Chapter Text
The final bell rattled in the throat of North Shore High, and Rodrick Heffley was already tasting the weekend. It was a familiar flavor of cheap beer and the tang of his drum kit's cymbals - both equally metallic. He was slouched against the gunmetal gray of his locker, fighting (and losing) against combination lock as his skull rattled with the low thrum of a bassline from last night's practice. Suddenly, something cut through his train of thought.
He smelled her before he saw her. A wave of crushed gardenias and expensive, clean shampoo cut through the hallway's stale scent of Axe and sweat. Chatter around him died, not all at once, but gradually, like someone had turned down the volume on the world.
Rodrick looked up. They formed a wall around him before he could speak. Gretchen Wieners, with a smile like a zipped purse, and Karen Smith, always blinking those wide and vacant eyes. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder as a bright pink barricade between him and the current of students pushing through the corridor, fixing their gaze to... And then, she stepped through them: Regina George.
She was wearing soft cashmere which rounded out sharp edges. Her skirt was short, showering her impossibly long legs, but it was her overcast eyes that pinned him to the locker as a smile played on her glossed lips.
"Rodrick." His name in her mouth sounded foreign. He felt a hot, betraying flush creep up his nape.
"We need to talk," she said, her voice a low purr. Taking a step closer, she invited herself into his personal space. She was so close, he could see the tiny freckles dusted across the bridge of her nose.
"About?" he rasped, his own voice a nervous traitor to his nonchalant demeanor. He cleared his throat, trying to will away the heat in his face.
The smile widened, "The rumors." She leaned in, close enough that her hair brushed his leather jacket sleeve. He caught another scent beneath the gardenias. It was something dangerous yet uniquely her. "About your dick size." She let the sentence hang, a perfectly baited hook waiting for its catch. "Are they true?"
Rodrick's mind went utterly, completely blank. He stammered as his 8 inches (speak of the devil) forced itself against the inside of his zipper, humiliation getting the better of him. He was saved by the furious beep of a car horn from the parking lot. Shane Oman, Regina's boyfriend, no doubt. The reminder was like a bucket of ice water had been dumped on Rodrick, eliminating the thoughts swirling through his head. Regina's eyes flickered toward the sound, then back to Rodrick's black eyeliner. She didn't move away, in fact, she reveled victoriously in his flustered silence.
"Think about it," she murmured. Rodrick blinked and the Plastics' human blockade dissolved, and she was gone, leaving only her scent and the roaring in his ears.
A week later, the air was cold enough to bite, and the floodlights of the soccer field cast long, dramatic shadows across the bleachers. Rodrick was buried under two jackets, his beanie pulled low, a flask of something warm and terrible nestled in his pocket. He wasn't here for the game. He was here because someone had said there'd be a party after.
He saw her before she saw him. A flash of blonde hair, a sleek, black coat amidst the puffy jackets. Everyone shifted to make room as she moved up the steps; the Plastics weren't at her side this time. She wasn't watching the field, where Shane was currently scoring a goal to a chorus of cheers. Her eyes were scanning the bleachers like trained missiles. They landed on Rodrick. She climbed the steps towards him with fast, deliberate movements.
His breath hitched. She didn't sit, just stood in front of him, her silhouette dominating. "Loud, isn't it?" Regina said, like the whole game existed to annoy her.
Rodrick hunched deeper into his jacket. "It's a football game. What'd you expect, birds chirping?"
She smiled, "Cute. You trying to be funny?"
"I'm not trying anything," he said, a little too fast. 'Defensive' was his middle name.
Regina laughed; it wasn't the mean kind of laugh you usually hear from Regina George. She was, for the first time in a while, entertained. She stepped down one bleacher and sat beside him, close enough that he could smell her perfume. It was different from last week. Her thigh brushed his. He went rigid.
"Relax," she murmured. "You're twitchy. It's kind of adorable."
"I'm not-" He stopped, realizing arguing would only make it worse. She smirked like she'd won. Of course she had.
"Your boyfriend's... uh... winning," Rodrick said, hoping it'd redirect her attention.
"It's what he does." The boredom in her voice was practiced. Then she leaned in, chin tilting just enough to make him swallow. "Doesn't mean I have to watch."
Rodrick tried to look away and failed. Her eyes pinned him like a bug.
"Why are you sitting here?" he muttered. "Shouldn't you be with, like - the people who fit with you?"
"And you think you don't fit?"
"I didn't say that."
"But you thought it." Her gloved hand slid onto his knee, making his breath catch in his throat; she heard it. She liked that she heard it. "You're not like them."
He stared at her hand. "Is that supposed to be a compliment?"
"It's supposed to be true," she said, fingers tapping once against his knee, a tiny command he felt all the way in his groin. "You don't pretend. I like that."
Rodrick laughed, brittle. "You barely know me."
"I know enough." She stood up in one quick motion, but not after her hand trailed off his knee intentionally slowly.
She looked down at him. "My car's in the south lot. It's quieter."
He opened his mouth - maybe to protest, maybe to act like he wasn’t about to spring up from where he's sat - but she cut him off with a tilt of her head: "Come on, Rodrick," she said, soft but commanding. "Unless you're going to start being difficult again."
He stood. Automatically.
Regina's smirk said she'd expected nothing less. He followed her. Of course he did. On the backseat, with the outside world muffled and dark, she was different. Softer, but somehow more demanding. Her mouth was on his, hungry and tasting of mint. When her hands went to his throat, not squeezing, just resting, a possessive weight, he let out a shaky sigh, his head falling back against the headrest. He liked it. The feeling of being utterly at her mercy. She smiled against his lips, feeling the surrender in his muscles.
Another week passes and the bass from Regina's house party is thrumming through the floorboards like a steady, primitive beat, causing young adults to lose all their sense. Regina's house was a palace of beige and glass, and currently packed with every vaguely popular person in a ten-mile radius. Rodrick had been navigating the chaos when a familiar hand had closed around his wrist.
"With me," she'd said, and pulled him through the crowd, up the stairs, into her private bathroom that was bigger than his bedroom. She locked the door with a decisive click. Then she was on him, pushing him back until his booty hit the closed toilet lid and he sat down with a grunt. She climbed onto his lap, her skirt riding up, her knees straddling his hips. The room was steamy from someone's recent shower, smelling of expensive, floral soap.
"This is different than last time," he muttered, trying to sound casual, failing miserably.
Her lips twitched. "Obviously."
She leaned in, fingers curling into the collar of his shirt, pulling just enough to make him forget what he'd been about to say. But then she paused for half a breath, just enough space for Rodrick's thought to return. He swallowed. "Aren’t you still... y'know... dating Shane Oman?"
Her eyes flicked to his like he'd said something offensively boring. "Mm-hmm."
"And that doesn't, like, matter right now?"
She gave a quiet, amused huff. "Rodrick." She said his name like he was adorable and incredibly slow. "I'm dating Shane. That doesn't mean," she leaned closer, voice dropping, "we can't have fun."
He blinked. "Does he know that?"
For a beat, she just stared at him, almost pitying.
"Sweetheart," she said in a condescending tone, "don't start asking questions you're not equipped to handle."
"I didn't-"
"You did." She tapped his chin lightly with one finger, a chastising little gesture that made his stomach flip. "And it was very, very dumb."
He shut his mouth. Quickly. Regina smirked, satisfied. "Better."
Then she curled her fingers into his shirt again and pulled him toward her, reclaiming his full attention like she was simply setting things back where they belonged.
Her kisses were bruising, her hands tangled in his hair, pulling just enough to make his thoughts go blissfully white. He was hard beneath her, his hands roaming under her top, learning the smooth, hot skin of her back.
After a few minutes, a pressing, biological need began to cut through the haze. He needed to piss. Desperately.
"Regina," he mumbled against her mouth, trying to shift her weight. "Wait, I gotta pee-"
She didn't let him finish. She just kissed him harder, one hand sliding from his hair to the back of his neck, holding him in place. A silent command. No.
He groaned, a mixture of frustration and a dark, thrilling surrender. He was trapped, utterly and completely, by the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. And as she ground down against him, swallowing his protests with her kiss, he realized he didn't want to be anywhere else.
The pressure in his bladder was a sharp, insistent throb. As he tried to pull back from the kiss, he muffled, "Seriously, Regina, I really have to-" against her lips.
She didn't relent. Instead, her hand, which had been splayed possessively on his lower back, slid around his hip. Her fingers pressed into the soft fabric of his jeans, finding the exact, aching spot low on his abdomen. Then, her thumb dug in. Rodrick gasped, his back arching off the toilet seat, his eyes flying wide open.
"Shhh," she whispered into his mouth, her own lips curling into a smirk he could feel more than see. Her thumb pressed deeper, "It's okay."
It was the permission, the quiet command in her voice, that broke him. The fight drained out of him in a single, shuddering exhale. A hot, sharp rush of humiliating release followed. Startling warmth spread quickly against his skin. An undeniable flood saturated his jeans. A quiet hiss beneath the thumping bass from the party below. A choked sob of disgust caught in his throat but he couldn't tell if it was shame or relief (it was overwhelming either way). He was pinned beneath her, the evidence of his surrender spreading in a warm, dark patch. He expected her to recoil, to laugh, to push him away in disgust.
She did none of those things.
Regina pulled back just enough to look down at him, scanning his face. She, like a predator analizing its prey, noted the flushed cheeks, the parted lips, the sheen of embarrassed tears he desperately tried to blink away. Her expression was one of intense fascination, as if she was a scientist who had just confirmed a thrilling (yet thrilling) hypothesis on a white lab rat.
She leaned in again, her voice a murmur against his ear as the last of the warmth seeped out of his dick and into his boxers. "See?" she breathed, her thumb finally releasing its pressure, only to stroke the wet denim of his groin in a slow, circular motion. "I told you it was okay."
She kissed him then, softer than before, a reward for his obedience. And as Rodrick kissed her back, drowning in the undeniable reality of his own submission, he knew, with a terrifying, thrilling certainty, that he was hers.