#brodyxtheo

[nerdvsquarterback]

a Brody and Theo mini fic👀👀👀 #needthat #wanthat

HAHAHAHA SAY LESS i did not know that theo was argentinian before i started writing this minific (hooray for character development). that being said, i totally used google translate to generate the spanish in this minific, so please excuse any errors. i included translations at the end!

🏈🔥 𝘽𝙧𝙤𝙙𝙮 𝙒𝙞𝙡𝙨𝙤𝙣 🔥🐂  

Ridgeline parties were legendary.

Not in a wow, what a classy event kinda way. More like in a these dumbasses are gonna set something on fire before midnight kinda way. Makes sense ‘cos most students here are idiots with too much money.

Think about it. You get a campus full of rich kids, scholarship athletes, and trust-fund babies, throw in a shitload of tequila, and what do you get?

Fuckin’ craziness.

There was always a fight. Always. Two finance bros throwing punches over a beer pong game, some drunk asshole trying to fight the fridge, some jock getting too cocky and needing to be humbled.

Something always got broken. A window. A TV. An expensive ass table that was never meant to be danced on but was always the first victim of the night. And there was always someone blackout drunk before 11PM—if we rolled up as a pack, you could count on it to be Kyle. 

And the best part?

Nobody gave a fuck.

Some rich kid’s daddy would pay to replace whatever got destroyed. The football team had boosters willing to bail people out. If the cops got called, someone’s lawyer uncle would make it disappear.

Means zero consequences, even dumber decisions, and the kind of parties that made people famous on campus. If you did something stupid enough, people would be talking about it for damn near months.

And tonight was already looking even worse than usual. Loud. Too many bodies. Too much tequila. Too many drunk idiots bumping into each other like it was some kind of goddamn mosh pit.

I was sweaty, tired, and already two beers deep, following Zach through the mess, just tryin’ to get to the goddamn kitchen. Big dogs gotta eat and all that. Except it all went wrong.

One minute, I was shoving some dude waving a beer pong paddle around like a weapon outta my way, then next thing I knew, I felt something crash into my chest, and—

Cold. Wet. Sticky.

I froze. Looked down. Saw red liquid soaking into my hoodie, dripping down my sweatpants, trailing down my fucking thigh. Christ. I looked like I’d pissed myself.

Fucking hell.

“What the fuck—” I snapped, voice already edged with pissed-off aggression, ready to light into some drunk frat bro about how this was my favorite goddamn team hoodie and he was damn well gonna pay for it. Except the frat bro started speaking a lot louder than me, with a lot more aggression. And… gibberish?

"¡Maldito hijo de puta!" The guy threw his hands up, glaring like I was the problem. "¿Tienes mierda en los ojos o qué? ¡Mira por dónde caminas, gran idiota!"

"Excuse me?" I barked, blinking down at him, still processing the fact that the dude who just spilled his drink on me was the one who was madder than a wet hen.

And what the hell was he sayin’? What language was that? French? German? I had no fuckin’ clue. But he was yelling at me. Me. As if I wasn’t a six foot six alpha weighing almost three hundred pounds who flattened people for a living.

He didn’t stop. He kept going, fast as hell and loud. Thank the Lord I hadn’t had any liquor, ‘cos I would’ve gotten dizzy from how fast his hands were moving. Fuckin’ blur. 

“¡Dios mío, qué desastre! ¿Eres estúpido o qué? ¡Mira lo que hiciste, grandullón! Además de eso, estás ahí parado como un idiota. No hay manera de que seas real.”

I just stood there, dumbfounded, squinting at him. I didn’t understand a goddamn word he was spewin’. Then I stopped trying to listen and actually looked at the guy. Got the shock of my life, too—he wasn’t a frat bro.

Nah. He was the farthest thing from it. 

He was tiny. Omega. I knew instantly ‘cos he had a scent patch on his neck and he sure as hell wasn’t an alpha. And even though he was wearing a scent patch, I swore I could smell him. He smelled rich. Real rich. 

And he looked— Goddamn, he was beautiful. 

I’m talkin’ dark hair, messy but perfect, like he meant for it to fall over his forehead like that. Tan skin, gold under the shitty party lights, sharp fucking cheekbones that coulda cut glass. Dark-eyed like a doe and pink-lipped, wearing smudged eyeliner and gloss.

And his outfit, now that I was seeing it, was gonna put me into a stroke. The more I stared at it, the more I could literally feel my brain stop working. A nothing shirt, netted and oversized, hanging off his tiny frame like a ratty blanket. I could see straight to his skin. His stomach. His nipples.

They were as pink as his mouth.

He wore jeans that looked like he’d painted them on, tight and black and ripped at the thighs. His waist was small as fuck. Hell, every bit of him was small. Tiny. The kinda tiny I wondered if I could touch without breaking.

Jesus Christ, he was pretty. Real pretty. And if I knew vibes—which I did—he was the trouble kinda pretty.

And I was standing there, drenched in some fruity-smelling shit, in a sweatshirt and joggers like some kind of fuckin’ scrub. I couldn’t even be mad anymore. I should’ve been—‘cos who the fuck spills their drink on you and starts cussing you out—but instead, my dumbass brain decided to hyperfocus on the guy’s mouth.

I didn’t know what he was sayin’ but I liked how wet that glossy stuff made his lips looked. And so did my dick. A lot. I almost thanked God for my sweatpants, except I realized they were soaked and if I got any harder, everyone was going to get their eye poked out.

Then the guy stopped mid-rant.

And we just—

Locked eyes.

His lips were still parted, like he had more to say. His chest was rising, fast, breathless from all the yelling. I didn’t feel Zach beside me anymore, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything. The whole party disappeared.

It was just tequila in the air, drink dripping down my chest, my entire outfit ruined, and this tiny, furious, fuckin’ beautiful omega staring up at me.

He slowly dragged his dark gaze down my front, like he was assessing the damage. He absolutely saw my hard dick. And if the way his lips parted and eyes narrowed meant what I thought it did… he approved.

It was confirmed when he lifted those slitty doe eyes back to mine. And fucking smirked.

Smirked.

I swear to God, I was fuckin’ fried after that. My entire body locked up, every single alpha instinct in my blood losing its goddamn mind. He was looking at me like he wanted to drop to his knees and choke on me.

So I did the only thing that made sense. I ripped my shirt off.

⸻ 🍷 🎭 𝑻𝒆𝒐𝒅𝒐𝒓𝒐 𝑨𝒅𝒐𝒓𝒏𝒊 🎭 🍷 ⸻  

Let’s be clear: a party is never just a party.

A party is networking. Strategy. Power. The more people you know, the more valuable you are, and the more people owe you favors, the stronger your influence. You never know who you’ll need down the road—a professor’s son, an athlete with school-wide pull, a legacy kid whose family has donated enough to make problems disappear.

These parties? They’re the real social battlegrounds of Ridgeline.

And me? I play to win.

Which is why I was currently standing in front of the hugest man I’d ever seen in my entire life and assessing my next move. After spilling my drink on him and calling him an unreal, disaster of a huge idiot. 

My drink was still dripping down his chest, staining his stupid sweatshirt, but he didn’t look mad anymore. No, he was looking at me like I was a goddamn problem.

And I was. I had just become a huge fucking problem. For him. Not that he knew that… yet.

The second I’d really looked at him, really taken him in—the wide, muscled frame, the cut jawline, the heavy alpha presence, the way his big hands flexed at his sides like he was trying not to touch me—I made a decision.

I was going to ride this man like a goddamn polo pony.

His scent was all over me now. Faint, but there—something thick, deep, warm, like grass and sweat and spice. Even through the scent patch, I could feel the static in the air, the tension crackling between us, my body reacting before my brain could stop it.

And then I looked down and saw it.

Dios mio.

My gaze dragged down shamelessly, lingering right where it shouldn’t, where the half-soaked sweatpants he wore weren’t doing a damn thing to hide what he was working with. 

It was big. Huge. Obscene. The kind of thick, heavy bulge that had no business existing in polite society. It was so obvious, too—hard as fuck, pressed against the soft fabric, straining, pulsing.

I felt my lips part on instinct, my thighs clenching as heat pooled low in my gut. My body wanted. My brain started playing filth on a loop. I wanted that—all of it. I wanted to drop to my knees right here, in the middle of this goddamn party, and find out exactly how much of him I could take before I choked.

I wanted to watch his cock stretch me open, thick and hot, wanted to feel his hands gripping me, his teeth dragging down my throat, his voice low and guttural in my ear.

He looked like he could break me in half.

And I wanted him to.

When I finally looked back up at him, his eyes were locked onto mine, dark, blown, and wrecked as hell. Clocking me clocking him. I knew that look.

He wanted the exact same things I wanted. He was not subtle about it. His fingers twitched at his sides, his breath heavy, nostrils flaring. Every single muscle he had quivered, like a stallion about to buck.

So I swallowed, slow and deliberate. Gave him a little smirk. Ran my tongue over my bottom lip, just to see if he’d track the movement. 

He did.

Got you, big guy. My tongue was loading itself with something sly when he suddenly reached for the back of his hoodie, gripped the fabric in two fists, and yanked it up and over his head in one fluid motion. Whatever I’d been about to say died instantly at the pure mass in front of me.

I had seen big men before, of course. Had been surrounded by alphas my whole life. But this one?

If the hoodie he’d worn hadn’t stated “RIDGELINE WOLFPACK” in bold letters, I would’ve known he was an athlete just by his body. All cut muscle, broad and thick and glistening under the shitty party lights, chest heaving, veins popping in his forearms.

Magnífico. I felt every last one of my hormones activate. I had to actually press my lips together to stop the sound that almost escaped.

I fully expected him to grab me. Haul me up against him. Trot out some cheesy pickup line related to me “owing him” something. I’d given him the perfect opening, after all. But he didn’t.

He extended a fucking hand.

"Brody Wilson," he said, voice rough as hell, jaw clenched like his own name was an afterthought to whatever the hell he was thinking.

I almost laughed. How formal.

Too formal, considering we had just eyefucked each other to hell and back, I was one second away from climbing him like a jungle gym, and this man was introducing himself like we were at a corporate networking event.

I let my gaze drag down to his outstretched palm, then back up to his face, raising a brow like I was considering it. Then I ignored his hand completely, instead turning to the nearest bar table and plucking up two tequila shots.

I held one out to him, tilting my head, letting my lashes drop just a little, smirk curving lazy, indulgent, hungry.

"Here, Brody Wilson."

I watched his eyes flicker, something sharp and dangerous flashing behind them.

Then, to my absolute delight, instead of reaching for the shot I was offering, he grabbed both. Tipped his chin up. Without breaking eye contact, without hesitating for even a single second, he slammed them back.

One. Then the other. Downed them like they were fucking water. Like he was proving a point.

And oh, I liked that. Stupid American alpha jock with an ego and giant dick?

Target acquired, my brain purred. Time to play.  TRANSLATIONS

"¡Maldito hijo de puta! ¿Tienes mierda en los ojos o qué? ¡Mira por dónde caminas, gran idiota!" = "You fucking son of a bitch! Do you have shit in your eyes or what? Watch where you're walking, you big idiot!" “¡Dios mío, qué desastre! ¿Eres estúpido o qué? ¡Mira lo que hiciste, grandullón! Además de eso, estás ahí parado como un idiota. No hay manera de que seas real.” = “My God, what a disaster! Are you stupid or what? Look what you did, big guy! On top of that, you're standing there like an idiot. There’s no way you’re real.”