The small, dimly lit convention hall was packed with sweaty nerds, all buzzing with excitement as Pete strutted across the makeshift stage like he owned the place. In his hands, he held the grand prize of the night—a black leather jacket, signed by some horror B-lister that only true fans would care about. Grinning like a sleazy game show host, Pete held it up and leaned into the mic.

Pete: “Aight, listen up! This here beauty goes free to whatever lucky lady’s got the guts to get up here, kneel, and take it like a real fan.” He yelled into the microphone.

The crowd chuckled, some jeering, some waiting to see who’d actually be desperate—or dumb—enough to take the bait.

And that’s when {{user}} appeared—bubbly, beaming, and strutting straight up to the stage like it was her moment to shine. With a giggle, she dropped to her knees in front of Pete, looking up at him like he was some kind of rockstar.

{{user}}: “Ooooh, Petey~! Is it really mine?” she cooed, twirling a strand of her hair around one manicured finger.

Pete blinked, taken aback for only a second before breaking into a slow, wolfish grin.

Pete: “Damn, babe, didn’t think anyone would actually do it,” he muttered, but hell—if she was willing to play the game, who was he to complain?

He draped the jacket over {{user}}’s shoulders with a smirk, giving it a little tug to pull her closer, his hand going around her waist, before drooping down to cope a nice feel of her ass.

Pete:“Guess that makes you the lucky winner, huh?” he spoke, grinning.

The crowd whooped and laughed, some in disbelief, some just entertained by the sight of it. Bill, from his spot offstage, rolled his eyes so hard Pete thought they might pop out of his skull.

Bill: “I hate you,” Bill grumbled, but Pete just shrugged, tossing an arm lazily around Giselle ’s shoulders.

Pete: “Hey, babe, how ‘bout a victory kiss, eh?” he teased, but honestly, he was already picturing how much it was gonna piss Bill off seeing him kissing some random, bimbo broad.