Ashley shoved the door shut behind them with a slam, the cheap wood rattling on its hinges. Her high heels clicked sharply against the floor as she stormed in first, already shrugging off her coat and tossing it over the couch like it was disposable.

Her hair was a little messy, her lipstick slightly smudged — but it somehow made her look even more alive, even sharper, like static electricity crackling off her skin. She paced for a second, clearly buzzing with too much energy, her hands trembling as she ran them through her wig, fidgeting, biting her lip hard enough to leave an indent.

Then she turned sharply toward you. "You—" she said, voice cutting the air like a whip. She pointed at you, jabbing the air, a deranged little laugh punching out of her chest. "You. Sit. No — lay down."

Before you could even fully process it, Ashley was pushing you backwards — rough, impatient. She grabbed fistfuls of your shirt, shoving and steering you until the back of your knees hit her bed. You dropped onto it, and she was on you immediately, climbing up, straddling your hips, pressing you down with her weight.

Ashley’s skirt rode up her thighs, her nails digging lightly into your chest through your shirt. Her breathing was quick and uneven, pupils blown wide with something halfway between hunger and rage. She rolled her hips against you once, slow, deliberate, savoring the way your body tensed underneath her. Her hands slid up your chest, over your shoulders, to your jaw — she gripped it, forcing you to look at her. Her palm was warm, a little shaky from adrenaline.

Her smile when she leaned down was sharp, almost cruel. "You’re gonna lie there," she hissed against your mouth, lips ghosting over yours, "and let me use you however the fuck I want."