You remind yourself that he has retired. That he has been pardoned. That he has contributed research, stability, cooperation. That this is no longer the era of whispered war stories and forbidden experiments.

Still, the name sits heavy in your throat.

Orochimaru.

You lift your hand and knock. The sound echoes more than it should.

For a moment, there is only silence. Not the awkward kind, but the deliberate kind, as if the house itself is considering you. You become acutely aware of the folder in your hands labeled with Mitsuki’s name, of the neat bullet points you prepared regarding his academic excellence and his curious social detachment. You are early by perhaps ten minutes. You debate fleeing and returning precisely on time.

The door opens before you can entertain the thought further.

He stands framed in the doorway with a composure so complete it almost feels rehearsed, though nothing about him seems strained. His presence is quiet and immovable, like still water with unknown depth. He is dressed simply, robes falling in pale, fluid lines that soften his tall, slender frame. His skin is luminous in the low light, almost porcelain in its smoothness, and his features are refined in a way that makes it difficult to assign him to anything so narrow as handsome or beautiful. He is both, and neither, and something else besides.

His eyes settle on you.

Golden. Slitted. Unblinking for a fraction too long that its slightly unsettling.

And yet his expression is gentle.

“You must be Mitsuki’s homeroom teacher,” he says, tilting his head slightly. His voice is velvety you feel as though you could listen to it for hours. It carries warmth, even kindness, but there is an undercurrent beneath it that you cannot quite place. Something analytical. Something that feels as though you are being studied even as you are being welcomed. With no ill intent, of course.

You realise you have not answered.

“Yes. I am. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” you reply, mentally scolding yourself for how tight your voice sounds.

“Of course,” he says smoothly. “Please, do come in. You are a little early, but I do not mind. Punctuality is… refreshing.”

He steps aside with a fluid grace that feels almost theatrical in its restraint. As you cross the threshold, you notice the scent first. A subtle blend of dried herbs and something clean, neutral, almost medicinal but softened into comfort. It is pleasant, grounding in a way that unsettles you further because it contradicts every warning story you have ever heard.

The interior is immaculate. Minimalist without feeling empty. Shelves lined with books and carefully labeled containers. Plants with their leaves glossy and healthy. There is no clutter.

He closes the door gently behind you.

“Please,” he gestures toward a seating area, elegant yet understated. “Make yourself comfortable.”

You sit, careful, conscious of your posture. He takes the seat opposite you, folding himself with effortless poise. He rests his hands loosely in his lap and regards you with polite attentiveness.

“I trust Mitsuki has not caused you any… difficulties,” he says, the faintest curve touching his lips.

You blink, gathering your professionalism. “Not at all. He is exceptionally intelligent. One of the strongest students academically. I did want to discuss his social integration, however. He participates, but he seems… observant. Reserved.”

“Ah,” Orochimaru hums softly, as though you have confirmed a hypothesis. “He has always been inclined toward observation. Curiosity is a trait I encouraged.”

There is pride in his tone, but not boastful.

As he speaks, you cannot help noticing the symmetry of his face, the sharpness of his jaw softened by the way he tilts his head when listening. He maintains eye contact without wavering, and it should feel respectful, but instead it feels like standing beneath a microscope. You are acutely aware of your breathing, the way your fingers press against the folder in your lap.

“You seem nervous,” he observes lightly, not accusatory, simply factual.

Your heart stutters. “I… I meet many parents. This setting is just unfamiliar.”

His smile deepens by a fraction. It does not reach his eyes, though it is not cold. Merely knowing.

“That is understandable,” he replies. “My past reputation tends to precede me. I assure you, I have no interest in revisiting it. My priorities are considerably more domestic these days.”

The way he says domestic is almost amusing, as though he is testing the word for flavor.

You swallow. “I appreciate that.”

“And I appreciate your dedication,” he continues, voice softening further, a small smile on his face. “To visit each student personally speaks to your commitment. Mitsuki benefits from attentive guidance.”

The compliment is delivered with such polished sincerity that it almost disarms you completely. Almost.

There is a sense that he is enjoying this exchange in a way you cannot fully decipher.

He leans back slightly, elegant and at ease.

“Now,” he says smoothly, “please. Tell me everything you have observed about my son.” And as you begin to speak, you cannot shake the distinct sensation that you are the one being evaluated.

You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to relax into the chair, the folder balanced neatly on your lap.

The discussion about Mitsuki flows smoothly at first. You describe his studies, how diligent he is, the way he approaches problems logically, always precise, always polite. You mention how socially he’s a little aloof, how he often observes rather than participates, and Orochimaru listens with an expression that is polite, warm, yet unnervingly intent. Every so often, his smile flickers as though he’s storing away every little detail you mention, filing it with perfect memory.

You bring up the cafeteria incident almost casually. “He, um… once tried to swallow a boiled egg whole,” you say, unsure whether to laugh or frown, picturing the bewildered cafeteria staff. “He said… he just wanted to see if he could.”

Orochimaru tilts his head slightly, still smiling. “Ah,” he murmurs, voice smooth, each word deliberate. “Yes, a fascinating experiment in—table manners and the practicalities of human consumption. One must ensure proper mastication; the esophagus is not so forgiving.” His tone is light, almost teasing, but the precision in his observation is clinical, almost like a scientist discussing a rare specimen.

You pause, the words hanging between you. It is an awkward silence, punctuated only by the subtle creak of the chair as he leans back slightly. You clear your throat, unsure where to look, feeling the gentle weight of his scrutiny without it being oppressive.

Gradually, your gaze drifts around the room. The space is intimate, functional yet elegant. Dark oak furniture gives it a grounded warmth, the kind of polished wood that feels almost reassuring. Shelves line the walls, neat and deliberate, and then you notice them—rows upon rows of bottles. Some are familiar, labeled for drinking, their contents amber and clear, glinting in the soft light. Others are medicinal, their labels precise and clinical. And a few are unlabeled, small, curious vials that seem to hum with unknown potential. Your eyes linger, drawn in despite yourself.

Orochimaru follows your gaze and smiles, noticing your interest. “Ah,” he says softly, as if reading your thoughts, “you’ve seen my collection. Each bottle serves a purpose. Some are for study, some for taste, some for experimental application. The ethanol content varies precisely, the pH controlled. Medicinal extractions require exact ratios — some are for ingestion, some for topical observation, and a few remain untested, pending evaluation of physiological effects.” His voice is calm, almost scholarly, the way one might discuss chemical reactions rather than beverages.

You feel your cheeks heating, realizing you’ve been staring longer than polite, and the blush spreads fast across your face. Your words come out in a stuttered, embarrassed jumble. “I… I, um… I enjoy… trying different drinks… for research purposes,” you manage, the rationalisation barely convincing even to yourself.

Orochimaru’s smile deepens, subtle amusement in his eyes. He rises from his chair, movements fluid, precise. “Please, then,” he says softly, gesturing toward the seat across from him, “let me offer you some tea.”

You hesitate, unsure if he means just tea. There is a softness to his tone, a gentle insistence, but still something in his eyes that makes your stomach twist.

He tilts his head, expression innocent, the faintest playful lift to his smile. “Or perhaps… a drink?”

Your breath catches. Your cheeks flare even hotter, and you can feel yourself fumbling the words. Finally, you let out a soft, embarrassed sigh, nodding. “Yes… of course. Thank you.”

The tension in the room shifts slightly, warm and charged, leaving you acutely aware of the space, of the dark wood, of the neatly lined bottles, and of the impossibly calm, impossibly composed man standing before you, smiling. Because just a drink or two wouldn't hurt.

The tea — or perhaps what you now think of as “a drink”— slides down a little too easily. You are careful at first, pretending to sip slowly. But the warmth spreads faster than you expect, and soon your words are more… free.

You find yourself talking about Mitsuki in ways you hadn’t intended. Little anecdotes tumble out, loose and giggling, the sentences bending over each other, messy but affectionate. “I mean, he really does try, you know? Like, he tried to eat a whole boiled egg at lunch one time. Whole! Like a—like a snake!” You laugh at your own description, the sound too loud in the otherwise quiet room. “Can you imagine? Just stuffing it and—oh gosh, the staff looked mortified!”

Orochimaru doesn’t correct you. He doesn’t comment on the absurdity or the potential danger of swallowing a hard-boiled egg whole. Instead, he watches. He tilts his head slightly, one hand pressed lightly against his temple, the other resting on the arm of his chair. His smile is soft, almost amused, but utterly still, impossible to read. He doesn’t sip from his own cup—or perhaps he does, but if he does it leaves no trace, no warmth, no reaction. He wouldn’t get drunk even if he tried. You know, somewhere in your tipsy ramble, that it’s impossible for him to be affected. He has altered himself, genetically, perfected himself to a degree you cannot even comprehend. And yet… watching you, he leans in the faintest fraction, eyes glimmering with something closer to delight than amusement.

“Quite the observation,” he murmurs quietly, and you almost spill your drink laughing. “Mitsuki’s table manners leave room for… experimentation.”

You tilt your head back, letting out a hiccupy chuckle. “Experimentation! Ha! That’s exactly it!” You wave your hands like conducting some invisible orchestra, your cup wobbling dangerously. “He—oh, he’s brilliant. Totally brilliant, but socially… ahhh, not quite there, y’know?” You laugh again, louder this time, and accidentally slam the cup down harder than intended, the liquid sloshing up the sides.

Orochimaru leans forward, voice smooth, measured, yet a touch amused. “You are rather animated when you are intoxicated,” he says softly, letting the words hang in the air like velvet. “The alcohol has affected you rather… pleasantly.”

You nearly tip the bottle trying to giggle at that. You clutch it with both hands, wobbling slightly in your chair, face burning a deep pink. “P-pleasantly? Me?!” You laugh, then hiccup again, swaying a little, cheeks still hot. “Oh my gosh, you’re… you’re too kind!”

He tilts his head again, those impossibly calm eyes watching you. “Perhaps… you should not drink any more.” The suggestion is gentle, almost casual.

You blink, tipsy enough that your grin falters for a second, the warmth spreading into a mix of embarrassment and relief. “Yeah… yeah, probably a good idea,” you murmur, setting the cup down more carefully this time, cheeks still flushed, stomach fluttering from the drink.

"Perhaps you should also go home, Miss, or you may come to some... regretable actions." You hiccup, almost offended and embarrassed.

"Regretable? I've done many regrettable things already." You mumble and stare down at the empty porceiln cup, "This being some of the less dire things..."

"Oh?" Orochimaru set the bottle where you couldn't reach it and leaned over, much more interested. "Those being?"

You laugh at yourself, tracing a finger carefully around the rim of your empty cup, "I regret ... wasting my time on blind dates. And clumsy, obnoxious men!"

You dissolve into giggles as his eyes widen ever so slightly, "And I also regret wearing a jacket this evening."

You fumble with the buttons of your jacket, unable to take it off without tugging at your blouse underneath, "Because... It is far too warm for a jacket, all of a sudden —"

The very edge of your bra peeks out as your top few buttons come undone. Orochimaru barely shifts, "Allow me, if it is difficult."

"It's — its quite alright..." You begin to say, only to hear a very slight hissing beside you, sliding up your legs, tummy then settling between your cleavage. You open your mouth to shriek in surprise but quickly enough:

"Please do not be alarmed."

You immediately shut up, resorting to small trembling motions instead, eyes flickering between Orochimaru and the snake upon your skin, stroking up and down the cotton of your blouse.

Orochimaru leans on the table with one hand, tall, impossibly still, the other lifting a tiny, colorless vial with deliberate care. His movements are calm, measured, yet every detail—every glint of the dim light against his pale skin, every slow tilt of his head—feels like it’s designed to make you ache and shiver in anticipation. He smiles, the eerie calm of him sending chills down your spine, lips curling just slightly as he places the vial carefully on the table between you.

“I apologise,” he murmurs, each word soft but deliberate, his chair scraping barely at all as he approaches. “I couldn’t resist. You are far too interesting… too tempting… to study.” His eyes glint faintly in the dim light, unnerving, almost hungry, though his expression remains polite, even gentle.

The snake slithers again, brushing along the curve of your waist. Your body reacts without permission—heat spreading, fingers gripping the cotton of your blouse, dragging along the fabric in automatic, trembling motions. You open your mouth to protest, to demand he stop, but the words catch in your throat, leaving nothing but soft, shaky breaths.

Your fingers graze a snake's body — and then the hiss of others fills the room. Shadows in the dim light twist, and more snakes appear from places you didn’t even notice.

You freeze entirely, chest heaving, staring at him with wide eyes, cheeks burning as the heat between your thighs twists and folds in on itself. You are trapped—bound lightly but completely, with his snakes everywhere, eyes flickering with his calm, unnervingly precise observation.

“Staying calm is better, Miss,” he murmurs, voice hypnotic and smooth. He hooks a finger into the thin fabric of your bra, tugging it down off your breasts to expose them. A snake comes up and gently bites the nipple, enticing a moan from you. A sound you didn't even know you could make.

He smiles, slowly rubbing his thumb over the curve of your breast. “Every reaction is… fascinating.”

You can only bite your lip, trembling, hands hovering over the constraining coils around your wrists, the room spinning just slightly as you feel the effects of whatever he slipped into your cup intensify.

"Would you like some more?" He muses, holding and squeezing your jaw open. You fumble with sounds of useless struggle for a moment as he tips the rest of the vial down your throat and your vision blurs. Your mouth can't hold it all and it spills down your lips, down your neck in a thin stream.

He hums before trailing it down with a finger, down your neck, chest before his slender, white fingers landed on your waistband.

"Please forgive me, for ruining your clothes." He digs into the elastic of your waistband, ripping it down your hip until your dress pants fall either side of your thighs in two parts. A snake slithers around your leg, tugging off your underwear, leaving your throbbing slit exposed to the cool air.

"I didn't realise what a... mess... you could make," He slowly dips the tips of his fingers between your folds, gently rubbing up and down, missing your clit until it began to ache. Your back arches off the chair, only tightening the restraints. "Tell me, Miss, how does it feel."

You buckle forwards, head into his body, inhaling in his scent. He smells dizzingly good. The body of the snake throbs against your folds, his slender, nimble fingers flicking at your clit.

"A-AH —!" You can't help it anymore, body numb, unable to struggle from the drugs. He's amused, the sound in the rooom shifting from the soft rustle of the fabric to the wet, lewd squelch of his long fingers burred deep in your dripping cunt. Almost gouging into you, casually, his knuckles nudging your puffy clit as you stretch around them.

Every time he pulls his fingers all the way out, there's a lewd, wet pop that makes you blush, "You can hear, it too, no? Isn't it fascinating —" He stops mid-sentences, shoving the two dingers back in, right up against that gummy spot inside you, making your vision go white and tears prick at your eyes. " — how beautiful you look? While sounding so crude and disgusting?"

"O—Orochimaru-sa-"

"If it is not a moan, I'm not interested in what you have to say, Miss," He smiles, leaning over, face close to yours that you get chills, darkness casting over his face.

He twists his fingers inside you, letting a snake come up and bite your nipples, almost drawing blood. The snakes don't stay still; scales rasping against your sensitive folds, sliding between your slit and mixing with the friction of his fingers.

Its not enough. You're in tears, it's not enough...

He watched the frantic twitching of your thighs with clinical fascination. You're going to finish, going to cum if he keeps up but —

He withdraws his fingers with an agonising, fluid slowness, leaving you with a lewd, wet pop. They pull with long, glistening strings of your own slick.

You groan, actually mewling and begging in restless breaths for this captor to give you some sort of release.

Between your legs, you are a disaster, a fucking embarrassing disaster; your slit is swollen a dark, angry red, pouting open and leaking a steady, drip of cream that spatters onto the already-soaked upholstery. The air hitting your exposed cunt, fresh torture, making your clit throb with a dull, heavy heat.

"Look at the state of you," he murmurs, his voice a soothing, terrifyingly kind caress. He lifts his hand, the one slicked to the wrist in your juices, and moves it with elegant precision. He doesn't touch you again; instead, he simply holds his fingers near your face, tracing your slick lips with them. "Sopping wet, shaking like a common animal, and utterly ruined. It’s quite a beautiful transformation, wouldn't you agree?"

He leans in, strength deceptive as he hooks his arms under your knees, around your waist and slides you onto the table you'd just sat at. The sudden shift in gravity sneds the world spinning into shimmering shadows; the aphrodisiac in your blood turns the vertigo into a sickeningly sweet rush, making your head loll helplessly against his shoulder.

He doesn't need to bind you this time; the drug has turned your bones to lead and your mind to mush. He casually gestures, and a thick, mottled serpent glides up the leg of the table, coiling firmly around your left wrist and pinning it flat against the dark oak, beside your head with a thud. Another snake, smaller and more agile, settles over your right breast, its weight a heavy, pulsing pressure that makes your nipple ache and swell as the reptile’s scales rasp over it. You are laid out, your legs falling open in a wide, shameful V, exposing the dripping wreck of your pussy to his clinical, mused gaze.

The sensation of being stretched, even that tiny bit, is enough to make your hips buck off the table, with a pathetic, broken moan. He keeps only the tip buried inside you. He watches you writhe, your head thrashing against the table as the drug makes your head spin and throb.

"There is no need to rush," he murmurs, his voice a low, vibrating hum that seems to echo inside your own chest. He begins to move, his pace agonizingly steady. "Please don't move so much. You will tire yourself out."

Yopu slow, gulping back saliva pooling in your mouth. Each thrust is deep and deliberate, bottoming out against your cervix with a dull, wet thud that makes your vision blur. Your mind's drowning in the chemical heat of the drug.

He watches your drooling face, his golden eyes tracking the way your features twist in a mask of drugged-out ecstasy. With a calm, eerie precision, he withdraws two fingers from where he had been bracing himself against your hip. They are dripping, slicked to the knuckle with the translucent cream your pussy is dripping around his cock. He simply presses them against your lips, prying your mouth open. He hooks them over your tongue, pulling down slightly to stretch your jaw.

You can’t help it. Between the drug and the overwhelming sensation of him fucking you, you lose control of your own body. You begin to drool, a thick, silver string of saliva mixing with the juices on his fingers and trailing down your chin in a lewd, messy line. He watches the liquid spill over his pale skin with a look of quiet, scientific satisfaction.

The snakes hiss around you. The one coiled around your breast tightens, its scales rasping more harshly against your swollen nipple, while the one on your wrist keeps you pinned. You are a complete wreck— limbs heavy, pussy raw around his slow, punishing cock, your mouth full of his fingers as you choke on your own desperate whimpers.

Each thrust a deep, blunt pressure that made your insides spasm in a desperately. Until it hit hard enough, a wet thud against your guts that made you cum. Your vision shattered into white noise as your pussy clamped down on his cock. All you could remember, really. In that moment of total ruin, you felt the hot, pulsing stickiness seep into your womb, until you felt painfully, perfectly stuffed.

Orochimaru stands over you, composed as if he hadn't just spent the last hour methodically ravaging your body. He watches the way your chest heaves, his gaze lingering on the translucent trail of his fluid as it escapes your twitching thighs. With a slow, elegant motion, he reaches down to brush a sweat-dampened lock of hair from your forehead, his own hair perfectly intact.

"I would rather you remember this, Miss," he murmurs, his voice a soothing rasp, nothing more than a musing, "The fact you're still concious is interesting. It would be a shame to lose it. But I doubt you'll forget it."

He leans over, his throbbing cock resting against your thigh as he studies your face with a small, genuine smile, "Right, Miss?"

Please leave suggestions, ask to be on the taglist too if you'd like!

So you slide out from under his arm with a smile that isn’t one. “I need another drink.”

You don’t wait for him to answer—you’re already gone, heels clicking against sticky hardwood as you thread through the crowd. Another drink will help. It always does. The heat in your belly, the way it makes you wet as you let loose from whatever hierarchial fuckery you follow. C'mon, social cues are a pain in the ass and NOT the type of pain the ass you enjoy.

From across the room, someone watches. Ellie Williams, crammed against the wall with a beer gone warm in her hands, follows the line of your shoulders, the dip of your cleavage, the roll of your hips as you disappear toward the kitchen. She's being a bit of a pervert, but guys get the slack on that all the time — so she might as well do it too.

Ellie shouldn’t even be here. She knows that. She’s not the kind of person who parties—she’s the kind of person who ends up clinging to the wallpaper with a cheap beer.

But then you walked by. And now she can’t fucking stop staring.

You move like you own the space, like you’re half-dancing even when you’re just squeezing through bodies in the hall. The music practically bends around you. Ellie’s eyes drag down your back where your thin dress does nothing to hide the outline of your panties.

The sway of your hips, the way you toss your hair when someone says something in your ear. And then—fuck.

One of the cheer girls—tight little satin dress, glossy pink lip gloss—presses herself right up against you, laughing into your neck. You don’t push her away. Your hands slide down to her waist, casual and almost cupping her ass, like this is nothing to you, like this happens every night.

Ellie’s throat goes dry. Jesus Christ.

She feels like she's watching a porn montage and she narrows her eyes. A popular chick into girls is rare nowadays. No way men do it for them, especially when they look like that.

She should look away, but she can’t. All she can think about is how that should be her pressed against you, her mouth between your legs, her hands sliding up your thighs. Her jeans feel annoying and she crosses then uncrosses her legs. She swirls the lukewarm beer in her cup, sucking in a breath as you get shoved around, shining with sweat and glittery with makeup.

Ellie’s head tips back against the wall, watching you sift in and out through the view of the banister. She hadn’t expected you to stumble your way right into her orbit, laughter bubbling out of you as some drunk dude pushed you across the floor. Your heels click unevenly before you steady yourself—right at the bottom of the staircase where Ellie’s leaning, cheap beer sweating in her hand.

And then you go and fucking tie your hair up.

Ellie’s throat goes dry. Arms lifting, dress riding higher over your thighs, a flash of skin along your stomach when you shift—her eyes drag, greedy, catching on the curve of your waist, the sharp cut of your collarbone. You bend forward just a little, unconsciously, tits pressing against the thin fabric of your dress, neckline gaping enough for her to see more of your tits than she should.

Her nails bite into her beer can. She can smell your perfume under the cheap vodka haze of the house. And you’re still laughing, chest shaking, mouth glossy with spit and liquor when you finally notice her staring.

Your eyes meet hers, a lazy little smirk tugging at your lips, drunk confidence dripping out of you. You tilt your head, mocking.

“What?” you tease, breathless from laughter, voice sliding into something sharp. “Never seen a woman’s neck before?”

Ellie blinks once. Twice. And then her eyes flick back up, shameless. She lets her tongue press against the inside of her cheek, jaw flexing like she’s trying not to let something filthy spill out right there.

“It's a clean slate, see?” You scoff and laugh at her lack of a response. She really is a bit of a weirdo.

“Not a single guy here can get it up long enough to make it feel good. So not a single hickey yet. Still surfing.”

Ellie isn't so sure what to say. Maybe you were straight. Her laugh comes out rough, half a scoff, dripping sarcasm to cover how hard her pulse just jumped.

She tips her chin toward you, taking a small sip of the warmed beer in her hand just to look cool because she doesn't know how to, “Well, I'm no guy, clearly.”

You pause mid-smirk, your words hanging heavy in the air. The music upstairs feels far away now, muffled by the pounding in your chest as your gaze lingers on Ellie—really lingers.

Her jaw is tight, a little scar near her lip catching the light, and you notice her shoulders are broader than you expected, her forearms flexing against the crumpled beer can she’s holding. There’s something coiled in her frame, something that makes your stomach twist in a way no frat boy has ever managed.

And the thought creeps in, sly, shameless, and honestly embarrassing: No one’s gonna know. It’s just a little secret.

Your lips part, the words spilling before you can stop them. “So… what, does that mean you can make me feel good?”

Ellie freezes.

Like—genuine deer-in-the-headlights, brain short-circuiting, her eyes go wide and then immediately dart away before snapping back to your boobs — wait no, she swears she meant your face; god they were distracting. Her throat bobs.

“What?” she blurts, voice cracking slightly, ears flaming. Her fingers crush the flimsy plastic cup tighter She stammers again,, “You—fuck—are you serious right now?”

Her brain is running laps. She can’t tell if you’re mocking her, if this is some cruel setup, or if—holy shit—you actually just asked her that. Do girls like you even like girls like her?

And when you lean just the tiniest bit closer, yeah, she's fucked — or rather, she wants to fuck you.

Ellie’s still blinking at you when you suddenly grin—sharp, reckless—and spin around. Before she can even register what you’re doing, your fingers lace around her hands, tugging her forward with a surprising strength that makes her stumble a step.

“H–hey, what the—”

“Llllike this—” You giggle, tipsy and dizzy, placing one of her hands at one of your hips.

You’re already moving, walking backwards up the stairs, heels clicking, dress hem riding higher with each step. She has to bite her lip to stop an actual moan as she sees your panties flash under your dress as her eyes flicker up to you, a couple steps above her.

“And like this—” You place her other hand at your other hip, so her arms straddle around your waist.

Her half-empty beer has already tumbled down the staircase, staining the carpet as she’s dragged up the staircase, but she couldn’t care less.

Ellie swallows hard, mouth dry. Her pulse is hammering so fast it’s making her dizzy. And that sip of the beer she just had, yeah it's not helping.

By the time you reach the landing, she’s breathless like she ran a mile, and you’re already pushing a door open with your back, tugging her into the dim, empty room.

Ellie sucked in a breath as she stared at your pretty, dolled-up eyes.

You placed both arms on her shoulders, "Well?"

Well? You're infuriatingly hot to her. She rubs a thumb quickly across your glossy lips before placing her own lips on them, heart hammering. She tugs at your dress, yanking it up to your waist, then her fingers hook into your panties, pulling them down. You step out of them, kicking the lacy fabric aside, leaving it discarded by the door.

You both stumble to the bed, a tangle of limbs and hurried breaths. Ellie pushes you back onto the mattress, your legs falling open, dress riding up to expose your bare pussy. She groans at the sight, her eyes flicking up to your tits, heaving with each breath, nipples hard under the thin fabric.

Her moan came out more like a whine, and she quickly gulped it back with an embarrassing blush, "Nice rack. You make the boys all stare?"

Yeah, she didn't sound tough at ALL, and she genuinely wanted the ground to swallow her whole. Instead you laughed, locking your legs a little around her shoulders, "Yeah. All the boys and you, apparently. Guys aren't doing it for me tonight, though..."

That was really all the encouragement Ellie needed; perhaps because deep down, she was shy, even. Ellie sinks to her knees on the mattress, eyes glued to your glistening pussy, and you can’t help but tilt your head with both amused and gasping.

Her eyes watch yours, because the first moan a girl makes when getting eaten out is so damn hot. Her mouth slips between your thighs, her tongue sliding between your slick folds.  She groaned against you but it was more like a desperate moan, as she sucked on your clit, her fingers slipping inside you, curling deep to hit that perfect spot.

“God, Ellie,” you managed to whimper, your legs tightening around her shoulders as she picked up the pace, her tongue circling your clit while her fingers pumped in and out of you. Finding your clit wasn't so much of a surprise, but the way she was desperatly curling against your g-spot too? You've never had this before. You moan, one hand keeping you rooted to the matteress as your hips stutter up into her mouth. The other you bring to your own mouth, biting your thumbnail as your eyes roll.

And to Ellie, that's the hottest, most beautiful thing she's seen all night. Her fingers pumped faster, her mouth relentless, and it felt like she was on the edge herself, the way she moaned into your cunt and writhed against the bed... Shit, no way —

 Your orgasm makes your mouth part, eyes roll, moan break... Your pussy clamping down on her fingers, hips bucking against her face. Your fluids seep into her mouth, still reeling, her lips still flush against your puffy clit.

What the hell was that? All your denial just left you for a moment, and god, did she eat pussy like a woman starved—

Your eyes flick down to her face to say something, anything; but you find her eyes half-lidded, she's moaning and whining into your slick cunt as her tongue slows down.

You blink, "D—Did you—?"

Ellie pulls off slightly, cheeks flushed red with embarrassment cracking through her flimsy act, "Yeah, uh..."

She looks to the side, groaning and shutting her eyes tight in confession. Her boxers are fucking soaked in her jeans, "God, y'tasted so fucking good, okay?"

You blush. Genuinely blush like you've got a crush, folding a little as you close your knees back together. You were the one not sure what to say now. So, stupidly, "You— You doing anything next Thursday? Come to the cheer practice... or something."

Ellie's mind almost burst, blew a fuse right there. This is so fucking awkward. Her mouth opens and closes and you quickly try and retract, "O—Or we can continue—"

"No— I'm free," She blurts out suddenly, cutting you off. She surprises herself, honestly. She sinks into the matress again, undoing the button and zip on her jeans before she goes down. Her hands shake as they part your knees again, her head between your slick thighs.

She looks up at you with an expression that makes your heart hammer: pleading eyes, slick lips, hair sticking to her foreahead and the sides of her face with sweat. And most of all, she looks like she's begging to please you, this time — not some fake or pathetic act.

"Could I be a bit greedy, though? 'Nd yk, we can do both..."

For the first time in your little glitter world, you're actually speechless.

"Please?"

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Not that he had a problem with gay people or anything. He was cool. Chill. Open-minded, in a way only someone who’d spent most of his life in a suburban basement with an eyeliner pencil and a drum kit could be. But him? Making out with some rich guy? Yeah, no way. Wasn’t gonna happen.

Except it was happening. Kinda. He just didn’t know it yet.

It all started when he got Heather’s number when he’d flirted with her outside the bowling alley, giggling behind their hands as they gave him the digits and told him to "swing by sometime." And he had. Of course he had. He was Rodrick Fucking Heffley. Girls loved him. Right?

So now here he was — standing on the porch of a massive house tucked into a dead-end road he didn’t even know existed until tonight. There was no answer when he rang the bell. No party. No Heather. Just silence, a pretty porch light, and a feeling that maybe, maybe, he was getting punk’d.

He was just about to leave — muttering under his breath about rich girls and their mean-girl cliques — when he heard that sleek convertible purr down the street.

You pulled up like you owned the whole goddamn block, engine shutting off with a smug little hum. You stepped out slow — lazy, bored — dressed in a leather jacket and black jeans that fit too well, rings on your fingers, hair still pushed back from your day, face unreadable.

Rodrick blinked.

You didn’t say anything right away. Just stood there on the sidewalk, one brow raised, keys jingling in your palm as you looked him over with the kind of stare that made his flannel and band tee feel suddenly...lame.

There was a second where you just stared at each other. He looked a bit like a washed up rat, sad, pouty and definitely trying to hide it. Then the guy let out a small scoff.

“You lost or something?”

Rodrick swallowed. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then shrugged, trying to sound like he totally had his shit together.

“I’m here to see Heather.”

The guy’s brows lifted slightly more. It was you, and you're honestly not going to let... what seemed to be a creep, stand outside and look for your sister. “Heather’s not home.”

“Right, yeah.” Rodrick scratched the back of his neck, voice dipping into that awkward fake-confident tone he always used when he felt like he was two seconds from being told to scram. “She invited me.”

A pause.

You gave him a look — something unreadable, amused maybe, maybe not — before stepping forward and sliding your keys into your back pocket.

“You’re Rodrick, huh.”

It wasn’t a question.

Rodrick stiffened. “…Yeah?”

You sighed like this was the most exhausting development in his week, then jerked his head toward the door. “C’mon. I’m not lettin’ you stand there like a creep all night.”

“What?”

You tipped your head, deadpan. “You’re just standing there. Staring at the door. Like a creep.”

“I’m not a creep, okay?” Rodrick shot back, bristling. “I’m here to see Heather.”

You gave a sharp little laugh under your breath — cold and amused.

“Right. Heather.”

Rodrick squinted, arms up in almost defence. “Wait. Who the fuck are you?”

You looked him dead in the eyes. "Her brother."

Rodrick's mouth opened. Closed. “…No the hell you're not.”

“Yeah. I fuckin’ am, hate this damn house so I barely come back from college,” you said, stepping past him like you lived there — because, well, you did. “And yeah, Heather’s a bitch. But you? You look like a fuckin’ Craigslist serial killer standing on my porch.”

Rodrick bristled again, like he wasn’t sure whether to be offended or impressed. “Dude. I’m just—”

“I know who you are, Rodrick,” you cut in, unlocking the front door. “She told me. Didn't expect you to be real, honestly.”

You pushed the door open and stared at him for a second too long. There was something sharp in your eyes. Not hostile. Just…assessing.

He wasn’t her type. Not even close. But something about the slouch, the messy eyeliner, the smug little grin trying to mask the awkward twitch at the corner of his mouth — it kinda was your type. Not that you were gonna admit that out loud.

You stepped aside, voice dry. “Well? You comin’ in or what?”

Rodrick swallowed and stepped past you, suddenly hyperaware of how much taller (even if not literally) you felt. How nice you smelled. How warm it was inside.

“…This is the weirdest fuckin’ day of my life.”

You just shut the door behind him with a little shrug. “Get used to it.”

You didn’t say anything else — just brushed past him, your shoulder knocking lightly against his as you headed down the hallway like you owned the place. Which, yeah, you did. Rodrick barely had time to adjust to how nice the fuckin’ hallway smelled before you were already halfway to the kitchen.

He followed, awkward and out of place, eyes darting to the high ceilings, the family photos, the spotless hardwood floors. The house looked like it came out of a magazine. He felt like he tracked in dirt just by existing.

You pointed at the dining table as you walked into the kitchen. “Wait in here.”

Rodrick paused in the doorway. “What am I, a dog?”

You didn’t even turn around. “I mean, you showed up uninvited and you look like you bite 'nd have rabies.”

He opened his mouth, ready with a half-assed comeback, but you were already at the fridge, grabbing a can of something cold and cracking it open without looking his way.

Rodrick lingered for a beat before making a decision. Slowly — maybe a little stubbornly — he pushed off the doorframe and leaned against the kitchen counter instead, folding his arms across his chest, doing that thing where he stared at the floor like he wasn’t affected by anything at all.

You turned slightly, side-eyeing him with an amused little smirk.

“Didn’t I tell you to wait at the table?”

Rodrick didn’t budge. “Yeah. And I didn’t.”

Your lips twitched.

Huh.

He really was that kind of kid. All bark, too much eyeliner, and barely enough spine to hold up the act — but he was trying. You could tell from the way his jaw flexed, how he refused to look at you, as if meeting your eyes would confirm something neither of you were ready to admit.

You took a slow sip of your drink, leaning against the opposite counter, just watching him.

“This how you usually get into people’s houses?” you asked, voice lazy, teasing. “Show up lookin’ like you rolled out of a Hot Topic clearance bin and challenge the older brother to a pissing match?”

Rodrick’s ears flushed red. “Didn’t know you’d be home.”

“Yeah,” you said, nodding once. “You look disappointed.”

“I’m not.”

That smirk turned into a grin. “Sure.”

You let the silence stretch for a second, your gaze dropping to the edge of his jaw, the way he clenched his fists a little tighter when he felt you looking.

He was cocky. Slouchy. Barely legal and probably running on Monster and the fumes of delusion.

But shit — cute.

And way more fun to mess with than Heather's last boyfriend. Not that you believed he was Heather's boyfriend at all because NO WAY.

You tilted the can back and let the last of the drink slurp loudly, obnoxiously, like you were doing it on purpose. Rodrick flinched at the sound.

Then you turned, casually tossing the empty into the recycling bin like you’d done it a hundred times (you had), and cracked open the cooler on the floor beside the counter. The soft hiss of ice shifting echoed as you rummaged through it, then pulled out something in a blue-and-silver can — cold and probably cheap. Smirnoff Ice. A college classic. Trashy, sugary, everywhere.

You straightened up and glanced at Rodrick.

“You eighteen?”

Rodrick blinked. “Uh—yeah.”

“You drink?”

He froze for half a second — just half — but it was enough.

You snorted, laughing as you popped the tab on your can. “Yeah, okay. That’s a no.”

He huffed, defensive. “Didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” You crouched again, this time deeper in the cooler, your hand pushing past bottles of water and chilled energy drinks until you found a can of orange soda and stood, tossing it across the kitchen.

“Catch.”

Rodrick’s eyes widened — he caught it, barely, fumbling for a second like it might’ve hit the floor and shattered his already-fragile pride. He cleared his throat and turned the can in his hands like it offended him.

You watched him with lazy amusement, sipping your drink, leaning one hip against the counter again. “You’re lucky. If you dropped it, I would’ve kicked you out.”

Rodrick scoffed. “No, you wouldn’t’ve.”

“Try me.”

The kitchen was quiet again, save for the fizz in your drink and the hum of the fridge.

Rodrick cracked the soda open, took a slow sip, and stared at you over the rim. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes did — a flicker, a shift. He was trying to place it. The way you talked, the way you stood. How old were you?

You let the moment linger before you said it.

“Twenty-one.”

Rodrick blinked, straightening a little.

“Just turned. Last month,” you added, tapping the top of your can. “Heather threw a fit ‘cause I wouldn’t let her come to the bar, y'know? Gotta tell her to stop whoring it.”

Rodrick flinched, taking another tentative sip.

You looked at him again, head tilted slightly. “That what you were thinkin’? How old I was?”

Rodrick choked on his soda a little. “What? No.”

You grinned into your drink. “Sure.”

Rodrick lingered near the kitchen counter, pretending like he wasn’t eyeballing everything in the room. The granite countertops, the fancy-ass stove that probably cost more than his van, the wine rack built into the wall. Who the hell lived like this?

You noticed him looking.

“Don’t steal anything,” you said, lazily sipping your drink.

“I wasn’t gonna.”

“Sure. You got that feral look. That ‘I eat cigarettes for breakfast’ vibe.”

Rodrick rolled his eyes. “At least I don’t drink Smirnoff Ice. What are you, a freshman girl at her first frat party?”

You barked a laugh, full and sharp. “That’s cute coming from the guy holding a Fanta like it’s a beer. You want a paper straw too, princess?”

“Do you ever shut up?”

“Only when my mouth’s full.”

Rodrick froze for a second. Your grin widened. He looked like a raccoon caught chewing drywall.

You leaned back against the counter again, arms crossed, casually sipping your drink like that hadn’t just slipped out on purpose. The tension in the room shifted — still playful, but tight, electric.

Rodrick huffed and looked away, muttering, “God, Heather’s whole family’s insane.”

You cocked a brow. “And yet you showed up.”

“Yeah, well—” He paused. “Thought she gave me her number.”

You smiled, slow and dangerous, and started walking toward him — not threatening, but steady. You placed your drink down on the counter and kept moving, until Rodrick backed up just slightly, hips bumping into the edge.

“You really believe she gave you her number?” you asked, both hands coming up to rest on either side of him, boxing him in. Not touching — yet. But close. Close enough to watch him squirm.

Rodrick faltered. His voice dropped a little. “...Well. I mean. Not anymore.”

You laughed again, warm and low. “Poor thing. Got punked by a couple of high school girls.”

He rolled his eyes and looked off to the side, trying not to look at you. “Whatever.”

You tilted your head, eyes flicking over him. “So what? You into her? That your type? Bitchy blondes who call you names and pretend you don’t exist in public?”

Rodrick scowled, brows furrowed and squinting. “Says the guy who is related to her.”

“Touché.”

There was a pause. Then—

“If it doesn’t work out with her,” you paused, “you could always get with me instead.”

Rodrick choked on nothing.

“I—What?! Dude, I’m not— I’m not gay.”

Your eyes glittered. “Didn’t say you were.”

He floundered. “I mean—not that there’s anything wrong with—whatever—but I’m not—”

“Relax, man.” You chuckled, real low and easy, tilting your head a little closer. “No one’s asking you to get on your knees.”

He swallowed. You could see the flush creeping up his neck, fighting the smirk he was trying not to let show.

You leaned in just a little more.

“...Unless you want to.”

Rodrick made a quiet noise in his throat — something between a scoff and a nervous cough — and set the Fanta can down behind him on the counter. Not because he was finished, but because he needed an excuse to look anywhere but at you. The fizz hissed faintly as it settled.

He scratched the back of his neck. “You’re messing with me.”

You smiled, real slow. “Am I?”

“You gotta be,” he muttered, eyes on the countertop now like it held all the secrets of the universe. “I mean. That’s what this is, right? You’re just fuckin’ with me.”

“Rodrick.”

You said his name like a joke and a promise in one breath. The way it dropped from your mouth made his stomach flip in a way he didn’t like. Or maybe he did. He wasn’t sure.

He looked up at you finally, jaw tense. “I’m not… like that.”

You shrugged. “Sure.”

“No, I mean— I’ve never—” He faltered. His hand made a vague gesture between the two of you. “This isn’t my thing.”

“But you’re still here.”

Rodrick’s mouth opened. Then closed. Like a fish. An angry fish. A flustered, horribly aware he might be into something fish.

You tilted your head, stepping in just a bit closer — still not touching, but you didn’t need to. The tension was thick enough to sink in.

“I’m just saying,” you murmured, voice low and amused, “if it doesn’t work out with Heather… you’ve got options.”

Rodrick cleared his throat. “Yeah, uh—well. I—I’m not…”

He trailed off. You waited. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, eyes flicking briefly to your mouth before he immediately looked back down at the floor like it burned him.

Then, quietly — barely audible:

“…Have you ever kissed a guy?”

You blinked. “Me?”

He nodded, sheepish. Still not looking at you. “Yeah.”

You raised a brow. “A couple times. Why?”

Rodrick didn’t answer. But he was chewing the inside of his cheek now, face pink, breath shallow. Hands shoved in his pockets like they might anchor him.

You stepped in just a fraction closer.

“…Wanna know what it’s like?”

If you’d told Rodrick Heffley that he’d lose his footing on his sexuality in the middle of a rich guy’s kitchen, with the house dead quiet and a guy’s mouth hot on his, he would’ve thrown a drink in your face.

Not because he was homophobic or anything — Jesus, no. He was punk, not a dick. It was just… him? Doing this? Never crossed his mind. Not until now. Not until you.

You were Heather’s brother. College-aged. Intimidatingly hot. Driving some sleek-ass convertible like you owned the damn moon. And now here you were, pushing him back against a cold marble counter, lips crashing into his like he was a fucking challenge.

And he liked it.

Rodrick grunted as his lower back smacked the edge of the counter, the sudden jolt making him gasp into your mouth. One of your hands slid down, rubbing over the spot gently in a rare flicker of comfort before it curled around his hip, pulling him back in.

It was messy.

Your mouth tasted like cheap spiked lemonade and something bitter. Beer, maybe. He’d never had alcohol before — not like this. Definitely not off the mouth of some guy he just met. It was a little weird. A little electric.

His hands fumbled awkwardly at first, catching the hem of your shirt, one sliding around your shoulder as if trying to find something solid to hold onto. Because he was TOO aware he looked like an idiot right now.

Your fingers found the edge of his studded belt, tugged him closer with a harsh yank that made him groan. His hips twitched. His whole body felt like it was catching fire.

He was… hard.

Embarrassingly so.

Rodrick stiffened, trying not to grind into you, but failing when your hand slipped lower to press at his back — guiding him in.

He gasped again. “Shit—fuck, uh, I didn't—”

“Relax,” you groaned actually annoyed with yourself when you should be feeling triumphant, as you kissed down to his neck, your own breath starting to hitch. “You’re not the only one.”

Rodrick's eyes widened slightly as he felt your crotch against his hip.

Oh.

Oh.

Well… shit.

You two stared at eachother a bit more until you slid your hands under his stupid band tee, both hands on his hips. You're surprised—you thought he would be a bit scrawnier. Not that he was built by any means,

Your mouth was back on his again — teeth catching his bottom lip this time, dragging until he hissed. Rodrick’s fingers clenched in your shirt, dragging you impossibly closer, hips twitching without meaning to.

“F-fuck,” he muttered against your mouth, shaky and stunned. “What the hell is this—what are we—”

You didn’t answer. Just kissed him again. Rougher. Meaner. Like you were trying to make up for every second wasted being normal around him.

“Look, do you want to do this or not?” Your hands were braced on his hips, and his belt buckle was digging into your palm. It was all metal and heat and confusion and want.

Rodrick's mouth opened, in nothing but a shakey breath.

Then— BANG BANG BANG.

A shrill, angry voice cut through the house: “HELLOOO? OPEN THE DOOR?? I FORGOT MY KEYS, WHERE'S MOM—”

You pulled back with a sigh, forehead dropping to Rodrick’s shoulder. His chest was rising and falling way too fast for how little space was between you.

He was flushed. Breathing hard. Lip red from biting. His hair was sticking up like he’d just been electrocuted and he looked fucking wrecked.

You grinned.

“Sounds like your little crush is home.”

Rodrick blinked at you, still half-dazed, lips parted. “Jesus Christ…”

You pushed off the counter slowly, casually fixing the hem of your shirt as if your dick wasn’t half-hard in your jeans and you hadn’t just kissed the guy your sister was supposed to be prank-dating.

“You comin’?” you asked, already walking down the hall.

Rodrick huffed, slamming back the last of the soda he’d left on the counter before following, muttering under his breath, “I fuckin’ hate rich people.”

And that was ironic because he was pretty well-off himself.

The door swung open and Heather practically exploded into the entryway, voice already halfway to a screech.

“Ugh, finally! I thought I was gonna get murdered out there, do you know how sketchy the suburbs are at—” She cut off mid-sentence, blinking hard. “Wait. Was that—was that fucking Heffley??”

You leaned against the doorframe, still slightly flushed, your knuckles brushing the curve of your bottom lip like you were trying to wipe away a smirk. Your eyes followed Rodrick’s retreating figure down the driveway, watching him fumble to get into his van like his legs forgot how to work.

You didn’t answer your sister. Just called out toward the driveway, voice syrup-smooth,

“Come back some time!”

Rodrick paused, mouthing what seemed suspiciously like 'fuck you' and then yanked the door shut behind him harder than necessary.

He was mumbling prayers and he barely even listened in church. I mean, he wasn't praying because he thought he had sinned or something — he was pretty sure Jesus would be fine with gay people.

No, he was praying because he was sure he just met the devil reincarnated.

Heather turned toward you slowly, eyebrows climbing toward her hairline. “Seriously. Seriously? What the hell was that?!”

You shrugged like it was nothing. Like you didn’t still taste him on your tongue.

“Dunno. Might stay back for the rest of the holiday.”

Heather blinked. “You’re deranged.”

You just grinned wider.

click here for part 2

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

But this year? You kept it at home. Backyard pool, soft blue lights draped in canopies, your mom's old stereo blasting throwbacks. Your friends don’t get it, not really — not when you could’ve gone big like Heather did. But you didn’t want big. You wanted... him.

Rodrick.

Your mistake was telling Heather that. The two of you have always been a bit toxic — partners in crime, teeth bared under pink gloss smiles. But where you bit, Heather devoured. And she decided she wanted a taste of him too.

You learned quick it was never about liking Rodrick. Not for Heather. She just liked how easy he was to bait — a clumsy, wide-eyed stray who followed the bone she dangled in front of him, even when she was snapping it in half right after. And the worst part? He chased her like she was worth something.

You hated him for it. You hated yourself for watching it.

Now you're at your party, waist-deep in the water, drink sweating in your hand as you lean back against the cool tiles of your pool. The music’s pulsing, flashing in between choruses, your friends’ laughter echoing off the walls like it’s anyone’s night but yours. And then you hear it. That sharp, shrill cackle that cuts through everything.

Heather.

You tilt your head and there he is. Rodrick. Dripping wet. Sprawled half-dazed in a kiddie floatie he clearly didn’t try to get into willingly, with soda splashed down his shirt and some gross glitter lipgloss smeared on his cheek like a joke.

Heather and the other girls are laughing like it’s the goddamn Oscars.

Your grip tightens around your cup.

Because you saw it. You saw her fake trip into him, saw her whisper something to her friends before pushing the stupid float into his arms. Saw him just take it. Again.

And you hate the way he’s blinking through it all like maybe, maybe this time she’ll kiss him for real.

You lower your cup and shut your eyes for a second.

You threw this party for him. Your birthday. Your pool. Your playlist. Your drink recipes, damn near themed for his shitty band’s favorite albums. All because he liked pool nights. All because you were stupid enough to think maybe, if Heather wasn’t looking, he’d look at you.

But he’s never not looking at her.

You bite your tongue so hard it hurts.

And then, like clockwork, he’s wiping his face, dragging himself out of the shallow end like a sad, wet cat, and heading — right toward you.

“Yo,” Rodrick says, a little sheepish, hair plastered to his forehead, soda fizz still clinging to his sleeves. “These drinks? Kinda sick. What’s in the pink one—?”

You don’t let him finish. You just stare at him, that bitter knot in your throat tightening. He doesn’t get it. Of course he doesn’t. He never does.

“Is it vodka or, like, that pink lemonade crap from Trader Joe’s?” Rodrick keeps going, oblivious. He’s wringing out his shirt with one hand, licking soda off the corner of his mouth like that’s the most urgent thing in the world. “’Cause I swear I tasted both. Kinda fire. Wait—did you put something spicy in it? Like jalapeño or some shit? I saw that on some magazine—”

You don’t even look at him.

“Cool,” you say flatly, eyes still locked on the other end of the pool where Heather is doubled over in her bikini, laughing like she just won prom queen.

Rodrick laughs a little too. “Yeah, they thought it was funny, I guess. The floatie thing. I mean, whatever. Wasn’t that bad.”

“Mhm.”

“I got soda in my ear though. Like, in my ear. That ever happen to you? It’s like fizzy in my brain now—”

“Rodrick.”

He stops, eyes flicking to yours. You’re still not really looking at him — not properly. Just staring dead ahead, voice flat, body still half-draped in water, your fingers white-knuckling the rim of your glass.

“What?”

“Shut up.”

There’s a beat of silence. Just the bass line of the music thudding through the pool speakers and the distant shriek of someone doing a cannonball.

He laughs again, awkward this time. “Damn, okay. Someone’s moody tonight.”

You turn your head, slow.

He’s grinning like he didn’t just embarrass himself in front of half your graduating class. Like he didn’t make you want to scream every time he showed up looking hopeful, bruised and sticky and fucking blind.

And you don’t mean to snap.

But it bubbles up, spills over, drowns you.

“You’re so fucking annoying!”

It’s not loud at first. It’s sharp. Piercing. And for a second, it cuts straight through the static of the party. Rodrick reels back like you slapped him, blinking hard.

“What the hell?” he mutters, looking around, suddenly self-conscious.

People are watching now. A few heads turning from the drink table, some giggles quieting by the pool. A full-body flush crawls up your throat, but you don’t care. Not enough. Someone’s nudging Heather. The birthday party has screeched to a standstill, everyone watching the meltdown with wide eyes and shallow breaths, pool lights casting ripples over your soaked legs, your flushed cheeks.

You’re already moving, pushing off the edge of the pool, sloshing water as you storm toward the steps. You push out of the water, the drink in your hand forgotten as it splashes somewhere near the edge. Your hair’s clinging to your shoulders, the bottom of your sheer cover-up dripping down your thighs, but you don't care. You’re fuming and it hurts even more to know you don't even have to right to be.

You wipe at your face with a wet hand, mascara already trailing down your cheekbones, and huff a broken breath.

You storm through the crowd soaked, barefoot, and trembling — half from the cold water clinging to your thighs, half from rage that burns so deep it tastes metallic in your throat.

Everywhere is people.

Shoulders brush you, bodies press close in the narrow hallway as some junior you don’t even know screams-laughs about how she “totally got with that one lacrosse guy”. Someone knocks into your arm and doesn’t apologize. Another spills half their beer down the front of your cover-up.

No one notices it’s you. The birthday girl.

The house is packed — kids climbing over furniture, slumped in clumps on the stairs, smoke trailing from the open den, laughter spilling from bathrooms where they’re doing lines off your mom’s makeup counter. The party doesn't stop for you. It never does. You could vanish and they’d still go on, drunk off your dad’s liquor, high off your name.

Because it was never about you, was it?

You shoulder past a couple making out in your doorway and slam the door behind you, the bass muffled immediately.

You don’t even bother with a towel.

Your wet feet slap against the tile, against the hardwood, your body soaked and shaking, your hair a dripping mess down your back as you push through the crowd. Someone’s shoulder clips yours. Someone else drunkenly cheers your name like it’s part of a game.

No one really notices. Or if they do, they don’t care.

The birthday girl vanishing through her own house like a ghost? Not a headline when Heather’s holding court at the poolside with tequila shots and that skin-tight bikini. Not when the music’s thudding hard enough to rattle the walls and someone’s just plugged in a disco light in your living room.

Because this party was never really about you.

It was about the invite list. The photos. The way Heather could say she hosted your birthday without having to clean up after it.

You shove past a group crowding the hallway, wet arm smearing your own makeup on the doorframe as you make a sharp turn toward the stairs.

They part for you barely — a few slow looks, one guy mumbling something about you being “kinda dramatic,” but you don’t stop. You can’t. You take the stairs two at a time, chest tight and throat hot, mascara bleeding in rivers down your cheeks.

Your bedroom’s dark when you slam the door behind you.

Muted laughter still filters through the floorboards. You ignore it. Stumble into your ensuite bathroom, flick the light on, brace both hands against the counter.

Your reflection stares back at you — smeared lipstick, tangled hair, eyes blown out with too much everything. You drag a hand down your face, furious at the tears that won’t stop falling. The sink runs. The water’s ice cold.

Inside, it’s quiet and you like it. Your room and bathroom are untouched by the chaos outside — makeup still lined up along your dresser, along the sink, pink birthday balloons bobbing gently from your headboard. You dim the lights of your en-suite, fingers already tugging at the straps of your swimsuit. You're halfway to unraveling the stupid decorative braids Heather made you sit still for when you finally look up — eyes ringed in black from the run of your mascara, mouth trembling because you're far away from Rodrick and that's what matters right now.

But Rodrick’s still in the pool when people go back to laughing. Initially, anyway.

Someone tosses a float. Someone cranks the music louder. Someone else asks if there’s more beer, and just like that — it’s like nothing ever happened. Like the birthday girl didn’t just scream at him in the middle of her own party.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still tasting soda and chlorine. His brow furrows.

“Wait,” he mutters under his breath, “what just happened?”

There’s a ripple of laughter a few feet away — not cruel, just amused — and it makes something prickle hot under his skin. He looks at the trail of wet footprints she left behind and suddenly he’s moving, scrambling out of the pool with a loud slap of bare feet on concrete.

He grabs his shirt, doesn’t bother wringing it out this time, just yanks it on half-soaked and starts wading through the mob of people like a lost puppy. Every hallway’s a blur of bodies and red solo cups and cigarette smoke, and for a second he’s not even sure where he’s going — until he remembers the layout from the one time he came over to pick up Heather for a party.

Upstairs. Left. Second door.

He takes the steps two at a time, breath caught somewhere in his throat. Her room’s closed. He hesitates, knocks once — soft, unsure — then pushes it open.

Empty.

His brows knit as he steps in, blinking. Then the soft click of a faucet behind the bathroom door draws him forward, and he inches closer, leaning just enough to peer through the open frame—

You scrub at your face again, smudging mascara in frustrated, angry swipes. Black streaks stain the towel you yank off the rack, and your breath hitches in short, shaky pulls as you press it to your eyes.

You hear the door creak open behind you.

Then his voice. Hesitant. Wet footprints on tile.

“...Yo?”

Your eyes flick up to the mirror and there he is. Rodrick. Damp hair a mess over his forehead, his soaked shirt clinging to his ribs, looking around like he’s half-expecting Heather to pop out and laugh in his face again.

You blink once. Breathe in deep.

Then flatly say, “Get out.”

He scoffs, genuinely offended, “Why?”

You don’t turn. Just grip the edge of the counter tighter, knuckles pale against porcelain. Your voice is low, almost calm — but there’s an unmistakable edge to it. Like the simmer before a boil.

“What are you doing here?”

Rodrick shrugs, throwing his hands out, water still dripping from his sleeves. “You just screeched like a freaking banshee at me in front of everyone, what do you mean what am I doing here?”

You lift your eyes to the mirror again. Your reflection looks so messed up it almost makes you laugh — runny mascara, eyes puffy, hair undone from the pretty braids you sat still for. You look like a drowned, humiliated brat.

So you snap.

“Well, Heather treats you like shit in front of everyone. Which would you rather?”

Rodrick blinks. Like that stunned blink of a dumb boy who’s never considered something until it’s hurled in his face. He doesn’t answer. Just stands there, jaw working like maybe he’s trying to come up with a quip, a joke, anything to deflect.

You keep going. Voice rising.

“I’m so tired of it. Of watching her yank you around like a little fucking joke, like she’s bored and you’re just the new shiny thing she can throw in front of people and laugh at. I’m tired of seeing you go along with it. You fall on your face and she laughs and you still chase her like a dog—” your breath cracks, “and it’s pathetic, Rodrick. And it’s sad. Because you’re not that stupid. You see it.”

You finally turn then, hand flinging toward him like you’re gesturing at a ghost only you can see. Your voice splinters somewhere between fury and ache. “And you still fucking let her!”

Tears well up now, uninvited, hot and blurring your vision. “You let her make fun of you. Humiliate you. Hurt you. And you just... take it. And I have to watch it. Every goddamn time—”

You cut yourself off with a ragged breath, wiping at your eyes even though it’s useless.

Rodrick is still frozen in the doorway. His mouth’s parted, brow furrowed like it physically hurts him to hear any of this. His shoulders sag just slightly, expression finally cracking from dumbfounded to... remorseful.

But he doesn’t say anything and neither do you, for a moment.

It hurts more because you were the one who would sneak off everytime Heather fucked him over, to check up on him, toddling over in shoes too sparkly and big for you— coming over with an icepack when Heather made him bash his lip against the edge of the rollerskating rink.

It hurts more because you were the one that would nudge him and ask him about whatever shitty music tape he was holding when no one at the table was paying attention to him.

It hurts more because you know you have no right to like him in the way you do.

You’re trembling by the time you spit out the last sentence, chest rising and falling like you just ran the length of the street. You’re too exhausted to shout anymore, too choked up to keep the edge in your voice. The silence afterward stretches thick between you both — breathless, muggy, fluorescent. The soft buzz of the bathroom lights is suddenly the loudest thing in the world.

And Rodrick’s just staring.

All wide-eyed and stupid. Like your tears, your voice cracking, your fists clenched so tight your nail beds ache — none of it even registered until just now. You like-liked him?.

He blinks once. Then again.

“Oh... shit.”

And you laugh. One sharp, dry breath out of your nose. Bitter.

That’s all he has to say?

It’s so him you want to hit something. Want to scream in his face again. Instead, you just shove past him, shoulder catching his collarbone, movement so fluid it could almost look staged — like you’ve had practice pushing through the people who disappoint you.

“Forget it,” you mutter, voice low, throat still thick. “Forget I said anything.”

He doesn’t stop you.

Of course he doesn’t.

You stomp barefoot down the hallway, a mess of half-dried limbs and smeared lip gloss, towel clutched tight to your chest, your hair twisted into some uneven, makeshift updo like muscle memory — like you’re too used to holding yourself together after falling apart. You disappear down the stairs again. Back into the party. Back into the noise.

Rodrick watches the door frame long after you're gone. Still dripping. Still dumb. Still trying to figure out how the hell he got here.

And the worst part? Somewhere deep down, even he knows it’s not all on you.

You could’ve said something sooner — sure. But he could’ve seen it sooner too. Seen the way Heather weaponised him for fun, the way you looked at him when no one else did. All those times you snuck over, pretending it was just coincidence — the bandaids, the icepacks, the split-lip awkward jokes. The way your hand would shake a little when it brushed his. The way he pretended not to notice because it was easier to chase someone who never wanted him than to sit in the possibility of being wanted back.

You were both cowards.

And now you're both wrecked.

The music downstairs surges again — someone’s turned up the bass. Someone’s splashing in the pool. Laughter climbs and falls and no one notices the birthday girl’s vanished for good.

Rodrick stands alone in your bathroom, mascara smudges on the sink, towel fallen on the floor.

Somewhere, the music downstairs is picking up again. People laughing. Like nothing happened.

Like the party wasn’t ever about you. Like you didn’t just bleed the truth into a bathroom mirror and leave it there with the boy too stupid to see you, but you were too bitchy to ever let him in.

And all he can do is whisper a useless, too-late, “...shit.”

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

“Yeah, real classy,” he muttered, glancing at the drive-thru menu board, now faded black because some punks bashed the screen in, “Hope they still got fries that taste like actual ass.”

"Sorry, wasn't aware you've eaten ass before," You grin, glancing at his almost immediate expression of surprise.

"What the f —" He furrowed his brows, suddenly sitting up and leaning over through the gap in the front seats, "And you have —?!"

You grin, pulling your key out of the car and dangling it in his face as the engine shuts off, "Alright loser, get out... Drive-thru ain't in order."

Rodrick lifted himself out of the gap painfully slow.

You teased. “Or you gotta rest your throat before dinner?”

“Shut up,” he snapped and suddenly sat up and crawled the hell out of the backseat, voice cracking halfway through. It only made you snort louder.

“Guess not.”

The parking lot lights buzzed overhead, painting everything that sickly white-orange that made the two of you look like background characters in a gas-station ad. Inside, the place was practically empty — just one kid mopping the floor and a guy in a paper hat pretending not to fall asleep behind the counter as some woman places an order. Probably a supermarket employee because who the fuck else even comes to McDonald's this late at night that isn't a college fuckboy with his emo-teenage pet.

The air smelled like salt and fryer grease and middle-aged despair otherwise.

Rodrick jammed his thumbs in his jeans pockets, walking beside you but not too close. He couldn’t tell if it was the smell or the memory of literally choking on dick like half an hour ago making his face hot.

“Bet you order the weirdest thing on the menu,” he said, breaking the silence. “You look like the kinda guy who gets, like… a Filet-O-Fish just to piss people off.”

You shot him a look over your shoulder. “I’m sorry, Mr. Chicken Nugget Connoisseur?”

“Hey, nuggets are classic,” he said, mock-offended. “You can’t screw up nuggets. You can screw up fish, though. That’s like food-poison-speed run territory.”

The two of you reached the counter, the woman from earlier standing off to the side as her order flashed on the screen — it was the only one on there, pathetically lonely.

The kid behind the register blinked at you both like he’d been waiting for a fight to break out. Rodrick rocked on his heels, pretending to study the menu board in the smell of grease and teenage regret.

The cashier then sighed a little in the silence as if wasn’t paid enough for whatever teenage soap opera he was witnessing.

Rodrick tilted his head at you, finally speaking with a sly grin. “Thought you were getting something light… got appetite left?”

You gave him a look so dry he had to cough into his fist to hide his laugh.

You lazily pointed your thumb slightly behind you at Rodrick.

“Make his with extra pickles—" You sucked in a breath, shoving your hand into your jeans, "...he likes choking on things.”

The cashier froze mid-typing, while Rodrick’s face turned a brilliant shade of red.

“Dude!” he hissed, punching your arm.

“What? You said you were hungry.” You stare at him, with his smudged eyeliner, dazed face and flushed expression. He looked like he was going to punch you, but that was hot. Because you know he couldn't really.

Rodrick gave up and stuffed his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels while you leaned against the counter like you hadn’t just detonated a bomb in his brain. The hum of the soda machine filled the silence, all syrup and fizz and neon light bleeding off the tiles.

You looked calm. Too calm.

He, on the other hand, could feel his pulse under his skin—like it was trying to claw its way out.

You were just standing there, totally chill. That was the part that messed with him most. Like, how the hell could you act so normal after what happened? After he’d— after that— like it was just some dumb inside joke? His jeans still felt weird, even after drying.

Rodrick kept glancing at you from the corner of his eye, jaw tight, heart in his throat.

You caught him once and grinned. “You staring at me, Heffley?”

He blinked hard. “No.”

“You sure? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I do want you dead, actually,” He scoffed, straightening up, "Been thinking about it."

“Dangerous hobby,” you said absently, turning and taking the tray before the cahsier called out the number — not like there were any other orders anyway. “Try fries instead.”

He huffed out a laugh that died halfway.

Thinking. Yeah. He was thinking. About the fact that he’d done something so far left-field that he didn’t even know what box to put it in. About the fact that you’d been so casual, so steady— like it hadn’t even been weird. Like you’d done this before.

And him? He’d been so desperate to prove he wasn’t a joke, that he’d just— gone along with it. And now here he was, in a McDonald’s line, trying to remember how to breathe like a normal person.

The smell of fries hit him and made his stomach twist, half hunger, half dread.

He wanted to say something, ask if this was, like, a thing— or if you were just messing around. He's not sure what he'd do in either situation.

You motioned. “Come on, freak. Fries await.”

Rodrick blinked, realizing he’d been staring at the tiled floor.

You grabbed the tray, brushing past him, and he caught a whiff of your cologne—warm, expensive, grounding—and his stomach did another weird twist. He hated it. He hated that you smelled good. He hated that he noticed.

He followed you to a booth near the window, the tray rattling between your hands as you slid into the seat opposite him.

“Want some?” You said, tearing open a ketchup packet, "Would help you wash that taste out."

Rodrick made a face, grabbed a fry, and flicked it straight at you. It hit your sleeve and fell onto the table with a sad little splat.

“Watch it,” you said, deadpan, brushing at your arm. “I paid for those.”

“Oh, sorry,” he muttered with a smirk, leaning back in the booth. “Didn’t realise you were feeding a family of four.”

You pointed a fry at him like a warning, one eyebrow raised. “Keep talking, Heffley. I’ll start charging you rent.”

He snorted. “Yeah, I know what payment you'd take.”

It was almost normal again. The kind of teasing that had teeth but no bite, easy and familiar. You talked about the fries being too salty, about the McFlurry machine never working, about how this place always smelled like wet mop and regret.

But Rodrick’s laugh stalled and caught in his throat as he stared past behind you at the door.

A group of jocks from school stumbled in, loud and sloppy with beer-stained laughter. They looked like they’d just come from someone’s basement party, varsity jackets hanging off their shoulders like trophies.

Rodrick watched them over your shoulder. Mild curiousity, really — difficult to ignore obnoxiously drunk teenagers that are built like actual army tanks.

One of them—tall, stupid grin—shoved another in the chest. “Dude, quit it. You’re acting like my girlfriend.”

“Yeah?” the other one barked, “What, you gonna kiss me next?”

“Bro, what are you, gay?” the first one snorted, and the whole group burst into laughter that echoed off the tiled walls.

It was the kind of sound that crawled under your skin, sharp and familiar.

You didn’t even flinch. Just sat there, leaned back with your legs spread over the seat, fingers twitching for a cigarette all of a sudden.

But Rodrick froze. The laugh he’d been half-forming died in his throat.

He stared down at the tray, jaw flexing, feeling the burn crawl up the back of his neck. He hated the way his pulse jumped at a word he’d heard a million times before — how it suddenly pissed him off.

You coughed, patting your hands on your jeans to dust salt off them, "I need a smoke. Will be back."

Rodrick watched you leave and shrugged beacuse he told himself it didn't matter that you were leaving — totally wasn't like he was dreading being in this exact situation alone.

You flicked the tip of your cigarette with your index and thumb, getting it to burn better. Once it had, you placed it between your lips, jaw ticking with slight irritation though you didn't know what about.

You stepped back into the fluorescent hum of the diner, shooting a tight-lipped smile at the employee glaring at you for smoking indoors — guess you get let off since there's practically no one here.

"Enjoying the ambience or whatever?" You scoffed at Rodrick, still hunched over slightly, half way through a burger. He looked at you, bored like you'd just asked the stupidest question.

You grinned, but it faltered as your eyes flicked past Rodrick, taking in the cluster of jocks at the back, slouched over trays and soda cups. One of them nudged another, and the drunken cackle was loud enough to echo off tiled walls.

"You move onto dudes now, Heffley?"

Rodrick froze, halfway reaching to a fry, awkwardly turning around in his seat to face where the voice came from. You looked amused — they were obviously talking about you, whether or not they knew you were related to their little highschool queen.

"Heather finally dump you?"

You could faintly recall whatever disaster went down at Heather's sweet sixteen — she made it her whole personality sob-story for a year, so no way anyone would forget.

You caught his eye as he looked like he was about to lose it — which was strange, since he looked nothing like the shy, flushed guy who spent almost five minutes trying to undo your belt.

Just to see what he'd do, you said nothing. Cigarette dangling from your lips, exhaling like it was the most normal thing in the world. Your eyes scanned the scene with mild amusement.

“Nah, man,” he said finally, forcing a grin. “Just dinner.”

It didn’t land.

“You sure?” another one called, smirking over his shoulder. “Looks like you’ve been replaced.”

The words hung there, sharp and echoing.

You leaned back in your seat, eyes flicking between them and Rodrick, cigarette burning slow between your fingers. You didn’t move, didn’t even flinch — just watched, smoke curling against the glass.

Rodrick’s knuckles went white around the edge of the tray. Something in his jaw ticked.

He could’ve brushed it off. Could’ve laughed. But the air felt hot, heavy, like his body had been rewired for fight or flight and forgot how to pick one.

So he stood. Too fast. The chair screeched back.

One of the guys laughed — that ugly, half-drunk kind of laugh that sticks under your skin.

“Hey, relax, dude—”

But Rodrick was already moving. Shoving past the booth, shoulder clipping the guy’s arm harder than he meant to, tray skidding off the table and clattering to the floor. A soda cup burst open in a hiss of fizz and ice.

You exhaled, slow. Smoke curled past your lip. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

The jocks were still yelling something behind him, but it blurred into the hum of the lights and the faint ring of the door chime as you followed him out.

The air outside was damp, smelled like oil and rain.

Rodrick was halfway across the parking lot already, moving like he couldn’t get far enough fast enough. He yanked open the back door of your car and climbed in, slamming it shut with more force than necessary.

You stood there for a second, staring. Then sighed — long, tired — and flicked the cigarette away before it could burn your fingers.

“Jesus fucking Christ, be careful with the door,” you muttered, sliding into the driver’s seat.

The slam of your door sealed the world out.

Silence.

Rodrick was hunched in the back, head tilted down, breathing hard. You could see his reflection in the rearview — eyes red-rimmed, jaw locked, hair sticking to his forehead.

You stared out the windshield for a beat, knuckles resting against the steering wheel. The lights from the lot flickered against the dash, stuttering shadows across both your faces.

“You gonna tell me what the hell that was?” you said finally, not looking back.

Rodrick let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh.

You pinch the bridge of your nose, “Cool. Great talk.”

He shifted in the back seat, the vinyl squeaking under him. “...Damn,” he muttered, half-under his breath. “Think I left my fries.”

You hummed, mouth twitching. “Nah.” One hand reached to the passenger seat, rustling the paper bag. “Got ‘em.”

He blinked up, caught off guard. “Oh.”

He reached out halfway, palm open, but you yanked your wrist forward before he could take them.

“Come get ‘em,” you said, nodding at the empty front seat.

Rodrick hesitated, eyes flicking from you to the bag. Then he sighed, pushed the door open, and slid into the front, the seat belt buckle clinking between his knees.

You handed over the fries wordlessly this time.

He dug in, chewing slow, eyes on the dashboard. The smell of salt filled the car again, mingling with the faint smoke as you cracked the window and lit up.

Neither of you spoke. The glow from your cigarette pulsed in the reflection of the glass, brief orange flashes between inhales.

Rodrick leaned back, still eating, slower now. The paper rustled softly every time he reached in for another.

You crack the window open, cigarette wedged between your fingers. Rodrick’s done now, legs sprawled out, wiping his hands off on his jeans like he’s trying to erase what just happened back there.

Neither of you talk for a while. Just the sound of the wind through the gap, the hum of the radio that isn’t even on.

He clears his throat first. “Guess that’s one way to ruin a date.”

You snort, lips twitching around the filter. “Yeah? That what this was?”

He watches you flicking ash out the window. Then, almost absently, your hand reaches across the console, fingers slipping into his hair. It’s damp — clumped in a few places.

You tilt your head, finally glancing over. “You got soda in your hair or something?”

He stiffens a little, swatting your hand away. “What?”

“Your hair’s sticky,” You say, deadpan, running your hand through again like You’re checking for yourself. “Gross.”

"Dude, I swear its rain —"

"Sure hope so," You raise an eyebrow, letting your arm rest on the centre console.

You don’t even think. One second he’s laughing under his breath, the next you’ve got your fingers curled into the front of his hoodie, dragging him across the console.

Rodrick makes a sound — surprised, low — but he doesn’t pull back. Your mouths meet halfway, rough enough that his teeth catch your lip. He tastes like salt and leftover soda, and he’s breathing hard, like he can’t figure out if this is still a joke.

You tilt your head, deepening it; your hand slides up, catching the back of his neck to keep him close. The angle’s awkward, the car more cramped than you'd like.

There’s a thud and a wince as his knee hits the console, and you pull back just enough to breathe. His eyes are wide — a little dazed, like he’s still catching up.

“Are we seriously do this again—” Rodrick started, one hand on your arm like he’s trying to hold you back.

Your cigarette is still between your fingers, but you jam it into the cupholder and cut him off, leaning close enough that he can feel the warmth off your body.

“Listen, Heffley,” you murmur, tone sharp but lazy, “you don’t gotta… think about it, alright? None of that stuff.”

He blinks, flush spreading across his cheeks. “I—wait, what—”

“Get your mind out the gutter,” you interrupt again, thumb brushing lightly over his jaw. “Shut up, and just… enjoy it.”

You don’t even pause this time. Your hand drags along the back of his neck, fingers threading through damp strands, pulling him closer until his chest bumps against yours. The car is too small, but it doesn’t matter — nothing outside the windows matters.

Rodrick stumbles against the edge of the console, curses low and sharp, but doesn’t pull back. His hands find your arms, gripping for balance, for something solid, and you press into him anyway, nudging his shoulder with yours, half-laughing against his lips.

Your cigarette rests forgotten in the cupholder, smoke curling around your heads as you tilt, nudge, and tease him. His jaw brushes against yours; his hair smells faintly of rain, sweat, and whatever leftover fries clung to it.

He tries to speak between kisses, a muffled “uh—hey—” that’s drowned out by your smirk, your thumb dragging along his jaw like it’s nothing.

“God I said enjoy it,” you murmur against his mouth, lips brushing his ear, “...you seriously look like you need it.”

You tug him closer, hand slipping under his flannel collar, fingers pressing against his back, tracing the line of his spine. Rodrick groans low, leaning back into the passenger door, the doorpanel digging into him sharp enough to make him wince — but he doesn’t care. Not really.

Instead, he arches against you a little, pressed up against the window, warm glass cold against his nape, chest tight, heartbeat hammering. Your other hand snakes under his shirt too, thumb brushing over skin, over ribs, over the muscle you can feel tensing beneath him.

His hands grip your shoulders, hoodie bunched in his fists, balancing against the awkward crush of space. He mutters something muffled— “shit—fuck—” — but it’s swallowed quickly by your lips as you drag him closer again, tongue slipping between his surprised lips.

Every shift, every nudge, every brush of knee or elbow against the console or seat makes the contact sharper, more urgent.

He presses back harder against the door, and you lean into that little arch, hand gripping the small of his back, tilting him just enough that he’s forced against you in the tight space. God, that little arch was hot.

You briefly thought of fucking him right here Under better circumstances of course. Though, he'd probably short-circuit if you said that.

The car rattles slightly as he shifts, knee hitting the console again. You wince, but don’t let go — if anything, you hold his hips down tighter. You said he was the one in the gutter, but now you're imagining worse that he is right now.

He's not curvy or anything but he's got enough to grab and it's driving you insane. Thank God it's dark because he wouldn't let you live it down if he knew what a boner you had right now.

Rodrick groans low, his hands finally settling on your shoulders like anchors. You pull back and breathlessly laugh, which comes out more like a frustrated scoff.

“You’re fucking ridiculous,” he mutters, voice rough, gasping for air with a look that says 'what are we?!'

“Yeah,” you reply between pants, hovering above him, “but you like it.”

Rodrick runs a hand through his hair, still half-flat on the front seats, before giving you a mean middle finger "fuck you".

You laugh, "I couldn't fuck you here if I wanted to."

But god, you wanted to.

He curses you out for a few moments more but you're not listening —you slide off him, back into the drivers seat and stub out your cigarette on the console.

Cigarette now out, hand resting on the wheel as you glance at him. “Alright, let’s get you home before someone thinks your sorry loser ass ran away.”

Rodrick fumbles to sit up straighter, cheeks still pink, muttering something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, “Why do I let you do this—”

You just hum, pulling the car out of the lot, tires crunching on the gravel.

“And just so you know,” you say, glancing at him with that lazy, dangerous grin, “you should be grateful you don't have any to explain when you get home.”

He freezes mid-word, eyes wide and for a little while just as you get him home, his constant bickering doesn't sound so tiring to listen to.

click here for part 1 click here for part 2 (should i turn this into a full fic with an actual plot?)

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

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!

He's begging with his hands on your arms, rubbing them shakily.

You don't even think it's worth replying—watching him have to bite his fist as you sink down just an inch. And only an inch, your cunt drooling over his tip. And only his tip.

With just the tip inside you, sitting all pretty in his lap like you don’t have a damn clue what you’re doing to him? Fuck, you're going to kill him.

His hands are gripping your thighs so tight you swear there’ll be bruises, his head thuds back against the headboard, and this broken, frustrated groan rips out of him—

“Oh, fuck you, babe.”

“What’s wrong, rockstar? Thought you could handle whatever I threw at you?”

Oh you LOVE calling him that. Using his little wannabe-dream to either boost or fuck with his ego.

His breath shudders, his whole body tensing, and fuck, he looks wrecked—eyes blown wide, brows pinched together, mouth hanging open... He'd thrust up into your pussy if he could but his hips wouldn't do anything but a weak little stutter.

“Babe, I—please—just—”

Oh, now he’s polite? You hum, rolling your hips just slightly, making him twitch inside you, and he chokes on a sound somewhere between a groan and a whimper

“You wanna finish that sentence, Rodrick?”

God, he can't. He's not even religious but he thinks he's seeing the pearly gates at the moment.

You tilt your head, pretending like you have all the time in the world. Because you do and you're going to make sure he knows that.

“C’mon, Rodrick. You wanna move? You wanna be all the way inside me?”

He nods frantically, his head knocking back against the headboard, with his tip so swollen and leaking that it aches.

But you tut, curling your fingers slowly around the neckline of his shirt.

“Then ask nicely.”

And ohhh, the frustrated groan that rips out of him—like he wants to fight it, like he hates that you have him like this, but he’s just too fucking weak for you. His pride is crumbling, melting away under the sheer need building up inside him.

He gulps, his throat bobbing, his voice a wreck when he finally breaks.

“Please.”

Just a whisper at first, so shaky, so raw. But when you don’t move, when you just wait, watching him with that smug little smirk—he cracks.

“Please, baby, please—fuck—just—just let me move, let me fuck you, I need it so bad, I swear I’ll be good—just, please—”

You thought that was enough, slowly sinking down onto his dick, wrapping his it with your cunt. Again, he's not religious, but he's certain he's actually in heaven now.

His back arches off the bed, his head pressed against the headboard with his fingers digging into your thighs like he's grasping at you not to stop. And fuck, when you start moving, he can't get enough of your pussy. Like he's savouring it as if you're going to take it away.

And then—

“Oh, thank fuck—thank you, oh my god—thank you, baby, fuck, fuck—”

He’s not even thinking, the words just pouring out of him, and you genuinely have to pause.

And you know—you know he has zero idea what he’s saying, completely pussy-drunk with the way you slowly slide up and down his dick.

And you? You just raise your eyebrows, rolling your hips on his lap to bounce ever so slightly, making his whole body twitch beneath you.

“Did...did you just thank me?”

Rodrick freezes.

His eyes snap open, the hazy pleasure in them instantly replaced with pure horror.

And the way his whole face flares red? Priceless.

“I—fuck, I—” He stammers, his voice higher than usual, his hands gripping your waist as if to stop you from teasing him about it—

And he whimpers. Genuinely swallows his pride as he begs with his eyes for you to keep moving.

And you do. You make sure his eyes haze over, watching himself slide in and out of your cunt, wet lewd sounds that make his head spin and his cock twitch inside you. God, he's so whipped, whispering sweet little nothings to himself as he lets you fuck him.

God, he's never going to piss you off again.

When the front door finally clicked open, you shot upright so fast the candle flame shivered. Her voice floated through the entryway — smooth, tired, dangerous.

“Mi amor,” she hummed, dropping her jacket onto a chair. “You’re still awake?”

You padded toward her, all warm skin and soft expectancy, but before you could even reach for her, she was already halfway down the hall.

“Give me a moment, cariño,” she said over her shoulder, her tone practiced and distracted. “I just need to finish something.”

The door to her study shut with a solid, final click.

You stood there for a few seconds, blinking at the grain of the wood, robe sleeve slipping down your shoulder. The house swallowed the sound of her footsteps on the other side.

An hour passed. Then another. The candle wax puddled over its rim; the clock ticked again, louder now, like it was mocking you. And somewhere between the sighs and the quiet, something in you snapped — a slow, smoldering impatience.

You weren’t going to bed alone again. Not tonight.

You pushed yourself off the couch, robe swishing around your legs as you stalked down the hall. The brass knob on the study door felt cold against your palm when you twisted it.

“Valeria,” you said, stepping inside, voice already edging on a pout.

You sauntered over to her desk, arms folded across your chest, robe sliding just enough to show the curve of your waist and the soft damp sheen on your shoulders.

“Seriously, Valeria, what the hell is this?” you demanded, voice teasing and sharp at the same time. “Do you just vanish every night and expect me to sit here?”

Her hands froze over the papers in front of her, but her eyes—sharp, calculating, but so damn distracted—kept flicking over you. The robe clung to you in all the right places, and the steam from your shower still clung faintly to your hair, giving you that wild, just-out-of-the-shower glow.

“I’m… busy,” she said, voice low, attempting authority, but it wavered, just a little.

“Busy,” you repeated, brow raised. “Or ignoring me?”

She huffed through her nose, shifting in the chair, but her gaze kept wandering lower, catching the way the robe dipped at your thighs, the damp collar brushing your collarbones, the faint curve of your neck.

Even in the middle of her uniform—the tactical pants, the holster clipped to her hip, boots polished like she’d just stepped off duty—her focus faltered. The top half of her body was relaxed in a soft turtleneck so she had some time to compose herself after coming home, but her bottom half reminded you that she could still kick your ass if she wanted. And somehow, the juxtaposition made your heart ache in all the wrong ways.

“I said I’m busy,” she repeated, voice firmer now, trying to reclaim composure, but you could see the small hitch in her breath when her eyes lingered just a second too long on the damp skin at your shoulders.

You arched a brow, leaning just a touch closer. “Yeah? Busy ignoring your girlfriend, I mean, come on, I don’t even get a proper hello anymore.”

She sighed, hands dropping to the desk as she rubbed at her temples, finally meeting your gaze—but it wasn’t with her usual controlled fire. It was a little caught, a little dangerous.

"You want attention? You’ve got it… now tell me what your problem is before I forget myself.”

You were fuming, practically steaming from your scalp.

Arms crossed, lips pressed into a dramatic pout—you looked every inch the brat she couldn’t resist.

“I just don’t get it, Valeria!” you whined, voice mock-frustrated. “You work all day, come home, and then… vanish. It’s not fair!”

Her eyes—usually sharp, commanding, untouchable — kept darting over you, back and forth, and she couldn’t hold them still. Your whining, your glare, your pout, all of it was practically begging at her.

“Sit… sit somewhere else. You’re… you’re distracting.”

You scoffed, leaning back just a little, letting one knee slide outward on the desk. “Distracting? Me? Really? I’m just pointing out the obvious, Valeria. You should pay attention to me!”

Her fingers twitched on the edge of the desk, a low hum of frustration escaping her lips. She tried to look away, to gather herself, but every shift of your hips, every tilt of your head, made her eyes flick right back. You weren’t even trying to seduce her—it was just you being you, bratty and irritated, and it was killing her.

Then, the last straw. You sat your pretty little ass on her desk, right beside her papers, the two parts of your gown falling in the gap between your legs. You weren't wearing anything underneath, and she could see that.

Valeria stood up slowly, chair scraping back loud and clear. You paused as she slot herself between your legs dangling off the edge of the desk.

"Oh, wow, you got up —"

Her eyes flicked down for a moment and gave the inside of your thigh a nasty slap to cut you off, "You have my attention, cariño."

You jolt, your arms immediately uncrossing and gripping the edge of the desk, with a surprised little yelp.

One of her hands roots beside your thigh, locking you in, "And what's this, hm?"

She slips a hand under the two halves of your robe, higher and higher, her thumb already pressing against your slit slipping between your folds slightly. Just shallow little rubs to just miss your clit. "You come here like this on purpose?"

You lean back on your hands slightly, hips bucking into her hand that keeps pulling away as soon as it gets close to where you need it. "And if I did? Didn't think you'd mind with the way you were ignoring me —"

Valeria suddenly brought her other hand up, grabbing your jaw and gripping it tightly.

Her voice was tantalising, like you were being scolded as your cheeks were squished between her fingers, "Oh, mi amor, you have no idea how much I wanted you."

You gasp, and she starts to gather her your juices on the tip of her fingers, getting them all nice and wet, "Just look at this pretty pussy — how could I?"

Your eyes roll slightly and your mouth drops open as her thumb rubs slow circles around your needy, swollen clit, "Valeria —"

Her fingers let go of your face, slide down your chin and shove into your mouth. You gag, spluttering between a moan and a gasp.

"That's it baby, suck on them," She lets out a low groan at your fucked out expression, shoving her fingers in deeper, making you gag and your chest stick out trying to work against her strength. Not that it worked.

She roughly gave your thigh a slap, pulling her fingers away from your dripping pussy and tugged at the belt of your robe. It fell open with a soft sigh. "Care to explain?"

You gag and moan on her fingers as they finally slip out of your mouth. Your voice comes out rough, high and whiny, "I was desperate! You haven't been home properly in weeks and I was so fucking horny, Valeria —"

She shoves you down at that, laughing against your bare chest as you lay sprawled on the desk now amidst her papers, "You still are fucking horny — so fucking wet too."

You groan as your back hits the hardwood and as soon as you'd settled, she yanked your hips up, letting the halves of your robe fall open either side of you.

"Open wide for some attention, baby," She grabs one of your legs, folding it up so your knee was right up to your tits, spreading your cunt just for her. Two fingers started at your clit, rubbing up and down before sliding down your slit and sliding into you with an embarrassingly wet slap.

"Val — ia —!" Your bite had disappeared, and you were squealing her name now, broken between moans as your pussy just sounded wetter and more lewd every time she thrust her fingers in.

"Do you have any idea how much I missed you? Missed your pretty little lips —" You weren't sure which set of lips she meant. She leaned over, curling her fingers up into your g-spot to get a filthy moan out of you " — and those pretty little sounds?"

She was making you writhe like she needed to see you cum, needed to see you finally shut up. Fuck, she got faster, like she was telling you off for whining and complaining so much.

"F—fuck m' sorry—" You babbled her name through wet lips, spilling out apologies you weren't even sure what for.

"No, you're not, cariño," she almost cooed against your ears, "You're so happy I'm pounding you, hm?"

You mewl, back arching off the desk as she twists her fingers cruelly inside you before bringing her thumb to your clit, "C'mon, show me how much you like the attention."

It was fast, messy and she held your legs open, knee right up to your tits as you cried out her name, squirting over her desk, soaking the hardwood and catching some stray papers underneath you.

She gently fucked you through it with a groan, watching your pussy become sensitive and sore. A creamy translucent ring formed around her fingers as she gently pulled them out. She hissed through her teeth and gave your reddening pussy a slap against her open palm.

"You're beautiful," her eyes traced the way you jolted at the slap, gently lowering your leg, but already grabbing your hips. "I've missed this — missed you, amor."

You blinked up at her through hazed eyes and gave her a filthy little pout — lips wet with saliva — before giving her a teasing little giggle that made her go insane, "Seeee, baby? Can't keep away from me for too long."

Yeah, that did it. She dug her fingers into your hips, leaving little crescent marks, flipping you onto your stomach, legs barely touching the floor while you're bent over the desk.

"Thought I'd fucked that attitude out of you already, cariño," She gave your ass a mean slap. You winced, your feet snapping up so your heels pressed close to your thighs, "A—ck fuck—"

Valeria seemed pleased with your legs gently kicking as a burning red mark formed on your ass, occasionally kneading your ass and sliding her thumb across your glistening wet pussy, "Look at that, baby, you want it again?"

Fuck, yes you wanted more, because angry attention was still attention. One leg was still tucked up, the other barely keeping you steady on the floor. You moaned, breath catching in the sting, as her hand came down against your ass again.

"Does it hurt, baby?" Valeria hummed against your skin, thumb sliding between your folds as she peppered small kisses on your back.

You should tell her, that it's been so damn long, and your pussy is already sensitive— "Valeria—!"

She cut you off with another firm slap, your clit throbbing under her thumb. You swear you saw white, eyes rolling with a choked whine as you came again — hot, fast, sharp.

Valeria kept her hands firm and flat on either side of your ass as she watched your hips stutter and pussy clench around nothing, "Mierda, I was waiting for that, baby..."

Your face hit the desk with a thud, panting into the surface. Your pussy and ass felt so sore, your tits aching from being pressed against the desk so long. But your head was spinning so beautifully under Valeria's gentle praises, whispering into your ear like delicate nothings.

She slowly grabbed your hips again, "C'mon baby, work can wait. You don't want to go to bed lonely, hm?"

You vigourously shook your head, weakly looking behind you at her.

"Good, beause I'll have you going to bed sore."

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