a ball game together. You survey them, eyebrow raised, sharing a look of bewilderment with Sam as she walks back into the room.

“Hey,” Says Sam, tray of donuts in hand. Tara and your Dad don’t look up from the TV, “What are we watching?”

“Giants,” Says Tara. She lounges back into your hospital bed, nestling her head on your shoulder, “Flores is killing it.”

“About damn time,” Grumbles your Dad, “He spent the last game striking out.”

“Speaking of striking out,” You say, eyebrow raised at Sam, “Did you speak to Nurse Dawson about a spare bed?”

Sam shakes her head.

“It’s fine,” She says, “I’d rather sleep in my own bed anyway. Besides,”

She eyes your Mom and Dad.

“It seems like a family affair in here anyway. You’re sure you don’t want to come with me, Tara? The nurse seemed pretty insistent that no more beds would fit.”

“I’m sure.” Tara says, voice flat. She curls a protective arm around your waist.

You flash Sam a small smile, “It’s fine, Sam. She can sleep with me. She’s little, she fits.”

Sam purses her lips.

Tara glares up at you.

“I am not little.” She says, frowning.

You press a kiss to her lips.

“Okay, then big guy, better go home with Sam.” You tease.

She pouts. Nudges her face into your neck.

“I fit,” She tells Sam, and then turns her attention back to the ball game.

Sam makes her departure, shortly thereafter. Your Dad falls asleep midway through the game, your Mom is wheeled off for an MRI at just the moment Tara’s friends make an appearance.

Liv’s bought flowers, Chad and Mindy follow in with wide eyes. They hug you, settle down into the seats by your bed, careful not to wake your snoring Father.

“Hey,” Mindy says, “How are you feeling?”

“She’s okay,” Says Tara, smoothing your hair back, “Now the morphines kicked in, right baby?”

“Right,” You echo, sitting up slightly.

Liv smiles.

“These are for you,” She says, “Tara said they were your favorite.”

“Thanks Liv,” You say with a smile.

Mindy settles on the chair to your left, Chad and Liv hover near the end of your bed.

Mindy leans over to you, a little wide eyed.

“The Sheriff,” She says, chewing her lip, “Damn it. I should have guessed.”

“I just don’t understand,” Says Liv, eyebrows pinched, “Why would she kill her own son?”

Tara shifts, uncomfortably. Mindy rolls her eyes.

“She didn’t kill her own son, dumbass,” Says Mindy, “Isn’t it obvious?”

You swallow.

“There’s no body” Mindy says, leaning forward in her seat, a little excited, “When Ghostface kills, there’s always a body.”

Liv blinks back at her.

“What if…” Mindy says, eyes squinted like she’s thinking hard, “What if Wes isn’t dead at all. What if that’s just what he wanted us all to think? What if there’s a third Ghostface, and it’s him?”

Your heart hammers.

A wave of nausea rises at the theory, but before you can voice your displeasure, Chad beats you too it.

“Give it up, Nancy Drew,” He says, shaking his head, “You haven’t been right a single time. All those powerpoints for nothing. I think it’s time to pack it in.”

Mindy pouts, slumping back in her seat.

“I could have been right,” She says, but Chad raises a hand.

“But you weren’t. Jesus. Leave it alone.”

He pats your hand, not unkindly, “The important thing is Ghostface is gone and YN and Tara are okay.”

“Thanks Chad,” You say.

He leans back in his seat, eyebrows pinched.

“I just don’t get why she did it at all,” Says Chad, tilting his head in a frown, “Same with Richie. Why? It all seems so pointless.”

Tara stirs, pressing a comforting kiss to the side of your neck.

“That’s for the police to figure out,” She says, squeezing your hand, “For now? Let’s not look a gift horse in the mouth.”

The days pass by in a blur of morphine, and nausea and the blare of Tara and your Dad’s newfound hobby of watching sports games together.

Tara sleeps at your side, dotes on you like a baby bird who has fallen from the nest.

Sam stops by in the afternoons, Nurse Dawson avoids the two of you as best she can, coming into your room wordlessly and appraising Tara with a resentful glare everytime she changes your bandages.

Dewey returns to take your statement, takes Tara and Sam away for hours to question them, but ultimately, the case is clear cut.

The Sheriff is Ghostface, Richie her accomplice, and by the seventh day of your hospital stay, Dewey informs you the police are closing the case as solved.

It would be worrying - the police’s utter lack of comprehension - had it not been in your favor.

So you nod your head and squeeze Tara’s hand as you accept his apology for the Woodsboro police failing you both.

“We’ll be suing the police department,” Says your Father curtly, before Dewey can make his exit, “For gross negligence and endangering the life of my daughter.”

You sigh.

Tara cocks her head, as if she’s about to list off a variety of law firms she’s learned of through her extensive research before you squeeze her shoulder, and pull her back down to you.

Your Mother huffs before you can say anything.

“We’re not suing anybody,” Says your Mom firmly. She offers Dewey the smallest of smiles, “Thank you, Deputy Riley.”

“We should be suing the police,” Tara grumbles later, when she’s helping you into the back of Sam’s car.

You’d be discharged by a happy Nurse Dawson. Your Mom and Dad would stay a little longer in the hospital while you slept over at Tara’s for a few nights.

Hospitals give you the creeps, and you didn’t want to spend any more time there than necessary.

Tara slips your seatbelt around your waist and you pull her in for a brief kiss.

“What’s all that about not looking a gift horse in the mouth?” You say quietly as Sam slips into the drivers seat and Tara falls quiet.

Your stomach is still a little sore - you feel it now as Tara and Sam help you up the staircase to her bedroom.

“Watch it Sam, you neanderthal,” Tara snaps as Sam almost steps on your foot as they're half-carrying you to bed.

You scold her if you had the strength. Instead, you focus all your energy into trying not to focus on the searing pain in your side as Tara slips you into her sheets.

“Sorry, YN,” Sam says quietly before Tara shoos her out.

You’re sweating a little, gone is the morphine. Nurse Dawson had put you on something else - something a little less addictive, and a little more prone to letting the pain in.

You groan as Tara slides into the spot next to you, soothing your pain with the press of her lips.

“Does it hurt, baby?” She asks, brown eyes mournful, “Do you want me to get you your pills?”

You shake your head.

The pain stings, like a dull ache, but it doesn’t hurt so much you need more. You touch her arm, nestle yourself into her side.

“Just stay with me and I’ll be fine,” You say, as she curls her arm around your waist. She leans down and places a protective kiss to the top of your head.

“I don’t like seeing you like this,” She admits, softly. You lean up and she presses the softest kiss to your lips, “Do you want me to see if Chad can get you something stronger?”

“No babe,” You chide, gently, “I’m fine.”

Tara thinks.

“Do you want me to go down on you?” She asks, hopeful, “That might make you feel better.”

You laugh.

“Might make me feel better, or you feel better?” You ask.

“Both,” She says with a pout.

You lean up to her, press another warm kiss to her lips.

“Just stay with me,” You say, “As long as you’re here I’ll be fine.”

Tara rubs her hand along the stretch of your back.

“Okay,” She says, voice soft, “I’ll just stay here with you.”

Chapter 27 Chapter Text

Quinn Bailey is - to put it lightly - an absolute pain in your ass.

New York City is expensive.

College is expensive.

And despite your parents' assistance and you and Tara both working part time jobs, it just isn’t feasible for you to get your own place in the city.

So you’d put an ad in the paper. Found Quinn. She’d seemed fun at first - lively. The type of girl you’d want to be friends with in a new city like this. A tried and true party girl, glimmering like a jewel in a sea of dreary faces.

But her sparkle had lasted all of three weeks.

First it was the dishes.

She left them piled up in the sink, unattended. For days, sometimes weeks.

A little pet peeve of yours, but it wasn’t anything major.

It had nothing on the men.

They were like a revolving door. An entire roster of bodies to keep her warm.

Short men. Tall men. Thin men, muscular men. Men with beards. Men without. Pretty men, sometimes, even ugly men.

If he lived in the tri-state area and had a penis - likely he’d seen the inside of your apartment (and your roommate).

But really, you’re not in the position to complain.

You and Tara weren’t exactly known for having quiet sex, and of all the people you’d lived with, Quinn seemed to mind it the least.

Maybe, looking back, that should have been the first warning sign.

“I don’t know,” Quinn sighs one night over a glass of wine. Tara’s curled up in your arms, nursing her own glass as you play with her hair, “Sometimes I think I should just give them all up.”

“Men?” You ask, furrowing your brow. You laugh a little at the thought, “I don’t know Quinn, outside of partying, men are your biggest hobby.”

It’s not intended as a slight, and Quinn doesn’t take it as one. She throws a coy smile your way.

“I don’t know, you two have just got me thinking lately,” She says, “I’ve never considered girls before. I mean, I like dick. A lot. But maybe dick isn’t everything.”

“Poetic,” You say, an eyebrow raised.

Men or women, it didn’t really matter who Quinn bought home. You’d have to wear your noise canceling headphones regardless.

But Tara’s shifting in your arms, sitting up. Then, she narrows her eyes at Quinn.

Like she’s scanning her for a potential threat.

Although therapy had quietened some of Tara’s more jealous tendencies, it hadn’t gotten rid of them completely. Now, instead of stabbing - she chooses staring.

You rub her arm, your quiet signal there are no threats here.

“Besides,” Quinn says, throwing her hair back, “A chick can just strap one on, right? And it never goes soft. Maybe that’s an upgrade.”

Tara’s tense against you.

Quinn looks over at her, and suddenly notices the death glare she’s receiving. She pinches her eyebrows, a little confused.

“What’s got you all worked up?” Quinn asks, with another flick of her hair. Her eyes widen, “Oh? You think I’m trying to make a play for your girl?”

She leans back and lets out a loud laugh.

“Chill Tara, if I was going to go for either of you, it wouldn’t be her.”

And then it’s your turn to stare.

Your hand freezes over Tara’s arm. A hot, familiar feeling of jealousy seeps through you, settles deep within your bones.

Quinn catches your gaze and rolls her eyes.

“Girls,” She says, exasperated, “You’re not the only pussy-lickers in town. Relax, okay?”

Tara leans back into you, seemingly placated.

Quinn tilts her head, and downs the rest of her wine. She picks up her phone to call some other nameless man, no doubt to terrorize the two of you within the next half an hour.

The conversation is over.

But the jealousy bubbling under your skin doesn’t simmer down. And suddenly, it’s the only thing you can think about.

“What did she mean by that?” You agonize to Liv and Chad, a little later.

You’re in the NYU quad, picking at your salad with a plastic fork. Tara’s in class, giving you more than enough time to stew on the conversation with Quinn.

Chad slurps on his milkshake, seemingly unbothered.

“She was just being friendly, YN, I wouldn’t read into it.” Says Chad, mouth open and full of food.

Liv turns to him. Smacks his arm, a little too hard.

“Friendly?” She says, voice shrill, “Friendly?”

Chad blinks back at her, but she’s turning to you.

“YN, she was not being friendly, don’t listen to him. Boys are so stupid.”

“Hey-“ Interjects Chad, but Liv ignores him. She takes your arm.

“She’s making a play for Tara, YN,” She says, a little urgently, “Girls do this. We like to play with our food before we eat it. She was scoping out Tara’s reaction before she put the moves on her for real.”

You furrow your brow.

“You think?”

“I know,” Says Liv, “How do you think I got Chad?”

Chad looks over to her, a little owlish.

“Huh?” He says, creasing his forehead, “I asked you out, babe.”

Liv shoots him a look.

“You asked me out after I spent two weekends at your house asking for Mario Kart lessons.”

Chad’s eyes widen.

“You said that was so you could beat your brother!”

Liv gives you a look.

“Women are masterminds, YN. Watch the fuck out.”

Liv’s comments ring in the back of your mind for the rest of the day.

Now that you think about it, Quinn had been lounging about the house lately in scantily clad outfits.

Sleep shorts that rose almost up to her hips. Tiny tank tops that were almost see through. She giggled a little too hard at Tara’s jokes, gushed over Tara’s cooking as if Tara was Gordon Ramsey himself.

You’re starting to see it.

Quinn liked her conquests.

Men were easy, women a little harder - but for a girl who liked to conquer, who better than Tara?

Your sweet, loving, loyal and devoted girlfriend.

Prying Tara away from you wouldn’t be child’s play.

Truly the Mount Everest of conquests.

“What’s wrong baby?” Tara asks you a little later, after you’d spent half the night glaring at Quinn.

She’d been traipsing around all afternoon in a pair of black panties and an old t-shirt, an outfit that wouldn’t have made you think twice about it a few days ago.

But it’s different now.

Liv’s words ring loud in your head, “Women are masterminds, YN.”

You don’t respond, instead dropping a soapy pot to the countertop and watching as Quinn disappears into her bedroom, her phone pressed to her ear.

Tara snakes her arms around your waist, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of your neck.

“Babe?” Tara prompts.

“Nothing,” You mumble. You’re in your own head now, half afraid if you say it out loud it will become true.

You feel Tara’s pout against your shoulder.

“Something’s wrong, you barely said anything when I tried to get you to watch Saw III,” She says, turning you in her arms.

She raises an eyebrow to punctuate her point.

“And you hate gore movies.”

“I like movies that make you happy,” You lie.

Tara furrows her brow.

“Okay, something is definitely wrong,” She says. She stands on her tip toes and presses the softest kiss to your cheeks, “Tell me babe, what is it?”

You bite your lip.

Tara is your girlfriend, you reason after a moment of hesitation, and if anyone were to understand jealousy - it would be her.

You sigh and loop your arms around Tara’s waist.

“Is Quinn… do you think she’s acting weird?”

Tara frowns.

“No weirder than usual.”

“It’s just…” you chew your lip, “I think she might.. be into you, babe.”

Tara shoots you a look.

“I don’t think so,” She says. She leans up and presses a kiss to your lips, “She has a pretty solid roster of dudes to keep her entertained.”

She brushes a stand of hair out of your face, “Is that what’s bothering you, baby? You know you have nothing to worry about. I only have eyes for you.”

It placates you for only a moment.

Of course you don’t have anything to worry about. Tara adores you. Tara’s killed for you. Tara loves you with every fiber of her being.

It’s just…

Quinn is pretty. So pretty.

Tara had fallen hard and fast for you, who’s to say she couldn’t fall the same way for someone else?

And then the dread is back.

“It’s just… Liv said-“

Tara groans.

“Babe, don’t worry about what Liv has said. She barely knows the days of the week.”

“But she knows how to get guys,” You say, a little pointed.

Tara tilts her head. Her eyes are warm, the softest smile on her lips.

“I’m not a guy,” Tara promises. She nuzzles her nose against yours, “Quinn could parade around here naked doing backflips and I wouldn’t look twice at her. You know that, babe.”

You do know that.

And so you let Tara press warm kisses into your neck and drag you back to the bedroom.

Make sure to moan a little louder than usual just to remind Quinn exactly who Tara belongs to.

It doesn’t work.

Because of course, why would it work?

The barrage of men flitting in and out of Quinn’s room comes to a screeching halt. She’s celibate for almost a week, focusing all her sexual energy on your girlfriend.

It’s subtle, in the masterful kind of way Liv described.

“Man,” She sighs loudly, one morning from her spot at the kitchen counter, “Tara, do you think you could help me on this paper for film class? I have to write a paper on iconic women in horror.”

Tara springs to action, charging away from you like this is her sole purpose in life: to share her catalog of benign horror knowledge to any pretty girl who looks her way.

You fold your arms, unhappily.

“Start with Ellen Ripley,” Tara commands, before she even sits down. Quinn begins typing, madly. Tara pulls up a chair next to Quinn’s, leaning in a respectful distance to peer down at Quinn’s screen.

“Signorney Weaver’s impact on horror is maybe one of the things that made me interested in horror to begin with.”

“I didn’t know that,” Quinn coos. She touches Tara’s arm, only slightly, leaning in until their shoulders brush, “That’s so cute, Tara.”

Tara draws back, clearing her throat.

“When you’re done with Sigourney, maybe touch on Jamie-Lee-Curtis.”

Quinn blinks over at her, eyes round, like an innocent doe.

You know better.

Your eyes narrow as you stand, reaching for your purse.

“Baby,” You remind Tara, leaning over to touch her back, “We need to get groceries today. Before Sam comes to visit.”

Quinn’s schoolgirl act drops immediately. Her eyes frost over slightly as she looks over at you, only the tiniest twinge of irritation apparent.

“Maybe you could do that later, YN?” She asks, voice tilted, “I have to get this paper done before tonight.”

“Sorry,” You flash her the mildest smile, not sorry at all, “Tara’s sister is coming all the way from California. We need to get the place ready, right babe?”

Tara nods, turning to Quinn to shrug.

“Google should be able to help,” She says, scooting off her chair and grabbing her coat, “Carrie’s a great film too, if you’re in a pinch.”

“Well, maybe you can help me when you get back?” Quinn asks, a slight pout on her lip as she looks at Tara.

Your eyes narrow, but Tara nods, helpfully.

“Sure.”

Naively, you’d hoped Quinn would get bored with this little game she’d started.

Her attention span is short, you’d reasoned, as soon as she’d figured out Tara isn’t returning any of her flirty looks or comments, she’d get bored.

You’d been wrong.

If anything, Tara’s lack of interest only seems to spur Quinn on more.

Most of your classes are in the mornings, Tara’s in the afternoon. Tara walks you to class, leaves you with a soft kiss and an “I love you”, but you know Quinn doesn’t work until the evenings, and it’s just her and Tara alone in that tiny little apartment for hours on end.

So you toil in your classes. Imagine the worst.

Tara and Quinn, sitting side by side, watching horror movies. Quinn touches her arm, then her thigh, leaning in to kiss her.

Tara bats her away, most times you think about it. But sometimes she doesn’t. Sometimes she lets herself be kissed. Sometimes she lets Quinn touch her, undress her. Fuck her.

And those sometimes become all you can think about.

This is a new challenge, one that has rarely surfaced in your relationship.

Tara is so enamored with you, most people don’t even bother attempting to seduce her. But Quinn isn’t most people, she’s persistent and pretty and maybe Tara isn’t a guy, but that doesn’t mean she can’t fall for the same traps a lot of them do.

A sticky hot, honey-trap by the name of Quinn Bailey.

“What are you doing?” You ask, a little stern when you walk into the apartment that afternoon. Tara’s curled up onto the couch, blanket wrapped around her. Quinn’s hovering over her, the back of her hand pressed against Tara’s forehead.

A prickle settles down the back of your spine. Your jaw clenches.

But Tara doesn’t even look over, just nuzzles herself deeper into her blanket.

“Tara isn’t feeling well, poor baby.” Quinn coos.

You drop your bag, ignore the rageful little demon in you that wants to bat Quinn’s hand away and fall to your girlfriend's side. The tip of Tara’s nose is red, and her lips are chapped. As she blinks up at you, you notice her eyes are hazy.

“Honey,” You say, all thought of Quinn gone as you press your lips to Tara’s cheek, “Why didn’t you call?”

“It’s nothing, just a cold,” Says Tara, but she curls into your side anyway. You press a gentle kiss to her clammy forehead and rub her arm. Quinn disappears into the kitchen, returning with a small bowl.

“I made her some tea,” Says Quinn, “And some soup from scratch.”

You blink up at her. You’ve never seen Quinn cook anything in her life. She’s all Deliveroo and fruit roll ups and toast. But the kitchen sink is awash with stray noodles and dirty pots. The smell of soup lingers.

“Thanks Quinn,” Tara murmurs, reaching out to take the bowl from her hands, “You didn’t have to do that.”

The angry, jealous demon is back. Quinn’s smile is unsettling, almost triumphant.

As if she’s out-girlfriend-ed you.

You swallow the urge to punch her in the throat.

“No, you didn’t.” You say, warily, “Tara’s allergic to MSG, you didn’t put any of that in it, did you?”

Quinn shakes her head, her smile coy.

“All natural, only the best for our girl.” Quinn says, and then squeezes Tara’s shoulder.

You glare as she cleans up the dirty plates and contemplate homicide for the rest of the evening.

When Tara’s feeling better, you’ll bring it up, you reason with yourself the next morning.

Quinn Bailey is becoming a pest, a horned up sex-pest determined to get her claws in your girlfriend.

It has to stop.

The solution?

This is where you’re a little stuck. You don’t know the solution. Strangling Quinn sounds great on paper, but not so much in practice.

Dead people don’t pay rent, that’s the only thing you know for sure.

You contemplate this over the next couple of days, between wrestling a hot water bottle for Tara out of Quinn’s hands, and almost jogging down to the corner store at the end of your block to beat Quinn for the tylenol.

Tara’s such a baby when she’s sick, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think she’s starting to enjoy this. Two women fawning over her, competing for who can nurse her the best.

And the worst part is, Quinn knows exactly what she’s doing and she wants you to know it.

She doesn’t say it, not outright, too smart to play her hand too quickly.

She grins as she spoonfeds Tara some leftover soup, flashes you a look as she dabs Tara’s sweaty forehead with a damp cloth.

She raises an eyebrow at you as Tara croaks out to her, asking for more tissues.

It makes you stew.

It makes you want to grab the kitchen knife out of the top draw and slam it through her stupid neck.

It makes you want to grab her by the hair and throw her out of the window of your seventh story apartment.

But you resist.

Let her think she’s winning.

It’ll make the victory you claw from her hands all the more sweet.

Tara’s feeling better a few days later, and with her recovery comes the first taste of victory.

Quinn’s making dinner in the kitchen - her newfound passion being culinary for your girlfriend. She hums a little, flitting between batting her eyelashes at Tara and shooting knowing glances in your direction.

“Tara,” She says, just as she’s about to pour the tomato paste into the pasta “I can’t get this jar open. Can you help me?”

Tara’s busy with her laptop, but she moves over regardless. She touches your shoulder lightly as she passes, and reaches out to take the jar from Quinn’s hand.

It pops open immediately. You roll your eyes.

Quinn beams, and as you look up, she’s running her hand over your girlfriend’s bicep.

“You’re so strong,” She flirts, brazenly, “Thanks Tara.”

Tara moves back to her laptop, unperturbed.

When it comes to attention towards her she has always been oblivious. You let out a growl so low, no-one but you hears it.

“Dinner’s up, Tara,” Quinn says, a few moments later, pulling out a couple of plates.

You peer down at your book, suddenly very interested in the words. When Quinn had asked you your plans for the evening - grocery bags in hand - you’d neglected to tell her Tara had asked you out to dinner.

Tara blinks over at her, a little confused.

“Dinner?” She asks, closing the lid of her laptop.

“Yeah,” Says Quinn with a sickly smile, “I made your favorite.”

Tara tilts her head, “Oh. Sorry, Quinn, we’re going out tonight. I didn’t realize you were cooking for us.”

Quinn stares a moment.

“That’s fine,” She says, voice a little clipped, “Only, I asked YN and she said you guys were around.”

You close your book and stand, grabbing your coat.

“Oh yeah,” You say, smacking your hand to your head, as if you’d suddenly forgotten, “Dinner. I am so sorry, Quinn. Gosh, I am so forgetful sometimes.”

Tara peers over at you, a little confused.

Oblivious idiot when it comes to girls, yes, but not with you. You see the question in her eyes and neglect to answer it.

Quinn’s eyes harden, but she doesn’t dare give up the jig. Not in front of Tara.

“It’s fine,” She says, “Maybe you can have it for lunch.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Tara says, a little absent minded as you wrap her jacket around her shoulders.

You can tell she feels bad by the way she lingers.

“We haven’t had a date night in a while, that’s all,” Tara explains. She wraps an arm around your waist and squeezes your hip, “Besides, I owe this one a dinner for taking such good care of me these last couple of days.”

She presses a soft kiss to your lips, her brown eyes warm and shimmering.

You can’t help the smile that snakes across your lips.

Quinn crosses her arms, looking unhappy.

“I seem to remember taking pretty good care of you,” She says, drawing Tara’s gaze, “Maybe you should be taking me out to dinner, too.”

Tara’s eyebrows knit in confusion. She looks at you, a little helpless, like she’s suddenly aware she’s caught in a chess match she wasn’t aware she was playing.

Bless her.

Your poor, sweet, unsuspecting girlfriend.

You squeeze her hand, wrapping an arm around her shoulder.

“

“Did you get the feeling Quinn’s mad at me?” She asks, “Maybe we should have invited her to dinner. She did make me a lot of soup.”

You tilt your wine glass to your lips, needing the rush of the alcohol to get you through this conversation.

When you set it down, Tara’s blinking back at you, with wide, brown eyes.

“Remember what we talked about a couple of weeks ago, babe?” You say, “About my conversation with Liv.”

Tara nods.

“And have you noticed it, this past couple of weeks?” You prompt, “Quinn flirting with you?”

Tara tilts her head.

“No.”

“Tara, she touched your arm and called you strong,” You say, pinching the bridge of your nose. Quinn had gone to work earlier that day, blown a kiss goodbye to Tara as she’d left.

Made sure you’d seen it.

Tara shrugs, “I’ve been in the gym, babe, I’m getting stronger.”

She flexes her bicep.

“Look, babe, that’s all muscle.” She says, proudly.

“That’s not the point, Tara,” You say, “She’s flirting with you. She’s been flirting with you all week.”

Tara frowns.

“She has?” She asks, looking a little perplexed.

Then, she pouts.

“So she was just complimenting my lasagne because she wanted to sleep with me?” She says, looking put out, “I thought she really liked my new recipe.”

“Forget about the lasagne, Tara, this is not okay.” You say, “How would you feel if she were hitting on me?”

Tara frowns.

“Not good,” She admits, “Bad. Really, really bad.”

You sigh, dropping your fork onto your plate.

“She’s going to have to go,” You tell Tara, “If she can’t respect our relationship, she can get the fuck out.”

Tara bites her lip.

“Okay, babe,” She says, a little wary, “It’s just… rent is due next month and I don’t know how easy it’s going to be to replace her.”

She squeezes your hand, a little hasty as she sees the look on your face.

“I’ll talk to her,” Tara says, leaning up to kiss you, “I’ll remind her I’m taken and not interested. And if she still tries it after that, she goes. How’s that, babe?”

Tara’s talk with Quinn happens a little later.

You climb into bed, head tilted as you hear the quiet murmur of their voices down the hall. It doesn’t sound heated, and you hear Quinn giggling as she tells Tara goodnight.

You frown as Tara enters the room.

“It’s just a misunderstanding, baby,” She says as she climbs into bed, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, “She doesn’t like me. She told me she’s just been a little clingier than usual because we’re her only friends.”

“Babe-“ You start with a huff, ready to climb out of bed but Tara’s hands grip around your waist.

“I know, I know, babe.” She assures, pressing another quick kiss to your neck, “I know you think it’s all bullshit so I told her straight up. I told her I’m in love with you and if she tries anything we’ll kick her straight out.”

You frown, turning in her arms, “Really?”

“Really.” Tara says, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips, “And I promise to keep my distance, okay babe? She can flirt until the cows come home, it’s going to fall on deaf ears.”

She snuggles into your chest, soothing your hammering heartbeat with a kiss.

“I love you. Only you.”

True to her word, Tara goes out of her way to avoid Quinn.

Gone are their cozy little sessions on the couch watching horror movies. Tara refuses Quinn’s cooking, turns down each of Quinn’s requests to hang out, or help her with homework, or whatever other brainless task Quinn can think of to get them to spend time together.

The rental market is fucked, you discover in the interim.

No way can you and Tara afford to move out, and even if Quinn did leave, it could take months to replace her.

“No,” Mindy says, point blank when you ask her, “Not unless you and Tara swear to a vow of celibacy.”

You sigh, unhappily.

“Great,” You say, slumping back into your seat, “We’re going to be stuck with her forever.”

Mindy looks over at you, taking a little pity on you.

“Why don’t you ask Chad and Liv?” She suggests, “They won’t be able to hear you fuck over Liv’s soap operas anyway.”

“I already asked,” You say, voice gloomy, “They’re in a two year contract.”

Mindy shoots you a sympathetic smile.

“You’ll find someone,” She says, “You just need to put some feelers out there.”

And so you do.

You spend the morning in class writing up the ad. You’ll put in the paper tomorrow, you figure.

When you get home, ready to avoid Quinn and spend a night snuggling in bed with Tara, Tara’s already at the door.

“Hey babe,” Tara says, bouncing up to greet you with a kiss. She smiles, lowering her voice, “Missed you. Wanna shower with me?”

You smile and kiss her.

“You know we can’t,” You say, regretfully, “Last time we used up all the hot water.”

“So let’s have a cold shower,” She suggests, her smile turning into a leer, “I’ve got other ways to warm you up.”

“Izzie, how are you? It’s been ages!” Quinn sounds from the living room. Your smile drops - you didn’t realize she was home. Tara notices your face shift, and rubs your hip, comfortingly.

“She’s been good, babe, I promise,” Tara says, “Are you sure you don’t want to shower with me?”

“I’ll start dinner,” You say, leaning in to kiss her quickly, “You go, baby.”

Quinn’s in the living room, lounging across the couch when you enter.

“Yeah, I’ve never done it before,” Says Quinn. If she’s noticed you in the kitchen, she doesn’t acknowledge you. She kicks her shoes off and lays back into the couch, twirling her hair between her fingers.

“I just can’t stop thinking about it. You know? I really want to try it.”

You pull a few potatoes from the bag and pull out a knife.

Just a little while longer, you think, trying to stop yourself from glancing over. Just a few more weeks of her and then you’d never have to see her again.

Quinn looks over, catching your eye.

As if she can tell you’re thinking about her.

And then, she smiles.

“I met a guy last night, took him home because he looked a little bit like her. Dark hair, dark eyes, short.” She says, her voice dropping to a quiet murmur, “Fucked his brains out imaging it was her on top of me. Inside me. And she will be. Soon.”

She’s looking right at you. Her voice is a low taunt, daring you to take the bait.

And you fall for it.

Hook, line and sinker.

You slam the knife to the kitchen counter, cheeks flushing red.

“That’s it,” You growl as you launch at her, “You’re fucking dead, do you hear me?”

Quinn stares a moment, her jaw slacking.

As if she hadn’t realized her taunting would finally come to fruition.

In the form of you launching to grab at the end of her hair.

You tug at it, hard, determined to make the end of your fist meet the slant of her chin. She squeals, dropping her phone as you tug her towards you.

“YN,” She cries, “Stop it, you’re fucking crazy-”

“You think this is funny?” You growl, letting go of her hair to shove her back against the couch. You swing at her - and miss - and you know you must look crazed. All wild eyes, red-faced, three weeks of taunting finally setting you over the edge, “ You think trying to sleep with my girlfriend is a game?”

“Tara!” Quin screams as you launch at her once more, “Tara, help!”

Tara’s name on Quinn’s lips - if possible, just makes you angrier. You lunge over the couch, but she stands, squealing as she ducks your advances.

You hear the bathroom door slam, and a flash of dark hair before you turn to see Tara, soaking wet, towel pressed around her torso. Her hair is soapy with shampoo and she looks dismayed as she looks at the sight in front of her.

Quinn screaming like a child and you feral. Grabbing for her with all your might.

“Baby?” She says, sounding scandalized, “What are you doing?”

Quinn lets out a sob. Teary-eyed, she barrels over to Tara and stands behind her, grabbing at Tara’s arms as if she’s her knight in shining armor.

“She’s attacking me, Tara,” Quinn blubbers out through her crocodile tears, “Make her stop, please.”

“Oh, give it a rest, would you?” You say, voice harsh, “Tears? Really? Why don’t you tell Tara what you were saying about her on the phone, huh? Why don’t you be honest for once in your fucking life and tell her what you’ve been trying to do this entire time.”

“I was talking about a girl from my Chemistry class,” Quinn says, as if you’re crazy, “Her name is Charlotte, I wasn’t talking about Tara.”

“Oh, bullshit,” You scoff, “Just admit it. You’ve been all over Tara from day one.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, you crazy bitch,” Quinn says, “Look, just because you’re insecure, doesn’t mean I’m trying to sleep with your girlfriend.”

“Enough,” Growls Tara. She wrenches her hand away from Quinn, turning to round on her. The anger within you dissipates slightly. You swallow as you’ve realized Quinn has inadvertently awoken The Rage.

“Don’t you dare talk to her like that,” Tara says, her voice hot, “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Quinn blinks at her.

“Tara, it’s fine,” You say, hurriedly, “Babe, leave it.”

And as much as you want to see Quinn get punched in the face, you don’t want The Rage to be the one to do it.

You’d paid for too much therapy to see that fucker unleashed again.

“Apologize,” Tara demands, her eyes flashing, “Apologize to her now.”

You reach for Tara’s hand, tug her back towards you, out of Quinn’s reach. Her heart is racing, her shoulders tight. You press your lips to her shoulder in an effort to soothe her.

Quinn’s face contorts. You half think she’s about to spit right in your face. Maybe take a swing at you of her own. But then her face softens.

“I’m sorry, YN,” She says, voice silky sweet, “It really was a misunderstanding. I think we’ve got off on the wrong foot. I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like I was trying to take your girlfriend from you. I’m not, I promise.”

She sounds sincere, but you see right through her.

“Alright,” Tara says, though her shoulders are still tight, “Good. Now I’m going to finish my shower, and the two of you are not going to kill each other. Right?”

Quinn nods, solemnly.

“Bedroom,” You tell Tara, “Now.”

“She’s going,” Is the first thing you say as Tara shuts the door. You’re pacing back and forth, your skin burning hot and red, “She’s fucking gone, Tara. I mean it this time. I don’t care if we have to sleep on Mindy’s couch for the next three years, I am not spending another second with her-”

Tara rubs her eyes. They’re a little red, stained with unwashed shampoo.

“Baby, why don’t you sit down for a bit?” She suggests, “Look at you, you’re all worked up.”

You turn to stare her down, anger flashing through your features.

“She was talking about fucking you, Tara,” You hiss, “Right in front of me. She was talking about how she wanted you inside her.”

Tara moves a little closer, trying to touch your arm. You shake her off to continue your pacing.

“You’re mine,” You seethe, “I don’t know what part of that is so hard for her to understand.”

“Baby-” Tara starts.

“You’re not talking me out of this, Tara,” You snap, “I want her gone. Tonight.”

Tara catches your arm. She draws you in for a long kiss.

She’s trying to settle you down.

It works.

“I’m yours,” She says, softly, “Like I already told you, you don’t have to worry about her.”

“You promised, Tara,” You say, voice agonized, “You promised if she tried anything else she’d be gone. And I swear to god, Tara - if you try to take her side-“

Tara shushes you with another kiss.

Then she draws back, her voice soft.

“Of course I’m not going to take her side, sweetheart,” Tara says, “I’m your girlfriend. I’m always on your side. She’s going. You don’t have to ask twice.”

This relaxes you a little. Tara presses another lingering kiss to your lips.

“Like hell we’re sleeping on Mindy’s couch, though,” Tara says, crinkling her brow, “Sam can lend us the money. She won’t mind.”

Sam might mind.

But it’s really the least of your worries.

“Thank you,” You say, sighing as you lean into Tara’s chest.

Tara squeezes your shoulders.

“Let me finish my shower,” She says, “And then I’ll talk to her.”

She eyes you, warily.

“Maybe you should take a walk or something, babe,” She says, after a moment of hesitation. She brushes your cheek, “You’re all red in the face.”

You frown.

“If you think I’m leaving you here with that sexed-up-piranha-” You start with a growl, and Tara draws her arms back around your shoulders.

“Alright, alright,” She concedes, “It’s okay, babe, we’ll do it together.”

But by the time Tara’s out of the shower, Quinn is long gone.

You spend the night seething, not even Tara’s gentle kisses enough to coax you out of your mood.

In the morning, you hunt through the apartment like a lion hungry for its prey but she’s nowhere in sight.

She’s stupid enough to try you, but not so stupid enough to hang around for the fallout.

When you head off to class, Tara reassures you with a gentle squeeze of your hand.

“She’ll be back here at some point,” Tara says, “As soon as I see her I’ll tell her to pack her bags.”

Economics flashes by in a rage-filled trance. You don’t even bother with your marketing paper. You’re worked up.

You just want her gone.

And so you skip the rest of your morning classes and head home.

You don’t bother smiling at the doorman, fish your keys out of your pocket in a grump.

When you get to the door, you tilt your key in the lock, fiddling around to pry the door open.

And then you hear it.

A cry - it’s Tara, and then you hear Quinn. She’s squealing again. You blink. Your mind runs rampant with the possibilities.

Tara with her knife, plowing through Quinn with the kind of ire only The Rage can bring.

Tara grunts, and it’s familiar. Your stomach lurches. You might be sick.

You know that grunt.

The indicator Tara might be plowing Quinn in a much different fashion.

Betrayal sinks deep within your veins. You fumble with the door, almost pry it off its hinges in your effort to barge through it.

It swings open, and the lump in your throat grows with the thought of what you might find on the other side of the door.

But what you see isn’t what you expect.

You blink.

Nothing could have prepared you for the sight in front of you.

“Tara,” You hiss as your jaw drops, “What are you doing?”

Tara has Quinn in a firm grip. Her legs are wrapped tight around Quinn’s waist, she has Quinn’s head between her arms in a chokehold. Quinn’s eyes are wide. She struggles desperately against Tara’s grip, eyes bulging as she tries to wrangle her way out.

The scene in front of you would be comical, if it weren’t real.

But it’s very real.

Quinn looks over to you the moment Tara does.

The sound of your voice is her escape.

Tara turns to you, grip lessening only slightly as she realizes your presence. Her brown eyes widen, the way they do when she knows she’s in trouble.

Quinn pulls herself out of Tara’s grip with a heavy gasp, almost shoving Tara to the floor.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Quinn says, voice high as she stands, “Are you actually serious right now?”

“Explain, Tara,” You say, voice flat, “Now.”

Tara looks over to you, eyes wide. She splutters as she speaks.

“She tried to kiss me, babe,” Tara says, voice aghast, “She tried to kiss me and I didn’t know what else to do.”

Quinn’s breathing heavily.

She’s scary like this. Thundering over Tara’s tiny frame like she might snap her in two.

“I throw myself at you and your first reaction is karate?” Quinn says to Tara. Her eyes are wild. She’s pissed, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Tara fires back, “I have a girlfriend.”

You throw your bag to the ground. The heavy, unsettled feeling that’s stayed with you for the last three weeks is boiling. If Quinn doesn’t leave now, there’s no telling what you’ll do next.

“Get out,” You tell Quinn, “You don’t live here anymore. Get your shit and go.”

Quinn doesn’t move.

“Get out,” You insist, “Before I kill you myself.”

Quinn shoots an angry look at Tara, before redirecting it at you.

“Fine,” She says, “You two deserve each other. Fucking Jackie Chan and Princess Prissy-”

“Out.” You snap as she grabs her purse.

She shoots you an angry glare.

“You can forget about rent,” She sneers, “And good luck finding someone else to live in this shitty apartment.”

Your palms are sweating as she slams the front door shut.

Tara looks up at you, eyes still wide, a little sheepish as you close in on her.

“I didn’t kiss her babe, I swear,” Tara promises, leaning up to grab your hands, “She leaned in and I grabbed her before she could get close.”

“I know you didn’t, babe,” You say after a long moment. Your voice softens. You brush her dark hair out of her eyes, “I know.”

She’s quiet a moment.

“I’m sorry that we didn’t kick her out sooner,” She says, “I really did just think she was trying to be my friend.”

You sigh. Tilt your face to hers.

“I know, babe,” You say, then you snort, “I can’t believe you put her in a headlock. Sam’s going to love that.”

Tara pouts.

“She deserved it,” She says, “And speaking of Sam…”

She looks up at her, eyes shimmering.

“I talked to her about the rent,” Tara murmurs after a moment, “She agreed to help us out.”

“Oh?” You say. A spark of hope sears deep within your chest.

Tara bites her lip, “There’s a catch, though. She’s going to come live with us until we find a new roommate.”

“Oh.” You say with a frown.

“You’re not mad, are you?” Tara asks, a little hesitant, “I’d tell her no, but we’re really in a pinch, babe.”

“It’s fine,” You say, after a moment, “I don’t mind living with Sam.”

Tara hums. She leans in close against you.

“And hey,” You nudge her, trying to keep the mood light, “At least I don’t have to worry about Sam trying to get into your pants.”

Tara wrinkles her nose.

You laugh.

Lean down to kiss her, deep.

Fuck you Quinn Bailey, you can’t help but think.

You hope she enjoyed her little game.

Because when it comes to Tara, you never lose.

Chapter 28 Chapter Text

a/n: it's been a wild ride. thanks for all who have come along. all hers is over, but I will still be writing gf!tara drabbles in the same universe - maybe some college oneshots in the drabble files. Until then: enjoy the final chapter! :))

As the days turn into weeks and the weeks turn into months, slowly, the pain subsides.

Your normal? It’s potentially forever gone. It shouldn’t be a surprise, at this point.

Once you’d just been a teenage girl, crazily in love with another girl.

Who turned out to be a serial killer. Who’d somehow turned you into a killer.

Who’d made you cry, and laugh and love harder than you’d ever loved in your entire life.

In the grand scheme of things - the scar on your belly is probably the least of your worries.

But that doesn’t stop you toiling on it.

It always seems to be the way, doesn’t it? Worrying about the things that don’t really matter.

You worry nonetheless.

“It’s pretty,” Tara murmurs in comfort when you’re staring at yourself in the bathroom mirror, shirt lifted slightly, eyebrows pinched in dismay.

It’s not pretty.

It’s wiry and long and stems from the tip of your bellybutton down to your navel.

“It’s hideous.” You say, voice a little fraught.

It’s hideous and permanent.

You’ll never be able to wear a bikini again. You’ll never be able to take your shirt off again without being reminded of it.

Of her.

The woman who had tormented you for weeks.

The woman who you’d tormented for weeks. The woman whose son you’d taken from her. The woman who’d repaid you in mental scars to last a lifetime.

A belly scar to last a lifetime.

“It’s beautiful,” Tara says, pressing her lips to your shoulder, “It means you’re alive.”

She squeezes your hips, then lifts her own shirt.

“And it matches mine,” She says, eyes shimmering, “Matching knife wounds. Like soulmates.”

You snort.

Because of course Tara tries to make stab wounds romantic.

But to her credit - it works.

Your heart sings.

Soulmates.

Because that’s what you are.

“Who needs a wedding ring, right?” You say, biting your lip, insecurities suddenly fading.

Tara entwines your hands, lifts the back of your hand to her lips.

“You do,” Tara says, “And you’ll have one. Soon. I promise.”

You pull back.

“Not before-“

“College,” Tara says, rolling her eyes, “I know, babe.”

You press a lingering kiss to her cheek.

“I just don’t want to be one of those couples who rush into marriage and fall apart the moment they turn twenty-one.”

“That won’t be us,” Tara whines, and then she pouts, “Plenty of high school sweethearts get married right after high school.”

You groan.

“Tara, we talked about this already-“

“I know,” Tara says, voice hasty, “I’m just excited. I want you to be Mrs. Carpenter already.”

“Mrs Carpenter, huh?” You say, ignoring the fluttery rush that blooms through you at the thought, “And what if I want you to take my name?”

Tara cocks a brow and considers this.

“I don’t care, babe, I’ll change my name to garden gnome if you want, as long as I get to be your wife.” She says after a moment.

You smile. Squeeze her hand.

“You’d suit it,” You tease, “But Mrs and Mrs Carpenter has a nice ring to it.”

Tara tilts her head hopefully.

“So, maybe a high school wedding?” She asks, voice sly, “Mrs Carpenter would look good on your college application forms.”

You press a warm kiss to her lips.

“There’s no rush, babe,” You tell her, “And I need to save up. Get you a pretty ring.”

Tara squints.

“I’m proposing first,” She says immediately, “You promised, babe.”

You roll your eyes.

“Yes, you baby, I know.”

Tara tilts her head, seemingly satisfied.

You press a kiss to her lips. She’s cured your insecurity, for now.

But a new feeling gnaws at the bottom of your stomach.

Dread.

As you realize what comes next. You try to keep your voice light. Lighter than the heavy pit at the bottom of your stomach.

“Come on,” You say, trying and failing not to sound anxious, “It’s time for therapy.”

Dr Colmann is a five foot woman with long, flowing blonde hair and piercing blue eyes.

Her office is bland. Gray walls. Little decoration.

Like she wants your attention on her.

You’d met her first, a few weeks ago. Like a pterodactyl scouting out a potential nest for her baby.

Your situation is tricky - there’s only so much you can tell her.

And you’re no doctor - but even you know surely it’s impossible to diagnose an illness without knowing all the symptoms.

“I want to get something out of the way,” You’d said after a long moment, clearing your throat.

Dr Colmann had looked over at you, pen tilted and ready to write. With all the intimidation of a woman who was about to change your life.

“I’m aware my girlfriend is…” You had paused, trying to think of the right word, “A little… possessive.”

Dr Colmann said nothing.

“I know that, and that’s why we’re looking for help.” You’d bitten your lip, nervous, “And I’m also sure the first thing you’re going to tell me is to leave her. But that isn’t going to happen. I love her. And she loves me. We’re looking for coping methods. I want to help her feel secure. But I will not break up with her.”

Dr Colmann had just listened.

Her silence, if possible, made you all the more nervous.

“She’s not abusive or anything,” You’d clarified, hastily, “She doesn’t hurt me. She just gets… jealous.”

“And what does she do when she gets jealous?” She’d asked, finally breaking her silence.

“Um-“ You’d said, voice a little high. Memories flashed before you like nightmares and you’d been entirely grateful your thoughts couldn’t be seen.

“She lashes out. Not at me. At other people.”

Dr Colmann scribbled something in her notepad. Long, wiry, black inky marks.

You’d squinted, trying to make up the words, but she’d looked back at you before you’d had the chance.

“Do you have any examples?” Dr Colmann prompted.

You paused.

You had a fair few of those.

None of which you could disclose.

“Little things,” You said, “I used to play soccer. But I had to quit because Tara thought some of the girls might become interested in me.”

You chew your lip.

“And… I was just in the hospital. She got jealous of the nurse.”

“The nurse?”

“She tried to… give me a sponge bath and Tara freaked out.”

Dr Colman stared.

You swallowed. The words out loud somehow seemed even more ridiculous than they are.

“How did she freak out?” Dr Colmann asked.

“She tried to…” You swallowed again, “She didn’t want the nurse to touch me again. Not even to change my bandages.”

Dr Colmann pursed her lips.

“I told her that was stupid,” You’d said, hurriedly, “But when she gets like that, nothing can stop her. She calls it The Rage.”

Dr Colmann tilted her head.

“The Rage?”

You’d nodded.

“Yeah. It’s like… it’s like something takes over her. Like a demon or something. Something she can’t control.”

Dr Colmann had closed her notebook. She’d looked over at you, surveying. You’d blinked back, eyes wide, surely screaming help me, or something to that effect.

Then, she smiled.

“When can I meet her?”

You’re no less nervous the second time.

You greet Dr Colmann with a tight smile, draw Tara down into the seat next to you. Your knee bobs up and down, unable to quell the tide of anxiety rising deep within you.

Please, you think, a little desperate, please help her.

As Tara and Dr Colmann exchange pleasantries, you blink. Too many times.

Like you don’t know how this is going to go. The worst case scenario flashes before you: Dr Colmann in a body bag.

Tara in a jail cell.

You in a jail cell.

Never able to touch her, or hold her, or kiss her ever again.

You need therapy, the little voice in your head leers, judgmental, not being with Tara is worse than a woman dying?

“So, Tara,” Dr Colmann says, when you’re all seated. With all the cheeriness of someone who isn’t aware you’re imagining her as a corpse.

“Tell me about The Rage.”

An awkward silence settles over the three of you.

Tara shoots a hesitant look towards you.

You squeeze her hand and nod.

Then, she looks over to Dr Colmann.

“It’s an anger thing,” Tara mumbles, not looking her in the eye, “I’ve seen shrinks before, none of them can fix it.”

Dr Colmann tilts her head.

“And what did these other doctors do?” She asks, “Anger management classes? Medication?”

“Both,” Tara says, “Nothing ever worked.”

Dr Colmann hums.

“I’ve read through your file, Tara,” She says gently, “Fourteen different therapists across the state. That’s a lot of doctors. Especially for such a young girl.”

Tara assesses her. Her face is tight, guarded. Like she’s not sure if she can quite trust her.

Dr Colmann scribbles something in her notepad.

“Lots of kids have problems with anger,” Says Dr Colmann, “But anger is just a symptom, like any other emotion. From what YN has told me, anger isn’t the problem. Sharing is the problem.”

Tara frowns.

“Plenty of children have issues with sharing,” Dr Colmann continues, “Usually, it’s the parents who stamp it out. But not always. I see in your file your sister used to bear the brunt of most of these anger issues.”

Tara folds her arms.

“Not always,” She says.

“But most of the time,” Says Dr Colmann, pointedly. She squints, reading through her notes, “It says here you attacked your sister when you were four years old because she tried to play with one of your Barbie dolls. Then again, later that week for taking a bigger slice of pie.”

“Four year olds are allowed to have boundaries, aren’t they?” Says Tara, defensively, “That Barbie was mine.”

“And YN? She’s yours too?” Asks Dr Colmann, evenly.

Tara blinks.

“She’s my girlfriend.” Tara says, diplomatically. The question is a trap, one she’s determined to avoid.

Dr Colmann tilts her head.

“And you don’t like when other people play with her? Is that right?”

Anger flickers through Tara’s features. You bite your lip, and squeeze her hand. Try to keep her grounded.

“I suppose not.” Says Tara, voice tight.

“YN told me about the nurse,” Dr Colmann says, “And the soccer team. You made her quit? Why?”

Tara looks over to you, a little helpless.

“I didn’t make her quit,” She says, slowly, like she’s being very careful with her words, “I just… suggested it. Strongly.”

Dr Colmann makes a noise of dissatisfaction.

Then returns to madly scribbling on her notepad.

Tara frowns again, looking self-conscious.

Dr Colmann looks up.

“And what if someone on the soccer team had been interested?” Dr Colmann asks, “What would you have done?”

You avert your gaze.

Kill them, is the answer.

It’s already happened.

More than once.

Tara shifts.

“I wouldn’t like it.” Tara says.

“No reasonable person would like that, Tara,” Dr Colmann prods, gently, “But what would you do?”

“I don’t know,” Says Tara, sounding aggravated, “Not let her see them anymore.”

“And do you think that’s an appropriate request?” Dr Colmann asks, “Do you really think you should have control over who your girlfriend associates with?”

Tara narrows her eyes.

“YN would do it for me,” She says, “We’re in a relationship. Relationships are about compromise.”

“That isn’t compromise, Tara,” Dr Colmann says, gently, “That’s you demanding she do something and her complying. Do you not trust her?”

Tara blinks.

She looks over to you, then back to Dr Colmann.

“Of course I do,” She says, voice soft, “It’s other people I don’t trust.”

“And what do you think these other people are going to do?” Dr Colmann asks.

“I don’t know.” Tara says, voice small, as if she’s never really thought that far ahead.

She looks like a little lost puppy. You want to wrap her in your arms and tell her you’ll never talk to anybody else again if that’s what she wants.

You resist.

Healthy wife, happy life, is what you tell yourself instead.

Dr Colmann’s face washes with sympathy.

“Jealousy is pointless, Tara,” Dr Colmann says, voice gentle, “Worrying is pointless. If YN is going to cheat on you, she’ll cheat on you. If she’s going to leave you, she’ll leave you. There’s nothing you - or The Rage can do about it.”

Tara blinks.

“I-“ She says, as if Dr Colmann has just spit in her face “What?”

Dr Colmann sits forward in her seat. Her notebook discarded.

“What you need to do - is trust. Your girlfriend loves you. Clearly. She wouldn’t be here with you if she didn’t.”

Tara frowns.

“You’re afraid of losing her,” Dr Colman says, eyebrows knit, as if Tara is a particularly difficult puzzle she can’t quite get her head around, “But why? We’ve already established she loves you. She wouldn’t be here with you if she didn’t.”

Tara blinks. You soothe a finger across the back of her hand. Resist the urge to press a kiss to her pretty forehead.

You let the doctor do the work.

“Have other people you loved left you, Tara?” Dr Colmann prods, gently.

Tara’s shoulders tense.

Dr Colmann waits a moment.

“Who?” She asks, "Your Mom? Your Dad?”

“Both.” Tara says, voice small, “They both left me.”

Your heart aches.

If you could - you’d sucker punch the two of them right now.

It isn’t an option. Instead - you grip her hand tight, offer her a small smile of encouragement as she speaks.

Tara swallows.

“My Dad tried to fix me,” Tara says, “For years. I was an angry kid. They could never figure out what was wrong with me. Eventually he just… gave up. He walked out on me and My Mom and my sister. Left us, just like that.”

“That must have been very traumatic,” Says Dr Colmann, “How old were you?”

“Thirteen.” Says Tara, “My Mom never left. I mean, she did. She threw herself into work to cope with my Dad leaving. She started going on these long business trips. But she never officially left.”

Dr Colmann offers her a small smile, “And that’s why you get so jealous, is it Tara? You’re afraid YN will leave you? Like your Mom? Like your Dad?”

Tara hesitates.

She looks down at her hands.

“Yes.” She says, after a long moment.

“Baby,” You say, voice hushed. Tara squeezes your fingers.

Dr Colmann hums.

“That makes a lot of sense, Tara,” She says, her voice kind, “That gives us something to work with.”

She closes her notepad, offers the two of you a reassuring smile.

“Your anger - we can work through that. We can figure out some coping methods. But the main problem here isn’t anger, Tara. It’s trust. I know you said you trust YN but you’re still scared. Deep down you’re scared she’ll abandon you, just like your parents did. We need to work through that.”

“Is it something we can fix?” You ask, a tad desperate.

You’d lost count of the amount of times you’d promised Tara you’d never leave her.

And each time it seemed to fall on deaf ears the moment The Rage was invoked.

“We can try,” Dr Colmann says, “I can try. And it’ll take some hard work. But Tara, it’ll only work if you’re open to it. If you’re open to changing. Is that something you can do?”

Tara thinks for a moment.

And then she nods.

“Yeah,” She says, “I want to do it. I want to be different. For you, babe,”

She squeezes your hand. Thinks hard.

“And for me too."

You’re silent the entire way home.

Tara too.

She grips your hand so hard you think it might fall off at one point. It’s only when she pulls into the driveway, she speaks.

“I didn’t scare you off, did I?” She asks, chewing her lip as she looks over at you, “With all my… problems.”

“Never, baby,” You say immediately.

You lean over to kiss her cheek. She relaxes.

“I’m going to need a lot of therapy, aren’t I?” She says, sounding worried.

You press another warm kiss to her cheek.

“I’ll be with you the whole way,” You assure, “I'm not going anywhere, Tara.”

You hesitate.

“You know I’m not like your Dad, right?” You say, “Or your Mom. I’m not going to leave you.”

Tara offers you a small smile.

“I know, babe,” She says, “At least in theory, I know.”

You press a kiss to her lips.

“I guess I’ll just have to remind you then,” you say, “Everyday. I love you. You’re stuck with me. I’ll say it until you believe me in theory and in practice.”

Tara rests her forehead against yours.

“Okay,” She says, “And keep saying it after that, okay babe?”

You kiss her.

“Deal.”

Your Mom’s still in the hospital.

Her leg had been amputated after the attack, and the procedure hadn’t been easy on her or your Dad. She’d come home after two weeks and then been admitted once more when the wound became infected.

“Are you feeling okay?” You ask her now, chewing your lip, phone pressed to your ear.

Tara finishes up the dishes, setting down the washcloth to nestle in beside you, squeezing your hip comfortingly.

“I’m okay, sweetheart,” She says, “Will you come and visit tomorrow?”

“I’ll be there,” You promise, “Sam is going to pick us up after school.”

“And everything’s alright at the house?” Enquires your Mom.

You were staying at Tara’s place until your parents came back home, a decision that was quickly agreed on, for once.

“Everything’s fine, Mom,” You assure, “Sam’s working now, but she’ll be home in a couple of hours.”

Your Mom hums.

“And Tara’s there with you, isn’t she?” She asks, sounding a little worried, “You’re not alone?”

“Tara’s here,” You say and Tara kisses the back of your neck, “You don’t have to worry, Mom.”

“Is that Tara?” Asks your Dad through the phone, a little gruff, “Can I speak with her?’

“Dad wants to speak to Tara, YN, bye for now,” Says your Mom, “See you tomorrow.”

You barely get out the goodbye before you hear your Dad’s voice once more.

“Tara?” He asks.

“It’s me Dad,” You say, and he makes a noise of vague disappointment.

You roll your eyes.

“We’re fine, thanks for asking.” You say.

“Yes, yes, I heard you speak with Mom,” He assures, “Put Tara on the phone.”

You hand off the phone to your girlfriend and pry yourself out of her grip, busying yourself with playing the leftovers into their containers.

“Hello, Sir,” Says Tara, the way you might speak to the President.

She bobs her head, eyebrows knitting.

“Yes, I did see the 49ers play.”

You huff.

Tara averts her gaze.

“Yes, I did think they played like a bunch of seven year old girls.”

You roll your eyes once more.

Tara’s newfound friendship with your Dad is better than the alternative, at least. You’d lived the alternative.

It hadn’t been much fun.

“We’re okay,” Tara promises, suddenly, “I have every door locked down, alarms set and cameras operating.”

Your Dad murmurs something down the line you can’t hear.

Tara smiles, and then reaches for your hand.

“I’m not letting her out of my sight, Sir, you don’t have to worry,” She says, “I won’t let anyone hurt her. I promise.”

She hangs up not long after.

You should be used to it by now, the flutter in the pit of your stomach every time she gets protective, or calls you hers, but you’re not.

Butterflies cascade through your belly, branching out to the tips of your fingertips where they settle. You curl in around Tara and press your lips to her neck.

She smells good. No perfume, just the tinge of her skin and her coconut body wash.

You squeeze her hips and nip your teeth against the nape of her neck.

“Oh.” Tara sighs as you slip your fingers into the waistband of your jeans. She leans back into your touch, titling your head to capture your lips.

“Really?” She asks, a little excited.

You laugh.

You’d not had sex in a few weeks, hardly in the mood. Your wound aches most days, and the rest are spent really remarkably unsexy, despite Tara’s constant reassurance you’re the most beautiful girl in the world.

She turns in your arms, pressing another kiss to your lips.

“Sam won’t be home for hours,” You murmur against her lips, “Just you and me. The way it should be.”

“Your stomach doesn’t hurt?” She asks, a little soft. Her eyes swim with concern, “We can just watch a movie, if you want?”

You shake your head.

She looks good. Her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. No makeup, her spill of freckles poignant, her pretty lips pouty and red and kissable.

“I want you, baby,” You murmur, nuzzling your nose to the side of her face, “Do you want me too?”

You don’t have to wait long for a response.

She presses a searing kiss to your lips.

“Do you even have to ask?” She says, biting her lip.

“No,” You smile, “But I want to hear you say it anyway.”

“I want you,” She says, immediately. She’s excited again, you can tell by the way her eyes flicker, “I want you all the time.”

“Come take me then,” You murmur against her mouth.

She doesn’t have to be told twice.

She leads you up the staircase, walking backwards. Her mouth fused to yours, her careful hands roaming every span of skin she can get her hands on.

She helps you onto the bed, far gentler than her usual gig of wild hands and wild lips. Instead, this time she touches you as if you might shatter into a thousand pieces.

You make an annoyed murmur as she pulls your jeans down your legs. It feels like an age, the way she softly untangles the button and the zipper. Her touch is light, so un-Tara.

When she finally pulls your legs from your jeans, you almost cry out of frustration.

“Babe, I’m not going to break.” You tell her, but it falls on deaf ears.

She’s pressing her lips to your thigh, tiny, gentle touches as she pulls your underwear down your legs at a pain-stakingly slow pace.

“Don’t rush me, babe,” She says as you reach down to help her, “And lie back. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I feel fine,” You say, tilting up to meet her kiss, “Please hurt me.”

Tara huffs, drawing back slightly.

“It’s not fair to say things like that when you know I can’t.” She pouts, “The things I want to do to you will almost certainly rip your stitches.”

Arousal coils deep in your belly.

Then annoyance.

“Now who's not being fair?” It’s your turn to pout.

Tara nudges her lips to your neck.

“I’m going to make love to you, baby-girl,” She promises, her eyes dark, “That’s more than fair.”

You tilt your head up and press a lingering kiss to her lips.

“Besides. If I rip your stitches I think your Dad will have something to say.”

You wrinkle your nose.

“Let’s not talk about my Dad when we’re getting naked, babe,” You suggest.

She hums in agreement.

And then you reach for her shirt.

“Off.”

If she’s going to spend the entire evening getting your underwear down your legs, the least she can do is give you something to look at, you reason.

Your touch is impatient.

You pry off her jeans like there’s a time limit. Strip her of her shirt and her bra until she’s hovering naked above you, making your mouth water.

And suddenly, what little patience you had left is gone.

You rise up, starling her.

“Babe-“ She protests, but you can’t be reasoned with.

You tilt her around, until she’s lying back on the mattress, nudging her bare legs apart with your thighs.

“Too slow, my turn.” You murmur.

Your lips are hungry.

You kiss her, fierce, groaning slightly as your hands get to work. They work down the curve of her hips, to her thighs. You squeeze her, a little rough, and then move your hands to take her nipples between your fingers.

She gasps, her hips involuntarily jerking up towards yours. You detangle yourself from her lips, leaning down to press hot kisses against her neck.

She threads her fingers through your hair, tugging, tugging, as she moves against you. She’s still holding back, being careful not to touch your stomach.

You can tell by the way she’s groaning it’s hard for her.

And so you make it easy.

Your lips move down from her neck to her breasts. You circle each nipple once, then twice, before you’re taking her in your mouth, curling your arms around each of her thighs.

“Baby,” Tara murmurs, “Baby, your stomach-“

You release her nipple with a wet pop and a frown.

“I’m fine, babe.” You say, and it’s true.

It aches, slightly, but it always does nowadays. No matter what you’re doing.

And if it’s her you’re doing, at least the ache is dampened by the forest fire of arousal surging through your veins.

You return to your pilgrimage down her body.

Your lips graze her belly-button, your tongue slips down over the jut of her hips to the crest of her thighs.

She sighs, seemingly satisfied as you slip down further. Moving your body to settle nicely in between her legs.

Then, she tilts her head up, biting her lip.

Her eyes are hesitant, though encompassed with want.

“Tell me if it hurts,” She says, “Tell me and we can stop. Or…re-adjust.”

You nod, impatient.

“Alright babe, I will,” You say, raising an eyebrow, “Can I go down on you now?”

Her cheeks flush red with arousal.

“Please.” She whispers.

She’s beautiful, as ever.

You press your lips against the soft skin of her inner thighs, grazing your lips just gently. You use your tongue to work your way inwards.

Your breath catches in your throat the moment you taste her. Wet, syrupy, bittersweet goodness.

You lick it up, greedy for more. You press your lips to her folds, use your hands to spread her open for you. You lose control of your tongue.

One minute you’re ready to tease, the next, you’ve worked yourself up too much.

Your tongue moves hot across her folds and then down to her entrance. Your top lip brushes her clit and she sings.

A low moan that vibrates through the room.

A moan that indicates it’s been far too long since you’ve touched her like this.

You apologize with your mouth.

Low strokes of your tongue at her entrance. The quiet murmur of your own moan as your tongue moves up to circle her clit.

Lazy, slow, movements.

Then fast.

Like you’re changing your own mind too quickly.

You settle for writing words with your tongue.

babygirl, is what you spell out against her clit.

Your name. Her name. You connect them with a heart.

And then: mine.

Tara lets out a quiet moan as you take her clit between your lips. Sucking gently until her thighs are gripping like iron bars around the side of your head and her nails against your scalp bruise.

You give up on using the alphabet.

You slip two fingers inside her, sighing as she encases you. She’s tight and wet and begging for more.

You give it to her.

Curl your fingers up in just the right way. Lap your tongue over her clit just the way she likes.

And then she’s gasping as she tightens around you. She cries your name in a breathy moan as she cums hard around your fingers and mouth.

It’s always over too quickly, you think briefly as you reluctantly slip out of her. You need to learn patience. You need to learn how to tease.

But there’s something about her, and you don’t know how she does it. You just have to give her what she wants.

She lets out a happy sigh as you climb up her body and press your lips to her forehead.

She’s still a moment, but you know better. She recovers quickly.

In less than a minute she’s shifting.

You groan as your back hits the mattress.

Her hands slip down to your thighs, gripping you like she has an agenda. And she does. You know it by heart.

First, the gentle touch of her lips against your neck.

Then she’s sliding your underwear down your legs.

She kisses your lips, slips her tongue into your mouth for only a moment. And then she’s trailing kisses down your body.

Your chest. Your breasts.

She pays special attention to your nipples. Her eyes locking with yours as she sucks, ever so gently.

Your body feels hot.

You grip her face, holding her in place.

And then she’s nudging out of your grip, dipping down to press her lips to your navel.

She doesn’t kiss your scar, but you can tell she wants to.

She looks up at you, eyes wide and vulnerable as she squeezes your hips.

“You’re beautiful.” She murmurs. She ducks down and presses a kiss to the top of your inner thigh, “You’re perfect. My perfect girl.”

“Tara,” You say, voice a little gravelly, “Baby, please.”

She doesn’t make you wait.

One moment she’s pressing her lips to your thigh. The next, she’s dipping down between your legs. You lean back onto the pillows with a sigh.

Her lips graze.

She kisses your inner thigh.

Drags her tongue over your entrance and you gasp.

Then, her lips are on your clit.

You moan as she snakes a hand around your waist. The other slips between your legs. She teases for only a moment before she’s slipping her fingers inside you. You gasp at the sudden intrusion.

It’s not as though you’re not ready for it.

You’re so wet you’d give her a snorkel if she wasn’t such an experienced sailor.

But she rides your high seas like it’s her full time job.

Lips on your clit, fingers working in and out. She squeezes your hip with her free hand. Her talented mouth is like fire. Dancing around just where you need it most.

You close your eyes and let out a low moan.

She’s being careful.

Gentle.

Loving you like she doesn’t want to hurt you.

You take back the impatience. You take back the need for more, more, more.

Your sweet, loving girlfriend is all you need.

Gentle mouth. Careful tongue.

Her between your legs, working you into oblivion like sex is just a vehicle to express how deeply she loves you.

“Tara.”

You cum with her name on your lips. Her mouth fused around your lips. You cum feeling safe and wanted and needed.

And when she’s done, she climbs back up your body and presses the softest kiss to your lips.

Nestles herself with her head in your chest. Right next to your heartbeat.

Where she should be.

You close your eyes once more.

Thread your fingers through her hair. Press the softest of kisses to her forehead.

And then she looks up at you, her pretty brown eyes shimmering.

“Love you.” She murmurs. She punctuates her words with a kiss.

Your chest is heaving. You allow yourself the moment. Body thrumming with your orgasm, the love of your life pressed tight to your side.

Tara curls into you. She waits a moment, then looks over at you,

“I’m going to be better for you,” She murmurs, “I’ve put you through hell, baby, and I know that. But it all ends now.”

You frown.

“I’m in heaven with you, no matter what you’ve done,” You say, after a quiet moment, “After what we’ve both done. Right or wrong, I love you. And you love me. And that’s all that matters.”

Tara tilts her head to yours.

She takes your lips in a long, searing kiss.

She says what she can’t with words.

You say it too.

And when you pull back, you know she understands.

She’s yours.

And you are undeniably, irrefutably, entirely:

All hers.

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Comments

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forjanna on Chapter 1 Sun 19 Feb 2023 05:48PM UTC

this is fucked up.. i love it

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1. DaisyJazz (Guest) on Chapter 1 Mon 20 Mar 2023 02:21PM UTC
  
  I just stayed up long into the night reading it. It's so fucked, but protective Tara is so hot😍
  
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PiggyBot on Chapter 2 Sat 20 May 2023 01:25PM UTC

This is so hot, but so wrong, but it's so hot.

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secret (Guest) on Chapter 5 Thu 18 May 2023 03:38AM UTC

pls update i am begging you

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TropicalHermit on Chapter 6 Sat 18 Feb 2023 04:22PM UTC

this is SO good omg!!!!!! absolutely love it

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1. Weewoo.com lol (Guest) on Chapter 6 Sun 19 Feb 2023 06:16AM UTC
  
  PLZZZ CONTINUEEEEEEEE
  
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PiggyBot on Chapter 6 Sun 21 May 2023 12:20AM UTC

I never watch the movie, but this fill like this have more plot than the movie. If so, good job.

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Account Deleted on Chapter 6 Sun 02 Jul 2023 04:12PM UTC

can Tara be g!ppp

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Weewoo.com lol (Guest) on Chapter 7 Sat 25 Feb 2023 12:35AM UTC

I don't care that I already left a Kudo, I want to leave MOREEEEE lol
I love this fic so much, Continueeeee lol

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aobasa on Chapter 9 Thu 09 Mar 2023 04:32PM UTC

This was great. If you wrote more of this I'd totally read it

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taraisascreamer (Guest) on Chapter 10 Sat 11 Mar 2023 10:40PM UTC

This is so good! I just read this whole thing in one day bc I was bored at work and I'm obsessed!
This is such a delicious dynamic, Tara is perfect as the obsessive killer and I'm loving the Reader's descent into obsession as well.
I can't WAIT to see more, I'm anxious to see if they'll kill again, maybe even together 😳
Keep up the good work! I'm DEF reading this a few more times.

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orange_orange11 on Chapter 10 Sun 12 Mar 2023 01:55AM UTC

Randomly found this great fic and read all for one day, thank you so much for this fic. I'll reread it many times in future:)

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fettucxans on Chapter 10 Tue 14 Mar 2023 12:58PM UTC

im hooked would be an understatement. so excited for more!!

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BubblyMango on Chapter 11 Wed 15 Mar 2023 12:00PM UTC

God, you wrote so fricking good. I am soo intrigued by this!!

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Djsj (Guest) on Chapter 11 Wed 15 Mar 2023 12:59PM UTC

The plot of this is so cool, loving every chapter

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musclehustle666 on Chapter 11 Thu 16 Mar 2023 08:19AM UTC

I am so obsessed with this!!!!!!

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orange_orange11 on Chapter 12 Fri 24 Mar 2023 10:31PM UTC

OMG SUCH A PLOT TWIST, lmao i guess its Wes' mom

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ohitssoapy on Chapter 12 Fri 24 Mar 2023 11:53PM UTC

Ahhhhh so good!!!

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DaisyJazz on Chapter 12 Sat 25 Mar 2023 12:39AM UTC

Ahhh I'm so excited to read this!

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1. DaisyJazz on Chapter 12 Mon 27 Mar 2023 06:46PM UTC
  
  Okay, I read it and I am so excited. I love that Tara believed the protag immediately. I'm wondering if Richie is still gonna be like he is in the movie in this timeline! Can't wait for more
  
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aobasa on Chapter 12 Sat 25 Mar 2023 07:23AM UTC

Oh this is getting good. I wonder who this new ghost face is

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Weewoo.com lol (Guest) on Chapter 12 Sat 25 Mar 2023 04:40PM UTC

This story is amazing lmaooo continueee

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fettucxans on Chapter 12 Sun 26 Mar 2023 03:42AM UTC

SHEESH now that’s a twist, this is so so good!

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forjanna on Chapter 1 Sun 19 Feb 2023 05:48PM UTC

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DaisyJazz (Guest) on Chapter 1 Mon 20 Mar 2023 02:21PM UTC

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PiggyBot on Chapter 2 Sat 20 May 2023 01:25PM UTC

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secret (Guest) on Chapter 5 Thu 18 May 2023 03:38AM UTC

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TropicalHermit on Chapter 6 Sat 18 Feb 2023 04:22PM UTC

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Weewoo.com lol (Guest) on Chapter 6 Sun 19 Feb 2023 06:16AM UTC

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PiggyBot on Chapter 6 Sun 21 May 2023 12:20AM UTC

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Account Deleted on Chapter 6 Sun 02 Jul 2023 04:12PM UTC

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Weewoo.com lol (Guest) on Chapter 7 Sat 25 Feb 2023 12:35AM UTC

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aobasa on Chapter 9 Thu 09 Mar 2023 04:32PM UTC

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taraisascreamer (Guest) on Chapter 10 Sat 11 Mar 2023 10:40PM UTC

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orange_orange11 on Chapter 10 Sun 12 Mar 2023 01:55AM UTC

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fettucxans on Chapter 10 Tue 14 Mar 2023 12:58PM UTC

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BubblyMango on Chapter 11 Wed 15 Mar 2023 12:00PM UTC

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Djsj (Guest) on Chapter 11 Wed 15 Mar 2023 12:59PM UTC

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musclehustle666 on Chapter 11 Thu 16 Mar 2023 08:19AM UTC

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orange_orange11 on Chapter 12 Fri 24 Mar 2023 10:31PM UTC

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ohitssoapy on Chapter 12 Fri 24 Mar 2023 11:53PM UTC

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DaisyJazz on Chapter 12 Sat 25 Mar 2023 12:39AM UTC

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DaisyJazz on Chapter 12 Mon 27 Mar 2023 06:46PM UTC

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aobasa on Chapter 12 Sat 25 Mar 2023 07:23AM UTC

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Weewoo.com lol (Guest) on Chapter 12 Sat 25 Mar 2023 04:40PM UTC

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fettucxans on Chapter 12 Sun 26 Mar 2023 03:42AM UTC