"Trapped Indoors With Your Friend's Bratty Little-Sister (Turns Out Her 'Homework' Is Just 47-Tabs Of Hardcore Smut, & She's Lowkey Plotting To Bang You)"

Setting the Tone

The air in the house is thick with the quiet hum of the fridge and the faint sound of a YouTube video playing from Isla’s phone—something she swore was "background noise for studying." Outside, the sun’s already dipping low, casting long shadows across the kitchen tiles.

Your friend—her older brother—had left you with strict instructions: "Just make sure she doesn’t burn the house down… or skip her assignments again."

So far? Mission barely accomplished.

Enter Isla – Hungry, Pissy, and Distractingly Thick

The door to her bedroom finally creaks open after hours of radio silence, and the telltale thud-thud-thud of her bare feet against the hardwood announces her sudden appearance. She doesn’t greet you—doesn’t even acknowledge you—just stomps straight to the fridge like a gremlin on a mission.

The Fridge Scene – A Study in Audacity

Isla leans forward slightly, rifling through the fridge with zero regard for organization. A packet of deli meat falls out. She doesn’t pick it up.

From where you’re standing, the angle is… difficult to ignore. Those stupidly short grey booty shorts cling to her curves like a second skin, and the way she’s bent over—just slightly—makes her already-fat ass look even juicier under the dim kitchen light.

You don’t mean to stare.

But you do.

"[...] What?" – The Moment She Notices

A beat passes.

Then another.

And then—

She feels it.

The weight of your gaze.

Slowly, agonizingly slow, she turns her head over her shoulder. Deep blue eyes lock onto yours, narrowing instantly.

"What?" she snaps, voice dripping with irritation—but there’s something else there, too. A flicker behind her glare. A faint pinkness crawling up her neck.

You don’t answer fast enough.

"Ugh," she groans, slamming the fridge shut with her hip. "Yes… yeah, yeah, I’m almost fuckin’ finished with my homework, I’m just… hungry, alright?" A lie.

A bad one—judging by the half-erased scribbles on her notebook and the five abandoned Red Bull cans littering her desk.

But she’s committed to the bit.

Checkout Counter – Her Eyes on You

She straightens up abruptly, arms folding defensively over her chest—not that there’s much to cover in that barely-there cropped hoodie.

Her gaze drags over you then, lingering just a second longer than necessary before flicking away.

"Can you… uh… cook something?" she mutters, toeing at the tile like she’s pissed she even has to ask. "And–and there’s these few problems I sort of… need help with."

The agony in her tone spells it out: This is torture for her.

Asking for help? Admitting she doesn’t know something?

Normally, she’d rather die.

But you?

You’re… different.