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my-soupy-brain · 1 year

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Bedroom Hair

Description: You're in a new relationship with coach Ted Lasso and his wild hair in the Richmond breeze makes your heart pitter-patter. Time to seal the deal with this tall drink of water.

Relationship: Reader (f) x Ted Lasso

Warning: Oral sex, intercourse, fluffy talk and love

Smut level: 🔥🔥🔥 (basically all smut)

----

It can’t be helped.

The way Ted’s hair looks when it’s breezy on the pitch, his long dark auburn locks whipping round on the edge of his visor as he leans over to talk to Beard.

It makes you insane.

Yeah, you should be in your own office right now. You have plenty of work to do. But watching your clandestine boyfriend coach Ted Lasso is far more important. And more fun.

“Can I pick those eyes off the ground for ya, love?” Keeley chimes in to your left. “Looks like you may have a wee bit of drool there too.”

You laugh and blush. “Which player strikes your fancy?” She asks with a wink. So far, you haven’t given your true affections away. But before you can make up an answer to get her off your scent, Ted turns around and waves at you with a wink, and your face turns red.

“Ah-ha! It’s NOT a player at all that ya fancy,” Keeley chides. She waves at Ted and you do, too. When he catches your wave, he stands still for a minute to look at you before turning back around toward the pitch.

Keeley looks at Ted’s back, then at you. Then at Ted’s back. Than at you. Ping-ponging until you crack.

“OK! OK. Yes, Ted and I…” you don’t finish and Keeley is clapping her hands and jumping up and down.

“But shhh, no one knows. I don’t know if it’s even allowed… it’s just…” your stammer, your face turning red. Ted turns back around and sees you still standing there, and he sends a small wave at you again.

“I’m fucking insane for him,” you admit, eyes staring at Ted's back, unblinking. “Insane.”

Keeley is open-mouthed at a your confession. “OK, babes. I need details. How did this happen? When did this happen?!”

You laugh, your eyes still watching Ted’s back and broad shoulders, his hands in his joggers and his silhouette against the sun. That perfect nose, that smile…

“Earth to Y/N. Details,” Keeley reminds.

“Right, so yeah. It was after an away game, about three weeks ago? We met up with some of y’all at Crown & Anchor. And… I don’t know. He walked me home and he was so sweet, and I tripped on something and he grabbed me…and the next thing I know we were kissing…”

“Well, I’m happy for you two lovebirds. He’s too good to go unloved, and you’re so full of love you’re busting at the seams. Perfect match, I say,” Keeley declares. “How’s…the…ya know…” she asks with a wink. “I don’t know, we haven’t gotten that far yet,” you answer proudly, smiling at Ted’s back. Her mouth drops open. “Oh, girl. It’s been too long for you, whatcha waiting for? You’re proper fit, he’s proper fit — get together already!”

You nudge her shoulder and laugh. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about it. The feeling of Ted’s body with yours, tangled in sheets. You wonder what he looks like under all those layers — the polo shirts, the sweaters. As your mind wanders, Keeley bids farewell and heads back into the building.

But you’re still in quicksand, watching Ted do his thing.

In a few minutes, Ted’s instructed the team to the other end of the pitch, with Beard and Roy following them out of eyesight. He spins quickly and looks both ways, making his way to you in the doorway under the bleachers. Before you know it, his arms are around your waist, and his lips are kissing your neck, your ear, your cheek, and your lips.

“Hey babydoll, how’s it goin’ over here?” he asks with a grin. You blush and smile at him, removing his visor and running your fingers through his wind-swept hair. “Just admiring’ the view, coach,” you whisper. “You’re so perfect, so handsome,” you murmur, your pupils blown wide while your hands rake through the tousled amber locks in the breeze. He laughs a bit and backs you up to the wall. “Yeah? You like this, huh?” he teases, his hands and thumbs working circles on your hips. “Why d’ya like this look so much?” He jokes, running his hand through his hair. You hum, and flirt with batting lashes and dark eyes. “I guess because I wonder if that’s what your hair would look like between my legs or hovering above me,” you whisper to his ear, your finger tugging on his whistle. Your eyes go wide: Did you just say that out loud? Ted goes silent, still, almost dizzy at the words that leave your beautiful lips. He wraps his arms around you closely, hands skating down your side to your ass, which he squeezes lightly while he leans into your ear: “You wanna find out?” You squeak with disblief, followed by a tiny gasp leaving your lips in a puff of air. He kisses you chastely and backs away.

“Back to work, sweet pea. See you soon,” he says, turning and jogging back out to meet the coaches and team on the pitch.

You float back to your office, stunned. Sure, in the few weeks you’ve been with Ted, it’s been lots of Rom Communism movie nights, cuddling, kissing, and caressing but you haven’t done *that* yet and to have him affirm what you’ve been thinking about has your head spinning.

By the end of the night, and after hours of sweating and struggling to concentrate because of what Ted said, you are finally packing up your laptop from your desk when you feel a large, warm set of hands on your hips. You stop what you’re doing to place your hands on top.

“Hey, sugar,” Ted whispers, his lips kissing your neck and nuzzling your ear.

“Hey there,” you answer sweetly. You’re letting him make the next move.

“I was thinkin’… it’s Friday night. Your place or mine? Let’s stay in, hm?” Ted asks, his hands working their way south, down your thighs, before coming back up to your hips.

“Yeah? Stay in? Why’s that, coach? What do you wanna do?” you ask innocently. He chuckles, his breath fanning over your neck.

“Because I wanna take you apart, that’s why,” he mutters, his lips sitting on your neck gently, holding your body tighter. You gasp at the admission

“My place,” you request. Ted backs up, nods, and grabs your hand. “Let’s go!”

—

Your stomach is in your throat the way back to your flat.

At a traffic light, Ted leans over and kisses you, his tongue tracing your bottom lip while you pull back, your eyes starry with lust. Whatever unlocked in Ted is about to be unleashed on you, and you can hardly wait.

You make your way up the stairs and Ted’s hands have already starting their journey, rubbing your body and standing chest-to-back with you while you fish for your keys.

But once inside, he’s his amicable, coy self. He sets down his bag, removes his jacket and shoes and plops down on the couch. You take a moment, confused.

You don’t even remove your heels or suit, sitting next to him on the couch and staring at him.

“How’s it goin’ darlin’?” he asks, his eyebrows up and curious. As if he didn’t dangle sex talk in front of you earlier, promising to “take you apart.”

“Ted…am I…misreading…” you are trying to ask the question but not sure how.

“Misreading…what?” he asks, slipping his hand behind you and lifting you into his lap, your skirt hitching higher over your thighs, heels dangling off the edge of your couch. Your stomach clenches in need, the heat of your bodies covering each other.

“I’m so…confused…” you stammer, Ted nods like he’s listening, his fingers opening the buttons of your blouse and sliding it off your shoulders. This is a game, you think. He’s playing with you.

“What can I help make clear for ya?” he asks nicely, his hands massaging your breasts, working their way back to the clasp.

“I thought you wanted to…take me apart…” you murmur into his lips, making his twitch into a smile. His fingers dance to your back where they unclasp your bra, your breasts pebbling against the cool air of the room.

“Hmmm…take you apart…” he murmurs, his lips kissing up and down your neck and shoulder. “I don’t recall…”

You groan, your core throbbing now. His hands are under your skirt, rubbing your ass and pushing you back and forth against his erection behind his khakis.

“Ah, yes, about my hair,” he says in jest. “Yeah, I remember now darlin’…”

Before you can respond with another ribbing he’s pushing your skirt higher, hands gripping the rounded flesh of your ass while ducking his head to your breasts to mouth and lick a nipple. His arms push you back and forth, making you moan with the friction.

“Yeah…that’s right…I do wanna take you apart,” Ted mutters to your lips, dragging wetly across his with your tongue jutting out to meet his.

With no warning he picks you up to carry you to it your bedroom. He sets you on the edge of your bed, while he kneels on the floor, fingers working your skirt and panties down to your ankles.

You manage to return the favor, leaning in to pull his shirt off over his head. And you marvel at his body. Broad shoulders and chest, a defined collarbone, an incredible pattern of hair down to his soft but still defined abs.

You can’t resist: You rake your fingers down his chest to feel his oven-hot skin. But he doesn’t let you do that long before he works his belt off and unzips his khakis to ease the tension of his cock hitting the metal confines. He quickly eases you to your back and grabs your thighs, dragging you to the end of the bed. He wiggles his eyebrows at you before kissing each knee, then higher in each thigh, before nudging you open with his perfect nose and then his tongue.

“Is this OK, darlin’?” he asks gently, the less precocious but always gentle Ted asks you. You nod furiously. “Yes, yes… oh, please Ted…” you answer.

A slow ascent of his tongue from your hole to your clit has your legs shaking in his palms. He holds you steady, one large hand holding your waist while you struggle not to buck against his face, the other gripping your thigh.

The sensation is perfect. All the workup today, all the daydreaming about this happening, and your nerves could light sparklers with the fire going through your bloodstream. Just as you’re getting used to his tongue’s ministrations, he sucks hard on you, pushing two fingers inside your channel and curling them just right against your velvety walls.

You gasp for air, squeaking his name out as he presses harder, his mouth sucking stronger. And you tumble over the edge, your fists in the duvet, your head and hair tossed back on the pillow. Your legs flail for a moment at the inability to move and let your body dance the way it needs to with the sensation.

Ted pulls away with a slurp, wiping the his mouth on your thigh, sending sparks of pleasure through your body as you watch his dark eyes climb higher to meet your eye line.

Slack-mouthed, panting, sweaty: That’s all you are. Your body is listless, floating in post-orgasmic bliss, when Ted crawls over you, draping his body to your side and holding you close.

“How're ya feelin’ babydoll,” Ted asks quietly, nuzzling your cheek with his nose — his perfect nose. His hands massage your breast, rolling your nipple between his thumb and finger. You sigh, a heavenly sound of a woman sated.

“I feel…amazing, baby,” you whisper in reply, leaning in to kiss him. You taste yourself — a little bitter, a little sweet — on his tongue.

He kisses his way to your ear and whispers: “I’m not done with you, darlin’.”

You groan and smile as Ted’s hand skates down your back, to your ass, to your thigh, which he encourages over his hip. Now naked like you, he nudges himself closer to your center, letting his tip bump into you and rub against your slick folds, teasing you both while you kiss and move your bodies in sync.

Enough playing, you decide. “Do you want me?” you ask, making eye contact. His face is flush, his lips wet from kissing.

Ted nods. “I want you, baby…” he croons.

You smile, kissing him again, his hands searching your body before going still as you encourage him between your thighs and notch him where he belongs, using your legs around his waist to draw him in. Your body takes in every delicious inch.

You move slowly together, savoring the moment, getting used to the stretch. Your fingertips wipe away the sweat beading along his temples, flecked with the tiniest bit of gray, before you hold his face in your hands to kiss him deeply.

His hands are so warm and big, the way they caress your body. The deep huff of his breath, his moans of your name, sound beautiful spilling from his lips. His hazel eyes flutter closed at the sensations he’s feeling, but when they’re open they’re so full of love your heart could explode.

The deep, slow push he’s giving you is beautiful in its own way, but you want him to give it all over to you. “Ted… I want you to show me…what you’ve thought about with me,” you request, leaning up to kiss his lips again. Ted’s stomach flutters at your words with memories of thoughts he’s had running in his head. “Are you sure,” he asks, bringing his forehead to yours, a tendril of hair falling down. You nod. “I’m sure, baby…”

With that permission he sits back on his heels slightly, holding your hips in his hands and angling them up so he can drive into you. You can see his hips working faster, harder, as he pushes and pulls in you. His name on your lips makes him feel amazing, lucky he can be the one who does this to you.

He quickly moves his thumb to your clit, pressing and rubbing it to help you along. When your breath hitches and your head throws back, he can tell you’re almost there. “That’s it, my good girl…that’s it…let me hear you…” he coaxes you while profanities and whimpers and a small scream leave your throat. His balls tighten and his cock throbs at the noises you make as he presses his palm into your swollen sex while you ride out the last of your orgasm.

“Oh, oh my God,” you sigh out loudly, a chill crawling up your spine and suddenly feeling cold in the room. Ted notices your teeth chatter and leans back down over your body, a sheet over his back, to warm you. His thrusting slows to a quieter and more intimate pace, while your lips connect and hands touch and soothe everywhere. You tongues dance lightly while you both smile and whisper to each other.

“You’re so beautiful.”

“You make me feel so good.”

“I never want this to end.”

“You’re just how I dreamed.”

“Never let me go.”

“I’ll never let you go.”

“So this is what making love is like,” you whimper, feeling the crest of another orgasm building. Ted smiles, leaning into your neck. “It can only be making love with you,” he replies, you sigh. You kiss him harder, holding him closer to your body, your legs tighter around his middle.

As he kisses you again, he laces his fingers with yours and your head goes dizzy with the romance of it.

Before you realize it, he’s rolled you to your sides, staying buried deep while his hand massages your breast, lips kissing and nibbling along your neck and shoulder. With a slight change of his hips, you’re crying out. “Yes, come for me sweetheart,” Ted encourages with a grunt to your neck. Your leg over his hip tightens as you feel your peak approaching. “Let me hear you…”

That pushes you over the edge, your fingers clawing at his back. He watches your face go slack with pleasure, the blush spreading from your cheeks to your neck and chest. When you bite your bottom lip as the waves recede, he grows harder, his hips stuttering on his own precipice.

“God, Ted… I’ve never felt like this…” you pant and plead into his lips, eyes searching his. “I want to feel you, too. Please… please let me feel you. Inside, I want you inside…”

He nods hurriedly, leaning in to kiss you again, the squeeze of his hips in your leg and the pain-pleasure of your fingernails in his back send him tumbling over. His hand holds your ass to keep your bodies close as he empties himself in you and slows down.

“Oh, sweetheart… shoot… what you do to me,” he murmurs into your lips.

You hold him close, peppering his stubbled cheeks with kisses, fingers raking through his thick hair. He slips out of you but keeps you held close to his body, your combined juices leaking into the bed (not that you care).

His eyes connect with yours, happy and relaxed. You kiss him lightly on the lips and nibble on his bottom lip while his hands move into your hair, rolling you to his side to snuggle into his chest. Your fingers dance through the hair there.

He stops your hand and holds it, kissing your knuckles.

“I hope I lived up to the hype, darlin’,” he says with a sad smile, waiting for your answer. “You did. You didn’t hype it enough,” you answer, leaning over to kiss a bare nipple.

“And to think, this is all because of my hair,” he adds, joking. You try to brush it back into place, failing as it falls over his forehead in an auburn waterfall.

"Well, it's more than that, too sweetpea. I love you from your head to your toes, you know..." you wink, and he smiles hearing you say the L word.

Your heart flutters again before setting down under the covers, bodies twisted together, falling fast asleep.

#ted lasso x reader #ted lasso fanfic #i fucking love this man #oh the things i'd do or let him do #enjoy friends

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voidsaps · 1 year

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after party celebration

#kingfield #dwight fairfield #david king #dead by daylight #dbd #dead by daylight fanart #dbd fanart #fanart #i had fun with this one #one of the first times i didnt like #hate shading #enjoy friends

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jelliclekay · 1 year

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Since I never shut up about Erica’s voice, here is Erica and Nora singing Macavity. From the closing night in Cleveland, November 20th, 2022.

Do not share outside of tumblr.

#enjoy friends #bombalurina #demeter #cats the musical #cats us tour 6

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madamairlock · 8 months

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@lalalauraroslin inspired a fun little idea (and it actually turned out short this time)! Enjoy!

#kaitlin writes #bsg #battlegal #battlestar galactica #spaceparents #enjoy friends #lol #one prompt three fics #ficlets really #they're all less than 500 words

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bobfloydsbabe · 2 years

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takes one to know one | hangman x oc

Rating: T+ Warning(s): Flirting, sexual tension, non-explicit sexual language, kissing, alcohol, one swear word(?) Word count: 3.2k Prompt: N/A Requested: Yes Summary: Jas and Hangman have played tug-of-war for a while, but on this night, it comes to a head. A/N: Massive thank you and shout-out to Anna, who not only requested it but also helped me with the rating and several lines of dialogue, including fickle moods and a plea for Jas to just kiss Hangman. She's been a solid sounding board and an amazing friend. The title is a reference to cowboy like me by Taylor Swift. Enjoy, friends!

IMPORTANT: This story has an OC named Caro and mentions another called Dalia. Both OCs were created by and belong to @anna-phora. They were included with Anna's consent, and the parts involving Caro were read and approved by her prior to posting this. You can find more information about Caro and Dalia here and here.

likes are nice, but comments and reblogs are golden.

Jas was in a sour mood.

She had always lived at the behest of her emotions, and her moods were fickle at best. She was decidedly not a morning person, and everyone knew not to speak to her within the first half hour of her waking up. Her family learned to walk on eggshells around her. They knew that to Jas, their voices sounded like nails on a chalkboard in the morning, and they were better off letting her be. Learning to drink coffee hadn’t helped, and she would still snap if any of her sisters (or her moms) asked a question or made a jibe.

In college, her roommate had suffered in much the same way.

As had every boyfriend, girlfriend, partner, and one-night-stand.

When she went to Med School, she lived off campus to spare everyone, including herself.

Don’t talk to her in the morning, and you’re golden. Joining the Navy, being yelled at, and given orders at the crack of dawn didn’t do much to ease her moods. Jas had to learn to hold her tongue, which proved to be one of her biggest challenges.

She didn’t like being told what to do, especially by people who were less intelligent than her. In short, she didn’t like authority.

Jas had talked back to superiors on multiple occasions, and her record included several warnings for insubordination. Those warnings didn’t do her any good when she saved a man’s leg from amputation against direct orders. She should have been discharged. She should have been kicked out with no pension, no benefits, and stripped of her commendations, but instead, they sent her to Miramar to do routine exams on standard personnel and aviators.

Jas spent most of her days prescribing cough medicine and Tylenol. One would think that Navy personnel would be tougher than that, but if she got one more big burly dude insisting he was dying from seasonal flu, she would scream. But Jas was in no position to complain because she could have been discharged but wasn’t. Someone had taken pity on her, but they still sent her on the most deadbeat boring assignment of her career.

That wasn’t the reason for her sour mood, though.

No, that was all due to one man and one man only. Lieutenant Jake Seresin. Callsign: Hangman.

Pilot extraordinaire, according to himself, and the bane of Jasmine’s existence at present.

Only an hour ago, they’d been flirting as he bought her a beer. She accepted it but rebuffed his advances yet again. She was having fun, and seeing his frustration grow with every rejection made her feel a type of giddy joy that it really shouldn’t.

An hour ago, she had relished in his attention, and now, she was downing tequila shots and washing it down with beer.

Sometimes Jas wished she’d listened to her sisters more. To Birdie, who told her to think before she talked. To River when she told her not to join the Navy because her lack of filter and issues with authority would get her in trouble. Sometimes, on nights like this, when she wanted to strangle a man, Jasmine wished she’d listened to Maggie and stuck to flirting with and dating women. Her moms had said similar things, but she’d never been good at listening to them, either.

So, she watched Hangman teach a stunning red-headed woman to play pool, his cocky grin, green eyes lingering, and his hands wandering.

“You look miserable,” a familiar voice said as she slid into the seat next to Jas. Caro had only been gone five minutes, maybe ten tops, but in that time, Hangman had started his little escapade, and Jas was contemplating murder.

Jas raised a hand to Penny and pointed at the shot glass in front of her. “I’m fine.”

Caro snorted, taking a long sip of her beer. “You’re staring daggers.”

“I am not,” Jas protested as Penny poured another tequila shot for her.

“She hasn’t taken her eyes off him while you were in the bathroom.”

Jas narrowed her eyes at Penny, but she had already disappeared to the other end of the bar, none the wiser to Jas’ glare.

Caro opened her mouth, probably to lecture her. “Don’t,” Jas warned, downing the shot without salt or lime. The liquor burned her throat, but she didn’t much care. “I don’t want to hear it.”

Sometimes it was strange that Caro was five years Jas’ junior, yet she was more mature than Jas had ever been.

Caro sighed, fishing a couple of bills out of her bag and placing them on the counter for Penny, who had wandered back over. “Get her another shot,” she told the bartender. “I’m going home.”

Jas finally tore her eyes away from Hangman and his stupid smirk to look at her friend. “What, why?”

Caro stood, adjusting her bag. “Flirt with Hangman all you want, but I’m not paying for a babysitter just to sit here with you while you’re in a mood about him.”

Jas frowned. “I’m not in a mood.”

Caro quirked a brow. “Penny, back me up here.”

“You’re in a mood,” Penny agreed and poured another shot for Jas.

Jas groaned but stood to offer her friend a hug goodbye. “Give Dalia a kiss for me.”

Caro nodded, a smile playing on her lips at the bond Jas had already formed with her daughter. “I will,” she promised and turned her gaze back to Penny. “Keep an eye on her.”

“I’m not a child,” Jas protested.

“Then stop acting like one.”

Jas stifled another groan. “Rude.”

“Just make out with Hangman for my sake. For Penny’s sake. For this whole bar’s sake,” Caro said, her tone almost pleading.

All Jas offered was a noncommittal grunt.

They said their final goodbyes, and Caro disappeared out the door while Jas sat back down at the bar. It didn’t escape her attention that Fanboy followed Caro outside.

Jas let her eyes stray back to Hangman and the redhead he was teaching pool. Jas didn’t know how to play, but she hadn’t been tempted when he offered to teach her. Back then, he didn’t know that she was in the Navy, too. He didn’t know that she would be examining him the very next day. Jas had suspected but hadn’t known for sure.

She’d found his attempts to take her home funny, a bit desperate, although he probably never had any issues taking women home. With a face and body like that, who wouldn’t go home with him? But Jas wasn’t an easy victim, and she’d always been too stubborn for her own good.

“There’s smoke coming out of your ears,” Penny said, dragging Jas out of her close-to-boiling-point rage thoughts. “You know he’s just doing that to get a reaction out of you, right?”

“What?” She took a sip of her stale and mostly empty beer. It was all she could do not to rip her hair out.

“That,” Penny said, gesturing vaguely at Hangman, who had his hands on the redhead’s hips, his lips close to her ear.

“He can teach pool to whoever he likes,” Jas argued.

“Sure,” Penny agreed but didn’t look convinced. “But you should know he hasn’t left with anyone since he met you.”

Jas gawked at Penny, her eyes flickering back to Hangman. She would have thought he’d need to get laid as often as possible, and surely it had nothing to do with her that he hadn’t. Or maybe he had, and Penny just didn’t know about it. There we other bars, right? Other means of getting laid. Tinder was a thing, after all.

Just then, Hangman looked up, and his green eyes met Jas’ blue ones. He smirked and offered a nod before raising his beer to her. Jas gave a tight-lipped smile in return and glanced back at Penny, who was still looking at her.

“Just put the poor guy out of his misery,” Penny said, barely concealed annoyance slipping into her tone.

Jas looked down at the tequila shot still in front of her. It made her think of Caro, who had paid for it and then left, and Jas decided this was all Hangman’s fault. So in a moment of no impulse control and alcohol flowing through her veins, she downed the shot, slammed it down on the bar, and pushed off the barstool.

She faintly heard Penny say her name over the rush of blood in her ears as her rage spilled over. She marched over to the pool table and ignored the rest of the aviators exchanging glances.

“Seresin,” Jas demanded. Hangman straightened up, his hands leaving the redhead’s hips, but a smirk still played on his perfect features. The redhead looked confused, a frown on her pretty face that Jas might’ve wanted to kiss away if Hangman didn’t make her blood boil.

“Ready for me to teach you, Doc?”

The redhead’s frown deepened, eyes shifting between the two.

“No,” she replied through gritted teeth. “It’s your fault my friend left.”

His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “And how’s that, Doc?”

Jas clamped her mouth shut, teeth pressed so tightly together she feared they might shatter. She hated it when he called her Doc. From everybody else, it didn’t matter because it was her title and profession, but across his lips, it managed to sound like a taunt. She hated how much he affected her.

“Doesn’t matter,” she said weakly. “It just is.”

She then spun on her heel and walked back to the bar. She asked Penny for another tequila shot, downed it, paid her tab, and left through the front door.

Outside, the California heat had lowered, and Jas felt like she could breathe for the first time all night. She hadn’t realized how stifling the bar felt until the breeze cooled her skin down.

She stood in the middle of the parking lot, among the cars, and let out a long breath. She felt the tension leave her body, her shoulders relaxed, and her lungs finally expanded to their fullest. She ran her hands across her face, careful to avoid her eyes, so she wouldn’t smear her mascara.

“Doc!”

She didn’t even try to stifle a groan at the sound of the familiar voice that, in her haze, sounded a little bit like liquid gold. Sweet and sticky, like toffee.

She ignored him and started to walk out of the parking lot to go home.

“Doc,” he called again, but he was closer this time. His voice coated her insides and made her stomach twist in a knot with a feeling she knew all too well, and she hated it.

“Jasmine.”

She froze. Stopped dead in her tracks and slowly turned, facing the man who had just said her name for the first time. Even when he’d introduced himself that first night, and she’d told him her name, he’d only ever referred to her as Doc.

“You don’t call me that.”

He chuckled, finally standing in front of her. She could hardly tell his eyes were green in the dim light from the bar and streetlights surrounding them. They looked darker in this light. “I just did.”

Jas eyed him suspiciously. “What do you want, Seresin?”

He might not call her by her name, but she had refused to use his callsign since day one. It was a stupid callsign, anyway.

He looked at her, his eyes raking over every inch of her body, and she wanted to tell him to stop. She wanted him to leave her alone, to let her think and breathe, and work on not being so affected by him.

His eyes returned to her face, his hands buried in the pockets of his uniform trousers. “How much have you had?”

She took a step forward. “You counting my drinks now?”

“No, but you’re wobbling.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Am not.”

He stepped forward and was suddenly so close she could feel his breath on her face. This was exactly like that moment after his physical when he’d left her gasping for air. Had he really done what he’d promised? Had he thought of her that night?

“You’re infuriating,” he said without an ounce of anger or frustration in that velvety voice.

“You’re one to talk,” Jas said, poking his chest. His eyes darted to her lips while he licked his own.

Before he could do anything, Jas turned around, swinging her hair a little more vigorously than strictly necessary. She felt it hit his face, making her grin.

“Where are you going?”

“Home,” she shouted back without turning to face him.

She heard the sound of his hurried footsteps to catch up with her. “How are you getting home?”

“Walking.”

“No,” Hangman said, touching her arm to stop her. The warmth of his hand set her entire body on fire, and she felt that feeling in her stomach again. “I’ll drive you.”

Jas glared at him. “It’s a 20-minute walk.”

“That makes it a five-minute drive,” he said, gently pulling her towards his car.

Jas didn’t put up nearly as much of a fight as she should have. “You’ve been drinking, too.”

He must’ve sensed her resolve to fight him evaporate because he let go of her arm. “I had one beer,” he told her. “I can drive.”

“Fine.” She got into his car, and he didn’t start it until she had buckled her seatbelt.

She told him her address and leaned back in the barely-touched leather seat. Of course, Hangman kept his car immaculate, and a very childish part of Jasmine wanted to do something to taint it.

Hangman kept both hands on the wheel, concentrating on getting out of the parking lot without hitting anything. He maneuvered smoothly, and Jas hated him a little more. Her own driving was questionable at best.

“What happened to redhead?”

Hangman glanced at her before turning his attention back to the road.

The smirk was back. “You jealous?”

“Of course,” she told him, watching as his jaw went slack. “She was smoking. Bet I could make her come faster than you.”

Jas watched his Adam’s apple bob as a specific mental image undoubtedly entered his mind. He shifted in his seat, clenched his perfect jaw, and grabbed the wheel just a little tighter.

“So,” she continued. “What happened to her?”

“Told her the lesson was over.”

Jas hummed. “Classic Seresin.”

He turned the car onto her street. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Leave them hanging,” she explained. “Isn’t that what you do in the air, too?”

He pulled up in front of her house, turning the car off. “I never leave a lady hanging.”

Jas snorted and unbuckled her seatbelt. She moved to get out of the car but furrowed her brows at the sound of Hangman getting out too. As she stood outside, the passenger side door still open, she rested her arms on the roof.

She glared at him. “What are you doing?”

That easy and cocky smile of pearly whites graced his face, and the low light of the street lamps made his eyes look darker again.

He closed his door. “Walking the lady to her front door,” he said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. He came around the front of the car to join her on the sidewalk. “My mother raised me to be a gentleman.”

“Then your mother must have a skewed idea of what a gentleman is,” Jas said as she closed the car door and set off towards the house. “Because that’s the last thing you are.”

She walked up the steps to her front door and heard the deck creak when he joined her. He leaned against the side of her house, the worn wood creaking as well, making Jas grimace. The house she rented was old and weather-worn, every inch of it shuddering at the slightest movement, but Jas loved it.

She didn’t know how long the Navy planned on punishing her, but after the first month and no end in sight, she decided to rent off base. Five months later, she was still happy that she did. One month in barracks was more than enough.

Jas searched for her keys in her bag, doing her best to ignore Hangman’s gaze fixed on her. He hadn’t yet argued with her on the comment about his mom.

“You lose your keys, Doc?”

She glared at him but finally closed her hand around the metal and pulled them out. She unlocked the door, opened it, but didn’t go inside.

Instead, she faced him. His stupid hair still perfectly in place, his jaw annoyingly strong, eyes glinting in a way that made Jas’ belly feel like molten glass. Warm and sticky. Liquid gold.

“Thank you for driving me home,” she said and found that she was sincere.

“Anytime, Doc.”

Jas didn’t know how she knew, but she could tell he was serious. The fire he evoked in her spread down her thighs, her shins, right down to her toes as she stood there, looking at his irritating face.

It was like he was sculpted by Gods.

“You’re infuriating,” he said, voice so low and sultry that Jas had to fight every instinct that wanted her to clench her thighs together.

“You’re one to talk.”

Later, when she replayed the night in her head, she didn’t know who leaned in first, but they clung to each other in a deep passionate kiss.

Hangman pushed her against the wooden doorframe, and it groaned at the force. He had her pinned against the wall as his hands explored her back, her waist, her hips. Jas licked into his mouth and wondered what else that tongue could be good for.

The groan that escaped him spurred her on, and she pulled him impossibly closer, and his hands found her ass as he pressed her further into the doorframe. She barely registered the wood digging into her back.

She could feel how much he wanted her, and fuck, she wanted him too. His hands left her ass, and she didn’t quite manage to stifle a whine at the loss of his touch. His hands found the hem of her shirt, and she felt the calloused fingertips graze her skin.

He broke the kiss, hooded, lust-filled eyes trained on hers. “Let me come in.”

Those four words sent ice through Jas’ veins, bringing her back to the present and what was happening on her front porch. She closed her eyes for a second, trying to gain her wits about her.

When she opened them again, she placed a palm on his firm chest before he could lean forward to capture her lips again.

“No.”

His brows shot up, eyes widening in surprise. “No?”

She shook her head slightly, a menacing smile on her kiss-swollen lips. “No,” she confirmed and tapped his cheek lightly. “But I’ll be thinking of you tonight.”

With that, she slipped inside her house and closed the door behind her, leaving a disoriented and very horny Hangman on her front porch.

“You’re infuriating!” He yelled from the other side. Jas leaned against the door, listening to his retreating footsteps. Her breathing was heavy and labored, and the fire burned through her so hot that she knew she would be thinking of him tonight.

❋❋❋

main taglist (let me know if you want to be added): @arrthurpendragon, @ocappreciationtag, @chrissymunson, @jvstjewels, @cas-verse, @chickensarentcheap, @asirensrage, @misskatiewrites, @stanshollaand, @eddiemunscns, @raith-way

top gun taglist (let me know if you want to be added): @anna-phora, @itsjustgracy, @eddie-munscns, @fantasias-creativebubble, @lostinwonderland314, @luckyladycreator2, @blue-aconite, @dempy, @alana4610

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quasarkisses · 2 months

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youtube

CILANTRO BE UPON YE!

#blah blah blah #stuck in my wife and my head now yours too #enjoy friends #Youtube

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placetneplacet · 2 years

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You know who deserves to throw himself a little vacation threesome as a treat? Lop, deserves…

#unforgotten night the series #unforgotten night #for all that he has to put up with with Baby Boy #enjoy friends

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jeniffercheck · 2 years

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don’t you blame me (if i get carried away)

a/n: i was listening to ‘home team’ by indigo de souza and started to feel feelings about greta gill ✨ CWs & details under the cut

words: 4k

read here or on ao3

Imagined character study AU based on the moment where Greta tells Carson about Dana and says, “I was fine.”

CW: Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Disordered Eating, Homophobia, Slurs

“I knew I was ready to stop going steady, when the home team was losing 20 to 1.

I just really don’t give a shit about the score on the scoreboard—

Please, Lord.

Please, Lord.”

—

“Girls can’t play ball.”

The statement is sharp, like a thousand cuts. It pricks her like pins and needles, slowly fragmenting pieces of her heart until numbing out into a dull pain, never present but always there.

She shouldn’t question her father. She knows this; nothing good ever comes of it.

“Why not?” she asks. “It’s a team just for girls. They’re starting a few in the area and they’re going to have games and everything. Joey already made the team—”

“If Josephine DeLuca is the kind of girl they’re letting on the team, you’re especially not playing.”

“What’s wrong with Jo?”

She doesn’t know why she asks it. She knows the answer.

“Nothing, dear,” her mother pipes in. “She just has…qualities.”

Qualities. Meaning Joey’s not perfect. Like them. Like her brother. Like how Greta is supposed to be.

She tries to bite her tongue, tries so hard to avoid the interaction that she knows is inevitable, but she can’t help it. She always has to push.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Do I need to spell it out for you, Greta?”

Her father’s tone is cautionary. He’s asking her to stop while she’s ahead, to go back to her room to her hairbrush and her etiquette homework and to act as the well-behaved daughter he’s raised her to be.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she says it slowly, drawing out each pause and syllable, watching her father’s eyes grow angrier at every consonant until he slams the paper down on the kitchen table.

“I’m not letting you play baseball with a bunch of fucking queers!”

She doesn’t know why she says it, or what becomes of her, but she knows it’s all she has.

“You’re a fucking queer!”

She runs to her room before she has a chance to see his reaction, but the silence is deafening as she waits behind her door, heart pounding.

The rest of the night moves slowly. She hears her brother come home, the plates that rattle as her mother sets the dinner table. The chatter as they eat. She almost thinks her father had been kidnapped and replaced by a man who might take pity on her, allow her a slip-up for once in her life when it passes bedtime and he doesn’t show. It’s then that a soft knock on her door rips her out of her terror and back into the nightmare of reality, and her mother’s voice rings through the wood.

“Your father would like to see you downstairs.”

She waits for her mother’s footsteps to disappear and she counts to thirty, steeling herself for what’s to come.

She finds her father in the living room, cigarette in one hand and cane in the other. Her feet feel like dead weight as she dredges forward, and she wants to stop, wants to run but she can’t, she’s frozen in time, trapped in this moment.

Her father nods and she holds her hands out in front of her, calloused palms facing the pristine, white ceiling.

She stops crying after fifteen, stops counting after twenty, and when she shows up for school the next day barely able to hold a pencil, Joey doesn’t have to ask to know that Greta won’t be playing baseball that year.

iv.

“Your hands are so soft.”

He says it after the game, when the rest of the team has gone and it’s just the two of them in the dugout. Her parents left with her brother and the rest of the team to celebrate. She thought her father would be mad when she asked to go to the game, but then she mentioned that August was back in the lineup and she could see hope ringing in his eyes.

“You hear that, honey?” he’d said to her mother. “Greta’s been asked out by the starting pitcher.”

And now she’s in the dugout with him after the winning game and his lips are all over her neck and his hands are getting increasingly close to her chest, and she wonders if this is all she’s meant for.

“August,” she nearly whispers. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

He pauses for a moment, then smiles slyly with that boyish charm that’s supposed to do something to her and he laughs.

“Are you gonna tell?”

She questions if the other girls find this attractive. If they feel like willing participants rather than just unfortunate bystanders, and she wishes she could tell him to stop, that his sweat is gross and his fastball is slower than Julie’s on the girl’s team and his breath makes her wish she could be anywhere but here—but the words are stuck somewhere between her desires and the truth.

This is her ticket. This is as close as she’ll ever get to a dugout.

She feels his hand cup her breast and wills herself not to cry when he brings his mouth back to hers. She gives away as much of herself as she can; enough to satisfy a growing boy’s hunger, but too much to know she’s too contaminated to ever hope of fulfilling the sanctity of a marriage.

Not that she had any hope. If she doesn’t marry August, she very well might marry no one.

When he’s finished he gives her a kiss on the cheek and smiles, so she smiles back (and because really, he’s so nice to her and she never said no).

Greta thinks you must be able to smell the shame on her because when she returns home for dinner, the only thing her father gives her is a look of disgust and says, “You’re lucky you’re a beautiful girl.”

—and she knows that what he means is no man could ever want her so tainted and no man could ever want her so misbehaved and no man could ever want her because she could never belong to any man. She’s unfit.

But she sure is beautiful.

iii.

She racks her mind trying to figure out where it all went wrong.

She’s in her bedroom, has been for hours, just waiting for her father to come home. She’s run through all of the options in her head, the choices she has left.

She could admit to it and risk getting sent away. She briefly wonders if losing her mind would be better. If they could just drill that tiny hole into her skull and she’d be free from whatever suffering she’s obviously been fated to. Worse, they wouldn’t do the procedure. She could be subject to the other treatments she’s heard about—hot water and buzzing metal—and they all sound so painful.

She thinks about the fact that Dana won’t have a choice.

She feels sick, as the next thought crosses her mind.

She could blame it on Dana. The damage is already done, right? If she just tells her parents that it was Dana, and Dana was trying to pervert her and Greta doesn’t even know how she fell for it then nothing bad has to happen, right?

Except that she’d know that she betrayed Dana. That she wasn’t careful and she got them caught and then blamed it all on her, and everyone in town would know what a freak Dana was, meanwhile Greta would become a martyr. They’d look at her in the halls and they’d say, “Remember what happened to Greta Gill? Watch out for the signs of homosexuality or you could end up like her!”

She could say it was all a big misunderstanding. That she loved August and wanted to marry him but she was nervous about not being good enough. That she wanted to make sure she was perfect. After all, girlfriends can kiss, right? Why would there be any harm in kissing each other if they weren’t perverted, right?

The knob of her door twists. She braces for the worst, hopes for a second that maybe it’s a firing squad just come to put her out of her misery, but she could never be so lucky. Her father enters the room, a neutral expression on his face and she wonders if just this once, the universe has granted her the grace of mercy.

“This is going to cost me a pretty penny to bury, Greta.”

His eyes turn down at her. She shifts in her spot, suddenly unable to come up with any response in regards to her father deciding he was going to bury it. She averts her eyes, wondering if he will bury her too; take down her photos in the house and repaint her bedroom walls and pretend that he never had a daughter named Greta, let alone a daughter at all.

“You’ll be lucky if that girl can’t even remember her own name by the time they’re done with her.”

She looks back up, and his gaze has shifted. He’s looking at her as if he’s bargaining. As if this was an inevitable fact that he always knew. That for all his effort—keeping her from playing baseball, letting her be promiscuous without consequence, not asking questions when she suddenly made a new best friend in the next town over—his little girl could never be what she was supposed to be.

So in that moment, she decides to grant him the grace.

“It was an accident,” she says, voice shaking. “I just got confused.”

Silence. He stares at her for a long time. She wonders what options he went through in his own head, if he came to the same conclusions as her. She wonders if he even cares, or if he just cares that everyone else will care. She wonders if he hates her. He surely does. He has to.

“If you wish to stay here you will go to school, you will come home, and you will continue to see August,” he finally says.

She mulls over the words: if you wish to stay here. She feels as though it’s the illusion of choice. Where else would she go at seventeen and not a dollar to her name? She could run out to the city and become a grifter or a moll, but she’s only been to the city once and she wouldn’t know the first thing about making it out on the streets.

“And you will limit your contact with that… Josephine DeLuca.”

So it’s settled. She’ll finish school and she’ll make a home with August and she’ll live out the rest of her days begging the world for forgiveness for what she’s done to Dana. It’s the least she can do, the only reckoning she can imagine that would account for her deeds.

“The big game is tonight,” he says. “Put on a nice dress. We’re leaving at 5.”

ii.

August had done it. He worked his way through college ball and he made it to the minors; despite the achy shoulder and the fact that he throws more cookies than Greta thought could be possible from a starting pitcher. Greta had stood steadily by in the background the entire time, like the perfect trophy wife everyone knew she was destined to become.

In the beginning, it was easy. Her father had given her a chance. He’d given her so many chances and she continued to abuse them, twisting the goals in her mind so that she could continue to live life on her terms, but the wake-up call rang clearly: there was no life that could be lived under Greta Gill’s terms.

So she played the part.

She got married far too young, and made home with August far too early, and the only saving grace was that August thought he had far too much potential to risk ruining his baseball career over children. She made the argument easy for him; expressing disappointment but supporting his future over hers, like a good wife should. He never questioned her.

Her father had been proud, that first day he visited their home. For a while, she wondered if he would ever be able to look at her the same. If he could just forget about what happened and remember that she was his creation. All of the flesh and blood that made up the deviancy of her soul came directly from him.

She wonders if that scares him.

Now, she’s sitting next to him at August’s final game, in her best dress, and her father is laughing with Jo, something she never imagined in all her years of torment and torture, and she tries to be happy.

Greta is trusted now. She’s a good girl. She’s perfect.

She hears another disappointed shout from the crowd as the opposition’s batter hits the ball way into the outfield, another runner hitting home plate and giving the rest of the players the opportunity to load the bases.

The score is 16-1, and it’s the bottom of the 8th inning.

She eyes Jo, who’s having an in-depth conversation with her father about how the second baseman has been giving up opportunity after opportunity to force an out, and Greta wonders if she can handle this forever.

If she can wake up each morning and kiss August and paint her face as she gets ready to clean the house and prepare for dinner all day. If she can stomach living this lifeless existence until she’s forced to hunker down and have two and a half kids and be stuck with August forever.

The next batter hits a homer. She watches as the score-boy changes the number panels, slowly, agonizingly.

20-1.

She briefly wonders if being seen on August’s arm after this game could be any more embarrassing than being the town queer, and she decides that it can be. That if she has to sit through another baseball game in her life, watching men who couldn’t see a squeeze bunt if it was announced by the hitter himself, she wouldn’t survive.

She watches August wave to the crowd as another round of disgruntled shouts are thrown his way, and she’s unsurprised when a number of audience members shower him in support, even as he’s pitching what will be the most destructive game of his career. That boyish charm had turned into irresistible charisma, and she won’t be surprised when he still talks his way into a Major League spot by the next season.

She’s overcome by the urge to run, and when she excuses herself to the powder room just to be anywhere but watching that game, she has a moment of clarity upon coming across an advert for hair models needed in Boston.

She doesn’t have to settle for this stupid baseball game.

After all, she is a beautiful girl.

She makes the team.

After years of moving and running, mansion hopping in Hollywood and war bride hopping in Fort Worth, she and Jo finally made it to Chicago and they make the team.

They make the team and she’s still nothing but a pretty face.

“Hey, honey, what’s your bra size? Y’know, you’re much prettier than the papers make you sound!”

Greta should bite her tongue, should be a good girl and take it, but if there’s one thing Greta Gill has never done, it’s properly learn a lesson.

“Maybe if you would learn to shut your big, fat mouth!—”

She messes up. She tries so hard to be perfect for the people who want her to be, and then she crumbles under the pressure. Like she always does.

“You’re a bit too much out there,” Vivienne says. “If you could be a little sweeter, a little…less?”

Less?

Her whole life, Greta has been asked to be nothing but more. More kind, more girly, more smart, more submissive; and she realizes it never was more, it always had been less.

Less independent, less assertive, less promiscuous, less unruly. It was a trick, a paradox, the way she would always be too much yet never enough.

She knows she’ll never win.

Making the team was supposed to be everything. It was supposed to be a fuck you to her father, an ode to Dana, a “Look at me now!” to August, a moment to share with Joey—but it’s nothing. She feels nothing.

When she has to wake up hours early on game day to roll her hair and put on a face. When she can’t eat because she might look too bloated for the guys in the stands. They want her to smile just enough, but not too wide. Be approachable, but not too easy. Be competitive, but not too mean.

Play baseball, but not be a baseball player.

And so she does it. She’s exhausted and starving and numb but when she steps out onto that field she is anything but a baseball player.

It nearly breaks her in two when she realizes that it works.

Beverly comes up to her at practice and says she’s been requested on a date.

Requested.

It goes against everything she’s built herself up to be, to bow down to a request, but she’s not Greta Gill anymore. She’s Greta Gill from the Rockford Peaches and she goes on dates with fans when they request it.

She spends the week trying to forget about it. Trying to tell herself that it’s just one date and she’ll be everything this man needs her to be, that she can be perfect for one night.

And then Carson.

Carson with her wide eyes and her goofy wit and her husband.

Greta tries to tell her that marriage doesn’t have to hold her back. She’d escaped from it once; it cost her everything and everyone, but she did it.

Carson tells Greta that she doesn’t understand what it’s like to be tied down to someone else, to have to make decisions that don’t only affect you.

“You don’t get it.”

It makes Greta want to scream because she does get it, by God, does she get it, but she can’t say the words out loud, not in the field, not in front of everyone. She can’t expel a past that she’s tried so hard to pretend doesn’t exist; not while she’s Greta Gill from the Rockford Peaches, at least. And then Jo enters, breaking the tension before Carson could even know that it existed and the moment is gone.

Greta tries again, after the game where they’d finally won after trying so hard and wants to show Carson that she can have this, she can have Greta, but then Carson gets angry in a desperate plea that Greta’s heard so many times before and if she wasn’t broken before then she sure is now.

“I’m not like you. I’m normal.”

It crushes her in ways that the others hadn’t. Carson had told her it was okay to want, and really, she should’ve known better because wanting has only ever led Greta to disappointment.

She does all she’s ever known to do and fires back. She calls Carson an asshole and weaponizes herself, keeping only the best of Greta and pushing the rest deep down inside of her where no one could ever see.

She assigns Carson to the date and she says, “That’s what friends are for, right?” and she pretends that Carson’s looks of hurt do nothing to her because why should they? They’re just friends, right?

Beverly assigns Shirley as well to keep things “non-sexual,” and Greta’s reminded that she’s still not trusted. She’s a pretty face on a vanity baseball team meant to make money off of sleazy men while the real men are off to war, and her job is to keep them satisfied. She realizes that she’s not untrustworthy. She’s exactly what they want.

When Carson says it again, in the bathroom in the middle of the date, Greta finally understands what she means.

“I’m not like you, Greta!”

Carson’s not. Carson settled. She found a man that she loved, and could stomach loving. She had a home, and a family and she was amazing at baseball. Greta never had that. She was born into a life that couldn’t wait to chew her up and spit her out, every chance it got. She was always too much, always wanted too much.

She asked for things she couldn’t receive and then she took them anyway, leaving chaos and destruction behind her at every turn, narrowly escaping the rubble while the people she was supposed to care about suffered in her place.

She finishes the date with a smile on her face, because what else is there for her to do? And when she returns she tells Beverly that she had a lovely night and to pass on the message that the gentleman could request to meet her again at any time, and she hopes that the words are believable enough because as she says them she knows that if she has to go on a date with any man ever again she might just go away and never come back.

The next day she shows up to the game as nothing less than perfect, and she makes her catches and she waves to the stands. As she sits on first base she stares at the scoreboard, willing it to change, to tell her something, to do anything but represent their losses, but by the time they hit the top of the 6th and they’re already losing 4-1, she can’t look at it anymore.

She doesn’t want to win.

(vi.)

“Your hands are so soft.”

Carson doesn’t even realize when she says it, but Greta knows it can’t be true.

Greta’s hands are anything but soft now. It’s the one part of her old self that’s had no choice but to shed; she’s playing baseball for God’s sake. Her hands are going to be rough.

They’re bruised with invisible scars and the calluses are rough and heavy, but her touch is featherlight. She holds Carson like she might have to drop her at any moment, ready to jump apart at the rattle of the doorknob. She won’t be greedy this time, she won’t get caught.

But when Carson uses her own hand to grab Greta’s and pushes—hard —she realizes what Carson means.

She's giving Greta permission to take. She’s letting her want.

So, Greta takes what she can. She takes Carson’s hair into her hands and she takes Carson’s lips into her own, and when she’s ready, she takes all of Carson that she can see, and rides that high until they’re sweaty and panting through incredulous fits of laughter at the fact that they just did that. She’s reconciled with the fact that she may never find permanent love, but she has to imagine that this is what consummation feels like.

When her makeup was just right, and her smile was welcomed, and her body was perfect, and she was just allowed to be wild. Unruly. Full of lust.

She locks eyes with Carson one more time before they leave the bedroom, and she can’t wipe the stupid smile off of her face.

They finished up too late for her to do her hair just right, and the makeup is a little lighter than normal because Carson said, “It’s gonna be dark out anyway,” and Carson Shaw is looking at her like Greta Gill is the most beautiful girl in the world.

She can’t find anything at all that would break her out of the bliss she feels in this moment.

They get to the game and Carson was right, it is too dark under the lights for makeup tonight and as she’s walking out onto the field, she eyes the scoreboard and smirks. She couldn’t care less whether they win or lose.

But somehow, when they realize the Comets are cheating and they could be winning, she cares. She wants this win for Jo and she wants this win for Carson and she wants this win for herself, and finally, the world doesn’t smite her for wanting something for once. On the bus ride home, she locks pinkies with Carson and her heart soars.

She fucking loves baseball.

#greta gill #a league of their own #greta x carson #aloto #jfdkslafjdsklf #enjoy friends #if u hate it dont tell me i dont wanna know #<333333333

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