#makeout session

“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?)

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