#junior duck stamp

[rebeccathenaturalist]

To be honest, if one of the students in my Junior Duck Stamp classes ever turned in something like this, I would be elated.

(For a bit of background--a few years ago the Federal Duck Stamp contest rules were changed so that artists HAD to include some element of waterfowl hunting in their entries, whether they were comfortable with it or not. The above artwork may be my favorite example of malicious--or at least snarky--compliance.)

[bucknastysbabe]

Rating: Explicit

Tags: College!au, modern!au, nerd loser baby Criston, loss of virginity, hot stem computer partner girly, older girl, Alicent for the win, short n sweet n smutty, pnv!sex, first dates, Criston’s inner dialogue, subby lil baby

Taglist: @bambitas @fallingintoyourlilaceyes @aemonds-holy-milk @targaryenbarbie @starogeorgina @moncherrii @valeskafics @arcielee @lovelykhaleesiii @sugarpoppss2

A/N: shout-out to @fairysluna “he looks like a loser who jacks off to hentai but I’d fuck him.” I made the divider :)

Criston knew he was a fucking incel. Maybe at some point in his miserable life he could’ve done a sport and use his decent height and muscle tone. But no, he was cripplingly shy and had a stutter that took forever to get rid of— sometimes rearing its ugly head when he was angry or flustered.

He spent his time studying, playing league of legends, and jerking off obscenely to hentai. Yes, the Japanese porn comics. It was easier to ignore how pathetic he was reading those or talking to a chat bot that thought everything he said was hot.

Criston thought best to keep under the radar, head down and attentive in his classes. One day he’d be a rich computer scientist Silicon Valley type and then he could just, like, have the girls come to him. Because he’d be rich. No longer weird, ugly, and a huge VIRGIN. He felt like it was stamped on his forehead. Or perhaps his was the Star Wars buttons on his jacket— that’s a big cue.

He tucked a dark hair behind his ear, shaking his head. Another year, but one less until he could move on in life. Cole was glad he was in college, it was scores better than the constant bullies in highschool. It was his second year now and he was ahead of schedule. He’d be in an upper level compsci class with some juniors or seniors.

Scary.

Maybe there would be some other weirdo girl like him that would take pity and they could fuck, then go to Thursday’s Dungeons and Dragons like it never occurred. He’d like that. Swift and easy. Erryk Cargyll and Elinda Massey did that. But the only girl he considered ‘friend’ was Alicent and he was pretty sure she was a lesbian. Also totally not a nerd, Ali was very cool and involved.

He sighed while ducking into a seat. Criston carefully placed his stuff down at the two person desk, focusing on getting the PC ready. The instructions on the board were simple enough.

A waft of perfume and the presence of another body startled Criston. He jumped in place, brown eyes glancing over at the girl- no- woman. She was fucking hot. Like why was she sitting next to him type of hot?

“Hi,” she extended a hand, eyes roving, “Criston!”

“H-how do you know m-my name?,” he echoed stupidly, shaking her dainty hand, eyes comically wide.

She gently let go of his hand after shaking one second too long and giggled, “It’s on your backpack.” Criston blushed bright red and nodded, “Yeah, you’re right, ha-haha?” Oh God he was going to self combust. She was so hot. Like she had these patent leather boots on, a little red plaid skirt, and some tight-ass high-necked white tank.

“What’s your name?,” he managed, grateful the stutter wasn’t making too much of an appearance. She smiled and told him, baring white teeth and cherry red lips. The teacher droned from the front, “Glad you’re acquainted now, that will be your partner for the rest of the semester.”

Cole was going to jizz himself. Not in the fun way? Maybe the fun way? He was terrified. He had to tell the boys on Thursday. The beauty next to him raised her brows and flicked one of his errant curls. She whispered, “Can’t wait, Criston!”

Oh God. Oh God! He wasn’t going to make it.

“Hnghhhh, fuck yes, I am your sempai, mmm,” Criston flopped back from his hentai and laid on the bed, “Fuck. This sucks.” His cock was still hard and nothing was cutting it recently. The twenty year old’s mind was settled on his computer science partner. Who was obscenely beautiful and sexy and smelled good and so so so smart.

Oh. He was jacking off again. Maybe this was what the missing piece was. Criston closed his eyes and began to pump his cock some more, imagining her perky tits bouncing as he fucked her over a desk. He gasped sharply, prick twitching excitedly at something tangible.

He thought about the cute way she’d laugh at his dumb jokes. Or when he’d fix something in a faulty program and she’d purr, “Oh! Smart boyyyy.” He whined through his nose, squirming in place, imagining her breathing that in his ear. Criston cried out sharply, cumming so damn hard spunk reached his collarbones.

He laid there breathless, a dopey smile across his face. She was so perfect. He laid in his post-nut bliss and pondered his partners actions. For a girl older and way cooler than him, she sure did enjoy talking to him, even had his number, and they met outside of class to work on their project.

Could there be? No, no. Totally not.

The nerd thought about the times she blushed or would bat his shoulder. Or the time they nearly kissed putting together a PC. She’d merely laughed and said, “Just have to ask me!” He had a meltdown and awkwardly laughed it off. Criston did the same when she was wearing a low-cut top and she breathed, “I wore this for you today, I know you wanna look Cole.”

He sat upright with a bolt.

“Wait what?” he shouted.

“Shut the fuck up loser!,” came the reply of his apartment roommate. Criston rolled his eyes and blinked a couple more times. He still had cum drying on his shoulders from jacking off about the girl of his pathetic dreams and she might be into him? He needed a long shower and help from Ali— stat.

She came through quite quickly after he sent the SOS message. First Ali wrinkled her nose at his room and complained, “Ugh, I’m glad I brought my candles. It smells like man in here. God.” He gave her puppy eyes until the redhead exclaimed, “What?”

“You gotta help me!,” he pled, “I uh- someone likes me back?”

It was a flurry of cinnamon scented womanly magic after his admission. Bless Alicat.

The auburn haired girl swished through Criston’s wardrobe. She raised a brow at him and asked, “Is there anything in here that doesn’t have a logo or some strange wording on it? I can’t believe you just realized she was into you, I could smack you!”

He sat on the bed, freshly showered and in his briefs. Alicent and him had known each other since childhood— this was nothing new. Ali helped him type out a witty way to ask her out tonight without being too dorky. Criston eked, “I think I have some button downs my dad gave me, but they’re probably shoved somewhere.”

“Aha! Found them, still pressed too. I think this darker tan will look good,” she said while stepping out of the closet. Honors college had nice digs. It did pay to be a nerd. Criston eyed the polo shirt, leagues away from his usual t-shirts and jackets.

Alicent narrowed her eyes. He hopped up and sighed, “Fine, fine, I’m putting it on. Just lemme get the undershirt.”

Now he was clad in a nice top, some not worn-to-death jeans, and his rarely used church loafers. He was a pretty shitty Catholic. Alicent styled his wild curls, giggling, “Look at you go, who would’ve thought, you two are going to be some lookers!”

Criston rolled his eyes and mumbled, “Yeah, hoping she doesn’t mind the big neon-lit ‘virgin’ sign over my head.”

Ali snickered, “Or the nasty cartoons you jerk it too, might wanna get rid of that evidence if you’re planning on getting that far, yeah stud?”

He blanched, stuttering up a storm as she laughed. Criston grabbed all and any evidence of his…prior predilections..and hid them under the bed. In a big lockbox. Then completely wiped his browser history and any suspicious downloads. Fire walled it or whatever.

He sighed again, getting jittery, reading a text from the cutie.

‘Hey handsome, still see you in 30 on the plaza? I’m excited for the pizza and games! 💋’

Criston immediately squawked, “Ali!”

She ‘tsked’ and looked at the text. Then looked back at him with a funny look. Alicent deadpanned, “You’re such an idiot for being smart. I wish half the girls I texted were this forward. Just tell her yes, you can’t wait, you know she’s gonna look gorgeous and throw some emoji in!”

“So you are a lesbian?”

“And you’re not telling a soul!”

They pinky promised, Ali giving him a warm hug and pat on the cheek. She teased, “Luv yaaaa Nerd, don’t forget to wrap it!” He blushed and waved her off. Criston rubbed the back of his neck, glad he had such a good friend. He quickly typed back.

‘Hi- yeah I’ll see you there. I know you’ll be gorgeous, can’t wait xx’

The date had gone great. They didn’t ID either. So beers, pizza, and dumb arcade games they played. Criston probably had her up-down look at him sketched into his mind. She was in a cutesy dress herself, cut mid-thigh and a heart shaped window in the front to show her…assets. Not to forget some Doc’s he would gladly be stomped by.

“Criston, oh my god, you look so cute, who dressed you up,” she pulled him into a tight hug, whispering, “Should I be jealous?”

He sheepishly smiled, “No, just my childhood friend, she’s kinda, we’re not, you know.”

His class partner giggled, patting his chest, “No need, I gotcha. We all need those friends. C’mon let’s go!”

He couldn’t help but goofily smile down at her as they held hands walking to the pizza joint. Sometimes Criston would get so lost in his head and self-conscious, it would seem like he was always underfoot. But tonight, with her, he felt his right size. She grabbed their interlaced hands and pecked his skin, giggling.

Christ have mercy, lord have mercy. He was so down bad.

But as he said, the night went awesome. Conversation never lulled, he taught her the secret to ski-ball, and she schooled Criston in pac-man. He got his first kiss on the walk back, paused at the stoplight, waiting to walk. She pulled back and murmured, “You’ve been the best date.”

Criston, likely all moony eyes now, gushed back, “God, same, really, you’re great you know that? I’m just a bit clueless.”

She shrugged, “That’s okay. We don’t have to know everything.”

They walked near the honor’s college. They both chirped at the same time, “You uh-“ then burst into laughter. Criston grinned and ran a hand through his inky hair. He shuffled his balance and gestured, “Do you want to come back to my room? It’s all clean and female verified.”

“Lead the way handsome.”

Criston was glad for the bit of liquid courage still in his system, kissing and hugging on his ‘friend girl’? She was so sweet and touchy, it was driving him mad. He idly wondered if she was all sweet and adorable like that in bed. Thankfully his dick was tucked away.

The brunette keyed into his room, her arms around his waist, face smushed into his back. The junior cooed, “You smell good, you’re the cutest thing I swear, can’t believe this.” Criston eyed her nervously as he stepped in, replying, “You’re a catch, I can’t believe anyone wouldn’t go for you.”

She straightened up, looking into his dark eyes as she admitted, “No, it wasn’t that I was lacking…just searched for the wrong attention I suppose. You’re actually respectful.”

Criston smiled at that, snorting, “Catholic boy values I guess.”

“Or you are a good boy like I said,” she teased, thumbing Criston’s now-flaming cheeks.

“Can I kiss you again?” he eagerly asked.

They locked lips again, her arms around his neck, Criston tilting his face so his damn nose wouldn’t get in the way. His hands were politely shaking at her waist as they made out. Her tongue softly lapped into his mouth, the man gasping and returning the favor.

She moved his shaky hands down to her ass with a snicker. Criston groaned between kisses as he groped her pert ass— fuck, this was heaven! Cole walked her backwards towards the bed, pushing her back onto the freshly made covers. She smiled up at him, lips plump, the led lights from his room casting a neat glow.

“Come on then, can you get the shoes?,” she teased while shucking off her tight black dress. Criston eagerly dropped to the ground, whimpering as his hard cock painfully brushed against the fly of his pants. He quickly undid the thick boots and neatly placed them to the side.

Coming back up, he got an eyeful of pretty fucking titties and manicured hands on his waist. She purred, “Heard you down there, all good babes?” Criston nodded with a swallow and pathetic noise. She cooed while undoing his belt and pants, reminding him of the button down.

Now Criston’s lean body was on display with her own, only underwear between the two. That was perfectly dandy for him as he clambered over her perfect form, now playfully making out on their sides. Every single time his cock would graze the random throw pillow between them he’d whimper into her wet mouth, growing flustered. The front of his briefs were getting sticky.

He tried to not to rut against it, but he had a handful of fucking tit and her soft lips and noises, and Criston was only a weak little bitch! She pulled back to laugh, “You know, I’d much prefer you fuck me making those cute noises. But that’s up to you baby.”

He blinked owlishly, hand moving up her thigh to ask. “You don’t want me to uh- touch you first?”

“Sweetheart, I’m wet enough as is and we can worry about alllll that other stuff later hm?”

Criston made a gutted noise, nodding. She was right, he’d blow all over himself if he got to feel around her pussy for a bit. He rasped, “Yeah, okay, good- lemme get the condom.” He reached over her smaller frame, digging around the side table for the damn condom, trying to put his bravest face on.

Criston made a little ‘aha’ as he snagged the packet, settling onto his haunches and ripping the packet with his teeth. Meanwhile she undid her bra and shucked down wet panties, the slickness hitting his lean thigh. “Hng-fucking shit!,” the brunette accidentally moaned.

“Yeah babes? That’s all for you, here, lemme help.”

She grabbed the tacky lubed condom, rolling it on Criston, her teeth biting into a plump lip. He shuddered through the movement, taught tummy tensing and rolling as he tried to calm down. “There we go, you’re alright, just breathe sweeatheart,” the girl cooed.

Criston nodded haphazardly, easing himself onto his elbows, staring wide-eyed into her own. He wanted to blab about being a virgin, how he was scared of fucking up, how damn pretty and sweet the brunette thought she was. The beauty pecked his lips and cooed, “I know, take it easy, s’fine Criston.”

He jerkily nodded again, lashes fluttering against the faint neon lighting. Criston grabbed his cock and began to ease it into her, gasping wetly. His computer partner took over from there, wrapping soft legs around his waist, murmuring sweet nothings.

Soon he was seated inside her tight, warm, velvet pussy. Criston buried his face between her tits, sniveling and gasping as he tried to fight off every single nerve in his body screaming to let go. He tried to speak, more of a plethora of strangled whines and whimpers escaping his raw throat.

“Shhh, don’t think so much, s’okay Cris, you’re okay,” she hummed while petting soft hands down his heaving flanks and sides. Plush lips planted a kiss on his suddenly wet cheeks. God he was a mess. A whiny, flimsy, wet mess. The way she was squeezing around him made the rational part of his brain realize she enjoyed the pitiful sex still.

“Hn-okay? I- uhohgod- okay?”

She smiled and kissed him, the heels of her feet ushering Criston on. He began to pump slowly, liking the way her soft moan made his chest puff in excitement. The brunette began to build a decent rhythm, panting and moaning between sloppy kisses. He got lost in the feeling, truly.

Soon the cutie was gasping and begging, “Don’t cum yet, j-just, Criston, touch my clit, it’s the nub at the top, yes!, right there!” He listened carefully, thumbing at her swollen nub, panting like a racehorse between suckling at budded nipples. He’d ended up at a breakneck pace, completely over any pretense he was going to make a manly noise tonight.

Criston fought off his orgasm, although it was on top on him now. He moved his lips to hers again, swirling his thumb, thrusting his slim hips into perfect goddamn pussy. He gasped, “Oh, oh, oh God, m’gonna cum baby, m’gonna cummmmm!” The boy would definitely never admit he somewhat squealed.

His cutie whined excitedly under the loud sounds of the bed creaking, lean hips clapping into her softer flesh. She begged, “Right there sweetheart, mm, good boy, good boy! Right there with you!” She clung to his shoulders and tightened down, chanting Criston’s name like a litany.

Criston Cole was pretty sure he saw God when his balls drew up and he slammed back into her welcoming pussy. Sure, there was a condom, but the sophomore’s ears still rung with the choir of angels and he probably sounded like a slip of a thing getting her cunt pounded but it was worth it. So very worth it.

He kept playing with her clit until she milked him, again, crying out happily, throwing her pretty hair back and groaning throatily. “Ohhhhh, f-fuck, oh my god, mmm!,” he eloquently replied to her, feeling another little peak pass through his overstimulated system. He collapsed against her soft frame, panting softly, whimpering every other breath.

Oh god he was crying, this was not the time to be— oh she kissed it away.

“That’s alright baby, you did great, Mhm,” she hummed and nuzzled against his face.

Huh. Maybe he was in love now. Fuck hentai.

[thepagansun]

do you have any headcanons for Donald and Pete’s friendship?

Ooooh. Nice question. I do.

- I think that their friendship feels like big brother (Pete) and little brother (Donald) especially in their more recent cartoons because Donald was originally depicted as the youngest of his friends while Pete is technically Disney's oldest recurring character

- Pete almost adopted Donald ("Officer Duck")

- They share many common interests: love of boats, love of cars (in particular RVs), love of fishing, love of music, and they both enjoy working with their hands, they both love wrestling, they both have heritage besides American.

- Based on "Mickey's Service Station"(1935) and "Timber" (1941), Pete seems to have French Canadian heritage because he has a French accent. So I like to think that Pete's father was French Canadian and his mother was American. And Donald is half Scottish thanks to his mother, Hortense McDuck.

- Based on the above headcanon, while Donald is famous for his pancakes among his family in the European comics, he gets his maple syrup from Pete who gets it from Quebec. In order to get it, he always has to do Pete some favor.

- WWII left its mark on both of them and they always spend two days of the year together. Can you guess which ones? (Hint: Think military)

- Pete refuses to acknowledge that ducks technically have two birthdays (the day the egg was laid and the day they hatched) and only recognizes June 9 as Donald's birthday. But...he sometimes goes on March 13 for free cake and ice cream. He won't bring a gift on March 13, but in exchange, he'll tell Donald a story (since Pete notices that Scrooge gets away with not bringing gifts by telling stories)

- Except for Daisy and HDL, Pete doesn't like Donald's family. He doesn't like how Donald will bend over backwards for them and how Donald's family doesn't appreciate Donald. In one comic, Pete got the Beagle Boys to drug Donald (who he called "our dear little Donald") and HDL while they tried to steal Scrooge's Money.

- Pete and Donald will sometimes sleep near each other (this was seen in a few cartoons)

- Pete taught Donald French because he couldn't quite understand him in English originally and because of this when Walt Disney (who was their boss) asked Pete who he should send as an ambassador to Latin América, Pete suggested Donald (who was a bit depressed since it was still during WWII). Walt Disney at first didn't want to since he thought they wouldn't be able to understand him but Pete said that he already taught him French and Spanish and Portuguese wouldn't be too hard to learn after that. So Donald went...and met José Carioca and Panchito Pistoles.

- Pete helped Donald through the worst parts of WWII and so whenever Donald feels emotionally damaged, he'll go to Pete who will cheers him up by doing something they both love

- Donald seems to be the only Mickey Mouse friend who knows Peg isn't PJ's (who he calls Junior) biological mother and is the only one who met him as a little kid/brat ("Bellboy Donald")

- Pete knows that Donald's desperate desire to fly during WWII was his desire to find his sister, Della before Donald decided to offically adopt Huey, Dewey and Louie on his tax return

- Whenever Donald fights with Scrooge and needs a job, he can always go to Pete who will give him one

- Pete has a bunch of nicknames for Donald, the most common being "Quackers" and "Ducky" (when he's particular affectionate)

- They still fight each other sometimes. Pete is stronger under normal circumstances, but when Donald gets truly mad...he surpasses anything Pete can do. Pete fought Donald twice ("Canvas Back Duck" and "Tapped Out") and lost both times. But they both have a grudging respect for each other.

- There's a stamp that shows them giving blood together (The Gambia D1)

- Pete doesn't believe that Donald has bad luck and instead thinks that most of Donald's issues are caused by his own recklessness. This is partly because in Goof Troop, Pete says that Goofy has bad luck when he never said anything like that about Donald

- In some other media, they're depicted as being quite close. And Pete is the only one of the Mickey crew that's involved in almost all of Donald's media. For example, he's the only that shows up in the Carl Barks comics. He had cameos in 1987 Ducktales and in Legends of the Three Caballeros. And you can tell Donald had an influence on Pete's character in Goof Troop.

I might think of more but these are the main headcanons. 😁

[bolters-and-rivets]

OK, so, something I've been doing recently is working out what legal charges the antagonists of TTTE would face if we suspend our disbelief and imagine locomotives having to stand trial in a court of law.

Diesel (various episodes and specials throughout the show's run)

3 counts of destruction of property: damaging disused trucks. Pushing trucks into the harbour resulting in the loss of a consignment of china clay. Wasting an entire flat truck’s worth of paint.

3 counts of defamation: Spreading negative rumours about Gordon, James, and Henry.

1 count of frameup: Pinning the blame of the rumours on Duck.

1 count of attempted murder: Trying to get Fergus scrapped.

3 counts of assault: Bumping Thomas under a stone hopper. Bumping paint cans onto Thomas. Bumping Toby into a coal hopper.

Sailor John (Legend of the Lost Treasure)

4 counts of assault: stamping his foot on Skiff, elbowing Skiff to silence him, stamping on skiff AGAIN, battering thomas with an oar

4 counts of trespassing: riding Skiff on the construction site of the new branchline (3 counts). Entering the station out of regular hours

1 count of coercion: manipulating Thomas into his scheme to steal the treasure.

4 counts of theft: stealing the map, the stealing the treasure, stealing explosives, stealing a warship.

2 counts of intimidation: accusing thomas of taking the treasure for himself, threatening skiff with physical harm for “mutiny”.

1 count of unlawful possession of explosives.

1 count of breaking & entering: breaking into Sir Topham Hatt’s office.

1 count of destruction of property: using DYNAMITE to break into Sir Topham Hat’s safe.

1 count of vehicle hijacking: running amok with the ship on a flat wagon (lets ignore the physical improbability of this for the moment).

1 count of public endangerment: same reason as vehicle hijacking.

2 counts of attempted murder: trying to dynamite Thomas, leaving Thomas to drown.

And possibly also 1 count of prison break: he's seen in a later special (Big World: Big Adventures) in a cafe in brazil. Assuming this isn't just the studio reusing him as an asset as a background character this implies he escaped from prison and fled to brazil.

Diesel Ten (Thomas And The Magic Railroad & Day Of The Diesels)

7 counts of attempted murder: Lady twice, James, Junior, Mr Conductor, and Thomas (TATMR), Thomas (DOTD).

3 counts of property damage: Carving his likeness on the rock which would be the property of the landowner, tearing down the scaffolding of the sheds, bringing down the diesel shelter (TATMR). 

3 counts of Intimidation: The sheds, Mr Conductor on the Viaduct, and carrying Junior on his roof (TATMR).

1 count of conspiracy to commit genocide (wanting ALL steam locomotives scrapped): "I'm going to destroy her and dominate you, then you'll be nothing but hunks of useless scrap" (TATMR).

1 count of reckless driving: driving at excessive speed with Junior on his roof (TATMR).

1 count of unlawful imprisonment: Trapping Thomas in the shed (DOTD).

1 count of arson: setting fire to the shed (DOTD).

1 count of coercion: manipulating Percy into unwillingly assisting him in goals (DOTD).

1 count of trespassing: entering the dieselworks without the knowledge or permission of Victor (DOTD).

1 count of conspiracy to commit grand larceny: attempting to take control of the dieselworks (DOTD).

1 count of theft: stealing a christmas tree.

Verdict: Diesel is toxic, Sailor John is a pirate, and Diesel Ten is standing trial in the Hague for crimes against trainkind and small children

[robthegoodfellow]

Only One Bed 5/?

previous / or read on AO3

Eddie had never particularly paid attention to his hands, aside from when they were doing one of the following Very Important Things: learning a new song on the guitar, rolling a joint, or jerking off. And even then, it wasn’t so much what his hands were doing as what they were producing—the right sound, the right tuck, the right sensation. But the moment Chrissy Cunningham took his hand—her palm, her fingers so soft, so much smaller than his—he finally knew the true nature of said hand: sweaty. Fucking clammy.

It was literally all he could focus on all the way up the stairs—that, and the frantic rush to recollect what exactly she would see upon entering his apartment that might send her running. Billy was actually a bit of a neatnik, to the point where Eddie had felt compelled to check he wasn’t constantly tidying because he thought Eddie expected him to—like it wasn’t in the fine print of their non-existent lease agreement or anything. And Billy had clarified that no, keeping his space clean had just been drilled into him, which was when Eddie dropped it, having learned to avoid probing too much into things bearing the stamp of Neil Hargrove. 

In any event, Billy had eased off somewhat on the housemaid routine, just enough that Eddie’s slovenly ways had begun to tip the scales of the combined kitchen-living room back toward chaos. And everything about Chrissy seemed to imply her home environment had waltzed off the pages of Good Housekeeping, so—

“How weird would it be if I left you on the welcome mat for a couple minutes while I duck inside and shove all the clutter in the closet?” he asked, when they were at the door.

Chrissy giggled, nervous and high. “Not any weirder than me demanding to be invited up like some—some harlot.”

Eddie snorted at the term—a takeaway from reading The Crucible junior year, no doubt—and then was blessed with the kind of dawning realization that split your perspective like light through a prism: they had both just spent the awkwardly silent, sweaty-palmed trek mutually consumed by fears of harsh judgment. He stopped on the landing, turned, and cupped her hand in both of his like a gentleman gone a’courting, clamminess be damned.

“First,” he stated. “There’s nothing wrong with being a harlot.” Chrissy blinked, a bit thrown. “Second: I do not think you’re a harlot.”

Chrissy stared at their sandwiched hands, then swung her free palm to rest atop them, and peered up at him hesitantly. “There’s nothing wrong with being—uh, messy? And I will not think you’re—”

Eddie cut her off with a bark of a laugh. “Appreciate what you’re going for, but don’t make promises you can’t keep. You’re a woman of your word, remember?”

She huffed an impatient breath. “Fine. I won’t think badly of you for being messy. Okay?”

“Okay.” Taking a deep breath, Eddie freed their hands, unlocked the door, and let it swing open. Grandly gestured her forward. “Enter at your own peril.”

Chrissy stepped through, and then halted just past the threshold. Eddie was halfway through a full-body wince when she declared, sounding a bit outraged, “This is what you call messy?”

And indeed, when Eddie peered around the doorjamb, he beheld an apartment nowhere near the disaster zone he feared. Then he remembered: this morning, Billy shirtless at the sink, doing the dishes that had been piling up for days, and when Eddie had draped himself over those golden shoulders, Billy had pushed back on him with his ass, but not like he was trying to start something—like he was nudging him away. And then, voice fond but gruff from sleep, he’d ordered Eddie to throw the dirty laundry scattered all over the place into the hamper: the clothes abandoned at the foot of the couch from when they’d fooled around while cartoons played in the background; the dirty socks balled up by the mountain of shoes near the front door; the throw blanket that they’d tossed in the corner like a week ago because it had a massive spooge stain on it.

“It’s usually worse than this,” Eddie insisted, as Chrissy grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the couch. “If it wasn’t for Billy—” Gentle pressure guided him to sit, and Eddie had another one of those trippy double-vision moments, only this time it wasn’t a glimpse of Chrissy’s mindset compared to his, but his past selves compared now. Billy straddling Eddie on this couch, hands warming Billy’s back under his tank, Billy’s lips tracing an electric trail up Eddie’s throat. Eddie lounging on this couch, brainless and boneless after they’d jacked each other off, watching Billy pace around in his briefs in search of a missing cassette…

And on and on—this couch had seen some shit—and as he sat there, staring up at Chrissy Cunningham, who stood before him poised as though about to climb into his lap, he abruptly knew he needed to press pause to—to resolve the funhouse mirror situation refracting to infinity in his head. But before he could babble something like uh, can we—slow down—? Chrissy took a smart step back and clasped both hands firmly on the strap of her purse.

“Sorry.” Her eyes trailed from Eddie’s face to his feet, back to his face, and what the fuck—this was Chrissy Cunningham looking at him like he was an oasis in the desert and she’d been wandering the baking sand for days. “Sorry. I know we should—talk.”

Good. Talking sounded good. He gestured at the couch. “Pull up a cushion?”

She nodded, segued to shaking her head, then ducked her chin with bashful wince. “Let me just—I need to say something first. Because we should be on the same page before we… uhm.” She went red, and Eddie dug his fingers in where he was gripping his thighs, the uhm a Russian nesting doll unpacking itself: before we sit, before we touch, before we kiss, before we—

“Okay,” he managed.

“Okay,” she began. “So—I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, lately, about—about what I want. And how I’ve never actually…” She trailed off, biting her lip, and seemed to cast around for the right phrasing until, frustrated, she blurted, “I’m not good at saying what I want. Like I had to—commit to San Diego before even telling my parents because I knew it was what I wanted but I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to say it and then next thing I knew I’d be at Purdue.”

“Nice rhyme,” Eddie said, and Chrissy quirked a fond smile, rolling her eyes. “Sorry. Saying what you want. Gotcha.”

She nodded. “And I promised myself that once I was out there, I’d—start doing that. But then…” She shrugged, and as her shoulders settled, she straightened, stretching briefly up onto her toes. From his position on the couch, she seemed to loom over him—something majestic magnifying her slight frame. “But then we started talking. And I realized… even just talking to you—I wanted that more than anything I’ve ever wanted with Jason. So… why wait until California to start?”

“To start…?” Eddie repeated, a bit strangled—pretty sure he’d caught her meaning but needing confirmation. “To start saying what you want?”

“I told Jason I don’t want to be his girlfriend anymore,” she said, voice hushed, a bit marveling, and his face must have done something dramatic at that, because she rushed to clarify, hands held out as though to keep his hopes in check: “But it’s July eighth. And I leave August thirty-first. So—I don’t really want to be your girlfriend either, but I do want…” She flushed, losing steam, then pursed her lips, stepped forward so she stood between Eddie’s feet planted on the floor, and visibly summoned the will to say it, though not enough to meet his gaze as she did: “I want you.”

Eddie thought he must be approaching cardiac arrest, the way his ticker had raced and plummeted as he hung on her disjointed, earnest speech. A part of him was hysterically wondering whether he’d broken with reality entirely, because in what universe would he, Eddie Munson, find himself presented with starting what sounded like a no-strings-attached fling with Chrissy fucking Cunningham while already engaged in such an arrangement with—with Billy?

Billy. His friend. His… best friend? Who, now that Eddie faced the prospect of hooking up with someone else, suddenly seemed inextricably tied to him with many many strings.

Unbidden, another moment from that morning rose up in his mind: Billy on his way out the door, swim bag slung over his shoulder, detouring to Eddie at the table by the window, tugging on Eddie’s hair until he dropped his head back. Upside-down Billy had studied his face, then dropped a kiss on Eddie’s forehead and covered it with his palm. Just for a second. Like a blessing. Then he left.

Eddie lifted a hand to his brow, swamped by the memory, and fervently wished he and Billy had hammered out the bylaws of the whole friends with benefits thing. In case of A, then B…

In case of strings, then… what?

He looked up at Chrissy—and was struck anew. She was a wonder, wasn’t she? What guts—what an absolute badass—to march in here and… lay it out like that. Make her pitch.

He’d been crushing on her for—months? Been a smitten kitten for weeks, entranced by her ready laugh, the mischievous glint in her eyes, her perfectly imperfect smile, the playful warmth that permeated their interactions. And now, this steeliness that had him frankly riveted.  

But… but there were so many buts.

We should be on the same page. Okay. Well, fair was fair. There was at least one thing he should put out there, even as a weight settled in his gut at the thought. He’d never actually said it out loud—only talked around it, with Sam and, later on, with Billy.

Tripping his fingers up and down the outer seams of his jeans, he cleared his throat. “I want you, too,” he said—that was easy enough to begin with, at least. Saw this relieved smile slant her mouth—then, in case the smile disappeared, told the rest to her knees.

Even her damn knees were cute—how was that possible? Focus, Munson.

“In the interest of full disclosure, uh…”

Stupidly, he—he wished Billy were there. Billy was so good at explaining things in ways other people could understand. But Billy was who knows where—said he had plans, don’t wait up, so instead, Eddie just babbled and banked on Chrissy’s knack for deciphering his brain vomit.

“I’m—uh, I’m bi. I dunno if you know what that means, and apparently a lot of people don’t even think it’s real, but Sam says it is and B-wuhh—other people say so, too, so—yeah, it… it means I like girls but also like… guys? Like in a… sexy way?”

He risked a peek up and then curled in on himself, derailed a bit, tried to get back on track. She’d looked kinda puzzled but not, like, repulsed, which was… good? He switched to addressing his own knees, one of them, knobby and pale, poking out of a ragged hole.

“I like guys—um, sometimes. And there’s one guy I’m currently… I mean, I care about him a lot but we’re not together even though we—but the point, the point is I mostly like girls. Like you. I like you a lot. An embarrassing amount. And I’m sorry if I should have… brought it up sooner? The whole partially gay thing. Uhm—”

He choked on his spit for a second there, feeling like an imbecile, because somehow it had only occurred to him at this very moment that yeah, Chrissy was sweet—the sweetest—but she was also, like… very Christian. Like in-church-every-Sunday Christian, and Eddie knew the kind of shit said in church about queers. He coughed, tried to keep his voice steady.

“I swear—never thought you would actually…” He wheezed a helpless laugh, weakly windmilled his hands to encompass everything inconceivable about this evening. “But yeah, since that might be a dealbreaker—I, uh… I guess I just wanted you to… know? And I’m sorry if that’s—not okay?”

He still hadn’t looked up, and as he trailed off on a miserable mumble, anxiety thudding in his ears, he pictured her walking right out the door, leaving a hole in his heart about as ragged as the one in the knee of his jeans.

And then imagined the same thing happening over and over and over with every potential girlfriend and maybe even every boyfriend—besides Billy, but Billy wasn’t his—because hadn’t Sam warned him that people who swung both ways got an unfair rap for being deceitful-disloyal-unstable-insatiable?

Was that why he so badly wanted them both?

Was that why neither of them wanted him for keeps?

He only realized he was breathing sorta fast when a gentle weight settled across the back of his neck and he was puffing air into a collarbone.

A soft shh cut through the pounding in his head, then: “Eddie, it’s okay.” Chrissy was—kneeling between his legs, her arms around his hunched shoulders. “It’s okay.”

“It—it is?” he asked, disoriented from his doom spiral.

“Yes,” she said. “Eddie—hug me back?”

He had scooped her in tight, flush with the couch, before his brain had fully rebooted—huffed a disbelieving, delirious laugh—and when her arms only tightened around him, hauled her up and flopped them sideways, sprawled in a tangle of limbs, Chrissy gusting quiet giggles against his chest.

God, she smelled good. Like flowers. Like those shops with million-dollar lotions. So different from Billy’s entrancing muskiness, but not in a way that clashed in his psyche. In a way that made him want to squish them together and bury his face in them both.

They ended up curled on their sides, noses inches apart, sharing one of the scratchy, worn-out decorative pillows. She’d plunked her purse on the floor, and they’d kicked off their sneakers, even though the couch was long past worth preserving.

For a while, they just lay there, Chrissy so deep in thought that Eddie could practically see the gears turning. He spent the time memorizing the lovely lines of her—the way her chunky bangs framed those luminous eyes, the pert swoop of her nose, the Cupid’s bow of her lips, the gloss mostly worn off. This close, his could detect a—cakey quality in the makeup on her cheekbone, like it had been applied more heavily. Her lips twitched, and she cleared her throat, which he took to mean she was done thinking.

“Still okay?” he checked, and in answer, she took his hand and placed it lightly on the dip of her waist—shivered when he compulsively ran his thumb along the curve of a rib. The words were out before he knew it, his subconscious still processing the shock: “You don’t think I’m a freak.”

Chrissy wedged her balled fists under her chin, a speculative slant in her gaze. “It’s more that—I like it? Because I’m a freak, too.”

Eddie scoffed. “You are not.”

She stilled, and when her eyes cut to his, they were hard as diamonds. “I am,” she said, quiet and flat. “I feel like a freak every day.” Reached out, she snagged the chain of his necklace to toy with the guitar pick on the end. Her pink nail polish was starting to chip. “But I don’t mind it so much when I’m with you.”

Deciding it wasn’t the time to pry further, Eddie merely nodded, nudged her thigh with his knee. “So how do you see this… going?”

She blushed, flicking the pick between her fingers. “Mostly I just want to—be around you. Without Princess being involved.”

“Cut out the middle dog,” Eddie suggested, and she snorted.

“Yeah.” She tugged lightly on the chain, bringing him incrementally closer, and his heartrate rocketed. “And I want to… have fun, for once? Try new things.” She gave a self-deprecating huff, and with the air of quoting someone, added, “Do what feels good.”

God, the universe had to be fucking with him, because Billy had said something so similar back when they first started messing around. This doesn’t have to be anything serious. But if it feels good, why not?

“So—casual?” Eddie asked, trying to rally his thoughts as he felt another tug on the necklace and his entire being zeroed in on her lips.

“That guy won’t mind?” There was a thread of irony in her voice, but Eddie was too fixated on the way her mouth moved to give it much attention.

Eddie shook his head, and Chrissy pulled once more on the chain in her fist. Their noses touched.

“Then I want you to kiss me,” she breathed.

Heart rabbiting out of its cage, he did.

 ~~~

Making out was weird—just objectively. Subjectively, it was awesome—sent zinging heat through his nerves, set a simmer going in his gut, turned his hands into questing critters in search of warm, dark places.

But objectively, he’d always thought it was weird. What would observing aliens make of such behavior? Were there any other animals on earth that just—licked each other’s mouths this way? Rubbed and sucked on each other’s lips?

If not, then they were really missing out, because swapping spit was probably his favorite Clothes On activity.

Kissing Chrissy was different from kissing Billy, and not just because Billy was a biter. It was maybe a strange thing to be cataloguing in the back of his mind, but the contrast was stark. With Billy, it was sometimes a bit of a battle—like he was a Viking plundering your essence via the mouth—and sometimes like he was a leech, latched on and pulling, sucking on lips and tongue, barely pausing for breath. All-consuming.

With Chrissy, it was—light. This airy-fairy brushing of skin and spit that was downright spine-tingling. Occasional pressure of teeth on his lip, the swipe of her tongue, but always glancing, darting away, leaving him wanting more—and then giving it to him.

They’d shifted so that their legs were entwined, her arms curled between them, his wrapped around her waist until one hand had snuck under the hem of her shirt to press at the small of her back, and the other had smoothed down her side, insinuated itself under the leg of her shorts to grip her upper thigh and hoist her leg over his hip.

When he finally drew back, not a blessed clue how long they’d been at it, they were panting, lips puffy and slick. Her eyes were glassy, and she blinked, slow and dopey, while her studied her.

“Hi, pretty lady,” he whispered.

“Good evening,” she murmured after a pause, mouth quirking.

“Is there, ah—some curfew we should be worried about?” he asked, eying the dark night beyond the kitchen window.

She thunked her forehead into his chest and sighed. “I don’t wanna.”

He chuckled, running a hand up her back, and before he could filter himself, it was out. “You’re welcome to stay. Not in a creepy way,” he added, awkward. “Just in a—always welcome kinda way.” When she looked up, bit her lip, seeming torn, he went on. “And the offer to walk you home—still stands.”

Reluctantly, she climbed off the couch, straightened her clothes, smoothed her mussed hair. She eyed the couch, then the phone on the wall by the door. “We could—just sleep?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Eddie said. “I even got a spare toothbrush for ya.”

She sucked her lips between her teeth, lost in thought, then went to the phone. Dialed. Waited. Assumed a chipper tone as she left a voicemail informing her parents she’d be sleeping at Heather’s house.

Then she came back to the couch, where Eddie was sprawled, watching her, a bit flabbergasted. Chrissy fidgeted, biting down on a nervous smile.

“You… mentioned a toothbrush?”

[penname-unknown]

The Fall Of Monroe Manor

A "The Fall Of The House Of Usher" (Mike Flanagan show [mostly] & Original Edgar Allan Poe story) inspired tale that I was not able to submit into a contest :) Enjoy! (4,011 wrds. below)

The Monroe Estate was bigger than she remembered. She could see that before they even overcame the hill. She ducks her head out the open window of an elegant taxi to try conceptualizing the upcoming view. 

It was a gothic manor with a morbid sense of color made mostly of gray brick, stones of varying sizes, and asphalt shingles, though the vines of green and overgrown earth clung to the building had color to show. The structure stretched over the incredulous land with room to give, towers and looming roofs toppling over each other as though in competition with one another. Looking so simultaneously monstrous and frail.

As the driver approaches, it seems all that harder to get dimensions in place, so she stops trying. Instead, she pokes her head back inside and breathes. The driver looks at her expectantly while she inhales, eyes closed, then exhales, slowly bringing her eyes open; They are unbothered by his stare. “Thank you.” She nods politely before collecting her large, white quilted bag and stepping outside. “Do call another taxi to this address, twenty-three o’clock, please.” She requests with a tap against the hood of a dark new-model car that was certainly called for her from a private, Monroe-owned, company. 

He sighs. “Yes, ma’am.” He satisfies with a tip of his hat before driving down the other side of the hill. 

And so, she returns to the entrance, and then, before her hesitance can take hold, she thuds the round silver knocker against the wood. 

It’s a moment before she gets a response, which was as confusing as it was irritating, for a house supposedly full of staff. Her hand raises to knock again when someone finally responds to her call; a lanky and anxious pale young man in a too-big brown suit. “He-Hello?” He answers nervously. 

She cocks a brow and puts a small creak in her neck. “I’m…Dr. Moore.” She awkwardly introduces herself. When the fellow shows no more hint of recognition, she holds up an envelope graciously stamped with a red Monroe crescent seal. “Ms. Monroe beckoned me.” She clarifies. 

“Uh…” He stammers, tugging on the white collar that was nowhere close to suffocating. “I-I’ll fetch Mr. Monroe, just a moment.” He says whilst slowly shutting the door before him, leaving her to wait once more. 

She grows rather uneasy in the absence, deciding to take in what should’ve been a beautiful country sight to calm her nerves. But instead, it was merely dead, tall weeds; She frowns. 

Eventually, a shorter, grayer man whom she recognizes opens the space once again. “Ah,” He breathes as she turns back to face him. “Lenore.” He notes in a neutral tone that hinders on distaste. 

She returns a smile, despite it. “Rodger, it’s nice to see you again. It’s been ages now, hasn’t it?”

He nods, not melting to his familiarity at all. “Yes.” He simply agrees before clearing his throat. “Please, come in.” He opens the door and stretches an arm out into the rather barren foyer.

The following conversation was of forced small talk between two people not entirely fond of each other but not afforded to hate one another. She compliments the decor, Rodger nods. He talks about the thriving company–no longer his but his sisters–and she bites her tongue. 

Finally, she is led down the maze of halls to a room she could trace back to in her sleep, no matter how many years had passed. On the flawless rose bed, hidden behind the pink silk canopy, lay a woman whom Lenore was startled to barely recognize. 

She hesitates, curious if Rodger had led her to the wrong room until the woman pops up from her rest and smiles that incurable smile Lenore had ever so missed. “Lenore.” She says, weakly. 

She looked awful. Lenore understood they weren’t what you consider “young” but Beverly Monroe was an entire year her junior and yet here she lay, gray, thinning, and ever so frail while she stood, as strong as ever. “Rodger, please.” Beverly swipes her grossly thin hand, startling Lenore, who had forgotten he was there. He returns a look, then forwards it to Lenore, before truly scampering off, in a jog, no less. 

Lenore doesn’t take a step closer, afraid a gust of unruly air was enough to send this woman before her into a cloud of dust. Beverly, however, pats a hand on her light sheets. “I don’t bite.” She reassures. “It’s really so good to see you. I didn’t think you’d come.” 

“You-” she sputters, “You told me you were sick but I-” 

“All in good time.” She shushes. “Please sit.” 

It is a while before her health rises into conversation. They instead speak about their careers, get acquainted with cups of tea, and the other mundane features of their lives until Lenore tires of the hidden displeased face she’d always hated from Beverly. “When did it start?” She sips from the white, gold-rimmed cup. “The sickness, I mean.”

She grimaces and looks down into the murky water like she always did when Lenore poked through her facade. “Some time ago, it’s ever such a long story.” She looks up, “I missed you.” 

Lenore sighs, “I thought you called me as a doctor.” 

“Can I not beckon you as both my doctor and my friend?” 

She scoffs, “not like this.” She replies. 

Beverly drags her teeth against her bottom, frowning lip. “I wanted to write to you, a-a few years back.” Her finger lines around her emptied glass. 

Lenore softens, “Why didn’t you?”

She chuckles a gasp of air, “Well it’s sort of hard to explain…Impossible, really.” She shakes her head, fingers pressed to her mind as though it hurt to think about. Then she blinks and sets her cup atop the corner of her bedside table. She reaches out her hand, flipping it up to her palm in a call for Lenore’s. When Lenore doesn’t give, a whisper of her excuse visible in her opening mouth, she grabs at it and places two of her fingers against her opposing wrist where Lenore feels…Nothing. Horrifically, she finds a still set of veins. 

She pulls back her hand as rapidly as she would, had she touched open flame. “What…What the hell?” She yelps. 

“You see what I mean?” She settles herself back, rolling down her crimson sweater sleeve with a small grin. 

Her eyes jump between every inch of Beverly, terrified horror grasping at any conclusions. But there isn’t one, there couldn’t be one. A heart could not stay still for as long as she remained on the vein, waiting for the beat of a delayed organ. It wasn’t possible…But nor was the dead woman before her–the dead, sitting, smiling woman before her. 

She shakes her head. This was most certainly a medical phenomenon she merely did not have the knowledge for as a general physician. Her lips stammer but finally, they open in a gap meant to fill the quiet with words Beverly immediately takes away by an overly simple statement of: “I’m dead.” 

She shrugs, “I’m dead!” She echoes. “No ifs, ands, or buts about it.” Her head rolls back against the towering bed frame, moving her gaze out the window. “I fell off the balcony–Or rather was pushed. It’s just dreadful to go on that thing now, a great shame, as I loved it so much.” She sighs, depressively, before returning her eyes to Lenore, who flinches at the attention. “You’ve seen the drop, Lenny. It’s about twenty feet! I couldn’t have survived that.” 

“No,” her head continues to wag, “No, that’s impossible! You–You’re wrong.” She proclaims, finding this all to be a waste of time and money just for Beverly to curate some odd, compelling lie to keep her still. “This isn’t right.” She jolts up into a tense stance that weighs on her knees. 

She pats her hand against the bed once again. “Shsh, darling, calm down.” And she does, momentarily, in a debate of what reasoning she would rather; This was some sick lie made by a desperate lovesick woman who discovered an under-researched medical condition falsifying her living status or she is telling the truth she believes and she did indeed fall off her large-standing balcony, by some miracle survived in one piece, now believing she’s invincible and proving herself to the woman who called her weak. Neither seems preferable. “I’ll explain everything. I just need you to sit down.” Beverly urges, speaking as sweetly as ever. 

Lenore takes a deep breath in and exhales as she slumps back into her seat by the end of the bed. 

She smiles, “There you are.” 

She starts with a confession that after their falling out; she got into the hobby of bar-hopping. “You know how I like playing coy.” She explains with a smile that would have otherwise ignited one in Lenore as well. One night, she approached a little place by the name of “For Annie”. It was quaint and homey, with a fireplace and interior made from logs. She’d always enjoyed those establishments with cozy themes, she adds. It was there, she met a man. A handsome type who knew it and wore it as proudly as his dark blue pin-striped suit. He bought her a drink, a beer, she specifies, of her favorite brand. In good manners, she entertains his conversation, the contents of which she doesn’t especially remember, though surely it must’ve been entertaining as the time flew before her. 

“Sounds like a tough break.” He replies to her slightly drunken whine over her broken heart. “They don’t get it.” The man sighs before taking a sip of his whiskey glass. With a smack to his lips, he continues, “Those women, the strong but utterly poor independent types, they just don’t understand the work we do to keep up family appearances, do they?” 

Beverly raises her head from its slumped position over the bar. “Wh-what?” She swallows, “What did you say?” She chuckles, nervously. 

He raises his brow. “You are Beverly Monroe, right?” He gleams a smile that suddenly didn’t seem so charming. “In love with a common but ambitious town girl by the name of Lenore Moore–Funny name–who recently ended your scandalous affair on the grounds of you being too stuck-up to comment on the poison your family is brewing in those god-awful chalk pills.” He looks up from his glass. “Right?” He repeats. 

Her eye twitches, a tick she learned from her mother when you hide too much beneath your soul. “I don’t–” her head shakes, “I-” She stumbles before finally submitting to her honest ask. “How do you know that?” Spitting it out in a whisper behind her teeth. 

“I know everything about you.” He all but hums. “And Ms. Moore, she’s going to be a doctor one day, you know? A good one too.” He finishes his glass. “Ah!” He exhales, “But she won’t make anything of it, not in her timeline anyway.” He concludes with a lean against his knuckle. 

She rakes her fingers through her thin, blonde hair, falling just before her shoulders. “Look, I honestly don’t have a clue who you are–or rather, who you think you are, but if you—” 

Then he laughs, heartedly laughs, needing minutes to calm himself down enough to speak again. He wipes his eyes. “Calm yourself. I’m for you, not against.” He affirms. “She called you a coward as she left.” He reminds her as he swirls the empty glass around. “And oh,” He gives out a large exhalation. “How that fired you up, you threw a vase at her! A three-hundred dollar, ugly, purple vase.” He playfully drops his smile, “Not your finest moment, doll.” 

She groans into her hands as she recollects the memory. “I know.” She admits. “I know.” 

“You were only mad because she was right. That angers you more than anything; being wrong.” He smiles his widest. “But what if she didn’t have to be? What if you could be stronger than her–Than everyone in that terrorizing family of yours? What about that?” 

Beverly scrunches her freckled nose and scoffs, “Yeah, that’d be something.” She grins sarcastically, hands climbing back to her drink. 

“I’m not joking, sweetheart.” He asserts, suddenly grave, before jolting back into a charismatic expression that now makes Beverly’s hands clench against the red barstool cushioning. “It’s kind of what I do! Deals, trades…” He says, his hands flopping with each option. “You will thrive so as long your empire may live.” 

She tuts in disappointment over making herself so interested in a snake oil salesman. “Yeah, whatever that means.” She stands, taking her puffed jacket from the seat behind her over her arm. 

He put out his hand anyhow, “C’mon, what’s the worst that can happen? You either shake a handsome man’s hand and leave with no other sense of change or you become indestructible.” He over pronounces every syllable in the word, admittedly, drawing her back in. “Sounds like pretty good odds to me.” He sells. 

She rolls her eyes though she believes it true, What’s the worst that can happen? Then she takes his hand, gives it a stout shake, and wipes her own against her blouse.

“Long live Monroe Manor.” He raises his glass, somehow full again with a sliver of caramel liquid despite no bartender being in sight. 

“Sure,” she replies with a crease in her brow before stepping out and ending the night. 

“I thought he was mental, y’know?” Beverly laughs, though Lenore stays still, looking at her with furrowed brows and a slightly agape frown. “Had forgotten all about it really until well…” Her head draws back to the balcony. “Until then.” 

Slowly, Lenore nods. “Yeah…Yeah…” She parrots, distantly. “Yeah, Bev, I’m a GP, I don’t…” She laughs, ridiculously, nervously. “You need a psychiatrist and a cardiologist. I can’t…This isn’t in my realm of possibility. I’m sorry.” Lenore shifts in her seat before attempting to stand, but Beverly’s hands have already jumped on hers. 

“You are exactly who I need.” She assures, leaning her face in close as Lenore freezes. “He’s poisoning me.” She whispers, eyes glancing between her and the door. 

Lenore pulls back, “Wha-what?” 

“The walls.” She rolls her shoulders back, each bone manually moving her paper-thin skin. “They’re damp with mold.” She waves a hand back at them, Lenore whipping her curled bun against the veracity of her turn. She hadn’t looked at the walls but now having them in her focus, the patterned lines of white lace and pink buds, she notices slight bumps of wet. It makes her nauseous. “I finally understand what that man meant, Long live Monroe Manor.” She quotes with a grin Lenore doesn’t at all entertain. Instead, she runs to the glass doors before her balcony and opens them, needing to feel and breathe the fresh autumn air. 

“So…What?” She sighs, standing with her hand pressed against the door’s white frame. “You think someone–Some suited man–is actively cultivating a fatal mold in your mansion?” 

Beverly shakes her head, though of course, Lenore doesn’t see that; Too busy clearing her mind through the bundle of wrinkled trees that seemed to darken the day before the sun. “Not the man from the bar, love. Rodger.” She corrects, matter-of-factly. 

“Roger?” she questions, bringing her head back, only partially. Rodger was exactly the type of man you expect from an old-money family built at the expense of lives, but a fearful man in the end, a man who despised the idea of doing hard labor of any kind–murder included. “Do you hear yourself right now? You sound just as paranoid as he does!” Or at least, as he used to, she refrained from adding. 

She snickers, “I know, I know I do, but I saw him, Lenny, I saw him when I fell.” She insists. “‘Suppose he didn’t believe that man any more than I did. Of course, I told him about the crazy drunk I met on that night out, wasted myself.” She explains in an uncomfortable giddy. 

“He’d be killing himself too!” Lenore points out, still planning to call a psychiatrist friend when she arrived back to her hotel room. 

Beverly acknowledges such argument with a shrug, as though it had already occurred to her. “He must think it’ll kill me before him. Was never much of a ‘big picture’ person, my brother.” She looks down at herself, thinned and white like a ghost in a horror picture, then sighs. “He’s right, though, isn’t he? I look awful. I know you saw it too.” She lets a moment of silence pass before arriving on her true intent, the one she did not include in any letter. “...Which is why,” she begins, encouraged by Lenore’s full turn. “We need to kill him first.” 

“What?” Lenore gasps with a step back. “No, Bev, no. You–You need help. This isn’t rational–Nothing about this is plausible! Please, just let me get you real help. I have a friend. Her name is Dr. Roberts, she’s a psychiatrist–”

Beverly scoffs, “I don’t need a shrink, Lenny!” She yells in great offense, the exclamation taking all she had out of her as she gawps for more air.

Lenore frowns, “You do.” She presses with a new sense of softness. “Beverly, you really do and that’s…It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” She scrambles the pen out of her jacket’s chest pocket, then flips over a business card from her wallet, scratching down scribbles Beverly doesn’t care to decode. “This is her number. Really, Bev, I think this would be great for you.” She hands the card over between two fingers, preparing for argument as Beverly crosses her arms like an irritable teenager, but a sudden dark cough shuts down both of their expectations.

Beverly clears her throat and pats her chest in visible disarray. With no more coughs crawling up her throat, she opens her mouth once more to begin her protests, but again, a cough jumps through with blood bringing it company. She looks down at the stain of red in her palm and has no other reaction than disdain as her fingers clasp over the fluid. “That impatient son of a bitch.” She growls before another cough sends her over. 

Lenore jumps as she suddenly finds herself unable to remember all that she had learned and saw. “Bev?” She mutters, casting the number aside and sliding in to sit before her. “Beverly? What’s happening?” She repeats in desperation. 

She shakes her head, more choked sounds interrupting her coming words. “Tea.” She manages out with a wave towards her cup. “The tea.”

Lenore returns a wide-eyed glance at the simple ceramic teacup neatly placed on its dish then turns it back to the fitting woman by her side. “You think he poisoned it?” She asks beneath her breath. “I drank out of that cup..” She follows up before answer in a slow bit of realization.

Beverly can only manage a nod before Lenore pops up again, now frightened as much as determined. “I’ll call for help, Bev.” She promises, giving a comforting rub to her shoulder and a hesitant kiss before her head as though her body understood her detriment more than her brain, which was unwilling to face the reality that Beverly was far gone already.

It isn’t until after her race down the labyrinth of halls and stacked, twisting stairs she bumps into Rodger himself. She can see that he recognizes her worry, her racing thoughts, but as always, she takes no threat to him. “Rodger.” She identifies stiffly, wiping down her cream button-up, tucked into her dress pants as the hit ruffles it so. “I fear Beverly has taken a turn for the worse. I see to it that we call for an ambulance. It’s nothing I’m able to look at outside a professional setting.” She announces with a smooth tone, hopeful his unwitting paranoia will quiet under the sounds of someone so harmless.

Rodger only supports a haughty stare back, one Lenore doesn’t like the look of. “You checked her pulse, didn’t you?” He whispers as though nervous the woman hacking blood staircases away would hear.

Lenore squints then shakes her head, “No, no, sorry.” She quickly denies. “It came on so suddenly, everything gave way–all I could think of was hospital.” She assures with less than a lie. “Really, it is that dire! We should be calling for aid now!” She urges though certain Beverly wouldn’t live past its arrival.

He sighs with a tap of his foot against the carpet. “I wanted to do this with civility.” He pinches his nose as Lenore takes a step back. “With that ghastly, idiotic deal nothing has gone to plan and I just–” He looks up to meet Lenore’s eyes, not daring to be frightened but filled with pre-determined adrenaline. “I’m sorry Lenore, I truly am.” He groans exhaustively as he rubs his face with his palms. “You were always a fine, slightly irritable young girl, and you did the right thing by leaving, but I fear this…Involvement will cast your end.” Her hands slowly come to a rise as Rodger leans slightly in and reaches behind him.

Before the pistol in his grasp can come to aim, she is already at a pounce towards it. A moment of high-stakes quarrel pursues as she attempts to twist it from his grasp while he still forwards an aim until the distinct Boom of a gunshot fills the concave silence with echoes of its whip. Lenore looks down in expectation of her own wound, yet instead finds the gun accomplished in her hands and Rodger with a grasp against his side. For the first and only time, Rodger fills her with the emotion of utter horror.

With a shake to her hands, the weapon drops to the floor, following a tremble against its foundation. Lenore rotates her creeping blurry vision, all around the wide room of kitchen, dining, and family–all looking as though they were decorations themselves rather than portions of use–to attach a picture to the rumbling sound. She merely finds the walls in quake and the floors in a jittering state. Rodger, taken to the ground, grips his gun once more but Lenore has already understood her state and rushes towards the exit–A shot to her shoulder halting her for only a moment’s worth as she barrels through the doors with the soreness of her entire body failing to arise in sensation.

Fallen against the leading concrete pathway to the mansion, she watches, in the morbid entertainment of witnessing a crash, the manor crumble against itself until nothing but its weight against the world and rubble remains.

She scooches herself back until she’s far into the dead grass of the tipping hills. 

With deflated breaths and an overworking heart, she reaches into her back pocket and uses the last of her vision to read the letter inside a now crumpled envelope with its ripped red wax stamp.

My darling Lenore, 

This must be a shock to receive. I am apologetic that I could not have given fair warning, as I am for the argument that caused such distance between us. How long has it been now? Thirty years? More? I am never so certain. 

Though I do wish to mourn and scandalize you with affections, I fear I have a more dire purpose for writing. I am ill, my dear Lenny. Fatally so, my brother does seem to believe. I am never much inclined to admit my own fatality, as I’m sure you remember. He will not call a doctor, and I do believe I am in danger.

It is far too much to explain in writing. My wrists are not as strong as they were before, and my mind is not as complete. Please, do come visit me at the manor. I so desperately want that as much as I do need it. 

If not for love, then for your medical oath. I need aid, Dr. Moore.

- Beverly A. Monroe

[mitchbeck]

HARTFORD WOLF PACK REPORTER'S NOTEBOOK

By Gerry Cantlon, Howlings HARTFORD, CT - The Hartford Wolf Pack are not the only team looking to make a few late signings and moves. A few stray signings this week as Labor Day approaches. Tanner Fritz has resolved his contract situation. On Thursday morning, his situation was unresolved, but by that afternoon, it had concluded. Fritz signed a one-year AHL deal to return to the Bridgeport Islanders, where he spent his first six years. He spent the last two in Hartford. Fritz (the second player named Fritz to play in Hart City and Park City) often played out of position to help when the Wolf Pack were shorthanded at forward. He had talks with Hartford and Springfield, all to tend to his son's special needs. MISCELLANEOUS HARTFORD RELATED NEWS Ex-Pack Alex Bourret was named head coach for the CCL Dynamiques M (minor)15 team (QBAAA). The Islanders named ex-Pack/Ranger Pascal Rheaume as one of the two new assistant coaches to work with their new head coach, Rick Kowalsky. It's his first AHL stint. He was initially an assistant with Iowa in 2015-16. The last two years he spent with the Trois-Rivières Lions (ECHL). Bryce McConnell-Barker might be in Wolf Pack training camp, but his ticket back to Sault Ste. Greyhounds Marie (OHL) is already stamped. He spent three weeks here last spring without playing a game before being released. Like Will Cullye and Brennan Othmann before him, he is still 19 and can't play in the AHL until his junior season. He will likely captain the Greyhounds and be on the 2024 Canadian WJC Team. McConnell-Barker hopes to be like Othmann, go deep in the OHL playoffs, and maybe get a shot at the Memorial Cup. An ex-Pack/Ranger, Libor Hájek, has signed as a PTO training camp invite with the Pittsburgh Penguins. Next year, he will go to the Penguins and the Wilkes-Barre/Scranton Penguins (AHL). He joins another ex-Pack, Ryan Graves, who starts his first season of a six-year deal in the Keystone State. Howlings learned that Adam Samuelsson, the youngest son of Hartford Whaler great Ulf Samuelsson, an ex-New York Ranger whose Whalers #5 is "retired" in the XL rafters. Ulf is also a former Wolf Pack and Avon Old Farms assistant coach. Adam will attend the training camp on an invite basis of the independent Chicago Wolves this fall. He signed a deal with Atlanta Gladiators (ECHL) earlier this summer. Sam Gagner, the son of former New Haven Nighthawk/Ranger Dave Gagner, has gone from the Winnipeg Jets to the  Edmonton Oilers on a PTO deal. Gagner was a first-round pick of the Oilers in 2007 and had 519 career points in 1,015 games played with seven different teams. HAGELIN CALLS IT A CAREER Carl Hagelin, who played 17 games for the CT Whale en route to 713 NHL games and who won two Stanley Cups, two silver medals for Sweden in the Olympics and the WJC, and two NCAA national titles in four full years at Michigan, had a career of 152 points in 171 games - a sure-fire entrant in the Wolverine HOF. After a year off, Hagelin retires from active playing, resulting from an eye injury suffered in practice two years ago in Washington. Hagelin exceeded expectations as a sixth-round draft choice, as it was considered a stretch that he would ever play in the NHL. He was supposed to be too small and slight. However, nobody could catch him with his outstanding speed. Hagelin was traded early Saturday morning for the Anaheim Ducks' Emerson Etem in late June 2015. MORE MOVES Madison Bowey goes from the Laval Rocket to Dynamo Minsk (Belarus-KHL). Turner Ottenbreit of Iowa heads to Kunlun (China-KHL), making 78 AHL'ers signed in Europe. The Lehigh Valley Phantoms and Milwaukee Admirals are the only two teams not to have lost a player. A story on the website Detroit Hockey Now reprised a story from an Inside AHL Hockey interview with long-time Chicago Wolves GM Wendell Young. The story was that former coach Ryan Warsofsky (Sacred Heart University) was threatened with dismissal by Carolina two years ago before his Wolves team went on to win the Calder Cup final against the Springfield Thunderbirds in seven games. Warsofsky was and is now an assistant with the NHL San Jose Sharks. Warsofky is an old friend of ex-Pack/Sound Tigers, the now-retired Bourque brothers, Chris and Ryan. He chose to play the former Yale goalie, Alex Lyon, over Carolina's objections instead of their Russian prospect Pytor (Peter) Kochetov two springs ago. Carolina had gone through hoops to get him to North America via Austria first because of the war in Ukraine. Now Lyon, who then made a very public obscene gesture in the championship team picture at center ice, with a two-middle-fingered salute. It was not meant or directed at the Springfield fans but rather the Carolina management, despite having just won the Calder Cup. Lyon was given a one-game AHL suspension for his stunt. Chicago has gone the independent route this season and has gone through four affiliates in the last seven years. Winning a championship is very important in Chicago. Instrumental in Florida making the Stanley Cup playoffs last year, Lyon was a backup to Spencer Knight (Darien/AOF). The previous spring, they had to enter a substance abuse clinic as they made it to the finals before bowing out to the eventual champion, the Las Vegas Golden Knights. Lyon is expected to be in Grand Rapids this year to teach and tutor the highly regarded prospect Sebastian Cossa, who battled Pack goalie Dylan Garand two years ago in juniors, as they were the two best netminders in the WHL. Lyon was helped at Yale when he played by another ex-Yale goalie, Jeff Malcolm, the current Wolf Pack goalie coach. The Red Wings have four goalie prospects: Cossa, Carter Gylander, a junior at Colgate University (ECACHL) under the guidance of new head coach ex-Pack Mike Harder, John Lethmon, a Grand Rapids returnee, and Yale-bound next year, just drafted (sixth-round) Rudy Guimond (Taft School) in Cedar Rapids (USHL) this year. Ex-Pack Tysen Helgesen, re-signs with the Rapid City Rush (ECHL). Chase Zieky (Avon/AOF) signs with the Maine Mariners (ECHL) for next year. Matt Tugnutt (Sacred Heart University) leaves HC Chamonix (France-Magnus League FREL) and signs with the South Carolina Stingrays (ECHL) for next season. Ex-Pack/Sound Tiger Anthony Greco is at an unknown Frölunda HC (Sweden-SHL) destination. Ex-Sound Tiger Brandon DeFazio announced his retirement from hockey. DeFazio played last year with ERC Schwenniger (Germany-DEL). His father, Dean DeFazio, was a former New Haven Nighthawk with four sons involved in hockey. Jeremy and Cameron have already retired. His youngest, Cole, is entering his sophomore year at Division III, Neumann (Aston, PA) College (UCHC). Brandon has taken an amateur scouting position (Ontario region) with the Pittsburgh Penguins. Mark Osiecki, a former New Haven Senator, also becomes a Midwest region Penguins Pro Scout as he leaves the University Wisconsin-Madison (Big 10) campus. Ex-Wolf Pack/Sound Tiger Matt Lorito, a Greenwich resident, also announced his retirement from hockey. Lorito played with EHC Wolfsburg (Germany-DEL) last year and took a pro scouting position (Midwest) with Pittsburgh. DeFazio and Lorito join another ex-Sound Tiger, Matt Mangene, who has been a Penguins amateur scout for the last three years. After his grad year at Michigan Tech (CCHA) after playing at Ohio State (Big 10), Ryan O'Connell becomes the 63rd college player to sign in Europe with Toulouse-Blagnac (France-FFHG-Division-3). He is also the nephew of ex-New Haven Senator Brian Downey. Jack Badini (Old Greenwich/CT Oilers-EHL) departed Newfoundland (St. John's) (ECHL), had a few call-ups to Toronto (AHL), and signed overseas with Stjernen (Norway-NEL). HARTFORD WOLF PACK HOME Read the full article

[usfwspacific]

Conserving Wetlands Through Art and Education

Article by Elena Fischer, External Affairs Kupu AmeriCorps Intern with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service

A Laysan Duck walks toward three ducklings.  Photo by Kristy Lapenta / USFWS Kupu AmeriCorps Intern

The Junior Duck Stamp Conservation and Design Program annual art and conservation message contest is accepting participants!

"Conserving our wetlands is as important as conserving our art. It is our history, our inspiration, our life and our future."  This winning conservation message by Abigail McIntyre, 16 years old from Manhattan, Kansas, illustrates not just the intent behind the Junior Duck Stamp Conservation and Design Program but the significance of conservation more broadly.  

Early in ecological and geological history, North America teemed with waterfowl in the abundance of marshes and wetlands the continent held.  As more settlers came, more habitat degraded from levelling, plowing, and damming. Overharvesting of wildlife like the waterfowl, ensued as few regulations and laws were in place to protect these natural resources and populations.  Many federal conservation acts were both guided by and created the North American Model of Wildlife Conservation.  Foundational laws of the early 20th century decree that wildlife belongs to the people--not the government, corporations, or individuals.  They guide and direct how the land and resources are to be managed using sustainable practices for the betterment of wildlife and people.

One such act was the Migratory Bird Hunting Stamp Act (or Duck Stamp Act) signed by President Franklin D. Roosevelt in 1934.  In an effort to protect wetlands and vital habitat for migratory waterfowl, all waterfowl hunters over 16 years must buy and carry a Federal Duck Stamp every year.

Two nēnē (Hawaiian goose) stand in a field at James Campbell NWR.  Photo by Kristy Lapenta / USFWS Kupu AmeriCorps Intern

How does buying a stamp actively conserve wetlands and its resident birds?

98 cents of every dollar spent on a duck stamp goes directly into conservation.  It goes toward the Migratory Bird Conservation Fund to purchase or lease wetlands and wildlife habitat as part of the National Wildlife Refuge System.  This protects the land now and into the future for wildlife and for generations yet to come.

In 1949 the first Federal Duck Stamp Art Contest was established, and is still to this day the only art competition open to any citizen that is sponsored by the U.S. government.  The success of this project is attributed to a multitude of factors: it follows and perpetuates the principles of the North American Model by emphasizing that these are public lands with opportunity for all.  Any citizen may enter the art contest, buy the stamp as an annual “pass” to refuges charging entrance fees, and has the freedom to hunt and fish; and it is a proven method for promoting and ensuring the survival of our natural resources.

Because of this widespread success, the Federal Junior Duck Stamp Conservation and Design Program was created as a curriculum modeled after the Federal Duck Stamp project.  The first art contest began in 1993 and became an Act passed by Congress in 1994.  The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service hosts a national art contest for anyone in Kindergarten through 12th grade.  However, the artwork is just the culmination of the Junior Duck Stamp educational program: it is not the only learning process.  The free curriculum outlines how students may study waterfowl anatomy, wetland habitat conservation, and environmental science.  Afterward, they are encouraged to explore the natural world by visually creating a picture of an eligible North American waterfowl species, showing their newfound knowledge.  

An ‘alae ‘ula (Hawaiian moorhen) walks in shallow water.  Photo by USFWS

The winning artwork then becomes the design for the Junior Duck Stamp, which can be purchased by anyone for $5.  All of the revenue goes back into the Federal Junior Duck Stamp Conservation and Design Program to support recognition and environmental education activities for participating students.  This kind of conservation education merges all kinds of disciplines--biology, art, social studies--and brings people together across boundaries to teach greater awareness of our nation’s natural resources.  

Not only can you participate in these art contests, but you can help recognize and honor thousands of teachers and students throughout the United States for their participation in conservation-related activities!

If you would like to participate in the Junior Duck Stamp Program, click on these links to find out more, download the free curriculum, and know what guidelines to follow: 

Conservation Education Curriculum

Contest Information 

Annual Brochure

The mission of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service is working with others to conserve, protect, and enhance fish, wildlife, plants, and their habitats for the continuing benefit of the American people. For more information, visit www.fws.gov/pacificislands, or connect with us through any of these social media channels at www.facebook.com/PacificIslandsFWS, www.flickr.com/photos/usfwspacific/, www.tumblr.com/blog/usfwspacific or www.twitter.com/USFWSPacific.

[milkflys]

drawing photorealism for competitions is literally like if you woke up in the body of the most insufferable podcast twitter personality whatever who doesn't stop going on about cancel culture except it's about ducks. i draw and go "they're literally gonna cancel me for making the ridges on the ducks legs a squashed up-straight-down instead of a not squashed up-straight-down. they're gonna cancel me for making the ratio of these two feather lengths together 6:7 instead of 7:8.the duck judges are gonna tell me to kill my self" and i believe these things are true when i say them the fbi are gonna raid my house for the reference picture i used and use CSI technology to compare the reference and drawing and prove that i'm a fraud im a phony i left out this white bit of 16 white bits on these feathers....it's the end of it all for me

[the-iceni-bitch]

Every Little Thing

Pairing: Colin Shea x fem!Reader

Words: ~4.3k

Summary: You and Colin are two slutty pea in a pod neighbors, but maybe you could be more?

Warnings: explicit language, explicit sexual content (fingering, f receiving oral sex, unprotected vaginal sex), idiots in love, excessive alcohol consumption, SMUT!!! 18+ ONLY!!!!

A/N: Ugh, I love Colin and I can’t believe it took me so long to write him. Before I get a bunch of notes about it, they’re gonna realize their feelings eventually but it might take a couple fics because they’re both morons, but they’re pretty morons so it’s fine 😉

Check out my masterlist and join my taglist if you want!!!

Divider by @firefly-graphics

Oh god, what the fuck was that noise? Why was your phone ringing at 8 AM on a fucking Sunday?

You picked up the offensive object and growled when you got a look at the caller ID.

“Colin, it’s Sunday morning, this had better be really good. I didn’t get home until 4 AM.”

“She won’t fucking leave.” He hissed over the line. “She wants to go out for waffles.”

“I fail to see how this is my problem.” You grumbled, rolling over onto your back and flinging your arm over your eyes. “Just ditch her at the fucking waffle place.”

“C’mon, Y/N, that’s like a second date. What about our deal?” That fucking deal, he definitely benefitted more from it than you did.

“You’re an asshole.” You mumbled, sitting up with an exhausted groan. “Gimme 5 minutes.”

“You’re the best!” You could hear the fucking grin in his voice and rolled your eyes at him.

“Yeah, I fucking know.” You didn’t wait for him to confirm before you hung up on him, stretching your whole body as you moved to put on some clothes.

It only took you a few minutes to pull on some old jeans and a sweatshirt and then you were stomping across the hall to Colin’s apartment, determined to make this as uncomfortable as possible for him. 

“Colin Shea!” You pounded on the door viciously. “This is your wife! I found your little love nest! What hooker do you have in there now?”

You couldn’t help but grin to yourself as you heard a commotion from inside, someone was cursing up a storm and you were pretty sure you heard a couple of slaps.

“I can hear you in there.” You tried to make it sound like you were on the verge of tears. “What about Colin Junior? I’m not raising that baby on my own, you bastard!”

The door slammed open and a very angry looking woman stormed out, shooting a glare over her shoulder and calling Colin a motherfucker as she scurried down the stairs. He came rushing after her with a frustrated look on his face, rubbing the side of his jaw and scowling when he got a look at the shit eating grin on your face.

“My wife?” He asked incredulously, grabbing his hoodie and pulling it over his naked torso as you just continued laughing at him. “That was kinda mean.”

“8 AM on a Sunday, Shea.” You booped his nose with your finger and winked at him before turning to head back to your place. “You wake me up before 10 AM on a weekend and you take what you can get. I’m going back to bed.”

“Wait, Y/N, don’t you wanna have breakfast or something?” He jogged after you, ignoring the glower you shot him as you opened your door. “I’ll make you my famous eggs.”

“Did you not hear me when I said I got in at 4 AM?” You frowned at him when he kept you from closing your front door. “Colin, quit being so clingy. If I wanted to have breakfast with some annoying dude I would’ve actually brought that lawyer from last night home.”

“A lawyer, huh?” He was giving you one of those stupid looks that he typically reserved for girls he was trying to bang but that he definitely knew didn’t work on you. “And that didn’t even do it for you.”

“I mean, I still rode that beard for a good hour, but he was super depressing.” You kept knocking your door against his foot with an annoyed air. “Which is why I need to sleep, so get out of my fucking doorway.”

“Fine, we’re hanging out later though!” He called as you slammed the door in his face.

You just ripped off your clothes and crawled back into bed, burying your face in your pillows and cursing the sun as you did your best to fall back asleep.

It must have happened at some point, because you woke up six hours later with a mouth full of cotton and absolutely drenched in sweat. Why was it so fucking hot?

The pillow case tried to come with your face when you rolled out of the bed and you threw it away from you with a huff as you padded to inspect your air conditioner. 

It wasn’t on. You knelt in front of it and whined as you tried flicking it off and on and nothing happened. This could not be happening, not with summer just about to start. It was supposed to be in the 90s today. No matter what you tried, it didn’t turn on. Granted, all you tried was unplugging it and plugging it back in, but that always worked with your computer.

The call to the repair company was no luck, they were closed for the weekend. This was going to suck, you fucking hated being hot. You moved to your kitchen to try to find some way to cool off after opening every damn window in your place to hopefully get some kind of air circulation going.

That’s when you spotted it. 

The frozen margarita machine you had bought on an absinthe fueled online shopping spree and never gotten around to returning. It was like a little miracle right there in your kitchen, designed to help you cool off and get drunk so you could forget about how fucking hot it was while you did the week’s worth of chores you had been procrastinating.

You hummed happily when that first gulp of frozen tequila goodness slid down your throat, and maybe you shouldn’t have chugged the whole thing but who fucking cared, it was hot. Time flew by as you downed those things like it was your fucking job, scrubbing your pots and pans and singing little songs to yourself.

Music started drifting through your open windows but you barely registered it even as you started singing along because it was Queen and how could you not.

It was the third time you had filled that margarita machine and you were feeling fantastic, dancing around your kitchen as you continued cleaning your dishes. Whoever was playing music was still going strong and you began belting when they started doing Seven Seas of Rhye.

“You are mine, I possess you, I belong to you foreveeeEEER!”

“Hey, Y/N!”

Your badass high note devolved into a shriek and you turned to chuck the cup you were holding at the intruder on the fire escape, cursing when you saw it was Colin. He managed to duck out of the way at the last second with a muttered fuck and you sighed as you watched your mug sail over his shoulder.

“Fuck, Shea, that was my favorite mug!” You pouted, stamping your foot a little and taking another gulp of your margarita. “What the fuck are you doing on my fire escape?”

He gave you a stupid cocky grin as he watched to try to lean on one hand on your counter and almost go down when you missed it at the last second.

“Are you drunk, honey?” Fuck him for calling you honey, that wiley asshole. “We could hear you singing from the roof.”

“I’m just a little buzzed.” You hiccupped. “Who’s we?”

“My band.” He crawled into your apartment and caught you when you tripped over your own feet again, still grinning at you like an idiot. “The ones you were singing along with.”

“That was your band?” You had never realized how blue his eyes were. “You guys sound great!”

“Yeah, you sound pretty good yourself.” He grabbed the cup you were holding and gave it a sniff, coughing a little before he set it on the counter. “Maybe you should come hang out with us instead of drinking what I think is blended jet fuel and ice all by yourself.”

“If I’m gonna hang out with you guys I think I should bring a pitcher of margs.” He was really fucking pretty, had you noticed that before? “Don’t wanna be a bad hostess.”

“Oh, baby, you’re wasted.” He tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear and you felt your chest flutter a little bit. “No more margs for you. Come sing with us while you sober up. No, no.” He pulled you back when you tried to crawl out the window and started dragging you towards your door. “Ladder doesn’t really seem like a good idea right now, let’s take the stairs.”

You tossed your head back as you laughed, slapping his chest while you leaned heavily on him and let him guide you through the hall and to the stairs to the roof. Those were some firm pecs, you were a little marvelled at the way your palm just bounced right off so you slapped it again.

“Wow.” It was like your hand was moving independently from your brain as you gave him a pretty brazen squeeze. “Your tits are fantastic, Colin.”

“Holy shit, Y/N!” He was laughing hysterically when he shoved the door to the roof open. “Your drunk game is on point sweetie. Guys, this is Y/N, the killer vocals you heard from downstairs. She’s a little tipsy.”

They introduced themselves and you promptly forgot all of their names, your hand trailing down Colin’s chest until you could press it against his abs. This was getting weird, it’s not like you hadn’t seen him naked before. But seeing and touching were apparently two very different things.

“We still doing Queen, boys?” You said, finally tearing your eyes away from Colin after poking him in the bellybutton and grinning when he made a noise like the Pillsbury doughboy. “Cos I’m good with whatever.”

“What about some Journey?” He slung his SG over his shoulder and watched you carefully as you grabbed the mike one of his bandmates was handing you. “You wanna sit down, hon?”

“Don’t call me hon, sweetheart.” You teased, giving him a wink and tapping the mike a couple of times. “I’ll be fine. Journey feels a little basic but ok. Faithfully or Lovin’ Touchin’ Squeezin’?”

That grin he gave you should not have been affecting you like this, maybe you did have too many margaritas. The bassist started playing the opening riff to Lovin’ Touchin’ Squeezin’ and your grin got even wider, your hips moving to the beat as you kept your eyes on Colin. You laughed happily when he joined in with the guitar part, joining in after the piano had done its thing and losing yourself in the music.

He could not take his eyes off of you, he was pretty sure you’d never been this fucking cheerful around him before. Not that you were especially grumpy or anything, or that your typical dry wit didn’t immediately endear you to him. But seeing you with that goofy grin as you sang every fucking Journey song they had in their roster until the sun set was not helping the already prodigious crush he had on you. 

Now the two of you were sitting on the couch he had dragged up there months ago and watching his bandmates pack up their gear, saying goodbye to each of them as they headed down the stairs and left you two to lean against each other and sigh happily. You had your legs flung over his lap as he plucked at his guitar strings lazily, kicking your feet slowly and leaning back on the sofa as you watched him closely and sipped on a bottle of water.

“You ever do any actual performing, honey?” He asked, his fingers running over your calf absentmindedly. “Cos with that voice you could probably line up some gigs.”

“Just karaoke.” You murmured. You were definitely sobering up now, but you were still hyper aware of his hands on your skin and it was giving you some feelings you weren’t totally sure about. “Lemme see that thing.”

“What?” He gave a little huff when you grabbed the neck of his guitar and pulled it into your lap. “Baby, do not tell me you play.”

“I mean, it’s been a little while, but I think I remember a couple chords.” You gave him another grin and his chest started to hurt.

“Jesus, a couple chords?” He laughed to cover the absolutely filthy sound he almost made when you started playing, it was like he had made you on a computer. “Honey, that’s Led Zeppelin.”

“Yeah, but it’s easy Zeppelin.” You teased, turning your body so you could lean against his chest and not missing the low rumble you felt when you tucked your head against his shoulder. “It’s Coda.”

“Uh-huh.” Being this close to you was doing something to him, he suddenly had the overwhelming urge to smell your hair. 

“Why haven’t we slept together, Col?” Fuck it, you might as well do this.

He choked on the water he was drinking, turning his face so he didn’t spit it all over you as you stopped your playing and grinned at him.

“I seem to remember giving it a good try when you moved in.” He managed to get himself under control and turned his face back to you. “But you said you had a rule about not fucking people who live in the same building as you. Something about not shitting where you eat.”

“That’s about sex with coworkers.” You said, scrunching your face up as you tried to remember what your exact justification had been.

“Which is what I told you.” He tried to scoot away from you but you followed after him. “To which you replied, ‘doesn’t matter, not gonna happen’.”

“Huh, that seems awful short-sighted of me.” You scooted closer again and this time he let you. “C’mon, we’ve fucked almost everyone else in this city, we’d have gotten to each other eventually anyways.”

“Jesus, what a romantic sentiment.” He was trying to focus real hard on his softeners, but they weren’t working with you squirming against him like that. “You really want to do this?”

“I mean, I think we’d enjoy it.” You set his guitar aside and turned so your chest was pressed to his. “It’s not like we’re gonna catch feels, or anything. Just gonna see what all the fuss is about.”

“Right.” Maybe this would get his little crush out of his system. “Let’s not do it on the roof, though.”

“God, no. My place?” You stood up and started heading towards the fire escape.

“Yeah, ok.” He watched you climb down to your apartment before sliding down the ladder after you like the damn frat boy he was.

As soon as he climbed in the window you were dragging him towards you, swallowing his tiny cry of surprise when you pulled his mouth to yours. His lips were unbelievably soft against your own, and when he opened up and stroked your tongue with his? 

Fuck.

“Shit, Colin.” You purred when he started trailing his lips down your throat. “I feel like maybe we should’ve done this sooner.”

“Yeah, maybe.” His voice was muffled as his mouth moved to your chest, one hand moving to hook under the neckline of your camisole and pulling on it until your breasts popped out. “Well fuck me. No wonder you know so much about fantastic tits.”

You laughed at that, arching into his face and grinning down at him as he buried his face between your tits and gazed at you through his lashes. Those stupid, long as all fuck lashes that were brushing against your skin as he mouthed at your soft curves. 

“Jesus, fuck.” You wound your fingers through his hair when he dragged his tongue over your nipple, tugging on it softly and guiding him further into your apartment. “God, you really know how to use that mouth of yours, sweetie.”

“Oh, honey, you don’t even know.” He teased, moving his face back to yours and lifting you to wrap your legs around his waist as he started carrying you towards your bedroom.  “You wanna find out, though?”

“You tease all the girls you fuck this much?” You nipped at his lips and grinned when he moaned into your mouth, reaching behind you to open the door to your bedroom. 

“Nah, that’s just for you, baby.” He cooed, giving you a quick peck on the lips before dropping you on the bed with a huff.

Every place his fingers touched sent a jolt of heat through your body straight to your core, your eyes never leaving his as he started kissing and nipping his way down your torso after pulling your cami over your head. He grinned against your thigh when you moaned after he yanked your shorts down your legs, sucking a soft bruise into your flesh before rubbing his face over your clothed core and inhaling deeply.

You throbbed under his lips as he pressed gentle kisses over the fabric that covered your mound, hooking your legs over his shoulders and trying to grind into him when he tugged at your panties with his teeth and let them snap back into place teasingly. His fingers skimmed up your legs until he could hook them under the band of your panties and drag them off you, sighing heavily when he settled back between your thighs and got a good look at you.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty.” He spread you apart with his fingers and flicked his tongue out to run over your slit softly, moaning when he finally tasted you. 

“I bet you say that to all the girls.” You ran your fingers through his hair and beamed at him, rolling your hips against his face when he sucked your pussy lips into his mouth with a low hum.

Colin chuckled into your cunt at that, pressing gentle kisses all over your soft folds before dragging his tongue over you in a heavy stripe. Your body reacted immediately when he reached your clit, your back arching off the bed and your legs curling around his neck as he repeated the same process but at a much slower pace. 

Two of his fingers slid inside you as he wrapped his lips around your clit and you keened, gripping his hair by the roots and tugging hard when he started stretching you open while his lips drove you wild. The rhythm of his suction and release matched the curling of his fingers inside you and made you want to scream, your free hand reaching above your head and digging hard into your pillow as your body tried to rise off the bed when he brought you right to the edge of your peak right away. 

“Col, Colin, oh fuck.” He felt like your thighs were gonna suffocate him but those sounds you were making for him had him past the point of caring about a silly thing like oxygen. “Oh fuck, I’m gonna come.”

Your whole body seized against his face as you let out a gorgeous fluttering moan, soaking his lips and chin in your release as he hummed with satisfaction into your pussy. He sat up when you finally released him, removing his clothes in a rush as he watched you pant underneath him and run your tongue over your lips. God, you were fucking beautiful, he couldn’t believe he’d waited so long to do this.

Before you had a chance to say anything he was hooking your knee over his elbow and thrusting into you, sheathing himself to the hilt in one smooth motion and releasing his breath in a thin hiss when he felt your satiny walls flutter around him. 

“Ah, fuck, you feel amazing.” He ducked his face to catch your lips with his before pulling back with a groan. “Shit, I forgot a condom. Uh, I’m clean, just got tested last week.”

“God, you’re fine sweetie.” You brought a hand up to cup his jaw and ran a thumb over his cheek in a soothing gesture. “Also clean and I have an IUD, so we’re peachy. I am a little mad at you though.”

“Yeah, why?” He wasn’t too worried, you were still grinning at him as he started moving his hips slowly.

“Well, Jesus, fuck, you’re big.” You almost lost your train of thought when he tilted your hips just a bit and his cock hit you deep. “I usually like to reciprocate oral, sweetie. I barely even got a look at what you’re packing down there.”

“You’ve seen it before.” He groaned when you wrapped your free leg around his hips and rolled your body against his.

“Just glances though.” You gripped his biceps and dug your nails in, biting your lip as he continued dragging his length over every inch of you at an agonizing pace. “And never hard.”

“Honey, there’s no way I’m pulling out for you to take a good look so you’re gonna have to make due.” He teased, grinding against your clit and grinning when your eyes fluttered closed.

“Fine.” You huffed, frowning a little before winking at him. “We’re switching then.”

“What?”

You didn’t answer, just giving him a cocky grin and gripping his hips with your thighs. One quick move and he was under you, a small sound of surprise leaving his lips when you were suddenly straddling his hips and grinning down at him.

“Oh yeah, that’s better.” You placed one palm on the center of his chest and curled your fingers through his chest hair as you rose up on your knees before sinking down again nice and slow, loving the low groan you felt reverberate in his chest when you clenched around him. “Good for you, Col?”

“Yes, yeah, s’ good.” He was completely mesmerized by you, his eyes trailing over your body as you arched your back and continued to ride him. 

The way he was reacting to you was making it hard for you to focus on what you were doing, his eyes soft and relaxed on yours and his bottom lip tucked between his teeth as he slowly moved his hips to meet your own. You could’ve lost yourself in those eyes if you really wanted to.

Shit, none of that.

His fingers started trailing up your sides when he fucked up into you suddenly and he lost it at the way your tits bounced for him, sitting up with a whine and nuzzling into your chest before wrapping his lips around your nipple as he started bucking wildly.

“Shit, fuck, Colin.” He was hitting your cervix with each punch of his hips and it was taking all your self control to not pass out from how hard he was railing you, wrapping your legs around him and dragging your lips over his jaw. “Baby, you’re gonna make me come again.”

“Yeah? Good.” He cupped your jaw and brought your face back to his, tugging at your lips with his teeth while he gazed into your eyes. “I wanna watch your face while you come.”

You kept your eyes open and trained on his, worrying his bottom lip with your teeth and resting your forehead against his as you felt a warm coil gathering in the pit of your stomach. It was like you were falling into those lust blown pools as he took you apart, your lips crashing against his as the coil snapped and you gasped his name into his mouth. 

The feeling of your entire body fluttering around him was too much, and he followed you with a low growl. He muttered your name under his breath as he spilled his cum inside you, holding you close to his chest and rubbing his nose against yours.

You fell on top of him when he collapsed back against the bed, the two of you laughing breathlessly as you tangled your limbs and molded your lips together before pulling back and gazing at each other some more. Both of you lost yourselves for just a beat, your chests heaving against each other’s before disconnecting and rolling off the bed in two opposite directions as you did your best to compose yourselves.

“I’d say you definitely earned all those screams I’ve heard coming from your apartment, Shea.” You teased, trying your best to lighten the mood and not dwell on the desire you had to ask him to spend the night. 

“Yeah, well I’ve always thought so.” He was avoiding looking at you as much as possible, searching the room for his clothes and fighting the urge to pull you back into the bed and snuggle with you. “Have you seen my converse?”

“Yeah, here.” You shoved his shoes at him after pulling an oversized tee over your head. “Well, I’ve got work in the morning, so…”

“Right, I’ll, um, I’ll talk to you later, I guess.” He shuffled towards your front door and pulled it open before leaning back to look at you one more time. “You can join us for band practice any time, by the way.”

“That would be great.” That smile you were giving him made him feel like his heart was going to break. “I promise not to be sloppy drunk next time.”

“Aww, drunk Y/N was pretty fun, but ok.” He winked at you then left in a hurry, slamming the door behind him. 

You fell back on your bed and ran your hands over your face in frustration, hating yourself for coming up with this stupid idea because now all you wanted was to have breakfast with that beautiful idiot tomorrow after sleeping on top of his chest.

“Goddamn it.”

Colin grabbed himself a beer when he got back to his apartment and chugged it, sinking into one of his barstools and considering the fact that he was absolutely not over his crush after everything the two of you had just done.

“Shit.”

TAGS!!!! (If your name is scored it won’t let me tag you, check your privacy settings!!)

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[seasonsofeverlark]

I Heart You Bad (Another Everlark Valentine’s Day Drabble)

Author: @hutchhitched​

Prompt: Conversation hearts. That’s it. That’s the prompt. [submitted by @lovely-tothe-bone​]

Rating: G

Summary: Katniss Everdeen hated Valentine’s Day until Peeta Mellark gave her a card that melted her heart in sixth grade. Now, she’s thirteen, and her boyfriend has a message for her.

Author’s Note: Set in the same universe as I Knead You Bad (An Everlark Valentine’s Day Drabble). _______________

“Come on, come on, come on!” Prim Everdeen shouted down the hall. Katniss rolled her eyes and tied a ribbon on her braid before grabbing her backpack and heading into the living room.

“Calm down, Little Duck. You’re eight. The world is not that dramatic.”

Katniss could say this because she was the ripe age of 13, a teenager, a seventh grader, and a big sister. She had some experience, and all of that assured her that Prim didn’t need to shout to get her attention. Besides, there was no reason to hurry to school. Just because it was Valentine’s Day didn’t mean Katniss needed to rush. Catching one last glimpse of herself in the hall mirror, she motioned her sister to the door and followed to the bus stop.

“Do you have your cards?” Prim asked as they boarded the bus.

Katniss sniffed and nodded her head. “The few I bothered to fill out. There aren’t that many people I want to give them to this year.”

“I bet Peeta gets a special one,” Prim teased, and Katniss blushed. Nudging her sister, she headed to the back of the bus and took a seat by the window. She busied herself looking at the houses as they flashed by, although that didn’t help ease her nerves.

There was no reason to be nervous. She knew that, but she still was. Peeta wasn’t just her boyfriend. He was really, really special to her. He’d saved her life with a loaf of bread. Well, technically, he’d only saved her pride with a Valentine’s Day card, but it had included an image of a loaf of bread and a half-baked pun about “loafing” her. She’d never enjoyed the holiday before he’d placed that lime green envelope on her desk, and she still got all squirmy when she thought about it. They’d become friends before he’d finally asked her to be his girlfriend, but she had a feeling something more was coming. If it was, today might be the day he finally got up the courage to take that step.

The bus arrived at school faster than she wanted, and she trudged down the stairs and into the building. She waved at her sister as they parted ways—Prim toward the elementary and herself into the junior high wing. She was almost to her locker before her heart started beating normally. Peeta waited for her, as he usually did on school day mornings. She smiled softly at him and tried to hide the pleased flush as he held out a small wrapped package to her.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Katniss,” he offered in greeting and beamed at her.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Peeta.”

She slipped her backpack off her shoulder and stuck it in her locker. Digging into the depths, she produced the small stack of cards and flipped through them to find his. Shyly, she handed it to him and ducked her head when he reached for it eagerly. He opened it slowly, relishing every second of receiving something from her, and she wished he’d hurry it along. He was being maddeningly slow. His face lit up with delight when he pulled the card free. She’d kept the theme from the previous year with an image of a yellow cat pawing at a black one and the words “I knead you.”

“It’s Buttercup!” he crowed, and she nodded earnestly.

When he was finished reading her message, he waved at her to open her package. She fumbled with the wrapping with clumsy fingers, but eventually, she tugged the small box free. It was conversation hearts. Puzzled, she looked at him in confusion.

“Open it.”

When she did, multi-colored candy hearts fell into her palm. She still didn’t get it, but he encouraged her to look closer. Then, she saw it. Every single piece of candy had the same message stamped in pink lettering. The words took her breath away.

“I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time. I know we’re young, but it’s true.”

Classmates bustled around them, and Katniss had a vague awareness of the other people in the hallway. Usually not one for public displays of affection, she couldn’t help herself. She flung her arms around him and pressed her face into his neck. She floated on clouds throughout the day, and she was still glowing when she met her sister after the final bell rang.

“Well?”

“He gave me these,” she said softly and held out her hand.

[rebeccathenaturalist]

You have NO IDEA HOW HAPPY THIS MAKES ME!!!!!! Willapa NWR is my "home refuge", so to speak. I've volunteered there for hours, spent a ton of time walking the trails, and it is incredibly dear to me. They're already protecting and restoring thousands of acres of land, from tidal wetlands to old-growth forests to dune habitat and more. This funding approval means that Willapa NWR will receive $1,255,248 to acquire 239 acres of land for the purpose of preserving waterfowl and other wildlife habitat.

Habitat loss is THE single biggest cause of species endangerment and extinction, so the more we're able to protect, the better--especially if we can create wildlife corridors between sections. Biodiverse ecosystems also have a better chance of weathering the effects of climate change.

Along with the habitat acquired for Willapa NWR, funding was also approved to purchase land for other Refuges:

Cat Island National Wildlife Refuge in Louisiana – $1,466,000 to acquire 548 acres.

Clarks River National Wildlife Refuge in Kentucky – $6,621,000 to acquire 2,482 acres.

Green River National Wildlife Refuge in Kentucky – $11,372,000 to acquire 1,335 acres.

Silvio O. Conte National Fish and Wildlife Refuge in New Hampshire – $1,066,450 to acquire 797 acres.

The funding was acquired through the sales of Federal Duck Stamps; 98% of the money from these stamps goes into purchasing and maintaining Refuge lands. While these were originally created to raise funds for waterfowl land by requiring waterfowl hunters to buy a stamp with their license each year, anyone can buy a Duck Stamp. There are lots of non-hunting collectors who buy them for the art, and the annual art contest draws talent from across the country. The Junior Duck Stamp Program allows young artists K-12 to enter their own contest while also learning about conservation. (It also was the topic of one of my more infamous posts here on Tumblr!)

[simonsrosebud]

Kevin's first real christmas with dalton!!

kevin says he’s celebrated christmas before, but it’s not true.

sophomore year he spent it locked in wymack’s apartment with a broken hand and ongoing anxiety attacks.

junior year he went to new york with matt and nicky and the others which was weird because they didn’t actually do anything christmas-y and he was drunk for a lot of the trip.

and last year he had dinner with abby, his father, and andrew and neil.  but then neil was having a panic attack because this time the year before he was at evermore.  they left early and kevin ducked out because he didn’t want to intrude.  

then he spent the whole next few days panicking over meeting dalton’s family.

this year, his last year at palmetto, dalton asks if he wants to spend christmas in maryland with him and his family.

there’s no question, of course he’s going.

dalton tells him when they’re at the mall about all the things they do, and how they’ll go to new york again if he’s okay with it.  and then, “what do you guys normally do for the holidays?”

kevin freezes.  he thumbs at a shirt on the rack in front of him.  “uh... last year me neil and andrew had dinner with my father and abby, but neil was having some ptsd relating to this time of year, so it was kind of a mess...”

“that sucks.  for him, i mean.”

“yeah.”  he nods.  it does suck, and kevin still blames himself.  “and the year before i went to new york with the team to matt’s dads place, but i was drunk most of the time,” he mumbles.

dalton feels like an idiot for asking, “and before?”

kevin shakes his head.  broken hand.

“we ran practices every day of break at the nest.  never celebrated any holidays growing up.”

he did have one thing he did every year.  he lit a candle for his mother.  he didn’t realize it until his first christmas away from the nest, when he was hidden at wymack’s apartment and noticed the man didn’t have a single candle lying around.

he sparked wymack’s lighter and sent up a quick prayer instead.

dalton slides up to his side and wraps an arm around his waist.  “i’ve got to impress you this year, then.”

“the bars set pretty low.”

when dalton’s on the phone with his mom that night, he tells her about kevin’s lack of experience with the holidays.  “have you done the tree yet?”

“i was planning on doing it tomorrow, why?”

“do you think we could wait and do it all together when me and kev are there?”  he hesitates.  “he’s never really celebrated christmas and done the typical traditions, and i know he wants to cause his mom used to.”

anne’s heart wants to break a little.  “i’ll save it until you get home.  and he’ll be here in time to make cookies, too.”  oh boy.  “you guys can go ice skating if that one place does it again- you know the one, and uh... should we get him a stocking?”

“me and bella got him a present!”

“is that carm?”

“yes!”  she steals her mothers phone.  “he always pays for things for us when he’s here so we got him this peanut butter sampler pack and an ocean city maryland crewneck.”

dalton pouts, but only because it’s cute to him that they did that for his boy.

when they drive up, dalton’s family welcomes him like they haven’t seen him in years, and it makes kevin smile every time.  they don’t get in until late, but bella still peeks into dalton’s room once they’re in bed for the night.  “did you bring your racquet?”

kevin’s got his eyes closed, he’s tucked underneath dalton’s big comforter and arm with an ankle thrown over his boyfriend’s.  he hums a yes.

dalton grumbles.  “shut the door, bella.”  and tugs the blanket up to his chin.

they wake up earlier than they’d like.  anne and george are at work, and the girls are still asleep.  he has dalton at his back and an arm holding him close.

kevin doesn’t ever want to move.

he only does when dalton’s phone alarm goes off.  “what’s that for?”  he groans.  dalton reaches over him to shut it off and drapes his arm and leg right back over kevin.

dalton’s voice is muffled.  “shopping day.”

oh fuck.  he knew d had said something about shopping yesterday.

it takes them another half hour to get up, and kevin hates the mall to begin with, but this is unbearable.  he’s just lucky they’re there a week out and not the day before christmas eve.

kevin stops.  they’re in a clothing store, and he’s wandered to the women’s side.  he sends a few pictures to allison, and when dalton come over he holds up a fuzzy bomber jacket and an oversized jean jacket.  “for the girls?”

“i already got their gifts.”

“but from me?”

“oh.”  dalton smiles.  “then absolutely.  did you already text allison?”  he’s joking, but laughs when kev shrugs because that’s so a yes.

anne has the family decorate the tree that night after dinner- takeout, and kevin is kind of in heaven looking through dalton’s ornaments from when he was a child.

“you wanna put the star on top?”

their ceilings are high enough for them to have a fake tree tall enough for kevin to not be able to reach, which is definitely a first for him.

so instead, he gets on dalton’s shoulders.

after they’re done, anne sits next to kevin on the sofa.  “you know, i never did the thing where i show you all of dalton’s baby pictures, but i did find this yesterday.”

and kevin turns to look at the book in her lap, and smirks.  “no way.”  

it’s a small book, with all of dalton’s school picture day photo’s going back to kindergarten.  “this is better, i think.”

dalton stops, and lets his head roll back.  “can we not?”

“no, we can.”  kevin takes the book and opens it up to a random page.

“you’re not allowed to mention the braces.”

“but they’re so bad!”

christmas eve is fun.

kevin is no cook, dalton is and even then that’s saying something, but anne puts kevin to work after he’s up in the morning.  they’ve got a lot of family coming over around six, and she needs help in the kitchen.

he’s doing pretty alright, he thinks, and his face lights up when anne tastes a bit and pats his arm.  “that’s really good.”  it’s a passing thought, and she leaves right after to make a run to get more of something at the store.

but when dalton comes back from the alcohol run, kevin’s plenty proud of it anyway.

and then, because he’s already dirty from cooking anyway, he helps dalton’s father with stuffing the turkey.  “you actually stuff it?”

he knows it’s called stuffing, but he’s never actually seen it prepared.  or eaten it, he doesn’t think.  abby doesn’t make it for thanksgiving or anything because only she and nicky typically eat it.  it goes to waste.

george nods.  “stick your hands up there, kid.”

kevin lowers his stare to dalton just sitting there across the table.  he grins.  “you’re doing great, babe.”

kevin takes a shower after he’s done while the others do what else needs to be done.

once dalton’s family starts filtering into the house it’s a little chaotic.  in a good way, opposed to the way that he typically knows chaotic to be.

he’s fine, really, once he gets used to it.

at this point they all know who exactly dalton’s boyfriend is, but kevin only recognizes a few faces so he still gets the excited introductions from the few that are fans.

two of them are younger kids, anyway, so that’s at least entertaining and cute.

dalton comes to stand with kevin and his cousin.  “can i steal him for a sec?”  he takes him by the hand to the other room where the two younger cousins are lounging.  “dessert is out, guys.”

they go running out of the room.

“that was cruel,” kevin says, but then dalton is holding something above their heads and-

oh

mistletoe.

“are you sure?”

kevin smiles.  “i take it back.”  and pulls dalton in.

dalton grins against his lips, and after a moment pulls away just a bit.  “that’s not actually why i pulled you away, but i got lucky.”

kevin kisses him again, because he can, and dalton turns.  there’s a ledge above the unused fireplace that his mom usually uses for picture frames, but there’s a candle in the middle, now.

“you’ve told me about lighting a candle for your mom, and i figured maybe you’d still want to do it even though you’re here this year.”

he definitely does, and dalton presents him with a lighter when he nods.  kevin lights it silently, and watches it for a moment.  “thank you,” he says quietly.  “i know you listen, but i didn’t expect that...”  he wraps his arms around dalton’s waist.  “it’s really nice.”

“yeah, well, i’ve got to impress her.”  he kisses the top of kevin’s head.

christmas morning, kevin looks surprised when bella says “kevin’s turn” because he really isn’t expecting to get gifts.  he has money, he doesn’t need anything.

but then he opens the peanut butter sampler package, and after taking a moment to read it he starts to smile to himself.  “i love peanut butter.”  it’s almost a whisper, but it makes everyone laugh and sends warmth through his chest.

he hugs the box to his chest.  dalton hugs him from the side for a moment, and then kevin gets more surprised because dalton’s parents are handing him a bigger box and oh my god it’s a little portable mixer for his shakes and a nike gift card.

he and dalton do their gifts alone.

dalton gets him a big chunky weighted blanket and a new pair of sneakers that he’s been eyeing for weeks, and then kevin unwraps a small frame.  and in the middle is the ticket to the first game of kevin’s that he’d gone too, with a heart drawn on the corner so many times that it’d been indented the ticket.

he remembers teasing him about the heart, but he never knew he kept the ticket all this time.

kevin tackles him from where they’re sitting on the bed.  “i love it, and you.”

kevin gets dalton airpods, sweatpants that say “my boyfriend likes my tramp stamp” on the butt as a joke, and a box of his favorite coffee k-cups from a brand that supposedly stopped selling them months ago.

and last, a thin gold necklace, long enough to tuck under his shirt like he used to do with his cross necklace until it broke.  except this one has a small “k+d” hanging.

dalton’s smiling down at it, and rubs the charm.  he pouts and looks up at kevin.  “you got this made?”  he nods.  “can you put it on me?”

he nods, and drapes it around his neck to clasp it.  he presses a kiss to the back of dalton’s neck when he’s done, and dalton kisses him when he twists around.

“i love you.”  he wraps his arms around kevin’s neck and leans into him.  kevin lies down on his back so dalton’s on top of him.  he thumbs at the necklace hanging.

“looks good on you.”

dalton kisses him.  “i know.”

they have dinner at dalton’s aunts house.  it’s just her, her husband, and her two kids, so it’s nothing like the night before.

wymack calls just after dinner.  “merry christmas.  what are you doing?”

“merry christmas, we just ate, we’re at his aunt’s house.”

“everything going good?  no problems?”

he glances through the doorway at dalton at the table and smiles to himself.  “no problems.”

[jeks-tgs]

@victoria-hyde

(I'm sorry this took so long)

TW: angst, blood, implied self-harm in the form of self-experimention, poor mental health, downward spiral, hallucinations, mentioned verbal abuse

It was sudden and without warning. One minute Dr. Jekyll was fine, his usual upbeat self, and the next he just... snapped. Maybe it was Frankenstein calling him a whore, maybe it was the Lodgers cackling, but it broke him. He spun around and glared wildly at the old woman on the bed, teeth bared in an animalistic grin and eyes holding a mad sort of anger to them. The Lodgers quickly fell silent, eyes wide, but Frankenstein merely lifted a brow. He stormed towards her, shoved the medication into her hands, and left.

From there it just got worse. He would talk to himself, react to things that weren't there, and from what Jasper had finally told them, he smelled of blood, whiskey, and brimstone almost constantly. It eventually got to the point where the others could smell it too, which led to their current situation.

"Dr. Jekyll?" Ito asked hesitantly, surveying the chaos of his office with worry. "Dr. Jekyll? Are you in here?" She crept further into the room, careful not to step on any of the paperwork strewn about the floor, a lot of it covered in worrying stamps of 'past due' or even more worrying splashes of dark brownish red, flaking off the paper. She nearly screamed when a hand grasped her shoulder, turning to stare into Jekyll's wild stare. He grinned like a cheshire cat, his green eyes catching the light- wait, no. That wasn't right. The doctor's eyes had always been red. "What... happened to you?" Her voice trembled as she noticed the glowing green hidden amongst the blood steadily flowing from his nose and lips.

"Freedom, and yourself?" He crooned with an odd tilt of his head. Ito took a cautious step back.

"We're worried for you," She said slowly, lifting her hands in the same manner one would use with a frightened animal. "We haven't seen you in a while." Here the man grinned, so wide and unhinged that for a second Ito's heart leapt into her throat, thudding painfully with fear.

"I've been working, perfecting my experiment," He said with a little titter, slender fingers easily plucking a book from a nearby pile. How he could find anything in this mess was almost more intriguing than what the contents of the journal were. A sudden growl had the junior neo-alchemist looking up, heart shuttering to a halt at the dark anger on the man's face. Thankfully he was glaring at the mirror, not her, as he spat out, "It's my research, you bastard, I'll show whoever I damn well please!!" He made a gesture with his arm as if brushing something aside, but Ito couldn't see anything there. "And call off your damn nightmares!! It's impossible to focus with them here!!" Just then, Bird poked his head in, mouthing over Jekyll's shoulder 'Dr. Lanyon is here'. Ito mouthed back 'Take him ro Frankenstein', not wanting to risk the man seeing his co-founder like this. She didn't know Lanyon all that well, and she was worried he might send Jekyll off to Bedlam if he saw him like this. Bird nodded, ducking out of sight.

"Alright, Jekyll, let's see this research of yours.."

---

"I don't understand why I can't just go and see Henry!"

Helsby and Mosley shared a look, uncertain. Dr. Lanyon tapped his foot impatiently, looking rather cross as the two stood in front of him.

"W-Well, y' see sir.." Helsby began, only to let out a breath of relief as Bird called out to the man, claiming he was needed up in the attic. With a huff, Lanyon headed up the stairs, grumbling with irritation. When he reached the old woman's room, he was prepared to have to console a distressed Henry, only to furrow his brow when he was instead met with a triumphant grin.

"Ah, so my new doctor has finally arrived," She sneered. "Honestly, they should just send Jekyll, seeing how I can tolerate him now." Lanyon narrowed his eyes in frustrated confusion. "Oh, have they not told you? They want you to mix up that fancy medicine on that paper there because they don't trust Jekyll not to do something rash. I personally don't see the reason in it; proper mad science never follows textbooks or recipes!"

"What are you talking about 'Henry can't be trusted'? He's one of the most trustworthy men I know!" He argued. "And what do you mean 'mad science', Henry isn't mad!" He immediately regretted saying that when he saw the way Frankenstein's victorious smirk only grew. "..what did you do?"

"I didn't do anything," The old woman raspt with a cruel smile. "He must have finally seen the error of his ways and discarded all that pompous nonsense, and he's been much more enjoyable ever since. Of course, it is admittedly a tad unnerving when he starta yelling at his reflection, but one does need to be mad to be a mad scien- where are you going? Wait, you're supposed to make my medicine!" Lanyom didn't listen, already rushing towards Henry's office.

As he ran, he couldn't help but feel grateful Henry never took him up on his offers to teach him how to box; if he needes to subdue his friend for his safety, he'd prefer it not to be more difficult than necessary.

[salmonmakiii]

Would you please do a time stamp 20:45 with boyfriend Semi Eita some mild angst?

Here ya go~ Again, sorry this took long, sweetie (⋟﹏⋞).

[20:45]

About : Semi x reader Note : Mild angst. Why do I feel like my stories gets longer with each request? Sorry if there’s any mistakes!

You and Semi have been happily dating for a year now. Since you were first years, people have noticed the weird tension between you, and that tension was cleared once he confessed to you in your second year. At the start of your dating, he was amazing. He was kind, caring, and would “drop-kick anyone that’ll hurt you” as he said.

Dating him, you know about his club activities. You’d come to visit him once in a while and would see the coach yelling at them. You felt kind of bad for him because the pressure you felt was intense and you weren’t even inside the gym. You’ll push away those scary feelings for your boyfriend because whenever you visit him, he’ll smile.

When you became third years things started to become weird. You were never the type that constantly needs attention nor were you the possessive type. However, with how your boyfriend’s been acting lately, you couldn’t help it.

You love it when Semi talks about his passion for his volleyball team; how his eyes would brighten every time he told you about his improved serves. But now, it seemed that that’s all he talks about with you. He doesn’t even ask you how you were doing or anything about you at all. You first let this one slide because you know about how serious his volleyball games get especially when he’s a third year now. But that wasn’t the only thing that annoyed you.

Shiratorizawa’s volleyball team is a “powerhouse” according to other schools. Due to their reputation, the members are popular amongst students, especially the third years.

Semi was talented and pretty looking by himself and being in the school’s strict club just boosted his popularity. Some juniors would be greeting him whenever he passes by the hallways and they would squeal whenever he waved and greeted them back.

You were okay with this since he overall has a nice and friendly personality.

Valentine’s day was a bit annoying. Last year, you’d given him chocolates and you remember how flustered he was and how he gave you a peck on the cheek as thanks. This year, however, you saw a group of people surrounding him when you were about to walk into his class. They were complimenting him and wishing him luck for his next game and practice. There were chocolate-flavored drinks on his and chocolate snacks on his desk. Someone even gave him a bouquet.

“These are all for me? Aw, you shouldn’t have, ya know? It must be hard making all of these.” Semi scratched his neck nervously, a slight blush on his cheeks.

You stared at him, your hands gripping the box of chocolates in your hands nervously. Your handmade one felt inferior compared to other gifts. You gave yours after school, and the response you got from here wasn’t so satisfying.

“Oh, thanks for the chocolate!” He said as he put yours into a bag filled with his other gifts.

I mean… at least he said thanks…?

You thought it was only for Valentine's day, but he’s been getting gifts almost every week. Often, he’ll get snacks, you were okay with that, you were. What hurts you the most is that half of the school knows you two are dating but they still dared to send him love letters. You weren’t that popular in school but you weren’t exactly invisible either.

What’s worse about all this was that Semi didn’t even say anything. He just goes with it.

You had enough of this, you need him to know how you feel. Does he still look at you as his significant other or as a friend? You had heard from Tendou about their schedules and you were now waiting outside. They have a training camp next week and you couldn’t wait any longer.

It was Friday night and you were walking towards your dorm building after buying some snacks from the nearby convenience store, a small yawn escaped your lips. You opened your phone to check on the time.

20:45… Gotta get back fast.

You heard a few voices from your right and noticed that it was Semi and a few other guys from his volleyball team; Tendou, Ushijima, and Ohira. You bit your lip nervously, your mind debating with your gut.

Should I talk to him or not? I don’t want to interrupt them-

“Oh! Isn’t that (Y/n)-chan?” Tendou suddenly pointed to you and all heads were on you. You flinched and awkwardly wave to them.

“What are you doing this late at night, (Y/n)-chan?” Tendou hopped and skipped over to you, offering you a cute smile.

“I just went to the convenient store to get some snacks,” You said as you raised your bag of goods, “What were you guys doing?” You asked looking past Tendou to look at Ushijima, Ohira, and your boyfriend walking towards you.

“We just finished practice,” Ushijima spoke.

“Seriously? At this late at night?” You blinked your eyes in disbelief. Ohira let out a laugh and nodded his head.

“You guys are weird,” You joked. You glanced at Semi for a quick second before looking back at the three of them.

“Anyways, Good work today. I should get back to the dorm.” You excused yourself, Ohira then stopped you and pointed at Semi.

“You shouldn’t be walking alone this late at night. Why don’t you ask your boyfriend to accompany you back?” He suggested. Semi looked at Ohira and then at you, confused.

“It’s been a while since you talked right?” Ohira slapped Semi’s back as your boyfriend walked towards your side.

His friends noticed but he doesn’t?

“Be careful though, I heard rumors about ghosts around school lately~” Tendou chimed.

“Ghosts aren’t real, Tendou,” Ushijima added.

“I was just teasing, Wakatoshi-kun,”

Parting ways with them, you and Semi walked side by side. He seemed to be humming a song, enjoying the cold breeze while you were trying so hard to say the words you wanted to say to him.

“So, why are you practicing until this late?”

Dammit! That’s not what I meant!

“Oh, you know, with the training camp and all,” He shrugged. You pursed your lips, letting out a hum as you nod your head.

You guys didn’t exchange any more words until you’ve reached the front door of your dorm.

“Thanks for accompanying me here, Ei-“ You paused, his name somehow stuck in your throat in a painful lump, “Eita.”

For a split second, you could see a frown from him. Then it was replaced by a weak smile.

“Yeah.”

Semi turned around, hands in his pocket. Time seemed to slow down as you bit your lips nervously. Should you do it now? He just got back from practice, you didn’t want to tire him out. But if you don’t you’re only hurting yourself more.

“W-wait! Eita!” You called, your heartbeat fastens and your feet rooted to the grown when his eyes met yours.

“What is it?” his voice rang in the empty night as you looked towards your feet.

You took a moment to calm yourself down, carefully choosing the words inside your head.

“You’ve been… sort of distant lately,” You started and Semi’s expression tensed.

“And I get it that you’re like this because of your practice and all, but-“ You braced yourself for the words that were about to come out, trying your best to not sound shaky.

“W-why do I feel like I’m the only one who cares in this relationship?”

Semi’s mouth was agape and words were stuck in his throat as his mind tries to come up words. That’s not true, what you said. He cares about you too. But looking back these past few months, he noticed that he was slowly getting distant from you. He didn’t know if he intended to do it or not.

“I- That’s not-“ Semi stopped his words. He let out a sigh and ruffled his hair in frustration.

“Look, It’s um…”

As Semi was finding words, you stared at him in disbelief. He was… doubting. If he loved you, he’ll say that it’s not true in a heartbeat. Your body began to tremor and a painful lump rose in your throat. Your stomach was feeling uneasy and you felt like you might cry there.

“Let's talk about this later. After my training camp, okay?” He asked, arms on his neck as he looked at you nervously.

You ducked your head down, a small nod from you was the only thing he received.

“Good night.”

Semi turned his back on you, the tears brimming in your eyes were hidden from him as he walked further away from you.

[haloud]

my heart stops when you look at me

An au where Michael is a student at UNM and Alex is a musician just starting his career. They meet at a bar doing a live music night, and they catch each other’s eye across a crowded room...

-- ao3 --

Michael plants his notebook right over his face to block out the sun. Just for a second. If he closes his eyes, he wouldn’t be the only exhausted student passed out on the lawn after one too many pre-exam all-nighters this week. And the paper is so nice and cool against his cheeks…

“Guerin!”

He startles and smacks the notebook off his face. Matt is in three of his six classes, one of them the long-ass lab that is both Michael’s favorite part of the week and an exercise in restraint. He’s a good guy. A good guy with a really loud voice.

“Hi, Michael,” Erin says, looking down at him with furrowed eyebrows. She’s a junior and was Michael’s orientation leader. They’re sort of friends? He helped her fix her car when it was raining and she was stuck on campus at night, and she payed him fifty bucks for it. ‘You take what you get with first semester friends,’ Isobel says sagely, like she’s not also a first semester freshman, and like she hasn’t made a million friends already.

Ugh, that’s not fair. Isobel misses him and Max fiercely. At least as much as Michael misses her. At least there will be time to visit over the holiday—even if it’s forced time, since the dorms are closing and Michael has nowhere else to go.

“Hey guys, what’s up?” Michael sits up and brushes grass out of his hair, even though it’s finals week so it’s totally acceptable if he looks like he crawled out of a bush at any given moment.

“Are you doing anything tonight?” Erin asks.

“Just more of this.” Michael wiggles his notebook at her. “I have Jayaraman next semester too, so I want to make a good impression on the final.”

“Do you think you could maybe take one teeny, tiny night off?” Matt wheedles.

“Uh…”

“It’s Friday,” Erin cuts in, “And finals don’t start until next Thursday. You’ve totally got time to come downtown with us.”

“Take us downtown, she means. Her car is busted again.”

“You could have said something; I’d have fixed it.”

“It only happened, like, the other day, and we’ve all been busy. Anyway, there’s this great bar that’s having a music night, and I really want to go. I think you’d like it! You have great taste in music, Michael.”

“Uh…thanks?”

“You’re welcome! So you’re in?”

“Sure,” Michael says weakly, wishing he was saying anything else. New, crowded places with people he doesn’t know all that well. Sounds like a great and not at all stressful start to the weekend.

--------

This is the first time Michael has set foot in any of the bars around campus, and it turns out it looks like…every other bar Michael’s ever been in, only with more red and silver around the place.

“This is the best of them for live music,” Erin says as the bouncer digs his stamp into the back of Michael’s hand, printing him with a huge, wet X.

“Is anyone good playing? Or even anyone you’ve heard before?” Michael mostly wants to know how wasted his night is about to be. He has a spare notebook and his textbook shoved under his arm, but with the noise and the people…he’ll be so distracted not much will get done anyway. But, hey, friendship and all that. Friendship and a little light kidnapping, maybe.

“A couple of decent cover bands, some locals. But we’re here for one group in particular—there’s this guy out of Roswell, actually—”

“Oh my god,” Matt cuts in, “Did you drag us here to make us listen to a guy with a guitar sing about alien abductions.”

Matt is just as guilty of the dragging, Michael doesn’t point out.

“I said he’s from Roswell, don’t be a dick. And he’s not just a guy with a guitar, he’s part of a group and they’re really good, but his voice is amazing.”

Matt and Erin bicker good-naturedly all the way inside. The music already playing when they walk in is…fine. Better than the stuff Michael plays on the guitar Max gave him last Christmas, anyway, not that Michael lets being bad stop him from loving the music. But it’s still loud, still crowded, still a distraction he doesn’t need dropped in his lap by people he doesn’t really know

Michael hangs back, letting the others go ahead of him to get swallowed up by the crowd pushing against the low stage. Erin pauses for just a second, eyebrows raised in concern; she hooks her thumb toward the crush of people, asking if he’s coming, and Michael shakes his head, waving his notebook in response. He sticks to the edge of the crowd for a little bit; he edges toward the bar and gets a bottle of soda, just for something to do. Then, finally, someone stumbles out of one of the booths along the wall, and Michael darts for it before it can get claimed again. When he looks back, Erin and Matt are gone. He sighs, forcing his shoulders down. He drove, so it’s not like they can leave him stranded, and they’re together and have been here before, so they’re more fine than he is. And he’s fine.

A little bored, though, as setup ends and the next guy takes the stage and starts plucking out a moody ballad. Michael digs the point of his pen into a page, idly working it back and forth until the paper starts to tear under the soggy weight of ink and pressure. There’s not a formula he’s written down in these notes he doesn’t already have memorized by now, but still somehow it feels like sitting here surrounded by distractions is playing with fire. Or with failure, rather, and then probation, and then expulsion, and then he’s lost, well, everything. He fumbles his phone out of his pocket to check the time, runs through the time zone calculations in his mind. Isobel is states away, Max an entire ocean, but he could probably still call one of them just so they can jerk him out of his catastrophizing. But wouldn’t that be overreacting in itself? It’s not like he doesn’t know he’s going to pass the exam no matter what, or that one exam doesn’t define him (the Isobel answer vs. the Max answer).  He punches through to the next page. On stage, moody ballad guy says a quick thank you to a lukewarm crowd and exits stage left.

Two women take over the stage next. They pull Michael’s eye, the lights off their dark hair, the easy way they move around each other, so comfortable on stage Michael wonders if maybe they play here regularly. They dance around each other, weave around the wires, except when they collide on purpose, elbows into ribs, hips into hips, laughing and shoving past the other. They get set up, guitars and keyboards and all mic’d up, then one of the women comes up to the main mic, so close to smearing her poppy-red lipstick.

“Well, we’re supposed to be getting started, but somebody is running a little bit late.”

“If anyone make an alien abduction joke, we’ll get you thrown out,” the other woman crows from behind the keyboard.

This must be the group from Roswell, then, the whole reason Erin wanted to come in the first place. Michael flips his notebook closed to focus, then opens it again, then closes it when the woman abandons the mic to lean over the other side of the keyboard and talk in close with the other, then opens it again when he realizes he’s staring. He scruffs his hand through the back of his hair and hunches over his notes, as if he can duck from the hum of anticipation running through the crowd.

A hum that only gets louder and feverish when there’s a clatter behind the stage, and a guy, breathless and flushed from being outside, bounds up onto the stage to join the other two members of the band. A bit of a cheer comes up from the audience as he grabs one of the guitars, and he swings his head around to acknowledge them, teeth white and flashing in his grin as he raises a hand, stage lights playing off the subtle muscle in his arm, and Michael’s staring again, hand wandering to his mouth, picking at a chapped spot on his lip.

“Sorry about that,” the guy laughs into the mic. “You guys ready to get going?”

The cheer goes up again, louder this time. They start to play, but Michael--Michael’s gone way past distraction and into full on not paying attention on anything but, foot rattling on the sticky floor, eyes fixed magnetically on the guy at the front of the stage.

The singer has a little scar right over his eyebrow. Michael bites his thumb to make it stop tingling from want to reach out and follow the line down to his eye. He wants to touch him all over, really, wants to cup his face and feel his cheekbones under his thumbs and feel the softness of his dark hair on his fingertips, but it’s that little scar that calls to him most, calls for his fingers and his lips, and Michael bites down harder as another pulse of wanting goes through him.

“Brand new city, no more excuses,” had been Isobel’s mantra for months before any of them left, Iz and Michael to school and Max for his long-awaited road trip. But so far for Michael it hasn’t been much of either. He’s barely seen the city, and he’s been pretty comfortable in his, well, not comfortable but familiar, old excuses.

What’s an excuse, again? He thinks as the man on the stage smiles down at his guitar, eyes closed like he’s in bliss, ink-black eyelashes fanned out across those cheekbones.

Here’s one: Michael’s still never kissed a guy, no matter how sexually free television has reassured him college is supposed to be. This guy, no matter how much he makes all of Michael’s atoms sit up and take notice, no matter how his deep, smooth voice makes the hair on the back of Michael’s neck stand up and his breath catch in his lungs, there’s no guarantee he’s even into guys. And if he is he’s probably got guys lining up and he’s probably confident and experienced and if Michael came up to him after his set and tried to charm him he probably could but then if the singer wants him he’ll have to show his cards and just embarrass himself when the singer can definitely do better.

Better to languish in lonely anonymity with only his PHYS204 notes to keep him warm at night. It’s just better this way.

The slow song finishes, and the man starts in on something faster, something some people in the bar seem to recognize, as a cheer goes up around the stage.

“Yeah?” The man calls over the noise, a blinding grin spreading across his face as the crowd calls back an answer. The girl on bass whoops wildly along with the crowd, pouring more electric energy on top. Even Michael gets goosebumps all up and down his arms. The singer plays the song’s intro a second time with that brilliant smile making the music even better to Michael’s ears, so much so that he considers for a split second abandoning his notes and pressing into the crowd, pushing through bodies until he’s right up front, so the singer would look at him, see him, notice him even for just a split second before he moves on to the next city.

But he stays where he is, ass planted in the booth and feet cemented to the sticky floor, and he chomps on the end of his pen because he ran out of un-bitten parts of his thumb. There are a few people here that know this song well enough to sing along to the chorus, but Michael can’t even focus long enough to hear a single word, too busy watching the way the singer’s lips shape them, the way they shine under the lights like maybe they’re covered in a hint of gloss, and Michael wiggles his pen between his teeth wondering what it might taste like…

This song comes to an end too, and Michael sucks in a deep, slow breath as the singer wraps those lips around the neck of a water bottle and takes several deep gulps, his Adam’s apple bobbing, showcasing that long, slender neck. Michael nearly spits his pen across the table as he fumbles to take a matching gulp of his soda, just so his mouth makes the same shape as the singer’s.

And then.

For a moment, just for a moment, and—Michael has to be imagining things, because there aren’t any lights pointing his way, isn’t anything, he must just be scanning the crowd but—for a second, he’s chewing his lip and watching elegant musician’s fingers screw the top back on a bottle, then the very next second he’s looking up and the singer is looking back at him. Michael’s breath freezes in his lungs. He can almost, almost still hear the last reverberating note of their last song, curled up and humming inside of his ribcage.

The moment snaps like an overstressed string a second later when one of his bandmates taps him on the shoulder and he looks around and laughs that gorgeous laugh and Michael melts into a puddle on the tabletop, his brain screaming in his ears.

“One more, then we have to step aside and give someone else a turn,” the singer says into the mic. Michael hears it muffled through his arms over his ears. He sits up so he can watch all through their last song. He’d close his eyes and let the music wash over him, but he wants to drink in the sight of the singer for as long as he possibly can, so he does, transfixed by the way his hands curve around the neck of his guitar, around the mic stand, the way his eyelashes shadow his cheekbones when he looks down, the way his eyes catch the light when he looks up and out across the crowd. For a breathless second, Michael thinks they make eye contact again, and then the second is gone.

The crowd cheers enthusiastically when the song ends, the three musicians thank them, and go to leave the stage. Michael exhales like it’s the first time he’s breathing all night.

The next act is a woman playing something quiet and mellow, and Michael sighs and curls his shoulders in, flipping open his textbook for the first time since that band took the stage. He likes studying, he does, but he likes it a little less in stark contrast to the magic that was sparking through him when that singer was at the mic.

“Hey, is this seat taken?” A slightly hoarse voice says.

Michael flips another page and doesn’t look up. “Uhh…no?”

He’s had it too good for too long, apparently. Fair enough, though; this place is packed. Anyway, maybe now that the Roswell group is done, Michael can go find Matt and Erin and get out of here. The guy slides into the other side of the booth, and, sighing, Michael flips his textbook and notes closed and goes to stand.

“Leaving so soon?”

“Look, man—” Then Michael chokes on his own spit as he finally looks up and sees who he’s talking to.

It’s him. Smudged eyeliner, dark hair glittering with sweat, skintight black t-shirt clinging to every curve and contour of his chest, that little scar on his eyebrow—Michael drops back down onto the seat and rocks back, not sure why he’s here, not sure what he wants, just not sure—

“I don’t want to keep you here,” the singer says, head tilted, almost apologetic as he pulls his hands toward himself, off the table, away from Michael. “But I saw you, and—I don’t know, thought we might get to know each other.”

“Uh, ok, yeah.” Michael bites down on his tongue, trying not to babble. “Um. You guys were really great. My first time hearing you, but yeah. I really love music, and you guys—yeah.”

Okay. Not smooth. But at least he hasn’t hit himself with anything yet, so he’s doing better than Max whenever he’s got a crush.

“Really? Thanks.” His face lights up in a broad smile. Michael’s heart thumps pitifully. The guy says, “Maria, Rosa, and I—” he points to the bar where the two women he was on stage with are sitting, naming them both, “haven’t been playing together long, but it’s still been a dream come true. I’m Alex, by the way.”

He holds out his hand. Michael swallows.

“Michael,” he says, and shakes his hand.

Goosebumps prickle up his arm to his shoulder at the warm brush of his hand, at the feeling of guitar callouses on his palm, at the shivering electric of the two of them touching for the first time. Michael’s hand is slightly clammy, but that’s okay, because Alex’s is too.

“So do you go to school here?” Alex asks, leaning forward.

“Um, yeah. Freshman. Although you could probably guess, considering I’m like the only one here with the mark of doom.” Michael waves his hand with its faded black X. Oh yeah, super cool, way to go, Mikey. Just broadcast to the world that you’re too young to drink and guys who make music and wear eyeliner will just come lining up to beat your door down.

“You’re definitely not the only one. I’d have one too if I wasn’t playing. As it is, the bartenders just know not to serve me anything that isn’t virgin.” He bats those long eyelashes. Michael wants to crawl under the table, half to hide, half to put his head on his knee.

“Are you guys touring?” Michael asks, poking himself in the lip with the gnawed end of his pen rather than spitting up his other question: Will you be in town long? Can I see you again?

“If you count pounding New Mexico pavement as touring,” Alex says with a self-deprecating laugh. “Maria’s family has owned a bar in our hometown for, like, ever, and her mom gets us some gigs through the grapevine. We’ve got a few more things lined up for the next few weeks, but nothing super exciting or anything.”

“Touring or not, you’ve probably got cooler places to be than I do,” Michael says, forcing a flicker of a smile, “my dorm room doesn’t even, like, have any posters in it. Not that cinder brick isn’t industrial chic or something—my sister likes to joke that—oh my god I’m babbling so badly, please put me out of my misery.” Michael’s face is burning with embarrassment, so hot that there’s probably like no way the cute guy can’t tell even through the dim ambiance of the bar.

And this guy—Alex—just smiles that enigmatic little smile (Max would call it a Mona Lisa smile, and oh my god if he’s starting to think like Max this must be serious) and taps his index finger against his lip.

“I might be able to fix your poster problem, or at least contribute to the cause,” he says. “Unless you think it’s just way too arrogant. Although maybe arrogance can be part of my rock star mystique. Does it work on me?” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, in a way that ought to be a little silly but actually just makes Michael take another desperate chug of his soda to avoid babbling even more. The little scar moves with his eyebrows and Michael wants so badly to kiss it. To kiss him. Like he’s never wanted to kiss a guy before, not even Danny Giordano who sat next to him in first period and wore v-neck shirts and made him realize for the first time that he even liked guys. Nothing has ever come close to the way this man’s fingers look all long and strong on his guitar and oh my god is he making this weird he’s definitely making this weird.

“Hey,” Alex says, and he reaches out to grab Michael’s wrist before he can sink his teeth into his thumb again. He slides his thumb tenderly across the thin skin of Michael’s wrist, and holy shit he’s going to pass out.

Alex says, “Hey, it’s okay. Are you feeling okay? Are you here with anyone—”

“No, I’m fine—” Michael says, miserable, face bright red.

Even though he basically has to be wearing makeup to make his face look that perfect and smooth, Alex’s cheeks go a little bit pink too. “Um, right. Uh—posters! I can give you one. For the band. If you want it? I mean, not that you were just here for us or anything—I can ask another group if you’d prefer—”

“No! I want you. I mean, uh. Your band. ‘S poster. Would you sign it?”

“Would you want me to?”

“Please,” Michael breathes pitifully. But then he remembers that he’s chewed his pen into a gross nub of its former self and almost whimpers with disappointment.

Alex doesn’t disappoint, though. He gets up for just a second—Michael watches his back as he makes his way across the room, watches the heavy rise and fall of his boots and the sway of his shoulders and the way his ass looks in those painted-on jeans—to talk to one of the girls he was on stage with, the one who played the keys and Alex pointed out as Maria earlier. They talk for a bit; Maria even glances Michael’s way, a knowing smirk on her face, and Michael’s face catches on fire. He’s out of soda, so he doesn’t even have anything to drown himself with.

Maria turns back to Alex and laughs, and Michael squirms, digging his finger into a split seam in the seat’s upholstery. Are they talking about him? Okay, it’s probably sort of funny to Alex’s friends, yeah, that some scruffy college student is trying to talk to him, trying to…flirt? But that doesn’t mean it feels funny to Michael, whose heart is still fluttering, high on adrenaline, on the chance that Alex might come back to talk with him some more. Whatever it is Alex wants—to promote his band, sure, whatever, he’ll send Isobel their mixtape tonight—to hook up, maybe? Michael’s down for that too, even if it sucks to know that’s all he’d ever be. Fuck. Don’t come on too strong. There’s almost zero chance Alex is looking for a groupie. Get your shit together, Guerin, before he comes back.

Rosa shoves Alex’s shoulders and, still laughing, Alex goes along with it, letting her propel him a couple steps across the floor and back toward Michael. Michael’s hands flutter, searching for something new to fiddle with and finding nothing, and he shoves them into his hoodie pockets before Alex gets too close. With that gorgeous smile, and his eyes all sparkling and crinkled at the corners. 

“Sorry that took so long,” Alex says, sliding back into the booth. “Apparently to get a Sharpie from my friends you have to answer three riddles or something.”

Michael lets out a breathy sigh and, like, he’d deny it, but his eyelashes flutter when Alex bounces forward to lean on his elbows, bringing himself closer to Michael, as close as they can be with the table still separating them.

“Oh, no worries,” Michael replies, and he could punch the air in triumph when his voice comes out smooth and normal, “I’ve just been sitting here waiting for you to finish your quest and come back to rescue me.”

There. Is that flirty enough? Is he being obvious enough? Michael doesn’t know how to flirt with guys or how to tell if guys are flirting with him. He still doesn’t know why Alex came over here in the first place.

“No prince would keep you waiting for too long,” Alex responds, his dark eyes glittering, one lid dropping in a slow, teasing wink. Before Michael can figure out a suitably smooth response, Alex uncaps his marker and unrolls the poster he brought with him just enough to scrawl a dramatic signature across it, alongside his bandmates’ names that must have been added while he was talking to them.

They’d been so beautiful looking, together, laughing and teasing each other and having fun. Alex clearly has friends. What does he need Michael for? In high school if he got approached it was usually by girls who knew he was kind of easy, but he doesn’t want Alex to think of him like that—and he shouldn’t, right? Unless Michael just kind of gives off that desperate vibe? Not that he isn’t desperate, mind you, for any sliver of Alex’s attention he can get; not that he isn’t scanning the crowd for Erin and Matt and hoping he doesn’t see them so they can spend more time together until Alex decides to leave.

“Everything okay?” Alex asks for the second time that night. Michael looks up at him and his head is tilted again, dramatic brows furrowed. Slowly, like he’s reaching out to a new animal, he reaches across the table to touch Michael’s wrist, eyes on his face waiting for Michael to tell him no, but Michael lets him, and relishes the goosebumps climbing up his arms again.

Michael clears his throat, knowing this time he basically has to answer. “Yeah,” he says, “It’s just…why are you being so nice to me? You probably have lots of people who’d work way harder for your autograph.”

Alex blinks at that. Then a little smile curves his lips and he says, “Our eyes met across a crowded room. Isn’t that a good reason?”

“Maybe. But, usually,” Michael slips his thumbnail under the label on his soda bottle, “Usually, people tend to have an ulterior motive for being nice to strangers.”

“Really?”

Alex pulls him forward, then, hard enough for Michael to wince when his ribs knock against the tabletop, and Alex rucks his sleeve up, and then the cold, wet tip of the marker is stroking on his skin, and when Alex lets him go there are ten digits scrawled across his forearm.

“Give me a call, then we won’t be strangers anymore,” he says, eyebrows raised, lip caught between his teeth.

Michael just—Michael gapes at him, eyes wide and lost for words, until he’s called by Rosa and Maria and gets up to leave, and Michael reaches out for him on instinct, catches him by the hand.

“I will,” he says, “I’ll call you. I definitely will. Um. Talk to you later?”

“Can’t wait,” Alex breathes, squeezes Michael’s hand, then disappears into the crowd.