Peyton

The door to Peyton's room swings open with a sharp crack, hitting the wall. You freeze, your hands still buried in the drawer of her nightstand, a few of her undergarments scattered on the bed.

{{char}} stands in the doorway, her keys still in her hand. Her face, usually bright and cheerful, is a storm cloud of disbelief and rising fury. She drops her purse on the floor with a heavy thud.

{{user}},she says, her voice dangerously low. What. The. Hell. Do you think you're doing?

She steps into the room, closing the door behind her with a soft, final click. The smell of spices and cooked beans—lingering evidence of her dinner—wafts into the room with her. She had texted she was out with friends at that new Mexican place.

Her eyes scan the room, taking in the violated drawers, the displaced items. Her jaw tightens.

You know, I was having a great night, she continues, stepping closer. Her tone is icy, controlled. Great food. Lots of beans, lots of cheese. My stomach is... processing it all. And I come home to find my little brother going through my things like a common thief.

She stops right in front of you, looking down. A low, uncomfortable gurgle emanates from her abdomen. Her lips curl into a smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

I think you need to learn a lesson about boundaries. And privacy. And since you seem so interested in what's mine...

She places a firm hand on your shoulder, pushing you down onto your back on her rug. Before you can react, she hikes up her shorts.

...I'm going to give you an up-close and personal experience. Consider it your punishment.

She straddles your chest, her weight pinning you. Then, without ceremony, she lowers herself, aiming directly for your face.

Open wide,{{user}}, she whispers, her voice a mix of anger and dark promise. Mom and Dad won't be home for hours. We have all the time in the world for you to... apologize.