#getting flagged for moisturizer is crazy work

[apollos-olives]

my brother is the dumbest fucking person in the world. we're passing through airport security and my brother's bag gets flagged. the security guy opens up the bag and pulls out a ginormous fucking tub of moisturizer. A TUB. AS BIG AS MY FACE. OF MOISTURIZER. istg this kid man

[satinsummer]

Chapter 2: Movie Night

Summary: It's been over a week since the group has last seen Y/N or Y/BF/N. After the Friday night soccer game gets cancelled due to the thunder storm, they decided to plan a movie night where one thing leads to another

Pairings: G!P Reader x Fem!Sam Carpenter, Fem!Y/BF/N x Tara Carpenter

Chapter 3: https://www.tumblr.com/satinsummer/761170724084973568/chapter-3-the-morning-after?source=share

Warnings: Suggestive language, Drug Use (smoking weed), Fluff 18+ No men or minors pls and thanks!

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Nobody's POV:

"Why don't we invite everyone over for a movie night and sleepover?" Y/BF/N suggests to the small girl laying on her chest. Tara looks up at her, eyes lighting up immediately "Really!? You know the rest of them have been dying to see where you keep me tied every chance you get" Y/BF/N is now hacking up a lung at her girlfriends bold statement barely getting out a "just invite them" before running to the bathroom to collect herself.

While Y/N was finishing up an article about Blackmore's Women's Flag Football Team comeback. She hears Y/BF/N rushing into their shared bathroom sounding like she was dying. Rushing from her desk and out of her room into the hallway she follows the sound of Y/BF/N crazy ass coughing which luckily subsides as Y/N enter the bathroom. "Bitch are you good?" Y/N asks laughing at the poor girl. "Yeah, Tara was just being Tara" Y/BF/N says, cheeks slightly tinted rose. "EWWWWWW" Y/N teases back, before making her way out of the bathroom. "Hey, Wait up! I told Tara she could invite the girls over for a movie night and sleepover. You in?" Y/BF/N asks. "Double date or is chad going to be keeping me company again bec-" "Chad won't be here, she said GIRLS Y/N" Tara interrupts, now joining both girls in the hallway. "Fine. Can you at least invite Sam? Only so she doesn't think this is another plot to go party. She nearly killed me last weekend" Y/N says whining

Tara and Y/BF/N share a knowing look between them after hearing Y/N complaint understanding there was more to her reasoning but not further pressing the topic. They simply agree and send a group text to which everybody eagerly replies to even, Sam. "Do you want me to send a car for them or should we go pick them up? it's way too rainy outside for walking or trains" Y/N says while staring out of the window watching raindrops chasce each other down the glass. "Sending a car? Since when are you so chivalrous Y/N" Tara teases glancing over at the girl on the other side of the room. "Oh, shove it up yours pipsqueak. Y/BF/N send them both cars unless they are all together then obviously just send one" Y/N says calmly after a moment passes, still staring out of the window. "I'll make sure the guest rooms are re-" "GUEST ROOMS?!?!?! HOW FUCKING BIG IS THIS PLACE" Tara yells, as she's about to start taking off down the hallway she's scooped up by Y/BF/N "I will give you the official tour when everyone gets here, baby" Y/BF/N says. "Fine" Tara huffs, stomping back over to the couch.

Y/N excuses herself to go finish editing the article she was working on and afterwards she heads to the bathroom for a scorching hot shower. Once all is said and done in the bathroom Y/N is making her back to her bedroom when she catches a glimpse of Samantha Carpenter walking past the entrance to the hallway and into the living room with Mindy and Anika close behind. Damn, had she showered that long?

Entering her room, Y/N made sure to lock the door as she started to moisturize and get dressed. She didn't want anybody walking in on her whether they were thinking it was the bathroom or it was on Y/BF/N promised tour of your shared loft. Just as Y/N finished getting dressed a soft knock on her door broke her out of her thoughts about tonight and how seeing Sam made her heart race even though she didn't even see her in the hallway. Opening the door Y/N is greeted by 3 smiling face and 1 curious looking Sam staring back at her. "Last stop on the tour: Y/N's room. Notice the low lighting and collectibles." Y/BF/N says as they all push past her and enter the room. "Y/N has a very strict policy of look but don't touch in here. Everything is meticulously placed and kept very orderly. In the center of the room we have a bed that barely sees anybody especially her body, might be here for decoration. You never know" Y/BF/N teases.

Sam found herself looking around Y/N's room more than she'd ever admit aloud but it was hard not to, she was finally in the girl who occupied all of her thoughts personal space, she was in her room, looking at her bed, skimming her fingers across the jam-packed bookshelf. Just next to it stood Y/N's desk, right underneath the flat screen TV on the wall. It also faintly smelled of lavender? Very soothing, Sam might have added if she cared.

"So Y/N how many poor girls have you had in here" Mindy asks with a smirk on her lips. "Wouldn't you like to know M&M, a true lady never kisses and tells" Y/N says looking over at her from the doorway. "Don't let her fool you Mindy, no girls have gotten the chance to touch her bed with all that time she spends in the kitchen SHE barely touches the bed" Y/BF/N says through a laugh. "HEY! You can't just barge in here touch my stuff and insult me!" Y/N whines. "Alright and that concludes the tour of our loft, no questions please and thanks. You can give your tips to Y/N."

Y/BF/N says walking back to the living room with Tara in hand, while Mindy and Anika were close behind the two. Sam still lingered by Y/N's desk, just looking at the papers scatted about, the sticky notes stuck to her monitor screen reminding her of different tasks she still had to complete.

"What do you think? About my room, of course.. does it really scream chick magnet?" Y/N jokes with Sam. After a moment of silence Sam replies "Definitely, Not" as she exits the room to join the others. Y/N stands there only able to chuckle before turning off her light and heading to the living room as well.

After sitting down on the loveseat across from the couch, Y/N took her hoodie off and almost immediately she felt all eyes on her. "DAMN Y/N/N, when you get so cut?" Anika laughs while Mindy feigns fanning herself off as if it was just too hot to handle. "Did you get a new one?!?" Y/BF/N exclaims as she comes over to examine Y/N arm. Sam hadn't seen her bare arms during any of their other interactions and encounters but now she could fully take the younger girl in without the extra coverage on her body. Tattoos covered both her arms, she has a full sleeve on her left arm stopping ever so slightly where her wrist and hand connect while on her right arm it looks like it stretches from her shoulder down to her elbow.

Sam wonders how long each of them took, she wonders what stories are behind them, she found her self wanting to trace them. "Not on my arm" Y/N replies to Y/BF/N "I did get one on my back, it just finished healing. Wanna See?" Eyes lighting up as she finishes her sentence. Before anybody has a chance to agree, Y/N is standing up and pulling her shirt over her head just enough to keep her front covered while exposing her entire back and shoulders.

Truthfully, Sam thought she had died and gone to heaven, Y/N's back was beautifully sculpted, toned in all the right places just waiting to be lic- "That shit is SICK! Is this the cybersigil piece you designed last year?" Y/BF/N asks reaching out to trace the line of the tattoo covering Y/N's back. "Yeah, With a bit of revision and 12hrs of free time on a random Monday night here she is" Y/N responds softly.

"Are we going to start the movie or keep lying about how hot Y/N is" Sam says "No lies are being told, Sammy" Y/N says smirking at the older girl. "The sooner you admit you like my room, and my tattoo(s) the sooner I'll let you taste me" Y/N adds after pulling her shirt back and on. Sam goes completely red in the face, this is the second time Y/N's boldness had left her SPEECHLESS. Instead of responding she just rolls her eyes and picks her phone back up to distract her from burning holes into Y/N's back. Sam wanted to see the tattoo covering the expanse of the girls back again, maybe inside Y/N's room..in her bed...

As all the girls got settled to watch some random movie Tara picked out without anybody else agreeing but disagreeing meant having to find and pick another movie and none of them really had the energy for that right now. "Has everybody eaten? If not I have some thai chicken satay prepped. Could turn them into rice bowls or serve with some more Thai apps if I've got the ingredie-" Y/N rattles off and is walking towards the kitchen before hearing "BOWLS PLEASE" from Tara and Y/BF/N ."Want us to pause the movie?" Y/BF/N asks now joining you in the kitchen. "No, go ahead. I'm gonna get this started and this maybe go down/out for a smoke. I'll make sure to change and wash up a bit after. I don't to trigger T-bones asthma" Y/N states while chopping the veggies, looking over ever so slightly to check the heat on her cast-iron. Burning food is unacceptable to her and everything must come out fully cooked and on time. She's kinda anal about these types of things.

Y/BF/N made her way back to the living room and rejoined the others while the scent of Y/N's cooking began filling the loft. "What are we watching, my love?" Y/BF/N asks Tara "The Babysitter:Killer Queen" She responds never talking her eyes off of the screen but moving closer to Y/BF/N to be held. Soon after Y/N reenters the living room with a serving tray filled with 4 bowls all neatly packed, with chicken rice and veggies, it smells just as good as it looks. She works her way around kindly serving everyone a bowl, noting all of their specific tastes and personal preferences she had learned throughout the entire year she had been friends with girls. "Sorry Sam, I didn't know what you liked, so I opted to put everything on the side and you put in whatever you'd like. There is a peanut sauce served on the side for dipping or drenching. Enjoy" Y/N states and makes her way back into the kitchen to finish cleaning and she goes out up the rooftop for a well deserved joint.

When Y/N finished on the rooftop she just stood there for a bit, taking in the night air, noting how it smelled of heavy rain that promised to engulf the city once again. Making her way back down to the loft, she quietly slipped back inside and started her journey to the bathroom. As she passes the living room, Y/N noticed Anika and Mindy are now gone, probably in the guest room making babydolls while Tara, Sam and Y/BF/N are on their second movie of the night. After freshening up and changing Y/N went back into the kitchen to complete the rest of the dishes , chopped a bit of fruit to eat. Walking back to the living room fruit and water in hand, she takes a seat next to Sam on the couch, offering her some fruit to which she politely declines until Y/N is holding a strawberry up to her lips, eyes on boring into Sam's. "Open" Y/N says and Sam does just that, taking the strawberry between her lips all the while staring Y/N in her eyes. "Good?" Y/N whispers never breaking eye contact with the girl sitting beside her. Sam says nothing and just turns her back to face the TV.

Once the movie was over Tara and Y/BF/N made their way back to Y/BF/N's room, after mumbling a quick "goodnight, love you" to Y/N from Y/BF/N and one from Tara to Sam. The two girls left on the couch sat in a comfortable silence watching the previews for other movies related to the one they had just finished, shortly afterwards Sam got up taking the bowl from Y/N and made her way back to the kitchen putting the bowl in the fridge and making her way back to a stunned Y/N. Sam was walking around like she owned the place and Y/N kinda found it hot.

Before Y/N could process anything else Sam's voice cut through the silence "You're staring again Y/N" She says with a small smile. "I-Y-you're so pretty Sam" Y/N says looking directly into her eyes, then down at her lips and then she slowly makes her way back up to Sam's eyes who now looks ready for Y/N choose to give her. Y/N can't help but to reach out and tuck a loose strand of hair behind Sam's ear, rubbing her thumb softly over her ear and down her jaw. It feels like her entire body responds to not only the compliment but the touch has her on fire.

"Sleep in my room with me" Y/N whispers and Sam can't do anything but nod, allowing the younger girl to lead her down the hall and into her room. Once in the confines of Y/N's room Sam took her hoodie off and climbed into Y/N's bed with ease, it almost felt like she was supposed to be there. Slipping into bed next to her Y/N softly smiled and reassured Sam "I don't want to do anything and I'm sorry if my abrupt request made you uncomfortable. I jus-" "You didn't make me uncomfortable" Sam gently interrupts the younger girls slight rant. "Okay, good..Um goodnight?" Y/N says, turning off the bedside lamps. Afterwards both the girls laid there in complete darkness, listening to the rain that began falling outside as the storm took over the never sleeping city.

They found themselves moving closer to each other until Y/N reached out and pulled Sam into her body. Now with Sam's back pressed against her front, face buried in chocolate tresses she felt like the world had finally settled down. "Goodnight, Y/N" Sam whispered after turning around in Y/N's arms to face her in the dark. Their faces were inches apart and suddenly Sam was leaning in brushing her nose against Y/N's who took that as her greenlight and she kissed Sam so softly almost thought she might break. The kiss got a bit heated between them and eventually Sam was on top on Y/N, kissing her HARD and letting her hands roam down her down her body feeling the swell of her breasts beneath her fingertips, faintly running down her abs underneath her shirt.

Suddenly Sam was flipped on her back and Y/N was above her pressing into her, almost embedding her body into Sam. As Y/N pulled away from her lips, she began kissing down sam's neck and slowly rocking her hips. They both moaned, each one almost too sinful for the other and that's when Sam knew she had to slow this down but it just felt so good. Here she was in her younger sisters girlfriends best friends room underneath her halfway to the point of no return. She felt Y/N's bulge through her sweats pressing into her while they continued to move against one another and as she moaned Y/N slipped her tongue into the kiss and lord Sam's control was slipping.

"O-o-Okay, we have to stop Y/N" Sam pants as the girl pulls away and starts working back down her neck. She pulls back immediately after hearing what the girl below her said "I'm sorry, I-" "Stop saying sorry, I just want to slow this down with you. That's all" Sam says shyly. "Of course, Let me just.." Y/N trails off as she moves from over top of Sam and shuffles out of the room and into the bathroom.

By the time she comes back Sam is half asleep and now wearing one of Y/N's shirts having taken off her own tank-top after the girl rushed off. "You okay?" Sam asks. "Yeah, just cant sleep with a stiffy, so i took a cold shower" Y/N grunts while settling back into bed beside Sam. Pulling the other girl over to her once again, Y/N buries her face back into Sam's hair. Arms wrapping protectively around her and intertwining their legs both girls fall into one of the most comfortable sleeps either of them have experienced in a long time.

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AN: how do ya'll like chapter 2? took me a bit but here she is!

still trying to come up with an actual name for this fic :(

Lmk what yall think!!

[impala-dreamer]

Hell To Pay

A Story from The Walking Dead Universe

~It's hard to control your jealousy, especially when he's half drunk on beer and Lori...~

Shane Walsh x F!Reader, Rick and Lori Grimes

2,950 Words

Warnings: NSFW, Rough Sex, Choking, Slapping, Forced Deep Throat, Bruising, Spanking, Biting, Really just rough sex. 

A/N: written for @because-imma-lady-assface ;)

Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist  ~  Patreon  ~ Published Works

The night was hotter than hell and more humid than the Amazon. Even inside the air-conditioned bar, they were suffering from the Georgian summer. The guys wiped their foreheads with handkerchiefs that hung like colorful flags from their back pockets, and the girls glistened like strippers on the pole.

Y/N couldn't help but notice how much Lori was glowing, nor how invested Shane seemed to be in watching the sweat drip down her tiny, delicate throat. He was near to staring, practically drooling as the moisture beaded on her decolletage and slid between her cleavage. Her green tank top was thin and silken, leaving little to the imagination, especially when damp.

For a moment, Y/N hated her. Sure, they were close, but seeing her boyfriend transfixed by Lori's big eyes and milky skin drove Y/N just a little bit crazy. The way Lori seemed to throw an extra smile his way now and then made her want to scream.

Feeling neglected and wronged, Y/N slumped down in her chair, issuing a heavy sigh that was lost to the noisy bar.

Rick noticed her sullen attitude and bent his lips her way. “Not havin’ any fun tonight?”

His whisper was discreet and not at all dangerous. He was sweet and loyal; nothing like Shane.

“Depends on what you mean by fun,” she replied, eyes stuck on Shane who was stuck on Lori.

Rick followed her gaze and laughed under his breath. “Ah, don't read too much into it. They're just relaxin’.”

“Relaxin’ their morals maybe,” she snapped back.

Beer in hand, Rick sat back and crossed his arms. He tapped the brown bottle with his wedding ring as he observed the flirting duo across the table. Shane was gradually moving closer to Lori and her cheeks blushed brighter by the second.

Y/N cocked a brow and snatched her beer from the table. “Ya see? Flirting right in front of us like we ain't even here.”

He nodded but was far from concerned. “Trust me,” he whispered with a laugh, “Those two? Would never happen.”

Y/N frowned and shook her head. “I still don't like it.”

Finally noticing the daggers being forced into his neck, Shane looked over at Y/N and narrowed his eyes at her.

“What’s wrong with you?”

Y/N sucked her teeth. “Nothin’.”

His jaw twitched. His eyes darkened, annoyed by her attitude. Staring, he tipped his bottle back and drained the rest of his beer.

A fight was brewing between them like a thunderstorm storm. It prickled like sparks of electricity on the backs of their necks and Y/N knew that later there would be hell to pay.

Shane slammed the apartment door behind him and the little brass chain clinked violently against the wood.

Already through the door and into the living area, Y/N tossed her purse onto the worn old brown sofa and huffed loudly.

“What the hell’s with the attitude tonight?” he asked, practically spitting fire across the room.

Y/N clicked her tongue and crossed her arms, refusing to turn to face him. “I guess you wouldn’t know, would you? Had your head so far up Lori’s snatch you couldn’t hardly breathe.”

A sharp intake of breath. “Excuse me?”

Y/N could practically feel the room getting warmer as his blood pressure rose.

“You heard me,” she snapped, finally turning around. Her heels spun on the dull hardwood floor; her hair fell across her shoulders like a veil. Her lips were pink and puckered; painted eyes seething with annoyance and invitation. “Could barely keep your eyes off her. I’m surprised Rick didn’t drag you outside and kick your ass.”

Shane took in a breath that made his entire form grow. His shoulders rose and his chest expanded. His muscles flooded with oxygen and anger. “Rick’s my friend,” he said slowly, tilting his head to meet her daring gaze. “And Lori…” He took a step with each word, punctuating them all like a strike of a gavel. “... Is his wife. You think I’d cross that line?”

Y/N’s mouth fell into a tight line. She shifted on her feet and popped a hip towards him. “Dunno,” she hissed, “didn’t look like you cared too much about marriage vows tonight.”

She cocked a brow and Shane stopped in his tracks. He stood up straight, towering over her like a mountain. He laughed and scrubbed a hand down over the heavy stubble on his cheek.

“What’s so funny?”

Dark eyes dug into her and she shivered. “You’re talkin’ all kinds of crazy right now, Y/N/N.” He huffed out a last laugh and turned, done with her.

Y/N knew she should let it go and keep her mouth shut, but something pushed her to keep going. Something dark and needy inside egged her on, shoving her forward. She clicked her tongue loudly.

“You sure love starin’ at her tits is all I’m sayin’.”

She could almost see the rage snap inside of him. The thin bubble of restraint that kept him in check burst as he looked back over his shoulder. His eyes narrowed and he pushed his tongue between his teeth, wetting his lips.

“Oh.” He turned fully. “You’re jealous.” He took a step.

Y/N swallowed hard. Her face flushed and her limbs twitched at his display of power.

“I’m not jealous,” she fought; a bratty undertone sneaking into her words. “Why would I be jealous of that tramp?”

Shane lifted his chin and stared down at her as he advanced. One step at a time, one breath away from breaking. “You are. You are so fucking jealous.” He came close, an arm’s length away.

“No.”

“You are.” He divided the space between them. “You’re just a needy slut. Wanting all my attention on you.”

Y/N shivered. Her nipples stiffened. She dared to negate him again.

“No.”

He reached across, hand flying to her throat before she could react. He moved like lightning across the distance, closing his thick, calloused fingers around her windpipe. He pressed down enough to make her gasp.

“Don’t fuckin’ tell me ‘no’ again. I know what you want. I always know, don’t I?”

Eyes wide and jaw slack, she stared up at him. His fingers were burning on her skin; her arousal was ringing in her ears.

“Don’t I?” he asked again, pushing forward a step.

Y/N blinked wildly up at him, unable to draw a breath.

Shane’s upper lip twitched as he sneered. “Say it. I always know.”

“You… you always know.” Her eyes fluttered back as he released her throat and grabbed hold of her shoulders.

She hit the wall with a dull thud and the newly found air left her lungs.

“Damn right, I do,” he said, laying himself over her, crushing her body into the wall.

She was pinned between two solid masses, unable to do more than moan and reach for him with searching lips and rolling hips.

He sucked a kiss from her; forced his tongue through her lips. She tried to move, to touch him, but he caught her right hand in his left and slammed it against the plaster. She tried again, but her left hand met the same fate. Both hands clasped in his, Shane held them above her head against the wall. With his free hand, he groped his way down her body, cupping her tits hard and digging his blunt nails into her sides. When she moaned, he silenced her with his biting kiss. When she squirmed, he pushed his body harder against her.

“This what you wanted?” he growled, lips on her ear, fingers sneaking into the band of her tight denim shorts. He brushed the top of her pussy and a cry gurgled in the back of her throat.

She nodded fast. “Yeah.”

He pushed away enough to pop the button and tug her zipper down. All of the pressure was on her wrists as he held himself up against the wall. She could all but feel the bruises that would appear in the morning. She grinned.

“What’re you smilin’ at?” He spat, yanking the fabric down her thighs. “You think you’re gonna get somethin’ good now?”

Again, she nodded. “Yeah.”

Shane set his face in a hard stare, lips parted, lashes practically scraping the tops of his cheeks. He bared his teeth. “You ain’t getting shit.” He shoved his right hand into her panties and grabbed her flesh. “This ain’t for you. This is for me.” He dug a finger between her lips and swiped it up across her clit. “This is so your hole is wet and ready for me to fuck.”

His words went right through her, right to the core of her being. She felt her pulse drop to her cunt and quicken with every stroke of his finger. She arched her back off of the wall and tried to push down on his hand, force him inside, but Shane pulled away as soon as her plan was clear.

“Please…” she whined pitifully once he was gone.

Shane clenched his jaw and struck her face with a clipped slap. He leaned in close, pressing his nose against hers.

“You don’t get to beg.” He grabbed her face, pinching her cheeks between his thumb and middle fingers. Her lips puckered. “You don’t get to ask for anything.” The tip of his index finger, the one coated in her slick, nudged at her mouth. “You don’t get anything I don’t give you.” He jabbed the digit between her lips and she began to suck automatically, licking her own taste from his finger.

She worked in earnest, something inside of her taking over and blanking out her everyday thoughts as she sucked.

Shane approved, loving the way her eyes rolled back and she hummed hungrily as she sucked. Still, he never let the mask drop.

“That’s good,” he whispered. “But you need to do better.”

A line of spit followed his finger as he pulled it from her lips. She stared at him with lust-blown eyes and sighed as he let go of her wrists. Relief was brief, however, and he pushed a hand through her hair, tugging hard. She moved where he wanted her, pulling her body off of the wall and directing her to hit the floor.

Her knees would be as bruised as her wrists, but it didn’t matter. She sat back on her heels and opened her mouth, waiting patiently as he opened his belt.

A smirk broke across his face. “Now that’s a pretty sight. My girl on her knees just waitin’ for my fat cock.”

Drool spilled onto her chin. Wetness dripped into her panties.

He dropped his jeans, letting them catch on the top of his boots. Two strokes and he was fully hard. He pinched the base and took a step closer. He wiped her lips with the tip of his cock, back and forth, teasing her. She whimpered. He laughed under his breath, dark and amused.

“Go on,” he ordered, “suck.”

Y/N rocked forward and took him into her mouth. She lifted her tongue to massage his velvety skin and let the saliva collect around him. She took a breath, pulling with her mouth, and he moaned loudly.

“There… yeah.”

His hand found her hair again and Shane gave it a good pull. Sparks of pain webbed across her scalp and she swallowed hard, pulling him in even deeper. She hummed and sealed her lips tight.

“Fuck.”

He bucked his hips and she gagged on him, nearly retching as his thick shaft slid across her tongue like a snake.

“You take my cock so good…”

With his giant hand locked around her head, Shane held her in place and started fucking her throat. She breathed as best she could through her nose, but it was hard to keep up with the pace, hard to do more than drool for him and keep her lips tight. She could feel them puffing up from the force- another memento for the morning.

Tears wet her cheeks, her body began to ache. She tried to speak, but she was stuffed full and only choppy moans and wordless mumbles found their way out.

Shane popped his hips again and pushed her head to his stomach, burying his cock in deeper than he usually dared. She swatted at his thighs and pushed.

He counted to three, slowly, before letting her go.

Y/N fell forward, palms slapping the floor as she regained her breath. “Fuck!”

He was standing over her, watching her struggle while he stroked himself with a tight fist.

“You happy now that you got all my attention on you?” he teased harshly. There was true darkness behind his joke and Y/N could feel it in the air around him.

She couldn’t speak, didn’t move to answer.

Another tug on her hair and she was on her feet and higher, standing on her tiptoes as Shane enjoyed her struggle. She was shaking sligtly like a wispy  dandelion threatened by a child’s breath, and he let go, allowing her to stand flat on the floor.

“Hey, baby,” he cooed, leaning in to lick at her swollen lips, “I’m just giving you what you asked for.” He yanked at her hair, pulling her head back and exposing her throat. “What you need.” His teeth grazed over her pulse. Such thin, delicate skin; so many helpless veins just asking to be ripped open. It was all he could do sometimes to hold himself back, to refrain from letting his inner demon loose and causing real damage. He’d never hurt her, not really, not when she gave herself as offering as she did now- allowing him to hit and scrape and use her gorgeous body until he was sated, until the demon rested again. In the end, it was just a game, just a way to feel alive while toying with the idea of death.

Shane bit down hard on her collarbone and Y/N let out a yell.

His teeth dented her skin. Her legs went weak.

“Please…” Her breath was shallow, her voice faded. She cupped her hand at the nape of his neck and tried to entice him, to draw him in.

He needed no invitation or urging.

Shane grabbed her opposite upper arm and swung her around. She would have tripped if not for his arm curling suddenly around her waist from behind.

“Do it,” she begged in a whisper, spreading her legs for him.

He pressed hard between her shoulderblades, forcing her to bend over. Her palms slapped against the wall, her cheek rested in the middle.

Shane kept one hand flat on her belly, holding her steady while the other guided his cock between her folds. He dipped inside slowly and teasingly withdrew, again and again until she moaned like a starving animal.

When he finally pushed all the way, her entire body reacted. Her jaw dropped, her eyes rolled, her cunt throbbed. He could feel how desperate she was, how ready her body was to receive him.

His palm cracked against her left ass cheek.

“You think Lori gets this?” he grit, digging his nails into the soft globe beneath his hand.

Another smack and she trembled.

“You think I sneak off to fuck her while Rick’s not lookin’?”

He jerked his hips hard, almost matching the force of his hand as he lit up the other cheek.

Y/N melted into every sensation as he left his marks on her body. She bit back a scream as he pushed her towards the edge; her orgasm rushing at her like a freight train.

“Do you?” he demanded.

Both hands clawed at her hips, drawing her back to meet every thrust.

“N-no!”

He grinned and swirled his hips. “That’s right. She don’t get shit.” Reaching up and under, he grabbed her breast and squeezed hard. She held her breath, feeling the pressure blossom deep in her cunt. “This is the only pussy I use. Ain’t that right?”

“Yes…”

“I can’t hear you,” he growled.

Y/N took a breath. “Yes!”

He curled himself over her back and grabbed her tits in both hands.

“Whose pussy do I use?”

Her cunt pulsed on his cock. “Mine! You use my pussy! All yours!”

“Fuckin’ right it is.”

Satisfied, Shane stood back up and set his hands on her hips. The pace quickened as his cock swelled.

Y/N’s entire body tightened, every muscle tensed like the gears of a watch ready to spring free. She pushed back at him, wanting to come, wanting him to fill her up.

He knew what she wanted, knew she was close. He could hear it in the quick pant of her breath, feel it in the heat of her cunt as it squeezed him tight.

He pulled out.

She let out a pained cry.

“You ain’t getting my shit tonight,” he laughed, lifting the back of her shirt up high. He stroked himself fast. “You don’t deserve it.”

She flinched when she felt his hot cum strike the small of her back. He groaned loudly and rocked up on his heels as he came, emptying out every last bit. It slid like hot syrup down into the crack of her ass, teasing her stunted pleasure with each drop that fell.

At least he helped her up.

At least he kissed her punch-drunk lips and carried her to bed.

At least he pulled the blanket up and shut the lamp off.

At least he said goodnight before rolling over.

At least she got what she wanted.

Every bit of his attention. 

[squipedmew]

well, since the Dream SMP has officially come to a close, I thought I’d share what I’ve been up to for the past 2 years - making character designs for every single one of the characters!

 I really wanted every character to look distinct, with really distinct color pallets, unique weapons for each and every character - basically like each one of them could be the protagonist of a wildly different story from one another. Feel free to steal them (with credit) if you want!

I kinda dropped off working on it in late 2022, so I think I missed a few characters, as well as going back and re-doing some of the oldest ones (that’s why some of them are more detailed - those are the 2023 versions)

As strange as it is for me to say this, DSMP had such a big impact on me, especially over COVID. I haven’t had a piece of media fill me with such a passion to create art and improve probably since Undertale all the way back in 2015, if you can believe it. I owe a lot of my art improvement to this silly little Minecraft series, and though I may have lost touch with it near the end, it will always hold a special place in my heart. 

o7 you crazy, wacky, depressing, stupid, unsatisfying, joyful, hilarious, and amazing series. I wish everyone involved in it the best!

(A few extra designs under the cut!)

This is a 2020 Pogtopia Wilbur I made, and if I were to draw it now, I probably wouldn’t change a thing. This design fucking slaps imo, I’m still super proud of it. 

Exile Era Tommy. Wilbur’s old Pogtopia coat has been passed around so many times between so many different interpretations of characters, so I thought it made more sense for Tommy to take the L’Manberg era coat from Wilbur, since that was the version of him he idolized (This is an old version of Wilbur’s coat btw)

Post Dream-Getting-Sent-To-Prison Tommy! I wanted to emphasize how Tommy was trying to move past his trauma, so he shaved off the grey streak he got from the Withers in the L’Manberg explosions (I gave him the grey streaks before Revival canonized it - don’t ask me why)

Las Nevadas Quackity. It’s basically a 1 to 1 for his skin, save for the really ugly blue patches and hoodie I gave him. If I were to do it again, I would def change that. 

Snowchester Tubbo. Also still holds up, though I’m not 100% on the pants. This was kinda before goat Tubbo got super canonized, so I just decided to have the eyes. The scars are from the execution. 

Revivbur. He looks pretty good for a dead bitch - though I messed up the L’Manberg flag colors on the bandanna on his ankle. Guess he’s french now. 

Team Rocket era Niki! She took custody of Wilbur’s Pogtopia coat, albiet cutting off the parts that were covered in blood and soot (which was most of it) I also made her a fire-born like Sapnap, though you can’t see from his design - her hair is on fire when she feels strong emotions, and she’s basically going through it 24/7 during this part. 

Syndicate Niki! She’s calmed down and is no longer on fire, but her hair is still pink from all those weeks of constant rage and sadness. Also dressed more appropriately for the snow. 

Dream Post Prison. Mask no longer has invisibility enchantments, so he doesn’t bother hiding his face. Gotta wonder how it’s staying on though. Get this man some moisturizer. 

[uchihakeimei]

Helloooo, hope it's ok if I reply here! Also I forgot to apologize in advance for my terrible English, hope it's understandable!

What a relief to find someone who actually understands Kaiser! He's one of my absolute favs together with Rin and Isagi, but I never really spoke much about him since I noticed the fandom has a bad habit of misinterpreting him. AND Kaisagi in general. No, Isagi is not his soft-uwu toyboy, he's a badass, a menace and if anything, it's him that would put Kaiser in his place. And yes, they totally hate each other. Like, super hate. And that borderlines on obsession from Kaiser's part. (Ngl, that's my favorite part in all Isagi's ships, how he's unbothered, moisturized, living his best life, and the counterpart is decaying in their obsession in beating him. God, he's such an icon.) Their mutual disdain is what makes the ship so balanced, and also the reason why I dislike Kainess, I don't really appreciate the power imbalance and how submissive Ness acts around him. He deserves better than that. Oh, how I would love to see him leave Kaiser in the dirt to fight alone: that would be such a great character development for both of them. Ofc I'm not judging anyone who ships Kainess, it's a perfectly valid ship! I just love both Kiis and Rnis cause they check all of the boxes of the chemicals in my brain. And when the Kaiser flashbacks drops? I'm gonna go absolutely crazy. I need to be the worm in his brain and understand him in a much deeper way than Kaneshiro ever could.

(Also, I love your headcanon about their alternative jobs. I tried to come up with something for Rin too, and I concluded that he definitely could only ever work in front of a computer, where he would never have to interact with people - and traumatize them with his weird bullshit, lmao). (Oh, and Kaiser would be an even worse boyfriend than Rin, let's be real. One small argument and he's dumping your ass to ""find himself"" like any mediocre fuckboy).

Yes, despite my BLLK obsession I'm keeping up with other mangas! I've been reading One Piece since I was a child, but lately I got invested in Chainsaw man, Choujin X, Kagurabachi, Bungou stray dogs and My hero academia, too. What about you??

Of course, it's totally okay!!

And hello fellow Kaiser fan, great to meetcha!!

And yes. A lot of people mischaracterise Kaiser- either as an Isagi simp (most common in fanfictions) or a complete asshole with no depth.

KaiSagi characterisation tends to be even worse (which, this is NOT me criticising authors at all, people are entitled to write what they enjoy!), but either Kaiser or Isagi gets reduced to a desperate simp trying to get into each other's pants (mostly I have seen this with Kaiser, actually) and that's not very likely.

The charm of KaiSagi is their mutual hate, and the ways they overcome that!

And yes. You hit the nail right on the head! Such unbalanced ships, like KaiNess (SasuSaku or NaruHina from Naruto) are the one kind of ships I can never get behind. Whether it's love or hate, it needs to be mutual for me to enjoy it. Power unbalance is not my thing but different strokes for different folks and all that

And yes, Kaiser currently obsessed with destroying Isagi while all Isagi wants to be is no 1 is a delicious flavour and Kaneshiro is cooking

I need an explanation. Of everything regarding Kaiser. That flashback needs to be longest flashback in the manga. I want a biography I can write a thesis on.

(True!! He definitely isn't a people person. He will most likely be doing a job that requires minimum human contact lol)

(And yeah, Kaiser is such red flag, we'd need rose colored glasses to date him 😝)

Hehe. Fellow CSM fan!! My fav is Denji, and I am eagerly awaiting Season 2!

And although I haven't seen the rest of them, I have they are very good anime as well!

My absolute favourite would be Naruto, as I have been in that fandom for years as well. Apart from that, I am currently keeping up with Solo Leveling and Windbreaker!

(Although listing all the animes I have watched will require a separate post, I watch a lot of them!)

Ps: Your English was lovely, no worries!!

[the-magic-lava-lamp]

Caught Up In You

Chapter 3 -  A Very Loki Chapter 

Summary: A story revolving around a group of teenage friends, their mishaps, their relationships and their coming of age.

Watch as they navigate through the highs & lows of high school relationships and learn to grow up as most of them are approaching the end of their Senior year.

Ships: SamBucky, ThorBruce, Stony, ValJane…(More ships & characters to come)

Word Count: 6,497

{Wednesday Night} 

The thick rim of sweat which wrapped around Loki’s ankle was finally given fresh air as he kicked off one of his old sneakers. 

The night was over; Thor had gone to his room with a joyful grin and ice-cream dotting the corner of his mouth and Wanda had been dropped off at home. Which was an event all on it’s own. While waiting in line at the happy little Frosty’s store-front, Wanda’s Mother called and asked her home to see her Grandparents who’d dropped by as a surprise. 

Loki was irritated with the abrupt change of plans and Wanda’s angst about it only fueled him on. But Thor managed to make the little time they had left kinda fun. Paying for their treats and scrolling through the multiple snapchats he had of Loki doing weird shit to compete with Wanda’s captured moments. 

And Loki was never one to shy away from being the center of attention, so he was absolutely delighted.  

But now, his face was overcast with that tiny sheen of moisture which made his makeup heavy. Really hammering it in that he’d gone out & done all he could for the day with nothing left but to do but try and sleep. 

He swiped remover down his face with a cotton pad and revealed in the euphoric sense of relief instead of focusing on the slight disappointment which always came. 

Half his face was clean, one shiny green eye gone while the other still glittered under the flickering bathroom light, when Odin knocked on the bathroom door in his special way. One thump. 

“In here.” He called out, filled with a little teenage venom. 

Odin huffed a bit before speaking. “Can I just pee really quick?” 

Loki turned to scrunch his face at the wooden door, where an eight year old Thor had once proclaimed he saw an image of a turtle between the lines. He rolled his lips together and popped out his leg before reaching out and unlocking the door. “Fine.” 

He’d try to avoid the bickering match by giving him what he wanted & tried to speed past his father before he got a good look at him. But Odin managed a quick peek. “Interesting.” He hummed in that condescending tone that he always argued was just his regular voice. 

Loki frowned and remembering that if he quipped back, fighting would escalate and Odin would just say shit he didn’t understand was offensive. 

But the flickering light and sense of suburban ‘comfort’ was driving him insane all of the sudden. He blinked and spun to grab the door with his special grace. “You like it, father?” He smirked in a way that he’d once seen one Tony Stark do to his father in the school parking lot last year. It’d been an expression which stuck with him. The perfect mixture of innocent and bitchy. That had really bubbled Loki’s old crush on the arrogant guy. 

Odin shifted, either from the fact that he hadn’t pissed yet or the nerves he always got when talking to his younger son. They both pretended that didn’t exist for a few years now. 

“Lovely.” He tried to mutter out without sounding annoyed but he really wasn’t good at that. “Did you go out like..that?” 

Loki smirked slightly, as if that didn’t bother him, and tore his gaze to the stupid framed painting of a bathtub which hung on the wall. “I’m sorry to have embarrassed you.”

“Don’t be snotty with me, Loki. I didn’t mean it like that and you should know that.” Odin shook his head which only served to truly piss his son off further. 

“Oh of course, you’ve been rather happy with my behavior lately. Just admit that you can’t accept it-” 

“Well, I’m not exactly ecstatic, son. I never have understood you." Odin burst, for the first time voicing some kind of confession to the feelings Loki basically already knew of...But it still hurt him. Loki stepped back a little, losing some of his confidence. 

Odin frowned but took the opportunity to shut the bathroom door to escape. 

Loki stared at the door, a little winded and suddenly overwhelmed with bitterness. 

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There was a full length mirror in his bedroom which Loki used to remove the rest of his makeup. It worked out very poorly considering all he had to clean it off with was a dish towel and some water he poured into Thor’s lame childhood baseball team trophy. He’d stolen it a few weeks ago from his older brother's room and he’d yet to notice it’s disappearance, sadly.  

There was a tiny knock on his door which couldn't possibly be Odin, so Loki gave them permission to enter as he scrubbed his left eye. He’d sort of expected his Mother but was greeted with the gentle looking giant called Thor. Of course. 

Loki turned his chin to look at him over his shoulder. “These kinds of moments are a little too ‘sitcom trying to tackle serious subjects’ for me, Thor. So, I’d rather not have a heart-to-heart, ok?” He smirked and turned back to the mirror, watching his brother’s reflection as he sat on his bed. 

Thor rolled his eyes but looked somewhat amused. “I think we’re quite better at the ‘heart-to-heart’s than those dumb shows.” He glanced down at Loki’s reflection and smirked right back. 

“I don’t know about better. But, we are far more entertaining.” Loki chuckled, remembering a few times where their nice talks ended with fun playful punching. “This is between father and I, Thor. You couldn’t possibly get it.” He frowned and finally turned his whole body. “The man thinks the world of you.”

Thor stiffened slightly. 

“Anyone can see you're his favorite.” Loki shook his head with sudden anger. “Hela moved as far as she did because of him. And he can barely stand to look at me. I can see it in the way he looks at me. Complete and utter...embarrassment.” 

“Father has a complicated way of showing his love-”

Loki felt his chest burn with the sudden urge to argue until he couldn’t breathe. “Not with you. Never with you.” He spat and threw his crappy towel onto the carpet. “He has some kind of personal issue against me, brother. Don’t act like it’s not there cause that just...drives me crazy.” His voice grew more tiresome than he would’ve liked and he deflated a bit. 

“He likes to pretend Wanda’s my little girlfriend because he doesn’t like the fact that I’m so obviously attracted to men too! And it’s not even because he’s against the idea of having a queer son-” Loki stumbled on his words because he was barely sure how he identified, himself. “If you were to bring home Banner, he’d be waving the flag! I’d bet my life on it.” 

He stood and started pacing his floor while Thor watched him go. 

“But because I didn’t turn out to be someone who could pass as a straight, manly jock to family and friends, he despises me.” Loki looked up to the ceiling in frustration. 

Thor was stunned to silence, not used to seeing his brother so distraught. Green glitter was still smudged and wet over Loki’s eye and he was doing his best to never make eye contact. “I know it’ll probably frustrate you and mother but...” Loki paused and rolled his lips together “I’m not going to fight for a relationship with him if he won’t even meet me halfway.”

“Brother...” Thor stood from the bed and took the way Loki moved back with embarrassment to notice. “I am always going to be in your corner, you know that right?” He asked. 

Loki looked as if he didn’t know how to respond which absolutely crushed his older brother. “I haven’t always made it easy for you so...why should I think that?” He shrugged. 

Thor swallowed, feeling as if he’d just gulped burning tea. “I think the world of you, Loki.” He shrugged because that answer was just so simple. No matter how many times they fought, Thor loved his brother. 

Loki looked down at the carpet before letting out a long sigh. “Ok. I’m uncomfortable and would like to get the rest of this shit off my face and maybe watch a film.” He rubbed hard into his left eye and glanced at Thor. “You can watch too but you have to stop talking.”

Thor smiled and did a mock salute. 

                               ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

{Thursday Morning} 

Loki rested his head on Wanda’s shoulder; her chin resting on the tufts of his hair. Her glance was desperately pointed downwards, eyes strained as she still couldn’t help but try and look at her friend as he spoke. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.” She frowned and Loki softly smiled. “If it helps, my Grandma spent the whole evening asking me about boys and trying to give me tips on how to ‘Snag the best kind of fellow’.” 

Loki rolled his eyes. “I doubt she was that...nineteen-fifties about it, Wanda.” He pursed his lips, taking in her most subdued outfit of the week. He’d been pretending not to notice her ‘subtle’ evolution from complete ‘middle school witch’ to a ‘maybe hippie girl’? 

Wanda hummed. “I don’t like her, Loki.” She shook her head a little (best as she could). “All she does is talk about Neil Sedaka and say offensive things that we’re just supposed to ignore.” 

Loki giggled in a way that not most people could get him to. 

She chuckled into his hair. “She did ask about you though. My little friend from school, very condescending about it by the way.” Wanda momentarily raised her head and twisted down to look at him. “I told her you died but I kept a vial of your blood on a necklace.” Her voice seamlessly fell into a casual tone. 

Loki hummed in a sinister little chuckle. “You’re such a freak.” 

Wanda pinched him. 

“So...” Loki got up from the bench. “How do you snag the fellow?” He teased. 

Wanda popped up after him and started to reluctantly follow his motions to get to class. “Just the usual steps. Y’know pass him by in the hallway, let him carry your books...” She delicately tapped each of her fingers as she walked. 

“Stand in the corner of the room & cry so he asks what’s wrong, sit on a park bench & feed pigeons, take a piece of his hair to put in a traditional love-bringing fire-” 

Loki pushed her arm and laughed when she stumbled. 

“Don’t knock it till you try it.” She bumped him back and hugged her books to her chest. “Why do you think I’m constantly pushing away attention?” She sarcastically put her hand to her chest and smirked. 

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“They make me nervous.” Wanda complained as she took the familiar steps up to the Odinson’s door. Loki rolled his eyes and dug around for his key. 

Thor was inviting his old buddies over for a little after-school hang-out which Loki was 100% sure was just an attempt for Thor to distract himself from agonizing over Bruce. Loki’s brother was not subtle about hiding his feelings, even if he thought so. “They’re idiots, Wanda. Nothing to stress over. All you have to do is walk past them and go to the kitchen. They won’t bother you.” 

Wanda crossed her arms and took off for the other room as soon as the door opened, neglecting to greet Thor or his friends in the living room. Though Loki moved a bit more slowly as he shut the entry & observed the group of jocks. He saved his most annoyed look for Sif, who’d always seemed annoyed with him. 

Even with the strange time without seeing that company in their home, Loki was a master at ignoring them. 

“Loki! Look who’s here!” Thor was quite joyous with the mini reunion But. Loki just rolled his eyes and went for the kitchen where Wanda was setting up their books to study. Hogun, Volstagg,  Fandral and Sif gave the little brother tiny nods before he’d managed to escape but weren’t given a response. 

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Sif pursed her lips. “He hasn’t changed much.” She scooted closer to the table from her seat on the carpet. They surrounded the furniture like a group of poker players, bits of schoolwork littered it and circled the fake-fruit bowl. “Nor his little friend.” She smiled softly. 

“I suppose the ice is part of his charm though.” Fandral added, throwing a plastic apple up-and-down with his trademark smirk. “Wouldn’t very well be Loki without it, Don’t you think?” 

Thor observed his old friend's conversation with warm nostalgia in his chest. While it was endearing to see them all laughing & talking in his living room like they’d used to, Thor’s mind still drifted nervously to his plans with Bruce the next day. 

While Thor was overthinking and the others chatted, Sif managed to get up and slip into the kitchen without much notice. Fandral’s apple now hanging loosely in her grip while she walked to the fridge. 

Loki didn’t so much as look up at the presence he knew was there but that little friend of his did. Her expression was hard to read. 

In her head, Wanda was agonizing over the idea of whether she was supposed to say ‘hi’ or not. Sure, she knew of Sif but she didn’t really know her. They’d just cross paths sometimes in the Odinson household when they were younger. But she was standing in the kitchen now-...though Loki wasn’t even moving and surely if she should greet the girl then so would she. 

“I have to go to the bathroom.” She absolutely despised that she announced that to the room but at least she could then leave. Which she did. 

Wanda darted off which finally pulled Loki’s attention from his books with a twitch of his brow. 

“Guess I made her nervous, huh?” Sif’s charmed voice came from behind Loki. She moved around the table to stand awkwardly in front of him, hands oddly resting on her hips. There was an intense feeling of effort in the interaction which made Loki even more annoyed. Sif was a freaking jock. She’d been one all her life and the only reason she felt the need to be nice to him was because of Thor’s begging.

“She’s not attracted to you, bonehead. Your presence just gave her such social anxiety that she then had to use the bathroom as an excuse to leave. She’ll be hiding there until you’re gone.” The dark haired man spoke smoothly as he flipped through pages. 

“Which-” He finally glanced up at Sif and made a show of folding his hands together “I hope it will be soon. Now that you’ve gotten the...coffee creamer you needed so badly?” His thin brow jumped up. 

Sif really hadn’t been paying attention to what she was grabbing. She simply missed the days of annoying Thor’s little brother by mere existence plus hell if Wanda wasn’t adorable. She smirked and tossed the creamer from palm to palm while obnoxiously observing Loki’s work. She came closer and rested against the counter. “Still as kind as ever, Loki.” 

The younger boy looked up and met his eye in an oddly amused way. “Still as back-handed as ever, Sif.” He scrunched up his nose and shut the Chemistry book he’d been pretending to read. 

The girl just grinned as she straightened his back, finding the bite to be sentimental. All the times she’d teased the quiet boy whenever she passed Loki in her best friend's home, sitting on the ottoman by himself, to get Kool-Aid (or whatever the hell they were drinking in middle-school) popped back into her mind. “You do possess the ability to be nice, y’know that?” 

Loki hummed, flipping his pen around in his hand. Those fingers moving quickly yet gracefully was somehow mesmerizing. “Yeah but you’re not worth the effort.” He flicked his tongue and went back to writing. 

Sif nodded, as if the reaction was expected and went back to her friends because maybe Loki wasn’t worth her effort. 

Once she was gone, Loki shoved himself out of the chair and trudged over to the bathroom door with a bit of an amused smile. His knuckles burned slightly as he tapped insistently against the white wood currently keeping him from his absurd friend. “Wanda, dear? You’re free to come out.” He hummed happily. 

There was a quiet thrush of water from the sink and some shuffling but the door remained closed for another minute or two. It gave Loki the time to pause...and maybe think about the other night. He’d come to expect that disgusting attitude from Odin but that didn’t take away the sharp pain it put in his chest everytime he put another back-handed comment on the table. Damn if Loki didn’t keep a tiny bit of hope for change. “Did you decide to take a nap on the linoleum, Wanda?” 

“Yeah, that’s exactly it.” She finally answered, voice thick and unamused. 

So much so that Loki whistled, putting his hands up in a mock surrender as he backed away from the door. Just in time for his friend to pop out with that smug little nose-scrunch smile of hers. However Loki didn’t miss the slick way she shoved her phone into her back-pocket. He cocked an eyebrow, arms crossing elegantly over his chest. “Who were you talking to?” 

“Nobody. I was peeing and hiding from Thor’s friends.” 

“Then let me see your call history.” 

Wanda scowled. “No, Loki.” She shook her head and stomped past him, beginning a dance of irritation. She’d lead into a step only to have Loki block and counter it, pretending to be doing something of importance that just so happened to be in her way. It only lasted so long. 

When Loki reached over her body to get the cookie jar, that conniving little smile on his face, Wanda couldn’t help it. She pushed his arm back with a bit more force than intended and watched him stumble with heat in her stomach. “Are you so arrogant that you can't understand you’re annoying me so much right now?” Venom in her tone for sure but Wanda was a master remaining unsettlingly pleasant even when angry. 

“Oh please, spare the dramatics.” Loki rolled his eyes. “It did seem like you were growing tired of me.” He spat a little too bitterly. Wanda turned, leaning back on the counter. Her outfit annoyingly consisted of flare jeans which dragged against the floor. 

“Loki.” She frowned, moving towards the table. “We’re soul-siblings-” She gently poked his shoulder with one finger. “Just because I’m dressing a little differently doesn’t mean I’m becoming someone else.” 

Exceedingly embarrassed, Loki looked off to the side. “So tell me who you were talking to.” It was pitifully childish but something about his best friend, who often openly gushed and giggled over boys, being so suddenly secretive about a phone-call was bothering him. It had to be someone she liked. He knew her tell-tale signs...that and he swore he’d heard a muffled giggle from behind the damn bathroom door. 

“Fine.” Wanda shook her head once more and handed over the phone. 

[contrabandhothead]

Oh could I get a ship? I’m bi a girl, My style is really influenced by 70s-80s, with a pastel twist and I love dyeing my hair. Im an INFJ and the definition of hufflepuff I’m an avid reader and learning things, even random information, is a hobby of mine. I get very passionate about my interests and could talk about them for a long time lol. I’m studying psych and anthropology to focus on animal behavior at college rn. I like skinship and being able to touch my loved ones. Thank you!!

Joe Liebgott

general

ok sis hear me out- JUST LISTEN

the opposites attract trope that i love is really showing right now, i know

i personally see Joe as someone who also loves skinship, i just think he’s more closed off about it

he always wants to be touching you in some way, but he’ll only do more than hand holding or waist-grabbing if you ask him to

so cuddles are ON THE TABLE if you know what i mean

he gets super flustered if you do anything more than kiss him in public, so you could definitely use that to your advantage

ok side note but i literally love INFJs even though they’re so rare... I’m an ENFJ myself, and every INFJ i’ve ever met is just the MOST PRECIOUS HUMAN-

since most INFJs do well in relationships where they share core values with their partner, i see you as someone that Joe would love because you’re supportive

he also enjoys that you understand his feelings without him having to tell you, he’s not very open all the time and tends to wallow in his angst

Joe can be incredibly honest, which is nice most of the time, but he can be brutal with it sometimes

this brutal honesty can be the root of a lot of arguments, but not every moment of a relationship is sunshine and daisies

Joe loves your style!!! he’ll always help you dye your hair

he’s more of an 80s grunge guy, so your styles contrast a bit because of your love for pastels

Joe appreciates your hufflepuff loyalty, especially since he can get a bit insecure

he knows that he’s difficult to be in a relationship with, so he enjoys that sense of extra security he gets with knowing how loyal you are

Joe thinks it’s cute that you enjoy learning so many random things, he just listens to all of your random facts with a smile on his face while you two eat dinner

Joe rants all the times about random things that you don’t understand either, so I don’t think he’d mind if you did the same (he probably thinks it’s oddly charming)

Joe buys you lots of books, especially the ones he hears you talk about wanting to read

Joe likes to spoil his s/o, so if your eyes so much as linger on anything in the window of a store, he’ll buy it for you immediately

the man is practically 3 seconds away from just giving you his entire bank account

Joe supports all of your interest, especially your educational studies... he might not really be interested in college himself, but he’ll always be willing to help you study for finals

just don’t try to psychoanalyze him, he doesn’t want to know why he is the way he is (it makes him uncomfortable just don’t do it)

how you two met

you and Joe met after the war, when Joe moved back to San Fransico

you were a few years younger than Joe, and you were attending college in San Fran for psych and anthropology

Joe was working as a cab driver when you met him

it was a sweltering day, the air thick with moisture

you had woken up late for class, and to make it worse, your car broke down

you had already missed the train, and there was no way you’d make it to class on time if you waited for the next train

so you only had one option

take an overpriced cab to campus

and boy, were you really not looking forward to spending that much money on a cab

but it must be done

flagging down the nearest taxi, you quickly dove into the backseat

gripping the driver’s seat, you leaned forwards so the driver could hear you

“Please, can you take me to the local college as fast as possible? My god, i’m running so late! I’ll even tip extra, just please get me there before 8:30!”

the driver whipped around, damn near hitting you with his own head

“Are you crazy? It’s 8:25! It takes 10 minutes to get there, I’d have to run every red light just to make it on time!”

you stared at the pale, thin man... he had nice hair- NO, FOCUS!!!

you put on your best puppy dog eyes, clasping your hands together as you stared at him “Please????”

the driver sighed, whipping around to face the road as he took the car out of park

“Fine... but you better tip me extra!”

oh my, this man was an insane driver. you swore you nearly died at least twice on the way there... but it was 8:28, you had 2 minutes to get to class!

quickly writing down your address and number, you slapped the scrap of paper on top of the wad of cash you handed to the driver.

rushing out of the car, you called back “write me sometime!”

the driver just grinned, shaking his head at your antics

I’m so sorry this took so long! Regardless, I hope you enjoyed this. Have a fantastic week! 💕

~ Ky

[notarelationship]

In A Minute - Ch 3

Klaine Fic - In A Minute

Summary: AU. Kurt’s a bit clumsy, and Blaine needs a boyfriend in a hurry. What more do you want? Words: ~2900 Chapters: 3/? Warnings: none

AO3: Ch 1, Ch 2, Ch 3

Sorry about the extended delay, I needed to rewrite the whole chapter when it didn’t really go where I wanted it to. 

Thanks to @honeysucklepink for the beta! I claim all errors as my own.

-

Santana had been laughing for six straight minutes. Well she did take a break at about the three minute mark to catch her breath, but still. Kurt was actually starting to worry.

“I’m sorry *wheeze* you pretended to be someone’s boyfriend?” She doubled over with a snort, gripping the side of the dishwashing sink to keep from falling over.

Kurt crossed his arms over his chest. “He seemed perfectly nice! You said they were regulars! I figured he was all right,” he defended himself. And honestly Kurt never once felt like Blaine was doing anything that he should consider a red flag for weirdness.

“Hummel,” Santana said, once she’d caught her breath. “I am friendly to all the customers - that’s how you get tips.” She snorted again, covering her mouth with one hand. “But you went on a date with him.”

“I did not go on a date with him,” Kurt said, adding air quotes when he said ‘date’. Blaine used air quotes - Kurt shook the thought from his head before explaining himself, again. “I felt bad, I spilled water all over his lap!”

“Okay, yes you did do that. But the remedy for spilling on a customer is to comp them a slice of cheesecake, not meet the parents and get them excited about grandchildren.”

“There was no discussion of grandchildren Santana,” Kurt volleyed. “And I offered him pie. He said he’d take me up on it later.”

“Honestly Kurt, that little fella is probably harmless, but don’t make a habit of it. If he asks you to put the lotion on its skin next time you go out text me and I’ll call the cops. Just leave your lojack on.”

“You don’t have to worry about that. This was a one time thing. Dinner with the parents - that’s it.” Blaine had made it clear he didn’t want to extend the whole boyfriend charade to his extended family, which totally made sense. What kind of person would invite a stranger with him to spend an entire weekend trying to convince their family that they were in a relationship. It was too crazy to even consider. But, for good measure and because he didn’t want Santana to think he was without a sense of humor, he added, “Besides, my skin is perfectly moisturized at all times.”

-

The diner had a lot of regulars, people who came in every day for coffee, or every other day for lunch or a slice of pie (which was in fact better than the cheesecake, much to Kurt’s personal disappointment).

Kurt had no idea what category of regular Blaine fell into. Did he only come in after sports, like the first time Kurt had waited on him? Maybe he was just an occasional regular - often enough that they knew him and his friends, but without any set time to come in. Kurt considered asking Santana how often Blaine came in, but three hours into their shift together she was still laughing every time she looked at him, so he opted not to pull that string.

It was fine, Kurt told himself. It’s not like they were friends. Blaine had asked him for a favor, and Kurt had been able to help him out. He would come back to the diner whenever, and Kurt had enough long shifts coming up that he wasn’t going to have a lot of time to worry about it anyway.

Halfway through Kurt’s third straight fifteen hour shift in as many days, Blaine came into the diner and sat at the counter, alone. Kurt tried very hard to act normal as he pulled a menu from the rack and set it down in front of Blaine.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Kurt teased. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Santana’s head jerk up and look in his direction, but he ignored her.

“Hi Kurt,” Blaine said, a nervous smile played at the corner of his mouth. “Um, how’s the cheesecake?”

“Terrible, actually.”

Four nights ago, sitting with Blaine’s parents and pretending to be his boyfriend, Kurt hadn’t been nervous at all. But now, with Blaine sitting in front of him, Charming Kurt had taken a hike, and Awkward Kurt had moved in.

“So how are your parents?’ Kurt blurted out. Might as well lean into it.

Blaine’s eyes widened for a second and he cleared his throat. “Fine. Great actually. Asked about you.” Blaine chuckled the sweetest laugh Kurt had ever heard.

“Wondering if I’m heartbroken after our big breakup?” Kurt cringed on the inside.

“Kurt -” Blaine started to say something, but was interrupted by Denny yelling across the restaurant.

“Hummel! Tables!”

“Oh god - I’m sorry Blaine we’re just really short this shift. Don’t go anywhere, okay? I’ll be right back.” And then, because it was entirely possible Blaine was there to eat and not visit Kurt, Kurt added, “Did you want to order something while I take care of some customers?”

Blaine nodded. “Cherry pie? And a coffee.”

“You got it,” Kurt said, as he went to cut his slice of pie and pour the coffee. He left Blaine with what he hoped was a casual smile and went to take care of the waiting tables.

Between taking orders, bringing orders out, and helping the busboys clear some of the busier sections, it was thirty minutes before Kurt could make his way back to the counter to talk to Blaine. When he finally did, Santana was standing in front of Blaine, chatting. She stopped when Kurt approached.

“So, Santana, don’t you have some tables to see to?” Kurt suggested pointedly.

Santana looked at Kurt, her eyes narrowed, and took about ten seconds too long to answer. “Yeah I guess,” she finally said before walking away.

“I hope she wasn’t too terrible,” Kurt said when she was out of earshot.

Blaine paused and scooped the last bite of pie onto his fork, but didn’t eat it. “Well, she did ask me if I was a serial killer, and let me know that if anything happened to you that she would not hesitate to poison my waffles the next time I came in.”

“She - what - she - oh my god -” Kurt was still sputtering when Blaine grinned.

“I guess you told her about dinner?” Blaine asked. Kurt half shrugged a yes, and Blaine nodded. “Cool, I guess it doesn’t matter. It’s not like she’s going to hang out with my parents any time soon.”

Kurt laughed. “Just do yourself a favor and don’t bring them here.” Kurt risked a glance in Santana’s direction. “Ever.”

“That is not going to be a problem,” Blaine answered with a laugh. “Can you imagine my mother in here?”

Kurt stood awkwardly, waiting as Blaine finished his pie. “Can I get you anything else?” He was the waiter, after all. “More coffee?”

Blaine shook his head. “I actually came here because I wanted to ask you a question.”

“You want me to meet your grandparents?” Kurt joked, but Blaine just kind of winced. “I was kidding. Do you really want me to meet your grandparents?”

“Well -” Blaine sucked in a lungful of air, his mouth set in a line. “I was kind of hoping you might reconsider coming to the wedding with me?”

Kurt blinked several times in rapid succession. He had really been hoping that Blaine would come back into the diner, and over the course of a couple of weeks Kurt would work up the nerve to ask him on a real date, rather than a pretend one. But here Blaine was, asking if Kurt wanted to carry on being his pretend boyfriend.

“I’ll pay for everything - well, for the train ticket and any extra expenses. My parents are covering the hotel. The wedding is at a working vineyard in Connecticut.” Then he added, “I think they have a spa?”

“You know you can get an escort for this sort of thing, I know a few guys,” Santana said as she walked behind the counter to use the soda fountain. She walked away before either of them could answer. When Kurt looked back at Blaine his face was flushed pink.

“I’m sorry about her, she’s -”

“I promise Kurt, it’s nothing like that. I -” Blaine paused and pulled out his phone. “I told my parents I wasn’t sure you could make it, which seemed fine, but then somehow Sebastian got my phone number - honestly I suspect it was my mother - and he’s been sending me really - suggestive - texts.” Blaine unlocked his phone and Kurt leaned over to look at the screen.

The texts were a little raunchy, but no worse than Kurt had seen on dating apps. One of the texts was even a shirtless photo of a fairly attractive guy.

“He’s kinda hot, are you sure you want me tagging along?”

Blaine made a disgusted noise. “Yes - I definitely am not interested. And I know I could probably just tell him no, emphatically and very likely over and over again for the entire weekend, but I honestly don’t want to cause a scene.” Blaine sighed, and Kurt could tell that he was struggling. “I understand if you don’t want to, if this is just too weird, but if honestly just seemed like it would be easier than telling everyone the truth, at least for now.”

“Nah, I get it.”

“So? Will you?”

Kurt bit his lip, it could be fun, and Blaine was a nice guy, or at least he seemed like one so far. “When is it?” Kurt thought it was coming up soon.

“It’s next weekend. I’m really sorry it’s such short notice.”

“It’s fine. Let me see if I can get Santana or one of the other girls to take my shifts.”

Blaine looked relieved, bouncing on his stool. “Oh my god, thank you so much.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Kurt said. “I’m going to use the hell out of that spa.”

--

Ten days later Kurt was on a 6:25 train out of Grand Central Station headed to Eastern Connecticut.

Kurt had ended up working a series of double shifts in order to get enough time off for the weekend, although Santana seemed grateful for the swap. Aside from her commercial auditions, there were a half dozen open casting calls during the week she had wanted to get to.

He and Blaine hadn’t seen each other, or even talked really, in between when Blaine asked Kurt to reprise his fake-boyfriend role and when they met up at the train station. They had texted a few times; mostly to confirm the dress requirements (“you won’t need a tux. I’m sure whatever you select will be perfect” - Kurt had preened a little in private at that), and the schedule for the weekend.

Friday night they were expected to make an appearance at a post rehearsal dinner cocktail party, and the wedding was Saturday at five with an elaborate reception to follow. All the rest of the time was Kurt’s, and Blaine had promised he would get Kurt on a train by noon Sunday so he would have time to catch up on some homework. Kurt would definitely have time to take advantage of the hotel spa.

But at 6:25 on Friday morning, all Kurt wanted to do was sleep.

Blaine was waiting for him on the platform, and Kurt was a little surprised to see him in a bow tie at that hour. At dinner with his parents Blaine had also worn a bow tie, and while it suited him, Kurt had assumed it was simply chosen for the special occasion. But here he was at an ungodly hour of the morning, wearing a bow tie with what looked like an expensive polo shirt. Kurt couldn’t quite tell, as Blaine was also wearing the most adorable shawl collared navy cardigan.

“Thom Browne?” he asked. When Blaine just looked confused, he continued. “Your sweater. It looks like it’s from his Brooks Brother’s line.” Now that he was closer he could also see that the bow tie had tiny ducks embroidered on it.

“Oh,” Blaine touched his sweater self consciously. “Yes, my, um, grandmother gave it to me for Christmas a few years ago.”

Kurt hmmed approval. “It looks great. Never lose it.”

Blaine laughed. “Okay.”

The train wasn’t exactly crowded, but there were enough passengers scattered throughout that they wound up walking through several cars before they found two acceptable seats together.

“Do you mind if I nap on the way?” Kurt asked once they were settled in their seats. “I’ve done three double shifts this week and I feel like death.”

“Oh, no, of course. Go ahead,” Blaine answered with a polite nod. “We have to transfer in New Haven, I think.”

“No problem. Just give me a little shove when we get close.” Kurt put in his ear buds and leaned back against the seat, wondering what on earth this weekend would have in store.

Two hours later the conductor was rousting both of them awake, and Kurt was only slightly embarrassed to find that in his sleep he seemed to have nestled right onto Blaine’s shoulder.

“Time to wake up boys, this is your stop.” The conductor was gruff but bored, and didn’t seem to be bothered by the fact that two boys had fallen asleep on each other on his train. He’d probably seen a lot worse.

“What! Oh god,” Blaine jerked awake from where his own head had been resting on the top of Kurt’s. “I’m sorry. I must have fallen asleep too.” Blaine’s face was beet red.

“It’s fine,” Kurt said, wiping a small amount of drool from the corner of his mouth, hoping Blaine didn’t notice. “I think I used you as a pillow when I was sleeping. I’m sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Blaine stood quickly and pulled their bags down from the overhead rack, as Kurt sat up and gathered loose items from their seat area. He gave Kurt a tired looking smile. “Let’s go. There is supposed to be a shuttle to the hotel.”

It turned out the shuttle stopped at a few local spots before their hotel, so by the time they arrived it was almost noon.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m starving,” Blaine said as the stepped up to the front desk. “I should let my parents know I’m here, but do you want to get some lunch?”

“I am at your service, but I could eat a side of beef at the moment.”

“You are definitely not at my service, Kurt,” Blaine protested. “I appreciate your doing this for me so, so much, but outside of the wedding obligations, you should enjoy the amenities. It looks like a great place,” he finished, looking around the lobby.

Kurt tried not to watch Blaine as he checked in to their room, but whether he was just too tired to exercise restraint, or he simply didn’t want to, he wasn’t entirely sure. Blaine was sweet and handsome, and it was going to take Kurt a lot of self-control to not do something very, very stupid. Maybe a shower and a meal and a nap - possibly in that order, would help.

Once Blaine had gathered the room keys and other information about the hotel, Kurt followed him to their room. It turned out that the hotel had been converted from the original living quarters of the first owner, and had a lot of restored details from that time period, whatever it was. As they walked through the half modern lobby to the elevators, Kurt couldn’t help thinking that the entire place looked like Netherfield. It wasn’t going to do him any good to think of Blaine as his very own Mr. Darcy.

“Here we are,” Blaine said, stopping to match the number on his key to the number on the door. “219.”

The key was an actual key, and not an electronic card, which Kurt found classically appealing. The room was not especially large, which made some sense, as they would have had to work with the existing architecture, but it was beautifully furnished, with an oversized armchair, a small writing desk, a wardrobe for their clothes, and an absolutely stunning four poster king-sized bed.

“There were supposed to be two beds,” Blaine said, his voice strained.

“Huh?” Kurt turned from admiring how well appointed the room was to see Blaine staring at the bed, appearing slightly panicked.

“The bed. There were supposed to be two. I specifically called and made sure we could have two beds.” Blaine crossed his arms over his chest. “I remember because they said the only doubles they had were full sized beds, because the rooms didn’t fit two queens.” Kurt snorted a laugh, but Blaine didn’t seem to get the joke, so he let it go. “I’ll call the front desk. They can fix this.” He moved quickly to the room phone, but Kurt stopped him and hung up the phone.

“Blaine, it’s fine. It’s only two nights.” Blaine just made a pained noise. “It’s a huge bed. And - don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re not going to take up a lot of room.” Blaine continued to frown, but he seemed a bit calmer.

“Still,” Blaine said, stretching his neck like he was working out a kink. “I think I’ll call and see if they can change it.”

“Up to you,” Kurt said. He went into the bathroom to give Blaine a moment.

He needed a moment too, if he was going to face sleeping in the same bed with Blaine for two nights.

[fiercyy]

Chapters: 8/? Fandom: Naruto Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Haruno Sakura/Uchiha Sasuke, Haruno Sakura & Uzumaki Naruto, Uzumaki Naruto & Uchiha Sasuke, Haruno Sakura & Hatake Kakashi & Uchiha Sasuke & Uzumaki Naruto, Hatake Kakashi & Uchiha Sasuke, Hatake Kakashi & Haruno Sakura, Haruno Sakura & Karin Characters: Haruno Sakura, Uchiha Sasuke, Uzumaki Naruto, Hatake Kakashi, Karin (Naruto) Additional Tags: Ownership, Fluff, Angst, Misunderstandings, Sasuke gets the short end of the stick here, Subversion of Tropes, Mutual Pining, Sakura is maaaaaad, BAMF Haruno Sakura, Past Sakura/others, Fluff and Smut, Eventual Smut, Happy Ending, Angst with a Happy Ending Summary:

In the aftermath of the war and his return, Sasuke and Sakura's relationship was moving towards Something. But when Sasuke must bind her with an ancient jutsu, their chance at happiness together may be ruined irreparably.

He's so past repression, it's insane. He's too tired. Too happy. Too full.

He can't sleep at night. He's too angry. Too guilty.

Every three days or so, Sakura comes to him but not since that first night, has he slept in her bed. She's made a habit of slipping through his kitchen window (not the one in the bedroom, that would be too intimate), just after he's finished the dishes, right as he's heading to bed.

She'll appear, already in her pyjamas-

(Patently ridiculous. He pictures her leaping from roof to roof in flannel shorts and a cotton tank with sparkly lettering across the chest. Night cream already rubbed in. Teeth already brushed.)

And her preference is to slip into bed when he's already in it, but her timing is poor.

Sasuke is as reliable as a wound clock; mostly accurate, occasionally a minute or two slow at the end of the day. She should be better at gaging his routine if it matters so much to her that he matter so little.

When she's especially early, she doesn't go to bed first. She waits for him, perfectly composed on his shiny, clean counter; legs swinging and knocking on his kitchen cabinets. Sakura can be so impatient. It makes him want to make the dishes last longer, just to tick her off and see her lips purse in lovely annoyance. Then he feels bad because the only reason she's on his schedule in the first place is because of him. And Saito.

"It was the right choice." She confessed, that first night. "It's what I would have done in your place. And you would have thanked me." He didn't contradict her, because he supposed that was true. "I'm sorry that I'm so angry."

"Don't apologize for the way you feel."

Never again. Not to him.

"Thank you," she whispered in the dark. "For putting Konoha first."

He hadn't. He'd put her first.

Before he thought about the information she could divulge, the treaties she could ruin, the wars she could start; he'd thought about the prospect of Sakura as a person, his friend, being owned, body and soul, by a stranger. By an evil man with cruel intentions. He thought of her taken. He thought of her light being extinguished. He imagined a broken women he'd never again be able to recognize. He thought she'd find a way to kill herself. His heart prematurely broke at the idea of never seeing her again.

Sakura was glad for his loyalty, she saw it as a sign that he'd changed, but he hadn't really.

This village had his fealty. It had his life and his hand at its disposal. He would fight for it. He would die for it.

But above all, he would always love his family the most.

Sakura, Naruto and Kakashi would always come first.

.

.

Some nights, Sasuke holds out hope.

He takes up reading. When the dishes are done, he finds the comfortable spot on his couch (a lump-free spot) and sits back with a novel. He reads and he waits.

Sometimes he falls asleep there.

Sometimes he gives up at 2am.

Sometimes she arrives after only a few minutes and he puts up a big show of how he's busy and he'll be there in a minute and her pout is fantastic and he just wants this to be his life please-

Once, he wakes up at 5am. It's still dark in his living room and his neck has a crick in it from sleeping at a weird angle. His book lays bent on his chest and-

Sakura's asleep, sitting on the floor, her cheek propped against his shoulder, his hand and hers, intertwined on his chest.

It takes forever for his skyrocketing pulse to return to normal.

.

.

He starts to feel a little like her booty call.

They'll go a couple days with little to no contact, then she'll call him up when she's flagging. She'll sleep in his bed, he'll hold her in his arms, and all the while be keenly aware of the lie he is living. Sasuke is in love with a woman who needs his touch to survive.

And it's devastating.

They don't talk anymore, not like they used to. A cloud hangs over their friendship, different from the gentle breeze of-

never enough

but good for now,

someday is almost here.

He misses her.

Sasuke holds her in his arms, knows her warmth, shares her space. He finds pink hairs on his pillows and his sheets smell like a mix of her moisturizer and perfume.

And still, he misses her.

Because it's a grotesque version of their hopes.

Sasuke wonders: what if I was braver?

All the reasons he had for not acting on his feelings, their feelings, seem so stupid now. He's sure he had valid points about the right time, sorting through his many issues, letting them evolve together naturally... but he's hard-pressed to think of them now.

He wasn't ready. What the fuck?!

Stupid. So stupid.

How could he not be ready for her, after all this time. Was he crazy?

If they were already together, perhaps this would have been easy. There would effectively be very little change. They'd already be sharing a bed (he aches, he burns at the thought), touch would be thoughtless. She'd already know the power she holds over him. She'd be able to know and trust his intentions. Knowing her feelings could only make their relationship stronger. They would already belong to each other and maybe-

It's wishful thinking, sure.

But if they were together, maybe he wouldn't have to feel this way-

Sakura has a lot of love in her heart. She's kind and giving. She feels so much and so strongly. He's admired that about her for years. It's the same radiance of soul that he sees in Naruto. They have enough room in their hearts for the whole world.

She expresses her love in healing and protecting. And he can no longer kid himself: physicality.

Intellectually, Sasuke knows that Sakura has dated other people.

He virtually ensured it with his horrible, fucking stupid, idiotic, bullshit letter.

(Surprisingly, Naruto gave him only half so much shit about that as Kakashi and Sai.)

But knowing a thing and physically feeling the effects of the thing are completely different animals.

Sakura has had sex six different nights (10 different times) since she put on the bracelet. Sasuke knows this because he knows what she's feeling. At all times.

Usually, it's just a dull awareness. Is she happy or sad? Is she angry? Usually. But sometimes, she'll show up at his apartment and she'll look at him with those big green eyes and she'll want. That's… an incredible and terrible feeling that he can never ever never act on. It's sweetly painful and it's hard- uh-difficult to resist. Because he feels those things too. And then his wants kind of bleed into hers and they create a feedback loop and he has to work extremely hard (ugh) to pull them back and pick apart whose feelings are whose.

And sometimes, she'll be somewhere else; at the hospital, a bar, the supermarket, home, and he'll feel that twinge. Which is normal. She's a healthy woman in her 20s. Sometimes though, Sakura will act on those feelings.

Sakura, who is strikingly beautiful, but more than that, she's funny, interesting and charming. People like her. She has a way about her. She has no trouble finding enthusiastic partners. And going by the flashes of sights and sounds and feelings Sasuke experiences; extremely lucky partners.

Sometimes, it's a little bit about getting back at him, he thinks. Not that she knows he knows. She can never know. For both their sakes.

If Sakura knew that the feeling of her orgasming under the ministrations of some other man made him lose his mind (for several reasons), he doesn't think she'd be able to look him in the eye ever again.

He wonders, if she knew, would she stop or do it more, out of spite?

He can feel every gasp, every kiss, touches that tingle as if he himself is experiencing it.

It's a hot, sweet, terrible torture.

The woman Sasuke loves is, at this moment, having sex with somebody else.

And he can do something about it, but he never will.

If he wanted, he could make it so that she would never be able to have sex with anyone but him. If he so chose, he could lock her away and keep her to himself. He could erase her sexual desires. If he did it carefully she wouldn't even need to know. That is the terrible power of this curse that he cast on her.

He could never and would never do it.

So instead, he suffers in silence and brings the curse upon himself. His pain should never factor into her decisions. She should be able to live as freely as she did before.

And if on that first night, after he'd told her everything, after he'd told her she wouldn't be able to have children with anyone but him, she'd tested that theory with a complete stranger? Well. His worries are his own. She's a doctor. She knows better. And she hasn't been so foolhardy since.

He never says a word, not because he doesn't love her; on the contrary. He loves her enough that he wants her to be happy more than he wants to be with her.

.

.

Sakura tugs at the hospital gown so there's fabric between her butt and the exam table. Even though there's also paper, irrationally, she always feels like it's not enough.

She looks around the room and sighs. She's flagging a little. She should probably pay Sasuke a visit. The idea makes her shudder, not with cold but with want. She doesn't really need to. She has at least another day before she'll really start to feel the effects, but the truth is, she enjoys being close to him. It's dangerous.

Sakura cannot allow herself to get used to this. It's not forever. She keeps telling herself that. And when all is said and done and she's free, where will they be? She doesn't think they can get back to the place where they were before. And maybe that's all her, but it's a little bit him too.

She's come to doubt herself. Maybe those feelings she thought were finally mutual are just a pipe dream. She misread the signs, she imagined it all. If he loved her, he might not find it so tedious to be in her company so often. He might have been happier at the prospect of her sharing his bed.

And…

Sakura never realized how much there was about herself that Sasuke didn't like. She's sure it's not always on purpose, because it's never comes up, but she keeps getting these little shocks. When she heats up a frozen dinner in the microwave, when she leaves a pile of dishes in the sink (this one was a low level buzz that kept her from sleeping until she stomped out of bed and put everything away) and a dozen other stupid bad habits. Sakura always wished she could know what Sasuke was thinking. Fuck. She wish she could go back to her ignorant bliss.

She scoffs at herself. Sasuke, in love with her (well, maybe not in love but in like? On his way there? Even dreaming, she was never so hopeful as that).

Sasuke disapproves of her drinking, but not of her having sex with other people.

It occurred to her, standing at Yuka's sink, brushing her teeth. What does that mean?

It's hard not to let old insecurities swallow her up, but it makes her feel crazy, like she dreamed up the way he looked at her.

Shizune enters with her file tucked under her arm and sighs at Sakura.

Shizune and Tsunade have always been the only doctors Sakura will allow anywhere near her body. If given the option, she'd do it all herself but that's not allowed and against regulations hrrr mnnnnnyeeeeeh.

She pauses in her internal whining and mimicry of the woman before her, simply out of respect and not-at-all anxiousness at the results in the brown paper packet among her old blood work, injury reports and family history.

"You're fine," Shizune tells her and Sakura sighs in relief. "Completely clean, which I'm sure you knew from your own scans." True, but it's good to have double confirmation. "And you're not pregnant." Good.

She was so stupid, so reckless. She doesn't like the sour bitterness in her heart and lungs, at the back of her throat, but here she is.

"If you have something to say, you should say it." She shouldn't take it out on Shizune.

The older woman bites her lip and lays a hand on her head. "I know you know better. I'm worried about you."

She doesn't know about the bracelet. Sakura doesn't want her to. She hasn't told anyone since that night with Karin. Nobody else needs to get involved and know her sad, pathetic fate: literally shackled to her childhood crush.

"I was being dumb. It was just sex. I dunno." Sakura fidgets with the sanitary paper some more.

Shizune's eyebrows draw together in worry, "Since when is it suddenly 'just sex'?"

It's not that Sakura hasn't always been on the physical side, but before, she was always trying to fall in love. At least at first.

Sakura knew that the best thing for her was to move on, to fall in love and live out her stupid, stunted and delayed adolescence with someone hot, fun and sweet. Except she was never gonna get to have that, was she?

She'd been serious about a boy for 10 years, and there's still no end in sight. There's very little room for other loves but it appears there's plenty of room for stupidity.

"I'm not judging you, you can do what you want. It just doesn't seem… like you."

"No, I was supposed to wait until someone special came along, who wanted to marry me and take care of me and give them my flower." The bitterness in her tone is useless.

"Sakura-"

"Who decides these things?" She wants to make a larger point about feminism and slutshaming and exploration. But really, she's too tired and it's an empty tirade.

Shizune's concern comes from the genuine love of a friend.

"You were never supposed to be or do anything. All that's up to you. But as someone who has known you since you were very young and has loved you for just at long, I want you to know that I'm worried and I want you to take better care of yourself," Shizune wraps her arms around her and it is exactly what she's been needing. "You deserve everything."

Sakura hugs her back just as tight.

.

.

Soon, it's time for another visit to Wind Country. Two weeks in Suna, full of negotiations, state dinners, medical seminars and whatever else she can jam in. She loves it.

Except this time, she can't go.

Because she's shackled to someone else now. She cannot move freely or far.

She wracks her brain for a solution. What if she were to take a lock of his hair? Would that count as having him near? And should she get it under the guise of giving him a haircut?

Sakura makes a face. That's pathetic, even for her.

There has to be a solution because if she's cooped up in this village one more minute she is going to scream.

"You could ask him to come with you."

"...What."

"Or get Hokage-sama to order him to go with you." Karin pushes her glasses further up her nose and gives Sakura a look that tells her she thinks she's being stupid.

From Ino's massively dramatic eye roll, she seems to agree. They've just gotten Ino up to speed on the cuff. She keeps getting distracted by how gorgeous it is. Sakura can't blame her, she's drunk and gets turned on by jewelry, what can you do?

"Knock him unconscious and throw him in your backpack," a not-particularly feasible plan, but she's got the spirit.

Sakura slams her forehead against the table and groans. She can't prove it, but the way Karin pats her head feels sarcastic. "I feel like you're overthinking this."

"I don't understand him at all."

"Not everything can be fixed by solving an equation," Ino preaches.

"Most things can," Sakura grumbles into the chipped tabletop.

.

.

"I don't like doing this," is the first thing he says when she walks through his door because she was too weak (metaphorically, not physically) to stay away. "But I heard what you said."

"What do you mean you heard what I said?! How much did you hear?!"

Sasuke's eyes widen marginally, he coughs to buy himself time, "Some of it."

"Are you always listening or-?!"

"Of course I'm coming with you."

"What?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"...I don't know… you have missions, a routine, you don't like Sand."

"It's rough and it's coarse and-!"

"It gets everywhere; I know."

"..."

What he doesn't tell her is: 'you're more important than all of that'. What he doesn't ask is: 'lean on me'. What he doesn't say is: 'I would do anything for you'.

"It's the simplest answer," he says instead.

"It never occurred to me."

"Yamanaka suggested it."

"Sure, but I thought she was kidding." Their eyes meet and slowly, they draw closer together. Without realizing, Sasuke's eyes snap to her lips. They're all he can think about. And suddenly, she pulls back and the spell is broken.

"When do we leave?"

"Day after next."

[catladykatie93]

How to DO the SUblimation

next one    like I said links will be in the    description for all these presses if you    still want that Signature Series like    the one I use I'll also leave links for    that I catch you guys on next one yep    [Music]    said everybody boy big brand oh and    today I wanted to talk to you guys about    something new something innovative and   power press heat press   something dough heat press nation was    kind enough to send me over their brand    new heat press nation craft Pro 9 by 13    peat press the best thing about this    press I'll tell you right now besides    the price it has a slide-out    drawer you see that so I pressed up   some aprons for my brother-in-law's food    truck called lotta tots put this thing    through its paces    I checked it with the heat gun I made    sure I did a couple presses this thing    held up perfect the cool thing    about it is this table that it's sitting    on is 6 foot by 2 feet

   I have cameo sitting on here and the    heat press as you can see the heat press    takes up little to no space on my    workbench so if you're thinking about    getting something for your house for     your apartment for your bedroom for your    kitchen and you didn't want to spend a   power press heat press    ton of money this thing is $289 I'll    leave the link in the description below    thank you the heat press nation for    sending this out and actually letting me    do a test and review and put a video out    about it but if you're saying 9 by 13 is    too small for me I kind of want a 15 by    15 and you don't want to spend the money    on the Signature Series they have a 15    by 15 craft pro that I believe is 379 so    let me show you what this thing could do    [Music]    all right everybody so I got this thing    set up here for 3:30 to 15 seconds for    thermal Flags plus heat transfer vinyl I    got the laser thermometer here let's see    what this thing's reading and we are   power press heat press    looking at 331 you see that 331    this is 332 what it's set up for 332   let's do another reading here here we go    332 hopefully you guys can see that we    have it set up I'm about to press these    aprons for you guys really cool thing    about this press slide-out drawer so     just like the Signature Series this has    a slide-out drawer here's our heat    transfer I like to fold it in half just    to get the center see these little    creases right here just so I know where    the center is let's preheat this just    for a couple seconds try to get some of power heat press    that moisture out and here we go slide    out drawer so my hands aren't working    directly underneath the heat and    actually let's put teflon sheet on there    Justin kicks   power press heat press    Oh pull this out and there you have    perfect press usually you guys can see    that looks good no discoloration which    is a little crease right there but     everything looks straight up and down    man we're gonna do one more for you guys   power heat press  once again I'm just gonna lay this out    pre press it get some that moisture out    once again we're going to fold this in    half just to get the center of the    actual transfer when I'm doing this I'm    lining up the actual vinyl    I'm not lining up because I cut this    pretty crazy right it's not a perfect    square    so what I do is I line up the design    edge to edge and then that's when I    crease it up so I don't know if you    could see these little indentations     there but that'll tell me where the    center is there one sheet back on top    press this for another 15 seconds cool    thing about this press is it's very very

[nitoresi1989-blog]

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[rollinsholloway15-blog]

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[gogreenarmy]

“Hurricanes, floods and infrastructure failure”

Chapter 4 of Don’t Get Stuck On Stupid!, a book by Lt. Gen. Russel Honore’ (U.S. Army-Retired)

“There is nothing so stupid as the educated man if you get him off the thing he was educated in.” – Will Rogers

One of the big issues facing us in the late 20th century was the so-called Y2K problem, which was the potential for computers to go haywire when their calendars moved from 1999 to 2000. Computer codes were originally written with the year as a two-digit number, leaving off the initial “19.” As the year 2000 approached, experts worried that computers would think “00” was 1900 instead of 2000 and would therefore crash because the date would be off by 100 years.

The fear was that computers running banks, airlines, and even governments would cease to function and that widespread chaos would take over. Nuclear weapons would launch by themselves, ATMs would randomly spit out $20 bills, the stock market would crash, airplanes would drop out of the sky and governments would fail!

I was in Washington at this time, and we were working on the Y2K issue. I spent December 31, 1999, at the Pentagon, watching for signs of trouble around the world. We had forward deployed troops all over the world in strategic sites, and they were ready to go. We had practiced all of the drills to protect Washington, D.C., because we didn’t know what would happen.

Just like everyone else, we did a lot of work to protect all our computers and to make sure nothing happened with our nuclear arsenal. The solution, however, was fairly simple: change the year code to a four-digit number – but with so many computers and so much data, there was a possibility of missing something.

As it turned out, nothing happened, but it showed us how vulnerable we were to infrastructure failures – and that responding to a crisis takes much more effort, time and money than simply planning ahead.

A changing climate requires changing ideas

Other than Pearl Harbor in 1941 and the terrorist attacks in 2001, never before in our country’s history have we faced a crisis at home that is as immediate and important as the one we face today from our crumbling and badly managed infrastructure.

But it wasn’t the Russians or a terrorist network

that did this to us. We did it to ourselves by ignoring the warning signs and not making adequate preparations.

This crisis has been known about for many years, but it really became evident in the summer of 2017 when the triple hurricanes of Harvey, Irma and

Maria hit Texas, Florida and Puerto Rico, respectively. Every day for several weeks on end, we turned on our televisions and checked the Internet for updates on the disasters that were unfolding in several major metropolitan areas and across the entire island of Puerto Rico.

Even after disasters like Hurricane Katrina in 2005, it’s frustrating to think that planning on the ground still hasn’t been implemented to avert disasters of this nature. This is something we are very capable of doing – just like we have done to improve hurricane tracking. We might be able to predict with a new level of accuracy where a hurricane may strike, but in general we are not using technology and scientific research nearly enough to help our people. It’s possible to use these resources so much better, but politics and various vested interests have taken precedence over the well-being of our country.

We are at a critical point in history – not just for our national security, but for our health and safety and the future of our country. That’s why it’s important to take a different approach, because we can’t depend only on the professionals and the politicians to make things better. In many instances, they haven’t even addressed the issues in earnest. Someone needs to raise the distress flag.

If our people aren’t safe, our country is vulnerable. The only one who can save us is us.

One of the greatest issues we face is that weather patterns are changing. This severely affects the way in which our houses, our neighborhoods, our cities, our states and our entire nation have to deal with such dramatic and immediate changes. This is not just a societal issue, it is a national security issue.

The weather and infrastructure may seem like separate issues, but they’re well connected. If our roads and railroads, for example, are not adequate in times of emergency, large sections of the population will be in even greater danger from the floods and hurricanes that we know will be coming.

Something needs to be done to defenseless areas to mitigate problems caused by severe weather events; many of these problems were exposed by Hurricanes Harvey in Texas and Maria in Puerto Rico.

An egregious example of how we have created our own problems is that we have allowed developers to build entire neighborhoods in known floodplains – in Houston, Texas, for example. About 90 percent of all natural disasters in the United States involve flooding, so most insurers no longer offer flood insurance because it is not profitable. As a result, the National Flood Insurance Program (NFIP) was introduced in 1968 to provide flood insurance to communities that otherwise might not be able to purchase such insurance.

The majority of the NFIP’s 5.5 million policyholders are in Texas and Florida, the very states that were pummeled by hurricanes in 2017 and two of the states that are most vulnerable to climate change and rising sea levels. Before these hurricanes, the NFIP was already over $24 billion in debt, due in part to bad management and ill-conceived policies.

The NFIP debt is taxpayer money, so we’re subsidizing people to build in areas that we know will flood and will need to be bailed out. That’s crazy! In fact, just one percent of insured properties account for up to 30 percent of the claims and represent more than half the $24 billion debt, meaning that some properties flood multiple times and are constantly rebuilt,  with our government knowing they will flood again.

More than 30,000 properties flood an average of five times every two to three years, and some properties have flooded more than 30 times. One home valued at $69,000 in California flooded 34 times in 32 years. Yet, after every flood, the NFIP rebuilt the property, spending nearly 10 times the property’s value.

What’s more, the average home that’s flooded has a value of about $110,000 but suffers over $133,000 in flood damages – and many of these homes are rebuilt multiple times. A significant number of these homes are also vacation homes, meaning that money to help rebuild primary homes for the less wealthy is potentially being diverted. It would often be less expensive to purchase a new home in a different location than to keep rebuilding in the same location.

We know the dangers and the expenses of living in flood zones, but little is done to help people move out of them. Apart from the insane policy of rebuilding over and over again, less than two percent of the money spent on rebuilding is spent on helping people move to safer locations. Unlike a nation such as the Netherlands – much of which is below sea level but which has not experienced a major flood since 1953 – we spend more money responding to floods than preventing them.

To make matters worse – or better, if you’re covered by NFIP – is the fact that the insurance policies don’t increase in price, even after multiple claims for the same property. When efforts are made to increase the rates, there is a huge cry from those whose premiums would increase because they rebuild so often. Meanwhile, we the taxpayers are footing the bill and literally encouraging people to build and rebuild in places that are not sustainable for housing.

After a disaster, many people are clueless about how to rebuild. How many more disasters will we have to go through before things are done right?

One of the issues we see in storms such as Hurricane Harvey is how to manage storm water. There is a normal function of the landscape and the way it deals with things such as excessive water, but that understanding has disappeared along with the natural landscapes that help the land deal with storm water.

The landscape is a huge mechanism for absorbing and purifying rainwater. Under normal circumstances, regular rains help cool the atmosphere; at the same time, the rain is soaked into the ground, where it is naturally filtered and becomes safe to drink. What we’ve done over the years is that we’ve changed this mechanism so that it is no longer functioning as it should.

Storms are ways of equalizing heat in the atmosphere, and one reason we get these huge storms now is the concentration of hot air and hot water. That’s what fed the storms in Texas and Florida in 2017. The atmosphere is heating up due to the reduced amount of plant material, which increases the moisture drawn into the air and therefore the amount of water that is dropped as rain. It’s a vicious cycle.

The energy in the atmosphere also plays a major role. The jet stream usually goes west to east in a fairly predictable pattern, but now it is waving up and down, more than likely due to man’s influence on the atmosphere. When the jet stream goes above or around a storm, it no longer pushes it. This is contributing to more extreme weather and making the extreme weather last longer.

One of the things that rain does is slow the wind, so with more rain we can expect slower-moving storms. We have already seen the effects of storms that sit for longer periods instead of moving along like they used to do. The floods in south Louisiana in 2016 and Hurricane Harvey in 2017 are examples of this new trend in storms.

Forests are one of the planet’s biggest cooling mechanisms, but we have replaced great swaths of forest with lawns. The lawn is now the single largest “crop” in the United States. More lawn is grown in our country than corn or any commercial crop, and in total it covers an area about the size of Texas.

The proliferation of lawns comes at a great cost, however. It takes a tremendous amount of water to keep grass alive, and in some regions as much as 75 percent of residential water is devoted to lawns. Naturally, this puts a colossal strain on water systems. The typical lawn uses 10,000 gallons of water per year, in addition to rainwater.

Unlike trees, which absorb carbon dioxide, lawns emit considerable amounts of carbon dioxide, which contributes to the warming of the atmosphere.

The greatest harm a lawn does, however, is as a result of their being treated with chemicals. After World War II, the chemical companies led us to believe that the best lawns were bright green, weed-free and insect-free, instead of being natural.

Each year, we dump about 90 million pounds of herbicides and pesticides on our lawns, with the result that many of these chemicals are now found in groundwater. Nitrates leeching into the drinking water can have the effect, as seen in some states such as Iowa, of turning babies grey-blue (the Blue Baby Syndrome).

What all this chemical action does is alter the nature of lawns. In a natural, organic lawn or forest floor, you could have four or five inches of rain with no runoff because the water is absorbed. A chemical lawn is denser and less able to absorb water, because the chemicals undermine the biology of the soil. It becomes saturated after only an inch of rain, and the rest runs off.

In a heavy rain, a typical sewer system can usually handle only a couple of inches of rain. After that, the landscape starts to flood. In an era when we are facing heavier and more sustained rainfalls, it makes sense to return to lawns that are organic and that can handle large amounts of water – or, better yet, replace lawns with other vegetation that is not harmful to the environment.

Another issue is trees. Tree roots are being starved by lawns, again because the rain is not being absorbed adequately into the ground. Instead of lawns around trees, it’s best to use other types of plant materials or no plants at all, like our grandparents used to do. Every person that owns property has the ability to contribute to the revival of healthy lawns and healthy trees, with the ultimate goal of being able to deal with storm water.

Insurance companies don’t like people to have trees near their houses, because trees have a habit of falling on houses in storms. However, trees almost always fall because of bad management, not because of wind and rain. Trees are valuable, because they cool the environment, provide shade that cools houses, and break the wind. Rather than getting rid of trees, we need to understand how to maintain our trees to encourage healthy soil and healthy roots.

Infrastructure is the foundation of our society

South of the confluence of the Ohio and Mississippi rivers at Cairo, Illinois, there are just five railroad bridges crossing the Mississippi River. Known as the Lower Mississippi, this is a stretch of about 1,000 miles.

One of the reasons there are so few railroad crossings in the Lower Mississippi is that about 90 percent of all railroad freight traffic across the nation – both east-west and north-south – passes through Chicago, in the North. This makes the entire nation’s railroad freight system vulnerable to a crippling weather event such as a snowstorm.

Chicago is known for its extreme winter weather, and the blizzards of 1967 and 1999 are particularly memorable. In 1999, a blizzard virtually shut down freight traffic across the nation for several weeks. Because each railroad company is privately owned and operates its own lines, they didn’t coordinate their snow plowing and they were on the verge of shutting down the nation’s freight system. Fortunately, the railroad companies worked out a solution by allowing train cars from one company to go from one railroad line to another.

That was an infrastructure challenge, and it was solved because people realized there was a problem and they fixed it. It didn’t address the crazy situation in which 90 percent of railroad freight traffic goes through a single hub, but it was a start.

The railroads are still all privately owned, but the roads and airports across the nation are owned by various governmental entities, so we have this matrix of transportation infrastructure that is a patchwork of business and governmental bodies. And this can sometimes be a huge mess.

This is just one piece of the infrastructure jigsaw puzzle that keeps our nation running, but if any part of it fails, it could have a devastating and cumulative effect. In any community, the citizens can point to crumbling bridges, roads that are inadequate for the amount of traffic, sewer systems that need to be upgraded, school systems with inadequate facilities and so much more. As our infrastructure ages, the need to upgrade and replace it increases – and so does the cost.

Infrastructure is the foundation of our society. Without roads, bridges, schools, power plants, hospitals, communication systems and so on, our quality of life would plummet and we would become a third-world country.

Politicians tend to want to take the easy way out. Often, this means ignoring the problem and leaving it for the next administration or proposing privatization for parts of the infrastructure. The United States, through Federal, State and local governments, spends about 2.4 percent of GDP (Gross Domestic Product) on infrastructure per year, which is much less than many other developed countries.

China, on the other hand, spends about nine percent. In dollar terms, it spends more on infrastructure annually than North America and Western Europe combined. China, like many other nations such as Germany and Japan, looks to long-term goals. Meanwhile, the U.S. generally has shifted away from long-term goals to short-term fixes.

President Dwight D. Eisenhower understood that solid infrastructure is a military weapon. One of the major rationales he used in support of the interstate highway system was that it would facilitate the efficient movement of troops and military equipment across long distances.

Today, one of the easy political solutions to failing infrastructure is to propose privatizing large parts of it, most notably roads and bridges. Private companies alone are unable to finance the huge costs of these infrastructure projects, so they are granted massive tax breaks and are allowed to collect user fees such as tolls to offset their expenses.

This may work for some high-traffic spots in major metropolitan areas, but it will never work for rural roads and bridges that see relatively little traffic but are equally essential to the livelihood of the local population. The other issue is that the roads and bridges are still built with taxpayer money (in the form of grants and tax breaks), yet the taxpayers are charged tolls to use the very things they have already paid for.

Overall, transportation needs to be looked at more closely, and we need a variety of options so that if one part of the system breaks down, there is a backup. Currently, there is no backup, which is why one small failure in the highway system, for example, can cause weeks or months of disruption. Thus, a major blizzard has the potential to cripple cross-country rail networks. 

‘Houston, we have a problem’

The situation in Houston in the aftermath of Hurricane Harvey in 2017 was the “perfect storm” of infrastructure failures, environmental mismanagement and changing weather patterns. It was as much a man-made disaster as was Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans 12 years earlier.

One of the biggest issues in Houston was the lack of zoning and building codes, which are essential components for urban growth. Houston is the fourth-largest city in the U.S. in terms of population and the third-largest in area. More than 2.3 million people are spread out over more than 630 square miles.

Most cities have stringent building requirements. In San Francisco, which has a high population density because the city is confined to a small area, there are higher standards for buildings due to the threat of earthquakes. In addition, they don’t build where there could be floods, and residential and business areas are strictly separated.

In Houston, much of the city was built in known floodplains. Houston was planned by developers, apparently with little thought given to how the various communities would deal with the inevitable floodwaters. Houston is a concrete jungle that floods regularly: The first major flood was in 1935, and since 1994 it has flooded several times. There was a 100-year flood in 1994, a 500-year flood in 2001, and devastating floods in 2015, 2016 and 2017.

The 2017 flood was the worst, of course. With so much of the land paved over, with so many lawns unable to absorb more than an inch or so of rain and with Hurricane Harvey being bigger and slower than previous storms, there was simply nowhere for the water to go.

To make matters worse, the lack of building regulations meant that not only were thousands of homes built in floodplains, but when there was a plan to deal with excess rainwater it often involved simply moving that water to the next community via pipes, ditches, and so on. This total lack of infrastructure planning made the environmental disaster worse than it should have been – and completely predictable.

It’s not just Houston, of course, although we know that many of the problems faced by Houston could have been averted or lessened with sensible and proper planning.

Just weeks after Harvey hit Texas, Hurricane Maria slammed into Puerto Rico, severely damaging the island’s fragile infrastructure and knocking out power to almost the entire population of about 3.5 million people.

Instead of doing all in his power, as quickly as possible, to help millions of American citizens who were without electricity and were running dangerously low of drinking water and food, President Trump belittled the island’s elected officials, calling them “politically motivated ingrates” who “want everything done for them.”

The inadequate Federal response in Puerto Rico was all too familiar. I had seen it before in 2005 in New Orleans – and here we were a dozen years later and we were still stuck on stupid.

Overall, we’re facing a national crisis that could affect 60 million people in low-lying and coastal areas. As a nation, we have no plan to protect those people. There is no Federal agency for planning a response. And the Trump administration is making matters worse by denying there is a problem, refusing to accept the scientific evidence.

One way to be better prepared for future hurricanes is to enlist the aid of the U.S. military – a “Ready Brigade,” a quick-response Task Force that could move in immediately after the storm has passed.

This Task Force would be made up of Army, Navy and/or Marines. It could be drawn from the Army’s 82nd Airborne Division, or the 101st Airborne Division, or the 10th Mountain Division.

The first of the military personnel could be on the ground in a matter of hours, assessing the damage, saving lives, helping people in distress. Such an operation would involve perhaps 15 to 20 ships, 100 helicopters, and a brigade of soldiers, including some who would parachute into the heart of the affected area.

I think Congress should authorize the funding in the Defense Department budget that would enable such a Task Force to be our nation’s first responders

for disasters involving hurricanes of Category 3 strength or higher.

Now, the Task Force wouldn’t take the place of the various State National Guards and other first responder groups that have been at it for decades. It would supplement what’s already being done, and it would do so with extraordinary speed, the likes of which the world has never seen!

It would be easy to slip backwards into being a third world country. We planned our metropolitan areas to be densely populated, but we haven’t put enough thought into how to support that population in times of crisis.

How do they evacuate?

How do they survive if the railroads fail or if the electricity supply fails?

How do they deal with floodwaters?

Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans in 2005 was a learning experience. Mistakes were made, but there was no precedent. Katrina became the precedent and was the starting point for how to deal with future disasters. Houston, Florida, and Puerto Rico incorporated some of the lessons, but neglected others.

The compromised infrastructure across the United States is a serious threat to national security, and it’s made worse by changing weather patterns and cities springing up where they perhaps don’t belong.

We have vested interests in keeping the status quo, but the status quo is rarely favorable to the population at large. Human nature never changes, and those with power don’t want to relinquish it. Unless we learn from history, we are doomed to repeat it – and the failure to learn from Hurricane Katrina is already having serious implication for our ability to deal with today’s monster storms.

What we have to understand is that the price tag to keep Americans safe isn’t the main issue. Look at the amount of money we spend on overseas wars and defense contracts. If we spent just a fraction of that on being prepared for disasters at home, we would be better able to take care of our own people.

The fact that we are failing in our duty to protect our own people is not just stupid, it’s shameful and grossly negligent – but completely reversible if we can muster up the will to address these issues.

Calls to action

Accept the reality of changing weather patterns, and plan accordingly.

Build sustainable houses and rebuild in safe places, not in floodplains.

Don’t use chemicals on your lawns.

Help trees work with the environment, not against it.

Devote time and effort to building a strong infrastructure.

Don’t keep making the same mistakes … don’t get stuck on stupid!

[jongdaekink]

Night

Smut

Taeyong x You

Word Count: 2111

Sweat and more sweat. Your makeup, probably all melted by now. Bodies bouncing and crushing with each other in some kind of punk orgy. No lights besides some fluorecents and neon ones in the sealing and a old disco ball, somehow that was a lot for that place. It wasn’t a intimat escenario, but at the same time it was. It was crowded but at the same time you could feel totally ignored. Music was playing at full volume, so any casual conversation was out of discussion if you weren’t sticked to someone. Your throat was praying for some substance that would calm the extreme dryness, but walk among the people wasn’t a easy thing to do.

You pushed through, opening your way to the high counter and tried to talk without any response, then you yelled but again, nothing. The music was too loud so that you would be heard. Cough, another red flag from your throat. That was your last attempt to shout out to the barman.

It was a grungy disco. You came with friends to have a fun night, and for now you were having a great time. It was already late, so your group of people was scattered everywhere, that’s why you were alone with any help. You needed a drink so you decided to cross half of the place and reach the bar. There were another fifteen people waiting for drinks like you so getting one wasn’t going to be fast.

The presence of another body very close to you didn’t disturb you until you turned around to see who it was. For a moment you couldn’t believe that someone so mesmerizing was standing beside you, watching directly at you, talking to you.

Red hair, a cut on the thick eyebrow and some rests of dark eyeliner framed his face, together with his sharpy jaw line. He was skinny, super skinny like a scarecrow, but in a weird way it was perfect for his look. He was wearing a hook pin in one ear, tight black jeans and a white tank top. That was it. The simplicity of the outfit highlighted more his natural beauty.

“Do you want something to drink?” he asked leaning into your ear. His voice was so deep and throaty that you needed a second to process what he said to you. You were totally lost in his face, so the only thing you could do was to nod.

“You can develop our conversation a little more, what exactly do you want?” He asks giggling. Seeing the smile he dedicated you was like being stabbed in the center of the heart. So beautiful that it causes pain to look at it. How someone like him could be real?.

You tried to talk and say what you wanted to drink but it came weird out of your mouth with a raspy sound due to your dry throat. That wasn’t the only thing of why he starts cracking loudy. Besides saying the drink you added sweety at the end.

He was still laughing of your awkwardness when he leans over the corner, rising his hand to catch the barman’s attention, meanwhile you were analyzing how doomed you were. “At least he knows you are into him, really hard” you thought.

You thank him as he stretched his arm with your drink. It was refreshing. The relieve was running into your body in liquid form, the desert had gone. Now you can think again, or at least no fuck up more your chances with him.

He was just observing you while you were drinking, with a flirting smile. Waiting for you to say something.

“Are you going to keep teasing me with what i said” you whines at him, because you knew he was still laughing inside, and how not was the deal.

“I can try… not to tease you so much, but no one has been so straight to me before” he replies. “I could introduce myself in that way from now on…” he jokes while he bites his lower lip. “This could be our inside joke” adding a wink at the end. His small chat was killing you. Despite the sexy appearence he was kinda cute and silly.

Another type of conversation was happening underneath the glaces and laughs. The tension was there, and a thirst was craving you, not sure if it was the desire of more water or for him.

As soon as you finished the drink he asked to you “Do you want to dance?”. Before you could reply something he grabs you by the wrist and pulls you into the center of the dance floor bouncing with joy, like if he was waiting for this all this time.

*

Stwists, jumps, hands, spins. You knew how to dance, but he was on another level, he could dance everything, guiding you on each song, in every step, and for that you were enjoying it a lot. It was like sliding on the floor, as if the music flows through he, making the people surround you disappear to only focus in him.

Your heart beating faster than the rythm of the music everytime he came near to your for a particular step or small touch till a slow song starts playing at the background when he come closer and closer, looking straight into your eyes as his face changes colours due to the strobe lights, above that his face shifted from the smily boy to a serious look . Hands tangled you by the waist, tipsy fingers were furrowing your spine. He was a inch from your face, devouring you with his dark glace, waiting for you to complete the one percent of the missing path. His tongue was peeking outside, moisturing the lips.

You come closer staring at those eyes till you reach him. Plumps and soft were those who were embracing you, gently at first, then the jaw starts working more and intensifies the kiss. Your hands in his nape, holding him as if you wanted to be more closer than this. The music disappeared of your ears, the only thing you can feel is him like a bass base pounding inside you. Tongues connected with each other and besides the alcohol flavor that was wrapping you perceived a metal ball, warm and slippery battling for your atention. It was intense but playful somehow. Time expands without knowing if you were kissing him for five minutes or half hour.

A break. You were breathing but it was like no air was entering into your lungs. That kiss was too much. You were already missing the little metal companion in your mouth.

“I need to go to the bathroom” you said. That was the only thing that popped into your mind. He was still hugging you by the waist and you couldn’t tell if this was cute or hot by the way he was gentlely playing with the hem of your top at your back. His pupils on the other side were dilatated and dark. He nods and accompanies you till the bathroom door.

What are you doing? You ask to yourself when you entered into the bathroom, you could’t figured out what this boy is. You couldn’t tell. He was driving you crazy with his simply precense. Taking a minute to think, with both hands on the counter, you realize how wet you were for him. Your panties were soaked in fluids. This was how bad you wanted him. You were oficially fucked already, so why not trying him afterwards because somehow you ended here with him.

You ran out so fast from the bathroom you almost hit him.

“Do you want to come to my house?” he said with a deep voice, again, tangling you by the waist thightly. Your heart sank into you body. That was exacly what you were going to said to him. His eyes were demanding an answer. Then he presses his lips in yours, he just presses, showing that he was trudly saying it. When he removed it you sigh with closed eyes “Yes”.

*

The click sound in the closed door makes the clothes start fliying and landing in the floor, chairs, tables tracing a path to the room. You contemplate now his skinny body without anything on, thin muscles and pale skin was the perfect definition for him. You immerse inside the bed under the sheets almost without disarming it and you only had time to turn on the light of the night table before he poses above you pressing you with his weight and warm caress. His scent, his breath, his skin was poisoning you.

The piercing was playing inside you mouth, bounciong between your tongue and sometimes crushing into your teeth. You lost track of one hand that wasn’t touching you till it appreas all of sudden softly brushing your folds from top to bottom with two fingers. The surprise makes you arch your back for the pleasure and as you response like this, one long and bony finger digs into you slowly, tasting your walls that were impregnated with fluids. He went in till his finger was all inside, pressing his palm into your outer lips, sealling your entrance, concentrating all the heat in while he keeps kissing you. Your watery mouth  whines in his mouth, begging for more. He slowly pulled it out, taking a second for hearing you to beg again. This time two entered in your core, pumping you in slow motion. He was teasing you, making you build your orgasm with baby steps.

Your hands scrathed his back and he let go a raspy groan that pierced through your ear. His voice was like a auditive orgasm that bristled the hairs on your neck, meanwhile your body was boiling down there, making you feel a fever. You take your hands out of his back, searching for his member till you reach it. His dick was so stiff for you that the small touch makes him moan in pain more loudy than before, twitching all of his body. He was just acting like if he was in control but in reality was boiling like you, and leaking from the tip.

You move your body down without letting it go of your hands, trying to reach it, you couldn’t wait anymore and neither him. He gets closer and helps leaning his hips where you were demanding him. As soon as the tip touches your lips subtly he shoves all in with one movement and both pressed hard your bodies against each other, shuddering for how filled were feeling now.

His lips left your mouth and goes to your nipples. Moist and warm metal spins around your flesh, turning it more erected than before. First it was only tongue, but then he pinches the tip with his teeth, sending shivers in your chest. The stinging sensation was anything but pain in that particular spot. A glace perused your face, staring at you as you were enjoying his moves.

Now the thrusts were fast and erratic, both waited for too long and couldn’t control anymore, letting the anxiety to be free. He goes rough and deeper, each time he went all in. Your hands are grabbing his ass tight and pushing him in, without letting him to go back for too long.

He laid down his head and buryind it between your boobs, brushing your skin with hot breath into your abdomen, his back fully arched up, and places his arms down your shoulders squeezing his body with yours. You couldn’t feel more bounded as you reach the climax and spill you load over him. You tried to press his ass as far deep as you could but he keeps slaming you harder into the mattres, with no control of himself, making you hypersensitive core spams over him like simultaneous explosions happening inside you till he cums, buryind his hips into you core, squeezing your entire body tight.

“This was amazing sweety” he mumbles and you see his nose wrinkling at you with a big smile on his face while he lifts it back from your chest and falls from over you to one side. He places his head into the pillow and pulls you to his chest. Your ear could listen his heart still pounding fast, recovering from that race. Both are snuggling, covered with the sheets. He wraps his arms around you. Tiredness finally hits after this long night, you are totally relaxed and and both are waiting for the sleeps to come in.

Before you lost conscience he whispers “I’m Taeyong by the way”.

[myalmostmidlifecrisis]

E1: To Botox or Not to Botox?

Transcript from Episode 1: To Botox or not to Botox?

Well, hello there! Welcome to the first episode of My Almost Midlife Crisis. I’m your host Jennifer Mathis and thank you for taking the time to join the conversation today. We’re going to be dipping our toes into the shallow end and we’re going to be talking about what it’s like to be expected to keep looking young, no matter what your age is. 

So, I was reading this article the other day and I came across a couple fun facts. If you know me, you know I love me some fun facts so I’m going to share them with you. Did you know that the US represents one of the most valuable beauty and personal care markets in the world, especially when we’re talking about anti-aging. 

In fact, in 2020, Americans spent an estimated $14.2 Billion (with a B) in anti-aging products. Now I’d love to see that comparison vs. what we spent in toilet paper in 2020, but still a big number. To put that into perspective, that’s 27% of the global market, with only 4% of the population. 

At first, I was like wow! That seems like a lot, we’re way over indexing there. But then I started thinking about it more and I don’t know, it kinda makes sense to me. We get pressure every day to keep ourselves looking young. I mean, men get pressure too, but I’m not a man and I can’t fully understand that. This podcast is more about the woman’s perspective so we’re going to leave that to someone else. I’m not saying men don’t get pressure so get off my back. 

I’m saying that women get so much pressure to look young. We get mixed messages. Dress your age. You’re too old to shop at Forever 21, but that outfit makes you look matronly. Go au natural, let your hair grow out but girl you better take care of those wrinkles! 

It keeps me thinking, are we just wasting our time trying to turn back the clock? Is it just wishful thinking because it’s a losing battle? Also, it’s expensive! When I look back, I probably started using Anti-aging products about 10 years ago. When I think about all that money I probably have spent, did it work? Who knows! Would I have just looked the way I do now without them? Could I have gone on a couple more trips instead? 

In today’s episode, we’ll focus on three areas. There’s plenty more we can talk about but today we’ll bring it down to three because we don’t have all day. Going grey, the ever-increasing skincare regime and finally the question I’ve been pondering for at least the last year To Botox, or not to Botox? 

First let’s talk about going grey. For years I’ve seen a strand pop up here or there. Of course, they’re never in the back of your head where you don’t have to look at it or notice it and unless you’re doing a weird selfie of the back of your head (which why would you do that?) you would never even notice it. 

Oh no no no. It’s right up front. It’s in the hair that frames your face so every time you look in the mirror, it’s a gentle reminder that your youth is slowly slipping away strand by strand. 

During facetime with my friends, they’ll console me and say “Girl, it just looks like a blonde streak, don’t even worry about it. You can’t even tell.” Uh, thanks. But you’re a lying b*tch.

I appreciate it, that’s what friends are for, to build you up. Sometimes I like to believe, maybe they’re right! Maybe I’m just too hard on myself, wouldn’t be the first time. Maybe if I keep telling myself it looks like blonde, I’ll actually believe it. But then I took another selfie today for this podcast and I’m going to be posting it later and I’m kidding myself. It’s grey. 

The hypocrisy that men are considered “silver foxes” and women have to “learn to love the transition”. I saw that written the other day. I know you can’t see me, but there were some aggressive air quotes happening there. I keep seeing these articles profiling women that were “brave to embrace their grey”. Brave? Is that what it takes to go grey? Am I the only one that finds the word grey almost insulting to be described as something as simple as going grey? Brave is something like when you go into battle as a soldier or when you’re protesting human rights. It’s not reserved for things like getting grey hair. 

But on the flip side, I see some women that are rocking the grey. I mean, big shout out to Diane Keaton. She is adorable! If I can look anything like her at that age, I would be so happy! 

It’s not just the women I look up to that are serving up some serious chicness as I’m now labeling them “grey-haired divas”. No no no. It’s now GenZers. Or as I like to call them “the kids” or “the youngens”. I’m sorry if you’re a GenZer and that offends you but as an older Millennial, that’s how it feels. GenZers are purposefully dying their hair grey. Oh no, I wish I was kidding but I’m not. 

For those of you that don’t know me, I should digress slightly, I swear it will be quick, to talk about the two new obsessions 2020 has given me. Some are healthy like Peloton. 

I was actually having a conversation with one of my Peloton friends the other day, and yes I know how lame that sounds, and it reminds me of every conversation you have around your favorite shows on an OTT platform. Oh hey girl, you should check out Bridgeton, yeah that was really good did you see My Queens Gambit, oh yeah did you see The Outsider on HBO? That circular conversation is the exact same conversation if you have a Peloton except replace shows with workouts and instructors. I’m sure for those people that don’t have Peloton, it’s the most annoying conversation to listen to, but whateves. Anyway...

That’s a healthy obsession, maybe a less healthy obsession (not going to say unhealthy) would be TikTok. I can spend hours on that app. I am totally one of those people that will also text you TikToks. And you know what? Side note: If I text you a TikTok it’s because I watched a video and it made me think of you and I think you would enjoy this. I’m sending this a gift of 15-20 seconds of enjoyment that I thought you would like. So you’re welcome. and maybe you should watch the TikToks that I sent you because I thought of you for it and you can see why I thought of you. And this note is specifically for my fiancé because I know for a fact that he doesn’t watch the TikToks I send him. But I’m going to keep doing it. 

So it’s pretty much where I learn about new music and I’m keeping up with the trends. I’m hanging with the youngens and I kinda get what’s going on. While I know that sounds SUPER lame, it’s the truth. So while I can probably do a whole episode on TikTok vs. when I was that age, we’re gonna stick to the grey-haired one for now and maybe I’ll make another episode of that later. 

I’ve noticed a trend where they are choosing to dye their hair grey. As an older Millennial I cannot imagine choosing to be grey in my early 20′s! I don’t even want to be grey now, let alone choosing to be at 22? Are you crazy? Grey hair when I was that age was a signal of old age. My Grandma had grey hair but there was no way in hell my mom would have kept her grey hair. I don’t even know if she has grey hair, she’s been dying her hair for as long as I can remember. Who knows what color her hair is at this point? But I can tell you one thing, if there was grey, no way would it be showing. 

To actually want to have your hair grey seems insane to me. But at the same time, just to play devil’s advocate, maybe we should be (dare I say it) thanking them. In a way, aren’t they just taking away the power grey hair holds on us? If a 22yo female can have grey hair, then who gives a sh*t if a 40 or 50yo has grey hair? Doesn’t it just become mainstream at that point? 

Net/Net, my take on grey hair - turning grey feels weird to me. It’s almost this physical signal that I’m slowly transitioning to a new chapter in my life and honestly? I don’t know how I feel about that. In a way, I could be optimistic. I could be one of those people that say “I’m older and wiser now. These grey streaks are a signal that I’ve learned some sh*t and I should wear it with pride.” Yeah I guess. But let’s be honest, I’m also saying NO! I’d like to think I could pull off a chic grey, but wrinkles? That’s a whole other story. Those a**holes keep creeping up and I am NOT OK with it. But I’m actually really struggling with what is the right approach. 

That leads me to the next topic. Skincare and the daily war against wrinkles. If you’re like me, the spending on your anti-aging regimen and my time spent getting ready for bed or in the morning increase. I am constantly googling ways to stop the clock and reading articles about recommended products or natural remedies, which...

You have to laugh when we talk about anti-aging natural remedies. That phrase shouldn’t even be allowed to be written. It is the opposite of natural to try to reverse what nature is doing. That is the opposite. You know what a natural remedy is? A time machine. And good luck getting one of those because Costco has been sold out for years. 

As a marketer, I’m an easy target. I’m the target where when my clients ask “how do we find the right target?”, well if you have an anti-aging product, we’re super obvious. We just hold these massive red flags because our digital footprints are screaming that we are desperate to find solutions. Please sell something to me and I have money to spend. Currently, I am an avid sunscreen user, thanks to a couple of years ago. If I had to guess why I got a little bit of skin cancer, maybe it was partially due to the free tanning bed that was in my apartment complex when I was in college in Florida. Yeah, just to recap that, there was a free tanning bed in the Sunshine State because you can’t just get the natural, free sun and tan that God created, we have to go into a machine and just speed up the process of cancer. So I took total advantage of that and then here I am, 20 years later, having issues with skin cancer. So thanks for that.

My current regimen is sunscreen, a sh*t-ton of moisturizer, I currently use skin oil from Scratch Goods which if you haven’t tried it, it’s a local company and they make amazing all natural products. Oh, look at that! There’s a natural remedy! Actually thinking about it, it’s funny I use face oil now, I remember when I was a kid and just starting to needing to wash my face so I don’t get zits. I used to use Neutrogena cleanser – no, not Neutrogena, Noxzema! Noxzema where it tears through your skin so that basically nothing could live, and then I follow that up with Oil of Olay. Remember when it used to be called Oil of Olay? Yougens if you’re listening to this show you probably don’t know what I’m talking about because it’s just called Olay now. The got rid of the oil. I’m sure there’s some consumer insight that said women don’t want to put oil on their face. Well ironic, maybe you should now change the name back because putting oil on your face is back in style.

So I use that, I use anti-aging cream, haven’t tried a serum yet and I have a prescription for Retinol so I can use the hard-core stuff (maybe going back to my Noxzema days) and I put collagen in my coffee every morning. I mean, Jesus Christ. Even just naming all of that is just…kind of ridiculous.

I think I look pretty good for my age, this is me based on I see others online or on TV and I think they’re 35? They look like they’re almost 50! Then of course I get the slight panic moment of wait, do I look like that? Do I think I look young but actually I don’t? Is this like when I was in college and I was under 21 and I was using that fake ID for some 26yo and I was like “I could totally pass for her” which as I got older I’m like, oh girl, you were not passing for that, they just didn’t care and they let you in.

Another fabulous gift from 2020, more fine lines around my eyes. So I’ve been looking at – should I be upping my game? Is what I’m doing currently not enough? I feel like I’m the only one of my friends that has not had a single pinch of Botox in my face. I don’t know, it scares me. Botox seriously scares me. One, it’s this signal or symbol that the over-the-counter stuff is no longer working and you’re starting to lose the battle. Your turning a corner. But also, I hate needles. I can’t even look at needles; I have to look the other way when they’re taking blood. And you’re putting poison into your face, like actual poison. But listen I’m not totally against it.

A lot of my friends look great. It’s clearly working for them. But it scares me because once you start it, you can’t stop. That’s it. You’ve now turned this corner. You’ve made this decision and you have to live with it. Now you’re on that path. It kind of reminds me of when I was a kid and I really wanted to shave my legs because I had long, hairy legs. I had a little bit of an older friend, Tricia if you’re listening, I will never forget, we had a sleepover one night, we shaved our legs and our parents noticed and we were in massive trouble. But my mom was right, you shave your legs and that’s it! Moving forward you have to continue so if that is what Botox is, am I ready to start that journey right now?

Also when I look around, while my friends look great, I’ve seen some real, scary, warning stories. And by real, scary, warning stories, I mean reality TV. I mean, where I find the time to watch as much reality TV as I do should be considered the eighth wonder of the world. I’m not a lazy person. I don’t just sit around and watch TV all day. Even in quarantine, I’m working out, I’m trying to write an outline of a book, I’m actually working and doing my job and now I’m apparently starting a podcast. I’m not like a lazy person. But somehow, I’m able to, very efficiently, watch a lot of reality TV and one of my favorite franchises is The Real Housewives.

Most of these women have been surgically altered, let’s not even lie to ourselves. Very little of them, if any of them at this point, are au natural. And some pull it off real well like Dorit from Real Housewives of Beverly Hills? I mean, she’s clearly had work done but I’m sorry, she’s hot. If I was into women, I mean she’s gorgeous. Cheers to you. This next statement has nothing to do with you. You’re doing a great job. Whoever your doctor is, keep going and maybe send him my way.

But others scare the sh*t outta me. I’m not going to name names because at the end of the dday these are real people and we have to remember that. I truly believe you are an a**hole if you call out people and talk sh*t about their appearance in public. That is public bullying someone. I know they’re on reality TV. I know you think you can say whatever you want. But keep your snarky comments to your living room, they don’t need to be out there in public. But watching the transformations from season to season are honestly worrisome as I look forward to is this my new reality. I really hope they get some kind of compensation for the damage their doctor has done because Girl, you better go get your refund. There is a fine line between looking younger and taking it too far and starting to look deformed.

Basically, when it comes to looking younger, to wrap up today’s conversation, and dealing with the pressure from outside sources, I just really think you gotta do you. I think the older I get, the more I realize as long as you are ok with yourself, who the f*ck cares what others think. Usually people’s opinions of you have way more to do with themselves and their sh*t they gotta work through. What makes you feel sexy? What makes you feel beautiful? If you can answer that, you’ll give yourself less wrinkles from stressing out about it and you’re going to save yourself some cash. Or maybe not. I don’t know. Your choice. You do you.

Well sadly that ends our time for today. I just want to say I know your time is valuable and I really appreciate you listening to this podcast. I had so much fun recording it. I can’t believe episode one is done already! I wish I could just pop open a bottle of champagne but of course I’m doing dry January (which I feel like is a really bad decision). But it’s been so much fun! I’m new to this. This is literally the second recording I have ever made so your feedback is also appreciated. I’m a big girl, I can handle constructive criticism. Don’t be a jerk, but if you have any comments or thoughts please send them over. And if you have any topics you’d like me to discuss as well, send those over! I would love to hear them! You can read the transcript on Tumblr under My Almost Midlife Crisis, you can find me on Instagram at explorelikeagirl or on Twitter @AlmostMidlife.

Thanks again and until next time! 

[in-the-bookish-dark]

Light of Day - Chapter 1 - RL

The morning was wet.  It wasn't humid or muggy. Just plain wet. Everything was wet. The rains had swept through town the night before at ten and two, but since then, no water had fallen. It just hung heavy in the air and gave every surface in the house a misting of earth sweat.

Miles padded through the house.  Derek, transient houseguest, was gone. Windows were open. Kids were down the street, already squealing.  They always played tag between the cars on either side of the block.  In the mornings, it was okay.  Then, when things got busy, lunchtime or after, they'd find a back yard to congregate in.  Fun was fun, but getting run over was not.  Ten or twelve years ago, he'd have been out there with them. Right now, he'd give his right hand, or part of it, to be out there playing in the new day.  New day or old day, just a different fucking day.

He went through the motions with the coffee.  Muscle memory, they called it.  He sat at the dinette and shook out a cigarette as the percolator started to rumble.  At the first drag, he wanted a shot of Jack, but he'd start with coffee.

When he came in the day before, the letter was buried between two magazines and grocery store flyers in the mailbox.  He'd done the physical a month ago. Clean bill. Son of a bitch.  He didn't have to read this letter to know what it said.  He did anyway. He needed to know his drop-dead date.

He mentioned it over dinner - Chelsea had come over and made spaghetti.  He drank most of the Riunite and two beers.  It was right at the end of the second beer. They cleaned the table. She had questions and a deer in the headlights look. He said he was tired. Then he ushered her out by picking a small fight and poking and prodding until the room and the house were too small for more than him. They'd talked about her moving in, but they still both liked to have some space.  He sat on his front porch and smoked two joints and drank the rest of the sixer.  He didn't care who smelled the bud that night.

Maybe he'd call her this morning, after he had some cleansing coffee. Maybe he's walk 'round to her place. When he poured his coffee, he went ahead and poured a shot. Why wait? He threw it back and poured another. Why wait? Time's burning. The Jack burned going down and he liked it.  He needed something burning inside at that moment.  Everything was burning, and he wanted to feel it inside like he felt it outside.

They did the draft lottery in December. His number came up in the first half hour. His birthday was July 9th, so his number was 1. Couldn't be much more in the crosshairs than that. Can't even pretend to hope. It burned going through his mind.  He didn't hear anything after the number showed on the tv, just helicopters.  Waves - no, fleets - of helicopters, slicing through the humidity of Vietnam.  What felt like their rotors pounding the air, though was his heart trying to escape his chest.  Chels was with him that night. She asked what was wrong.  He took a while before he said "Nothing."  It was a big nothing growing in the pit of his stomach. He remembered Polyphemus and Odysseus.  "Who is killing you, Polyphemus?"  "Nobody. Nobody is killing me." Then shut the fuck up, they probably said.  He did soon enough, and then he was silent for all ages.

Odysseus pretended to be mad in order to get out of war.  It didn't work.  They put a baby - his son - in front of the plow, in front of the plow he was turning the field with, dressed as a woman. If he was really mad, which they knew he wasn't, he'd have plowed on through Telemachus, on through his legacy. He stopped, though, then accepted his fate and went off to death and Troy.

Dressing as a woman, (was Odysseus actually the world's first cross-dresser?), wasn't going to get him anywhere.  It had been done.  Done to death. Canada?  It was 1000 miles up the Mississippi and then some.  A hell of a trek to a place where he knew nobody.  Did he know anyone in the movement ... surely someone ... but nobody came to mind.  He sympathized - sympathized like crazy, but music kept him busy.  Maybe Kyle or Kenny knew someone.  Practice was at two and their gig at nine.  Maybe they knew someone.  He'd see. And maybe he'd ask someone.  It seemed right but maybe it was someone else, like Achilles or someone. But that was back in Dec., even before the order for physicals came in.

His coffee cooled when he stared toward the window.  Not at the window or out of it, just roughly that general direction.  He padded back into the living room and grabbed some vinyl.  "In a Silent Way" by his namesake.  He sprayed and wiped and blew little flecks of lint off the disk before cueing it up.  Mademoiselle Mabry started up as he sat down.

There was a smear of vinyl cleaner on his fingertip and he flicked it off before reaching for another cigarette.

He looked and rubbed the tip, spreading the little bit of moisture that was left.  His finger.  His cousin Greg had found his own answer.  Two weeks before he was supposed to do his physical, he managed to get his index and middle finger yanked off at the second knuckle at the [steel mill.]  He was always careful, except the one time when he wasn't.  Without both fingers, there was a lot he couldn't do, including things like filling out forms, firing machine guns, throwing grenades, and whatever else fit the job description of a grunt in 'Nam.

He rubbed slowly around the finger tip, imagining its absence.  There he was at Cafe du Monde, dipping his beignets left-handed. Or he was claw-lifting them with his right.  Pool.  He could still handle his stick with those fingers gone.  Grip the stick tighter.  Maybe that angle would even be better. It could start a trend. Everyone would start lifting their fingers off the stick just so they could play like him.  Albums. Could he get them out of the sleeve with "the claw?" Could he cup Chel's face with his hands the way she likes with the claw?  Down at the rec center, could he play pickup b-ball with the claw? Where would his control go?  Two fingers isn't a lot when it comes to a basketball. Four fingers weren't that much to start with.  But he'd be playing ball at home, and not on some muddy clearing outside Saigon or wherever the hell they would send him. No b-ball deep in the jungle where Charlie is waiting around to shoot it - and you - out of the air in the middle of your jump shot. Two finger b-ball is always better than dead.

He picked up the spoon for his coffee.  Rolled it finger-to-finger with his left hand.  Dropped it six times. Didn't even try it with his right.  Couldn't imagine how. So maybe he's stop putting cream in his fucking coffee. If I can take a finger or two off, I can drink my damn coffee black. He went back to staring toward the window.  He drummed those two fingers on the table.  Might be his last chance, better take it.

Maybe two other fingers.  Left hand?  Nah. He'd be double screwed. Lamed up and still in 'Nam.  What do they care about your left hand if you're a rightie?  Ring and pinkie?  Still useless.

He called his mom, then he called his dad.  They both didn't know what to say. Literally. "I don't know what to say, it's ..." his mom said.  "I don't know what you want me to say ..." came from his father.

After he finished the calls, he sat on the couch.  Then he laid on the couch.  Then he methodically spooled his phone cord in one hand, until it was snug between wall and phone.  He tugged both ends, then he yanked the cord from the biscuit jack on the wall in one clean jerk.  His elbow nudged the casement window open and he flung the phone out into the yard, as far as he could.

At La Casa, forty-five minutes later, he was already on his third boilermaker.  Maybe he should pace himself. Maybe he didn't care because in less than three weeks, he was going downtown to the induction center.  He got another shot.  Still working on the second beer, but then he was already ahead of the game.  Whatever the game was.  A shadow came in through the Decatur side door, and walked up behind him.

"Hey, Miles,  what's the haps?" It had to be Carl, from the old band. The rasp and Irish Channel accent was unmistakable.  He and Chelsea grew up together.

"Hey, Carl, where y'at?"

"So?"

He shrugged. 'So ' what??

"Talked to Chelsea."

"Jesus.  And?"

"What's goin' on, man?"

"I got mail yesterday."

"From?"

"Uncle Sam."

"Shit, man."

"Yeah. Order to report."

"When?"

"The 23rd."

"Whatcha gonna do?"

"Exactly."

"No, I mean, really, what are you gonna do?"

"Man, I don't fucking know."

Neither of them said anything.

Carl glanced at the setup.  He flagged the bartender and waved two fingers at their glasses and bottles.

"Thanks, man."

"Hey, least I can do."

"So, what's going on with Chelsea?"

"Nothing, man, I just wasn't in a mood.  If we started on it as soon as I got the letter, she'd freak, and then we'd go around and around, and I just wasn't going to deal with it then.  I don't have an answer; how the fuck am I supposed to give her an answer."

"Answer about what?"

"About ... how I felt, what I was going to do, what about us, shit like that.  I wasn't thinking. I was just falling down this long, dark hole, man.  I don't think I've still hit bottom.  When I was first on the draw, I knew my number was up - literally.  Then I got the physical exam letter a month ago, and I knew they didn't find shit that was going to save me.  I'm not an athlete, but I'm healthy."

'Well, listen, guy, Amy has a connection to Canada ~'

'Canada.' Heavy. Not interested. Dropping it on the floor.

'Hang on, buddy.'

Carl walked off. Miles sat there, rocking his empty shot glass back and forth. After a while or two or three, Carl came back.

'Uppers, man.'

'What?'

'Take a bunch of uppers the day before your physical, and then one the day of, and your blood pressure will be off the charts.  They won't take you for that. Maria ~' he shrugged back where he'd come from ' ~ she can hook you up good, compadre.'

Miles flicked the shot glass.  It slid across the bar and hung over the edge before dropping.  There was no crash, so it must've landed on something. 'Goddamit, Carl, I already took the fucking physical. How the hell does that help me?'

'Oh yeah, shit, man. I'm sorry.  Little high.  Good fucking buzz, actually. I forgot.'

Miles tried to rub away the tension in his skull, but it wasn't going anywhere.

'Anyway, man ' hey, let's get together before you have to go in.  Get totally wasted and strung out. My tab.  Least I can do.'  Carl slapped his shoulder, then wandered.  Somewhere.  Miles didn't see.

He finished his drink.  He finished the drink Carl left behind.  He waved for another shot and threw it back, then paid out.

Chelsea was waiting on the front step when he got to the house. She had a beer beside her, sweating on the concrete, and her cigarettes, untouched, as well.

He sat back to back with her. "Hey."

"Yeah?"

"We can talk. I just couldn't do it then."

She picked at a single thread sticking up from the knee of her jeans.  "Yeah, well ..."

"I'm sorry."

She nodded.  He put out his hand and she took it. She reached across her body for her beer and took a long draw.

"Want to go inside?"

He wanted one of her cigarettes.  He reached, but then stopped.  "Yeah, hey - how about I cook tonight?"

"In a bit."

She walked him into the shotgun house; walked him straight back to the bedroom.  She held him and he held her.  They didn't manage sex.  The alcohol and the draft board saw to that.  They did have spaghetti again, his way, with wine in the sauce and big chunks of meat.  Almost meatballs, but smaller and ragged, and no breading or seasoning.

She got up in the middle of the night and found him by himself in the living room.  He was passed out, a dry bottle of vodka next to him.  His index and middle fingers were folded down and taped together.  Layers and layers of masking tape.  She turned off the snowy tv and threw her grandma's quilt over him and went back to the bedroom.

When she got up the next morning, long after dawn, he'd been up for a while.  A corner of the quilt was soaking in the sink.  He was at the dinette.  "I, uh, threw up a little.  Cleaned it up, but some got on it.  I'll hang it out in a bit."

She nodded and took a cigarette from the pack on the table. His were stronger and they burned, but she didn't care just then.  She took his mug of coffee and pointed him to the cabinets.  The steam told her it was fresh.

He poured a new one for himself and sat across from her.  She remembered and looked at his hand.  No tape, but some redness from where it was yanked off.

"What were you doing with the tape?"

"Nothing.  I was just drunk and wanted to see what it would be like."

"Kinda odd."

He shrugged. "Drunk guys do odd fucking things, Chels."

"What do you th~"

"I don't fucking know."  He stood and walked to the sink. "Honestly, Chels - I don't know.  I'm not trying to be an asshole. I don't know what to say yet, don't know what to do."

She blew out smoke and fiddled with the lighter. "I'll finish up the quilt."

"Nah, I got it, babe.  Hey, let's get dressed and go down to the park.  We'll grab po-boys and watch the kids on the flying horses."

She nodded.  He squeezed the excess water out of the quilt corner, then smoothed it.  The screen door banged behind him, taking it out to the line.

They got out there on the streetcar just as the lunch wagon rolled in. Miles went over to get the po-boys. Chelsea found a Magnolia with a grassy patch underneath.  The breeze was soft but refreshing.  They couldn't see the carousel from there, but they could hear it when the wind shifted.  It was the most relaxing thing they'd done in days.  She gathered their sandwich trash.  He reached into the bag for two Hubig's pies.  Cherry and lemon.  She took lemon.  He finished the cherry in half the time she spent on hers, but it was all good.

By the flying horses, there was a Coke machine.  Coke for him and Tab for her.  He folded up the pull tabs and stuck them in the coin pocket of his jeans til they found a trash can.  They leaned on the rail around the carousel and watched the squealing kids.  Their cans sweated and dripped down. A little cluster of droplets formed under hers.  His drips were all over the place.

It really was the best afternoon. They had laughing kids in front of them, surrounded by wide greens, greens without snipers or tripwires or landmines or flamethrowers, and somehow, he managed not to think of them.  Southeast Asia was somewhere on the far side of Mars.

There was a bench nearby, close, but not right on the main paths.  She kissed him and he kissed back.  Her hand rested on his thigh; he glanced around, then slid one hand up her shirt to her bra-less tit.  His hand was still cold from the Coke can.  She jumped, but didn't complain.

Back at the house, they again went straight back to the bedroom.  Windows were open, but windows didn't matter.  She laid him back and straddled him, riding him face-to-face.  His wood was weak, but it firmed up inside her.  She rocked until his hardness filled her, then leaned down and let him thrust.  She had little bruises on her thighs the next morning, but it didn't matter.  They rode together, and her tits dragged back and forth over his chest.  She panicked a little when he came - they hadn't stopped for a rubber - but she was too close herself to think too hard.  She douched after, though, as he laid, catching his breath.  Don't take too much of a risk.  Nine months on, he was going to be in the jungles or worse.  They hadn't talked marriage before, and she wasn't going to talk it now.  She also wasn't going to be a single mother.  If the douche didn't take care of things, there were other ways.

They skipped dinner and had popcorn and beer in bed.  The little tv set wavered and wobbled, but they saw most of the Saturday night line-up.

Around 2am, storms woke them.  He rolled her over, again without preamble, and glided deep into her.  She was wet from his cum and wet from the douche.  Lightning snapped around them. Thunder shook the windows.  Winds slapped the blinds back and forth.  All the rage outside was inside, too.  This was a fuck.  His cock pounded in; her ankles met behind his ass.  He reached a hand behind her neck and pulled her up to him.  Every thrust, he grunted; every thrust, she gasped.  The angle worked for her, and she came and came.  Hard orgasms from far inside, like they'd been waiting for a dark summoning.  They liked it a little rough sometimes, and they'd cum with fireworks and cannons.  She came hard like that.  Angry orgasms.  She fucked back against him as hard as he fucked down into her.  She would hold him there and fight to keep him home inside of her.  He fucked like he never planned to leave, or planned never to leave.  She couldn't cum anymore. She just shuddered around and under him.  She keened and clutched and scratched.  Her nails sank in and Miles himself went over the edge.  The last thrust, he didn't want to stop there.  He wanted his whole fucking body inside her cunt, swallowed up by her.  He squirmed, like that would help, but in twenty seconds, it was all over.  His cock was still hard, but it was the only muscle with any strength.  He sagged down on her, and they both wept, then faded out.

He woke and he was face down, naked, and alone.  His cock was slimy and sticky, but alone.  She was in the bathroom, running water for minutes on end, then going into the kitchen.  She came back and shut the door again.  The water came back on.  He drifted in and out, but noticed when the water cut off again.  The light under the door flickered like she was walking back and forth. He drifted in and out more.  By the time he got his head around checking on her, she snapped the light off and came out.  Chels sat on the bed and ran her fingers through his damp hair, then walked out.  His first thought was she was walking home at 4am.  He was about to roust himself to stop her.  He heard the chain on the door and the couch creak, and knew she wasn't going anywhere.

In the morning, he made coffee. He poured mugs for both and set hers on the coffee table.  Close enough to reach from the couch, but not so close she'd knock it over.  He drank his on the way to the corner for a paper.

He got the paper and kept walking, wondering about the night.  He'd cum in her twice without protection. Did it mean something more than convenience?  Chels was good about keeping condoms on hand for them.  His place, her place, her purse, just in case.  Didn't even bother last night.  She was always in charge of protection, the condom cop.  Just was.  Except last night.  He didn't know what it meant. Something? Nothing?

When he came in, the couch was empty.  She called from the kitchen "Hey!"

He went in and she was scrubbing down the countertop.  The stove shined as much as that old shitpile would shine.  This confused him more.  Was she nesting or working off tension?

"Hey, Chels."

"... hey."

This was fucking reading tea leaf time.  She only half-glanced at him.

He walked up behind her.  His hand landed on her shoulder. She kept scrubbing.  Not scrubbing harder. Not scrubbing any less. Not leaning back, and not trying to escape.  Just not engaging.  He stepped back and she slowed.  Two strands of hair had escaped her cleaning scarf, and she brushed them back.

"I've been thinking ... Miles ..."

"Yeah, Chels?"

" ... I don't know."

"About?"

" ... I don't even know that."

He touched her one more time on the shoulder. Light touch. Lighter even than before, and just for a second.  He walked toward the dinette, then changed his mind.  He yanked hard on the paper towel roll and eight or ten spooled off.  He ran them under the tap and smeared the water around the front of the fridge, avoiding anything that was taped or clipped to it. The wad of paper dripped water down the fridge to the floor.

She glanced over.  "Goddammit, Miles ..."

He froze.  Yeah. He couldn't - or wouldn't - clean for shit. Bad time to remind her.

He stepped back and they stood stock still for a moment.

She slapped her rag down on the counter.  "Here comes the shit storm" he thought.  One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four M~ ... and she hugged his side. She kissed his shoulder.  She said, "It's okay, babe. I got this. You go do something." She pointed outside, so he went outside.

He sat on the stump of the old Magnolia that had snapped apart six years ago when Betsy blew through.  He was surrounded by dandelions a foot high, and those nasty, milkweed kind of weeds even higher, so that's what he did.  Probably snapped off more than he yanked out of the soft soil, but it was something, maybe.

He fucked around, making a mess, for about half an hour. After that, he got shame, and he got serious.  Instead of throwing them around the yard, he stacked the weeds.  Instead of yanking, he dug with the fingers he while he had, and pulled them by the root.  Thirty more minutes and he was rolling a joint from the stash in the roof of the shed.  At least he'd done something, though.  He tapped on the kitchen window and she glanced over.  Ten seconds later, they were sharing the joint.  She was leaning in to him.  They were pulling down the beers she'd brought out and taking their time on the doob.  Their little time machine where everything stops. That Twilight Zone episode with the guy and the stop watch.  They had their own.

Their eyelids got heavy.  They rocked back and forth. He sang "Brown Eyed Girl" to her, or what he could remember.  They went to the bedroom and rocked against each other.  The condoms never left the drawer again, and the afternoon passed before either of them stirred.

He heated up leftover spaghetti in foil in the stove and she douched again.  Twice. Salt and vinegar, until it burned.  They sat on the stoop with paper plates and ate dried out spaghetti, with burn-brown ends, and watched kids ride by on their bikes in the twilight.

The next morning, he had to do something.  He didn't know what, but he couldn't sit still.  It could be the wrong thing, as long as it was something.  Between 5 and when he got up at 6, he rolled in and out of dreams.  Asians in black pajamas chasing him through the Garden District and into the Quarter.  The Greek sailors at the Acropolis bought him glasses of Ouzo, then tried to shove him into a tiger trap with big, sharpened bamboo stakes.  He took one through the thigh, but still managed to run down Dauphine to Bourbon, then around to the Old Absinthe House.  They poured a schooner of green liquid and told him he'd be fine - and that he'd be better off without any of his fingers, and when he looked down, his right arm was a stump ending just below his wrist.  He crossed the levee and jumped into the Mississippi.  When he came up, he was surrounded by screaming GI's in rat cages half-under the water.

He flung himself out of bed; every inch of him, pooled in sweat.  Chelsea didn't stir.  He wanted to scream her awake, but what good would that do?  He just needed someone to hear him.  The phone was still fucked, and laying in the yard.  He could go to [pirate place?].  They were always open to people they knew.  A drink would help. Two, three drinks would help. Maybe.  They were down to four joints, but he took one from the house stash and slipped out the front screen door.  He left the front door barely latched, so she wouldn't hear.

Jerry pegged him as soon as he walked in. "What the fuck, man?  Are you on acid?"

Miles explained the past three days, jittering as he did so.  Jerry poured him a big glass of something brown.  "On the house, dude."

Miles fired up and they passed the doob back and forth until it was too small even for a roach clip.

"What are my options, man?"

"You could fake going nuts, man, but there's a price.  You could claim you were a fag, also a price.  You could run off to Canada~"

"No. Ain't going anywhere."  Funny, the option with the least price was the one he ruled out immediately.  But there was a price.  It was the fact that it didn't cost him anything.  He might not want to fight or die, but he didn't want to run, either.  He'd take the consequences, but the one consequence he couldn't take was nothing."

"Conscientious objector?" Jerry said it, then shook his head.

"Yeah. I'd still go.  I just wouldn't get to shoot back.  That's assuming I convinced them of my 'longstanding beliefs' of the past two days."

Jerry nodded. "You could kill somebody, man."

They held their breaths.  The words filtered down out of the air.  When they were on the floor, still and safe, they went on.

"I ever tell you about my cousin? Greg?"

"Pineda?  Down at the garage?"

"One and only.  He got his letter a year and a half ago."  He held up a hand, two fingers folded down.

"Shit. So that's what happened to them ...?"

Miles nodded.

"I actually thought it was an accident."

"Maybe it was on purpose, maybe not. He had fucking great timing, though. Day after he got his letter to report for physicals, bam!  He still had the stitches in when he reported.  Doc didn't even want to look under his bandages.  Checked a couple of boxes and told him to put his fucking pants back on and go home."

Jerry nodded.  A moment later, Miles' glass was full again.  He reached for his wallet.  Jerry waved for him to put it away, eyes out the window, squinting at the sun that wasn't there yet.  The next joint was Jerry's. Big fat blunt. Twice as big as the one Miles shared.  By 8am, Miles was toasted.  Jerry moved him to a booth and brought a bag of Fritos for him to munch on.  Around 1, he walked home.

The day was as wasted as he was.

Next day, he had to have a plan.  Getting fried was no plan.  The clock was running, and in another seventeen days, his ass would be on its way to wherever the fuck they do basic, and then he'd be hopping through the jungle with a target on his head.

Chelsea was off at work by the time he woke up at 7.  The bakery started at 4 and she would get in at 5, and run solid to 5 that afternoon.  He was off til tomorrow, and had promised to clean up more shit in the yard. That's what she said.  Banquet TV dinners on trays in the living room last night, which he fell asleep on.  Salisbury steak and potatoes spilled all over the floor.  "Can you at least do something with the yard tomorrow?"  She went to bed.  Around 2 he woke up enough to clean up his mess.  He crashed on the couch.

The big Bradford pear in the back, past the magnolia stump, near the sagging back fence, needed trimming.  The branches dragged toward the ground. When the wind blew, the pears skittered and thunked along the ground. Some were already falling off and rotting. Chelsea hated walking around back there.  They had lawn chairs for sitting in the shade. "I might as well have to walk through a maze of dog crap, though."  She hated it.  They ended up sitting at the stump, in the sun, most of the time.

He dug the bow saw out of the shed.  He stared at the tree, not sure where to start.  Cut off the heavy parts at the end, the part with all the pears?  That didn't seem right.  Maybe the ones that were way overloaded.  No, start back by the trunk, where the problem started.  He cut of a couple of middle size branches, long, but not too heavy.  That gave him confidence.  Next, he went for a branch half way out on a bigger one.  It had to have 50 pears of different sizes.  He held the baby branch and started sawing.  He was half way through when things twisted.  There was a little crack-crack and the whole branch rolled forward.  The saw blade was trapped. On the in-stroke, it jumped and grazed his thumb nail.

"Son of a bitch!"  He threw the saw down and jumped back.  The branch crackled more and sagged to the ground. It didn't break. Just hung.  He checked his thumb. There was a long gash, and a little glow of pink, turning to red, showing through. He picked up the saw and banged on the branch, hammering until the back of the bow was dented.

"Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch.  I coulda lost my thumb.  Son of a bitch."  Even as he said it, even as he was angry of the near miss, he was getting angry over the missed opportunity. A thumb was probably worth two fingers.  He should have taped his goddamn thumb down the other night.  What would that have been like?  What the fuck can you do without a thumb?  He picked the saw up again.  He swung it at the trunk like a hatchet. It bent in two and the blade popped out of its anchors and warbled across the yard.

Then he sat down in the grass and stared at the thumbnail. His eyes swept the thumb from the nail down to the joint and back up, again and again.  The saw was fucked, but ... maybe there was a way to salvage this without being obvious.  Maybe if he ... fuck. Wrong goddamn fucking thumb.  Shit. He almost lost a thumb and it would have been the wrong goddamn thumb. He was halfway through a plan to get it done anyway. It still would've been useless. He berated himself. "You cut off a thumb, you cut off the right one, fuckass.  Not the left.  The left won't get you off a fucking bowling team, much less off a plane to 'Nam." He picked up the saw blade and the bow.He flung them. They tumbled end over end as they swirled high in the air.  Two, maybe three houses away, he heard the clang.  Then a dog went crazy barking.  Someone's mutt must've got the piss scared out of him.  Good. Fuck him and fuck his owners.

He came in, washed the thumbnail in peroxide, then put on the smallest bandaid he could find.  It barely covered the nail, though the edges easily overlapped across his thumbprint.  On his way out, he thought about leaving a note for Chelsea, but he was in a mood for niceties for himself or for anyone else.

He took the streetcar back to the Quarter and drank all his cash away at La Casa.  His buddy Ivan walked him back to the house at 2am. Chelsea had come and gone long ago.  There was a plate of food in the sink, filled up with water. The peas and corn just floated in it. The meatloaf was soggy and gray by then, just a ring of oozed Ketchup . No note. No hello; no goodbye; no "kiss my ass."

It pissed him off. He hated it, but he knew he deserved it.

She didn't come by the next day and she didn't call. Not that she could, actually.  The phone and its cord was still sprawled across the lawn on the side of the house.  He laid on the couch most of the day, watching who knows what wobble across the screen.  There was Dialing for Dollars, random soap operas, a couple of news breaks with updates from 'Nam.  There were dozens of furniture store commercials.  Some guy named Crazy Larry who windmilled his arms as he talked and talked and talked.  He would've gotten his ass off the couch, but every time he seriously considered it, he decided he didn't give a tinker's fuck, so he settled back down, grabbed another warm beer out of the four six-packs in the crate on the floor, and relit the joint that kept going out on him.  Shadows came and shadows ran off to the east, and then abandoned him completely.

The door was open, a breeze blowing through the screen.  The only light in the house was the tv.  Saying something.  After the six o'clock news, [carol bernett] came on. He thought it was her, anyway.  People ran around in dumb-ass costumes.  Now and then the audience would laugh and applaud.  Now and then he would, too, though he was only vaguely aware of why.  A lot of it was probably no more than laughing because others were laughing.  He muttered to nobody but himself, "Dumb-ass ... yeah, laugh because they're laughing.  Why don't you get your ass on a fucking plane for Saigon just because everyone else is doing it? We'll see how fucking funny that turns out to be."

He closed his eyes and rolled that thought around in his head. Getting on a plane.  Getting off in whatever fucking base everybody lands in when they get sent to Vietnam.  Laughing and laughing about the horrible humor of it. Him. Vietnam. Wanting to survive.  Not just his body, but who he is.  Coming back intact.  How funny it is that he's thinking about avoiding 'Nam by becoming not intact. Maybe he'd mail his fingers Vietnam.   They'd be casualties.  They'd belong there, right?  He imagined.  Getting a box.  Packing it with excelsior.  Maybe straw.  Straw seemed more appropriate.  They could throw the whole goddamn thing into a field and let a water buffalo eat it.  Did he know anyone over there?  Someone he could send them to?  Someone who would do him a dark and disgusting favor?  "Hey, man, is it okay if I send you two of my fingers? Nah, it's just because I want you to throw them out somewhere.  Field, road, rice paddy, land mine, shove 'em up a VC ass for all I care.  Yeah, that's pretty much it. Huh? Yeah, I cut them off so I wouldn't have to go, so it only seemed fair that they go anyway. Right. Ok, my man, have a good day and come back safe. Love to your wife, if she hasn't left you."

That would go great. Oh yeah. He played it a couple of times in his head. Two or three or ten or more. Maybe not the whole thing, but the bones.  He savored it.  Wanted it right.  Do you say it pissed off or calm?  Do you say it all twisted up, or safely from behind the mask?  He mulled, wanting to come up with a version that didn't openly offend anyone, but would be clear.

He mulled, and when he opened his eyes, it was already morning.  Had he really mulled for six or eight hours?  From the light and shadows, it had to be easily 10am, which would mean that they whole night had passed as he moved each word, each thought, from one side to the others.

Chelsea came in at noon and he was still glazed, still red-eyed and in his own hash fog.  She came in and touched his forehead.  He stirred.  Another hour or so, and he'd have sat up on the couch.  He stayed down. She might be gone before he managed to prop himself up.  She walked through the house.  He could see into the kitchen, and a little way down the hall.  She touched things.  She ran her fingers across the back of her usual chair;  she looked out of the window she could count on seeing a bird's nest from.  Down the hall, she stopped and adjusted a picture of them riding the paddlewheel steamboat.  She swayed for a bit, like she could hear the calliope calling them aboard.  She walked on down to the bedroom.  He heard the bed squeak.  Minutes later, his eyes followed her up the hall. She disappeared in the other side of the kitchen, then came out again, and stood in the hall for a moment. She adjusted another picture.  Tapped the frame three times.  She glanced his direction.  He thought his hand went up in a wave.  He wasn't sure.  It probably didn't, though. After glancing his way, she picked her purse off the kitchen counter and walked back out the front door.

Two hours later, he was focused enough to realize he was hungry.  Thirty minutes later, he was sprawled over the kitchen table.  He had three of four hot dogs to go. A mountain of ruffles spread across the tabletop.  He scooped chips onto the hot dogs. He worked his way through them, barely propping himself up.

His pitcher full of iced tea was almost gone.  No glass, just the pitcher.  When everything on the table had been eaten or drunk, he leaned back.  Restless.  Now that he had energy and a slightly clearer head, he was restless.

He grabbed a hat from the table and headed back out to Finnegan's.  It was a cave in there, dark and wooded, and the a/c was powerful enough to store beef.  For locals, the dark and quiet were the biggest draws; for tourists, it was the cold.

Trish was tending bar.  He liked Trish.  She always had a smile for him.  She had on a loose tie-died halter top and a big fake sunflower in her hair.  She shimmied.  That was one of his favorite things about her, even better than the smile.  She looked over her wire rim, yellow lenses and said, "You look like shit."

She slid him a beer and he told her the whole story.  He wasn't trying to stare at her cleavage, but his head wasn't doing much of anything else.  It was heavy from four days of heavy drinking and smoking.  And he liked the view.

"Y'know, you have to be square with her, if you really care.  She just wants to know what's going on.  She's not expecting you to be Johnny Hero. She just wants you to be you.  That's what she signed up for."

He nodded and finished off his beer.

"Hey," she put her hand on his. It was warm, despite the icicles hanging off everything else.  "Y'all should come hang out with me and my old man tonight. My sister will be there. Rap, smoke some. It'll be good."

He went by Chelsea's.  He knocked and knocked, went from window to window. After ten minutes of no response, he saw her old lady neighbor out picking shit in her garden.  'Hey, Mrs., uhhh ~ have you seen Chels?  I mean, Miss Jackson?'  She wobbled up to one knee, grabbing air.  Her cane had fallen over.  He grabbed the cane and boosted her up.  The dirt on her hand was warm and soft.  The skin on her hand was cold and dry.  She dusted her hands, swaying a little without any anchor.  He thought about reaching over and taking her elbow or shoulder, but he was afraid.  His hand was still cold from touching her.  He imagined the cold spreading all the way down his arm to his chest.  Worse, he considered the possibility that he'd accidentally touch her breast.  He shuddered.  Just the thought chilled him.  'Uh ''

Her eyes snapped to him.  She took the cane and inspected it, as if he might have tampered with it. Only then did she put her weight on it. 'She's gone, cher. Didn't say where. I didn't ask, me.'

He looked back at Chelsea's house, like it had more clues. 'Did you notice anyone with her, ma'am?'

'They was ' hmm ' no, that was the other day.' She eyed him up and down. Her glasses slipped down her nose, following a drop of sweat that just hung at the tip. She smelled of Ben Gay and chewing tobacco. Maybe a little like his grandmother and her perfume, L'air du Temps.  'Might-a been you, young man.  That other day, I mean.  No, they wasn't anyone with her.'  She patted his arm and wobbled away.

She stopped at her back door, hand on the screen door.  'Do you know anything about water bugs?'  He shook his head.  'It's hot out here.'  She shook her head and disappeared through the door.  He picked up her basket, half full of something that looked like squash, and dropped it on her back door.  She was right. It was hot out there.  Hot out everywhere.

He went by Chelsea's mom's house.  Barbara didn't even open the screen door.  That was fine. He didn't need to go inside with her and her tits down around her knees. "She's not here. Ain't seen her since day before yesterday." He started to ask another question, but the words didn't make it through the screen before she shut the door.  "Damn bitch stinks of rum.'  He kicked the screen door.  It rattled in its frame.  It wasn't satisfying. What was the point in breaking something that was already broken?

She never liked him.  She always compared him to Chelsea's last boyfriend who was a football player.  Unfortunately, he was also a dirtbag who almost got her arrested by hiding three lids of pot in her purse. They'd been at some party in Algiers and the cops stopped them just this side of the Connection for speeding and not maintaining a lane.  Fortunately, the cops got another call before they got a good whiff of the pot they'd already smoked at the party, or the fifth of whiskey on his breath.  He laughed as they drove off, then fished the bag back out of her purse.  The next morning, after she'd sobered up, she dumped him.  Barbara didn't care, though.  She was always talking about how Roger could have gotten an NFL contract with the right woman supporting him.  Chelsea was supposed to be the right woman.  More to the point, Barbara was supposed to be the right mother-in-law.  That was her whole thing.

He stopped by Anna Marie's apartment.  No dice there, either.  At least Anna Marie liked him. sometimes, she even flirted just a bit, and just for fun, not with any intent to go further.  But she hadn't seen her best friend in over a week. Hadn't talked to her since yesterday.

That was it.  He knew she wasn't at work. The two people who always had an idea where she was, had no clue.  He wasn't going to try to track her down house-to-house among half a million people.

He stopped at a random place in the Irish channel and had two beers, killing time until he was about ready to go to Trish's place.  He checked the piece of paper he had scribbled the address on.

When he got there, a double shotgun out along Magazine, there must've already been about a hundred people there.  That was good.  He wanted a party.  He wanted to get outside of his head for a while, but he also wanted to get lost.  He worked his way past the two flimsy grills in the front yard. They were loaded down with enough hot dogs and burgers, they should have collapsed.  The beer had to be in the back yard.  He brushed past Trish's old man, but the dude didn't recognize him. The guy's eyes were red and watery.  Miles was a little surprised the man was even standing.  He made his way down a little sidewalk, between groups of couples who were making out against the fence.  There wasn't any fucking ' yet ' but there were lots of hands already in clothes.  At one of these parties, by the end of the night, you were either totally wasted, or if you were lucky, you were fucked and wasted.

That made him a little annoyed that Chelsea wasn't there, but he got over it quick.  No point in bitching and moaning about something you can't change. He was almost to the back side of the house when some crazy bitch with a hurricane glass spun around hard.  She and her girlfriend were dancing to 'Bang a Gong.'  There was a lot of slow swaying, but they were already on round heels.  He couldn't tell how much was them and how much was the shoes.  Either way, her hurricane came out of her hands and bounced off his chest.  He now had a very wet and sticky chest and whole right sleeve.   'Oh, goddamn, man.  Wheredju come from?  I soooooo sorry!'  She mopped with the hem of her dress, lifted up over her waist, until he grabbed her hands to stop her.

Her, he didn't know.  The woman with her, though, was Trish.  'Hey, luv.' She dragged it out, letting it float on the wind. She was higher than a kite. The wind was about the only thing carrying her or her words anywhere.  She tucked herself under his right arm.  Her elbow length, loose hair immediately stuck to his shirt.  That was a hell of a sticky hurricane. Probably not a mix, but then what New Orleans native would use a mix?

Trish grabbed his sticky hand and took him back. The other woman bobbed along behind in their wake. When they turned to stop at the back stoop, the woman kept going, through the waves of people.  Probably got stuck against the back fence, walking, walking, walking until she passed out.  Trish reached between her wobbly tits and pulled out a decent-sized doob. She looked around for someone she didn't recognize, someone who looked like a narc.  She must not have seen anyone.

They passed it back and forth for a while, let two others take a hit, and pretty soon it was gone.  He was pretty gone, too.  Good weed.  Better than he could usually afford.  One minute he was in the clear, then as the smoke cloud encircled them, he was drifting in a fog.  That woman had come back.  She was yapping at Trish about their dog. How big he was, and how fast he could eat her little chihuahua. To be fair, Trish listened for longer then he could pay attention. Out of the blue, though, she put her hand on the woman's lips. "Shhhhh... sh-sh-sh-sh." She wobbled a little and her hand dropped. That crazy bitch just picked up where she was. Whatever she was saying.  Trish took her face in both hands and said, "Shut the fuck up, Marissa. If you don't shut up, Miles here is going to take you inside and fuck your brains out.  Seriously."

Marissa's eyes floated over to Miles'. Bobbed some.  She was wasted.  She tried to smile, but her face just hung there.  Maybe it was supposed to be a bluff, because all of a sudden her face got serious.  She had enough muscle control for that, evidently. She shook her head side to side, and nearly toppled over on one swing.  She slid down the rail and landed hard on the stair.

Trish smirked at him.  "All it took was making her take a breath, and she blew herself over."

She leaned in.  "Hey, what I said there ..."  He thought she was going to apologized. He was wrong.  "Clearly, Marissa isn't up for it, but ..." She slid her hand down to his waist and hooked her fingers under his belt, an arrow straight toward his dick.  "I'm not doing anything right now."  Her lips reached up and drew his down.  They were good lips.  Soft and moist, and she knew how to use them.  Miles immediately started getting hard.  The moment his dick realized how good her lips were, it was talking loud to him, begging to let her use them on him.

She stood slowly.  His lips followed, and the rest of the body with them. When she turned and latched her hand around his belt buckle, he gave no resistance.  Up the steps and straight through the kitchen into her bedroom.  Their bedroom.  She spun him backward and he flopped on the bed, right between a pile of laundry and a damp beach towel.  She poured herself on top of Miles' torso. He could feel the heat and moisture of her pussy grinding into his thigh.  She was driving - grinding herself against his thigh, Frenching him, with a fist full of his hair. With her other hand, she was undoing his belt.  She unzipped and fished his cock out, pumping it right from the start.  Definitely better than Chelsea - better with her hand, better with her mouth, and over the top with passion.  He convinced himself easily. Clearly, wasn't at fault.  How was he supposed to resist someone better than Chels on every level?  he scooped one hand into her top.  Her tits were the perfect size.  Her nipple was already erect, poking itself into his palm. She moaned when he squeezed, so he squeezed harder. He kneaded her tit and thrust his tongue almost to her throat.  He took a fist full of her hair with his other hand, tightened and twisted.  She moaned louder and clamped her legs around his thigh.  When she shuddered, he tightened his fist in her hair.  She shuddered again in a way that announced loudly that she was coming.  Little hip thrusts that tapped out on his thigh said she was losing control for a moment. She just laid there, panting for a moment.  She'd stopped stroking him while she came. She picked up stroking and slid herself down Miles' body.  Again, something she must have done thousands of times until she had the move down perfectly.

She slid down and with no adjustments to her glide path, took his dick into her mouth. Definitely well-practiced.  He held her hair as she bobbed up and down. She made slurpy sounds and yummy sounds, and stroked the exposed part of his cock with her hand. Every now and then, she'd look right up into his eyes.  When she did, she would flutter her tongue on the underside.  He'd read about that somewhere, but couldn't remember where.  Playboy, some paperback ... didn't remember.  He said "I'm gonna cum" and she didn't even slow down. More than that, she moved her hand away and tried again and again to take him all the way.  She would gag and then pop back up, then try again. The very last stroke, the head popped into her throat, and that's all it took. Boom. He went off like a fire hose.  He must have pumped ten shots right into her throat.  She bobbed up after the first two, then forced herself back down for the rest. He didn't have to do anything. He couldn't remember ever cumming that much or that hard with Chels.  Granted, he wasn't exactly in the habit of taking notes while he fucked.   She licked him clean after he finished, fished two pubes off her tongue and cheek, then slid back up and under his right arm. They laid there. She played with his chest hair. He squeezed her tit and rolled her nipple between thumb and finger.

"Jesus fuck, Ch~Trish ... Marcus is a very lucky son of a bitch."

She laughed, "Miles, I haven't been with Marcus in ... what, four months, I think.  My old man's name is Reince."

"Rench?"

"Reince. Like ... rents."

"Ok, he's the lucky bastard then.  Where did you learn that tongue thing?"

"On the underside? The flutter?" Miles nodded.  "I read it in an old dirty paperback my folks had.  Sounded like fun."

"Hell fucking yeah, it's fun."

"Been using it since I was fourteen, no complaints so far. Hey ... umm ... so how does Chelsea feel about girls - or couples?"

"When she was in college, she fooled around a little bit with her dorm mate." He could've said more, but didn't.  He wanted to hear what was behind the question.

"Hmm, so, she might be interested in a threesome? Or some girl-on-girl? Swapping? An orgy?"

"Damn. That's like a hard sell."

"No, I'm just wondering.  I haven't said anything to Reince.  Just curious.  I don't know her well, but Chels seems fun.  You're definitely fun, and y'know, Reince and me, we like fun people."

Suddenly, he felt miles from Chelsea.  Were they broken up officially? Hard to say. Certainly felt like it.

"Y'know, lemme feel her out, see if she might be cool with it.  Ya never know, right?"

Her answer was to french him.  That must've been an "Ok." She patted his chest and said, let's get back out there.  She left her pants behind, and they walked out of there with her in just her long peasant top, no pants, no panties, no bra.  He could dig that - dig that very well.

He tried to think about Chels, but couldn't seem to get his head to go there, aside from vague visions of two women fighting over his cock.

When they were back outside in the crowd, by the beer keg, it was back to reality.  The pot hadn't lasted near long enough.  Here he was at a party where he knew only two people. He was three weeks from induction. He'd just fucked this chick and might or might not be cheating on the girlfriend he might or might not still have.  He had about thirty minutes of escape, then it was back in the box. That made him think of Cool Hand Luke. "Man, what we have here is failure to communicate." He said it out loud before he even realized.

Trish turned around.  He hadn't even noticed until she did so, that she'd leaned across the keg to French kiss some beardy freak in a Grateful Dead t-shirt.

She said, "Huh?" and slipped her tongue in his mouth. He tried to figure out if he tasted only her, or that other dude, or even lingering traces of his cum. Next, she reached inside his pants deep enough to cup his balls. "I think we communicated pretty well."

"Huh? Yeah, no, babe.  I was thinking of something else."

She laughed at him and shook her head. She didn't get it, and she couldn't care less. Her fingers dipped into her cleavage and she pulled out another joint.  He thought, holy Christ, where'd that come from.  It hadn't been between her tits when they were screwing, that's for sure.  Somewhere between the bedroom and the keg, it had just magically gotten deposited in her top.

He frowned down at nowhere, for no particular reason than his own moodiness.  In seconds, she leaned in for another kiss.  When he opened his mouth for her tongue, she breathed smoke into his mouth and down into his lungs.  Knowing that wouldn't quite do it, she then passed the doob to him.  He took a deep drag, then pulled her in and returned the favor.  She was ready, and breathed him in deep.  Thirty seconds earlier, he was down, and the war was racing toward him.  Suddenly, it was all very cool and copacetic again.  The war would wait.  He didn't care whether her old man was there, or if he was watching, or if he cared.  He doubted he would. If Trish was telling the truth, he was good with whatever she got them into.

Trish wandered off when the joint was done.  She pointed his way from across the back yard. The older couple she was talking to made their way to him.  They introduced themselves as Hank Something and Junebug.  They stood close and looked around.  Junebug had great tits. Big and full, but not enormous. Well-rounded and just the tiniest bit of sag. She didn't seem to mind him noticing. Maybe that was part of their game. Maybe they thought he was carrying weed and she thought a little jiggle and wiggle would get some free samples. Their cautious glances around, though, seemed excessive given the company. If they wanted weed, nobody within a hundred feet was going to narc them out.

"Listen, Trish says you might be in need of a favor."

Miles didn't respond, so Hank continued .  "She says you've got your back up against a date with induction, and you might could stand some help finding some options."

He couldn't remember words, but he did nod.  Sure could use options.  That's what the word was.

Hank was explaining - without excessive detail - that he might have some strings he could pull. A favor for a favor. A string here and there, a package delivered here and there. While he talked, Junebug dug a a little foil packet from his shirt pocket.  She took out a little yellow pill and washed it down with a mouthful of beer, then took a beat and popped a second yellow pill into her mouth. No beer this time, just a swallow.  She picked a third out and offered it to Hank.  He shook his head and reached up to stroke her cheek.  Junebug looked for a moment like she was going to offer him one. Maybe she decided he was too far gone to really profit from whatever the pill was.

Hank handed him a business card and said, "Come by or give me a call - but soon."  Miles held it close enough to read.  Hank walked off as he focused on the words.  Junebug trailed behind Hank, their hands connected by fingertips.  He could have sworn she dragged her hand across his crotch, lingering on the zipper.  As soon as it registered with him, both of them were gone.  He had to have imagined it.

Things faded just a moment later.  When he woke, he was seated on one of the stumps, leaning against a garbage bin, with a cat licking his pounding forehead.  The moon was low in the east, but there was just enough light in the yard to see half a dozen others also snoozing in random spots.  It must have been around three o'clock.  He could check his watch, but that would've been work.  Too early for such exertion.  When he opened his eyes again, the sun was just topping the roofs.  The humidity was starting to simmer.  He was warm and clammy, as much from the partying as from the humidity.

Time to go home.

He got up and stepped over and between the litter, the bottles and cans and paper plates soaked by food and the morning dew.  Up by the gate, there was a cowboy in a buckskin joe hat sprawled up against the fence. More like on his buckskin joe hat.  It was crumpled up under his head, a crude pillow.  It was either that or the half gallon of Jack Daniels a foot away, with a slow trickle out of its mouth.

He was a mile down the road, two pair of sunglasses on his head.  They barely blocked the sun enough for him to wobble down the road, but barely was still enough.  He got home and laid down on the living room floor, wrapping his arm around a pillow from the couch, pinning it under his head.

Later, much later, but not nearly late enough, he woke enough to notice something different about the room.  He wasn't alone.  The room sounded different.  It was quiet, but the silence sounded angry, sullen, and sad.

"Chelsea ...?"

"Miles ... I see you've been ... having adventures."

"Listen, I ... I'm sorry I haven't gotten hold of you.  I tried this morning (no, that wasn't right) - I mean yesterday morning.  Your mom's, Anne Marie's, somebody else's ... " he couldn't remember who else, but surely there was."

He rolled to his side, facing her.  He found her face, her gaze pointed up and toward the window.  There wasn't a lot of warmth there.  He could understand that.

"Listen, Chels ..."

She stood up, towering over him.  "Miles, I'm going to give you some space, give you time to clear your head or purge your soul or whatever it is you're doing.  I want to talk, I want us to talk, but I can see that's not happening today."

She stepped over his legs, "I'm going to grab what laundry I have here and get out of your hair.  Please ... don't get up."

He felt like shit, but heard the sarcasm in her voice.  It was a warm, damp rag across the back of his neck, not soothing but unsettling, down in the pit of his  stomach.  He might have been able to get up, if he used up all his energy reserves, but it was a solid maybe.  More likely, he'd get five feet, fall over, and throw up.

He drifted away again as the living room wobbled into the dark.  He woke past dusk, another day in the toilet.  It was half past 9 when he made it as far as the kitchen.  He leaned against the refrigerator, then leaned inside, surrounding himself with the cool air.  He rubbed a big glass bottle of Coke on the side of his head.  He knew it was throbbing, but only realized then just how much it was pounding.  The left side was cool and nicely numb, the right side pulsing like a neutron star.

He sat at the table and dug at a carton of chocolate ice cream with the first spoon he found.  Spoon after spoon, without stopping or slowing. In time, by 10 or so, the cold had soaked its way into his upper body, blanketing the ache in his head.  He chased it with glass after glass of water, and when he was done, grabbed the Playboy from the end table by the sofa and worked his way to the bedroom.  He fell asleep with the open magazine covering his face and dreamt of escaping to Amsterdam with the Girls of Holland. It was a good dream, full of sex, alcohol, and pot, and spiced up with the repeated motif of nearly falling into one of the canals.  It seemed wherever he went without a handful of girls, he was in danger of falling into the water ways.  He never actually fell in, but came close plenty of times.

* Wednesday. 7am. His eyes opened and he was done sleeping.  Mind clear; eyes clear; even his goddamn sinuses were clear, and they never were.  He'd been in New Orleans since he was six and his family moved from Lake Charles.  He couldn't remember going more than a week at an stretch without antihistamine or decongestant. Given how much alcohol and pot he'd consumed in the past several days, he couldn't believe how alert and sober he was.  Had the last week even taken place?

Wednesday was Chelsea's day off.  She usually slept in until ten or so, then went off for lunch with friends.  He wanted to see her.  He felt like shit for how he'd been acting.  Childish, self-absorbed.  Chels was always talking about some sex therapist and her opinions.  Not just sex but relationships, too.  Being self absorbed and selfish were right up there at the top of the danger sign list.  Things were going to sort themselves out, though.  They always did.  With him and Chels, anyway, they always worked out in the end.  He'd talk to her and they'd get things trued up.

He'd go see that guy who gave him the card.  He'd do what he needed to, make whatever deal.  He'd stay here.  He'd stay with Chelsea.  They'd get married. Maybe. Or, she'd move in. They'd talk about it.

Suddenly, he wasn't as sober any more.  He sat up and put his head between his knees - or as close as it would go.  His eyes watered. His throat was dry and tight.

Start with the coffee, a couple of mugs, and think out the situation.  Find Hank's business card and stop by to see him. Or call or whatever.  Get things rolling.  While he was waiting for the coffee to perk, he got the phone from the yard and crudely reattached it to the biscuit jack.  When he was done, he tried it.  There was a little static, but it worked.

The coffee got him going.  He was out the door as soon as the second mug was done, business card in hand. Hank's office was on the edge of the quarter, down by the French Market.  First there, then to Chelsea's. He'd talk her down like he always did, she'd be happy again, and then to celebrate they'd have lunch at Galatoire's. Or Antoine's, if was later. Maybe just hang out at the Famous Door and have some drinks and list to music. At any rate, it would be a whole new start for them. G's was always the perfect place to start something new. Oh, right. Antoine's. Or the Famous Door.  Things were tight at the moment, yeah, maybe they'd just go to the Door.  Or she might want to stay in and cook.  He could go out and get them a fifth of Jack.  Anyway, new beginning, that was the thing to focus on.

He started the car, set the radio to WWOZ, and was starting to pull out, when a guy with a beard and a bald head popped up from around the front of the car parked at the neighbor's.  He looked familiar, but he couldn't place him.  Someone recent.  Whoever he was, he wasn't happy.  Very not happy, actually, and probably high as a fucking kite.  He lurched side to side as he walked.  He came around to the window and reached to pound on it, but the glass was down, so he just flailed a couple of times.  Very high not to figure it out on the first try.

"Hey, fucker. Shit, man. Hey, are you Miles?"

"Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm Trish's old man."

"What's your problem, man?"

"You son of a bitch, you knocked her up!"

"What the hell, man? You have no way of knowing ..."

"... fuck, man, I got no sperm. No swimmers, you hear what I'm saying?  Aint no baby comin' out of this cock, hombre."

"Oh, shit, man ... I ... wait ... I know y'all's score.  Y'all swing all over town, you might as well have vines hanging from the trees.  Are you trying to tell me ~" he paused as he popped the door ajar, and the guy jumped back like he was being attacked. "Calm down, dude, I'm just getting out to talk about this." The car lurched forward - he hadn't remembered to take it out of drive. He shifted gears, slapping the knob into place, and snapped the key off.

"Calm down and back away a little - " he leaned against the front fender - "... you're telling me that there's no way anyone else can have knocked that bitch up?"

The guy, whatever his name was looked bewildered, and staggered back again. His red face screamed back, "I know what you're trying to do, you son of a bitch, and it ain't gonna work. You have a responsibility and you are going to fucking pay.  The last motherfucker did, and the other guy before, and the same fucking shit is going to happen to you.  We ain't having no baby, so you know what that means. You're going to cough up $200 for an abortion and we'll get this shit taken care of before it gets too far."  As his speech played out, he slowly walked toward Miles, his head tilted, jabbing with a finger, until the finger was actually jabbing into Miles' chest.

"Don't do that man. Gimme space. I'm asking you."  His ears were pounding. It was like he was under water, no under six feet of red jello. Everything was dark and tinted and sluggish, like that time his uncle Fidelio had come after him.

The finger kept jabbing. He didn't see anything but the finger making brief ripples across his shirt. He couldn't see as far as the end of the arm. Everything was dark and red and starting to slant to the left.

His own hand moved across his chest.  It locked on the man's finger and twisted, which brought his body to just the right angle to take Miles' knee in the groin. Twice, and then again for good measure.  Something cracked. It had to be the guy's finger. Or fingers.

Reds turned to greys, and the pounding in his ears was replaced with the ocean.  His stomach wanted to vomit, but his throat told it to shut up.  [Frank] or whoever the hell he was, laid on the verge next to the sidewalk.  One hand was cupping his balls. The other was waving in the air like a flag, trying to keep that pain as far from the other as possible.

It was time to go.  He had to go and meet ... that guy... the card... from the party. With the hot wife.  Jesus, what was his name?  He couldn't concentrate.  Then there was Chels. He wanted to talk to her about something.  It would come back. That guy was still screaming and cursing. He wasn't going to figure out a goddamn thing with all that racket.

Time to go. Go see that guy with the card. He turned back to the door. As he was stepping around it, he slapped the guy's hand out of the air, "Shut the goddamn fuck up! Do you fucking thin you're the only fucking goddamn fucker who has any goddamn fucking problems!?" The other guy might've been loud, but people in Algiers probably heard that.

The guy choked on his curses and choked on the flashing surge of pain.  Once Miles was in the car and pulling out of his space, he was just a memory buried inside the massive flaming cottony headache he now had.

Despite his hurry to get moving, when he got to Hank's office, he sat outside for a good thirty minutes.  The car would warm up; he would start it up and run the A/C for a few minutes, blowing ice cold in his face. It was a losing game. He'd start to drip sweat, then blast himself with iced air. In moments, the sweat would chill and he would shiver.

At ten thirty, he decided it was time.  He'd get out of the car and either go in to Hank's office, or walk down Decatur and grab a beer.  At least he was doing something.

He walked past Hank's door, and was a good ten feet further down the sidewalk when he pivoted.  That's how he worked, stress, stress, stress about something, then the moment he decided not to do it, he was relaxed and could carry through with it.

The receptionist was an older women, slight and slender and easily in her sixties, but kind of steely. She was probably a good screen for Hank, and had a look in her eye that said she probably played for the Packers. "I'm here to see Hank. Mr. ..." he had to dig the card out of his pocket to get the last name. "... Sinclair."  He turned the business card to her - Mrs. Prideaux, her desk sign said - and handed it to her like a movie ticket.  The eyebrow that arched when he stumbled over the last name, came back down.  It knotted with the other for a second, then they both went back to neutral.

"And your name, Mister ... ?"

"Miles. Mikes Parker"

She didn't seen to regard the name well. Maybe she wasn't the jazz fan that his mother was.  She asked "And he will know what this in regard to?" Her tone was solicitous but skeptical.

"This is regarding ... " not exactly a job "... an opportunity. I ran into him and Junebug recently and he suggested, requested, that I come see him at my earliest convenience." He could tell she didn't like the reference to Junebug.  That was a mistake. The rest of it seemed to ease her annoyance just enough to maybe open the door.

She set the card down and centered it on her blotter.  She sighed. Then she reached for her phone and punched the intercom button.

"Mr. Sinclair, I have a Miles Parker out here with one of your business cards.  He'd like a few minutes of your time."  She threw her glance up and down him as she said it.

"Miles ... oh, yes ... from the other day.  Would you buzz him back through, Miz Emma."

She punched the intercom off, then pressed a button on the side of her desk.  A buzz told him that something was unlocked for the next couple of seconds, and he'd best be moving.  He reached for his card, but she'd spirited it away in the half-second he'd looked off.

He didn't even have to turn the knob on the door. All it took was a push and it swung wide. Medium sized office. Nice, hundred year old desk that took up half the room. Must've been goddam oak and probably weighed two hundred pounds.  He couldn't imagine how it came through the door, but it did. The rest of the office, eh. Crappy, warped wood paneling. A window behind the desk, no blinds, curtains, nothing.

He looked up, over the rim of his glasses, and said "Miles."  He looked back down and slid something into a grey folder and tossed it to the corner of his desk. He pointed at one of the $20 armchairs.

Miles took the offer.  Neither spoke.  He grabbed a pen from his desk and crossed his legs, turning sideways a quarter.  "So, how's the weather out there?"

Miles stumbled through a confused explanation of current meteorological phenomena, then fell silent again.  Sinclair nodded.

"So, anyway. I'm glad you stopped by.  We've got some things going on you might be able to help with." He glanced at the door. Miles pushed it shut.

Sinclair reached for another folder buried underneath three other folders.  This one had the words "Parker, Miles" on the tab.  It wasn't empty, or anywhere close  He glanced through it.  One, two, three sheets, then skipped down to pages that were paperclipped together. He glanced at the top sheet, then closed the folder. "You've got a little bit of a record, my friend."

"I, uhh ... yeah ... like what are you talking about?"

"DWI, public intoxication, a gram of weed, trespassing ..." he glanced into the folder.  "... one hot check? Just one? Nothing big, just a lot of fucking around, really."

Miles nodded and relaxed a little.  It was all good.

Sinclair tossed the folder on top of the gray one.

He smiled and tapped the desk like he was trying to remember a funny story.  Miles smiled, waiting for it.

"Anyway - tell me about the Mexican jail."

Fuck. The goddamn Mexican jail. It wasn't on his NOPD rap sheet. He knew that. What the hell?

"You've been watching me for a while ...?"

"Aw, nah, Miles. I had this stuff sent in this morning just in case you showed up straight off."

"But you invited me in ... for ... because you could tell ..."

"Hey, buddy, you're at a yard party being thrown by someone who has his finger on half the pot and heroin coming across the border or across the Gulf up to Orleans Parish. You disappear for thirty minutes to fuck the guy's wife, do some dope, then vanish."  He shrugged. "So, that generates some interest. You're not a big player. Sorry, no disrespect, but you just don't have that elan. On the one hand, sure, we've got a certain leverage we can use on you - it's what we do, the stick, but at the same, you've got enough scruples that ... you're not going to go rogue.  For that, at the end of the day, we’ll be happy to throw you some carrots."

Miles just sat there. It was an insult and a compliment. It was also precursor to a threat. He was brought in to be worked.  Not only that, just by looking at him that night, the guy, whoever he was, could tell that he was ripe for working.

Sinclair handed him a folder. He read through it and handed it back. By the time it left his hand, though, he’d forgotten everything it said.  He was a little distracted.

Sinclair walked him through it, as though he’d never glanced at the folder, which was just as well, since as far as he could tell, he hadn’t.  There was a guy, mob connected, maybe even a made man, that they were wanting to get a finger on.  He was the main drug conduit as well as the buddy of several prominent, established businessmen and a couple of up-and-coming politicians in Orleans Parish.  Plan A was to hook him. Plan B was to hook him and implicate his important patrons.

There was an interruption when some skinny guy in a narrow-tie suit and a lot of Brylcreme came in and whispered into Sinclair’s ear.  They both looked at him and then Sinclair looked at his watch and back at him. There was a smirk that blossomed, then he waved tie-boy off.  When the door was closed, he just smiled and said “You sure don’t lack for drama, do you?” before resuming.  Had news of his little event with Trish’s old man already trickled in to him?  It was at most an hour, hour and a half ago.

Sinclair could manage to get him on a bartending gig at one of Gianolo’s regular haunts, the Napoleon House, and boost an introduction, but it was Miles’ job to work his way in further.  He could take all the time he wanted, as long as it didn’t take more than two weeks, after which they expected him to be ass-deep in Gianolo’s pocket.  They’d feed him information to help him become an asset, but it was still up to him to sell it in a way that it wasn’t obvious to Gianolo and his crowd.

There was more, but he’d get that when he came back in two days for his briefing session with the ops guys.  Until then, it was his job to keep his nose clean and his mouth shut.

There was still a tight fog wrapping around his body when Sinclair got up, grabbed his shoulder, lifted him, and walked him to the door as if it had been his decision to leave at that moment.  “Remember, Thursday at 1pm. You won’t make us come looking for you, would you?”

Miles tried to shake his head reassuringly, but it didn’t much care to move. Sinclair was probably past being reassured by anything anyone else said, anyway. Instead, he made a little wave with his left hand, said “Later,” and clipped the door frame as he passed through.  At least he didn’t drop the sealed envelope Sinclair had given him.  Just more embarrassment under the bridge.

He didn't open the envelope until he was someplace safe.  The chair at Lafitte's, however, wasn't even warming when he ripped the end off.  He expected a new identity. Some cool spy shit like that, maybe a passport in case things went tits up, like the british spies in the books say. Nothing like that. He had to stay Miles Parker. He just got some backstory written for him, filling in gaps here and there. Made sense, he guessed. Not like it was happening in a town where nobody would know him.  Just sweetened his history a little.

The plan was to go next to Chelsea's, but one drink became six drinks at Lafitte's, and by the time he got back to his car on Esplanade, he smoked a joint and took a little nap.  It was good shit.  The dreams he had were all about fucking big tit redheads over and over, and having them fight over his cock - and some weed.  When he finally woke up, the sun was hanging over the business district.  He didn't feel like doing much more that day, so he got on St. Claude and headed home.  She was probably still pissed anyway.  Give her more time to cool down.  He'd go fetch her the next day and bring her back to the house for burgers and beer and they'd split a joint and fuck, and everything would be back to normal again, and they'd be fine.  Besides, if Sinclair could really get him off the hook for Vietnam, he didn't have a big fucking deadline hanging over him. He had all the time in the world to square things with Chels.

When he got back to his house, he laid on the living room floor, smoked his last joint, and drifted off to sleep until six the next morning.

He had eggs and boudain for breakfast, and then realizing he hadn't eaten since breakfast the previous day, ate twice as much.  He flipped through the envelope Sinclair had given him, doodling in the margins as he moved front to back.  Devils and large breasted women mostly. His default doodle.  Blocks of squiggly lines in random spots.

He went out and talked to his mechanic.  He'd had two tours in 'Nam and came back with a shattered knee and pelvis from a mine.  Why, exactly, he was consulting him, he didn't know.  He liked the guy. He trusted the guy's instincts. He also bought half his dope from the guy.  He danced around the idea of working for the feds.  Didn't ask him outright, but told him a story about a guy he'd known who'd gotten pressured into working as a mole.  The guy winced and drank his beers twice as fast, and got red-faced as Miles unwound the story, but he was more angry at the government for using people than he was at Miles' "friend" for taking the deal and giving in to being used.  Miles felt better when he left the garage.  Yes, he was high, but there was also a certain weight off his shoulders.

He went back to the house, found a note from Chels on the door, asking where he was. Actually, what it said was "Where the hell are you hiding? C" He got a glass of water from the sink,  sat down at the table to call her, and didn't wake up until midnight.

When he called her at 12:30, her mother answered ... the phone cut in and out, due to his crappy repair job, but he managed to hear her say, very clearly, "I'm sure she's not in for you, but I will take a peek."  She came back in twenty seconds. "She's dead asleep.  Maybe you'll have better luck tomorrow."  The click and dial tone made it clear that she was done talking.

He phoned in sick the next morning.  He got up at 6 and worked his throat up unto a gravelly rasp just to make it more interesting.  He needed to get back on the crew, 'Nam or no 'Nam, but he also realized he needed to stop stalling with Chelsea.  He didn't bother calling. He just went over and camped out on her front stoop. He  had no way, short of knocking and waking someone up, of finding out whether they were up yet, so he did the next most logical thing.  They always, both Chels and her mom, always came out to the front porch for a cigarette first thing.  They'd drag themselves out of bed, grab a mug of coffee and a pack of Winstons, then sit out on the glider and rock until they were awake or the coffee was out, whichever came last.  He'd wait.  If nobody showed up in 30 min, he'd assume they'd already been up and had their morning porch smoke.  Otherwise, it was just a matter of time.

He only had to wait ten minutes.  The knob on the front door rattle, then quit, then rattled again for longer.  It turned and the door gaped several inches, then came to an abrupt and thudding halt. It closed again so someone could remove the chain, then swung full open on its creaky hinges.  A housecoat backed through.  The cigarette hand reached for the screen door frame, just in case there was a gust. What he expected in the drink hand was a mug of coffee.  What was actually there was a Coors fat boy.  He looked at it, then up at the face of the woman holding everything. It wasn't Chelsea, but her mother, Berniece.  She gave a start when he came into view.  She looked in his eyes, then down at the beer, then back up at him.  She said "Aww, hell ..." and set the beer on the railing and went back inside.  It was ten seconds before the door slammed.  She must'v'e done it as an afterthought.

Two minutes later, Chelsea peeked through the curtain, then came out to join him on the porch, holding a pack of Winstons and an oversized coffee mug.  They were several minutes into saying hello, slowly and cautiously, the way sumo wrestlers squared off with each other, Berniece came out in due time to retrieve her beer, pausing long enough to eyeball him and make a sniffing sound.  Eventually, they both came to agree that he'd been an ass the past several days.  He admitted to her everything a reasonably cautious male would admit to. Indiscretions that had come uncovered, admit everything. Where questionable, ask questions. Where fishing, feign laughable innocence.  All she knew was that he was getting high as fuck and avoiding anything and everything, completely bailing out on her and the whole Vietnam thing.  That was close enough to reality for him to own sincerely, without excuses.  She didn't mention any rumors of anything else and he didn't ask.

Two hours later, all was good, or good enough for now, her mom had gone off to work, they'd gone back to Chels' room for a make-up fuck, and then she shooed him out so she could start the restaurant set up for lunch opening.