#The 10 best Chicago attractions

[automaticenemytimetravel]

Places To Visit In Chicago

10 Best Places To Visit In Chicago In This article you can know the Top 10 Best places to visit in Chicago. 

[ekimdesonbaharbaskadir]

TOP 10 things to do in CHICAGO [Travel Guide] Things to do in Chicago

TOP 10 things to do in CHICAGO [Travel Guide] Things to do in Chicago

TOP 10 things to do in CHICAGO [Travel Guide] #NewYork Things to do in Chicago #thingstodoinchicago #travel #chicago Watch the TOP 10 things to do in CHICAGO [Travel Guide] video till the end. 379320 Views – 6085 Likes. You also like and comment. This video will give you an idea about the subject you are wondering about. Chicago travel guide, covering the top 10 things to do in Chicago, plus a…

[wildmelon]

daphne wiseman of mind blind 🧠🛍️💅🏼

by @mindblindbard!

whew this is a big lookbook! i’ve been working on daphne’s wardrobe for almost nine months now 🤯 mind blind is really special to me for many reasons, but a huge one is how it exemplifies just how much little choices can build character development. all it took was that chapter 1 option to have the mc sleep on bamboo sheets because she “likes a little luxury” and daphne walked into my head fully formed! the game has so much heart and humor, the personality choices are so unique and thoughtful, i could go on and on but 10/10 recommend, more on daphne below.

i had originally had little notes written by daphne on her outfits, but i scrapped them because it looked too cluttered. however they were cute and important to her character so i’m just gonna write them here!

everyday: can you believe grayson still won’t take a hint despite the baby tees daphne wears?! she lives to make him blush. also those vintage von dutch jeans are her prized possession

formal: spot the dress she wears to reese’s dinner party! the rest are for blending in at nick’s unity events-- enough to avoid the press while still catching the eye of an attractive stranger.

athletic: daphne puts on these outfits to walk on the treadmill for twenty minutes then take selfies

sleep: nick and sally constantly roast daphne for her obsession with cute pjs. nick complains that the money she spends on nice pajama sets is a major drain on resources

party: daphne’s favorite clothes to wear to the underground music venues she attends every weekend. music, especially live music, is her best coping strategy. the attractive company also helps keep her mind off grayson.

swim: daphne had big ideas for a post-graduation trip with sally to turks and caicos. though the vacation fell through, she kept the outfits. 

hot weather: some remnants of her coconut girl phase, and rarely weather appropriate. 

cold weather: no these are not all warm enough for chicago winters, but fashion is pain. also daphne rarely leaves the house without her headphones on

[aenwoedbeannaa]

Not So Fast, Darlin' || Joel x Reader

Summary: You know that venturing out into the abandoned QZ was a bad idea–especially alone. But with your rations dwindling to next to nothing, you know that raiding the old settlement for whatever you can find is your only option. You expected runners, maybe a few clickers. What you absolutely did not expect to find was a way too attractive man pointing a rifle square at your chest.

Words: 3.4k

Warnings: 18+, this is pure smut lol, I guess age gap but reader is in late 20s and this is only 10 years after the outbreak, unprotected p in v sex (don’t do the pull out method irl, guys), soft!Joel

A/N: I am so used to writing for Geralt, so I hope I manage to give them different voices. Thanks for reading, and maybe consider reblogging if you enjoy! Anyways–kofi here, masterlist here, taglist here. Enjoy!

You rifle your hand through your backpack once again, as if you’ll find something new inside. Your stomach grumbles and a wave of nausea washes over you. You’d think after all these years spent surviving on whatever scraps you could find would have made you stronger by now, but the lack of food is making you sick.

Groaning, you pull out the crinkled map you’ve carried with you since you slipped out of the Chicago QZ years ago. It’s a FEDRA map, so QZs are marked on the glossy paper, as if they were some bastions of society. You scoff, shaking your head at the thought. 

You’re not far from another one now. You’ve spent three days in the forest, atop a hill, watching the settlement below. You know it’s abandoned. You haven’t seen a single person go in or out. No FEDRA officers on patrol, no armored trucks carrying “fresh” rations. 

It should be safe enough, you tell yourself. 

Taking a deep breath, you gather the rest of your things and toss them unceremoniously into your backpack and throw it over your shoulder. You had better go now, while there is light left. Sneaking into a possibly infected-infested old QZ at night could be a death sentence. Granted, sneaking into a possibly infected-infested old QZ in the daytime could also be a death sentence. But, shit, you’ve got no choice.

It takes you nearly an hour to pick your way through the woods, down the hill, and to the perimeter of the abandoned settlement. After being on your own this long, you have learned to trust yourself. No sound, human or infected, can be heard anywhere. Still, you hold your pistol firmly in both hands as you walk as silently as possible toward the gaping hole where the entrance to the QZ must have been. You can never be too careful.

Once inside, your eyes scan the many buildings–mostly falling apart, this hasn’t been a QZ for a long time–looking for any sort of convenience store, grocery store, or anywhere you can possibly raid for ten-year-old canned goods. Down the block, you spot an old building that you are fairly sure must have been one of the QZ market centers. 

Ok, best place to start, you confirm, moving silent as a shadow from building to building until you reach your target. You approach the shattered window and peer inside, barely suppressing a small outburst of happiness upon seeing that there are still cans on shelves, still boxes stacked towards the back. 

Perfect. You are careful not to step on shattered glass in case any clickers are hiding around. You have no idea why this QZ was abandoned–whether it was just one of FEDRA’s many failures or some sort of civilian uprising. No matter how this place ended, you know that there is a high possibility that there are infected lurking around. 

You are so focused on the task at hand and listening for infected that you are completely oblivious to a man hiding just behind an old counter. Well, at least until he sprung to his feet, rifle in hand.

“Not so fast, darlin’,” he says with a rather thick southern accent. 

You jumped at his appearance, but you are used to situations like these, so the fear doesn’t rise in your gut like it used to. Every other day, it seems, someone is pointing a gun at you or you are pointing a gun at someone else. What a way to live. At least he wasn’t a hunter. Or, you are pretty sure he isn’t. They tend to shoot first, talk later. 

You raise your hands, not letting go of your pistol, “I’m just here for–” 

“Food’s taken.” 

First of all, you don’t enjoy being cut off, and second–there is so much food left in the old store that this one man couldn’t possibly take it all himself. Unless there were others with him… But you didn’t see or hear anyone, and certainly if he had any travel companions with him, they would have surrounded you by now. 

“Really?” you cock an eyebrow, “All of it? Bullshit.”

“I suggest you turn around and go back to wherever you came from, little lady.”

“Come the fuck on,” you roll your eyes. “There’s so much here, there’s no way you’re taking it all.”

“Got people that count on me.”

“Well, I don’t,” you don’t back down. “I’ll take a few cans and you can take the rest.”

He seems to ponder your words for a moment, lowering his rifle. 

“You ain’t got anybody with you?” 

“Oh, first you point a rifle in my face, and now you want to play twenty questions? Because in that case, I have a few questions of my own.” 

“Gotta answer mine, first.”

You scowl, slipping your pistol back into its holster and crossing your arms, “Yeah, I’m alone.”

“Fine,” he says gruffly, gesturing to the loaded shelves, “Have at it.”

Despite the fact that your stomach is still screaming at you, you stay where you are. You hate yourself for it, but there’s something about this man that entices you, draws you in. Brown curls, beard, captivating eyes, and damn, his muscles. You can tell just from his bare forearms visible thanks to him rolling the sleeves of his flannel up that he is practically made of stone. 

Even in the apocalypse, I’m still horny, you think, cursing yourself for it. 

“Not yet,” you break the silence, “I have some questions of my own.”

You see the man look from you to the shelves of food, contemplating his next decision. 

“I haven’t eaten yet, either. Why don’t you grab a couple cans and we can sit.”

“Hm,” you consider, “Fine. As long as you promise not to shoot me.”

In response, he simply slings his rifle over his shoulder, “No shootin’, got it.” 

“No shooting,” you confirm. 

You turn to face the still stocked shelves and scan the labels. Chef Boyardee. Shit was full of preservatives and other unnatural ingredients even back before the cordyceps infection broke out, so you’re pretty sure it’s safe. You grab two cans and head to the back of the store where the man is still standing.

“Alright,” you say, “You gonna sit?”

“Yeah, guess so,” he says, lowering himself to the ground. You follow suit, extending an arm to hand him one of the cans. “These won the Least Likely to Give Us Botulism Award.”

His stoic face actually cracks into a small smile at that. “Let’s hope it don’t.” 

“That would be pretty embarrassing,” you say as you open your backpack to dig around for a knife so you can open the ancient can. “There are literal zombies walking around but you just puke yourself to death.”

“At least we know for sure now that expiration dates are a scam.”

The two of you are silent for a moment as you open your respective cans of ravioli. It isn’t as uncomfortable as you’d imagine. 

Still, you break the silence, “Y/N.” You extend a hand in greeting. 

He pauses for a long moment before finally extending his own, “Joel.”

You almost shiver at the way your hand feels clasped in his. You’ve been on your own for so long, you forgot what human interaction felt like. It’s not horrible. 

“So, Joel,” you like the way his name sounds on your lips, “What do you need an entire store full of food for?”

“People.”

“You have a family, then?” Despite your immediate attraction to this man, your hunger wins out and you rather aggressively stab a piece of ravioli and shove it into your mouth.

“No.”

“You’re not much of a talker, are you?” 

“Mostly I’m just wonderin’ how you haven’t got yourself killed yet,” He dodges the question. 

“I have my ways,” you smirk. 

“Looks like you haven’t eaten in weeks.”

“They used to call this look Heroin Chic.” Now they just call it Literally Starving and Trying Not to Get Bit or Ripped Apart. 

He bursts into laughter at that, but his eyes don’t quite match. If you didn’t know better, you’d say he looked concerned. “Are you even old enough to remember that shit?”

“I was 19,” you clench a fist at the memory, “Plenty of time to learn things.” 

There is silence while the two of you eat before you do what you usually do and break it, “Are you even young enough to understand ten-year-old pop culture references?”

He smirks, looking too damn good while he does it. “Do I really look that old?” 

He actually sounds serious, so you laugh and shake your head, “Nah. You look… good.”

Well, fuck me. 

You can’t take the words back, though. You don’t think you want to take the words back. 

“Good, huh?” There is a glimmer in his eye. The type of glimmer you haven’t seen since before you fled the Chicago QZ. Your insides are in knots.

Well, since you’re fucked either way–”Very.” 

“You tryin’ to flatter me, darlin’?” 

“That depends–is it working?”

“It’s workin’, alright.” 

Forgetting about the Honorable Chef Boyardee, old pop culture references, and all the horrible shit that went down that night nearly ten years ago, you scoot closer to Joel, allowing yourself to fall into old patterns. You haven’t fucked anyone since you left the QZ, and goddamn do you want to fuck Joel. 

For a moment, Joel seems like a deer in headlights, only more stoic than scared. You almost shrink back–maybe you had misinterpreted his words? But a moment later, he sets down his half-eaten can of ravioli and shockingly casually slings his arm over your shoulders. 

The feeling is strange and familiar all at once. When was the last time you had even felt the touch of another person that didn’t involve being kicked in the head or otherwise injured? You can’t recall. Still, you lean into him.

“Tell me, lil’ lady,” he pulls you in closer, “How the fuck you’ve been survivin’ on your own?” 

“Just shut up and kiss me,” you evade yet another question. 

“Since you asked nicely.” He places a rough, calloused hand, under your chin, tilting your head to be even with his. Your breath catches in your throat the way it always did at this moment - the moment before the kiss. The moment where everything is still new and pure and lovely. Except, this wasn’t like those old times. 

Ok, you lean in closer so your lips are just inches apart, maybe not exactly pure. 

Joel closes the distance, pressing his lips against yours. For all his gruffness and rock-solid exterior, the kiss is gentle at first - hesitant. It is nice, sweet. But then again, it is the apocalypse, there is no time for hesitation. 

You deepen the kiss, parting his lips with your tongue. When you do, it seems to flip a switch somewhere in his head. His lips crash against yours, his tongue pushing past your parted lips, vying for control. And you let him take it. 

Jesus fuck it’s been a long time. 

You let him pull you into his lap, sliding your hands up his muscled chest and gripping his shirt so tight you might end up tearing it off. He responds by running his hands down from where he had been holding your face, fingers ghosting over your neck and collarbones. He stops there, pulling apart only inches. The two of you take heavy breaths, eyes locked on each other. 

For a moment it is quiet as you catch your breath. 

“Let’s take this somewhere private.” He smirks, and it’s enough to make heat pool in your core. You need this. You need him. 

So, you follow. 

***

A makeshift tent made up of a tarp hanging over some ropes tied to trees hardly seems more private than the old shop, but you don’t complain. 

“We’re here, darlin’,” Joel murmurs, wrapping his arms around you tightly, almost possessively. He doesn’t even bother to usher you into the “tent.” 

Before he can kiss you, you pull back slightly, “Shouldn’t we be in there?” You jerk your head toward the tarp blowing in the breeze. 

“Ain’t nobody comin’ out all this way,” he laughs, vibrating his chest and making you feel too warm and fuzzy on the inside. You’ve made it a point not to let anything or anyone sweep you off your feet - but Joel seems to be the exception. 

Without warning, his fingers gently brush your cheek before he rests them under your chin, tilting your head up to look at him, “Do you trust me?” 

You don’t even have to think about your answer before nodding in response, “Yes, sir.” 

“Mm,” he growls, “Good.”

When he pulls you closer to kiss him, your knees buckle and you quite literally  lose your balance and fall into the soft grass.  Rather than lean you pick you back up, he simply shifts his balance, so he is positioned over you, most of his weight resting on his elbows. Those strong forearms… There is no more need for words as he leans down and brushes his lips against yours, kissing you slowly and deliberately.

His tongue traces your bottom lip gently and you part your lips for him, sighing contentedly as his tongue begins its careful exploration of your mouth.

The warm sunlight bathes your exposed skin in its warm amber glow, making the process of removing your flannel and jeans all the more pleasurable. Joel is surprisingly careful and deliberate as he pushes your top, over your shoulders, and slightly less so as he pulls your tank top over your head. A growl of appreciation escapes from somewhere in his chest as his eyes rake over you, deft fingers finding the clasp of your bra and unhooking it easily.

Wanting something more to look at yourself, you reach up and grasp at his shirt, pulling at it with much less care before Joel finally pulls it off himself. Your eyes widen at the sight of him - bare chest and arms. Muscles rippling beneath his skin. You indulge yourself, letting your fingers trail down his chest and stomach, stopping when you reach his jeans. 

You are about to start undoing his belt, but he stops you with a stern look. “Uh uh, not so fast, baby girl.” You melt at his words, “I got a few things I’d like to do first.”

His mouth travels the whole of your body, drawing small gasps and moans as his tongue explores that sensitive spot between your neck and shoulder and pulls each nipple gently into his mouth, flicking them first gently and then harder, nipping one and then the other between his teeth, making you gasp. 

Your hips buck up to meet his, and a small moan escapes your lips when you feel his hard length between the layers of fabric separating you from him.

“Patience, darlin’,” he drawls, moving away from you to unzip your jeans and pull them along with your soaked panties off your hips, tossing them into the grass.

Before you can conjure up an adequate reply, Joel slides a calloused hand up your thigh and rests one finger on your sensitive nub. You moan louder as his finger traces back and forth with the perfect amount of pressure, just the way you like it - however the fuck he knows that.

You are dripping wet by the time he pushes one large finger into your entrance, gently massaging that sensitive spot inside of you, making you buck your hips in response. “Fuck,” you breathe.

He smirks as he lowers his head, dark curls ghosting over your exposed skin. You can’t help but bury your fingers in those curls as his tongue picks up where his now occupied finger left off, lapping at your clit with fervor while one finger becomes two rubbing against that spot inside you.

It is only a matter of moments before you fall apart under him.  “Joel, oh fuck, Joel!” you cry as you come undone. You’d be embarrassed at how quickly he made you cum, but hell - it’s been so long, and he is just… so good. 

For a moment you just lay in the grass, the world coming in and out of focus as he continues to work his fingers, more gently now, helping  you come down from your orgasm. When he sees that you are spent, he removes his fingers and brings them straight to his mouth, savoring every last drop of you.  But without his large digits inside of you, you are already yearning for more. You need to feel him inside of you. Thankfully, he is already in the process of removing his pants.

“Please,” you whimper, urging him to move faster, “Please, Joel.” 

“Please, what, baby girl?” 

“P-please fuck me. I want you to fuck me.” 

“Well, since the lady asked nicely,” he smirks, finally kicking off his boxers revealing just how large he is. 

“So big…” you murmur, not capable of much more speech. “Holy shit.” 

First, he smirks at the compliment, but a moment later his face grows serious, “Now darlin’, if I hurt you, just tell me and I’ll st–”

“No,” you cut him off, “I don’t want you to stop.” 

“Well,” he growls, “Have it your way then.” He is clearly enjoying this.

When he enters you, it is with the same care that he has exerted this whole time.  So different from the gruff man who pointed a gun at you over some ten-year-old cans of spaghetti-os. He could be as rough as he wanted and you’d still enjoy yourself.

He buries his head in the crook of your neck so that with each thrust, his breath tickles your ear. The grunts that escape his lips rumble in your ear and make you shiver. Goddamn, you would never get tired of this. 

His thrusts come faster and faster as both of you cry out into the empty forest around you. His thrusts, each more bruising than the last, fill you up, his member lusciously raking over that bundle of nerves you can never seem to reach with your own fingers. 

He reaches a hand down, still effortlessly holding himself up with his other arm so as not to crush you beneath him. The pad of his thumb rubs circles on your clit as he thrusts harder, bottoming out with each one, making you a writhing mess beneath him. 

It isn’t long before you feel your second orgasm creeping up on you. It’s just too much, you can’t take it. “Joel, I- I’m–” 

“I know, baby girl, I know.” You had no idea a nickname could have such an effect on you, but here you are. “Cum for me, one more time.”

That was about all the encouragement you needed. You are a writhing mess, the walls of your pussy clenching around him frantically as he fucks you through your orgasm, his breaths growing more and more frantic with each thrust. 

“Fuck, Y/N, I’m–” He doesn’t get to finish his sentence before forcing himself to pull out, finishing with a groan has he spills all over your stomach. You like the way it feels, being covered in his arousal. It makes you feel like you are his. And, fuck, you realize how much you really want to be his. 

But there are too many unknowns in this world, and you know that after this, you will both return to your lives and this will fade into memory. But for now, you can enjoy this moment. 

He rolls off of you and into the grass, and you can’t help but snuggle up close, feeling safer than you have felt in ten years with his arms wrapped around you and your head on his chest. 

You don’t speak. You don’t want to ruin the moment. But, finally, he does.

“I know solo travelin’ can be good,” he says slowly, as if he’s been thinking long and hard about the words he is about to speak, “But I got a group. A few people. Plenty of room for one more.”

“I–” you certainly weren’t expecting this, “I–Yeah, a group. That sounds… nice.” No more sleepless nights with no one to keep watch, no more being hopelessly outnumbered at every turn. And, more importantly, Joel. 

You could get used to his company, that’s for sure. 

[idiopathicsmile]

10 comebacks to a woman who once told my best friend, then a chicagoan (like i was), "i love coming to chicago because in new york i'm an 8 but in chicago i'm a 10"

"exactly, that's something i love about living here, you know? it's not as surface-oriented and shallow as some other cities. like, the culture's just a little deeper and a little smarter than in places where everyone's only concentrating on looking their best at all times, you know?"

"oh wow, you really said that with your out-loud voice, huh?"

(LAUGHTER) "yeah, you're a ten here. sure you are." (LAUGHTER)

"just wondering: in the moments before that comment left your mouth, did you take a second to imagine how we, a bunch of people who very obviously live in chicago, would react? if no, why not? if yes, what on earth did you see? please write in complete sentences in the booklet provided. you will have thirty minutes."

"my god, do you assign yourself a number comparing your appearance to the appearances of the people around you everywhere you go? you know we have a limited amount of time on this earth, right? you know that after that, we die and death is forever, right?"

"hurrah, i've done it! i've finally met the one human on the planet who is capable of objectively, correctly assessing the relative attractiveness of everyone everywhere on earth. please, oh please pray tell: what number am i? what number is he? what number is she? numbers all around, please!"

"what an exhausting way to live. what a tiring way of interacting with other people. what a dispiriting way to view the world around you, a world teeming with life and strangeness and possibility. serious question: are you alright?"

"i was going to make a crack about new yorkers being looks-obsessed, but in retrospect i have no idea why. i'm sorry. i genuinely have nothing against nyc, a location i have visited only a handful of times, including one trip to see the very person to whom you made your ill-advised remark, lo these years ago, and we had what i would call a magical time. i don't actually understand pitting one city against another. i don't understand the mentality that there must always be a ranking, must always be a competition, must always, always be a winner and a loser. also if you're a ten, everyone else here is a twelve, baby."

"on some level, i do understand that eventually this ceases to be a piece about the irritating thing a friend's work colleague once said, and instead becomes a chronicle of my own deranged inability to let a grudge go—even a petty grudge, even a second-hand grudge, even a grudge which i am again compelled to inform you saw its spark of creation multiple years and several moves ago. (neither the friend nor i live in chicago anymore.) on some level, i understand that this turning point, the moment where any sensible reader went "yikes, jess really hasn't let this go, huh?" might have happened in the very title of this post. i have never met you, woman who maybe five years ago told some chicagoans you worked with that you're an 8 in new york and a 10 in chicago. you could have changed since then. you could have grown and deepened and evolved your thinking. i do believe people are capable of learning. maybe you even remember saying it, and regret it now. maybe not. but to be honest, worse things have been said—to me, to my best friend, to everyone who has been on this planet longer than a few years. life is exhausting and scary and wonderful and we are all going to die some day. you are an adult and that means you have had hard days, hard weeks, hard years even. you have been heartbroken, and sick with worry, and you have known terror, real terror, that animal fear that crawls up the spine and screams in the brain, and yet you found it in yourself to get in a airplane and fly halfway across a large country to be here, for the sake of a job you might not even like. we are all doing the best we can. i have to believe we are all doing the best we can. i could have written this post about anything. there were near-infinite possibilities and i chose this, a mean little caricature, and in trying to paint you, only managed a quick and unflattering sketch of me, a person obsessed with being right and being clever, but who frequently is neither. again, i have never met you, and if i do meet you i will never know it, and i have spent more brain space imagining a tiny, bitter vengeance against this single-sentence quote, relayed to me at a remove, than i have spent trying to learn calculus or teaching myself to garden or volunteering at a soup kitchen. if there ever was a winner or a loser in this bizarre equation it is fully possible that i have lost, simply by trying so hard to win."

"...ok."

[lavendertales]

Sweet lies: Chapter 10**

pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader

summary: Frankie is determined to come clean to Andrea, but her departure punts a dent in his plans. Meanwhile, you are offered a fantastic opportunity in Switzerland, and Frankie only grows more erratic.

word count: 5k

WARNINGS: morning sex (piv, vaginal fingering, praise kink, creampie)

AGELESS/EMPTY BLOGS & MINORS WILL BE BLOCKED!

Comments & reblogs are always appreciated 💕

gif: @javier-pena​ 

series masterlist | AO3

It takes you a bit to gain full consciousness. Right now you’re somewhere between a comatose state and reality, and you can’t decide which option is best. You weigh them carefully, barely remembering last night’s events and where you find yourself this morning.

Then you open your eyes, slowly coming to it, taking a quick scan around.

You’re in Frankie’s bedroom.

The most intimate place of his apartment, recently shared with Andrea, his fiancé, that’s where you are. It brings you a feeling of both comfort and panic, but it is difficult to discern between the two when you find yourself stretching in utter coziness, Frankie’s scent still lingering on the sheets.

Unlike him, who seems nowhere to be found.

“Hi, good morning,” you hear his husky voice say.

It takes you a bit to realize that he’s not talking to you. Besides the fact that his voice sounds even more attractive first thing in the morning, he sounds distressed. You stand up halfway, trying to visualize him; you finally catch a glimpse of his naked silhouette at the desk, slouching on the chair and with the phone at his ear.

“Listen, I really need to talk to you,” he says. “It’s urgent. Yes, it’s about us. Could we meet for lunch? Because it’s a face to face conversation. Because I—what do you mean you’re not here? Seriously? You decided to go visit your parents for a whole week on a Sunday? I know you can visit them whenever you want, I’m just saying—this is more important than a goddamn visit! Come on, please, can’t you let it go? We really need to talk. When are you coming back? Fine. Fine, we’ll talk then. Bye.”

He grunts, hanging up the phone and rubbing his face in frustration. Then, he sees you, and his face softens instantly. He crawls back in bed next to you, gently stroking your hair. It’s now that you come to realize you’re not certain when you moved from the couch to the bed last night. It’s all a blur, frankly, especially after Frankie slid right back inside you once you were concealed underneath the sheets.

“What’s the problem?” you ask.

“I called Andrea to meet for lunch, talk about things. Apparently she’s gonna be out of town for a week, visiting her parents in Chicago.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“I guess our talk yesterday affected her more than she let on.”

“I just think it’s weird.”

You frown, halfway amused. “You’re in bed with another woman. I think there are other concerns in the middle.”

Frankie chuckles. “She said she’ll text me when she gets back. So we’ll see.”

He nuzzles up to you, eyes locked on your radiant face. “I don’t wanna get up yet.”

“It’s Sunday. I don’t think we have to.”

“We probably should. Given… circumstances.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

You stare at each other, your bodies as hungry as last night, except lazier. It feels too good to retreat into the warmth of the sheets, your skin warm to the touch.

“It’s still early though,” you say, teasingly playing with a few locks of his hair.

His lips touch yours, the sensation sweet and sensual. Your body instantly catches fire as his hand traces the slopes and curves of your body. His fingers find refuge at last between your legs, barely touching through your folds, and yet you still crumble.

Suddenly there’s a broken moan that escapes past your lips, filling the otherwise silent air. Frankie grunts into your mouth, pleasantly remarking that you’re somewhat wet already.

“Francisco,” you whisper, cupping both his cheeks, mouth wide open at the sensation of his digits rubbing against your clit.

He doesn’t tell you, but whenever you coo his full name, it’s equal parts torturous and ecstatic. Whenever you plea for him in such a yearning manner, it breaks him, makes him forget everything else in this world. Even now, as he starts rubbing circles on your clit, all he can see is you. All he can hear and feel is you, and it is now that he acknowledges the fact that it’s always been this way.

Even during one of the first times he and Andrea slept together, and his lower lip bled as a result of him trying not to grunt your name.

These are things he keeps to himself, buried as deep as he’d like to bury himself inside you right about now.

Your hand traces his cock, now fully erect, giving it a few strokes, and Frankie moans alongside you.

“Frankie,” you moan again, barely conscious at this point. “Please. Please…”

He looks at you amazed, almost teasingly so, but he does not mock. “What do you need?”

“You. I need to feel you. Please.”

Frankie smiles in response, slipping his fingers inside you. It’s only two of them, but you are still so sensitive from last night and from being barely awake that it feels like it’s too much. You instinctively spread your legs further, making more room for Frankie, and you grab tightly onto his shoulder. There’s heat radiating from all over you, rooted deep in your veins, it seems, and Frankie can feel it, too.

“You’re so warm,” he tells you, pecking your lips as he thrusts his fingers in and out of you at a decent pace. “So tight and wet… hmm, so good, baby girl.”

Your sole response are pathetically needy moans, but right now, you forbid yourself to think about anything else except the way he’s building towards your orgasm with nothing but his fingers.

“F-Francisco…”

“Mhm, it’s okay. It’s okay, I got you.”

“Don’t stop, please, please…”

“Not going to stop, baby. You wanna cum on my fingers? Just like this, hm?”

“Yes, yes—“

“Good girl, come on. Let me feel you around my fingers, come for me.”

He picks up the pace, his fingers fucking into you with the fastest speed he can muster while he’s kissing your lips and cheeks. Your fingers dig into the flesh of his shoulder as you come, and you nearly cry with overstimulation. It’s probably the fastest you’ve came from such a form of stimulation, but it’s all too much to not let it explode in such a delicious manner.

You see him taking your arousal-coated fingers to his mouth and sucking them dry, his eyes piercing through you. Then, you watch him curl the same fingers around his cock, fisting it gently and releasing a series of unholy sounds before positioning himself at your entrance.

He doesn’t want to think how Andrea practically skipped town once she intuited something was going on between you and Frankie. He doesn’t want to think about the fact that he desperately wants to talk to her, end things while there’s still some dignity left, and she’s literally running away from him. He doesn’t want to think about any of that; all he wants is to bury himself into you, to feel you as deeply as humanly possible, and hear you moan for him on repeat.

And that’s what he does: he pushes past your soaked lips, burying himself to the hilt with one swift and languid motion. You throw your head back, the stretch of your walls around him absolutely magnetic. You feel every inch of him, every vein on his cock, every single thing as he steadily grinds his hips into yours. It’s like he’s touching every nerve in your body with each push into your pussy, each passing second building your orgasm faster and faster. He’s definitely bigger than what he previously gave to you, and he stretches you out so painfully good you could cry out in pleasure.

“I love being inside you,” he mutters, head buried in the crook of your neck.

“Frankie—fuck—“

“You feel so perfect around me. So… fucking perfect. So fucking good, so good for me…”

Truth be told, he’s not in control of his mental faculties at this point; he’s lost and long surrendered to your taste, your warmth, every inch of you. While you’re both tender and sore from yesterday, Frankie’s erratic movements grow needier and thus more desperate. He’s fucking into you faster, now staring down on you with a hunger you would’ve deemed as unknown or surreal till now. You stare right at him, mouth open as you moan, your body at his mercy.

He’s slamming his cock faster and harder with each second, and with each whimper that leaves your mouth. Your nails dig into his back once more, only this time they cut right through him, adding to the buildup in Frankie’s belly. You feel sweat coating his and your skin alike, and his hands start to move frantically all over you, as if he wants to contain all of you in his hands, all at once.

“I need to—“he tries to warn, but you run your fingers over his lips to shush him sweetly.

“It’s okay. Come, Francisco.”

“Wh-Where? Tell me, tell me where, fuck…”

You kiss him, and that’s all the answer he needs. It’s most likely risky and insane, ludicrous even, but you’re both past any reprimands or atonement for your sins. He grunts your name when he comes, spilling his release inside you. It’s so hot and so much of it, you kinda just seize up around him, triggering your own climax. You gush all around him, arousal dripping from your pussy from both of you.

You feel empty when he pulls out, even with the slow and warm dribble of arousal dripping from you. Frankie watches that in some sort of drunken haze; he hasn’t lost himself this way before, not even with Andrea. It only reminds him of the effect you have on him, how deep his affection for you runs, and to what lengths he’ll go just because you said you need him.

“You look so good like this,” he mumbles, eyes still on your swollen pussy.

You cannot deny the weight of his sentence, and you feel your cheeks flush with the auburn flame of flattery.

“Like what?” you pretend to not be in the know.

“Full with me.”

You smile, in spite of everything telling you the opposite, and cup his cheeks, bringing him down to meet with your lips as you kiss him again.

“I liked it better before, when I was actually full with you,” you tease.

“Don’t do this to me.”

“Don’t do what?”

Frankie bites on your lower lip, his index and middle finger removing the loose hair covering your forehead.

“Test me. I’ll take the whole day to fuck you.”

You don’t contradict him, nor do you battle with him. You simply kiss him, remembering that this—while beyond pleasurable—is not real. Not until Frankie and Andrea settle things once and for all.

Even as you get dressed, you think the unfairness of it all, the pain and pleasure in between you and Frankie. Most importantly, you think how much you would hate it if all of this would’ve been for nothing.

You don’t wish for the downfall for their relationship. Not at all. But Frankie agreed with you when you said that his means something. He told you he loves you, and that he’s loved you since you were teenagers. It doesn’t just mean something; it means everything.

Fear clawing at your chest, you leave his apartment sometime around 9:17 a.m. with the promise of cutting contact once more. What you fail to see as you rush to get back home, though, is Santiago’s frowned brows and puzzled look at the corner of the street where Frankie’s apartment is. You fail to see him waiting for you to disappear out of the frame, taking the subway, and then rush to the apartment building.

The knock on the door startles Frankie. Maybe you forgot something.

“Tell me I did not see what I just saw,” is Santiago’s opening line once he finds himself on Frankie’s doorstep.

“What are you talking about?”

Santiago groans your name, angrily stepping inside. “Tell me she did not just leave your apartment so early in the morning. Because if you don’t, I will just assume she’s doing the walk of shame right about now.”

Frankie gulps, frozen. He’s caught off guard, and he’s not sure how to be blunt with his best friend about the whole situation.

“It’s not—what you think.”

Rookie mistake. He falters, for one goddamn second, and Santiago picks up on it. Next thing Frankie knows, he’s being smacked across his head.

“What the fuck!” he exclaims.

“Tell me you’re not fucking her.”

“I thought you had a thing with Rose. Why do you care?”

Santiago repeats the gesture, much to Frankie’s annoyance, who grunts in pain.

“So you are an idiot,” he concludes.

“It’s not what you think, okay?”

“Oh, so she didn’t just leave the apartment that you share with your fiancé at nine o’clock in the morning. Okay, good, cause I was thinking you lost your fucking mind. I thought you slept with her. But if you say it’s not what I think, then—“

“It’s more than that! It’s—it’s everything, Pope. I’m in deep shit already so if you could spare me your usual lectures, I’d really appreciate it. I can’t handle any shit from you too.”

“What the hell’s  going on? What are you doing here?”

“Not that it matters or not that it’s any of your business, but… she just came over to talk. That’s all.”

Santiago stares incredulously at him. He feels sorrow and pity for his friend, and yet he can’t help but be offended on your behalf, too.

“You just talked?” he asks.

“Yes,” Frankie insists.

“Fish, look at me. Listen to me.”

“Don’t give me a fucking lecture, man. I don’t fucking need it.”

“All I’m gonna say is, if you’re messing around, cut it out, right the fuck now. You don’t know how much this woman loves you.”

Frankie huffs mockingly, which determines Santiago to grab the collar of his t-shirt and angrily pull him in.

“I fucking mean it,” he says, teeth clenched. “You’re my best friend, but so is she. And you cut her out of your life, so you have no clue how she was after you left. You don’t know how she sounded over the phone, unable to stop crying. You don’t know how we all took turns calling and consoling her, making sure she wasn’t going to hurt herself.”

When he’s free from Santiago’s grip, Frankie frowns, staring at his friend.

“Why would she hurt herself?” he repeats, stunned at the revelation.

“I told you. You don’t know half of it. She lost one of her dearest friends. It wasn’t about being in love with you. She was mourning you. She was blaming herself because you walked out on her. So if you’re fooling around with her, I am telling you to put an end to it right now. Or else I will kill you myself.”

“I’m not.”

Frankie’s response is succinct and determined, and that eases Santiago’s mind in the slightest.

“I’m not fooling around,” he continues. “I’m going to make things right for all of us.”

“Good. I’m guessing this is the part where I say I didn’t see anything?”

Frankie nods shyly, feeling the weight of Santiago’s grip over his shoulder.

“Thank you,” he tells Santiago, who puckers his brows in confusion.

“For what?”

“For being a great friend to her when I wasn’t. Especially when I wasn’t.”

Santiago nods in understanding, leaving Frankie alone in the apartment with his thoughts. His mind inevitably wanders off to Andrea, her rushed decision to simply flee Boston for a week and thus denying him the opportunity to redeem himself.

But he will do it. When the week is over, face to face, he will do it.

Two hours later, you still stare at the laptop’s screen, fear and excitement coursing through you alike. You still can’t believe it. An opportunity like this comes up once every few years, if ever. And given your job to basically write, this is the best thing you can agree on.

You haven’t given your acceptance yet. While you know you have to do this and you want to, you remember the last time you had to make such a big, impactful decision, and its aftermath. Needless to say, you are concerned about the impending departure, even if this one has an expiration date right from the beginning.

It’s only one month. Surely you’ll survive.

But there is something that still eats at your heart, and you cannot vent to any of your friends about it. Not until this is all sorted out and you can admit to yourself and to everyone else just how you’ve been feeling for the past decade.

When you join the group for bowling that evening, you’re a little nervous to tell them about your impending departure. But you know that they will be more than supportive and understanding.

The one you’re worried about is Frankie.

You don’t let it show, though. As usual, it’s in your best interest to mind your business and not let any of your friends know that something is amiss, even if you do long for an honest and open conversation.

What you do get, though, is a highly indisposed Frankie checking his phone every two or three minutes. It’s bizarre, you think, but you don’t want to make much of it.

“He’s been doing that for the past few days,” Will comments in your vicinity.

You look up at him only to find him staring at his friend in a similarly concerned manner. Brows furrowed, feeling truly puzzled, you stare at Will instead, hoping for an explanation.

“Apparently Andrea’s been calling and texting like crazy, wanting to sort things out right now,” he clarifies, seemingly reading your mind.

“So he keeps rejecting her calls?”

Will nods. “You’d think he’d want to talk to her like, yesterday.”

“Maybe he wants to talk to her face to face instead.”

Will eyes you curiously, but you only shrug. It’s your turn to play ball anyway, so you stand up and make your way to the designated aisle. You don’t notice Will’s shadow lurking about you.

Only after you return victorious to your seat, having knocked down eight pins, only then do you remark him on standby.

“Are you okay?” he asks you out of the blue.

You make a face. “Why wouldn’t I be?” you retort.

“I don’t know. It just seems like something’s bothering you.”

You could almost laugh at the fact that out of everyone present, Will is the only one to notice fragments of your inner turmoil. Not about the job opportunity, of course, but he doesn’t know that.

Does he?

“I’m okay,” you say flatly. “Really.”

“Pope’s right. You do spent a lot of time locked inside your own mind.”

To that you chuckle, recognizing the truth behind the statement.

“Guilty as charged,” you smile.

“What’s really going on?”

Will sits next to you, his eyes revealing candor and warmth, and you almost break down at how much you’ve missed these kind of conversations with him. Yes, you and Santiago have grown closer over the past few years, but there was just something about talking to Will that is soothing and eye-opening in and by itself. Perhaps it’s that “eldest of the group” vibe that he has going on, you’re not sure.

“To tell you the truth, I got this incredible job opportunity,” you confess with a knot in your throat, “but… I don’t know.”

“What’s it about?”

“I’d have to spend a month in Switzerland over the summer. They allow a limited number of journalists and such to get insight at the CERN lab, exclusive footage and news, and I’m one of them.”

Will’s face lights up. “That sounds incredible! You’re going for it, aren’t you?”

“Well, yeah, it’s Switzerland. CERN is a huge deal, and this could be a turning point in my career.”

“So what’s the holdup?”

You gulp, eyes flying over to Frankie. Unbeknownst to you, Benny and Emily are also close enough to hear the two of you talk.

“I’m just a bit cautious about leaving,” you say.

“It’s temporary, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“It’s not like you to miss such a thing. Like you said, it’s a big opportunity. Don’t let anything hold you back.”

If only it were that simple.

“What’s going on?” Emily interrupts.

You take a deep breath, looking at her, then at Benny. “I’m going to Switzerland this summer.”

Emily’s face lights up with excitement just as Will’s did, but Benny doesn’t seem to share the sentiment; quite the contrary: his face drops, his forehead creases under the weight of a frown, and he steps in, looking like he’s ready to scold you.

“What do you mean you’re leaving to Switzerland?” he asks rather loudly, catching the attention of the rest of the group.

“Benny—“

“I for one think that coming back into town just to leave again is downright cruel. What about us?”

You know he’s being half serious and half joking, but you still feel for him.

“Listen to me, this is a temporary job,” you try to calm him down. “It’s only a month. I get exclusive insight into the CERN lab, and I get to write about the new stuff they’re doing. Then I’ll be right back home.”

“Oh.”

Hands on his hips, Benny locks eyes with Will, who nods at him. On the opposite side of your seat, Emily hugs and congratulates you, followed by a semi-confused Mia, and then Santiago and Rose. You explain to them all how you got the email after you sent a request a month ago, what the trip will entail and everything else.

Meanwhile, Frankie approaches the group, looking rather disheveled and like he hadn’t slept in weeks.

“You’re leaving?”

His question is posed flatly, coldly, and yet somehow, his voice still breaks by the time he gets out the second word. Everyone stares at him, and you immediately stand up, eyes locked solely on him.

“It’s only for a month,” you tell him. “It’s just research. Then I’ll be right back.”

Frankie nods mechanically, and you wonder if he’s even heard you properly. For a sole moment, he stares at you unashamedly, hungrily, triggering plenty of memories and emotions out of you.

“Would you look at that, it’s my turn again,” Will announces loudly, turning away from the two of you.

Not long after, everyone follows his lead and redirects their attention to the aisles and the scoreboard. You smile at Will’s smooth way to give you and Frankie some privacy without a single cue from either of you that you need it.

When your eyes lock again, you grab him by his arm and guide him to a more secluded area. The only thing that you can find is the supply room, which isn’t very fitting, but you’ll have to make due.

“I hear Andrea’s been calling you a lot,” you open.

Frankie licks his lips and puts his hands on his hips, staring at the floor. That makes your blood boil for whatever reason.

“Why are you ignoring your own fiancé?”

“Don’t start, please.”

He sounds broken as he gets that out, but you won’t succumb to the oddly irresistible charm of that.

“All along you’ve been dead set on marrying Andrea and making things right, despite every single moment between us that proved otherwise, might I add, and now your plan is to—what? Cast her aside? Why?”

Frankie chews on his bottom lip, biting it till he nearly tastes blood in his mouth. His mind is in shambles, going through every single event from the past two, three months, unable to stop. He has countless questions and theories crammed in there, scenarios which give him no peace.

“And don’t talk to me about loyalty and all that crap,” you warn. “We both know we’ve broken far more moral ground than we originally stood on. So tell me, what has she done to you that you decided ignoring her is the way to go?”

“She’s done nothing,” Frankie grunts, eyes wide in some sort of panic. “It’s you. You have made this whole fucking thing impossible.”

Breathless, you stare at him, taken aback by his bluntness.

“But I’m leaving to Switzerland to—“

“And it’s not far enough!”

He whispers his shout, filling the constricted air around you with more confusion. You’re too dumbfounded to even interrupt him.

“Do you think that there is a corner on this earth that you could travel to far away enough to free me from this fucking torment?” he asks, his breath on your face now. “Do you think that when you were abroad, at Cambridge, it was far enough, that I was happy and content? Because I was in a whole other purgatory.”

When you find the ability to speak again, even your voice is shaky. “You’re in captivity because of your own doing, Francisco.”

“I like to think I’m a decent guy. I was raised by good people who taught me to act with honor, loyalty and integrity. But all those qualities have been hanging by a thread from the moment you set foot back here, and they are strangling me more and more with each passing second that I spend in your presence.”

You can only stare at him, mouth ajar and heart racing inside your chest, threatening to burst out at any given moment.

“You’re the bane of my existence,” he says sharply, yet awfully tender, like he’s about to give up. “And the object of all my desires. Night and day, I dream of you. Night and fucking day. For years, I—I dreamt, I cried… and when I—“

He gulps, struggling to draw in a sharp breath to compose himself, but it’s a high effort to be made. As it turns out, so it is for you; his forehead touches yours, his tongue wetting his lips as he stares at you, breaths erratic.

“Do you even know all the ways I could make you happy?” he murmurs, and your knees almost buckle under the weight of his words. “The things I could show you, things I could do to you…”

You close your eyes, fighting with every ounce of strength, every muscle in your body to not do something regrettable right there in that stupid closet.

“I didn’t ask… for any of this,” you tell him, shaking as his hand grazes your cheek. “I didn’t want any of this. I wanted you to be my friend, I didn’t… I didn’t ask to live with these thoughts, plagued by these feelings. Hiding from Andrea and out friends… it’s so wrong.”

“I know.”

“Why aren’t you calling her back?”

“Because I don’t want to. Not until she gets back. I only ever want to see you.”

Maybe saying such things makes him a cruel man. Maybe it’s not the right thing to say at all. But wouldn’t it be crueler to spend a lifetime next to someone he’s merely learned to love? Someone for whom love did not come naturally, as it did with you?

Frankie breaks the touch, thus bringing you both with your feet back on the ground, even if blood is still boiling in your veins and your body aches to be touched by him.

“She texted me saying she wants to make this work, that we have to make it work,” he says, looking as if he’s on the verge of tears. “If this wedding takes place next month, because Andrea thinks there’s still a chance of that happening, I will spend every day of my marriage, the rest of my goddamn life, wanting you. Dreaming of you. Dreading the day when whatever shred of honor or self-control I have snaps, and Andrea will see us both for what we are.”

You swallow harshly, feeling drunk and high at the same time.

“And I don’t want that to happen,” Frankie adds. “I don’t want to feed her any illusions. She wants us to work, for whatever desperate reason, but I want to end this. It’s just not fair otherwise.”

Though you don’t say it aloud, his statement makes your heart tremble with joy. Perhaps there is something inherently selfish about the way you are feeling, but the heart wants what the heart wants, and being honest now would spare you all of further pain, and would provide clearance at long last.

“We still have a chance to make things right,” you encourage him. “This has to end, like you said, and it’s up to you now. Make a choice.”

“There’s no choice.”

He moves closer to you once more, and the way you look at him, it makes you feel safe, like you are finally at home after years spent in abandonment and loneliness.

“It’s always been you,” he coos to you, reaching for your hand.

It’s virtually impossible to not feel for Andrea too; thinking too much about her breaks your heart, so, in a premiere in your life, you think about yourself. You think about all the happy memories you have of Frankie and your friendship. You think of the way he loved you at your lowest and unknowingly brought you to the top, and how your feelings for him inevitably blossomed.

“When is Andrea supposed to fly back in?” you ask him.

“Tomorrow evening. That’s when I’ll tell her.”

“Tomorrow.”

He nods, and then he leans in to peck your lips. Only you capture his mouth completely, cupping his cheeks as you pull him in. Your bodies move together as one, from the way your mouths devour one another, to the way Frankie’s hand holds your waist, clearly eager for something more. You’re not sure which one of you draws back the moral line and decides that you cannot and should not get hot and heavy in a fucking storage room, but you do. You walk back outside, cheeks flushed and lips swollen, once again playing pretend in front of all your friends. 

Hopefully for the last time ever.

previous | next

[scotianostra]

Happy Birthday Mark McLachlan aka Marti Pellow, born March 23rd 1965, the same year as myself.

Picture the scene, a teenage Mark chatting to his dad in Clydebank, and telling him he was going to be a musician, according to Pellow the reply went something like this....'Are you on a hallucinogenic substance or something? What's wrong with getting out there and getting an apprenticeship? I'm a builder, your grandfather was a builder, your great-grandfather was a shipbuilder. What do you want to be a musician for?'

And so it was, Mark became Marti and Mclachlan, became Pellow.

In 1982, at the age of seventeen, Marti formed the band Vortex Motion, with three friends from Clydebank High School in his hometown, the bands name was later changed to Wet, Wet, Wet who went on to have numerous hit singles and albums.

PolyGram signed the group in 1985 and spent a fortune fine tuning them in, the group scored a hit two years later with "Wishing I Was Lucky," which reached number 6 in the charts, the album Popped In Souled Out was a huge success scoring them a debut number one, two more would follow.

The Wets, as they became known had more single success in 1988 with their first number one, a cover of the Beatles' "With a Little Help from My Friends" cut for the charity ChildLine.

Hit singles including Sweet Surrender and Goodnight Girl preceded a 1994 cover of the Troggs' "Love Is All Around" which spent an astounding 14 consecutive weeks atop the charts and was their third chart topper; however, in the wake of 1997's album, 10, the Wets began splintering amid copyright squabbles, and in May 1999 Pellow left the group.

Marti had a few minor hits as a solo artist but soon found fame in London's' West End in the hit stage musical Chicago.

Marti's mother passed away in 2003 and he was touched that all his ex band members attended the funeral, he recalled his mum saying that maybe Wet Wet Wet would get back together sometime and Marti later said in an interview "Moments like that put things into perspective - it wasn't all about music, it was more about a kinship between us." The band reformed the following year.

While the group haven't officially split the earlier success has eluded them, they still attract fans to their sell out concerts, Marti is still playing to audiences in London, his last role being Che Guevara in Evita aside from music he was the narrator in Willy Russell's Blood Brothers in 2015.

Pellow is currently touring singing some of his best-known songs on a UK-wide tour. He'll be playing former band Wet Wet Wet's debut album, Popped in Souled Out, in full - plus a string of other hits. The first night was at in Dublin and he played Glasgow's OVO Hydro last Saturday, he is in Leeds tonight, followed by Newcastle, London, Bournemouth and Birmingham.

[aw-shit-my-ulna]

starting my rewatch of due south! gonna tell you my opinions as they come. all I remember of this show is from the ages of 6-10 and I have a very bad memory

starting info

paul gross is incredibly attractive

the dog is the best part of the show

I remember him licking everything - the human not the dog

which ray is first?? kowalski??

PILOT

theme tune is absolutely IMMACULATE oml im obsessed

fraser is hotter than I remember fuck snowplows just get benton fraser to step out there melt all the fucking snow

he is 100% autistic idk what you say

DIEF HAS ARRIVED FUCKING LEGEND I LOVE HIM SM

my guy asks to go to chicago, gets rejected, goes anyway. idol

hes so gullible it hurts

but so amazing

RAY VECCHIO YAYYY

why is he talking about noses

HE GOT EXPLODED??

that guy just killed someone to protect fraser and honestly same

LOOK AT HIM IN HIS WOOLLY JUMPER

[casicroaks]

Tiffany Valentine has two things in her mind: love and murder. The origins of the brains behind the infamous Lakeshore Strangler and the string of broken hearts she left along her way to Chicago, interwoven with the development of the tempestuous relationship between her and a certain Charles Lee Ray.

CHAPTER 2

[ CHAPTER 1 // CHAPTER 2 // CHAPTER 3 // CHAPTER 4 // CHAPTER 5 // CHAPTER 6 // CHAPTER 7 // CHAPTER 8 // CHAPTER 9 // CHAPTER 10 // CHAPTER 11 // CHAPTER 12 // CHAPTER 13 // CHAPTER 14 // CHAPTER 15 // CHAPTER 16 ]

NEW JERSEY, 1984

“Honey, I’m home!” I said in a sing-song voice as I stepped into my apartment. Not that anyone would answer. I lived alone. I just liked saying that out loud.

I hung my coat and threw my heels off to the side, groaning from having to walk all the way from my workplace to my home. It wasn’t that far, but my last good pair of shoes had fallen to pieces a week ago, and I was still softening the new replacements. I knew I needed to go shopping one of these days. I had only three pairs of shoes: the new red heels, some indoor slippers, and the old leather boots which I was still figuring out a way to wear with my everyday outfits. I really had no excuse not to go get myself some new shoes… Especially since, once a week, I passed by the big shopping malls on my way back home, when it was all lit up with its neon lights and looking real pretty. I admired the clothes, the shoes, the jewelry in their glass cases, trying my best to hype myself up to at least consider buying myself something, like a little present from me to me… But there was nothing I really wanted. Despite working at a beauty parlor, I didn’t care much about looking beautiful anymore. I had the same dresses as before, and I was content with them. Not happy, really. I was never truly happy with the way I looked. Just content. And spending that money I was saving (and that I always ended up spending on groceries and rent) on dresses I didn’t have any interest in just seemed like a stupid idea. Still, I went to the mall every week, like a parishioner returning to the church. It was just something to do.

The little mirror I had nailed to the wall beside the front door gave me back a blur, and I silently chided myself for not stopping by to fluff my hair and check on my makeup. Just like the shoes, even if I had gotten my hair styled quite some months ago (as soon as I had my last break-up, actually) there was still a slight discomfort to seeing it. Like I didn’t quite recognize myself yet, and I didn’t know when I would. I had tried a new hair dye, for once: I had already been blond, brunette… Anything but going back to my original black color. So, red it was. Bright red, like my mother’s.

I read once that the reason women use red lipstick instead of any other color was to attract attention to the lips, since red’s the most eye-catching color in the spectrum. Going into my little kitchen I wondered, was I desperate for attention? Yeah, probably. Was I horny as hell, already tired of my own hand and too broke for a battery-operated alternative? That too. If there’s something I learnt from working at a beauty salon is that a change of image does wonders for a woman. Even something like dyeing your hair can help you feel like a whole different person. And for the first few days, it felt like that. I tried being happier, smiling more, adding a little skip to my step, doing all the bullshit self-help articles, radio therapists and motivational speakers on TV said one should do to be happy. Tough luck. I kept wanting to leave everything, my job, my apartment, change my name and start over somewhere else again (as if that would really change anything), or just skip town and scream in some field or abandoned grounds until my lungs gave up. Like that had worked so well last time. I was so goddamn pissed at everything, and there was a point in which I couldn’t just chalk it up to my breakup. The money always ran out, even when my pay wasn’t that bad, even as I tried to eat less, watch less TV, stop going to the movies, cut down on everything but the most basic expenses. And then, then I felt like I was starving, and it was a constant pull and push between spending my week’s earnings on convenience store snacks or loading it all inside my mattress, saving up for… Something.

Really, I simply had nothing to look forward to.

Maybe I should get a cat, I thought, opening the fridge and having a gulp of milk straight from the carton, before realizing it tasted sour and spitting it out. Well, maybe a dog, then… But I remembered what Arlene had told me not too long ago. A dog, a cat, a bird –they can and will all just up and leave when they get the chance. So much for loyalty. And cages were not cheap.

I remembered I still had some discount tequila left. I had been smart then, and bought two bottles. I was about to pour myself a glass, ready to change into my nightdress and spend the night watching TV, maybe order some Chinese food, and fall asleep in the couch, and do the same the next day, though most likely without the tequila. Or I could go straight to bed (I had heard that sleeping early did wonders for one’s skin) but I wasn’t tired, just exhausted… What I wanted most was to turn off my brain. Turn off my brain, and have a good screwing. By lack of a warm body to share the place, though, the best option I had was to lock myself up in my drab apartment, find the energy to try and finger myself, and watch TV. What else was I gonna do that night, and the weekend after that, after all? Listen to my mother’s voicemails? Eat three bowls of cereal for dinner again? Try to hook up with some rando who might just keep me occupied for a couple hours?

Yeah, that was exactly what I did.

I sighed, leaving the bottle on the cabinet, and went back to put on my coat and my shoes.

“Another night, another day goes by… I never stop myself to wonder why…” I hummed to myself, giving my lipstick one last touch up in front of the bathroom mirror. “You help me to forget to play my role…”

One could say I was looking for love in all the wrong places. And that was probably right. I knew I was looking for some sort of commitment, but… Let’s just say that searching for Prince Charming in a pig pen just isn’t the best way to go about it. I was ashamed of it, I’m not gonna lie. I had hoped I would never have to get into that sort of situations. After all, I was never interested in short-term-relationships, and I liked to think that I was better than casual sex… Not that any of the people I met up with were particularly, interestingly nasty anyways. I knew what I was getting myself into, what sorts of places I became a regular of. And, admittedly, I met some handsome men, a few pretty girls. Don’t get it twisted, though; always used protection, always checked they didn’t have the shadow of a wedding band. I was killing time, but at least I was gonna be careful about it. Just because I dyed my hair red and was feeling blue didn’t mean I became someone else completely. It just meant now I was a redhead, and feeling blue.

“I, I live among the creatures of the night…  I haven’t got the will to try and fight…” I sang quietly, biting down on my cigarette’s filter to keep it from being blown away by the wind on the street.

It was a cold October night, and I felt the upcoming winter on my bare legs. The shops were already decked out in their Halloween décor, to my delight. I had made paper garlands and a few other decorations to make the beauty parlor extra spooky for the festivities, but Shelley had told me that it wasn’t necessary… That people didn’t really care about all that when they went to have their nails done. What a bunch of bull. Everyone loved Halloween! And those who didn’t, they were just buzzkills. I hang the decorations anyway. But not even Halloween managed to lift my spirits.

Not too far from the dance floor of the club, just enough for me to people-watch comfortably, I nursed something called a Blood and Sand instead of my usual margarita, having decided to treat myself for once. All things considered, I was simply expecting a mediocre screwing, to be kicked out of some guy or gal’s house which I would never set foot in again, and to head back to my apartment just in time to eat Chinese and cry while watching All That Heaven Allows on the late-night programming.

I had no idea that this was the night that would change my life.

“Hey, Red –what’s new?”

I was approached by not one guy, but by a guy and his girl.

“… Is there anything I can do for you?” I asked the man who had made the question.

Of course, though, I knew what they had in mind. The blonde was kinda cute, with her big eyes and smug grin like a Barbie doll, in an easy-to-forget eye candy, background-dancer-in-a-music-video kind of way. But the guy, with the triple whammy of rather long hair, black suit and tie, and having somehow both childish and sharp features, had a much more interesting sort of odd charisma to him. He was a weirdo, no doubt about it. But I liked his style. I never told him this, but he reminded me a little bit of Heath. Maybe he just happened to be a bit high when we met, like Heath used to be constantly. Maybe it was the hungry eyes, or something in the smile… I didn’t know why, but even as I kept my sight on the girl, I was always aware of his presence, even as he walked behind us on the way to the hotel.

The blonde (I think her name was Leah, or something?) was clearly a newbie. It seemed like she had learnt anything about fucking a girl through some porn movie or something. She kissed me, but not much else; she moaned and sighed and giggled as if she was having a ball, writhing around me, rubbing herself against me. I had barely even touched her. All tease, no action. I knew her type all too well from maybe two or three bi-curious girls I had met through the same methods. Too overexcited, too self-conscious, too eager to please… Please herself, that is, and in this case, please the guy watching. She turned to glance at him every few seconds, as if she needed constant approval to continue. Didn’t seem to be thinking about me at all. It was easy to assume how that would translate when we actually did something. So much for the red hair, I thought, but I tried to have fun, regardless, as I pushed her down and climbed on top of her, pulling that tacky necklace off of her, showing her how it was done. I was a bit disappointed the guy had decided he was just gonna watch, but to each his own, I thought. Maybe he’ll come in later, when we’re already turned on, I guessed.

So… Well, if I was surprised by being approached at the bar by the two of them, I was straight-up baffled when the guy grabbed my shoulder and pulled me off the bed and onto my knees.

“Hey—!”

For a second I thought this meant we would be switching, which honestly was a relief, since despite my best efforts I was getting a bit tired of her. But then he put his hand on my nape and stood over me, and I saw what he had in his right hand. The least subtle knife I’d seen. Where and how had he managed to smuggle it in? I smiled. So that was the plan, I realized. I glanced at the blonde, letting it all sink in. Had I stepped into some kinky Bonnie and Clyde situation? Were they into some fetish stuff we hadn’t discussed beforehand? But then I looked back at the guy, into his cold blue eyes, and I finally understood this was no roleplay. He wanted to kill me, stab me until I dyed the carpet deep red with my blood. So that was what turned him on. No wonder he had seemed as bored as I was feeling so far.

And I was feeling rotten enough to actually be thrilled by this.

“Do it,” I told him, as soon as he held me by the back of my neck, pressing my throat with his thumb, before I could even think it over. And when I did, I just smiled wider. I really wanted it. After all, if he killed me… Well, at least that would spare me having to wash the dishes that night. And if my life was really going to be what it had been for the last year or so, then I didn’t care much if that was how it ended. And, if he didn’t kill me… Then –what a chicken, right? Who goes ahead and pops out a big-ass knife, ready to charge, with another woman egging him on, only to not do it? What can I say –I was curious. Besides, it would be almost hilarious; what would we even do then, if he didn’t kill me now? Would he apologize for the inconvenience and leave? Would we just go home, like when bad weather cuts a ball game short?

Did this guy really have that killer instinct? Would he actually go through with it?

And he still doubted. He kept looking at me all confused. I wondered if he had done this before, and whether he thought I was special, in some way.

“Do it to me, now,” I insisted, keeping the grin firmly drawn on my face. But I kept staring back at him, watching how he faltered. Seemed like there were a hundred thoughts rushing through his head, his hand unsteady, his eyes shifting, and yet they always went back to mine. It was strangely intimate, that balance we had going, him holding me down on my knees and threatening me, but with me having a kind of control over the situation. I wasn’t screaming nor whimpering, I wasn’t intimidated at all, and that clearly threw him off his rhythm; and it was all truly much more exciting than whatever whatshername had been trying to pull in the bed.

And, because she was being ignored and she just needed to hog the spotlight, Blonde started whining. We both glanced at her, having forgotten she was there at all. The man looked back at me for a moment. She was getting in my nerves, and it was likely she was getting in his, too. If he wasn’t gonna kill me, then I might just ask him to borrow his knife and get that woman to shut up—

But then, as if he had just read my mind, he turned towards Blonde –pushed her against the floor –and stabbed her once, twice, thrice, nice and deep, right between the ribs, with the quick, confident pull and push of a professional. Oh, he had killed before. He was not a newbie at all.

And without missing a beat, he turned to me, actually smiling. “Hey, Red, wanna play?”

This had been a test all along, I thought, barely containing my giddiness. He offered me the knife. He really trusted me with it, to go on with it… Even though Blonde was gasping her last breaths already. But still, even if it was just scraps, it was hard to say no.

I let out a giggle when I got my hands on it. With both hands, like I used to. I got closer, still on my knees, and looked down at her body spread beside us. Blonde sure didn’t look as smug anymore… And then I stabbed her. Push in, pull back, with that nice wet sound, with that warmness that came with the splattered blood. My hands remained away from her, grasping the handle, but it was as if the knife had become an extension of myself –yes, I could feel her guts, sinking a bit deeper with each stab, pushing harder and carving a space inside her for me to dig through, making sure to go as far as possible, to the other side of her torso, to let the blood flow freely out of her, for it to splash all over me…

Boy, had I missed it. And even as I focused entirely on my task, becoming more and more excited, I noticed him (Charles, Blonde had called him) out of the corner of my eye, moving along with me to the thrust of the knife as I stabbed her over and over and over –and the way he did so, back and forward, tensing when we went back, letting go when I pushed on, as if guiding me from the side…

I closed my eyes and let out a euphoric laugh in sheer exhilaration, covered in Blonde’s blood. What a pleasure it was. The coldness of the night was gone, I felt my skin burning, my heart pounding, and I had forgotten all about Chinese and TV night. My lust for life had returned. God –I felt alive.

“Wow… It’s never happened like that before,” I admitted with a giggle, looking back at the guy. It wasn’t my first time killing, of course, but this was certainly different. I never had someone beside me, warming it up for me, for starters. Never had a partner in it. Maybe I never saw it as a bonding activity before. It always had been just a slipup, an accidental thing, sometimes a way to blow off some steam, perhaps even a bit of an embarrassing little secret. And there I was, thinking I had left it all behind me a year ago…

But now there was Charles, kindly inviting me along. How could I possibly refuse?

I put a hand on my chest and I frowned when I realized just how different I sounded. “Is that me?” The pure glee of it had probably caused me to slip. Shit… I thought I had managed my voice so far. Found that perfect balance between cute and sultry and kept it up for years. Now, my original voice, my annoying little voice, was back. Shit, shit, shit. Just when I had found a guy I could be truly myself with…

“Oh, it’s definitely you,” he said with a grin and a snicker, coming closer, embracing me. I smiled again, biting my lip, tasting the fresh blood. He picked me up and took me to the bed, and finally, finally I felt that great special rush of adrenaline, that kick I had been looking for for years, there, kissing him, tasting the blood on his own lips. I pushed his hair back, slick now, wanting to see his face. Charles. His cheeky grin, the devious twinkle in his eyes, his boyish charm… I could see myself getting used to it. I could see myself growing to love that face of his.

“Boy, you really know how to show a girl a good time,” I chuckled, and he joined me with his own. He leaned forward to kiss me again, but I wanted us to be properly introduced to one another, to get that out of the way. “I’m Tiffany.”

“I’m Charles,” he replied, now in a different voice, a low snarl that sounded almost menacing. But I wasn’t afraid of him. Why, after that whole display, he couldn’t scare me even if he tried.

“Know what, Charles—” I said, taking a moment to catch my breath. “You should be Chucky.” It went without saying that it would be on account of how much he liked to laugh. And besides, Charles was far too formal. And now that we had shown each other the wickedest parts of ourselves, I felt it was only natural to become more familiar with the other.

“You know what, Tiff…?” Chucky said, raising his eyebrows, giving the body on the floor a quick glance. “… You should be blonde.”

Well, good news for him, then, I thought with a smile. Bleaching black hair was a lot easier than going full red. However, as I gripped his blood-stained shirt and pulled him back in for the kiss he’d been wanting, feeling just how eager he was to keep going, he would be stuck with a redhead for the time being.

You know that one song that was all the rage that October, Like A Virgin? It was like that. Shiny and new, indeed. Best fuck I had in a very long time, truth be told, if not ever. Not that I was gonna tell him that, get his ego that blown. I would have never guessed the weirdo with the hair and the suit had it in him… But Chucky was always full of surprises.

I’m not sure how long passed then. During the eventual cigarette break, bathroom pause, and one moment in which we raided the minibar, I noticed that there was light out the window, but when I checked later, it was pitch dark. Neither one of us checked on the time at any point. I guess neither of us had anywhere better to be than there. And it suited me just right.

Apart from the pit stops, though, we truly managed to keep ourselves entertained for quite a while. What broke the spell was, because it couldn’t have been any other way, Blonde’s natural decomposition. We had switched again and now he was on top of me. I was taking him in and kissing him back, sinking my nails in his back, not a care in the world –when there was the weirdest squeaking noise, loud enough to make both of us stop right then and there. Chucky and I exchanged a quick awkward glance, but decided to simply ignore it. We went right back to what we were doing –and there was the sound again, not a squeak anymore, longer than before. He moved back and let out a deep frustrated sigh.

“Hey… I promise I won’t judge you or anything,” I said, drumming my fingers on his thighs, looking up at him as he kneeled on the bed. “… But did you just rip one?”

“What? No!” he exclaimed. “Thought that was you—”

“It wasn’t me—!”

He let out a bitter chuckle. “Right, won’t judge you or anything…”

“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” I insisted, leaning on my forearms to prop myself up. “Y’know, it’s… It’s totally natural and stuff, I guess… But it wasn’t me—!”

There was the noise again, and now that we were both aware of it, we noticed the direction it was coming from. Blonde had gotten bloated and her skin was turning waxy. And, in the silence we kept for the next few seconds, we got another toot, clearly coming from her body.

The two of us burst out laughing. I had heard of bodies becoming gassy after death from some documentary on TV, but I really wasn’t expecting it to sound exactly what gassy sounded like. And apparently it was the music hour, because she kept passing wind for a while –to both our disgust and amusement.

As funny as it was, we did have stinky worm food in our hands. Once we finally calmed down, he suggested stuffing it into the closet and forgetting about it. The issue kept turning in my mind though. And what a pity it would be if we were forbidden to return to such a nice hotel some other time, if some other time could become a possibility… So, I proposed to use his handy knife to chop it up, put it into a laundry bag and throw it into the garbage. That way, at least, there wouldn’t be a dead body to link us to it. Even if it would still be hard to explain the amount of blood.

We dragged Blonde into the bathroom and took turns to hack her up. Once that was done (and it took quite a while, since we also had to break a few bones) Chucky stuffed the slabs in the laundry bag while I hosed the bathtub to get it as spotless as I could. I also took a moment to rinse Blonde’s nice purple corset. I could easily mend the stabbing holes, she was more or less my size (maybe a bit smaller), and it would’ve been a shame to throw it away along with the meat. Only then, with Blonde’s parts finally packed up and ready to go, we realized that it would seem a tad suspicious to leave through the front door while missing one person, and now carrying a big stinking bag.

“What d’you suggest, then?” Chucky asked me. I looked at him, and then at the window behind the messy, blood-dotted bed, and smiled.

I opened the window, the two of us picked up the bag and, with some effort, raised it and tossed her out into the street where it fell on the pavement with a crunch! Luckily it was either really late or really early, and there was nobody on the street to notice our suspicious behavior.

“Did it rip?” he asked, peeking out the window, lighting a new cigarette.

Hard to say with the little light. Since no blood pooled around it, though, we concluded the first half of the operation was a success. Chucky gave me an impressed little glance as he put on his coat. I put on mine, smiling wide in my satisfaction, dangling my heels in one hand.

The second half of the operation was to run like hell out the emergency exit. We giggled like schoolkids as we rushed down the stairs. He was a bit faster than me, since I was practically bouncing barefoot on the concrete steps. I gave him a couple light kicks to tease him, slipping my hands on the handrails. We weren’t rolling around naked anymore, but I was still dizzy with excitement, unable to wipe the smile off my face. Once we got to the backdoor, which was partly locked (that surely had to be a safety hazard), it was Chucky’s moment to impress me. He handed me his cigarette for safekeeping, and with a sniff and a quick rub of his nose, walking a few steps backwards, he got the momentum he needed –hopped for a bit where he stood, as a sort of warmup –and ran towards the door –and gave it one hard kick –managing to get it wide open. He grinned proudly, turning back to see my reaction, and I laughed and clapped. We hurried back to the street, to the bag that was waiting for us, circled by curious stray dogs, which fortunately hadn’t managed to open it and which Chucky swiftly shooed away. He waited politely for me to put my heels back on.

“I’ve never been around a dead body long enough to see it rotting,” I admitted as we both dragged the heavy bag towards the closest dumpster.

“There’s a first time for everything,” he said with a little chuckle. “And… Well, it was pretty warm in that hotel room.”

I snickered, standing on the tip of my toes, holding the lid of the dumpster as high as I could. Chucky picked up the bag with a grunt, swung it and tossed it into the dumpster, where it landed with a thump!, and I dropped the lid, and the operation was then done. We had both now created and disposed of a dead body. Quite an achievement.

With a long, satisfied sigh, Chucky leaned back against the wall of the alley. He took a drag of his cigarette and then offered it to me. By the faint yellow light of the lamppost beside us I noticed the pinkish lipstick stains I had left on it. I gazed at him as he blew the smoke. It could just have been some leftover smudges of blood, but judging by the shade it seemed to be that he actually had my lipstick all smeared on his mouth. Something about that sent a chill down my back.

I smiled at him, giving his cigarette a puff. He smiled back.

“D’you have the time, Chucky?” I asked him, leaning against the wall beside him.

“No, I lost my wristwatch a couple weeks ago,” he said, sinking his hands in his pockets. “Why’d you ask?”

“Wanted to know if it’s Monday already.”

He snorted. “Busy day, Mondays?”

I smiled and looked down at my worn shoes. I should have brought the boots instead, even if they didn’t match my skirt and jacket. “… Amazing, isn’t it?” If they had any traces of blood, I couldn’t tell. “All you can do in just one night.”

Chucky sighed and nodded. He handed me the cigarette again.  “Yeah, well, the night’s still young, Tiff.”

We both had to take a moment to catch our breaths. We had run a few floors, dragged a whole person in a bag, been fucking for an unspecified amount of time. Exhaustion was finally kicking in. We shared a cold but comfortable silence, and I closed my eyes, feeling the roughness of the brick against my back, the light sting of the bruises on my legs, the quick but steady beating of my heart, and listening to his breathing, and, far away, the sounds of police sirens and ambulances, of cars and trucks speeding by, completely oblivious to us and to all we had done. There really were no people on the streets, only the eventual flashing lights of a passing car. Somehow that made it feel like Chucky and I were the only two people in the world.

I returned him his cigarette. He took one last puff and flicked it into the curb. I wrapped myself a bit tighter in my coat, rubbing my cheek against its fluffy collar, shivering at a cold rush of wind, my knees trembling just a bit. Chucky looked out into the streets, stretching his neck, checking if someone would come near. Then he sighed, turned back to me and looked me in the eye. A moment passed. It seemed it was time for us to say our goodbyes. And neither one of us wanted to be the one to start.

“… I had fun,” I finally said, trying to hide my… My what? My apprehension? My sadness? My curiosity? I’m not sure. I just had this sinking feeling at the idea of never seeing him again.

“Yeah… Me too,” he admitted gingerly. If we hadn’t spent what seemed to be at least one whole day together I would have thought Chucky might have been lying. “It’s… It was an interesting surprise, I guess.”

I nodded, wringing my hands. “Same here.”

He nodded, rocking on the balls of his feet, glancing awkwardly at the sides, as if that were a particularly fascinating alleyway. “So… Well…”

I didn’t care if it made things weird, I wasn’t gonna be the one to say goodbye. I didn’t want to. And I had the feeling he didn’t want to, either.

His face lit up out of a sudden. He rummaged in his pockets and fished out an old receipt and a shaved-down pencil. “Hey, uh, I don’t know if… I mean, maybe…” He chewed on his lip, looking down, clearly embarrassed. “… I don’t know, we might… Get together again, one of these days, or something…”

“Oh—”

“You got a phone?”

I snickered. “Don’t most people?”

He laughed, dropping his shoulders, loosening up a bit. “Shit, you… You know what I mean.”

I chuckled, taking the little flimsy piece of paper, holding it against the dumpster’s lid, and scribbled my phone number in the biggest, clearest numbers I could write. “Here you go, mister.”

Chucky gave it a glance, still grinning, and stuffed it back into his pocket. If there was a good moment to declare that encounter over, it was then. I waited for him to take it. There was already a promise of a future meeting. I gazed at his face, examining it, putting all my efforts into remembering every part of it. He looked back at me, still smiling. He reached out towards my face –and gently tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.

That was it. I think that was when I really fell for him. My hair was caked with dry blood, my makeup was a mess, I was exhausted from the effort of running down stairs and pulling a bag with a dead body inside, and the late-night cold had me trembling like a shitting Chihuahua. But he looked at me, and I felt beautiful. I knew that, by the way he looked at me, he thought I was beautiful.

“Um… My place’s just a couple blocks away, you know,” I managed to blurt out.

Chucky’s eyebrows shot right up.

“I mean, if you’d like to wash up,” I said with a shrug. “We’re both looking like butchers, here.”

There was a pause. He seemed to be considering it. Maybe he was wondering if this could be his chance to try and kill me again, in a more intimate setting, somewhere where he might be able to pass it up as a gruesome suicide. Which I wouldn’t oppose, since, after all, anything would be better than to be unceremoniously killed in a random mucky alley. Maybe, though, he was just wondering if it was worth it.

“… Sure,” Chucky finally agreed. I grinned, noticing the smallest hint of a smile in his lips.

And with that, only stopping by the drugstore to pick up a few more condoms for good measure, I showed him the way to my apartment.

We didn’t really wash up, unsurprisingly. Once in the elevator he pulled me to him and kissed me again, and I held on to his shoulder and buried my fingers in his hair, and both of us already knew where this would end. I don’t know how we made it to my bed, but we did, and at least we didn’t have to share the room with a rotting farting corpse anymore.

At some point we did fall asleep, though. I saw Chucky’s eyes closing as he rubbed his lower lip with his thumb. I had bitten him at some point (well, more than once) but that bite was probably most likely because I had been nodding while dozing off in the middle of a kiss. He let out a sigh, and there was the little glow of the cigarette butt he left on the ashtray on my bed next to his leg. As the smoke went up towards the ceiling, I could hear him breathing softly. It was strange, to think of him as anything near the word soft. I huddled against him, covering him with one arm, smiling to myself. I felt a warm hand setting on my shoulder. It was so comforting… Then, I finally fell asleep.

He woke up before I did. I yawned and dragged myself out of bed, my eyelids still half-shut by the smudged mascara, when I saw Chucky standing in his briefs and tee, holding his blood-stained shirt in one fist and a cigarette in the other hand, with his back to the bedroom. I walked up to him, just a little surprised at this.

“Trying to sneak out?” I asked him with a sleepy giggle, taking the cigarette from his fingers.

He glanced at me over his shoulder. I looked towards where he was looking, the chimney mantle, where I had set my doll collection. It was the best place to display them –as if I actually had anyone to show them to. It was small, but I was proud of it. All of them from garage sales, thrift shops, one or two found just lying around in the curb or in a dumpster, waiting for someone to pick them and fix them up. I had only gotten to gluing one of them back together, and the cracks were still pretty obvious: they would be, until I got some new paint to cover it…

I leaned my head on his shoulder. He had his eyes wide open, wide awake, his brow furrowed, staring at my dolls. He seemed to be trying to understand something. For the briefest moment I was nervous Chucky thought I was a psycho or something.

“You like them?” I asked quietly, slipping his cigarette back into his hand.

Chucky remained silent for a moment longer, looking at them carefully, and took a drag, taking his time to answer. I couldn’t read his face. I swear he knew I was anxious about his answer.

“… If that’s your thing, Tiff,” he finally shrugged it off.

I let out a little happy squeak and hugged him tight, giving him a loud smooch on the cheek.

“Well, we all need a hobby, right?” I said with a wink.

He chuckled, and gave me a little kiss on the temple. “Ain’t that the truth…”

Sunlight was already streaming through the window. I went back into the bedroom and put on my nightdress and slippers. There was the buzzing of the radio, and the voice of a newscaster announcing the day’s weather forecast. He already made himself right at home, I thought.

“You got yourself quite a nice little place here,” Chucky commented when I came back to the kitchen.

“Yeah… I’ve been meaning to paint the walls purple,” I said, pushing my hair back. “But my landlord won’t allow it. And I can’t afford to piss him off with rent being what it is…”

“Purple… I can see it,” he said approvingly, glancing around him.

“Where’s your place?” I asked him, letting the hot water run over the dirty dishes on the sink, hoping he didn’t mind the mess too much. “D’you live far?”

“Ridgefield Avenue, other side of the river. By the S46 Bridge.”

“Quiet part of town,” I said with a smile. “I assume there’s not a wide offer of clubs by those parts.”

“You’d be assuming right,” he snickered, fidgeting with one of the buttons of his shirt, scraping the dry blood with his nail. “It’s just where I’m staying for the time being, though. I want to move closer to where the action is, leave the sidelines.”

I nodded and let out a sigh, taking in the sight of my little apartment. It wasn’t that messy, I told myself. I had a couple bags and boxes lying around from when I moved back in after my last breakup, but mostly everything was in its proper place, and it was pretty clean, all things considered. The only issue was the kitchen, the dirty dishes that had piled up, all greasy and grimy and nasty. Chucky didn’t seem to notice; or, if he did, he didn’t seem to care.

“… What time’s it?”

We both turned to the clock. Two in the afternoon.

“Fuck, I’m starving,” he groaned, hanging his head backwards on the edge of the chair’s back.

As if agreeing with him, my stomach let out a low grumble. “We got some… Some cereal…” I said before taking the box out of the shelf and realizing there was just enough for a spoonful. “We had some, at least.”

He got off the chair and picked up the rest of his clothing. I saw him out of the corner of my eye, shooting me a sideways glance while I opened the fridge, bent over and checked if there was something for us to eat.

“There’s nothing in the fridge save for expired milk, one moldy tomato and some stale bread…” I sighed.

I really wasn’t expecting any visits, after all. Even less a visit that would be staying for a meal. Best I could do was some coffee, but that wouldn’t cut it on an empty stomach.

“Do you, uh, happen to have any money on you?” I asked him, closing the fridge and looking at him over my shoulder.

“Yeah,” he said, zipping up his pants. “What d’you have in mind?”

I opened my eyes wide. Was he inviting me out? “… There’s a nice burger place ‘round the corner,” I suggested.

Before leaving the apartment and venturing out into the streets, though, we did have to wash up. I had forgotten about it already, but the two of us were covered in bloodstains, from the face to the chest to the arms and even some handprints on our legs. I wet a rag on the sink of the bathroom, sat on the toilet and washed myself off. Chucky leaned over the bathtub and rinsed his arms, face and neck, avoiding the shower just barely to keep his cigarette lit between his teeth. His stained shirt was a whole issue, which we ended up solving by me lending him an old Black Sabbath tee I had from my New York days that I wore to bed when my nightdress was in the laundry bag.

“I’ll take it with me next time I go to the laundromat,” I told him, examining the stains. They were pretty dark already. The cotton had probably already absorbed it fully. “And if that doesn’t take it out… Baking soda has never let me down before, at least where period blood is concerned.”

“Believe it or not, I’ve walked ‘round the street in broad daylight, red from head to toe, without anyone giving a shit,” he said, checking the tee’s fit, while I brushed the dry blood flakes off my hair. “It’s amazing what people don’t see.”

And so, finally looking like model citizens, we went out and had burgers and milkshakes. We were both pretty damn famished, it had to be said. We barely talked while we ate. Soon enough there was nothing but some dropped onions on our trays and ketchup leftovers on our fingers to lick off.

“I didn’t know about this place,” he said casually as he wiped his mouth. “It’s pretty good.”

“Yeah, isn’t it?”

I smiled and nodded, tapping my nail against the half-empty cup. I watched him while he sucked on the straw of his strawberry shake, wondering what would happen now. Now that we both had cooled off for the time being, I was half expecting Chucky would decide that I was a loose end, and would try to find a good moment to tie that up. So far, though, everything seemed normal. Too normal. It was like an average date with just some guy. Seeing him no longer colored by the red glow of the club, nor by the bright yellow light of the hotel room, no more blood splattered across his face, and now enjoying a burger like your average Joe, wearing my old tee, it was almost as if everything that had happened had just been a weird wonderful dream.

Though, I have to admit, I was still kind of thrilled at the fact that I had met someone who shared my specific interests.

“Hey, uh… Hope you don’t mind me asking,” I said after swallowing my last bite. “… What’s your body count?”

“Boy, I lost track years ago,” he laughed as he leaned back. “Why, do you still have yours?”

“Um… Let me think,” I said, and got to counting with my fingers. “… Hm, Heath, Jordan, Maxine, Mimi, Kenny, Tony, Carole, Roy, Leanne, Gavin, Ronnie, Elliot… Mark… Uh, I think this one’s name was Zach… I must be missing someone, but I think those are the ones I remember the most… So, say around fourteen, fifteen. What do you think of that?”

Chucky hummed, resting his head on his hand. He thought about it for a minute. “… I mean, you know all their names, for one. So you clearly keep it personal.”

“Well, yes,” I frowned. “I’m not interested in total strangers—”

“But our first shared one was with a stranger, though,” he noted.

I blinked, a bit surprised by him specifying first. “Yeah, well—”

“Was that your first time with just, you know, a random person?” he asked, leaning forward, barely holding back a grin.

“I’m not telling you…!”

He let out a short but loud laugh. “So it was!”

I huffed. “So what if it was?”

“You’re, like, in your mid-twenties, right? So fourteen, fifteen’s not that bad,” Chucky shrugged. Now I was really curious to know his death count. I had the feeling he did remember it, but had decided that leaving that to the imagination was more impressive. “But you could do better. If you opened yourself to other options…”

I scoffed. I was thrilled, I was into him, yes –but I wasn’t that much into being talked down to. “So you say I should just go around and fuck up the first fella I come across?”

Chucky smiled even wider. “You did. I just gave you the chance. And hey, I’m no hypocrite, I won’t fault you for that. I’m just saying…” He leaned back on his chair, picking his cup and offering a toast. “It’s not exactly impressive, but you got promise, Tiff. Fifteen’s nothing to sneeze at.”

He probably knew I wasn’t really that offended, and soon enough I smiled back at him. Nobody had complimented me on my death count so far. We clinked cups, and I finally realized that Chucky wasn’t gonna kill me. There was something he saw in me that he liked. Or maybe he just wanted a side piece. I’m not a mind reader, I couldn’t know for sure. I just knew that I had fun with him –more fun than what I had had with anyone else –and that I liked the idea of staying around to see what happened next.

“I’d love to… You know, do something like this again,” I said, twirling my hair. “If you’re up to it.”

He tilted his head. “Go out for burgers?”

“No, silly,” I chuckled. “To… Meet again. Do something…” I just couldn’t blurt it out. I giggled, despite myself, becoming a bit flustered. “You got my number, so… If you ever, say, wanted to… To do something…”

“Are you talking about—?”

“Both,” I interrupted him, just as a mother and her child passed us by. “Both… Both would be great.”

Chucky looked at me, slowly realizing what I meant, and nodded. I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, remembering when he did that, and fidgeted with my earring. We were no longer alone with each other. We were surrounded by other patrons at the burger place, by families with their kids, by people chatting on the street… But none of it erased what had happened when we were together.

I noticed that Chucky still had a little cut in his lower lip, where I had bitten him.

I smiled. Yes –it had all been real.

“What, do I have something on my face?” he asked me, scratching his cheek.

“No, it’s nothing,” I said, looking down, still smiling. “I’m just… I’m just happy I met you.”

We had already paid. It was about to be three o’clock. It felt like we had been together for a whole week. And still, we didn’t know how to say goodbye.

“Well…” he said, shifting uneasy in his chair. “… What’s next?”

“I –I got a job,” I blurted, immediately regretting it. “And, uh… I guess that—”

“Right.”

“So… Besides, you surely got your own stuff, your own life to go back to—”

“Yeah,” Chucky nodded quickly. “I’m a very busy man.”

I just barely stifled a laugh. “I bet you are.”

He shot me a glare, but then he smiled, too.

We got off the chairs and back onto the street. We walked a bit, just to get the circulation going. I wanted to take his hand, but he had both of them in the pockets of his coat. I already felt the sadness creeping in. I wondered for how long we would keep walking (hopefully all the way to Ridgefield Avenue on the other side of the river) but we stopped by my apartment.

“Well… See you around, Tiff,” he sighed, running his hand through his hair, pushing it off his face.

I smiled. “See you around, Chucky.”

He smiled back. I looked down at his mouth, at the little cut. Even at the risk of staining my teeth with lipstick, I bit down my lower lip, as if I was trying to give myself that same cut. I looked back into his big blue eyes.

And, somehow, we both knew. At this point, even if we hadn’t talked a lot to each other, I felt I knew him inside out. I knew him without saying a word. We moved towards the other –and kissed –and we embraced like that first night on the bed of the hotel room, not too long ago, but which felt like ages –and we kissed. Everyone else in the street disappeared in a blur. There was only us, and the warmth of our bodies, and the white light of day. I knew, right then and there, that this was love.

[rockislandadultreads]

New Title Tuesday: Romance Picks

Iris Kelly Doesn't Date by Ashley Herring Blake

Everyone around Iris Kelly is in love. Her best friends are all coupled up, her siblings have partners that are perfect for them, her parents are still in marital bliss. And she’s happy for all of them, truly. So what if she usually cries in her Lyft on the way home. So what if she misses her friends, who are so busy with their own wonderful love lives, they don’t really notice Iris is spiraling. At least she has a brand-new career writing romance novels (yes, she realizes the irony of it). She is now working on her second book but has one problem: she is completely out of ideas after having spent all of her romantic energy on her debut.

Perfectly happy to ignore her problems as per usual, Iris goes to a bar in Portland and meets a sexy stranger, Stefania, and a night of dancing and making out turns into the worst one-night stand Iris has had in her life (vomit and crying are regretfully involved). To get her mind off everything and overcome her writer's block, Iris tries out for a local play, but comes face-to-face with Stefania—or, Stevie, her real name. When Stevie desperately asks Iris to play along as her girlfriend, Iris is shocked, but goes along with it because maybe this fake relationship will actually get her creative juices flowing and she can get her book written. As the two women play the part of a couple, they turn into a constant state of hot-and-bothered and soon it just comes down to who will make the real first move…

This is the third volume of the "Bright Falls" series.

Wreck the Halls by Tessa Bailey

Melody Gallard may be the daughter of music royalty, but her world is far from glamorous. She spends her days restoring old books and avoiding the limelight (one awkward tabloid photo was enough, thanks). But when a producer offers her a lot of money to reunite her mother’s band on live tv, Mel begins to wonder if it’s time to rattle the cage, shake up her quiet life… and see him again. The only other person who could wrangle the rock and roll divas.

Beat Dawkins, the lead singer’s son, is Melody’s opposite—the camera loves him, he could charm the pants off anyone, and his mom is not a potential cult leader. Still, they might have been best friends if not for the legendary feud that broke up the band. When they met as teenagers, Mel felt an instant spark, but it’s nothing compared to the wild, intense attraction that builds as they embark on a madcap mission to convince their mothers to perform one last show.

While dealing with rock star shenanigans, a 24-hour film crew, brawling Santas, and mobs of adoring fans, Mel starts to step out of her comfort zone. With Beat by her side, cheering her on, she’s never felt so understood. But Christmas Eve is fast approaching, and a decades-old scandal is poised to wreck everything—the Steel Birds reunion, their relationships with their mothers, and their newfound love. 

The Witch is Back by Sophie H. Morgan

There’s nothing wrong with being a wallflower. Not to Emmaline Bluewater, anyway. Emma may have been born into witch society, but her days of trying to fit in where she doesn’t belong are over—they ended seven years ago, when the man she’d hoped to marry left town without a word. She’s much happier now, living a delightfully mundane human life in Chicago and running her bar, Toil and Trouble.

Until Bastian Truenote walks through the door and announces that he wants her back.

Bastian had his reasons for leaving—even if he can’t tell Emma what they are. Now, to win Emma’s heart, he’s got to face down an adorably goofy dog familiar, a best friend who’s all too eager to hit him with a carefully aimed hex, and a woman who’s far from the meek witch he remembers.

Magical contracts aren’t easily broken, but as far as Emma’s concerned, not even a marriage of convenience will have her falling under Bastian’s spell again…

10 Things That Never Happened by Alexis Hall

Sam Becker loves―or, okay, likes―his job. Sure, managing a bed and bath retailer isn't exactly glamorous, but it's good work and he gets on well with the band of misfits who keep the store running. He could see himself being content here for the long haul. Too bad, then, that the owner is an infuriating git.

Jonathan Forest should never have hired Sam. It was a sentimental decision, and Jonathan didn't get where he is by following his heart. Determined to set things right, Jonathan orders Sam down to London for a difficult talk…only for a panicking Sam to trip, bump his head, and maybe accidentally imply he doesn't remember anything?

Faking amnesia seemed like a good idea when Sam was afraid he was getting sacked, but now he has to deal with the reality of Jonathan's guilt―as well as the unsettling fact that his surly boss might have a softer side to him. There's an unexpected freedom in getting a second shot at a first impression…but as Sam and Jonathan grow closer, can Sam really bring himself to tell the truth, or will their future be built entirely on one impulsive lie?

This is the first volume of the "Material World" series.

[razorsadness]

surveys are fun, yo.

what cd have you forgotten about and then recently remembered you love so much? dookie by green day. even though it's a tape, not a cd.

what is the most depressing song ever? "olga's birthday" by rose polenzani or "sea anemone" by jets to brazil. or perhaps "pocket games" by cadallaca. i listen to a lot of depressing shit.

what do you think is the best way to get a date? make the person you are crushing on a rad mix tape or CD. or give them a copy of yr zine.

who do you think would cry if they ever read your journal? my mom. some other people, too, maybe.

what is the cure for the summer time blues? trains, travel, tattoos, coffee, friends, zines.

whats the last cd you listened to? "my war" by black flag. but it was a record, not a cd.

give me a quote that will do me so good: i find that alcohol, in sufficient quantities, brings about all the effects of drunkenness. -oscar wilde

Full name: jessica ‘duckie’ disobedience

You reside: near chicago, soon to actually be IN chicago, thank fucking god.

What makes you human? i get inane crushes on "celebrity" boys and girls and then get papercuts when i tear their pictures out of fanzines. i smoke and i cough and my throat gets sore and fucked up when i scream too much which i do a lot. my heart breaks at the drop of a hat, but i always seem to sew it back up again, although maybe it doesn't work as well as it once did. i bleed. i sweat and smell and fuck. i get blisters on my toes from too-tight chucks and on my hands from writing and bass guitar and bike handles. i cry and my tears are salty.

What do you collect? stickers to put on my typewriter and car and bicycle and notebooks, patches to sew haphazardly onto hoodies, multi-colored shoelaces for my multi-colored chucks. tattoos. drawings of skulls; zines and books to read and re-read. CDs, mix tapes from friends and strangers, punk rock records. weird found religious propaganda like pamphlets on how to be saved and "i heart jesus" barrettes. leopard print stuff. blank books to fill up with rants and poetry and journal entries and my novel. cheap typewriters. pictures of punk rockers. photographs. sock monkeys. punk rock barbies. fabric scraps that may come in handy some day. pictures and fliers and posters for my walls. e-mail addresses.

How many issues of Cometbus do you own? not nearly as many as i would like to.

What annoys you most? close-minded people, dumb boys, mosquito bites, restlessness, boredom, sore throats, stomachaches, nic-fitting, being broke, apathy.

When you grow up, what do you want to be? really, doing a zine is the only long-term plan i have. i'd like to write and travel and meet lots of rad people and be in a band. i want to be happy. i want to be a mom someday.

Whats inside your attractive messenger bag? green zine #10, girl swirl #4, inside and out #s 1 & 2, the scorpio conspiracy #1, starlight #4, war against the idiots #19, lab rat #4, skin & ink july 2001, adbusters july/august 2001, packing tape for taping up posters, a black bandana, sunglasses, my keys on a jack kerouac keychain, halls ice blue throat lozenges, a tin of tattoo goo, two mix tapes, a blank book with a typewriter on the cover that i'm writing my novel in, a black felt tip pen, a little flashlight for dumpster-diving, a pack of sugarfree gum, million4roe stickers, a converse all-star pencil case with nothing in it, old breath mints covered in fuzz and tobacco, a receipt for piggly wiggly, some coins, a chicago metra train map, a notebook with random scribblings in it, political posters, a blank book with the british flag on it that has my poetry in it, a half-full pack of sampoerna clove cigarettes, a half-full pack of marlboro reds, empty packs of gpc lights and american spirit lights, a sanitary pad, a leopard print wallet (which contains: 7 dollars, a receipt for walgreens, my driver's license, my library card, a guitar pick, a pink plastic safety pin, a bottle cap that also happens to be an "ad" for free beer zine, two tiny pictures (one of a sock puppet and one of a chalk drawing), & my debit card), old el cards, an old shopping list, an empty coin purse, condoms, a blue felt tip pen, 3 lighters (blue, purple, yellow), tissues, an eyeliner pencil (black, of course), benadryl, my watch, an empty pack of birth control pills, eyedrops, hand cleanser, hand lotion, and lime chapstick.

Shamless About: singing loud in public, thrashing around in my car, public displays of affection, belching, swearing, my tattoos and piercings, armpit and leg hair, scars and bruises, liking girls.

Favorite summer activities: walking on the beach wearing all black and getting my feet wet but not actually swimming, traveling, walking around outside at night with friends either really drunk or really stoned and being really obnoxious, coffeeshops, punk rock shows where it's so hot you can hardly breathe, dumpster-diving, meeting cool people, eating ice cream, drinking lemonade, riding my bicycle, skateboarding, staying up late, catching fireflies and then letting them go, etc.

Favorite winter activities: freezing my ass off while trying to walk to the fireside bowl, freezing my ass off while waiting for the el, generally freezing my ass off, dressing inappropriately for the weather, drinking coffee or chai, making mix tapes, being nostalgic, writing long letters to friends, contemplating things, wearing sweaters, wishing it were summer, crying, having sex, cuddling, shoplifting, hanging out at the library, making snow angels, etc. What side of the Shit Split rocks harder? i'd have to vote for blatz, although filth is really rad.

Who would win a fight, Paul Westerberg or Elvis Costello? well fuck, neither one of them seems like fightin' guys. but i guess i’d say paul, just cuz he seems a little more unhinged.

If you are alone and no one is looking, how many weezer songs will it take to get you sobbing? half of "the sweater song." i'm weird.

Do you Rock the Casbah? yep. even if the sharif don't like it.

What's the biggest lie you ever told? let's see. . .my parents think i'm straight (even though i've tried to tell them otherwise), have no tattoos, have never had sex, don't smoke, don't drink, don't do drugs, and they don't know i'm an anarchist.

What is the meaning of life? zines, records, love & lust, adventure, sex, broken hearts, bass guitars, loud music, screaming, high-top chucks, crushes, henry rollins.

Honestly though. i don't hate myself. and that's all that matters.

[choice excerpts from some surveys I filled out and posted on my LiveJournal, 6/18/01]

[chicagosfinest2021]

My followers don't ask me anything so I'll just answer some stuff on my own LOL

1:Virgin? No but I might as well be at this point LOL Actually sometimes I wish I was a virgin. . .

2:Shoe size 9.5 Too short for my feet to be so big IMO. . .

3:Do you smoke? Just meats

4:Do you drink? Casually/socially

5:Do you take drugs? Does melatonin count?

6:Age you get mistaken for Early to mid 20's

7:Have tattoos? No

8:Want any tattoos? No, I like my chocolate brown skin the way it is :-)

9:Got any piercings? Just my ears

10:Want any piercings? MIght do my navel later

11:Best friend? My slightly younger sister <3

12:Relationship status Perpetually single

13:Biggest turn ons Money going into my bank account

14:Biggest turn offs Money leaving my bank account

15:Favorite movie It was Bend It Like Beckham but Wakanda Forever is a close 2nd (only because the former came out first)

16:I’ll love you if YOU FEED ME!!

17:Someone you miss My maternal grandmother (RIP)

18:Most traumatic experience Being SA'ed by different men

19:A fact about your personality I'm a social introvert; I'll hang out around people for a few hours and have a good time as long as I can get 3-4 days to myself afterwards to recuperate/recharge

20:What I hate most about myself I procrastinate too freaking much

21:What I love most about myself I'm thicc AF!!

22:What I want to be when I get older The single, rich, fun auntie

23:My relationship with my sibling(s) Me and my full sister are basically twins and our souls are tied together, living in different states has taken a toll on us mentally. We have a younger half sister whom we didn't know about until about 10 years ago. We love her but the circumstances behind her birth makes our relationship more tricky and we're not as close.

24:My relationship with my parent(s) They are my life. I'm a mommy's girl and a daddy's girl

25:My idea of a perfect date I honestly don't have one

26:My biggest pet peeves Unnecessary noise. Like right now my neighbors keep slamming the door that leads to the stairway right next to my unit because they refuse to gently shut the door like they've got some sense

27:A description of the girl/boy I like Other than celebrity crushes, I don't like anyone right now haha

28:A description of the person I dislike the most Can't think of anyone specific right now

29:A reason I’ve lied to a friend I love my best friend but she and I have very different lifestyles and philosophies about life, I won't necessary lie to her but I'll keep my mouth shut about certain things just to keep the peace between us (and it isn't easy).

30:What I hate the most about work/school I actually like what I do for the most part, but more money would always be a plus obviously

31:What your last text message says "We're sorry, your order from Taco Bell was cancelled. . ."

32:What words upset me the most Actions tend to hurt me harder than words do

33:What words make me feel the best about myself "You can't be fixed because you were never broken in the first place"

34:What I find attractive in women Emotional intelligence

35:What I find attractive in men Emotional intelligence

36:Where I would like to live If I couldn't continue to live in the Chicago area I'd like to live in Northern Europe, someplace where it's cold most of the year haha

37:One of my insecurities My stomach isn't flat :-(

38:My childhood career choice I think I shifted back and forth between a piano player and a writer.

39:My favorite ice cream flavor I actually don't eat ice cream a lot but I've heard good things about rum raisin. . .

40:Who wish I could be I actually like being myself, it's pretty dope

41:Where I want to be right now I want to be at my parents house with my parents, my sister and her daughter my niece, laughing, talking and listening to music

42:The last thing I ate A McGriddle from McDonalds LOL

43:Sexiest person that comes to my mind immediately Cross between Letitia Wright and Tenoch Huerta Mejia (Alex Livinalli as a runner up)

44:A random fact about anything England is a constitutional monarchy and only their parliament can make the laws , the royal family has no real power or purpose and actually costs the country money.

[strictlyfavorites]

Shel Silverstein, poet, singer-songwriter, cartoonist, screenwriter and author of children's books, was born 91 years ago today

Silverstein grew up in the Logan Square neighborhood of Chicago and attended Roosevelt High School. Later, he went the University of Illinois before he was expelled. He then attended Chicago Academy of Fine Arts and Roosevelt University for three years, until 1953 when he was drafted into the Army. He served in Japan and Korea.

Silverstein began drawing at age seven by tracing the works of Al Capp. "When I was a kid — 12 to 14, around there — I would much rather have been a good baseball player or a hit with the girls, but I couldn't play ball. I couldn't dance. Luckily, the girls didn't want me. Not much I could do about that. So I started to draw and to write. I was also lucky that I didn't have anybody to copy, be impressed by,” he told Publisher’s Weekly.

“I had developed my own style. I was creating before I knew there was a Thurber, a Benchley, a Price and a Steinberg. I never saw their work till I was around 30. By the time I got to where I was attracting girls, I was already into work, and it was more important to me. Not that I wouldn't rather make love, but the work has become a habit."

After returning to Chicago, Silverstein began submitting cartoons to magazines while also selling hot dogs at Chicago ballparks. His cartoons began appearing in Look, Sports Illustrated and This Week.

In 1957, Silverstein became one of the leading cartoonists in Playboy, which sent him around the world to create an illustrated travel journal with reports from far-flung locales. During the 1950s and 1960s, he produced 23 installments called "Shel Silverstein Visits..." as a feature for Playboy.

Employing a sketchbook format with typewriter-styled captions, he documented his own experiences at such locations as a New Jersey nudist colony, the Chicago White Sox training camp, San Francisco's Haight-Ashbury district, Fire Island, Mexico, London, Paris, Spain and Africa.

Silverstein's passion for music was clear early on as he studied briefly at Chicago College of Performing Arts at Roosevelt University. His musical output included a large catalog of songs — a number of which were hits for other artists, most notably the rock group, Dr. Hook & The Medicine Show.

He wrote Tompall Glaser's highest-charting solo single "Put Another Log on the Fire," "One's on the Way" (a hit for Loretta Lynn) and "25 Minutes to Go," sung by Johnny Cash, about a man on Death Row with each line counting down one minute closer.

Silverstein also wrote one of Johnny Cash's best known hits, "A Boy Named Sue." Other songs co-written by Silverstein include "the Taker" by Waylon Jennings and "On Susan’s Floor” by Gordon Lightfoot and a sequel to "A Boy Named Sue" called: "Father of a Boy Named Sue" which is less known, but he performed the song on television on The Johnny Cash Show.

He also penned a song entitled "F*** 'em" which is lesser known and contained a reference to "f*** children."

Silverstein styled himself as Uncle Shelby in some works. Translated into more than 30 languages, his books have sold over 20 million copies.

On May 10, 1999, Silverstein died at age 68 of a massive heart attack in Key West, Florida.

[urbanhermit]

Fr Gerald Vann, OP (1906-1963) was an English Dominican who did his theological studies in Rome, was ordained in 1929. Then studied modern philosophy at Oxford. Teaching at Blackfriars School in Northhamptonshire, writing, lecturing & giving retreats in England & the US, lecturing at Catholic University in DC. Writing many articles & books on the wisdom of St Thomas Aquinas. “The Aquinas Prescription: St Thomas’s Path to a Discerning heart, a Sane Society, & a Holy Church’ (1939, 10 yrs. after his ordination) is one such work by Fr Vann, OP. He wrote not just to interest primarily Catholic students of St Thomas, but the non-Catholic reader who finds himself attracted yet repelled. Vann admits to being no historian, borrowing freely, for the background, from the historians – in particular the French Thomist, Etienne Gilson (one of my subjects) & the British cultural historian, Christopher Dawson. Dawson was raised Anglo-Catholic but converted to Roman Catholicism in 1909. He influenced T S Eliot. In his final chapter Vann notes the best-known Thomist names (in 1939) are those of laymen Etienne Gilson & Jacques Maritain (another of my subjects) in France [both of whom I read in my two post-grad Thomism courses at Duquesne University], & Mortimer J Adler in the US (American philosopher, taught at Columbia & Chicago, the Great Books of the Western World) [I was not introduced to him during my doctoral studies at Chicago]. Four chapters: 1st on the life & works of Aquinas; 2nd the unity of philosophy & theology [Plato, Aristotle, Ibn Rushd (Averroes), Ibn Sina, Imam Al Ghazali, Rabbis Moses ben Maimon (Maimonides, the Rambam), & Solomon ibn Gabirol (Avicebron)]; 3rd on the works of Aquinas; & 4th on why the separation of Eastern & Western Christendom continues, & approaches to bring reunion. https://www.instagram.com/p/CkmDcG6Jasb/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[onmymasa22]

U know what im doing? Im making a decision to the next decision. Thats it. Thats all i can do. One decision to the next. I decided to go to art school. It brought me great friemds and learning about myself and growth. Enoah brought me passion for old people with special needs. I dated guys, i stopped dating guys. Just one decision to the next. I just go with it. Thats my theory. I cant jusge ur decisions, so stop judging mine.

Just make a decision to the next decision.

Do things that way.

Stop being so ypughe. Ur hurting, its obvious. But what if fhe ppl around u were hurting just like u. What majes u think u were the only one who was hurting. Everyone is hurting, maybe more than u, maybe less than u. Ur nor the judge tho. U have no idea ehats going on in other pples lives. But u deserve kindness wnd they

Ill be like a real person in the world. Have an apartment i can live in year round. Be apart of everything. Do everything.

Why is it that when u have adhd, growing up ur way more mature than everyone ur age, and yet when u grow up, ur way less mature than everyone ur age...

Really cute story on how my parents met before actually meeting:

My mom went to Neve Jerusalem in the early 80s. She saw an article for the "brother school" to Neve, Ohr Sameach in 1983 and kept it. Exactly 10 years later, she was set up with my dad, they fell madly in love in three dates, and got married. When my mom moved her crap from New York City to Chicago, my father opened a box and saw this article and picture. He showed it to my mom and was like "look!" She was like "oh my gosh, those are guys from Ohr Sameach, do you know any of them?" My dad was shocked and he said "that's me in the middle!" So yah, my mom held onto a photo of my dad ten years before they met in real life... crazy.

Something i wish i couldve told younger me: thanks to your adhd, right now u are way more mature than kids ur age, ur spending so much energy on just trying to be normal and not bother anyone, so having friends is difficult. When you become an adult, though, u will be way less mature than people ur age. And that isnt an insult. Once you know and accept who u r, you will be just a sequin of a girl. You will forever be young in your heart and mind. And that will attract the best people and the best experiences. So for now, know it can be hard, but u will live an extraordinary life.

I just wanted to tell u, u asked me what changed from the forst year to right then at the end of the third year. And i have a better answer now. At the end of the first year, our teacher meir applefeld gave us an assignment to draw.

Hi, sorry this might be a megillah, but i just need to get it all out. At the end of this past year, shai azulai spoke to us. He asked us to do a drawing and i finished quickly and so he came over and talked to me for a few minutes till others finished. He asked me what i felt my first year vs how i fekt now. I didnt really know what to answer other than that in the first year, everything was new. At the end of this past year, i dont know why, but ive become obsessed with painting trees. Rachel keeny gave us a watercolor class and i had a hard time in the etching class with dalia, and i was emotional and started painting lines and then just started painting trees from my mind with black ink. I remember in the first year, u asked us to make a landscape. It felt impossible. I thought- ask me to draw an apple that i have infront of me, awesome, a table, fine. But ask me to draw something from my mind, to completely make it up? I had no idea how, and i was scared of my own mind. But two years later, its not as scary. So this painting waited two years. I think i just wasnt ready. I needed more time to bake. But now, im a day or two from finishing

I feel sad. I feel like the whole world is spreading negative energy. I feel negative myself

Maybe today ill just paint trees.

Cuz thats wyat ill do when im sad.

Ill paint trees.

If you're crying today, you are not alone.

If you're saddned today, you are not alone.

If you feel numb to the pain today, you are not alone.

If you feel relief today that these people aren't suffering anymore, you are not alone.

If you're going to a funeral, you are not alone.

If it's too much for you to be at a funeral and you just need to hug yourself today, you are not alone.

If today your life goes on pause and you are having trouble doing anything, you are not alone.

If you smile and laugh and live your best life today because you need to, you are not alone.

[palmoilnews]

VEGOILS-Palm extends losses on stronger ringgit, weaker Dalian oils JAKARTA, Aug 19 (Reuters) - Malaysian palm oil futures fell for a second session on Monday, as traders gauged weakness in Dalian vegetable oils, while a stronger ringgit also added pressure to the contract. The benchmark palm oil contract FCPOc3 for November delivery on the Bursa Malaysia Derivatives Exchange was down 9 ringgit, or 0.24%, at 3,672 ringgit ($837.97) a metric ton, as of 0246 GMT. The contract lost 1.79% last week, its fourth consecutive weekly drop. FUNDAMENTALS Dalian's most-active soyoil contract DBYcv1 lost 0.38%, while its palm oil contract DCPcv1 shed 0.27%. Soyoil prices on the Chicago Board of Trade BOc2 edged 0.51% higher. Palm oil is affected by price movements in related oils as they compete for a share in the global vegetable oils market. Malaysian ringgit, the contract currency of trade, strengthened 1.1% against the U.S. dollar on Monday, hitting its highest since mid-February 2023. A stronger ringgit made the contract less attractive for foreign currency holders. Indonesia has revised its rules on its palm oil domestic market obligation (DMO) scheme, raising the price cap in a bid to improve supplies of cheap cooking oil, while lowering domestic distribution target to 250,000 tons monthly. Exports of Malaysian palm oil products for Aug. 1-15 declined 22.3% from the previous month, data from independent inspection company AmSpec Agri Malaysia showed, while Cargo surveyor Intertek Testing Services said exports slumped 20.2% during the same period. The pace of exports during the period was slower than a decline of 12.2%-17.7% for Aug. 1-10, according to data from the two firms. Palm oil FCPOc3 may revisit its Aug. 14 low of 3,638 ringgit per metric ton, driven by a wave (5), said Reuters technical analyst Wang Tao. Oil prices eased in early Asian trading on Monday as fears of weaker demand in top oil importer China weighed on market sentiment while investors focus on the progress of ceasefire talks in the Middle East, which could reduce supply risks. Weaker crude oil futures make palm a less attractive option for biodiesel feedstock. MARKET NEWS Asian stocks were taking a breather after global equities enjoyed their best week in nine months on expectations the U.S. economy would dodge a recession and cooling inflation would kick off a cycle of interest rate cuts.