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character d!ck profiles
"Seasoned Rockstar Sex God" (emo/alt guys) working...
"I think I'm okay" angst!Rodrick x popular!Reader
𐙚┆ANON LIST + ASK RULES🥛 !
list here!
-pls don't be rude, that's all I ask!! feel free to give feedback, request multiple parts + i am gettting around to you all mwa!
𓂃 𝜗℘ true form!sukuna who loves having you right after he comes back from missions, all bloody and sweaty :: cw. smut, piv
sukuna can’t control the animalistic urges inside him whenever he returns to the estate after a raid or ‘business’ meeting (which usually just ends up with him massacring entire villages who dare to defy him).
he’s bloody and sweaty, his usual black kimono drenched with stains of crimson that are never his. he should be thinking of washing off the disgusting mortal blood, but all his brain can think of is going to your chambers and. . . fucking you.
“you need to get out of my damn head, woman,” sukuna spits as he has you on all fours, your back arched in an unnatural angle and your poor little pussy stretched in a way that’s almost physically impossible. you don’t have time to think at all; all you know is him and those two massive cocks of his.
the king of curses doesn’t show any mercy. in a way, he’s punishing you for infiltrating his mind after all. his fangs sink into the flesh of your neck as he leans down, his strong hips thwacking against your upturned ass without pause.
“i need to get rid of ya. need to tell uraume to cook you up already,” he hisses, the veins in his neck and temple visible as he fights the urge to just crush you like a bug.
“but i’ll keep ya around for a bit more—hah,” sukuna scoffs mockingly, drawing blood from your neck to lap up, “your tight cunt still serves me well.”
it’s clear that sukuna doesn’t know how to handle these urges well. though he does know he will not break you fully, not yet anyway. your little pussy that can take both his dicks is still keeping him somewhat sane (even though it is part of the reason why he’s losing his mind).
a dark thought flashes through sukuna’s mind as he feels the urge to unload the contents of his balls inside you. he grins menacingly as he forces you to make eye contact with him;
“. . . or perhaps i simply need to curse y’r womb with my bastards.”
... this is such a random post since I'm updating my blog really slow atm, but I'm unusually upset at my first AI accusation. I don't know what it is but it's just made me so sad! I love writing Rodrick as a character and I've written a lot of longer fics for him especially so this was a real bummer.
It's really unfortunate that obviously, AI doesn't just have it's own writing style, it's made to mimic multiple/styles that a human would write: short sentences, pauses using EMDash, Oxford comma, new paragraphs for dialogue. These are all mostly good practice, good grammar, or a natural way of writing when translating speech into text from your head.
No hate to this person in particular. Maybe I've just come onto here mid-mock-exam-season to complain and whine a little about comments like this, but it's so frustrating! Especially when you have limited works on one site (Ao3) so you can't really prove your case. Though, arguably, I guess writers shouldn't have to prove their case in the first place.
Hi could I please request shino aburame for day 28 please?
Yes!! Yes of course!! I think Shino is a super cool character, and since the prompt is 'multiple orgasms', I'm thinking maybe jealous!Shino, since he's a generally quiet guy! Maybe something to do with his bugs...
𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐒: a piece of cloth tied round the head to cover someone's eyes.
𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑: Billy Hargrove (Stranger Things)
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: Billy has always been difficult to date, an absolute man-whore and always wants to be the dominant one in the relationship. He's stubborn, mean, always thinks he's right. You've played along for a hot while, indulging in any fantasy he has. Until you argue one day and you've had enough. You want some ... long-deserved revenge.
𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: basically just Billy getting put in his place, teasing, brat!Billy basically, degradation (of Billy), edging, minor captor (you)/captive (character), edging, begging, tied-down (Billy), strong language, reluctant begging (Billy), slight fem-dom(?)...
Summer in Hawkins always feels like it’s been left too long under a heat lamp. The Camaro is parked crooked in the gravel like it owns the place, and leaning against it is exactly who you expected to find.
Billy with his sunbleached curls, flicks his cigarette onto the pavement and crushes it under his heel with unnecessary force. He doesn’t even greet you properly.
“Took you long enough,” he says, voice low and rough from too many late nights and too much attitude. “Thought maybe you finally got tired of stalking me.”
You fold your arms. “I was busy.”
He laughs once, sharp. “Yeah? Busy watching me from the bleachers again? Or busy pretendin' you don’t care who I talk to?”
Your jaw tightens. “I don’t care who you talk to.”
“Bullshit, baby.” He pushes off the car and steps closer, “You get that look. The one where you wanna start a fight but don’t know how to open your mouth without admitting you’re jealous.”
Across the parking lot a couple girls giggle, and Billy doesn’t even look at them. He knows they’re watching. He knows you know they’re watching. That’s the point. His hand drags through his hair, pushing it back, posture straightening like he’s on stage.
“You done glaring at me,” he drawls, voice lazy, “or you gonna actually say what’s crawled up your ass tonight?”
“You flirt with anything that breathes and has a pussy,” you snap.
He grins wider. “Keeps life interesting.”
“You gave her your number.”
“Oh relax.” He waves a dismissive hand. “They like the show. You like the show. Hell, you like it when I’m like this.”
You scoff, stepping closer instead of away. “You think everything’s about you.”
Billy leans down just enough that his voice drops into something quieter, heavier. “It usually is.”
“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter.
“And you keep coming back,” he shoots back instantly. “So what does that make you?”
You stare at him, chest rising with heat and irritation and something dangerously close to amusement. He thinks he’s already won. He always thinks that. The cocky tilt of his mouth says he expects you to cave first like usual.
You don’t.
Instead, you turn on your heel.
“Where’re you going?” he calls after you, annoyance already creeping into his tone.
You pause just long enough to glance over your shoulder. “Home.”
He snorts. “Yeah? Gonna sulk?”
You hold his gaze for a beat longer than normal, something unreadable flickering behind your expression.
“Something like that.”
You leave him in the parking lot, confident he’ll assume this ends like every other fight.
But as you walk away, your thoughts sharpen into something new, something patient.
He likes control too much. Likes hearing you snap back but eventually fold. Likes never being the one who has to give in.
Fine.
This time, you decide, Billy Hargrove is going to learn what it sounds like when he’s the one asking.
.
The living room smells like stale smoke and cologne, heavy and stubborn, like it refuses to leave even when the windows are cracked open. The late evening light bleeds in through half drawn blinds, striping the carpet and the back of the couch in gold and shadow. Billy is slouched in the armchair like he owns the entire damn house, one boot propped on the coffee table, cigarette balanced between his fingers as if it’s a natural extension of his hand. The television is on but muted, some rerun flickering silently while tension hums louder than any soundtrack.
You move around the room, seemingly busy, packing presents for your trip back home later this summer, during vacation. You're pissed, and he knows that, watching you through the corner of his eye, all smug. You rip open the duct tape, looking right at him every time.
He takes a drag, slow and deliberate, watching the smoke curl upward. “You gonna keep stomping around like that,” he mutters, voice gravelly and unimpressed, “or you actually got something to say?”
You don’t answer right away. You walk past him, close enough to smell the smoke clinging to his shirt. It makes your nose wrinkle.
“You’re smoking inside again,” you say finally, tone flat but edged.
Billy lets out a short laugh through his nose. “And?”
“And it’s disgusting.”
He tilts his head back against the chair, eyes sliding over you lazily. “Didn’t realize this was your house, sweetheart.”
“Didn’t realize you were trying to smoke yourself to death before thirty,” you shoot back.
He grins at that, slow and sharp, clearly pleased he’s getting a rise out of you. He takes another drag just to prove a point, smoke drifting deliberately in your direction. “You always get like this,” he says. “All bossy when you’re pissed.”
You step closer, crossing your arms. “You. Are. Smoking. Inside.”
His eyes narrow, amused rather than threatened. “And what the fuck are you going to do about it?”
The words hang between you, heavy and taunting. He turns slightly away as if you’re already dismissed, lifting the cigarette back to his lips, confident you’ll huff and retreat like usual.
Instead, you move.
You step forward quickly and quietly, the soles of your shoes barely whispering against the carpet. Before he can register what you’re doing, your fingers pinch the cigarette right from his hand. You ignore the brief sting against your fingertips and crush the ember out in the ashtray with a firm twist.
Billy’s head snaps toward you. “The hell—”
“Shh,” you cut in, low and sharp, pressing a finger briefly to your lips as if he’s the one misbehaving.
For a split second, he looks genuinely caught off guard, more surprised by the audacity than the act itself. You don’t give him time to recover. You turn on your heel and cross the room in three quick strides, reaching for the lamp first, then the overhead switch.
The lights snap off with a sharp click that slices the room in two, and for half a breath there’s nothing but the orange ember of his cigarette hovering in the dark. You step into him before he can adjust, shoulder slamming into his chest with enough force to knock the air from his lungs and send him stumbling backward. He hits the floor hard, the sound of it swallowed by the heavy quiet of the house, the couch catching his upper back as he tries to twist and grab you. He only manages to brush your sleeve before you’re already moving, already kneeling over him, already in control.
The cigarette rolls away off the ashtray and the last of the embers die against the carpet.
There’s a split second where he thinks it’s a joke, because that’s what you two do, circle each other like stray dogs with something sharp in your mouths. He lets out a low, amused huff as you shove his shoulders flat and swing one leg over his hips to pin him down, your weight pressing deliberately into him. Even in the dark, he can feel how pissed you are. It radiates off you like heat from asphalt in August.
Then the sound hits him.
That long, vicious rip of duct tape peeling from the roll.
It’s loud in the dark. Louder than it should be. Sticky and deliberate and promising absolutely nothing wholesome.
He still laughs. “You’re kidding.”
You aren’t. You don't even respond. He probably would've gotten angrier if he saw your face.
You work fast. Faster than he expects. You wrench one of his wrists down and loop the tape tight, pulling until it bites into skin, the adhesive stretching and snapping as you secure it. He tries to jerk free, but you’ve got leverage and fury on your side, and you use both without mercy. The tape circles again and again, binding his wrists together before he can get his bearings, your long acryllics digging into his wrists.
The amusement drains slowly from his breathing.
“Cute,” he mutters at first, voice rough but still smug, still convinced he can flip this whenever he wants.
You don’t answer. You just shift, straddling his thighs more firmly as you grab his ankles. He tries to kick, but you’re already dragging them together, the tape hissing and tearing in the dark. The adhesive stretches across denim and skin, wrapping tight, binding both ankles with quick, efficient pulls. You press down hard to test it, making sure it holds. It does.
By the time he realises you’ve secured him properly, he’s on his back against the couch, wrists pinned in front of him, ankles locked together, breath coming heavier than he wants to admit. The room is almost completely black now, the only light bleeding faintly from the kitchen down the hall, outlining your silhouette as you stand over him.
He tugs experimentally.
The tape doesn’t budge.
You move away from him like nothing happened, footsteps unhurried as you return to your half-packed gifts spread across the coffee table. Tissue paper rustles. A box lid snaps shut. The domestic normality of it feels almost obscene compared to the way he’s sprawled on the floor, restrained and very aware of it.
He lets out a slow breath through his nose.
“You’re serious,” he says finally, and there’s something new threading under the cockiness now. Not fear. Not quite. Something sharper. Interest.
You don’t look at him right away. You smooth down wrapping paper with deliberate care, tape dispenser clicking softly in your hand.
He shifts again, testing the limits, shoulders flexing, arms straining subtly against the adhesive. The tape creaks but holds firm, hugging his skin tight enough to sting. He tilts his head back against the couch cushion and lets out a low whistle.
“Didn’t know you had it in you, all this because I lit a cigarette?”
You finally glance over your shoulder, eyes catching what little light there is. Calm. Unbothered. Furious in that quiet way that makes it worse.
He watches you like you’re the show.
Another tug at the tape. Another failed attempt to shift his ankles apart. His breathing changes slightly as the reality settles in: he is, in fact, stuck. Not play-stuck. Not pretending. Properly restrained on his own living room floor.
A slow, crooked smile spreads across his face anyway.
“Well,” he drawls, testing the tension in his wrists again, shoulders flexing against the couch, “you gonna turn the lights on or what?”
“The lights are on,” you say lightly.
His brows pull together even though he can’t see you. He tilts his head, testing his vision again, eyes straining into what he thinks is darkness. The living room lamp is glowing. The hallway light is spilling faint gold across the wall. He just can’t see any of it.
Your fingers at the back of his head. The deliberate pull as something tightens over his eyes.
The shift in him is physical. The amusement thins. His shoulders tense hard against the couch, wrists flexing against the tape.
“What the hell—” he starts, then cuts himself off as you smooth your thumb once across the edge of the blindfold, checking it’s secure. He jerks slightly at the touch, more annoyed than startled. “Where the fuck did you get that?”
You step back, dragging a chair and sitting in front of him. You smile, giggling as you hear his head snap and follow the scraping noise, twitching, trying to find where you are.
“There’s that freak store in the back end of town,” you muse. “Thought I’d wander in. For fun.”
The word lingers. His head tilts slightly toward your voice, jaw ticking as the implication slides into place. He lets out a harsh scoff.
"The fuck does that mean?" he snaps, "You buying this shit for who, huh? He laughs once, sharp, "You been seeing other guys behind my back? Taking them home and playing sick dress-up?"
“So?” you reply smoothly, stepping closer again until he can feel your presence in the air between you. “What the fuck are you going to do about it?”
He goes quiet at his own words thrown back at him.
He inhales sharply through his nose. His shoulders pull tight, tape creaking. He swears loudly, head dropping back against the couch, jaw set hard enough to ache.
You lean in, letting one of your legs fall over his. You press the sole of your foot gently against his jeans right at the crotch, rubbing it in slow circles. Billy's breath hitches ever so slightly, "What the fuck is wrong with you? You get off on this? What, you mad I made you get off yourself last time?"
You've got to admit, that pisses you off. So you press harder.
"Oh, you think this is funny?" you hiss, leaning down to grab the zip of his jeans. You tug it down with a harsh, grating sound, exposing his cock in one swift motion. You notice there's no boxers, bastard he doesn't wear any. Everyone knew he was fast through bed, mixes through multiple girls, cumming in random hotspans attics and somebody else's car as he pleases like a pig. But you guess that's what turns-on girls of the 80s.
"You think you can just do whatever the hell you want?" you spit, your voice shakes as well as your strokes as you grip him hard and congrats him. "Fuck these other chicks and show off and tell them your number and it's like you're the one who took me to bed?"
You keep talking and venting out your spleen, "Riding that car around the town making it roar, you have the nerve to make me go wild. You want me to give you a blowjob while you tell a chick you took me? Just look at her face and brag. You aren't big and scary, Billy. You're just a fucking slut."
Billy might've slept around, but you aren't any better either. You smile to yourself, watching him try and writhe for more friction and you're pretty fucking good with your hands.
Your hand moves faster, your grip tightening around his cock. You can feel him pulsing, throbbing. The tape creaks and strains, but it holds firm. You can see the sweat beading on his forehead, the way his jaw ticks like struggling will do something.
"You like this, don't you?" you murmur, your voice low and sultry. "You like being at my mercy. You like it when I take control." You keep stroking him, your hand moving faster, harder. You trail a finger up his length to his tip, gently rubbing it there in circles as beads of precum form.
"Oh c'mon," You tease, almost cooing at him, your hand deliberately slowing. "Tell me what the Big, Bad Billy is going to do about it—"
"I don't fucking care what you do, Jesus Christ," You pause, a little surprised and tilt your head. "You get a good laugh out of this or something?" He's heaving against the couch, shallow and agressive thrusts into your palm that's gradually coming to a halt.
Billy throws his head back against the couch, finally breathing as your hand releases him.
You slip your panties off, watching his cock flat against his stomach. "Yeah, probably, baby."
You have your knees knelt on either side of his hips, letting his cock throb against your pussy, dripping around the underside. He moans. He actually moans.
He hisses through his teeth, "That fucking feels… God… you're really doing this, aren't you?"
"Yeah? I am, aren't I?" Your hips move in slow, deliberate circles, letting him feel every inch of your wetness coating his shaft. Your clit throbs against his tip as you get so damn close to sticking it in every time.
"And say how sorry you are" you mock him, letting his tip slide into your pussy but no more than that; controlling his hips with your hands pinning them down. "C'mon Billy. I promise it feels good 'nd I can't take it anymore either."
"Jesus Christ, baby, c'mon..." He sits up slightly, face as close to yours as he can get it, murmuring with a twitching grin, "Please, baby? Is that what you wanted to hear?"
He bucks up his hips, groaning when he can't quite get his cock at your slit, "That I need to feel your pussy so fucking bad?
"You're gonna cum on your own, at this rate, Billy," You whisper, tugging at his hair, pulling his head back. He chokes on his own spit slightly.
"Fuck, baby," he growls, his voice hoarse with need. "You're such a fucking tease. Make up your mind."
You hum, long and low, sinking just another inch down his angry-red tip, riding just above it all.
His jaw ticks again, "Okay, FUCK, fine." He sighs, mumbling at no one in particular at first. "Please, baby,"
You don't do anything at first.
"Baby, fuck me, it's driving me fucking crazy, alright?!"
You slide onto him, taking inch after inch until Billy swears loudly admist a groan. He has never been so fucking grateful to you in his life.
You moan as you feel your cunt stretch around his cock, already feeling it throb and pulse inside you, breasts against his chest.
He hisses through his teeth, "A—Ah, shit," Billy groans, body shaking in the restraints of the tape.
"Just move. I'm begging, baby, please just fucking move—"
You grin, biting your lip as you slide back up his cock, only to slam back down again and feel him twitch inside you. He can barely fucking breathe, nevermind curse you out for going so slow. He's grateful that you're even fucking him at this point. Billy Hargrove has never wanted it so bad since he never had to.
His continued wordless moaning, almost incoherent. "Harder, baby… Please—"
He doesn't really need it, half-slurring out of his goddamn mind. His arms fight the restaints, spilling cum deep into your cunt while still angry he can't just slam it into you. He has to wait until you're around his shaft, cum sliding down the wetness of his cock onto the denim beneath you.
You gasp, still twitching since you haven't had enough. You slide your cunt off his cock, a wet, filthy squelch as his cock softens against his stomach. "Whoops. Cumming before I did? You know, I'm starting to think its not on purpose Billy—"
"Shut the fuck up." He says, panting, angry but so damn spent.
You burst out laughing, tugging at his hair. "I'm taking money out your wallet for the pill."
.
Afterwards, things had shifted in little, infuriating ways. The next afternoon, sliding into Billy’s Camaro after school, you didn’t bother hiding your smugness. Feet propped casually on the dashboard, you gave him a look that could only mean don’t even think about it.
“Stop smoking in here,” you said, voice calm, like you weren’t just daring him to test you.
Billy opened his mouth, probably to argue, to launch into some, obnoxious tirade, but instead he swore under his breath, crushed the butt on the dashboard under your toes, and muttered, “Fine, fucking fine.”
All as if conceding was the biggest pain of his life. He started pulling out of the car park, cigarette gone, smoke-free… at least until the moment you let your grin show.
And there it was—a little victory, the kind he’d never admit, but that he’d think twice about the next time he reached for a lighter around you. Or revved the engine at some girl. Or tried to get free fries by placing bets on how many times he could fuck you. Teasing, victorious, just enough to remind him who was really running the show.
Please leave suggestions, ask to be on the taglist too if you'd like!
i absolutely adore your work and i was wondering if you could do rodrick fluff? like the fluffier the better.
-🖤🎧
(new anon if that's okie)
YES! YES YES YES ! HAI NEW ANON! I'll.. i dunno what to call you but heart headphone anon 🖤🎧 ?? ITS CUTE! I LOVE THE EMOJI COMBO!
I adore you TOO! I ADORE YOU MORE!
Of course! I'm thinking I haven't done a fluff-dedicated post for a longgggg time, or at all... perhaps... so MAYBE I can do it in a headcannon or drabbles post, teehee :D
ok. so i might’ve just binged i think i’m okay… and i think by far… in all the stories i’ve ever read.. you were the best author. like im not even PLAYINGGFG OMG i love you. the story kept me so attentive and i genuinely enjoyed it so much. it didn’t cut right into romance (even though i was screaming at my screen sometimes… holy cow the music room scene killed me). i think it was so real and so transparent. like im not even lying.. i will be waiting here for the next part 💔💔 STOP ITS SO GOOD. also offtopic i think i saw that you were british ? you write as an american so good like you had it down to the t.. ANYWHOOOOO you’re my new favorite author ilysm okay bai
-🐈 anon
FAVOURITE AUTHOR?
FAVOURITE AUTHOR? WHAT, HELLLLOOO I CRIED. I'M DYING
I'm so honoured you loved that fic so much. Yes, I am british! I grew up here and HAHA I'M SO GLAD I WRITE A CONVINCING AMERICAN HIGHSCHOOL SETTING! ILYSM! The music room scene was lovely to write since I loveeeee angst! It's been so long since I've been on tumblr but I hope you're still here!
Please respond if u are! I hope you still love my page!! I love you lots and I promise to be more active, kitty anon 🐈
𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎𝐗𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: act of using substances prior to or during sexual acts
𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑: Orochimaru (Naruto/Boruto)
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: Mitsuki is a really sweet kid that you teach as a part of your homeroom class (even if he's a bit strange or aloof sometimes), and this year, you've been tasked with visiting your students' homes to discuss their academic progress and know more about them. Though, one particular parent wants to know more about you...
𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: continuting a really late kintober! alcohol (therefore dubcon), snake-biting, slightly incorrect use of Orochimaru's snakes, fingering, edging, cock-drunk, no protection, drugged, I feel like Orochimaru could have both genitals at will, technically, but he'll have a dick here...
Parent teacher home visits are usually predictable things. Polite smiles stretched thin over concern about grades and friend groups. You are new to the academy, but you've done it a few times today to not get too nervous.
This one is different.
You stand at the edge of a secluded compound that does not resemble any of the other homes on your list. The path leading up to it is quiet in a way that feels curated, as though even the insects have been instructed not to intrude. The architecture is elegant yet severe, all clean lines and shadowed corners, traditional elements softened by modern precision. There is nothing overtly sinister about it, and yet your pulse refuses to settle.
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?"
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. . . ✰ Anon request from blueberry smoothie 🫐🥤 anon!! IT WAS FROM SO LONG AGO, I HOPE YOU HAVEN'T FORGOTTEN ME! PLEASE RESPOND TO ME IF YOU STILL EXIST! Wasn't sure whether to do the male or female part of the anon request but settled on some short angsty shit because i luvvvv angst teehee </3
After school feels different when you’re walking next to him.
It’s stupid. It’s literally the same pavement you’ve walked a thousand times. Same cracked concrete. Same corner shop that smells like fried oil and dust. Same group of freshmen screaming like, fuck it can't be that serious, can it?
But he’s next to you, backpack slung over one shoulder, headphones around his neck, talking about some test he definitely didn’t revise for but still somehow aced because he’s Miles and the universe just likes him like that. And you think that's so cool. You think he's just... everything to you and you thought it was fun and just wanted him to stick around.
You pretend you’re listening again this time. You are listening.
You’re just also looking at the way his hands move when he talks, how he smiles with his whole face, how there’s this soft crease near his eyes when he laughs too hard. You hate that you notice that. You hate that you know that crease exists.
You tell yourself it’s normal. Guys can admire their friends. Guys can think other guys look cool. It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean you sometimes imagine what it would feel like if he leaned just a little closer. It doesn’t mean your stomach does that weird flip when he nudges your shoulder.
It doesn’t mean anything.
“Yo, you coming over?” he asks, bumping you with his hip like it’s nothing.
You shrug like it is nothing. “Yeah, sure.”
Inside, you are setting off fireworks and pretending they’re just faulty wiring.
His house smells like laundry detergent and something sweet, probably whatever his mom baked earlier. You’ve been here before. A bunch of times. It shouldn’t feel sacred.
But it does.
You drop your bag by his bed and flop down next to him, shoulder to shoulder, controllers in your hands. He puts on Street Fighter and immediately starts trash talking like his life depends on it.
“You’re getting smoked, bro.”
He tosses you a controller with a grin. “First to five. Loser buys empanadas next time.”
“You say that every time,” you mutter, but you are already smiling.
“In your dreams,” you mutter, even though you’re already losing.
You sit so close your knees bump sometimes. His thigh presses against yours when he leans forward. You focus way too hard on the screen because if you look at him for too long you’ll stare, and if you stare you’ll think, and if you think you’ll spiral.
He laughs when you mess up a combo and the sound goes straight through you. You don’t even know how to describe it. It just hits. Like it settles somewhere in your ribs and stays there.
You feel happy. The soft kind that guys definitely don't feel. The kind that makes everything feel warm around the edges. For a second, just a second, you think maybe this is fine. Maybe you could tell someone. Maybe you could tell Ganke. Or maybe, if the universe felt particularly kind, maybe you could tell him.
After school bleeds into late afternoon, you end up where you always do.
Miles’ room. Door half shut. City noise humming through the window like background music.
He tosses you a controller. “First to five. Loser buys empanadas next time.”
“You say that every time,” you mutter, but you are already smiling.
You sit on the edge of his bed. He flops beside you, shoulder knocking into yours. The mattress dips and your thigh presses against his. You do not move. If you move, it becomes a thing.
The game loads. Character select.
Bright squares. Music looping. The cursor flicks from face to face.
Miles hovers over Chun-Li immediately. “You already know.”
You swallow. “Predictable.”
“Bro, she is elite.” He tilts his head, squinting at the screen. “And you cannot tell me she not fine.”
There it is. Casual. Easy. Safe.
You force a shrug. “I mean. Yeah. She is.”
Your thumb rests on the joystick but you are not really looking at the screen. You are looking at him in your peripheral vision. The way his brow furrows when he is deciding. The way his bottom lip pushes out slightly when he concentrates.
You drag your cursor over Ryu.
Too safe.
Ken.
Too obvious.
You tell yourself you are just picking a main. Just picking someone with good frame data. Just picking someone who fits your playstyle.
Your cursor lands on a male character with a sleeveless jacket and stupidly defined arms.
Your stomach flips.
It would be nothing to say it casually. To test it. Just a little push.
Miles is still talking. “Nah, but for real. They lowkey went crazy with her design. Like whoever animated that knew what they were doing.”
You huff out something that sounds like agreement. Your brain is screaming at you to shut up. To not poke at it. To not ruin this.
But you are tired of being a ghost in your own body.
“I mean,” you say, keeping your eyes on the screen, “he kinda cool though.”
Miles glances over. “Who?”
You nudge the joystick, making the character pose. “Him." You suck in a breath.
"Fit goes hard.”
Miles leans closer to the screen. Close enough that his arm presses more firmly against yours. You feel it everywhere.
“That dude?” He snorts. “What, you gay or something?”
It is light. Teasing. The way guys talk.
The word hits you like a glass dropped on tile.
Your thumb freezes on the controller. For half a second, your brain blanks. Your body feels like it has been unplugged.
You laugh far too quickly. “What? No. I just said he looks cool.”
Miles doesn't notice the shift. He is already chuckling, bumping your shoulder. “Am messing with you, man.”
He shrugs. “But nah, he is cool though. I'd rock that jacket.”
Your lungs finally remember how to work.
Yeah. He is joking. Of course he is joking.
Still, something ugly curls in your stomach.
You look back at the character grid. All these pixel men and women lined up neatly. Easy labels. Easy preferences. The world in little squares.
Your brain whispers, This is your chance. Say it. Say something real.
Another voice snaps back, And lose him?
You move the cursor again, pretending you are indecisive about stats. You are not. You are stalling, shit, what even for? What the hell are you stalling for? You didn't think you'd actually say it to him, right?
If you said it right now, what would happen?
If you said, “Yeah. Maybe,” would he laugh? Would he go quiet? Would that easy warmth between you flicker out like someone turned off a light?
Miles is still talking. “You picking or what? Stop being weird.”
Weird.
The word stings more than it should and you cringe at the screen.
“I am thinking,, shut up a sec,” you mutter and he only laughs in response.
You lock in the character anyway. Your heart is pounding harder than it should for a game.
Round starts. Buttons mash. Trash talk resumes.
But your mind keeps replaying it.
What, you gay or something?
You almost said yes.
You almost wanted to see what his face would look like if you did.
Instead, you focus on the screen. On combos. On anything that is not the way your chest feels too tight for your ribs.
When you lose the round, you barely register it.
“You washed,” Miles grins.
“Shut up.”
You stare at the screen again when it goes back to character select for the next match.
The grid looks different now.
Like every square is a question.
And you do not know if you are brave enough to answer it
Your voice sounds off. You hope he doesn’t hear it.
You suddenly feel stupid for even thinking you could tell him anything. Of course he’d react like that. Of course he would. Guys say stuff like that all the time. It doesn’t even mean anything. It’s normal. You’re the weird one for taking it personally.
“I’m gonna— bathroom,” you blurt out, already standing.
He barely looks away from the screen. “Bet. Don’t take forever.”
The hallway feels longer than usual. Your face burns. You shut the bathroom door and lock it even though you’ve never locked it before.
You step into the bathroom and shut the door. Lock it. The click is louder than it should be.
The light flicks on, bright and unforgiving. You grip the edge of the sink like you need it to steady yourself.
His stuff is everywhere.
Toothbrush in a chipped cup. Blue towel hanging slightly off-center. A hoodie draped over the laundry basket like he tossed it there mid-thought. There’s a faint smell of his soap, something clean and citrusy, lingering in the air.
You stare too long.
This is normal. You have been in here before. You have brushed your teeth here during sleepovers. You have laughed with him through this door while one of you complained about running out of hot water.
So why does it suddenly feel like you are standing inside something private?
Your eyes track over everything like you are memorizing it. His toothbrush. His comb. The little crack in the mirror at the corner.
You swallow hard.
“Fuck, what is wrong with you?” you mutter under your breath.
You look at yourself in the mirror. Your face looks flushed. Guilty. Like you just got caught stealing something.
You lean closer, studying your reflection like it might confess first.
You almost said it, God, that terrifies you.
The shame creeps in quietly, like fog filling a room. Not just because of what he said. But because you are angry at yourself for caring. For wanting. For hoping.
You imagine telling him and you head starts to spiral and the bathroom feels so fucking small all of a sudden.
Your hand twists the tap handle hard. Water crashes into the sink, loud and chaotic. The sound fills the room, and something in you hopes its loud enough he doesn't hear everything you're thinking.
You lean forward and let the cold water splash into your palms. It spills over your fingers. You bring it to your face, press it into your skin.
Shock.
You suck in a breath through your teeth.
Water drips down your chin, into the sink. You keep your head lowered, palms braced on either side.
You glance at the towel.
For a second, you almost reach for it but you stop yourself.
You wipe your face with your sleeve instead. Like you do not get to touch something that close to him.
Your thoughts spiral.
Why did you even say anything? Why did you test it? What did you expect, that he would grin and say yeah, me too?
He is Miles. He jokes. He says stuff like that without thinking. He probably did not mean it. He probably forgot it the second it left his mouth.
But you did not.
You replay the moment again. The way your heart stalled. The way your hands went stiff. The way you wanted to say yes just to see what would happen.
You grip the sink harder. You hate that something inside you wants him like this. You hate that it feels wrong. You hate that it feels right. The water keeps running.
You stare at the drain like it might swallow the feeling if you watch long enough.
Finally, you twist the tap off. The sudden quiet is heavy.
Drip.
Drip.
You look at yourself one more time.
You unlock the door and open it slowly, forcing your shoulders to relax, forcing your face back into something normal.
When you step into his room again, he is sprawled across the bed, controller in one hand, phone in the other. Completely at ease. Completely unaware.
He glances up.
“You good?”
His smile is easy. Open.
You swallow everything that threatens to spill out.
“Yeah,” you say, sitting back down beside him like nothing changed at all.
“Yeah, I’m good.”
♡ Please do not modify, steal, plagarise or post on other platforms without asking. Thank you!
"You could sl!t my wrists, I'd write your name in a heart with the hemorrhage..." romantic.
♡ IT'S BEEN like 6 MONTHS I'M SORRY EXAMS TOOK ME OUT + I got employed </3 I ALSO FAILED MATHS BUT YK.. But I'm back to regular updates! We're almost at the end, guys, stay locked in. This is actually something that happened recently during a party-! Names are similar, actually, because some of the people involved are my friends (and ofc myself), so it was really an experience to write, tbh. anyways, have fun reading!! It's pretty long!
CW: self harm (sh), drug use, drug and alcohol use, implied sexual assault, drink spiking, molly-use, opioids, hospital settings... uh, just a party gone wrong, both characters realising they do actually mind dying.
word count: 9200
masterlist of all parts
song4this: "DiE4U" by Bring me the Horizon
-------story starts here-------
The tide had finally started turning.
It wasn’t like everything was sunshine and glitter, rumors were stubborn and teenage girls could be worse than gossip columns—but you were clawing your way back, one returned smile at a locker and “oh my god, I love your outfit” in the hallway at a time. Slowly, the noise was quieting. The whispers behind hands now turned to invitations. Pity was morphing into envy again. You were becoming you again.
And part of that meant saying yes when the girls invited you out.
It was nothing major, really. Just a “come out, you never do anymore” kind of night. A few drinks, some awful dance-floor selfies, and maybe a late-night diner run before someone puked in the Uber.
Rodrick didn’t say anything at first. He just watched you from where he was lying upside down on your bed, head hanging over the edge, legs still in his scuffed Converse, picking at a string in your bedsheets while you rifled through your closet.
“You’re sure you wanna go?” he asked eventually, like it was casual. It wasn’t.
You paused with your hand on a hanger. “Rodrick.”
He looked up—well, as much as he could from that angle—then let his head drop again with a groan. “I know, I know. I’m not gonna do the whole clingy boyfriend thing, okay? I’m just…”
“Whiny?” you teased, pulling out a dress and holding it against your chest. You looked at him over your shoulder. “You think this one’s cute?”
His face did that thing it always did when he liked something on you but didn’t know how to say it. His eyes widened slightly before darting away, ears pinking. “I mean. Sure. If you’re tryna kill me, then yeah. Wear that one.”
You rolled your eyes but smiled anyway, turning back to the mirror.
Behind you, he sat up properly, crossing his legs and watching you do your makeup with the kind of lazy reverence that made your chest ache a little.
“You gonna drink?” he asked, after a long pause.
You nodded while fixing your eyeliner. “A little. Not too much.”
“Need me to pick you up?”
You met his eyes in the reflection, a soft smirk tugging at your lips. “What, you want to be my Uber driver now?”
He scoffed. “Please. I’m way cooler than an Uber driver. my van has way more personality.”
You laughed. “Fine. You can pick me up when I’m done.”
“I’ll leave the backseat clean for you.” He stood, walking up behind you and resting his chin on your shoulder, arms sneaking around your waist. “Just… call me, alright? I don’t care if it’s 2 a.m. or if you forgot your shoes. Not like your shoes are made for walking anyway...”
“I will,” you whispered, leaning back into him just for a second.
You could feel him watching you the whole time you touched up your lip gloss. And he didn’t say it but you knew what he was thinking about.
He trusted you. But he still hated the thought of you in the same room as Nathan.
You turned and kissed his cheek gently. “I’ll be okay.”
Rodrick grumbled something under his breath, squeezing your hips once before letting go. “You better be. Or I’m pulling up to that party and dragging your glittery ass outta there myself.”
You laughed, already slipping your phone into your tiny purse. “Can’t wait.”
And with that, you were gone —leaving the scent of perfume behind and a boy in a band tee muttering about how unfair it was that you looked that good and knew it.
You could hear the music before you even stepped out of the Uber.
Bass thumping like a heartbeat through the pavement, the sound warping as it pushed through walls too thin and windows thrown open to the sticky summer air.
Kayla had said it would be “just a small thing,” a little wind-down with people from her cousin’s college who were visiting for the weekend. Nothing crazy. Casual. Maybe fifteen people.
But when you stepped onto the lawn, it was obvious she’d lied through her teeth.
It wasn’t massive, but it definitely wasn’t small either. People were spilling out onto the porch with red cups in hand, laughing too loud and stumbling in too-high shoes. The house glowed from within with colored LEDs casting everyone in that party-pink and purple haze. Inside, it was all low ceilings and bodies pressed too close together. Sweat and perfume. Beer and burnt weed. The air was thick and warm, like a mouth breathing right onto your skin.
You found Kayla in the kitchen, holding a drink in one hand and a glow stick in the other. She turned, spotted you—and for a moment, her face did that awkward flinch like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to be happy to see you.
Then she smiled anyway.
“You actually came!” she shouted over the music, pulling you into a loose hug that reeked of tequila and strawberry vape. “Oh my god, you look so good.”
You laughed and accepted the compliment, even if part of you still felt brittle around her. The whole Nathan situation was a wound that was just barely scabbed over — and Kaylya and her boyfriend had been right there. In the car behind Nathan’s.
But she was trying. You could see that.
So you tried too.
The first hour was easy. Familiar faces, easy laughs, music that made your bones itch in the best way. Someone poured you a drink that tasted like candy and sin. You danced with your girls in the middle of the living room, hair sticking to the back of your neck, arms thrown around shoulders you used to resent. And for a little while, it actually felt good.
Rodrick stayed in your pocket the whole time — figuratively, not literally. You could feel him in the texts you didn’t check. The picture you almost took. The way you didn’t let your drink go empty too many times. You knew he’d be waiting when the lights went out. That kept you steady.
But then later—once the dancing wore off and the night slumped into its slurred, half-spoken twilight—you drifted. You were moving through the hallway when you caught the tail end of a sentence from someone’s half-drunk mouth:
“—I mean, like, Rodrick? Seriously?”
It wasn’t said to you. Not directly. But it didn’t have to be.
You froze near the wall, half-hidden behind someone in a letterman jacket.
The girl who said it—you recognized her vaguely. She was one of those girls whose name you never bothered to learn but had always sat two seats behind you in English. Glossy mouth. Low-rise jeans. Smudged eyeliner but it wasn't intentional because that's probably "too goth" for them or something.
“I just think it’s wild,” she continued, sipping something blue from her cup. “She went from Nathan to that guy—what’s his name? Heather’s sloppy seconds?”
There were a few laughs. You cringed; seems like no one's forgetting the stunt at Heather's sweet sixteen.
“She could’ve had anyone,” another girl chimed in. “Like, literally. She’s hot, she’s popular again. And she’s dating the guy with the crusty van and a nose ring?”
You could've punched her — Rodrick doesn't even have a nose ring!
It wasn’t like you hadn’t heard worse, though.
And somewhere, in the back of your mind, you were already thinking about calling him.
You were about to leave. Just needed a refill of something fizzy to tingle that weird ache in your head.
The hallway opened back into the kitchen, dimmer now, the air hot and glossy from too many bodies and open bottles. You pushed through the crowd, not even sure what you were reaching for—vodka? soda? your phone?
And then—
“Wait—hey. Hey, can I talk to you?”
You blinked as your chests collided a little, holding your arms out to steady yourself against a body much taller than yours with its equipped heels.
She was standing just off to the side, near the fridge, clutching her half-empty drink like a peace offering. Her bleached-blonde hair was twisted up into two sparkly clip-on tails, glitter lining the inner corners of her eyes. Crop top, fuzzy purse, three butterfly rings stacked on one finger like they were trying to fly away.
It was such a Kayla-look; all loud and bubblegum and unapologetically her.
You stopped, the cup in your hand hovering somewhere between letting go and holding on.
She chewed the inside of her cheek before speaking. “I know this is random. And, like, you totally don’t have to talk to me right now if you don’t want to. I just… I really need to say something.”
You nodded, warily. “Okay.”
“I’m sorry,” she blurted out. “For not telling you. About Nathan. About what I knew. I should’ve said something sooner.”
You blinked.
“I—I knew something was going on,” she continued, her words speeding up, tumbling over each other. “My boyfriend, Danny, he was there that night. The one behind Nathan’s car. And I heard stuff. And I knew he was sketchy. But I didn’t say anything because—” She laughed, breathlessly, bitterly. “Because I didn’t want Danny to think I was stuck-up or whatever.”
You stared.
“Which is so dumb, because honestly? I liked being your friend. You made me feel like I didn’t have to play dumb all the time, like why was Daniel so pissed anyway? I've slept with him before. I don’t know.”
The music shifted behind her, someone switching songs. Laughter spilled in from the living room. But all of it felt weirdly far away.
Because this—this moment was real.
Kayla, usually so bubbly and superficial, standing there with her sparkly drink and tears clinging to the tips of her mascaraed lashes. Not crying. Just honest.
You didn’t realize you’d been holding your breath until you let it out.
“It's —fine—.” The words left your mouth before you fully decided on them. But you meant it.
Because you weren’t perfect either. Because people made mistakes and picked the wrong people and lied to themselves just to feel safe, you guess.
Kayla let out a little relieved squeak and hugged you, arms wrapped tight around your waist, her head bumping your shoulder.
“You still smell SO good,” she murmured. “God, I missed that.”
You laughed as she pulled back, looping a glittery arm through yours with a grin that could’ve powered the entire house’s string lights.
"You want a refill, right?" she chirped, dragging you toward the kitchen. "Brantley and his team... they brought the good punch. Besides..."
She leaned in a little, lowering her voice like it was a secret.
“I broke up with Daniel.”
You blinked. “Wait, seriously?”
She gave a dramatic eye-roll. “Yeah. He said I was ‘too much,’ and I was like — you dated me while I had zebra print nails and rhinestones in my hair, what did you think this was? If he didn't like it, he shouldn't have dated me!"
You snorted. Of course she said that.
“I need a new boyfriend,” she declared, straightening her top with purpose. “And that group has cute guys. I’m talking jawlines and forearms. So you can help me pick, since you're taken and all. You have, like, boyfriend experience.”
You paused, eyeing her up and down. “…Boyfriend experience?”
“Yeah, duh,” Kayla said breezily. “Rodrick. Obviously.”
You stared at her for a beat, eyebrows knitting slightly. She caught the expression and laughed, slapping your arm playfully.
“I mean, like — he dresses weird,” she added quickly, twirling one of her sparkly rings. “But then again, so do I.” She struck a quick pose, winking. “I respect it. And he looks like he treats you good.”
Your mouth twitched. Rodrick, with his ripped shirts and cargo shorts, probably smelling like basement and Red Bull. Treating you good.
The thought warmed you in places that had gone cold this past month.
By the time you reached the kitchen, Kayla had already grabbed two cups and was dragging you toward the couch. She was radiant again, loud and shiny and alive, like she'd just respawned after being off your radar for too long.
She plopped down on a sagging couch cushion, legs crossed dramatically, and called out over the music:
“Okay, make way, I’ve got the fallen queen! Everybody shut up and bow or whatever!”
A few cheers went up—some joking, some genuine. You felt yourself flush a little, but you smiled.
The couch was low and lumpy, where you had to move every so often so it didn't eat you whole. Kayla had parked you both there like royalty, legs draped, laughter loud. She kept introducing you to people you half-remembered— names came and went like confetti, smiles too bright, perfume too sweet.
You tried to hold onto the warmth, to the casual sparkle of Kayla’s joy. You wanted to. She was finally herself again, no longer shrinking to fit into some guy’s pocket.
Then he sat down.
Not beside you, but too close. A face you didn’t know—some friend of Brantley’s, apparently. He had that lean, hungry look that didn’t match the glitter of the party. His eyes landed on you like he already knew what you tasted like. Like you were a drink he’d ordered ages ago and was tired of waiting for.
“You’re quiet,” he said. He was smiling, but it wasn’t the kind that made you feel seen. It was the kind that measured you.
"Been a while," You shrugged, gave a polite smile, the kind you’d rehearsed in a mirror once, maybe. “Just soaking it in.”
He chuckled like he’d found that charming, even though you hadn’t meant it to be. His gaze flicked to Kayla, who was distracted by someone on her phone. Then back to you.
“Someone like you… I’m surprised you’re not with anyone.”
You didn’t say anything. Just sipped what was left in your cup. Sugar and cheap vodka, maybe.
He leaned forward a little, elbow on his knee. “You seeing anyone?”
There was a pause.
You could’ve said it. Could’ve said Rodrick’s name like a blade and be done with it.
Why didn't you? You regretted pausing but it felt too late to still say it. You're not ashamed of him, you love him more than anything and you also want to leave more than anything—
But you didn’t want to derail Kayla’s night. Or make a scene. Or seem dramatic. So instead, you just smiled again. Too soft, too slow. “Not looking to date.”
It wasn’t no. Not really.
He smiled at that—sharp, small. “That’s a shame.”
And then he stood. You thought that was it, thought maybe he got the hint, until he returned.
With another drink.
You stared at it for a second when he held it out, condensation dripping down the red Solo cup like sweat. The music thudded through the floor like a second heartbeat.
“Try this one,” he said. “Tastes better than the punch. Promise.”
You hesitated—but Kayla had grabbed hers already, too busy chatting with someone across the table. People were laughing. Maddison was taking selfies. Everything felt normal. Bright. Harmless.
So you took the cup.
It smelled fine. Fruity. Innocent.
You raised it to your lips. Drank.
Just a sip.
The sweetness clung to your tongue, thicker than before. It burned slightly, but you figured that was the vodka. You swallowed and laughed at something Kayla said.
The drink settled warm in your stomach, sweet and sticky like syrup, and you kept Kayla close, her laughter loud in your ear as she twisted toward Maddison and the others. You were anchored for a moment—like maybe it would all stay light and stupid and sugar-rushed.
But then came the joke.
“Kayla, deadass, that spray tan? Girl, you look like an éclair.”
Laughter burst around the couch, the kind that’s more of a performance than a reaction.
“Not the chocolate part, obviously,” someone added. “Just the pastry. Like—if I bit into you, would you be white and creamy inside?”
The whole group wheezed. Kayla cackled like she didn’t care, tossing her fake fur boa over one shoulder, but you caught that half-second of delay—where her smile dropped, even just an inch.
“I want an éclair now, actually,” she chirped, hopping up. “Watch my drink, babe!”
She gave your arm a squeeze and disappeared into the thrum of bodies.
You were left holding two cups and a laugh that didn’t quite land for a moment, far too alert and noticing things you shouldn't.
You tried not to notice the guy from before still floating nearby, talking to someone else now, his body angled like he might pivot back toward you at any second. You shifted, heart skipping like a scratched CD, and suddenly the couch felt too hot, too soft, too much.
“Need air,” you mumbled. Maybe to no one.
No one heard you leave.
You weaved through the haze of vape smoke and cheap perfume, bass pounding low enough to rearrange your ribs. The lights were low but neon-sharp, warping everything into a smear of pinks and purples. Someone bumped into your hip and murmured an apology you didn’t catch.
You placed it on the side table, fingers slow but mind screaming at you to put it down like it was red hot. Any actual screams and squeals felt like they were happening through a fishbowl.
Someone next to you leaned in—tight ringlets, sloppily drawn eyeliner, too-close perfume. She grinned, gum snapping.
“You look wrecked,” she said, not unkindly. “You rolling?”
You blinked at her. “What?”
“Molly. You on it? Everyone is. Brantley brought like, a whole stash. Want some?”
Your heart stuttered, just once, before you shook your head. “No, I—no thanks.”
But her voice lingered behind your ear as she moved on, neon-bright and echoing. The couch dipped, bounced, and you realized your body wasn’t quite following commands the way it should. You stood up too fast, or maybe the floor rose too quickly to meet you.
Colors bled at the corners of your vision. Someone’s LED lights pulsed from blue to red, red to blue, and for a second it felt like sirens.
You needed air.
You moved through the crowd like water, your body slow, heavy-limbed, dragging itself on instinct. A warm hand touched your back—maybe just someone passing by — but you flinched.
The hallway was no better. Laughter chased you down it, and your hands dragged along the wallpaper like it might keep you upright.
You pushed open a door. Wrong room and you cringed mentally as you saw two people half-naked on the floor.
Another. This one was empty. Or maybe it wasn’t. You couldn’t tell anymore.
Your head swam.
Music from downstairs vibrated through your ribs, dull and distant.
Your fingers trembled at your sides. Your mouth was dry.
You tried to sit on the edge of the bed. You missed. The carpet met your knees hard, then your shoulder, then the side of your face. You didn’t feel it, not really.
The world bent sideways. Tilted.
You thought of Kayla laughing, powdered sugar (sugar probably wasn't the only powder she had so far) on her lip, and you wondered—
Did she save you one?
It started with a sound. A soft, almost apologetic click.
You stirred with it, a dull ache blooming behind your eyes as your body begged you to sink back down into sleep. But the sound dragged you back up.
Your shoulder was cold. Your leg numb, half-hanging off the bed or maybe a couch. You weren’t sure. The surface was unfamiliar. You half expected Kayla's arm to still be clinging around your middle since that was the last coherent thing you could remember.
You blinked. The room was dim, sticky with late-night air. A single LED light pulsed a soft lavender glow in the corner, casting long shadows over clothes slung over the desk chair.
And your mouth— God. Your mouth tasted like metal and bile. Not the dry cotton of a hangover nap; you hadn't even drank enough to get drunk. But it wasn't the sugary crash after too many shots either.
You shifted, swallowing hard, only to freeze when your own movement tugged something at your back. A strap. Your bra.
One clasp was undone.
No, actually — two.
You reached around with leaden fingers. The third had just slipped free between your fumbling fingers. That was the sound that woke you.
Your stomach turned.
Something itched behind your knees. Your skirt had twisted halfway up your thigh, one strap of your top hanging off your shoulder.
You pulled your legs together. And froze.
There was a wrongness. Not pain. Not anything you could name. Just...sticky and cold. Actually, your whole leg felt like that.
You inhaled too hard, and the sourness in your mouth rose again. You coughed, a sickly sound in the silence of the room.
And suddenly it was like your body wasn’t yours anymore. Like it had been borrowed.
You sat up too fast, and the world tilted again—but you didn’t care. You yanked your bra back into place with fumbling hands and tried to flatten your skirt, blinking hard against the sting in your eyes.
You didn't cry. Not yet.
You just sat there, frozen in the purple glow, the room too still, the silence too loud.
Your phone buzzed weakly from somewhere under the bed.
But you didn’t reach for it. You thought you had but you didn't because your arm never actually reached out. Actually, you never even sat up or fixed your bra or skirt as you thought you had.
The door flung open with a clatter.
“Okay—this room better not be taken too—hellooo?” Kayla’s voice was singsong, flirty, one hand behind her dragging some black-jeaned guy who looked like he only answered to his band’s SoundCloud stats.
She was laughing as she pushed the door wide, balancing on her chunky heels and tossing her blonde hair back over one shoulder. Her hand slid down to the guy’s belt as she peered in, her bronzed skin practically glowing under the hallway’s gold light.
Then she spotted you.
Slumped. Half-curled on the mattress.
Alone.
Kayla blinked, grin lingering. “Wait—you too, girl? What the hell! You’re literally taken, you skank—”
She cut herself off.
Her brows pinched. You weren’t looking at her. You weren’t looking anywhere.
Then—
“Wait,” Kayla said, louder. “Wait—hey. Are you—”
The guy beside her stepped back awkwardly, muttering something about going to find another room, but Kayla didn’t notice. Her fake nails clicked hard against her phone screen as she rushed to kneel beside the bed.
Your mouth was moving — kind of. Your lips trembling, parted, jaw slack. A thick, white foam bubbled up at the corners.
“Oh my god.”
Kayla’s voice cracked.
You weren’t responding. You weren’t blinking. The whites of your eyes were cloudy, and your breath rattled like something stuck in your throat.
“HEY!” Kayla screamed now, her voice slicing down the hallway as she dropped her phone and grabbed your shoulders.
She pulled you up, cradling your limp weight against her, shaking, nails digging into the fabric of your top.
Her nails dug into your shoulders hard enough to leave crescent moons.
“Hey, hey, hey—no, no, no, don’t do this,” she was saying, and it came out breathless and high, the words tripping over each other as if speed alone could drag you back into yourself. Your head lolled forward against her collarbone, spit and foam slick against her glittered skin, and she made a small, horrified sound when your jaw twitched but your eyes didn’t focus.
Downstairs, the bass kept pounding. Someone shrieked with laughter. A chant started up over a drinking game. The house was alive and roaring and oblivious.
Kayla screamed again, louder this time. “I need help! Like—actually help!”
Feet thudded in the hallway. Two girls you vaguely recognized crowded the doorway, their expressions morphing from irritation to confusion to something sharper. One of them swore under her breath.
“Is she drunk?” the eyeliner girl asked.
“She’s not drunk!” Kayla snapped. “She’s—she’s not — I dunno, YOU look at her!”
You made a wet, choking noise, and Kayla’s stomach dropped straight through the floor. She shifted you onto your side instinctively, hands shaking so badly she could barely manage it. Foam gathered at the corner of your mouth again, thick and wrong, and she wiped it away with the sleeve of her top, smearing mascara and panic together.
“Call an ambulance, or something” someone whispered.
That word detonated in the room.
“No, are you crazy?” came a sharp voice from behind them.
The guy Kayla had dragged upstairs earlier stepped back into view, jaw tight now, no flirt left in him at all. “You call an ambulance, cops show up. You know that, right? Brantley’s stash is still downstairs. Half these people are rolling either a blunt or they're rolling on the floor. We’re all screwed, you hear me, Kayla?!
Kayla stared at him like he’d just slapped her, but he was just grabbing her by the shoulders, trying to shake the panic out of her.
"She'd be screwed too."
“She could also die,” one of the girls hissed.
“She’s not gonna die,” he shot back, but there was a tremor under it. “She’s probably just mixing stuff. Give it a minute.”
Another minute passed.
You didn’t come back.
Your breathing hitched again, uneven and ugly, and Kayla felt something cold and ancient bloom in her chest. Everyone hears that these things are going to happen but its different when it actually does.
“She didn’t even take anything,” Kayla said, voice shaking. “She had, like, two drinks. I was there.”
The guy’s eyes flickered, blame hanging between them as he grabbed your face, lighting trying to shake you awake. “You sure?”
Kayla’s gaze snapped to him. “What does that mean?”
He hesitated just long enough.
And in that hesitation, Kayla understood that maybe she hadn't kept the best eye on you. She knew you didn't want to come and she felt horrible like she was responsible somehow. If she hadn't gotten carried away maybe.
Her head whipped toward the door, scanning the hallway through teary eyes, your head still in her lap like she might spot the answer scrawled on the wallpaper. “Where is he? The guy who gave her that drink?”
Nobody answered.
Because nobody wanted to be that person.
Your body jerked faintly in her arms, not a seizure, not dramatic, just wrong enough to make Kayla’s throat close. She grabbed her phone off the carpet with clumsy fingers and almost dialed 999 on instinct.
Her thumb hovered.
Sirens. Blue lights. Police asking questions. Parents called. Brantley’s cousin in handcuffs. Headlines in the local Facebook group. Suspensions. Charges. Her own mom crying at the kitchen table.
And you, limp in her arms.
Kayla swore viciously and scrolled instead.
She didn’t think about it, not really. But it wasn't like thinking is going to get her anywhere now — it was too late for all of that.
Rodrick.
It rang once.
Twice.
Downstairs, someone switched songs and the bass shifted key, but up here the world narrowed to the tinny buzz against her ear and your shallow, uneven breaths.
He picked up on the third ring, voice rough and half-awake but instantly alert. “Yeah? Baby, you coming home already? It's like 9pm —”
Kayla’s voice cracked the second she heard him. “It’s Kayla.”
A beat. Confusion. “The who? Why do you have her phone?”
“I don’t,” she choked. “She—she’s here. At Brantley’s. Something’s wrong.”
There was a sharp rustle on his end, like sheets being thrown back, something clattering to the floor. "Cheesit-tanned Brantley? What do you mean something’s wrong?”
“She’s not responding,” Kayla rushed out, words tumbling over each other. “She’s breathing but it’s weird and she’s—she’s foaming, Rodrick. I don’t know what she took. I swear she didn’t take anything on purpose. I was with her. I was—”
God, Kayla thought, Why am I still talking? I should've been more careful.
“Send me the address,” Rodrick had no idea what this meant. Not that he should. No one tells you what to do when this happens, only like, how to avoid it.
“I—okay—okay.” Her hands shook so badly she nearly dropped the phone again. She fumbled through messages, copied the pin someone had sent earlier, forwarded it to him.
“I’m coming,” he said.
And he hung up.
Kayla stared at your face, at the way your lashes trembled but didn’t open, at the glitter still clinging stubbornly to your cheekbone like the night hadn’t gotten the memo. She smoothed your hair back with shaking fingers.
“Okay,” she whispered to you, even though you couldn’t hear her. She took one hand and tugged down your skirt . “Girl, it's okay. He’s coming.”
Downstairs, the party kept pulsing, unaware that the axis had tilted.
Outside, tires squealed against asphalt as a dented van tore around a corner too fast for a residential street. The engine rattled like it was protesting the abuse, but Rodrick didn’t ease up. His knuckles were white around the steering wheel, jaw locked so tight it hurt, eyes fixed on the glowing blue dot on his phone’s screen.
He didn’t remember grabbing his jacket. He didn’t remember locking his door. He just remembered the word foaming — what did that even MEAN?! It didn't feel good, though.
The house came into view at the end of the block, lights blazing, shadows moving in the windows like a living organism. Cars lined the street haphazardly, bass leaking out through the walls in dull, vibrating waves.
Rodrick slowed just enough to not plow into someone’s bumper and then pulled up across from the lawn. Not that he would've done anything if he did, anyway.
For a second, he didn’t move.
He just sat there behind the wheel, engine still running, staring at the house like it had personally declared war.
His reflection in the windshield looked wild-eyed, pale under the streetlight, a boy in a band tee gripping a steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping him from coming apart.
he second he steps out of the van, the music hits him like a physical shove. Bass crawls up his spine and settles in his teeth, vibrating through bone, through thought. The house looks the same as any other party house on any other Friday night, lights bleeding neon through the curtains, silhouettes moving like shadows in a lava lamp, laughter spilling out onto the lawn in drunken waves. For a split second, his brain tries to make it ordinary. It’s just a party. She probably drank too much. Kayla’s dramatic. Foaming could mean anything. People exaggerate.
Because how could it look this normal?
Rodrick shoved his van door shut harder than he meant to and cut through the yard without waiting for an invitation. A guy near the steps gave him a once-over, clearly filing him under not invited, and Rodrick didn’t even slow down.
His brain kept trying to translate it into something manageable. Dramatic. Exaggerated. Maybe she just threw up. Maybe Kayla panicked. Maybe you were just drunk and dramatic and everyone was overreacting because girls at parties liked theatrics, or something, right?
Foaming.
He couldn’t picture it.
He’d seen rabid dogs in YouTube clips. He’d seen bad horror movies with people convulsing and spitting white like cheap special effects. But you? In a glittery dress? With lip gloss you’d applied in his mirror?
No.
That didn’t make much sense.
He pushed through the front door and heat swallowed him whole. The air was thick with sweat and alcohol and artificial fruit. Someone collided into his shoulder and mumbled an apology that dissolved into a laugh halfway through. A girl shrieked when she saw him, not because she recognized him but because he’d disrupted her spin in the middle of the living room. Like Jesus, woman, you look like a tropical bird...
He grabs the arm of the first person who looks semi-conscious. “Where is she?”
The girl stares at him blankly. “Who?”
He doesn’t answer. He just keeps moving.
Upstairs, the hallway is narrower, hotter. The music dulls slightly but the air feels worse, thick with heat and something metallic beneath it. He tells himself this is nothing. She probably just mixed drinks. Maybe she tried something new to prove something. Maybe she wanted to show she could handle it. The thought twists in his chest. Maybe she did it on purpose.
That thought hits harder than the music.
He hates himself for even letting it form, but it’s there now, ugly and persistent... He's not the cleanest, he knows that. God, the way you two met, you'd seen him so pathetic and almost dead. Did she get so sick of all of it that she decided to make it worse?
No.
What if you took something on purpose? What if this wasn’t an accident?
He shoves the idea away almost violently. She promised she’d call. She kissed his cheek. She said she’d be okay.
He starts opening doors.
The first one reveals a couple tangled together on the floor, half-dressed and startled, and he recoils instinctively, muttering a tight apology before slamming it shut again. The second room is empty except for coats piled on a bed. The third has someone hunched over a toilet, retching loudly, another friend rubbing their back and glaring at him for intruding. He doesn’t explain. He doesn’t slow down.
Each wrong room makes his pulse climb higher.
He’s aware, distantly, that he’s been downplaying this since the phone call. Telling himself that if she was really dying, Kayla would have called an ambulance. Telling himself that foaming could just mean drooling, or throwing up weirdly, or some dramatic exaggeration born out of panic. He’s been clinging to that narrative the entire drive, gripping it like a lifeline because the alternative is too big, too catastrophic to let into his head.
Third door.
Locked again.
He knocked once, hard. “Hey!”
No response. Just muffled movement feeding his frustration.
This is stupid. She’s probably just passed out. People pass out all the time. Kayla overreacts. Kayla lives in glitter and drama, probably, she sounded like it over the phoen. You’re gonna walk in and she’s gonna be snoring with mascara on her pillow and you’re gonna feel like an idiot.
He clung to that version. He needed that version.
He reached the last door at the end of the hall and didn’t hesitate this time. He shoved it open so hard it smacked the wall.
The door at the end of the hall is half-open.
He pushes it wider.
For a fraction of a second, his brain refuses to process what it’s seeing. The room is dim, washed in sickly lavender light. Kayla is by the bed, crouched over you, her glitter smeared, mascara streaked down her cheeks. Your body looks smaller than it should, folded wrong, limbs slack in a way that doesn’t really match.
And then he sees your mouth.
The white at the corners. The unnatural stillness of your face. The way your eyes are half-open but not seeing:
That's what it meant.
Everything he tried to imagine on the drive here collapses instantly. All the rationalizations, all the half-formed explanations, every attempt to make it smaller than it is disintegrates in one brutal second. He has never pictured you like this because he never allowed himself to.
His stomach drops so fast it feels like missing a stair in the dark.
For a moment, he just stands there in the doorway, frozen, staring at something he could never have constructed in his own head without seeing it.
For a moment, nobody moves.
Rodrick is still standing in the doorway like the room has swallowed his ability to function. Kayla is half-crouched over you, her glitter smeared into streaks, one hand hovering uselessly over your shoulder like she’s afraid you’ll shatter if she presses too hard. The guy by the wall shifts his weight from foot to foot, jaw tight, eyes darting between Rodrick and your body as if waiting for someone older, smarter, more qualified to materialize and take control.
Rodrick steps forward finally, slow at first, like approaching something feral.
“What did she take?” His voice doesn’t rise. It drops. Low and dangerous and confused all at once.
“She didn’t,” Kayla shoots back immediately. “She barely drank. I was with her.”
He looks at you again. The foam at the corner of your mouth has thinned but not disappeared. Your lashes flutter faintly, your breathing uneven enough to make his chest ache just watching it.
“You don’t just start—” He gestures helplessly toward your face. “You don’t just start doing that for fun.”
The guy bristles. “Hey, don’t look at me.”
Rodrick’s head snaps toward him. “I’m looking at everyone.”
“I didn’t give her anything,” the guy says, defensive but pale now. “She had punch. Everyone had punch.”
Kayla’s voice cuts sharp through the air. “Oh my god, can we not do this right now? She’s barely responsive!”
Rodrick runs both hands through his hair, pacing once across the small bedroom like the walls are closing in. He stops at the window, then turns back immediately as if distance from you is physically impossible. He crouches beside the bed and, for the first time, touches you.
His fingers press lightly against your cheek.
Your skin is warm.
Too warm.
“Hey,” he mutters, voice breaking at the edges. “Hey, c’mon. Don’t do this.”
You don’t react.
His jaw tightens. He looks up at Kayla. “We’re taking her.”
“To where?” she demands, though she already knows.
“Hospital.”
The guy swears under his breath. “If we call an ambulance, cops show up.”
“We’re not calling one,” Rodrick snaps. “We’re driving.”
Kayla hesitates only half a second before nodding. “Okay. Okay. Fine.”
The guy moves first this time, stepping into the hallway to check it’s clear. “Kitchen’s packed,” he mutters. “But nobody’s paying attention.”
Rodrick isn't even sure he could carry you that far. But he steadies you up, one arm clung over his neck. Your head lolls against his shoulder, mouth slack, breath hot against his face . He swallows hard.
“You better wake up and appreciate this,” he mutters under his breath as he stands laughing, strain creeping into his voice. “I am not built for cardio.”
They move fast.
Down the hallway. Past the bathroom with someone groaning inside. Down the stairs where the music swells again, bass punching through Rodrick’s ribs. A few heads turn.
“Is she okay?” someone shouts over the noise.
Kayla doesn’t miss a beat. “She’s just wasted!” she cringes at the wobble in her voice, "Lightweight!"
The front door opens to cooler air, and for a second it feels like oxygen has returned to the planet. Rodrick moves toward the van like it’s the only solid object in the universe. He yanks open the back door and lays you across the seat, shrugging off his jacket to prop under your head.
Kayla climbs in beside you immediately, kneeling awkwardly on the scratched vinyl. “She’s still breathing,” she says, though she sounds like she’s trying to convince herself.
The guy slams the passenger door and looks at Rodrick. “You good to drive?”
“No,” Rodrick says honestly.
Then he starts the engine anyway.
The van lurches forward harder than it should. Tires squeal slightly as he pulls away from the curb. His hands are white around the steering wheel, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror every few seconds like he expects you to vanish if he looks away too long.
In the back, Kayla strokes your hair away from your face.
“Is she breathing?” he demands.
“I think so,” Kayla says immdiately dropping her ear near your mouth, then immediately, “I can’t tell. Wait. Yes. Yes. I think.”
“Don’t say you think.”
“Well, I’m not a nurse, Rodrick!”
They hit a red light.
Of course they hit a red light.
Rodrick slams his palm against the steering wheel. “You have got to be kidding me.”
The intersection is empty. Silent.
The guy shifts uncomfortably in the passenger seat. “You want me to run it?”
“Unless you can magically make it green, shut up.”
The sudden absence of the engine makes the music roar into focus. The heavy metal track he always keeps low and constant, background noise to everything, now floods the van like it’s been waiting its turn. Guitars shriek. Drums hammer. A scream tears through the speakers.
Kayla slowly lifts her head.
The guy in the passenger seat turns, very carefully. They both look at Rodrick. No one says anything.
But the look is loud.
One raised eyebrow. One long blink. One shared, silent: seriously?
Rodrick stares straight ahead like if he doesn’t acknowledge it, it didn’t happen. The scream from the speakers hits a peak behind him, absurdly dramatic against the sight of you lying motionless in the backseat.
He exhales through his nose.
“Are you kidding me,” he mutters, voice low and dangerous.
Kayla glances down at you, then back at him. “Is this… normal?”
“Define normal,” Rodrick says faintly. "I assure you she likes this stuff."
Rodrick twists the key again. The engine hesitates, coughs, then catches, rumbling back to life like it’s offended to have been doubted.
For a split second, he considers turning it off.
Instead, he reaches for the volume knob and cranks it higher.
The red light flips to green.
Rodrick slams his foot down on the gas.
.
Rodrick barely slows as he pulls into the hospital parking lot, the van groaning like it’s had enough of his heroics. Music still blaring, lights cutting through the night, he kills the engine and opens the back. You’re half-slung over his shoulder, one arm around his neck, your head lolling against him, and he winces at how heavy you feel. Kayla follows right behind, clutching your purse and phone, while the guy awkwardly pushes open the passenger door and drags a bag of jackets along like they’re part of some unspoken plan.
They move fast, but careful, slipping through the automatic doors like criminals trying not to get caught, which is ironic because they’re all basically panicking about the opposite: getting caught not helping you. Rodrick’s steps are long and uneven as he tries to balance you, muttering under his breath, “Seriously, someone teach me how to carry a human without looking like a serial killer.”
Kayla whispers from behind, “You’re not supposed to be a serial killer, Rodrick. Not tonight, anyway.”
“Yeah, yeah, very helpful,” he mutters, ignoring her. The bright hospital lights hit them and suddenly everyone in the lobby is a blur. People glance up from their phones. A few security cameras click and whirr. Rodrick tries to make their movement look casual, which fails spectacularly because you’re basically flopping over him like a sack of glitter and regret.
At the reception desk, the nurse looks up, calm at first, clipboard in hand. Rodrick gently sets you down on the counter edge, and she blinks. Then does a double take. “Oh my god,” she breathes, voice sharp and panicked as she shuffles closer.
Rodrick swears under his breath. “Yeah, I’m sorry. She’s… yeah, you take her.”
The nurse scoops you up without hesitation, muttering instructions to Kayla and the guy to wait and not follow too closely, and suddenly they’re left standing there like idiots in the bright, sterile lobby, the echo of heavy metal still humming faintly from the van outside. Rodrick runs a hand over his face.
“She’s gonna be fine.” Kayla says, uncertain but trying to sound convincing.
Rodrick doesn’t answer immediately. He just stares at the spot where you disappeared behind the nurse’s arms, the absurdity of the night pressing down on him. The guy shifts from foot to foot, muttering under his breath something about not signing up for this.
Silence fills the space, except for the faint shuffle of the nurse and the distant hum of machines somewhere behind closed doors. They glance at each other, all three acutely aware that they have no idea what’s supposed to happen next.
Rodrick finally groans, dropping his hands to his sides. “Next time… next time we do literally anything else. Anything normal. Anything not—” He gestures vaguely toward the doors you disappeared behind. “—whatever that was.”
Kayla snorts quietly, palm on her forehead. The guy just swears again. None of them move. They’re all just waiting. All that matters is that you’re inside, somewhere safe, and the rest of the world has to wait.
.
Rodrick slumps onto one of the cold, metal chairs by the vending machine, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together in front of him. The fluorescent hospital lights hum above, casting everything in that merciless, sterile glow. The guy from before sits opposite him, hoodie up, knees splayed, looking like he’s half-asleep and half-watching the world burn at the same time. His dark hair falls over his eyes in a careless sweep, a faint shadow beneath them that makes him look older than he is. He’s got that sharp, rough look, not like he’s mean exactly, but like he’s been kicked around enough to know when it’s coming.
Rodrick’s throat is dry, voice low and careful, almost like he’s scraping the words out, “Well… you gonna tell me where you got it all?”
He shifts, the chair creaking under him. He glances away for a moment, then back at Rodrick, expression tight, a little guilty, a little defiant. “Look… it came from Brantley’s,” he mutters, voice rough, almost apologetic. “They brought it in, stocked it in the kitchen, in the closet by the punch bowls… you know, how it is. It wasn’t… it wasn’t supposed to get out of hand.”
Rodrick lets out a long, slow sigh. He stares at Mateo—lean, raw, like he’s built out of sharp edges and cigarette smoke, hoodie draped over his shoulders, hands stuffed in his pockets, posture that says he’s used to being overlooked. “And you’re… okay with all that?” Rodrick asks dryly, not accusing, just trying to make sense of it.
Mateo shrugs, eyes flicking toward the hallway as Kayla emerges from the bathroom, strutting toward the vending machine. She pauses, purse digging for spare change, one hand on her hip, hair catching the lights just right. She's beautiful, to him, so lively and he wonders how the plainest bastard even got her attention before he did.
Rodrick exhaled slowly, leaning back a little, just enough to take in this guy fully. He had that sharp bone structure, eyes that carried a quiet, simmering frustration, the kind that makes you feel like there’s a storm behind them if you dared to stir it. He studied him for a beat. “What’s your name?”
"Mateo," He says, barely looking away. Mateo’s gaze lingers on her a beat too long, lips twitching in some half-smile, and he mumbles under his breath, almost to himself. “Jesus. How a woman like that could ever be into like me.”
Rodrick tilts his head, eyebrow raising. Mateo sighs, leans back in the chair, hands still buried in the pockets of his hoodie and looks back at Rodrick. “You’re keeping your mouth shut about the powder for your girl. I’m keeping mine shut so I don’t get busted. That’s... I respect it.”
He pushes a shoulder toward Rodrick lightly, almost playfully. “Besides… I’m Mexican, so I’d be the main culprit even if Brantley did most of the illegal shit. Huh, white boy?”
Rodrick snorts, a short, dry laugh, shaking his head, "Sorry, man, I don't have the cash to bust you out."
It’s crude, raw, a little funny in the lobby, all of them hovering on the edge of panic and absurdity.
Mateo smirks faintly, eyes flicking back to Kayla, no longer fumbling with the vending machine buttons and victoriously holding a few drinks in her hands, still perfect in a way that makes his chest ache a little.
Rodrick leans back, and tries to look away from them both.
.
The lobby was quiet, sterile, fluorescent lights humming softly overhead, the kind of silence that felt almost fragile after the chaos of the night. Rodrick sat slouched in one of the cold chairs, fingers tapping lightly against his knees, when the doors swung open.
“Hey,” he said, voice low, casual, but something in it made the word feel heavier than it should. You stepped through, hair mussed, clothes rumpled, face a little pale but mostly intact. Your eyes found his immediately, but neither of you said anything at first. The weight of everything hung in the space between you, unspoken and raw, and he just watched you as you made your way toward him.
"Hey..." You slowly said, standing still as he took your hands in his.
“You… want to go home?” His voice was careful now, softer, the usual teasing lilt gone, replaced with a careful edge, as though he was testing waters he didn’t even want to touch.
“No.” Your answer was quiet but firm, and it made him pause, swallow, and nod slowly.
He sucked in a breath, "Mateo left with Kayla. She fell asleep waiting. Took a while to convince her to go."
All he got was a lack of a verbal response, but he noticed the slight relief in your eyes.
He chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment, looking past you toward the hospital doors, then back again. “Want something to eat? Not sure what’s gonna be open at this hour, but like…” His words trailed off, a little uncertain, a little hesitant.
You nodded, accepting it anyway, like it was a small compromise, a thread of normalcy to latch onto.
Rodrick leaned back slightly, running a hand through his hair, and for a long moment the two of you just sat, letting the silence stretch.
You both knew the conversation could wait. For now, you just existed in the aftermath, a quiet, shared understanding passing between you.
.
Rodrick slammed the tray down a little too hard as he plopped into the booth across from you, the wrappers rattling and a fry tumbling to the table. He ran a hand through his hair, sighing roughly, frustration and helplessness tangled together. For a beat, there was just the quiet hum of the McDonald’s, the faint hiss of the fryer somewhere in the distance, and the two of you staring at the food without moving.
He finally started unwrapping his burger, the paper crinkling under his fingers. “Sorry,” he muttered, voice low, rough. “I'm sorry for what I said, I wasn't thinking about you. I was just thinking about what happened and..I thought… I thought maybe you aren't eating because of me and all. So—”
"No," You looked at him, voice barely above a whisper, cutting him off. “I… haven’t really had McDonald’s before.”
Rodrick blinked, frozen for a second, both eyebrows raised. “What?”
“My parents… they were so stuck up,” you said, dragging the words out like bitter gum, laughing a little. “They thought fast food was for broke people. They said I’d get diseases or fall ill if I touched it. Never let me have it., c'mon, its the suburbs.” You shrugged, a little humorless, but there was a brittle honesty to it that made his chest tighten.
He leaned over the table, quietly unwrapping one of the burgers for you, the heat from his hands brushing against yours as he guided them to hold it together. “Here,” he murmured, voice soft but steady, “just… eat.”
You took it, hands shaking, teeth biting carefully into the warm bun, eyes wide as though every chew was a small rebellion, a tiny anchor back to your body. Your body trembled, a subtle, terrified shake, like the fear of the unknown—the gap in memory, the uncertainty—was finally hitting home.
Rodrick’s eyes flicked to yours, concern tightening his jaw. Without a word, he slid his chair around and pulled it to your side, scraping softly against the floor. He sat next to you, shoulder brushing yours, leaning in so that he could keep an eye on you while you ate, hands tensed at the edge of the table.
He sits down the moment she takes another bite, it hits her like a punch to the chest. The warmth of the burger, the greasy, familiar comfort, doesn’t soothe the storm inside — if anything, it drags it up faster. Her hands tremble on the wrapper, teeth trying to chew and swallow, but the tears start anyway, hot and sudden, spilling over the edge of her lashes. The sobs are ugly, guttural, ripping through her throat, muffled around the food, and she hates how weak she feels but can’t stop. Her stomach twists and her chest tightens as the realization crashes over her — this is something she’ll carry forever, a dark, gnawing uncertainty with no name, no culprit, just fragments she’ll always replay and rewrite in her head.
Rodrick’s eyes widen the second he sees it, that your next bite is a choke between a sob. The way your hands shook on the burger, the way your chest heaved, the tiny, strangled sounds slipping through your mouth between bites. You tried to swallow, trying to keep it together, and the effort made you choke back a sob that ended up coming out anyway, hiccuping, ugly and raw. You knew it was ugly. You hated that it was ugly. “Hey… hey wait a sec,” he mumbles, low and rough, trying to make his voice an anchor in the tiny, fluorescent-lit booth. “It’s okay… it’s okay, I’m right here. You’re— you're okay. You’re not… alone right now.”
His words are clumsy, teenage, rough at the edges, but they’re all he can offer. He moves closer, shoulder pressing lightly against hers, leaning so that even if she can’t see his face clearly through her tears, she feels the weight of him, solid and steady. “I don’t… I don’t know what to say to make it better, but… I’ve got you. You’re not… you’re not by yourself in this. I’ve got you.”
She chokes on a sob, swallowing the food hastily, shaking violently, and he rubs small circles on her back, whispering whatever comfort he can manage. “It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault. You didn’t… you didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t care what happens, okay? I… I’m not going anywhere.”
Her shoulders shudder, hot tears smearing over her cheeks, and he shifts slightly, leaning closer, careful not to crowd but to be enough—enough to hold her here, to let her know that in a world that’s suddenly chaotic and cruel, he’s a safe corner. His voice drops, soft and urgent, tugging at her as though sheer force of tone could hold the storm at bay. “You’re strong… stronger than you even know. I know it hurts, I know it’s terrifying, but I’ll… I’ll be right here. Always.”
The sobs don’t stop immediately. They wrack her frame, messy, trembling, almost violent, but he doesn’t flinch. He lets them spill over him, lets her unload, murmuring small affirmations he's not sure is actually working. Like how's he meant to actually know? But its better than doing nothing.
“You’re safe now, I promise, it's going to get better—”
There wasn't much else to say or do. Except sit and wait. It was well beyon when you were meant to be home and you're going to get an earful about this to your parents who probably didn't know. And definitely won't ever know. But you're glad you have someone else to go to.
click for part 1
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tbc...
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𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆: (example of cheirophilia) act of sucking or having one's fingers sucked, in a sexual context; often imitating oral sex
𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑: Valeria Garza (Call of Duty)
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: dating a cartel leader has its ups and downs. Valeria is a busy woman — some days she'd be out for hours or she'd be glued to her desk. And although you're grateful for the way she spoils you, you're starved for attention! And you're going to saunter your flirty little ass over and hope she gives it to you.
𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: embedded spanish, ass/thigh/pussy slapping, fingering, squirting, gagging, cumming from spanking, punishment/scolding if you squint, uniform kink (Valeria in partial uniform)
The clock ticked louder when the house was empty. You sat curled on the couch, damp hair dripping onto the back of your neck, robe knotted loose at the waist. The living room smelled faintly of citrus and steam from your shower, candles flickering along the counter just for the illusion of company.
It had been one of those days — the kind where you could tell, from the silence in the hall and the unreturned texts, that Valeria wasn’t coming home early. You tried not to pout about it, really. She was busy and you understood that. You knew that when you fell in love with her: the late-night calls, the whispered meetings, the way she vanished for hours and came back smelling of smoke and blood that wasn’t usually hers.
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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