#turned cold jeb winter

[fountainpenguin]

"But I'm sure this positive attitude will GET ME THROUGH- I mean, the rest of the world seems JUST FINE at living without you, so what's wrong with me!?" (x)

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New Pixels Imperfect AU one-shot today!

5 Minutes Selfish (Let's Call It PTO)

❤️ Read on AO3

💛 Start from Dog's Life Chapter 7

💚 More Pixels Imperfect fics

🚥 AU Guide

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Sniff's fingers tighten in the false wool of his shirt. That thing's woven from nothing but RGB light, just like Etho is beneath the leather skin that gives him face and legs and hands. "You look like my husband… You act like my husband." "I was your husband." Etho says this firmly because it is not a lie. If you strip out the roleplay filters, file off all the warnings Joel tossed at him outside the game (in memories Sniff does not have), then every word of this is genuine. Sniff's eyes burn, sparking pixels, and he wrenches his face away. His grip slackens on the shirt. Something breaks in Etho deep inside, then. It's like a twig. A fox trap. It snaps around his leg. Sniff bears his palms on Etho's front (his pecs) and glares right into his eyes. "You know that's not fluffin' true."

Prying someone's soul from skin isn't easy, especially if you're 4 weeks old, he has an undressing phobia, and you have twisted memories of being his devoted husband and #1 fan.

OR: In Dog’s Life Chapters 7-9, vex hybrid SnifferMyFeet donated his code to save Joel's life in exchange for the right to eat Etho's soul. Here's how that went down.

(First 1,400 words under the cut)

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5 Minutes Selfish (Let's Call It PTO)

💙  🧡  💚

At least Bdubs was polite about it. That made a few of Etho’s hearts breathe a little easier. And breathing, in general, was considered an all-around good thing (even underground, even in the cold when every inhale felt like getting shot by a pillager patrol, the shafts and feathers scratching you up inside). See, scratchy throats are working throats, and working throats, um… they’re good. What was I saying?

Etho will not lie, he reasons, if anyone asks if he’d like a hot chocolate, blanket, or a cuddle. This time of year, the server hub turns from cool to frigid, and Jeb help you if you can’t handle that kind of pressure month after month. Winter creeps in on silent paws and rapid wings. Especially in this part of the city. The base of the apartment’s lined with snow blocks, and that’s not accounting for the temperature Etho actually keeps his room at. If he ever respawns with ginger fur, he might exchange the ice blocks and wind charges for magma blocks instead. But for an arctic fox hybrid, New Star Station feels like home sweet home any night of the year.

He could still use a hot chocolate, though. And I honestly miss the sun.

It’s freezing on the balcony too, even for Etho. Until Bdubs is pulling him apart with that single scathing look, Etho had forgotten he’d shed his vest and shoes for a more comfortable snuggle session in bed. He stood there in his turtleneck. In his bare feet, which show fox toes and talons instead of flatter nails. He plays it cool, he almost doesn’t curl them in, but they do curl. Chunky claws scratch the stone.

“How was your night?”

A simple enough question. Bdubs’ eyes wander to Etho’s neck. Then they shift. The question goes unspoken, and unanswered. Etho moves his fingers on instinct, tracing a silver string of saliva down his skin. His neck’s a little warm where SnifferMyFeet was mouthing him, but the skin’s unbitten. Sniff’s hungry. No one likes to spend their evening curled up on the couch, starving and whimpering as medical work drones on and on and on. Sniff’s been very, very patient.

Anyway, Bdubs didn’t, like… make it weird or anything (Thank goodness). When the phantom hybrid landed on his balcony, Etho did try to lay the facts down as cleanly as he could… The whole “Hey, I know we have a standing arrangement, but you can’t eat my soul tonight because I’ve got a guest staying over and promised it to him” thing. It took a little set-up. So, um. Yeah.

“I smell vex,” Bdubs had spat, ruffling his wings. The membranes bunched together, bones clacking, but nothing spoke louder than that stare in his glowing green eyes. “Hold on… What's the play? Are you trying to get me in there? Because vex can log out phantoms?”

No, no. It wasn’t like that, Etho assured him. Bdubs pressed harder, asking whether the vex inside Etho’s room had threatened him to say all this and if Etho wanted him to take the guy out. Ha… Glory, Sniff would grab the nearest torch and charge, swinging at Bdubs for all he was worth. Already, with Etho absent from the bed a mere two minutes, Sniff had gotten restless. Etho heard the floor creak as the vex hybrid untangled from the bedsheets and took two steps across the bedroom. Bdubs twitched that direction like he could hear it too. Drool hung between one of his rear teeth and front fangs. It dripped down the left side of his mouth.

“You'd tell me if you wanted me to fight the guy, right? Blink twice if you want me to take the vex.”

Sniff’s feet stall at the edge of the room. At least, the creaking floorboards do. Maybe he just found a better way to sneak around. Etho looked at Bdubs, though - he looked him in the eye - and said again he owed “a favor” to his evening guest. Sniff can likely hear that. Sniff might be licking his lips. Etho wouldn’t mind it, actually, if he found out that he is. He’s hungry too, but there’s no point in eating when you’re this close to getting kicked from the Between dimension. It keeps you young. It keeps your health bars full.

The floor clicks again as SnifferMyFeet sneaks a little closer up the hall. It sounds like that in certain mineshaft caves or when you creep across the tree branches. Etho shifts just enough to keep himself between Bdubs and any glimpse he might catch of two-toned eyes and two-toned hair. Deep, deep down in his soul, the fox woven in his code lets out a warning growl.

Mine.

Now, “polite”’s a little relative, but for Bdubs, pacing and gnashing his teeth like this pretty much qualified. With his fangs jutting past his pouting lip, he may as well be a frumpy toddler in phantom’s clothing. A toddler is also a little relative. Ha! Etho can never stay mad at him. Bdubs only dropped by because he’s doing his job. It is late. Etho should be asleep. All the phantom hybrids can smell that on him, like he’s a piece of mutton thrown in the furnace or slapped down by the campfire. His soul tastes like maple syrup; that’s what the hunters always say. Bdubs shakes his head, rattling the bones in his tail and wings. Then he perfects that child metaphor with his grandiose bow. See, it’s like they can read each other’s minds!

“I shall return… but the feed tonight, I bequeath to your sweet guest.”

Etho almost snorts. “Sweet as a shulker full of sugarcane,” is his reply. They exchange parting nods. Bdubs leaps on the railing, then off the balcony in a single swish. Etho squints his eyes against the rush of grit swirling from his potted plants; the crack of those wings could fry the crackle off a charged creeper. It probably has! Bdubs hardly needs to flap them. He glides away.

And just like that, he’s back on the hunt again. Someone up the street lets loose a throaty howl. Sounds like Ren, joined by two and then three other wolf hybrids in the dark. An unseen figure whistles in response. Nice sound projection, Etho remarks (for his mind and mind alone). The frostbitten underground’s thriving and alive, weaving like a circuit board, rolling like a grave. Does the market sell I Heart New Star shirts, because it’s very tempting to use one of those as a pillow case. Yeah… Sweet dreams (like these) are made of love and lace.

Sniff chirps softly from up the hallway. It’s wordless, like a song. Come back, come back to bed, is the message woven underneath it; he’s cooing like a vex. Etho’s toggled-off fox ears twitch inside his soul, thoroughly tempted, but his feet stay planted where they are. There’s heat and cuddles and Sniff in the bed.

Still he lingers, braced on folded arms, until Bdubs sails behind the nearest apartment building and disappears. Etho sniffs the air. Bdubs smells like all the souls he’s hunted tonight; lots of foxes and at least one warden mixed in. The tip of his tail grazes his bare ankle. Oh, yeah… he didn’t shove his shoes back on. They’re still abandoned by the bed.

Speaking of…

Footsteps quicken up the hall, no longer restrained by the fear of a phantom hybrid’s fangs. “Ugh, you talk so long,” the man complains, and Etho’s palms warm against the wooden railing. He turns his head. That earns him a noseful of dark brown hair. Two arms snake around his stomach like fire licking along a couple strings. “Eefo… Please come back to bed. I don’t like it all alone.”

Um… His forehead’s on my arm. Does he know? There’s no way he doesn’t know. Etho’s eyes dip lower, searching for the skin behind the hair flops, before the flush rising up his necks hits his collar and he has to look away. He faces the open air again. They’re coming up on the dry season. It’ll only get colder from here on out. Which he’s thankful for, because all the pixels fizzing up his skin are flipping inside out.

Etho reaches for his mask. He tugs the fabric out just enough to gulp in the air, cooling his skin again. Against his better judgment, he shifts his gaze down to where Sniff still has his forehead pressed. One single eye peeps around his shoulder. It’s midnight dark. It sparkles like a starlit sky. He looks like Grian from this angle, not Joel at all apart from a strip of dark hair dyed with green that flutters with his lashes every time he blinks.

This does not cool his face off any faster.

❤️ Read on AO3

[shannonpurdyjones]

Appalachian Gothic Storytime!

This is "The Honeysuckle Weave" - a short story featuring spiders, weaving, and what happens when prey turns predator. Originally featured in issue 20 of Grim & Gilded, and posted here for your spooky season reading fix.

Hazel sits at her loom and weaves. Back and forth, back and forth she passes the shuttle between warp strands threaded smooth as the millpond on a windless day. Back and forth, back and forth the spiders in the corners scuttle, weaving their funnel webs in the cracks between rough hewn logs, sealing over pinpricks of light.

In spring Hazel helps Mama plant the vegetable patch. She hoes and tills and runs off groundhogs and deer with a broom, keeps after Edie and Harlan to mind that they don’t trample the neat new rows of green. In summer they put up food for winter—peas, pickles, peaches from the Gleason’s orchard that they trade for when they have eggs to spare, so many tomatoes her hands stain bright red. When the days grow short she strings beans and shucks corn, their papery husks rattling like the gold and red leaves on the trees when the wind kicks up the ridge.

When her other chores are done, Hazel tromps up the hill from their cabin to the loom house. The squat little barn’s barely big enough for the loom itself, with just enough space for one person to walk all the way around threading the warp and getting everything set for a new weave. Slits in the walls let in the afternoon sun as her feet work the treadles up and down—one and three, two and four, one and three again—the wood beam clacking and clattering along. Shuttle passes from left to right, right to left. Up and down, left to right, breathing in and out and in and out air that smells of old wood and the oil that keeps it smooth, and the faint sheep musk remembered in the woolen thread.

Weaving’s slow going at first, but Hazel knows how to wait. With enough clacking and clunking the pattern emerges, fabric smooth and whole spooling out of the chaos.

Hazel sits at her loom and weaves, and so she doesn’t hear his boots creak the porch steps that first cold week of October, though of course the spiders do. She doesn’t hear the wrap of knuckles on the old wood door, or maybe he never knocked at all. Maybe he came upon Daddy and Jeb in the fields as he ambled up the cart path and they had the whole thing settled before she or Mama ever got a say.  All she knows is when she walks down the hill still blinking away the loom house dim there he is, sitting on the porch steps pinching a cob pipe between his teeth, bandy legs crossed long out in front of him in the bright gold afternoon.

They never get visitors up here, except inviting the neighbors around for the occasional quilting or singing of hymns. Their land hunches on the back side of the ridge, a full quarter day’s walk past the Hilliard’s farm. Anyone looking for work stops there. Hazel knows because Millie Hilliard is her best friend, and it’s news worth sharing when anyone on this mountain looks up to see a face they don’t already know staring back at them.

He must’ve seen her coming down the hill, head still full of the complicated pattern she’s working up into a new coverlet for her and Edie’s bed. He doesn’t stand, doesn’t doff his worn out felted hat or introduce himself as would be proper. Hazel’s not quite grown, but she’s old enough for a man to tip his hat brim when he comes to call. Instead he watches her in that long, hateful way men watch a big buck that crosses their path on the way to church when they have no rifle on them to shoot it.

He sits without moving his scuffed up pant legs until Mama calls out the window for her to come help get supper on. He takes his time uncrossing his legs, like he’s doing her a favor even though he’d rather not go to the trouble. Hazel itches to smack his hat clean off his head, but of course she never would do it. She’s to turn the other cheek, as it tells in the good book.

Continue reading here

[silverslipstream]

Happy Blorbo Blursday Jeb!

Let's pretend for a second that it's not like, middle of the winter/summer and teleport to November. What would be your blorbos' costumes?

Thanks Flock for the ask! Happy Blorbo Blursday!

Kat would probably wear a fashionable turtleneck with some leggings and fashionable boots, her aesthetic is very librarian/teacher core

Harry would be wearing T-shirt and jeans, because he's never cold. The guy's practically a human radiator.

No idea what Jetta and Jack would wear, but Sora and Kaz are the exact opposite of Harry; they'd turn up in puffer jackets, scarves, two layers of trousers and snowboots.

Stan would probably wear some seriously cool ex-military gear, seeing as he was an Army pilot before turning to debris hauling.

[girlwiththenegantattoo]

Hoover, Nobody Does It Like You

This idea was planted in my head awhile back after a conversation where we were throwing around hilarious ideas in regards to Jeb being a vacuum salesman. The seed began to sprout after a conversation of Hamish's new look (what I said looked like a 70s porn star.)

Thank you to @agirlinherhead for brainstorming with me and @aherdofbees for this absolutely AMAZING collaboration piece and throwing ideas around with me as well.

This is a 2 parter and the second part has more character/ story details with plenty of smut and fluff

One more side note: in the 70s apparently they had porn post card/playing cards so that's what this is loosely based off of

"I wouldn't say he's horrible to work with, but I wouldn't put him in the top ten either. Maybe it's good that he's a no show."

Mila rolled her eyes at, yet another statement only spoken to flaunt Gina's ever-expanding ego. An ego of which stemmed from the belief of being in such high demand.

Working in the erotic photography industry meant that you could do everything that’s done in a porn video, but there wasn’t a need for acting or reason for dialogues. Though pornos could be cheesy, Mila was sure there was a line production companies drew when it came to acting and she was also convinced that Gina's would greatly cross that it. After all, it has to be difficult for men to stay hard when their partner is flailing around and letting out the most unbelievable and unattractive moans.

With Tommy calling out (the man picked to join the two of them) it left Mila, Gina, and Howard. Originally, Howard planned for two men, one to accompany each woman and have the whole photoshoot wrapped up in under three hours. Mila couldn’t remember the first man’s name but had been confused as to why he didn’t show up. Tommy’s callout, on the other hand, came as no surprise. He was having a rough go with some ED issues. Or so Mila was told.

“Well honestly, I wasn’t much in the mood for a shoot as it was. Ill just make up the money on a different day”

Gina stood from her spot on the couch and began straightening her red silk robe. A robe she kept tied just above her navel and the front opened in the shape of a V, covering most of her breasts while still allowing some inner cleavage to be seen.

“Yeah, I guess I’ll do the same,” Mila replied as she followed suit and made her way towards her bedroom.

—--

The sound of a generic doorbell echoed from behind the solid wooden door. It was the same sound as every doorbell Jeb rang. Removing his finger he reminded himself that today is a brand new day. A day where the sun was shining and he got to wake up in his own bed. Another day that started with an early wake up to shave and shower, a day built by routine. Despite the positive outlook, it was also just another day spent staring in the mirror while trying to neatly part his wavy brown hair and fighting back tears as he brushed his teeth. There had been nothing glorious about choosing to become a vacuum salesman after Jeb got out of federal prison but the job somehow managed to pay the bills.

The distance sound of high heels clacking grew louder as they made their way to the door. When it slowly opened, any well practiced sales pitch Jeb prided himself in knowing, suddenly died in the back of his throat.

“Can I help you?”

“Hell...uh...hello. Would you be interested in a vacuum...I mean a demonstration of this vacuum.” That wasn’t at all how it was supposed to start. He forced a single laugh before continuing his butchered spiel. "It has so many great features and it works really well." Jeb hoped she hadn't caught the wince he made; however, she did. She also caught the moment his cheeks changed from their olive tone to a red blush that stretched across his face. Even the way his blue eyes darted everywhere in an attempt to keep them from landing on the exposed skin of her chest. Had Gina been standing a foot closer, the ridiculously under dressed woman would have even seen the sweat droplets forming at the top of Jeb’s hairline.

The silence between them was brief but the way Gina’s brown eyes slowly studied every inch of Jeb’s features had made time stand still. Never sparing a glance at the bulky bodied display Hoover; that of which looked like a child's toy next to Jeb’s 6 '4 frame, she finally spoke.

"Would you be willing to demonstrate while having your picture taken?” Jeb’s eyes flew to hers in a startled reaction.

"Pictures of me...vacuuming?"

A quick nod and an expectant look were all Gina offered for an answer, before speaking again. "If you're worried about your appearance you have absolutely nothing to worry about. It's just a little photo shoot. Plus, there’s money involved.”

Jeb stood there silently, running through made up scenarios and weighing his options. It couldn't be too bad, could it? If he don’t sell the vacuum, he’ll still make some money.

“O...uh okay."

Gina took a step to the side, allowing the door to open all the way. “Well come on in then,” she said gesturing behind her with a tilt of her head.

The vacuum clunked and clanked as Jeb fought with one hand to turn it around by its handle. His intention was to wheel it in. Why he hadn't just used two hands to lift and turn the vacuum was beyond her but as he finally stood up straight with a tight grip at the base of its handle assembly, Gina thought his act of trying to play it cool was more entertaining to watch.

—-

Jeb followed Gina past the small entryway to a large, open room sat tucked away near the back of the house. Its décor consisted of burnt orange walls with carpet to match and a huge sofa bed. "Just hangout here. They'll be right out." They? She turned to leave without further instructions and just like that, Jeb was left alone in a stranger’s room, wondering what the hell he was doing.

Feeling utterly out of place he began to look for a power outlet. There were only two that he spotted, one being quite literally across the room from the other. The distance from one outlet to the door was fairly long however, luckily for him and anyone that owned a Hoover, the vacuums come complete with extra long cords. A fact Jeb normally made sure to always touch on when doing his well rehearsed sales pitch. Normally as in when he's not having to speak to a woman with very little on.

"So, you're my new costar?" A woman asked from behind Jeb and just inside the doorway. This woman's voice was different from the one he heard earlier. It was softer, more welcoming. After plugging in the cord Jeb straightened up and went to turn around. "Costa-”

The sound of Jeb’s heels catching on the gray cord was muted but Mila was certain the thump of his ass harshly meeting the ground could be heard in the next room.

"Oh my god! Are you ok?!"

This all must be a dream. First the scantily robed woman at the door, hair as if she just left the beauty salon and now this woman. She stood mere feet away now, concern written all over her angelic face and a glint of something Jeb hadn't seen in quite some time, inside big green eyes. Her features aside, it was the fact that all she wore was a men's collared, long sleeved button up shirt with frilly white underwear that peeked out just below the hem, that caused Jeb’s jaw to drop. A noise akin to a click came from just over Mila’s shoulder. Another one quickly followed; this time it was accompanied by a flash.

"That's great! That's good, now let’s do it with a look of shit, she's gorgeous and coming towards me rather than I just saw a ghost hmm."

Jeb was now able to piece together the fact that there were three people in that room and yet he was still completely confused as to what that man was asking of him.

"Mila, I want you to go over and unbutton all but the top one, open his shirt a bit and stand back in front of him. After, we'll get a series with you straddling his hips."

If Jeb's brain worked properly, it would have sent a signal to all his limbs, telling his knees to bend and arms to push so he could stand upright. But, perhaps if it had told him to make the short trip to the door, his feet would have become a tangled mess, causing more embarrassment for him. Instead, Jeb's brain chose to play the lovely tone of white noise and give him the complete inability to think.

While his brain was still trying to catch up, delicate fingers worked the small black button with ease while Jeb suddenly got lost in green irises. He’d been so caught up in her eyes that he hadn’t registered the rise of Mila’s brows or the soft lift of the corner of her lips. An attempt at a mischievous look. A disappointed whimper threatened to leave Jeb at the loss of closeness when Mila stepped back but quickly disappeared along with the air in his lungs the second she removed her shirt. Her shapely breast, void of any type of material, sent Jeb into another mesmerizing trance.

“Yes, just like that. Put your hand on your hip Mila. Good. good, now flash him a shy smile. Better yet bite your lip.”

Sounds of clicks and flashes rang out like rapid fire as Jeb began to desperately search for a way to hide his erection.

“Look at this guy, he's a natural. Now that you got him excited, give me a surprised look that turns seductive. Yes, that's it! You see what he's working with and now you're so turned on.”

Mila was fairly impressed with Jeb’s prompt excitement. Usually, most would require several minutes before to stare at images or one of the model's naked forms while stroking themself earnestly to get hard. The part that irritated her the most was when they chose her to do so. Taking pictures while in the nude WITH someone was vastly different than just standing there while they stared and tried to get it up.

“Yes! That's perfect. Now. I want to get a few with you crawling towards him. After you settle in his lap, I want you to kiss him starting at his neck”

Instead of white noise, Jeb now heard the prominent beating of his heart in his ears. All he could do was watch her, transfixed to the spot in which he sat. Mila’s movements were made with fluent grace as a click followed each advancement she made. Reaching the middle of Jeb’s long, spread legs, Mila placed a knee on either side of his hips and straddled him.

"Are you ready?" She whispered seductively.

Mila spread her knees a little further allowing her to sit flush against his erection. Before her lips could touch the soft skin behind his ear the sounds of Jeb’s panicked moans abruptly halted all her movements.

"Oh god, oh god...I…shit." Jeb’s body suddenly curled inward. With his face turned away he tried to quell the pounding of his heart. He couldn't bring himself to look at Mila. Not now. Not after the single touch of her clothed core caused him to ruin his pants.

"Did he just-"

"Howard." Mila quickly interrupted as she gently placed her hand on Jeb's shoulder. "I'd like to take a break now." The photographer let out a huff before begrudgingly walking off, waiting until he was halfway across the hall to yell that she could take 30.

"Hey?" Though her voice was quiet, Jeb expected to find a look of disgust or even exasperation, but as his eyes met hers, he found neither. "You haven't done this before have you?" Mila's question was spoken kindly, her tone that of something asked with genuine curiosity. Jeb's answer was instantaneous and short, the pitch in how it was said causing Mila to hide the endearing smile that threatened to cover her lips.

"GOODNESS no!"

[agirlinherhead]

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

Jeb X OFC 18+

The first part of a two shot Christmas special, set after 68 Days To Save A Life. 🎄

"For all the noise and laughter, the clatter of service trays and clinking of glasses and the soft rhythmic crooning of not too far away music, Jebs' world is oddly silent when the realisation hits him.

Here?

In the coat closet?

She wants to do what??"

Just a disclaimer: I've had this sat in drafts since Aug/September waiting with Christmas in mind.

[foreverrogers]

a black mile to the surface ⤞ a black mile (1/5)

Pairing: jeb pyre x f!singlemom!reader

Summary: it's the spring of 1986, and Jeb Pyre is a new man... or at least he's trying to be.

Warnings: single mom! reader, mention of LDS, a touch of angst, two (2) whole OCs, and that's about it!

Words: 2.1k

A/N: chapter one is finally here!!! a pretty short opening chapter but i think the next ones will be a little longer. i'm not entirely sure how i feel about the characterisation yet but this was so fun to write regardless! hope you enjoy :)

request something! masterlist // series masterlist

It's warm in this part of Idaho.

It had been the dead of Winter when Jeb arrived, a week after his first Christmas alone in Salt Lake, snow rolling in off of distant mountains that seemed to melt into the horizon.

They were beautiful, even if they had made the first couple months in his empty little apartment cold ones, coloured by frozen pipes and heavy clouds beyond frosted windows. He could recognise their beauty for beauty's sake, now. He thinks that might be all that matters.

Jeb meets you on the first day of Spring.

There's a warm gust of air as the doors of the station open, something sweet and floral carried in along with it. They had planted fresh flower beds outside the station over the weekend, bright pinks and reds and yellows to greet the new season, and Jeb thinks it must be the light scent of them drifting through until he looks up and realises it's you.

You're holding a huge bouquet of flowers, resting on your hip like a toddler, all white and subtle pink framed by pale craft paper. You smile at the officer at the front desk, seem to ooze a comfort and familiarity rarely seen in a police station, offer a greeting Jeb can't quite make out as you walk past.

Jeb doesn't mean to stare. Or rather, he doesn't mean to be so obvious about it, following your movements through the station with your wide smile and your bright eyes and your friendly waves. He thinks the clock might start ticking a little slower.

For someone staring so much, he doesn't realise you're walking towards his general direction until you're right there, only a few steps away with amused eyes narrowed at him, a gentle smile playing on your lips.

It's only a split second, when you hold his eyes and watch the light blush spread across his cheeks before he scrambles to look down, pretends to return to whatever work had been forgotten the moment you walked in.

He doesn't look up, even if the tug in his chest tells him he needs to, not as you breathe a quiet chuckle or as you stop only a few feet away from his desk, place a gentle knock on the door of his Captain's office. "Delivery,"  You sing, playful and sarcastic and bright. "Worst husband of the year award."

And Jeb doesn't mean to eavesdrop... But he was a detective, after all. Curiosity was half of the job. "You're a lifesaver, Y/n."

Jeb's first clue is that his Captain had never opened his door that fast in the three months he had worked there. Nor had he ever looked quite so tense, shoulders hunched, eyebrows pinched together, exhaustion etched into the creases of his forehead. The last time Jeb had seen him look this stressed there had been a stabbing on Main Street.

"Yeah, yeah. If your wife kicks you out it's my couch you're gonna be sleeping on, so, you know. Neither of us wants that."

Jeb watches his Captain sigh, runs a hand through his hair, follows the pattern of his receding hairline and the grey that's started to bleed into it. "Still, I owe you big time, seriously."

"Oh, that you definitely do," You beam, undoubtedly smug, pass over the bouquet and move to carefully fix the placement of the flowers as they sit in his arms. "I expect a bottle of the fanciest pinot you can find and unlimited access to your pool for the next six months."

"Done and done."

"Really?" You ask, and even turned almost fully around Jeb can hear the pleasant surprise in your voice. "That was... A lot easier than I expected. Pleasure doing business with you, I'll see you next time."

He ducks his head again as soon as he sees you start to turn, must have been too obvious because he only hears you take a couple of steps before there's silence again. A dim shadow falls over his paperwork, blearing yellow lights of the station blocked away.

"You're new, right?"

Jeb looks up, eyes wide, mouth shaping words that seem to slip out of his grasp as he reaches for them. "Uh, yes. Right."

You smile at him, and Jeb's unsure when he forgot how to act like a human being, only knows that right now his words and the colour of his face are failing him. "Sorry, I just know most of the people around here by now. Small town and everything," You explain, trail off for a moment as you watch him, something edging on fascination creeping into your features, like you were trying to read him, figure him out. You shake your head, seem to catch yourself. "I'm Y/n, by the way. I'm, uh, the Captain's sister."

"Detective Pyre," He introduces, holds his hand out to you before he realises he should be standing. The metal of his chair scrapes against the linoleum, a piercing shriek that earns a couple pointed looks he doesn't have to see to feel directed at him.

You just smile wider, reach out to shake his hand. Your nails are a neat, deep red. "First name Detective, last name Pyre?"

"Jebidiah," He corrects, immediately shakes his head at himself because when has anybody ever called him Jebidiah? "I mean Jeb. People call me Jeb."

You're still trying to bite back your smile as you drop his hand, nod lightly as you move to adjust the strap of your purse on your shoulder. He tells himself it's just the cop in him that notices you're not wearing a wedding ring. Another clue. "Well, Detective Jebidiah Jeb Pyre, it's lovely to meet you."

Jeb opens his mouth, moves to say something his brain hadn't quite formulated yet and finds himself saved by the door of Captain Y/l/n's office swinging open again.

"Y/n," He calls lightly, leaning through the door frame with his phone clutched against his chest.

"Mhm?"

"Jack wants to know if you're still here."

You sigh, bring your wrist up to straighten the face of your watch. "Can you tell him I'll be home in ten?"

There's a quick nod before Captain Y/l/n retreats back into his office

"Sorry," You mutter, turning back to him with a shake of your head. "My son, I'm supposed to be taking him to a soccer practice later."

"You have kids?"

"Just the one, just started high school."

"You seem young to have a son in..." Jeb's saying it before he registers it, doesn't catch himself until he watches the smile creep back onto your face. "Oh, I, uh- I just meant that you-"

"It's okay," You laugh, smile and cheeks undeniably warm. "It's, um. Very flattering that you think so. But I just got married straight out of high school, so..." You trail off, look down for a moment and Jeb thinks he's embarrassed you, that he's already said something stupid to the first person that's been this nice to him in months.

"Hey, I'm from Salt Lake so there's no judgement from me," He tries, earns a surprised breath of a laugh as you look back up at him and- did he just make a... joke?

“Ex LDS?” You ask, still half laughing, and Jeb feels the rush of heat flood his face.

He smiles back, anyway, straightens his tie just to have something to do. “That obvious?”

“Well, if you live around here long enough you figure out the way only ex-LDS seem to talk about it.”

The phone at the front desk rings, draws both of your attention to it for a moment and seems to remind you that you have somewhere to be.

You check your watch again. “I should get going but, uh. It really was nice meeting you, Jeb.”

“Likewise,” He mutters, can’t seem to figure out why he’s suddenly out of breath. 

—--

It smells like chlorine all the way in the driveway, like sweat and hot chemicals mingling in the air.

It's a warm day even for Spring, and in accordance with the weather, Jeb can hear the splashes and muffled yells of children emanating from his Captain's backyard.

He tries the front door first, a polite knock followed by a slightly more forceful one after a few ignored minutes. There's a sturdy manila folder in his grasp, the paperwork Captain Y/l/n had promised to finish up even on his day off. It's been almost a year now, but as Jeb absentmindedly taps his fingers against the card he thinks he's still not used to the missing weight of his wedding ring on his finger.

He gives up, before that train of thought gets too far, walks back onto the drive and search for the gate to the back yard. 

"Oh, hi there!" There’s a woman greeting him, pitcher of lemonade in hand as she smiles wide and hospitable. "Are you looking for Jonny?"

“Uh, Captain Y/l/n, yes.”

“He should be just over…” The woman turns, scans the yard and Jeb mimics her actions, looks for the familiar face of his Captain and, instead, finds yours.

You're already looking at him, attention seemingly drawn by the exclamation of your sister-in-law, eyes narrowed through the glare of the sun. He doesn't realise you're not wearing anything but a bright red bikini until he's probably been looking back for a little too long, sat at the edge of the pool and kicking your legs slowly through the water as you sit back on your palms.

He was still getting used to this, maybe a little more than some of the other things that were rare sights in Salt Lake. There was a lot more skin, wherever he looked, expanses of it smooth and glowing in the sun and leading down to- Oh... He was definitely staring.

Jeb has to make the conscious effort to tear his eyes away from you, thanks whatever God he still believes in that Captain Y/l/n is already waving him over when he looks up.

He feels overdressed, suddenly, surrounded by damp children and bikini-clad bodies and his Captain wearing nothing but a pair of swim trunks and a bright blue Hawaiian shirt.

Jeb offers him a pinched smile, lifts up his hand in a brief wave before starting across the yard, towards the other side of the house where the Captain waits beside the already open back door.

He almost makes it the whole way across without looking, because he doesn't want to be impolite and because for some reason the sight of you makes his face burn a little hotter under the heat of the sun. He does look, though, unavoidably, because he can feel your eyes on him as he passes and because he can't help himself.

You grin when your eyes finally meet, expression almost triumphant as you bring your hand up to wave, fingers wiggling through the shimmering heat. 

There's another woman there, suddenly, in the water beside you and tugging at your leg. It pulls your attention away from him, and Jeb ducks into the house before he can be tempted to look back.

Jeb gets a whole fifteen minutes of work done before there’s a knock on the door of the study. 

“Yeah,” The Captain mumbles, still half looking at his paperwork as he lifts his eyes to the slowly opening door. 

“Sorry to interrupt, could I steal some records?”

You’re behind him, again, the smooth lilt of your voice floating into the small office. 

“Of course.”

You make brief eye contact as you slip into the room, broken by Captain Y/l/n asking him a question he has to ask to repeat.

The white, oversized button up your wearing isn’t doing much to cover up the bright pigment of your bikini, nor is it even attempting to hide the bare slope of your legs, still sticky and damp from the pool, tracking faint wet marks across the carpet.

Jeb thinks this really might be becoming a problem.

—--

“Oh, before you go!”

Jeb’s hand is already on the handle to the front door, and he turns towards the voice behind him, watches as you walk up to him with a smile. You’re still only wearing that bikini, white shirt buttoned loosely in the middle. Jeb swallows. 

You look over your shoulder and step closer than you maybe need to, just so you can speek lower. “We’re throwing a surprise party for Johnny next Friday. For his ten year anniversary as Captain. The cop bar in town at 8? Will you come?”

There’s something about the way you say that last questions, will you come?, the wide hope in your eyes that makes him falter a little before speaking. Jeb smiles. “I’ll see you then.”

request something! masterlist // series masterlist

[near-virginia-beach-va1-blog]

Near Virginia Beach VA

Near Virginia Beach VA

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Reviews

Virginia Beach is a good place to live. There are many public and neighborhood parks, libraries, and restaurants, as well as events and activities happening all year round. There are numerous saltwater and freshwater recreational opportunities, allowing people to fish, swim and dive, surf, parasail, or relax on the beach. Many homes have individual pools because of the hot and humid summers. Spring and fall are ideal while winter is cold but not too bad. The military installations promote transience, which is why the local people are used to making friends with the new family on the block. Traffic is bad due to the large population, as well as the bugs.

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Attorney hopes new video of hit-and-run in Virginia Beach will lead to arrest

“It has an emblem in the middle,” Brannon pointed out in an image of the suspect vehicle. “It has a sunroof. In this picture, you can see it is a sedan and not a coupe.” The car is then seen coming though the intersection of 5th street and Pacific Avenue headed toward General Booth. Just minutes later, 20-year-old Ahlschlager was on his bike heading home. He just left work and was about to cross Dam Neck and General Booth. He waited for the pedestrian light to change. Read more here

It has been said time and again that no matter how careful you are whether when out walking, biking, or driving, you can't control how other people keep themselves disciplined. 20-year-old Ahlschlager was on his bike heading home at around 3 a.m. on June 14 when he got involved in a hit and run accident. The victim had just left work, waited for the pedestrian light to change, and was about to cross Dam Neck and General Booth when a white car suddenly made a right-hand turn and slammed into him, causing a severe brain injury. Attorney Emily Brannon is helping the victim's family find justice for the case.

Cape Henry Lighthouse in Virginia Beach, VA

Cape Henry Lighthouse in Virginia Beach, VA is the first federally funded lighthouse built to guide maritime commerce at the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay. The original Cape Henry Lighthouse is the 4th oldest lighthouse in the country and was the first lighthouse authorized by the U.S. government, dating from 1792. The Lighthouse is open every day of the year except for the Shamrock Marathon, Independence Day, Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, New Year's Eve, New Years Day, and January 2. They offer tours that stop 30 minutes prior to closing and all visitors must be at least 42 inches tall to enter the dune area. Admission on to JEB Fort Story RV Park and Campground requires a valid driver's license, vehicle registration, and proof of current vehicle insurance or rental agreement for a rental car.

Link to map

Driving Direction

19 min (8.6 miles)

via Atlantic Ave

Fastest route, lighter traffic than usual

Cape Henry Lighthouse

583 Atlantic Ave, Fort Story, VA 23459, United States

Head southeast on Atlantic Ave toward Sicily Rd

4 min (1.5 mi)

Continue on Atlantic Ave to N Birdneck Rd

9 min (4.4 mi)

Get on I-264 W

2 min (0.8 mi)

Continue on I-264 W to First Colonial Road. Take exit 21 from I-264 W

1 min (1.2 mi)

Follow First Colonial Road and S First Colonial Rd to your destination

3 min (0.6 mi)

Virgina Beach Deck Builders

105 S First Colonial Rd

Virginia Beach, VA 23454

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[ladybuvelle]

Élégie

It had been nice to take a walk without purpose for a change. Not a trip to the markets, nor a run around the Buvelle grounds, nor even last-minute wanderings about her gardens to take in the overgrowth and lament that next year would only get worse. Time never stopped, and it was as if plants felt it the most. She’d cut a few branches and weeds and still they grew beyond the control of just two hands.

So it was good to get away if just for a while. To be on her own and with her own thoughts. There were dangers in that, too, but the sky was clear and cold and her breath puffed into momentary clouds of steam. Winter would be here before everyone knew it. Fall was as good a time as any to try and find some peace of mind before a long winter’s sleep. Plants seemed to know this, too. They had a better sense of time than anyone, after all.

‘I could do without this wind, though’ she thought, pulling her warm shawl at the sides to draw it closer to herself. All this fresh air and introspection was fine enough, but Sona never liked the cold. It would only get colder, too.

“Don’t run!”

A woman’s voice. Older. Somewhat of a rasp. Someone who yelled often and with purpose. Then the sounds of smaller voices. Laughter. The patter of pairs of leather boots on the old stone paths, kicking up flecks of white gravel. Children - two boys - were laughing as they ran ahead of their mother. They were upper-middle class. Sona could tell by their style of dress. The mother wore a fine fur stole to stave off the cold while her nanny shivered somewhat beside her.

‘I don’t recognize them...’ Sona thought curiously, unable to see any family crest or emblems. It was likely, then, they were from a lower branch of some noble tree. Or perhaps they were simply well off? It wasn’t out of the question.

“You can’t catch me, Yeden!” the faster boy teased, and his younger companion - younger brother? - took the bait all too eagerly. Despite the orders of their mother and the fretting fast-steps of their nurse-maid to try and catch them in heels. Yeden ran powerfully, but his smaller strides proved his older brother right.

“No fair!!” he whined, “Stop, Jeb!” “You’re still ‘it’!” “I’m tired of being ‘it’!” “Then catch me already!” “I caaaaan’t...!!”

“Would the both of you stop it and come here?!” Their mother had clearly had enough, and her nanny finally caught up to the two boys as they stopped in learned response to their mother’s forceful tone. Children often liked to test limits, but they could also learn when not to pass them too far.

Sona had found that she’d stopped to watch the family as they went about their bustling, not wanting to get in the way of the running children besides. How long had it been since she had visited the orphanage now...? She’d missed the sounds of laughing and playing children. The pureness of that joy.

A part of her thought she might never hear it again. How could she return to them now? After so much and so long? They’d seen what she did. They knew. So many people now knew... Did these boys know, too?

Seemingly not, as suddenly one blew by her despite having stood out of their way. A limit was being tested after all. Snapping out of her morbid daydream had made the Maven drop her purse, and the younger Yeden who had been lagging behind stopped just short of stepping and tripping over it.

“What did I just tell you, Jebidiah!!” the boy’s mother yelled even louder, her voice cracking under its own force. “Get over here this instant! Yeden! Pick up that woman’s purse! By the veiled lady, I swear...”

Though even as the mother had ordered her son to do it, Sona crouched down to retrieve it herself. The quickness and uncertainty of the moment had the small boy’s hand briefly knock into hers, followed by a string of apologies.

“I’m so sorry, ma’am! I-I... I’m so sorry. We didn’t mean it... We were just playin’...!”

Sona’s acceptance was a kind smile and the soundless motion of a small laugh. She gestured to the path and their quick movement along it, then tapped the back of her hand where he’d knocked his into hers.

“What...? W-we... Oh!” A sudden clarity and excitement came over the young boy, picking up on the silent signs of his own game. “Are you ‘it’ now? Did I get you?! Jeb! Jeb I’m not ‘it’ anymore!! Jeb!”

The older brother came running back just as excited and curious to see this new development to their game, but just as the boys were about to assault the noblewoman with a hundred rapid-fire questions their mother and nanny had hurried closer.

“Get away from my sons!”

The order was so sudden and chilling that the air around them felt all the colder for it. All eyes suddenly turned to the mother in shock, with Sona feeling at the very center of the sudden tremor.

“Madame, s'il vous plaît calmez-vous...!” the nanny spoke in a more hushed tone, quickly pulling the boys in by their collars while they were still in confused shock.

“I am calm!” her mistress spat, “As calm as I need be! Mind your tongue and move the boys along!” She then turned her ire back to Sona, who had still been down on her knees from addressing the boys. “It’s my own fault for not recognizing you at a distance. You’ve had your hair cut. Hmph. So full of little tricks...”

The woman turned and hurried her nanny and her sons along, keeping her glaring eyes on Sona until the Maven was well out of her peripheral vision. “I can't believe they let her wander the roads” she grumbled not-so-quietly. “Go back to your haunted house and rot already! Terrible. This city is becoming a haven of beasts and blighted foreigners...!”

Sona couldn’t move. She watched helplessly as the family was pushed along and out of sight, and listened until their voices faded beyond buildings and breezes. Everything felt so quiet, then. All felt so quiet and colorless. For a time it was as if she’d stopped breathing all together.

People knew. People knew what she did. Or at the very least there were some people who knew. And with women as vocal about their opinions as that mother, it was only a matter of time before the fragile nature of words traveled and twisted as they passed from lip to ear and back and again...

It was bound to happen, she supposed. Touching the spot she’d been ‘tagged’ on her hand accidentally by the younger son, Sona knew this had all been inevitable. What would their mother tell them later? They hadn’t been afraid of her, but they must not have known. Would the young boy come to think he’d tagged a monster? Would he be afraid she would come after him now...?

‘No no. No... I’m... Being foolish. I’m making it all worse. Too many fairy tales... I’m not like that...’

On uneasy legs she rose, claiming her purse along the way. The ends of Sona’s short hair bristled against her red cheeks, blushed from the cold. Their sting reminded her she could be better. That this pain was all a process. People were going to hate her or love her as they pleased no matter what she did to try and convince them otherwise. The best she could ever hope to do was be her best self.

How easy that would be to say. If she could even say it. It still hurt. The lonely feeling hurt. But maybe it was alright to hurt when it was appropriate. Better to let it pass and move on than to wade as she always had.

‘I just wish it would pass quicker...’ But time passed as it pleased. And maybe next year the garden would be more overgrown than the last despite her efforts. But at least she was able to get up and walk home. At least she was trying.

She’d try again tomorrow. For now; a warm fire, a hot tea, and a soft blanket.

And perhaps a good cry.

[harrison-abbott]

Antiseptic Green - Short Story

ANTISEPTIC GREEN

  July 2017

  The man hears a shriek from behind him. He jumps, and turns, but she’s not there. For a blank moment he stares across the woodland path, the valley. Then he realises she’s fallen. He rushes to the edge of the ridge, where a vertical drop hangs by the side of the path, and gapes downward. At the bottom he spots his wife in a heap. The man yells her name; she doesn’t answer, and she’s not moving.

 He drops his bag and edges down the valley’s mud after her, breathing heavily by the infant stages of panic. It’s been raining, the weeds are thick and he can’t see much by the declining evening light. He finds her lying on her front, her face in the plants. Lifting her head up, her eyes are closed: she’s unconscious. The man’s own eyes grip with water as he taps her cheeks. But she’s not waking up.

 How far has she fallen? Looking up, he gulps: it’s a bad distance, and she must’ve hit her head on landing. He ponders what to do … He doesn’t have his phone with him, the woman neither; they never take their phones on their woodland walks. The forest is too remote for any passing stranger to appear. The nearest house from here is where one of their neighbours stays – about five minutes away. “Okay, let’s get you to Mrs Walkers,” he says to her, “we’ll call an ambulance from there.” The man takes her legs under one arm, with another grip around her back, and hoists her up.

    The last time the man lifted her up with such gusto was many decades ago, when they were still young university students. The woman studied painting at the art school, and the man was taught the other side of the campus in the business school. She had terrific corkscrew hair and a great accent, when they’d first walked home together, that night. She was wearing blue dungarees with only a t-shirt underneath. When she complained she was cold, he knew that was the cue to give her his coat. When she said her legs were sore, he improvised, and picked her up, carried her home.

 The woman wore the dungarees almost every time he saw her henceforth, throughout their mortal student years. She’d paint in them, go out, sleep in them. The man admired her for being artistic, though inwardly he didn’t understand art so well. She was constantly working at her aisle, her flat smothered with paint tubes, sketches. He really believed that one day she’d be famous, her coveted artworks gleaming in galleries across the world. Even if he often didn’t see the brilliance in the scrawny portraits she made, there were some he lauded. Whenever he beheld a work he genuinely admired, he would become ecstatic, worldly, “what a terrific artist you are!” The woman understood that he was just being kind, and that mostly he hadn’t liked the other paintings he’d shown her.

 Ten years after they’d married, the woman’s dungarees lay in a hush, somewhere in the disused art room in their house. Her painting had skimmed away into neglect, then retirement. She’d been prolific after she’d graduated art school, but her work had never sold, or gained any repute. Then she and the man got pregnant and had a child, and motherhood had uncovered a real talent – she was a wonderful parent. Her husband, by contrast, had excelled in his city business profession. Whilst her rejected artworks piled up in her work room, his success continued. But she never seemed sad about the rejections; she hugged, clapped, kissed the man each time he reported joy. Therefore, the old paint tubes could lie in the abandoned art room. Painting was only one of many hobbies. If it had failed, then there was no more to be said.

    The man reaches the top of the hill, carrying his wife. It’s humid and his sweat mixes with the air. The woman’s head lulls by his chest, swaying back and forth like she’s asleep on a car journey. The man spots dark purplish liquid on her hands, thinking my god, is she bleeding? Was she cut when she landed? But, no, it’s only stains from the blackberries they’d been picking earlier … His muscles are searing with her weight. It’s not that she’s heavy, it’s that he’s basically an old man. He prays he won’t be hit with an asthma attack. Or, God, a heart attack. Just get out of the woods he tells himself then we’ll be almost there.

 The path eases out onto open fields. Then up ahead they see Mrs Walker’s house with warm orange windows. As they near the garden, the dog trots up to them tail-wagging through the fence. “Hello, Jeb,” the man says. The dog’s cheerful because he knows these two elderly people, and can’t understand why one of them is being carried by the other. When the man rings the doorbell the dog barks. Muffled noises inside and then the door opens slowly, Mrs Walker’s face cautious behind the slat. She’s wearing pink-and-green hair curlers and her expression drops when she sees the woman. “Mrs Walker,” the man says, “can we come in, please? And could you call an ambulance?”

    Italian – that was one of the woman’s favourite hobbies. She’s had an Italian grandmother, which was where she got her curly hair from. The grandmother had the voluptuous melodic Italian character too, and the woman picked up the language from her when she was little. Then kept learning it until she was fluent, and she’d take pilgrimages to Rome and Venice in young womanhood.

 When their child had grown up and could go to nursey, the woman figured she was good enough to try and teach Italian. The local primary school was looking for a languages teacher, so she applied and they employed her on a trial contract. Suddenly in middle age she was nervous about her first day of school, again. But she was excited more-so, having a chance to share her passion for the lilting, dancing language.

 After the first few classes, the nature of the children surprised her. Or rather, she felt stupid that she hadn’t remembered what schoolkids are like. It wasn’t even a rough neighbourhood. The kids just used the 30 minutes to gabble together at their tables, over her quiet voice. They took advantage of her lack of authority, her tiny height. Italian didn’t interest them – it was less relevant than most of their normal lessons. The main teacher sat at his desk and didn’t intervene. Nor would the school extend her teaching contract after the six-week trial period.

 During the days after her release, the man noticed the woman was quiet around the home. Her smiles were distant and reassured, like winter sunlight. The man grew worried; perhaps this let-down was worse than the others? He came home one night, having planned what to say to her, to try and cheer her. Arriving in the kitchen, he found an array of exotic cakes she’d been making. “I thought I’d get out the old cook-books,” she told him, “you want to try some?” Her chirpiness had returned. He wondered whether to talk to her about the classes, but it might’ve spoiled her mood. That same evening, when she was putting their child to bed, he heard her singing an Italian lullaby to her.

 Later in life, during one summer holiday, the woman finally persuaded the man to come abroad with her. Their daughter was a teenager by then and away with her friends. The man was in his 40s and had never left the country, which she often teased him about, so she bought them tickets for Milan. It would be the man’s first time on an aeroplane also … She could see how nervous he was at the airport security check, and was trying not to laugh, because she knew he hated that kind of thing. His bags got through okay. Then he went through the detector gates, and the sirens went off. The woman, watching the other side, burst out laughing. If it had been him in her stead, he wouldn’t have laughed, out of seriousness.

    By the antiseptic green of the hospital corridor, the man’s allowed to sit and wait for the woman. He’s not permitted to go and see her – inside the Operating Room. She’s been inside there for hours. The Chief Doctor, or whatever his term was, had come to speak with the man earlier. Asked him questions about the woman; how far did she fall? How long was she unconscious? All these questions, in a chain, straight after that manic ambulance run – with oxygen bags, needles, the scent of chemicals … The man answered each question by fact. No, the woman hadn’t spoken, opened her eyes.

 The man doesn’t even understand what subconsciousness is. The Doctor had used one word which the man had recognised as promising. But it’s just a word, made by an agent, so he’s not so sure. Via slow moving time there is only the sight of her door, just down the corridor. The Doctor’s jargon had baffled him. His voice was nothing against the woman’s presence upon him. There, in that room, she lies – and I’m not with her.

 Looking around the silent corridors, he sees no patrolling nurses. It’s somewhere past 4 a.m. – nobody’s about. The big chief doc has probably gone home by now and so the man stands up and creeps towards the door where his lady lies … Opens the handle, peeks his head through …

 She’s there amid that classic bleeping of machinery. The white thin sheets which are meant to signify convalescence, but propose anything but. There’s a tube running up to her face, covering her mouth and nose. Just by the sight of her state, the man darts towards her, clumsily bashing through the door … The door gives a wheeze, then swings back and bangs back shut. The man watches the woman’s face, and sees her eyelids flicker versus the noise; he gasps; she relaxes back to stillness.

 He kneels by her bedside, her hand in his … The woman stirs not, remaining somewhere anonymous to her mind, or his. The only sound that’s left is the infrequent computer-call of her heart. He listens to this – the robot calling the frequency of her heart, dim and still-defiant, until she sifts into non-time.

 Then the door opens and he jumps up. An it’s like all a dream, except it’s usually relieving when you wake up, and now there’s a nurse standing there looking at him next to the woman. She knows he’s not supposed to be there, but he registers in her face, when she looks at the woman’s body, that he has a right to be there. It’s in that look that he knows what’s going to happen to his lady. But he’s also grateful, when the nurse nods at him, turns, and closes the door.

 As the nurse walks away from the room, the sound of the heart-monitor fades off. But the image of the man sat, pathetic and lost, by her bedside, will take much longer to die away.

[frontmezzjunkies]

Jacqueline B. Arnold as La Chocolat, Robyn Hurder as Nini, Holly James as Arabia and Jeigh Madjus as Baby Doll from Moulin Rouge!. Photos: © Matthew Murphy, 2019

My Top Ten Theatrical Experiences of 2019

By Ross

So here goes. I’m not that good at making lists, especially in an order that defines saying one thing is slightly better or somewhat worse, because on any given day, the order and assigned number might shift around quite dramatically.  But on this cold NYC morning, this is what I was thinking. Of course, my special mentions are as long as this list of my top ten (by twice), but so be it.  I feel grateful every time I walk in the theatre, particularly since becoming an Outer Critics Circle voting member. There is just so much to love about New York City’s dynamic and eclectic theatre scene, and although I wanted to add a few from London, England, Washington, or Toronto, I tried my hardest to keep it tuned in to what is happening on Broadway and Off this calendar year. So disagree or agree. It’s all good, and let me know your thoughts. I always love hearing about someone’s passionate loves.

J.D. Mollison (center) and the cast of Octet. Photo by Joan Marcus.

10: Octet

“This one certainly got under my skin and had me thinking late into the night. It also forced me, quite intensely and wisely, to think twice before each and every impulse I had to look at my phone…It’s insanely beautiful and achingly real emotionality that forces itself on me even as I attempted to fall asleep after I got home from this enlightenment…The simpleness of this musical has one of the more important messages that the world seems to be desperate to hear and learn.” Full Review 

Danny Burstein. Photos: © Matthew Murphy, 2019.

9: Moulin Rouge!

“Truth. Beauty. Freedom. And above all things, Love. That’s what is splashed before our hungry eyes and ears at the Moulin Rouge! – The Musical decadently and gorgeously mashing together with high-wired spectacular spectacular-ness…Within this new musical, directed dynamically and deliciously…” Full Review

MaYaa Boateng and Roslyn Ruff. Photo by Henry Grossman.

8: Fairview

“Utterly fascinating and forceful play. Like a good food fight, it wildly throws out implied conventions and disturbing vantage points…It transitions dramatically into a heady examination of race, strongly held expectations, and white privilege. Layered on top is an upsettingly accurate internal dialogue…Directed with resolution and unabashed confidence…the piece pounds us forward dramatically, challenging us to overcome.” Full Review 

Heidi Schreck. What the Conststution Means to Me. Photo by Joan Marcus.

7: What the Constitution Means to Me

“As directed with a free-flowing and creative hand by Oliver Butler, it hits us deep and sharp, almost as complicated as the ripples of distrust and pain that strike through Schreck, shaking and overwhelming her composure that feels, most definitely, out of the box…It lightens my load, seeing the smart and funny ‘What the Constitution Means to Me,’ although my broken heart stays confused and perplexed in these trying times.” Full Review

James Jackson, Jr., John-Michael Lyles, Jason Veasey, Larry Owens (in red jacket and hat), Antwayn Hopper, John-Andrew Morrison, L Morgan Lee. Photo by Joan Marcus.

6: A Strange Loop

“Directed with crafty ingenuity…The thrills of that first number sent me into joyous giggles of delight and surprise. And it just kept getting deeper and smarter, wittier and wiser with each effervescent and boundary-free song. The show is like no other…There are times we don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or clap along to the sounds of this collision of hurt and humor, as the players all bring forth an authentic slap to each well crafted song.” Full Review 

Eva Noblezada, Andre De Shields, Reeve Carney. Photo credit: Matthew Murphy.

5: Hadestown

“The ‘Road to Hell’ has never been finer…With Mitchell’s spectacular retelling of the old Orpheus myth…It’s clear from the hot and fiery opening that…Chavkin has a pure vision of tense and muscular motion…The songs are beautiful…’Hadestown’ delivers a deeply resonant and defiantly hopeful theatrical experience, filled to overflowing with passion, artistry, and love, even as are hearts are crushed in the end by our human frailties.” Full Review 

Zawe Ashton, Charlie Cox, Tom Hiddleston in Pinter’s BETRAYAL at London’s Harold Pinter Theatre. Photo by Marc Brenner.

4: Betrayal

“A triangle built with a ballet-like precision within a circle against a long rectangular wall. This is the essence of this masterful revival. They are poised for interaction from that first visual, one by one, in pairs (for the most part), as directed with tight thoughtfulness by the gifted Jamie Lloyd.” Full Review

The full cast of SLAVE PLAY (On Ground L to R): Ato Blankson-Wood, James Cusati-Moyer, Sullivan Jones, Annie McNamara, Joaquina Kalukango, Paul Alexander Nolan. (In red boxes L to R): Irene Sofia Lucio and Chalia La Tour. (photo by Matthew Murphy)

3: Slave Play

“It’s provocative and uncomfortable, pushing boundaries and buttons that are hidden within every single soul in the theatre, daring us with staggering urgency to take notice and check our own prejudicial thoughts and politics…So sign up for this sexy and dynamic experiment and become engaged in a conversation that will likely continue long after the last group member leaves the stage.” Full Review

2: The Sound Inside

“The piece floats forward in segments, delicately ushering in the ideas of encapsulated loneliness and the acceptance of praise that resides within, ever so quietly…The two come together in a (Tony deserving) way that will haunt your imagination as you try to make sense of the imagined.” Full Review 

1: The Inheritance

“‘The Inheritance’ truly surprises us, moment to moment, with its tender power and strong parallel story-telling. It slides in almost unsuspecting, finding a way to deliver a heart breaking truth and an emotional reality that sends me, almost, over the edge. ” Full Review 

  Steven Skybell, Jennifer Babiak in Fiddler on the Roof in Yiddish. Photo by Matthew Murphy.

Honorable Mentions (in no particular order):

NYTW’s Sing Street, LCT’s Greater Clements, PH’s The Thin Place, Little Shop of Horrors, St. Ann’s Warehouse’s History of Violence, PH’s Heroes of the Fourth Turning, Fiddler on the Roof in Yiddish, ATC’s Blue Ridge, Public’s Sea Wall/A Life, ATC’s The Mother, St. Ann’s Oklahoma!, Gary: A Sequel…, Public’s White Noise, Rattlestick’s No One is Forgotten, LCT’s The Rolling Stone, Broadway Bounty Hunter, MCC’s The Wrong Man, 59E59’s Square Go, TNG’s one in two. I did not get a chance to see Fleabag or many others, as I only have me, and I do need to work occasionally and make some money to live and eat…And I have yet to see The Lehman Trilogy, but I will get my chance in the Spring. Along with the new West Side Story directed by Ivo van Hove and choreographer Anne Teresa De Keersmaeker that started previews early December. I’m guessing they might make my Best of 2020.

Heroes of the Fourth Turning Written by Will Arbery Directed by Danya Taymor FEATURING Jeb Kreager — Justin Julia McDermott — Emily Michele Pawk — Gina Zoë Winters — Teresa John Zdrojeski — Kevin Scenic Design: Laura Jellinek Costume Design: Sarafina Bush Lighting Design: Isabella Byrd Sound Design: Justin Ellington Fight Direction: J. David Brimmer Production Stage Manager: Jenny Kennedy Assistant Stage Manager: Madolyn Friedman

Greater Clements LCT 11-09 257 Greater Clements, written by Samuel D. Hunter and directed by Davis McCallum Lincoln Center Theater 11/13/19 Lighting Design: Yi Zhao Costume Design: Kaye Voice Scenic Design: Dane Laffrey Sound Design: Fitz Patton Photo Credit: T Charles Erickson © T Charles Erickson Photography tcepix@comcast.net

Photo Credit: Julieta Cervantes

White Noise By Suzan-Lori Parks Directed By Oskar Eustis David Diggs Sheria Irving Thomas Sadoski Zoe Winters

#frontmezzjunkies gifts u his #bestof2019 #OctetNYC @MoulinRougeBway #TFANAFairview @TheatreforaNewA @constitutionbwy #astrangeloop @phnyc @hadestown @betrayalbwy @SlavePlayBway @nytw79 @SoundInsideBwy @Inheritanceplay My Top Ten Theatrical Experiences of 2019 By Ross So here goes. I'm not that good at making lists, especially in an order that defines saying one thing is slightly better or somewhat worse, because on any given day, the order and assigned number might shift around quite dramatically.

[newyorktheater]

Conservatives don’t all think alike; some of them hate Trump; some don’t see Liberals as evil (some do.) Some are deeply weird.

It is a sure sign of the political divisiveness in America that these observations may well seem like revelations to some theatergoers attending  Will Arbury’s new play at Playwrights Horizons. “Heroes of the Fourth Turning” allows us to eavesdrop on what feel like astute and authentic conversations at a gathering of  former classmates at a conservative Catholic college in Wyoming.   Terrifically acted and intellectually stimulating,  “Heroes” is also eerie, at times confusing, too long and too dark. And I mean dark literally; it takes place during nighttime in the dimly lit backyard of Justin’s house.

Justin (Jeb Kreager) is the first of the characters we see in what counts as a wordless prologue. He sits in the dark, until suddenly he shoots his rifle. He disappears off-stage, and comes back carrying a deer carcass. We see him start to cut it open, then blackout (they surely couldn’t afford a different deer carcass to carve every night.) Then the carcass is gone and we see him trying to wipe the blood.

There are two other nearly surreal moments in the play (which I won’t tell you about), but otherwise “Heroes of the Fourth Turning” is talk, talk, talk.

Soon we learn that there’s been a party in Justin’s house in which some 15 alumni have returned to the small town to celebrate the inauguration of their old beloved teacher Gina as the college’s .president.

But by the time the play has begun, everybody has left besides Emily ( Julia McDermott), Gina’s daughter, who suffers from some chronic illness. and two former students whom Emily calls “the weird lingerers.” These are Kevin (John Zdrojeski) whom Emily describes as “so wildly confused,” and Teresa ( Zoë Winters) whom Emily describes as “so cold… like she’s switched off a part of herself. “

All four have a history together, which dribbles out in conversation between two or three at a time, and seeps inevitably and dramatically into the present.  All four are captivating in their individual particularities and peculiarities.

In a long scene between Kevin and Teresa in which they catch up with one another about what’s happened in the seven years since they graduated, Kevin tells her he wants to have a big conversation with her. She resists. He insists. She finally says: “Whenever we have a big conversation, it’s really nice for a while, but it always ends with you saying you should become a priest, and then crying about how you’d be a bad priest, and then crying about how much you want a girlfriend.”

Part of the appeal of these characters is how familiar they feel — people in their late twenties and thirties starting to know what they want and struggling to get there. But the four classmates, and Gina when she arrives late in the play, are also people with conservative views.

It’s intriguing to see how much “conservative views” can differ.

Teresa has actually moved to New York – South Slope, Brooklyn, even — but she’s not of New York;  she works as a conservative columnist, and sees herself as a warrior of the right. She’s a Trump supporter, and believes there is a war coming to America.

Gina (Michele Pawk), their teacher, was a member of the far-right John Birch Society, has a poster of Barry Goldwater’s 1964 campaign slogan hanging in her office (“In your heart, you know he’s right.”), gave a fundraiser for Pat Buchanan in 1996. Yet she says:  “I hate Trump. I hated Obama. But really, no one since Bush Senior had much regard for the constitution…I just don’t trust any of these men – they’re all on their third wives.”

Gina and Teresa get into a heated argument, and they are not the only ones.

Emily insists on seeing the good in all people, including a friend of hers who works for Planned Parenthood, which leads to an unusual debate about abortion in which both sides believe it’s murder, but differ over how much compassion to have for the women, and whether or not it can be considered a Holocaust.

Justin, who’s a few years older than the other three, and works for the college tending to their horses, believes in separating from the (decadent) culture at large:  “I want us to put our heads down, preserve our culture, and wait for the hedonists to eat themselves alive.” (This survivalist attitude perhaps explains the unmentioned deer shooting.) Kevin rejects  “The Benedict Option” – which Kevin describes as “a book that says we’re not gonna win this thing and we should just retreat.” Kevin believes his mission is to be “in this world…Maybe I need to be in the den of lions, in order to really be the Catholic I was meant to be. Like there are some priests, like Jesuits, who thrive in that kind of environment. Ugh do I need to be a priest?”

Kevin’s insecurity and constant questioning of himself and the others adds a touch of comic relief into what at times is some pretty arcane theoretical/political/theological arguments.  Even the title is steeped in esoterica. The title is based on a 1996 book, “The Fourth Turning” that posits there are four eras (or turnings) in modern history that repeat themselves in a never-ending cycle —  High, Awakening, Unraveling and Crisis.  Crisis turning is “right now,” Teresa says. “The national identity crisis caused by Obama. Liberals think it’s Trump. It’s the fight to save civilization.”

Heroes are born during an Unraveling and come of age during a Crisis, when they “fight bravely.”

All of this is difficult enough to pay attention to; it’s baffling to me why director Danya Taymor chose to distance us further from these conversations by keeping the stage so poorly lit – and why the play needed to run two hours without an intermission. I get how atmospheric it is, and maybe metaphoric. But It’s as if they were challenging us to struggle through all that’s off-putting,  so that we can more fully understand the sacrifices the characters say they must make to stay true conservatives and Catholics.

There is an artfulness to Arbery’s play, which he is happy to explain in his note in the playbill. It’s a fugue, he tells us. He also establishes  his expertise . “My parents teach at a school in Wyoming quite similar to the one in the play” – they had that Barry Goldwater poster, and held that fundraiser for Pat Buchanan.  But he also  establishes what sound like his liberal credentials: Arbery voted for Obama in 2008, he tells us, “the first time I was old enough to vote.” When he told his friends and family back home, they were incensed, one calling him an abortionist.

“Now I’m circling back,” he writes, trying to be impartial about these characters he knows so well, not sure he can be impartial, worried that his characters are too loveable…And you start to wonder whether he has modeled the character of constantly questioning Kevin on himself.

John Zdrojeski, Julia McDermott

Jeb Kreager and Julie McDermott

John Zdrojeski and Julia McDermott

John-Zdrojeski-Zoë-Winters-Jeb-Kreager-Michele-Pawk-Julia-McDermott.j

ohn-Zdrojeski-Zoë-Winters-Jeb-Kreager-Julia-McDermott

John Zdrojeski, Michele Pawk, Jeb Kreager

Zoë-Winters-Jeb-Kreager-Julia-McDermott

Zoë Winters and MichelePawk

John-Zdrojeski-Jeb-Kreager-Zoë-Winters

Jeb Kreager and Julia McDermott

Heroes of the Fourth Turning

Written by Will Arbery Directed by Danya Taymor

Scenic Design: Laura Jellinek Costume Design: Sarafina Bush Lighting Design: Isabella Byrd Sound Design: Justin Ellington Fight Direction: J. David Brimmer

Jeb Kreager — Justin Julia McDermott — Emily Michele Pawk — Gina Zoë Winters — Teresa John Zdrojeski — Kevin

Running time: Two hours, no intermission

Heroes of the Fourth Turning runs through October 27, 2019

Heroes of the Fourth Turning Review: Conservatives Have Problems Too Conservatives don’t all think alike; some of them hate Trump; some don’t see Liberals as evil (some do.) Some are deeply weird.

[frontstreet1]

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HOUSTON — George H.W. Bush, who shaped history as America’s 41st president and patriarch of a family that occupied the White House for a dozen years, is going to his final rest Thursday in Texas.

More than 11,000 people paid their respects to Bush as his casket lay in repose all night at a Houston church where his family worshipped. Some visitors waited for hours to pay tribute to Bush, who will be buried following a funeral at St. Martin’s Episcopal Church.

Thursday’s service began with “America the Beautiful” and a robust rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

It attracted local sports stars including Houston Texans defensive end J.J. Watt and was featuring eulogies from Bush’s grandson, Texas Land Commissioner George P. Bush, the only member of the famous family still holding elected office, and James Baker, his former secretary of state and a close friend for decades. Hymns being sung were chosen and loved by the former president, said the church’s pastor, Rev. Russell J. Levenson Jr.

Performing were some of Bush’s favorite country music stars including the Oak Ridge Boys doing “Amazing Grace” and Reba McEntire offering “The Lord’s Prayer” as three days of official ceremonies in Washington gave way to more personal touches for the former president in Texas.

As a military band played, pallbearers carried the flag-draped casket of former President George H.W. Bush into Houston’s St. Martin’s Episcopal Church, where the Bush family regularly worshipped. (Dec. 5)

The nation’s capital bid him goodbye Wednesday in a Washington funeral service that offered high praise for the last of the presidents to have fought in World War II — and a hefty dose of humor about a man whose speaking delivery was once described as a cross between Mister Rogers and John Wayne.

Bush’s casket returned for the services in Houston, a ride on a special funeral train and eventual burial at his family plot on the presidential library grounds at Texas A&M University in College Station. His final resting place is alongside Barbara Bush, his wife of 73 years, and Robin Bush, the daughter they lost to leukemia at age 3.

In the service at Washington National Cathedral, three former presidents and President Donald Trump looked on as George W. Bush eulogized his father as “the brightest of a thousand points of light.”

The cathedral service was a tribute to a president, a patriarch and a faded political era that prized military service and public responsibility. It was laced with indirect comparisons to Trump but was not consumed by them, as speakers focused on Bush’s public life and character — with plenty of cracks about his goofy side, too.

“He was a man of such great humility,” said Alan Simpson, former Republican senator from Wyoming. Those who travel “the high road of humility in Washington, D.C.,” he added pointedly, “are not bothered by heavy traffic.”

Trump sat with his wife, a trio of ex-presidents and their wives, several of them sharp critics of his presidency and one of them, Hillary Clinton, his 2016 Democratic foe. Apart from courteous nods and some handshakes, there was little interaction between Trump and the others.

George W. Bush broke down briefly at the end of his eulogy while invoking the daughter his parents lost in 1953 and his mother, who died in April. He took comfort in knowing “Dad is hugging Robin and holding Mom’s hand again.”

It was a family that occupied the White House for a dozen years — the 41st president defeated after one term, the 43rd serving two. Jeb Bush stepped up to try to extend that run but fell short when Trump won the 2016 Republican primaries.

The elder Bush was “the last great-soldier statesman,” historian Jon Meacham said in his eulogy, “our shield” in dangerous times.

But he also said that Bush, campaigning in a crowd in a department store, once shook hands with a mannequin. Rather than flushing in embarrassment, he simply cracked, “Never know. Gotta ask.”

Meacham recounted how comedian Dana Carvey once said the key to doing an impersonation of Bush was “Mister Rogers trying to be John Wayne.”

None of those words would be a surprise to Bush. Meacham read his eulogy to him, said Bush spokesman Jim McGrath, and Bush responded to it with the crack: “That’s a lot about me, Jon.”

The congregation at the cathedral, filled with foreign leaders and diplomats, Americans of high office and others touched by Bush’s life, rose for the arrival of the casket, accompanied by clergy of faiths from around the world. In their row together, Trump and former Presidents Barack Obama, Jimmy Carter and Bill Clinton stood with their spouses and all placed their hands over their hearts.

Simpson regaled the congregation with stories from his years as Bush’s friend in Washington. More seriously, he recalled that when he went through a rough patch in the political game, Bush conspicuously stood by him against the advice of aides. “You would have wanted him on your side,” he said.

Simpson said Bush “loved a good joke — the richer the better. And he threw his head back and gave that great laugh, but he never, ever could remember a punchline. And I mean never.”

George W. Bush turned the humor back on the acerbic ex-senator, saying of the late president: “He placed great value on a good joke, so he chose Simpson to speak.”

Meacham praised Bush’s call to volunteerism — his “1,000 points of light” — placing it alongside Abraham Lincoln’s call to honor “the better angels of our nature” in the American rhetorical canon. Meacham called those lines “companion verses in America’s national hymn.”

Trump had mocked “1,000 points of light” last summer at a rally, saying “What the hell is that? Has anyone ever figured that one out? And it was put out by a Republican, wasn’t it?”

Former Canadian Prime Minister Brian Mulroney praised Bush as a strong world leader who helped oversee the end of the Cold War and the collapse of the Soviet Union and helped bring about the North American Free Trade Agreement with Canada and Mexico, signed into law by his successor, Clinton.

With Trump, a bitter NAFTA critic, seated in the front row, Mulroney hailed the “largest and richest free trade area in the history of the world.” The three countries have agreed on a revised trade agreement pushed by Trump.

On Wednesday morning, a military band played “Hail to the Chief” as Bush’s casket was carried down the steps of the U.S. Capitol, where he had lain in state. Family members looked on as servicemen fired off a cannon salute.

His hearse was then driven in a motorcade to the cathedral ceremony, slowing in front of the White House. Bush’s route was lined with people much of the way, bundled in winter hats and taking photos.

Waiting for his arrival inside, Trump shook hands with Obama and former first lady Michelle Obama, who greeted him by saying “Good morning.” Trump did not shake hands with Bill and Hillary Clinton, who looked straight ahead.

Bill Clinton and Mrs. Obama smiled and chatted as music played. Carter was seated silently next to Hillary Clinton in the cavernous cathedral. Obama cracked up laughing at someone’s quip. Vice President Mike Pence shook Carter’s hand.

Trump tweeted Wednesday that the day marked “a celebration for a great man who has led a long and distinguished life.” Trump and his wife took their seats after the others, briefly greeting the Obamas seated next to them.

Bush’s death makes Carter, also 94 but more than 100 days younger, the oldest living ex-president.

By WILL WEISSERT, NOMAAN MERCHANT and CALVIN WOODWARD – Dec 6. 2018 – 11:18 AM EDT ___

Weissert reported from Austin, Texas. Woodward reported from Washington. Associated Press writers Laurie Kellman, Ashraf Khalil and Darlene Superville in Washington and Juan A. Lozano and David J. Phillip contributed to this report.

Texas Bids Bush Farewell With Sports Stars, Funeral Train HOUSTON — George H.W. Bush, who shaped history as America’s 41st president and patriarch of a family that occupied the White House for a dozen years, is going to his final rest Thursday in Texas.

[girlwiththenegantattoo]

I wrote this in honor of @everythingbutresolved over the holidays we write smut but got motivated by @aherdofbees Jeb drawing to make it Christmas themed. Bringing my girl Mila back but neither have history.

Smut, praise kink and Jeb being a sad dad ensues

How To Catch A Reindeer

There was such a gentle grace in the way the little girl's red dress billowed with her twirling movements, causing the small gold reindeers at the bottom to look as if they were prancing with every wave of its fabric.

Her laugh, a joyous sound like any eight year old's, brought smiles to many of the attendees, both on the dance floor and seated at their tables. Though the little girl was what your typical definition of adorable was, it was the man that stood towering above her, swaying in an awkward attempt to dance, while holding her hand; that really caught Mila's attention.

Jeb Magruder is the name Mila hears from whispers of excitement over the duo and although she just started working for that company, she was also able to come to the conclusion that the amount of attention he was currently receiving was not a common occurrence. That fact alone struck Mila as odd. Another alluring question, of the many that were beginning to pile up.

Timing had never really been a skill set of Mila’s, not really, but as red lips met the rim of her now empty glass, the timing of which she chose to refill her beverage fell perfectly in between the changing of events. Turning from the bar Mila watched the girl hop in excitement as a woman approached Jeb. Judging by his drastic change in demeanor and the way she spoke to him Mila was willing to bet it was the ex wife others spoke about. Their conversation was brief but as Jeb reached down to give his daughter a hug his cheeks were painting red. A woman's venom could be given in very few words.

As Mila continued to watch from the bar, a feeling of something she usually refused to acknowledge, softly tugged at her heart. Maybe it was the way he sought out a table, only settling for an empty one in the back. Or the way others looked on in feign pity. Whatever it was, perhaps an invitation to a place less formal would perk things up.

Pun intended

"I couldn't help but notices your stellar dance moves up there, with your daughter I presume?"

Jeb's eyes snapped up from their downward gaze while he suddenly tried to sit up a little straighter.

Mila gestured to the empty seat next to him, "anyone sitting here?"

"Yes! I mean no, no one's sitting there."

---

Jeb seemed to know quite a lot about politics though it never dawned on Mila to ask why. She couldn't recall how they got onto the subject, but the topic was how the hierarchy of the White House worked, o r something like that . All she understood was how he chuntered on about this guy being above another guy and thank GOD Jeb could read the smallest hint of infoxication on her face.

Shoulder sagging a little lower he suddenly realized what was happening, "I'm boring you aren't I? I'm so sorry."

The same deep blush that blossomed onto his cheeks earlier, was now making the blue in his eyes more prominent. Truth was, his little government lesson was actually quite endearing but Mila was enjoying his show of embarrassment too much to say so.

The ice in her drink made a soft clink once it met the surface of the table and Mila took the opportunity to turn and fully face Jeb, pressing her kneecaps into his outer right thigh. The sudden contact was clearly a surprise by the way he squirmed in his chair.

"Hey. This is my second one." Raising her eyebrows Mila held up a half empty glass of some milky looking drink, most likely to be eggnog. "And I'm thinking my third could be a bit more fun if you joined me at the after party."

Wether he was truly in awe over the invitation or surprised there was such a thing, Jeb quickly looked around in puzzlement. Leaning in as If prying ears were all around, he softly whispered, "they have after parties at these things?"

This should be an interesting night

---

"Here, hold still."

It had been surprisingly easy to get Jeb to wear her reindeer headband and had his nose been half as red as his cheeks, Jeb surly could pass as Rudolph. From his spot on the end of Mila's bed, Jeb sat slouched, while a sheepish grin covered his face.

Placing her right knee between Jeb spread legs, the body heat from her chest settled mere centimeters from his face. As she continued to fiddle with an imaginary fold Mila couldn't help the feeling of uncertainty that began to nest itself in the back of her mind. He hadn't made a move to touch her yet. In fact he hadn't made any type of move at all. Leaning back, Mila examined the work she never actually did.

"Look at you"

It was supposed to be a statement, an acknowledgment that by putting on the headband, he was humoring her, however, the sudden glint of pride in his eyes told Mila that it meant more to him.

Oh

Taking a step back, she threaded her fingers through the newly formed curls at the nape of his neck. "What would you do if I told you, ever since I saw those big hands wrap around your glass at the party, I've thought about what they'd feel like on me?"

Jebs eyes widened in surprise, "You...what? I mean...I...I would want to show you, I can show you!...please?"

Bringing her lips next to Jeb's ear, Mila whispered, "you can touch me Jeb."

A noise akin to a held breath being released flowed through Jebs nose as he tentatively placed his hands on her waist. It was as if he was deciding on the next step when the sudden feeling of weightlessness, quickly followed by her back meeting the mattress, pulled a squeak for Mila.

Throwing the headband somewhere off to the side, his hair was now a disheveled mess. There was something so pleasing about seeing Jeb In such a state. Removing her top and coming to rest on his left hand Jeb ran the fingers of his right from under her armpit to the side of her breast. Tracing the underside with his thumb he then brought his hand underneath them, continuing his path down her torso with fingers splayed. His touch sent a current through Mila that had been long since forgotten causing her back to arch into his touch.

Jeb was thankful for the elastic of Mila's skirt, the otherwise sturdy material very well may have ended up a torn piece of fabric atop the heap of clothing collecting on the floor. When his right hand finally reached the junction of Mila's thighs, her excitement was evident from the wetness he gathered on his pointer and middle finger.

"That's all you," Mila uttered as she watched his eyes light up in question then wonder.

"Really?"

The question came out as an incredulous huff. Thankfully, it hadn't stopped his fingers exploration.

Soft lips left a heated trail from under Mila’s ear to her collarbone, now bare after removing her bra. Finding her lips, Jeb’s danced upon hers between breathy moans. The sound was driving him absolutely insane.

“You're so beautiful.”

Now it was Mila’s turn to blush.

The rough tug of Jeb’s belt was a silent demand that he needed to lose the pants and as he began to pull them off his legs Mila grabbed his wrist.

“I need you now.”

“Oh…ok”

With his pants and boxers hanging mid thigh Jeb settled between her legs, guiding himself to her entrance. In one slow thrust, Jeb was buried to the hilt while a sudden stream of panic curses all but halted any further moments.

"Jeb! What's wrong?"

"Shit. I'm sorry. I'm sorry...I just...I haven't done this in awhile..." his once hooded eyelids were forcefully scrunched shut as Jeb tried to take in a deep breath. "It's been a long time since...and...I...you're just so tight."

Not quite there yet but she'd take that as a compliment.

His body shook in a desperate attempt of what could only be to restrain himself. Mila placed her hand on either side of his cheeks, waiting for his eyes to meet hers. "It's ok, you can let go."

Lowering himself where the only thing keeping his complete body weight off of her was his forearms, Jeb started a steady pace. As he began to fall into a comfortable rhythm his thrust picked up speed along with power. Head buried in her neck whimpers of you feel so good and thank yous flowed across Mila's skin.

Normally, Mila liked to draw out times like these, where the man knows he found the right spot by just her reactions and repeatedly hitting it at that exact same angle but tonight she only had the blinding need to cum. Whispering praises in his ears did just the trick.

A white, hot wave consumed Mila about the same time as Jebs thrust began to stutter and a guttural moan fell from his lips. Straightening his arms, Jeb settled back on his hands while keeping his hips flush with her.

“Can I hold you for a bit?” Jeb’s request sounded hesitant, his eyes now looked to be forming tears. Nodding her head, Mila replied with a quiet sure.

The light brush of the tip of Jebs nose tickled Mila’s shoulder blades but she couldn’t be brought to care as she sunk into the comfort of the muscular arms that were currently wrapped around her chest.

“Can we do this again? Sometime soon?”

Leaning her head back against his chest she looked up at him with warm green eyes.

“Sure. And this time Jeb Magruder, meet me under the mistletoe”

[morninginamerica]

An early look at the Democrat’s 2020 field

Democrats are salivating for the chance to take on Donald Trump in two years. They had a solid, if a little underwhelming, midterm that saw Democrat control of the U.S. House for the first time in eight years. Nancy Pelosi is measuring the drapes in the Speaker’s office. Finally, Democrats have a bench in the House, with young and fresh candidates like Alexandria Ocasio Cortez, Xochitl Torres Small, Abigail Spanberger, Deb Haaland, etc., fresh off victories in drastically districts waiting in the wings for their chance to shine. On a bigger stage, you have a whole damn lot of Democrats chomping at the bit for their own chance. But it’s also looking like the same clown-car situation the Republicans had in 2016, replete with the factitious wings and the same sort of infighting. But, of course, 2016 ended up in a Republican win. So all I want to do is record my thoughts on how the Democratic field is shaping up, how I think it will turn out, and who will ultimately emerge as their Presidential nominee. 

Let’s start with how the Democrats are positioning themselves, or in many cases, how the media is positioning the Democrats. Just like the GOP four years ago (and now), the Democratic Party is facing a battle to define itself. You have the old guard, relative moderates like Pelosi and Schumer, holding the reins of power in Washington and nationally. Those folks think Hillary Clinton only lost because she forgot to visit Michigan, and all it will take to win back the White House is a fellow old guarder like Joe Biden to drop by Lansing a time or two. On the other side, you have the newly-elected wing that firmly believes in the progressive vision they ran on in 2018. They entertain the idea that Bernie Sanders was robbed of the nomination and that he might’ve defeated Trump, but they're not crazy about Bernie this time. Polls suggest that a rolling triumvirate of Biden, Sanders, and Kamala Harris are currently leading, but they remind me of the polls in 2016 saying that Jeb Bush was the nominee-in-waiting. There’s a third wing out there, full of celebrities and businesspeople that see Trump’s shock win and think; “Why not me?” 

The old guard wants Biden. It’s obvious why; Biden is well-liked, he’s been around the track a few times, and perhaps most importantly he relates to the blue-collar midwesterners that switched from Obama to Trump. Biden would be an easy, no-drama candidate to get behind. But Biden has drawbacks. He’s an old and white figure in a party that just enthusiastically sent a lot of diversity to Washington. Biden has also never faced a tough campaign and won. He held down a safe seat in a blue state for a long time, winning only because people knew him and he had the right letter after his name on the ballot. Biden has run for President twice before, and flamed out miserably both times. Sure, he made it on the ballot with Obama, but that ticket didn’t win because of Biden. All Biden really did is show up. Biden lacks the tight-knit political team that Obama had; all of the Obama alums are either retired or elsewhere. There will be no Jim Messina or David Axelrod guiding Joe’s ship in 2020. Biden reminds me of Jeb Bush. An obvious candidate that might have won, had he run last time. If Biden runs, and he almost certainly will, he will be one of the big candidates. But I doubt he is the nominee. 

The old guard also has some fallback options. Elizabeth Warren has been dulled out by DC. She’s far-removed from the fire-breathing anti capitalist that was elected to Ted Kennedy’s old seat. But Warren reminds me of Chris Christie in 2016. Both were larger-than-life figures during a Presidential election that they might’ve won, and both turned it down. Tom Daschle once told Barack Obama that a path to the Presidency only opens once, and never opens again. Warren’s chance was in 2016, and she didn't take it. At Georgetown cocktail parties, the old guard also like to talk up the chances of John Kerry or Terry McAuliffe, a pair of has beens if there’s ever been one. Biden, Kerry, McAuliffe, even Warren all stink of the same strategy that was used by Hillary Clinton: you’ll win if you show up. Just like the GOP base revolted in 2016, I don’t think any of these candidates, if they even become candidates, will end up as the nominee. 

The new crowd has the feel of the moment, but how will be able to capture it? Cory Booker is a dead end. It’s amazing that, after his ridiculous Spartacus moment, he didn’t see fit to remind anyone that he was a graduate of Yale. Voters can smell a guy who’s been running for President since he got out of law school, and they’ll toss Booker like they tossed John Edwards. Al Franken had a Presidential moment, but it was justifiably tossed away by female Senators led by Kristin Gillibrand. Gillibrand thinks everyone knows who she is, which is a sure bet that no one knows who she is. Neither have ever faced a tough race in their lives. Booker and Gillibrand are like Rubio in 2016; a pair of likable B-listers, too green for the national stage yet. Put them back on the shelf and let them ripen up a little bit. 

Beto O’Rourke has the “it” factor now, and out of the new crowd, he’s the most likely to be able to carry a torch for “it”. Beto raised seventy million dollars in Texas and was only two and a half points from victory. His campaign probably elected a handful of Democratic congresspeople, who will all be grateful. Beto is in a unique spot right now. He’s known nationally, unlike most of the Democrats who want to run next year. Beto is young, telegenic, and instantly likable. If you are an Iowan or a New Hampshirite, you’re only going out to vote in the deep winter cold for a candidate that you really like. Beto’s resume is thin, but that wasn’t a problem with Obama, and it might have even saved him from attacks by Clinton. There’s the usual bit tossed around with the Beto 2020 talk; that Beto is just like Obama. That’s true in the broad stroke, Beto is a young upstart pol who doesn't care about taking on the old guard. But Obama’s 2008 ascent wasn't the miraculous rise history has made it out to be. Ted Kennedy, Harry Reid, even Chuck Schumer all made behind the scenes moves to help Obama out, and it’s not clear Beto has that kind of clout. Of all the new folks, Beto is the one I’m keeping an eye on. He might be the star here. 

Bernie Sanders could be the Ron Paul of the Democratic Party, or he could be their Trump. Sanders’ basic message is that he will give the voters whatever they want. Free college? You got it. Free healthcare? Of course. Watching a Bernie speech is like an old episode of Oprah; “You get a car! And you get a car!” Bernie could be dangerous against Trump for exactly that reason. Bernie has never held a nine-to-five job in his life, and doesn't particularly understand or care about debt or spending issues. Bernie will promise the world if it means he gets elected. The question is, was 2016 a fluke? Did people just vote for him because he wasn’t Hillary Clinton? 

My bet is that the Democratic nominee in 2020 will be Kamala Harris. She is young, interesting, has a pretty good political team around her, and will have no problem raising money. The map also makes a lot of sense for her. Iowa gave Obama his victory, and with most of the rest of the field concentrated from the northeast, she might be able to win New Hampshire just by being a westerner. Nevada is in the first five contests, and with Harris’ network located just a state away, she’ll be able to easily win it. After that is California, and if she can’t win her home state, she doesn't deserve to win at all. 

[aflockofbees]

Someone needs to get him one of these bad boys

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

Jeb X OFC 18+

The first part of a two shot Christmas special, set after 68 Days To Save A Life. 🎄

"For all the noise and laughter, the clatter of service trays and clinking of glasses and the soft rhythmic crooning of not too far away music, Jebs' world is oddly silent when the realisation hits him.

Here?

In the coat closet?

She wants to do what??"

Just a disclaimer: I've had this sat in drafts since Aug/September waiting with Christmas in mind.

[agirlinherhead]

YESSS He's so adorable! Dad Jeb, ugh.

I wrote this in honor of @everythingbutresolved over the holidays we write smut but got motivated by @aherdofbees Jeb drawing to make it Christmas themed. Bringing my girl Mila back but neither have a history.

Smut, praise kink and Jeb being a sad dad ensues

How To Catch A Reindeer

There was such a gentle grace in the way the little girl's red dress billowed with her twirling movements, causing the small gold reindeers at the bottom to look as if they were prancing with every wave of its fabric.

Her laugh, a joyous sound like any eight year old's, brought smiles to many of the attendees, both on the dance floor and seated at their tables. Though the little girl was what your typical definition of adorable was, it was the man that stood towering above her, swaying in an awkward attempt to dance, while holding her hand; that really caught Mila's attention.

Jeb Magruder is the name Mila hears from whispers of excitement over the duo and although she just started working for that company, she was also able to come to the conclusion that the amount of attention he was currently receiving was not a common occurrence. That fact alone struck Mila as odd. Another alluring question, of the many that were beginning to pile up.

Timing had never really been a skill set of Mila’s, not really, but as red lips met the rim of her now empty glass, the timing of which she chose to refill her beverage fell perfectly in between the changing of events. Turning from the bar Mila watched the girl hop in excitement as a woman approached Jeb. Judging by his drastic change in demeanor and the way she spoke to him Mila was willing to bet it was the ex wife others spoke about. Their conversation was brief but as Jeb reached down to give his daughter a hug his cheeks were painting red. A woman's venom could be given in very few words.

As Mila continued to watch from the bar, a feeling of something she usually refused to acknowledge, softly tugged at her heart. Maybe it was the way he sought out a table, only settling for an empty one in the back. Or the way others looked on in feign pity. Whatever it was, perhaps an invitation to a place less formal would perk things up.

Pun intended

"I couldn't help but notices your stellar dance moves up there, with your daughter I presume?"

Jeb's eyes snapped up from their downward gaze while he suddenly tried to sit up a little straighter.

Mila gestured to the empty seat next to him, "anyone sitting here?"

"Yes! I mean no, no one's sitting there."

---

Jeb seemed to know quite a lot about politics though it never dawned on Mila to ask why. She couldn't recall how they got onto the subject, but the topic was how the hierarchy of the White House worked, o r something like that . All she understood was how he chuntered on about this guy being above another guy and thank GOD Jeb could read the smallest hint of infoxication on her face.

Shoulder sagging a little lower he suddenly realized what was happening, "I'm boring you aren't I? I'm so sorry."

The same deep blush that blossomed onto his cheeks earlier, was now making the blue in his eyes more prominent. Truth was, his little government lesson was actually quite endearing but Mila was enjoying his show of embarrassment too much to say so.

The ice in her drink made a soft clink once it met the surface of the table and Mila took the opportunity to turn and fully face Jeb, pressing her kneecaps into his outer right thigh. The sudden contact was clearly a surprise by the way he squirmed in his chair.

"Hey. This is my second one." Raising her eyebrows Mila held up a half empty glass of some milky looking drink, most likely to be eggnog. "And I'm thinking my third could be a bit more fun if you joined me at the after party."

Wether he was truly in awe over the invitation or surprised there was such a thing, Jeb quickly looked around in puzzlement. Leaning in as If prying ears were all around, he softly whispered, "they have after parties at these things?"

This should be an interesting night

---

"Here, hold still."

It had been surprisingly easy to get Jeb to wear her reindeer headband and had his nose been half as red as his cheeks, Jeb surly could pass as Rudolph. From his spot on the end of Mila's bed, Jeb sat slouched, while a sheepish grin covered his face.

Placing her right knee between Jeb spread legs, the body heat from her chest settled mere centimeters from his face. As she continued to fiddle with an imaginary fold Mila couldn't help the feeling of uncertainty that began to nest itself in the back of her mind. He hadn't made a move to touch her yet. In fact he hadn't made any type of move at all. Leaning back, Mila examined the work she never actually did.

"Look at you"

It was supposed to be a statement, an acknowledgment that by putting on the headband, he was humoring her, however, the sudden glint of pride in his eyes told Mila that it meant more to him.

Oh

Taking a step back, she threaded her fingers through the newly formed curls at the nape of his neck. "What would you do if I told you, ever since I saw those big hands wrap around your glass at the party, I've thought about what they'd feel like on me?"

Jebs eyes widened in surprise, "You...what? I mean...I...I would want to show you, I can show you!...please?"

Bringing her lips next to Jeb's ear, Mila whispered, "you can touch me Jeb."

A noise akin to a held breath being released flowed through Jebs nose as he tentatively placed his hands on her waist. It was as if he was deciding on the next step when the sudden feeling of weightlessness, quickly followed by her back meeting the mattress, pulled a squeak for Mila.

Throwing the headband somewhere off to the side, his hair was now a disheveled mess. There was something so pleasing about seeing Jeb In such a state. Removing her top and coming to rest on his left hand Jeb ran the fingers of his right from under her armpit to the side of her breast. Tracing the underside with his thumb he then brought his hand underneath them, continuing his path down her torso with fingers splayed. His touch sent a current through Mila that had been long since forgotten causing her back to arch into his touch.

Jeb was thankful for the elastic of Mila's skirt, the otherwise sturdy material very well may have ended up a torn piece of fabric atop the heap of clothing collecting on the floor. When his right hand finally reached the junction of Mila's thighs, her excitement was evident from the wetness he gathered on his pointer and middle finger.

"That's all you," Mila uttered as she watched his eyes light up in question then wonder.

"Really?"

The question came out as an incredulous huff. Thankfully, it hadn't stopped his fingers exploration.

Soft lips left a heated trail from under Mila’s ear to her collarbone, now bare after removing her bra. Finding her lips, Jeb’s danced upon hers between breathy moans. The sound was driving him absolutely insane.

“You're so beautiful.”

Now it was Mila’s turn to blush.

The rough tug of Jeb’s belt was a silent demand that he needed to lose the pants and as he began to pull them off his legs Mila grabbed his wrist.

“I need you now.”

“Oh…ok”

With his pants and boxers hanging mid thigh Jeb settled between her legs, guiding himself to her entrance. In one slow thrust, Jeb was buried to the hilt while a sudden stream of panic curses all but halted any further moments.

"Jeb! What's wrong?"

"Shit. I'm sorry. I'm sorry...I just...I haven't done this in awhile..." his once hooded eyelids were forcefully scrunched shut as Jeb tried to take in a deep breath. "It's been a long time since...and...I...you're just so tight."

Not quite there yet but she'd take that as a compliment.

His body shook in a desperate attempt of what could only be to restrain himself. Mila placed her hand on either side of his cheeks, waiting for his eyes to meet hers. "It's ok, you can let go."

Lowering himself where the only thing keeping his complete body weight off of her was his forearms, Jeb started a steady pace. As he began to fall into a comfortable rhythm his thrust picked up speed along with power. Head buried in her neck whimpers of you feel so good and thank yous flowed across Mila's skin.

Normally, Mila liked to draw out times like these, where the man knows he found the right spot by just her reactions and repeatedly hitting it at that exact same angle but tonight she only had the blinding need to cum. Whispering praises in his ears did just the trick.

A white, hot wave consumed Mila about the same time as Jebs thrust began to stutter and a guttural moan fell from his lips. Straightening his arms, Jeb settled back on his hands while keeping his hips flush with her.

“Can I hold you for a bit?” Jeb’s request sounded hesitant, his eyes now looked to be forming tears. Nodding her head, Mila replied with a quiet sure.

The light brush of the tip of Jebs nose tickled Mila’s shoulder blades but she couldn’t be brought to care as she sunk into the comfort of the muscular arms that were currently wrapped around her chest.

“Can we do this again? Sometime soon?”

Leaning her head back against his chest she looked up at him with warm green eyes.

“Sure. And this time l, Jeb Magruder, meet me under the mistletoe”