#chicago condominium

[perennialyouth]

Exterior Brick Large contemporary white three-story brick exterior home idea with a mixed material roof

[intothewordless]

Chicago Contemporary Bathroom Bathroom - mid-sized contemporary kids' black and white tile and ceramic tile ceramic tile, white floor and single-sink bathroom idea with quartzite countertops, white countertops, a freestanding vanity, furniture-like cabinets, brown cabinets and white walls

[emaadsidiki]

Skyline smiles along navy pier miles... 🏙️🎡

[abegtassociates]

The Best Condominium Insurance Agent in Chicago

Condominium insurance is coverage that helps protect owners against losses and repair costs for a condominium unit. It protects against theft, vandalism, fire damage, water damage, and more. Abe GT & Associates is a registered insurance company that can assist you in obtaining the finest condominium insurance agent in Chicago.

[isabellharrison]

Kitchen in Chicago Small transitional galley enclosed kitchen idea with a cork floor and paneled appliances, flat-panel cabinets, gray cabinets, marble countertops, white backsplash, and backsplash made of subway tiles.

[alfiemartin]

Framed Prints of Marina City Condominium Photographs

This Steve McQueen 1980 action-adventure movie The Hunter was filmed at the Marina City Condominium in downtown Chicago. Steve played a bounty hunter who chases a fugitive up the spiral parking ramp on Marina City’s west tower before the villain loses control and drives off into the Chicago River. Any buyers on Fine Art America who are Steve McQueen fans are interested in buying framed prints of my Marina City Condominium photographs will go to this link to buy them online. You can choose any print size, shape, frame, mat, mat width and paper while you are buying them.

~Alfie Martin from Chicago, IL

[parkeremerson]

Kitchen in Chicago Small transitional galley enclosed kitchen idea with a cork floor and paneled appliances, flat-panel cabinets, gray cabinets, marble countertops, white backsplash, and backsplash made of subway tiles.

[lolbatty]

Old one from 2020 I never posted. I'm going through my art folder, reflecting on how little digital work I've done in the last 4 years.

Now that I live in Chicago I rarely spend time on the computer. I suppose now that it's winter time I may be here more. I'd like to start drawing again but it's taken a backseat for a few years now.

Lately I have been working on myself. I'm a lot less anxious than I was, way more confident. I'm also more emotionally mature, more spiritually attuned and overall doing leaps and bounds better than I ever have been.

I've been working at a pottery place, and helping some older ladies clean and organize in their high rise condominiums. I also work for an abstract artist as an assistant, I'm part of a woman's spirituality group, and I have an amazing group of very talented friends. Chicago is amazing, it's breathed life into my existence like nothing has before. There's limitless opportunities and possibilities here for artists.

I guess I wanted to lay this stuff out just to say..I am still here. I am doing well. Back in 2019-2021 I really wasn't doing great at all. My Dad had just died, I was in some really toxic situationships (friends and romantic). The opportunity came to change my entire life and I took it without a second thought. I knew it was right, even though it was a big scary change. It paid off. Sometimes the risk is worth it in ways you could never have foreseen.

I'm still making art, though I'm not really sure where I stand with commissions right now. I'd like to post more personal stuff here if its not too cringe.

I hope everyone reading this is doing well.

batty

[sheltiechicago]

aydin.anatolia

Aqua Tower By Studio Gang In Chicago

Aqua Tower is an 82-story mixed-use skyscraper in Chicago, Illinois, USA. Designed by Studio Gang Architects, Aqua Tower combines a hotel, offices, rental apartments, condominiums, and parking, along with one of Chicago’s largest green roofs. According to architects, the design of the building was inspired by the striated limestone outcroppings common in the Great Lakes area. But this sinuous shape is not just a mere formal gesture, but it is also a strategy to extend the views and maximize solar shading.

Butler V. Adams

chro.lik

Hedrich Blessing

[sjmattson]

Anyone who has ever lived in a big city knows to generally avoid eye contact with strangers. Pan-handlers, petitioners trying to garner signatures, or salespeople trying to sell their wares—avoiding eye contact is the first line of defense towards preventing awkward social situations.

I used to be a doorman in downtown Chicago, and part of my responsibility was acting as a gatekeeper, securing the luxurious lobby entrance from anyone who wasn’t authorized to be there. It was a job that was part security guard and part host—providing the services expected of the wealthy tenants who paid a premium price to live there.

During the countless hours of observing the busy downtown streets, I would daily see the many unique interactions that occur within cities: business people hustling to and from meetings, buskers playing a tune to anyone who would listen, shoppers admiring the large window displays of name-brand stores, tour buses slowly navigating their way towards their venues, and the general patterns of crowds that ebb and flow past the skyscraper-lined avenues.

Without fail, there would be tourists and visitors who would stand out—looking around with expressions of curiosity, excitement, and revealing themselves through the most obvious tell: making eye contact.

Inevitably, they would become targets for people who ask them for money, ask them to give their signature to prevent pollution, and would be accosted by all types of aggressive personalities who would want to take advantage of their vulnerability—their unfamiliarity with the urban norms of being cold and unapproachable in public spaces.

How were they supposed to know that saying “fuck off” was a generally acceptable response used by everyone from sweet old grandmothers to their sweet little grandkids. How would a suburban or rural family visiting the city from some far off corner of the world know that vulgarity and threats of violence were socially acceptable here? They didn’t. So instead, they would try to be polite, and listen to the stories of people down on their luck for blocks at a time, awkwardly trying to assess how to get away from a stranger who wouldn’t leave their side.

If they gave money, the transaction would elicit more strangers to confront them asking for money. If they refused to offer money, they would face begging, yelling, or even violent threats. Once the eye contact caused social engagement, there was often no good ending.

One night as I worked my shift as a doorman, a tenant walked in a said they were concerned about a man who was shouting outside on the sidewalk. I assumed it was someone tweaked out on drugs, but since residents were concerned about the loud noise, I felt responsible to go outside and check it out.

There he was, a man who appeared to be in his upper forties yelling up at the sky. He was confronting people, trying to get them to look him in the face—no Chicagoans were stopping for him. The man was screaming, yelling, and even appeared to be crying. I didn’t think much of it until I saw a resident I knew walking down the sidewalk and heading for my condominium’s entrance—and the man was making a beeline for them.

I felt obligated to somehow prevent this man from accosting the resident, so before he could confront them I called out to him and waved him over to me as I moved away from the lobby’s entrance. I made eye contact with him.

The man immediately showed me a picture. It was of a young woman—probably a high school picture. His eyes were swollen from sobbing, and he had a look of desperation in his eyes. “Look at her. Look at her!” He sobbed to me, pushing the picture up towards my face so I could see it.

“Why?!” he cried again. He yelled up at the buildings that towered above him, as if begging the tenants inside to come out and answer him.

“What’s going on?” I asked cautiously, watching his hands and preparing to defend myself in case he suddenly attacked.

Although the exact words now escape my recollection, he yelled something like, “My daughter is dead! They killed her! She went to Iraq! Why did we go there?!”

Through angry yells and heartbreaking sobs I soon learned that he had just found out that his daughter—a member of the American military—had been killed in Iraq.

I didn’t know what to do other than to look at the picture of her that he was waving in my face. I eventually looked at him and said “I’m sorry.”

He then grabbed me by the shoulders and started sobbing. I stood there, and then held him as he cried.

It was awkward, and after a few minutes he stumbled away, and I went back into the building lobby and resumed my role as being a doorman.

That incident happened years ago, but I’ll never forget the man’s face and words. He was utterly broken and devastated. He had lost his child, his beloved daughter was gone forever, and he could never get her back.

I was a young college kid at the time, probably around the same age as the man’s daughter, and I was reminded that life can be cruel and unfair. And looking back, I wish I had been more caring, and brave enough to sit with that man until he could get into a better state. I wish I would’ve realized that it’s ok to look awkward in public and that there are more important things than work responsibilities or how you look in public.

I hope that man got somewhere where he could be supported by loving friends and family. But I don’t know what happened to him.

I remember what an impression the man had on me because he introduced me into a reality that was meaningful and important—a world where real wars were being fought and loved ones were being violently killed.

We can’t always live our lives worrying about the heavy things in life, but we shouldn’t wholly embrace a life of superficial escapism. Sometimes we need to connect in meaningful ways with people—to risk eye contact with those who aren’t being truly seen.

[azriel-edgemont]

I've been meaning to write this one for awhile. This happened in session #3 or #4, we're now have session #14 in the books as of last night. It finally made its way out of me.

The coterie encountered a group of Society of Saint Leopold Hunters early on in our story; we killed most but captured one for interrogation, a young French university student named Jacques, in Chicago on a scholarship from the Vatican. During the altercation, Aggie was struck by a Compulsion--to possess the captive, own him, by any means necessary.

For Aggie, that ended up meaning Kiss him, take him back to the safe house, let the muscle chain him up so he can't escape and kill us all--and seduce him for information, and also sex.

Jesus fucking christ this ended up so long what the fuck

ETA: JFC HEY THIS THING IS LIKE 4k WORDS THAT IS LONGER THAN MOST OF MY AO3 FIC. FUCK. WUT.

Now on AO3 for easier reading if you prefer!

---

Rating: E Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence Category: M/M Word Count: 4,275 Some definite warnings for this one:

Mildly Dubious Consent*, Blood/Blood and Torture/Blood As Lube/Blood Drinking, Power Imbalance/Power Dynamics, Restraints, Vampires/Vampire Hunters, Light Sadism/Light Masochism/Light Bondage, also: judicious use of Google Translate**

*Our Storyteller was pretty clear that Jacques was Into Aggie at the time, even despite his precarious situation and status as a Vampire HunterTM. Also, a Lingering Kiss doesn't really take effect until a few days after it's delivered--and doesn't mess with consent so much as just make the victim crave to be fed from again. Still, it is entirely possible to argue that this whole thing is BadWrongMessedUp.

**I make no promises about the French. I've got a decent grasp of foundational basics, and a linguistics background, but vocabulary--especially casual, colloquial, non-high school appropriate vocabulary--is not my strong suit, so Google was a friend throughout. Hopefully it's not too egregious. I'm just proud of the amount I was able to do with minimal assistance! Go me!

It's easy, slipping into French as the door shuts behind him. No lock to speak of--everything else in the austere condominium the height of luxe, but a lock on a bedroom door is evidently a bridge too far for Briar. Still; the door shuts with a reassuring click. Azriel's back meets it, resting against its solid weight, as he finally takes a moment to do what he's been wanting to all evening and looks his fill.

It's not entirely dark. There is a small bedside lamp on the table at the far side of the bed taking up most of the space. It casts a warm yellow light over the room, spreading shadows like bloodstains over the coverlet, limning the man's hair in a halo of gold, cresting over the slight swells of muscle before being swallowed by the shadows they cast on his skin. The room smells like blood.

Aggie's mouth doesn't water anymore, but he feels it's absence. He sucks in a short breath, eyes closing briefly to center himself as he gives just a little tug to the chains of the Beast within, and his mouth fills with saliva. When he opens his eyes, Jacques is looking back, and Aggie is pleased to see the open, naked want in his expression. Lapsed, indeed, he thinks. It's early, yet, for the Kiss to have taken hold; it's typically days before they feel the pull, the yearning aching need for it. No, this look, this want--its all the Hunter, and all for him.

"Bonsoir, ma beauté," he greets the man in his native French, and is rewarded by a quick flush to Jacques' pale cheeks; the scent of blood thickens, ever so slightly, as his elevated heart rate forces more of it out the wounds in his leg. It's a matter of steps to the bedside, feet muffled in the plush carpet; Aggie's fingertips find Jacques' ankle, then trail up his leg as he draws nearer, sidling into the vacant space between the bed and closet.

"Salut," Jacques responds cautiously. "Tu es venu a me torturer, alors?" His tongue darts out to wet his lips as Aggie's traveling fingers draw near to the wound. It weeps, dark red blood seeping black in the low light from the seared flesh. Despite his apparent nerves, though, Aggie notes that he doesn't try to pull away; just holds, still and trembling, waiting and watching. How very interesting.

"Non...mais je pense que tu as moins peur de moi, et de la torture, que je l'aurais supposé." As though to punctuate his point, Aggie lets the pads of his fingers skate over the raw edges of the wound, applying pressure ever-so-slightly. He is rewarded by Jacques' sharp inhale, the sight of his eyelids fluttering in involuntary response. His plush, full lips part around the gasp, and Aggie feels his mouth drop just a little slack in response. "Sí belle," he murmurs, drawing out the lateral like sticky honey on his tongue. "Je le pensais. Papistes." The laugh that accompanies this is affectionate, amused. The wound pulses with another erratic heartbeat. His index swipes through the shiny, sticky blood; he watches Jacques watch him bring it to his mouth, tongue protruding just enough to lay the pad of his finger on it. Choleric, Melancholic--but there, bright at the edges of his tongue: Sanguine. His lips twitch up in a smile, and he blinks down at the young man.

"Je sais mieux qu'a penser tu ne veux pas quelque chose de moi--plus qu'une baise," Jacques says, and Aggie is startled into a laugh by the bluntness of his speech. He licks his finger clean, then helps Jacques shift his legs away from the edge of the bed, settling into the space by his hip. The mattress is firm and unforgiving, like any bed in any anonymous three and a half star hotel (not that he would know from personal experience, you understand). He plants his hand on the coverlet anyways, bracketing Jacques' hips with his body. The man is warm to the touch, against his own cool static temperature.

"Oui," he states, conversational. "J'espère que tu me diras ce que j'ai besoin de savoir--sur Alice, sur ton petite groupe. Mais--ça ne doit pas être désagréable. Pour toi, ou pour moi." From this close, he can smell Jacques' breath; it's sour with fear and pain, but the way it picks up at Aggie's proximity speaks of a different type of arousal. Still, that is unpleasant; so instead, Aggie lowers his face to Jacques' neck, pressing his lips to the jumping pulse point there. He smirks to feel Jacques' entire body tense, the instinctive reaction of prey to a predator. But when he doesn't bite--when he mouths wet, open kisses at the warm skin instead--some of that tension dissolves beneath another wave of desire.

"Et--et après ça, que alors? Tu me abbas? Tu me...comment le diz vous...m'embrasses? Ah, merde..."

Aggie's laugh is warm, delighted, at the way Jacques' breath catches at the same time his teeth do; the utter subsumation of any real fears about his fate beneath a wave of emboldened desire. His nose is filled with it, his ears recognizing the staccato beat of a heart thumping in wild need. The fingers of the hand not holding himself above Jacques find their way to the hem of his shirt, instead, rucking it up to dig into the planes of hard, young muscle in his abdomen--he hums in appreciation. He can't resist a brief nibble, giddy to hear Jacques' bitten off cry in response. The scant drops of blood he sheds are almost entirely Sanguine, now, heady as they fall on his tongue, and he licks the love bite closed.

"Impressiones-moi," he murmurs in Jacques' ear, before sitting back to look into his face. "Et nous verrons. Je peux être un amant...généreux."

Jacques, may his absent God help him, looks bereft at Aggie's sudden distance. There is a rattle of metal on metal--the handcuffs rattle against the headboard as he makes an aborted attempt to reach for the Kindred. Aggie tuts at him, but takes pity, letting his hand stroke along Jacques' thigh and delighting every time his fingers catch on the calloused skin and slick blood of the wound. The way it makes the prominent apple of Jacques' throat bob, each time; his eyes flutter and glaze. His breath catches. And Aggie watches with keen delight as the flesh beneath the zip of his jeans swells.

"Qu'est-ce que tu veux savoir?" Jacques groans out, and Aggie grins.

***

It is a...fruitful interrogation.

An outside observer could be forgiven for viewing the scene and thinking it torture. Aggie hovers over Jacques in a way that cannot suggest anything other than predator and trapped prey, Jacques' hands trapped to either side of his head by the police cuffs, his legs similarly restrained by the ankles near the foot of the bed. Despite Aggie's smaller and slighter stature, it's clear who has the power--not least because of the insistent, probing fingers Aggie delves into the grotesque wound on Jacques' leg. His hand is slicked with blood to the wrist, and Jacques twists and writhes in his bonds with each idle circle Aggie draws around the edge of the seeping flesh, even as their conversation carries on as though nothing remarkable were happening.

But an outside observer might not see what Aggie sees. The way Jacques' pupils are blown, wide and wanting; the way he swallows and gasps, and dares Aggie with his gaze to do his worst as he stutters through his answer to a question. The confusion--the seedling of a pout, even--that dawns on his face if Aggie pauses too long, distracted by thoughts and theories introduced by the information that spills freely from Jacques' parted lips; the relief of his expression when Aggie resumes his idle movements, learning the patterns of the phosphorus burn until its landscape is as familiar as his own hand. The way Jacques' hips hitch, seeking friction, seeking relief, as pain and pleasure coalesce into one singular sensation.

Find the prettiest thing in the room. Make them want you. Then give them what they want.

"Tu chantes si bellement," Aggie murmurs to him, as a thumb swipes an invisible streak of blood up the blood-soaked denim of Jacques' inseam. Jacques groans under his touch.

"Comme une canari," he complains, half-hearted, and Aggie giggles.

"Non, mon cher," he reassures; and, merciful, flattens his palm over the hard ridge of Jacques' cock beneath the fabric. Jacques nearly shouts, folding forward as far as his shoulders will allow, curling in on himself at the sudden provision of long sought-after touch. "Non, ça c'est la chanson que j'aime. Ton plaisir chante si joliement, si sans vergogne. C'est très beau."

His heel drags up the length of Jacques' cock, feeling the heat and swell of it, leaving an angry red streak smeared against the acid-washed denim. Jacques trembles under his touch; his gaze drops to watch, heavy-lidded, as Aggie strokes him through the fabric. He licks his lips. "S'il te plait, Aggie, please, Jesus--"

"Il blasphème! Ça doit être très sérieux," Aggie teases, and Jacques laughs too, breathless, rattling the cuffs next to his head. "Oui, mais oui...tu as été très bon--toi, et moi aussi. Je pense que nous méritons un prix, non?" Another pointed, agonizing stroke--drying his hand of excess blood-- and then he removes it, shifting to the button at the waistband of Jacques' jeans.

"Ça va faire mal," he warns idly; and both men pause for a moment at the ridiculous, needless warning, before Jacques breathes out a laugh and Aggie grins at him with bared Kindred teeth on full display. The laugh becomes a pained shout as Aggie tugs the denim down, over the wound, not bothering with gentleness, and he is rewarded by a broken, gasped string of curses from Jacques as he yanks the clothing--jeans and boxer briefs together--down past his knees. It leaves him exposed, bare from the waist down, and Aggie can see the furred, bruised calves, the angry phosphorus burn, the knobs and ridges of bones and muscle shifting under skin--the thick thatch of dark brown hair, and his cock, uncut and intimate, standing stiff and erect between his parted thighs.

"Vraiment, Jacques--si beau, si bon pour moi," Aggie admires, as he stands near the foot of the bed, looking his fill as he methodically removes his own clothing; tugging the tight neck of his sweater over his head, unbuttoning his slacks to let them pool, in a whisper of expensive fabric, around his ankles before gracefully stepping out of them. He takes a moment--turning to catch the best light from the lamp, long decades of experience putting his body on display to best effect in the golden glow. Jacques' gaze rakes him, up and down, in a way that suggests he might have entirely forgotten that this is is monster he is about to bed. Hunger, want, desire stoked by pain and pleasure both are all visible in Jacques' gaze, audible in his breathing and evident in every taut, quivering line of his body. But Aggie sees his face fall as his gaze focuses on the lack of interest from Aggie's own cock.

"Je suis mort, chéri, souviens?" Aggie offers; and his voice is gentle as he steps back forward to stand next to Jacques, who cranes his neck to look up and meet his gaze.

"Est-ce...pourquoi?" Jacques asks.

"Pourquoi est-ce que je veux te baiser?" Aggie laughs, and Jacques nods. "Chéri, parce-que il faire bon! Je n'ai pas besoin d'une érection à savourer ta bite, crois-moi. Tu es trop gentil, penser à moi comme ça."

Jacques shudders at the matter-of-fact words, delivered as though it weren't painfully erotic. Aggie sits on the mattress, then swings one knee over him, straddling his hips. Both men react, audibly, when Jacques' cock nestles in the cleft of Aggie's arse. "Oh, yes," Aggie murmurs in English, eyes fluttering shut at the promise of pleasure, so near. Jacques gives an experimental flex of his hips; even restrained as he is, even with the pain of the wound which must, must bother him with a movement like that, the strength and power of him is a delight, and Aggie sighs happily. "T'aimes ça?" Jacques asks, voice rough and strained, and Aggie beams at him.

"Oui, jusque comme ça. Je vais te cheveaucher jusqu'à tu vous des étoiles, chéri." As though to demonstrate the promise, Aggie rocks back against Jacques, his hips and arse and body all moving in a sinuous line. Eyes locked to Jacques' gaze, he rakes a hand back through his curls, down the side of his neck, pinky finger catching on a sharp fang as he tosses Jacques a wink. The other hand cradles around the base of his throat, squeezing lightly--visibly--before traversing a path down the center of his body. He catches, tugs at the manicured nest of curly hair, carding his fingers through before those elegant digits wrap around his cold, flaccid cock, tugging at it lightly with a pleased, self-satisfied groan.

"Putain de merde, je veux te toucher. Tu vas me tuer, Aggie...!"

Aggie's eyes flash, and a wicked grin crosses his face. "Je l'éspere, Jacques. Un petit mort, et un autre, et un autre, et un autre..." Each promise punctuated by a perfunctory stroke of his cock, rocking his hips back to meet the hard, hot line, grinding down into Jacques' lap, Aggie lets himself feel the dull spark of arousal it brings. Like a song playing from another room, he is aware of the sensation, but distantly; the feelings somehow at a remove from his body, not roused enough for full sensation. Still, though, he likes the tease of it, and the positive encouragement from Jacques is heady, and Aggie knows he looks good like this--he has a painting to prove it.

Jacques groans, another plea gritting out from between his teeth, the cuffs rattling again as he gives an insistent shove against Aggie's backside, and Aggie takes pity on him. He lifts up on his knees, just enough to get a hand beneath his legs; reaches back, past Jacques' weeping cock, drooling pearly precum down the length, and liberally coats his palm in blood from Jacques' wound.

To his credit, Jacques immediately grasps his intent--and, further to his credit, locks a hungry, lustful gaze on the sight of Aggie's hand spreading blood along his length. "Sa mére, c'est tellement foiré," he breathes out, rapt, as his cock is slicked in blood, mixing with his body's natural lubricant. Aggie feels it jump in his hand, eager for the attention, not remotely flagging at the inclusion of his own blood in their play.

"Je pense que tu es un petit peu foiré," Aggie teases. "Qu'est-ce que l'église t'a fait?"

He doesn't give Jacques a chance to respond before he is pressing the blunt head of the blood-covered length against his hole, sinking down with the full weight of his body. The stretch and split might have been agonizing for a mortal body, unprepared, unstretched, with only blood and precum for lubricant; but where the feel of a hand on his own dick felt disconnected from his body, this intrusion sends sparks of pleasure racing along his Blushed nerve endings. He lets out a long, loud groan, echoed by Jacques as he is slowly, inch by inch, engulfed by Aggie's body.

The room reeks with the scent of sex and, to Aggie, Sanguine blood, filling his nose as he works his way down the cock impaling him in Jacques' lap. He doesn't feel any pain--the stretch, the discomfort, sure, but mostly the way pleasure radiates through him, forming a feedback loop with the Sanguine tang of the air to fill up his senses and drive him mad, needy, with want. He could seat himself fully in an eyeblink, he knows, shove down and take it all at once--it would heal by morning--but the awed, slack-jawed look Jacques is giving him makes him want to take his time and put on a proper show. So he braces his bloody hand in the center of Jacques' chest, and works his hips. He takes it slowly, savouring every hit of pleasure; tiny movements back and forth that make Jacques whine. His hands flex and Aggie considers what it might mean to release him--final death, almost certainly, but surely Jacques would want to finish fucking him first, and with those hands on Aggie's hips and that powerful arse and thighs, he's fairly certain the Frenchman could do some real, glorious damage. Still--that would mean finding keys, and that would mean getting off, and as Jacques' cock brushes against some part of his anatomy that currently houses the banked embers of thousands of roused nerve endings, he finds himself entirely unwilling to make that sacrifice.

Jacques keeps up a murmured, groaning litany the whole time. "Tu es très beau," he says, and, "Tu me prends si bien," and, " J'adore voir ma bite dans toi," and a healthy number of blasphemies, which are a complete delight every time, if a little distracting. He can feel Jacques trembling with the strain of holding back--almost wants to tell him to let go, just give it to him, release his own inner gay sex demons--but watching him shake with restraint is far too much fun. Finally, though, Aggie is resting fully seated in Jacques' lap, Jacques buried to the hilt inside of him.

"Ça va?" Jacques asks, licking his lips as he shifts slightly under Aggie's weight. His cock shifts inside of him, and Aggie lets his head loll back at the sensation, humming with pleasure as he rocks experimentally.

"Très, très bien, chéri," is his response. He rolls his head back around to fix Jacques with his gaze, delighted to see heat and want reflected back at him--and then he moves.

***

Nearly two hours after first coming into the room, Aggie pulls off of Jacques with an audible pop, the soft, malleable flesh of his flaccid cock falling limp from his mouth. His lips and teeth and chin are a mess of blood, his fingers and palms and inner thighs, too, smeared like a crime scene from cheek to cheek, drying against his skin and flaking rust every time he moves. He leans across Jacques' thighs, elbows digging into the mattress for leverage, to give the wound an affectionate kitten lick. Jacques groans out a laugh above him.

"Désolée, Aggie, je pense que--j'ai finis. S'te plait."

"A plusieurs égards," Aggie chides, but laps only once more before pushing himself to his knees besides Jacques. It's true--despite his best efforts, it seems he has wrung every "petit mort" from Jacques that the man's body can muster, and even his own stamina is relatively finite. Besides which, he's sated; he's drunk and fucked his fill, gotten all the information he can think of to ask for from the pliant young man, and while he wouldn't be opposed to another round, the sticky itchy feeling of drying blood and cum on his skin is threatening to become a major irritant. "Attends ici."

Jacques hums, watching him go from half-lowered lids, chest still heaving with the effort of pain and exertion. Aggie slides backwards and off the bed, revelling in the lingering feeling of soreness in his backside; already fading, sadly, but still there as a pleasant echo. He pads on bare feet into the en suite as he allows Jacques a moment to recover.

There are hotel-style towels folded and waiting on a rack above the toilet. He grabs a washcloth--using it to turn on the tap--and waits out the water until it runs warm. His hands are first, thrust under the gushing water, which quickly turns pink and then bright red beneath his hands as he methodically scrubs them free of the worst of the blood. There's blood under his nails, he notes; but no vanity kit here. Pity. He leaves it there for now, and takes up the washcloth again, soaking it in the flow. Face and neck are next, scrubbed and blotted free of bloodstains until the cloth is soaked with it and his skin is shining white. He tosses the cloth in the bathtub, and grabs another, now wiping the blood that is smeared over his thighs and arse and bollocks, swiping away the pearly pink mixture sliding down along his inner leg.

He presses the damp cloth to his mouth, biting down around it and drawing the liquid--water, blood, cum--into his mouth. It aspirates over his tongue, and he moans quietly, happily, at the flavour, sucking at it until it gives no more. It joins its fellow in the bathtub, and he draws down a larger handtowel from the rack. This one, too, is soaked in warm water and wrung out, and he carries it with him back into the bedroom.

It's clear immediately that Jacques has passed out. Exhaustion and exsanguination have done their work; his hands hang limp from the wrists in the handcuffs next to his head, and his head droops uncomfortably against his shoulder. Aggie tuts a little, and drapes the warm towel over his lap to soak up some of the excess blood and fluid spread there. He grabs a pillow and props it between Jacques' shoulder and his cheek, then goes to retrieve his clothes, dressing with graceful efficiency, patting for the reassuring feel of the stiletto dagger in his inside pocket.

Returning to the bed, Aggie takes up his spot next to Jacques' hip, setting to providing him a perfunctory clean-up. He laps up the blood that has dribbled in shining trails down the side of Jacques neck--he had asked, in fairness, to know what it would feel like to be fed from during the act, and Aggie was only too happy to oblige. He licks at the wounds until they seal shut. He wipes the skin clean from waist to knee. He takes gentle care with the flaccid cock that, exhausted, doesn't even attempt to stir in his grip, wiping it clean as well; and makes an attempt to wash around the outside of the leg wound, cleaning his thigh of excess.

Throughout his ministrations, Jacques barely stirs, and Aggie pauses a moment to watch him in his sleep. It would be so easy, he thinks, to take his life right now. To bleed him dry and leave him for dead; the way he and his Hunter friends would no doubt have done to us. It's no less than he deserves. He feels the weight of the stiletto in his pocket; a stab through the heart, in his sleep. Not such a monstrous way to go.

Sleeping, though, Jacques looks much more the part of the boy he is, rather than the man he pretends to be; his face softens, showing hints of clinging baby fat still around the edges of his otherwise chiselled face. Not once had he pleaded for Aggie to free him, not even under the guise of sex. He hadn't even asked for anything, except more, more, more.

Fucked up little Catholic boy, confused about so many things, Aggie thinks with a snort of derision. Pain and pleasure, need and want and desire, men and monsters. But in the end--Aggie got everything he wanted out of him, and Jacques, apparently, didn't want anything more from him than this.

"C'était la meilleure baise de ta vie, chéri," Aggie tells him fondly. "You should at least be allowed to keep it for a little while."

He rises, tossing the now cool and blood-soaked towel into the bathroom; returning to the bed, he pulls the dagger from its hidden sheath and uses it's sharp point to start a tear through the fabric of Jacques' ruined jeans and boxers, adding the scraps to the pile of laundry in the bathroom. The shirt is next, covered in Aggie's bloody handprints; he rips that one by the seams, entertaining for a moment the romantic idea of a smitten young Frenchman desiring a token to remember him by. That he discards in the waste basket next to the bed--in easy reach, just in case.

There's a spare blanket in the closet. He can't do anything about the blood-soaked coverlet and sheets--and probably mattress, at this point--underneath him, but at least he doesn't need to freeze to death. Aggie tucks him in under the blanket, covering as much of the man as he can given his posture; and for a moment, then, he hesitates.

Dawn is so close. It wouldn't be so hard to lie down here; to curl against this warm body, which has grown so familiar in these past two hours, and allow himself to keep it for just a little while longer. But the Compulsion is fading along with the ache in his arse, and the hoarse soreness in his throat, and the idle fancy is just that. He is older, and wiser, than Jacques is or will likely ever be.

He knows better than to lay down with a monster.

[tastethebuscuit]

Lakeshore Drive condominium complex. Mies Van Der Rohe, Chicago, IL

[pecksbadboy]

Because of COVID-19, I was unemployed for over two years and was unable to pay the mortgage on my condominium and needed to sell it and move out. I did not make a single cent on the sale and alas, I had no place to go so I put what could fit into two Public Storage lockers on Jarvis.

At the time I was at the end of collecting my government-funded unemployment benefits so I could afford to pay the monthly rent, but alas, those benefits have run out and I am not bringing in any money.

I am still trying the best I can to secure a job but have been very unsuccessful and am two months behind in paying rent on the two storage lockers. I found out today that I have until the 25th of this month (basically one week) to pay the balance, or my lockers will go up for auction and I just cannot have that!

So, I am reaching out to you all to see if you can help me raise the much-needed money to save my belongings. I was rather saddened by the move and having to lose things that were not necessities but had more sentimental value. But, if I lose these two lockers and they go up for auction, I will lose a big chunk of my life here in Chicago — at least twenty-plus years of it.

All of my clothes are packed away in those lockers, and I really don’t want to lose my clothing. I have a very limited wardrobe now packed in one suitcase but really need to have my wardrobe back as well as other belongings — could you please help?

DONATE HERE: https://gofund.me/cdd053b1

[emaadsidiki]

Architectural Symphonies ���️

[collageclipping]

I created this collage based around a couple of Chicago's icons, the Marina City (1963) condominiums designed by Bertrand Goldberg and Edward Hopper's Nighthawks (1942) which is located at the Chicago Art Institute. The fun circles, patterns, and reduced green and gold color palette bring the piece together.

[omarhussainchicago]

Why South Florida Top Destination for Second Homes

South Florida’s real estate market has become a significant player in the national real estate landscape, known for its diverse offerings, luxury properties, and high demand for homes that accommodate a wide range of buyers. The market is evolving rapidly, and many new trends have surfaced that are worth exploring.

One major trend has been the rise in the demand for luxury properties. According to Omar Hussain Chicago, “South Florida’s real estate market continues to attract luxury buyers who are looking for unique, high-end homes that provide both exclusivity and access to all the amenities that the region offers.” The region’s growing reputation as a haven for luxury real estate has been fueled by an influx of international buyers and those seeking tax benefits.

The market dynamics are heavily influenced by both domestic and international buyers. Over the past decade, the influx of foreign capital has significantly shaped the market. As Omar Hussain points out, “The appeal of South Florida to international buyers cannot be overstated. The mixture of lifestyle and investment potential keeps foreign interest strong year-round.” This steady demand helps bolster the region’s property values, particularly in high-end neighborhoods.

Another critical factor driving South Florida’s market is its growing appeal as a second-home destination. Buyers from colder climates and high-tax states are flocking to South Florida, looking for homes that offer both a vacation lifestyle and a strategic financial investment. “South Florida has always been known for its second-home market, but now we’re seeing a shift where these homes are becoming primary residences for many,” says Omar Hussain.

In the luxury sector, eco-friendly homes are becoming an essential trend. Buyers are increasingly interested in properties that provide sustainability features alongside luxury elements. Developers are now incorporating more green energy sources, smart home technology, and environmentally friendly construction materials to cater to this growing demand.

At the same time, South Florida’s urban centers, like Miami, have been experiencing a boom in the condo market. Miami’s urban core is evolving, and the real estate boom has transformed neighborhoods with high-end developments. Downtown Miami, Brickell, and Edgewater have emerged as top markets for investors and end-users alike. This trend is driven by a combination of job growth, a desire for walkable neighborhoods, and the availability of luxury amenities.

Waterfront properties are at the core of what makes South Florida real estate so attractive. Whether it’s a beachfront mansion or a high-rise condominium with water views, these homes remain among the most desirable properties in the region. Omar Hussain explains, “Waterfront properties, particularly in areas like Miami Beach, are a pinnacle of the luxury market. Buyers are willing to pay a premium for the combination of privacy, luxury, and access to water.”

Another trend impacting the market is the rise of remote work. As more people embrace flexible work arrangements, they are looking for homes that offer office spaces, large outdoor areas, and access to leisure activities like boating and golfing. South Florida’s properties are well-suited to these needs, making the region a top choice for relocating professionals and entrepreneurs.

In conclusion, the South Florida real estate market continues to grow and evolve, driven by a unique combination of factors that make it one of the most dynamic markets in the country. With luxury properties at the forefront, eco-friendly homes on the rise, and continued interest from both domestic and international buyers, the future looks bright. Omar Hussain sums it up perfectly: “South Florida will always be a top destination for real estate investment, whether for personal use or financial growth. The combination of lifestyle and market strength is unbeatable.”

Originally Posted: https://omarhussainchicago.com/why-south-florida-top-destination-for-second-homes/