#cornell wrestling

[thines85]

Greg Diakomihalis, Cornell wrestling

[tjkl895]

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Kyle Dake (https://www.instagram.com/reel/C-aqESARDic/)

[caustinen]

Hollywood!AU Clegan....

How about John wins a major award (career changing recognition) and Gale's his plus one at the event, and John goes for a massive smooch when his name is announced and it becomes a viral meme? :') <3 <3

Hehee I ended up trying something bit different with the format of this one but I hope you like it, thank you for the lovely idea!! 🖤🤍

hollywood au! award season (drabble)

John’s lips are twitching into a smile despite his best efforts as he observes Gale staring at the front page of the newspaper in mild horror.

“That’s…” Gale bites his lip and stops talking, and John has to look the other way because the way his husband bites his lips together in a straight line is both funny and insanely cute. They have been out late partying and thus the morning has started even later. While Gale hasn’t had a drop of alcohol he looks a bit hungover from the lack of sleep alone, slower and softer than usual, somehow.

“You look like you’ve been in a fight.” That’s what he finally settles on, diplomatically, still staring at the half-page picture. John nods, controlling his expression, and smiling just as diplomatically. “Well, it did look like I was trying to wrestle you down right before, so…” Gale hides his face into his palms. “Don’t remind me,” he whines, ”it’s not funny! Look at your lip, John! You can see exactly where my teeth got caught, I can’t believe this is how you-.”

John takes the paper from his hand then. ”It’s really not so bad,” he says, ”and I really liked the piece that goes with it.” He grins, and when Gale still looks bothered he clears his throat and starts reading aloud.

“At the end of the night John Egan, 35, took home the best actor trophy for his widely acclaimed performance as Layne Cornell in worldwide hit ’I’m Only Sleeping’. Fondly nicknamed ’Hollywood's Sweetheart’ since early in his career, the star had been previously nominated twice, once in the supporting actor category and once for the main trophy, but last night’s triumph marked his first individual reward in the Academy Awards. The long awaited honor brough this well-respected peer a standing ovation, but the moment before receiving the awards was almost overshadowed by a sweet incident with his husband, Gale Cleven-Egan.

As the actor’s spouse was getting up to congratulate Egan for his accomplishment, the later in visible excitement leaned to give him an assumedly affectionate peck to the lips. A miscalculation of speed, however, almost toppled Cleven over to the benches behind them, taking Egan with him. Luckily no one was hurt and a roar of laughter around the couple covered for the mishap as Egan managed his affection before walking up to the stage to accept the esteemed award after making sure Cleven was standing on his two feet again.

Egan is known for his cheekiness, and he stayed true to his nature last night as well as he started his acceptance speech with “apologizing for being disheveled after his better half tried to take a bite of him.” As the cameras panned away from Cleven’s now meme-formatted face hidden in hands, Egan then thanked the film crew, emphasizing the amazing work of the art departments on the costumes and cinematography, both of which have also received awards this winter in Golden Globes and Brit Awards. He took time to name all heads of departments and fellow stars on the screen alike, a class act through and through.

For the fans of what netizens have affectionately coined “Clegan” in reference to the relationship of Egan and Cleven, the night’s big prize was surely in the final part of his speech, however, when the violins were about to start to play. “Nothing in life is ever achieved truly alone, and certainly nothing about my career would have been possible without my husband,” visibly touched Egan started his conclusions, “my dear Buck, thank you for your patience, your guidance, your companionship, and for your amazing body. Baby, this is for you as much as it is for me. Thank you for your time, enjoy the rest of your night!”

Egan has never been shy to show his affection for his significant other ever since the couple made their relationship public in 2022, shocking audiences around the world as it was announced Egan and Cleven had been in a secret relationship for years. Later that year they tied the knot, and while generally still keeping their love private, they are often spotted together in Egan’s professional events. Egan’s social media presence has become something of a shared internet joke as he often posts exclusively from his husband who seems different levels of unimpressed by his doings.

I’m Only Sleeping did well in box office as well as receiving overwhelmingly positive reviews from critics before now being the trophy magnet in the award season. It also received Oscars for best supporting performances by…”

John looks up from the paper. ”And so on and so on.” Gale’s expression has softened despite the blush on his face having deepened. Bucky is suddenly so overwhelmed by emotion he drops the paper to the table as he stands up to reach for his husband’s hand and pulls him up too. Gale instantly hides his face into his neck as he relaxes to the embrace, leaving John to press an admiring kiss to his golden locks.

They hug and sway for a little bit in silence as Gale gathers himself. ”… I just wish your lip wasn’t so swollen in the picture. Otherwise it was cute,” is eventually muttered against his t-shirt, making Bucky chuckle. ”That was my own fault. Not the first time you left teeth marks on me either.” Gale sighs and finally looks up to him, the experssion in his big eyes a mix of anguish and amusement. ”Why can’t we ever manage to be cool about anything?”

He makes a protesting sound in surprise as he’s spinned around and then ends up with his back against the fridge, a huge familiar body crowding him against it. ”I think we’re plenty cool,” Bucky says absentmindedly like he’s already moved on from it, ”did I ever tell you how incredibly sexy you look bed-warm and ruffled?” Gale looks at him, unimpressed. ”Well, you did specifically take time to thank my ’amazing body’ while accepting a goddamn Academy Award, so-”

Bucky leans back so he can take a good serious look at Gale, his hands on both sides of the fridge around his head. ”Doll,” he says, and oh, the blush is back, delicious, ”I’ve done most, if not all of my best work under the influence and inspiration of this body. How could I have not-”

Gale shuts him up with a kiss, and decides it’s time to test the performance of his critically acclaimed idiot on his own.

(Hope you liked it!! 💘)

(more of hollywood au)

[sweetsweetjellybean]

In a city the size of Chicago, Eddie should be easy to avoid. Or maybe the city isn't as big as you thought?

Masterlist Listen to Sour Girl Here

What to expect: Second Chance Romance set in 2012 Chicago.  Eddie and Steve are in their 30s. Fem!Reader is given a pet name from each of the guys. No other name mentioned. No use of Y/N. No physical description. Reader does have a bit of personality, as I find it nearly impossible to keep her blank for such a long fic. You may find yourself at times making choices that you wouldn't normally make, but I hope you can put that aside and enjoy the ride. Sensitive Content. 18+ Mentions of DV. Smut Guaranteed happy ending. This is my love letter to Eddie Munson.

WC:6558 beta'd by @superblysubpar

Plink.

Plink. Plink. Plink.

The old wooden frame of your window groans against the track, burdened with too many layers of paint to make the slide smooth. The swirls of creamy pinks and oranges have faded hours ago into the star-lit summer sky. The boy is below, standing in your backyard, fist full of pea gravel taken from a neighbor's garden. A smile twisting his lips lifts his cheeks, putting dimples on full display as he looks up at you from the darkness below. You raise a finger, signaling for him to wait before you turn away. Tossing a few things in your empty backpack, you take a pillow from your bed, and your comforter is wrestled free from the mattress. With careful footsteps, you creep down the stairs, stopping in the kitchen. The light from the fridge casts a triangle across the floor as you take a few Capri Suns to add to your bag. Leaving through the slider, the end of your blanket trails behind you through the grass that was trimmed that morning. You slip off your flip-flops, leaving them beside a pair of larger, well-worn sneakers with a chain wallet tucked inside the right shoe. Eddie bounces on the trampoline, his sock-covered feet launching him into the air, arms stretched for balance. You toss everything on before climbing on with him. With a final bounce, he lands on his butt beside you, grinning. 

“I got it,” you tell him, tossing the pillow behind you.

“Nah-uh.”

"My dad took me to Tower this afternoon." Rummaging in your pack, you pull out a Discman and over-the-ear headphones with the cord in a tangled mess. "I could only get two. I had to choose between Rage," you begin, ticking off album titles on your fingers, “Soundgarden, STP, and Pearl Jam.”

“And?”

Taking out the CDs, you press them against his chest, letting go as soon as his fingers go around them. His brown eyes widen as he examines what’s in his hands as you pick apart the knotted cord.

“Songs from the Vatican Gift Shop AND Down on the Upside? You haven’t even opened this one.” He holds up the Soundgarden CD before using his teeth to rip open the cellophane covering the plastic case.

“I waited for you.” You smile.

His face softens. “You’re a doll.” 

He lies back, his head nestling into your pillow, hands clasped behind his head, gazing up at the sky. After putting the CD into the player, you follow him, pulling the comforter over you both and resting your head on his bicep. The headphone speakers are flipped out, tucked between you, as Chris Cornell's melancholic voice begins to seep into your ears, velvety and dark like the night itself.

"Listen to this transition," he insists, his voice filled with the same awe that it always does when he talks about music, "The shift from acoustic to electric guitar is seamless." 

“I wish I could hear it the way you do.”

As you gaze skyward, a slender branch sways in perfect rhythm with the chords, green leaves fluttering with the bass. The stars multiply and shimmer as if they’re caught up in the flow of the song. 

“You do,” he says, his head turning toward you, “You’re the only one I know who loves it as much as I do.” He studies your face, his eyes locking with yours. The music building until it’s too intense, and he looks away. “It’s lyrics that hook you. You’ve always got so many words floating around in that big brain of yours.”  

The disc spins, and you both listen, the scent of lilacs wafting in on the breeze, and fireflies painting the sky with their gentle glow. Time passes in the slow way it only does for kids on a cool summer night.

“Eddie?”

“Hmm?” He answers, eyes closed.

“Are they fighting again?”

He doesn’t talk about it, but everyone knows—an ugly secret festering on an otherwise picture-perfect street. No one wants to get their hands dirty by getting involved. 

“Why won’t she leave him?” A simple question in a world of black and white.

“I want her to,” his adams apple bobs as he swallows, “She says she loves him.”

“Just stay here with me tonight, okay?” Rolling to your side, you wrap your hand across his chest, offering him the only protection that you can. 

“Yeah, okay.”

When you wake the following morning, the songs and memories you were reacquainted with last night have faded to a dull throb–much like the martinis. But remnants of their lyrics persist,  crawling under your skin, irritating like an itch, a tune hummed without the words to accompany it. Your phone’s screen lights up with an incoming text, the short burst of vibration sending it skittering across the surface of your nightstand. It takes a moment for your bleary eyes to focus on the notification on your lock screen.

Unknown: I admit last night could have gone better. Let me make it up to you. Coffee?

After tapping in your passcode, you open the message app to reply.

You: Wrong number

Darkening your screen, you let your phone slip from your hand onto the bed beside you. With a sigh, you lean back, staring at the ceiling, seeking answers that remain elusive. The scent of brewing dark roast and toasting bagels rises up the stairs with the sounds of Steve moving around the kitchen. A cup of coffee (or five) and a shower is what you need to wash away the past and leave it firmly where it belongs– in your rearview. 

It's the bottom of your second cup when Steve walks into your massive walk-in closet with a towel wrapped around his waist, fresh from the shower, his hair still damp, the freckled skin of his chest looking golden in the soft glow of the elegant pendant lights. 

“Is that what you're wearing to work?” He asks.

“Um, yeah.” You finish buckling the strap of your chunky mary-janes. “Something wrong with it?” you ask, catching sight of yourself in the mirror, dark distressed jeans and a band tee recut into a fitted v-neck. 

“Of course not,” he sighs, running his hand through his hair before sitting down heavily on the leather bench. His shoulders slump as he looks across to the cherry built-in shelves holding the rows of tailored suits hung by progression of color. “You always look beautiful.”

Taking your watch from the marble top of the large center island, you wander over to where he’s seated. He hooks a finger into one of the large holes in your jeans, tugging you over to stand between his legs, his big hands wrapping around the backs of your thighs.

“Guess I’m just missing the days of wearing jeans and a jersey to work,” he says, his smile not smoothing the faint crease in his brows.

“You traded that in for a car service and a big fat paycheck,” you point out, kissing the top of his head and moving back to your side of the closet to select a blazer.

“How else am I going to keep spoiling you?” He stands, dropping the towel and picking up the black Tom Ford boxer briefs he set out before his shower. 

“Steve, I don’t need all of this,” your hand sweeps in the air, gesturing to the lit shelves holding more clothes and shoes than you could ever need. “Just take me to a concert every once in a while.” Your voice trails off as notification chimes on your phone.

Unknown: Nice try, doll. Robin gave me your number.

“Can you imagine if we were still in that cramped apartment in Lincoln Park?” He scoffs, pulling on a light gray pair of suit pants. “We were tripping over all our stuff.”

Steve found the three-bedroom, three-bath brownstone on a tree-lined street in the ritzy Gold Coast neighborhood just after he got promoted from Metro, marking the beginning of his rise up the ranks in Second City Media. He spent a year and a chunk of his trust fund on a meticulous renovation before the two of you moved in. It is beautiful—large air rooms with lofty ceilings adorned with pristine white crown molding and wainscotting throughout, giving a modern but classic feel. Living with so much space is lavish in a city of this size. But you would be just as happy back on that ratty couch in Lincoln Park, drinking beer straight from the bottle and eating pizza without the fuss of plates, working on your laptop while he watched a Cubs game. Steve is driven–determined to be a success, and he is, but with the money came the stress. And it’s taking a toll.

Your finger hovers over the block button, but you press add to contacts instead. “Hey,” you change the subject, slipping your phone into your jacket pocket, “Did you ever look into that sailing charter you wanted to book out at the lake? We could do that this weekend?”

“I wish I could, Ace. I’ve got those weekend meetings about the streaming radio we're trying to launch. Pick out a tie for me?” He asks, pulling off a starched black button-up from its hanger.

“Sure.” You walk over and spin the rack holding up dozens of ties on shiny brass hooks.

“What do you have going on today?” The well-defined muscles of his sculpted shoulders, earned from never skipping a day at the gym, flex before disappearing into his shirt sleeves.

“Not a lot.” You pull the silky slip of deep maroon fabric off its hanger. “Lola is put to bed for this year. I just have an album review to finish up and a meeting with my editor today. Maybe a series on the Fall tours?” You propose, mostly to yourself, as you bring him his tie.

“Maroon, huh?” One brow raises with the question, “I would have picked black.”

“I know.” The corner of your lips turn up in a sly smile before you rise to your toes and place a kiss on his mouth, “I’m gonna go.”

“You want my driver to drop you off?” He asks, looking in the mirror and adjusting his tie.

“Nah, I’ll drive myself. Argyle and I are going to the Subterranean for drinks. Santigold is performing. Do you want to come?” You throw out, picking up your ancient army green messenger bag you can’t bear to part with, straining with the fullness of your laptop and notes.

“I’ll pass. Not really my scene.” As he fastens his gold cufflinks, they catch the gleaming light.

“You never come to shows with me,” you sigh. 

“I know, I know. I’ll try and catch the next one,” he says, sliding his feet into shiny Italian leather shoes. “I’m meeting Robin for lunch. You want to join us?” 

“No. I’ll let you have your girl time.” You blow him a kiss before heading out the door. 

 “See you tonight, okay?” 

“Love you. See you tonight,” he calls after you.

Passing through rooms decorated with rich creams and calming moss greens, you yell over your shoulder, “Tell Robin I said we don’t have any more room for paintings of flowers that look like vaginas.” 

“They’re a good investment,” his voice fades as you jog down your stairs, grabbing your keys from the stained-glass bowl on the table beside the door, ignoring the buzz coming from your pocket. 

The world is full of cliches. Many become so ingrained that we accept them as unwavering truths.  Every cloud has a silver lining. Don’t judge a book by its cover. Actions speak louder than words. A rotten apple will spoil the bunch. Don’t spit into the wind. Well, that last one is just good advice, but there is one that has stuck with you. Love what you do, and you’ll never work a day in your life. Music is your deity, and working at Stax is where you worship at its altar, spreading the Gospel of John, Paul, George, and Ringo. It’s a place where your lifelong obsession is not only validated, it’s celebrated. Your journey leading up to this point feels like destiny, like the universe conspired to harmonize your two greatest loves—the lyrical power of words and the soul-stirring magic of music. Each day within these walls is a new chord, a different tempo, and you revel in the ever-changing rhythm of your life. One spent intertwined with the music and the people that create it. The magazine's pages are your stage, your canvas, and with every keystroke, you paint the stories of the music, offering them to those who care to listen.

Without taking your eyes off your laptop screen, you reach for your coffee mug only to knock over the tittering tower of CDs that you had stacked on the corner of your cluttered desk. The plastic jewel cases meet the cement floor with a shattering crash, the noise echoing off the walls of the open industrial space that houses the offices for Stax Magazine in the heart of Fulton Market District. Clapping comes from other desks as you chase the discs rolling on their sides in all directions. Pausing, you bend into a dramatic curtsey, earning chuckles as the applause dies out. The perpetual chaos of your desk has become an ongoing punchline in the office banter. Your phone begins to ring at the same time an IM pops on your screen - both from your editor, the enigmatic J. Hopper. 

“Art Garfunkel’s house of pizza,” you say by way of greeting, trying to get the CDs back in their cases and toppling a pile of mail in the process.

“Where are you? Why aren’t you here? We had a meeting at 2,” comes the gruff voice of a man who's clearly not amused.

“It’s only one forty,” you reply.

“Get your ass in here now,” he yells, disconnecting. 

Hopper's bark has always been more bluster than bite. The towering, older man has been a fixture in this building since its days as a "hard-hitting" newspaper. While the city has evolved and transformed, Hopper and this old brick building have remained resolute, like an immovable rock in the ever-shifting stream of time. He possesses zero patience, holds a disdain for people, and dismisses any music created after 1978. You love him as much as your own father. He offered you a position fresh out of college when other magazines wouldn’t take a chance. He's pulled out your best work, often sending you back to your desk like a pouting child, making you the writer you are today. The wisdom he’s imparted is beyond the reach of any professor or workshop, and for that, you’ll always be grateful.

With a gentle rap of your knuckles against the frosted glass, you step into Hopper's office. He's seated behind a substantial oak desk, buried beneath a mountain of paperwork. A hint of cigar lingers in the air, though you've never been able to catch him smoking. He remains engrossed, squinting at his desktop screen with a furrowed brow. Settling into one of the vintage leather club chairs, you wait for his acknowledgment, your gaze drifting across the framed magazine covers and photographs lining the walls. One of a much younger Hopper clad in a tattered flak jacket catches your eyes. His face smeared with dirt and grit, standing amidst the ruins of a war-torn Kosovo street, a city reduced to chaos.

"Where’s my album write-up?" He asks without looking up. 

"I emailed it to you before lunch," you reply, confirming on your phone. 

He pushes back from his desk, propping up his feet on the edge, and offers you a soft smile from under the bushy mustache covering his lip, "How are you, kid? Everything okay? Harrington treating you, right?"

"Of course, Hop. He knows he'd have to answer to you otherwise. What about you?" You ask, leaning forward, "Is Joyce looking after you? Making sure you're watching that cholesterol?"

"Yup, she's got me eating all these organic vegetables, no booze, no smokes. Kinda takes all the fun outta life." He laces his hands behind his head, stretching out his back. 

"Oh yeah, does that include that bottle hootch you got stowed in your bottom drawer?"

He sits up with a quick move, pointing his finger in your direction. "You don't know anything about that. Are we clear?"

The only one who can scare Hopper is Hopper's wife. 

"I don't know. What are you going to do if I give Joyce a call? Seems to me that's something she'd want to know," you tease, crossing your arms over your chest. 

"You'd be out on that sidewalk before you hung up the call. Don't test me." He shakes a finger at you, "Now, what are you pitching me?"

"Well, I'm going to a club tonight, so I'll have a live performance review. And I was thinking of a piece on the bands touring this Fall. Kind of like a road map that the readership could follow and hit all the good shows."

"Those sound good, kid, but I got a feature for you to cover." He leans forward, narrowing his eyes, "You know this Eddie Munson character?"

The blood drains from your face. "No. Not-not really," you stammer, "we're from the same town, but I haven't seen him in years."

"Well, it's time to get reacquainted. I want a series chronicling the opening of CursedSound Recordings, and I want you to write it."

A featured series is something that other journalists fight over, and usually, you'd jump at the chance, but not this time. Not this series. Not Eddie Muson. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you say, looking down at your lap.

“You don’t think–”

“Give it to Miles.”

“I’m giving it to you. Morales is busy with–”

“I don’t want it,” the words burst out of your mouth before you think better of it. Less than twenty-four hours after seeing Eddie, your world is spinning out of control.

Hopper's face turns to steel as he plucks the pen from behind his ear and throws it down on the desk. “I think that you’ve forgotten how this works. I give you an assignment. You write it.”

Your lips part before the protest in your brain is fully formed. 

“If you’re about to tell me no again, it better be followed by a damn good reason.”

His eyes are locked on yours while he waits for a response, one brow raised in challenge. 

“Listen, kid,” he picks up a stack of papers, shuffling through them as he talks, “I’ve looked into this Munson character. He has a good reputation in L.A. His name is in the credits for over half the multi-platinum releases in the last five years. And word is, his studio is booked out with big names for a year in advance.” He pauses for a moment to be sure his words sink in. “Establishing a good relationship with him is in the magazine's best interests. And what's good for the magazine is good for you. Are you hearing me?”

“Yes, Hop,” he answers for you when you remain quiet. 

“Yes, Hop,” you repeat.

“Good,” he says, lacing his fingers together. "The printed word isn’t worth what it used to be. Everything's gone digital, the never-ending twenty-four-hour news cycle. The competition's cut-throat out there. Trust me, our friends over at Spectrum would eat this up for Chicago Lifestyles. Frankly, I’m surprised at you. I thought you’d be all over this. Especially since it was proposed by corporate. I figured you went around me and pitched it to Harrington directly.”

The mention of Steve’s name sets your teeth on edge. He hadn't breathed a word about this assignment earlier, and now he's reaching out to Hopper, painting a picture as if you're disrespecting your editor and exploiting your personal connections to secure a story.

“I would never do that,” you shake your head. 

"Alright then. Call Byers at Metro," Hopper instructs, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest. "Bring him with you. His assignment is just wrapping up."

You nod, your blood boiling and your mind racing. Taking a deep breath to compose yourself, you finally reply with an outward calm, "Okay."

Hopper's eyes remained fixed on you, his brow furrowing slightly. "Now, why are you still here wasting my time? Get out."

You don’t need any more prompting. Swiftly, you rise from your seat and make your way out of Hopper's office, formulating plans to murder your fiancé.

With a heavy sigh, you sit back down at your desk. The Stax logo bounces off the edges of your laptop screen. Your phone lights up with a photo of Steve. You let it ring a few times before sending it to voicemail. A few colleagues linger nearby, mugs in hand, their idle chatter blending with the hum of printers and the rhythmic clacking of keyboards. Your to-do list sits on your desk with strike-throughs on only half the tasks, but the priority of the ones remaining isn’t enough to capture your attention. 

Reaching down, you tug at the handle of your tightly packed bottom desk drawer. It sticks, protesting the overload.  The bright yellow color of the Sony Sports Walkman stands out from among the other clutter. You hesitate when reaching for it, the beginnings of the ache already tightening your chest. But you can’t resist, your hand closes around it, pulling it and the headphones coiled around out from under a pile of old concert passes attached to lanyards. 

Swiveling your chair away from the desk, you face the windows and slip the headphones onto your ears. A gentle press of your thumb produces a satisfying click, and a soft crackling sound fills your ears as the capstans start to whir.

The crystal blue of the cassette is dulled behind the transparent black window, but you can still make out the handwriting on the yellowed label. 

For when you miss me.

“Did you ever listen?”

Everyday. 

A bird's eye view of the stage is perfectly spaced in your viewfinder, with Santi downstage dominating the mic, her other arm outstretched to the fervent crowd. Your finger clicks the shutter as a text pops on the screen.

Eddie: Seems this city isn’t so big after all.

With a huff, you close the screen, pocketing your phone.

“What’s going on with you?” Argyle shouts over the crowd, handing you back your drink as you both lean over the black-painted railing on the balcony at The Subterranean.

"Nothing," you reply, your gaze returning to the stage where Santigold is Chasing Shadows. 

“You’re moody,” he accuses, leaning closer to your ear to be heard over music.

“No, I’m not.”

“It’s true,” he shakes his head. “You’re moody. Moody dick.”

The corners of your lips lift as you roll your eyes.

“This wouldn't have anything to do with mister dark and handsome sound engineer guy from last night, would it?” He probes as someone bumps into you from behind, throwing you off balance.

Your eyes narrow as he steadies you with a hand on your elbow. 

“Hey, I know things,” he says, sipping his drink and looking back out over the crowd.

“Oh, yeah?” You ask, turning and leaning on the banister to face him, “What do you know?”

He turns his head toward you, his thoughtful brown eyes connecting with yours. “I know you looked freaked the fuck out when he showed up for drinks and even more so when he said he was staying. And I’ve seen you tell off enough people to know that’s what was going on at the bar when you walked away from him last night,” he says, looking back toward the stage, gesturing with his hands, “Now we're here, with my future baby mama killing it on stage, and you’re sucking all the energy out of the room.”

The song ends with the crowd erupting in applause. “I love you!” Argyle shouts toward the stage with his hands cupped around his mouth as the bass starts back up with the opening of High Priestess. Santi looks up, throwing him a wink, her voice low and fast as the reverb vibrates under your feet. 

“Future baby mama?” You laugh.

“Yeah. Do you think you could use your press pass to get us backstage?”

“No. I don’t think you need to add to the population tonight.”

"See, you're no fun,” he complains, sticking out his lower lip, “So you really used to crush on that guy?

Chewing on your lip, you throw him a sideways glance.

“Yeah, you did. You crushed hard,” he laughs, “So, tell me, what happened?”

“I don’t like talking about it,” you say, scrubbing your face.

“Keeping everything all bottled up ain’t good for you, little mama,” he pokes your arm, letting you know he’s not going to drop this, “I’m your boy. If you can’t tell me, who can you tell?”

“Circle of trust,” he says, stirring the air between you with two fingers when you don’t respond. 

You lean against the rail, considering. “Alright, but this stays between us,” you threaten him with a pointed finger. His head nods as his fingers slide across his mouth like a zipper.

“There’s not much to tell,” you say, looking down at the sticky floor. “I had a crush, and he didn’t feel the same way.”

“I get it. The fury of a woman scorned. What did you do, go full bunny boiler?”

“No,” you chuckle, “Nothing like that. That part didn’t even really bother me. He was my best friend, my only friend for a long time. I thought there was something between us, that he cared about me. Maybe not the same way I cared about him, but you know, I thought we were close. I must have built it all up in my head because one day, he just takes off.” You swallow the sharp pain pressing into your chest, “He never even said goodbye.”

“Nooo,” Argyle’s eyes widen.

“It broke me,” you admit.

“Harsh,” he agrees, “And he never called you? Or gave you an explanation?”

“Not until yesterday.  He asked me to lunch. You know, he actually had the nerve to say that Steve has me on a tight leash.” 

“Typical.” He shakes his head, swallowing the last of his drink.

“What do you mean?” You ask, swirling the last of your ice into your watered-down drink. 

His face turns serious as he explains, “It’s like surfing. We all want that wave that’s just out of reach. Especially if someone else is riding it.” 

“How did you get so wise?” You ask. 

“I don’t know. Must be all the weed,” he says with a hand on your shoulder, turning you toward the bar. “Let’s go get another drink.”

“You never told Steve any of this?” He asks as you join the crowd of people that constitutes the line.

“No,” you sigh.

“No?” He repeats in surprise, “This is bad news, man. Why wouldn’t you tell him? What are you going to do, just going to keep it a secret forever?”

“I guess. It doesn’t really have anything to do with him.”

“This is going to get messy.” He shakes his head as you move up in line.

“Well, I’m not real happy with him either right now. He went behind my back to Hopper, deciding that I’m going to cover Eddie’s recording studio's opening. He completely humiliated me in front of my boss. I look totally unprofessional.”

“Well, that's not cool,” Argyle sympathizes as he takes the plastic cup from your hand and tosses it into a trashcan tucked beside the bar.

“No, it was very not cool,” you agree, crossing your arms over your chest. 

"Wait," he looks at you with sudden revelation, “Technically, isn't Steve your boss?"

“That’s not the point–”

“And isn’t your job to write about major happenings in the city, like when fancy L.A. sound guys open up studios?”

“You're not helping, Argyle.”

His hand lands on your head, offering a comforting pat like you're a child before the line begins moving again. "Cheer up, Bernstein," he quips with a grin, "I'll buy the next round."

Your anger hasn’t abated when you walk through the front door of the brownstone. Steve is already in bed, shirtless with the taupe velvet coverlet pulled up to his waist, glasses perched on his nose, not looking up from his laptop as you enter the room.

“Hey, Ace, how was your day? Did you write me–”

“Anything you want to tell me about, Steve?” You ask, your voice already coming out more heated than you intended.

He looks up at you, brows pulling together. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you say, dropping your bag onto the blue slipper chair in the corner of the room, “Maybe about how you went behind my back?”

"What?” He questions, slamming his laptop shut.

“The story, Steve,” you huff, leaving the room through your closet. You’ve just put your shoes away when he appears in the doorway, padding across the carpet in his bare feet, wearing just his boxers.

“Munson’s opening, that’s what you’re mad about?” He demands.

“You totally blindsided me,” you complain, pulling a hanger off the rod and hanging up your blazer with enough force to have the other clothes swinging. “Why didn’t you say anything this morning?”

“Because I hadn’t thought of it this morning.” His hands run through his hair, tugging in frustration.

“So what, it just came to you in a flash of brilliance?” Popping the button on your jeans, you tug them down your hips, kicking them into the corner instead of putting them in the basket.

“No, it didn’t, and I hate it when you’re sarcastic. Robin wanted to stop by and see his studio. We had lunch nearby,” he informs you, crossing his arms over his broad chest, the gold chain he wears glinting in the low light.

“So the two of you just decided what I was going to be writing? Maybe that’s something you should be discussing with me.” You lay a hand on your chest before pulling your shirt over your head and giving it the same treatment as your jeans. “You know, your fiancée, not some old buddy that sold you weed a few times back in Hawkins.” 

“The content Stax puts out is directly under my approval, just like Metro and the Newsdesk and every other division.” His voice, which has been steady and even until now, begins to rise, “I’m not going to call you and ask for permission every time I make a decision. Eddie and I have kept in touch. How do you think we landed that interview with Radiohead last year when they wouldn’t even sit down with Rolling Stone?”

“That’s another thing you kept from me. I had no idea Eddie was your best friend.” Your eyes narrow as your fingers yank at the delicate clasps of your jewelry and watch.

Steve's eyes roll in frustration as he shakes his head. "He's not my best friend. He’s a business contact. I know him through Robin. They were is band together, you know this."

"That feels like a lifetime ago, Steve," you remark, the clinking of your jewelry against the marble island adding a discordant scrape.

"Well, some people aren't embarrassed about where they came from," he accuses.

"I'm not embarrassed," you scoff and begin to pace as if you can outrun his words.

"Oh, please," he says, taking a seat on the bench, his knuckles turning white as he grips the edge, his gaze tracking your restless movements. "You cut off anybody we still know living there. You won't even go to visit your parents. They always come here."

“You never listen to what I’m saying. This has nothing to do with Hawkins or my parents.” You halt your steps, your hand slices through the air, punctuating your statements. “It's about you making me look like a fool in front of Hopper. Like I’m trying to go around him to corporate to get assigned the big stories. Like I’m sleeping with the boss. I’m not ruining my reputation so you can give free advertising to your friends.”

“You're being crazy right now,” he yells, wincing with regret as soon as the words leave his mouth. He stands, moving closer, making an effort to control the tone of his voice, “I gave you this assignment because you know Eddie, and it will make for a better story, not because I’m fucking you. We’ve been together since the day you started at Stax. We’ve been engaged for two years. If anyone was going to think that, they already would’ve.”

Your head shakes, rejecting his rationale. He throws up his hands in frustration. “I can't have a conversation with you when you’re like this.” He starts to walk back toward the bedroom but stops abruptly, spinning on his heel and pointing his finger in your direction. “But I'll tell you one more thing—you are going to write this story.” He waves a hand toward the bathroom. “Now, go wash your face.”

Your teeth cut into your bottom lip as you walk into the bathroom, slamming the door behind you.

A sliver of gold from the streetlights outside pierces the tiny gap in the curtains. You’ve been lying on your side staring so long that you can see its warm hue behind closed lids whenever you start to drift. You burrow your arm deeper beneath your pillows while your feet shuffle, searching for a cool spot on the sheets. Steve’s breathing hasn’t changed behind you. He’s having the same trouble falling asleep. He turns over, his weight rocking the mattress. He’s much closer now. You can feel the comforting warmth from his chest, filling the space between him and your back. 

“Baby.” His breath caresses the spot just behind your ear before the wet press of his lips traces a path along your neck, latching on to the apex when it meets your shoulder. A gentle bite follows the swirl of his tongue as he moves even closer. The rough pads of his fingers glide over your shoulder and down your arm, coaxing the thin strap of your tank with them.

“Please,” he whispers between kisses, his fingers finding their way under the bottom edge of your tank top, the light scrape of his blunt nails against your ribs sending shivers across your skin. Your breathing is picking up, the fire from your argument morphing into a new kind of heat. His hips flex against your ass, his cock hard and ready. When you turn your head, his lips are there, a wet slide over your mouth until they pull back, floating just above you, lingering with a question. And when his hand cups your shoulder, urging your body to turn towards him-–you answer. 

The sultry feminine voice drifts from the speakers in your bedroom, her smoky timber weaving through the air like dark tendrils intertwining with the high piano notes. Your hips rise with the flow, a slow, unchanging cadence, the stretch of his cock creating delicious friction against your velvet walls. You move higher until he almost leaves you before you start your descent, the angle finding all the hidden places that light you up beneath your skin. 

"M' sorry," he murmurs.

Your eyes flutter open at his words as they carry you away from the depths. 

"Hate telling you no." He gazes up at you with heavy-lidded eyes, his hair pushed back from his face, and a flush across his skin.

"I don't wanna talk about it." Your hands cover the ones wrapped around your thighs, guiding them up your body. His warm, rough fingers are eager to map out every contour. Your head falls back when they find their destination, cupping your breasts with a possessive grip.

The song shifts, the new baseline a drawn-out pulse lining up with your movements. The lyrics are raw and a little filthy, fueling the urgency of your rolling hips, your clit grazing the short hairs at his base.

"Don't like telling you what to do," he mumbles even as his hands drop to your hips, attempting to hold you still as he bucks up from underneath. "Just wanna take care of you."

"Steve," his name passes your lips in a low moan as you lean forward, taking his hand from your hips and pressing them into the pillow, "Stop talking."

Sitting up, you shift your position, leaning back, bracing your hands behind yourself on his hairy thighs. You set a new pace, bouncing harder, driving him deeper, taking what you want. 

“Jesus, fuck, baby,” he groans, eyes hitting the back of his head while his hands slide across the sheets seeking any purchase as you ride him. The music surges, its tempo rising in perfect sync with the wet intimate sounds of your bodies coming together, the rhythm repeating over and over.

"So close…please," his fingers slip between you, adding pressure to the sensitive bundle of nerves that he finds there, "Need you to cum."

"No," you rasp out breathless, pushing his hand aside, your eyes locked on his as you bring your own fingers to your mouth. With a swirl of your tongue, you coat them with wetness before sliding them down to touch yourself, controlling your own pleasure. 

The muscles in his neck strain with effort, his gaze darkening, fixated on you. “Goddam, so sexy like this,” he murmurs.

Your body tightens, taut like a bow-string, the tension building until the crescendo crashes over you. The music washes over your senses as you reach your peak, your legs trembling with the intensity. You push your body further over the edge, succumbing to the euphoria lost in the wave of sensations.

Floating back down, your eyes open to the sight of your ceiling, your body still arched, catching your breath. His fingers tighten on your ribs, reminding you he's there. Sticky wetness dripping between you is evidence that he reached his own climax. His hands gently urge your forward to collapse into his chest. 

"Wow, that was…" He strokes the sweat-slicked skin of your back. "I’ve never seen you like that before. What got into you?"

"I think you did," you say, placing a kiss over his heart as your fingers smooth through the hair covering his chest. He chuckles, holding you closer. 

The gentle croon of the music fills the quiet space between you as you lie entwined, drawing closer to sleep's embrace. With a fumbling hand, Steve reaches for the remote on his nightstand, silencing the stereo, returning the room to a restful hush. He places a final tender kiss on your temple, his eyes closing as his features turn peaceful. But for you, even in this stillness, another song lingers in your mind, its lyrics echoing like a secret.

AN: Thank you for reading and rebloging. Your comments are what keep me at my keyboard plugging away at this story. Please keep sending me your songs and asks! They have inspired so much of what's to come. xoxo- Jelly

Read Song 3 Here

For updates follow @tornupdates & turn on the notifications

[happypuppypuppy]

🇺🇸 Kyle Dake (blue singlet), silver medallist at the senior World Wrestling Championship 2023 (credits to Cornell Wrestling)

[angeliagro]

• ON THIS DAY • July 29th, 1992 •

Chris Cornell & Eddie Vedder join fans sliding down a mud-soaked hill at Lollapalooza '92.

Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio.

During Lollapalooza at the Blossom Music Centre, Cuyahoga Falls Ohio in 1992, Pearl Jam's Eddie Vedder and Soundgarden's Chris Cornell ran out to the field and mingled with the general public.

Initially, fans had no clue they were mucking about with their idols due to them being caked from head to toe in mud. Eddie and Chris stood in line at the mud slides, played all the games, tossing mudballs and wrestling. That day, the mud proved to be liberating and the great equalizer. They signed autographs for fans once their cover was blown..!

[apenitentialprayer]

The Focus on the Concrete and Particular

I tended then to have a deep suspicion of what Arthur Schopenhauer calls "university philosophy" or "academic philosophy," which tended to be much more concerned with abstract concepts […] as opposed to the concrete, the particular, the existential, the suffering beings and loving beings that we are and can be. You have to realize that I was coming out of the church, and so there was always Job sitting there, Daniel sitting there, and even Christ, especially the Christ between Good Friday and Easter, the Christ during the very dark Saturday, which struck me as highly illuminating of what it meant to be human. How do you really struggle against the suffering in a loving way, to leave a legacy in which people would be able to accent their own loving possibility in the midst of so much evil? So in that sense I think that the black church and its profound stress on the concrete and the particular —wrestling with limit situations, with death, dread, despair, disappointment, disease, and so on— has been influential on my Kierkegaardian outlook.

- Cornel West (“On My Intellectual Vocation,” from his Reader, page 20). Formatting changed to avoid wall of text.

The Good Samaritan, by Cyprián Majerník

[littletroubledgrrrl]

I've created my own female wrestling original character who wears the same negligees, teddies and short towels women on "Three's Company" wore, and I wonder if my wrestling OC should wear that same nighty Lydia Cornell is wearing in this gif?

[thines85]

cradle wrestling

[tjkl895]

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[doreyg]

I was tagged by @moosemonstrous for this. Thank you so much!

Rules: list the first lines(s) of your last 10 fics and see if there's a pattern.

Once Upon a Nightmare

Ed Cornell didn’t go to prison, he didn’t get anywhere close.

Blood Moonlit

Over the year Bobbi had been in Ottawa he and Arundel had settled into a routine.

Fever Dream High

Thrawn’s ship was surprisingly dark and quiet, most of his underlings presumably focused on facing the imminent rebel threat heading towards them.

Go! Fight! Win!

The day that Juliana had declared that she’d like to learn wrestling had been the best of Eri’s life, and she had been determined to savour every moment of it since.

Bejeweled

Ortega had grown up fabulously wealthy.

Style

Atticus had never liked being touched.

Just Burn

Anger was an old friend to Mela, perhaps the most intimate part of her.

List Song

1. Realise You Want to Get Laid

Home Free

Norgate had thought that his life would go a certain, predictable way after he had been caught.

Grinning Like a Devil

Fred woke up again about an hour or so after passing out.

--

Conclusions: I tend to open up with a fairly short sentence, usually introducing at least one of the main characters (the POV character, roughly half the time). I also tend to do a lot of... Not to sound pretentious, but thesis statements? Like, List Song is a list fic and so immediately establishes that. Home Free is about Norgate's post-canon life going in a very unexpected direction, and that's immediately established too. I like to think you know what you're getting from the tin! I like the vast majority of them, which is nice. There's only one I wish was better, which I guess isn't too bad?

Tagging: @anonymousblueberry, @madroxed, @marroniere. Y'know, if you want!

[bookgeekgrrl]

My media this week (7-13 May 2023)

ᵗʰᵉ ᵗʳ���ᵉ ᵏᶦⁿᵍ

📚 STUFF I READ 📚

😍👂‍Gilded Cage (Lilywhite Boys #2) (KJ Charles, author; Cornell Collins & Victoria Aston, narrators) - I fucking love Susan Lazarus so much. Love a prickly, irritable female character that ISN'T softened by 'true love'.

🥰The Scandalous Letters of V & J (Felicia Davin) - an epistolary historical fantasy romance with two nonbinary main characters - read this via email and it was great, can't wait to reread in book form

🥰Do Not Meddle in the Affairs of Grad Students (for They Are Caffeinated and Quick to Nerd Out) (theemdash) - 46K, stucky no-powers modern AU - roommates-to-lovers where they're both HUGE LOTR nerds

🥰when i don't touch you it's a mistake in any life, in each place and forever. (antithetical_dreamgirl) - 48K, steddie AU - actual AU where Eddie dies (apparently) in the Upside Down and then wakes up 10 years in the future in an alternate universe, more or less married to Steve - lots of good angst with an HEA

💖💖 +140K of shorter fic so shout out to these I really loved 💖💖

Lucky Screwdriver (Zenaidamacrouras1) - MCU: stucky, 6K - a ridiculous bit of fun, riffing on that grindr screwdriver borrow tweet/post - just left me with the biggest grin

Gold Sunlight and Deep Water series (justanotherStonyfan) - MCU: stucky, 19K - great short series with mer!Steve; the 2nd installment in particular has some really, really quality monsterfucking

my soul's adorning grace (goseaward) - KJ Charles' Lilywhite Boys series: Jerry/Alec, 1.6K - Jerry buys some lingerie for Alec - hot af + nailed the character voices

No School of Desire (drunktuesdays, michaud) - AEW: OC/Chuck, 6K - I know zero about wrestling but I do know this is a hilarious and hot af fic

The Haunting of Harrington House (Kedreeva) - Stranger Things: steddie, 8K - Steve Harrington inherits a haunted house - absolutely DELIGHTFUL (and tho it's tagged with MCD it's not actually sad)

📺 STUFF I WATCHED 📺

Finding Your Roots - s9, e3 (Carol Burnett & Niecy Nash)

The Brokenwood Mysteries - s9, e5

Ted Lasso - s3, e9 [x2]

Um, Actually - s2, e10, e12-16; s8, e4

Eurovision 2023 - Semi Final 1

Eurovision 2023 - Semi Final 2

Dirty Laundry - s2, e12

Eurovision 2023 - Grand Final

🎧 PODCASTS 🎧

Re: Dracula - May 7: Stranger in a Strange Land

Re: Dracula - May 8: Foul Bauble of Man's Vanity

Into It - 'Mrs. Davis' Just Wants You to Be Happy

Re: Dracula - May 9: Castles in the Air

Switched on Pop - The Jonas Brothers' Yacht Rock Revival

The Atlas Obscura Podcast - National Poo Museum

The Sporkful - The Musical History Of Jelly

⭐Decoder Ring Plus - Who Owns the Tooth Fairy?

ICYMI Plus - We’re Sorry

Pop Culture Happy Hour - Best TV Series Finales

Strong Songs Bonus Episodes - The Light and Dark of Music, with Lily E. Hirsch

The Atlas Obscura Podcast - Close to the Edge

The Atlas Obscura Podcast - Iowa Remnant Prairies

Vibe Check - Britney Spears Was Onto Something

⭐99% Invisible #536 - Nuts and Bolts

Re: Dracula - May 11: Pray for my Happiness

Richmond Til We Die: A Ted Lasso Podcast - A Guide to Midwestern Conversation (with Taylor Kay Philips)

Ologies with Alie Ward - Invisible Photology (INVISIBILITY CLOAKS) with Greg Gbur

Dear Prudence Plus - My Co-Worker Repeatedly Ignores My Boundaries. Help! (with LeVar Burton)

⭐Endless Thread - #BlackFaeDay

Into It - Are We Into a New 'Zelda' Game, the End of MTV News, and 'Jury Duty'?

Re: Dracula - May 12: What Manner of Man is This

The Atlas Obscura Podcast - Butter Sculptures

Twenty Thousand Hertz+ - Songbugs

American Hysteria - Munger Road | Urban Legends Hotline

Overinvested - Ep. 279: Jurassic Park

American Hysteria - Hysteria Home Companion: The Vanishing Hitchhiker

🎶 MUSIC 🎶

lofi hip hop radio 💤 - beats to sleep/chill to [LoFi Girl]

synthwave radio 🌌 - beats to chill/game to [LoFi Girl]

Dub Instrumentals

Back To The Yacht

Eurovision 2023

The Album [Jonas Brothers]

The Family Business [Jonas Brothers]

[battleangel]

And still I see no changes...

Late-stage capitalism depends on women producing the next generation of laborers whether they want to or not...

Corporate greed -- as evidenced by fast fashion like SHEIN, Fashion Nova, Romwe, Forever 21, the film industry with the continued strike aimed to replace all but the biggest stars and virtually all background and supporting actors despite the unions totally reasonable demands for a living wage & AI protections so that their image & likeness cant be scanned & used in perpetuity by studios with their forced consent in exchange for being cast in the production, fast food companies like McDonalds continuing with deforestation practices & the destruction of rainforests & ecosystems, all of the environmental waste produced by Amazon warehouses, chemical & environmental pollution by Fortune 500 companies in the constant pursuit of ever more profit, overextracting natural resources from the planet and raping the earth, the extinction of tens of thousands of unique species with the non-stop intent of further expansion, further development, further cutting down of trees, razing of forests, landfills at total capacity with overflow killing wildlife in the oceans with a majority of waste taking thousands of years to decompose, a finite resource -- Mother Earth -- endlessly pillaged & raped by big pharma, big agriculture, big chemical manufacturing companies, big box retail like Amazon & Walmart, fast fashion like SHEIN & Forever 21, admitted alien existence by former CIA director which also includes not yet admitted to government experimentation with alien technology & weaponry that led to a bomb cloud many reported seeing in NYC that happened the same exact day as the "Canadian wildfire smoke" filling the skies of the east coast, yet all the videos on social media were of the smoke, none were of the fires, and reports that claimed 100 wildfires started simultaneously in Canada made no sense -- the alien bomb testing led to record toxicity levels in the air and non-stop unprecedented extreme humidity that has not relented since the "wildfire smoke" aka the testing of the alien bomb in NYC -- yet the worlds elite in industry (Elons, Bezos, etc) & the actual power brokers in politics behind the scenes of the political figureheads that are all selected ahead of time, every election is fake & the outcome is predetermined, all US presidents share royal lineage dating back to British kings, they are all reptilians picked ahead of time by the kingmakers as charismatic frontmen that are then controlled behind the scenes & told what to do, all politicians get along with each other behind the scenes, the 2 party system is a complete sham, its heel vs face in wrestling -- its all a cheap gimmick to divide the audience and to keep the money flowing in via donations over "hot button" issues that are red meat to their respective partys bases but there are always predictable, planned & scripted mostly incremental changes that shift back and forth with very few actual "watershed" moments by design so that both parties can constantly fundraise over whatever the contrived forced issue is of the day with no true actual change, its why Obama deported more undocumented immigrants than Trump, there is no actual "red vs blue", nor actual material difference between the two main parties, its why theres never any true substantive change regardless of who is in power, and a true changemaker and revolutionary like Cornel West never even gets heard from.

If its a "democracy", why are Cornel West, Dr. Jill Stein, the Green Party, the Libertarian Party, the Communist Party of the USA, the Socialist Party -- why arent they allowed to be on the Presidential debate stage unless a totally fake & arbitrary threshold of votes is reached -- because they dont want the American public on a mainstream stage to actually hear cogent and cohesive and compelling and persuasive and intelligent arguments for the abolition of the police, Supreme Court, military, prison system, free college education, universal healthcare, workers uniting & pooling their incomes & distributing them evenly amongst themselves aka true socialism so they can stop being exploited by their corporate overlords slaving away at their salaried jobs many without overtime once they are in a "leadership" position working thousands of hours for free.

True reproductive justice & freedom with a realization that women are dehumanized & tyrannized by the "motherhood is martyrdom" societal mandate that demands that women sacrifice & sublimate their entire identities on the altar of being a "selfless mother" and giving women control over their bodily autonomy, reproductive choices, careers, sexual health, incomes, mental & physical health, physical appearance and control over their lives as anti-abortion legislation takes all of this agency away and demands that a pregnant woman become a mindless husk & soulless incubator ready to reproduce via forced birth endless bodies for the corporate capitalist machine & system, thats all "pro-life" is, its reducing women to their occupied uteruses and forcing them to birth more bodies in service of late stage capitalism.

Why dont we have funerals as a society for miscarried and aborted fetuses? because we intrinsically know as a society that an unborn fetus doesnt have a fully developed consciousness, personality, soul expression, thoughts, emotions, experiences, philosophies -- it is fetal tissue, it is not a sentient, thinking, emoting human being but the woman gestating it is -- so why is the woman reduced to nothing but a gestational carrier and why is the fetus elevated to mattering more than the woman carrying it, when thousands of toddlers are waiting to be adopted in the foster system, when children born to women who didnt want them who then express the trauma of enduring forced birth as neglect, abuse & physical abandonment -- how is any of that "pro-life"?

When states that have anti-abortion laws have significantly higher poverty & crime rates, how is that "pro-life"? Whats "pro-life" about punishing women who dont want to be mothers and forcing them to give birth?

Condoms break, people forget to take birth control, guys refuse to wear condoms because they want to "feel everything" or they "dont like them", women are socialized to be docile & polite and are socially conditioned to struggle to say "no" to men especially in intimate encounters, women are groomed & socially engineered to be pleasing and agreeable towards men even in sexual situations when they shouldnt be -- smile, look pretty, be attractive, be quiet, be sexy and hope he likes you and wants to be with you, that is the social messaging in pop culture movies, media, music, books -- the man leads, the woman coquettishly follows -- where is the confident, emphatic, full-chested "no" in that when women are trained above all else to be liked? This leads to a lot of unwanted sex, regrettable sex, unenjoyable sex, forced sex, "I would rather go home but I dont want to be rude" sex, "He said he didnt want a blow job, I guess I have to fuck him" sex, spousal rape, date rape, acquaintance rape, "He said its too late to change my mind now" rape, drunken rape, high rape, "I just wanted him to like me" rape "I wanted to do stuff but not sex" rape -- why should women be forced to give birth in any of these situations?

Why should women be forced to give birth at all?

If men gave birth, not women -- do you really think there would be anti-abortion legislation?

Prescription medication making birth control ineffective happens, not taking Plan B in time for it to work happens, people drink & use psychedlics, hormone rushes happen, abuse happens, coercion happens, pressure happens, rape happens, assault happens, molestation happens, incest happens, depression happens, suicidal ideation happens, mentors, coaches, teachers, professors & youth leaders abusing & exploiting their authority via sexual force & assaults happens, autoimmune disease diagnoses happen, layoffs happen, reduction in force happens, firing happens, unemployment happens, houseleness happens, evictions happens, car & furniture reposessions happen, infidelities happen, breakups happen, STIs happen, heartbreak happens, malignant narcissists and dark empaths as toxic & abusive partners happen.

The feminization of poverty already ensures that women are overrepresented in low wage jobs & service industries while being underpaid vs men in white collar corporate jobs while also taking years off from their careers to raise their children and care for aging parents while men do not typically take more than a week or two off when children are born so women work less years in their careers than men for less pay and are overrepresented in low wage jobs yet this society wants to layer forced births on top of all of this already existing gender inequality.

Giving a newborn baby up for adoption after carrying it for 9+ months and birthing it is often traumatic -- it is up to the woman if she wants to endure that experience, it should never be forced on her, paid maternity leave and universal childcare are unavailable so a woman who gives birth is forced to take 60% pay on either a short or long term disability leave (losing almost half of her income), use up her PTO vacation and sick days for the year or, since women are so overrepresented in low wage jobs, if they are in the retail & food service industries or if they are temporary employees in corporate positions they have no benefits and no paid time off so she is forced to take an unpaid leave which she cannot afford with how minimal her salary already is and then once the forced birth happens, daycare is $1k+ a month, more than rent in many places, not all states have daycares that are operated out of individuals homes for cheaper rates and everyone does not have parents that can watch their newborns but now if she goes back to work, daycare may be more than her rent and not leave her with any money to survive -- who thinks about these women?

There are untold circumstances and reasons why a woman can experience an unplanned & unwanted pregnancy and want to terminate, some women may be antinatalist like me and believe that it is an immoral and philosophical wrong to reproduce and to continue the immeasurable & irrevocable damage and harm humanity has done to Earth, its ecosystems, natural resources, rainforests, oceans, wildlife, ozone layer, climate and believe it is wrong to contribute to our current & continuing overpopulation -- no sentient, thinking, feeling human being should be forced to birth a non-sentient fetus for any reason -- we already have global overpopulation, why would we as a society add to our overpopulation human beings that are not wanted by their expectant mothers by force?

How can any good come out of coercion, control, forced birth and trauma?

What kind of social, emotional, mental and psychological harm do we do as a society to these women who, for a plethora of reasons, want to terminate their pregnancies and then certain states say no, youre not allowed to, you have to birth this unborn fetus.

The planet is not a resource that is infinitely renewable. We as humans, due to endless corporate greed, pursuit of profits and endless expansion, a blind unthinking need for more more more, are already trying to colonize Mars via Elon Musk -- isnt the destruction of one planet enough?

We are literally the Borg.

Go look up how many tens of thousands of species are already permanently extinct, how many elephants have been killed for the ivory trade, how many Amazon rainforests have been razed so McDonalds can raise and slaughter more cows for their Big Macs, how many landfills are filled with Amazon waste -- why do we need delivery in an hour?

How much food do we waste, do we throw away unused from our refrigerators, do we throw away uneaten in restaurants while children are food insecure and hungry and millions starve to death?

How much waste, how much misplaced hate, how much injustice, how many wars, how much corporate greed, how much control, how many genocides, how many natural disasters, how many more degrees can global temperatures rise, how much air pollution, how many synthetic chemicals and drugs and artificial preservatives, how many medications to make us sick and kill us, how many fake political movements, how many Proud Boys, how many Dont Tread on Mes, how many Make America Great Agains -- America was never great, how many victors rewriting history, how much propaganda, how much fake news, how much exploitation, how many overcrowded prisons with inhumane conditions without heat in the winter, AC in the summer & insect infestations yet you want to sit there and tweet about Trumps mugshot...

How many unarmed black men have to die at the hands of white cops, how many Amadou Diallous, how many Rodney Kings, how many Trayveon Martins, how many black while eating a bag of skittles, how many George Floyds, how many Ahmad Arberys, how many Philando Castilles, how many January 6th insurrections, how many overnight deaths in prisons, how many Sandra Blands because they stopped at a red light, how many Breonna Taylors for the crime of being asleep in their own beds, how many hands up dont shoot, how many I dont want to die, how many I dont have a gun Im just removing my license Officer, how many I thought it was a gun not a wallet, how many put your hands on the steering wheel before I blow your fucking head off, how many unreported crimes, how many unsolved murders, how many botched cases, how many its just another dead black man who gives a fuck, how many unredacted body wearing camera footage -- I thought the body wearing camera was supposed to bring transparency, why are you blurring the footage out, how many racist pigs, how many hooded klansmen hiding behind a badge a shield and a gun, to protect defend serve and kill as many innocent black people as possible, no need for an autopsy no need for an investigation its just another dead black man.

The only good nigger is a dead nigger so dont make me pull my cop trigger

Rat-tat tat tat tat, thats the way it is

And still I see no changes, all I see is racist faces, misplaced hate makes disgrace to races

We under, I wonder what it takes to make this one better place, lets erase the wasted

It aint a secret, dont conceal the fact, the penitentiarys packed and its filled with blacks

And still I see no changes, can't a brother get a little peace?

There's war in the streets and war in the Middle East

Instead of war on poverty, they got a war on drugs so the police can bother me

Don't let 'em jack you up, back you up

Crack you up and pimps smack you up

You gotta learn to hold ya own

They get jealous when they see ya with ya mobile phone

But tell the cops, they can't touch this

I don't trust this, when they try to rush, I bust this

🧿how many, how much until we say, enough is enough? 🧿

[dertaglichedan]

Murderer who raped and killed girl, 11 and her babysitter in 1990 elbows his lawyer in court and then flashes the word 'killer' etched on his teeth - before being sentenced to death by judge

Joseph Zieler, 61, was convicted of murdering an 11-year-old and her babysitter

Zieler punched attorney Kevin Shirley with his elbow during a Monday hearing

He is facing the death penalty for the murders of Robin Cornell and Lisa Story

A man who was convicted of murdering an 11-year-old girl and her babysitter in 1990 punched his own attorney and was wrestled to the ground in court Monday. 

Joseph Zieler, 61, on Monday was sentenced to death in the slayings of 11-year-old Robin Cornell and her babysitter, Lisa Story, 32, who were raped and suffocated. 

While in front of a judge, Zieler asked for the cameras in the room to be taken down before using an expletive and then elbowing attorney Kevin Shirley in the face. 

Three bailiffs quickly tackled the man - who appeared to have 'killer' etched on his teeth - to the ground before escorting him out of the courtroom within seconds. 

In May, a jury in Lee County, Florida recommended the death penalty and Monday's appearance was to appeal to the judge hours before he gave his sentence. 

[yatescountyhistorycenter]

From Penn  Yan, with love

By Jonathan Monfiletto

Depending on how you look at it, it was either the height of the Cold War or the early days of this standoff between the United States of America and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. Fourteen years after World War II ended, the Iron Curtain had indeed descended as Russia wrestled Eastern European countries into its orbit, and the Space Race was on after Sputnik and Sputnik II were launched. Still, the Cuban Missile Crisis had not yet unfolded, the Vietnam War had not yet erupted, and there were still more than 30 years before the USSR fell along with the Berlin Wall.

Amid this period of tension – sometimes with sharp words, other times with nuclear threats – as the world’s two superpowers stared each other down, a dozen Soviet graduate students – with an average age of 27 – spent a week in Penn Yan in November 1959, during a monthlong tour of the United States. They visited various businesses and industries and other establishments, and they learned about what life is like in a democratic, capitalist society during what was billed as an activity to build better international cooperation and understanding.

The group, which also included three American guides, arrived in Penn Yan on Wednesday, November 4 from the Boston, Massachusetts area – having visited Harvard University, Massachusetts Institute of Technology, WGBH Educational Television, and the like – and then departed Penn Yan one week later for a two-day visit to Washington, D.C. and a weeklong stay in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. One of these things is not like the others, as the old Muppets song goes, but it seems Penn Yan got the nod for a tour stop because of its prior connections to the Experiment in International Living, one of the entities that organized the experience.

But unlike the group’s other stops, Yates County could offer a look into life in a rural, agrarian community. While six local families each housed two of the Soviet group members during their weeklong stay, the activities during the day kept the Soviet students learning about the agricultural and industrial components of the area and enjoying the recreation offered by the Finger Lakes region. Following a reception at the Oliver House on Thursday, November 5, the group took a walking tour of downtown Penn Yan and later visited three local farms – the Loomis poultry farm, the Miller dairy farm, and the Emerson poultry processing plant. The next day took them to Cornell University to tour the campus as a whole and then visit the animal husbandry, agricultural engineering, and home economics schools.

Other notable activities included attending classes and an assembly at Penn Yan Academy, touring Penn Yan Boat Company and Urbana Wine Cellar, and being feted at a dinner held by the Penn Yan Central School District Adult Education Advisory Council on the final night in the village. There was plenty of time in the itinerary for fun, however – group rides on Keuka Lake and even group flights over the lake as well as the senior play, a high school football game, a bowling outing, free time with their host families, and more. Civic organizations from the Chamber of Commerce to the Rotary Club to the American Legion and other groups hosted the visitors at different points in time.

The group included a medical student, a correspondent for a youth newspaper, a post-graduate agricultural student, a pianist, and even an actress, who was the only member of the group to be singled out in a newspaper headline. None of them had visited the United States before, but all of them seemed to leave with a good impression, especially of the Penn Yan and Yates County community. The goodwill extended to their hosts as well, as the families who hosted the Soviet students wrote letters – now contained within the subject files of the Yates County History Center – commenting on their positive interactions and experiences with their foreign guests. The local American Legion, seemingly contrary to its tenets, even allowed the students to use its facilities to celebrate the 42nd anniversary of the Russian Revolution – an event compared to the Fourth of July in an editorial in The Chronicle-Express.

Generally, the Penn Yan families who hosted the Soviet students had good things to say about their guests and the visit, noting the students were well mannered and well educated and the families and their visitors enjoyed discussing their respective lifestyles without getting into politics. Two main criticisms of the weeklong tour were the television coverage that distracted the Soviet students from the task at hand and the lack of free time in the schedule with which the students could have spent more time with their host families. Overall, it seems as if everyone – the Soviet students and their American hosts alike – believed the experience was a pleasant and worthwhile undertaking.

The words of one of the Soviet students, Vadim Loginov, as quoted in a newspaper article, might sum up the feelings of goodwill on both sides of this moment of U.S.-Soviet cooperation: “We know we have a different approach to things, and a different philosophy of life, but we did not come here to look for the differences, but rather want to see the many things we share alike.”

[musicarenagh]

"New Nashville": Teagan Stewart's Resonant Ode to Music City's Metamorphosis In the melodic tide of "New Nashville," Teagan Stewart strikes a profound chord, weaving nostalgia with grit as she chronicles the metamorphosis of Music City. Joined by co-songwriter Zach Cornell, Stewart's tribute is less an ode to the past than it is a bittersweet eulogy to authenticity lost in relentless modernity. https://open.spotify.com/track/0Qyy09nllCx9ITGKqGukH8?si=640e3c18a01f49bb Teagan Stewart's voice sways like southern vines – there's strength in its tenacity and warmth amid its raspy edges. Each note spills over dobro twangs and steel guitar cries with palpable yearning, harkening back to traditional country rootwork while grafting on modern finesse. There’s something hauntingly familiar here—echoes perhaps of Dolly Parton or Loretta Lynn—and yet, unmistakably unique: a sonorous reflection for our times. The shuffling rhythm guides listeners through vanished doorways into honky-tonks now silenced by soaring rents—a lament that tangible heritage has been pawned for profit's empty gleam. Yet between strokes of lyrical mourning lies resistance; this isn't simply an elegy but also a refusal to forget or concede defeat. [caption id="attachment_53873" align="alignnone" width="2000"] "New Nashville": Teagan Stewart's Resonant Ode to Music City's Metamorphosis[/caption] It’s ironic how the rise in PBR prices becomes intertwined with cultural disruption, each can tab popped open releasing not only effervescence but layers of commentary on gentrification’s bubbling effect over local spirit and tradition. "New Nashville" stands as both witness and testimony from within ruins wrought by development storms—a ballad from the rubble reaching out beyond genre confines. Country purists will find solace in tradition's steadfast pulse through old shuffle beats, while contemporary ears are courted via streamlined production clarity—Teagan Stewart proves herself maestra at filling spaces once crowded with Taylor guitars now stand vacant lots awaiting their chrome-clad facades. For those who pine for country authentically drenched—not merely dipped—in lived experience; "New Nashville" crafts meaning with every twined melody instructing us that music can still wrestle against towering cranes' shadows toward daylight anew. Herein lies raw beauty which demands more than passive listening—it beckons earnest heeding echoing off smoky bar walls long demolished yet forever enshrined within Teagan Stewart’s resonant refrain. Follow Teagan Stewart on Website, Facebook, Instagram and TikTok.