#outfield grass
Text
We're Talkin' Baseball
written for @steddiemicrofic January prompt: hole
wc: 404 | rated: G | cw: none | tags: Steddie as Dads, Girl Dads
As far as having children who play sports go, Steve had mostly given up on the dream.
Their oldest, Marley, gravitated in Eddie’s direction. A two-week stint in ballet was all Steve got before she was “asked not to return” after refusing to stop banging her tiny hands against the bare. The next day they traded her pink slippers in for a drum set and the rest has been history.
Ronnie, is much the same, preferring to stay inside reading than venture into the world of sports.
That is, until a few weeks week ago, when out of the blue over dinner she asked if they could sign her up for Little League. Steve practically raced to the signup location.
Surprisingly, Ronnie is a natural. She throws fast and hard, nearly bruising Steve’s hand the first time they play catch. She can wack the shit out of the ball and she’s not afraid to get right under one soaring through the air.
Steve’s proud of both his girls, he is, but there’s an extra spark that ignites in him when he realizes Ronnie is athletic.
Unfortunately, Steve is running late to the first game of the season thanks to work. He spots Eddie and Marley immediately, lounging in their chairs with their eyes focused on the baseball diamond. Panting and sweating from his sprint from the parking lot, Steve collapses into the empty seat and scans the field looking for their girl.
She’s squatting in outfield. Wild curls spill out from her navy baseball cap, glove discarded a foot away from her as her hands are preoccupied digging in the overgrown grass.
“What is she doing?” Steve asks, squinting into the sun as he watches her completely ignore the ball that rolls between her and the center fielder.
“Digging a hole,” Eddie shrugs like it’s obvious. Like digging a hole is part of the great American pastime.
“Why?”
“She found a tuft of fur out there before the game started. Thinks there’s a nest of…”
“Gleeps,” Marley supplies.
“Yeah, that.”
“Oh my god.”
He doesn’t get it. Ronnie isn’t even the dig-around-in-holes type. She used to cry if they forgot to wipe her hands after eating a snack when she was little. And yet.
“M’sorry sweetheart,” Eddie coos, resting a supportive hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Looks like the Munson genes of being freaks are just too strong.”
“At least she’s having fun, I guess.”
Author's Note: Gleeps are apparently a small creature that debut in the Herculoids TV show. They've also appeared in various comics over the years. We're going to blame Dustin for introducing them to Marley and Ronnie lmao
#steddie#steddiemicrofic#steddie ficlet#steddie fic#steddie microfic#eddie munon#steve harrington#steve harrington fic#eddie munson fic#dad steve harrington#dad eddie munson#dani writes
224 notes
·
View notes
Text
Can't get the baseball AU out of my head, so I'm making it y'alls problem too lmao.
“You’re such an idiot,” Eddie shook his head, pushing away from the railing in the dugout and making his way onto the field, his footsteps muffled by the grass and soft red dirt, "Security's gonna come out and find us, and then they'll send us back to the minors. All that work to get to LA just to end up back in Oklahoma."
Buck grinned at him in return, his arms wide open as he looked up at the night sky, breathing in the smell of the city around them, but before Eddie could really get close to him, he said,
“They'd have to catch me first,” and took off around the bases hearing Eddie laugh before tearing after him.
They thundered around second base before Buck took a sharp right, sprinting towards left field.
His lungs were burning, but he couldn’t help the smile that had stretched across his face, borne from the chase of it all, of Eddie running after him.
His few seconds of reflection made him slow down a hair, and he felt Eddie’s hand catch the back of his shirt, and they were crashing down in the outfield, sprawling out on the grass, both of them breathing hard.
“Caught you,” Eddie panted, his hand still under Buck’s back.
Buck made to get away, but he had barely moved an inch before Eddie was rolling on top of him, pinning him down with his hands and his thighs.
“Not so fast, Buckley,” he looked down at him, triumph curling his mouth, “and to think, you said you were the fastest on the team. Looks like I have you beat.”
Buck twisted, trying to break the grip he had on his wrists, pushing his hips up to try and throw him off balance, but Eddie held him fast, leaning down so their faces were only an inch or so apart, matching grins on their faces.
“Give up,” Eddie said, voice low, and Buck flailed desperately, unable to move an inch.
“No,” he said, trying to wrench his right wrist out of Eddie’s grip, “Never.”
“I’ve got you, Buckley,” he leaned even closer, “You’re not getting up unless I let you.”
And Buck couldn’t help it, he couldn’t help that he looked at Eddie’s mouth.
Their eyes met again, and it felt like they were teetering on the edge, each waiting for the other to make the move.
Buck could feel Eddie’s hot breath on his face, both of them panting even though they had already caught their breath.
His heart was pounding in his chest, and he had stopped trying to get away, instead focusing on how Eddie’s thighs were bracketing him down, how he liked the feeling of his hands wrapped around his wrists, how close they were.
Buck decided to take the leap, and arched his head forward, angling towards Eddie’s lips, just as Eddie rolled off of him and sprang up to his feet, clearing his throat and rubbing the back of his next, facing away from Buck.
And Buck was left cold, still panting, looking up at him, willing him to turn around and not run away, even though the moment was broken.
“I ah,” Eddie cleared his throat, still with his back to him, “I gotta get home. Make sure Chris is- Make sure he’s in bed.”
“Yeah,” Buck cleared his throat in his turn, “Right.”
He watched Eddie shift on his feet, like he was considering sprinting back to the dugout and away from Buck. Finally, after what felt like a year, he turned around, sticking out a hand and heaving Buck to his feet.
“Come on,” he said, his tone carefully neutral, and his eyes fixed on a point just above Buck’s right shoulder, “I can give you a ride home if-”
“That’s- That’s okay,” he was sure this aching in his chest was normal and perfectly find, “I have the Jeep.”
Eddie nodded, chewing on his bottom lip before clapping Buck awkwardly on the shoulder, and leading the way off the field and into the locker room.
#oh we're gonna PINE boys (gn)#my writing#buddie#911#sadly they play for the dodgers who i DESPISE but i'm working the rangers in there because that's my team <3#buddie fanfic
61 notes
·
View notes
Text
As I awoke this morning I found myself troubled by a question: what positions would the main characters of the Wheel of Time play if they fielded a baseball team?
After much research and consideration, I believe I have my answer. Put your hands together for the starting lineup of the the Emond's Field Dragons:
Pitcher - Rand al'Thor. He's 6'6", which translates into a whole lot of leverage behind his fastball. Early scouting reports say he needs to work on his control, but once he does he'll be a force of nature.
Catcher - Matrim Cauthon. Catcher is a very demanding position, as they have to call pitches and position the infield. Mat's lifetimes worth of strategic thinking and his childhood friendship with the pitcher will serve him well here. In addition, the graceful movements of spear fighting may be an asset in framing.
First base - Perrin Aybara. This is the easiest defensive position, which means it often goes to the best offensive player. Perrin would have no trouble picking up the fundamentals of defense, but it's clear from the way he swings that hammer that his real strength is as a power hitter.
Second base - Lan Mandragoran. Above all else, a second baseman should be agile and have a precise arm, as they're the crucial hinge on which many a double play turns. That makes it the perfect position for a swordmaster.
Third base - Aviendha. Her training as a spearmaiden gives her the resolve under pressure to field a ball at third and fire it across the diamond to first before the batter can run the 60 feet to the bag.
Shortstop - Moiraine Damodred. Shortstops are sometimes called the "captain of the infield", responsible for tracking short-hit balls and coordinating the movements of their fellow infielders. Moiraine has experience taking charge in battlefield situations, and her warder bond with the second baseman turns the middle infield into a steel trap.
Left field - Elayne Trakand. Outfielders need to be able to cover a wide area quickly, and the left fielder additionally serves as backup for the third baseman. The lessons Elayne received as Daughter-Heir of Andor prepared her to juggle multiple responsibilities.
Center field - Egwene al'Vere. While center fielders may not direct their fellow outfielders to the same degree as shortstops, they are deferred to when deciding who will field a ball in between two outfielders' "territories". Egwene takes naturally to authority and would be comfortable making those decisions in the moment.
Right field - Loial son of Arent son of Halan. Fewer balls are hit to right field than left, so Loial would have plenty of time to smell the proverbial roses out in the literal grass, but when necessary he has the strength needed to get the ball all the way from deep right to home plate.
Designated hitter - Nynaeve al'Meara. Raw power, baby.
And the batting order:
Cauthon
Aviendha
al'Vere
al'Meara
Aybara
Loial
Damodred
Mandragoran
Trakand
95 notes
·
View notes
Text
An artillery battery is a unit of cannons, missiles, and other weapons grouped to ensure command and control of the battlefield. In the 1860s, baseball statistician Henry Chadwick first described the teamwork of a pitcher and a catcher as a battery: the firepower of the staff.
DEMO TBA.
Before reaching the stardom of grand slams in Yankee Stadium or World Series shutouts, every professional baseball player was once where you are now: the Minor Leagues. Divided into levels from Rookie ball to Triple A, everyone working their way through the Minors has the same goal: to get promoted up to the Big Leagues. The Major Leagues. The Show. And you?
You are no exception.
You are the newest addition to the Double-A Okmulgee Pecans, a Minor League affiliate of the successful and storied Oklahoma City 66s. Surrounded by young, talented, hungry ballplayers, it’s your job to not only succeed in this competitive league, but stand out. As a catcher, you play one of the toughest positions in baseball— and the most important. Your chemistry with your pitchers and your team can make or break a play, an inning, or a whole game. With the constant eye of coaches, team management, and baseball fans on your back, will you find your swing? Can you help lead your team to victory? And can you keep yourself from getting distracted by the potential affections of those around you— or lean into them?
FIREPOWER is an upcoming interactive fiction novel about the love that lives in the infield dirt, the outfield grass, the diamond, and the dugout. In short: it’s about baseball, it’s about falling in love, and it’s about falling in love with baseball.
It is cautiously rated 18+ for themes and/or mentions of substance abuse, past traumas, and structural inequities in professional sports. Warnings will be toggle-able for potentially triggering scenes, which may be skipped.
FEATURES.
Customize your character’s appearance, handedness, and strengths in the game. Play as a man, woman, or nonbinary with options to be gay, straight, or bisexual.
Play through competitive at-bats, bat in your teammates and hit powerful home runs. Make skillful defensive plays; throw out runners trying to steal bases and tag runners out at home with quick reflexes.
Catch bullpens one-on-one with your pitchers to build your chemistry— on the field and off of it. Become a better catcher, and make them better too.
Lead a locker room and become part of a tight-knit team aiming for victory— and maybe a promotion.
Flirt with and romance any combination of your pitchers, other teammates, or the competent Front Office intern. Choose the gender of 2 out of the 4 ROs.
ROMANCE OPTIONS.
JJ Kim (gender selectable). 23. A rising star pitcher who is almost, but not quite, the team’s ace. Has a temper that has gotten them ejected from a couple games, but uses that intensity towards being the best on the mound. Friendly, but soon it becomes clear they’re difficult to truly get to know.
Olivia Lawson (f). 25. The cheeky second baseman who, despite her unflappably positive attitude, is aching to prove herself. A locker room leader and part of the Pecans for two years, she’s seeking a standout season and wants nothing but the best from her teammates. A cheerful, loyal presence underscored by fiery determination and grit.
Hirohito Kinoshita (m). 24. The best pitcher on the team by a long shot. A rising star who previously played professionally in Japan before signing as a free agent in the offseason. It’s widely assumed that he’ll be in the Major Leagues in the next year or two. Sarcastic, cocky, and kind of an asshole, with a genuine curiosity for his new home.
Dakota “Junie” McIntosh (gender selectable). 22. A college senior and D1 athlete trying their hand at baseball administration on the off chance they don’t get drafted. Though they pitched in high school, they now exclusively play shortstop, but at the moment all they’re playing with is paperwork and Excel formatting.
This will be my first IF project. More information, including RO descriptions and Artbreeder portraits, will be coming soon. Any interaction including reblogs, likes, and asks, are greatly appreciated!
#interactive fiction#interact if#interactive novel#choice script#cog#choice script game#interactive games#interactive story#interactive romance#interactive fiction wip#choice of games#choice of games wip
281 notes
·
View notes
Text
We went to the Minnesota Twins home opener yesterday afternoon. At game time the temperature was 50°F. Sitting outside for a few hours might chill me so I wore flannel-lined jeans, a knit hat, and a medium weight jacket.
I got warm though I was fine when the sun was covered by clouds. It felt like a 10° temperature swing when the clouds blocked or allowed sunshine.
The grass in the outfield had splotches in places. So much in professional sports is just perfectly done. This surprised me a little.
The security people at the main entrance annoyed me. I set off a metal detector. A grumpy man shouted to another guy, "Blue jacket! Check him!" My goodness, was someone going to tackle me?
Then he yelled at me to go to secondary screening. His tone suggested "OMFG!!! It's ISIS!! He's got two AKs!!"
A second high-strung security person tersely asked me if I had a case for my glasses. Yes, that's exactly what set off the metal detector, and he already expected that. I've been to other professional sporting events and the same thing has happened. They all know glasses cases do this, yet these two idiots seemed a little freaked out.
After that I was pissed off because of how they spoke to me. But the next person we saw was a ticket taker. A grandfatherly sort of fellow, he smiled, welcomed us to the park, and said "Have a nice day." That calmed me down.
The Twins lost. We left a little early. It was still fun getting out to the park and going out for a drink downtown.
46 notes
·
View notes
Note
March prompts: Daisy chain 😊
Poets couldn't make more perfect days than this.
The day was clear and warm, the last of the summer slowly dribbling away as autumn poked its head around the corner. Far away across the field the leaves were just starting to turn, and here in the grass everything around them was tall and brown with summer, full of daisies and the very last of the cornflowers.
This was one of the only places on the base they could go to be alone. Bucky was stretched out with his hands folded behind his head, uniform jacket tossed over the bag she'd brought the picnic in. The blanket he was lying on was her standard army issue one, pulled from the end of her bed, and Cord had a sudden thought that when they were done here there was a faint chance it was going to smell like him.
She turned her face up to the sun, closing her eyes and breathing deep. She could remember lots of afternoons like this, sitting out at the air races with her dad, ten or eleven years old and bored to death that they had to sit and watch another round of planes go by. He'd pulled up dandelions, in between the heats, and taught her how to make them into crowns, grabbing the longest and leggiest plants. I used to make these for your mother, he'd told her, hands moving gracefully in and out.
It wasn't until she was older that she realized that it wasn't ever her mother sending her away but her father taking her with - to share something that mattered to him, sure, but to get her out of the house for the afternoon, give her mother time to rest. That was early, when they didn't know how sick she was - or how much time she had left.
Two years later, when the grass was starting to grow over her grave, when the air races were back she asked to go. They sat in the outfield with their orange Nehis and wax-papered sandwiches, and Cord remembered aloud how her mom had always made them ham and cheese. Her father explained that was because it was easy, and he'd never told her how much he hated ham, and Cord realized then just how much her father missed her mother.
Her fingers still remembered the movements, after a few false starts - she snuck some cornflowers in, here and there, just to see how the blue looked.
"Here, sit up."
Bucky opened his eyes and sniffed, forcing himself upright, and she placed the circlet of flowers on his head and sat back on her knees to admire him, the sun touching the flowers with extra snap, their white faces brilliant in the sunshine.
He gingerly touched the crown, his fingers almost comically large next to the little daisies. "How do I look?" he asked. "Does this make me king of something?"
"Do you want to be king?"
"I do, yeah." His smile was all warmth and summer, eyes creasing with joy, and she thought for a moment of Puck, ready to make mischief.
"King of the pilots?"
"Nah, I'm already one of those," he said with a grin, leaning forward so his face was closer to her own, raising one hand to her face, his thumb tracing the line of her chin. "I want to be the king of kissing you."
He said things and meant them, John Egan, and she both knew that it was silly to argue and pointless to try. "Guess you'd better get started then," she said, and his lips were sudden and warm, his body urging her backwards until she was giggling in the grass, and he was opening her shirt, and the daisies were tickling her skin, and she was at home in his arms and queen of everything.
#asked and answered#orlissa#i have written a thing#mercurygraypresents#cordelia callaway#john egan x oc#masters of the air OC
29 notes
·
View notes
Text
Under the Stars
Pairing: Choi San x reader
Summary: The stars decide to spell out your fate with the cute boy who took you stargazing rather clearly, for once.
Word Count: 1.6k
Tags: summer camp au, fluff to end all fluff, also idiocy
You peer up at the universe sprinkled overhead, gnawing your lower lip. “I’m not sure I see it.”
The grass of left outfield shifts beneath the blanket as San scoots a little closer to you. Despite the comfortably warm night, the feeling of his body heat mere inches from your side sends prickles across your skin.
“Okay, look,” San says, lifting his arm and pointing to a cluster of stars. “Starts right there, beneath that really bright one, and it goes down left, and then trails around that way, see?”
You force your gaze away from the contour of his arm and attempt to follow as he traces an outline in the heavens. “And you said it’s…”
“A jellyfish,” he says, and you can hear him grinning. “That spot I just traced is the bell, and then the tentacles—”
“—are just there,” you realize, suddenly seeing the constellation. You snort.
“Nice, right?” San snickers. “I actually felt clever making that one. Okay, your turn.”
“Oh, god,” you mutter, smiling and gazing all across the sky. “Okay, um…”
This is exactly what you’d expected when San asked if you wanted to sneak out to the campground’s baseball field and look at stars. Several other young camp staff you’d been sitting with watched you accept his offer with jealousy, and you knew they were picturing a far more romantic, swoonworthy scene. Something it seemed most of the young camp staff would kill for with San—at least, something they’d kill for now.
Choi San has been your camp bestie since the day you met as kids, when you accidentally spilled green Kool-Aid all over him and he retaliated on purpose with his purple Kool-Aid. He wasn’t one of the cooler kids at camp over the years—too dorky, the other kids said. But that worked out perfectly for you, because you were a dork, too.
It was shocking when he turned up one summer a few years ago when you were counselors and he was…cute. Against your better judgment, it awakened something in you—and, apparently, several other counselors, who were suddenly interested in hanging around him. You tried not to let it boost your ego when he barely noticed them, preferring to stick around you, instead. He was still just as dorky, like nothing had changed, and you wanted to keep it that way, so for the sake of your friendship you fought down any feelings that awakened.
Except they like to re-awaken all the time, as you both continue to grow up and he only gets cuter. A constant battle. You’re running out of room to bury your feelings at this point.
“Aaah, wait—um, uh, um…” you sputter, laughing as San begins humming the Jeopardy theme.
You chance a glance over at him, only to look away again sharply when you see him grinning ear-to-ear at you. Your entire face comes to a boil. Panicked, you fling your arm up and point. “There, take a guess.”
You begin scrutinizing that spot desperately for a form that makes sense as San groans. “No fair, that’s where I was going to pick next.”
“Pff, yeah, what were you gonna pick, a….coiled-up snake?” You retort, tossing the snake idea out the window.
“...Noooo,” he says, then pauses. “Okay, kind of. It was going to be one of those fuzzy worm things, so that doesn’t technically count.”
You snort. “Keep dreaming.”
“What’s yours, then, huh, if you’re so clever?”
“You mean you can’t see it?” You ask, faking offense, wracking your brains for ideas.
“Methinks thou doth protest too much,” San says, and you can hear him smirking.
You huff. “Fine, I’ll tell you, spoilsport. It’s one of those, you know…”
You can definitely hear him grinning now. “You know…?”
At last, inspiration strikes. “It’s an ammonite.”
A moment’s pause, and then San asks, “an ammonite?”
“Don’t tell me you don’t know what an ammonite is,” you say, injecting mock horror into your voice. “I remember your dinosaur phase from fourth grade summer too well for that.”
There’s a moment of silence as San scrutinizes the sky.
You smirk the longer he doesn’t reply. “So, you know. An ammonite. Duh.”
“That…” He says, staring at the place you’d pointed out, “…is genius…”
You grin.
“....ly stupid.”
“Hey!” You turn and smack his arm, laughing. “You were going to say it was a fuzzy worm!”
You pointedly ignore how cute his dimples are, the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles. “At least mine wasn’t a fossil.”
“You didn’t make any rules except ‘it can’t be boring like a real constellation’!”
“I’m changing the rules now, no fossils.”
You scrunch your face up into an indignant, scowling pout. “Starting now. Mine counts.”
San rolls his eyes, but a grin tugs at his lips. “So needy. Fine, my turn.”
“And you can’t start from where I just made one,” you remind him.
“Yah, who’s in charge here, anyway?” San complains.
You scoff. “Who said anything about someone being in charge? Besides, you’ve got loads of other stars to work with.”
“But I wanted to work with those stars.”
“Bo-ring.”
“Ah come on, they’re all fake constellations anyw—whoa!”
You both jolt, eyes wide, as the brightest shooting star you’ve ever seen hurtles through the sky above. It’s huge, the tail burning fire from one horizon to the other in a brilliant slash.
As quickly as it comes, it fades, but the spell it casts lingers over you both. Both of you fall quiet, staring up into the stars. Everything comes into focus that you hadn’t been aware of before—the soft chirp of crickets from the nearby woods, the barely-there breeze stirring across your legs, the earthy smell of the baseball diamond. How close Choi San is lying next to you, on this blanket, the two of you in a world all your own.
“That was…amazing,” San breathes.
Your throat is dry. All you can do is nod.
“Did you see that?”
“Yeah.”
“It was huge,” he says, shifting a little on the blanket. “I’ve…I feel like I need to make a wish. Should I make a wish?”
You wish your feelings could just go away. “Nah, not on that one. You kidding? It was way too big for just a wish. That was like…a sign, or something.”
San sounds thoughtful. “A sign of what?”
“Like, anything.” Lying here next to him feels more and more dangerous by the second. You sit up, still staring at the sky. “That’s a sign for anything. Like a big thumbs-up, you know? The universe saying, ‘time to go for it’.”
“Go for what?”
“Whatever’s right in front of you, man,” you say, just rambling at this point. “Got a dream school you’re shooting for? Send in the application. Up for that promotion? Assert yourself. Someone you want to see? Gotta shoot your shot. Life’s too short and shooting stars know about it. Like, you saw that one, it was huge and bright and beautiful and it just fizzled…out…”
You stop talking, mind going blank, when you feel San take your hand, twining your fingers together.
You look down at your hands. He really is holding yours; you aren’t just imagining it. His thumb brushes over the back of yours gently, once, twice, and your entire being feels like a live wire.
He clears his throat in the silence that follows. “I, um, then I guess this is just…me, shooting my shot, then.”
Your gaze trails from his hand up his arm, over his shoulder and neck, settling on his face. He’s staring resolutely up at the sky, like the stars have just started tap-dancing. “I mean, you know, if that’s…cool? Maybe? Since you said the star was a sign and not for wishing…maybe this was a bad idea—”
“You’re shooting your shot with me?”
“Not because I don’t like being friends or anything!” San says quickly. “Honestly I haven’t said anything for a while because I didn’t want you to…I guess I was just worried that…and like, we can totally just be friends, that’s super cool, we can just forget this happened at all—”
“Stop talking.”
He falls silent, and you take the moment to calm the veritable tornado of thoughts and feelings whipping through your head at breakneck speeds.
“I…” You trail off. Where are you even supposed to start? “I’m not…I mean, I like being your friend, too, don’t get me wrong, but like…”
You squeeze his hand. “This is cool.”
Slowly, San sits up next to you. “…It is?”
“Way better than cool,” you blurt, feeling your face start to burn again. “I’m…god, San, I’ve liked you a stupidly long time and I didn’t want to blow it and you’re telling me you’re shooting your shot because of a shooting star?”
“Hey, that thing had to be a comet or something,” San said, a slow smile growing over his face. “Like fate. Or an omen.”
“I was talking out of my ass about that earlier,” you tell him, pulse sputtering frantically at the way he’s looking at you.
“No, I think that was the first non-stupid thing you said all night,” San says decidedly. He lifts your joined hands briefly and presses a kiss to the back of yours before letting them drop to his lap.
Your head feels like it’s spinning. “The ammonite wasn’t stupid.”
“It was stupid,” he says, grinning at you.
You huff, scowl-pouting again. “You’re so mean.”
“I think you like it, though,” he says, squeezing your hand and looking back up at the sky. “Just a little.”
Your face feels like it’s in flames. “...Maybe. A very little bit.”
You both spend the next few minutes smiling rather stupidly at the stars.
#san fanfic#san fluff#san x reader#choi san x reader#ateez fluff#ateez fanfic#choi san fanfic#choi san fluff#san fic#choi san fic#ateez fic#san#choi san#ateez#admin ellie#ellie writes#ellie’s fluff#everyone look away im feeling e m o t i o n s over him#idiots in love is the best trope come fight me over it#summer camp au
428 notes
·
View notes
Text
𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ✯ 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐢𝐱
✯ 𝐉𝐚𝐤𝐞 "𝐇𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐦𝐚𝐧" 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐧 𝐱 𝐘𝐨𝐮 (𝐍𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞: 𝐅𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲)
✯ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: A baseball game goes awry. Things are tender.
✯ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 7.7k
✯ 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
✯ 𝐅𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲'𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐱𝐭𝐚𝐩𝐞 #𝟏
✯ 𝐉𝐚𝐤𝐞'𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐱𝐭𝐚𝐩𝐞 #𝟏
✯ 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬
✯ 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐎𝐧𝐞
𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐢𝐱
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐞 𝟖𝐭𝐡, 𝟐𝟎𝟎𝟖
𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩, 𝐓𝐗
“Alright, Filly,” Jake shouts, grinning at you. His vision is blurry, his chest is warm, his belly is full--but he’s still sober enough to gesture that he has his eyes on you. “You don’t even know what’s comin’, girl!”
You’re drunker than you care to admit. This is really the drunkest you’ve been since that first night Jake touched you, when he was still with Emmaline, when you were in your bedroom together and he was playing his invisible guitar. You haven't’ eaten much today, either--just a scoop of ice cream on shift and a handful of Jake’s Doritos--so your belly is sloshing with all the lukewarm Pabst you’ve drank.
But still you stand on home plate the dinky dirt field at McAnthem Park, squinting under the buzzing street lamp above you and adjusting your grip on the wooden baseball bat you’re holding.
“You’ve got it, Filly! Don’t let him scare you, honey!” Hyde calls from third base, sending you a lopsided grin and a thumbs up.
“Just remember--you only get three chances!” Ruth follows, standing in the outfield beside Jake. She’s swaying on her feet, your flask tucked into the waistband of her shorts. “Not to make you nervous or anythin’!”
Hyde’s scratchy little radio is playing Rocket Man by Elton John now.
Jake is tossing the baseball up in the air jovially, grinning at you. You’re patting the bat on the dirt, trying to wipe that silly smile off your face and look more menacing.
But you’re happy, too happy to stop smiling: you’re with your three best friends at McAnthem Park playing a low-stakes game of baseball under a wide-open night sky, drinking beers between innings and switching teams sporadically. It’s warm outside and the crickets are crooning and the owls are hooting. Moths are gathering above you on the streetlamp and lightning bugs are flitting across the field, landing on dewy blades of grass.
“I’ve got nerves of steel,” you call, flexing your biceps as if to prove your statement. “You don’t scare me, Jake Seresin!”
Jake bites his lip, shaking his head in amusement. You look like a goddamn newborn deer, wearing a tired tank top and too-big jean shorts, all limbs and curly hair. You’re swaying on your feet, just like Ruth, but you seem to have just the slightest bit more control of your body--enough that you hold the bat at ready, even if it’s wavering in your grip.
“Hey, batter-batter! Hey, batter-batter! Swing!” Hyde croons, readying himself to sprint to homebase as soon as your bat connects with the ball.
Ruth is eying Hyde--she’s already decided that she’s going for him instead of you. He’s been so cocky tonight, somehow getting all the way to third base while she was busy scrambling after the baseball in the outfield. She wants to take him down a notch.
“Well, throw the Goddamn ball, mustang! I don’t got all night!”
Jake nods, sucking in a breath. He’s good at this--he knows what he’s doing. He’s the best pitcher the Silver Bullets ever saw; he knows that and he knows that everyone knows that. He winds up, planting his feet in the dirt and filling his lungs. And then he lets go, the ball hurtling through the air.
It’s maybe when Jake feels most in his element--throwing a baseball. That or when he’s with you.
It’s a low ball--which Jake rarely throws, but he is so very drunk--and you swing too early. You stumble at the perfect moment, just as the baseball sinks in the air. It collides with your bare knee with a thunderous clap, a shockwave of pain shooting across your body as you yelp and fall to a heap in the dirt.
Jake, who started for you as soon as he realized that the ball was low, curses as his dirty tennis shoes squeak on the grass. Ruth hurries towards you, too, her jaw dropped and her eyes wide. Hyde, who was too busy making a plan of action to notice that you were hit, sprints to home plate and promptly begins to do a victory dance over your crumpled body below him.
“Eat my dust, Ruth Gabriel!” He shouts, shuffling in the dirt.
Ruth, who has shifted her concern from you to Hyde, points an accusing finger at Hyde.
“Filly’s hurt!” She seethes.
Hyde glances down at you as you gasp, the very breath knocked out of your lungs.
“Well, how the Hell did that happen?” He asks. He plants his hands on his hips and then leans over, trying to catch your gaze. “You’re supposed to hit the ball, Filly. Not let the ball hit you!”
“Give me that fuckin’ bat,” Ruth growls, starting for Hyde and stepping over your form. “I’m gonna beat you dead, you idiot!”
You’re biting your lip hard, hands over your knee. Fuck, it hurts--which scares you because you’re the kind of drunk that usually makes your senses dull.
Jake immediately falls to his knees before you, body flushed with panic and a sheen of sweat on his tanned face. You’re looking up at him, eyes watery and slacked. Your lips are twisted and your face is pink. You’re in pain--he can see it clear as day.
“Shit, you alright?” Jake asks. Red-hot guilt is already sitting heavily on his chest like something forged in fire, gathering all the saliva in his mouth under his tongue.
“Just peachy,” you grunt through grit teeth.
You’re rocking yourself, still gripping your knee.
Hyde is sprinting away from Ruth now, his stringy hair blowing in the warm wind, as Ruth chases after him with the bat.
“Alright, lemme see,” Jake insists, reaching for your leg.
“No!” You hiss, pulling into yourself. “M’fine! Really!”
You’re perhaps a bit traumatized from the splinter surgery yesterday, your palms still sore and scabbed from the fish hook Jake was so uncareful with. You know that he knows what he’s doing--he’s basically been playing baseball since coming out of the womb--since there are very little parts of his body that haven’t been pelted with a ball.
Jake scoffs, swiftly grabbing your ankles and sliding you closer to him across the dirt. Again, he tries to reach for your wrists and you whine, shaking your head.
“You really are such a baby, aren’t you?” He sighs, perching a brow at you.
You stick your tongue out at him.
“Fuck you,” you mutter.
But then you’re blushing. Not too drunk to forget the past few weeks you’ve shared with Jake, apparently.
“Where’s that spitfire?” Jake asks. He feels more sober now, the sound of the baseball ricocheting off your kneecap ringing in his ears. “Your daddy didn’t raise no baby, did he?”
Without further ado, Jake holds onto your wrists and pries your hands away from your knee. You let him, thinking about your daddy telling you to buck up, buttercup. As if he didn’t pretend to have to take a phone call outside of the room when you got stitches in the third grade and cried the whole time.
The wound is nasty. The ball hit you just right, the loose stitching slicing your already-welting skin. Blood drips down your knee, stains your hand. It’s starting to roll down your bony shin and into the dirt beneath you.
Jake does his best to keep his face neutral, especially when you grimace at the blood. He doesn’t want your flip-flops to be stained with blood so he carefully holds your ankle, pulling your leg straight.
Pain sits heavy in your chest. So much so that you hiss and bring your balled fists down on Jake’s shoulders a few times.
“You son of a bitch!” You cry.
He takes the hits, holding your calf in place.
“Girl, I’m tryin’ to keep those damn flip-flops from gettin’ stained! You’re welcome!”
Elbows against the dirt, you glance over and squint through the night around you. Ruth and Hyde are still going at it, always at each other’s throats. But Jake is right here, not even thinking about moving.
“How am I bleedin’?” You ask.
“Loose stitchin’ on the baseball,” he explains.
“You cheap-ass,” you mutter.
He smiles, rolling his eyes. He’s delicately wiping the dirt off your leg, trying to keep it from getting too close to the wound. If the cut on your leg was bigger, he would be rubbing dirt in it by now. But it’s not very sizable, just a little gash--but you’re a bleeder.
“Ruth!” Jake hollers, not turning away from your wound. “Toss the flask!”
Ruth, who’s out of breath, narrows her eyes at Hyde.
“This ain’t over,” Ruth says to him. “I’m still gonna kill you. When you least expect it.”
“Lookin’ froward to it,” Hyde teases, grinning.
Ruth begrudgingly hands the flask to Jake, tucking her hair behind her ears as she gazes down at you. You look like you’re in pain, biting your lip and watching every one of Jake’s movements.
Jake quickly unscrews the cap of your ugly flask, motioning for you to open your mouth. You comply, tilting your head back. The Everclear burns your tongue and throat alike, lighting a fire all the way to your belly.
“Here,” Jake says. “Need somethin’ to bite down on?”
“Hyde, this is your chance to help!” Ruth calls. “Quick, we need your dick!”
Hyde slings his arm over Ruth’s shoulders, much to her dismay, and pretends to start undoing his belt.
“I always knew this is how I’d go,” he says wistfully, grinning as you glare at him. “With my dick in Filly’s mouth.”
Blindly, Jake reaches out behind him and taps Hyde in the crotch, rolling his eyes when Hyde doubles over with a groan. Ruth is delighted by this, assisting Hyde in crumbling all the way to the ground with a swift push to the shoulder.
“Bite down on this,” Jake insists, pressing his wallet into your mouth. It was his daddy’s, a tired old thing he left behind in one of the kitchen drawers. And between your lips, with your teeth sunk into it, Jake hasn’t ever been more fond of it. He pulls your leg over his lap and then nods at you. “Ready, girl?”
He doesn’t wait for you to nod. He spills some of the Everclear out and onto your wound, holding your thigh against his so you don’t jerk away. You groan, biting down hard on the worn leather, digging your fingers into the dirt.
The crimson blood becomes watery with the alcohol, dripping on the ground. Jake wipes the rest away with his hands, gentle not to press down too hard on your already-swelling skin.
You spit the wallet out.
“Well, Goddamn!” You cry. “No need to be gentle!”
Jake just sticks his palm before your mouth, biting a smile.
“Spit,” he commands. You do without a moment of hesitation, the saliva warm and beer-flavored in his hand. “Good girl.”
Something about hearing him say those words to you make your thighs ache, makes your throat quiver. You squirm, readjusting, and he pretends not to notice.
“She gonna make it?” Hyde asks, still on the ground holding his crotch. His voice is strained with pain.
“It was touch-and-go there for a while,” Jake says softly, smearing your saliva over the wound to staunch the bleeding. “But she’ll be fine.”
“Will she ever play baseball again, doc?” Ruth asks, winking at you when you scowl up at her.
Jake sits back on his haunches, rubbing your calm gently.
“Not tonight, I fear,” he says, smiling softly at you. “We’ve gotta get the girl home.”
He takes his wallet back, brushes the dirt off it. There are teeth marks pressed into the leather now, distinctly you--a little gap between the front teeth. He lets his finger drift across the indents, which are still wet from your mouth.
“Damn, Filly,” Hyde exclaims, pointing to the wallet. “Gotta get those teeth filed down or something!”
“It’s alright,” Jake says, pushing the wallet into his pocket. That wallet, the one Wade left behind probably on accident and doesn’t even remember leaving, is suddenly more precious to him than ever before. “Can you walk?”
Hyde and Ruth walk ahead, collecting their flimsy backpacks full of empty beer cans and the remnants of your baseball game, towards Rusty sitting in the parking lot.
You can’t walk--at least not without shockwaves of pain rolling up through your tense thigh and through your taut belly. You try to, though, until Jake has enough of seeing you bite your lip and squeeze your eyes shut.
“C’mere,” he says, sighing. You try to keep walking, your shoulders squares, but then he swiftly hits the back of your knees so they buckle and scoops you up in his arms. “Hardass.”
You hold onto his shoulder, a hint of relief in your belly at not putting pressure on your knee.
“How the Hell am I gonna be a cowgirl in these conditions?” You mutter.
Jake grins. Of course that’s what you’re worried about. He holds you close, pulling your bony shoulders against his chest and slowing his pace. He wants to hold you for as long as you’ll let him, which is oftentimes not very long at all.
“With a trusty ranch-hand at your side,” Jake answers. He takes a moment to breathe you in, that lewd citrus sitting so heavily in your curls and over all your skin.
It’s quiet for a moment, just the crickets singing. Silverkeep is always quiet past ten o’clock, especially on Sunday nights when everyone’s getting ready for the work week.
Tilting your head back, you look up at the vast sky above you. It’s beautiful tonight, not a cloud littering your view. All those bright stars twinkling overhead, that big old moon that you used to think followed you everywhere you went, all that endless black--it makes something settle in your chest.
You and Jake were born under the same sky. Soon, you won’t be living under the same sky. Soon, he’ll be in Austin and you’ll be here. You will look up and see the same stars and he will see the same moon but you will be too far apart to ride your bikes to each other’s houses.
Jake feels it when you pull into yourself, feels it when a shiver runs across your body. He looks at you, his feet practically dragging to prolong this walk, and sees that you’re gazing up at the sky. Your jaw is flexed and your lips are pursed and your eyes are wide.
“What’s on your mind?”
“Mmm,” you hum, sighing. “Thinkin’ about bein’ born under the same sky as you.”
He scoffs quietly.
“Everyone’s born under the same sky,” he says.
You tut, giving him a less-than-enthused look.
“You know what I mean, smartass,” you whisper. “Don’t you feel lucky?”
“What do I have to feel lucky about?” Jake asks, wrinkling his nose.
He’s wearing a shirt that’s older than the both of you combined--one his mama got at a garage sale a couple years ago. His shoes have holes in them. He has to get up before the sun rises and shovel horse shit.
Jake isn’t looking at you now. He’s looking ahead, his hair flopping over his eyebrows and his mouth in a solid line. He’s thinking, you can tell. He gets pensive when he drinks sometimes.
“To know each other,” you answer softly.
That nearly stops him in his tracks. If he was less careful, he would’ve tumbled forwards and dropped you. But he would rather chew rocks than topple over with you in his arms.
His heart is sitting low in his belly, pulsing.
“Of course I feel lucky to know each other,” Jake says. “You’re drunker than a skunk if you’re admittin’ it, though.”
You roll your eyes.
“I’m not,” you insist. You are still pretty drunk, though. “Just feelin’ reflective.”
“God, did you hit your head on the way down?” Jake teases. You scoff, shoving his shoulder. “I can’t say you’re beautiful but you can get all mushy on me?”
“Oh, shut your trap,” you hiss.
Jake laughs, grinning at you.
“Filly, I know I’m the luckiest guy in Silverkeep. I think everyone does.”
Pink paints your cheeks and you sink your teeth into your bottom lip, tasting all the dirt that’s landed there during your game. You tangle your fingers in his hair, scratching his sweaty scalp softly, sighing.
“I don’t think everyone does,” you whisper. “But I’m glad you know. Knew you were smart. Must’ve been all that studyin’ you did.”
Rusty rumbles to life just ahead in the parking lot, Ruth already clamoring into the front seat. Ruthless Ruth isn’t going to let you sit in the cab, even injured. She hates sitting in the bed of the truck--which she calls the smoking section.
“Not sure all the studyin’ matters, anyway,” Jake says quietly. “I’ll just pay all the nerds to do my homework for me.”
“Spoken like a true athlete,” you laugh.
He sets you down on the bed of the truck carefully, letting you squirm and scoot yourself until you’re resting against the cab. Then he climbs in beside you, closes the bed, and knocks on the cab window.
Hyde throws Rusty in reverse and then you’re all moseying away from McAnthem Park.
There’s a bead of sweat dripping down the side of your face, tracing every freckle on its way to your flexed throat. Jake’s watching it happen. If you were alone--thoroughly and completely alone--Jake would lean forward and let it fall onto his tongue. Not even in a sexual way--not entirely. Just to have a piece of you inside of his mouth, just to taste something that your body made. He thinks about it often: having pieces of you in his mouth, having pieces of you wrapped around him. It’s in his dreams sometimes: droplets of your sweat on the flat of his tongue, your thigh around his neck, those dirty nails tangled in his hair.
You light up a cigarette, wrestling with the pockets of your jeans. Your knee is throbbing, but at least you’re sitting now. Jake is watching you as you bring the cigarette to your lips, looking out over the desolate town fading past you.
“Can I come over tonight?” Jake asks.
You take a long drag, eyebrows pulled together.
“Figured you’d wanna stay the night,” you tell him, smoke drifting from your parted lips and up to the night sky. “Figured we could…you know.”
Jake’s thighs are tense just thinking about it. He’s anxious suddenly to get back to that little trailer of yours, to get you settled on the bed, to taste your mouth and kiss your breasts and feel your hand wrapped around his cock.
“We could what?” Jake says.
He’s teasing and you know it.
You roll your eyes, ignoring the rapid pace of your heart.
“Fool around,” you answer.
Honestly, you’ve been thinking about it all night. Watching his Adam’s apple bob with every swallow of warm beer, watching his capable hands grip that baseball, watching his arms flex, watching his hair billow in the wind, watching his grin light up the field. Even watching him pour Everclear on your gash and spitting into his hands has a spot of arousal dotting your underwear now, has a tickle sitting in your belly.
Jake throws his arm around you, pulling you against his chest. It’s a movement that you are both used to and it doesn’t feel different now that you’ve made him cum and he’s touched you the way he has. It still feels like it always has: safe, natural, warm, solid.
“What’s sex like?” You ask after a moment.
The Pabst is apparently sitting between your throat and mouth now.
But Jake doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t chide or tease. He just swallows, inhaling your Marlboro and sighing gently.
“S’different with everyone,” he answers. Then he reaches over and plucks the cigarette from your fingers, taking a long drag. He resists the urge to cough as the smoke coats his throat and lungs, his fingers drawing nervous shapes on your bare arm. “Like, it ain’t the same with Emmaline as it was with Grace Lynn or Christy.”
You think about Jake’s cock, the thing you’ve held in your mouth, the thing you think is so pretty. And then you think about Emmaline’s pretty hands wrapped around it, her nails clean and trimmed and her palms soft. God, she’s such a priss that she probably wore gloves to touch Jake--the bitch.
Something pulses across your chest, a little flash of white lightning. It hurts, makes your toes curl in your flimsy flip flops. It’s a worse pain than your throbbing knee.
“Okay,” you sigh, taking the cigarette back from him and bringing it back to your own lips. You’ve been wondering about this, like everyone does, since your very first encounter with Jake. You haven’t gotten anything even remotely close to the sex talk--you’re not sure where to begin. “So, what was it like the first time?”
Jake breathes out, humming.
It was bad the first time. He was nervous, she was nervous. He came very quickly. She didn’t cum at all. She cried. He didn’t even take his shirt off.
“Not great,” he answers honestly. He knows you would call him out for lying if he dared. “Lots of people make real messes of it the first time. I definitely did.��
“Howso?” You ask.
This time, you hold the cigarette to his lips and he takes another drag despite the ache in his chest.
“Didn’t know what I was doin’, really. Didn’t use a condom, too, so I came, like, right away,” he laughs softly, shaking his head. You’re not laughing, though. The white hot pain is back. “And, you know, she just wasn’t someone that I wanted to have sex with again. We were just young and wanted it.”
You think about it: are you just young and wanting it or is it something more than that? You glance up at Jake, who’s looking up at the night sky. And then the realization just dawns over you all over again, all doubt fading instantly: it’s something more than that. It is unequivocally something more than that.
You let your hand rest on his thigh as you press your cheek against his shoulder, inhaling all that sweat and beer on his skin.
The night air is still warm and you know that Jake won’t confuse you for cold--but he still pulls you into him, letting his lips and nose rest in your curls.
“And what about with other girls? Like Emma?” You ask softly.
Jake’s palms are sweating.
“It was fine,” he answers. He isn’t lying--it was fine. He likes having sex. He just didn’t like anything that came attached to it after: the mind-numbing pillow talk, the cuddling, the cooing. But maybe it’s because of who it was with--it’s a feeling that’s dawning on him as he holds you against him, totally content. “What do you, like, wanna know?”
You shrug.
Everything. You want to know everything.
“What’d it feel like?” You ask.
His chest rumbles as he hums.
“Good,” he answers. “It’s like…a different kinda good. One that’s kinda overwhelmin’, you know?”
“No,” you answer, stubbing your cigarette out and flicking out of the truck. “I don’t know.”
He isn’t sure how to explain it, especially since he knows that it will feel different for you than it did for him. He thinks for a moment, chewing on his lip.
“You know when you rub your eyes real good? And you feel like you can’t stop and you’re, like, seein’ stars?” He asks. You nod. “Like that, kinda. Overpowering.”
The thought excites you--sends a jolt straight to your clit. You press your thighs together, your lashes fluttering.
“And it…it felt like that with them? Emma and everyone else?”
“Jesus,” Jake laughs softly, wrapping one of your curls around his finger. “You say everyone else like it’s the whole damn cheerleadin’ squad.”
“Well, isn’t it?” You ask.
You’re only partly teasing.
“No,” Jake answers. He grins. “Only half.”
You laugh--it feels like it’s the only sound in Silverkeep.
Jake thinks about it again--your thighs pressed into his neck, your body writhing above him, his hands holding your hips. Just thinking about it is making all the blood in his body rush to his crotch, is making his chest tingle.
“Let’s try somethin’ new tonight,” he suggests softly. “You’re gonna like it. Promise.”
You trust Jake more than anyone else in the world--so you nod, leaning into him, holding his thigh.
In your bedroom, which is just as messy as it always is, there is no sound besides your measured panting. The radio is off, the window is closed, and blood is rushing through your ears. It’s almost entirely dark in here, all except for the moonlight streaming in through the parted curtains.
It’s just enough light for you to make out the faintest curve of Jake’s features as he sits on his knees before your naked body, his palms resting on your thighs. He’s naked, too, and he feels like this is the hardest he’s ever been. He can see pieces of your body, too, like your pebbled nipples and the indent of your belly button.
You’ve been kissing since nearly the moment you climbed in through the window, discarding your clothing quickly and pressing your skin against Jake’s skin. You’re wet--but you have been wet since your discussion about sex in the back of the truck, just thinking about him pressing into you.
“Spread your legs,” Jake whispers, thumbs pressing into your thighs. You do, very carefully, and without saying a word about it, Jake helps move your injured leg to the side. “Your knee okay?” He asks.
You nod, a breath stifled in your throat.
Wordlessly, he leans down and presses his mouth to your knee. The skin there is hot, swollen. He can taste the Everclear and the blood staining your flesh and he lets his mouth linger there. He’s tender with you--so tender that your chest grows tight, tight like you can’t breathe.
“All better?” Jake whispers, letting his hand rest on your belly. He can feel how tense you are, every muscle in your body tight.
“Mm,” you mutter, laughing quietly and nervously. “This that new thing you wanted to try?”
He chuckles, his breath warm against your wound.
“No,” he whispers. “You’ll know. Trust me.”
Then he starts to kiss up your thighs, all that soft flesh making him feel a bit dizzy. You’re breathing rapidly already, your mind racing and your fingers fidgeting with the sheets.
Jake lets his body rest against that stupid small bed of yours, his feet hanging off the bottom, as he hooks his arms around your thighs. He continues kissing your legs, glancing up at your silhouette in the dark, watching your chest rise and fall.
You’re trying to keep yourself from moaning already. It feels so good--just this, even. Just the way his lips are tickling up your thighs and provoking gooseflesh, just the way his breaths are coming out hot and heavy on your skin.
And when that breath fans over your core, a plume of pleasure wafting up your body and practically making your hair stand on end, your head snaps up to look at him.
“It’s okay,” Jake soothes, squeezing the bend of your hips. “It’s gonna feel good, okay? I promise. And if you don’t like it, I’ll stop.”
You nod rapidly, trying to calm that anxiety sitting so heavy on your hips.
But then it dissipates entirely because Jake reaches up and takes your hand in his. He squeezes it, squeezes you, then carefully sets your hand in his hair. His velvet locks between your fingers ease all that fear in your bones, all that uncareful panic.
Jake is nearly vibrating with anticipation, pressing his erection into the sheets in a desperate attempt for friction.
Then he buries himself against your core, lets his nose nudge your clit, lets his tongue dip inside of you. And then you are on a different realm, somewhere above this sky that you were born with Jake under, somewhere further away. It feels so good that it makes your chest raise off the bed, that it drains all the breath from your lungs.
And Jake knows he’s doing something right when you pull his hair for the first time.
“Oh,” you mutter, your voice pitched and weak. “Oh, holy fuck.”
Jake can’t believe he’s tasting you now--this honey pot that he’s always wanted on his tongue. You taste just like he always imagined: just you. Nothing frilly about it. You’re all real, entirely authentic. And you’re so wet already, just from him stripping you, just from him closing his fingers on your nipples.
He laps at your cunt, pressing himself against you and holding you close as you writhe and tug at his hair. You’re biting your lip so hard that metal is starting to invade your mouth, eyes squeezed shut tight.
“Fuck,” you moan, voice low. “Oh, fuck. Jake, Jake.”
Then he moans against you, his cock twitching.
You said his name--you said it with no prompting. And it sounded fucking delicious in that voice of yours, edged with pleasure and overwhelmed with adoration.
He’s done this before, of course. Only a handful of times when Emmaline would let him. He likes doing it, especially when he can lay on his belly and rut himself against the mattress. But this is on another level--this is fucking intoxicating. He’s sucking your clit, pressing his chin against your entrance, moaning against you when you pull his hair.
And you’re both drunk still, drunk enough that every single bit of pleasure feels heightened. You’re the kind of drunk that would make every false promise under the sun if it meant that you would feel like this forever. And he is the kind of drunk that would let him eat you out forever.
“Fuckin’--Jesus, fuck,” you moan, rutting your hips against his. “Fuck, Jake. Fuck.”
He lets his hand slide down from its spot on your hip, carefully dragging it down between your legs until he’s nudging at your entrance. You let him in with little resistance, hugging him tight, coating his finger easily. You’re so warm, so tight--it makes his hips buckle.
“Oh,” you mutter, hyperventilating almost. You swallow hard, letting the sensation of his finger pumping into you slowly and his mouth attached to your clit wash over you. It feels like something is building, something rapid and all-consuming. “Oh, Jake. Oh, Jake.”
He curls his fingers and that sends your hips straight up into the air, away from his lips, away from the bed. You grip his hair so tightly that a few strands rip, but he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t mind at all.
You’re so overwhelmed with pleasure, so caught up in the moment, so unbelievably turned on, that you sit up and grab onto his shoulders. He’s shocked for a moment, leaning up. He’s about to ask you what’s wrong when you crash your lips against his, when you urge him to lay on top of you with a few careful tugs.
He does lay on top of you, his body alight with excitement. He’s so hard that it’s almost making him lightheaded, especially when your tongue is in his mouth, especially when he knows that you’re tasting yourself on his tongue.
“Fuck me,” you whimper. You mean it for a moment--you want to have sex with him. And you want it right now. You want to be the girl that he fucks, even if he cums quick, even if you don’t cum. “Please.”
He’s so caught up that he obliges for a moment. He brackets himself on either side of your head, pressing down on your curls. And he nudges your legs further apart, kissing down your throat and your chest.
Your mind is racing, pulsing. Your heart is thrumming. This is it. This is it. You won’t be a virgin when you wake up tomorrow. You’re going to have sex with Jake right now.
“Filly,” Jake whimpers, eyes nearly misty. He’s been waiting for this moment his entire life, it feels like--he isn’t entirely sure he’s awake, honestly. He feels like he’s going to wake up any moment and haul his ass to the Carolina’s as the sun rises. “Oh, Filly.”
Yes, it’s your name he’s whispering. It’s you he’s on top of. He’s about to press his cock inside of you and feel all of you, feel you hold him tight. And it’s making him dizzy.
“Fuck me,” you repeat, desperately digging your nails into his shoulders. “Please, please, please.”
He lines himself up, presses his forehead against yours. Fuck, even just feeling your lip around the head of his cock, even just feeling the slick that has gathered there--he shudders. You’re panting and so is he, your lips hardly touching.
“Yeah?” He asks.
You swallow thickly. Your mind is swimming.
“Yeah,” you answer, nodding.
He presses himself into you, just a tiny bit. But at the exact moment that he does, he accidentally lets his weight fall on your injured knee. And suddenly you’re hissing in pain and he’s jolting backwards, away from your heat, back onto his knees.
“Fuck! Filly, are you okay?” He whispers harshly, scooting down the bed to hold your knee.
You’re sitting up on your elbows now, tears dotting your eyes.
“Yeah, shit. Fuck, that hurt. Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Jake insists. He presses his lips to your knee again, stroking your calf. “Fuck, I’m sorry. It was an accident.”
“It’s okay,” you insist, because it is. “It’s okay.”
But now you both feel more sober than you did a moment ago. You’re both still heaving, reeling. You’re wet and he’s hard. You fall back into the pillows, blinking yourself back into reality. And Jake watches, still holding your leg.
You almost lost your virginity a few seconds ago. Jesus Christ.
Jake almost took your virginity a few seconds ago. Fuck.
“Maybe we should just…stop for now?” He asks, voice thin.
You nod a few times, not trusting your voice.
Then you scoot over, making room for him on the bed. He collapses beside you, shoulder-to-shoulder. And you two stare up at your ceiling, trying to regulate your breathing.
“We should wait, I think,” Jake says after a few moments.
You nod.
“Alright,” you say.
He glances at you. You’re just twiddling your thumbs and staring up at the ceiling.
“Say what you’re thinkin’,” Jake insists. He tucks a few curls behind your ear fruitlessly and you nuzzle your cheek against his fingers.
You hum.
“We almost did it,” you say softly, biting your lip.
He sighs, nodding.
“Yeah, we did,” he says. He rakes his hand down his face, tries to calm the racing heart in his chest. “Jesus.”
“I liked it, you know,” you tell him. “Like, everythin’ you did before. Jesus Christ, mustang, where the fuck did that come from? I mean…Jesus.”
Pride swells up in Jake and washes over his chest, submerging him.
“Good,” he says, nodding. “Figured you would.”
Neither of you speak for a moment. He pulls you against him, just like he did in the truck, except now you’re both naked. He can feel every single bit of you against every single bit of him. All that endless skin, all that wetness, all that hot blood. You rest your head on his chest and count the beats of his heart.
“I think we should, like, make it special,” Jake says.
He’s terrified that you’re going to shoot him down. He’s terrified that you’re going to laugh in his face. He’s terrified that he’s giving himself away, that you’re going to know how in love with you he is.
But your heart is swelling now, your eyes wet. If you speak, your voice will be broken. So, you just nod against him, just hold him tight.
“How do we do that?” You ask. You really don’t know--you’ve never done any of this.
“Maybe find a time when your parents aren’t home,” Jake suggests. “And we should use condoms.”
Jake is being coy. If he had it his way, he would rent a nice motel at the edge of town. He would shower the room with flower petals and bum some champagne. He would light tea lights and fuck you slow and sweet on the bed. It’s the most romantic scenario his juvenile brain can conjure right now--you, him, and a motel room.
“Yeah,” you agree. “That sounds good.”
You’ve never put much thought into losing your virginity: who will be there, when it will be, where it will be. But knowing that it’s Jake makes something click into place, like there was a missing piece. Yes, of course it’s going to be Jake. How could it be anyone else? The stars are aligned.
“I’m glad it’s gonna be you,” you whisper.
Now he can’t speak. He can’t speak because he’s worried that he’ll say he loves you.
So, he just kisses your forehead. He lets his lips linger there.
The next evening, just after sunset, you’re leaning against the glass-lidded freezer in Dairy ‘N’ Berries, just about to untie your stained apron when the bells above the door chime.
Sighing, you straighten your apron and turn so you’re lingering near the cash register. But you’re instantaneously relieved when you find that it’s not another ratty-haired brat waiting for another free sample before you--it’s Jake. He’s leaning over the counter, grinning at you, his eyes heavy but shining in the harsh fluorescents.
“Well, howdy,” you greet with a huff, mirroring his position so your elbows are pressed together. “Thought you were gonna be another rugrat. And you brought Misty!”
He chuckles softly, shaking his head. He has his guitar strapped on him, resting against his back. He settles it beside him carefully, grinning.
“Disappointed?” He asks.
He’s trying to take you in without you growing uncomfortable--not that his gaze has ever made you uncomfortable. You’re wearing the ugliest hot-pink collared shirt with the Dairy ‘N’ Berries logo on the breast, a faded pair of blue jeans, and clunky tennis shoes that he thinks used to be white. Your hair is pulled back--as much as you can pull your hair back--and your face is free of any makeup. You’re tired, like you always are when you pull a double, but he sees the relief written all over your features in seeing him.
“Entirely,” you tease right back. You glance at the clock. Only another hour until close. You have time. “Pick your poison.”
Jake glances down at the buckets of ice cream, all six of them, and ignores the fat black fly buzzing around in the glass. Beggars can’t be choosers. He points to the strawberry and you nod at once, grabbing one of the shitty paper cups from beside the register and scooping the ice cream hastily.
“How was work, honey?” Jake asks, taking the cup from you and leaning against the counter. You don’t hand him a spoon so he simply digs his two fingers in the cup and sucks the ice cream off them. “Make enough money to get us the Hell outta dodge?”
You shake your head, frowning. You untie your apron again and hang it up on a crooked hook.
“Someone tipped me in fuckin’ dryer lint today,” you say, pointing to the measly tip jar. “Honestly, maybe they thought that was our trash can. Can’t blame ‘em, I guess.”
Jake is making a proper mess--like he always does. He’s scooping the pink ice cream out and sucking his fingers clean devilishly, making lewd noises when his tongue twirls around his fingernails. He has cream all around his mouth now, doing his damndest to finish the free cup of ice cream as you watch with an amused smile.
“You poor thing,” Jake tuts, sticking out his lower lip.
You nod, throwing your hands up.
“I know. People should just throw their money at me,” you say. “Like a stripper.”
“Would if I could,” Jake sighs, eyebrows raised.
That makes you laugh.
“Think I’m stripper material?”
Jake snorts, his eyes falling to his fingers dipped in the quickly-melting ice cream. His cheeks are dusted pink, which is strange because you hardly ever see his cheeks get pink. Not unless he’s pissed off or very drunk. But this is a new blush, surely--one that has something to do with the thought of you taking all your clothes off and performing for Jake.
This is your usual banter, something you’ve probably joked about before. But now there’s something sitting between you two, something that makes your thighs feel weak and your tongue dry. You almost had sex last night. He felt you grip the head of his cock, felt you take him inside for a few precious moments.
“I think you can do anythin’ you set your mind to,” Jake decides on, winking.
The two of you look at each other for a long moment, watching each other’s mouths.
“Slap that on a poster,” you whisper finally, biting your lip.
Jake looks at your face--how earnest and lovely it is, even in this dingy ice cream shop with the awful overhead lighting--and sighs softly.
“How’s the knee?” He asks.
“Hurts like a bitch,” you tell him, smiling.
He frowns, finally plucking a spoon from behind the counter so he can shovel the ice cream into his mouth properly.
“Poor Filly,” he pouts.
He wants to ask you if everything else is okay. If you woke up and regretted almost having sex with him as you laid on his naked chest. It isn’t that you gave any indication that you did--which you absolutely did not regret at all--it’s just that Jake has been fretting about it all day. Since he kissed your sleepy lips early this morning and left through your window, you’re all he’s been able to think about.
“Stupid games win stupid prizes,” you mutter. “And yes, I am callin’ baseball stupid.”
“Watch your mouth,” he teases, pointing the pink plastic spoon at you. “You could be talkin’ to the next Babe Ruth.”
“Didn’t know Babe Ruth threw low balls,” you say softly, furrowing your brows in faux-confusion.
Jake settles into a chair behind the counter, strumming Misty as you count the register. He’s tired, having been up since six in the morning, but he’s happy to be here.
It’s only the two of you in the dinky place, the fluorescents flickering and buzzing above. It’s hot in here, hot enough that you have the drive-thru window cracked open to allow fresh air in. At the very least, it smells like ice cream in here, even though you’ve already put lids on all the gallons in the freezer.
“Sounds pretty,” you mutter to Jake as you finger the crumbled dollar bills, not glancing up at him. “What is it?”
“It’s Leonard Cohen,” Jake says. “Suzanne.”
You hum, nodding.
He’s good at playing the guitar--he’s been doing it since his mama scrounged and bought him Misty a little over a decade ago. Taught himself with sound, obsessively replaying songs and strumming until they sounded identical.
Glancing at the clock again, a breath finally leaves your lungs. You set all the cash down, lock the front door, turn off the neon open sign in the window, and shut off the front lights.
“Thank fuckin’ God,” you sigh, smiling at Jake when you return to your place at the register. “Today’s been so fuckin’ long.”
All that’s kept you going today is thinking about last night. You have to keep reminding yourself that it was real, that it happened to you. You can still feel his tongue against your folds, his cock against your thigh, his hair between your fingers. It makes you shiver just to think about.
“Miss me all day?” Jake grins, glancing at you through his lashes as he continues to strum leisurely.
“Yes,” you answer honestly, glancing at him. “Kept thinkin’ about last night.”
His fingers falter, Misty crooning notes randomly. His throat is tight as he lets his hands rest on his lap, arms resting on the guitar.
“Me too,” Jake answers. “Are you okay? Like, with everythin’ that happened?”
You don’t break your gaze from his as you nod.
“More than,” you answer. “And, you know, I think you’re right. We should make it special.”
His fingers are stiff now.
“Yeah?” He asks. “Any ideas?”
You shrug, pink coloring your throat. You stuff the money back into the register and close the drive-thru window, locking it.
“You’re the experienced one here,” you tell him.
He watches you move about the shop, wiping things down and double-checking machines. And he can tell that you’re just busying yourself, avoiding his gaze. But then when you’re in range, when he can swing it, he rests his guitar beside him and pulls you towards him. He wraps his arms around your waist and opens his legs so you’re standing between them.
You look down at him, heart in your throat, lip bitten. But relief courses through your veins to just be touching him. You want to sleep in the same bed as him every night this week, want to press your belly against his belly and feel his hunger. You want to sit inside his mouth and feel every word he utters.
“I’ll make it special,” he promises.
He reaches up, strokes your cheek.
You’re both very tired. But you both know, in a big and scary way, that you’ll never be too tired to fall into each other’s arms. It nearly frightens you, the way your bones seem to turn to liquid as soon as you’re in his arms. You want to give it all way, want to give it all up, want to give in and just lay against Jake.
“Okay,” you whisper.
And then you fall into his lap, your arms around his neck. You just breathe him in as he holds you tight. He smells like a barn--you love it. And you lace your fingers in his hair and nestle yourself against his face.
“Sure you’re okay?” Jake asks. He’s only asking because of all this sudden affection, all this closeness. “Cause you can, like, talk to me. About anythin’.”
You nod, sighing.
“M’just tired. Wanna sit here with you.”
His throat is warm.
“Yeah, we can do that,” he says softly. “We can do that.”
✯ 𝐚/𝐧: yeefuckinghaw!! did I trick you with the almost-sex?
✯ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫
✯ 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐨𝐚𝐫𝐝
✯ 𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐭𝐚𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
✯ 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬:
@violetta-ximena
@hazyretina
@illicithallways
@callsign-cacti
@chicomonks
@royalpurplehuskies
@widemiffyhappy
@djs8891
@shari_berri
@dempy
@ofxinnocence
@jmitxhieo
@jstarr86
@myfaveficrecs
@princess76179
@roosters-girl
@thedroneranger
@blahblechblah
@aemondssiut
@twsssmlmaa
@shawnsblue
@wolfiealina
@hangmanscoming
@whoeverineedtobe
@fragile-heartt
@averyhotchner
@jjlevin
@bradshawseresinbabe
@unhinged-btch
@bradshawbabe
@lt-spork
@maddievevo
@linkpk88
@eli2447
@cosmic-psychickitty
@shanimallina87
✯ 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐝/𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬, 𝐃𝐌 𝐦𝐞!
#hangman seresin x reader#jake hangman seresin#jake hangman x reader#jake seresin x reader#jake hangman x y/n#jake seresin#jake seresin x you#jake seresin fanfiction#hangman seresin#hangman angst#hangman x you#hangman x reader#hangman au#hangman fluff#hangman series#jake hangman seresin x reader#jake hangman x you#jake hangman fic#jake hangman imagine#top gun maverick hangman#hangman top gun#top gun hangman#jake x filly#jake seresin imagine#jake seresin angst#jake seresin series#hangman seresin x you#hangman seresin smut#rumours universe
95 notes
·
View notes
Text
The Twilight Zone S1E35
The Mighty Casey
“Once upon a time, it was a baseball stadium that housed a major league ball club known as the Hoboken Zephyrs. Now it houses nothing but memories and a wind that stirs in the high grass of what was once an outfield, a wind that sometimes bears a faint, ghostly resemblance to the roar of a crowd that once sat here. We're back in time now, when the Hoboken Zephyrs were still a part of the National League, and this mausoleum of memories was an honest-to-Pete stadium. But since this is strictly a story of make believe, it has to start this way: once upon a time, in Hoboken, New Jersey, it was tryout day. And though he's not yet on the field, you're about to meet a most unusal fella, a left-handed pitcher named Casey.”
#horror#tv#tv show#tv shows#tvshowedit#my edit#myedit#tvedit#tv edits#tv edit#60s#60s horror#60s tv#60s tv shows#60s tv show#60s tv series#rod sterling#the twilight zone#twilight zone#twilightzoneedit#my gif#my gifs#tv gifs#tv gif#tv show gifs#tv show gif
7 notes
·
View notes
Text
BASEBALL PRIMER: Terminology
Here is the tag where you can find all the posts.
Listed below are some terminology that is commonly used. It's probably been used in other instances already, but oh boy am I not doing this list in any good order.
Balk - an illegal motion by the pitcher. If there are runners on base, all runners regardless of spot are allowed to advance one base. There's a lot of pitching motions that can result in a balk, but the primary idea is that you're giving the batter or runners on base the 'idea' you're going to pitch, but you never intend to deliver it.
Base - points on the diamond that must be touched by the runner in order to score a run.
Batter - the player currently positioned in the batter's box.
Batter's Box - area on either side of home plate in which the batter stands to hit.
Bunt - a legally batted ball. A batter doesn't swing at it, but instead intentionally tries to tap the ball with the bat into the infield.
Catch - act of a fielder in getting secure possession in his hand or glove of a ball in flight and firmly holding it.
Defense - team currently on the field
Double Header - two games being played on the same day
Double Play - a defensive play in which two offensive players are put out as a result of one continuous action.
Dugout - area where the players currently not on the field sit
Fair Ball - a legally batted ball that is within the foul lines
Fair Territory - any space from third to first that is within the foul lines.
Fielder - one of nine defensive players on the field
Fielder's Choice - a fielder who handles a fair ball throwing to another base other than first in order to get a preceding runner out.
Fly Ball - ball that goes high in the air when batted.
Force Play - play in which a runner loses his right to occupy a base when the current batter becomes a runner.
Foul Ball - a ball that is batted back behind home plate, or on the outside of the foul lines.
Foul Territory - the space on the opposite side of the foul lines, usually running along the dugouts.
Ground Ball - a batted ball that rolls along the ground
Ground Rule Double - when a ball in the outfield hits the ground and bounces over the outfield wall. Batter ends up at second base.
Infield - the diamond shaped area of the field that borders the bases. the base paths of the infield are dirt.
Infielder - a player who occupies a position in the infield
Infield Fly - a fair fly ball which can be caught by an infielder, which first and second, or first, second and third bases are occupied before the second out. Infield Fly Rule: On the infield fly rule the umpire is to rule whether the ball could ordinarily have been handled by an infielder not by some arbitrary limitation such as the grass, or the base lines. The umpire's judgment must govern, and the decision should be made immediately. When an infield fly rule is called, runners may advance at their own risk. If on an infield fly rule, the infielder intentionally drops a fair ball, the ball remains in play.
Line Drive - a ball batted directly to a fielder without touching the ground.
Offense - the team currently at-bat.
Outfield - the portion of the field that expands past the infield, bordered by the first and third base lines
Outfielder - a player that occupies the position in the outfield
Quick Return Pitch - an illegal pitch intended to make the batter off balance
Runner - an offensive player who is advancing towards or touching any base
Tag - a fielder touching a base or a person with the ball in their glove or hand
5 notes
·
View notes
Note
heyy just saw ur open for eddie fic promps!!
so I was thinking of a fic with a female reader and Eddie
what could happen is the stranger things team is hanging out (or fighting) when vecnas curse hits the reader and she starts flying. no one knows her favourite song to save her except Eddie because it’s ‘their song’. the reader falls into Eddie's arms after safely running free from vecna, the reader and Eddie have a moment alone he realizes from almost losing her that he loves her. it can turn smutty from there idk
thank you smmmmmm I adored ur first Eddie fic and cant wait to see more 💕
Your Love
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Non-Canon Compliant, Vecna’s Curse, Secret Mutual Pining, Violence
Fic Song: This one, in particular, was fun. Their song is Your Love by The Outfield.
Eddie Munson Oneshots Masterpost.
A/N: Reader is a little older than Eddie in this (only by a year) but that’s because it fits well with the song and of course so that they’re both adults. Also, this one kind of got away from me. I didn’t plan for it to be this long. Whoops. Anyways, enjoy!
The gang is quiet as if they’re afraid of making a sound to startle you.
All of you are hanging around outside Eddie’s trailer, huddled together waiting for Nancy and Robin to reach out and tell you what Victor Creel says. You’re staring at the grass, one hand balled into a fist while the other clutches your best friend’s hand.
You and Eddie had been inseparable for years. You were a year older than him in school and met your senior year. He was a junior, one you had seen around for a while but never talked to. It wasn’t until you saw Corroded Coffin playing at the Hideout that you realized how special he was. You talked to him after the show and the rest was history.
He’s currently sitting next to you, one arm around your shoulders while he holds your hand. His thumb absentmindedly runs over your knuckles, trying to provide some semblance of comfort. Max is on your other side, arms clinging to her legs and her chin resting on her knees.
You both have seen the grandfather clock. Max saw it that morning. You saw it yesterday.
Eddie flipped when you told him. At first, you hadn’t said anything because, just like Max, you thought it was all in your head, leftover trauma from things you experienced in the last few years. Nightmares were par for the course when you suffered from PTSD.
But when you put the pieces together, when you realize what’s going on, you tell them everything.
Eddie doesn’t take it well. “What the fuck?!” he yells. “You should have told me!”
He had never yelled at you before. In fact, you couldn’t remember if you have two ever fought. “I already told you I didn’t know what was happening!”
“It doesn’t matter! How could you call us best friends if you didn’t even confide in me that you were having nightmares?”
“What good would it have done?”
Eddie looks crestfallen and takes a step forward, grabbing both your hands. “I could have been there for you. I could have talked you through them so you weren’t suffering alone. Do you know what it feels like to hear that your…” He pauses. “Your best friend is hurting and you had no idea?”
You’re scared. The fear you tried to push down wouldn’t stay put and it’s bubbling to the surface. “Eddie, what am I going to do? What is Max going to do?” The tears fall fast and he tugs you into a tight hug, his hand stroking the back of your head.
“It’s alright. We’ll figure it out. Together.”
Now, you sit in silence. And wait.
There are so many things you want to say, so many things you never got to share with Eddie. You want to tell him what his friendship means to do, how no matter how bad your day is, one smile from him and you’re feeling better. The small box in your heart, the one you use to lock your feelings away, rattles and shakes. It’s coming open and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. You want to tell Eddie that you’re stupidly in love with him and have been since the moment you two met. You don’t care that he only sees you as a friend.
In minutes you could be dead. There’s no time like the present.
You close your eyes for a moment, stealing your nerves and taking a deep breath. Without looking at him, you start to speak, “Eddie, I need to tell you something.”
“Anything, babe.”
Glancing around you can tell the others are trying to act like they aren’t listening. Or they’re too lost in their own thoughts to pay attention. Either way, you know this is the most privacy you’re going to get right now. You look at Eddie, and he’s staring at you with those big brown eyes of his. Those full lips are turned down at the edges into a frown that you wish you could kiss away.
“If this is really the end, if I’m going to die—”
“You won’t! Don’t say that!”
“Just, listen please.” You place a finger over his lips to quiet him. “I need to say something. In case I never get the chance again.”
“What is it?”
You take a deep breath and his arm slips from your shoulders. Both his hands are now holding yours. You stare down at his rings, letting your fingers brush across them. You love his hands, have always admired them when he’s doing anything from gesturing wildly as he talks or shredding it on his guitar. There’s a lump in your throat and your eyes sting with tears. You close them, unable to look at him while you say this.
“I have feelings for you, Eddie. I always have.”
It’s like a huge weight has been lifted off your shoulders. Eddie doesn’t speak and you take advantage of his stunned silence.
“I know we’re best friends and I’m sure you won’t ever think of me that way, but I needed to tell you, I needed to get it off my chest before Vecna does…whatever he does. In case Nancy and Robin are late. In case they can’t figure out how to stop it. I love you, Eddie Munson.”
There’s a beat of silence. And then another. And another.
Eddie shifts next to you, his hands tightening their hold on yours. When he leans in, you can feel his breath ghost across your ear. “Aw, how touching.”
Your eyes fly open and your head whips to the side. Everyone is gone. Max and the others have disappeared and it’s just you and Eddie, sitting on the steps to his trailer. The sky has gone dark, black inky clouds rolling in and it’s like all the color has been sucked from the world. The man sitting next to you is not Eddie. He looks like Eddie, and he sounds like him, but you can tell by the evil grin on his face, a grin that’s just a touch too wide, that it’s not him.
“Poor little girl pining for a man who’ll never love her,” Vecna says, making Eddie’s face pout in a way that’s always weakened your resolve before. And he fucking knows it. He’s taunting you, messing with you.
You gasp and try to pull away, but his grip is tight and his left hand, Eddie’s left hand, starts to grow, elongate, turn into a taloned monstrosity as he keeps his hold on you. Your free hand moves on its own, throwing an uppercut right to Vecna’s chin, causing him to loosen his hold for a second.
It’s enough for you to scramble away, running for your life.
“Come back, babe,” VecnaEddie calls with a sadistic smile. “Don’t you want a kiss?”
---
You were about to say something but stop mid-sentence. When Eddie looks at you, your eyes have rolled back in your head and he screams your name. “NO! No, no, no, no, not yet! FUCK! Come back!” he yells, shaking your shoulders.
The others immediately scramble to their feet. Dustin dives for the walkie-talkie. “Nancy! ROBIN! CODE RED!” he yells into it. “I REPEAT, CODE RED!”
Lucas pulls Max to the side while Steve and Eddie try to wake you up. “It’s not working! IT’S NOT WORKING!” Eddie yells.
“I SEE THAT!” Steve yells back. He starts saying your name too. “Just hang on! Henderson, any word?!”
“Nothing!” Dustin tries the walkie again. “NANCY, ROBIN, WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?!”
Eddie is beside himself. Seeing you like this, vulnerable and at the mercy of Vecna reminds him of seeing Chrissy’s broken body. He can’t handle it if that happens to you. He holds your face, calling your name over and over again. This can’t be it. This can’t be how your story ends.
He never got a chance to tell you he loves you.
Suddenly, Robin’s voice comes through the walkie. “MUSIC! DUSTIN, IT’S MUSIC!”
Music. Music.
“Eddie, quick, what’s her favorite song?!” Dustin yells.
“It’s—”
Suddenly, you float out of his and Steve’s grasp, arms spread to your side and head shaking. Eddie grabs Steve’s arm. “I need your help! We need my guitar and amp!”
---
You’re running for your life. The trailer park is long gone and now you’re in some red limbo. Skidding to a halt, you almost run into a pillar, where the broken and decaying body of one of Vecna’s victims is held up with vines.
You hear Vecna say your name, no longer using Eddie’s voice, but his own terrible baritone. “Where do you think you’re going? It’s too late. Your time is up!”
“EDDIE!” you scream, covering your ears, trying to drown out Vecna’s voice. “EDDIE! HELP ME!”
Your body lurches forward and suddenly, Vecna is there before you, clawed hand rising as he forces you into the air. You try to struggle, you try to fight but nothing is working. His other hand comes around your throat and you try to kick him away.
He doesn’t flinch.
---
Steve pushes the amp out of the trailer and Eddie follows right behind, slinging his guitar over his shoulder. “Plug it in!” he snaps, yanking his necklace off, clutching the guitar pick you got him years ago. He never takes it off. It’s always there under his shirt, close to his heart.
He hears the feedback of the amp when Steve plugs it in and wastes no time. “This is for you, babe,” he says, then starts to play.
“Josie's on a vacation far away, come around and talk it over. So many things that I want to say, you know I like my girls a little bit older, I just want to use your love tonight,” he keeps his focus on you, thinking of your face every time he plays this song. “I don't want to lose your love tonight.”
You were the first person to see him, truly see him for who he was. You’ll never know what that meant to him, how his heart has ached for you for years. How you were always there, yet just out of his reach.
“I ain't got many friends left to talk to, nowhere to run when I'm in trouble. You know I'd do anything for you, stay the night but keep it undercover.” He thinks about all the times you fell asleep in his bed, not wanting to go home. Or when people were looking for him after a bad drug deal and he’d sneak into your room and crawl into bed with you. Half asleep, you always pull him in close. “I just want to use your love tonight. I don't want to lose your love tonight.”
---
Through the fear and the sound of your heart pounding in your ears, you hear something else. A familiar melody, and a familiar voice. The voice of an angel. Your angel to be exact.
Try to stop my hands from shaking, but something in my mind's not making sense. It's been a while since we were all alone, I can't hide the way I'm feeling.
Eddie. THAT’S Eddie. Your Eddie. You’d know his voice anywhere. You keep struggling against Vecna, shutting your eyes and picturing the man you love. Sitting at the picnic table while skipping class, or more recently, in your new apartment getting high and blaring the latest single from your favorite band. His big bright smile every time you walk through the door. How you always have to sit close no matter how much space is available. Always right there. Always within reach.
As you're leaving, please would you close the door? And don't forget what I told you, just 'cause you're right that don't mean I'm wrong, another shoulder to cry upon.
You let your feelings for him out. Shatter that tiny box in your heart you stored them in so you wouldn't get hurt. You need to get back to him, you need to tell him how you feel.
I just want to use your love tonight. I don't want to lose your love tonight.
You love him. You love everything about him. You want to marry him, to run away from this stupid place and have a life together. A good life. A long life.
Not this. You’re not ready to die.
You summon all of your strength and with a yell, dig your thumbs into Vecna’s eyes. His hand loosens on your throat to stop you. He knocks your right hand away, grabbing your wrist. But his left hand is too busy, focused on keeping you suspended in front of him. You push and push and push your thumb into his left eye until he’s screaming along with you and you feel the eye break in its socket.
Vecna’s not supposed to have his left eye anyway. Eddie would be proud.
I just want to use your love tonight. I don't want to lose your love tonight.
Vecna drops you. With a cry of pain, you land hard on your knees but instantly, you’re on your feet and running. Ahead, through the haze of red, you see it. A break in the red. A portal to the other half of your heart. Eddie. You see your love, your best friend, playing his guitar, singing his heart out to you.
You run to him.
I just want to use your love tonight. I don't want to lose your love tonight,
You picture every smile he ever gave you. Every hug, every kiss on the forehead, every brush of his hand. You’re coming Eddie. Just keep singing.
Oh, I don't want to lose your love.
I don't wanna, no, I don't wanna.
I don't wanna lose.
You’re almost there. He’s getting clearer and clearer. You can see the sweat on his brow, the concentration on his face as he plays your favorite song. The song that always makes you think of him. The one you insisted he learn so he could play it for you whenever you want.
Your love.
Your love.
Your love.
---
Eddie finishes the last chord and hears you gasp. He manages to sling his guitar onto his back with just enough time to catch you as you fall out of the air. Your eyes are back and filled with tears. You’re crying and clinging to him, and he’s holding you tight, saying your name over and over again.
“Eddie!” you’re sobbing, clutching his leather coat, and burying your face in his chest.
“I’m here, I’m here, babe. You did it. You came back to me.”
The others engulf the both of you in a group hug. In the back of your mind, you can hear Vecna growling in anger. But he can’t get you right now. You’re surrounded by love, not just Eddie’s love but the love of your friends.
“Come on, let’s get her inside,” Steve says, having the younger ones back up. “Get her off the ground.”
Eddie carried you into his trailer. You’re too hysterical to walk, shaking like crazy and gripping Eddie’s coat so tight your fingers go numb. “Give her some space,” Eddie says to the others. He lowers you onto the couch, but you refuse to let him go.
Your friends stay huddled by the door, clutching each other and crying, partly for relief but partly because they’re scared.
“Eddie, Eddie, he had me! He was going to—”
“I know, I know, sweetheart. But he didn’t. You fought back. You’re here, with me, where you belong.”
“I love you.” The words are tumbling out before you can stop them. Pulling away from Eddie’s chest, you take his face in your hands. “I love you, Eddie. Damn it, I’m in love with you. I have been for years. And I thought…I thought I was going to die without telling you. I’m sorry—”
He’s kissing you before you can finish your thought. Arms around your waist, tugging you onto his lap, he’s kissing the life out of you.
Steve turns his back on the display, hiding you guys from the prying eyes of the group. “Alright, everybody outside. Let’s give them a moment.”
No one argues.
You and Eddie are left alone, kissing heatedly. His lips are as soft as you always imagined them to be and when his tongue pushes past your lips to find yours, all you can do is hold onto him for dear life. You’re back. He brought you back.
When the kiss finally ends, you don’t draw away. You stay as close as you can, your forehead touching his. “I’ve waited so long to hear you say those words,” he says, stroking your cheek. “I fucking love you too.”
“Kiss me.”
“I’m never doing anything else.”
Your lips collide once more and your heart sings.
#eddie munson x you#eddie munson x female reader#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson#eddie stranger things#joseph quinn
286 notes
·
View notes
Text
Eye on the ball - pt. 1 - masterlist
next
summary: ever since you showed up, she can’t help but hate you for distracting her. but if it really your fault?
warnings: swearing, insults, hella angst,
tags: @ax-y10 , @joviepog , @idontreallyexistyet , @pheliiaa , @rqvii , @vibestillaxxx , @lillylvjy (ask to be added!)
word count: 1.9k
Wilma always loved softball, it was her favorite thing besides painting. She was the best player on her team, she was the all-star player. Every couch wanted her on their team and anyone who had her felt honored. She always loved games, watching the faces of the opposing team as she destroyed them.
That was until you came along.
All of a sudden there you were, by the coach’s side, in the dugout, picking up the stray balls. You were everywhere!
You caught her eye, and she hated it. She hated how she found herself staring, hated how distracted you made her, hated how you cost her to lose a game. She blamed it all on you.
You were just too, well, you! You were too close with the coach, to the point she started listening to your ideas and suggestions, instead of hers. It infuriated her. She wanted you gone. You didn’t even play on their team, why were you there? Sure, you got dropped off and went home with the coach, sure everyone knew your last name, and sure you looked like the coach's twin.. but she just never put two and two together. She didn’t realize you were her coach’s kid.
The way she found out was funny, to say the least.
Wilma was at the batting cages, her brother tossing her balls and having to duck whenever she hit one. She was taking all her anger out on them, even putting a hole in one from the force of her hit. She didn’t see the coach walking up to the cage until Wil stopped throwing the balls, and as she looked up.. she saw you.
A grimace formed on her face, clutching her bat in her hands as she slowly approached to hear what the coach wanted.
“Wilma, I was wondering if you could practice with my kid for a bit. Your poor brother is terrified.” Her face dropped, her jaw practically on the floor. Kid? You were HER kid?
It was as if her whole worldview came crashing down, and the cherry on top? She wanted her to practice with you!
She would rather be hung by a noose around her neck, tossed onto train tracks, swept away by the waves. She wanted nothing to do with you and.. your you-ness!
Seeing how aggressive she was made you want nothing to do with her, and as far as she was concerned, she would have loved the idea.
But your mom was persistent. Which leads up to now.
You stood in the dugout, wearing a name tag your mom got you so people would know you weren’t a player. You watched as the team warmed up, their baby blue jerseys made them look vibrant on the grass, especially under the somewhat yellow-tinted lights.
Your gaze diverted to Wilma, who was at the pitcher's mound.
With each pitch she threw, her back leg kicked up a cloud of dirt. The ball made a harsh noise as it landed in the catcher's glove. Her face of determination, the way each ball hit the same spot each time. She was amazing!
Of course, you wouldn’t dare say anything. She’d rip your throat out. Your mom picked up at you staring, a smile tugging at her lips as she approached you.
“Someone has an eye on my best player.” Her tone teased you, nudging your arm slightly with her elbow. “As if. She’s annoying, she is always bickering about something. Why can’t you send her into the outfield? It would be peaceful for us all.” Your remark only earned a sigh from your mom, her arm wrapping around your shoulder to pull you closer.
This was a usual occurrence. You and Wilma would throw insults at each other left and right, and your mom just had to put up with it. “You gotta get along with her at some point. She’s really not the worst.” Your mom’s reasoning only made you wanna disagree. You couldn’t get along with her! She was horrible!
“One day. If she ever stops insulting me.” You smile at her, watching as she simply nodded before walking away, calling the girls into the dugout. The game was about to start.
Your team was in the field first, they were playing against a neighboring town, and everyone agreed to use your field. Wilma was of course at the pitchers mound, throwing warm up throws, as you stood behind the fence, just behind the umpire.
A knowing look formed on her face, the ball in her hand going above the catcher, hitting the fence directly in front of your face. It made a loud rattling noise, earning a yelp of sudden fear from you. “What the hell was that for?” You mumbled under her breath, shooting her a glare as you crossed your arms under your chest.
She always did this at games. Tried her absolute best to startle you and make sure you hated her, just as much as she hated you.
She wore a shit-eating grin, knowing she got on your nerves already. She continued to practice, before the first batter was up. You quickly moved into the dugout, standing close to the fence, your fingers holding onto the cold metal as you watched closely.
And Wilma noticed.
She noticed the way your lips parted, and your brows were knitted together. The way your eyes were so focused on the ball gripped in her hand. The slight breeze that flowed perfectly between the open areas of the fence, blowing your hair out of your face. What had gotten into her?
She threw the ball, barely paying attention to hear she threw a lousy pitch. It didn’t even make it into the batter's box, it was a whole two feet away. She didn’t know why she was suddenly so distracted. Was it a lack of water? The lights beaming down on her? The cold air nipping at her skin?
She tried again. Another lousy pitch. She was already ruining the game, and they weren’t even done in the first inning. She could feel eyes on her, her coach giving her a confused look and you.. you were watching closely. You looked determined, like you wanted her to throw a good pitch, you wanted her to strike this girl out.
She took a deep breath, her eyes darting away from you, her hand clutching the ball. She quickly threw a pitch, a strike. The sudden thought of you wanting her to do good gave her the will to do it.
She was confused to say the least, but went along with it. And thank God for it, she struck out! Her gaze immediately found you, watching you smile widely and cheer for her actions. You were cheering for her. Or at least she thought so.
It didn’t take long for her usual flow to kick back in, striking out two more girls, and allowing her team to be up to bat. She sat down on the bench, drinking her water with a slightly annoyed look on her face as she heard your voice.
You were talking to the coach, discussing their next game and whether it should be an away or home game. She missed when it was the coach talking to her, but she couldn’t stay mad forever, you were her kid.
She was still jealous. Hating the way you smiled up at her, the way your hands carefully grabbed the clipboard to make your own marks, or the way you kept stealing glances in her direction…
Wait. You were looking at her.
She panicked internally, quickly getting ready to go and bat, even though she was fifth in line. Her first teammate didn’t even hit a ball yet, let alone swung at a decent pitch.
She just couldn’t handle the thought of you looking at her. It was.. well, you! She hated your gaze, and how small she felt under it. How your voice managed to bring out all these emotions within her. She hated it.
She hated you. Why? She was jealous.
The entire game she seemed off. Her teammate, Charlotte, kept asking if she was okay, but only got brushed off. When she went up to bat she would swing at the ball as if it killed her family, when she pitched she almost hit a few of the girls with the ball, she was just upset and it was so obvious.
The first inning was okay, she made it up to bat, but almost hit the poor third basemen in the face. She accidentally got dirt in the eyes of the first basemen, and almost threw her bat at the umpire.
Second inning was better, somewhat. She was lousy with her pitching, still distracted by you in the dugout. Your intense stare on the bases, the way you acted almost exactly like your mom.
She hated how she could look up to your passion, how she could see the similarities between you and her. She didn’t want to be anything like you.
Second inning batting didn’t include her. She stayed on the bench the entire time, making sure to keep her distance between you and her, but still shot a glare whenever you spoke.
Third inning. Worst one by far.
Her pitching was worse, all because you had begun to pay more attention to your mom than her. Your voice was a distraction. That’s what she told herself.
She was up to bag again this inning, nearly hitting another girl with the ball, but it was a foul. And then she hit the ball directly into the gut of the pitcher.
She felt horrible, staring in disbelief, before looking back at you with an annoyed look. You distracted her! How? Well.. she wasn’t exactly sure how.
After the third inning it was a blur, she didn’t really focus on anything except the ball. She was tired of focusing on you. The coach had to pull her aside and talk some sense into her, can you blame her though? She was so out of it the entire time.
She wanted to blame you, but didn't want to get into the face. She just couldn’t handle your gaze, your smile, everything about you.
After the game, it was obvious she was in a bad mood. She didn’t wanna tell anyone that you had gotten on her nerves, because you didn’t even do anything. You were simply there.
Coach had gotten the girls snacks for after the game, and insisted you had them out. You gave every girl a pretzel and bag of chips, until you approached Wilma. Her scowl didn't go unseen, as you slowly reached your hand forward and tried to give her the food.
“What do you want?” Her tone was snippy, staring down at your hand with furrowed brows. “It’s from the coach.. just take it.” You sighed, an annoyed tone leaving your lips, watching as she slowly took it from you. “Thanks.” She mumbled, walking away quickly and met up with her brother.
He instantly saw her expression, and how she comically aggressively ate the pretzel. “Someone’s upset.” He laughed to himself, earning a glare from her which made him instantly shut his mouth. He let her get in the back of their moms car, keeping an awkward silence between the two of them.
“How was the game?” His voice was sheepish, raising his brows as he leaned up from the backseat, his head next to hers. “I hate the coach’s kid.” She sighed and took a sip of her water, turning in her seat to look at him. “She just keeps listening to them for ideas. They don’t even play!”
Their mom quickly told her to keep down, explaining how hate was a strong word, and all that. But no matter what Wilma was told, she would stick to what she said.
She hated you.
#phxntomsdusk#phxntoms fics#wilma soot#wilma soot x reader#wilma soot x you#wilma soot y/n#wilma soot fluff#wilma soot angst#softball!wilma
9 notes
·
View notes
Text
Coach
For @dukexietyweek Day 8: Kids (Ao3) (login required)
Word Count: 1786
Rating: T
Characters: Virgil, Remus, Roman, Andy (TS Shorts Anxiety), OCs, Pattong (mentioned)
Warnings: mentions of toxic parents, death mention, sex mention
Virgil is one of the best coaches the local Little League has, and the kids love him. And so does one of their older brothers. And why wouldn’t Remus adore the one person more than willing to help him with Roman after losing their parents?
---
"Alright, bring it in!" Virgil shouted to his team. It was almost time for the first game of the season and he wanted to make sure his kids were ready.
About a dozen kids flocked to his dugout from the field, ready for the first huddle of the season. He was already proud of these kids, all between 10 and 11 years old. They had spirit and they trusted him to keep the team in line and in good spirits.
"Great warm up out there. Now we're fielding first. Andy, you think you can pitch this inning?" Virgil said and eyed his cousin.
"No."
"Alright, do you want to pitch at all for this game?"
"No."
"Okay. So you, Mike, and Damian won't go on the mound. That makes this easier. Davis, you're pitching first. Mike, left. Abdul, center. Wayne, right. Carlos, first. Andy, second. Roman, shortstop. Demitri, third. Toshio, catcher—Coach Pat will help you suit up. Damian, Benny, you're on the bench for now."
"I don't want to be left field!" Mike complained. He was the difficult one. He wanted to be the star. The hero.
"Everyone is going to be in every position at least three times. It's important to know how to play in different positions so you know what to expect from your team."
"But we won't win if I'm in the outfield!"
"That's not true, and we don't have to win. Little League is more like training. We're here to play, to learn how to be a team," Virgil said calmly, "it's no fun if you only care about winning."
"My dad is gonna be mad."
"If we don't win, I'll talk to him. And that goes for all of you, if you're scared that your parents will be mad, I'll talk to them. Now, who's ready to play ball?"
The kids cheered, bringing a smile to his face.
"Hands in, on three," he said and held his hand out, palm down. The kids slapped their own hands in with his and counted with him, except for Damian. He was keeping his distance.
"One! Two! Three! Jumpers!"
Virgil smiled at the kids who ran onto the field. Or to the bat box in Toshio's case. Then he eyed Damian and Benny.
"Benny, there's some granola bars and apple slices in this backpack , take it slow so you don't get an upset stomach. And I won't send you out there until you're less dizzy," he said and crouched by the bench to get something out of his bag. It was an oral thermometer. He stepped out of the dugout and approached Damian.
"Stick this under your tongue and have a seat," he told Damian, "I know you want to be out there, or at least watching, but I have to send you home if you have a fever or if you throw up."
"But I wanna be here for my friends," Damian pouted and stuck the thermometer under his tongue without sitting down on the grass or the nearest bench.
"You've got the spirit, Champ. And I don't want to discourage that. I also don't want you to get sicker by being out here. Sometimes the best way to support your team is to take care of yourself."
The thermometer beeped. Virgil slipped it out of the boy's mouth and read it. 103°F.
"Is your mom here?"
Damian nodded.
"You need to go home and rest. You have a high fever," Virgil told him, "I'll make sure you get to her."
Damian was unhappy as he and Virgil headed for the bleachers. The poor kid was such a great team player, he felt bad that he couldn't stay.
The bleachers were intimidating, full of rambunctious family members. Virgil didn't like having to go near them if he could help it. He was glad to see Damian's mother on the lowest bench, chatting with Roman's brother, Remus, a wily man with a mustache, about her hair routine. She always had a way of making her tight coils look incredible.
"Momma," Damian said softly, getting her attention.
"What's wrong, Baby?"
"Coach Virgil said I need to go home," Damian said and pouted, on the verge of tears. His mother turned her gaze on him, ready to fight him for making her baby cry.
"He has a temperature," Virgil admitted and held up the thermometer, "I know he wants to stay for the team, but I can't let him stay like this."
"I want to stay!" Damian sobbed. Virgil knelt by him and rubbed his back.
"You gotta take care of yourself, Champ, even if it makes you a little sad. There'll be other games and we'll be happy to have you feeling better on the field."
Damian nodded and dried his eyes. Virgil offered him an understanding smile and got up.
"Thank you, Virgil. I'm sorry for the mess."
"There's no mess, don't worry. It's great to have someone this dedicated on the team," Virgil said shyly, "But I'll let you get going. Drive safe."
After a quick goodbye, Virgil went back to the dugout to douse his hands in hand sanitizer and to make sure Benny wasn't shaking anymore. He didn't realize that someone was watching him like a hawk from the bleachers.
"Look alive out there!" he called to the outfielders as the next batter came up. He knew the kid, Phil, was actually really good at hitting the ball.
"Thanks, coach," Benny said when Virgil sat down next to him.
"I can't let anyone on my team go hungry," Virgil said and grabbed his clipboard, "Which is why I want you to put this in your bat bag and give it to your mom." He pulled an envelope from the clipboard and handed it to the kid.
"What is it?"
"A gift card for the grocery store. Let's keep it a secret between us," he said and started writing things down. Benny hugged him and hurried to hide his present.
Virgil smiled to himself and watched the game. These kids made the extra work worthwhile.
.
The game itself was pretty standard without too many incidents. Virgil was so glad he didn't have to fight with angry parents over the ump's calls. Even if they didn't win, his team played well.
"You guys did great out there today," Virgil said in the team's last huddle, "You're really coming together as a team and I'm proud of all of you. Now go get some rest and relax, you earned it. I'll see you on Tuesday for practice."
He broke the huddle and his team scattered, except for Andy and Roman.
"Hey, Squirt, can you get the bases and bring them to Coach Pat?" Virgil asked and started packing up. Andy rolled his eyes and trudged onto the field.
"What can I do, Coach Virgil?" Roman asked brightly.
"You don't have to do anything, I know your brother is here and probably wants to go home."
"He says he needs to talk to you," Roman pouted, "And he doesn't shut up. I don't wanna be bored."
Virgil's eyebrows rose slightly. Remus needed to talk to him? What could that feral babe need from him? Roman seemed to love being on his team and he was doing good. It wasn't like he had any reason to need to talk with a boring baseball coach. He could understand Remus might want to talk to him, they were best friends and they acted like boyfriends, and they spent a lot of time watching Roman. But need set off alarm bells.
"You can check the field for any balls. You don't have to go far, or you can see if Coach Pat wants help," Virgil said, "I'll try to make this quick."
Roman beamed at him and ran off to help. Virgil took a moment to finish packing and lean against the fence to calm his nerves. Remus probably wasn't going to yell at him for anything. He was probably just going to talk about Roman. It would be fine.
"Hey there, Coach" an imp purred by his ear, "wanna show me your bat and balls?"
Virgil yelped and spun around. Remus was leaning forward, holding the fence and arching his back coyly. He was grinning and taunting Virgil with his sparkling eyes.
"Jeez, are you trying to give me a heart attack?" Virgil huffed and tried not to stare. Remus looked good in his low rise jeans, neon green shredded crop-top, and spiked leather jacket.
"Nope!" Remus giggled, "You're just so cute when you're startled!"
"Ro said you need to talk to me?"
"Yeah! Are you busy tonight?"
"Why?" Virgil asked and picked up Andy's bat bag and his own.
"Do you want to get dinner and watch old horror movies at my place? Roman is sleeping over with Phil and it won't smell like formaldehyde or anything!" Remus grinned and wiggled his eyebrows. If he weren't an embalmer, Virgil would have questions for Remus.
"Depends. Is there more to it than cuddles?"
"Only if you're my boyfriend," Remus hummed, "Because I was planning on asking you anyway."
Virgil blushed and rubbed his neck.
"If you're sure."
"Yeah! Do you want to make things official?" Remus asked with a little shimmy.
"We don't have to kiss, do we?"
"Only if you want to!"
Virgil stepped out of the dugout and coaxed Remus away from the fence. The little imp was grinning and bouncing on his heels. He was so cute. Virgil couldn't resist kissing his forehead.
"I'll stop by after work and I'll bring Chinese food," he said with a smirk.
"Tease!" Remus huffed and grabbed his shirt. He dragged Virgil into a surprisingly chaste smooch.
"Gross!" Andy complained as he and Roman trudged over to them, both eager to leave.
"It could be grosser!" Remus teased, "I could accidentally sneeze on him too!"
"That's way grosser," Virgil agreed and rolled his eyes.
"Can we go home now?" Roman asked, glancing between the pair.
"Sure! Don't want to stop and say hi to mom and dad?" Remus asked. Roman shook his head. He didn't want to go to the cemetery. He wanted to shower and then spend the night with Phil and play video games. Remus was more than okay with that.
"Alright, then let's go!"
"See you tonight," Virgil said as Remus left with Roman. Then he turned his attention to Andy, who was picking up the backpack.
"Ready, Squirt?"
"Yeah. Are you and Remus dating?"
"We are now."
"Mom owes me 10 bucks. she said you wouldn't get together before I turn 11," Andy said mostly to himself. Virgil sighed and shook his head. He would have to have a talk with his aunt later.
#dukexiety#remus sanders#virgil sanders#sanders sides#roman sanders#andy sanders#dukexietyweek2023#day 8#death mention tw#sex mention tw
19 notes
·
View notes
Text
During The Off-Season, The Old Cincinnati Reds Had Some Curious Side Hustles
It’s coming on World Series time, yet again without the presence of the Cincinnati Reds. As the die-hard fans turn their attention to the hot-stove league or the minutia of their fantasy teams, few give a thought to how today’s players spend the off-season.
In the early 1900s, every professional baseball team enjoyed a post-season romp. The happy few battled it out for World Series honors. But the also-rans kept playing on barnstorming tours, competing with amateur or semi-pro teams for a week or two after the final official game. Once this last hurrah was done, the players scattered to their side hustles.
Not that they needed the money. Rookies earned something like $1,800 in 1900 while stars pulled down $4,000 or more, and those figures translate to $64,000 to $140,000 in today’s dollars. Usually their off-season jobs were an investment in the future, when the pro years ended. Winter jobs were often far removed from the skills required on the diamond.
Reds second baseman Ed Phelps, for example, spent his winters earning a degree in business. Bob Ewing, who pitched for the Reds from 1902 to 1909, scurried home to Wapakoneta each fall to oversee his farm devoted to breeding champion harness-racing horses. Charlie Chech lasted only four years in the majors, pitching in 1905 and 1906 for the Reds, so it’s a good thing he was able to work winters as a pharmacist in St. Paul. Jack Ryder of the Cincinnati Enquirer reported [26 October 1905]:
“Chech is a graduate of the pharmacy department of the University of Wisconsin and is a practical druggist. He has bought an interest in one of the leading drugstores of St. Paul and will spend the winter mixing prescriptions and selling the festive tooth brush, the dry, deceptive sponge and the innocuous drugstore cigar.”
Orval Overall pitched for Cincinnati in 1905 and 1906 and wintered in California, where he helped manage his family’s hotel and fruit ranch. John Barry wandered through Cincinnati twice during a decade in the majors, and spent the off-season coaching football at Niagara University, his alma mater.
Pitcher Tom Walker (1904-05) clerked winters in a Philadelphia clothing store and had a reputation for up-selling hand-me-down suits. According to the Cincinnati Post [2 December 1904]:
“Tom is said to be a wonder, and able to hand out a line of talk about ‘all wool and fast dye’ in a most convincing fashion.”
Miller Huggins was a local boy, who grew up in Walnut Hills and earned a law degree from the University of Cincinnati. After 13 years as a second baseman, he went on to manage the St. Louis Cardinals and the New York Yankees during their glory years in the Twenties. Throughout much of his career, Huggins partnered with Cliff Martin to run a tobacconist’s shop. Per the Enquirer [9 November 1907]:
“Miller Huggins is handling the festive coffin nail, the flagrant ‘two-fer,’ and the lordly ten-center, at his popular smokehouse on Fountain Square.”
Outfielder Fred Odwell’s four years in “The Bigs” were spent in Cincinnati, but his financial future lay in the Empire State. According to the Enquirer:
“Fred Odwell owns a large quarry at his home in Downsville, N.Y., which he superintends during the winter, while his brother looks after the work during the summer. The business is a paying one, and Oddie is well provided for when his ball-playing days are over.”
Apparently, the grass was greener working for Uncle Sam, because Odwell, after a stint as a real estate broker, landed an appointment as postmaster for Downsville.
Hans Lobert logged five years as an infielder for the Reds while he built houses as a carpenter and contractor in Pittsburgh over the winter months. The Reds made something of a fuss about one of their 1907-08 pitchers, Andy Coakley, attending dental school on the East Coast, but it didn’t take. Coakley spent most of his post-playing career running a New York insurance agency while coaching baseball at Columbia University. In that collegiate gig, Coakley discovered a slugger named Lou Gehrig, so he had that going for him.
For a couple of years, the Reds had an actual doctor on the team, but he may not have been much use if a teammate was injured. Doctor Frank “Noodles” Hahn was a veterinarian, specializing in horses and cattle. While pitching for Cincinnati, Hahn enrolled in the Cincinnati Veterinary College. From 1900 until 1919, Cincinnati was home to its very own veterinary school, organized and operated by a consortium of local animal doctors. Noodles did so well in class that he was recruited after graduation to join the faculty of the college and taught there for several years.
A native of Nashville, Hahn confessed that he had no idea how he earned his distinctive nickname, although he had been called “Noodles” since he was a young boy. Hahn landed a pitching spot in the minors when he was just 16 years old and was recruited by the Reds in 1899 before he turned 20. Hahn’s rookie year was one for the record books as he won 23 games while losing only 8, posting a 2.68 ERA. Over seven seasons with the Reds, Hahn racked up 127 wins and 92 losses although he pitched for some decidedly lackluster Cincinnati squads. On 12 July 1900, Hahn hurled a no-hitter against the powerful Philadelphia Phillies and later struck out 16 Boston batters in one game. Problem was, the Reds never ranked higher than fourth in the National League during Hahn’s time in Cincinnati. After several seasons in which he averaged 300 innings, Hahn’s arm gave out. He limped through a half-season with the New York Highlanders, then decided to find another line of work.
It appears that old Noodles could have chosen a couple of careers. The Washington Post [17 June 1906] declared Hahn the best piano player in baseball. There was talk he might have pursued music professionally.
It was large animal veterinary work that finally won out. For a while, Hahn coached and pitched for some semi-pro teams, but he spent decades as a federal meat inspector in Cincinnati. Until he was over 70 years old, Hahn kept a locker at Crosley field. He would visit the ballpark on game day, work out with the team and pitch batting practice, then change back into his business clothes to watch the game. When the Terrace Plaza opened an ice-skating rink on the eighth floor, septuagenarian Noodles Hahn was there, showing off his fancy technique. He died, aged 80, at his retirement home in North Carolina.
7 notes
·
View notes
Note
19. What’s your favorite character headcanon?
hi!!! thank you for this; tbh i have so many headcanons i've loved getting to do this one multiple times.
so, this might toe the line of headcanon/fic idea, but hear me out: draco hates quidditch. his interest in it is entirely performative (bragging to harry when they first meet, joining the team to compete with harry in second year, generally as a way to connect with his dad with typical wizarding interests, etc.) and eventually he gets to be an adult who is comfortable enough to hate quidditch out loud.
i'm not even making any profound point with this or an argument that there's a basis for it in canon, i just think it would be absolutely hilarious. he's the kid who picks grass in the outfield during little league, or whatever the flying version of that is (finding shapes in clouds??) i think he probably actually likes flying itself, and being seeker means he can fuck around for 90% of the game so it suits him.
fic where they're adults and dating and harry keeps taking him to quidditch matches as a shared interest and draco is just like 😐😑 and can't tell harry who is quidditch-obsessed and thinks it's their thing. until he finally explodes into a rant and catches poor harry off guard. maybe there's an obscure other magical sport he loves way more but no one else does so he never gets to dork out about it. yeah.
been saving this one up, clearly 😂
let’s do some fanfic asks!
#asks#teledild0nix#i still think he's probably fair to decent at quidditch because i don't think his ego can take being bad at it#but imagine how mad he gets about losing to harry to a sport over and over and he doesn't even LIKE the sport#it makes the whole thing so much funnier to me#ask meme#fic asks
17 notes
·
View notes
Text
May The Fourth Be With You
Saturday 4th of May arrived and with one eye cast at the weather forecast, I headed out to cover my first game of the Theakston Nidderdale League season.
I’d been looking during the week for a game to get to on Saturday when a post from Paul Garton on Twitter/X caught my attention. He’s the groundsman at Kirk Deighton and the photos he had put up showed a ground that looked in superb condition, considering all the rain we’ve had.
Kirk Deighton Cricket Club is situated a stone’s throw from Wetherby and one of the easier grounds for me to get to. My last visit to the club was in 2017 and I thought it was about time that I got reacquainted.
It’s an easy club to find, from Harrogate head to Spofforth and ‘turn right’ [yes that’s how poor my directions are usually], you will then find the club on your right before you get into the village. Simples!
My Daughter Aibhlinn and I arrived about an hour before first ball and I saw someone putting the final touches to the square, so walked over to make sure the game was still on. It turned out to be Paul and we had a good chat about just how good the ground was.
I will be honest, I was genuinely impressed by the near-perfect state of the grass, given the huge amounts of rain we’ve endured since September last year. Paul and the other volunteers have done a magnificent job.
The game I was there to cover was the Theakston Nidderdale League division seven game between Kirk Deighton CC 2XI and Knaresborough Forest CC 3XI. Coincidentally, my first game of the Theakston Nidderdale League that I covered last season was at Knaresborough Forest, and there were similar concerns about the playing surface then [I seem to remember the boundary rope there had been brought in and certain parts of the outfield was like standing on jelly].
Knaresborough won the toss and elected to bat under the light grey cloud and subdued light.
Kirk Deighton is a compact ground and one that could promote high scoring games; this wasn’t going to be one of them. Instead, this was one of those interesting games that saw runs being scored in a start-stop fashion and wickets falling regularly.
Munro Goldfield was the stand-out performer for Forest, as he reached 32 from 75 balls, hitting five fours. Antony Brown pitched in with 17 runs from 24 balls, which included two sixes.
Knaresborough managed to post 88 all out in just under 32 overs before tea was taken, and to be honest, it looked a tough total to defend.
Kirk Deighton came out after the break in good spirits, but that was quickly dampened when David Bowes was bowled by Own Wibberley for 0 after just one ball. Disaster! Maybe this game had a few twists and turns yet!
The other opener for Kirk Deighton, Qasi Naeem, seemed to settle quickly and although not scoring quickly, looked solid at the crease. Nine runs put on in the first over despite the loss of a wicket and that target did look vulnerable.
Forest bowled well in the next three or four overs, restricting the home team to picking up a few singles and the odd boundary. More importantly, they started to pick up the odd wicket and the score was twenty-something for three; if they could claim a couple more wickets, then the result would be in real doubt.
Kirk Deighton responded with some great hitting, with the ball reaching the boundary fairly regularly to take big chunks out of the required amount. Darren Bowes scored 17 runs from 18 balls; Rick Bower got 14 from 29; and Qasi added a solid 22 in his 71 balls faced.
Wickets were still falling, but with only around 20 required and what seemed like plenty of wickets in hand, the home team appeared to be crusing to a season-opener win.
It was Nick Ireland who hit the winning runs, reaching 24 from 21 balls faced, including three fours and a six. Kirk Deighton had reached the target of 89, losing seven wickets and winning the game by three wickets.
It had been an enjoyable day covering cricket with no rain and some genuinely good play from the two teams. I realise that this isn’t even close to being the highest level of grassroots cricket, but I generally find that as long as you aren’t expecting big scores and big hitting…then you can get some really friendly, competitive and tense games of cricket to watch.
This was certainly one of them!
It may have been seven years since I’ve been to Kirk Deighton, but it certainly won’t be that long before I pop back to catch another game.
A few additional shots above provided by Aibhlinn (aged 11).
#photography#canon#sports#sport#harrogate#yorkshire#thoughts#business#Wetherby#Cricket#Theakston Nidderdale League#Kirk Deighton#Knaresborough#Knaresborough Forest
2 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
rachelll-shayyy
rach
no-pienses-improvisa
Borracha Pero Buena Muchacha.
msmaril-blog
Fortnite Premium Accounts
iwantmykidneyback-blog
iwantmykidneyback
codediscount3
رمز ترويجي الخليج