<hr/><hr/><div align="center"><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: georgia;"><strong><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 12pt;">"The Dewie Decimal Dilemma"</span></strong></span> </div><hr/><hr/><div class="floatleft">(http://img2-ak.lst.fm/i/u/770x0/170aebbb4227403d8c9778599a42051c.jpg)</div><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: andale mono;"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 10pt;"><strong>NAME: </strong> Elijah Montero<br/><strong>AGE:</strong> 21<br/><strong>LOCATION &amp; TIME:</strong> Second Floor, Raina Library| 9/9/16 8:05 PM<br/><strong>MOOO:</strong> Dewie-Done with Dicking Around<br/><strong>TAGGING:</strong> Antonie Jepson  <em><strong>CLOSED</strong></em></span></span><br/><br/><br/><hr/><hr/><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: andale mono;"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 10pt;"><br/><br/>Antonie's inability to take a coordinated sequence of steps worked well in Elijah's favor. So well, in fact, that as he came barreling around the back stack, he found himself face to face, nose to... well, upper chest... and toe to toe with the bumbling behemoth of a boy. Fuck. His daylight dwelling fantasies did him little justice. That hard line of his jaw was far more chiseled than he remembered, and that carelessly disheveled set of burgundy locks he sported made him look that much more fuckable. Shit. He was supposed to be <em>breaking</em>  this fixation, not causing it to skyrocket tenfold. <br/><br/><strong>"Books."</strong> Ah, a sophisticated turn of phrase. It wasn't really something he was capable of at the moment, but he'd given it a valiant effort. Gesturing to the disorganized stack he'd brought back and set on the lacquered pine tabletop in the hopes of returning them, he let his gaze return with a swift sweep of his chin upward, brown eyes fixed on his blues. FUCK. No. He shouldn't want to kiss him this bad. The desirous sensation flowered in his gut and spiraled upward in billowing curls toward his throat where it was practically choking him for words. <br/><br/>He could do this. He just had to slip his trainer clad foot back and ease around the next corner to be home free. He'd forget the guy. Forget the glances. Forget the gut-wrenching need to bend him bodily over a bookshelf and... and... <br/><br/>Screw it. Not like his reputation couldn't use a little fluffing in the PDA department. It had been <em>far</em> too long since he'd rattled a stack.<br/><br/>Firm hand to the back of his neck, he drew his lips down as if water to an achingly, parched thirst. His second hand finding his skewed collar, he bunched it in folds within his clenched fist, his tongue snaking up and in to claim and conquer that which had been driving him all but mad, since Monday. A whimper of need forced him to reevaluate their location and the fact that there was a little too much homo going on for the hetero, so he relocated them a second aisle over so that he could slam him against the sparsely populated stacks in privacy. <br/><br/>As he did, however, the towering collection gave a groaning protest, having obviously only been given cursory glances in the past twenty years or so, and not quite prepared for the forceful thud of a bodily collision with its bindings. <br/><br/><strong>"Dorm is empty... just tell me when..."</strong><br/><br/>Breathing the words breathlessly, the assault on his lips turned a touch more carnal. His teeth bit, his fingernails pinched, his dark eyes clouded with lust. So much for clearing his head and getting back to casual square one. <br/><br/><br/></span></span>