#cheerleader!reader

Your boyfriend of two years, that handsome basketball player that you didn’t think in a million years would like you back, is cheating on you. Cheating on you with that stupid skinny cheerleader that every other guy wants to be with, of course.

Typical.

And now— stupidly— you’re here. Sitting against a random locker with tears streaming down your face; it carries your mascara in black rivers down your cheek. At the sound of someone coming down the hall, you scurry to your feet and rush into the bathroom before anyone can lay eyes on your pitiful state.

While staring into your own bloodshot eyes, hands resting on the bright green and orange branded Hawkins High sink, you decide that you weren’t going to let this ruin you; to give him the satisfaction of breaking you down. You take a makeup wipe out of your bag and rub your cheeks raw— until there isn’t a hint of your sadness left on your face. Then, an idea popped into your mind.

You open your phone to a recent message inviting you to a party— a birthday nearly half the damn school is going to. You skim the invite ‘something something— drinks, something something— hookups’.

Perfect.

You’ll go in the sluttiest outfit you can put togther and make sure he watches me get the fuck over him.

…

You walked— well, more like shuffled (on account of how tight your skirt) is— to the front door. Your heels clicked on the driveway up as you quickly reapplied lipgloss and ran your hands through your hair.

You took a deep breath, only now thinking about if you’re ready to face so many people right after this breakup. Your hand raised to the door to knock but hesitated when—

“Hey! I thought that was you!”

You flinched and held back a yelp. The voice— that you’ve identified as Chrissy— coming from the door, now swung open.

“Oh my goodness! I didn’t think you would be here! How are you?”

You knew exactly what she was talking about by the pitiful look on her face. Her eyebrows pinched together like she was talking to a small child.

“No-no i’m fine. Now, i’m just… single and ready to party!” You shout with a large grin. It was a partial lie, you were still hurt. However, the idea of being single at a party for the first time in two years ignited a fire of excitement in your stomach.

“Well, good. The whole damn school showed up to this party. Even the DnD club?”

Your ears perked up. The DnD club? You didn’t even know we had one until they started making those ridiculous shirts. And now that you think about it, they would be the perfect group to get back at him with.

His arch nemesis! A group of nerdy, virgin, fumbling losers getting with his ex? He would freak! Plus, some of them do have a weird sort of sex appeal. Now that you really thought about it, some of them have caught your eye. Especially that tall black haired one, you think his name was—

“Mike wheeler.”

“Wh-what?”

“He’s here. I totally wasn’t expecting it, i haven’t seen him anywhere but school like, ever. And even then, I hardly see him around. I only know his name because that whole mall thing a few years back.”

“Right..”

“Come on! It must be freezing out here!”

Only then were you reminded how much skin you were showing and how much the cool air make your skin raise.

Perhaps some alcohol to warm you up was necessary.

…

You raise your red solo cup full of a random mixture of fruit juices — and probably other things— to your lips. To your credit you haven’t drank much. Just enough to get you looser.. and more determined.

You finally lock eyes with a semi-familiar head of black curly hair. His height makes him easy to spot.

you weave between drunken teenagers, accidentally shoulder checking a few while moving across the living room.

Mike and a few of his friends— one you recognize as Eddie Munson, the infamous “town freak”. And another with curly hair and a baseball cap that you don’t. You see his figure grow as you get closer until you’re almost right behind him. Taking a deep breath, you approach him and tap him on the shoulder.

He spins around with wide eyes, like he was expecting someone to attack him, or something. But looked more confused than frightened when he laid his eyes on you.

Here goes nothing.

“Hey! Mike is it?”

“Uh-yeah! Micheal— um— but you can just call me Mike.. If you want or Micheal but really I go by both—“

His nervous rambling was cut off by the loud sound of Eddie clearing his throat. You look past him to see Eddie looking at Mike like he was a helpless child and curly-head almost bright red from holding in laughter.

“Why don’t we get a drink? I’ve never seen you at a party, do you know the birthday girl?”

You slowly coaxed him away from his friends like he was a scared kitten. A very tall kitten you noticed, having to crane your neck almost all the way up to talk to him this closely.

“Well, usually tonight would be campaign night—I mean— practice. But, Eddie heard about this party and told me and Dustin that we needed to get out more, or something.” He explained, you noticed he talked with his hands a lot, nearly hitting a few passer-byers.

“I see.. Well, are you enjoying it so far?”

“I mean.. It’s loud.”

You giggle.

“Wheeler, y’know what makes a really good party? Especially a rager like this?”

Here goes nothing.

“No? What—“

His eye widened at the look on your face, your face that’s considerably close to his. Infact, he swears the distance is shrinking. He doesn’t even register your slow movement until he can feel your breath on his lips. He short circuits, swears he can feel his brain fizzle out as he inhales your sweet perfume. He snaps out of it when he realizes that you aren’t moving any further, asking for his consent. And then, he connects the distance between you two.

His lips are slightly chapped, but so warm. They move against yours, more experienced than you were expecting. You loop your arm around his neck to pull him closer. A wolf whistle audible over the crowd of the party interrupts you.

Mike rolls his eyes and glances behind him, locking eyes with a grinning Eddie holding two thumbs up in the air from across the room. You giggle and grasp his forearm. His head moves from Eddie to where your bodies are now connected.

“You wouldn’t mind continuing this upstairs, would you?”, you say lowly, batting your eyes as seductively as you can.

His eyes widen and he coughs, like he was choking on air.

“Continue? You mean like— upstairs? Like in a bedroom—alone—just us? Are you sure it isn’t the alcohol talking I mean someone like you and someone like me people might talk—“

“Exactly. Listen you are really hot Wheeler.”

“I am? I mean— of course I am.”

“And I need to blow off some steam. Come on!”

You grasp his arm tighter but don’t move, letting him make the decision himself. You realize he’s flushed a deep red and sweating.

“Screw it, let’s go find an empty room.”

You grin.

…

And that’s how you got here, furiously making out with Mike freaking Wheeler in a random room of your friends house with half the school outside the door that you’ve pinned him against.

Your hands are reaching up— because of his height— tangled once again in his long black hair. You scratch his scalp slightly and he groans into your mouth. You use the noise to work your tongue through his lips. He groans again— louder— at the intrusion, but welcomes it; his own sliding against yours.

You disconnect your lips and briefly glance at him, his state makes you nearly drop to your knees.

The room is dark but just bright enough to see his heavy lidded eyes and furrowed eyebrows. A heavy blush settled on his freckled cheeks. His lips are now swollen and glistening with your combined saliva. His hair is messy and falls over his forehead in small tangles. He looks perfect.

Continuing, you kiss the corner of his mouth. Then his cheek, then his jawline, then right below his ear— which warrants a small whine— then down to his neck.

“Can I leave hickeys?”

“Mark me up—fuck.”

The request causes heat to pool in your stomach. You suck small purple bruises into the pale skin and then lick the mark you left behind. You stop at one particular spot that makes him shutter and pay extra attention to it.

“Holy—ngh. Listen, by the way, not that I want this to stop— ever— but I would feel like an asshole if i didn’t tell you that— um. I haven’t done this before. I mean, i’ve kissed but i’m.. a virgin.”

You stop and look up at him. His eyes are squeezed shut and he looks like he could cry. You guess he’s expecting you to find it gross or embarrassing but.. you kind of find it.. hot?

“Fuck, how has no one made someone as pretty as you there’s? hmm?”, you tease. He breathes a heavy sigh and looks back at me.

“So you’re okay? We’re still going to..y’know.”, he trails off.

You laugh at his shyness and nod.

“Yes, I’m still gonna fuck the shit out of you, Micheal.”

“Holy shit.”

“Get on this bed.”

He backs up and sits without any protest, pupils blown wide. You straddle his hips, your thighs resting on either side of his. His arms awkwardly prop him up until he hesitantly rests his palms on your hips.

You lean down and keep kissing his neck, your hands trails up the inside of his shirt. You feel over his tall, lean frame. Your hands move over the smooth skin of his stomach and you can feel him flex under your touch which makes you smile. Finally, you tug against his Hellfire shirt.

“Take this off.”

“Yes ma’am.”

He reaches down and pulls his shirt off so fast you swore he almost ripped it clean off. He tosses it somewhere behind him. You take a second to scan over his bare chest.

He’s covered in freckles over his bright skin that looks almost white in this lighting— it’s enchanting. He has a thin, dark happy trail leading from his belly button to below his pants. You bite your lip at the sight and refrain from licking down it right then.

Your hands trail up him again, this time without any fabric in the way.

Your hands slide up and up before reaching his nipples. The tiny cute little buds hardening now in the cold air. Your thumbs run over them, testing the waters. He gasps and arches his back into you.

“Fuck—fuck. Those are.. sensitive.”

The sight is so hot it makes more slick pool in your underwear. You lean down into his chest and poke your tongue through your lips, giving the slightest kitten lick to one of his nipples.

“Yes! fuck— more, please.”

He’s so much more vocal than you thought— you love it. You stick your entire tongue out flat and lick a big stripe over the bud. His whole body twitches and he shakes like a leaf in the wind for a moment.

“That feels so fucking good— don’t stop.”

You oblige and swirl your tongue over his nipple, your other hand coming to play with the other. He lets out a loud moan and bucks his hips into you and his erection grinds into your thigh. You grind back and he lets out a string of curses.

“Oh fuck! Wait!—i’m gonna fucking blow if you don’t stop!”, he managed over the heavy breaths escaping him.

You halt your movements and pull back, admiring the darkening purple marks covering his chest.

“Let’s move to the bed?”, You asked.

“Fuck yes.”

You scoff. Almost subconsciously you look to Jj's direction only to find her already paired up, darker hair and darker eyeliner beside her, your friend mouthing something along the lines of I didn't think you'd come today only somewhat apologetically. It's not so hopefully that you look for Haley, and she doesn't seem to notice your presence when you do find her table — Aaron's shoulder presses into hers, and she giggles between pretending to write on the worksheet they've been leaning over.

If your eyes had taken a different path while looking for another option, you might have sat with that new girl who rarely ever wants to be with anyone else or with some weirdo who rarely gets to be with anyone else; your sight, however, recognizes the face of lonely Spencer Reid first, and when you see the glasses held together by hope and crooked tape, perched on top of those hesitantly curious eyes, you decide you've found your partner for the day.

So you give Mr. Wilson the politest yet fakest of smiles and you strut across the room with all the grace of an 18-month-old, towards the table he's filled to its capacity with notebooks and notes and books. He's twirling a pen around his fingers and staring intently at nothing in particular when you reach him — startled and/or confused, his head perks up as soon as your shadow stretches into his perimeter, for a second you'd swear you were a pair of headlights facing a fawn.

“Hey, Spencer,” you all but croon, neck bending at an angle just as the corners of your lips do.

His hand stills, his shoulders straighten up, his eyebrows knit themselves closer. “Hi.”

You chuckle before the joke and you inwardly curse yourself. “All my friends hate me just because I was a little bit late,” you gesture vaguely behind you. “Is it okay if I sit with you?”

“Yea— yes. Yes. Of course,” he whispers, he hums and he nods and he drags his chair an inch to the side as if to take up even less space.

“Thank you.” The chair scrapes the floor just as loud as your speech, which grows longer while you sit, “It's, like, totally not my fault. This time. The building rearranged itself overnight, I swear, this classroom was on the other corridor last week.”

He huffs out some air and it might as well be a giggle. “The building's actually designed on a mirrored floor plan,” he says, and your silence seems to make for enough of a please elaborate. “The repetition makes it harder to orient yourself without visual anchors, and there's barely any of those standing out in this department.”

“Right. Yeah, no, totally,” you nod, elbows sliding onto the desk as your head tips into your palm. “It's still not my fault.”

“Not your fault, no,” he echoes.

You twirl your hair around a finger and the moving strands become the only source of sound then — silence grows steady as it seems Mr. Wilson has finally mastered the art of shutting the fuck up, unfortunately so at such a moment. The light is bright and blue and it bounces off Spencer's glasses in a way that would make a bling if portrayed in a cartoon. He tucks a strand of overgrown hair back before turning to fidgeting once more, his gaze now somewhere among his words in graphite, on paper.

His own worksheet, now yours as a pair, sits pretty between his hands, you have to squint for a chance at reading what he's written down so far — actually understanding it, however, is a whole other topic, and one you will worry about much, much later. “Oh, sorry,” he mumbles at your peeking, using two fingers to slide the paper across the desk. “This is, uh… we're working on stoichiometry.”

Not because of the distance anymore, nor because of his less than decent handwriting (though it certainly doesn't help), you still frown when trying to decipher it — you would've understood it all the same had it been written in proto-indo-european.

“Totally. Question.”

He nods, open to any.

“What is that?”

“What, stoichiometry?” his face contorts in what could be either judgment or concern when you move your head in confirmation. “We've been studying that all semester.”

“Oh, shut up, the semester's barely started,” you giggle almost defensively.

For a second, he looks as though he's about to argue — that changes in his expression when you pout in his direction, though. In that usual nerd fashion, his index pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose before he speaks, endearingly so. “It's the relationship between the masses in reactants and products throughout chemical reactions, basically,” he starts, and despite your best efforts, you're lost by the fifth word. He doesn't seem to realize it. He also does not stop.

No one really cares about these molecules, now, do they? You find much more interesting Spencer himself, and you can't help but notice, think about, and admire, with a sense of unprocessed and undisclosed fondness, his inadequacy and the state of discomfort he's sort of always in. His eyes twitch and hands gesture as he speaks, and he speaks like he's reading straight from a book, though his gaze never strays far enough to reach those papers. You'd swear the slit on his brow was purposeful if only you hadn't seen it when it was an open wound — it cuts across the tail of hair smoothly, in a way almost pretty, though that might just be you and your peculiar way of judging pretty. It is, at least, enticing. Admirable.

You nod and hum like the attentive listener you've always been good at pretending to be, and when he finishes his lesson with a “got it?,” you shoot back a quiet, shamefully dishonest “totally.”

His response comes barely audibly, an “okay” or a “great.”

He turns towards the teacher again, who now seems to be holding, as if it were something to dispose of, one of the excercise sheets some student has already filled out and turned in. Not in any way subtly, Mr. Wilson insults most if not all aspects of the work and tries to hide it as constructive advice for the rest of the class. You've found within yourself the ability to block out entirely the frequency of this man's voice, so long as you immerse yourself somewhere else. You choose to do so in the shallow first few levels of Spencer's head, now.

“Another question, though.”

“Yeah?”

You smile when he faces you again, even if in his own anti eye contact way. He looks just about prepared to give you an in-depth lecture on the subject. It stays undecided whether you find it sweet or borderline patronizing.

Between trying to phrase the thought and to show appreciation for the sympathy he shows toward your case (of the academic charity kind), your nose scrunches in a motion you couldn’t describe as either subconscious or entirely purposeful. Your words come out before you straighten them out better, it sounds mumbled if nothing else. “How are you?”

Spencer’s eyes jump across your expression for a second or two, you can't tell if his ears couldn't catch it or if he thinks they should not be trusted. Then he's mumbling, “What?”

“How have you been?” You tuck a leg up the chair, knee against your chest as you tilt to the side. “You know, with, uh… since the stuff with Jason and shit.”

“Oh, don’t— no, don’t worry about that,” he replies as if by instinct, voice shaking almost as much as his head. “I'm okay. He— that wasn't the first time he did that. It's fine. I'm used to it. I'm fine.”

You huff. “You are way too smart to be saying that. You know he’s, like, a fuckin—”

“Yes, I know,” he cuts you off all but harshly, his words followed by a sigh. He leans down, now looking only at his hands where they lay restless on his lap, fidgeting with his fingers, wiping his palms against the rough fabric of his jeans. He looks at you once again, though in a quick, shy glimpse now, as if making sure you're still listening. “He likely has some problem with his self-esteem and he hides it by pretending to have a sadistic kind of superiority complex. Everyone knows that, and the fact that I pretend not to be bothered by it has no impact on it whatsoever.”

“But you are bothered by it…?”

He breathes in once, twice, and then it all pours out, slow but loud and tired, through his nose. “Who wouldn't be?”

The hesitance in his voice says more than the words themselves. Empathy and pity are distinct and distinguishable feelings, you tell yourself as you decide to move away from the subject — empathetically so, of course. You look away then. You move abruptly enough to shoo the matter away, most likely to be brought up again sometime within the near future, and you pair it with a mumbled, “Yeah, right. Sorry.”

He frowns. “Why are you apologizing?”

“Because, it's— I brought up the subject and you didn't like it. It, like, fucked with your mood, I feel.” You almost laugh softly.

The white tape drags down the bony, cooked bridge of his own nose, following the movement of his nodding head. He fixes his glasses by their end pieces, this time. “Don't worry. You don’t have to apologize, it's fine.”

You wrap your hands around your legs, tap your fingers against your calf to a made up rhythm. You feel your pulse in your temple as you rest it upon your knee, your face turned fully to Spencer, smiling. You keep your eyes fixed on him as if your goal was to off-put the poor boy, which it isn't per se, though it's something somewhat related to such. They're met with Spencer’s nervous side glance a few times, and he takes a breath like one does before talking. He stays quiet a while. He breathes in again. “What is it?”

“Hm?” your brows furrow in sync with the barely honest curious sound.

“Why are you— why do you look like that? Is something wrong? What is it?”

“Look like what?” leaves your lips in a soft giggle. He stutters and you have mercy on him then. “I'm, like… I dunno, really. ‘m just bored and I feel like just being in your presence makes me smarter. It'll, like, go in through my eyes towards my brain. I can feel it already.”

He smiles and his head leans even lower. He could talk about the benefits of being surrounded by people smarter than yourself or about the embarrassing uselessness of it. He could tell you everything you see is, indeed, going through your eyes and towards your brain, and you would say you knew that, and he would make you look like a fool by pretending to believe it. With all the words, he could say you are a fool, and you wouldn't dare to refute it.

But, “okay,” he whispers.

Your bottom lip, caught between your teeth, makes a quiet clicking sound as it frees itself from their tight, painful hold, before you soothe it with a soft chuckle. Insufferably incapable of sitting in silence, you find yourself murmuring again after only so long. “You just look like you'd be a really good friend, I feel.”

A beat goes by and he doesn't show any deliberate response, the only proof of his acknowledgement being the pink slowly but surely staining his cheeks like pigment dropped and spreading onto water. Tinted the same shade and value, his mouth arranges itself with overwhelming effort into a crooked shape, half a smile and a quarter grimace.

“I can’t think of anyone beside my mother who would agree with that statement,” he whispers soon enough.

“Well, then, I'd say your mom is a very reasonable person,” you say in a chuckle. “More so than anyone else in this school.”

“Oh, I wouldn't say so, no.”

“No, sorry, no, I just meant— I could totally be… I wanna be your friend. I'd like to be your friend. If you'll have me. That sounded weird. Sorry. I don’t usually speak so weird.”

Spencer goes silent. He moves his hair away again. He moves his nose like he wants to sniffle, but it stays silent anyway. He'll stay silent. He will, at some later point, nod, and he’ll finally smile then. He'll look you up and down, mumble some kind of pleading gratitude or grateful plead, and you'll shake your head in dismissal.

He will, with immense consideration, redirect both of your attentions towards the paper — the atoms of sulfur and oxygen and iodine and carbon that, for some reason beyond your comprehension, were or are or will be unbalanced and need your help with that. He'll be nicer than he should about the confusion that'll manifest itself between your brows and he will clear his throat before starting over, saying something smart and gross like, “So, here, on your left side, see? These are your reactants.”

You'll frown. You'll laugh. You'll smile, proud and smug, in a week or two, as you show Spencer the paper when Mr. Wilson hands it back to you with a question and an exclamation mark scribbled beside the 95 percent. You'll smile and wave the next time you see him around the halls, and he'll only raise his hand, as if trying and failing to wave back, and you will not be annoyed or offended when he looks away anxiously.

You slammed your heavy practice duffel against the metal bench, the hollow 'thunk' ringing out in the empty space. Your team, the one you'd been the head cheerleader of for almost two years now, was supposed to be a point of pride—a well-oiled machine. Of sorts.

Instead, it felt like you were coaching a chaotic kindergarten class while simultaneously doing the administrative work of two people.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, kicking a forgotten water bottle under the bench. You were collecting the stray first aid supplies your co-captain, Jess, had promised to organize before she bailed twenty minutes into practice to meet her boyfriend.

The first weeks were always a mess of cuts, scrapes, and boiling frustration. All of this of which your co-captain was aware of but still selfishly left you to do it on your own.

You knew, deep down, that you should have been used to it. Jessica was reliable only in her unreliability. She was great at the high-profile stuff—the rallies, the game days, the photoshoots—but when it came to the actual grunt work of coaching the twenty terrified freshmen, planning the next week's routines, or ensuring the equipment room wasn't a biohazard, you were flying solo.

You knelt down to grab the last remaining roll of athletic tape, which was jammed between two stacks of freshly laundered towels, pulling them all down in a soft, irritating avalanche.

“You have got to be fucking-” you huffed at the towels, feeling the ridiculous heat of fury rise in your cheeks. You were tired, your muscles were burning, and you still had at least three hours of homework waiting for you when you got back to your apartment off campus.

Just as you stood up, clutching the fallen linen like a disgruntled laundry attendant, the double doors at the far end of the room swung open, hinges creaking as the doors swayed.

The sound of heavy footsteps hitting the linoleum floor was unmistakable, sharp and rhythmic, breaking the exhausted silence. The football team’s practice was scheduled to start forty-five minutes after yours ended, and whoever had just walked in was either ridiculously early or seriously motivated.

The person, a tall male, walked past the main row of lockers, whistling to himself while heading towards a spot not far from you, which happened to be directly across the aisle from where you were currently trapped with a bundle of towels and a growing migraine.

He didn’t seem to notice you at first, focused on pulling off his expensive wireless headphones and dropping a heavily packed duffel bag onto the bench.

You, however, watched him. You knew who he was. Well, recognized him, at least. You saw him across the field every Saturday, barking plays, throwing bombs, and celebrating touchdowns with an effortless, arrogant grin that made the crowd roar. You'd never spoken to him—not a real conversation, anyway.

Weird, yeah—the football players and cheerleaders barely knowing one another. But truthfully, you all kept to yourselves. Some of them got acquainted with one another, more acquainted than you cared for sometimes, but you? You coached your girls, cheered when the players did something right, and went home at the end of the day to do it all again the next game.

You were a very narrow-minded person when it came to your schooling and extracurriculars.

Get your degree, be a good Cheer Captain.

Simple.

The boy was peeling off his hoodie, revealing the tightly wound muscle underneath, when he finally paused, sensing another presence. His blue eyes lifted and landed on you.

You weren't staring, you'd just...gotten distracted.

He didn't seem to surprised or shocked to see another person in here, just fixed you with a smug grin. “Y'alright?” he asked, his voice casual and low, surprisingly gentle. He leaned back against the steel lockers, crossing his arms over his chest. “You look...angry.”

You forced a tight, polite smile, the kind you saved for boosters and reporters. “Just fine. But...thanks, for asking?.” You responded simply, tilting your head and avoiding his oddly piercing eyes. "Sorry, if I'm in your way. I was just leaving."

He just shrugged. "Nah, you're fine. I guess I'm the one who showed up early, right?" He chuckled, a short, deep sound. “...You sure you're alright, though?” He gestured towards you with a shoulder and a slightly skeptical look. “Don't mean to pry, you just seem tense. More tense than a pretty girl like you should ever be.”

You sighed, shooting him a pointed look at his flirting. Dropping the towels back onto the bench, you turned to look at him fully, a hand running through your hair. You were too tired to maintain the facade. “My co-captain hasn't really been...co-captaining. And, I love the girl to death, but she's really been pissing me off these last few weeks. If she doesn't step up soon, I'll have no choice but to cut her and find someone else...”

He raised an eyebrow. “Your co-captain? That girl who's always doing the crowd work?”

You nodded, a wry smile finally breaking through. “The very same. She’s brilliant on the sidelines. Terrible with organization, responsibility, or actually showing up for the hard stuff. She left me to coach half a team of freshmen who can't balance themselves on one leg, let alone in someone's hands, five-feet in the air.”

You started stuffing your own gear into your duffel with more force than necessary, the zip of the bag loud in the silence.

“It’s just… frustrating,” you continued, letting the complaint tumble out. “I had to train over twenty girls by myself today. We have a home game in two days, and I’m pretty sure ten of the girls are still trying to figure out which leg is their dominant one.”

You don't know why you felt so comfortable opening up to him. You weren't exactly an extrovert or introvert, you'd like to think of yourself as landing somewhere in the middle. But expressing your feelings and frustrations? That wasn't something that exactly came naturally. Especially not to cocky jocks in the locker room.

But the guy listened, his expression softening slightly—not into pity, but into an almost thoughtful empathy. He reached into his backpack, pulling out his playbook, a massive three-ring binder that looked weighty enough to stop a bullet, and set it on the bench beside him.

“Look, you know how it is,” he said, his tone still easy. “You’ve got the talent, but you can’t trust the team around you to deliver. It’s like when I’m trying to run a five-step drop, and I know if I give the ball to Mason on the weak side, he’s going to run the wrong route." He explained. "You gotta carry the load until the bench catches up. Being a captain sucks.”

You looked at him, surprised by the sincerity of the comparison. “...You're a quarterback?"

"The quarterback." He playfully corrected, shooting you a pointed look before he paused, shooting you a look of confusion. "Do...you not know who I am?" He asked, cocking an eyebrow and pointing to himself.

You scoffed. "Not exactly, no." You asserted, looking up at the boy. "Look, I don't really concern myself with you football guys."

"...But you're the cheer captain? Of our cheer team-"

"Ah- correction. My cheer team." You corrected, a certain sass in your voice that had the player looking you up and down with a hint of...something, in his eyes. "Unless you're holding pom-poms and wearing an uncomfortably short skirt, I don't really make it a point to learn who you are."

"Ouch." The athlete feigned hurt, clawing at his bare chest and scrunching his face up. You rolled your eyes at his dramatics.

"Oh, please," You dismissed. "As if you know who I am?" You teased, tilting your head at him.

"No, I don't." He said, matter of factly, as he shrugged. "But I'd like to. C'mon, football guy, cheerleader girl—it's like fate." He winked in your direction.

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head as you peered up at him through your eyelashes. "Right," You dismissed.

“So what’s the plan?” he asked, pulling the compression shirt he'd taken out of his bag over his head, an unconscious, fluid movement that drew your eyes for a split second.

You quickly looked away, focusing instead on the bright white tennis shoes tucked neatly under your bench. “No plan. Just a cycle, at this point—stop feeling sorry for myself, go home, finish the three essays I have started and am nowhere near finishing, and then wake up at 5 in the morning to run a mile and re-do the pyramid base drills before the sun comes up.”

He paused, the shirt halfway down his torso, and laughed again. “That sounds miserable. That sounds like a schedule for someone who doesn’t believe in having fun.” He tugged the shirt down fully and grabbed his drink.

He turned toward you fully then, his blue eyes holding yours in a way that felt sudden and intimate.

“Look, you’re clearly stressed,” he said, his voice dropping slightly lower, turning the casual talk into something else. “You need to unwind.” He paused, letting the implication hang in the air, a dangerous smirk growing on his face. “...Maybe you need someone to help you with that.”

You stared at him, your eyebrows nearly disappearing into your hairline. The audacity was pure, yet the easy way he delivered the line kept it from being genuinely offensive.

You gave him your best ‘are you serious right now?’ face. “Wow. I appreciate the, uh...shoulder to lean on, but I don’t think I have time for boys right now. My life is about degree requirements, teaching basic coherency and coordination to a group of freshly turned young-adults, and not letting my co-captain sink the team over dick.”

He laughed at the end of your sentence, taking a slow sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving yours over the rim of the bottle. He smirked, the familiar, slightly cocky curve of his lips pulling tight.

“Hm. Not even for a handsome, starting quarterback like myself?”

The line was so cliché, so perfectly, hilariously arrogant, that you couldn’t stop the burst of genuine laughter that escaped you. You clapped a hand over your mouth, shaking your head.

“After that shit line? Definitely not.” you managed, your voice choked with amusement.

He grinned, satisfied that he’d broken your sour mood. "Ouch, again." He feigned hurt once more. "What? You one of those hard-to-get types or are you just naturally cruel?" He asked playfully.

You were just about to respond, parting your lips, when the bubble burst.

The double doors at the end of the hall flew open with violence and the entirety of the football team came barreling in, a tidal wave of noise, testosterone, and thick, humid air. They were loud—yelling jokes, complaining about practice times, slamming their enormous equipment bags onto the floor, and filling the previously silent, empty space with immediate, jarring chaos.

“Yo, Rafe! What's up, man?" a massive male yelled in the guy's direction, being met with a calm nod as he ripped off his shirt and tossed it toward a laundry bin, missing by a mile. The big guy whistled in your direction when he turned around, seeming to just now register your presence.

Rafe shot his player a pointed warning look, the boy throwing his hands up in surrender and walking away.

The moment was gone. The easy, comfortable intimacy vanished under the weight of forty sweaty, loud, aggressive male athletes. You suddenly felt exposed, standing in the middle of a room that was about to become a steam bath.

“Alright, well, Rafe, I should probably get out of here,” you said quickly, grabbing your duffel and slinging the strap over your shoulder.

Rafe straightened up, his eyes flashing with irritation at the disruption, but he still managed to look slightly amused. “What? Not a fan of big, shirtless guys?"

“That's a hard pass,” you said with a playful look, already taking a step toward the exit.

"You didn't seem to mind when it was just me. Should I take that as a sign?" He teased, eyes following your every move.

You ignored his words, huffing a small laugh and looking at him over your shoulder with a smile. “Good luck with practice, Cameron.”

He smiled. "Thought you didn't know my name." He pressed with a lopsided smile, crossing his arms.

You shrugged, hiking your bag up higher on your shoulder. "Didn't." You reassured, eyes darting to his school issued duffel bag that you hadn't really looked at until now. "It's on your bag, genius." With that, you turned away.

You were halfway to the door, your heart pounding a quick rhythm against your ribs, when his voice cut through the clamor.

“Hey!”

The volume was low, but the command in his tone was absolute. The entire room went silent. Every single football player who had just walked in froze mid-sentence, mid-stretch, or mid-toss, and turned to look at their starting quarterback, who was currently staring you down without a trace of shame.

You stopped and turned back to face him, the eyes of the entire football team now on the both of you. Rafe, completely unfazed by the sudden audience, took a step toward you.

“You’re leaving, and I don’t even know your name,” he said, his voice easy and clear in the sudden silence. “How am I supposed to know who to look for on Saturday when I need a little inspiration?”

A smile touched your lips despite yourself. You ignored the rising heat in your cheeks under the combined stare of the whole team.

“Didn’t I tell you I don’t have time for boys?” you called back, a mischievous smirk on your face as you tilted your head at him.

Rafe’s signature smirk returned, sharp and irresistible. He let his eyes rake over you, a slow, confident assessment from the tips of your cheer shoes to the top of your head, before he held your gaze again.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice low as he licked his lips, dipping his head for a second before letting his eyes refocus on you.

“But you didn’t say anything about a man.”

©loveharlow.

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You lean against the wall right outside the mechanics lab, waiting for the class to be over. You smile and wave at one of the football players, Aiden, passing by. "Hey Y/n! What're you standing out here for?"

"Hey Aiden! I'm just waiting for my boyfriend." You simply reply back. He seems taken aback as he furrows his eyebrows and looks around at the nearby science classrooms.

"Here? What's your boyfriend doing here?" He seemed genuinely confused.

"He's in his mechanics class right now. Actually he should be getting out right about....now!" You check the time on your phone and right as the clock strikes 12, a rush of students start flooding out of the classroom into the quad outside.

You scan the people, anxiously looking for your beloved boyfriend. Aiden's eyes flicker from you to the crowd, curious to see who the mysterious guy who holds your heart is. Your eyes light up when you finally spot him, he's one of the last few to leave.

"Ani!" You call out. He turns his head and smiles when he sees you waiting for him. He mutters something to someone behind him and your smile falters when you see it's a girl. She nods with a smile at whatever he tells her which sours your mood a bit.

You hide your jealousy with a loving smile when he runs up to you and wraps his arms tightly around your body. "Hello my love!" You giggle as picks you up with little effort and spins you around.

Aiden, still standing a few feet from you, watches in with a bizarred look on his face.

Way before you and Anakin had even started dating, none of your friends could understand why or how you had a crush on him. They'd watch in confusion at the way you'd stare at him from across the quad, oggling the way he'd adjust his glasses everytime it slid down the bridge of his nose as he read the book in his hands.

You could have any guy you want, especially ones with a higher social status, and yet you wanted the nerd who mostly kept to himself and barely had any friends? They just couldn't fathom what you see in him. No one ever told you their thoughts to your face directly, knowing that you'd end them in seconds. But that didn't stop them from giving you weird looks, especially your friends.

On a fateful day when Anakin's car had broken down and he was seconds away from crashing out, you pulled up beside him in the parking lot. "Need a ride?" He had to do a double take when he saw that it was you, Y/n, known to be in the more popular group at the school.

He's heard things about you, nothing particularly bad. He still would've never guessed you'd offer him a ride.

Realizing that he had no other choice, he ultimately agreed. And after that day, neither of your lives were the same.

None of the weird looks or whispers you'd hear ever bothered you. Nothing could ever stop you from loving him and vise versa. You knew what the two of you have is real. It doesn't matter if no one else understands it.

"How was class handsome?" You barely acknowledge Aiden when he departs, only glimpsing at him with a small smile. Anakin sets you down and you fix his crooked glasses that shifted when he hugged you before tangling your fingers in his curls, playing with the ends.

"It was fine. We have a small project due next week so Natalie and I are gonna work on it a bit today." Your smile falters when he gestures to the girl behind him, the same girl he walked out with. She had been standing there awkwardly as you and Anakin embrace each other, waiting for Anakin to depart with her to the library.

"Oh...today?" Your voice sounds more quiet now and he begins to panic a bit.

He nods, "is that okay?" His voice is laced with concern. He never wants to do anything that would make you upset. It'd kill him.

"I just– I was kinda hoping we could hang out today, maybe get some boba. But if you're busy then that's oka–" Your hold on him begins to loosen which causes his around you to tighten.

"No no no that's okay! We can do the project another day." He turns around to face Natalie, "right? We can do it Thursday?"

Her eyes widen at the sudden spotlight, "oh y‐yeah sure." She smiles before awkwardly leaving. No use being there still since her and Anakin are no longer working on their project today.

When Anakin turns back to you with a smile and raised brows, seeing if you're feeling better, you start to feel bad now. "Ani, you didn't have to do that."

He brushes you off, "don't worry about it. We can get that done in a day or two. Plenty of time to turn it in." He leans down to kiss your pout away "seriously, don't worry about it! Let's go." He grabs your hand and guides you to the car.

"Where are we going?" Your smile is slowly coming back as you get closer to your car.

"To get boba!" He opens the door for you and holds his hand out for your keys. You place them in his hand and he shuts the door. He doesn't mind driving, especially when it's your car since it's way nicer than his. Being a bit of a car nerd, he'll take any chance he can to use yours.

When he gets into the driver's seat, he immediately takes your hand in his with a dopey smile and kisses it before driving off.

After ordering your drinks, you're about to swipe your card before Anakin smacks your hand away with a playful grin and taps his instead. You just stare at him in mock offense while he tries to hide the smug look on his face.

"I could've paid y'know," you say after you sit down to wait.

"Yeah but what kind of boyfriend would I be if I let you do that? If I'm gonna be a rich engineer in the future, I might as well get my lady used to being spoiled." He leans forward, elbows resting on the table, as he reaches for your hand.

While he laces his fingers with yours, you just roll your eyes, trying to hide your giddy smile. You do a shit job since his smile just widens and he kisses your knuckles.

"Order number 66!" The worker calls out. You're about to get up but Anakin gestures for you to stay put and he'll just get both of your drinks.

When he sits back down, you grab your straw and then reach for your drink but he pulls it away. "Close your eyes." You do as he says and hear him move it around before tapping. With your eyes still closed, you stab the straw in the direction you heard him tap.

You let out a victory cheer when you open your eyes and see that you just barely got it. "Good job baby." He opens his straw and reaches for his drink but you pull it away. He looks up at you with a raised brow and you only respond with a knowing grin.

He closes his eyes and waits to hear you tap on the cover. He misses the first few tries before eventually giving up. You throw your hands up in victory, "I win! You lose!"

He pokes his tongue in his cheek as he just smiles while shaking his head. "Yeah yeah no need to rub it in ms cheerleader."

"Speaking of which, do you think you can come over to my place after practice tomorrow? I need help studying for Mr Windu's test and since you already took the class, I figured my super smart boyfriend could be of help."

"You mean you want me to tutor you?" He takes a sip of his drink.

You shrug, "I mean it's not like I'm completely clueless in the subject. You can just read off my flash cards for me."

Anakin finishes chewing the jellies before speaking, "of course I'll help you study. Whatever chance I can get to spend time with my girl." He winks at you and you smile shyly, looking to the side away from his burning gaze.

Your have to bite your lip to hide your growing smile when he lifts your hand to his lips again. You're caught of guard when he gets out of his seat and slides on the bench next to you. You let out a small squeal as he wraps his arms around you and begins placing small kisses all over your face.

"Ani what are you doing?" You breathe out through your giggles.

"You're just so cute when you get all shy!" He replies, slowing down his affection. "Who would've known Ms popular cheerleader could get so timid with me?"

You push him away slightly so you can breathe again. "Oh you shut up! You tell anyone, and I'm breaking your glasses." You threaten with a stern look and pointed finger at him.

He places a hand on his chest, "then how will I be able to see my angelic girlfriend?"

"That'll just have to be your punishment." You shrug with a mischievous grin.