#i considered making a scrapbook of sorts for them because im running out of space

[imadhatt3r]

WAIT YOU CAN'T JUST SAY THAT WITHOUT SHOWING OFF THE COLLECTION OF FEATHERS👀

Do you like my wall ornament of loose bird bits??? 🥺🥺🥺

Most of these are pretty common species, city pigeons, mallards or collared doves, but I have a few from slightly more rare birds, like the green woodpecker, common kestrel, different magpie feathers, what I believe to be ones from a great spottes woodpecker and a few I've nabbed in zoos and similar establishments that held captive birds, from some tropical partrige species I can't remember now or a tail feather from a gray peacock-phesant that my mom found on the ground in the city center (we believe it fell off someone's clothes)

I also have these ones, which are too big to hang, but they're so beautiful and I love them so much. Top to bottom: magpie tail feather (note the beautiful iridescence!), two which I believe come either from a buzzard or a tawny owl, and a beutiful stork one my dad found right under their nest when he was biking :3c

[macbookpro-hard-drive]

baseball [connor m. x reader]

like what i do? consider buying me a coffee!

summer prompts fic #1. lets see how fast i can forget im doing these

also i know i tagged that post w ‘im gonna do these in order!’ and then immediately proceeded to not do these in order sjkfhsd sorry

baseball/sports. here we go, fuckers. lets get some fluffy connor shit in here.

warnings: language, mainly. connor gets the help he needs and hes getting better AU because i just want him to be happy also some slightly sexual comments

        If there was one thing Connor kept putting off, it was cleaning out his closet. It seemed like every time you turned around, someone in his family would casually drop the hint that there’s probably some pictures in there, or some old clothes that didn’t fit him anymore that he could donate, or maybe that’s where he keeps losing shit so he should probably look into cleaning his closet out. Connor’s response was always the same - that he’ll do it later because there’s a lot of shit in there that he needs to go through. After a while, the task built up. It went from his closet, to his room, to the garage being tacked on as his dad mentioned he has a box full of his shit that he needs to look through and see if any of it’s still worth anything - although he meant that in the best possible way that he could mean that. So a week before graduation, you ended up in Connor’s room, cross-legged with a laptop balanced on your lap as you finished editing your final paper for your english class, waiting for Connor to show up so you could maybe pester him into helping you study for your math final next week. 

        Then you were greeted with a box of trash bags being tossed onto the bed in front of you, Connor peeling off the button-down he’d been wearing after shutting his door. You gazed at him with curious eyes, watching as he threw the shirt onto his bed as well out of habit, before stopping. The look of frustration crossed his features for a moment as he snatched up the shirt, searching his room for the laundry basket he must have dragged in sometime within the past few days - since it definitely hadn’t been there when you were there last. He carelessly hurled it into the top, before grabbing and opening the box he’d just thrown in front of you wordlessly. Honestly, you weren’t surprised he hadn’t said anything yet - Connor got like this sometimes, too caught up in his own thoughts to even process anything else that was going on. But he always realized you were there after a few minutes, realizing something was off and he was forgetting something important, and it always turned out that something was you. 

        That time, it caught up with him quicker as he stopped mid-tear, his fingers hooked underneath the sliver of an open space. His eyes flickered to meet yours. He went back to what he was doing, throwing a quick “hey” your way. Then he looked back up to you, “did Zoe let you in?”

        You looked up from your laptop, tapping away at the keys as you finished up the end of a sentence, “nah. Larry.”

        He shrugged. He’d been out with his mom when you’d pulled up - and usually you would have just waited in the car, but you were used to Connor’s family by now that neither you nor his family cared whether Connor was there or not. It took you a moment before you realized Cynthia had forced him to get a haircut, your attention almost completely devoted to your work up until then. He caught your gaze. “Don’t laugh.”

        “Connie, I’m not gonna laugh. You look cute.”

        Connor frowned as he spoke, running a hand through his the curls, “I miss my hair.”

        “It’ll grow back, babe. I’m sure no one wanted you looking like a ‘hippie’ or something at graduation,” you shrugged, “it’s nice. I’ll miss pulling it, but-”

        He laughed a little. Connor was always cute when he laughed, his eyes crinkling and the little nose wrinkle he’d get. “Yeah. C’mon, I’m not doing this shit alone.”

        “Were you going to if I wasn’t here?”

        “No.”

        After an hour of laughing at Connor’s old drawings from fifth grade, the edgy poetry that he (and Zoe, apparently) had written throughout middle school, and your pestering Connor about home videos and trying to get him to show them to you (he refused, mostly, although he did say he might show you the one when he was in a kid’s show at some local theatre when he was eight), you had ended up back-to-back to him as the two of you sorted through old pictures and trying to find any that had messed up for whatever reasons like being drenched by coffee spills and whatnot. You flipped bad ones onto a spot on the floor that you and Connor had designated upon tossing them lazily in the same spot, and the good ones ended up back in the box for his mom to look through later while scrapbooking. There were a lot of cute little pictures of Connor and Zoe, some at Disney World and others just in spots downtown that you could recognize. You shifted, tossing another picture into the box before freezing.

        “Connie?”

        “What?”

        “Did you play baseball?”

        Connor shifted, looking over to you, “shit,” he pulled the photo from your hand, shoving it into the box without a second thought, “yeah.”

        “Aw, Connor,” you smiled, “you never told me you were in little league.”

        “Because I really didn’t care.”

        “Con,” you said, reaching for the box, “you look pretty happy in these pics.”

        He grabbed your wrist. He was gentle, but he seemed scared for some reason. He sort of shrugged, sliding his hand into yours as a distraction, “I was seven.”

        “Do you miss it?” You asked softly. He didn’t respond. He just sat there, frozen in a moment, the feeling of your fingers between him tethering him to this reality. I remembered being seven and laughing with his teammates and crying over a loss. He remembered keeping it up. He remembered having friends in middle school, all on the baseball team until he finally quit during his freshman grade year,  the questions pouring in because they thought he liked baseball. He did. He loved baseball, so why did he stop? He grounded himself, squeezing your hand softly.

        And very softly, he finally answered you, memories flooding his senses as he mustered up a single “yeah.”

        “Tell me about it.”

        Connor sort of shrugged off the sentence. “How many pictures do we still have?”

        “A lot. You can tell me about baseball while we sort, alright?”

        He nodded. “Yeah. Alright. Tell me to shut up if it starts getting stupid.”

        You never did. You listened, taking in every word that Connor told you. The first game he ever won, he had gone out with his family and the rest of the team for ice cream at this local place called A La Mode (and that’s when you discovered that sparked a hidden love for the place until it closed down just a few months ago), how he got vanilla ice cream in Zoe’s hair by accident and how she cried over it for hours. The swell of victory has shrunk in a moment, and you watched Connor turn slightly bitter for a moment - only to go back and say it wasn’t her fault, she was six and ice cream is sticky and annoying as fuck. He talked about making the team during seventh grade, how he probably still had the weathered old baseball glove somewhere in the house. Connor told you how he was a damn good pitcher for a twelve year old. With each story, Connor kept becoming more and more alive, stars in his eyes as he grew more animated with each story. He and Larry were close. He told you it was Larry’s idea for him to join little league - because he remembered playing baseball as a kid and loving it, so maybe Connor would too. And he was right. Connor loved baseball.

        Connor faltered a little bit. He remembered the glove his dad bought for him for Christmas a few years ago, that he just sorta left in the bag. That had been freshman year. Your warm touch grazed his arm and he looked back to you, trailing off in his stories. You just smiled at him after a moment, bringing his free hand up to your lips to press a soft kiss against it.

        “Maybe we could go play or something.” Your words were soft. Connor sort of needed soft. Thank fuck you were here.

        “You need a team, baby-”

        “I know,” you nudged him, “you could teach me shit.”

        “Alright.”

        “You do know I’m also looking for an excuse to have your arms around me, right?”

        Connor smiled again, and leaned over to press a kiss against your cheek. “Yeah. I know.”