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lilgoblinbitch · 8 months ago

Note

saw your post about rick and daryl, do you think you could write a rick TOWL smut with him angry that you left your post and got yourself injured and he takes out his frustration on you? idk why just had that idea after the recent episode😫

Grimes' Dominion 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

rick grimes x fem!reader

a/n: ahhh omg yes i actually had time to think abt this for a few nights. i added a bit of plot to this because i love me some backstory & descriptions. but anyway i made this pretty lengthy so if u wanna skip to the smut part just look for the '💋'. here is your plotty smut! lmk your thoughts ₊˚⊹♡

warnings: smut 18+, PinV, unprotected sex, oral/face fucking (male receiving), slight bondage, fingering, ass slapping, hair pulling, orgasm denial, degradation (use of ‘slut’ and ‘whore’), language, mentions of blood and injury, angsty angsty angst!, reader is a mother, overall Rick is very rough so you have been warned

wc: 6k

MDNI

It was training day at your post. You had recently graduated from consignee and signed up to become a CRM soldier. It took you six whole years to get to this point. While your agility and militia knowledge were already unprecedented, the CRM didn't fuck around when it came to producing the world's most unrivalled soldiers. It was serious business.

Nearly eight years ago, you trekked a long journey down from your small community in southern New Jersey. You lost everything: your husband, your friends, and the people you lived with and grew stronger with through the grisly and dilapidated post-apocalyptic world. Terrible people – which were apparently becoming more and more common – destroyed your community, leaving very few survivors. It was you and your newborn child who managed to escape safely; you weren't able to go back to see if others had made it out. For almost two years you were alone, and your only hope left was keeping your baby boy alive...

Fast forward two years after the traumatic fallout you managed to escape, you discovered, or rather you were found by, a giant military in Pennsylvania, called the CRM. A military that bordered and protected a whole city of people – 200,000 of them. Out of desperation and maternal instinct, you bargained with the militia in hopes to give your two-year-old son a stable future. The CRM agreed to place your son in a 'nurturing fostering service' within the safe confines of the protected city – known as the Civic Republic of Philadelphia – so long as you swore to abide by the military's code and regulations by becoming a consignee.

Of course you agreed, because you were nonetheless terrified of what would happen to your baby boy if you didn't play it safe with this strong force. But for a while you lost it, you couldn't bear not seeing your child – they took him from you. You became defensive of your child, throwing yourself into dilemmas with whoever refused to listen to you. Except no one ever took notice of an angry and hurt mother because the CRM showed little mercy about their policies. And no matter how much force you put into finding hope about getting to your son, you'd always end up falling right back where you left off.

Soon enough you learned from acquiring an acquaintance that not only did the CRM take the only family you had left away from you, they were the ones responsible for destroying your home in the first place.

But now, six years later, you were predisposed to fight whoever and whatever got in your way in order to see your son again. You were a force to be reckoned with.

"No, you're doing it wrong. You gotta follow through, like this—" your sweaty hand maneuvered the heavy spear, sending it soaring through the air at high speed and finally piercing the bullseye of the target. You turned to the soldier beside you, who, to say the least, looked perplexed.

"What?" You huffed, blowing a loose strand of hair out of your face. "Ya give up? Need a break?"

"’Ey! Rogers, I'mma need ya to head back inside. We're gonna start sizing you all up for your new gear."

A brooding and strict man, Sergeant Major Rick Grimes, commanded the young man beside you. "Uh, yes sir," he saluted, then jogged toward the dome-shaped building.

Rick Grimes used to be a consignee like you were, and you even heard stories where he tried escaping at least four times. No one ever fled, or even attempted to, without failing. Escaping the hellhole was like trying to fit your right shoe on your left foot, it was entirely fruitless. But you heard all the stories about Rick, and how he got to become a leader. After the death of Lieutenant Colonel Donald Okafor, Rick was trained to replace his position by virtue of General Beale taking note of his loyalty to the military. Now, Rick was scaling further up the ranks. He was Sergeant Major, and in charge of the post you currently resided in.

You looked up to him, though, not because he was your leader, but because he understood you. He recognized how it felt to have your family ripped from your hands and not be able to do anything about it. You were able to bond with him. Most nights he would invite you to his apartment and the two of you'd spill your guts to one another over a glass or two of bourbon. That is how he got to know you, and see through your clouded demeanor that you kept in check. You were fierce and obstinate, because the place you were trapped in forced you to be that way, and truthfully Rick admired that about you. He was never able to relate with someone as well as he did with you.

Feedback echoed from Rick's receiver and he lifted it to his masked face, stating his position and whatnot. You crossed your arms, waiting for him to give you an order. "Well?"

He turned his attention to you, finally. "We need to talk." His one good hand snagged a hold of your arm and guided you toward a smaller brick-designed building, which you recognized to be the building that housed the high ranking officials like Rick himself.

"What do we need to talk about? And why is Rogers getting his gear but I'm not?" You struggled against his grip, a decision that ended with futility as his clutch tightened when you tried pulling away from him. You furrowed your brows and grunted in annoyance.

"Relax, sweetheart, you're not in trouble. Actually it's quite the opposite." Once again he faced you, stopping in his tracks as you both had reached the air-conditioned building. His grasp on your arm loosened and then reached for his matte black helmet detailed with red outlining. Your eyes darted across the room, taking in the essence of prestige and momentarily locking in on the various framed photos on the walls, which depicted a few recognizable CRM authoritative figures. One particular photo caught your attention, and you carefully examined it, discerning it to be Rick himself with a shiny black name plate decorating the bottom of the frame.

Your gaze finally diverted back to Rick, whose helmet popped off in a swift motion, freeing his slightly disheveled brown and gray curls, and his stern blue eyes – the spellbinding reflections to his enigmatic soul. And this man was undoubtedly a sight for sore eyes.

The silence was disrupted by the shuffling of Rick’s boots, his curt footsteps leading him across the room. He pulled out a chair from the corner and without any trouble picked it up with one hand and set it down across from a dark wooden desk. “Sit.” He motioned to the chair, and then found a seat in the larger, more cushioned chair adjacent to it. Without a peep you sauntered over to the wooden chair and sat, folding your hands on the desk in front of you.

“You gonna keep me on edge or are you gonna tell me why I’m here and not at training and getting my gear?”

His serious eyes bored into yours now, hinting that he wasn’t in the mood for your cynicism. “I brought you in here to tell you that you’re going to become Colonel under my order.”

You scoffed comically and dropped your hands to your sides, gripping the chair with force. “That’s ridiculous. Me – Colonel? Why?”

Rick’s focus never left your unserious face – one that was twisted with amusement. With a slight tilt of his head, he spoke, “Because you’re one of the best fighters and you’re fit to start leading, I know it. And I trust you, so does Major General Beale. We both expect your habitual commitment from now on.”

While you were still preoccupied with processing this information, Rick reached into one of his sleeve pockets and pulled out a silver badge, decorated with ‘Col.’ followed by your full name. He slid it across the desk toward you and you scrutinized it before giving him a look of disapproval and sliding the badge back to him. You shook your head in defiance.

“No thanks.”

He frowned and once again his frigid stare taunted you, something you’d undoubtedly gotten used to very much over the past few years that you'd known him. He leaned forward and for a second you could feel the steam emitting from his nose as he exhaled, eyes scanning your face for any signs of possible sarcasm. You were dead serious now, though.

“This isn’t an offer you can refuse. It’s an order,” the sergeant commanded, grabbing the badge reiteratively and this time placing it firmly into your hand. “So take it, and don’t lose it.”

You remained perched in your spot, not stirring any muscle, just studying his face with the badge dancing across your fingertips. Rick was not going to take ‘no’ for an answer. “Now do as I say, and meet me in that meeting room over there, in 10 minutes.”

You snarled and swiftly rose, shoving the badge into your zipper pocket. Without even giving Rick another look you booked it out the door full tilt.

All throughout meeting with Grimes and Command Sergeant Major Thorne and overlooking your shared brigade of soldiers, your mind couldn’t escape the worry you had about your son, and how you were going to escape and find him. Your mind raced as you tried to recollect what the map of your base looked like, so that you could pinpoint which weak spots there were around the perimeter.

You recall a little while back which security took which shifts at each area of the southwest perimeter where your complex was, but it wasn’t all that simple since sometimes they’d switch shifts around. However, security officers periodically switched their attention to different areas at a time out along the walls, so you could use that as leverage to sneak your way around and cut a hole in one of the fences–

Nah. That would be too obvious, and dangerously stupid. You needed to really think this through – come up with a strategic plan. So that’s what you were prepared to do after your first night of training as Colonel.

Sweaty and disheveled, you entered your sleeping quarters and kicked the door shut, immediately peeling off your bulky armor and tossing your heavy combat boots across the floor. With a satisfactory sigh, you trotted over to the shower and flipped the handle all the way to the left – you needed a steamy shower to filter out all the stress your body had been loaded with that day. Not only that, the steam would help you think, and you needed your head clear if you were going to figure out how to leave successfully that night.

If you were going to escape – if. You needed to keep that thought in mind, because it sure as hell wasn’t going to be a piece of cake.

Frantically you shoved a handful of essentials into a black backpack – a lighter, duct tape, a pocket knife, flashlight, and a small glock you 'borrowed' from your trip with rick to the armory earlier. After zipping up the bag you threw on your combat boots and your gloves. You checked your watch for the time; 11:48 it read. The moon was scintillating in the sky and beaming with conviction. You took one last glimpse around the room to check if you had forgotten any extra tools or gadgets, and before you confirmed that you were ready to head out, you spotted something on the rusty gunmetal colored nightstand.

Inquisitively you wandered over to the table and examined a small, white folded paper. You unfolded it and inside it read, in urgent script:

“Meet me at my place at 11:30 tonight. Need to talk again.

-R.G.”

Too late now. Not happening. Besides, you were sure it was another booty call because for one, on busy task days like tonight, Rick often had a knack for ‘letting off steam,’ which meant fucking your brains out. Sorry, Rick, but my child is more important to me than easing your sexual frustration. And two, it was already reaching midnight…why else would he want to “talk” to you so late at night? Rick was just too obvious.

Speaking of Rick…

The man who shared his bourbon with you for the first time two years ago. That very night he had spilled to you CRM’s legacy and the nightmares behind it. The two of you bonded over your mutual grievance toward the antagonizing militia. Rick spurred hope in you finally leaving and finding your son; if anyone could help you escape it was him. But he changed – his interest in leaving the CRM no longer seemed to exist. After all, he was already climbing his way up the military rank. He was gaining power and respect, and that seemed to be more crucial to him then getting back to his own children.

So, screw him. He had his chance to leave with you, and it already passed – because now you were tiptoeing out your apartment and being welcomed into the darkness of the night.

You were cautious of your surroundings, turning a few corners and eluding one or two officers. You noticed the southwest wall, which didn't look impossible to climb. You discovered a hefty pile of broken shipment container parts – bingo. And that's what you used to climb the wall. unfortunately your endeavor led to you stumbling and hitting both your knee and your arm against the metal object, then landing with your hands scraping against the unforgiving concrete. Fuck. What an idiot you were. Surely someone within about twenty feet of you heard you basically eat shit.

Gritting your teeth and whimpering from the twinge that shot through your knees and hands, you managed to put every fiber of your being to use and push yourself off the ground, only to end up on your ass with a humph. You winced as you peeked at your hands, using the flashlight from your bag to examine how badly cut they were. Blood leaked from multiple crevices in your palms, and you didn’t even bother paying much mind to your bruised knee or elbows because there was no time to dawdle.

“Shit. You need to get up now!” You scolded yourself, but as you tried standing up completely, your knees buckled. Well, at least behind this building it was dark enough for no one to see you, unless they heard you already…

Your alert ears picked up the sound of shoes marching upon the solid ground, and you cursed to yourself; someone was coming, but there was nothing you could do because they had already heard you most likely. “Just play dead, or pretend you passed out!”

You heard your name being called out from somewhere behind you.

The pace of your heartbeat quickened drastically, causing your head to spin toward the voice. Well, shit. It was Rick Grimes himself. This time his helmet wasn’t on and he seemed to have abandoned his uniform. He was instead dressed in jeans and that black tee that always hugged his muscles so perfectly–

“What the fuck are you doing?” His voice boomed in your ears as he knelt down to your level, and you shivered.

You wheezed and resumed your pursuit of getting your ass off the wretched ground, to which you failed. Rick noticed the cuts and bruises decorating your injured body and his face softened. He sighed, gathering your belongings, and then in one swift motion he lifted you up off your feet, holding you bridal-style. You bit your lip to stop the tears forming in your eyes; your plan backfired, you got caught, and now everything was out of your control. You felt so stupid and useless.

Rick shifted around with you in his arms, taking one last glance at your injured figure. “Oh, honey. Let’s get ya cleaned up now.”

He had carried you all the way to his room without any hindrances, and the whole time you honestly thought about kicking out of his tight grasp, nailing him where the sun doesn't shine, and booking it out of there. But the way his strong arms cradled you made you melt into him.

Rick lay you onto his large – well, larger than your own – neatly made bed and pulled your shoes and socks off. Before he could reach your pant zipper to pull them down and examine your knee, you slapped his hand away, scowling at him.

“I can do it,” you promised, although of course your trembling hands reaching for the zipper illustrated a paradoxical story.

Not to mention, the stained blood and soreness reminded you that you needed to ease up on any further use of them. It felt like carpal tunnel. Damn, that concrete did some numbers on you. Your exasperated grunts caught Rick’s attention and he ignored your misleading comment, zipping your pants down and peeling them off himself. The look you gave him could have been detected as either annoyed or demoralized. Either way, your body was weary and your mind still raced with unrelenting thoughts.

Rick brought back a wet cloth and a first aid kit he kept under his sink. Gingerly, he brushed the cloth over your battered hands and then bandaged them up. You let out a few pained huffs while he went to work on your scraped hands and busted knee with his doctor abilities. When finished, his eyes scanned your body, being certain he didn’t miss any other wounds or minor cuts.

You, however, were busy ogling him; his beautifully sculpted figure that was outlined by the black t-shirt he wore, and the scruff that layered his defined jaw, and the way his pink lips pursed as his rough hand prodded your exposed flesh – it sent you into a trance.

He adjusted his gaze back to your face, and you snapped out of your trance promptly, painting that stern cast back on your expressive face. You recalled why you were irritated with him in the first place – he prevented you from escaping.

“Y’alright now? Gonna tell me why you were scurrying around past midnight with this bag on you?”

Your hard stare didn’t falter. He tsked at you and grabbed the backpack off the ground, unzipping it, and dumping its contents onto the bed. When he recognized the gun to be one from the armory, it was his turn to scowl at you.

“You better start talking before I get angry, sweetheart.” His body flexed as he folded his arms across his chest, eyes cornering you and making you feel small.

“I was–” you cleared your throat and sat up with your hands on your bare thighs, “I was going to escape, Rick. I… I need to see him…”

Rick lowered his head to the floor in disappointment, rubbing the bridge of his nose while his other arm rested on his hip. He paced the room. “You knew this was going to happen. We even planned it together, for fuck’s sake!” You pleaded with him, emotion spilling from your lips. You stared at his back, watching the way his muscles tensed. “I have a child I haven’t seen in years and I–”

“Yeah, so do I!” He interrupted, “But that life is over, there is no more escape plan pipe dream. Don’t you get it?!”

His pacing ceased, and he waited for your focus to meet him. When it did, he inched toward you daringly, almost wanting you to test his patience.

“I got you that ranking because I trusted you and expected you to be cooperative with me in this mission. I was planning on trying to convince Beale to let you visit your boy but that won’t be for a while. I need your trust in this,” Rick’s footsteps approached the bed, his towering figure intimidating you. “Do you understand? Look at me—” his rough hand pinched the sides of your chin to tilt your head up at him.

Your lips cracked open to speak but truthfully nothing could be said in that moment. The tension in the air was heavy and laced with despondency. You choked trying to enunciate words as you felt your shoulders drop, and your heart chugging on. Soon you gathered yourself from breaking down in front of him, masking the persistent commotion going on inside the walls of your skull, and the unabated sense of dread pouring over your body. You nodded your head in compliance and Rick released your chin.

This was a confirmation that Rick was never going to let you get away. And if he did end up finding a way for you to see your boy, living under an unlawful and controlling military organization was not something you stood for. With or without Rick, you needed to escape with your son, using any proper chance that swung your way. But if it was going to be without Rick, you needed to be secretive.

You batted your eyes at him, aiming to give him a reason to believe that you were officially yielding to him. The way you looked under him, all battered and desperate, made a spark ignite in his brain. You belonged in this position – underneath him, following his lead, and obeying his orders. He was going to need to show you how insistent he really was.

Your attention remained undivided. Rick stepped backwards a foot and took in the sight of you – your whole body and the way your thighs begged to be kissed and touched.

“I’m assuming you saw the note I left you, right?” His tone dripping with vehemence and his southern drawl rasping, relaying a yearning to your eager core, which you attempted to ease by clenching your thighs. He certainly did not miss that.

“So you were planning on not only ignoring my note, but being reckless and trying to leave this post and then, what? Risk getting caught and dying and never getting to see your son ever? You need to get your head on right, and I’m telling you this from experience, because it’s never going to work out the way you want it to, no matter how perfectly you think your plan will go.”

You gulped and studied your hands, which were thankfully stinging much less. You fiddled with the bandage, until Rick demanded your attention with his authoritative tone.

“This is the last time I’m gonna ask you to cooperate with me. Keep that in mind,” he warned.

Your front teeth bit into your pouty bottom lip as you struggled to make yourself look uncritical of his “plan.” Rick’s eyes targeted your every move as you, this time successfully, propped yourself up and off the bed, bending down to grab your pants which were sprawled out next to your feet.

💋

“What were you gonna talk to me about, y’know….if I ended up showing up earlier?” You flipped the pant legs so that they were no longer inside out.

“I was gonna do this—” Your heart quickened as he neared you rapidly, his arms finding themselves exploring your body and causing goosebumps to multiply across your vulnerable skin. He dexterously greeted his lips to yours, catching you by surprise. The man was quick with it.

You melted into the kiss while his hands continued to trace your curves, eliciting longing whimpers from your throat. You craved his touch.

Breaking away from the kiss, the Sergeant gave you no time to protest, spinning you around so that your back was facing him. Taking your jaw prisoner in the tight clutch of his hand, his hot breath fanned against your ear, making the hairs on the back of your neck come alive. “Originally I was going to fuck you gently, make you relax from your big day—” His hand slid to the middle of your back and he forcefully bent you over on the bed, scoring a small grunt from you. He took your pulled back hair into his hand and with a tantalizing tug of it, he pushed his clothed hips against your bare ass. “But now I’m not gonna be so easy on you, because you decided to go and put yourself in danger. Well, I’m gonna have to punish you instead of reporting you, hm? For your own sake…”

Your heat practically leaked through your panties and down the inner part of your thighs. As much as you didn’t want to admit it, you loved when he was rough with you. It stirred you up with the perfect concoction of salaciousness and angst.

Still, your alacrity temporarily repressed your aroused state and you barked back at him, “All I want is to see my son…you have no goddamn right to take that from me, Rick,” you cried, with your trembling hands supporting your upper body as he gripped your hips.

Rick delivered a firm slap to your ass cheek, then promptly straightened you up and turned you around to meet his sifting stare. You gulped, feeling submissive under his touch. You watched the way he contorted his face in vexation and you abruptly felt overpowered by him.

“In case you’ve forgotten you are under my command, and if you disobey me I have every right to correct you where I see fit,” he eyed your pout, huffing, “and I fucking told you already – you have to be patient, it’s gonna take a while.”

The hope you had was dwindling slowly, even though you really wanted to trust him. It almost felt like putting your full trust in him was equivalent to playing with fire. You couldn’t tell the difference between the two anymore. But ultimately Rick was right, you were under his command and the very least you could do at this moment was take his word.

His leer intensified. “Get on your knees.”

You bit the inside of your cheek and felt the command jolt through your body with a cogent nudge. You conformed to his request and scrunched your face in slight discomfort from your bruised knee making contact with the floor, but it was still tolerable. With urgency he unbuckled his belt and wasted no time in freeing his thick, throbbing length. The sight of his cock was not something foreign, as you’d slept with him many times; but the way he was so much more ambitious in getting his cock inside your mouth and feeling you gag around him, made you squirm.

The restless man bucked his hips forward, enjoying the way your soft pouty lips hugged his shaft so magnificently. You moaned softly, the vibration inciting a groan from Rick as he grabbed at your hair. “Gotta do more than tha’. I know you know how to be a good slut f’me.”

You took his whole length in your throat, feeling spit drip down your chin as you choked. You started to bob your head back and forth, becoming accustomed to the size of his dick and how it collided with the back of your throat incessantly. He took it upon himself to grasp your head and guide you up and down as his hips pushed against your needy mouth. Your tongue traced the veins that protruded across his length, as your head quickened its pace. His grunts echoed in your ears and you prepared for his sweet release when you apperceived the twitch of his cock against your tongue.

“Fuck, yes…good slut,” Rick sung out as he thrusted thrice more, shooting his thick warm seed down your throat and riding out the remainder of his orgasm. He pulled out and stared intently at your lips licking up the remnants of his juices while panting. His hand patted your head in approval.

“You think you deserve to cum tonight?” He taunted, his hold on your hair taut.

You didn’t respond, but instead observed the way his muscles flexed when he lifted his shirt off his back, and how he flattened his hair back with the palm of his hand. You were getting wetter by the second, shifting your thighs in anticipation.

You stood up, tracing your hand over his bicep and fluttering your lashes at him enticingly. He smirked, recognizing that look to be your calling for him to fuck your brains out. Your hands reached down to lift your own shirt off, but he swatted them away in protest, throwing the shirt across the room hastily. All you desired was for him to make love to you, to comfort you and promise you that everything was going to work out, and frankly your sore muscles from training could use as much appreciation as they could obtain. But love-making wasn’t on the agenda for tonight.

Rick flopped you onto the bed, and effortlessly your panties were torn off and thrown next to your shirt. He kneaded your tits with his hand then bent over top of you to hungrily kiss your lips. Your fidgety hands stretched up to tussle through his hair but he broke from the kiss to pin both your hands above your head, rousing a dissatisfied whimper from you. The carnal man bent down diligently to grab his belt and release your hands for a moment, before grabbing your wrists and securing the belt around them.

Bondage wasn’t necessarily unfamiliar to you but you had never expected Rick to ever want to partake in it with you. Nonetheless, your core ached further for his touch. His hand went back to pinching your sensitive nipples, while keeping his ferocious eyes locked onto yours, and lowering his head down to your throbbing heat. The lewd mewls escaping your parted lips sent Rick into a frenzy. You bucked your hips up in an attempt to get him to do something, to give your desperate parts the treatment you longed for, except he just remained concentrated on the way you jerked and crumbled beneath him – he wasn’t even touching you anymore, and yet he had you folding already. How pathetic you looked.

“Rick, please do something!” Your pleas left him unphased. The only thought in his mind at that moment was how rough he was eventually going to fuck you.

Finally, his finger swiped up your soaking folds and came into contact with your swollen clit, giving it a soft pinch, stimulating a ribald whimper from you and inducing your back to arch off the bed. “What d’you want, sweetheart?” His husky tone intimidated you.

“Need you, please. ‘M lonely,” You sniffed, overworked from all the teasing. He cooed in a mocking manner, and with two fingers he plunged into you, sending you into the clouds.

“This sweet pussy needs attention, dun’it?” He curled his fingers upward, activating that sweet spot inside your squelching sex. With his thumb he circled around your sensitive bud, accelerating the speed of his thick fingers inside your tight, wet hole. Bliss clouded over you, and your head lulled to the side.

Rick hissed, dissenting your lack of eye contact. He yanked his fingers out all the way, giving a slight tap to your voracious cunt.

“Nuh-uh, eyes on me.” The glazed-over look you gave him was enough for him to give in and slide his digits back into your heat, this time being merciless by the way he finger fucked you with racking momentum.

Your walls clenched rhythmically around his fingers, legs syncing with the rhythm of your swirling hips. Rick sensed your orgasm approaching – he ascertained that you didn't get to reach its peak by ceasing his thumb's labor and plucking his drenched digits out of your weeping center.

Your sensual clamors didn't go unnoticed; instead he hushed you, and bringing his mouth near your ear he rasped, "I decided that you don't get to cum yet. Not till I feel like it."

Rick really loved tossing you around, especially tonight. He arose, untying the belt around your wrists – almost as if he was showing mercy, but that thought was surpassed as he effortlessly flipped you around so your bandaged hands were gripping desperately onto the sheets, as if that'd prevent you from losing your grip on reality from what was about to go down.

Your begging hole cried for his further attention, causing you to become more agitated by the second. That is, until you felt his hard cock slap against your ass cheek, and his hips striking the back of your shaking thighs. The grumpy commander pressed his leather-sling gloved fist slightly against your upper neck, just enough pressure to ensure you stayed where he wanted you. You didn't plan on leaving, though – not until he fucked you to your heart's content.

He could take a picture right now, the way your ass pushed against his solid member so hysterically, as if your pussy lived to be stuffed by his cock. In that moment, it did. Rick grabbed his cock and lined it up with your welcoming entrance, collecting the condensation on his tip.

"God, just fuck me–"

One rigid thrust was all it took for you to fully engulf him. Your eyes rolled to the ceiling, stars eclipsing your vision while his thrust followed another one, this time much deeper.

Your whines bounced off the pale room's walls, alerting Rick, who hushed you with a growl, "Shutch'er mouth, the whole building's gonna hear ya."

A third thrust ensued, with the sound of his pelvic bone smacking against your backside and the echoing of your sodden cunt being governed by his greedy shaft. The wet squishy insides of your walls hugged Rick so magnetically, he almost gave in right there.

His pace picked up with each ram of his hips, and his assault to your clit. Your grip on the sheets tightened, bandages likely slipping off but that wasn't a concern. Shy whimpers were trapped inside your mouth as you gave it your all at keeping your lewd blubbers and cusses at bay. Your soft, muffled cries continued as he pounded into you strenuously and tirelessly.

"You're not gonna try to leave again, not ever." The thumping of his hips on your ass and him fucking you into the mattress was all too much for your brain. "I won't fucking let you."

You felt fuzzy. The dauntless rebel attitude you once had vanished, and now your were a blubbering hot mess under a relentless leader. His bulging biceps flexed as his leather arm continued pushing on your neck, the other hand groping your hip and then going back to flicking your clit as his cock rutted into your core. He fit you like a puzzle piece.

Your walls were pulsating and you sensed your climax approaching quickly. "Oh, fuck, Rick!"

"Don't you even think about it. So help me god, if you do..."

Rick's demands only filled you closer to the brim with pleasure, and you weren't assured how much longer you could hold it. His thrusts became sloppier and sloppier, indicating that he was probably close too.

"Mmmph–" You focused on grasping desperately at the sheets again, trying to fixate on the way the soft fabric felt against your hands and your face which was pushed into the bed.

Rick groaned out, whispering filthy affirmations as his pounding became more jagged and his grunts more urgent. "Wanna fill ya up, but you don'need another baby, not yet."

One last press against your clit and the band finally snapped, your juices releasing all over his cock, and his orgasm causing him to grasp your hips roughly as he used your dripping hole to help him ride out his own orgasm. He pulled out, releasing onto your back with a few strokes of his slippery member.

The bottom half of your body gave in finally, collapsing and being suffocated by the plush mattress. Your eyelids fluttered, struggling to stay open. He truly fucked the energy out of you.

"You gonna try that shit again with me?"

With half-lidded eyes you simpered and muttered, "Not without you."

228 notes · View notes

mariacallous · 8 days ago

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In the North Philadelphia neighbourhood of Fairhill, signs of Puerto Rico are never far off. The US island territory's red, white and blue flag adorns homes and businesses, and the sounds of salsa and reggaetón boom from passing cars and restaurants selling fried plantains and spit-roasted pork.

The area is the beating heart of Philadelphia's more than 90,000-strong Puerto Rican population and forms a key part of Pennsylvania's Latino community, which both the Democrats and Republicans have sought to woo ahead of the 5 November election.

But on Monday morning, many locals were left seething at a joke made at Donald Trump's rally the night before in New York, in which comic Tony Hinchcliffe described Puerto Rico as an "island of garbage".

The joke, some said, could come back to haunt the Republicans in a key swing state that Democrats won by a narrow margin of 1.17% - about 82,000 votes - in 2020.

"The campaign just hurt itself, so much. It's crazy to me," said Ivonne Torres Miranda, a local resident who said she remains disillusioned by both candidates - Republican Trump and Democrat Kamala Harris - with just eight days to go in the campaign.

"Even if he [Mr Hinchcliffe ] was joking - you don't joke like that.

"We're Puerto Ricans. We have dignity, and we have pride," she told the BBC, speaking in rapid-fire Spanish with a strong Puerto Rican accent.

"You've got to think before saying things."

In the aftermath, the Trump campaign was quick to distance itself from Mr Hinchcliffe's joke, with a spokesman saying the remark "does not reflect the views" of Trump or his campaign.

The Harris campaign pounced on the joke, with the vice-president pointing to the comment as a sign that Trump is "fanning the fuel of trying to divide" Americans.

Her views were echoed by Puerto Rican celebrities Bad Bunny and Jennifer Lopez, who both endorsed Harris on Sunday.

A campaign official told CBS, the BBC's US partner, that the controversy was a political gift to the Democrats.

Some Puerto Rican residents agree with that assessment.

"[The joke] just put it in the bag for us. He literally just gave us the win," said Jessie Ramos, a Harris supporter. "He has no idea how hard the Latino community is going to come out and support Kamala Harris."

Residents of Puerto Rico - a US island territory in the Caribbean - are unable to vote in presidential elections, but the large diaspora in the US can.

Across Pennsylvania, about 600,000 eligible voters are Latino.

More than 470,000 of them are Puerto Ricans - one of the largest concentrations in the country and a potential deciding factor in a state where polls show Harris and Trump in an extremely tight race.

North Philadelphia in particular has been a target for Harris, who on Sunday made a campaign stop at Freddy & Tony's, a Puerto Rican restaurant and community hub in Fairhill.

The same day, Harris unveiled a new policy platform for Puerto Rico, promising economic development and improved disaster relief and accusing Trump of having "abandoned and insulted" the island during Hurricane Maria in 2017.

Whether or not this will sway Puerto Rican voters remains to be seen.

Freddy & Tony's owner, Dalma Santiago, told the BBC that she is not sure whether the joke will make a difference but that she believed that it was heard "loud and clear" in Fairhill and other Puerto Rican communities.

"Everybody has their own opinion," she told the BBC. "But nobody will be forgetting that one."

Similarly, Moses Santana, a 13-year US Army veteran who works at a harm reduction facility in Fairhill, said he is unsure of the joke's impact.

In an interview with the BBC on a Fairhill street corner, Mr Santana said the area is traditionally wary of politicians of all kinds, with many believing that both parties have failed to address socio-economic issues, crime and drug abuse there.

"Folks around here tend not to get what they ask for," he added. "Even when they vote."

On Tuesday, Trump will campaign in Allentown, a town of about 125,000 in central Pennsylvania where about 33,000 people identify as Puerto Rican.

But even among Trump supporters in Pennsylvania's wider Latino community, the joke was poorly received.

That included Republican voter Jessenia Anderson, a Puerto Rican resident from the town of Johnstown about 240 miles (386 km) west of Philadelphia.

Ms Anderson, a military veteran who was born in New York's heavily Puerto Rican Lower East Side, is a frequent attendee of Trump rallies in Pennsylvania.

She described the joke as "deeply offensive" and said the routine felt "wildly out of place" - and implored her fellow Republicans to engage in "thoughtful and respectful conversations".

But Ms Anderson has no plan to switch her vote.

"My belief in the party's potential to make a positive impact remains strong," she said.

"I hope they will approach Latino voters with the respect they deserve."

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nerdyenby · 3 months ago

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I get most of my news either online or from a newsletter I subscribe to, but I’m feeling pretty good right now about our democratic candidates so I sat down to watch Walz’s debut at the Philadelphia rally and here are the highlights (imo, of course)

“Before I was elected vice president or elected a United States senator, I was an elected attorney general, and, before that, an elected district attorney and, before that, I was a courtroom prosecutor. So in those roles, I took on perpetrators of all kinds: predators who abused women, fraudsters who scammed consumers, cheaters who broke the rules for their own gain. So hear me when I say: I know Donald Trump’s type.” -KH

KH talking about fighting for a future where every American can afford to own a home hit me so hard. Why is that such a fantasy? Why have I never even considered it possible?

I am obsessed with the confidence, this is the energy I need. We have plenty of reasons to be afraid but goddamn did I need someone to stand up and calmly declare that we will be okay, and I am so fucking glad it’s a Black woman.

A history teacher as our next VP <3

Their motif of fighting for the future is so much more potent coming from a woman of color and a man who has dedicated so much of his life to youth and to supporting them and their futures. Like damn, maybe the kids really will be okay. Fighting poverty, securing free school lunches for kids, protecting bodily autonomy, and founding his schools first GSA as a straight white man? I don’t know much about Walz but what I’ve learned so far has earned him a lot of respect in my book.

Fuck, Harris talking about Walz’s background and reputation in his school has me tearing up.

“We will win.” Okay, yeah, I’m crying now. These two make me feel so safe, it’s not fair I’ve never felt this way before.

Friendly reminder that one of our main political candidates does not value disabled lives and will openly say as much. Trump wants us dead, don’t let him win.

“Tim and I have a message for Trump and others who want to turn back the clock on our fundamental freedoms: we’re not going back.” -KH

“After Roe was overturned [TW] was the first governor in the country to sign a new law that enshrined reproductive freedom as a fundamental right.” -KH

“Ultimately in this election, we each face a question: what kind of country do we want to live in? A county of freedom, compassion, and rule of law or a country of chaos, fear, and hate?” -KH

“We love our country, and I believe it is the highest form of patriotism to fight for the ideals of our country.” -KH

“Don’t ever underestimate teachers.” -TW (preach)

“It was my students, they encouraged me to run for office. They saw in me what I was hoping to instill in them: a commitment of common good, a belief that one person can make a difference.” -TW

“Now, Donald Trump sees the world a little differently than us. First of all, he doesn’t know the first thing about service. He doesn’t have time for it because he’s too busy serving himself. Again and again and again, Trump weakens our economy to strengthen his own hand. He mocks our laws, he sows chaos and division, and that’s to say nothing of his record as president.” -TW

“Some of us in here are old enough to remember — I see you down there, I see those old white guys — some of us are old enough to remember when it was republicans who were talking about freedom. It turns out now what they meant was the government should be free to invade your doctors office. In Minnesota, we respect our neighbors and their personal choices that they make. Even if we wouldn’t make the same choice for ourselves, there’s a golden rule: mind your own damn business. ” -TW

“When Vice President and I talk about freedom, we mean the freedom to make your own healthcare decisions and for our children to be free to go to school without worrying they’ll be shot dead in their classrooms.” -TW

“Vice President Harris’s idea: freedom is a ticket, for education to be that ticket to the middle class. Not crippling debt, air that’s clean, water that’s pure, communities that are safe.” -TW

TW: “Donald Trump isn’t fighting for you or your family-” random audience member: “You are!” Walz: *allows himself a breath of a laugh before continuing on just as strong as before*

“I gotta tell you, pointing out just an observation of mine that I made, I just have to say it. You know it, you feel it [the republican candidates] are creepy and, yes, just weird as hell.” -TW

“So we got 91 days. My god, that’s easy. Well sleep when we’re dead! Over those next 91 days and every day in the White House, I’ll have Vice President Harris’s back, every single day, and we’ll have yours.” -TW

This is the broadcast I watched

#they both ate #kamala harris #tim walz #us politics #2024 elections

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mrsabednadir · 2 years ago

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Naked and Famous, Pt.1

A/N: HEYOOOOOO it's been a while. This has been my go-to sleep scenario for my beautiful little buttercup Charlie Kelly. Hope you enjoy

WC: 799

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4:30 PM

On a Saturday

Philadelphia, PA.

What the hell is a “Naked and Famous?!”

The guy sitting on the stool across from me just stares expectantly, though kindly. Pretty sure he can tell I’m very, very new to this. And, of course, there’s no one else tending bar.

Dennis and Mac are engrossed in a vicious game of pool: Mac had desperately tried to convince him to play for clothes, though thankfully, they settled on bragging rights. I know better than to interrupt their time together. Charlie’s probably huffing God-knows-what in the back office. Poor thing. Dee and Frank are out, either looking for a mark or bleeding one dry. I think I heard the words “flammable,” “that yellow tape they put up at crime scenes,” and “orphans.” – Good luck, kids.

“You son of a bitch!” Dennis shouts over Mac’s carefree karate victory dance.

Christ. Do these people remember that this is an actual business? With customers?

Oh shit. The customer.

“I'm gonna be real with you. I have no idea what that is, but let me go check on the computer in the back,” I offer, shooing away his insisting that just a beer would suffice. “Gimme one sec.”

Maybe I’ve only been working for half an hour, but I deserve a break, anyways. I walk to the PRIVATE door, past the pile of dirty glasses I knew I’d have to clean because no one else would, and the on-taps dripping pitifully, begging me to change their kegs.

One, two, three knocks on the door earns me a haggard “Who’s there?”

“It’s me,” I respond, thankful that Charlie hasn’t passed out yet.

Several seconds pass before I hear anything. Maybe I shouldn’t have come to the still-conscious conclusion so quickly. Just as I’m about to knock again –

“Come on in,” he drawls, with all the effort made to unsuccessfully hide his slurred speech.

As I enter the small room, walls painted a nauseating two-toned egg yolk yellow and throw-up green, I pull up a chair next to Charlie at the desk. He smiles, excitedly yet weakly, as I walk in.

Scruffy, simple, and sweet. Just how I like them. Honestly, if he cleaned himself up, I’d jump his bones.

“ ‘Sup?” he asks, hands neatly folded in his lap.

“ ‘Sup to you. You look sick, Charlie.”

“W..what do you mean? I feel…fine.” His eyes are struggling to stay focused and open. There’s an open can of paint thinner at his side, its sides violently dented from attempts to squeeze out that last bit of escape.

“I mean that you’re super sweaty, and you look super pale and shit. Are you sure you’re alright, dude?”

“Never better,” he grins. It looks genuine, thankfully. “Whatcha need?”

“Customer came in asking for a ‘Naked and Famous’ – what the hell is that, right? – so I’m gonna borrow the computer to search it up,” I explain, pulling the keyboard closer to me and leaning over him slightly to look at the monitor. Maybe I’m a bit too close for comfort, but I hope he’s picking up what I’m putting down.

“Oh, cool,” he replies. Then – “Wait, wait, wait!”

4,300,000 results for “GANGBANG.”

Oh fuck.

Ohhhhh fuck.

Neither of us say anything, but both of us understand.

A loading sign finally finishes its job, slow and laborious, thanks to the bar’s lack of its own WiFi and Frank’s solution to siphon it from the place next door – as he once explained, “it’s a free country, bitch.”

A pretty lady appears on the screen, and she looks very pleased.

Well, at least he muted it.

I try to say something, anything. “I, uh….Jesus. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…intrude. Um, I’m gonna go. Yep, gotta go, gotta go,” I blurt as I rush for the sweet escape of literally-anywhere-else-but-here. The whole time, Charlie’s gotten waaaayyyyy paler and much more silent. I slam the door shut and pause for a few moments to regain my composure, like I didn’t just see my boss in the middle of getting his rocks off.

As I make my way back to the already-unsettled customer, a scream erupts from the back office. Damn, that kid’s got pipes – birds scattering, Earth and wine glass shattering. Really, if I wasn’t an active participant in this, it would be funny. Mac and Dennis look up – both of them now have their shirts popped off – then to me. The deer-in-headlights look across my face is enough for them, I guess, as they reluctantly shrug their shirts on (leaving them unbuttoned) and enter the office.

Before the customer can ask any questions, I fill a glass with whatever – it’ll get him drunk all the same – and hand it to him, shakily. A little bit spills out, but we both couldn’t care less.

He nods in appreciation, and in understanding. At least someone here gets me.

#iasip #charlie kelly #always sunny #dennis reynolds #iasip mac #charlie kelly x reader #charlie kelly fic #WHAT TAGS AM I SUPPOSED TO USE WTF #birdiewrites

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myemuisemo · 10 months ago

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In the second part of "The Lauriston Garden Mystery," in Letters from Watson, the animal comparisons with people continue. The prior "simian" description of the victim now appears to be in the land of general Victorian biases about looks indicating character, rather than of specific dog whistles. (It's still an idea I'm glad isn't encouraged today.)

Inspector Lestrade, for instance, is given no description beyond "lean and ferret-like," implying he's a wiry, sneaky guy who's good at catching rats. Holmes, by contrast, is compared to a hound -- a classier and more morally noble catcher of vermin.

What the victim has in his pocketses is fascinating.

A Barraud watch is a high-quality pocket watch from the Barraud family watchmaker firm, which operated in the London area from 1727 to 1880 (so, retiring shortly before the story happens), per the British Museum. Holmes reads a serial number -- 97163 -- that may be made up without regard for Barraud's actual serial numbering (watch afficionados get very into Barraud details). Being five digits likely is meant to imply that the watch is newer rather than older.

Gold Albert chain is the style of chain that has a T-bar that slips into the button hole of a vest pocket and a swivel hook that attaches to the pocket watch. They were, unsurprisingly, popularized by Prince Albert, who died in 1861. I can't easily find a source that's specific about how long these specific chains really stayed fashionable, other than that pocket watches in general faded once men's wristwatches caught on in the early 20th century. Having a heavy gold chain at minimum implies the victim is a prosperous and outwardly respectable gentleman who might lean a titch conservative and practical.

Gold ring with Masonic device -- now this raises the BIG question. Are we talking Masons like "Moose Lodge but classier" or Masons like "conspiracy theories"? Even in the 1880s, it could have gone either way. Being a Mason was a gentlemanly thing to do, assuring business connections and a reliable social network when traveling. We're back in an era when everything respectable required an introduction -- gentlefolk who were moving to a new city took letters of introductions with them! -- and simply being a fellow Mason counted. So our victim has upper-middle-class social connections.

At the same time, Arthur Conan Doyle himself joined the Masons at about this time (possibly a bit after the story was written) as part of his exploration of spiritualism and self-improvement. So our victim's being a Mason isn't not a sign he might have deep secrets. (This interview with John Dickie, who wrote a book on Freemasonry, is particularly lively.)

Gold pin -- bull dog's head, with rubies as eyes. Bulldog stickpins or cravat pins were apparently quite popular! This one puzzles me, as the bulldog is ordinarily a symbol for England, but the victim is supposed to be American. And a gold pin is not a cheap souvenir! My next thought is that it's a Yale bulldog, but I'm reaching.

Russian leather card case -- Russian leather was popular for some years before the story because it was durable and resistant to water- and insect-damage. Our victim is willing to pay for quality and/or is taking his card case places where it has a rough life. If the cards only say "Enoch J. Drebber" and "Cleveland," these are his social cards, left when paying calls. (Paying calls was the Victorian equivalent of sending memes to the group chat. You'd go round dropping off your cards at the homes of friends and acquaintances, and a few might be "at home" to invite you in for tea and cakes. Not paying calls was a good way to fall out of contact with society.)

I keep wondering -- why Cleveland? It's a Doylistic question: the American has to be from somewhere, but why Cleveland? An Englishman in the 1880s would have heard of New York, Philadelphia, San Francisco, and Chicago, surely, but Cleveland?

Well. I had forgotten that President James A. Garfield, elected in 1880 and assassinated in 1881, was from Cleveland. Cleveland was in the news. The city was also an industrial powerhouse from the Civil War into the early 20th century, so if the idea is to convey a large, wealthy American city, where society is perhaps less refined than in New York, but not so rough-and-tumble as in "the West," then Cleveland fits the bill brilliantly. Best yet, it was ethnically diverse, with large German and Hungarian populations.

Pocket edition of Boccaccio's Decameron -- it's an era when a man who traveled would carry a pocket edition of some classic book, to while away train trips and nights in hotels. The choice of book should be an indicator of character.

This is probably the 1872 revision of Charles Balguy's 1741 translation, which kept the more ribald bits in Italian. I'm leaning toward thinking that we're supposed to see the victim as a man who liked a bit of the salacious, as no matter how the Decameron is bowdlerized, everyone knows the spicy bits are there (though why is someone else's name in the book? well, someone likes a spicy read).

Letters from the Guion Steamship Company sent me down a rabbit hole of steamship history. This is not a made-up company. This is the JetBlue of steamship lines. Per my plunge into Wikipedia, White Star was known for comfort, Cunard and Inman were known for speed, and Guion was known for transporting immigrants in steerage.

Right around the time of the story, Guion commissioned new ships to try to compete based on speed. This went badly for them, including stranding a couple ships.

Our victim could be sailing Guion as an indicator that he's pinching some pennies, or that he simply doesn't care about White Star-type comforts. Alternately, this could be Chekov's steamship and someone important will later be on a ship that sinks.

Seven pounds 13 is about $300 in today's money. Without ATMs and credit cards, and without a bank book or other financial instruments for a UK bank, this is the money that has to get the victim to Liverpool on the train (there's no train ticket) and cover any incidentals until he embarks. (Or perhaps there's more wherever he was staying?) Depending what he's got to do before leaving, he's decently prosperous.

Whatever point Holmes expected Lestrade to see as "crucial" in wiring to Cleveland (presumably to the police department), I have no idea what it might be.

Holmes' deductions about the murderer are a mix of explainable and mysterious.

Height and shoes are derived from Holmes' painstaking measurements, and Holmes is an expert at identifying cigar ash. (Trichinopoly is an Indian cigar, popular for its mild flavor.) The details of the taxi are from Holmes' examination of the mud outside. (This is definitely not a Playfair mystery where the reader sees the actual clues.)

"Florid face" likely means the murderer drinks, though he could be outdoorsy or have a choleric temperament. The long fingernails must be deduced from the writing in blood, but why were they long?

Victorian nails were kept very short by modern standards, even for women. So "remarkably long" nails might only be half an inch -- but it's a vulgar and exotic detail. I have driven myself into a frenzy in trying to find a fraternal group, religion, criminal activity, or skilled trade where it was normal, symbolic, or practically useful to have long nails on one hand.

In an era with serialized novels and no Wikipedia, readers must have been frantic with asking their friends about tantalizing details. Making all those required calls was doubtless a lot more fun if everyone had read the latest chapter.

So we have a victim who is prosperous and at least surface-respectable, but not quite "nice" and a murderer who sought revenge, has some odd trade, and is likely upset about whatever's to do with the wedding ring.

And what is to do with it? Is it intended for a future bride, taken from a dead one, or left by a runaway?

I'm on tenterhooks to hear what Constable Rance has to say next week.

#sherlock holmes #letters from watson

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reachartwork · 15 days ago

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Chum 133: The Siege of the Philadelphia Zoo, PT 1.

There are only so many times you can walk around a zoo before you memorize everything. At first, it was about mapping the place in my head, you know, figuring out all the paths and shortcuts. Where the snack stands are, where the bathrooms are. Which enclosures are closest to the exits, and which ones are hidden in weird little corners. That kind of thing. But now I’ve been here so much, I’ve started noticing stuff that I bet even the zookeepers miss. Like the way the flamingos don’t actually stand on one leg when it’s cold out. Or the exact number of times the big male orangutan in the Primate Reserve throws his banana peel before he loses interest and just eats it.

Three. It’s always three.

After Thanksgiving, it became kind of a routine. School, zoo, home, repeat. Every day I’d find something new to focus on, something to keep my brain busy while I watched. The animals were part of it, but mostly I was watching the people. The workers, the families, the couples on dates who thought they were the only ones who came up with the idea of a romantic zoo trip. And the construction crews. Those guys have been here since before Thanksgiving, moving bricks and tools and doing, like, construction things. I’m not an architect. And they sure are legitimately building shit in this here zoo.

The first day I came, I thought I was being ridiculous. Who spends their afternoons watching construction workers? Me, apparently. I couldn’t help it. It’s not like they were doing anything suspicious. They were just fixing a wall or something near the Reptile House. But the way they moved, the way they looked around–like they were waiting for something–made my skin crawl. I’ve been around enough shady people to recognize the signs.

Or at least I think I have.

Maybe I’m just paranoid. But when you’ve fought a guy who turns bricks into shrapnel, you start to notice weird things about construction sites.

#writing #alt history #web serial #sci fi #worldbuilding #chum #chum web serial #chumpdate

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dreaminginthedeepsouth · 7 months ago

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This political cartoon by Louis Dalrymple appeared in Judge magazine in 1903. It depicts European immigrants as rats. Nativism and anti-immigration have a long and sordid history in the United States.

* * * *

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

March 28, 2024

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

MAR 29, 2024

Yesterday the National Economic Council called a meeting of the Supply Chain Disruptions Task Force, which the Biden-Harris administration launched in 2021, to discuss the impact of the collapse of the Francis Scott Key Bridge and the partial closure of the Port of Baltimore on regional and national supply chains. The task force draws members from the White House and the departments of Transportation, Commerce, Agriculture, Defense, Labor, Health and Human Services, Energy, and Homeland Security. It is focused on coordinating efforts to divert ships to other ports and to minimize impacts to employers and workers, making sure, for example, that dock workers stay on payrolls.

Today, Transportation Secretary Pete Buttigieg convened a meeting of port, labor, and industry partners—ocean carriers, truckers, local business owners, unions, railroads, and so on—to mitigate disruption from the bridge collapse. Representatives came from 40 organizations including American Roll-on Roll-off Carrier; the Georgia Ports Authority; the International Longshoremen’s Association, the International Organization of Masters, Mates and Pilots; John Deere; Maersk; Mercedes-Benz North America Operations; Seabulk Tankers; Under Armour; and the World Shipping Council.

Today the U.S. Department of Transportation’s Federal Highway Administration announced it would make $60 million available immediately to be used as a down payment toward initial costs. Already, though, some Republicans are balking at the idea of using new federal money to rebuild the bridge, saying that lawmakers should simply take the money that has been appropriated for things like electric vehicles, or wait until insurance money comes in from the shipping companies.

In 2007, when a bridge across the Mississippi River in Minneapolis suddenly collapsed, Congress passed funding to rebuild it in days and then-president George W. Bush signed the measure into law within a week of the accident.

In the past days, we have learned that the six maintenance workers killed when the bridge collapsed were all immigrants, natives of Mexico, Honduras, Guatemala, and El Salvador. Around 39% of the workforce in the construction industry around Baltimore and Washington, D.C., about 130,000 people, are immigrants, Scott Dance and María Luisa Paúl reported in the Washington Post yesterday.

Some of the men were undocumented, and all of them were family men who sent money back to their home countries, as well. From Honduras, the nephew of one of the men killed told the Associated Press, “The kind of work he did is what people born in the U.S. won’t do. People like him travel there with a dream. They don’t want to break anything or take anything.”

In the Philadelphia Inquirer today, journalist Will Bunch castigated the right-wing lawmakers and pundits who have whipped up native-born Americans over immigration, calling immigrants sex traffickers and fentanyl dealers, and even “animals.” Bunch illustrated that the reality of what was happening on the Francis Scott Key Bridge when it collapsed creates an opportunity to reframe the immigration debate in the United States.

Last month, Catherine Rampell of the Washington Post noted that immigration is a key reason that the United States experienced greater economic growth than any other nation in the wake of the coronavirus pandemic. The surge of immigration that began in 2022 brought to the U.S. working-age people who, Director Phill Swagel of the nonpartisan Congressional Budget Office wrote, are expected to make the U.S. gross domestic product about $7 trillion larger over the ten years from 2023 to 2034 than it would have been otherwise. Those workers will account for about $1 trillion dollars in revenues.

Curiously, while Republican leaders today are working to outdo each other in their harsh opposition to immigration, it was actually the leaders of the original Republican Party who recognized the power of immigrants to build the country and articulated an economic justification for increased immigration during the nation’s first major anti-immigrant period.

The United States had always been a nation of immigrants, but in the 1840s the failure of the potato crop in Ireland sent at least half a million Irish immigrants to the United States. As they moved into urban ports on the East Coast, especially in Massachusetts and New York, native-born Americans turned against them as competitors for jobs.

The 1850s saw a similar anti-immigrant fury in the new state of California. After the discovery of gold there in 1848, native-born Americans—the so-called Forty Niners—moved to the West Coast. They had no intention of sharing the riches they expected to find. The Indigenous people who lived there had no right to the land under which gold lay, native-born men thought; nor did the Mexicans whose government had sold the land to the U.S. in 1848; nor did the Chileans, who came with mining skills that made them powerful competitors. Above all, native-born Americans resented the Chinese miners who came to work in order to send money home to a land devastated by the first Opium War.

Democrats and the new anti-immigrant American Party (more popularly known as the “Know Nothings” because members claimed to know nothing about the party) turned against the new immigrants, seeing them as competition that would drive down wages. In the 1850s, Know Nothing officials in Massachusetts persecuted Catholics and deported Irish immigrants they believed were paupers. In California the state legislature placed a monthly tax on Mexican and Chinese miners, made unemployment a crime, took from Chinese men the right to testify in court, and finally tried to stop Chinese immigration altogether by taxing shipmasters $50 for each Chinese immigrant they brought.

When the Republicans organized in the 1850s, they saw society differently than the Democrats and the Know Nothings. They argued that society was not made up of a struggle over a limited economic pie, but rather that hardworking individuals would create more than they could consume, thus producing capital that would make the economy grow. The more people a nation had, the stronger it would be.

In 1860 the new party took a stand against the new laws that discriminated against immigrants. Immigrants’ rights should not be “abridged or impaired,” the delegates to its convention declared, adding that they were “in favor of giving a full and efficient protection to the rights of all classes of citizens, whether native or naturalized, both at home and abroad.”

Republicans’ support for immigration only increased during the Civil War. In contrast to the southern enslavers, they wanted to fill the land with people who supported freedom. As one poorly educated man wrote to his senator, “Protect Emegration and that will protect the Territories to Freedom.”

Republicans also wanted to bring as many workers to the country as possible to increase economic development. The war created a huge demand for agricultural products to feed the troops. At the same time, a terrible drought in Europe meant there was money to be made exporting grain. But the war was draining men to the battlefields of Stones River and Gettysburg and to the growing U.S. Navy, leaving farmers with fewer and fewer hands to work the land.

By 1864, Republicans were so strongly in favor of immigration that Congress passed “an Act to Encourage Immigration.” The law permitted immigrants to borrow against future homesteads to fund their voyage to the U.S., appropriated money to provide for impoverished immigrants upon their arrival, and, to undercut Democrats’ accusations that they were simply trying to find men to throw into the grinding war, guaranteed that no immigrant could be drafted until he announced his intention of becoming a citizen.

Support for immigration has waxed and waned repeatedly since then, but as recently as 1989, Republican president Ronald Reagan said: “We lead the world because, unique among nations, we draw our people—our strength—from every country and every corner of the world. And by doing so we continuously renew and enrich our nation…. Thanks to each wave of new arrivals to this land of opportunity, we're a nation forever young, forever bursting with energy and new ideas, and always on the cutting edge, always leading the world to the next frontier. This quality is vital to our future as a nation. If we ever closed the door to new Americans, our leadership in the world would soon be lost.”

The workers who died in the bridge collapse on Tuesday “were not ‘poisoning the blood of our country,’” Will Bunch wrote, quoting Trump; “they were replenishing it…. They may have been born all over the continent, but when these men plunged into our waters on Tuesday, they died as Americans.”

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

#immigration #history #Letters From An American #Heather Cox Richardson #Know Nothings #supply chains #economic growth

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casspurrjoybell-33 · 10 months ago

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Wreckless - Double Dealings

*Warning Adult Content*

Finnegan

I go into headquarters on Friday to talk with Dad... I booked a meeting and I'm wearing a suit.

Yes, I could have done this on the couch at home but if I want to be taken seriously it needs to happen here.

He's my father but today I need him to treat me like a Vice-President.

"Hello Mr. Walker," I say, heading in after having a quick catch-up and getting the go-ahead from Betty.

He squints his eyes, takes off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose, then smiles.

"Good day Mr. Walker. Have a seat," I do, sitting in one of the comfortable chairs across from his desk.

"How can I help you?"

Okay, this is weird... still, if it works it'll be worth it.

"I don't know how to start. You know me, that's rarely a problem. I have no problem speaking to you or anyone else."

"True, that's why I make you do all the talking. You're well-spoken and have a way of making other people think that your ideas and plans were actually theirs."

He's hitting the nail on the head.

"Thank you. Dad, I have two contracts sitting in Baltimore. Large contracts worth millions."

He leans back.

"I'm gonna need more than that, Finnegan."

"I want to sign them and go back to rebuild."

"Slow down. Why Baltimore? We can do them here."

He's right and if not here than surely in Texas. We'd need some upgrades but either place would be easier than rebuilding in Baltimore.

"I thought you hated it there. Friction with department heads, issues with City Hall, the city itself?"

All true but I've worked most of that out."

He pops a mint into his mouth... I have no doubt that my father's piss tastes like mint because he eats them almost constantly.

Apparently they helped him quit smoking and now he's all Brokeback and can't quit them.

He smacks the table.

"Finnegan. Did you meet a young man?"

He passes me a mint... I liked it better when he kept LifeSavers in his desk for me.

"I'm not making business decisions based on a relationship."

Not completely, anyway.

"You're not answering the question either so that's a yes? Please tell me he's young, Finnegan. I see the way my colleagues drool over you, creeps me out a little to be honest."

The poor guy.

"He's young, well my age, yes."

"Good. And does he have a name? This your-age man?"

"Emmett."

He nods and then relaxes.

"Tell me about these contracts. Am I supposed to know what you're talking about?"

"No, no."

Here goes.

"I submitted two bids to the Department of Defense and we won."

My dad does this thing where he inhales and then his face doesn't change even when he exhales.

It just stays raised and stern.

"We don't have to sign them but will you hear me out?"

"Of course."

I tell him all the reasons I think the Department of Defense contracts and getting a piece of their huge pie is a win for the company.

I spoon it on a bit thicker, telling him that someone is going to make the boards and I feel better knowing they're accurate and well made, that we can try to prevent deaths by building a quality product.

I tell him that being in Baltimore makes it much easier to work with them.

I can drive down when necessary, see people face to face.

I remind him of all the reasons we picked Baltimore in the first place.

We were right, port cities are great to do business in and shipping is easier.

There is still a huge need for good, entry level jobs and we can help lift people by providing them a good work environment and livable wage.

It's convenient not only to DC but also to Philadelphia and I can be in New York by 10:30 if necessary.

I sit back and give him time to think.

I've thrown a lot at him and my father has always been a 'think first, respond later' kind of guy.

"I have a question. If Emmett lived here in Michigan, would you still want to get Baltimore up and running?"

It's valid.

"Yes. I wouldn't stay there, I'd get it up and running and come back here. Would probably have to fly out pretty often but it would be worth it. Baltimore is a good move for Walker."

It's true... Whether he believes me or not is up to him.

"Finnegan, do you know why Walker Industries started making PCBs?"

"I know I'm glad we did but no... I don't know the story."

"It was my decision. I wasn't much older than you and the company had been struggling. This was in the late 1980s and years of Reaganomics had taken their toll. I decided we needed to diversify. Your grandfather, may he rest in peace, wanted to stay the course. Thought computers were too expensive of an investment and would never amount to much."

It's hard for me to imagine a world without computers.

"But he let you?"

He snorts and grabs another mint.

"No. Told me sit down and shut up and when he was dead in his grave, then I could run the company into the ground."

My grandpa was always tough but

"Wow. Harsh. But you didn't wait, did you? We were doing circuit boards when he was alive"

I think.

"I waited two years. Moved you kids and your mother into a crappy mobile home and banked my wages. Bought into a start-up and once that was up and running I gave your grandfather my notice."

He's smiling but I can tell it was hard for him.

"He wasn't happy and bought out all my partners and became my boss again. But he let me try, he said that if I wanted it that bad, he'd give me chance. He gave me a year to make the start-up solvent and if I failed, he'd sell it. Condition was that I had to promise to come back if I failed."

I'm listening and glad he's telling me all this but I'm not sure quite what to take from it.

I still don't know what he's going to say.

"I made a fortune and the rest is history. He was wrong then and maybe I'm wrong about the Defense Department now. Look, I trust you... I trust your heart, I trust your head and I trust your gut. If you want to do this I won't stand in your way but there's some negotiating to be done."

I can't believe it... I will agree to almost anything, even if he only gives me a year... I can do it.

"Thanks dad."

"Thank you son, for growing into a smart, hardworking, well-spoken young man. I was going to golf this afternoon but it looks like we have a lot to discuss. I hate working with the lawyers. I want you to head up the new company and I don't want the Walker name on it, not yet. You'll be a subsidiary. Think of a catchy name, Finnegan... this is your baby."

Before we head out to see his Betty, I give him a hug.

"This means so much to me."

"Finnegan, you'll run this entire company one day. You'll call all the shots. Until then, get as much experience as you can. Baltimore sounds like a good one."

"It Is."

"And son."

"Yes, dad?"

"I'd like to meet this Emmett... even if it is on a stupid screen."

He cracks me up... I've never met anyone who hates teleconferencing as much as he does.

"Your mother is going to flip, she's been worried about you for years. I keep telling her you have time but..."

"Mom," I answer because that's just the way she is.

I get a familiar nod in response as he steals a mint off Betty's desk before telling her to summon half the company into the boardroom.

It's going to be a long afternoon.

I thank her and tell her I'm sending my dad copies of the contracts so that they can be printed out.

Poor Betty, she probably expected a quiet afternoon with my dad out of the office... Oops.

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vehiclewrapcompanyphiladelphia · 4 months ago

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Enhance Your Storefront: Creative Ideas for Commercial Sign Placement

When it comes to running a successful business, your storefront is the face of your brand. It's the first thing potential customers see, and it plays a crucial role in drawing them inside. One of the most effective ways to enhance your storefront's appeal is through the strategic placement of commercial signs. Well-placed signs can grab attention, convey essential information, and entice customers to explore what your business has to offer.

How Creative Commercial Sign Placement Can Enhance Storefronts Creative sign placement isn't just about sticking a sign above your door and calling it a day. It's about thinking outside the box and using your signs to create an inviting and memorable impression. When done right, creative sign placement can transform your storefront from ordinary to extraordinary. It can highlight your brand's personality, showcase your products or services, and even set the mood for your customers' shopping experience.

Read More About : Boost Your Brand with These 5 Must-Have Commercial Signs in Philadelphia

Ideas for Unique and Eye-Catching Commercial Sign Placement

Window Graphics Window graphics are a fantastic way to utilize otherwise unused space. They can be colorful, informative, and playful, giving passersby a glimpse into what makes your business special.

Hanging Signs Hanging signs, especially those with unique shapes or lighting, can catch the eye from a distance. They add a touch of charm and can be customized to reflect your brand's aesthetic.

Sidewalk Signs Sidewalk signs are perfect for businesses located in areas with high foot traffic. They can feature daily specials, promotions, or fun messages that engage pedestrians.

Interactive Signs Interactive signs, such as those with QR codes or augmented reality features, can provide a modern twist. They encourage customers to engage with your brand in new and exciting ways.

Murals and Wall Art Transform a blank wall into a canvas for your brand. Wall Murals and Wall art not only catch the eye but also make your storefront a local landmark.

Floor signs Take advantage of every surface in and around your storefront by utilizing floor signs. These can be placed on the sidewalk, outside your doors, or even inside the store to direct customers to certain products or sales.

Read More About : How to Select the Perfect Commercial Sign for Your Business

Benefits of Strategically Placing Commercial Signs Strategic sign placement offers numerous benefits that go beyond mere aesthetics:

Increased Visibility: Well-placed signs ensure that your business is visible from different angles and distances, attracting more foot traffic.

Enhanced Brand Recognition: Creative and consistent signage helps build brand recognition, making your business memorable.

Improved Customer Experience: Informative signs guide customers, making their shopping experience smoother and more enjoyable.

Boosted Sales: Eye-catching signs can highlight promotions or bestsellers, encouraging impulse buys and increasing sales.

Competitive Edge: Unique signage sets you apart from competitors, making your business stand out in a crowded marketplace.

Conclusion In the world of retail, the power of a well-placed commercial sign cannot be underestimated. It's an investment that pays off by drawing in customers, enhancing their experience, and ultimately boosting your bottom line. So, take a moment to evaluate your current signage. Is it creative? Is it strategically placed? If not, now is the perfect time to make some changes.

Ready to transform your storefront with eye-catching and strategic signage? Contact us today to discuss your ideas and get started on making your business stand out like never before!

Source : Enhance Your Storefront: Creative Ideas for Commercial Sign Placement

#commercial sign #commercial sign company philadelphia #commercial sign company #commercial signage

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worstrestaurantsinphilly · 10 months ago

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CRAY TASTE Restaurant

Located at 118-22 Market Street, Philadelphia 19106.

This restaurant was featured on FYI Philly and it looked fabulous on television so my wife and I decided to check it out. We went on Wednesday for their lunch menu.

We arrived around 12:30 pm and found all the doors locked until we were motioned by the hostess to a door on the opposite side of the restaurant and it was open. My wife asked why they did not put a sign on the door to let people know which door to enter the restaurant. Both the chef and the hostess gave her a blank stare like they did not speak English

The restaurant was empty except for a table of four waiting for their food order and my wife and myself. The hostess then asks if we have a reservation and we say no. She says to us that she has to check the reservation book to see if we can seat you. - HELLO - THE RESTAURANT IN EMPTY!

Service

We wait a few minutes and a very friendly waitress asks to take our order. We both order the Whiting platter with 2 sides. For my sides I order French fries and Collard Greens, my wife orders the Mac and cheese and Collard Greens and we order 2 sparkling waters

After about thirty minutes our platters come. It is now after 1:00 pm and we are the only customers in the restaurant. My platter comes and it is the wrong order I get Mac and cheese instead of fries, my wife has the correct order.

I tell the waitress I ordered the fries oh yes okay I be back with that she says. 10 minutes later she comes with the fries and I ask her what happened to the sparking water and she says she be back with it. It has been 40 minutes since I put the sparkling water order in.

The Food

The fried whiting was burned to a crisp and very dry and looked and tasted like it came from a frozen bag you can buy at your local Wal-Mart. It looked like one small whiting filet was broken into 3 pieces. The Collard greens were very salty and watery and had no actual taste but salt. It would have been better to open a can of Glory Collards and serve that imstead of the salty, tasteless collards they put on my plate.

My wife’s Mac and cheese was like no other I had ever tasted I my life it was horrid! However the french fries were good.

Value

Our Whiting platters were $23.00 each plus sparkling water and the added 20% tip for poor service makes this restaurant an embarrassment to the city of Philadelphia.

In My Opinion

In my opinion, the staff is not properly trained and has no idea of what the term customer service means.

As far as the food, maybe the regular chef was off on that Wednesday and they had to get a guy from an employment agency but whoever was in that kitchen in my opinion needs to go to a cooking school or maybe spend some time with his grandmother to learn how to cook Southern cuisine or for that matter any cuisine.

There are many restaurants in Philly that have a Southern menu, for example, SOUTH on 600 N Broad St, Philadelphia, PA 19130 knocks it out of the park.

On the CRAY TASTE webpage they claim the following:

Cray Taste has a team of 5 professional chefs that deliver every single meal with elite flavor and attention to detail.

In my opinion these are a group of amateurs who would not know attention to detail if it hit them in the face.

In my opinion "STAY AWAY FOR LUNCH", maybe dinner is better will check out dinner and let you know in the near future if this restaurant is still in business!

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philadephiagreasetrap-blog · 2 years ago

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Grease Trap Services in Philadelphia PA

Give Your Kitchen the Deep Clean It Deserves: Grease Trap Pumping in Philadelphia

As a busy home cook, you probably don't think much about the grease trap in your kitchen. But when it comes to keeping your kitchen clean, healthy, and hygienic, this small but mighty appliance plays a crucial role. If you want to give your kitchen the deep clean it deserves, consider scheduling a grease trap pumping in Philadelphia.

What is a grease trap?

A grease trap is a device installed under the sink in commercial kitchens to separate grease, oil, and fat from wastewater before it enters the drain or sewer system. The grease trap works by slowing down the flow of wastewater, allowing the grease and oil to rise to the top and solidify, while the rest of the water continues down the drain. This prevents grease from clogging up pipes and creating backups in the plumbing, as well as protecting the environment by keeping grease out of the sewage system.

Why is grease trap pumping important?

Over time, the grease and oil in the trap will build up and become harder and harder to remove. If the grease trap is not cleaned regularly, it can cause unpleasant odors, attract pests, and even become a health hazard. In addition, a clogged grease trap can reduce the efficiency of your kitchen sink and dishwasher, causing backups and slow drains. Finally, if the grease trap is not properly maintained, it can become a liability and violate local health and safety codes.

When should you schedule grease trap pumping in Philadelphia?

The frequency of grease trap pumping depends on the size of your grease trap and the amount of grease and oil generated in your kitchen. Most commercial kitchens need to have their grease trap cleaned every three to six months, but this can vary depending on usage. It's a good idea to schedule grease trap pumping before you start to notice any signs of a problem, such as slow drains, unpleasant odors, or an increase in pests.

What to expect during grease trap pumping

When you schedule grease trap pumping in Philadelphia, a professional plumber will come to your kitchen to clean out the trap. The plumber will remove the lid of the grease trap and use a pump to extract the accumulated grease and oil. The plumber will then clean the inside of the trap, removing any residual grease and ensuring that the trap is free of any blockages. Finally, the plumber will replace the lid and check the trap to make sure that it's working properly.

How to keep your grease trap in good condition

In addition to scheduling regular grease trap pumping, there are a few things you can do to keep your grease trap in good condition:

Minimize grease and oil buildup: Avoid pouring grease and oil down the drain, and scrape any food scraps or grease into the trash. Use a grease trap interceptor: Consider installing a grease trap interceptor in your sink to prevent grease from entering the grease trap in the first place.

Regularly clean your kitchen: Regular cleaning can help reduce grease buildup in the grease trap and prevent clogs. Check for leaks: Regularly check the grease trap for leaks and have any leaks repaired as soon as possible.

By scheduling regular grease trap pumping in Philadelphia and taking steps to keep your grease trap in good condition, you can give your kitchen the deep clean it deserves. Not only will you keep your kitchen healthy and hygienic, but you'll also prevent clogs, backups, and other problems that can disrupt your daily routine. So don't wait - contact a professional plumber today to schedule your grease trap pumping.

#Grease Trap Pumping in Philadelphia PA Grease Trap Cleaning in Philadelphia PA Grease Trap Installation in Philadelphia PA Grease Intercepto

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coachkage-blog · 2 years ago

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oh man.. it has been a minute

how time flies... Just a few years ago, I was dipping my toe into the water of social media with this blog and now fast forward a few years I’m coming back with a much deeper Twitter & TikTok following.

Well hopefully I can put some more information out there and help all those who are lost. I’m going to tag team this with a youtube vlog and hopefully reach all who are looking for this information.

The three things I want to answer for you in each installment is:

1) What’s going on in the world of college football for college coaches right now? Hopefully gives you an idea of what their day to day is like

2) What’s going on in my world? well because this is my blog and maybe my story can be helpful to others

3) What should you be doing right now? Whether you’re a student-athlete, HS coach, or parent... just some quick tips on putting yourself in a great position to maximize the time

so to answer question 1 - we are knee deep in the offseason for coaches. Signing day has passed, most early action deadlines have passed. So for a lot of college football recruiting is done. There are still a ton of places looking, but these are probably a handful of FCS & D2 programs, and a bunch of D3, NAIA, and JUCO. Most coaches are on an abbreviated schedule, maybe they get into the office a little later than in-season, or they have a 3 day weekend, but this is the time of year they DIVE into cut ups.

They are watching every snap of their season. They are studying other teams, usually a program or coordinator who’s done really well, and they are trying to figure out how they can get better for next season. They are making changes to the playbook and prepping for spring ball, but recruiting is really on the back burner unless they are finishing their class later. They may start looking at the class of ‘24 & ‘25, they’ll host Junior Days (that will be a separate entry, don’t get me started on Junior Days) but for the most part they are focused on spring and watching their current team develop throughout winter training.

What’s been going on in my life??? Well... that’s another story. Last time I posted I was coaching at Ursinus College, D3 outside of Philadelphia. Since then, I accepted a QC role at the University of Akron (probably where a lot of you first gave me a follow), from there I was fortunate to get a DC role at Whittier College. When I first got to Whittier, I didn’t really know what I had gotten myself into. The roster was really depleted. 27 guys on defense. After injuries and Co-vid, we went into games with 15-16 healthy bodies. It was tough to finish a game, let alone compete.

Our staff did an AMAZING job recruiting, we brought in a class of around 50, no thanks to the administration (more on that later.) But we hoped it gave us a chance to compete. We improved but with about 13-15 first years playing on either side of the ball, we were still a few years away from really contending. That’s when we had the rug pulled out from underneath us. The administration decided to drop the football program, as well as Golf and Men’s LAX. There’s a lot I could say about that whole experience because it was really crazy and you wouldn’t believe some of the things that transpired... but that’s another story for another time. I was fortunate to be able to volunteer at UCLA in the recruiting department where I find myself now. I am still looking for a full time opportunity but it’s been amazing to learn from and get to know all the great people in this organization.

What should you be doing right now?

If you’re a student-athlete, you have got to be crushing school... if you’re playing a winter sport, focus on that... but taking care of your business. Junior Days are popping up, whether you’re invited or not.. can make them or not... is not a huge deal. They are very general and usually have nothing to do with whether you are being recruited their or not. So take care of business.. if you’re in the class of 23 - FIND A HOME... no d1′s are reaching out this late... find a home

24′s - start to reach out to programs. Again if you read what coaches are doing right now, they aren’t going to be lighting the phones up yet... but they are building their boards for the future

25′s and younger - you probably won’t hear anything unless you’re the top 1% of HS players who are getting FBS offers. Stay patient

Parents - be ready for Junior Days, again they aren’t the end all and be all. But summer camps are coming up in a few months, there are a lot of them... everyone is going to want your money... We’ll talk more in future installments on how to get the most out of your summer camp circuit and hopefully get your son infront of the right people

HS Coaches - keep sending your lists out. I think it’s really important to find college coaches and get to know them and what their program looks for. At Whittier, we paid for a handful of services but almost every kid we recruited was from NCSA or Verified Athletics and in the state of California. Because it fit our footprint, we weren’t going to get a random kid from South Carolina unless that kid was dead set on Southern California and he had money to spend. In the same way, UCLA has access to such powerful recruiting services... they probably know about your kids already and if they don’t they probably aren’t going to be a fit at a P5 program. When I was at Akron, we had some good recruiting services but we also relied on uncovering kids through coaches in our footprint. So it runs the gambit, but educating yourself on your college coach connections will help build rapport with those programs

Well that’s it for now, I’ll be updating this in a few weeks with some more info on Junior Days and what you can expect come spring.

- coachkage

#college #football #collegefootball #ncaa #recruit #recruiting #madden

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doingthedirtydishes · 2 years ago

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Living out a dream during the Covid-19 pandemic: Becoming poor and homeless in Colombia in a wheelchair.

In man’s search for meaning in life, a never-ending process of trials and tribulations, all without logical reason or rational explanation, whilst most live in the mind instead of in the heart, often it is a confusing mess, sometimes disastrous – where experience and growth trump all else, but one where happiness, a byproduct of the process, is the intended goal – with all of life’s lessons serving a greater purpose. The question of how to achieve this endmost goal through the phenomenal mystery of life begets humanity.

Society has replaced the hero’s journey, the person who faces his demons head-on, inevitably navigating through the labyrinth of darkness to find light, with stars in tabloid news, resulting in worship of the rich and famous. Modern society has never been as plentiful in wealth and choices as any time in history, yet we are more unhappy and unfulfilled as ever. Why? We have been taught that he with the biggest house, most impressive title and amount of toys wins. However, the answers lie within, not without.

Over twenty years ago, after leaving a successful career in corporate America, I decided to embark on an odyssey, the inner quest – replete with immense meaning and ambitious purpose – and so I looked into my heart and decided to follow where it directed me. It took me all over the world, from London to Tel Aviv to Hong Kong to Buenos Aires, all the while filling my soul with lessons that would in time mold me into who I was meant to be – the meaning of why I was on this magma filled rock hurling through space.

All that invaluable world experience gave me a unique perspective in which to give back to the world one day – but yet to no avail. At the age of thirty-seven I figured I had a few answers, the sum total of all those parts of my journey up till that point. It was not until a life changing event occurred, after waking up in a hospital trauma center with a priest by my side, that I knew I had no genuine answers, that a more imaginative approach had to be found – all so that I may heal and find light, love and happiness.

After a night out in Philadelphia celebrating the success of a new business venture, I awoke a full quadriplegic. Waking up paralyzed from your neck down is one way to gain new perspective in life, but not one I would recommend. Over the next ten years, with grueling physical therapy and countless insurmountable obstacles, by peering into my heart, making others the focus of my healing, writing a book and creating two blogs, mentoring and helping others in limitless ways, I found resolve, healing.

It was those years of never-ending hardship and healing that led me to my real purpose in life: to guide others on their journey, to help others in finding light through their darkness. Or, simply put: to assist others dismount their story horse, to look into their heart to discover their truth – which is exactly what eventually led to me to Colombia. It is a project that encompasses all the infinite lessons and experience of my life, fully preparing me for this new venture, specifically suited to someone with my detailed past.

Following a talk with an old college roommate, an idea being kicked around for two years, finally took form: a TV show to assist the masses. Steven Quigley Wheels Up was born. A spiritual travel show where I traverse the world conversing with others about their daily struggles, their desire to find new meaning and purpose in life, what led to their breakthrough, and the results – serving as a psychological mirror for the viewers at home. Soon after hearing my story a director and producer signed onto the project.

Life is a best learned through our peers – what we see in others we see in ourselves. It is only by hearing their stories and truth that we fully come to understand how to overcome our own battles. By learning that we all share the same life experiences, no matter the culture or country, we can relate to ourselves and one another in deeper ways. Through a travel show steeped in psychology we hope to utilize others’ examples in order to assist the viewers in their own personal journey for inner healing and happiness.

In May of 2020, expecting to move to Amsterdam to film the TV pilot, with the impetus of an international pandemic underway, thinking there was no reason to store my belongings, I decided to give them all away to the poor and homeless. Soon after in June, I left to NYC to see friends before flying to Europe. Little did I know what my future held and what my recent actions would mean to my life in due time. My profound journey into the heart to live out a dream project would be severely tested.

After being denied entry to board my plane at an empty Newark, NJ airport, resolute on making it to Europe, I moved into a hotel in Queens, NYC in order to await new entry rules into Europe. After three weeks at an expensive airport hotel, with funds dwindling while awaiting an update, I purchased a new ticket to Europe; once again I was unable to board the flight. That is when a good friend from Maine decided one morning to drive down to NYC to jettison me to Portland until the storm passed over.

Unable to find a suitable place to live, and after nine months living in a hotel in Maine – with nowhere in the world to move, as international travel was all but closed due to Covid-19 restrictions – eventually it appeared some countries would soon open. During this period I settled in to experience my first “Maine winter” while exploring moving to twelve different countries, but all were closed. The next part of my journey would bring me to Miami, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, back to Miami, and then finally to Colombia.

Tests completed, flight reserved, it was time to find a place to live in Cartagena. A good friend from Bogota, with local connections through family and friends, was determined to help me secure a new home in my adopted country. Prior to my arrival in Colombia, over six weeks many people helped me to find the right living match. With a stroke of luck, ten days before my departure, with thirty units already disqualified, she secured me a flat in the one of the hottest neighborhoods in Cartagena, Boca Grande.

Once landing in Cartagena and checking into a hotel for two weeks, while the lady we negotiated a deal with was away in Miami getting her vaccination, I relaxed and waited to sign the final contract. But soon that all changed as it became clear she was untrustworthy. From Bogota, of the newly minted nouveau riche class in Colombia, a result of recent expansive economic growth, she had zero commitment to a schedule or to her word. She paid almost no regard or respect to her renters, especially those in need.

Little did I realize how prescient a harbinger she would serve when attempting any successful real estate transactions in Colombia. Her behavior was egregious; her example did not set the bar too high. At this point, with no contract or apartment to rent on the horizon, I extended my stay at the hotel for another two weeks. With unexpected costs adding up (again), friends immediately went back to the drawing board, this time expanding their search to include other neighborhoods and possible living options.

One natural impediment to wheelchairs in South America kept repeating itself – small doorway widths. The main entrances are wide enough, as are many other doorways in homes, but bathroom doorways here are notoriously small, depriving access to the toilet and shower. Otherwise, when contractors are not cutting costs or because they are older buildings, limited consideration is paid to accessibility. Until recently many developing countries had no laws on the books requiring building codes for accessibility.

Two days before my hotel reservation was to expire it looked like as if we had found the perfect location, building and apartment. It was in the neighborhood I wished to live, with restaurants, shops, cafes, supermarkets and a pharmacy all within close distance. It also had a steep ramp, albeit suicidal – requiring assistance, and two balconies, including one with a view of the ocean and the other with a nice vista of the bay. Once all measurements were verified, I scheduled an appointment to meet the realtor.

The next day the realtor came to the hotel to take receipt of my deposit. All was set, I would move there in 48 hours. A good friend from Venezuela volunteered to help me with the move. Friday arrived and early that morning we got into two taxis with luggage in tow and drove to the building. Two hours later all my belongings were on the ninth floor, awaiting the contract and final payment. As soon I got things settled I headed to the back balcony. That is when I realized the bathroom entrance looked a bit tight.

Immediately I tried entering the bathroom and was unable to enter. The manager soon arrived and attempted to increase the doorway width. Now just barely able to squeeze into the bathroom, I was unable to access the shower. The manager’s response was for me to use a plastic bucket to shower on the balcony. Unwilling in the face of evidence on text between the realtor and my friend, with agreed measurements, he refused to refund my money. He placed the key on the kitchen table and departed.

Wow – what a precarious situation: to either live in an apartment where I could barely access the toilet, and certainly not the shower, or face becoming a vagrant on the streets of Cartagena in a wheelchair. To return to the hotel would have caused me to incur paying the highest daily rate. It was decided my friend and I would spend the night there and figure it out in the morning. Morning arrived and I was able to get a good daily price again at the hotel. Later I reported the transaction as fraud and was refunded.

Back at the hotel for a third extension the staff was beginning to think I may end up living there. Shortly after it was decided I would leave Colombia, returning to Europe. Holland recently opened their borders again to American travelers – and within two hours I had a reservation on KLM to Amsterdam. It was then that a good friend from another more relaxed city further up the Caribbean coast convinced me to give her country a second chance. Five days later I arrived at my new home: Barranquilla AKA Qiami.

Once there, after checking into another hotel, I immediately began looking for a new apartment. An exhaustive search resulted in no other possible options, until a friend at the hotel told me of a unit for rent in the private residences on the top floors of my building. That evening I met the owner, and after three hours of talking we came to a rental agreement. I was in heaven – a dream come true. Until the day before I was supposed to move in, a text arrived from the owner cancelling the deal at the 11th hour.

This meant I had to extend my stay in yet another hotel for an extended period of time, at full cost. It did not take long for the bill to add up to over two thousand USD, leaving me in a tough position continually paying such excessive living expenses. It was only a matter of ten days before I would be totally out of money. Until this point it was expected my monthly rent would only be a third of my hotel cost, but that was not my reality. My reality was I was about to be broke and on the streets in a second world country.

After careful consideration and conversing with close friends, it was decided I had to swallow my pride and ask others for assistance through public online donations. Otherwise, in the near future, I would have ended up living in the barrios in Colombia in a wheelchair. Since this had happened to me already twice in my life, first after my accident when I lost everything, and second when I could not enter Europe, I could not think of a less desirable place for such an event. A serious crisis was in the making.

A fundraiser was started and within a few weeks friends, through endless love and support, stepped up with legions of contributions. The support I received from the Hilton where I was staying was a Godsend. Christine, the manager, then Paola, the acting manager while Christine was on a leave of absence, along all with all the staff they supervise, were spectacular – both were essential in helping allow me to find a way to remain at my newfound home in Barranquilla. They allowed me to live on credit while I got it all figured out, whilst reducing my daily rate to a livable monthly fee – a true blessing from the heavens.

As life is one big mystical journey filled with otherwise impregnable hurdles, I am grateful for all the aforementioned – amalgamating me into who I am today. It is all a part of the magic of the spiritual trail. However difficult seeing a path forward, I had to remember it would all work out fine in the end. Iron sharpens iron. And although unknown at that time, as nothing worthy in life comes without sacrifice, I had to remind myself that it is all for a greater purpose to benefit myself and others in the near future.

When I set out on my quest to delve deep into the unplumbed frightening expanses of my heart, I had no idea where it would lead me. It has led me all over the world; and eventually to the vision of creating a TV show to help others find healing in life. There were inexhaustible barriers all along the way to derail me from my intention. Certainly I look forward to the day I can look back on all this with a smile. In the interim, I continue to follow the path of my heart, the hero’s journey, the fated work of life, my dream.

Travel Blog: Click here.

Spiritual Blog: Click here.

Book: Unbreakable Mind. (Print, Kindle, Audio)

Doing The Dirty Dishes Podcast: Watch or listen to episodes and subscribe: Spotify, Apple Podcast, Buzzsprout. Also available on Google Podcast, iHeart, Tunein, Amazon Alexa and Stitcher.

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Travel Blog links: Covid-19 stranded in NYC JFK and Maine – also travel stories on Ireland, Spain, Sweden, Belgium, Iceland, Colombia (Espanol version), Amsterdam, Germany, New Hampshire, TN and NYC.

Personal Website link where you can also find my book, photos of my travels and updates on current projects.

Thank you for your love and support.

#steven quigley writer #steven quigley blogger #steven quigley #stevenquigleyauthor #stevenquigley #unbreakable mind #unbreakable mind book #unbreakablemindbook #unbreakablemind #doingthedirtydishes.com #doingthedirtydishesspiritual #doingthedirtydishestravel #doingthedirtydishespodcast #doingthedirtydishes

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brn1029 · 2 years ago

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Time for your Rock Report

Bob Dylan has apologized for using autopen to autograph special copies of his new book that had been advertised as "hand-signed." In a statement addressing the controversy on social media, the legendary musician admitted that it was an "error in judgment." "I've hand-signed each and every art print over the years, and there's never been a problem," Dylan wrote on Facebook. Dylan said that after a "bad case of vertigo" prevented him from being able to sign the books physically, the idea of using an autopen was suggested to him, "along with the assurance that this kind of thing is done 'all the time' in the art and literary worlds."

"Using a machine was an error in judgment and I want to rectify it immediately," he added.

Thin Lizzy recently announced that the band will reissue it's iconic live album Live And Dangerous on January 20 next year, in celebration of the record's 45th anniversary. The new, eight-disc Live And Dangerous set will feature the original album compiled from recordings made at London's Hammersmith Odeon in 1976 and from a King Biscuit Flower Hour radio concert recorded at the Tower Theater in Philadelphia the following year. In addition, the set will also contain six other shows recorded for inclusion on Live And Dangerous. The original live album was recorded at shows in London and Toronto in 1977 on the band's Johnny the Fox and Bad Reputation tours. There was some debate as to how much of the album was recorded live when it was released. Producer Tony Visconti claimed that 75% of double-platinum Live And Dangerous was recreated after the fact in the studio, while a former Lizzy manager has said it was 75% live.

Journey founder Neal Schon is suing bandmate Jonathan Cain, alleging he "improperly restricted" access to financial documents relating to the band's American Express card. In a lawsuit filed last month in California state court, Schon accused Cain of refusing to give him access to records from an American Express account, through which he claims that "millions in Journey funds have flowed." "This action is brought to turn the lights on, so to speak, and obtain critical financial information Schon has been trying to obtain but has been denied," Schon's lawyers argue in court documents filed in Northern California's Contra Costa County. Cain and Schon established a limited-liability corporation called Nomota in 1998 to handle Journey's business dealings, with shared 50/50 ownership. According to court documents, Cain later set up Nomota's American Express account "without Schon's consent or knowledge, with only Cain as the account holder."

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space-mermaid-writing · 3 years ago

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House Arrest [Loki X Reader] Chapter 1

Summary: You are Clint’s 'little' sister and actually a trained Shield agent. But you gave that up a few years ago and became a Chef, because you wanted a normal live. Then one day Natasha shows up at your door and takes you to the Avenger Tower for a while for security reasons.

Tags: Reader is an former Shield Agent, chef!reader, Reader Barton, 2012 Avenger vibes, everything is still alright, Slice of Life, Avengers Family, Loki has a good heart, still the god of mischief, Slow Burn, mention of food and cooking

Read it on AO3

Chapter 1: New Home

It's just before midnight when you finally get off work. You really like your job, but the hours are murder. Being a chef at one of the most expensive five-star restaurants in Philadelphia has its price. You take off your apron, which has hardly any stains from the last few hours on it, and throw it in the wash. The white jacket goes neatly into your locker and is replaced by a cardigan and a scarf. It’s a cool night. With a last good bye to your colleagues, who are still putting the dishes into the dishwashers, you make your way home.

The night is dark, but the streets are lit by lanterns and the windows of closed stores. Even if it had been pitch black, it wouldn't have worried you to have to walk alone through the empty alleys. Last year a guy had tried to rob you and threatened you with a knife. You had given him a broken nose and several stab wounds in the shoulder. After all, you had been trained at Shield. But the poor guy didn’t know that.

Half an hour later you arrive at your apartment. It's more functional than nicely furnished, and everything is a bit of a pick 'n' mix. But you don't mind it, because you spend most of your time at work anyway. At home you don't feel such great importance to culinary variety when it comes to your own food. A pizza or French fries with ketchup were always welcome. After all, you've been standing at the stove long enough at work. Tired, you decide to wait until breakfast for your next meal and, after a quick change of clothes, just fall into bed.

Fortunately, the next day is your day off. You make good use of it and sleep in. Afterwards you have an nice brunch with eggs, bacon and toast and after a short shower you go into town to do some errands. The sun is shining warmly from the sky and it's a beautiful spring day. If this holds up until the weekend, maybe you'd visit the weekly market and see what exotic and rare foods you can grab there. You love these little trips, even if you rarely find the time.

About two hours later and with three full shopping bags, you re-enter your apartment. It's on the second floor of a rather nondescript building, but the interior is very modern, with pastel-colored, high walls. You put everything in the kitchen cabinets and then brew yourself a tea/coffee, with which you make yourself comfortable on the couch and turn on the TV. It's time to relax a little. So you zap through the programs, watch the rest of an episode of your favorite series and then decide to watch a reality series, which is not exactly known for its quality but is entertaining. So the noon goes by until suddenly the doorbell rings. You get up to see if it's the mailman or a neighbor with a package. But a look through the peephole shows you that it is neither. Surprised, you open the door "Nat!" Natasha Romanoff is a friend of you and your brother, as well as the godmother of his children. But due to her job you rarely see each other. "Hey," she greets you with a small smile. "Can I come in?" "Sure." You lead her into the living room, where you turn off the TV. "What can I get you? Tea, coffee, milkshake?" "Coffee is fine." You disappear into the kitchen for a moment as she sits down in the armchair. Natasha was a rare visitor. Mostly she came with some news from Clint. You see him even less because he spends what little free time he has mostly with his wife and the two kids. Understandable. You don't hold it against him and try to visit them on holidays or for birthdays at her farm.

It doesn't take long until you return to the Russian woman with a new cup and some pastries and sit down on the couch again. "Well," you ask her curiously. "What do I owe the pleasure?" Natasha reaches for her cup. "It’s rather inconvenience. But first tell me if you’ve observed anything unusual lately." Questioningly, you look at her. "What do you mean?" "Nothing weird? You sure?", she asks. "Tell me what I'm supposed to have seen, please," you prompt her, both impatient and confused. Natasha gets right to the point. "You're being monitored." "By Shield?" "By Hydra." Stunned by this news, you remain silent. Natasha uses this pause to drink her coffee. "Oh, this is really good." But you don't listen to her at all, because various thoughts are circling in your head. And again you try to remember if you have noticed anything: same people you met, vehicles, anything. But you got pretty used to your life and didn't pay attention at these things. "Anyway, I'm here to pick you up. For your own safety it’s best if you stay with us for a while," Natasha finally breaks the silence and you look up. "What could Hydra possibly want from me? I don't know any internal secrets anymore. There are better to kidnap than me." "That's what we're trying to figure out right now." "Well, the danger doesn't seem to be acute", you note. "If they wanted to grab me, I wouldn't be sitting here by now. Thanks, but I decline and prefer to stay here. I have my job and the apartment." And now that you know what's going on, you can pay attention and take the necessary precautions, too. "Thanks for warning me." Natasha, on the other hand, doesn't look like she gives you a choice. "You know Shield has its ways to convince you?", she reminds you, but you shrug. Why would such a large organization bother with a single civilian like you? "What does my dear brother say about this matter?", you ask instead. "He hasn't been informed yet." Ergo, they deliberately leave him out of it so that he can't protest. You know this kind of approach of Shield.

Clint understands and supports you in your civilian life, even though he protested the loudest back when you announced your exit. "How’s he?", you want to know from Natasha, who is now finishing her coffee. "He's alive." That can mean just about anything from being happy and healthy to badly hurt but breathing. Better than being dead, you guess. "He's out in Africa with Steve right now." "Busy, huh?" "As usual." She stands up as a sign that she has nothing more to say for the day, and you walk her to the door, where you bid her farewell. "We'll talk again soon," she promises, but admittedly you have little desire to do so right now. "Sure," you reply and close the door behind her.

Well, that were some news. You put her empty cup in the sink and pause thoughtfully by the window. How could you have missed Hydra's agent, you ask yourself while glancing out. Your new life made you too comfortable. But it also takes up a lot of time and energy. And anyway, you dropped out because you didn't want to be cautiousness all the time anymore. You wanted a normal life with a normal job and normal problems. Away from agents, assassinations and super powers. You didn't want to check every day on your way to work if you were being followed, secretly monitored or if someone else was out to get you. That's why you’ve chosen this life. With a sigh, you sit back down on the couch. The past never leaves you alone, you guess. But tomorrow would be a long day even without these new old worries.

The advantage of being a chef is usually that you don't have to get up at the crack of dawn for work. Most Restaurants open at noon, some even in the evening. So does the one where you work. There are preparations to be made before opening time, but you can still sleep through the morning, do some housework, and then head to the restaurant in the sunny afternoon. That's where the trouble starts, though. Just as you're about to open your locker to change your clothes, someone taps you on the shoulder. It's your boss, who hands you a letter. You can tell immediately from his serious expression that something is wrong. And when you open the envelope, you discover your resignation. You look up, perplexed, but you lose out in the following discussion. You don't even get a decent explanation, and that’s what annoys you the most. You're pretty sure your skills aren’t the issue, neither is the way you work. Nor the way you treat your colleagues, with whom you get along very well, even if the tone among cooks is a bit rough. You go back to your apartment, now in a bad mood. It‘s unbelievable! The sunny weather seems like a mockery to you now, and the people you meet along the way are in far too good a mood, in your opinion. It will be hell to find another good job as this was.

Arriving back home you immediately get more bad news: your landlord put a notice on your apartment door. The bathrooms in the building will get completely renovated soon and will be unusable for several weeks. Plus the heavy construction noise during the day. And the water would be turned off. It would be best to find temporary substitute apartment, so they recommend. "Haha...ha..." You laugh dryly and unlock the door. Was that a coincidence? When Natasha had been here yesterday? Probably not. You know Shield's methods and that it’s easy for them to take away your job and your apartment just to get their way. You have two options: either you accept the offer before Shield gets any more stupid ideas, or you run away and try to hide. With a sigh you go into your bedroom and throw a suitcase on the bed, in which you pack clothes, the most important documents and some things from the kitchen you need for work. Not everything fits, so you add a second travel bag. Meanwhile, you think about who you could complain to. Your brother was a favorite target of yours, but he a) had nothing to do with this matter and b) was not in the country. Which’s a shame, because you'd really like to have him by your side right now. If you wanted to complain to Shield directly, Fury would probably be the best person to do it. But you hold too much respect for him to vent your anger to him. Maybe just the next Shield agent who would come to you on this matter would have to step in. You know someone would definitely get back to you. With one last look around your apartment, you leave it and lock the door. Then you shoulder your bag and make your way out.

Just as you're thinking about getting a large coffee from Starbucks down the street, a red sports car pulls up to the side of the road. Natasha at the wheel. "Hmph..." You walk over to her and throw your luggage in the back seat. Then you take a seat in the passenger seat yourself. "Just for the record, I'm not happy with this." "I can see that." She tries to give a sympathetic smile, but you know this is just a job to her. "Well then, off to the Bat Cave, Wayne." "Does that make you Robin?", the Russian asks, driving off. "I guess", you reply snippy, not interested in keeping the conversation going. Fortunately, Natasha wasn't exactly the talkative sort either, so you have some peace and quiet to get your thoughts in order.

It takes you just under two hours to drive from Philadelphia to New York with city traffic slowing you down a bit. Otherwise, you would have arrived earlier at the former Stark Tower. It's been the Avenger Tower for some time now, but that doesn't make much difference, except that Tony Stark seems to be too lazy to put the remaining letters back on it.

Natasha parks in the private underground garage and you take the elevator up to the grand lobby. She tells you about the current residents here. There’s the usual staff, who are of course always present. Of all the Avengers, Bruce Banner is living here permanently. "He actually hardly ever leaves the lab," the Russian explains. "I'm currently living here, too. Every now and then Thor stops by, but mostly he prefers to explore the world. And his brother Loki is here. There have been some...problems with him and he's sort of under supervision here. Tony trusts technology more than Asgard. The owner of the house, by the way, is out visiting an outpost right now." "There are even Avengers outposts?" Natasha nods as she walks you down the halls to the living area. "But don't tell Hydra." "Sure", you promise unfazed. "Speaking of which, if I want to go out to visit someone, do I need a key or how does this work?" "It's better if you stay here in the house for now. It's for your safety, after all." "For how long?", you want to know. The answer is short. "As long as necessary." "So I'm sort of locked in here”, you state. That's typical Shield. As soon as there's any problem, an agent is sent in to put everything in solitary arrest or quarantine. As long as it’s shielded from the rest of the world. Natasha stops in front of a door that is now yours, but doesn't look directly at you, which as much of an answer as you get. "I'll be fine on my own now, thanks," you smile politely but not genuinely at her, and after she assures you that you're free to move around inside the building, you head off with your luggage in your new apartment.

#Loki #Loki x Reader #House Arrest #Chapter 1 #my writing #Clint #clint barton #hawkeye #loki laufeyson #imagine #chef reader #mcu #marvel

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