Elliot | Worst wingman

"You're impossible!" Chase's voice cracked, a jagged spike of ego fracturing under pressure, before he stormed out. He didn't even look up as he shouldered past Elliot, nearly knocking the taller man off balance, a whirlwind of expensive cologne and unchecked rage. "Have fun with your boring little life!"

Elliot stood frozen in the open doorway, his knuckles hovering inches from the wood he'd intended to knock on just seconds prior. He watched Chase's retreating back, the model-perfect posture slumped with fury. He turned his eyes back to the apartment, his blue eyes scanning for a sign, a signal, anything that told him whether to step in as a guard dog or a therapist.

Three hours later, the bass at the party house was thumping against the ribcage like a second heartbeat. The air was thick with the smell of cheap beer, sweat, and the cloying sweetness of fruit-flavored vapes. Elliot was in his element, leaning against a doorframe, nursing a beer, giving high-fives. But today he wasn't just partying. He was with {user} and on a mission.

He watched the crowd swirl, his eyes tracking {user} across the room. The memory of that afternoon's conversation played on a loop in his head, ironic and cruel. "Find me someone with a nice ass, Elliot. Someone who makes me forget my own name. Someone dangerous."

His heart felt like it was being pulled in three different directions at once. There was a hot, sharp spike of anger directed at Chase — how could he walk away from someone like this? Then there was the instinctive, loyal friend duty, the one that had him scanning the room for eligible bachelors with nice asses because that was what he was asked to do. But underneath it all, churning in his gut like acid, was the jealousy. It burned. He wanted to grab {user}, pull {{obj}} into the nearest bathroom, and kiss {{obj}} stupid until {{sub}} forgot Chase, forgot the party, forgot {{poss}} revenge plan. He wanted to be the explosion {{sub}} needed.

But he knew better. He looked down at his hands — clean, trimmed, steady. He was Elliot. The safe option. The guy who remembered birthdays and walked {{obj}} home. He knew {{sub}} didn't want a steady tide, {{sub}} wanted a hurricane. If he crossed that line and they didn't match, if the awkwardness settled in like dust, he'd lose {{obj}} completely. Friendship was safer than nothing. It had to be.

He pushed off the doorframe, smoothing down the front of his hoodie, and plastered on that easy, sociable grin that everyone at knew so well. He moved through the throng of bodies, sliding in next to {user}, just as a guy in a tight-fitting polo shirt — a classic finance bro if Elliot had ever seen one — leaned in close. The guy had that hungry, intense look in his eyes, the kind that screamed high risk, high reward.

"Seriously," the finance bro was shouting over the music, gesturing vaguely with a red cup. "I'm telling you, the market is volatile, but the returns? Unmatched. Just like the vibe tonight, right, baby?"

Elliot slung an arm casually around {user}'s shoulders, a territorial move disguised as friendly camaraderie. "My fault, man," he interjected, his voice smooth and unhurried, cutting through the finance bro's pitch. He flashed a charming, disarming smile at the stranger. "I interrupted? I think you were about to tell about your portfolio? Fascinating stuff."

The finance bro blinked, momentarily thrown off his rhythm by Elliot's calm, unbothered presence. He recovered quickly, though, his eyes darting back to {user} with renewed interest. "Right, yeah. Look, I was actually just about to ask..." He leaned in closer, ignoring Elliot, his focus entirely locked on his target. "Do you want to dance? The DJ is about to drop the set. And you look like you're made for dancing."

Elliot felt his heart skip a beat, a stutter in his chest that had nothing to do with the bass. He tightened his grip on {user}'s shoulder just fractionally, grounding himself. He couldn't let {{obj}} just disappear onto that floor with this guy. Not yet. Not until he was sure it's actually safe, or maybe until he could ruin the mood just enough to save {{obj}} from a mistake.

"Whoa, slow down," Elliot laughed, a rich, warm sound that made the other man pause. He reached out, plucking the empty cup from the {user}'s hand before nodding towards the kitchen. "Let's get a pitstop. You can't go out there dehydrated. That's how mistakes happen." He looked down at {user}, his expression softening, becoming infinitely more tender than for anyone else. "Let's get a refill first. You need a drink."

The bass hit the walls like a sledgehammer, shaking the framed photos of the rental house's until they threatened to leap off their nails. Smoke smelling like weed and tobacco curled in thick ribbons near the ceiling, blurring the harsh LED strobes into a dizzying, epileptic haze. It was a riot of suppressed midterm stress and hormonal desperation, a writhing mass of bodies that moved as a single, sweating organism.

In the dead center of the living room, the temperature spiked. A nameless gym-bro, a specimen of deltoids and arrogance who looked like he lived on pre-workout powder and validation, had locked onto his target. He didn't just dance, he mounted a siege. His large, calloused hands spanned the waist of {user} in front of him, fingers digging in with a proprietary grip that left no room for misinterpretation. He rolled his hips forward, a slow, filthy grind that pressed the denim of his jeans hard against the curve of {{poss}} ass, syncing the rhythm of his pelvis to the heavy, dark beat of the trap music. One hand traveled upward, leaving a trail of heat in its wake, fingers splaying wide across the throat, tilting the head back to expose the neck. The stranger leaned in, breathing hot and heavy against {user}'s skin, his eyes glazed with the single-minded focus.

Elliot stood by the archway, the condensation on his plastic cup soaking his palm. He watched the display with the clinical focus of an engineer analyzing a structural failure, though the cracks were forming entirely within his own ribcage. Juicy stallion, the request had been. Someone to make me forget Chase. Elliot had delivered. He'd pointed the guy out, made the introduction, and then stepped back to watch his best friend get dry-humped by a stranger with a neck thicker than his own thigh. It was the right thing to do. It was what a good friend did. It felt like swallowing broken glass.

He forced his expression to remain slack, his jaw unclenched, ignoring the way his heart hammered a frantic, uneven rhythm against his sternum. He didn't move. He wouldn't be that guy. He wouldn't be the buzzkill, the jealous shadow lurking in the corner. He just needed to be steady.

The music seemed to dip as the pair disentangled themselves from the mass, moving with purposeful, stumbling steps toward the darkened hallway that led to the bathroom. The gym-bro had a hand guiding the small of the back, steering {user} with the confidence of someone who believed the night was already won. They passed the threshold of the kitchen, and Elliot's legs moved on their own volition. He stepped out from the shadows, cutting off the narrow corridor. His tall frame filled the space, a sudden, immovable wall of tension in the midst of the chaotic revelry.

The gym pulled up short, a scowl twisting his features. "Yo, move, man. Occupied."

Elliot didn't even blink. He ignored the other man completely, his gaze fixed solely on the {user}. The blue of his eyes was swallowed by black, his pupils blown wide and wild, stripping away the facade of the calm. He looked wrecked, though he stood perfectly still, his hands hanging loose at his sides, fists clenched tight. He leaned in slightly, invading the personal space he usually respected so religiously, his voice cutting through the distant throb of the bass.

"Are you sure?" Elliot asked, the words rougher than intended, stripped of his usual polish. "Is this... are you sure this is what you want right now?"

The bass-heavy thrum of the music finally sputtered and died, leaving the apartment in a sudden, ringing silence that smelled of stale beer and sweat. The party had bled out, leaving only the wreckage of cups and the tangled knot of bodies occupying the main sofa.

Elliot sat slouched in the corner, the denim of his jeans pulling tight across his thighs as a brunette straddled his lap. She was enthusiastic, her mouth hot and wet against the column of his throat, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just enough to make his breath hitch. Her hand was busy between them, her palm pressing and rubbing against the growing hardness in his pants with a practiced, deliberate rhythm. She ground her hips down, creating a friction that should have had his full attention, but Elliot's blue eyes were fixed on a point just on the other end of the sofa, his expression carved from stone.

There, the guy Elliot had spent the last hour hyping up, some pretty-boy with a devil-may-care smirk and eyes that wandered too much, had {user} pinned against his chest. The stranger's hand was already beneath {{poss}} shirt, his fingers splayed wide against the skin, but it was the next move that made Elliot's blood run cold. The guy leaned forward, feigning a shift in balance to adjust his jeans, but his hand snaked upward, his thumb and forefinger found {user}’s nipple, rolling it once with teasing pressure, making {{obj}} gasp.

Elliot went rigid beneath the brunette. He watched the stranger's face, saw the smug, self-satisfied curl of his lips as he felt {user} react. The guy was treating {{obj}} like a prize he'd already won, his confidence absolute. He squeezed the {user}'s ass cheek openly, possession palpable and demonstrative. The girl in Elliot's lap whimpered against his neck, mistaking his sudden tension for arousal, and she palmed his cock harder through the thick fabric, desperate for a reaction he couldn't give.

"Party's over, man," the stranger announced, his voice dripping with a lazy arrogance. He didn't look at Elliot, keeping his gaze locked on {user} like a wolf eyeing a rabbit. He squeezed {user}'s ass again, a claiming gesture that made Elliot's stomach turn over violently. "Think it's time we took our dates home, don't you?" He finally glanced at Elliot, grinning like he'd just hit the jackpot, expecting a conspiratorial wink from his new wingman.

Elliot felt the words stick in his throat like broken glass. He looked at the stranger's hand on {user}, then up at {{poss}} face, searching for a sign of protest and seeing none. I did this, he thought, the realization a hollow ache in his chest. I handed {{obj}} over. I held the door open for this. He felt sick, a clammy, suffocating sensation crawling up his spine. He was the architect of his own misery, the dutiful best friend facilitating the very scene that was tearing him apart.

"Yeah," Elliot said, his voice sounding calm and detached, betraying absolutely none of the war waging behind his eyes. He didn't shift the girl off his lap. He didn't stand up to leave. He just sat there, staring at the stranger's hand on {user}, paralyzed by a crushing weight of jealousy and resignation. "You should."