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caitlinbueckers · 8 months ago

Text

take care.

caitlin clark x reader type beat PART 2!!!!!!!!

6.2k (what the fuck)

ok. Listen!!!!!! This is long time coming and also is a disgusting amount of words and dialogue and like weird subtextual angst masked with smut honestly it’s pure delusion on a page also ending only slightly abrupt bc it was unfathomably long sorry

wasn’t gonna make the sequel so in depth like ??? How’d this one shot turn into a fic 😐 no Clue but all i know is that insecure sort of self deprecative caitlin clark with this soft dominance of a reader combined with two bitches who won’t admit their feelings is my crack!!!! let me know if a part 3 is even needed or if yall even care teehee

no beta simply just vibes

ANYWAYYZZZZZ love u guys sorry that i suck!!!

two weeks.

it had been two weeks since you’d texted that number with your name, a simple contact, and she’d liked the message, and that was it.

it wasn’t like things immediately changed— you still, somehow, made your flight despite the throbbing headache that reverberated in your skull, and you still were able to make sure you didn’t leave a toothbrush or a stray apple watch charger in the hotel room but, miraculously, you find a way to not mention a single thing about your one night stand until you touch down at home; manchester, connecticut.

you tell your friends all about it— probably missing some implied understanding about nda’s— and pretend like it isn’t that big of a deal that one of the biggest basketball players for women’s college wasn’t knuckles deep inside of you only the night before.

but it’s a big deal. and you know it is.

like her breath, fierce and rampant with each spellbinding curl of her fingers, wasn’t startlingly still replaying in your mind, her mouth soaking in each warm, huff of air that you expelled in the form of a moan. like she hadn’t watched as she fucked you, dark eyes somehow impossibly darker as her biceps flexed, the line of thick, corded veins that traveled her muscular arms somehow jumping with each pump of her fingers inside of you.

that the same, somehow blushing girl that stood in the elevator had regarded you like something to be challenged, like something she could fight for. something she could win.

you didn’t forget a single thing. not in the way she leaned down over you as her fingers quickened their pace, the force of it eliciting grunts from caitlin’s mouth as she tore you apart, piece by piece, licking the remains as her teeth grazed over a nipple, the sensitive jut of your collarbone.

“so pretty,” she’d murmured against your skin, almost absently, like she didn’t even realize she’d said it. “you like that?” obviously, it went without saying that you did (very much), but really, you’d learned that she wanted to hear you say it. it was in the same way that - as she’d recounted to you drunkenly in a hotel bar that night - she needed to hear the audience cheer. that the fans hollering and shouting was when she felt like she was on fire. it was the external validation that urged her forth, amped her up, kept her alight.

somehow, you could see exactly how it applied to her then, her eyes quick to scan over your face— your lips, to kiss them, before she’d ask again, urgently, “you like how i fuck you? huh? tell me.”

you’d nodded furiously, words tumbling past your trembling lips, “y-es, fuck, yes—“ god, it would’ve been impossible to pull more than a few words from you with how wrought you are, body unrelentingly tense, shaking and weak until she’d coaxed another orgasm out of you, her name sounding broken on your tongue as her fingers slow, the unrelenting grind from the heel of her hand finally relaxing to ride you through it.

she was unforgivingly good with her fucking hands, you’d come to realize.

and yet, beyond all of that, much to your friends dismay, you don’t call her.

no, in fact, you mute her name on twitter and block the IOWA womens basketball page because it becomes suddenly like a frenzy. she’s everywhere, more than usual, like some sick sign from the universe and as much as it seems almost the complete opposite of how you really feel, you decide that you can never see her again.

it’s not like the sex wasn’t phenomenal, or that when it’s late and your hand sneaks into your pants, your imagination doesn’t always seems to conjure up tall, pretty girls with brown hair and green eyes, or that she didn’t completely captivate you from the moment she’d looked at you, dumbfounded and sheepish in an elevator with a blush staining her cheeks.

it wasn’t that. in fact, it was the complete opposite.

it was because the moment you’d seen a picture of her online after the fact, looking tougher than you knew she was, you’d realized that the last place you’d seen her was from between your legs, and it felt like a fucking soul crush.

because she was beautiful, and smiling, and playing up that celebrity, all-star mentality that you knew she could back up, but that you realized wasn’t her in the slightest. because now, you knew her— sort of— and saw her in ways that nobody else had— that you knew of. more so, that she’d learned your body in the span of a night and then just left, and somehow that just wasn’t fucking fair.

there was a shroud of mystery that surrounded her, even if she belonged to the world, to her supposed boyfriend, to everyone, really— way more than she ever belonged to you, even if just for a night.

so you go on about your life, and you pretend you don’t notice the draft is coming, or that soon, the already well known athlete was gonna be world renowned, taking her biggest leap to play professional, and you’d be nothing to her, nothing but the girl she’d screwed in a hotel room when she’d gotten too drunk after the final four.

and sure, you find solace in it. but there’s also this lingering, nagging feeling of being unfinished, like there’s still more. there has to be more.

so, no, you don’t call her.

but, somehow, you find last-minute tickets for the draft— which, in the grand scheme of things isn’t completely selfish. the moment you’d seen nika muhl and aaliyah edwards up for the league, you’d known that you were going to try for tickets. you just, probably, maybe, weren’t actually expecting to hookup with the projected top number one draft pick, either.

but you did, so, you buy them anyway.

you let your friends tease you for picking a dress that’s sorta slutty and for spending more time than you should doing your makeup at whatever hotel you picked in boston, only a few blocks from the draft.

all in all, it goes exactly how you expect. caitlin gets number one draft, which only slightly makes you antsy in your seat, thinking about the fact that she doesn’t know you’re there, that she doesn’t know you saw her win big and that she possibly could’ve been thinking about anyone fucking else. your favorites, nika muhl and aaliyah edwards, get teams that you’re more than happy to celebrate, and watch paige bueckers and azzi fudd get shoutout after shoutout. it’s good, it’s fun— but fuck it.

you think you miss her. maybe just her fingers, or her mouth, but you realize in a weird swell of recognition as the guests are ushered out, your head spinning back every few moments to see if you can catch a glimpse of her, that you do.

you miss the cait you’d met— you just didn’t know the one that sat in the room now.

then, it’s all sorta funny, in a way, considering the situation you find yourself in once everyone begins to disperse, limos and SUV’s pulled up and parked outside of the venue, crowds of fans standing around the barricades to sit for their favorite athletes to pile out of the doors, to go to some super elite, exclusive party that you knew you had no place at.

you don’t expect any special treatment, and you don’t expect a text or a call— which is good, because they don’t come.

no, actually, they don’t come until later.

later, after you’d spent the rest of the night in a nearby bar with a couple of girls you’d met leaving the draft. they’re funny and they’re nice, gushing about the picks, talking miles a minute about all their favorites and making you pretend that the tequila doesn’t burn just a tiny bit more when they mention caitlin’s name.

it doesn’t come until you’re showered, dressed in sweats and pleasantly drunk, scrolling through the shitty channels when your phone buzzes once, then twice, then three times and it almost makes you click the lock button, shove it over in assumption of your friends bothering you about an unsuccessful night to woo a pro athlete— but then it happens again.

you can’t really decipher what makes you look at the random assortment of numbers and it suddenly click. maybe it was because you’d spent the past few weeks in a complete back and forth, scanning over a crumpled napkin with the name ‘cait’ and these specific numbers beside it.

you know who it is, and despite yourself, your heart catches in your throat.

“hello?”

“you made it.” her voice is deeper than you remember, and it doesn’t fail to make your cheeks burn almost immediately. fuck.

“huh?” you play dumb, mostly because it’s more embarassing to admit that you’d came all this way for this, for the slim possibility that she’d fucking notice.

“tonight, i mean. you- i didn’t know— i didn’t know you were coming.” you stay silent, because what else is there to say? had she seen you?

but she continues, “you should’ve told me.” and then, “i, uh— i would’ve liked to see you.”

she’s pathetic, and so are you. a hand comes up to shove back your hair from your face, breath increasing only slightly. “i have a hotel, like, smack in the middle of boston if you’re… like, if this is an offer.”

now, she’s silent. there’s a shuffle on the other end, a murmur of a voice that you don’t recognize, before she’s back, her voice closer, softer. “yeah. yeah, i’d, uh, i’d like that.”

you open your mouth to say something, probably alcohol fueled and embarassed, but she’s speaking now, a bit quicker, “just text me, yeah?”

then the phone clicks, and for half a second, you stare at the home screen as if this couldn’t possibly be fucking real.

but it is, miraculously, and god, it makes you kind of fucking horny to think that she’s willing to see you at half past three in the morning, so your fingers fly over the keyboard in record time— a pin being dropped through imessage with a confirmed ping.

it’s fucking go time after that.

you find the lacy, practically nonexistent underwear you’d brought, forgo a bra entirely, and try to find something a little less boring than your sweatsuit, before you realize with a sickening realization that the revealing dress you’d worn for the draft was the outfit you’d expected to see her in, and as much as you cared, you kinda fucking didn’t— she’d been inside of you, by now. clothing didn’t seem as pressingly urgent as it would otherwise.

it’s only about twenty minutes before she texts you, a simple ‘here’. you send a brief message, just the number of your hotel room, and pretend like your heart doesn’t practically pound out of your chest for each passing moment, eyes flickering from the door, to the window outside, the city bustling even at a time like this.

she knocks only twice, and it startles you enough that it takes your breath away.

the moment the door swings open, it’s like a wave of calm washes over you, a weird sense of solace that you hadn’t realized she could offer, mostly due to the fact that before you stood the caitlin you’d remembered from all those weeks ago, after final four. not the exquisitely dressed, superstar you’d seen earlier that night, in shades and clothing that you could never afford with an attitude you didn’t recognize.

instead, she stands before you at her startling height, in sneakers, sweats and a windbreaker, a hood over her head and her hands tucked into her pockets. once again, looking impossibly small for someone of her stature and it takes all that’s within you to not kiss her right there.

“you got here quick.” you mention, still only slightly breathless as she offers a smile that resembles more of a smirk than anything else.

“i was scared you’d fall asleep,” and it sounds as sheepish as it makes you feel.

you step back, let her walk in and inhabit the space, only slightly making your palms sweat to have her here, in front of you again.

you decide to take the initiative to plop onto the bed, looking up at her as you toy with a stray string from your hoodie, “i wasn’t gonna fall asleep,” you retort, looking up at her, catching a glance that you don’t break, “congrats on top draft pick.”

now, she’s blushing, shaking her head and pursing her lips, “still feels unreal, dude.” she murmurs, looking down at her feet before slowly, her movements unsure, she sinks onto the bed next to you. “you’re unreal.” you say quietly, smirking at her, because you know how she’d cringe at it, scrunches her face before shaking her head. “god, not by a long shot.”

you open your mouth to say something else, maybe tease her about it, but she clears her throat quietly, “but i don’t, uh- wanna talk about that right now?” she offers a mirthless laugh, “is that stupid?”

she turns to look at you, and it happens to only be a couple centimeters from your face once you look up, shake your head “then we don’t have to.” you agree quietly, and it’s impossible to miss the way her eyes flicker down at your lips, back up to your face, and it’s equally as impossible to ignore the flip you get in your stomach before you surge forward to kiss her.

she kisses the same, tastes like what you remember, if not marked by whatever cocktails she must’ve had, whatever liquor still sat on your own breath, and it washes over you greedily that you do fucking want her— more than whatever you tried to convince yourself of during the past two weeks, more than what you’d downplayed to your friends.

“been thinking about you,” it comes out rushed, murmured against caitlin’s lips, shakily from your own mouth as she lets out a slow, wanton breath. you turn to crawl up on your knees, swinging over her hips to push her back against the bed.

she makes a noise like it stems from disbelief, almost like denial, but doesn’t pull away, not even once as her hands, fingers long and palms wide, spread beneath your sweatshirt, span across the expanse of your back and grasp.

“i did,” you insist between breathless kisses, foreheads pressed together hard as her hand races up the front now, over your stomach, palm your breasts and elicit a pitchy gasp from the immediate contact of her cold hands to your sensitive nipples, “every fucking day.”

“shut up,” she denies it again, which only slightly irks you because as cliche as it felt to say during a makeout, it’s not like you would lie about how much you’ve craved this— or more specifically, her.

you try to really expand on the thought, but it becomes almost impossible when her lips attach to your jaw, suckling until her teeth are teasing the sensitive, thin skin beneath your ear, and you make a noise too embarrassing to recount before you can gather your words. “…missed you.”

caitlin makes a noise in her own throat, something between a growl and a groan as she arches her hips up slightly to press against you, before she shakes her head, pulling back only to look up at you from your position on her lap with this sick, almost torturous gaze. her eyes are lidded and feverbright, cheeks pink, and lips glossy, kiss-bitten.

“you shouldn’t think about me.” it comes out quick with her breath, her thumbs still slow in the circles they rubbed around your nipples, making your head arch back with a whimper before you swallow hard, her words almost too quiet to hear, “not worth it to think about.”

the admission surprises you, “fuck off, clark.” you snort, the words fall lazily out of your mouth, “so humble, huh?”

she gets hot at that, and you can tell from the way her face is pressed into your neck, the way a heat radiates from her cheeks right at that moment that makes your stomach swirl, your own hands coming up to tangle into her hair.

“…i‘m serious.” she insists, still mouthing against the same area of skin that you knew would be bruised, and pretend like her totally incognito, self deprecative words weren’t somewhat confusing and worrying you.

she was fucking perfect, didn’t she realize that? how could she not when practically everyone else in the world thought the same? maybe you were being dramatic or maybe you were just horny, but it felt achingly real in the moment that she knew that, even if she wouldn't listen, even if you'd have to show her instead.

“cait, i’m fucking serious.” you counter now, using the hands in her hair to tug, exploring the reaction that it elicits, which is something that apparently caitlin enjoys by the soft whine that jumps from her throat, the way her breath quickens, the wide eyed look she gives you.

it makes your head spin, your thighs clench involuntarily. she seems so fucking innocent, and yet, all knowing at the same time.

“is that… bad?” you continue, your own head ducking to latch your lips against her neck, feeling her pulse jump beneath your teeth, “that i… touched myself and thought of you?” maybe it was the cocktails or the fact that this could be the last fucking time you see her, but it’s like word vomit— every thought and emotion that comes to you is spoken without hesitation, and apart of you wonders where you’d gotten such newfound bravery.

caitlin must be wondering too.

“not bad,” it comes out of her weak, weaker than she is right now, melting under your mouth and the tight grasp you have on her dark hair, the way each strand twines around your fingers to where even the most minuscule move of your fingers elicit a huff or a sigh, “it’s… fucking hot, what the fuck.”

it fuels you, in some way, to hear her validation. for some reason, you don’t try to hold off much longer— your own sweatshirt is being pulled off in record time, tangled in your arms momentarily and flung across the room as you go to reach for hers, “off?” you hum in the midst of the movement, to which she nods, quickly, obedient and yet, so unruly.

she was a dichotomy of everything she stood for. a shy girl pretending to be a superstar, and yet, even in moments like this, quiet and intimate, it felt like a superstar pretending to be shy. you knew just how easily she could unload, dominate the situation— pin you down by your wrists and eat you out within an inch of your life, because she had.

but now, she’s relenting, and it makes something within you burn, strengthening wildly to try and tame that beast that you knew sat fervent beneath her skin, to try and prove that caitlin didn’t always have to be caitlin clark, she could just be this.

just a pretty girl you wanted to fuck.

besides, maybe you were making up for lost time, returning favors you’d been too drunk and blissed out to give the first time around when she’d finished you off with fucking ease.

as soon as she’s exposed, her black sports bra yanked off with little effort to reveal her breasts beneath, pale and dotted with freckles, a red line from the band of it standing starkly against it, you find your mouth lowering to suckle on a spot near her nipple, teasing against the bud and licking gently at the skin until you hear her breath increase, breaking only slightly into a whine that makes you swallow hard.

you pull away, just to look at her— dark eyebrows furrowed, focused in a concentration that you can only discern as someone fighting for the need to control, to dictate, to display the same use of her strategic authority that she’s used time and time again on the court.

you decide in that moment, that you won’t let her.

“let me take care of you?” it comes out softer than you mean it to, and you can see the trust building within her, slow to register as safe— and you don’t blame her.

you both are practically strangers, knowing nothing of each other than drunken conversation that had turned too deep, nothing but the sound the other made when they came, the faces they made. it was intimately unfamiliar, and perhaps that’s where caitlin had found the solace.

maybe she knew that at this point in her career she wouldn’t have normalcy. it was practically impossible for any person knowledgeable in sports to not know her, or even just of her. to a further degree, even most, with the exception of being well versed in women’s sports, had at least heard of her, and that was simply a piece of herself that had been taken, one she’d never be able to retrieve.

but this, this might be the one standing, single piece of lucidity and realness that was hers— locked away in a hotel room in a city unfamiliar to the both of you, and it’s enough.

it’s enough for now.

“you wouldn’t even text me back.” she counters, but it’s clear in her tone, regardless of how ragged, that it’s to prod at you, and it works.

“shut up.” you murmur as you press your hands to her shoulders, push her back against the bed to straddle her fully as you brush your thumb over her abused nipple, reddened and too easy to bruise. she moans when you press on it, and it elicits a smirk to your face that’s impossible to hide. “you’re here now, aren’t you?”

for some reason, it causes a sad sort of smirk to her face that’s impossible to miss, regardless of how quickly she covers it with an exhale of want, one that you know isn’t feigned, “where else would i be?”

there’s a million answers to that. press, interviews, sleeping, with her fucking boyfriend, but you settle for a small smile, “good point.”

you hope it centers her a little when the bruising press of your fingers translate into something gentler, more of a caress against her chest that you trail up to her face, and it almost twists something inside of you to see the way her face relaxes, leans against it as if it was some type of treatment or medicine to some ailment you weren’t aware of.

you go to pull away, to begin working at the ties on her sweatpants to unwravel her even more, lost in the softness of the moment and yet still blinded by the hazy lust until she speaks, quiet and barely there.

“did you really think about me?”

it stuns you for half a second, because the simple confession hadn’t registered to you as something she’d recall, something she’d look to expand upon.

but you’d always been honest, brutally so.

“yeah,” you say it as if it was obvious, when truly it wasn’t, and more so, probably wasn’t reciprocated, “i had fun,” a gross understatement, a weak replacement for all that you really wanted to say. then, if not a bit more revealing of your inner voice, “didn’t you?”

caitlin makes a noise that resembles a huff, but it’s not impatient, it’s honest. you wonder how often she gets to do that. “you know i did.” it comes out like an admission of guilt, under her breath, yet her eyes are unrelenting as they are sincere and it makes your eyebrows lift.

it makes your breath halt slightly, “is… not having fun in your contract or something?” you lace it with a quiet chuckle, mostly because you don’t want to make it too deep, too revealing to ask, but part of you thinks it’s expanded beyond that already, had been since she'd called you at three in the morning, just to say that she'd seen you, that she wanted to see you again.

her hands rise from her sides to rest against your thighs, and the touch is welcome, one that you relax into before she manages a half smile, “might as well be.”

but then, you see that surge of confidence again, something in her eyes glimmering as she squeezes at the skin of your thighs, hard, but your eyes remain fixed, even as hers drop, almost shy in her show of strength. “it’s why… i’ve thought about you like, everyday since... final four?”

that certainly makes your breath halt, invoking a reaction in your stomach and between your legs that you choose to ignore as you swallow, thumb still slow in its brush against her cheek.

“yeah?” it comes out of you rough, and she grants you with a nod as a response, then, after only a moment, she whispers, an echo to your words from before. “so... is it bad that i missed you too?”

“god, shut up.” you repeat again, as if somehow that was a valid response to being told such a thing by a girl you’d only had met twice, by a girl you knew nothing about.

you wanna ask her a million questions, know anything and everything: ask her if she’s actually into girls, if she’s actually into her boyfriend. mainly, if she’s actually into this pedestal that she’d been thrust into, if the fame was too much, maybe if it was never enough.

but you settle for shutting her up for now, because you can see the way her chest rises and falls rapidly, can hear the strain that it took to admit, and you realize, selflessly, that maybe you won’t let yourself ask for more.

not now, anyway.

instead, you lean up, uncharacteristically tender as you slide your lips against hers, feels the way she relents against you, slow and subservient.

“can i show you how bad i missed you?” your fingers tease the edge of her sweatpants, and she lets out a creaking groan, head tilting back and eyes closing as if in exasperation, before she nods. “please.”

you get right to work.

it takes only a little bit of adjustment to get her pants off of her long legs, to reveal the simple pair of black boy shorts that she wore, before you can finally tease a finger against the soaked fabric, reveling in the wetness that you knew matched your own.

her hips jump up, caged in only by your legs as you arch your middle finger, riding the knuckle against her heat, watching the way her face twists only slightly, lips parted in silent noises that you wish you could beckon out of her.

it is fun, you realize in the back of your mind, to pull her apart like this. without the inebriation clouding your mind from the last time, you feel almost startlingly cognizant of your own movements, of her reactions.

when you finally pump your middle finger into her, you notice the way her stomach and abs flex involuntarily, the way her voice pitches up and almost keens in her throat, catching with every stuttered inhale.

when you lean down to press your lips against the slickness of her cunt, press the pad of your tongue to her clit, she says your name— loud. it’s something mixed between a whine and a plead, long, dexterous fingers tangling into your hair and holding on tight.

you devour her, tongue slow to slide against her slick folds, to feel the surge of wetness spill out around your fingers, mixed with your own saliva. you drink her in like she’s a potion, or an elixir, something that you swear you can find and savor if you just go deeper, harder.

it isn’t until you feel her thighs tense, clamping around your head as she lets out a sound close to a gasping breath, marked with a moan that makes your head spin— she sounds so fucking desperate, and you’re bound and determined to give her exactly what she wants. what she deserves, really.

she comes on your fingers, in your mouth, and you relish every bit of it, quick to clean up the excess with fervor. she’s sensitive still, her breath huffing out whenever you breach too close to her clit, but you’re gentle. that’s what this was all about, right?

it’s quiet after the storm, your wrist sore and mouth wet as you sit up a bit, eyes careful to observe how hard her chest rises and falls. the way her hair, having fallen from its loose bun, sat in messy waves around her face, nothing like the impeccably straightened strands you’d seen at the draft, and it sort of makes you smile in an off handed way that you can’t explain, especially not when she opens her eyes finally to look at you.

“quit.” she says, and there’s a smile, tired and breathless, teasing at her own mouth as the hand that had fisted your tangled locks finally released, dragging down the side of your head to push your chin away lightly,

you can’t help but snicker, raising a brow, “what?” she rolls her eyes, and you repeat yourself, this time with a snort, “sorry, you’re just— you just look pretty like this.”

it’s hard to pretend that something inside of you doesn’t wince when her smile drops slightly, and you pretend like it isn’t uncommon to compliment the stranger you just ate out with such sincerity and honesty.

she’s slow when she says it, “...you always look pretty.” and it sounds wistful, murmured in a way that you can’t help but flush a bit at, as you roll your eyes now as if to return the favor, “you’ve only seen me twice, drunk, in sweats.”

but for some reason, that makes her smile return and for half a second, you let yourself pretend.

that maybe, this random series of hookups between you two weren’t fueled by some weird attraction slash escapism slash secret infidelity that had to be shared between you, or tucked away from the world. for half a second, she wasn’t caitlin clark, women’s basketball superstar, future member of the indiana fever.

she was cait, a girl you’d met at a bar that you’d hooked up with who just happened to see you again, and maybe, if you were a little dumber, and maybe a bit drunker, you’d admit to yourself that there’s a part of you that likes her, and each time you’d thought about her in the past few weeks, it had become achingly apparent.

but, you’re smarter than that, and definitely not drunk enough, so you pretend that her next words don’t make your heart skip multiple beats, as if it doesn’t cause a flutter in your chest.

“still,” she scoffs, and she’s sitting up a little, her hand having laid lazily against her stomach, reaches over to grasp your wrist, almost absently, “plus, i saw you earlier tonight, in that dress?”

it shouldn’t make you almost stunned into silence, but it fucking does.

“sorry— not to like, be weird and say i was looking for you but, i dunno, i just— i remember you saying something about UCONN, so i just assumed you'd be ther—“

you’re kissing her before even you can register what she’s saying, or why she says it all in this shy, almost sheepish tone that fills you with a flood of endorphins, butterflies being set alight inside of you.

“god, you’re so…” you’re not sure where you’re going with it, but you can’t help the way your hand comes up to hold the side of her face, dip your thumb against her bottom lip as if to make her taste herself, all as your eyes watched, lidded and fixed.

then, you exhale, only a whisper, “i’m gonna get you in trouble.” you manage to say, despite the very obvious fact that watching her suck on your finger is doing unspeakable things to you, before you drag the wet digit out, her bottom lip pulling only slightly.

“with who?” she says it almost as if you both know the answer, both thinking about the multitude of bigger names and bigger people who had long since been the determinant in caitlin’s career— at least from the little that you knew— and it lapses you both in a measured silence.

until she speaks, and it’s quiet, and sincere. “you’re just like… the only thing in my life right now that has nothing to do with basketball.”

it's a compliment, wrapped up in something a lot more sad, a lot more sincere. it shouldn’t make you want to hug her, but it does, so, you do.

your arms twine around her neck slowly, your face lowering to bury against her neck, just beneath her chin, and you can feel her chest vibrate slightly with a chuckle or a laugh, before her arms are around you, squeezing you tight, “don’t go all sappy on me, dude.” she murmurs, but it’s present in the way she doesn’t pull from it, or really, the way she fucking clutches onto you, almost desperately, that you pretend once again that this doesn’t mean anything. that this is traditional, hookup behavior, and that once she leaves this hotel room, everything will shift right back into place.

a place where caitlin clark gets to be caitlin clark and you get to be you, and there’s no overlap.

except, that doesn’t happen.

no, instead, once you pull away from the hug she kisses you again, hungrier this time, her hands sliding from your back to your hips so she can hook fingers in the edge of your panties, urging you to sit up on your knees so she can pull them down.

instead, she lets you ride her thigh— both hands firm and strong, her own biceps lfexing to keep you glued to her thick, muscle corded thigh, your cunt unforgivably wet as she dragged your hips down, over and over.

your head tips forward to press to her forehead, and she kisses you through each desperate cry that escapes your lips, the friction and slide becoming wetter, slicker by the moment, drawing these high pitched noises from your throat that you know caitlin is drinking in, all while she murmurs to you in this soft little voice, “show me good it feels, lemme hear you.”

in the end, you both pass out there, somewhat in a laying position as caitlin lays on her back, arms loosely wrapped around you, who’s laying stomach down atop of her, a thigh lazily hiked up to hang against her hip, your face pressed into her neck.

it’s fucking bizarre when you think about it.

how you both had talked more than you ever had before, and when you look back on it in the morning, nothing but a ghostly reminder of her presence by the sheets that lay strewn about, the undeniable smell of sex and sweat that still hung in the air, you pretend like you don’t realize just how little you still knew about her, and just how much that you wished you knew.

you also pretend like you don’t miss her, or that when you’re gathering your clothes to check out, a soreness in your body unlike one you’ve really ever felt, you’re practically stunned to see her faded, gray, IOWA shirt, thrown lazily over the desk chair that makes you wonder just how accidental it was for her to leave it.

you wear it anyway,

it isn’t until you make it back to connecticut, making up some excuse for your friends as to how you hadn’t been able to meet up with caitlin, how she’d been too busy anyway and you’d spent the night drinking at a bar, that maybe, just maybe, there was a part of you that wanted to keep her protected, confidential.

maybe it was the post-sex fueled lust that wanted you to keep it close to your chest, a dirty secret only for you to enjoy, or maybe it came from somewhere softer, somewhere that remembered how caitlin had such little privacy, that it almost hits you like a pang just how much you wanted her to still have that, even if it was at the expense of not seeing your friends faces when you told them that you guys had hooked up, again. even if she'd never know that you didn't say a word.

fuck it. it’s the least you could do.

you try not to think about her for days really, not until you’re doing laundry and come across the grey t-shirt, deciding only then that you’d pull up your goddamn bootstraps and finally send a message.

it’s cheeky, the wrinkled t-shirt thrown on over your underwear, leaving your thighs on display and the peek of a hip that you know is intentional before you snap a picture, sending it with little hesitation, and subsequently throwing your phone afterwards at the bed.

“you left something”

cc loved your message, “you left something”

“i know”

“guess i’ll have to come get it back”

it’s stupid, you know it is, but it makes you smile, typing with an urgency only known when texting back the pretty girl you like, before you send it, bottom lip teased between your teeth.

“how close are you to connecticut?”

#caitlin clark x reader #caitlin clark smut #wcbb x reader #guys is this gonna become a series #im scared #caitlin clark

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angelpuns · 24 days ago

Text

50au part 30

They were going to fuck with his head again. He didn't really even understand what they were doing the first time, and now they were keeping him captive and not even letting him choose whether they could do this or not.

At least the purple one- at least Donnie didn't seem to want to do it.

And yet, he still sat in the magic circle and closed his eyes. Even as Leo stared him down and willed him not to do this.

He'd already seen enough of, Leo knew he'd seen it. He didn’t want them to see it. Sure, he didn't believe they were his family, but he didn't want them to…to pity him after what they saw there.

The way the purple one had looked at him before…he didn't even know these people that well, but it crushed something inside him to think of them all looking at him like that.

He fought against his restraints with everything he had, the metal biting into his arms and legs the more he strained. If he had his swords he could just portal away, but he didn't know where they were. Based on what they had told him, one of them had probably locked the swords away.

He glanced around with his limited head movement, the back of the bulky armchair blocking most of his view. He had to make a plan before Draxum started the spell again.

His eyes caught the gaze of the rat. Their…father. Somehow.

He didn't understand it, but Leo knew he had to use the one thing he had left. His voice.

“Dad! Dad, please, don't let them do this!” He put everything he had into it, watching the rat with a pleading expression, “ Dad, please, I'm scared.”

“ Blue..” The rat frowned, eyes shining with tears. He reached out his hands as if to free Leo, but Draxum put an arm out and stopped him.

“ Do not fall for it, Lou. He's trying to get you to free him,” He warned, glaring at Leo.

Leo glared right back. He knew this guy was evil.

“ Dad, don't listen to him! He’s- he's evil! He threw me off a building, remember!?” Leo whined, struggling against the restraints. The chair didn't budge.

“ Dad, please! I promise I'll- I'll be good! I'll clean my room and- and I'll never ask you for anything ever again, just please help me!”

The rat watched him with wet eyes and a frown, before turning away, eyes cast to the ground.

Fury ignited in his chest.

“FINE! MIGHT AS WELL JUST SAY YOU DON'T LOVE ME, THEN!” He bit out, wriggling to try and at least knock the chair over or something. Anything.

“I’LL NEVER FORGIVE YOU FOR THIS! ANY OF YOU!” He glanced at his supposed brothers, their eyes still shut and their markings glowing faintly. He hoped they could still hear this. He needed them to hear this, “ I'M GONNA REMEMBER THIS AND I WON’T FORGIVE ANY OF YOU!”

The rat looked up at that, but Leo only caught a glimpse of his expression before everything went dark.

Leo let out a shuddering breath. He was somewhere dark.

He was drifting somewhere dark and cold and empty again.

Pain ignited everywhere. There wasn't a spot on his body that didn't hurt. Not a scale untouched by that burning, biting feeling.

Every stale, dusty breath felt like something broke inside him, like a piece of his soul as crumbling away and drifting off into the dark expanse around him.

He wheezed out a faint chuckle. He must have blacked out for a second, the lack of real oxygen up here finally getting to him. They should really consider using this place as an inspiration for a Jupiter Jim comic.

Leo could see it now, in bright red print across the cover.

‘Jupiter Jim and the Prison Dimension’

“Heh. That'd be…that’d be a 20 part special,” He wheezed, the unrelenting darkness seeming to steal the sound right from his mouth. There wasn't even an echo, a persistent ringing he hadn't noticed taking up residence instead.

Even though he was probably about to die, Leo could only imagine what that special might look like. Jupiter Jim obviously gets trapped there, separated from Red Fox…but it's for the greater good. He's a hero.

The first day would be hard, probably. He'd be in pain and drifting through space. Maybe his comms were broken and his suit was malfunctioning. He'd discover there was oxygen here. Shitty oxygen, but still.

Even though Jupiter Jim was always so brave in the movies, Leo liked to think that maybe he was a little scared this time. That he knew he was going to die and no one was going to save him. And then Jupiter Jim would give up and let himself just hang in stasis for all of eternity.

But Jupiter Jim always figures it out, so he'd spend the next 20 parts trying to survive against all odds.

Leo wanted to do that, too.

Survive.

Even though no one was coming for him…and no one even knew he was gone…

He wanted to live.

Leo shuffled, the sound drowned out by the persistent ringing. A sob caught in his throat, and that made the dam break. Tears rolled down his cheeks and he drew himself in, getting smaller and smaller. A blip on the map, a speck of dust floating in space. Stuck there with no one to even remember that it existed.

He missed New York. He missed the Lair. He missed ordering a fresh pizza at Run of the Mill and sitting at his favorite booth. He missed the Hidden City and all it’s weirdness.

Hell, he even missed Draxum and all his evil schemes. Pizza supreme, he could never tell anyone that.

Sobs shook his shoulders and each wheezing, wet breath seemed to stick his nerves with a thousand needles. It hurt, it hurt so fucking bad, but he needed this.

There was no getting out of this one, and he’d known that when he had drawn up this shitty, shitty plan.

The only one that was going to remember him now was the krang, if he ever came back to toss Leo around again.

Give him enough time and Leo might start to miss him, too.

Leo let out a weak sigh, teeth chattering. He wondered how long he'd been here.

Last he remembered, Krang was hulk-smashing him through a planet. It had hurt his shell so bad, maybe irreparably bad. He hoped not. He wanted to live. He wanted to call the Jupiter Jim people…the producers or fucking whatever and tell them his awesome idea.

He could be soooo rich. And he'd get to be an extra in it.

Yeah, that'd be…that’d be cool.

Moncrief had tried to keep him in his fucked up little JJ museum so he already looked perfect for the part. Heh, he could see it now. His road to fame as a mutant turtle…he had to live for that.

No. That wasn't right. Leo tucked his hands to his chest, thumbs and forefinger rubbing together. He was supposed to be holding something…something that he was actually supposed to be living for.

Paper appeared in his hands from seemingly nowhere. Ah, yeah, that's what it was.

Maybe a comic or something. But it wasn't thick like a comic. It was only one page and it was well worn. Older than it should have been.

Right, because it was from the future. It was from the future and it had that fucking key on the back.

He felt the torn edges with his thumb, a tear rolling down his cheek. His breath seemed to catch.

Right.

He had to live for them.

Leo looked down at the photo, the smiling faces of him and his family looking back at him.

In the dark there was suddenly a warm orange light, illuminating the photo in his hands from behind.

He turned in the void and was face to face with it.

A portal. A bright portal that filled him with a strange sort of happiness. It reminded him of sunshine and hope and joy and all the things that were good in the world.

And razzmatazz and polka dots and competition and the faint smell of spray paint and-

Leo blinked and it was gone.

He looked up and remembered all of a sudden what he was supposed to be doing.

Everything was hot and debris seemed to fall from everywhere - his home was crumbling. He had to save it - he had to keep the Shredder from destroying everything.

Leo glanced around, the smoke and the fire filling the lair. He could barely keep up with the Shredder, eyes following the purple beast as it launched itself towards him.

He dodged back as the Shredder swiped at him, barely catching himself with a portal. It wasn't far enough, though, the Shredded crossing the distance like it was nothing. It swiped again and Leo brought the sword up to fight back. The shredder caught the blade as it swung down, sparks flying as he grabbed the odachi and splintered it into pieces like a twig.

“ my odachi!” Leo scrambled backwards, but the Shredder managed to grab him at the last second, holding him up by his head. This was how he died, this was how he was going to die, he just knew it.

He kicked and fought and tried to break free, but it was useless. The shredder reeled back and Leo found himself bracing for impact.

But it never came. Something red and bright and buzzing with protective energy burst from behind, a giant red fist punching the Shredder. It dropped Leo and he scrambled to his feet, pressing himself to the wall and staring in awe as his strong, brave older brother fought the shredder with everything he had.

Raph had him in a choke hold, squeezing the shredder and holding him back, but then-

Leo woke with a start.

As his eyes adjusted to his dark room, they focused on the glow in the dark stars on his ceiling. He was glad he put them there. That way the scary dreams couldn't get him and he didn't have to worry about any monsters getting him either.

He sat up, heart still beating too fast. It was just a scary dream. He had them all the time and even though this time it was really scary, he was super brave.

He was so brave he could just go right back to sleep and not even turn on the light or have a snack or anything.

So he laid back down and he closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep. But his pillow was too warm now. And his toes were too cold, even under the blanket. And everything was just not right.

So he needed to find something to make it right.

He hopped out of bed, grabbing his pillow and his blanket and trailing out into the dark lair. It was always so quiet at night. he didn't like that.

Leo sometimes wondered if the people who lived here before, the people who made these rooms and stuff, had been loud. He thinks they must have, because they liked a lot of the same things he did, and he liked to be loud.

He made his way across the large, open floor, glancing up at the sky as he did. He could never see the real stars from down here. The city lights were all too bright. But he had seen them on movies and read about them in books.

He wondered if they were as bright as the glow in the dark stars.

Leo sighed and kept going. He passed the red room, with the stuffies and the big bed and the cool posters. He passed the orange room, with the crayons and the sparkling lights and the drawings on the walls. He pushed the curtain of the purple room to the side.

It was just like his room. Messy, with a matching purple blanket and pillow. There were figures and toys on the shelves and walls.

He looked up.

But most importantly, there were the glow in the dark stars. Just like his.

…They did it like that on purpose. When Donnie had said he wanted his own room, Leo had begged him not to.

He didn't want Donnie to leave him.in that room alone. In the dark. With all his nightmares and his sleepless nights and the scary thoughts he had.

He had begged his twin to stay, but Donnie insisted they were old enough for their own rooms. Leo had cried for hours. His twin didn't want him anymore, he didn’t want to match with him anymore.

What was Leo supposed to do if he didn't have a twin? What was he supposed to do with all the empty space in his room.

But Donnie had quietly come back to him and taken his hand. He'd led him to his new room and pointed up.

Donnie had a matching set of glow in the dark stars with him now.

“ I’m…I’m really scared, too,” Donnie whispered, lying back on the bed with him and staring up at the ceiling, “ but it will be okay. ‘Cause if you ever get scared you can look at your stars, okay?”

Leo shook his head, “ but what if I'm really, really scared?”

Donnie thought for a second, “ then you can just come in here and we can look at them together.”

Leo sniffled and nodded, watching the stars through his tears, “ okay…”

And so that's what he was doing now.

Leo nudged Donnie awake, the softshell blinking at him blearily.

“Leo, what's wron-”

Leo blinked awake. He was in the med bay. It was sterile white, just like after the invasion and for a moment a swell of panic grew in his chest.

But there was no beep of the heart monitor, no quiet snoring as Dad watched over him. He sat up suddenly, and glanced around. No, he was completely alone.

His leg ached a little, and when he glanced down there were some light bruises on his arms and wrists, but other than that he was..he was okay.

He could hear voices just outside, talking quietly amongst themselves. It was a little weird they weren't in here with him. Last time he was in the med bay, he'd had a pretty steady stream of visitors.

But he guessed it hadn't been that bad this time.

He threw the blankets off and examined his leg. It was bandaged up nice and tight, and it only ached a little, so he must not have been on the real good stuff. Which was good, cause he didn't remember what happened anyway, and that stuff always made him so loopy.

“ might as well greet the paparazzi,” Leo joked, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and getting up. It hurt a little to put pressure on, but it didn't seem to be broken or sprained. Some sort of surface wound, then.

He limped to the door, listening for a moment to see who was there.

Mikey, Raph.. Maybe Donnie? And then Dad and ….ughhhh, Draxum. Why had they called him?

Oh well, might as well get the lecture over with. The last thing he remembered was fighting in witch town, so he must have done something stupid to get himself hurt. Maybe cursed? Who knows.

He slammed the door open with grin, getting a couple of shouts in surprise in return.

“ morning, fam! You all aren't talking about me out here, are you?”

All five of them turned to look, blinking with wide eyes.

“Leo, are you…? Do you remember us?” Raph asked, putting his hands up hesitantly, like Leo was a wild animal that could be spooked easily.

And what the hell kind of question was that, anyway?

“Uhhhh yeah? Did I like, hit my head or something? Cause I mean, I don't really feel the concussion, ya know?” He chuckled. Yeah, okay, these vibes were rancid.

“ C'mon, what's the diagnosis, Dr. Dee?” he turned to look at Donnie, but his twin's expression struck something within him that made his entire body grow cold.

Donnie was staring at him with wide glassy eyes, expression like someone had just told him Atomic Lass had exploded ( for real this time) in the most recent TV special. ( spoiler alert, she did. Donnie was not gonna be happy when he found out.)

“ Woah, what's that look for? It-it can't have been that bad, right? I'm barely even sore-”

Donnie suddenly stepped forward and wrapped him in the second tightest hug Leo's ever felt from him. The first was when…well, Leo didn't wanna think about that right now.

It was nice for a few seconds, Leo giving him a firm squeeze back, before starting to pull away. But Donnie didn't let go.

“Dee? Hey, man, you're like wayyy past your 15 second hug rule time…” He chuckled.

Donnie squeezed him tighter.

“ You…you better not be lying..” He murmured, voice so quiet Leo almost didn't hear him.

Leo frowned.

He didn't like this. He didn’t like this at all.

What had happened to him?

And why couldn't he remember any of it?

----

We're gettin close to an ending :33 I was gonna write this as Donnie's POV but decided in the end that Leo would be more fun since the kinda just has been experiencing the memories as they go through them :/ Also side note: the reason he was able to see Donnie the last time was because Donnie had direct contact with him during the memory. so that's what that was about.

I'll probably do one or two more parts to this, we'll see how the cookie crumbles and all

Part 1 | Part 29 | Part 31

#rottmnt #art #digital art #rottmnt fanart #fanart #rottmnt leo #comic #rottmnt comic #rottmnt fanfic #rottmnt art #fanfic #rottmnt 50au #50au

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urhoneycombwitch · 6 months ago

Text

howdy, honey!

part I

older!cowboy!Eddie x honey!reader

foreword: idk what this is. other than the start of a new series I may or may not have time for lmao. just… love the idea of honey!Reader and wanted to show the origins of cowboy!Eddie into their life <3 honey!Reader is a bit of an abrasive spitfire but I heart complicated women and Eddie is the right amount of gruff to put up w/ that bratty ass <3 I’m sorry if any truck stuff is wrong I swear I researched a bit but dear god I am not a car girly plz forgive me

cw: Appalachian no magic AU, cowboy!Eddie, older!Eddie, age gap (Eddie is at least 40, R implied as younger), R is on the run from a Troubled Past ™, R has breasts (non-sexual mention) and a tattoo (no skin tone/color mentioned), smut planned for following chapters, as always +18 mdni!

wc: 5.3k

The last thing you want to hear behind you approaches: a vehicle slowing down, tires crunching to crawl at your walking pace in the gravel ditch of the road.

Maybe it’s just a concerned citizen. You soothe yourself internally, even as your guard surges up to take stock of the environment, to calculate the quickest route to safety.

To your left- a rusting red pickup, its unknown driver, the flat expanse of tarmac and heat lines rising blearily for miles on end.

To your right, just a sprint away- the line of a lush, thick forest, unfamiliar birds calling amidst the Appalachian wilderness.

Then, an even worse sound of the truck's window being rolled down.

“Not interested, pal,” you call out, in a tone you hope is commanding. “My thumb ain’t out. Keep driving.”

“I just-” it’s a man’s voice, because of course it is, who else would stop in the middle of an abandoned road to harass a young thing like you- “It’s about a hundred degrees out. Hotter than a two-buck pistol and you’re hiking in it.”

“Mind your damn business.” You don’t know this guy’s angle, but you don’t really care- if there’s anything you’ve learned from the past two weeks on the road, it’s Don’t trust strange men and keep your wits.

Heart thumping an unsteady rhythm, you swallow the fear and hike your duffle bag higher onto your aching shoulder, resolute, even as the guy sighs. As if he has the right to sound weary. “Darlin’. I don’t wanna see you die of dehydration, is all. Got some water in the back, ‘least let me offload some onto you.”

The offer is tempting enough to still your steps- your canteen is empty, ran out about an hour after being filled at the last town’s hostel. Constant thirst has been an unfortunate side effect of this journey; so far it seems you've been the only one desperate enough to actually be outside in this unrelenting heat.

The man must take your pause for acceptance because he rolls to a stop just ahead of you, brake lights giving one quick flash before the engine cuts out. Both boots hit pavement at the same time, revealing a tall, lanky figure in dark denim and a cut-off tee.

As he rounds to the trailer bed, you notice a smattering of tattoos- bats flying up one arm, a lariat and a floral piece on the other, some sort of mythological creature sitting over his heart (only spotted as he bends to unhook his truck bed’s latch, shirt shifting forward to reveal a pale expanse of skin beneath).

He’s a confusing, delightful mix of punk and cowboy- jeans just a touch too tight for working, silver hoops lining the shell of his right ear. You’d probably get a better sense of his age if his hair wasn’t hiding in a bun too shadowy to see properly, nestled under the brim of his black cowboy hat.

Eyes dark as bittersweet chocolate but kind and calm turn towards you, observing silently with crossed arms in the ditch a yard away. He closes the gap, wiping his palm on the black bandanna lining his pocket before stretching an appeasing hand towards you. “Waterin’ time.”

A laugh would signal comfortability, and you prefer to keep your cards as close to your own chest as possible, so you smother the noise, turn it into a disapproving twist of your mouth before taking his proffered hand.

He’s stronger than he looks, pulling you up to the road with an easy flex of his forearm; his other hand automatically fits to your low back to steady you as your pack shifts with the climb, but he drops all points of contact as soon as you’re stabilized.

There’s a thunk from the nearby truck, the sound of something dull hitting into the metal. On instinct, your hand snaps to the butterfly knife tucked into the front of your bra band, hidden by the extra padding but close enough to whip out at a moment's notice.

A dog sits eager and obedient in the truck bed, black and leggy and long-snouted- some type of Shepherd, if you had to guess. His long feathered tail hits the wheel with each enthusiastic wag, oversized ears perked forward.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

Adrenaline leaves you feeling sticky and strung-out, even more than the heat. Between your breasts, the knife sits waiting, metal cool to the touch and reassuring through the fabric of your tanktop. You hope it just looks like you scare easily, hand over your heart with nerves and jumpiness instead of trained defense mode- cards to chest, and all that.

Safer for you, to be underestimated. Always harder to see a hit coming from someone unexpected.

This time, though, you aren’t fixing to hit. The back of your hand, like some gravitational force, draws you to the mouth of the truck bed.

A slash of pink tongue splits the all-black dog’s mouth when he licks you, thumping tailbeat picking up speed.

The man who owns both truck and dog leans a hip against the wheel, watching as you smooth your palm over the silky head of his companion. “Name’s Goblin.”

“So, your parents were hippies, I gather?” A joke slips out before you can catch and wrestle it back to be the most unassuming version of yourself.

The man laughs- full and rich, crow’s feet bursting like sunbeams, dimples springing into his cheeks- the action knocks a decade off his face.

You’re transfixed, unable to look away, Goblin nudging your hand for more pets while you memorize the way this stranger looks, laughing on the side of the road in the middle of goddamn nowhere.

“The dog is Goblin,” the man says, humor twitching at the corners of his plush lips. He takes off his hat to rest against his chest, chocolate eyes still twinkling. “I’m Eddie.”

In the truck bed next to Goblin, there’s a bulky case laying sideways, a handle on one end for carrying. It’s the last push you need, apparently, as the logic part of your mind speaks with finality: Ted Bundy never played guitar.

So you give Eddie your name. Your real one. You haven’t used it in weeks, opting for anonymity and the comfort of a pseudonym at the seedy spots you’ve been staying.

As soon as you say it, something loosens in your chest, flutters free into the bright blue sky as Eddie repeats it like something precious- like he’s known you for ages.

“Well.” As if a matter has been settled, Eddie puts his hat back on (you weren’t quite done memorizing the long pattern of his curls, shot through with grey, pulled taut against his skull to settle in a bun at the nape of his neck). “More’n welcome to take the water and send me packin’, but now that we all know each other’s names, how about a lift to town?”

Eddie scratches Goblin behind the ear, absentminded as he adds, “Could even sit in the back, ‘f you wanted. That way you could just jump on out if you think I’m tryna pull something.”

Your shoulder suddenly aches with the weight of your duffel; you let the straps slide to the crook of your elbow, then set it next to Goblin who seems happy for something new to sniff.

Unfortunately for Eddie, you’re starting to like him, which means the filter for your sarcasm and teasing has completely eroded. “Ri-ight. Like I’m gonna just sit in the back of your truck when you could floor it and fling me over the side like a ragdoll.”

Those big, doey eyes of Eddie’s roll skyward. “You always this stubborn?”

“Only on days that end in Y.”

“All right.” There’s something in his tone that makes your spine straighten- not from fear, just… something else that you’re trying hard not to analyze right now. “So sit in the damn front and put a seatbelt on, since you’re so worried ‘bout my driving.”

Eddie shuts the pickup’s gate and mutters all the way to the driver’s side door, some comparison being drawn between you and one of his cows that gets herself stuck in the fenceline, refusing sesnsible help.

The air in the cab is stale and still, warmth from the cracked leather seats soaking into the back of your shorts and bare thighs as you get in and buckle up. You’re suddenly aware of how desperately you need a shower, being in an enclosed space and next to someone with (presumably) a working sense of smell, but luckily Eddie’s already rolling down the windows.

“Air’s broke,” he says by way of apology, waving in the general direction of the AC vents before reaching to open the sliding rear window.

Something cold and wet presses against your ear- Goblin, saying hello. By the time your giggle is over, the grumble of the engine has kicked on, and the dog has found a headrest in the form of your pack, his tongue lolling into the fabric with rhythmic panting.

“Radio?” You ask, already reaching to twist at the knob on the dash- a crackle of static, and then, bliss. Johnny Cash croons from the speakers.

In trying to keep your delight casual, you slip up, telling Eddie as he straightens out the wheel to pick up speed- “God, I haven’t heard music this good in months, not since-”

Fortunately, whatever system in your brain still holding on to good sense chops the sentence in half. To cover, you clear your throat, cross your arms, and keep your eyes fixed forward when you change the subject. “So, you play guitar?”

If Eddie notices your lapse he doesn’t comment on it, picking up conversation with an easy charm. “Nah. That’s just a cover for if Sheriff Hop gets me for speedin’. That case is filled with coke and guns and all sorts’a contraband.”

You fix the side of his head with a glare, and even without seeing it full-on Eddie sputters a chuckle and admits, “Fine. I play guitar, sometimes.”

While Eddie’s eyes stay on on the road ahead, you let your own gaze linger on his face in profile: the slope of his nose, the freckles that scatter across the apple of his cheeks and neck, the tail end of another tattoo winding up his collarbone.

Eddie catches you staring, this time, jolt like an electric shock coursing through your whole body when you lock eyes for a moment, before he flicks back to the road. “Looks like you got some ink, yourself.”

He must be doing his best to remain respectful, because he doesn’t ask what the J stands for, even as your other hand jumps instinctually to cover the breadth of your wrist, hiding the little inked letter from view. “Yeah. I get one every time I kill a man. In remembrance.”

Amusement twitches at the corner of Eddie’s mouth when he asks, “Yeah? Only one so far? Would’a thought you’d be racking up your letters by now. Fierce as you are.”

“Well, we’re in public. I can’t very well take off my shirt to show you all the rest.”

This earns you another laugh, and even with the wind whipping through the cab, it fills every inch of the space. Rattles into you like a thunderstorm, knocks dust off some deep part of you kept dormant ‘til now.

You like that he called you that. Fierce. You’re loath to admit it, but you also like the pet names. Most boys are condescending or double-edged with their diminutives, but when Eddie calls you darlin’ with that Southern drawl, it feels… endearing.

Equal parts terrifyingly disarming and captivatingly charming. That’s how you’d categorize Eddie, so far, though you’re not sure what to file away about his arms- stretched out at ten and two on the Ford’s big wheel, soft white underbelly of his forearms fading into a natural freckled tan, smattering of dark hair over both.

For now, you file it under Trouble and focus on the upcoming road sign.

It looks like someone stripped a big tree and cut out a thick middle piece just to drive it at a slant into the ground. The hand-carved words appear to have been painted over many times, discolored and weathered, obscuring some of the letters.

WELC ME TO C LINE

”It’s a nice town, Celine,” Eddie says conversationally as the sign gets smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror. “Small, but good community. Lots of farming folks, like me, some strays and stragglers, like you.”

Johnny Cash gives way to an unfamiliar folksy number; you drink in the ramshackle buildings that make up the heart of the town. It’s reminiscent of old cowboy movies you grew up watching with your brothers- flat roofs, red brick, clapboard. A hitching post outside of a General Store, a group of kids tearing around on bikes in the empty lot of the movie theater.

All that’s missing is a lone tumbleweed flipping lazily end over end across the road.

Eddie pulls his truck parallel with a stretch of curb outside a long building, another handmade sign that reads Celine Public Library. He leaves the engine running but shifts the gear to park, pointing to the phone booth just beyond your window.

“Phone’s just there, if you got someone to call. Figure’d here’s as good a place as any, if you wanna part ways now.”

Oh, right. Eddie offered you a ride to town, and he made good on it. Now is the part where you get out, collect your duffel, and wave while pretending to make a phone call until his truck has disappeared.

But you don’t. There’s lively guitar plucking over the speakers, twining with the purr of the engine. Eddie’s hands flex and unflex on the wheel, horseshoe tattoo on the first segment of his middle finger rippling with the movement like he’s working up the courage to say something,

You’d better not stick around to hear it. Fighting the thing that’s sticking you to the seat, you reach for the door handle. “Well, thanks, Eddie. ‘Preciate the lift.”

Your fingers are just grazing the handle when Eddie speaks again. “Wait-”

Don’t look back. Don’t look back. Don’t-

His eyes are just as beautiful as before, when he’d laughed- and now they’re on you, longing and hopeful and a little unsure as he speaks, gaining speed as if from nerves- “I’ve got a spare room. Spare shack, technically- it’s not much, but I used to live in there real comfortably ‘til my uncle moved and I got the house. Please come stay, at least for the night. Please?”

With a hand still on the door to your other, safer option, you pause; though the main emotion that washes through you is one of relief and gratitude, you sink your teeth into the little flare of irritation, pulling it up to the surface like one last play. “I don’t want charity.”

”Do I look like the church-goin’ type?” A bright flash of Eddie’s teeth as he grins (he knows he’s got you, goddammit). “And the shack door locks from the inside. Deadbolt. In case you’re worried about… I’m not askin’ anything from you. Just- please.”

Your hand drops from the door, falls limply into your lap as you breathe out. “And you’re not in some… weird, cowpoke-Satanic cult where you’re gonna use me as human sacrifice?”

“What part of deadbolt do you not get,” Eddie retorts, pleased, hand at the gear shift. “And my cult only meets on the full moon, so. You’ve got a few weeks of safety, at least.”

A genuine laugh bubbles up out of you, and the smile that Eddie fixes you with would’ve knocked you sideways had you been standing.

You’re both relishing in the moment too deeply to notice the bicycles approaching from behind; Goblin gives an excited yip, front paws planted on the lip of the truck, wagging up a storm as the group squeals to a halt, surrounding you and Eddie on all sides.

One of the kids, a boy with a curly mop of hair who looks on the young end of 15, slams a hand down on Eddie’s open window. “Hey!”

Eddie is the one to nearly jump out of his skin this time, hand flying to the top of his hat and cursing. “Fuck. Christ, Henderson. Whaddya want?”

“Do you require our assistance at the market this weekend?” The kid speaks in a funny, oddly formal tone as Eddie sighs and sets his hat on the seat between the two of you.

“Unfortunately so.”

“C’mon, Eddie, don’t be like that.” The boy is practically leaning through the window at this point with eagerness, one foot on the ground to keep his bike from tipping. You smother a giggle at the way Eddie’s jaw ticks. “School’s out, we’re bored as hell, and-”

He stops mid sentence when he spies you in the passenger seat, eyebrows jumping up to the curls covering his forehead. “And who might this be?”

“None of your damn business,” Eddie grits out, but you ignore the all-bark-no-bite tone to stretch across and offer your hand in introduction.

“I’m Dustin,” the boy says, in answer to your own name, and rapid-fire points at the various figures loitering around the truck, naming his friends too quickly for you to store them long-term. “Now, Edward, about our payment…”

There’s a girl with red braids near your window, the only one not on a bike. When you give her a friendly smile, she glowers and plants a sneakered foot on her skateboard, rocking it aimlessly up and down the asphalt.

In the back, Goblin is basking in the attention of the rest of the group; another boy with a close-cropped Afro rubs the dog’s head lovingly, while a girl with serious brown eyes and shoulder-length curls (Eddie’s relative, maybe?) makes tentative strokes down Goblin’s side.

There are two other kids- boys, you think- near the back of the trailer, but their backs are to the group, close as two people can be while still on their own bikes. Dustin’s conversation floats back into your comprehension- he’s making a valiant attempt at twisting Eddie’s arm where ‘payment’ is concerned.

Untwistable, Eddie shakes his head. A few strands of hair have come loose from his bun, curling around his jaw with the overdramatic move he makes to throw the gear shift into drive. “All right, enough, ya scoundrel. Round up your crew and go be a pain in someone else’s ass.”

Unperturbed, Dustin straightens, grasping his bike’s handlebars with one hand and wrapping a tight fist around the metal of the truck’s side mirror.

This seems to be some sort of signal, because the rest of the group latches on like some choreographed play- hands, one from each kid, coming up to grip at any free space left on the truck, shoulders hunching forward as if preparing to be shot forth like a rubber band.

“Damn kids,” Eddie grumbles, but you can hear the fondness in his voice as he lifts his foot from the brake.

The truck lurches forward, and with it, the extra wheels; Goblin’s revved-up barking joins the excited chatter and whooping of the kids hanging on, a joyous cacophony of sound as you all head further down the empty street together.

Eddie picks up speed; there’s a twinge of fear as you watch the speedometer tick up to 10- and then he honks, once, and in perfect synchronicity all the kids let go. Some of them pedal furiously to keep up the momentum, others- like the girl on the skateboard- take advantage of the added speed to simply coast.

Soon enough, their cheerful waves and laughter recede into the distance along with the rest of the town as Eddie keeps his boot on the gas.

The heat in town was dizzying, so you’re relieved when the road dips and bends into the comfort of shade- courtesy of the wild forest flanking either side.

It’s about a ten minute drive to Munson Farms, and on the way, Eddie tells you all about it. You learn that his Uncle Wayne raised him, taught him how to work and live off the land- when Wayne retired and moved a few miles down the road, Eddie took over.

“Not really a lucrative venture, farming,” he says, trees passing in a blur as he navigates the road curves with ease. “But the end of summer Town Fair pays well, ‘specially for sheep penning demonstrations. Got a couple of dairy cows, chickens that won’t stop laying- between that ‘n Wayne’s orchards, we got more than enough to get us through the winter months.

And then there’s the hives-”

“Bees?” Unable to help the interruption, your head whips in his direction, interest piqued.

“Yup. Got about six hives right now in the southern pasture. Don’t know much about ‘em, truthfully- got a friend named Chrissy, comes once a week or so to make sure they stay maintained. I mostly just help come harvesting time, and try to stay out of her way for the rest.”

There are about a thousand other questions you want to ask- what kind of bees? Are they near your garden plot to promote pollination? Any bears in the area?- but you tamp down your excitement, settling on a neutral, “Cool,” before looking out the window again.

The sign for Munson Farms is handmade, too, but upkept much better than the one in town- it swings gently in the breeze on metal links as Eddie turns down the adjoining dirt road. About a quarter mile in, you start to see signs of life- fence lines running through the trees and the shush of a nearby water source- and then, a house.

It’s small, probably no more than a bed, bath, and kitchen inside. There’s a red brick chimney separating the straight lines of the blue-painted wood planks, ivy crawling up one side to frame the eastern-facing window.

On the covered porch, a big, long-haired white dog lifts its head at the sound of the truck pulling in. Goblin gives a greeting bark, practically tripping over his oversized paws to launch out of the truck even as Eddie gripes at him to “Be careful, dammit!”

As you follow Eddie out of the truck and to the porch, the white dog shambles over on a stiff back leg, ignoring the playful jumping and licking Goblin gives in favor of coming up to sniff you.

“This is Rosie,” Eddie says, patting her greying muzzle with a gentleness that twists something in your stomach. “She’s near older than me, was a great livestock guardian ‘til her age caught up. Been trying to train up Goblin to take her place but between you ‘n me I think his head might be full of rocks.”

As if he’s aware of the insult, Goblin gives an indignant yip and paws at Eddie’s knee; he gets laughed off by the two of you, zipping away with a deep sense of importance into the nearby forest while Rosie shambles back to her cozy porch spot.

It smells incredible, here, surrounded by so many trees- you take a deep breath, inhaling the rich pines, the verdant underbrush. Just past the house, there’s a fenced-in area with various plants spilling out of raised garden beds. You can almost smell the summer strawberries and crisp veggies.

On the other side of the fence is a plastic-sheeted greenhouse, LED lights inside making the whole thing glow artificial purple. Eddie catches you staring, then gives a wink, laying one long finger to the side of his nose. “Don’t go tellin’ the Sheriff on me and I’ll give you a joint for your troubles.”

“Deal.” Wasn’t a hard sell at all- at the rate this is going, you’re dying to get high with this man.

Eddie grabs your pack out of the truck bed and leads you across the dirt road, pointing out the fence lines in the distance, and a barn that you can just make out through a gap in the trees.

“Sheep, cows, horses, all that way. This way-” his hand rests between your shoulder blades, steering you towards a boot-worn path, “-is the guest shack. Beehives’ll be just down the hill from where you’re stayin’.”

He pauses, looking back over his shoulder at you- “I’ll take you to see ‘em tomorrow. Promise. I just don’t want you goin’ by yourself and getting stung to death, y’hear?”

Not for the first time today, you wish, desperately, to tell him things you shouldn’t. I was actually an apprentice beekeeper for a year, I know my way around a hive. Studied entomology and agriculture in college before I lost myself in the worst mistake of my life. You know that pesky little J I’ve got on my wrist…?

But if you start talking, you won’t stop. And besides, you’re not planning to stay here long enough for your secrets to matter.

So instead, you press your lips into a line, looking solemn, nodding in agreement until he’s satisfied and continues on.

The dirt path leads right to the shack, and Eddie opens the door to let you in. It’s about the size of a studio apartment- wood stove and sink next to the bathroom door, twin bed draped with a thick quilt budged up under the single window. Small, but homey and clean.

As you take it in, spinning in a slow circle, Eddie sets your duffel next to the bed and runs a hand over the top of his head, haloed frizz of his hair springing back into place. “Ain’t much, I know- usually just host the town rascals; they bring their sleeping bags and fight over who gets the mattress. But the sheets are washed, and-”

“Eddie.” You stop his rambling with a hand to his arm. “Seriously, it’s great. Better than great. I was probably gonna end up sleeping on the streets tonight, and you saved me from that. So… thank you. I mean it.”

The vulnerability in your own voice catches you off guard, but you decide to lean in to it. Eddie’s been nice for no reason- or, rather, because he seems to be a kind person- and you want to make sure he hears how grateful you are for a place to stay.

He’s staring down at your hand on his bare arm, eyes clouded with something you can’t parse out; you draw your hand back, which prompts him to speak- “Shit, darlin’. It’s nothin’. Don’t worry about it. You can stay as long as you like.”

“It’s not nothing,” you insist, arms crossing over your chest, rocking back on your heels. There’s a sudden swell of panic rising like bile in your throat; this morning, you were hell-bent on leaving, and now, you think it’ll kill you not to stay.

“Listen-” Eddie’s eyes snap up at the urgency in your voice, but you manage to push through- “I know I didn’t tell you much, about where I came from, or what I did to end up…”

On my own. The words stick in your throat, tears pricking threateningly at the corners of your vision. “...out here. But I grew up on a farm. I’m used to working livestock, riding horses- I can be helpful. Can earn my keep over the weekend, at least, doing whatever you need-”

Eddie interrupts with a shake of his head, your stomach plummeting until he says, “Got enough farmhands as it is, honey. Don’t need you getting your pretty hands dirty.”

“There has to be something. I can’t cook worth a damn, but I can clean-”

“Hey.” Eddie’s tone of voice slips into a low, soothing register, like you’re a spooked animal caught in a trap. He steps closer, and when you don’t flinch, he settles his big hands on the tops of your shoulders. “Shh. It’s okay. Like I said earlier- I’m not expecting nothin’ from you. Okay?”

There’s gotta be some sort of magical effect happening, an old Celtic carving under the floorboards, maybe a witch's spell braided in with the dried herbs hanging on the far wall. You’ve never felt so looked at before, like you’ve swam beyond your depth and Eddie’s hands are a life raft.

His eyes flit around your face, taking in the expressions you’re surely flickering through before he says, quietly- “If you want, how ‘bout you stay ‘til the end of summer. Help out where you can, and come Fair time, I’ll deal you in on the profits.”

You open your mouth to argue, and smooth as butter, his right hand slips up your shoulder, tattooed fingers wrapping firm around the back of your neck, thumb tapping the pulse point under your jaw, insistent- “This way, you’ll have cash enough in your pocket to go anywhere you want. It’s a good deal and you damn well better take it.”

You wonder if he can feel the jackrabbit pulse of your heartbeat under his thumb. When you nod, he gives a dimpled smile, satisfied. “Good. Now I’ll let you settle in and get washed up for supper. Come on over to the main house when you’re ready.”

Before the door shuts behind him, Eddie adds, “And don’t get too excited. I ain’t much of a cook, neither.”

After his footsteps have retreated down the path, you collapse onto the mattress, springs squeaking. You flip to stare up at the ceiling, running your fingertips over the ghost of his touch branded against your neck, almost nauseous from elation.

A whole summer. On Eddie’s farm. With Eddie.

After a few minutes of deep breathing, you get up to unpack your duffel, then fold your meager clothes supply neatly into the top drawer of an old oak dresser in the corner, still room enough for your canteen.

The last thing in your bag is a twine-wrapped leather pouch. Your butterfly knife makes quick work of the knots, and then, the last of your most precious things in the world are laid out on the bed.

A certificate of completion from Indiana U’s Beekeeping Department, folded and creased but still valid, signed by your last field mentor.

A driver’s license with your old address, square photo of a younger and more hopeful you smiling back.

And lastly, an engagement ring. Gold, with a teardrop-shaped diamond center and sparkling accent stones trailing up either side of the band.

It twinkles when you hold it up to the evening sunbeam streaming through the window; reflective pinpricks of light scatter and dance across the quilt.

In quick succession, you slide everything back into the pouch, securing it with the drawstring before burying it inside the hidden pocket of your bag.

Then, you shove the duffel under the bed until it hits the wall, and turn away to wash up for dinner.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #cowboy!eddie #cowboy!eddie x honey!reader #cowboy!eddie x reader

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sucrows · 3 months ago

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Can I have D, M and V for Shu, Jun and Niki nsfw alphabet please 🙏

Requests are closed actually you know what fuck it we ball. why not. im in the mood for an alphabet ask. nobody request anything else this guy right here will be the only exception

(NSFW UNDER CUT)

[D] DIRTY SECRET

Morning wood. All the time. He hates it so much like you wouldn’t believe. It’s not actually that big of a deal but for some reason he’ll get hard no matter what he was dreaming of. Dream of his art winning an award and getting displayed in a gallery? Bricked up. Dream of going to a shrimp themed amusement park with the other eccentrics but it turns into a shopping mall where he gets lost in the bathroom? Hard as a rock. The worst thing to consistently happen to him.

[M] MOTIVATION

Trying to get Shu riled up for sex is like playing a game of operation. It’s very easy to mess up and make him clam up and dismiss you. There is no surefire way to get Shu in the mood, but one thing he cannot resist is being worshiped by his partner. Praise by anyone else? Who cares. Getting treated tenderly and receiving loving encouragement from someone he cares about? Well... He is just a man after all.

[V] VOLUME

He tries to stay quiet, but he always ends up making some noise. He’s generally speaking a panter and a grunter over a moaner. Just like everything regarding sex, he can be quite shy and quite particular about his performance, he struggles a lot in regards to feeling shame over making any sound during sex so be sure to give him plenty of reassurance (but not too much lest he feel coddled)!

[D] DIRTY SECRET

Wants and I mean WANTS to smell your underwear soooooo bad. It’s crazy how badly he wants to do it. He has too much respect and self-discipline to give in and do it but if you were to even so much as hint to being okay with it... well, he might just offer to do your laundry from then on.... totally not to hide the evidence of what he’d get on the fabric.

[M] MOTIVATION

His own hormones and any piece of visible skin. All he has to do is look at someone he’s into for long enough and he can get turned on. If he already has a sexual relationship with someone then oh boy is he even worse. Cleavage, thighs, hands, necks, anything can catch his eye and get him going if it’s exposed.

[V] VOLUME

Naturally on the quieter side of things. He tends to grunt a lot and is a fan of dirty talk sometimes, but he’s also more than content to just silently make you feel good without feeling the need to vocalize. He doesn’t have much shame about making noise or not making it at all, truly an unbothered king.

[i don't have access to my main pc rn forgive me for not using niki's banner i only have so many of them]

NIKI SHIINA

[D] DIRTY SECRET

You know those “hey babe I passed out 7 times but your cinnamon rolls are ready” memes? He wants to actually give it a shot. Either on the giving or receiving end, he’s down. He recognizes it’d probably suck but will that stop him? No. Would totally try cooking something with his/your cum if you’d like.

[M] MOTIVATION

Knowing someone else wants him is usually what gets him going. As long as he has the free time, Niki is usually down for a quick fuck but knowing someone else's eyes are on him makes him all the more excited. Sometimes hunger also gets him to feel in the mood. There’s a fine line though, if he gets too hungry, he’ll need a break to go eat or he might pass out lol.

[V] VOLUME

He’s generally noisy. He doesn’t really try to hold himself back unless he’s worried about disturbing his neighbors. Sometimes he can even get chatty during sex. He’s a bit prone to getting distracted and letting his mind wander so sometimes, when you check in on him, he’ll start saying something completely unrelated like “We need to buy more eggs” while you’re having sex.

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puckpocketed · 6 months ago

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5/08/2023 - Berkly Catton captains Team Canada to gold at the Hlinka Gretzky Cup, leading the tournament with 8 goals and 2 assists in 10 games || 19/01/2024 Meet the Future - Berkly Catton named Team White's captain for the CHL/NHL Top Prospects Game || 5/07/2024 - Berkly Catton signs his ELC with the Seattle Kraken

Introduction, quotes/transcripts/bits and pieces under the cut!

I can't even begin to describe how jazzed I am that Berkly Catton got drafted to a team I already love. I wrote in my Sharks off-season roundup that I was hoping against hope Catton would drop to 14th overall (back before we had moved up to 11th) and the Sharks would snap him up, as unlikely as it was that they'd try to gather more firepower when we sorely needed defensive prospects. I'm so glad I got my wish one way or another <3

Krakenblr you will LOVE this dude. He's such a star. Such a character. Berkly Catton is so, SO fun to watch. You have no idea!!! I followed him in the months leading up to the draft because there was buzz that he might be available lower down because of the Height Issue (he is, tragically, 5'11 <- which makes him undraftable unfortch) + concerns with how his game will translate to the NHL level. He is an electrifying playmaker. He's so creative, throws in so many fakes, WILL break ankles, very good hands... ough <3 everything I personally love to see in a forward all rolled into one neat little package !!!

There's the suggestion that he's been "over-scouted," which really just means they've all been watching him so long they're probably overthinking things and looking for stuff to critique. I'm inclined to believe this take over the other one because I'm an optimist and he was one of my little guys going into the draft! I won't include more of that here, but there's plenty of material out there if you'd like to look for it.

Below are some of my favourite bits and pieces from media he's appeared in <3

“I don’t like to give it away (pause) but I look at guys before games,” Catton revealed. “What’s weird is going from midget to junior hockey is a big jump. Last year I was learning. This year I wanted to add stuff. My pregame stuff and to look at guys doing draws and seeing what works. That’s pre-scouting on my end. If a guy has a certain move, and you can trump it early, it gets in his head a little bit. That helped quite a bit.”

“I think I sometimes have a problem with passing the puck too much. I love seeing my teammates score and setting up for an open net. It’s one of my favourite things in hockey, if not my favourite,” Catton admitted. “That’s something I can work on. When I get a chance put it home kind of thing. I got better this year at it’s still something I’d like to improve. Honestly, I’m a pass first mentality guy I would say.”

- Berkly Catton’s video scouting has improved his overall game

You know, when I first read and saved this article I was like; this prospect who reviews VIDEO is gonna haunt me. That's my weakness btw, I'm freak4freak. If you tell me a hockey player is also deeply infatuated with the game to the point of reviewing tape in their free time that's IT for me. it's JOEVER. i have a type and i know it <3 also wowie a pass-first guy who gets really really happy when his teammates score??? crying. crying. Berkly Catton . tucking uou gently away <3 forever <3

From A Day in the Life: Berkly Catton & Conner Roulette

Fave movie is The Notebook (<- unrelated there's a . really funny comment on this video from a philly fan lamenting that Catton likes the Notebook - I assume because that's some uhhh how do the kids call it,, femme soyboy shit? lmao anyway stay LOSING toxic masculinity !!!)

The boys call him 'Berk' <3

He talks about Jack Hughes being a big influence on him (in other media, he gives Hughes as a player comp!) and going to hang out and work with the Hughes family in Michigan. I sense a thread of admiration here like it's such a sweet little crush LOL <3 I hope he notices you Berkly !!

he gives the player of the match hat to a coach/trainer (one of the two) it's lovely... ouhhh... good little fella so polite and so conscious of staff being the foundation of his success... mwah!!

From Berkly Catton Talks Hockey Sense, His Start In Hockey & More | Game Tape With Tony

His father and grandfather built him a rink in his backyard, very sweet.

1OA in the WHL draft!

Anime main character levels of training-arc... my guy shot thousands of pucks over the summer in his backyard and then came back suddenly able to score goals. <- this is where the DIY goalie made of wood and blocker pads comes in. lol. lmao. are u even real.

sorry. sorry. OLEN ZELLWEGER MENTION. <- one of my personal favourite little guys (undersized puck moving defensemen my BELOVED) "Kind of a funny story [...] I pretty much had a breakaway, when he just turned backwards and played it as a 1-on-1 somehow, and I was like 'wow, this guy's the real deal', so." I really liked how Catton easily recalled a specific person/moment when asked who challenged him the most in the WHL; I think it speaks to a thoughtfulness about the game - it would've been easy to just give a vague Oh Everyone Is Good answer here and I like that he didn't!

There's a section where he talks about how he got so good at stick lifting, such an interesting perspective I never considered - he played in situations and against people where he couldn't just throw his body around to win, so he had to learn to get the puck in other ways. KEVIN KORCHINSKI MENTION <- another one of my little guys <3

mentions his dad being a big influence on his 'patience'. parents are so funny to me. ur watching your sons juniors matches? and Ohhhhh Chris Catton was a hockey player too . it all makes sense. Berkly Catton product of jockdad like so many before him <3

I do love that throughout this interview, Catton defers to his linemates a lot. Always hyping them up and talking about how he owes his success to them. it could be construed as false humility, given Catton was the highest scoring draft-eligible in the league - but he really does go out of his way to emphasise how highly he regards them and how much of their on-ice success is owed to good chemistry built up over the entire season. It strikes me as genuine!! He's a good boy <3

Revealed he can solve a rubix cube at the end... wow... he just liek me fr...

PLEASE watch this on-ice interview where he's chatting after a game and then gets ABSOLUTELY WASTED by 5 water bottles and all the boys. he is clearly so so so beloved in that locker room waaaahhh <3

Anyway this isn't an exhaustive list but it IS a lot of the reasons why I really liked him pre-draft. welcome to the deep Berkly <3

#HELLO!!! COME GET YOUR BERKLY CATTON SCOUTING REPORT #berkly catton #seattle kraken #kraken lb #nhledit #hockeyedit #nhl gifs #puck!gif #p!gif:kraken #my writing #primers #puckscouting

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bithcisweartogod · 4 days ago

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something something possible symbolism of the characters’ assigned chess pieces

i’m not that big of a chess player though, so if you are and have something to add/correct PLEASE DO 🙏🏻

xia fei - a pawn. most commonly met as a metaphor to a person who’s being used by others. but if we consider the pawn’s importance in the game of chess, they’re far from weak. pawns remind us not to underestimate those who wield less power. after all, if the pawn manages to reach the end of the chess board, it can turn into any chess piece, even a queen. and honestly that really correlates with my perception of him so far. xia fei seems way less threatening than vein and liu xiao, but i think he has his own motivation to be with them, and this image of a nice cool popular guy might be helping him in his pursuit. no one expects anything dangerous from him. maybe they should.

lu guang - the knight. knights are unpredictable. they’re the only chess pieces that move in an L-shape, even the queen can’t do that. because of their small range of movement, they have to be thoughtful and tactical. they are not limited by colour. knights are also the only ones who can pose a threat to the queen without putting themselves at risk. all this adds up with lu guang’s character so perfectly. he’s literally a walking unpredictable mystery. his own power is limited - he can only see 12 hours into a picture. he’s tactical and calculating, he quite literally writes down all his steps. he’s quick to come up with new ideas and thinks several steps ahead, like when he put a phone in cheng xiaoshi’s pocket to make a photo of vivian. [lu guang’s also a convincing actor, as it was noted by cheng xiaoshi, so i’d assume he’s good at lying and (reaching omg) maybe he’d even be able to control his heartbeat 🤭]

cheng xiaoshi and vein - the rooks. brute force. they move in a straight line, forward and backward and are not limited by colour. they are the second strongest piece after the queen, but they are way more predictable than knights and bishops. and yeah, that does sound like cheng xiaoshi. in times of danger he acts really quickly - jumping in front of lu guang to shield him from a bullet, or how he acted in that fight with liu min. he’s quick, and sometimes marches forward without thinking. his power is so influential that it is even desirable by others - remember how li tianchen wanted to “try it” for himself. i’d assume vein to be somewhat the same. we see that he also isn’t the type to try and escape a fight, the exact opposite. and if cheng xiaoshi’s goal seems to be more defensive - protecting those he loves, then vein is (seems to be for now at least) full on offence. bold, brutal, unrelenting, moving forward and getting rid of those who stand on his way. liu xiao - the bishop. they own the diagonal lines. they also have to create strategies and need other chess pieces to protect them. they can only move on one colour though, so in that aspect they’re limited. but as the board gets emptier their power grows - they can move a long distance. that’s also how i see liu xiao so far. “mastermind stays in the dark” and all that, he prefers to have others work for him than perform the actions himself. he’s quite young and i’d think he’s generally weaker than vein and maybe even cheng xiaoshi, but he’s dangerous. he pulls the strings and no matter how strong you are, if you’re not careful - you’ll get roped into his game. one more interesting thing about the bishop is the motif of belief and religion which is, well, in the name - we see it played out in liu xiao’s trailer as well.

but the board isn’t complete. we’re missing the queen and the king. just a theory, but i’d assume the beautiful mystery lady to be the queen. in the ending her eyes SHINE just like lu guang’s, so i think she also is an ability user. and if that’s true then well…her eyes shine yellow…looks familiar…haha..;; the queen is the most powerful chess piece, moving in all directions, on all colours. so i’m really looking forward to seeing her enter the game

and the king - if i continue to theorise, i’d say it would be cheng weimin. the king’s range of movement is small - yet he’s the single most important piece on the board. and i’m sorry but if we look at this official art (oh god tumblr wtf what’s up with the quality) then we can see a black king (and i’d assume it’s a king, they’re characteristic of having a cross on top, right??) lying defeated…i’d guess papa cheng isn’t coming home :(

also while i was reading about chess and stuff, i found that bishops and knights are worth roughly the same, though the bishops are considered more powerful. if that matters at all, i’d interpret that as liu xiao and lu guang both being incredibly smart and good at creating strategies, yet liu xiao’s network of connection and influence outweigh lu guang’s. but maybe that’s also why there are several moments that point out liu xiao’s interest in him - maybe he’d think he met an equal.

#link click #时光代理人 #shiguang daili ren #lu guang #cheng xiaoshi #liu xiao #xia fei #vein #long post #ramblings ramblings

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orangez3st · 1 month ago

Text

What actually happened to Rex's batchmates?

Here's my take on this, because atm I'm writing a fanfic about Cadet!Rex as well so I'm appealing for his fanon cadet fate.

I respect both "Rex's batchmates are all decommissioned because the whole batch is defective but Cody and the others saved him so now he's got PTSD from child ab**e" and "Rex got bullied because of his mutated blond hair" fanons (uh hey where did this begin? Had those been widely accepted headcanon that it became fanon eventually? I'm revisiting this fandom and am just stepping my foot into the fanon so maybe safe to say I'm kinda-but-not-really new) but... Hear me out.

(Future me, approx 2 hours after starting this post: okay this post turns out to be so long you might wanna sit down)

Disclaimer again; I don't hate those fanons but it's kinda bothersome to me (so cruel omg idek if he'd been really strong for, what, just 10 years haunted by child ab**e trauma, based on majority fic depiction? and said trauma lasted into the clone wars even? uh, really? more in 10) that I've pieced the puzzle myself on how one may approach this matter from another angle.

Facts i (we) know about clones

As far as we know, they have batchmates and squadmates.

Not only are they genetically engineered with accelerated physical stamina, they are also capable of withholding more stress than the average natborn. This is due to the fact that war soldiers generally suffer PTSD and the Kaminoans wanted to create Tupperware clone army. Thus, to a certain extent, genetically, clones prove to be more emotionally stable – mind you, that doesn't mean they're not immune to PTSD and other related traumas. There were clones who defected from the army just because they couldn't handle it anymore. As cruel as this might sound, yeah; there's something wrong with their programming.

There are 3 known mass-produced clone types: CT (Clone Trooper), CC (Clone Commando), and RC (Republic Commando). Each type is made? cloned? bred? separately. Obviously.

Clones are engineered to be obedient and submissive to order and structure. CT has the most extreme levels of this alteration, meanwhile CC has less, due to their supposed strategic position in command they have to adjust to every possible scenario thrown at them, eventually concocting tactically effective battle plans.

Mutations and defective traits are different. Mutations are uniquely positive and genetically induced or by experiment, while defective traits pop up due to poor maintenance or accidents. Kaminoan scientists are willing enough to tolerate mutations as long as it causes no further problems (like Blue Eyes), while they deem the ones with defective traits totally unfit for combat (like 99).

So, to stress and/or narrow them down:

Clones, regardless of type, are capable of handling more stress and adapting to situations quickly.

#GodlikeKaminoanEngineering (or so they say): Nothing wrong with programming = wouldn't suffer trauma and/or related disorders. (Idk if this hypothetically would apply irl. If there's any legit research about this particularly, point me to the journal article lol I'd love to check it out tho I'm not a huge bio fan. Intriguing all the same.)

Nothing wrong with programming = wouldn't defect. Clone Force 99 is a special case, though. (This point is completely unrelated to Rex but I think still worth mentioning)

CT's aren't that much capable of putting all hands on deck in strategy talks (that's what the CC's are for). All they know is to wait for orders from command and follow them thoroughly and make sure the job's done. However, they may or may not develop those traits themselves and finally take initiative basically becoming a kriffin badass CC intern, like Rex.

Genetic mutations, as we know or may assume, consist of change in physical appearance. This could mean lighter skin tone, not-Jango-Fett eye color, or not-so-Jango-Fett hair color. This is due to recessive genes. Jango's sister Arla has natural blond hair, you guys.

Therefore, from my perspective, Rex is in possession of genetic mutations and definitely not defective traits.

Combined with his standard CT emotional intelligence, excellent combat skill, his (pre-Skywalker) undying love for order and structure, and if not little acts of valor that undeniably has to show during his cadet years (I mean it would carry on into his ARC training and first months of the Clone Wars that he's given jaig eyes), I see no reason why he would be bullied and shunned by the rest of his batch.

If any, they regard him with so much respect because he shines – gloriously – throughout his training and essentially be the local pride. He's their brother, after all! Their vod! That's how he would've caught Cody and the other's attention too.

☝🏼🤓 I do accept the fanon that he's a batch behind them. I can't think of a reason. Might as well be freeform. And it's cute.

So.

That's the baseline, for clones.

Now we move on to the man himself.

(on gif above) That is so Cody-coded, Rex.

(1) Decommissioned batchmates

Tbh not sure what being decommissioned means, but given the generally grim and threatening implication that it strikes enough terror and neck-breaking amount of trauma to Rex of this fanon, it's gotta mean being terminated(?). Correct me if I'm wrong, but for now I'm rolling with that.

Rex exhibits excellent capabilities on field during his training that it easily captures his trainer's attention. A transfer to the CC command training sounds possible, I think, since y'know, Ponds is a CT as well and I'd like to think he's above Rex that the rank Commander is permissible for him (yes yes Rex is given the Commander promotion but he turned it down because he favors fighting up in the front with his men I am a firm believer of this as well). So he just gets separated from his batchmates and situated himself in the new brotherhood.

Also here's my baseless debunking because I just don't know any of those biology-related stuff.

I just don't think every single of his batchmates are so defective that the Kaminoans pulled the genoc**e card. It's just... Not possible. Math and probability, anyone? Hello?

Assuming the only reason for being decommissioned is for possessing defective traits so bad that it's worse than 99, the Kaminoans have no excuse to pull the genoc**e card just because a clone gets blond hair instead of Jango's black hair. As much as I support them being the most ultimate of assholes, I don't think they'd waste resources just like that.

So, in conclusion of this one; I think not. Rex's batchmates are very much alive and well and kicking droid ass during campaigns :)

(2) Traumatized Rex

Fanon: Rex with child ab**e trauma and, in conjunction, PTSD because he witnessed his batchmates get decommissioned.

I shall assume he carries this trauma even to the Clone Wars period.

Oh hang on, okay, he's defective because he's traumatized? Or is it the other way around; he gets traumatized that it somehow affects his already-defected emotional intelligence? What about his coping mechanism, is it defected as well? If the decommissioning of his brothers affects him so much he couldn't cope and carries with him the trauma, I don't think he'd be fit to go further since the start, or even earn those jaig eyes.

One thing about Rex is that he's brave. Since we're working with existing materials to create this headcanon, and that the jaig eyes itself is important, the jaig eyes still gotta be there. He earns it because he commits acts of valor in the battlefield – because he is a man of honor. Rex is very much aware of his emotional state, aware of the proper time and place; when to break down and when to put on a strong façade, because he's that selfless. He puts his men first. He cares about his men. He regards every single troop as his brother. First in, last out. An inspirational figure with strong will, always trying his best being the prime example and morale to his men.

Aside from the genetic stress inhibitor traits, Rex is a strong man, physically and mentally. In line with my previous point about how implausible and improbable it is that every single of his batchmates gets decommissioned, with this fanon scenario, I don't think Rex would be some guy who easily succumbs to trauma. He'd push on through and survive, and lo and behold. Canon-wise, he does. Still does.

(3) Why is he bullied 😭

My poor little meow meow of a heart can't take it. I don't know what this version of Rex is supposed to be bullied for? But if it's because of his blond hair IT'S NOT DEFECTIVE TRAIT it's genetic mutation. Even the majority of the clones sport black hair and brown eyes Jango style and only some of them sport brown hair or lighter, and even fewer of blond hair. And the Kaminoans allow it, as seen in 302.

Look at him he's precious. Some may think he's overrated, but he's just being him. No wonder he's majority's favorite. So with all that said, I rest my case.

Sorry that took so long and much of your time, but for my part, I'm glad I got those out of me. I might write my Rex and the other's headcanon in the future. Mentioned I'm writing a Cadet!Rex fic, so there's the link, if you're interested.

And don't get me started with the natural vs dyed blond thing. I'm a firm believer that Rex is a natural blond, and I've written the reason somewhere above.

Thank you for coming to my TED talk. You may use this headcanon in your adaptations if you'd like. Cheers!

#captain rex #captain rex headcanon #ct 7567 #star wars #star wars the clone wars #clone wars #yes i actually wrote this instead doing my homework #how irresponsible of me #*puts candles* i am manifesting fox's infinite energy #this is a character study #i try make it to be #z3st headcanons

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