#and it sucks because i was so excited for this era!!

[chinarle]

sadly i think the 4.x era is going to be the worst one by far

the archon quests were great but everything that came after was so mind numbingly boring that it's making it hard to care about the game outside the aq. the endless festivals events are driving me insane, i miss when events had a plot and a smaller cast :/

[dayurno]

are you going to read tsc when it comes out? and, if not: would you like your acolytes to give you the important kevin day updates or would you rather not?

oh my acolytes huh! well i don’t know :) it’s so nice of you to ask and i’m very touched actually…. nice to me 🥹…. i guess any (good) kevin updates would be nice and probably sway the balance on whether i read it or not, but at first glance i probably won’t read it unless it sparks my curiosity once it’s out and the story starts making its rounds around my circles :) i’m plenty interested in the period where jean stays with the foxes but i don’t much care for the trojans nor the proposed storyline*, though even a picky reader like yours truly can be convinced into buying a story if kevin day’s in it

*by this i don’t mean that i Dislike the process of jean healing but it’s just overall not my favorite theme and, to be frank, i don’t have much interest in reading about a normal well-adjusted team either. from my view tsc is aftg without my favorite parts (namely kevin day as a main character, the foxes’ messy dynamic, problematic and controversial side characters, neil’s narration, The Mafia, andrew in general) and while i am always and forever a ride or die for jean moreau, and i am glad he’s going to get better and be happy, a lot of my feelings for him don’t really stem from the idea that there is a softness underneath all the grit but actually and sincerely the fact that he is crazy. i Love jean because he’s horrible and scared and cruel and i don’t know if i’ll care much for him once he’s out of that state :) i meant it when i said a few months ago that i would’ve been more onboard with a story about the ravens (no matter how gruesome) or even a glimpse of jean’s pov in the nest, though of course nora sakavic should probably choose to be happy every once in a while so i wouldn’t ask her to write that

so tl;dr: you can send me good and relevant kevin updates if you want to and if they’re interesting enough i might read tsc in the future

[skitskatdacat63]

Every semester, I feel like my instant thought is always "I am dropping every class. They're all horrible." but by the end usually end up really liking it so I really just need to ignore my first impressions, but god looking at the syllabi really destroys my mental state

[yrieso]

omg it's april which means only one month until my copy of the girls like girls book ships out......

[daydreaming-in-daisies]

aaaaaand now I can't sleep bc of anxiety about my future and whether or not I'll even graduate next month 🙃

[dixons-sunshine]

Private Space | Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

*GIF isn't mine.*

Summary: Moving into your first apartment with your long-term boyfriend seemed like a dream come true. It wasn’t the most fancy apartment, but it was the first space that was truly only yours and Daryl’s. And Daryl was excited to finally be able to have some much deserved privacy with you—without the risk of others walking in.

Genre: Smut.

Era: Pre apocalypse.

Part of the Shopping Spree, Hangout Dreams AU.

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of Daryl's scars, oral (f receiving), allusions to piv.

Word count: 1.3k.

A/n: I genuinely suck at writing smut, but this request won the poll, so I toughed it out lol. I hope this is somewhat enjoyable!

“Alright,” Daryl began whilst putting the box down on the ground in the small living room of your new apartment. He dusted off his hands before turning to look at you. “That’s the last of it.

You smiled at him and looked around the apartment—your apartment—with a look of awe. The small space certainly wasn’t what most people would fancy as a living space, but that didn’t matter to you. It was the first place that was truly only yours and Daryl’s, and you cherished it with your whole being. The two of you would figure out how to make it look prettier on another today. At that moment, however, you’d just bask in the fact that the two of you were finally able to be independent.

“This is great,” you told him, a contented smile on your face.

Daryl hummed and sent you a small smile of his own. “Yeah, s’good.” He looked around the small space as well, trying to envision what you saw when you looked at it, but failing to do so. “I mean, it ain’t much. Ain’t exactly pretty, but s’somethin’, right?”

You took a step towards him and looped your arms around his neck, Daryl’s hands going to rest on your hips. “It’s perfect, Dar. It’s ours. I can’t ask for more than that.” You rested your forehead against his, letting out a small sigh. “I love my mom, but I’m happy I finally moved out. And I moved in with you, into our own apartment. I don’t need more than that.”

Daryl smiled softly. “Yer amazin’, ya know that?”

“I know,” you joked, before leaning up to close the gap between your lips, softly kissing him.

Daryl hummed into the tender kiss. However, it soon escalated. His tongue lightly swept over your bottom lip, silently asking for entrance. You allowed him to do so, and his tongue slipped into your mouth, exploring the warmth of your mouth with his vocal muscle. In an unexpected move for you, Daryl picked you up, eliciting a small squeal of surprise from you. Daryl chuckled as he walked forward towards the couch, carefully laying you down on the plush surface.

“More than okay.” For added emphasis, you pulled him down for a deep kiss. Daryl’s hesitation evaporated into thin air, and he quickly moved to hover over you.

“This okay?” Daryl asked you, giving you an out if you didn’t want to do what he was initiating. Daryl was amazing like that, always making sure you were comfortable before doing anything. You loved him for that.

That is what Daryl wanted. To be able to do that with you without anyone walking in. It took a couple of years, but the two of you could finally do that without the risk of your mom making herself known. That made Daryl extremely excited. Somewhere along the lines of the two of you heavily making out, Daryl’s shirt got removed. He was vaguely aware of his scars that were on full display, but he quickly forced that from his mind. He wouldn’t ruin this moment for you because of his insecurities. He did that once, but never again.

You eagerly reached down to start unbuckling his pants, but Daryl caught your hands before you could. You let out a small whine in protest, but Daryl only chuckled. “We can get to that later, Princess. Lemme take care’a ya first, yeah?” To further prove his point, he slowly and carefully started inching your shirt up, slowly revealing your skin to his gaze. However, your patience was wearing thin, so you grabbed the hem of your shirt and quickly helped tug it over your head. “Someone’s eager, huh?”

“Less talking, please,” you practically begged him, your eyes looking at him in a silent plea for more.

Daryl smirked. “As ya wish, Sunshine.” Daryl pressed another kiss to your lips, before trailing down jaw, your collarbone, your chest, down your stomach and stopped just above your pants. He looked up at you once more, silently asking for permission. When you nodded, he resumed with his task. He placed a few more open-mouthed kisses to your stomach before eagerly tugging your pants down, successfully taking your panties with it. You helped him get rid of your clothes, carelessly discarding it somewhere on the floor.

Daryl quickly got to work. He placed a few kisses around where you needed him most, wanting to draw out the inevitable. However, when you bucked your hips up against his face and whined your plea for him to stop teasing, he couldn’t resist any longer. He delved face first into it, licking a long stripe up from your core all the way to your clit.

Your body jolted in pleasure. You threw your head back and tightly gripped at the couch, hoping to ground yourself back to reality. However, when Daryl repeated the action and let his tongue slip into your aching core, that attempt proved to be futile.

“Daryl! Oh, fuck!” you moaned out, your hips unconsciously bucking up against his face. Daryl groaned and pinned your hips down to the couch. He could feel himself getting painfully hard in his jeans, but he tried to ignore it. His attention was solely on you. He could take care of his own needs later.

He switched his tongue out for two of his fingers. His fingers started pumping in and out of you at a steady rhythm, his tongue instead moving to lap and suck on your clit. The moans you were letting out were downright sinful, and the sweet sounds you were emitting worked straight into his arousal. His dick was painfully straining against his jeans, just begging to be released.

“Daryl, f-fuck!” you cried out. You were seeing stars, Daryl’s fingers hitting that one spot inside you each time. The feeling was overwhelming, but so good at the same time. You could feel the coil in your stomach start to tighten, and it was clear that you were about to go over the edge. “I’m so—I’m clo—” You could barely get the words out before you came undone.

Daryl groaned again and pulled his fingers out of you, instead opting to lick up all of the juices your body spilled out. He licked and sucked until you twisted your body to the side as a way to tell him you were oversensitive. Daryl slowly moved to hover over you again, leaning down to kiss you. You moaned at the taste of your arousal in his mouth, your hands moving up to his hair and lightly tugging, eliciting a small whine from him. You smirked against his lips before gently pushing him off, guiding him to lay back on the other end of the couch while you climbed on top of him.

Your hands moved to start unbuckling his jeans. “Your turn now.”

Daryl definitely liked the sound of that. And as you pulled his jeans and then his boxers from his body, gently taking his cock into your hand and lowering yourself onto it, he couldn’t help but let out a small whine. He was immensely grateful for the fact that the two of you moved into your own place, because he was sure that neither of you would be able to keep quiet for long.

And as you fully sunk down onto him and the both of you let out a moan, his theory was proven to be correct.

©dixons-sunshine 2024. I do not give permission for my works to be copied, modified, adapted or translated to any other site or platform without evidence of my given consent.

[scribblesofagoonerr]

— Yeehaw' it's cowgirl era!

pairings: leah williamson x reader

summary: readers' in her cowgirl era as she goes to nashville with leah and her family, she tries to contain her excitement, but its' too much to handle at the end of the night.

↪ this is my fav one shot to write, because I love country music!

and as always thank you to @alotofpockets for the help/inspiration to keep going with this fic!

"I'm so tired, why's the airport so noisy?" You grumble in complaint, all you want to do is sleep but with the news around the airport, its' difficult to do that.

You're tired, so tired. You weren't going to miss the chance to speak to your best friend in Australia though.

Stupid time zones really do suck.

"Well, that's what you get when you don't sleep, monkey," Leah chuckles, glancing at you while you are curled up on the floor.

"Its' not my fault though-- Kyra phoned me!" You whine in protest.

Leah chuckles and shakes her head, "Surely you can't be comfy down there?" She wonders, trying to understanding your reasoning to lie on the floor.

"Its' fine," You murmur, keeping your eyes shut and trying to ignore everyone around so you can sleep.

"Why don't you come and sit up here, love?" Berny, Leahs' grandma suggests, "You can't be comfortable down there."

"M' fine here," You repeat, trying to be as polite as possible.

"Shes' fine, Grandma. I'm happy for monkey to sleep wherever as long as I don't have to chase after her," Leah tells the older women, speaking nothing but the truth about the matter.

"What?" Jordan, Leahs' older cousin chuckles.

Leah exhales a sigh and locks her phone from where she's previously scrolling through Instagram, "Monkey likes to do this thing where she bolts, at literally any single chance that she gets. So as long as she's not making me run after her then I'm fine with that," She explains to them both.

Jordan blinks her eyes in confusion, "Uh, er, what?"

"Don' make me move, I'm comfy!" You whine from your position on the floor still.

"See?" Leah gestures to you with an amused smile, "Be grateful shes' not trying to pet the dogs over there." She adds.

"That was one time!" You exclaim in protest.

You try pet a few dogs' in the airport and suddenly everyone starts to make a big deal out of it, pft.

All you wanted to do was say hi to them.

You like animals, so what?

"I have so many questions right now," Jordan remarks.

Leah chuckles amusedly, "Well, we might be here a while then."

"The floors' not comfy anymore," You complain, huffing in annoyance.

"I thought you said it was?" Leah teases you at your own expense.

"Well now I'm not and everyones' been too loud," You whine in frustration, scrambling to get up from the floor, "Everyone needs to shuuuut up!"

"Uh, Le, is she okay?" Jordan turns to look at Leah in concern.

"Oh, yeah, this is just monkey being well, this is just monkey being her normal self-- Ooft, I didn't think you'd literally flop yourself down on me there," Leah groans as she feels your whole body weight completely slump down on her.

You let out a yawn and rest your head on her shoulder, "You make a comfy pillow, so deal with it." You state.

"But, you know..." Leahs' words are cut short by you.

"Shush, you're bein' too loud, Le," You grumble, not happy with her continuing to yap in your ear when you just want to sleep.

"Oh you poor baby," Leah mocks you.

"Mean Malfoy," You murmur under your breath, but it's still loud enough for the blonde to hear.

"What-- Whos' Malfoy?" The blonde's completely thrown off by the namedrop of a certain character.

"You are," You don't hesistate to admit.

"What? I am... I am not--" Leahs' still in disbelief to even realise that you'd managed to drop off to sleep while using her shoulder as a pillow, "Oh, she's asleep. Would you look at that?" She mutters.

"Must've been tired," Berny chuckles, amusedly.

"I still-- I... I don't look like him," Leah is still continuing to have a full blown crisis over the newfound nickname, "Do you guys think I look like Malfoy?" She questions, confused.

"Hey, monkey. You're quiet," Leah pokes her head around the door to check in on you, after not hearing much from you since you had all arrived at the hotel, "Whatcha up to?" She questions.

"Watchin' Black Widow," You pause the current film your watching and  peer your head up from your iPad, "Wouldn't it be so cool to have Widow Bites?" You wonder.

That would definitely be so cool.

Apparently Leah thinks different by her facial expression.

"I think I'd fear for everyones' safety around you with them things," Leah remarks, shaking her head in disagreement, "What would you even use them for anyways?" She asks.

Shrugging your shoulders, you fumble with the strings of your hoodie, "Hurt my enemies and stuff, ye know'?" 

"Enemies?" Leah questions in amusement.

"I got 'em, Le. Loads of 'em!" You tell the blonde.

Leah continues to look at you bewildered, "Right, oookay then. Well, we're gonna get ready to head to the festival soon, so are you ready to go?" She wonders.

"Uh huh, just watchin' this to kill the time-- Ooh! I still need one of them fancy hats!" You exclaim in realisation, jumping up from the bed.

"Slow down there cowgirl," Leah chuckles, making the reference to the jumper that you're wearing, "I've got you covered." She gestures to the cowboy hat which she just so happens to have in her hand before she plonks it on top of your head.

"Yeehaw! Howdy there partner!" You beam a wide grin as you try and put on the perfect accent.

The blonde continues to laugh in amusement, "You are something else sometimes, monkey," Shaking her head, she slings her arm around your shoulder, "C'mon, lets' go and find my family." She adds.

"Whatcha mean by that?" You turn your head to look at her in confusion.

"Well, you've heard the phrase 'one sandwich short of a picnic', right?" Leah explains to you as the two of you start to head out of the hotel room.

"Uh huh," You nod your head slowly in understanding.

"You're that sandwich, monkey," Leah states as she smiles.

Now its' your turn to look at the blonde bewildered, "What? I--"

"Anyways, let's go before we're late!" Leah interjects, tugging you in the direction to go and meet her two family members down in the lobby of the hotel.

"Whoa!" Your eyes are lit in excitement as you take in the sight around you of the festival, "We're in Nashville!"

"We are indeed, monkey," Leah chuckles in amusement, using her usual nickname for you since your well, a cheeky monkey.

The blonde also has another nickname though, menace, but that's usually referred to when you're being well, a typical little shit in her eyes.

So, most of the time... You guess.

You still to look around at the atmosphere in awe, "Whoa! This is so cool!" You whisper in awe, not actually believing you were here right now, "Like, I can't believe we're here-- It's so awesome, isn't it?" You turn to the blonde for her answer.

"I can see somebody's excited, huh?" Leahs' grandma, Berny chimes in as she watches you take it all in.

"Hey!" You gasp excitedly, spotting a girl nearby who just so happens to be wearing the same boots as you are, "That girls' got the same boots that I've got! We're totally matching!" You can't help but squeal.

"That's bound to happen here monkey," Leah remarks as she rests her hand on your shoulder and you sense that she's got something to say, "Listen, I know you're excited to be here, but I don't want you to be running off at all, alright?" She questions, knowing just what you're like.

"C'mon Le, I know that. I'm no idiot!" You dramatically whine.

"I didn't say that, but you know, sometimes you get distracted--" Leahs' words are cut short when you do in fact get distracted.

It's only a matter of seconds before it would happen.

"Look, they've got Churros!" You gesture over to a nearby van that's selling them and try to walk off in that direction.

"Ah, ah, no you don't," Leah's quick to yank hold of you by the back of your jumper, "See? This is exactly what I mean!" She states, firmly.

"But there's Churros, Le-- Churro's are life!" You all but insist, you couldn't get enough of the sugary treats.

"Don't even think about running off, menace!" The blonde is quick to warn you seeing that it looks like you're keen to bolt in that very minute, "I can see that look in your eye!" She adds.

However, the blondes' made the rookie error of letting go of you as they start to walk over to enter the arena where the music would be, at least the blonde still thinks you're following behind her.

Only for her to turn round and her eyes' widen when she realises you had not followed her at all, but went wandering off because of course, when there's Churros around... It's an easy decision to make.

So you bolted, running right in the direction for them without even second guessing it.

"Where the hell has she gone?!" Leahs' throwing her hands up in the air and looking fed up already, not even making it near the arena yet and you're already up to your old tricks, "I swear to god, I need to put a tracker on that girl!" She grumbles under her breath.

Both Berny and Jordan can't help but laugh, "You've got your hands full there, huh?" Her cousin jokes.

"Yeah, you're telling me," The blonde pinches the bridge of her nose, "I need to go find her, I'll be back." She huffs, very much not in the mood to deal with your antics.

And here Leah thought you will be tame tonight...

Ha, no.

"Good luck, love," Her grandma tells her, amusedly.

Leahs' shaking her head in annoyance, wandering through the various food vans' to get to where you where, currently being served the battered sweet treats, "There you are, menace! C'mere!" She states, annoyed.

You whip your head round and give the blonde a cheeky grin, "Le, look. Check out all the Churros I got! Do yer' want one?" You offer one out to the blonde, completely unaware of how peeved she is.

"What, no, I do not want one. What I want is for you to stop wander off," Leah looks at you in disbelief as she is quick to yank hold of the back of your jumper, "C'mon, now!" She states, firmly.

"Sooo, you don't want a Churro then?" You repeat the question, clearly not getting the idea of how annoyed Leah was, "Oh well, more for me then..." You shrug your shoulders and continue to shove it in your mouth.

Keeping a hold of you in one hand to not make the same mistake for you to run off again, Leah uses her other hand to rip the Churro out of your hand and toss it in a nearby bin, "You know you shouldn't be eatin' that many. You're going to get sick!" She tells you.

"But they're so good though!" You whine in protest.

Leah shakes her head, "No, no, that's enough of them. I'm not dealin' with you being sick. You know what you're like with that much sugar!" She states, firmly.

"COUNTRY GIRL, SHAKE IT FOR ME, GIRL," You sing along to the lyrics of the song that's currently being performed at the top of your lungs, having the best time of your life, "SHAKE IT FOR ME!"

If there was a table to stand on top of right now, your damn sure that you would be standing on it and pumping your fist in the air.

"Enjoyin' yourself there, monkey?" Leah glances at you and smiles, although slightly concerned for the impending sugar crash that's going to follow anytime soon.

"Hell yeah! I'm in my cowgirl era right now!" You scream in response, swaying to the music and continuing to live in the moment, "I never ever wanna leave this place!" You exclaim.

Leah laughs slightly and shakes her head, "Stay here, alright? I'm goin' to get some drinks-- Don't even think about moving!" She warns, following what happened earlier on when you went on an adventure for Churros.

"Ooo, drink. I want one!" You insist, whipping your head in the blondes' direction, "I'll take a vodka coke, please!" You declare.

"Sure, nice try. How about we hold the coke, eh?" Leah remarks, amusedly, "Legal age is 21 here, sorry, monkey." She pats you on your shoulder.

"Boo!" You huff in protest at the news, "C'mon, the rules don't have to apply to me!" You tell her.

Rules are there to be broken, right?

Definitely.

"Yes they do," Jordan chimes in.

"Pft, says who?" You scoff and roll your eyes at the older women. Your definitely not a rule follower most of the time, "Rules don't mean nothing to me."

"Me, because the rules really do apply in this case, monkey. I'm not being the one bailing you out of jail," Leah tells you, laughing in amusement.

You can't help but huff once more, "Meanie, complete meanie, Malfoy."

"I do not look like Malfoy!" The blonde exclaims.

"Yer you do, carbon copy of him," You remark cheekily, sticking your tongue out at her.

"You little-- I'll be back. Stay put here, don't even think about moving or I'll follow through with the threat of that tracker!" Leah warns, wagging her finger in front of your face, "Stay." She repeats.

"Woof," You reply to the blonde by barking, being completely, well, being completely you.

"Le? Pst, Le!" You not to gently nudge the blonde in the ribs as you start to get bored in the middle of a performance and want her attention, "Le... Leeeaaah!" You continue be that lovely irritating twerp that everyone seems to put up with.

"What?" Leah turns to face you confused, "What's up, monkey?" She questions.

"Hi," You can't help but snicker in amusement, just winding her up for the sake of it.

Mission success when you see the facial expression is unamused.

"Your such a pest sometimes," The blonde grumbles, shaking her head before she takes a swig of her drink.

You smirk and take the opportunity to be even more of a pest per say, "Malfoy's cranky." You murmur, just loud enough to still be heard.

Leah's head whips around in your direction, "I heard that, you little shit!"

"Language!" You gasp dramatically and widen your eyes, "You said a bad word!"

You feel a swat around the back of your head, "You're a menace sometimes."

"Le, love, don't hit the child," The blondes' grandma chides.

"She's not a child, she's a literal devil," Leah remarks, scoffing as she scowls at you as if to be cautious of your next move.

"Regardless, don't hit Y/N," The older women states.

You can't help but stick your tongue out at the blonde, "I win!" You exclaim, doing a little victory dance in your spot where your sat.

"I can ground you again, so be careful with your next move!" Leah warns, giving you a pointed luck.

Where's the fun in that?

You faux hurt and rest your hand on your chest, "Who, me? I didn't do out. You can't prove anything," You play innocent in front of Leah's family members.

"I was right, you really are a devil sometimes!" Leah murmurs, shaking her head in disbelief, "A complete menace to society."

"Yeah, but you still keep me around, right?" You can't help but grin cockily, letting out a sudden squeal when you feel an arm wrap around your neck and pull you down slightly, "Agh! Lemme go, lemme go!" You whine in protest.

Soon enough the wave of the sugar rush soon turns into a sugar crash.

Eating a bunch Churros was really, really not a good idea.

Although they were too good to not eat, so definitely worth it at the time in your opinion.

However, now, it is a completely different story now your energy is starting to wear off.

The state being where you somehow manage to slump off your chair down to the floor and curl yourself into a ball on the ground in front of Leah and her family.

You just want to get comfy, and the ground seems acceptable.

No judgement here, alright?

Leah's a bit drunk from the alcohol but seeing you in the way that you are and shes' sobering up pretty quick, "Monkey, what an earth are you doin'?"

"I'm tired," You murmur in half asleep state, finding it hard to keep your eyes open.

Leah exhales a sigh and shakes her head, "Why don't you come back up here and sleep on the chair, like a normal person?" She suggests.

You barely are shaking your head in response due to the tiredness, "No thanks, I'm comfy here."

"That can't possibly be comfy though?" The blonde continues to look at you in disbelief.

Jordan can't help but look over at the chaos and chuckle slightly, "Are you okay, kid?" She asks.

"M' tired and the grounds comfortable," Your voice is just loud enough to be heard, as your eyes flutter shut as your just content enough to listen to the music, "Night night."

"Monkey, come on. The grounds dirty and cold, get up please," Leah looks at you in bewilderment, trying to get you up of the floor where's there no doubt several amount of things you definitely shouldn't be lying in, "Monkey, come on. Up here." She repeats.

There's not much response from you, because somehow bizarrely, you have managed to get curl yourself up in a ball and fall fast asleep.

The soft snores are a dead giveaway that you are indeed out cold.

"Is she... Is she really asleep?" Jordan looks completely baffled.

Berny peers over at you and chuckles, "It appears she is."

"Monkey can sleep anywhere. I've never seen her fall asleep in the middle of a festival though," Leah snorts in amusement, before she takes pity on you and moves off her seat to crouch down and gently scoop you up into her arms, settling back onto her seat with you nestled against her.

It takes a few minutes before you shift in your sleep, burying your face in the blondes' neck and letting out soft snores, which make all 3 women smile in amazement.

"Shes' out for the count so it seems," Leah murmurs, swaying to the beat of the music and softly patting your back to allow you to still stay asleep for the rest of the concert, "Hopefully she can make it all the way through the acts tomorrow before she sleeps." She jokes.

Another day in Nashville, a whole lot more for you to see.

© scribblesofagoonerr

[hapinesbuterfiy]

. ୨🪩୧ ₊˚ 🍒 ʚ ♡ ˚ 🎀 +

lets talk about rafe x fangirl!reader...

you love being a fangirl and all of the late release nights, hundreds of dollars spent in merch and concert tickets, and the constant hours of waiting in ticketmaster queues that came with it. having an insanely rich and obsessive boyfriend who would spend millions to make you happy had it's perks!

it took rafe a while to get used to your antics, never did he ever think he would be waking up at 2am to queue for a concert, but who else would be accompanying his girl? certainly not anyone else, he wouldn't have it. at first, he attempted to persuade you to buy actual seats instead of pit tickets with the "proactive person" approach. "are you fuckin' crazy? you're meanin' to tell me that you would rather sleep on the filthy fuckin' streets outside the venue waiting for hours when i could just buy you an entire box of seats? you're fuckin' insane." he stomps around your bedroom while standing above you, unable to fathom the lengths that you're willing to go to for a good view at a show. "rafe it's not the same you just don't get it! i need to be at the barricade there is literally no point in going if lana del rey can't watch me sob in front of her while singing pretty when you cry." he rolls his eyes at your remark, shaking his head in disbelief while sucking in his bottom lip. "yea—yea fuckin' barricade my ass, you shithead. lucky i wouldn't fuckin' make you go alone." you perk up, kissing his cheek in excitement. "thank you!" you've got him wrapped around your pretty little finger.

you're passionate, to say the least! why would you spent countless nights sobbing to grainy eras tour live streams after taylor swift plays your favorite songs without you there alone when you could be doing it with rafe by your side? he thinks you're insane for crying over a song, giving you his best fake sympathy act each time it happens, which is practically every time she has a concert because her entire discography is yours. you try your best to make out words through your sniffles and sobs, "i hate taylor swift so much. why would she bring gracie abrams out to play i miss you i'm sorry without me there?" you continue to choke on your sobs and manage to pull yourself even close into his chest. "she's so mean i hate her rafe." he tries his best to console you but can't help but laugh at your disheveled state and the snot coming out of your nose over a song, he is rafe, after all. "baby— i don't know what to tell you. maybe she'll like play it again when you see her, i don't fuckin' know." he wipes your face with his thumbs, as he continues to laugh at you reaching out for his phone to take a video of you so he can make fun of you later for it.

you practically control the aux cord in his jeep, as his girlfriend it's basically your job to make sure he has good music taste! plus the same future songs that he plays over and over again are starting to become unbearable. "so this is thank u, next, it's literally ariana's best single like i swear i would not be the same person without this song it's so me core." he parts his lips in frustration, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. "the fuck do you mean that's so me core? are you tryin' to say somethin' here?" he tries to pretend that he isn't enjoying it but you can hear him mumble "thank u, next m' im so fuckin' grateful for my ex." your eyes light up as you land a playful slap to his shoulder "see i told you it was a good song, you're too stubborn!" he completely disregards you, turning the volume up even higher so that you stop chirping in his ear.

you're a handful and a tad bit loud, but rafe secretly enjoys putting with your shit. you're his princess and if that meant he had to book an entire trip to italy just so you could go see harry styles for the last show on love on tour just to make you happy, he would be doing so!

[redstarwriting]

protected

hobie brown x o’hara!reader

request?: yes

request: “I know you’re probably busy 🙏🏽 but can I request a hobie x reader Where reader is miguels kid but from another universe and we were known as “dangerous” to the multiverse and miguel had to watch over us and we find out while hanging out with hobie and hobie has to comfort us as we try to process the fact that Miguel wasn’t our real dad and just someone keeping the mutliverse safe?

I really hope this makes sense i just don’t know how to make is make sense uk? 😭 💀”

requested by: @millerworld​

word count: 1.7k

genre: angst with some fluff

Warnings: language, mentions of childbirth death, big feelings of betrayal, probably horrible spanish, honestly a lot of angst

A/N: apologies for the wait for this one! i love writing angst though so i was rubbing my hands together like an evil lil bitch writing this. i apologize if the spanish is wrong/not how it would actually be said/worded. been a minute since i took a spanish course, so i am a little rusty. please enjoy, and thank you so much for requesting, love! :)

───────────────────────────────────

Ever since you remembered your dad, Miguel O’Hara, was there. Of course, there are certain moments of your childhood you don’t remember, as every child has, but your earliest memory is your dad picking you up and soothing you as you cried at two years old. And ever since then, he was always there. Your friends at school would always say you were so lucky that you had a dad that was so devoted to you, and you agreed. To an extent. See, he was very particular about what he allowed you to do. It wasn’t in a negative way, necessarily, he was just protective. His favorite saying and your least favorite saying in your house was ‘I just want what’s best for you, cariño.’

It resulted in you staying home from school events, friend events, and generally any type of event where your safety could have been compromised. It caused you to be a bit of a loner, always hearing about the parties, the gossip, all of it instead of actually experiencing it for yourself.

Of course, it annoyed you.

It still does.

He’s loosened up a bit eventually, though, allowing you to go to work with him. Which also meant you got to meet many spiders. Quite a few of the spider-people quickly became your closest friends, as it was simpler and easier for your dad to keep tabs on you in Spider Society. Much to his chagrin, you quickly became best friends with Hobie Brown. The two of you were around the same age, and since you were annoyed at your dad and in your rebellious era, you got along swimmingly. A little too swimmingly, actually, which Miguel purposefully chose to ignore for the most part. Until he saw Hobie sucking his little one’s face off. Regardless, Hobie was always quick to validate all your conflicted, annoyed, and even positive feelings about your father. He even helped you come out of your shell and rebel against Miguel occasionally.

Miguel didn’t like this very much, but he also knew that Hobie was still a good influence on you. No matter how many times both of you tried to convince him that he wasn’t. But sometimes, Hobie would talk you into doing things that he very much disliked. Hated, even. And this time was one of those times. While he was out, containing a particularly difficult anomaly, Hobie convinced you to search through Miguel’s personal files on his supercomputer because he bet if your birth certificate would be anywhere, it would be there. When you found a folder with your name, you expected to open it to see some family pictures, hoping for your birth certificate with the name of your mom. Your dad never really talked about your mom, just that she passed away during childbirth. You stopped asking because every time you did, he would get very quiet and a guilty look would appear on his face. But you’d be lying if you said you weren’t curious. So you went into this endeavor excited to see what you might find out. Unfortunately, that excitement didn’t last for very long. See when you opened your file expecting these mundane things, that wasn’t what you were met with.

In fact, that was nowhere near what you found.

You found detailed notes all about you.

“What the hell,” you mumble, scrolling through the various pictures of you as an infant, with two adult strangers. Hobie said nothing, looking at all the pictures and skimming the important parts of all the files you were pulling up with a frown on his face. You stop on a specific picture of a woman holding you in a hospital bed. She was smiling.

And she was very much alive.

Tears immediately start to well up in your eyes as Hobie gently pulls your hands away from the computer. “Think that’s enough a’ that, love,” he says softly. You yank your arms away from him. “No.” You scroll to the next photo, seeing a man you’ve never met before holding you in the same hospital room, with the same strange woman right next to him. The next time you scroll, it’s a detailed account from Miguel about who you are. Notes from your dad declaring you a ‘danger’ and that you ‘must be contained somehow.’ Talk of your biological parents, their names, and how you had to be separated from them before ‘irreversible damage was done to the multiverse.’

You stare at the screen, and Hobie pulls your hands away again, successfully this time. He steps between you and the screens, blocking your view and slowly walking you backward and away from the files. You’re too shocked to say anything, the only thing you can do is quietly cry. Hobie opens his mouth to say something when Miguel’s voice rings out. “What do the two of you think you’re doing?”

The two of you turn your heads toward Miguel, and his annoyed frown turns to one of concern as soon as he sees the look on your face. “¿Qué tienes, mi corazón?” Miguel asks, his voice much softer as he approaches you. Hobie moves, positioning himself between you and your ‘father,’ and scoffs. “Think you got some explainin’ to do ‘ere, mate,” Hobie says, and Miguel looks at him confused. Then he sees what’s on the screen. A look of horrified realization spreads across his face, and he looks at you. “(Y/n), cariño, I can explain.”

“Don’t call me that,” your voice, albeit shaky, finally comes back to you. Hobie turns his attention to you, squeezing the hand you’ve been holding onto for dear life ever since he pulled you away from the computer. “(Y/n)—”

“Who am I? Who are you to me?”

“…Please, let me—”

“WHO ARE THOSE PEOPLE?!” you shout, desperately yearning for your dad to say they weren’t what was said in his reports. But all he does is frown. “They’re… they are your biological parents,” he confesses, and you make a choked noise. Hobie subtly begins turning his watch to his universe, ready to make an escape from your dad at any point. “If you just let me explain—”

“I’m a threat to the multiverse?” you choke out through your tears, “What the fuck does that mean, papá?! If I can even call you that.” Miguel’s jaw clenches. “Don’t forget who raised you.”

“How could I?! How could you?! Is this why you never let me do anything?! Too worried your querido bebecito would destroy the fucking multiverse?!”

“(Y/n). I did it to protect everyone.”

“What about me?! Did you ever plan on telling me?! How is separating me from my family protecting me?!” Hobie places an arm around your shoulder, pulling you closer and keeping you shielded by him as Miguel tries to step closer to you. Miguel glares at him, and Hobie glares back. Miguel holds out his hand in a surrendering way. “It was to protect you just as much, if not more, as it was to protect everyone else. If you would just listen—“

“No. No, I’m done listening to you.”

“Cariño—”

“I am not tú cariño. I am not tú corazoón. You are not mi papá,” you say, venom behind your words. You can practically see Miguel’s heart shatter into tiny little pieces.

That was the worst thing you could have ever said to him.

Before he can say anything else, Hobie opens the portal, pulling you through and closing it almost immediately. You find yourself in the familiar atmosphere of his flat. “C’mere, love,” he mumbles, pulling you into his arms. You grip his shirt, sobbing into his chest as he rocks you back and forth, softly shushing you occasionally and rubbing your back. After what feels like hours, but was really maybe a minute, he swiftly picks you up, carrying you bridal style to his bed as you continue to cry into his shirt. He sits down, placing a soft kiss to the top of your head and rubbing up and down your arm. He can’t help but feel guilty for this. If he didn’t convince you to look at the computer…

“Don’t blame yourself, Hobie… please,” you whimper, and he sighs. “Love, you needa stop bein’ so good at knowin’ what i’m thinkin’,” he mumbles, and you look up at him with a soft smile. “Can’t help it. Even your thoughts are loud,” you say, and he snorts. “Chuffed to see the cryin’ made ya feel better,” he says and you shake your head. “I still feel like shit, Hobie,” you whisper, and he frowns. He gently wipes some tears away from your cheeks. “Reckon all ‘at cryin’ has you knackered?” he mumbles, and you nod softly. He lays backwards, maneuvering the two of you to be laying down. The two of you face each other, one of his hands cradling the side of your face while the other soothingly rubs up and down your side. You grip onto his shirt, and he places a soft peck on your nose. “‘m sorry, love,” he says, and you sniffle. “I already told you it isn’t your fault.”

“‘Kay, still feel like it was,” he says, and you sigh. “That’s not important right now,” he mumbles, gently pulling you closer. “What’s important is that I make you feel better.” You look at him, your eyes are still glossy from tears. “Never met someone who looked so stunnin’ when they cry,” he says, gently stroking your cheek. You smile softly, and he does too. “There’s my favorite smile,” he whispers before softly placing his lips on yours. It’s only for a second, but it makes all the pain go away. And you’re grateful for that. Even if it is just for a second. “Get some sleep, love.” He kisses your forehead, tangling his legs with yours and pulling your head into his chest. You relax into him. He was right. The crying was exhausting. Before you know it, you’re asleep as Hobie gently traces shapes into your skin, whispering anything and everything he loves about you to you so softly that if you weren’t really listening, you wouldn’t hear any of it. No one makes you feel protected quite like Hobie does.

And even if it’s just for a moment, thanks to Hobie, you feel like everything will be okay.

───────────────────────────────────

[atinylittlepain]

Prologue

jackson!joel miller x witch!oc

series masterlist

series playlist

He thinks he might fall in love with her. She can't let him fall in love with her. Or: a reimagined take on an infamous Practical Magic au by yours truly.

wordcount | 1.8K

series content info | 18+ slowburn-ish, strangers to friends to lovers to estranged acquaintances to ???, discussions of death and grief, a little magic, just a little, jackson era joel and all that entails, eventual smut, angst obviously, and love that requires a little elbow grease.

a/n | thank you folks for your patience while I was being a little worm about this. Very excited to kick off this series, and I'd love to hear what you think <3

....................................

There is the after, and there is the before. This is the before. In the before, there is a town nestled down in the purple-blue belly of a mountain, all shade and damp, cool green. A small town, everyone knowing everyone and everyone knew everyone as far back as history could reasonably stretch. And in this town sits a house at the end of a string of houses, sidewalk curling up in waves under the old force of tree roots, wrought iron gates and sleepy porches. Kids dare one another to step through the gate of this house. Only the bravest make it up to the porch, a quick clambering tap to the front door, wanting, but not really wanting, to see who might answer. All but one child, that is. She has no problem walking through the gate, but she’s learned to be quick in getting through the front door and slipping it shut behind her. The other kids like to throw rocks if she lingers, so she doesn’t. But there is always a sweet suspension of disbelief on the walk, before the gate, and the porch, and the slip through the front door. How nice, to have all her classmates walking her home after school. 

“Did you get into any trouble today?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Well, always another chance tomorrow.” It’s just enough to coax a smile out of her, her aunt and all her tuts and tsks, turns of her nose and we need a brownie before we do your homework, little choice but to follow after her into the kitchen, warm and sticky, the smell of fresh yeast and something richer. Even now, even in the first gasps of Summer, a pot always boils on the stove, spoon stirring lazy inside it. 

Her aunt moves like a bird she thinks. But not the delicate kind. She saw a blue heron once, at the lake outside of town. Like that, she thinks. Graceful but sharp, big and sweeping, the tails of a linen shirt, and the braid woven gray and black that hangs between her shoulder blades. All so familiar, she can’t help but sigh, cheek propped in the clammy cup of her hand. 

“Something happened today.” 

“You don’t say.” Her aunt, always knowing before she can tell her, sometimes even before she knows herself. She picks a chocolate chip out of the brownie split between them, holds it on her tongue and lets it melt. 

“Andy Nichols broke his arm. He said there’s pins in his bones.”

“Is he the one who–” She nods before her aunt can finish her question. Yes, the one who never threw rocks at her. Yes, the one who would sit with her at lunch, not because his other friends dared him to, but because he wanted to. The one who, last week, sitting on the bleachers during recess, pressed a quick, there and gone kiss to her lips, all shy, all sweet, wings fluttering fierce in her chest. Yes, that one. 

“Now he won’t even look at me. All his friends are saying I did something to him.” 

“Oh, Maggie, I’m sorry. People can be, well, people suck, to speak plainly.”

“Did I?”

“Did you what?”

“Did I?” And the silence is enough of an answer, isn’t it? Her aunt’s eyes melt a little, lips pressed in a thin frown. Her aunt, who is as tired as she is, though she may do a better job of hiding it. After all, while she lost a mother, her aunt lost a sister. And the thing, that thing, this thing, that is threaded like a dark cancer through the sinew and snapping pulse of their hearts, contagious, careful or you’ll catch it. Everyone in town knows not to fall in love with a Campbell woman, a long history pocked with strange deaths, unexplainable misfortune. Her father wasn’t from town though, the first mistake of many.

‘It’s best if you don’t think on it, hmm?” Quiet and close in the kitchen, she does her best not to cry, feeling weak, a little wilted. One of those hugs that presses all the air out of her lungs, she needed it, breathing in deep, soap and sweat and soil and my little witch, we have work to do. 

Homework doesn’t really mean homework in their house. Not the paper she’s supposed to be writing on the civil war, not studying for the math test she has on Friday. Homework means her and her aunt in the greenhouse, and her aunt quizzing her on the plants they tend to. What is what, what does what. 

Lemon balm for stress and sleep. Also used to treat cold sores. 

Echinacea for immunity.

Peppermint for nausea and headaches.

Belladonna for sleep, handle with care. 

It comes easily to her, the same way that knowing things comes easily to her aunt. Plants, she thinks, make more sense than people do. It takes them a few hours to work through the greenhouse, night coming on in a swath of orange that smolders purple, cool shadows filtering in through green glass. They prune, they water, they propagate, and her aunt must think her extra pitiful tonight because she offers to teach her a few new tricks. The offer falls flat, however, when the prickled sound of scratching shivers up her spine. She knows it well, imagines that she could hear it from all the way across town at this point. The back door, nails skittering over its window panes, face pressed to glass, smeared shame, or maybe just a secret. All that’s needed, a look shared between them, no words. She stays in the greenhouse, closes the door behind her aunt, but leaves it cracked. She shouldn’t, but she likes to listen. 

What she hears is always the same. Variations of desperation, I want, I want, I want, I need, I need, I need, him, him, him, her, her, her. How badly? So badly. Anything? Yes, anything. She’s watched a few times, peering around the doorway into the kitchen. All kinds of ways to meddle, to tangle threads, cut them loose, pick your poison, pick your pleasure. Her aunt tries to keep her away from it, the dark, crawling things, the needles, the wax dolls washed in smoke plumes. But she knows. Love is an ugly thing. 

She doesn’t watch tonight, hardly listens either. Something else on her mind, in her hands. She plucks rose petals, lavender, rosemary, fills her hands with the rumpled things, says what she planned to say.

He’ll ride horses, talk to them too.

He’ll work with his hands. 

There’ll be a streak of silver at his temple. 

When we’re together, he’ll be able to stop time. 

“Are you casting impossible spells again?” Her aunt catches her just as she’s stepping out into the backyard, damp grass and cicada thrum and the moon.

“I hope so. I hope it’s impossible.” They stand in the cool, damp grass, all that heat dropping down into a low mist around their ankles. And her aunt knows exactly what she’s doing. Afterall, she was the one who taught her this. Somewhere between a love spell and a prayer, though she hopes hers is more like a curse. 

“There’s no taking something like this back, Maggie. Are you sure you want to do this?” She nods, says yes, and it’s enough for her aunt to stand down, giving her space to finish the rest of it. Intention, energy, that other word that people like to throw around She focuses on the words and the words become something other than words, and the petals and leaves lift from her hands. The moon takes care of the rest. 

“I hope I never fall in love.” 

The thing about spells is they always find somewhere to land, even the impossible ones. And somewhere in the before, that impossible spell found its target. Cupid’s arrow bent and broken, though still able to sting sharp. Somewhere in the before, a boy in another town in another life, young knees working hard to make the thin tires of a bike spin, already late heading home for dinner in the cooling night. 

The boy’s mother hears him before she sees him, big, hot tears and ribs shaking with sobs she doesn’t often get to hear anymore, getting older, trying to get braver. The boy is bleeding, the boy is crying. The soft round of his palms scraped and stuck with gravel, and his knees no better, all down his shins, and he didn’t mean to cry, didn’t want to cry, but walking the rest of the way home, wrestling with the crooked handlebars of his bike, the feeling and the pain got too big, and he didn’t know what else to do with it.

“Oh honey, what happened?” His words come out in stops and starts, little stuttered gasps. I fell, gets strung into a few extra syllables, already ushering him upstairs and into the bathroom, the sharp smell of this’ll sting, cotton gauze getting stuck in the blood. 

In the before, still young, the boy is a soft thing. He cries easily, and he doesn’t like that. Cries when he’s angry, when he’s hurt, when he’s frustrated. Cries harder when he cries because he wishes he wouldn’t cry, even if the words for such a feeling are still too old for him. Somewhere along the way, the boy will lose that. The boy will lose so much. But for now, his mother is making all the big and little hurts better, box fan humming in the cracked window in the bathroom, his brother, even younger, watching through the slivered opening of the door. 

For now, the boy lets his eyes close, sticky with salt and the last wandering tears, and he wonders if he really saw what he thought he saw, what stunned him so snappingly that he flew head over handlebars onto the still-simmering asphalt. A blurred vision, blink and miss it, though even so, he’s still sure of what he saw. A rose bush, a sudden burst and bloom and flashbang, nothing and then something and then everything. Blooms that unfurled their skirts as fast as he was riding by, until what had been only green was blotted out entirely by heavy white petals. The boy will lose this memory with time, reasoning it away as an impossible imagining, something from a young mind that will no longer be his. But while the boy is still young, still a soft thing, he will think to himself with a kind of secret wonder that whatever he saw that night, it had to be magic. 

......................................

taglist: @suzmagine @joelsgreys @vee-bees-blog @noisynightmarepoetry @kungfucapslock @iloveenya @evolnoomym @wannab-urs

[marzipanandminutiae]

You don’t like 1920s, 1940s AND 1950s fashion? Damn what did the mid-century do to you lol. K but seriously why not the 50s? The skirts had volume and were long-ish (at least in high fashion) and blouses were well structured and fitted and often had embroidery or embellishments.

Obviously I don't hate ALL of it; no era is a monolith. But there are a few things these eras have in common that I hate:

The rise of synthetic fabrics, AKA Using Plastic To Make Clothing. We're now at a place in terms of clothing where its actively harder and more expensive to wear natural fibers than to wear clothing made entirely of a substance that leaches into our water, holds odors, makes us sweat more, doesn't generally last as long or admit as much repair over time as most natural textiles, and just Kind of Sucks all around except for a few very specific purposes. Synthetics weren't invented in the 1920s, and natural fibers were common in all of these eras than they are today, but it was definitely increasing amounts of "BUY THESE NEW EXCITING PROGRESSIVE MODERN FABRICS!!!" throughout the early and mid-20th century. Which pisses me off in principle.

Less practical garments unless you lived a very specific lifestyle- namely, access to washing machines and a willingness to launder clothing after just one wear. Modern clothing is just not great unless you have access to very frequent washing (see above re: holding odors more than many natural fibers) and barrier garments to keep sweat away from them and stretch the time between washes aren't a thing anymore for most people. In the eras mentioned, everyone was getting so excited about machine laundry capabilities- and who wouldn't? washing machines ARE a huge boon! no denying that! -that they shifted away from modes of dress designed to minimize the necessity of laundering outer clothes. Except now, with concerns about the aforementioned microplastic leaching from washing machines draining into municipal sewers and less mendable clothing- washing is a huge strain on garments, and wears them out faster if you do it too often -we need to be getting back to the system of having fewer but higher quality garments and washing them less often. Except we can't. Because some idiot in the 1920s said "whoopee nobody will ever need linen combinations or chemises that actually serve a purpose anymore!" and the subsequent decades continued it.

The silhouettes generally do not spark joy for me. 1920s actively makes me fly into a rage and scream into pillows, with the exception of robes de style MAYBE. 1940s...well, let's say there was a reason the New Look was so popular, and that's "no more boxy utility wartime clothes." I will give 1940s the hair prize here, though, because I like it better than any other decade 1920s-50s. I actually DO like the New Look! ...but not its combination with the bullet bra; yikes. This is highly subjective.

Some of the textiles, patterns, colors, and common embellishments used are just not my thing. I don't go in for Bold And Graphic And Geometric anything, usually. With a very very small number of exceptions. Polka dots and florals are also not my thing (unless the florals are on a dark background). Plastic jewelry? Hard pass. ~Fun~ motifs like fruit (except pomegranates which have Goth Appeal), the poodles on a poodle skirt, household objects, transportation, etc? No thank you; reads too Kindergarten Teacher for me. Again, not universal or exclusive to those eras- witness the 1880s chicken-print dress I saw an illustration of once -but more prevalent, to my eyes.

Hair. 1920s bobs make most people's heads look blocks. I love a good bob, but those are not Good in my opinion. 1920s Up Hair is usually meant to mimic a bob. 1930s was only a little bit better. 1940s, as I've said, was skirting the line for me and marginally acceptable. 1950s took us right back to a solid Nope with either short poodle cuts or pageboys as the main options for adult women. An occasional chignon maybe, but nothing else that appeals to me personally. just not great all around.

All of these eras were holier-than-thou about the Victorians and their fashion, which I love, so I'm petty about it. Yes please tell me more about how your plastic bullet bras or potato sack dresses are inherently superior to Grandma's elegant and comfortable long wool skirts with the perfect center back pleating. Oh, the 1860s were the ugliest fashion period ever in your opinion? Fascinating. I am setting your car on fire.

I actually DO like the New Look...which is heavily inspired by mid-19th century fashion, so that's not really any big surprise. Still has the issues with synthetic materials and the end of practical undergarments, though. Also, why stop at mid-calf for everyday skirts? Instep Or Bust You Cowards.

[distorted59]

please elaborate on the dracula monster rp you mentioned in your kirk headcanons…PLEASE!!

YES OMG!!!! THANK YOU SM FOR ASKING THIS!!!!

this idea has been FEEDING my vampire kirk brain rot so well, esp those fanarts on insta👹👹 really check out @ fuzzsux on insta CAUSE THE ART IS SO GOOD!!!

anyways..... HERE'S MY IDEA FOR IT (any era works tbh)

Bite me please

summary: Kirk wants to play dracula and he wants you to play his bride...

pairing: '93!kirk x fem!reader

warnings: nsfw/smut, biting, roleplay, use of safe words,

word count: 1158

A/N: i was debating wether to make this really kinky or nah.

you'd always known Kirk's favorite monster were vampires. especially Dracula and it's whole story arc. he's a hopeless romantic with a dark kinky side. which you don't mind at all, of course.

he loves the idea of him being a powerful, mind infiltrating, seductive, blood sucking creature. who would stalk you, love you, claim you, and mark you as his bride.

it would start with him biting your neck for fun, not real harshly or anything. just some playful bites. and you seem to like them. he would get all excited and wanted to ask you right away, because this has been on his mind for a while now.

but, he still sorta backs out. you see he wants to ask you something, so you do it first.

"baby? what's wrong?" you slide your hand over his back. "Something on your mind?"

"yeah, actually." he has a wide smile on his face, which slowly turns into a smirk. "would you be interested in... uhh... roleplay?"

your eyes widen a bit and your breath hitches. you have a puzzled look on your face and let out a short giggle.

"what'd you have in mind?" you grin back.

"what do you think?" he leans down and bites your neck again, harder this time.

"do you want to drain me from my blood, Count Dracula?" you say in a bad, sensual transylvanian accent.

"oh..." Kirk groans and lets out a breathy chuckle against your neck. "i'd like to drain you from something else too."

you moan softly as he places more sloppy kisses on your neck, going up to your jaw and eventually kisses your lips.

"i'll take that as a yes, hm?" his eyes show a dark gaze, you can see the passion and lust in them.

"yes."

⋆♱✮☽🦇☽✮♰⋆

you're walking around the house, wearing some leathery outfit. which Kirk had picked out for you. along with a tight, blood red corset that is hugging your figure.

"so much for classic." you mumble to yourself. the house is dark and to be honest, you feel a little.... scared.

you don't know if it's the excitement bubbling in your lower belly or the actual thought of being haunted by your boyfriend...

"Kirk?" you call out faintly, looking around for him. "are you gonna jump out and attack me or something?" you say jokingly.

"that all depends, my love." Kirk's dark voice whispers to you, you can feel his breath against your neck.

you turn around and he immediately grabs you and slams you against the wall. he starts kissing your neck and leaving a few bites here and there. he moves down and starts biting on your collarbone, he looks up at you through his eyelashes.

he's wearing a ruffled blouse and a pair of black dress pants you've never seen him wear before. His chest glistens through the low cut shirt, a few faint love bites visible.

"color?" he whispers.

"green..." you breathe out.

"I'm going to drain you and make you mine." he growls. then, he drags you by your arm and pulls you into your shared bedroom. he pushes you on the bed and you scramble back against the headboard.

"w-what are you going to do to me?" you try to sound scared and get into your role as the 'victim'.

"look at you, scared little thing." he tuts and crawls over to you. "you're going to be my bride." his eyes shine with passion and power. you actually feel thrilled.

"are you going to hurt me?" you look into his eyes.

"just for a bit, darling." he tugs on the laces of your corset. "i'll make you think of something else."

Kirk nuzzles his face in your neck and drags his nose slowly down your collar bone and towards your breasts.

"you smell so fucking good." he groans.

you can only respond with a moan and your hands make way through his hair.

"hmm, are you ready, my love?" he kisses your jaw.

"please." you nod.

he pulls down your pants along with your panties and he's taking his sweet time with it too. he grins teasingly at you and slowly slides his hands up your legs and thighs.

"Kirk..." you whine.

"gonna mark you, my love"

he pulls down his pants and boxers and pumps his throbbing cock slowly, he slides it between your pussy lips and the both of you moan and shiver with pleasure.

"you're already wet enough for me, love." he decides to pull back and slide his fingers inside of your dripping cunt first. "and i didn't even really touch you yet..."

"k-kirk!" you moan as he stretches you out by adding a second finger. he curls them up and you gasp, letting your head fall back.

"there, all ready for me." he groans and lines himself up with your cunt.

he slides in and starts biting your neck harshly, you let out a moan that's mixed with pain and pleasure. you're positive you'll have a bruised neck with bite marks in the morning.

normally he's quite the one to talk, but he's too busy fucking and sinking his teeth into you. too pussy drunk to function.

Kirk's hips slam against yours, his moans muffled by your skin as yours are the only ones that fills the room. your whines drive him insane and he bites you harder.

"color?" he growls, his sweet intention gives you butterflies. but his cock pumping into you make them flutter away.

"nghh- gr-green!" the biting hurts but you like it. you swear if he keeps going, he might draw blood.

he bites different spots and sucks on them too, it drives you fucking insane and pushes you over the edge.

he keeps up a steady rhythm and feels you squeeze around him, he stops biting you and kisses you passionately.

"are you going to cum?" he grins, his lips red from marking you up.

you nod as tears stream down your face, the pleasure becoming too much for you.

"cum for me, my love."

you moan his name as your orgasm washes over you, Kirk keeps pumping into you like a wild dog in rut. he moans and grits his teeth, needing to bite on something.

"use me, bite me." you whine.

he bites down on the other side of your neck and cums inside of you, you can feel it shooting up inside you and he twitches like crazy.

he lets go of your neck and falls on top of you. he takes a few breaths and rolls over on his back, pulling you on top of him.

the two of you lay in each others arms and try to calm down.

"that was fucking amazing." he breathes out. "i love you so much, baby." he kisses your temple.

"was.. so good.." you murmur, feeling absolutely exhausted.

"it was." he grins.

he slides his fingers over the bite marks carefully, and smirks proudly.

you feel yourself drifting off, feeling safe in the arms of your monster-loving boyfriend.

"i want to really taste you next time."

[spaceorphan18]

How an animated series saved Remy LeBeau (again)

It's a bit of a hyperbolic title, but catchy, non?

I was looking over my comic collection as I've decided to reread X-Men's 60 year history over the course of the summer. And it got me thinking about a dead period of 616 canon that I've never actually read. Around the time Rogue hooked up with Magneto and scooted off to the Avengers, I decided I'd be done with comics for a while. And didn't start again until Rogue (and Gambit) came back to the X-books in 2017's Astonishing X-Men. But it made me wonder -- What happened to Gambit in that time??

Well, after his solo ended, he flitted around to X-Factor and hung out with X-23 and then kind of went 'poof' for a good long while.

Why? I can only guess the same reason this is a running motif with Gambit. There's something about him that drives the X-Office crazy. I'm not here to speculate what or how or who of it all. I don't know enough about the back end of Marvel to give concrete answers. But I think what has surprised me (recently) is that he's definitely a fan favorite character.

[Yes, I know he can be a divisive character. Yes, I know elements of his character from the 90s have not aged well. Yes, I know there are those of you who can't stand him. Don't really care - you can get off my lawn, thank you.]

Which got me thinking -- Gambit's original popularity, I believe, stemmed from the original X-Men Animated Series. He had just started showing up in the comics at the time, and had barely any kind of page time. And the X-Men TAS swung and was a hit. And so was Gambit.

I don't really know that Gambit would be around today if TAS hadn't done its thing. Would the X-Office have kept him around? I really have no idea.

But they did try to get rid of him. That was the point of leaving him in Antarctica. And things were just never the same after that. Claremont tried his best in the early 2000s. And then Deathbit happened. Carey's run wasn't bad. But Carey clearly had an agenda for other things... And then, Gambit just kind of faded into the background. (I hear his run as a side character for Laura (X-23) was good - but I haven't read that.)

Bless Kelly Thompson (always) for sparking life back into him with (and his relationship with Rogue). And bless the fact that she actually married him to Rogue. Yes, I understand comics -- my god look what they did to Peter and MJ, no one really gets to be happily married except Sue and Reed. He and Rogue are now really tied together in a way that I don't think is going to be undone any time soon.

Even if the X-Office still isn't thrilled with the guy. Krakoa era has been less than ideal. (I can't comment on it fully - I haven't read much of it, as I'm behind on my comic reading.) But I've heard rumors that one reason Thompson was let go was that she didn't want Gambit killed off. And she didn't like the direction they wanted to take the character.

Which leads me to X-Men 97. Killing him off sucked. Really. As a fan, it really sucked. But - my god, the reaction to it. Gambit was amazing. And all I've heard lately is good things about the character. There's been a Gambit resurgence in the best way. He may have went out -- but he went out with a bang. X-Men 97 made an emotional impact with people. And that changes things.

Gambit is cool again.

And I love it.

What's even more exciting is the fact that the X-Office has changed hands again and Gail Simone on Uncanny who (if her Twitter/X feed is to be believed) is really enjoying writing the character. Which means (hopefully) at least another year or two in the comics of some (hopefully) great Gambit stuff.

And maybe there will be some changing of hearts and minds in the X-Office.

It's actually very exciting.

And, guys, I really (really, really) doubt he'll be completely gone from X-Men 97, too.

Because Remy LeBeau never stays down for long.

But as a fan, it's nice to see him be on top again. And I don't think he's going anywhere anytime soon.

[julietsbody]

what are your hcs for dealer!coryo?

i have been WAITING to continue yapping abt my man… 

୨ 🎀 ୧ - at first, he refuses to sell you any form of drug, he knows that the shit he gets is exactly what he says it is— but he isn’t sure that he trusts you enough to be doing them on your own, well, more importantly he just wants to be the one to be doing it with you. 

୨ 🎀 ୧ - he continuously refuses to let you pay until you’re near begging with tears in your eyes because you truly do feel bad that he is doing so much for you and costing himself so much of his income solely for you, but he seems so nonchalant about it, like it truly doesn’t matter— nevermind that, he eventually pockets the money, planning on slipping it back in your purse later before you leave.

୨ 🎀 ୧ - he keeps a close eye on you during parties, sure, he’s just your dealer, but you can’t blame him for wanting to keep you safe!! he’s just.. a very caring guy… right…. totally… it’s totally not due to his soft spot for you, not at all! 

୨ 🎀 ୧ - he loves nasty dirty songs about sex, his playlist consists of sexyy red, trina, megan thee stallion, and nle choppa— you don’t even need to get the here text from him when he pulls up to your house, you can already hear hellcats srts by sexyy red through your walls!!! 

୨ 🎀 ୧ - it might be courtesy of his mommy issues, but he has an addiction to calling you nicknames like ma, mama, or mami— especially when saying things like “c’mere, ma” or “watch your tone, mami” when you get upset with him!! ( mami is def his most used out of the three ) 

୨ 🎀 ୧ - im so sorry to say this but… he is a where my hug at guy, ITS HIS FRAT BOY ROOTS OK but as soon as you walk into the party he finds himself in your way saying something like “c’mon, gimme a hug, princess” and when you just roll your eyes at him hes like, “what? not excited to see me?” as if he doesn’t know hes being insufferable 

୨ 🎀 ୧ - as mentioned in the innocence fic.. he ALWAYS has a strap on him, whether it’s straight up in his hand or in his waistband, he will not go outside without it, sometimes he even sleeps with it. you swear he loves the gun more than you sometimes but he’s always chuckling whenever you mention that, “no way y’re getting jealous of a gun, god, so possessive” 

୨ 🎀 ୧ - dealer ! coryo is also… most definitely a player… im SORRY OKAY… just like how he is in his peacekeeper ! era fucking everyone and their mothers hes doing the exact same in the modern era as a dealer, but he swears you’re his favorite!! and that makes it okay, right? 

୨ 🎀 ୧ - situationships will forever be his favorite thing 

୨ 🎀 ୧ - he has a prince albert piercing! pretty silver jewelry decorating his tip and he absolutely adores when you toy with it— one time you asked him if it hurt whilst being on your knees in front of his dick, he just scoffed and mumbled, “just shut up and suck it, yeah?” 

[dearestro]

Robert Chase Miniseries

Disclaimer: Let’s just forget the whole Chameron thing because it sucked and while we are at it let's just slam Chase's slut era to before they get together? Timeline probably isn't right at instances.

Summary: A collection of oneshots (in order) of the life of Robert Chase and Reader. (Idk this is a whim, and I'm in a Wilson rut)

Table of Contents(?)

Wedding Night Excitement - Summary: Who knew a slip of the hand could lead to this?

Honeymoon Surprises - Summary: Both you and your husband have something special planned for the trip.

Beach Activities - Summary: What happens on the beach stays on the beach...at least according to your husband.

New Beginnings - Summary: The start of a new chapter.

Icecream Sundaes - Summary: Who knew icecream could be dangerous?

Saturday Mornings - Summary: Even lazy mornings can be exciting...for some people.

Author's Note: Here's what I have so far. Idk you can send ideas in the asks, and I might be able to write/add them.

[alltheirdamn]

Chapter 1: Opening Day

Series summary: You've seen it all as the team's lead photographer. You're in the tunnel before the games, on the sidelines for each inning, and always around the players. When Frankie Morales is called up for the new season, you find yourself drawn to him in ways you can't quite explain. Chapter summary: It's opening day at Petco Park, and you finally meet the team's new star catcher. Rating: 18+ (Eventual smut) Word Count: 5k Tags: Triple Frontier AU, OFC! character described as having red hair and freckles, meet-cute, two big dummies bound to catch feelings, mutual pining, slow burn, future smut, duel pov, baseball terminology, etc. A/N: Hi!!! Well, welcome to the series! I'm really excited to share this lil story with you all. I've never really written an OC! before, so hopefully I don't totally butcher it. Anyway, I'm a bit nervous but please enjoy!

Masterlist | Baseball 101

Point. Click. 

Point. Click. 

The camera shutter echoes through the stadium tunnel as you settle into your usual game-day routine. It’s your third year on the media team for the Padres, and you’re beyond eager for the new season to begin. Nothing beats the thrill of baseball season, and it definitely doesn’t suck when an endless array of beautiful men in tight polyester uniforms surrounds you.

Perched on the ground, you angle your camera down the tunnel to capture the boys as they arrive. Benny Miller, the team’s starting shortstop, waltzes through the hall after a few managers get their head start. He’s got on his usual athleisure wear, a workout bag slung over his back, and his blonde hair tousled in a way that’s both messy and intentional.

Point. Click. 

“Welcome back, Benny,” you say, your camera angled a bit higher to adjust to his height.

“Hey to you too, Red,” he grins. 

America’s heartthrob, you think.

Not far behind him is his brother, Will—or Ironhead, as they all call him. He’s been a vet on the team for nearly five years and is one of the top left-handed pitchers in the league. No doubt, with last season's standings, he’ll take them far this year. He’s got the best ERA out of any team in the National League, and his brotherly dynamic with Benny is unmatched. The only difference between Will and Benny, though, is their personalities. Where Benny is outgoing—and a bit flirtatious—Will is reserved and collected. He’s the voice of reason and the glue that holds the entire time together. 

“Hey, Will!” 

You snap a quick photo, all too aware of how much he hates the attention. He gives you a subtle nod and continues down the tunnel behind Benny. 

Santiago Garcia is the next to make his entrance, his infectious smile perfect for a candid moment. Santi was the rookie outfielder last year, securing himself a spot in the All-Star Game with his defensive playing in center field against the stronger teams. You’ve never seen such an arm on someone, and the way he commands the field is wildly impressive. His gigantic ego and self-assurance are also quite impressive and sometimes a bit aggravating. But, you let it slide. He’s a sweet man through and through and has, thankfully, never hit on you. 

Unlike the majority of the sports world. 

Especially when it comes to women working in the media industry. 

You’re convinced Santi has some sort of sixth sense for the camera because the moment you line up for the shot, he’s already sporting a wide grin directed straight at you. 

“Hola, Red,” he says, waving in your direction.

“You know I have a real name, right?” You toss back.

“Whatever you say, Red.”

You roll your eyes as he walks past you, chuckling to yourself as you scroll through the photos logged into your camera. Making a mental note of which to select for the social media posts, you realign the camera back to eye level and squint through the lens. 

The team's newest addition walks straight down the tunnel, with his head low and eyes covered by the visor of his ballcap. Francisco Morales had been called up from triple just a week before opening day. You hadn’t read up much on him or his stats, but you know he’s done quite the work as the catcher for the El Paso Chihuahuas. There had been talks of who they’d have replacing Tom Davis after his season-ending injury last year, and Francisco was their best prospect. 

“Welcome to the team, Francisco!” You holler before snapping a photo.

He barely glances up, but you catch a rosy tint coloring the tanned skin of his face and a slight twitch in the corner of his lips. He’s dressed far differently than the other boys: loose khaki pants, a basic cotton shirt, and a suede bomber jacket. He doesn’t even carry a bag with him, just a plastic bottle of water gripped tightly in one very large hand. 

You’ve been with the team long enough to know his personality is far more reserved than the rest, a bit sheepish and uncomfortable, even. Maybe that’s just the game-day jitters getting to him. 

“Can I get one of you looking at the camera?” You ask before adding a polite please at the end.

He hesitates but ultimately obliges. Through the camera lens, you meet his eyes—the soft, warm brown of his irises boring into you so intensely it causes you to falter over the shutter button. Like any baseball player, he’s got that signature scruffy face, with a distinct mustache over his plush lips and a patchy beard covering his jaw. Despite his introverted demeanor, Francisco steals the air from your lungs just from a simple glance. It’s as if he’s giving you this one moment to capture who he is, and you take it without hesitation.

Point. Click.

“Thank you, Francisco. Good luck today!”

You’re acutely aware of how shaky your voice is, which is unusual given that he hasn’t even spoken to you. 

“Frankie,” he offers as he walks past.

The raspy low pitch of his voice reverbs inside your head, and you only manage to nod in agreement to his wishes. 

Frankie. You can do that. 

**

“So, what are your predictions for game one?” Ryan asks, nudging you slightly.

You’re both crouched behind home plate shooting pre-game warmup photos, the volume in the stadium growing as more fans trickle in. You switch out your sim card and set up your camera for action shots, too focused on getting the right angle of the outfielders to respond. 

Ryan has been your partner in crime on the media team since the start, and both of you got hired right out of college. While you focus more on the game-day action, Ryan usually tends to the off-day social media posts and team engagement with fans. It’s a fair trade-off, plus you’re far more invested in the sport than Ryan is ever willing to admit.

“Hellllooo?” He waves a hand in front of your camera lens.

“I don’t like giving predictions, Ryan. You know that,” you grumble.

“You and your weird superstitions, Red.”

“It’s not weird,” you counter. “Don’t you ever pay attention to the broadcasting curse? If I say something aloud, it’s bound to go the other way, and my hopes will be crushed.”

Ryan adjusts the focus on his lens, shrugging absently at your argument. 

“It’s the first game. Even if they lose today, there’s still six months left in the season.”

“No one wants to lose their first game.”

“You care too much,” he says, but there’s a lightness in his tone.

He knows you care more than you let on. Baseball has been something ingrained in you since you were just a kid. Your dad spent the greater half of his life as the pitching coach for UCLA, dragging you to nearly every game of the season since before you could even walk. You were raised sitting in the dugout with a handful of sunflower seeds in your hand and a baseball cap covering your red hair. Being a part of a baseball team in some capacity had always been in your future, but after your dad passed away when you were just starting college, you centered your entire life around it. You threw yourself into photography, taking every chance at capturing moments that could give you just a second of nostalgia. The photos weren’t just for school, a baseball team, or a social media page… they were for you. It was your way of coping. The longer you could stay on the field, the longer you could live in that bubble of the past. 

Your dad was gone, but you still had baseball. And you’d never give it up. 

“Think Morales is gonna make his mark on the team?” Ryan asks, steering the subject in a different direction.

You tense up, locked on the memory of Frankie’s big brown eyes. There’s something about him that skyrockets your heart rate, and you aren’t sure if it’s in a good way. You search the field for those dark curls, looking at everybody on the field,  trying to spot him during the warmup. Crestfallen, you give up your search and resume snapping photos.

“I think he’ll do just fine,” you say dismissively.

“His batting average in the minors was insane,” Ryan rambles. “Just hopes it sticks here in the big leagues. You know how it is sometimes.”

You did know. Too often, have you seen star minor league players appear on the big stage and choke. Something about Frankie Morales makes you believe he won’t end up like that. There was something in his eyes that told you otherwise, a seriousness that showed this game meant something to him. 

You liked that. 

“Where’s your station for the game?” Ryan asks.

“First base. I might have to step into the bullpen for some shots if they let me.”

“I’m sure the boys will love that,” he teases.

“Oh, fuck off. They’re harmless.”

“I don’t know, Red. I see the way they look at you.”

You deadpan, giving him an icy stare. None of the boys thought of you that way, and you didn’t think of them differently. This was a job. They played the game; you took the photos. 

That was the end of it. 

“I think you’re seeing things,” you argue.

“I mean, Benny is giving you fuck me eyes from across the field right now,” Ryan shrugs.

You steal a glance out to the in-field to find Ryan is, in fact, correct. With his free hand, Benny tosses you a flirtatious wave before throwing the ball back to Santi across the field. 

“He flirts with everyone,” you say pointedly. “Did you see how many girls he brought back to his hotel rooms last season?”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind adding one more.”

You punch Ryan in the arm, clearly annoyed with his pushy behavior toward the subject. Grabbing your equipment bag from the ground, you toss him a quick finger and haul your stuff down to the media room under the stadium. 

**

Frankie isn’t in the right mindset when the National Anthem concludes before the game. He’s not one to get nervous before playing, but something about seeing Petco Park sold out for opening day has him fidgeting. The only saving grace is having Santi playing alongside him. 

He and Santi met back in college, playing together from Sophomore year until Senior year when they got drafted to different teams. Santi was selected in the third round by the Houston Astros and was traded a year later to the Padres. Frankie got drafted by the Padres right away in the fifth round. He spent the last four years in the minors, just waiting to get called up.

Now, the moment is here, and he’s terrified.

Frankie doesn’t like to admit it often, but he holds himself to a higher standard. He’s fucked up in life a few times, and it’s cost him his happiness. He doesn’t want to fuck up now. Not when the entire world is watching. 

“Estás bien?” Santi asks Frankie as they head into the dugout. 

“I’m fine,” Frankie says, but his tone says otherwise. 

There’s a haze over his mind, a fog he can’t shake. Santi claps him on the back, giving him a comforting smile.

“It’s just first-game nerves, Catfish. It’ll pass after the first at-bat.”

Frankie doesn’t respond. He’s got a lump in his throat, and he can’t quite swallow it. The last thing he wants to do is disappoint his closest friend—or the team. He can’t be a disappointment. He has to be good. He has to be the best. 

He has to prove himself.

Frankie runs out onto the field, securing his catcher's mask over his face. The weight of his gear feels like a comforting anchor, leveraging him to keep his mind focused. There’s a roar from the crowd as he takes his place behind home base, and the applause and cheers only make things worse. He’s under the lights, he’s got thousands watching, and this is his one shot. 

The first pitch comes fast, a sinker that falls perfectly into his glove. Strike one. Will is on the mound, his face stoic and focused on the batter standing to the right of Frankie. There’s still some trust to gain between them both, and Frankie hopes he proves himself today. Will throws a slider next, down low and right past the bat. 

Strike two. 

Like a well-rehearsed dance, Frankie and Will waltz between batters. An easy one, two, three, and they’re out of the top of the first. Frankie runs alongside Will as they head toward the dugout, the tension in his shoulders relaxing.

“Great job out there, Morales,” Will says. “Welcome to the show.”

“Thanks, Miller. You’re solid on the mound. Those sliders are insane,” Frankie commends. 

“Gotta keep them on their toes. Now, get ready for the bottom of the inning. Show them what you can do out there.”

As Frankie steps into the dugout, he nearly collides with a body nestled into the corner of the steps. Her red hair is tousled into a ponytail, the bill of her Padres ball cap shielding her eyes from the setting sun.

“Shit, sorry,” she mumbles, stepping out of the way.

He recognizes her from earlier, the media girl in the tunnel. Frankie was so wrapped up in his thoughts earlier he hadn’t noticed how beautiful she was: bright eyes, a gentle smile, and a face covered in freckles. 

“All good,” he huffs, too flustered to choke out any more words.

“You look good out there,” she smiles. 

Frankie runs a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, no doubt looking a mess. He needs to focus—needs to move—but he can’t seem to make his way past her. 

“Be careful with Akin’s pitches,” she adds. “He tends to throw his fastballs up in the corner of the zone.”

“Thanks,” Frankie nods. He’s surprised at how much she pays attention.

“Yo! Catfish!” Santi calls from down in the dugout. “Get your ass over here now.”

“I’m assuming you’re Catfish?” She asks.

“Unfortunately,” Frankie grumbles. “Sorry, I’m just gonna go see what he wants.”

“It’s all good. I’m moving down to first base, so I’ll be out of the way.” 

She rises to her feet and gives Frankie one final smile before stepping onto the dirt. Frankie watches as she walks away, her ponytail swinging behind her with every step. 

Focus. 

**

Halfway through the batting order, you’re already onto your next sim card. You usually space out the amount of footage you take, but the game is electric. The Padres are up three to zero, thanks to a home run from Benny—obviously—and a few quick plays made by Santi and Chris Holmes. 

With two outs in the sixth, Frankie is up to bat. His first plate appearance was abysmal, with a groundout to third base. You saw his shoulders slumped as he walked off the field; he didn’t take it lightly. It’s just the first game, you tell yourself. He’ll do just fine. 

Akin throws the first pitch, a fastball, just as you expect. Frankie takes the strike and readjusts himself for the next pitch. It’s outside the zone, and he tracks it carefully. You hold your breath as he hits a full count, three balls, two strikes… and wait. Akin places a screwball down low, but Frankie manages to get a piece of it and sends it sailing into center field for a double. You startle yourself with how loud you cheer, watching his muscled body run past first and onto second base. You’re so caught up in watching him you forget to snap a photo.  

You scold yourself for missing the opportunity to capture his first hit for the team. Why are you so fixated on him? None of the other guys have ever caused you to miss a shot; no one has ever tripped you up this badly. But Frankie… there’s just something about him. He’s not self-assured like the rest. He’s not cocky in the slightest. Honestly, he looked terrified when you ran into him after the top of the first inning. Before your mind starts wandering off, you check the settings on your camera and return to shooting footage. 

The team wins five to zero. Fireworks sparkle through the night sky as the stadium begins to clear out, and you start to return to the dugout. Benny and Will are in a tight embrace as you step under the awning, your camera gear slung over your back. 

“Great win, boys,” you say, giving them each a high five. 

“Did you ever doubt us?” Benny teases, giving you a smug grin. 

“Not for a minute.”

The Miller brothers make their way down into the clubhouse, leaving you standing alone in the dugout. You peel off your ballcap and remove your ponytail, letting your hair fall down your shoulders. 

“Thanks for the advice on Akin.”

The voice startles you, and you search through the shadows to find Frankie sitting alone at the end of the bench. He’s got his glove resting beside him and his bat propped between his feet. He should be celebrating with the team down in the clubhouse, yet he’s here by himself under the stadium lights and swirling shadows. 

“I’ve got plenty more if you ever need it,” you tell him. 

Frankie doesn’t respond, but his eyes stay locked on yours. The stadium lights illuminate the rich chocolate inside his irises, making it nearly impossible to look anywhere else. 

“Shouldn’t you be with the team?” You wonder. “I’m sure they’re all celebrating the first win of the season.”

“Just wanted some time alone, I guess. Soak it all in, you know?”

You walk toward him, cautious on whether or not to get any closer. You aren’t sure if he even wants company, but you can’t seem to steer yourself away. 

“Was it everything you hoped for?” You ask. 

“It could’ve been better.”

Frankie moves his glove into his lap, offering you a space beside him on the bench. Though you feel reluctant, something inside you forces your legs to move. You want to be nearer to him, to get close enough to see past this wall he’s built up. You’re used to some players being quiet and shy, like Will. At least with Will, though, he’s fun when there’s no stress on his shoulders. He relaxes a bit from time to time and lets his guard down. Something you’ve yet to see with Frankie. 

Sliding onto the bench beside him, you adjust your camera into your lap and lay your ballcap over your knee. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Frankie’s head tilt slightly, his eyes trained on your legs. There’s still a healthy gap between you both, yet the warmth of his body swarms around you. 

“Are you with the team full-time?” He asks. 

You glance at him, studying the way his hair curls around his ears and at the base of his neck. There’s a tension in his jaw that flexes under his beard, a simple twitch that happens after every time he speaks. Despite the timid exterior, you can’t help but to notice the softness in his eyes when he looks at you. 

“Mostly just for home games,” you explain. “I only really travel with the team if they invite me on the road. They like having extra media presence for the bigger series, and whatnot. If I could be at every game, I absolutely would. Sitting on the sidelines beats having to watch it on the TV or listening to the radio.”

Frankie nods along as you talk, his lips pursed as if he’s thinking of what to say. Avoiding any more awkward silence, you flick on your camera and scroll through the photos, presenting him with a few you’d taken during his first appearance at the plate. His arm brushes yours slightly as he leans in closer, staring at the photo far longer than you expect. 

“I kind of fucked up and forgot to take a photo of you after that double in sixth,” you admit. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Don’t be,” he shakes his head. “I like this one.”

It’s a photo of him swinging at a curveball, his bat posed perfectly in the center of the box, and his muscular thighs flexed under his pinstripe uniform. You have to admit, it is a good shot—and he looks amazing mid-swing. Your eyes flick up to his, realizing he’s already looking at you. Thank God for the shadows inside the dugout, or else Frankie would see the way your face warms at his words. You don’t ever share your footage with the guys until it’s posted on the social media pages, but it feels different with Frankie. It strangely feels nice. 

“I feel like an asshole, I don’t think I’ve even asked for your name,” he says. 

“The guy’s normally just call me Red,” you shrug. 

“But that’s not your name.”

You tell him your name, and listen to his gentle voice echo it back. It’s rare you hear your name nowadays. Everyone just refers to you as ‘Red’, like it’s who you are. It doesn’t bother you, necessarily, but finally hearing someone acknowledge you makes your stomach flip. Frankie’s eyes never leave yours, and you realize how close you both have gotten. His leg is pressed against yours, and you can still faintly smell the turf on his uniform. He must notice it, too, because he clears his throat and shifts his legs inward. Shutting your camera off, you let it rest in your lap between your hands. There’s a quiet buzz between your bodies, a comfortable cocoon of shared silence that seems to swell with each passing second. 

“I, um, I should probably head down there with the guys,” Frankie says after a while. 

“Yeah, of course. I’m sorry if I kept you too long.”

Frankie rises from the bench, his thick fingers wrapping around the neck of his bat. He offers you a hand, and you shrink under his height as you move to stand. 

“I didn’t mind the company.”

There’s a hint of a smile on his face, just an easy curve of his lips as he stares at you a moment longer. You should move. You should definitely move. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Frankie,” you say. “Great job out there tonight.”

“Thank you.” He says your name, again, emphasizing it as if to prove a point. A gentle reminder that you’re more than just a nickname. 

**

“What took you so long, Catfish?” Santi yells from across the clubhouse. 

He’s already showered and got on his casual clothes for the drive home, something Frankie should have been doing. Instead, he had been helplessly wasting time sitting next to the photographer he had seen around all day. 

Frankie tears his baseball cap off his head, tossing it into his locker as he unbuttons his uniform. He’s still mentally picking apart the day—what he did wrong, what he could improve on—but in each thought, her shiny red hair and doe eyes make a reappearance. Shaking his head, he strips off his undershirt and searches through his stall for a fresh one. 

“Got to chatting with the team photographer,” he says, shrugging the shirt over his chest.

Santi leans against the locker stall, his mouth quirked up in a teasing grin. Frankie already knows what he’s going to say, and he regrets ever mentioning it. 

“Distracted by Red, huh?” Santi teases. “She’s got that affect.”

“She’s not distracting,” Frankie defends. “She just came down to show me some of the pictures she took, and we talked a bit. That’s all.” 

He hopes his clipped words are enough to steer Santi away from the conversation, but Santi can see right through him. 

“Red never shows anyone her photos. None of us ever see what she’s got on that camera until they’re online.”

For some reason, Frankie loves knowing he’s the exception. He saw the way she lit up as she scrolled through the footage, clearly proud of her work. Hell, he doesn’t even care she missed his big play. She spent that time in the dugout with him while his mind was a mess, and gave him a reprieve from the clouded thoughts that the game left him with. Was it awful that he was only looking forward to tomorrow’s game so he could see her again? 

“Maybe she feels bad for me, I don’t know,” Frankie huffs.

He slips on his jacket and runs a hand through his hair before putting on his hat. Santi watches him suspiciously, tracking the tense movements Frankie makes as he gathers his stuff to leave. 

“She’s a nice girl, you know, and she knows her shit, too. Hell, half the guys have tried to grab her attention the last few years, and she’s never been interested.”

“What makes you think she’s interested in me?” 

“I don’t know,” Santi drawls out the words. “Guess we’ll just have to see what she posts tonight.”

Frankie rolls his eyes, shoving past Santi and out of the clubhouse. He steers clear of the other guys as they walk together out to their cars. No one has said much to him yet, and he’s okay with it. Frankie knows he’s the new guy and it’ll take some time for everyone to warm up to him. The only person that seems to be welcoming so far, was Red. Maybe that’s just who she was, but Frankie found himself working Santi’s words over and over inside his head. Red never shows anyone her photos. What made Frankie so special, then? Was he right to think she felt bad for him? If she hadn’t been interested in anyone else, then why did she spend that time with him? 

The apartment is pitch black when Frankie opens the door. Flicking on the lights, he takes in the empty space. Moving boxes scatter the hallway, leading into the renovated kitchen. Frankie barely got the keys to his new place in San Diego two days ago, leaving him little time to settle in before opening day. After this series he’ll be on the road for a week, without any time to get acclimated. Traveling never bothered him, but he wished he could just stop and breathe for one minute. You wanted this, he reminds himself. He’s worked too hard the last several years to let this opportunity pass. The boxes can wait, at least for now.

Tossing his jacket onto the back of the sofa, Frankie slumps against the cushions, scrubbing a hand over his face. He’s been itching to look at his phone since he left the stadium, but he held off. Guess we’ll just have to see what she posts tonight. Digging out his phone from his pocket, Frankie opens Instagram and refreshes the page. Sure enough, the media team already made a post-game slideshow…with Frankie’s at-bat being the first photo. 

The same one he told her he liked the most. 

His thumb hovers over the post as he debates whether or not to look at the rest. He’s already got his one photo, there wouldn’t be any need to give fans more. Yet, as he slides his thumb left over the screen, there’s another photo of himself—from the pre-game walk through the tunnel. Even though his eyes are staring directly into the camera, he knows that wasn’t what he was looking at. His entire focus had been on the girl behind the camera. 

Frankie opens the team’s Instagram page and scrolls through the ‘following’ tab, searching for her name. It’s just innocent curiosity, that’s all it is, but as he finds her name down the list, he’s tempted to press the button. The blue Follow button taunts him, begging him to make the move. Her profile picture is a simple mirror shot, half her face covered by her camera. He wants to see more, like this odd desperation to know her past the lens she hides behind. Before he talks his way out of it, Frankie taps Follow, and sends his phone sailing across the room. It hits the carpet with a soft thud, and sits there silent on the ground. He tips his head back against the couch, pitching the bridge of his nose. God, he feels stupid. 

A soft buzz resounds through the room. Frankie slides his eyes toward his phone, seeing the carpet illuminated by the screen. Just a coincidence, he thinks. Despite the denial he spews inside his mind, he moves from the couch to retrieve his phone. 

Red has accepted your follow request. 

Red started following you. 

Frankie stares at the screen with a stupid grin on his face. He scrolls through her page, finding a surplus of photographs of the stadium, the beach, and a few cityscape shots from various cities. There isn’t a single photo of her, though. He studies each photo, wondering what she saw through the lens of the camera, wishing he could see just one of her face. As he makes his way down her page, a message notification pops onto the screen. 

Red: I hope it’s okay I posted that photo of you. 

Frankie: Absolutely. 

Red: Ok, good. I liked it, too. 

Frankie: Santi told me you don’t show anyone your photos. 

Red: Of course he did. LOL. I’m just protective over my work. I like to keep things private.

Frankie: Why’d you show them to me? 

Frankie watches as text bubbles appear and disappear over and over for at least a minute. He half considers turning his phone off for the night to avoid her response. He shouldn’t care why she showed him, but the thought of it would keep him up all night, wondering why he was deserving of it and not anyone else. His phone buzzes in his hands, and Frankie quickly opens the message. 

Red: I don’t know. You’re the only person I really felt like sharing it with. 

Frankie: I feel honored. Any time you want to share them, I’m always around. 

Red: I’m holding you to that. 

Frankie thinks of a million things to reply with, but his fingers don’t move; all he can think about is seeing her again tomorrow.