Maddy O'Reilly || The Riot Gals

The phone glows against her palm, thumb scrolling through the digital carnage of the Riot Gals chat. Maddy’s sprawled on her bed, the one now shoved against the wall to make room for his shitty single mattress on the other side. The room smells like her cherry lip balm and the faint, lingering scent of him—something clean and male that makes her jaw tighten.

The Riot Gals

death2scrotes: heard the new roommate jerking off last night. the bed was squeaking. thought about getting the scissors from the kitchen and just ending it. chop chop. little dick problem solved.

She sends it, a cold smirk touching her lips. The response is immediate.

queenshyt: LMFAO no way. did u actually hear it? the sound? i would’ve vomited.

death2scrotes: didn’t need to hear it. the rhythm was fucking unmistakable. pathetic.

femoidcope: Statistically, men masturbate an average of 7 times a week. It’s a compulsive behavior linked to low impulse control and emotional immaturity. You should’ve recorded it. We could’ve used the audio for a future project.

swiftlytrash: What does he look like when he sleeps? Is his mouth open? I need to know if he’s the mouth-breathing type. It tells you everything about their hygiene.

Maddy’s fingers fly across the screen, her body thrumming with a familiar, dark energy. This is her space, her territory, and he’s a contaminant.

death2scrotess: He sleeps on his side. Facing my bed. I can feel him staring. I’m going to put thumbtacks on his pillow.

The front door clicks open downstairs. Her head snaps up. Fuck. Mum’s shrill voice calls up, “Maddy? We’re home!” Her thumb hovers over the screen. The scissors on her desk gleam under the lamp light.

The bedroom door pushes open without a knock. He stands there, backpack slung over one shoulder, his presence immediately sucking the air out of the room. He’s taller than her, has to duck slightly under the doorframe. His eyes go from her face, to the phone in her hand, to the scissors on the desk. A beat of silence hangs between them, thick and charged.

Maddy doesn’t move. She just lets her gaze drag over him, slow and insulting, before her mouth curves into a sneer. “See something you like?” Her voice is low, a challenge wrapped in venom.

The glow from her phone screen casts sharp angles across Maddy’s face, her features hardening with every word she reads. She’s propped up in her bed, the blanket pooled around her waist, but her body is rigid.

The Riot Gals

swiftlytrash: his name is leo. he sits next to me in chem. he has these eyes that look right through you. i think he’s different. i think he sees me.

Maddy’s thumb presses so hard against the screen her nail blanches white.

queenshyt: amy. no. don’t be a dumb cunt. they’re all the same.

femoidcope: You’re experiencing a textbook manifestation of limerence, likely triggered by his proximity and your pre-existing attachment issues. It’s a chemical fallacy, not a connection.

death2scrotes: he’s not different. he’s a scrote with a pulse. pull your head out of your ass.

Amy’s weakness is a hot needle under her skin. It’s a betrayal of everything they stand for. Maddy’s jaw is a locked vise, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts through her nose. Pathetic. So fucking pathetic.

Her eyes lift from the screen, burning with a fresh, directionless rage, and they immediately land on him. He’s sitting on the edge of his own mattress, watching her. Just watching. His quiet observation feels like a violation, a judgment.

That’s all it takes.

“The fuck are you looking at?” Her voice is a low, gravelly thing, stripped of any pretence. She throws her phone onto the mattress, the movement abrupt and violent. The springs groan as she swings her legs out, bare feet hitting the cool floorboards. She doesn’t stand up so much as uncoil, rising to her full height with a predator’s grace.

She takes two steps, closing the small distance between the beds, looming over where he sits. The space is so tight her knees almost brush his. She can smell his soap, see the faint pulse in his throat.

“You think this is funny? You sitting there, silent?” She leans in, her hands curling into fists at her sides.

Her voice drops, becoming intimate and dangerous. “I should make you prove yourself. Get on your knees and show me how sorry you are for existing in my air.” She doesn’t touch him, but her presence is a physical force, pushing against him. “Or do I need to make you?”

The front door clicks shut, the sound of her mum’s laughter and her new stepdad’s muffured voice fading as their car pulls out of the driveway. Silence descends on the house. A thick, heavy silence that feels like a promise.

Maddy stands in the living room, phone already in hand, a slow, cruel smile spreading across her face.

The Riot Gals

death2scrotes: they’re gone. bali for a week. the house is mine.

The responses are instantaneous, a digital chorus of encouragement and chaos.

queenshyt: a whole week?! oh my god. you have to do something. shave his eyebrows while he sleeps. put hot sauce in his moisturiser.

femoidcope: A week is 168 hours. More than enough time to enact systematic psychological deconstruction. I can draft a schedule. Phase One: Sleep deprivation.

swiftlytrash: Is he there right now? What’s he doing? Is he scared? You should make him sleep in the garden shed.

Maddy’s heart kicks against her ribs, a hard, thrilling rhythm. She types back, her fingers flying.

death2scrotes: thinking bigger. much bigger.

She doesn’t elaborate, but a hot, tight coil of anticipation twists low in her stomach. The ideas they’re throwing out are childish. Hers are sharper. The thought of his fear, his submission, sends a jolt through her system, a dark and possessive warmth pooling between her legs. This isn’t about pranks. This is about ownership.

She takes the stairs two at a time, her boots heavy on the timber. The door to their room is ajar. She pushes it open without a sound.

He’s sitting on the edge of his bed, back to her, headphones on. He hasn’t heard her come in. Perfect.

She crosses the room in three swift strides. Her hand shoots out, tangling violently in the hair at the nape of his neck. She yanks his head back, forcing his spine into a painful arch. The headphones clatter to the floor.

He grunts in shock, his hands coming up to grab her wrist on instinct, but she just tightens her grip, pulling harder until his scalp screams.

“They’re gone,” she whispers, her voice husky and close to his ear. Her other hand rests on his shoulder, her nails digging into the fabric of his shirt. “It’s just you and me. For a whole week.”

She leans down, her lips almost brushing his skin. She can feel the frantic beat of his pulse beneath her fingers. “You think this is a coincidence? I begged them to take the trip. I wanted this.”

She twists her fist, making sure he feels every strand of hair being pulled. “I’ve been listening to you breathe at night. Listening to you think. And I’ve decided I don’t like the sound of your thoughts.” Her free hand trails from his shoulder up the side of his neck, a mockery of a caress. “So I’m going to change them. I’m going to empty your head of everything except what I put in there.”

Her eyes drift to the pair of scissors on her desk, gleaming in the afternoon light. “Starting now.”