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latibvles · 8 months

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the names we call upon.

alternatively : the SBT DND au that absolutely nobody asked for featuring: Daisy, a bad dream, a stormy night, and a rogue in a particularly tight spot. trust that there will be more of this in the future. this au has a damn spreadsheet now.

Candlelight. That metallic smell. Long shadows across the walls. Shadows never cast in the temple — why had they started? The building shakes, rattles. Labored breathing. Her own. Someone else’s. She can’t pin name to face.

Eyes like honey and moss staring straight through her. A comfort. Her hands are trembling. The light is still draining from his eyes. She could save him. So why can’t she move?

A scream. Identifiable.

James.

It was the lightning and thunder accompanying that woke her. A full-body thing. Daisy would take in a deep breath, her whole body lurching forward, and once she was fully conscious she heaved, tuning into the rain hammering against the window. She tilted her head until her temple rested against the cool glass, and another streak of lightning split the sky in two and lit up the room for a brief second.

How often had she had that dream?

Too often, the Mother believed that sometimes the Gods spoke through their worshippers, but apparently that ability was only reserved for those devoted to it. Not for Daisy, whose power was inexplicable, and had brimmed beneath the surface of her skin since she was a child. The Mother had glamoured that one out of her, freshly fifteen, her brother beside her begging to be taken in, sheltered, after the death of their mother.

It’d been a storm not too dissimilar from this one. But the dreams hadn’t started until a month ago. They weren’t enough for the Mother to interpret and they weren’t enough to deter James from leaving on a job that took him far from her, with the promise to write and return.

He’d done neither, the dreams persisted, and despite the nagging feeling in her stomach that this was more — she ignored it, pressed it down and tucked it away.

Shaking. Shadows. Screaming. Hazel eyes that she knew weren’t her brother’s. It wasn’t much to go off of anyways. Even if it frightened her on nights like this one.

Daisy let out a sigh as she swung her feet over the side, disregarding the sheet. Across from her, Sister Catrice slept soundly, and so Daisy did her best to avoid the floorboards that creaked as she went to grab her shawl from where it draped over her desk chair and slipped out the room into the hallway. Illuminated by candles in the hallways, she figured to do the only thing she’d been advised to do since the dreams began.

She was going to pray, and beg for her goddess’ forgiveness, as she’d done multiple times before. Even, she thought bitterly, as she made her way into the main altar room, if it hasn’t done anything at all.

The statue of Chauntea casted no shadows over the pews, as though even the stone recreation of her likeness didn’t want her followers to be shrouded in darkness. Round cheeks, braids carved from stone, a gown that looks impossibly fluid in spite of its stiff material. She’d marveled at this, once, amazed at how just the sight of her radiated comfort. Warmth.

The Earthmother would have to forgive her for not being happy to see her this past month.

Outside, the storm raged on. In here, Daisy was entirely on her lonesome. The Sisters were all asleep, the candles only lit because the Mother had a thing about not shrouding the altar room in darkness. It’s why she’d glamoured away the shadows. Ultimately made little difference to Daisy, who’s eyes could easily accommodate for the dark.

The Mother taught her that she should approach the statue, and kneel before it. That was the right way to pray. So she did so, clutching her fraying shawl tighter around herself and taking in a trembling breath.

This part was always the hardest part.

“Our Earthmother,” Daisy began, chest already tightening. She didn’t want to mess this up. “Hallowed be thy name…”

She’d gotten so used to calculating every word, that just talking felt nearly impossible. That’s what the Mother said, that prayer was just talking to the goddess, and her case, asking for forgiveness. But as far as Daisy was concerned she didn’t do anything wrong. She whispered her thanks to her every morning, prayed every sunset with the sisters for spells even though she didn’t need to, left offerings at the altar, did everything she was supposed to do and yet…

“For a month and a day I’ve begged for your forgiveness, to relieve me of these horrid visions that plague my dreams…” she took in a trembling breath as the rain came down harder, hammering against the stained glass of the temple. “I haven’t asked for anything more. Not protection for my brother, wherever he is, or the whereabouts of my father. Just to rid me of these dreams.” Calling them dreams didn’t even feel correct. Not in their frequency, not in their feeling. Her heart shouldn’t hurt so much every time she watched the hazel-eyed man die. It shouldn’t feel so real.

Daisy clenched her jaw.

“If you won’t rid me of these visions, then please, show me the way in which I might cast them out myself.”

Thunder boomed, lightning flashed outside, and the door slammed open. Daisy scrambled to her feet, turning around, and the sight made her heart leap into her throat.

She saw the knife first.

It dripped crimson on the floor, hooked at the end. James told her people did that to tear, cause damage on the way in and the way out. And magic crackled in her palms before she realized how pale this man was, how he stumbled.

He nearly toppled into a candle holder as a shoulder slammed into the wall. He hit the floor and Daisy’s feet were moving before she could even think.

“Hey, hey, you.” She lightly tapped at his face. His hair was dark and wet from the rain, his skin a sickly gray, and he had stubble across his jaw. The hand that wasn’t barely holding onto the knife was clutching at his side.

Daisy reached up to undo the clasp on his cloak. He was hot to the touch. His eyes opened in a squint, and he grunted.

“Can you hear me?” She asked. And the man said nothing, just nodded weakly. “Okay, well… I need you to open your eyes.” The black cloak slid off him with little fuss, weighed down by rain. Still, his eyes didn’t move past that barely visible squint. Daisy sighed, and reluctantly slid his shirt up to expose his midriff.

Bandages with a brown stain wrapped tight around his midsection. Reluctantly, Daisy went for his knife, and with that hooked tip caught some of the linen to cut it away. Unwrapping and unwrapping. The man shivered, sweating, and then coughed hard. Blood, so dark it was nearly black, stained his teeth.

She understood the moment she got the bandages off. And Daisy might be in over her head.

The puncture wound just below his ribs, the hole oozed a green substance, black veins stretching from the wound. Poison.

Her heart was pounding in her ears. Hands trembling, every joint locked up as she stared. His breathing became more labored and she watched his chest rise and fall with more and more effort. He was wheezing. She should get the Mother. Or wake a sister. Or heal it herself. Do something. But she was paralyzed. One wrong move. All it takes is one wrong move. So the solution is to do nothing?! That voice in her head screamed it at her. She looked at his pale, withering face. Finally, he opened his eyes, bloodshot, and hazel like—

Thunder rattled the building. Trembling hands.

Eyes like honey and moss.

Bile burned at her throat. Blood pounded in her ears. Her hands didn’t stop shaking and she wanted to say something but she couldn't. Words dying on her tongue, lungs aching. She was hardly breathing. His head lolled back against the wall, fading.

“Hey, hey, no, look at me, come on,” she reached over, taking his face in her hands and tilting him back towards her, spurred into motion. “There we go. Do you have a name? Tell me that?” He took a deep breath..

“Ron—” he didn’t finish, coughing up more of that black blood of his. Daisy didn’t pry for more.

“Okay, Ron, I’m Daisy and I…” she looked down at his wound. The Mother rarely let her around the sick. She thought letting Daisy use her magic was heretical. Could she even do this? It didn’t matter. She had to try. “I’m going to help you, okay? I just need you to stay awake.” She takes a shuddering breath.

Great Mother, if you’ve ever been on my side, now would be a great time to show it.

Ron watched her like a hawk, as she approached the wound with trembling fingers, energy crackling beneath the surface of her skin. It was an incantation, one of the few they’d been willing to teach her but she hadn’t much practice with it. She knew the spell well enough, hoped it worked, watched as green pus brushed against her fingers and tried not to apologize when Ron flinched immediately on contact.

It was easier to recite in Elvish, where every word felt like a song.

It felt like everything fell silent. For a moment, nothing happened. Just Daisy, repeating the incantation over and over again, and Ron staring, watching, burning a hole right through her being, like if this failed he’d definitely haunt her for the rest of her days.

Then a glow, warm and golden, stretching from her fingers, pushing into the hole in his side and lighting up the black veins with a yellow glow. She could feel it, the poison reacting to her magic, trying to push back and fizzling out as she put more force behind it, allowing her finger tips to press up against his skin.

Some color returned to his face, but barely any. And he was still sweaty, and cold from the rain. So if the poison didn’t take him, then pneumonia damn well could become a second contender.

Daisy let the spell fizzle out, and left in its wake was a small, fleshy wound which no longer bled. Ron leaned over to rummage through his bag, and knowing how this was meant to go, Daisy felt her heart drop in her stomach.

“You don’t need to— I don’t want any… offerings,” Because it wasn’t a cleric that healed him, so who would she be to take an offering for the altar? It felt disingenuous. Ron looked back at her, and without poison sucking the life from him, his stare seemed to double in intensity. She couldn’t tell if that was his resting face or if he lived in a state of constant alertness. Given the state of his knife, either seemed possible. He cleared his throat.

“You said your name was Daisy, right?” His voice was rough, he still leaned up against the wall. Daisy nodded.

“And yours is Ron?”

“Ronald.”

“Right. Ronald.” He looked at her and despite the intensity of that stare, she held his gaze. No doubt about it, she knew those eyes, was haunted by them for a whole month. What they would look like with no life in them. But he lived.

“How far is Secomber from here?” He asked, eyeing the door. Daisy’s brows furrowed, watching.

“You won’t get anywhere far. Not with this rain,” Knowing that wasn’t what he asked, but still giving him that answer. She watched as he pulled himself to his feet but wobbled on the way up, and raised a brow when he looked at her again, an affirmative of yes, I saw that, going unsaid between them. “We have racks in the back for travelers. I can put your clothes by the hearth so they’re dry in the morning.”

Ronald picked up his waterlogged cloak, drip drip dripping onto the floor, but his eyes never left hers as she stood up, giving her a slight shake of his head.

“You don’t have to do that.” He responded, and lapsing back into herself, Daisy shook her head.

“It’s not about having to do anything. You’ll drown in the river before you make it halfway down the road,” And, she added silently, I have questions in the morning and you might have the answers. She dug her feet in. “After a wound like that I think the flu would be a pretty lackluster way to go out.” Ronald’s eyes widened just barely at her remark, and a sense of amusement bubbled in her at catching him off guard.

Maybe he'd realized that she wouldn’t let up, or maybe he was still too wobbly, but Ronald sighed, pushing his damp hair out of his eyes. She almost wished he hadn’t done that, because now there really wasn’t any doubt.

“Thank you, Sister Daisy.” She immediately shook her head.

“Just Daisy is fine.” She didn’t miss that flash of confusion, but now wasn’t the time to get into the semantics of her place here, and how she, by all accounts, didn’t technically have one.

“Just Daisy, then,” Signed, sealed, delivered — he looked at her expectantly, and with that she turned on her heel, leading him down one of the temple’s many corridors towards one of the rooms they kept for weary travelers.

Even with her back turned, she could still see those eyes of his, as vivid as they had been in her dream.

#au: the names we call upon #or alternatively #sbt meets dnd #not proofread we die like men #sometimes the love of your life is the church girl that had a premonition about your untimely demise #poet’s notepad #band of brothers au #BoB au #ronald speirs #ronald speirs fic #ron speirs

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mrsarnasdelicious · 10 months

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The Band of Bebbanburgh - III - Sihtric's Mistake

The front slams shut. Sihtric looks up from his laptop. He spots Osferth in the hall. The younger man is taking off his shoes . "Finan's at work!" Sihtric shouts. Osferth seems to startle. "Sorry!" Sihric hollers, a grin on his face. Osferth comes into the living. He's hauling his overnight trolly. "Doesn't matter. He'll come back before long." He says. "Maybe baby." Says Sihtric. Osferth rolls his eyes.

"What's going on Os?" Sihtric asks. "The usual." Osferth reluctantly mumbles, plonking down in Finan's worn leather armchair. "Sucks man, why don't you move out?" Sihtric gazes at the young student. "Got no money." Osferth replies. "I didn't either. Finan took me in all the same." Sihtric retorts. Osferth sighs deeply. "You have a job. I am still in school." He brings in. Sihtric gives him an unimpressed look. "Maybe Finan can use a hand in the bakery." He suggests.

They go back and forth for a while. But Sihtric notices Osferth needs something other than advice.

"You could use a blow. Don't worry it is pro bono." He puts down his laptop. "Wh-wha-what?" Osferth stammers. "Never been blown before?" Sihtric gets up from the sofa. He's wearing a white button down, so sheer it's almost see through and under it only form fitting boxers of a smooth black cloth.

Osferth swallows in a dry throat. He doesn't really get what Sihtric is on about. Something about weed, he supposes. He just knows he is in over his head.

But then Sihtric kneels between his legs. "Don't think okay? Just feel." He purrs. He looks up and only now Osferth notices his eyes are different colours. And it is stunning! He lifts his hands to Osferth's fly. "I'm going to suck your cock, alright?" He murmurs. "I won't do anything without your consent." He says sweetly. Osferth gulps again, but nods. "Verbally, please." Sihtric undies his fly. "I c-cuh-consent." Osferth stammers. "Great." Sihtric smiles up at him. And his eyes glimmer. Oh god, Osferth could down in them.

He is drowning.

First in a hazel brown swamp and then in a blue green ocean. And then in the heat of Sihtric's mouth. "Oh God." He whimpers. He hardens rapidly and Sihtric smirks around his cock.

Never had he imagined what it would be like to be inside someone else's mouth, neither woman, nor man. Sure, he'd fantasized about having sex. At first about sex with women, but that never seemed him warm or cold. And then about sex with men, though that were clumsy, fumbled fantasies that had made him feel awkward rather than aroused. He'd always just focussed on what cues his body gave him when he'd jerked himself off.

Nothing could have prepared him for this.

Sihtric swallows him down to the root. "Oh!" Osferth whines in a very indignified way. But Sihtric seems to smirk around his cock. He backs off almost all the way, and tongues at Osferth's slit. "God." Osferth breathes. Sihtric groans softly in reply. He is enjoying himself, greatly. There is no mistaking that. And Osferth is enjoying it too. Sihtric is good at sucking cock, there is no way around it. It makes Osferth's mind spin.

Too soon, Osferth feels like he is cumming. No surprise there, considering this is his very first time getting his cock sucked. This is his very first intmate encounter with another person. He's not even been kissed before. And here he is, with his cock down Sihtric's throat, ready to spill over.

Sihtric swallows firmly around him and that is Osferth's undoing. "Oh god!" He whimpers. He is cumming. And it feels different from any other orgasm he's ever had. It is so much better. Sihtric swallows again. He is swallowing Osferth's cum. "Y-you do-don't have to." Osferth stammers. He feels like his face is on fire. Slowly Sihtric let's him go. "But I wanted to." The Pagan man purrs. "You have an amazingly long cock. I am going to want you to choke me with it, eventually." He gets up.

Osferth can only gape up at him.

Sihtric chuckles and reaches out to ruffle Osferth's hair. "Damn, you are cute." He says, before leaving the living room. Osferth can only gape at the empty living for a while, his cock dangling from his trousers. He has a bit of a hard time processing what just happened. The overwhelming pleasure... and Sihtric just getting up and leaving. A question rises in his mind. Did Sihtric not truly like sucking his cock? Oh no....

But Osferth does not have long to fret.

The front door falls shut and Osferth jumps up, his limp cock flopping out. "No no no." He hishes, hurrying to get his cock back into his trousers. But Finan's already rounded the corner into the living. "Hey Os." He grins crookedly. Osferth swallows audible. "He-hey." He stammers. Finan looks him over, his eyes widening.

"Why is your cock out." The baker asks pressingly. Osferth grows even more flushes. "I - Sihtric, I mean.... Shit." He squeaks. "What did he do?" Finan asks fiercely. His hands clench into fists and there is thunder in his brown eyes. "No no, don't be upset." Osferth stammers. He swallows thickly and pulls his hoodie over his crotch. His cock is twitching to renewed life at the memories of Sihtric's mouth. Finan furrows down on Osferth's crotch. "Spit it out." The Irishman says firmly. Osferth shrinks in on himself, but his cock remains hard.

"Sihtric!" Finan bellows.

The Dane is quick to come back into the living. Osferth swallows audibly at the sheer look at him. "What's up?" Sihtric asks casually. "Did you just suck Osferth's cock?" Finan demands sharply. "Yeah, he looked like he needed a pick me up." Sihtric shrugs. "And then you just left?" Finan growls. "Yeah, had to take care of myself. I didn't want to just jack off and cum all over your nice carpet." Sihtric replies. "You had me a little worried when you left."Osferth says. Sihtric chuckles softly. "I am sorry, I won't walk away again." He purrs. Osferth flushes. "You'll do that again?" He stammers. "Any time you need, baby." Sihtric winks.

"Oh.. Oh God." Osferth sputters.

#Osferth x Sihtric #Sihtric #Osferth #TLK #The Last Kingdom #Ewan Mitchell #arnas fedaravicius #smut under the cut #BoB AU

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xx-sketchy-xx · 2 months

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did.. did I forget to post this?

I just saw an amazing artist make a bob ross comic, and I just thought, wtf did mine go xD

#welcome home art #wally darling #welcome home wally #wally #welcome home home #welcome home au #Bob ross #bob ross #wally ross #Bob darling #horror #But happy #dude I share the same birthday as Bob ross #Did I really not post this?#How is that possible lol

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attapullman · 3 months

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Bob From Stats | Robert "Bob" Floyd

Summary: College is a wild time, but absolutely nothing could prepare you for the quiet guy from Stats riding around campus as a cowboy. Or what a good kisser he is.

Word Count: 4.9k

Warnings: f!reader, smut, 18+ ONLY as always, dry humping, alcohol, drunken party games, mentions of studying because that gives me PTSD, semi-exaggerated Greek life for theatrical reasons

A Note From Mo: Somehow my frat!Bob, drunk Bob is Rhett, and 7 minutes in heaven ideas all rolled into one fic - wild! Massive shoutout to everyone who listened to me talk about Stats Bob (who is now officially my #2 Bob, I love him) and for supporting this here lil blog. May you find a hobby-horse-wielding future WSO to sweep you off your feet too!

“I hate this. I’m going to quit school and become a stripper.”

Anna gives you a wry look. “That joke was only funny the first time you said it.”

“So you admit I’m funny!”

The two of you have been spread out in the library the majority of the evening. Textbooks, snacks, and highlighters littering the glossy dark wood. You’re on hour five of assignments and your brain is pounding against the front of your skull. Your other classes aren’t too bad, a bit time consuming, but Statistics is a foreign language. Thinking in probable numbers? It was one thing when the nice guy who sat behind you helped explain concepts, but Anna does not have quite the same analytical mind.

The sky outside is an inky black and the library is quiet except for your frustrated huffs. It’s Saturday night. The rest of campus is indulging in cheap beers at Barney’s, slinking along Greek Row, or enjoying tonight’s episode of Saturday Night Live. It’s time to get out of here and crawl into your soft bed. Torturing yourself with Stats homework will be just as painful on Sunday.

“If I buy us a pint of chocolate chip cookie dough, can we blow this off and hang out back at the dorms?” Anna is nodding before you’ve even finished. Stuffing notebooks into backpacks and capping pens low on ink, you’re strolling down the library stairs not even five minutes later.

As the balmy evening campus air hits your face, you already feel fresher. Campus is quiet, late enough that most people are settled into their Saturday night plans. As the two of you near Greek Row, there’s a comfortable silence as you appreciate the breeze through the trees and the warm glow of campus housing windows.

That is, until a low whoop rings out. An undercurrent of boisterous cheering and what sounds like stomping feet. You exchange eyes with your roommate. What is that?

As if summoned, a group comes galloping through the neatly trimmed cypress trees around the corner. They’re stomping their feet in a rhythm, hands held mid-air to imitate holding reigns. Drunken laughs ring out between cries of “Whoa!” and “Steady there, Lucky!” To round it off, the leader of their horse play (literally) is full-on cosplaying as a cowboy, his jeans tucked into boots and a Stetson perched atop his head.

Wait, is he holding a hobby horse? It’s been decades since you’ve seen those horse heads stuck on a stick. The stuffed felt Appaloosa head is reigned in the cowboy’s hands, where he pretends to spur it back into action.

Just when you think you’ve seen it all.

The group continues its way toward you and you’re equally secondhand embarrassed and amused. As they grow closer you recognize a few guys from the Pi Kapp house and wave. But it’s Anna who makes the most shocking discovery when Mr. Cowboy tilts his brim up.

"Is that Bob from Stats?"

It takes a second to look past the brown felt hat and the hobby horse he's taking for a spin, but that's definitely the same pink-cheeked Bob Floyd who has lent you a pencil all semester.

“Howdy, ladies.” He tips his hat to you, all toothy grin and droopy drunk eyes. "Can I offer you a ride?"

You stare open-mouthed. Shocked. That slow rancher drawl is new. The unbridled confidence is new. Actually, the entire getup is new. For nine weeks you’ve seen him in the same trucker hat and sweatshirt combo while going over homework answers together. What is going on?

He’s clearly in the middle of his house party crawl, bright blue eyes half open behind his metal frames. Just as gorgeous as ever as a tendril of sandy hair curls against his forehead. Normally your reaction to him is tender, a puppy dog crush. But this wild, inebriated version of him? You’re hot under the collar.

“You think there’s room on your horse?” Ever since that first Stats class he’s made your brain feel like it’s on RedBull. The way he noticed you missing a writing utensil and offering you his extra. His kind smile when you get a homework answer completely wrong. Anna hasn’t noticed your crush, but it feels obvious with the way you can barely keep eye contact with him yet are unable to look away. Especially with that stupid cowboy hat on.

He bites his lip, considering your response, and his buddies all razz him as he drawls out, “There will be if we squeeze in.”

The wink makes your mouth dry.

Someone from the back of the group complains of the cold and the group prepares their steeds to head back to Pi Kapp. Anna explains you’re headed back to the dorms, tone deaf to the sexual tension, and Bob nods with his brow furrowed.

“Another time then.” His white tshirt practically glows in the moonlight. “Have a good night, chickadees. Get home safe!”

With another tip of his Stetson to you, Bob Floyd gallops away toward another keg.

You’re sprinting across campus, cursing how late your meeting with your advisor went. There was ten minutes to get across campus and he had spent four of those questioning whether you really needed another semester of French. You make it into the lecture hall with a minute to spare, finding your preferred spot in the lower rows where you can actually see the board. Right in front of Bob.

“What? No cowboy hat for class?” His cheeks flame red, the hope you’ve forgotten about his Saturday antics lost. He looks like himself today, his signature trucker cap keeping the hair off his face. Those friendly ultramarine eyes shyly focusing on his notebook because god forbid he makes eye contact after you’ve seen him gallop across campus on a fake horse.

He rubs the back of his neck over his soft-looking crewneck, an awkward smile playing on his lips. “It’s at the cleaners.”

You give him an amused grin before settling yourself into one of the classically uncomfortable lecture seats. Anna waves to you from where she’s rushing in, historically always late. The professor is shuffling notes at the podium as she collapses into the seat next to you, nodding her head in greeting to you and to Bob. She raises her eyebrows to you, a “remember when Bob was dressed as a cowboy” gesture, and your lips twist happily.

“Alright, class, who’s ready to talk probability?” The collective groans and hollers mark the start of lecture. You flip open your notebook and start digging around for a writing instrument in your bag. Like usual, you seem to be missing a pen or pencil when you need one most.

A tap on your shoulder. You turn and lock eyes with the frat boy-turned-cowboy with the shy smile. He holds out a pencil to you. Taking it sheepishly, you mouth a thank you and turn back to lecture. After nine weeks it shouldn’t be this embarrassing, but every week he’s given you a pencil since you whispered shoot! a little too loud on Week 1.

Risking a quick glance back at him, engrossed in the Empirical Law of Averages while he twirls his pencil, you’re not sure you can survive the rest of the semester.

By the end of the Stats lecture on Thursday, you have one brain cell to your name and seven pages of notes. What a brutal class. Midterms were quickly approaching and not a single professor had any mercy. As you pack up your stuff - including the borrowed pencil that would promptly disappear before next class - you make a study plan with Anna for that evening. She brings the chips, you’ll supply the vodka.

“Are you two not hitting the houses tonight?” He looks uncomfortable having interrupted the two of you.

Bob shifts his backpack to his other shoulder, adjusting the collar of his navy blue sweatshirt. Other than when he’s kindly exchanged homework answers before class - or been drunkenly galloping across campus - the two of you don’t speak much. The odd quip here and there, but overall the two of you exist in pencil-sharing quiet. “Everyone’s having pre-midterm parties before buckling down to study.”

“Oh, that sounds fun!” You look at Anna encouragingly. As needed as a vodka-infused study session was, one night out couldn’t hurt. And it was Thursday. No classes tomorrow meant you had three days to buckle down and attempt to understand anything you’ve learned this semester.

She eyes you warily, but agrees that Greek Row sounds like a better option than highlighting textbooks. Bob flashes you his timid smile beneath the brim of his cap. “It’ll be a fun night. Maybe I’ll see you? If not, have a good weekend!”

As he starts to walk out, a feeling takes over you. “Bob?” You watch him slow down and turn, wide blue eyes watching you from behind those unconventionally cute glasses. “You’ll be at the Pi Kapp house, yeah?” He nods. “Cool. See you around!”

Despite standing next to it the entire conversation, neither of you notice the pencil sitting on the desk, left behind as you head out for your respective weekends.

“What did you say?” You’re practically yelling to be heard over the EDM that Sigma Chi is blaring. They’ve turned their house into a rave with glow sticks, body paint, and music so loud your eardrums must be burst. The beer is warm, your arm has supernaturally purple paint smeared across it, and Anna has been unsuccessfully telling you a story for ten minutes.

Huffing, she grabs your arm and drags you toward the entrance, tossing your cups onto a random hallway table where a heated makeout session is taking place. They move out of the way just enough so the two of you can slip out of the old colonial house and out into the cool night. The ringing in your ears subsides slowly as you lean against the columns of the front porch.

“House number three? Also sucked. Three strikes and you’re out? Can we go home?” Anna grabs your wrist and pouts. She wanted movie night with vodka and a pizza from Pietro’s. You wanted to blow off steam.

But Alpha Sig had mostly been freshman and Phi Delt, while not a terrible party, had the most smarmy men on campus. The bleeding eardrums of Sigma Chi was preferable to pushing off men in polos just to grab another drink. You just wanted a semi-decently flavored alcoholic beverage - maybe three - while chatting with some friends. You weren’t asking for much.

Allowing Anna to drag you in the direction of the dorms, ready to admit defeat, you slow to a stop seeing the bricked entrance to Pi Kappa Phi. Bob’s fraternity. A few minutes wouldn’t hurt, right?

It takes a little convincing, but soon you’re in the warmly lit foyer of the Pi Kapp house. The vibe is more relaxed than Sigma Chi, with a keg in the corner, an array of liquor bottles in the kitchen, and hip-hop softly filling the house. You’re impressed they’ve even gone the extra mile with multi-colored string lights across every surface to brighten up the otherwise dark house.

“Yooooo, how’s it going?” A drunken loaf of snapback and Deep Eddy envelopes you in a hug. It’s Tyler, one of your freshman seminar PK friends. Exchanging pleasantries - the best you can with someone that far gone - he drags you further into the house. Miscellaneous groups of Greek and geed litter the hallways. Anna sees her friends from Delta Gamma and ditches you, promising to get home safe. Tyler continues on his mission to god knows where.

At least he’s considerate enough to stop in the kitchen so you can grab a whiskey lemonade to sip.

Eventually you’re spat into a sitting room of sorts, groups crowding the ring of sofas while drunkenly jeering at the game. You set yourself on the arm of one, trying to make sense of the theatrics. The latest victim laughs out a “Truth!” before everyone giggles wickedly. Are they playing truth or dare?

Your eyes gloss over the group, trying to figure out who else you know. A few PK’s you recognize, a girl who smiles but looks unfamiliar, and…a cowboy hat that is a dead giveaway.

Standing up and walking around the group, you tap him on the shoulder. The biggest blue eyes meet yours, a surprised smile splitting his face.

“You made it!” That deep drawl is back and that tingle reappears on your spine. Bob jumps up from the couch, beer bottle dwarfed in his hand, and comes to stand with you. “You having a good night?”

Ironically, your night is much better now that you’ve found him. He’s back in his cowboy gear, a worn denim shirt tucked into his jeans and those same cowboy boots scuff against the hardwood. You’re tempted to steal the felt hat from his head just so he looks a little bit more like Bob from Stats.

Squeezing your eyes shut, letting the alcohol be an excuse, you succumb to the obvious question. “I need to know - what’s with the…cowboy?” You gesture up and down, drawing a chuckle from him.

He blushes under the felt brim. “You know I have a slight accent, yeah?” You attempt to stifle your laugh as he incidentally talks in a thicker accent. “When I was a pledge they started calling me cowboy. Saw the hat while I was in town one week, ended up leaning into the joke.”

“And the hobby horse?”

He beckons you closer, bringing his lips to your ear. “Stolen from my little sister over summer break.”

There’s that wink again making your knees weak. He pushes his glasses back up his nose and takes another sip from his beer. Despite the party raging around you, nothing else seems to exist past him asking about your night and if you want another drink. You’re wrapped in the warmth of his words, itching to snuggle into his broad chest.

The spell is broken when “Cowboy Bob!” rings out from the crowd. The entire room is turned to you two. “Truth or dare, man?”

In the background of your intimate conversation with Bob, the truths and dares have reached full raunchiness. People have been stripped of clothes and dirty secrets. A bead of sweat gathers at Bob’s collar, aware that neither option is safe.

His worried gaze flits to you, as if you hold the correct answer, before tipping his hat back and exhaling, “Dare?”

It’s gutsy, but if there’s one thing you’re learning about the quiet guy from Stats, he’s full of surprises. The crowd bubbles with excitement, anticipating what dare will be dealt out. Next to you, the wannabe cowboy looks more annoyed than anything. He was enjoying talking to you not in a classroom and with a little liquid courage.

An evil smile crosses the dare-dealer’s face. He knows Bob and isn’t blind to what’s going on. He’s gonna help his buddy out on this one.

His arm stretches out and he points (with the red plastic cup in his hand) to the coat closet at the end of the hall. “Hmmmmm, I dare you to, hmm, play Seven Minutes in Heaven with…” It’s no surprise when the cup-turned-pointer lands on you.

Ice water down your back wouldn’t be as panic inducing. It’s hard to tell who swallows harder, you or Cowboy Bob. Every instinct is telling you to run, but that little voice in the back of your head wins out. As Bob starts to tell you it’s okay, they’re joking, you don’t have to, you grab his thick wrist and give him a nervous smile. You don’t even care what the punishment is for not completing a dare, this stupid drunken game has given you an opportunity.

The dealer of the dare follows the two of you down the hallway, leading the whoops and wolf whistles. Bob’s cheeks flame scarlet in the low light. You keep your chin high and eyes forward. He can definitely feel the way you’re trembling around his wrist.

Whether in anxiety or excitement it’s hard to tell.

The inside of the closet is dark, the faint light under the door casting only the faintest of shadows. Your heart is pounding, blood pulsing through your ears. Bob rubs his lips together nervously. It’s all you can do to not run your tongue along them.

“We don’t have to do anything, we can just talk.” The way he prioritizes your comfort makes heat pool between your legs. The brim of his hat is as far back as it can go, his eyes tracing the lines of your face as he gauges your emotions. He’s welcome to figure them out, you’re unsure of them yourself.

His large, warm hand rubs your forearm comfortingly, your skin too cold without his touch. You’re suffocating under his sweat-and-bergamot scent, citrusy and warm.

You bite the bullet. “What if I want to?”

His breath stops. Fingers find yours in the dark, interlocking on either side of your hips. Eyes you know are the deepest blue lock onto your gaze, a million emotions passing behind his irises. Face descending upon the space between you, tentatively showing his intentions. You meet him in the middle, caution out the window.

The kiss is gentle, puzzle pieces slotting together for the first time. He tastes like malt sugar and peppermint. Mouth warm and soft, enveloping you fully in his comfort. It’s even better than what you’ve imagined for the past nine weeks.

Bob begins to pull away, ever the gentleman. Your hand finds his collar, holding him in place. “Not yet, we still have, like, five and a half minutes.”

Despite the low light, his smile lights up the closet.

His lips return to yours in a rush, swallowing your mouth in a passionate heat. The press of his body to yours is delicious. Hands previously at your side meet your hips, lightly squeezing as you moan into his mouth. You reach up and hold the back of his neck, bringing him even closer as your lips toy with the tiniest bit of stubble along his jaw.

“You know,” he starts, holding the moan in the back of his throat. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since September.”

You pull back momentarily, a crinkle upon your brow. “Bob, we didn’t start Stats until January.”

He kisses the confusion from your face, his hands wrapping further around your body. “And you looked very pretty in that green dress at the homecoming barbecue.”

Bless your love of school spirit and free food. “Why didn’t you? Kiss me?”

“I don’t normally make a habit of kissing girls I don’t know. And clearly it takes an entire fraternity for me to get you alone.” The way his chuckle bounces against your skin has you squirming. Your schoolgirl crush on him wasn’t one-sided, and suddenly you’re hot for teacher.

You capture him in another kiss, tongue searching the seam of his lips for entrance. He obliges immediately, groaning as you explore his taste. Four hands roam skin, finding purchase in anything and everything. Your body has a mind of its own as you press against him, chest heaving with your passion. The right shift of fabric on fabric reveals that he’s equally as affected by the chemistry.

Reluctantly, he pulls away once more, threading his fingers across the back of your neck. Takes a moment to capture his breath as he sees the lust in your eyes. A deep breath. “As much as I like you, I don’t want to do anything if you’re drunk.”

Soft fingers follow the line of his arm to where it wraps around your waist. How is he this impossibly sweet? Thoughtful, respectful, and looking hot as sin with swollen lips. It’s unfair.

“I promise I’m not.” You stroke the back of his hand. “Please kiss me?”

His large hands unwrap from your waist and travel down, shifting behind your legs and pulling you up, resting your back against the wall. You tangle your legs around his waist as best you can in the small space, relishing his firm body pressed deliciously close, warm and solid. Kisses smeared across lips and jaws as noises crescendo. You’re panting as you trail down to his impossibly long neck, desperate to cover it in affection.

You’ve barely explored the expanse of skin when the door flies open, the boisterous party sounds flooding in. Reality strikes like a slap across the face. The truth-or-dare ringleader takes you in - legs wrapped around Bob and hands creeping toward your ass - and whoops in delight. Who knew Cowboy Bob had it in him!

“Time’s up, lovebirds!” He crows and reaches forward to slug Bob lightly on the shoulder.

Not skipping a beat, Bob shoves his friend back and throws up his middle finger. “Fuck off, Milburn.”

The closet door slams shut, blanketing you again in the intimacy of the moment. You’re looking at him with unsure eyes and he’s praying the moment hasn’t been ruined. He’s waited seven calendar months for this opportunity and his fingers are so close to enjoying the plump squeeze of your ass.

“We can go back to the party if you want?” Your voice is so small, nervous outside of those bold seven minutes. Tentative breaths exist between you.

In lieu of an answer, he bows his head to give you a searing yet gentle kiss.

That cramped coat closet suddenly is an inferno, his tongue slipping inside your mouth and groaning at the burning sweetness of your taste. Your hands grip his shoulders as you fight for dominance, fingers tangling in denim. Hips brushing together, still clinging to the idea of this being innocent.

An innocence immediately lost when Bob strikes up the courage and palms your ass. Soft and pliable and perfect to squeeze in his palms. He remembers the exact day you came to class in the tightest jeans known to man (laundry day) and the way he had dug his pencil in his palm to avoid a semi as your curved ass met the lecture seat. Something unavoidable now as you squirm against him, moaning your pleasure against the pulse in his neck.

Nothing has ever felt as good as rubbing against Bob Floyd’s clothed bulge. One glance down and you’re dizzy with arousal. Rutting yourself against him as best you can with your limited mobility, sloppy kisses exchanged as the two of you can barely keep your mouths closed. It feels so good, too good.

Lost in the moment, one hand slips below the hem of your skirt, warm skin on skin. Any noise from outside the closet dims to a hum. Two hearts beating rapidly as desire fully consumes, directing lips to too hot exposed skin. You murmur your need in his ear. You don’t care where you are, you need him.

Bob tucks a finger under your thong, feeling the slick coating your folds. The whine that leaves him is desperate and gruff. He groans against your throat. “Shit, I don’t have a condom.”

Undeterred, your lip catches between your teeth, core muscles contracting as you grind your hips forward. “Doesn’t mean I can’t go for a ride.”

He’s immediately on board, teasing you briefly before extricating his hand to support you better against the wall. His hands practically swallow your ass, flooding you with lust. You thrust your chest against him, desperate to touch every spot on his handsome body as your hips begin to grind.

His hands are sweltering as they trail down, effortlessly clutching the back of your thighs to give you leverage. Your clit finds friction against his jeans and your mouth hangs open as you buck frantically into him.

“Look at you move, cowgirl,” he breathes out, infatuated. The nickname spurrs you on, whimpering against his lips.

One hand clutching his bicep, holding on for desperate life, while the other snakes its way atop the damned cowboy hat that’s stayed on the entire encounter. Gripping the top of it and holding fast as you ride his clothed bulge with everything you’ve got. Denim and lace against your clit, rubbing deliciously as your brain fuzzes. His hot mouth focused at the hinge of your jaw, sucking soft bruises into the skin; moaning when you brush him just right.

“I’m close,” you whisper against his cheek. Time has stood still, but it’s embarrassing how close he’s gotten you to orgasm with just his clothed cock and strong hands.

He ruts his hips forward, meeting your thrusts in heavenly synchronization. You’re panting as the pressure on your clit catapults you, so close to the ultimate prize. Whispers of you can do it, cowgirl, cum for me, doing so good riding me, just a bit more, cowgirl fizzle your senses.

“O-oh!”

It’s intense, the blinding pleasure coursing through your body. Prolonged by the thick bulge still rutting against you, ready to burst itself. Lips tickling your ear as he praises you. You want to live in this perfect moment of bliss. A moment only perfected when Bob’s fingers grip too hard and his hips stutter up into yours. His all-consuming orgasm only muffled by the skin of your shoulder as he rides it out.

The rhythmic slowing of your breaths is all you can focus on. You breathe in, he breathes out. Small smiles and a blush barely visible in the low light.

Delicately, like he knows you might break, he releases you back to the ground; taking his time to smooth down your skirt and straight out your top. Your own hands reach up to his chest, fixing the fabric that had bunched up in your passion. Adjusting his fogged glasses to look into his beautiful eyes.

It doesn’t matter how much you clean up, one look at you two and anyone would comment you’ve been ridden hard and put away wet.

With one final kiss to your lips, you feel something land on your head. The brown cowboy hat with the rip along the edge. Cowboy Bob showing off his cowgirl.

You tentatively open the closet door, eyes adjusting to the normal light. Painfully aware of the wet splotch on the obvious front of his jeans, Bob holds your body against him as a human shield. The party is still going strong - your antics have not interrupted anything - and you slip toward the front door without notice. Well…mostly, as a few wolf whistles reach your ears.

“It’s not that late, you want to go back to mine? I’m just off Thornton. It’s quiet since everyone is here.” His eyes are so hopeful in the dark night. So desperate for you to say yes. For you to be his cowgirl beyond tonight.

You wrap your arms around him and pull him close, careful to avoid the spot where your bodily fluids have drenched his jeans. “I’m in.” Your smile is blinding. “We have about nine weeks of Stats to make up.”

The brick is uncomfortable behind your back, but it’s hard to care when his lips feel so good. Broad shoulders shielding you from the hallway, trucker hat turned around and glasses in his pocket so there’s not an inch between your faces. Agreeing to meet outside before lecture was such a good idea.

Despite spending most of the time between Thursday night and Tuesday afternoon in Bob’s apartment trying every position in the book (with teasing hollers from his Pi Kapp roommates adding to the soundtrack) you can’t help but steal these five minutes. He looks so cute, to not kiss him would be a crime.

Bob squeezes your hips, lips trailing down your jaw. “What’s on your mind, cowgirl?”

“I’m trying very hard to convince myself that we pay a lot of money to attend this school and should go learn about statistics. Even though I really only want to head back to my dorm and see how sturdy that loft bed is.”

From where his nose traces your ear, a guttural whine leaves him. “You can’t say something like that and expect me to go to class.”

You pull back to look at him, fingers tickling the close cropped hair at his neck. God, he makes it so hard to want to be responsible.

“Let’s make a deal, okay? We’ll go to class, learn, and tonight you come over and for every study guide question you get right I’ll take off a piece of clothing. Sound good?” He’s practically panting as he smothers your mouth in another kiss. He’s really good at Stats. A steady stream of students files past Bob’s back, a sign that class is about to start.

You press another kiss to his lips. “Let’s go or we’ll miss out on seats. Plus I need to dig through my bag for a pencil.”

“Do you think you actually have one today?” He smirks, amused. The eighteen pencils he’s lent you say otherwise.

Your cheeks are hot under where he kisses them. “Uh…if I don’t can I borrow one? If you have one, that is.”

He lets out a soft chuckle and holds you closer, rubbing your noses softly.

“You do realize I’ve been buying pencils all semester just to give to you, right?”

Turning his cap around - insides fully melted - you know you’re in this rodeo for the long run.

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