Gumi ★

Well, turns out Heather's older brother wasn't just some preppy dude with a nice car. He was hot. Older, confident, smug as hell — the kind of guy who looked at Rodrick like he was a stray dog he was about to either adopt or put in his lap just to see what would happen.

And Rodrick let it happen.

No one knew. He hadn't talked about it. Who would he even tell? Rodrick hadn't even looked him in the eye the next time he came around to pick Heather up — just stayed silent, face hot, like he was afraid his dick was gonna remember what happened if he said more than a sentence.

Now it's been a couple weeks.

And today, Rodrick was trying so hard to look cool.

He was waiting out front of the school with his bandmates, sprawled across the sidewalk like they owned the place, cracking jokes and pretending they weren't all probably failing. Rodrick had his jacket off his shoulders like it was a cape. Fingerless gloves, shirt unbuttoned just enough to say yeah, 'I know I'm hot,' eyeliner smudged on purpose.

It was a whole look. And you were eating it up.

Heather was taking forever. Probably reapplying lip gloss or bullying freshmen or whatever she did.

His friends were trickling off, getting picked up or peeling away on their sad little skateboards one by one. Rodrick stayed put, tapping his boot against the pavement, adjusting his chain wallet, glancing at his phone for no reason. Just vibing.

And then?

Then he heard it.

A car horn — short, sharp, and obnoxious — ripped through the air like a slap across the face.

Rodrick's head snapped up.

He finally noticed you.

Window down. Arm draped out the side, knuckles loose on the wheel. Designer sunglasses. Lip between your teeth, chewing gum slow and deliberately like you were in a goddamn commercial. The engine purred like a threat. You looked like sin on legs and a fat inheritance.

And you were looking right at him.

Rodrick froze like he'd just been caught with his pants down.

Because in a way, he had. And after what happened last time? He doesn't want to imagine having his pants down, because... well, that's obvious.

The car didn't roll past. It lingered. Engine purring low AGAIN like it was laughing at him.

Rodrick squinted against the sun, already feeling the heat crawl up his neck. He didn't move. He could've walked away, sure. Pretended he didn't see you. Kept his pride and maybe a shred of sanity.

But he didn't.

Instead, he stood there, hands shoved in his pockets, jaw clenched like he was trying to win a fight he didn't even know he was in yet.

The convertible idled in front of him, all sleek lines and ego. Then came the voice.

"Hey, loser."

You were leaned out the window, sunglasses low on your nose, gum clicking against your teeth. That grin on your face? It was unholy. Like you knew exactly what you were doing to him.

Rodrick rolled his eyes so hard he almost saw the moment you kissed him play out in the back of his skull. "Real original," he muttered, biting the inside of his cheek.

"Aw, don't pout." You stretched your arm a little farther out the window, flexing your fingers mockingly. "I figured you'd be flattered I remembered you."

"Yeah? Well, I'm not." He puffed up a little, angling his shoulder like he wanted to block your view but couldn't stop himself from inching closer to the car. "What're you even doing here?"

You popped your gum. Loud. "Picking up my bitchy little sister. What else?"

Rodrick blinked. "Heather?"

"Duh."

His brows knit together, mouth twitching like he couldn't decide between confusion or sarcasm. "She left like... fifteen minutes ago."

You tilted your head, mock confusion on your face.

"Did she now?"

You slammed your palm hard against the outside of the door with a thunk, arm still draped lazily out the window, wrist dangling like you owned the whole damn parking lot. The car jumped slightly under your force, and Rodrick actually flinched.

You didn't smile, cursing obnoxiously loud, "That bitch."

For a second, his face was all wide eyes and instinct, like a feral cat cornered behind a dumpster.

Then he burst out laughing.

Not just a chuckle—a full, mocking cackle that cracked out of his chest like he was watching a soap opera and you were the main character having a meltdown. "Holy shit," he snorted, "You look like a pissy brat. Relax, man."

You narrowed your eyes. "Shut the hell up."

Rodrick took a step forward, one arm just above the driver's window, leaning in casually and milking this new authority—like he'd won something. "Touchy, huh? Thought you were all grown up—"

"Touchy?" you cut him off sharply, voice low now, almost a growl. "You wanna talk about touchy? Last time I recall you're the kid—a kid with a raging boner."

The laugh caught in his throat.

Rodrick's mouth opened, then closed. Like maybe if he stared at you long enough, you'd take it back. His ears turned a distinct, traitorous red.

You popped your gum again, the sound sharp as a slap, and let your arm hang loose again like you weren't even phased. You stared into his face, his more rigid posture and his fist against your car. You weren't phased, god no, you saw pathetic, barely legal teens running their mouths all the time. But this time, you wanted that mouth on something else—eyeliner, cracked lips and smudged makeup all.

Rodrick, however, looked like someone had just unplugged his amp mid-set.

"Well?" You grin, eyes flicking from his face down to his studded belt then back up again, "You better run home, buddy. Before your mommy tells y' off or something?"

Rodrick didn't move.

His hand curled into a loose fist against the top of your car door, knuckles pale like he was using it to stay grounded. His eyes flicked down to the tires, then your rims, then back to your face. He was quiet for a second too long, and that silence said everything.

You raised an eyebrow. "What, cat got your tongue?"

"No," he muttered, voice tighter now, jaw clenched like he'd just bit down on glass. "Just thinkin'."

You leaned your cheek into your shoulder, blinking at him real slow. "Let me guess. Van trouble?"

Rodrick's eyes narrowed.

You huffed a little laugh, shifting in your seat. "Right. You've been walking, haven't you? What happened, Daddy find out you drive like a bat outta hell?"

He didn't respond, just gave you a glare that tried to be threatening but only made you smirk harder.

You dragged your tongue across your teeth and clicked your gum again. "I'll give you a ride."

Rodrick perked up ever so slightly, but you held up a hand like a cop issuing a citation.

"Backseat."

His face dropped.

"What?"

You popped the car door lock with a little click, lazily jabbing your thumb over your shoulder. "You heard me. You wanna get driven, you sit in the back. Can't have you near the stereo, you might get ideas."

"Are you serious?" His voice cracked with disbelief and something dangerously close to a whine.

You smiled now, mean and slow. "Dead serious."

Rodrick looked at the door, then at you, jaw working like he was chewing rocks. "You treat me like a fuckin' dog, man."

You shrugged. "Nah. I like dogs."

He muttered something under his breath—definitely a curse, probably directed at you—but he opened the back door anyway, dragging his feet like he was being escorted to a prison van.

You watched him slump into the seat through the rearview mirror. "Good boy."

Rodrick flipped you off immediately, middle finger directed at you through the mirror, leanign against the window like a little shit.

You didn't start the car.

Instead, you leaned forward, grabbing a fresh piece of gum from the center console, slow and deliberate like you were on a break instead of chauffeuring some crusty eyeliner gremlin with control issues. You unwrapped it with a flick of your wrist, popped it in your mouth, and started chewing again, slow like molasses.

Rodrick squinted at you through the rearview mirror. "Dude. What are you—?"

You turned, not your whole body, just your head, resting your elbow on the wheel like you had all the time in the world. "You want some?"

He looked at the pack, then at you, suspicious. "Is that the weed kind?"

You rolled your eyes. "No, princess. I wouldn't waste the good shit on you. Pink lemonade. Super innocent. Calm down."

Rodrick gave a little scoff but didn't move.

"Suit yourself," you said with a hum, stretching just enough to spit the old gum into a tissue and stuff it into the door pocket. "More for me."

A pause.

"Just drive," Rodrick gritted, leaning his forehead against the glass like he was trying to escape by osmosis or something.

You made a soft noise of protest, exaggerated and bratty. "Can't. Finishing my gum. Can't you see? My mouth's busy."

Rodrick groaned, leaning back again, both hands in his hair now.

You caught his eye in the mirror, that same mirror where he'd glared at you, flipped you off, bit back a dozen smartass retorts. And now?

Now his gaze was stuck. Jaw clenched. Thighs spread just a little too wide.

Your smirk curved wider, and you tilted your head.

"Unless," you said, voice dropping slow and sticky, "you want your mouth busy too?"

Rodrick stopped breathing.

Like actually. You saw it. His chest locked up, and his eyes darted from your mouth to the back of your headrest and then down to his lap like maybe that would save him. He HAD been thinking about it all week. He was basically semi-hard for days, honestly (though he'd never admit it), too embarrassed to jack it off.

You didn't turn around. Just stayed staring into the rearview, chewing your gum, letting the quiet buzz of the car hold the moment taut.

And now Rodrick Heffley looked less like a punk and more like a problem about to beg for one himself.

"Well?"

Rodrick cleared his throat. Loud. Like maybe that'd distract from the very obvious urge 

"I'm not— gay— or into...that—," he muttered.

You raised your brows at the mirror. "Cool. Neither is gum, but you've been chewing on me with your eyes since the kitchen."

"Jesus," he groaned, pushing his palms to his face. "You don't get it."

"No, I do." You smirked and let your tongue flick against the gum once. "You're not gay. You just—what? Accidentally had your tongue down my throat? Accidentally got hard? Accidentally stood in the shower for twenty minutes thinking about it, but didn't jack off because that would make it gay?"

Rodrick flinched. You grinned. You knew.

His hands dropped to his lap again. "I didn't—fuck off, dude—"

"Aw, c'mon," you crooned, turning your head just slightly now, still leaned casually against the wheel like you had all the cards. "I'm just saying. If you're gonna moan about being straight, you might wanna stop looking like you're one lip-bite away from crawling up here and asking me to fuck you."

He scowled, flustered, but didn't deny it.

You let the silence crawl back in, slow and viscous, like syrup in the heat. Then, softly but it wasn't meant to soothe him or anything—the exact opposite actually,

"Unless that's not what you want. Maybe you don't wanna fuck. Maybe you just wanna suck."

Rodrick blinked, almost spluttering over nothing. "What the hell—"

"Not a bad option." You popped your gum again. "Start slow. Feel it out. Literally. Could be an experiment. You're in high school, right? Great time for science."

Rodrick looked like he might short-circuit. He opened his mouth. Closed it.

He's a highschooler, a dude at that too—sex and porn is meant to be funny, obnoxious and excite him. Not nervous, god why is he nervous?

Then, very softly, his gaze dropped and he muttered something that sounded like:

"...I mean—not...I dunno..."

It wasn't a yes. But it wasn't a no either. You could work with that.

You reached up and killed the engine. The quiet thud echoed loud in the space between you. You unbuckled your seatbelt, smooth and slow, then rolled your neck like you had time to kill.

Then, one hand shoved casually in your pocket, you stepped out of the car.

Rodrick straightened in the backseat, heart pounding like the drums he thought made him cool.

And you rounded the side, steps easy. Measured. Like you weren't about to absolutely ruin him, "Let's take care of that week-long boner, loser."

The second the door clicked shut behind you, Rodrick had to stop himself from backing away, cursing at first but shut up immediately. No time wasted — your fingers curled around his collar, tugging him forward until your mouths collided in a kiss so messy it knocked your teeth together. He tasted like Coke and teenage desperation, and you still tasted like that gum you'd been chewing, artificial mint and sugar, sweet and sharp on his tongue. It made his knees weak.

He leaned back against the seat, trying to match your rhythm, but he was all nerves and fidgeting hands, kissing like someone who'd had a few hot dreams and maybe tried it once behind a garage in seventh grade. Your lips moved slow, dragging over his in a way that had him chasing after the contact, heat rising up his neck. Every time your teeth scraped his lower lip, he gasped into your mouth like you'd stolen all the air from the car.

You kissed like you were used to this. Like you knew how to melt someone down to mush without even breaking a sweat. And Rodrick, poor Rodrick, who always tried so hard to look cool with his flannels and black nail polish and that stupidly smug walk, was crumbling already.

You gripped the sides of his unbuttoned flannel, easing it off his shoulders, one arm at a time, and he let you, blinking up at you like you were something holy and dangerous. Underneath, his vintage Iron Maiden tee clung to his chest, collar stretched and sleeves rolled, like he'd tried way too hard to look effortless that morning. He wasn't pulling it off now—he looked flustered, cheeks pink and lips slick, like he'd been caught in something too big for him.

He shifted, sitting up slightly, and fumbled at the button of your jeans. His fingers were trembling. He missed the catch the first time, then the second. His nails scraped your waistband. You didn't help—just watched, still half-straddling him in the cramped backseat, licking your lips like you were enjoying the show.

"Take your time," you said, slow and syrupy, practically crooning it against his jaw.

Rodrick froze. Looked up at you, eyes wild, like you'd just pulled a gun on him. His face twisted, flustered and furious, and he scoffed, "Fuck you. You're takin' the piss right now."

You laughed, quiet and rich, leaning in until your forehead bumped his. "Nah," you whispered, your lips brushing his again, so soft it made him twitch. "I just like watching you try."

His breath hitched. You kissed him again—this time slower, letting him taste the gum still on your tongue, sticky-sweet and minty. It pissed him off on how good it tasted—he made a mental note to actually take the gum next time you offered. 

Next time? God, why is he even thinking about a "next time"?

It took Rodrick a solid thirty seconds to finally undo your belt. He kept tugging at the wrong loop, too forceful, too clumsy, and you leaned your weight back on your palms, watching him like this was entertainment. Maybe it was. His brows were drawn together, lips parted in concentration. When he finally got the tongue of the belt through the buckle, he let out a breath like he'd just cracked a safe.

The zipper was easier—he tugged it down in one slow motion, the sound loud in the heated silence of the car. He paused when your cock was free, stiff and flushed, the tip already glistening. His eyes widened just a little. You didn't miss it. You never did. You've done this a few times before, but he clearly hasn't even seen porn of two dudes before.

"You're a guy too, Rodrick," you said, voice warm with amusement. "You know what feels good, right?"

He nodded, hesitant. One hand cupped you awkwardly, his fingers twitching like he wasn't sure where to start, then finally curled around your cock. His touch was cautious at first—slow pumps, like he was still testing the waters. But it only took a few strokes before he found a rhythm, the kind that made your hips jerk slightly forward into his hand.

"Mmph," you exhaled, half-laughing, half-moaning. "Damn. You're pretty good at this."

That did it—Rodrick's cheeks lit up instantly, a flush rising from his collar to the tips of his ears.

You tilted your head, grin sharp. "So how often do you jerk off to get this good at handling dick, huh?"

He choked on air—literally coughed, pulling his hand back like your cock had burned him or something. "What the fuck—?!"

You laughed outright this time, low and throaty, grabbing his wrist and guiding it back to your crotch. "Relax. I said you were good. Don't go getting all shy on me now."

Rodrick muttered something again—something that might've been fuck off or I hate you or Jesus Christ—but he was still holding you, still moving his hand, and you were still panting through your teeth, barely holding in a groan.

"Don't just use your hands," you said slowly, your voice going silkier, heavier. "Use your mouth. C'mon."

His eyes snapped to yours like you'd just pulled the emergency brake mid-highway. "What?!"

You just tilted your hips forward, cock tapping lightly against his lower lip, a bead of precum catching on the edge of his mouth. "C'mon. I've seen how you stare. Open up. I'll tell you what to do."

He was frozen. And then, so slowly it was almost comical, his lips parted, breath trembling.

"Keep your head down. Windows are glass, y'know?" you murmured, your fingers threading into his hair, guiding his head down to hollow out his mouth. "Now choke on something for real, babe."

Rodrick pulled off for a moment, panting and wet lips against your tip, brows furrowed in a weak glare, "Call me babe again, I'll bite your fucking dick off."

You huffed a laugh, "Sure, sweetheart."

And before he could snap back, you nudged his mouth open again with a firm, guiding hand on his scalp.

He went back down slower this time. Less out of hesitation—more like...curiosity. His lips wrapped around your tip, warm and tentative, and you felt the way he breathed through his nose, nostrils flaring as the weight of your cock settled onto his tongue. The taste hit him in waves—salty, bitter, heady—and his whole face twitched like he didn't know if he hated it or if he wanted more.

He tried to hide it. Tried to pretend he was indifferent. But you saw the way his lashes fluttered, the way his eyes briefly closed when you twitched in his mouth. That tiny throb of your cock against his tongue? He felt it. And it made him shift in his seat.

He was getting hard.

You caught the way his thighs pressed together. How his hips squirmed, almost guilty, like maybe if he clenched up tight enough his dick wouldn't be leaking against the inside of his jeans right now.

You groaned, low and pleased, hips barely tilting forward. "That's it. Good, fuck..."

Rodrick didn't answer. Couldn't—not with his mouth full, and your fingers tugging lightly at his hair to keep him there. But his eyes flashed up at you, defiant and pink-cheeked, watery with effort. You were thick, and he still wasn't used to it. His jaw ached, his throat was trying to suppress a gag, and yet he didn't pull off again.

You gave a shallow thrust—just enough for him to feel your cock stiffen inside his mouth.

He shuddered.

Rodrick groaned, and the sound vibrated down your length. He didn't want to answer. But his mouth stayed open. He sucked back down, slower, deeper this time, spit dragging from his chin to your base.

He liked it.

He hated that he liked it.

And you could feel the tremble in his thighs when your cock bumped the back of his throat again—could see the way he rocked ever so subtly into his seat, chasing a little friction, desperate not to make a sound.

You noted it through hazy vision, furrowing your brows to make use of it. A little surprise never hurt anyone, right?

Your hips twitched once—just once, experimentally—up into the wet heat of his mouth. And that was all it took.

Rodrick flinched with a surprised grunt, the motion nudging him deeper, forcing him to adjust and—fuck—he didn't back off. He actually followed through, the shift in pressure making your thighs tense.

"Oh—fuck..." you groaned under your breath, fingers tightening in his hair, guiding him just enough, but letting him choose to keep going.

And he did. Mouth working messily and drooling now, rhythm shaky but there, flushed red from his ears down his throat, like sucking you off was getting him off too—and it was. His own hips kept shifting like he didn't know what to do with the ache in his jeans. Because he really didn't—the closest thing he's ever been to cumming untouched was a wet dream.

You caught it just between the messy fold of his clothes —the way his hand hovered near his waistband, unsure, then gave in.

Your hand clenched against the car seat. The air felt thinner, charged, like it was vibrating around you both.

And when it hit, it hit hard. Your breath shuddered out, spine arching just a little, and Rodrick jerked at the taste, the sudden strange texture filling his mouth, but didn't pull back. Didn't flinch. He stayed right there, like he didn't know what else to do except ride it out with your cock in his mouth.

A second later, he slumped forward with a stifled gasp, forehead thudding lightly against your thigh. His mouth still damp. His belt half undone. He was breathing like he'd just sprinted a mile, and the way he clung to your leg like it was anchoring him made your lips twitch into a slow, smug smile.

His face was pink. Embarrassed and glowing all at once.

You ran a hand through his sweaty bangs, barely brushing your knuckles over the back of his neck.

"Damn," you muttered, catching your breath. "You're wayyy too good at that for a guy who's not into dudes."

Rodrick groaned into your thigh, trying to burrow and hide his face. "Shut up."

You couldn't. Not when he looked so cute— his face was a warm, flushed colour and eyeliner that began to run after sucking your cock pricked a few tears at his eyes.

You noticed the stickiness against the loosened waist of his jeans, his hips twitching in tiny, involuntary aftershocks. A huff of laughter slipped out of you before you could stop it—mean, but kind of stunned, too.

He's still catching his breath like he's fighting off the shame. You take the bait, whistling slightly as you motion to the crotch of his jeans where he'd cum, "Didn't even have to touch you, damn. Liked it that much?"

Rodrick groaned loudly, dragging the sleeves of his discarded flannel over his face like he could disappear inside them. His whole face went about as red as the knobs on your car radio, and when he didn't snap back right away—not with a joke, not with a shove, not even a middle finger—you blinked.

He was mortified. It would be too easy to push him further, but you decide to let up this time.

Your teasing tapered instantly. "Hey," you said, voice gentler now. Your fingers skimmed along his shoulder, grounding. "Hey, I'm not—"

He didn't lift his head, "Oh, fuck off."

You shifted, letting your palm settle between his shoulder blades. "Look, I'm not gonna keep going if you're freaking out."

"I'm not freaking out," His voice was still muffled into your jeans, but more steady, holding more vigour now, "Just. Shut the fuck up."

You did, scoffing and half-relieved his bite came back. "...You think your parents'll care if you stay out a few more hours? Or are you some curfew princess."

His head tilted, just slightly. "What?"

"Just asking," you shrugged, voice casual, but your thumb brushed behind his ear, playing with the fake cuff on them.

Rodrick's still reeling from the mess he just made, but he lifts his head, blinking at you. His face is a mess of emotions—still a little red but some sort of gratitude that you aren't totally making fun of him at least.

"Yeah..." he mutters, still avoiding your gaze. "They're not home for a while."

You give him a wink, rubbing your thumb on his bottom lip now—feeling the stickiness of it from whatever of your cum he couldn't swallow. Or rather, coughed back up when trying to. "I'm staying my whole break here this time. If you're up for it."

Rodrick's eyes narrow in warning and disbelief. "You really are an asshole."

You shrug, still chewing your gum and leaning back in your seat. "I'm not heartless though."

He props himself up on his elbows, cogs turning in his head. Did you mean what he thought you meant?

 "What?" You look at him, mumbling for the first time since you've met him. "I got hobbies besides being college fuckboy-trash."

Rodrick stares at you, eyes narrowed like he's trying to figure out if you're screwing with him again—but there's a twitch at the corner of his mouth, betraying the smile he's fighting. He exhales a shaky laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. "Yeah, well...your other hobbies better include food. I'm starving."

You reach for the keys from your back pocket, gum snapping between your teeth in a smile you pray he didn't catch. "Guess it's your lucky night, Heffley. Hope you like drive-thru food and post-nut clarity."

♡ Please do not modify, steal, plagarise or post on other platforms without asking. Thank you!