#Chicago Public Radio

[roysexton]

“Podcasts should not just exist to placate someone’s ego… If it’s not bringing in a lead or awareness or audience growth, you need to pull the plug or re-tool.” Thank you, Jeff Vidler and Signal Hill Insights!

Thank you, Jeff Vidler and Signal Hill Insights, for this lovely shout out. Full article here. EXCERPT: “A total of 1,418 CMOs, content marketers and podcast producers registered for the first-ever conference or summit dedicated specifically to branded podcasts. For the first time, branded podcasters from around the world connected online to learn from the experts – and fill the chat box with…

[thoughtportal]

This week, we talk about Netflix’s reinvention of the video store, the right way to board a plane, and the art of advice-giving with Chicago Sun Times’ new advice columnist Ismael Perez and Brandon Pope, who hosts WBEZ’s Making podcast and On the Block from Block Club Chicago and WCIU.

Then, author V.E. Schwab talks about the latest installment in her “Shades of Magic” fantasy series, The Fragile Threads of Power. This will be her fourth time on Nerdette, because her books are just that good. You may know her from her bestselling novel The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue or one of her other 23 published books.

[azsazz]

In Safe Arms (Part 2)

Bodyguard!Azriel x Celebrity!Reader

Summary: Anon Req: Hey ! Ik u are hella busy and I am so proud of ur for ur publication , but if u ever get time could u do a Celebrity reader x bodyguard az?

Warnings: A little PTSD for reader alluding to a horrific incident but not much described besides blood.

Word Count: 3,702

Notes: Happy New Year my loves!

(Part 1)

_________________________________________

You’re jolted awake at the rocking of your SUV dipping into a pothole.

Your spine straightens on its own accord and your bleary eyes snap open, frantically scanning the space, on high alert. Your heart pounds in your chest as you desperately try to take in your surroundings. Outside the window, there is nothing but darkness, the skies and scenery draped in midnight-hour black.

It takes you more than a second to realize where you are. In the back of an SUV on your way to your parent’s charity gala that you cannot miss. Except that the weather in New York took a turn for the worse, a heavy blizzard that no news stations mentioned before you fell into an exhausted sleep last night. No planes in, and no planes out.

Which meant that you had to find alternative transportation to make it to Chicago before the gala, which meant that Azriel had to arrange safe travel for you to get there on time, his job already on the line from his mistake only days ago.

Not the kiss. Not the weak fucking moment he had in the bathroom of your suite after a passerby tossed an unknown object at you that split the skin above your brow.

Your parents don’t know about the kiss. You tried to convince Azriel that it wasn’t worth telling them, and he tried to convince you that it couldn’t happen again.

His eyes had been hard. He’d been wearing that same stoic mask he showed up on his first day with. “We can’t do that again,” he’d said, like the kiss was transactional. Like he didn’t feel the passion that lit your entire body up, the wanting in your bones.

No kisses have happened in the days since.

Your eyes connect with Azriel’s through the rear-view mirror and the sight of your infallible bodyguard has you relaxing against the warm leather seat, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Azriel says softly. His rough, gravelly tone sharpens his apology.

“It’s fine,” you brush off, but it’s not fine. Nothing that has anything to do with you is ever fine.

Silence takes over the car. He hasn’t even turned on the radio to keep him company while you slept. You frown at the thought, then realize that silence is probably what Azriel is used to, what he prefers.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” you admit.

Azriel’s gaze stays focused on the road, not another vehicle in sight. “You needed it,” he defends, and you shrug.

“Where are we?”

“A few hours away from the Ohio border,” Azriel answers. You glance at the neon glow of the clock. It reads just past one in the morning, which means that you still have seven or so hours of driving to go, depending on how bad the road conditions are.

You’re supposed to be in Chicago by ten a.m. for brunch with your parents and the charity director for the gala, but with all of the delays that have happened since New York, you’d much rather spend as much time as you can away from the crazy normal that is your life. This unexpected road trip feels like a breath of fresh air that you didn’t know you needed.

You squint, peering around the passenger seat. The roads are clear from snow, piled high on the sides of the highway, but that doesn’t mean that there can’t be patches of black ice to look out for.

You decide to keep Azriel company. You don’t want to be sleeping the night away peacefully while he navigates through four states to get you back to your parents. You know for a fact that he’s gone days without speaking a single word nor getting an ounce of sleep, but right now, with the dark of night blanketing the car, it feels cruel.

Azriel protests when you unbuckle and climb over the console, claiming the front passenger seat. His hands are white-knuckled around the steering wheel and he tries to keep his focus on the road, though you do catch him sneaking a protective peek over at you more than once. It makes you want to snort with amusement, there’s no threat here, unless he hits a patch of aforementioned black ice, but you trust Azriel with your life, so you should be fine.

And you are. Azriel’s shoulders don’t lose a strand of tension until your buckle slides locked with a click. Even then, he can hardly relax. “You shouldn’t be up here.”

“And you shouldn’t be driving this late at night,” you retort easily, kicking your feet up on the dash. Azriel’s hand comes down over your knee before you can fully prop up your legs, guiding you in a gentle yet stern matter to keep your feet on the floor. You follow his command so that he doesn’t banish you back to the back seat.

He hardly acknowledges you, focusing on the task at hand. Delivering you in one piece to Chicago in time to arrive at all of your scheduled meetings. He will not fail your family a second time.

With his focus pinned on the road, you drink your bodyguard in. His eyes flicker from the rearview mirror to the side mirrors to the windshield in meticulous rotation. You trail your gaze down the straight slope of his nose to his pink, plush lips. You haven’t stopped thinking about his mouth on yours since the desperate kiss you shared in your hotel room two nights ago, and a warm heat coils low in your stomach at the memory, waking you up.

“You look tired,” you murmur, distractedly. He does. The gray circles under his eyes aren’t the only thing giving Azriel’s exhaustion away. It’s in the way he blinks slowly, but forces his eyes wide. It’s in the way he drums his fingers against the steering wheel for something to focus on other than the road. It’s in the empty cup of coffee stacked on his old ones. He’s stopped thrice tonight for a caffeine boost and you slept though them all. He’d be jonesing for another if you hadn’t climbed up into the seat beside him. His entire body is tightened with alert now that you’re here.

He isn’t tired, he’s wired. Three large black coffees might have been too much, but it’s your presence that has Azriel more alert than anything. His skin heats at the feeling of your eyes on him, can feel every movement you’re making from across the console.

He taps his fingers against the wheel to expel the nervous energy. You wonder what’s going on because Azriel’s resolve never cracks like this. Everything was fine when you were in the backseat, asleep. He didn’t have to interact, possibly mislead you. He was free to dig into his mind, overthink every little thing that’s happened between the both of you since this little journey began.

He knows you too well. He has to. He’s read your file, like he does with all of his clients. Somehow, you’ve managed to worm your way into his mind, deeper than a flesh wound.

“I’m fine,” he assures. He rubs a hand down his jaw, the short stubble tickling his skin. He needs to shave.

“We should stop for the night,” you protest, catching glimpse of a sign on the side of the highway that shows that you’re only a few miles away from a town to get gas and sleep.

“We need to be in the city early,” Azriel refutes. He chances a glance over at you. Your arms are crossed over your chest and you’re wearing that stern, determined look on your face that makes his cock twitch in his pants. He keeps himself carefully still. “We don’t have time to stop.”

“I wasn’t suggesting that we stop for the night, Azriel,” you reply. “I was telling you that we are going to stop for the night.”

He should protest, he knows that he should. He doesn’t know anything about this town, if it’s filled with lunatics or people who’d try and harm either one of you for your expenses. The decked-out, expensive SUV is a sign screaming rich.

You don’t remove your glare from him until he veers the vehicle onto the exit ramp.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

“I’ll take the chair,” Azriel says, eyeing the single bed in the room. “I won’t be sleeping anyway.”

Your nose scrunches. You stare at the chair for a long second and return your gaze to Azriel’s. The entire point of stopping for the night was to rest, to let the storm that caught up to you play out and hopefully finish the drive with clearer conditions.

Something clenches in your chest. You’re not sure if it’s your heart or your stomach or both.

He won’t sleep because there is only one bed.

“So, you’re going to sit in that chair,” you repeat like you don’t understand. You don’t, and you point to the faded green armchair. The rests are made of a blonde wood and the back of the chair sits so straight that there’s no chance anyone could actually fall asleep in it. “And do what? Watch me sleep?”

His jaw sharpens, the muscles flexing as he clenches his teeth. His hazel eyes follow the point of your finger for a fleeting second before returning to yours.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’s watched you sleep.

“I’ll turn the chair toward the window,” Azriel answers like this is a solution. If it makes you uncomfortable, he will even wait in the car.

The real solution would be for him to get in the fucking bed with you and sleep for a few hours. You saw the stack of empty coffee cups in the car. You saw the strain in his posture, the way he was forcing himself from giving into his exhaustion.

A disbelieving noise crawls up your throat. He’s so fucking stubborn. It’s not like you’re both eighteen and the prospect of touching looms over you. No, you’re both adults. You’ve seen him sans clothes, even if it was an accident, and Azriel has been in the room with you during fittings with designers your father fully didn’t trust. He may have been turned toward the window, you toward the mirror, but there was always the thrill that maybe he’d peek over his shoulder, give you a long once-over, that maybe some sort of want would infiltrate his hard, hazel eyes.

You’ve imagined it more than once.

“Azriel,” you scold. You busy yourself with moving your luggage to the empty desk in the corner. The table wobbles as you set your things on it, but it stays upright. You quickly move back toward the bed and tug the blankets back, doing your best to reign in your cringe as you think about the possibilities of what could have gone on in this dingy motel room on the side of the interstate. You’re used to luxurious, five-star hotels catering to your every need, not rundown motels that reek of mothballs and crime.

Ghosts. Are there ghosts?

“We stopped here specifically so you could sleep,” you try to argue, but you sound distracted, and Azriel’s gaze snaps to yours, his shoulders straightening like he’s going into protective mode.

He catches you staring dazedly at the bed. Your fingers are curled tightly into the blankets, lips pressed together tightly. Your chest is rising and falling more quickly, and he rounds the bed, coming to your aid.

Azriel knows the life you’re used to living. What you must be thinking about a place like this. He could say something mean, mention how spoiled you are, how it’s just like the hotels you usually stay in, minus the amenities. He wants to tell you that people have done worse things in nicer rooms, especially the ones you tend to stay in, but he knows that your frozen features are due to something else, a dark memory that edges up every once in a while.

“Let me get you some fresh blankets,” he murmurs. His hand comes down around your wrist gently, drawing you slowly from your daze. The heat of his body sears through the thin fabric of your pajamas, and you latch onto that as you squeeze your eyes shut and force the memories away.

“No,” you choke, sounding much more put-off than you’d like. Azriel knows your past, you remind yourself, he knows everything about you, this isn’t you looking weak. You’re only human. “It’s fine, I—” you swallow roughly as a smatter of red conjures behind your eyelids. You try hard not to flinch, but it’s there, the blood on the walls like some fucking mural.

You look down at your hands, painted with the same crimson. Your clothes, and as you drag your eyes up to the bed—

“Hey,” Azriel snaps, hand planted firmly on your cheek, tearing you from the awful memory. You blink and your eyes latch onto his worried hazel ones. You didn’t even notice Azriel turning you around, how your hand went from clutching the sheets to fisting in his black button down. “You’re not there, you hear me?”

You nod because your throat is too tight to do anything else. Tears brim your eyes and Azriel wipes an escaped drop that drags down the apple of your cheek. His touch is too soft, too tender.

You pull away, ripping yourself from his hands. You turn toward the bed and don’t allow the dreadful recollection another thought. You slip between the sheets and try to hide your trembling movements by tugging the blankets all the way up to your chin.

You can feel Azriel’s presence behind you. You always can, whenever he’s in the room. It’s like the two of you are magnets. There is an attraction to him that you can’t place.

He knows that you won’t be sleeping now. That the harrowing memory of what you’ve been through lingers in the surface of your mind and if you should fall asleep, it will only haunt you worse.

Azriel’s known about your past, the terror that you’re trying so desperately to run from, to forget. It chases you like death is on your heels, ready to grip you with its bony fingers and drag you into the dark. He’s been briefed on how you might respond when the trauma inevitably claws its way back, but this is his first time experiencing it happening to you. How it grips you around the throat and threatens to consume you.

His jaw aches from grinding it so tight. The one thing that he can’t protect you from is the one thing he wants to protect you from the most.

He has a job, and this is part of it, he tells himself as he kicks his shoes off.  

“Shove over.”

“What?” You ask, confused. You peer over your shoulder to see Azriel shrugging off his jacket. It leaves him in a black t-shirt that clings to his body exactly the way you want to. You never thought you’d be jealous of a piece of clothing, yet here you are. You carefully tear your gaze away.

“You need to sleep and I know your stubborn, spoiled ass isn’t going to do it if I’m not doing it with you” he pauses. That sounded so fucking wrong, but Azriel trudges on. “So, shove over.”

You fight the smile that threatens to curve your lips at his comment. If it was coming from anyone else, you’d be offended, but you know that Azriel doesn’t mean it as anything other than a joke. You scoot further toward the edge of the bed, shivering at the cool sheets. Your goosebumps only prickle further when Azriel’s weight hits the mattress, and the warmth of his body washes over you.

You try not to let your breathing shallow as he settles himself in. He’s not even touching you, for Mother’s sake, and yet you’re responding as if you’re a teenager lying beside her childhood crush.

“Don’t think about it,” Azriel’s voice startles you.

You might smile at the rough demand in Azriel’s tone if you weren’t feeling like you were standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting for someone to come up behind you and shove you off.

“Easier said than done,” you mutter. When the light flickers out, your body locks, and the memory explodes in your mind like a fucking gunshot wound.

“I said, don’t think about it.” Azriel’s voice is a gruff command in your ear, snapping you back into reality. Your heart is pounding against your ribcage, and you can hear the struggle in your lungs as you try to gulp down what little air makes it through your constricting esophagus.

Hands wind their way around your waist and you don’t have a second to struggle before Azriel tugs you back into his chest, molding his body against your back. A warm, heavy arm is draped across your side, and his hand finds your shaking ones beneath the blankets, offering you a lifeline.

You clutch onto him. Azriel murmurs softly in your ear but you can’t make out the words. They’re in a different language. French or Italian or Spanish, you think. You sure that if he was speaking English, you still wouldn’t understand with the way that you’re focusing on fighting past the demons in your head.

The room is pitch black. You always sleep with a light on, even if it’s just the screen of your phone lighting up the darkness. You haven’t been in a blackened room like this since that night, and Azriel knows it, which is why, with some maneuvering, he turns on the flashlight on his phone and sets it on the bedside table, illuminating the room in an awful white light that has you all but melting into his body.

“Thank you,” you whisper. It sounds much too loud in the quiet of your motel room.

“Go to sleep,” he answers plainly. His bluntness almost makes you smile.

But you can’t go to sleep, and not just because of the lingering aftershocks of your memory. As those slowly eke away, you focus on the feeling of Azriel’s body pasted tightly against yours.

You swear you can feel every muscle that is packed onto his hard body through your clothes. Your ass is nestled against his front, and you want to wiggle oh-so badly, to writhe against him in the hopes of feeling what he’s working with down there.

He’s still fully clothed, you notice. Didn’t think twice about climbing into the bed behind you to console you. You wonder if he’s uncomfortable before realizing that with his military trained past, he must have slept in worse conditions than this before.

Which makes you cringe. Here you were, freaking out about a fucking motel when there are people who are going through much worse. Embarrassment flares your body and you squirm uncomfortably.

Azriel’s arms lock tighter around you, and he tugs you closer. You didn’t think there was a closer, but there is. His breath fans across your ear when he speaks. “If you keep moving like that, we’re going to have a lot more than a blizzard and stiff fucking sheets to worry about.” He sounds callous, but there’s a strain to his tone, one that has all of the fiery feelings in your veins converging between your thighs.

Your movements halt immediately. “Sorry,” you say, but there’s no sleeping now. Not when his words are out there, hanging in the air. That if you kept moving, you’d have a different kind of stiffness to think about. One that you’re much more interested in than the starchy sheets.

You close your eyes anyway, trying to fight off the interest stirring low in your gut. The image of Azriel naked, rolling on top of you drifts into your mind. Your pussy clenches when he slowly parts your legs and flashes you a devious smile before lowering himself between your legs.

Movement has your eyes jolting open. You’re holding your body so tightly that Azriel would be terrible at his job if he didn’t know that you weren’t asleep like you should be.

“Sleep,” Azriel reminds you brusquely. His hand splays across your stomach, his thumb stroking across the soft fabric of your shirt in a soothing motion, or what would be a soothing motion if you weren’t three seconds from creating the foulest dirty thoughts about him or two seconds away from actually doing something about it.

“Okay,” you breathe, trying to force annoyance into your words instead of the arousal that slips out anyway. Azriel’s thumb falters and you swear you feel something against the curve of your ass twitch. Your breath catches in your throat and now you know that the movement against your hind wasn’t a part of your imagination.

The noise you let slip has blood pooling into Azriel’s cock. He refuses to move, refuses to do anything except squeeze his eyes shut and practice the techniques he learned in the Royal Marines to keep himself in fucking check. He promised that after the kiss in the bathroom that he would keep away from you, that this relationship would stay professional only.

Professional feels so fucking far away from this.

You find the courage to whisper. “Azriel?”

He grunts in response, to let you know he’s awake and listening, and you like the sound all too much. “That doesn’t sound like sleeping.”

“I’m not sure that I can,” you admit.

Azriel sighs softly, his breath tickling your neck. “You didn’t even try,” he answers simply, but his fingers begin tracing a soft, soothing pattern across your forearm. You latch onto his hypnotic touch, wishing it would move further south. “Just think of better things. I’m here, and you’ll be alright.”

I’m here, and you’ll be alright. Because he’s your bodyguard, your protector, and he won’t ever let anything happen to you, mentally or physically.

You shut your eyes and think about those words, the soft touch from a man so callous and strong, long until you fall asleep.

[notbecauseofvictories]

because I rent a car to get out to my office, sometimes I'm confronted with a radio that has wildly different preset stations than I would ever select. mostly this means I have to suffer through a lot of country, or christian talk radio, before I run out of patience and switch over to the stations I like; but other times, it's someone with a thick accent reading a very lengthy advertisement for the Chicago Public Library in an almost....computerized way? and then long carnatic music, with a celtic fiddle breakdown in the middle? with absolutely no explanation for why this is what it is.

.........only afterwards did I discover that it's the station for a nearby university. then it made sense.

[thebearer]

I know reader is a social media manager but do you think Camrys uses insta? Is he public or private does he ever post?? Just wondering your thoughts on this

he barely uses it lol.

he has one and it’s public (or he made it public when he won a james beard bc he was told it would “be good publicity”) but it’s just dishes and a few random photos. was most active in Copenhagen, fell off when he went back to nyc, went radio silent when he moved back to chicago and then when the bear opens he starts up a little. definitely a post about the restaurant and then silent again.

until he meets social media manager au. he posts stories (usually ones she’s taken) and that’s his way of sorta flirting? like posting it and being like “no you made it look good” to be cute.

he’s not super active by any means, even when he gains an influx of followers from blowing up on tiktok (unbeknownst to him) as the hot chef. he probably posts three or four times a year, depending on the year and what’s happened. never a super active social media person tho.

[redfoxwritesstuff]

Why Is Misdemeanor Of the Heart's Reader...

White Coded?

Yep, I said it. Come, take a seat and get cozy in the Fox Den while Mamma Kit answers some questions.

CW: Discussions of race and racism in a historical context and me being a wordy ass bitch

I've seen some discourse around Human!Alastor readers and writers and have gotten some of these questions myself over the last few months.

Firstly- I am white. I'm so fucking white that I use SPF 100 sunscreen. I grew up in Alaska. The history I learned growing up wasn't African American history; it was Alaska Native history. I didn’t learn about how we fucked over African American people in America’s early history. Instead, I learned how we fucked over the villages of the land I was raised on.

Why does this matter? The current accepted fanon for Alastor's human life is that he was a Black or mixed-race radio host who died in 1933 and reached his mid to late 30s or 40s. We know he had a successful career and was also a serial killer. He favored jazz, and rye is his drink of choice. He exists somewhere on the ace spectrum.

Time for a little math. Let's go with the middle ground—he was 40 in 1933. That means he would have been born around 1893. Let’s assume his mother was 25 when he was born. She would have been born in 1868. Using the same age for her mother, Alastor's grandmother would have been born in 1843. Remember this—it’ll matter in a minute.

For MisD and all of my human Alastor writing, as well as the works of many other human Alastor writers, we approach Alastor's life through a historical lens. I, like many others, enjoy exploring a time period rich with change—dynamic and vibrant with energy, money, and hope.

What does this mean? This means Alastor would have faced significant amounts of racism. Being Black, mixed-race, or how well he could pass as white would all drastically impact his life. It affected what opportunities he had, the education he received, and how laws were applied to him.

Ready for a history lesson? The Emancipation Proclamation was issued by President Abraham Lincoln on January 1, 1863. It declared all enslaved people in rebellious areas of the United States to be free. Alastor's grandmother—based on the ages we used earlier—would have been a 20-year-old woman at that time.

Alastor would have been raised by a first-generation free woman. He likely wouldn’t have had access to public education, instead being taught in group homeschool-like sessions by those who had learned to read and write.

If he was mixed-race, he would have faced significant discrimination from all of society.

The Civil Rights Movement in the USA didn’t begin until the mid-1950s—a full twenty years after his death.

The reality is that we don’t know a lot about the Black experience during the early to mid-1900s. Much of this history wasn’t recorded by (white) historians. Instead, it was passed down through stories from parents to children, and so on. Only now are we starting to uncover and listen to the histories, stories, and experiences of Black Americans during this time period.

Remember how I mentioned at the start that I’m white as fuck? I don’t have grandparents I can go to and ask about the Black experience when they were children. First—my grandparents are all dead, and second—they were somehow whiter than I am. Their perspective wouldn’t help me because it isn’t my family’s story to tell.

What I can do is look at what we do know, listen to the voices of Black Americans who are finally being allowed to share their stories, and reflect that in my version of human Alastor. I can spend the time to research and learn. For instance, Alastor would have been ahead of his time—the first Black radio host was in 1929, a man named Jack L. Cooper from Chicago. He hosted the first Black-produced weekly variety show and showcased Black entertainers.

I can listen to stories of how mixed-race men were afforded the privilege of their lighter skin as long as they were useful to their white employers, only to be scapegoated the second anything went wrong. I do my best to reflect these stories in Human!Alastor's experiences and behaviors.

Why A White Coded Reader? I cannot even begin to hope to understand the Black American experience as it is now, let alone how it was in 1922, when MisD is set, or in the late 1910s, when my other Human Al fics take place. What I can understand on a deeper level is the white woman's experience, the experience of poverty, the experiences of abused women, and what it’s like to view the Black experience from the outside looking in.

And so that is what I try to highlight with my Human!Alastor fics. Yes, when I’m writing a Human!Alastor fic that deals with racial, class, and social politics as one of the themes to be explored (such as MisD), the reader is coded as white. It is through a white reader that I can have conversations with Alastor about why he feels he has to be perfect, why he straightens his hair, and so on. I cannot do proper justice to these feelings on a deeper level from a Black perspective because I can’t even begin to hope to understand it.

I cannot truly understand what Alastor’s Blackness would mean to him or how he would feel about being mixed. However, I can learn and understand how it impacted his life from the outside looking in. This is what I strive to do—to shed light on what Alastor’s accomplishments would have meant and how much his mistakes would have cost him.

I would love to see more Black writers in the fanfic space, especially within the Human!Alastor space. I would also love to see fewer readers written as blank slates. The Black experience in America and other white-dominated cultures is still not spotlighted often enough, both in present-day and historical settings.

These are stories that need to be told—perspectives that need to be explored, seen, and heard. However, they are not my stories to tell. Personally, until I am far better educated on the matter, I feel it would take away from these stories and be disrespectful to the lives of the very real people who lived them if I were to write from a perspective I cannot hope to understand.

I will continue to strive to write readers as racially neutral as often as the plot allows. However, I also ask that readers respect that, when the plot deals with racial, social, and class divides in a historical setting, if the reader is coming from a place of privilege, their skin tone is often the reason for such privilege.

Of course, I encourage readers to suspend disbelief and insert themselves into the fic regardless of their personal skin tone. I write from a historical setting, but as readers, you can imagine a set of historical laws or circumstances that allow for the same dynamics without requiring a white reader.

Can I do better? Absolutely—we all can. We’re always growing, improving, and learning. I was blessed to be raised in one of the most diverse places in the country (over 45 languages were spoken fluently at my high school). However, since leaving, I’ve struggled with the realities of having that bubble burst—not that Alaska was without racism.

I always welcome respectful discussions about the themes in MisD and all of my fics, as well as the reasons things may be portrayed the way they are. I prefer to write dark content, and with that comes the opportunity to educate and shine a light on topics many people avoid discussing. I simply ask for respect in return for the respect I give.

Much love, Kit

[theapangea]

Pure Intentions

Pairing/Characters: College!Lip Gallagher x innocent northside!reader

Word Count: 4.6k

Summary: Your freshman experience in college isn’t exactly how you imagined but when Lip Gallagher invites you to your first college party, he has anything but pure intentions.

Warning: Protected sex, p in v, fingering, kissing, 18+, minors dni

A/N: Does everything I write for Lip lead to smut??? The answer is yes…the answer is always YES. I just can't help it, especially with an innocent reader. Ugh, Lip is just perfect for these moments. I hope you all enjoy ;). Hope you enjoy the long fic. Thank you so much for supporting my work, love ya!! All mistakes are mine.

*Also posted on AO3: theapangea*

Masterlist

Rough really isn't the word that you’d use. Uneventful, maybe? Bland…dull…boring. Really any of these words would suffice.

Your first few weeks at college were boring.

It almost pains you to actually admit that to yourself. But when the other students talk about parties and drinking and hooking up…you can’t help it that you over analyze all the things you are doing wrong with your college life. 

Isn’t college supposed to be when your life officially starts? When you have this new found freedom. The part in your life for experiencing and experimenting. Wow, even the thought of experimenting puts a nervous knot in your belly. Your eyes sweep the buzzing classroom as if to check if anyone is tuning into your radio waves. 

Relaxing into your seat, the minutes ticking by until the start of class and you are thinking about sex…well trying not to think about it��not that you really think about it at all. And the only reason that this is at the forefront of your mind is because the two boys to your right are talking about it…in public…at 9am.  

You can’t help but eavesdrop on the conversation because they sure as hell aren’t being quiet about it. You’re only one seat away from them, of course you’d be able to hear their conversation. You just wish they would keep it to themselves or at least when no one else is around. 

But since they both can’t seem to be quiet for more than a couple of seconds, then you will have to endure the lovely discussion. Thankfully, the second you start to silently plead for them to stop, they do. Switching the topic to a frat party going on later tonight. 

A Wednesday night frat party?

Is that what you’re missing in your college life? Getting black-out drunk on a school night. The first though that runs through your head is why? But a second, slightly quieter voice grabs your attention…the little voice in your head that is screaming of envy. That is tingling every fiber in your body, pleading with itself to go to the party. To experience anything other than the mundane, than the boring. But it isn’t like you to go to parties, or to even know how to ask more questions to attempt to go to the party. The sex discussion is starting to sound more appealing than the conflicting fighting going on inside your head.

And when you think, it can’t get anymore annoying, suddenly there is another third voice. One you don’t recognize. Realizing quickly that the voice isn’t inside your head after all. 

You aren’t completely sure if the confused look on your face or the stuttering over your words gave it away that you didn’t hear what the boy next you said at all. Because not only does he repeat himself but he also leans across the desk to get closer to you.

“You going to the party at Sigma Chi later?”

The boy speaking to you is Lip. You’ve come to know his name and just a little bit about him over the past several weeks. Nothing extraordinary other than a simple exchanging of names and hometowns. Turns out you are both from Chicago, just opposite the tracks from each other. Lip was one of those southside kids who was gifted enough to go to college and you were one of those northside kids who didn’t have a choice.

You’re unsure really how to respond to his question. Eventually landing on just shrugging your shoulders with an indecisive smile. 

“Why, north-siders don’t go to parties?” 

Sure they do. Don’t they? They must. Right?

To be honest, you aren’t really sure because you’ve never been to one. High school is not far off from college in terms of experiences. You were are a quiet kid and you’ve slowly had to come to terms with the fact that you’ve fallen a little behind. 

“You should come.” Lip smiles, his comment bouncing around your head.

You tuck the fallen strands of hair behind your ear, “I don’t know…” The words drift into the space that separates the two of you. 

“It’ll be fun.” Emphasizing the last word. Does he even realize that he’s biting his bottom lip right now?

“I don’t know anyone who’s going.” You are hesitant to speak, the pitch of your voice doesn’t sound quite right coming out of your mouth. 

“You know me.”

And with those three little words, the whole day becomes a haze. 

You end up exchanging phone numbers with Lip before the start of class. He texts you the address with a little smiley face emoticon. 

You can’t help the smile that tugs on your face the rest of the day. Following you from class to class, on your walk home and the whole entire time you spend getting ready. 

You are actually going to a college party. A boy invited you to a college party. Are you supposed to start screaming now or should you wait until afterwards? You honestly cannot decide. 

Gripping onto the strap on your tiny purse as you stand outside of the large home. Dozens of students streaming in and out, laughing, yelling. Your eyes don’t know where to look first as you take the first couple of steps into the house.

It’s quite exhilarating, your heart pounding loudly in your chest as the music fills your ears. You see some familiar faces and are able to muster up a small wave too but are overwhelmed by the number of people you don’t know. You are a little fish in the sea of sharks, knowing that any one of these animals can rip you to shreds. Which is oddly making this night much for exciting. 

Making your way into the large living area, the sea of students grinding on one another in the middle and shouting from a beer-pong game in the corner can be heard clearly over the blaring music. You stick closely to the walls, hoping in some way to disappear into the striped paper. Merely wanting to observe what really goes on at a college party, unsure if you will actually be able to participate in any way. This party is so far out of your comfort zone that it feels like you have been transported to another planet.

But this is what college is all about, right? Getting out of your comfort zone, participating in new experiences, living a little. The sad fact is that you just don’t know how. It’s scary, standing here by yourself, with no one to help shield you from the chaos. You cross your arms around your waist, shielding yourself from all of it. You feel completely out of place and are starting to feel like maybe you shouldn’t have come at all. 

It’s as if Lip is conjured out of thin air, being able to hear your silent pleads from across the house, when you finally see him squeeze his way through the horde of drunk students. His lazy smile brings you a tiny shred of hope that you are not alone. 

When he finally reaches you, he hands you a red cup filled with some unknown liquid. You raise an eyebrow at him, silently questioning the contents of the drink.

He laughs, leans into you, his hot breath on your ear, “Don’t worry, it’s just water.”

Your body physically reacts to his closeness by going weak in the knees, thankful that you have the wall behind you to hold yourself up right. But you still can’t help but feel like you're falling when he doesn’t move away, even after you take a drink of clear liquid. 

“I’m glad you came tonight.” The music is loud but not so loud that he needs to be this close to you and he knows it too. Your eyes lock together as if some unspoken words are being exchanged between the two of your bodies that you mind is too slow or too incompetent to understand. 

“I didn’t want to miss out on all the fun.” You playfully throw his words from earlier back at him. 

His laugh is radiant. The hot air coating your skin as he leans against the wall with his shoulder, just staring at you. A slow heat begins to grow in your cheeks under his stare. Shifting the plastic cup between your hands as your palms grow sweatier. 

You’ve never had someone look at you this way before. His blue eyes boring into yours, searching for all the answers to who you truly are. Sure, you can smell the alcohol on Lip’s breath but you can tell he isn’t drunk. You can sense that this mutual feeling is engulfing the both of you. The air around you both becomes increasingly warmer as he inches closer to you. 

His left hand reaches out for yours, his fingertips lightly touching yours, tapping them to the beat of the music. You can tell he is testing the waters, seeing if you will pull away or not. You cannot fathom the thought of ever pulling away from his touch.

Lip finally intertwines his fingers with yours, squeezing your hand gently as he pushes himself off of the wall and starts to walk backwards, pulling you along with him. Leaving the half-empty red cup forgotten on an end table. 

“Where are we going?” You giggle, a wide smile engulfing your features. 

“Just trust me.” He pulls you into the crowd of dancing classmates.

“Trust you? I barely know you.” You retort quickly as he pulls you against him, settling his hands on your hips as your arms instinctively wrap over his shoulders.

“Good.” He winks and you laugh and everything just feels so right in this moment.

Coming to this party was starting to feel like the beginning of your story, the beginning of getting over your fears of being left behind, of being forgotten by those your own age. Lip saw you in a crowd full of people, he chose you to be the one to dance with. 

In the middle of this packed living room, you and Lip are tangled in your own world. The air is thick with sweat, laughter, and a buzz that is emanating off the two of you. Your eyes lock with Lips, and for just a second, the chaos of your surroundings disappears. Leaving the two of you, embracing the spark that is traveling between your bodies.

Your heart begins to beat faster, the beat of the music pumping the muscle along as Lip pulls you closer. Your breaths mingle in the small shared space, with yours periodically halting when Lip’s hands curve around your waist, his fingertips brushing against the exposed skin on the small of your back.

And it’s within that touch, that gentle, meaning touch that something inside of your switches. That this simple moment between you and Lip is starting to mean something more, something real, something that you can reach out and hold between your hands. This isn’t some little fling that either of you are going to regret in the morning, everything at this moment is pure and intentional.

For the second time tonight, the music and crowd slowly fades away. It really is just you and Lip in a room full of sweaty people and you don’t seem to mind because you are with him. 

The song ends after a single moment, but neither of you seem to be able to move. You’re still held in his embrace, the same breath being exchanged between the two of you, when Lip dips his head. His mouth crashing into yours, filled with passion and need. 

One of his hands travels to your cheek while the other keeps you in position against his hard body. A slow burning fire spreads between you, lips moving together so perfectly as you fall into a gentle rhythm. The taste of him is so overwhelming, this new experience of kissing someone is more than you could have imagined. If you knew this was how this night was going to go then you may have stayed home, and you can’t help but feel so happy you didn’t. 

When Lip finally pulls away, it’s only enough to let some cold air mingle in the hot space between your mouths. 

You smile, your lips still tingling with remembrance of the kiss, looking into Lip’s eyes, “Should we…um, go somewhere else?”

You can’t believe those words just left your mouth. You asking a guy to go somewhere else is definitely not on your bingo card for the night. To be honest, none of what is happening was on your bingo card. This night was exceeding your expectations with each passing moment. 

Lip nods his head, a panting yes escapes him. 

Lip’s rough hands trail over your arms, leaving a wake of fire in its path. His hand intertwines with yours as he leads you out of the sweaty crowd to a more secluded area where the two of you can be alone. 

You can’t even begin to describe the way your body is buzzing right now, the nerves, the adrenaline pumping through your veins is the only thing making you stand up right. You have some idea what was going to happen when you and Lip enter a vacant room. You were sheltered but you aren’t that sheltered, you just haven’t ever had sex with anyone before.

This was your first time and maybe it wasn’t going to be in the most special place, but you can feel that it is going to be with someone so special. Your heart beats loudly in your ears as the music starts to fade into the background as you climb the staircase behind Lip.

He smiles at you, squeezing your hand gently as he pulls you towards the direction of some rooms. Punching a code into one of the doors furthest from the stairs. The lock clicks and Lip steps aside so you are able to enter first.

The room is clean, thankfully. A large bed takes up most of the space under three bay windows. A desk is adjunct to the wall the door is on. As you step inside, you start to realize that this isn’t some random room, but Lip’s room. This realization lets you release a breath you didn’t know you were holding. You are silently thanking anyone out there for not having your first time be in some randos bed. 

You aren’t quite sure what you do now that you are standing in Lip’s room. The adrenaline is starting to wear off and the nerves are shooting through your limbs. It will be any second now where you will start to overthink this whole thing and may ruin it before it can even begin. But this is something that you desperately want to experience in college, something that you want to experience with Lip. 

Before your anxiety can skyrocket, you feel Lip press up against your back. You also feel something else, way harder, push against your butt. You didn’t know that this tiny action would make you so horny. 

Lip’s finger traces down your forearms, his hot breath can be felt on your neck. His wet mouth kisses softly into the delicate skin, his electric touch jolting your body as a heavy gasp escapes your lips. Lip must be happy at the reaction as he chuckles into your skin. 

Lip spins you around in his arms, his hands landing back on the small of your back, inching slowly towards the top of your ass. Your pulse is thumping under your skin, in your chest as you stare into Lip’s enchanting eyes. You almost feel dizzy with it, the closeness, the endless possibilities of being here with him. 

This time, you take the first step, parting your lips slightly as you move towards him. But it only takes a second for Lip to reclaim his power over you.

At first the kiss is soft, his mouth barely there, hovering over yours, making you yearn for any sort of his touch. His lips brush against yours a second time, then he pushes himself into you deeper, slow and meaning at first, but the need to have you closer is beginning to overcome him. The aggressive part of him seeping through the cracks.

The warmth of his lips, the way his hands slide lower to the curve of your ass. You respond, instinctively, with your hands threading through the short hair at the back of his head, tugging him closer. The kiss is deepening quickly with an urgency that’s starting to become natural between you and Lip. 

Your heart is pounding so loud now, that you are sure that Lip can hear it too. The kiss, this moment is perfect. Being here, in Lip’s embrace is terrifying and exhilarating and everything that you have always craved. 

You melt into Lip as he begins to move the two of you to the bed in the middle of the room. His hands start to make quick work to pull your shirt over your head, which makes you break your kiss for just a brief moment before the two of you resume like nothing happened. His hands sliding their way around your back to unhook your bra, throwing the material in some unknown direction. Then he hooks his fingers in the waistband of your short skirt, yanking roughly to pull the material away. You step out of your sneakers and skirt, falling onto the bed as Lip pulls away.

You melt underneath his stare. His eyes scan your bare body as you inch yourself further onto the bed. You are beginning to feel exposed under his sharp gaze. One of your arms trails up the length of your body, trying to hide yourself but Lip tugs your hand away. Shaking his head.

“Perfect,” Lip whispers as his fingers brush against the bare skin, circling around your breast and nipple, up your neck and finally brushing against your jaw. Tilting your chin up to capture your lips in his as he climbs over your small body. 

Your breath hitches, back arching as you rub against Lip. The heavy kisses deepen slowly as Lip positions himself between your legs. Pressing his arching boner in your sweet core. One arm slipping underneath your back, while the other cups your breast. His fingers toying with your sensitive nipple as your moan radiates into Lip’s mouth. 

Your fingers slide up his neck, feeling the way his pulse skips underneath your touch, how his breath is shaky and uneven. Lip pulls you in even closer than before, and it’s this simple motion of closeness that sparks something more between the two of you, something that has been building long before the kiss on the dance floor, or his invitation during class. This spark has been developing from the small touches when he gets to class late and needs to sit in the seat next to you, or the small glances both of you steal when the other isn’t paying attention. 

The kiss deepens again, and this time it’s like a slow burning fire catching, spreading rapidly over your body. His lips move with yours in perfect rhythm, as if you’ve always known how to fit together. The taste of him is almost overwhelming at this moment. The weight of him over you grounds you to this earth, without it you would certainly be floating in the sky. 

After a moment, Lip pulls away again. Taking his time to soak you in, capturing every detail to his memory. His fingers scrolling around your chest and stomach, the cold tips tinkling you as he memorizes the feeling of your skin. 

When his hands leave your body, your sigh. Watching as he rips his shirt over his head while scooting backwards off the bed. His eyes watch you as his hands work quickly to unlace his belt and unbutton his pants before stripping them away. 

Before he pulls down his boxers, a moment of pause blankets the room, “You’re sure you want to do this, northside?” The nickname is surely a tease that does make you hot underneath his stare. 

You shake your head yes before Lip slips his thumbs under his waistband to pull off his boxers. And you were not expecting him to be so big when the fabric is released, pooling around his ankles.

You have little time to process his throbbing erection when he starts to climb on top of you again. Your eyes stare as his penis starts to bob against his stomach. 

“I need to hear you say it.” His fingers lift your chin towards his face, your eyes are the last thing to reach him, wide and doe-like, as your mind is running wild with impure fantasies. 

“I really,” you gulp, “really want to do this.”

“Good,” the devilish smile returns to his face. 

In one swift movement, Lip reaches to push the back of your legs towards your stomach, opening your center wide for him. The lace fabric of your panties barely does anything to cover up your core. You turn your face to the side, a heat beginning to rise in your cheeks as your pussy and ass are exposed for Lip. 

“Don’t look away,” His hands squeeze the back of your thighs to grab your attention. Your head whips back to him quickly as you watch his fingers start to move towards your center. Your hands gripping the soft fabric beneath you, hoping it will help stable you in this moment.

You bite your bottom lip as his middle finger lightly grazes over the thin fabric, the small touch shooting pure electricity through your body. You never knew you could feel this kind of way from someone’s touch before. 

Lip allows you to catch your breath before moving on, his middle finger passing over the same spot as before but this time with more pressure. And with more pressure from his finger means more sparks shooting through your body and a whine escaping from your lips. 

Lip smiles down at you in satisfaction. He starts to move his finger in small circles around your covered clit, your breath heaving through the pleasure. Your face contorting as he picks up speed, his other hand still gripping the back on your thigh to keep you in the place. 

After he is satisfied with how you are wiggling underneath his touch, he slips his pointer finger under the fabric to expose your heat. He licks his lips while taking in the sight of your perfect pussy, your juices leaking from your folds as the same finger grazes over the bare skin. 

The feeling is more intense than before, times a million. And you can’t help but shift underneath his touch but he holds firm on your thigh and keeps you steady on his lap. You couldn’t go anywhere if you tried hard enough. And it wasn’t like you wanted too but the feeling is just so overwhelming that you don’t know what else to do other than to try to move away. 

Lip begins circling your clit again, this time using his thumb. The vibration running through your body makes you arch your back and moan his name with pleasure. You are pure happiness right now.

He then moves his thumb further down your folds until he hovers over your entrance. Your juices coat the tip of his finger before he dips into you. The moan that erupts from you is no longer quiet but a loud arch that comes from the deepest part of you as Lip inserts a part of himself into your pussy. 

His finger moves faster inside of you, his thumb sooner replaced by his other hand's pointer finger. Pumping mercifully in and out of your entrance, sending shock waves through your whole body. His thumb resumes its place on your clit, the combination is ruthless as he makes you feel an unimaginable amount of pleasure.

Moans, whines, whispers of profanities leaving your lips in waves as he continues to fulfill your wildest wishes and add another finger which intensifies everything. Pumping faster and rubbing quicker as your body locks underneath his grasp. Chest heaving rapidly as you release yourself onto his long fingers. White spots cloud your vision as your breath slows down and Lip pulls his fingers out of you. 

Your hand wipes away sweat from your forehead as you meet Lip's gaze after your moment of ecstasy. A nervous smile dances across your face as you meet his eyes. You are quickly reassured of yourself when a wide, teeth-fill smile is staring back down at you. Lip is visibly delighted with how well he can make you cum.

He leans back on his heels, his throbbing erection leaking precum down his shaft. Your eyes dart from his to his bouncing member, licking your lips in the process.

Lip leans over you, to one of the bedside tables to open a drawer, digging around to find a condom. He leans back again, ripping the condom wrapping with his teeth and wrapping himself in the plastic.

He leans down to capture your lips after being away from them for too long. A moan from him vibrates your whole body as he wraps his arms around you, his finger twisting in the strands of your hair, holding you tightly as he slowly pushes his thick member between your folders.

Your legs spread further apart to accommodate his size. Your head burying in the nape of his neck as slides all the way into you. The burning sensation is pleasurable as he lets your breath slightly relax before beginning to pump. His hips moving rapidly between your legs, hitting your sweet spot with each thrust. 

His tongue trails over the sweet spot under your jaw, biting and sucking as his mouth makes its way yours. You part your lips as he catches them, slipping his tongue into your mouth. The warm muscle sweeping around yours, dancing, fighting for dominance as the heat of pleasure engulfs the both of you. 

A groan vibrates against you, his hips buckling with each thrust as they become sloppier with each passing second. Pure bliss wrapping around your body as Lip pounds into you, over and over again. His hard muscles hold you still as he uses your body for pure pleasure. 

As his groans and grunts become more frequent and his thrusting becomes messier, the speed in which he pounds into you quickens. Releasing you from the sloppy kiss, his forehead against yours as you stare into each other's eyes.

His pupils dilate as they meet yours, breathes hitching in the shared space. His thrust even out as he releases himself into you. Your moans erupt on his hot kiss with his last hard drives of his hips.

He kisses your lips one last time, holding for just a second longer than needed, before getting up off the bed. He leaves the room for a couple of seconds to get a towel from the on-suite bathroom and discard the used condom. 

You have to give yourself a little moment to come back down to earth after that extraordinary moment that you just shared with Lip. Pushing yourself to the top of the bed as Lip comes over to clean you up. He tosses the towel aside when it is no longer needed and opens the blanket for you to climb underneath.

He slips into the covers with you, pulling you into his body. 

“I told you it would be fun.” He teases, kissing the top of your head as you snuggle into his chest. But you knew, as you drift off to sleep, that your dreams will never live up to this reality. 

~~~~

Let me know what you think!! Appreciate all of you so much. <3

[lythecreatorart]

We Both Reach For the Gun - Chicago

Val is gone, the Vs are in rage

Husk went to Al to use radio to broadcast as a publicity stunt for the new overlord that kill Val

Inspired and I want to make an animatic of rise of Overlord!Angel Dust based on We Both Reach For the Gun from Chicago

I know this song was use when Viv want to have a headcanon voice for Angel few years ago, his song got evolve over time but I still find this to be fun idea

[kindwarrior]

Tucker Carlson is Outing Obama as Gay. But Everyone is Missing the Big Story. I’m Obama’s College Classmate. I’ve Been Trying to Warn America for 15 years!

By Wayne Allyn Root

I’m Barak Obama’s college classmate at Columbia University, Class of ’83. I’m also the author of the #1 bestselling hardcover book in America in 2012, “The Ultimate Obama Survival Guide.”

I’ve always had Obama’s number. I understand what makes him tick. I understand his goals.

First let’s get the “gay issue” out of the way. I’ve reported on both my radio and TV shows for 15 years that my wealthy, connected friends in Chicago have always said, “Obama frequented gay bath houses and gay clubs. Everyone in the know, knows Obama is gay.”

Now that we’ve heard from Obama’s biographer that Obama wrote about his daily gay fantasies, I think it’s pretty clear my Chicago pals were right. Tucker Carlson is onto something!

But gay is not the issue. The issue here is fraud. If Obama is in fact gay, then he was lying to the American people from day one. He portrayed himself as a happily married family man with a wife and two beautiful young daughters. That’s called fraud.

If America had known the truth in 2008, does anyone honestly think Obama would have been elected president?

But all of this is small potatoes. This is not the big story.

Why does any of this matter now? Because Joe Biden is a brain-dead puppet. This is the third term of Obama. The proof is we are all reliving the nightmare Obama economy. Great for Wall Street and billion-dollar multi-national corporations. But a disaster for the American middle class and Main Street.

Second, Biden is fading fast – and everyone can see it. At the same time Biden’s cognitive health is in freefall, all of his corruption from the past is pouring out of the closet. Biden is finished. He is toast. He will never make it to 2024.

Sometime this fall Biden will have a very public “episode” and be hospitalized. Soon thereafter he (or Jill) will announce he is stepping down for “health reasons.”

Who will replace him? Either Michelle Obama or Gavin Newsom. But whoever it is, Obama will be calling the shots from his nearby Washington DC mansion. That’s why this story matters.

I’ve had Obama pegged from the first day. Obama is the ultimate “Manchurian Candidate.” Gay is unimportant. What matters is he was groomed to be president by the Deep State and communist, fascist, globalist enemies of the United States. What matters is Obama is a radical Marxist tyrant carrying out the destruction of America.

Obama was tame in his first two terms. He was “boiling the frog slowly.” But Trump ruined his plan. Now Obama is trying to destroy this country as fast as he can before Trump has a second chance to undo the damage. And at the same time, Obama is coordinating the attacks on Trump to either imprison him, kill him, or disqualify him.

My guest on my show, “America’s Top Ten Countdown” on Real America’s Voice TV last week was former Illinois Governor Rod “Blago” Blagojevich. Blago’s Governor’s mansion was raided by an early morning FBI Swat team. Sound familiar?

I pointed out to “Blago” that Obama’s fingerprints were all over his frame job… and FBI SWAT raid… and long prison sentence. Obama set him up. Obama took away his freedom. I asked him to comment. Blago reported, “Obama set up the meeting that led to my arrest.”

Do you get it now? It’s the exact same M.O. as what’s happening to President Trump. The same FBI raids, persecution, frame job. The same weaponization of government to destroy Obama’s political adversaries.

I’ve always said the key to understanding Obama was his time at Columbia University.

First, there is the “Ghost of Columbia” mystery. I was a Pre Law, Political Science major. So was Obama. He had to be in all the same classes as me. But he was never in one class. I never met Obama, never saw him, never heard of him, never met anyone at Columbia who has.

Obama got in, so why didn’t anyone ever see him? My educated guess is Obama was in the Soviet Union studying communism. Columbia had a “sister school” in Moscow. That would be the only real answer as to why Obama was rarely if ever seen at Columbia. He was being groomed way back then by the enemies of America.

Secondly, at Columbia we learned a plan to destroy America called “Cloward Piven.” I’ll bet Obama spent two years in the Soviet Union at our “sister school” becoming the world’s expert. Look around. Everything happening in America today is Cloward Piven…

The open borders bringing millions of foreigners into our country, changing our demographics forever.

The explosion of welfare and bailouts.

The Green New Deal.

The destruction of our military.

The end of the dollar as world reserve currency.

The plans for pandemic lockdowns, climate change lockdowns and Central Bank Digital Currency.

The censorship, banning of dissent, and weaponization of government against conservatives and Christians. Defund the police.

The vicious criminals let out without bail.

Critical Race Theory and Transgender brainwashing.

Persecution of PTA parents.

Conservatives and Christians classified as “domestic terrorists.”

The arrest of political opponents.

87,000 new IRS agents.

It’s all about Cloward Piven and communist-level control.

Sound familiar? It’s what Obama the “Manchurian Candidate” learned in the Soviet Union from the best. This man was groomed from day one by the communist and globalist enemies of America. He was sent to destroy us.

Now he’s working behind the scenes to finish the job. He is the man who ordered the spying on Trump. The framing of Trump. Now he’s the man directing the nonstop government attacks against Trump. Just as he did to Blago.

So, Obama being gay is the least of it. America is being destroyed. Obama is at the root of every evil thing happening.

[roysexton]

“What will brand podcasts look like in 2024?” … plus I *may* offer a musical homage to “The Little Mermaid” … inaugural Brand Podcast Virtual Summit organized by Lower Street

Such an honor to have participated in this panel yesterday. Truly a robust and fun conversation about podcasting for brands. You can catch the replay here. What will brand podcasts look like in 2024? Find out with the industry’s finest. Roy Sexton – director of marketing at Clark Hill, Lynn Teo – CMO at Northwestern Mutual, Nick Howard – podcast architect and senior manager at Boston Consulting…

[petervintonjr]

"As black America approaches the 21st century, our capacity or our failure to build a solid bridge . . . of works will determine whether millions of young blacks already with us or yet unborn will cross over into the new century, or fall into the abyss."

Another name you almost certainly didn't know: M. (Moses) Carl Holman, civil rights activist, writer, and poet. Born in 1919 St. Louis, Holman showed an early gift for writing, and at the age of 19 won a scriptwriting award from a popular syndicated radio program. He graduated magna cum laude from Lincoln University and went on to acquire Master's degrees from the University of Chicago and from Yale. While at Yale he published his first collection of poems, and began regularly writing articles for various newspapers and magazines on income inequity, urban poverty, literacy, and other issues important to Black Americans. In 1962 he taught English at Clark College in Atlanta, giving him a front-row seat to key events in the earliest days of the civil rights movement. As some of his students participated in sit-ins and the Freedom Rides, he found himself appointed to the U.S. Commission on Civil Rights, of which he eventually became deputy director in 1966.

In 1968 Ebony magazine named Holman as one of the 100 Most Influential Black Americans. That same year Holman published what is probably his best-known work: The Baptizin', a play which won first prize in the National Community Theater Festival. In addition to multiple collections of poems, Holman also published a definitive overview of the civil rights movement in the U.S., from 1965 to 1975.

Perhaps most significantly, in 1971 Holman was named Vice President of the National Urban Coalition. This organization had re-formed in 1967 in the wake of the so-called "long, hot summer" of racial strife and injustices. During this time Holman's singular talent for delivering quiet and polite, but still powerful, speeches came to the fore and he jumpstarted a great many local housing, education, job training, and economic development programs aimed at disadvantaged Black and Hispanic communities.

In his later years Holman forcefully addressed the issue of "dual literacy" for Black children --emphasizing that such students not only needed to be well-versed not only in the fundamentals such as reading, writing, and public speaking; but also in math, science, and technology. His 1988 obituary notes that Holman "had an uncanny ability to form a coalition out of the most diverse elements, and it was often said that the key to his ability to do this was the fact that he never appeared to have an agenda for himself."

(Teachers: Need some resources to engage your students this Black History Month? I'll send you a pile of these trading cards, no cost, no obligation. Just give me a mailing address and let me know how many students in your class. No strings attached, no censorship, no secret-relaying-of-names to Abbott or DeSantis or HuckaSanders.)

[crimesandcuriosities]

The Unsolved Double Murder of the Grimes Sisters

Teenage sisters Barbara and Patricia Grimes spent an evening together at their local cinema but never returned home.

During the evening of December 28th, 1956, teenage sisters Barbara and Patricia Grimes left their home in Chicago, Illinois, and headed to Brighton Theatre to see Elvis Presley’s new movie, Love Me Tender. Both girls were huge fans of Elvis and they had already seen the movie multiple times, so they had travelled this same route together on numerous occasions. However, this would be the last time they were seen alive.

Barbara (15) and Patricia (13) were due to return home by midnight, but when they failed to show up their mother began to worry. After three late-night buses went by and the two girls were nowhere to be seen, an unsettling concern that they were not coming home began to set in, so at 02:15 in the morning their panicked mother filed a missing persons report with the Chicago Police Department.

During the weeks that followed, thousands of police officers and volunteers searched extensively and Elvis Presley himself made a public plea via radio and television for their safe return. Canals and rivers were dredged, the authorities knocked door-to-door, and over 15,000 flyers were distributed around the local community. However, on 9th January, snow had begun to fall and blanketed the entire area, which significantly impeded search efforts.

The last person on record to see the sisters alive was one of Patricia’s school friends, a young girl named Dorothy, who came forward to state that she was at the same movie screening as the two sisters and was sitting in the row behind them. She claimed the last time she saw them was in a queue for popcorn, and they seemed relaxed and happy.

Sadly, on 22nd January 1957 — almost one entire month after they disappeared — the sisters’ bodies were discovered alongside a secluded road in Willow Springs, which is approximately a 20-minute drive from the theatre they attended.

You can read the full story here.

[rockermazy]

Yay - I get to share my love for tidbit Hazbin lore while sharing knowledge that makes me look like a millennial boomer XD Ahem... Alastor, our favorite overlord, for all intents and purposes, is a fucking elemental. His abilities are absolutely terrifying from a scientific standpoint. Okay, so remember how during the "Stayed Gone" number, Vox starts glitching out and "loses his signal" - then the Pride ring subsequently has a blackout? That is entirely Alastor's (or whatever-the-fuck-is-benefactoring-him's) doing. A powerful enough radio signal can do that. No horseshoe magnet required. IRL real shiz. Despite being digital enough to render a bluescreen while compromised, Vox might still have older hardware from his former days as a rabbit-eared, extra-thick thick cathode-ray tube.

And Alastor is our radio demon. Keep this in mind. IRL, once upon a time during the 1940s - before digital television - there was no "Channel 1". That's because in the US, a very long time ago, both radio and TV shared the band that we call "Channel One":

"Until 1948, Land Mobile Radio and television broadcasters shared the same frequencies, which caused interference. This shared allocation was eventually found to be unworkable, so the FCC reallocated the Channel 1 frequencies for public safety and land mobile use and assigned TV channels 2–13 exclusively to broadcasters. Aside from the shared frequency issue, this part of the VHF band was (and to some extent still is) prone to higher levels of radio-frequency interference (RFI) than even Channel 2 (System M)." (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Channel_1_(North_American_TV))

Then for a short stint, Channel One was exclusively reserved for radio:

Channel 1 was allocated at 44–50 MHz between 1937 and 1940. Visual and aural carrier frequencies within the channel fluctuated with changes in overall TV broadcast standards prior to the establishment of permanent standards by the National Television Systems Committee. In 1940, the FCC reassigned 42–50 MHz to the FM broadcast band. Television's channel 1 frequency range was moved to 50–56 MHz. Experimental television stations in New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles were affected. (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Channel_1_(North_American_TV))

Every local TV channel and radio station has a frequency range on the electromagnetic spectrum. For those who still listen to radio on non-internet-reliant radios devices, those funny little numbers next to a station's name are a ballpark number for the frequency the station broadcasts in the Hertz unit. A Hertz (Hz) is one wave per second. A KiloHertz (KHz) is 1,000 waves per second. A GigaHertz (GHz) is 1 billion waves per second. Modern AM radio stations are 535-1605 kHz Modern FM radio stations are 88-108 MHz   TV VHF Channels 2 thru 13 are 54-216 MHz TV UHF Channels 14 thru 36 are 470-608 MHz And no, that's not a discrepancy between VHF and FM radio: the frequencies designated for FM radio are nestled right in there with TV ones - between Channels 6 and 7.

(chart from http://hyperphysics.phy-astr.gsu.edu/hbase/Audio/radio.html) Even today, radio and TV are slightly shuffled in there in regards to designated frequencies. This implies that depending on Alastor's band of preference, if Vox still has some of his older hardware, Vox could, in his sleep, theoretically be able to hear Alastor's broadcasts of screaming victims without a physical radio nearby. IRL in fact, in older televisions where a knob is used to change channels, much of the static you'd hear in-between channels is actually background radiation from deep space - along with any radio interference from man-made sources nearby. No wonder Vox is obsessed with Alastor. Alastor can torment him in an in-between realm-channel daily, like Freddy Kruger.

Yet, if radio signals were only a Vox problem, why did nearly every light and electronic device go out in the Pride except the emergency lights at the Heaven embassy?

It might depend on how we define the word "radio". Is it radio, as in "those radio stations we can listen to without the internet"? Maybe radio, as in "any frequency utilized in modern communications, including TV and Radio"? Or is it radio, as in "almost any signal on the electromagnetic spectrum with a frequency lower than friggin' heat?" People, below is an IRL over-simplified chart of the electromagnetic spectrum and its usages by human.

When radio is defined as a specific part of the electromagnetic spectrum, it is basically any frequency below infrared. *** Cellphone service and WiFi use radio signals within this range. Most cellular services are between 600 MHz and 39 GHz WiFi routers are about 2.4-5 GHz (6 GHz in newer models)  That's where the "G" in "4G" and "5G" come from - the "G" stands for "Gigahertz" Radio, local television, cellphone service, WiFi, and basically any point in the internet that isn't linked by a landline - these are all safely within the part of the electromagnetic spectrum that the scientists would call "radio". If Hell's technology is supposed to mirror the real world, then most electronic devices need radio frequencies in order to communicate. The VVV's empire is truly fucked, should Alastor so choose. The only plot hole in this explanation I see is why all the lights went out. These devices don't run on radio - they communicate using it. My best-educated guess is that the on/off switch for Hell's power grid is on an open network and at least part of it wireless. Or maybe Alastor's radio attack works like a general EMP and he can just break stuff by "brute force". (I am not an expert on these sorts of things like telecommunication... or network security... or physics.... I politely ask that someone in the comments, please enlighten me U.U ) ------------------------------------- Also, notice that Alastor's Tower, Cannibal Town and the Heaven Embassy were the only regions with lights on during the blackout.

is that...?

Cannibal Town?

If this is, in fact, Cannibal Town, then my only guess is that the Cannibals are so hipster, many of them only light their homes and businesses with candlelight and leviathan whale oil. Neither candlelight nor oil-burning rely on wifi. Only some of their region's light was lost in the blackout. They might use some electricity (as many during the Victorian era did, which Cannibal Town seems to be inspired by), but they don't fully rely upon electricity. This suggests that Alastors friendship with Rosie might be less of an organic friendship and more like a strategically slick alliance. Rosie's territory is one part of Pride that Alastor can't completely shut down (other than the Embassy). But, who knows?

Alastor's derision of modern tech now seems to have more merit than just being "hipster", or avoiding leaving a digital footprint that Vox can manipulate, (the latter of which I once head-canoned before this epiphany). Alastor can literally just shut most of Hell's tech down. This might also suggest why Alastor is homies with Zestial - another known old-timey prick.

Alastor makes alliances with demons he can't easily overpower with his abilities. This might seem self-contradictory to Alastor's seeming over-confidence in teasing Lucifer - until you realize he did this only after he learned angels could be killed during the Overlords' meeting. (And yes, I know what I wrote about Alastor a couple of tumbl notes back with the "popsicle" evaluation. I do not consider flip-flopping a moral issue if done so by epiphany. That note stays, because it's funny XD ) ----------------------- Another theory! Ok, so this theory isn't entirely my own-own, I'm just building off of it based on what I've just said (mostly Roo stuff). So IRL, scientists decided to take an image of the observable universe in the microwave range. Microwave energy is in the upper ends of radio, but just below infrared in frequency. What they found was cosmic background radiation - a lot of energy that isn't coming from the stars themselves.

(Image source: https://www.space.com/33892-cosmic-microwave-background.html) Some scientists theorize this is because this particular energy is left over from the formation of the universe. So about Roo:

In the first non-pilot episode, The Story of Hell, as read by Charlie, states that the angels of pure light "worshipped good and shielded all from evil." During this line, imagery of two faces are shown before the angels: one face of light and another face of twisted red and black.

Subsequent lines and imagery in the episode suggest that this "evil" existed before Lucifer fell or Eve allowed this evil to enter the world - even before the Earth was created. Some Tumblrs who have been in this fandom longer than I have may know of Roo, a character that appears in some of VivziePop's older works within the Hazbin/Hellaverse. Some of Roo's monikers include "The Root of All Evil" and the "Tree of Knowledge". I'm wondering if in the Hellaverse, the cosmic background radiation of the universe is a manifestation of Roo when she isn't bound to a tree. Could Alastor's radio powers come Roo, the background "dark" energy of the universe's birth? Did Alastor bite the apple the second third time for mankind? XD

------------------------------------------------- While researching for this paper, I learned that microwave ovens and 2G cell phones operate within the same frequencies at around 2 GHz. Apparently, the only reason cell phones don't cook our brains is because the wattage is too low. (I dunno what wattage means. I'm not a scientist.) But now, Alastors singing lines in S1E8 had me thinking: "The constraints of my deal surely have a back door  Once I figure out how to unclip my wings,  guess who will be pulling all the strings" Knowing what Alastor is capable of with radio, this has me wondering if Alastor's radio powers are coming from one source, all while be is being chained by another entity entirely. Someone might have gone out of their way to get Alastor into a contract - if only to keep him from literally baking the universe for his viewing pleasure... on a rotating glass plate.

Being able to cook a soul in microwaves would require that they be at least partially made of water, however. Buuuut... I guess if there are working ACs in Hell, I really shouldn't read too much into it XD -------------

Do you think the mad scientists from Helluva Boss, Lyle Lipton and Loopty Goopty, ever chat over coffee about the abilities of the overlords based on casual observation?

One day, Alastor's name comes up... ...and after four minutes of discussing facts over coffee, they're both just like "Nope"?

XD {END} *** Note: Googling "Electromagnetic Spectrum charts" will yield different results. Some charts will have different designations frequencies lower than radio, like Extremely Low Frequencies (ELF). I do not know whether this difference is a reflection of a newer categorization, or if most charts online are made for laymen such as myself. Most charts I saw years ago only designated "radio" as "everything below microwave". I want to assume that the "only radio below microwave" categorization went into the writer's designing of Alastor's character simply because such charts are more common (while also making for a more interesting power scaling).

______________ Disclaimer: I am composed of chauffeur knowledge. I know nearly nothing about communication science little about radiation stuff. I took an astronomy elective in college once, so I sorta knew where to look when it came to frequency stuff. I have no idea what the fuck I'm talking about. I know that I confused frequency and wavelength somewhere. Please, #sciencesideoftumblr feel free to correct me. ----------------- TLDR: Most tech IRL uses radio waves to communicate. That Includes TVs, WiFi and cell phones. Alastor can make the Pride Ring go kaploowee if he looks at it funny. I don't know what he's cooking.

[kemetic-dreams]

Minnie Julia Riperton Rudolph (November 8, 1947 – July 12, 1979) was an American singer-songwriter best known for her 1975 single "Lovin' You" and her four octave D3 to F♯7 coloratura soprano range. She is also widely known for her use of the whistle register and has been referred to by the media as the "Queen of the Whistle Register."

Minnie Riperton grew up in Chicago's Bronzeville neighborhood on the South Side. As a child, she studied music, drama and dance at Chicago's Lincoln Center. The youngest of eight children in a musical family, she embraced the arts early. Although she began with ballet and modern dance, her parents recognized her vocal and musical abilities and encouraged her to pursue music and voice. At Chicago's Abraham Lincoln Center, she received operatic vocal training from Marion Jeffery. She practiced breathing and phrasing, with particular emphasis on diction. Jeffery also trained Riperton to use her full range. While studying under Jeffery, she sang operettas and show tunes, in preparation for a career in opera. Jeffery was so convinced of her pupil's abilities that she strongly pushed her to further study the classics at Chicago's Junior Lyric Opera.

The young Riperton was, however, becoming interested in soul, rhythm and blues, and rock. In her teen years, she sang lead vocals for the Chicago-based girl group the Gems. Eventually the group became a session group known as Studio Three and it was during this period that they provided the backing vocals on the classic 1965 Fontella Bass hit "Rescue Me".

After graduating from Hyde Park High School (now Hyde Park Academy High School), she enrolled at Loop College and became a member of Zeta Phi Beta sorority. She dropped out of college to pursue her music career.

Her early affiliation with the legendary Chicago-based Chess Records afforded her the opportunity to sing backup for various established artists such as Etta James, Fontella Bass, Ramsey Lewis, Bo Diddley, Chuck Berry and Muddy Waters. While at Chess, Riperton also sang lead for the experimental rock/soul group Rotary Connection, from 1967 to 1971.

On April 5, 1975, Riperton reached the apex of her career with her No. 1 single "Lovin' You". The single was the last release from her 1974 gold album titled Perfect Angel. Riperton's third album, Adventures in Paradise was released in 1975. Despite the R&B hit "Inside My Love", some radio stations refused to play "Inside My Love" due to the lyrics.

Her fourth album for Epic Records, titled Stay in Love (1977), featured another collaboration with Stevie Wonder in the funky disco tune "Stick Together".

In 1978, Richard Rudolph and Riperton's attorney Mike Rosenfeld orchestrated a move to Capitol Records for Riperton and her CBS Records catalog. In April 1979, Riperton released her fifth and final album, Minnie. "Memory Lane" was a hit from the album.

Riperton provided backing vocals on Stevie Wonder's songs "Creepin'" from 1974's Fulfillingness' First Finale and "Ordinary Pain" from 1976's Songs in the Key of Life. In 1977, she lent her vocal abilities to a track named "Yesterday and Karma", on Osamu Kitajima's album, Osamu.

In January 1976, Riperton was diagnosed with breast cancer and, in April, she underwent a radical mastectomy. By the time of diagnosis, the cancer had metastasized and she was given about six months to live. Despite the grim prognosis, she continued recording and touring. She was one of the first celebrities to go public with her breast cancer diagnosis but did not disclose she was terminally ill.

In 1977, she became a spokesperson for the American Cancer Society. In 1978, she received the American Cancer Society's Courage Award, which was presented to her at the White House by President Jimmy Carter.

Riperton died of cancer on July 12, 1979 at the age 31.

During the 1990s, Riperton's music was sampled by many rap and hip-hop artists, including Tupac Shakur, Dr. Dre, A Tribe Called Quest, Blumentopf, The Orb

[misfitwashere]

October 15, 2024 

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

OCT 16

After Trump’s bizarre performance last night in Oaks, Pennsylvania, when he stopped taking questions and just swayed to his self-curated playlist for 39 minutes, his campaign this morning canceled a scheduled interview with CNBC’s Squawk Box, according to co-host of the show Joe Kernen. The campaign did not, though, cancel a scheduled live interview today with Bloomberg News and the Economic Club of Chicago. That interview echoed last night’s train wreck. 

Trump showed up almost an hour late to the event with moderator John Micklethwait, editor-in-chief of Bloomberg News. When he arrived, things went downhill fast. Micklethwait asked real questions about Trump’s approach to the economy, but the former president answered with aimless rants and campaign slogans that Micklethwait corrected, repeatedly redirecting Trump back to his actual questions. Trump quickly grew angry and combative.

When Micklethwait corrected Trump’s misunderstanding of the way tariffs work, Trump replied in front of a room full of people who understand the economy: “It must be hard for you to, you know, spend 25 years talking about tariffs as being negative and then have somebody explain to you that you're totally wrong.” Referring to analysis that his plans would explode the national debt, including analysis by the Wall Street Journal—hardly a left-wing outlet, as Mickelthwait pointed out—Trump replied: “What does the Wall Street Journal know? They’ve been wrong about everything. So have you, by the way….. You’ve been wrong about everything…. You’ve been wrong all your life on this stuff.”

The economy is supposed to be Trump’s strong suit.

The former president seemed unable to stay on any topic, jumping from one idea to another randomly, or to answer anything, instead making statements that play well at his rallies—referring to people with insulting names, for example—or by rehashing old grievances and threatening to end traditional U.S. freedoms. He made it clear he intends to "straighten out our press,” for example. “Because,” he said, “we have a corrupt press."

As Micklethwait tried to keep him on task, Trump asserted stories that were more and more outlandish. He claimed that children could do the work of U.S. autoworkers in South Carolina, for example, and that he would be a better chair of the Federal Reserve than Jerome Powell. 

Micklethwait did not fight with Trump, but he didn’t indulge him either. When Trump explained that “you don’t put old in” the federal judiciary because “they’re there for two years, or three years,” Micklethwait replied: “You’re a 78-year-old man running for president.” 

And therein lies the rub. 

Aaron Rupar of Public Notice, who watches and clips Trump’s speeches, called the appearance “bonkers.” Journalist David Rothkopf of Deep State Radio wrote: “The past 24 hours seem to have been a dividing line in the Trump campaign...and in Trump. He went from being periodically adrift and sporadically demented to being 24/7 unfit and in need of permanent medical attention. He's one cloudless night away from baying at the moon.” 

Likely reflecting this shift, trading in shares of Trump media, the parent company of Trump’s Truth Social social media site, was stopped briefly today as the price plummeted in unusually heavy trading. Trump took to social media to hawk tokens for his new crypto project, although the nature of the project is still unclear and investing simply offers voting rights in the new platform. The website crashed repeatedly during the day. 

Trump’s issues make it likely that a second Trump presidency would really mean a J.D. Vance presidency, even if Trump nominally remains in office. 

Currently an Ohio senator, J.D. Vance is just 39, and if voters put Trump into the White House, Vance will be one of the most inexperienced vice presidents in our history. He has held an elected office for just 18 months, winning the office thanks to the backing of entrepreneur and venture capitalist Peter Thiel, who first employed Vance, then invested in his venture capital firm, and then contributed an unprecedented $15 million to his Senate campaign. 

Vance and Thiel make common cause with others who are open about their determination to dismantle the federal government. Although different groups came to that mission from different places, they are sometimes collectively called a “New Right” (although at least one scholar has questioned just how new it really is). Some of the thinkers both Vance and Thiel follow, notably dystopian blogger Curtis Yarvin, argue that America’s democratic institutions have created a society that is, as James Pogue put it in a 2022 Vanity Fairarticle, “at once tyrannical, chaotic, and devoid of the systems of value and morality that give human life richness and meaning.” Such a system must be pulled to pieces.

Thiel has expressed the belief that the modern government stifles innovation by enforcing social values like equality and anti-monopoly. Those limits have caused society to stagnate, a situation he warns could lead to an apocalypse. “We are in a deadly race between politics and technology,” Thiel wrote in 2009. To move society forward, he calls for freedom for technological leaders to plan a utopian future without government interference. 

It is at least partly the promise of dismantling the administrative state and its regulation of technology that has brought other technology elites, most notably Elon Musk, to support the Trump-Vance campaign. These technology entrepreneurs envision themselves, rather than a government, planning and then creating the future. New campaign records filed today show that in just over two months, from July to the beginning of September, Musk invested almost $75 million in his pro-Trump America PAC to get Trump and Vance elected.  

Like Thiel, Vance has spoken extensively about the need to destroy the U.S. government, but while Thiel emphasizes the potential of a technological future unencumbered by democratic baggage, Vance emphasizes what he sees as the decadence of today’s America and the need to address that decadence by purging the government of secular leaders. A 2019 convert to right-wing Catholicism, Vance said he was attracted to the religion in part because he wanted to see the Republican Party use the government to work for what he considers the common good by imposing laws that would enforce his version of morality. 

Their worldview requires a few strong leaders to impose their will on the majority, and both Thiel and Vance have rejected secular democracy. “I no longer believe that freedom and democracy are compatible,” Thiel wrote in 2009. 

In 2021, Vance called American universities “the enemy” and said on a podcast that people like him needed to “seize the institutions of the left, and turn them against the left.” In a different interview, he clarified: American “conservatives…have lost every major powerful institution in the country, except for maybe churches and religious institutions, which of course are weaker now than they’ve ever been. We’ve lost big business. We’ve lost finance. We’ve lost the culture. We’ve lost the academy. And if we’re going to actually really effect real change in the country, it will require us completely replacing the existing ruling class with another ruling class…. I don’t think there’s sort of a compromise that we’re going to come with the people who currently actually control the country. Unless we overthrow them in some way, we’re going to keep losing.” “We really need to be really ruthless when it comes to the exercise of power,” he said. 

Vance told an interviewer he would urge Trump to “[f]ire every single midlevel bureaucrat, every civil servant in the administrative state, replace them with our people.” This plan is central to Project 2025, whose main author, Kevin Roberts, has a book covering those ideas coming out soon—it was supposed to come out this month but was postponed when Project 2025 became a lightning rod for the election—for which Vance wrote the foreword. “We are now all realizing that it’s time to circle the wagons and load the muskets. In the fights that lay [sic] ahead, these ideas are an essential weapon,” Vance wrote. 

Like Roberts, Vance wants to dismantle the secular state. He wants to replace that state with a Christian nationalism that enforces what he considers traditional values: an end to immigration—hence the lies about the legal Haitian migrants in Springfield, Ohio—and an end to LGBTQ+ rights. He supports abortion bans and the establishment of a patriarchy in which women function as wives and mothers even if it means staying in abusive marriages. Vance insists this social structure will be more fulfilling for women than becoming “childless cat ladies who are miserable at their own lives and the choices that they’ve made.“

That desire to get rid of the current “ruling class” and replace it with people like him has prompted Vance to say that if he had been vice president on January 6, 2021, he would have done what former vice president Mike Pence would not: he would have refused to count the certified electoral ballots for President Joe Biden. 

“Let’s be clear,” former representative Liz Cheney (R-WY) said. “This is illegal and unconstitutional. The American people had voted. The courts had ruled. The Electoral College had met and voted. The Governor in every state had certified the results and sent a legal slate of electors to the Congress to be counted. The Vice President has no constitutional authority to tell states to submit alternative slates of electors because his candidate lost. That is tyranny.”

Early voting began today in Georgia, where more than 328,000 voters smashed the previous record of 136,000 set in 2020, during the worst of the pandemic. One of those voters was former president Jimmy Carter, who turned 100 on October 1 and said over the summer he was trying to stay alive to vote for Vice President Kamala Harris.

At a rally in Atlanta, Georgia, tonight, a slurring, low-energy Donald Trump told the audience: “If you don’t win, win, win, we’ve all had a good time, but it’s not gonna matter, right? Sadly. Because what we’ve done is amazing. Three nominations in a row…. If we don’t win it’s like, ah, it was all, it was all for not very much. We can’t, uh, we can’t let that happen.”

—

[scoops-aboy86]

do you think you'd ever write like a truly Fat Steve?

(This ask is from June 2024, and I have more that I need to get to. Sorry! I’m working on it, just… no timeline. But I am aware and intend to get to them all at some point, depending on how inspiration strikes. Anyway:)

Tentatively yes. Because! Define “truly fat”? I usually start with the beginning of gaining and/or getting kinky with it because I am obsessed with ✨backstory✨. It’s not a hard and fast rule though. 

Here’s a secret about me: I am allergic to numbers, and therefore generally won’t be very specific about exact weight or measurements. Bonus secret, in some ways (especially with visuals) my imagination can be very… either literally exact or just vibes, I guess. It requires references, which is honestly just rude. Some have called me a perfectionist; they are correct. So a lot of the time I leave some details kind of vague because I am afraid of something Not Making Sense just because I have a poor sense of proportions. 

Okay, all that said, here’s almost 4k words of quite fat Steve. 

~

Steve who knows that Eddie was an almost, a one that got away. Steve who overeats because he’s ambivalent about “keeping in shape for the ladies” these days and he likes food, takes to snacking after any time he jerks off the way some people have an after sex cigarette. Steve who ends up living in Chicago because that’s where Robin goes for school, and eventually she talks him into trying community college. 

He’s doing alright, although definitely overweight at this point and perpetually on the verge of needing to buy new polos again (half because of his ever growing belly, half because of stains). Still has the BMW—although lately the front seat is getting a little constricting, and don’t even get him started about how tight the seat belt already is. Works two jobs, one in telemarketing slinging shit he doesn’t care about and one at the concession stand at a movie theater, the latter part time with Robin. (He could’ve done telemarketing full time, but she needed a part time job and they can’t work customer service jobs not together, it feels weird. Also, she’s gotten really good at throwing popcorn into his mouth, all the lessons he’s given her on how to aim and account for distance and weight and, like, wind or whatever are finally paying off. 

Unfortunately, his car has to go to the shop for a bit and he has to brave public transportation to get to school and the theater job. Not such a big deal—sure, he has to turn sideways to get down the aisle in busses, but as a tradeoff his belly doesn’t have to fight the steering wheel for space. 

Then one day, after sighing in relief as he gets to the bus stop and sits on the bench to rest while he waits, someone asks, “Mind if I sit here?” And he looks up, and it’s Eddie Munson. 

~

Eddie who never got his high school diploma and left Hawkins as soon as he’d healed up enough to drive, in the hopes of getting folks to stop vandalizing his uncle’s new trailer. Eddie who’s still in a band, albeit a new one since the Corroded Coffin guys couldn’t go with him, and just got back from their first headliner tour around the Midwest—successful enough to be on the radio and have a decent following but not have to deal with paparazzi, which he considers the sweet spot. Eddie who recognizes Steve immediately and can’t not talk to him; he hasn’t stopped thinking about the guy since the day he left, no amount of weight is going to change that. 

So he’s actually kind of breathless when he says hello, half from the shock and half because he’d just sprinted a block and a half with smoker’s lungs. When Steve looks up at him Eddie wiggles his fingers, reminiscent of the little wave Steve had given him in Reefer Rick’s boatshed years ago, and adds, “Hi Stevie.”

Unfortunately, Steve is still equally out of breath from walking half a block at a sedate pace. He can’t answer right away, because he is suddenly aware that his body weight has… doubled? More than doubled? He doesn’t even own a scale, so he doesn’t know. But probably at least doubled since Eddie saw him last. He watches basketball on TV instead of playing it these days, because all he does with his free time is laze around and eat. The other day, he’d had to plop his belly down on the counter to take pressure off his lower back while making his lunch (several boxes of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese).

In this moment, he has no idea how Eddie recognized him. He feels huge. He feels fat. And that… whatever it was that always nudged him to eat after getting off (and sometimes, increasingly, before, because he feels hungry so much more often now), it sparks deep in his core. 

And it’s Eddie. It’s Eddie. 

Steve licks his lips, reaches absently into a pocket, and starts unwrapping a chocolate chip granola bar. “H-hi Eddie,” he stutters, still surprised and eyes wide and, god, he’s so grateful that his big belly and wide thighs thoroughly hide the effect this is having on him. 

Eddie says something in reply, but Steve is too distracted to catch it. Too busy chewing, swallowing, finishing the granola bar in three big bites and pulling another from the same pocket (he always brings snacks for the bus) to gobble down the same way. He wants to rock where he sits, get some friction on his stiffening dick—but he’s got some self control, even if it requires a third granola bar to maintain itself. 

“Um…” Steve swallows his last bite and squeezes his legs together hard, aware that Eddie looks nervously expectant, like he just asked a question. “Sorry, say that again?”

A ringed hand drifts up, twining into some of Eddie’s curly hair and drawing it across his mouth—nervous habit, one that Steve remembers so well. “Oh, uh. Just… Am I bothering you? I can leave, but. If you don’t want to take the bus I could give you a ride? I'm only parked a few blocks away, I could bring it around and pick you up.”

All Steve can think to say is, stupidly, “I haven’t seen you in years!”

He doesn’t mean it as a no—he’s not mad or anything, just reeling and embarrassed and… hungry—but can tell immediately that’s how Eddie takes it. Those rich brown eyes dim and slant away from his gaze. “Yeah… Sorry, man, I’ll get—”

“Wait,” Steve interrupts, his heart hammering at the thought of losing him again so immediately. “I’m just surprised is all, don’t… don’t go.”

So Eddie tentatively offers that ride again, and Steve accepts while his stomach does all kinds of sluggish summersaults, and since that gets him to the community college campus over an hour early they have time to duck into a nearby cafe and reconnect a bit over coffee. 

Well. Eddie has coffee. Steve has a milkshake, a sandwich, and a series of pastries, some of which Eddie gets for him when he notices Steve glancing wistfully back towards the glass case by the register. They talk about what they’ve each been up to, what plans they have, Steve catching Eddie up on all their mutual friends he’d fallen out of touch with, but they don’t talk about feelings. All too soon it’s time for Steve to start making his way to class, so they make plans to meet up later. 

~

Steve learns that Eddie is doing very well for himself, has a three bedroom apartment with no roommates, in a building with an elevator and everything. A new truck, sleek and black, with a cover on the back so he can still haul his amps around as needed and (to Steve’s relief) wide, comfortable seats. A perpetually fully stocked fridge—because, he sheepishly explains, his manager hired a service for him when he’s in the city after a few incidents of getting so intensely focused on his music or other projects that he’d forgotten to take care of himself. Central air conditioning, which means that as soon as summer starts both Steve and Robin spend as much time there as possible instead of sweating to death at their place. 

And Steve eats so much, because it’s there and Eddie keeps offering. He eats constantly. He eats until his belly is sore and heaving, and his jaw aches, and he can barely pull his shirt down far enough or his pants up high enough to keep himself fully covered. 

Robin hardly bats an eye, because she knows him like the back of her hand and nothing he does can ever surprise her, but Eddie never comments on his habits either and that’s… Steve doesn’t know what to make of that. Breaks out in snacks whenever he thinks about that, aware that it could be bad or it could be fine, but knowing that he’s not going to stop either way. He’s just so hungry all the time now, and his willpower isn’t strong enough to try for some bullshit illusion that he doesn’t stuff himself until he physically can’t swallow any more on a regular basis. There’s no chance of hiding what he is. 

Fat. 

And still, Eddie never comments on it. Part of Steve wonders what he would have to do to break that streak. Another part of him fantasizes about it, working food into his ‘personal time’ routine on an increasingly regular basis. Gasps “What have I done to myself” and “Couldn’t help it, so good, got so big” while he uses one hand to cram more into himself and the other to hold his belly and side rolls, jiggle them, rub and press his own soft mass down against his leaking cock until he comes without even directly touching himself… Something he only does at Eddie’s when he’s sure Eddie is out and not coming home for hours, because Steve knows when to keep his clothes on.

(They still never have talked about feelings. Steve is convinced that Eddie doesn’t feel the same way, or he would’ve said something by now—overlooking the fact that he is pining for Eddie and hasn’t said anything yet either.)

He registers for classes again in the fall. Just one more semester until he has enough credits for some very basic degree, which is a relief because getting around from class to class is really starting to wear on him, huffing and puffing enough that Robin has graciously told him he doesn’t have to keep up their customer service servitude together anymore. The weather starts to cool down, so she isn’t at Eddie’s quite so often—not out of borderline-heatstroke necessity, anyway; they still see each other pretty much every day. But Steve is almost always there, taking up space on the couch that he would’ve sunk a permanent divot into if it weren’t such high quality furniture. Taking up Eddie’s extra phone line for his now full-time telemarketing gig because “It’s extra, Steve, this is exactly the kind of shit it’s for.” He’s practically moved in by accident, though again Eddie has never commented on the fact. One of the guest rooms is pretty well stocked with Steve’s clothes, the bed is sturdy and comfortable, paid for with the money he made from finally selling his BMW since he no longer fit behind the wheel anyway. And Eddie must have one hell of a laundry service too because somehow his clothes never seem to hold stains for long anymore. 

(Eddie is, in fact, replacing Steve’s clothes. He doesn’t want the guy to feel embarrassed, it’s natural at that size to overlook just how many spills and oopsies are building up on the fabric, or how waistlines and shirt bottoms are failing to contain his ever-growing bulk. Steve just looks so happy when he’s eating, so content when he’s full. It’s all Eddie can do some days not to touch, so really he’s just trying to save himself from the temptation around sinking into that warm comfort and lose the best friend he’s ever had.)

~

Everything’s great. And then, one day when Steve knows Eddie will be at the recording studio until late, he gives into a greedy impulse and goes all out. He orders round after round of takeout, grazing in Eddie’s kitchen in between deliveries but tries to stick to binging on stuff he’s paid for instead of completely freeloading. (There’s a sting of old humiliation in that, an echo of his father calling him an entitled, spoiled brat, but that just has him ordering more and more to fill up all the space in him so the echoes have nowhere to go.) Knock after knock at the door and he’s beyond comfortably full, rocking to heave himself and his belly that spills over his thighs to standing, coming back with boxes and bags that he’s careful to set within easy reach, sometimes on the shelf of his distended gut. His shirt is so stretched his cavernous belly button is either obvious through the straining fabric or on full display when it rides up, and he’s so lost to everything that the only reason he bothers to keep pulling it down again is to revel in how tight it is. He’s so full. 

Occasionally he dozes off and snorts himself awake at the next knock with food still left in the bags, in his hands, in his mouth—and answers the door eating, who cares what the delivery guy thinks, he can’t fall behind, he’s better than that. He doesn’t think much of it beyond a dazed, half-baked fantasy that it’s Eddie coming to feed him, touch him, make him feel nothing short of ready to pop—but it doesn’t make sense, does it. Why would Eddie knock on the door to his own home? Eddie won’t be back until late, anyway. 

Steve is about ready to drift again and is laboriously shoveling lo mein into his mouth to try and beat that buzzer. His entire body feels so flushed, stretched, singing with sensory overload that he barely notices (what he later learns is) the sound of a guitar case being fumbled, caught, and set hastily on the floor for its own safety. “Almost there,” he’s panting to himself in between bites, “almost, so fuh—urrrrp. So fucking close… Eds, I need more…”

And then Eddie whispers, “Jesus H. Christ.”

~

Everything’s hard for Eddie these days. 

… No, literally. 

The apartment is too big for just him; he’d bought it with the intention of moving his uncle out to live with him, but ought to have listened earlier to how adamant Wayne was (and still is) about staying in Indiana. So he’d welcomed Steve eagerly back into his life, and by extension Robin, into his home, and is ecstatic at how closely the other man seems to have taken the invitation to heart. And Robin is great! It’s been wonderful reconnecting to both of them, fellow survivors of a fucked up alternate dimension. 

Whenever she’s not there as a buffer, though, Eddie finds that he can’t take his eyes off of Steve. The content look in his half-lidded eyes while he eats and drinks and, sometimes, licks at his own fingers so eagerly that Eddie has to drape the blanket on the back of the couch over his lap fast. The way he seems to go boneless when he’s finally sated, drifting off on some internal cloud while his hands mindlessly rove over the bulge of his swollen belly while Eddie stares, unnoticed, and thinks about Steve’s bulge in every sense of the word so much until it all reverse-kaleidoscopes into a single thing in his head. 

Because sometimes Steve forgets himself and lets out these little moans while he’s eating, or his shirt rides up and puts an entire swath of temptingly mole-dotted, stretch-marked skin, and it’s, it’s Steve. It’s Steve. Eddie is helpless but to look while Steve goes for hours on end, and pine in silence, and perish in his bed or occasionally in a bathroom with yet another little death devoted to the guy, this god amongst men, a valiant warrior turned generous Dionysus. 

His band keeps teasing him for all the overdramatic metal ballads he’s been churning out lately, but it’s good-natured. They have plenty of new material for a good mix of stuff on the next album. 

All summer is exquisite torture, with Steve often too comfortable (full) to want to head home and Eddie all too eager to offer his guest room. Even if it doesn’t mean anything, at least he’s not alone in an empty home—which, yeah, he can spot the irony, oh how the tables have turned and so on and so forth. 

Until the night Eddie comes home and nearly drops his beloved Sweetheart, the very guitar that he’d played in the depths of an actual hell. 

It’s no defense against the sight of Steve resplendent on the couch, belly standing solid and round from his frame and heaving between gulps of food and air. He looks like he could’ve been gorging himself all day, judging by all the detritus around the couch—so much that Eddie’s not sure how Steve could’ve possibly expected to get it all cleaned up before he got caught, but. Maybe (and Eddie’s throat goes dry at the thought) he’d meant to, but just couldn’t bring himself to stop. It sounds like that might be the case, from the desperate gurgling of his gut and strained burps and the way he’s moaning to himself about close and almost, in a tone Eddie has heard in bedrooms and back alleys way more than any dinner table. 

“Jesus H. Christ,” Eddie whispers, because he wants to get his hand on Steve’s bulging gut, hold and jiggle and caress until both of them come. He wants it, he wants—

But Steve has noticed him now. Noticed and jolted, as though trying to get up, except all the motion does is spill the very little amount of noodles still left in the takeout container balanced on his belly. With a sound somewhere between a groan and a whine, Steve tosses the styrofoam trough to flop on the floor and scoops the food off his shirt, ducking his head down as far as his double chin allows to shove it straight into his mouth. Still watching Eddie, making that sound again, and making a more coordinated effort to stand up. 

Except he can’t. Falls back with a groan and a ripple of impact that shows across his entire body, belly smacking against his legs that can’t spread far enough to really be apart anymore, and Eddie is by his side without registering crossing the room. 

“Steve! Are you okay? Can I do anything?”

“Shir’s tight,” Steve practically slurs, though there’s no evidence of any alcohol nearby. Several empty liters of soda, sure, but no booze. “Help…”

Eddie is already jamming his fingers under the hem of said shirt, wriggling and easing it up until he frees the top of Steve’s belly. He goes to pull it over Steve’s pecs and accidentally finds out those are sensitive, judging by the gasp Steve lets out. But there’s no help for it, Eddie is committed now, his jeans feeling like they’re strangling his dick as his hands drag over Steve’s swollen nipples and forest of chest hair that feels even thicker than it looked in Spring of ‘86. 

So soft, radiating warmth and scents of cologne and hairspray and sweat and Steve. Heavy arms jiggling as he lifts them for Eddie to peel the shirt the rest of the way off, and then slumping again as though the effort had cost him dearly. Clutching what he can reach of his belly and moaning. 

“Eddie, I, fuck, ‘mso, close—shit.” Steve looks at him with wild eyes, and that’s when Eddie realizes—“Can’t reach, god, Eddie, please, I n-need…”

“Sweetheart,” Eddie breathes, his heart both singing and breaking a little at the desperation in his voice. “You want me to? Can I?”

Fervent nodding, and Steve does his panting best to lift his belly, spread his legs where they’re tight in the sweatpants Eddie thinks he was wearing when he’d left for the studio that morning, wearing most mornings lately. They’d looked tight even then, and now even when he finds the waistband it’s missing the ends of the drawstring poking out it’s so stretched. They also leave nothing about Steve’s predicament to the imagination, an impressive wet spot in the fabric across his erection, going commando underneath. 

It’s easier to rip them at both sides than pull them off over his ass, Eddie kneeling on the floor before him now and Steve groaning above that it hurts so good, that he just needs to come and it’ll feel so good. He’s begging, and part of Eddie would wonder if Steve even really registers who’s with him if it weren’t for the moans that sound like Eddie, Eds, baby. And with the rip his belly drops, slaps his bare thighs, wobbles—but Eddie grabs it with both hands and heaves it back up as gently as he has the patience for (not very). Steve cries out, maybe from pain at the jarring motion or maybe from ecstasy as Eddie dives in and wraps his lips around the tip of his weeping dick, sucks him down as far as he can (just the first few inches) with the bulge of Steve’s legs and the fat pad hiding beneath his belly and said belly bearing down on Eddie’s forehead despite his best efforts, Steve spasming in an attempt to roll his hips but he’s pinned himself with hours of overindulgence—

Eddie is determined to show him every blessed and sinful trick he’s learned from being an avid cocksucker all his adult life. This might be his only chance to prove he can be the best Steve’s ever had, he has to. 

And just maybe, if the breathless wail Steve lets out as he comes is any indication, he succeeds. 

~

Steve graduates from community college, but doesn’t attend the ceremony. 

Why would he? The last few months have been a hazy blur of indulgence, of Eddie keeping the snacks dutifully coming while he studied or took telemarketing calls. His doting boyfriend has ferried him from the apartment to classes and back, swinging by as many drive-thrus as needed in transit either way to keep Steve appropriately stuffed and undistracted by hunger, letting Steve lean on him for what felt like longer and longer walks between the parking lot and his classrooms. During finals, at a reinforced bench and table Robin had helped him specifically request as a necessary accommodation, all Steve had needed to do was trace certain stretch marks and daydream about specific treats to recall the information he wanted. 

He’s a college graduate. Eddie’s career is enough to support them both, and Robin is happy to come stay with Steve whenever the band is off touring. The farthest he needs to go anymore is from the gigantic bed he and Eddie now share to the couch—though sometimes, if he’s feeling frisky, he’ll go all the way to the kitchen and plop himself down directly in front of the fridge. It’s getting harder to maneuver but so worth it, filling his belly until he aches from how much it weighs him down so that Eddie can come home and find him beached and already red-faced from how worked up he feels. 

They celebrate his degree coming in the mail with Steve on his rounded hands and knees, sheet cake in front of him and Eddie behind, railing him face-first into the buttercream, the days of running and screaming and pain and blood so far in the past that Steve can barely remember, barely even think about anything that isn’t the glorious, decadent present. 

They’re going to have a party later, with everyone they still keep in touch with from Hawkins coming over and even more cake to indulge in. He has Eddie, babbling love and adoration while working his way towards coming so hard inside Steve that both their toes curl. Robin is—well she’s not here for this part, but she’s his ride or die platonic other half, unshakable for life. Everything, including every messy mouthful of cake and cream and sticky filling, is absolutely perfect. 

Steve has never been happier or felt more complete in his entire life, and he can’t wait to keep indulging in more of the same. 

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