High on Him

This story contains explicit language, mild scenes of violence, some potentially disturbing moments, and numerous erotic scenes.

Any situations involving drug use portrayed by the characters are entirely illegal, dangerous, and absolutely not to be imitated or repeated. They are included strictly for storytelling purposes.

Alcohol is also a substance that impairs our ability to think clearly. In excess, it leads to addiction. Mixing intoxicants with alcohol can be fatal.

🗺️ The story takes place in Warsaw, Poland, and begins in Greece.

🖤Fallen Inferno

Nina’s POV

July 1st, 2019 — Warsaw

I wake up, but I don’t open my eyes. I already know this moment – that one brief second between sleep and reality, when nothing exists yet. No memories, no pain, no lies. Only darkness.

But then the thoughts come rushing back. Brutal. Shameless. Crashing in without permission, like they’ve been waiting just behind the door of my consciousness.

Last night. Adam. That final clash. His fake, carefully measured calm.

I finally left him. For real. No turning back, no loud drama. Quiet, but final.

And even though something tightens deep inside my chest, it’s not longing. It’s more like an echo. The echo of how much shit I endured and how long I stayed stuck in it.

Finally.

I stretch lazily, like the motion itself could push out all the leftover poison from my body.

I wish I could meet someone who would hit me like a detonator.

It’s not about love. Fuck love. I don’t believe in it and I’m not looking for it. But a solid, raw fling? One that sets my body on fire with just a glance? That, I’d take.

The problem is, I seem to attract nothing but clowns. Or the universe is just having a good laugh at my expense.

I open my eyes and sit up in bed. Slouched, tired, completely drained of energy. I didn’t sleep well. Again. Then again, how could I, when the last thing I saw before I closed my eyes was the face of my ex – the same guy who clearly forgot he’s supposed to be an ex.

— You’re already up? — his voice hits me like a cold shower.

I freeze.

I lift my gaze.

Adam is standing in the doorway. Leaning against the frame like he’s starring in some cheap, pretentious movie. That face of his — cocky, smug. The one that used to disarm me. Now? Fuck, it just pisses me off.

The audacity. And the absolute inability to just fuck off.

But not today. Today, I’m not playing his games.

— Clearly — I snap, dry, emotionless.

I can tell he’s about to speak, so I cut him off before he gets the chance.

— Can you explain why the fuck you’re still here? — I ask, irritated, my voice turning hard, cold. I squint my eyes.

— Babe…

— Jesus, Adam!! — I cut him off sharply. — Get the fuck out! What part of that is hard to grasp?! I don’t want to see you again! — every word drops like a razor. A sentence.

I stand up. Not because I want to — but because if I stayed in bed, I’d seriously end up punching him.

He doesn’t move an inch.

This fucker still thinks he has some hold on me. That I’ll fold.

— How many times can you cheat on someone? — I sneer. — You idiot, get out. Seriously. I can’t even look at you. There’s no “us.” There never will be.

His pupils narrow. Something cracks in him. And then comes that classic narcissist reflex — the moment he realizes he’s no longer in control.

— Your loss. You’re just a spoiled little brat — he spits with contempt. — You’ll regret this.

He smirks like a goddamn psychopath. Then turns and slams the door behind him.

— Sure — I mutter under my breath, grimacing. But then comes the relief. I exhale and fall back onto the bed. Breathe, Nina. Just breathe.

Officially: Adam is now just an ex. Done. Finito. Game over.

We got together when I was a dumb teenager — last year of middle school. At first, it felt like a movie. All butterflies and fantasy. Then came the routine. The weight. The fucking theatre of it all.

I’d wanted out for ages. But comfort? That shit clings like chains. That’s why I stayed in something that had long stopped being real.

The day I found out about his first betrayal, something inside me broke. Every one after that? I felt nothing but numb.

— Fuck — I growl, biting my lip.

There it is again. That stupid habit. Every time something gnaws at me from the inside, when the stress grips my chest, when the emotions tear at my insides — I start biting my lips. Like it’s gonna help. Like it’ll save me.

Yesterday changed everything. And thank god for that.

I overheard him talking. Accidentally. No filter, no lies. He was planning to cheat again. Bragging about it, like he was single. Like sleeping with some cheap girl was his god-given right.

He wasn’t single. But I hadn’t really been his for a long time.

I didn’t love him. He didn’t love me. And yet we still sounded like a fucking couple from a trashy therapy drama. No happy ending. No fix.

Honestly, I always knew we wouldn’t end up together. He was never “the one.”

I could already feel it after the first year. And then he had the audacity to guilt-trip me for not wanting to fuck him.

Excuse me — but is it really that shocking that I wanted my first time to be with someone who actually turned me on? Someone worth more than a quick, clumsy fuck in his room after a cheap beer?

That’s exactly why I barely touched him. Every time I said “no,” it turned into silent treatment, passive-aggressive sulking, guilt-tripping about “girlfriend duties,” or toxic, jealous meltdowns.

And now I have one question.

Is it really such a crime that I want to give my virginity to someone who actually knows how to handle me?

Because if that makes me wrong — then fuck all of you.

I roll onto my back and reach for my phone. The screen lights up with a missed call from my mom. I sigh and call her back. I know she won’t stop until she hears my voice.

— Hi, sweetie — her warm, familiar voice fills my ear. It used to feel like comfort. Like safety.

Today? It feels like pressure. A reminder that I’m not where they want me to be.

A faint, fake smile crosses my lips.

— Hey, mom.

— Your dad and I are staying a bit longer in Gdansk. Things got delayed. Are you managing okay?

— Of course — I say flatly, though I have zero energy for this conversation.

— How’s your second week of summer break?

— Fine, mom… — I mumble, staring blankly at the ceiling.

And here it comes. I can already feel it.

— Have you thought about school yet?

Bingo. As always. She never disappoints.

— University? Or maybe a private college…

— Mom, summer just started — I cut her off, the irritation seeping into my tone. — I’ll think about it later, okay?

I clench my jaw. If I didn’t love her, I would’ve hung up already. But I hold back. Barely.

— Okay, okay. Are you planning to go to a regular uni or maybe—

— Mom! — I snap. — I have to go.

— Alright, alright… We love you. Take care of yourself in that big city, okay?

— Love you too — I say dryly, then hang up without dragging it out.

I put my phone down and sink back into the pillow.

Sometimes I’m just so fucking done with them. Especially when they switch into “project: perfect daughter” mode. Sure, they want what’s best for me — but their version of “best” feels like a goddamn Excel sheet.

Check the boxes: school, career, relationship, wedding, baby.

But I’m not their fucking project.

Elena and Aaron. The golden couple. Famous architects. Europe’s pride. America’s pride.

My mum’s Polish and my dad’s American, but we moved to Poland when I was ten. Is that a plus? Maybe. I’ve got dual citizenship and a built-in escape route. That already sounds like luxury.

They design houses. I want to blow the whole system up. They build mansions for celebrities, penthouses for rich assholes, and “classy” interiors for people who think marble is the peak of taste.

And me? I’m supposed to shine in that world — because of the name I carry.

Thanks to my oh-so-impressive “background,” I’ve met more than a few people who only wanted to bask in my glow. People like Adam.

It’s always the same: you’re hot, you’ve got famous parents, and you’re not afraid to live — suddenly everyone’s interested. But God forbid you stop dancing to their tune.

And it’s not just guys.

A few months ago, I ended one of those “ride-or-die” friendships.

Weronika.

Five years together. Laughs, tears, secrets. Like sisters.

Then she dragged my boyfriend into bed — without a single fucking blink. She didn’t care what we had. She wanted Adam’s dick, so she took it.

I’m not one of the good girls. Never have been. I come from a “respectable” family, sure, but that doesn’t make me docile. I’ve got fire in my blood. A sharp tongue in my DNA. And a wild, clawing need to live by my own damn rules.

I like parties. I like the night. I like risk. I like people who don’t try to tame me.

I tried fitting in. I really did.

In elementary school, I was sweet Nina — polite, quiet, innocent. But middle school? That was my world. My chaos.

At first, my parents fought me on it. Tried to control me. Keep me in line. But eventually, they gave up. Gave me full freedom. With one condition: I have to achieve something in life. Anything.

Today is July first. It’s been almost a week since I turned nineteen. It’s my last year with a “one” at the front of my age. That terrifies me. But also excites me.

I feel like this year is going to be the turning point. Either everything will blow up — or everything will finally begin.

I have a plan. A business idea. An idea of who I want to become. Yes, I’ll finish college. But only for the damn paper. No illusions. No fake dreams.

I know my place isn’t where everyone else wants to go.

School was never my goal. I studied because it was easy for me. I did what I had to. For them. For the damn CV.

But my heart? My heart beats to the rhythm of risk, freedom, and creation.

I inhale deeply. I need to get up. Sitting in bed won’t change anything. Won’t fix anything.

I swing my legs over the edge and sit there in silence for a moment. Then — like I do every morning — I look in the mirror. I’ve been doing it for years. Staring into my own eyes like they hold some kind of answer. Maybe a warning. Maybe a promise.

I’m not drop-dead gorgeous or anything. But I’ve got nothing to complain about either.

Long, dark brown hair falls across my shoulders, with lighter strands in the front that always catch attention. My eyes — impossible to define. A light blue touched with grey, sometimes a flicker of green. The kind of color that shifts. Like moods. Like me.

Height? One hundred sixty-two centimeters of chaos. Maybe not much, but enough. Because proportions do the job.

A narrow waist. Hips that scream “come here.” Ass — big, tight, bold. Boobs? Medium, but firm and shapely. Flat stomach, toned legs.

I’ve got no insecurities. If I feel like getting naked, I do it. No hesitation.

I turn away from my reflection. Throw on some loose clothes. I’m not in the mood to dress up today. I just want comfort. That’s enough.

I head to the bathroom. I need a quick shower. To wash off the night. To wash off Adam.

— Fuck — I mutter when the phone starts ringing again.

I glance at the screen. The name flashes like a reflex. Anita.

I don’t call anyone a friend anymore. That word? Dead to me. Every girl I ever called that ended up stabbing me in the back.

Now I prefer people I can drink with. Laugh with. Talk to. No expectations. No illusions. Friendship? Relationships? No, thanks.

Not now.

This summer is mine. For chaos. For freedom. For sin.

— Hello? — I answer when the phone rings a second time.

I zoned out and missed the first one.

— You little shit — Anita’s voice snaps through the speaker.

I let out a laugh, unable to help it.

— While you were sitting with that idiot yesterday, I went to a party with Maria — she says, and I roll my eyes on instinct.

Not the blonde bitch. Her presence always felt like an allergic reaction. Literal rash.

— That idiot’s no longer my boyfriend.

— Finally! I thought you were gonna die in that toxic mess. Anyway, I’ve got something fucking juicy to tell you…

— Spill. Who did you two meet this time?

— Girls of some rappers. Or singers, not sure. Maria got the scoop. One’s with a tall brunette, the other with some dark-haired guy… and the third? I don’t remember. But what I do know is that Maria’s aiming for the brunette — she squeals with excitement.

Me?

Polish rappers never turned me on. Their “flow” sounds more like a joke than actual music. Maybe two, three I can stand, but most? Boring. Overhyped drama with zero real vibe.

I’m way more into foreign beats. Rawer. Stronger. Realer.

But a party is a party. And tonight? I feel like shining. With a fucking bang.

— We’re going there tonight and you’re coming — she says like it’s non-negotiable. — I can’t stand Maria alone for too long. Plus, the brunette she wants to bang? He’s apparently into… girls like you.

— Girls like me? — I lift a brow. — Meaning what, exactly?

— You know. Fiery. Sexy. Confident. Untouchable. With a bite. — she laughs, but I know she means it.

I smirk. Oh yeah. This is going to be that kind of night.

— I’m in — I answer sweetly, already piecing the plan together in my head.

If I get to mess with Maria and have fun at the same time? I’m all in.

— And the brunette? He’s taken?

— He’s got a girl, but apparently it’s going to shit. He barely tolerates her, and she’s head-over-heels like a fool. I don’t remember his name, but he’s supposedly kind of famous.

— Hm. — I smile to myself. — I’ll be at yours by six.

Anita hangs up without a goodbye. Classic.

Taken guys aren’t really my thing. But hey — depends on the situation.

I’m not planning to wreck anything… Unless the girl’s a total pushover, and the guy? Worth the sin.

Anita and I? We’ve got the best vibe.

I don’t call her a friend — we haven’t had our real loyalty test yet. But… we click. We get each other. Sometimes, that’s enough.

Maria, though — that’s a whole other story. She’s blonde jealousy wrapped in human skin. A textbook rival in a pretty package.

Ever since some guy she liked looked at me for half a second — I became her enemy number one. She never said it out loud. Didn’t have to.

One look into her eyes and you know everything. That hate. That comparison game. That desperate “I can be just like her.”

Except I don’t play those games. I win them.

I glance at the clock. Four p.m. Two hours. That’s all I need to turn into the version of me other girls hate — and every guy craves.

I open the closet and run my fingers across the hangers. Tonight’s outfit needs to be fire. I want to look like sin dressed in skin.

Red. A short, tight dress with side-ties all down the length. Perfect to show some skin — but leave a little to the imagination. I shove the thong deep in the drawer. Bra? Forget it. My tits know how to hold themselves up.

Diamond-studded wedges on my feet. Gold jewelry — just accents, but sharp ones. A ring on my finger that screams murder. That’s exactly the vibe I’m going for.

Makeup? Heavy. Lips — defined. Lashes — long. Eyes — dangerous. Hair down, sleek and shiny.

Ready to flip. Ready to kill.

I stop in front of the mirror and smile at myself. Like a bitch who knows she’s about to rule the night.

Tonight’s gonna be fucking wild.

You feel the rhythm? Tell me if it hit.

🖤Fallen Inferno